Reg tipped his face toward the sun. “Perhaps this punishment will have its silver linings.”

More like golden, green, and gorgeous purple linings. I pressed a hand to the window as if I could reach out and touch the wildflowers. I wondered what they smelled like. I actually sniffed the air, but the scent that reached my nose was definitely not floral.

I turned away from the colors outside the window and wrinkled my nose at Reg.

“Is this what you smell like now? Oh God.” I lifted my shirt to my nose and took a whiff. “Is this what I smell like?” But the aroma wasn’t coming off us, and once I realized it wasn’t human, it wasn’t half bad.

Reg laughed. “It’s food.”

Food. Of course. But what food? Why didn’t I recognize it?

I sniffed the air again. “It’s . . . different.”

“I suppose a new kind of nourishment shall take some getting used to,” Reg said.

“Oh, shall it?” I parroted. “You suppose? If we have to do this, try to at least talk like you belong in this century. You sound ancient.”

“I feel ancient.”

“You’re barely one hundred. Ancients are at least a thousand.” I moved to push past him and stopped, startled by a thought. “Wait, Reg, how old are we? I mean, how old will we be now?”

He cocked his head, thinking. “Hm. Sixteen, maybe?”

“Maybe?!” I sucked in a breath. “We can’t not know how old we are. And can we really be the same age?

“Calm down,” Reg said in his bored, Charlie is panicking for nothing voice.

“No, we are completely unprepared for this,” I raged on. “It’s cruel. It’s cruel and unusual punishment, and we have no idea what’s next.”

Reg smiled. “Next is breakfast.”

As he said the word, a fresh wave of that aroma rolled into the room, and my stomach responded with a disgusting noise like it was popping bubbles.

We followed our noses into an airy kitchen made entirely of wood and stone. Every surface was polished and sparkling in the sun that poured in from two walls of windows. It may have been a simple cottage, but at least it was clean.

As if reading my thoughts, the old man spoke from where he was hunched over a stove.

“A little more shiny than shack, don’t ya think?”

I sneered at his back in response and yanked an intricately carved wooden chair out from the gleaming table at the center of the kitchen.

“Careful with that,” the old man said, turning around with a heavy skillet. “Made it myself.”

I fingered the edge of the chair, feeling the carefully made ripples and ridges. It was impressive—something we would have paid high dollar for in our former lives.

“The chairs are spectacular,” Reg said, selecting his own seat and handling it with the utmost care.