Skylark by Meagan Spooner Read Free Book Online Page B

make the best out of your time here, and I hope you’ll think of me like a substitute mom for the next few days. I really just want to make this a wonderful time for you.”
    As she spoke, a young woman in the blue coat of an assistant came out from another room bearing a napkin and silverware, which she laid in front of me. My stomach began to growl noisily. I’d tolerate a room full of people talking down to me, for the chance to eat my fill for once.
    “Normally we have four or five children here all together,” said Administrator Gloriette, as I tried to ignore the sting of being described as a child.
    “Over the next two days, you’ll be interviewed and tested. The job assigned here will be yours for the next five years. At the end of this period you’ll be allowed to petition for a reassignment, or in the case of poor performance,” and she gave a sad little smile, “you’ll be reviewed for Adjustment.” I’d noticed the Administrator had a habit of sliding a fingernail along the wire that held her architect’s compass on her collar. She did this now as she let the word “Adjustment” hang in the air. Fiddling with the ornamental tool wasn’t just a nervous habit. It was a subtle but definite reminder of her rank. Somehow, despite her sad tone, I couldn’t imagine her shedding a tear when she ordered an Adjustment.
    “When you’ve finished eating, please come find one of the assistants up here and they’ll help you to your room.” She inclined her head, round face gleaming slightly with perspiration. It was warm in the dining hall, and Gloriette’s body bulged with a lot more insulation than mine.
    As if on that cue, the assistant returned, this time bearing a tray. She set it down in front of me, and all thoughts of the Administrator vanished as I stared.
    It was a tray for one, but it was more food in one place than I’d ever seen before. All of the food that fed the city was grown beyond the Wall, planted and harvested by machines designed to survive the harsh conditions there. Most of what was grown, though, people like me never saw—at least not in recognizable forms. Except on Harvest Day.
    Mountains of food crowded the tray. There was a large bowl of soup, a plate piled high with vegetables, a small dish with bread and—my stomach lurched—margarine. The vegetable oil for margarine was so energy-intensive to make that even those at the Institute didn’t eat it often. The smell wafted up to me, and I dragged my gaze away to look up at Gloriette.
    She laughed, the folds on her face jiggling. “It’s okay, duckling, I’m done. Go ahead and tuck in.”
    I wasted no time. I nearly dove face-first into some smashed potatoes on the side of my plate, drizzled with a vegetable gravy that smelled better than anything I’d ever had in my life. There was a dish of mixed vegetables that I didn’t have names for, green and yellow slices cooked in oil. Soy curd in a brown sauce. Shredded carrots soaked in vinegar. Tamren’s potatoes, fried golden and crispy.
    I tried to taste a little of everything, but each new thing I tried was so good that I found myself stuffing my mouth with as much of it as I could fit. I had never been full before. I found the heaviness in my stomach to be hugely uncomfortable but also strangely satisfying. And I kept eating.
    Gloriette left the room, replaced by a number of assistants in blue coats. I lifted my head to watch them, uneasy at being the only one eating in the big banquet hall. But they came bearing new plates to replace my old ones, and I forgot my discomfort. The new dishes were full of pastry and fried sugar beet stalk, cakes with caramelized syrup drizzled over them, balls of fried dough that had been soaking in sugar water. I saw a neat stack of dark pink wedges and lunged for those. I recognized it as watermelon from pictures in history books, but I was totally unprepared for its taste. Cold, crisp, bursting into delicately sweet juice when I bit into