Chapter 29
“Do not blame others for the comfort you take in blindness.
It is your choice to remain in the dark when a torch has been lit.”
- The Old Book
“Good morning, participants! I hope you all have been faring well these past few days. I know it all must be quite an adjustment. Today, each of you will be summoned to the infirmary for some routine medical treatment…”
Marcum droned on about various other “activities” occurring in the facility, like this were all some sort of vacation. Like I was supposed to be having fun rather than fixated on my survival.
I already had my agenda for the day. I was finally going to find the library.
I discarded my breakfast tray and exited the dining hall with a reinvigorated sense of determination.
The corridor was brisker than usual. Or perhaps it was only my frail state.
I was quick to shiver nowadays. Trailing my fingers along the wall as I walked, I felt the surface smooth under my skin.
I tried to remember which turn led to the library—the third corridor on the left, or was it the second?
It all looked the same.
The facility was a massive labyrinth of corridors that looped around, and around, until you didn’t know where you were anymore. I counted doors to know where I was, with the main elevator that reached the surface being the starting point.
The approaching sound of footsteps made me slow. Voices, soft but unmistakable, drifted from around the corner. I exhaled sharply, bracing myself.
Serene appeared first. The moment she saw me, she cast her gaze downward. Then, she folded her arms across her chest, and hunched her shoulders like she could disappear into herself. Lily was right behind, chin lifted, looking more annoyed than upset.
I kept my pace steady, even as my body grew stiff. Maybe I could avoid the interaction altogether. Doubtful—but I was going to try.
“Hey, traitor,” Lily said casually as I passed by her. I stopped and pivoted on my heels.
Serene’s gaze flicked up—just once, a flash of wide, uncertain eyes—before it dropped back to the floor again. Her fingers fidgeted absently with the edge of her sleeve.
Lily sneered. I ignored her pathetic attempt to rile me and focused on Serene. Although she despised me at the moment, I still viewed us as having a sort of kinship. We knew the same woods and the same people. Surely that had to mean something.
“Are you alright?” I asked Serene, my voice softened.
For a second—a heartbeat, no more—she met my eyes again. And in that flicker, I saw the crack: guilt, maybe. Regret. But then she looked down again, her voice soft. “We’re fine.”
I forced a tight smile. “Good.”
“We’d be better without a traitor roaming the halls among us,” Lily chimed.
I ignored the comment because it wasn’t worth an argument. Nothing good would come from it. I strode past them, resuming my search for the library. I didn’t have the energy for petty confrontations.
From behind me, Lily’s voice—barely audible—carried just one word.
“Soon.”
I found the library after a few too many right turns. It matched the rest of the facility well—just another stale, colorless, all-too-bright room. Even the books lacked color.
I’d never seen so many books untouched by mold or dirt. They didn’t smell weathered—they smelled like nothing.
I wandered around the first large room, uncertain where to even begin.
There seemed to be more rooms attached by open archways, scaling down like nesting dolls as you continued through them.
Before I could venture farther, a cough sounded behind me.
An older man watched with stern eyes. He was holding an open paperback book in his hands and examining me like an insect.
Like I was nothing more than a nuisance.
“Are you looking for something?” His voice was rough, almost as if a bit of mucus was permanently stuck at the back of his throat.
I rolled my shoulders back. “I was told you keep a record of all program participants. May I see it?”
The man raised one eyebrow and gave me a strange look. Without a word, he turned and walked off. He was several paces away when he finally spoke.
“Well, are you going to follow?”
I hurried after him as we wove through the library stacks until we finally reached a small glass cabinet.
The librarian took off the chain that had been dangling around his neck.
He sifted through the few keys there until he found the one he was looking for.
After unlocking the cabinet, he pulled out a large bound book with serrated paper edges.
“Do not bend the pages. If I find any damage done to this book, I will have you transcribe the entire thing,” he threatened. He continued to murmur to himself as he left. “They always interrupt the good part.”
I flipped to the most recently filled page, running my finger across the list of names until I found my own.
Mavis Emmaline Ashbone. 20.
I went back ten pages. Each page represented one year. Each year was a list of names Anam had collected. Well, I still held hope that perhaps not all had been reaped.
When I found the year Willam was taken, I scanned the page thoroughly. And then again. And again. I skimmed it, lips moving soundlessly over every name—until I heard myself whisper his. Willam. As if saying it would summon him from the paper.
But his name was nowhere to be seen.
My mind raced with over a hundred possibilities. Maybe this was a list of the deceased? But that made little sense. My name was listed. Or perhaps he used a false name? More probable, yet still unlikely.
I closed the record and rushed to the librarian, who didn’t bother to look up from his book.
“Excuse me, but your book is wrong.”
The man snorted, “My book is not wrong.”
“It’s missing a name.”
He sighed in utter exasperation and closed his book to meet my unsteady gaze.
“Every name recorded in that book belonged to someone who completed intake upon arrival. Whoever you’re looking for never set foot in this facility.”
My world tilted, and my stomach hollowed out. I gripped the edge of the desk, the cool metal biting into my palms as the room seemed to lurch sideways. How could he not have made it? He was strong, much stronger than I was.
This was supposed to give me answers, not tear the Ground out from under me.
I stumbled out of the library; the corridors stretching ahead in dizzying lines. My legs moved on instinct, but my mind stayed behind—somewhere between the cracked spine of that record book and the space where Willam’s name should have been.
I hugged my arms to my chest, pressing my fingertips into my elbows until it hurt, trying to think. None of this made sense. None of it added up.
A sharp voice broke through the fog.
“Mavis Ashbone.”
I turned, blinking hard as Karina approached from the end of the hallway, boots clicking briskly on the white, panelled tile. Her expression was unreadable, but her hands were gloved and her pace carried a quiet urgency.
“You’re required in the infirmary,” she said, as if she were telling me the weather. “Come with me.”
I opened my mouth to ask why, to protest, to tell her I needed a minute, just one—but the words stuck somewhere behind the tight knot in my throat. Instead, I nodded stiffly and fell into step beside her.
We walked in silence, the hallways narrowing, the air turning sharper and bitterer the deeper we went.
A shiver shot up my spine, making me shudder.
Rubbing my arms, I studied how fragile they appeared underneath the thin fabric of my tunic sleeves, and how each step seemed to echo louder than it should.
Karina led me through a set of heavy double doors, the smell of antiseptic biting at my nose.
The infirmary was pale and spotless, filled with gleaming metal trays and rows of glass vials that caught the sterile light.
A healer I didn’t recognize stood waiting, her hands folded neatly, her eyes already on me.
“Lie down, please,” the healer murmured.
“Where are Dr. Sinters and Holcrum?”
“They focus on analysis. I oversee the physical testing.”
My gut clenched.
I exhaled slowly, trembling, forcing my legs to climb onto the narrow cot.
The cot’s frigid surface pressed against my back as I settled, arms folded stiffly over my chest. The healer approached without a word; her face partially masked, eyes sharp and assessing.
I stared at the ceiling—white, segmented panels, each humming faintly with light.
“Left arm, please,” the healer murmured.
I unfurled my arm, swallowing hard as a tourniquet tightened around my biceps. My pulse jumped. The healer’s hands were quick, efficient—swab of cold antiseptic, glint of a needle, a sharp pinch, then a slow, spreading ache.
A slender tube snaked to a strange machine beside me. Inside, the liquid glowed faintly—not the dark red I’d expected, but something pale, shimmering, almost white. My stomach turned.
“What is that?” my voice rasped.
“Purified blood,” she said without looking at me. “Synthesized from your own cellular template. Please remain still.”
“Is that going in me?” I swallowed hard.
“Yes, but first I have to draw some of your blood out. We don’t want you to clot, causing a stroke.”
Once a pint had been drawn, I felt the second needle enter. First, I felt a coolness at the bend of my elbow, then a slow wave of tingling traveled up my arm, into my shoulder, creeping toward my chest. My teeth chattered faintly. I bit down hard to stop it.
Across the room, a monitor blinked and whirred, displaying numbers I didn’t understand. I wanted to lift my head, to watch the healer’s face for any flicker of concern, but I felt heavy, not pinned, just sinking.
A soft, chemical smell filled my nose—sharp, metallic, laced with something sweet and sickening. My tongue tasted faintly of copper.
“Breathe normally,” the healer said, adjusting a dial on the machine. “It’s normal to experience lightheadedness, chills, or a metallic taste.”
Normal. I almost laughed.
Nothing about this felt normal.
If this was what it meant to be purified, I wasn’t sure how much of myself would be left by the end.