His skin has the tone and texture of human skin. The cadence of his breathing is slow and steady. His voice is human, not tinny and automated, and it’s unnervingly familiar.
The Sim Room door swooshes open and Fagin enters. “Computer, pause program,” she says. The manservant freezes in place and the rain stops; the drizzle is suspended in mid-air creating a perpetual mist.
“His accent,” I say, trying to keep my voice from breaking. Rain drips from my hair, down my forehead and into my eyes. I’d brush the wetness away, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the man. “He’s English.”
“Computer,” Fagin says, “Load Greenwich Palace program. The royal apartments of Lady Anne Boleyn.”
The scenery transforms into a lavishly appointed chamber boasting high ceilings, wood-paneled walls hung with red velvet tapestries, and expensive furniture. Fagin crosses the room to sit at a round table adorned with a lace tablecloth and bowls of fresh fruit.
“He’s English,” she says, “because we’re traveling to the year 1532 to join the court of King Henry the Eighth. The Benefactors who devised this mission have a particular interest in Tudor history.”
“Fagin, you know what happened to my family. You gave me your word. You said I would never have to go to England.” My voice sounds shrill and panicked, even to my ears. “You promised.”
She doesn’t budge. Doesn’t say a word. Her silence drives the inevitability of my predicament deep into my core. Anger wells in the pit of my stomach, intensifying into bone-deep anguish, a pain so fierce it makes me feel hot and cold at the same time.
Steadying myself on the edge of the French-style writing desk, keeps me from collapsing in a heap on the floor. I notice a riding crop nestled among a small stack of books. A destructive urge takes hold of me.
The wood cane shaft feels well balanced. It’s thicker toward the silver handle end, becoming slenderer as it tapers down to the leather tongue on the other. I like the heft of it in my hand. It will do.
A guttural moan rumbles up from my belly, erupting into a howl that propels me forward, swinging the crop in my hand with all the force I can muster.
I thrash through the papers on the desk, sending them flying; the feathered quills and ink pots crash to the floor. It’s soon apparent that using only the crop as the weapon of my rage isn’t close to being enough.
My hands tear through the books and fragile artefact replicas on every table in the room. I overturn tall iron candleholders and every piece of furniture that yields to me. Fagin watches, but doesn’t interfere.
My arms grow heavy from the exertion. My heart is heavier still. Slumping into a corner by a tall bookcase, I let the sadness take me and the tears come in great heaving sobs. Fagin kneels by my side, sitting with me in the pain until I look at her, pleading. “Don’t make me do this.”
There’s sympathy in her eyes, and cold reality, too. “There’s nothing to be done, pet,” she says. “It’s submission to the Benefactors or punishment.” She pauses, then addresses the computer. “Reset program elements to original state.”
Within seconds, the room returns to perfection as though my tirade never happened. Fagin pulls me to my feet and holds my shoulders.
“They murdered my papa. They forced Maman and me onto a ship to the American colonies that sank from beneath us,” I say, my voice still trembling. “You can’t—”
“We must show the Benefactors they can trust you.”
She turns to walk around the room and I follow, considering her words as I inspect items the hologram has restored on her command. A tantrum isn’t nearly as satisfying when things don’t stay broken.
On a desk by the fireplace, there are jewels displayed on a silver tray lined with black velvet, including a pearl choker with three teardrop pearls at the bottom of a gold letter “B.”
Fagin puts one arm around my shoulder, holding me close like she did when I was as a child. She places her other hand on mine and, together, we run our fingers run over the smooth surface of the pearls. “We’ll bring back treasures of such rare and exceptional value, it will prove our worth to them beyond any doubt,” she says, her voice a whisper. “We will rob the English blind, darling girl. That can be your revenge.”
Touching the pearls stirs unsettling memories of the day my papa died. He was a sailor on a merchant ship that spent long months at sea on trading journeys and, on one particular trip, promised to bring fine pearls home for Maman. No gifts he brought home to us were more loved than his presence.
It was always a joyous occasion when he sailed back into Halifax. On those days, Maman and I dressed in our finest clothes. I wore blue ribbons in my hair and Maman wore a fancy beaded headband. We didn’t look rich to anyone else, but we felt like we were.
On my eighth birthday, Papa returned home from a long voyage down the maritime coast to Boston town. I saw him up in the rigging of the Anna Maria but, from where I stood, he couldn’t see me wave to him. I always thought him so brawny and handsome. Quick, too. Papa could climb down the ropes as nimbly as a squirrel scampers down a tree.
He helped the crew unload the cargo from below deck, and I felt a surge of pride that he could throw a hundred-pound sack of grain down to the longshoremen on the dock like it was filled with air. No one was as strong as my Papa.
“Ho there!” he shouted to Maman and me when he finally spotted us. “How many kisses have my girls for me?”
That was my signal to run to him as fast as my legs would carry me. We met in the middle of the gangplank where I would jump
