Title Page

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Dedication

In memory of my father,

Gary Lyle Richardson (1945–2015).

You were weird and wonderful, and I’m glad you were able to read an early draft of this before you rejoined the Cycle.

Epigraph

False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

—William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Prologue: Taema

PROLOGUE

TAEMA

San Francisco, California

This is the first time I have ever been alone.

The first time I have ever woken up to silence and emptiness next to me. The only sounds in the room are the beeping of the heart monitor and my own labored breathing.

It isn’t supposed to be like this.

Groggy from the medicine, I raise my hand to hover over the hot wound, throbbing even through the pain of the IV. It is the first time my hand has been able to linger three inches above my own chest. Below my shaking fingers is the deep cut that will heal into a thin seam from just below my collarbone to right above my navel. Beneath the newly grafted skin and reconstructed breasts is a titanium sternum—bulletproof, so they say—and half of my ribs are made of the same substance. Below that metal sternum is my new, false heart. The old heart is gone, cut out and replaced with an upgraded model that will never tire. I can almost imagine I can hear its mechanical ticking.

This is the first time I’ve ever been lonely.

The doorknob to the recovery room turns. My automated heartbeat doesn’t quicken, though the old, fleshy one would have. I still feel the thrum of adrenaline. The door opens, and for the first time, I see my own, moving reflection. My full mirror image. The same brown skin, the mane of curly hair. The same long nose and dark eyes, features hollowed in fear and pain. My twin, Tila.

Are my knees that knobby? I ask myself, almost laughing from the ridiculousness of the thought. The drugs still rush through my system, and everything is dreamily gold-tinged.