“He’s ready for you.” The nurse smiled and indicated that they were welcome to go inside.
Bliss exhaled and didn’t realize she was holding her breath all this time. Dylan certainly looked better. He was sitting up in bed, there was color in his cheeks, and he didn’t look as thin or haggard. His black hair had been cut so it didn’t fall in lank strands on his face, and he was clean-shaven. He looked almost like his old self, like the boy who played air guitar during chapel just to annoy the teachers.
“Dylan! Thank God!” she cried. She was happy to see him looking so much healthier.
He smiled at her pleasantly.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
TWENTY-FOUR
“The past can sometimes blind us from what is happening today,” the chief warden said to begin his lecture. “It is why we were in denial about the Silver Bloods’ existence for so long. Because our past had told us they were no longer a threat. Because the past had blinded us to their existence. We had forgotten what the early days in our history were like. We had forgotten about the Great War. About our enemies. We had become soft and contented. Gorging on Red Blood and getting fat and lazy and ignorant.” A fine thing to say when your waistcoat strained at the buttons, Schuyler thought. It was yet another Monday. Yet another Committee meeting. A tedious one too, since they wouldn’t be practicing mutatio today. Sitting beside her, Bliss and Oliver looked just as bored as she felt. The visit to Transitions had been greatly disturbing to all of them, affecting Bliss the most. Schulyer didn’t know what they expected to see, but they certainly hadn’t expected to find Dylan’s memories and personality erased completely.
Sure, Dylan didn’t seem like he was about to knock them out with a mind-blow or start spouting off accusations about one of them being Satan’s minion, but he didn’t seem at all like himself either. It was as if he were a different person altogether. He was amiable, pleasant, and totally dull.
None of his doctors were around to answer any questions, and the nurse wouldn’t tell them anything except that Dylan, as far as she could tell, was “fine.” He was dutifully going to all the therapy sessions and making “progress.”
Schuyler knew Bliss blamed herself, but there was nothing they could do. None of them had any idea how to fix whatever had happened to Dylan. She had tried to console Bliss as much as she could. She knew how terrible she would feel if she had seen Jack that way. If he ever looked at her as if he didn’t know her at all. And yet, that was exactly what was going to happen once he was bonded to Mimi. He would forget about Schuyler completely, forget about what they meant to each other.
Schuyler tried to pay attention to what Warden Oelrich was saying. It was important information, but she had no patience for it right then. Seated right in front of her were the Force twins. She had watched them enter the room together, feeling resentful at the sight of Jack laughing at something his sister said.
Although, of course he had to pretend. The atmosphere at the town house was frenetic with bonding preparations. Different packages arrived every day, and many people came to call. Mimi’s bonding planner, Lizbet Tilton, had arrived with a whole crew of photographers, stylists, florists, and “aural-landscape artists” (her exact words for the DJ who was to take over after the orchestra signed off at two in the morning) for Mimi to approve.
Schuyler felt sick just listening to them talk about the event. Not only because the event in question would take Jack away from her forever, but because the way Mimi was acting, you’d think no one had ever been bonded before. The upcoming ceremony did have its advantages—Mimi was so busy that the petty thievery and malicious pranks had finally ceased.
Sometimes Schuyler missed Jack so much she felt a hollow ache in her belly that felt like it would never be filled. She wished he didn’t have to hide the way he felt about her. She had to remind herself that it was all an act, but sometimes his indifference seemed so real it was hard to console herself with memories of their private meetings. Sometimes it felt as if her memories were merely fantasies, especially when she saw him in the hallways at school, or when he barely acknowledged her presence in his own home. . . .
Until another book was slipped under her door, a signal that it was safe for them to meet. The last one had been a slim book of poetry. John Donne. That night she had smiled and teased him about his old-fashioned taste. He had asked her what kind of poetry she preferred, and she told him.
Up by the lectern, Edmund Oelrich continued his lecture. “One of the tricks of the Croatan is to use illusion to manipulate its foes.