CHAPTER 55 – Ue wo Muite Arukō

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Eppie awoke in a room that was inherited, not bought.

 

It was a room wrought of taste, class and heritage—Edwardian—not as an aesthetic, but as imbued architecture. The ceiling was high and corniced, the plasterwork botanical. The walls were silk-emerald wallpaper that would make a contemporary interior designer scream in horror.

 

The four-poster was mahogany, the posts barley-twisted. The mattress was deep. The pillows were soft. The sheets were bespotted with dried blood, reminding her that last night was not a dream.

 

From the bedroom window, she could see the back garden with the Dying Slave statue among the low hedges. A small fireplace on the east wall, marble-wreathed, was electrified so as to be usable in the 21st century.

 

There was a note beside her bed, besides two painkillers and a glass of water.

 

Ring the bell.

 

She saw the bell pull, a brass-plated thing of art.

She tugged it.

Then Eppie checked her [Potential].

“Ooo…” Eppie clapped for herself.

The timidity of the original Eppie was gone! She had successfully escaped William’s influence! Goodbye, trauma!

 

Then she felt a little sad.

Because another piece of her original [Persona] had been eroded, meaning whatever Euphemia Fontaine was had diminished by that much.

 

When she finally did away with William, would that be the end of Euphemia Fontaine in her entirety? Would she finally occupy her Philosophical Zombie?

It was an interesting, if unnerving thought.

 

“Increase [Strength] to 20,” Eppie commanded the [System], then winced.

It wasn’t charging her the Exceptional potential rates. It was charging her rates for the Blessed Privilege. It meant that, if she sufficiently pissed off the [System] enough, there would come a point where adding a single point of lost [Potential] would cost an astronomical amount of karmic capital.

 

Ting-a-ling—

 

The door chimed.

“May I come in?” George’s voice penetrated the solid oak. “Are you decent, Miss Fontaine?”

 

Eppie wrapped herself in the plush robe on the side chair. “Come in!”

 

George laid out breakfast on the desk by the window.

Vaughan’s sumptuous generosity included a rack of toast, unsalted butter in a dish, two soft-boiled eggs in cups, a pot of tea, a pot of coffee, and a small glass of orange juice.

 

“It’s a cold day out there, Miss. Feels like 27°F. Wind from the northeast. The wind tunnels will make it worse if you are going back to the Four Seasons. May I offer the town car?”

 

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” Eppie said, smiling, wondering at what point she might acquire a George in her life. “I don’t think I’ll be back for some time, George. I think I might miss you more than Madam Vaughan.”

 

The African-American man laughed, his mirth both chesty and deep. “I will miss you, too, Miss Fontaine. I had originally imagined that you would be spending time here as your second residence during school breaks. The Madam had spoken to the Principal of Guilliams. The conversation, I understand, had been fruitful.”

 

Eppie felt her heart constrict. The missed opportunity was one thing, but a prestigious school really wasn’t the place to build a base. Her only tie to LAPA was Euphemia’s trauma. Once William was cooked to medium rare…

 

“Lady Mirabelle had some clothes delivered for you in the early hours,” George said. “She said thank you for inspiring her.”

 

To be a better person. To be a BETTER PERSON, right? Eppie hoped she was right, because the Grein encounter last night was hardly inspiring.

 

“What time is it now?” She slipped from the bed. Her wounds were healing, but her body still felt sore from throwing the pot. It was a heavy-ass pot.

 

“10 AM, Miss.”

 

“Whoa.” Eppie shook herself to complete wakefulness. This was the most she had slept since… since she was in the hospital.

 

She brushed and washed her face. When she came out of the ensuite, George was gone, and her clothes were perfectly laid out on the bed. There was a note.

The clothes.

Eppie was afraid to touch them, but she also desired them.

She had the [System], but that didn’t mean she was protected from skin irritation, loose fits, and the peeve that her thighs, calves, and shins were a little longer proportionally, meaning size 0 almost always looked like ankle pants, keeping her confined to skirts. Summer had been fine, but winter had been… breezy. Not that she caught colds.

After washing her hands, she picked up the first item of clothing.

 

A shirt with thin ultramarine stripes, cut for a slim fit—completely normal looking. The fabric felt like silk.

 

It was so… normal and reasonable that Eppie couldn’t help but turn the thing inside-out, in case some secret was—She read the label. Charvet.

That’s a $270 shirt…

 

Her trembling hands picked up the next time. A cream-yellow merino crewneck sweater, completely unmarked—Howell. $350

 

The winter skirt, short and structured, was… Stella McCartney. $600.

 

There were stockings without brand markings… and a pair of…

She turned the shoes over. They were used—but only once, and indoors—Common Project. $500.

 

Standing in her robes and bandages, she pondered very seriously if she should eBay the lot and put the money to use elsewhere. That said, the [System] did not seem to care for items given through goodwill, but if she were to make a profit… and the [Prophet of Profits] triggered, inciting a bidding war—that was a different story.

 

Eppie disrobed, then changed into her new clothes.

The shirt and top were loose-fitting. The skirt was snug and warm. The shoes needed time to conform.

 

The final item on the bed was the one she dreaded.

No NYC fashionista was complete without a coat, and when it came to ladies’ coats, there was no greater sin than a shit one.

 

She picked up the coat. It was heavy. Very heavy.

The interior label told her everything. Maxmara in camel. $5000, base.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

 

Was Mirabelle intending for her to lose the Maxmara in Valorie’s locker, then make a public ruckus? The girls at LAPA were not like girls from normal high schools. The fee-paying students could spot a Maxmara from a kilometre away just by its silhouette.

 

She decided to leave the coat be. She wrote a note thanking her host. Took a picture as a record of how she left the room and items, then emailed Maddy to tell her that she was done with Dr Vaughan, and would be spending the next two weeks in New York at Sony’s expense.

 

Eppie then went downstairs in her K-Mart coat. She would wear it like a talisman—no one mugs a kid in a K-Mart coat.

 

The house was empty. She found a note for her telling her to leave through the front door, and the mechanism would automatically lock itself. If she left late, the cleaners would drop by to clean up after the party and take care of everything.

 

She replied with XOXO for George and asked the man to have someone deliver her luggage to the Four Seasons.

Then she walked to Central Park.

 

 

Fifth Avenue on the morning of December 24th was its own festival. Trees stripped of natural decorations were perfect for man-made ones, becoming wreathed with string lights and festive garlands of Christmas cheer. Tourists moved in droves toward the Rockefeller Centre, forcing Eppie to engage her [Agility] to bypass them.

 

She bought cat food, both cans and kibbles, before she reached the 72nd Street entrance.

 

In the park, Eppie inhaled the clean air that had remained elusive even in her 2032 NYC. It was nothing short of incredible how much of a difference electric cars made as a city-wide mandate. The sky was crystal clear, the winter sun cold and unyielding, and Central Park stretched in every direction she could see.