Twenty-Three
Rural Virginia
It seemed impossible: the cramped metal room, the flickering lights, the two other Valeran students who Giselle had never
seen before, Dr. Iver smiling his ever-inscrutable smile. The man who had just introduced himself as CIA, seemingly unaware
of how difficult it all was to believe.
And Nadiya. Nadiya, who would not look her in the eye. The scene took on not the atmosphere of a dream but the aura of a nightmare.
“CIA,” Julian repeated. “Is this a joke?”
“Only if you consider urgent matters of national security a joke.” Deckard’s voice was gravelly, that familiar pack-a-day rasp, though Giselle could not imagine him as a man with any vices.
“The four of you have been selected for an important mission.”
They glanced among themselves, Giselle making brief eye contact with Klaudia. The other girl intimidated her—partly because
Giselle had never met an actual Russian before, but mostly because her stare was so cold.
“What mission?” Klaudia asked.
“A very significant one,” said Deckard, as if that point had not already been impressed upon them repeatedly. “I’ll explain
more when we reach Camp Peary.”
Camp Peary? Giselle looked around to see if recognition crossed anyone else’s face.
“The Farm,” said Nadiya. “You’re taking us to the Farm.”
“Camp Peary,” Deckard corrected her. “The CIA training facility in Williamsburg. There you will be briefed and prepped for
your mission.”
Julian narrowed his eyes. “And if we refuse?”
“This is not a spring break trip to Palm Beach, Mr. Joyce-Young,” said Dr. Iver. “This is a direct order from the government
of the United States.”
“It’s an honor and a privilege,” added Deckard. “You should be grateful to have been chosen.”
“Funny,” said Julian coolly, “I was told the same thing about coming to Valeran.”
“And yet I’m not getting a sense of gratitude from you,” Nadiya muttered.
Julian’s gaze cut to her. “I’m not inclined to be grateful for being locked up. Are you?”
“Need I remind you,” Dr. Iver said, before Nadiya could snap out a reply, “that your other option was federal prison. And
now that time is being remitted. Consider it a commuted sentence.”
Federal prison. Julian looked so refined and spoke with such eloquence that she had trouble imagining what he could have done to warrant
such a punishment. Nobody with a name like Julian Joyce-Young III would have ended up at Valeran for swiping credit card numbers.
“A commuted sentence,” Klaudia said. “Does that mean we’re graduating early?”
“In a sense, yes,” Dr. Iver said. “Think of this mission as your final project. If you succeed, you will be released and given
top appointments.”
Julian and Klaudia exchanged glances. There was something both restrained and electric in their eyes that Giselle couldn’t
decode.
“And if we don’t succeed?” asked Klaudia.
Dr. Iver’s smile was ghostly and thin. “I haven’t even considered that possibility. That’s how confident I am in the abilities
of my students.”
Giselle began to have that familiar sinking feeling. She cleared her throat, though her voice still came out a muffled squeak. “Why us? I mean—of all your students . . .”
What she had really meant was why me? Looking around, it was clear that she did not belong with the others. They were assured, well-spoken, with so many of the
subtle signs that indicated wealth and status. She was more self-conscious than ever about her accent.
“You all have unique skills that make you essential to the mission,” Deckard replied. “At Camp Peary, you will put those skills
to the test.”
“So we’re just leaving,” said Nadiya. Giselle knew her well enough by now to recognize the tremulous quality in her voice.
“That’s that?”
“That’s that,” Dr. Iver echoed. “But when we meet again, the four of you will be national heroes. This is your paramount patriotic
duty. I know you will make Valeran proud.”
They weren’t given an opportunity to pack their things or say goodbye—not that Giselle had anyone to say goodbye to. Deckard
led them through the winding tunnels of the subbasement and then out onto the lawn, where Giselle squinted at the sudden brightness.
As they strode through the grass, Nadiya fell into step beside her.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said quietly.
They were the first words Nadiya had spoken to her since the exhibition. After Dr. Iver had parted the crowd of students and
pried Giselle off her, Nadiya mouthed her name—Giselle—a single word before she was ferried away. The crowd stampeded after her and Giselle had been left standing alone in the
center of the arena, the air dust-choked and still.
“I know,” said Giselle. “I just—I wanted to help.”
Nadiya’s gaze was hard. “I wish you hadn’t. I don’t need your help.”
The coldness of her voice shocked Giselle. “What?”
“You made me look weak,” Nadiya said.
Giselle was almost too bewildered to feel hurt. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“Just—” Nadiya glanced away from her, a spasm of pain crossing her face, “don’t ever do that again.”
“Okay,” Giselle said. Water began to form on her lashes, and she looked away, too, so Nadiya wouldn’t see.
With that, Nadiya quickened her pace, leaving Giselle to stare hopelessly at her retreating back. That orange-gold sunset
color burned at the edges of her vision.
Deckard led them past the amphitheater to a landing strip, where a helicopter bearing the CIA seal was waiting. Feeling numb,
Giselle watched the others pile in: first Julian, who, in an unexpected display of gallantry, then offered his hand to help
Klaudia up. Klaudia hesitated a moment before taking it and allowing herself to be pulled inside.
Nadiya followed, without sparing even a glance behind her. Giselle climbed in last.
The cab of the helicopter was cramped and the sound of its whirring blades was deafening. Giselle felt a stomach-hollowing
sensation as it lifted from the ground and carried them up, above the amphitheater and over the barbed-wire walls. Away from
Valeran, the place she had only just begun to understand.
You’re not going to be a prisoner, Nadiya had told her all those weeks ago, as she had been similarly borne away from the jailhouse in Belle. You’re going to be a soldier. Giselle wondered if she still believed that. Nadiya’s hair whipped around her, obscuring her face.
In no more than an hour, Camp Peary came into view. It was a sprawl of buildings surrounding an enormous domed structure that
glimmered as it reflected the sunlight. Giselle was relieved when they touched down, her stomach settling.
Deckard steered them through an imposing series of metal detectors and then into a cramped, windowless entrance hall.
There they were instructed to place their left hands inside a bulky contraption that reminded her of an employee time clock, like the one she had used to punch in when she had worked after school at the tractor supply store.
She felt a sudden heat, and then an electrical whir followed by a horrific metallic crunch. When Giselle withdrew her hand
she saw that the gold Valeran cuff had been snapped off her wrist, replaced by a cuff of silver. Instead of her name and birth
date, this one merely had the word ALICE etched onto it in blocky letters.
Giselle looked questioningly up at Deckard, who had put his sunglasses back on. His lips stretched upward, but it would have
felt wrong to call it a smile.
“You’re through the looking glass now,” he said.