Grounded

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"This is your home?" I gawk at the mansion, with its ivy-covered walls and gigantic wooden door.

A bald man with coffee-colored skin similar to my friend Mary's strides out of the manor toward us. He sweeps Korwin into a hug, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"You might not have. I thought I was dead. I was as good as dead," Korwin says.

The reunion is warm, even loving, but there's something missing. It hovers on the edge of emotional but never crosses the line into the type of family intimacy I'm used to. I wonder if it's an English thing.

"How did you escape?" his father asks.

"This is how." Korwin points at me.

His father extends his hand in my direction. "I'm Maxwell Stuart. Thank you for bringing Korwin home."

"I did less than you might think," I say, shaking his hand. "To be honest, it would be fairer to say we saved each other."

Korwin clears his throat. "This is Lydia, Dad."

The smile fades from Maxwell's face. His eyes sweep over me from head to toe. "Should I ask how you ended up in CGEF's detention center?"

"She's like me."

Maxwell laughs. "What do you mean, like you?"

"She's a Spark." Korwin grabs my hand and holds the crusty sore in his father's direction.

Korwin's dad stares at the sore then lifts my hand and inspects it from all sides. His Adam's apple bobs with the effort of a strong swallow. He drops my hand as if I've burned him and meets my eyes, cupping his mouth for a few tense moments. "Where did you come from? I have so many questions." He scans the sky, as if to check for God's own prying eyes. "Let's go inside. You must be starving, and Korwin, those sores on your arms need treatment."

The man from the gate, in the suit and apron, holds the big wooden door open for us. Once inside, metal grinds against metal as the heavy door locks itself. I perch on the edge of the welcome mat, trying my best not to soil the wood floors that go on and on across the gigantic room. The place is so large, I wonder if my footsteps will echo.

Music plays from Maxwell's person and we all pause inside the door while he pulls a thin piece of plastic from his pocket, identical to the one in my treebox. He pokes at the front. "I have to take this," he says to the man in the apron and abruptly leaves the room.

"Master Korwin, the healing room is prepared for you in the training center," the man says.

"Thanks." He turns toward me. "Lydia, I'll see you later. I'll help you with your hand when I'm through, okay?"

I nod. What's a healing room? And why does he need to help with my hand? All I need is a small bandage.

"Jameson will take care of you." Korwin disappears down a flight of stairs to the left.

I fold my hands, hoping beyond hope that Jameson will offer me a place to get cleaned up. He turns his full attention on me, his eyes widening at my appearance.

"Lydia, is it?" he asks softly.

"Yes."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Thanks. Nice to meet you, too."

"If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room."

My room. Thank goodness. I slip off my shoes and pad after him in my relatively clean socks. He leads me down the same flight of stairs Korwin descended and through an entryway that maintains the home's charm, but with muscle—a foot-thick, shiny metal door. Unlike upstairs, there are no windows. But the carpet under my feet is plush and the art that hangs on the walls woos me with its captivating array of colors and textures.

"This is incredible." I stop in front of a floor-to-ceiling-sized painting of palominos galloping through a glade. The horses themselves are fairly ordinary, but the colors—blues, violets—pull me in. I've never seen art like this; my fingers reach for it before I catch myself and return my hand to my side.

"Painted by Master Korwin. One of my favorites as well."

"He painted this?"

"Yes. He's an accomplished artist. It's unfortunate that his fate and genetics have dealt him the hand they did. I've always felt his talents should be shared with the world."

I nod. Jameson continues down the hallway but I lag behind to absorb the artwork for one moment more before following him. At the end of a maze of hallways, Jameson opens a white door.

"Here you are." He extends his arm into a room that is something out of a dream.

As large as the first floor of my house in Hemlock Hollow, the room features a bed swaddled in white downy linens. On the far wall, a window reveals a large green yard. The window confuses me because I thought we were in a basement. I walk to the glass and watch a butterfly flit behind the panes. Only, halfway across the glass the orange and black colors of the monarch morph to pink and blue.

"Oh!" I take a step back. The sky out the window is cloudless. This isn't right. This isn't the world I left outside the door.

"It's a hologram, Miss Lydia," Jameson says. He taps on the windowpane. "It's an artificial window."

I understand what he's saying but I gape at him, dumbfounded. How can this be? Turning, I take in the rest of the room. There's a small sitting area at the end of the bed that looks cozy and a frame on the wall holding a classical painting of Water Lilies—Van Gogh, I think, or maybe Monet. I only recognize it from a book I read once. Based on Jeremiah's description, I think the art might actually be a television. The material, slightly luminescent, is too thin to be an actual canvas.

"Through here is the bathroom," Jameson says, passing his hand inside a doorway. The lights come on, presumably from his movement.

The room is pearly white with a tub, separate shower, and a toilet fancy enough for me to question whether I can figure out how to use it.

"Your bathrobe is there on the hook. If you would kindly leave your soiled garments outside the door, I would be pleased to see to them for you."

"Oh Jameson, I can wash them myself. I'd hate to be a burden."

Jameson relaxes into a genuine smile. "This is my job. I'm happy to do it, and it makes me feel useful."

I don't want to offend him. "Of course. I'll leave them outside the door."

"Good." For a moment, he stares at me expectantly and I wonder if there is some Englisher custom I am forgetting. Shifting from foot to foot, he finally breaks the silence. "I'm sorry to be so forward, but you look familiar to me. Have we met before?"

"No. I'm not from here."

"Where are you from?"

"Willow's Province."

"Oh." He sighs and shakes his peppered gray head. "I must be mistaken." Regaining his formal composure, he points back into the bedroom. "The refrigerator is stocked with water and snacks if you need something to tide you over until next meal." He steps over to what looks like a wardrobe and swings open the door. A tiny kitchen is concealed there: a basket of fruit and bread, a small sink, and a half-sized refrigerator.

My eyebrows shoot up. I cannot comprehend the opulence.

He gives a slight bow and turns on his heel, closing the door behind him.

Turning circles in the gleaming white of my guest room, I finally allow myself to cry. I have no idea where Jeremiah is or what he must be thinking. I wonder if I can safely visit my father now that I'm a fugitive. I am an entire world from home, covered in grime. The filth of this world is sinking in, penetrating my skin and burrowing straight to the bone. My empty stomach heaves, and I rush into the bathroom.

But it's too late for me to expel what this new world has done to me.