Anew: Book One: Awakened by Josie Litton Page A

to make other
arrangements for her. But the instant that crosses my mind a rush of fierce
possessiveness burns it away. However all this happened, she is mine and she is
damn well going to stay that way. I’ll just have to make sure that I keep her
safe, including from the darker aspects of my own nature.
    I go back to work. It’s been my
salvation since I was old enough to figure out what I’m good at. In the hours
that follow, I consider a range of projects that will further strengthen my
company’s position in a world where no amount of technological progress seems
able to stop the endless struggles for power and resources.
    Fortunately, that seemingly
unchangeable fact of human nature creates opportunities for those ruthless
enough to seize them. I may even manage to do some good along the way.
    I lose track of the passing
hours and scarcely notice when morning comes. I’m on a video call with Shanghai
when Hodgkin appears.
    He stands at the door of the
library and says, “I thought you should know, sir. Miss Amelia is awake but she
declined breakfast. I believe she has gone to the studio.”
    The studio, not the music room?
I take that to mean she is continuing her efforts to discover what Susannah
gave to her. But she isn’t eating. That won’t do.
    “Thank you, Hodgkin. I’ll check
on her.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    I delay a few minutes because I
don’t want to admit to myself how urgently I need to see her. But the sun has
barely edged over the red-tiled roofs of the palazzo when I cross the garden to
the wing where the studio is located.
    The room was designed to
resemble the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, a long rectangular space with a
high, frescoed ceiling, polished parquet floors and a mirrored wall looking out
over the gardens. As I near it, I hear the soft thud of feet.
    Amelia is dancing. She’s wearing
a pale pink leotard and white tights that together hug almost every delectable
inch of her. Her hair is wound into a bun pinned at the back of her long,
slender neck. Every movement she makes is graceful, ethereal, perfect. She
looks intent and--I am infinitely glad to note--not in the least sad.
    I step back from the door,
unwilling to disturb her but I stay where I can see her reflection clearly. As
she spins into a series of quick rotations that carry her part-way down the
length of the studio, I am held spellbound.
    I’m sufficiently well versed in
full contact martial arts and lethal hand-to-hand combat to have at least some
understanding of what it takes to get a human body to move with such discipline
and agility. Yet she makes that appear effortless. When she comes out of the
last spin, her eyes are wide with discovery and she is smiling.
    Guided by an inner rhythm that I
can’t hear, she moves into another series of steps, supporting herself on one
leg while the other rises straight from her hip, extending over her head, and
down again, two quick steps and the other leg rises in the same lithe, elegant
motion that appears to defy gravity. Watching her, I notice for the first time
that she is dancing en pointe , all of her weight resting on the tips of
her toe shoes.
    Even as I’m marveling at how she
is able to do that, she gathers herself, takes several quick gliding steps and
leaps into the air. Her torso and arms are flawlessly poised, her legs extended
in a perfect split. She sails an impossibly great height above the floor and a
similar distance across it in seeming defiance of gravity.
    Returning to earth as lightly as
thistledown, she looks exhilarated but a moment later, her face contorts in
pain and she suddenly crumbles. To my horrified eyes, she resembles a wounded
bird torn from the sky.
    I’m at her side instantly,
gathering her into my arms. “What’s wrong? Tell me!”
    To my great relief, she doesn’t
question my presence but says only, “My leg…cramp-- aaaah !” Her hand
flutters to her right calf where I can see muscles contracting in what must be
agonizing