Chapter 12 The Becoming
Chapter Twelve
The Becoming
Daisy woke gasping, heart slamming against her ribs like a caged bird.
For three terrifying seconds, she didn’t know where she was. White walls. White ceiling. White sheets tangled around her legs like restraints.
The White Swan.
Locked in her little cage, all the way up on the ninetieth floor.
Pale light leaked through the curtains. She’d slept. The tea had worked.
Her blurry gaze found the clock. 7:47.
Slowly, she sat up, waiting for the room to spin. It didn’t.
Today was the day. The Becoming and then The Feast of the Fallen. There was no way to prepare, but she was ready to be finished with both.
Slipping out of bed, she once again checked the door.
Still locked. She busied herself with a few sequences of sit ups and pushups.
Once her blood was pumping, she showered.
This time she wasted no time on luxuriating on the amenities meant to distract her.
She kept her eye on the open bathroom door at all times and her ears attuned to all sounds.
She dressed quickly, tucking the locket back into her front pocket where it would stay hidden. Then she waited.
The room appeared smaller in daylight. Less shadows and more of a gilded cage than a palace.
The fruit on the table caught her eye. She’d been ignoring little, nauseating waves of hunger since waking.
Don’t.
The tea had been fine, but that didn’t change her policy. Trust no one.
Filling a glass with water from the tap, she drank it standing at the window.
Daylight had transformed the view. What had been darkness and rippling moonlight was now a stretch of grey-blue water extending to the distant horizon.
Coastlines curved at her left and right.
An island. It had to be. The realization only made her feel more trapped.
Tipping her head against the glass, she squinted. Off in the distance, Islands scattered across the water like stepping stones for giants.
She sighed. The waiting was killing her.
Swiping the schedule off the table, she reviewed it for the hundredth time. Breakfast would be served at nine. Her eyes darted to the clock. 8:53. Seven minutes. A useless reprieve wasted on a flightless bird.
She tried something she’d never done before. Dropping to the floor, she faced the windows, folded her legs, and shut her eyes. She wasn’t sure how one knew if they were meditating or not, but as her brain obsessed over trying to do so, six minutes passed.
At 8:59, the electronic chirp of the lock disengaging, and Daisy shot off the floor—ready to get the hell out of this ivory cage.
The door swung open. Every muscle in her body coiled and tensed in fight or flight.
“Good morning, miss.” Another man in a white uniform, dressed just like the ones from yesterday. He moved directly to the food cart. “I hope you slept well.”
Without responding, she crossed to the door only to come up short as another man appeared.
“Good morning, miss,” the second man greeted, blocking her exit. “I’ve come to escort you to the morning feast.”
Breakfast.
She’d assumed it would be delivered to the room. But this was better. This meant leaving. “I’m ready.”
He hospitably waved her forward, so flawless suspicion spiked inside of her. She reluctantly stepped into the white corridors and then looked back, unclear where to go. Every distrustful part of her itching to run.
Pristine white carpet stretched over white marble. “This way, please.” He led her down a labyrinth of ivory corridors, endless and identical, differentiated only by the various swan paintings.
Daisy followed in silence, doing her best to memorize turns, though she doubted she could find her way back alone. Other doors opened as they passed, other white-gloved men emerging with other women in tow. Each one joining the procession like naive little lambs off to slaughter.
Was this how it happened? Was this how droves of women disappeared each year? In silent consent?
The women came in all ages, all shapes, but their clothes told similar stories. Threadbare fabrics and cheap blends, faded from time and too many washes.
They’re all like me, Daisy realized. Working-class. Salt of the earth after it had been scraped thin. Resolute. She recognized the desperation in their eyes, set with equal stubbornness, the kind someone developed when quitting wasn’t an option.
Finally, her escort stopped. “You’ll be chaperoned by Aunt Vanessa today.”
The glossy white doors swung open, and Daisy forgot how to breathe.
A banquet of excess spread before her in a ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers. Round tables draped in ivory linens were scattered across the grand room so crisp they could have cut glass.
But the food. Dear God, the food.
Banquet tables stretched along three walls, groaning under the weight of silver platters and dishes, towering topiaries decorated in brightly colored confections of cookies and cakes. It couldn’t all be poisoned.
They wandered inside in soundless awe. Soft gasps slipped through the cherry music drifting from the corner where a jazz quartet played. Crystal towers dripped with exotic fruits in shades of pink and yellow. Berries gleamed like gemstones.
Stations dotted the corners as chefs performed culinary theatre.
The air was sweet and savory. Cheese wheels, pink salmon, sizzling, pan-seared sirloin.
Omelets, hand-spun crepes, chocolate croissants, and cheese Danishes.
Champagne bottles chilled in ice buckets, flutes stacked in a waiting pyramid, sparkling as golden bubbles rose and fell.
The sweet aroma of baked sugar danced in a steady tango with the fresh scent of herbs.
Daisy’s mouth watered.
Waiters glided between tables with silver coffee pots and crystal pitchers. Somehow, she knew the juice was freshly squeezed.
Flowers exploded from vases on every surface, perfuming the air with a softness that challenged even the sizzling scent of bacon or the warm, inviting notes of the fresh bread.
“Can you believe this shit?” a woman said in an American accent as she loaded a plate several inches high.
She looked nineteen, maybe twenty, with curves spilling from her torn jeans and a face set in aggressive disbelief. Her un-styled brown hair sat in a messy knot on top of her head. No makeup aside from the black that lined her alert eyes.
“You should try that orange shit.” She jerked her chin toward a dish. “Not sure what it is, but it’s fucking delicious.”
Before Daisy could respond, the woman reached over her, snatching a plump muffin from a display. With no room left on her plate, she bit into it and moaned dramatically.
“Fuck me, that’s good.”
Whispers carried as plates slid from rocks and servants offered helpings.
“Name’s Trisha. Trisha Carter. I’m number 1952. You?”
Daisy blinked, the other’s eagerness somehow dialing up her cautiousness. “1922,” she said quietly.
“Cool.” Trisha grabbed a croissant the size of her fist and stuck it under her arm. “I’m from Philly. You?”
“London—”
“Good morning, my little does.” Aunt Vanessa glided through the doors, her cream cashmere replaced by a satin champagne dress.
“I hope everyone slept well and feels rested.” Her strawberry-blonde hair was swept into an elegant twist. “We have a busy day ahead. Please, help yourself to breakfast. We have an hour before The Becoming ceremonies begin.” She spread her arms to encompass the obscene abundance.
“Enjoy, my beautiful fawns. Today, you meet the future you.”
They descended on the food like a tide, some aggressive, elbowing past others to reach choice dishes, some furtive, filling plates with quick, guilty movements as if expecting someone to slap the food from their hands.
They ate fast and took more than was needed, hoarding against an ingrained sense of scarcity.
Daisy took a plate and approached the tables prudently.
A burst of flames erupted from a nearby station. Gasps of awe swept from the corner as the chef grinned and poured liquid into a pan of sizzling bananas.
“Bananas foster.” Aunt V appeared at Daisy’s elbow. “One of my favorites. The alcohol caramelizes the fruit.”
Daisy watched the flames die down. “I’ve never had it.”
“Then you must.” Aunt V signaled to the chef. “Did you sleep well?”
Laughter erupted from a table by the big window where a blonde tribute held court, an entourage hanging on every word.
Trisha sat alone at the table to the right of the blonde’s, head down and one protective arm positioned like a barrier around the three overflowing plates in front of her. To the left of the blonde—
The woman from the plane.
She sat alone, picking at her food without eating, her enormous eyes as weary as a hunted animal’s.
Aunt V followed her stare. “A friend of yours?”
Startled by the question, Daisy frowned and shook her head.
“Perhaps a future ally, then.”
Was that what this was? A chance to form alliances? Why hadn’t she considered that? This whole time, she’d only thought of herself, her own strategy. Never once had she pictured this many women like her.
But they weren’t all women. A man sat with the blonde. Not a servant. A tribute. “How many are there?”
“Tributes? Twelve in my bevy.”
Daisy blinked at the strange word.
Then Aunt V explained, “Eleven does and one stag.” She pointed to the only man not dressed as a servant.
Does. Stags. It was all hunting language.
“You better eat, deer.” Aunt V winked and drifted away as gracefully as she appeared.
Daisy wasn’t used to having breakfast, so she chose small portions of light options that wouldn’t upset her stomach. She carried her plate to the table where the woman from the plane sat.
“Mind if I sit?”
The woman startled, nearly knocking over her water glass. Then politely waved toward the several unoccupied chairs. “Please.”
Her Irish accent felt closer to home, and Daisy smiled and took the seat to her left.