she couldn’t be.
It made me regret that I hadn’t
been forthcoming with her about my own baggage. But I couldn’t say that she’d
been entirely wrong either.
Amelia straightens in the chair.
Not for the first time I notice that she has the graceful posture of a dancer.
Pressing her hands against the armrests, she stands slowly, as though wanting
to make sure than her legs will hold her. I reach out to steady her but she
steps away, eluding me.
Her eyes glitter and a flash of
color chases the paleness from her face. Staring at me, she asks, “Even if what
you’re saying is true, why am I here with you?”
“Under international law,” I
say, “a clone is classified as property. As part of Susannah’s posthumous
instructions, title to you was transferred to me.”
“Title?”
“Ownership.”
The word with all its
connotations hangs in the air between us. A look of dismay sweeps across her
face.
I’m about to reassure her that I
understand perfectly well that although a replica, she is still a living,
breathing, feeling being. Despite the intensity of my response to her--
something I hadn’t anticipated and still don’t know what to do about--I
understand that she needs time to adjust to her circumstances. She’ll live
surrounded by every luxury and comfort, wanting for nothing.
Moreover, there’s an argument to
be made that as a replica designed for a clearly intended purpose, she has an
advantage over mere humans, too many of whom go through their lives without any
real sense of meaning or identity.
But before I can try to explain
any of that, her soft, beguiling mouth hardens. Abruptly, she turns away, yanks
open the library door, and walks out of the room.
My first instinct is to stop her
but I reconsider. Letting her go now means that inevitably she will have to
return. When she does, it will be of her own volition, however reluctant that
may be. Giving her at least that much control at this crucial moment can bring
her closer to accepting the reality of her circumstances.
Even so, I call after her,
“Don’t go far. Stay on the grounds.”
She glances back just long
enough for me to be sure that she’s heard.
The palazzo is large, the
manicured grounds surrounding it even more so. She can’t come to any harm in
either place. Beyond lies the nature reserve that makes up the bulk of the
estate, filled with untouched woodland, hills, lakes, and a handful of hiking
trails. I’ll take her there myself before too long. There’s a waterfall I think
she’d enjoy with a secluded pool under it where we--
With an effort, I return to my
desk and focus on the field testing report for a new surveillance system my
company is developing. Despite my best efforts to concentrate, my mind keeps
drifting to Amelia--her beauty, her exquisite responsiveness, how rapidly my
attitude toward having her in my life is changing.
When I finally finish the report
an hour later, I buzz Hodgkin. “Would you be so good as to let my guest know
that I’d like her to join me for lunch in the garden?”
My effort at courtesy earns a
snort of approval. “Certainly, sir.”
I pick up another report and
manage to get through most of it before Hodgkin appears at the library door.
He’s alone and his expression is even more dour than usual.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I am unable
to locate Miss Amelia.”
“Try the music room or the
studio.” However distraught she is, she’s bound to be curious about her new
home. “If she isn’t there, she’s probably in one of the gardens.”
Hodgkin sniffs. “I did manage to
think of that, sir. The staff and I have searched everywhere. There doesn’t
appear to be any sign of her.”
Before he finishes speaking, I’m
on my feet. Belatedly, I realize that as much as I’ve accepted that she’s
different in some ways from Susannah, I’ve underestimated just how far those
differences go.
I distinctly told her to remain
on the grounds. Right then I would like someone to
It made me regret that I hadn’t
been forthcoming with her about my own baggage. But I couldn’t say that she’d
been entirely wrong either.
Amelia straightens in the chair.
Not for the first time I notice that she has the graceful posture of a dancer.
Pressing her hands against the armrests, she stands slowly, as though wanting
to make sure than her legs will hold her. I reach out to steady her but she
steps away, eluding me.
Her eyes glitter and a flash of
color chases the paleness from her face. Staring at me, she asks, “Even if what
you’re saying is true, why am I here with you?”
“Under international law,” I
say, “a clone is classified as property. As part of Susannah’s posthumous
instructions, title to you was transferred to me.”
“Title?”
“Ownership.”
The word with all its
connotations hangs in the air between us. A look of dismay sweeps across her
face.
I’m about to reassure her that I
understand perfectly well that although a replica, she is still a living,
breathing, feeling being. Despite the intensity of my response to her--
something I hadn’t anticipated and still don’t know what to do about--I
understand that she needs time to adjust to her circumstances. She’ll live
surrounded by every luxury and comfort, wanting for nothing.
Moreover, there’s an argument to
be made that as a replica designed for a clearly intended purpose, she has an
advantage over mere humans, too many of whom go through their lives without any
real sense of meaning or identity.
But before I can try to explain
any of that, her soft, beguiling mouth hardens. Abruptly, she turns away, yanks
open the library door, and walks out of the room.
My first instinct is to stop her
but I reconsider. Letting her go now means that inevitably she will have to
return. When she does, it will be of her own volition, however reluctant that
may be. Giving her at least that much control at this crucial moment can bring
her closer to accepting the reality of her circumstances.
Even so, I call after her,
“Don’t go far. Stay on the grounds.”
She glances back just long
enough for me to be sure that she’s heard.
The palazzo is large, the
manicured grounds surrounding it even more so. She can’t come to any harm in
either place. Beyond lies the nature reserve that makes up the bulk of the
estate, filled with untouched woodland, hills, lakes, and a handful of hiking
trails. I’ll take her there myself before too long. There’s a waterfall I think
she’d enjoy with a secluded pool under it where we--
With an effort, I return to my
desk and focus on the field testing report for a new surveillance system my
company is developing. Despite my best efforts to concentrate, my mind keeps
drifting to Amelia--her beauty, her exquisite responsiveness, how rapidly my
attitude toward having her in my life is changing.
When I finally finish the report
an hour later, I buzz Hodgkin. “Would you be so good as to let my guest know
that I’d like her to join me for lunch in the garden?”
My effort at courtesy earns a
snort of approval. “Certainly, sir.”
I pick up another report and
manage to get through most of it before Hodgkin appears at the library door.
He’s alone and his expression is even more dour than usual.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I am unable
to locate Miss Amelia.”
“Try the music room or the
studio.” However distraught she is, she’s bound to be curious about her new
home. “If she isn’t there, she’s probably in one of the gardens.”
Hodgkin sniffs. “I did manage to
think of that, sir. The staff and I have searched everywhere. There doesn’t
appear to be any sign of her.”
Before he finishes speaking, I’m
on my feet. Belatedly, I realize that as much as I’ve accepted that she’s
different in some ways from Susannah, I’ve underestimated just how far those
differences go.
I distinctly told her to remain
on the grounds. Right then I would like someone to
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