Stolen Memories (Book 3 of the Magical Machine series)

I run my fingers across the multitudes of fabrics hanging down in my closet. There are so many fancy dresses in my closet now, and I am not sure I care for it. I would prefer to be wearing the guard’s uniform that Patrick also gave me.

“Ma’am, you must wear one of the dresses. It is expected of women to wear dresses at balls.” Melanie holds out the red gown I wore to dinner a couple nights ago.

I shake my head. “Melanie, you really should just call me Hope. It feels wrong to have you calling me Ma’am. I don’t belong in this society.”

Melanie holds out a blue dress that she helped me pick out when we went shopping together. Patrick apparently ordered her to make sure I have enough dresses for any circumstance. Right now I have on what Melanie calls a casual dress, it’s a simple blue green sweater dress and black tights underneath.

Now, she claims that I am going to a society ball and I have to look that part. Apparently I am Patrick’s charity case to show off to all the other social elites.

I have no idea how to act or behave at one of these social events, and in truth I don’t even want to go. I would rather be sleeping on the floor of that old office building with the other orphans. I don’t belong here, but I say nothing and pull off my current dress, taking the silky blue dress that she holds out to me.

How many people could this dress give meals to? How much am I betraying my friends. I slip the dress over my should and let it fall down and soak me in money.

Melanie zips up the back of the dress, and leads me over to sit in the chair in front of the mirrored desk that I have been told is called a “vanity”.

I’m like a pet dog. Just point and tell me what to do, and I docilely follow orders. I can’t complain, anyone who lives down on the streets dreams of this life. They dream of a social elite man finding them, sweeping them off their feet, and leading them up into the high society life.

I’m not really that different, am I? I can’t stop what happening. I can’t bring myself to dissent. Patrick is holding to his word and giving away an entire shuttle of supplies every day.

Am I prisoner kept in a gilded cage, a zoo animal wishing for the freedom of the art on the cage of her walls?

Melanie brushes through my hair, gently messing with it, pulling it up, fixing it into an immaculate sculpture.

I can imagine the people saying, “Here, look, it’s an orphan wild human, caught from the streets of Richmond. Can you see how tame it is? It eats from the hand and will let you sit there and pet it. It even does magic tricks.”

In the mirror I can see artful white curls framing my face, and the rest of my hair is piled up on top of my head.

She spins my chair around and begins to put stuff on my face. Like the good tame lion I am, I sit there and let her wipe and brush stuff onto my face. I have no idea what she is putting on it or what she is doing, and she doesn’t offer to tell me.

Is this lonely existence my fate? Can I escape it? Can I bring myself to fight the people I know now? Patrick has a good heart underneath his rich exterior.

She spins me around, and the creature in the mirror is not me anymore. My face is high and defined, the whiteness used to make me look mysterious, like a goddess of old my stolen memories suggest.

Who am I? Who is this creature?

She holds out a case to me, “Here, Patrick said you should where contacts when out in public. These ones will look good with that dress.”

These ones are blue colored pieces of glass. I pull them out, and use the mirror to help me put them in my eyes. They look… unnatural. No matter what, I look unnatural.

I am a marble statue with blue painted on to me. A dress up doll for a child to play with.

Melanie slips my feet into two strappy blue low heels. I couldn’t manage to walk in anything higher than half inch heels when we were out shopping, but Melanie insisted that my shoes had to be heels, even if they were only half inch heels.

She stands up, and offers her hand, helping me stand on theses dratted wobbly shoes. She steps back, staring at me intently, her masterpiece.

She smiles, “You are perfect. You will be a good gem to add to decorate the Macorvis’s ballroom tonight.”

And there it is; I am simply an accessory to decorate a room. How wonderful.

She grabs my hand and leads me forward, out of the room and into the library. “You will wait here until Azalea and Patrick are ready to go.”

“We need only wait for Azalea now,” Patrick says from the couch he is sitting on in the dark.

Melanie drops my hand and hurries over to turn on a light for Patrick.

The soft glow lights him up, and he looks very similar to how he looked at dinner the other night. Apparently it is only women who have to dress up in elaborate costumes for every time of day.

“Come, sit with me. It will be a while before Azalea is ready.” He smiles softly, relaxed and at home in this formal opulent world.

I sit down at the opposite end of the couch. I wish Nathan was here with me, but he chose to withdraw from my path and to simply accept the world as it is.

Patrick smiles at me, “Hope, have you read many of the classics?”

I shake my head. I haven’t really read anything. It’s hard to find time to read when one is just trying to survive.

He holds out a book toward me, “I think you will enjoy this. This book is called ‘Le Morte De Artur’, or ’The Death of Arthur” about a famous British king from the much ancient days.”

I take the book from him, and slowly begin to read. At first, I feel as if I understand nothing, but memories slowly help me pick up speed. A woman named Megan read this book before. Her memories fill in the gaps and explain the words of this story, and bring to life the story of a boy who pulls a sword out of a stone to become king. If only it was that easy to become a king.

I glance over at Patrick, and notice him studiously reading his own book. Why did he pick this story out for me to read?

Megan’s memories tell me the ending, Arthur dies, but her memories do not contain the exact words. It’s interesting to pull in the language of this story into my own mind, my own memories. But why this book?

I glance back at Patrick, and he is still reading away. The death of Arthur. A man who rises up to be a king, only to die in obscurity at the end.

Footsteps echo through the room, and I put the book down on the couch. That is a problem for another time.

Azalea walks in, her golden decked head held high and her pure white garments releasing their own light into the room.

“Come darling, it’s time to introduce your pet to society isn’t it?” She laughs in a her high pitched cackle and latches onto Patrick’s arm. “I bet father is waiting in the shuttle.”

“He is.” Patrick leads toward the door and I follow in their wake.

I guess now I will get to meet Patrick’s father and the head of this strange little company.