I take a cautious sip and fight the urge to make a face. It lacks the peppery, juniper punch of the true stuff. Not that we had that much of it at sixteen in the Hearth. But at the start of each season, anyone could have a glass or two (or ten, in the case of Mardel) of whatever had been brewed for the celebration. The blueberry vodka from the summer we were fourteen was my favorite.
I wonder if Nazarin’s ever tried real alcohol. If he was raised in cities, in this supposed perfection, and if he’s ever seen through the pretty illusions to the ugliness beneath. He must have, within the Ratel at least. I shudder.
We keep to ourselves as the bar fills with more attractive people. I match the faces and names to the sketches that I gleaned from Tila through the brainload. Eventually, I spy Leylani. She’s tall, with razor-straight dark hair to her waist. She has tanned skin, bright green eyes, and wears small shorts and heels so high my ankles hurt just to look at them. She’s obviously with a client, an Afghani woman in a hijab, wearing a long, dark blue dress with bell sleeves.
“Invite her over here,” Nazarin mutters under his breath. “Pretend to be Echo, and then eventually find a way to get her on her own. See what you can learn from her, if anything, and then afterward, tell me everything.”
I feel a little rush of excitement. After all the fear and uncertainty, the cramming and drilling and brainloading, here I am, about to truly pretend to be my sister to a stranger and start investigating what happened to her. One step closer—hopefully—to setting her free and finding out the truth of what she’s done.
I approach Leylani and smile confidently at her. Tila has given me more information about Leylani than any of the other hosts or hostesses—she spoke about her for at least half an hour in the brainloaded conversation, recounting past conversations and what she knew about her. Although Tila was friendly with her co-workers, I don’t think she was actually close friends with any of them. I’ve certainly never met any before. I’ve never questioned why that was; I assumed she wanted to keep her personal and work life separate. Now I wonder if there was more to it.
It seems like there was always more to it, when it came to my sister.
I smile at Leylani. Below the surface, I’m afraid that she’ll immediately realize I’m an imitation of the Echo she knows.
Leylani gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Echo!” she exclaims. “So good to see you. This is Sarah,” she says, introducing her client.
“Won’t you join us?” I ask, gesturing to the table where Nazarin lounges. I can see the look of appreciation that Leylani and her client give him. They agree, and follow me to the table. Soon we’re joined by others: a host called Boa, and his client, a businessman named Graeme.
At first I’m nervous, but as more time passes and nobody stands up and proclaims me a fake, I gradually relax. I wouldn’t say I have fun—drinking SynthGin and chatting with strangers, playing the part of my sister to try and save her life, isn’t exactly my idea of a party. However, my confidence that I can pass for Tila is growing, just as Nazarin hoped. When I’m pretending to be my sister, the fear doesn’t paralyze me—Tila’s confidence seems to seep into me. I sit up straighter, I laugh more, even try my hand at flirting the way I’ve seen Tila do. While I still feel unsure about my skills at wrapping people around my finger, I can see the effect my new assurance has on others. If Taema was sitting here, awkward and disinterested, it would be a different story—but as Tila, they listen to me, make eye contact, respond and seem to enjoy my company.
When Leylani stands up to go to the ladies’ room, I go with her. Such a cliché, I think as we totter through the now-crowded club at the top of the TransAm Pyramid, going to the bathroom to try and bond with another girl.
Once the door of the employees-only bathroom shuts, Leylani’s work smile falls off her face. “Are you all right?” I ask, reaching out and touching her shoulder.
It undoes her. Her face crumples, and she starts to cry. I stare at her, a little lost. What would Tila do? Tila would be warm, both to offer comfort and to gather the information she wanted. I wrap my arms around the young woman, making soothing noises, stroking her silky dark hair. Leylani sobs against my neck, tears falling on my collarbone to trickle to my scar.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, rocking her gently back and forth. It feels strange to comfort a stranger, yet I find it calming too. I haven’t hugged or touched anyone since they tore Tila from my arms—unless you count sparring with Nazarin or pretending to be his hostess. It seems that I need the close contact almost as much as Leylani does.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, pulling away. She wipes her hand across her eyes. “Sorry, sorry, I’m being so silly.”
I pass her a plush, pink towel from the railing and she daubs her face and hiccups.
“You’re not being silly,” I say. “Not at all. Come on, Ley, tell me what’s wrong.”
Leylani collapses on the settee against a wall, and I perch beside her, hoping nobody else will come in to interrupt us.