Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Then Aunt V explained, “Eleven does and one stag.” She pointed to the only man not dressed as a servant.
Does. Stags. It was all hunting language.
“You better eat, deer.” Aunt V winked and drifted away as gracefully as she appeared.
Daisy wasn’t used to having breakfast, so she chose small portions of light options that wouldn’t upset her stomach. She carried her plate to the table where the woman from the plane sat.
“Mind if I sit?”
The woman startled, nearly knocking over her water glass. Then politely waved toward the several unoccupied chairs. “Please.”
Her Irish accent felt closer to home, and Daisy smiled and took the seat to her left.
“I’m Maggie,” she whispered, before Daisy could ask. “I know we’re not supposed to share names, but... Feels strange to think of ourselves as numbers.” Her hands trembled as she quietly rambled. “But I’m 1938, in case you were wonderin’.”
“I’m Daisy. 1922.”
They ate in silence, small hums of pleasure escaping from both of them here and there.
“Food’s really good,” Maggie said, and Daisy nodded, afraid that if she tried to put it into words, she might cry.
“These eggs,” Maggie managed between bites. “What are they?”
“I don’t know.” They had a sharp tang about them, addicting and different than anything she’d ever tasted.
“Something with truffles, I think,” Maggie said, examining her next fluffy bite before popping it in her mouth. “I had an uncle who was a truffle farmer when I was young.”
It angered Daisy that she couldn’t appreciate the food with as much zeal as everyone else. But her stomach was already starting to knot.
A waiter appeared. “Coffee? Tea? Juice?”
“Juice, please.” Maggie eased her glass forward.
Daisy watched him pour. Every cautionary tale warned her against accepting food from strangers. But the temptation was too grand. “Thank you. I’ll have the same.”
Maggie set down her fork and glanced at Daisy’s half-eaten plate. “Are you nervous?”
“I think anyone who says they aren’t is lying.”
“I’m terrified,” she whispered, her wide eyes glistened. “I keep thinking about tonight. About what might happen. I don’t want it to hurt.”
The admission hung between them, raw and honest. “Have you ever...?”
“A few times.” Maggie’s cheeks flushed. “You?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She dropped her gaze. “That does complicate things, I suppose.”
Was she crazy to think there would be any way out of this unscathed? “I have a plan.”
“Oh?” Maggie’s big, brown eyes lifted. “What is it?”
Daisy shrugged. “Evade. Stay hidden.”
“Oh.” Her tone dropped, laden with doubt. “I was thinking the same. We just need to make it to mornin’ in one piece. Then the money’s ours. Can you imagine? I wouldn’t even know what to do with that much.”
Daisy smiled just as Aunt V’s voice rang out across the room. “Attention, my little does. The Becoming will commence in five minutes. Please finish up and join me at the double doors.”
From the ballroom, they were led through another labyrinth of white corridors to a spa that occupied an entire floor. The air smelled of eucalyptus and beauty products. Attendants waited, positioned at stations, each one consisting of a sophisticated white leather chair, a vanity, a tall, gold-framed mirror, and tools Daisy had no idea how to use.
Maggie stayed by her side, but they were eventually sorted by their numbers, identifiable by the gold stitching embroidered into the plush white robes they were ordered to change into. Luckily, they had deep pockets and she was able to sneak her locket into one before they took their clothes away.
“Will we get our clothes back?” one woman asked.
“You’ll have everything you need,” Aunt V explained, not quite answering the question.
Once the tributes were assigned a station, the attendants cycled in a sort of dance, each one boasting a title Daisy hadn’t realized existed as a job. Nail techs, lash techs, color specialists, estheticians. They even had someone who specialized in color analysis.
“You’re a light summer,” the color specialist declared, draping a smock sewn in a rainbow pinwheel across her chest. She examined the thin blue veins in Daisy’s wrist. “I see champagne and ash rather than honey. Low-to-medium contrast. You’d sit naturally in pearls, icy pinks, and misty greys. Maybe a seafoam mint or a light teal, but anything more severe would wash you out.”
Another man circled nearby, slowly, lifting strands of her limp hair. He was beautiful in an almost aggressive way, with sharp cheekbones, perfect skin, and eyebrows groomed to mathematical precision.
“When did you last have a proper cut?”
“I...” She recalled the last time she held those kitchen scissors, thinking back to when her mother had the job. “Never.”
He released her hair. “That explains the damage and split ends.” His fingers combed through her dull, wheat waves. “We’ll need to take at least three inches. Possibly four. For the color—” He held a strand up to the light. “I see icy beige and opal with fine baby-lights in pearl—not platinum.”