The Ivory Tower Read online



  The Ivory Tower

  Kirstin Pulioff

  The Ivory Tower

  Copyright © 2013 Kirstin Pulioff

  Cover Copyright © 2014 Amber Covers

  Edited by Magpie Editorial Services

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than which is published. Your purchase allows you one legal copy of this work for your own personal use. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of the author. This book cannot be reproduced, copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload, or for a fee.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental.

  www.kirstinpulioff.com

  THE IVORY TOWER

  I stopped counting and opened my eyes. Silence magnified the shuffling of leaves and the harsh caw of the crows.

  “Ready or not, here I come,” I boomed, assessing the empty forest around me. Nothing stood out in the overgrown underbrush: I saw only variegated shades of green, splashed with the occasional bright red dots of salmonberries. After a quick glance down at my olive green leggings, worn thin around the knees, and the scratchy burlap tunic, I smiled. I blended into the forest perfectly, a ghost among the neglected trees. With a quick crack of my fingers and a tug on my ponytail, I began.

  “You’d better have a good hiding spot this time,” I taunted, hobbling away from my starting point. One step in, and Christine already had an advantage. I leaned against the nearest tree, and shook out my left boot, watching small pebbles pour out. The tattered shoes matched my flimsy clothes, and I knew that wouldn’t be the last advantage my friend got.

  Soft strands of sunlight fell on me through the partially cleared canopy, warning of winter’s quick advance. The cold season’s bitter winds wreaked havoc on our camp, but here in the forest, scattered leaves painted the floor in a mosaic of colors. Discarded leaves from the maple trees crunched beneath me as I began my search. I quickly altered my steps, slipping my toes beneath the curled tips of the leaves, minimizing the noise as I ran.

  I had learned small nuances like that over the years. Looking at the leaves falling around me, I also knew that even though fall had just begun, a harsh winter would be close behind, restricting us to center camp. Today would be one of our last trips out here for the season, if not longer.

  Maybe that’s why I slowed my steps, letting the game play out moments longer than usual. Whenever Christine hid, a game over quickly followed. But not today. Not when the brief splashes of sun through the trees warmed my arms. I wanted to push the limits and extend the game, even if it meant losing a bit of my pride.

  It was the only thing I really had, and was rarely freely given. In fact, the only times I did lose were on occasions like this, when something more enticing dangled in front of me—in this case, a fond memory to warm me through the bitter cold months. I would do almost anything for a respite for those long months. Even lose.

  Not obviously lose, though; no one appreciated pity. Technique was involved. I slowed my steps, pretending to miss the broken branches marking the edges of the game trails, and hid my smile at the running blur around the edge of my vision. I could lose, but not big enough for Christine to sense the deception. That would devastate her, and devastating her would ruin me.

  Manipulation was commonplace for me in the orphanage, but I had learned early on that it didn’t work on her. She followed rules to a tee, priding herself on honesty and integrity, and held me to the same unrealistic standards. We didn’t have much but our word, she cautioned. So I became good at pretending. So good that sometimes Mrs. Booker, the orphanage caretaker, shot strange looks at me in the evenings if I forgot to drop the act. Just like Christine, Mrs. Booker had an ability to sense the manipulation, only she called it bullshit, and slapped it out of me if it lasted too long. It had happened so many times though that now I referred to them as love taps. And Mrs. Booker sure loved me.

  This time I didn’t have to fake too much. My scrappy leather boots needed repair, and even though I had already dumped a pile of pebbles, new rocks took their place. Sharper rocks jabbed my feet as I climbed through the woody debris. I pressed on, tucking my hands into the cuffs of my sleeves. The further into the forest I went, the darker and more oppressive the weather turned.

  “Come out, come out,” I teased, cursing silently that my breath showed. If Christine saw that, she’d jump out of her hiding spot, common sense getting the better of her. I felt the end of the game encroach. It was the same here as in camp; things I had no control over dictated my moves.

  Every day that lack of control grew, tightening around my neck like a noose, suffocating me before I even knew what was coming. That noose had a name, though, and the closer it came to winter, the more frequently it tugged against me. The factory. Women disappeared inside the large, oppressive building at the edge of camp, only to be spat out at night, worn and tired. With both of us now aged sixteen, our time had come. And even though I had become a pro at skipping school, the factory was different. Only a lucky few had been able to escape the clutches of the factory. Promoted out, they called it. I wasn’t the promotion type. I had to enjoy these last gasps of freedom.

  I ignored my clouding breath and trudged forward, hoping my enthusiasm would keep Christine from bailing too soon. We had played this game for years, revising it as we went along for higher stakes. This time, everything was laid on the line, much more than a pouch of paint or pride.

  “You can’t hide forever,” I goaded, my smile reaching through my words. I slid gracefully through the game trails, mimicking the smooth movements of the deer, weaving neatly between brambles, dormant hives, and traps. In my haste, I missed the darker patches of mud, and gasped as the cold muck slipped through the hole in the bottom of my boots. Cold mud sloshed through my boot, sending shivers down my spine. I jerked my head up at the surprising misstep, and caught her gaze. Fear flashed in her eyes before she turned and became a blur of red at the edge of my vision.

  I had caught her. My fingers deftly unclasped the steel container tied to my belt as I kept a watchful eye on the swaying branches in the distance. Carefully pulling out a small bag, I smiled and rolled the golden coagulated paint in its plastic pouch. I tossed the package between hands, careful not to squeeze it too hard.

  Training my ears to the forest, I heard the trampling of bushes, skittering of animals, and a loud thump as she fell. I smiled. Christine had been my friend for years, and despite her natural grace, she lost all delicacy at the first sign of danger.

  Slow and deliberate, my steps announced my approach. I couldn’t stretch it any longer. The air filled with the crunching of leaves, shuffling of rocks, and cawing of the crows. Then I sped up. Over the rocks, and around the trunks, my mind hummed with triumph, my heart beating a tempo for the victory song. Shades of green blurred as I narrowed in on my target.

  Belly down on the ground, Christine looked up from beneath a crumpled cranberry sweater covered with broken branches and patches of dirt. A pang of guilt touched me as I lobbed the ball of paint. It didn’t last long.

  “Got you!” I exclaimed. The bag popped, and gold paint coated Christine’s back. Her cranberry sweater resembled corroded rust, and small dots of yellow speckl
ed her tangled auburn hair.

  I jumped down, half expecting to be ambushed. Nothing happened. I tilted my head, questioning the silence. “Christine?” I asked, poking her from behind.

  Christine slowly twisted around, her blue eyes wide in terror.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” I creaked, scanning the forest.

  Christine’s jaw trembled. Pushing herself up, she pointed back into the woods.

  Nothing seemed odd or out of place. I took a quick inventory of our surroundings—the grayish-brown bark of the old cedar trees, spindly trunks of the maples, bright berries, and a white trunk. My gaze immediately jumped back to the white. I looked up slowly, following the white trunk until the details grew, and the recognition unfurled.

  “The ivory tower,” I breathed.

  “We have to go,” Christine whispered behind me.

  I froze, barely feeling her insistent tugging on the cuff of my shirt.

  I had never been this close to the edge of camp before. We had run the small stretch of woods in the back of the camp near the orphanage cabin for years, but never ventured to the outer boundaries. I focused on the barbed wire camouflaged into the stacked brambles and woody debris. Rust and moss grew around the sharp teeth of the corroded metal. And beyond it, what I’d taken for a white trunk revealed itself as the brick base of a tower.

  The skillful, tidy stacks of bricks had worn over the years. White paint flecked off the sides. The dilapidated mortar left exposed gaps and piles at the base. At the top, the tower widened. A row of shattered windows looked out behind them, toward the camp. Squinting, I glimpsed writing on the dangling threshold marker. Faded charcoal letters described the tower with one word.

  “Restricted,” I whispered, my breath clouding the air. Christine’s cold fingers pulled against my sweater as I moved closer.

  “Simone, this isn’t safe,” she urged, pulling more insistently. “We shouldn’t be this close to the edge.” Christine’s words fell on deaf ears. I was captivated.

  She tugged again, drawing me away from the discovery. Twisting around, I shot her an annoyed look and brushed the bangs out of my eyes. “What?” I demanded.

  “I want to go,” she said, tears brimming at the edge of her eyes.

  I looked at my friend, obviously afraid, and back to the tower, searing the image into my mind. A new sensation gripped me, a seductive blend of fear and curiosity. In sixteen years here at camp, I had never felt that rush. I didn’t want it to end.

  “Simone,” she insisted.

  I relented with a sigh, feeling the lure of the tower break.