*
Early into their third year of captivity, Ferrol returned to the castle one weekend, eager to test some new software. He shut himself in his office and, after an hour, called upstairs for Celeste.
Her hair was still wet from a bath. “What couldn’t wait?”
“I bought some software from the Netherlands that police departments use to age photographs of missing people to see what they might look like over time. It confirms what we’ve been suspecting for a year now. The problem is, there’s too much bias in our own observations. We desperately want to believe our own eyes, but we don’t want to be led down the garden path.” He clicked his mouse and the computer awoke. “Here is a photo of Victoria from the first week she came here. I’ve used the software to age her two years—age four to six. Here’s what six-year-old Victoria should look like. Here’s a photo of her from this week.”
“My goodness, look at that,” Celeste said.
They all knew the girls looked little different to when first arrived. But, seeing the Victoria as she ought to look at age six was a light-bulb moment. Her older face was longer, thinner, her nose more narrow, her lips less full.
“Show me Elizabeth,” she said.
The age-rendered Elizabeth was even more dramatic. Ten-year-old Elizabeth was no longer a little girl. She was becoming a young lady.
“It’s working, Celeste,” he said. “We’ve seen the way their telomere length is still super-long and rock stable. With this, I’m convinced now, more than ever, that it’s working.”
“Then we can take them back, right? If we know it’s working, we can let them go. Their parents are dead, but they have grandparents.”
Ferrol wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s out of the question. It’s far too early. We have to see if the effect persists. We’ve got to check their telomeres and cell function over time. I know it’s two years, but it’s still early days. Have patience. I’m sure this is working, but we need so much more before the next phase.”
She noticed that her hair was dripping on the floor and got a paper towel.
“What next phase? You never talked about a next phase.”
He bent over, took the moist towel from her, and threw it into a hamper.
“The next phase involves you, Celeste, and it involves me.”
35
Twenty months later—three years and eight months since the girls were taken—Ferrol declared that he was finally ready for his “next phase” and it came when things in the basement at Castle Gaytan were nearing a breaking point.
They no longer needed software to know the girls had stopped aging. The girls too had become self-aware, but they were satisfied with the explanation from Gray Woman and Gray Man that humans in space didn’t get older. But for Celeste and Gressani, enough was enough. This had gone on far too long and Celeste, as their spokesperson, beseeched Ferrol to let the girls go.
“We can’t take this anymore,” Celeste protested. “You’re in Madrid most of the time and we’re stuck here. We can’t leave for more than a day or two. We can’t go on holiday. We have to watch these poor creatures every minute. We’re zookeepers, that’s what we are, and they are animals in a cage. Ferruccio and I are going crazy and I think the girls are too. They’re listless. They don’t want to play like they used to. Victoria cries in bed every night. She doesn’t even know why she’s crying. Enough! Please!”
They were in his bedroom. He poured himself another glass of wine and said, “Listen to me, Celeste. We’re almost there. This can stop at five years. It’s critically important for my future work to study the telomeres in the cells that divide the slowest. Ideally, I’d want to sample heart muscle cells that turn over exceedingly slowly, but I don’t have the technical expertise to do a heart biopsy. The next best candidates are fat cells which divide every eight years. It’s quite easy and non-invasive to biopsy fat. I’ve done the calculations. Five years is the minimum time to get usable data from fat cells. Then, we’ll be done. Then, we can send them back.”
“That’s too long, Ferrol! It’s not just me. Ferruccio feels the same way.”
“Let me tell you why we need the time,” he said, approaching her. “We need the fullest set of data to inform the next phase—to predict what we can expect in the future.”
She resisted his embrace. “No! You always think you can tame me with a hug and a kiss. Tell me what you’re talking about. What is this next phase you’re always hinting at?”
“Sit down,” he said. “Have some more wine. Please.” When she was settled into one of his overstuffed chairs with a full glass in her hand he said, “I love you, Celeste.”
She shook her head lightly, as if she had misheard. “You’ve never told me that before.”
“Maybe it’s taken me longer than it should have to realize it. I’m not a person who does introspection. Maybe, I’m a little blocked.”
“Not a little, Ferrol. A lot. It’s understandable. What happened to you when you were young was horrible.”
“I don’t want to look back,” he said. “I want to look forward. I’m no longer a young man. In the best of circumstances, how long will we have together? Twenty years? Thirty?”
“It’s enough,” she said.
“No, it’s not. We’ll get old. We’ll get sick. We’ll die. Me first—this is a statistical probability—then you. I don’t want to die, at least
