Vision In Silver

CHAPTER 31

Earthday, Maius 13

The girl huddled under the patchwork quilt and listened as the Wolves on the other side of the door woke up. Big yawns, soft vocalizing that reminded her of the howls she’d heard the night before. Then a female voice saying, “Jackson, make some toast. I’ll scramble a couple of these eggs for the sweet blood.”

They meant her. They wouldn’t call her cs821. They said it wasn’t a name.

Sweet blood wasn’t a name either, but calling her that didn’t offend them.

The female, Grace, had brought her pajamas yesterday and another change of clothes. Underpants and socks were tucked into one of the drawers in the desk. The rest of the clothes hung on pegs on the wall, including a long, thick sweater.

The girl slipped out of bed and dashed for the bathroom. She shivered while she peed, while she washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face. Hurrying, she stripped off the pajamas and put on jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, and the thick sweater. She had one sock on when the door opened and Grace and Jackson walked in.

“We don’t know how to cook many human foods,” Grace said. “But I have learned to scramble eggs, and Jackson made you some toasted bread.” She set a plate on the desk. Jackson set a glass of white liquid beside the plate.

Grace left the room. Jackson lingered, studying her.

He said she could ask. Did she have the courage to ask? It could be a trick to see if she was still tempted to do the thing she wasn’t allowed to do. The Walking Names always tried to trick her. But Jackson was a Wolf. He knew Meg.

A test, then. But this time, she wouldn’t be the only one being tested.

“Could I have a pencil and some paper?”

A thoughtful silence before Jackson said, “A black pencil or colored pencil?”

She felt her breath catch, felt a tingle in her hands. But she wasn’t brave enough to ask for both. “Whatever no one else is using.”

Another thoughtful silence. “The trading post isn’t open on Earthdays. I will see what we have here. Eat your breakfast, sweet blood.”

He left, closing the door. She turned on the lamp beside the bed. Wolves might not have trouble seeing in barely daylight, but she wanted a better look at the food before she ate any of it.

Sitting at the desk, she picked up the glass. Sniffed. Cautiously tasted. She was pretty sure it was milk, but it tasted different, more potent than anything she’d been given in the . . . in that place.

The toast was a little burned at the edges; the scrambled eggs, like the milk, didn’t taste quite like what she’d had before, but it was good and she was hungry.

After the meal, she went into the bathroom to wash her hands and brush her teeth. When she came out, Jackson stood in the doorway, holding a wooden tray. He set it on the bed, revealing six sheets of paper and a set of colored pencils. Red, green, blue, yellow, orange, brown, black, pink. From training images, she identified an eraser and a small handheld pencil sharpener.

“This is what I could find.” Jackson stepped away from the bed.

“Thank you.”

He picked up the used dishes and left.

Sitting on the bed, she examined each pencil, touched the paper.

No one burst into the room, yelling at her. No one took away the pencils and paper. No one bound her hands as punishment, leaving her dependent on the Walking Names for every personal need.

Feeling bolder, she studied the patchwork quilt. Then she picked up a pencil and filled one sheet of paper reproducing the patterns in the quilt’s material.

She stood up, stretched, got a drink of water, sharpened all the pencils.

Maybe she should do something else for a while. But . . . what? The room held nothing. Could she ask for a book? But she didn’t want to read, she wanted . . .

A howl. Distant. Another howl. Closer to this building.

They had howled last night. She closed her eyes and remembered how the sound had seemed to rise like smoke, painting ghostly shapes on the night sky.

Returning to the bed, she took a clean sheet of paper, picked up a pencil, and began to draw.