Page 29 of The Enemy's Daughter

The darkness is receding when I startle awake.

Blazing skies.

I scan the room—still alone. At least there’s that. Once again, I’m parched, and my belly twists painfully with hunger. I push myself upright and am pleased to find that movement isn’t complete agony. There’s no immediate nausea either. Even better.

There is, however, zero stealth to my gait as I trip across the room and fall into the curtains. Shoving them open, I pause, stunned at what I see. If I didn’t need to sit down before, I sure do now.

How is this possible?

A paved street stretches out in front of me, only it’s not the cracked and defective remnants of an old-world road. This road is black and near flawless. Enormous houses sprout off every which way like leaves on a branch. Instead of forest or horse trails, everything is surrounded by fields of trimmed grass and similarly shaped bushes. I’ve never seen such a spectacle in my life.

But I have read about it.

This is either a piece of the old world untouched, or they’ve successfully recreated it. All my life I’ve been told that the Kingsland isthe reason we don’t have enough of anything—bandages, weapons, tools. But I never anticipated the extent of what that meant. We are destitute in comparison. And every bit of it was intentional.

As I spin, my gaze skips over the room. It’s a good sign I haven’t been tortured for any information yet, but I’m not senseless enough to think it isn’t coming. I’ve been left here to rot for a reason. I need a weapon before I walk through that door.

I start with the shelf in the corner, laden with books. In awe, I drag my finger over their near-perfect spines.

The subjects fascinate me—engineering, leadership, mathematics. There’s a book about the history of how the Federated States of the Republic was formed. My breath hitches when I come to what looks like a bunch of novels. Unable to help myself, I grab one and study the man holding a sword on the cover. I take it with me as I continue my search.

Moving up the shelves, I find a framed picture of a woman holding a toddler. Traders often hawk portraits of people from the old world—it’s not like any new pictures can be made—but the boy in this one looks so much like Tristan. Could this be him and his mum? But how?

I peek under the mattress, and upon a deeper search of his closet, I find nothing, including any clues as to who exactly Tristan is. Turning to the only place I haven’t searched, I pull open the drawer to his bedside table and—there it is. I laugh and scoop up the serrated knife.

Oh, Tristan, that’s going to be a costly mistake.

There are other items in the drawer. A notebook. A small bottle filled with pills. My jaw drops as I lift the glass bottle. A pain reliever. How? But that’s where my questions end, because I don’tcare where it came from or that it’s expired, like all medicines scavenged from the old world. After a brief fight with the lid, I pop two white tablets into my mouth and swallow them dry.

There isn’t time to study the notebook thoroughly, but I flip through it. The first page doesn’t seem like anything important. In the corner are some scribbled words likeabrasionresistanceandflexural strength, along with some numbers and a date. Below are some mathematics equations mixed with letters I don’t understand. The next page is filled with a sketch of some sort of old-world machine that runs on a track.

I snap the book closed and set it aside. It doesn’t contain anything useful, like a map of the Kingsland or a guide to a secret passage out of here.

Setting my newfound treasures aside, I clutch my knife and approach the door. I guess I’ll have to find a way out on my own.

10

The silver doorknob won’t twist.

I’m locked in.

I exhale harshly. Guess that answers whether Tristan was guarding the exit the other night. Dropping my forehead against the door, I pause to think, then in despair stab the knife into the keyhole. After a couple more jabs, I’ve only succeeded in enlarging the hole. A shake enters the muscles of my thighs and arms.Stars, I need to eat.

I slide the knife between the door and the frame. It lands with a clink of metal against metal. What’s in there? Inching closer, I stab into the same spot, not caring if I’m heard. If I don’t eat some food soon, I may not have the strength to try again. I spear and wiggle and push my knife into that space beside the doorknob until something metal falls to the ground—it was some sort of wedge holding the door shut.

Yes.My hold on the knife tightens as I pull open the door.

The hallway is empty, filled with more doors that are a rich, acorn brown. I listen for a moment and, hearing nothing, I open thefirst one, revealing a bedroom. It’s vacant and unusually large with a made bed covered in a green patterned quilt. A stack of clothes lies folded on an enormous desk. Is this where Tristan’s been sleeping?

It’s not until I make it to the carved railing that muffled voices from the first floor reach my ears. Carefully, I descend the stairs, which is difficult with how hard I’m breathing. There’s a living room with couches on my left and a kitchen beyond that. The finery of it all disgusts me. Everything from the furniture to the framed pictures on the wall looks new and desirable. How have they managed to collect and hoard so much?

And what other things about them have we underestimated?

At the bottom of the staircase, I peek around the corner ahead and find the front door.There it is.I had planned to gather supplies first, at least food and some shoes. Something to carry water. But the exit is right there. I drift toward it, knowing I have to risk it. This could be my only chance to run.

“You... to me. It’s time.”

My hand pauses on the doorknob as I hear Tristan’s voice, coming from a room not far away.

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