Page 33 of Winterveil

“I have a feeling this isn’t going to be a peaceful stroll,” Giselle said, through gritted teeth.

“That depends on you, doesn’t it?” Professor Blanchard cocked his head. “Now, please recall a memory from your childhood. Something prior to the age of five.”

Prior to the age of five? Giselle scowled. “How exactly is it going to help the war effort to have me remember playing with Barbies or learning how to ride a bike?”

“Just do it,” Professor Blanchard said, and there was an edge of impatience to his voice.

Still scowling, Giselle leaned forward in her seat. Bracing her elbows on the desk, she allowed the memory to slip into the forefront of her mind.

It was a happy one. Before her father had left for good, he had taught her to fish in the nearby river. His hand glided gently over hers as he positioned her fingers around the pole. Mostly Giselle resembled her mother, but she had her father’s soft, wide blue eyes. She remembered how they had looked down on her with a tender sort of pride.

Not a month later he was gone, without even a kiss goodbye. Sadness crept in, graying out the corners of the memory. Giselle tried to push it out of her mind. Think of something else, anything else. . . .

“Stop,” Professor Blanchard said sharply.

Giselle flinched. “Stop what?”

“Keep your mind on the same memory. Don’t repress it.”

How did he even know what she was doing? The nodes on her temples had grown almost painfully warm. She squeezed her eyes shut, summoning the memory again. Daddy, her own baby voice echoed. I want to try it myself, let me try.

The images rolled over her in waves. Her head slipped underwater as the moments passed agonizingly. And then, at last, Professor Blanchard said, “That’s enough.”

Giselle surfaced from the memory with a gasp. “What’s the point of this?”

Professor Blanchard ignored the question, tapping his tablet. “An-other memory now, please. Something from between age five to present.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“This is what you’re here for, Giselle. Another memory, please. Now.”

Her jaw clenched. She tried to think of something unequivocally happy, something light, but what kept returning to her was that night. The sky a deep, glossy blue, without stars. The asphalt on the road slick and gleaming. Her white tennis shoes streaked with mud.

“No,” she managed—though Giselle wasn’t sure if she had vocalized at all. “I’m not doing this. I can’t—”

But now the memory was playing on its own, against her will. Giselle covered her face with her hands and pressed her fists against her forehead, hard. Almost hard enough to dislodge the nodes. She peeked through the gaps in her fingers and saw Professor Blanchard, staring unblinkingly down at his tablet. There was the faintest flicker of pleasure in his eyes.

“That’s enough,” he said a moment later, lifting his gaze. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Giselle let her hands drop. “That’s it?”

“For now,” Professor Blanchard said. “You did well.”

Her throat felt raw. She blinked back tears.

“However,” he went on, “we have now reached the point in our work where we cannot continue alone.”

Immediately, Giselle tensed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, “that Dr. Iver has generously provided me with another test subject.” Before she could say a word, he set his tablet down and strode toward the door. He flung it open in a theatrical way. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Karam.”

And Giselle’s heart skipped a beat as Nadiya stepped into the room.

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