as always over a white-sheeted bed, awaiting its chance. A spider machine. And this one, Oa could guess, had all its parts intact.
She backed away, toward the tall windows, as far from the medicator as she could get. She tugged her tangled hair, wondering where she was, how she had gotten here, what was to be done with her. She turned toward the wind-ruffled water of the bay. It looked cold. She pressed her hands to the glass, and that was cold, too. She leaned her forehead against it, letting it cool her brow, and she called out to Raimu-ke, silently, desperately, for help. She supposed Raimu-ke was lost to her. And now, Isabel was lost to her, too.
A door opened behind her, and she tensed. Her nostrils flared, hoping to detect Isabel’s clean, airy scent, but what she caught was something cloying and spicy, something not-real. Definitely not-Isabel. Someone was moving toward her. Oa’s legs felt weak, and she began a slow slide to the floor, her cheek grazing the chilly glass, her hands gripping, and then losing, the sill. She folded in on herself, her head on her knees, her arms around them, making herself as small as possible. If only she were brave, like Isabel, standing up with her shoulders straight and her eyes bright. But she was too small, and too afraid, and now, again, utterly alone.
The voice was brittle. “Good morning!” it cried. “You’re awake! Look, I have some lovely muffins here, and milk. Children like milk. don’t they? Come now, don’t huddle there on the floor! You’ll get dirty. Come and eat something.”
Now Oa knew who it was. She had never been in the same room with her, but she had heard her voice, and seen her face. It was the pale lady with the white hair, the one whose face twitched and quivered. She sometimes came to the infirmary with Doctor to look at Oa through the not-mirror. There had been something ravening in her face, a deep and intense hunger as if she wanted to bite Oa, taste her flesh, sip at her blood the way the spider machine did.
Oa tightened her grip on her knees. There was nowhere to run.
“Come now, honey. Come drink your milk. We’re going to have fun, you and I!” The pale lady’s voice grated like stones scraping together. “Come on, now,” she said more sharply. “I know you understand me. Don’t make me come and get you. You’re too old for that.”
Oa’s head snapped up. Did she know? Had she guessed?
Slowly, Oa released her knees. She put her trembling hands on the windowsill and stood up, still looking out at the bleak vista of cold water and icy peaks. Oh, Raimu-ke, she prayed. Help me. Help me. Slowly, slowly, she turned around, and put her back to the window.
The pale lady was not dressed in a quarantine suit.
She wore a dress of midnight black. Her hair, white and shining as the mountains, was pulled tightly back from her face. Her lips were a kind of vibrant pink that was lovely on the fish in Mother Ocean and somehow revolting on the pale lady’s mouth. Her cheek jerked at irregular intervals, a spasm that distorted her pink lips and tugged at her eyelid. Her hand, hovering over a tray with glasses and plates, also twitched and trembled. She tried to smile with her jittering mouth as she sat down on the gold couch. The tray waited between her and Oa, on a low round table with a raised edge.
“There, now,” the pale lady exclaimed. “Isn’t that better? Come now! Let’s have breakfast together, just us two girls!” She nudged a glass forward with one finger. Oa understood she was afraid to pick it up, afraid her shaking hand would spill it. “Drink it up, won’t you? Let’s be friends. You can call me Gretchen.” The ferocity of her pink-lipped smile made Oa’s stomach turn.
But she was thirsty, so thirsty. It was making her head ache more. One of the glasses held something blue-white, unappealing. The other held some kind of fruit juice. Its fragrance drew her. It didn’t look as if the pale lady was going to come
She backed away, toward the tall windows, as far from the medicator as she could get. She tugged her tangled hair, wondering where she was, how she had gotten here, what was to be done with her. She turned toward the wind-ruffled water of the bay. It looked cold. She pressed her hands to the glass, and that was cold, too. She leaned her forehead against it, letting it cool her brow, and she called out to Raimu-ke, silently, desperately, for help. She supposed Raimu-ke was lost to her. And now, Isabel was lost to her, too.
A door opened behind her, and she tensed. Her nostrils flared, hoping to detect Isabel’s clean, airy scent, but what she caught was something cloying and spicy, something not-real. Definitely not-Isabel. Someone was moving toward her. Oa’s legs felt weak, and she began a slow slide to the floor, her cheek grazing the chilly glass, her hands gripping, and then losing, the sill. She folded in on herself, her head on her knees, her arms around them, making herself as small as possible. If only she were brave, like Isabel, standing up with her shoulders straight and her eyes bright. But she was too small, and too afraid, and now, again, utterly alone.
The voice was brittle. “Good morning!” it cried. “You’re awake! Look, I have some lovely muffins here, and milk. Children like milk. don’t they? Come now, don’t huddle there on the floor! You’ll get dirty. Come and eat something.”
Now Oa knew who it was. She had never been in the same room with her, but she had heard her voice, and seen her face. It was the pale lady with the white hair, the one whose face twitched and quivered. She sometimes came to the infirmary with Doctor to look at Oa through the not-mirror. There had been something ravening in her face, a deep and intense hunger as if she wanted to bite Oa, taste her flesh, sip at her blood the way the spider machine did.
Oa tightened her grip on her knees. There was nowhere to run.
“Come now, honey. Come drink your milk. We’re going to have fun, you and I!” The pale lady’s voice grated like stones scraping together. “Come on, now,” she said more sharply. “I know you understand me. Don’t make me come and get you. You’re too old for that.”
Oa’s head snapped up. Did she know? Had she guessed?
Slowly, Oa released her knees. She put her trembling hands on the windowsill and stood up, still looking out at the bleak vista of cold water and icy peaks. Oh, Raimu-ke, she prayed. Help me. Help me. Slowly, slowly, she turned around, and put her back to the window.
The pale lady was not dressed in a quarantine suit.
She wore a dress of midnight black. Her hair, white and shining as the mountains, was pulled tightly back from her face. Her lips were a kind of vibrant pink that was lovely on the fish in Mother Ocean and somehow revolting on the pale lady’s mouth. Her cheek jerked at irregular intervals, a spasm that distorted her pink lips and tugged at her eyelid. Her hand, hovering over a tray with glasses and plates, also twitched and trembled. She tried to smile with her jittering mouth as she sat down on the gold couch. The tray waited between her and Oa, on a low round table with a raised edge.
“There, now,” the pale lady exclaimed. “Isn’t that better? Come now! Let’s have breakfast together, just us two girls!” She nudged a glass forward with one finger. Oa understood she was afraid to pick it up, afraid her shaking hand would spill it. “Drink it up, won’t you? Let’s be friends. You can call me Gretchen.” The ferocity of her pink-lipped smile made Oa’s stomach turn.
But she was thirsty, so thirsty. It was making her head ache more. One of the glasses held something blue-white, unappealing. The other held some kind of fruit juice. Its fragrance drew her. It didn’t look as if the pale lady was going to come
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