Unforgotten Page 2

  It’s a genuine apology. I can tell by the way it reaches his eyes.

  He rises to his feet, struggling slightly, as though the action requires more effort than it should. Then he brushes the damp dirt from the back of his breeches and holds out a hand for me to take. “C’mon, Cinnamon. Everyone will be up soon. You should get dressed.”

  His use of the nickname Cinnamon makes me chuckle, effectively lightening the mood. It’s a popular term of endearment in this time period that we picked up from the husband and wife who own the farmhouse where we’ve been living.

  I take his hand and he pulls me to my feet. But he doesn’t let go once I’m standing. He keeps pulling me toward him until our faces are a mere fraction of an inch apart. “It’ll get easier,” he whispers, bringing the conversation back to the reason I came out here in the first place. “Try to forget.” He places his hands on the sides of my face and softly touches his lips to mine.

  The taste of him erases everything else. The way it always does. And just for that moment, there is no there, there is no them, there is no before. There is only us. There is only now.

  But I know eventually the moment will end. Because that’s what moments do. And sooner or later, I will be doubled over the side of that bed again, fighting for air. Because even though I have no real memory of the former life that haunts me, I still can’t do what he wants me to do.

  I can’t forget.

  2

  FOREIGN

  Living and working on a farm in the countryside of England is one of the many precautions we’ve taken to stay off Diotech’s radar. Zen thought it would be better if money never changed hands and no official transactions were recorded. So we work here in exchange for a place to live and food to eat.

  I enjoy farm life. It’s not overly complicated. There is a set of tasks to undertake each day and I feel satisfaction in completing every one. Like hundreds of tiny victories. Plus it’s quiet here. Peaceful.

  John Pattinson owns and runs the farm, while his wife, Elizabeth, tends to the maintenance of the home and their four children. Zen mostly works alongside Mr. Pattinson, helping with the sowing, plowing, reaping, and general upkeep of the crops. I help Mrs. Pattinson with the domestic chores and the care of the animals.

  The problem is, Mrs. Pattinson doesn’t like me. Zen says I’m being paranoid but it’s something I just know. Sometimes I catch her watching me as I’m going about my work. She has a suspicious look in her eyes. Like she’s waiting for me to screw up. To show who I really am.

  I think she can sense that I’m different. That I don’t fit in here.

  I suppose neither does Zen. After all, he was born five hundred years in the future. And seventeenth-century farmwork is something we both had to learn very quickly. But somehow he’s been able to assimilate a lot easier than I have.

  That’s one of the (many) downsides of being created by scientists in a lab. You simply stand out. Even if people don’t quite know why. They can perceive there’s something strange about you. Something unnatural about the way you were brought onto this earth.

  That’s what Mrs. Pattinson senses. Whether she understands it or not is irrelevant. I understand it. Which is why I always feel like I have to tread carefully when she’s around.

  I remember one of the first things she said to me when I arrived. She looked right at me, her gaze darting skeptically up and down my entire body before finally landing on my eyes.

  “I’ve never seen purple eyes before,” she said, her tone brusque and accusing.

  I swallowed hard and opened my mouth to speak. Even though I hadn’t the slightest idea what I would say or how I would recover.

  Thankfully, Zen was prepared, as always. He stepped forward, put his hand gently on my arm, and replied, “Her great-grandmother was from the Orient. Lots of purple eyes out there.”

  “It doesn’t matter that it’s not true,” Zen later explained to me. “It only matters that she believed it.”

  But I wasn’t even sure about that. She may never have mentioned it again, but I see the doubt on her face every time she looks at me. I hear it in her gruff tone when she addresses me.

  Her children don’t seem to like me either. They pretty much avoid me as much as they can.

  The only person in the house who doesn’t seem bothered by my presence is Mr. Pattinson. But I don’t consider that any type of accomplishment. He’s a sweet-tempered, jovial man who appears to love everyone. If his wife has voiced any objections to us being here, he certainly hasn’t entertained them. It’s fairly clear that, in this time period, the man of the house makes all the decisions.

  Because it was Mr. Pattinson who, six months ago on a chilly day in late March, agreed to let us work here in exchange for food and lodging. He was the one who welcomed an unknown eighteen-year-old boy and sixteen-year-old girl with open arms and offered to lend us some of his and his wife’s clothing. And he was the one who enthusiastically ate up Zen’s story about us being newlyweds who were both born and raised aboard merchant ships that have been sailing back and forth from the Far East for the majority of our lives, which accounts for our “funny accents.”

  I was actually quite surprised to see how prepared Zen was when we arrived. Everything had been carefully thought-out ahead of time, even down to our fake period-appropriate names—Sarah and Ben. He told me that, in reality, the plan was as much mine as it was his. We’d been working on the details for months before we left the Diotech compound. Of course, I have no recollection of this.

  But even if I had remembered planning our cover story, I was glad Zen was the one to deliver it. He’s a natural storyteller. When he speaks, his voice is so calming, his face so earnest, it’s hard not to invite him right into your home.

  The boys, Thomas, James, and Myles, are enamored of him. They sit around the fireplace for hours every night after dinner, listening to Zen tell made-up stories about his life on the high seas with his father, the merchant trader. Sometimes I even find myself leaning forward in my seat with anticipation, waiting to hear what comes next, desperate to find out whether or not the crew really can fight off a Chinese giant squid and live to tell about it. I then have to remind myself, with sinking disappointment, that none of it actually happened.

  Later that morning, as soon as we’re dressed and outside and the front door closes behind us, Zen pulls me toward him, capturing my mouth with his. It’s a hungry kiss. Eager. It takes me by surprise. I love how he can still take me by surprise. Zen’s lips gently pry mine open and his tongue starts to explore. I remark how much better the porridge we had for breakfast tastes on him than it did on my spoon five minutes ago. I feel his fingertips press into my lower back, urging me closer. Then his hands are under my cap, in my hair, massacring the tight bun that I spent the morning coaxing my hair into, but I can hardly bring myself to care. I’m too swept up in Zen’s fierceness. His famine for me. It spreads over me like a wildfire.

  When he breaks away, I’m breathless, gasping for air. Although I’d take his kiss over oxygen any day.

  “What was that?” I ask, resting my forehead against his lips and inhaling his scent.

  I feel him smirking into my skin. “A goodbye kiss.”

  This makes me laugh. I tilt my head and gaze up at him. “Where are you going? Saturn?”

  “Nah. Just the wheat field.” He reaches out, his fingertip tracing the hook of my ear and drifting off my cheek, heating my face to a boil. “But without you, it may as well be another planet.”

  I open my mouth to speak but only stammering air escapes.

  He smiles, teasing me with his eyes. “Bye, Cinnamon.”

  And then he’s gone. Disappearing in the direction of the wheat field. I rake my teeth over my bottom lip, attempting to savor him for another second before reluctantly starting toward the barn.

  October is only a few days away, which means it’s time to harvest the fruit in the orchard. Mrs. Pattinson has assigned me the task of picking the apples and pears. I w
ouldn’t mind it so much except for the fact that it requires me to work with Blackthorn, the Pattinsons’ horse.

  He hates me, too.

  With a sigh, I grab the rope halter from the hook on the wall and let myself into the stall. Blackthorn stiffens the moment he sees me, his head jerking up and his eyes narrowing. Then, upon noticing the halter in my hand, he whinnies and stamps his foot.

  “I know,” I tell him. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

  I take a step toward him and he startles and kicks his back feet against the wall.

  “Come on,” I implore. “Don’t be like that.”

  But my coaxing doesn’t seem to be doing any good because he edges himself into the corner and stares me down, ears pinned back, nostrils flaring. I have no doubt he’s planning to charge if I get any closer.

  Mr. Pattinson says Blackthorn only reacts this way because I’m too tense when I’m around him. I have to learn how to relax. Horses can sense fear.

  Unfortunately I don’t think it’s my fear that he senses. Even the horse knows there’s something off about me.

  Before we came here, I’d never seen a horse before, or any animal, for that matter. I didn’t even know what they were. When the Diotech scientists designed me, they were very particular about what I knew and what I didn’t. Even down to the words in my vocabulary. Zen says that was just another way to control me. By controlling what knowledge I had access to. And apparently they didn’t think horses were important enough to add to my mental dictionary. I made the mistake of nearly leaping out of my shoes and letting out a piercing shriek when we arrived on the farm and I came face-to-face with Blackthorn for the first time.

  Zen was quick to cover for me, stating that since I was born and raised on a merchant ship, I’d never come in contact with any farm animals before. But once again, I don’t think Mrs. Pattinson ever completely believed the story.

  All the other tasks I can handle—cooking dinner, baking bread, working in the garden, chopping firewood, sewing clothes, washing laundry. I was designed to pick up skills quickly—after only one demonstration. And I actually enjoy the manual labor. It keeps my mind calm.

  The jobs that require interaction with the animals—feeding the pigs, letting the chickens out of their coop, milking the goat—are the ones that I’ve come to dread every day. Because animals see right through me. Zen can’t dazzle them with well-crafted stories to put their doubts to rest. They know something is wrong with me.

  I take three slow steps toward the horse and attempt to ease the halter up over his nose. I proceed cautiously, careful not to make any sudden moves. His eyes follow me with the same distrust I see when Mrs. Pattinson watches me. I flash the horse a beaming smile to show that I’m perfectly nice and not a threat, but the action seems to have the reverse effect. He flinches and whips his head up, knocking me in the chin. The force of the blow sends me flying backward and I fall into a soft patch of mud.

  The horse looks over and I swear I see him smirk.

  Groaning, I push myself up and do my best to brush the mud off the back of my skirt. This will definitely require laundering later today.

  I’m about to go in for a second try when I hear the door creak open and Jane, the Pattinsons’ six-year-old daughter, slinks into the stall. She’s wearing a dress with a ripped hem that will surely be added to our mending pile any day now. Her sunshine-blond curls are still matted and tangled on one side of her head from sleeping on them. She brushes them clumsily out of her face, revealing a pair of large, inquisitive blue eyes.

  Dangling from her hand is the tiny doll, about the size of my hand, that she carries with her wherever she goes. She calls it Lulu. Its body was made from the stained white fabric of one of Mr. Pattinson’s old shirts, and its blue short-sleeved frock was crafted from one of Jane’s outgrown baby dresses. It has a painted-on nose and smile and buttons for eyes.

  I’m surprised to see Jane here. Since we arrived, she’s never spoken to me. None of the children have, really. Maybe a few perfunctory words here and there like, May I have some more bread, please? but beyond that, I might as well be a ghost in this house.

  There have been a few times when I’ve looked up from my work and caught her watching me from a distance but she always scampers away as soon as she sees me notice her. I’ve convinced myself that she’s terrified of me. But she shows no fear now.

  Without a word, she gently places the doll in the front pocket of her dress, walks toward me, removes the halter from my hand, and proceeds to approach the horse.

  Blackthorn towers over her and for a minute I wonder if it’s a good idea to even allow her into this stall. One little jerky move from him and she could be crushed to death. I consider dashing after her and scooping her up into my arms but I soon see that this won’t be necessary because the horse actually relaxes the moment he sees her. His nostrils stop flaring, his ears bounce straight up in the air, and he lowers his head so that his eyes are level with hers.

  “That’s a good horsie,” she coos, rubbing the top of his nose. His eyes sink closed. She easily slips the halter around his head and ties it. Then she silently points to the harness on the wall behind me. I grab it and take one pace toward him. He tenses again but Jane is quick to soothe him with a soft clucking sound.

  I manage to get close enough to toss the harness over his back and buckle the strap around his chest. Then I fetch the fruit baskets from outside his stall and secure them to the hooks on either side. He doesn’t look happy about any of this, but he seems much more tolerant of my presence while Jane is here.

  I’m about to say thank you to Jane when I hear an angry huffing sound behind me. We both turn to see Mrs. Pattinson glaring at us. Her eyes drift down from me to her daughter.

  “Jane,” she says tightly, “go inside.”

  Jane bites her lip and scuttles away. Mrs. Pattinson lingers to give me one more distrustful glower before following her daughter.

  She must think she’s out of hearing range when she turns the corner toward the house because she whispers gruffly to Jane, “What did I tell you about conversing with that girl?”

  There’s no way for her to know that my actual hearing range reaches far beyond any normal human being’s. That, in reality, I can hear horse hooves clip clopping down the dirt road five minutes before they actually arrive at the house, a hawk flapping its wings in the next valley, or even the hushed early-morning bickering between her and Mr. Pattinson in the kitchen when I’m sitting on the knoll five hundred feet away watching the sunrise.

  Although I fear that even if she had known I could hear her, she wouldn’t have cared.

  I swallow the stinging in my throat and hook the lead rope to Blackthorn’s halter, pulling him out of the barn and toward the orchard. He follows me obediently but uses the entire length of the rope to put as much distance between us as he can.

  3

  PRECAUTIONS

  One, one thousand. Step.

  Two, one thousand. Step.

  Three, one thousand. Step.

  I take vigilant, measured paces as I walk, counting a full second per stride, just like Zen taught me.

  It’s one of the numerous things I have to do on a daily basis to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to myself. To hide who I am. If I move too fast—at the speed my scientifically enhanced legs are capable of carrying me—people will notice.

  When I lift heavy objects, I have to pretend to struggle with them. Carrying in the wood for the bread oven is especially frustrating because I could easily carry the entire bundle at once but that would seem unnatural for a woman to be able to do. So instead I have to take three agonizingly slow trips from the chopping block to the kitchen, timing my steps the entire way, and throwing in a few grunts and other exertion noises to make it sound realistic.

  Diotech is sure to be monitoring all historical records. From all time periods. They probably have a hundred people assigned to the task, scouring the digital archives for any clue to my whe
reabouts. It would only take one slipup, one sliver of unwanted attention, one mention of something unusual in a printed pamphlet or an official document and that would be enough.

  They would send someone here to investigate.

  And my new life—my new home—would be gone forever.

  By lunchtime, I’ve already collected eight baskets of apples and pears from the orchard and delivered them to the house, with Blackthorn’s help. Mrs. Pattinson is thrilled and she claps her hands ecstatically when I report back the yield. It’s actually the first time I think I’ve ever seen her happy. Apparently this was a “fertile season,” which means there’s enough to take into town and sell.

  I manage to finish my workload today with enough time to wash and hang my mud-stained skirt on the line outside before helping Mrs. Pattinson with dinner. Zen and I were each given two pairs of clothes when we arrived. “One to wash and one to wear,” we were told.

  The garments definitely required getting used to. The bodice sometimes feels like it’s suffocating me, I often trip over the heavy linen skirt that falls to my ankles, the cotton cap itches on my head, and the long shirtsleeves are thick and hot in the afternoon sun. But I suppose it’s a small price to pay to be here with Zen.

  To be safe from them.

  After dinner, Mrs. Pattinson and I sit down at the kitchen table to mend clothes while everyone else gathers around the fireplace with Zen to hear another one of his adventure stories before it’s time for bed.

  As my fingers move deftly, weaving the thread in and out, in and out, I allow the sound of Zen’s soft, melodic voice and the crackling fire to silence my thoughts. Drifting away for a few peaceful moments. Reveling in the quiet end of the day. The promise of what’s to come when everyone goes to sleep and Zen and I are finally alone.

  It’s Mrs. Pattinson’s nasally grating voice that eventually brings me back to the present when she asks me to pass her another spool of thread.