Chapter 22: Private Lessons

I curl my legs underneath me, wriggling as tightly as I can into the hard wooden chair. The antiquated furniture refuses to provide comfort. I cannot find a position that does not ache.

Brockhoist sits at the desk to my left. His gaze is steady, scrutinizing. He knows my focus has drifted.

In front of me sits an English textbook. Dense, impenetrable prose. Despite my efforts to engage with the material, I cannot follow the droning sentences printed on the page. The words blur into a singular, monotonous hum. The subject is entirely incomprehensible.

“Eyes on the pages, Emma,” Doctor Brockhoist snaps. He taps the end of his pen against the corner of my desk.

I swallow a huff and close my eyes to keep from rolling them. He has been acting bossy all morning. Snapping at me to get out of bed, get myself dressed, eat breakfast, clean up. Now this. I am thrilled to be rebuilding my education after I lost all those years of memories, but why start with English? I already speak it.

Brockhoist clicks his pen rhythmically. I force my lids open, staring blankly at a paragraph concerning “the shift in pastoral themes.” Whatever that means.

“If you don’t grasp the syntax of the past,” the doctor adds, elevating his language just enough to be patronizing, “you’ll have no foundation to build your future upon.”

I throw him a quick glare. For a second I wonder if he can actually read my thoughts. I trace the edge of a jagged splinter on the desk. Brockhoist probably realizes that for me, the future is just as much a mystery as the blank, white void that preceded it. He probably does. He likes torturing me.

“Should you pass your exam today, I’ll have another waiting here for you when you get back,” the doctor continues. He jots something down on his clipboard with a scrutinizing glare. “Maybe even an essay, if you keep this attitude up.”

I frown. “Exam?”

He nods, still not looking at me. “At the academy. I told you about this yesterday. You need to focus on your listening skills.”

“Like an examination?”

“A test. You’ll be reviewing the content from your last class.”

So I will be sucking cock all day. I shudder. My still-sore throat clenches. Will I ever get a break?

Brockhoist does not look up. His pen continues its relentless rhythm. If he has noticed how pale I have turned, he gives no indication. To him, I am just a project in need of calibration. A blank slate to be filled with the ink of his rigid curriculum.

I stare at the textbook. The pastoral prose now curdled by the looming reality of my afternoon. At least the void does not expect anything from me. My future is not being built. It is being scripted, and I have no choice but to play the part he has assigned me.

“What happens if I fail my exam?”

The doctor shrugs. “I believe you already know the answer to that.”

I force a shallow, steadying breath. I press my nails into my palms until the sharp sting distracts me from the cold, clinical finality in his tone.

That must be why I was given a new dress this morning. A special day. The first dress I have to add to my collection: a flouncy white piece with lace trim and balloon-like sleeves that cover my shoulders. The dress is thin, with a line of white buttons that snap on and off running down the neckline to the hem. A bow decorates my sternum, matching the one on the teeny-tiny bloomers underneath the dress’s cropped skirt. The whole thing can be considered a modest, albeit long shirt, but as a dress, it barely covers me. If not for the bloomers, it would fully expose my ass. At least it is comfortable. It goes nicely with the black flats in my closet. I even have socks this time, though they are so thin and dainty that I doubt they will last through the day.

“Do you think I could study history soon?” I thumb the crisp page, only to find a chapter full of worksheets behind it.

Brockhoist glares at me over the tops of his glasses. “Why do you care at all about history?”

“Because I don’t remember any of it. I feel like I ought to remember reading about a place like this in my studies.”

“The LILLEE is a world-renowned facility,” the doctor snaps. “You would have had an entire class in school about it once you hit the sixth grade.”

“Well, I don’t remember the sixth grade.”

“If you don’t watch your tone, I’ll have your mother punish you severely.”

My mouth snaps closed. I settle back into my seat. The old wood creaks under the sudden tension of my posture. I do not like when I am alone with Mom. She has such a knack for torture.

Brockhoist checks the tablet sitting beside him. His familiar frown deepens into a snarl. “Speak of the devil and she will arrive.”

A shiver rolls up my spine. I suddenly zero in on the textbook in front of me, begging to start the lesson over so I can enjoy my reprieve from agony. But Mom is already standing in the doorway before I can get through more than a single paragraph. Brockhoist shuts the book in my face. I am ushered out of my chair.

Mom is dressed almost like Minerva. A charcoal grey set with a long pencil skirt and a cropped blazer fitted around the waist. She is not wearing anything underneath the jacket, creating a plunging neckline to showcase her small, supermodel breasts. She looks almost utilitarian with her modest pantyhose and kitten heels. Her makeup is subtle. Her hair is pinned into a perfect bun. Standing beside her, I look more like a babydoll than I do her own daughter.

Mom’s judgmental glare scans me up and down. She snatches me by my chin, her nails digging into my skin, and tugs me forward with a sharp, forceful jerk. Her grip tightens, squeezing my cheeks together until the pressure makes my lips tingle and prevents me from drawing a full breath. She holds me in this suffocating embrace for a heartbeat too long. Her eyes search mine for a flicker of defiance.

But she does not say anything. Not to me. Instead, she grabs my wrist, then turns to the doctor and snaps, “We’re off.”

“Don’t break her,” Brockhoist snaps back. “We only have the one.”

Mom clicks her tongue when she turns. Her body spins with a sudden, practiced momentum, and she dives down the narrow hall, her grip on my wrist iron-tight. I am forcefully dragged behind her. My heels scuff against the floorboards as I struggle to keep pace with her stride. I purse my lips shut until they go white, fighting the burning pressure in my throat and the sting in my eyes. I am desperately trying not to cry as the cold air of the hallway whistles past us.

We plunge outside and down the front steps. Our footsteps crunch against the gravel path. A cart waits for us at the curb, its loyal driver sitting stoically on the bench. It is a little chilly out. The air bites at our skin since the sun is hidden behind a thick, impenetrable blanket of clouds. I squint at the sky, but with no shadows to guide me, I cannot tell what time it is. A heavy, damp breeze sweeps toward us. I can smell the metallic tang of rain lingering just over the horizon. A storm is soon to break.

Mom practically throws me onto the cart, yet still maintains her grip on me, and orders the driver to take off. We barrel down the rutted, dusty dirt road. Our cart shudders against the uneven earth. I hear the rhythmic clanking of shackles and the wet, guttural whimpers of brutalized subjects as they are dragged past armed guards who smell of stale sweat and cold iron. The metallic tang of blood hangs heavy in the stagnant air. I cannot bear to look at the jagged gashes on their naked bodies, so I squeeze my eyes shut until the cart finally grinds to a jarring stop.

My breath hitches, catching sharp and shallow against the raw cold. My fingers clench into white-knuckled fists at my sides. Every muscle is pulled taut. My skin prickles and pales beneath the weight of the gathering gloom.

“Get up,” Mom snaps.

I nod, cracking my eyes open to find the elegant academy building standing just a stone’s throw away.

Upon entering the luxurious foyer, I am immediately enveloped by the same cloying wave of fresh vanilla that always clings to the air. The faint, melancholic strains of a piano concerto drift from down the hall.

I glance up one of the curved staircases to find a group of academy students gathered on the steps. The students, clad in their maid uniforms, are clustered around their professor, ostensibly engaged in a formal lecture. When they see me, the group’s demeanor shifts. I recognize some of the students from the class I took. Judging by the way they snicker and point, it is safe to assume they remember me, too.

“Catherine,” a voice booms.

The professor giving his lecture pauses, then takes note of the disruptive students and strikes them each with a leather crop. He glimpses me from the corner of his eye, scowling, then continues on when he realizes the voice came from Professor Jane.

The old woman stands between the two staircases. She looks identical to the last time I saw her. Her tight ballerina bun. Tiny metal glasses. Heavy modest uniform. All picture perfect as they were previously. This woman really does not mess around with decorum, I suppose.

“We’re on time,” Mom snaps back. Her grip on me tightens until I can barely feel my fingertips.

Jane’s lips twitch, but she does not frown. “Congratulations,” she begins with a dramatic drawl. “You are capable of doing something everyone in this facility has been doing for decades: adhering to a schedule.”