After their encounter, my mom retreats to her room while Sanoske wanders the mansionâs halls. Before dawn, he slips away.
My mom watches him go, sprinting across the gray landscape, maskless, free. She yearns to join him, but instead, she returns to her bed and falls asleep alone.
As promised, Eric returns the next day, even earlier than expected. He wakes her with a kiss and presents her with a giftâa destroyed Indian gun.
âWe wiped out an entire city of them last night,â he tells her. âWomen, children, menâall gone. Another filthy city of Foreigners!â He spits out the last word as if itâs poison.
My mom keeps the gun. Itâs a simple revolver, the kind a soldier uses as a last resort. Itâs splattered with blood, dried stains against the steel. It feels light in her hands.
That same day, she repairs the gun in the workshop. She scrapes off the blood, adds water, and etches âBethâ into the plastic hilt. She fills in the letters with her blood and water mixture.
She waits for the blood to dry, then loads the revolver and tucks it into the back of her gray wool skirt. Iâm not sure if it gives her courage, makes her feel safe, or just scares her more.
The days leading up to the Meeting are tense. Workers pull overtime to keep everything pristine. The Masters start arriving three days early.
Eric is swamped with work, keeping his guests content and discussing the recent Testing.
My mom doesnât have much to do. She listens to him talk, understanding his stress and frustration. Only sixty percent of the girls passed their testing.
When Eric is in meetings, she spends her time in the workshop and the attic. She goes up there the next morning. In the sunlight, she can see the remnants of their struggle in the dust, a few drops of blood.
She sits on her rug and stares out the window. When she closes her eyes, she imagines heâs with her.
Despite his arrogance and coldness, she felt safe with him. A safety sheâs never experienced before. For the first time, she was talking to a real person.
She wants him back. She wants to know more about him, more about his world.
She falls asleep that afternoon, dreaming of his arms around her, carrying her away from the smoke and flames, the feel of his hard chest against her throat as he held her life in his hands.
Somehow, she knew he wouldnât kill her. She knew she wasnât in danger. They had no reason to fight each other. They werenât enemies.
But he wasnât going to help her. He wasnât going to take her away. She would have to survive on her own. She would have to make it on her own.
So she prepares. Each day she spends in the attic leading up to the Meeting, she plots her survival.
A bag is easy to find. She locates a large gray canvas bag that she can wear on her shoulders and tightens the gray straps around her waist.
First, she packs food. She sneaks into the kitchen pretending to be hungry. The few workers who see her taking food give her small encouraging smiles, assuming sheâs pregnant.
She gathers bread, preserved and dried fruits and vegetables, and slices of jerky, usually reserved for the workers. She returns to the attic with her loot each day and contemplates what she canât live without.
She finds herself packing brushes and soap. She packs water too. She fills empty bottles with water and fits them into her bag. She knows it rains often, so sheâs confident she can refill them as she goes.
Clothing is her biggest challenge. Perfects live their lives within thick walls. They donât need rainproof or warmer clothes. Only the workers and the soldiers do.
The workers wonât give up their few comforts, and my mom canât bring herself to steal from them.
So she turns to the soldiers. They wear thick gray trousers tucked into heavy gray boots. They have tight-fitting gray shirts under thick gray sweaters, and over the top, they wear heavy gray jackets with thick hoods.
She packs a few tight-fitting gray shirts of her own, but the rest of her clothingâtights and skirtsâare useless.
One day, just after lunch, the soldiers are on duty in the round conference room, where the Masters gather most days, leaving their barracks open. My mom takes from each of them.
A pair of thick gray trousers, a couple of sweaters, a pair of gloves, two pairs of socks, a gray jacket with a hood, and a pair of giant gray boots.
She knows theyâll be reported missing, but no one would suspect a woman of the house, so it buys her the two days she needs.
She packs a blanketâBethâs blanket. She packs Sanoskeâs bandage cloth as well. She picks up the bag and carries it around the attic each day to get used to the weight.
She goes to sleep each night exhausted and aching. But she knows she should enjoy the light blankets and Ericâs warm embrace while she can.
On the day of the Meeting, she wakes up early. All of the Masters have arrived, one from each sector. That makes fifty-six guest Masters, plus the eight who live in the house.
The Meeting starts at ten in the morning and usually lasts a few days. The workers arenât allowed to go home during this time. Theyâre expected to work nonstop during the Meeting.
This means the doors are sealed and guarded and wonât open until the Meeting ends. Eric leaves early in the morning. He kisses my mom and leaves her alone in bed.
She decides to sleep a little longer. She knows she has a long journey ahead and that it wonât be easy.
She also suspects the Japanese soldiers wonât attack right away. Theyâll probably wait until the Masters are deep in their discussion. At least, thatâs what my mom would do.
When she stirs awake for the second time, she fills up on breakfast and calmly heads to the attic. Sheâs aware theyâre on their way, but the method of their attack remains a mystery.
Every footstep she hears, every voice, sends her thoughts spiraling and her muscles into a state of readiness. She reaches the attic and dresses for her impending escape. She dresses like the soldiers do: a snug shirt, a jumper, and a jacket.
She has to cinch the belt around her waist to keep the pants from slipping, and she puts on all her socks to ensure the boots fit snugly. She gathers her hair into a ponytail and pulls up the hood.
She hoists her bag, strapping it securely to her back and around her waist. Her revolver is gripped firmly in her hand. Her pockets are brimming with bullets.
The thought of taking a life doesnât sit well with her, but sheâs aware that most of the countryâs population are now her adversaries. She knows these bullets might be the only thing standing between her and death.
Feeling bundled up and oddly exhilarated, she leaves the attic and stealthily navigates the deserted hallways. Sheâs brought to a halt by the sound of voices coming from Gaelâs room.
The door is slightly ajar, and she can just make out Gael and Hannah, engrossed in play with their little ones. Theyâre all smiles and laughter.
These two women, she thinks, are fragile. She knows they wouldnât last a day in the wilderness like sheâs planning to. They lack the drive. Theyâd willingly lay down their lives for Albion.
They probably werenât always this way. She acknowledges that. The Masters wouldnât have chosen weak womenâthey were likely once fiery, proud women, but the Masters, the mansion, had worn them down, diminished them.
Theyâd willingly die for Albion and their children. She knows this because there was a time when she would have done the same. But to abandon them to such a fateâ¦thatâs a level of cold-heartedness she canât stoop to.