Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
We get up and go on with the day. After breakfast, I have someone else to make amends to. Now that I understand what I’ve been doing, and why I’ve been doing it, I know I can stop being so much of a pain.
Lydia is not hard to find. She is still required to guard me, so she is essentially wherever I am. I can only imagine how annoyed she is, though I don’t have to leave everything to the imagination. The look she gives me as I approach her tells me that she’s thoroughly displeased with me.
“I’m sorry, Lydia,” I say. “I’ve treated you horribly. I don’t really recognize myself in the way I’ve spoken to you.”
She looks at me with some surprise and a great deal of suspicion, acknowledging my words with a nod.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me. I wouldn’t want to either. I’m not going to be running away from you again.”
“Good,” she says.
I suppose she doesn’t owe me any kind of niceness. After the way I’ve acted around her she probably thinks I am a terrible person. I suppose she’ll learn otherwise over time if I can manage not to make her life hell.
Days pass into weeks, and I do not get high accidentally again. I do not run from Lydia again. I do my best to take up quiet indoor pastimes. I do cross-stitch. I try my best to be a good wife. My husband is a busy and important man, but he makes regular time for me and love to me. I find that I live my life one bedroom encounter to another, for those are the times I feel most alive. In his arms, I forget how small my world has become.
This is my happily ever after. This is what I was made for. This is me fulfilling my destiny. I try not to think too much about the reason why it doesn’t feel like I am living an entirely full life.
And then, I get sick.
It is every now and then, at first, then it starts coming almost every morning. Fortunately, Arthur wakes up long before I do, so I am able to sneak to the bathroom and empty my stomach.
“What is wrong with you?”
Lydia has caught me creeping away from dinner one too many times. I knew she would eventually. She is far too perceptive, and she has nothing to do but watch me. She asks me the question as I emerge from the bathroom.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just a little stomach upset.”
“You’ve been sick every night for the last three nights at least. I am going to tell your husband.”
I have been sick every morning and every evening for three weeks now. I don’t have the energy to beg her not to, because I know she won’t listen anyway.
Arthur
“I have to inform you that your wife is not feeling well,” Lydia says.
I look up from the conversation I’ve been having with our guest, one of the many faithful servants of the Artifice that I have been quietly interrogating. It is my job to ensure that New Boston’s aristocracy is properly loyal, and the abundance of Soma in the city has made me certain that they cannot be.
“Mila? She seemed fine a moment ago.”
“I can assure you, she is not,” Lydia says.
“Excuse me,” I say to our guest. “Lance, entertain Mr. Walker, would you?”
Lance, always by my side, picks up the social slack as I am called away. I wonder if Mila is simply wanting some attention. I know I have not been indulging her in conversation as often as she might like.
I go with Lydia to the bedroom, where Mila is emerging from the toilet looking noticeably pale.
“You’re sick?” I ask the question perhaps a little too sharply.
“I promise I didn’t get any more drugs. I don’t know why I feel like this,” she says. She looks pale, but not feverish.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “You don’t look happy enough for this to be a reaction to a drug, unless, of course, you’ve been getting your hands on street materials.”
“She hasn’t,” Lydia says. “She’s been good for some time now, since the Elizabeth Idaho incident.”
“How long have you been sick for?” I ask the question, immediately noting the shadow of guilt that passes over her face.
“A little while,” she says.
“How long, exactly?”
“Two weeks. Maybe three?”
I bite back a sharp word and turn to Lydia.
“Call the doctor. Now.”
The doctor comes swiftly and examines Mila thoroughly. He takes some blood and also tests her urine. As the little dipstick changes color, he nods, as if he understands what is happening.
“You don’t need to worry. Her symptoms are very typical for a woman in her condition.”
“And what condition is that?”
“Early pregnancy.”
Those two words stretch out and echo for what seems like an eternity.