sofa, fireplace, chest of drawers. Her guitar and purse had been left atop the latter.
Out of habit more than interest she opened the case and checked to see that her guitar had survived. It had, without so much as a broken string. Small favors.
She rifled through her purse and dug out her cell phone, which turned on obligingly even though the screen was cracked. No missed calls, no messages. She snorted softly. Who exactly would miss her? If she had died in that alley, it would have taken days for anyone to notice her absence. Mel at the club would probably be first, after she missed her next performance. The cops would probably identify her body from her driver’s license and old student ID, then call her father, whom she hadn’t spoken to in years. Eventually her sister, Marianne, would hear. Would anyone call Kat? Would Kat blame herself for not staying with her despite her protests that night?
It doesn’t matter . . . you’re alive. Sort of.
Nothing appeared to be missing—they’d even found her lip gloss. It was pearlescent mauve. Had there really been a time she’d cared about having shiny lips?
She wasn’t sure exactly who they were, except that David had said we when speaking of the Haven, so it stood to reason other people lived here, too. He was obviously someone important, but it made no sense to her, and deep down she had a feeling she was better off not knowing.
One door: a small closet, empty. Another door: a small but well-appointed bath. She frowned. There was no mirror above the sink. Someone had, however, stocked the little room with new toiletries and towels, even including a package of elastic bands for her hair. She dug one out and reached up with stiff, aching arms to arrange the curly mass into a hasty braid.
She returned to the chest and looked in the drawers: there were two more sets of clothes identical to what she had on, plus some socks and brand-new underwear the same brand and size as her old ones, but all in white.
Miranda pondered taking a shower, but first she had to finish her inventory: there were two more doors.
The one that David had disappeared through she figured went out into the hallway, so she started with the other . . . but to her confusion, she opened the door to find herself looking into a marble-tiled hall lined with other doors.
The door immediately to the left was flanked with a man and a woman in black uniforms, each wearing a sword in a sheath down to their knees, and each with one of those silver bands on their left wrist.
The woman saw her and smiled, then actually bowed. “Good evening, Miss. My name is Helen and this is Samuel. Shall I call for your dinner?”
“Um . . . no . . .” she sputtered. “Just looking around, sorry.”
“If you need anything, just ask one of us,” the guard said. “We’ve been instructed to look out for you.”
“By . . . by whom?”
The two exchanged a look. “By the Prime, of course,” she replied.
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
Miranda closed the door. She had absolutely no idea what the woman—Helen—was talking about. What the hell was a Prime? Who were these people?
And if this door went into the hall, where did the other one go?
She hesitated with her hand on the knob, then eased it open a few inches, almost dreading what she was going to find.
More weirdness. Beyond the door was simply another bedroom, this one enormous; the bed alone dwarfed hers, and was surrounded by heavy curtains. The far end of the room was a sitting area with a couch and two chairs facing a fireplace twice the size of the one in her room. Bookshelves lined the walls, laden with volumes and assorted objects from a variety of countries and time periods.
She felt rather like someone digging up relics from the Titanic , but ventured into the room anyway, careful not to touch anything. The books were not dusty, so either they were routinely read or there was one hell of a maid running around. The usual suspects were in attendance:
Out of habit more than interest she opened the case and checked to see that her guitar had survived. It had, without so much as a broken string. Small favors.
She rifled through her purse and dug out her cell phone, which turned on obligingly even though the screen was cracked. No missed calls, no messages. She snorted softly. Who exactly would miss her? If she had died in that alley, it would have taken days for anyone to notice her absence. Mel at the club would probably be first, after she missed her next performance. The cops would probably identify her body from her driver’s license and old student ID, then call her father, whom she hadn’t spoken to in years. Eventually her sister, Marianne, would hear. Would anyone call Kat? Would Kat blame herself for not staying with her despite her protests that night?
It doesn’t matter . . . you’re alive. Sort of.
Nothing appeared to be missing—they’d even found her lip gloss. It was pearlescent mauve. Had there really been a time she’d cared about having shiny lips?
She wasn’t sure exactly who they were, except that David had said we when speaking of the Haven, so it stood to reason other people lived here, too. He was obviously someone important, but it made no sense to her, and deep down she had a feeling she was better off not knowing.
One door: a small closet, empty. Another door: a small but well-appointed bath. She frowned. There was no mirror above the sink. Someone had, however, stocked the little room with new toiletries and towels, even including a package of elastic bands for her hair. She dug one out and reached up with stiff, aching arms to arrange the curly mass into a hasty braid.
She returned to the chest and looked in the drawers: there were two more sets of clothes identical to what she had on, plus some socks and brand-new underwear the same brand and size as her old ones, but all in white.
Miranda pondered taking a shower, but first she had to finish her inventory: there were two more doors.
The one that David had disappeared through she figured went out into the hallway, so she started with the other . . . but to her confusion, she opened the door to find herself looking into a marble-tiled hall lined with other doors.
The door immediately to the left was flanked with a man and a woman in black uniforms, each wearing a sword in a sheath down to their knees, and each with one of those silver bands on their left wrist.
The woman saw her and smiled, then actually bowed. “Good evening, Miss. My name is Helen and this is Samuel. Shall I call for your dinner?”
“Um . . . no . . .” she sputtered. “Just looking around, sorry.”
“If you need anything, just ask one of us,” the guard said. “We’ve been instructed to look out for you.”
“By . . . by whom?”
The two exchanged a look. “By the Prime, of course,” she replied.
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
Miranda closed the door. She had absolutely no idea what the woman—Helen—was talking about. What the hell was a Prime? Who were these people?
And if this door went into the hall, where did the other one go?
She hesitated with her hand on the knob, then eased it open a few inches, almost dreading what she was going to find.
More weirdness. Beyond the door was simply another bedroom, this one enormous; the bed alone dwarfed hers, and was surrounded by heavy curtains. The far end of the room was a sitting area with a couch and two chairs facing a fireplace twice the size of the one in her room. Bookshelves lined the walls, laden with volumes and assorted objects from a variety of countries and time periods.
She felt rather like someone digging up relics from the Titanic , but ventured into the room anyway, careful not to touch anything. The books were not dusty, so either they were routinely read or there was one hell of a maid running around. The usual suspects were in attendance:
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