Imitation

Chapter Three

A maid brings me dinner on a rolling tray. Other than her, I see no one. I hear nothing outside the door of my room. I can only assume that means they have some device set up to monitor me from inside. I’m not surprised. Or deterred. Being watched is inevitable in Twig City; it’s no different here.

After eating, I spend a full hour reveling in the silkiness of the sheets on the bed that I’m sure would sleep five comfortably. When I sit up, a carving made in one of the posts catches my eye. I lean closer and run my fingers over it, trying to identify the shape. The lines are rough and jagged close up, as if they’ve been carved by hand with a dull knife or some other blunt instrument. Small shavings come away when I brush my hand over it, and I wonder how recently this cut was made. It looks like a version of my own mark but this tree is different, with branches sprouting into the trunk instead of around it.

I change into the pajamas laid out—a silky, smooth fabric that feels amazing against my abdomen and arms. I am reminded of the chafing cotton I wore just last night and try to take comfort in the benefits, small as they are, of my new life.

The luxuries of this place, combined with the utter silence that rings in my ears, has me wide awake. I decide to explore my expensive prison. I find a refrigerator stocked with bubbly water that sighs when you twist open the lid and some sort of creamy frozen treat in the freezer. The box says “ice cream,” though it tastes nothing like any ice I’ve ever had.

After eating the entire container of pecan ice cream, I lie down and pretend with all my might that I really am Raven Rogen and there is no danger here. It doesn’t work but I succeed in sleeping.

The morning comes too fast.

I feel sluggish and slow when the lock clicks and the door opens. I don’t bother raising my head as Gus pokes his head into the room. He is already frowning.

“Get dressed. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

In Twig City, ten minutes is twice the time we’re expected to take for showering and dressing, but here, where nothing is familiar, I’m almost positive I should demand longer. He is gone before I can argue.

I scavenge the dresser and closet—and discover the latter is large enough to stand inside and stretch my arms out to both sides and still not touch the clothes hanging on the racks around me. This makes me almost smile. I pass by silk gowns and chiffon skirts and gawk at the shelves of shoes that I can only hope I’ll live long enough to wear. Ida would love this.

Near the back, I find tailored pants and a blouse. Not exactly the bland jeans and T-shirt look that we all share in Twig City, but then I don’t expect Raven Rogen owns a pair of jeans, especially ones with holes in the knees. I used to fuss at Lonnie for purposely ripping her pants but after a while, I caught myself doing it too. In a sea of sameness, I needed to do something to feel individual. I suspect that was Lonnie’s reason also, although she would say she just liked the ventilation. Twig City’s lower levels can be stuffy.

Upon mirror inspection, I find that my blond locks have graduated from bedhead to zoo animal. I do my best to smooth it and then decide I don’t care. According to Titus, no one but staff is going to see me today. While I’m still playing a part, the pressure feels lessened within the confines of these walls.

Gus is waiting for me when I emerge from the bathroom. I follow him out, refusing to allow myself to be afraid of Titus this morning. I am prepared this time. I tell myself that makes a difference.

I follow Gus down the circular hallway and find myself once more in the plush room with the fireplace. Someone has lit a fire and it roars and crackles, giving a sharp cheerfulness to the place that feels forced. Titus stands off to the side so I don’t see him until I’m almost in front of him. I feel the same jolt and then crawling of my skin as I did the night before.

“Raven,” Titus says and gives me a look that demands response.

“Father.” I shove the word out of my mouth. I feel funny for saying it, not just to him, but to anyone. Imitations don’t have mothers and fathers. We don’t have family. We just are.

Until we’re not.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

“Very well,” I say.

“Good. We need to discuss this arrangement if it’s to work out. Sit.”

I lower myself to a leather couch that seems miniature compared to the ones at home. Home. My chest hurts because this is my home now. With this man.

“First, Rogen Tower is your home now,” he says.

The words, an echo of my own thoughts, jar me so that I jerk my eyes up to his. His are sparkling with something—laughter? No. Challenge.

He continues. “You can go anywhere you like except my private offices. Those are off limits even to my daughter.”

“Where is she? Your daughter?” I ask before I can stop the words from leaving my mouth. That is not a question a trained Imitation should ask.

His cheeks harden. “You do not get to ask me questions,” he snaps. Then his features smooth out and he is the charming viper once again. “I would like this arrangement to be mutually beneficial. For that to happen, there are certain rules that must be followed. Boundaries, if you will.”

“Mutually beneficial?” I echo. I am thoroughly confused as to how I can benefit from dying for someone I’ve never met.

“I get to end the threat against my daughter and you get to experience life as it exists in the outside world. All of the luxury and extravagance your genetic makeup craves. For however long your experience lasts,” he adds.

I can only stare at him. Did he really just say that my payment for dying is to sleep in a nice bed?

In that moment I hate him. And her. The girl I’m supposed to be. The girl I’m supposed to die for. I would give all of the pecan ice cream in the world to be back in Twig City, playing tennis with Ida and Lonnie. In that moment I decide that no matter what happens, I will hate Titus and Raven Rogen. Until the day I die.

***

My lunch in Rogen Tower is served in a dining hall so ornate and hollow, I think my voice will echo if I so much as whisper. The food set in front of me by a silent maid with white streaks in her brown hair is succulent. I know this by the smell alone. Even before I bite into the chicken breast covered in cream, I know it will be the most delicious chicken I have ever tasted. I am not wrong.

The food makes me think of the vitamin-infused fruits and green vegetables Lonnie and Ida are eating without me. In Twig City, there is no higher priority than maintaining one’s health and fitness. Meals are no exception.

I eat alone and am full long before the food is gone. Before I’ve finished wiping my mouth with the linen napkin, the maid retrieves my plate and Gus reappears in the doorway. I think he’s been waiting outside, not wanting the pressure of making conversation if he stayed in sight.

After lunch, I am led to a room Gus calls the parlor. Heavy curtains obscure the sunlight that presses against the glass behind them. I imagine warmth in the light. It feels cold in the shadows and deep cushions inside this room. There is a bookcase on one wall, laden with large albums. Gus retrieves a stack and sets them on the floor next to me.

“What are these?” I ask.

“Your history,” he says.

“What are they for?”

“They will show you the names and faces of the people Raven knows.”

I gape at the stack of albums that reaches past my knee. “You want me to memorize all of them?”

“Yes.”

Before I can argue, he walks out.

I sink down to the floor, wondering how in the world I’m supposed to teach myself all the faces these albums contain. I peel open the cover on the first album and blink at a face that is so exactly like mine, I wonder if it’s me and I’ve simply forgotten the memory captured on film. But it’s her. I see the difference in the eyes, and the smile that is entirely too free for someone who grew up in Twig City. It’s slightly crooked on one side and already I distrust her. Already I hate her.

There is movement in the doorway. I look up, expecting Gus or even Titus. Instead, it is a boy I’ve never seen before. He is close to my age, twenty at most. His light hair is cropped close to his head and lays flat. I peg him for a soldier, though he doesn’t wear any uniform. His hands are tucked deep in his corduroy pockets and he is scowling.

My voice gets stuck in my throat. Partly because he is a boy and I have almost zero experience conversing with males. And partly because he is so beautiful and Authentic and one hundred percent untouchable that it makes my cheeks burn.

“Um, can I help you?” I ask when he doesn’t speak.

He gives me a disbelieving look and then shakes his head. “I think you have it backwards.”

“Have what—”

“The helping part,” he cuts in. “I’m apparently the one giving the help.” He doesn’t sound happy about it.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask, my irritation pricking at his tone.

“Linc Crawford.”

“Linc Crawford.” I repeat it, turning it over on my tongue, still trying to understand the reason for his distaste.

He pushes off the frame and steps into the room. “They say you have amnesia from that fall the other day.”

I recall the story Titus told me he’s given the staff. “That’s right.”

“I’m supposed to show you these albums. See if it’ll help you remember.” He sits down so close to me, our shoulders are almost touching. He pulls the album from my lap to his. The sudden closeness startles me and I am quick to cover my discomfort with conversation.

“Do you work for Titus?” I ask. “I mean … my father?”

“I’m your security detail,” he says in a rough voice.

I press my lips together and leave it at that. I’ve already botched this enough and his tone is clear. He doesn’t want to talk to me any more than necessary for the job. I take my cue from him and concentrate on the assignment at hand.

Linc begins to show me the albums and we fall into a rhythm. He points to a face, says a name, I repeat it. We go slowly. After each page, he asks who I remember. I’m able to recall a senator and his wife. This makes me happy but Linc doesn’t react. Just turns the page and starts on the next set of faces.

“I’m not doing very well, am I?” I say after several pages of faces I’ve already forgotten.

He shrugs. “I get paid either way.”

My shoulders stiffen as his biting tone finally gets to me. “Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“Whatever. Let’s just get this done.”

“Fine,” I say through tight lips.

I no longer care that the blue in his eyes makes me think of cloudless skies or that he smells like wind and soap and something else I can’t identify. Or that I want to touch the scar on the back of his left hand. Instead, I force myself to memorize politicians and social climbers and the elite among a society I’ve never stepped foot in.

When we’ve finished, Linc rises and walks to the doorway, arching a brow as he glances over his shoulder. “You coming?” he asks.

“Um, shouldn’t we put these away?” I ask, waving at the albums scattered about.

His forehead crinkles. It’s clear I’ve said something wrong. “No, the maid will get them. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Tea.”

I follow him out with a backward glance at the mess. Cleaning up is something Authentic Raven wouldn’t care about. I see that now. Linc leads me back into the room with the fireplace. Titus is already there, seated at a small table by a window, sipping something steamy from a delicate glass cup. He doesn’t look up from his newspaper when I enter but I have no doubt he knows I am here.

Linc stops inside the doorway and waves me forward. I take the seat across from Titus, scooting my chair back as far from the table as I dare. When I turn back, Linc is gone.

Titus and I are alone.

He fills the cup in front of me with an amber liquid that steams as it leaves the spout. Tea, I assume. I’ve never had it. I begin to lift the cup to my mouth but Titus stops me. “You take your tea with sugar.”

My hand falters as I set the cup down with a clink against the saucer. I fumble with the assortment of glassware until I pick out the sugar and load a spoonful into my cup. My movements are quick and jerky, giving away the anxiety coiling inside me.

“Did you have a chance to look over the albums?” he asks, abruptly setting his paper aside to look at me. His gaze is direct, challenging, offensive.

“Yes, sir.”

“And? Do you feel confident about your ability to identify those within your social circle?”

It is not my social circle. It is hers. But I say only, “I believe so.”

“You believe so?”

“I—I think I need more time. I wasn’t able to remember very many. Can’t we just tell everyone I still have amnesia? That way I won’t have to remember—”

“Maybe I haven’t made myself clear. You do not have a choice in the matter of your role here. You were bred for this purpose. You were made to be her and so you shall. The fact that you benefit from this arrangement is merely a fortunate bonus. You will not return home if you displease me. If you fail, you will be terminated.”

I am speechless. I suspected as much but to hear him say it so carelessly, as if I’m nothing more than a tool, a weapon, an accessory … But he is right. I am not human. I am not Authentic. I mean nothing.

“I understand,” I say quietly.

His gaze sharpens and I let my hair fall over the side of my face. “Something else to work on,” he says, “is your attitude. My daughter is sure of herself and lowers her face to no one. Including me.”

Again, there is the unmistakable hint of challenge. I force my chin up and out and meet his stare. “Yes, sir,” I say, packing as much acid into the last word as possible.

He nods, as if my answer—the vehemence in my tone—is exactly what he wanted to hear. “You will work again with Linc this afternoon. Learn the names and faces. There is a party tomorrow night, a fundraiser I am sponsoring for a senator, and you will be there as her or you will be finished here.”

He tosses a linen napkin from his lap onto the table and strides out with heavy footsteps. I am rigid in my chair, staring at nothing while I concentrate on expanding my lungs in and out in a way that counteracts the hyperventilation threatening.

I am relieved to be left alone, although I have no doubt I’m being monitored. My attention wanders to the window. Through the gauzy curtains I see a clear blue sky lit by cheerful sunshine. It is so opposite to what it feels like inside these walls and I wish again to be home in Twig City. At least there my prison includes fresh air. Here, I feel suffocated, as if the air is thick enough to choke out the real me I’ve buried deep inside. Soon, all that will be left is her.

I finish the tea, mostly because it prolongs what comes next. Titus said I need to study the albums again and while I’m not upset to spend more time with Linc, the fact that he already hates me—hates her—suggests I will end up angry again for reasons I can never explain to him.

I am already frustrated by the time he comes for me.

“Time for round two,” he says from the doorway. “You ready?”

I nod and push back from the table, happy to leave this room behind.

We return to the parlor where the albums have been neatly restacked into small piles on the rug. I sink down to the floor and pick up the first one. Linc remains standing and when I look up at him, he is watching me with a creased forehead.

“What?” I ask.

“You must’ve really hit your head,” he says, sinking down next to me.

“Why’s that?”

“Because Raven Rogen never sits on the floor.”

My cheeks burn. I’ve made another error. I return my attention to the album in my lap. I scan faces, commit them to memory, and repeat them for Linc who nods or frowns accordingly. I come upon one picture of a woman dressed in a bright yellow feather costume. She is obviously some sort of performer with her arms spread wide for dramatic effect and her outlandish outfit and high-heeled shoes. I think she must have been going for sensuous or even sexy, but to me, the effect is ridiculous.

I let out a giggle and Linc’s fingers go still against the page. He looks over at me like he’s never seen me before.

“What?” I say, trying—and failing—to contain the rest of my laughter.

“Your laugh …”

“I’m sorry, but she looks like a giant bird,” I say, only to giggle again.

His expression turns from confusion to utter concentration. My laughter dies. There’s a shift in the way he watches me. I can’t identify it, but neither can I look away. If this is what it feels like to have a boy look at you, no wonder they keep us segregated in Twig City. My nerves dance on end.

Out in the hall, a gruff voice calls out to another. The words are muted but it’s enough. The spell is broken. Linc looks away. I blink furiously and stare down at the album shared between us.

Linc clears his throat. “This one,” he says, picking up where we left off.

An hour passes.

Albums are cast aside, replaced by fresh ones. A face catches my eye. It is a boy, striking in his similarity to Linc, though this face is rounder, older. “Who is that?” I ask.

Linc is quiet for a long time. When I look at him, he is staring at the page so hard I think he could burn a hole through it. “That’s Adam,” he says finally. “My brother.”

His answer intrigues me. Any sort of familial reference makes me curious because I have no idea what that would feel like. Sometimes I think Ida and Lonnie are like my sisters but I suspect it’s not the same. My attention returns to the picture. “You look like him. Are you close?”

“We were.” He hesitates and then his voice goes flat as he says, “He’s dead.”

I can’t help the flinch of my shoulders. Death is so final for me, a soulless being. For humans, they say it isn’t the end, though I have no idea what would come next. “What happened?” I ask.

“There was an attack on his employer. He was outnumbered and they killed him.”

“His employer?”

“Congressman Ryan and his son. They survived. Adam did not.” He presses his lips together and goes silent.

I don’t push. It’s clear he doesn’t want to discuss it further. His story sounds an awful lot like the one he and I are currently living out. And then I realize … “You’re supposed to protect me.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Linc, you don’t—you shouldn’t.” I don’t know how to say it without giving away too much, but I feel the weight of it all pressing against me and I have to say something. “It’s not worth it. I’m not worth it. Don’t—don’t die for me.”

He glares at me, his expression so cold I shrink back. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps. “None of this is for you. It’s a job and I have my orders. We’re done here.”

He springs to his feet and is gone. The door slams shut behind him. In the hall, I hear him speaking to someone before his footsteps fade.

I am alone.

I’m never alone.