The Vault of Dreamers by Caragh M. O'brien Read Free Book Online Page A

INFIRMARY
    THE INFIRMARY WAS an older, ivy-covered building with shiny wooden floors and a clock on the mantel.
     No one was manning the receptionist’s desk, but I could hear voices down the hall.
     I stood patiently, noting the retro phone next to the computer, and a few of the usual
     camera buttons inconspicuously mounted on the window frames of the waiting area.
    “Hello?” I called.
    No one answered.
    I wondered how long it would take someone to react if I started down the hallway,
     so I did. I wasn’t exactly sneaking around if thousands of viewers knew where I was.
    The first door showed an empty bedroom with a high ceiling and a heavy, old-fashioned
     radiator. In the next two rooms, I heard voices and I glimpsed patients lying half-concealed
     behind curtains. The next door was ajar, and a familiar voice came from inside. I
     tapped to announce myself.
    “Hello?” I asked, and pushed the door open.
    Books crammed shelves from ceiling to floor, and a red cardigan was draped over the
     back of a desk chair. I paused on the threshold, inhaling a trace of perfume. An old
     desk piled with papers was tucked between two tall windows. When the voice came again,
     I recognized the woman who had been in my dorm the night before, but she wasn’t in
     the room. The sound came from the computer, from a speaker. Linus’s voice came next.
    “Once before,” he said. “Same eye.”
    “And how did that happen?” asked the woman. The doctor.
    “Same way.”
    I was eavesdropping, wicked little me. The computer had to be wired to a microphone
     system in the building, apart from The Forge Show , because Linus wasn’t a student on the show. I looked over my shoulder, but the hallway
     was still empty. A camera on the hallway ceiling was aimed toward me, but inside the
     office, I couldn’t see any.
    “A fight? When was this?” asked the doctor.
    “Three years ago, in St. Louis,” Linus said.
    “You could have mentioned it.”
    “I didn’t see that it would make any difference,” Linus said.
    “When I think I know everything about a patient and then it turns out I don’t, it’s
     disconcerting,” she said. “You don’t want to go around collecting hyphemas. Your eye
     hasn’t given you any trouble since that time?”
    “No.”
    I gave the door another nudge and took a step in. A large screen covered most of the
     third wall. It was divided into a grid much like the viewing setup of The Forge Show , but the squares did not show live feeds. Instead, they were filled with pictures:
     a brown castle teetering as it melted into the sea, a green caterpillar eating a sky
     scraper, a blindfolded child with red curls standing on top of a Ferris wheel. A dozen
     fantastic, impossible images created a kaleidoscope of color.
    “How long has it been since Otis tapped you?” the doctor asked.
    “What’s that have to do with my eye?” Linus said.
    “Just answer me.”
    “Only two weeks,” he said. “I’m not due again for a month.”
    “And you’re not selling your blood to anyone else?”
    “No.”
    “Linus,” she said gently. “You don’t have to let them tap you. You know that, right?
     I’m sorry for Parker, but I can’t see that it’s making any difference for him. I’ve
     told Otis that many times.”
    “Are we done here?”
    “We’re not,” she said. “Hold on. I’ll be back in five minutes. Here, tip your head
     back again. Right.”
    The conversation puzzled me. It sounded like Linus was selling his blood to someone
     who was getting no benefit from it, and Otis, the cameraman from the tower, was involved.
     Waiting to hear more, I peered again at the grid of pictures. One was a black-and-white
     Hamlet in a red scarf. The next showed a black boy who looked like a younger Burnham.
     He was sitting by a campfire, staring into the flames.
    A voice startled me from behind.
    “For goodness’s sake. What are you doing here?” she said.
    I spun to see the dark-haired woman who had tended