Genesis Girl (Blank Slate #1) - Jennifer Bardsley Page 0,5

key.

I guess this is the part where I get locked up.

“My own cloister?” I ask.

“Yes.” But then Cal does something shocking. He places the key in my palm. “You have full access to the entire estate. I hope you will be happy here.” He smiles again, kindly.

I don’t know what to say or do next. We are both silent for a moment, his hand still in mine. I know I don’t have a choice. This is my lot in life as a Vestal Geisha. It doesn’t matter that Cal’s over fifty.

That’s when the silence is broken by a buzzing sound coming from his wrist.

“My old chip-watch,” he says. “A high-school graduation present from my parents back in 2030. The staff had to dig around in the attic to find it, but it still works great.” Cal glances down at the message and scowls. He types something quickly with his knuckle, his fingertips too bandaged to function.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go. There’s a problem at work. I’ll be back for dinner, okay? We’ll get started then.” Cal leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting for someone like you for a long time.”

As soon as he turns away, I shudder.

I don’t completely relax until I’ve deadbolted the door behind me. Cal said I have free range, but maybe that’s a test. I’d better stay put.

My new room is quiet. One entire wall is full of books, the old-fashioned kind with actual pages. Another wall has windows, shielded by a massive stone-wall courtyard below. A third wall is completely mirrored. In the center of the room is a canopy bed with a velvet coverlet. By the door is a glossy white desk, stocked with stationary.

Somebody has thought of everything.

I take off my traveling cloak and lay it across the bed. Then, looking down at it, I lie down too, burying my face in the fabric. I can still smell the faint scent of Tabula Rasa. I’m cut off from everyone, exhausted by the unknown. Thinking about the familiar brings tears. But when I wipe my eyes with the hem, I feel a folded sheet of paper slip out of my cloak pocket.

Dear Blanca,

My favorite words Barbelo Nemo ever spoke were: “See with your eyes. Hear with your ears. Listen for the directions that will come.”

I share that wisdom with you now because anticipating your purchaser’s wishes is the most difficult part of being Geisha.

But remember: clarifying questions are your friends.

Follow your Vestal training. Keep yourself private, and everything will be all right.

You are lucky, my dear girl. Nobody will ever know if your life is a success or a failure. Whichever path your life takes, it won’t be your fault.

I’ll make sure you get invited to the Vestal corporate banquet in a few months, one way or another. Hold on till then.

Ms. Lydia

I fall asleep with Ms. Lydia’s letter in my hand. I dream about her heart-shaped face blessing me and my new life.

Sometime later when I finally open my eyes, the afternoon is fading. Dust motes float in the air as the last rays of sunlight pour through the window. That’s when I notice hardware handles on the wall of mirrors. They’re actually doors, and they open to a large dressing room. There’s an entire wardrobe of white! At least I’ll be able to honor my Vestal vows of dress.

Vestals forsake all color. We wear white as a symbol of purity and trust. If Cal had dressed me in color, I wouldn’t have been able to return to Tabula Rasa when my contract was fulfilled.

But maybe these clothes hold other keys to my future.

I walk past each row of clothes and run my hands across the garments. There are skirts and dresses of every length, plus leggings and jeans. Each item hangs neatly on a wooden hanger. These clothes tell me nothing about what Cal wants from me.

Maybe I’ll have better luck with intimates.

The top drawer of my new bureau is lined with cedar. Silk, lace, and chiffon are nestled in sachets of lavender. Everything is much finer that what I’m used to, but again, I learn nothing.

From my bedroom, a clock chimes five o’clock. It’s time to prepare for the night.

When Cal knocks on my door about an hour later, I’m sitting at my desk, wearing a silk skirt, camisole, and cashmere sweater. I’ve spent the past ten minutes trying to compose a letter to Fatima, but the words won’t come.

Cal

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