She was right, I was here to create a fantasy, one strong enough to hide what I was really after. I closed my eyes and cleared my mind, picturing the girl I was to become. A girl who came to the Dome not to search for secrets, but to be a Kisaeng. And I realized that all those hours my sisters and I had spent reading fairy tales of princesses, knights, and dragons—making up our own tales about Earth—had prepared me for this. I was good at stories. I could be whatever I needed to be.
For the next hour, Marisol arranged the dress artfully on my body, so the bodice hugged my hips and curved out with my breasts. The green skirt spread across the floor behind me like a delicate shadow made of sage and vines. The hood turned out to belong to a sheer cape that lay lightly across my shoulders but added no modesty to my obvious cleavage.
Marisol ruffled her hands through my shaggy hair, which had grown wild in my three months of isolation. “Not much I can do with this.”
But she fiddled with it anyway, doing something miraculous with the hood—clipping it to my hair so it rested right at the back of my head. It looked exquisitely careless, like it might slip off any moment.
Looking at myself in the sea of mirrors, I had to admit that the effect was gorgeous—but I couldn’t help feeling exposed. I started to wrap my arms around me, but remembered Marisol slapping me and dropped them to my side.
“The trick is imagining you’re someone else,” Marisol said, and I sensed she was talking about more than just wearing this dress.
I stared at the strange girl in front of me. The green tones of the dress warmed her brown skin to a rich bronze. The narrow waist balanced out her height—making her look small, rather than short. And with her cropped hair half hidden by the hood, her dark eyes stole all the attention.
“Being a Kisaeng is like playing a game. A daring, delicious game. Never take it too seriously, Leica. Or you’ll get hurt.”
“I’m done being hurt.” I made myself smile at Marisol in the mirror as I remembered a character from my fairy tale book—a servant who bolted iron bands around his heart to keep it from cracking open.
But Marisol just gave me that look again, like I was a puzzle she couldn’t figure out. Finally, she released my gaze and focused in on my hands. “Last, but not least.”
Marisol rummaged through her bag and brought out some kind of lotion. Sitting next to me on the bed, she cupped my hand in hers. She spread the lotion onto my backs of my hands, turning my skin a shimmery gold.
“What are you doing?” I tried to pull away, appalled. “Everyone will see them.”
“That is the point.” She gripped my hand tight. “The Curadores revere variation. Each of them spends their life hoping they have something—a trait different enough or special enough—that’s worthy of passing onto future generations. A tiny scrap of themselves, living on for posterity.” She rolled her eyes. “We Kisaengs, of course, are simply fashion accessories. But it never hurts to be a bit of a . . . singularity. This isn’t Pleiades, Leica. Above all, you must always remember that.”
So I let her spread the lotion over my too-many fingers, working it into my hands. By the time she was finished, the effect was stunning. Every time I moved my fingers, the eye was subtly drawn to them. I’d never hated my hands—my family had never let me—but I’d never thought of them as beautiful either.
As I stared at myself in the mirror, I silently repeated what Marisol had said. This isn’t Pleiades. I would be someone new here. Someone who discovered new worlds. Someone who fluttered her golden hands and made love to strawberries. Someone who kept secrets and found answers. I would be a Kisaeng.
CHAPTER 15
DINNER WAS LIKE nothing I’d ever experienced. Hundreds of people were crowded into a vast tent. Strings of twinkling lights draped from the ceiling like stars, and swarms of glittering black insects navigated through them.
Marisol and I had taken a silver magfly through the dark streets of the Dome. And though I’d been glued to the window during the short ride to the Promenade, trying to figure the layout, all I saw was a blur of lights rushing past.
“You’ll see it all tomorrow,” Marisol promised as we padded across the broad lawn to a bright pavilion beside a lake.
The place smelled of savory dishes and crushed grass. There were tables but no one was sitting down. And there was food everywhere but no one seemed very interested in it.
The place had the same feel as the Festivals in Pleiades. Bright clothes, loud music, plenty to drink, and a hundred things going on at once.
It was strange to see the Curadores without their isolation suits. All the men were large and well-built, even the smallest of them would’ve dwarfed my father. They laughed and chatted as we entered the tent, an endless variety of handsome smiles and strong jaws. I tried not to stare at the unusual skin tones and hair colors from the almost-transparent white of shed snakeskin to the deepest brown of mesquite bark. But it was their eyes that claimed my attention, gleaming in bright hues. The intense blue of the desert sky. Fresh-picked basil. The rich reddish-brown of dried chiles. It was like walking among beautiful giants.
The Curadores wore simple clothes—loose shirts and pants—not so unlike the clothes of Pleiades. Except that none of the cloth was patched or faded. The shirts were all a clean, bright white with gleaming, decorative buttons. And the pants, though muted, came in all different shades.
But this was nothing compared to the women—each one a work of art. Some, like me, were draped in complicated layers of fabric; others wore gauzy dresses masterfully tailored to play a kind of hide-and-seek as they moved. All the women were young and beautiful. All of them had once been Citizens, and yet, they seemed completely foreign to me. Incandescent, decorated creatures.
Kisaengs.
I froze, feeling out of place and intimidated. Beside me Marisol whispered, “Relax, it’s just a party.” But she was smirking as she said it, knowing full well it was the last thing that would make me feel better.
Faced with this mob of strangers, I longed to shove my hands in pockets, but I didn’t have any. Marisol tried to get me to keep walking, but my feet wouldn’t move and the words slipped out of my mouth. “What the hell am I doing?”
Marisol looked at me sharply, and in a low tone only I could hear, she said, “I’ve been asking myself that same question, but I was hoping at least you knew. The Dome is not an easy place, Leica . . . who a Kisaeng chooses to consort with is her identity. It affects where she lives, what kind of luxuries she has, the power she wields. So you’d better figure out what you want and who’s going to get that for you. And you’d better do it fast.” Then she smiled sweetly, threaded her arm through mine, and pulled me into the throng.
Marisol’s warning churned in my head as we walked through the mass of people, and strangely, her words solidified into courage. I reminded myself that did know what I was doing. And I knew very well what I wanted—answers. About the outbreaks in Pleiades. About Tasch’s strange death. No one else should have to lose their sister. Or parents. I let that purpose guide me through the crowd.
Though I didn’t catch anyone actually staring, I felt their eyes on me. I didn’t hide—I couldn’t have in that dress—but it made me uncomfortable. Whereas Marisol basked under the collective gaze.
She’d chosen a dress that was much quieter than mine. A rusty color that was one shade duller than her hair, and several shades darker than her skin, making her almost luminescent against the fabric. And though her dress was simple, it was exquisite—velvety with lines of brighter red outlining Marisol’s narrow curves. Like dunes forming and reforming across the desert.
She didn’t need sparkles and jewelry. She was the beauty, not the dress. All at once, I felt ridiculous, bedecked in that hooded, corseted thing. Marisol had the same effect on all the women she passed. Hands touched elaborate hairpins and chunky necklaces, suddenly unsure.
We strolled by a gi
rl about my age who was singing. I untwined my arm from Marisol’s so I could stop and listen. The song was slow and seductive, nothing like the striding hymns sung at Pleiades’ Rememberings. The singer seemed lost inside the melancholy chords, swaying slightly—her eyes closed as she strummed her guitar. She was tall and slender, and her high, haunting voice perfectly matched the sheer, silvery dress she wore.
The people gathered around listening were almost as fascinating. One woman lounged on the lap of a young Curador, arm thrown easily around him, captivated by the music. Another couple danced impossibly close, mouths pressed together, hands roaming across the landscape of their bodies—as if they were in their own private room. But no one except me gave them a second glance.
In another corner, a serious-looking woman in her late twenties argued with a whole group of Curadores. Most of the men around her were older—silver sprinkling their hair—but their eyes were alight with the passion of debate.
One of the younger Curadores attempted to hold his own against her. “Surely in a time of plague or crisis, rules are bent and—”
“Bent. But not broken.” The Kisaeng cut him off, pounding her fist on the table. She was compact and tough-looking, despite her long black dress. Her hair sliced across her face at a sharp angle to tuck behind her ear—a complement to the line of her strong jaw. “You cannot just say ‘the end justifies the means,’ and be absolved. Through chance or skill, the Dome has resources that Pleiades does not—therefore you will always have a responsibility to them. Survival is no longer the goal. Life is the goal.”
The woman glanced up, hesitating for second as she saw us—a ripple in the flow of words. She raised a narrow eyebrow and a hint of a wry smile hovered on her otherwise stern face.
“Oksun.” Marisol nodded at the Kisaeng. “I see you’re boring our men again. Gentlemen, when you’re tired of her endless prattle, come and join us. One of our ladies can show you what else mouths can do.”
Under the gaze of Marisol’s disapproval, many of the men made excuses and wandered away. Marisol clearly held some sway in the Dome. When I was little, I’d often been at the receiving end of her cutting tongue and I knew the humiliation of it. I gave the Kisaeng—Oksun—a sympathetic look, and I was startled to see her loathing was directed straight at me.
I hurried after Marisol, but she’d disappeared into the crowd, and I was alone in the crush of laughing, drinking strangers. Above me, throngs of insects buzzed here and there in orderly formations. Their endless circling made me dizzy, but like the amorous couple, no one else was paying any attention to them.
A man with sandy hair and watery green eyes bumped into me and steadied himself on my arm.
“Oh! Who have we here?” He was drunk, a messy slur blending his words together.
I tried to slip past him without answering, but he grabbed me, holding my arm tight as he surveyed my body. “May I just say you have the loveliest pair of peaches I have ever seen. But no!” He elbowed the man next to him. “Not peaches are they? Oranges? Grapefruit? We’re going to have to dream up a whole new fruit for this one.”
Then he wrenched me closer, his wet mouth groping for mine. His hand reaching for my breast. Instinct kicked in and I grabbed his wrist with my free hand. Wrenching it wrong-ways and up, I dropped him to the ground.
“Dream away. It’s a fruit you’ll never taste.” Then I spun back to the crowd, tensed and ready to take on anyone else.
But they were just staring at me—Kisaengs and Curadores, openmouthed and blinking. And my face burned as I remembered where I was and who I was supposed to be. So much for the fantasy. So much for blending in.
Then a couple of Curadores burst into applause and laughter. One of them boomed, “Finally! Someone to put Salk in his place!”
Another man said, “I can only hope someday she bothers to put me in my place!”
All around me Kisaengs tittered and the sudden noise made me realize that they’d been holding their breath too. Waiting to see what the Curadores’ reactions would be. The singer had stopped her song as well, but there was no smile on her face as she stared at me across the tent. I lost sight of her as one of the laughing Kisaengs jostled me, shoving a glass of mezcal into my hand. I tipped it back, letting it ease my jitters.
And then the crowd shifted and there he was—only a few meters away from me. Edison.
It was the first time I’d seen him without the isolation suit and I wasn’t prepared. He was so much more now. His head was shaved and the clean severity of it emphasized his sense of power. He dwarfed all the Curadores around him and it was more than just his height. It was like Edison was awake and everyone else was asleep. Like he had a light shining on him that picked up every subtle expression, every gesture, every agile movement he made.
And as he crossed the grass to meet me, he pulled me into his light too. Whether they knew it or not, everyone around us shifted their bodies, their focus, so that Edison—and now I—remained always at the center. The effect was dazzling and unnerving and when he finally reached out to take my hand, it burned, matching the fire of the mezcal in my throat.
“You look luminous.” Not pretty. Not beautiful. Luminous.
Edison’s words were meant for me and yet his voice carried across the crowd and, hearing it, people fell quiet.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.” He leaned in and kissed my neck. It was such an intimate gesture, I suddenly felt naked in front all those people. But as Edison’s lips brushed against my skin, he whispered, “No one else will bother you now. I’m sorry that happened.”
Then he gave me a steadying smile—like we were in this together. We might be playing a game, but we were on the same team. He squeezed my hand. “Let me introduce you.”
There was a blur of names and faces as Edison ushered me around his immediate circle. I nodded my head in greeting a few times, before I realized that no one else followed that custom. After that, I just plastered on a smile. This was probably not what Lotus and the Indignos had imagined when they’d asked me to infiltrate the Dome and investigate the Citizens’ deaths—parties and formal introductions.
And I suddenly felt lost. What was I supposed to do now? Search for sinister glares? Vials of poison? The Curadores might be lustful and drunk—but none of them looked like killers.
The only two names I remembered out of the bunch were the Curadores I’d met at the Exchange with Edison: Planck and Sagan. Like everyone else, they treated Edison with a kind of fawning respect.
Everyone except Jenner.
I knew who the man was even before Edison introduced me to him. Jenner was talking boisterously with a group of young Curadores, his wide jowls jiggling as he pontificated. But as we got closer, I could see that Jenner was talking at them, not with them. The men around him were full of nods and plastic smiles, but there was fear behind their eyes. And whenever Jenner stopped to take a swig from his glass—which was often—the conversation went silent.
Edison seemed to make himself smaller as he led me over to the much shorter man and, in a deferential voice, said, “Leica, this is Jenner. He keeps this whole place running smoothly.”
“Now, now.” Jenner beamed with false modesty, reaching up to thump Edison on the back. “I couldn’t do it without my protégé!”
Jenner was old—older than any person I’d ever met. Thick tufts of hair sprouted out of his ears and nose. On the other hand, the hair on his head was thin—his parchment skin shining through. I wanted to back away from him. Not because he was ugly, which he was, but because there was something off about his horrible cheerfulness.
But Jenner was the only lead I had—even the other Curadores were wary of him. He was my place to start. So I smiled sweetly and said, “Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” He took my hand in his pudgy one—raising my fingers to his sticky lips. “You’re much more livel
y now that you’re awake.”
It took every ounce of self-control not to rip my hand away. I hated to think of this man being anywhere near me while I’d been unconscious in isolation.
Then Edison said, “And you know Marisol, of course.”
She’d practically materialized at Edison’s side and he touched her chin in a careless but familiar way that made me a little prickly. Marisol didn’t look very happy about it either.
Then, finally, Edison addressed the whole group, hundreds of faces turning toward us. “Thank you, friends, for coming out to welcome Leica. I, for one, am very grateful she chose to join us in the Dome.”
Faces beamed at me from all around the tent. The reception was so different from what I was used to in Pleiades. It was a heady experience. But not an unpleasant one.
Then Marisol wheedled her way into the moment. She handed me a tall, thin glass, then raised her own. “To Leica! May my old friend become yours!”
“To Leica!” People all over the tent raised their glasses and drank. I followed suit and took a swallow of the clear liquid, almost choking with surprise. It was bubbly, cool, and a little fruity, with the subtle warmth of alcohol under it. The effect swirled my head.
Edison bent slightly, pressing his mouth to my ear. “Sorry about all this. Custom demanded it.”
His voice was low and soft, and a shiver ran down my spine. Then more people started closing in around me—laughing and asking questions. Kisaengs touched my dress admiringly. Men kissed my hands. Everyone was too loud, speaking at once. I barely had room to breathe.
The panic must’ve shown on my face, because Edison drew me out of the crowd, saying, “We must give Leica a chance to eat.”
But as he escorted me toward the food table, he whispered, “I can’t stand this. Being close to you, but not being close.” He ran a finger along the inside of my palm and down the length of my extra finger. “Let’s sneak out. They can have their party without us.”
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