Genesis Girl (Blank Slate #1) - Jennifer Bardsley Page 0,64

to me.”

“Really?” Lydia puts her gun away. “You can keep your little trinket if you want. It won’t work now.” She rolls her eyes when I reach into the toilet to fish out the chip-watch. “Why were you calling him anyway?” Lydia asks as we walk to the car. “You can’t ever trust a Virus. You know better than that.”

I do know better than that. Now I know the truth.

Keep myself safe.

Leave a note.

Don’t trust Headmaster Russell.

Remember that I am loved.

So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m giving myself those directions now and forevermore.

Chapter Seventeen

Long, winding roads leading nowhere. Broken-down cars, ramshackle cabins, and the occasional shuttered store—we’ve driven all night through the abandoned unknown. I’m not asking any questions either. It’s like I’m back at Tabula Rasa during Discipline Hour, ready to parrot whatever is required.

Only on the inside, I’ve changed. Hopefully Lydia doesn’t know that.

“We’re almost there, Blanca.” Lydia pulls down the visor. The sun is coming up, shooting us right in the eyes with bright, golden light. “We’re almost at Plemora.”

“Yes, Ms. Lydia. We’re almost there.”

“You’re going to love it. Plemora’s so quiet and peaceful.”

“Yes, Ms. Lydia. I’m going to love it.”

“Barbelo’s curious about you. He was my purchaser, you know, if you haven’t already guessed that.”

“No, Ms. Lydia. I didn’t guess.” Barbelo was Lydia’s purchaser? Eight hours ago I thought he could solve everything. Now I’m not so sure.

“I don’t know what he’ll want you to call him. We’ll have to wait and see.” Lydia pulls the car to the side of the road, where there’s nothing but dirt stretching to the horizon. “Got to change into my whites,” she says, and she pops the trunk. She takes the keys with her when she climbs out of the car.

When she comes back a few minutes later, I realize there’s something sick inside me.

Seeing Lydia back in her Vestal whites makes me feel better. It calms me down.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Are you ready to go home?” she asks.

And I do want to go home, but not to Nevada. “Yes, Ms. Lydia. Of course, Ms. Lydia. This is my dream come true,” I answer as Lydia drives us farther down the road. She smiles at me like this is the best vacation ever. Finally, the car stops.

“Excellent, darling. We’re here.” Lydia gets out of the car, but I stay put.

We’re parked in front of an enormous metal gate at least ten feet tall. It’s padlocked multiple times. Lydia takes out keys and deftly unlocks each chain. She pushes the gate inward so that our car can pass.

That’s how I enter the compound, peacefully, in the passenger seat.

All the while knowing it’s the most dangerous cloister of all.

The first things I notice are the chickens, defecating everywhere on the porch. The sunlight is white-hot now, and it reflects off the adobe walls. I hold up my hands to filter my eyes, which means I don’t get a good look at the front door. All I can see is that it’s rounded at the top, like a Roman arch.

But inside the villa, it’s cool and dark. My eyes dilate, adjusting to the light. There are plants everywhere, turning the interior into a lush greenhouse. Vines creep upward to the ceiling where skylights filter the heat.

“Come, Blanca. He’s waiting.” Lydia speaks softly, almost reverently. I fight the urge to kick off my shoes.

We cross the Spanish tiles through another doorway into an atrium. Here the garden is wilder than ever, at least at first glance. A veritable jungle is before me, bathed in the light of a single oculus at the center of the glass dome. The air is thick with humidity. I breathe in, and my lungs fill with moisture.

As Lydia leads me through the vegetation, I realize it’s not wild after all. Everything is proportioned, controlled, and cultivated. The jungle builds up in terraces. Planters and lattices pull everything together. Fruit trees are clipped into espaliers. Tomatoes are grafted upward. This garden is both verdant and measured.

At the far corner, I see the gardener pruning a fig tree. He wears a white linen tunic and drawstring pants. A straw hat covers his long white hair. The gardener hears our footsteps and turns around. It is then that I see his beard and glasses.

At long last I meet Barbelo Nemo.

“And so,” he says, putting down his pruning shears. “It’s my little Vestal. Welcome to Plemora.” He reaches out his hand and grasps my shoulder. “Blanca, you