“Yes, I share your misgivings, Miss Slate,” Epistola droned. “Such a garment is manufactured to be worn by those of post-pubescence. It is our misfortune that we must make do with you. You too have been placed in ceremonial garb. As have we all.”

She gestured grandly to the shadowy figures around her. As one, they stepped a pace closer. They were covered from the chin down, making Epistola’s comparison somewhat specious, but their faces had become visible. I was still fuzzy from getting knocked out, but I could see they were all young and male. Each of them wore a blank, dumb expression beneath the heavy hood. Each set of eyes was locked unwaveringly upon her.

And then, among them, I saw Vik. The memory of the horrendous projection I’d watched in Neil’s shop slammed into me like getting hit by a truck. With a sinking feeling, it also occurred to me that someone had to have changed my clothes. Seen me naked. For a moment I didn’t know whether to puke or be comforted by the thought that it at least might have been Vik.

Epistola followed my gaze, and licked her lips. “Oh, yes. My precious Vivek.” She sashayed her way over and leaned up against him sultrily. Throwing back his hood, she caressed his face, her vibrantly mocking eyes never leaving mine. Meanwhile, the dull eyes of the robed men never left her. Vik’s eyes never left her.

“Vivek is my favorite, you know. My spicy little samosa. We’ve taught each other so much. He is a man now.” She winked at me before turning to kiss him sloppily, expansively. Her fingers curled through his hair, moved over his chest. But then, his fingers were in her hair, moving hungrily over her body. I could hear them panting, pawing, squelching. Though I’d seen a similar performance on the screen, it was considerably more painful in person.

“Vik, no!” I screamed. The tears I’d been restraining finally escaped to pour down my face. “This isn’t you, it isn’t, it isn’t you!”

“No?” said Vik, and I was so surprised that I gasped. He was glaring at me with great intensity, momentarily seeming to forget the half-dressed bag of compromised morals hanging off him. He disentangled himself from her, and strode forward until we were face to face. He was all clenched muscle and coiled tension, the fury in his expression twisting him into something unrecognizable. “Is it so hard to believe that after years of watching you with eyes for no other, receiving in return nothing but… but…”

He sputtered for a moment, unable to find the word.

“Scorn?” Epistola suggested behind him.