Stealing Infinity, page 10
My belly begins to twitch. There’s a tickle forming in the back of my throat. I want to tell him I’m not at all ready to jump ahead to anything, but sensing that won’t go over so well, I eke out the words, “Um, actually, I go by Nat.”
Arthur studies me for a long moment. And I could be mistaken, but I think there’s a fleeting glimmer of compassion in those obsidian eyes—until it vanishes before it can truly take hold.
“No,” he says, his tone unmistakably definitive. “Not anymore.”
I give a sheepish nod and stare hard at the floor, all the while wondering if I can possibly live up to my mother’s long-ago dream of the Natasha she once hoped for.
The door swings open.
Arthur leaves.
And as I step inside, I’m instantly struck by a single bright spotlight.
32
“Natasha?”
I squint. Nod. Lift a hand to ward off the glare and take a tentative step forward.
“Sorry about that,” the voice says. The next moment, the light dims and I lower my hand to my side. “Why don’t you come this way so I can properly introduce myself.”
I move toward the front of the room, careful to avoid an intricate replica of a carriage, the kind you see in movies set in historical times, when the voice says, “Oh, don’t mind the holograms. Feel free to walk right through them.”
“That’s a hologram?” I pause to gape at the apparition. “But it looks so real… So…3D.” I reach out to touch it, but before I can make contact, it vanishes.
“That one’s not quite ready. Soon, though.”
I look up to find a man standing before me, holding a clear tablet as thin as a credit card. Like Braxton’s phone, it’s at least several generations beyond those sold in stores. With a series of quick taps, the room empties out, leaving two folding chairs, a potted plant in the corner, and little else.
“I’m Hawke.” He tucks the tablet under his arm and offers a hand.
“Nat—Natasha,” I say, hoping he didn’t notice how I flubbed my own name.
“First day?” He turns and motions for me to follow.
“What gave it away, the green sweatshirt?” I frown at the hideous thing as I hurry to keep up.
“That, and the unmitigated look of sheer terror in your eyes.” He takes the seat on the left and gestures for me to take the other one.
“How long have you been here?” I ask. As he taps and scrolls on his tablet, I use the moment to study him in a way I won’t be able to once I truly have his attention.
His hair is the color of sand with a few blonder bits near the front. It’s sort of wavy and long, as though it’s been several months between cuts. And his white skin wears the sort of bronzed glow that has me wondering if somewhere around this cold and windy place there’s access to a tanning bed, a spray tan booth, or both.
At first sight, I’m tempted to peg him as one of those hoodie-wearing, twentysomething tech bros straight out of Silicon Valley. Except he wears a faded blue denim button-down instead of a hoodie, and his accent sounds more East Coast than Northern California.
When he slides his tablet under his leg and settles on me, I note that his eyes are blue, but not the same stormy blue as Braxton’s. Hawke’s are much lighter in tone, and his smile is quick and easy, displaying a slight gap between his front teeth.
“How long have I been here?” He adopts a thoughtful expression, tips his chair back, and peers at the ceiling as though the answer is written among the rows of canned lights. “Are you familiar with Einstein’s theory on time?”
I rub my lips together, worried the test has already begun.
“It’s all relative.” He grins, lowers the front legs of his chair, and enjoys a short burst of a laugh. “But, if you must know, my best guess would be seven years or so.”
“Your best guess?” I can’t help it—that’s a really weird way to answer. Like, who doesn’t know how long they’ve worked at a job or lived in a place?
“So, I take it you’re skipping ahead to the good stuff?” He regards me through a tilted-head, narrow-eyed gaze.
I shrug. Slouch lower in my seat. Then, realizing what a sloppy impression that makes, I straighten my spine, cross my legs primly, and say, “To be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing here.”
Hawke’s gaze pores over me, really taking me in but giving no hint as to what sort of conclusion he’s drawing. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh…” He reaches for his tablet again. “Let me ask you this—can you ride a horse?” He taps, scrolls, then waits for my reply.
Uhhh, what? I shake my head no.
“Any languages—good at accents?”
I glance between the tablet and him. “Um, two years of high school French?” My voice inadvertently lifts at the end, like I’m unsure and looking to him to confirm it. “Oh, and aside from a spot-on impression of the head cheerleader, no talent for accents.” It was a little shot at levity, but it’s met by dead silence, a few taps, and a long drawn-out scroll.
“What about acting abilities? Any roles in the school play—anything like that?”
Another no. What are these questions?
“Can you wield a sword? Ever take a fencing class?”
I gaze down at the floor. The room is cool, but I’m starting to sweat. “Um, wield?” I shrug, pull my shoulders in tighter, horrified by how quickly I’m failing this test. And even though I thought I wanted to go home, after my lunch with Arthur, I’m no longer sure that’s such a viable option. And if it is, then I’m no longer sure that I want to.
“How about solving puzzles, cryptology, that sort of thing?” His gaze is flat, his voice holding little hope.
My breath whooshes out of me. I offer a tight, pleading grin. It’s a desperate attempt at a save, but Hawke regards me with that same bored expression.
“Well,” he says, uncrossing his legs. “Guess that’s how you ended up here. I’m your last chance.”
I look at him with a startled gaze, but he just laughs.
“Not to worry,” he tells me. “You’re in good hands. You’re about to learn everything you need to know from the master himself.”
He returns to his tablet, and while he taps and scrolls, I can’t help but think how smug that last comment was. I mean, seriously? This guy is truly full of himself.
“So, I’ll leave you to it, then.” He rises from his chair and starts to leave.
“Wait—what?” I glance between the newly vacated chair and him.
“Oh, and don’t forget to take notes!” Without so much as a look in my direction, he’s gone.
I’m just about to go after him when the lights dim and Albert Einstein, or at least an eerily realistic hologram of Einstein, pulls up the chair, leans in, and says, “So, Natasha, what do you say we begin at the beginning?”
33
At Gray Wolf, we dress for dinner.
I know this because of the note card stating as much that was slipped under my door.
Though just how far I’m supposed to go in this new dress for dinner world, I’m not sure.
Do I wear one of the formal gowns hanging at the far end of my closet?
Or do I go with one of the simpler, but still pretty, dresses hanging just beside them?
Should I choose a vintage look or something more modern?
My wardrobe is bursting with choices.
Not wanting to look like I’m trying too hard, I reach for a pretty but still understated navy-blue Dior dress, thinking the color might send a subliminal message that after spending the bulk of the afternoon in deep, one-on-one conversations with Einstein, Stephen Hawking, Michio Kaku, among other notable physicists, both living and dead, I’m ready to make the jump from team green to team blue.
But just as I’m reaching for the hanger, I notice the gorgeous emerald green slip dress hanging nearby. There’s a faux fur stole just beside it and a pair of jeweled Jimmy Choo biker boots placed underneath.
My breath hitches. It’s an exact replica of the outfit I described on my last day at school, when Mason and I played a round of Anywhere but Here.
But how could Arthur have known?
Did he hack the mic on my phone?
And if so, what else has he heard?
I trail a finger down the length of the dress. It’s made of a heavy, high quality silk. No fast-fashion, polyester knockoffs here. Then I carry both dresses to the mirror and take turns holding each one against me, trying to determine if it’s some kind of test, or even a dare, when there’s a knock at my door.
“Hey, Natasha—it’s Song.” Her voice carries through the door. “I thought you might want to go down together. I know it’s your first night, or your first dinner anyway, and—”
Still holding both dresses, I open the door.
“That one.” Song points at the slip dress. “No contest.”
…
“I take it you’ve been to the Winter Room?” Song walks alongside me, her delicate silver heels clicking against the stone tile floor.
With her minimal makeup and long black hair twisted into a loose bun, she wears a billowy, low-cut, tulle dress nearly the same shade of blue as the collection of aquamarine studs artfully arranged in each of her ears. From her neck hangs a beautiful crystal necklace, making for an effect that’s so effortlessly glamorous, I worry that my last minute dash of red lipstick might’ve pushed my own look too far, even though Song did encourage it.
I fidget with the faux fur stole, run my tongue along my upper teeth, when Song stops, grasps my arm, and says, “Stop it. You look amazing.”
I can feel my face flush. I’m embarrassed by how much I needed the reassurance. “Everything here is so different,” I start. “Back home we never dressed up for meals. We never dressed up for anything, really.”
Song shoots a worried look down the hall. Determining the coast is clear, her dark eyes then settle on mine. “The sooner you forget about home, the easier it’ll be to adapt.”
On the surface, it sounds like good advice, but I can’t help but think there’s a warning attached.
She holds my gaze, and when I nod in reply, she releases my arm, and we continue the walk.
“Can I ask you how long you’ve been here?” I say.
She stares straight ahead, her expression a perfect blank slate. “You could,” she finally replies. “But I’m not sure what you’d gain from knowing.”
It’s a definite roadblock, but there’s still one more thing I’m determined to ask. “Is—” I bite my lip, look all around, and in a lowered voice say, “Is there… I mean, are we being…watched?”
Song’s expression goes blank. After we’ve walked a few minutes longer, she says, “Look, Natasha, I’d really like for us to be friends. If for no other reason than having friends is useful around here.”
I stare back in return. I have no idea how to respond. Um, thanks?
“Everyone saw you today, having lunch with Arthur.”
It’s not like I hadn’t noticed them looking, she and Finn included. But I’m also not sure why it matters. “Is that weird? I mean, I guess I assumed everyone gets a turn.” I shrug like it was no big thing, but from the look on her face, that was the wrong way to play it.
“A word of advice?”
I can hardly breathe, but I’m still capable of nodding.
“Don’t assume anything here, about anyone or anything. Understand?”
I swallow. Hold for the punch line. When it doesn’t arrive, I say, “Well, that sounds ominous.”
34
Song pauses just shy of the Winter Room entrance, allowing space for a group of laughing people to enter. “I was sincere about us being friends,” she says after they’ve passed. “But I’m afraid Blues dine together. There’s not a lot of mixing between the levels during mealtimes.”
My heart sinks at the thought of eating alone. Even when I was demoted to sitting next to the recycle bin at my old school, I still had Mason for company.
She clasps my arm briefly. “Don’t worry,” she says, “it won’t last forever. You’ll make the leap soon enough.”
“And if I don’t?”
Her face turns serious. “If I were you, I wouldn’t consider that an option. Oh, and just so you know, you’re sitting at Braxton’s table tonight.”
An audible gasp escapes my lips. And though I’m not even sure why, and while I’m definitely in no mood to examine what it might mean, the worst part is, Song heard it.
“It’s possible he’s not nearly as bad as you think,” she says, her gaze sliding over me. “Then again, it’s also quite likely he’s worse. Guess that’s for you to determine.” The grin that follows is sly, like she’s in on a secret I’ve yet to unearth. “But Elodie, on the other hand…” She sneaks a glance past my shoulder before returning to me. “Be careful with her.”
“Pretty sure I already learned that the hard way,” I tell her. “It’s how I ended up here.”
Song looks me over. “Not what I meant,” she says. “I’m talking about her need to be Daddy’s favorite. And by Daddy, I mean Arthur. Or at least that’s how she thinks of him. And today, you threatened her spot as favorite daughter.”
“Okaaay,” I say. “But I’m not sure how that’s my fault. I mean, it’s not like I asked to join him for lun…” My voice fades when I see Song’s attention drift away as she waves to someone inside the dining room.
When she turns back to me, she places a hand on my arm. “Look, I’m not trying to scare you, but what you did or didn’t ask for probably won’t matter to her. If anything, it’ll just make it worse.” Her hand falls back to her side, the edges of her lips tugging down into a sympathetic frown. “Just watch your back, that’s all. And try not to fall into old patterns with her. Living here makes it hard to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s fake, and Elodie is a product of this place. She’s spent most of her life here, and it shows. She’s like the personification of the best and worst that Gray Wolf has to offer.”
“For someone who claims they didn’t mean to scare me, you’re kind of freaking me out.” I frown, my heart nearly doubling its pace. “I mean, lunch happened, and I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do about that.”
Song steals another glance inside the dining room, which makes me wonder if she’s starting to regret ever bringing this up. When she turns back to me, she says, “If it were me, I’d count myself lucky that Arthur took an interest. Lunching with him is not standard practice. Or at least I never got one. And considering how he’s the first and last word around here, you might consider milking that for all it’s worth. Just try not to flaunt it, that’s all. Deal with Elodie the same way you would any venomous snake—try not to agitate her, and do what you can to stay out of her way.”
Before I can even drum up a reply, Song swings her hair over her shoulder and goes inside.
35
Snow drifts from the sky and blankets the floor.
Crystal chandeliers dip from the ceiling, flickering softly with candlelight.
A fire roars from a large hearth as a baby fawn skitters across a frozen pond, wobbling past rows of diners as his mother patiently waits on the other side.
And there, among all the tables heaping with fancy stemware, gleaming golden cutlery, and plates of fine china, sits Braxton.
Braxton—with his fancy dinner jacket, ridiculous face, and those astonishing blue eyes that latch onto mine, holding me hostage no matter how hard I try to break free.
And I really do try, but apparently my body has stopped taking orders from my brain. My feet keep crossing the room, carrying me closer to him, as my gaze remains fixed on his as though there’s no other place I could possibly look.
When I reach the edge of the table, he rises from his seat. “Wow,” he says. “You look ama—” He stops as though catching himself. His face reddening, he makes a stiff gesture toward my clothes. “What I mean is, that’s a really nice choice, and…”
He’s flustered, which comes as a relief. At least I’m not the only one left unsettled by this weird magnetic vibe that insists on thrumming between us.
I can feel a rush of heat rising to my face, so I’m quick to turn away and reach for my chair, only to find he’s already there.
“Allow me,” he says, sliding my chair back and ensuring I’m settled before returning to his.
I busy myself with unfastening my stole and draping it over the back of my seat. Only then do I determine myself ready to face him again. “I don’t remember you being so chivalrous at the diner.” I laugh, hoping it comes off as the joke I intended it to be, while also hoping he doesn’t notice how my skittering pulse has left my voice sort of shaken and wobbly.
“That had more to do with the booth situation than a lack of manners.” His gaze sweeps over my shoulders, dipping as low as my neckline, before veering away.
“Is it just us?” I ask. For some reason, when Song told me I’d be sitting at Braxton’s table, I pictured something bigger, with at least a few other people. From what I can see, ours is the only two-top. “Did you volunteer for this, too?”
Braxton leans toward me, the sleeves of his midnight-blue dinner jacket framing either side of the elaborate gold place setting. “I thought you might like some company,” he says. “But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can go…”
He waits for me to reply, but I take my time to decide. Partly because the thought of eating alone fills me with dread. But mostly because the more time I spend with Braxton, the harder it is for me to hate him, or at the very least, stay mad at him, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.
I mean, just because he has a perfectly chiseled face and a body that can really fill out a suit—just because he’s admitted to feeling a certain measure of guilt over the part he played in luring me here—doesn’t mean I should let my guard down.
