Page 1 of The Temptation of Roan Island

PROLOGUE

PIPPA

My racing heart tells me to go back to my room and abandon this false hope. I ignore it. Three years ago, I entered the New Essik Sanatorium thinking the doctors could help, but no one is any closer to finding a cure for the illness that plagues me. There’s been no relief and no escaping these sterile halls.

Until now.

The white walls of the waiting room are illuminated by glass bulbs hanging from the ceiling under domed silver metal lamps. The flickering lights make ghosts of our shadows. I’m nearly a ghost myself. And I’m not alone. Four other female inpatients sit beside me on uncomfortable white metal chairs.

Two men I’ve never seen before stand in front of us dressed in elegant attire, rather than doctor’s coats. Mrs. Potter, the nurse who brought us in, introduced them as Shemaiah and Jafeth Roan before she hurried out of the room, almost as if she was afraid.

The Roan family is known throughout the colonies for their wealth and prestige, but they’re also secretive, rarely leaving their island estate. I don’t understand what they’re doing here, or how they’re involved in the flier that led me to this room.

“Father won’t be happy,” the one introduced as Shemaiah says.

He’s tall and lean with straight, dark hair that brushes his shoulders. His clean-shaven face is austere and focused, but extraordinarily handsome. Perfect and symmetrical and difficult to look away from. Dark eyes drift across the other women to me. His gaze doesn’t linger like many men I’ve met, which gives me a small comfort. He pulls a gold pocket watch from his emerald green waistcoat and frowns.

“They’ll do,” Jafeth Roan says, giving us an assessing look.

“Are we cattle?” A woman named Anna responds sharply to his evaluation of us, which is no surprise. She has a reputation for arguing with nurses.

“Of a sort.” Jafeth laughs and smiles. That smile is off-putting, teeth too white, too sharp. I blink. His harsh features are smoothed by his long lashes and the soft curve of his nose. Though his hair is shorter than Shemaiah Roan’s and he has facial hair trimmed in a neat beard, I can see the resemblance between the two of them.

Siblings. If I had to guess.

“Jafeth.” Shemaiah casts his brother a reprimanding look.

Perhaps I should have listened to Dr. Witten when he told me not to pursue this. But after a difficult flare-up, the note I found hanging in our ward dayroom was particularly intriguing. How could I not want to find out more?

Anything new is novel in The Sanatorium, even if it seemed more like a joke than something real. The daily monotony of breakfast, testing, medicine, tears, boredom and the eventual slide toward insanity defines many of us. That handwritten note that said, For a chance, meet in the Ward C waiting room, followed by the date and time, had garnered a lot of attention.

The same note had appeared twice a year for as long as I’ve been here. The women who answered it never returned. Some say they went back to their lives, healed. Most believe they’re dead.

I’ve never been certain what I believe, but my health has been deteriorating, so a chance sounds good right now. Two weeks ago, I overheard two nurses say they didn’t think I’d live to see another Winter Solstice. Then yesterday, my boy came to visit, and the injustice of it all was nearly unbearable. His rosy, cherub cheeks, round with a smile, made my heart swell with love, but I couldn’t keep the tears from my eyes as I thought of how little time we have left.

I try to hold on to the image of his stout toddler frame as he waddled over to me, but already he feels like a dream.

When he left, that notice in the dayroom dared me to act.

For a chance.

For a chance to leave this place and raise my son so he doesn’t spend his childhood in an orphanage, I’d risk anything. I’ve been here since before he was born, the day the doctors diagnosed me with Vastatio, an unknown illness that quickly kills men, and lingers like an unwelcome guest in women, sapping them of energy until there’s nothing left. How it’s transmitted is a mystery, and though Vastatio doesn’t seem to be contagious, it’s terminal.

That is why I’m in this room, waiting for these men to tell us what they’re offering. And what it’ll cost.

“We should hurry. Father will be waiting.” Shemaiah tucks away his pocket watch before turning his attention to us. “May we sit?”

“We think you should just spit it out,” Fiona says, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s from my floor, and probably the one I know the best here. I’ve always appreciated her blunt way of cutting to the chase. We don’t have time for more.

Anna, Kay, and Celeste lean forward, but I keep my back straight, waiting for Shemaiah’s response.

He presses his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose as if he’s loath to be here.

“What’s this all about?” Anna presses. “Do you have a… cure?” Her voice wavers on the last word like an undulating candle flame in a breeze.

“We’re offering the possibility of one,” Shemaiah says.

“What does that mean?” I shift positions, trying to get comfortable on the hard chair.