“Yes. Her name is Emma. You could learn a lot from her. We’re very proud of her progress.” Sheridan stepped out of the room, so apparently we weren’t lingering. “Come on—you can meet her now. And the others.”

A hallway branching off of this one took us past what looked like empty classrooms. As we headed toward the corridor’s end, I became aware of something my dulled senses hadn’t experienced in a while: the scent of food. Real food. Sheridan was taking us to a cafeteria. Hunger I hadn’t even known I possessed reared up in my stomach with an almost painful lurch. I’d adapted to my meager prison diet so much that I’d taken my body’s deprived state as normal. Only now did I realize how much I craved something that wasn’t lukewarm cereal.

The cafeteria, such as it was, was only a fraction of the size of Amberwood’s. It had five tables, three of which were occupied with people in tan scrubs identical to mine. These, it seemed, were my fellow prisoners, all with golden lilies. There were twelve of them, which I supposed made me lucky thirteen. I wondered what Sheridan would think of that. The other detainees were of mixed age, gender, and race, though I was willing to bet all were American. In some prisons, making you feel like an outsider was part of the process. Since this one’s goal was to bring us back to the fold, they would most likely put us with those of shared culture and language—those we could aspire to be like if we only tried hard enough. Watching them, I wondered what their stories were, if any of them might be allies.

“That’s Baxter,” said Sheridan, nodding toward a stern-faced man in white. He stood in a window that overlooked the dining area and was presumably where the food came from. “His food is delicious. I know you’re going to love it. And that’s Addison. She oversees lunchtime and your art class.”

It would not have been clear to me that Addison was a “she,” if not for that introduction. She was in her late forties or early fifties, wearing a suit just as prim if less stylish than Sheridan’s, and was stationed against the side wall with sharp eyes. She kept her hair shaved close to her head and had a hard-angled face that seemed at odds with the fact that she was chewing gum. The golden lily was her only ornamentation. She was pretty much the last person I would’ve expected for an art teacher, which in turn led to another realization.

“I have an art class?”

“Yes, of course,” said Sheridan. “Creativity is very therapeutic for healing the soul.”

There’d been a very soft murmur of conversation when we’d entered, one that had come to a complete stop when the others had noticed us. All eyes, detainees and their supervisors alike, swiveled in my direction. And none of them looked friendly.

Sheridan cleared her throat, like we weren’t already the center of attention. “Everyone? We have a new guest I’d like to introduce you to. This is Sydney. Sydney has just come from her reflection time and is eager to join the rest of you on your journeys to purification.”

It took me a second to realize “reflection time” must be what they called my solitary confinement in the dark.

“I know it will be difficult for you to accept her,” Sheridan continued sweetly. “And I don’t blame you. Not only is she still very, very shrouded in darkness, but she has been tainted in the most unholy of ways: through intimate and romantic contact with vampires. I understand if you don’t want to interact with her and risk that taint yourselves, but I hope you’ll at least keep her in your prayers.”

Sheridan turned that mechanical smile on me. “I’ll see you later for communion time.”

I’d been nervous and uneasy since getting out of my cell, but as she turned to leave, panic and fear of a new sort hit me. “Wait. What am I supposed to do?”

“Eat, of course.” She looked me over from head to toe. “Unless you’re worried about your weight. It’s up to you.”

She left me there in the silent cafeteria, with all those eyes staring. I’d stepped out of one hell and into another. I’d never felt so self-conscious in my life, put on display for these strangers and having my secrets revealed. Frantically, I tried to think of a course of action. Anything to get me away from the stares and one step closer to getting out of here and back to Adrian. Eat, Sheridan had said. How did I go about that? This wasn’t like at Amberwood, where the front office assigned veteran students to help new ones. In fact, Sheridan had gone out of her way to all but discourage them from helping me. It was a brilliant tactic, I supposed, one meant to make me desperately try for the others’ approval and perhaps see someone like Sheridan as my only “friend.”

Thinking through the psychology of the Alchemists calmed me down. Logic and figuring out puzzles were things I could deal with. Okay. If they wanted me to fend for myself, so be it. I looked away from the other detainees and walked steadily up to the window, where chef Baxter still wore a grimace. I stood in front of him expectantly, hoping that would be enough. It wasn’t.

“Um, excuse me,” I said softly. “May I have . . .” What meal had Sheridan said this was? I’d lost all track of time in solitary. “. . . some lunch?”

He grunted by way of response and turned away, doing something out of my sight. When he came back to me, he handed over a modestly filled tray.

“Thank you,” I said, taking it from him. As I did, my hand lightly brushed one of his gloved ones. He exclaimed in surprise, and a look of distaste crossed his features. Gingerly, he removed the glove I’d touched, threw it away, and replaced it with a new one.

I gaped for a few moments in surprise and then turned away with my tray. I didn’t even attempt to engage with the others and instead sat down at one of the empty tables. Many of them continued staring at me, but some resumed their meals and whisperings. I tried not to think about if they were talking about me and instead focused on my meal. There was a small portion of spaghetti with red sauce that looked like it had come from a can, a banana, and a pint of 2 percent milk. Before coming here, I would never have touched any of it in my daily life. I would’ve lectured on the fat content of the milk and how bananas were one of the highest-sugar fruits. I would’ve questioned the meat quality and preservatives in the red sauce.

All of those hang-ups were gone now. This was food. Real food, not mushy, tasteless cereal. I ate the banana first, barely pausing to breathe, and had to slow myself so I didn’t finish the milk in one gulp. Something told me Baxter didn’t give seconds. I was more cautious with the spaghetti, if only because logic warned me my stomach might not react too well to the abrupt change in diet. My stomach disagreed and wanted me to cram it all in and lick the tray. After what I’d been eating these last few months, that spaghetti tasted like it had come from some gourmet restaurant in Italy. I was saved the temptation of eating it all when soft chimes suddenly sounded five minutes later. Like one person, all the other detainees stood up and carried their trays over to a large bin monitored by Addison. They emptied the trays of remaining food and then stacked them neatly on a nearby cart. I scurried up to do the same and then trailed behind the others as they left the cafeteria.