Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15)(22)

My hand began to tremble, forcing me to set down the brush. I had made it through months of deprivation in the dark, endured the glares and name-calling from my peers, and somehow even survived being made medically ill without a tear. But this small act of kindness, this nice and ordinary gesture between two people … well, it almost broke me when nothing else had. It drove home how far away I was from everything—from Adrian, my friends, safety, sanity … it was all gone. I was here in this tightly regulated prison of a world, where my every move was governed by people who wanted to change the way I thought. And there was no sign of when I’d get out of here.

“Now, now,” said Duncan brusquely. “None of that. They love it when you cry.”

I blinked back my tears and gave a hasty nod as I retrieved my brush. I set it back on the canvas, barely aware of what I did. Duncan also continued painting, his eyes on his work as he spoke more.

“You’ll probably be able to eat when dinner comes. But don’t overdo it. Be smart about what you eat—and don’t be surprised if you find another favorite of yours on the menu.”

“They really know how to make a point, don’t they?” I grumbled.

“Yes. Yes, they do.” Even without looking at him, I could tell he was smiling, though his voice soon grew serious again. “You remind me of someone I used to know here. She was my friend. When the powers-that-be realized we were friends, she went away. Friends are armor, and they don’t like that here. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“I—I think so,” I said.

“Good. Because I’d like us to be friends.”

The chimes signaling the end of class sounded, and Duncan began gathering up his things. He started to walk away, and I found myself asking, “What was her name? Your friend who was taken?”

He paused, and the look of pain that crossed his face immediately made me regret asking. “Chantal,” he said at last, his voice barely a whisper. “I haven’t seen her in over a year.” Something in his tone made me think she’d been more than a friend. But I couldn’t think much about that when I processed the rest of what he’d said.

“A year …” I did a double take. “What did you do to get here?”

He simply gave me a sad smile. “Don’t forget what I said, Sydney. About friends.”

I didn’t forget. And when he didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day and instead hung out with the other glaring and snickering detainees, I understood. He couldn’t show me any special treatment, not when our peers and the unseen eyes of superior Alchemists were always watching. But his words burned inside me, giving me strength. Friends are armor. I’d like us to be friends. I was trapped in this terrible place, full of torture and mind control … but I had a friend—one friend—even if no one else knew. It was empowering, and that knowledge helped carry me through another class full of Moroi propaganda and sustained me when a girl tripped me in the hall with a muttered, “Vamp whore.”

Our last class wasn’t really a class at all. It was a session called “communion time,” and it took place in a room they called the sanctuary, where apparently Sunday church services were also held. I made note of that because it meant I’d have a way to mark time. It was a beautiful room, with high ceilings and wooden pews. No windows, though. Apparently they were serious about cutting off our escape options—or maybe it would’ve simply been too uplifting for us to see the sun and sky every once in a while.

One wall of the sanctuary was full of writing, and I lingered in front of it as my fellow detainees filed in. Here, on painted white bricks, was a record of all those who had come before me, written in their own hand. Some were short and to the point: Forgive me, I have sinned. Others were full-out paragraphs, detailing perceived crimes and how their authors longed for redemption. Some were signed, some were anonymous.

“We call this the Wall of Truth,” said Sheridan, walking up beside me with a clipboard. “Sometimes people feel better after confessing their sins upon it. Perhaps you’d like to?”

“Maybe later,” I said.

I followed her to a circle of chairs, set up away from the pews. Everyone settled down, and she made no comments when my nearest neighbors scooted their chairs a few inches away. Communion time, it seemed, was a type of group therapy, and Sheridan engaged the circle in what everyone had accomplished today. Emma was the first to speak up.

“I learned that although I have made progress in restoring my soul, I have a long way to go before I attain perfection. The greatest sin is to give up, and I’ll keep going forward until I’m completely immersed in light.”

Duncan, sitting beside her, said, “I made progress in art. When we started class today, I didn’t think anything good would come of it. But I was wrong.”

Whatever temptation that might’ve given me to smile was cut short when the girl beside him said, “I learned today how glad I am to not be as bad as someone like Sydney. Questioning my orders was wrong, but at least I never let one of them lay their profane hands on me.”

I flinched and expected Sheridan to laud the speaker for her virtue, but instead, Sheridan fixed cold eyes on the girl. “You think that’s true, Hope? You think you have the right to declare who’s better or worse among you? You’re all here because you’ve committed grave crimes, make no mistake about it. Your insubordination may not have resulted in the same vile outcome as Sydney’s, but it stemmed from a place just as dark. Failure to obey, failure to heed those who know best … that is the sin at hand, and you’re just as guilty of it as her.”