Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
M ila
“Have you learned your lesson, my sweet bride?”
That question, purred sensually in my ear, rouses me from sleep the next morning. I am far too sleepy to recall what the question pertains to at first, but the moment I move and my consciousness leaves the cozy nest of my brain and is forced to sink into my body, I feel what was done. I feel it, and I remember it.
“Yes,” I say, my voice soft and my body aching.
“Good,” he says, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me tight against his body. I breathe in deep, taking so much comfort from him. I’ve decided to be good, because I’ve decided to trust that he wants what is best for me. The other people who keep trying to get me high don’t care about me at all. I’m being used by them as a pawn of some kind. But Arthur’s devotion to me is based in faith and love. He believes the Artifice chose me for him, and he is willing to do whatever it takes to preserve me, and the system that brought me to him.
I have been finding it difficult to settle in. I have been worried about friends. I have been thinking of myself and my entertainment or lack thereof. I’ve barely put any thought into why I am really here—to be his wife and the mother of his children.
“I’m going to be good,” I promise him.
“I hope so,” he says. “Though I can give you a repeat of last night whenever you want. I enjoy bringing my rebellious bride to heel from time to time.”
I blush and hide my face from him. He enjoyed it far too much. And so did I, though I couldn’t possibly confess that. I think he knows it anyway.
We get up and go on with the day. After breakfast, I have someone else to make amends to. Now that I understand what I’ve been doing, and why I’ve been doing it, I know I can stop being so much of a pain.
Lydia is not hard to find. She is still required to guard me, so she is essentially wherever I am. I can only imagine how annoyed she is, though I don’t have to leave everything to the imagination. The look she gives me as I approach her tells me that she’s thoroughly displeased with me.
“I’m sorry, Lydia,” I say. “I’ve treated you horribly. I don’t really recognize myself in the way I’ve spoken to you.”
She looks at me with some surprise and a great deal of suspicion, acknowledging my words with a nod.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me. I wouldn’t want to either. I’m not going to be running away from you again.”
“Good,” she says.
I suppose she doesn’t owe me any kind of niceness. After the way I’ve acted around her she probably thinks I am a terrible person. I suppose she’ll learn otherwise over time if I can manage not to make her life hell.
Days pass into weeks, and I do not get high accidentally again. I do not run from Lydia again. I do my best to take up quiet indoor pastimes. I do cross-stitch. I try my best to be a good wife. My husband is a busy and important man, but he makes regular time for me and love to me. I find that I live my life one bedroom encounter to another, for those are the times I feel most alive. In his arms, I forget how small my world has become.
This is my happily ever after. This is what I was made for. This is me fulfilling my destiny. I try not to think too much about the reason why it doesn’t feel like I am living an entirely full life.
And then, I get sick.
It is every now and then, at first, then it starts coming almost every morning. Fortunately, Arthur wakes up long before I do, so I am able to sneak to the bathroom and empty my stomach.
“What is wrong with you?”
Lydia has caught me creeping away from dinner one too many times. I knew she would eventually. She is far too perceptive, and she has nothing to do but watch me. She asks me the question as I emerge from the bathroom.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just a little stomach upset.”
“You’ve been sick every night for the last three nights at least. I am going to tell your husband.”
I have been sick every morning and every evening for three weeks now. I don’t have the energy to beg her not to, because I know she won’t listen anyway.
Arthur
“I have to inform you that your wife is not feeling well,” Lydia says.
I look up from the conversation I’ve been having with our guest, one of the many faithful servants of the Artifice that I have been quietly interrogating. It is my job to ensure that New Boston’s aristocracy is properly loyal, and the abundance of Soma in the city has made me certain that they cannot be.
“Mila? She seemed fine a moment ago.”
“I can assure you, she is not,” Lydia says.
“Excuse me,” I say to our guest. “Lance, entertain Mr. Walker, would you?”
Lance, always by my side, picks up the social slack as I am called away. I wonder if Mila is simply wanting some attention. I know I have not been indulging her in conversation as often as she might like.
I go with Lydia to the bedroom, where Mila is emerging from the toilet looking noticeably pale.
“You’re sick?” I ask the question perhaps a little too sharply.
“I promise I didn’t get any more drugs. I don’t know why I feel like this,” she says. She looks pale, but not feverish.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “You don’t look happy enough for this to be a reaction to a drug, unless, of course, you’ve been getting your hands on street materials.”
“She hasn’t,” Lydia says. “She’s been good for some time now, since the Elizabeth Idaho incident.”
“How long have you been sick for?” I ask the question, immediately noting the shadow of guilt that passes over her face.
“A little while,” she says.
“How long, exactly?”
“Two weeks. Maybe three?”
I bite back a sharp word and turn to Lydia.
“Call the doctor. Now.”
The doctor comes swiftly and examines Mila thoroughly. He takes some blood and also tests her urine. As the little dipstick changes color, he nods, as if he understands what is happening.
“You don’t need to worry. Her symptoms are very typical for a woman in her condition.”
“And what condition is that?”
“Early pregnancy.”
Those two words stretch out and echo for what seems like an eternity.
“I’m pregnant?” Mila says the words in a small, shocked voice.
We both knew it was a possibility, but there is something about the actual confirmation of pregnancy that changes everything in an instant. What seemed like a remote potential, a phenomenon that only happens to others, suddenly feels very concrete and final.
“Yes,” the doctor says. “These symptoms are common for the first trimester. If they increase, and you find yourself dehydrated, or unable to maintain weight, we can look at some treatments, but for now you are doing quite well. Ginger and plain crackers should help, avoiding rich meals, and taking plenty of rest if you need it.”
It is very early days. She’s only a few weeks pregnant. But she is pregnant. Suddenly, I feel infinitely more connected to the world, and to the Artifice. I am going to have children who will either suffer the consequences or reap the rewards of my decisions.
“Arthur?” Mila’s voice is soft. “Are you happy?”
I realize I have been standing here like a big stone statue, not reacting outwardly at all.
I kiss her face over and over, cradling her head in my hands. “You’ve been such a good girl,” I praise her. “We are all going to keep you safe, and the baby is going to be a joy like no other.”
She smiles at me, and I see little traces of tears in her eyes. “So I have made you happy?”
“Mila, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world.”