Page 13 of Xantera
I’ll admit, this is actually a little fun. For two hundred years, I’ve been tormented by the marble-cold voices of the Twelve. No one so naive has ever graced me with their mental presence, and her mind is better than sitting alone with my own thoughts. It reminds me of a prism, rich with color.
Let’s forget about Malcolm, I offer. It goes silent mid-scream.I’m much more interested in your name.
Who—who are you?
There’s a faint echo, like she whispered her disbelief out loud, and my chuckle turns dark.
That’s not how this is going to work.
But I’m the one with this thing around my neck… I could just take it off if you don’t answer?
She poses it like a question, almost to herself: a fleeting, threatening thought that she tried to suppress but let slip out anyway.
Perhaps I underestimated her.
Whoever it is that picked up the necklace, she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t knowwhatI am.
Maybe she’s exactly what I need.
Your name, he demands.
I’m paralyzed—more with fear or curiosity, I’m not sure. When I first put the necklace on, the vial settling against my chest, something within it seemed to reach out andgrabonto my heartbeat.
Now, there’s a literal voice in my head. And even though I’m fairly certain I must be hallucinating, that voice is so dark and rough andmasculinethat I can’t help but wonder how my own mind could conjure something so… not me. It reminds me of the rich soil on the southern end of Xantera, where our farmers tend to our fall harvest. And I want to keep unearthing it.
But I shouldn’t be curious. It goes against the Cardinal List of Rules for me to wish for more. I should be ripping this thing off my chest and chucking it as far away from me as I can.
I don’t know who you are, and you won’t tell me your name, I say instead, despite my better judgment. Maybe Malcolm was right earlier when he asked if I have a fever. I must have caught a bug from the Healing Center. Or maybe the vial itself radiates some kind of sickness.
You’re not sick, the voice growls in my head, cutting through my own thoughts. A trickle of uneasiness filters into me at howrealhe sounds.What do you look like then?
Excuse me?
My patience is wearing thin at how rude this fever is.
You refuse to tell me your name, and I’d like a sense of who I’m talking to,the voice says.
I—I—I stutter, trying to piece together his words and the confusion they pump into my veins. I look down at the crimson vial laying over my heart.I don’t know. I don’t know what I look like.
How can you not know what you look like?he questions me.
Why would I need to know?
What?His exasperation pushes against my mind, holds itself there, daring me.Haven’t you ever looked in a mirror?
We don’t have mirrors, I reply automatically, even though my mind flits guiltily to how I stared at myself in our screen’s reflection just a few days ago.They’re self-indulgent.
There’s not a single mirror?he asks sarcastically.
Not in my housing unit.
I swivel my head to catalog my room, as if doing so will help me make sense of this absurd conversation I can’t possibly be having. What purpose would a mirror serve? Every morning, I open my tiny closet in the far back corner and put on the same outfit: brown pants, a white linen shirt, and a cloak that fastens overtop. I run a comb through my hair to prevent tangles and knot it at the back of my head. Sometimes, I sit in the chair by the window and read my Healing textbooks or mend my clothes with our standard-issue sewing kit. None of that would require an actual mirror.
I close my eyes and roll to my side. If I’m not sick, then I must be dreaming, caught in one of those dark, twisted nightmares I never tell anyone about.
You’re not asleep,he says, his own impatience beginning to lace his tone.
My eyes pop open again.That’s what a nightmare would say.
