My father, however, was a world enthusiast. He had an atlas of the world as it appeared in the twenty-first century, with full-color images of all the countries and customs. Japan was a favorite of mine. I enjoyed the painted geishas with their penciled features and puckered lips. I liked the pink and white cherry blossom trees, so unlike the meager things that grow in fences along the Manhattan sidewalks. The whole country of Japan seemed to be one giant color photo, glossy and bright. My brother preferred Africa, with its floppy-eared elephants and its colorful birds.
I imagined the world outside North America must have been a beautiful place. And it was my father who introduced that beauty to me. I think of these long-gone places still. A koi wriggles past me and disappears into the depth, and all I can think is that my father would have been so happy to see it.
The grief of my fathers loss is so sudden that my knees nearly buckle under the weight of it; I force tears back down my throat, past the lump thats forming there. Ive heard of it, is all I say.
Linden seems impressed. He smiles at me, and raises his hand as though to touch me, but then changes his mind and continues walking. We come to a wooden swing thats shaped like a heart. We sit for a while, not touching, rocking slightly and staring at the horizon over the edges of the rosebushes. The color comes slowly, bits of orange and yellow, like with Deirdres makeup brush. Stars are still visible, fading away where the sky blushes with fiery color.
Look, Linden says. Look how beautiful it is.
The sunrise? I ask. It is lovely, but hardly worth getting out of bed so early. Im so used to sleeping in shifts, taking turns keeping watch with my brother, that my body has been trained not to waste whatever sleep it can get.
The start of a new day, Linden says. Being healthy enough to witness it.
I can see sadness in his green eyes. I dont trust it. How can I, when this is the man who paid the Gatherers so he could have me for the last years of my life? When the blood of those other girls in the van is on his hands? My sunrises may be limited, but I will not view all the rest of mine as Linden Ashbys wife.
Its quiet for a while. Lindens face is lit up by the early sun, and my wedding band burns in a twist of light. I hate the thing. It took all my willpower last night not to flush it down the toilet. But if Im to earn his trust, I have to wear it.
You know about Japan, he says. What else do you know about the world?
I will not tell him about my fathers atlas, which my brother and I hid with our valuables in a locked trunk. Someone like Linden has no need to lock anything precious, except for his brides. He would not understand the madness of poorer, more desperate places.
Not much, I say. And I feign ignorance as he begins to tell me about Europe, a tower clock called Big Ben (I remember the image of it glowing at twilight amidst a London crowd), and extinct flamingos whose necks were as long as their legs.
Rose taught me about most of these things, he admits, and then, just as the sunlight is awakening the reds and greens of the garden, he looks away from me. You may go back inside, he says. An attendant will be waiting to take you up. His voice catches at the end, and I know that now is not the time to sit and pretend to adore him. I find my way back to the door, leaving him to his new day so he may think of Rose, whose sunrises are numbered.
In the days to follow, Linden barely acknowledges his brides. Our bedroom doors are unlocked and were mostly left to ourselves, allowed to wander about the floor, which has its own library and sitting room, but not much else. We arent permitted to use the elevator unless he invites us to dinner, which happens rarely; usually our meals are brought on trays to our bedrooms. I spend a lot of time in an overstuffed chair in the library, thumbing through brilliant pages of flowers that no longer grow in this world, and some that can still be found in other parts of the country. I educate myself on the polar ice caps, vaporized long ago by warfare, and an explorer named Christopher Columbus who proved the earth was round. In my prison I lose myself in the history of a free and boundless world thats long dead.
I dont see my sister wives often. Sometimes Jenna will take a couch beside me and look up from her novel to ask me what Im reading. Her voice is timid, and when I look at her, she flinches like I might hit her. But beneath that timorousness theres something more, the remains of a broken person who had once been assured, strong, brave. Her eyes are often bleary and misting with tears. Our conversations are measured and brief, never more than a sentence or two.
Cecily complains that the orphanage didnt do a good job teaching her to read. Shell sit studiously at one of the tables with a book and sometimes spell a word out loud, waiting impatiently for me to pronounce it and sometimes tell her what it means. Though she is only thirteen, her favorite reads are all about childbirth and pregnancy.
But for all her shortcomings, Cecily is something of a musical prodigy. I can hear her sometimes as she plays the keyboard in the sitting room. The first time, I was drawn to the threshold well past midnight. There she sat, this tiny body with flame red hair, trapped in a hologram of flurrying snow that was projected from somewhere on the keyboard. But Cecily, who is so dazzled by the false glamour of this mansion, played with her eyes closed. Lost in her concerto, she was not my little sister wife in a winged dress, or the same girl who throws silverware at the attendants who cross her on the wrong day, but rather some otherworldly creature. There was no ticking time bomb inside of herno indication of this horrible thing that will kill her in a few short years.
Shell play more clumsily in the afternoons, tapping the keys in nonsensical patterns to amuse herself. The keys wont work unless one of the hundreds of hologram slides is inserted into the keyboard to accompany the music: rushing rivers, a sky full of glittering fireflies, speeding rainbows. I have never seen her use the same hologram twice, and yet she scarcely acknowledges any of them.
Theres no shortage of illusions in the sitting room. The television can, at the press of a button, simulate a ski slope or an ice rink or a racetrack. There are remotes, steering wheels, skis, and a whole assortment of controllers to replace the actual world. I wonder if my new husband grew up in this waytrapped within this sprawling mansion, with only illusions to teach him about the world. Once when I was alone, I tried my hand at fishing, and, unlike with the real thing, I excelled at it.
In my abundance of time alone, Ive wandered the entire length of the wives floor several times, from Roses bedroom on one far end of the hall, to the library on the other. Ive inspected the vents, which are bolted to the ceiling, and the laundry chutes, which are too small to fit anything larger than a small load of laundry. None of the windows budge, except in Roses room, which is always occupied by her.
The fireplace in the library is entirely fake, with a hologram flame that makes crackling sounds but provides no warmth. Theres no chimney, no way for the air to reach the sky.
And theres no staircase. Not even a locked emergency exit. Ive felt along the walls, peered behind bookshelves and under furniture. And I wonder if the wives floor is the only part of the house without a staircase, and if theres a fire and the elevators stop working, Lindens brides will be burned to a crisp. Were easy to replace, after all. He didnt think twice about the lives of the other girls in that van.
The fireplace in the library is entirely fake, with a hologram flame that makes crackling sounds but provides no warmth. Theres no chimney, no way for the air to reach the sky.
And theres no staircase. Not even a locked emergency exit. Ive felt along the walls, peered behind bookshelves and under furniture. And I wonder if the wives floor is the only part of the house without a staircase, and if theres a fire and the elevators stop working, Lindens brides will be burned to a crisp. Were easy to replace, after all. He didnt think twice about the lives of the other girls in that van.
But that doesnt make sense. What about Rose, with whom Linden is so madly in love? Isnt her life worth something more to him? Maybe not. Maybe even first wives, favorites, are disposable.
I try opening the elevator, but none of the buttons will work for me without a key card. I try prying it open with my fingers, and then with the toe of my shoe, pretending that theres a fire, pretending my life depends on an immediate escape. The door doesnt budge. I search my bedroom for a tool that can help me, and I find an umbrella hanging in my closet, and I try that. Im able to wedge the point between the metal doors, and they part just slightly, enough for me to fit my shoe between them. And thensuccess!they slide open.
Immediately Im blasted with the stale air of the elevator shaft, and the darkness that intensifies when I look up or down. I study the cables, with no way to tell where they begin or end. I dont know how many floors are above or below. I reach out and touch one of them, get a firm grip on it. I could try climbing it, or just hold on to it and slide all the way down. Even if I only got as far as the floor below me, I might be able to find an open window, or a staircase.
Its the word might that makes me hesitate. Because I might not be able to open the elevator doors from the inside. I might be crushed to death if the car comes before Im able to escape.
Contemplating suicide? Rose says. I flinch, retract my arm from the elevator shaft. My sister wife stands a few feet away, arms folded, in her wispy nightgown. Her hair is tousled, her skin pale, her mouth an unnatural candied red, and shes smiling. Its all right, she says. I wont tell on you. I understand.
The elevator doors slide closed, without me.
Do you? I say.
Mm, she says, gesturing for my umbrella. I hand it to her, and she pops it open, twirls it once over her head. Where did you find this? she asks.
In my closet.
Right, she says. Did you know youre not even supposed to open them inside? Bad luck. In fact, Linden is very superstitious. She closes the umbrella, studies it. And Linden has final say on whats in your bedroom, did you know that? Your clothes, your shoesthis umbrella. If he allowed you to have this, what do you suppose that means?
He doesnt want me to get rained on, I say, beginning to understand.
She raises her eyes, smiles at me, tosses the umbrella into my hands. Exactly. And it only rains outside.
Outside. I never thought the word could make my stomach flip-flop like this. Its one of the small freedoms Ive had all my life, and now Id do anything to have it back. My grip on the umbrella tightens. But are the elevators the only way outside? I say.
Forget about the elevators, Rose says. Your husband is your only way outside.
I dont understand. What if theres a fire? Wouldnt we all be killed?
Wives are an investment, Rose says. Housemaster Vaughn paid good money for you. In fact, Housemaster Vaughn is obsessed with genetics, and for those eyes of yours, Im willing to bet he paid a little extra. If he wants you to be safe, then fire, hurricane, tidal wavedoesnt matter. Youre safe.
I guess this is supposed to flatter me. But it only makes me worry. If Im such an investment, its going to be that much harder for me to leave undetected.
Rose is looking weary, so I toss the umbrella into my room, and then I help her into her bed. Normally shell fight the attendants when they tell her to rest, but she allows me because I never try to force any medicine into her. Open the window, she murmurs, settling into her silky blankets. I do as she asks, and a cool spring breeze rolls in. She breathes deeply. Thank you, she sighs.
I sit on the window ledge, press my hand against the screen. It looks like a perfectly ordinary screen, one that would pop out of its frame if pushed hard enough. I could jump, although its several stories uphigher than the roof of my own house, at leastbut there are no trees to reach for. It isnt worth the attempt. But still, I think of what Rose said when she found me at the elevator. She said she wouldnt tell on me because she understood.
Rose? I say. Did you ever try to escape?
It doesnt matter, she says.
I think of the little girl in the photo, smiling, so full of life. Shes been here all these years. Was she bred to be Lindens bride? Or was she once resistant to it? I open my mouth to ask, but shes sitting up in the bed now, and she says, Youll see the world again. I can tell. Hes going to fall in love with you. And if youd just listen to me, youd realize youre going to be his favorite once Im dead. She mentions her death so casually. Hell take you anywhere you want to go.
Not anywhere, I say. Not home.
She smiles, pats the mattress beside her in invitation. I sit beside her, and she gets up to kneel behind me, and begins weaving my hair into a braid. This is your home now, she says. The more you resistshe tugs my hair for emphasisthe tighter the trap gets. There. She takes a ribbon that was draped over her headboard and ties my hair in place. She crawls across the mattress so that shes facing me, and she strokes a wisp of hair away from my eyes. You look nice with your hair back. You have great cheekbones.
High cheekbones, just like hers. I cant ignore our resemblance to each other: the thick, wavy blond hair, the pert chin, soft nose. All thats missing in her are the heterochromatic eyes. But theres one other difference between us, and its significant. She was able to accept this life, to love our husband. And if I have to die trying, I will get out of here.
Theres no more talk of escape between Rose and me after that day. She favors me over the other wives, who have never spoken with her at all. Jenna speaks as little as possible, and Cecily has asked me more than once why I bother getting to know Lindens dying wife. Shes going to die, and then hell focus on us more, she says, like its something to look forward to. It disgusts me that Roses life is so meaningless to her, but its not very different from the things my brother said about the orphan we found frozen to death on our porch last winter.
Tears welled in my eyes when I discovered the body, but my brother said we shouldnt even move it right away, that it could be a warning to anyone else trying to break into our home. We did such a great job with the locks, theyll die before they get in, he said. Necessity. Survival. It was us or them. Days later, when I suggested we bury the bodya little girl in a threadbare plaid coathe had me help him haul it to the Dumpster. Your problem is that youre too emotional, he said. And thats the kind of thing thatll make you an easy target.
Well, maybe not this time, Rowan. Maybe this time being emotional can help, because Rose and I talk for hours, and I relish our conversations, certain I can use them as an opportunity to learn everything about Linden and earn his favor.