Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,47

remember her mother. It had been more than fifteen years ago. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “This was a mistake. I’m—”

“Wait,” Clodie stood up and smoothed out the front of her scrubs. “We don’t normally do this, so please don’t tell the other girls. But”—she paused, lowering her voice and taking in a breath—“a hundred largs.”

Alouette stared at the woman, dumbfounded. She was really going to offer her a hundred largs for the nutrients in her blood? That was ludicrous. That was appalling. That was …

Desperate.

Alouette scanned the woman’s angular features, which were taut in what could only be described as desperation. Alouette remembered what the girl in yellow had told her back in the reception area—“don’t accept the first offer”—and an idea came to her. She arranged her face in what she hoped was a tenacious expression and stood up straight. “I’m not agreeing to anything until I talk to the madame.”

“I assure you the madame has given me full authority to negotiate on the establishment’s behalf.”

“Good,” said Alouette defiantly. “Then, if you want the nutrients in my’’—she fought back a gag—“blood, I’m sure you’ll have no problem getting me a meeting with her.”

The woman’s jaw tightened. She stared long and hard at Alouette. Despite her churning stomach, Alouette forced herself to stare long and hard back. “Fine,” the woman finally relented. “Wait here. I’ll see if she’s available.”

As soon as Clodie was gone, Alouette collapsed back into the chair, like she’d just swum the Secana Sea. But she also felt a swell of pride. Two weeks away from the Refuge, and Alouette was already becoming a different person.

“You asked to see me?” came a woman’s voice a few minutes later. Alouette pivoted in her chair as her gaze landed first on a shiny, heeled shoe, then a sleek gold dress and even sleeker shoulder-length golden hair, before finally resting on the most disturbing face Alouette had ever seen. The woman’s eyebrows were arched unnaturally high, as though a string were pulling them straight toward the ceiling. The skin of her forehead looked as though it had been peeled off, stretched to the limit, and then pasted back on. And her cheekbones appeared to be in the entirely wrong place. Was this what those poor girls’ blood was being used for? To make someone look like that? Alouette fought hard to not react to the sight.

The woman, however, clearly was not fighting as hard. Because as soon as her gaze landed on Alouette, a gasp escaped her lips, and her eyes widened with a look of pure disbelief.

Alouette self-consciously touched her hair, her face, the front of her sweater.

The madame blinked, as though trying to disengage herself from a bad dream, and let out a tinkling laugh. “Oh my. That was rude. So sorry about that. You’ll have to excuse me. I thought—you just look like someone I used to—” The madame squinted at Alouette again before shaking her head. “It’s uncanny, really.”

With a squeeze of her chest, Alouette suddenly understood.

I look like her. I look like my mother.

Straightaway, hope fluttered inside Alouette. Perhaps this hadn’t been a mistake after all.

Alouette remained silent as the woman composed herself and then continued into the small room and took a seat in Clodie’s chair. She folded her hands regally across her lap. “I’m Madame Blanchard. I am in charge of this facility. My médecin informed me that you are an ideal candidate for extraction but are having some reservations about the process. And while that is to be understood for someone who is experiencing it for the first time, I can assure you that it’s quite safe.”

The lie slid so easily out of the woman’s red-stained lips, it made Alouette’s teeth clench. “That’s not why I’m here, actually. I’m looking for information about—”

“Lisole,” the madame said with a knowing smile.

Alouette felt a tingle race through her body. Was that her name? Her mother’s name?

How many years had she been waiting for this? Lying awake at night dreaming about it. Just one name—two syllables—and suddenly she felt more complete than she had in years.

Lisole.

“You must be related to her,” Madame Blanchard went on. “I feel like I’m looking at a ghost. You’re almost an exact replica. Your face, your hair, even your blood. Hers was quite rich in nutrients as well.” The madame’s gaze went wistful for a moment, as though her thoughts had snagged on some distant memory. “She was an ideal client. While she was around.” She blinked out of her