Undiscovered (Unremembered #1.5)(32)
Although I fear that even if she had known I could hear her, she wouldn’t have cared.
I swallow the stinging in my throat and hook the lead rope to Blackthorn’s halter, pulling him out of the barn and toward the orchard. He follows me obediently but uses the entire length of the rope to put as much distance between us as he can.
3
PRECAUTIONS
One, one thousand. Step.
Two, one thousand. Step.
Three, one thousand. Step.
I take vigilant, measured paces as I walk, counting a full second per stride, just like Zen taught me.
It’s one of the numerous things I have to do on a daily basis to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to myself. To hide who I am. If I move too fast—at the speed my scientifically enhanced legs are capable of carrying me—people will notice.
When I lift heavy objects, I have to pretend to struggle with them. Carrying in the wood for the bread oven is especially frustrating because I could easily carry the entire bundle at once but that would seem unnatural for a woman to be able to do. So instead I have to take three agonizingly slow trips from the chopping block to the kitchen, timing my steps the entire way, and throwing in a few grunts and other exertion noises to make it sound realistic.
Diotech is sure to be monitoring all historical records. From all time periods. They probably have a hundred people assigned to the task, scouring the digital archives for any clue to my whereabouts. It would only take one slipup, one sliver of unwanted attention, one mention of something unusual in a printed pamphlet or an official document and that would be enough.
They would send someone here to investigate.
And my new life—my new home—would be gone forever.
By lunchtime, I’ve already collected eight baskets of apples and pears from the orchard and delivered them to the house, with Blackthorn’s help. Mrs. Pattinson is thrilled and she claps her hands ecstatically when I report back the yield. It’s actually the first time I think I’ve ever seen her happy. Apparently this was a “fertile season,” which means there’s enough to take into town and sell.
I manage to finish my workload today with enough time to wash and hang my mud-stained skirt on the line outside before helping Mrs. Pattinson with dinner. Zen and I were each given two pairs of clothes when we arrived. “One to wash and one to wear,” we were told.
The garments definitely required getting used to. The bodice sometimes feels like it’s suffocating me, I often trip over the heavy linen skirt that falls to my ankles, the cotton cap itches on my head, and the long shirtsleeves are thick and hot in the afternoon sun. But I suppose it’s a small price to pay to be here with Zen.
To be safe from them.
After dinner, Mrs. Pattinson and I sit down at the kitchen table to mend clothes while everyone else gathers around the fireplace with Zen to hear another one of his adventure stories before it’s time for bed.
As my fingers move deftly, weaving the thread in and out, in and out, I allow the sound of Zen’s soft, melodic voice and the crackling fire to silence my thoughts. Drifting away for a few peaceful moments. Reveling in the quiet end of the day. The promise of what’s to come when everyone goes to sleep and Zen and I are finally alone.
It’s Mrs. Pattinson’s nasally grating voice that eventually brings me back to the present when she asks me to pass her another spool of thread.
I smile politely, bend down to retrieve the black bobbin from the basket near my feet, and then reach across the table to place the object in front of her.
I’m just about to withdraw my arm when Mrs. Pattinson lets out a horrified, deafening gasp that stops everyone short. Zen is no longer speaking. Mr. Pattinson and the children are no longer listening. Even the fire seems to have been shocked to a subtle flicker.
Everyone has turned and is staring at me.
I look instinctively to Zen and his dark eyes widen in alarm. Since we arrived here, we’ve begun to master the art of communicating without speaking. With the Pattinsons almost always around, sometimes a glance is all we get to convey something important. It’s a necessity when living with secrets. Secrets that, in this day and age, could get you killed.
He nudges his chin ever so slightly in the direction of my outstretched arm. I glance down and suddenly understand. My stomach clenches. A peculiar icy heat slithers up my legs. And for a moment, I’m completely paralyzed. Staring at the sight before me that cannot be unseen. Feeling the palpable panic in the air that cannot be erased.
The sleeve of my shirt has slid up, revealing the bare skin on the inside of my left wrist.
Or more specifically, the razor-thin black line that is inked across my wrist.
I call it my tattoo, even though that’s not an accurate term. But it’s what I originally thought it was. In reality, it’s a tracking device that was installed by Diotech when they created me.
Zen warned me that I would have to keep it hidden under my sleeve here. That I was never to reveal it. And now I understand why.
Mrs. Pattinson’s mouth finally closes from her prolonged gasp and she’s able to speak. “Is that the mark of … of…”
“No,” Mr. Pattinson chides her. “Not in front of the children.”
She’s flustered and breathless as she continues to stare down at my exposed wrist. I start to pull my arm away but she grabs my hand and clutches it tightly, her nails digging into my flesh.