‘First time?’ Freya made a face. ‘Poor thing. The first time it happens it’s always totally traumatic. Fourteen is pretty late in the day for your first period, though.’
‘She’s small . . . Does that have something to do with it?’ replied Leon.
Freya sighed as they both shuffled forward a step in the breakfast queue. ‘What makes you an expert in female matters all of a sudden?’
‘Just a guess.’
‘Stress, trauma, poor diet, all those things have a bearing. And, bless her, she’s been through all that and God knows what else over the last couple of years. Point is it’s a really good sign, Leon. It means she’s mending. It means her body has decided it’s well enough to get on with the important things.’
‘Porridge or bean stew?’
Freya looked at both bubbling pots dangling over the roaring fire. ‘Is the porridge sweetened this time? Not salted?’
‘Oh my days!’ Danielle squawked indignantly. ‘It was just a simple bloomin’ mistake!’ Danielle was, or used to be, the youngest member of the castle’s community. Sixteen now, but fourteen when the world had ended. Yet sometimes she managed to sound like a cantankerous old housemaid from another century. ‘The sugar pot wasn’t labelled properly. It wasn’t my ruddy fault!’
Last week, Danielle’s group had been on kitchen duty, with Danielle, specifically, on porridge duty. The hall that morning had echoed with people making surprised gagging sounds as they’d tucked into her salty offering.
‘Well, I guess I’ll live dangerously and try your porridge . . . again.’
Danielle splattered a ladleful into Freya’s bowl.
‘Your heart’s really not in this job, is it?’
She glared at Freya.
Leon ordered the same as her, and they found a space at the table. He looked around for his sister. ‘Where is she?’
‘She was still in her bed when I got up,’ said Freya. ‘She’ll miss breakfast if she doesn’t—’
‘Ah . . . there she is.’ Leon saw Grace coming down the steps from the gallery floor. He waved his arms to catch her attention.
Freya grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t talk about last night, Leon, OK? It’s kind of personal and very embarrassing the first time.’
‘Hey, c’mon. I’m not a complete idiot.’ He waved to Grace again. She saw him and flashed a smile their way.
They watched her queue, grab a bowl of porridge and finally she joined them. Freya shuffled sideways to make a space for her between them. ‘How are you feeling this morning, hon?’
Leon’s jaw hung open and he spread his hands. I thought you just said—
‘Leon told me what happened last night,’ Freya carried on quietly. ‘It’s really crappy first time.’
Grace nodded. ‘I feel horrible.’
‘You should go talk to Dr Hahn. She might be able to get you excused from duties today.’ Freya craned her neck to look around for her. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Leon. ‘Not seen her yet.’
‘Is she still in bed?’
Grace shook her head. ‘No. I think she must’ve got up extra early.’
‘Well, after breakfast, if you like, I’ll come with you and we’ll go up to her infirmary and get her to write you a note to give to Everett or something.’
‘It’s OK. You don’t need to, Freya.’
‘Hey, I don’t mind.’
‘No. Honestly. You don’t need to. I’m fine.’
‘You should be excused today. Seriously . . . it’s not a good idea to—’
‘I’ll go see her!’ Grace cut in tersely. ‘OK?’
Freya recoiled slightly. ‘OK . . . well, good.’
Leon met Freya’s eyes, his eyebrows arched with surprise and a tight-lipped mouth struggling to keep a smile from spilling out.
Freya cautioned him with a quick frown. Don’t! Say! Anything! And placed a hand on Grace’s back. ‘We’ll come and check in on you later at lunchtime, if you like?’
Grace shrugged the hand off and spooned the porridge into her mouth without comment.
‘Or do you want some space?’
Grace nodded, then ate in silence for a minute before finally sitting back and managing a grateful smile. ‘I’m sorry for being crabby with you.’
‘No worries,’ Freya replied, and winked.
‘I’ll go see her,’ said Grace. ‘And I’ll get a note . . . like you said.’
Grace slowly ate her breakfast, her head dipped, staring at the bowl on the table in front of her and hoping Leon and Freya would sense that she’d rather opt out of any breakfast chitter-chatter this morning. They got the hint and started talking about what work tasks they had lined up for the day and conducting a post-mortem on a flare-up that had happened yesterday evening in the female dormitory between Danielle and Denise.
Her mind drifted quickly on to other things. More pressing matters.
On Claudia Hahn.
Dr Hahn was upstairs right now. She was lying in the dark, narrow space beneath her dormitory cot. And she was no more . . . not in the ‘outside world’ sense, at least. She was gone. She was now safely absorbed – contained – within the ‘inside world’.
The thing that was lying beneath the cot wasn’t ready yet. If anyone had been bothered enough to trace the source of the faint yeasty smell, and ducked down on to all fours to look beneath her bed, they would have seen something unfinished.
A glistening in-progress project: a skeleton. The real bones of Claudia Hahn, slowly being encased in a thickening soup that had once been her soft tissue, rendered down to a bubbling pink broth during the night. And now the community of cells was working as quickly as they possibly could to reassemble a passable facsimile of her.
By lunchtime, Grace expected the internal organs would be completed, and muscle tissue would be growing like fungus along her abandoned bones. By mid-afternoon, the outer cells would be forming into a thin translucent layer of skin. By dinner time, the skin would have thickened and acquired a suitable amount of pigment to look convincing. The cells hard at work upstairs had learned lessons from other cells, which, in turn, had learned from other cells. Bones could be reused instead of attempting to create a tough resinous skeletal frame, which was the most time-consuming part of the fabrication process. Better still, another shortcut that had been learned over the last year: the keratin-based components, hair and nails, could also be reused. The cells that comprised the skin of Hahn’s scalp had been left untouched and remained anchored to her skull. Last of all, in the final hour of the project, it would be absorbed, carefully replaced, cell by cell, with remade skin, each hair follicle preserved in place.
Grace had dealt with the stained sheets on her bed. And her chance encounter with Leon earlier this morning had actually been helpful. If there had been any doubts in his mind that she was the sister he once knew, that she was human, then it seemed those doubts had been dispelled.
But she was still going to need to dispose of Hahn’s bloodstained pyjama bottoms and T-shirt, and then help her put on her day clothes. The copy of Claudia Hahn was going to need a few more hours’ preparation to ready itself for interaction with the others. To learn how to move like she had; to recreate the timbre of her voice. There was no doubt about it, those here who knew her well enough were going to notice she was behaving oddly, differently. Not sounding quite like her old self.
But, then, none of those people had yet encountered a convincing remade human. Their only experience had been with crude copies from months and months ago.
None of them have any idea how well we can do this now.