Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Those are made by the Quatsino First Nations,” David points out proudly. “The lodge borders onto their traditional territory, and we take great pride in our working relationship with them.”
Uh-huh. He sounds like he’s reading from a script. Generally, when corporations move on or next to native land, the local bands are the ones who end up getting screwed. I expect an institute like the Madrona Foundation, with all its money and research grants, isn’t looking out for the indigenous people’s best interests.
David’s Apple Watch beeps, and he glances at it, frowning.
“If you’ll excuse me, Sydney, I must go,” he says, giving me a quick but flat smile. “Just make yourself at home. I’ll go check on your bags and be back in a bit to continue the tour.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, thrusting it into my hands. “Here’s a map to help get you oriented. On the back is a copy of your weekly schedule, though some things are subject to change. And in the drawer of your side table is a watch. You’ll need it.”
Then he turns and strides out of the room, closing the door behind him.
I hold the map and stare at the door for a moment, surprised by his sudden departure. Then I pull open the drawer, taking out a plastic watch with the Madrona Foundation’s logo on it. It’s so cheap and basic that it doesn’t allow for any alarms, which is going to be the bane of my existence, though at least there’s an alarm clock by my bed.
I tuck the watch in my pocket and decide to use the washroom, barely enough room for a small sink and toilet. Above the toilet is a vintage embroidery of what looks like my favorite fungus, Omphalotus nidiformis, its outline done in a bright green as if to show that it has bioluminescence. I stare at it for a moment, strangely entranced. These mushrooms are better known as ghost mushrooms, but they aren’t usually the subject of embroidery or art, and they definitely aren’t endemic to this area. I wonder if when I filled out my application, I had answered a “what’s your favorite fungus?” question and they tried to make the room as personalized as possible. If so, that was awfully nice of them.
I sit down on the toilet and unravel the map, but before I can study it, there’s a knock at my door.
“Coming!” I yell, finishing up and washing my hands before stepping out into my room. I open the door to find a stunning woman, tall with long pale blonde hair, wearing a bright red rain jacket, her legging-clad legs thin and miles long, Burberry plaid boots on her feet.
She has my luggage with her.
“Hello,” she says to me in one of those raspy, sultry voices that belongs on a noir femme fatale. “I have your luggage here.” Her bright green eyes flick over me with a sense of expectation. I feel like I’ve seen her somewhere before.
“Hi. Yes, thank you. I should probably, uh, tip you,” I say, rummaging into my messenger bag, knowing I don’t have any loose bills in there.
“No need,” the woman says, bringing my suitcase and duffel bag inside, her Pantene Pro-V commercial hair carrying a hint of jasmine. “I’m not the steward. I just saw the bags on the dock and figured they could use a hand.”
I stare at her, unsure if her beauty is blinding me or if it’s something else. “Where do I know you from?” I ask, then realize I said it out loud.
She stares at me for a moment, her expression strangely blank. Then she smiles again. “You’ve probably seen me on campus. Stanford, right? I’ve given more than a few talks to the biology department, though that’s been on the doctoral level.” She pauses. “You’re doing your coterminal master’s in biology, focus on neurobiology, isn’t that right?”
I stare right back. “You work for Madrona.”
“We all work for Madrona here,” she says. “For the next sixteen weeks, so will you.” She pauses and extends her hand, and I shake it. “I’m Everly. Dr. Everly Johnstone.”
My hand goes weak in her grasp.
Dr. Everly Johnstone is a certified genius and the head of the Madrona Foundation. No wonder she seemed familiar. It was her father, Brandon Johnstone, who started the foundation back in the day.
“Of course,” I say, feeling stupid and taking my hand back. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize who you were.”
She breaks into a wide grin, her teeth so white and perfect they have to be veneers. “Oh, that’s perfectly fine. I don’t expect people to know who I am. I like to linger in the shadows of my work.”
“Even so, you’re Dr. Johnstone,” I say by way of apology. “I should have known.” I’ve seen her on the occasional interview, even though she doesn’t seem to do them as much these days. It’s her father who gets more press time now since he started the offshoot company, Madrona Pharmaceuticals, leaving the foundation and its research to his daughter, or so I’ve read.