Taking my first two steps out, there’s a crunch where my heels dig into the gravel. My breath releases from my chest in a small gust of fog; its particles separate and disappear into the morning breeze.
The five women tower in front of me, mounted on the steps like memorial statues, icons of the history of Emerald Lake Asylum. Grim looks of judgment painted over their doll-like features along with rouge-pink lipstick, blushed cheeks, brown or smoky-gray eyelids, and painted eyebrows like markings of a calligraphy pen.
As I scan the faces, I land on the gentleman in the doorway. He is a little over six feet, thin like an Aspen tree in the mountains, with slicked-back charcoal hair and gray streaks on the sides.
The tallest woman, standing closest to the doorway, bows her head graciously, careful not to let any loose blonde curls slip down into her eyes. She’s older than the other women, but one could hardly tell. If it wasn’t for the lines around her thin lips where her mouth has probably bunched together around a cigarette hundreds of times, drawing in the smoke-filled nicotine daily, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Other than that, her makeup is applied precisely, appropriately, covering any other signs of aging. She’s had years of practice. I can assume by her white collar and gloves that she’s in charge here. She’s who I need to impress.
“You must be Sky Ambrose.” The woman flashes me a tight smile, her voice flowing past her lips like the soft notes of a flute.
Skylenna. Don’t correct her.
I nod my head. “I’m here for an interview.”
The one with short black hair at the top of the steps rolls her eyes. It was quick enough that I immediately doubt if I saw it at all.
“Indeed, you are. That will be conducted by me.” She walks down the steps carefully, allowing each heel to gently make an impact. “I’m Suseas Parlomon. Head conformist and one of the six board members on the asylum’s council.”
Suseas is no longer on a heightened platform and yet is still a good three inches taller than I am. Her posture is so straight that I’m convinced there are poles in her back to keep her upright permanently. She takes my right hand and gently squeezes it between both of hers.
“When we received the call from Mr. Aurick Dawson recommending this meeting with you, we assured him your time here would be most exquisite. He is, of course, a highly impressive figure to give a recommendation. We take his opinion very seriously.”
I should have asked him what he does for a living. I can’t help but raise my eyebrows in disbelief. I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is the clicking of my throat contracting as I gulp.
“I do hope you find our greeting as acceptable,” she adds with a fixated stare on my expression.
“Oh.” I look back at the women standing straight in perfect alignment with the double staircase. This was all to impress me? “Sure. Yes. It’s lovely.”
She smiles to herself with temporarily closed eyes. Pleased, she looks back at the gathered women with a reassuring nod.
“Please join us in the main hall. You must be chilled to the bone.”
I follow them up the stairs and through the wide double doors. The man disappears the second I step inside.
The bottoms of my shoes clack against the cream-colored marble floors. I look up to see why the echo is so loud, and the cathedral ceilings take me aback. There are stone arches webbed over our heads and a golden chandelier that doesn’t quite match the antiqueness of the room. The walls are stone, with pillars stationed at each corner of the vicinity meant to be a lobby.
A touch of warm air surrounds my face, heating up the tip of my nose and fingers. It carries a strong scent of wood and leather, a crisp impression of luxury—but underneath it, concealed somewhere like under the lid of a trash can, is a lingering whiff of stale urine and an elderly woman’s musty body odor.
I can’t say I’m surprised by the immediate impression. Scarlett once told me this place was built on deceit.
Suseas guides me and the other women to brown leather couches to the right of the lobby. I’m herded over to the mahogany-finished armchair, sitting on the cushion upholstered in elegant jacquard fabric. There’s a tea table between the women on the couches and me, and the furniture creaks as everyone gets settled in. They straighten, resisting the tempting urge to relax against the back of the couch.
Suseas waves over her shoulder and a younger woman wearing a gray dress and white tights carefully sets down a tray holding a fine porcelain tea set, including a steaming kettle. Before I can thank her properly, she glides away, like she’s avoiding a stench just released into the air.
I mimic the postures of the women instinctively. Back straight, chin up, legs crossed at the ankles. The shorter woman on the far right kneels to pour the tea and passes the teacups out among us. I try not to let my curiosity get the better of me, but her cheeks catch my attention with little effort. They’re gaunt, sucked in around her cheekbones, like a vacuum had tightened everything up around her eyes and lips. The caps of her shoulders could be compared to the indentation of bones to skin on a starving animal. Even her hands are frail—the veins on top are protruding, blue and raised.
My attention is jerked back to Suseas with the wet clearing of her throat.
“So,”—she blows lightly on her tea, pursing her lips into prominent smoker lines—“the asylum isn’t usually a desired place for young women to seek their profession. What brings you here?”
I hesitate, taking this opportunity to reach for my tea. What a simple yet awfully complicated question.
“I believe I could advance here quite nicely if given the opportunity.” They watch me with predatory eyes. “It’s been my dream to be a conformist.” That’s a lie. I used to pray that I’d never have to step foot into this glorified prison.
Suseas nods, narrowing her deep-set hazel eyes. I try not to let my eyes wander to the other women. If judgment was tangible, it would flow out of them in a slow wave of steam, seeping from every hole and pore on their bodies.
She chuckles softly, like the lie I told was evident to everyone.
“Well, as I stated before, Mr. Aurick Dawson is an exemplary reference to have. May I ask how it is the two of you met?”
Oh, she’s launching grenades now.
“Old family friends.” Funny you ask, I had just watched my sister’s body burn in the fire that destroyed her childhood home, and Aurick lent a helping hand out of pity for the girl that had just lost everything. He knows little about me. I know little about him.
“Good on you.” The woman sitting to Suseas’s left scrunches her nose and gives me a sugary smirk. She tucks a strand of short black hair behind her ear and looks at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to know who she is.
Suseas sets her tea down uncomfortably, tightening her lips together, keeping her eyes nailed to the floor.
“Before we discuss details about the position and the nature of the asylum, there is one matter I would like to bring to this discussion, if you don’t mind.” She places her hands politely in her lap and pulls back her shoulders.
I nod cautiously. The tension added as a secondary layer to this conversation has transitioned to my chest and neck. A coil tightens under my breast bone, twisting clockwise until my shoulders begin to slump forward to relieve the pressure.
“Your… twin sister. She was a conformist’s assistant. My condolences for her passing. But, I’m afraid my staff has heard the rumor of how she died. That you burned her alive in the house you both lived in. Now, I’ve done my homework and made sure I saw the incident report. I believe the rumor to not be true. But—you know how people can be. They enjoy a theatrical story to share among themselves. That being said, I must ask—is there any truth to this story? Anything I need to worry about?”
Her body. I left her in the closet.
This time, I can’t stop my eyes from darting to the other women. The one who spoke before, with raven-black hair, raises an eyebrow, and the corner of her mouth is tugged upward smugly. The others gawk at me.
My mouth opens to respond, but only an audibly stressed sigh escapes. I don’t know how to answer. Just say no. No, there is no truth to those stories.
“Her name was Scarlett, wasn’t it?” The smug, black-haired woman adds. My jaw constricts, and a thick lump forms in the back of my throat. She said her name like it meant nothing. Like she was an insignificant cog in this machine.
Scarlett.
We reunited at the age of fifteen. I had no one. Only her.
We hadn’t known the other existed until she found me in an infirmary outside of the city—broken bones, bloodied face, all at the hands of my father. He wasn’t always bad. For the first five years of my life, he was kind and gentle. But when I was six, my father, Jack, had a breakdown that changed him into an insidious brute, a beast, a monster, a devil of a man that took every happiness away from me.
She found me. Yes, her name was Scarlett.
“No, there is no truth to it, madam,” I direct to Suseas. “Yes, that was her name.” I give a tight, rigid smile to the nosy one. My smile threatening to turn into a frown.
“She was a peculiar girl, wasn’t she? Always sitting alone. No friends, old dresses, very little makeup.”
Peculiar. Alone. No friends.
I see the sketch in my mind. The strings. The wooden limbs. I trace over the parchment, drawing it with my thoughts.
I have to hold my breath, keep my lips pressed firmly together as if pins and needles are holding them in place, preventing me from screaming.
“Meridei, it is in poor taste to speak ill of the dead.” Suseas clucks her tongue.
I look into Meridei’s cold dark-almond eyes. She taunts me with her unwavering gaze. My forehead is burning and my arms tingling with social discomfort.
“I’d use the word intriguing and unique,” I tell Meridei. “May she rest in peace.”
“Yes, dear, of course.”—Suseas cuts in—“Ladies, I’d like to show Miss Ambrose around. Please return to your morning duties.”
Thank you.
My blood simmers down to a reasonable temperature as the four conformists walk to the stairwell in a single file line. I raise the cup of tea to my lips and blow the steam away, pretending it’s the tension Meridei just injected into my body with her inappropriate comments. The steam circulates away from me like the mist from a waterfall as it makes impact with a lagoon.
“Miss Ambrose, I feel a moral obligation to inform you that this occupation is not for everyone. It takes a certain amount of… detachment to get along here.” She tilts her oval face downward, keeping her gaze leveled with mine like she’s trying to communicate telepathically. “What I mean by that is—if you have a strong sense of empathy… or even a weak stomach, this path isn’t one you should pursue.”
A frigid tingling sensation coats my upper back and legs. Foggy flashes of Scarlett’s stories clutch my mind’s eye like flipping through a photo album, and I wasn’t even there to witness it myself.
“I think you’ll find I’m the perfect fit for this then,” I answer confidently. I’m careful to keep my expressions neutral. Scarlett once told me that when interviewed, they watch your body language for signs of weakness. If you blink too fast, readjust your stance, scratch your head, or touch your nose—it’s like your body is answering their subliminal questions honestly. I stay perfectly still. My breath is even and controlled. My legs haven’t moved from their ankles-crossed position. I’m as still as a corpse, and as a result, my lower back, neck, and legs are aching from the lack of movement.
“Very well.” She bows her head and stands from the couch. “We’ll take a brief tour of the intricate section to touch on what the day-to-day looks like and the process of treatments for our patients.”
