"You awake? Don't die on us now," Pauline hissed as linen flew aside and sunlight stabbed the small room.
Everlee blinked. The air smelled like something clung to velvet—cloying, powdery, a scent made to announce wealth. Her tongue was thick. Her throat felt wrong, like someone had taken the shape of words out of it.
"Where am I?" she croaked.
"Clark compound. Your name's Everlee Payne now," Pauline said, fingers quick and sure as she checked the pulse at Everlee's wrist. "Stay still. Don't speak."
"My name—" The thought hit like a thin, bright shard. I used to blend scents in a laboratory with precise notes and tiny oils. In one life I measured jasmine and smoke. In this one the jasmine tastes like a memory stuck in the wrong mouth.
Pauline's thumb pressed harder. "You're burning. Don't move."
A voice from the corridor snapped: "Don't make me come in there and carry you like a sack."
Silence froze for half a breath. Everlee heard the heavier footsteps of Cordelia Nunes crossing stone.
"Open the door," Cordelia said before she pushed it. Her dress rustled silk and calculated grace. Her face had the ease of someone who never had to worry over a single broken tray. "You can't be idle now, Everlee. Idle women cause trouble."
Pauline muttered, "She's barely awake."
Cordelia's eyes found Everlee's. "Barely awake or pretending to be weak? There is a chance the
