Stealing Infinity, page 28
“I would escort you back to your room,” he says. “But I’m already running late.”
“My apologies,” I say, fluttering my lashes in a flirtatious way. “You know, for making you late.” I tilt my head coyly toward the tangle of pillows and bedsheets.
The ploy works. In an instant, Braxton is standing before me, pulling me into his arms. “Darling, you can make me late anytime,” he says, then kisses me so deeply, so fully, I find myself already mourning his absence while waiting for his return.
He releases me with a sigh and goes in search of a duffel bag for him and a spare Gray Wolf Academy tote for me, so I won’t have to drag my dress through the halls.
I’m about to toss in the diamond swan hair clip, too, when I pause. “Hey,” I say, clip in hand. “I have an idea.”
“Yeah?” He races around the space, filling his arms with the items he’ll need.
“I was thinking, since you’re actually venturing out into the world—”
That’s all it takes for him to stop, to take one look from me to the jewel in my hand and immediately shake his head.
“But you don’t even know what I was going to say!” My stomach sinks with disappointment.
His gaze squares on mine. “You want me to give that to someone. But Tasha, that can never happen. And if this is about your mom, there’s nothing to worry about. As long as you remain here, Arthur will look after her.”
“It’s not for my mom.”
“Then who?” His gaze narrows, his brows merge, like he’s trying to determine who he could’ve possibly missed on the paltry social column of my pathetic high school résumé.
“It’s for Mason. I never got to say goodbye.”
A hint of recognition flashes across Braxton’s face. “Right,” he says. “Your best friend and coworker at the vegan café.”
“Wow,” I say. “You really did memorize my file.”
Braxton shrugs. “The answer is still no.” He turns away and gets back to packing.
“But you don’t have to actually visit him.” I trail Braxton from his bathroom to his kitchen where he sorts his vitamins into a small plastic container, then back to his bedroom where he tosses them into his bag.
“Good,” he says. “Because I won’t be anywhere near there.”
“All I’m asking is that you mail it. I want to give him a shot at something better. And with this—” I hold up the clip. “Well, he can sell it and put the money toward college.”
Braxton pushes down on the small pile of jeans, sweaters, socks, and underwear, then zips his bag shut in one quick stroke. “You want to help your friend?” When he faces me, his gaze is darker than I’ve ever seen. “Then make peace with the fact that you can never contact him again. Under any circumstance. Understand?”
The words hang heavy between us. I don’t like the sound of anything he just said.
Still, I don’t want to end it like this. Not after the wonderful night and morning we shared. So I nod agreeably, kiss him passionately, and leave him to finish whatever he needs to do before he heads off island.
But on my way out, I leave the diamond hair clip on the table by the door, along with a short note from me to Mason, and another note with the address where Braxton can send it.
As I make the trip back to my room, I feel confident that Braxton will do the right thing.
93
According to my slab, the day is mine to spend as I want, and I’m not entirely sure what to do with it, since I haven’t really taken a day off since I arrived.
In my effort to advance, my weekends were devoted entirely to study. Which means I missed out on movie nights where Arthur screens new releases well before they’re open to the public; beach days where everyone heads to the indoor pool that features an actual sandbar and waves you can surf; the game room that supposedly offers all kinds of video games and VR experiences that are generations ahead of what’s sold in stores; and even spa time where, according to the treatment menu on my slab, I can book a facial, a massage, or even time in the isolation tank or the cryotherapy booth.
Deciding on a visit to the spa, I let myself into my room, where the first thing I notice is the stack of blue sweatshirts placed on a nearby table. And before I realize what’s happening, I’ve dropped to my knees as a sudden rush of tears spills down my cheeks.
Normally, I’d have wiped them away well before they could track past my nose. But today, I just let them fall, splashing onto the T-shirt Braxton lent me, as I allow myself to really lean into this victory.
This is so much bigger than no longer eating alone. I mean, while it’ll be nice to finally put that behind me, the real reason I’m crying is because it’s been so long since I dared myself to succeed, there was a part of me that feared I wasn’t up to the task—that winning didn’t happen to people like me.
With a shaky hand, I reach for the ivory-colored envelope that’s positioned precisely in the center of the stack, slide a finger under the wax seal, and retrieve the note left inside.
There, written in black ink, on Arthur’s personal stationery, I read:
Congratulations.
-A.B.
I run a finger over the message as fresh tears roll down my cheeks. Only this time, I’m quick to wipe them away, thankful that I’m here on my own—that no one will ever know just how much this all means to me.
Setting the note aside, I pluck a sweatshirt from the pile, tug it on over my T-shirt, then I get to my feet and head for the nearest mirror.
Before me, I see a girl made Blue, with a beautiful talisman hanging from her neck, a shiny gold ring on her finger, and the flush of a new boyfriend still fresh on her cheeks.
And though my hair is still brown, my eyes still green, and I’m still barely so much as five foot three without heels, it feels like I’m looking at a completely different person from the one I once knew.
The lessons in diction, comportment, dance, and others have left their mark. And though the changes they’ve brought are undoubtedly for the better, making me much more confident and poised than ever, I can’t help but wonder what happens now. I guess I’ve spent so much focus on becoming a Blue, I never stopped to think of anything more.
I mean, is this it? Do I stay locked up in this gilded cage, Tripping and stealing at Arthur’s behest, until someone fresher and newer comes along and I’m sidelined to one of the supporting staff jobs? Will I ever be able to leave this place?
Or is Gray Wolf Island destined to become not just my present but also my future?
Arthur’s Artful Dodgers. The words trail softly from my lips to the luxurious room beyond—the collection of fine furnishings, the gleaming crystal chandelier, the handwoven rugs, to walls that are surprisingly bare.
Am I expected to steal my own art? Is that how Braxton and Elodie grew their impressive collections?
My gaze finds its way back to my reflection, where it chooses to linger.
As long as I stay here, Arthur will take care of my mom. And when Mason receives the diamond swan hairclip, I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing I did what I could to take care of him, too. If this is the price to help the people I love, then I’m willing to pay it. Despite Braxton’s warnings, I won’t let Gray Wolf change me for the worse.
I pull the sweatshirt back over my head, fold it neatly, and return it to the pile. Then I head into my closet in search of a swimsuit, cover-up, and some flip-flops. Thinking a little time at the spa, followed by a visit to the beach, might do me some good.
I guess because my days here are so tightly scheduled, I haven’t really taken time to search through every additional shelf and drawer beyond the ones I’ve needed most. After finding a beautiful beaded tunic I plan to use as a cover-up, I’m still searching for a bikini to wear to the wave pool when I open the middle drawer in the island that sits at the center of my closet, only to watch as it flies off its tracks and sends a pile of papers flittering like butterfly wings to the floor.
I gaze at the mess of notes at my feet. Considering where they were stashed, clearly whoever put them there intended for them to stay hidden, which only makes me even more curious.
I kneel on the soft Persian rug and start to sift through them. Then, realizing they’re dated, I go about arranging them in order, before I spread them out before me.
2.8- What is this place? Forced to eat alone—the freaking fourth dimensional road!? Someone Get Me the Hell Out of Here!
2.12- Today’s inspirational quote: No Mud, No Lotus.
Are they kidding me with this shit?
2.19- Goal: Make Blue whatever it takes. I can’t stand another day of eating alone.
3.15- I survived the hazing. What the hell is wrong with these people? Why do they just go along with whatever Elodie says? Don’t they realize the only power she has is the power they give her? And why the hell did I choose to make the same choice again? Okay, that last part is bullshit. I know exactly why I did it—because what waits for me off island is way worse than what waits for me here.
3.16- Go Team Yellow. Whatever. What the hell does a girl have to do to make Blue around here?
3.18- Elodie is out to get me. I can’t prove it, but I think it has something to do with Braxton inviting me to his table for dinner. He’s nice and all, but not what I’m into. Also, I know I’m being watched. And yet, when I mentioned all that to Song, she assured me I’m being paranoid. Just in case, I need to start hiding these notes.
4.2- Song is my only true friend. I think I might be in love with her. Sometimes I wonder if maybe we’re both just lonely, that we never would’ve hooked up in the outside world. But that world doesn’t exist for me anymore. The sooner I forget it, the better.
5.12- Song is holding something back. Whether it’s to protect me, or herself, I don’t know. Everyone puts up such a good front with their fancy manners and clothes. But I know I can’t trust anyone. They’re all out for themselves. It’s like being a noble at court, our lives revolve around pleasing King Arthur and gaining his favor.
6.28- Time traveling?
Freaking time traveling—like, for real—not just a construct?
Are they freaking kidding me?
6.30- Tomorrow I Trip. I really hope I find my way back.
6.31- Okay, that was awesome. Braxton ditched me for a while—caught him flirting with a smokin’-hot countess (too bad Elodie wasn’t around to see that!). But I made it back and I’ll admit: I’m kind of excited to do it again!
7.1- Officially Blue!
8.12- It’s really not so bad and Arthur is pleased with my efforts. Song and I are in love. Finn and Oliver are my good friends—and that’s more than I ever had before, so it’s time I stop with these silly sad notes and focus on truly making a life here. Funny how it took longer than I thought to arrive at this point, but shorter than I hoped.
Thirteen notes offering a pretty accurate chronicle of what it’s like to live as a newbie at Gray Wolf.
Question is: If she decided it wasn’t so bad, then where is she now?
That last note was dated August 12. By September, Elodie arrived at my school, scouting for a recruit.
Am I this girl’s replacement? And if so, is that what Song was referring to that night in the lighthouse, when she hinted that the only reason I’m here is because of an unexplained vacancy?
I gather the notes and stuff them back into the envelope. Then, after finding a bikini and flip-flops, I head out to the spa.
But on my way, I stop by the purple door and knock.
94
Song stands in the doorway and squints like a person who’s still in the process of waking up and hasn’t decided whether to fully commit.
“Hey, Natasha,” she says. “What’s up?”
She’s in her robe, and I don’t want to impose, but this is the sort of thing that’s probably better said behind a closed door. “Can we talk?” I ask. “Inside?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she waves me through, and the first thing I notice is that her room is not as nice as Elodie’s but also not as basic as mine.
When she catches me looking at her collection of modern art pieces, she says, “I guess you haven’t visited the Vault yet. Don’t worry, you will.”
“The Vault?” I follow her deeper into her room and take a seat on her leopard upholstered divan.
“Every successful Trip—and by successful, I mean you’ve either managed to return with a particularly difficult Get, or you’ve filched something that surprises and delights Arthur—he rewards you with a visit to the Vault, which houses his private collection of art, and where he invites you to choose a piece for your room.”
“Are you saying those pieces in Elodie’s and Braxton’s rooms—they chose them?”
Song folds herself onto a pale pink cushion and nods.
I think about Elodie’s collection—it was massive, impressive. A well-balanced mix of modern works and old masters that totally suits her, considering how she has one foot firmly placed in the old world and the other in the current one.
As for Braxton—the art he chose was darker, brooding, epic in both story and scale, and all similar in theme. A collection of contorted bodies and tortured faces that speak to the pain of being a human, striving for a touch of the divine, but constantly falling short.
And then Song—the canvas directly before me encompasses most of the wall.
“Considering your interest in art, you should really enjoy the Vault,” she says.
“How do you know I’m interested in art?” All those nights spent in the Autumn Room, I don’t remember ever mentioning that. I don’t remember saying anything particularly revealing—none of us did. Here at Gray Wolf, if you’re not Tripping to a long-ago past, you work to stay grounded in the present.
“It’s one of the reasons you’re here,” she says. “It’s one of the reasons we’re all here. Arthur has great appreciation for those with an elevated aesthetic.”
“I’m not sure my aesthetic is all that elevated,” I say. “I arrived here in a baggy hoodie, sneakers, and a dress Elodie chose worn over a pair of sweatpants Braxton loaned me.”
“I’m talking about a deep appreciation for beauty. True beauty. The kind of feel-it-to-the-depths-of-your-soul response you get when experiencing a particularly moving work of art that makes you want to climb inside that landscape, the pages of a book, or even the notes of a song, so you can know the work more intimately, maybe even live there for a while. I know you’ve felt that way, or else you wouldn’t be here. It’s not just about finding teens who live on the margins, it’s more than that. Arthur has no tolerance for anything he considers ordinary. It’s one of the reasons he abhors social media. Most of the big tech guys secretly do. But for Arthur, all those overly curated feeds—he claims it’s turning us all into clones. Everyone talks about their personal style and brand, but Arthur refers to it as a Personal Bland.”
I laugh.
“Arthur can be funny, actually. It just takes some time to see that side of him. Anyway, if you’re going to try to analyze me through my art, I’ll save you the trouble and say I like plain, simple, upfront pieces. I get my fill of shadow and mystery just walking these halls.”
I take another look at the canvas. I’m not sure I’d call that Jackson Pollock piece simple. The well of emotional turmoil required to cover a canvas that large with multiple layers of splatters feels pretty deep to me. But if that’s how Song wants to see herself, it’s hardly my place to argue.
“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t just a friendly visit?” She stretches her arms high overhead, bends to her right, then left, but all the while her gaze remains leveled on mine.
“I found something,” I say. “Something I figured you should have.”
Her interest clearly piqued, she sweeps her curtain of long, dark hair over her shoulder and leans toward me.
I study her closely as I pass her the envelope, watching for whatever sort of reaction might play across her face before she has a chance to conceal her true feelings. But it’s nothing like that. The moment she unfolds the first note, tears begin to spill down her cheeks.
“Where did you find these?” she whispers, as though afraid of being overheard.
“Hidden behind a drawer.”
“Did you read them?” Her gaze is accusing at first, but soon softens. “Of course you did. I would’ve done the same.” She sighs. Then, “Her name was Anjou, like the pear.” She tries to laugh, but I watch as the small burst of joy quickly fades from her face. “We were together. I loved her. And I miss her every single day.”
“What happened?” I ask, watching as Song’s long, graceful fingers flip through the pile of notes.
When she doesn’t answer, I ask again, but she just wipes her eyes, tucks the envelope away, and settles her gaze on mine.
“Don’t tell anyone you found these,” she says, her voice tinged with an unspoken warning.
95
“Song, what happened?” I repeat, my stomach clenching as I watch her spine stiffen as she cinches her sash tightly around her. The way the heavy, embroidered robe hangs on her slim frame makes her appear simultaneously regal and fragile. Though the steeliness of her gaze, and the firm pinch of her rose-tinted lips indicate my welcome is close to being over.
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone,” she pleads.
I nod. “I promise,” I say, my gaze darting around her room once more before landing on a small, leather-bound book lying on the table beside her. The sight of it is so unexpected, I can’t help but do a double take.
