by Emily Shore
“And now for my question.” Luc folds his palms together, fingertips forming a steeple. After a few moments of silence, he speaks. “What do you want most, out of anything in the world?”
His question catches me off guard, but I’m too relieved to even think about filtering my words. “I want my family back, and I want to live where no one else can find us.”
“Where no one else can find you? Are you running from something?”
I grab one of the pillows on the bed, place it in my lap, and crook one side of my mouth into a playful smile. “That’s another question.”
“Point well made. But would you at least elaborate? It seems only fair, in exchange for what I gave you.” He opens one of his hands, inviting me, pleading with me. “Please, describe this place you dream about.”
Luc coaxes me like a firefly landing on the edge of a petal, willing the night flower to open. “There are no mirrors. It doesn’t matter what I look like there because everyone already thinks I’m beautiful—no matter what time of day it is or what I’m wearing. It’s surrounded by water. I can’t step outside my door without seeing and smelling water. I’m barefoot there, too, but instead of cold glass floors, I just feel damp mud between my toes.” When I close my eyes, I’m almost able to feel the soil squishing. I imagine Sky there next to me, rooting out a stubborn weed from the ground. “We live off the land, just the way it should be. And we swim in the water during every sunset until we can’t stop shivering. But there are warm hands to tuck me in every night.”
“Do you know of such a place?”
I glance down to see Luc’s fingers touching the pillow on my lap. His eyes linger on mine, waiting for my response, but I shake my head. “I don’t even know if it exists.”
“If you ever find it, I will come with you.”
As soon as I lift my head, he is there to meet me. His attractive, unwavering mouth dives beyond the edges of mine. I find myself welcoming his lips, but his hands, a frantic grappling on my arms, are too much.
Arching back, I force his mouth against my chin and to my neck. I shiver when his lips connect with the skin there. Mustering up the breath to exhale, I close my eyes, retreat into the sheets. Luc mimics my movement but only halfway.
Stretching out his hand, he rubs a thumb across my lower lip, smiling. “I want you to sleep knowing I’ve kissed you. Goodnight, Serenity.”
He turns off the lights and leaves the room, and I am suddenly aware of the sensation deep inside, past the core of my stomach, the one that drives the goose bumps to the surface of my skin and causes my teeth to chatter. Desire.
The Swan inside me fans itself in the wake of my first kiss. Her wings flutter as fast as a hummingbird’s. I struggle to maintain my reality, bucking against the craving, trying to deny what I feel because it’s the first hint of surrender. Stupid, fickle, formidable foe.
Luc is the first man to ever needle his way into my heart. But as I surrender to sleep, I can’t help but wonder if he will rip me open and spill all my secrets while I’m still trying to learn his. I feel both longing and horror at the notion, and I don’t know what to do with either.
Due to my impromptu capture, additional security is expedited. Luc becomes preoccupied with tutoring his brother and the new men. Knowing his background, it makes the most sense that he trains the new security.
For the next few weeks or so, every security member undergoes strict background checks and extra training, which means I don’t see much of Sky. Or Luc. True to his word, he keeps his promise of one question per night.
Though neither of us offers up a long story like the first time, we take slow samples of each other’s lives night by night. At first, he tried to gorge himself on details about my life before the Aviary. He pushed too hard, too fast, but he’s learning to nibble now. Without naming names, I manage to relate to him memories from my past, days spent in hotel rooms, nights swimming in pools, skinny dipping in lakes outside country houses.
During the day, Mockingbird becomes my confidante. It’s rare to find us apart, and we take our lunch hours together. Mockingbird’s appetite is as hearty as mine, but she enjoys everything. Since she doesn’t have a food printer in her room, she helps herself to mine whenever she’s here.
As Mockingbird prints a soufflé, she tells me about the eerie screams of a girl from down the hall.
“Her name is Gull,” Mockingbird explains. “She has pretty bad nightmares and sleepwalks every now and then. She’s a lower Bird. Most of the time, one of the guards just escorts her back to her room, but she still stirs up things.”
“Does anyone know why she has the nightmares?” I ask.
Mockingbird shakes her head, bringing the soufflé over to the table.
Other than Gull, I’ve lost track of all the Bird girls in the Aviary. At one point, I catch a glimpse of Stork, the official breeder for the museum. Since she’s spent much of her time in the infirmary or transferred to the Centre, no one sees her that much. Too often, her babies don’t live past infancy, or they are stillborn thanks to her time in the chemical-laden Glass Districts.
None of the other girls here are even fertile. Unfortunately, it’s quite common nowadays.
“Can I have that?” Finch startles me with her question, motioning to the half of soufflé Mockingbird placed on a plate in front of me.
Ever since my stair-plunging action, I’ve had a Finch-sized shadow trailing me wherever I go. Though Mockingbird gets annoyed with the child’s interruptions during our lunchtime, it’s hard to dislike Finch.
“Go ahead,” I say, feeling a hummingbird-wing-like flutter in my heart.
“Want to see a magic trick?” When Finch nods, Mockingbird leans down and waves her hand back and forth until a coin materializes in her fingers. “Take this to the amusement room. It’s a digital one. Will give you unlimited access. My treat.”
Finch kisses Mockingbird’s cheek, squeezes me tight, and then scampers away with the soufflé.
During open hours, I’m restricted to my wing, the kitchens, the amusement rooms, and the aviary, of course. I can’t enter any Exhibit rooms, which means I can’t visit Blackbird, who keeps busy between her exhibit and clients. After my second showing, Luc took great pains to ensure I wasn’t for public viewing. If it weren’t for Mockingbird, I’d have little interaction with anyone—other than Luc and Sky, of course.
Mockingbird waves a hand after Finch. “She’s cute, but it’s hard to talk about certain things around her.”
I wonder what sort of things she refers to.
She doesn’t get the chance to answer right away since Dove opens the door to the main room holding an armful of fresh white dresses. Though she is one of the top artisans here and sees to other girls, I personally requested that she be the only staff member allowed in my room other than Sky, who’s technically security. It’s my way of keeping Dove close. Her familiarity is always welcome from her no-nonsense attitude with a motherly twinge behind it to her artist’s tender fingers. She pauses upon seeing Mockingbird and me together, nods once to the other Bird, and then strides forward again.
“I brought you some fresh uniforms,” she says, addressing me as she approaches the bedroom to our right.
“Thank you, Dove.”
Mockingbird surprises me when she voices her question well within earshot of Dove. “You’ve been pretty docile over this past month. No outbursts or anything. Has anything happened to you lately?”
I taper my brows. “Like what?”
“Like…?” She opens a hand in indication.
“No!” I shriek in refusal. When Dove comes out from the bedroom again, I soften my voice. “No, nothing like that. It’s just…”
“You trust him now, don’t you? Don’t feel bad about it. Owl is easy to trust that way.”
“Mockingbird is right,” Dove interjects while approaching our table. She sets a hand on the other girl’s shoulder across from me. “But I told you that the first day, didn’t I?”
I nod in surrender,
noticing how Dove’s hand lingers longer than I thought it would.
“Mockingbird, are you happy here?” I ask once Dove has exited the room.
She nods. “It’s my home. And he’s good to me.”
It’s the second time she doesn’t really answer the question. It confirms my suspicion that denial is her coping mechanism…along with all the other distractions here.
“What do you mean?”
“He takes care of me. I like that Owl doesn’t fraternize with his Birds.”
Obviously, he made an exception in my case.
“Has he ever punished you?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m his little Mockingbird. Why would he? He’s had to punish Peacock a few times for aggressive behavior. Blackbird’s got one or two on her record. Not Nightingale. Not me. Why? What did he do to you?”
I bite my lower lip before explaining about the client rooms.
“That was a punishment?” Mockingbird asks. “I mean, sure, you lose a little sleep, but—”
“What’s it like?” It’s the first time I’ve asked such a question. It’s the first time I’ve ever been curious enough. Luc hasn’t kissed me since that first night, and I haven’t breathed one word of it to Sky, but I find myself waiting, catch myself staring at Luc’s mouth every now and then.
Mockingbird tilts her head, raising one brow. “Mmm,” she grunts. “You have your good ones, your bad ones, your regulars, and your not-so-regulars. There are panic buttons on the sides of the beds in case any of the clients get too…excited.”
I don’t want to think of how often the panic buttons are pushed…or not pushed when they should be. “How many regulars?”
“Not as many as the not-so-regulars. But the regulars pay well, especially for all-nighters, but those happen in the intimate rooms, which are way bigger than the normal client rooms. Men don’t tend to stick around much, though. This is their world. I’m super sore by morning. Bliss takes the edge off whenever I get a town visit. It is what it is.”
“What if it could be something more?” What would Mockingbird do if she could leave this place? Live somewhere safe? My parents certainly found another way. I consider my daydream. A fool’s daydream, really. One Luc could never fit into, I try to tell myself.
“Sometimes, I just wait for us to implode, you know?” Mockingbird pauses, gesturing an explosion with her hands so I can almost envision smoke riding off her finger. She turns back to me. “There are no limits in this world now. We’ve come so far. So, what else is left? What comes next?”
“I don’t know.”
Truth: I don’t want to find out.
Before Mockingbird can say anything else, an announcement issues from the Aviary speaker: All girls not entertaining clients must immediately return to their rooms. The museum is in quarantine until dinner.
A steady staccato blare sounds next, and Mockingbird exclaims above it, “We’ve gotta go!”
I am close on her heels when she gets up, tugging on her dress. “What’s going on?” I ask at the same time the lights start to dim and flash.
“The only time they call a quarantine is when something happens to one of the girls.”
“Like what?” I say once we are inside the elevator.
“Another coma, maybe?” Mockingbird says solemnly. She opens the door to the hallway. “I don’t know. I need to get back to my room. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Sky waits just outside, ready to guard the entrance for me, and I try to ask him what’s going on. For the first time since our interlude at Lust and Cocoa, he speaks to me, and I have a feeling it’s only because of the blaring alarm in the background.
Leaning over, he says in a voice just below the alarm, “Another coma.” Not once does he reach for me though every cord in my body flexes to touch him, to feel his warm, familiar brand of comfort. “I need to speak with you. Get to the waterfall tonight without Luc. We need to talk.”
Somehow, I have a feeling that will be much more difficult due to the new quarantine, but I hope I can convince Luc, particularly since I’ve behaved myself lately.
I can’t help but wonder at the urgency of Sky’s message. Does he have news about my parents?
That night, I let Finch steal even more off my plate than she normally does. I’m so anxious about what Sky has to tell me, all I can do is pick at my dinner.
Luc doesn’t notice because everyone is picking at their food tonight. Flamingo’s chair is empty. I barely know her, but the absence of her pink rose hair and salmon flesh eyes looms large in the room. Other than Mockingbird, she’s been the most neutral of the girls, the one everyone recognized as a part of this place with no threat. Like Blackbird once was, she is now lost somewhere between her mind and the infirmary, pink hair nestled on white pillows. Cotton candy on cream puff clouds.
Blackbird is the first to gash a hole in the melancholia of the evening. “Nightingale, perhaps you could indulge us with that song you told me about earlier? The one you wrote for Flamingo?”
Luc regards Nightingale. “You could certainly ease the others’ discomfort, my dear.”
Not one to disagree with Luc, Nightingale rises, her beauteous body lithe like a jungle cat. Her hair is shinier tonight. Like onyx. As she wanders around the table, her notes lilt around the heads of all the girls. To me, every movement is painstaking because I know she will end her serenade behind my chair.
Scarce and rare
Your unimaginable hair
Perched in pink to make us stare
Without a care
Your plumaged eyes bared
Of fleshy wings so fair
And arms that dared
Crane beyond the client lair
To birds ensnared
You gave us air
On the last stanza, my prediction comes true. Nightingale’s voice bleeds to a somber high note just behind my neck.
I don’t turn around to see, but I feel every sweet, snapping note probe into my skin. Other than Peacock’s, mine is the only chair she doesn’t touch. As if I don’t warrant the right to hear the song because of how little I know Flamingo.
After the meal, I approach Blackbird to ask her a few questions, but it is she who takes the lead.
“Walk with me,” she says, directing me to follow her. “I don’t have long before my exhibit opens for the evening. My artists are waiting in my room.”
“She’s so spiteful,” I say, glancing back at Nightingale. “Why did you ask her to sing?”
I follow Blackbird up the stairs to her room.
Her hand glides across the glass banister. “We might be competition, but I can still appreciate her talent. I know what death is like. I know it can tug at you. If Nightingale’s song helps with that, why not? And we’re called Birds, not girls,” she reminds me. Because they all become what they need to be. “Nightingale is the favorite among the Birds. You might want to be careful with your questions.”
“Why do you think I came to you?” Mockingbird might’ve twittered.
Blackbird smiles back at me and opens the door to her room, which is on my floor but at the opposite end of the hall. Just as she said, her artists are waiting.
“You can stay,” Blackbird informs me. “I’m not shy. It’s one reason I don’t mind using the artists. Not that creepy body printer.”
Even so, I turn around when they strip her of the simplistic black dress. Every so often, I glance back to see what they’re doing, though I keep my eyes above her chest. At present, they are smearing her skin in gold glitter.
“Which girl, er…Bird is the most hated?” I ask.
“Other than you?” Blackbird chuckles when one of the artists return with black fishnet thigh-highs, which they roll over her legs. She muses for a moment before replying, “Probably Raven or Peacock. But trust me, you only have Peacock to worry about.”
“Why?” I ask.
The artists retrieve a few strips of braided black ropes, then begin to loop it around Blackbird’s chest and
bikini area.
“You’ll find out why eventually.”
Taking clumps of the tiny braids in her hair, the artists begin to un-braid them one by one. Arching her neck back, she gives them access. She looks comfortable, relaxed, even though she wears nothing but the stockings and rope. With so little on, I know I could never be so at ease in the company of others.
Blackbird holds out a few braided strands, offering them to me. “You want to? Go ahead. I don’t mind.”
“Really?” Eagerly approaching her, I begin undoing the braids. Whether she’s doing this because she thinks I woke her up from her coma or some other reason, I don’t know. Maybe this is normal behavior for girls in the Aviary.
“Don’t forget,” Blackbird reminds one of the artisans, “my oysters better be on my kitchen table when I get back.”
Her room is similar to mine, not quite as large. The only other difference is the lack of a fish tank. My hands are definitely not as skilled as the artisans, but I admit how much I enjoy the task. At the end of it, with all the braids undone, it becomes a black mass of crushed waves—a crimped eclipse on her back. Above her eyes, the same gold shimmer dusts her lids.
“How do I look?” she asks.
One of the artisans begins to speak, but Blackbird snaps, “I’m asking the Swan!” She turns to me with a smile.
“I love your hair,” I comment—a poor attempt at neutrality.
Blackbird sniffs it from a mile away, and she orders the artisans to leave. “That doesn’t answer my question. I want to know what you think.”
I wince a little. “What do you want me to say?”
“This is what we are. You have to get that through your thick skull. I do it because I have to. No other reason.” Blackbird plays with one of the strings of rope on her chest.
“I was taught that everyone makes their own decisions.”
“Would you like to know what my mother’s decision was? She’s gorgeous. And she spent most of her life in the Glass Districts. She was born into them, drowning in debt since birth. But she never wanted that life for me, so she worked hard, taking more clients because she wanted to find a better place for me. And she did. This place. And I’ve never looked back. This is my choice. I live with it.”
