Page 68 of Longing for Liberty
Roan brought my fingers up to his lips, looking up at me like a fox with a hen. His eyes were so blue. I thought Amos’s were blue, but Roan’s were like clear arctic waters. As he held my gaze and something predatory flashed, sudden fear spiked so hard in my body that I worried my bowels were about to liquify. Now would be a terrible time for that. I dropped my eyes to the side, resisting the urge to rip my hand out of his.
It turned out Amos didn’t need to warn me away from Roan—my own intuition was doing a fine job of that.
“Okay,” Amos said, pulling me gently back to his side, forcing Roan to release my hand. I kept my eyes down, even though I could feel the President studying me. “Let’s get a drink.”
“Good idea! Loosen up, would ya?” Roan pointed us toward the kitchen before walking back to the group at the statue.
I felt the annoyance coming off Amos as he poured us both a glass of red wine from a bottle he’d opened. My first instinct was to refuse it, but I was too edgy. One drink would help. I took a sip, feeling the rich warmth on my tongue and down my throat, followed by a soft smoothness.
I must have looked pleased, because Amos said, “You like it?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Thank you.”
Amos looked toward the laughing group, his face stoic, and said under his breath, “We won’t stay long.”
I nodded, thankful.
Three of the four girls came into the kitchen, chattering away, and I was able to look at them better. They all had on cinched dresses in bright colors with poofy arms. Their hair was equally poofy, like it had been curled, then teased, then sprayed to death. Oh, no. Were eighties hairstyles coming back? Because they looked like they came straight out of my mom’s middle school yearbook.
“Hey, Fitzy!” Two of the girls fawned over him, and he sipped his wine.
“Melly. Phoebs.”
I was immediately curious.
The third girl picked up a bottle of champagne but was distracted when she glanced at me.
“Hey, Phoebe, is this one of your collection?” She pointed to my dress.
“Yes,” said a brunette in hot pink. “Who do you think gave it to him?”
Um…what? I looked at Phoebe, then Amos.
“Phoebe is one of my sisters,” Amos explained.
I felt my eyes bulge, and all of the girls giggled. Not girls, really. Women, probably in their mid to late twenties and thirties, but they gave off childish vibes. An immaturity of sorts.
“It’s very nice,” I said to Phoebe, motioning to the dress.
“It’s part of my silk collection with cotton lining. The world is going through an anti-synthetic phase, and the State currently has the largest factories for cotton, wool, and silk production.” She drank her champagne and stared at me blankly. Amos was staring across the way at the two other men and not seeming to pay attention to our conversation.
My brow scrunched in confusion as she blinked at me, and I immediately caught myself and smoothed my expression. “That’s wonderful. Wow. You’re a designer?”
“Mmhm. All three of us. Expert designers and sewers. We give our designs to our husbands, who oversee the fabric factories in C2.”
Flabbergasted.
The other two girls were wrestling with a bottle of champagne, trying to get it open and laughing at one another. The penthouse elevator slid open, and three more women in side ponytails with big bangs stepped in, going straight toward the President and VP.
I couldn’t stop my questions. “Does that mean these dresses will be available in the communities soon?”
She outright laughed now. “No way, silly.” She looked at me funny. “Wait, which family are you?—”
I blurted, “Are you and your brother close?”
“Me and Fitzy?” She made apfftsound with her mouth and waved a hand. “He’s the firstborn from the first wife. I’m from the third wife, so we didn’t grow up together. But he still keeps an eye out for me and the others.”
Oh. Oh my God. These were Order of Mercy girls. Straight from the belly of the cult. And my questions about Fitzhugh’s true ancestry were now answered, though the answers were not what I was hoping.
