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THROUGH THE rotating lens appeared a close-up shot of a left hand opening a book on a table. My skin prickled. I’d retired to my room for the evening, but I did not feel alone. The hand through the zobascope slowly turned over pages in the book. Each page was blank, unwritten, disappointing. I felt the urge to sigh, but the sound got caught somewhere in my throat.
An alluring female voice rang out, “Good evening, Valcas. I’m delighted you’ve come to visit.”
My heart jumped. Where was the girl, the owner of the voice? Was she someone Valcas had fallen in love with?
The book shut and then reopened.
The female voice called out again, repeating her greeting with no more urgency than before. “Good evening, Valcas. I’m delighted you’ve come to visit.”
I looked up toward a shelf that was filled with books from end to end, except for the gaping hole where the book on the table would later be returned. A flash of anger tightened my jaw, clenched my teeth. I felt betrayed, but I had no idea why. There was no one there.
The bookshelf drew closer as the recorder of the scene stood from where he had been sitting at the table and walked forward. The hand that had been turning the pages of the book reached out. It was the hand of a young man, a strong and well-formed hand, but not the hand of an adult. I felt a brief touch of tenderness before betrayal set in again, this time spiked with a fury that made no sense to me. The feeling prickled skin, tightened muscle and etched bone.
“What is that instrument that you brought with you today?” The female voice did not sound suspicious or upset. She was as calm as a summer breeze, steady and soothing as if she were reciting lines from her favorite play.
“I borrowed this instrument, a zobascope. Although I’m not sure why I’m bothering to tell you what it is or why I have it. It’s not like you’ll remember. My governess lent it to me for a research project, not that you would understand what that is either.”
“Oh, how nice. I’m ready for our date.”
“Your responses don’t even make sense, Juna. How can it be a date if we never leave the library?”
“I like it here, don’t you? It feels very safe here with all of our friends.”
“They’re not friends. They’re not real and neither are you.”
“Well, of course I am. You can see me, can’t you?”
“No.”
“Oh, come now. Of course you can. I’m right here in front of you.” Enticing laughter followed, calming and sure, as if she and Valcas had been playing a game of hide and seek.
“I can see you when I pull the zobascope away, but through it, I can only see the truth. You—” I could both hear and feel Valcas’ anger and impatience rising. “You,” he repeated, “are not truth. You are not real.”
The shelves receded, drawing farther away until Valcas turned his back on them. I caught another glimpse of the table before the book slammed shut. Without turning around, Valcas pulled the book out of view of the zobascope. I could feel myself wanting to throw the book, to destroy it. I felt another flash of anger. The book jetted across the room and landed open on the floor.
“Good evening, Valcas. I’m delighted you’ve come to visit.”
I gasped as the recording abruptly ended.
Viewing the scene through the zobascope was haunting, even more so given how clearly I’d felt the emotions from the point of view of the recorder, of Valcas. I played and replayed the scene in my head that night. I questioned what else I had to gain by staying at the white tower. Was there anything left to find, or was I just looking for excuses to be near him and snoop into his past?
At some point his parents would return to the white tower. I was not part of his life here—I knew it and so would Sable and Jim. Valcas’ entire memory of me was a lie. The daily reminder, the writing on the photo of us on the Estrel-Flyer, was a lie. Just like the autographed locket Shirlyn gave Romaso was a lie. She’d never been a part of his past either. She hadn’t even lived during his lifetime. I finally understood why inserting these lies, these daily reminders, into others’ past lives was against TSTA rules. It wasn’t fair. Not at all.
I had to destroy the photo, to erase his memory of me.
***
I FELT THE PRESSURE of what I needed to do over the next few days. One morning Valcas brought the photo of us with him to brunch. There was more writing on the back of the photograph, more observations about me that he’d made on his own.
“Your eyes are a lighter green than in the photograph,” he said. “Why is that?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.
The next morning he asked me how we first met. These questions came up again and again because I didn’t have the type of answers that I felt I could give him—fair answers, real answers. I did my best to change the subject, to avoid his questions during the day, but they stayed with me long afterward, following me back to my room, keeping me awake at night.
“Calla, please. Why can’t I remember when we first met? I can’t recall anything about when or where it was.”
Each time I refused to answer, he would look away; his dark lashes cast downward, the corners of his mouth pressed into a frown. I longed to end his frustration so much that it made me want to scream. I could blame whichever version of Valcas I liked, but this could never be his fault.
I’d become a Juna to him.