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DESTROY ME TAHEREH MAFI

Contents

Cover Title Page Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Excerpt from Unravel Me One Two Excerpt from Warner’s Files

Log: Day 1 About the Author Also by Tahereh Mafi Back Ads Copyright About the Publisher

Prologue

I’ve been shot. And, as it turns out, a bullet wound is even more uncomfortable than I had imagined. My skin is cold and clammy; I’m making a herculean effort to breathe. Torture is roaring through my right arm and making it difficult for me to focus. I have to squeeze my eyes shut, grit my teeth, and force myself to pay attention. The chaos is unbearable. Several people are shouting and too many of them are touching me, and I want their hands surgically removed. They keep shouting “Sir!” as if they’re still waiting for me to give them orders, as if they have no idea what to do without my instruction. The realization exhausts me. “Sir, can you hear me?” Another cry. But this time, a voice I don’t detest. “Sir, please, can you hear me—” “I’ve been shot, Delalieu,” I manage to say. I open my eyes. Look into his watery ones. “I haven’t gone deaf.” All at once the noise disappears. The soldiers shut up. Delalieu looks at me. Worried. I sigh. “Take me back,” I tell him, shifting, just a little. The world tilts and steadies all at once. “Alert the medics and have my bed prepared for our arrival. In the meantime, elevate my arm and continue applying direct pressure to the wound. The bullet has broken or fractured something, and this will require surgery.” Delalieu says nothing for just a moment too long.

“Good to see you’re all right, sir.” His voice is a nervous, shaky thing. “Good to see you’re all right.” “That was an order, Lieutenant.” “Of course,” he says quickly, head bowed. “Certainly, sir. How should I direct the soldiers?” “Find her,” I tell him. It’s getting harder for me to speak. I take a small breath and run a shaky hand across my forehead. I’m sweating in an excessive way that isn’t lost on me. “Yes, sir.” He moves to help me up, but I grab his arm. “One last thing.” “Sir?” “Kent,” I say, my voice uneven now. “Make sure they keep him alive for me.” Delalieu looks up, his eyes wide. “Private Adam Kent, sir?” “Yes.” I hold his gaze. “I want to deal with him myself.”

One

Delalieu is standing at the foot of my bed, clipboard in hand. His is my second visit this morning. The first was from my medics, who confirmed that the surgery went well. They said that as long as I stay in bed this week, the new drugs they’ve given me should accelerate my healing process. They also said that I should be fit to resume daily activities fairly soon, but I’ll be required to wear a sling for at least a month. I told them it was an interesting theory. “My slacks, Delalieu.” I’m sitting up, trying to steady my head against the nausea of these new drugs. My right arm is essentially useless to me now. I look up. Delalieu is staring at me, unblinking, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. I stifle a sigh. “What is it?” I use my left arm to steady myself against the mattress and force myself upright. It takes every ounce of energy I have left, and I’m clinging to the bed frame. I wave away Delalieu’s effort to help; I close my eyes against the pain and dizziness. “Tell me what’s happened,” I say to him. “There’s no point in prolonging bad news.”

His voice breaks twice when he says, “Private Adam Kent has escaped, sir.” My eyes flash a bright, dizzying white behind my eyelids. I take a deep breath and attempt to run my good hand through my hair. It’s thick and dry and caked with what must be dirt mixed with my own blood. I’m tempted to punch my remaining fist through the wall. Instead I take a moment to collect myself. I’m suddenly too aware of everything in the air around me, the scents and small noises and footsteps outside my door. I hate these rough cotton pants they’ve put me in. I hate that I’m not wearing socks. I want to shower. I want to change. I want to put a bullet through Adam Kent’s spine. “Leads,” I demand. I move toward my bathroom and wince against the cold air as it hits my skin; I’m still without a shirt. Trying to remain calm. “Tell me you have not brought me this information without leads.” My mind is a warehouse of carefully organized human emotions. I can almost see my brain as it functions, filing thoughts and images away. I lock away the things that do not serve me. I focus only on what needs to be done: the basic components of survival and the myriad things I must manage throughout the day. “Of course,” Delalieu says. The fear in his voice stings me a little; I dismiss it. “Yes, sir,” he says, “we do think we know where he might’ve gone—and we have reason to believe that Private Kent and the—and the girl—well, with Private Kishimoto having run off as well—we have reason to believe that they are all together, sir.” The drawers in my mind are rattling to break open. Memories. Theories. Whispers and sensations. I shove them off a cliff. “Of course you do.” I shake my head. Regret it. Close my eyes against the sudden unsteadiness. “Do not give me information I’ve already deduced for myself,” I manage to say. “I want something concrete. Give me a solid lead, Lieutenant, or leave me until you have one.” “A car,” he says quickly. “A car was reported stolen, sir, and we were able to track it to an unidentified location, but then it disappeared off the map. It’s as if it ceased to exist, sir.” I look up. Give him my full attention. “We followed the tracks it left in our radar,” he says, speaking more calmly now, “and they led us to a stretch of isolated, barren land. But we’ve scoured the area and found nothing.” “This is something, at least.” I rub the back of my neck, fighting the weakness I feel deep in my bones. “I will meet you in the L Room in one hour.” “But sir,” he says, eyes trained on my arm, “you’ll need assistance— there’s a process—you’ll require a convalescent aide—” “You are dismissed.”

He hesitates. Then, “Yes, sir.”

Two

I manage to bathe without losing consciousness. It was more of a sponge bath, but I feel better nonetheless. I have an extremely low threshold for disorder; it offends my very being. I shower regularly. I eat six small meals a day. I dedicate two hours of each day to training and physical exercise. And I detest being barefoot. Now, I find myself standing naked, hungry, tired, and barefoot in my closet. This is not ideal. My closet is separated into various sections. Shirts, ties, slacks, blazers, and boots. Socks, gloves, scarves, and coats. Everything is arranged according to color, then shades within each color. Every article of clothing it contains is meticulously chosen and custom made to fit the exact measurements of my body. I don’t feel like myself until I’m fully dressed; it’s part of who I am and how I begin my day. Now I haven’t the faintest idea how I’m supposed to dress myself. My hand shakes as I reach for the little blue bottle I was given this morning. I place two of the square-shaped pills on my tongue and allow them to dissolve. I’m not sure what they do; I only know they help replenish the blood I’ve lost. So I lean against the wall until my head clears and I feel stronger on my feet. This, such an ordinary task. It wasn’t an obstacle I was anticipating. I put socks on first; a simple pleasure that requires more effort than shooting a man. Briefly, I wonder what the medics must’ve done with my clothes. The clothes, I tell myself, only the clothes; I’m focusing only on the clothes from that day. Nothing else. No other details. Boots. Socks. Slacks. Sweater. My military jacket with its many buttons. The many buttons she ripped open. It’s a small reminder, but it’s enough to spear me. I try to fight it off but it lingers, and the more I try to ignore the memory, it multiplies into a monster that can no longer be contained. I don’t even realize I’ve fallen against the wall until I feel the cold climbing up my skin; I’m breathing too hard and squeezing my eyes shut against the sudden wash of mortification.

I knew she was terrified, horrified, even, but I never thought those feelings were directed toward me. I’d seen her evolve as we spent time together; she seemed more comfortable as the weeks passed. Happier. At ease. I allowed myself to believe she’d seen a future for us; that she wanted to be with me and simply thought it impossible. I’d never suspected that her newfound happiness was a consequence of Kent. I run my good hand down the length of my face; cover my mouth. The things I said to her. A tight breath. The way I touched her. My jaw tenses. If it were nothing but sexual attraction I’m sure I would not suffer such unbearable humiliation. But I wanted so much more than her body. All at once I implore my mind to imagine nothing but walls. Walls. White walls. Blocks of concrete. Empty rooms. Open space. I build walls until they begin to crumble, and then I force another set to take their place. I build and build and remain unmoving until my mind is clear, uncontaminated, containing nothing but a small white room. A single light hanging from the ceiling. Clean. Pristine. Undisturbed. I blink back the flood of disaster pressing against the small world I’ve built; I swallow hard against the fear creeping up my throat. I push the walls back, making more space in the room until I can finally breathe. Until I’m able to stand. Sometimes I wish I could step outside of myself for a while. I want to leave this worn body behind, but my chains are too many, my weights too heavy. This life is all that’s left of me. And I know I won’t be able to meet myself in the mirror for the rest of the day. I’m suddenly disgusted with myself. I have to get out of this room as soon as possible, or my own thoughts will wage war against me. I make a hasty decision and for the first time, pay little attention to what I’m wearing. I tug on a fresh pair of pants and go without a shirt. I slip my good arm into the sleeve of a blazer and allow the other shoulder to drape over the sling carrying my injured arm. I look ridiculous, exposed like this, but I’ll find a solution tomorrow. First, I have to get out of this room.

Three

Delalieu is the only person here who does not hate me. He still spends the majority of his time in my presence cowering in fear, but somehow he has no interest in overthrowing my position. I can feel it, though I don’t understand it. He’s likely the only person in this building who’s pleased that I’m not dead. I hold up a hand to keep away the soldiers who rush forward as I open my door. It takes an intense amount of concentration to keep my fingers from shaking as I wipe the slight sheen of perspiration off my forehead, but I will not allow myself a moment of weakness. These men do not fear for my safety; they only want a closer look at the spectacle I’ve become. They want a first look at the cracks in my sanity. But I have no wish to be wondered at. My job is to lead. I’ve been shot; it will not be fatal. There are things to be managed; I will manage them. This wound will be forgotten. Her name will not be spoken. My fingers clench and unclench as I make my way toward the L Room. I never before realized just how long these corridors are and just how many soldiers line the halls. There’s no reprieve from their curious stares and their disappointment that I did not die. I don’t even have to look at them to know what they’re thinking. But knowing how they feel only makes me more determined to live a very long life. I will give no one the satisfaction of my death. “No.” I wave away the tea and coffee service for the fourth time. “I do not drink caffeine, Delalieu. Why do you always insist on having it served at my meals?” “I suppose I always hope you will change your mind, sir.” I look up. Delalieu is smiling that strange, shaky smile. And I’m not entirely certain, but I think he’s just made a joke. “Why?” I reach for a slice of bread. “I am perfectly capable of keeping my eyes open. Only an idiot would rely on the energy of a bean or a leaf to stay awake throughout the day.” Delalieu is no longer smiling. “Yes,” he says. “Certainly, sir.” And stares down at his food. I watch as his fingers push away the coffee cup. I drop the bread back onto my plate. “My opinions,” I say to him, quietly this time, “should not so easily break your own. Stand by your convictions. Form clear and logical arguments. Even if I disagree.” “Of course, sir,” he whispers. He says nothing for a few seconds. But then I see him reach for his coffee again. Delalieu. He, I think, is my only course for conversation.

He was originally assigned to this sector by my father, and has since been ordered to remain here until he’s no longer able. And though he’s likely forty-five years my senior, he insists on remaining directly below me. I’ve known Delalieu’s face since I was a child; I used to see him around our house, sitting in on the many meetings that took place in the years before The Reestablishment took over. There was an endless supply of meetings in my house. My father was always planning things, leading discussions and whispered conversations I was never allowed to be a part of. The men of those meetings are running this world now, so when I look at Delalieu I can’t help but wonder why he never aspired to more. He was a part of this regime from the very beginning, but somehow seems content to die just as he is now. He chooses to remain subservient, even when I give him opportunities to speak up; he refuses to be promoted, even when I offer him higher pay. And while I appreciate his loyalty, his dedication unnerves me. He does not seem to wish for more than what he has. I should not trust him. And yet, I do. But I’ve begun to lose my mind for a lack of companionable conversation. I cannot maintain anything but a cool distance from my soldiers, not only because they all wish to see me dead, but also because I have a responsibility as their leader to make unbiased decisions. I have sentenced myself to a life of solitude, one wherein I have no peers, and no mind but my own to live in. I looked to build myself as a feared leader, and I’ve succeeded; no one will question my authority or posit a contrary opinion. No one will speak to me as anything but the chief commander and regent of Sector 45. Friendship is not a thing I have ever experienced. Not as a child, and not as I am now. Except. One month ago, I met the exception to this rule. There has been one person who’s ever looked me directly in the eye. The same person who’s spoken to me with no filter; someone who’s been unafraid to show anger and real, raw feeling in my presence; the only one who’s ever dared to challenge me, to raise her voice to me— I squeeze my eyes shut for what feels like the tenth time today. I unclench my fist around this fork, drop it to the table. My arm has begun to throb again, and I reach for the pills tucked away in my pocket. “You shouldn’t take more than eight of those within a twenty-four-hour period, sir.” I open the cap and toss three more into my mouth. I really wish my hands would stop shaking. My muscles feel too tight, too tense. Stretched thin. I don’t wait for the pills to dissolve. I bite down on them, crunching against their bitterness. There’s something about the foul, metallic taste that helps me focus. “Tell me about Kent.”

Delalieu knocks over his coffee cup. The dining aides have left the room at my request; Delalieu receives no assistance as he scrambles to clean up the mess. I sit back in my chair, staring at the wall just behind him, mentally tallying up the minutes I’ve lost today. “Leave the coffee.” “I—yes, of course, sorry, sir—” “Stop.” Delalieu drops the sopping napkins. His hands are frozen in place, hovering over his plate. “Speak.” I watch his throat move as he swallows, hesitates. “We don’t know, sir,” he whispers. “The building should’ve been impossible to find, much less to enter. It’d been bolted and rusted shut. But when we found it,” he says, “when we found it, it was . . . the door had been destroyed. And we’re not sure how they managed it.” I sit up. “What do you mean, destroyed?” He shakes his head. “It was . . . very odd, sir. The door had been . . . mangled. As if some kind of animal had clawed through it. There was only a gaping, ragged hole in the middle of the frame.” I stand up entirely too fast, gripping the table for support. I’m breathless at the thought of it, at the possibility of what must’ve happened. And I can’t help but allow myself the painful pleasure of recalling her name once more, because I know it must’ve been her. She must’ve done something extraordinary, and I wasn’t even there to witness it. “Call for transport,” I tell him. “I will meet you in the Quadrant in exactly ten minutes.” “Sir?” I’m already out the door.

Four

Clawed through the middle. Just like an animal. It’s true. To an unsuspecting observer it would be the only explanation, but even then it wouldn’t make any sense. No animal alive could claw through this many inches of reinforced steel without amputating its own limbs. And she is not an animal.

She is a soft, deadly creature. Kind and timid and terrifying. She’s completely out of control and has no idea what she’s capable of. And even though she hates me, I can’t help but be fascinated by her. I’m enchanted by her pretend-innocence; jealous, even, of the power she wields so unwittingly. I want so much to be a part of her world. I want to know what it’s like to be in her mind, to feel what she feels. It seems a tremendous weight to carry. And now she’s out there, somewhere, unleashed on society. What a beautiful disaster. I run my fingers along the jagged edges of the hole, careful not to cut myself. There’s no design to it, no premeditation. Only an anguished fervor so readily apparent in the chaotic ripping-apart of this door. I can’t help but wonder if she knew what she was doing when this happened, or if it was just as unexpected to her as it was the day she broke through that concrete wall to get to me. I have to stifle a smile. I wonder how she must remember that day. Every soldier I’ve worked with has walked into a simulation knowing exactly what to expect, but I purposely kept those details from her. I thought the experience should be as undiluted as possible; I hoped the spare, realistic elements would lend authenticity to the event. More than anything else, I wanted her to have a chance to explore her true nature—to exercise her strength in a safe space—and given her past, I knew a child would be the perfect trigger. But I never could’ve anticipated such revolutionary results. Her performance was more than I had hoped for. And though I wanted to discuss the effects with her afterward, by the time I found her she was already planning her escape. My smile falters. “Would you like to step inside, sir?” Delalieu’s voice jolts me back to the present. “There’s not much to see within, but it is interesting to note that the hole is just big enough for someone to easily climb through. It seems clear, sir, what the intent was.” I nod, distracted. My eyes carefully catalog the dimensions of the hole; I try to imagine what it must’ve been like for her, to be here, trying to get through. I want so much to be able to talk to her about all of this. My heart twists so suddenly. I’m reminded, all over again, that she’s no longer with me. She does not live on base anymore. It’s my fault she’s gone. I allowed myself to believe she was finally doing well and it affected my judgment. I should’ve been paying closer attention to details. To my soldiers. I lost sight of my purpose and my greater goal; the entire reason I brought her on base. I was stupid. Careless. But the truth is, I was distracted. By her.

She was so stubborn and childish when she first arrived, but as the weeks passed she’d seemed to settle; she felt less anxious to me, somehow less afraid. I have to keep reminding myself that her improvements had nothing to do with me. They had to do with Kent. A betrayal that somehow seemed impossible. That she would leave me for a robotic, unfeeling idiot like Kent. His thoughts are so empty, so mindless; it’s like conversing with a desk lamp. I don’t understand what he could’ve offered her, what she could’ve possibly seen in him except a tool for escape. She still hasn’t grasped that there’s no future for her in the world of common people. She doesn’t belong in the company of those who will never understand her. And I have to get her back. I only realize I’ve said that last bit out loud when Delalieu speaks. “We have troops all across the sector searching for her,” he says. “And we’ve alerted the neighboring sectors, just in case the group of them should cross ove—” “What?” I spin around, my voice a quiet, dangerous thing. “What did you just say?” Delalieu has turned a sickly shade of white. “I was unconscious for all of one night! And you’ve already alerted the other sectors to this catastrophe—” “I thought you would want to find them, sir, and I thought, if they should try to seek refuge elsewhere—” I take a moment to breathe, to gather my bearings. “I’m sorry, sir, I thought it would be safest—” “She is with two of my own soldiers, Lieutenant. Neither one of them are stupid enough to guide her toward another sector. They have neither the clearance nor the tools to obtain said clearance in order to cross the sector line.” “But—” “They’ve been gone one day. They are badly wounded and in need of aid. They’re traveling on foot and with a stolen vehicle that is easily trackable. How far,” I say to him, frustration breaking into my voice, “could they have gone?” Delalieu says nothing. “You have sent out a national alert. You’ve notified multiple sectors, which means the entire country now knows. Which means the capitals have received word. Which means what?” I curl my only working hand into a fist. “What do you think that means, Lieutenant?” For a moment, he seems unable to speak. Then “Sir,” he gasps. “Please forgive me.”

Five

Delalieu follows me to my door. “Gather the troops in the Quadrant tomorrow at ten hundred hours,” I say to him by way of good-bye. “I’ll have to make an announcement about these recent events as well as what’s to come.” “Yes, sir,” Delalieu says. He doesn’t look up. He hasn’t looked at me since we left the warehouse. I have other matters to worry about. Not counting Delalieu’s stupidity, there are an infinite number of things I must take care of right now. I can’t afford any more difficulties, and I cannot be distracted. Not by her. Not by Delalieu. Not by anyone. I have to focus. This is a terrible time to be wounded. News of our situation has already hit a national level. Civilians and neighboring sectors are now aware of our minor uprising, and we have to tamp down the rumors as much as possible. I have to somehow defuse the alerts Delalieu has already sent out, and simultaneously suppress any hope of rebellion among the citizens. They’re already too eager to resist, and any spark of controversy will reignite their fervor. Too many have died already, and they still don’t seem to understand that standing against The Reestablishment is asking for more destruction. The civilians must be pacified. I do not want war in my sector. Now more than ever, I need to be in control of myself and my responsibilities. But my mind is scattered, my body fatigued and wounded. All day I’ve been inches from collapsing, and I don’t know what to do. I have no idea how to fix it. This weakness is foreign to my being. In just two days, one girl has managed to cripple me. I’ve taken even more of these disgusting pills, but I feel weaker than I did this morning. I thought I could ignore the pain and inconvenience of a wounded shoulder, but the complication refuses to diminish. I am now wholly dependent on whatever will carry me through these next weeks of frustration. Medicine, medics, hours in bed. All this for a kiss. It’s almost unbearable. “I’ll be in my office for the rest of the day,” I tell Delalieu. “Have my meals sent to my room, and do not disturb me unless there are any new developments.” “Yes, sir.”

“That’ll be all, Lieutenant.” “Yes, sir.” I don’t even realize how ill I feel until I close the bedroom door behind me. I stagger to the bed and grip the frame to keep from falling over. I’m sweating again and decide to strip the extra coat I wore on our outside excursion. I yank off the blazer I’d carelessly tossed over my injured shoulder this morning and fall backward onto my bed. I’m suddenly freezing. My good hand shakes as I reach for the medic call button. I need to get the dressing on my shoulder changed. I need to eat something substantial. And more than anything else, I desperately need to take a real shower, which seems altogether impossible. Someone is standing over me. I blink several times but can only make out the general outline of their figure. A face keeps coming in and out of focus until I finally give up. My eyes fall closed. My head is pounding. Pain is searing through my bones and up my neck; reds and yellows and blues blur together behind my eyelids. I catch only clips of the conversation around me. —seems to have developed a fever— —probably sedate him— —how many did he take?— They’re going to kill me, I realize. This is the perfect opportunity. I’m weak and unable to fight back, and someone has finally come to kill me. This is it. My moment. It has arrived. And somehow I can’t seem to accept it. I take a swipe at the voices; an inhuman sound escapes my throat. Something hard hits my fist and crashes to the floor. Hands clamp down on my right arm and pin it in place. Something is being tightened around my ankles, my wrist. I’m thrashing against these new restraints and kicking desperately at the air. The blackness seems to be pressing against my eyes, my ears, my throat. I can’t breathe, can’t hear or see clearly, and the suffocation of the moment is so terrifying that I’m almost certain I’ve lost my mind. Something cold and sharp pinches my arm. I have only a moment to reflect on the pain before it engulfs me.

Six

“Juliette,” I whisper. “What are you doing here?” I’m half-dressed, getting ready for my day, and it’s too early for visitors. These hours just before the sun rises are my only moments of peace, and no one should be in here. It seems impossible she gained access to my private quarters. Someone should’ve stopped her. Instead, she’s standing in my doorway, staring at me. I’ve seen her so many times, but this is different—it’s causing me physical pain to look at her. But somehow I still find myself drawn to her, wanting to be near her. “I’m so sorry,” she says, and she’s wringing her hands, looking away from me. “I’m so, so sorry.” I notice what she’s wearing. It’s a dark-green dress with fitted sleeves; a simple cut made of stretch cotton that clings to the soft curves of her figure. It complements the flecks of green in her eyes in a way I couldn’t have anticipated. It’s one of the many dresses I chose for her. I thought she might enjoy having something nice after being caged as an animal for so long. And I can’t quite explain it, but it gives me a strange sense of pride to see her wearing something I picked out myself. “I’m sorry,” she says for the third time. I’m again struck by how impossible it is that she’s here. In my bedroom. Staring at me without my shirt on. Her hair is so long it falls to the middle of her back; I have to clench my fists against this unbidden need to run my hands through it. She’s so beautiful. I don’t understand why she keeps apologizing. She shuts the door behind her. She’s walking over to me. My heart is beating quickly now, and it doesn’t feel natural. I do not react this way. I do not lose control. I see her every day and manage to maintain some semblance of dignity, but something is off; this isn’t right. She’s touching my arm. She’s running her fingers along the curve of my shoulder, and the brush of her skin against mine is making me want to scream. The pain is excruciating, but I can’t speak; I’m frozen in place. I want to tell her to stop, to leave, but parts of me are at war. I’m happy to have her close even if it hurts, even if it doesn’t make any sense. But I can’t seem to reach for her; I can’t hold her like I’ve always wanted to. She looks at me. She searches me with those odd, blue-green eyes and I feel guilty so suddenly, without understanding why. But there’s something about the way she looks at me that always makes me feel insignificant, as if she’s the only one who’s realized I’m entirely hollow inside. She’s found the cracks in this cast I’m forced to wear every day, and it petrifies me. That this girl would know exactly how to shatter me. She rests her hand against my collarbone.

And then she grips my shoulder, digs her fingers into my skin like she’s trying to tear off my arm. The agony is so blinding that this time I actually scream. I fall to my knees before her and she wrenches my arm, twisting it backward until I’m heaving from the effort to stay calm, fighting not to lose myself to the pain. “Juliette,” I gasp, “please—” She runs her free hand through my hair, tugs my head back so I’m forced to meet her eyes. And then she leans into my ear, her lips almost touching my cheek. “Do you love me?” she whispers. “What?” I breathe. “What are you doing—” “Do you still love me?” she asks again, her fingers now tracing the shape of my face, the line of my jaw. “Yes,” I tell her. “Yes I still do—” She smiles. It’s such a sweet, innocent smile that I’m actually shocked when her grip tightens around my arm. She twists my shoulder back until I’m sure it’s being ripped from the socket. I’m seeing spots when she says, “It’s almost over now.” “What is?” I ask, frantic, trying to look around. “What’s almost over—” “Just a little longer and I’ll leave.” “No—no, don’t go—where are you going—” “You’ll be all right,” she says. “I promise.” “No,” I’m gasping, “no—” All at once she yanks me forward, and I’m awake so quickly I can’t breathe. I blink several times only to realize I’ve woken up in the middle of the night. Absolute blackness greets me from the corners of my room. My chest is heaving; my arm is bound and pounding, and I realize my pain medication has worn off. There’s a small remote wedged under my hand; I press the button to replenish the dosage. It takes a few moments for my breathing to stabilize. My thoughts slowly retreat from panic. Juliette. I can’t control a nightmare, but in my waking moments her name is the only reminder I will permit myself. The accompanying humiliation will not allow me much more than that.

Seven

“Well, isn’t this embarrassing. My son, tied down like an animal.” I’m half-convinced I’m having another nightmare. I blink my eyes open slowly; I stare up at the ceiling. I make no sudden movements, but I can feel the very real weight of restraints around my left wrist and both ankles. My injured arm is still bound and slung across my chest. And though the pain in my shoulder is present, it’s dulled to a light hum. I feel stronger. Even my head feels clearer, sharper somehow. But then I taste the tang of something sour and metal in my mouth and wonder how long I’ve been in bed. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, amused. He moves closer to my bed, his footsteps reverberating right through me. “You have Delalieu whimpering apologies for disturbing me, begging my men to blame him for the inconvenience of this unexpected visit. No doubt you terrified the old man for doing his job, when the truth is, I would’ve found out even without his alerts. This,” he says, “is not the kind of mess you can conceal. You’re an idiot for thinking otherwise.” I feel a light tugging on my legs and realize he’s undoing my restraints. The brush of his skin against mine is abrupt and unexpected, and it triggers something deep and dark within me, enough to make me physically ill. I taste vomit at the back of my throat. It takes all my selfcontrol not to jerk away from him. “Sit up, son. You should be well enough to function now. You were too stupid to rest when you were supposed to, and now you’ve overcorrected. Three days you’ve been unconscious, and I arrived twenty-seven hours ago. Now get up. This is ridiculous.” I’m still staring at the ceiling. Hardly breathing. He changes tactics. “You know,” he says carefully, “I’ve actually heard an interesting story about you.” He sits down on the edge of my bed; the mattress creaks and groans under his weight. “Would you like to hear it?” My left hand has begun to tremble. I clench it fast against the bedsheets. “Private 45B-76423. Fletcher, Seamus.” He pauses. “Does that name sound familiar?” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Imagine my surprise,” he says, “when I heard that my son had finally done something right. That he’d finally taken initiative and dispensed with a traitorous soldier who’d been stealing from our storage compounds. I heard you shot him right in the forehead.” A laugh. “I congratulated myself—told myself you’d finally come into your own, that you’d finally learned how to lead properly. I was almost proud. “That’s why it came as an even greater shock to me to hear Fletcher’s family was still alive.” He claps his hands together. “Shocking, of course, because you, of all people, should know the rules. Traitors come from a family of traitors, and one betrayal means death to them all.” He rests his hand on my chest.

I’m building walls in my mind again. White walls. Blocks of concrete. Empty rooms and open space. Nothing exists inside of me. Nothing stays. “It’s funny,” he continues, thoughtful now, “because I told myself I’d wait to discuss this with you. But somehow, this moment seems so right, doesn’t it?” I can hear him smile. “To tell you just how tremendously . . . disappointed I am. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.” He sighs. “In a single month you’ve lost two soldiers, couldn’t contain a clinically insane girl, upended an entire sector, and encouraged rebellion among the citizens. And somehow, I’m not surprised at all.” His hand shifts; lingers at my collarbone. White walls, I think. Blocks of concrete. Empty rooms. Open space. Nothing exists inside of me. Nothing stays. “But what’s worse than all this,” he says, “is not that you’ve managed to humiliate me by disrupting the order I’d finally managed to establish. It’s not even that you somehow got yourself shot in the process. But that you would show sympathy to the family of a traitor,” he says, laughing, his voice a happy, cheerful thing. “This is unforgivable.” My eyes are open now, blinking up at the fluorescent lights above my head, focused on the white of the bulbs blurring my vision. I will not move. I will not speak. His hand closes around my throat. The movement is so rough and violent I’m almost relieved. Some part of me always hopes he’ll go through with it; that maybe this time he’ll actually let me die. But he never does. It never lasts. Torture is not torture when there’s any hope of relief. He lets go all too soon and gets exactly what he wants. I jerk upward, coughing and wheezing and finally making a sound that acknowledges his existence in this room. My whole body is shaking now, my muscles in shock from the assault and from remaining still for so long. My skin is cold sweat; my breaths are labored and painful. “You’re very lucky,” he says, his words too soft. He’s up now, no longer inches from my face. “So lucky I was here to make things right. So lucky I had time to correct the mistake.” I freeze. The room spins. “I was able to track down his wife,” he says. “Fletcher’s wife and their three children. I hear they sent their regards.” A pause. “Well, this was before I had them killed, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, but my men told me they said hello. It seems she remembered you,” he says, laughing softly. “The wife. She said you went to visit them before all this . . . unpleasantness occurred. You were always visiting the compounds, she said. Asking after the civilians.”

I whisper the only two words I can manage. “Get out.” “This is my boy!” he says, waving a hand in my direction. “A meek, pathetic fool. Some days I’m so disgusted by you I don’t know whether to shoot you myself. And then I realize you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? To be able to blame me for your downfall? And I think no, best to let him die of his own stupidity.” I stare blankly ahead, fingers flexing against the mattress. “Now tell me,” he says, “what happened to your arm? Delalieu seemed as clueless as the others.” I say nothing. “Too ashamed to admit you were shot by one of your own soldiers, then?” I close my eyes. “And what about the girl?” he asks. “How did she escape? Ran off with one of your men, didn’t she?” I grip the bedsheet so hard my fist starts shaking. “Tell me,” he says, leaning into my ear. “How would you deal with a traitor like that? Are you going to go visit his family, too? Make nice with his wife?” And I don’t mean to say it out loud, but I can’t stop myself in time. “I’m going to kill him.” He laughs out loud so suddenly it’s almost a howl. He claps a hand on my head and musses my hair with the same fingers he just closed around my throat. “Much better,” he says. “So much better. Now get up. We have work to do.” And I think yes, I wouldn’t mind doing the kind of work that would remove Adam Kent from this world. A traitor like him does not deserve to live.

Eight

I’m in the shower for so long I actually lose track of time. This has never happened before. Everything is off, unbalanced. I’m second-guessing my decisions, doubting everything I thought I didn’t believe in, and for the first time in my life, I am genuinely, bone-achingly tired.

My father is here. We are sleeping under the same godforsaken roof; a thing I’d hoped never to experience again. But he’s here, staying on base in his own private quarters until he feels confident enough to leave. Which means he’ll be fixing our problems by wreaking havoc on Sector 45. Which means I will be reduced to becoming his puppet and messenger, because my father never shows his face to anyone except those he’s about to kill. He is the supreme commander of The Reestablishment, and prefers to dictate anonymously. He travels everywhere with the same select group of soldiers, communicates only through his men, and only in extremely rare circumstances does he ever leave the capital. News of his arrival at Sector 45 has probably spread around base by now, and has likely terrified my soldiers. Because his presence, real or imagined, has only ever signified one thing: torture. It’s been so long since I’ve felt like a coward. But this, this is bliss. This protracted moment—this illusion—of strength. Being out of bed and able to bathe: it’s a small victory. The medics wrapped my injured arm in some kind of impermeable plastic for the shower, and I’m finally well enough to stand on my own. My nausea has settled, the dizziness is gone. I should finally be able to think clearly, and yet, my choices still seem so muddled. I’ve forced myself not to think about her, but I’m beginning to realize I’m still not strong enough; not just yet, and especially not while I’m still actively searching for her. It’s become a physical impossibility. Today, I need to go back to her room. I need to search her things for any clues that might help me find her. Kent’s and Kishimoto’s bunks and lockers have already been cleared out; nothing incriminating was found. But I’d ordered my men to leave her room—Juliette’s room—exactly as it was. No one but myself is allowed to reenter that space. Not until I’ve had the first look. And this, according to my father, is my first task. “That’ll be all, Delalieu. I’ll let you know if I require assistance.” He’s been following me around even more than usual lately. Apparently he came to check on me when I didn’t show for the assembly I’d called two days ago, and had the pleasure of finding me completely delirious and half out of my mind. He’s somehow managed to lay the blame for all this on himself. If he were anyone else, I would’ve had him demoted. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. And please forgive me—I never meant to cause additional problems—” “You are in no danger from me, Lieutenant.” “I’m so sorry, sir,” he whispers. His shoulders fall. His head bows. His apologies are making me uncomfortable. “Have the troops reassemble at thirteen hundred hours. I still need to address them about

these recent developments.” “Yes, sir,” he says. He nods once, without looking up. “You are dismissed.” “Sir.” He drops his salute and disappears. I’m left alone in front of her door. Funny, how accustomed I’d become to visiting her here; how it gave me a strange sense of comfort to know that she and I were living in the same building. Her presence on base changed everything for me; the weeks she spent here became the first I ever enjoyed living in these quarters. I looked forward to her temper. Her tantrums. Her ridiculous arguments. I wanted her to yell at me; I would’ve congratulated her had she ever slapped me in the face. I was always pushing her, toying with her emotions. I wanted to meet the real girl trapped behind the fear. I wanted her to finally break free of her own carefully constructed restraints. Because while she might be able to feign timidity within the confines of isolation, out here—amid chaos, destruction—I knew she’d become something entirely different. I was just waiting. Every day, patiently waiting for her to understand the breadth of her own potential; never realizing I’d entrusted her to the one soldier who might take her away from me. I should shoot myself for it. Instead, I open the door. The panel slides shut behind me as I cross the threshold. I find myself alone, standing here, in the last place she touched. The bed is messy and unmade, the doors to her armoire hanging open, the broken window temporarily taped shut. There’s a sinking, nervous pain in my stomach that I choose to ignore. Focus. I step into the bathroom and examine the toiletries, the cabinets, even the inside of the shower. Nothing. I walk back over to the bed and run my hand over the rumpled comforter, the lumpy pillows. I allow myself a moment to appreciate the evidence that she was once here, and then I strip the bed. Sheets, pillowcases, comforter, and duvet; all tossed to the floor. I scrutinize every inch of the pillows, the mattress, and the bed frame, and again find nothing. The side table. Nothing. Under the bed. Nothing. The light fixtures, the wallpaper, each individual piece of clothing in her armoire. Nothing. It’s only as I’m making my way toward the door that something catches my foot. I look down. There, caught just under my boot, is a thick, faded

rectangle. A small, unassuming notebook that could fit in the palm of my hand. And I’m so stunned that for a moment I can’t even move.

Nine

How could I have forgotten? This notebook was in her pocket the day she was making her escape. I’d found it just before Kent put a gun to my head, and at some point in the chaos, I must’ve dropped it. And I realize I should’ve been looking for this all along. I bend down to pick it up, carefully shaking out bits and pieces of glass from the pages. My hand is unsteady, my heart pounding in my ears. I have no idea what this might contain. Pictures. Notes. Scrambled, halfformed thoughts. It could be anything. I flip the notebook over in my hands, my fingers memorizing its rough, worn surface. The cover is a dull shade of brown, but I can’t tell if it’s been stained by dirt and age, or if it was always this color. I wonder how long she’s had it. Where she might’ve acquired it. I stumble backward, the backs of my legs hitting her bed. My knees buckle, and I catch myself on the edge of the mattress. I take in a shaky breath and close my eyes. I’d seen footage from her time in the asylum, but it was essentially useless. The lighting was always too dim; the small window did little to illuminate the dark corners of her room. She was often an indistinguishable form; a dark shadow one might never even notice. Our cameras were only good at detecting movement—and maybe a lucky moment when the sun hit her at the right angle—but she rarely moved. Most of her time was spent sitting very, very still, on her bed or in a dark corner. She almost never spoke. And when she did, it was never in words. She spoke only in numbers. Counting. There was something so unreal about her, sitting there. I couldn’t even see her face; couldn’t discern the outline of her figure. Even then she fascinated me. That she could seem so calm, so still. She would sit in one place for hours at a time, unmoving, and I always wondered where she

was in her mind, what she might be thinking, how she could possibly exist in that solitary world. More than anything else, I wanted to hear her speak. I was desperate to hear her voice. I’d always expected her to speak in a language I could understand. I thought she’d start with something simple. Maybe something unintelligible. But the first time we ever caught her talking on camera, I couldn’t look away. I sat there, transfixed, nerves stretched thin, as she touched one hand to the wall and counted. 4,572. I watched her count. To 4,572. It took five hours. Only afterward did I realize she was counting her breaths. I couldn’t stop thinking about her after that. I was distracted long before she arrived on base, constantly wondering what she might be doing and whether she’d speak again. If she wasn’t counting out loud, was she counting in her head? Did she ever think in letters? Complete sentences? Was she angry? Sad? Why did she seem so serene for a girl I’d been told was a volatile, deranged animal? Was it a trick? I’d seen every piece of paper documenting the critical moments in her life. I’d read every detail in her medical records and police reports; I’d sorted through school complaints, doctors’ notes, her official sentencing by The Reestablishment, and even the asylum questionnaire submitted by her parents. I knew she’d been pulled out of school at fourteen. I knew she’d been through severe testing and was forced to take various—and dangerous—experimental drugs, and had to undergo electroshock therapy. In two years she’d been in and out of nine different juvenile detention centers and had been examined by more than fifty different doctors. All of them described her as a monster. They called her a danger to society and a threat to humanity. A girl who would ruin our world and had already begun by murdering a small child. At sixteen, her parents suggested she be locked away. And so she was. None of it made sense to me. A girl cast off by society, by her own family—she had to contain so much feeling. Rage. Depression. Resentment. Where was it? She was nothing like the other inmates at the asylum—the ones who were truly disturbed. Some would spend hours hurling themselves at the wall, breaking bones and fracturing skulls. Others were so deranged they would claw at their own skin until they drew blood, literally ripping themselves to pieces. Some had entire conversations with themselves out loud, laughing and singing and arguing. Most would tear their clothes off, content to sleep and stand naked in their own filth. She was the only one who showered regularly or even washed her clothes. She would take her meals calmly, always finishing whatever she was given. And she spent most of her time staring out the window.

She’d been locked up for almost a year and had not lost her sense of humanity. I wanted to know how she could suppress so much; how she’d achieved such outward calm. I’d asked for profiles on the other prisoners because I wanted comparisons. I wanted to know if her behavior was normal. It wasn’t. I watched the unassuming outline of this girl I could not see and did not know, and I felt an unbelievable amount of respect for her. I admired her, envied her composure—her steadiness in the face of all she’d been forced to endure. I don’t know that I understood what it was, exactly, I was feeling at the time, but I knew I wanted her all to myself. I wanted to know her secrets. And then one day, she stood up in her cell and walked over to the window. It was early morning, just as the sun was rising; I caught a glimpse of her face for the very first time. She pressed her palm to the window and whispered two words, just once. Forgive me. I hit rewind too many times. I could never tell anyone I’d developed a newfound fascination with her. I had to effect a pretense, an outward indifference—an arrogance—toward her. She was to be our weapon and nothing more, just an innovative instrument of torture. A detail I cared very little about. My research had led me to her files by pure accident. Coincidence. I did not seek her out in search of a weapon; I never had. Far before I’d ever seen her on film, and far, far before I ever spoke a word to her, I had been researching something else. For something else. My motives were my own. Utilizing her as a weapon was a story I fed to my father; I needed an excuse to have access to her, to gain the necessary clearance to study her files. It was a charade I was forced to maintain in front of my soldiers and the hundreds of cameras that monitor my existence. I did not bring her on base to exploit her ability. And I certainly did not expect to fall for her in the process. But these truths and my real motivations will be buried with me. I fall hard onto the bed. Clap a hand over my forehead, drag it down the length of my face. I never would’ve sent Kent to stay with her if I could’ve taken the time to go myself. Every move I made was a mistake. Every calculated effort was a failure. I only wanted to watch her interact with someone. I wondered if she’d seem different; if she’d shatter the expectations I’d already formed in my mind by simply having a normal conversation. But watching her talk to someone else made me crazy. I was jealous. Ridiculous. I wanted her to know me; I wanted her to talk to me. And I felt it then: this strange, inexplicable sense that she might be the only person in the world I could really care about.

I force myself to sit up. I hazard a glance at the notebook still clutched in my hand. I lost her. She hates me. She hates me and I repulse her and I might never see her again, and it is entirely my own doing. This notebook might be all I have left of her. My hand is still hovering over the cover, tempting me to open it and find her again, even if it’s only for a short while, even if it’s only on paper. But part of me is terrified. This might not end well. This might not be anything I want to see. And so help me, if this turns out to be some kind of diary concerning her thoughts and feelings about Kent, I might just throw myself out the window. I pound my fist against my forehead. Take a long, steadying breath. Finally, I flip it open. My eyes fall to the first page. And only then do I begin to understand the weight of what I’ve found. I keep thinking I need to stay calm, that it’s all in my head, that everything is going to be fine and someone is going to open the door now, someone is going to let me out of here. I keep thinking it’s going to happen. I keep thinking it has to happen, because things like this don’t just happen. This doesn’t happen. People aren’t forgotten like this. Not abandoned like this. This doesn’t just happen. My face is caked with blood from when they threw me on the ground, and my hands are still shaking even as I write this. This pen is my only outlet, my only voice, because I have no one else to speak to, no mind but my own to drown in and all the lifeboats are taken and all the life preservers are broken and I don’t know how to swim I can’t swim I can’t swim and it’s getting so hard. It’s getting so hard. It’s like there are a million screams caught inside of my chest but I have to keep them all in because what’s the point of screaming if you’ll never be heard and no one will ever hear me in here. No one will ever hear me again. I’ve learned to stare at things. The walls. My hands. The cracks in the walls. The lines on my fingers. The shades of gray in the concrete. The shape of my fingernails. I pick one thing and stare at it for what must be hours. I keep time in my head by counting the seconds as they pass. I keep days in my head by writing them down. Today is day two. Today is the second day. Today is a day. Today. It’s so cold. It’s so cold it’s so cold. Please please please I slam the cover shut.

I’m shaking again, and this time I can’t stop it. This time the shaking is coming from deep within my core, from a profound realization of what I’m holding in my hands. This journal is not from her time spent here. It has nothing to do with me, or Kent, or anyone at all. This journal is a documentation of her days spent in the asylum. And suddenly this small, battered notebook means more to me than anything I’ve ever owned.

Ten

I don’t even know how I manage to get myself back to my own rooms so quickly. All I know is that I’ve locked the door to my bedroom, unlocked the door to my office only to lock myself inside, and now I’m sitting here, at my desk, stacks of papers and confidential material shoved out of the way, staring at the tattered cover of something I’m very nearly terrified to read. There’s something so personal about this journal; it looks as if it’s been bound together by the loneliest feelings, the most vulnerable moments of one person’s life. She wrote whatever lies within these pages during some of the darkest hours of her seventeen years, and I’m about to get exactly what I’ve always wanted. A look into her mind. And though the anticipation is killing me, I’m also acutely aware of just how badly this might backfire. I’m suddenly not sure I even want to know. And yet I do. I definitely do. So I open the book, and turn to the next page. Day three. I started screaming today. And those four words hit me harder than the worst kind of physical pain. My chest is rising and falling, my breaths coming in too hard. I have to force myself to keep reading. I soon realize there’s no order to the pages. She seems to have started back at the beginning after she came to the end of the notebook and realized she’d run out of space. She’s written in the margins, over other paragraphs, in tiny and nearly illegible fonts. There are numbers scrawled all over everything, sometimes the same number repeating over and over

and over again. Sometimes the same word has been written and rewritten, circled and underlined. And nearly every page has sentences and paragraphs almost entirely crossed out. It’s complete chaos. My heart constricts at this realization, at this proof of what she must’ve experienced. I’d hypothesized about what she might’ve suffered in all that time, locked up in such dark, horrifying conditions. But seeing it for myself—I wish I weren’t right. And now, even as I try to read in chronological order, I find I’m unable to keep up with the method she’s used to number everything; the system she created on these pages is something only she’d be able to decipher. I can only flip through the book and seek out the bits that are most coherently written. My eyes freeze on a particular passage. It’s a strange thing, to never know peace. To know that no matter where you go, there is no sanctuary. That the threat of pain is always a whisper away. I’m not safe locked into these 4 walls, I was never safe leaving my house, and I couldn’t even feel safe in the 14 years I lived at home. The asylum kills people every day, the world has already been taught to fear me, and my home is the same place where my father locked me in my room every night and my mother screamed at me for being the abomination she was forced to raise. She always said it was my face. There was something about my face, she said, that she couldn’t stand. Something about my eyes, the way I looked at her, the fact that I even existed. She’d always tell me to stop looking at her. She’d always scream it. Like I might attack her. Stop looking at me, she’d scream. You just stop looking at me, she’d scream. She put my hand in the fire once. Just to see if it would burn, she said. Just to check if it was a regular hand, she said. I was 6 years old then. I remember because it was my birthday. I knock the notebook to the floor. I’m upright in an instant, trying to steady my heart. I run a hand through my hair, my fingers caught at the roots. These words are too close to me, too familiar. The story of a child abused by its parents. Locked away and discarded. It’s too close to my mind. I’ve never read anything like this before. I’ve never read anything that could speak directly to my bones. And I know I shouldn’t. I know, somehow, that it won’t help, that it won’t teach me anything, that it won’t give me clues about where she might’ve gone. I already know that reading this will only make me crazy.

But I can’t stop myself from reaching for her journal once more. I flip it open again. Am I insane yet? Has it happened yet? How will I ever know? My intercom screeches so suddenly that I trip over my own chair and have to catch myself on the wall behind my desk. My hands won’t stop shaking; my forehead is beaded with sweat. My bandaged arm has begun to burn, and my legs are suddenly too weak to stand on. I have to focus all my energy on sounding normal as I accept the incoming message. “What?” I demand. “Sir, I only wondered, if you were still—well, the assembly, sir, unless of course I got the time wrong, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you—” “Oh for the love of God, Delalieu.” I try to shake off the tremble in my voice. “Stop apologizing. I’m on my way.” “Yes, sir,” he says. “Thank you, sir.” I disconnect the line. And then I grab the notebook, tuck it in my pocket, and head out the door.

Eleven

I’m standing at the edge of the courtyard above the Quadrant, looking out at the thousands of faces staring back at me. These are my soldiers. Standing single-file line in their assembly uniforms. Black shirts, black pants, black boots. No guns. Left fists pressed against their hearts. I make an effort to focus on—and care about—the task at hand; but somehow I can’t help but be hyperaware of the notebook tucked away in my pocket, the shape of it pressing against my leg and torturing me with its secrets. I am not myself.

My thoughts are tangled in words that are not my own. I have to take a sharp breath to clear my head; I clench and unclench my fist. “Sector 45,” I say, speaking directly into the square of microphonic mesh. They shift at once, dropping their left hands and instead placing their right fists on their chests. “We have a number of important things to discuss today,” I tell them, “the first of which is readily apparent.” I gesture to my arm. Study their carefully crafted emotionless faces. Their traitorous thoughts are so obvious. They think of me as little more than a deranged child. They do not respect me; they are not loyal to me. They are disappointed that I stand before them; angry; disgusted, even, that I am not dead of this wound. But they do fear me. And that is all I require. “I was injured,” I say, “while in pursuit of two of our defecting soldiers. Private Adam Kent and Private Kenji Kishimoto collaborated their escape in an effort to abduct Juliette Ferrars, our newest transfer and critical asset to Sector 45. They have been charged with the crime of unlawfully seizing and detaining Ms. Ferrars against her will. But, and most importantly, they have been rightly convicted of treason against The Reestablishment. When found, they will be executed on sight.” Terror, I realize, is one of the easiest feelings to read. Even on a soldier’s stoic face. “Second,” I say, more slowly this time, “in an effort to expedite the process of stabilizing Sector 45, its citizens, and the ensuing chaos resulting from these recent disruptions, the supreme commander of The Reestablishment has joined us on base. He arrived,” I tell them, “not thirty-six hours ago.” Some men have dropped their fists. Forgotten themselves. Their eyes are wide. Petrified. “You will welcome him,” I say. They drop to their knees. It’s strange, wielding this kind of power. I wonder if my father is proud of what he’s created. That I’m able to bring thousands of grown men to their knees with only a few words; with only the sound of his title. It’s a horrifying, addicting kind of thing. I count five beats in my head. “Rise.” They do. And then they march. Five steps backward, forward, standing in place. They raise their left arms, curl their fingers into fists, and fall on one knee. This time, I do not let them up.

“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen,” I say to them. “We will not rest until Kent and Kishimoto are found and Ms. Ferrars has returned to base. I will confer with the supreme commander in these next twenty-four hours; our newest mission will soon be clearly defined. In the interim you are to understand two things: first, that we will defuse the tension among the citizens and take pains to remind them of their promises to our new world. And second, be certain that we will find Privates Kent and Kishimoto.” I stop. Look around, focusing on their faces. “Let their fates serve as an example to you. We do not welcome traitors in The Reestablishment. And we do not forgive.”

Twelve

One of my father’s men is waiting for me outside my door. I glance in his direction, but not long enough to discern his features. “State your business, soldier.” “Sir,” he says, “I’ve been instructed to inform you that the supreme commander requests your presence in his quarters for dinner at twentyhundred hours.” “Consider your message received.” I move to unlock my door. He steps forward, blocking my path. I turn to face him. He’s standing less than a foot away from me: an implicit act of disrespect; a level of comfort even Delalieu does not allow himself. But unlike my men, the sycophants who surround my father consider themselves lucky. Being a member of the supreme commander’s elite guard is considered a privilege and an honor. They answer to no one but him. And right now, this soldier is trying to prove he outranks me. He’s jealous of me. He thinks I’m unworthy of being the son of the supreme commander of The Reestablishment. It’s practically written on his face. I have to stifle my impulse to laugh as I take in his cold gray eyes and the black pit that is his soul. He wears his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, his military tattoos clearly defined and on display. The concentric black bands of ink around his forearms are accented in red, green, and blue, the only sign on his person to indicate that he is a soldier highly

elevated in rank. It’s a sick branding ritual I’ve always refused to be a part of. The soldier is still staring at me. I incline my head in his direction, raise my eyebrows. “I am required,” he says, “to wait for verbal acceptance of this invitation.” I take a moment to consider my choices, which are none. I, like the rest of the puppets in this world, am entirely subservient to my father’s will. It’s a truth I’m forced to contend with every day: that I’ve never been able to stand up to the man who has his fist clenched around my spine. It makes me hate myself. I meet the soldier’s eyes again and wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he has a name, before I realize I couldn’t possibly care less. “Consider it accepted.” “Yes, s—” “And next time, soldier, you will not step within five feet of me without first asking permission.” He blinks, stunned. “Sir, I—” “You are confused.” I cut him off. “You assume your work with the supreme commander grants you immunity from rules that govern the lives of other soldiers. Here, you are mistaken.” His jaw tenses. “Never forget,” I say, quietly now, “that if I wanted your job, I could have it. And never forget that the man you so eagerly serve is the same man who taught me how to fire a gun when I was nine years old.” His nostrils flare. He stares straight ahead. “Deliver your message, soldier. And then memorize this one: do not ever speak to me again.” His eyes are focused on a point directly behind me now, his shoulders rigid. I wait. His jaw is still tight. He slowly lifts his hand in salute. “You are dismissed,” I say. I lock my bedroom door behind me and lean against it. I need just a moment. I reach for the bottle I left on my nightstand and shake out two of the square pills; I toss them into my mouth, closing my eyes as they dissolve. The darkness behind my eyelids is a welcome relief. Until the memory of her face forces itself into my consciousness. I sit down on my bed and drop my head into my hand. I shouldn’t be thinking about her right now. I have hours of paperwork to sort through and the additional stress of my father’s presence to contend with. Dinner with him should be a spectacle. A soul-crushing spectacle.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and make a weak effort to build the walls that would surely clear my mind. But this time, they don’t work. Her face keeps cropping up, her journal taunting me from its place in my pocket. And I begin to realize that some small part of me doesn’t want to wish away the thoughts of her. Some part of me enjoys the torture. This girl is destroying me. A girl who has spent the last year in an insane asylum. A girl who would try to shoot me dead for kissing her. A girl who ran off with another man just to get away from me. Of course this is the girl I would fall for. I close a hand over my mouth. I am losing my mind. I tug off my boots. Pull myself up onto my bed and allow my head to hit the pillows behind me. She slept here, I think. She slept in my bed. She woke up in my bed. She was here and I let her get away. I failed. I lost her. I don’t even realize I’ve tugged her notebook out of my pocket until I’m holding it in front of my face. Staring at it. Studying the faded cover in an attempt to understand where she might’ve acquired such a thing. She must’ve stolen it from somewhere, though I can’t imagine where. There are so many things I want to ask her. So many things I wish I could say to her. Instead, I open her journal, and read. Sometimes I close my eyes and paint these walls a different color. I imagine I’m wearing warm socks and sitting by a fire. I imagine someone’s given me a book to read, a story to take me away from the torture of my own mind. I want to be someone else somewhere else with something else to fill my mind. I want to run, to feel the wind tug at my hair. I want to pretend that this is just a story within a story. That this cell is just a scene, that these hands don’t belong to me, that this window leads to somewhere beautiful if only I could break it. I pretend this pillow is clean, I pretend this bed is soft. I pretend and pretend and pretend until the world becomes so breathtaking behind my eyelids that I can no longer contain it. But then my eyes fly open and I’m caught around the throat by a pair of hands that won’t stop suffocating suffocating suffocating My thoughts, I think, will soon be sound. My mind, I hope, will soon be found. The journal drops out of my hand and onto my chest. I run my only free hand across my face, through my hair. I rub the back of my neck and haul

myself up so fast that my head hits the headboard and I’m actually grateful. I take a moment to appreciate the pain. And then I pick up the book. And turn the page. I wonder what they’re thinking. My parents. I wonder where they are. I wonder if they’re okay now, if they’re happy now, if they finally got what they wanted. I wonder if my mother will ever have another child. I wonder if someone will ever be kind enough to kill me, and I wonder if hell is better than here. I wonder what my face looks like now. I wonder if I’ll ever breathe fresh air again. I wonder about so many things. Sometimes I’ll stay awake for days just counting everything I can find. I count the walls, the cracks in the walls, my fingers and toes. I count the springs in the bed, the threads in the blanket, the steps it takes to cross the room and back. I count my teeth and the individual hairs on my head and the number of seconds I can hold my breath. But sometimes I get so tired that I forget I’m not allowed to wish for things anymore, and I find myself wishing for the one thing I’ve always wanted. The only thing I’ve always dreamt about. I wish all the time for a friend. I dream about it. I imagine what it would be like. To smile and be smiled upon. To have a person to confide in; someone who wouldn’t throw things at me or stick my hands in the fire or beat me for being born. Someone who would hear that I’d been thrown away and would try to find me, who would never be afraid of me. Someone who’d know I’d never try to hurt them. I fold myself into a corner of this room and bury my head in my knees and rock back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and I wish and I wish and I wish and I dream of impossible things until I’ve cried myself to sleep. I wonder what it would be like to have a friend. And then I wonder who else is locked in this asylum. I wonder where the other screams are coming from. I wonder if they’re coming from me. I’m trying to focus, telling myself these are just empty words, but I’m lying. Because somehow, just reading these words is too much; and the thought of her in pain is causing me an unbearable amount of agony. To know that she experienced this. She was thrown into this by her own parents, cast off and abused her entire life. Empathy is not an emotion I’ve ever known, but now it’s drowning me, pulling me into a world I never knew I could enter. And though I’ve always believed she and I shared many things in common, I did not know how deeply I could feel it.

It’s killing me. I stand up. Start pacing the length of my bedroom until I’ve finally worked up the nerve to keep reading. Then I take a deep breath. And turn the page. There’s something simmering inside of me. Something I’ve never dared to tap into, something I’m afraid to acknowledge. There’s a part of me clawing to break free from the cage I’ve trapped it in, banging on the doors of my heart, begging to be free. Begging to let go. Every day I feel like I’m reliving the same nightmare. I open my mouth to shout, to fight, to swing my fists, but my vocal cords are cut, my arms are heavy and weighted down as if trapped in wet cement and I’m screaming but no one can hear me, no one can reach me and I’m caught. And it’s killing me. I’ve always had to make myself submissive, subservient, twisted into a pleading, passive mop just to make everyone else feel safe and comfortable. My existence has become a fight to prove I’m harmless, that I’m not a threat, that I’m capable of living among other human beings without hurting them. And I’m so tired I’m so tired I’m so tired I’m so tired and sometimes I get so angry I don’t know what’s happening to me. “God, Juliette,” I gasp. And fall to my knees. “Call for transport immediately.” I need to get out. I need to get out right now. “Sir? I mean, yes, sir, of course—but where—” “I have to visit the compounds,” I say. “I should make my rounds before my meeting this evening.” This is both true and false. But I’m willing to do anything right now that might get my mind off this journal. “Oh, certainly, sir. Would you like me to accompany you?” “That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant, but thank you for the offer.” “I—s-sir,” he stammers. “Of course, it’s m-my pleasure, sir, to assist you—” Good God, I have taken leave of my senses. I never thank Delalieu. I’ve likely given the poor man a heart attack. “I will be ready to go in ten minutes.” I cut him off. He stutters to a stop. Then, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” I’m pressing my fist to my mouth as the call disconnects.

Thirteen

We had homes. Before. All different kinds. 1-story homes. 2-story homes. 3-story homes. We bought lawn ornaments and twinkle lights, learned to ride bikes without training wheels. We purchased lives confined within 1, 2, 3 stories already built, stories caught inside of structures we could not change. We lived in those stories for a while. We followed the tale laid out for us, the prose pinned down in every square foot of space we’d acquired. We were content with the plot twists that only mildly redirected our lives. We signed on the dotted line for the things we didn’t know we cared about. We ate the things we shouldn’t, spent money when we couldn’t, lost sight of the Earth we had to inhabit and wasted wasted wasted everything. Food. Water. Resources. Soon the skies were gray with chemical pollution, and the plants and animals were sick from genetic modification, and diseases rooted themselves in our air, our meals, our blood and bones. The food disappeared. The people were dying. Our empire fell to pieces. The Reestablishment said they would help us. Save us. Rebuild our society. Instead they tore us all apart. I enjoy coming to the compounds. It’s an odd place to seek refuge, but there’s something about seeing so many civilians in such a vast, open space that reminds me of what I’m meant to be doing. I’m so often confined within the walls of Sector 45 headquarters that I forget the faces of those we’re fighting and those we’re fighting for. I like to remember. Most days I visit each cluster on the compounds; I greet the residents and ask about their living conditions. I can’t help but be curious about what life must be like for them now. Because while the world changed for everyone else, it always stayed the same for me. Regimented. Isolated. Bleak. There was a time when things were better, when my father wasn’t always so angry. I was about four years old then. He used to let me sit on his lap and search his pockets. I’d get to keep anything I wanted as long as my argument was convincing enough. It was his idea of a game.

But this was all before. I wrap my coat more tightly around my body, feel the material press against my back. I flinch without meaning to. The life I know now is the only one that matters. The suffocation, the luxury, the sleepless nights, and the dead bodies. I’ve always been taught to focus on power and pain, gaining and inflicting. I grieve nothing. I take everything. It’s the only way I know how to live in this battered body. I empty my mind of the things that plague me and burden my soul, and I take all that I can from what little pleasantness comes my way. I do not know what it is to live a normal life; I do not know how to sympathize with the civilians who’ve lost their homes. I do not know what it must’ve been like for them before The Reestablishment took over. So I enjoy touring the compounds. I enjoy seeing how other people live; I like that the law requires them to answer my questions. I would have no way of knowing, otherwise. But my timing is off. I paid little attention to the clock before I left base and didn’t realize how soon the sun would be setting. Most civilians are returning home to retire for the evening, their bodies bowed, huddled against the cold as they shuffle toward the metal clusters they share with at least three other families. These makeshift homes are built from forty-foot shipping containers; they’re stacked side by side and on top of one another, lumped together in groups of four and six. Each container has been insulated; fitted with two windows and one door. Stairs to the upper levels are attached on either side. The roofs are lined with solar panels that provide free electricity for each grouping. It’s something I’m proud of. Because it was my idea. When we were seeking temporary shelter for the civilians, I suggested refurbishing the old shipping containers that line the docks of every port around the world. Not only are they cheap, easily replicated, and highly customizable, but they’re stackable, portable, and built to withstand the elements. They’d require minimal construction, and with the right team, thousands of housing units could be ready in a matter of days. I’d pitched the idea to my father, thinking it might be the most effective option; a temporary solution that would be far less cruel than tents; something that would provide true, reliable shelter. But the result was so effective that The Reestablishment saw no need to upgrade. Here, on land that used to be a landfill, we’ve stacked thousands of containers; clusters of faded, rectangular cubes that are easy to monitor and keep track of. The people are still told that these homes are temporary. That one day they will return to the memories of their old lives, and that things will be

bright and beautiful again. But this is all a lie. The Reestablishment has no plans to move them. Civilians are caged on these regulated grounds; these containers have become their prisons. Everything has been numbered. The people, their homes, their level of importance to The Reestablishment. Here, they’ve become a part of a huge experiment. A world wherein they work to support the needs of a regime that makes them promises it will never fulfill. This is my life. This sorry world. Most days I feel just as caged as these civilians; and that’s likely why I always come here. It’s like running from one prison to another; an existence wherein there is no relief, no refuge. Where even my own mind is a traitor. I should be stronger than this. I’ve been training for just over a decade. Every day I’ve worked to hone my physical and mental strengths. I’m five feet, nine inches and 170 pounds of muscle. I’ve been built to survive, to maximize endurance and stamina, and I’m most comfortable when I’m holding a gun in my hand. I can fieldstrip, clean, reload, disassemble, and reassemble more than 150 different types of firearms. I can shoot a target through the center from almost any distance. I can break a person’s windpipe with only the edge of my hand. I can temporarily paralyze a man with nothing but my knuckles. On the battlefield, I’m able to disconnect myself from the motions I’ve been taught to memorize. I’ve developed a reputation as a cold, unfeeling monster who fears nothing and cares for less. But this is all very deceiving. Because the truth is, I am nothing but a coward.

Fourteen

The sun is setting. Soon I’ll have no choice but to return to base, where I’ll have to sit still and listen to my father speak instead of shooting a bullet through his open mouth. So I stall for time.

I watch from afar as the children run around while their parents herd them home. I wonder about how one day they’ll get old enough to realize that the Reestablishment Registration cards they carry are actually tracking their every movement. That the money their parents make from working in whichever factories they were sorted into is closely monitored. These children will grow up and finally understand that everything they do is recorded, every conversation dissected for whispers of rebellion. They don’t know that profiles are created for every citizen, and that every profile is thick with documentation on their friendships, relationships, and work habits; even the ways in which they choose to spend their free time. We know everything about everyone. Too much. So much, in fact, that I seldom remember we’re dealing with real, live people until I see them on the compounds. I’ve memorized the names of nearly every person in Sector 45. I like to know who lives within my jurisdiction, soldiers and civilians alike. That’s how I knew, for example, that Private Seamus Fletcher, 45B76423, was beating his wife and children every night. I knew he was spending all his money on alcohol; I knew he’d been starving his family. I monitored the REST dollars he spent at our supply centers and carefully observed his family on the compounds. I knew his three children were all under the age of ten and hadn’t eaten in weeks; I knew that they’d repeatedly been to the compounds’ medic for broken bones and stitches. I knew he’d punched his nine-year-old daughter in the mouth and split her lip, fractured her jaw, and broken her two front teeth; and I knew his wife was pregnant. I also knew that he hit her so hard one night she lost the child the following morning. I knew, because I was there. I’d been stopping by each residence, visiting with the civilians, asking questions about their health and overall living situations. I’d wanted to know about their work conditions and whether any members of their family were ill and needed to be quarantined. She was there that day. Fletcher’s wife. Her nose was broken so badly that both her eyes had swollen shut. Her frame was so thin and frail, her color so sallow that I thought she might snap in half just by sitting down. But when I asked about her injuries, she wouldn’t look me in the eye. She said she’d fallen down; that because of her fall, she’d lost the pregnancy and managed to break her nose in the process. I nodded. Thanked her for her cooperation in answering my questions. And then I called for an assembly. I’m well aware that the majority of my soldiers steal from our storage compounds. I oversee our inventory closely, and I know that supplies go missing all the time. But I allow these infractions because they do not upset the system. A few extra loaves of bread or bars of soap keep my

soldiers in better spirits; they work harder if they are healthy, and most are supporting spouses, children, and relatives. So it is a concession I allow. But there are some things I do not forgive. I don’t consider myself a moral man. I do not philosophize about life or bother with the laws and principles that govern most people. I do not pretend to know the difference between right and wrong. But I do live by a certain kind of code. And sometimes, I think, you have to learn how to shoot first. Seamus Fletcher was murdering his family. And I shot him in the forehead because I thought it’d be kinder than ripping him to pieces by hand. But my father picked up where Fletcher left off. My father had three children and their mother shot dead, all because of the drunken bastard they’d depended on to provide for them. He was their father, her husband, and the reason they all died a brutal, untimely death. And some days I wonder why I insist on keeping myself alive.

Fifteen

Once I’m back on base, I head straight down. I ignore the soldiers and their salutes as I pass by, paying little attention to the blend of curiosity and suspicion in their eyes. I didn’t even realize I was headed this way until I arrived at headquarters; but my body seems to know more about what I need right now than my mind does. My footfalls are heavy; the steady, clipping sound of my boots echoes along the stone path as I reach the lower levels. I haven’t been here in nearly two weeks. The room has been rebuilt since my last visit; the glass panel and the concrete wall have been replaced. And as far as I’m aware, she was the last person to use this room. I brought her here myself. I push through a set of swinging double doors into the locker room that sits adjacent to the simulation deck. My hand searches for a switch in the dark; the light beeps once before it flickers to life. A dull hum of electricity vibrates through these vast dimensions. Everything is quiet, abandoned. Just as I like it.

I strip as quickly as this injured arm will allow me to. I still have two hours before I’m expected to meet my father for dinner, so I shouldn’t be feeling so anxious, but my nerves are not cooperating. Everything seems to be catching up with me at once. My failures. My cowardice. My stupidity. Sometimes I’m just so tired of this life. I’m standing barefoot on this concrete floor in nothing but an arm sling, hating the way this injury constantly slows me down. I grab the shorts stashed in my locker and pull them on as quickly as I can, leaning against the wall for support. When I’m finally upright, I slam the locker shut and make my way into the adjoining room. I hit another switch, and the main operational deck whirs to life. The computers beep and flash as the program recalibrates; I run my fingers along the keyboard. We use these rooms to generate simulations. We manipulate the technology to create environments and experiences that exist entirely in the human mind. Not only are we able to create the framework, but we can also control minute details. Sounds, smells, false confidence, paranoia. The program was originally designed to help train soldiers for specific missions, as well as aid them in overcoming fears that would otherwise cripple them on the battlefield. I use it for my own purposes. I used to come here all the time before she arrived on base. This was my safe space; my only escape from the world. I only wish it didn’t come with a uniform. These shorts are starchy and uncomfortable, the polyester itchy and irritating. But the shorts are lined with a special chemical that reacts with my skin and feeds information to the sensors; it helps place me in the experience, and will enable to me to run for miles without ever running into actual, physical walls in my true environment. And in order for the process to be as effective as possible, I have to be wearing next to nothing. The cameras are hypersensitive to body heat, and work best when not in contact with synthetic materials. I’m hoping this detail will be fixed in the next generation of the program. The mainframe prompts me for information; I quickly enter an access code that grants me clearance to pull up a history of my past simulations. I look up and over my shoulder as the computer processes the data; I glance through the newly repaired two-way mirror that sees into the main chamber. I still can’t believe she broke down an entire wall of glass and concrete and managed to walk away uninjured. Incredible. The machine beeps twice; I spin back around. The programs in my history are loaded and ready to be executed. Her file is at the top of the list.

I take a deep breath; try to shake off the memory. I don’t regret putting her through such a horrifying experience; I don’t know that she would’ve ever allowed herself to finally lose control—to finally inhabit her own body—if I hadn’t found an effective method of provoking her. Ultimately, I really believe it helped her, just as I intended it to. But I do wish she hadn’t pointed a gun at my face and jumped out a window shortly afterward. I take another slow, steadying breath. And select the simulation I came here for.

Sixteen

I’m standing in the main chamber. Facing myself. This is a very simple simulation. I didn’t change my clothes or my hair or even the room’s carpeted floors. I didn’t do anything at all except create a duplicate of myself and hand him a gun. He won’t stop staring at me. One. He cocks his head. “Are you ready?” A pause. “Are you scared?” My heart kicks into gear. He lifts his arm. Smiles a little. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s almost over now.” Two. “Just a little longer and I’ll leave,” he says, pointing the gun directly at my forehead. My palms are sweating. My pulse is racing. “You’ll be all right,” he lies. “I promise.” Three. Boom.

Seventeen

“You sure you’re not hungry?” my father asks, still chewing. “This is really quite good.” I shift in my seat. Focus on the ironed creases in these pants I’m wearing. “Hm?” he asks. I can actually hear him smiling. I’m acutely aware of the soldiers lining the walls of this room. He always keeps them close, and always in constant competition with one another. Their first assignment was to determine which of the eleven of them was the weakest link. The one with the most convincing argument was then required to dispose of his target. My father finds these practices amusing. “I’m afraid I’m not hungry. The medicine,” I lie, “destroys my appetite.” “Ah,” he says. I hear him put his utensils down. “Of course. How inconvenient.” I say nothing. “Leave us.” Two words and his men disperse in a matter of seconds. The door slides shut behind them. “Look at me,” he says. I look up, my eyes carefully devoid of emotion. I hate his face. I can’t stand to look at him for too long; I don’t like experiencing the full impact of how very inhuman he is. He is not tortured by what he does or how he lives. In fact, he enjoys it. He loves the rush of power; he thinks of himself as an invincible entity. And in some ways, he’s not wrong. I’ve come to believe that the most dangerous man in the world is the one who feels no remorse. The one who never apologizes and therefore seeks no forgiveness. Because in the end it is our emotions that make us weak, not our actions. I turn away. “What did you find?” he asks, with no preamble. My mind immediately goes to the journal I’ve stowed away in my pocket, but I make no movement. I do not dare flinch. People seldom realize that they tell lies with their lips and truths with their eyes all the time. Put a man in a room with something he’s hidden and then ask him where he’s hidden it; he’ll tell you he doesn’t know; he’ll tell you you’ve got the wrong man; but he’ll almost always glance at its exact location.

And right now I know my father is watching me, waiting to see where I might look, what I might say next. I keep my shoulders relaxed and take a slow, imperceptible breath to steady my heart. I do not respond. I pretend to be lost in thought. “Son?” I look up. Feign surprise. “Yes?” “What did you find? When you searched her room today?” I exhale. Shake my head as I lean back in my chair. “Broken glass. A disheveled bed. Her armoire, hanging open. She took only a few toiletries and some extra pairs of clothes and undergarments. Nothing else was out of place.” None of this is a lie. I hear him sigh. He pushes away his plate. I feel the outline of her notebook burning against my upper leg. “And you say you do not know where she might’ve gone?” “I only know that she, Kent, and Kishimoto must be together,” I tell him. “Delalieu says they stole a car, but the trace disappeared abruptly at the edge of a barren field. We’ve had troops on patrol for days now, searching the area, but they’ve found nothing.” “And where,” he says, “do you plan on searching next? Do you think they might’ve crossed over into another sector?” His voice is off. Entertained. I glance up at his smiling face. He’s only asking me these questions to test me. He has his own answers, his own solution already prepared. He wants to watch me fail by answering incorrectly. He’s trying to prove that without him, I’d make all the wrong decisions. He’s mocking me. “No,” I tell him, my voice solid, steady. “I don’t think they’d do something as idiotic as cross into another sector. They don’t have the access, the means, or the capacity. Both men were severely wounded, rapidly losing blood, and too far from any source of emergency aid. They’re probably dead by now. The girl is likely the only survivor, and she can’t have gone far because she has no idea how to navigate these areas. She’s been blind to them for too long; everything in this environment is foreign to her. Furthermore, she does not know how to drive, and if she’d somehow managed to commandeer a vehicle, we would’ve received word of stolen property. Considering her overall health, her propensity toward physical inexertion, and her general lack of access to food, water, and medical attention, she’s probably collapsed within a five-mile radius of this supposed barren field. We have to find her before she freezes to death.” My father clears his throat. “Yes,” he says, “those are interesting theories. And perhaps under ordinary circumstances, they might actually hold true. But you are failing to recall the most important detail.”

I meet his gaze. “She is not normal,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And she is not the only one of her kind.” My heartbeat quickens. I blink too fast. “Oh come now, surely you’d suspected? You’d hypothesized?” He laughs. “It seems statistically impossible that she’d be the only mistake manufactured by our world. You knew this, but you didn’t want to believe it. And I came here to tell you that it’s true.” He cocks his head at me. Smiles a big, vibrant smile. “There are more of them. And they’ve recruited her.” “No,” I breathe. “They infiltrated your troops. Lived among you in secret. And now they’ve stolen your toy and run away with it. God only knows how they hope to manipulate her for their own benefit.” “How can you be certain?” I ask. “How do you know they’ve succeeded in taking her with them? Kent was half-dead when I left him—” “Pay attention, son. I’m telling you that they are not normal. They do not follow your rules; there is no logic that binds them. You have no idea what oddities they might be capable of.” A pause. “Furthermore, I have known for some time now that a group of them exists undercover in this area. But in all these years they’ve always kept to themselves. They did not interfere with my methods, and I thought it best to allow them to die off on their own without infecting in our civilians unnecessary panic. You understand, of course,” he says. “After all, you could hardly contain even one of them. They’re freakish things to behold.” “You knew?” I’m on my feet now. Trying to stay calm. “You knew of their existence, all this time, and yet you did nothing? You said nothing?” “It seemed unnecessary.” “And now?” I demand. “Now it seems pertinent.” “Unbelievable!” I throw my hands in the air. “That you would withhold such information from me! When you knew of my plans for her—when you knew what pains I’d taken to bring her here—” “Calm yourself,” he says. He stretches out his legs; rests the ankle of one on the knee of the other. “We are going to find them. This barren field Delalieu speaks of—the area where the car was no longer traceable? That is our target location. They must be located underground. We must find the entrance and destroy them quietly, from within. Then we will have punished the guilty among them, and kept the rest from rising up and inspiring rebellion in our people.” He leans forward. “The civilians hear everything. And right now they are vibrating with a new kind of energy. They’re feeling inspired that anyone was able to run away, and that you’ve been wounded in the process. It makes our defenses

seem weak and easily penetrable. We must destroy this perception by righting the imbalance. Fear will return everything to its proper place.” “But they’ve been searching,” I tell him. “My men. Every day they’ve scoured the area and found nothing. How can we be sure we’ll find anything at all?” “Because,” he says, “you will lead them. Every night. After curfew, while the civilians are asleep. You will cease your daylight searches; you will not give the citizens anything else to talk about. Act quietly, son. Do not show your moves. I will remain on base and oversee your responsibilities through my men; I will dictate to Delalieu as necessary. And in the interim, you shall find them, so that I may destroy them as swiftly as possible. This nonsense has gone on long enough,” he says, “and I’m no longer feeling gracious.”

Eighteen

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry. I’m sorry I’m so sorry please forgive me. It was an accident. Forgive me Please forgive me There is little I allow anyone to discover about me. There’s even less I’m willing to share about myself. And of the many things I’ve never discussed, this is one of them. I like to take long baths. I’ve had an obsession with cleanliness for as long as I can remember. I’ve always been so mired in death and destruction that I think I’ve overcompensated by keeping myself pristine as much as possible. I take frequent showers. I brush and floss three times a day. I trim my own hair

every week. I scrub my hands and nails before I go to bed and just after I wake up. I have an unhealthy preoccupation with wearing only freshly laundered clothes. And whenever I’m experiencing any extreme level of emotion, the only thing that settles my nerves is a long bath. So that’s what I’m doing right now. The medics taught me how to bind my injured arm in the same plastic they used before, so I’m able to sink beneath the surface without a problem. I submerge my head for a long while, holding my breath as I exhale through my nose. I feel the small bubbles rise to the surface. The warm water makes me feel weightless. It carries my burdens for me, understanding that I need a moment to relieve my shoulders of this weight. To close my eyes and relax. My face breaks the surface. I don’t open my eyes; only my nose and lips meet the oxygen on the other side. I take small, even breaths to help steady my mind. It’s so late that I don’t know what time it is; all I know is that the temperature has dropped significantly, and the cold air is tickling my nose. It’s a strange sensation, to have 98 percent of my body floating at a warm, welcome temperature, while my nose and lips twitch from the cold. I sink my face below the water again. I could live here, I think. Live where gravity does not know my name. Here I am unbound, untethered by the chains of this life. I am a different body, a different shell, and my weight is carried by the hands of friends. So many nights I’ve wished I could fall asleep under this sheet. I sink deeper. In one week my entire life has changed. My priorities, shifted. My concentration, destroyed. Everything I care about right now revolves around one person, and for the first time in my life, it’s not myself. Her words have been burned into my mind. I can’t stop picturing her as she must’ve been, can’t stop imagining what she must’ve experienced. Finding her journal has crippled me. My feelings for her have spiraled out of control. I’ve never been so desperate to see her, to talk to her. I want her to know that I understand now. That I didn’t understand before. She and I really are the same; in so many more ways than I could’ve known. But now she’s out of reach. She’s gone somewhere with strangers who do not know her and would not care for her as I would. She’s been dropped into another foreign environment with no time to transition, and I’m worried about her. A person in her situation—with her past—does not recover overnight. And now, one of two things is bound to happen: She’s either going to completely shut down, or she’s going to explode. I sit up too fast, breaking free of the water, gasping for air. I push my wet hair out of my face. I lean back against the tiled wall, allowing the cool air to calm me, to clear my thoughts.

I have to find her before she breaks. I’ve never wanted to cooperate with my father before, never wanted to agree with his motives or his methods. But in this instance, I’m willing to do just about anything to get her back. And I’m eager for any opportunity to snap Kent’s neck. That traitorous bastard. The idiot who thinks he’s won himself a pretty girl. He has no idea who she is. No idea what she’s about to become. And if he thinks he’s even remotely suited to match her, he’s even more of an idiot than I gave him credit for.

Nineteen

“Where’s the coffee?” I ask, my eyes scanning the table. Delalieu drops his fork. The silverware clangs against the china plates. He looks up, eyes wide. “Sir?” “I’d like to try it,” I tell him, attempting to spread butter on my toast with my left hand. I toss a look in his direction. “You’re always going on about your coffee, aren’t you? I thought I—” Delalieu jumps up from the table without a word. Bolts out the door. I laugh silently into my plate. Delalieu carts the tea and coffee tray in himself and stations it by my chair. His hands shake as he pours the dark liquid into a teacup, places it on a saucer, sets it on the table, and pushes it in my direction. I wait until he’s finally sitting down again before I take a sip. It’s a strange, obscenely bitter sort of drink; not at all what I expected. I glance up at him, surprised to discover that a man like Delalieu would begin his day by bracing himself with such a potent, foul-tasting liquid. I find I respect him for it. “This isn’t terrible,” I tell him. His face splits into a smile so wide, so beatific, I wonder if he’s misheard me. He’s practically beaming when he says, “I take mine with cream and sugar. The taste is far better that w—” “Sugar.” I put my cup down. Press my lips together, fight back a smile. “You add sugar to it. Of course you do. That makes so much more sense.” “Would you like some, sir?”

I hold up my hand. Shake my head. “Call back the troops, Lieutenant. We’re going to halt daytime missions and instead launch in the evening, after curfew. You will remain on base,” I tell him, “where the supreme will dictate orders through his men; carry out any demands as they are required. I shall lead the group myself.” I stop. Hold his eyes. “There will be no more talk of what has transpired. Nothing for the civilians to see or speak of. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir,” he says, his coffee forgotten. “I’ll issue the orders at once.” “Good.” He stands up. I nod. He leaves. I’m beginning to feel real hope for the first time since she left. We’re going to find her. Now, with this new information—with an entire army against a group of clueless rebels—it seems impossible we won’t. I take a deep breath. Take another sip of this coffee. I’m surprised to discover how much I enjoy the bitter taste of it.

Twenty

He’s waiting for me when I return to my room. “The orders have been issued,” I tell him without looking in his direction. “We will mobilize tonight.” I hesitate. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters to contend with.” “What’s it like,” he asks, “to be so crippled?” He’s smiling. “How can you stand to look at yourself, knowing that you’ve been disabled by your own subordinates?” I pause outside the adjoining door to my office. “What do you want?” “What,” he says, “is your fascination with that girl?” My spine goes rigid. “She is more to you than just an experiment, isn’t she?” he says. I turn around slowly. He’s standing in the middle of my room, hands in his pockets, smiling at me like he might be disgusted. “What are you talking about?” “Look at yourself,” he says. “I haven’t even said her name and you fall apart.” He shakes his head, still studying me. “Your face is pale, your only

working hand is clenched. You’re breathing too fast, and your entire body is tense.” A pause. “You have betrayed yourself, son. You think you’re very clever,” he says, “but you’re forgetting who taught you your tricks.” I go hot and cold all at once. I try to unclench my fist and I can’t. I want to tell him he’s wrong, but I’m suddenly feeling unsteady, wishing I’d eaten more at breakfast, and then wishing I’d eaten nothing at all. “I have work to do,” I manage to say. “Tell me,” he says, “that you would not care if she died along with the others.” “What?” The nervous, shaky word escapes my lips too soon. My father drops his eyes. Clasps and unclasps his hands. “You have disappointed me in so many ways,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. “Please don’t let this be another.” For a moment I feel as though I exist outside of my body, as if I’m looking at myself from his perspective. I see my face, my injured arm, these legs that suddenly seem unable to carry my weight. Cracks begin to form along my face, all the way down my arms, my torso, my legs. I imagine this is what it’s like to fall apart. I don’t realize he’s said my name until he repeats it twice more. “What do you want from me?” I ask, surprised to hear how calm I sound. “You’ve walked into my room without permission; you stand here and accuse me of things I don’t have time to understand. I am following your rules, your orders. We will leave tonight; we will find their hideout. You can destroy them as you see fit.” “And your girl,” he says, cocking his head at me. “Your Juliette?” I flinch at the sound of her name. My pulse is racing so fast it feels like a whisper. “If I were to shoot three holes in her head, how would that make you feel?” He stares at me. Watches me. “Disappointed, because you’d have lost your pet project? Or devastated, because you’d have lost the girl you love?” Time seems to slow down, melting all around me. “It would be a waste,” I say, ignoring the tremble I feel deep inside me, threatening to tip me over, “to lose something I’ve invested so much time in.” He smiles. “It’s good to know you see it that way,” he says. “But projects are, after all, easily replaced. And I’m certain we’ll be able to find a better, more practical use of your time.” I blink at him so slowly. Part of my chest feels as if it’s collapsed. “Of course,” I hear myself say. “I knew you’d understand.” He claps me on my injured shoulder as he leaves. My knees nearly buckle. “It was a good effort, son. But she’s cost us too much time and expense, and she’s proven completely useless. This way we’ll be disposing of many inconveniences all at once. We’ll just

consider her collateral damage.” He shoots me one last smile before walking past me and out the door. I fall back against the wall. And crumble to the floor.

Twenty-One

Swallow the tears back often enough and they’ll start feeling like acid dripping down your throat. It’s that terrible moment when you’re sitting still so still so still because you don’t want them to see you cry you don’t want to cry but your lips won’t stop trembling and your eyes are filled to the brim with please and I beg you and please and I’m sorry and please and have mercy and maybe this time it’ll be different but it’s always the same. There’s no one to run to for comfort. No one on your side. Light a candle for me, I used to whisper to no one. Someone Anyone If you’re out there Please tell me you can feel this fire. It’s day five of our patrols, and still, nothing. I lead the group every night, marching into the silence of these cold, winter landscapes. We search for hidden passageways, camouflaged manholes—any indication that there might be another world under our feet. And every night we return to base with nothing. The futility of these past few days has washed over me, dulling my senses, settling me into a kind of daze I haven’t been able to claw my way out of. Every day I wake up searching for a solution to the problems I’ve forced upon myself, but I have no idea how to fix this. If she’s out there, he will find her. And he will kill her. Just to teach me a lesson. My only hope is to find her first. Maybe I could hide her. Or tell her to run. Or pretend she’s already dead. Or maybe I’ll convince him that she’s different, better than the others; that she’s worth keeping alive.

I sound like a pathetic, desperate idiot. I am a child all over again, hiding in dark corners and praying he won’t find me. Hoping he’ll be in a good mood today. That maybe everything will be all right. That maybe my mother won’t be screaming this time. How quickly I revert back to another version of myself in his presence. I’ve gone numb. I’ve been performing my tasks with a sort of mechanical dedication; it requires minimal effort. Moving is simple enough. Eating is something I’ve grown accustomed to. I can’t stop reading her notebook. My heart actually hurts, somehow, but I can’t stop turning the pages. I feel as if I’m pounding against an invisible wall, as if my face has been bandaged in plastic and I can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t hear any sound but my own heart beating in my ears. I’ve wanted few things in this life. I’ve asked for nothing from no one. And now, all I’m asking for is another chance. An opportunity to see her again. But unless I can find a way to stop him, these words will be all I’ll ever have of her. These paragraphs and sentences. These letters. I’ve become obsessed. I carry her notebook with me everywhere I go, spending all my free moments trying to decipher the words she’s scribbled in the margins, developing stories to go along with the numbers she’s written down. I’ve also noticed that the last page is missing. Ripped out. I can’t help but wonder why. I’ve searched through the book a hundred times, looking for other sections where pages might be gone, but I’ve found none. And somehow I feel cheated, knowing there’s a piece I might’ve missed. It’s not even my journal; it’s none of my business at all, but I’ve read her words so many times now that they feel like my own. I can practically recite them from memory. It’s strange being in her head without being able to see her. I feel like she’s here, right in front of me. I feel like I now know her so intimately, so privately. I’m safe in the company of her thoughts; I feel welcome, somehow. Understood. So much so that some days I manage to forget that she’s the one who put this bullet hole in my arm. I almost forget that she still hates me, despite how hard I’ve fallen for her. And I’ve fallen. So hard. I’ve hit the ground. Gone right through it. Never in my life have I felt this. Nothing like this. I’ve felt shame and cowardice, weakness and strength. I’ve known terror and indifference, self-hate and general disgust. I’ve seen things that cannot be unseen.

And yet I’ve known nothing like this terrible, horrible, paralyzing feeling. I feel crippled. Desperate and out of control. And it keeps getting worse. Every day I feel sick. Empty and somehow aching. Love is a heartless bastard. I’m driving myself insane. I fall backward onto my bed, fully dressed. Coat, boots, gloves. I’m too tired to take them off. These late-night shifts have left me very little time to sleep. I feel as though I’ve been existing in a constant state of exhaustion. My head hits the pillow and I blink once. Twice. I collapse.

Twenty-Two

“No,” I hear myself say. “You’re not supposed to be here.” She’s sitting on my bed. She’s leaning back on her elbows, legs outstretched in front of her, crossed at the ankles. And while some part of me understands I must be dreaming, there’s another, overwhelmingly dominant part of me that refuses to accept this. Part of me wants to believe she’s really here, inches away from me, wearing this short, tight black dress that keeps slipping up her thighs. But everything about her looks different, oddly vibrant; the colors are all wrong. Her lips are a richer, deeper shade of pink; her eyes seem wider, darker. She’s wearing shoes I know she’d never wear. And strangest of all: she’s smiling at me. “Hi,” she whispers. It’s just one word, but my heart is already racing. I’m inching away from her, stumbling back and nearly slamming my skull against the headboard, when I realize my shoulder is no longer wounded. I look down at myself. My arms are both fully functional. I’m wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and my underwear. She shifts positions in an instant, propping herself up on her knees before crawling over to me. She climbs onto my lap. She’s now straddling my waist. I’m suddenly breathing too fast. Her lips are at my ear. Her words are so soft. “Kiss me,” she says. “Juliette—”

“I came all the way here.” She’s still smiling at me. It’s a rare smile, the kind she’s never honored me with. But somehow, right now, she’s mine. She’s mine and she’s perfect and she wants me, and I’m not going to fight it. I don’t want to. Her hands are tugging at my shirt, pulling it up over my head. Tossing it to the floor. She leans forward and kisses my neck, just once, so slowly. My eyes fall closed. There aren’t enough words in this world to describe what I’m feeling. I feel her hands move down my chest, my stomach; her fingers run along the edge of my underwear. Her hair falls forward, grazing my skin, and I have to clench my fists to keep from pinning her to my bed. Every nerve ending in my body is awake. I’ve never felt so alive or so desperate in my life, and I’m sure if she could hear what I’m thinking right now, she’d run out the door and never come back. Because I want her. Now. Here. Everywhere. I want nothing between us. I want her clothes off and the lights on and I want to study her. I want to unzip her out of this dress and take my time with every inch of her. I can’t help my need to just stare; to know her and her features: the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the line of her jaw. I want to run my fingertips across the soft skin of her neck and trace it all the way down. I want to feel the weight of her pressed against me, wrapped around me. I can’t remember a reason why this can’t be right or real. I can’t focus on anything but the fact that she’s sitting on my lap, touching my chest, staring into my eyes like she might really love me. I wonder if I’ve actually died. But just as I lean in, she leans back, grinning before reaching behind her, never once breaking eye contact with me. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “It’s almost over now.” Her words seem so strange, so familiar. “What do you mean?” “Just a little longer and I’ll leave.” “No.” I’m blinking fast, reaching for her. “No, don’t go—where are you going—” “You’ll be all right,” she says. “I promise.” “No—” But now she’s holding a gun. And pointing it at my heart.

Twenty-Three

These letters are all I have left. 26 friends to tell my stories to. 26 letters are all I need. I can stitch them together to create oceans and ecosystems. I can fit them together to form planets and solar systems. I can use letters to construct skyscrapers and metropolitan cities populated by people, places, things, and ideas that are more real to me than these 4 walls. I need nothing but letters to live. Without them I would not exist. Because these words I write down are the only proof I have that I’m still alive. It’s extraordinarily cold this morning. I suggested we make a smaller, more low-key trip to the compounds earlier in the day today, just to see if any of the civilians seemed suspicious or out of place. I’m beginning to wonder if Kent and Kishimoto and all the others are living among the people in secret. They must, after all, have to have some source for food and water—something that ties them to society; I doubt they can grow anything underground. But of course, these are all assumptions. They might very well have a person who can grow food out of thin air. I quickly address my men; instruct them to disperse and remain inconspicuous. Their job is to watch everyone today, and report their findings directly to me. Once they’re gone, I’m left to look around and be alone with my thoughts. It’s a dangerous place to be. God, she seemed so real in my dream. I close my eyes, dragging a hand down my face; my fingers linger against my lips. I could feel her. I could really feel her. Even thinking about it now makes my heart race. I don’t know what I’m going to do if I keep having such intense dreams about her. I won’t be able to function at all. I take a deep, steadying breath and focus. I allow my eyes to wander naturally, and I can’t help but be distracted by the children running around. They seem so spirited and carefree. In a strange way, it makes me sad that they’ve been able to find happiness in this life. They have no idea what they’ve missed; no idea what the world used to be like. Something barrels into the backs of my legs. I hear a strange, labored sort of panting; I turn around. It’s a dog.

A tired, starving dog, so thin and frail it looks like it could be knocked over by the wind. But it’s staring at me. Unafraid. Mouth open. Tongue lolling. I want to laugh out loud. I glance around quickly before scooping the dog into my arms. I don’t need to give my father any more reasons to castrate me, and I don’t trust my soldiers not to report something like this. That I would play with a dog. I can already hear the things my father would say to me. I carry the whimpering creature over to one of the recently vacated housing units—I just saw all three families leave for work—and duck down behind one of the fences. The dog seems smart enough to understand that now is not the time to bark. I tug off my glove and reach into my pocket for the Danish I grabbed at breakfast this morning; I hadn’t had a chance to eat anything before our early start today. And though I haven’t the faintest idea what dogs eat, exactly, I offer the Danish anyway. The dog practically bites off my hand. It chokes down the Danish in two bites and starts licking my fingers, jumping against my chest in excitement, finally plowing into the warmth of my open coat. I can’t control the easy laughter that escapes my lips; I don’t want to. I haven’t felt like laughing in so long. And I can’t help but be amazed at the power such small, unassuming animals wield over us; they so easily break down our defenses. I run my hand along its shabby fur, feeling its ribs jut out at sharp, uncomfortable angles. But the dog doesn’t seem to mind its starved state, at least not right now. Its tail is wagging hard, and it keeps pulling back from my coat to look me in the eye. I’m starting to wish I’d stuffed all the Danishes in my pocket this morning. Something snaps. I hear a gasp. I spin around. I jump up, alert, searching for the sound. It seemed close by. Someone saw me. Someone— A civilian. She’s already darting away, her body pressed against the wall of a nearby unit. “Hey!” I shout. “You there—” She stops. Looks up. I nearly collapse. Juliette. She’s staring at me. She’s actually here, staring at me, her eyes wide and panicked. My legs are suddenly made of lead. I’m rooted to the ground, unable to form words. I don’t even know where to start. There’s so much I want to say to her, so much I’ve never told her, and I’m just so happy to see her—God, I’m so relieved—

She’s disappeared. I spin around, frantic, wondering whether I’ve actually begun to lose my grip on reality. My eyes land on the little dog still sitting there, waiting for me, and I stare at it, dumbfounded, wondering what on earth just happened. I keep looking back at the place I thought I saw her, but I see nothing. Nothing. I run a hand through my hair, so confused, so horrified and angry with myself that I’m tempted to rip it out of my head. What is happening to me.

Excerpt from Unravel Me

Warner’s back to fight. For Juliette. Don’t miss

UNRAVEL ME

One

The world might be sunny-side up today. The big ball of yellow might be spilling into the clouds, runny and yolky and blurring into the bluest sky, bright with cold hope and false promises about fond memories, real families, hearty breakfasts, stacks of pancakes drizzled in maple syrup sitting on a plate in a world that doesn’t exist anymore. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s dark and wet today, whistling wind so sharp it stings the skin off the knuckles of grown men. Maybe it’s snowing, maybe it’s raining, I don’t know maybe it’s freezing it’s hailing it’s a hurricane slip slipping into a tornado and the earth is quaking apart to make room for our mistakes. I wouldn’t have any idea.

I don’t have a window anymore. I don’t have a view. It’s a million degrees below zero in my blood and I’m buried 50 feet underground in a training room that’s become my second home lately. Every day I stare at these 4 walls and remind myself I’m not a prisoner I’m not a prisoner I’m not a prisoner but sometimes the old fears streak across my skin and I can’t seem to break free of the claustrophobia clutching at my throat. I made so many promises when I arrived here. Now I’m not so sure. Now I’m worried. Now my mind is a traitor because my thoughts crawl out of bed every morning with darting eyes and sweating palms and nervous giggles that sit in my chest, build in my chest, threaten to burst through my chest, and the pressure is tightening and tightening and tightening Life around here isn’t what I expected it to be. My new world is etched in gunmetal, sealed in silver, drowning in the scents of stone and steel. The air is icy, the mats are orange; the lights and switches beep and flicker, electronic and electric, neon bright. It’s busy here, busy with bodies, busy with halls stuffed full of whispers and shouts, pounding feet and thoughtful footsteps. If I listen closely I can hear the sounds of brains working and foreheads pinching and fingers tap-tapping at chins and lips and furrowed brows. Ideas are carried in pockets, thoughts propped up on the tips of every tongue; eyes are narrowed in concentration, in careful planning I should want to know about. But nothing is working and all my parts are broken. I’m supposed to harness my Energy, Castle said. Our gifts are different forms of Energy. Matter is never created or destroyed, he said to me, and as our world changed, so did the Energy within it. Our abilities are taken from the universe, from other matter, from other Energies. We are not anomalies. We are inevitabilities of the perverse manipulations of our Earth. Our Energy came from somewhere, he said. And somewhere is in the chaos all around us. It makes sense. I remember what the world looked like when I left it. I remember the pissed-off skies and the sequence of sunsets collapsing beneath the moon. I remember the cracked earth and the scratchy bushes and the used-to-be-greens that are now too close to brown. I think about the water we can’t drink and the birds that don’t fly and how human civilization has been reduced to nothing but a series of compounds stretched out over what’s left of our ravaged land. This planet is a broken bone that didn’t set right, a hundred pieces of crystal glued together. We’ve been shattered and reconstructed, told to make an effort every single day to pretend we still function the way we’re supposed to. But it’s a lie, it’s all a lie; every person place thing and idea is a lie. I do not function properly. I am nothing more than the consequence of catastrophe.

2 weeks have collapsed at the side of the road, abandoned, already forgotten. 2 weeks I’ve been here and in 2 weeks I’ve taken up residence on a bed of eggshells, wondering when something is going to break, when I’ll be the first to break it, wondering when everything is going to fall apart. In 2 weeks I should’ve been happier, healthier, sleeping better, more soundly in this safe space. Instead I worry about what will happen when if I can’t get this right, if I don’t figure out how to train properly, if I hurt someone on purpose by accident. We’re preparing for a bloody war. That’s why I’m training. We’re all trying to prepare ourselves to take down Warner and his men. To win one battle at a time. To show the citizens of our world that there is hope yet—that they do not have to acquiesce to the demands of The Reestablishment and become slaves to a regime that wants nothing more than to exploit them for power. And I agreed to fight. To be a warrior. To use my power against my better judgment. But the thought of laying a hand on someone brings back a world of memories, feelings, a flush of power I experience only when I make contact with skin not immune to my own. It’s a rush of invincibility; a tormented kind of euphoria; a wave of intensity flooding every pore in my body. I don’t know what it will do to me. I don’t know if I can trust myself to take pleasure in someone else’s pain. All I know is that Warner’s last words are caught in my chest and I can’t cough out the cold or the truth hacking at the back of my throat. Adam has no idea that Warner can touch me. No one does. Warner was supposed to be dead. Warner was supposed to be dead because I was supposed to have shot him but no one supposed I’d need to know how to fire a gun so now I suppose he’s come to find me. He’s come to fight. For me.

Two

A sharp knock and the door flies open. “Ah, Ms. Ferrars. I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by sitting in the corner.” Castle’s easy grin dances into the room before he does.

I take a tight breath and try to make myself look at Castle but I can’t. Instead I whisper an apology and listen to the sorry sound my words make in this large room. I feel my shaking fingers clench against the thick, padded mats spread out across the floor and think about how I’ve accomplished nothing since I’ve been here. It’s humiliating, so humiliating to disappoint one of the only people who’s ever been kind to me. Castle stands directly in front of me, waits until I finally look up. “There’s no need to apologize,” he says. His sharp, clear brown eyes and friendly smile make it easy to forget he’s the leader of Omega Point. The leader of this entire underground movement dedicated to fighting The Reestablishment. His voice is too gentle, too kind, and it’s almost worse. Sometimes I wish he would just yell at me. “But,” he continues, “you do have to learn how to harness your Energy, Ms. Ferrars.” A pause. A pace. His hands rest on the stack of bricks I was supposed to have destroyed. He pretends not to notice the red rims around my eyes or the metal pipes I threw across the room. His gaze carefully avoids the bloody smears on the wooden planks set off to the side; his questions don’t ask me why my fists are clenched so tight and whether or not I’ve injured myself again. He cocks his head in my direction but he’s staring at a spot directly behind me and his voice is soft when he speaks. “I know this is difficult for you,” he says. “But you must learn. You have to. Your life will depend upon it.” I swallow so hard I hear the gulp echo in the gulf between us. I nod, lean back against the wall, welcome the cold and the pain of the brick digging into my spine. I pull my knees up to my chest and feel my feet press into the protective mats covering the ground. I’m so close to tears I’m afraid I might scream. “I just don’t know how,” I finally say to him. “I don’t know any of this. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.” I stare at the ceiling and blink blink blink. My eyes feel shiny, damp. “I don’t know how to make things happen.” “Then you have to think,” Castle says, undeterred. He picks up a discarded metal pipe. Weighs it in his hands. “You have to find links between the events that transpired. When you broke through the concrete in Warner’s torture chamber—when you punched through the steel door to save Mr. Kent—what happened? Why in those two instances were you able to react in such an extraordinary way?” He sits down some feet away from me. Pushes the pipe in my direction. “I need you to analyze your abilities, Ms. Ferrars. You have to focus.” Focus. It’s one word but it’s enough, it’s all it takes to make me feel sick. Everyone, it seems, needs me to focus. First Warner needed me to focus, and now Castle needs me to focus. I’ve never been able to follow through.

Castle’s deep, sad sigh brings me back to the present. He gets to his feet. He smooths out the only navy-blue blazer he seems to own and I catch a glimpse of the silver Omega symbol embroidered into the back. An absent hand touches the end of his ponytail; he always ties his dreads in a clean knot at the base of his neck. “You are resisting yourself,” he says, though he says it gently. “Maybe you should work with someone else for a change. Maybe a partner will help you work things out—to discover the connection between these two events.” My shoulders stiffen, surprised. “I thought you said I had to work alone.” He squints past me. Scratches a spot beneath his ear, shoves his other hand into a pocket. “I didn’t actually want you to work alone,” he says. “But no one volunteered for the task.” 1 then 2 then 15 rocks fall into the pit of my stomach. Several are stuck in my windpipe. I don’t know why I suck in my breath, why I’m so surprised. I shouldn’t be surprised. Not everyone is Adam. Not everyone is safe from me the way he is. No one but Adam has ever touched me and enjoyed it. No one except for Warner. But despite Adam’s best intentions, he can’t train with me. He’s busy with other things. Things no one wants to tell me about. But Castle is staring at me with hopeful eyes, generous eyes, eyes that have no idea that these new words he’s offered me are so much worse. Worse because as much as I know the truth, it still hurts to hear it. It hurts to remember that though I might live in a warm bubble with Adam, the rest of the world still sees me as a threat. A monster. An abomination. Warner was right. No matter where I go, I can’t seem to run from this. “What’s changed?” I ask him. “Who’s willing to train me now?” I pause. “You?” Castle smiles. It’s the kind of smile that flushes humiliated heat up my neck and spears my pride right through the vertebrae. I have to resist the urge to bolt out the door. Please please please do not pity me, is what I want to say. “I wish I had the time,” Castle says to me. “But Kenji is finally free— we were able to reorganize his schedule—and he said he’d be happy to work with you.” A moment of hesitation. “That is, if that’s all right with you.” Kenji. I want to laugh out loud. Kenji would be the only one willing to risk working with me. I injured him once. By accident. But he and I haven’t spent much time together since he first led our expedition into Omega Point. It was like he was just doing a task, fulfilling a mission; once complete, he went back to his own life. Apparently Kenji is important around here. He has a million things to do. Things to regulate. People seem to like him, respect him, even.

I wonder if they’ve ever known him as the obnoxious, foul-mouthed Kenji I first met. “Sure,” I tell Castle, attempting a pleasant expression for the first time since he’s arrived. “That sounds great.” Castle stands up. His eyes are bright, eager, easily pleased. “Perfect. I’ll have him meet you at breakfast tomorrow. You can eat together and go from there.” “Oh but I usually—” “I know.” Castle cuts me off. His smile is pressed into a thin line now, his forehead creased with concern. “You like to eat your meals with Mr. Kent. I know this. But you’ve hardly spent any time with the others, Ms. Ferrars, and if you’re going to be here, you need to start trusting us. The people of Omega Point feel close to Kenji. He can vouch for you. If everyone sees you spending time together, they’ll feel less intimidated by your presence. It will help you adjust.” Heat like hot oil spatters across my face; I flinch, feel my fingers twitch, try to find a place to look, try to pretend I can’t feel the pain caught in my chest. I have to swallow 3 times before I can respond. “They’re—they’re afraid of me,” I tell him, I whisper, I trail off. “I don’t—I didn’t want to bother anyone. I didn’t want to get in their way. . . .” Castle sighs, long and loud. He looks down and up, scratches the soft spot beneath his chin. “They’re only afraid,” he says finally, “because they don’t know you. If you just tried a little harder—if you made even the smallest effort to get to know anyone—” He stops. Frowns. “Ms. Ferrars, you have been here two weeks and you hardly even speak to your roommates.” “But that’s not—I think they’re great—” “And yet you ignore them? You spend no time with them? Why?” Because I’ve never had girl friends before. Because I’m afraid I’ll do something wrong, say something wrong and they’ll end up hating me like all the other girls I’ve known. And I like them too much, which will make their inevitable rejection so much harder to endure. I say nothing. Castle shakes his head. “You did so well the first day you arrived. You seemed almost friendly with Brendan. I don’t know what happened,” Castle continues. “I thought you would do well here.” Brendan. The thin boy with platinum-blond hair and electric currents running through his veins. I remember him. He was nice to me. “I like Brendan,” I tell Castle, bewildered. “Is he upset with me?” “Upset?” Castle shakes his head, laughs out loud. He doesn’t answer my question. “I don’t understand, Ms. Ferrars. I’ve tried to be patient with you, I’ve tried to give you time, but I confess I’m quite perplexed. You were so different when you first arrived—you were excited to be here! But it took less than a week for you to withdraw completely. You don’t

even look at anyone when you walk through the halls. What happened to conversation? To friendship?” Yes. It took 1 day for me to settle in. 1 day for me to look around. 1 day for me to get excited about a different life and 1 day for everyone to find out who I am and what I’ve done. Castle doesn’t say anything about the mothers who see me walking down the hall and yank their children out of my way. He doesn’t mention the hostile stares and the unwelcoming words I’ve endured since I’ve arrived. He doesn’t say anything about the kids who’ve been warned to stay far, far away, and the handful of elderly people who watch me too closely. I can only imagine what they’ve heard, where they got their stories from. Juliette. A girl with a lethal touch that saps the strength and energy of hotblooded human beings until they’re limp, paralyzed carcasses wheezing on the floor. A girl who spent most of her life in hospitals and juvenile detention centers, a girl who was cast off by her own parents, labeled as certifiably insane and sentenced to isolation in an asylum where even the rats were afraid to live. A girl. So power hungry that she killed a small child. She tortured a toddler. She brought a grown man gasping to his knees. She doesn’t even have the decency to kill herself. None of it is a lie. So I look at Castle with spots of color on my cheeks and unspoken letters on my lips and eyes that refuse to reveal their secrets. He sighs. He almost says something. He tries to speak but his eyes inspect my face and he changes his mind. He only offers me a quick nod, a deep breath, taps his watch, says, “Three hours until lights-out,” and turns to go. Pauses in the doorway. “Ms. Ferrars,” he says suddenly, softly, without turning around. “You’ve chosen to stay with us, to fight with us, to become a member of Omega Point.” A pause. “We’re going to need your help. And I’m afraid we’re running out of time.” I watch him leave. I listen to his departing footsteps as they echo alongside his last words and I lean my head back against the wall. Close my eyes against the ceiling. Hear his voice, solemn and steady, ringing in my ears. We’re running out of time, he said. As if time were the kind of thing you could run out of, as if it were measured into bowls that were handed to us at birth and if we ate too

much or too fast or right before jumping into the water then our time would be lost, wasted, eaten up, already spent. But time is beyond our finite comprehension. It’s endless, it exists outside of us; we cannot run out of it or lose track of it or find a way to hold on to it. Time goes on even when we do not. We have plenty of time, is what Castle should have said. We have all the time in the world, is what he should have said to me. But he didn’t because what he meant tick tock is that our time tick tock is shifting. It’s hurtling forward heading in an entirely new direction slamming face-first into something else and tick tick tick tick tick it’s almost time for war.

Excerpt from Warner’s Files

Want more from Warner? Get a peek inside his private log, as well as confidential files from The Reestablishment.

Log: Day 1

She is currently sleeping in my bed.

I finally provided her with the perfect opportunity to display her abilities and she fainted. The tiny, frail thing—I must make sure she eats more— just collapsed in my arms. I’ve seen my fair share of horrified persons in my nineteen years—emotions competing on the faces of my dying enemies, my own men, even myself. But the kind of terror and paralyzing fear on her face was so unexpected as to be remarkable. Jenkins, yes, I expected him to be perhaps mildly concerned for his own welfare. But this girl. The insanity I’ve been told about was all over her face only in that moment. She perplexes me. Every account I’ve read of her—every record, report, every incident on file—claims that she is vicious and delusional. But she is neither. She does not seem to understand the breadth of her abilities; she can’t see the limitless potential in who she could become; she doesn’t even seem interested. She is not at all like how she was described. I thought I was enlisting a willing warrior—someone eager to unleash herself—and I was wildly mistaken. This is going to be much more difficult than I anticipated. It should also be noted that the photos I found in her medical records are ridiculous. They are such a misrepresentation of this girl as to be laughable. She is scared and broken, yes. But she is also angry—and stunningly beautiful. I’m certain I’ve never seen such a beautiful creature in my life. This comes as a great surprise, actually, as I was prepared to be at least mildly repulsed by her. Unfortunately, not only did her beauty immediately distract me—such odd blue-green eyes—but I noticed a sweetness in her features that I’m afraid might actually be sincere. I’m not sure yet if it’s just a clever facade designed to fool her enemies (I doubt it), but I can’t take any chances with her safety. I’ve decided that she cannot, under any circumstances, be allowed to communicate with my men. They’ve been isolated for too long; a generous smile from a beautiful girl would ruin the best of them. And this is precisely why I decided her incident with Jenkins had to be public. I needed to make sure the men knew exactly what she was capable of; they cannot be allowed to think of her as a meek and vulnerable girl—I do not want her to be harassed while she’s here. I’m confident that it will be much safer for her if she is feared, if they think she is a wild, uncontrollable monster. It’s better for her that way. I don’t think she’d listen if I were to simply instruct her to be unkind to the soldiers. A belated (see below*)

She is a very stubborn creature. She fights me over dresses and shoes and refuses to eat her food, like some kind of petulant child. She falls apart at the sight of lavish decor and doesn’t seem pleased to have an actual bed to sleep in. It’s absurd. Who but a child would fight over food and outfits? What rational being refuses a warm meal and an armoire full of clothes? It’s becoming increasingly apparent to me that not only does she not know how to fight but she doesn’t even know how to fight for the right things. Food and clothing are staples, necessary items; it didn’t once occur to me that she would be unhappy to eat solid meals or be unwilling to change out of the same ragged outfit she’s worn for almost a year. This is not the mind of a vicious human being. This is the mind of a broken girl who thinks she is showing strength by refusing the very basic components of survival: Food to give her energy. Clothes to protect her body. Sleep to revive her spirit. She does not think like a fighter. She does not know how to equip herself, how to take advantage of her surroundings in order to dominate her opponents. If she were thinking like a predator, she’d be attempting to break out of here— she would’ve used dinner as an opportunity to kill or disarm as many of my men as possible. She would not have sat at a table laden with food, refusing to speak, refusing to eat, refusing to answer my questions, as though she were a wounded little girl mortally offended to be ordered to eat her vegetables and wear a pretty dress to dinner. She is, in a word, harmless. I’ve only known her for less than one day, so I hope my later observations will prove these early hypotheses wrong, but it seems abundantly clear that she has no idea what she’s capable of. So much so, in fact, that I’m confused as to how she even got to this point. She is no more of a danger to society than a pair of scissors locked in a drawer. How could her parents look at her in fear? How could they—why would they—give her up to the authorities? How could the doctors not see that she is probably more afraid of herself than they are? She has been outrageously wronged in her life. Misjudged. Mistreated. Locked away and labeled insane for no reason. She may have killed that little boy, but even I can see now that it was very likely an accident. I tested her—I gave her an opportunity to embrace her true nature, to be the terror she’s accused of being, and instead she stood screaming in front of me, tears streaming down her face, looking like the pain she’s been carrying might actually kill her— I’m surprised by my reaction to her.

Surprised that my hands shake just a bit as I type this, that I want to give in to my own rage, this blind anger I feel in knowing that there’s been a great injustice done to her. She is so innocent. So small. But I see the hurt, the pain simmering just under the surface of her skin, this fierce stubbornness that gives me hope. In time, I’m sure I can coax the emotion out of her. I can help her. She can be so much more than what they’ve done to her. Years of abuse and neglect and unfounded cruelty created this cowering girl, but I can attempt to undo the damage. It will be more work than I had anticipated, but I think in the end it will be worth it. She has so much potential—such tremendous, extraordinary power she’s unaware of —and I will teach her how to use it. She’s been wronged by the world, and the anger she undoubtedly feels (and that I will endeavor to provoke out of her) will be the fuel she’ll require in order to fight back, to exact revenge in a satisfying manner. She will be perfect, and perfectly suited to my needs. I know it. But I have a lot of work to do.

About the Author

Tahereh Mafi is a girl. She was born in a small city somewhere in Connecticut and currently resides in Orange County, California, where the weather is just a little too perfect for her taste. When unable to find a book, she can be found reading candy wrappers, coupons, and old receipts. Shatter Me and Unravel Me are the first two novels in a trilogy about Juliette, the girl with the deadly touch. You can visit Tahereh online at www.taherehmafi.com or on Twitter: @TaherehMafi. Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

Also by Tahereh Mafi

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Copyright

Destroy Me Copyright © 2012 by Tahereh Mafi All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks. Epub Edition © AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780062208194 FIRST EDITION

About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia http://www.harpercollins.com.au Canada HarperCollins Canada 2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada http://www.harpercollins.ca New Zealand HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www.harpercollins.co.nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.harpercollins.co.uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street

New York, NY 10022 http://www.harpercollins.com *(A belated, slightly irrelevant observation, but one that occurred to me nonetheless: It doesn’t seem possible that she’s had any experience with the opposite gender. This, compounded by a lifetime of degradation and isolation, leads me to believe that she has no grasp on the extent of her physical attractions. This is a weakness that must be remedied somehow; she could use this information to her advantage. She must be able to understand—and harness—every tool in her arsenal. I’ll find a way to work on this.)

ALSO BY TAHEREH MAFI: Furthermore Ignite Me Unravel Me Shatter Me

DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS Penguin Young Readers Group An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 375 Hudson Street New York, NY 10014

Copyright © 2017 by Tahereh Mafi Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Mafi, Tahereh, author. Title: Whichwood / by Tahereh Mafi. Description: New York, NY : Dutton Children’s Books Young Readers/Penguin Random House LLC, [2017] | Companion to: Furthermore. | Summary: Laylee, thirteen, is nearly worn out from washing and packaging corpses for the Otherwhere and being shunned by villagers when two strangers, Alice and Oliver, arrive determined to help. Identifiers: LCCN 2017020411| ISBN 9781101994795 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781101994818 (ebook) Subjects: | CYAC: Fantasy. | Magic—Fiction. | Dead—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. Classification: LCC PZ7.M2695 Whi 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017020411 Edited by Julie Strauss-Gabel This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Illustrations by Iacopo Bruno Jacket design by Anna Booth and Theresa Evangelista Version_1

For my parents, for the long nights spent reading Persian poetry over endless cups of tea

Contents Also by Tahereh Mafi Title Page Copyright Dedication Our Story Begins on a Frosty Night Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Tread Cautiously, Dear Reader Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Terribly Sad, This Story Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 I Fear This Won’t End Well Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 But First: a Bit of Fun Before the Blood Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 I Really Don’t Care for This Part Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34

Chapter 35 It’s All Terribly Exciting, Isn’t It? Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Brace Yourself Before You Read On, I Beg You Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Forgive Me, but Things Only Get Worse Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Come, Let’s Leave This Place for a Bit Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Now, Where Were We? Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Finally, a Bit of Good News Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61

I Do Dearly Love a Happy Ending Chapter 62

OUR STORY BEGINS ON A FROSTY NIGHT

Infant snow drifted down in gentle whorls, flakes as large as pancakes glinting silver as they fell. Shaggy trees wore white leaves and moonlight glimmered across a glassy lake. The night was soft and all was slow and snow had hushed the earth into a deep, sound slumber and oh, winter was fast approaching. For the town of Whichwood, winter was a welcome distraction; they thrived in the cold and delighted in the ice (the very first snowfall was terribly nice), and they were well equipped with food and festivities to keep toasty throughout the season. Yalda, the biggest celebration, was the winter solstice, and the land of Whichwood was electric with anticipation. Whichwood was a distinctly magical village, and Yalda—the town’s most important holiday—was a very densely magical evening. Yalda was the last night of fall and the longest night of the year; it was a time of gift-giving and tea-drinking and endless feasting—and it was a great deal more than that, too. We’re a bit pressed for minutes at the moment (something strange is soon to happen and I can’t be distracted when it does), so we’ll discuss the finer details at a later time. For now, know this: Every new snowfall arrived with a foot of fresh excitement, and with only two days left till winter, the people of Whichwood could scarcely contain their joy. With a single notable exception. There was only one person in Whichwood who never partook in the town merriment. Only one person who drew closed her curtains and cursed the song and dance of a magical evening. And she was a very strange person indeed. Laylee hated the cold. At thirteen years old, she’d long lost that precious, relentless optimism reserved almost exclusively for young people. She’d no sense of whimsy, no interest in decadence, no tolerance for niceties. No, Laylee hated the frost and she hated the fuss and she resented not only this holiday season, but even those who loved it. (To be fair, Laylee resented many things—not the least of which was her lot in life—but winter was the thing she resented perhaps most of all.) Come sleet or snow, she alone was forced to work long hours in the cold, her kneecaps icing over as she dragged dead bodies into a large porcelain tub in her backyard. She’d scrub limp necks and broken legs and dirty fingernails until her own fingers froze solid, and then she’d hang those dead, dragging limbs up to dry—only to later return and break icicles off corpse chins and noses. Laylee had no holidays, no vacations, not even a set schedule. She worked when her customers came calling, which meant very soon she’d be worked to the bone. Winter in Whichwood, you see, was a very popular season for dying. Tonight, Laylee was found frowning (her expression of choice), irritated (perhaps more than usual), bundled (to the point of asphyxiation), and stubbornly determined to catch a few snowflakes before dinner. Fresh flakes were the thickest and the crispest, and a rare treat if you were quick enough to catch a few. If I may: I know it seems a strange idea, eating snowflakes for dinner, but you have to understand—Laylee Layla Fenjoon was a very strange girl, and despite (or perhaps because of) the oddness of her occupation, she was in desperate need of a treat. She’d had to wash nine very large, thoroughly rotted persons today—this was four more than usual—and it had been very hard on her. Indeed, she often caught herself dreaming of a life where her family didn’t run a laundering business for the deceased. Well, I say family, but it was really just Laylee doing all the washing. Maman had died two years prior (a cockroach had fallen in the samovar and Maman, unwittingly, drank the tea; it was all very tragic), but Laylee was not afforded the opportunity to grieve. Most ghosts moved on after a good scrubbing, you see, but Maman’s had lingered, floating about the halls and criticizing Laylee’s best work even when she was sleeping. Baba, too, was entirely absent, as he’d been gone just as long as Maman had been dead. Devastated by the loss of

his wife, he’d set off on an impulsive journey not two days after Maman died, determined to find Death and give him a firm talking-to about his recent choices. Sadly, Death was nowhere to be found. Worse, grief had so thoroughly crippled Baba’s mind that, despite his two-year absence, thus far he’d managed to travel only as far as the city center. In his heartbreak he’d lost not only his way, but his good sense, too. Baba’s brain had rearranged, and in the madness and chaos of loss, no room remained for his only child. Laylee was collateral damage in a war on grief, and Baba, who had no hope of winning such a war, haplessly succumbed to this opiate of oblivion. Laylee would often pass her disoriented father on her sojourns into town, pat his shoulder in a show of support, and tuck a pomegranate into his pocket. More on that later. For now, let us focus: It was a cold, lonely night, and Laylee had just collected the last of her dinner when a sudden sound froze her still. Two loud thumps, a branch snap, a dull thud, the unmistakable intake of air and a sudden rush of angry whispers— No, there was no denying it: There were trespassers here. Now, this would have been an alarming revelation for any normal person, but as Laylee was a distinctly abnormal person, she remained unperturbed. She was, however, perplexed. The thing was, no persons ever came here, and heaven help them if they did; stumbling upon a shed of swollen, rotting corpses had never done any person any good. It was for this reason that Laylee and her family lived in relative isolation. They had taken up residence in a small, drafty castle on a little peninsula on the outer edge of town in an informal sort of exile; it was an unkindness Laylee and her family had not earned, but then, no one wanted to live next door to the girl with such an unfortunate occupation. In any case, Laylee was entirely unaccustomed to hearing human voices so close to home, and it made her suspicious. Her head high and alert, Laylee stacked her snowflakes into an ornate silver dinnerbox—an old family heirloom—and tiptoed out of sight. Laylee wasn’t a child oft bothered by the fuss and furor of fear; no, she dealt with death every day, and so the unknowns that startled most had little effect on a person who could talk to ghosts. (This last bit was a secret, of course—Laylee knew better than to tell her townspeople that she could see and speak with the spirits of their loved ones; she had no interest in being asked to do more work than was already stacked in her shed.) So as she trod cautiously back toward the modest castle that was her home, she felt not fear, but a tickle of curiosity, and as the feeling warmed itself inside her heart, she blinked, grateful and surprised to feel a smile spreading across her face.

Maman was hovering in the entryway as Laylee pulled open the heavy wooden door and, just as the ghost-mother prepared to shout about one new grievance or another, a sudden gust of wind slammed shut the door behind them, causing Laylee to jolt against her will. She closed her eyes and exhaled sharply, her hands still closed around her silver box. “Where have you been?” Maman demanded, zipping around Laylee’s ears. “Don’t you care at all about my feelings? You know how lonely I get, locked up here all by myself—” (Right, yes, this was another thing: Maman would haunt their home and nowhere else— not because she couldn’t, but because she wouldn’t. She was a very doting parent.) Laylee ignored Maman. Presently, she untied an ancient, floral, excessively fringed scarf from around her head and unbuttoned the toggles of her fur-lined winter cloak, hanging both to dry by the front door. The fur was a gift from a fox who’d saved his summer sheddings for her, and tonight Laylee had been especially grateful for the extra warmth. “—no one to talk to,” Maman was wailing, “no one to sympathize with my plight—” Laylee used to be more sympathetic to Maman’s plights, but she’d learned the hard way that this ghost was but an echo of her real mother. Maman had been a vibrant, interesting

woman, but the gauzy iteration flitting past our heroine’s head had little personality and even less charm. Ghosts, it turned out, were excessively insecure creatures, offended by every imagined slight; they required constant coddling and found comfort only in their romantic musings on death—which, as you might imagine, made them miserable companions. Maman had settled into a dramatic soliloquy—taking care to describe the monotony of her day in great detail—as Laylee took a seat at the kitchen table. She didn’t bother lighting a lamp, as there weren’t any lamps to be lit. She’d been on her own for two years now, fending for herself and footing the bills, but no matter how hard Laylee worked, it was never enough to bring her home back to life. Laylee had one gift: She had a magical talent that enabled her (and those of her bloodline—she’d inherited the gene from Baba) to wash and package the dead destined for the Otherwhere, but such heavy work was never meant to be carried out by a single person—and certainly not by one so young. Despite her best efforts, Laylee’s body was slowly deteriorating; and the longer her small person dealt in the decomposition of life, the weaker she became. Laylee didn’t have the time to be a vain girl, but if she’d ever spent more than a few minutes in front of a mirror she might have blossomed into a fine narcissist. In fact, had her parents been around to encourage her ego, she might well have lost the whole of her mind. It was lucky for Laylee, then, that she had neither mother nor mirror to fill her head with nonsense, for a closer inspection of her reflected self would have revealed a girl of unusual beauty. She was of slim, sturdy build, with long, elegant limbs; but it was her eyes—soft and doll-like—that set her apart. One look at our young friend was enough to flutter the hearts of those who met her, but it was that second glance that awakened their fear. Let us be clear: Laylee’s looks did not inspire admirers. She was not a girl to be trifled with, and her beauty was to her as inconsequential as those who revered it. She was born beautiful, you see; her face was a gift she could not shed. At least, not yet. The work she did was taking its toll, and she could no longer ignore the changes in her reflection. Though her chestnut locks had once been lustrous and robust, they’d now begun to fade: Laylee was going silver from the ends upward, and her eyes—which had once been a deep, rich amber—had gone a glassy gray. Thus far, only her skin had been spared; even so, her newly flinty eyes against the deep bronze of her skin made her seem moon-like, alien, and perpetually sad. But Laylee had little patience for sadness, and though deep down she felt a great deal of pain, she much preferred to be angry. And so she was, for the most part, an irritable, unkind, angry girl, with little pleasantness to distract her from the constant death demanding her attention. Tonight, she swept a defeated glance around the many rooms of her drafty home and promised herself that one day she would do well enough to repair the broken windows, mend the torn draperies, replace the missing torches, and reinvigorate the faded walls. Though she worked hard every day, Laylee was seldom paid for the work she did. The magic that ran through her veins made it so she was bound by blood to be a mordeshoor, and when the dead were delivered to her door, she had no choice but to add them to the pile. The people of Whichwood knew this and too often took advantage of her, sometimes paying very little, and sometimes not at all. But one day, she swore, she’d breathe light and color back into the dimness that had diminished her life. Maman was darting in and out of her daughter’s face again, unhappy to be so soundly ignored. Laylee swatted at Maman’s insubstantial figure, her face pulled together in dismay. The daughter ducked twice and eventually gave up, carrying her dinner into the sparsely furnished living room and, once newly settled onto the softest part of the threadbare rug, Laylee cracked open the dinnerbox. The room was lit only by moonlight, but the distant orb

would have to do. Laylee dropped her chin in one hand, crunched quietly on a snowflake the size of her face, and thought wistfully of the days she used to spend with children her own age. It had been a long time since Laylee had been to school, and she missed it sometimes. But school was a thing of luxury; it was meant for children with working parents and domestic stability—and Laylee could no longer pretend to have either. She bit into another snowflake. The first fresh flakes of the season were made entirely of sugar—this was a magic specific to Whichwood—and though Laylee knew she should eat something healthier, she simply didn’t care. Tonight she wanted to relax. So she ate all five flakes in one sitting and felt very, very good about it. Maman, meanwhile, had just concluded her monologue and was now moving on to more pressing issues (the general state of the house, the more specific mess in the kitchen, the dusty hallways, her daughter’s damaged hair and callused hands) when Laylee retreated upstairs. This was Maman’s daily routine, and Laylee was struggling to be patient about it. She’d stopped responding to Maman long ago—which helped a bit—but it also meant that sometimes several days would pass before Laylee would speak a single word, and the loneliness was beginning to scar. Laylee hadn’t always been such a silent child, but the more anger and resentment welled up inside of her, the less she dared to say. She was a girl who rarely spoke for fear of spontaneously combusting.

Laylee had locked herself in the toilet for far longer than was necessary. The bathroom was the one place Maman would not haunt her (just because she was dead did not mean she’d lost her sense of decency), and Laylee cherished her time in this unholy space. She’d just finished mixing a soaking solution in a copper basin (warm water, sugarsalt, rosehip oil, and a snip of lavender) for her aching hands when she noticed something strange. It was slight, but it was there: The tips of her fingers were going silver. Laylee gasped so deeply she nearly knocked over the bowl. She fell to her knees, rubbing at her skin like she might undo the harm, but it was no use. It had been hard enough to watch her eyes turn, and even more devastating when her hair went, too, but this—this was dire indeed. Laylee could not have known then the full extent of the damage she’d inflicted upon her body, but she knew enough to understand this: She was irrevocably ill from the inside out, and she didn’t know what to do. Her first thought was to appeal to Baba. She’d begged him countless times to return home, but he could never see the sense in her words. Baba had become increasingly delusional over the years, never certain whether he existed in the world of the living or the dead. After Maman died, he fully unzipped from what little sense he had left; now he was forever lost in transit, and there was nothing Laylee could do about it. Just a little longer, he’d always say, in his charming, clumsy way. I’m nearly there. Baba kept his teeth in his pocket, you see, so it was very difficult for him to enunciate. I should explain. Once upon a time, Baba had seen Maman at the marketplace and had very swiftly fallen in love with her. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence for Maman; in fact, strangers had been known to fall in love with her with some frequency. She was, as you might have suspected, a supremely beautiful woman—but not in any common, familiar sort of way. No, Maman was the kind of beautiful that ruined lives and relieved men of their sanity. She had a face that was impossible to describe and skin so luminous it looked as though the sun itself had haunted her. And while it was true that many residents of Whichwood had beautiful skin (they were a golden kind of people, even in the winter, with brown skin bronzed by

daylight), Maman outshone the lot of them, wrapping her hair in vibrant, fluid silks that made her glimmering skin appear absolutely other. And her eyes—deep and dazzling—were so captivating that passersby would faint dead away at the sight of her. (You might now hazard a guess as to how Laylee inherited her good looks.) Maman was courted by nearly every person brave enough to fight for her affection, and though she did not hate her beauty, she hated being defined by it, so she dismissed every suitor just as quickly as they came. But Baba was different. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he was a man who lived to get lost in emotion, and he was desperate to be in love. After learning that Maman worked at her family’s dental practice, he made a plan. Every day—for just over a month—he paid to have a tooth pulled just to be able to spend time with her. He’d lie back and listen to her talk while she extracted healthy teeth from his open mouth, and each day he would stumble home bloody and aching and thoroughly, hopelessly in love. It was only after he’d run out of teeth that Maman finally fell for him, and though Baba was proud of their unusual courtship, Laylee found their story to be inexpressibly stupid, and it took no small amount of coaxing to convince her to share this memory. I hope you are pleased. In any case, Baba seemed a hopeless case. Laylee loathed and adored Baba with a great urgency, and though she thought fondly of their early years together, she also blamed him for being so recently careless. He was a man who felt too much, and his heart was so large that things got lost in it. Laylee knew she was an important part of him, but with so much in this world competing for his attention, the space she took up was disappointingly small. And so it was there—cold and curled up on the toilet floor, clutching silvered fingers and pressing her lips together to keep from crying—that Laylee heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.

Laylee flew out the bathroom door and into the hall. Her eyes darted around in search of damage, and for the first time in a long while, she felt the tiniest prickle of fear. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Curiously, Maman’s ghost was nowhere to be found. Laylee peered over the banister to the floor below, squinting to see where Maman might’ve gone, but the house was still. Alarmingly so. And then: whispers. Laylee snapped to attention and sharpened her ears, listening closely for any signs of danger. The whispers were rushed and rough—angry?—and it was only a moment longer before she realized the sounds were coming from her own bedroom. Her heart was beating faster now; fear and anticipation had collided within her and she was heady with an unusual kind of excitement. Nothing so mysterious had ever happened to her before, and she was surprised to find how much she liked it. Laylee tiptoed toward her bedroom with graceful stealth, but when she pushed open the door to her room, eager to apprehend the intruder, Laylee was so startled by what she saw that she screamed, scrambled backward, and stubbed her toe so badly she screamed twice more.

“Please—don’t be frightened—” But Laylee was horrified. She fell back against the banister and tried to steady the rise and fall of her chest, but she was so untethered by the rush of these many rusty emotions that she couldn’t gather the words to respond. Laylee had been expecting a renegade corpse, a rampaging ghost, perhaps a disturbed flock of geese—but no—most unexpected—

There was a boy in her room. He was a pathetic-looking creature, half frozen, quickly melting, and generally drenched from head to toe. Worse: He was dripping dirty water all over her floor. Laylee was still too stunned to speak. He’d followed her into the hall, hands up, pleading with his eyes, and yet —he also appeared to be studying her. It was only when Laylee realized he was looking curiously at her hair that she reunited with her senses and ran downstairs. Laylee snatched a poker from the fireplace before grabbing for her fringed scarf, throwing it over her head and securing it tightly around her neck. Her hands were shaking—shaking! so strange!—and she’d only just begun to brace herself for a fight when she heard the voice of someone new. She spun around, breathing hard. This time, it was a girl who stood facing her—also sopping wet—and it was the most peculiar-looking girl Laylee had ever seen. More confounding: The girl was not only shivering and clutching at her wet arms, she also appeared to be on the verge of tears. “I’m so desperately sorry Oliver is an idiot,” said the girl all at once, “but please don’t be frightened. We’re not here to harm you, I swear it.” Of this harmlessness, Laylee was beginning to feel certain. The girl who stood before her was pocket-sized; she looked too delicate to be real. In fact, if Laylee hadn’t already been acquainted with so many ghosts, she might’ve confused this stranger for a spirit. Her skin was a shocking shade of white, the same white as her hair, her eyebrows, and the flutter of thick, snow-bright lashes that framed her light brown irises— these, her only feature that held any color. She was an odd-looking person for the land of Whichwood, where the people were renowned for their golden-brown skin and rich, jeweltoned eyes. Laylee couldn’t help but be curious about this unusual girl. Her panic slowly subsiding, Laylee slackened her grip around the poker. More than curious—there was something kind about this stranger, and though Laylee did not think of herself as a kind person, she was still rather fond of kindness itself. In any case, she was intrigued; it had been a very long time since she’d met another girl her own age. “Who are you?” Laylee finally said, her voice rough from a lack of use. “My name is Alice,” said the girl, and smiled. Laylee felt a tug at her heart; old habits encouraged her to smile back, but Laylee refused, choosing to frown instead. She cleared the cobwebs from her throat and said, “And why have you broken into my home?” Alice looked away, embarrassed. “Oliver was the one who broke the window. I’m so sorry about that. I told him we should knock—that we should come inside the normal way—but we were so desperately cold that he insisted we go a more direct route and—” “Oliver is the boy?” Alice nodded. “Where has he gone?” Laylee looked over Alice’s head, searching for a glimpse of him. “He’s hiding,” said Alice. “I think he’s afraid you’re going to kill him.” Laylee stopped searching and instead raised an eyebrow. She felt her lips twitch and again quashed the urge to smile. “Might we please stay awhile?” said Alice timidly. “It’s been a very long journey and we’re dreadfully tired. It took forever to find you, you know.” Laylee clenched her fist around the poker again. “Find me?” she said. “Why did you want to find me?” Alice blinked. “Well, we came to help you, of course.”

“I don’t understand,” said Laylee. “How do you intend to help me?”

“Well, I’m”—Alice hesitated—“actually, I’m not really sure,” she said, twisting her wet hair in her fingers. A small puddle was forming at her feet. “It’s rather a long story. In fact—in fact I should probably tell you that we’re not from here. We come from another village, called Ferenwood. You’ve probably never heard of Ferenwood, but it’s ano—” “Of course I know of Ferenwood,” Laylee snapped. She hadn’t had as much schooling as most children, but she wasn’t stupid. “We study the many magical lands in our second year.” Alice’s face went impossibly paler. “There are other magical lands? But I’ve only just learned about you.” Laylee was unmoved. This girl was either very stupid or just pretending to be stupid, and Laylee couldn’t decide which was worse. “Well, anyway,” Alice rushed on, wringing her hands, “we have a Surrender every year where we perform our magical talents in exchange for a task, and—and anyhow, I’ve been tasked to you.” This, Laylee did not understand. It took several minutes of explaining what, exactly, went into a Surrender (this was a magical coming-of-age ceremony specific to Ferenwood) and the mechanics of a task (the purpose of which was always to help someone or someplace in need), and by the end of it, Laylee was not only irritated, she was annoyed, and she wanted Alice to go home. “I will not accept your pity,” said Laylee. “You’re wasting your time.” “But—” “Take your friend and leave me be. I’ve had a very long day and I’ve more to do in the morning and I cannot be distracted by your”—she frowned and waved a dismissive hand —“bizarre offer of charity.” “No—please,” Alice said quickly, “you must understand: I wouldn’t have been sent here if you didn’t have a problem I could fix! If you would only tell me what’s wrong with you, maybe I could—” “What’s wrong with me?” said Laylee, astounded. “Well, I don’t mean”—Alice laughed nervously—“of course I didn’t mean that there was anything wrong with you—” “Good grief, Alice. Ruined things already, have you?” Oliver had appeared at her side with such silent swiftness he startled both girls at once. “What are you doing here?” Laylee said angrily, turning to aim the poker in his direction. “Who are you people?” “We’re here to fix what ails you, apparently,” said Oliver with a smile. “Alice is very smooth, isn’t she? Quite the charmer.” Laylee, confused, dropped the poker for just a second. “What on earth are you talking about?” “Ah,” said Oliver, raising an eyebrow. “I see we’ve already lost our sense of humor.” “Oliver, please!” Alice cried. “Just be quiet!” Laylee, who’d had quite enough of this nonsense, narrowed her eyes and clenched the poker and the next thing she knew she was making up beds for her guests and asking them if they’d like anything to drink. A great fire was blazing on the hearth, and the castle felt warm and cozy like it hadn’t in years. Laylee was always loath to light a fire (as it was a costly indulgence), and she’d spent all year carefully amassing a steady supply of firewood; the most frigid winter nights were yet to come, and she was planning to ration what she had to last the snowy season. Now she smiled at the dancing flames, only partly understanding that these strangers had used up her entire store in a single evening, and she sighed, wondering —with great tenderness—how best to kill them for it.

Alice and Oliver were now nice and dry. Their heavy coats had been hung by the fire and, thanks to the great and crackling blaze, were nearly rid of any remaining damp. Oliver seemed pleased. Alice, however, was looking newly terrified, shooting worried glances at Laylee (who was studying her hands, trying to determine left from right), tugging at her companion’s shirt, and hissing, “Stop this, Oliver! You stop it right now!” Laylee blinked. “She’s perfectly fine, Alice! There’s no need for hysterics.” “If you don’t stop this right now—” “But she won’t let us stay any other way! Besides, she’d have stuck you nice and bloody with that poker if it weren’t for me—” Laylee tilted her head, distracted by a spot on the wall. Dimly, she wondered who these people were. “This is my task, Oliver Newbanks, and you will do as I say. And it’s no fault of mine that she wanted to stick me with a poker! Maybe if you hadn’t decided to break her bedroom window—” “It was freezing outside!” “Oh, I swear it, Oliver, if you ruin this for me, I will never forgive you, not ever!” “Alright,” he said with a sigh. “Fine. But I’m only doing it bec—” Laylee inhaled so quickly she felt her head spin. Slowly, very slowly, she felt the blood rush back into her brain. She rubbed at her eyes and squinted them open, blinking carefully in the intense glow of the fire, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make sense of what she saw. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here, and she couldn’t understand who’d allowed these strangers to set up quarters in her living room. And then all at once, her senses returned. She spun around, searching for her makeshift weapon, when Oliver cried, “Laylee— please!” And she slowed. She was almost afraid to ask how he knew her name. He was holding up his hands in mock surrender, and Laylee felt she could hold off trying to kill this boy for at least long enough to get a good look at him. His hair was silver like hers, but in a way that seemed natural. And his eyes—a shade of blue so rich they were nearly violet—were striking against his brown skin. Everything about him was sharp and polished (and handsome) and the longer she looked at him, the more she felt a sudden, fluttering thrill in her heart, and she was so unsettled by the sensation she nearly hit him with the poker just to be rid of it. “We’re not here to hurt you,” he said. “Please—” “You can’t stay here.” Laylee cut him off, nervous anger flaming her cheeks. “You’re not allowed to be here.” “I know—I know it’s not ideal to host a pair of guests you’ve never met, but if we could just explain—” “No,” Laylee said heavily, struggling to stay calm, “you don’t understand. This home is protected by ancient magic. Only a mordeshoor may find refuge here.” Neither Alice nor Oliver appeared to be bothered by this revelation. Oliver, for his part, was still staring at Laylee, transfixed. “What’s a mordeshoor?” “It’s what I am. It’s the name given to those of us who wash the dead and package their bodies for the Otherwhere. We are mordeshoors.” “Goodness, that seems just awful,” said Alice, patting Laylee’s arm and looking overly sympathetic. Laylee bristled, snatching her arm away at once, but Alice didn’t seem to notice; instead, she gestured to a chair. “Would you mind if I sat down?” “You must leave,” said Laylee sharply. “Now.”

“Don’t you worry about us,” Oliver said with a smile. “We’ll be fine—we’re not afraid of a few dead people. We just need a warm place to rest awhile.” Laylee rolled her eyes so hard she nearly snapped a nerve. “You will not be fine, you fool. You have no protection here. You won’t survive the night.” Alice finally showed a flicker of fear. “Why not?” she asked quietly. “What would happen?” Laylee dragged her eyes over to Alice. “The ghosts of the freshly dead are always terrified to cross over—they’d much rather cling to the human life they know. But a spirit can only exist in the human world when it’s wearing human skin.” She leveled them both with a dark look. “If you stay here, they will harvest your flesh. They will make suits of your skin as you sleep and leave you rotting in your own blood.” Alice clapped both hands over her mouth. “This is precisely why I exist,” said Laylee. “The process of washing the body calms the wandering spirit; when the body crosses over, so too will the ghost.” (Maman, you will note, was an exception to this rule; I promise to explain the particulars at a quieter time.) Alice pinched Oliver in the shoulder. “Do you see now?” She pinched him again. “Do you see what you nearly did? You nearly killed us with your cheating! Skin suits, indeed!” Oliver frowned, flinched, and jumped away from Alice, rubbing his shoulder as he did. He was irritated, but somehow, simultaneously, fascinated. “Now get out of my house.” Laylee picked up the poker and jabbed them both, briefly, in the centers of their chests. “Out! Get out!” Alice was crestfallen, but Laylee felt no remorse. These trespassers were not only flagrantly disrespecting her wishes, but they’d used up all her firewood, too, and Laylee couldn’t take much more of their foolishness. This was her home—she alone should be able to choose who entered it. She was parading the two of them toward the exit when Oliver said, “Let’s say for a moment that you did want us to stay here—” Laylee jabbed him in the back. “In theory!” he said, wincing. “Let’s just say, in theory, that you actually wanted us to stay here. Would we have to wash a dead body in order for the magic to protect us?” Laylee shook her head. Oliver was visibly relieved. “Not just one,” she said. “You’d have to wash three. A man, a woman, and a child; three for every night you remain.” Oliver blanched. “Do you even have that many dead people here?” Laylee stopped walking. Quietly, she said, “Yes.” It was a single word, but it carried a great deal of weight. They three were suddenly overtaken by a silence within which each of them was, for a moment, tossed about in a tornado of their own worries. Laylee, weary with exhaustion, could think of little but her own steady deterioration; Oliver, wary of the situation, could focus on little but selfpreservation; but Alice, who often took the time to worry about more than just herself, felt a door in her heart swing open. It was she who finally said, with great tenderness, “That sounds like an awful lot of work for one person.” Laylee looked up sharply, locking eyes with Alice in a rare moment of transparency. The reminder of her workload had dropped a new weight on Laylee’s shoulders; she felt her elbows unlock. She’d nearly forgotten the newly silver tips of her fingers until she’d felt them tremble, and it was enough to loosen her grip on the poker. She looked away as she said, “Yes. It is.”

Alice shot Oliver a knowing look, and he seemed to understand. This was their moment. Together they stood tall, screwed up their courage, and said, “Well—would you like some help?” And it was this—this simple, foolish question—that finally touched the heart of our young protagonist. Something like hope had whistled through the cracks in her heart, surprising her with a feeling she’d long forgot. It was then that Laylee looked at her trespassers with new eyes. It was then, dear friends, that she finally smiled.

Oh, it would be a very, very long night.

TREAD CAUTIOUSLY, DEAR READER

The moon hung fat and low in the half-lit sky as they three traipsed single-file into the backyard, Laylee leading the way. Night had fallen fast: a skin of darkness had been hitched across the daylight and left to rot until midnight itself had become a curtain of charred flesh you could pinch between two fingers. The clouds were stretched thin as they slunk by, gauzy strokes painted hither and thither. There were many dead lying about these grounds—and many ghosts haunting the hollows in between—but the real monster they faced tonight was the wintertide itself: The cold was a physical enemy, a blistering, forbidding presence stacked thickly in the air. Each step forward was an instigation of aggression, arms punching and heads knocking against icy gusts and fits. Laylee, at least, was well prepared for the wars waged by these freezing nights. Her work was always done in uniform—in accordance with proper mordeshoor tradition— and she was never more grateful for the ancient armor of her ancestors than she was on these nights. She’d latched an old, intricately hammered chest plate atop her heavy, tattered gown, clamped solid gold cuffs on both forearms and ankles, and upon her head—secured atop her floral scarf—she wore the most impressive heirloom of all: an ancient helmet she wore only in the winters for its added protection against the blustery nights. It was a gold dome of a cap embellished with a series of ornate, hand-hammered flourishes; emblazoned all around the dome in timeworn calligraphy were wise words captured long ago, in a language she still loved to speak. It was the work of the poet Rumi, who’d written,

Last night a sheikh went all about the city, lamp in hand, crying, “I’m weary of all these beasts and devils, and desperately seek out humanity!” The helmet was topped by a single proud spike that stood five inches tall; the brim adorned by hundreds of fussy hinges from which hung a fringe of jagged chainmail. The sheets of deftly braided steel rained down the back and sides of Laylee’s head, swishing quietly as she walked, leaving dents in the wind. She was thirteen years old and far too terrifying for her age, but she was, at least, entirely prepared to deal with death on even these, the coldest nights of the year. Laylee tugged her scarf across her nose and mouth in a practiced motion, careful lest she breathe in too deeply (on more than one occasion she’d had to rush home for a glass of warm water, frost choking the inside of her throat), and soldiered on. It was odd: Whichwood was known for its spectacularly painful winters, but this night seemed unusually cold. Laylee, as I mentioned, was armed and bundled to the point of immobility, but her companions were a sight less prepared. They’d at least known to travel with heavy winter cloaks and boots, but they were strangers to this land—their bones were not built to carry this cold—and more than once, Laylee caught herself wondering how they managed. She was sure these two had no idea what they’d agreed to, and part of her worried they’d be scared away too soon. It was only then that she saw how quickly she’d come to rely upon their offer of help, and she hated herself for it. Laylee was too proud to accept charity, but she was too smart to reject it, too. No one had ever before offered to help her, and she couldn’t say no to a good thing now. Certainly she could stand to live with these children in exchange for their assistance—but would her fragile guests survive the night? She dug the silver tips of her fingers into her palms and clenched her jaw in frustration. Oh, if only she could, she’d rather die than accept the pity of passing strangers.

The farther they walked, the deeper they dipped, and soon the triplet troop was caught thigh-high in the snow, and there was no telling how long they’d last. Laylee glanced briefly in her guests’ direction, but thus far they’d not made a peep of protest, and Laylee couldn’t help but feel a begrudging respect for their resilience. And so, for the first time in a long while, Laylee was inspired to do something kind. She stopped abruptly, Alice and Oliver quickly following suit. It had been at least two years since Laylee had felt any compulsion to share, but tonight she was feeling more unusual than usual, so she unearthed a small pouch of matches from somewhere inside her cloak and offered its contents to her guests. They didn’t seem to understand. Alice shook her head. “N-no, thank you,” she stammered, cold caught in her teeth. Oliver shook his head, too. “What’s it for?”

“To keep you warm,” said Laylee, confused and—dare I say it?—hurt. “One m-match?” said Alice, still shivering. “Doesn’t s-seem like it’d d-do much good.” Laylee withdrew her hand, stung by their rejection, and looked away. She was ashamed of herself for having offered them anything at all. Angrily, she snatched a matchstick from the pouch and popped it in her mouth, vowing to never offer these ingrates anything again. Alice gasped. “What are y—” But Laylee’s face had just flushed a bright red, and Alice couldn’t be bothered to finish her sentence. The heat was moving quickly through Laylee’s body, and her cheeks were now a sweet, rosy pink. The warmth would last only a short while, but it always helped her get through the rougher hours of winter workdays. It was an awed Oliver who finally whispered, “What did you just do? I could’ve sworn you just ate a matchstick.” Laylee was feeling very warm and, suddenly, a little sleepy. She blinked softly and smiled, only vaguely aware that she’d done so. “Yes,” she said. “I did.” “But—” “I know,” Laylee said quietly. “Some people don’t approve of Quicks, but I can’t say I care.” “It’s not that at all,” said Oliver. “We’ve just never seen such a thing before. We don’t eat matches in Ferenwood.” Laylee looked up, slightly mollified. “Oh.” “How do they w-work?” said Alice, who was now standing in snow up to her waist. “Well,” said Laylee, as she tilted her head, “they don’t work for everyone. But the idea is that they catch fire inside of you, heating you up from the inside out.” “That’s f-fascinating,” said Alice, who was now eyeing Laylee’s pockets with a new hunger. “Wait,” said Oliver, “why don’t they work for everyone?” It was a reasonable question, but Oliver had made the mistake of touching Laylee as he spoke, and Laylee looked him over now—his hand on her arm, her gaze strange and frightening in the moonlight—and wondered whether Oliver had lost the whole of his mind. After all, her body was her own business, and she’d not told him he could touch her. The problem was, Oliver wasn’t even aware he’d done so. The ghostly midnight glow had caught the silver in her eyes, and the helmet she wore glinted gold against her skin, and somehow, in that moment, Laylee looked more ethereal than ever: half alive, impossible to grasp, angry even when she smiled. She was a dazzling girl and Oliver Newbanks was in danger of being too thoroughly dazzled. But Laylee could never understand why others were so enchanted by the macabre, or why they found her dance with death so morbidly exciting. It angered her, to be so exoticized. So she locked eyes with him and said, very quietly, “Not everyone has the right spark, you know.” And pushed him in the snow.

Oliver had mixed feelings about being so unceremoniously shoved to the ground. He was fourteen years old now and fully interested in the sorts of quiet, delicate things that transpired between the hearts of young people, but he never had the chance to sort it all out. By the time he got to his feet and caught up to the others, they’d come upon a large clearing where even the trees knew better than to trespass. From high above, the scene was spare: a white canvas backdrop painted thick with fresh frost, three winter coats triangulated before a claw-foot tub half-buried in the snow. It was somehow implausibly colder here—as there was a distinct lack of life to lend any heat to the space—and it was silent, desperately silent. Unnervingly so. No living thing—not plant, not insect, not animal—dared disturb the rituals of the final bath, and so they were alone, they three: the strangest sort of children come to hold hands with the dark.

Forgotten for the moment was the cold, the ice, the fear, the hour. Night had been sliced open and, within it, they found mortality. This, the final act of the dead, demanded respect that could not be taught. This was the least alive they’d be tonight, and a hush fell over their reverent forms as three sets of knees hit the ground before dawn. Alice and Oliver had not been told to be still; they were compelled to be. Shadows crept up their limbs, wrapped around their mouths and ears and bones and squeezed. Breaths were extinguished; lips did not move; sounds were not made; and from the silence emerged an understanding: Life would clasp hands with death on these occasions only, in the interest of servicing both worlds and the wandering spirits that belonged therein. Break this bond, and you, too, shall break. Alice and Oliver gasped and choked their way back to steady breaths, heaving softly as the shadows lifted, massaging throats and lips and frozen hands. Their wild eyes found each other—for fear had found them first—and they held tight to one another, soundlessly saying all that would remain unspoken. Laylee sighed, disappointed. Alice and Oliver would never be true mordeshoors—for that, they’d need the blood—but if they were to ever be even remotely useful, they’d have to first unlearn their fears.

The tub had no spigot, no spout, no knobs or levers, but when Laylee placed her bare, frozen hands on either side of the porcelain, its depths began to fill—slowly at first, and then quickly, furiously, sloshing hard against the edges. Where the water came from, not even Laylee knew; all that mattered was that it existed. The first fill was always the most heavily perfumed, and the heady aroma was nearly too much for Alice and Oliver, who, bent forward with the weight of its lure, had not yet realized its purpose. The scent, you see, was a siren song for the dead, and the distant sounds of their slogging, dragging limbs meant they’d already begun their pilgrimage to water. Single file, the decaying corpses cut a swerving path through the snow, occasionally stumbling over their molting limbs, bone shoving through sinew with each inarticulate movement, and Laylee had at least the propriety to look ashamed. (It was, after all, her fault they were falling apart.) She knew she should’ve dispatched her dead long ago, but it was a hard, thankless job and, well—normally no one was around to judge the state of her subjects. Alice and Oliver could not mask their disgust. Laylee took this reaction quite personally, but I really feel I should say—that is, it is my humble opinion that even a band of newly dead corpses would’ve affected them thus. (In fact, I tried telling Laylee this very thing, but she refused to listen. I’m afraid the girl is too hard on herself.) Laylee, for her part, was watching the bodies closely, carefully ascertaining when to make their marching stop. For the sake of her guests, she gave them a wide berth, and when they’d reached a ten-foot radius of their little clearing, Laylee held up her hand. No words, just this simple movement, and all forty-six of them collided to a halt, collapsing in a tangled, rotting heap. Laylee cringed as she heard an ankle snap off one man’s leg and roll to the ground. This was not the way to show her guests a good time. Oliver had swallowed back the same bit of bile on no fewer than four occasions now, and Alice, who’d nearly fainted in as many times, was still upstanding simply because the imagined stench arising from the distant pile of flesh had kept her conscious against her will. This, she thought, was her reward for performing so well at her Surrender. She could scarcely believe her luck.

Laylee had turned her eyes back to the tub, and Alice, who could bear to look at the mangled limbs no longer, was grateful for the reprieve. A thin layer of ice had already begun to form at the surface of the water, but Laylee broke the ice with a practiced swiftness, and it was this that prompted a newly shivering, nearly vomiting Alice to say, “Couldn’t we possibly move the tub inside?” But Laylee would not look at her. “You cannot wash the dead where the living still sleep,” was all she said. Alice didn’t know how to respond, for fear of saying the wrong thing. She was beginning to think of Laylee as infinitely more frightening than any dead person she’d ever met, and even Oliver (who was hard-pressed to think rationally when faced with such a beautiful façade), found himself rethinking his attraction to this young mordeshoor. Perhaps it was the stack of putrid bodies piled off to the side, or maybe it was the single finger he’d just discovered in his sleeve, but there was something distinctly unromantic about this experience, and Oliver couldn’t yet suss out the why. In fact, he and Alice had just decided that this was quite possibly the worst adventure they’d ever undertaken when Laylee surprised them both by doing something strange and beautiful, and for just a moment, no one could remember to be afraid. Slowly, very slowly, Laylee had touched her lips. She let her fingers linger at the seam for just a few seconds, and then finally, carefully, she retrieved a single red rose petal from the inside of her mouth. This she let fall into the tub. Instantly, the water changed. It was now a boiling, churning sea of liquid crimson, and Alice was so stunned she nearly stumbled, and Oliver, who caught her, was staring at Laylee in shock and awe. Laylee would not look away from the water. “Choose your first body,” she said quietly. “You will have to carry it here yourself.”

Alice and Oliver set off at once. Laylee did not watch them as they went, or she would have seen them stumbling—half fear, half exhilaration—toward the mass of matted bodies, holding fast to each other lest they lose the little courage that kept them warm. No, she was too busy watching the water, combing its ruddy depths with her eyes in search of something—a sign, maybe, that she hadn’t made a false move. The thing was, Laylee was beginning to wonder whether an offer of assistance could ever arrive so sincerely. She felt weak of mind and bone, certain now that she’d agreed far too hastily, so desperate for help that she’d lost what good sense she had left. The longer she stood alone, the more intensely the night gnawed at her. Had she sold herself to a pair of strangers? For what? A few nights’ reprieve from the occupation to which she was fettered? Why had she so easily broken? More distressing still: What would they take from her after she’d taken what she wanted from them? Laylee had no way of knowing that her fears were unfounded. She knew not the hearts of her two companions, and she’d never have believed a stranger capable of possessing pure intentions. No, she lived in a world where goodness had failed her, where darkness inhaled her, where those she loved had haunted and discarded her. There was no monster, no ghoul, no corpse in a grave that could hurt her the way humans had, and Laylee was afraid that tonight she’d made a most grievous mistake. So when her companions finally returned, death in their arms and good deeds on their minds, Laylee had once again shuttered closed the doors and windows of her heart. She was no longer merely curt, but now edging on cruel, and she did not care whose heart she hurt, so long as it wasn’t hers.

It was Alice who returned first. She was carrying a small child in her arms—a boy of seven or eight—and she was openly weeping. Forgotten was her innocence, her fear, her childish approach to their solemn business tonight. For it is one thing to behold the dead—and entirely another to hold it. In her arms this child was human, too real, and Alice could not manage her emotions. She was bordering on mild hysteria, and Laylee had no patience for it. “Wipe your face,” she said. “And be quick about it.” “How can you be so unmoved?” said Alice, her voice breaking. Her arms were shaking from the weight she could not carry and, very gently, she let the child’s body fall to her feet. “How?” she said again, wiping at her tears. “How can you do this without feeling—” “It’s not your place to wonder at what I feel.” And Laylee unearthed a small whip (hung from a belt beneath her cloak) and cracked it once through the air. Alice gasped. But Laylee did not care. For Alice it was easy to grieve; for Laylee it was nearly impossible. The ghost of the young boy was still very much alive for her, and currently he was prancing about the tub, making crude comments about Alice’s face. Laylee cracked the whip again and the ghost screamed, disintegrating for just a moment. The damage was never permanent, but the whip worked well enough to keep the more ghoulish in line. Laylee cracked the whip just once more— “Oh, for Feren’s sake!” cried Alice. —and soon the boy’s disgruntled spirit was stone-faced and brooding, shooting Laylee dirty looks as he stood by, awaiting his send-off to the Otherwhere. “Put the body into the tub,” Laylee demanded. “Do it now.” Alice swallowed hard, too nervous to be contrary. It took a great deal of effort, but she managed to set aside her tears just long enough to lift the child into the water. The moment the body hit the liquid, the churning waves were put to peace, and the red water went clear once more. Alice smiled. Laylee, meanwhile, had begun clearing a section of snow. From under the drift, she unearthed a large metal chest and unlatched the lid, revealing an assortment of ancient tools. Laylee grabbed several hard-bristled brushes, handed two to Alice, and said, “Now scrub off the filth.” Alice looked up at her, eyes wide with fear. “What do you mean?” she whispered. Laylee nodded to the water. “It looks clean now,” she said. “But you’ll see what your tears were worth as soon as you’re done with him.”

The scrubbing of six bodies took just under seven hours. Hands red and raw, fingers frozen, noses numbed beyond all sensation: by the end, all three children were nearly dead themselves. One corpse had been so intensely foul that the shadows had not only clung to him, they’d congealed to form a nearly impenetrable skin, and Oliver had to peel back the darkness one excruciating layer at a time. Alice, for her part, had quickly set aside her fears, reaching instead for fortitude, drawing from an inner well of strength so deep even Laylee took notice. These two strangers were extraordinary in their resolve, uncomplaining through the night, and Laylee was finally beginning to realize that these were not ordinary children. She couldn’t help but hope they weren’t there to harm her.

The sun switched shifts with the moon. Weak morning light filtered through a changing sky, golden violets and dandelion blues offering the first rays of heat to be felt all night. The children’s arms were nearly broken with effort—and legs nearly paralyzed by cold—but the work of the evening was still unfinished. Laylee (who, lest we forget, had washed nine bodies of her own not ten hours prior) could hardly move for fatigue, but she made one final effort. Her cold, clumsy hands unearthed a mess of clothespins, and she offered a few shaking fistfuls to both Alice and Oliver. They three worked wordlessly—moving so slowly they might’ve been wading through warm milk —and hoisted half-sopping, half-frozen bodies onto a hefty clothesline. They pinned hinges to hawser, securing only necks and knees and elbows and the like; once done, dead heads lolled onto stone chests, limp hands flapped against locked wrists, and wet clothes whipped in the brisk morning wind. Six new bodies were strung alongside the nine from the day before, and as the three living children stepped back to admire their work, they fell over sideways and promptly fell asleep in the snow.

Too soon, they were awoken by an eager sun. The golden orb was glittering directly overhead, vibrating warmth with a cheerfulness that seemed remarkably out of place on this brisk afternoon. The snow under the necks and toes of our brave protagonists had melted in gentle waves, each cascade drifting their bodies down a modest slope back toward the castle. Slow, groggy, and drenched to the bone—they blinked open six bleary eyes into the blinding light. The few birds still in residence had gathered for their daily conference, and Laylee saw them studying her. She groaned and turned away, rubbing her face as she did. They and she seldom spoke to one another, but she knew they pitied her, and this made her resent their airs and upturned beaks, and she could never forgive them for always looking down on her as they flew by. Only once had she climbed a tree tall enough to turn her nose up at them, but she’d only the briefest moment to revel in the glory of dim-witted pride before three doves took turns defecating on her head. Remembering this now, she cast a dark look at the birds, wiped imaginary excrement from her helmet, and—still scowling—dragged herself up out of the melted snow. Meanwhile, Alice and Oliver remained half mired in the slushy filth, disoriented by sleep and forgetting where they were. They finally managed to help each other up, squelching to their feet and squinting in the noon light. Tired, hungry, and urgently requiring a washing, they looked to Laylee for instructions on how best to proceed. They were hoping she would invite them inside—maybe offer them a bit of breakfast or point them in the direction of a warm bath— Instead, she said, “Come on then,” with a tired wave of her hand. “We’ve got to ship them off before they get soiled again. The bodies are very vulnerable right now.” To say that Alice and Oliver were devastated would’ve been a gross understatement of the truth—but there was nothing to be done about their discomfort. Alice had agreed to her task, and Oliver had agreed to help Alice, and the both of them had agreed to assist Laylee. So they nodded, gritted their teeth, and staggered forward, sad and sopping in dripping clothes. Alice and Oliver helped Laylee unclip her dead from the clothesline. The corpses had frozen solid while they slept—icicles hung from their chins and ears and shirt hems—but they’d been defrosting steadily in the sunlight, which made them a bit easier to maneuver. Once unclipped, the heavy bodies fell to the ground with a series of tremendous thuds, and Alice and Oliver, who stood stock-still and ankle-deep in dead, were ordered to wait as they were—while Laylee hurried off to retrieve the necessary items for the next steps. She was gone for some time, rummaging around in her moldy shed of death, and in her absence Alice and Oliver had time to reflect on their horrible evening. Alice was trying to be

optimistic, but Oliver was not having it. They’d been swathed in sludge up to their frozen knees, their clammy skin hugged by sodden dress; they were starved, exhausted, filthy even behind their eyeballs—and had now been ordered to keep still amidst a pile of half-melted bodies. Oliver simply refused to see the good in it. “I can’t believe,” he was saying, “that this is what winning the Surrender got you.” He crossed his arms, head shaking. “It’s a bad deal, if you ask me. An awful deal.” “But—” “Maybe,” he said, his face brightening, “maybe we could just go home.” “Oliver!” Alice gasped. “How can you say such a thing?” “Oh, just imagine it! Wouldn’t it be lovely to go back?” “Well you are free to go wherever you like,” said Alice, who was now plucking a leech off her sleeve. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ve a task to accomplish, and I’ll do it with or without you, Oliver Newbanks, no matter your whining.” “But don’t you see? It’s a perfect plan,” he said, his eyes aglow. “Your father is a Town Elder now—I’m sure he’d make an exception for you. And you’ll just ask for a redo, that’s all. I’m sure they’ll understand.” “Don’t be ridiculous. This is already my second go-around. I haven’t any interest in repeating my Surrender again. Besides,” Alice sniffed, “they’ve already made an exception by sending me here; Ferenwood is making a great effort to re-form its ties with other magical lands, and Father says it’s important I do well here so that we might continue in this direction. And anyway, it’s precisely because Father is a Town Elder that I need to be on my best behavior. Things have been so wonderful since he’s come home and I won’t be the one to ruin it for him. No, we’ll just need to make do with what we’ve got and—” “Make do with what we’ve got?” Oliver cried. “What have we got, Alice? A pile of dead people and the girl who loves them. Goodness, that doesn’t seem like much.” “Why Oliver Newbanks,” said Alice, raising an eyebrow. “What a strange thing to say.” “What do you mean?” “I’m just surprised to hear you speak ill of our hostess.” Alice smiled. “I thought you seemed quite taken with her.” At this, Oliver blushed a furious pink. He fumbled for at least an eighth of a minute and when he finally spoke he said, “Such— such nonsense, Alice. I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about.” And at precisely that moment, Laylee came into view. She was a truly striking girl, even caked in grime, and Oliver Newbanks—who doth protest too much if I do say so myself—could not help but notice. Laylee’s eyes were a sensationally bizarre color, and they caught the light like liquid pewter lit by flame. She’d shucked off her helmet only to tuck it under her arm, and the business of doing so had left her a bit disheveled; stray locks of hair had escaped her carefully wrapped headscarf, and the loose tendrils, tipped in silver, lent a softness to her features that was entirely deceptive. She was feeling far from soft as she dragged along a long, flat cart, her face furrowing from the physical effort required to pull its heavy load. She stopped only a moment to wipe at her perspiring brow and, noticing her unkempt hair, quickly tucked the half-silver strands back underneath her scarf. It was only when Alice and Oliver—who’d just remembered their manners—ran forward to help that they saw the wares she’d been hauling: Stacked flat and vertical and packed high to the sky were dozens of simple wooden coffins. Alice’s heart gave a little leap. Oliver’s stomach heaved. Even so—even so—he decided to be chivalrous. Now, it was true that Oliver Newbanks thought Laylee was a beautiful girl. But you must remember: Beauty is easily forgotten in the face of death, decrepitude, and general unpleasantness. So, while, yes, Oliver thought

Laylee was very pretty (when he had the luxury of thinking such things), that wasn’t what moved him now. No, there was something about Laylee—something about her Oliver couldn’t quite place—that drew him to her, and though at the time he couldn’t understand what it was, the explanation was actually quite simple. Reader, he admired her. Because somehow, even with the encumbrance of such an unfortunate and isolating occupation, she walked through darkness with elegance, navigating the corridors of life and death with a confidence he’d always secretly longed for. She appeared so self-assured, so steady—so untroubled by the opinions of others—it inspired in him something he’d never experienced before. He was made nervous at the sight of her. He was suddenly eager to understand her. Most of all, he wished she were his friend. “Please,” he said, looking her in the eye. He placed a warm hand atop her tired one as he took the burden over. “Let me do this.” Laylee snatched away her hand and scowled, launching a feeble protest in the process (she didn’t really want to keep lugging the cart, but her pride would not let her relinquish the load without a struggle), but Oliver would not be moved. Laylee, who had not anticipated any part of this conversation, was so surprised by his insistence that she was rendered, for a moment, speechless. Any help at all was more than she’d ever had, but this was more than she’d expected even from her guests. It was a small gesture, yes—but Laylee was so unused to kindness that even the thinnest acts of consideration soothed the tired heart inside her. Finally, gratefully, she surrendered. She and Alice stood together silently as Oliver dragged the heavy cart through the muck, and Laylee looked on in quiet contemplation as his figure shrank into the distance. “Alice,” Laylee said suddenly. Alice was so stunned to be spoken to that she nearly jumped in place. “Y-yes?” she said. “What’s he worth?” “Who?” said Alice quickly. “Oliver?” “Yes. This boy.” Laylee nodded toward Oliver’s retreating form. “Is he trustworthy?” “Trustworthy?” This, Alice had to think about. “Well,” she said carefully. “Yes, I think so.” “You think so?” “That is—I’m fairly certain. It’s just that he used to be the most horrible liar.” Alice laughed. “He has the magic of persuasion, you know. Complicates things a bit.” Laylee turned to look at her now, alarmed. “Persuasion?” Alice nodded. “He can make people think and do anything he wants. And goodness knows”—she laughed again—“he used to be awful about it.” But then, noticing the look of horror on Laylee’s face, she said quickly, “Oh, but I wouldn’t worry about it, really! He’s much better now!” Too late. Laylee had gone cold. Her eyes went dark; her lips went still. She looked away. She seemed suddenly and inexplicably angry and, taking a deep breath, she clasped her gloved hands together too tightly. Alice—who’d said exactly the wrong thing—felt Laylee’s unexpected moment of friendship slipping away and began to flounder. She knew she had to take advantage of any opportunities to make progress with Laylee; after all, Alice still had no real idea what she was supposed to be doing here, and she was growing desperate. Unfortunately, desperation made her reckless. “Laylee,” she said quickly. “If you would only trust me—if you would only tell me what’s wrong—” Laylee stiffened. “Why do you keep insisting that something is wrong with me?”

“No! No—not, not wrong with you,” said Alice hastily, “just that there might be something bothering you.” She hesitated, crossed her fingers, and said, “Is there something bothering you? Something you’d like to talk about?” Laylee looked incredulously at Alice (Laylee was beginning to think Alice was a bit soft in the head) before gesturing across the endless field of dirty, melting snow, its dead bodies and empty caskets, and said, “Something bothering me? What do you think is bothering me? Do you think I enjoy this line of work? Do you think I’m thrilled to be the sole mordeshoor for a land of eighty thousand people?” “N-no,” said Alice, who was already feeling terrified. “But I just thought, perhaps there’s something else—some other reason why I was sent here. You see, I have a very particular kind of magic,” she rushed on, “and mine isn’t much good for washing dead bodies, so I was wondering—” “Let me be clear,” said Laylee, whose expression had gone so cold Alice had to resist the impulse to shudder. “I did not ask you to be here. I did not ask for your help. If you don’t want to work—if washing dead bodies is beyond your particular kind of magic—you are free to go. In fact,” Laylee said carefully, her voice sharp and forbidding, “it might be best if you left right now.” And with that, she charged off into the distance, toward Oliver and her many wooden coffins, and left Alice all alone and heartbroken in the slush. For Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, things weren’t going at all according to plan.

Laylee couldn’t be bothered to care. She was too sensitive to Alice’s repeated insinuations that there might be something wrong with her, and it made her cruel and defensive. Laylee threw up new walls, feeling more vulnerable by the moment, and struggled to ignore the sudden, unprecedented tremor in her hands. Still, she marched forward through the sludge, taking in rapid lungfuls of the crisp fresh air, and clenched her fists to keep them steady. Oliver was just up ahead, waiting patiently beside a tall stack of coffins. He caught her eye and smiled, his violet eyes crinkling in delight, and Laylee was so startled by the sight of it she felt something stumble inside of her. It was such a strange, unexpected sensation that for a moment—a very brief moment— Laylee thought she might cry. She wouldn’t, of course, but she did solemnly wish she could afford to fall apart every once in a while. In any case, Laylee did not return Oliver’s smile. She had no interest in untrustworthy, manipulative liars, no matter their claims of reformation. No, there was no chance of her befriending this duplicitous boy or the daft, silly girl. So she flipped open her red cloak—for the first time, Oliver glimpsed the ancient, heavily brocaded silk gown she wore underneath—unhooked an old, nicked, elaborately carved silver crowbar from the tool belt she wore around her waist, and set to work. (On her belt she also carried an old brass mallet; her leather ghost whip; the silky, quilted pouch full of Quicks; a pair of rusty pliers; a copper box full of nails; a branding iron; and a little holder for her business cards.) Silently, she climbed atop the transport and began prying off the wooden lids. Oliver scrambled up the side of the cart to join her. From where they stood, Alice was now even more visible: the young Ferenwood girl was standing small and alone in the distance, and she cut a sad, half-slumped figure in the snow. But whatever you might think of Laylee, know this: Her conscience had not yet broken, and it tormented her now perhaps more than ever. Laylee secretly wished she were a normal child—the kind who could make friends and amends all in the same day—but Laylee was simply too wounded herself to know how to undo the hurt she inspired. Her heart, thudding around inside her, was already panicking at the very idea of apologizing to Alice. No, she was too raw, too terrified of rejection to say she was sorry—

Because what if her apologies weren’t accepted? What if she made herself vulnerable only to have her faults thrown back in her face? No, no, it was safer to stay angry, she’d concluded, where nothing could ever touch her. Luckily, Oliver had no such scruples. He cleared his throat and said, as carefully as possible, “Why, um—why is Alice standing all the way over there?” Laylee had already pried the lids off several coffins by the time Oliver asked his question, so she was breathing hard and hauling open caskets onto the snow when she said, “I told her that if she didn’t like this line of work, she should leave.” Oliver froze in place, stunned. “Why in heavens would you do that?” Laylee shrugged. “She said her magic wasn’t suited to washing dead bodies.” “But—Laylee—” “And anyway she keeps demanding to know what’s wrong with me—as though I’m a nut to be cracked.” Laylee dragged down another casket, exhaling a sharp breath. “But there is nothing the matter with me.” She looked up to meet Oliver’s eyes as she said this, but once she stopped moving, her hands—visibly shaking—belied her words. Laylee pretended not to notice and moved quickly to reach for another coffin, but Oliver had the good sense to stop her. “If there’s nothing the matter with you,” he said, “then what’s wrong with your hands?” “Nothing,” she snapped, closing her trembling fingers into fists. “I’m tired, that’s all. We had a very long night.” Oliver faltered—for he could not deny that this was true—and finally relented with a sad sigh. “All Alice wants is to help you,” he said. “Then she should be over here helping,” said Laylee. “But you just said you told her not to.” “When someone really wants something,” Laylee said, dragging another coffin to the ground, “they’ll fight for it. She does not appear to be much of a fighter.” Oliver laughed out loud and looked away, shaking his head in the direction of the sun. “Only someone who didn’t know Alice at all could say something like that.” Laylee did not respond. “Goodness,” Oliver said, now squinting across the field at Alice’s lonely figure. “I can only imagine how thoroughly you broke her heart.” Now Laylee looked at him. Glared at him. Angrily, she said, “If what I said broke her heart, then her heart is too easily broken.” Oliver cocked his head, smiled, and said, “Not everyone is as strong as you are, you know.” At this, Laylee went numb. “You misunderstand me entirely,” she said quietly. “I’m not strong at all.” Oliver, who understood at once the depth of this confession, never had a chance to respond. He was still searching for the right thing to say when Laylee went abruptly rigid— her spine ramrod straight—and inhaled a short, sharp gasp as her crowbar fell, with a dull splash, into the slush. Laylee’s legs buckled beneath her and she staggered sideways, toppling into Oliver, who’d come running forward to help, and though he pulled the mordeshoor to her feet, fear and panic were colliding in his eyes, and he cried out for Alice as Laylee shook in her skin. And in the fraction of a second Laylee made the mistake of meeting his gaze, Oliver had looked too long—and learned too much. Something was desperately wrong.

Alice was now charging toward them—her face fraught with terror as her long, pale hair tossed around in the wind—and Oliver sank to his knees as he searched Laylee’s face for signs of trauma. For a girl so unaccustomed to company, it was a curious, terrifying sensation to be so intimately held—but this matter of physical closeness was a mere trifle on Laylee’s long list of concerns. The thing was, she didn’t trust these odd children, and she couldn’t help but feel that the timing of their arrival, their absurd demands to help her, and her sudden, unbidden frailty had coincided in a way that was more than a little suspicious. She was not, as you might have expected, particularly moved by their compassionate faces, and she would not allow herself to be romanced by any moment that demanded she be weak—not here and not now—and especially not while in the company of those whose hearts and minds she still doubted. So she did the only sensible thing she could think of: As her motor skills were slowly returned to her, she mustered what little strength she had left and ripped herself free of Oliver’s embrace. Half dragging, half stumbling, she ran home—paying no mind to Oliver’s stunned cries or Alice’s shouts of surprise—and, collapsing as she crossed the threshold, she locked the heavy wooden door behind her, leaving the tortured pair of Ferenwoodians in her wake.

Alice and Oliver pounded against her door for at least a dozen minutes before their throats went raw from shouting and their fists were bruised by the effort. Finally, fatigue and defeat collapsed into one complicated failure, and silence flooded the halls of Laylee’s home. Relieved, chest heaving, Laylee finally made an effort to move. But in the time it took her to get to her feet, the peace was split open by a series of piercing screams. Maman was in a right state. Her disappearance the night before was owed to her cowardliness and nothing more; Maman’s fragile spirit had been frightened by the disturbance of strangers, and so she’d hidden instead of helped, and now she’d reemerged, more irritated and more impossible than ever. Let us remember that Maman was visible only to Laylee (who’d not shared her spirit-speaking abilities with a single living soul) and, as a result, no one could see or hear what was happening to her now—not even Alice and Oliver, who’d pressed their tired ears against her door, hoping for a sound of life. Sadly, only the dead were making any noise at the moment, and it was all Laylee could do to keep from screaming out loud. Maman had cornered her, screeching and wailing about the state of Laylee’s filthy clothes. This last bit was difficult to ignore. All three children were exceptionally filthy. Not only had they spent the night scrubbing corpses, but they’d then promptly fallen asleep in the waist-deep snow. They’d been mucked up and melted on, and—though she couldn’t have known it at the time—Laylee had fallen asleep on a small family of spiders, and their broken legs were still caught in her eyelashes. It was a small mercy then that Laylee had been too preoccupied to welcome her guests inside or offer them something to eat; had she done so, Alice—who’d just picked a fingernail out of her ear—might’ve arranged the contents of her stomach all over the poor girl’s floor. But Alice and Oliver were either too exhausted or too afraid to pursue Laylee any further. Oliver wouldn’t dare break another bedroom window, nor could he bring himself to use his magic against her. Heartbroken, he’d given up entirely, slumping to the ground behind Laylee’s door and saying nothing at all, only occasionally shooting dejected, harried glances at Alice instead of speaking aloud his fears. No, he couldn’t have known how awful Laylee was feeling, or how terribly Maman was torturing her at that moment.

“Filthy, useless, foul girl—” Laylee clapped her hands over her ears. “—nasty hands, nasty hands, blistered fingers and broken skin—” Laylee squeezed her eyes shut. “—never raised you to be this way, to live like an animal, never clean, never clean—” Alice had managed to peek through a part in one of the window’s curtains, but Laylee’s furrowed brows and pinched lips were impossible to understand. In fact, Alice, a decidedly tender girl, couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she and Oliver were the problem— “Hiring strangers to stay the night, too weak to do the work yourself—” —and though they were indeed a small part of the suffering, they were actually a very important part of the solution. They just didn’t know how much.

Laylee was usually better prepared for Maman’s insults. Most days she could handle the onslaught of anger, the violent humiliation, the accusations of incompetence. But Laylee hadn’t slept more than a wink in thirty-six hours, and she was collapsing from the inside out. Her body was beaten, her mind was broken, and now her spirit, too, was beginning to fray. Laylee Layla Fenjoon was stronger than most, wiser than some, and absolutely, unequivocally ancient for her age. But even the strong and the wise and the ancient have faltered without compassion or companion, and while Baba had madness and Maman had nonsense, Laylee, in their absence, had locked hands with loneliness, darkness feeding darkness until all light was lost. She could no longer remember what it was like to live without a broken heart. It was unfortunate, then, that she saw little value in the company of her strange guests. In them she might have found friendship; instead she found fault and reason to fear, and so she spared them no thought as she abruptly abandoned them. Wordlessly, she charged up the castle stairs, locked herself in the toilet, turned on the water, and fell sideways into the tub—where she would remain for some time. She didn’t care what happened to Alice and Oliver. In fact, she secretly hoped they’d be gone before she returned.

Dear reader: Laylee would one day look back on these early moments with Alice and Oliver with heartbreaking regret—a remorse so parasitic it would follow her forever. But she needn’t be so hard on herself. It is, after all, a simple and tragic thing that on occasion our unkindness to others is actually a desperate effort to be kind to ourselves. I remind her of this even as I write to you now, but still, she struggles. How very important and infuriating it is to have to remind a smart person not to be so stupid as to give up on themselves.

TERRIBLY SAD, THIS STORY

Alice and Oliver weren’t sure what to do. Oliver was certain that something was very wrong with the young mordeshoor, but he couldn’t be exactly sure what the matter was, and anyway, Alice was more frustrated than Oliver, because helping Laylee was her task to undertake and she was turning out to be quite bad at it. To make matters worse, the both of them were just about rotting away in their soggy clothes, their skin so clammy with damp that Oliver was beginning to wonder whether his limbs hadn’t been slathered in cold pea soup. Everything hurt: toes, teeth, joints, and eyeballs. They were exhausted and overwhelmed, tired of schlepping through corpse droppings and desperate for a change of dress and a bite of something warm. Still, they were strangers in a strange town—and there was much to be disoriented by. What to do? Alice had been sent here, to this land of cold and death, as a reward for a Surrender welldone. She was a singularly talented young girl, gifted with a magical skill the Ferenwood Elders had never seen before, and though it took them some time to decide where, exactly, they should send her to do a bit of good in the world, in the end she was sent to Laylee with little explanation. This lack of explanation was not without intention—it was in fact a direct response to her very high score. Alice would have to be clever enough to sort out her path, her task, and its solution—all on her own. (Oliver, it should be noted, had not been allowed to accompany her, but the two of them had been in cahoots for so long now that they paid little attention to laws and their consequences.) But Alice’s earlier optimism was quickly disintegrating, and despite ample evidence that Laylee was in dire straits, Alice found herself grasping for a loophole that might deliver her safely back to Ferenwood—and to Father, who, as Oliver noted, was a Town Elder who might be able to smooth things over. It wasn’t a proud moment for Alice, but Laylee had turned out to be prickly and rude and not at all what Alice had expected. Even so— The thing was, Alice had earned a 5 on her Surrender—the highest score possible—and she should have anticipated the levels of difficulty and nuance her task would involve. But none of that seemed to matter now. Laylee had insulted Alice and shut her out entirely, and Alice felt she’d suffered enough. She and Oliver (who was already too eager to eject himself from the madness) were now happily acquiescing to cowardice and entirely willing to give up and go home.* In fact, in a desperate bid to rationalize an abrupt exit, it suddenly occurred to Alice that there was quite a lot of sense in Laylee having abandoned them. Maybe, she thought, they were no longer needed. Maybe this was the official end of it all.

Maybe Alice’s task here had nothing to do with her talent—in fact, maybe that was the twist all along. Could it be? Was this all she’d been tasked to do? Perhaps— Perhaps they’d done their bit and should now set off for home? Their challenge had, admittedly, seemed too simple by Alice’s usual standards for adventure, but she supposed spending the evening scrubbing filth from the folds of corpses was enough excitement for one lifetime. Alice shared her ignoble thoughts with Oliver, who responded swiftly and with great conviction— “Oh, I sincerely doubt it.” “But why?” she said, pulling a cockroach out of her hair. “It was awful enough, wasn’t it? That could’ve been the whole of it, don’t you think?” Oliver crossed his arms. “Now, Alice, if you want to give up and head home, you know you have my hearty consent. But you can’t also pretend you’ve done what you came here to do. You know full well that there’s something the matter with Laylee—something worse than her mordeshoor business—and we’ve done nothing at all to help her.” “Sure we did,” Alice tried to protest. “We washed all those dead people and—” Oliver shook his head. “You’re missing the point. Tasks are always assigned based on talent. And you’ve not used yours at all.” Alice stared at her feet, hugging herself against the cold. “And there are never any exceptions to that rule . . . ?” “I think you already know the answer to that question.” Alice bit her lip. It was true. She sighed, and with a sad sort of resignation, she said, “So what should we do?” “Well,” said Oliver, “if we’re going to stay here and see this through, the very first thing we need to do”—he shook a few worms out of his shoe—“is find a way to get clean. Second, we’ll need an entirely new set of clothes.” Oliver leaned in and lowered his voice. “I plan to burn this lot”—he gestured to himself—“as soon as it’s off. I suggest you do the same.” Alice nodded so vigorously a beetle flew out of her nose.

Now, for a bit of explanation: Alice and Oliver had traveled to Whichwood via magic, but the decadence could have been dispensed with if they had only been interested in a very long walk. Whichwood was a mere thirty-day hike from Ferenwood, which—had either town ever heard of such absurd inventions as airplanes—would’ve made it an easy five-hour flight. As it was, Alice and Oliver had had to travel for days by underwater elevator (the worst possible way to travel), as Whichwood was a town older and slower than even Ferenwood, and they’d not updated their modes of transportation into and out of the city in nearly a century. It should also be stated that every magical land (of which there were many) had its own invented reasons for its bureaucratic solitude, and the people of Whichwood were no different: They wouldn’t leave their land for fear of ancient superstition. Whichwoodians believed that non-magical people had lost their magic as a result of a pervasive, contagious disease, and the only way to save themselves from that terrible fate was to remain forever quarantined from the infected majority. All magical lands imposed barriers that kept the dizzies (this was slang for the non-magical “diseased”) from discovering their world, but Whichwoodians took this responsibility even a step further: There were no ways into or out of Whichwood except by water, and it was an arduous, extensive journey that few, if any, undertook. As a result, Whichwood was almost entirely forgotten, which was exactly how they preferred it. In any case, their fair township had everything it needed and wanted for nothing, so the people stayed within the confines of their own creations, never mixing with the dizzies for

fear of being infected by their illness, and always suspicious, even of other magical folk. Their heavy suspicion made them appear an unwelcoming lot, but this was only partly true. The truth was that they were a lively, cultured sort of people—when you got to know them— who felt they had a great deal to be afraid of; it was this last bit—this certainty of fear—that helped substantiate the paranoia that demanded their isolation. It was an illogic they shared with Ferenwood. The people of Ferenwood, you see, had once upon a time suffered a great and bloody ordeal at the hands of a neighboring magical land (the ordeal being a result of extensive dealings with non-magicals), and were now sheltered to the point of asphyxiation. The Ferenwood Town Elders had decided long ago that caution and caution alone would keep them from further catastrophe, and so the residents of Ferenwood remained, for the most part, happily unaware of their excised freedoms, until one day their village would break this code of solitude to send a thirteen-year-old girl through sea and snow to do a bit of friendly magic. It was a decision they would soon regret.

For now, their ambassador in Whichwood was ambling through snowy fields—occasionally tripping, often stumbling—as she and her illegal companion searched for an outlet into town. Alice had been sent with no further instruction than to find Laylee, do what she could to help her, and return home before the snow melted on the ground. But Alice was beginning to think the Elders had cruelly withheld several critical details, as already she was at a loss. Alice had no idea how she was meant to help Laylee; she had no idea how long the snow would stay on the ground; and, more terrifying still, she had no idea how she’d find her way back to Ferenwood. Their arrival by elevator had been underwhelming at best: The little glass travel box had never been very reliable, but upon reaching its final destination, it gave one final heave and shattered under pressure. (It was a very, very old system.) Alice and Oliver were unceremoniously ejected into the icy seas crashing along the coast of Laylee’s castle and emerged sopping wet and scandalized, half-bitten by frost and nearly dead standing up. It was the painful finish of a long and numbing journey, and it was this, their frozen, exhausted desperation, that had prompted Oliver to break Laylee’s window in order to take refuge from the cold. It had been a rough week for the two friends, who’d spent the first five days traveling by wet elevator, and the last scrubbing filth from dead bodies. They were hungry, dirty, and desperate for sleep (careful readers will note that the rules for eating and sleeping were the same in Whichwood as they were in Ferenwood), and they’d seen nothing of town nor country but Laylee’s ghostly castle and its bloated corpses. It was not an ideal introduction. But Alice and Oliver had just remembered something important: that they were skilled, clever, able-bodied young people, and that they’d been through much worse when they were younger and dimmer and (one of them) missing an arm. (Indeed, anyone who remembers Alice and Oliver’s adventures in Furthermore could never doubt them now!) So it was then, as they staggered sideways in the snow, anxious and delirious, that they spied a distant road occasionally traveled and, heady with relief, charged blindly into possibility.

Benyamin Felankasak was bothering no one at all—was a hindrance to no one at all—when his steady life was tipped sideways and its contents spilled into the street. He was a gentle, mild-mannered boy of exactly thirteen and three-quarters who split his time between school and the seasonal saffron harvests, and at precisely the

moment his troubles truly began, he was wheeling a barrow of saffron flowers along a deserted country road. The crop had been rich this year, and though Benyamin had only a small field to work, he’d managed to harvest quite a lot more than he could carry. The soft, elegant purple flowers were striking against the snowdrift, and though he’d no shoes on his feet nor gloves on his hands, he was one of those rare creatures with a flair for gratitude, and so he smiled despite the cold, thankful for the business that would sustain his family. Benyamin took this route every Sunday at precisely the same hour. Come saffron or snow, he walked into the train station always after lunch, always after tucking his mother back into bed—where she would remain until Benyamin returned—and after he’d put the house to rights. He knew this road and its wanderers with perfect familiarity, which meant he always knew exactly who and what to expect—which meant he knew better than to expect any kind of stranger in the land of Whichwood. It was this strength of conviction that would cause him such distress today. Not moments after whispered words of gratitude left his lips were his cart and self knocked into by an unexpected stranger, and Benyamin was lifted out of himself in shock. That his head struck stone, that his spirits were clobbered—this was no matter at all to him. But that the barrow was flung sideways and upside down in the snow, crushing half his harvest in the process? Benyamin was devastated. He looked up—head pounding, heart pounding—into the eyes of his assailant, and found a face so extraordinarily unlike his own that Benyamin was certain he had died. He sat up slowly, his vision coming in and out of focus, and yes—that he was dead he was certain, because he was looking into the eyes of an angel. She was white as the snow itself. Her skin, her hair, her eyelashes—so extraordinary. An angel, he thought. Definitely an angel. And he began searching for her wings. “Are you alright?” she was saying to him, over and over again. “Are you okay?” She shook him, looked away, looked at someone else. “Oh, Oliver, what have I done?” she cried. “Have I killed him? Have I—” “Where are your wings?” Benyamin heard himself say to her. His head was spinning more quickly now, but he managed to pull himself into a seated position. Death was blurrier than he thought it would be. “I thought you would have wings,” he tried again. Alice Alexis Queensmeadow was both relieved and confused. She had not killed this innocent boy, but she had apparently done something to his brain. Which was the worse, she did not know. It was Oliver who pulled Benyamin to his feet and, not a moment later, it was Oliver who let go of his arm with a startled cry, dropping Benyamin to the ground so suddenly that the poor boy knocked his head again. Luckily, the second knock seemed to cure him, and it was just as the fog cleared that Benyamin heard Oliver shout, “Well, what was I supposed to do? He’s covered in spiders! And—and—all kinds of insects! Crawling down his sleeves and scurrying up his legs”—Oliver dropped his face into his hands in horror—“oh, for Feren’s sake, what have we gotten ourselves into in this mad, hateful town with all these strange, disgusting people—” “I’m very sorry about the insects,” Benyamin said curtly, and Oliver’s mouth snapped shut. A blotchy redness spread across his cheeks, and he had at least the decency to look ashamed. Benyamin, meanwhile, had pulled himself up with great and solemn dignity and stood before them now, not quite as tall as Oliver, but nearly so, and fully comprehending the situation. First: one glance told him his harvest was not beyond saving. Second: that he was not yet dead. And third: Alice—though he did not know her name at the time—was not an angel, no, but a girl, and this was perhaps the more miraculous alternative. As a girl, you see, she was the most astonishing he’d ever beheld. She was quite perfect in his estimation,

more exquisite than even his saffron flowers, which he loved so dearly. It was only because of Alice, who stood by silently, staring at her feet, that Oliver’s words had not injured him. He felt that her heart, quietly tripping in the cold, was a kindred one, and he could not explain the why. In any case, there was much to be said between these three, and Benyamin was arranging to say it; they had not only the matter of the fallen saffron to discuss, but also the business of Who are you and What are you doing here to contend with, and though everyone was ready to engage in these productive conversations, they were delayed by yet another unexpected stranger. A peacock spider had scuttled, unnoticed, up Alice’s skirts and across her coat and around her neck until he sat primly atop her nose, where he had the best position of inspecting her. He flapped his colorful, iridescent fan as he danced sideways across her face, taking eerily elegant steps that made his small, colorful body glitter in the sunlight. The spider was a handsome, clever little creature who’d always been proud of his vivid good looks, so he was curious about Alice and her missing colors, and, being fond of Benyamin, he was hoping to investigate the situation on the boy’s behalf. Meanwhile, Alice was as brave as she could manage as she stood, still and terrified, waiting for the spider to be done with her. She did not yet know how this creature was connected to Benyamin, but she felt there must be a connection between the two, and so she said nothing, unwilling to insult Benyamin any further and silently hating Oliver for having been so rude to this boy in the first place. After all, it was their fault they’d toppled into him. Even so— It was all very, very strange. The residents of Whichwood, much like the residents of Ferenwood, each had a magical talent, but the differences between the two towns (of which there were many) were becoming clearer. In Ferenwood, all citizens Surrendered their talents; they openly celebrated magic and their magical abilities, seldom hiding what they were destined to be. But here in Whichwood, Alice and Oliver had unwittingly stumbled upon a second keeper of secrets in as many days. Benyamin, like Laylee, kept much of his magic to himself, for he never spoke of his relationship with the entomological world, not even to explain away his many-legged entourage. No one seemed to know why he was always covered in insects, not even his mother, and he didn’t care to clarify. The thing was, Benyamin thought humans were strange. He couldn’t understand why we wear skin to hide our skeletons and, consequently, he had great respect for those who wore their bones with pride. And though Benyamin identified as human, he took refuge in a small hope that he was at least not as human as the rest of us. This peculiar fantasy was perhaps a result of an incident in his childhood, when Benyamin had scratched an itch until it burst open, emancipating hundreds of newborn spiders from the soft underside of his elbow. He hadn’t known until that moment that anything had taken up residence inside of him, and it was only then that he understood what no one else had been able to explain. For years Benyamin had suffered from a faint, incessant internal itching, and though he oft spoke of it, his torment was never taken seriously. No doctor alive (magical or otherwise) had suspected the invisible itching was the consequence of many little legs scurrying through the veins that bored through him. He was eight years old when his skin first split open, and as he listened to the many tearful good-byes—orphan children leaving home for the first time—Benyamin felt a curious sense of responsibility over these alien creatures. From then on, whenever a new family burst forth from his flesh, he sent them off into the world with all the tenderness of a loving father. At thirteen and three-quarters years old, Benyamin was the strangest boy Alice would ever know, and this first meeting was the beginning of everything. Benyamin, who was highly

aware of his oddness, had never known anyone who might match him in his strangeness, and meeting Alice was, for him, an act of fate. That anyone should surprise him was entirely refreshing, and it was for this reason alone that he didn’t call away his eager spider friend. He was curious to see Alice’s reaction, and her studied calm, her stubborn dignity, and above all, her gentle heart—in the face of what was so obviously a fear—left an indelible impression on him; though he had little interest in Oliver—whom he saw only as her rude companion—Benyamin had now more questions than ever. Who was she, this prismatic girl? Why was she here? Would she stay forever? But he could not bring himself to be so bold. For now, he could only steal glances. Alice had plucked the spider off her nose (she’d finally grown tired of being stared at) and set him on the ground, and the spider was so tremendously excited by the experience that Benyamin was forced to laugh against his will. Oliver, eager to erase the earlier ugliness, took advantage of the moment and stepped forward earnestly—apologizing all at once—and, though altogether ineloquent, his intentions were understood. Benyamin smiled more certainly this time, and though he did not say a word, he shook his head as if to say, That’s perfectly alright. You look like a bit of an idiot anyway. And Oliver was grateful. It was the start of a very valuable friendship.

Now let us return to our mordeshoor. Laylee, you will remember, was still locked in the toilet. She was lying on her back, floating fully dressed in the claw-foot tub, her sodden clothes splayed like molted wings. She’d so overfilled the tub that water sloshed down its porcelain skin with her every move, flooding the small bathroom that was her only refuge. But Laylee was too preoccupied to notice. She stared only at the ceiling, counting moths to keep from weeping, and inhaled in short, sharp breaths as her heart creaked in her chest. With shaking hands, she felt for her damaged bones and let out a soft cry; her small shoulders had dented under the weight of too much responsibility, and she could feel the disfiguration through her clothes. With fumbling, trembling fingers, she unlatched her golden cuffs, anklets, and chest plate, and heaved the lot of them out of the water and onto the cracked, patinated marble floor, where they landed with a tremendous clatter. Laylee flinched at the sound but could not be moved to care more. These ancient ornaments—what good were they now? They were from a time long, long ago, when mordeshoor blood was so royal it bled blue in the snow. No, this drafty castle, these faded clothes—she picked at the chipped sapphires sewn onto her gown—were from a lost century. There was no longer any pride in being a mordeshoor. No pomp, no circumstance, no decadence in dying. And now, as she traced the blue veins snaking under her skin, Laylee laughed at how much life she’d sacrificed for death. She closed her eyes and laughed harder as she dropped below the surface, the water garbling the happy sounds into something strange and terrifying, her eerie gales echoing across the arched ceilings. Laylee shivered uncontrollably, even as the hot water scalded her skin, and suddenly she froze—eyes wide with terror—and sat up in one swift, jerky movement, throat choking, bent over coughing, and gripped the tub with silver hands. The long and terrible evening had taken its toll. It was only after she’d abandoned Alice and Oliver that Laylee discovered her hands had gone fully silver; indeed, she’d been so distraught by the revelation that she’d tipped sideways into the still-filling tub and had remained supine ever since. She lifted her arms now, horrified and fascinated, to watch as the thin gray tongues crept up her wrists, claiming her one lick at a time.

Laylee had always thought she was ready for death. She, a mordeshoor by blood, had thought she’d overcome the fears of nonexistence. But Laylee was only now beginning to understand: It was not death she feared as much as she feared dying; it was this, her powerlessness in the face of mortality that unscrewed her courage from its sticking place. Still, it was unusual— The longer Laylee stared at the creeping sickness, the calmer she became. The moment of death felt now more imminent than ever, and Laylee was reassured by one simple certainty: that the pain, the suffering, and the unceasing loneliness would at least be over soon enough. The illness, you see, appeared to be consuming her at an exponential rate. Laylee would be dead by the end of the week, and there was nothing she could do to slow it down. Sadly, it was only this—the horrible promise of relief—that could soothe her shaking limbs, and soon Laylee was able to thaw and exhale, to continue existing just long enough to shed this last skin of humanity. Her unwelcome helpers had arrived just a touch too late.

Laylee heaved herself up, sopping wet and weighted down, and began to peel off wet layers of clothing. Everything she owned in the world was inherited from someone already dead. Her gowns and cloaks and boots and scarves were sourced from Maman and Grandmaman—they were pieces from another era, fashionable long before Laylee was born. Everything she owned—from doorknobs to dinner plates—was little more than a token of a lost world. She let each piece of wet clothing fall into the tub with a terrific splash, pulled the cork from the drain, wrapped herself in the bath mat, tiptoed into her room, and— Oh. Laylee had nearly forgotten. Oliver, good friend that he was, had broken her bedroom window.

In all the hours Laylee had been gone, the wind and snow had thrashed about her private quarters with a desperate savageness. Icicles had been born along her shattered windowpanes; fingers of frost curled into delicate fists around objects tall and wide. Flurries collected in haphazard piles, half-melted flakes snaking water across her floors in skeletal patterns. She raked her nails through a layer of ice coating her single mirror and shuddered. It was unmercifully cold in these drafty quarters, and Laylee shivered on tiptoe, her muscles seizing. With shaking hands, she yanked a set of clean, moth-eaten clothes out of a warped, wheezing armoire, and tugged on infinite layers of ancient fabric. Thick, shimmering silver stockings irreparably torn at both knees and poorly mended at the toes. A layered set of angora turtlenecks tucked into a pair of faded, fleece-lined turquoise pants. A heavy, ruby-encrusted, floor-length gown to be worn atop it all—its carefully embroidered sleeves torn at the elbows, old blood smeared across the bodice, six diamond buttons missing down the back—and a stained feather vest cinched at the waist with a string of old pearls. Finally, Laylee locked her soggy tool belt around her hips and stepped into a pair of purple work boots, dirt and blood baked into their delicate silk flesh. Laylee had tried to sell her family heirlooms countless times, but no one in this superstitious town would buy the belongings of a mordeshoor, no matter their gold stitches or sapphires. And so she starved quietly, died slowly, and cried when no one was looking— this girl who could not help but wear diamonds as she buried her dead. Laylee took a steadying breath.

She secured a fresh scarf over her head, fastened her red cloak over her shoulders, and made a decision. She’d drowned her pride in the tub and left it there to die—and good riddance, too— because she was about to do something her pride never would’ve allowed. She was going to ask for help. Her strangers were too late to help her, of this she was sure, but they might not be too late to help the town. If Laylee could only convince Alice and Oliver to come back, they could perhaps dispatch the rest of the dead before it was too late. Laylee’s death, you see, would cause more devastation in Whichwood than anyone had bothered to realize. The foolish denizens of her town had left her to fend for herself—she was young and female and all alone, and she’d become an easy target for the stingy and the sexist and the cruel among her people—and they’d cheated her out of honest earnings, knowing full well that her blood made it so she had no choice but to take on the work. It wasn’t always like this. Mordeshoors used to mean something in Whichwood. They used to matter. But people had gotten used to abusing Laylee, and they’d lost sight of the risks—the consequences—of defrauding a mordeshoor. They’d forgotten the ancient rhyme. You’d try to cheat a mordeshoor? You’d dishonor this noble deed? What comes of all this wickedness? Filthy swindlers! Take heed: A gentle warning to remind you Of the things that you’ve forgot Your mortal skin will slowly thin Your heart will fail and rot. Steal from any mordeshoor! And walk free for just a day. Steal from any mordeshoor! And death will make you pay. Let me explain: There could never elapse more than three months between a death and its spirit’s dispatch to the Otherwhere. Any longer than that, and the souls grew too attached to this world and would do whatever they could to stay. This was what had happened to Maman. Baba (from whom Laylee had inherited her magic as a mordeshoor) had been too distraught to wash Maman’s lifeless body and, under the pretense of finding (and fighting) Death itself, had left home and was led eternally astray by grief. Laylee, only eleven years old at the time, hadn’t known what to do. She’d only trained with Baba a short while before he left, and had been understandably horrified by the idea of washing her own mother’s decaying corpse—never mind the fact that she could barely lift the woman into a tub. So she did what anyone would’ve done in her situation: She ignored the problem and hoped it would go away on its own. But the doorbell kept ringing. Corpses piled up faster than she could count them, and it was all Laylee could do to drag them into her shed and keep them sheltered until Baba came home. At first she did nothing but wait—but within a month she was out of food and out of options, and soon she was

scrubbing as many dead as she was able and taking whatever money she was offered. She threw herself into her work, washing bodies until her fingers bled, determined to direct her mounting fury into something productive. But every night, no matter the weather, she’d steal away from Maman’s angry ghost and sleep outside in the open air, her young heart still soft enough to hope. She thought maybe Baba had forgotten she was in there, and she prayed he would see her waiting for him if he ever passed by. She held on to hope for six months before she discovered him in town one day, counting his teeth in the middle of the street. He’d been selling them in exchange for food. It was only then that Laylee gave up on the world she’d once loved. That was when—at eleven and one half years old—she finally washed her mother’s rotted dead body and, ready to send her off, had discovered Maman’s spirit would not be moved. Maman’s ghost had grown too attached to this world, and she wouldn’t be persuaded to leave her daughter, no matter the tears Laylee shed.* The problem was, there were rules about ghosts who wanted to stay behind. Life and death were regulated by endless bureaucracy, and exceptions to the system could not be made without proper procedure. Spirits were, first of all, deeply discouraged from remaining in the land of the living (for a long list of reasons I won’t bore you with now), but those ghosts who insisted on living with mortals would have to find a mortal skin to wear. Without it, a spirit would eventually disintegrate, dissolved of both life and death forever, the worst of all possible fates. Any skin would do, really, but human skin was the spirits’ favorite, as it had the best fit and that je ne sais quoi—nostalgia, perhaps?—that reminded them of better times.* If all this sounds terrifying—don’t worry: It was the job of Laylee (and people like her) to prevent it from ever happening. This was precisely why it was so important to pay a mordeshoor a living wage. Dead mordeshoors, you will understand, could only do so much. And everything had a schedule. After three months, the magic that bound ghosts to their mordeshoor would break, and they would then be free to leave hallowed ground, roam the land, and steal skins from the first persons they could find. Ticktock. It was coming up on days eighty-seven, eighty-eight, and eighty-nine for all of Laylee’s dead, which meant the people of Whichwood were running out of time.

It might not surprise you to hear that, for practical purposes, a portion of Laylee’s vast property had been landscaped to accommodate an ancient, overcrowded cemetery. But it might surprise you to hear that the citizens of Whichwood cared very little for this cemetery, and that they were a people who did not visit their dead. Mourners rarely came by Laylee’s freshly planted graves to lay flowers or have tearful conversations with the memories of their loved ones, and this was because the Whichwoodians were—as I mentioned earlier—an extremely superstitious people, who believed that being kind to the dead would only encourage the cold corpses to come back to life. So, as they had no great desire to have their lives rampaged by festering zombies, they were content to leave the dead undisturbed. This meant that the ghosts who lived on Laylee’s land had little distraction from their tedious ghost schedules, and as the hours of the day dragged on long and dull, seeing Laylee never ceased to please them. For the ghosts she served, Laylee was a delight. But as she stepped out onto the land to collect her fallen helmet and crowbar, Laylee remembered what she’d nearly forgotten: She’d left the morning’s work unfinished—and the

ghosts had no problem reminding her. In an instant, a school of gauzy wisps were screeching her name. Laylee looked up with a reluctant smile as fifteen spirits sidled up to her. She gave her ghosts a limp wave. “Hi,” she said, scooping up her wet helmet in the process. “How is everyone?” She shoved the helmet onto her head and stifled a shudder as a dollop of cold slush slid down her forehead. “Good,” the ghosts chorused, all flat and monotone. “We’ve been sharing our death stories again,” said Zahra, looking gloomy. “And Roksana was telling us her theories about the Otherwhere,” said an older man named Hamid. “It was so sad.” “That’s nice,” said Laylee distractedly, fumbling for the latch that hooked the crowbar onto her tool belt. Roksana stretched and spun as fractured rays of sunlight added a bit of glitter to her gauziness. “What about you?” she said. “Khodet chetori, azizam?” Roksana was always mixing languages when she spoke, never remembering to stick to just one. “I’m fine, too,” Laylee lied as she marched forward in the sludge. She stopped to shade her eyes against the sunlight and peered into the distance. Her coffins were stacked in tall, precarious piles, and she still had to get the bodies in, nail them shut, and bury them underground. “Anyway, sorry, guys, I’ve got a lot of work to do today, so I better get back to —” The ghosts groaned. “You always have a lot of work to do!” said Deen, a dead boy about her age. “Yes, yes, and I’m so sad,” said a large, heavyset older gentleman. “I’d very much like to tell you about it.” “Komak nadari?” asked Roksana. “Hmmm? Why don’t you ever have help? Baba’t kojast? Who were those kids here last night? Can’t they help?” Roksana was always asking her the hard questions. She was young when she died—still in her mid-forties—but as ghosts went, she was the oldest here; Roksana had been with Laylee just shy of three months now, and not only did that make her the natural leader of their ghost troupe, but it made it so Roksana harbored a special affection for the little mordeshoor. This affection was fairly uncharacteristic of the spirit species—ghosts were usually very grim, you see—but Roksana had a buoyancy that even death hadn’t managed to cure. Anyhow, Laylee was heaving half-thawed bodies into open caskets and just about to answer Roksana’s question when three more ghosts appeared. “Hi, Laylee.” “Hiiiii, Laylee.” “Hey, Layl.” “Hello,” said Laylee with another sigh. She sat down in the slush and pulled a coffin into her lap, counting dead fingers and toes. Satisfied, she shoved the wooden box back onto the snow, plucked a business card from her belt, and tucked one end of the triangular card into the soggy mouth of the corpse. THIS BODY WAS WASHED AND PACKAGED FOR THE OTHERWHERE BY LAYLEE LAYLA FENJOON “You look tired,” said Deen. “It’s really not fair that you have to do this all alone.” “I’d help you if I could, azizam,” said Roksana. “You know we all would.” Laylee smiled as she pulled herself up to her knees. She had an important relationship with her ghosts, but it was a curious one, too; Laylee often felt like their mother, doing her best to keep them in line as they arrived and departed, always afraid for the day they got too

bored and did something regrettable to the living. Normally she’d make more of an effort to keep their spirits low, but today Laylee was simply too exhausted to do more than address their most basic concerns. There was so much work left to do. Laylee struggled to keep her head up as she moved, pushing through a mental fog so thick she could scarcely remember the steps she’d left undone. It took a great deal of effort, but eventually all fifteen clean corpses were lying in their coffins, business cards tucked between their lips, and now she was nearly ready to nail tops and bottoms together. Laylee allowed herself a quick sigh before reaching for her pliers. “Oh, gross,” said Shireen, one of the older girls. “I hate this part. It’s so, so gross, Laylee, ew.” “Close your eyes,” said Laylee patiently. “You don’t always have to watch.” And with an efficient, practiced hand, Laylee spent the next several minutes pulling all the fingernails and toenails off her corpses. Once done, she added the human claws to the evergrowing collection she carried in a copper box on her belt. She gave the closed box a firm, swift shake, and then popped the lid, closed her eyes, and chose six nails at random. This was a key step in the burial process, as human nails were the only kinds of nails that would keep a coffin permanently closed. Laylee unhooked the brass mallet from her tool belt and, hands still trembling, carefully hammered dirty fingernails into the wood. She was grateful that her limbs had temporarily ceased their more vigorous shaking; the larger tremors came in waves, she was realizing, and she was happy to take advantage of the respite now. Once all the lids had been properly nailed shut, Laylee unsheathed her branding iron and blew a gentle, warm breath onto the metal; the iron glowed orange in an instant, softly steaming in the crisp air. With a robotic proficiency, she stamped the closed coffins with the mordeshoor seal and then, finally, dragged the hefty wooden boxes into the cemetery where, one by one, she melted them directly into the ground. This last bit was possibly the most fascinating part of the finishing process, because it involved a simple and simultaneously intricate facet of Laylee’s magic. Once the dead were ready to be sent off to the Otherwhere, Laylee knelt before each coffin and gently pressed the cargo into the earth. Once in transit, the bodies were no longer her business. Except— Well, there’s one more thing. The very final act of the mordeshoor was the ghosts’ favorite part of the process, and they swarmed around her now, eager and proud and grateful, to watch as Laylee did her last bit of magic. The mordeshoor fell to her knees where the dead had been buried and, for each person gone, she summoned a red rose petal from between her lips. These, she then planted into the ground. In moments, the petals had broken the earth and blossomed into fully grown flowers. It seemed a simple bit of magic, but the roses planted by a mordeshoor would live forever— surviving even the harshest seasons. And they represented a single, unwavering truth: That a person had once lived. Laylee’s cemetery was a sad and stunning sea of endless red roses—tens of dozens of thousands of them—that marked the memories of every soul she and her family had touched. And when she finally fainted backward into the snow—exhausted beyond words, hands and arms silver and trembling beyond recognition—her forty remaining ghosts gathered around her, whispered their words of thanks—and then, well, then they did what they always did when Laylee fell asleep on the job. They called for help from the birds nearby.

Not moments later, a dozen feathered friends swooped down, caught Laylee’s clothes in their talons, and carried her back to the castle.

Laylee woke up with a start. The sun had moved a little to the right and snow had descended upon the hills in huge, thin flakes. Laylee was sitting slumped outside her castle door, and she had no idea how long she’d been asleep. Gone already were the earlier rays of warmth, and as she stifled the impulse to shiver, she realized she’d lost another hour of the day. She staggered to her feet. There were still forty corpses in her shed, and Laylee would have to hurry up and find Alice and Oliver before it was too late. She had no idea how far the pair had gone or how long it would take her to find them, but she was certain she’d have to leave her property in order to do so. But leaving home meant she had to bring her bones. Every mordeshoor was born with two skeletons: one they wore under their skin, and another they wore on their back. It was a symbol of their dual life and the death they carried. The spare skeleton was carefully stacked and bundled into a ceremonial sack where the bones would grow and age just as the mordeshoor did; the second skeleton was as much a part of their body as was their nose, and they could never leave home without it. Laylee hurried inside to retrieve them, leaving behind her heavy helmet as she did. Once she’d hoisted the bone-sack over her dented shoulders, she pulled her scarlet hood up over her head and drew in a deep breath. With every step she took, the steady cloc cloc of clattering bones would alert the world to who she was.

I FEAR THIS WON’T END WELL

For all her careful planning, Laylee didn’t need to go far to find what she was looking for. She heard voices almost as soon as she approached the main road, and all she had to do was follow the sounds until she came directly upon them. Alice and Oliver were sitting on their bottoms in the snow—which would have been curious enough—but more curious still: they were not, in fact, alone. Laylee was stunned. She hadn’t actually expected Alice and Oliver to bemoan her absence, but she was still surprised to find they’d moved on so quickly. And of all people in Whichwood they should move on with, it had to be Benyamin Felankasak.

Laylee didn’t actually hate Benyamin, but she was feeling territorial at the moment, so she fancied she hated him. When she was feeling more charitable she would tell anyone that Benyamin was a nice enough boy; in fact, he was her only neighbor on the peninsula, and she’d grown up going to school with him. But she’d always thought him a dumb, hapless sort of young person who spoke with an optimism about life that assured her only of his naiveté. She found his excessive smiles and eager friendliness repugnant, and she couldn’t understand how anyone else could feel differently. Regardless: Alice, Oliver, and Benyamin were engaged in—what appeared to be—a diverting conversation, and Laylee frowned, her eyebrows furrowing, as she felt the familiar pinpricks of envy. It wasn’t a fair reaction, as Benyamin was a boy with his own long list of troubles; and though she shouldn’t have begrudged him this unexpected kindness of strangers, she couldn’t, at present, remember how to be generous. Instead, she was frozen in place, her eyes burning holes into the head of Benyamin Felankasak, when Benyamin— standing some dozens of feet away—finally looked up, evidently aware of her gaze. He jumped half a foot in the air. Laylee cut a formidable figure standing in the snow, and Benyamin was right to be startled. She was a vision in scarlet: her long, heavy robes a stark contrast to the pure white of the drift piled up around her. She was livid, hooded, and, in the time it took Alice and Oliver to turn around, storming toward them, her cloak billowing like a curtain of blood in the wind. Once she was close enough to see their faces, Laylee was beset by a twinge of remorse. Gone in an instant were their smiles and happy conversations; no, now Alice was panicked, Oliver was pale, and Benyamin was bolted to the ground. Laylee greeted her peers with an insouciant nod of her head and even managed to shrug back a flush of mortification when Benyamin looked directly into her eyes. (Benyamin, you see, was the only person present who knew her eyes were not supposed to be gray.) Laylee looked away and quickly tugged her hood forward, further concealing her eyes in its shadow, but she couldn’t undo what he’d seen. He was still staring at her when she next lifted her head, but his gaze was no longer fearful. His eyes were now soft and sad, and though his pity was somehow infinitely worse, Laylee couldn’t help but feel a sincerity in his sympathy, and she knew then that he would protect her secret. So she touched her forehead and nodded. Benyamin closed his eyes, touched the back of his hand to his own forehead, and bowed. It was the ultimate gesture of respect.

Alice and Oliver had no way of knowing what had just transpired between Laylee and Benyamin, but Laylee had at least stopped scowling, which Alice took to mean that things couldn’t have gone too badly. This was all the assurance she and Oliver needed in order to get back to the business of things that concerned them: “Right, good then,” said Oliver, directing his words toward Laylee. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Laylee stared at him and said nothing. Oliver cleared his throat. “You are—feeling better? Aren’t you?” Laylee resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. Now that she was back among the living, Laylee found she vastly preferred the company of her dead. She couldn’t believe she was going to ask these people for help. “I’m fine,” she said coldly. And then, remembering that it was in her best interest to finally stop hating everyone, she cleared her throat and said, with great difficulty, “I mean—I meant to apologize . . . for running off like that earlier. It was . . . I may have overreacted.” Silence.

Then, all at once— “Not at all,” said Oliver, who was inexplicably pink around the ears. “It was—yes—it was a very difficult evening—” “Of course!” cried Alice, all smiles. “And we’re just—oh, it’s so good to have you back!” Laylee leveled a dark look at her. Alice flushed crimson. Laylee winced and looked away, forgetting again to be nice to the strange children. Laylee needed something from them now, and she knew they might not follow her back to her corpses if she didn’t learn to at least pretend to be kind. “In any case,” said Oliver brightly, “we were just about to head into town. Would you care to join us?” Laylee raised her eyebrows, stunned, and turned her gaze on Benyamin; the insect-boy smiled as if to endorse Oliver’s invitation, but Laylee shook her head. She cast a careful look in Alice and Oliver’s direction and said, “What exactly have they told you?” She was talking only to Benyamin now. “Do you know yet why they’re here?” “Oh yes,” said Benyamin, whose eyes seemed to glitter with barely restrained delight. “Such an odd pair, aren’t they? They said they were from Ferenwood. That they’d come all the way here just to help you wash your dead.” Benyamin tilted his head. “In fact, Alice was just telling me all about your evening’s escapades.” Laylee felt her frozen shoulders thaw. Surprise unclenched her face. And when she next looked Alice in the eye, she said, with great urgency, “Why would you confide such things to a stranger?” Alice felt her fingers twitch; she wasn’t sure, but she felt that this had to be a trick question. Benyamin was one of the most interesting strangers she’d ever met, and besides, he seemed plenty trustworthy. But the mordeshoor was still waiting for an answer. She was looking expectantly at Alice, and Alice faltered. “Well,” she said finally. “It was the truth, wasn’t it?” “But why risk your safety for the truth?” “Safety? What do y—” “You know nothing of this land or its people or what your confessions could cost you!” Laylee cried. “The people of Whichwood,” she said darkly, “are not to be trusted.” “And whyever not?” “Never mind why not.” “Begging your pardon,” Benyamin interrupted. “But I think I can speak for myself when I say that I’m perfectly capable of being trusted.” Laylee clenched her jaw. “Well, we shall see,” she said. “Won’t we?” Oliver clapped his hands together. “Well!” he said, a touch too loudly. “Now that’s over with—shall we all head into town, then? Mmm?” “No.” Laylee looked him in the eye. “You and your pale friend said you would help me”— she glanced at Alice—“and now I’m here, asking for your help. I have forty more dead that need washing, and I will require your assistance as soon as possible.” Oliver blinked. Alice’s mouth fell open. Benyamin was leaning against his wheelbarrow, watching the scene unfold with great interest. “Well?” said Laylee, irritated. “What’s the problem?” Alice was the first to speak. “You have—you have forty more dead people to wash? Forty more corpses to clean?” Laylee felt a knot form in her throat. She hadn’t imagined that they would turn her away.

“And we have to wash them all today?” Oliver said, with whispered horror. “All forty of them?” Laylee felt something inside of her break. “Forget I asked,” she said, stumbling backward. “Never mind. I’ll be fine. You—you offered, so I—I thought—but never mind. I’d better get back to work. Good-bye.” Oliver caught her arm as she turned to leave. “Please,” he said earnestly. “Don’t misunderstand me. We’re happy to help. But is there any chance we might be able to take a small break before we dive back in?” “A break?” Laylee blinked. “Yes,” said Oliver. He tried to suppress a smile and failed. “You know—perhaps we could eat lunch? Or take a bath? Or maybe find ourselves a fresh set of clothes—” “I don’t take breaks.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Benyamin, who laughed aloud. He looked at Laylee out of the corner of his eye. “Of all the days to start, let it be tonight! The festivities for Yalda begin this evening, and they’re sure to be spectacular.” Yalda. Laylee had nearly forgotten. “I vote we take our new friends into town and enjoy the evening for a bit,” said Benyamin. “That sounds wonderful!” cried Alice. “I’d really—” “No,” said Laylee, eyes wild. “No, I can’t. I have to get back to work—” “Your work can’t wait a few hours?” This, from Oliver. Laylee’s lips parted in confusion. “No,” she said, but for the first time, she didn’t seem sure. A few hours? Could she possibly spare a few hours? Oh, her bones were so tired. “How about this,” said Benyamin. “If you come into town with us—and enjoy the festivities for a bit—I will personally accompany you back to the castle and lend a hand with the washing. Then you’ll have three extra helpers.” He smiled. “How does that sound?” Laylee was of two minds. The weathered, beaten mordeshoor within her was at war with the thirteen-year-old girl who still lived in her heart. She wanted desperately to be normal— to have friends with whom she might attend a local celebration—but she could not loose herself from the business to which she’d been bolted. Still. The promise of a third helper was more than she could resist. And so, slowly—reluctantly —she relented. “I’m thrilled to hear it!” Oliver threw an eager arm around Laylee’s shoulder (which she quickly shoved off) and said, “Because while I see you’ve had a nice long bath and a fresh change of clothes, we”—he motioned to himself and Alice—“are crawling with filth and, quite frankly, if I don’t do something about it soon I’m going to rip these clothes off right here and now, and then, I reckon, you’ll all be sorry.” Alice laughed and nodded in eager agreement, and Benyamin smiled at Alice like she spun stars for a living, and Oliver yanked off a dirty sock and flung it over his head, and Laylee— Laylee was so abruptly and unexpectedly entertained that, for the first time in a long time, she had only to pretend a little to be kind. It had been too many years since she’d spoken to so many persons at once, and she could hardly believe she still knew how to do it. Her arms were decaying, her vision was graying, her hair had lost its luster and her bones were bent in all the wrong places and somehow, even now, Laylee had never been more relieved to be alive. Another small shoot of hope had shoved through the cracks in her heart, and the sudden rush of feeling had left her a little light-headed—and a little reckless. And so she postponed her washing (despite her better judgment) for later, and instead accepted an invitation to go

into town and have a bit of fun with children her own age. It was a decadence she’d dispensed with long ago, and its lure was too much to deny any longer. Just a few hours, she promised herself. After all, it was Yalda—the greatest celebration of the year—and Laylee wouldn’t mind eating one last pomegranate before she died.

The train station was a many-roofed magenta house, bezel-set with hundreds of octagonal windows. It was a wooden relic that had aged gracefully with the seasons, and its ornate wood panels and intricate moldings made it clear that great cost and care had once built this small center of transport. It stood strong and dusky in the snow—determined to creak with dignity as the wind shook its ancient beams— while skeleton trees stood tall on every side, bare branches hung with fresh icicles and hooting owls. As for the train itself, it would be arriving shortly. The children marched toward the station, Alice’s heart racing, Oliver’s teeth chattering, Laylee’s bones clicking, and Benyamin’s brow furrowing as he wheeled his barrow up the slight incline. The massive golden doors opened at their approach, and the four children hurried inside to take refuge from the cold.

Laylee was still adjusting to human company. The experience was not altogether unpleasant, but currently she felt as though she’d grown three unwanted limbs and hadn’t yet learned how to manage them. Alice, Oliver, and even Benyamin (who understood that, for the moment, it would be best to defer to Laylee on all things) looked to her for their every need and question, and she was feeling both flattered and revolted by their attentions. Just now, she hadn’t even a moment to dust off her cloak before Alice was touching her and asking whether she might have time to use the bathroom before the train arrived. It was an innocent inquiry, but it was quite a lot to ask of Laylee, who’d spent the last two years of her life in near-perfect isolation. She felt unqualified to answer such a question. How could she be expected to speculate on the bathroom habits of another person? Benyamin was kind enough to shuffle Alice away before any harm was done, but that meant Oliver was suddenly left alone with Laylee, and for long enough to make the both of them uncomfortable. They took their seats at one of the many long pews stretching the length of the station, and Laylee was finally able to unburden herself of her bones. She dropped the heavy sack onto the space next to her, and the disturbing sounds of a dismantled skeleton echoed throughout the building. “So,” said Oliver, clearing his throat. “What’s, um, what’s in the bag?” Laylee, who had not been looking at Oliver, made a great show of turning in her seat. She pulled back her hood and leveled him with a careful, probing stare—a stare so unsettling that he abruptly stood, promptly fell over, and quickly stumbled to his feet. He was breathing heavily as he stalked off, mumbling something about excuse me and beg your pardon and needing to speak with Alice straightaway. Laylee covered her face with one hand and smiled. She was beginning to like Oliver.

The train station was entirely empty save their four-person party and the one lady working behind the ticket window. The lady’s name was Sana Suleiman, and she’d worked the ticket window for as long as Laylee could remember. But Sana did not live on the peninsula with Laylee and Benyamin, and more important, she hated her job. She thought Laylee was terrifying and Benyamin horrifying, and though she’d asked management—on at least seventeen different occasions—to have her transferred to another station, all of her requests were met with silence. (A quick note here: Train tickets didn’t cost money. Transportation in Whichwood was considered a public service and was therefore subsidized by the town; the tickets were just for keeping track of things.) Laylee walked up to the ticket window just as Sana was chewing on a sizable chunk of her own hair. Alarmed, Sana spat the hair from her mouth, sprang to attention, and spoke without ever meeting Laylee’s gaze. “Hello my name is Sana, and I’ll be your ticket master today. It’s our business here at the Whichwood train station, Peninsula division, to make your travel dreams come true. May I interest you in a dream come true today?” Laylee, who’d not only known Sana all her life but, more critically, knew they had only ten minutes before their train arrived (as it arrived every two hours on the hour), was even more curt than usual. “Four tickets into town, please,” was all she said. But four tickets was three more than usual, and this was an anomaly Sana could not ignore. She turned to look Laylee in the eye for the first time in over two years and stared, unblinking, for five solid seconds. Laylee tapped the window with a gloved finger and spoke again. “Four tickets, Sana.” Sana jumped, remembering herself, and nodded several times before ducking out of sight. She reemerged with four silky green tickets (which she slid through a slot in the window), and in a strange, uncomfortably sincere voice she said, “Is there anything else I might help you with today?” Laylee narrowed her eyes, scooped up her tickets, and walked away.

Alice, Oliver, and Benyamin had regrouped. They were huddled over Benyamin’s barrow of saffron flowers; Alice was prodding one of the purple blooms with her finger while Oliver spoke quickly and quietly under his breath. Benyamin was frowning as he listened, and he was just about to respond when Laylee approached. Seeing her, he forced a cheerful smile and changed the subject. “Anyway,” he said loudly, “we’ll get the two of you cleaned up straightaway and then we’ll see about getting you some proper winter clothes, won’t we?” He smiled at Laylee. “What do you say? Don’t you think we can set them up nicely? They’ll need a good pair of boots at the very least.” But it was Alice who responded. She was pointing solemnly at Benyamin’s bare feet when she said, “You mark my words, Benyamin: If anyone is getting a new pair of boots today, it’s going to be you.” Benyamin blushed to the roots of his hair. He was both touched and mortified, and he hadn’t the faintest idea how to respond. Instead, he stared—and quite a bit too much. At Alice, that is. They were awkward, stupid stares, clumsy stares that only grew in number as the seconds ticked by. Too soon, Alice was angry beyond words. In fact, she was horrified.

Alice had had a lifetime of experience dealing with people who stared at her for too long. She’d always known she looked different from everyone else; she knew her extreme paleness often scared and confused people, and it made them cruel to her. But after struggling for so long with accepting her differences, she’d vowed to never again allow anyone to make her feel bad about who she was or what she looked like. Not ever. She had too much pride to waste her patience on the ignorance of insensitive people. Remembering this now, she glared at Benyamin and turned away. She’d thought Benyamin was a nice enough person; she’d thought he had a trustworthy face and a pleasant demeanor, and she’d felt comfortable with him right away. But now she was sorry for having exercised such poor judgment. Oliver, who was still lost in thought over their group’s brief, heated discussion, had looked up just long enough to make sense of the tension contracting before him now. He was, as I mentioned some pages ago, a sharp fourteen-year-old boy, and he was fully wise to the look in Benyamin’s eye. And now, understanding their silent exchange, he couldn’t help but be stunned by what he saw. Oliver had never seen anyone take a romantic interest in Alice before. And though he’d occasionally wondered what that sort of thing might be like—ultimately, the thought of Alice as anything but a friend made as much sense to him as wearing a sweater to go swimming. (His loss. I think Alice is lovely.) In any case, things had gone suddenly quiet, and Laylee couldn’t understand why. She’d only just rejoined them, and already no one was speaking. Alice was frowning at the floor, arms crossed against her chest, Benyamin was looking suddenly stunned and bewildered, and Oliver, who’d taken all of thirty seconds to stop caring about Alice and Benyamin, was once again so lost in thought about a difficult truth he’d recently uncovered that he could focus on nothing else. Laylee, meanwhile, had been duly ignored. Realizing this, the young mordeshoor chose that moment to pass out the train tickets— hoping the gesture would inspire new conversation—but their earlier camaraderie would not be revived. In any other situation, Laylee wouldn’t have minded (as she had no great passion for casual conversation), but there was something about her presence that appeared to instill a quiet terror in the others, and she wondered then if she was the problem—if, in fact, they simply wouldn’t speak comfortably in her company. And Laylee was surprised to find that this bothered her. Which made her a bit mean. “I’m not your mother,” she said sharply, apropos of nothing. “You may carry on talking about whatever it is you normally talk about without worrying I’ll disapprove.” But just then came the sound of a loud, joyous whistle, and Alice, Oliver, and Benyamin were saved the trouble of having to respond. Bells rang out across the station, and the rush and rumble of frenzy (that always precedes the arrival of a train) sent their hearts into motion. This was it—this was their cue. Benyamin took hold of his barrow, Laylee shouldered her bones, Oliver took Alice’s hand, and the four of them charged out the doors and into the cold toward an evening they could never undo.

The train was alarmingly familiar. Alice and Oliver had arrived in Whichwood on a remarkably similar contraption; the only difference, of course, was that their transport had traveled underwater. The iteration before them appeared to be an endless string of pentagonal prisms built entirely of glass panels and held together with brass hinges. Each prism was connected by yet more brass hinges, and the lot of them were set upon enormous brass wheels that sat firmly upon the tracks built into the ground. It seemed like a modern, reliable version of the ancient apparatus they’d arrived in—which inspired only a little bit of confidence in our

wary travelers—and, sadly, that would have to be enough. Alice and Oliver cringed and shrugged (and hoped these glass carriages would not shatter) as they followed Laylee and Benyamin in their search for empty seats. The train had pulled into their peninsula station after having already stopped to take on passengers at several other stations, so it was with only a few minutes to spare that Benyamin managed to find two open carriages. He and his barrow took up just over half the space of one, so he clambered in and offered to ride alone. But Oliver and Alice exchanged a meaningful look and, a moment later, announced they would be splitting up: Alice would ride with Benyamin, and Oliver would ride with Laylee. It was a curious arrangement—one that would require an explanation that was yet to come—but there wasn’t time to deliberate. Laylee was perplexed and Benyamin was (quietly) thrilled and too soon Alice and Oliver had said their friendly good-byes and the four children took their seats—and settled in for the long ride into town.

It was a beautiful day, even in the cold. The scenes through the window seemed manufactured from fairy tales: Snow fell fast on curlicued boughs, golden sunlight glimmered across rolling white fields, birds chirped their displeasure at the blustery day, and though it was a fine and strange and dizzying time, it would be the coldest night on record. Luckily, the glass prisms were lined with plush velvet chairs and a magic that flooded their interiors with a cozy, toasty warmth. Oliver had just taken his seat across from Laylee as the carriage gave its first jolt forward, and she found she could not look at him as she set down her bones. She was not ignoring him—no, she was beyond that now—but there was something about him that felt suddenly different, and whatever it was, it made her nervous. Would he use his persuasion on her? she wondered. Would he try to magic her into a dangerous situation? More troubling still: She knew he’d chosen to sit with her—that in fact he was eager for the privacy—and now that she was about to find out why, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. But Oliver wouldn’t be the first to speak. Finally, Laylee forced herself to look at him, feeling shy for the first time in years. Her irises were more silver than usual today—feverish and bright with feeling. Still, Oliver wouldn’t say a word. Instead, he leaned forward on his elbows and gazed into her eyes with a seriousness she wasn’t expecting. Oh, there was something astonishing in the power of solemnity! Oliver, in his intense preoccupation, was transformed in look and demeanor; he appeared more severe now than Laylee had ever seen him and somehow, simultaneously, more tender than she knew he could be. This transformation suited him (and appealed to her) in a way that was rather inconvenient, given the circumstances, but there was no helping the situation: There was a great and quiet dignity in the face of a compassionate person, and not only did this side of Oliver surprise Laylee—it scared her. Something was terribly wrong. “What is it?” she finally said. “What’s happened?” Oliver looked up, away, pressed his fist to his lips; only when he’d closed his eyes, dropped his hand, and lowered his voice did he say—very, very calmly— “Please tell me why you think you’re going to die.”

It was turning out to be a brisk, frenetic winter day. Diagonal hail had crossed with horizontal snow, fading sunlight slanted through frost sleeping on slender branches, and the fresh, rushing roar of half-frozen waterfalls rumbled in the distance. The afternoon was gently melting into evening and in an effort to change the hour, the sun had stepped down to let the moon slip by. Reindeer peered out from behind tree

trunks; black stallions emerged, galloping cheerfully alongside the train; and snowcapped mountains sat still and solemn in the distance, reigning over tall and small with quiet thunder. And yet— It was impossibly quiet in the little glass coach. The wind whispered against the hinges in an attempt at conversation, and still, no one spoke. Laylee touched fingers to trembling lips, terrified to say aloud any word that might collapse her; and though she tried to hide the tremors that shook the tremendous world within her, the bones in the baggage beside her would not quiet their rattle. Even so, she was not ready to respond. Of all the things she’d thought Oliver might say to her, this was not one of them, and she was so utterly unprepared for his clairvoyance she hadn’t even the wherewithal to perjure herself—or to pretend he was wrong. No matter: Oliver Newbanks was willing to wait. He was perfectly comfortable on his plush, lavender bench—as the bucolic scenes outside his many windows were unlike any he’d ever witnessed—but the beautiful Whichwood winter could only do so much. Quietly, he couldn’t help but worry. It was true that Oliver Newbanks was fond of Laylee. Indeed, he liked her as well as any person could like someone they didn’t know. There was something about her—something he couldn’t quite explain—that kept him coming back to her. It was this same something that convinced him beyond anything else that Laylee had no business dying—not now and not ever—and especially not before she’d had a chance to see him as more than just a stranger. Because while it was impossible to identify the chemical magic that fused one heart to another, Oliver Newbanks could not deny that something had happened to him when he first set eyes on Laylee Layla Fenjoon. He had been marked by a magic he could not see, and it was impossible for him to extricate himself from his emotions. And here is the strange thing about feeling: Sometimes it builds slowly, one brick carefully stacked on another over years of dedicated hard labor; once constructed, these foundations become unshakable. But other times it’s built recklessly, all at once, on top of you, stacking bricks on your heart and lungs, burying you alive in the process if necessary. Oliver had only ever known gentle affection. He had built, bit by bit, every ounce of his fondness for Alice. She was exhausting and frustrating and lovely and wise—she was his best friend in the world. But though Alice had touched his heart, she had never possessed it, and it was this—his racing pulse, his shaking hands, the exciting and disturbing twist in his stomach that felt like sickness—that wrecked and reconstructed him all at once. Oliver was not simply upset by the revelation that Laylee was going to die; he was deeply and profoundly horrified. And he knew he could never allow it to happen.

Dear reader: Forgive me. I keep forgetting that you may not have read (or simply might not remember) Alice and Oliver’s adventures in Furthermore, and I continue to assume you know things you might not. Allow me to explain how Oliver came to know Laylee’s secret: Oliver Newbanks had a very peculiar magical ability. As I’ve mentioned earlier, he was a boy generally known for his gift of persuasion. But his talent was layered; in his exploits shaping the minds of others, he’d long ago discovered he

was also able to unlock the one thing they kept most confined: their most precious secret of all. When Oliver first met Laylee, her greatest secret was impossible to decipher. The problem was, Laylee was electric with secrets—her wants and fears were all so equally tangled in secrecy that Oliver had not been able to properly navigate her mind. And though he caught a glimpse of something very wrong when she abruptly collapsed in her yard, it wasn’t until she looked him deeply and directly in the eye at the train station that Oliver finally saw her with clarity. Something had changed in Laylee, you see, because she now prized one secret—one fear—above all else, and Oliver was so struck by her unwitting confession he’d run to Alice with the news at once. They’d shared the information with Benyamin straightaway—as they’d not found a single good reason why this awful news should be kept a secret—and Benyamin, who’d suspected as much after seeing Laylee’s graying eyes, quickly shared his own theories. This was what they were discussing when Laylee happened upon them in the train station: The three of them were hatching a plan to help her.

Laylee, meanwhile, had been to war and back, watching the world whirl past her window as she grasped desperately for the anger that kept her safe from difficult and necessary conversations. But this time, the anger would not come. She’d once found protection behind plaster masks of indifference, but she now felt too much and too weak to carry the extra armor. A violent impotence had finally crushed her spirit, and she felt the strength of her resolve dissolve all at once inside her. Secretly, she was grateful. The truth was, there was a part of Laylee that was relieved to be found out—to be finally forced to speak of her suffering. She didn’t want to die alone, and now perhaps she wouldn’t have to. So she finally turned to face Oliver. She’d made up her mind to speak as firmly as possible, to emote nothing, and to betray none of the weakness she felt, but he was so visibly shaken—nervous, even—as he looked up to meet her eyes, that Laylee faltered. She’d not expected such sincerity in his gentle, careful gestures, and despite her best efforts to be unmoved, she could not calm her heart. She formed a word and it cracked on her lips. Another, and the sounds fractured into silence. Once more, and her voice feathered into nonsense. Oliver moved as if to say something, but Laylee shook her head, determined to get the words out on her own. Finally, her eyes filling fast with tears, she tried to smile. “I’ll be dead by the end of the week,” she said. “How on earth did you know?”

It takes exactly ninety minutes by train to get from Laylee’s drafty castle to the center of town, and in that time, two separate and important conversations took place in two glass coaches between two sets of persons, hundreds of insects, and one spare skeleton. You already know a bit about one of these conversations; as to the other, I will tell you only this: Alice, who was not afraid of confrontation, took full advantage of her private time with Benyamin to tell him exactly how she felt about all his staring at her. She made it abundantly clear that she had no interest in being gawked at, and if he had any problems with her, he should sort them out this minute, on account of she wasn’t going anywhere and,

furthermore, would not apologize for who she was or what she looked like. And then she crossed her arms and looked away, determined to never smile at him again. Benyamin, as you might imagine, was floored by her suggestion that he thought her anything but perfectly wonderful, and so spent far too long correcting Alice’s assumption. In fact, he was so detailed in the many arguments he made to counter the misunderstanding that, by the end of it, Alice had flushed such an extraordinary shade of piglet she worried she’d changed color after all. Horrified, mortified, delighted and surprised—she’d never known she could feel so many things at once. It was a highly entertaining conversation. I won’t detail the specifics of these separate communications—as it would be an inefficient use of our time to recount the many gasps and glances that punctuate transformative discussions—but suffice it to say that their ninety minutes were spent wisely, carefully, and with great compassion, and that Alice, Oliver, Laylee, and Benyamin disembarked with a lightness of heart that in no way prepared them for the many catastrophes they’d yet to encounter. And though it would be kinder not to spoil such a moment with the promise of bad tidings, I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you here, dear reader, with a warning. These next parts of the story grow terribly dark and disturbing. I’ll understand if you have to look away. But if you’re willing to venture forth, I must, in the interest of full disclosure, tell you at least this much: A strange and bloody madness awaits.

BUT FIRST: A BIT OF FUN BEFORE THE BLOOD

Laylee blushed as she and Oliver met the others on the platform. She knew now that everyone was aware of her impending death, and she wasn’t sure how to talk around it. Luckily, she didn’t have to. The thing was, no one but Laylee truly believed the young mordeshoor was going to die. In fact, upon learning of Laylee’s unique illness, Alice was quietly relieved. She couldn’t be absolutely certain—for that, she’d need to take action—but she thought she might have finally realized what she’d been sent here to do. And though I’ve spoken only briefly of Alice’s magical talent, I think now might be a good time to say more.

For those readers unaware: Alice Alexis Queensmeadow had the unique and incredible ability to manipulate color. She was born with a pale exterior that belied her vivid interior and, once unleashed, her magic could paint the skies themselves. Even so, she’d never before attempted to color life back into a person—but now that she knew more about Laylee’s silver eyes and struggles, she wondered whether she had any choice but to try. Then again, she had to be careful. Alice had never before used color to revive a person. Her magic had never been manipulated for such serious purposes, and she could see now why the Elders had sent her here—and why they’d assigned her such grave work. They’d suspected better than she what her magic might do, and they’d trusted Alice to have the strength necessary to reinvigorate a person who’d lost what made her whole. For the residents of the many magical lands— Ferenwood, Furthermore, and Whichwood among them—losing color meant losing magic, and losing magic meant the loss of life. Do you see now, dear reader? Do you see what Laylee had done? She’d been depleting her stores of mordeshoor magic with great and unceasing frequency. The illness that overcame her now was a sickness particular to her line of work, which, as an extremely demanding occupation (both physically and emotionally), had finally sapped her of all magical strength. Had Laylee worked slowly, carefully, with breaks and vacations and holidays, she never would’ve deteriorated to this degree; no, her body would’ve had time to restore itself—and her repository of magic would’ve had time to replenish its supply. But Laylee had not had the luxury of stopping. She’d had no one to intervene on her behalf; no one to share her burden. She was too young and too delicate to have been so thoroughly robbed of the magic still crystallizing within her, and having pushed herself too hard in too short a time, she’d poisoned herself from the inside out. Alice, who was only now realizing how her magic might be forced to work in this strange new way, was quietly preparing for the task she might be asked to perform. She called upon herself to be steady and brave—but in an honest moment, Alice would admit that the immensity of the task had scared her. This was no small feat, to reinvigorate a dying girl. No, no, this was the kind of painstaking, labored work that would take from her as it gave to Laylee; after all, the magic that would save Laylee had to originate somewhere, and Alice would have to use stores of her own spirit to revive the young mordeshoor. These personal reserves would, in theory, help Laylee recover, but Alice would have to make sure she didn’t destroy herself in the process. But I digress. My point here is only to say that Alice was growing more certain by the moment as to why she’d been sent to Whichwood, and she now had hope she might be able to set things right for Laylee. They hadn’t had a chance to discuss any of this, of course, as they’d only just stepped off the train, but Alice was eager to put Laylee’s fears to rest and make quick work of her duties in Whichwood. (Secretly she was hoping there’d be time left over to enjoy the company of her new friends.) But there was so much to see and do now that they’d reached the center of town that there was hardly a moment to be still, much less to speak. In fact, even if they’d wanted to talk about it, I’m not sure they’d have been able to, as the station was swarming with Whichwoodians toing and froing in the chaos, and Alice and Oliver were struggling to stay afloat. They’d never seen such crowds before—certainly not back home in Ferenwood, where the city as a whole was much smaller—and they were overcome by the madness, grabbing desperately for each other as the masses forced them apart. Benyamin, like Laylee, wasn’t at all surprised by the commotion; in fact, he’d been expecting it. He’d come into town for the express purpose of its busy business (you will remember that Benyamin intended to sell his saffron flowers at the market) and, besides, it

was the beginning of Yalda, the most important holiday of the year, and people were flooding into town from all distant reaches of the city in order to celebrate. The festivities were scheduled to begin at sundown—which meant they’d be starting in just a few hours—and Benyamin was hoping to sell his wares swiftly so he might have a chance to experience the evening with his new companions. He wouldn’t be able to stay out all night (as was the tradition) because his mother would be up waiting for him, but even a few hours of fun would be more than he’d had in a long while. Laylee, too, for all her reluctance to celebrate the winter solstice, was feeling inspired to enjoy herself. Her lengthy conversation with Oliver had buoyed her spirits, and the simple reassurance of a sympathetic heart by her side was enough to reinvigorate her courage for just a bit longer. Thinking of Oliver now, she glanced in his direction with an innocent curiosity—only to find that he was already looking at her. Catching her eye, he smiled. It was the kind of smile that lit up his whole face, warmed his violet eyes, and sent a shock of panic through Laylee’s heart. Laylee quickly looked away, horrified, and tried to compose herself.

The four of them pushed and shoved their way through the throng, Benyamin’s barrow leading the group. He cut a straight line through the crowds, passersby jumping out of the way just in time to avoid being nicked by his wheel, and the three others followed close behind, sticking together lest they got lost in the shuffle. The station was abuzz with shouted conversations and shrieking whistles. Diaphanous clouds of smoke hung haphazardly in the air, filtering sunlight in ghostly, gauzy streaks that painted people in binary strokes: light and dark, good and evil. Coats and cloaks swished past in droves; capes and canes kicked up in the breeze; top hats and bowler hats tipped down to bid adieu. Pedestrians were bundled in fur coats and boots, ladies were swathed in colorful scarves, children kept warm with mufflers at hand, and babies were swaddled in layers of cashmere. Whichwood was a city of surprisingly stylish residents, whose lace veils and jauntily tilted caps turned the wintertide itself into a fashionable affair. There were only four persons present whose underwhelming appearance gave the people something to talk about—and Laylee, most of all. She was impossible to ignore. Unlike most Whichwoodians, Laylee never smiled; she never said hello, never apologized for bumping into strangers, never spoke at all except with her eyes—terrifying passersby with a single silver look, sharp and inquisitive and alien in the light. Worse: her outmoded attire was smeared in old blood, and her scarlet cloak rippled around her as she moved, whipping open in the wind to reveal the ominous, ancient tools she wore around her waist. It was a disturbing sight, all of it, but even all this might’ve been overlooked if it weren’t for the sound—goodness, the sound—that made her so conspicuous. The bones on her back clattered like a second heartbeat—cloc cloc, cloc cloc—in an eerie, unworldly echo wellknown to the citizens of Whichwood. That sound meant the mordeshoor was among them— which meant death itself was among them—and the people shrank back in fear and horror and disgust. Every bone-rattling step elicited dark looks and pursed lips and hushed whispers. Children gasped and pointed; parents pushed away in a hurry; no one dared interfere with the mordeshoor or her business, but they never treated her with any measure of kindness, either. Even among her own people, Laylee was a pariah, and only her many pretensions could protect her from their cruelty. Lucky for her pride, Alice and Oliver were too frozen to have noticed any of this.

Cold had penetrated everything, and now that they’d left the warmth of their glass coaches behind, the children were seized anew by the body-clenching chill of the winter day. All four were in a hurry to find shelter, and it was their single focus as they broke free of the busy station. But just as soon as they cleared the crowds and stepped onto the main street, Alice and Oliver were overcome—rooted to the ground in awe and admiration. In the madness of escaping the station, Alice and Oliver hadn’t noticed one very important detail: They were walking on ice, not earth. The heart of Whichwood, you see, had few proper streets; it was connected not by land, but by a series of rivers and canals. Summer in the city was navigated almost entirely by boat, and winter in Whichwood— unequivocally the most spectacular time of year—was navigated by horse-drawn sleigh, as the waters froze over so splendidly that they became one continuous, solid surface. The concrete water underfoot was sixteen shades of blue—waves and bubbles fossilized at their most colorful moments—and the city itself was a sensational old world of majestic domes and terrifying spires, vividly rendered in the still-falling snow. The people of Whichwood were regularly awed and humbled by the magnificence of their own architecture, and Alice and Oliver were no different. Ferenwood was an undoubtedly beautiful city, but it paled in comparison to the grandeur of Laylee’s world. There were more buildings here than Alice could name, more shops, more stalls, more vendors and open-air markets than she’d ever seen. Children ice-skated down the main stretch while merchants shook fists at their recklessness; horse-drawn sleighs carted families from one boutique to another while shopkeepers swept fresh snow into tidy piles. One brave shepherd wove his bleating sheep through the crowds, flurries catching in their wool, stopping only to purchase a cup of tea and candied oranges for the road. The air was crisp and smelled of cinnamon-mint, and happy sounds could be heard all across the square: grown-ups laughing, children cheering, troubadours marching along with song and sitar. Eager adolescents swarmed glass tubs piled high with sugar-ice candies, raspberries and blueberries and snips of lavender frozen inside each one. Tens of dozens of food carts lined the streets, showcasing towers of steaming beets; endless piles of warm, spiced nuts; tureens of soup and intoxicating stews; hanging ropes of rose-petal nougat; gold platters of buttery halva; ears and ears of freshly grilled corn; sheets of bread larger than front doors; and wheelbarrows stacked tall and wide with hand-plucked pomegranates, quinces, and persimmons. There were endless sights and sounds to be disoriented by. The city had a heartbeat Alice could dance to, and she was so blown away she was afraid to blink, worried she might miss too much. Alice had been to many strange places in her short life, but even Furthermore, with its infinite towns and frightening oddities, had failed to bewitch her the way Whichwood had. She could only look on, lips parted in wonder, and breathe it all in. Benyamin and Laylee shared a look of amusement. “How do you like our city?” asked Benyamin, who made no effort to hide his pride. Alice, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, shook her head and cried, “I’ve ever seen anything so lovely in all my life!” And then, turning to Oliver, she said, “Goodness, Oliver, what should we do first?” Oliver laughed, linked his arm in hers, and said, “Whatever we do, can we please do it after I’ve had a bath?” And this, at least, they could oblige.

Laylee led the way to the nearest hamam—the local bathhouse—where the boys and girls would go their separate ways. The many hamams in the city were another public service (which meant they were free for all people in Whichwood), and Laylee had promised Alice and Oliver that the experience would be well

worth their time. The bathhouses were famous for their splendor and, stepping inside one now, Alice was able to see why. The moment she crossed the threshold, Alice was plunged into hot, misty golden light. Clouds of steam pulsed through the open halls, where perfumed towels were stacked on warm racks and robed attendants walked past with pitchers of ice water. Marble walls and floors were interrupted only by pools filled with tempting turquoise depths, and Alice, so frozen only moments ago, thawed instantly, and not seconds later, she was already too warm in all her layers. Laylee directed her to the changing room, where Alice was surprised to find perspiration beading at her brow. She quickly discarded her ruined clothes, reaching instead for the robe and slippers in the locker she was assigned and, now happily rid of the excess layers, Alice was finally able to enjoy the aroma of rosewater clinging to the air. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, wondering where to start first, but when she opened her eyes to ask, she was surprised to find that Laylee was still wearing her cloak. “What’s wrong?” said Alice, who was already reaching for her clothes. “Do we have to leave?” Laylee shook her head and sighed. Slowly, she unclasped her cloak—shrugging it off in the process—and then, even more slowly, she removed her gloves. There was only low light in the hamam, which made it easier for all ladies present to enjoy their privacy, but even in the dimness Alice couldn’t help but gasp at the sight of Laylee’s withered hands and arms. She was silver past her elbows, and her limbs, which had been growing weaker by the moment, were now trembling beyond all control. Laylee, however, would no longer allow her emotions to get the better of her. She clasped her shaking hands behind her back and looked Alice directly in the eye and said, “I know you’re aware of this already, but I thought I should tell you myself: I’m going to die soon, and there’s nothing to be done about it.” Alice hurried to speak, to contradict her, but Laylee wouldn’t allow it. “I just wanted you to know,” Laylee said, now holding up one gray hand, “that you have nothing to be afraid of. My illness is not catching. You are in no danger from me.” “Laylee, please,” said Alice, rushing now, “I would nev—” “No,” Laylee cut her off again. “I don’t care to discuss it. I just didn’t want you to be made uncomfortable in my presence.” She hesitated. “Though I would appreciate a little privacy while I change.” Alice jumped up at once. “Of course,” she said quickly. “Absolutely.” And scurried out of sight.

Alice collapsed against a marble pillar and clasped one hand to her chest, wondering how best to handle this difficult situation. The truth was, she’d been ill prepared for meeting Laylee; Alice was deeply intimidated by the beautiful and terrifying mordeshoor, and she had no idea what to say to the girl to gain her confidence. Alice, who had more in common with Laylee than either of them realized, had spent much of her own childhood far-flung from her people and cast off for her paleness. She’d had only one real friend in recent years, and of all people far and wide, hers had turned out to be a boy. But Alice had desperately longed for female friendship, and though she found much to admire in Laylee, she wasn’t sure the feeling was mutual. She worried that Laylee deeply disliked her, and having failed to gain a good rapport with the girl early on, Alice was now terrified she’d set in motion what would become the inevitable disaster of her single task. Even Oliver (who, let us remember, was not technically allowed to be here) had befriended

Laylee—Alice had seen their camaraderie, and she envied it—and it made her feel like more of a failure in every moment. But Alice and Laylee were like two halves of the same day, light and dark converging and diverging, only occasionally existing in the same moment. Alice would have to wait for an eclipse.

The hamam was a big enough, dim enough space that Alice and Laylee did not see each other again until their baths were done. And though Laylee was secretly relieved, Alice was now more worried than ever. She needed to find new time alone with Laylee—and fast. She hadn’t realized Laylee’s sickness had progressed so much in such a short period, and she worried what would happen if something wasn’t done about it soon.

Baths complete, the four children reunited at the entrance, where Alice and Oliver were feeling brand-new—though slightly uncomfortable—in their still-filthy clothes. The only other necessary thing left to do was to purchase sartorial replacements, and Benyamin took this as his cue to say a brief good-bye, promising to return as soon as he sold off his saffron flowers. No one, not even Alice, noticed as he tucked one of the purple blooms in her pocket, and they all agreed to rendezvous just before sundown in order to enjoy the festivities together. Laylee, who’d been struggling valiantly against the steady, drumming anxiety that said she had no business having fun when there were bodies to be scrubbed, soldiered on, determined to allow herself these few hours of relaxation before she succumbed to the bleakness that was her whole life. She led Alice and Oliver expertly through the crowds—her subconscious always scanning for Baba’s face among the many—and delivered them to a string of her favorite shops on the main road. Laylee, who’d never purchased a single piece of new clothing in all the thirteen years she’d been alive, had always admired these many shops from afar. And she never would have returned to the proprietors whose beautiful wares broke her heart if not for the sake of her new friends. They were truly filthy— embarrassingly so—and helping Alice and Oliver was a gift not only to them, but to all people of Whichwood. Laylee stood off to the side as they perused the many racks of furs and cloaks, offering opinions only when she was appealed to, and allowed Alice and Oliver to indulge themselves in the finery. She’d no way of knowing that the two of them were using this time to form a plan. They huddled over racks of clothes as Laylee towered over the scene silently and, after Alice had described to Oliver the graying decay of Laylee’s limbs in great detail, the two of them whispered in quick, nervous breaths about how best to help her. Ultimately, Alice and Oliver decided the best thing for Laylee would be to keep her away from home for as long as possible. They thought distancing her from her work would be the most efficient therapy— and the best way to begin healing her. It was well-intentioned logic: If Laylee didn’t use her magic to wash the dead, she couldn’t get any sicker. An interesting theory. Laylee, meanwhile, thought it was nice to spend time with people who could think of things other than death, but she felt it was impractical, too. She could only fool herself for so long, after all; she felt too acutely that she was wasting time in town, affecting the composure of a carefree character when she knew all too well that the demands of her occupation would never leave her. And the longer she was left alone with her own thoughts, the harder it became to think of anything else—even with the many pleasures of Yalda to delight and distract. The minutes soon multiplied.

An hour had elapsed, and Laylee—who’d done nothing more than lean against a door frame and occasionally shrug a response—was only dimly aware of Alice asking her what she thought of a hat or coat, or of Oliver frowning in her direction, wondering where she’d gone to in her mind. But Laylee could no longer feign interest in their concerns. She’d now spent a total of three and a half hours (let’s not forget that the train ride alone took ninety minutes) doing absolutely nothing productive, the last two hours of which she’d spent taking a second (redundant) bath, followed by this—this—uselessness. Every lost minute seemed to injure her, every dip of the sun fortified her anxiety, and the more anxious she became, the more convinced she was of one simple fact: She was making a huge mistake playing tour guide to these strangers.

The people of Whichwood had friendly relationships with the creatures they lived among, and their town legislature oversaw not only human concerns, but those of the animals, too. This included business regulations that allowed Whichwoodians to trade goods and services in exchange for a steady supply of fox, mink, rabbit, and wolf sheddings for use in winter clothes. It was a great coup for the people of Whichwood, and now it was for Alice and Oliver, too, who were fully redecorated for the season. Their choices had been practical and fashionable all at once, and the final composition of colors and fabrics suited them nicely. Oliver was wearing a traditional fur hat—with flaps to warm his ears, a bright red cashmere scarf, fur-lined gloves, a knee-length overcoat of heavy black wool, thick slate-gray trousers, and shiny black riding boots. He cut an incredibly handsome figure in his new clothes—so much so that passing persons, young and old, slowed to stare as he walked by. Alice, too, was aglow. Her snow-white hair was wrapped in a shawl of bright, paisley-print wool; the mix of blues, greens, and reds presented a sharp, flattering contrast to her pale features, making her appear more ethereal than ever. She wore a tall fur cap to secure the scarf in place and fastened a heavy violet cape over a gown of gold silk lined in cashmere. Her ankle boots were artfully made but still sensible, and the saffron flower she’d found in her ruined coat was now tucked safely inside her skirt pocket. She and Oliver made a dashing couple despite their best efforts to blend in, and though Laylee stood sentinel beside them—her red hood hiding her face from view—she said nothing of their new attire. She merely looked them up and down and, understanding they were finally finished shopping, turned on her heel and walked out.

Laylee Layla Fenjoon was no longer present. At long last she’d detached from the hinge in her head that kept her anchored to the world around her, and now she floated along, apathetic and unhurried, impervious to the attempts of her companions to reengage her emotions. She was, in a word, dying. She was really and truly expiring now, and she could feel the transformation happening within her. She could practically hear the illness rampaging her fleshy corridors, snapping nerves and crushing organs underfoot. Her hands shook with impunity; her legs threatened to buckle beneath her. Her motor controls were quickly deteriorating, and though she saw the faces of her companions and heard the sounds of their voices, she’d lost the strength needed to push her words in their direction, and so she’d left her body on autopilot, trusting something else to steer.

Laylee had stood up inside of her skin and crawled into a quiet corner of her mind, taking refuge in the steady thrum of some distant, unknowable hum as she waited, with bated breath, for everything to be over. The pains of death came in intervals: sometimes in crashing waves, other times in gentle whispers. Ancient instinct alone moved Laylee’s feet, one in front of the other, as they walked along the icy streets; something somewhere inside of her was remembering to be human despite her best efforts to forget. She’d thought she had more time than this. She knew the illness was spreading quickly, but she’d figured she had a few days before it dissolved her completely. Something had happened in the last hour to aggravate her condition, and she wasn’t sure what it was. Mental exhaustion? Inescapable frustration? The overwhelming anxiety that inhaled her last reserves of strength? Laylee didn’t know the answer, but I do, and I will tell you now: Yes, it was all of those things, but it was something greater than that, too. Laylee was sick in more ways than one; she was undergoing a combined physical and emotional demolition, the consequences of which were simply too much for her young body. And anyway, it didn’t matter now. Laylee had abandoned completely the idea of hurrying back to her corpses; in fact, she no longer remembered why she’d wanted to return to them in the first place. It was a frozen, hateful place that she called home, where nothing awaited her but the emaciated remains of a decapitated life. She didn’t want to die there—not among the dead and the decay. No, she thought. She would die here, among the living, where someone might catch her body as she fell.

I REALLY DON’T CARE FOR THIS PART

Alice and Oliver didn’t know what to do. Something terrible had happened to Laylee—they knew this much for certain—but what it was they did not know, because the mordeshoor had ceased to speak. Panicked, they decided the best thing to do would be to take her home—to return her to the safety of familiar shelter—but when Alice touched Laylee’s arm in hopes of getting her attention, Laylee jerked away, her hands shaking violently as she attempted to steady herself. Oliver, alarmed, ran forward to help, but Laylee recoiled again, feverish and off balance. Alice tried to seek help from passing strangers, but people yelped and hurried away, faces pulled together in revulsion, too steeped in fear and superstition to help even a dying mordeshoor. Alice and Oliver were devastated.

The two friends from Ferenwood had no way of knowing what Laylee was thinking at that strange and terrifying time. They could only attempt an assumption: Laylee was sick, yes— this they already knew—but they did not (and could not) accept that she was dying now; not here, not in this moment. But—

What if it was true? If Laylee was, in fact, dying, how were they going to help her when she was refusing to be helped? How could they save her when she was refusing to be held? And here, dear reader, was the real complication: Alice and Oliver did not know how to help her because they did not yet understand one critical thing— Laylee’s greatest adversary was herself. Alice and Oliver were familiar with sadness and grief, but they were strangers to the kind of suffocating darkness that could corrode a person—the kind of sadness that was a sickness, the heartache that could colonize lungs and collapse bones—no, they did not understand this brand of pain, and so it was not their fault for not knowing what to do. But they’d left Laylee to the clutches of her own mind for too long and the mordeshoor, unmoored, was spiraling into despair. The children meant well, they did—but they were out of their depth. And Laylee, now swallowed whole by the disquiet that had devoured her limb by limb, could not see the worry in their faces or the anxious looks they passed between them. Laylee’s heart had been hermetically sealed in a reckless effort to protect it; she saw herself alone and impenetrable, a drifting body drowning at sea, and she allowed herself to sink straight into darkness, blind and unaware of the many arms reaching out to save her.

Alice and Oliver could only hurry her along as best they could. The sun was nearly setting now, and they were due to meet Benyamin any moment. Perhaps, they hoped, he would have a better idea of what needed to be done. All the wonder of Whichwood that had been so enchanting upon first arrival was now maddening and ridiculous. The crowds were so densely packed that Alice and Oliver could hardly move sideways without stepping on someone, and it was all they could do to push themselves through the throng without losing Laylee in the process. It was getting harder to see clearly from moment to moment; daylight had been decanted into darkness and the smoky, dusky concoction meant only that the icy night air would soon enshroud them. Quickly now, they pressed on from whither they’d come, forging toward the hamam where they’d promised to reunite with Benyamin before dark. Seeing his friendly face awaiting theirs in all the dimness was a great comfort to the hearts of Alice and Oliver, who were now besieged by worry. Laylee had grown more insensible by the second, now refusing to even look at them, and heaven help them if they touched her. Laylee was a severed bundle of nerves, electric with pain she had no way of expressing. Oliver, who (like the others) could not make sense of what had happened to her, was doing all he could to stay upright. He would not allow himself to focus on the collapsing girl beside him, because if he were to dwell on the truth for even a moment, he was certain he would burst into tears. Her death had suddenly and horribly become real for him, and though Oliver did not have the words to explain why he felt any kind of responsibility toward the girl, he simply knew he couldn’t let it happen. Alice, meanwhile, had decided to blame herself for the entirety of the situation. Oliver’s pain, Laylee’s pain—all this was happening, Alice had concluded, because she had failed. It was, after all, her responsibility to have helped Laylee (it was, in fact, her sole task), and yet, she had failed, and she didn’t know how or why or even what to do to fix it. And when she finally saw Benyamin’s kind, gentle face, she merely shook her head, silent tears slipping down her face, and said, “I don’t know what I’ve done.” Benyamin didn’t have a chance to answer. At exactly the moment he stepped forward to ask questions and offer words of comfort, the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and the world was sapped of any lingering light.

Yalda had properly begun. Lanterns set fire to the sky. Orange-milky light poked holes in the blackness, brightness consuming the dim spaces until all was caught in its hazy glow. People and places were smudged silhouettes, edges blurred by firelight. There was a moment of absolute silence before the ground underfoot rumbled fast and deep—a sound so tremendous it thundered through the sky, rising in pitch until the heavens themselves ripped open with a seismic crack—and the city was drenched in red. Millions of tiny pomegranate seeds rained down from the sky, and the people—thousands upon thousands of them—stood still and solemn—cups and jars and pots and buckets raised high above their heads—as the steady drumming sound of raining rubies filled the air. It was a moment of reverence and reflection. No one spoke—not a soul moved—as the snowcovered hills and forevergreen trees were painted scarlet in the night. But the rush of so much bounty sweeping fast and hard across the land made it impossible to hear, and even more impossible to speak. So Benyamin touched Alice’s shoulder in a quiet show of support. Alice took his hand in her left, and Oliver’s hand in her right, and the three of them stared up at the sky, silently wishing for a world where the beautiful and the terrible would stop happening at the same time. It was then—just as the sounds of pomegranate rain had shuddered to a stop, and just as the roaring, cheering crowds had shattered into soft noise—that the world went still in an entirely new way. Alice and Oliver and Benyamin had just turned to look at Laylee when her glazed eyes suddenly came back into focus. She drew in a sharp breath, stiffened, and said, “Please don’t let me fall.”

Oliver Newbanks caught Laylee’s body, and he would not let her go. He cradled her limp, withered limbs, her head resting against his chest, and he ran, madness and desperation telling him to keep moving or die. With each resounding footfall, Laylee’s hood fell back, and her floral scarf slipped—the knot loosening at her neck—as a few rogue locks of hair fell elegantly across her forehead. Laylee had gone silver to her roots. Benyamin checked for a pulse as they charged toward the train station—Alice shouting at strangers to move out of their way—and though he struggled to find it, he finally managed to locate a weak, dull beat, and with a great gasp of relief, pronounced the mordeshoor not yet dead. Oliver, who hadn’t been able to check his silent tears, felt a sudden shock reinvigorate his heart. Benyamin was convinced that the best place for Laylee to recover was in the safety of his own home, where they might take care of her overnight. Taking her back to the castle, he reasoned, would make it impossible for them to remain with her; they’d not washed any corpses this evening, and so, could not risk having their skins harvested as they slept.* Oliver, in a moment of clarity, asked if they shouldn’t rush her to a local doctor, but Benyamin shook his head—this was not work for a physician; Laylee needed a magician to heal her particular wounds, as she was suffering from a disease that affected mordeshoors only. But all of this was beside the point. Let us remember: No one could do what Alice had been sent to accomplish. There was no doctor, no magician, not Oliver nor Benyamin, who could do the kind of magic Alice could manufacture, and she alone would be responsible for what happened to Laylee. Laylee’s fate had been tied to Alice’s, and it was her job to save the life of this young mordeshoor. She only hoped she hadn’t waited too long.

As soon as they arrived at the train station, Benyamin rushed to the ticket window. Alice and Oliver stood by, again checking Laylee’s pulse and

steadying their hearts, while Benyamin secured their passage for four. Once done, Benyamin located an empty carriage and waved them over. Alice, Oliver, and Laylee (still bundled in his arms) quickly joined him in one of the little glass prisms, where, without the bulk of Benyamin’s barrow (which, poor thing, he’d optimistically stowed in a public locker in anticipation of an evening of fun), the four of them were able to settle comfortably; there was just enough room for Oliver to lay down Laylee’s body on the velvet bench. Oliver’s arms were shaking from the strain of having carried her such a long way, but it was the look on his face, desperate and afraid, that worried Alice most. Wordlessly, faces full of expectation, Benyamin and Oliver turned to look at Alice. They three had discussed the possibility of this exact situation just hours prior, and it was hard to believe the occasion was already upon them. No one had dared to imagine things would fall apart so horribly in such a short period of time. No matter. This was it, the moment Alice had been primed for. It would be an arduous, exhausting job—Laylee’s revival would be slow and steady, the kind that might take hours or days, depending entirely on the depth of the wound—and Alice could only hope she would do it right. So she fell to her knees without a word and, drawing in a deep and careful and nervous breath, took the mordeshoor’s cold, gray hands in hers and began to push color back into Laylee’s body.

Meanwhile, the whole of Whichwood was celebrating in the streets, sharing food and drink and dancing to the songs they found in their hearts. The people had no idea what sensations were still in store for them, or which four children were to blame for their impending troubles. No one—not even Benyamin—knew the desperate state of the dead Laylee had left behind. And though there were three friends who might have cared, they were so preoccupied with saving Laylee’s life that they couldn’t be bothered to think of saving her corpses, too. At present, said children clasped hands in a train carriage, the glass windows shimmering in the moonlight, as roaring winter winds shuddered against the doors. Even from their carriage the children could hear the cheers of thousands of happy voices: It was a joyous, rollicking crowd still celebrating life and all its glory—but it was what the children could not hear that night that was so important. Back on the peninsula, dear reader, in a shed dark and oft forgot, the spirits of a neglected lot seethed at the injustice of their unremembered deaths. Laylee had gotten their days wrong, you see. In fact, her mind had been so lost of late that she’d confused days and months altogether. The truth was that her dead had reached their expiration dates several weeks ago—which meant they could’ve gone rampaging for human skin several weeks ago. It was only out of respect for Laylee that the spirits had remained amenable. But she’d now been gone both day and night, and her sad souls, feeling fully forgotten (you will remember that a ghost is a terribly sensitive sort of creature), could be obedient no longer. They shook their chains until their shackles broke and trees bent sideways to let the spirits pass. They had big plans for tonight, the specters did; they would howl and rage against the machinations that kept them fettered to their molting, festering skin, and they swore on the graves of those they passed that they’d wear new faces by morning. The troubles of the evening had only just begun.

Alice had been doing the best she could, but Oliver was not satisfied. He tried to be gentle—to express himself delicately and with consideration for Alice’s feelings—but he wasn’t quite able to cut the sting of his words. He didn’t understand the processes necessary to saving Laylee in this moment, and he couldn’t see the level of concentration and careful effort it took for Alice to help the mordeshoor. It was a delicate dance, you see, to recover Laylee without Alice expending too much of herself in the process. And reviving Laylee could have other side effects, too. Namely: Alice had to be careful not to leave too much of herself—her own heart, her own spirit—in her fading friend. She tried to explain as much to Oliver, but he was too overcome by emotion to be persuaded to think rationally. Though his respect for Alice encouraged him to be patient, he’d secretly hoped Alice would be able to fix Laylee right away. Instead, to his great dismay, at least half an hour had passed and Laylee looked much the same. The damage, Alice was realizing, was deep indeed. Laylee’s hands were still gray—though Alice was convinced they were at least a shade brighter than before—despite her careful and gentle infusions of color. Still! There was no need to panic! Not yet, anyway. Alice was not giving up on Laylee—not so long as the mordeshoor’s heart was still beating —and for the first half of their journey home, Alice’s steady, unrelenting perseverance and Laylee’s gently kicking heart were the only comforts the friends had to hold on to. Benyamin, who was checking every few minutes for signs of life, celebrated each affirmation with a sigh of relief and a triumphant announcement that her heartbeats were getting stronger.

This was how things went on for a while—Alice working, Oliver worrying, and Benyamin doing his best to deliver good news in the interim—until they were just over an hour into their journey (with thirty minutes to go), and Benyamin abruptly ceased checking Laylee’s pulse. His many-legged friends had been worrying at his ear for some time now, but he’d been doing his best to tune them out, determined to focus on the task at hand. The problem was, his insects often worried about him too much—and Benyamin had learned to occasionally disregard their overly protective instincts. Tonight, he suspected they took issue with his recent unusual behavior. (It was strange, after all, for Benyamin to be spending so much time with two strangers and a dying girl, and they were right to be concerned.) But he’d no time to address their questions at present, and so he’d relegated their clicking sounds to the back of his mind until, eventually, they subsided altogether. At first, Benyamin took their silence as a sign of progress. But there was another part of him—much like a parent made suspicious by the unexpected obedience of a child—that suddenly worried if everything was okay. Reader, it was not. Benyamin’s entomological army had its own lead colonel, a spider by the name of Haftpa. (You met Haftpa just once before—he was the muscular spider who scuttled up Alice’s nose.) Some years ago, Haftpa had been involved in a tragic incident involving a house cat who’d intended to eat him outright. Haftpa, who was only a child at the time, fought valiantly for his life and, to everyone’s great amazement, tottered away with his dignity and seven of his eight legs. His triumph was spoken of in hushed, reverent tones, and he quickly advanced to become the foremost sentinel in Benyamin’s brood of insects. But Haftpa was not only a highly respected spider—he was the most admired, too. He was one of the first creatures to

burst forth from Benyamin’s flesh, and, unlike the many others who quickly fled to find homes elsewhere, Haftpa stayed behind to become one of Benyamin’s first real friends. So when Haftpa scuttled forth for a private moment, Benyamin, so sensitive to the wishes of his colonel, could not deny this request—especially as he began to worry that there was, indeed, something he needed to be worrying about. Haftpa had heard rumblings. Several of his friends had built their webs in the hinges of the train, and when Haftpa had stopped in to say hello (as was his habit), he found them with curious stories to tell. In honor of the evening’s festivities, the train had been making more stops than usual—and tonight, as they trekked past one neighborhill after another, they’d seen unusual things appear in the moonlight. They’d heard unusual stirrings and sounds. “What kinds of things?” asked Benyamin quietly, who was attempting to stay calm. Haftpa lifted one small leg in Laylee’s direction, clicking quietly as he did. “They sent a warning to you, friend-Benyamin, to be careful in your dealings with the mordeshoor.” Benyamin felt his stomach heave. “But why?” he whispered, worried Alice and Oliver might overhear. “You don’t mean—the spirits—” Haftpa blinked his eight eyes. “We can’t be entirely sure of what’s happened, friendBenyamin, as our kind doesn’t speak much with theirs. We do not fear the darkness the way your dead do. I know only this: The spirits have left hallowed ground. They will be looking to harvest skins tonight, and there’s little to be done if the mordeshoor dies. Your humans must be warned.” Benyamin was horrified. He knew Haftpa would not lie to him—that in fact he would do whatever was necessary to protect him—but Benyamin couldn’t understand how any of this had come to pass. How had the spirits managed to escape? Benyamin knew a little of the mordeshoor’s business, but he didn’t know all of it, and so he had no way of understanding, at the moment, what had transpired to make any of this possible. He did, however, understand that something had to be done. And soon. But when he looked up, taking in Oliver’s pale face and Alice’s pinched lips—the both of them focused solely on bringing Laylee back to life—Benyamin decided it would be best to wait until they got Laylee to safety before he said anything about what he’d learned. He convinced himself there would be no harm in withholding this information just a little longer. After all, he thought, the spirits must have escaped as a result of a simple misunderstanding. This was the only explanation that made any sense to him, as Benyamin was still operating under the assumption that Laylee had time left to wash her dead. In fact, the more he said this imagined truth to himself, the more he believed it. Soon, he’d managed to dispel any lingering worries. You must understand: Spirits had never, not in all the history of Whichwood, ever escaped the hallowed ground of a mordeshoor’s home. It seemed improbable that anything so horrific would happen now. In time Benyamin would learn the whole truth. For the moment, all he could do was worry quietly and support his sudden friends through this difficult time. It seemed a wholly incredible thing to him that he’d met these strangers just several hours ago, as he already felt closer to them than to anyone in Whichwood. They three knew without speaking that they could rely on one another and that, somehow, their lives mattered to one another. It was a gift few people received in their lives. And it was a gift Laylee was unaware she had, too.

As soon as the train pulled into the quiet peninsula station, Oliver lifted Laylee into his arms, stepped off the train, and set off running. Oliver didn’t know where he was going, but he moved with such conviction that Alice and Benyamin had to race to overtake him. Benyamin shouted for the others to follow his lead, but only occasional lamps were lit in this abandoned land of Whichwood, and it was too dark to see. Benyamin, who did not have spare magic to light the way, did what he always did when he’d run out of options: He asked his insects for help. At once a storm of beetles and spiders rushed down his legs and out from under his pants and marched on ahead, proud and determined to get their human-friend (and his friends) to safety. Their swarming, feverish mass was lit only by sporadic lantern, misty moonlight, and fourteen fireflies, and so, in the absence of stronger illumination, the sounds of clicking pincers helped the children navigate by sound. Haftpa stood on Benyamin’s shoulder, translating directional cues into his human-friend’s ear. It was a slow, careful trek. The main stretch of road leading out of the station was fairly clear of snow, but even the occasional mounds, snapped twigs, and scattered pebbles presented treacherous terrain to the manylegged mass, and they scrambled, struggling with grace over each obstacle as it came.

It was a while before they finally reached the forgotten road that led through hills and valleys of waist-deep snow to the small cottage that was Benyamin’s home. Oliver, who carried the heaviest load, did not complain, despite having to lift Laylee above his head in order to keep her from getting caught in the drift. The insects—who knew their guidance would be of no use if they were buried under the flurry—crawled back up Benyamin’s legs, where their cold, hard bodies took refuge against his skin. In their stead, the flies and bees and ditzy moths (who’d been sleeping behind his knees) took flight, buzzing forward to join the fourteen fireflies, leading the way with all the confidence of professional docents. Benyamin’s bug-friends knew the road home better than even he did, and Alice, who’d been watching closely all this time, was quietly awed by the gentle camaraderie that existed between this strange boy and these small creatures. Finally, a distant light throbbed in the distance, its brilliance flashing like a beacon in the starless night. The moths fluttered forward with a greater eagerness than even before—dizzy with love for the yellow flame—while the flies and bees buzzed back into place behind Benyamin’s knees. The remaining army of bugs, now tucked safely inside Benyamin’s clothes, remained deathly still, watching for anything at all that might signal new danger. They would protect Benyamin above all else—and at great danger to themselves—remaining vigilant until dawn to make sure their human-friend came to no harm.

It was only when they walked into Benyamin’s humble home that Alice and Oliver realized exactly how humble his life was. His house consisted of only one large room informally divided into several smaller sections (eating, cooking, sleeping, sitting—and of course, a little closet for the toilet), but it was a snug, cozy space, its rustic interior warmed by beautiful wooden beams, whitewashed floors, chunky, roughly hewn rugs, a small stone fireplace (from which hung a large metal kettle), and the many happy lanterns that flooded the room with soft orange light. It smelled like hot chocolate and cardamom and the delicate perfume of saffron. And though the home was sparsely furnished, its few pieces were bright and very, very clean. This, the cleanliness of it all, was the thing that struck Alice the most. It was a simple space, yes, but it was spectacularly tidy. And though it seemed tight quarters for a family to share, it was clear that capable hands kept it carefully maintained. Alice and Oliver were

hugged by its welcoming walls and they settled in at once—perfectly at home in the house of a stranger. That is—strangers. Benyamin, who’d only ever known one parent, lived with his mother, who, at the moment, was propped up in bed, staring at them in fascination and understandable surprise. Benyamin’s mother had been ill for two years, you see, and she’d never, not in all that time, seen Benyamin bring anyone home. But then, he’d never had occasion to. The thing no one knew (not even our unfriendly mordeshoor) was that Benyamin’s troubles had begun around the same time as Laylee’s. It was a matter of simple, unlucky luck. One awful winter night, Benyamin’s home had been struck by lightning, and the thatched roof caught fire. He and his mother were soundly sleeping, and they would have died in their beds if it hadn’t been for Benyamin’s insects, who did not abandon their friend, but did their best to awaken the sleeping humans even at great harm to themselves. Still, Benyamin and his mother had awoken too late—they’d inhaled too much smoke and were slowly suffocating, eyes blind and burning in the raging fire. Delirious, they collapsed to the floor. Many of Benyamin’s hard-shelled friends lost their lives that night as they came together to carry Benyamin’s and his mother’s bodies out of the home. It was through their love and sacrifice that he and his mother were spared, and when Benyamin opened his eyes, he was shocked to find himself warm and unhurt, facedown in the snow. He and his mother should’ve been devoured by frostbite in the deathly chill of the night, but his bugs had saved his family twice over by burrowing under them and around them, linking together arms and legs to cover their exposed, fragile human skin in their own armor. Benyamin would never be the same. His love for his many-legged friends, though always steady, had then become a solid, unshakable thing, and he was so moved by their kindness he wept for days at a time. Their great and unwavering affection for him was a support he hadn’t known he needed—and he held fast to their friendship more than ever, especially then, at a time he needed it most. You see, he and his mother had survived the fire, yes, but there was still devastation to contend with, and his biggest problems were two: First: despite their best efforts, Benyamin’s mother had been badly burned, and her legs, which had suffered the worst, would need a steady supply of time—and magic—to heal. And second: their once beautiful home (that his mother had built by hand) had been reduced to a pile of cinders, and from the ashes they would have to rebuild with what little they had left. It was now up to Benyamin to support them both.

So when Benyamin walked inside with his three friends, his mother, who’d been waiting up in bed for her son, was more than a little astounded. Benyamin had never done anything so odd before, and it took quite a lot of explaining in order to account not only for the presence of his new friends, but also the fact that two of them were from Ferenwood and that one of them was dying. His mother (whom he called Madarjoon), was not yet satisfied with his answers. She wanted to know everything: Where had they met; how long had they known each other; who were their parents; why were their parents okay with them leaving home; anyway, what were they doing here;

what on earth was a Surrender; speaking of which, why was Laylee dying; speaking of Laylee dying, when had he befriended the mordeshoor girl; oh, and why was Alice so pale (at this, Alice blushed and Benyamin nearly fainted in embarrassment); why was the tall boy carrying Laylee; why hadn’t Benyamin purchased a new pair of boots yet (and oh, for heaven’s sake, if it was because he was spending all his money on her medicine again, she would just lie down and die, and how would he like that as a thank-you); why had no one bothered to tell her that the mordeshoor was ill in the first place; how long had the mordeshoor been ill; how long had Benyamin known about this; why had Benyamin been withholding information from her; did he not know that she was a grown woman; had he confused himself for her mother; did he remember when she told him she was the mother in this relationship; by the way, where had he left her cane; and why on earth wouldn’t that tall boy put Laylee down? Benyamin, who was clearly used to this manner of questioning, didn’t seem bothered. He patiently answered all of his mother’s questions while simultaneously making space for Alice and Oliver to settle in, and then clearing off their kitchen table. Once it was emptied, he covered the table with a fresh bedsheet and gestured to Oliver to finally lay Laylee down. Alice, who was stunned by the loud, curious woman who was Benyamin’s mother, was too terrified to say a word. (She can’t remember even saying hello to the lady, though Benyamin claims she did.) Oliver, who was only mildly aware of what was happening, managed nothing more than a solemn hello before collapsing on the floor. Only when her curiosity was finally sated did Madarjoon leave them be, but even then she would not be entirely silent, and, friends, I can’t really blame her. Madarjoon had been a jolly, vivacious woman before the fire injured her legs, and this was the most interesting thing to happen to her in nearly two years. She was a woman who worked hard, loved thoroughly, and had strong opinions about everything, and being bedridden did not suit her at all, not even a little bit. She liked to make it abundantly clear at several points throughout the day that if she’d had any choice in the matter—in fact if anyone had had the decency to ask her opinion on the subject—she’d have elected never to lie down, not ever. (And if this was Providence telling her to take a break from standing up—well, she didn’t know what to make of that, because upright was the only way to be.) Alice, who could not think of a single thing to say to Benyamin or his mother (let us remember she was only thirteen, and not yet wise to the ways of charming a grown-up), decided to instead get back to work. Oliver had been shooting her anguished glances since they’d arrived, and though she tried to settle his nerves with a smile, the gesture seemed to cause him pain. So she quickly took her seat at the kitchen table and reached again for Laylee’s cold, gray hand. But just as she was about to start the exhausting work, she felt Benyamin sit down next to her. He and Oliver now flanked her on both sides, and their quiet strength gave her great comfort. So it went, the three of them huddled together, hoping for a miracle.

As the night dragged on, Alice grew ever more weary, and Oliver, though determined to stay awake all night, had begun to fade. There were still many hours to go, and Benyamin’s mother, who was watching quietly as these exciting events unfolded before her, was becoming increasingly agitated at her son’s lack of hospitality. She snapped at him to put on a pot of tea, and he swiftly obeyed. She then asked the boy to get Alice a cushion to sit on, and he procured one at once. Not a moment later, she snapped at him to throw a log on the fire, and he complied. Fully in her element, she took swift charge of both the boys under her roof, and soon Madarjoon procured a cure for Oliver’s mournful eyes by ordering him to scrub a stack of dishes. Benyamin, who’d begun watching over Alice’s shoulder, was again dispensed with, this time ordered to make a light supper. (“Nothing too salty, boy, or I’ll bloat like a balloon,” his mother said, rapping her cane against the floor.) And, unless strictly necessary, the two boys were forbidden from interrupting Alice while she worked her magic. Benyamin’s mother was soon spinning the night on her little finger, she alone thinking of all the little things they needed to comfort and distract in order to make these hard times more bearable. There would be many dark and disheartening moments on this long Yalda night, but it was the sharp, watchful eye of Benyamin’s mother that would keep them focused through it all. Alice had been sitting with Laylee for nearly two hours when she saw the first real signs of change. The mordeshoor’s hand, once silver all over, had now begun to emanate warmth and change color at the tips. Laylee was being revived one knuckle at a time, and now that Alice saw the progress, she could estimate how long it would take—and how much of her it would drain—to bring Laylee back to life, and the approximation was dour. Still, she was grateful for results. She made a quiet announcement about the changes she saw, and Benyamin clasped her shoulder, his weary eyes overcome with relief. Oliver was overjoyed. Laylee would not die. She would not be alive, exactly—at least not for a while, but she would not die, not yet, and the news was a great comfort to them all. The night was beginning to look up, and the three friends felt their spirits soar . . . alongside thirty others. The wind had changed. Ice cracked up the windows. The lanterns flickered in their shells. What had been a soft, whistling breeze not moments before was transformed into a bellowing howl in mere seconds, bringing with it the strange and terrifying chill of something more than winter cold.

The dead, dear friends, had come knocking.

IT’S ALL TERRIBLY EXCITING, ISN’T IT?

Actually, I should clarify: Ghosts cannot knock. They don’t have knuckles or skin (or fleshy bits of any kind), so they’re really only good for rattling things, toppling things over, and making loud, frightening noises. They would’ve liked to have knocked, but the simple fact of their being ghosts made those human courtesies impossible. So it was despite their best efforts to be polite that they shook the door off its hinges. Now, let us take a moment to remember something important: Regular people could not see ghosts. Laylee (and Baba, wherever he was), were the only ones who could see the spirits, so, when the front door had simply fallen out of its frame for (what appeared to be) no apparent reason, Benyamin and his companions had no way of knowing what had happened. Their little heads had popped up, startled and afraid, searching for the culprit and finding none. The ghosts took great offense to this. They were tired of being so soundly ignored by man and mordeshoor, and even though they knew better than to expect regular humans to recognize them, they were feeling sensitive as of late, and so took the slight personally. This did not help the situation. As you might recall, the last we heard of the ghosts was that they’d been angry about Laylee having abandoned them, and that they’d broken free of their shackles and set off at once to see about getting new skins. But you might also remember my mentioning that it was their respect for Laylee that had kept them so obedient in the first place. Well, this was true. And once they’d finally broken free of her hallowed home and begun to roam the earth (a thing no ghosts had done before in all the history of Whichwood), they began to have second thoughts about their plans to steal skins from living humans. After all, the ghosts knew many of these humans—some were their living relatives—and they’d grown a conscience in the last few hours. So they reconvened. They decided it would be best to try and speak with Laylee first—to figure out what had happened to make her abandon them so completely—and only then, once she’d had a chance to speak with them, would they make their final decision. They had hoped to be reasonable; the mordeshoor had tended to them—perhaps imperfectly—but they knew that she worked alone, and though on occasion they liked to have fun at her expense, they quietly respected the young girl for her unwavering dedication to a thankless occupation. After all, there were many ghosts who wanted to cross over to the Otherwhere, and without Laylee, they had no means of doing so. If they were able to find the mordeshoor—and if her words were convincing enough—they would agree to go back to the castle and have their spirits and dead selves be shipped off to

the Otherwhere (with Laylee’s assistance) at once. But if her answers were somehow unacceptable, they would have no choice but to spear some flesh and take it as their own, because they were running out of options in the mortal world. They had little time left in the grace period before their spirits would simply disintegrate, and that, of course, was the least favorable outcome of all. So they’d done their due diligence, searching high and low, on train and terrain to find the young mordeshoor, all to no avail. They were certain she would be at the festivities tonight, and still, they were unable to find her. Frustrated, the last of their patience quickly fraying, they returned to the castle for one last look around, when one of the ghosts, a young boy who’d noticed the light coming from Benyamin’s little home, pointed out that the lone cottage was the one place they’d yet to look. This was how they found themselves, all forty ghostly bodies, crowded cheek by jowl (figuratively, of course) in the cramped home of Benyamin Felankasak, where they had finally found their mordeshoor. Now, had Laylee been awake, she might’ve been able to tell someone that Benyamin’s small home had been infiltrated by a large group of angry ghosts, but as it happened, she was not. And so there was no one at all to explain the sudden drop in temperature or the unexpected departure of the door from its frame. The humans in Benyamin’s home could only wonder at what had happened, and it wasn’t until Haftpa spoke quietly in the boy’s ear that anyone could understand enough to be afraid.

The ghosts had been waiting around for at least five minutes, shouting their frustrations for anyone to listen (and not understanding why Laylee would not look at them) when Benyamin’s sentinel finally offered to act as liaison between the dead and the living. Animals and insects had no problems interacting with the unseen; they spoke a common language that humans were only occasionally made privy to, as their worlds were run with more order and compassion than ours: Namely, the nonhuman world did not hunt the creatures they feared; they simply stayed away from them. And now, though Haftpa had never had much to discuss with a ghost, he was willing to act as a neutral party in order to facilitate some kind of goodwill. He quickly recognized the head of the group—a tall, brooding ghost-woman named Roksana—and explained the situation: Laylee was dying; the other children were trying to resuscitate her; they didn’t know how long it would be until she woke. Meanwhile, Benyamin was (hastily) explaining to the humans what had happened. “What?” This, from Benyamin’s mother. “What do you mean the ghosts escaped hallowed ground? How is that possible?” she cried, nearly falling out of bed in horror. “They’re here right now?” asked Oliver, who’d gone pale. “In—in here? Right now?” “What do they want?” said Alice, who’d gotten to her feet. “Are they upset?” Haftpa reported that, yes, they were very upset. They wanted to know what had happened to their mordeshoor. They wanted to know why she’d left them alone for so long. And they wanted to know whether she would be coming back. Benyamin hurried to explain exactly what had happened to Laylee, but instead of deescalating the situation, Benyamin’s explanations had apparently made things worse. Roksana shouted out so angrily in response that Haftpa jumped up, startled, and spun an unexpected web in the process. She was enraged to hear that the mordeshoor had been left to die like this. The dead were nothing if not soulful creatures, and they felt great pain and pity for the mordeshoor that they, the ghosts, had taken for granted. Laylee had been treated poorly by her people, and now an entire other civilization of beings would suffer as a

result. What would happen to the dead once their only remaining mordeshoor died? (Never mind the crazy father, said Roksana.) What did the people of Whichwood think would happen? Had they expected that they could just discard this young girl and her position with no care or thought to her well-being? Did they not see the shortsightedness of their own actions? This thirteen-year-old girl had been left to suffer all alone, with no one in their busy, bustling city stopping long enough to care. The ghosts, understanding this all at once, were no longer simply angry—they were enraged to the point of asphyxiation. Roksana could hardly speak for all her fury. And she and her ghosts huddled around Laylee’s body, suddenly sorry for ever having given her a hard time. They knew they could be annoying, jumping out of corners and being occasionally absurd and unkind—but they were desperately bored for conversation, and Laylee was the only human with whom they could interact. She kept their secrets, and helped soothe the pain of passing. She was the only living person to care what happened to her people when they passed on, and the ghosts valued her dedication to them. So this? This would never do. Haftpa had quickly explained Roksana’s sudden outburst, and Benyamin, who hurried to carry out the translation to the others, had begun to whisper the words, so terrified was he of what Haftpa had told him. The ghosts had come to find Laylee in hopes of making amends, but now, having discovered the truth of how terribly she’d been treated, they sought to exact revenge. The ghosts’ consciences would be clear tonight. It was clear to them that by mistreating Laylee, the Whichwoodians did not respect the rites and rituals that affected their dead and, family or not, the spirits would not defend those who’d stood silently by as their unseen world was plagued by injustice. “Wait,” cried Benyamin, who was now beseeching the ghosts blindly. “Please—we’re doing the best we can to help her—we just don’t know how long it will take—” “We recognize your efforts,” said Roksana, and Haftpa hurried to translate. “As a thankyou for your loyalty to the mordeshoor, we will not harm the four of you here tonight. But we will not grant the same protection to the people celebrating in the streets. They dance and feast while their mordeshoor dies!” Roksana cried, shaking her fist. “This, we can never forgive.” In the time it took Haftpa to translate the rest of her message, the ghosts had already gone, charging wrathfully into the night— Heaven help the humans whose paths they crossed.

“What do we do?” cried Alice, who was looking from Laylee to Benyamin to his mother to Oliver and back again. She couldn’t possibly abandon Laylee, not now, not at this critical juncture, but it was also true that they couldn’t just wait here while the ghosts charged into the city to strip innocent people of their flesh. “What do we do?” she said again, when no one responded. Oliver opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, but no words came out. Benyamin looked to Haftpa for advice, but the little spider wasn’t sure what to say. Madarjoon was the only one who didn’t seem too stunned to speak. She was shaken, yes, but she hadn’t lost her wits, and it was her quiet, adult authority that rang true and clear in their young bones when she said simply, “You must go. At once.” “But what about—” said Alice. “You must take her, too.” “Take her with us?” said Oliver, eyes wide. “How?”

“Put her on the train and take her with you,” said Madarjoon. “You will make it work; you cannot leave the mordeshoor behind. Alice will stay with her, healing her as you go, and hopefully, before the end of the night, she will have been able to help the girl enough to get her eyes open.” “But why?” said Benyamin, who was seeing something in his mother’s eyes that only he, her son, could recognize. “Why do we need to take her with us?” “Because,” said Madarjoon, “once her eyes are open, you’ll be better able to see what’s happening.” “What do you mean?” said Oliver. “Laylee can see the ghosts,” said Madarjoon. “She knows them personally. That much was made clear tonight.” Benyamin blinked, surprised. Oliver didn’t know what to say. Alice looked at the unconscious mordeshoor and said, “Yes, it would make sense if she did. Though I wonder why she never said anything about it before.” “Because she’s a smart girl,” said Madarjoon. “She knows better than to make that kind of information public. It’s hard enough being the caretaker of dead bodies; but to have to act as liaison between human and spirit? Can you imagine how many grieving people would harangue her about communicating with the spirits of their loved ones?” Madarjoon shook her head. “No, it’s better that she kept it to herself. But the ghosts made it clear tonight that they knew her personally—that they’d talked before, that they cared for her. That sort of relationship cannot come from nothing. Mark my words: That girl can see the dead—and can speak with them, too. And if you’re going to have any luck at all tonight, you’re going to need her with her eyes open. So go. And hurry. You have no time.” Benyamin checked the clock and said anxiously, “But the trains won’t come for another hour—what do we—” And Madarjoon grabbed for her two canes—resting just to the side of her bed—and pulled herself up, with great effort, to stand on weak and withered legs. She wore a long pink nightgown with a ruffled collar and scalloped hem, her hair tied back with a small silk bandana. At her unexpected movement, Benyamin rushed forward, alarmed, but Madarjoon held up a hand to stop him. “Come along, children,” she said carefully. “Let me do the only kind of magic I’m good for anymore.” “But, Madarjoon,” Benyamin cried, running forward, “you’re not strong enough—” She cut him off with her cane. “A piece of advice, sweet son of mine: Never, ever again tell a woman she’s not strong enough.” “But I didn’t mean—I never—” “I know.” She smiled. “Now come along.” She glanced at Oliver and Alice. “All of you.” “Where are we going?” asked Alice, hurrying forward. “We’ll get to that in a minute. Hurry up, hurry up,” she said, hobbling forward to prod Oliver with her cane. “Come on, then. We haven’t got all night.” Oliver jumped up, startled, and reached for Laylee, preparing to lift her into his arms again when Benyamin’s mother cried, “Get a barrow, boy! No need to waste time flexing your muscles.” Oliver flushed, embarrassed for a reason he couldn’t quite explain, while Benyamin ran off to collect one of the extra wheelbarrows he used for his saffron harvest. The children lined the rough interior with pillows and bedsheets, and then, carefully, settled Laylee inside, taking care to tuck in her bag of bones beside her. Suddenly, for just a second, her eyelids fluttered. Alice gasped. The four of them peered in, looking for another sign of life, but this time Laylee was still.

“Everyone’s got their coats?” Madarjoon said loudly, looking over the heads of the children. “You’ve all used the toilet? No? Well, best hold it in. Come on, then—let’s carry on.” And they shuffled outside into the cold, biting night and hiked in taut, nervous silence for a matter of at least fifteen minutes, through hills and valleys of thigh-high snow (through which Benyamin had no idea how his mother managed), until they reached the very edge of their quiet peninsula, and could hear the ferocious waves lashing against the cliffs. Alice and Oliver were just shy of terrified. They had no interest at all in summoning what was left of their glass elevator, and they had no idea whether that was what Madarjoon had been hoping to find. In fact, they sincerely hoped it wasn’t, because if it was, they didn’t know how they were going to explain to her that they’d broken it. Luckily, that wasn’t at all what Madarjoon was thinking. She hobbled out to the very precipice, a point nearly invisible in the blackness of night. The children were too afraid to follow her, and when Alice whispered her worries to Benyamin, he assured her that everything would be okay. Madarjoon had, in fact, done this many times before. There was a reason, you see, why Benyamin had never had to explain his strange relationship with the many-legged world—and it was because his mother never needed an explanation. She, too, had a special relationship with the nonhuman world, and she would call upon that friendship now, at a time she needed it most. When Madarjoon stepped back from the ledge some moments later, it was only a matter of seconds before the sea—already churning with great and tremendous turbulence—began to lurch ever more tremendously. As the sea rocked back and forth with the dizzying force of a thunderclap, from its tremulous depths came a sudden and unmistakable expulsion of air, and a sound like a blasted rocket—crack!—snapped the seas wide open. A whale as large as a pirate ship bobbed at the surface of the water, its large fin slapping hello to an old friend. Madarjoon spoke quickly and quietly to her comrade, and the children, struck still with awe, stood silently by, waiting only to be told what to do. There was little time to spare, so the formalities were dispensed with. The whale-friend took only a moment to slap its fin in acknowledgment to whatever secret thing Benyamin’s mother had said to him and, a moment later, yawned open his mouth to allow them aboard. Benyamin reassured his stupefied friends that he’d done this before. “It’s perfectly safe, I assure you—” “Come along, children,” said Madarjoon. “We’ve no time to assuage your feelings. There are lives to be saved.” She took another step toward the whale, but Benyamin threw out an arm to stop her. “Are you—I mean,” Benyamin stammered, frozen, “are you coming with us?” “I know you’re a little old for my company,” said his mother with a smile, “but I’m afraid it’s best if I come along for the night, considering the circumstances.” “But are you sure you’ll be alright?” he said nervously. “You’re not too weak to—” “What did I say to you about accusing a woman of weakness? Do I look weak to you? I carried your bones inside of me, young man. A person doesn’t need legs to be strong. I’ve got enough heart for ten legs, and that’ll carry me farther than these limbs ever did.” And without another word, she stepped off the edge of the cliff and fell, with a whistling whoosh, right into the open mouth of a humpback whale. Stunned and humbled, Alice and Oliver and Benyamin hastened to follow. They each held on to a different side of the wheelbarrow carrying their friend and, with a nervous intake of breath, took a running leap off the cliff— And fell softly into the jaws of their sea captain.

As you might have expected, it was not a comfortable journey. In fact, it might be an understatement to say that whales are not ideal for transporting humans. But this whale was doing their group a huge favor, so they would have to make do with what they had. The group didn’t speak much as they jostled one another in the wet, sucking maw of the sea creature, as there was little positive to say. Each was lost in his or her own mind, every person thinking thoughts more diverse and interesting than the next— and as the conscious among them stood tall and still in the moist quiet of the whale’s mouth, it was all they could do to hold on to one another and hope they’d make it to town before the ghosts did. But our protagonists would not be successful tonight. I will tell you this now: It would be impossible to beat the ghosts to town. The spirits had a head start and, even though the whale moved at a tremendous clip under the sea, they would still be deposited at the edge of the open water—certainly closer than before, but still a bit far from the center of town. By the time they clambered out of the whale’s mouth and onto hard ground, they would still need to travel another twenty minutes or so by foot before reaching the Yalda celebrations. It seemed a fruitless effort—with one exception. Alice had not been idle. She’d been working with the mordeshoor through light and darkness, on land and at sea, pulsing color and magic back into her limp limbs until the little progress she made begat more progress, and soon, the mordeshoor was healing at an exponential rate. She was healing now in much the same way she fell ill: Each milestone was bigger. First a knuckle, then three, then four fingers, then the whole hand; by the time they reached land, Alice had managed to undo the gray as far as Laylee’s elbows, and though the mordeshoor was still too weak to stand, she was able at least to flutter open her eyes. It was, as I’ve mentioned several times already, a very dark night. This darkness, plus their urgency to shove forward toward the city center, distracted the rest of the group from the miracles being performed beside them. So you might understand why it took a moment before anyone realized that Laylee had opened her eyes. (Though it was, understandably, Alice who saw her first.) “Laylee!” she cried, her heart swelling with joy. “You’re awake!” “She’s awake?” said Oliver, hardly daring to breathe. “She’s awake!” said Benyamin, who turned to his mother with pride. “I knew she’d open her eyes in time,” said Madarjoon, who was hobbling along as best she could, huffing and puffing and never complaining, grateful to be on her feet again. Laylee was terribly confused. It took a lot of explaining what had happened to her (and why she was lying in a wheelbarrow as they pushed her through empty midnight streets) before she finally clicked everything together, and when she did, she was stunned. “You saved my life?” she said to Alice. “But how?” “It’s what I came here for, remember?” said Alice, eyes shining in the moonlight. “I said I’d come to help you. We all did,” she added, beaming at her friends (old and new) with great happiness. “So—you knew?” said Laylee. “You’ve always known I was going to die?” Alice shook her head. “I didn’t. But someone must’ve known; otherwise, the Ferenwood Elders wouldn’t have sent me here. They must have heard about you from someone in Whichwood. They made a great exception to send me here,” Alice explained. “We don’t normally travel to other magical lands.” “So strange,” said Laylee, who already seemed exhausted. She let her head rest against the wheelbarrow as Oliver pushed her forward, and said only “so strange” once more, before her eyes closed again.

No matter. They pushed on, their spirits higher than ever; it was a great help to their hearts to know that Laylee was healing—and that, hopefully, she would survive—especially as they charged forward into the endless winter night, desperate to save the people of Whichwood from an untimely end. It was an unlikely group of individuals upon whom depended the salvation of an entire city, but the insect boy, his injured mother, his colorless friend, her curious companion, and the nearly dead girl asleep in the wheelbarrow would have to do. It was, admittedly, hard to imagine them besting a crowd of angry ghosts, but they would at least have to try.

BRACE YOURSELF BEFORE YOU READ ON, I BEG YOU

As I said: They were too late. It was an admirable effort on their part, charging into the city like they did, but the city was already in chaos when they arrived. Alice, who had been holding Laylee’s hand this whole time, was helping the mordeshoor get stronger in every moment. Laylee’s eyes occasionally flickered open long enough to retain new information about their situation and, fortified anew, she was ready to guide with her eyes when necessary. Unluckily, there was little to be done. The mass of happy people they’d seen swarming the streets just hours before was nowhere to be found. Instead, bloodcurdling screams rang out across the city, parents fainting in the streets while their children sobbed helplessly at their sides. Food stalls had been knocked sideways; lanterns had been shattered on sidewalks; cocktails of blood and pomegranate juice dripped down snowy banks and streets, scarlet tendrils snaking across the land. Of the forty spirits unleashed upon the city, just under half of them had already unzipped humans from their flesh. That left twenty-two of them wandering about the city, still haunting the remaining humans, taking their time choosing which skin they liked best. This created two very awful scenes in the street. First, and perhaps most disturbing: The humans whose skins had been harvested were still alive. They stumbled around, muscle and bone exposed to the elements, bleeding uncontrollably and retching at intervals. They could survive in this condition for no more than an hour, during which time the ghosts who’d stolen their skins were afforded the opportunity to return the skin to its owner. If not, the bloody remains would simply collapse. We could not know exactly how long it had been since their skins were stolen, but it had been at least some many minutes, and time was running out. Worse still: It was

horrifying to witness. Eighteen skinless bodies staggered in the ice and snow, slipping repeatedly in pools of their own blood and bile, while their children looked on in horror. Thus far, only adult bodies had been chosen for harvest, as their skins were most roomy. Which brings us to the second set of awful scenes in the street: The ghosts, who’d eagerly and clumsily pulled on their fresh human flesh, could not understand why they weren’t immediately accepted by the rest of the living society. They stumbled around, untroubled and excited to join the others in the night’s festivities, and were made only angrier by the full and thorough rejections they received. They finally looked like the others, didn’t they? They looked like they used to, didn’t they? The trouble was, the spirits had no access to a mirror; if they had, they might’ve noticed that the skins they’d stretched over their spirits were bunched up in all the wrong places— and too tight in others. It had been a long time since they’d been human, you see, and they couldn’t remember where everything was supposed to go. Their noses were on their foreheads and their lips were where the nose should be; fingers were only half filled, and elbows had gone where shoulders should; one ghost had put his leg into an arm, and another had zipped the whole thing on backward, and—anyway, suffice it to say that they were not as attractive as they’d hoped to be. So there it was: The beautiful, incomparable streets of Whichwood had gone slippery with the blood of the still-living, who staggered sideways and frontways, scarlet icicles forming along their beating hearts as fresh blood dripped down their vulnerable bodies.

Seeing all this, Benyamin’s mother fell to her knees. She was a strong woman with an iron will, but this was too much even for her to stand. Her legs, already weak from the effort to get her here, could no longer keep her steady, and so she sank to the ground, her mouth unhinged in shock, as the dead skins taunted the stumbling remains, and the whole of Whichwood lost their minds in horror. Still, there was work to be done. The children were unusually composed in the face of unspeakable terrors. For Alice and Oliver and Benyamin, the situation felt somehow surreal, intangible, and dreamlike, but for Laylee—well, for Laylee, it was just another day at work. The mordeshoor, who’d been invigorated enough to speak clearly, asked Alice to unhook the whip hung from her trusty tool belt. Alice quickly complied and, with Laylee’s careful permission and instruction, cracked the whip through the air three times. The spirits—far and wide—stood still. Alice cracked it thrice more. The vagabond spirits, still susceptible to the methods of the mordeshoor, screamed out in surprise. Once she knew she had their attention, Laylee spoke quietly. Her words were for the spirits alone, and she knew they would hear her. “Come here,” she said softly. “I’d like to speak with you.” And she instructed Alice to crack the whip until the ghosts came. Benyamin, meanwhile, had formed a plan of his own. With enough time, perhaps Laylee could convince the ghosts to give up their human skins, but right now they needed a temporary solution for these quickly deteriorating bodies, and fast. Benyamin spoke quietly and urgently with his creatures, and though no one could’ve known for sure that Benyamin’s plan would work, the insects quickly agreed to help. But this was the kind of plan that would require the assistance of nearly all the many-legged residents of Whichwood, not merely the ones who were loyal to Benyamin. Haftpa set off with his troops at once, promising Benyamin that they would return with as many recruits as possible.

While Haftpa scuttled off in search of more compatriots, Laylee’s twenty-two remaining ghosts had begun to gather. It took longer than Laylee would have liked for them to show their faces, but then—well, they were a bit mortified to have been found out like this. The ghosts still felt they’d done right to avenge their mordeshoor, but somehow they knew she wouldn’t approve of their methods, and they couldn’t bear to face her. Fortunately, they didn’t have a choice in the matter. There was a definitive kind of magic that tied the ghosts to her, and they could not disobey her call so long as she was alive. And so they floated cowardly forward until they stood before her, transparent heads hung in shame. No one but Laylee could see what was happening, but that didn’t matter. Her friends stood by apprehensively, ready to step in should she call upon them. “Do you see now?” Laylee said to her dead. “Do you see what it would be like to stay behind?” She lifted one weak arm to point at the bumbling skins inhabited by the ghosts pretending to be human, their lopsided arms and noses sending passersby screaming into the night. “They are reviled. They leave in their wake nothing but blood and madness. You,” she said to the still-gauzy spirits, “in an unfamiliar flesh, would not be accepted back into your families. You would not be invited back to society. Your time here has come to an end, friends. You have to trust in the hourglass of the worlds,” she said. “You must move on when it’s time to go.” “But you abandoned us!” cried one of the ghosts. “You left us behind—” “Never,” said Laylee. “I would never. I fell ill only because I tried too hard. But I would never abandon you to this fate,” she said, nodding again to the devastating scene before them. “You are my charges in this world, and it is my duty to protect you. “Please,” she said softly. “Let me help you move on.”

Haftpa had returned. The city could hear them approach before they saw their small, creeping bodies, thousands upon thousands of hard-shelled creatures charging into the center of town. Benyamin’s plan was for the insects to form protective armor around the skinless humans just long enough for Laylee to convince the eighteen ghosts to give said skins back to their human owners. Haftpa scurried forward as quickly as he could, climbed atop Benyamin’s shoulder, and receiving the signal from his human-friend, he lifted one leg to unleash his comrades upon the night. Tragically, they were already too late. Just as the insects charged forward, four of the skinless bodies collapsed, unmoving, to the ground. The impossible moment was so saturated with madness that there was no time to stop—no time for Laylee to lose her head—no time at all to pause and mourn the four innocent lives they’d been too slow to save. What could she do? How would she answer for this? Laylee’s head was spinning. It was simply unacceptable that anyone had died; improbable that she was not dreaming. Had she dreamed it? The sounds of the world seemed to surge back into her consciousness. Suddenly she heard a rushing stream of clicking legs thrusting into the darkness, parting people and places, climbing over upturned wares and shattered lanterns. The mass of bugs poured all at once into the center square where the remaining bloody, skinless human figures were still staggering and, in a moment of horrible necessity, climbed atop the soggy masses of flesh until the still-alive fourteen bleeding human bodies were swallowed up by a sea of sharp black exoskeletons. The thousands of insects moved in choreographed perfection, linking arms and legs in a synchronized procession, clicking into place to create temporary armor. The entire act took no longer than several minutes, but the world seemed to slow in that time, strangers looking on with a combination of awe and revulsion as the entomological world came together to spare these human lives.

The armor would afford them at least a few more hours of protection, and in that time, Laylee and her troop would have to move quickly. Instinct alone was keeping Laylee afloat. She didn’t know if anyone else had noticed yet, or if any of her friends had seen what had happened. Alice and Benyamin rushed forward to usher the now-armored bodies away from the awkwardly skinned ghosts; Laylee still needed time to negotiate with the ghostly thieves who’d stolen the human skins, but at least until then the human bodies, now protected from the elements, were able to move with ease and quickly ceased their retching. Laylee, who was still negotiating with her spirits, was making requests from her wheelbarrow, and Oliver, her newly appointed assistant, was only too happy to oblige. They would have to get everyone back to the castle as soon as possible, and they would need as many volunteers as they could get. They would have to wash forty-four corpses tonight (including the four newly dead bodies), or many more innocent people would die before morning.

Benyamin’s mother took it upon herself to gather the volunteers. She promised to go doorto-door, collecting as many helping hands as possible, and would meet them back at the castle. But she urged them not to wait for her. “Go,” she said. “You take the train—it’ll be arriving any moment now—and I will meet you at the castle. We’ll take transport by water.” So they split up. Alice, Benyamin, Laylee, and Oliver herded up the ghosts, the armored humans, and the skinned spirits (who went with great reluctance, still unconvinced they should give up their freshly acquired flesh), and rushed for the abandoned station, where the glimmering carriages were just pulling in. This time, they did not stop to get tickets. Alice and Benyamin shoved the lot of them into as many carriages as necessary before hauling Laylee, her barrow, and Oliver into another carriage. Once certain that Laylee was in control and still in communication with her drifting spirits, Alice and Benyamin hopped inside, squeezing themselves into the tight space, determined to stick together this time, no matter the discomfort. Alice, as usual, wasted no time. Laylee was feeling better than ever, but Alice was determined to heal her until she was completely cured, and with an hour and a half to go until they reached the castle, there was still a great deal to be done. Benyamin and Oliver lifted Laylee out of the barrow to lay her down on the bench seat, and Alice set to work. In no time at all, she was, again, making visible progress. Alice had already returned Laylee’s arms and legs back to normal, but now she was working on Laylee’s face. In the last several hours, her skin had gone from a warm, golden brown to an ashy, dusty shade of rust, and as Alice pressed her fingers to the mordeshoor’s skin, one gentle movement at a time, Laylee slowly came back to life. Her eyes were closed, but Alice could see the rapid movement behind her eyelids, and only after she was satisfied with the color coming back into Laylee’s cheeks did Alice finally remove her hands for a quick rest. It was tiring work, after all, and Alice was out of breath with exhaustion—and exhilaration. It was gratifying to see her hard work pay off, and it was even more gratifying when Laylee flickered open her eyes, and her friends finally saw her real eye color. Gone was the cold silver gaze of the mordeshoor Alice and Oliver had only known, and in its stead were the warm amber eyes of a girl who, for the first time in over a year, was able to see clearly. Laylee, who could not understand exactly what had happened, but could feel the

difference, sat straight up and wept. It was an extraordinary change, and a gift she’d not been prepared to receive. She looked at her hands, no longer trembling, and her legs, no longer aching, and she threw herself into Alice’s arms and cried.

By the time they reached the castle, Laylee was standing up. She was grateful for her health, but she couldn’t help but feel a deep pain in her gut for the four lives they’d lost this evening. Alice was sure that Laylee would, in the end, be ready to smile again, but Laylee couldn’t bring herself to be happy yet. There was still too much work to do—and she could only guess at the repercussions she would face for their losses tonight. So it was with an unsettling grimness that she prepared to wash the last of her remaining dead, and it was with a heaviness in her step that she jumped off the glass carriage and into the train station and ran, strong and skillful, toward home. (With many strange bodies following closely behind.)

It seemed clear what needed to be done. Laylee charged directly into the backyard, her small army following, and prepared the tub. The spirits who’d stolen human skins needed a bit more persuasion to give up their new clothes, but after several minutes of show-and-tell on the part of the mordeshoor, they were eventually convinced they’d made a terrible mistake. Good thing, too, as they would have to go first. Laylee quickly separated their fourteen corpses from the large pile in her shed, and got to work. Friends, it was a very, very long night. They scrubbed until their fingers bled and their eyelids frosted open. They scrubbed until they couldn’t speak and could barely stand. They scrubbed until Benyamin’s mother showed up, hobbling forward disappointed and exhausted, with no volunteers in tow (none could be persuaded to help, I’m afraid), and still Laylee would not sit. She stood tall, scrubbing bodies until her fingernails broke, and as each body was shipped off to the Otherwhere, the corresponding spirit, duly shamed, stepped out of the human skin they awkwardly wore, and left it lying in the snow. Only then did Benyamin’s insects disembark their human ship, and allow the body to reclaim its flesh. They did this until all fourteen humans were reunited with their skins, and even then, Laylee would not stop. Alice feared the mordeshoor had been reinvigorated just in time to destroy herself all over again. And though her friends begged her to stop, to slow down, to take a break before she grew ill, Laylee would not hesitate, she would not listen to reason, and she thought that she would rather die than live with the weight of this burden or this grief ever again. So she soldiered ahead, working with her friends—and even occasionally alone—until every single body was scrubbed and sent off into the night.

Only then, dear friends, did Laylee Layla Fenjoon finally fall.

FORGIVE ME, BUT THINGS ONLY GET WORSE

Polygons of light broke through damp branches, tree trunks perspiring in the misty dawn. It was a cold, golden morning, the sun unfurling its rays to touch pinpricks of dew, the rolling hills rumbling under blankets of snow. For a protracted moment, everything was new, untouched; the horrors of the prior evening were temporarily forgotten. It was that impossible time between sleep and consciousness, when fears were still too tired to exist, when responsibilities stood patiently behind a door. Laylee was loath to disturb this peace, but she could feel herself stir; she was becoming increasingly aware of sounds and surroundings, and she was now dimly aware of the fact that she’d fallen asleep in the snow. It was odd, then, that she felt warm and heavy—like someone had thought to throw a cloak over her as she slept—and it was only when, finally, reluctantly, she blinked open her eyes that she realized she was not covered in blankets, but in bugs—tens of hundreds of hard-bodied creatures—who had curled up quietly against her skin. Somehow, even in the face of this revolting realization, Laylee couldn’t help but smile. In fact, Alice swears she heard Laylee laugh out loud (she claims it’s the sound that woke her that morning), but Laylee has repeatedly denied this. Our point here is that Laylee, though conflicted about the mixed outcome of the prior evening’s events, felt the crippling burden of her corpses slough off her body as if she’d shed a full skin. She felt a lightness she hadn’t experienced in years, and as she became aware not only of the day, but of the healthy strength in her limbs, she allowed herself to feel—if only for a moment—happy. The evening had been a horrible one, but at least it was over. They’d saved as many innocent people as they could from an exceptionally dire fate, and sent off all the outstanding spirits to the Otherwhere. But it was with a sinking feeling that she sat up slowly, delicately dislodging insects from her eyebrows. Laylee still felt a kick to her gut when she thought of the four lives they hadn’t saved, and though she’d never be able to applaud her own actions, she did manage to feel proud of her friends for working so hard to help her last night. So when Alice mumbled a smiling good morning in her direction, Laylee felt her face stretch in an entirely new way, cheeks and chin fighting to accommodate a rare grin that brightened her amber eyes. Laylee looked up at the sky, waved her own hello to the winter birds who’d gathered, as usual, for their morning conference, and allowed herself to imagine what on earth she’d do with a day off. It was just then that Laylee heard someone call her name. She stumbled up to her feet, wild-eyed, at the sound of Baba’s voice, and spun around in search of him. She felt her heart leap up into her throat until she was sure she would choke on it, fear and happiness erupting within her. Baba had come home.

Baba had come home. At first, all she saw was his face. All she heard was the thrumming in her head; all she felt was the impossible stillness of the air around her. Her mind had gone thick and muddy, so strange and dense she could rake her fingers through it as she clawed her way toward him. She wanted answers, she wanted to be angry, she wanted to hit him, she wanted a hug. Baba was here. And at first, that was all she saw. She did not question why his hands were hidden behind his back. She did not see the Town Elders congregated behind him. She couldn’t feel Oliver tugging at her arm. She didn’t hear Alice suddenly scream. She wouldn’t notice Benyamin and his mother duck out of sight without a word, too decent to stick their noses in Laylee’s business. Baba was standing in front of her, and at first this was all that mattered.

What happens next is difficult to relay. Laylee still can’t speak of this time in any measure of detail, so I will endeavor to piece together as comprehensive a summary as I’m able: The Whichwood Elders had descended upon Laylee’s home at first light, determined to finally put an end to the mordeshoor business. They did not see Laylee’s work as even the smallest kind of success, you see. They saw the events of the evening prior as a terrible wake-up call—a horrifying reminder of the dangers of relying upon mordeshoors. The Elders had long felt that this, the work of the mordeshoor, was an outmoded system for dealing with the dead—it was an ancient ritual they’d held on to for simple reasons of maintaining tradition. Most other magical lands had long ago dispensed with traditional methods of dispatching the dead; they’d enacted new measures, overruled the old magic with more modern magical systems. Mordeshoors were near extinction, after all, and Laylee Layla Fenjoon—who, after Baba, would be the last of her line—was already widely considered to be terrible at her job. The Town Elders had decided that someone had to be held accountable for last night’s devastation. What Laylee saw as a difficult save of a terrible evening, the town saw only as ruination. Four innocent people had died. Many more had been stripped of their flesh in front of their own children while insects rampaged said flesh without permission; ghosts had scandalized the city into mass chaos, and scores of people had been so traumatized by the ordeal that they’d been rushed to the hospital. The people were outraged and terrified—a lethal combination for an angry mob—and in their blind rage, they were demanding justice. Someone was to pay for the sins of the evening, and Laylee, at only thirteen years old, was deemed too young. Baba had been sentenced to death. He’d let this happen, they’d decided. He’d abandoned his post to a child, and the entire system had fallen apart. It was his fault that the people of Whichwood had been compromised and four of them had been killed mercilessly in the street. It was Baba’s fault that Laylee had been so overworked. It was Baba’s fault for putting the town in danger—for being so irresponsible—and he would be punished for it. The Elders had found the alleged criminal sitting in a tree, eating a sheaf of paper. They’d bound him and brought him before his daughter because he was allowed one concession before his impending death: to be able to say good-bye to his loved ones. And so here he was, so thin and scraggly Laylee hardly recognized him, and he stared at her, a little happy and a little confused, and smiled. Laylee closed her eyes.

She would not stir; she would not breathe or bat an eyelash; she would not speak; she would not cry or gasp or ever, ever be moved from this spot. She froze because she hoped that the world would freeze, too, that time would fall over and crush her, that if she simply waited long enough, this pain could all be undone. “Laylee joonam,” Baba said. “Azizeh delam.” Tears welled up in her heart, her throat, her pockets. “Azizam,” Baba said again. “Azizam, please look at me.” Finally, she felt her mouth move. The seam of her lips had gone dry; her jaw throbbed in her skull. “I will not,” she whispered. She heard the sound of metal—a key? A few clicks. The distinct sounds of manacles clanging open and closed. And then— A warm hand against her face. Laylee opened her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. She wore no expression as her heart exploded in her chest, as her father stood before her and said, “Laylee, I finally found him.” “No,” she tried to say. “No,” but it wouldn’t come out. “He finally came to me this morning,” Baba said, all gums and glittering eyes, “and told me we’d speak soon.” Laylee felt her limbs grow thick and heavy, her veins knotting under her skin. “I told you,” said Baba, smiling, “I told you I’d find him, azizam.” He was talking about Death, of course. Baba had left two years ago to find Death and had never returned. It was his great mission—to find the creature responsible for taking his wife. And now Death had promised him an audience, and Baba couldn’t understand why.

Everything happened very quickly after that. The Elders dragged Baba away, telling Laylee that she could visit him in his cell just before his public humiliation later that evening. He would stand in chains before a crowd as a very dark magic reached into his chest and disintegrated the heart beating within him. It was a simple procedure, they’d said. Shouldn’t be too painful, they’d said. They assured her he would be dead before sunset. Laylee nodded without meaning to—wondering all the while what had compelled her to do so—and looked at no one and nothing as her life was dismantled before her. The decision to sentence Baba to death had not only been made quickly and without ceremony, it had been pushed through as an emergency ruling in favor of an angry mob demanding justice. This, the execution of her father, was done as a supposed kindness to Laylee, because after Baba was dead, Laylee’s punishment would be far less severe: she would be put on trial for treason. “Once the anger of the people has been sated with the blood of your father, they might be willing to listen to your cause,” she remembered someone saying to her. She was told she’d be given an opportunity to defend herself, her actions, and the necessity of her profession in court, but that this was not a guarantee of anything. If the jury ruled in favor of the people, Laylee’s entire purpose as a magical person would shatter, and there was nothing she could do about it. It was a clause—a protection in the old magic—that, in the case of danger or disaster, the results of a proper court trial could overturn ancient magical tradition. It was a judicial process that had never before seemed threatening. But now? Laylee had gone numb in parts of her face. Alice and Oliver were by her side, holding her upright, and though both Alice and Oliver say they tried to hug her, to speak to her—to offer words of comfort—Laylee claims she heard nothing.

You might now be wondering why none of the children had tried to stop the Elders from taking Baba—after all, together they could do quite a bit of powerful magic—and you’d be well within your right to wonder. But the situation with Baba was much more complicated in the moment than it might have seemed. It all happened so quickly—and it was such a shocking revelation—that it had rendered the group of them temporarily impotent. Suddenly, in the face of a towering group of powerful and angry Elders, Alice and Oliver and Laylee felt fully their age—too young and too old all at once. Laylee felt small. She remembers feeling scared. She remembers sitting somewhere inside of her house. She remembers walking in, somehow, and she remembers Maman screeching at her. “Where have you been? I was worried sick! Who was that out there? Who are these children you’ve brought into our home? Laylee—Laylee—” She remembers the birds tapping at her windows, their sharp beaks pecking ceaselessly, and she remembers someone reaching into her chest and ripping out her heart, and she remembers exhaustion, she remembers blurriness. And there was something else; she remembers something else, too— “Oh, no!” Alice gasped, reaching for Oliver’s arm. “What is it?” he hissed, wrenching his arm away from her. “You’re cutting off my circulation, Alice, good grief—” “Father is here.” Oliver Newbanks jumped two feet in the air. His first thought was to hide, but there was no time. It seemed a perfect coincidence that Alice had looked out the window at precisely the right moment to see her father strolling up to the door of Laylee’s castle, but the fact that Father was here was far from fortuitous. Father’s arrival in Whichwood could only mean that Alice and Oliver had ruined everything. The thing was, Ferenwood parents never came to collect their children in the middle of a task—not even in the face of failure. It was up to the children to deal with the tasks on their own. That Father had come to fetch Alice meant that she was in very, very deep trouble. (And Oliver, who’d run away from home to accompany her, was about to be caught and thoroughly punished.) Laylee doesn’t remember much more than this. She doesn’t remember meeting Alice’s father; she doesn’t remember his condolences or his assurances that he’d tried desperately to convince the Whichwood Elders to change their minds. She doesn’t remember his offer to take her away with them to Ferenwood. She remembers staring at a wall. She remembers, vaguely, the terrified look on Oliver’s face. She remembers him taking her hand; she remembers staring at his fingers as he said good-bye. She doesn’t remember Alice and Oliver leaving. Laylee cannot remember what anything else looked like that afternoon. She says she sat down and did not move or even cry. She says the hours she spent waiting for Baba to die were the longest hours she’s ever lived. And though she went to see her father later that evening, she cannot remember how her feet got her there.

Baba was not unhappy when he died. Laylee watched him as he waved at her, a deep resignation rounding his shoulders. He was lost in conversation just before it happened, speaking animatedly with a spirit no one but she and he could see. Death stood beside him, gentle and tall, and held Baba close as Baba’s eyes went wide and—with a sudden, choking gasp—he lost the ability to speak. Only then did Death finally, patiently, answer all of Baba’s questions. Not long before it ended, Baba smiled. Laylee watched on silently, stone-faced, as her father’s knees buckled, his body folding into itself like a series of closing doors. She would not speak, not even as her skin seemed to

turn inside out in agony. She didn’t shed a single tear as the people booed and threw old food at the broken body of a man who’d raised her on a diet of honey and poetry. She would not betray a single emotion as the mob shouted obscenities at her, as they rushed around her, yanking at her cloak, making fun of her bones, spitting on her boots and bloody clothes. She wouldn’t miss a moment of her father’s last day. This, she would remember.

Just before, Baba had held her hand through the bars of his cell and cried. He said, “Laylee it’s happening—he’s near—can you feel him?” “Yes, Baba,” she’d whispered, squeezing his fingers. “He’s just outside.” “You saw him?” Baba said anxiously. “What did you think?” “He seems kind and very sad,” said Laylee. “But I think he likes you.” Baba beamed and sat back on his bench, eyes filled with wonder. No one spoke for a while after that. Baba was lost in his thoughts, and Laylee was just— lost. Untethered. Finally, Baba said, “He said he would take me to your mother.” Laylee looked up. Baba’s eyes had filled with tears. “It would be so good to see her,” he said, choking on the words. “Heaven knows, I miss her so much. I miss her every day.” And Laylee fought back a wave of pain so unbearable it nearly took her breath away. Had he not missed her? Laylee had been at home, quietly surviving and hardly alive all these years he’d been gone, and her father had never returned. She did not seem to be enough—she knew now that Baba would never love her as much as he loved her mother—and she felt the pain of this realization torch a path down her throat, unshed tears singeing the whites of her eyes. Oh, reader, if only you knew how dearly Laylee loved him—if only you could understand how she adored this flawed, broken man who knew not how to father. She’d loved him in spite of himself; she’d loved him for reasons impractical and unreasonable. She’d loved, you see, and loving was an action nearly impossible to undo, and so, with her broken heart she grieved: first, for herself, for the child whose parent loved his spouse more than his kin, and second, for Baba, for the man who’d lost his way, his self, and the love of his life too soon. The guards came, then. Baba’s time was up. Laylee grabbed for him one last time, a desperate attempt to hold him here, in this world, where even she knew he no longer belonged. Baba was so calm. He took her little hand in his and smiled his big, gummy smile. He then reached into his pocket and poured, into her outstretched hand, the remainder of his teeth. Laylee looked at him. “If you plant them, they will grow,” was all he said, and closed her fist around the gift. In the end, the guards were forced to drag her away. She does not remember screaming.

Now Death had fallen to his knees and wrapped his arms around her father’s withered limbs the way a parent might comfort a child—it was a tender, careful gesture, an embrace that begged the body to be unafraid. And when Laylee saw the final breath leave her father’s lungs, she froze.

Laylee Layla Fenjoon was still a mordeshoor, after all. She watched, with bated breath, as Baba’s spirit separated from his skin. She knew that soon—very soon—he would follow her back to the castle, so she turned suddenly on her heel, her red cloak whipping around her in a perfect circle, and walked tall, shoulders back, head held high even as screams built homes inside her, and headed in the direction of home. The Elders had promised to send Baba’s body back to her, which meant that tonight she would prepare a coffin for her father.

Maman had not bothered to say good-bye. In fact, Maman had not said anything at all to her after Baba arrived in the castle. She and Baba were so overjoyed to have found each other again that Laylee, who had come to accept the unpalatable truth that her parents had loved each other far more than they’d ever loved her, could no longer find the energy to be upset. Maman and Baba were finally at peace, and Laylee could see now that it was not that they did not like her—it was just that their own happiness was so large it had left little room in their hearts for others. So when Laylee awoke the next morning to perfect silence, she knew, instinctively, that Maman had followed Baba into the Otherwhere. The wailing spirit was gone—which meant the book of her mother’s life had finally, peacefully closed—and Laylee, who was too close to death to ever purposely misunderstand it, was running out of excuses to be angry. For years Maman’s rampages had given Laylee daily ammunition to be irritated, Baba’s carelessness had given her ample reason to feel furious and entitled, and her work—her life’s work—had afforded her every opportunity to stew in bitterness and resentment. But now? There were no ghosts, no corpses, no parents or strange friends, no illnesses to worry about. Laylee looked ahead and saw a black, gaping nothingness stretch out before her, and the immensity of it—the overwhelming grasp of it—threatened to devour her. It was then that Laylee fell to her knees and felt her chest split open. Sobs ripped through her body with a raw, ferocious pain unlike any she’d ever allowed herself to experience. She sobbed until she couldn’t breathe, until her eyes had swollen shut, until her throat had gone raw from gasping, until her body had run out of tears. She had finally allowed herself to feel the pain she’d hidden from herself all these years, and she grieved, she grieved for the life she’d had, for the life she’d lost, for the years she’d wasted being inward and angry, for the friends she could’ve had, for the job she should’ve cherished — Oh, she missed it all desperately. In the end, it was the weight of a single truth that finally broke her: Reader, she had been ungrateful.

COME, LET’S LEAVE THIS PLACE FOR A BIT

Oliver Newbanks could not be consoled. Alice had tried and failed, repeatedly, to console him, and her failure to do so should come as a surprise to no one, given the fact that Alice had been crying hysterically as she attempted to reassure the boy, through hiccuping sobs, not to worry. Father, too, could not be moved to console Oliver Newbanks, as he was still busy being terribly disappointed in the both of them. So it is here that we come to pivot again in our story: Here, on an underwater elevator moving at such a clip as to be concerning; here, as Oliver Newbanks sits quietly with his head bowed and his hands clasped between his legs. This underwater elevator is new, an intentionally kept secret recently uncovered; instead of the usual five-day sojourn, their trip home will take only two. Alice and Oliver find even this truncated length of time abhorrent, and the modern comforts of the shiny transport go unappreciated by those who occupy its interior. They’ve been traveling for just under twenty-four hours now and Alice’s attentions are still focused on her incessant weeping; Oliver, on the other hand, has squeezed his eyes shut, his vision clouded by anger and heartbreak; Father, whose age has armored him against the dangers of needless overexcitement, can only bring himself to occasionally interrupt his daughter’s histrionics long enough to sigh and pat her knee. Here, we pivot, because we will leave the mordeshoor and her world for a short time. I will not engage you in the many private details of her pain, as I feel she’s earned the right to a respite from our prying. But I find it important to note that we pick up with our Ferenwood friends at the same hour we leave Laylee behind. In fact, at precisely the moment Laylee falls to her knees and feels her chest split open, Oliver Newbanks is assaulted by a pain so sudden he jolts forward in his seat. And it is here, as he sits unsteadily, chest heaving, not comprehending why it is he feels his heart tearing at the seams, that we are reunited with him in his mind.

Oliver Newbanks could not understand what was happening to him. He’d come along on this journey for a bit of good fun and little more—but nothing had gone according to plan. Indeed, it had been—from start to finish—an unequivocally miserable experience compounded by Oliver’s newly minted fear: that he’d managed to damage his heart in some irreparable way. The damage in question came at regular, painful, intervals, with no signs of abating. The very first pangs had arrived the moment he’d set eyes

on Laylee—though back then he’d thought it a fluke. Soon he began to feel ill around her all the time, nervous and off balance; from there, the symptoms had grown only more severe. Now, even with a vast body of water between them, he felt worse than ever. Short of breath. Sick to his stomach. Just weeks ago he hadn’t even known she existed. The first time Alice told him about the girl she was meant to help, Alice had mispronounced Laylee’s name. Catching herself, Alice had repeated the moniker several times to get it right. Oliver found himself unconsciously mimicking the action, rolling Laylee’s name around in his mouth, enjoying the sound, the shape of it. He had not expected her to strike pain into his heart. And now, halfway home and ostensibly losing his mind, all Oliver could think about was getting back to Whichwood. He was anxious to arrive home if only to find a way to return to Laylee on his own this time—alone—without the weeping Alice, who, I feel I should note, had begun weeping shortly after Father had explained, not unkindly, how thoroughly she’d failed her task. Oliver did not think he could stomach another twenty-four hours of her tears. It was not that he was heartless; Oliver knew how devastating it was to fail a task. He could imagine the humiliation Alice would face upon arriving home. Alice had been dragged back by the Town Elders for having caused such a riotous disaster as to require a chaperoned return into town by her own father. It was beyond mortifying—it was unheard of. He felt deeply sorry for her. And Oliver would never say this aloud, of course, but he quietly wondered whether such a level of ridicule was even survivable. But there was another part of him, a part of him that he would never acknowledge—would never credit with truth—that wondered (rather callously) whether Alice didn’t deserve such shaming. After all, it was true that Alice could have done better. That she should have been better. Alice had done just about everything wrong. “When you win a Surrender,” Father had explained to them earlier, “you’re awarded a five —the highest possible score—which means you’re considered the most capable of your year. Earning a five, as you did,” he said now only to Alice, “meant that your task would be far more complicated than the tasks of your peers.” “I know,” said Alice in a hurry. “And it was, Father, it—” Father shook his head. “Much more complicated, Alice. Washing dead bodies, restoring a supply of deteriorated magic”—he waved a hand—“these tasks are difficult, yes, but fairly uncomplicated. There’s no nuance in these actions, only repetition. You were expected to think more complexly, my dear.” Alice blinked at him. “You solved the obvious issue,” he said gently. “You chose the easy fix.” “But, Father,” said Alice, “it wasn’t easy—we didn’t even know she was sick for some time —” Again, Father shook his head. “It was a test, darling.” He smiled, sadness pinching his eyes. “Would you choose the problem your hands could easily solve? Or would you recognize the illusion set before you for what it was: a distraction, nothing more.” “But she was dying,” Alice said breathlessly, desperately. “I had to keep her from dying, didn’t I? Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to help at all!” “My sweet girl—don’t you see?” Father took her hand. “There were always two parts to her healing process.” Alice was silent for a long time. Finally, she whispered, “No, Father. I don’t understand.”

It was only then that Oliver, who could not take it anymore, interjected (with a measure of anger) and said, “Laylee needed color, yes, but she also needed a friend, Alice. She needed real help. Not a bandage.” Alice turned to him, eyes now brimming with tears, and said, “I thought—I th-thought I was helping her—” Father spoke sympathetically when he said, “What you did for Laylee took only a matter of hours; in that short time, you created a temporary solution to a much larger problem. And by ignoring the larger issue, you unwittingly set into motion the collapse of Laylee’s entire life.” Father sighed as he spoke, closing his eyes in a show of deep exhaustion. “When we send our children on a task,” he explained, “we expect them to do work that will take much longer than a few hours, Alice—we expect them to be gone for many months. We hope for their work to be truly restorative; we hope they’ll bestow an everlasting kindness upon the person or place they’ve helped. Laylee would have healed—at a much slower, but more permanent rate—had you only helped ease her burden a little more every day. With you there by her side, she might have learned to slow down, to take breaks—to stand up to the townspeople who’d taken advantage of her—and, eventually, slow the effects of the illness spreading through her body.” Father hesitated. Studied his daughter. “Don’t you see, my Alice? The Town Elders recognized in you two great talents: one was your gift with colors, yes, but the other was your heart.” “My heart?” said Alice. Father smiled. “Yes, my dear. Your heart. The Elders found your burgeoning, complicated friendship with Oliver—who, forgive me,” Father said, glancing at Oliver, “was once a decidedly difficult character—” Oliver frowned. “—to be of deep interest. You both built that relationship against the turbulent background of the twisted, complicated world of Furthermore, a world known mostly for tearing people apart. That you managed to forge something beautiful from the madness was deeply admirable. And ultimately,” Father said, “we all hoped you’d be able to do the same for Laylee. Your task was always to heal her in two ways: with your hands and with your heart. You would have earned her trust and become a friend upon whom she would one day rely, healing her from the inside out. In the end it is your gift of time—and of compassion— that’s most invaluable to a person in pain, my darling. It’s true that you left her with a healthy body,” he said finally, “but Laylee’s spirit is now more tortured than ever.” And Alice, ashamed of herself and afraid for her future, had not ceased her weeping, not even to speak.

Alice and Oliver spent the rest of the trip home in silence. Oliver tried to drown out her keening with the roar of his own regrets—and managed nicely for a while—but it was just as he braced himself against another shuddering wave of pain that he wondered, with increasing agitation, whether he’d ever forgive himself for what they’d done. He had to find a way to make things right. Oliver Newbanks knew himself to be just as culpable as Alice. He knew he’d played a critical role in what transpired with Laylee, and he couldn’t shake these fears loose from his brain. It was, after all, because of them that Laylee’s spirits had gone free. If he and Alice had never shown up, Laylee would never have abandoned her ghosts—she’d never have attended Yalda. Even so, their presence could have been more of a help to her. If only they’d stayed at the castle—if only they hadn’t been so selfish and impatient—if only they’d listened to Laylee when she’d finally mustered the courage to ask for their help—

Oh, Oliver would never forgive himself. He could have prevented all of this from happening. The group of them could have worked tirelessly through those first few nights to dispatch Laylee’s dead. They could’ve put to bed the possibility of angry souls ever seeking revenge. They could’ve been more understanding of the difficulties of Laylee’s life. If only, he said to himself, over and over again. If only. It was their fault that her father had been killed. It was because of them that Laylee was about to lose everything. He and Alice had forced their way into Laylee’s life and ruined all that had ever mattered to her. Never mind the fact that he would never forgive himself— What if Laylee never forgave him?

It was still spring in Ferenwood. Springtime was always the season for the annual Surrender and, as Alice and Oliver had not been gone very long (careful readers will note that time passes in identical increments in Ferenwood and Whichwood, despite their different seasons), the two friends returned home to find their fresh, blooming spring weather still intact. It was a bit of a shock, really, this abrupt transition between winter and spring, and it took a bit of getting used to. As the three of them disembarked the elevator at the edge of town, they were met by an audience of angry Town Elders whose dour facial expressions said everything Alice and Oliver needed to know. The Elders spoke loudly and angrily, gesticulating for effect as they made grave pronouncements of disappointment, and finished it all by handing both Alice and Oliver a sealed envelope containing the details of the official hearing they’d be required to attend. Apparently the two friends had broken several cross-magical ordinances and would have to be seen by a judge who would decide upon a suitable punishment. Nothing too serious, of course—as they were underage—but perhaps several weeks of community service or some such. Alice cried and clung to her father, visibly remorseful. Oliver couldn’t be bothered to care. He was instructed by the Elders to head home straightaway, where they were sure his parents would dole out their own punishments. Oliver nearly laughed out loud. He had the magic of persuasion—he hadn’t been punished since he’d learned how to speak. Alice’s mother was standing quietly by, and as Father and Alice broke free to meet her, Oliver found himself suddenly alone. No one would be coming for him. He’d long ago destroyed any hopes of having a healthy relationship with his family by too often distorting their minds with persuasion. He’d discovered his magic at too young and too immature an age, and he’d used it against his parents as frequently as he saw fit—regularly entrancing them for weeks at a time so that Oliver had been able to come and go and do as he pleased. Just last year Alice had helped him recognize the error of his ways, and Oliver finally came clean to his family, hoping to repair the damage. Sadly, his parents had been frightened by him, and theirs had been a painful conversation. Oliver knew now that it would be a long time before he would regain their trust. Now his parents kept a polite distance from their only child; they were still getting to know him—still relearning their relationship. In many ways Oliver, at fourteen years old, was a veritable stranger to them. And this was the source of a deep and terrible regret that kept our brooding friend from using his magic as much as he used to. Oliver sighed, shoved one hand into his pocket, and grimaced as he waved good-bye to a tearful Alice. He’d be in touch with her soon enough, he was sure, but he couldn’t help but wonder how she’d be punished for her failures. For now, it was best they went their separate ways. And so they did.

Oliver ducked his head as he walked, shoulders tense and rounded, and failed to notice the beautiful land he lived in. The tall grass danced against his legs as he moved and he shuddered at the touch, jerking away; butterflies fluttered against his fingers and he flicked them off, grumbling; the sun was high and jolly and warm and Oliver, irritated, muttered an ungentlemanly word under his breath. He’d never missed the cold so much. Spring weather did not suit his state of mind. Oliver was soon annoyed by everything—the soothing sounds of nearby rivers, the cheerful flowers that flanked him, the bright leaves of faraway trees swaying carelessly in the wind. He found himself snapping at a large bird that had landed on his shoulder, shouting at the poor creature so suddenly that it took flight in a hurry, its talons catching and tearing at his shirt. It was unlike him to be so uncharitable to the world. It was unlike him to be seen without a smile. But Whichwood had bewitched him, and now that Oliver was home again he wanted, once more, to run away. Ferenwood had never felt quite right to him. It had always been a size too small for his spirit—not so uncomfortable that he could not bear it, but just uncomfortable enough to be constantly on his mind. Oliver strained against the safe idyll of Ferenwood. It was a lovely town, yes—predictably so—but Oliver tired of the pleasant people and their unbounded kindness. He’d been hounded for years by an incessant whisper that begged him to explore extraordinary places, to look for complexity in people and spaces—and it was for precisely this reason that he’d enjoyed Furthermore so much.* Oliver wanted to get lost on purpose. He wanted to have baffling conversations with strangers; he wanted to learn new languages and eat food he’d never heard of and—well, the simple truth was that he didn’t feel about Ferenwood the way that Alice did. Alice loved it there with every bit of her soul. She was a Ferenwood girl from foot to forehead, and she would be happy there, in that colorful land, for the rest of her life. But Oliver wanted more. He missed Whichwood—and one young lady in particular—with a painful kind of longing, and Oliver Newbanks, who had not the faintest idea how to get back to it or her (the underwater elevator being accessible only by Town Elders), had never, not in his whole life, ever been in such a foul temper.*

Home was such a funny word. Oliver’s had never felt like much, but there it was, waiting for him in the distance. He trudged on with a sigh. Not moments after entering the quiet abode and waving hello to the parents who sat calmly in the kitchen, sipping raspberry teas and reading the local newspaper— The headline read LOCAL COW TRAPPED IN OWN MANURE —Oliver locked himself in his bedroom, flung himself onto his bed, and pressed the heels of his shaking hands against his eyes. He felt angry and ill; he felt strange all over. He felt—he felt—what was it? This sensation? He had never been so upset, so frustrated, so powerless in all his life. He hated the limitations of his young body, of his dependence upon his parents and the system designed to hold him. He felt like he might explode out of his own skin, like he contained galaxies no one would ever see, like he’d been made privy to one of life’s greatest secrets and he would keep that secret, carry it inside of him forever. What was this, this tenderness in his bones? This earthquake breaking open his chest to make room for his newer, larger heart? Oliver did not know that what he felt now was the beginning of something greater than himself. All he knew, with sudden, piercing clarity, was that he would never be the same. What was happening to him?

Oliver had no way of knowing this then—if he had, I wonder whether he would consider a revision—but the poor boy would ask himself this exact question no fewer than a thousand times over the course of the next four years. This is how long it would take him to get Laylee Layla Fenjoon to take a single, serious step in his direction. It would be four years before she looked at him like he wanted her to, four years before she smiled and said, without speaking, that she loved him. He would wait four years for a moment that lasted no longer than five seconds; a moment that would change the course of his entire life. But for now, he was only fourteen years old. And right now, there was a bird knocking at his window. It was the same large bird that had tried to sit on his shoulder—the one who’d ripped Oliver’s shirt on his walk home. He recognized its iridescent purple feathers and long white beak, but just because he recognized the bird did not mean he wasn’t wary of it. He had no idea why a bird would be knocking at his window—as far as Oliver was aware, this wasn’t a common practice of Ferenwoodian birds—but his curiosity got the better of him. Reluctantly, he inched his way toward the single large window in his bedroom, and pressed his hands against the glass. “What do you want?” he said. The bird would only knock. “What is it?” he shout-whispered. Again, the bird pecked at the glass. Frustrated, Oliver shoved open his window, ready to shoo it away by hand, when he was accosted, all at once, by a swarm of spiders. What happens next will go down in history as one of the single most terrifying experiences of Oliver’s life—and this he does not deny. In the time it took Oliver to prepare to scream (“I wasn’t going to scream,” he said to me), a hundred spiders had already spun a series of webs around his head, gagging his mouth shut. Oliver thought he might die of fright. He tried to call for help, all to no avail. He flung his arms around to try and knock the spiders off, but there were too many to fight. And now that he’d been safely rendered speechless, the rest of the arachnids felt free to work on binding his arms and legs. Only once his limbs had been thoroughly secured did the spiders then lift Oliver’s body onto their backs and shuttle him out the window, where the violetfeathered bird snatched him up in her talons and set off to sea.

To be clear: It was simply not true that Alice Alexis Queensmeadow had spent the forty-eight hours of their trip home weeping hysterically. Oliver, Alice assured me, had grossly exaggerated the facts. She had wept, it was true—but she had not lost control of her faculties. The very opposite, in fact. Alice had been thinking. Surely, those readers who remember Alice’s adventures in Furthermore would agree that she is not a girl easily cowed into submission. Certainly not. Alice had a heart of silk and a spine of steel; her tears did not render her incapable of kicking a person in the teeth if need be. And now, more upset and more determined than ever, she knew she had to find a way to set things right for Laylee. She had to get back to Whichwood—but how? It was still only morning, but her parents had sent her directly to her room and forbade her from coming out except for mealtimes and visits to the toilet. She was to sit here, in the small room she shared with her three younger brothers (who were currently at school), and think about what she’d done. Well, she’d already done that. And Alice was growing impatient. Alice’s home, much like Benyamin’s, was decidedly small—so small, in fact, that she worried any unexpected sound might travel through to the adjoining room and alert her parents of her intentions to be obstinate—and so these last several minutes she’d been

engaged in a herculean effort to sit uncommonly still. She counted seconds under her breath, sitting on her hands as she mouthed the numbers, holding steady just long enough to lull her mother and father into a false sense of security. Only after a suitable period of silence had passed did she then, carefully—very carefully—tiptoe to her bedroom door and place her ear against the wood, listening for her parents’ voices. Once she was sure they were far enough away, she reached into her pocket and extracted the wriggling stowaway hidden therein. Haftpa, the seven-legged spider, perched proudly in the palm of her hand. “Hello, friend,” she whispered, and smiled. Haftpa waved a leg. “Is he here yet?” she said softly. Haftpa jumped up and down in her hand. “Is that a yes?” said Alice. “Do you know where he is?” Again, Haftpa jumped up and down. “Alright then,” Alice said. “I’ll pack my bags, do a quick bit of magic, and we’ll be off. You’ll stay close, won’t you?” The peacock spider bounced around once more, only too happy to acquiesce. He’d come to adore this pale girl in the short time he’d known her, and he’d never been so excited to play an integral role in an adventure. And so it was with a happy hurry that he scurried across Alice’s arm, around her elbow, past her shoulder and up the side of her neck, and settled comfortably behind her left ear. Now—it should be known that Alice did not want to use her magic against her parents. She was generally a very compliant child who loved her family (and her father, in particular) with an emotional overabundance uncommon in thirteen-year-olds. But Alice felt that the situation had left her with no choice. She needed to leave Ferenwood immediately, and Father would never have allowed it. Later, she said to herself, she’d happily accept a hefty punishment for her crimes—but for now she’d had to make an executive decision, and a simple twitch of her mind was enough to do the trick. Suddenly, everything went black. Alice’s ability to manipulate and manifest color was impressive in a myriad of ways, but her talent was perhaps most extraordinary when she used it to diminish the pigment in the world around her. Just now she’d snuffed out all the colors in her home—and in her parents’ bodies—plunging their small world into complete blackness. Her parents would know what she’d done, of course, but it was just enough of a distraction for her to grab her rucksack, run out the door, and hear the frantic voices of her mother and father shouting for her to get back here this instant, young lady! By the time she reversed the magic, Alice would be long gone. I feel I should explain. The morning she’d been forced to leave Whichwood, Alice Alexis Queensmeadow (and her trusty companion, Benyamin Felankasak) had already set into motion the clinging beginnings of a contingency plan. Benyamin’s mother had tried (tried being the operative word here) to drag her son away from that morning’s emotional scene as soon as she saw what was happening—Madarjoon thought Laylee should be allowed her privacy—but Benyamin, who’d been horrified and heartbroken by all he’d heard, could not make himself leave. Ultimately, he compromised by staying just far enough away—pacing the forest outside Laylee’s home—hoping to be useful in the case that anyone should need him. It was he who’d arranged the perfect coincidence by throwing a rock at Laylee’s window and alerting Alice to her father’s presence. Alice had rushed to the window to discover Father and Benyamin at exactly the same time; and though an inherent wisdom warned her against acknowledging her young friend

aloud, she met his eyes and pressed a finger to her lips, disappearing back inside the castle as she thought quickly of what to do. In the madness and chaos that soon followed, Alice managed to sneak outside just long enough to grab Benyamin’s arm and whisper, “You can travel to Ferenwood by water. Please come find us.” Benyamin, understanding her meaning at once, handed over his foremost sentinel, Haftpa, without a word of explanation. It was an implicit act of trust that only she and the spider would understand. “I’ll see you soon,” Benyamin had said. And now here she was, running through the forest, Haftpa tucked behind her ear, and Alice could only hope that she and Benyamin would find each other safely. Alice had run without thinking, knowing only that she needed to get far, far away from home, and fast— and it was only once she found herself standing in a patch of forest she hardly recognized that she finally stopped. Breathing hard, chest heaving, she leaned against a tree and said, “What now, Haftpa?” Just then, a bird swooped down to meet her. It was big and beautiful, with violet plumage that glittered in the sunlight. Alice had known that Haftpa could talk to other creatures, and she wondered, as the spider clicked its pincers quietly against her ear, whether he was communicating now with this bird. She didn’t have to wonder long. The bird cawed and snapped its beak in response to a silent summons and suddenly, without warning, launched upward, snatched Alice in its talons, and soared effortlessly into the sky.

Oliver Newbanks was released with no warning and fell to the ground with a resounding thump, jerking in every direction as he tried to free himself from the very strong spider silk strapped across his mouth and joints. He’d fallen flat on his stomach, his face buried in the grass, so when he felt the cold edge of a knife against his skin, he had no way of knowing whether friend or foe was upon him. But he should have guessed. Alice Alexis Queensmeadow cut Oliver free and helped him to his feet. Oliver was understandably shaken, and it took him a minute to find his head and figure out what was happening. It was only when he saw Benyamin standing a few feet away that he finally pieced it all together. “Hi, Oliver.” Alice waved the pocketknife, apologizing with her eyes for all the trouble. And as Oliver waved back—his eyes assessing her uninjured body, her calm demeanor— something occurred to him. “Hey!” Oliver shouted, turning on Benyamin. “Why didn’t you have your spiders tie her up? Why just me?” Benyamin looked surprised. “Well,” he said. “It was a group decision, actually. And we didn’t think you’d come willingly.” “What?” said Oliver, equally surprised. “Why not?” “You just . . . you seemed so upset with me,” Alice said quietly, stepping forward. “You wouldn’t talk to me on the way home. You wouldn’t say a word when we got here. You didn’t even say good-bye when you left—” “I waved.” “And I thought—I thought you might hate me for what I’d done.” “Hate you?” Oliver said. “No—Alice, I don’t . . .” He trailed off with a sigh, running a shaky hand through his silver hair. “You’re my best friend,” he said finally. “I don’t hate you.” “But you won’t even look at me.” Oliver swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry,” Alice said, her voice tinny and small. “You have no idea how sorry I am. Not just for hurting Laylee—but for hurting you. I can see how much you care for her.” Oliver looked up, then. Startled.

“Oh, you can’t possibly be surprised,” said Benyamin, rolling his eyes. “Your infatuation is obvious to everyone.” Oliver flushed a highly unflattering, blotchy sort of red. “You don’t”—he cleared his throat —“you don’t think it’s obvious to her, though, do you?” Benyamin looked like he might laugh. “I think she’s been a bit preoccupied.” “Right,” said Oliver, nodding, almost exhaling the word. “Anyhow.” Alice clapped her hands together to gather their attentions. “My point here is that we’re going to make this right for Laylee. Benyamin is here to take us back.” “Really?” Oliver looked around, stunned. “How? Actually, wait—how did you get here?” And Benyamin smiled.

They were standing at the edge of a tall cliff in a very remote part of town. There was nothing here but dense vegetation, canopied trees, and tall flowers touching their knees. This was an uninhabited part of Ferenwood for the simple reason that it was a dangerous area to occupy. There was no barrier against the steep fall—plans were still in the works to develop the area—and there were signs posted everywhere warning trespassers away from the edge. Here, the water lashed fast and heavy against the side of the cliff; this exit would be very different from the gentle entry they’d made just that morning. The underwater elevator they’d taken with Father had deposited them in much calmer waters right near the center of town. But this—well, Oliver wasn’t sure how they’d survive the jump. The drop was at least a thousand feet. Most worrisome, however, was the shape of Alice’s plan. She and Benyamin had sketched out their ideas in a few blunt sentences, but Oliver had remained wary. “I still don’t understand how you showing up to the courthouse and painting a picture is going to save her job,” he’d said to Alice. “How could that possibly be enough?” “It’s not a picture, Oliver,” Alice said for what felt like the umpteenth time. “It’ll be a live painting.” “But—” “Don’t worry, I’ve brought my brushes and everything. Father has been teaching me how to focus and refine the colors as I imagine them.” Oliver sighed. “Yes,” he said, “I know, and I’m happy you’ve made progress, but I just— well, our plan is to help Laylee remain a mordeshoor, yes?” Alice nodded. “So then isn’t my type of magic better suited for the situation? Couldn’t I just use my words against them? Say something to convince them?” This time, it was Benyamin who shook his head. “The effect of your magic is temporary. You’d have to re-convince every member of the jury on a daily basis for the rest of your life. No, no, we need a real, permanent solution.” Benyamin began pacing. “Alice painting a living picture of what it is, exactly, that Laylee does could be what changes everything. The people of Whichwood, you see, have no idea what Laylee does for the dead. There are some rumors, of course; a few old wives’ tales; but our people haven’t the faintest clue how complex, tender, or taxing her work is—or how many steps are involved.” “How is that possible?” said Oliver, stunned. “She’s a key member of your society. Her work is invaluable to the revolving door of existence.” “Well, it’s quite simple, really: They’re not supposed to know.” Benyamin shrugged. “Laylee’s magic is performed exclusively for the dead, and her home is protected by ancient mordeshoor magic that insulates her from the world. Unless there to help her work, a civilian cannot remain for the duration. Of course, volunteers are certainly welcome in the

home of a mordeshoor, but as you well know, they’re hard to find. So the people are happily ignorant of her suffering.” “Right,” said Alice. She took a deep breath. “So. Our plan is to make a case for Laylee’s job by showing the people of Whichwood exactly what she does. We want them to know how much she cares—that she has lovingly transported the bodies of their loved ones to the Otherwhere and that no cold, modern magic would honor the deceased the way a mordeshoor does.” “Exactly,” said Benyamin, who was beaming at Alice. “If we cannot appeal to their minds, we must appeal to their hearts.” Alice smiled at him as she tugged three large paintbrushes out of her backpack and said, “So I will paint them a beautiful story. Benyamin will narrate.” “And what am I supposed to do?” said Oliver, who’d crossed his arms. “You,” said Alice, “will have to persuade them to sit through it.”

Now the insect boy was looking them both up and down. “Ready to get going?” “Wait,” said Oliver, turning to Alice. “Does your father know you’re gone?” Alice shook her head, looking nervous for the first time. “I snuck out. But as long as I can fix this, I know he’ll forgive me when I come home.” Oliver could read the determination in her eyes. He knew Alice well enough to know that she would not be dissuaded. “Alright,” he said. Alice nodded. “Let’s go.” Benyamin gave her a short bow. When he next lifted his head, he placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled, loud and long. Not moments later, the birds were back. Cawing as they came, three large purple birds grabbed Alice, Oliver, and Benyamin by the scruffs of their necks, scraping them up into the sky like they might be midnight snacks. The birds circled the open water for only a few seconds before the seas were punctured open by a sudden, violent exhalation of air, followed closely by a glossy body so large the children could only imagine its size. Oliver heard Alice gasp as the whale yawned open its enormous mouth and, one by one, the birds tossed them inside.

It should be noted here that whales are not generally fast creatures. They are not slow, no, but they are much slower than, say, any kind of train or underwater elevator, to be sure. And in any other scenario, having a very large, rather slow whale as a main source of transportation (whilst in a hurry) might not have seemed like such a coup. But it had taken Benyamin only two hours to get to Ferenwood by whale (let us remember that even the newer, faster underwater contraption had taken two days), and here is why: The magical members of the underwater community (about whom our brave protagonists would one day learn) had used their gifts to build faster paths and tunnels to various parts of the world. These paths were accessible to all native sea dwellers—including animals, magical and non-magical alike. Our age and perspective allows us the privilege of knowing this information now, but it was without understanding how, exactly, this magic worked that Benyamin had learned from his mother that he’d be able to bring his friends back to Whichwood in a timely manner. In any case, I’m afraid this explanation is interesting only to us; Alice and Oliver were far too pleased and/or distracted to ask any follow-up questions about the commute—they were

only happy to be given a second chance to set things right.

NOW, WHERE WERE WE?

Laylee wandered the empty, echoing castle halls in a daze. Dust danced, suspended in strokes of light as she paced up and down carpeted corridors, scenes from the day blurring through ancient, stained-glass windows pockmarking the walls. She could hear the gurgles of a newborn river, fresh snow melting steadily in the afternoon sun, and she paused to listen, her heart racing as she realized how very alone she was. Funny, she had felt lonely for so long now, but she had never been truly alone until now. She looked down at her hands, healthy and brown; touched her cheeks, supple and warm; and counted on six fingers how much she’d lost in her quest to live: Two parents— Three friends— One job— Laylee no longer knew what to do. She would go on trial in exactly nineteen hours and had been placed under house arrest until the hour she was required. At precisely nine o’clock tomorrow morning, she would be met at home, shackled, and escorted to the courthouse. Until then, she was physically bound by strict magical reinforcements that imprisoned her within her own walls. Worse still, she wouldn’t even be allowed to work. The Elders had forbade any citizen from sending their dead her way; instead, the town would be holding any recently deceased in a secure chamber until her fate was decided; only then (in the event that she should be found guilty) would they enact new measures to deal with the corpses. It seemed a logical enough plan for managing the particulars of her unique situation, but Laylee had already begun to worry. In the last three days alone, six people had died, and Laylee somehow knew this to be true. She could feel this truth without the words to articulate why, but when a spirit separated from its body, the specter seemed to sing to her. She’d never before been held away from her spirits, so the sensation was new, but she could feel them—each phantom like a phantom limb, a second heartbeat thudding against her chest. She could practically reach out and curl her fingers around the feeling, knowing without understanding that the dead were calling to her, pushing painfully against the magic that repelled their substance from her home. She hadn’t known the moment when things changed for her—when it was, exactly, that she’d begun to love her ghosts despite their meanness and mischief, but she knew herself to be

their caretaker, and despite her many grumbles about her work, she’d always understood that they needed her—cared for her, even—in the short time they spent together. Oh, how she missed them now.

It had been a great leniency from the Elders that had allowed Laylee to stay in her own home until the hour of the trial, and she was quietly grateful for it, as she did not think she would do well in a prison cell. And though she hated the people of Whichwood for what they’d done to her father—and for how they’d treated her —Laylee could not imagine herself as anything but a mordeshoor; she knew she had to fight for her right to be the bearer of the dead. But how? What would she say? She felt limp, hollowed out, no longer fueled by any kind of passion. She had grieved, yes —she had attempted to empty her heart of its agony—but though she still carried a great deal of pain, she was surprised to find that she felt no violent outrage over the loss of her father or the actions of her people. She felt no desperate madness that would bolster her in court tomorrow. No, Laylee was comforted now by a clarity that helped her understand that Baba never would’ve returned home to her, that perhaps on his quest for Death he’d been unwittingly searching for a reprieve from life. She knew how much happier he was to have crossed over with Maman—and knowing that Baba was at peace had made her anger a superfluous emotion. She would not begrudge her parents their happiness, so she had to let them go. She’d let everything go. She’d been stripped of family, friends, and even her livelihood—but she hadn’t expected to be stripped of her anger, too. A peculiar calm had come over her lately, and it felt a bit like what she’d heard of humility. At every moment she felt a steady, kneading pressure against the back of her neck reminding her that—no matter how bad things were—they could be worse. Bite your tongue, said the voice, and be grateful for what you have lest you lose that, too. This was all it took for her to be reminded, in a sudden moment, of Benyamin Felankasak. Laylee had always thought of Benyamin as simple and weak; she’d considered his kindness a sign of weakness—a symptom of an easy, untroubled life. But after getting to know him and his mother, Laylee wondered if she’d been wrong. The thing was, Laylee had always resented the smiles of others, their easy charity, their willingness to be kind. But she was beginning to wonder whether she’d gotten her theories confused. Maybe it was not naiveté, but suffering, that inspired kindness. Maybe, she thought, it was pain that inspired compassion. Just then, she heard her doorbell ring.

Laylee took her time. She feared the Elders had come for her early—that they’d changed their minds about letting her stay at home—so she moved in slow motion as she tied her long, chestnut locks into a low bun at the base of her neck. She moved even more slowly when the bell rang for the second time, her nervous hands reaching for her fringed, floral scarf from its hook by the door. Carefully, she tied the scarf in an elegant knot at her throat, and calmly, very calmly, she took a deep, steadying breath, and unlocked the door. Shock rearranged the features on her face. Benyamin, Oliver, and Alice were waiting for her, and Laylee could not hide the flood of emotions that rushed through her all at once. Happiness, relief, confusion—

Laylee could not have been more surprised. She’d thought her friends had left her for good. She thought they’d tired of her cold anger and churlish behavior and she couldn’t imagine their reasons for returning here, to her home where she’d treated them with nothing but thinly veiled hostility. “What are you doing here?” Laylee finally spoke, stunned. “We had to find you,” said Oliver too quickly, tripping over his words. He wondered then if she had any idea what she’d done to his brain. “We had to find a way—” “Find me?” she said, turning to face him fully. She could hardly dare to believe they’d come back just for her. “Why did you want to find me?” “Well, we came to help you, of course,” said a smiling Alice, who was reminded, in a moment of wistfulness, of an identical exchange they’d shared not several nights ago. But this time, the mordeshoor returned her kindness. Laylee’s face thawed and broke open, the parted lines of her mouth blossoming into a smile that touched her wide, amber eyes. Oliver had never seen Laylee’s teeth before—she’d never shown so much emotion—and he spent far too long admiring her mouth in those first moments of their reunion. Laylee didn’t seem to mind. “Actually,” said Benyamin quietly, speaking for the first time, “we were wondering if we could come inside for a cup of tea.”

I feel I should mention something. This was not the first time Alice, Oliver, and Benyamin had seen Laylee that day. No— they’d arrived in Whichwood right around noon—and it was now many hours later. The sun was sideways in the sky and the clouds were quickly purpling and the group of them had just returned from a brief gathering at Benyamin’s house, where they’d assembled after stumbling upon the mordeshoor during a very private moment. Collectively, they’d decided to leave and never breathe a word about it, but one day Oliver’s romantic intentions would encourage him to make the mistake of sharing this story with Laylee. He’d describe what he’d seen and what this moment (and many other moments) had done to him—in hopes of illustrating how he’d come to care for her. Unfortunately, Laylee was horrified to hear it. Which was, of course, how I’d come to hear of it. This was how they’d discovered her: It’s midday. The sun is directly overhead, happily oblivious to the heavy, ceaseless snowfall blanketing the immense acreage of the mordeshoor’s land in a thick, fresh layer of powder. There’s a single porcelain tub half submerged in the snow, its depths full to the hilt with scarlet liquid. Within the tub lies our heroine. She is fully clothed, one leg flung over the side of the tub, her head held back, face up to the sky, long brown hair grazing the frost. Her gown is bunched up over one knee and dragging along the edge of the tub, where the sopping lengths of silk drip red water in terrifying patterns over the infant snow. She holds a long bristled brush in one hand and scrubs it roughly against her heavily embellished shoulder; diamonds burst free from their embroidered seams only to land, glittering, in the drift. She appears to be bathing in a pool of her own blood, errant rose petals caught in her hair, crimson tears frozen on her cheeks, and she smiles at something the reader cannot see —a memory?—as she sings softly to the afternoon wind. She sings in a language we cannot understand—something old and beautiful that vibrates on the tongue. It sounds like poetry, like melancholy and sadness. It’s Rumi again, her old friend, reminding her of something that soothes her heart. Here is a translation of the part she sang most clearly: Don’t turn your head Don’t look away from the pain The wound is the place Where the light enters you

Mordeshoors were required to be rid of any hypocrisies while washing the dead—which meant they themselves had to be clean in order to properly cleanse. It was a ceremonial washing of the spirit, not the skin, that mattered most, of course, and Laylee had performed these rituals of the mordeshoor with regularity. But on this, the day that might’ve been her last as a mordeshoor, she was feeling rather emotional about it—and Rumi’s words were the only ones that felt quite right for the moment. And so these were the words they heard when they first saw her, when Oliver and Alice and Benyamin came upon the mordeshoor without meaning to. They’d rung the doorbell several times to no avail, and finally, worried, they’d decided to sneak into the backyard. It was there that they’d discovered this unusual sight; indeed, it was a moment so simultaneously beautiful and disturbing they scarcely knew what to do. (Strange, these were the same two adjectives Alice would one day use to describe her dearest friend to me.) Alice, you see, was in awe; Benyamin was intrigued; but Oliver Newbanks had gone weak in the knees. He reached out without meaning to, grabbing hold of Benyamin’s shoulder at first sight of her. Everything about Laylee was unusual and extraordinary—and yet she seemed uninterested in being remarkable in any way. Oliver, who had worked hard his whole life to stand out—to make a mark memorable enough to distinguish him from his peers—could not make sense of this girl, this mordeshoor who did not seem to know or even care whether she terrified or enchanted the world. But Laylee Layla Fenjoon was in possession of a rare gift she’d yet to understand: She did not allow the opinions of others to dictate who she was. This was not a quality she’d been born with. It was not a skill she’d intended to acquire. No, this was an ability forged exclusively from hardship; it was a lesson unearthed from the ashes of betrayal and loss. Pain had hardened her skin while suffering had softened her heart. She was emotion and armor all at once, empathy and resilience combining to create the most intimidating opponent of all. Still, she wondered then whether she even knew what she was fighting for. Reader, I share this anecdote of Laylee’s bath because I think her time spent therein was transformative. Laylee was assaulted by a barrage of thoughts and feelings as she sat in her porcelain tub that day, and she wondered, with increasing anxiety, what on earth she’d say to a jury to convince them of her worthiness. Most of all, she hated that she had to care what anyone thought of her. She didn’t want to change who she was—she didn’t want to have to apologize for things she didn’t regret—and she worried that Whichwood would want her to alter the composition of her character in order to accommodate their narrow opinions of what was right. Much later, towel-dried and furnished with a fresh set of clothes, Laylee would hear the doorbell ring for the first time. She would descend the wheezing staircase of her ancient home with a tightening apprehension, feeling desperately alone and outnumbered. She had no expectations—no certainty of anything but disappointment—and yet, as she reached into her pocket to curl a loose fist around her father’s twenty-six remaining teeth, she dared to hope for a miracle.

Clever reader, I wonder—is the end of our story coming into focus for you? Do you require the many details of the next twenty-four hours to know whether our mordeshoor’s tale ends in triumph or heartbreak? It is my dearest wish to skip ahead and simply tell you what happened, but I fear you might require more than a mere summary. Where should we begin? Would it be of interest to you to know what the children discussed that evening? To know that they gathered round Laylee’s humble fire with cups of hot tea while Alice excitedly shared her plan to save Laylee’s career?

Or perhaps you’d like to hear more about how Laylee laughed until she cried, falling backward onto a dusty chair as Benyamin and Oliver bickered over the details of who, exactly, would be playing a more critical role in saving the day tomorrow? Alice and Benyamin and Oliver were all so certain of their imminent success that Laylee couldn’t bring herself to poke holes in their happiness. Besides, she was tired of being cynical; tonight Laylee would keep her worries to herself and, for the first time in a long time, allow herself to act her age. The three friends had been carrying an unwieldy stack of presents when they’d appeared at her door, and Laylee now sat in front of the fire, smiled a brilliant smile at her friends, and began to open the brightly wrapped cadeaux. The gifts were the handiwork of Benyamin’s mother, who believed with every bit of her heart that a few home-cooked treats could heal even the harshest wounds. Reader, Benyamin’s mother was rarely wrong. These last few days Laylee had been subsisting on eggplant soup and a few overripe beets, and so it was with a pure, childlike glee that she ripped open her presents, gasping aloud as she unearthed tins of buttery pistachio brittle; slim strips of chewy, rose-petal nougat; and clear mason jars packed with pomegranate seeds. She nearly cried over the diamonds of cardamom pudding and their daintily slivered almonds; she jumped to her feet as she uncovered the dishes of warm, creamy halva with their flourishes of cinnamon; she very nearly lost her mind over the boxes of cakes, fresh cream puffs, and Persian baklava. She’d already been fighting back tears when Benyamin pointed out that she’d yet to see the bowls of slippery glass noodles (sweetened with rosewater) and the large tubs of saffron ice cream. Laylee had been rendered speechless. It was a veritable feast unlike any she’d ever enjoyed, and she was so overwhelmed by the gesture—so very overcome by the company—that she couldn’t help stumbling as she tried to say thank you. Laylee, Alice, Benyamin, and Oliver camped out in her living room that night. They needn’t worry about any wayward spirits now that Laylee’s home had been magically sterilized for ghosts, and they stayed up until dawn drinking tea, telling stories, and discussing the many details of nothing and everything. Their conversations were interrupted only by pauses to stuff their mouths with buttery candies and creamy ice cream, and finally, after the clocks themselves grew tired of ticking, Laylee fell into a deep, heavenly sleep and dreamed of a world where she would always have her friends by her side.

The thing that no one had been expecting, of course, was that the ghosts would get loose again. There were only six of them this time, but, as I mentioned some pages ago, it had been a very long time since anyone had respected mordeshoors, so even the Elders had underestimated the power of Laylee’s magic. The moment she was hauled by her handcuffs through the doors of the city courthouse, the spirits could no longer be contained. Laylee was now closer than she’d ever been to these fresh phantoms, and sensing her nearness, they were bolstered by a connection far more powerful than the simple magical bind the Elders had used to subdue them. And so it was amid a sudden, disturbing rush of noise, exclamation, riot, and chaos, that Whichwood’s town magistrate attempted to call their day into order. The problem was, no one could understand what was happening. Luckily, the ghosts were still too fresh to be interested in stealing skins just yet, but their newness to the world meant that they were only interested in making trouble. Young ghosts (no matter their human age) were preoccupied only by the need to make a fuss when they first arrive. It’s a fairly intolerable period—one that Laylee never cared for—but now, as she sat in her seat and watched the spirits wreak havoc upon the composures of the most esteemed members of her community, she had to fight back a smile. Ghosts rushed by, upending stacks of paperwork, blowing out

all the lanterns, and knocking over ladies’ hats. They spun around Laylee’s head, shouting any number of things at her— “Mordeshoor! Mordeshoor!” This, from a tiny little girl. “Can we please go home now?” “I don’t like it here at all,” said a curly-haired woman who’d just knocked over a samovar. “Neither do I,” said an elderly gentleman who was trying and failing to pull down people’s trousers. “Why are we here? Why don’t we leave, Mordeshoor?” Laylee sent them pleading looks and pressed a single finger to her lips, hoping they would calm down. “Ooooooh,” said a pimply teenage boy, “I think she’s in trouble.” “What do you mean, in trouble?” said the tiny girl. She flew up to the ceiling and sat upside down. “How can a mordeshoor be in trouble?” Just then, one of the older ghosts rattled a window so hard it shattered; splintered glass rained into the room, eliciting startled cries and screams from the jury. No one seemed able to make sense of the nonsense, and Laylee was surprised by their ignorance. But Laylee knew she’d be found out eventually, and she figured she’d better get these ghosts in line before they ruined her chances today. She could’ve easily said something to them. She felt her fingers twitch as they reached for the whip that hung from the tool belt she wore around her waist. Still, she hesitated. For so long, this had been Laylee’s greatest secret: that she could see and speak with the ghosts. She’d always worried that outing herself as a direct liaison between human and spirit would only make her job more burdensome; she worried the people would pester her for communications from the dead, for last words from their loved ones—and she’d wanted nothing to do with it. But now she wondered whether it was still a secret worth keeping. Wouldn’t it lend credibility to her profession if her people knew she could actually see the spirit emerge as the body failed? Could this not help her, somehow? She hadn’t finished thinking it all through before the silence was interrupted again. Alice, Benyamin, Oliver, and Madarjoon had pushed through the front doors of the courtroom with great fanfare, making no effort to hide their presence. Her friends had needed to take a separate train into town to catch the proceedings but, after elbowing their way through the mass of people crowding the exterior doors, Oliver had easily persuaded their way into the main hall and secured their seats up front. In fact, they were just settling into said seats when one of Laylee’s ghosts blew a gust of wind so strong it knocked the wig off the magistrate’s head. Furious, he slammed his gavel down several times, shouting for someone to fetch his hair from the floor and then, impossibly angrier, he pointed one sausage-y finger at Laylee and demanded she explain herself. She was somehow causing all this commotion, he said, and he didn’t know why or how, but he simply knew it to be true, and if she didn’t stop this nonsense right this instant, he would throw the entire case out and sentence her himself. Laylee blanched. “What does he mean, Mordeshoor?” asked a twentysomething-year-old. He’d stopped in the middle of an attempt to push over a table. “Why did he say he would sentence you? For what?” “What’s going on?” said the tiny girl, who was beginning to cry. She stomped her feet along the ceiling so hard the entire room began to shake. “Why can’t we go home?” “YOUNG LADY,” said the magistrate. “Did you hear what I said? If you don’t stop this right now, I’ll pass through a judgment to dissolve your mordeshoor magic immediately—” “What—no!” cried the curly-haired woman, spinning circles around the angry judge. “This is an outrage!” The elderly gentleman whooshed up to Laylee’s face so fast she had to sit back in her chair. “What would we do without a mordeshoor?”

Please, Laylee begged them again with her eyes, but her ghosts wouldn’t take the hint. The teenage spirit began shouting obscenities and rattling the remaining windows and the magistrate went so red in the face that Laylee was sure everything was about to fall apart. Desperate, she turned to her friends in a sudden panic, and in the time it took her to spin around, Oliver had already handled the situation. Not a moment later, the magistrate was sitting calmly in his seat, reading slowly from an official document. Laylee visibly exhaled. She would find a way to deal with the ghosts later—for now, things needed to go according to the original plan.

The first half of the day dragged on. Oliver administered persuasion where necessary in dealing with outbursts from the ghosts, while the counsel representing the interests of “The People of Whichwood” put forth what seemed like an endless stream of withering arguments against Laylee and the legacy of the mordeshoor. The ghosts, who were listening closely the whole time, were only growing more hostile. Their outbursts grew more violent as the day wore on, and it was all Laylee could do to keep from flinching at their angry cries, spontaneous tears, and rage-induced epithets. It was hard enough trying to ignore her ghosts’ fuming— “Who do they think they are,” said the curly-haired lady, “telling our mordeshoor she can’t do her job?” She flew past a set of doors so aggressively they nearly came off their hinges. “Threatening to take away her magic—” “We can never let that happen!” “They propose using those vile, modern methods,” said the older-gentleman ghost, “as if there’s any replacement for a mordeshoor! Modern magic would just throw us in the ground!” “There’s no decency in it!” But it was even harder for Laylee to sit through the accusations of incompetence from the prosecution. The arguments against her were so effortlessly dismissive— “She’s just a child who has no idea what she’s doing!” “She should be playing with dolls, not dead people!” —that Laylee found it hard to imagine anyone would disagree. Every time one of the solicitors would shout some flippant nonsense about the obvious need to “put this infant on a playground, not a cemetery,” the jury nodded their heads in eager assent. Laylee looked away, heartbroken. In the end, the mordeshoor was left feeling terribly demoralized. The prosecution comprised seven attorneys, all angry and impassioned. On Laylee’s side, however, it was just her and a young, uninspired lawyer who’d been assigned to her that very morning. Meanwhile, the robust prosecution had presented hours of painful, genuinely thoughtful rhetoric compounded by another hour of rigorous questioning that succeeded in making Laylee feel small and inconsequential. From the transcript: “Do you go to school, young lady?” “No.” “Do you have any toys?” “No.” “Is that blood on your clothes?” “I—yes, but—” “Do you have any parents?” Silence. From the judge: “Please answer the question, Ms. Fenjoon.”

“No,” said Laylee quietly. “I do not have any parents.” “So you live alone?” “Yes.” “In an old, drafty castle, where you spend your days by yourself washing the bodies of dead pe—” From the defense: “Objection, Your Honor—what is the point here?” From the judge: “Overruled. I’d like to see where this is going.” Back to the prosecution: “Let me put it like this: Wouldn’t you like to go to school?” “Yes.” “Wouldn’t you like to have toys and clean clothes and live with a family who loved you and took care of you so you could enjoy your childhood instead of having to work so hard?” Laylee hesitated, feeling her throat close up. “Well,” she said quietly. “I—I’d —” From the judge: “The question, Ms. Fenjoon. Answer the question. And remember that you are under oath.” “Yes,” Laylee whispered, feeling like she might cry, and hung her head in shame. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.” What Laylee didn’t know how to say was this: She wanted it all. She wanted to go to school and have a family and enjoy her childhood and still get to be a mordeshoor. She didn’t want to lose this part of her life. She just wanted more.

I must tell you straightaway: Alice’s plan worked well. It did not, however, work as well as she had hoped.

The second half of the day was beautifully dramatic. As soon as Laylee’s side was offered a chance to present their defense, Oliver made Laylee’s young attorney sit down, cease speaking, and focused the attentions of every person present. The stage was set for Alice. Our talented friend from Ferenwood did not disappoint. She began by extinguishing all the light and color from the room, turning the entire space into a black backdrop upon which she would tell a story. Paintbrushes clutched in one hand, she nodded at Benyamin, ready to follow his lead as he narrated, step by step, the many intricate details involved in washing the dead. It was the only time during the entire day that the ghosts actually sat quietly and listened; they were heartened not only by the story, but by the pictures Alice had painted. Alice’s illustrations were so lifelike they startled even her; she’d only ever done this sort of thing in private, on a much smaller scale—but her ability was proving to be even more impressive than she first suspected. Her talent was such that she could easily impress infinite colors (hence: images) from her own mind onto any canvas. She could manipulate pigment in any way she wanted with the simple wish of her mind, and her brushes helped her focus the size, scope, and placement of the images. It was a long demonstration, the details of which I will not burden you with (as you, dear reader, already know exactly how Laylee washes her dead), but I will tell you this: Alice painted the story with all the skill of a seasoned artist, and Benyamin, whose narration was intentionally affecting, seemed to be hitting each emotional beat with aplomb—though no part of his presentation was more

impressive than when he described the tens of thousands of eternally red roses Laylee had planted in honor of each spirit. At this part in the story, the ghosts actually burst into tears, sobbing so loudly Laylee had to strain to hear Benyamin’s voice. The six specters huddled around their mordeshoor and whispered words of encouragement, promising her that no matter what happened today, they would never abandon her. Laylee was moved despite herself, and couldn’t fight the tears that sprung to her eyes. Along the way, Oliver did quick and clever magic that encouraged all people present to accept this unusual show as a solid (and ordinary) defense for Laylee’s position and, by the time it was over, the room had fallen into a thoughtful, careful silence that slowly—then quickly—grew into a roar of anxious whispers. The magistrate had to bang his gavel to get the room in order. Laylee looked at the jury with a nervous sort of anticipation, scanning their eyes for any indication that they may have been moved by Alice’s story. Sadly, their faces were inscrutable. Laylee felt her heart sink. The judge nodded at Laylee’s attorney. “Would you like to call any witnesses to the stand?” “No, Your Hono—” “Yes!” said Laylee, who stood upright with such suddenness she surprised herself. Laylee’s attorney blinked at her. He had the face of a field mouse. “Your Honor,” she said more steadily, “that is—I would like to testify.”

Her friends had fought so hard for her today—and for their help and their stubborn affection she would be eternally grateful—but now it was time for her to fight for herself. The prosecution had made her feel weak and juvenile, two things she knew she wasn’t. They’d called her actions irresponsible and flighty—citing these characteristics as symptoms intrinsic to her youth. They’d pressed at her age like it was something to be ashamed of, using the word child as a pejorative term and impressing upon the jury the idea that she was, as a consequence of her few years on this planet, an ineffectual human being, an incompetent creature devoid of passion or intention and, ultimately, incapable of thinking for herself. None of this was true. Laylee was thirteen years old, yes, but she had lived, she had loved, she had suffered—and her age was no reason for her feelings to be so easily and carelessly diminished. She was not lesser for being younger; her hurts were no less important; her feelings no less relevant. These were the things she said that day—chin up, shoulders back—even as she felt something shattering inside of her. She was all alone in the world now, and save the kindness of her new friends, she had no one upon whom she might rely except herself. Surely, she said, that was enough to earn her the respect of her elders? (Here, her ghosts cheered, eagerly knocking lanterns off the walls.) Instead of taking away what was important to her, shouldn’t they stop the people from taking advantage of her? Laylee had been abused and manipulated from the moment she began her life as an independent mordeshoor. The inherent bias against her youth and her gender and her consequent inability to be taken seriously in a society that belittled her—this was what had led to the collapse of their system. It was not that she was incapable. It was that she had been overworked and undervalued. It was that she deserved more respect than she was allotted. And she would no longer sit idly by as they denigrated her character. “Are you quite finished, Ms. Fenjoon?” said the magistrate.

Laylee hesitated. “Ms. Fenjoon?” “Tell him I never liked him,” shouted the curly-haired ghost. “My stupid cousin. I died yesterday and he didn’t even care enough to take today off.” Laylee’s eyebrows shot up her face. She turned to look at the curly-haired ghost. “Ms. Fenjoon,” the magistrate said again, “if you’re finished, please—” “No,” Laylee said suddenly. Her heart was racing. She could tell that she was losing this battle—Alice’s presentation hadn’t worked as well as they’d hoped, and her own words appeared to be worthless to this angry old man. She really felt she had no choice anymore. The magistrate sighed as he checked the time on the wall. “What else do you wish to say?” “I—that is”—she cleared her throat—“Your Honor, with all due respect, your cousin wishes me to tell you that—” “Tell him he’s a perfectly useless dingbat!” “—that she’s, um, unhappy you chose to come in to work today.” And then, more quickly, “Despite the fact that she died yesterday.” The magistrate’s hand hovered over his gavel, his face frozen between several emotions. “My cousin?” he said finally, blinking fast. “Yes,” Laylee said nervously. “She’s about medium height, curly red hair—” Cheerfully, the ghost said, “My name is Zari.” “And—and her name is Zari,” Laylee finished rather lamely. She’d never done this before —this communicating between the living and the dead—and she realized she was very bad at it. “How—how do you know this—” “She’s standing right in front of me,” Laylee said. “Your cousin’s ghost has been bouncing around the courthouse all day today. It was she who knocked the wig off your head earlier.” A juror stood up at once, visibly shaking. “You can see them?” she said. “You can see the dead? You can communicate with them?” “Yes,” said Laylee. “It’s an inherent part of my magic as a mordeshoor. I can exist in both worlds.” A sudden, series of gasps inhaled the room. And then— Chaos. “Why has she never mentioned this before?” “What if she’s lying?” “Impossible, though, really, impossible—” “She could’ve learned about your cousin from anyone!” “She’s manipulating your emotions, Your Honor!” “What are the odds—” “How dare you lie about something like this, young lady—” “—but to overturn a magic like this? Communicating with the unseen world?” “The consequences could be grave—” “I still say she’s too young!” “It’s too dangerous to meddle—” “What else does she know?” “How cruel to keep such a secret!” “And a child, really—only a child—” “SILENCE!” The magistrate stood and slammed his gavel, bellowing the command several times before the room settled into a tense, electric sort of quiet.

Laylee’s heart would not cease its kicking. She felt her hands shaking in her lap and she curled them into fists. She had no idea what she’d unleashed—what kind of consequences she would suffer for her admission—and she felt something like fear catch in her throat. The magistrate fixed her with an unflinching look for a measure of time that Laylee would later estimate to have lasted about ten minutes. Oliver would clarify that it was only a matter of seconds. Finally, the judge spoke. “You are a terrible little liar, Ms. Fenjoon. And your deceitfulness will cost you—” “No, Your Honor, I swear I’m not lying—” “QUIET!” Laylee flinched, suddenly so terrified she felt frozen in her seat. This was not how she thought things would turn out. “You dare to come into my courtroom and lie to me under oath?” the magistrate demanded. “You dare to use the occasion of my cousin’s death to manipulate me? To taunt me?” He was shouting now, going purple in the face. “You think I am so easily bullied?” He slammed his gavel down hard. “N-no, Your Honor—I never—” “Interrupt me one more time, young lady, and I will have you held in contempt!” The magistrate narrowed his eyes. “Our overdependence on superstition,” he said quietly, “has crippled our city. Our weakness of mind has kept us shackled to outmoded, useless institutions. Yours,” he said viciously, “in particular. Why do we fear the mordeshoor so much?” He turned to the jury now. “Why do we fear the dead? We are terrified to even visit the graves of our loved ones—why? Because superstition dictates that visiting our dead will only encourage their corpses to come back into our lives. Nonsense!” he cried. “We are governed by nonsense. And I will stand for it no longer.” Laylee felt her heart seize. “Laylee Layla Fenjoon—I find you guilty of all charges. You will be sentenced to six months in prison and stripped of your magic forthwith—” “But, Your Honor!” cried her useless attorney. “The jury!” The magistrate hesitated for half a second before turning to the jury. “Respected members of the jury,” he said, “all those in favor of sentencing this witch, say aye.” “Aye!” they chorused. “All those opposed?” Silence. “No!” Alice screamed. The pale girl ran forward and Benyamin caught her around the waist, hauling her backward. “Please,” she cried, “Your Honor—this is a mistake—” But the judge had only looked at her with disgust, tossed his gavel to the floor, and walked out. The courtroom exploded into chaos. People were shouting all at once and all over each other, spreading the news (and their unsolicited opinions) like a virus. Laylee, meanwhile, had gone numb. She couldn’t see or hear properly anymore. There was a deafening rush of sound reverberating in her eardrums that made it impossible to distinguish voices. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Was this really happening? Had she really thought she’d be found guilty? Like this? She hardly noticed when someone grabbed her roughly by the arm and marched her out of the courtroom, so it was only as she had one foot out the door that she remembered to look back. Alice was still screaming, kicking furiously as Benyamin, who was white as milk, fought to hold her back from doing something dangerous. Madarjoon looked stricken. And Oliver Newbanks stood tall and said nothing, silent tears streaming down his face.

It was then that Laylee was struck by a sudden, terrifying idea, the likes of which I must assure you she would never, ever have considered under any other circumstances. But reader, she was desperate. Her ghosts were still hanging about the room, staring at her in shock and dismay, too stunned even to speak, and it was in this moment, overcome by a delirious panic, that she cried out to these creatures, the spirits only she could see, and said, “Tell them I’ve asked for their return!” The ghosts did not respond. They merely blinked. “Tell them!” she cried. “Do you understand? You have to hurry—” But then, and perhaps most disturbing of all: Her ghosts very abruptly disappeared. So soon? Had her magic already been broken? Where would the ghosts go? What would happen to them now? Laylee was devastated. Sadness blew through her like a sudden gust of wind as she realized, with a final, inward collapse, that she’d no moves left to make. She felt dizzy with resignation, the weight of the day crashing into her so swiftly she could hardly stand. The next hour was a blur. Laylee was carted down several hallways by coarse, unsympathetic hands, navigating a serpentine path so complicated it practically guaranteed that even if she broke free, she’d never find her way out. Eventually she was shoved in a holding cell in a back room of the courthouse and left there without a word. Her mind was whirring. She was going to jail. Jail. For six months. No magic. Her breathing was coming in fast and hard in sharp, harsh exhales that began to terrify her. She couldn’t catch her breath. She felt the room spin around her. Stumbling to her feet, she ran, without thinking, to the trash can in the corner and heaved the contents of her breakfast into the basket. Her hands were shaking; her bones felt brittle. Her skin was cold and clammy and she made her way slowly to the single, thin bed shoved to one side of the room and somehow convinced her legs to bend as she sat there, waiting for life to crush what was left of her spirit. It was then that she realized, with the full force of reality behind her, that she’d never expected things to go so badly today. She’d secretly, quietly—desperately—hoped that after all she’d been through, fate would finally lend a hand. She thought she’d finally have a chance at happiness. She’d dared to dream of a happily ever after. Instead, she’d been given shackles. The deputies had returned, metal cuffs clanging in their hands. The two officers chained her wrists and ankles together so tightly the metal cut into her skin, drawing blood, and when she gasped at the pain, she was met only with dark, dirty looks that told her to be quiet. Laylee fought back a flood of tears with every bit of dignity she had left. She stood tall as she was forced out of her cell and down a dark corridor, flanked on either side by officers holding on to her far more tightly than was necessary. She held her head high, even as they pushed open doors to the outside, where a mob of journalists and nosy onlookers were waiting like vultures, ready to prey on the injured. Laylee narrowed her eyes as she swallowed back the lump in her throat and only faltered when she saw her friends standing off to the side, holding on to one another for support. The officers yanked Laylee forward through the crowd, shoving reporters out of the way— “Ms. Fenjoon, will you try to appeal your case?” “Ms. Fenjoon—Ms. Fenjoon—what do you think your father would say if he were still alive?”

“Ms. Fenjoon—how are you feeling right now?” one lady shouted as she shoved a recorder in Laylee’s face. “Do you feel the judgment was fair?” —and Laylee latched on to the faces of her friends, unblinking, unwilling to break eye contact, as she felt her heart dismantle in her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered, the tears falling fast now. “For everything.” And then it was over. She was shoved into the back of a large, windowless steel carriage, and sat quietly in the corner as the roar of the crowd faded away. This was her life now. And she would learn to accept it. That is—she would’ve learned to accept it, if the transport she’d been traveling in hadn’t been knocked over at precisely that moment. Laylee was flung suddenly to one side, hitting her head hard against the metal. A painful ringing exploded in her ears, and she winced against the sensation as lights flared behind her eyelids. What was happening? She was on her knees now, her hands and legs two useless clumps as she struggled to get back on her feet. Then, just as the ringing began to subside, a sudden, violent roar tore open the silence, and a single hand punched a hole through the wall. Laylee screamed. A second hand punched a second hole. And then the two hands ripped open the wall of the carriage as if it were made of paper. Laylee scuttled further into the darkness of the overturned carriage, not knowing what was happening to her. Was someone here to help her or hurt her? And who on earth could rip through reinforced sheets of metal? It was only when she heard the sound of the slow, happy voice that Laylee finally understood: The horrors of the day had, happily, only just begun. “Laylee?” said the gummy, rolling voice. “Laylee joonam—” “Baba?” she said softly. “Is that you?” “Yes, azizam,” said her father’s corpse. “Your maman and I are here to help.” Reader, they had risen from the dead.

FINALLY, A BIT OF GOOD NEWS

Mordeshoors did not have the power to raise the dead— this was not a magic entrusted to the living. No, only the dead could ask their fellow dead to wake, and today it was at Laylee’s behest that her six spirits had gone and raised an army. As soon as the request left Laylee’s lips, they’d been moved to action immediately, making haste to the castle they knew instinctively to be their new home. These ghosts, you will remember, had made their mordeshoor a promise—they’d vowed to stand by her, no matter

the outcome of her trial—and now, having received a direct call to action, they intended to follow through on that promise. There were many tens of thousands of dead bodies planted in Laylee’s backyard, and when the ghosts explained to the quietly snoozing earth that Laylee—their resident (and favorite) mordeshoor—had asked for their help, the corpses were more than happy to interrupt their final rest for a quick adventure. I cannot emphasize this enough: Mordeshoor magic took great care with the dead. The rituals Laylee performed for the body carried great benefits underground; so much so that even in their coffins, the bodies were cocooned by a softness they could not see. Dead limbs were carefully bandaged in magical protections that would make their journey through the earth more comfortable. It was true that once the spirit had separated from the body it would move on to the Otherwhere, yes, but there was still an echo—a residue of the spirit seared inside the flesh—and this echo would continue to feel things, even after death. Laylee’s work was so sensitive to this understanding that even for this remnant spirit she would perform a great kindness, embalming the body in a cool, invisible liquid that made the underground passage more tolerable. It was all a gift, yes, yes, a comfort. But Laylee had not performed this magic with any thought of what it would do to the body should it decide to reanimate. She’d never once considered what it would look like to see such a body emerge from the ground. Perhaps she should have. Baba had ripped open Laylee’s shackles quite easily, tossing the manacles into the open snow, and helped his daughter climb out of the overturned carriage. And as she stepped into the cold, winnowing winter light, she could see the mass of dead faces staring out at her, tens of thousands of them, each body looking like it’d been dipped in many translucent layers of wax. The effect was such that their figures looked deeply distorted; it was like seeing a person through warped glass, the edges soft where they shouldn’t be, eyes clouded, hair matted, noses indistinguishable from cheeks. The sun was beginning its descent and the light shattered across the horizon, errant strokes of light spearing these milky bodies and illuminating further the oddities that distinguished them from their former selves. There was a thick webbing between their fingers and elbows, their teeth had melted into their lips, their knees bent with a strange, metallic clicking sound, and their fingers were without fingernails, having been pulled by the mordeshoor herself. Even so, Laylee couldn’t hide a shudder. She said nothing for a full minute, stunned and horrified and somehow—deeply, deeply moved. She didn’t know what she felt more: pride or terror, and in the end, the only thing she could think to say was this: “Friends,” she said softly. “Thank you so much for coming.”

I think it will not surprise you to hear that these excitable corpses soon stormed the city. They stomped through the beautiful, historical center of Whichwood en masse, thousands upon thousands of them marching fearlessly across the cerulean streets of town with one goal: To leave an impression. Whichwood had ceased believing in its mordeshoors. Their lack of faith in this tradition had failed them and their town and, in the process, had turned them against an innocent young girl and her father, painting them both with scarlet letters of injustice. Laylee had been starving and hardly surviving for years; she was underpaid, desperately overworked, and treated like a pariah. No one respected her. Strangers dumped their dead on Laylee’s doorstep and disappeared, sometimes leaving a token of payment, sometimes leaving nothing at all. She wore ancient rags and slept in the bitter cold, too poor to afford even

enough firewood, and still our young protagonist devoted herself to her job—and to the many dead she had loved. Today, dear reader, they would stand up for her. (Quite, ahem, literally.) The magic that embalmed the flesh of the dead had made them inhumanly strong—it was this same strength that enabled them to dig their way out of the ground—and it made them formidable opponents. The superstitious Whichwoodians were too terrified to stand against the walking corpses as they tore through town, ripping poles out of the ground and knocking carriages into the sea. The six ghosts were squealing with delight as they flew overhead—but of course the living could not see these spirits, so the terrified expressions of civilians were focused only on the walking wax figures. Laylee, followed closely by Maman and Baba, led the group of them, while Roksana (you remember Roksana, do you not?) walked alongside our mordeshoor, one inhuman hand laid protectively on her shoulder. Laylee wondered in every moment where her friends might’ve gone—and whether they were still here—but there was never a chance to stop and find them. Laylee was now in charge of an army, you see, and they required quite a lot of guidance. Our mordeshoor was able to manage things in a general way, but there were so many thousands of corpses following her that it was hard to keep track of those among them that ripped landmarks, streetlamps, food carts, and passenger sleighs from the ground only to fling them into the distance. Laylee didn’t really want violence or mayhem—she wanted only her freedom. Was it possible, she wondered, to have the latter without the former? Laylee didn’t know. After all, she’d never been in this position before. And though her parents stood right in front of her—ripe for the asking—she knew that these figures before her were only evaporated versions of the real thing. These were not people who were fighting for her; they were memories of people wearing milky flesh. And very soon, they had seized the city. Laylee was ready to leave her mark. At her direction, a couple thousand corpses had split from the group and made it their mission to collect the many magistrates and Town Elders from their homes and hiding places. Now they were dragging the screaming, writhing bodies of prominent figures into the center square, where the rest of the waxy horde had gathered. It was beyond insanity—it was anarchy. It was then that Roksana leaned in to her mordeshoor and said, “What would you like us to do to them?” And Laylee merely smiled.

Screams pierced the silence in steady contractions of pain. The sun had scrambled behind a mountain and the moon peeked out only occasionally from behind a cloud. Birds had hidden in the trees; horses had galloped away—even the crickets knew better than to make a sound tonight. The corpses had been playing with the Town Elders like cats would toy with prey, and Laylee, who was still haunted by images of Baba being murdered before her eyes, would be lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying the show. She watched as the dead tossed her town’s important men and women into the sky only to catch them again and quickly fling them in the sea. Someone would then fetch their sopping bodies out of the water and sit them in the snow where icicles formed immediately across their skin and then, once they’d nearly frozen, another corpse would come along and punt the shaking figures into a tree, where they’d land with a hard thump, and eventually slide roughly down the tall trunk. They’d soon amassed a rather large heap of hurting bodies. Somewhere in her heart, Laylee knew she shouldn’t be dragging things out like this, but she felt suddenly fueled by a righteous anger that demanded retribution against her

townspeople. How deeply they’d hurt her. How deeply they’d cut into her heart. They’d spit in her face at every opportunity, hissing as she passed, dismissing her from schools and shops. She was loathed for invented reasons, mistreated for their own profit; she starved and no one cared—and the only parent she had left, they’d killed. How could she ever forgive them? At Laylee’s command, the entire city—nearly all eighty thousand people—had been dragged out of their homes and forced to bear witness to the activities of the evening. The corpses, who had no interest in anything but serving their mordeshoor, would never question her methods. They would never tell her to show mercy to the people who’d hurt her. And had Laylee no one else upon whom to rely, she might have lost herself to the madness. A sudden influx of power, violent anger, crushing heartbreak, and mass chaos— Well. I fear that, with no one else to question her, Laylee might’ve gone too far. But it was then that her friends came rushing through the crowd. Alice and Oliver and Benyamin were breathless and exhausted by the effort of finding her, but they were so thrilled to have been reunited with the mordeshoor that they toppled into one another, pulling Laylee into their arms as they fell. Laylee leaned back to look her friends in the eyes, blinking several times. Her movements were stunned and slow, as if she’d been startled out of a trance. Madarjoon, Benyamin quickly explained, was safely out of the way of the stampede, but the three of them had been searching for Laylee for hours. They’d only, finally, managed to find her because of Haftpa, who’d been trying to convince the circling ghosts to give up her exact location. “Well, thank goodness for Haftpa,” Laylee said. “I’m so glad you’re alright.” “So what are we going to do to stop this?” said Oliver quickly. “I was thinking we—” “Stop this?” Laylee said, confused. “What do you mean? Stop what?” All three children looked stunned—and then, scared. For a moment, no one said anything. “You have to call off the corpses,” Benyamin finally said. His eyes were pulled together in concern. “You can’t let them keep hurting these people.” “Hurting them?” Laylee said softly, turning to look out on the crowd. She almost laughed. “What they’re experiencing now? This hurt? This is nothing compared to what they’ve put me through.” “But, Laylee—” “No,” Laylee said angrily. “You don’t understand. You don’t know. You can’t know.” She swallowed, hard, her voice catching as she spoke. “This pain,” she said, pressing one hand against her chest. “You don’t know, you don’t know.” She was nearly crying as she said, “I’ve lived with their cruelty for so long—” It was Alice who suddenly stepped forward and said, “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” Laylee stopped to stare at her, surprised. “But they’re not worth your time,” said Alice. “They’re not worth what this will do to you. And I can see that this”—she gestured to the madness—“this is hurting you. You might get your revenge today, but you’ll still wake up unhappy tomorrow. There’s no relief in this,” she said, shaking her head. “Only more suffering. Your suffering.” And Laylee hesitated, turning away as a remembered pain creased her forehead. “They don’t deserve you,” Alice said softly, stepping forward to take Laylee’s hands in her own. “And you don’t need these worthless people to tell you what you’re worth.” Laylee looked up, tears falling silently down her cheeks. “You have us,” said Alice. “And we already know you’re priceless.”

Everything else was fairly easy after that.

Laylee knew she had to call off the corpses. She knew she would ask them to stand down. There was only one problem: “How will I get their attention all at once?” she said. “There are so many of them—” Benyamin cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, smiling. “Haftpa and his friends can build you a web.” Everyone stared at him. “In the sky, obviously,” Benyamin clarified. “They could weave it between two tall trees, and it’ll be big enough, sticky enough, and strong enough to hold you. From up there, you’ll be plenty visible.” “Alright,” said Laylee slowly. “But how do I get up there?” “Easy,” said Oliver. “We’ll get one of the corpses to toss you up.”

It took a while to build the complicated contraption, but eventually Laylee would find herself in the very unique position of being caught in an inhumanly large spiderweb, staring out over nearly two hundred thousand people, both dead and alive. It was only after the bizarreness of the moment wore off that she realized it was not enough for her to simply be strung from the sky. No one was noticing her in this darkness—they were all too preoccupied with the cruel Olympics she and her corpses had cultivated. So she did the only thing she knew how to do: She unhooked her whip from where it hung on her tool belt and snapped it three times through the air—the sounds like thunderclaps quaking the heavens—and that, it turned out, was enough to gather their attentions. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the mordeshoor suspended in a spiderweb, her long leather whip held high in one hand. Once she knew they were looking—listening, even—Laylee felt suddenly at ease. In all the recent mess and mania, she’d forgotten who she was—but of course: She was a mordeshoor. And she was in charge here. “Dearest dead friends,” she said, her voice ringing out into the night. “You disrupted an important sleep to stand beside me today, and you must know how grateful I am, from the bottom of my heart, for your loyalty and your kindness. But we must end the madness here tonight. There’s no need to torture these people any longer. Please,” she said, “let them go.” “But, Mordeshoor,” said Roksana, “you said you wanted them to apologize, and they haven’t apologized yet. They haven’t promised to change their ways as you requested—” “Is that what you want?” cried one of the shivering Town Elders. “You just want us to apologize?” “She wants you to recognize the error of your ways!” cried Maman. “You can never again disrespect the mordeshoor. Our loyalty is—and always will be—to her and her lineage!” “Yes! You will repent your ways!” cried a corpse from the crowd. “You will pay her a decent wage!” shouted another. “You will never mistreat her again!” the crowd bellowed all together. “We’re so sorry,” said a new, nervous voice. It was the magistrate from the morning’s proceedings. “We’re so very, very sorry”—he was openly sobbing now. “We’ll never again make the mistake of denying the mordeshoor her work—” “Please,” cried another Whichwoodian woman, “we’ll do whatever you ask—just don’t hurt us—” “You will reinstate the mordeshoor to her former glory!” cried Baba gleefully. “You will treat her with reverence and respect—” “We swear!” the Elders cried. “We swear on all that is dear to us!”

“And if you lie,” said Baba in a low, lethal voice Laylee had never heard before, “we will come back for you.” The corpses roared and stomped their feet, unleashing animal-like howls into the night. “Anything—anything you say—” “Mordeshoor,” said Baba, peering up at her in the night sky. “Yes, Baba?” “Do you accept the apologies of these monsters?” Laylee couldn’t help but smile. It was funny to see the weird wax remnant of her father refer to the perfectly normal humans as monsters. “I do, Baba joon.” “And if you need anything, you will call upon us to help you, will you not?” “Of course, Baba,” she said softly. “Thank you.” “And you’re sure,” said Maman now, “that you wish us to leave?” Laylee nodded. “Thank you—thank you for everything. I’m not sure what I would’ve done without your help.” “You are never alone, sweet girl,” said Roksana. “A kindness is never forgotten. Not even by those of us buried underground.” And Laylee watched the scene splinter apart from high in the sky, the spiderweb glittering behind her as a soft snowfall melted along its threads. Her dead friends and family quietly receded, tens of thousands of bodies marching peacefully through the streets, leaving the living Whichwoodians shaken in their wake. Laylee, meanwhile, had never felt so happy or so powerful in all her life—and not because of the Elders who fell on their knees before her—but because her parents, she realized, had finally proven they loved her. A nightingale sat upon Laylee’s shoulder just then and sang her a song of congratulations. “Thank you,” Laylee said to the small bird. “Life is strange, isn’t it?” The bird nodded. “Yes,” it said to her. “Things are seldom what they seem.”

I DO DEARLY LOVE A HAPPY ENDING

True to their word, the town never doubted her again. Weeks passed, and things improved every day for our mordeshoor. Laylee was treated like royalty as she walked through town—faces no longer disgusted by the sight of her, but awed by the power they knew her to wield. The people were both terrified and impressed, and began offering her ungodly amounts of gold and silver to wash their loved ones. Talking to Laylee was soon considered a privilege—even being looked at by the mordeshoor was

thought of as a gift—and Laylee, who did not care for the obsequious attentions of strangers, found great comfort in the company of her friends. Ah, yes—her friends. They were still with her, of course. Laylee had enough money now that she was able to hire the extra help she’d always wanted. And who better than the three people she trusted the most? Alice and Oliver and Benyamin were soon official employees of the mordeshoor, working decent hours alongside her during the day, and spending their evenings and weekends having . . . what was that word? Fun. Laylee tried attending public school again, but it was too difficult to be taught by teachers who were terrified of her and to sit beside students who wanted nothing but to hear her ghastly work stories. Eventually, Laylee asked Madarjoon if she wouldn’t mind hometeaching her and her friends for a few hours every day, and Madarjoon nearly burst into tears at the request. Only too happy to oblige, the five of them—Alice, Oliver, Laylee, Benyamin, and Madarjoon—soon became a cozy little family. Oliver, who’d never liked his home very much anyway, could think of nowhere else he wanted to be—but Alice, whose parents were anxiously awaiting her, would not be able to stay forever. She’d been in touch with her father to tell him all that had transpired, and he was so proud of her for making things right with Laylee that he allowed her to stay in Whichwood, working alongside the others, for a period of no longer than six months. This was the average length of time a child was away from home for a task, so Father felt it to be fair. For now, however, Alice would not think about leaving; there was simply too much to enjoy. Alice and Oliver were living in Laylee’s castle now, and each night was a chance for games and good food and long conversations over piping-hot cups of tea. There was always a roaring fire in the hearth and beautiful lanterns lit across the house. Madarjoon taught them how to cook rich stews and colorful rice; Benyamin showed Alice how to properly eat a frosted rose; and Oliver—well, Oliver began to change. He could feel himself settling into place for the first time in his life, and the steadiness—the safety—of simply belonging began to slough off his thorny, sardonic edges. He became a gentle soul—and would grow up to be a deeply thoughtful young man—and he came to love the infamous mordeshoor even more every day. For now, however, they were the best of friends. And tonight the living room was warm and bright and festooned with winter flowers. The snow fell softly outside the frosted windows of the old castle, and Laylee closed her eyes, humming along to a song she half remembered. Madarjoon was reminding Oliver how to set a table, while Benyamin and Alice carried steaming dishes into the dining room in preparation for their dinner. The air was thick with the aroma of saffron and fresh turmeric, cinnamon and salted olive oil; fresh bread was cooling on the kitchen counter beside large plates of fluffy rice, sautéed raisins, heaps of barberries, and sliced almonds. Feta cheese was stacked beside a small mountain of fresh walnuts—still soft and damp—and handfuls of basil, mint, scallions, and radishes. There were spiced green beans, ears of grilled corn, dense soups, bowls of olives, and tricolored salads. There was so much food, in fact, I simply cannot describe it all. But dinners like these were fast becoming tradition for the mordeshoor and her adopted family, and they would spend the evenings eating until their teeth grew tired of chewing, happily collapsing into sleepy heaps on the living room floor. There, they would finish out the night laughing and talking—and though they could not have known what the future would bring, they did know this: In one another they’d found spaces to call home, and they would never be apart again.

Until next time, dear reader.

THE END

* A note: This was a strange departure from the fearless, indefatigable protagonists I knew and loved in Furthermore**, and I can’t say I wasn’t surprised when I heard what happened. But we must remember that Oliver had little to gain at the onset of this adventure, and Alice, whose father was now safely home (this will make more sense once you’ve read Furthermore), was eager to get back to her new, happy life. Indeed, neither Alice nor Oliver felt great inclination to put themselves in (excessive) danger for a stranger, and when their discomfort had grown to be too much, they were ready to set sail for home. It was sad, yes—but you see now that Laylee wasn’t wrong to have doubted them. The truth was that while their intentions were good, they weren’t pure; no, Alice’s and Oliver’s concern for Laylee was motivated by the promise of glory and a bit of good fun, respectively. And it was precisely this kind of selfish motive that Alice and Oliver would have to learn to shed. Help, after all, is at its best when offered unconditionally—with no expectations of payment in return. **Apologies: Furthermore is an altogether different story, one that takes place before this one, wherein Alice and Oliver are the sole protagonists. It’s quite good, I think. * To be clear: That Maman was unkind to Laylee was not actually her fault. Maman was entirely unaware of her bad temper and sharp tongue. She was simply made of a different kind of stardust now, the kind that made her, by default, a dark, pessimistic, biting sort of creature. Still, she loved her daughter to a fault. * Maman, you will note, was protected from this unfortunate condition on account of her blood relation to her daughter, a living mordeshoor. Mordeshoors always straddled the line between the living and the dead, and they were welcome in either world, in any form, at any time. * You might be wondering how Benyamin came to be so suddenly an expert on all things Laylee. But you must remember that he was in the unique position of knowing more about mordeshoors than most people, on account of his being their only neighboring family. No one else in Whichwood knew as much about Laylee’s life or her grief, and though Benyamin had guilted himself a great deal for not being more of a friend to her, his blame was poorly placed. Young Benyamin himself had such a long list of worries that it was all he could do to make ends meet and keep his own family alive. (After all, it wasn’t choice, but necessity, that dictated he lived next door to the dead.) It was not his fault that Laylee fell ill—no matter his protests to the contrary—and I hope that Benyamin—if he’s reading this now—will heed these words and, more important, believe them. * You will remember my mentioning earlier that Furthermore is the name of another neighboring magical land explored in a previous novel, one that introduces us to Alice and Oliver and the rather tumultuous start to their friendship. * I’ve recounted this part of the story to Laylee several times now, and she never tires of hearing it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she was secretly proud of having inspired such sulkiness in Oliver’s otherwise upbeat character. She denies this, of course.

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Contents Cover Title Page Kenji Warner Kenji Juliette Kenji Warner Kenji Juliette Kenji Warner Kenji Juliette Kenji Warner Kenji Ella Kenji Warner Ella Warner Ella Warner Ella Warner Ella Warner Ella Warner Ella Warner Ella Warner

Ella About the Author Books by Tahereh Mafi Back Ad Copyright About the Publisher

Kenji She’s screaming. She’s just screaming words, I think. They’re just words. But she’s screaming, screaming at the top of her lungs, with an agony that seems almost an exaggeration, and it’s causing devastation I never knew possible. It’s like she just—imploded. It doesn’t seem real. I mean, I knew Juliette was strong—and I knew we hadn’t discovered the depth of her powers—but I never imagined she’d be capable of this. Of this: The ceiling is splitting open. Seismic currents are thundering up the walls, across the floors, chattering my teeth. The ground is rumbling under my feet. People are frozen in place even as they shake, the room vibrating around them. The chandeliers swing too fast and the lights flicker ominously. And then, with one last vibration, three of the massive chandeliers rip free from the ceiling and shatter as they hit the floor. Crystal flies everywhere. The room loses half its light, bathing the cavernous space in a freakish glow, and it’s suddenly hard to see what’s happening. I look at Juliette and see her staring, slack-jawed, frozen at the sight of the devastation, and I realize she must’ve stopped screaming a minute ago. She can’t stop this. She already put the energy into the world and now— It has to go somewhere.

The shudders ripple with renewed fervor across the floorboards, ripping through walls and seats and people. I don’t actually believe it until I see the blood. It seems fake, for a second, all the limp bodies in seats with their chests butterflied open. It seems staged—like a bad joke, like a bad theater production. But when I see the blood, thick and heavy, seeping through clothes and upholstery, dripping down frozen hands, I know we’ll never recover from this. Juliette just murdered six hundred people at once. There’s no recovering from this. I shove my way through the quiet, stunned, still-breathing bodies of my friends. I hear Winston’s soft, insistent whimpers and Brendan’s steady, reassuring response that the wound isn’t as bad as it looks, that he’s going to be okay, that he’s been through worse than this and survived it— And I know my priority right now needs to be Juliette. When I reach her I pull her into my arms, and her cold, unresponsive body reminds me of the time I found her standing over Anderson, a gun aimed at his chest. She was so terrified—so surprised—by what she’d done that she could hardly speak. She looked like she’d disappeared into herself somewhere—like she’d found a small room in her brain and had locked herself inside. It took a minute to coax her back out again. She hadn’t even killed anyone that time. I try to warm some sense into her, begging her now to return to herself, to hurry back to her mind, to the present moment. “I know everything is crazy right now, but I need you to snap out of this, J. Wake up. Get out of your head. We have to get out of here.” She doesn’t blink. “Princess, please,” I say, shaking her a little. “We have to go—now—” And when she still doesn’t move, I figure I have no choice but to move her myself. I start hauling her backward. Her limp body is heavier than I expect, and she makes a small, wheezing sound that’s almost like a sob. Fear sparks in my nerves. I nod at Castle and the others to go, to move on without me, but when I glance around, looking for Warner, I realize I can’t find him anywhere. What happens next knocks the wind from my lungs. The room tilts. My vision blackens, clears, and then darkens only at the edges in a dizzying moment that lasts hardly a second. I feel off-center. I stumble. And then, all at once—

Juliette is gone. Not figuratively. She’s literally gone. Disappeared. One second she’s in my arms, and the next, I’m grasping at air. I blink and spin around, convinced I’m losing my mind, but when I scan the room I see the audience members begin to stir. Their shirts are torn and their faces are scratched, but no one appears to be dead. Instead, they begin to stand, confused, and as soon as they start shuffling around, someone shoves me, hard. I look to up to see Ian swearing at me, telling me to get moving while we still have a chance, and I try to push back, try to tell him that we lost Juliette—that I haven’t seen Warner—and he doesn’t hear me, he just forces me forward, offstage, and when the murmur of the crowd grows into a roar, I know I have no choice. I have to go.

Warner “I’m going to kill him,” she says, her small hands forming fists. “I’m going to kill him—” “Ella, don’t be silly,” I say, and walk away. “One day,” she says, chasing after me, her eyes bright with tears. “If he doesn’t stop hurting you, I swear I’ll do it. You’ll see.” I laugh. “It’s not funny!” she cries. I turn to face her. “No one can kill my dad. He’s unkillable.” “No one is unkillable,” she says. I ignore her. “Why doesn’t your mum do anything?” she says, and she grabs my arm. When I meet her eyes she looks different. Scared. “Why doesn’t anyone stop him?” The wounds on my back are no longer fresh, but, somehow, they still hurt. Ella is the only person who knows about these scars, knows what my

dad started doing to me on my birthday two years ago. Last year, when all the families came to visit us in California, Ella had barged into my room, wanting to know where Emmaline and Nazeera had gone off to, and she’d caught me staring at my back in the mirror. I begged her not to say anything, not to tell anyone what she saw, and she started crying and said that we had to tell someone, that she was going to tell her mom and I said, “If you tell your mom I’ll only get into more trouble. Please don’t say anything, okay? He won’t do it again.” But he did do it again. And this time he was angrier. He told me I was seven years old now, and that I was too old to cry. “We have to do something,” she says, and her voice shakes a little. Another tear steals down the side of her face and, quickly, she wipes it away. “We have to tell someone.” “Stop,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” “But—” “Ella. Please.” “No, we have t—” “Ella,” I say, cutting her off. “I think there’s something wrong with my mom.” Her face falls. Her anger fades. “What?” I’d been terrified, for weeks, to say the words out loud, to make my fears real. Even now, I feel my heart pick up. “What do you mean?” she says. “What’s wrong with her?” “She’s . . . sick.” Ella blinks at me. Confused. “If she’s sick we can fix her. My mum and dad can fix her. They’re so smart; they can fix anything. I’m sure they can fix your mum, too.” I’m shaking my head, my heart racing now, pounding in my ears. “No, Ella, you don’t understand— I think—” “What?” She takes my hand. Squeezes. “What is it?” “I think my dad is killing her.”

Kenji

We’re all running. Base isn’t far from here, and our best option is to go on foot. But the minute we hit the open air, the group of us—myself, Castle, Winston, injured Brendan, Ian, and Alia—go invisible. Someone shouts a breathless thanks in my direction, but I’m not the one doing this. My fists clench. Nazeera. These last couple of days with her have been making my head spin. I never should’ve trusted her. First she hates me, then she hates me even more, and then, suddenly, she decides I’m not an asshole and wants to be my friend? I can’t believe I fell for it. I can’t believe I’m such an idiot. She’s been playing me this whole time. This girl just shows up out of nowhere, magically mimics my exact supernatural ability, and then—right when she pretends to be best friends with Juliette—we’re ambushed at the symposium and Juliette sort of murders six hundred people? No way. I call bullshit. No way this was all some big coincidence. Juliette attended that symposium because Nazeera encouraged her to go. Nazeera convinced Juliette it was the right thing to do. And then five seconds before Brendan gets shot, Nazeera tells me to run? Tells me we have the same powers? Bullshit. I can’t believe I let myself be distracted by a pretty face. I should’ve trusted Warner when he told me she was hiding something. Warner. God. I don’t even know what happened to him. The minute we get back to base our invisibility is lifted. I can’t know for sure if that means Nazeera went her own way, but we can’t slow down long enough to find out. Quickly, I project a new layer of invisibility over our team; I’ll have to keep it up just long enough to get us all to a safe space, and just being back on base isn’t assurance enough. The soldiers are going to ask questions, and right now I don’t have the answers they need. They’re going to be pissed. We make our way, as a group, to the fifteenth floor, to our home on base in Sector 45. Warner only just finished having this thing built for us. He cleared out this entire top floor for our new headquarters—we’d hardly even settled in—and things have already gone to shit. I can’t even allow myself to think about it now, not yet.

It makes me feel sick to my stomach. Once we’re gathered in our largest common room, I do a head count. All original, remaining Omega Point members are present. Adam and James show up to find out what happened, and Sonya and Sara stick around just long enough to gather intel before carting Brendan over to the medical wing. Winston disappears down the hall behind them. Juliette and Warner never show. Quickly, we share our own versions of what we saw. It doesn’t take long to confirm we all witnessed basically the same thing: blood, mayhem, murdered bodies, and then—a slightly less-bloody version of the same thing. No one seems as surprised by the twisted turn of events as I was, because, according to Ian, “Weird supernatural shit happens around here all the time, it’s not that weird,” but, more important: No one saw what happened to Warner and Juliette. No one but me. For a few seconds, we all stare at each other. My heart pounds hard and heavy in my chest. I feel like I might be on fire, burning with indignation. Denial. Alia is the first to speak. “You don’t think they’re dead, do you?” Ian says, “Probably.” And I jump to my feet. “STOP. They’re not dead.” “How can you be sure?” Adam says. “I would know if they were dead.” “What? How w—” “I would just know, okay?” I cut him off. “I would know. And they’re not dead.” I take a deep, steadying breath. “We’re not going to freak out,” I say as calmly as possible. “There has to be a logical explanation. People don’t just disappear, right?” Everyone stares at me. “You know what I mean,” I snap, irritated. “We all know that Juliette and Warner wouldn’t, like, run away together. They weren’t even on speaking terms before the symposium. So it makes the most sense that they would be kidnapped.” I pause. Look around again. “Right?” “Or dead,” Ian says. “If you keep talking like that, Sanchez, I can guarantee that at least one person will be dead tonight.” Ian sighs, hard. “Listen, I’m not trying to be an asshole. I know you were close with them. But let’s be real: they weren’t close with the rest of

us. And maybe that makes me less invested in all this, but it also makes me more level-headed.” He waits, gives me a chance to respond. I don’t. Ian sighs again. “I’m just saying that maybe you’re letting emotion cloud your better judgment right now. I know you don’t want them to be dead, but the possibility that they are dead is, like, really high. Warner was a traitor to The Reestablishment. I’m surprised they didn’t try to kill him sooner. And Juliette—I mean, that’s obvious, right? She murdered Anderson and declared herself ruler of North America.” He raises his eyebrows in a knowing gesture. “Those two have had targets on their backs for months.” My jaw clenches. Unclenches. Clenches again. “So,” Ian says quietly. “We have to be smart about this. If they’re dead, we need to be thinking about our next moves. Where do we go?” “Wait—what do you mean?” Adam says, sitting forward. “What next moves? You think we have to leave?” “Without Warner and Juliette, I don’t think we’re safe here.” Lily takes Ian’s hand in a show of emotional support that makes me feel violent. “The soldiers paid their allegiance to the two of them—to Juliette in particular. Without her, I’m not sure they’d follow the rest of us anywhere.” “And if The Reestablishment had Juliette murdered,” Ian adds, “they’re obviously just getting started. They’ll be coming to reclaim Sector 45 any second now. Our best chance of survival is to first consider what’s best for our team. Since we’re the obvious next targets, I think we should bail. Soon.” A pause. “Maybe even tonight.” “Bro, are you insane?” I drop down into my chair too hard, feeling like I might scream. “We can’t just bail. We need to look for them. We need to be planning a rescue mission right now!” Everyone just stares at me. Like I’m the one who’s lost his mind. “Castle, sir?” I say, trying and failing to keep the sharp edge out of my voice. “Do you want to chime in here?” But Castle has sunk down in his chair. He’s staring up, at the ceiling, at nothing. He looks dazed. I don’t have the chance to dwell on it. “Kenji,” Alia says quietly. “I’m sorry, but Ian’s right. I don’t think we’re safe here anymore.”

“We’re not leaving,” Adam and I say at exactly the same time. I spin around, surprised. Hope shoots through me fast and strong. Maybe Adam feels more for Juliette than he lets on. Maybe Adam will surprise us all. Maybe he’ll finally stop hiding, stop cowering in the background. Maybe, I think, Adam is back. “Thank you,” I say, and point at him in a gesture that says to everyone: See? This is loyalty. “James and I aren’t running anymore,” Adam says, his eyes going cold as he speaks. “I understand if the rest of you have to leave, but James and I will stay here. I was a Sector 45 soldier. I lived on this base. Maybe they’ll give me immunity.” I frown. “But—” “James and I aren’t leaving anymore,” Adam says. Loudly. Definitively. “You can make your plans without us. We have to take off for the night, anyway.” Adam stands, turns to his brother. “It’s time to get ready for bed.” James stares at the floor. “James,” Adam says, a gentle warning in his voice. “I want to stay and listen,” James says, crossing his arms. “You can go to bed without me.” “James—” “But I have a theory,” the ten-year-old says. He says the word theory like it’s brand-new to him, like it’s an interesting sound in his mouth. “And I want to share it with Kenji.” Adam looks so tense that the strain in his shoulders is stressing me out. I think I haven’t been paying close enough attention to him, because I didn’t realize until right now that Adam looks worse than tired. He looks ragged. Like he could collapse, crack in half, at any moment. James catches my eye from across the room, his own eyes round and eager. I sigh. “What’s your theory, little man?” James’s face lights up. “I was just thinking: maybe all the fake-killing thing was, like, a distraction.” I raise an eyebrow. “Like, if someone wanted to kidnap Warner and Juliette,” James says. “You know? Like you said earlier. Causing a scene like that would be the perfect distraction, right?”

“Well. Yeah,” I say, and frown. “I guess. But why would The Reestablishment need a distraction? When have they ever been secretive about what they want? If a supreme commander wanted to take Juliette or Warner, for example, wouldn’t they just show up with a shit ton of soldiers and take what they wanted?” “Language,” Adam says, outraged. “My bad. Strike the word shit from the record.” Adam shakes his head. He looks like he might throttle me. But James is smiling, which is really all that matters. “No. I don’t think they’d rush in like that, not with so many soldiers,” James says, his blue eyes bright. “Not if they had something to hide.” “You think they’d have something to hide?” Lily pipes up. “From us?” “I don’t know,” James says. “Sometimes people hide things.” He steals a split-second glance at Adam as he says it, a glance that sets my pulse racing with fear, and I’m about to respond when Lily beats me to it. “I mean, it’s possible,” she says. “But The Reestablishment doesn’t have a long history of caring about pretenses. They stopped pretending to care about the opinion of the public a long time ago. They mow people down in the street just because they feel like it. I don’t think they’re worried about hiding things from us.” Castle laughs, out loud, and we all spin around to stare at him. I’m relieved to finally see him react, but he still seems lost in his head somewhere. He looks angry. I’ve never really seen Castle get angry. “They hide a great deal from us,” he says sharply. “And from each other.” After a long, deep breath, he finally gets to his feet. Smiles, warily, at the ten-year-old in the room. “James, you are wise indeed.” “Thank you,” James says, blinking up at him. “Castle, sir?” I say, my voice coming out harder than I’d intended. “Will you please tell us what the hell is going on? Do you know something?” Castle sighs. Rubs the stubble on his chin with the flat of his palm. “All right, Nazeera,” he says, turning toward nothing, like he’s speaking to a ghost. “Go ahead.” When Nazeera appears, as if out of thin air, I’m not the only one who’s pissed. Okay, maybe I’m the only one who’s pissed. But everyone else looks surprised, at least. They’re staring at her, at each other, and then all of them—all of them —turn to look at me.

“Bro, did you know about this?” Ian asks. I scowl. Invisibility is my thing. My thing, goddammit. No one ever said I had to share that with anyone. Especially not with someone like Nazeera, a lying, manipulative— Gorgeous. Gorgeous human being. Shit. I turn, stare at the wall. I can’t be distracted by her anymore. She knows I’m into her—my infatuation is apparently obvious to everyone within a ten-mile radius, according to Castle—and she’s clearly been using my idiocy to her best advantage. Smart. I respect the tactic. But that also means I have to keep my guard up when she’s around. No more staring. No more daydreaming about her. No more thinking about how she looked at me when she smiled. Or the way she laughed, like she meant it, the same night she yelled at me for asking reasonable questions. Which, by the way— I don’t think I was crazy for wondering out loud how the daughter of a supreme commander could get away with wearing an illegal headscarf. She told me later that she wears the scarf symbolically, every once in a while, that she can’t get away with wearing it all the time because it’s illegal. But when I pointed this out to her, she gave me hell. And then she gave me shit for being confused. I’m still confused. She’s not covering her hair now, either, but no one else seems to have registered this fact. Maybe they’d already seen her like this. Maybe everyone but me already had that conversation with her, already heard her story about wearing it symbolically, occasionally. Illegally, when her dad wasn’t watching. “Kenji,” she says, and her voice is so sharp I look up, stare at her despite my own very explicit orders to keep my eyes on the wall. All it takes is two seconds of eye contact and my heart hits itself. That mouth. Those eyes. “Yeah?” I cross my arms. She looks surprised, like she wasn’t expecting me to be upset, and I don’t care. She should know that I’m pissed. I want to her to know that invisibility is my thing. That I know I’m petty and I don’t care. Plus, I don’t trust her. Also, what is up with these kids of the supreme

commanders all being super-good-looking? It’s almost like they did it on purpose, like they made these kids in test tubes or someshit. I shake my head to clear it. Carefully, Nazeera says, “I really think you should sit down for this.” “I’m good.” She frowns. For a second she looks almost hurt, but before I have a chance to feel bad about it, she shrugs. Turns away. And what she says next nearly splits me in half.

Juliette I’m sitting on an orange chair in the hallway of a dimly lit building. The chair is made of cheap plastic, its edges coarse and unfinished. The floor is a shiny linoleum that occasionally sticks to the soles of my shoes. I know I’ve been breathing too loudly but I can’t help it. I sit on my hands and swing my legs under my seat. Just then, a boy comes into view. His movements are so quiet I only notice him when he stops directly in front of me. He leans against the wall opposite me, his eyes focused on a point in the distance. I study him for a moment. He seems about my age, but he’s wearing a suit. There’s something strange about him; he’s so pale and stiff he seems close to dead. “Hi,” I say, and try to smile. “Do you want to sit down?” He doesn’t return my smile. He won’t even look at me. “I’d prefer to stand,” he says quietly. “Okay.” We’re both silent awhile. Finally, he says, “You’re nervous.” I nod. My eyes must be a little red from crying, but I’d been hoping no one would notice. “Are you here to get a new family, too?” “No.” “Oh.” I look away. Stop swinging my feet. I feel my bottom lip tremble and I bite it, hard. “Then why are you here?”

He shrugs. I see him glance, briefly, at the three empty chairs next to me, but he makes no effort to sit down. “My father made me come.” “He made you come here?” “Yes.” “Why?” He stares at his shoes and frowns. “I don’t know.” “Shouldn’t you be in school?” And then, instead of answering me, he says, “Where are you from?” “What do you mean?” He looks up then, meets my eyes for the first time. He has such unusual eyes. They’re a light, clear green. “You have an accent,” he says. “Oh,” I say. “Yeah.” I look at the floor. “I was born in New Zealand. That’s where I lived until my mum and dad died.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” I nod. Swing my legs again. I’m about to ask him another question when the door down the hall finally opens. A tall man in a navy suit walks out. He’s carrying a briefcase. It’s Mr. Anderson, my social worker. He beams at me. “You’re all set. Your new family is dying to meet you. We have a couple more things to do before you can go, but it won’t take too lon—” I can’t hold it in anymore. I start sobbing right there, all over the new dress he bought me. Sobs rack my body, tears hitting the orange chair, the sticky floor. Mr. Anderson sets down his briefcase and laughs. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing to cry about. This is a great day! You should be happy!” But I can’t speak. I feel stuck, stuck to the seat. Like my lungs have been stuck together. I manage to calm the sobs but I’m suddenly hiccuping, tears spilling quietly down my cheeks. “I want—I want to go h-home—” “You are going home,” he says, still smiling. “That’s the whole point.” And then— “Dad.” I look up at the sound of his voice. So quiet and serious. It’s the boy with the green eyes. Mr. Anderson, I realize, is his father. “She’s scared,” the boy says. And even though he’s talking to his dad, he’s looking at me. “She’s really scared.”

“Scared?” Mr. Anderson looks from me to his son, then back again. “What’s there to be scared of?” I scrub at my face. Try and fail to stop the tears. “What’s her name?” the boy asks. He’s still staring at me, and this time, I stare back. There’s something in his eyes, something that makes me feel safe. “This is Juliette,” Mr. Anderson says, and looks me over. “Tragic”—he sighs—“just like her namesake.”

Kenji Nazeera was right. I should’ve sat down. I’m looking at my hands, watching a tremor work its way across my fingers. I nearly lose my grip on the stack of photos I’m clutching. The photos. The photos Nazeera passed around after telling us that Juliette is not who we think she is. I can’t stop staring at the pictures. A little brown girl and a little white girl running in a field, both of them smiling tiny-toothed smiles, long hair flying in the wind, small baskets full of strawberries swinging from their elbows. Nazeera and Emmaline at the strawberry patch, it read on the back. Little Nazeera being hugged, on either side, by two little white girls, all three of them laughing so hard they look like they’re about to fall over. Ella and Emmaline and Nazeera, it read. A close-up of a little girl smiling right into the camera, her eyes huge and blue-green, lengths of soft brown hair framing her face. Ella on Christmas morning, it read. “Ella Sommers,” Nazeera says. She says her real name is Ella Sommers, sister to Emmaline Sommers, daughter of Maximillian and Evie Sommers. “Something is wrong,” Nazeera says.

“Something is happening,” she says. She says she woke up six weeks ago remembering Juliette—sorry, Ella— “Remembering her. I was remembering her, which means I’d forgotten her. And when I remembered Ella,” she says, “I remembered Emmaline, too. I remembered how we’d all grown up together, how our parents used to be friends. I remembered but I didn’t understand, not right away. I thought maybe I was confusing dreams with memory. Actually, the memories came back to me so slowly I thought, for a while, that I might’ve been hallucinating.” She says the hallucinations, as she called them, were impossible to shake, so she started digging, started looking for information. “I learned the same thing you did. That two girls named Ella and Emmaline were donated to The Reestablishment, and that only Ella was taken out of their custody, so Ella was given an alias. Relocated. Adopted. But what you didn’t know was that the parents who gave up their daughters were also members of The Reestablishment. They were doctors and scientists. You didn’t know that Ella—the girl you know to be Juliette —is the daughter of Evie Sommers, the current supreme commander of Oceania. She and I grew up together. She, like the rest of us kids, was built to serve The Reestablishment.” Ian swears, loudly, and Adam is so stunned he doesn’t complain. “That can’t be possible,” Adam says. “Juliette— The girl I went to school with? She was”—he shakes his head—“I knew Juliette for years. She wasn’t made like you or Warner. She was this quiet, timid, sweet girl. She was always so nice. She never wanted to hurt anyone. All she ever wanted was to, like, connect with people. She was trying to help that little boy in the grocery store. But then it just—everything ended so badly and she got sucked into this whole mess and I tried,” he says, looking suddenly distraught, “I tried to help her, I tried to keep her safe. I wanted to protect her from this. I wanted t—” He cuts himself off. Pulls himself together. “She wasn’t like this,” he says, and he’s staring at the ground now. “Not until she started spending all that time with Warner. After she met him she just— I don’t know what happened. She lost herself, little by little. Eventually she became someone else.” He looks up. “But she wasn’t made to be this way, not like you. Not like Warner. There’s no way she’s the daughter of a supreme commander—she’s not a born murderer. Besides,”

he says, taking a sharp breath, “if she were from Oceania she would have an accent.” Nazeera tilts her head at Adam. “The girl you knew had undergone severe physical and emotional trauma,” she says. “She’d had her native memories forcibly removed. She was shipped across the globe as a specimen and convinced to live with abusive adoptive parents who beat the life out of her.” Nazeera shakes her head slowly. “The Reestablishment—and Anderson, in particular—made sure that Ella could never remember why she was suffering, but just because she couldn’t remember what happened to her didn’t change the fact that it happened. Her body was repeatedly used and abused by a rotating cast of monsters. And that shit leaves its mark.” Nazeera looks Adam straight in the eye. “Maybe you don’t understand,” she says. “I read all the reports. I hacked into all my father’s files. I found everything. What they did to Ella over the course of twelve years is unspeakable. So yes, I’m sure you remember a very different person. But I don’t think she became someone she wasn’t. My guess is she finally gathered the strength to remember who she’d always been. And if you don’t get that, I’m glad things didn’t work out between the two of you.” In an instant, the tension in the room is nearly suffocating. Adam looks like he might be on fire. Like fire might literally come out of his eyeballs. Like it might be his new superpower. I clear my throat. I force myself to say something—anything—to break the silence. “So you guys, uh, you all knew about Adam and Juliette, too, huh? I didn’t realize you knew about that. Huh. Interesting.” Nazeera takes her time turning in her seat to look me in the eye. “Are you kidding?” she says, staring at me like I’m worse than an idiot. I figure it’s best not to press the issue. “Where did you get these photos?” Alia asks, changing the subject more deftly than I did. “How can we trust that they’re real?” At first, Nazeera only looks at her. And she seems resigned when she says, “I don’t know how to convince you that the photos are real. I can only tell you that they are.” The room goes silent. “Why do you even care?” Lily says. “Why are we supposed to believe you care about this? About Juliette—about Ella? What do you have to gain from helping us? Why would you betray your parents?”

Nazeera sits back in her seat. “I know you all think the children of the supreme commanders are a bunch of carefree, amoral psychopaths, happy to be the military robots our parents wanted us to be, but nothing is ever that straightforward. Our parents are homicidal maniacs intent on ruling the world; that part is true. But the thing no one seems to understand is that our parents chose to be homicidal maniacs. We, on the other hand, were forced to be. And just because we’ve been trained to be mercenaries doesn’t mean we like it. None of us got to choose this life. None of us enjoyed being taught to torture before we could even drive. And it’s not insane to imagine that sometimes even horrible people are searching for a way out of their own darkness.” Nazeera’s eyes flash with feeling as she speaks, and her words puncture the life vest around my heart. Emotion drowns me again. Shit. “Is it really so crazy to think I might care about the girls I once loved as my own sisters?” she’s saying. “Or about the lies my parents forced me to swallow, or the innocent people I watched them murder? Or maybe even something simpler than that—that I might’ve opened my eyes one day and realized that I was part and parcel of a system that was not only ravaging the world but also slaughtering everyone in it?” Shit. I can feel it, can feel my heart filling out, filling up. My chest feels tight, like it’s swollen, like my lungs don’t fit anymore. I don’t want to care about Nazeera. Don’t want to feel her pain or feel connected to her or feel anything. I just want to keep a level head. Be cool. I force myself to think about a joke James told me the other day, a stupid pun—something to do with muffins—a joke that was so lame I nearly cried. I focus on the memory, the way James laughed at his own lameness, snorting so hard a little food fell out of his mouth. I smile and glance at James, who looks like he might be falling asleep in his seat. Soon, the tightness in my chest begins to abate. Now I’m really smiling, wondering if it’s weird that I love bad jokes even more than good ones, when I hear Ian say— “It’s not that you seem heartless. It’s just that these photos seem so convenient. You had them ready to share.” He stares down at the single photo he’s holding. “These kids could be anyone.” “Look closely,” Nazeera says, standing up to get a better look at the picture in his hands. “Who do you think that is?”

I lean over—Ian isn’t far from me—and peer over his shoulder. There’s really no point denying it anymore; the resemblance is insane. Juliette. Ella. She’s just a kid, maybe four or five years old, standing in front of the camera, smiling. She’s holding a bouquet of dandelions up to the cameraman, as if to offer him one. And then, just off to the side, there’s another figure. A little blond boy. So blond his hair is white. He’s staring, intensely, at a single dandelion in his hands. I nearly fall out of my chair. Juliette is one thing, but this— “Is that Warner?” I say. Adam looks up sharply. He glances from me to Nazeera, then stalks over to look at the photo. His eyebrows fly up his head. “No way,” he says. Nazeera shrugs. “No way,” Adam says again. “No way. That’s impossible. There’s no way they knew each other this long. Warner had no idea who Juliette was before she came here.” When Nazeera seems unmoved, Adam says, “I’m serious. I know you think I’m full of shit, but I’m not wrong about this. I was there. Warner literally interviewed me for the job of being her cellmate in the asylum. He didn’t know who she was. He’d never met her. Never seen her face, not up close, anyway. Half the reason he chose me to be her roommate was because she and I had history, because he found that useful. He’d grill me for hours about her.” Nazeera sighs slowly, like she’s surrounded by idiots. “When I found these photos,” she says to Adam, “I couldn’t understand how I came across them so easily. I didn’t understand why anyone would keep evidence like this right under my nose or make it so easy to find. But I know now that my parents never expected me to look. They got lazy. They figured that, even if I found these photos, I’d never know what I was looking at. Two months ago I could’ve seen these pictures and assumed that this girl”—she plucks a photo of herself, what appears to be a young Haider, and a thin brown-haired girl with bright blue eyes, out of a pile —“was a neighbor kid, someone I used to know but can’t be bothered to remember. “But I do remember,” she says. “I remember all of it. I remember the day our parents told us that Ella and Emmaline had drowned. I remember crying myself to sleep every night. I remember the day they took us to a place I thought was a hospital. I remember my mother telling me I’d feel

better soon. And then, I remember remembering nothing. Like time, in my brain, just folded in on itself.” She raises her eyebrows. “Do you get what I’m trying to say to you, Kent?” He glares at her. “I get that you think I’m an idiot.” She smiles. “Yes, I get what you’re saying,” he says, obviously irritated. “You’re saying you all had your memories wiped. You’re saying Warner doesn’t even know that they knew each other.” She holds up a finger. “Didn’t know,” she says. “He didn’t know until just before the symposium. I tried to warn him—and Castle,” she says, glancing at Castle, who’s looking at the wall. “I tried to warn them both that something was wrong, that something big was happening and I didn’t really understand what or why. Warner didn’t believe me, of course. I’m not sure Castle did, either. But I didn’t have time to give them proof.” “Wait, what?” I say, my eyebrows furrowing. “You told Warner and Castle? Before the symposium? You told them all of this?” “I tried,” she says. “Why wouldn’t you just tell Juliette?” Lily asks. “You mean Ella.” Lily rolls her eyes. “Sure. Ella. Whatever. Why not warn her directly? Why tell everyone else?” “I didn’t know how she’d take the news,” Nazeera says. “I’d been trying to take her temperature from the moment I got here, and I could never figure out how she felt about me. I didn’t think she really trusted me. And then after everything that happened”—she hesitates—“it never seemed like the right time. She got shot, she was in recovery, and then she and Warner broke up, and she just . . . I don’t know. Spiraled. She wasn’t in a healthy headspace. She’d already had to stomach a bunch of revelations and she didn’t seem to be handling them well. I wasn’t sure she could take much more, to be honest, and I was worried what she might do.” “Murder six hundred people, maybe,” Ian mutters under his breath. “Hey,” I snap. “She didn’t murder anyone, okay? That was some kind of magic trick.” “It was a distraction,” Nazeera says firmly. “James was the only one who saw this for what it was.” She sighs. “I think this whole thing was staged to make Ella appear volatile and unhinged. That scene at the symposium will no doubt undermine her position here, at Sector 45, by

instilling fear in the soldiers who pledged their allegiance to her. She’ll be described as unstable. Irrational. Weak. And then—easily captured. I knew The Reestablishment wanted Ella gone, but I thought they’d just burn the whole sector to the ground. I was wrong. This was a far more efficient tactic. They didn’t need to kill off a regiment of perfectly good soldiers and a population of obedient workers,” Nazeera says. “All they needed to do was to discredit Ella as their leader.” “So what happens now?” Lily says. Nazeera hesitates. And then, carefully, she says, “Once they’ve punished the citizens and thoroughly quashed any hope for rebellion, The Reestablishment will turn everyone against you. Put bounties on your heads, or, worse, threaten to murder loved ones if civilians and soldiers don’t turn you in. You were right,” she says to Lily. “The soldiers and citizens paid allegiance to Ella, and with both her and Warner gone, they’ll feel abandoned. They have no reason to trust the rest of you.” A pause. “I’d say you have about twenty-four hours before they come for your heads.” Silence falls over the room. For a moment, I think everyone actually stops breathing. “Fuck,” Ian says, dropping his head in his hands. “Immediate relocation is your best course of action,” Nazeera says briskly, “but I don’t know that I can be much help in that department. Where you go will be up to your discretion.” “Then what are you even doing here?” I say, irritated. I understand her a little better now—I know that she’s been trying to help—but that doesn’t change the fact that I still feel like shit. Or that I still don’t know how to feel about her. “You showed up just to tell us we’re all going to die and that’s it?” I shake my head. “So helpful, thanks.” “Kenji,” Castle says, finally breaking his silence. “There’s no need to attack our guest.” His voice is a calm, steadying sound. I’ve missed it. “She really did try to talk to me—to warn me—while she was here. As for a contingency plan,” he says, speaking to the room, “give me a little time. I have friends. We’re not alone, as you well know, in our resistance. There’s no need to panic, not yet.” “Not yet?” Ian says, incredulous. “Not yet,” Castle says. Then: “Nazeera, what of your brother? Were you able to convince him?”

Nazeera takes a steadying breath, losing some of the tension in her shoulders. “Haider knows,” she explains to the rest of us. “He’s been remembering things about Ella, too, but his memories of her aren’t as strong as mine, and he didn’t understand what was happening to him until last night when I decided to tell him what I’d discovered.” “Whoa— Wait,” Ian says. “You trust him?” “I trust him enough,” she says. “Besides, I figured he had a right to know; he knew Ella and Emmaline, too. But he wasn’t entirely convinced. I don’t know what he’ll decide to do, not yet, but he definitely seemed shaken up about it, which I think is a good sign. I asked him to do some digging, to find out if any of the other kids were beginning to remember things, too, and he said he would. Right now, that’s all I’ve got.” “Where are the other kids?” Winston asks, frowning. “Do they know you’re still here?” Nazeera’s expression grows grim. “All the kids were supposed to report back as soon as the symposium was over. Haider should be on his way back to Asia by now. I tried to convince my parents I was staying behind to do more reconnaissance, but I don’t think they bought it. I’m sure I’ll hear from them soon. I’ll handle it as it comes.” “So— Wait—” I glance from her to Castle. “You’re staying with us?” “That wasn’t really my plan.” “Oh,” I say. “Good. That’s good.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “You know what I mean.” “I don’t think I do,” she says, and she looks suddenly irritated. “Anyway, even though it wasn’t my plan to stay, I think I might have to.” My eyes widen. “What? Why?” “Because,” she says, “my parents have been lying to me since I was a kid—stealing my memories and rewriting my history—and I want to know why. Besides”—she takes a deep breath—“I think I know where Ella and Warner are, and I want to help.”

Warner

“Goddammit.” I hear the barely restrained anger in my father’s voice just before something slams, hard, into something else. He swears again. I hesitate outside his door. And then, impatiently— “What do you want?” His voice is practically a growl. I fight the impulse to be intimidated. I make my face a mask. Neutralize my emotions. And then, carefully, I step into his office. My father is sitting at his desk, but I see only the back of his chair and the unfinished glass of Scotch clutched in his left hand. His papers are in disarray. I notice the paperweight on the floor; the damage to the wall. Something has gone wrong. “You wanted to see me,” I say. “What?” My father turns in his chair to face me. “See you for what?” I say nothing. I’ve learned by now never to remind him when he’s forgotten something. Finally, he sighs. Says, “Right. Yes.” And then: “We’ll have to discuss it later.” “Later?” This time, I struggle to hide my feelings. “You said you’d give me an answer today—” “Something’s come up.” Anger wells in my chest. I forget myself. “Something more important than your dying wife?” My father won’t be baited. Instead, he picks up a stack of papers on his desk and says, “Go away.” I don’t move. “I need to know what’s going to happen,” I say. “I don’t want to go to the capital with you—I want to stay here, with Mom—” “Jesus,” he says, slamming his glass down on the desk. “Do you hear yourself?” He looks at me, disgusted. “This behavior is unhealthy. It’s disturbing. I’ve never known a sixteen-year-old boy to be so obsessed with his mother.” Heat creeps up my neck, and I hate myself for it. Hate him for making me hate myself when I say, quietly, “I’m not obsessed with her.” Anderson shakes his head. “You’re pathetic.” I take the emotional hit and bury it. With some effort, I manage to sound indifferent when I say, “I just want to know what’s going to happen.”

Anderson stands up, shoves his hands in his pockets. He looks out the massive window in his office, at the city just beyond. The view is bleak. Freeways have become open-air museums for the skeletons of forgotten vehicles. Mountains of trash form ranges along the terrain. Dead birds litter the streets, carcasses still occasionally falling out of the sky. Untamed fires rage in the distance, heavy winds stoking their flames. A thick layer of smog has permanently settled over the city, and the remaining clouds are gray, heavy with rain. We’ve already begun the process of regulating what passes for livable and unlivable turf, and entire sections of the city have since been shut down. Most of the coastal areas, for example, have been evacuated, the streets and homes flooded, roofs slowly collapsing. By comparison, the inside of my father’s office is a veritable paradise. Everything is still new in here; the wood still smells like wood, every surface shines. The Reestablishment was voted into power just four months ago, and my father is currently the commander and regent of one of our brand-new sectors. Number 45. A sudden gust of wind hits the window, and I feel the shudder reverberate through the room. The lights flicker. He doesn’t flinch. The world may be falling apart, but The Reestablishment has been doing better than ever. Their plans fell into place more swiftly than they’d expected. And even though my father is already being considered for a huge promotion—to supreme commander of North America—no amount of success seems to soothe him. Lately, he’s been more volatile than usual. Finally, he says, “I have no idea what’s going to happen. I don’t even know if they’ll be considering me for the promotion anymore.” I’m unable to mask my surprise. “Why not?” Anderson smiles, unhappily, at the window. “A babysitting job gone awry.” “I don’t understand.” “I don’t expect you to.” “So—we’re not moving anymore? We won’t be going to the capital?” Anderson turns back around. “Don’t sound so excited. I said I don’t know yet. First, I have to figure out how to deal with the problem.” Quietly, I say, “What’s the problem?”

Anderson laughs; his eyes crinkle and he looks, for a moment, human. “Suffice it to say that your girlfriend is ruining my goddamn day. As usual.” “My what?” I frown. “Dad, Lena isn’t my girlfriend. I don’t care what she’s telling any—” “Different girlfriend,” Anderson says, and sighs. He won’t meet my eyes now. He snatches a file folder from his desk, flips it open, and scans the contents. I don’t have a chance to ask another question. There’s a sudden, sharp knock at the door. At my dad’s signal, Delalieu steps inside. He seems more than a little surprised to see me, and, for a moment, says nothing. “Well?” My dad seems impatient. “Is she here?” “Y-yes, sir.” Delalieu clears his throat. His eyes flit to me again. “Should I bring her up, or would you prefer to meet elsewhere?” “Bring her up.” Delalieu hesitates. “Are you quite certain, sir?” I look from my dad to Delalieu. Something is wrong. My father meets my eyes when he says, “I said, bring her up.” Delalieu nods, and disappears. My head is a stone, heavy and useless, my eyes cemented to my skull. I maintain consciousness for only seconds at a time. I smell metal, taste metal. An ancient, roaring noise grows loud, then soft, then loud again. Boots, heavy, near my head. Voices, but the sounds are muffled, light-years away. I can’t move. I feel as though I’ve been buried, left to rot. A weak orange light flickers behind my eyes and for just a second—just a second— No. Nothing. Days seem to pass. Centuries. I’m only aware enough to know I’ve been heavily sedated. Constantly sedated. I’m parched, dehydrated to the point of pain. I’d kill for water. Kill for it. When they move me I feel heavy, foreign to myself. I land hard on a cold floor, the pain ricocheting up my body as if from a distance. I know that, too soon, this pain will catch up to me. Too soon, the sedative will wear off and I’ll be alone with my bones and this dust in my mouth. A swift, hard kick to the gut and my eyes fly open, blackness devouring my open, gasping mouth, seeping into the sockets of my eyes. I feel blind

and suffocated at once, and when the shock finally subsides, my limbs give out. Limp. The spark dies.

Kenji “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?” I stop, frozen in place, at the sound of Nazeera’s voice. I was heading back to my room to close my eyes for a minute. To try to do something about the massive headache ringing through my skull. We finally, finally, took a break. A brief recess after hours of exhausting, stressful conversations about next steps and blueprints and something about stealing a plane. It’s too much. Even Nazeera, with all her intel, couldn’t give me any real assurance that Juliette—sorry, Ella—and Warner were still alive, and just the chance that someone out there might be torturing them to death is, like, more than my mind can handle right now. Today has been a shitstorm of shit. A tornado of shit. I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know whether to sit down and cry or set something on fire. Castle said he’d brave his way down to the kitchens to see about scrounging up some food for us, and that was the best news I’d heard all day. He also said he’d do his best to placate the soldiers for just a little longer—just long enough for us to figure out exactly what we’re going to do next—but I’m not sure how much he can do. It was bad enough when J got shot. The hours she spent in the medical wing were stressful for the rest of us, too. I really thought the soldiers would revolt right then. They kept stopping me in the halls, yelling about how they thought she was supposed to be invincible, that this wasn’t the plan, that they didn’t decide to risk their lives for a regular teenage girl who couldn’t take a bullet and goddammit she was supposed to be some supernatural phenomenon, something more than human— It took forever to calm them down. But now?

I can only imagine how they’ll react when they hear what happened at the symposium. It’ll be mutiny, most likely. I sigh, hard. “So you’re just going to ignore me?” Nazeera is standing inches away from me. I can feel her, hovering. Waiting. I still haven’t said anything. Still haven’t turned around. It’s not that I don’t want to talk— I think I might, sort of, want to talk. Maybe some other day. But right now I’m out of gas. I’m out of James’s jokes. I’m fresh out of fake smiles. Right now I’m nothing but pain and exhaustion and raw emotion, and I don’t have the bandwidth for another serious conversation. I really don’t want to do this right now. I’d nearly made my escape, too. I’m right here, right in front of my door. My hand is on the handle. I could just walk away, I think. I could be that kind of guy, a Warner kind of guy. A jackass kind of guy. Just walk away without a word. Too tired, no thank you, don’t want to talk. Leave me alone. Instead, I slump forward, rest my hands and forehead against the closed bedroom door. “I’m tired, Nazeera.” “I can’t believe you’re upset with me.” My eyes close. My nose bumps against the wood. “I’m not upset with you. I’m half asleep.” “You were mad. You were mad at me for having the same ability as you. Weren’t you?” I groan. “Weren’t you?” she says again, this time angrily. I say nothing. “Unbelievable. That is the most petty, ridiculous, immature—” “Yeah, well.” “Do you know how hard it was for me to tell you that? Do you have any idea—” I hear her sharp, angry huff. “Will you at least look at me when I’m talking to you?” “Can’t.” “What?” She sounds startled. “What do you mean you can’t?” “Can’t look at you.” She hesitates. “Why not?” “Too pretty.”

She laughs, but angrily, like she might punch me in the face. “Kenji, I’m trying to be serious with you. This is important to me. This is the first time in my whole life I’ve ever shown other people what I can do. It’s the first time I’ve ever interacted with other people like me. Besides,” she says, “I thought we decided we were going to be friends. Maybe that’s not a big deal to you, but it’s a big deal to me, because I don’t make friends easily. And right now you’re making me doubt my own judgment.” I sigh so hard I nearly hurt myself. I push off the door, stare at the wall. “Listen,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I just— There was a minute back there, before you really started talking, when I thought you’d just, like, lied about things. I didn’t understand what was happening. I thought maybe you’d set us up. A bunch of stuff seemed too crazy to be a coincidence. But we’ve been talking for hours now, and I don’t feel that way anymore. I’m not mad anymore. I’m sorry. Can I go now?” “Of course,” she says. “I just . . .” She trails off, like she’s confused, and then she touches my arm. No, she doesn’t just touch my arm. She takes my arm. She wraps her hand around my bare forearm and tugs, gently. The contact is hot and immediate. Her skin is soft. My brain feels dim. Dizzy. “Stop,” I say. She drops her hand. “Why won’t you look at me?” she says. “I already told you why I won’t look at you, and you laughed at me.” She’s quiet for so long I wonder if she’s walked away. Finally, she says, “I thought you were joking.” “Well, I wasn’t.” More silence. Then: “Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?” “Most of the time, yeah.” Gently, I bang my head against the door. I don’t understand why this girl won’t let me wallow in peace. “What are you thinking right now?” she asks. Jesus Christ. I look up, at the ceiling, hoping for a wormhole or a bolt of lightning or maybe even an alien abduction—anything to get me out of here, this moment, this relentless, exhausting conversation. In the absence of miracles, my frustration spikes.

“I’m thinking I want to go to sleep,” I say angrily. “I’m thinking I want to be left alone. I’m thinking I’ve already told you this, a thousand times, and you won’t let me go even though I apologized for hurting your feelings. So I guess what I’m really thinking is I don’t understand what you’re doing here. Why do you care so much about what I think?” “What?” she says, startled. “I don’t—” Finally, I turn around. I feel a little unhinged, like my brain is flooded. There’s too much happening. Too much to feel. Grief, fear, exhaustion. Desire. Nazeera takes a step back when she sees my face. She’s perfect. Perfect everything. Long legs and curves. Her face is insane. Faces shouldn’t look like that. Bright, honey-colored eyes and skin like dusk. Her hair is so brown it’s nearly black. Thick, heavy, straight. She reminds me of something, of a feeling I don’t even know how to describe. And there’s something about her that’s made me stupid. Drunk, like I could just stare at her and be happy, float forever in this feeling. And then I realize, with a start, that I’m staring at her mouth again. I never mean to. It just happens. She’s always touching her mouth, tapping that damn diamond piercing under her lip, and I’m just dumb, my eyes following her every move. She’s standing in front of me with her arms crossed, running her thumb absently against the edge of her bottom lip, and I can’t stop staring. She startles, suddenly, when she realizes I’m looking. Drops her hands to her sides and blinks at me. I have no idea what she’s thinking. “I asked you a question,” I say, but this time my voice comes out a little rough, a little too intense. I knew I should’ve kept my eyes on the wall. Still, she only stares at me. “All right. Forget it,” I say. “You keep begging me to talk, but the minute I ask you a question, you say nothing. That’s just great.” I turn away again, reach for the door handle. And then, still facing the door, I say: “You know—I’m aware that I haven’t done a good job being smooth about this, and maybe I’ll never be that kind of guy. But I don’t think you should treat me like this, like I’m some idiot nothing, just because I don’t know how to be a douchebag.” “What? Kenji, I don’t—” “Stop,” I say, jerking away from her. She keeps touching my arm, touching me like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it. It’s driving me

crazy. “Don’t do that.” “Don’t do what?” Finally, angrily, I spin around. I’m breathing hard, my chest rising and falling too fast. “Stop messing with me,” I say. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me. You say you want to be my friend, but you talk to me like I’m an idiot. You touch me, constantly, like I’m a child, like you’re trying to comfort me, like you have no idea that I’m a grown-ass man who might feel something when you put your hands on me like that.” She tries to speak and I cut her off. “I don’t care what you think you know about me—or how stupid you think I am—but right now I’m exhausted, okay? I’m done. So if you want nice Kenji maybe you should check back in the morning, because right now all I’ve got is jack shit in the way of pleasantries.” Nazeera looks frozen. Stunned. She stares at me, her lips slightly parted, and I’m thinking this is it, this is how I die, she’s going to pull out a knife and cut me open, rearrange my organs, put on a puppet show with my intestines. What a way to go. But when she finally speaks, she doesn’t sound angry. She sounds a little out of breath. Nervous. “I don’t think you’re a child,” she says. I have no idea what to say to that. She takes a step forward, presses her hands flat against my torso, and I turn into a statue. Her hands seem to sear into my body, heat pressing between us, even through my shirt. I feel like I might be dreaming. She runs her hands up my chest and that simple motion feels so good I’m suddenly terrified. I feel magnetized to her, frozen in place. Afraid to wake up. “What are you doing?” I whisper. She’s still staring at my chest when she says, again, “I don’t think you’re a child.” “Nazeera.” She lifts her head to meet my eyes, and a flash of feeling, hot and painful, shoots down my spine. “And I don’t think you’re stupid,” she says. Wrong. I’m definitely stupid.

So stupid. I can’t even think right now. “Okay,” I say stupidly. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I mean, I know what to do with my hands, I’m just worried that if I touch her she might laugh and then, probably, kill me. She smiles then, smiles so big I feel my heart explode, make a mess inside my chest. “So you’re not going to make a move?” she says, still smiling. “I thought you liked me. I thought that’s what this whole thing was all about.” “Like you?” I blink at her. “I don’t even know you.” “Oh,” she says, and her smile disappears. She begins to pull away and she can’t meet my eyes and then, I don’t know what comes over me— I grab her hand, open my bedroom door, and lock us both inside. She kisses me first. I have an out-of-body moment, like I can’t believe this is actually happening to me. I can’t understand what I did to make this possible, because according to my calculations I messed this up on a hundred different levels and, in fact, I was pretty sure she was pissed at me up until, like, five minutes ago. And then I tell myself to shut up. Her kiss is soft, her hands tentative against my chest, but I wrap my arms around her waist and kiss her, really kiss her, and then somehow we’re against the wall and her hands are around my neck and she parts her lips for me, sighs in my mouth, and that small sound of pleasure drives me crazy, floods my body with heat and desire so intense I can hardly stand. We break apart, breathing hard, and I stare at her like an idiot, my brain still too numb to figure out exactly how I got here. Then again, who cares how I got here. I kiss her again and it nearly kills me. She feels so good, so soft. Perfect. She’s perfect, fits perfectly in my arms, like we were made for this, like we’ve done this a thousand times before, and she smells like shampoo, like something sweet. Perfume, maybe. I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s in my head now. Killing brain cells. When we break apart she looks different, her eyes darker, deeper. She turns away and when she turns back again she’s smiling at me and for a second I think we might both be thinking the same thing. But I’m wrong, of course, so wrong, because I was thinking about how I’m, like, the luckiest guy on the planet and she— She puts her hand on my chest and says, softly: “You’re really not my type.”

That knocks the wind out of me. I drop my arms from around her waist and take a sudden, uncertain step backward. She cringes, covers her face with both hands. “I don’t—wow— I don’t mean you’re not my type.” She shakes her head, hard. “I just mean I don’t normally— I don’t usually do this.” “Do what?” I say, still wounded. “This,” she says, and gestures between us. “I don’t— I don’t, like, just go around kissing guys I barely know.” “Okay.” I frown. “Do you want to leave?” “No.” Her eyes widen. “Then what do you want?” “I don’t know,” she says, and her eyes go soft again. “I kind of just want to look at you for a minute. I meant what I said about your face,” she says, and smiles. “You have a great face.” I go suddenly weak in the knees. I literally have to sit down. I walk over to my bed and collapse backward, my head hitting the pillow. It feels too good to be horizontal. If there weren’t a gorgeous woman in my room right now, I’d be asleep already. “Just so you know, this is not a move,” I say, mostly to the ceiling. “I’m not trying to get you to sleep with me. I just literally had to lie down. Thank you for appreciating my face. I’ve always thought I had an underappreciated face.” She laughs, hard, and sits next to me, teetering on the edge of the bed, near my arm. “You’re really not what I was expecting,” she says. I peer at her. “What were you expecting?” “I don’t know.” She shakes her head. Smiles at me. “I guess I wasn’t expecting to like you so much.” My chest goes tight. Too tight. I force myself to sit up, to meet her eyes. “Come here,” I say. “You’re too far away.” She kicks off her boots and shifts closer, folding her legs up underneath her. She doesn’t say a word. Just stares at me. And then, carefully, she touches my face, the line of my jaw. My eyes close, my mind swimming with nonsense. I lean back, rest my head against the wall behind us. I know it doesn’t say much for my self-confidence that I’m so surprised this is happening, but I can’t help it. I never thought I’d get this lucky. “Kenji,” she says softly. I open my eyes.

“I can’t be your girlfriend.” I blink. Sit up a little. “Oh,” I say. It hadn’t occurred to me until exactly this moment that I might even want something like that, but now that I’m thinking about it, I know that I do. A girlfriend is exactly what I want. I want a relationship. I want something real. “It would never work, you know?” She tilts her head, looks at me like it’s obvious, like I know as well as she does why things would never work out between us. “We’re not—” She motions between our bodies to indicate something I don’t understand. “We’re so different, right? Plus, I don’t even live here.” “Right,” I say, but my mouth feels suddenly numb. My whole face feels numb. “You don’t even live here.” And then, just as I’m trying to figure out how to pick up the pieces of my obliterated hopes and dreams, she climbs into my lap. Zero to sixty. My body malfunctions. Overheats. She presses her face into my cheek and kisses me, softly, just underneath my jaw, and I feel myself melt into the wall, into the air. I don’t understand what’s happening anymore. She likes me but she doesn’t want to be with me. She’s not going to be with me but she’s going to sit on my lap and kiss me into oblivion. Sure. Okay. I let her touch me the way she wants to, let her put her hands on my body and kiss me wherever, however she wants. She touches me in a proprietary way, like I already belong to her, and I don’t mind. I kind of love it. And I let her take the lead for as long as I can bear it. She’s pulling up my shirt, running her hands across my bare skin and telling me how much she likes my body, and I really feel like—like I can’t breathe. I feel too hot. Delirious but sharp, aware of this moment in an almost primal way. She helps me pull off my shirt and then she just looks at me, first at my face and then at my chest, and she runs her hands across my shoulders, down my arms. “Wow,” she says softly. “You’re so gorgeous.” That’s it for me. I pick her up off my lap and lay her down, on her back, and she gasps, stares at me like she’s surprised. And then, deep, her eyes go deep and dark, and she’s looking at my mouth but I decide to kiss her neck, the curve of her shoulder.

“Nazeera,” I whisper, hardly recognizing the sound of my own voice. “I want you so badly it might kill me.” Suddenly, someone is banging on my door. “Bro, where the hell did you go?” Ian shouts. “Castle brought dinner up like ten minutes ago.” I sit up too fast. I nearly pull a muscle. Nazeera laughs out loud, and even though she claps a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, she’s not quick enough. “Uh— Hello?” Ian again. “Kenji?” “I’ll be right there,” I shout back. I hear him hesitate—his footsteps uncertain—and then he’s gone. I drop my head into my hands. Suddenly, everything comes rushing back to me. For a few minutes this moment with Nazeera felt like the whole world, a welcome reprieve from all the war and death and struggle. But now, with a little oxygen in my brain, I feel stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking. Juliette might be dead. I get to my feet. I pull my shirt on quickly, careful not to meet her eyes. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to look at Nazeera. I have no regrets about kissing her—it’s just that I also feel suddenly guilty, like I was doing something wrong. Something selfish and inappropriate. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what got into me.” Nazeera is tugging on her boots. She looks up, surprised. “What do you mean?” “What we just”—I sigh, hard—“I don’t know. I forgot, for a moment, everything we have to do. The fact that Juliette might be out there, somewhere, being tortured to death. Warner might be dead. We’ll have to pack up and run, leave this place behind. God, there’s so much happening and I just— My head was in the wrong place. I’m sorry.” Nazeera is standing up now. She looks upset. “Why do you keep apologizing to me? Stop apologizing to me.” “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I wince. “I mean— You know what I mean. Anyway, we should go.” “Kenji—” “Listen, you said you didn’t want a relationship, right? You didn’t want to be my girlfriend? You don’t think that this”—I mimic what she did earlier, motioning between us—“could ever work? Well, then—” I take a breath. Run a hand through my hair. “This is what not being my girlfriend looks like. Okay? There are only a few people in my life who actually care

about me, and right now my best friend is probably being murdered by a bunch of psychopaths, and I should be out there, doing something.” “I didn’t realize you and Warner were so close,” she says quietly. “What?” I frown. “No, I’m talking about Juliette,” I say. “Ella. Whatever.” Nazeera’s eyebrows go high. “Anyway, I’m sorry. We should probably just keep this professional, right? You’re not looking for anything serious, and I don’t know how to have casual relationships anyway. I always end up caring too much, to be honest, so this probably wasn’t a good idea.” “Oh.” “Right?” I look at her, hoping, suddenly, that there was something I missed, something more than the cool distance in her eyes. “Didn’t you just tell me that we’re too different? That you don’t even live here?” She turns away. “Yes.” “And have you changed your mind in the last thirty seconds? About being my girlfriend?” She’s still staring at the wall when she says, “No.” Pain shoots up my spine, gathers in my chest. “Okay then,” I say, and nod. “Thanks for your honesty. I have to go.” She cuts past me, walks out the door. “I’m coming, too.”

Juliette I’ve been sitting in the back of a police car for over an hour. I haven’t been able to cry, not yet. And I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I know what I did, and I’m pretty sure I know what happens next. I killed a little boy. I don’t know how I did it. I don’t know why it happened. I just know that it was me, my hands, me. I did that. Me. I wonder if my parents will show up. Instead, three men in military uniforms march up to my window. One of them flings open the door and aims a machine gun at my chest.

“Get out,” he barks. “Out with your hands up.” My heart is racing, terror propelling me out of the car so fast I stumble, slamming my knee into the ground. I don’t need to check to know that I’m bleeding; the pain of the fresh wound is already searing. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, force the tears back. No one helps me up. I want to tell them that I’m only fourteen, that I don’t know a lot about a lot of things, but that I know enough. I’ve watched TV shows about this sort of thing. I know they can’t charge me as an adult. I know that they shouldn’t be treating me like this. But then I remember that the world is different now. We have a new government now, one that doesn’t care how we used to do things. Maybe none of that matters anymore. My heart beats faster. I’m shoved into the backseat of a black car, and before I know it, I’m deposited somewhere new: somewhere that looks like an ordinary office building. It’s tall. Steel gray. It seems old and decrepit—some of its windows are cracked—and the whole thing looks sad. But when I walk inside I’m stunned to discover a blinding, gleaming interior. I look around, taking in the marble floors, the rich carpets and furnishings. The ceilings are high, the architecture modern but elegant. It’s all glass and marble and stainless steel. I’ve never been anywhere so beautiful. And I haven’t even had a moment to take it all in before I’m greeted by a thin, older man with even thinner brown hair. The soldiers flanking me step back as he steps forward. “Ms. Ferrars?” he says. “Yes?” “You are to come with me.” I hesitate. “Who are you?” He studies me a moment and then seems to make a decision. “You may call me Delalieu.” “Okay,” I say, the word disappearing into a whisper. I follow Delalieu into a glass elevator and watch him use a key card to authorize the lift. Once we’re in motion, I find the courage to speak. “Where am I?” I ask. “What’s happening?” His answer comes automatically. “You are in Sector 45 headquarters. You’re here to have a meeting with the chief commander and regent of

Sector 45.” He doesn’t look at me when he speaks, but there’s nothing in his tone that feels threatening. So I ask another question. “Why?” The elevator doors ping as they open. Delalieu finally turns to look at me. “You’ll find out in just a moment.” I follow Delalieu down a hall and wait, quietly, outside a door while he knocks. He peeks his head inside when the door opens, announces his presence, and then motions for me to follow him in. When I do, I’m surprised. There’s a beautiful man in military uniform—I’m assuming he’s the commander—standing in front of a large, wooden desk, his arms crossed against his chest. He’s staring me straight in the eye, and I’m suddenly so overwhelmed I feel myself blush. I’ve never seen anyone so handsome before. I look down, embarrassed, and study the laces of my tennis shoes. I’m grateful for my long hair. It serves as a dark, heavy curtain, shielding my face from view. “Look at me.” The command is sharp and clear. I look up, nervously, to meet his eyes. He has thick, dark brown hair. Eyes like a storm. He looks at me for so long I feel goose bumps rise along my skin. He won’t look away, and I feel more terrified by the moment. This man’s eyes are full of anger. Darkness. There’s something genuinely frightening about him, and my heart begins to hammer. “You’re growing up quickly,” he says. I stare at him, confused, but he’s still studying my face. “Fourteen years old,” he says quietly. “Such a complicated age for a young girl.” Finally, he sighs. Looks away. “It always breaks my heart to break beautiful things.” “I don’t— I don’t understand,” I say, feeling suddenly ill. He looks up again. “You’re aware of what you did today?” I freeze. Words pile up in my throat, die in my mouth. “Yes or no?” he demands. “Y-yes,” I say quickly. “Yes.” “And do you know why you did it? Do you know how you did it?” I shake my head, my eyes filling fast with tears. “It was an accident,” I whisper. “I didn’t know— I didn’t know that this—” “Does anyone else know about your sickness?”

“No.” I stare at him, my eyes wide even as tears blur my vision. “I mean, n-not, not really—just my parents—but no one really understands what’s wrong with me. I don’t even understand—” “You mean you didn’t plan this? It wasn’t your intention to murder the little boy?” “No!” I cry out, and then clap both hands over my mouth. “No,” I say, quietly now. “I was trying to help him. He’d fallen to the floor and I— I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.” “Liar.” I’m still shaking my head, wiping away tears with shaking hands. “It was an accident. I swear, I didn’t mean to—I d-didn’t—” “Sir.” It’s Delalieu. His voice. I didn’t realize he was still in the room. I sniff, hard, wiping quickly at my face, but my hands are still shaking. I try, again, to swallow back the tears. To pull myself together. “Sir,” Delalieu says more firmly, “perhaps we should conduct this interview elsewhere.” “I don’t see why that’s necessary.” “I don’t mean to seem impertinent, sir, but I really feel that you might be better served conducting this interview privately.” I dare to turn, to look up at him. And that’s when I notice the third person in the room. A boy. My breath catches in my throat with an almost audible gasp. A single tear escapes down my cheek and I brush it away, even as I stare at him. I can’t help it—I can’t look away. He has the kind of face I’ve never seen in real life. He’s more handsome than the commander. More beautiful. Still, there’s something unnerving about him, something cold and alien about his face that makes him difficult to look at. He’s almost too perfect. He has a sharp jawline and sharp cheekbones and a sharp, straight nose. Everything about him reminds me of a blade. His face is pale. His eyes are a stunning, clear green, and he has rich, golden hair. And he’s staring at me, his eyes wide with an emotion I can’t decipher. A throat clears. The spell is broken. Heat floods my face and I avert my eyes, mortified I didn’t look away sooner.

I hear the commander mutter angrily under his breath. “Unbelievable,” he says. “Always the same.” I look up. “Aaron,” he says sharply. “Get out.” The boy—his name must be Aaron—startles. He stares at the commander for a second, and then glances at the door. But he doesn’t move. “Delalieu, please escort my son from the room, as he seems presently unable to remember how to move his legs.” His son. Wow. That explains the face. “Yes, sir, of course, sir.” Aaron’s expression is impossible to read. I catch him looking at me, just once more, and when he finds me staring, he frowns. It’s not an unkind look. Still, I turn away. He and Delalieu move past me as they exit, and I pretend not to notice when I hear him whisper— “Who is she?” —as they walk away. “Ella? Are you all right?” I blink, slowly clearing the webbing of blackness obscuring my vision. Stars explode and fade behind my eyes and I try to stand, the carpet pressing popcorn impressions into my palms, metal digging into my flesh. I’m wearing manacles, glowing cuffs that emit a soft, blue light that leaches the life from my skin, makes my own hands seem sinister. The woman at my door is staring at me. She smiles. “Your father and I thought you might be hungry,” she says. “We made you dinner.” I can’t move. My feet seem bolted in place, the pinks and purples of the walls and floors assaulting me from every corner. I’m standing in the middle of the bizarre museum of what was likely my childhood bedroom —staring at what might be my biological mother—and I feel like I might throw up. The lights are suddenly too bright, the voices too loud. Someone walks toward me and the movement feels exaggerated, the footsteps thudding hard and fast in my ears. My vision goes in and out and the walls seem to shake. The floor shifts, tilts backward. I fall, hard, onto the floor.

For a minute, I hear nothing but my heartbeat. Loud, so loud, pressing in on me, assaulting me with a cacophony of sound so disturbing I double over, press my face into the carpet and scream. I’m hysterical, my bones shaking in my skin, and the woman picks me up, reels me in, and I tear away, still screaming— “Where is everyone?” I scream. “What’s happening to me?” I scream. “Where am I? Where’s Warner and Kenji and oh my God—oh my God— all those people—all those people I k-killed—” Vomit inches up my throat, choking me, and I try and fail to suppress the images, the horrible, terrifying images of bodies cleaved open, blood snaking down ridges of poorly torn flesh and something pierces my mind, something sharp and blinding and suddenly I’m on my knees, heaving the meager contents of my stomach into a pink basket. I can hardly breathe. My lungs are overworked, my stomach still threatening to betray me, and I’m gasping, my hands shaking hard as I try to stand. I spin around, the room moving more quickly than I do, and I see only flashes of pink, flashes of purple. I sway. Someone catches me again, this time new arms, and the man who calls me his daughter holds me like I’m his child and he says, “Honey, you don’t have to think about them anymore. You’re safe now.” “Safe?” I rear back, eyes wild. “Who are you—?” The woman takes my hand. Squeezes my fingers even as I wrench free from her grip. “I’m your mother,” she says. “And I’ve decided it’s time for you to come home.” “What”—I grab two fistfuls of her shirt—“have you done with my friends?” I scream. And then I shake her, shake her so hard she actually looks scared for a second, and then I try to pick her up and throw her into the wall but remember, with a start, that my powers have been cut off, that I have to rely on mere anger and adrenaline and I turn around, suddenly furious, feeling more certain by the second that I’ve begun to hallucinate, hallucinate, when unexpectedly she slaps me in the face. Hard. I blink, stunned, but manage to stay upright.

“Ella Sommers,” she says sharply, “you will pull yourself together.” Her eyes flash as she appraises me. “What is this ridiculous, dramatic behavior? Worried about your friends? Those people are not your friends.” My cheek burns and half my mouth feels numb but I say, “Yes, yes they’re my fr—” She slaps me again. My eyes close. Reopen. I feel suddenly dizzy. “We are your parents,” she says in a harsh whisper. “Your father and I have brought you home. You should be grateful.” I taste blood. I reach up, touch my lip. My fingers come away red. “Where’s Emmaline?” Blood is pooling in my mouth and I spit it out, onto the floor. “Have you kidnapped her, too? Does she know what you’ve done? That you donated us to The Reestablishment? Sold our bodies to the world?” A third, swift slap. I feel it ring in my skull. “How dare you.” My mother’s face flushes crimson. “How dare you— You have no idea what we’ve built, all these years— The sacrifices we made for our future—” “Now, Evie,” my dad says, and places a calming hand on her shoulder. “Everything is going to be okay. Ella just needs a little time to settle in, that’s all.” He glances at me. “Isn’t that right, Ella?” It hits me then, in that moment. Everything. It hits me, all at once, with a frightening, destabilizing force— I’ve been kidnapped by a pair of crazy people and I might never see my friends again. In fact, my friends might be dead. My parents might’ve killed them. All of them. The realization is like suffocation. Tears fill my throat, my mouth, my eyes— “Where,” I say, my chest heaving, “is Warner? What did you do to him?” Evie’s expression goes suddenly murderous. “You and that damn boy. If I have to hear his name one more time—” “Where’s Warner?” I’m screaming again. “Where is he? Where’s Kenji? What did you do with them?” Evie looks suddenly exhausted. She pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger.

“Darling,” she says, but she isn’t looking at me, she’s looking at my father. “Will you handle this, please? I have a terrible headache and several urgent phone calls to return.” “Of course, my love.” And he pulls a syringe from his pocket and stabs it, swiftly, into my neck.

Kenji The common room is really growing on me. I used to walk by, all the time, and wonder why Warner ever thought we’d need a common room this big. There’s tons of seating and a lot of room to spread out, but I always thought it was a waste of space. I secretly wished Warner had used the square footage for our bedrooms. Now I get it. When Nazeera and I walk in, ten minutes late to the impromptu pizza party, everyone is here. Brendan is here. He’s sitting in a corner being fussed over by Castle and Alia, and I nearly tackle him. I don’t, of course, because it’s obvious he’s still in recovery, but I’m relieved to find that he looks okay. Mostly he looks wrung-out, but he’s not wearing a sling or anything, so I’m guessing the girls didn’t run into any problems when they were patching him up. That’s a great sign. I spot Winston walking across the room and I catch up to him, clap him on the back. “Hey,” I say, when he turns around. “You okay?” He’s balancing a couple of paper plates, both of which are already sagging under the weight of too much pizza, and he smiles with his whole face when he says, “I hate today. Today is a garbage fire. I hate everything about today except for the fact that Brendan is okay and we have pizza. Other than that, today can go straight to hell.” “Yeah. I feel that so much.” And then, after a pause, I say quietly: “So I’m guessing you never had that conversation with Brendan, huh?” Winston goes suddenly pink. “I said I was waiting for the right time. Does this seem like the right time to you?”

“Good point.” I sigh. “I guess I was just hoping you had some good news. We could all use some good news right now.” Winston shoots me a sympathetic look. “No word on Juliette?” I shake my head. Feel suddenly sick. “Has anyone told you her real name is Ella?” “I heard,” Winston says, raising his eyebrows. “That whole story is batshit.” “Yeah,” I say. “Today is the worst.” “Fuck today,” Winston says. “Don’t forget about tomorrow,” I say. “Tomorrow’s going to suck, too.” “What? Why?” The paper plates in Winston’s hands are going translucent from pizza grease. “What’s happening tomorrow?” “Last I heard we were jumping ship,” I say. “Running for our lives. I’m assuming it’s going to suck.” “Shit.” Winston nearly drops his plates. “Seriously? Brendan needs more time to rest.” Then, after a beat: “Where are we going to go?” “The other side of the continent, apparently,” Ian says as he walks over. He hands me a plate of pizza. I murmur a quick thanks and stare at the pizza, wondering whether I’d be able to shove the whole thing in my mouth at once. Probably not. “Do you know something we don’t?” Winston says to Ian, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Winston tries, unsuccessfully, to shove them back up with his forearm, and Ian steps up to do it for him. “I know a lot of things you don’t know,” Ian says. “The first of which is that Kenji was definitely hooking up with Nazeera, like, five seconds ago.” My mouth nearly falls open before I remember there’s food in it. I swallow, too quickly, and choke. I’m still coughing as I look around, panicking that Nazeera might be within earshot. Only when I spot her across the room speaking with Sonya and Sara do I finally relax. I glare at Ian. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Winston, at least, has the decency to whisper-yell when he says, “You were hooking up with Nazeera? We were only gone a few hours!” “I did not hook up with Nazeera,” I lie. Ian takes a bite of pizza. “Whatever, bro. No judgment. The world’s on fire. Have some fun.” “We didn’t”—I sigh, look away—“it wasn’t like that. It’s not even anything. We were just, like—” I make some random gesture with my hand that means exactly nothing.

Ian raises his eyebrows. “Okay,” Winston says, shooting me a look. “We’ll talk about the Nazeera thing later.” He turns to Ian. “What’s happening tomorrow?” “We bail,” Ian says. “Be ready to go at dawn.” “Right, I heard that part,” Winston says, “but where are we going?” Ian shrugs. “Castle has the news,” he says. “That’s all I heard. He was waiting for Kenji and Nazeera to put their clothes back on before he told everyone the details.” I tilt my head at Ian, threatening him with a single look. “Nothing is going on with me and Nazeera,” I say. “Drop it.” “All right,” he says, picking at his pizza. “Makes sense. I mean she’s not even that pretty.” My plate falls out of my hand. Pizza hits the floor. I feel a sudden, unwelcome need to punch Ian in the face. “Are you— Are you out of your mind? Not even— She’s, like, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and you’re out here saying she’s not even that pretty? Have y—” “See what I’m saying?” Ian cuts me off. He’s looking at Winston. “Wow,” Winston says, staring solemnly at the pizza on the ground. “Yeah, Kenji is definitely full of shit.” I drag a hand across my face. “I hate you guys.” “Anyway,” Ian says, “I heard Castle’s news has something to do with Nouria.” My head snaps back up. Nouria. I nearly forgot. This morning, just before the symposium, the twins told me they’d uncovered something—something to do with the poison in the bullets Juliette had been shot with—that led them back to Nouria. But so much happened today that I never had the chance to follow up. Find out what happened. “Did you hear about that?” Ian asks me, raising an eyebrow. “She sent a message, apparently. That’s what the girls are saying.” “Yeah,” I say, and frown. “I heard.” I honestly have no idea how this might shake out. It’s been at least ten years since the last time Castle saw his daughter, Nouria. Darrence and Jabari, his two boys, were murdered by police officers when they refused to let the men into their house without a warrant. This was before The Reestablishment took over. Castle wasn’t home that day, but Nouria was.

She watched it happen. Castle said he felt like he’d lost three children that day. Nouria never recovered. Instead, she grew detached. Listless. She stopped coming home at normal hours and then—one day—she disappeared. The Reestablishment was always picking kids up off the street and shipping them wherever they felt there was a need to fill. Nouria was collected against her will; picked up and packaged for another sector. Castle knew for certain that it happened, because The Reestablishment sent him a receipt for his child. A fucking receipt. Everyone from Point knew Castle’s story. He always made an effort to be honest, to share the hardest, most painful memories from his life so that the rest of us didn’t feel like we were suffering alone. Castle thought he’d never see Nouria again. So if she’s reaching out now— Just then, Castle catches my eye. He glances at me, then at Nazeera. A hint of a smile touches his lips and then it’s gone, his spine straight as he addresses the room. He looks good, I realize. He looks bright, alive like I haven’t seen him in years. His locs are pulled back, tied neatly at the base of his neck. His faded blue blazer still fits him perfectly, even after all these years. “I have news,” he says. But I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming next. Nouria lives in Sector 241, thousands of miles away, and cross-sector communication is nearly unheard of. Only rebel groups are brave enough to risk sending coded messages across the continent. Ian and Winston know this. I know this. Everyone knows this. Which means Castle is probably here to tell us that Nouria has gone rogue. Ha. Like father, like daughter.

Warner

“Hi,” I say. She turns at the sound of my voice and startles when she sees my face. Her eyes widen. And I feel it, right away, when her emotions change. She’s attracted to me. She’s attracted to me, and the revelation makes me happy. I don’t know why. It’s not new. I learned, long ago, that lots of people find me attractive. Men. Women. Especially older women, a phenomenon I still don’t understand. But this— It makes me happy. She finds me attractive. “Hi,” she says, but she won’t look at me. I realize she’s blushing. I’m surprised. There’s something sweet about her, something gentle and sweet I wasn’t really expecting. “Are you doing all right?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. The girl is clearly in an awful position. Right now she’s only in our custody for as long as it takes my father to decide what to do with her. She’s currently in a fairly comfortable holding facility here on base, but she’ll likely end up in a juvenile detention center. I’m not sure. I’ve heard my father talk about running more tests on her first. Her parents are apparently hysterical, desperate for us to take her in and deal with her. Offer a diagnosis. They think she killed the little boy on purpose. They think their daughter is insane. I think she seems just fine. Better than fine. I can’t stop looking at her. My eyes travel her face more than once, studying her features carefully. She seems so familiar to me, like I might’ve seen her before. Maybe in a dream. I’m aware, even as I think it, that my thoughts are ridiculous. But I was drawn down here, magnetized to her by something beyond my control. I know I shouldn’t have come. I have no business talking to her, and if my father found me in here he’d likely murder me. But I’ve tried, for days, to forget her face, and I couldn’t. I try to sleep at night and her likeness materializes in the blackness. I needed to see her again. I don’t know how to defend it. Finally, she speaks, and I shake free from my reverie. I remind myself that I’ve asked her a question. “Yes, thank you,” she says, her eyes on the floor. “I’m doing fine.” She’s lying.

I want her to look up, to meet my eyes. She doesn’t, and I find it frustrating. “Will you look at me?” I say. That works well enough. But when she looks me directly in the eye I feel my heart go suddenly, terrifyingly still. A skipped beat. A moment of death. And then— Fast. My heart is racing too fast. I’ve never understood my ability to be so aware of others, but it’s often served me well. In most cases, it offers me an advantage. In this case, it’s nothing short of overwhelming. Right now, everything is hitting me twice as hard. I feel two sets of emotions—hers and mine, the both of them intertwined. We seem to be feeling the same things at the same time. It’s disorienting, so heady I can hardly catch my breath. I feel a surprising desire to touch her. I want— “Why?” she says. I blink. “What?” “Why do you want me to look at you?” I take a breath. Clear my head, consider my options. I could tell the truth. I could tell a lie. I could be evasive, change the subject. Finally, I say, “Do I know you?” She laughs and looks away. “No,” she says. “Definitely not.” She bites her lip and I feel her sudden nervousness, hear the spike in her breathing. I draw closer to her almost without realizing it. She looks up at me then, and I realize, with a thrill, how close we are. There’s a palpable heat between our bodies, and her eyes are big and beautiful, blue green. Like the globe, I think. Like the whole world. She’s looking at me and I feel suddenly off-balance. “What’s wrong?” she says. I have to step away from her. “I don’t—” I look at her again. “Are you sure I don’t know you?” And she smiles. Smiles at me and my heart shatters. “Trust me,” she says. “I’d remember you.”

Kenji Delalieu. I can’t believe we forgot about Delalieu. I thought Castle’s news would be about Nouria. I thought he was going to tell us that she reached out to say that she was some fancy resistance leader now, that we’d be welcome to crash at her place for a while. Instead, Castle’s news was— Delalieu. Homeboy came through. Castle steps aside and allows the lieutenant to enter the room, and even though he seems stiff and out of place, Delalieu looks genuinely upset. I feel it, like a punch to the gut, the moment I see his face. Grief. He clears his throat two or three times. When he finally speaks, his voice is steadier than I’ve ever heard it. “I’ve come to reassure you,” he says, “in person, that I’ll make sure your group remains safe here, for as long as I can manage.” A pause. “I don’t know yet exactly what’s happening right now, but I know it can’t be good. I’m worried it won’t end well if you stay, and I’m committed to helping you while you plan your escape.” Everyone is quiet. “Um, thank you,” I say, breaking the silence. I look around the room when I say, “We really appreciate that. But, uh, how much time do we have?” Delalieu shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee your safety for more than a week. But I’m hoping a few days’ reprieve will give you the necessary time to figure out your next steps. Find a safe place to go. In the meantime, I’ll provide whatever assistance I can.” “Okay,” Ian says, but he looks skeptical. “That’s really . . . generous.” Delalieu clears his throat again. “It must be hard to know whether you should trust me. I understand your concerns. But I fear I’ve stayed silent for t-too long,” he says, his voice losing its steadiness. “And now—with— With what’s happened to Warner and to Ms. Ferrars—” He stops, his voice breaking on the last word. He looks up, looks me in the eye. “I’m sure Warner told none of you that I am his grandfather.” My jaw drops open. Actually drops open.

Castle is the only person in the room who doesn’t look shocked. “You’re Warner’s grandfather?” Adam says, getting to his feet. The terrified look in his eyes breaks my heart. “Yes,” Delalieu says quietly. “On his mother’s side.” He meets Adam’s eyes, acknowledging, silently, that he knows. Knows that Adam is Anderson’s illegitimate son. That he knows everything. Adam sits back down, relief apparent on his face. “I can only imagine what an unhappy life yours must’ve been,” Brendan says. I turn to look at him, surprised to hear his voice. He’s been so quiet all this time. But then, of course Brendan would be compassionate. Even to someone like Delalieu, who stepped aside and said nothing while Anderson set the world on fire. “But I’m grateful—we’re all grateful,” Brendan says, “for your help today.” Delalieu manages a smile. “It’s the least I can do,” he says, and turns to go. “Did you know her?” Lily says, her voice sharp. “As Ella?” Delalieu freezes in place, still half turned toward the exit. “Because if you’re Warner’s grandfather,” Lily says, “and you’ve been working under Anderson for this long—you must’ve known her.” Slowly, very slowly, Delalieu turns to face us. He seems tense, nervous like I’ve never seen him. He says nothing, but the answer is written all over his face. The twitch in his hands. Jesus. “How long?” I say, anger building inside of me. “How long did you know her and say nothing?” “I don’t— I d-don’t—” “How long?” I say, my hand already reaching for the gun tucked in the waistband of my pants. Delalieu takes a jerky step backward. “Please don’t,” he says, his eyes wild. “Please don’t ask this of me. I can give you aid. I can provide you with weapons and transportation—anything you need—but I can’t— You don’t underst—” “Coward,” Nazeera says, standing up. She looks stunning, tall and strong and steady. I love watching that girl move. Talk. Breathe. Whatever. “You watched and said nothing as Anderson tortured his own children. Didn’t you?” “No,” Delalieu says desperately, his face flushing with emotion I’ve never seen in him before. “No, that’s not—”

Castle picks up a chair with single flick of his hand and drops it, unceremoniously, in front of Delalieu. “Sit down,” he says, a violent, unguarded rage flashing in his eyes. Delalieu obeys. “How long?” I say again. “How long have you known her as Ella?” “I— I’ve”—Delalieu hesitates, looks around—“I’ve known Ella s-since she was a child,” he says finally. I feel the blood leave my body. His clear, explicit confession is too much. It means too much. I sag under the weight of it—the lies, the conspiracies. I sink back into my chair and my heart splinters for Juliette, for all she’s suffered at the hands of the people meant to protect her. I can’t form the words I need to tell Delalieu he’s a spineless piece of shit. It’s Nazeera who still has the presence of mind to spear him. Her voice is soft—lethal—when she speaks. “You’ve known Ella since she was a child,” Nazeera says. “You’ve been here, working here, helping Anderson since Ella was a child. That means you helped Anderson put her in the custody of abusive, adoptive parents and you stood by as they tortured her, as Anderson tortured her, over and over—” “No,” Delalieu cries out. “I d-didn’t condone any of that. Ella was supposed to grow up in a normal home environment. She was supposed to be given nurturing parents and a stable upbringing. Those were the terms everyone agreed t—” “Bullshit,” Nazeera says, her eyes flashing. “You know as well as I do that her adoptive parents were monsters—” “Paris changed the terms of the agreement,” Delalieu shouts angrily. Nazeera raises an eyebrow, unmoved. But something seems to have loosened Delalieu’s tongue, something like fear or guilt or pent-up rage, because suddenly the words rush out of him. “Paris went back on his word as soon as Ella was in his custody,” he says. “He thought no one would find out. Back then he and I were about the same, as far as rank went, in The Reestablishment. We often worked closely together because of our family ties, and I was, as a result, privy to the choices he made.” Delalieu shakes his head.

“But I discovered too late that he purposely chose adoptive parents who exhibited abusive, dangerous behavior. When I confronted him about it he argued that any abuse Ella suffered at the hands of her surrogate parents would only encourage her powers to manifest, and he had the statistics to support his claim. I tried to voice my concerns—I reported him; I told the council of commanders that he was hurting her, breaking her—but he made my concerns sound like the desperate histrionics of someone unwilling to do what was necessary for the cause.” I can see the color creeping up Delalieu’s neck, his anger only barely contained. “I was repeatedly overruled. Demoted. I was punished for questioning his tactics. “But I knew Paris was wrong,” he says quietly. “Ella withered. When I first met her she was a strong girl with a joyful spirit. She was unfailingly kind and upbeat.” He hesitates. “It wasn’t long before she grew cold and closed-off. Withdrawn. Paris moved up in rank quickly, and I was soon relegated to little more than his right hand. I was the one he sent to check on her at home, at school. I was ordered to monitor her behavior, write the reports outlining her progress. “But there were no results. Her spirit had been broken. I begged Paris to put her elsewhere—to, at the very least, return her to a regular facility, one that I might oversee personally—and still he insisted, over and over again, that the abuse she suffered would spur results.” Delalieu is on his feet now, pacing. “He was hoping to impress the council, hoping his efforts would be rewarded with yet another promotion. It soon became his single task to wait, to have me watch Ella closely for developments, for any sign that she’d changed. Evolved.” He stops in place. Swallows, hard. “But Paris was careless.” Delalieu drops his head into his hands. The room around us has gone so quiet I can almost hear the seconds pass. We’re all waiting for him to keep going, but he doesn’t lift his head. I’m studying him—his shaking hands, the tremble in his legs, his general loss of composure—and my heart hammers in my chest. I feel like he’s about to break. Like he’s close to telling us something important. “What do you mean?” I say quietly. “Careless how?” Delalieu looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and wild. “I mean it was his one job,” he says, slamming his fist against the wall. He hits it, hard, his knuckles breaking through the plaster, and for a

moment, I’m genuinely stunned. I didn’t think Delalieu had it in him. “You don’t understand,” he says, losing the fire. He stumbles back, sags against the wall. “My greatest regret in life has been watching those kids suffer and doing nothing about it.” “Wait,” Winston says. “Which kids? Who are you talking about?” But Delalieu doesn’t seem to hear him. He only shakes his head. “Paris never took Ella’s assignment seriously. It was his fault she lost control. It was his fault she didn’t know better, it was his fault she hadn’t been prepared or trained or properly guarded. It was his fault she killed that little boy,” he says, now so broken his voice is shaking. “What she did that day nearly destroyed her. Nearly ruined the entire operation. Nearly exposed us to the world.” He closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his temples. And then he sinks back down into his chair. He looks unmoored. Castle and I share a knowing glance from across the room. Something is happening. Something is about to happen. Delalieu is a resource we never realized we had. And for all his protests, he actually seems like he wants to talk. Maybe Delalieu is the key. Maybe he can tell us what we need to know about—about everything. About Juliette, about Anderson, about The Reestablishment. It’s obvious a dam broke open in Delalieu. I’m just hoping we can keep him talking. It’s Adam who says, “If you hated Anderson so much, why didn’t you stop him when you had the chance?” “Don’t you understand?” Delalieu says, his eyes big and round and sad. “I never had the chance. I didn’t have the authority, and we’d only just been voted into power. Leila—my daughter—was sicker every day and I was— I wasn’t myself. I was unraveling. I suspected foul play in her illness but had no proof. I spent my work hours overseeing the crumbling mental and physical health of an innocent young woman, and I spent my free hours watching my daughter die.” “Those are excuses,” Nazeera says coldly. “You were a coward.” He looks up. “Yes,” he says. “That’s true. I was a coward.” He shakes his head, turns away. “I said nothing, even when Paris spun Ella’s tragedy into a victory. He told everyone that what Ella did to that boy was a blessing in disguise. That, in fact, it was exactly what he’d been working toward. He argued that what she did that day, regardless of the consequences, was the exact manifestation of her powers he’d been hoping for all along.” Delalieu looks suddenly sick. “He got away with

everything. Everything he ever wanted, he was given. And he was always reckless. He did lazy work, all the while using Ella as a pawn to fulfill his own sadistic desires.” “Please be more specific,” Castle says coolly. “Anderson had a great deal of sadistic desires. Which are you referring to?” Delalieu goes pale. His voice is lower, weaker, when he says, “Paris has always been perversely fond of destroying his own son. I never understood it. I never understood his need to break that boy. He tortured him a thousand different ways, but when Paris discovered the depth of Aaron’s emotional connection to Ella, he used it to drive that boy near to madness.” “That’s why he shot her,” I say, remembering what Juliette—Ella—told me after Omega Point was bombed. “Anderson wanted to kill her to teach Warner a lesson. Right?” But something changes in Delalieu’s face. Transforms him, sags him down. And then he laughs—a sad, broken laugh. “You don’t understand, you don’t understand, you don’t understand,” he cries, shaking his head. “You think these recent events are everything. You think Aaron fell in love with your friend of several months, a rebel girl named Juliette. You don’t know. You don’t know. You don’t know that Aaron has been in love with Ella for the better part of his entire life. They’ve known each other since childhood.” Adam makes a sound. A stunned sound of disbelief. “Okay, I have to be honest— I don’t get it,” Ian says. He steals a wary glance at Nazeera before he says, “Nazeera said Anderson has been wiping their memories. If that’s true, then how could Warner be in love with her for so long? Why would Anderson wipe their memories, tell them all about how they know each other, and then wipe their memories again?” Delalieu is shaking his head. A strange smile begins to form on his face, the kind of shaky, terrified smile that isn’t a smile at all. “No. No. You don’t—” He sighs, looks away. “Paris has never told either of them about their shared history. The reason he had to keep wiping their memories was because it didn’t matter how many times he reset the story or remade the introductions— Aaron always fell in love with her. Every time. “In the beginning Paris thought it was a fluke. He found it almost funny. Entertaining. But the more it happened, the more it began to drive Paris insane. He thought there was something wrong with Aaron—that

there was something wrong with him on a genetic level, that he’d been plagued by a sickness. He wanted to crush what he saw as a weakness.” “Wait,” Adam says, holding up his hands. “What do you mean, the more it happened? How many times did it happen?” “At least several times.” Adam looks shell-shocked. “They met and fell in love several times?” Delalieu takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know that they always fell in love, exactly. Paris seldom let them spend that much time alone. But they were always drawn together. It was obvious, every time he put them in the same room, they were like”—Delalieu claps his hands—“magnets.” Delalieu shakes his head at Adam. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you all this. I’m sure it’s painful to hear, especially considering your history with Ella. It’s not fair that you were pulled into Paris’s games. He never should’ve p—” “Whoa, whoa— Wait. What games?” Adam says, stunned. “What are you talking about?” Delalieu runs a hand across his sweaty forehead. He looks like he’s melting, crumbling under pressure. Maybe someone should get him some water. “There’s too much,” he says wearily. “Too much to tell. Too much to explain.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I—” “I need you to try,” Adam says, his eyes flashing. “Are you saying our relationship was fake? That everything she said—everything she felt was fake?” “No,” Delalieu says quickly, even as he uses his shirtsleeve to wipe the sweat from his face. “No. As far as I’m aware, her feelings for you were as real as anything else. You came into her life at a particularly difficult time, and your kindness and affection no doubt meant a great deal to her.” He sighs. “I only mean that it wasn’t coincidence that both of Paris’s boys fell in love with the same girl. Paris liked toying with things. He liked cutting things open to study them. He liked experiments. And Paris pit you and Warner against each other on purpose. “He planted the soldier at your lunch table who let slip that Warner was monitoring a girl with a lethal touch. He sent another to speak with you, to ask you about your history with her, to appeal to your protective nature by discussing Aaron’s plans for her— Do you remember? You were persuaded, from every angle, to apply for the position. When you did, Paris pulled your application from the pile and encouraged Aaron to

interview you. He then made it clear that you should be chosen as her cellmate. He let Aaron think he was making all his own decisions as CCR of Sector 45—but Paris was always there, manipulating everything. I watched it happen.” Adam looks so stunned it takes him a moment to speak. “So . . . he knew? My dad always knew about me? Knew where I was—what I was doing?” “Knew?” Delalieu frowns. “Paris orchestrated your lives. That was the plan, from the beginning.” He looks at Nazeera. “All the children of the supreme commanders were to become case studies. You were engineered to be soldiers. You and James,” he says to Adam, “were unexpected, but he made plans for you, too.” “What?” Adam goes white. “What’s his plan for me and James?” “This, I honestly don’t know.” Adam sits back in his chair, looking suddenly ill. “Where is Ella now?” Winston says sharply. “Do you know where they’re keeping her?” Delalieu shakes his head. “All I know is that she can’t be dead.” “What do you mean she can’t be dead?” I ask. “Why not?” “Ella’s and Emmaline’s powers are critical to the regime,” he says. “Critical to the continuation of everything we’ve been working toward. The Reestablishment was built with the promise of Ella and Emmaline. Without them, Operation Synthesis means nothing.” Castle bolts upright. His eyes are wide. “Operation Synthesis,” he says breathlessly, “has to do with Ella?” “The Architect and the Executioner,” Delalieu says. “It—” Delalieu falls back with a small, surprised gasp, his head hitting the back of his chair. Everything, suddenly, seems to slow down. I feel my heart rate slow. I feel the world slow. I feel formed from water, watching the scene unfold in slow motion, frame by frame. A bullet between his eyes. Blood trickling down his forehead. A short, sharp scream. “You traitorous son of a bitch,” someone says. I’m seeing it, but I don’t believe it. Anderson is here.

Juliette I’m given no explanations. My father doesn’t invite me to dinner, like Evie promised. He doesn’t sit me down to offer me long histories about my presence or his; he doesn’t reveal groundbreaking information about my life or the other supreme commanders or even the nearly six hundred people I just murdered. He and Evie are acting like the horrors of the last seventeen years never happened. Like nothing strange has ever happened, like I never stopped being their daughter—not in the ways that matter, anyway. I don’t know what was in that needle, but the effects are unlike anything I’ve experienced. I feel both awake and asleep, like I’m spinning in place, like there’s too much grease turning the wheels in my brain and I try to speak and realize my lips no longer move on command. My father carries my limp body into a blindingly silver room, props me up in a chair, straps me down, and panic pours into me, hot and terrifying, flooding my mind. I try to scream. Fail. My brain is slowly disconnecting from my body, like I’m being removed from myself. Only basic, instinctual functions seem to work. Swallowing. Breathing. Crying. Tears fall quietly down my face and my father whistles a tune, his movements light and easy even as he sets up an IV drip. He moves with such startling efficiency I don’t even realize he’s removed my manacles until I see the scalpel. A flash of silver. The blade is so sharp he meets no resistance as he slices clean lines into my forearms and blood, blood, heavy and warm, spills down my wrists and into my open palms and it doesn’t seem real, not even when he stabs several electrical wires into my exposed flesh. The pain arrives just seconds later. Pain. It begins at my feet, blooms up my legs, unfurls in my stomach and works its way up my throat only to explode behind my eyes, inside my brain, and I cry out, but only in my mind, my useless hands still limp on the armrests, and I’m so certain he’s going to kill me— but then he smiles.

And then he’s gone. I lie in agony for what feels like hours. I watch, through a delirious fog, as blood drips off my fingertips, each drop feeding the crimson pools growing in the folds of my pants. Visions assault me, memories of a girl I might’ve been, scenes with people I might’ve known. I want to believe they’re hallucinations, but I can’t be certain of anything anymore. I don’t know if Max and Evie are planting things in my mind. I don’t know that I can trust anything I might’ve once believed about myself. I can’t stop thinking about Emmaline. I’m adrift, suspended in a pool of senselessness, but something about her keeps tugging, sparking my nerves, errant currents pushing me to the surface of something—an emotional revelation—that trembles into existence only to evaporate, seconds later, as if it might be terrified to exist. This goes on and on and on and on and on Lightyears. Eons. over and over whispers of clarity gasps of oxygen and I’m tossed back out to sea. Bright, white lights flicker above my head, buzzing in unison with the low, steady hum of engines and cooling units. Everything smells sharp, like antiseptic. Nausea makes my head swim. I squeeze my eyes shut, the only command my body will obey. Me and Emmaline at the zoo Me and Emmaline, first trip on a plane Me and Emmaline, learning to swim Me and Emmaline, getting our hair cut

Images of Emmaline fill my mind, moments from the first years of our lives, details of her face I never knew I could conjure. I don’t understand it. I don’t know where they’re coming from. I can only imagine that Evie put these images here, but why Evie would want me to see this, I don’t understand. Scenes play through my head like I might be flipping through a photo album, and they make me miss my sister. They make me remember Evie as my mother. Make me remember I had a family. Maybe Evie wants me to reminisce. My blood has hit the floor. I hear it, the familiar drip, the sound like a broken faucet, the slow tap tap of tepid fluid on tile. Emmaline and I held hands everywhere we went, often wearing matching outfits. We had the same long brown hair, but her eyes were pure blue, and she was a few inches taller than me. We were only a year apart, but she looked so much older. Even then, there was something in her eyes that looked hard. Serious. She held my hand like she was trying to protect me. Like maybe she knew more than I did. Where are you? I wonder. What did they do to you? I have no idea where I am. No idea what they’ve done to me. No idea of the hour or the day, and pain blisters everywhere. I feel like a live wire, like my nerves have been stapled to the outside of my body, sensitive to every minute change in environment. I exhale and it hurts. Twitch and it takes my breath away. And then, in a flash of movement, my mother returns. The door opens and the motion forces a gentle rush of air into the room, a whisper of a breeze, gentle even as it grazes my skin, and somehow the sensation is so unbearable I’m certain I’ll scream. I don’t. “Feeling better?” she says. Evie is holding a silver box. I try to look more closely but the pain is in my eyes now. Searing. “You must be wondering why you’re here,” she says softly. I hear her working on something, glass and metal touching together, coming apart, touching together, coming apart. “But you must be patient, little bird. You might not even get to stay.” I close my eyes.

I feel her cold, slender fingers on my face just seconds before she yanks my eyelids back. Swiftly, she replaces her fingers with sharp, steel clamps, and I muster only a low, guttural sound of agony. “Keep your eyes open, Ella. Now’s not the time to fall asleep.” Even then, in that painful, terrifying moment, the words sound familiar. Strange and familiar. I can’t figure out why. “Before we make any concrete plans to keep you here, I need to make sure”—she tugs on a pair of latex gloves—“that you’re still viable. See how you’ve held up after all these years.” Her words send waves of dread coursing through me. Nothing has changed. Nothing has changed. I’m still no more than a receptacle. My body exchanges hands exchanges hands in exchange for what My mother has no love for me. What has she done to my sister. “Where is Emmaline?” I try to scream, but the words don’t leave my mouth. They expand in my head, explosive and angry, pressing against the ridges of my mind even as my lips refuse to obey me. Dying. The word occurs to me suddenly, as if it were something I’ve just remembered, the answer to a question I forgot existed. I don’t comprehend it. Evie is standing in front of me again. She touches my hair, sifts through the short, coarse strands like she might be panning for gold. The physical contact is excruciating. “Unacceptable,” she says. “This is unacceptable.” She turns away, makes notes in a tablet she pulls out of her lab coat. Roughly, she takes my chin in her hand, lifts my face toward hers. Evie counts my teeth. Runs the tip of one finger along my gums. She examines the insides of my cheeks, the underside of my tongue. Satisfied, she rips off the gloves, the latex making harsh snapping sounds that collide and echo, shattering the air around me. A mechanical purr fills my ears and I realize Evie is adjusting my chair. I was previously in a reclining position, now I’m flat on my back. She takes a pair of shears to my clothes, cutting straight through my pants, my shirt, my sleeves.

Fear threatens to rip my chest open, but I only lie there, a perfect vegetable, as she strips me down. Finally, Evie steps back. I can’t see what’s happening. The hum of an engine builds into a roar. Sounds like scissors, slicing the air. And then: Sheets of glass materialize at the edges of my vision, move toward me from all sides. They lock into place easily, seams sealing shut with a cool click sound. I’m being burned alive. Heat like I’ve never known it, fire I can’t see or stop. I don’t know how it’s happening but I feel it. I smell it. The scent of charred flesh fills my nose, threatens to upend the contents of my stomach. The top layer of skin is being slowly singed off my body. Blood beads along my body like morning dew, and a fine mist follows the heat, cleansing and cooling. Steam fogs up the glass around me and then, just when I think I might die from the pain, the glass fissures open with a sudden gasp. I wish she would just kill me. Instead, Evie is meticulous. She catalogs my every physical detail, making notes, constantly, in her pocket tablet. For the most part, she seems frustrated with her assessment. My arms and legs are too weak, she says. My shoulders too tense, my hair too short, my hands too scarred, my nails too chipped, my lips too chapped, my torso too long. “We made you too beautiful,” she says, shaking her head at my naked body. She prods at my hips, the balls of my feet. “Beauty can be a terrifying weapon, if you know how to wield it. But all this seems deeply unnecessary now.” She makes another note. When she looks at me again, she looks thoughtful. “I gave this to you,” she says. “Do you understand? This container you live in. I grew it, shaped it. You belong to me. Your life belongs to me. It’s very important that you understand that.” Rage, sharp and hot, sears through my chest. Carefully, Evie cracks open the silver box. Inside are dozens of slim glass cylinders. “Do you know what these are?” she says, lifting a few vials of shimmering, white liquid. “Of course you don’t.” Evie studies me awhile. “We did it wrong the first time,” she finally says. “We didn’t expect emotional health to supersede the physical in such dramatic fashion. We expected stronger minds, from both you. Of course—” Evie hesitates. “She was the superior specimen, your sister. Infinitely superior. You were

always a bit doe-eyed as a child. A little moonier than I’d have liked. Emmaline, on the other hand, was pure fire. We never dreamed she’d deteriorate so quickly. Her failures have been a great personal disappointment.” I inhale sharply and choke on something hot and wet in my throat. Blood. So much blood. “But then,” Evie says with a sigh, “such is the situation. We must be adaptable to the unexpected. Amenable to change when necessary.” Evie hits a switch and something seizes inside of me. I feel my spine straighten, my jaw go slack. Blood is now bubbling up my throat in earnest, and I don’t know whether to let it up or swallow it down. I cough, violently, and blood spatters across my face. My arms. Drips down my chest, my fresh pink skin. My mother drops into a crouch. She takes my chin in her hand and forces me to look at her. “You are far too full of emotion,” she says softly. “You feel too much for this world. You call people your friends. You imagine yourself in love.” She shakes her head slowly. “That was never the plan for you, little bird. You were meant for a solitary existence. We put you in isolation on purpose.” She blinks. “Do you understand?” I’m hardly breathing. My tongue feels rough and heavy, foreign in my mouth. I swallow my own blood and it’s revolting, thick and lukewarm, gelatinous with saliva. “If Aaron were anyone else’s son,” she says, “I would’ve had him executed. I’d have him executed right now, if I could. Unfortunately, I alone do not have the authority.” A force of feeling seizes my body. I’m half horror, half joy. I didn’t know I had any hope left that Warner was alive until just this moment. The feeling is explosive. It takes root inside of me. Hope catches fire in my blood, a feeling more powerful than these drugs, more powerful than myself. I cling to it with my whole heart, and, suddenly, I’m able to feel my hands. I don’t know why or how but I feel a quiet strength surge up my spine. Evie doesn’t notice. “I regret our mistakes,” she’s saying. “I regret the oversights that seem so obvious now. We couldn’t have known so many years ago that things would turn out like this. We didn’t expect to be blindsided by something so

flimsy as your emotions. We couldn’t have known, at the onset, that things would escalate in this way. “Paris,” she says, “had convinced everyone that bringing you on base in Sector 45 would be beneficial to us all, that he’d be able to monitor you in a new environment rife with experiences that would motivate your powers to evolve. Your father and I thought it was a stupid plan, stupider still for placing you under the direct supervision of a nineteen-year-old boy with whom your history was . . . complicated.” She looks away. Shakes her head. “But Anderson delivered results. With Aaron you made progress at a rate we’d only dreamed of, and we were forced to let it be. Still,” she says. “It backfired.” Her eyes linger, for a moment, on my shaved head. “There are few people, even in our inner circle, who really understand what we’re doing here. Your father understands. Ibrahim understands. But Paris, for security reasons, was never told everything about you. He wasn’t yet a supreme commander when we gave him the job, and we decided to keep him informed on a need-to-know basis. Another mistake,” Evie says, her voice both sad and terrifying. She presses the back of her hand to her forehead. “Six months and everything falls apart. You run away. You join some ridiculous gang. You drag Aaron into all of this and Paris, the oblivious fool, tries to kill you. Twice. I nearly slit his throat for his idiocy, but my mercy may as well have been for nothing, what with your attempt to murder him. Oh, Ella,” she says, and sighs. “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble this year. The paperwork alone.” She closes her eyes. “I’ve had the same splitting headache for six months.” She opens her eyes. Looks at me for a long time. “And now,” she says, gesturing at me with the tablet in her hand, “there’s this. Emmaline needs to be replaced, and we’re not even sure you’re a suitable substitute. Your body is operating at maybe sixty-five percent efficiency, and your mind is a complete disaster.” She stops. A vein jumps in her forehead. “Perhaps it’s impossible for you to understand how I’m feeling right now. Perhaps you don’t care to know the depth of my disappointments. But you and Emmaline are my life’s work. I was the one who found a way to isolate the gene that was causing widespread transformations in the population. I was the one who managed to re-create the transformation. I was the one who rewrote your genetic code.” She frowns at me, looking, for the first time, like a real person. Her voice

softens. “I remade you, Ella. You and your sister were the greatest accomplishments of my career. Your failures,” she whispers, touching the tips of her fingers to my face, “are my failures.” I make a harsh, involuntary sound. She stands up. “This is going to be uncomfortable for you. I won’t pretend otherwise. But I’m afraid we have no choice. If this is going to work, I’ll need you to have a healthy, unpolluted headspace. We have to start fresh. When we’re done, you won’t remember anything but what I tell you to remember. Do you understand?” My heart picks up and I hear its wild, erratic beats amplified on a nearby monitor. The sounds echo around the room like a siren. “Your temperature is spiking,” Evie says sharply. “There’s no need to panic. This is the merciful option. Paris is still clamoring to have you killed, after all. But Paris”—she hesitates—“Paris can be melodramatic. We’ve all known how much he’s hated you for your effect on Aaron. He blames you, you know.” Evie tilts her head at me. “He thinks you’re part of the reason Aaron is so weak. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if he’s right.” My heart is beating too fast now. My lungs feel fit to burst. The bright lights above my head bleed into my eyes, into my brain— “Now. I’m going to download this information”—I hear her tap the silver box—“directly into your mind. It’s a lot of data to process, and your body will need some time to accept it all.” A long pause. “Your mind might try to reject this, but it’s up to you to let things take their course, do you understand? We don’t want to risk splicing the past and present. It’s only painful in the first few hours, but if you can survive those first hours, your pain receptors will begin to fail, and the rest of the data should upload without incident.” I want to scream. Instead, I make a weak, choking sound. Tears spill fast down my cheeks and my mother stands there, her fingers small and foreign on my face, and I see, but cannot feel, the enormous needle going into the soft flesh at my temple. She empties and refills the syringe what feels like a thousand times, and each time it’s like being submerged underwater, like I’m slowly drowning, suffocating over and over again and never allowed to die. I lie there, helpless and mute, caught in an agony so excruciating I no longer breathe, but rasp, as she leans over me to watch.

“You’re right,” she says softly. “Maybe this is cruel. Maybe it would’ve been kinder to simply let you die. But this isn’t about you, Ella. This is about me. And right now,” she says, stroking my hair, “this is what I need.”

Kenji The whole thing happens so quickly it takes me a second to register exactly what went down. Delalieu is dead. Delalieu is dead and Anderson is alive. Anderson is back from the dead. I mean, right now he’s flat on the ground, buried under the weight of every single piece of furniture in this room. Castle stares, intently, from across the space, and when I hear Anderson wheezing, I realize Castle isn’t trying to kill him; he’s only using the furniture to contain him. I inch closer to the crowd forming around Anderson’s gasping figure. And then I notice, with a start, that Adam is pressed up against the wall like a statue, his face frozen in horror. My heart breaks for him. I’m so glad Adam dragged James off to bed hours ago. So glad that kid doesn’t have to see any of this right now. Castle finally makes his way across the room. He’s standing a few feet away from Anderson’s prone figure when he asks the question we’re all thinking: “How are you still alive?” Anderson attempts a smile. It comes out crooked. Crazy. “You know what’s always been so great about you, Castle?” He says Castle’s name like it’s funny, like he’s saying it out loud for the first time. He takes a tight, uneven breath. “You’re so predictable. You like to collect strays. You love a good sob story.” Anderson cries out with a sudden, rough exhalation, and I realize Castle probably turned up the pressure. When Anderson catches his breath, he

says, “You’re an idiot. You’re an idiot for trusting so easily.” Another harsh, painful gasp. “Who do you think called me here?” he says, struggling to speak now. “Who do you think has been keeping me apprised”—another strained breath—“of every single thing you’ve been discussing?” I freeze. A horrible, sick feeling gathers in my chest. We all turn, as a group, to face Nazeera. She’s standing apart from everyone else, the personification of calm, collected intensity. She has no expression on her face. She looks at me like I might be a wall. For a split second I feel so dizzy I think I might actually pass out. Wishful thinking. That’s it—that’s the thing that does it. A room full of extremely powerful people and yet, it’s this moment, this brief, barely there moment of shock that ruins us all. I feel the needle in my neck before I even register what’s happening, and I have only a few seconds to scan the room —glimpsing the horror on my friends’ faces—before I fall.

Warner I’m sitting in my office listening to an old record when I get the call. I worry, at first, that it might be Lena, begging me to come back to her, but my feeling of revulsion quickly transforms to hate when I hear the voice on the line. My father. He wants me downstairs. The mere sound of his voice fills me with a feeling so violent it takes me a minute to control myself. Two years away. Two years becoming the monster my father always wanted me to be. I glance in the mirror, loathing myself with a new, profound intensity I’d never before experienced. Every morning I wake up hoping only to die. To be done with this life, with these days. He knew, when he made that deal, what he was asking me to do. I didn’t. I was sixteen, still young enough to believe in hope, and he took

advantage of my naiveté. He knew what it would do to me. He knew it would break me. And it was all he’d ever wanted. My soul. I sold my soul for a few years with my mother, and now, after everything, I don’t even know if it’ll be worth it. I don’t know if I’ll be able to save her. I’ve been away too long. I’ve missed too much. My mother is doing so much worse now, and no doctor has been able to help her. Nothing has helped. My efforts have been worse than futile. I gave up everything—for nothing. I wish I’d known how those two years would change me. I wish I’d known how hard it would be to live with myself, to look in the mirror. No one warned me about the nightmares, the panic attacks, or the dark, destructive thoughts that would follow. No one explained to me how darkness works, how it feasts on itself or how it festers. I hardly recognize myself these days. Becoming an instrument of torture destroyed what was left of my mind. And now, this: I feel empty, all the time. Hollowed out. Beyond redemption. I didn’t want to come back here. I wanted to walk directly into the ocean. I wanted to fade into the horizon. I wanted to disappear. Of course, he’d never let that happen. He dragged me back here and gave me a title. I was rewarded for being an animal. Celebrated for my efforts as a monster. Never mind the fact that I wake up in the middle of every night strangled by irrational fears and a sudden, violent urge to upend the contents of my stomach. Never mind that I can’t get these images out of my head. I glance at the expensive bottle of bourbon my father left for me in my room and feel suddenly disgusted. I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want his opiate, his preferred form of oblivion. At least, soon, my father will be gone. Any day now, he’ll be gone, and this sector will become my domain. I’ll finally be on my own. Or something close to it. Reluctantly, I pull on my blazer and take the elevator down. When I finally arrive in his quarters as he requested, he spares me only the briefest look. “Good,” he says. “You’ve come.” I say nothing.

He smiles. “Where are your manners? You’re not going to greet our guest?” Confused, I follow his line of sight. There’s a young woman sitting on a chair in the far corner of the room, and, at first, I don’t recognize her. When I do, the blood drains from my face. My father laughs. “You kids remember each other, right?” She was sitting so quietly, so still and small that I almost hadn’t noticed her at all. My dead heart jumps at the sight of her slight frame, a spark of life trying, desperately, to ignite. “Juliette,” I whisper. My last memory of her was from two years ago, just before I left home for my father’s sick, sadistic assignment. He ripped her away from me. Literally ripped her out of my arms. I’d never seen that kind of rage in his eyes, not like that, not over something so innocent. But he was wild. Out of his mind. She and I hadn’t done anything more than talk to each other. I’d started stealing down to her room whenever I could get away, and I’d trick the cameras’ feeds to give us privacy. We’d talk, sometimes for hours. She’d become my friend. I never touched her. She said that after what happened with the little boy, she was afraid to touch anyone. She said she didn’t understand what was happening to her and didn’t trust herself anymore. I asked her if she wanted to touch me, to test it out and see if anything would happen, and she looked scared and I told her not to worry. I promised it’d be okay. And when I took her hand, tentatively, waiting for disaster— Nothing happened. Nothing happened except that she burst into tears. She threw herself into my arms and wept and told me she’d been terrified that there was something wrong with her, that she’d turned into a monster— We only had a month, altogether. But there was something about her that felt right to me, from the very beginning. I trusted her. She felt familiar, like I’d always known her. But I also knew it seemed a dramatic sort of thought, so I kept it to myself. She told me about her life. Her horrible parents. She’d shared her fears with me, so I shared mine. I told her about my mom, how I didn’t know what was happening to her, how worried I was that she was going to die.

Juliette cared about me. Listened to me the way no one else did. It was the most innocent relationship I’d ever had, but it meant more to me than anything. For the first time in years, I felt less alone. The day I found out she was finally being transferred, I pulled her close. I pressed my face into her hair and breathed her in and she cried. She told me she was scared and I promised I’d try to do something—I promised to talk to my dad even though I knew he wouldn’t care— And then, suddenly, he was there. He ripped her out of my arms, and I noticed then that he was wearing gloves. “What the hell are you doing?” he cried. “Have you lost your mind? Have you lost yourself entirely?” “Dad,” I said, panicking. “Nothing happened. I was just saying goodbye to her.” His eyes widened, round with shock. And when he spoke, his words were whispers. “You were just— You were saying good-bye to her?” “She’s leaving,” I said stupidly. “You think I don’t know that?” I swallowed, hard. “Jesus,” he said, running a hand across his mouth. “How long have you been doing this? How long have you been coming down here?” My heart was racing. Fear pulsed through me. I was shaking my head, unable to speak. “What did you do?” my dad demanded, his eyes flashing. “Did you touch her?” “No.” Anger surged through me, giving me back my voice even as my face flushed with embarrassment. “No, of course not.” “Are you sure?” “Dad, why are you”—I shook my head, confused—“I don’t understand why you’re so upset. You’ve been pushing me and Lena together for months, even though I’ve told you a hundred times that I don’t like her, but now, when I actually—” I hesitated, looking at Juliette, her face half hidden behind my dad. “I was just getting to know her. That’s all.” “You were just getting to know her?” He stared at me, disgusted. “Of all the girls in the world, you fall for this one? The child-murderer bound for prison? The likely insane test tube experiment? What is wrong with you?” “Dad, please— Nothing happened. We’re just friends. We just talk sometimes.”

“Just friends,” he said, and laughed. The sound was demented. “You know what? I’ll let you take this with you. I’ll let you keep this one while you’re gone. Let it sit with you. Let it teach you a lesson.” “What? Take what with me?” “A warning.” He leveled me with a lethal look. “Try something like this again,” he said, “and I’ll kill her. And I’ll make sure you get to watch.” I stared at him, my heart beating out of my chest. This was insane. We hadn’t even done anything. I’d known that my dad would probably be angry, but I never thought he’d threaten to kill her. If I’d known, I never would’ve risked it. And now— My head was spinning. I didn’t understand. He was dragging her down the hall and I didn’t understand. Suddenly, she screamed. She screamed and I stood there, helpless as he dragged her away. She called my name—cried out for me—and he shook her, told her to shut up, and I felt something inside of me die. I felt it as it happened. Felt something break apart inside of me as I watched her go. I’d never hated myself so much. I’d never been more of a coward. And now, here we are. That day feels like a lifetime ago. I never thought I’d see her again. Juliette looks up at me now, and she looks different. Her eyes are glassy with tears. Her skin has lost its pallor; her hair has lost its sheen. She looks thinner. She reminds me of myself. Hollow. “Hi,” I whisper. Tears spill, silently, down her cheeks. I have to force myself to remain calm. I have to force myself not to lose my head. My mother warned me, years ago, to hide my heart from my father, and every time I slipped—every time I let myself hope he might not be a monster—he punished me, mercilessly. I wasn’t going to let him do that to me again. I didn’t want him to know how much it hurt to see her like this. How painful it was to sit beside her and say nothing. Do nothing. “What is she doing here?” I ask, hardly recognizing my own voice. “She’s here,” he says, “because I had her collected for us.” “Collected for what? You said—” “I know what I said.” He shrugs. “But I wanted to see this moment. Your reunion. I’m always interested in your reunions. I find the dynamics

of your relationship fascinating.” I look at him, feel my chest explode with rage and somehow, fight it back. “You brought her back here just to torture me?” “You flatter yourself, son.” “Then what?” “I have your first task for you,” he says, pushing a stack of files across his desk. “Your first real mission as chief commander and regent of this sector.” My lips part, surprised. “What does that have to do with her?” My father’s eyes light up. “Everything.” I say nothing. “I have a plan,” he says. “One that will require your assistance. In these files”—he nods at the stack in front of me—“is everything you need to know about her illness. Every medical report, every paper trail. I want you to reform the girl. Rehabilitate her. And then I want you to weaponize her abilities for our own use.” I meet his eyes, failing to conceal my horror at the suggestion. “Why? Why would you come to me with this? Why would you ask me to do something like this, when you know our history?” “You are uniquely suited to the job. It seems silly to waste my time explaining this to you now, as you won’t remember most of this conversation tomorrow—” “What?” I frown. “Why wouldn’t I—” “—but the two of you seem to have some kind of immutable connection, one that might, I hope, inspire her abilities to develop more fully. More quickly.” “That doesn’t make any sense.” He ignores me. Glances at Juliette. Her eyes are closed, her head resting against the wall behind her. She seems almost asleep, except for the tears still streaking softly down her face. It kills me just to look at her. “As you can see,” my father says, “she’s a bit out of her mind right now. Heavily sedated. She’s been through a great deal these last two years. We had no choice but to turn her into a sort of guinea pig. I’m sure you can imagine how that goes.” He stares at me with a slight smile on his face. I know he’s waiting for something. A reaction. My anger. I refuse to give it to him.

His smile widens. “Anyhow,” he says happily, “I’m going to put her back in isolation for the next six months—maybe a year, depending on how things develop. You can use that opportunity to prepare. To observe her.” But I’m still fighting back my anger. I can’t bring myself to speak. “Is there a problem?” he says. “No.” “You remember, of course, the warning I gave you the last time she was here.” “Of course,” I say, my voice flat. Dead. And then, as if out of nowhere: “How is Lena, by the way? I hope she’s well.” “I wouldn’t know.” It’s barely there, but I catch the sudden shift in his voice. The anger when he says, “And why is that?” “I broke things off with her last week.” “And you didn’t think to tell me?” Finally, I meet his eyes. “I never understood why you wanted us to be together. She’s not right for me. She never was.” “You don’t love her, you mean.” “I can’t imagine how anyone would.” “That,” he says, “is exactly why she’s perfect for you.” I blink at him, caught off guard. For a moment, it almost sounded like my father cared about me. Like he was trying to protect me in some perverse, idiotic way. Eventually, he sighs. He picks up a pen and a pad of paper and begins writing something down. “I’ll see what I can do about repairing the damage you’ve done. Lena’s mother must be hysterical. Until then, get to work.” He nods at the stack of files he’s set before me. Reluctantly, I pick a folder off the top. I glance through the documents, scanning the general outline of the mission, and then I look up at him, stunned. “Why does the paperwork make it sound like this was my idea?” He hesitates. Puts down his pen. “Because you don’t trust me.” I stare at him, struggling to understand. He tilts his head. “If you knew this was my idea, you’d never trust it, would you? You’d look too closely for holes. Conspiracies. You’d never

follow through the way I’d want you to. Besides,” he says, picking up his pen again. “Two birds. One stone. It’s time to finally break the cycle.” I replace the folder on the pile. I’m careful to temper the tone of my voice when I say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “I’m talking about your new experiment,” he says coolly. “Your little tragedy. This,” he says, gesturing between me and Juliette. “This needs to end. And she is unlikely to return your affections when she wakes up to discover you are not her friend but her oppressor. Isn’t she?” And I can no longer keep the fury or the hysteria out of my voice when I say, “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you purposely torturing me?” “Is it so crazy to imagine that I might be trying to do you a favor?” My father smiles. “Look more closely at those files, son. If you’ve ever wanted a chance at saving your mother—this might be it.” I’ve become obsessed with time. Still, I can only guess at how long I’ve been here, staring at these walls without reprieve. No voices, only the occasional warped sounds of faraway speech. No faces, not a single person to tell me where I am or what awaits me. I’ve watched the shadows chase the light in and out of my cell for weeks, their motions through the small window my only hope for marking the days. A slim, rectangular slot in my door opens with sudden, startling force, the aperture shot through with what appears to be artificial light on the other side. I make a mental note. A single, steaming bun—no tray, no foil, no utensils—is shoved through the slot and my reflexes are still fast enough to catch the bread before it touches the filthy floor. I have enough sense to understand that the little food I’m given every day is poisoned. Not enough to kill me. Just enough to slow me down. Slight tremors rock my body, but I force my eyes to stay open as I turn the soft bun around in my hand, searching its flaky skin for information. It’s unmarked. Unextraordinary. It could mean nothing. There’s no way to be sure. This ritual happens exactly twice a day. I am fed an insignificant, tasteless portion of food twice a day. For hours at a time my thoughts slur; my mind swims and hallucinates. I am slow. Sluggish. Most days, I fast.

To clear my head, to cleanse my body of the poison, and to collect information. I have to find my way out of here before it’s too late. Some nights, when I’m at my weakest, my imagination runs wild; my mind is plagued by horrible visions of what might’ve happened to her. It’s torture not knowing what they’ve done with her. Not knowing where she is, not knowing how she is, not knowing if someone is hurting her. But the nightmares are perhaps the most disconcerting. At least, I think they’re nightmares. It’s hard to separate fact from fiction, dreams from reality; I spend too much time with poison running through my veins. But Nazeera’s words to me before the symposium—her warning that Juliette was someone else, that Max and Evie are her true, biological parents . . . I didn’t want to believe it then. It seemed a possibility too perverse to be real. Even my father had lines he wouldn’t cross, I told myself. Even The Reestablishment had some sense of invented morality, I told myself. But I saw them as I was carried away—I saw the familiar faces of Evie and Maximillian Sommers—the supreme commander of Oceania and her husband. And I’ve been thinking of them ever since. They were the key scientists of our group, the quiet brains of The Reestablishment. They were military, yes, but they were medical. The pair often kept to themselves. I had few memories of them until very recently. Until Ella appeared in my mind. But I don’t know how to be sure that what I’m seeing is real. I have no way of knowing that this isn’t simply another part of the torture. It’s impossible to know. It’s agony, boring a hole through me. I feel like I’m being assaulted on both sides—mental and physical—and I don’t know where or how to begin fighting back. I’ve begun clenching my teeth so hard it’s causing me migraines. Exhaustion feasts, slowly, on my mind. I’m fairly certain I’ve got at least two fractured ribs, and my only hours of rest are achieved standing up, the single position that eases the pain in my torso. It’d be easy to give up. Give in. But I can’t lose myself to these mind games. I won’t. So I compile data. I spent my whole life preparing for moments like these by people like this and they will take full advantage of that knowledge. I know they’ll expect me to prove that I deserve to survive, and—unexpectedly—

knowing this brings me a much-needed sense of calm. I feel none of my usual anxiety here, being carefully poisoned to death. Instead, I feel at home. Familiar. Fortified by adrenaline. Under any other circumstances I’d assume my meals were offered once in the morning and once at night—but I know better than to assume anything anymore. I’ve been charting the shadows long enough to know that I’m never fed at regular hours, and that the erratic schedule is intentional. There must be a message here: a sequence of numbers, a pattern of information, something I’m not grasping—because I know that this, like everything else, is a test. I am in the custody of a supreme commander. There can be no accidents. I force myself to eat the warm, flavorless bun, hating the way the gummy, overly processed bread sticks to the roof of my mouth. It makes me wish for a toothbrush. They’ve given me my own sink and toilet, but I have little else to keep my standards of hygiene intact, which is possibly the greatest indignity here. I fight a wave of nausea as I swallow the last bite of bread and a sudden, prickling heat floods my body. Beads of sweat roll down my back and I clench my fists to keep from succumbing too quickly to the drugs. I need a little more time. There’s a message here, somewhere, but I haven’t yet decided where. Maybe it’s in the movements of the shadows. Or in the number of times the slot opens and closes. It might be in the names of the foods I’m forced to eat, or in the exact number of footsteps I hear every day—or perhaps it’s in the occasional, jarring knock at my door that accompanies silence. There’s something here, something they’re trying to tell me, something I’m supposed to decipher—I gasp, reach out blindly as a shock of pain shoots through my gut— I can figure this out, I think, even as the drug drags me down. I fall backward, onto my elbows. My eyes flutter open and closed and my mind drowns even as I count the sounds outside my door— one hard step two dragging steps one hard step —and there’s something there, something deliberate in the movement that speaks to me. I know this. I know this language, I know its name, it’s

right there at the tip of my tongue but I can’t seem to grasp it. I’ve already forgotten what I was trying to do. My arms give out. My head hits the floor with a dull thud. My thoughts melt into darkness. The nightmares take me by the throat.

Kenji I thought I’d spent time in some pretty rough places in my life, but this shit is like nothing else. Perfect darkness. No sounds but the distant, tortured screams of other prisoners. Food is disgusting slop shoved through a slot in the door. No bathrooms except that they open the doors once a day, just long enough for you to kill yourself trying to find the disgusting showers and toilets. I know what this is. I remember when Juliette— Ella. Ella. Ella used to tell me about this place. Some nights we’d stay up for hours talking about it. I wanted to know. I wanted to know everything. And those conversations are the only reason I knew what the open door means. I don’t really know how long I’ve been here—a week? Maybe two? I don’t understand why they won’t just kill me. I try to tell myself, every minute of every damn day, that they’re just doing this to mess with our heads, that the tortured mind is a worse fate than a bullet in the brain, but I can’t lie. This place is starting to get to me. I feel myself starting to go weird. I’m starting to hear things. See things. I’m beginning to freak myself out about what might’ve happened to my friends or whether I’ll ever get out of here. I try not to think about Nazeera. When I think about Nazeera I want to punch myself in the face. I want to shoot myself in the throat. When I think about Nazeera I feel a rage so acute I’m actually convinced, for a minute, that I might be able to break out of these neon

handcuffs with nothing but brute force. But it never happens. These things are unbreakable, even as they strip me of my powers. And they emit a soft, pulsing blue glow, the only light I ever see. J told me her cell had a window. Mine doesn’t. A harsh buzzing sound fills my cell. I hear a smooth click in the heavy metal door. I jump to my feet. The door swings open. I feel my way down the dripping corridor, the dim, pulsing light of my cuffs doing little to guide my way. The shower is quick and cold. Awful in every way. There are no towels in this shithole, so I’m always freezing until I can get back to my room and wrap myself in the threadbare blanket. I’m thinking about that blanket now, trying to keep my thoughts focused and my teeth from chattering as I wend my way down the dark tunnels. I don’t see what happens next. Someone comes up on me from behind and puts me in a choke hold, suffocating me with a technique so perfect I don’t even know if it’s worth a struggle. I’m definitely about to die. Super weird way to go, but this is it. I’m done. Shit.

Juliette Ella Mr. Anderson says I can have lunch at his house before I meet my new family. It wasn’t his idea, but when Aaron, his son—that was the boy’s name—suggested it, Mr. Anderson seemed okay with it. I’m grateful. I’m not ready to go live with a bunch of strangers yet. I’m scared and nervous and worried about so many things, I don’t even know where to start. Mostly, I feel angry. I’m angry with my parents for dying. Angry with them for leaving me behind. I’m an orphan now.

But maybe I have a new friend. Aaron said that he was eight years old —about two years older than me—so there isn’t any chance we’d be in the same grade, but when I said that we’d probably be going to the same school anyway, he said no, we wouldn’t. He said he didn’t go to public school. He said his father was very particular about these kinds of things and that he’d been homeschooled by private tutors his whole life. We’re sitting next to each other in the car ride back to his house when he says, quietly, “My dad never lets me invite people over to our house. He must like you.” I smile, secretly relieved. I really hope that this means I’ll have a new friend. I’d been so scared to move here, so scared to be somewhere new and to be all alone, but now, sitting next to this strange blond boy with the light green eyes, I’m beginning to feel like things might be okay. At least now, even if I don’t like my new parents, I’ll know I’m not completely alone. The thought makes me both happy and sad. I look over at Aaron and smile. He smiles back. When we get to his house, I take a moment to admire it from the outside. It’s a big, beautiful old house painted the prettiest blue. It has big white shutters on the windows and a white fence around the front yard. Pink roses are growing around the edges, peeking through the wooden slats of the fence, and the whole thing looks so peaceful and lovely that I feel immediately at home. My worries vanish. I’m so grateful for Mr. Anderson’s help. So grateful to have met his son. I realize, then, that Mr. Anderson might’ve brought his son to my meeting today just to introduce me to someone my own age. Maybe he was trying to make me feel at home. A beautiful blond lady answers the front door. She smiles at me, bright and kind, and doesn’t even say hello to me before she pulls me into her arms. She hugs me like she’s known me forever, and there’s something so comfortable about her arms around me that I embarrass everyone by bursting into tears. I can’t even look at anyone after I pull away from her—she told me her name was Mrs. Anderson, but that I could call her Leila, if I wanted—and I wipe at my tears, ashamed of my overreaction. Mrs. Anderson tells Aaron to take me upstairs to his room while she makes us some snacks before lunch. Still sniffling, I follow him up the stairs.

His room is nice. I sit on his bed and look at his things. Mostly it’s pretty clean except that there’s a baseball mitt on his nightstand and there are two dirty baseballs on the floor. Aaron catches me staring and scoops them up right away. He seems embarrassed as he tucks them in his closet, and I don’t understand why. I was never very tidy. My room was always— I hesitate. I try to remember what my old bedroom looked like but, for some reason, I can’t. I frown. Try again. Nothing. And then I realize I can’t remember my parents’ faces. Terror barrels through me. “What’s wrong?” Aaron’s voice is so sharp—so intense—that I look up, startled. He’s staring at me from across the room, the fear on his face reflected in the mirrors on his closet doors. “What’s wrong?” he says again. “Are you okay?” “I— I don’t—” I falter, feeling my eyes refill with tears. I hate that I keep crying. Hate that I can’t stop crying. “I can’t remember my parents,” I say. “Is that normal?” Aaron walks over, sits next to me on his bed. “I don’t know,” he says. We’re both quiet for a while. Somehow, it helps. Somehow, just sitting next to him makes me feel less alone. Less terrified. Eventually, my heart stops racing. After I’ve wiped away my tears, I say, “Don’t you get lonely, being homeschooled all the time?” He nods. “Why won’t your dad let you go to a normal school?” “I don’t know.” “What about birthday parties?” I ask. “Who do you invite to your birthday parties?” Aaron shrugs. He’s staring into his hands when he says, “I’ve never had a birthday party.” “What? Really?” I turn to face him more fully. “But birthday parties are so fun. I used to—” I blink, cutting myself off. I can’t remember what I was about to say. I frown, trying to remember something, something about my old life, but when the memories don’t materialize, I shake my head to clear it. Maybe I’ll remember later.

“Anyway,” I say, taking a quick breath, “you have to have a birthday party. Everyone has birthday parties. When is your birthday?” Slowly, Aaron looks up at me. His face is blank even as he says, “April twenty-fourth.” “April twenty-fourth,” I say, smiling. “That’s great. We can have cake.” The days pass in a stifled panic, an excruciating crescendo toward madness. The hands of the clock seem to close around my throat and still, I say nothing, do nothing. I wait. Pretend. I’ve been paralyzed here for two weeks, stuck in the prison of this ruse, this compound. Evie doesn’t know that her plot to bleach my mind failed. She treats me like a foreign object, distant but not unkind. She instructed me to call her Evie, told me she was my doctor, and then proceeded to lie, in great detail, about how I’d been in a terrible accident, that I’m suffering from amnesia, that I need to stay in bed in order to recover. She doesn’t know that my body won’t stop shaking, that my skin is slick with sweat every morning, that my throat burns from the constant return of bile. She doesn’t know what’s happening to me. She could never understand the sickness plaguing my heart. She couldn’t possibly understand this agony. Remembering. The attacks are relentless. Memories assault me while I sleep, jolting me upright, my chest seizing in panic over and over and over until, finally, I meet dawn on the bathroom floor, the smell of vomit clinging to my hair, the inside of my mouth. I can only drag myself back to bed every morning and force my face to smile when Evie checks on me at sunrise. Everything feels wrong. The world feels strange. Smells confuse me. Words don’t feel right in my mouth anymore. The sound of my own name feels at once familiar and foreign. My memories of people and places seem warped, fraying threads coming together to form a ragged tapestry. But Evie. My mother. I remember her. “Evie?”

I pop my head out of the bathroom, clutching a robe to my wet body. I search my room for her face. “Evie, are you there?” “Yes?” I hear her voice just seconds before she’s suddenly standing before me, holding a set of fresh sheets in her hands. She’s stripping my bed again. “Did you need something?” “We’re out of towels.” “Oh—easily rectified,” she says, and hurries out the door. Not seconds later she’s back, pressing a warm, fresh towel into my hands. She smiles faintly. “Thanks,” I say, forcing my own smile to stretch, to spark life in my eyes. And then I disappear into the bathroom. The room is steaming; the mirrors fogged, perspiring. I grip the towel with one hand, watching as beads of water race down my bare skin. Condensation wears me like a suit; I wipe at the damp metal cuffs locked around my wrists and ankles, their glowing blue light my constant reminder that I am in hell. I collapse, with a heavy breath, onto the floor. I’m too hot to put on clothes, but I’m not ready to leave the privacy of the bathroom yet, so I sit here, wearing nothing but these manacles, and drop my head into my hands. My hair is long again. I discovered it like this—long, heavy, dark—one morning, and when I asked her about it, I nearly ruined everything. “What do you mean?” Evie said, narrowing her eyes at me. “Your hair has always been long.” I blinked at her, remembering to play dumb. “I know.” She stared at me awhile longer before she finally let it go, but I’m still worried I’ll pay for that slip. Sometimes it’s hard to remember how to act. My mind is being attacked, assaulted every day by emotion I never knew existed. My memories were supposed to be erased. Instead, they’re being replenished. I’m remembering everything: My mother’s laugh, her slender wrists, the smell of her shampoo, and the familiarity of her arms around me. The more I remember, the less this place feels foreign to me. The less these sounds and smells—these mountains in the distance—feel unknown. It’s as if the disparate parts of my most desperate self are stitching back

together, as if the gaping holes in my heart and head are healing, filling slowly with sensation. This compound was my home. These people, my family. I woke up this morning remembering my mother’s favorite shade of lipstick. Bloodred. I remember watching her paint her lips some evenings. I remember the day I snuck into her room and stole the glossy metal tube; I remember when she found me, my hands and mouth smeared in red, my face a grotesque reimagining of herself. The more I remember my parents, the more I begin to finally make sense of myself—my many fears and insecurities, the myriad ways in which I’ve often felt lost, searching for something I could not name. It’s devastating. And yet— In this new, turbulent reality, the one person I recognize anymore is him. My memories of him—memories of us—have done something to me. I’ve changed somewhere deep inside. I feel different. Heavier, like my feet have been more firmly planted, liberated by certainty, free to grow roots here in my own self, free to trust unequivocally in the strength and steadiness of my own heart. It’s an empowering discovery, to find that I can trust myself—even when I’m not myself—to make the right choices. To know for certain now that there was at least one mistake I never made. Aaron Warner Anderson is the only emotional through line in my life that ever made sense. He’s the only constant. The only steady, reliable heartbeat I’ve ever had. Aaron, Aaron, Aaron, Aaron I had no idea how much we’d lost, no idea how much of him I’d longed for. I had no idea how desperately we’d been fighting. How many years we’d fought for moments—minutes—to be together. It fills me with a painful kind of joy. But when I remember how I left things between us, I want to scream. I have no idea if I’ll ever see him again. Still, I’m holding on to the hope that he’s alive, out there, somewhere. Evie said she couldn’t kill him. She said that she alone didn’t have the authority to have him executed. And if Aaron is still alive, I will find a way to get to him. But I have to be careful. Breaking out of this new prison won’t be easy— As it is, Evie almost never lets me out of my room. Worse, she sedates me during the day, allowing me only a couple of lucid

hours. There’s never enough time to think, much less to plan an escape, to assess my surroundings, or to wander the halls outside my door. Only once did she let me go outside. Sort of. She let me onto a balcony overlooking the backyard. It wasn’t much, but even that small step helped me understand a bit about where we were and what the layout of the building might look like. The assessment was chilling. We appeared to be in the center of a settlement—a small city—in the middle of nowhere. I leaned over the edge of the balcony, craning my neck to take in the breadth of it, but the view was so vast I couldn’t see all the way around. From where I stood I saw at least twenty different buildings, all connected by roads and navigated by people in miniature, electric cars. There were loading and unloading docks, massive trucks filing in and out, and there was a landing strip in the distance, a row of jets parked neatly in a concrete lot. I understood then that I was living in the middle of a massive operation—something so much more terrifying than Sector 45. This is an international base. This has to be one of the capitals. Whatever this is—whatever they do here—it makes Sector 45 look like a joke. Here, where the hills are somehow still green and beautiful, where the air is fresh and cool and everything seems alive. My accounting is probably off, but I think we’re nearing the end of April—and the sights outside my window are unlike anything I’ve ever seen in Sector 45: vast, snowcapped mountain ranges; rolling hills thick with vegetation; trees heavy with bright, changing leaves; and a massive, glittering lake that looks close enough to run to. This land looks healthy. Vibrant. I thought we’d lost a world like this a long time ago. Evie’s begun to sedate me less these days, but some days my vision seems to fray at the edges, like a satellite image glitching, waiting for data to load. I wonder, sometimes, if she’s poisoning me. I’m wondering this now, remembering the bowl of soup she sent to my room for breakfast. I can still feel the gluey residue as it coated my tongue, the roof of my mouth. Unease churns my stomach. I haul myself up off the bathroom floor, my limbs slow and heavy. It takes me a moment to stabilize. The effects of this experiment have left me

hollow. Angry. As if out of nowhere, my mind conjures an image of Evie’s face. I remember her eyes. Deep, dark brown. Bottomless. The same color as her hair. She has a short, sharp bob, a heavy curtain constantly whipping against her chin. She’s a beautiful woman, more beautiful at fifty than she was at twenty. Coming. The word occurs to me suddenly, and a bolt of panic shoots up my spine. Not a second later there’s a sharp knock at my bathroom door. “Yes?” “Ella, you’ve been in the bathroom for almost half an hour, and you know how I feel about wasting ti—” “Evie.” I force myself to laugh. “I’m almost done,” I say. “I’ll be right out.” A pause. The silence stretches the seconds into a lifetime. My heart jumps up, into my throat. Beats in my mouth. “All right,” she says slowly. “Five more minutes.” I close my eyes as I exhale, pressing the towel to the racing pulse at my neck. I dry off quickly before wringing the remaining water from my hair and slipping back into my robe. Finally, I open the bathroom door and welcome the cool morning temperature against my feverish skin. But I hardly have a chance to take a breath before she’s in my face again. “Wear this,” she says, forcing a dress into my arms. She’s smiling but it doesn’t suit her. She looks deranged. “You love wearing yellow.” I blink as I take the dress from her, feeling a sudden, disorienting wave of déjà vu. “Of course,” I say. “I love wearing yellow.” Her smile grows thinner, threatens to turn her face inside out. “Could I just—?” I make an abstract gesture toward my body. “Oh,” she says, startled. “Right.” She shoots me another smile and says, “I’ll be outside.” My own smile is brittle. She watches me. She always watches me. Studies my reactions, the timing of my responses. She’s scanning me, constantly, for information. She wants confirmation that I’ve been properly hollowed out. Remade.

I smile wider. Finally, she takes a step back. “Good girl,” she says softly. I stand in the middle of my room and watch her leave, the yellow dress still pressed against my chest. There was another time when I’d felt trapped, just like this. I was held against my will and given beautiful clothes and three square meals and demanded to be something I wasn’t and I fought it—fought it with everything I had. It didn’t do me any good. I swore that if I could do it again I’d do it differently. I said if I could do it over I’d wear the clothes and eat the food and play along until I could figure out where I was and how to break free. So here’s my chance. This time, I’ve decided to play along.

Kenji I wake up, bound and gagged, a roaring sound in my ears. I blink to clear my vision. I’m bound so tightly I can’t move, so it takes me a second to realize I can’t see my legs. No legs. No arms, either. The revelation that I’m invisible hits me with full, horrifying force. I’m not doing this. I didn’t bring myself here, bind and gag myself, and make myself invisible. There’s only one other person who would. I look around desperately, trying to gauge where I am and what my chances might be for escape, but when I finally manage to heave my body to one side—just long enough to crane my neck—I realize, with a terrifying jolt, that I’m on a plane. And then—voices. It’s Anderson and Nazeera.

I hear them discussing something about how we’ll be landing soon, and then, minutes later, I feel it when we touch ground. The plane taxis for a while and it seems to take forever before the engines finally turn off. I hear Anderson leave. Nazeera hangs back, saying something about needing to clean up. She shuts down the plane and its cameras, doesn’t acknowledge me. Finally, I hear her footsteps getting closer to my head. She uses one foot to roll me onto my back, and then, just like that, my invisibility is gone. She stares at me for a little while longer, says nothing. Finally, she smiles. “Hi,” she says, removing the gag from my mouth. “How are you holding up?” And I decide right then that I’m going to have to kill her. “Okay,” she says, “I know you’re probably upset—” “UPSET? YOU THINK I’M UPSET?” I jerk violently against the ties. “Jesus Christ, woman, get me out of these goddamn restraints—” “I’ll get you out of the restraints when you calm down—” “HOW CAN YOU EXPECT ME TO BE CALM?” “I’m trying to save your life right now, so, actually, I expect a lot of things from you.” I’m breathing hard. “Wait. What?” She crosses her arms, stares down at me. “I’ve been trying to explain to you that there was really no other way to do this. And don’t worry,” she says. “Your friends are okay. We should be able to get them out of the asylum before any permanent damage is done.” “What? What do you mean permanent damage?” Nazeera sighs. “Anyway, this was the only way I could think of stealing a plane without attracting notice. I needed to track Anderson.” “So you knew he was alive, that whole time, and you said nothing about it.” She raises her eyebrows. “Honestly, I thought you knew.” “How the hell was I supposed to know?” I shout. “How was I supposed to know anything?” “Stop shouting,” she says. “I went to all this trouble to save your life but I swear to God I will kill you if you don’t stop shouting right now.” “Where,” I say, “THE HELL,” I say, “ARE WE?”

And instead of killing me, she laughs. “Where do you think we are?” She shakes her head. “We’re in Oceania. We’re here to find Ella.”

Warner “We can live in the lake,” she says simply. “What?” I almost laugh. “What are you talking about?” “I’m serious,” she says. “I heard my mum talking about how to make it so people can live underwater, and I’m going to ask her to tell me, and then we can live in the lake.” I sigh. “We can’t live in the lake, Ella.” “Why not?” She turns and looks at me, her eyes wide, startlingly bright. Blue green. Like the globe, I think. Like the whole world. “Why can’t we live in the lake? My mum says th—” “Stop it, Ella. Stop—” I wake suddenly, jerking upward as my eyes fly open, my lungs desperate for air. I breathe in too fast and cough, choking on the overcorrection of oxygen. My body bows forward, chest heaving, my hands braced against the cold, concrete floor. Ella. Ella. Pain spears me through the chest. I stopped eating the poisoned food two days ago, but the visions linger even when I’m lucid. There’s something hyperreal about this one in particular, the memory barreling into me over and over, shooting swift, sharp pains through my gut. It’s breathtaking, this disorienting rush of emotion. For the first time, I’m beginning to believe. I thought nightmares. Hallucinations, even. But now I know. Now it seems impossible to deny. I heard my mum talking about how to make it so people can live underwater

I didn’t understand right away why Max and Evie were keeping me captive here, but they must blame me for something—maybe something my father is responsible for. Something I unknowingly took part in. Maybe something like torturing their daughter Emmaline. When I was sent away for two years, I was never told where I was going. The details of my location were never disclosed, and during that time period I lived in a veritable prison of my own, never allowed to step outside, never allowed to know more than was absolutely necessary about the task at hand. The breaks I was given were closely guarded, and I was required to wear a blindfold as I was ushered on and off the jet, which always made me think I must’ve been working somewhere easily identifiable. But those two years also comprised some of the darkest, saddest days of my life; all I knew was my desperate need for oblivion. I was so buried in self-loathing that it seemed only right to find solace in the arms of someone who meant nothing to me. I hated myself every day. Being with Lena was both relief and torture. Even so, I felt numb, all the time. After two weeks here, I’m beginning to wonder if this prison isn’t one I’ve known before. If this isn’t the same place I spent those two horrible years of my life. It’s hard to explain the intangible, irrational reasons why the view outside my window is beginning to feel familiar to me, but two years is a long time to grow familiar with the rhythms of a land, even one you don’t understand. I wonder if Emmaline is here, somewhere. It makes sense that she’d be here, close to home—close to her parents, whose medical and scientific advances are the only reason she’s even alive. Or something close to alive, anyway. It makes sense that they’d bring Juliette—Ella, I remind myself—back here, to her home. The question is— Why bring her here? What are they hoping to do with her? But then, if her mother is anything like my father, I think I can imagine what they might have in mind. I push myself off the floor and take a steadying breath. My body is running on mere adrenaline, so starved for sleep and sustenance that I have to— Pain. It’s swift and sudden and I gasp even as I recognize the familiar sting. I have no idea how long it’ll take for my ribs to fully heal. Until then, I

clench my teeth as I stand, feeling blindly for purchase against the rough stone. My hands shake as I steady myself and I’m breathing too hard again, eyes darting around the familiar cell. I turn on the sink and splash ice-cold water on my face. The effect is immediate. Focusing. Carefully, I strip down to nothing. I soak my undershirt under the running water and use it to scrub my face, my neck, the rest of my body. I wash my hair. Rinse my mouth. Clean my teeth. And then I do what little I can for the rest of my clothes, washing them by hand and wringing them dry. I slip back into my underwear even though the cotton is still slightly damp, and I fight back a shiver in the darkness. Hungry and cold is at least better than drugged and delirious. This is the end of my second week in confinement, and my third day this week without food. It feels good to have a clear head, even as my body slowly starves. I’d already been leaner than usual, but now the lines of my body feel unusually sharp, even to myself, all necessary softness gone from my limbs. It’s only a matter of time before my muscles atrophy and I do irreparable damage to my organs, but right now I have no choice. I need access to my mind. To think. And something about my sentencing feels off. The more I think about it, the less sense it makes that Max and Evie would want me to suffer for what I did to Emmaline. They were the ones who donated their daughters to The Reestablishment in the first place. My work overseeing Emmaline was assigned to me—in fact, it was likely a job they’d approved. It would make more sense that I were here for treason. Max and Evie, like any other commanders, would want me to suffer for turning my back on The Reestablishment. But even this theory feels wrong. Incongruous. The punishment for treason has always been public execution. Quick. Efficient. I should be murdered, with only a little fanfare, in front of my own soldiers. But this—locking people up like this—slowly starving them while stripping them of their sanity and dignity—this is uncivilized. It’s what The Reestablishment does to others, not to its own. It’s what they did to Ella. They tortured her. Ran tests on her. She wasn’t locked up to inspire penitence. She was in isolation because she was part of an ongoing experiment.

And I am in the unique position to know that such a prisoner requires constant maintenance. I figured I’d be kept here for a few days—maybe a week—but locking me up for what seems to be an indeterminate amount of time— This must be difficult for them. For two weeks they’ve managed to remain just slightly ahead of me, a feat they accomplished by poisoning my food. In training I’d never needed more than a week to break my way out of high-security prisons, and they must’ve known this. By forcing me to choose between sustenance and clarity every day, they’ve given themselves an advantage. Still, I’m unconcerned. The longer I’m here, the more leverage I gain. If they know what I’m capable of, they must also know that this is unsustainable. They can’t use shock and poison to destabilize me indefinitely. I’ve now been here long enough to have taken stock of my surroundings, and I’ve been filing away information for nearly two weeks—the movements of the sun, the phases of the moon, the manufacturer of the locks, the sink, the unusual hinges on the door. I suspected, but now know for certain, that I’m in the southern hemisphere, not only because I know Max and Evie hail from Oceania, but because the northern constellations outside my window are upside down. I must be on their base. Logically, I know I must’ve been here a few times in my life, but the memories are dim. The night skies are clearer here than they were in Sector 45. The stars, brighter. The lack of light pollution means we are far from civilization, and the view out the window proves that we are surrounded, on all sides, by the wild landscape of this territory. There’s a massive, glittering lake not far in the distance, which— Something jolts to life in my mind. The memory from earlier, expanded: She shrugs and throws a rock in the lake. It lands with a dull splash. “Well, we’ll just run away,” she says. “We can’t run away,” I say. “Stop saying that.” “We can, too.” “There’s nowhere to go.” “There are plenty of places to go.” I shake my head. “You know what I mean. They’d find us wherever we went. They watch us all the time.” “We can live in the lake,” she says simply.

“What?” I almost laugh. “What are you talking about?” “I’m serious,” she says. “I heard my mum talking about how to make it so people can live underwater, and I’m going to ask her to tell me, and then we can live in the lake.” I sigh. “We can’t live in the lake, Ella.” “Why not?” She turns and looks at me, her eyes wide, startlingly bright. Blue green. Like the globe, I think. Like the whole world. “Why can’t we live in the lake? My mum says th—” “Stop it, Ella. Stop—” A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. Goose bumps rise along my skin. Ella. Ella Ella Ella Over and over again. Everything about the name is beginning to sound familiar. The movement of my tongue as I form the word, familiar. It’s as if the memory is in my muscle, as if my mouth has made this shape a thousand times. I force myself to take a steadying breath. I need to find her. I have to find her. Here is what I know: It takes just under thirty seconds for the footsteps to disappear down the hall, and they’re always the same—same stride, same cadence—which means there’s only one person attending to me. The paces are long and heavy, which means my attendant is tall, possibly male. Maybe Max himself, if they’ve deemed me a high-priority prisoner. Still, they’ve left me unshackled and unharmed—why?—and though I’ve been given neither bed nor blanket, I have access to water from the sink. There’s no electricity in here; no outlets, no wires. But there must be cameras hidden somewhere, watching my every move. There are two drains: one in the sink, and one underneath the toilet. There’s one square foot of window—likely bulletproof glass, maybe eight to ten centimeters thick—and a single, small air vent in the floor. The vent has no visible screws, which means it must be bolted from inside, and the slats are too narrow for my fingers, the steel blades visibly welded in place. Still, it’s only an average level of security for a prison vent. A little more time and clarity, and I’ll find a way to remove the screen and repurpose the parts. Eventually, I’ll find a way to dismantle everything in this room. I’ll take apart the metal toilet, the flimsy metal sink. I’ll make my own tools and weapons and find a way to slowly, carefully disassemble the locks and

hinges. Or perhaps I’ll damage the pipes and flood the room and its adjoining hallway, forcing someone to come to the door. The sooner they send someone to my room, the better. If they’ve left me alone in my cell this long, it’s been for their own protection, not my suffering. I excel at hand-to-hand combat. I know myself. I know my capacity to withstand complicated physical and mental torture. If I wanted to, I could give myself two—maybe three —weeks to forgo the poisoned meals and survive on water alone before I lost my mind or mobility. I know how resourceful I can be, given the opportunity, and this—this effort to contain me—must be exhausting. Great care went into selecting these sounds and meals and rituals and even this vigilant lack of communication. It doesn’t make sense that they’d go to all this trouble for treason. No. I must be in purgatory for something else. I rack my brain for a motive, but my memories are surprisingly thin when it comes to Max and Evie. Still forming. With some difficulty, I’m able to conjure up flickers of images. A brief handshake with my father. A burst of laughter. A cheerful swell of holiday music. A laboratory and my mother. I stiffen. A laboratory and my mother. I focus my thoughts, homing in on the memory—bright lights, muffled footsteps, the sound of my own voice asking my father a question and then, painfully— My mind goes blank. I frown. Stare into my hands. Nothing. I know a great deal about the other commanders and their families. It’s been my business to know. But there’s an unusual dearth of information where Oceania is concerned, and for the first time, it sends a shock of fear through me. There are two timelines merging in my mind—a life with Ella, and a life without her—and I’m still learning to sift through the information for something real. Still, thinking about Max and Evie now seems to strain something in my brain. It’s as if there’s something there, something just out of reach,

and the more I force my mind to recall them—their faces, their voices— the more it hurts. Why all this trouble to imprison me? Why not simply have me killed? I have so many questions it’s making my head spin. Just then, the door rattles. The sound of metal on metal is sharp and abrasive, the sounds like sandpaper against my nerves. I hear the bolt unlock and feel unusually calm. I was built to handle this life, its blows, its sick, sadistic ways. Death has never scared me. But when the door swings open, I realize my mistake. I imagined a thousand different scenarios. I prepared for a myriad of opponents. But I had not prepared for this. “Hi birthday boy,” he says, laughing as he steps into the light. “Did you miss me?” And I’m suddenly unable to move.

Juliette Ella “Stop—stop it, oh my God, that’s disgusting,” Emmaline cries. “Stop it. Stop touching each other! You guys are so gross.” Dad pinches Mum’s butt, right in front of us. Emmaline screams. “Oh my God, I said stop!” It’s Saturday morning, and Saturday morning is when we make pancakes, but Mum and Dad don’t really get around to cooking anything because they won’t stop kissing each other. Emmaline hates it. I think it’s nice. I sit at the counter and prop my face in my hands, watching. I prefer watching. Emmaline keeps trying to make me work, but I don’t want to. I like sitting better than working. “No one is making pancakes,” Emmaline cries, and she spins around so angrily she knocks a bowl of batter to the ground. “Why am I doing all the work?”

Dad laughs. “Sweetheart, we’re all together,” he says, scooping up the fallen bowl. He grabs a bunch of paper towels and says, “Isn’t that more important than pancakes?” “No,” Emmaline says angrily. “We’re supposed to make pancakes. It’s Saturday, which means we’re supposed to make pancakes, and you and Mum are just kissing, and Ella is being lazy—” “Hey—” I say, and stand up. “—and no one is doing what they’re supposed to be doing and instead I’m doing it all by myself—” Mum and Dad are both laughing now. “It’s not funny!” Emmaline cries, and now she’s shouting, tears streaking down her face. “It’s not funny, and I don’t like it when no one listens to me, and I don’t—” Two weeks ago, I was lying on an operating table, limp, naked, and leaking blood through an aperture in my temple the size of a gunshot wound. My vision was blurred. I couldn’t hear much more than the sound of my own breathing, hot and heavy and everywhere, building in and around me. Suddenly, Evie came into view. She was staring at me; she seemed frustrated. She’d been trying to complete the process of physical recalibration, as she called it. For some reason, she couldn’t finish the job. She’d already emptied the contents of sixteen syringes into my brain, and she’d made several small incisions in my abdomen, my arms, and my thighs. I couldn’t see exactly what she did next, but she spoke, occasionally, as she worked, and she claimed that the simple surgical procedures she was performing would strengthen my joints and reinforce my muscles. She wanted me to be stronger, to be more resilient on a cellular level. It was a preventative measure, she said. She was worried my build was too slight; that my muscles might degenerate prematurely in the face of intense physical challenges. She didn’t say it, but I felt it: she wanted me to be stronger than my sister. “Emmaline,” I whispered. It was lucky that I was too exhausted, too broken, too sedated to speak clearly. It was lucky that I only lay there, eyes fluttering open and closed, my chapped lips making it impossible to do more than mutter the name. It was lucky that I couldn’t understand, right away, that I was still me. That I still remembered everything despite Evie’s promises to dissolve what was left of my mind.

Still, I’d said the wrong thing. Evie stopped what she was doing. She leaned over my face and studied me, nose to nose. I blinked. Don’t The words appeared in my head as if they’d been planted there long ago, like I was remembering, remembering Evie jerked backward and immediately started speaking into a device clenched in her fist. Her voice was low and rough and I couldn’t make out what she was saying. I blinked again. Confused. I parted my lips to say something, when— Don’t The thought came through more sharply this time. A moment later Evie was in my face again, this time drilling me with questions. who are you where are you what is your name where were you born how old are you who are your parents where do you live

I was suddenly aware enough to understand that Evie was checking her work. She wanted to make sure my brain had been wiped clean. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say or do, so I said nothing. Instead, I blinked. Blinked a lot. Evie finally—reluctantly—stepped away, but she didn’t seem entirely convinced of my stupidity. And then, when I thought she might murder me just to be safe, she stopped. Stared at the wall. And then she left. I was trembling on the operating table for twenty minutes before the room was swarmed by a team of people. They unstrapped my body, washed and wrapped my open wounds. I think I was screaming. Eventually the combination of pain, exhaustion, and the slow drip of opiates caught up with me, and I passed out. I never understood what happened that day. I couldn’t ask, Evie never explained, and the strange, sharp voice in my head never returned. But then, Evie sedated me so much in my first weeks on this compound that it’s possible there was never even a chance. Today, for the first time since that day, I hear it again. I’m standing in the middle of my room, this gauzy yellow dress still bunched in my arms, when the voice assaults me. It knocks the wind out of me. Ella I spin around, my breaths coming in fast. The voice is louder than it’s ever been, frightening in its intensity. Maybe I was wrong about Evie’s experiment, maybe this is part of it, maybe hallucinating and hearing voices is a precursor to oblivion— No “Who are you?” I say, the dress dropping to the floor. It occurs to me, as if from a distance, that I’m standing in my underwear, screaming at an empty room, and a violent shudder goes through my body. Roughly, I yank the yellow dress over my head, its light, breezy layers like silk against my skin. In a different lifetime, I would’ve loved this

dress. It’s both beautiful and comfortable, the perfect sartorial combination. But there’s no time for that kind of frivolity anymore. Today, this dress is just a part of the role I must play. The voice in my head has gone quiet, but my heart is still racing. I feel propelled into motion by instinct alone, and, quickly, I slip into a pair of simple white tennis shoes, tying the laces tightly. I don’t know why, but today, right now, for some reason— I feel like I might need to run. Yes My spine straightens. Adrenaline courses through my veins and my muscles feel tight, burning with an intensity that feels brand-new to me; it’s the first time I’ve felt any positive effects of Evie’s procedures. This strength feels like it’s been grafted to my bones, like I could launch myself into the air, like I could scale a wall with one hand. I’ve known superstrength before, but that strength always felt like it was coming from elsewhere, like it was something I had to harness and release. Without my supernatural abilities—when I turned off my powers —I was left with an unimpressive, flimsy body. I’d been undernourished for years, forced to endure extreme physical and mental conditions, and my body suffered for it. I’d only begun to learn proper forms of exercise and conditioning in the last couple of months, and while the progress I made was helpful, it was only the first step in the right direction. But this— Whatever Evie did to me? This is different. Two weeks ago I was in so much pain I could hardly move. The next morning, when I could finally stand on my own, I saw no discernible difference in my body except that I was seven shades of purple from top to bottom. Everything was bruised. I was walking agony. Evie told me, as my doctor, that she kept me sedated so that I’d be forced to remain still in order to heal more quickly, but I had no reason to believe her. I still don’t. But this is the first time in two weeks that I feel almost normal. The bruises have nearly faded. Only the incision sites, the most painful entry points, still look a little yellow. Not bad. I flex my fists and feel powerful, truly powerful, even with the glowing manacles clamped around my wrists and ankles. I’ve desperately missed my powers, missed them more than I ever thought I could miss something

I’d spent so many years hating about myself. But for the first time in weeks, I feel strong. I know Evie did this to me—did this to my muscles— and I know I should distrust it, but it feels so good to feel good that I almost can’t help but revel in it. And right now, I feel like I could— Run I go still. RUN “What?” I whisper, turning to scan the walls, the ceiling. “Run where?” Out The word thunders through me, reverberates along my rib cage. Out. As if it were that simple, as if I could turn the doorknob and be rid of this nightmare. If it were that easy to leave this room, I would’ve done it already. But Evie reinforces the locks on my door with multiple layers of security. I only saw the mechanics of it once, when she returned me to my room after allowing me to look outside for a few minutes. In addition to the discreet cameras and retina displays, there’s a biometric scanner that reads Evie’s fingerprints to allow her access to the room. I’ve spent hours trying to get my bedroom door open, to no avail. Out Again, that word, loud and harsh inside my head. There’s something terrifying about the hope that snakes through me at the thought of escape. It clings and tugs and tempts me to be crazy enough to listen to the absurd hallucinations attacking my mind. This could be a trap, I think. This could all be Evie’s doing. I could be playing directly into her hand. Still. I can’t help myself. I cross the room in a few quick strides. I hesitate, my hand hovering over the handle, and, with a final exhalation, I give in. The door swings opens easily. I stand in the open doorway, my heart racing harder. A heady rush of feeling surges through me and I look around desperately, studying the

many hallways stretching out before me. This seems impossible. I have no idea where to go. No idea if I’m crazy for listening to a manipulative voice in my head after my psychotic mother spent hours injecting things into my mind. It’s only when I remember that I first heard this voice the night I arrived —just moments before Evie began torturing me—that I begin to doubt my doubt. Dying That was what the voice said to me that first night. Dying. I was lying on an operating table, unable to move or speak. I could only shout inside my head and I wanted to know where Emmaline was. I tried to scream it. Dying, the voice had said. A cold, paralyzing fear fills my blood. “Emmaline?” I whisper. “Is that you?” Help I take a certain step forward.

Warner “I’m a little early,” he says. “I know your birthday is tomorrow, but I just couldn’t wait any longer.” I stare at my father as though he might be a ghost. Worse, a poltergeist. I can’t bring myself to speak, and for some reason he doesn’t seem to mind my silence. Then— He smiles.

It’s a true smile, one that softens his features and brightens his eyes. We’re in something that looks like a sitting room, a bright, open space with plush couches, chairs, a round table, and a small writing desk in the corner. There’s a thick carpet underfoot. The walls are a pleasant, pale yellow, sun pouring in through large windows. My father’s figure is backlit. He looks ethereal. Glowing, like he might be an angel. This world has a sick sense of humor. He tossed me a robe when he walked into my cell, but hasn’t offered me anything else. I haven’t been given a chance to change. I haven’t been offered food or water. I feel underdressed—vulnerable—sitting across from him in nothing but cold underwear and a thin robe. I don’t even have socks. Slippers. Something. And I can only imagine what I must look like right now, considering it’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve had a shave or a haircut. I managed to keep myself clean in prison, but my hair is a bit longer now. Not like it used to be, but it’s getting there. And my face— I touch my face almost without thinking. Touching my face has become a bit of a habit these last couple of weeks. I have a beard. It’s not much of a beard, but it’s enough to surprise me, every time. I have no idea how I must look right now. Untamed, perhaps. Finally, I say, “You’re supposed to be dead.” “Surprise,” he says, and smiles. I only stare at him. My father leans against the table and stuffs his hands into his pants’ pockets in a way that makes him look boyish. Charming. It makes me feel ill. I look away, scanning the room for help. Details. Something to root me, something to explain him, something to arm me against what might be coming. I come up short. He laughs. “You know, you could stand to show a bit more emotion. I actually thought you might be happy to see me.” That gets my attention. “You thought wrong,” I say. “I was happy to hear you were dead.” “Are you sure?” He tilts his head. “You’re sure you didn’t shed a single tear for me? Didn’t miss me even the tiniest bit?”

All it takes is a moment of hesitation. The half-second delay during which I remember the weeks I spent caught in a prison of half grief, hating myself for mourning him, and hating that I ever cared at all. I open my mouth to speak and he cuts me off, his smile triumphant. “I know this must be a bit unsettling. And I know you’re going to pretend you don’t care. But we both know that your bleeding heart has always been the source of all our problems, and there’s no point trying to deny that now. So I’ll be generous and offer to overlook your treasonous behavior.” My spine stiffens. “You didn’t think I’d just forget, did you?” My father is no longer smiling. “You try to overthrow me—my government, my continent—and then you stand aside like a perfect, pathetic piece of garbage as your girlfriend attempts to murder me—and you thought I’d never mention it?” I can’t look at him anymore. I can’t stand the sight of his face, so like my own. His skin is still perfect, unscarred. As if he’d never been injured. Never taken a bullet to the forehead. I don’t understand it. “No? You still won’t be inspired to respond?” he says. “In that case, you might be smarter than I gave you credit for.” There. That feels more like him. “But the fact remains that we’re at an important crossroads right now. I had to call in a number of favors to have you transported here unharmed. The council was going to vote to have you executed for treason, and I was able to convince them otherwise.” “Why would you even bother?” His eyes narrow as he appraises me. “I save your life,” he says, “and this is your reaction? Insolence? Ingratitude?” “This,” I say sharply, “is your idea of saving my life? Throwing me in prison and having me poisoned to death?” “That should’ve been a picnic.” His gaze grows cold. “You really would be better off dead if those circumstances were enough to break you.” I say nothing. “Besides, we had to punish you somehow. Your actions couldn’t go unchecked.” My father looks away. “We’ve had a lot of messes to clean up,” he says finally. “Where do you think I’ve been all this time?” “As I said, I thought you were dead.”

“Close, but not quite. Actually,” he says, taking a breath, “I spent a great deal of time convalescing. Here. I was airlifted back here, where the Sommerses have been reviving me.” He pulls up the hem of his pants and I glimpse the silver gleam of metal where his ankle should be. “I’ve got new feet,” he says, and laughs. “Can you believe it?” I can’t. I can’t believe it. I’m stunned. He smiles, obviously satisfied with my reaction. “We let you and your friends think you’d had a victory just long enough to give me time to recover. We sent the rest of the kids down to distract you, to make it seem like The Reestablishment might actually accept its new, self-appointed commander.” He shakes his head. “A seventeen-year-old child declaring herself the ruler of North America,” he says, almost to himself. And then, looking up: “That girl really was a piece of work, wasn’t she?” Panic gathers in my chest. “What did you do to her? Where is she?” “No.” My father’s smile disappears. “Absolutely not.” “What does that mean?” “It means absolutely not. That girl is done. She’s gone. No more afternoon specials with your buddies from Omega Point. No more running around naked with your little girlfriend. No more sex in the afternoon when you should be working.” I feel both ill and enraged. “Don’t you dare— Don’t ever talk about her like that. You have no right—” He sighs, long and loud. Mutters something foul. “When are you going stop this? When will you grow out of this?” It takes everything I’ve got to bite back my anger. To sit here, calmly, and say nothing. Somehow, my silence makes things worse. “Dammit, Aaron,” he says, getting to his feet. “I keep waiting for you to move on. To get over her. To evolve,” he says, practically shouting at me now. “It’s been over a decade of the same bullshit.” Over a decade. A slip. “What do you mean,” I say, studying him carefully. “‘Over a decade’?” “I’m exaggerating,” he says, biting off the words. “Exaggerating to make a point.” “Liar.” For the first time, something uncertain flashes through my father’s eyes.

“Will you admit it?” I say quietly. “Will you admit to me what I already know?” He sets his jaw. Says nothing. “Admit it,” I say. “Juliette was an alias. Juliette Ferrars is actually Ella Sommers, the daughter of Evie and Maximillian Som—” “How—” My father catches himself. He looks away and then, too soon, he looks back. He seems to be deciding something. Finally, slowly, he nods. “You know what? It’s better this way. Better for you to know,” he says quietly. “Better for you to understand exactly why you’re never going to see her again.” “That’s not up to you.” “Not up to me?” Rage flashes in and out of his eyes, his cool mask quickly crumbling. “That girl has been the bane of my existence for twelve years,” he says. “She’s caused me more problems than you can even begin to understand, not the least of which has been to distract my idiot son for the better part of the last decade. Despite my every effort to break you apart—to remove this cancer from our lives—you’ve insisted, over and over again, on falling in love with her.” He looks me in the eye, his own eyes wild with fury. “She was never meant for you. She was never meant for any of this. That girl was sentenced to death,” he says viciously, “the moment I named her Juliette.” My heart is beating so hard it feels as though I’m dreaming. This must be a nightmare. I have to force myself to speak. To say: “What are you talking about?” My father’s mouth twists into an imitation of a smile. “Ella,” he says, “was designed to become a tool for war. She and her sister both, right from the beginning. Decades before we took over, sicknesses were beginning to ravage the population. The government was trying to bury the information, but we knew. I saw the classified files. I tracked down one of the secret bunkers. People were malfunctioning, metamorphosing—so much so that it felt almost like the next phase of evolution. Only Evie had the presence of mind to see the sickness as a tool. She was the one who first began studying the Unnaturals. She was the reason we created the asylums—she wanted access to more varieties of the illness—and she was the one who learned how to isolate and reproduce the alien DNA. It was her idea to use the findings to help our cause. Ella and Emmaline,” he says angrily, “were only ever meant to be Evie’s science

experiments. Ella was never meant for you. Never meant for anyone,” he shouts. “Get her out of your head.” I feel frozen as the words settle around me. Within me. The revelation isn’t entirely new and yet—the pain is fresh. Time seems to slow down, speed up, spin backward. My eyes fall closed. My memories collect and expand, exploding with renewed meaning as they assault me, all at once— Ella through the ages. My childhood friend. Ella, ripped away from me when I was seven years old. Ella and Emmaline, who they’d said had drowned in the lake. They told me to forget, to forget the girls ever existed and, finally, tired of answering my questions, they told me they’d make things easier for me. I followed my father into a room where he promised he’d explain everything. And then— I’m strapped to a chair, my head held in place with heavy metal clamps. Bright lights flash and buzz above me. I hear the monitors chirping, the muffled sounds of voices around me. The room feels large and cavernous, gleaming. I hear the loud, disconcerting sounds of my own breathing and the hard, heavy beats of my heart. I jump, a little, at the unwelcome feel of my father’s hand on my arm, telling me I’ll feel better soon. I look up at him as if emerging from a dream. “What is it?” he says. “What just happened?” I part my lips to speak, wonder if it’s safe to tell him the truth. I decide I’m tired of the lies. “I’ve been remembering her,” I say. My father’s face goes unexpectedly blank, and it’s the only reaction I need to understand the final, missing piece. “You’ve been stealing my memories,” I say to him, my voice unnaturally calm. “All these years. You’ve been tampering with my mind. It was you.” He says nothing, but I see the tension in his jaw, the sudden jump of a vein under skin. “What are you remembering?” I shake my head, stunned as I stare at him. “I should’ve known. After everything you’ve done to me—” I stop, my vision shifts, unfocused for a moment. “Of course you wouldn’t let me be master of my own mind.”

“What, exactly, are you remembering?” he says, hardly able to control the anger in his voice now. “What else do you know?” At first, I feel nothing. I’ve trained myself too well. Years of practice have taught me to bury my emotions as a reflex—especially in his presence—and it takes a few seconds for the feelings to emerge. They form slowly, infinite hands reaching up from infinite graves to fan the flames of an ancient rage I’ve never really allowed myself to touch. “You stole my memories of her,” I say quietly. “Why?” “Always so focused on the girl.” He glares at me. “She’s not the center of everything, Aaron. I stole your memories of lots of things.” I’m shaking my head. I get to my feet slowly, at once out of my mind and perfectly calm, and I worry, for a moment, that I might actually expire from the full force of everything I feel for him. Hatred so deep it might boil me alive. “Why would you do something like this except to torture me? You knew how I felt about her. You did it on purpose. Pushing us together and pulling us apart—” I stop suddenly. Realization dawns, bright and piercing and I look at him, unable to fathom the depth of his cruelty. “You put Kent under my command on purpose,” I say. My father meets my eyes with a vacant expression. He says nothing. “I find it hard to believe you didn’t know the whereabouts of your illegitimate children,” I say to him. “I don’t believe for a second that you weren’t having Kent’s every move monitored. You must’ve known what he was doing with his life. You must’ve been notified the moment he enlisted. “You could’ve sent him anywhere,” I say. “You had the power to do that. Instead, you let him remain in Sector 45—under my jurisdiction—on purpose. Didn’t you? And when you had Delalieu show me those files— when he came to me, convinced me that Kent would be the perfect cellmate for Juliette because here was proof that he’d known her, that they’d gone to school together—” Suddenly, my father smiles. “I’ve always tried to tell you,” he says softly. “I’ve tried to tell you to stop letting your emotions rule your mind. Over and over, I tried to teach you, and you never listened. You never learned.” He shakes his head. “If you suffer now, it’s because you brought it upon yourself. You made yourself an easy target.”

I’m stunned. Somehow, even after everything, he manages to shock me. “I don’t understand how you can stand there, defending your actions, after you spent twenty years torturing me.” “I’ve only ever been trying to teach you a lesson, Aaron. I didn’t want you to end up like your mother. She was weak, just like you.” I need to kill him. I picture it: what it would be like to pin him to the ground, to stab him repeatedly through the heart, to watch the light go out of his eyes, to feel his body go cold under my hands. I wait for fear. Revulsion. Regret. They don’t come. I have no idea how he survived the last attempt on his life, but I no longer care to know the answer. I want him dead. I want to watch his blood pool in my hands. I want to rip his throat out. I spy a letter opener on the writing desk nearby, and in the single second I take to swipe it, my father laughs. Laughs. Out loud. Doubled over, one hand holding his side. When he looks up, there are actual tears in his eyes. “Have you lost your mind?” he says. “Aaron, don’t be ridiculous.” I step forward, the letter opener clutched loosely in my fist, and I watch, carefully, for the moment he understands that I’m going to kill him. I want him to know that it’s going to be me. I want him to know that he finally got what he wanted. That he finally broke me. “You made a mistake sparing my life,” I say quietly. “You made a mistake showing your face. You made a mistake thinking you could ask me to come back, after all you’ve done—” “You misunderstand me.” He’s standing straight again, the laughter gone from his face. “I’m not asking you to come back. You don’t have a choice.” “Good. That makes this easier.” “Aaron.” He shakes his head. “I’m not unarmed. I’m entirely willing to kill you if you step out of line. And though I can’t claim that murdering my son is my favorite way to spend a morning, that doesn’t mean I won’t

do it. So you need to stop and think, for just a moment, before you step forward and commit suicide.” I study him. My fingers flex around the weapon in my hand. “Tell me where she is,” I say, “and I’ll consider sparing your life.” “You fool. Have you not been listening to me? She’s gone.” I stiffen. Whatever he means by that, he’s not lying. “Gone where?” “Gone,” he says angrily. “Disappeared. The girl you knew no longer exists.” He pulls a remote out of his jacket pocket and points it at the wall. An image appears instantly, projected from elsewhere, and the sound that fills the room is so sudden—so jarring and unexpected—it nearly brings me to my knees. It’s Ella. She’s screaming. Blood drips down her open, screaming mouth, the agonizing sounds punctured only by the heaving sobs that pull ragged, aching breaths from her body. Her eyes are half open, delirious, and I watch as she’s unstrapped from a chair and dragged onto a stretcher. Her body spasms, her arms and legs jerking uncontrollably. She’s in a white hospital gown, the insubstantial ties coming undone, the thin fabric damp with her own blood. My hands shake uncontrollably as I watch, her head whipping back and forth, her body straining against her restraints. She screams again and a bolt of pain shoots through me, so excruciating it nearly bends me in half. And then, quickly, as if out of nowhere, someone steps forward and stabs a needle in her neck. Ella goes still. Her body is frozen, her face captured in a single moment of agony before the drug kicks in, collapsing her. Her screams dissolve into smaller, steadier whimpers. She cries, even as her eyes close. I feel violently ill. My hands are shaking so hard I can no longer form a fist, and I watch, as if from afar, as the letter opener falls to the floor. I hold still, forcing back the urge to vomit, but the action provokes a shudder so disorienting I almost lose my balance. Slowly, I turn to face my father, whose eyes are inscrutable. It takes two tries before I’m able to form a single, whispered word: “What?”

He shakes his head, the picture of false sympathy. “I’m trying to get you to understand. This,” he says, nodding at the screen, “this is what she’s destined for. Forever. Stop imagining your life with her. Stop thinking of her as a person—” “This can’t be real,” I say, cutting him off. I feel wild. Unhinged. “This — Tell me this isn’t real. What are you doing to me? Is this—” “Of course it’s real,” he says. “Juliette is gone. Ella is gone. She’s as good as dead. She had her mind wiped weeks ago. But you,” he says, “you still have a life to live. Are you listening to me? You have to pull yourself together.” But I can’t hear him over the sound of Ella sobbing. She’s still weeping—the sounds softer, sadder, more desperate. She looks terrified. Small and helpless as foreign hands bandage the open wounds on her arms, the backs of her legs. I watch as glowing metal cuffs are shackled to her wrists and ankles. She whimpers once more. And I feel insane. I must be. Listening to her scream—watching her fight for her life, watching her choke on her own blood while I stand here, powerless to help her— I’ll never be able to forget the sound. No matter what happens, no matter where I run, these screams—her screams—will haunt me forever. “You wanted me to watch this?” I’m whispering now; I can hardly speak. “Why would you want me to watch this?” He says something to me. Shouts something at me. But I feel suddenly deaf. The sounds of the world seem warped, faraway, like my head has been submerged underwater. The fire in my brain has been snuffed out, replaced by a sudden, absolute calm. A sense of certainty. I know what I need to do now. And I know that there’s nothing—nothing I won’t do to get to her. I feel it, feel my thin morals dissolving. I feel my flimsy, moth-eaten skin of humanity begin to come apart, and with it, the veil keeping me from complete darkness. There are no lines I won’t cross. No illusions of mercy. I wanted to be better for her. For her happiness. For her future. But if she’s gone, what good is goodness? I take a deep, steadying breath. I feel oddly liberated, no longer shackled by an obligation to decency. And in one simple move, I pick up

the letter opener I dropped on the floor. “Aaron,” he says, a warning in his voice. “I don’t want to hear you speak,” I say. “I don’t want you to talk to me ever again.” I throw the knife even before the words have left my mouth. It flies hard and fast, and I enjoy the second it soars through the air. I enjoy the way the second expands, exploding in the strangeness of time. It all feels like slow motion. My father’s eyes widen in a rare display of unmasked shock, and I smile at the sound of his gasp when the weapon finds its mark. I was aiming for his jugular, and it looks like my aim was true. He chokes, his eyes bulging as his hands move, shakily, to yank the letter opener from its home in his neck. He coughs, suddenly, blood spattering everywhere, and with some effort, he’s able to pull the thing free. Fresh blood gushes down his shirt, seeps from his mouth. He can’t speak; the blade has penetrated his larynx. Instead, he gasps, still choking, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. He falls to his knees. His hands grasp at air, his veins jumping under his skin, and I step toward him. I watch him as he begs, silently, for something, and then I pat him down, pocketing the two guns I find concealed on his person. “Enjoy hell,” I whisper, before walking away. Nothing matters anymore. I have to find her.

Juliette Ella Left. Right. Straight. Left.

The commands keep my feet moving safely down the hall. This compound is vast. Enormous. My bedroom was so ordinary that the truth of this facility is jarring. An open framework reveals many dozens of floors, hallways and staircases intertwining like overpasses and freeways. The ceiling seems miles away, high and arched and intricate. Exposed steel beams meet clean white walkways centered around an open, interior courtyard. I had no idea I was so high up. And, somehow, for such a huge building, I haven’t yet been spotted. Things are growing more eerie by the minute. I encounter no one as I go; I’m ordered to run, detour, or hide just in time to avoid passersby. It’s uncanny. Still, I’ve been walking for at least twenty minutes, and I don’t seem to be getting closer to anything. I have no idea where I am in the scheme of things, and there are no windows nearby. The whole facility feels like a gilded prison. A long stretch of silence between myself and my imaginary friend starts making me nervous. I think this voice might be Emmaline’s, but she still hasn’t confirmed it. And though I want to say something, I feel silly speaking out loud. So I speak only inside my mind when I say: Emmaline? Are you there? No response. My nervousness reaches its peak and I stop walking. Where are you taking me? This time, the answer comes quickly: Escape Are we getting closer? I ask. Yes I take a deep breath and forge ahead, but I feel a creeping dread infiltrate my senses. The longer I walk—down hallways and infinite staircases—the closer I seem to be getting to something—something that fills me with fear. I can’t explain it. It’s clear I’m going underground. The lights are growing dimmer as I go. The halls are beginning to narrow. The windows and staircases are beginning to disappear. And I

know I’m only getting closer to the bowels of the building when the walls change. Gone are the smooth, finished white walls of the upper floors. Here, everything is unfinished cement. It smells cold and wet. Earthy. The lights buzz and hum, occasionally snapping. Fear continues to pulse up my spine. I shuffle down a slight slope, my shoes slipping a little as I go. My lungs squeeze. My heartbeat feels loud, too loud, and a strange sensation begins to fill my arms and legs. Feeling. Too much feeling. It makes my skin crawl, makes my bones itch. I feel suddenly restless and anxious. And just as I’m about to lose hope in this crazy, meandering escape route— Here I stop. I’m standing in front of a massive stone door. My heart is racing in my throat. I hesitate, fear beginning to fissure my certainty. Open “Who are you?” I ask again, this time speaking out loud. “This doesn’t look like an escape route.” Open I squeeze my eyes shut; fill my lungs with air. I came all this way, I tell myself. I have no other options at the moment. I may as well see it through. But when I open the door I realize it’s only the first of several. Wherever I’m headed is protected by multiple layers of security. The mechanisms required to open each door are baffling—there are no knobs or handles, no traditional hinges—but all I have to do is touch the door for it to swing open. It’s too easy. Finally, I’m standing in front of a steel wall. There’s nothing here to indicate there might be a room beyond. Touch Tentatively, I touch my fingers to the metal. More

I press my whole hand firmly against the door, and within seconds, the wall melts away. I look around nervously and step forward. Immediately, I know I’ve been led astray. I feel sick as I look around, sick and terrified. This place is so far from an escape I almost can’t believe I fell for it. I’m in a laboratory. Another laboratory. Panic collapses something inside me, bones and organs knocking together, blood rushing to my head. I run for the door and it seals shut, the steel wall forming easily, as if from air. I pull in a few sharp breaths, begging myself to stay calm. “Show yourself,” I shout. “Who are you? What do you want with me?” Help My heart shudders to a stop. I feel my fear expand and contract. Dying Goosebumps rise along my skin. My breath catches; my fists clench. I take a step farther into the room, and then a few more. I’m still wary, worried this is all yet another part of the trick— Then I see it. A glass cylinder as tall and wide as the wall, filled to the hilt with water. There’s a creature floating inside of it. Something greater than fear is driving me forward, greater than curiosity, greater than wonder. Feeling washes over me. Memories crash into me. A spindly arm reaches through the murky water, shaky fingers forming a loose fist that pounds, weakly, against the glass. At first, all I see is her hand. But the closer I get, the more clearly I’m able to see what they’ve done to her. And I can’t hide my horror. She inches closer to the glass and I catch sight of her face. She no longer has a face, not really. Her mouth has been permanently sealed around a regulator, skin spiderwebbing over silicone. Her hair is a couple feet long, dark and wild and floating around her head like wispy tentacles. Her nose has melted backward into her skull and her eyes are permanently closed, long dark lashes the only indication they ever used to open. Her hands and feet are webbed. She has no fingernails. Her arms and legs are mostly bone and sagging, wrinkled skin.

“Emmaline,” I whisper. Dying The tears come hot and fast, hitting me without warning, breaking me from within. “What did they do to you?” I say, my voice ragged. “How could they do this to you?” A dull, metallic sound. Twice. Emmaline is floating closer. She presses her webbed fingers against the barrier between us and I reach up, hastily wiping my eyes before I meet her there. I press my palm to the glass and somehow, impossibly, I feel her take my hand. Soft. Warm. Strong. And then, with a gasp— Feeling pulses through me, wave after wave of feeling, emotions as infinite as time. Memories, desires, long-extinguished hopes and dreams. The force of everything sends my head spinning; I slump forward and grit my teeth, steadying myself by pressing my forehead against the barrier between us. Images fill my mind like stilted frames from an old movie. Emmaline’s life. She wants me to know. I feel like I’m being pulled into her, like she’s reeling me into her own body, immersing me in her mind. Her memories. I see her younger, much younger, eight or nine years old. She was spirited, furious. Difficult to control. Her mind was stronger than she could handle and she didn’t know how to feel about her powers. She felt cursed, strangled by them. But unlike me, she was kept at home, here, in this exact laboratory, forced to undergo test after test administered by her own parents. I feel her rage pierce through me. For the first time, I realize I had the luxury of forgetting. She didn’t. Max and Evie—and even Anderson—tried to wipe Emmaline’s memory multiple times, but each time, Emmaline’s body prevailed. Her mind was so strong that she was able to convince her brain to reverse the chemistry meant to dissolve her memories. No matter what Max and Evie tried, Emmaline could never forget them. Instead, she watched as her own parents turned on her. Turned her inside out. Emmaline is telling me everything without saying a word. She can’t speak. She’s lost four of her five senses.

She went blind first. She lost her sense of smell and sensation a year later, both at the same time. Finally, she lost the ability to speak. Her tongue and teeth disintegrated. Her vocal cords eroded. Her mouth sealed permanently shut. She can only hear now. But poorly. I see the scenes change, see her grow a little older, a little more broken. I see the fire go out of her eyes. And then, when she realizes what they have planned for her— The entire reason they wanted her, so desperately — Violent horror takes my breath away. I fall, kneecaps knocking the floor. The force of her feelings rips me open. Sobs break my back, shudder through my bones. I feel everything. Her pain, her endless pain. Her inability to end her own suffering. She wants this to end. End, she says, the word sharp and explosive. With some effort, I manage to lift my head to look at her. “Was it you this whole time?” I whisper. “Did you give me back my memories?” Yes “How? Why?” She shows me. I feel my spine straighten as the vision moves through me. I see Evie and Max, hear their warped conversations from inside the glass prison. They’ve been trying to make Emmaline stronger over the years, trying to find ways to enhance Emmaline’s telekinetic abilities. They wanted her skills to evolve. They wanted her to be able to perform mind control. Mind control of the masses. It backfired. The more they experimented on her—the further they pushed her—the stronger and weaker she became. Her mind was able to handle the physical manipulations, but her heart couldn’t take it. Even as they built her up, they were breaking her down. She’d lost the will to live. To fight. She no longer had complete control over her own body; even her powers were now regulated through Max and Evie. She’d become a

puppet. And the more listless she became, the more they misunderstood. Max and Evie thought Emmaline was growing compliant. Instead, she was deteriorating. And then— Another scene. Emmaline hears an argument. Max and Evie are discussing me. Emmaline hasn’t heard them mention me in years; she had no idea I was still alive. She hears that I’ve been fighting back. That I’ve been resisting, that I tried to kill a supreme commander. Emmaline feels hope for the first time in years. I clap my hands over my mouth. Take a step back. Emmaline has no eyes, but I feel her staring at me. Watching me for a reaction. I feel unsteady, alert but overcome. I finally understand. Emmaline has been using her last gasp of strength to contact me—and not just me, but all the other children of the supreme commanders. She shows me, inside my own mind, how she’s taken advantage of Max and Evie’s latest effort to expand her capabilities. She’d never been able to reach out to people individually before, but Max and Evie got greedy. In Emmaline they laid the foundation for their own demise. Emmaline thinks we’re the last hope for the world. She wants us to stand up, fight, save humanity. She’s been slowly returning our minds to us, giving back what our parents once stole. She wants us to see the truth. Help, she says. “I will,” I whisper. “I promise I will. But first I’m going to get you out of here.” Rage, hot and violent, sends me reeling. Emmaline’s anger is sharp and terrifying, and a resounding NO fills my brain. I go still. Confused. “What do you mean?” I say. “I have to help you get out of here. We’ll escape together. I have friends—healers—who can restore y—” NO And then, in a flash—

She fills my mind with an image so dark I think I might be sick. “No,” I say, my voice shaking. “I won’t do it. I’m not going to kill you.” Anger, hot, ferocious anger, attacks my mind. Image after image assaults me, her failed suicide attempts, her inability to turn her own powers against herself, the infinite fail-safes Max and Evie put in place to make sure Emmaline couldn’t take her own life, and that she couldn’t harm theirs— “Emmaline, please—” HELP “There has to be another way,” I say desperately. “This can’t be it. You don’t have to die. We can get through this together.” She bangs her open palm against the glass. Tremors rock her emaciated body. Already dying I step forward, press my hands to her prison. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this,” I say, the words broken. “There has to be another way. Please. I want my sister back. I want you to live.” More anger, hot and wild, begins to bloom in my mind and then— a spike of fear. Emmaline goes rigid in her tank. Coming I look around, steeling myself. Adrenaline spikes in my veins. Wait Emmaline has wrapped her arms around her body, her face pinched in concentration. I can still feel her with an immediacy so intimate it feels almost like her thoughts are my own. And then, unexpectedly— My shackles pop open.

I spin around as they fall to the floor with a rich clatter. I rub at my aching wrists, my ankles. “How did you—?” Coming I nod. “Whatever happens today,” I whisper, “I’m coming back for you. This isn’t over. Do you hear me? Emmaline, I won’t let you die here.” For the first time, Emmaline seems to relax. Something warm and sweet fills my head, affection so unexpected it pricks my eyes. I fight back the emotion. Footsteps. Fear has fled my body. I feel unusually calm. I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. There’s strength in my bones, strength in my mind. And now that the cuffs are off, my powers are back on and a familiar feeling is surging through me; it’s like being joined by an old friend. I meet Evie’s eyes as she walks through the door. She’s already pointing a gun at me. Not a gun—something that looks like a gun. I don’t know what’s in it. “What are you doing here?” she says, her voice only slightly hysterical. “What have you done?” I shake my head. I can’t look at her face anymore without feeling blind rage. I can’t even think her name without feeling a violent, potent, animalistic need to murder her with my bare hands. Evie Sommers is the worst kind of human being. A traitor to humanity. An unadulterated sociopath. “What have you done?” she says again, this time betraying her fear. Her panic. The gun trembles in her fist. Her eyes are wide, crazed, darting from me to Emmaline, still trapped in the tank behind me. And then— I see it. I see the moment she realizes I’m not wearing my manacles. Evie goes pale. “I haven’t done anything,” I say softly. “Not yet.” Her gun falls, with a clatter, to the floor. Unlike Paris, my mother isn’t stupid. She knows there’s no point trying to shoot me. She created me. She knows what I’m capable of. And she knows—I can see it in her eyes—she knows I’m about to kill her, and she knows there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

Still, she tries. “Ella,” she says, her voice unsteady. “Everything we did—everything we’ve ever done—was to try to help you. We were trying to save the world. You have to understand.” I take a step forward. “I do understand.” “I just wanted to make the world a better place,” she says. “Don’t you want to make the world a better place?” “Yes,” I say. “I do.” She almost smiles. A small, broken breath escapes her body. Relief. I take two swift, running steps and punch her through the chest, ribs breaking under my knuckles. Her eyes widen and she chokes, staring at me in stunned, paralyzed silence. She coughs and blood spatters, hot and thick, across my face. I turn away, spitting her blood out of my mouth, and by the time I look back, she’s dead. With one last tug, I rip her heart out of her body. Evie falls to the floor with a heavy thud, her eyes cold and glassy. I’m still holding my mother’s heart, watching it die in my hands, when a familiar voice calls out to me. Thank you Thank you Thank you

Warner I realize, upon quitting the crime scene, that I have no idea where I am. I stand in the middle of the hallway outside the room within which I just murdered my father, and try to figure out my next moves. I’m nearly naked. No socks. Completely barefoot. Far from ideal. Still, I need to keep moving. If only.

I don’t make it five feet before I feel the familiar pinch of a needle. I feel it—even as I try to fight it—I feel it as a foreign chemical enters my body. It’s only a matter of time before it pulls me under. My vision blurs. I try to beat it, try to remain standing, but my body is weak. After two weeks of near starvation, constant poisoning, and violent exhaustion, I’ve run out of reserves. The last dregs of my adrenaline have left me. This is it. I fall to the floor, and the memories consume me. I gasp as I’m returned to consciousness, taking in great lungfuls of air as I sit up too fast, my head spinning. There are wires taped to my temples, my limbs, the plastic ends pinching the soft hinges of my arms and legs, pulling at the skin on my bare chest. I rip them off, causing great distress to the monitors nearby. I yank the needle out of my arm and toss it to the floor, applying pressure to the wound for a few seconds before deciding to let it bleed. I get to my feet, spinning around to assess my surroundings, but still feel off-balance. I can only guess at who must’ve shot me with a tranquilizer; even so, I feel no urgency to panic. Killing my father has instilled in me an extraordinary serenity. It’s a perverse, horrible thing to celebrate, but to murder my father was to vanquish my greatest fear. With him dead, anything seems possible. I feel free. Still, I need to focus on where I am, on what’s happening. I need to be forming a plan of attack, a plan of escape, a plan to rescue Ella. But my mind is being pulled in what feels like a hundred different directions. The memories are growing more intense by the minute. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I don’t know how long this barrage will last or how much more will be uncovered, but the emotional revelations are beginning to take their toll on me. A few months ago, I knew I loved Ella. I knew I felt for her what I’d never felt before for anyone. It felt new and precious and tender. Important. But every day—every minute—of the last couple of weeks I’ve been bombarded by memories of her I never even knew I had. Moments with her from years ago. The sound of her laughter, the smell of her hair, the look in her eyes when she smiled at me for the first time. The way it felt to hold her hand when everything was new and unknown—

Three years ago. How could it be possible that I touched her like that three years ago? How could we have known then, without actually knowing why, that we could be together? That she could touch me without hurting me? How could any of these moments have been ripped from my mind? I had no idea I’d lost so much of her. But then, I had no idea there’d been so much to lose. A profound, painful ache has rooted inside of me, carrying with it the weight of years. Being apart from Juliette—Ella—has always been hard, but now it seems unsurvivable. I’m being slowly decimated by emotion. I need to see her. To hold her. To bind her to me, somehow. I won’t believe a word my father said until I see her and speak with her in person. I can’t give up. Not yet. To hell with what happened between us back on base. Those events feel like they happened lifetimes ago. Like they happened to different people. Once I find her and get her to safety I will find a way to make things right between us. It feels like something long dead inside of me is being slowly returned to life—like my hopes and dreams are being resuscitated, like the holes in my heart are being slowly, carefully mended. I will find her. And when I do, I will find a way to move forward with her, by my side, forever. I take a deep breath. And then I get to my feet. I brace myself, expecting the familiar sting of my broken ribs, but the pain in my side is gone. Gingerly, I touch my torso; the bruising has disappeared. I touch my face and I’m surprised to discover that my skin is smooth, clean-shaven. I touch my hair and find it’s been returned to its original length—exactly as it was before I had to cut it all off. Strange. Still, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time, and I’m quietly grateful. The only thing bothering me is that I’m wearing nothing but a dressing grown, under which I’m completely naked. I’m sick of being naked. I want my clothes. I want a proper pair of pants. I want— And then, as if someone has read my mind, I notice a fresh set of clothes on a nearby table. Clothes that look exactly my size. I pick up the sweater. Examine it.

These are my actual clothes. I know these pieces. Recognize them. And if that wasn’t enough, my initials—AWA—are monogrammed on the cuff of the sweater. This was no accident. Someone brought my clothes here. From my own closet. They were expecting me. I dress quickly, grateful for the clean outfit regardless of the circumstances, and I’m nearly done with the straps on my boots when someone walks in. “Max,” I say, without lifting my head. Carefully, I step on the needle I’d tossed earlier to the floor. “How are you?” He laughs out loud. “How did you know it was me?” “I recognized the rhythm of your footfalls.” He goes quiet. “Don’t bother trying to deny it,” I say, hiding the syringe in my hand as I sit up. I meet his eyes and smile. “I’ve been listening to your heavy, uneven gait for the last two weeks.” Max’s eyes widen. “I’m impressed.” “And I appreciate the clean shave,” I say, touching my face. He laughs again, more softly this time. “You were pretty close to dead when I brought you in here. Imagine my surprise to find you nearly naked, severely dehydrated, half-starved, vitamin-deficient. You had three broken ribs. Your father’s blood all over your hands.” “Three broken ribs? I thought it was two.” “Three broken ribs,” Max says, and nods. “And still, you managed to sever Paris’s carotid artery. Nicely done.” I meet his eyes. Max thinks this is funny. And then I understand. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?” I say. Max smiles wider. “Quite alive, yes. Despite your best efforts to murder him.” “That seems impossible.” “You sound irritated,” Max says. “I am irritated. That he survived is an insult to my skill set.” Max fights back another laugh. “I don’t remember you being so funny.” “I’m not trying to be funny.” But Max can’t wipe the smile off his face. “So you’re not going to tell me how he survived?” I say. “You’re just going to bait me?”

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he says. “I understand. Does she help you sound out the big words?” Max’s eyebrows jump up his forehead. “Watch yourself, Aaron.” “Apologies. Please step out of my way.” “As I said, I’m waiting for my wife. She has something she wants to say to you.” I study him, looking closely at his face in a way I can’t remember ever having done. He has dark brown hair, light brown skin, and bright bluegreen eyes. He’s aged well. On a different day, I might’ve even described his face as warm, friendly. But knowing now that he’s Ella’s father—I almost can’t believe I didn’t notice sooner. She has his eyes. I hear a second set of footsteps drawing nearer to the door. I expect to see Evie, Supreme Sommers, and instead— “Max, how long do you think it’ll take bef—” My father. His voice. I can hardly believe it. He stops, just inside the doorway, when he sees my face. He’s holding a bloodied towel to his throat. “You idiot,” he says to me. I don’t have a chance to respond. A sharp alarm sounds, and Max goes suddenly rigid. He glances at a monitor on the wall before looking back at my father. “Go,” Anderson says. “I can handle him.” Max glances at me just once before he disappears. “So,” I say, nodding at my father’s face, his healing wound. “Are you going to explain?” He merely stares at me. I watch, quietly, as he uses his free hand to pull a handkerchief from his pocket. He wipes the remaining blood from his lips, refolds the handkerchief, and tucks it back inside his pocket. Something between us has changed. I can feel it. Can feel the shift in his attitude toward me. It takes a minute to piece together the various emotional cues long enough to understand, but when it finally hits me, it hits me hard. Respect. For the first time in my life, my father is staring at me with something like respect. I tried to kill him, and instead of being angry with me, he seems pleased. Maybe even impressed.

“You did good work back there,” he says quietly. “It was a strong throw. Solid.” It feels strange to accept his compliment, so I don’t. My father sighs. “Part of the reason I wanted custody of those healer twins,” he says finally, “was because I wanted Evie to study them. I wanted her to replicate their DNA and braid it into my own. Healing powers, I realized, were extremely useful.” A sharp chill goes up my spine. “But I didn’t have them under my control for as long as I wanted,” he says. “I was only able to extract a few blood samples. Evie did the best she could with the time we had.” I blink. Try to control the expression on my face. “So you have healing powers now?” “We’re still working on it,” he says, his jaw tight. “It’s not yet perfect. But it was enough that I was able to survive the wounds to the head just long enough to be shipped to safety.” He smiles a bitter smile. “My feet, on the other hand, didn’t make it.” “How unfortunate,” I lie. I test the weight of the syringe in my hand. I wonder how much damage it could do. It’s not substantial enough to do much more than stun, but a carefully angled attack could result in temporary nerve pain that would buy me a sizable amount of time. But then, so might a single, precise stab in the eye. “Operation Synthesis,” my father says sharply. I look up. Surprised. “You’re ready, Aaron.” His gaze is steady. “You’re ready for a real challenge. You’ve got the necessary fire. The drive. I’m seeing it in your eyes for the first time.” I’m too afraid to speak. Finally, after all these years, my father is giving me praise. He’s telling me I’m capable. As a child, it was everything I’d ever wanted. But I’m not a child anymore. “You’ve seen Emmaline,” my father says. “But you haven’t seen her recently. You don’t know what state she’s in.” I wait. “She’s dying,” he says. “Her body isn’t strong enough to survive her mind or her environment, and despite Max and Evie’s every effort, they

don’t know if there’s anything else they can do to help her. They’ve been working for years to prolong her life as much as possible, but they’ve reached the end of the line. There’s nothing left to do. She’s deteriorating at a rate they can no longer control.” Still, I say nothing. “Do you understand?” my father says to me. “Do you understand the importance of what I’m saying to you? Emmaline is not only a psychokinetic, but a telepath,” he says. “As her body deteriorates, her mind grows wilder. She’s too strong. Too explosive. And lately, without a strong enough body to contain her, she’s become volatile. If she’s not given a n—” “Don’t you dare,” a voice barks, loudly, into the room. “Don’t you dare say another word. You thickheaded fool.” I spin around, surprise catching in my throat. Supreme Commander Ibrahim. He seems taller than I remember him. Dark skin, dark hair. Angry. “It’s okay,” my father says, unbothered. “Evie has taken care of—” “Evie is dead,” Ibrahim says angrily. “We need to initiate the transfer immediately.” “What?” My father goes pale. I’ve never seen him pale. I’ve never seen him terrified. “What do you mean she’s dead?” Ibrahim’s eyes flash. “I mean we have a serious problem.” He glances at me. “This boy needs to be put back in isolation. We can’t trust any of them right now. We don’t know what she might’ve done.” And just as I’m trying to decide my next move, I hear a whisper at my ear. “Don’t scream,” she says. Nazeera.

Juliette Ella I’m running for my life, bolting down hallways and up staircases. A low, insistent alarm has gone off, its high, piercing sound sending shocks of

fear through me even as my feet pound the floor. I feel strong, steady, but I’m increasingly aware of my inability to navigate these snaking paths. I could see—could feel—Emmaline growing weaker as I left, and now, the farther I get from her, the dimmer our connection becomes. She showed me, in her memories, how Max and Evie slowly stripped her of control; Emmaline is more powerful than anyone, but now she can only use her powers on command. It took all her strength to push past the fail-safes long enough to use her strength at will, and now that her voice has retreated from my mind, I know she won’t be back. Not anytime soon. I have to figure out my own way out of here. I will. My power is back on. I can get through anything from here. I have to. And when I hear someone shout I spin around, ready to fight— But the face in the distance is so familiar I stop, stunned, in my tracks. Kenji barrels into me. Kenji. Kenji is hugging me. Kenji is hugging me, and he’s uninjured. He’s perfect. And just as I begin to return his embrace he swears, violently, and launches himself backward. “Jesus, woman— Are you trying to kill me? You can’t turn that shit off for a second? You have to go and ruin our dramatic reunion by nearly murdering me even after I’ve gone to all the trouble of f—” I launch myself into his arms again and he stiffens, relaxing only when he realizes I’ve pulled my power back. I forgot, for a second, how much of my skin was exposed in this dress. “Kenji,” I breathe. “You’re alive. You’re okay. Oh my God.” “Hey,” he says. “Hey.” He pulls back, looks me in the eye. “I’m okay. You okay?” I don’t really know how to answer the question. Finally, I say, “I’m not sure.” He studies my face for a second. He looks concerned. And then, the knot of fear growing only more painful in my throat, I ask the question killing me most: “Where’s Warner?” Kenji shakes his head. I feel myself begin to unravel.

“I don’t know yet,” Kenji says quietly. “But we’re going to find him, okay? Don’t worry.” I nod. My bottom lip trembles and I bite it down but the tremble won’t be killed. It grows, multiplies, evolves into a tremor that shakes me from stem to sternum. “Hey,” Kenji says. I look up. “You want to tell me where all the blood came from?” I blink. “What blood?” He raises his eyebrows at me. “The blood,” he says, gesturing, generally, at my body. “On your face. Your dress. All over your hands.” “Oh,” I say, startled. I look at my hands as if seeing them for the first time. “The blood.” Kenji sighs, squints at something over my shoulder. He pulls a pair of gloves out of his back pocket and tugs them on. “All right, princess, turn your power back on. We have to move.” We break apart. Kenji pulls his invisibility over us both. “Follow me,” he says, taking my hand. “Where are we going?” I say. “What do you mean, where are we going? We’re getting the hell out of here.” “But— What about Warner?” “Nazeera is looking for him as we speak.” I stop so suddenly I nearly stumble. “Nazeera is here?” “Uh, yeah— So— It’s a really long story? But the short answer is yes.” “So that’s how you got in here,” I say, beginning to understand. “Nazeera.” Kenji makes a sound of disbelief. “Wow, right off the bat you give me no credit, huh? C’mon, J, you know I love a good rescue mission. I know some things. I can figure things out, too.” For the first time in weeks I feel a smile tug at my lips. A laugh builds and breaks inside my body. I’ve missed this so much. I’ve missed my friends so much. Emotion wells in my throat, surprising me. “I missed you, Kenji,” I say. “I’m so happy you’re here.” “Hey,” Kenji says sharply. “Don’t you dare start crying. If you start crying I’ll start crying and we do not have time to cry right now. We have too much shit to do, okay? We can cry later, at a more convenient time. Okay?”

When I say nothing, he squeezes my hand. “Okay?” he says again. “Okay,” I say. I hear him sigh. “Damn,” he says. “They really messed you up in here, didn’t they?” “Yeah.” “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Can we cry about it later? I’ll tell you everything.” “Hell yeah we can cry about it later.” Kenji tugs gently on my hand to get us moving again. “I have so much shit to cry about, J. So much. We should make, like, a list.” “Good idea,” I say, but my heart is in my throat again. “Hey, don’t worry,” Kenji says, reading my thoughts. “Seriously. We’ll find Warner. Nazeera knows what she’s doing.” “But I don’t think I can just wait while Nazeera goes searching for him. I can’t just stand around— I need to do something. I need to look for him myself—” “Uh-uh. No way. Nazeera and I split up on purpose. My mission is to get you on the plane. Her mission is to get Warner on the plane. That’s how math works.” “Wait— You have a plane?” “How else did you think we got here?” “I have no idea.” “Well, that’s another long story, and I’ll fill you in later, but the highlights are that Nazeera is very confusing but helpful, and according to her calculations, we need to be getting the hell out of here yesterday. We’re running out of time.” “But wait, Kenji— What happened to everyone? Last time I saw you, you were bleeding. Brendan had been shot. Castle was down. I thought everyone was dead.” Kenji doesn’t answer me at first. “You really have no idea what happened, huh?” he says finally. “I only know that I didn’t actually kill all those people at the symposium.” “Oh yeah?” He sounds surprised. “Who told you?” “Emmaline.” “Your sister?”

“Yeah,” I say, sighing heavily. “There’s so much I have to tell you. But first— Please tell me everyone is still alive.” Kenji hesitates. “I mean, I think so? Honestly, I don’t know. Nazeera says they’re alive. She’s promising to come through on getting them to safety, so I’m still holding my breath. But get this.” He stops walking, puts an invisible hand on my shoulder. “You’re never going to believe this.” “Let me guess,” I say. “Anderson is alive.” I hear Kenji’s sharp intake of breath. “How did you know?” “Evie told me.” “So you know about how he came back to Sector 45?” “What?” I say. “No.” “Well, what I was about to tell you, right now, was that Anderson came back to base. He’s resumed his position as supreme commander of North America. He was there right before we left. Nazeera told me he made up this whole story about how he’d been ill and how our team had spread false rumors while he was recovering—and that you’d been executed for your deception.” “What?” I say, stunned. “That’s insane.” “This is what I’m saying.” “So what are we going to do when we get back to Sector 45?” I say. “Where do we go? Where do we stay?” “Shit if I know,” Kenji says. “Right now, I’m just hoping we can get out of here alive.” Finally, we reach the exit. Kenji has a security card that grants him access to the door, and it opens easily. From there, it’s almost too simple. Our invisibility keeps us undetected. And once we’re on the plane, Kenji checks his watch. “We’ve only got thirty minutes, just so you know. That was the rule. Thirty minutes and if Nazeera doesn’t show up with Warner, we have to go.” My heart drops into my stomach.

Warner

I have no time to register my shock, or to ask Nazeera when on earth she was going to tell me she had the power to turn herself invisible, so I do the only thing I can, in the moment. I nod, the movement almost imperceptible. “Kenji is getting Ella onto a plane. I’m going to wait for you just outside this door,” she says. “Do you think you can make it? If you go invisible in front of everyone, they’ll be on to us, and it’d be better if they think you’re just trying to run.” Again, I nod. “All right then. I’ll see you out there.” I wait a second or two, and then I head for the door. “Hey—” Ibrahim bellows. I hesitate, turning back slightly, on my heel. “Yes?” “Where do you think you’re going?” he says. He pulls a gun from the inside of his jacket and points it at me. “I have to use the bathroom.” Ibrahim doesn’t laugh. “You’re going to wait here until Max gets back. And then we decide what we’re going to do with you.” I tilt my head at him. The gun he’s pointing at me looks suspiciously like one of the guns I stole from my father earlier. Not that it matters. I take a quick breath. “I’m afraid that’s not how this is going to work,” I say, attempting a smile. “Though I’m sure we’ll all be seeing each other soon, so I wouldn’t worry about missing me too much.” And then, before anyone has a chance to protest, I run for the door, but not before Ibrahim fires his weapon. Three times. In close range. I fight back the urge to cry out as one of the bullets shoots clean through my calf, even as the pain nearly takes my breath away. Once I’m on the other side of the door, Nazeera pulls her invisibility over me. I don’t make it far before I take a sharp breath, slumping against the wall. “Shit,” she says. “Did you get shot?” “Obviously,” I bite out, trying to keep my breathing even. “Dammit, Warner, what the hell is wrong with you? We have to get back to the plane in the next fifteen minutes, or they’re going to leave

without us.” “What? Why would—” “Because I told them to. We have to get Ella out of here no matter what. I can’t have them waiting around for us and risk getting killed in the process.” “Your sympathy is truly heartwarming. Thank you.” She sighs. “Where did you get shot?” “In my leg.” “Can you walk?” “I should be able to in just a minute.” I hear her hesitate. “What does that mean?” “If I manage to live long enough, maybe I’ll tell you.” She’s unamused. “Can you really start running in just a minute?” “Oh, now it’s running? A moment ago you were asking if I could walk.” “Running would be better.” I offer her a bitter laugh. It’s hard from this distance, but I’ve been drawing on my father’s new ability, harnessing it as best I can from where I am. I feel the wound healing, slowly regenerating nerves and veins and even a bit of bone, but it’s taking longer than I’d like. “How long is the flight back?” I say. “I can’t remember.” “We’ve got the jet, so it should only take about eight hours.” I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I don’t think I can survive eight hours with an open wound.” “Well, it’s a good thing I don’t give a shit. I’m giving you two more minutes before I carry you out of here myself.” I grunt in response, focusing all of my energy on drawing up the healing powers into my body. I’ve never tried to do something like this while wounded, and I didn’t realize how demanding it was, both emotionally and physically. I feel drained. My head is throbbing, my jaw aching from the intense pressure I’ve used to bite back the pain, and my leg feels like it’s on fire. There’s nothing pleasant about the healing process. I have to imagine that my father is on the move—probably searching for me with Ibrahim—because harnessing his power is harder than any of the others I’ve tried to take. “We’re leaving in thirty seconds,” Nazeera says, a warning in her voice. I grit my teeth. “Fifteen.”

“Shit.” “Did you just swear?” Nazeera says, stunned. “I’m in an extraordinary amount of pain.” “All right, that’s it, we’re out of time.” And before I manage to get a word in, she picks me up, off the ground. And we’re in the air.

Juliette Ella Kenji and I have been staring at each other in nervous silence for the last minute. I spent the first ten minutes telling him a little about Emmaline, which was its own stressful distraction, and then Kenji helped me wash the blood off my hands and face with the few supplies we have on board. Now we’re both staring into the silence, our combined terror filling the plane. It’s a nice plane, I think. I’m not sure. I haven’t actually had the presence of mind to look around. Or to ask him who, exactly, among us even knows how to fly a plane. But none of that will matter, of course, if Nazeera and Warner don’t get back here soon. It won’t matter because I won’t be leaving without him. And my thoughts must be easy to read, because suddenly Kenji frowns. “Listen,” he says, “I’m just as worried about them as you are. I don’t want to leave Nazeera behind and I sure as hell don’t want to imagine anything bad happening to her while she’s out there, but we have to get you out of here.” “Kenji—” “We don’t have a choice, J,” he says, cutting me off. “We have to get you out of here whether you like it or not. The Reestablishment is up to some shady shit, and you’re right in the center of it. We have to keep you safe. Right now, keeping you safe is my entire mission.” I drop my face in my hands, and then, just as quickly, look up again. “This is all my fault, you know? I could’ve prevented this.” “What are you talking about?”

I look him straight in the eye. “I should’ve done more research on The Reestablishment. I should’ve read up on its history—and my history within it. I should’ve learned more about the supreme commanders. I should’ve been better prepared. Hell, I should’ve demanded we search the water for Anderson’s dead body instead of just assuming he’d sunk with the ship.” I shake my head, hard. “I wasn’t ready to be supreme commander, Kenji. You knew it; Castle knew it. I put everyone’s lives in danger.” “Hey,” he says sharply, “I never said you weren’t—” “Only Warner ever tried to convince me I was good enough, but I don’t think I ever really believed it.” “J, listen to me. I never said you weren’t—” “And now he’s gone. Warner is gone. Everyone from Omega Point might be dead. Everything we built . . . everything we worked toward—” I feel myself break, snap open from the inside. “I can’t lose him, Kenji.” My voice is shaking. My hands are shaking. “I can’t— You don’t know— You don’t—” Kenji looks at me with actual pain in his eyes. “Stop it, J. You’re breaking my heart. I can’t hear this.” And I realize, as I swallow back the lump in my throat, how much I’d needed to have this conversation. These feelings had been building inside of me for weeks, and I’d desperately needed someone to talk to. I needed my friend. “I thought I’d been through some hard things,” I say, my eyes now filling with tears. “I thought I’d lived through my share of awful experiences. But this— I honestly think these have been the worst days of my life.” Kenji’s eyes are deep. Serious. “You want to tell me about it?” I shake my head, wiping furiously at my cheeks. “I don’t think I’ll be able to talk about any of it until I know Warner is okay.” “I’m so sorry, J. I really am.” I sniff, hard. “You know my name is Ella, right?” “Right,” he says, his eyebrows pulling together. “Yeah. Ella. That’s wild.” “I like it,” I say. “I like it better than Juliette.” “I don’t know. I think both names are nice.” “Yeah,” I say, turning away. “But Juliette was the name Anderson picked out for me.”

“And Ella is the name you were born with,” Kenji says, shooting me a look. “I get it.” “Yeah.” “Listen,” he says with a sigh. “I know this has been a rough couple of weeks for you. I heard about the memory thing. I heard about lots of things. And I can’t pretend to imagine I have any idea what you must be going through right now. But you can’t blame yourself for any of this. It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault. You’ve been a pawn at the center of this conspiracy your entire life. The last month wasn’t going to change that, okay? You have to be kinder to yourself. You’ve already been through so much.” I offer Kenji a weak smile. “I’ll try,” I say quietly. “Feeling any better now?” “No. And thinking about leaving here without Warner—not knowing if he’ll even make it onto this plane— It’s killing me, Kenji. It’s boring a hole through my body.” Kenji sighs, looks away. “I get it,” he says. “I do. You’re worried you won’t have a chance to make things right with him.” I nod. “Shit.” “I won’t do it. I can’t do it, Kenji.” “I understand where you’re coming from, kid, I swear. But we can’t afford to do this. If they’re not back here in five minutes, we have to go.” “Then you’ll have to leave without me.” “No way, not an option,” he says, getting to his feet. “I don’t want to do this any more than you do, but I know Nazeera well enough to know that she can handle herself out there, and if she’s not back yet, it’s probably because she’s waiting for a safer moment. She’ll find her way. And you have to trust that she’ll bring Warner back with her. Okay?” “No.” “C’mon—” “Kenji, stop.” I get to my feet, too, anger and heartbreak colliding. “Don’t do this,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t force me to do something I don’t want to do. Because if I have to, I will tackle you to the floor, J, I swear—” “You wouldn’t do that,” I say quietly. The fight leaves my body. I feel suddenly exhausted, hollowed out by heartache. “I know you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t make me leave him behind.”

“Ella?” I turn around, a bolt of feeling leaving me breathless. Just the sound of his voice has my heart racing in a way that feels dangerous. The jarring shift from fear to joy has my head pounding, delirious with feeling. I’d been so worried, all this time, and to know now— He’s unharmed. His face, unmarked. His body, intact. He’s perfect and beautiful and he’s here. I don’t know how, but he’s here. I clap my hands over my mouth. I’m shaking my head and searching desperately for the right words but find I can’t speak. I can only stare at him as he steps forward, his eyes bright and burning. He pulls me into his arms. Sobs break my body, the culmination of a thousand fears and worries I hadn’t allowed myself to process. I press my face into his neck and try, but fail, to pull myself together. “I’m sorry,” I say, gasping the words, tears streaming fast down my face. “Aaron, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I feel him stiffen. He pulls away, staring at me with strange, scared eyes. “Why would you say that?” He looks around wildly, glances at Kenji, who only shakes his head. “What happened, love?” He pushes the hair out of my eyes, takes my face in his hands. “What are you sorry for?” Nazeera pushes past us. She nods at me, just once, before heading to the cockpit. Moments later I hear the roar of the engine, the electric sounds of equipment coming online. I hear her voice in the speakers overhead, her crisp, certain commands filling the plane. She tells us to take our seats and get strapped in and I stare at Warner just once more, promising myself that we’ll have a chance to talk. Promising myself that I’ll make this right. When we take off, he’s holding my hand. We’ve been climbing higher for several minutes now, and Kenji and Nazeera were generous enough to give us some illusion of privacy. They both shot me separate but similar looks of encouragement just before they slipped off into the cockpit. It finally feels safe to keep talking. But emotion is like a fist in my chest, hard and heavy. There’s too much to say. Too much to discuss. I almost don’t even know where to start. I don’t know what happened to him, what he learned

or what he remembers. I don’t know if he’s feeling the same things I’m feeling anymore. And all the unknowns are starting to scare me. “What’s wrong?” he says. He’s turned in his seat to face me. He reaches up, touches my face, and the feeling of his skin against mine is overwhelming—so powerful it leaves me breathless. Feeling shoots up my spine, sparks in my nerves. “You’re afraid, love. Why are you afraid?” “Do you remember me?” I whisper. I have to force myself to remain steady, to fight back the tears that refuse to die. “Do you remember me the way I remember you?” Something changes in his expression. His eyes change, pull together in pain. He nods. “Because I remember you,” I say, my voice breaking on the last word. “I remember you, Aaron. I remember everything. And you have to know — You have to know how sorry I am. For the way I left things between us.” I’m crying again. “I’m sorry for everything I said. For everything I put you thr—” “Sweetheart,” he says gently, the question in his eyes resolving to a measure of understanding. “None of that matters anymore. That fight feels like it happened in another lifetime. To different people.” I wipe away my tears. “I know,” I say. “But being here— All of this— I thought I might never see you again. And it killed me to remember how I left things between us.” When I look up again Warner is staring at me, his own eyes bright, shining. I watch the movement in his throat as he swallows, hard. “Forgive me,” I whisper. “I know it all seems stupid now, but I don’t want to take anything for granted anymore. Forgive me for hurting you. Forgive me for not trusting you. I took my pain out on you and I’m so sorry. I was selfish, and I hurt you, and I’m so sorry.” He’s silent for so long I almost can’t bear it. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. “Love,” he says, “there’s nothing to forgive.”

Warner Ella is asleep in my arms. Ella. I can’t really think of her as Juliette anymore. We’ve been in the air for an hour now, and Ella cried until her tears ran dry, cried for so long I thought it might kill me. I didn’t know what to say. I was so stunned I didn’t know how to soothe her. And only when the exhaustion overcame the tears did she finally go still, collapsing fully and completely into my arms. I’ve been holding her against my chest for at least half an hour, marveling at what it does to me to just be this close to her. Every once in a while, it feels like a dream. Her face is pressed against my neck. She’s clinging to me like she might never let go and it does something to me, something heady, to know that she could possibly want me—or need me—like this. It makes me want to protect her even if she doesn’t need protecting. It makes me want to carry her away. Lose track of time. Gently, I stroke her hair. Press my lips to her forehead. She stirs, but only slightly. I had not been expecting this. Of all the things I thought might happen when I finally saw her, I could never have dreamed a scenario such as this. No one has ever apologized to me before. Not like this. I’ve had men fall to their knees before me, begging me to spare their lives—but I can’t remember a single time in my life when someone apologized to me for hurting my feelings. No one has ever cared about my feelings long enough to apologize for hurting them. In my experience, I’m usually the monster. I’m the one expected to make amends. And now— I’m stunned. Stunned by the experience, by how strange it feels. All this time, I’d been preparing to win her back. To try to convince her, somehow, to see past my demons. And up until just this moment, I don’t think I was ever truly convinced anyone would see me as human enough to forgive my sins. To give me a second chance. But now, she knows everything.

Every dark corner of my life. Every awful thing I ever tried to hide. She knows and she still loves me. God. I run a tired hand across my face. She asked me to forgive her. I almost don’t know what to do with myself. I feel joy and terror. My heart is heavy with something I don’t even know how to describe. Gratitude, perhaps. The ache in my chest has grown stronger, more painful. Being near her is somehow both a relief and a new kind of agony. There’s so much ahead of us, so much we still need to face, together, but right now I don’t want to think about any of it. Right now I just want to enjoy her proximity. I want to watch the gentle motions of her breathing. I want to inhale the soft scent of her hair and lean into the steadying warmth of her body. Carefully, I touch my fingers to her cheek. Her face is smooth, free from pain and tension. She looks peaceful. She looks beautiful. My love. My beautiful love. Her eyes flutter open and I worry, for a moment, that I might’ve spoken out loud. But then she looks up at me, her eyes still soft with sleep, and I bring my hand to her face, this time trailing my fingers lightly along her jaw. She closes her eyes again. Smiles. “I love you,” she whispers. A shock of feeling swells inside of me, makes it hard for me to breathe. I can only look at her, studying her face, the lines and angles I’ve somehow always known. Slowly, she sits up. She leans back, stretching out her sore, stiff muscles. When she catches me watching her, she offers me a shy smile. She leans in, takes my face in her hands. “Hi,” she says, her words soft, her hands gentle as she tilts my chin down, toward her mouth. She kisses me, once, her lips full and sweet. It’s a tender kiss, but feeling strikes through me with a sharp, desperate need. “I missed you so much,” she says. “I still can’t believe you’re here.” She kisses me again, this time deeper, hungrier, and my heart beats so fast it roars in my ears. I can hardly hear anything else. I can’t bring myself to speak. I feel stunned.

When we break apart, her eyes are worried. “Aaron,” she says. “Is everything okay?” And I realize then, in a moment that terrifies me, that I want this, forever. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I want to build a future with her. I want to grow old with her. I want to marry her.

Juliette Ella “Aaron?” I say again, this time softly. “Are you all right?” He blinks, startled. “Yes,” he says, drawing in a sharp breath. “Yes. Yes, I’m perfect.” I manage a small smile. “I’m glad you finally agree with me.” He frowns, confused, and then, as realization hits— He blushes. And for the first time in weeks, a full, genuine grin spreads across my face. It feels good. Human. But Aaron shakes his head, clearly mortified. He can’t meet my eyes. His voice is careful, quiet when he says, “That’s not at all what I meant.” “Hey,” I say, my smile fading. I take his hands in mine, squeeze. “Look at me.” He does. And I forget what I was going to say. He has that kind of face. The kind of face that makes you forget where you are, who you are, what you might’ve been about to do or say. I’ve missed him so much. Missed his eyes. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like forever since the last time I saw him, a lifetime full of horrible revelations that threatened to break us both. I can’t believe he’s here, that we found each other and made things right. It’s no small thing. Even with everything else—with all the other horrors we’ve yet to contend with—being here with him feels like a huge victory. Everything

feels new. My mind feels new, my memories, new. Even Aaron’s face is new, in its own way. He looks a little different to me now. Familiar. Like he’s always been here. Always lived in my heart. His hair, thick and golden and beautiful, is how I remember it best— Evie must’ve done something to his hair, too, somehow. And even though he looks more exhausted than I’d like, his face is still striking. Beautiful, sharp lines. Piercing green eyes so light and bright they’re almost painful to look at. Everything about him is finely crafted. His nose. His chin. His ears and eyebrows. He has a beautiful mouth. I linger too long there, my eyes betraying my mind, and Aaron smiles. Aaron. Calling him Warner doesn’t feel right anymore. “What are you doing, love?” “Just enjoying the view,” I say, still staring at his mouth. I reach up, touch two fingers to his bottom lip. Memories flood through me in a sudden, breathless rush. Long nights. Early mornings. His mouth, on me. Everywhere. Over and over again. I hear him exhale, suddenly, and I glance up at him. His eyes are darker, heavy with feeling. “What are you thinking?” I shake my head, feeling suddenly shy. It’s strange, considering how close we’ve been, that I’d feel shy around him now. But he feels at once old and new to me—like we’re still learning about each other. Still discovering what our relationship means and what we mean to each other. Things feel deeper, desperate. More important. I take his hands again. “How are you?” I whisper. He’s staring at our hands, entwined, when he says: “My father is still alive.” “I heard. I’m so sorry.” He nods. Looks away. “Did you see him?” Another nod. “I tried to kill him.” I go still. I know how hard it’s been for Aaron to face his father. Anderson has always been his most formidable opponent; Aaron has never been able to fight him head on. He’s never been able to bring himself to actually follow through with his threats to kill his father. It’s astonishing he even came close.

And then Aaron tells me how his father has semi-functional healing powers, how Evie tried to re-create the twins’ DNA for him. “So your dad is basically invincible?” Aaron laughs quietly. Shakes his head. “I don’t think so. It makes him harder to kill, but I definitely think there’s a chink to be found in his armor.” He sighs. “Believe it or not, the strangest part of the whole thing was that, afterward, my father was proud of me. Proud of me for trying to kill him.” Aaron looks up, looks me in the eye. “Can you imagine?” “Yes,” I whisper. “I can.” Aaron’s eyes go deep with emotion. He pulls me close. “I’m so sorry, love. I’m so sorry for everything they did to you. For everything they’ve put you through. It kills me to know that you were suffering. That I couldn’t be there for you.” “I don’t want to think about it right now.” I shake my head. “Right now all I want is this. I just want to be here. With you. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.” “Ella,” he says softly. A wave of feeling washes over me. Hearing him say my name—my real name—makes everything feel real. Makes us feel real. I meet his eyes. He smiles. “You know— I feel everything when you touch me, love. I can feel your excitement. Your nervousness. Your pleasure. And I love it,” he says quietly. “I love the way you respond to me. I love the way you want me. I feel it, when you lose yourself, the way you trust me when we’re together. And I feel your love for me,” he whispers. “I feel it in my bones.” He turns away. “I have loved you my entire life.” He looks up, looks at me with so much feeling it nearly breaks my heart. “And after everything we’ve been through—after all the lies and the secrets and the misunderstandings—I feel like we’ve been given a chance to start fresh. I want to start over,” he says. “I never want to lie to you again. I want us to trust each other and be true partners in everything. No more misunderstandings,” he says. “No more secrets. I want us to begin again, here, in this moment.” I nod, pulling back so I can see his face more clearly. Emotions well in my throat, threaten to overcome me. “I want that, too. I want that so much.”

“Ella,” he says, his voice rough with feeling. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” My heart stops. I stare at him, uncertain, thoughts pinwheeling in my head. I touch his cheek and he looks away, takes a sudden, shaky breath. “What are you saying?” I whisper. “I love you, Ella. I love you more th—” “Wow. You two seriously couldn’t wait until we got back to base, huh? You couldn’t spare my eyes?” The sound of Kenji’s voice pulls me suddenly, abruptly out of my head. I turn too quickly, awkwardly disengaging from Aaron’s body. Aaron, on the other hand, goes suddenly white. Kenji throws a thin airplane pillow at him. “You’re welcome,” he says. Aaron chucks the pillow back without a word, his eyes burning in Kenji’s direction. He seems both shocked and angry, and he leans forward in his seat, his elbows balanced on his knees, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. “You are a plague upon my life, Kishimoto.” “I said you’re welcome.” Aaron sighs, heavily. “What I would give to snap your neck right now, you have no idea.” “Hey—you have no idea what I just did for you,” Kenji says. “So I’m going to repeat myself one more time: You are welcome.” “I never asked for your help.” Kenji crosses his arms. When he speaks, he overenunciates each word, like he might be talking to an idiot. “I don’t think you’re thinking clearly.” “I’m thinking clearer than I ever have.” “You really thought that would be a good idea?” Kenji says, shaking his head. “Here? Now?” Aaron’s jaw clenches. He looks mutinous. “Bro, this is not the moment.” “And when, exactly, did you become an expert on this sort of thing?” I look between the two of them. “What is going on?” I say. “What are you guys talking about?” “Nothing,” they say at the same time. “Um, okay.” I stare at them, still confused, and I’m about to ask another question when Kenji says, suddenly: “Who wants lunch?”

My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “We have lunch?” “It’s pretty awful,” Kenji says, “but Nazeera and I have a picnic basket we brought with us, yeah.” “I guess I’m up for trying the contents of the mystery basket.” I smile at Aaron. “Are you hungry?” But Aaron says nothing. He’s still staring at the floor. I touch his hand and, finally, he sighs. “I’m not hungry,” he says. “Not an option,” Kenji says sharply. “I’m pretty sure you haven’t eaten a damn thing since you got out of fake prison.” Aaron frowns. And when he looks up, he says, “It wasn’t fake prison. It was a very real prison. They poisoned me for weeks.” “What?” My eyes widen. “You never t—” Kenji cuts me off with the wave of his hand. “They gave you food, water, and let you keep the clothes on your back, didn’t they?” “Yes, but—” He shrugs. “Sounds like you had a little vacation.” Aaron sighs. He looks both annoyed and exhausted as he runs a hand down the length of his face. I don’t like it. “Hey— Why are you giving him such a hard time?” I say, frowning at Kenji. “Just before he and Nazeera showed up you were going on and on about how wonderful he is, and n—” Kenji swears, suddenly, under his breath. “Jesus, J.” He shoots me a dark look. “What did I say to you about repeating that conversation out loud?” Aaron sits up, the frustration in his eyes slowly giving way to surprise. “You think I’m wonderful?” he says, one hand pressed against his chest in mock affection. “That’s so sweet.” “I never said you were wonderful.” Aaron tilts his head. “Then what, exactly, did you say?” Kenji turns away. Says nothing. I’m grinning at Kenji’s back when I say, “He said you looked good in everything and that you were good at everything.” Aaron’s smile deepens. Aaron almost never smiles widely enough for me to see his dimples, but when he does, they transform his face. His eyes light up. His cheeks go pink with feeling. He looks suddenly sweet. Adorable. It takes my breath away.

But he’s not looking at me, he’s looking at Kenji, his eyes full of laughter when he says, “Please tell me she’s not serious.” Kenji flips us both off. Aaron laughs. And then, leaning in— “You really think I look good in everything?” “Shut up, asshole.” Aaron laughs again. “Stop having fun without me,” Nazeera shouts from the cockpit. “No more making jokes until I put this thing on cruise control.” I stiffen. “Do planes have cruise control?” “Um”—Kenji scratches his head—“I don’t actually know?” But then Nazeera saunters over to us, tall and beautiful and unbothered. She’s not covering her hair today, which I suppose makes sense, considering it’s generally illegal, but I feel a faint panic spread through my body when I realize she’s in no hurry to return to the cockpit. “Wait— No one is flying the plane,” I say. “Shouldn’t someone be flying the plane?” She waves me down. “It’s fine. These things are practically automatic now, anyway. I don’t have to do more than input coordinates and make sure everything is operating smoothly.” “But—” “Everything is fine,” she says, shooting me a sharp look. “We’re fine. But someone needs to tell me what’s going on.” “Are you sure we’re fine?” I ask once more, quietly. She levels me with a dark look. I sigh. “Well, in that case,” I say. “You should know that Kenji was just admiring Aaron’s sense of style.” Nazeera turns to Kenji. Raises a single eyebrow. Kenji shakes his head, visibly irritated. “I wasn’t— Dammit, J, you have no loyalty.” “I have plenty of loyalty,” I say, slightly wounded. “But when you guys fight like this it stresses me out. I just want Aaron to know that, secretly, you care about him. I love you both and I want the two of you to be frien —” “Wait”—Aaron frowns—“What do you mean you love us both?” I glance between him and Kenji, surprised. “I mean I care about both of you. I love you both.”

“Right,” Aaron says, hesitating, “but you don’t actually love us both. That’s just a figure of speech, isn’t it?” It’s my turn to frown. “Kenji is my best friend,” I say. “I love him like a brother.” “But—” “I love you, too, princess,” Kenji says, a little too loudly. “And I appreciate you saying that.” Aaron mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Unwashed idiot.” “What did you just say to me?” Kenji’s eyes widen. “I’ll have you know I wash all the time—” Nazeera places a calming hand on Kenji’s arm, and he startles at her touch. He looks up at her, blinking. “We have another five hours ahead of us on this flight,” she says, and her voice is firm but kind. “So I recommend we put this conversation to bed. I think it’s clear to everyone that you and Warner secretly enjoy each other’s friendship, and it’s not doing anyone any good to pretend otherwise.” Kenji blanches. “Does that sound like a reasonable plan?” She looks around at all of us. “Can we all agree that we’re on the same team?” “Yes,” I say enthusiastically. “I do. I agree.” Aaron says, “Fine.” “Great,” Nazeera says. “Kenji, you okay?” He nods and mumbles something under his breath. “Perfect. Now here’s the plan,” she says briskly. “We’re going to eat and then take turns trying to get some sleep. We’ll have a ton of things to deal with when land, and it’s best if we hit the ground running when we do.” She tosses a few vacuum-sealed bags at each of us. “That’s your lunch. There are water bottles in the fridge up front. Kenji and I will take the first shift—” “No way,” Kenji says, crossing his arms. “You’ve been up for twentyfour hours straight. I’ll take the first shift.” “But—” “Warner and I will take the first shift together, actually.” Kenji shoots Warner a look. “Isn’t that right?” “Yes, of course,” Aaron says. He’s already on his feet. “I’d be happy to.”

“Great,” Kenji says. Nazeera is already stifling a yawn, pulling a bunch of thin blankets and pillows from a storage closet. “All right, then. Just wake us up in a couple of hours, okay?” Kenji raises an eyebrow at her. “Sure.” “I’m serious.” “Yup. Got it.” Kenji offers her a mock salute, Aaron offers me a quick smile, and the two of them disappear into the cockpit. Kenji closes the door behind them. I’m staring at the closed door, wondering what on earth is going on between the two of them, when Nazeera says— “I had no idea you two were so intense.” I look up, surprised. “Who? Me and Aaron?” “No,” she says, smiling. “You and Kenji.” “Oh.” I frown. “I don’t think we’re intense.” She shoots me a funny look. “I’m serious,” I say. “I think we have a pretty normal friendship.” Instead of answering me, she says, “Did you two ever”—she waves a hand at nothing—“date?” “What?” My eyes widen. A traitorous heat floods my body. “No.” “Never?” she says, her smile slow. “Never. I swear. Not even close.” “Okay.” “Not that there’s anything wrong with him,” I hurry to add. “Kenji is wonderful. The right person would be lucky to be with him.” Nazeera laughs, softly. She carries the stack of pillows and blankets over to the row of airplane seats and begins reclining the backs. I watch her as she works. There’s something so smooth and refined about her movements—something intelligent in her eyes at all times. It makes me wonder what she’s thinking, what she’s planning. Why she’s here at all. Suddenly, she sighs. She’s not looking at me when she says, “Do you remember me yet?” I raise my eyebrows, surprised. “Of course,” I say quietly. She nods. She says, “I’ve been waiting awhile for you to catch up,” and sits down, inviting me to join her by patting the seat next to her. I do.

Wordlessly, she hands me a couple of blankets and pillows. And then, when we’re both settled in and I’m staring, suspiciously, at the vacuumsealed package of “food” she threw at me, I say— “So you remember me, too?” Nazeera tears open her vacuum-sealed package. Peers inside to study the contents. “Emmaline guided me to you,” she says quietly. “The memories. The messages. It was her.” “I know,” I say. “She’s trying to unify us. She wants us to band together.” Nazeera shakes out the contents of the bag into her hand, picks through the bits of freeze-dried fruit. She glances at me. “You were five when you disappeared,” she says. “Emmaline was six. I’m six months older than you, and six months younger than Emmaline.” I nod. “The three of us used to be best friends.” Nazeera looks away, looks sad. “I really loved Emmaline,” she says. “We were inseparable. We did everything together.” She shrugs, even as a flash of pain crosses her face. “That was all we got. Whatever we might’ve been was stolen from us.” She picks out two pieces of fruit and pops them into her mouth. I watch as she chews, thoughtfully, and wait for more. But the seconds pass and she says nothing, and I figure I should fill the silence. “So,” I say. “We’re not actually getting any sleep, are we?” That gets her to smile. Still, she doesn’t look at me. Finally, she says, “I know you and Warner got the absolute worst of it, I do. But if it makes you feel any better, they wiped all of our memories, in the beginning.” “I know. Emmaline told me.” “They didn’t want us to remember you,” she says. “They didn’t want us to remember a lot of things. Did Emmaline tell you she’s reached out to all of us? You, me, Warner, my brother—all the kids.” “She told me a little bit, yeah. Have you talked to any of the others about it?” Nazeera nods. Pops another piece of fruit in her mouth. “And?” She tilts her head. “We’ll see.” My eyes widen. “What does that mean?” “I’ll know more when we land, that’s all.”

“So— How did you even know?” I say, frowning a little. “If you’d only ever had memories of me and Emmaline as children—how did you tie it all back to the present? How did you know that I was the Ella from our childhood?” “You know— I wasn’t a hundred percent positive I was right about everything until I saw you at dinner that first night on base.” “You recognized me?” I say. “From when I was five?” “No,” she says, and nods at my right hand. “From the scar on the back of your wrist.” “This?” I say, lifting my hand. And then I frown, remembering that Evie repaired my skin. I used to have faded scars all over my body; the ones on my hands were the worst. My adoptive mom put my hands in the fire, once. And I hurt myself a lot while I was locked up; lots of burns, lots of poorly healed wounds. I shake my head at Nazeera when I say, “I used to have scars on my hand from my time in the asylum. Evie got rid of them.” Nazeera takes my hand, flips it over so my palm is up, open. Carefully, she traces a line from my wrist to my forearm. “Do you remember the one that was here?” “Yes.” I raise my eyebrows. “My dad has a really extensive sword collection,” she says, dropping my hand. “Really gorgeous blades—gilded, handmade, ancient, ornate stuff. Anyway,” she says, tapping the invisible scar on my wrist. “I did that to you. I broke into my dad’s sword room and thought it’d be fun for us to practice a little hand-to-hand combat. But I sliced you up pretty bad, and my mom just about beat the crap out of me.” She laughs. “I will never forget that.” I frown at her, at where my scar used to be. “Didn’t you say that we were friends when we were five?” She nods. “We were five and we thought it would be fun to play with real swords?” She laughs. Looks confused. “I never said we had a normal childhood. Our lives were so messed up,” she says, and laughs again. “I never trusted my parents. I always knew they were knee-deep in some dark shit; I always tried to learn more. I’d been trying, for years, to hack into Baba’s electronic files,” she says. “And for a long time, I only ever accessed basic information. I learned about the asylums. The Unnaturals.”

“That’s why you hid your abilities from them,” I say, finally understanding. She nods. “But I wanted to know more. I knew I was only scratching the surface of something big. But the levels of security built into my dad’s account are unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I was able to get through the first few levels of security, which is how I learned of yours and Emmaline’s existence, a few years back. Baba had tons of records, reports on your daily habits and activities, a log with the time and date of every memory they stole from you—and they were all from recent years and months.” I gasp. Nazeera shoots me a sympathetic look. “There were brief mentions of a sister in your files,” she says, “but nothing substantial; mostly just a note that you were both powerful, and had been donated to the cause by your parents. But I couldn’t find anything on the unknown sister, which made me think that her files were more protected. I spent the last couple of years trying to break into the deeper levels of Baba’s account and never had any success. So I let it go for a while.” She pops another piece of dried fruit in her mouth. “It wasn’t until my dad started losing his mind after you almost killed Anderson that I started getting suspicious. That was when I began to wonder if the Juliette Ferrars he kept screaming about wasn’t someone important.” She studies me out of the corner of her eye. “I knew you couldn’t have been some random Unnatural. I just knew it. Baba went ballistic. So I started hacking again.” “Wow,” I say. “Yeah,” she says, nodding. “Right? Anyway, all I’m trying to say is that I’ve been trying to sniff out the bullshit in this situation for a few years, and now, with Emmaline in my head, I’m finally getting close to figuring it all out.” I glance up at her. “The only thing I still don’t know is why Emmaline is locked up. I don’t know what they’re doing with her. And I don’t understand why it’s such a secret.” “I do,” I say. Her head snaps up. She looks at me, wide-eyed. “Way to bury the lede, Ella.” I laugh, but the sound is sad.

Warner As soon as we take our seats, Kenji turns on me. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?” he says. “No.” Kenji rolls his eyes. He rips open his little snack bag and doesn’t even inspect the contents before he tips the bag directly into his mouth. He closes his eyes as he chews. Makes little satisfied noises. I manage to fight the impulse to cringe, but I can’t stop myself from saying— “You eat like a caveman.” “No, I don’t,” he says angrily. And then, a moment later: “Do I?” I hesitate, feeling his sudden wave of embarrassment. Of all the emotions I hate experiencing, secondhand embarrassment might be the worst. It hits me right in the gut. Makes me want to turn my skin inside out. And it’s by far the easiest way to make me capitulate. “No,” I say heavily. “You don’t eat like a caveman. That was unfair.” Kenji glances at me. There’s too much hope in his eyes. “I’ve just never seen anyone eat food with as much enthusiasm as you do.” Kenji raises an eyebrow. “I’m not enthusiastic. I’m hungry.” Carefully, I tear open my own package. Shake out a few bits of the fruit into my open hand. They look like desiccated worms. I return the fruit to the bag, dust off my hands, and offer my portion to Kenji. “You sure?” he says, even as he takes it from me. I nod. He thanks me. We both say nothing for a while. “So,” Kenji says finally, still chewing. “You were going to propose to her. Wow.” I exhale a long, heavy breath. “How you could have even known something like that?” “Because I’m not deaf.”

I raise my eyebrows. “It echoes in here.” “It certainly does not echo in here.” “Stop changing the subject,” he says, shaking more fruit into his mouth. “The point is, you were going to propose. Do you deny it?” I look away, run a hand along the side of my neck, massaging the sore muscles. “I do not deny it,” I say. “Then congratulations. And yes, I’d be happy to be your best man at the wedding.” I look up, surprised. “I’ve no interest in addressing the latter part of what you just said, but— Why offer congratulations? I thought you were vehemently opposed to the idea.” Kenji frowns. “What? I’m not opposed to the idea.” “Then why were you so angry?” “I thought you were stupid for doing it here,” he says. “Right now. I didn’t want you to do something you would regret. That you’d both regret.” “Why would I regret proposing right now? This seems as good a time as any.” Kenji laughs, but somehow manages to keep his mouth closed. He swallows another bite of food and says, “Don’t you want, to, like, I don’t know—buy her some roses? Light a candle? Maybe hand her a box of chocolates or someshit? Or, hell, uh, I don’t know—maybe you’d want to get her a ring first?” “I don’t understand.” “C’mon, bro— Have you never seen, like, a movie?” “No.” Kenji stares at me, dumbfounded. “You’re shitting me,” he says. “Please tell me you’re shitting me.” I bristle. “I was never allowed to watch movies growing up, so I never picked up the habit, and after The Reestablishment took over, that sort of thing was outlawed anyway. Besides, I don’t enjoy sitting still in the dark for that long. And I don’t enjoy the emotional manipulations of cinema.” Kenji brings his hands to his face, his eyes wide with something like horror. “You have got to be kidding me.” “Why would— I don’t understand why that’s strange. I was homeschooled. My father was very—”

“There are so many things about you that never made sense to me,” Kenji says, staring, flabbergasted, at the wall behind me. “Like, everything about you is weird, you know?” “No,” I say sharply. “I don’t think I’m weird.” “But now it all makes sense.” He shakes his head. “It all makes so much sense. Wow. Who knew.” “What makes sense?” Kenji doesn’t seem to hear me. Instead, he says, “Hey, is there anything else you’ve never done? Like—I don’t know, have you ever gone swimming? Or, like, blown out candles on a birthday cake?” “Of course I’ve been swimming,” I say, irritated. “Swimming was an important part of my tactical training. But I’ve never—” I clear my throat. “No, I never had my own birthday cake.” “Jesus.” “What is wrong with you?” “Hey,” Kenji says suddenly. “Do you even know who Bruce Lee is?” I hesitate. There’s a challenge in his voice, but Kenji isn’t generating much more in the way of emotional cues, so I don’t understand the importance of the question. Finally, I say, “Bruce Lee was an actor. Though he’s also considered to be one of the greatest martial artists of our time. He founded a system of martial arts called jeet kune do, a type of Chinese kung fu that eschews patterns and form. His Chinese name is Lee Jun-fan.” “Well shit,” Kenji says. He sits back in his chair, staring at me like I might be an alien. “Okay. I wasn’t expecting that.” “What does Bruce Lee have to do with anything?” “First of all,” he says, holding up a finger, “Bruce Lee has everything to do with everything. And second of all, can you just, like, do that?” He snaps his fingers in the direction of my head. “Can you just, like, remember shit like that? Random facts?” “They’re not random facts. It’s information. Information about our world, its fears, histories, fascinations, and pleasures. It’s my job to know this sort of thing.” “But you’ve never seen a single movie?” “I didn’t have to. I know enough about pop culture to know which films mattered or made a difference.” Kenji shakes his head, looks at me with something like awe. “But you don’t know anything about the best films. You never saw the really good

stuff. Hell, you’ve probably never even heard of the good stuff.” “Try me.” “Have you ever heard of Blue Streak?” I blink at him. “That’s the name of a movie?” “Romeo Must Die? Bad Boys? Rush Hour? Rush Hour 2? Rush Hour 3? Actually, Rush Hour 3 wasn’t that great. Tangled?” “That last one, I believe, is a cartoon about a girl with very long hair, inspired by the German fairy tale ‘Rapunzel.’” Kenji looks like he might be choking. “A cartoon?” he says, outraged. “Tangled is not a cartoon. Tangled is one of the greatest movies of all time. It’s about fighting for freedom and true love.” “Please,” I say, running a tired hand across my face. “I really don’t care what kinds of cartoons you like to watch in your free time. I only want to know why you’re so certain I was making a mistake today.” Kenji sighs so deeply his shoulders sag. He slumps down in his chair. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen Men in Black. Or Independence Day.” He looks up at me, his eyes bright. “Shit, you’d love Independence Day. Will Smith punches an alien in the face, for God’s sake. It’s so good.” I stare blankly at him. “My dad and I used to watch movies all the time,” he says quietly. “My dad loved movies.” Kenji only allows himself to feel his grief for a moment, but when he does, it hits me in a wild, desperate wave. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say quietly. “Yeah, well.” Kenji runs a hand over his face. Rubs at his eyes and sighs. “Anyway, do whatever you want. I just think you should buy her a ring or something before you get down on one knee.” “I wasn’t planning on getting down on one knee.” “What?” He frowns. “Why not?” “That seems illogical.” Kenji laughs. Rolls his eyes. “Listen, just trust me and at least pick out a ring first. Let her know you actually thought about it. Think it through for a beat, you know?” “I did think it through.” “For, what, five seconds? Or did you mean that you were planning this proposal while you were being poisoned in prison?” Kenji laughs. “Bro, you literally saw her—for the first time—today, like, two hours ago, after two weeks of being apart, and you think proposing to her is a rational,

clearheaded move?” Kenji shakes his head. “Just take some time. Think about it. Make some plans.” And then, suddenly, his reaction makes sense to me. “You don’t think she’s going to say yes.” I sit back, stunned. Look at the wall. “You think she’ll refuse me.” “What? I never said that.” “But it’s what you think, isn’t it?” “Listen,” he says, and sighs. “I have no idea what she’ll say. I really don’t. I mean I think it’s more than obvious that she loves you, and I think if she’s ready to call herself the supreme commander of North America she’s probably ready to handle something as big as this, but”—he rubs his chin, looks away—“I mean, yeah, I think maybe you should, like, think about it for a minute.” I stare at him. Consider his words. Finally, I say, “You think I should get her a ring.” Kenji smiles at the floor. He seems to be fighting back a laugh. “Uh. Yeah, I do.” “I don’t know anything about jewelry.” He looks up, his eyes bright with humor. “Don’t worry. I’m sure the files in that thick head of yours have tons of information on this sort of thing.” “But—” The plane gives a sudden, unexpected jolt, and I’m thrown backward in my seat. Kenji and I stare at each other for a protracted second, caution giving way to fear, fear building slowly into panic. The plane jolts again. This time harder. And then, once more. “That’s not turbulence,” I say. Kenji swears, loudly, and jumps to his feet. He scans the dashboard for a second before turning back, his head in a viselike grip between his hands. “I can’t read these dials,” he says, “I have no idea how to read these goddamn dials—” I shove the cockpit door open just as Nazeera runs forward. She pushes her way past me to scan the dashboard and when she pulls away she looks suddenly terrified. “We’ve lost one of our engines,” she says, her words barely a whisper. “Someone is shooting us out of the sky.” “What? How is that—”

But there’s no time to discuss it. And Nazeera and I hardly have a chance to try to figure out a way to fix it before the plane jolts, once more, and this time the emergency oxygen masks fall out of their overhead compartments. Sirens are wailing. Lights overhead blink rapidly, insistent, sharp beeps warning us that the system is crashing. “We have to try to land the plane,” Nazeera is saying. “We have to figure out— Shit,” she says. She covers her mouth with one hand. “We just lost another engine.” “So we’re just going to fall out of the goddamn sky?” This, from Kenji. “We can’t land the plane,” I say, my heart beating furiously even as I try to keep a level head. “Not like this, not when we’re missing two engines. Not while they’re still shooting at us.” “So what do we do?” she says. It’s Ella, at the door, who says quietly, “We have to jump.”

Juliette Ella “What?” The three of them turn to face me. “What are you talking about?” Kenji says. “Love, that’s really not a good idea— We don’t have any parachutes on this plane, and without them—” “No, she’s right,” Nazeera says carefully. She’s looking me in the eye. She seems to understand what I’m thinking. “It’ll work,” I say. “Don’t you think?” “Honestly, I have no idea,” she says. “But it’s definitely worth a shot. It might be our only shot.” Kenji is beginning to pace. “Okay, someone needs to tell me what the hell is going on.” Aaron has gone pale. “Love,” he says again, “what—” “Nazeera can fly,” I explain. “If we all find a way to secure ourselves to one another, she can use her powers to bolster us, you can use your power to bolster her power, and because there’s little chance either of you could

use that much of your strength while still carrying our combined weight, we’ll eventually, slowly, be dragged down to the ground.” Nazeera glances at the dash again. “We’re eight thousand feet in the air and losing altitude quickly. If we’re going to do this, we should jump now, while the plane is still relatively stable.” “Wait—where are we?” Kenji says. “Where are we going to land?” “I’m not sure,” she says. “But it looks like we’re somewhere over the general vicinity of sectors 200 through 300.” She looks at Aaron. “Do you have any friends in this region?” Aaron shoots her a dark look. “I have friends nowhere.” “Zero people skills,” Kenji mutters. “We’re out of time,” I say. “Are we going to do this?” “I guess so. It’s the only plan we’ve got,” Kenji says. “I think it’s a solid plan,” Aaron says, and shoots me a hesitant, but encouraging look. “But I think we should find a way to strap ourselves together. Some kind of harness or something—so we don’t lose each other in the air.” “We don’t have time for that.” Nazeera’s calm is quickly giving way to panic. “We’ll just have to hold on tight.” Kenji nods, and with a sudden heave, shoves open the airplane door. Air rushes in fast and hard, nearly knocking us off our feet. Quickly, we all link arms, Nazeera and Aaron holding up the outer edges, and with a few reassuring shouts through the howling wind— We jump. It’s a terrifying sensation. The wind pushes up fast and hard and then, all at once, stills. We seem to be frozen in time, whirring in place even as we watch the jet fall, steadily, into the distance. Nazeera and Aaron appear to be doing their jobs almost too well. We’re not falling fast enough, and not only is it freezing up here, oxygen is scarce. “I’m going to drop my hold on your power,” Aaron calls out to Nazeera, and she shouts back her agreement. Slowly, we begin to descend. I watch as the world blurs around us. We drift downward, unhurried, the wind pushing hard against our feet. And then, suddenly, the bottom seems to drop out from under us, and we go shooting down, hard, into the terrain below. I give out a single, terrified scream—

Or was that Kenji? —before we pull to a sudden stop, a foot above the ground. Aaron squeezes my arm and I look at him, grateful for the catch. And then we fall to the ground. I land badly on my ankle and wince, but I can put weight on my foot, so I know it’s all right. I look around to assess the state of my friends, but realize, too late, that we’re not alone. We’re in a vast, wide-open field. This was, once upon a time, almost certainly farmland, but it’s now been reduced to little more than ash. In the distance appears a thin band of people, quickly closing in on us. I harness my powers, ready to fight. Ready to face whatever comes our way. Energy is thrumming inside me, sparking in my blood. I am not afraid. Aaron puts his arm around me, pulls me close. “Together,” he whispers. “No matter what.” Finally, after what feels like immeasurable minutes, two bodies separate from their group. Slowly, they walk up to us. My whole body is tense in preparation for an attack, but as they get closer, I’m able to discern their faces. They’re two adults: One, a slender, stunning woman with closely cropped hair and skin so dark it gleams. She’s luminous as she walks, her smile widening with every step. Beside her is another smiling face, but the familiar sight of his brown skin and long dreadlocks sends shock and panic and hope rushing through me. I feel dazed. Castle. His presence here could be either good or bad. A thousand questions run through my mind, among them: What is he doing here? How did he get here? The last time I saw him, I didn’t think he was on my side at all— has he turned against us completely? The woman is the first to speak. “I’m glad to see you’re all right,” she says. “I’m afraid we had no choice but to shoot your plane out of the sky.” “What? What are y—” “Castle?” Kenji’s quiet, tentative voice reaches out from behind me. Castle steps forward just as Kenji moves toward him, and the two embrace, Castle pulling him in so tightly I can practically feel the tension

from where I’m standing. They’re both visibly emotional, and the moment is so touching it puts my fears at ease. “You’re okay,” Kenji says. “I thought—” Haider and Stephan, the son of the supreme commander of Africa, step out of the crowd. Shock seizes my body at the sight of them. They nod at Nazeera and the three of them separate to form a new group, off to the side. They speak in low, hurried whispers. Castle takes a deep breath. “We have a lot to talk about.” And then, to me, he says, “Ella, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Nouria.” My eyebrows fly up my forehead. I glance at Aaron, who seems as stunned as I am, but Kenji lets out a sudden whoop, and tackles Castle all over again. The two of them laugh. Kenji is saying, No way, no way Nouria pointedly ignores them and smiles at me. “We call our home the Sanctuary,” she says. “My wife and I are the leaders of the resistance here. Welcome.” Another woman separates from the crowd and steps forward. She’s petite, with long blond hair. She shakes my hand. “It’s an honor to meet you,” she says. “My name is Samantha.” I study both of them, Nouria and Samantha standing side by side. Castle’s happiness. The smile on Kenji’s face. The cluster of Nazeera, Haider, and Stephan off to the side. The larger group crowded in the distance. “The honor is ours,” I say, and smile. Then: “But are we safe out here? Out in the open like this?” Nouria nods. “My powers allow me to manipulate light in unusual ways,” she says. “I’ve cast a protective shield around us right now, so that if someone were to look in our direction, they’d see only a painful brightness that would force them to look away.” “Whoa.” Kenji’s eyes widen. “That’s cool.” “Thank you,” Nouria says. She’s practically emanating light, her dark brown skin shimmering even as she stands still. There’s something breathtaking about just being near her. “Are those your people?” I hear Aaron say, speaking for the first time. He’s peering over her head, at the small crowd in the distance. She nods. “And are they here to make sure we don’t hurt you?” Nouria smiles. “They’re here to make sure no one hurts you,” she says. “Your group is welcome here. You’ve more than proven yourselves

worthy.” And then, “We’ve heard all the stories about Sector 45.” “You have?” I say, surprised. “I thought The Reestablishment buried everything.” Nouria shakes her head. “Whispers travel faster than anyone can control. The continent is buzzing with the news of all you’ve been doing these past couple of months. It’s truly a privilege to meet you,” she says to me, and holds out her hand. “I’ve been so inspired by your work.” I take her hand, feeling at once proud and embarrassed. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “That’s very kind of you.” But then Nouria’s eyes grow somber. “I am sorry we had to shoot you out of the sky,” she says. “That must’ve been terrifying. But Castle assured me that there were two among you who would be able to fly.” “Wait, what?” Kenji hazards a look at Castle. “You planned this?” “It was the only way,” he says. “Once we were able to get free of the asylum”—he nods gratefully at Nazeera—“I knew the only place left for us was here, with Nouria. But we couldn’t have radioed to tell you to land here; our communication would’ve been intercepted. And we couldn’t have you land at the air base, for obvious reasons. So we’ve been tracking your plane, waiting for the right moment. Shooting you out of the sky punts the problem straight back to the military. They’ll think it was action from another unit, and by the time they begin to figure it out, we’ll have destroyed all evidence of our being here.” “So— Wait—” I say. “How did you and Nouria coordinate this? How’d you find each other?” And then: “Castle, if you’ve abandoned the citizens — Won’t Anderson just murder them all? Shouldn’t you have stayed to protect them? Tried to fight back?” He shakes his head. “We had no choice but to evacuate Omega Point members from Sector 45. After the two of you”—he nods at me and Aaron —“were taken, things fell into complete chaos. We were all taken hostage and thrown in prison. It was only because of Nazeera—who connected us with Haider and Stephan—that we were able to make our way here. Sector 45 has since been returned to its original state as a prison.” Castle takes a tight breath. “There’s a great deal we need to share with each other. So much has happened in the last two weeks it’ll be impossible to discuss it all quickly. But it is important that you know, right now, a little bit about Nouria’s role in all this.” He turns to Nouria and gives her a small nod.

Nouria looks me in the eye and says, “That day you were shot on the beach,” she says quietly. “Do you remember?” I hesitate. “Of course.” “I was the one who issued that order against you.” I’m so stunned I visibly flinch. “What?” Aaron steps forward, outraged. “Castle, are you insane? You ask us to take refuge in the home of a person who nearly murdered Ella?” He turns back, stares at me with a wild look in his eyes. “How could y—” “Castle?” There’s a warning in Kenji’s voice. “What is going on?” But Nouria and Castle are staring at each other, and a heavy look passes between them. Finally, Castle sighs. “Let’s get settled before we keep talking,” he says. “This is a long conversation, and it’s an important one.” “Let’s have it now,” Aaron says. “Yes,” Kenji says angrily. “Now.” “She tried to murder me,” I say, finally finding my voice. “Why would you bring me here? What are you trying to do?” “You’ve had a long, difficult journey,” Castle says. “I want you to have a chance to get settled. Take a shower and eat some food. And then, I promise—we’ll give you all the answers you want.” “But how can we trust that we’ll be safe?” I say. “How can we know Nouria isn’t trying to hurt us?” “Because,” she says steadily, “I did what I did to help you.” “And how is that plausible?” Aaron says sharply. “It was the only way I knew how to get a message to you,” Nouria says, still staring at me. “I was never trying to kill you—and I knew that your own defenses would help protect you from certain death.” “That was a dangerous bet to make.” “Believe me,” she says quietly, “it was a difficult decision to make. It came at great cost to us—we lost one of our own in the process.” I feel myself tense, but otherwise betray no emotion. I remember the day Nazeera saved me—the day she killed my assailant. “But I had to reach you,” Nouria says, her dark brown eyes deep with feeling. “It was the only way I could do it without rousing suspicion.” My curiosity beats out my skepticism. For the moment. “So— Why? Why did you do it?” I ask. “Why poison me?”

Unexpectedly, Nouria smiles. “I needed you to see what I saw. And according to Castle, it worked.” “What worked?” “Ella—” She hesitates. “May I call you by your real name?” I blink. Stare at Castle. “You told her about me?” “He didn’t have to. Things don’t stay secret for very long around here,” Nouria says. “No matter what The Reestablishment has you believe, we’re all finding ways to pass messages to each other. All the resistance groups across the globe know the truth about you by now. And they love you more for it.” I don’t know what to say. “Ella,” she says softly, “I was able to figure out why your parents have kept your sister a secret for so long. And I just wanted t—” “I already know,” I say, the words coming out quietly. I haven’t talked to anyone about this yet; haven’t told a soul. There’s been no time to discuss something this big. No time to have a long conversation. But I guess we’re going to have it now. Nouria is staring at me, stunned. “You know?” “Emmaline told me everything.” A hush falls over the crowd. Everyone turns to look at me. Even Haider, Stephan, and Nazeera finally stop talking amongst themselves long enough to stare. “She’s kept in captivity,” I say. “She lives in a holding tank, where she exists almost permanently underwater. Her brain waves are connected to tidal turbines that convert the kinetic energy of her mind into electricity. Evie, my mother, found a way to harness that electricity—and project it outward. All over the world.” I take a deep breath. “Emmaline is stronger than I’ve ever been or ever will be. She has the power to bend the minds of the people—she can warp and distort realities— Here. Everywhere.” Kenji’s face is a perfect encapsulation of horror, and his expression is reflected on dozens of other faces around me. Nazeera, on the other hand, looks stricken. “What you see here?” I say. “Around us? The decay of society, the broken atmosphere, the birds gone from the sky— It’s all an illusion. It’s true that our climate has changed, yes—we’ve done serious damage to the atmosphere, to the animals, to the planet as a whole—but that damage is not irreparable. Scientists were hopeful that, with a careful, concerted effort, we could fix our Earth. Save the future. But The Reestablishment

didn’t like that angle,” he says. “They didn’t want the people to hope. They wanted people to think that our Earth was beyond salvation. And with Emmaline they were able to do just that.” “Why?” Kenji says, stunned. “Why would they do that? What do they gain?” “Desperate, terrified people,” Nouria says solemnly, “are much easier to control. They used Ella’s sister to create the illusion of irreversible devastation, and then they preyed upon the weak and the hopeless, and convinced them to turn to The Reestablishment for support.” “Emmaline and I were designed for something called Operation Synthesis. She was meant to be the architect of the world, and I was to be the executioner. But Emmaline is dying. They need another powerful weapon with which to control the people. A contingency. A backup plan.” Aaron takes my hand. “The Reestablishment wanted me to replace my sister,” I say. For the first time, Nouria has gone still. No one knew this part. No one but me. “How?” she says. “You have such different abilities.” It’s Castle who says, “It’s easy to imagine, actually.” But he looks terrified. “If they were to magnify Ella’s powers the way they did her sister’s, she would become the equivalent of a human atom bomb. She could cause mass destruction. Excruciating pain. Death when they please. Across tremendous distances.” “We have no choice.” Nazeera’s voice rings out, sharp and clear. “We have to kill Evie.” And I’m looking out, far into the distance, when I say, quietly, “I already did.” A collective gasp goes through the crowd. Aaron goes still beside me. “And now,” I say, “I have to kill my sister. It’s what she wants. It’s the only way.”

Warner

Nouria’s headquarters are both strange and beautiful. They have no need to hide underground, because she’s found a way to imbue objects with her power—an evolution of our abilities even Castle hadn’t foreseen. The Sanctuary’s campsite is protected by a series of twenty-foot-tall pole lights that border the edges of the clearing. Fused with Nouria’s power, the lights work together as a barrier that makes it impossible to look in the direction of their campsite. She says her abilities not only have the power to blind, but that she can also use light to warp sounds. So they live here, out in the open, their words and actions protected in plain sight. Only those who know the location can find their way here. Nouria says that the illusion has kept them safe for years. The sun begins its descent as we make our way toward the campsite— the vast, unusually green field dotted with cream-colored tents—and the scene is so breathtaking I can’t help but stop to appreciate the view. Fire streaks across the sky, golden light flooding the air and earth. It feels both beautiful and bleak, and I shiver as a gust of wind wraps around my body. Ella takes my hand. I look at her, surprised, and she smiles at me, the fading sun glinting in her eyes. I feel her fear, her hope, her love for me. But there’s something else, too—something like pride. It’s faint, but it’s there, and it makes me so happy to see her like this. She should be proud. I can speak for myself, at least, when I say that I’ve never been so proud of her. But then, I always knew she would go on to greatness. It doesn’t surprise me at all that, even after everything she’s been through—after all the horrors she’s had to face —she’s still managed to inspire the world. She’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. My father might be back from the dead, and Sector 45 might be out of our hands, but Ella’s impact can’t be ignored. Nouria says that no one really believed that she was actually dead, but now that it’s official—now that word has spread that Ella is still alive—she’s become more notorious than ever. Nouria says that the rumbles underground are already getting stronger. People are more desperate to act, to get involved, and to stand up to The Reestablishment. Resistance groups are growing. The civilians are finding ways to get smarter—to get stronger, together. And Ella has given them a figure to rally around. Everyone is talking about her. She’s become a symbol of hope for so many. I squeeze Ella’s hand, returning her smile, and when her cheeks flush with color I have to fight back the urge to pull her into my arms.

She amazes me more every day. My conversation with Kenji is still, despite everything, at the forefront of my mind. Things always feel so desperate these days that I feel a new, nagging insistence that this window of calm might be my only chance at happiness. We’re almost constantly at war, either fighting for our lives or on the run—and there’s no guarantee of a future. No guarantee that I’ll live to see another year. No promise to grow old. It makes me feel li— I stop, suddenly, and Ella nearly stumbles. “Are you okay?” she says, squeezing my hand. I nod. I offer her a distracted smile and vague apology as we begin walking again, but— I run the numbers once more. Finally, I say, without looking up, “Does anyone happen to know what day it is?” And someone responds, a voice from the group I can’t be bothered to identify, confirming what I already thought might be true. My father wasn’t lying. Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ll be twenty years old. Tomorrow. The revelation thunders through me. This birthday feels like more of a milestone than usual, because my life, exactly one year ago, was nearly unrecognizable. Almost everything in my life is different now. One year ago I was a different person. I was in an awful, self-destructive relationship with a different person. One year ago my anxiety was so crippling that five minutes alone with my own mind would leave me spiraling for days. I relied entirely upon my routines and schedules to keep me tethered to the endless horrors of my job and its demands. I was inflexible beyond reason. I was hanging on to humanity by a thread. I felt both wild and nearly out of my mind, all the time. My private thoughts and fears were so dark that I spent nearly all my free hours either exercising, in my shooting range, or in the bowels of Sector 45, running training simulations that, I’m not proud to admit, I designed specifically to experience killing myself, over and over again. That was one year ago. Less than a year ago. Somehow, it feels like a lifetime ago. And when I think back on who I was and what that version of myself thought my life would be like today— I’m left deeply and profoundly humbled.

Today is not forever. Happiness does not happen. Happiness must be uncovered, separated from the skin of pain. It must be claimed. Kept close. Protected. “Would you prefer a chance to shower and change before reuniting with the others?” Nouria is saying. Her voice is sharp and clear and it shakes me from my reverie. “Yes,” I say quickly. “I’d really appreciate the time to rest.” “No problem. We meet for dinner in the main tent in two hours. I’ll show you to your new residences.” She hesitates. “I hope you’ll forgive me for being presumptuous, but I assumed the two of you”—she looks at me and Ella—“would like to share a space. But of course if that’s not—” “Yes, thank you,” Ella says quickly. Her cheeks are already pink. “We’re grateful for your thoughtfulness.” Nouria nods. She seems pleased. And then she turns to Kenji and Nazeera and says, “If you’d like, I can arrange to join your separate rooms so that y—” Kenji and Nazeera respond at the same time. “What? No.” “Absolutely not.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Nouria says quickly. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have assumed.” For the first time ever, Nazeera looks flustered. She can hardly get out the words when she says, “Why would you think we’d want to share a room?” Nouria shakes her head. She shares a quick, confused glance with Castle, but seems suddenly mortified. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. You seemed—” “Separate rooms are perfect,” Kenji says sharply. “Great,” Nouria says a little too brightly. “I’ll lead the way.” And I watch, amused, as Castle tries and fails to hide a smile. Our residence, as Nouria called it, is more than I could’ve hoped for. I thought we’d be camping; instead, inside of each tent is a miniature, selfcontained home. There’s a bed, a small living area, a tiny kitchen, and a full bathroom. The furnishings are spare but bright, well made and clean. And when Ella walks in, slips off her shoes, and throws herself backward onto the bed, I can almost imagine us together like this—maybe, someday—in our own home. The thought sends a wave of disorienting euphoria through my body.

And then—fear. It seems like tempting fate to even hope for a happiness like that. But there’s another part of me, a small, but insistent part of me, that clings to that hope nonetheless. Ella and I overcame what I once thought impossible. I never dreamed she’d still love me once she knew everything about me. I never dreamed that the heartbreak and horrors of recent events would only bring us closer, or that my love for her could somehow increase tenfold in two weeks. I grew up thinking that the joys of this world were for other people to enjoy. I was certain that I was fated to a bleak, solitary life, forever barred from the contentment offered by human connection. But now— Ella yawns soundlessly, hugging a pillow to her chest as she curls up on her side. Her eyes close. A smile tugs at my mouth as I watch her. I’m still amazed at how just the sight of her could bring me so much peace. She shifts, again, burrowing more deeply into the pillows, and I realize she must be exhausted. And as much as I’d love to pull her into my arms, I decide to give her space. I back away quietly, and instead use the time to explore the rest of our new, temporary home. I’m still surprised by how much I like it. We have more privacy here, in these new headquarters, than we ever did before. More freedom. Here, I’m a visitor, welcome to take my time showering and resting before dinner. No one expects me to run their world. I have no correspondence to attend to. No awful tasks to attend to. No civilians to oversee. No innocents to torture. I feel so much freer now that someone else has taken the reins. It’s both alien and wonderful. It feels so good to have space with Ella—literal and figurative space— to be ourselves, to be together, to simply be and breathe. Ella and I shared my bedroom back on base, but it never felt like home there. Everything was cold, sterile. I hated that building. Hated that room. Hated every minute of my life. Those walls—my own personal rooms—were suffocating, infused with awful memories. But here, even though the room is small, the tight quarters manage to be cozy. This place feels fresh and new and serene. The future doesn’t seem improbable here. Hope doesn’t feel ridiculous. It feels like a chance to begin again.

And it doesn’t feel dangerous to dream that one day, Ella might be mine in every way. My wife. My family. My future. I’ve never, ever dared to think of it. But my hope is snuffed out just as quickly as it appeared. Kenji’s warnings flash through my mind, and I feel suddenly agitated. Apparently proposing to Ella is more complicated than I’d originally thought it might be. Apparently I need some kind of plan. A ring. A moment on one knee. It all sounds ridiculous to me. I don’t even know why it sounds ridiculous, exactly, just that it doesn’t feel like me. I don’t know how to put on a performance. I don’t want to make a scene. I’d find it excruciating to be so vulnerable in front of other people or in an unfamiliar setting. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Still, these problems seem surmountable in the pursuit of forever with her. I would get on one knee if Ella wanted me to. I’d propose in a room filled with her closest friends if that was what she needed. No, my fear is something much greater than that. The thing Kenji said to me today that rattled me to my core was the possibility that Ella might say no. It’s unconscionable that it never occurred to me that she might say no. Of course she might say no. She could be uninterested for any number of reasons. She might not be ready, for example. Or she might not be interested in the institution of marriage as a whole. Or, I think, she simply might not want to tether herself to me in such a permanent way. The thought sends a chill through my body. I suppose I assumed she and I were on the same page, emotionally. But my assumptions in this department have landed me in trouble more times than I’d like to admit, and the stakes are too high now not to take Kenji’s concerns seriously. I’m not prepared to acknowledge the damage it would do to my heart if she rejected my proposal. I take a deep, sharp breath. Kenji said I need to get her a ring. So far he’s been right about most of the things I’ve done wrong in our relationship, so I’m inclined to believe he might have a point. But I have no idea where I’d be able to conjure up a ring in a place like this. Maybe if we were back home, where I was familiar with the area and its artisans— But here? It’s almost too much to think about right now.

There’s so much to think about, in fact, that I can’t quite believe I’m even considering something like this—at a time like this. I haven’t even had a moment to reconcile the apparent regeneration of my father, or literally any of the other new, outrageous revelations our families have thrown at us. We’re in the middle of a fight for our lives; we’re fighting for the future of the world. I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe I really am an idiot. Five minutes ago, the end of the world seemed like the right reason to propose: to take everything I can in this transitory world—and grieve nothing. But suddenly, it feels like this really might be an impulsive decision. Maybe this isn’t the right time, after all. Maybe Kenji was right. Maybe I’m not thinking clearly. Maybe losing Ella and regaining all these memories— Maybe it’s made me irrational. I push off the wall, trying to clear my head. I wander the rest of the small space, taking stock of everything in our tent, and peer into the bathroom. I’m relieved to discover that there’s real plumbing. In fact, the more I look around, the more I realize that this isn’t a tent at all. There are actual floors and walls and a single vaulted ceiling in this room, as if each unit is actually a small, freestanding building. The tents seem to be draped over the entire structure—and I wonder if they serve a more practical purpose that’s not immediately obvious. Several years, Nouria said. Several years they’ve lived here and made this their home. They really found a way to make something out of nothing. The bathroom is a nice size—spacious enough for two people to share, but not big enough for a bathtub. Still, when we first approached the clearing I wasn’t even sure they’d have proper facilities or running water, so this is more than I could’ve hoped for. And the more I stare at the shower, the more I’m suddenly desperate to rinse these weeks from my skin. I always took pains to stay clean, even in prison, but it’s been too long since I’ve had a hot shower with steady, running water, and I can hardly resist the temptation now. And I’ve already stripped off most of my clothes when I hear Ella call my name, her still-sleepy voice carrying over from what serves as our bedroom. Or bed space. It’s not really a room as much as it is an area designated for a bed. “Yes?” I call back. “Where’d you go?” she says.

“I thought I might take a shower,” I try to say without shouting. I’ve just stepped out of my underwear and into the standing shower, but I turn the dials in the wrong direction and cold water sprays from the showerhead. I jump backward even as I hurry to undo my mistake, and nearly collide with Ella in the process. Ella, who’s suddenly standing behind me. I don’t know whether its habit, instinct, or self-preservation, but I grab a towel from a nearby shelf and quickly press it against my exposed body. I don’t even understand why I’m suddenly self-conscious. I never feel uncomfortable in my own skin. I like the way I look naked. But this moment wasn’t one I’d anticipated, and I feel defenseless. “Hi, love,” I say, taking a quick breath. I remember to smile. “I didn’t see you standing there.” Ella crosses her arms, pretending to look mad, but I can see the effort she’s making to fight back a smile. “Aaron,” she says sternly. “You were going to take a shower without me?” My eyebrows fly up, surprised. For a moment, I don’t know what to say. And then, carefully, “Would you like to join me?” She steps forward, wraps her arms around my waist, and stares up at me with a sweet, secret smile. The look in her eyes is enough to make me think about dropping the towel. I whisper her name, my heart heavy with emotion. She pulls me closer, gently touching her lips to my chest, and I go uncomfortably still. Her kisses grow more intent, her lips leaving a trail of fire across my chest, down my torso, and feeling rushes through my veins, sets me on fire. Suddenly I forget why I was ever holding a towel. I don’t even know when it falls to the floor. I slip my arms around her, reel her in. She feels incredible, her body fitting against me perfectly, and I tilt her face up, my hand caught somewhere behind her neck and the base of her jaw and I kiss her, soft and slow, heat filling my blood with dangerous speed. I pull her tighter and she gasps, stumbles and takes an accidental step back and I catch her, pressing her against the wall behind her. I bunch up the hem of her dress and in one smooth motion yank it upward, my hand slipping under the material to skim the smooth skin of her waist, to grip her hip, hard. I part her legs with my thigh and she makes a soft, desperate sound deep in her throat and it

does something to me, to feel her like this, to hear her like this—to be assaulted by endless waves of her pleasure and desire— It drives me insane. I bury my face in her neck, my hands moving up, under her dress to feel her skin, hot and soft and sensitive to my touch. I’ve missed her so much. I’ve missed her body under my hands, missed the scent of her skin and the soft, feather-light whisper of her hair against my body. I kiss her neck, trying to ignore the tension in my muscles or the hard, desperate pressure driving me toward her, toward madness. There’s an ache expanding inside of me and demanding more, demanding I flip her over and lose myself in her here, right now, and she whispers— “How— How do you always feel so good?” She’s clinging to me, her eyes half-lidded but bright with desire. Her face is flushed. Her words are heavy with feeling when she says, “How do you always do this to me?” I break away from her. I take two steps backward and I’m breathing hard, trying to regain control of myself even as her eyes widen, her arms going suddenly still. “Aaron?” she says. “What’s—” “Take off your dress,” I say quietly. Understanding awakens in her eyes. She says nothing, she only looks at me, carefully, as I watch, imprisoned in place by an acute form of agony. Her hands are trembling but her eyes are willing and wanting and nervous. She shoves the material down, past her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor. I drink her in as she steps out of the dress, my mind racing. Gorgeous, I think. So gorgeous. My pulse is wild. When I ask her to, she unhooks her bra. Moments later, her underwear joins her bra on the floor and I can’t look away from her, my mind unable to process the perfection of this happiness. She’s so stunning I can hardly breathe. I can hardly fathom that she’s mine, that she wants me, that she would ever love me. I can’t even hear myself think over the rush of blood in my ears, my heart beating so fast and hard it seems to thud against my skull. The sight of her standing in front of me, vulnerable and flushed with desire, is doing wild, desperate things to my mind. God, the fantasies I’ve had about her. The places my mind has gone. I step forward and pick her up and she gasps, surprised, clinging desperately to my neck as I hitch her legs around my waist, my arms

settling under her thighs. I love feeling the weight of her soft curves. I love having her this close to me. I love her arms around my neck and the squeeze of her legs around my hips. I love how ready she is, her thighs already parted, every inch of her pressed against me. But then she runs her hands up my naked back and I have to resist the urge to flinch. I don’t want to be self-conscious about the scars on my body. I don’t want any part of me to be off-limits to her. I want her to know me exactly as I am, and, as hard as it is, I allow myself to ease into her touch, closing my eyes as she trails her hands up, across my shoulders, down my arms. “You’re so gorgeous,” she says softly. “I’m always surprised. It doesn’t matter how many times I see you without your clothes on, I’m always surprised. It doesn’t seem fair that anyone should be this gorgeous.” She looks at me, stares at me as if expecting an answer, but I can’t speak. I fear I might unravel if I do. I want her with a desperate need I’ve never known before—a desperate, painful need so overwhelming it’s threatening to consume me. I need her. Need this. Now. I take a deep, unsteady breath, and carry her into the shower. She screams. Hot water hits us fast and hard and I press her against the shower wall, losing myself in her in a way I never have before. The kisses are deeper, more desperate. The heat, more explosive. Everything between us feels wild and raw and vulnerable. I lose track of time. I don’t know how long we’ve been here. I don’t know how long I’ve lost myself in her when she cries out, clutching my arms so tightly her fingernails dig into my skin, her screams muffled against my chest. I feel weak, unsteady as she collapses in my arms; I’m intoxicated by the pure, stunning power of her emotions: endless waves of love and desire, love and kindness, love and joy, love and tenderness. So much tenderness. It’s almost too much. I step backward, bracing myself against the wall as she presses her cheek against my chest and holds me, our bodies wet and heavy with feeling, our hearts pounding with something more powerful than I ever thought possible. I kiss the curve of her shoulder, the nape of her neck. I forget where we are and all we have left to do and I just hold on, hot water rushing down my arms, my limbs still slightly shaking, too terrified to let her go.

Juliette Ella I wake up with a start. After we got out of the shower, Aaron and I dried off, climbed into bed without a word, and promptly fell asleep. I have no idea what time it is. Aaron’s body is curled around mine, one of his arms under my head, the other wrapped around my waist. His arms are heavy, and the weight of him feels so good—makes me feel so safe—that, on the one hand, I don’t ever want to move. On the other hand— I know we should probably get out of bed. I sigh, hating to wake him up—he seems so tired—and I turn around, slowly, in his arms. He only pulls me tighter. He shifts so that his chin rests on my head; my face is now pressed gently against his throat, and I breathe him in, running my hands along the strong, deep lines of muscle in his arms. Everything about him feels raw. Powerful. There’s something both wild and terrified about his heart, and somehow, knowing this only makes me love him more. I trace the lines of his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine. He stirs, but only a little, and buries his face in my hair, breathing me in. “Don’t go,” he says quietly. I tilt my head, gently kiss the column of his throat. “Aaron,” I whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.” He sighs. Says, “Good.” I smile. “But we should probably get out of bed. We have to go to dinner. Everyone will be waiting for us.” He shakes his head, barely. Makes a disapproving sound in his throat. “But—” “No.” And then, deftly, he helps me turn around. He hugs me close again, my back pressed against his chest. His voice is soft, husky with desire when he says. “Let me enjoy you, love. You feel so good.” And I give in. Melt back into his arms. The truth is, I love these moments most. The quiet contentment. The peace. I love the weight of him, the feel of him, his naked body wrapped

around mine. I never feel closer to him than I do like this, when there’s nothing between us. Gently, he kisses my temple. Pulls me, somehow, even tighter. And his lips are at my ear when he says, “Kenji said I was supposed to get you a ring.” I stiffen, confused. Try to turn around when I say, “What do you mean?” But Aaron eases my body back down. He rests his chin on my shoulder. His hands move down my arms, trace the curve of my hips. He kisses my neck once, twice, so softly. “I know I’m doing this wrong,” he says. “I know I’m not good at this sort of thing, love, and I hope you’ll forgive me for it, but I don’t know how else to do it.” A pause. “And I’m starting to think it might kill me if I don’t.” My body is frozen, even as my heart pounds furiously in my chest. “Aaron,” I say, hardly daring to breathe. “What are you talking about?” He says nothing. I turn around again, and this time, he doesn’t stop me. His eyes flare with emotion, and I watch the gentle movement in his throat as he swallows. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Marry me,” he whispers. I stare at him, disbelief and joy colliding. And it’s the look in his eyes— the hopeful, terrified look in his eyes—that nearly kills me. I’m suddenly crying. I clap my hands over my face. A sob escapes my mouth. Gently, he pries my hands away from my face. “Ella?” he says, his words hardly a whisper. I’m still crying when I throw my arms around his neck, still crying when he says, a little nervously— “Sweetheart, I really need to know if this means yes or no—” “Yes,” I cry, slightly hysterical. “Yes. Yes to everything with you. Yes to forever with you. Yes.”

Warner

Is this joy? I think it might kill me. “Aaron?” “Yes, love?” She takes my face in her hands and kisses me, kisses me with a love so deep it releases my brain from its prison. My heart starts beating violently. “Ella,” I say. “You’re going to be my wife.” She kisses me again, crying again, and suddenly I don’t recognize myself. I don’t recognize my hands, my bones, my heart. I feel new. Different. “I love you,” she whispers. “I love you so much.” “That you could love me at all seems like some kind of miracle.” She smiles, even as she shakes her head. “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “It’s very, very easy to love you.” And I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to respond. She doesn’t seem to mind. I reel her in, kiss her, again, and lose myself in the taste and feel of her, in the fantasy of what we might have. What we might be. And then I pull her gently onto my lap and she straddles my body, settling over me until we’re pressed together, her cheek against my chest. I wrap my arms around her, spread my hands along her back. I feel her gentle breaths on my skin, her eyelashes tickling my chest as she blinks, and I decide I’m never, ever leaving this bed. A happy, wonderful silence settles between us. “You asked me to marry you,” she says softly. “Yes.” “Wow.” I smile, my heart filled suddenly with inexpressible joy. I hardly recognize myself. I can’t remember the last time I ever smiled this much. I can’t recall ever feeling this kind of pure, unburdened bliss. Like my body might float away without me. I touch her hair, gently. Run my fingers through the soft, silky strands. When I finally sit up, she sits up, too, and she blushes as I stare at her, mesmerized by the sight of her. Her eyes are wide and bright. Her lips full and pink. She’s perfect, perfect here, bare and beautiful in my arms. I press my forehead to the curve of her shoulder, my lips brushing against her skin. “I love you, Ella,” I whisper. “I will love you for the rest of my life. My heart is yours. Please don’t ever give it back to me.”

She says nothing for what feels like an eternity. Finally, I feel her move. Her hand touches my face. “Aaron,” she whispers. “Look at me.” I shake my head. “Aaron.” I look up, slowly, to meet her eyes, and her expression is at once sad and sweet and full of love. I feel something thaw inside of me as I stare at her, and just as she’s about to say something, a complicated chime echoes through the room. I freeze. Ella frowns. Looks around. “That sounds like a doorbell,” she says. I wish I could deny the possibility. I sit back, even though she’s still sitting on my lap. I want this interruption to end. I want to go back to our conversation. I want to stick to my original plan to spend the rest of the night here, in bed, with my perfect, naked fiancée. The chime sounds again, and this time, I say something decidedly ungentlemanly under my breath. Ella laughs, surprised. “Did you just swear?” “No.” A third chime. This time, I stare up at the ceiling and try to clear my head. Try to convince myself to move, to get dressed. This must be some kind of emergency, or else— Suddenly, a voice: “Listen—I didn’t want to come, okay? I really didn’t. I hate being this guy. But Castle sent me to come get you guys because you missed dinner. It’s getting super late and everyone is a little worried, and now you’re not even answering the door, and—Jesus Christ, open the goddamn door—” I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s here. He’s always here, ruining my life. I’m going to kill him. I nearly trip trying to pull on my pants and get to the door at the same time, but when I do, I rip the door open, practically tearing it off its hinges. “Unless someone is dead, dying, or we are under attack, I want you gone before I’ve even finished this sentence.” Kenji narrows his eyes at me, and then pushes past me into the room. And I’m so stunned by his gall that it takes me a moment to realize I’m going to have to murder him.

“J—?” he says, looking around as he walks in. “You in here?” Ella is holding the bedsheet up to her neck. “Uh, hi,” she says. She smiles nervously. “What are you doing here?” “Hey, is it cool if I still call you J?” he says. “I know your name is Ella and everything, but I got so used to calling you J that it just feels right, you know?” “You can still call me J,” she says. And then she frowns. “Kenji, what’s wrong?” I groan. “Get out,” I snap at him. “I don’t know why you’re here, and I don’t care. We don’t wish to be disturbed. Ever.” Ella shoots me a sharp look. She ignores me when she says, to Kenji, “It’s okay. I care. Tell me what’s wrong.” “Nothing is wrong,” Kenji says. “But I know your boyfriend won’t listen to me, so I wanted to let you know that it’s almost midnight and we really need you guys to get down to the dining tent ASAP, okay?” He shoots Ella a loaded look, and her eyes widen. She nods. I feel a sudden rush of excitement move through her, and it leaves me confused. “What’s going on?” I say. But Kenji is already walking away. “Bro, you really need to, like, eat a pizza or something,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder as he leaves. “You have too many abs.” “What?” My eyebrows pull together. “That’s not—” “I’m joking,” Kenji says, pausing in the doorway just before he leaves. “Joking,” he says again. “It was a joke. Jesus.” And then he slams the door behind him. I turn around. “What’s going on?” I say again. But she only smiles. “We should get dressed.” “Ella—” “I promise I’ll explain as soon as we get there.” I shake my head. “Did something happen?” “No— I’m just— I’m really excited to see everyone from Omega Point again, and they’re all waiting for us in the dining tent.” She gets out of bed still holding the bedsheet to her body, and I have to clench my fists to keep from pulling it away from her. From pinning her against the wall. And before I even have a chance to respond, she disappears into the bathroom, the sheet dragging on the floor as she goes. I follow her.

She’s looking for her clothes, oblivious to my presence, but her dress is on the floor in a corner she hasn’t glimpsed yet, and I doubt she’d want to put that bloodied dress back on anyway. I should tell her that I found a drawer full of simple, standard clothes we’re probably allowed to borrow. Maybe later. For now, I step behind her, slip my hands around her waist. She startles and the sheet falls to the floor. “Ella,” I say softly, tugging her body against mine. “Sweetheart, you have to tell me what’s going on.” I turn her around, slowly. She looks down at herself, surprised—always surprised—by the sight of her naked body. “I don’t have any clothes on,” she whispers. “I know,” I say, smiling as I run my hands down her back, appreciating her softness, her perfect curves. I wish I could store these moments. I wish I could revisit them. Relive them. She shivers in my arms and I pull her closer. “It’s not fair,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “It’s not fair that you can sense emotions. That it’s impossible to keep secrets from you.” “What’s not fair,” I say, “is that you’re about to put your clothes on and force me to leave this bedroom and I don’t know why.” She stares at me, her eyes wide and nervous even as she smiles. I can sense that she’s torn, her heart in two places at once. “Aaron,” she says softly. “Don’t you like surprises?” “I hate surprises.” She laughs. Shakes her head. “I guess I should’ve known that.” I stare at her, my eyebrows raised, still waiting for an explanation. “They’re going to kill me for telling you,” she says. And then at the look in my eyes, “Not— I mean, not literally. But just—” Finally, she sighs. And she won’t look at me when she says— “We’re throwing you a birthday party.” I’m certain I’ve heard her wrong.

Juliette Ella

It took more work than I imagined to get him to believe me. He wanted to know how anyone even knew that tomorrow was his birthday and how we could’ve possibly planned a party when we had no idea we were going to crash the plane here and why would anyone throw him a party and he wasn’t even sure he liked parties and on and on and on And it wasn’t until we literally walked through the doors of the dining tent and everyone screamed happy birthday at him that he finally believed me. It wasn’t much, of course. We hadn’t really had time to prepare. I knew his birthday was coming up because I’d been keeping track of it ever since the day he told me what his father used to do to him, every year, on his birthday. I swore to myself I would do whatever I could to replace those memories with better ones. That forever and ever I would try to drown out the darkness that had inhaled his entire young life. I told Kenji, when he found me, that tomorrow was Aaron’s birthday, and I made him promise me that, no matter what happened, when we found him we would find a way to celebrate, in some small way. But this— This was more than I could’ve hoped for. I thought maybe, given our time constraints, we’d just get a group to sing him “Happy Birthday,” or maybe eat dessert in his honor, but this— There’s an actual cake. A cake with candles in it, waiting to be lit. Everyone from Omega Point is here—the whole crew of familiar faces: Brendan and Winston, Sonya and Sara, Alia and Lily, and Ian and Castle. Only Adam and James are missing, but we have new friends, too— Haider is here. So is Stephan. Nazeera. And then there’s the new resistance. The members of the Sanctuary that we’ve yet to meet, all come forward, gathered around a single, modest sheet cake. It reads— HAPPY BIRTHDAY WARNER in red icing. The piping is a little sloppy. The icing is imperfect. But when someone dims the lamps and lights the candles, Aaron goes suddenly still beside me. I squeeze his hand as he looks at me, his eyes round with a new emotion. There’s tragedy and beauty in his eyes: something stoic that refuses to be moved, and something childlike that can’t help but feel joy. He looks, in short, like he’s in pain.

“Aaron,” I whisper. “Is this okay?” He takes a few seconds to respond, but when he finally does, he nods. Just once—but it’s enough. “Yes,” he says softly. “This is okay.” And I feel myself relax. Tomorrow, there will be pain and devastation to contend with. Tomorrow we’ll dive into a whole new chapter of hardship. There’s a world war brewing. A battle for our lives—for the whole world. Right now, little is certain. But tonight, I’m choosing to celebrate. We’re going to celebrate the small and large joys. Birthdays and engagements. We’re going to find time for happiness. Because how can we stand against tyranny if we ourselves are filled with hate? Or worse— Nothing? I want to remember to celebrate more. I want to remember to experience more joy. I want to allow myself to be happy more frequently. I want to remember, forever, this look on Aaron’s face, as he’s bullied into blowing out his birthday candles for the very first time. This is, after all, what we’re fighting for, isn’t it? A second chance at joy.

About the Author

Photo by Tana Gandhi

TAHEREH MAFI is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of A Very Large Expanse of Sea, the Shatter Me series, Furthermore, and Whichwood. She can usually be found overcaffeinated and stuck in a book. You can find her online just about anywhere @TaherehMafi or at www.taherehbooks.com. Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Books by Tahereh Mafi Shatter Me Unravel Me Ignite Me Destroy Me Fracture Me Shatter Me Complete Collection Restore Me Defy Me Shadow Me A Very Large Expanse of Sea Furthermore Whichwood

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Copyright DEFY ME. Copyright © 2019 by Tahereh Mafi. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks. www.epicreads.com Cover art © 2019 by Colin Anderson, inspired by a photograph by Sharee Davenport (eyelashes by Christine Blackburne Photography) Library of Congress Control Number: 2019931360 Digital Edition APRIL 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-267641-2 Print ISBN: 978-0-06-267639-9 ISBN 978-0-06-288642-2 (special edition) ISBN 978-0-06-290696-0 (special edition) ISBN 978-0-06-289550-9 (special edition) ISBN 978-0-06-289084-9 (intl edition) 19 20 21 22 23 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 FIRST EDITION

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Dedication For Ransom

Epigraph

I turn to right and left, in all the earth I see no signs of justice, sense or worth: A man does evil deeds, and all his days are filled with luck and universal praise; Another’s good in all he does— He dies a wretched, broken man whom all despise. But all this world is like a tale we hear— Men’s evil, and their glory, disappear.

—Abolghasem Ferdowsi, Shahnameh

Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Epigraph One Two In the Beginning Three Four Five Six Seven Eight

Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five Twenty-Six Twenty-Seven Twenty-Eight Twenty-Nine Thirty Thirty-One Thirty-Two Thirty-Three Thirty-Four Thirty-Five Thirty-Six Thirty-Seven Thirty-Eight Thirty-Nine Forty About the Author Books by Tahereh Mafi Back Ad Copyright About the Publisher

One

by the light of star and fire, sitting, as she often did, curled up inside the hearth. Soot stained her skin and skirts in haphazard streaks: smudges along the crest of a cheek, a dusting of yet more darkness above one eye. She didn’t seem to notice. Alizeh was cold. No, she was freezing. She often wished she were a body with hinges, that she might throw open a door in her chest and fill its cavity with coal, then kerosene. Strike a match. Alas. She tugged up her skirts and shifted nearer the fire, careful lest she destroy the garment she still owed the illegitimate daughter of the Lojjan ambassador. The intricate, glittering piece was her only order this month, but Alizeh nursed a secret hope that the gown would conjure clients on its own, for such fashionable commissions were, after all, the direct result of an envy born only in a ballroom, around a dinner table. So long as the kingdom remained at peace, the royal elite—legitimate and illegitimate ALIZEH STITCHED IN THE KITCHEN

alike—would continue to host parties and incur debt, which meant Alizeh might yet find ways to extract coin from their embroidered pockets. She shivered violently then, nearly missing a stitch, nearly toppling into the fire. As a toddling child Alizeh had once been so desperately cold she’d crawled onto the searing hearth on purpose. Of course it had never occurred to her that she might be consumed by the blaze; she’d been but a babe following an instinct to seek warmth. Alizeh couldn’t have known then the singularity of her affliction, for so rare was the frost that grew inside her body that she stood in stark relief even among her own people, who were thought to be strange indeed. A miracle, then, that the fire had only disintegrated her clothes and clogged the small house with a smoke that singed her eyes. A subsequent scream, however, signaled to the snug tot that her scheme was at an end. Frustrated by a body that would not warm, she’d wept frigid tears as she was collected from the flames, her mother sustaining terrible burns in the process, the scars of which Alizeh would study for years to come. “Her eyes,” the trembling woman had cried to her husband, who’d come running at the sounds of distress. “See what’s happened to her eyes — They will kill her for this—” Alizeh rubbed her eyes now and coughed. Surely she’d been too young to remember the precise words her parents had spoken; no doubt Alizeh’s was a memory merely of a story oftrepeated, one so thoroughly worn into her mind she only imagined she could recall her mother’s voice. She swallowed. Soot had stuck in her throat. Her fingers had gone numb. Exhausted, she exhaled her worries into the hearth, the action disturbing to life another flurry of soot. Alizeh coughed for the second time then, this time so hard she stabbed the stitching needle into her small finger. She absorbed the shock of pain with preternatural calm, carefully dislodging the bit before inspecting the injury. The puncture was deep. Slowly, almost one at a time, her fingers closed around the gown still clutched in her hand, the finest silk stanching the trickle of her blood. After a few moments—during which she stared blankly up, into the chimney, for the sixteenth time that night—she released the gown, cut the

thread with her teeth, and tossed the gem-encrusted novelty onto a nearby chair. Never fear; Alizeh knew her blood would not stain. Still, it was a good excuse to cede defeat, to set aside the gown. She appraised it now, sprawled as it was across the seat. The bodice had collapsed, bowing over the skirt much like a child might slump in a chair. Silk pooled around the wooden legs, beadwork catching the light. A weak breeze rattled a poorly latched window and a single candle blew out, taking with it the remaining composure of the commission. The gown slid farther down the chair, one heavy sleeve releasing itself with a hush, its glittering cuff grazing the sooty floor. Alizeh sighed. This gown, like all the others, was far from beautiful. She thought the design trite, the construction only passably good. She dreamed of unleashing her mind, of freeing her hands to create without hesitation—but the roar of Alizeh’s imagination was quieted, always, by an unfortunate need for self-preservation. It was only during her grandmother’s lifetime that the Fire Accords had been established, unprecedented peace agreements that allowed Jinn and humans to mix freely for the first time in nearly a millennia. Though superficially identical, Jinn bodies had been forged from the essence of fire, imbuing in them certain physical advantages; while humans, whose beginnings were established in dirt and water, had long been labeled Clay. Jinn had conceded to the establishment of the Accords with a variegated relief, for the two races had been locked in bloodshed for eons, and though the enmity between them remained unresolved, all had tired of death. The streets had been gilded with liquid sun to usher in the era of this tenuous peacetime, the empire’s flag and coin reimagined in triumph. Every royal article was stamped with the maxim of a new age: MERAS May Equality Reign Always Supreme Equality, as it turned out, had meant Jinn were to lower themselves to the weakness of humans, denying at all times the inherent powers of their race, the speed and strength and elective evanescence born unto their bodies. They were to cease at once what the king had declared “such supernatural operations” or face certain death, and Clay, who had exposed themselves as an insecure sort of creature, were only too willing to cry

cheat no matter the context. Alizeh could still hear the screams, the riots in the streets— She stared now at the mediocre gown. Always she struggled not to design an article too exquisite, for extraordinary work came under harsher scrutiny, and was only too quickly denounced as the result of a preternatural trick. Only once, having grown increasingly desperate to earn a decent living, had Alizeh thought to impress a customer not with style, but with craftsmanship. Not only was the quality of her work many orders of magnitude higher than that of the local modiste, but Alizeh could fashion an elegant morning gown in a quarter of the time, and had been willing to charge half as much. The oversight had sent her to the gallows. It had not been the happy customer, but the rival dressmaker who’d reported Alizeh to the magistrates. Miracle of miracles, she’d managed to evade their attempt to drag her away in the night, and fled the familiar countryside of her childhood for the anonymity of the city, hoping to be lost among the masses. Would that she might slough off the burdens she carried with her always, but Alizeh knew an abundance of reasons to keep to the shadows, chief among them the reminder that her parents had forfeited their lives in the interest of her quiet survival, and to comport herself carelessly now would be to dishonor their efforts. No, Alizeh had learned the hard way to relinquish her commissions long before she grew to love them. She stood and a cloud of soot stood with her, billowing around her skirts. She’d need to clean the kitchen hearth before Mrs. Amina came down in the morning or she’d likely be out on the street again. Despite her best efforts, Alizeh had been turned out onto the street more times than she could count. She’d always supposed it took little encouragement to dispose of that which was already seen as disposable, but these thoughts had done little to calm her. Alizeh collected a broom, flinching a little as the fire died. It was late; very late. The steady tick tick of the clock wound something in her heart, made her anxious. Alizeh had a natural aversion to the dark, a rooted fear she could not fully articulate. She’d have rather worked a needle and thread by the light of the sun, but she spent her days doing the work that

really mattered: scrubbing the rooms and latrines of Baz House, the grand estate of Her Grace, the Duchess Jamilah of Fetrous. Alizeh had never met the duchess, only seen the glittering older woman from afar. Alizeh’s meetings were with Mrs. Amina, the housekeeper, who’d hired Alizeh on a trial basis only, as she’d arrived with no references. As a result, Alizeh was not yet permitted to interact with the other servants, nor was she allotted a proper room in the servants’ wing. Instead, she’d been given a rotting closet in the attic, wherein she’d discovered a cot, its moth-eaten mattress, and half a candle. Alizeh had lain awake in her narrow bed that first night, so overcome she could hardly breathe. She minded neither the rotting attic nor its motheaten mattress, for Alizeh knew herself to be in possession of great fortune. That any grand house was willing to employ a Jinn was shocking enough, but that she’d been given a room—a respite from the winter streets— True, Alizeh had found stretches of work since her parents’ deaths, and often she’d been granted leave to sleep indoors, or in the hayloft; but never had she been given a space of her own. This was the first time in years she had privacy, a door she might close; and Alizeh had felt so thoroughly saturated with happiness she feared she might sink through the floor. Her body shook as she stared up at the wooden beams that night, at the thicket of cobwebs that crowded her head. A large spider had unspooled a length of thread, lowering itself to look her in the eye, and Alizeh had only smiled, clutching a skin of water to her chest. The water had been her single request. “A skin of water?” Mrs. Amina had frowned at her, frowned as if she’d asked to eat the woman’s child. “You can fetch your own water, girl.” “Forgive me, I would,” Alizeh had said, eyes on her shoes, on the torn leather around the toe she’d not yet mended. “But I’m still new to the city, and I’ve found it difficult to access fresh water so far from home. There’s no reliable cistern nearby, and I cannot yet afford the glass water in the market—” Mrs. Amina roared with laughter. Alizeh went silent, heat rising up her neck. She did not know why the woman laughed at her. “Can you read, child?” Alizeh looked up without meaning to, registering the familiar, fearful gasp before she’d even locked eyes with the woman. Mrs. Amina stepped

back, lost her smile. “Yes,” said Alizeh. “I can read.” “Then you must try to forget.” Alizeh started. “I beg your pardon?” “Don’t be daft.” Mrs. Amina’s eyes narrowed. “No one wants a servant who can read. You ruin your own prospects with that tongue. Where did you say you were from?” Alizeh had frozen solid. She couldn’t tell whether this woman was being cruel or kind. It was the first time anyone had suggested her intelligence might present a problem to the position, and Alizeh wondered then whether it wasn’t true: perhaps it had been her head, too full as it was, that kept landing her in the street. Perhaps, if she was careful, she might finally manage to keep a position for longer than a few weeks. No doubt she could feign stupidity in exchange for safety. “I’m from the north, ma’am,” she’d said quietly. “Your accent isn’t northern.” Alizeh nearly admitted aloud that she’d been raised in relative isolation, that she’d learned to speak as her tutors had taught her; but then she remembered herself, remembered her station, and said nothing. “As I suspected,” Mrs. Amina had said into the silence. “Rid yourself of that ridiculous accent. You sound like an idiot, pretending to be some kind of toff. Better yet, say nothing at all. If you can manage that, you may prove useful to me. I’ve heard your kind don’t tire out so easily, and I expect your work to satisfy such rumors, else I’ll not scruple to toss you back into the street. Have I made myself clear?” “Yes, ma’am.” “You may have your skin of water.” “Thank you, ma’am.” Alizeh curtsied, turned to go. “Oh—and one more thing—” Alizeh turned back. “Yes, ma’am?” “Get yourself a snoda as soon as possible. I never want to see your face again.”

Two

open the door to her closet when she felt it, felt him as if she’d pushed her arms through the sleeves of a winter coat. She hesitated, heart pounding, and stood framed in the doorway. Foolish. Alizeh shook her head to clear it. She was imagining things, and no surprise: she was in desperate need of sleep. After sweeping the hearth, she’d had to scrub clean her sooty hands and face, too, and it had all taken much longer than she’d hoped; her weary mind could hardly be held responsible for its delirious thoughts at this hour. With a sigh, Alizeh dipped a single foot into the inky depths of her room, feeling blindly for the match and candle she kept always near the door. Mrs. Amina had not allowed Alizeh a second taper to carry upstairs in the evenings, for she could neither fathom the indulgence nor the possibility that the girl might still be working long after the gas lamps had been extinguished. Even so, the housekeeper’s lack of imagination did nothing to alter the facts as they were: this high up in so large an estate it was near impossible for distant light to penetrate. Save the occasional slant ALIZEH HAD ONLY JUST PULLED

of the moon through a mingy corridor window, the attic presented opaque in the night; black as tar. Were it not for the glimmer of the night sky to help her navigate the many flights to her closet, Alizeh might not have found her way, for she experienced a fear so paralyzing in the company of perfect darkness that, when faced with such a fate, she held an illogical preference for death. Her single candle quickly found, the sought after match was promptly struck, a tear of air and the wick lit. A warm glow illuminated a sphere in the center of her room, and for the first time that day, Alizeh relaxed. Quietly she pulled closed the closet door behind her, stepping fully into a room hardly big enough to hold her cot. Just so, she loved it. She’d scrubbed the filthy closet until her knuckles had bled, until her knees had throbbed. In these ancient, beautiful estates, most everything was once built to perfection, and buried under layers of mold, cobwebs, and caked-on grime, Alizeh had discovered elegant herringbone floors, solid wood beams in the ceiling. When she’d finished with it, the room positively gleamed. Mrs. Amina had not, naturally, been to visit the old storage closet since it’d been handed over to the help, but Alizeh often wondered what the housekeeper might say if she saw the space now, for the room was unrecognizable. But then, Alizeh had long ago learned to be resourceful. She removed her snoda, unwinding the delicate sheet of tulle from around her eyes. The silk was required of all those who worked in service, the mask marking its wearer as a member of the lower classes. The textile was designed for hard work, woven loosely enough to blur her features without obscuring necessary vision. Alizeh had chosen this profession with great forethought, and clung every day to the anonymity her position provided, rarely removing her snoda even outside of her room; for though most people did not understand the strangeness they saw in her eyes, she feared that one day the wrong person might. She breathed deeply now, pressing the tips of her fingers against her cheeks and temples, gently massaging the face she’d not seen in what felt like years. Alizeh did not own a looking glass, and her occasional glances at the mirrors in Baz House revealed only the bottom third of her face: lips, chin, the column of her neck. She was otherwise a faceless servant, one of dozens, and had only vague memories of what she looked like—or what she’d once been told she looked like. It was the whisper of her

mother’s voice in her ear, the feel of her father’s calloused hand against her cheek. You are the finest of us all, he’d once said. Alizeh closed her mind to the memory as she took off her shoes, set the boots in their corner. Over the years, Alizeh had collected enough scraps from old commissions to stitch herself the quilt and matching pillow currently laid atop her mattress. Her clothes she hung from old nails wrapped meticulously in colorful thread; all other personal affects she’d arranged inside an apple crate she’d found discarded in one of the chicken coops. She rolled off her stockings now and hung them—to air them out— from a taut bit of twine. Her dress went to one of the colorful hooks, her corset to another, her snoda to the last. Everything Alizeh owned, everything she touched, was clean and orderly, for she had learned long ago that when a home was not found, it was forged; indeed it could be fashioned even from nothing. Clad only in her shift, she yawned, yawned as she sat on her cot, as the mattress sank, as she pulled the pins from her hair. The day—and her long, heavy curls—crashed down around her shoulders. Her thoughts had begun to slur. With great reluctance she blew out the candle, pulled her legs against her chest, and fell over like a poorly weighted insect. The illogic of her phobia was consistent only in perplexing her, for when she was abed and her eyes closed, Alizeh imagined she could more easily conquer the dark, and even as she trembled with a familiar chill, she succumbed quickly to sleep. She reached for her soft quilt and drew it up over her shoulders, trying not to think about how cold she was, trying not to think at all. In fact she shivered so violently she hardly noticed when he sat down, his weight depressing the mattress at the foot of her bed. Alizeh bit back a scream. Her eyes flew open, tired pupils fighting to widen their aperture. Frantically, Alizeh patted down her quilt, her pillow, her threadbare mattress. There was no body on her bed. No one in her room. Had she been hallucinating? She fumbled for her candle and dropped it, her hands shaking. Surely, she’d been dreaming. The mattress groaned—the weight shifting—and Alizeh experienced a fear so violent she saw sparks. She pushed backward, knocking her head

against the wall, and somehow the pain focused her panic. A sharp snap and a flame caught between his barely there fingers, illuminated the contours of his face. Alizeh dared not breathe. Even in silhouette she couldn’t see him, not properly, but then—it was not his face, but his voice, that had made the devil notorious. Alizeh knew this better than most. Seldom did the devil present himself in some approximation of flesh; rare were his clear and memorable communications. Indeed, the creature was not as powerful as his legacy insisted, for he’d been denied the right to speak as another might, doomed forever to hold forth in riddles, and allowed permission only to persuade a person to ruin, never to command. It was not usual, then, for one to claim an acquaintance with the devil, nor was it with any conviction that a person might speak of his methods, for the presence of such evil was experienced most often only through a provoking of sensation. Alizeh did not like to be the exception. Indeed it was with some pain that she acknowledged the circumstances of her birth: that it had been the devil to first offer congratulations at her cradle, his unwelcome ciphers as inescapable as the wet of rain. Alizeh’s parents had tried, desperately, to banish such a beast from their home, but he had returned again and again, forever embroidering the tapestry of her life with ominous forebodings, in what seemed a promise of destruction she could not outmaneuver. Even now she felt the devil’s voice, felt it like a breath loosed inside her body, an exhale against her bones. There once was a man, he whispered. “No,” she nearly shouted, panicking. “Not another riddle—please—” There once was a man, he whispered, who bore a snake on each shoulder. Alizeh clapped both hands over her ears and shook her head; she’d never wanted so badly to cry. “Please,” she said, “please don’t—” Again:

There once was a man who bore a snake on each shoulder. If the snakes were well fed their master ceased growing older. Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut, pulled her knees to her chest. He wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t shut him out. What they ate no one knew, even as the children— “Please,” she said, begging now. “Please, I don’t want to know—” What they ate no one knew, even as the children were found with brains shucked from their skulls, bodies splayed on the ground. She inhaled sharply and he was gone, gone, the devil’s voice torn free from her bones. The room suddenly shuddered around her, shadows lifting and stretching—and in the warped light a strange, hazy face peered back at her. Alizeh bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. It was a young man staring at her now, one she did not recognize. That he was human, Alizeh had no doubt—but something about him seemed different from the others. In the dim light the young man seemed carved not from clay, but marble, his face trapped in hard lines, centered by a soft mouth. The longer she stared at him the harder her heart raced. Was this the man with the snakes? Why did it even matter? Why would she ever believe a single word spoken by the devil? Ah, but she already knew the answer to the latter. Alizeh was losing her calm. Her mind screamed at her to look away from the conjured face, screamed that this was all madness—and yet. Heat crept up her neck. Alizeh was unaccustomed to staring too long at any face, and this one was violently handsome. He had noble features, all straight lines and hollows, easy arrogance at rest. He tilted his head as he took her in, unflinching as he studied her eyes. All his unwavering attention stoked a forgotten flame inside her, startling her tired mind. And then, a hand. His hand, conjured from a curl of darkness. He was looking straight into her eyes when he dragged a vanishing finger across her lips.

She screamed.

In the Beginning

had worn thin in the retelling, but Iblees, Iblees, his true name like a heartbeat on the tongue, was lost to the catacombs of history. His own people knew best that the beast was wrought not from light, but fire. Not angel, but Jinn, an ancient race who’d once owned the earth, who’d once celebrated this young man’s extraordinary elevation to the heavens. They knew best whence he came, because they were there when he was returned, when his body cracked against the earth and their world was left to rot in the wake of his arrogance. Birds froze when his body fell out of the sky, their sharp beaks parted, broad wings pinned open in midair. He glistened in his descent, flesh slick with fresh melt, heavy drops of liquid fire rolling off his skin. His drippings, still steaming, would hit the earth before his heft would, disintegrating frogs and trees and the shared dignity of an entire civilization who would be forced forever to scream his name at the stars. For when Iblees fell, so too did his people. It was not God, but the occupants of the expanding universe that would soon forsake the Jinn; every celestial body had borne witness to the THE STORY OF THE DEVIL

genesis of the devil, to a creature of darkness heretofore unknown, unnamed—and none wished to be seen as sympathetic to an enemy of the All-Powerful. The sun was the first to turn its back on them. A single wink and it was done; their planet, Earth, was plunged into perpetual night, armored in ice, flung out of orbit. The moon faded next, knocking the world off its axis, warping its oceans. All was soon flooded, then frozen; the population neatly halved in three days. Thousands of years of history, of art and literature and invention: obliterated. Still, the surviving Jinn dared to hope. It was when the stars finally devoured themselves, one by one; when land sank and fissured underfoot; when maps of centuries past were suddenly rendered obsolete. It was when they could no longer find their way in the perpetual dark that the Jinn felt truly, irrevocably, lost. They soon scattered. Iblees had been charged for his crime with a single task: to haunt forever the dirt forms that would soon crawl out of the earth. Clay—that crude, rudimentary form before which Iblees would not kneel—would inherit the world the Jinn had once owned. Of this, the Jinn were certain. It had been foretold. When? They did not know. The heavens observed the devil, the half-life he was forced to live. All watched silently as frozen seas overwhelmed the shores, tides rising parallel to his wrath. With every passing moment the darkness grew thicker, denser with the stench of death. Without the skies to guide them, the remaining Jinn could not determine how long their people spent compressed under cold and darkness. It felt like centuries but might’ve been days. What was time when there were no moons to mind the hour, no suns to define a year? Time was told only through birth, through the children who lived. That their souls were forged from fire was the first of two reasons any Jinn had survived the infinite winters, the second: that they required only water for nourishment. Clay shaped itself slowly in such waters, shuddering into a finished form while another civilization died, en masse, of heartbreak, of horror. The Jinn who endured against all odds were plagued always by a rage trapped in their chests, a rage held at bay only by the weight of an unyielding shame.

Jinn were once the sole intelligent beings on Earth; they were creatures built stronger, faster, simpler, and more cunning than Clay would ever be. Still, most had gone blind in the perpetual blackness. Their skin grew ashen, their irises white, stripped of pigment in the dark. In the torturous absence of the sun, even these fiery beings had grown weak, and when Clay, freshly formed, finally stood tall on steady legs, the sun flared back to life—swinging their planet back into focus, and bringing with it a searing pain. Heat. It desiccated the Jinns’ unaccustomed eyes, melted the remaining flesh from their bones. For the Jinn who’d sought shelter from this heat, there was hope: with the return of the sun came the moon, and with the moon, the stars. By starlight they navigated their way to safety, taking refuge at the apex of the earth, in a blistering cold that had begun to feel like home. Quietly, they built a modest new kingdom, all the while pressing their supernatural bodies so hard against the planes of space and time as to practically disappear. It did not matter that Jinn were stronger than the Clay bodies—human beings, they called themselves—that now owned the earth and its skies. It did not matter that Jinn possessed more power and strength and speed. It did not matter how hot their souls burned. Dirt, they had learned, would smother a flame. Dirt would eventually bury them all. And Iblees— Iblees was never far. The devil’s everlasting, shameful existence was a powerful reminder of all they’d lost, of all they’d endured to survive. With profound regret, Jinn surrendered the earth to its new kings—and prayed never to be found. It was yet another prayer that went unanswered.

Three

morning light. She’d shoved out of bed, shoved on her clothes, shoved pins in her hair, shoved shoes on her feet. She usually took greater care with her toilette, but she’d slept later than she’d intended and had no time to do more than run a damp cloth over her eyes. The finished commission was due for delivery today, and she’d wrapped the glittering gown in layers of tulle, securing the package with twine. Alizeh handled the large parcel carefully as she tiptoed downstairs and, after building the fire in the kitchen hearth, pushed open the heavy wooden door—only to be met with fresh snowfall up to her knees. Alizeh’s body nearly sagged with disappointment. She squeezed her eyes shut, took a steadying breath. No. She would not return to bed. It was true she did not yet own a proper winter coat. Or hat. Or even gloves. It was also true that if she raced back up the stairs this very instant she might manage to sleep a full hour before she was needed. ALIZEH SHOVED INTO THE EARLY

But no. She forced her spine straight, clutched the precious bundle to her chest. Today, she would be getting paid. Alizeh stepped into the snow. The moon was so large this morning it blotted out most of the sky, its reflected light suffusing all in a dreamy glow. The sun was but a pinprick in the distance, its outline shining through a soufflé of clouds. Trees stood tall and white, branches heavy with powder. It was early yet—snow still untouched along the paths—and the world shimmered, so white it looked almost blue. Blue snow, blue sky, blue moon. The air seemed even to smell blue, it was so cold. Alizeh huddled deeper into her thin jacket, listening as the wind tore through the streets. Plowmen appeared as suddenly as if they’d been conjured by her thoughts, and she watched their choreographed movements, red trapper hats bobbing to and fro as shovels scraped to reveal stripes of gold cobblestone. Alizeh hurried herself onto a quickly clearing path and shook the snow from her clothes, stamped her feet against the glimmering stone. She was wet up to her thighs and did not want to think on it. Instead, she looked up. The day was not yet born, its sounds not yet formed. Street vendors had yet to set up their kiosks, shops had yet to unlatch their shuttered windows. Today, a trio of bright-green ducks waddled down the powdered median as wary shopkeepers peered out of doorways, poking broomsticks into the snow. A colossal white bear lounged on an icy corner, a street child sleeping soundly against its fur. Alizeh gave the bear a wide berth as she rounded the corner, her eyes following a spiral of smoke into the sky. Outdoor food carts were lighting their fires, preparing their wares. Alizeh inhaled the unfamiliar scents, testing them against her mind. She’d studied cookery—could identify eatables by sight—but she’d not had enough experience with food to be able to name things by smell. Jinn enjoyed food, but they did not need it, not the way most creatures did; as a result, Alizeh had forgone the decadence for several years. She used her income to pay instead for sewing supplies and regular baths at the local hamams. Her need for cleanliness grew parallel to her need for water. Fire was her soul, but water was her life; it was all she needed to survive. She drank it, bathed in it, required often to be near it. Cleanliness had, as a result, become a foundational principle of her life, one that had been

hammered into her from childhood. Every few months she trekked deep into the forest to find a miswak tree—a toothbrush tree—from which she harvested the brush she used to keep her mouth fresh and her teeth white. Her line of work often left her filthy, and any truly idle time she had, she spent polishing herself to a shine. It was in fact her preoccupation with cleanliness that had led her to consider the benefits of such a profession. Alizeh stopped. She’d happened upon a shaft of sunlight and stood in it now, warming in the rays as a memory bloomed in her mind. A soapy bucket. The coarse bristles of a floor brush. Her parents, laughing. The memory felt not unlike a handprint of heat against her sternum. Alizeh’s mother and father had thought it critical to teach their child not only to care and clean for her own home, but to have basic knowledge of most all technical and mechanical labor; they’d wanted her to know the weight of a day’s work. But then, they’d only meant to teach her a valuable lesson—they’d never meant for her to earn her living this way. While Alizeh had spent her younger years being honed by masters and tutors, so, too, had her parents humbled her in preparation for her imagined future, insisting always upon the greater good, the essential quality of compassion. Feel, her parents had once said to her. The shackles worn by your people are often unseen by the eye. Feel, they’d said, for even blind, you will know how to break them. Would her mother and father laugh if they saw her now? Would they cry? Alizeh didn’t mind working in service—she’d never minded hard work —but she knew she was likely a disappointment to her parents, even if only to their memories. Her smile faltered. The boy was fast—and Alizeh had been distracted—so it took her a second longer than usual to notice him. Which meant she hadn’t noticed him at all until the knife was at her throat. “Le man et parcel,” he said, his breath hot and sour against her face. He spoke Feshtoon, which meant he was far from home, and probably hungry. He towered over her from behind, his free hand roughly gripping her

waist. By all appearances she was being assaulted by a barbarian—and yet, somehow, she knew he was just a boy, one overgrown for his age. Gently, she said: “Unhand me. Do it now and I give you my word I will leave you unharmed.” He laughed. “Nez beshoff.” Stupid woman. Alizeh tucked the parcel under her left arm and snapped his wrist with her right hand, feeling the blade graze her throat as he screamed, stumbling back. She caught him before he fell, caught his arm and twisted it, dislocating his shoulder before pushing him into the snow. She stood over him as he sobbed, half-buried in the drift. Passersby were averting their eyes, uninvested as she knew they would be in the lower rungs of the world. A servant and a street urchin could be counted upon to do away with each other, save the magistrates the extra work. It was a grim thought. Carefully, Alizeh retrieved the boy’s blade from the snow, examined its crude workmanship. She appraised the boy, too. His face was nearly as young as she’d suspected. Twelve? Thirteen? She knelt beside him and he stiffened, his sobs briefly ceasing in his chest. “Nek, nek, lotfi, lotfi—” No, no, please, please— She took his unbroken hand in her own, uncurled the dirty fingers, pressed the hilt back into his palm. She knew the poor boy would need it. Still. “There are other ways to stay alive,” she whispered in Feshtoon. “Come to the kitchens at Baz House if you are in need of bread.” The boy stared at her then, turned the full force of his terrified gaze upon her. She could see him searching for her eyes through her snoda. “Shora?” he said. Why? Alizeh almost smiled. “Bek mefem,” she said quietly. Because I understand. “Bek bidem.” Because I’ve been you. Alizeh did not wait for him to respond before she pushed herself to her feet, shook out her skirts. She felt a bit of moisture at her throat and retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket, which she pressed to the wound. She was still standing, unmoving, when the bell tolled, signaling the hour and startling into flight a constellation of starlings, their iridescent plumage glittering in the light. Alizeh breathed deep, pulling the cold air into her lungs. She hated the cold, but the chill was bracing, at least, and the perpetual discomfort kept

her awake better than any cup of tea had done. Alizeh had slept maybe two hours the night prior, but she could not allow herself to dwell on the deficit. She was expected to start work for Mrs. Amina in precisely one hour, which meant she’d have to accomplish a great deal in the next sixty minutes. Even so, she hesitated. The knife at her throat had discomposed her. It was not the aggression she found unnerving—in her time on the streets she’d dispatched far worse than a hungry boy wielding a knife—it was the timing. She’d not forgotten the events of last night, the devil’s voice, the young man’s face. She’d not forgotten; she’d simply set it aside. Worrying was its own occupation—for Alizeh, a third occupation. It was a job that required of her the free time she seldom possessed, so she often shelved her distress, leaving it to collect dust until she found a moment to spare. Still, Alizeh was no fool. Iblees had been haunting her all her life, had driven her near to madness with his indecipherable riddles. She’d never been able to fathom his abiding interest in her, for though she knew the frost in her veins made her unusual even among her own people, it seemed an insufficient reason to recommend the girl for all this torture. Alizeh hated how her life had been plaited with the whispers of such a beast. The devil was universally reviled by Jinn and Clay, but it had taken humans millennia to discern this truth: that Jinn hated the devil perhaps more than anyone else. Iblees was responsible, after all, for the downfall of their civilization, for the lightless, unforgiving existence to which Alizeh’s ancestors had long been sentenced. Jinn suffered dearly as a result of Iblees’s actions—his arrogance—at the hands of humans who for thousands of years considered it their divine duty to expunge the earth of such beings, beings seen only as descendants of the devil. The stain of this hatred was not so easily lifted. One certainty, at least, had been proven to Alizeh over and over: the devil’s presence in her life was an omen, a portending of imminent misery. She’d heard his voice before every death, every sorrow, before every inflamed joint upon which her rheumatic life turned. Only when she was feeling particularly soft of heart did she acknowledge a nagging suspicion: that the devil’s missives were in fact a perverse sort of kindness, as if he thought he might blunt an inevitable pain with a warning. Instead, the dread often made it worse.

Alizeh spent her days wondering what torture might befall her, what agony lay in wait. There was no telling how long it— Her hand froze, forgot itself; her bloody handkerchief fluttered to the ground, unnoticed. Alizeh’s heart suddenly pounded with the force of hooves, beating against her chest. She could scarcely draw breath. That face, that inhuman face. Here, he was here— He was already watching her. She noticed his cloak at almost the same time she noticed his face. The superfine black wool was heavy, exquisitely crafted; she recognized its subtle grandeur even from here, even in this moment. It was without question the work of Madame Nezrin, the master seamstress of the empire’s most eminent atelier; Alizeh would recognize the woman’s work anywhere. In point of fact, Alizeh would recognize the work of most any atelier in the empire, which meant she often needed only a single look at a stranger to know how many people might pretend to mourn them at a funeral. This man, she decided, would be mourned by a great many sycophants, his pockets deeper, no doubt, than Dariush himself. The stranger was tall, forbidding. He’d drawn the hood over his head, casting most of his face in shadow, but he was far from the anonymous creature he hoped to be. In the wind, Alizeh glimpsed the lining of his cloak: the purest ink silk, aged in wine, cured with frost. Years, it took, to create such a textile. Thousands of hours of labor. The young man likely had no idea what he wore, just as he seemed to have no idea that she could tell, even from here, that the clasp at his throat was pure gold, that the cost of his simple, unadorned boots would feed hundreds of families in the city. He was a fool to think he might disappear here, that he might have the advantage of her, that he might— Alizeh went deathly still. Understanding awoke slowly in her mind, and with it a thick, disorienting unease. How long had he been standing there? There once was a man who bore a snake on each shoulder In truth, Alizeh might not have noticed him at all were he not looking directly at her, pinning her in the air with his eyes. It hit her then—she

gasped—hit her with the force of a thunderclap: she saw him now only because he allowed it. Who was the fool, then? She. Panic set fire to her chest. Alizeh tore herself from the ground and fairly disappeared, tearing off through the streets with the preternatural swiftness she usually saved for her worst altercations. Alizeh did not know what darkness this strange, Clay face would bring. She only knew she’d never be able to outrun it. Still, she had to try.

Four

in the sky Kamran thought he might lift a finger to its skin, draw circles around its wounds. He stared at its veins and starbursts, white pockmarks like spider sacs. He studied it all as his mind worked, his eyes narrowing in the aftermath of an impossible illusion. She’d fairly disappeared. He’d not meant to stare, but how, also, was he meant to look away? He’d seen danger in the assailant’s movements even before the man drew THE MOON SAT SO LARGE

his knife; worse, no one paid the altercation any attention. The girl could’ve been maimed or abducted or murdered in the worst ways—and even though Kamran had been sworn to anonymity in daylight, his every instinct compelled him to issue a warning, to step in before it was too late — He needn’t have worried. Still, there was much that troubled him, not the least of which was that there’d seemed something amiss about the girl. She’d worn a snoda—a sheath of semi-transparent silk—around her eyes and nose, which did not obscure, exactly, but blur her features. The snoda itself was innocuous enough; it was required of all who worked in service. She was ostensibly a maid. But servants were not required to wear the snoda outside of work, and it was unusual that the girl had worn hers at this early hour, when the royals were still abed. It seemed far more likely that she was not a maid at all. Spies had been infiltrating the empire of Ardunia for years, but these numbers had been bloating dangerously in more recent months, feeding an unnerving concern that lately crowned Kamran’s thoughts, and which he could not now shake. He exhaled his frustration, shaping a cloud in the cold. More in every moment, Kamran grew convinced the girl had stolen the servants’ uniform, for her covert attempt had not only been poorly executed, but easily betrayed by an ignorance of the many rules and mannerisms that defined the lives of the lower classes. Her gait alone would’ve been warning enough; she’d walked too well for a servant, carrying herself with a kind of regal bearing established only in infancy. No, Kamran felt certain now that the girl had been hiding something. It would not be the first time someone had used the snoda to mask themselves in public. Kamran glanced at the clock in the square; he’d come into town this morning to speak with the Diviners, who’d sent a mysterious note requesting an audience with the young man despite his never having announced his return home. Today’s meeting, it seemed, would have to wait; for much to his dismay, Kamran’s always-reliable instincts would not quiet. How, with only one free hand, had a maid so coolly disarmed a man holding a knife to her throat? When would a maid have had the time or

coin to spare learning self-defense? And what on earth had she said to the man to leave him weeping in the snow? The suspect in question was only now stumbling to his feet. His shock of red curls screamed he was from Fesht, a region at least one month south of Setar, the capital city; not only was the assailant far from home, but he appeared to be in severe pain, one arm hanging lower than the other. Kamran watched as the redhead held his bad limb—dislocated, it seemed —with the good, carefully steadying himself. Tears had tracked clean paths down his otherwise dirty cheeks, and for the first time, Kamran got a good look at the criminal. Had he more practice with outward displays of emotion, Kamran’s features might’ve registered surprise. The assailant was quite young. Kamran moved swiftly toward him, sliding a mask of intricate chain mail over his face as he went. He walked into the wind, his cloak snapping against his boots, and only when he’d all but collided with the child did he stop. It was enough that the Fesht boy jumped back at his approach, wincing as the movement jostled his injury. The boy cradled his wounded arm and curled inward, head to his chest like a humbled millipede, and with an unintelligible murmur, tried to pass. “Lotfi, hejj, bekhshti—” Please, sir, excuse me— The gall of this child, Kamran could scarce believe it. Still, it was a comfort to know that he’d been correct: the boy spoke Feshtoon and was far from home. Kamran had every intention of handing the child over to the magistrates; it had been his sole purpose in seeking out the boy. But now, unable to pry loose his suspicions, he found himself hesitating. Again, the child tried to pass, and again, Kamran blocked his path. “Kya tan goft et cheknez?” What did the young woman say to you? The boy startled. Stepped back. His skin was a shade or two lighter than his brown eyes, with a smattering of darker freckles across his nose. Heat blossomed across his face in unflattering splotches. “Bekhshti, hejj, nek mefem—” I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand— Kamran stepped closer; the boy nearly whimpered. “Jev man,” he said. “Pres.” Answer me. Now. The boy’s tongue came loose then, almost too quickly to be comprehensible. Kamran translated in his head as the child spoke: “Nothing, sir—please, sir, I didn’t hurt her, it was only a misunderstanding—”

Kamran clamped a gloved hand around the boy’s dislocated shoulder and the Fesht boy cried out, gasping as his knees buckled. “You dare lie to my face—” “Sir—please—” The child was crying now. “She only gave me back my knife, sir, I swear it, and—and then she offered me bread, she said—” Kamran rocked backward, dropping his hand. “You continue to lie.” “On m-my mother’s grave, I swear. On all that is holy—” “She returned your weapon and offered to feed you,” Kamran said sharply, “after you nearly killed her. After you tried to steal from her.” The boy shook his head, tears welling again in his eyes. “She showed me mercy, sir— Please—” “Enough.” The boy’s mouth snapped shut. Kamran’s frustration was mounting; he wanted desperately to throttle someone. He searched the square once more, as if the girl might appear as easily as she’d evaporated. His gaze landed again on the boy. It was like thunder, his voice. “You pressed a blade to a woman’s throat like the worst coward, the most detestable of men. That young woman might’ve shown you mercy but I see no reason to do the same. You expect to walk away from this without judgment? Without justice?” The boy panicked. “Please, sir—I will go and die, sir—I will slit my own throat if you ask me to, only don’t hand me over to the magistrates, I beg you.” Kamran blinked. The situation grew more complicated by the second. “Why do you say such a thing?” The boy shook his head then, growing only more hysterical. His eyes were wild, his fear too palpable for theater. Soon he began to wail, the sound ringing through the streets. Kamran did not know how to calm the urchin; his own dying soldiers had never allowed themselves such weakness in his presence. Too late, Kamran considered letting the boy go, but he’d hardly begun to formulate the thought when, without warning, the child drove the length of the crude blade into his own throat. Kamran inhaled sharply. The boy—whose name he did not know—choked on his own blood, on the knife still buried in his neck. Kamran caught him when he fell, could

feel the outline of the boy’s ribs under his fingers. He was light as a bird, bones hollowed out, no doubt, by hunger. Old impulses prevailed. Kamran issued commands to passersby with the voice he used to lead a legion, and strangers appeared as if out of thin air, abandoning their own children to carry out his orders. His head was so dense with disbelief he hardly noticed when the boy was lifted from his arms and carried out of the square. The way he stared at the blood, the spotted snow, the red rivulets circling a manhole cover—it was as if Kamran had never seen death; hadn’t seen it a thousand times over. He had, he had, he thought he’d seen all manner of darkness. But Kamran had never before witnessed a child commit suicide. It was then that he saw the handkerchief. He’d watched the young woman press it to her throat, to the wound inflicted by a boy who was now presumably dead. He’d watched this strange girl manage her own near-death with the forbearance of a soldier, meting out justice with the compassion of a saint. He held no doubt now that she was indeed a spy, one in possession of an astuteness of mind that surprised him. She’d known in but a moment how to handle the child, had she not? She’d done far better than he, had judged better; and now, as he processed her earlier escape, his fears only ratcheted higher. It was rare that Kamran experienced shame, but the sensation roared inside him now, refusing to be quieted. With a single finger, he lifted the embroidered square out of the snow. He’d expected the white textile to be stained with blood. It was pristine.

Five

marble floors with unusual force, the sounds echoing through the cavernous halls of his home. Upon his father’s death Kamran had discovered that he could be propelled through life by a single emotion; carefully cultivated, it grew hot and vital inside his chest, like an experimental organ. Anger. It kept him alive better than his heart ever had. He felt anger always, but he felt it especially now, and Lord save the man who crossed him when he was at his worst. After tucking the girl’s handkerchief into his breast pocket, he’d pivoted sharply, single-minded as he strode toward his horse, the animal patiently awaiting his return. Kamran liked horses. They did not ask questions before doing as they were told; at least not with their tongues. The jet stallion had not minded his master’s bloodied cloak nor his distracted temper. Not the way Hazan did. KAMRAN’S HEELS KNOCKED AGAINST THE

The minister trailed him now with impressive speed; his the second set of boots pounding the stone floors. Had they not grown up together, Kamran might’ve reacted to this insolence with an inelegant method of problem-solving: brute force. But then, it was his incapacity for awe that made Hazan perfect for his role as minister. Kamran could not countenance sycophants. “You are worse than an idiot, did you know?” Hazan said with great serenity. “You should be nailed to the oldest Benzess tree. I should let the scarabs strip the flesh from your bones.” Kamran said nothing. “It could take weeks.” Hazan had caught up, and now he kept pace easily. “I would watch, happily, as they devoured your eyes.” “Surely, you exaggerate.” “I assure you, I do not.” Without warning, Kamran stopped walking; Hazan, to his credit, did not falter. The two young men turned sharply to face each other. Hazan had once been the kind of boy whose knees resembled arthritic knuckles; as a child, he could hardly stand up straight to save his life. Kamran could not help but marvel at the difference in him now, at the boy who’d grown into the kind of man who felt comfortable threatening to murder the crown prince with a smile. It was with a begrudging respect that Kamran met his minister’s eyes. They were nearly the same height, he and Hazan. Similar builds. Wildly different features. “No,” Kamran said, sounding tired even to himself. The sharp edge of his anger had begun to fade. “As to your enthusiasm for my brutal death, I have no doubt. I refer only to your assessment of the damage you claim I’ve done.” Hazan’s hazel eyes flashed at that, the only outward sign of his frustration. Still, he spoke calmly when he said, “That there lingers any uncertainty in your mind that you’ve not committed a grievous error says only to me, sire, that you should have your neck checked by the palace butcher.” Kamran almost smiled. “You think this is funny?” Hazan took a measured step closer. “You’ve only alerted the kingdom to your presence, only shouted into a crowd every proof of your identity, only marked yourself as a target while entirely unguarded—”

Kamran unlatched the clasp at his throat, stretched his neck, let the cloak drop. The article was caught by unseen hands, a specter-like servant scraping in, then out of sight with the bloodied garment. In the fraction of a second he saw the blur of the servant’s snoda he was reminded, again, of the girl. Kamran dragged a hand down his face, with grim results. He’d forgotten about the boy’s dried blood on his hands and hoped he might forget again. In the interim, he only half listened to the minister’s reprimands, with which he did not at all agree. The prince neither saw his actions as foolish, nor did he think it beyond him to be interested in the affairs of the lower classes. Privately, Kamran might allow an argument defending the futility of such an interest—for he knew if he were to concern himself with every violent attack on the city streets he’d scarcely find time to breathe—but apart from the fact that an interest in the lives of the Ardunian people was entirely within the prince’s purview, the morning’s bloodletting had seemed to him more than a random act of violence. Indeed the more he’d studied the situation the more nefarious it had presented, its actors more complex than first appeared. It had seemed wise, at the time, to insert himself in the situation — “A situation that concerned two worthless bodies better off extinguished by their own kind,” Hazan said with little emotion. “The girl had seen fit to let the boy go, as you claim—and yet, you found her judgment wanting? You felt it necessary to play God? No, don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to know.” Kamran only glanced at his minister. Hazan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I might’ve been motivated to consider the wisdom of your intervention had the boy actually killed the girl. Barring that,” he said flatly, “I can see no excuse for your reckless behavior, sire, no explanation for your thoughtlessness save a grotesque need to be a hero—” Kamran looked up at the ceiling. He’d loved little in his life, but he’d always appreciated the comfort of symmetry, of sequences that made sense. He stared now at the soaring, domed ceilings, the artistry of the alcoves carved into alcoves. Every expanse and cavity was adorned with star-bursts of rare metals, glazed tiles expertly arranged into geometric patterns that repeated ad infinitum. He lifted a bloody hand, and Hazan fell silent.

“Enough,” Kamran said quietly. “I’ve indulged your censure long enough.” “Yes, Your Highness.” Hazan took a step back but stared curiously at the prince. “More than usual, I’d say.” Kamran forced a sardonic smile. “I beg you to spare me your analysis.” “I would dare to remind you, sire, that it is my imperial duty to provide you the very analysis you detest.” “A regrettable fact.” “And a loathsome occupation, is it not, when one’s counsel is thusly received?” “A bit of advice, minister: when offering counsel to a barbarian, you might consider first lowering your expectations.” Hazan smiled. “You are not at all yourself today, sire.” “Chipper than usual, am I?” “Your mood is a great deal darker this morning than you would care to admit. Just now I might inquire as to why the death of a street child has you so overwrought.” “You would be wasting your breath in the effort.” “Ah.” Hazan still held his smile. “I see the day is not yet ripe enough for honesty.” “If I am indeed overwrought,” said the prince, losing a modicum of composure, “it is no doubt a symptom of my enthusiasm to remind you that my father would’ve had you hung for your insolence.” “Just so,” Hazan said softly. “Though it occurs to me now that you are not your father.” Kamran’s head snapped up. He drew his sword from its scabbard without thinking, and not until he saw the barely contained mirth in his minister’s eyes did he stall, his hand frozen on the hilt. Kamran was rattled. He’d been gone from home for over a year; he’d forgotten how to have normal conversations. Long months he’d spent in the service of the empire, securing borders, leading skirmishes, dreaming of death. Ardunia’s rivalry with the south was as old as time. Ardunia was a formidable empire—the largest in the known world— and their greatest weakness was both a well-kept secret and a source of immense shame: they were running out of water. Kamran was proud of Ardunia’s existing qanat systems, intuitive networks that transported water from aquifers to aboveground reservoirs,

and upon which people relied for their drinking water and irrigation. The problem was that qanats relied entirely upon the availability of groundwater, which meant large swaths of the Ardunian empire were for centuries rendered uninhabitable—a problem mitigated only by barging freshwater via marine vessel from the Mashti River. The fastest path to this titanic waterway was located at the nadir of Tulan, a small, neighboring empire affixed to Ardunia’s southernmost border. Tulan was much like a flea they could not shake free, a parasite that could neither be eliminated nor exhumed. Ardunia’s greatest wish was to build an aqueduct straight through the heart of the southern nation, but decade after decade its kings would not bow. Tulan’s only peaceful offering in exchange for such access was a punishing, ruinous tax, one too great even for Ardunia. Several times they’d tried simply to decimate Tulan, but the Ardunian military had suffered astonishing losses as a result —Kamran’s own father had died in the effort—and none in the north could understand why. Hatred had grown between the two nations not unlike an impassable mountain range. For nearly a century the Ardunian navy had been forced instead to take a far more dangerous route to water, traveling many months for access to the tempestuous river. It was lucky, then, that Ardunia had been blessed not only with a reliable rainy season, but with engineers who’d built impressive catchment areas to capture and store rainwater for years at a time. Even so, the clouds never seemed quite as full these days, and the empire’s cisterns were running low. Every day, Kamran prayed for rain. The empire of Ardunia was not officially at war—not yet—but peace, too, Kamran had learned, was maintained at a bloody price. “Your Highness.” Hazan’s tentative voice startled the prince, returning him to the present moment. “Forgive me. I spoke thoughtlessly.” Kamran looked up. The details of the hall in which he stood came suddenly into sharp focus: glossy marble floors, towering jade columns, soaring opalescent ceilings. He felt the worn, leather hilt of his sword against his palm, growing all the while incrementally aware of the musculature of his body, the dense weight he carried always and seldom considered: the heaviness in his arms, the heft of his legs. He forced himself to return the sword to its

scabbard, briefly closing his eyes. He smelled rosewater and fresh rice; a servant bustled past carrying a copper tray laden with tea things. How long had he been lost in his own thoughts? Kamran had grown anxious and distracted of late. The recent swell of Tulanian spies discovered on Ardunian land had done little for his sleep; alone it would’ve been a disturbing enough discovery, but this intelligence was compounded by his own myriad worries, for not only did the prince fear for their reservoirs, but he’d seen things on his recent tour of duty that continued to unnerve him. The future seemed dim, and his role in it, bleak. As was expected, the prince sent his grandfather frequent updates while away. His most recent letter had been rife with news of Tulan, whose small empire became only bolder as the days went on. Rumors of discord and political maneuvering grew louder each day, and despite the tenuous peace between the two empires, Kamran suspected war might soon be inevitable. His return to the capital the week prior was for two reasons only: first, after completing a perilous water journey, he’d had to replenish the central cisterns that fed the others throughout the empire, and then deliver his troops safely home. Second, and more simply: his grandfather had asked it of him. In response to Kamran’s many concerns, the prince had been instructed to return to Setar. For a respite, his grandfather had said. An innocuous enough request, one Kamran knew to be quite irregular. The prince had been restored to the palace for a week now, and every day he grew only more unsettled. Even after seven days home the king had yet to respond directly to his note, and Kamran had grown restless without a mission, without his soldiers. He was just then listening to Hazan articulate these same thoughts, allowing that this very restlessness was— “—perhaps the only plausible explanation for your actions this morning.” Yes. Kamran could at least agree that he was eager to return to work. He would need to leave again, he realized. Soon. “I grow tired of this conversation,” the prince said curtly. “Do assist me in welcoming its swift conclusion and tell me what it is you require. I must be on my way.” Hazan hesitated. “Yes, sire, of course, but— Do you not wish to know what has become of the child?”

“What child?” “The boy, of course. The one whose blood stains your hands even now.” Kamran stiffened, his anger sparking suddenly back to life. It took little, he realized, to rekindle a fire that only dulled, but never died. “I would not.” “But it might comfort you to know that he is not yet dead.” “Comfort me?” “You seem distressed, Your Highness, and I—” Kamran took a step forward, his eyes flashing. He studied Hazan closely: the broken slope of his nose, his cropped ash-blond hair. Hazan’s skin was so densely freckled one could scarcely see his eyebrows; he’d been bullied mercilessly as a child for what seemed a myriad of reasons, tragic in all ways save one: it was Hazan’s suffering that had conjured their first introduction. The day Kamran defended the illegitimate child of a courtier was the same day that nobby-kneed child pledged fealty to the young prince. Even then, Kamran had tried to look away. He’d tried valiantly to ignore the affairs deemed beneath him, but he could not manage it. He could not manage it still. “You forget yourself, minister,” Kamran said softly. “I would encourage you now to get to your point.” Hazan bowed his head. “Your grandfather is waiting to see you. You are expected in his rooms at once.” Kamran briefly froze, his eyes closing. “I see. You were not exaggerating your frustration, then.” “No, sire.” Kamran opened his eyes. In the distance, a kaleidoscope of colors bedimmed, then brightened. Soft murmurs of conversation carried over to him, the gentle footfalls of scurrying servants, a blur of snodas. He’d never paid much attention to it; the centuries-old uniform. Now every time he saw one he would think of that accursed servant girl. Spy. He nearly snapped his neck just to clear the thought. “What, pray, does the king want from me?” Hazan prevaricated. “Now that your people know you are home, I expect he will ask you to do your duty.” “Which is?” “To host a ball.”

“Indeed.” Kamran’s jaw clenched. “I’m certain I would rather set myself on fire. If that is all?” “He’s quite serious, Your Highness. I’ve heard rumors that the announcement for a ball has already been—” “Good. You will take this”—Kamran retrieved the handkerchief from his jacket, pinching it between thumb and forefinger—“and have it examined.” Hazan quickly pocketed the white handkerchief. “Shall I have it examined for anything in particular, Your Highness?” “Blood.” At Hazan’s blank look, the prince went on: “It belonged to the servant girl whose neck was nearly slit by the Fesht boy. I think she might be Jinn.” Now Hazan frowned. “I see.” “I fear you do not.” “Forgive me, Your Highness, but in what way does her blood concern us? As you know, the Fire Accords give Jinn the right to w—” “I am well acquainted with our laws, Hazan. My concern is not merely with her blood, but with her character.” Hazan raised his eyebrows. “I don’t trust her,” Kamran said sharply. “Need you trust her, sire?” “There’s something false about the girl. She was too refined in her manners.” “Ah.” Hazan’s eyebrows lifted higher, comprehension dawning. “And in light of all our recent friendliness from Tulan—” “I want to know who she is.” “You think her a spy.” It was the way he said it, as if he thought Kamran delusional, that soured the prince’s expression. “You did not see her the way I did, Hazan. She disarmed the boy in a single motion. Dislocated his shoulder. You know as well as I do how the Tulanians covet the Jinn for their strength and fleet-footedness.” “Indeed,” Hazan said carefully. “Though I should remind you, sire, that the child she disarmed was weak from hunger to the point of death. His bones might’ve been unhinged by a strong gust of wind. An ailing rat might’ve bested him.” “Just the same. You will have her found out.”

“The servant girl.” “Yes, the servant girl,” Kamran said irritably. “She fled the scene when she saw me. She looked at me as if she knew me.” “Forgive me, sire—but I thought you could not see her face?” Kamran took a sharp breath. “Perhaps you will thank me, minister, for employing you with such a task? Unless, of course, you would rather I seek your replacement.” Hazan’s lips twitched; he bowed. “It is a pleasure, as always, to be at your service.” “You will tell the king I must bathe before our meeting.” “But, sire—” Kamran strode away, his retreating footfalls ringing out once more through the cavernous hall. His anger had again begun to percolate, bringing with it a humidity that seemed to fog his vision, dim the sounds around him. It was a shame, then, that Kamran did not dissect himself. He did not stare out of windows wondering what other emotions might be lurking beneath the veneer of his ever-present anger. It did not occur to him that he might be experiencing a muddied sort of grief, so it did not strike him as unusual that he was fantasizing, just then, about driving a sword through a man’s heart. In fact, he was so consumed by his imaginings that he did not hear his mother calling his name, her bejeweled robes dragging, sapphires scoring the marble floors as she went. No, Kamran seldom heard his mother’s voice until it was too late.

Six

other things, disappointing. She’d sacrificed an hour of sleep, braved the winter dawn, narrowly escaped an attempt on her life, and eventually returned to Baz House with only regret to report, wishing her pockets weighed as heavy as her mind. She’d carried the unwieldy parcel through several snowdrifts before arriving at the servants’ entrance of the Lojjan ambassador’s estate, and, after forcing her frozen lips to stammer out an explanation for her appearance at the threshold, the bespectacled housekeeper had handed Alizeh a purse with her pay. Alizeh, shivering and fatigued, had made the mistake of counting the coin only after relinquishing her commission, and then, forgetting herself entirely, dared to say aloud that she thought there’d been some kind of mistake. “Forgive me, ma’am—but this is only h-half of what we agreed upon.” “Mm.” The housekeeper sniffed. “You’ll get the rest once my mistress decides she likes the dress.” Alizeh’s eyes went round. ALIZEH’S MORNING HAD BEEN, AMONG

Perhaps if her skirts hadn’t been stiff with frost, or if her chest had not felt as if it might fissure from cold—perhaps if her lips had not been so very numb, or if her feet had not lost all sensation—perhaps then she might’ve remembered to bite her tongue. Instead, Alizeh managed only to contain the worst of her outrage. A miracle, really, that she spoke with some measure of equanimity when she said, “But Miss Huda might decide she doesn’t like the dress simply to avoid payment.” The housekeeper recoiled, as if she’d been struck. “Careful what you say, girl. I won’t hear anyone call my mistress dishonest.” “But surely you can see that this is indeed dishon—” Alizeh said, slipping on a spot of ice. She caught herself against the doorframe, and the housekeeper shrank back farther, this time with an undisguised revulsion. “Off,” the woman snapped. “Get your filthy hands off my door—” Startled, Alizeh jumped back, miraculously avoiding another patch of ice just two inches to her left. “Miss Huda won’t even allow me in the hhouse,” she stammered, her body now trembling violently with cold. “She wouldn’t allow me to do a single fitting—she could decide for any number of reasons that she doesn’t like my w-work—” The door slammed shut in her face. Alizeh had experienced a sharp pinch in her chest then, a pain that made it hard to breathe. The feeling had remained with her all day. She felt for the little purse now, its weight in her apron pocket, resting against her thigh. She’d been delayed getting back to Baz House, which meant she’d had no time to deposit her earnings somewhere safer. The world had begun to come alive on her journey back, fresh snowfall dotting every effort to awaken the city of Setar. Preparations for the Wintrose Festival had overtaken the streets, and though Alizeh appreciated the heady scent of rosewater in the air, she would’ve preferred a moment of quiet before the bell tolled for work. She could not have known then that the quiet she sought might not come at all. Alizeh was in the kitchen when the clock struck six, broomstick in hand, standing silently in the shadows and as near to the fire as she could manage. The other servants had gathered an hour earlier around the kitchen’s long wooden table for their morning meal, and Alizeh watched, rapt, as they finished the last of their breakfast: bowls of haleem, a kind of sweet porridge blended with shredded beef. As a trial employee Alizeh was not yet allowed to join them—nor did she have any interest in their meal, the mere description of which made her

stomach turn—but she enjoyed listening to their easy banter, witnessing the familiarity with which they spoke to one another. They engaged like friends. Or family. It was a kind of ordinariness with which Alizeh was little acquainted. Her parents’ love for her had filled her whole life; Alizeh had wanted for little, and was denied in her childhood nothing but the company of other children, for her mother and father were adamant that, until the moment Alizeh was ready, her existence remain otherwise undiscovered. Alizeh could recollect only one little boy—whose mother was a dear friend of her parents—with whom she was allowed on occasion to play. His name she could not now recall; she remembered only that his pockets were always full of hazelnuts, with which he taught her to play a game of jacks. Only a select few other trustworthy souls—mostly the masters and tutors with whom she spent a great deal of her time—had been allowed in her life. She had been as a result sheltered to an uncommon degree, and, having spent little time in Clay company, was now spellbound by a great many of their customs. Alizeh had been punished in her previous positions for lingering too long in a breakfast room, for example, hoping for a glimpse of a gentleman eating an egg or buttering a slice of toast. She was endlessly fascinated by their forks and spoons, and this morning was no different. “What do you think you’re doing here?” Mrs. Amina barked at her, startling Alizeh nearly to death. The housekeeper grabbed Alizeh by the scruff of her neck and shoved her into the adjoining hall. “You forget yourself, girl. You don’t eat with the other servants.” “I was— I was only waiting,” Alizeh said, wincing as her fingers fluttered around her neck, gently pulling her collar back into place. The cut at her throat was still tender, and Alizeh had not wanted to draw attention to herself by wrapping it. She felt the telltale moisture of what could only be fresh blood, and clenched her fists to keep from touching the wound. “Forgive me, ma’am. I never meant to be impertinent. I was only awaiting your instruction.” It happened so fast Alizeh didn’t even realize Mrs. Amina had slapped her until she felt the pain in her teeth, saw the flash of light behind her eyes. Too late Alizeh flinched and shrank back, her ears ringing, hands grasping for purchase against the stone wall. She’d made too many mistakes today.

“What did I tell you about that mouth of yours?” Mrs. Amina was saying. “You want this position, you will learn your place.” She made a sound of disgust. “I told you to rid yourself of that absurd accent. Impertinent,” she scoffed. “Where you even learned to talk like that—” Alizeh felt the change when Mrs. Amina cut herself off, watched her eyes darken with suspicion. Alizeh swallowed. “Where did you learn to talk like that?” Mrs. Amina asked quietly. “Knowing your letters is one thing, but you begin to strike me as a bit too high in the instep for a scullery girl.” “Not at all, ma’am,” Alizeh said, lowering her eyes. She tasted blood in her mouth. Already her face was tender; she resisted the impulse to touch what was no doubt a purpling bruise. “I beg your pardon.” “Who taught you to read, then?” Mrs. Amina rounded on her. “Who taught you to put on airs?” “Forgive me, ma’am.” Alizeh flinched, forced herself to talk slowly. “I don’t mean to put on airs, ma’am, it’s only that I don’t know how else to spe—” Mrs. Amina looked up then, distracted by the sight of the clock, and the fight went out of her eyes. They’d lost precious minutes of the workday already, and Alizeh knew they could not afford to lose more to this conversation. Still, Mrs. Amina stepped closer. “Speak to me like you’re some fancy toff one more time and not only will you see the back of my hand, girl, you’ll be back on the street.” Alizeh felt suddenly ill. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the rough stone of the cold, vermin-infested alley pressed against her cheek; she could still hear the sounds of the sewer lulling her into unconsciousness for minutes at a time —the longest she’d ever dared to keep her eyes closed on the street. Alizeh sometimes thought she’d rather run in front of a carriage than return to such darkness. “Yes, ma’am,” she said softly, her pulse racing. “Forgive me, ma’am. It won’t happen again.” “Enough of your pompous apologies,” Mrs. Amina snapped. “Her ladyship is in a frightful state today, and wants every room scrubbed and polished as if the king himself were coming to visit.” Alizeh dared to look up.

Baz House had seven floors, and 116 individual rooms. Alizeh wanted more than anything to ask: Why? Why every room? Instead, she held her tongue, grieving quietly. Scrubbing all 116 in one day, she knew, would leave her body in ribbons. “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered. Mrs. Amina hesitated. Alizeh could see then that Mrs. Amina was not such a monster that she wouldn’t acknowledge the near impossibility of this demand. The housekeeper’s tone softened a bit when she said: “The others will help, of course—but they have their regular duties to attend to as well, you understand? The bulk of the work will be yours.” “Yes, ma’am.” “Do this well, girl, and I will see about hiring you on permanently. But I make no promises”—Mrs. Amina lifted a finger, then pointed it at Alizeh —“if you don’t learn to keep that mouth shut.” Alizeh took a sharp breath. And nodded.

Seven

the antechamber leading to his grandfather’s rooms when he felt it: a breath of movement. There was a glimmer of unnaturally refracted light along the walls, a hint of perfume in the air. Kamran purposely slowed his stride, for he knew his predator would not resist such an easy mark. KAMRAN HAD ONLY JUST ENTERED

There. A flutter of skirts. Not a moment too soon, Kamran had clamped a hand over his assailant’s fist, her fingers clenched around the hilt of a ruby dagger, which she held happily at his throat. “I tire of this game, Mother.” She twisted out of reach and laughed, her dark eyes gleaming. “Oh, darling, I never do.” Kamran watched his mother with an impassive expression; she was so covered in jewels she glittered even standing still. “You find it diverting,” he said, “to play at murdering your own child?” She laughed again and spun around him, velvet skirts shimmering. Her Royal Highness Firuzeh, the princess of Ardunia, was empyreal in her beauty—but then, this was not such an extraordinary accomplishment for a princess. Loveliness was to be expected of any royal who aspired to the throne, and it was no secret that Firuzeh resented the untimely death of her husband, who seven years ago had lost his head in a senseless battle and had left her forever a princess, never a queen. “I am tragically bored,” she said. “And as my child pays so little attention to me, I am forced to be creative.” Kamran was freshly bathed, his clothes pressed and scented, but he wanted desperately to be back in his military uniform. He’d always disliked his formal clothes for their impracticality, their frivolousness. He resisted the urge now to scratch his neck, where the stiff collar of his tunic scraped against his throat. “No doubt there are innumerable other ways,” he said to his mother, “to inspire my attention.” “Tedious other ways,” she said tersely. “Besides, I should not have to inspire your interest. I did enough work growing you inside my own body. I am owed, at the very least, a modicum of devotion.” Kamran bowed. “Indeed.” “You patronize me.” “I do not.” Firuzeh slapped Kamran’s hand away from his neck. “Do cease scratching yourself like a dog, my love.” Kamran stiffened. It did not matter how many men he’d killed, his mother would forever treat him like a child. “You would blame me for my discomfort when the collar of this ridiculous costume clearly seeks the decapitation of its

wearer? Pray can we not, in all the empire, find someone to stitch together two pieces of reasonable clothing?” Firuzeh ignored this. She said, “It is a dangerous thing to keep an intelligent woman from performing a single practical task,” and slipped her arm through her son’s, forcing them to walk together toward the king’s main chamber. “I am not to blame for my fits of creativity.” Kamran stopped, surprised, and turned to his mother. “Do you mean to say you have a desire to work?” Firuzeh made a face. “Don’t be intentionally stupid. You know what I mean.” Kamran had once thought there could never in all the world exist his mother’s equal, not in beauty or elegance, not in grace or intelligence. He’d not known then how critical it was to also possess a heart. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea.” Firuzeh sighed theatrically, waving him away as they entered the king’s reception chamber. Kamran had not known his mother would be joining them for this meeting. He suspected that, more than anything else, she’d come along merely for another look at the king’s rooms, as his were her favorite in the palace, and seldom was anyone invited inside. His grandfather’s rooms were designed entirely with mirrors; with what seemed an incalculable number of these small, reflective tiles. Every inch of the interior space, high and low, glittered with arrangements of star-like patterns, all interwoven into a series of larger geometric shapes. The soaring domed ceilings glimmered from high above, a mirage of infinity that seemed to reach the heavens. Two large windows were thrown open to grant entrée to the sun: sharp shafts of light penetrated the room, further illuminating constellation after constellation of shattered glow. Even the floors were covered in mirrored tiles, though the delicate work was protected by a series of rich, intricately woven rugs. The overall effect was ethereal; Kamran imagined it was not unlike standing in the belly of a star. The room itself was sublime, but the effect it had on its occupants was perhaps the greater accomplishment. A visitor stepped into this room and felt at once exalted, transported to the heavens. Even Kamran was not immune to its effects. His mother, however, grew mournful. “Oh, my dear,” she said, spinning around the room, a hand clasped to her chest. “This should’ve all been mine one day.”

Kamran watched as his mother peered into the nearest wall, admiring herself; she fluttered her fingers, making her jewels sparkle and dance. Kamran always found it a bit disorienting, entering this space. It inspired a feeling of magnificence, yes, but he found the feeling chased always by a feeling of inadequacy. He felt his small footprint in the world never more acutely than when surrounded by true strength, and he never felt this feeling with more precision than when he drew nearer his grandfather. The prince looked around then for a sign of the man. Kamran peered through a crack in one of the adjoining doors, the one he knew led to the king’s bedchamber, and was weighing the impertinence of searching the bedroom when Firuzeh tugged on his arm. Kamran looked back. “Life is so unfair, is it not?” she said, her eyes shining with feeling. “Our dreams so easily shattered?” A muscle jumped in Kamran’s jaw. “Indeed, Mother. Father’s death was a great tragedy.” She made a noncommittal noise. Often, Kamran thought he could not leave this palace quickly enough. He did not resent his inheritance to the throne, but neither did he relish it. No, Kamran knew too well the gore that accompanied glory. He’d never once hoped to be king. As a child, people spoke to Kamran of his position as if he were blessed, fortunate to be in line for a title that first demanded the deaths of the two people he cared for most in the world. It had always seemed to him a disturbing business, and never more so than the day his father’s head had been returned home without its body. Kamran was eleven years old. He was expected to show strength even then; only days later he was forced to attend a ceremony declaring him the direct heir to the throne. He was but a child, commanded to stand beside the mutilated remains of his father and show no pain, no fear—only fury. It was the day his grandfather gave him his first sword, the day his life changed forever. It was the day a boy was forced to leap, unformed, into the body of a man. Kamran closed his eyes, felt the press of a cold blade against his cheek. “Lost in your head, darling?” He looked at his mother, irritated not merely with her, but with himself. Kamran did not know the precise shape of the discomfort that addled him; he could not fathom an explanation for his disordered thoughts. He only

knew he felt every day a creeping dread, and worse: he feared such uncertainty of mind would only exacerbate matters, for these lost moments, Kamran knew, could cost him his life. His mother had proven that just now. She seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry. It’s decorative, mostly.” Firuzeh stepped back, tapping the glimmering ruby blade with the tip of a perfectly rounded fingernail. She tucked the weapon into her robes. “But I am quite angry with you today, and we must speak about it quickly.” “Why is that?” “Because your grandfather has things he wishes to say to you, but I mean to say my things first.” “No, Mother, I meant: why are you angry?” “Well, certainly we must discuss this servant girl you have s—” “There you are,” boomed a voice just behind them, and Kamran spun around to see the king approach, transcendent in vibrant shades of green. Firuzeh fell into a deep curtsy; Kamran bowed. “Come, come.” The king motioned with one hand. “Let me look at you.” Kamran stood and stepped forward. The king took Kamran’s hands and held them, his warm eyes appraising the prince with an undisguised curiosity. Kamran understood that he would be reprimanded for his actions today, but he also knew he would bear the repercussions with dignity. There was no one alive he respected more than his grandfather, and Kamran would honor the king’s wishes, whatever they were. King Zaal was a living legend. His grandfather—his father’s father—had overcome all manner of tribulations. When Zaal was born, his mother had thought she’d given birth to an old man, for the baby’s hair was already white, his eyelashes white, his skin so pale it was nearly translucent. Despite the protests of the Diviners, the child had been declared cursed, and his horrified father refused to own him. The wretched king ripped the newborn child from his mother’s arms and carried him to the peak of the highest mountain, where the infant was left to die. Zaal’s salvation came in the form of a majestic bird that discovered the crying infant and carried it away, raising it as one of its own. Zaal’s eventual return to claim his rightful place as heir and king was one of the

greatest stories of their time, and his long reign over Ardunia had been just and merciful. Of his many achievements, Zaal was the only Ardunian king who’d seen fit to put an end to the violence between Jinn and Clay; it was by his order that the controversial Fire Accords had been established. Ardunia was, as a result, one of the only empires living in peace with Jinn, and for that alone Kamran knew his grandfather would not be forgotten. Finally, the king drew away from his grandson. “Your choices today were exceedingly curious,” Zaal said as he seated himself on his mirrored throne, the sole piece of furniture in the room. Kamran and his mother did what was expected and folded themselves onto the floor cushions before him. “Do you not agree?” Kamran did not immediately respond. “I think we can all agree that the prince’s behavior was both hasty and unbecoming,” his mother interjected. “He must make amends.” “Indeed?” Zaal turned his clear brown eyes on his daughter-in-law. “What kind of amends do you recommend, my dear?” Firuzeh faltered. “I cannot think of any at present, Your Majesty, but I am certain we shall think of something.” Zaal steepled his hands under his chin, against the carefully trimmed cloud of his beard. To Kamran, he said, “You neither deny nor justify your actions today?” “I do not.” “And yet, I see that you are not remorseful.” “I am not.” Zaal turned the full force of his gaze upon his grandson. “You will, of course, tell me why.” “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I do not think it unbecoming of a prince to care for the welfare of his people.” The king laughed. “No, I daresay it is not. What is unbecoming is a fickleness of character and an unwillingness to speak the truth to those who know you best.” Kamran stiffened, heat prickling along the nape of his neck. He knew a rebuke when he heard one, and he was not yet immune to the effects of an admonishment from his grandfather. “Your Highness—” “You have walked among your people for some time now, Kamran. You’ve seen all manner of suffering. I might accept an explanation of idealism more readily were your actions symptomatic of a larger philosophical position, which we both know they are not, as you’ve never

before taken an active interest in the lives of street children—or servants, for that matter. Certainly there is more to this story than the sudden expansion of your heart.” A pause. “Do you deny that you acted out of character? That you put yourself in danger?” “I will not attempt to deny the first. As to the second—” “You were alone. Unarmed. You are heir to an empire that spans a third of the known world. You solicited the help of passersby, put yourself at the mercy of strangers—” “I had my swords.” Zaal smiled. “You persist in insulting me with these ill-considered protests.” “I mean no disrespect—” “And yet you are aware, are you not, that a man in possession of a sword is not invincible? That he might be attacked from above? That he might be slain by arrow, that he might be mobbed or overrun, that he might be knocked on the head and dragged away for ransom?” Kamran bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Then you accept that you acted out of character. That you put yourself in danger.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “Very good. I am asking now only for your explanation.” Kamran took a deep breath and exhaled, slowly, through his nose. He considered telling the king what he’d told Hazan: that he’d involved himself in the situation because the girl had appeared to him conspicuous, untrustworthy. And yet, Hazan had all but laughed at his explanation, at his instinct that something was amiss. How might Kamran forge into words the influence of an intuition invisible to the eye? Indeed the more he deliberated, the more the prince’s justifications, which had earlier struck him as cogent, seemed now, under the searing gaze of his grandfather, as scattered as sand. Quietly, Kamran said, “I have no explanation, Your Majesty.” The king hesitated at that, the smile evaporating from his eyes. “You cannot mean it.” “I beg you will forgive me.” “What of the girl? I would not judge you too harshly if you admitted to some weakness of the mind there. Perhaps you will tell me she was a disorienting beauty—that you interfered for some lesser, sordid reason. That you fancy yourself in love with her.”

“I did not.” Kamra’s jaw tensed. “I do not. I most certainly would not.” “Kamran.” “Grandfather, I could not even see her face. You could not expect me to own such a lie.” For the first time, the king grew visibly concerned. “My child, do you not understand how precarious your position is? How many would celebrate any excuse to have your faculties examined? Those who covet your position would invite any reason to deem you unworthy of the throne. It disturbs me more to know that your actions were born not of recklessness, but thoughtlessness. Stupidity is possibly your worst offense.” Kamran flinched. True, he deeply respected his grandfather, but so, too, did the prince respect himself, and his pride would no longer allow him to endure an onslaught of insults without protest. He lifted his head, looking the king directly in the eye when he said, with some sharpness, “I believed the girl might be a spy.” King Zaal visibly straightened, his countenance revealing nothing of the tension visible in his hands, clenched now around the arms of his throne. He was silent for so long that Kamran feared, in the interlude, he’d made a terrible mistake. The king said only: “You thought the girl a spy.” “Yes.” “It is the single true thing you have spoken.” Instantly, Kamran was disarmed. He stared at the king then, bewildered. “I may now understand your motivations,” said his grandfather, “but I am yet to comprehend your lack of discretion. You thought it wise to pursue such a suspicion in the middle of the street? You thought the girl a spy, so you say—and what of the boy? Did you think him a saint? That you carried him through the square, allowing him to bleed all over your body?” For the second time, Kamran experienced an unnerving heat inflame his skin. Again, he lowered his eyes. “No, Your Majesty. There, I had not been thinking clearly.” “Kamran, you are to be king,” said his grandfather, who sounded suddenly close to anger. “You have no choice but to think clearly. The people may discuss all manner of gossip pertaining to their sovereign, but the soundness of his mind should never be a topic of discussion.”

Kamran kept his head bowed, his eyes trained on the intricate, repeating patterns of the rug underfoot. “Do we need worry what anyone thinks of my mind? Surely there’s no need to concern ourselves with such matters at this juncture. You are strong and healthy, Grandfather. You will rule Ardunia for many years yet—” Zaal laughed out loud, and Kamran looked up. “Oh, your sincerity does move me. Truly. But my sojourn here is coming to an end,” he said, his eyes searching for the window. “I have felt it for some time now.” “Grandfather—” King Zaal held up a hand. “I will not be distracted from our present discussion. Neither will I insult your intelligence by reminding you how profoundly your every action affects the empire. A simple announcement of your return home would’ve been enough to stir up all manner of theater and excitement, but your actions today—” “Indeed,” said his mother, interjecting herself, reminding everyone she was still there. “Kamran, you should be ashamed of yourself. Acting the part of a commoner.” “Ashamed?” Zaal looked at his daughter-in-law in surprise. To Kamran, he said, “Is that why you think I’ve summoned you?” Kamran hesitated. “I expected you might be angry with me, yes, Your Majesty. I was also told you might expect me to host a ball now that I’ve inadvertently announced my return.” Zaal sighed, his white brows knitting together. “Hazan told you that, I imagine?” The king’s frown grew deeper. “A ball. Yes, a ball. Though that is the least of it.” Kamran tensed. “Your Highness?” “Oh, my child.” Zaal shook his head. “I see only now that you do not realize what you’ve done.” Firuzeh looked from her son to the king and back again. “What has he done?” “It was not your mere interference that caused such talk today,” Zaal said softly. He was staring out the window again. “Had you left the boy to die in his own blood, it would’ve been little remarked upon. These things occasionally happen. You could’ve quietly summoned the magistrates, and the boy would’ve been carted away. Instead, you held him in your arms. You let the blood of a street orphan touch your skin, sully your clothes. You showed care and compassion for one of their own.”

“And am I to be punished, Your Majesty? Am I to be cut down for a display of mercy?” Kamran said, even as he felt the ascent of an unsettling apprehension. “I thought it expected of a prince to be in service of his people.” His grandfather almost smiled. “Do you mean to purposely misunderstand me? Your life is too valuable, Kamran. You, heir to the largest empire on earth, recklessly exposed yourself to danger. Your performance today might go unquestioned by the people, but it will be severely scrutinized by the nobles, who will wonder whether you’ve gone mad.” “Gone mad?” the prince said, struggling now to control his anger. “Is that not a gross overreaction? When there were no repercussions— When I did nothing but assist a dying boy—” “You did nothing but cause a riot. They are only chanting your name in the streets.” Firuzeh gasped and ran to the window, as if she might see or hear anything from within the palace walls, which were notoriously impenetrable. The prince, who knew better than to hope for a glimpse of a mob, sank back down. He was stunned. Zaal sat forward in his seat. “I know in your heart you would fight to the death for your empire, child, but this is not at all the same kind of sacrifice. A crown prince does not risk his life in the town square for a thieving street urchin. It is not done.” “No,” said the prince, subdued. He felt suddenly leaden. “I expect it is not.” “We must now temper your recklessness with displays of solemnity,” said his grandfather. “Such performances will be for the benefit, in particular, of the noble families of the Seven Houses, upon whose political influence we heavily rely. You will host a ball. You will be seen at court. You will pay your respects to the Seven Houses, House of Piir, in particular. You will relieve them of any fears they might have as concerns your character. I will have them question neither the soundness of your mind nor your ability to rule. Is that clear?” “Yes, Your Majesty,” said the prince, discomposed. Only now was he beginning to understand the weight of his error. “I will do as you bid me, and I will remain in Setar for as long as you think it necessary to repair this damage. Then, if you will allow it, I’d like to return to my troops.”

Briefly, Zaal smiled. “I’m afraid it is no longer a good idea for you to be far from home.” Kamran did not pretend to misunderstand. “You are healthy,” he said with more heat than he intended. “Fit and strong. Of sound mind. You could not be certain of such a thing—” “When you get to be my age,” Zaal said gently, “you can indeed be certain of such things. I’ve grown weary of this world, Kamran. My soul is eager to depart. But I cannot leave without first ensuring that our line is protected—that our empire will be protected.” Slowly, the prince looked up into his grandfather’s eyes. “You must know.” Zaal smiled. “I did not ask you to come home merely to rest.” At first, Kamran did not understand. When he did, a beat later, he felt the force of the realization like a blow to the head. He could scarcely form the words when he said: “You need me to marry.” “Ardunia requires an heir.” “I am your heir, Your Majesty. I am your servant—” “Kamran, we are on the brink of war.” The prince held steady even as his heart pounded. He stared at his grandfather in something akin to disbelief. This was the conversation he’d been waiting to have, the news he’d been waiting to discuss. Yet even now, King Zaal seemed disinclined to say much. This, Kamran could not countenance. His grandfather was threatening to die—threatening to leave him here alone to wage a war, to defend their empire—and instead of equipping him for such a fate, was tasking him with marriage? No, he could not believe it. Through sheer force of will was Kamran able to keep his voice steady when he said, “If we are to go to war, Your Highness, surely you might assign me a more practical task? There’s no doubt a great deal more I could do to protect our empire at such a time than court some nobleman’s daughter.” The king only stared at Kamran, his expression serene. “In my absence, the greatest gift you could give your empire is assurance. Certainty. War will come, and with it, your duty”—he held up a hand to prevent Kamran from speaking—“which I know you do not fear. “But if something should happen to you on the battlefield, we will be in chaos. Worthless relations will claim the throne, and then lay waste to it.

There are five hundred thousand soldiers under our command. Tens of millions who rely on us to manage their well-being, to ensure their safety, to procure the necessary water for their crops, to guarantee food for their children.” Zaal leaned forward. “You must secure the line, my child. Not just for me, but for your father. For your legacy. This, Kamran, is what you must do for your empire.” The prince understood then that there was no choice to be made. King Zaal was not asking a question. He was issuing a command. Kamran rose on one knee, bowed his head before his king. “Upon my honor,” he said quietly. “You have my word.”

Eight

difficult than most. Alizeh had boiled water until the steam seared her skin. She’d plunged her hands into soapy, scalding-hot liquid so many times that the grooves in her knuckles had split. Her fingers were blistered, warm to the touch. The sharp edges of her floor brush had dug into her palms, rubbing the skin raw until it bled. She’d bunched her apron in her fists as often as she THIS DAY HAD BEEN MORE

dared, but every desperate search for her handkerchief turned up only disappointment. Alizeh had little time to dwell on the many thoughts haunting her mind that day, though neither did she desire to think upon such disheartening matters. Between the devil’s visit, the terrifying appearance of the hooded stranger, the cruelty of Miss Huda, and the boy she’d left broken in the snow, Alizeh did not lack for fuel to feed her fears. She considered, as she scrubbed clean yet another latrine, that it was probably for the best that she ignore the lot. Better not to think on any of it, better to simply push every day through the pain and the fear until she, too, was finally consumed by eternal darkness. It was a bleak thought for a young woman of eighteen, but she thought it nonetheless: that perhaps only in death might she find the freedom she so desperately sought, for she had long ago given up hope of finding solace in this world. Indeed most hours of the day Alizeh could hardly believe who she’d become, how far she’d strayed from the plans once held for her future. Long ago there’d been a blueprint for her life, a quiet infrastructure designed to support who she might one day be. She’d been left little choice but to abandon that imagined future, not unlike a child shedding an imagined friend. All that remained of her old existence was the familiar whisper of the devil, his voice growing under her skin at intervals, snuffing her life of light. Would that he, too, might vanish. The clock had just struck two when, for the twelfth time that day, Alizeh placed her empty buckets on the kitchen floor. She looked around for any sign of Cook or Mrs. Amina before stealing to the back of the room, and only when she was certain of her solitude did she do what she’d already done eleven times before, and wrench open the heavy wooden door. Alizeh was struck straightaway by the intoxicating smell of rosewater. The Wintrose Festival was one of the few things familiar to her in this foreign, royal city, for the Wintrose season was celebrated all throughout the empire of Ardunia. Alizeh had fond memories of harvesting the delicate pink blooms with her parents, straw baskets colliding as they walked, heads dense with perfume. She smiled. Nostalgia nudged her feet across the threshold, sense memory encouraging her legs, articulating her limbs. A zephyr moved through the

alley, tumbling rose petals toward her, and she drew the heady, floral fragrance deep into her lungs, experiencing a rare moment of unqualified joy as the breeze ruffled her hair, the hems of her skirts. The sun was but a nebulous glow through an exhalation of clouds, painting the moment in diffuse, golden light that made Alizeh feel as if she’d stepped into a dream. She could hardly help her need to draw nearer to such beauty. One at a time, she began picking the wind-scattered roses out of the snow, gently tucking the wilting blossoms into the pockets of her apron. These Gol Mohammadi roses were so heavily scented, their perfume would last for months. Her mother had always used theirs to make a rosepetal jam, saving a few corollas to press between the pages of a book, which Alizeh liked t— Without warning, her heart began to race. It was that familiar pinch in her chest, her pulse pounding in her bleeding palms. Her hands shook without warning, petals falling loose from her fists. Alizeh was struck with a frightening need to run from this place, to strip the apron from her body and tear across the city, lungs blazing. She wanted desperately to return home, to fall at her parents’ feet and grow roots there, at the base of their bodies. She felt all this in the span of a second, the feeling flooding her with a riotous force and leaving her, in its wake, strangely numb. It was a humbling experience, for Alizeh was again reminded that she had no home, no parents to whom she might return. It had been years since their deaths, and still it seemed to Alizeh an outrageous injustice that she could not see their faces. She swallowed. Once, Alizeh’s life had meant to be a source of strength for the people she loved; instead, she often felt her birth had exposed her parents to bloodshed, to the brutal murders that would take them both—first her father, then her mother—in the same year. Jinn had been viciously slaughtered for ages, it was true; their numbers had been decimated, their footprint reduced near to nothing—and with it, much of their legacy. The deaths of her parents, too, had seemed to the unsuspecting eye much like the deaths of countless other Jinn: random acts of hatred, or even unfortunate accidents. And yet— Alizeh was plagued always by an unsettling suspicion that her parents’ deaths had not been random. Despite their diligent efforts to keep Alizeh’s

existence concealed, she worried; for it was not only her parents, but all those whose lives had once touched hers who’d vanished in a series of similar tragedies. Alizeh could not help but wonder whether the true target of all this violence had been someone else entirely— Her. With no proof to corroborate such a theory, Alizeh’s mind was unable to rest, devoured every day a bit more by the voracious appetite of her fears. Heart still thudding in her chest, she retreated inside. Alizeh had searched the back alley beyond the kitchen each of the twelve times she’d come downstairs, but the Fesht boy had never turned up, and she couldn’t understand why. She’d scavenged from the remains of breakfast a few chunks of pumpkin bread, which she’d carefully wrapped in wax paper, and hid the rations under a loose floorboard in the pantry. The boy had seemed so hungry this morning that Alizeh could not imagine an explanation for his absence, not unless— She added firewood to the stove, and hesitated. It was possible she’d hurt the boy too badly during their scuffle. Sometimes Alizeh did not know her own strength. She checked the kettles she’d set to boil, then glanced at the kitchen clock. There were still many hours left in the day, and she worried her hands wouldn’t survive the onslaught. Sacrifices would have to be made. Alizeh sighed. Quickly, she tore two strips of fabric from the hem of her apron. Alizeh, who made all her own clothes, quietly mourned the ruin of the piece, and then bandaged her wounds as best she could with blistered fingers. She would need to find time to visit the apothecary tomorrow. She had some coin now; she could afford to purchase salve, and maybe even a poultice. Her hands, she hoped, would recover. Having wrapped her wounds, the sharp edge of her torment began slowly to abate, the modicum of relief unbolting the vise from around her chest. In the aftermath she took a deep, bracing breath, experiencing a prickle of embarrassment at her own thoughts, at the dark turns they took with so little encouragement. Alizeh did not want to lose faith in this world; it was only that every pain she owned seemed to extract hope from her as payment. Still, she considered, as she refilled her buckets with freshly boiled water, her parents would’ve wanted more for her. They would’ve wanted

her to keep fighting. One day, her father had said, this world will bow to you. Just then came a sharp knock at the back door. Alizeh straightened so quickly she nearly dropped the kettle. She tossed another glance around the unusually empty kitchen—there was so much work to be done today that the servants were granted no breaks—and snatched the hidden parcel from the pantry. Carefully, she opened the door. Alizeh blinked, then stepped back. It was Mrs. Sana staring at her, the bespectacled housekeeper from the Lojjan ambassador’s estate. Stunned as she was, Alizeh nearly forgot to curtsy. Housekeepers, who ruled their own little kingdoms, were not considered servants and did not wear snodas; as a result, they were due a level of respect that Alizeh was still learning. She bobbed a curtsy, then straightened. “Good afternoon, ma’am. How may I help you?” Mrs. Sana said nothing, only held out a small purse, which Alizeh accepted in her injured hand. She felt the weight of the coin at once. “Oh,” she breathed. “Miss Huda was very pleased with the dress and would like to engage your services again.” Alizeh went suddenly solid. She dared not speak, dared not move for fear of ruining the moment. She tried to remember if she’d fallen asleep, if perhaps she was dreaming. Mrs. Sana rapped her knuckles on the doorframe. “You’ve gone deaf, girl?” Alizeh took a sharp breath. “No, ma’am,” she said quickly. “That is— yes, ma’am. I would— It would be my honor.” Mrs. Sana sniffed at her, in a way that was becoming familiar. “Yes. I daresay it would be. And you’ll remember it the next time you speak ill of my mistress. She meant to send her maid, but I insisted on delivering the message myself. You understand my meaning.” Alizeh lowered her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.” “Miss Huda will need at least four gowns for the upcoming festivities, and one showpiece for the ball.” Alizeh’s head snapped up. She did not know to which upcoming festivities Mrs. Sana was referring, and she did not care. “Miss Huda wants five gowns?”

“Will that be a problem?” Alizeh heard a roar in her ears, experienced a terrifying disorientation. She worried she might cry, and she did not think she’d forgive herself if she did. “No, ma’am,” she managed to say. “No problem at all.” “Good. You may come to the house tomorrow at nine in the evening.” A heavy pause. “After you finish your shift here.” “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you. Thank you for und—” “Nine o’clock sharp, you understand?” And Mrs. Sana was gone, the door slamming shut behind her. Alizeh could hold it in no longer. She slid to the floor and sobbed.

Nine

the moon the silhouettes of passersby merged into one gelatinous mass rumbling with sound; raucous cries rang out, laughter tearing through trees, lamplight flickering as people stumbled through the streets. The night was pure madness. Alizeh suppressed a shudder. It disturbed her always to be enveloped by the dark, for it brought to life a fear of blindness she could not fully rationalize. Her ancestors had once been sentenced to an existence without light or heat—she knew this, IN THE MILKY EYE OF

yes—but that she should carry the fear still struck her as most peculiar. Worse, it seemed her strange fate to be tethered always to the dark, for these days she moved most freely through the world only in the absence of daylight, when the yoke of duty had been removed. Alizeh had emerged from Baz House long after the sun had been extinguished, and though the good news of more work for Miss Huda had done a great deal to buoy her spirits, Alizeh was burdened anew by the state of her hands. The day’s tasks had torn fresh wounds into her already split palms, and the strips of fabric she’d carefully wrapped around her injuries had grown damp and heavy with blood. Alizeh, who now needed to create five gowns in addition to performing her regular duties, suddenly required her hands more than ever—which meant her journey to the apothecary could not wait until tomorrow. It was on aching feet that Alizeh dredged through the evening’s snowfall, arms tight against her chest, chin tucked into her collar. Frost grew steadily along the wet tendrils of her hair, unruly strands whipping in the wind as she went. Already Alizeh had paid a visit to the local hamam, where she’d washed the day’s filth from her body. She always felt better when she was clean, and though the task had cost her physically, she felt it ultimately worthwhile. More: the night air was bracing, and the cold shock to her uncovered head kept her thoughts focused. Alizeh required a sharpness of mind never more than when she walked the streets at night, for she knew well the dangers posed by desperate strangers in the dark. She was careful to remain quiet as she moved, keeping to the light, and to herself. Still, it was impossible to ignore the uproar. People were chanting in the streets, some singing, some yelling, all too drunk to be understood. There were large crowds dancing, all of them working together to hold aloft what appeared to be a scarecrow; the straw figure wearing a crude iron crown. Masses of people were sitting in the middle of the road smoking shisha and drinking tea, refusing to clear the streets even as horses whinnied, carriages teetered, and noblemen emerged from the plush interiors of their conveyances shouting and brandishing whips. Alizeh walked through a cloud of apricot-flavored smoke, shook off an evening peddler, and pushed through a narrow gap in a group laughing uproariously at the story of a child who’d caught a snake in its hands and,

delighted, had dipped the serpent’s head over and over again into a bowl of yogurt. Privately, Alizeh smiled. Some people, she noticed, were carrying signs—some held high, others dragging behind like a dog on a leash. She tried to make out the printed words, but none could be deciphered in the dim, flickering light. One thing was for certain: this was an unusual level of merriment and madness, even for the royal city, and for a moment Alizeh’s curiosity threatened to overcome her better senses. She tamped it down. Strangers jostled her, a few swiping at her snoda, laughing in her face, stepping on her skirts. She’d learned long ago that servants of her station were the most universally despised, considered fair game for all manner of cruelty. Others in her position were eager to remove their snodas in public spaces for fear of drawing unwanted attention, but Alizeh could not remove her snoda without great risk to herself; though she felt certain she was being hunted, she did not know by whom, which meant she could never let down her guard. Alizeh’s face was—unfortunately—too easily remembered. Hers was the rare exception; it was otherwise difficult to spot the difference between Jinn and Clay, as Jinn had thousands of years ago regained not only their vision but the varying levels of melanin in their hair and skin. Alizeh, like many in Ardunia, had yards of glossy, coalblack curls and an olive complexion. But her eyes— She did not know the color of her eyes. Occasionally they took on the familiar brown of burnt umber, which she believed to be the natural color of her irises, but more often her eyes were a piercing shade of ice blue, so light they were hardly a color at all. It was no wonder then that Alizeh lived always with a perpetual chill, one she felt even in the sockets of her eyes. Ice sluiced through her clear veins even in the pit of summer, immobilizing her in the way she imagined only her ancestors could understand, for it was from them that she’d inherited this irregularity. The resulting effect was so disorienting few could bear to look at the girl—and yet, Alizeh’s face might’ve been more readily ignored had her irises only ceased to change shades, which they had not. Instead, they flickered, alternating color constantly; it was a problem over which she had no control, and whose provocation she did not understand.

Alizeh felt a touch of moisture on her lips then and looked up. Fresh snow had begun to fall. She pulled her arms tighter across her chest and darted down a familiar road, her head bowed against the wind. She’d been growing slowly aware of a pair of footsteps behind her—unusual only in their consistency—and felt a frisson of fear, which she forcefully dismissed. Alizeh felt she was growing too easily paranoid of late, and besides, the glow of the apothecary’s shop was just up ahead. She sprinted toward it now. A bell chimed as she pushed open the wooden door, and she was nearly shoved right back out by the crowd jammed within. The apothecary was unusually busy for the hour, and Alizeh could not help but notice that its standard aroma of sage and saffron had been exchanged for the mephitic vapors of unwashed latrines and aged vomit. Alizeh held her breath as she took her place in line, resisting the urge to stamp the snow from her boots on the rug underfoot. Present clientele were shouting obscenities at each other, jostling for space while cradling fractured arms and broken noses. Some were dripping red blood from the crowns of their heads, their mouths. One man was presenting a child with the bloody tooth he’d plucked from his head, a souvenir from another who’d thought to bite his skull. Alizeh could scarcely believe it. These people needed baths and surgeons, not an apothecarist. She could only imagine they were either too stupid or too drunk to know better than to seek aid here. “All right, enough,” boomed an angry voice over the crowd. “The lot of you: get out. Out of my shop before you—” There was the abrupt sound of glass shattering, vials knocking to the ground. The same booming voice shouted renewed epithets as the crowd grew only more agitated, and there was a veritable stampede for the door when he brandished a cane and threatened not only to horsewhip the group of them, but to turn them over to the magistrates on charges of public indecency. Alizeh flattened herself as best she could against the wall, so successful in her aim that when the horde had finally cleared, the shopkeeper almost missed her. Almost. “Get out,” he barked, advancing on her. “Get out of my store, out, you heathen—”

“Sir— Please—” Alizeh shrank back. “I’m here only for some salve and bandages. I’d be terribly grateful for your help.” The shopkeeper froze, the angry expression still etched onto his face. He was a narrow man, tall and wiry, with dark brown skin and coarse black hair, and he very nearly sniffed her. His assessing eyes took in her patched—but clean—jacket, the tidiness of her hair. Finally he took a deep, steadying breath, and stepped away. “All right, then, what’ll it be?” He moved back around the main counter, staring down at her with large, ink-dark eyes. “Where’s the damage?” Alizeh clenched her fists, stuffed them in her pockets, and tried to smile. Her mouth was the only part of her face unobscured, and it was as a result a point of focus for most people. The apothecarist, however, seemed determined to stare at her eyes—or, where he thought her eyes might be. For a moment, Alizeh was unsure what to do. It was true that, from the outside, Jinn were mostly undetectable. It was in fact their stunning physical resemblance to Clay that had made them the biggest threat, the more difficult to suspect. The Fire Accords had attempted to bring organization to these sorts of problems, but under the veneer of peace there remained always an uneasiness among the people— an ingrained hatred of their kind, of their imagined association with the devil—that was not easily forgotten. Presenting strangers with clear proof of her identity had always inspired in Alizeh a halting fear, for she never knew how they might react. More often than not, people could not hide their contempt; and more often than not, she did not have the energy to face it. Quietly, she said, “I’ve only a few scrapes on my hands that need tending—and a few blisters. If you’ve fresh bandages and a salve you’d recommend, sir, I’d be most obliged.” The apothecarist made a sound in his mouth, something like a tsk, drummed his fingers on the counter, and turned to study his walls; the long wooden shelves housed stoppered bottles of untold remedies. “And what of your neck, miss? The cut there seems severe.” Unconsciously, Alizeh touched her fingers to the wound. “I beg—I beg your pardon, sir?” “You have a laceration at your throat, of which I doubt you’re unaware. You must be feeling the pain at the incision, miss. The wound is likely

warm to the touch, and”—he peered closer—“yes, it looks like there’s a bit of swelling. We must get ahead of any major infection.” Alizeh went suddenly rigid with fear. The Fesht boy had cut her with a crude, dirty blade. She’d seen it herself, had examined the tool in her own hand; why had she not realized there’d be consequences? Certainly, she’d been unwell and in pain all day, but she’d compartmentalized the sensations, experiencing it all as one large unpleasantness. She’d never had a chance to pinpoint the many discrete origins of her discomfort. Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed at the counter, steadying herself. She could ill afford much of anything these days, but she could least afford to be sick. If she caught a fever—if she could not work—she would be turned out onto the street, where she’d doubtless die in the gutter. It was this cold reality that propelled her actions every day, this larger instinct that demanded she survive. “Miss?” Oh, the devil always did know when to pay a visit.

Ten

of a shuttered storefront, the hood of his cloak whipping in the wind, snapping against his face like the leathery wings of a bat. The snow had softened to rain, and he listened to the drops pop along the awning overhead, watched as they pelted the white drift frosting the streets. Long minutes passed, piles of snow perforating, then dissolving at his feet. He should not have come. KAMRAN STOOD IN THE SHADOW

After their meeting, the king had taken Kamran aside to ask further questions about the suspected servant girl, questions Kamran only too gladly answered, having felt validated by his grandfather’s concern. It was in fact at the king’s behest that Kamran was to continue his inquiries into the girl’s whereabouts, for Zaal, too, had seemed perturbed upon hearing a more detailed accounting of the morning’s events. He’d dispatched the prince into town to fulfill various obligations—among them a visit to the Fesht boy—and to then surveil the city. Naturally, Kamran had obliged. A focused task was precisely what he needed, as it would allow him a reprieve from his own mind, from the weight of all that his grandfather had recently imparted. The prince had thought to see the mobs for himself, in any case; he wanted to hear the commotion he had caused, to bear witness to the consequences of his actions. In the end, it had led to this: darkness. No, he should not have come at all. First was his visit to the street child, who’d been installed at the Diviners Quarters in the Royal Square. The king had made it clear to Kamran that to ignore the boy now would make his earlier actions appear rash and hotheaded. Subsequent actions of care and compassion toward the boy would not only be expected, Zaal had said, but anticipated, and as Kamran already owed the Diviners a visit, it had not seemed too great a waste of his time. Instead, it had been infuriating. As it turned out, magic alone had saved the boy from the brink of death. This revelation, which should have been a relief, was to the prince grim news indeed, for it had been upon his perceived orders that the Diviners had acted—and rarely, if ever, was magical assistance offered to any outside the imperial family. Vast though Ardunia was, magic as a substance was exceptionally rare. The unstable mineral was mined from the mountains at great risk, and as a result existed only in small, precious quantities, meted out only by royal decree. Kamran’s call for help had been interpreted as just that; marking yet another reason why his actions toward a thieving street urchin had been so significant, and would not be easily forgotten. He sighed at the reminder. Though the boy was healing still, he’d managed to flinch when Kamran arrived in his room. The child had inched backward in his bed as best he

could, scrambling out of reach of his unlikely savior. They both knew it; knew that the scene within which they’d been trapped was a farce; that Kamran was no hero; that there existed no amity between them. Indeed, Kamran felt nothing but anger toward the boy. Through the careful dissemination of new rumors, the crown had actively sought to distort the story of the street urchin; King Zaal decided it would be more difficult to convince an audience that the prince had done good by saving a murderous child, and so had modified the tale to exclude any mention of harm done to the servant girl. This bothered Kamran far more than it ought, for privately he felt the rascal deserved neither the efforts made to spare him, nor the care he received now. Carefully, Kamran had approached the boy’s bed, claiming a small victory as fear flared to life in the child’s eyes. From this he gained impetus enough to hone his frustration, which gave his visit focus. If the prince was to be forced into the company of this disgraceful child, he would use the opportunity to demand answers to his innumerable questions. By the angels, he had questions. “Avo, kemem dinar shora,” he’d said darkly. First, I want to know why. “Why did you beg me not to hand you over to the magistrates?” The boy shook his head. “Jev man,” Kamran had said. Answer me. Again, the boy shook his head. Kamran stood sharply, clasping his hands behind his back. “You and I both know the real reason you are here, and I will not soon forget it. I have no interest in forgiving you for your actions today merely because you nearly died in the effort. You would’ve murdered a young woman just to steal her wares—” “Nek, nek hejjan—” No, no, sire— “And were willing to kill yourself so you would not have to stand trial —so you would not be turned over to the magistrates and pay the price for your debased actions.” Kamran’s eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger. “Tell me why.” For the third time, the child shook his head. “Perhaps I will turn you over to the magistrates now. Perhaps they might be more effective at yielding results.” “No, sire,” the boy had said in his native tongue, his brown eyes large in his sunken face. “You would not do that.”

Kamran’s eyes widened a fraction. “How dare y—” “Everyone thinks you saved my life because you are compassionate and kind. If you threw me in the dungeon now, it would not look good for you, would it?” Kamran’s fists clenched, unclenched. “I did save your life, you ungrateful wretch.” “Han.” Yes. The child almost smiled, but his eyes were strangely distant. “Pet, shora?” But, why? “After this, I will be returned to the street. To the same life as before.” Kamran felt an unwelcome pang in the region of his chest; a flicker of conscience. He was quite unaware that the edge to his voice had gone when he said, “I do not understand why you would rather kill yourself than go to prison.” “No, you do not understand, sire.” The redheaded boy would not meet his eyes. “But I have seen what they do to kids like me. Being turned over to the magistrates is worse than death.” Kamran straightened, then frowned. “What can you mean? How can it be worse than death? Our prisons are not so foul as that. You would be offered a daily meal, at the very least—” The boy was now shaking his head hard, looking so agitated Kamran feared he might bolt from the room. “All right—enough,” the prince said reluctantly, and sighed. “You may instead tell me what you know of the girl.” The boy froze at that, the inquiry unexpected enough to have disarmed him. “Know of her? I do not know her, sire.” “How, then, were you able to communicate with her? Do you speak much Ardanz?” “Very little, sire.” “And yet, you spoke with her.” “Yes, sire.” The boy blinked. “She spoke Feshtoon.” Kamran was so surprised by this revelation he failed to mask his expression fast enough. “But there are no servants in the royal city who speak Feshtoon.” “Begging your pardon, sire, but I didn’t know you were acquainted with all the servants in the royal city.” At that, Kamran experienced a swell of anger so large he thought it might break open his chest. It took all he had to bite out the words: “Your insolence is astonishing.”

The boy grinned; Kamran resisted the urge to smother him. This redheaded Fesht boy had the uncommon ability to move Kamran to a swift, discomposing anger—an anger of the most dangerous variety. Kamran knew this, for he knew well his own weaknesses, and implored himself to defuse what he knew to be an irrational reaction. There was no reason to scare away the child, after all, not now that the boy might provide him with information he needed to hunt down the duplicitous servant girl. “I beg you will help me understand,” Kamran had said flatly. “You claim that a servant girl with little education—a servant girl who is likely illiterate—somehow spoke to you in Feshtoon. You claim she gave you bread, which you di—” “No, sire. I said that she offered me bread.” Kamran’s jaw tensed. This was the second time the child had interrupted him. “I see little difference,” he’d said. “Gave and offered are interchangeable words.” “No, sire. She told me to come to the kitchens at Baz House if I was in need of bread.” Here, Kamran experienced a moment of triumph. “Then she lied to you,” said the prince. “I know Baz House, and that girl is no servant there. In fact, if it has not yet been made obvious to you, you should know: that girl was no servant at all.” The child shook his head. “You’re wrong, sire.” Impertinent, disrespectful, shameless boy. Kamran found he no longer cared that the child had nearly died; he seemed well enough now, with the audacity of an impudent street rat, speaking to a member of the royal household with so little deference. And yet—Kamran was now shackled to him in this strange way, compelled to be kind to the precocious imp. Omid. His name was Omid. He was the son of saffron farmers in the south. His parents had been imprisoned for failing to pay taxes on a meager harvest, and their official complaint—Kamran had since pulled the report—was that the taxes were a fixed amount, instead of a percentage. Paying the fixed amount, they had insisted, would’ve meant starvation for their family, as the season’s crop had been so small. They had appealed to the courts for leniency, but had contracted lung fever in prison and died days later, leaving the boy to fend for himself. Twelve, he’d said he was. Twelve years old.

“You are either very brave or very stupid,” Kamran had said to him. “To disagree with me so readily.” “But, sire, you didn’t see her hands,” Omid insisted. “And I did.” Kamran had only scowled. In his haste to take his leave of the insufferable child, Kamran had forgotten, yet again, to pay his respects to the honorable priests and priestesses. He was instead intercepted by a halo of Diviners on his way out—who’d said little, as they were wont to do—and accepted as payment but a moment of his time before they pressed a small parcel into his hands. The prince offered his many thanks, but his mind, full and disordered as it was, bade him tuck away the untitled gift, to be opened at a later date. The parcel would remain forgotten, for some days, in the interior pocket of Kamran’s cloak. Unnerved by his conversation with Omid, the prince had gone straight from the Diviners Quarters to Baz House, the home of his distant aunt. He knew exactly where the kitchens were; he’d spent a great deal of his youth at Baz House, sneaking belowstairs for snacks after midnight. He considered going through the front doors and simply asking his aunt whether she’d employed such a servant, but he thought of his grandfather’s warning that his actions were now under intense scrutiny. Kamran had many reasons for seeking out the girl—not the least of which was King Zaal’s confirmation that Ardunia was destined for war— but he did not think it wise to over-hastily spread word of this to the happy public. In any case, Kamran was good at waiting. He could stand in one position for hours without tiring, had been trained to practically disappear at will. It was no trouble at all to him to waste an hour standing in an alley to capture a criminal, not when his aim was to protect his empire, to spare his people the machinations of this faceless girl— Lie. True, that he found her actions suspect; true, too, that she might be a Tulanian spy. But there was also a possibility that he was wrong about the girl, and his unwillingness to accept this fact should’ve concerned him. No, the unadulterated truth, which he was only now willing to admit, was that there was a grain more to his motivations: something about this girl had burrowed under his skin. He couldn’t shake it.

She—a supposed poor, lowly servant—had acted this morning with a mercy he could not understand, with a compassion that enraged him all the more for its inconstancy. The young woman had entered his empire, ostensibly, to do harm. Why should she have been the more benevolent actor this morning? Why should she have inspired in him a feeling of unworthiness? No, no, it made no sense. Years of training had taught the prince to recognize even the slightest inconsistencies in his opponents; weaknesses that could be mined and promptly manipulated. Kamran knew his own strengths, and his instincts in this instance could not be denied. He’d seen her contradictions from the moment he laid eyes on her. She was without question hiding something. He’d wanted to out her as the liar he knew her to be; to uncover what seemed to him one of only two possibilities: a treasonous spy, or a frivolous society girl playing pretend. He had, instead, ended up here. Here, standing in the dark so long the mobs had begun to disperse, the streets littered now with the drunk, sleeping bodies that dared not drag themselves home. Kamran had let the cold brace him until his bones shook, until he felt nothing but a large emptiness yawn open inside him. He did not want to be king. He did not want his grandfather to die, did not want to marry a stranger, did not want to father a child, did not want to lead an empire. This was the secret he seldom shared even with himself—that he did not want this life. It was hard enough when his father had died, but Kamran couldn’t even begin to imagine a world without his grandfather. He did not think he was good enough to lead an empire alone, and he did not know who he might rely upon instead. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure he could trust Hazan. Instead, Kamran had distracted himself with his anger, had allowed his mind to focus on the irritations of the Fesht boy, the false face of a servant girl. The truth was that he’d been forced to return home against his will and was now running from himself, from the counterintuitive burden of privilege, from the responsibilities laid upon his shoulders. In moments like these he’d always consoled himself with the reassurance that he was at least a capable soldier, a competent leader—but today had disproven even that. For what good was a leader who could not even trust his own instincts?

Kamran had been bested by this servant girl. Not only had she proven him wrong on all counts, she’d proven him worse. When she’d finally appeared in the alley behind Baz House, he’d recognized her at once—but had the privilege now of inspecting her more closely. Right away he noticed the angry cut at her throat, and from there he followed the elegant lines of her neck, the delicate slope of her shoulders. For the second time that day he noticed the way she carried herself; how different she seemed from other servants. There was a gracefulness even in the way she held her head, the way she drew her shoulders back, the way she’d tilted her face up at the sun. Kamran did not understand. If not a spy or society girl, she might perhaps be the fallen daughter of a gentleman, or even the bastard child of one; such circumstances might explain her elegant carriage and knowledge of Feshtoon. But for a welleducated child of a noble to have fallen this low? He thought it unlikely. The scandals in high society were most everyone’s business, and such a person in his aunt’s employ would doubtless have been known to him. Then again, it was hard to be certain of anything. In vain he’d fought for a better look at her face and was given instead only a mouth to study. He’d stared at her lips for longer than he cared to admit, for reasons that were not lost on him. Kamran had arrived at the frightening realization that this girl might be beautiful—a thought so unexpected it nearly distracted him from his purpose. When she suddenly bit her lip, he drew a breath, startling himself. She seemed worried. He watched as she searched the alley, all the while clutching a small parcel to her chest. Kamran remembered what Omid had said about her hands, peered closer, and was dealt at once a powerful blow to his pride, to his fragile conscience. The girl’s hands were so damaged he could see the injuries even from his distant vantage point. Her skin was painful to look at. Red. Blistered. Raw. Without a doubt the hands of a servant. Kamran rocked back on his heels as this truth washed over him. He’d been so determined the girl was a liar, had so eagerly anticipated the moment her ugliness would be uncovered. Instead, he’d made a discovery about himself. He was the villain in this story, not she.

Not only had the girl kept her promise to Omid, but she’d made preparations; it grew increasingly obvious that what she sought in that alley had been the street child himself. Twice in one day this faceless girl had inspired in Kamran a shame so vast he could hardly breathe around it. She’d reached into his chest and broken something essential inside of him, managed it all without even acknowledging his existence. Was Kamran so weak as to be dismantled thus by a stranger? Was he so unworthy? Worse: how would he explain this embarrassment to his grandfather? So enthusiastically had Kamran added to the king’s worries with his poorly supported suspicions, and now the prince’s arrogance would prove only his own idiocy; an instability of mind that would further substantiate the king’s fears for his grandson. In a single day Kamran had made himself into a joke, and he wanted to sink into the earth. It was his single thought, repeating like a drumbeat in his head, when Hazan finally found him.

Eleven

“MISS?”

The apothecarist cleared his throat again, and Alizeh startled. When she looked up, she saw the shopkeeper staring at her hands, which she snatched out of sight. “I can see that you’re in pain, miss. A good deal, too, it seems.” Slowly, Alizeh met his eyes. “You need not fear me,” he said quietly. “If I’m to do my job, I must see the damage.” Alizeh thought again of her work, how her safety and security depended on her waking up tomorrow and scrubbing yet more floors, stitching more gowns. But if this man saw her clear blood and realized she was Jinn, he might refuse to serve her; and if he turned her out of his store she’d have to walk to the apothecary on the other side of the city—which, though not impossible to manage, would be both difficult and exhausting, and would take another day to arrange. Alizeh sighed. She was left with little choice. With painful effort, she unwrapped the damp, makeshift bandages and rested her bare hands atop the counter, palms up, for the apothecarist to examine. He sucked in his breath at the sight. Alizeh tried to see her injuries through his eyes: the raw, shredded skin, the blistered fingers, the blood most people mistook for water. The normally pale skin of her palms was now a garish red, throbbing with pain. She wanted desperately to wrap them anew, to clench her fists against the searing burn. “I see,” said the man, which Alizeh took as her cue to withdraw. She waited, body tensed for a hostile attack, but the apothecarist did not insult her, nor did he ask her to leave his store. By degrees, Alizeh relaxed. In fact, he said nothing more as he collected items from around his shop, measuring into burlap pouches various herbs, snipping strips of linen for her wounds. She felt immeasurable gratitude as she stood there defrosting in her boots, snowmelt puddling in shallow pools around her feet. She could not see the eyes watching her from the window, but she soon felt them, felt the disturbing, specific fear of one who knows she’s being watched but cannot prove it. Alizeh swallowed. When the apothecarist finally returned to his post, he was carrying a small basket of remedies, which he proceeded to crush into a thick paste

with mortar and pestle. He then procured from under the counter what looked like a paintbrush. “Please have a seat”—he gestured to one of the tall stools at the counter —“and pay attention to what I do, miss. You’ll need to repeat these next steps at home.” Alizeh nodded, grateful as her tired body sank into the upholstered seat. She feared she might never stand up again. “Please hold out your hands.” Alizeh complied. She watched closely as he painted a bright blue salve onto her palms in a single stroke, the calming effect so immediate she nearly cried out from relief. “You must keep everything clean,” he was saying, “and change the bandages every other day. I’ll show you how to wrap them properly.” “Yes, sir,” she breathed. She squeezed her eyes shut as he wound fresh strips of linen around her hands, between her split fingers. It was a bliss unlike any she’d experienced in recent memory. Quietly, he said: “It isn’t right.” “The bandages?” Alizeh looked up. “Oh, no, sir, I think—” “This,” he said, lifting her hands closer to the lamplight. Even halfwrapped and covered in salve, the picture was tragic. “They work you too hard, miss. It isn’t right.” “Oh.” Alizeh returned her eyes to the counter. “It’s no trouble.” She heard the ire in his voice when he said, “They work you like this because of what you are. Because of what you can bear. A human body could not withstand so much, and they take advantage of you because they can. You must realize that.” “Indeed, I do,” Alizeh said with some dignity. “Though you must also realize that I’m grateful to have the work, sir.” “You may call me Deen.” He retrieved another brush, which he used to paint a different salve onto the cut at her neck. Alizeh sighed as the medicine spread, closing her eyes when the pain dulled, then faded altogether. It was a moment before Deen cleared his throat and said, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a servant wear a snoda at night.” Alizeh froze, and the apothecarist felt it. When she made no reply, he said quietly, “You are perhaps, as a result, unaware of the large bruise spanning your cheek.” “Oh.” Alizeh lifted one newly bandaged hand to her face. “I . . .”

She’d not realized her bruise had bled beyond the lines of her snoda. It was illegal for housekeepers to beat their servants, but Alizeh had never met a housekeeper who’d observed this law, and she knew bringing attention to it now would only cost her her job. She said nothing. Deen sighed. “If you would only remove your snoda, miss, I might inspect the damage for you.” “No,” Alizeh said too quickly. “That is— I thank you for your concern, but I’m quite all right.” It was a long while before Deen said quietly, “Very well. But when I am done, I ask that you come back in one week so that I might check for signs of improvement or infection.” “Yes, sir.” She hesitated. “I mean, Deen, sir.” He smiled. “If, however, you develop a fever in the interim, you must send for a surgeon at once.” To this, Alizeh merely nodded. Even with five dresses worth of income she knew she’d not be able to afford a surgeon, but did not see the point in expressing so. Deen was winding a narrow bandage around her neck—precisely the sort of spectacle she’d been trying to avoid—when he made one last attempt at conversation. “This is an interesting wound, miss,” he said. “More interesting for all the conflicting stories we’ve been hearing in town today.” Alizeh stiffened. She knew, objectively, that she’d done nothing wrong, but Alizeh lived in this city only because she’d had to escape her own attempted execution. It was seldom, if ever, that she stopped worrying. “Which conflicting stories, sir?” “Stories of the prince, of course.” Almost at once, Alizeh relaxed. “Oh,” she said. “I don’t believe I’ve heard any.” Deen was pinning her bandage in place when he laughed. “With all due respect, miss, you’d have to be deaf not to have heard. The whole of the empire is discussing the prince’s return to Setar.” “He’s come back?” Beneath her snoda, Alizeh’s eyes widened. She, who was new to the city, had heard only rumors about the empire’s elusive heir. Those who lived in Setar lived in the royal heart of Ardunia; its lifelong residents had seen the prince in his infancy, had watched him

grow. Alizeh would be lying if she said she wasn’t curious about the royals, but she was far from obsessed, the way some were. Just then—in a flash of understanding—the day’s events made sense. The festivities Mrs. Sana had mentioned—the impending ball. It was no wonder Miss Huda needed five new gowns. Of course Duchess Jamilah had demanded every one of her rooms be cleaned. She was a distant cousin of the king, and it was rumored she had a close relationship with the prince. Perhaps she was expecting a visit. “Indeed, he is come home,” Deen was saying. “And no small thing either, is it? Already they’re planning a ball, and no fewer than a dozen festivities. Of course”—he grinned—“not that the likes of us should care. I don’t expect we’ll be seeing the inside of a palace ballroom anytime soon.” Alizeh matched Deen’s smile with one of her own. She’d often longed for moments like these—opportunities to speak with people in her own city, as if she were one of them. She’d never felt free to do so, not even as a child. “No, I expect not,” she said softly, still smiling as she sat back in her seat, absently touching the fresh bandage at her neck. She felt so much better already, and the flood of relief and gratitude was loosening her tongue to an unfamiliar degree. “Though I’m not sure I understand all the excitement, if I’m being honest.” “Oh?” Deen’s smile grew broader. “And why’s that?” Alizeh hesitated. There was always so much she wanted to say, but she’d been forbidden —over and over—from speaking her mind, and she struggled now to overcome that impulse. “I suppose— I suppose I would ask why the prince should be so lavishly celebrated merely for arriving home. Why is it that we never ask who pays for these festivities?” “Begging your pardon, miss.” Deen laughed. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning.” Alizeh thawed a bit at the sound of his laughter, and her own smile grew wider. “Well. Do not the taxes paid by common folk fund the royal parties they’re not even allowed to attend?” Deen, who was rewinding a roll of linen, went suddenly still. He looked up at Alizeh, his expression inscrutable.

“The prince never even shows his face,” she went on. “What kind of prince does not mix with his own society? He is praised—and well liked, yes—but only on account of his noble birth, his inheritance, his circumstances, his inevitable ascent to king.” Deen frowned a bit. “I suppose—perhaps.” “On what merit, then, is he celebrated? Why should he be entitled to the love and devotion of a public that does not even know him? Does not his distaste of the common people reek of arrogance? Does not this arrogance offend?” “I do not know, miss.” Deen faltered. “Though I daresay our prince is not arrogant.” “Pretentious, then? Misanthropic?” Alizeh couldn’t seem to stop talking now that she’d started. It should’ve worried her that she was having so much fun; it should’ve reminded her to bite her tongue. But it had been so long since she’d had a single conversation with someone, and Alizeh, who was demanded always to deny her own intelligence, had grown tired of keeping her mouth shut. The thing was, she was good at talking, and she dearly missed that exchange of wits that exercised the mind. “And does not misanthropy indicate a miserliness of spirit, of the human heart?” she was saying. “Loyalty and duty and a general sense of— of awe, perhaps—might induce his royal subjects to overlook such shortcomings, but this generosity serves only to recommend the proletarian, not the prince. It remains rather cowardly then, does it not, to preside over us all as only a mythical figure, never a man?” The dregs of Deen’s smile evaporated entirely at that, his eyes going cold. It was with a horrible, sinking feeling that Alizeh realized the depth of her mistake—but too late. “Goodness.” Deen cleared his throat. He no longer seemed able to look at her. “I’ve never heard such talk, least of all from one in a snoda.” He cleared his throat again. “I say. You speak mighty well.” Alizeh felt herself stiffen. She’d known better. She’d learned enough times by now not to speak so much, or with such candor. She’d known better, and yet— Deen had shown her compassion, which she mistook for friendship. She swore to herself right then that she would never again make such a mistake, but for now—for now, there was nothing to be done. She could not take back her words.

Fear clenched a fist around her heart. Would he report her to the magistrates? Accuse her of treason? Deen inched away from the counter and quietly packaged up her things, but Alizeh could feel his suspicion; could feel it coming off him in waves. “He’s a decent young man, our prince,” said the shopkeeper curtly. “What’s more: he’s away from home on duty, miss, protecting our lands, not cavorting in the streets. He’s neither a drunk nor a womanizer, which is more than we can say for some. “Besides, it is not for us to decide whether he’s deserving. We owe our gratitude to anyone who defends our lives with his own. And yes, he keeps to himself, I suppose, but I don’t think a person should be crucified for their silence. It’s a rare thing, is it not? Lord only knows how many there are who would benefit”—Deen looked up at her—“from biting their tongues.” A shock of heat struck her through the heart then; a shame so potent it nearly cured her of that ever-present chill. Alizeh cast down her gaze, no longer able to meet the man’s eyes. “Of course,” she said quietly. “I spoke out of turn, sir.” Deen did not acknowledge this. He was tallying up the total cost of her items with pencil and paper. “Just today,” he said, “just today our prince saved a young beggar’s life—carried the boy off in his arms—” “You must forgive me, sir. It was my mistake. I do not doubt his heroism—” “That’ll be six coppers, two tonce, please.” Alizeh took a deep breath and reached for her coin purse, carefully shaking out the amount owed. Six coppers. Miss Huda had paid her only eight for the gown. Deen was still talking. “Some Fesht boy, too—quite merciful to spare him, considering how much trouble we get from the southerners—shock of red hair so bright you could see it from the moon. Who knows why the child did it, but he tried to kill himself in the middle of the street, and our prince saved his life.” Alizeh startled so badly she dropped half her pay on the floor. Her pulse raced as she scrambled to collect the coins, the thudding of her heart seeming to pound in her head. When she finally placed her payment on the counter, she could scarcely breathe. “The Fesht boy tried to kill himself?” Deen nodded, counting out her coin.

“But why? What did the prince do to him?” Deen looked up sharply. “Do to him?” “That is, I mean— What did he do to help the boy?” “Yes, quite right,” Deen said, his expression relaxing. “Well, he picked the boy up in his own arms, didn’t he? And called for help. The good people came running. If it weren’t for the prince, the boy would surely be dead.” Alizeh felt suddenly ill. She stared at a glass jar in the corner of the shop, at the large chrysanthemum trapped within. Her hearing seemed to fade in and out. “—not entirely clear, but some people are saying he’d attacked a servant girl,” Deen was saying. “Put a knife to her neck and cut her throat, not unlike y—” “Where is he now?” she asked. “Now?” Deen startled. “I wouldn’t know, miss. I imagine he’s at the palace.” She frowned. “They took the Fesht boy to the palace?” “Oh, no, the boy is at the Diviners’ in the Royal Square. No doubt he’ll be there a while.” “Thank you, sir,” she said quickly. “I’m very grateful for your help.” She drew herself up, forced her mind firmly back into her body, and attempted to be calm. “I’m afraid I must now be on my way.” Deen said nothing. His eyes went to her throat, to the bandage he’d only just wrapped around her neck. “Miss,” he said finally, “why is it you do not remove your snoda so late at night?” Alizeh pretended to misunderstand. She forced out another goodbye and rushed for the exit so quickly she almost forgot her packages, and then ran out the door with such haste she hardly had time to register the change in weather. She gasped. She’d run straight into a winter storm, rain lashing the streets, her face, her uncovered head. It was but a moment before Alizeh was soaked through. She was trying, while balancing an armful of parcels, to pull the sopping wet snoda away from her eyes, when she suddenly collided with a stranger. She cried out, her heart racing wildly in her chest, and through miracle alone caught her packages before they hit the ground. Alizeh gave

up on her snoda then, darting deeper into the night, moving almost as fast as her feet could carry her. She was thinking of the devil. There once was a man who bore a snake on each shoulder. If the snakes were well fed their master ceased growing older. What they ate no one knew, even as the children were found with brains shucked from their skulls, bodies splayed on the ground. The vision she’d seen, the nightmare delivered by Iblees in the night— The signs seemed clear enough now: the hooded man in the square; the boy who’d never turned up at her kitchen door; the devil whispering riddles in her heart. That face had belonged to the prince. Who else could it be? It had to be the prince, the elusive prince—and he was murdering children. Or perhaps he was trying to murder children. Had he tried to murder the child and failed? When Alizeh had left the Fesht boy earlier today he’d not seemed in danger of killing himself. What had the prince done to him? Alizeh’s feet pounded the slick cobblestone as she ran, desperately, back to Baz House. Alizeh had hardly enough time to breathe lately; she’d even less time to solve a riddle sent down from the devil. Her head was spinning, her boots slipping. The rain was falling so hard she hardly saw where she was going, much less the hand that darted out of the darkness, clamping down on her wrist. She screamed.

Twelve

Hazan as the latter approached through what was fast becoming a violent storm, choosing to stare instead at a stripe of wet cobblestone shimmering under orange gaslight. The rain had grown only more brutal, thrashing all and sundry while a vengeful wind rattled around their bodies, unseating ribbons of frost from a stand of trees. It was unlike Hazan to overlook Kamran’s cold reception, for though the minister knew his place—and knew that he was owed little of Kamran’s attentions—he relished any opportunity to provoke his old friend, as the prince was easily provoked. Theirs was an unusual friendship, to be sure. The solidarity between the two was real—if varnished over with a thin layer of acerbity—but the foundations of their comradeship were so steeped in the separation of their classes that it seldom occurred to Kamran to ask Hazan a single question about his life. The prince assumed, because they’d been acquainted since childhood, that he knew all there was to know about his minister, and it had never once occurred to him that he KAMRAN DID NOT LOOK AT

might be wrong, that a subordinate might possess in his mind as many dimensions as his superior. Still, the general effect of proximity over time meant that Kamran was at least well versed in the language of his minister’s silence. That Hazan said nothing as he stepped under the battered awning was Kamran’s first indication that something was wrong. When Hazan shifted his weight, a moment later, Kamran had his second. “Out with it,” he said, straining a bit to be heard over the rain. “What have you discovered?” “Only that you were right,” said Hazan, his expression dour. Kamran turned his gaze up at the gaslight, watched the flame batter the glass cage with its tongues. He felt suddenly uneasy. “I am often right, Minister. Why should this fact distress you tonight?” Hazan did not respond, reaching instead into his coat pocket for the handkerchief, which he held out to the prince. This, Kamran accepted wordlessly. Kamran studied the handkerchief with his fingers, running the pad of his thumb over its delicate lace edges. The textile was of a higher quality than he’d originally considered, with an embroidered detail in one corner that the prince only now noticed. He struggled to distinguish the details in the dim light, but it appeared to be a small, winged insect—just above which hovered an ornamental crown. The prince frowned. The heavy fabric was neither damp nor dirty. Kamran turned it over in his hands, finding it hard to believe that such a thing was in fact stained with the girl’s blood. More curious, perhaps, was that as the day wore on, Kamran grew only more interested in its mysterious owner. “Your Highness.” Kamran was again studying the embroidered fly, trying to name the uncommon insect, when he said: “Go on, then. I take it you’ve discovered something dreadful?” “Indeed.” Kamran finally looked up at Hazan, his heart constricting in his chest. The prince had only just reconciled himself to the idea of the girl’s innocence; all this uncertainty was reeking havoc on his mind. “What, then?” Kamran forced a laugh. “She is a Tulanian spy? A mercenary?” Hazan grimaced. “The news is bleak indeed, sire.”

Kamran took a deep, bracing breath, felt the chill fill his lungs. He experienced, for an extraordinary moment, a pang of what could only be described as disappointment—a feeling that left him both stunned and confused. “You worry yourself overmuch,” the prince said, affecting indifference. “Certainly the situation is far from ideal, but we have the better of her now. We know who she is, how to track her. We may yet get ahead of any sinister plotting.” “She is not a spy, sire. Nor is she a mercenary.” Hazan did not appear to rejoice in the statement. “An assassin, then? A turncoat?” “Your Highness—” “Enough of your filibustering. If she is neither spy nor assassin why are you so aggrieved? What could possibly—” A sudden oof from his minister and Kamran took an elbow to the gut, knocking, for a moment, the air from his lungs. He straightened in time to hear the sharp splash of a puddle, the retreating sound of footsteps on slick stone. “What the devil—?” “Forgive me, Your Highness,” Hazan said breathlessly. “Some ruffian barreled into me, I didn’t mean t—” Kamran was already stepping away from the protection of the awning. It was possible they’d been knocked into by a drunkard, but Kamran’s senses felt unusually heightened, and intuition implored him now to explore. Just an hour ago the prince had been convinced of his own ineptitude, and though he took some comfort in his recent vindication as pertained to the servant girl, he worried now that he’d been so willing to doubt his better judgment. He had been right to mistrust her all along, had he not? Why, then, was he disappointed to discover that she was somehow duplicitous, after all? Kamran’s mind had been thoroughly exhausted from the upheaval of the day’s emotional journey, and he thought he’d rather drive his head into a wall than lose another moment to the dissection of his feelings. He decided right then that he’d never again deny his instincts—instincts that were now insisting that something was amiss.

Carefully, he moved deeper into the night, fresh rain pelting his face as he scanned for the culprit. A blur. There. A silhouette struck gold in a flicker of gaslight, the figure illuminated in a flash. A girl. She was there and gone again, but it was all he needed to be certain. He saw her snoda, the length of linen wrapped around her neck— Kamran froze. No, he could not believe it. Had he conjured the girl to life with his own thoughts? He felt a moment of triumph, quickly chased by trepidation. Something was wrong. Her movements were frantic, unrehearsed. She ran through the rain as if she were afraid, as if she were being chased. Kamran followed swiftly, homing in on her before panning out again, surveying the area for her aggressor. He saw a fresh blur of movement, a form heavily obscured by the torrential downpour. The figure sharpened into focus by degrees; Kamran could only make out the true shape of him when he reached out, grabbing the girl by the arm. She screamed. Kamran did not think before he reacted. It was instinct that propelled him forward, instinct that bade him grab the man and throw him bodily against the pavement. Kamran drew his sword as he approached the fallen figure, but just as he lifted his blade, the cretin disappeared. Jinn. The unnatural act was enough to sentence the lout to death—and yet, how could you kill a man you could not catch? Kamran muttered an oath as he sheathed his sword. When he spun around, he spotted the girl only paces away, her clothes sagging with rainwater. The skies had not ceased their torment, and Kamran watched as she struggled to run; she appeared to be balancing packages in one arm, stopping at intervals to pull the wet snoda away from her face. Kamran could hardly see three feet in front of him; he could not imagine how she saw anything at all with a sheet of wet fabric obscuring her eyes. “Miss, I mean you no harm,” he called out to her. “But you must remove your snoda. For your safety.” She froze at that, at the sound of his voice.

Kamran was heartened by this and dared to approach her, overcome not only by concern for the girl, but by an impassioned curiosity that grew only stronger by the moment. It occurred to him, as he dared to close the gap between their bodies, that the wrong move might spook her—might send her running blindly through the streets—so he moved with painstaking carefulness. It was no good. He’d taken but two steps toward her and she went flying into the night; in her haste she slipped, landing hard on cobblestone, scattering her packages in the process. Kamran ran to her. Her snoda had slipped an inch, the wet netting sealing around her nose, suffocating her. In a single motion she tore the mask from her face, gasping for air. Kamran hooked his arms under hers and dragged her to her feet. “My—my packages,” she gasped, raindrops pelting her closed eyes, her nose, her mouth. She licked the rainwater from her lips and caught her breath, keeping her eyes shut, refusing to meet his gaze. Her cheeks were flush with color—with cold—her sooty lashes the same shade as her sable curls, wet tendrils spiraling away from her face, some plastered to her neck. Kamran could hardly believe his fate. Her reluctance to open her eyes provided him the rare opportunity to study her at length, without fear of self-consciousness. All this time he’d been wondering about the girl and now here she was, in his arms, her face mere inches from his own and—devils above, he could not look away from her. Her features were both precise and soft, balanced in every quadrant as if by a master. She was finely designed, loveliness rendered in its truest sense. This discovery was surreal to him to the point of distraction, all the more so because Kamran’s calculations had been wrong. He’d suspected she might be beautiful, yes—but this girl was not merely beautiful. She was stunning. “Hang the packages,” he said softly. “Are you hurt?” “No, no—” She pushed against him like she might be blind, still refusing to open her eyes. “Please, I need my packages—” Try as he might, Kamran could not understand.

He knew she was not blind, and yet she pretended at it now, for reasons he could not fathom. At every turn this girl had baffled him, and just as he was beginning to digest this, she threw herself to the ground, sparing Kamran only seconds to catch the girl before her knees connected with stone. She pulled away from him, paying him no mind even as her skirts sank into the old slush of the filthy street, her hands fumbling in the wet for sign of her wares. She moved suddenly into a stroke of gaslight, the flame bracing her in its glow. It was then that Kamran noticed the bandages. Her hands were wrapped almost to the point of immobility; she could hardly bend a finger. It was no wonder she struggled to hold on to her things. He quickly scooped up the scattered items, depositing them into his satchel. He didn’t want to scare her by shouting over the rain, so he bent low and said close to her ear: “I’ve got your packages, miss. You may be easy now.” It was the surprise that did it. It was the sound of his voice so near her face, his warm breath against her skin. Alizeh gasped.

Her eyes flew open, and Kamran froze. It was only seconds that they studied each other, but it seemed to Kamran a century. Her eyes were the silver-blue of a winter moon, framed by wet lashes the color of pitch. He’d never seen anyone like her before, and he had the presence of mind to realize he might never again. Sudden movement caught his attention: a raindrop, landing on her cheek, traveling fast toward her mouth. Only then, with a shock, did he notice the bruise blooming along her jaw. Kamran stared perhaps too long at the discolored mark, the faint impression of a hand it formed. He wondered then that he hadn’t recognized it right away, that he’d so easily dismissed it as an indiscriminate shadow. The longer he stared at it now the harder his heart moved in his chest, the faster heat flooded his veins. He experienced a sudden, alarming desire to commit murder. To the girl he said only: “You are hurt.” She made no response. She was trembling. Drenched through. Kamran was suffering, too, but he had the benefit of a heavy wool cloak, a protective hood. The girl wore only a thin jacket, no hat, no scarf. Kamran knew he needed to convey her home, to make certain she did not catch her death in this weather, but just then he could not seem to move. He didn’t even know this girl’s name and somehow he’d been stricken by her, reduced to this, to stupidity. For the second time that night, she licked the rainwater from her lips, drawing his gaze to her mouth. Had any other young woman done such a thing in his presence, Kamran might’ve thought it a coquettish affectation. But this— He’d read once that Jinn had a particular love of water. Perhaps she could not help licking the rain from her lips any more than he could help staring at her mouth. “Who are you?” he whispered. Her chin lifted at that, her lips parting in surprise. She studied him with wide, shining eyes, and appeared to be as confused by him as he was by her. Kamran took comfort in this, in the realization that they’d confounded each other equally. “Will you not tell me your name?” he asked. She shook her head, the movement slow, uncertain. Kamran felt paralyzed. He could not explain it; his body seemed anchored to hers. He drew closer by micrometers, propelled to do so by a force he could not hope to understand. What mere minutes ago might’ve struck him as lunacy

now seemed to him essential: to know what it might be like to hold her, to breathe in the scent of her skin, to press his lips to her neck. He was scarcely aware of himself when he touched her—light as air, faint as fading memory—a stroke of his fingers against her lips. She vanished. Kamran fell backward, landing hard in a puddle. His heart was racing. He tried and could not collect his thoughts—he scarcely knew where to begin—and he’d been rooted to the spot for at least a minute when Hazan came running forward, out of breath. “I couldn’t see where you’d gone,” he cried. “Were you set upon by thieves? Good God, are you hurt?” Kamran sank fully into the street then, letting himself be absorbed by the wet, the cold, the night. His skin had cooled too quickly, and he felt suddenly feverish. “Sire, I do not think it advisable to sit here, in th—” “Hazan.” “Yes, sire?” “What were you going to tell me about the girl?” Kamran turned his gaze up to the sky, studying the stars through a web of branches. “You say she is not a spy. Not a mercenary. Not assassin nor turncoat. What, then?” “Your Highness.” Hazan was squinting against the rain, clearly convinced the prince had lost his mind. “Perhaps we should head back to the palace, have this conversation over a warm cup of—” “Speak,” Kamran said, his patience snapping. “Or I shall have you horsewhipped.” “She— Well, the Diviners—they say—” “Never mind, I shall horsewhip you myself.” “Sire, they say her blood has ice in it.” Kamran went deathly still. His chest constricted painfully and he stood up too fast, stared into the darkness. “Ice,” he said. “Yes, Your Highness.” “You are certain.” “Quite.” “Who else knows about this?” “Only the king, sire.” Kamran took a sharp breath. “The king.” “He, too—as you know—had been convinced there was something unusual about the girl and bade me report to him my findings straightaway.

I would have come to you sooner with the news, sire, but there were a great many arrangements to be made, as you can well imagine.” A pause. “I confess I’ve never seen the king quite so overwrought.” “No,” Kamran heard himself say. “This is terrible news, indeed.” “Her collection has been set for tomorrow evening, sire.” A pause. “Late night.” “Tomorrow.” Kamran’s eyes were on a single point of light in the distance; he hardly felt a part of his own body. “So soon?” “The king’s orders, Your Highness. We must move with all possible haste and pray no one else gets to her before we do.” Kamran nodded. “It feels almost divine, does it not, that you were so swiftly able to identify her?” Hazan managed a stiff smile. “A servant girl in a snoda? Lord knows we might never have found her out otherwise. You’ve most assuredly spared the empire the loss of countless lives, sire. King Zaal was deeply impressed with your instincts. I’m sure he will tell you as much when you see him.” Kamran said nothing. There was a tense stretch of silence, during which the prince closed his eyes, let the rain lash his face. “Sire,” Hazan said tentatively. “Did you come upon cutthroats earlier? You look as if you came to blows.” Kamran placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Within moments his horse came galloping toward him, the stunning beast rushing to a reckless halt at his master’s feet. Kamran placed a foot in the stirrup and swung himself onto the slick seat. “Sire?” Hazan shouted to be heard over the wind. “Did you meet with anyone out here?” “No.” Kamran grabbed the reins, gave the horse a gentle nudge with his heels. “I saw no one.”

Thirteen

than seven different laws since fleeing the scene with the prince. She was breaking one right then, daring to remain invisible as she entered Baz House. The consequences for such offenses were severe; if she were caught materializing she’d be hung at dawn. Still, she felt she was left with little recourse. Alizeh hurried to the hearth, stripping her coat, unlacing her boots. Public undressing of any kind was considered an act of stateliness, one deemed beneath those of her station. She might be forgiven for removing her snoda late at night, but a servant was forbidden from removing any essential article of clothing in common gathering areas. Not a coat, not a scarf. Certainly not her shoes. Alizeh took a deep breath, reminding herself that she was invisible to Clay eyes. She suspected there were a handful of Jinn employed at Baz House, but as she’d not been allowed to speak with any of the others—and none had dared compromise their positions by reaching out—she’d no way of knowing for certain. She hoped that any who might come upon her now might be willing to look the other way. ALIZEH HAD BROKEN NO FEWER

Alizeh drew nearer the fire, trying as best she could to roast her sopping jacket and boots. Alizeh had a spare dress, but only one jacket and one pair of boots, and there was little chance the articles would dry out overnight in the musty closet that was her bedroom. Though perhaps if she remained indoors all day tomorrow she’d not have need of her jacket—at least not until her appointment with Miss Huda. The idea gave her some comfort. When the jacket lost the worst of its wet, Alizeh slipped her arms back into the still-damp piece, her body tensing at the sensation. She wished she could lay the article out by the fire overnight, but she’d not risk leaving it here, where it might be noticed by anyone. She picked up her boots then, holding them as close to the flames as she dared. Alizeh shivered without warning, nearly dropping the shoes in the fire. She calmed her shaking hands and chattering teeth by taking steady, even breaths, clenching her jaw against the chill. When she felt she could bear it, she put her mostly wet boots back on. Only then did Alizeh finally sink down onto the stone hearth, her trembling legs giving out beneath her. She removed her illusion of invisibility—fully dressed, she’d not be reprimanded for taking a moment by the fire—and sighed. She closed her eyes, leaned her head against the outer brick. Would she allow herself to think about what transpired tonight? She wasn’t sure she could bear it, and yet— So much had gone wrong. Alizeh still worried over her treasonous comments to the apothecarist, and a bit about the man who’d tried to attack her—no doubt to steal her parcels—but most of all she worried about the prince, whose attentions toward her were so baffling as to be absurd. Where had he come from? Why had he cared to help her? He’d touched her just as the devil had foretold, as she’d seen in her nightmares the very night before— But why? What had possessed him to touch her so? Worse: Was he not a murderer of children? Why, then, had he acted with such compassion toward a servant girl? Alizeh dropped her head in her hands. Her throbbing, bandaged hands. The medicine had been all but washed out of her wounds, and the ache had returned in full force. If she allowed herself to consider for even a moment the devastating loss of her packages, she thought she might faint from heartache.

Six coppers. The medicine had cost her nearly all the coin she had, which meant she’d not be able to afford replacements without further work. And yet, without her medicine, Alizeh didn’t know whether her hands would recover quickly enough; Miss Huda would no doubt require the five dresses in short order, as the royal festivities would be arranged without delay. Hers was a simple tragedy: without work Alizeh would not be able to afford medicine; without medicine she might not be able to work. It tore her heart to pieces to think of it. No longer was she able to conquer her despair. She felt the familiar prick of tears, swallowed against the burn in her throat. The cruelty of her life seemed suddenly unbearable. She knew her thoughts to be infantile even as they arrived, but she lacked the strength to stop herself from wondering then, as she’d done on so many other nights, why it was that others had parents, a family, a safe home, and she did not. Why had she been born with this curse in her eyes? Why was she tortured and hated merely for the way her body had been forged? Why had her people been so tragically condemned alongside the devil? For centuries before the bloodshed between Jinn and Clay had begun, Jinn had built their kingdoms in the most uninhabitable lands, in the most brutal climates—if only to be far from the reach of Clay civilization. They’d wanted to exist quietly, peacefully, in a state of near invisibility. But Clay, who had long considered it their divine right—no, duty—to slaughter the beings they saw only as scions of the devil, had mercilessly hunted Jinn for millennia, determined to expunge the earth of their existence. Her people had paid a high price for this delusion. In her weaker moments Alizeh longed to lash out, to allow her anger to shatter the cage of her self-control. She was stronger than any housekeeper who struck her; she was capable of greater force, greater strength and speed and resilience than any Clay body that oppressed her. And yet. Violence alone, she knew, would accomplish nothing. Anger without direction was only hot air, there and gone. She’d seen this happen over and over to her own people. Jinn had tried to flout the rules, to exercise their natural abilities despite the restrictions of Clay law, and they’d all suffered.

Daily, dozens of Jinn bodies had been strung up in the square like bunting, more charred at the stake, still others beheaded, disemboweled. Their divided efforts were no good. Only the unification of Jinn might hope to affect real change, but such a feat was hard to hope for in an age where Jinn had fled their ancestral homes, scattering across the globe in search of work and shelter and anonymity. Their numbers had always been small, and their physical advantages had offered them much protection, but they’d lost hundreds of thousands of people over the last centuries. What was left of them could hardly be cobbled together overnight. The fire snapped in its brick cove, flames flickering urgently. Alizeh wiped her eyes. It was rare that she allowed herself to think on these cruelties. It did not comfort her to speak aloud her agonies the way it did for some; she did not enjoy reanimating the string of corpses she dragged with her everywhere. No, Alizeh was the kind of person who could not dwell on her own sorrows for fear of drowning in their bottomless depths; it was her physical pain and exhaustion tonight that’d weakened her defenses against these darker meditations—which, once torn free from their graves, were not easily returned to the earth. Her tears fell now with abandon. Alizeh knew she could survive long hours of hard labor, knew she could persevere through any physical hardship. It was not the burden of her work or the pain in her hands that broke her—it was the loneliness. It was the friendlessness of her existence; the days on end she spent without the comfort that might be derived from a single sympathetic heart. It was grief. The price she still paid with her soul for the loss of her parents’ lives. It was the fear she was forced to live with every day, the torment that was born from an inability to trust even a friendly merchant to spare her the noose. Alizeh had never felt more alone. She scrubbed at her eyes again and then, for the umpteenth time that day, searched her pockets for her handkerchief. Its disappearance had not bothered her so much the first few times she searched for it, but the loss was beginning to worry her now that she considered it might not be misplaced—but well and truly lost. The handkerchief had been her mother’s.

It was the only personal possession Alizeh had salvaged intact from the ashes of her family home. Her memories of the dreadful night she lost her mother were strange and horrible. Strange that she remembered feeling warm—truly warm—for the first time in her life. Horrible that the roaring flames that engulfed her mother had only made Alizeh want to sleep. She still remembered her mother’s screams that night, the wet handkerchief she’d used to cover her daughter’s face. There’d been so little time to flee. They’d come in the night, when Alizeh and her sole surviving parent had been abed. The two tried, of course, to escape, but a wooden rafter had fallen from the ceiling, pinning them both to the ground. Had it not been for the blow she’d taken to the head, her mother might’ve been strong enough to lift the beam from their bodies that night. For hours, Alizeh screamed. For what felt like an eternity, she screamed. And yet, their home had been so expertly hidden away that there was no one to hear the sound. Alizeh clung to her mother’s body as it burned, taking the embroidered handkerchief from her parent’s limp hand and gathering it up in her own fist. Alizeh had remained with her dead mother until daylight. If not for the eventual disintegration of the beam that trapped her body, Alizeh would’ve stayed there forever, would’ve died of dehydration alongside her mother’s charred flesh. Instead, she emerged from the inferno without a scratch, her skin pristine, her clothes in tatters, the handkerchief all she’d possessed intact. It was the second time in her life she’d survived a fire unscathed, and Alizeh had wondered then, as she often did, whether the ice that ran through her veins would ever truly matter. She startled, suddenly, at the rattle of the back door. Alizeh dared not breathe as she got to her feet. She pressed herself against the wall, tried to calm her racing heart. Her mind knew she had little reason to be afraid here, within the protection of this grand home, but her frayed nerves could not comprehend such logic. Upon entering Baz House she’d been single-minded in her haste to reach the fire; in the process she’d forgotten to lock the kitchen door. She wondered whether to risk doing so now. In a split second, Alizeh made the decision. She flew to the door and threw the bolt just as the handle began to turn, and when the mechanical

movement came to a sudden halt, she sagged with relief. She fell back against the door, clasping both hands to her chest. She could hardly catch her breath. The knock that came next was so unexpected she jumped a foot in the air. She looked around for signs of servants lurking, but none appeared. One glance at the clock and she was reminded: anyone with sense was now abed. She alone was left to manage the destitute stragglers no doubt seeking shelter from the rain. It broke Alizeh’s heart to deny them relief from the desperation she understood only too well, but she also knew she had no choice—not unless she wanted to be tossed into the street alongside them. The knock came again, and this time she felt it, felt the door shake with it. She pressed her back harder against the wood, keeping it from moving in its frame. There was a brief reprieve. Then: “I beg your pardon, but is someone there? I have a rather urgent delivery.” Alizeh went deathly still. She recognized his voice right away; indeed, she doubted she’d ever forget it. He’d discomposed her with a few gentle words, had stripped her of all composure with mere syllables. Even then she’d recognized the strangeness of her reaction—she did not think it common to be so moved by the sound of a voice—but his was rich and melodic, and when he spoke she seemed to feel it inside her. Another knock. “Hello?” She steadied herself and said, “Sir, you may leave any deliveries at the door.” There was a beat of silence. The prince’s voice seemed changed when he next spoke. Softer. “I pray you will forgive me that I cannot, miss. These packages are very important, and I fear they’ll be destroyed in the rain.” For a moment, Alizeh wondered whether this wasn’t a cruel trick; no doubt he’d come to arrest her for vanishing illegally into the night. There seemed no other plausible explanation. Certainly the prince of Ardunia had not braved a torrential downpour to personally deliver a stock of trivial goods to the lowly servant residing at Baz House? And at this late hour? No, she could not believe it.

“Please, miss.” His voice again. “I should only like to return the parcels to their owner.” Alizeh felt suddenly awake with fear. She supposed a different person might be flattered by such attentions, but Alizeh could not help but be wary, for not only did she doubt his motives, but she couldn’t imagine how he’d known to find her when she’d said but a few words in his presence. She swallowed, squeezing her eyes shut. Then again, what did any of it matter if there was a chance she might be returned her parcels? To Alizeh, those packages were everything; without them, her immediate future appeared nothing short of disastrous. If the prince had come all this way only to torture her, she couldn’t see what he might gain by it, for she was perfectly capable of defending herself. No, what confounded her above all else was why the devil had shown her this young man’s face. Perhaps tonight she would finally know. Alizeh took a deep breath and turned the lock. The door groaned as it opened, bringing with it a shower of windswept rain. She quickly stepped aside, allowing the prince entrée, for he was, as she suspected, soaked to the bone. His arms were crossed tightly against his chest, his face obscured almost entirely by the hood of his cloak. He closed the kitchen door behind him. Alizeh took several steps back. She felt horribly exposed meeting him like this, without her snoda. She knew there was little to hide, not now that he’d already seen her face in full, had borne witness to her strange eyes. Still. Habit was hard to overcome. Wordlessly, the prince unhooked the satchel from his body and held it out to her. “The packages are within. I trust they’re all accounted for.” Alizeh’s hands were shaking. Had he really come all this way only to deliver her a kindness? She tried to affect calm as she opened the bag and was uncertain of her success. One at a time, she withdrew the packages, balancing them carefully in the crook of her arm. They were all there, only slightly worse for wear. Alizeh couldn’t quell the sigh of relief that escaped her then. Fresh tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away, composing herself as she returned the bag to its owner. The prince froze as he accepted the satchel.

He appeared to be staring at her, but with much of his face so hidden from view, Alizeh couldn’t be sure. “Your eyes,” he said quietly. “They just”—he shook his head an inch, as if to clear it—“I could’ve sworn they just changed color.” Alizeh retreated farther, putting several pieces of furniture between them. Her thudding heart would not slow. “Please accept my sincerest gratitude,” she said. “You’ve rendered me an unaccountable service by returning my packages. Truly, I do not know how to thank you. I am in your debt, sir.” She winced. She should have said sire, should she not? Thankfully, the prince in question did not seem to take offense. Instead, he pulled back his hood, revealing his face in full for the first time. Alizeh took a sharp breath and a step back, catching herself against a chair. It was mortifying, truly, that she could not bear to look at him. She’d seen his face in her nightmare, but rendered in real life the effect was entirely different; he was startling to behold in the flesh, the sharp planes of his face illuminated by firelight. He had piercing eyes the color of coal, his olive skin so golden it seemed to glow. Indeed there was something almost unnaturally illuminated about him—as if he was limned with light around the edges—and she could not pinpoint its origin. He took a step toward her. “First they were blue,” he said softly. “Then brown. Silver. Ah. Now they’re brown again.” She stiffened. “Blue.” “Stop, I beg you.” He smiled. “I see now why you never remove your snoda.” Alizeh lowered her eyes and said, “You cannot know that I never remove my snoda.” “No,” he said, and she heard the humor in his voice. “I daresay you’re right.” “I must bid you good night,” she said, and turned to go. “Wait. Please.” Alizeh froze, her body turned toward the exit. She wanted desperately to take her parcels up to her room, where she might reapply the miraculous salves to her injuries. Pain was lancing across her palms, her throat. She held the back of her hand to her forehead.

That she was warm at all meant she was warmer than usual, though she consoled herself with the knowledge that there might, at the moment, be several reasons for her elevated temperature. Slowly she turned around, locking eyes with the prince. “You must forgive my inability to grant you an audience at this hour,” she said quietly. “I’ve no doubt you are generous enough to comprehend the difficulty of my position. I’ve precious few hours to sleep before the work bell tolls, and I must return to my quarters with all possible haste.” The prince seemed taken aback by this, and indeed took a step back. “Of course,” he said softly. “Forgive me.” “There is nothing to forgive.” She bobbed a neat curtsy. “Yes.” He blinked. “Good night.” Alizeh turned the corner and waited in the dark, her heart racing, for the sound of the back door opening, then closing. When she was certain the prince was gone, she returned quietly to the kitchen to lock up and bank the fire. Only then did she realize she was not alone.

Fourteen

so unwillingly to the prince that it refused to remain long. Kamran awoke before dawn with a sharpness that surprised him, for he was both abed and then out of it before the sun had SLEEP, THAT ELUSIVE FIEND, CAME

even met the horizon. His body was fatigued, yes, but his mind was clear. It had been running all night; his dreams fevered, his imaginings frenzied. He’d begun to wonder whether the girl had cursed him. She clearly knew not what she’d done to him, nor could she be blamed for her success in so thoroughly disordering his faculties, but Kamran could not conceive a more elegant explanation for what had overcome him. He was moved neither by a base need to physically possess the girl, nor was he deluded enough to think he might be in love with her. Still, he could not understand himself. Never before had he been so consumed by thoughts of anyone. The girl was going to be murdered. She was going to be murdered by his own grandfather, and it seemed to Kamran the worst kind of tragedy. The prince was one of the few people who knew, of course. He and Hazan both knew of the prophecy, the foretelling of a creature with ice in its veins. Every king in the history of the Ardunian empire had received a prophecy, and King Zaal had felt it his duty to manage the prince’s expectations of such an event. Long ago his grandfather had explained to him that, on the day of his coronation, Kamran would receive two visits. The first, from a Diviner. The other, from the devil. The devil would offer him a bargain, the terms of which Kamran should under no circumstances accept. The Diviner, his grandfather had said, would make a prediction. When Kamran asked what prediction the Diviners had made for him, King Zaal had grown unnaturally reticent, saying only that he’d been warned of the rise of a fearsome adversary, a demon-like creature with ice in its veins. It was said to be an enemy with allies so formidable its mere existence would lead to the king’s eventual demise. Enraged, the young prince had promised his grandfather right then that he would search all of Ardunia for this monster, that he would slay the beast and deliver its head to the king on a pike. You need not worry, his grandfather had said, smiling. I will slay the beast myself. Kamran closed his eyes and sighed. He splashed water on his face, performing his morning ablutions with care. It seemed impossible that the terrifying monster of his childhood

imaginings was in fact the stunning young woman he’d encountered last night. Kamran towel dried his face and applied orange blossom oil to his neck, to the pulse points at his wrists. He took a deep breath and drew the intoxicating scent into his body, relaxing as it warmed his chest, lowered his heart rate. Slowly, he exhaled. He was so unfamiliar with the feelings that possessed him now that he wondered for a moment whether he might well and truly be ill. How he’d even delivered himself to his chambers the evening prior he knew not, for he rode home through the blustery night as if in a trance. The girl’s beauty had first rendered him speechless under the most unflattering conditions— in the half-light of a vicious storm—but seeing her face by firelight had dealt him a physical blow from which he had no hope of recovering. Worse, far worse: he thought her fascinating. He found himself captivated by her contradictions, the choices she made, even the way she moved. Who was she, precisely? Where had she come from? His ambitions upon arriving at her door last night had been scattered by a battering of his senses. He’d hoped to accomplish a great deal by going to her; he’d wanted to return her packages, yes, but there was something more that had compelled his senseless visit, a motivation of which he was entirely ashamed. Had his visit been successful Kamran might’ve betrayed his king, his empire. He would’ve been reduced to the most repellant variety of idiot, instead of the next king of Ardunia. He’d gone to warn her. He’d gone to tell her to run, to pack her bags and flee, to find a safe place to hide and remain there, possibly forever. And yet, when he saw her face, he realized that he could not simply ask her to run; no, she was an intelligent girl, she would have questions. If he told her to flee, she would want to know why. And what reason would she have to trust him? He’d hardly begun to process this when she’d all but dismissed him. It was possible she’d not known who he was—she’d called him sir, at one point—but he suspected that even if she’d known she were speaking to a prince she’d have treated him the same. In any case, it did not seem to matter. Kamran had known his grandfather’s position on the girl; going against the king would’ve been an act of treason. Had Kamran been found out, his

head would’ve been removed from his body in short order. It was some small miracle, then, that he’d lost his nerve. Or perhaps regained his good sense. He did not know this girl. He did not understand why the thought of killing her left him feeling ill. He only knew that he had to at least try to find another way—for surely she, a humble servant, was not the demonlike creature with an abundance of formidable allies prophesied all those years ago. No, most assuredly not. Kamran finished dressing himself without the assistance of his stillsleeping valet, and then—to the shock and horror of the palace servants— stole belowstairs to filch a cup of tea from the kitchens on his way out. He needed to speak with his grandfather. Kamran had lived at the royal palace his whole life and yet he never tired of its resplendent views, its acres of manicured gardens, its endless pomegranate groves. The grounds were of course always magnificent, but the prince never loved them more than he did at sunrise, when the world was still quiet. He stopped where he stood then, lifting the still-steaming cup to his lips. He was standing in the illusion of a glittering infinity; the single mile of ground beneath his feet was in fact a shallow pool three inches deep. A sudden wind nudged water against his boots, the soothing sounds of gentle waves a welcome balm for his tired mind. Kamran took another drink of his tea. He was staring up at the soaring, open-air archways, their tens of dozens of exquisite columns planted into the shallow depths around him. The smooth white stonework of the structures was inlaid with vibrant jewels and vivid tiles, all of which benefited now from the blossom of a waking sun. Fiery light refracted against the bezel-set gems, fracturing endless prismatic colors along the sleeping grounds. More golden rays shattered through the open arches, gilding the water beneath his feet so that it looked almost like liquid bullion. The beauty of Kamran’s life was often lost on him, but not always. There was some mercy in that. He finished the last of his tea and hooked a finger through its glass handle, letting the cup swing as he strode onward. With the rise of the sun came the stir of servants; snodas were popping up all around him, bustling past with vessels and trays.

Baskets of pomegranates were balanced precariously on heads, under arms. There were silver trays heaving with baklava and delicate honey grapes, others stacked high with fresh barbari bread, each oblong sheet the length of a setar. And flowers—manifold bouquets of flowers—tens of servants rushing by carrying armloads of the fragrant stems. There were copper bowls filled with glossy green tea leaves; basil and mint and tarragon piled high on gold platters. Another endless procession of snodas carried rice—innumerable, incalculable sacks of rice. Sudden foreboding caught Kamran by the throat; he went unearthly still. Then he spun around. There was more; there were more. More servants, more trays, more baskets and tureens and bushels and platters. Wheels of feta cheese were shuttled past; trolleys overstuffed with fresh chestnuts. There were stockpiles of vivid-green pistachios and salvers laden with saffron and tangerines. There were towers of peaches; an abundance of plums. Three servants shuffled past with a tremendous dripping honeycomb, the mass of sticky beeswax spanning the width of an oversized door. Every second seemed to bring more. More crates, more hampers, more sacks and wheelbarrows. Dozens and dozens of servants rushing to and fro. It was madness. While it was true that there was often a great deal happening at the palace, this level of activity was unusual. To see the servants getting started so early—and with so much to occupy their arms— Kamran drew a sharp breath. The teacup slipped from his finger, shattering as it hit the ground. These were preparations for a ball. Kamran couldn’t believe it. His grandfather had said he might wait at least a week before confirming the date, but this—this meant the king had made the decision without him. For him. Kamran’s heart seemed to beat in his throat. He knew what this meant. He knew it to be an intentional unkindness. It was subterfuge glossed over with the shellac of benevolence. His grandfather wasn’t willing to wait a moment longer, instead forcing him, now, to choose a bride. Why?

The question pounded over and over in his head, steady as a heartbeat, as he all but ran to the king’s chambers. Kamran wasted no time upon arrival. He pounded on his grandfather’s door in as polite a manner as he could manage, stepping back when it swung open, ignoring the servant who addressed him. He pushed forward into the room, his earlier arguments in favor of the girl’s life all but forgotten in the wake of this—this— He turned the corner and discovered the king in his dressing room. Kamran came to a sudden halt, his chest heaving with barely suppressed frustration. He bowed before the king, who bade him rise with a gesture of his hand. Kamran stood, then stepped back. It would not do to speak on the subject until the king was fully dressed, and besides, his grandfather’s valet—a man named Risq—was still in the room, assisting the king with his long velvet robes. Today King Zaal wore a scarlet set with fringed epaulets; Risq buttoned the golden center strip that was the placket, then draped a pleated blue sash across the king’s chest. This, he anchored with a heavy, intricately designed pearl belt, which he secured at the center with a single medallion: an eight-pointed star. Dressing the king took an agonizingly long time. There were endless layers, an infinite number of details. Kamran himself was expected to undergo a great deal of fanfare in his dress, but as he was seldom seen or required in public, he was more often spared the pomp and ceremony. Watching the king now, Kamran realized with a creeping dread that he would one day be expected to perform every tedious practice his grandfather undertook. He clenched, unclenched his fists. Only once every military badge and royal insignia was secured—the miniature of King Zaal’s late wife, Elaheh, was pinned in a position of prominence over his heart—and his pearl harnesses were crisscrossed over his chest, did the king ask his man to leave them. His grandfather’s ornate crown—so heavy it could be used to bludgeon a man—he held in his arms. Kamran stepped forward, hardly parting his lips to speak, when his grandfather lifted a hand. “Yes,” he said. “I know you’ve come to change my mind.” Kamran stiffened.

For a moment, he wasn’t sure to which problem the king was referring. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said carefully. “Indeed, I’ve come to try.” “Then I will be sorry to disappoint you. My position on the matter is resolute. The girl is a threat; such a threat must be removed immediately.” The impending ball was at once forgotten. Kamran only stared, for a moment, at the face of his grandfather: his clear brown eyes, his rosy skin, his shock of white hair, white beard, white eyelashes. This was a man he loved; one he dearly respected. Kamran had admired King Zaal his entire life, had seen him always as a paragon of justice and greatness. He wanted, with his entire soul, to agree with the king—to stand always beside this extraordinary man—but for the first time, Kamran struggled. For the first time, he doubted. “Your Majesty,” Kamran said quietly. “The girl has committed no crime. She’s done nothing to threaten the empire.” King Zaal laughed, his eyes widening in amusement. “Done nothing to threaten the empire? She is the sole surviving heir to an ancient kingdom —on our own land—and not a threat to our empire? She is the very definition.” Kamran froze. “She—what?” “I see you’ve not figured it out, then.” Zaal lost his smile by inches. “She is not a mere servant girl.” Kamran felt a bit like he’d been impaled on a dull blade. He’d known there was something unusual about the girl, but this— “How can you know for certain who she is?” “You forget, child, that I have been searching for precisely such a creature since the day I became king. In fact I’d thought for certain I’d found her once; I assumed her dead some years ago. That she was alive was a surprise to me, but if there is ice in her veins, there can be no doubt.” The prince frowned. This was too much to process. “You say she is the sole surviving heir to an ancient kingdom. But wouldn’t that make her—” “Yes,” said his grandfather. “Yes. She is, among her people, considered a queen.” Kamran took a sharp breath. “Why have you never told me about this? That there are other kingdoms in Ardunia?” Zaal touched two fingers to his temple; he looked suddenly tired. “They died out thousands of years ago. They are not like us, Kamran; they do not

pass down their line through their children. They claim their sovereigns are chosen by the earth, marked by the infinite cold they were once forced to endure. It is said that the ice chooses only the strongest among them, for there are very few who can survive the brutality of the frost inside the body.” A pause. “Surely you must see that she is not some ordinary girl.” “And yet— Forgive me, but she seems wholly unaware of who she is. She lives a life of the lowest status, spends her days doing backbreaking labor. Do you not think—” “That she might be ignorant of her own self? Of what she might be capable?” “I do think it’s possible, yes, that she doesn’t know. She appears to have no family—perhaps no one has told her—” King Zaal laughed again, though sadly this time. “Ice runs through the girl’s veins,” he said, shaking his head. “Ice so rare it is revered, even as it damages the body. That kind of power leaves its marks, child. The girl no doubt carries the proof of her identity on her own flesh—” “Your Majesty—” “But yes, yes, let us pretend. For your sake let us pretend and say you are right, that she does not know who she is. What then?” The king steepled his hands under his chin. “If you do not think there are others searching for her right now, you are not paying close enough attention. Pockets of unrest in the Jinn communities continue to disturb our empire. There are many among them deluded enough to think the resurrection of an old world is the only way to move forward.” Kamran’s jaw tensed. He did not appreciate the condescension in his grandfather’s tone. “Indeed I am well aware,” he said flatly. “I would humbly remind my grandfather that I was away from home for over a year, overseeing our armies, witnessing such accounts firsthand. It is not the threat I misunderstand, Your Highness, but the tactic. To take a preemptive strike against an innocent young woman— Would it not be worse? What if our actions against her were discovered? Would that not result in greater chaos?” For a moment, King Zaal was silent. “It is indeed a risk,” he said finally. “But one that has been thoroughly considered. If the girl were to claim her place as the queen of her people, it is possible, even with the brace of the Fire Accords, that an entire race would pledge their allegiance to her on the basis of an ancient loyalty alone. The Accords would be forgotten in the time it took to light a torch.

The Jinn of Ardunia would form an army; the remaining civilians would riot. An uprising would wreak havoc across the land. Peace and security would be demolished for months—years, even—in the pursuit of an impossible dream.” Kamran felt himself growing irritated and forced himself to remain calm. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, if we can imagine our Accords so easily broken, should we not be compelled to wonder what makes them brittle? If the Jinn among us would move so easily to revolt—to pledge allegiance to another—should we not first consider addressing the dissatisfaction that might move them to revolution? Perhaps if they felt more reason to be loyal to us, they would not—” “Your idealism,” King Zaal said sharply, “is romantic. Diplomatic. And unrealistic. Can you not see my motivation for the establishment of the Accords? The entire reason I so desperately sought the unification of the races was to get ahead of the prophecy, to suture together the two groups so the Jinn could not be so easily claimed by a new sovereign—” “My apologies,” Kamran bit out angrily. “I thought you established the Accords to bring peace to our empire, to finally end the unnecessary bloodshed—” “And that is precisely what I did,” King Zaal thundered, more than matching his grandson’s tone. “Your own eyes cannot deny it. You have seen since the day you were born that my every effort has been in the service of our people. With my very life I’ve tried always to prevent war. To circumvent tragedy. To protect our legacy. “One day, Kamran, I’ve no doubt you will be a great king. Until then there is much you do not see, and a great deal more you must try to anticipate. Tell me: can you imagine such a revolt finding success?” “Does it matter?” the prince nearly shouted. King Zaal raised his chin, drew a sharp breath. “Forgive me.” Kamran lowered his eyes and collected himself. “But does it matter whether they are capable of success? Is there not a greater danger, Your Highness, in demanding obedience from unwilling subjects? And should any sovereign be satisfied with the tenuous allegiance of a people merely biding their time, waiting for the right moment to unleash their anger—to revolt? Would it not be wiser to allow such a people a voice now—to cool their anger now—in the interest of preventing an eruption later?”

“You are quite good,” his grandfather said coldly, “at taking clear and logical arguments and elevating them to a level so esoteric they are rendered ineffectual. “Your reasoning, while admirably impassioned, will not weather the storms of the real world. This is not about rights, child, but reason. It is about preventing the kind of bloodshed so horrific it would keep a man from ever again closing his eyes. What astounds me most is that you, the impending heir to this throne, would even consider allowing the birth of another monarchy on your own land.” His grandfather hesitated a moment, studied Kamran’s face. “You’ve met this girl, I take it? Spoken with her?” Kamran tensed; a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Yes,” said the king. “As I thought.” “I do not know her, Your Majesty. Only of her, and from afar. My arguments are not influenced b—” “You are young,” said his grandfather. “As such, you are well within your rights to be foolish. Indeed it is natural at your age to make mistakes, to fall for a pretty face and pay dearly for your folly. But this— Kamran, this would not be foolish. This would not be folly. This would be a travesty. No good can come of such an alliance. I gave you a direct command, bade you find a wife—” A moment of madness prompted Kamran to say, “This girl has royal blood, does she not?” King Zaal rose to his feet, abandoning his throne with an agility that belied his age. He carried a golden mace, which he slammed against the glittering floor. Kamran had never seen his grandfather angry like this— had never seen him unleash the weight of his temper—and the transformation was chilling. Kamran did not see a man in that moment, but a king; a king who’d ruled the world’s largest empire for nigh on a century. “You would dare make a tasteless joke,” he said, chest heaving as he stared down at his grandson, “about a creature predestined to orchestrate my demise.” Kamran swallowed. The words felt like ash in his throat when he said, “I beg you will forgive me.” King Zaal took a deep breath, his body trembling with the effort to remain calm. It felt like centuries before he finally resumed his throne. “You will now answer me honestly,” said his grandfather quietly. “Knowing the might of Ardunia—tell me sincerely whether you can imagine the eventual victory of such a revolt.”

Kamran lowered his eyes. “I cannot.” “No,” said the king. “Nor I. How would they ever hope to win against us? Our empire is too old, our armies too strong, our bases scattered generously across the land. It would be a long and bloody war, and all for naught. How many lives would be lost in the pursuit of an impossible revolution?” Kamran closed his eyes. “You would consider risking the peace of millions,” his grandfather went on, “the unnecessary deaths of tens of thousands—to spare the life of one girl? Why? Why spare her when we already know who she will become? What she will go on to do? My dear child, these are the kinds of decisions you will be forced to make, over and over, until death strips your soul from this world. I hope I never led you to believe your task here would be easy.” A length of silence stretched between them. “Your Majesty,” the prince said finally. “I do not dare deny your wisdom, and I do not mean to take lightly such a prophecy from our Diviners. I only argue that perhaps we wait to cut her down until she becomes the enemy once foretold.” “Would you wait for poison to ravage your body, Kamran, before taking the antidote you hold all the while in your hand?” Kamran studied the floor and said nothing. There was so much the prince longed to say, but this conversation felt impossible. How might he hope to argue in favor of leniency toward a person believed to be the provocation of his grandfather’s demise? Were the girl to make even the slightest move against King Zaal, Kamran’s choice would be clear, his emotions undiluted. He would not scruple to defend his grandfather with his life. The problem was that Kamran could not believe that the girl—as she existed now—had any interest in overthrowing the throne. Murdering her as an innocent seemed to him an action dark enough to dissolve the soul. Still, he could not say any of this for fear of offending the king, in addition to losing what little respect his grandfather had left for him. They’d never fought like this, never been so far apart on such an important issue. Even so, Kamran felt he had to try. Just once more. “Could we not consider,” he said, “perhaps—keeping her somewhere? In hiding?”

King Zaal canted his head. “You mean to put her in prison?” “Not— No, not prison, but— Perhaps we could encourage her to leave, live elsewhere—” His grandfather’s face shuttered closed. “How can you not see? The girl cannot be free. While she is free, she can be found, she can be rallied, she can become a symbol of revolution. So long as I am king, I cannot allow it.” Kamran returned his gaze to the floor. He felt a savage pain lance through him then, the blade of failure. Grief. The girl would be sentenced to death because of him, because he’d had the audacity to notice her, and the self-importance to announce what he’d seen. “Tonight,” said the king gravely, “the girl will be dealt with. Tomorrow night, you will choose a wife.” Kamran looked up in an instant, his eyes wild. “Your Majesty—” “And we will never discuss this again.”

Fifteen

a sunlit window, she saw motion, then heard it: a flutter of wings, the sound like blades of grass in the wind, pushing together, then apart. Alizeh was washing the windows of Baz House on this beautiful morning, and when compared to her tasks the day before, the work seemed almost luxurious. The sound of wings grew suddenly louder then, and a tiny body careened into the window with a soft bop. Alizeh shooed it away. The fluttering insect repeated this action twice more. Alizeh checked to make sure she was alone before she held up a single finger to her lips. “You must be quiet,” she whispered. “And remain close to me.” The firefly did as it was bade, and landed gently on the nape of her neck, where it folded its wings, crawled downward, and ducked its head underneath her collar. Alizeh dipped her sponge in its bucket, wrung the excess water, and continued scrubbing the smudged glass. She’d reapplied the salve to her hands and throat last night, which had made her pain quite manageable this morning. In fact, in the presence of the sun, all the terrors induced by the events of the evening prior had faded. It was easier for Alizeh to declare her fears dramatic when the skies were so clear, when her hands no longer throbbed in agony. Today, she swore, would be easier. She would not fear the condemnations of the apothecarist; nor would she concern herself with the prince, who had only done her a kindness. She would not worry over her missing handkerchief, which would doubtless be found; she would not fear for her health, not now that she had her salves. And the devil, she reasoned, could go to hell. Things were going to get better. Tonight, she had an appointment inside the Lojjan ambassador’s estate. She was engaged to design and execute the creation of five gowns, for which she might hope to collect a total of forty coppers, which was nearly half a stone. Goodness, Alizeh had never even held a stone. Her mind had already run wild with the possibilities such a sum of coin might provide. Her wildest hope was to secure enough customers to make a regular living, for only then might she be able to leave Baz House. If she was careful and kept to a tight budget, she prayed she’d be able to afford a IN THE SILKY GLIMMER OF

small room of her own—maybe somewhere sparsely populated on the outskirts of town—somewhere she might never be bothered. Her heart swelled at the thought. Somehow, she would manage it. She’d keep her head down and work hard, and one day she’d be free of this place, these people. She hesitated, her sponge pressed against the glass. Alizeh could not help but think how strange it was that she worked in service. All her life she’d known she wanted to spend her life in the service of others, though not at all like this. Life, it seemed, possessed a sense of irony. Alizeh had been brought up to lead, to unify, to free her people from the half-lives they’d been forced to live. Once, she’d been meant to revive an entire civilization. The painful frost growing inside her veins was a primitive phenomenon, one thought lost to her people a millennia ago. Alizeh knew only a little of the abilities she was rumored to possess, for though there was an inherent power in the ice that pulsed through her, it was a power that could not be tapped until she came of age, and even then would not mature without the assistance of an ancient magic buried deep in the Arya mountains, where her ancestors had built their first kingdom. And then, of course, she would require a kingdom. The idea struck her as so preposterous it nearly made her laugh, even as it broke her heart. Still, it had been at least a thousand years since there’d been news of a Jinn born with ice in their blood, which made Alizeh’s mere existence nothing short of miraculous. Nearly two decades ago whispers of Alizeh’s strange, cold eyes had spread among the Jinn the way only a rumor might, expectations building every day upon the slopes of her young shoulders. Her parents, who knew she would not be safe until she came of age at eighteen, had removed their daughter from the noisy, needy world, secreting her away for so long that the whispers, without fuel, were soon reduced to ash. Alizeh, too, was forgotten shortly thereafter. All those who knew of her had been killed, and Alizeh, who had no ally, no kingdom, no magic, and no resources, knew her life was best spent simply trying to survive. She no longer had any ambition beyond a desire to live a quiet, undetected existence. In her more hopeful moments Alizeh dreamed of

living somewhere lost in the countryside, tending to a flock of sheep. She’d sheer them every spring, using their wool to weave a rug as long as the world was round. It was a dream at once simple and implausible, but it was an imagining that gave her comfort when her mind required an escape. She promised herself things wouldn’t always be this hard. She promised herself that the days would get better, bit by bit. In fact, things were already better. For the first time in years, Alizeh had company. And as if to remind her, the firefly nudged her neck. Alizeh shook her head. The firefly nudged her again. “Yes, I know, you’ve made it very clear that you’d like me to come outside with you,” she said, scarcely breathing the words. “But as you can plainly see, I’m not allowed to leave this house at will.” She could almost feel the firefly grieve. It wilted against her neck, rubbing one little arm over its eyes. The creature had snuck into Baz House last night, during the brief window of time it took for the prince to open and close the back door. It had flown hard and fast in her direction, pelting her in the cheek with its little body. It’d been so long since Alizeh had seen a firefly that, at first, she hadn’t recognized the creature. When she did, she smiled so wide she hardly knew herself. Alizeh had been sent a firefly. A communiqué. From whom? She did not know. Though not for a lack of effort on the part of the insect. The poor thing had been trying to drag her outside since the moment it found her. There was a special relationship between Jinn and fireflies, for though they could not communicate directly, they understood each other in ways unique only to the two species. Fireflies were to Jinn what some animals were to Clay. Beloved companions. Loyal friends. Comrades in arms. Alizeh knew, for example, that this firefly was a friendly one, that it already knew who she was, and that it wanted now to guide her to a meeting with its owner. Though it appeared neither the firefly nor its owner understood the limits surrounding Alizeh’s freedom. She sighed.

She took as much time as she dared scrubbing each delicate windowpane, enjoying the expansive view to the outside. It was rare that she was afforded so much time to take in the beauty of Setar, and she relished it now: the shattering, snowcapped Istanez mountain range in the distance; the frosted green hills in between. Dozens of narrow rivers fractured the landscape, the valleys blue with turquoise and rainwater, bookended on either side by miles of saffron and rose fields. Alizeh was from the very north of Ardunia—from Temzeel province— an icy, elevated region so close to the stars she’d often thought she could touch them. She missed her home desperately, but she could not deny the splendors of Setar. Without warning, the bell tolled. It was noon, the morning now officially at an end. The sun had slid discreetly into position at the apex of the horizon, and Alizeh marveled at it through the glass, at the jolly warmth it emanated across the land. She really was in a fine mood. She recognized that it had been good for her to cry last night, to release a bit of the pressure in her chest. She felt lighter this morning, better than she had in a long ti— The sponge dropped from her fingers without warning, landing with a dull thud in its soapy bucket, spraying her fresh snoda with dirty water. Anxiously, she dried her wet hands on her apron and pressed closer to the window. Alizeh could not believe her eyes. She clapped a hand over her mouth, overcome by an irrational happiness to which she was almost certainly not entitled. That wretched Fesht boy had nearly slit her throat; what reason did she have to be delighted to see him now? Oh, she didn’t know, and she didn’t care. She couldn’t believe he’d come. Alizeh watched him as he came up the walk, marveling anew at his shock of red hair and prematurely long frame. The boy was an entire head taller than her, and at least five years younger; it was a wonder to her how he grew at all for a child who ate so little. The boy arrived at the fork in the footpath then, making a sharp right where he should’ve gone left, his unsettling choice directing him straight to the main entrance. When Alizeh was certain his vivid figure had disappeared for good, her joy evaporated. Why had he gone to the front door?

She’d instructed the boy to come to the kitchens, not the main house. If she hurried right this second she might, under the pretense of collecting more water, be able to rush down to meet him. But if he was discovered at the front door not only would he be whipped for the impudence—she’d be cast out for having promised him bread. Alizeh sat back, her heart racing at the thought. Was this her fault? Should she have explained things more thoroughly to the boy? But what street child was deluded enough to think he might be admitted through the front door of a grand estate? She dropped her face in her hands. The firefly fluttered its wings against her neck, asking the obvious question. Alizeh shook her head. “Oh, nothing,” she said softly. “Just that I’m fairly certain I’ll be thrown out onto the street . . . any minute now.” At that, the firefly grew animated, taking flight and tossing its body once more at the window. Bop. Bop. Alizeh couldn’t help her smile then, however reluctant. “Not in a good way, you silly creature.” “Girl!” A familiar voice barked at her. Alizeh froze. “Girl!” In a flash, the firefly flew up the cuff of Alizeh’s sleeve, where it shuddered against her skin. Alizeh turned slowly from her seat in the window bay to face Mrs. Amina, where the housekeeper somehow managed to tower over her even from below. “Yes, ma’am?” “Who were you talking to?” “No one, ma’am.” “I saw your lips moving.” “I was humming a song, ma’am.” Alizeh bit her lip. She wanted to say more—to offer up a more robust lie—but she was warier than ever of saying too much. “Your job is to disappear,” Mrs. Amina said sharply. “You’re not allowed to hum, you’re not allowed to speak, you’re not allowed to look at anyone. You don’t exist when you work here, especially when you’re abovestairs. Do I make myself clear?”

Alizeh’s heart was racing. “Yes, ma’am.” “Get down here. Now.” Alizeh’s body felt suddenly heavy. She climbed down the rickety wooden ladder as if in a dream, her heartbeats growing louder as she went. She kept her eyes on the ground as she approached the housekeeper. “Forgive me,” she said quietly, keeping her head down. “It won’t happen again.” “I daresay it will not.” Alizeh braced herself, waiting for what seemed the inevitable strike, when Mrs. Amina suddenly cleared her throat. “You have a guest,” she said. Very slowly, Alizeh looked up. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?” “You may meet him in the kitchen. You will have fifteen minutes.” “But— Who—” “And not a minute more, do you understand?” “Y-yes. Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Amina marched off, leaving Alizeh sagging in place. She couldn’t believe it. A visitor? It had to be the boy, did it not? The Fesht boy. And yet— How could a street child have been admitted into the home of a duchess? How might he then be granted an audience with the lowest servant in the order? Oh, her curiosity would not quiet. Alizeh did not walk, but flew to the kitchens, lifting her sleeve to her mouth as she went. “It looks as if I won’t be tossed into the street after all,” she breathed, hardly daring to move her lips. “That’s good news, isn’t it? And now I’ve got a . . .” She trailed off, slowing down when she realized she could no longer feel the firefly’s legs on her arm, nor its wings against her skin. She peered inside her sleeve. “Where are you?” she whispered. The firefly was nowhere to be found.

Sixteen

clear, the sun proud in the sky. The prior evening’s storm had washed clean the city of Setar, leaving in its wake a freshness and clarity its crown prince did not share. Kamran sighed in the direction of the sun, cursing its shine, its beauty. He’d been swallowed whole by many a dark mood in his eighteen years, but his disposition at this hour was singularly volatile. Still, the boy was not cruel. He knew better than to grant such darkness an audience, and had abandoned the palace for Surati Forest, whose towering pink trees were like something out of a dream. It was one of the prince’s favorite places, not only for its beauty but for its seclusion, for it was accessible only by mountain cliff—from which one was required to jump, and often to their death. Kamran never much minded this risk. He’d brought with him only a small, patterned red rug, which he’d unfurled upon the snowy forest floor, and upon which he now reclined. He stared impassively at the impressive grove, the fluorescent pink trunks and THE AFTERNOON ROSE BRIGHT AND

their fluorescent pink leaves. Fresh snowfall had obscured the miles of green moss blanketing the ground, but the endless white drift lent its own cold beauty to the scene. Kamran closed his eyes as a breeze skated along his face, mussing the glossy black waves of his hair. He heard the sweet chirp of a pair of songbirds, the buzz of a rare dragonfly. The hawk circling high above might’ve witnessed only a young man in repose, but the humble ant would’ve known better, would’ve felt the violent tremble emanating from his limbs, fracturing across the forest floor. No, Kamran’s anger could not be contained. It was no wonder, then, that he remained undisturbed as he lay exposed in the middle of uncharted land. Snake and spider, scarab and snow leopard, insects large and small, bears both white and brown. They all knew to give the young prince a wide berth, for there was no greater repellant than anger, and the woods shook with this warning now. Today, Kamran had begun to doubt everything. He had felt only sadness upon leaving his grandfather’s rooms that morning, but as the day wore on and his mind continued to work, his anger had grown over him like ivy. He was experiencing the grief of disillusionment, going over and over again in his mind his every memory of his grandfather; every moment he’d thought the man just and benevolent. All that King Zaal had done for the common good—had it been only in the interest of his own protection? Even now he heard his grandfather’s voice in his head— In fact I’d thought for certain I’d once found her I assumed her dead some years ago Kamran had not questioned the statement when first spoken by the king, but now, at his leisure, he combed over every word of their earlier conversation, turned it inside out for analysis. What had his grandfather meant when he’d said he was surprised the girl was alive? Did that mean he’d tried to kill her before? Some years ago, he’d said. The girl couldn’t have been a day older than Kamran—of that, he felt certain—so what conclusion was he left to draw? That his grandfather had tried to murder a child? The prince sat up, dragged his hands down his face. He knew, intellectually, that these were not ordinary circumstances.

That the girl’s animus had been foretold by the Diviners meant a great deal, for the mouths of the priests and priestesses were touched with binding, brutal magic before they were even allowed to take their vows. They were as a result beings physically incapable of telling lies, and whose prophecies were the fodder of legend. Never once had they been wrong. But try as he might shape his heart to the painful context of the situation, the prince could not condone the killing of an innocent. He could not fathom the murder of the girl, not now, not for the crime of merely existing. So it had become, in the aftermath of their meeting, critically important to Kamran to reconcile his heart and mind. He’d wanted, desperately, to side with his grandfather, who in eighteen years had always treated Kamran with an abundance of love and loyalty. The prince could learn to accept his grandfather as imperfect; all else might be forgiven if he could only prove today the merit of the king’s argument—that the girl was indeed a threat. It was with this in mind that the prince had consoled himself with a single plan of action: He would find evidence. He would prove to himself that the girl was plotting against the crown; that she had ambitions of bloodshed; that she hoped to incite a revolt. It certainly seemed possible. For the more he’d thought on it, the more impossible it seemed to Kamran that the girl did not know who she was. On that score, his grandfather had to be right. Why else the refinement, the elegance and education, the knowledge of multiple languages? She’d been bred for royalty, had she not? Was it not a disguise, the lowering of herself into obscurity? Was not the snoda merely an excuse to hide her unusual eyes, which were likely proof of her identity? Devils above, Kamran had not been able to decide. For it was not entirely a performance, was it? She worked every day for her living, scrubbed the floors of her lessers, cleaned the toilets of a gentlewoman. Deeply agitated, Kamran had drawn his hood low over his head, pulled the chain mail over his face, and gone straight from his grandfather’s chambers into the center of town. He’d been determined to find reason in what seemed like madness, and the parcels seemed his straightest path to clarity.

Kamran had recognized their seal the night prior; they were from the apothecary in town. Only this morning had it occurred to him that the girl might’ve overreacted to their loss. It had suddenly seemed strange to him that anyone would grow hysterical at the thought of losing a few medicinal herbs—items that were easily found, easily replaced. It was possible, then, that there was more to their contents. The parcels might help prove her hand in some nefarious scheme, tie her to some underhanded plotting; uncovering their truth might establish her as a real threat to the empire. It was perhaps not too late, he’d consoled himself, to find a way to support the king’s decision against her. So he’d gone. It was a simple matter for him to locate the apothecary, disguise himself as a magistrate, ask questions of the proprietor. He’d pretended to be going shop to shop, asking questions about possible criminal acts committed during the previous evening’s revelry, and had hounded the poor man for every detail concerning his late-night customers. One, in particular. “Sir, I confess I don’t understand,” the proprietor had said nervously. He was a wiry man, with black hair and brown skin; a man named Deen. “She purchased only what I recommended for her injuries, nothing more.” “And what had you recommended?” “Oh,” he said, faltering a bit as he remembered. “Oh, just—well, there were two different kinds of salve. She had very different injuries, sir, though both treatments were meant to help with the pain and guard against infection, albeit in slightly different ways. Nothing unusual. That was all, really. Yes, it was just some salve and—and some linen bandages.” Salve and linen bandages. She’d fallen to her knees in the gutter to save a few coppers’ worth of salve and linen bandages? “You’re quite certain?” Kamran had asked. “There was nothing else— nothing of considerable value? Nothing particularly precious or expensive?” At this, the tension in Deen’s body seemed to vanish. The apothecarist blinked curiously at the man wearing a face of chain mail—the man he considered a magistrate—and said, with surprising calm, “When a person is in tremendous pain, sir, is not its remedy worth everything? Valued above all else?”

Kamran managed an indifferent tone when he said, “You mean to say the girl was in tremendous pain?” “Most certainly. She did not complain of it aloud, but her wounds were severe and had been festering all day. I’ve witnessed many a man in my shop weep over lesser injuries.” Kamran had felt the words like a blow. “Forgive me,” Deen said carefully. “But as magistrate you must surely know that the wages of a snoda are paid out predominantly in the form of shelter? I rarely see a snoda in my shop, for most receive only three tonce a week in addition to their housing. Lord only knows how the girl scraped together the coppers to pay me.” Deen hesitated. “I explain all this only because you have asked, sir, if the girl left my store with anything of considerable value, and—” “Yes, I see,” Kamran had said sharply. He’d felt sick with self-loathing, with shame. He’d hardly heard Deen as the man prattled on, providing details Kamran no longer cared to hear. He did not want to know that the girl was friendly or evidently hardworking. He did not want to hear Deen describe the bruise on her face or discuss at length his suspicions that she was being abused by her employer. “She was a nice girl,” Deen had gone on. “Oddly well-spoken for a snoda, but a little jumpy, too, easily frightened. Though—that may have been my fault. I feel I may have come down too hard on the poor girl. She’d said some things . . . and I . . .” Deen trailed off. Looked out the window. Kamran had stiffened at that. “Said what things?” Deen shook his head. “Oh, she was only making conversation, really. I fear I might’ve scared her. She left the store so quickly I never had a chance to give her the brushes she’ll need, though I suppose she could use her hands just so long as she keeps them clean . . .” Kamran heard a roaring in his ears then, the sound so loud it drowned out all else, blurring his vision. The magenta trees of Surati Forest came back into focus with agonizing slowness, the present world materializing one sensation at a time. The coarse fibers of the red rug under his head and hands, the weight of his swords against his torso, the whistling of the wind in the thicket, the bracing scent of winter pine filling his nose.

Kamran swiped a finger along the snow as one might an iced cake; he studied for a moment the shimmering dollop sat atop his finger and then popped it in his mouth, shivering a bit as the frost melted on his tongue. A red fox darted up through the snow just then and wrinkled its nose, shaking flakes from its eyes before diving back into the earth, not long after which a quintet of reindeer appeared in the distance. The herd came to an abrupt halt still yards away, their large eyes wondering, no doubt, why Kamran had come. He would answer, had they asked. He would tell them he’d come for escape. To flee his mind, his strange life. He would tell them that the information he’d sought as an antidote had proven instead to be a poison. She was going to be killed. He understood it, but he did not know how to accept that she would be killed, she who treated with mercy a boy who’d tried to murder her, who was born a queen but made her living by scrubbing floors and was, in return, thanked for her hard work with only abuse and tyranny. He’d thought her mad for falling to pieces over a few coppers’ worth of medicine, never considering that those few coppers might be all she had in the world. Kamran exhaled, closed his eyes. She did not seem to him in any way a criminal. He supposed he could find new ways to investigate her life, but his always-reliable instincts insisted there was no point. He’d known it even before he’d set off on his earlier task, but had been too deep in denial to face it: no matter the prophecy, the version of the girl who lived today did not deserve to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. In point of fact, it would be his fault. He had done this to her, had shone a spotlight on her when she’d seemed to want nothing more than to disappear. Kamran would live with this regret for the rest of his life. Indeed, the prince felt so much in that very moment he found he could not move—dared not move. If he allowed himself to shift even an iota he thought he might crack, and if he cracked he thought he might set fire to the world. He opened his eyes. A single pink leaf fell slowly, spinning as it drifted from a nearby tree, landing on Kamran’s nose. He plucked the leaf from his face, spun it

around by the stem. Madness prompted him to laugh.

Seventeen

THEY WERE NOT ALONE.

Cook had frozen in place, her cleaver aloft, staring agog at the two unlikely allies sitting nervously at the kitchen table. A cluster of servants peered around the corner, three heads stacked like tomatoes on a skewer. More peered out of doorways, others slowing down as they walked past. Everyone was waiting for a single word to be spoken. Alizeh could not blame them for their interest. She, too, was stunned by this turn of events. Neither she nor the Fesht boy had said much yet, for as soon as they’d made their initial, exuberant greetings, they’d realized half the staff had crowded around to gawk. Even so, Alizeh felt an uncommon happiness as he and she stared at each other from across the table, smiling awkwardly. “Et mist ajeeb, nek? Hef nemek vot tan sora.” It is very strange, no? That I can’t see your eyes. Alizeh smiled. “Han. Bek nemekketosh et snoda minseg cravito.” Yes. But I can’t take off the snoda when I’m working.

At that indecipherable exchange, most of the servants made audible sighs of frustration and returned to work. Alizeh glanced at the few who remained, then at the fifteen- minute sand timer sitting atop the table. The grains slid steadily from one glass bulb to the other, each loss filling her with dread. She doubted there were many—if any—servants in Setar who spoke Feshtoon, but Alizeh could not rely upon such an uncertainty. They would simply have to be careful. She returned her gaze to the Fesht boy, who’d benefited greatly from the attentions of the Diviners. Regular baths and meals had left him remarkably transformed; he was, underneath all that dirt, a rosy-cheeked stalk of a child, and when he smiled at her now, she knew he meant it. Her heart warmed at the thought. In Feshtoon, she said, “There’s so much I’d like to ask you, but I fear we have very little time. Are you well, my young friend? You look quite well.” “I am, miss, thank you. I wish I could say the same for you, but I can’t see your face.” Alizeh fought back a laugh. “I’m glad you got some bandages for your hands, though.” He made as if to look closer, then jerked back, paling. “And I did damage to your neck, miss, I see that now. I’m ever so sorry.” “Oh,” she said quietly. “It’s just a scratch.” “’Tis more than a scratch, miss.” The boy sat up straighter. “And I’ve come to you today to make amends for what I done.” She smiled then, feeling a complicated fondness for the boy. “Forgive me,” she said. “But my curiosity has overcome my manners, and I must know: how on earth did you convince them to admit you through the front door?” The boy beamed at that, displaying a set of teeth still a touch too big for his face. “You mean why was a slippery, no good, thieving street urchin allowed through the front door?” Alizeh matched his smile. “Yes. Precisely that.” For some reason, the boy seemed pleased by her response, or perhaps he was relieved that she would not pretend the ugliness between them had never happened. “Well,” he said, “because I’m an important person now, aren’t I? The prince saved my life, didn’t he? And the king himself said he was very glad I didn’t die. Very glad. And I’ve got the papers to prove it.”

“Is that so?” Alizeh blinked at him. She believed little of what the boy was saying but found his enthusiasm charming. “How wonderful that must be for you.” He nodded. “They’ve been feeding me eggs most mornings, miss, and honestly, I can’t complain. But today,” he said, “today I’ve come to see you, miss, to make amends for what I done.” Alizeh nodded. “As you said.” “That’s right,” he said, just a little too loudly. “I’ve come to invite you to a party!” “I see,” said Alizeh, glancing nervously around the near-empty kitchen. Mercifully, most onlookers had dispersed, having given up hope of hearing the two of them speak Ardanz. Alizeh and the boy were now alone but for the occasional servant passing through the kitchens; Mrs. Amina was doubtless far too busy with her own tasks to waste time hovering over a pair of nobodies. “Goodness, a party. That’s very kind of you . . .” Alizeh hesitated, then frowned. “Do you know, I don’t believe I know your name.” The boy leaned forward at that, arms folded on the table. “I’m Omid, miss. Omid Shekarzadeh. I come from Yent, of Fesht province, and I’m not ashamed to say it.” “Nor should you be,” Alizeh said, surprised. “I’ve heard so much about Yent. Is it really as beautiful as they say?” Omid blinked, regarding her for a moment as if she might be mad. “Begging your pardon, miss, but these days all I ever hear about any place in Fesht is probably not fit to be repeated in present company.” Alizeh grinned. “Oh, but that’s only because a great many people are stupid, aren’t they? And what’s left of them have never actually been to Fesht.” Omid’s eyes widened at that, and he sputtered a laugh. “I was quite young the last time I went south,” Alizeh was saying, “so my memories of the region are dim. But my mother told me the air in Yent always smells of saffron—and that its trees grow so tall they fall over and stay that way, with their branches growing along the ground. She said the rose fields are so near the rivers that when heavy summer winds tear the flowers from their stems, the petals fall in the streams and steep, perfuming the water. She said there was never a more heavenly drink than river rosewater in the heat of summer.” Very slowly, Omid nodded.

“Han,” he said. “Your mother is right.” He sank back in his seat, drawing his hands into his lap. It was a moment before he looked up again, and when he did his eyes were bright with an emotion he’d not been able to fight. Softly, Alizeh said, “I’m so very sorry you had to leave.” “Yes, miss.” Omid took a deep breath. “But it’s real nice to hear you talk about it. Everyone hates us, so they think Fesht is all donkeys and idiots. Sometimes I start to think my life there was all a dream.” A pause. “You’re not from Setar, either, are you?” Alizeh’s smile was strained. “I am not.” “And is your mother still with you, miss? Or did you have to leave her behind?” “Ah.” Alizeh turned her gaze to the unfinished wood of the weathered table. “Yes,” she said softly. “My mother is still with me. Though only in my soul.” “Mizon,” Omid said, slapping the table with feeling. Alizeh looked up. Mizon was a Fesht word that did not translate easily, but was used to describe the inexpressible emotion of an unexpected moment when two people understood each other. “Mizon,” Omid said again, this time gravely. “As my mother is in mine.” “And my father,” Alizeh said, smiling softly as she touched two fingers to her forehead, then to the air. “And mine.” The boy echoed the gesture—two fingers to his forehead, then to the air—even as his eyes glistened. “Inta sana zorgana le pav wi saam.” May their souls be elevated to the highest peace. “Inta ghama spekana le luc nipaam,” she returned. May their sorrows be sent to an unknown place. This was a call-and-response familiar to most Ardunians, a prayer offered up always when remembering the dead. Alizeh looked away then, focused her eyes on the timer. She would not cry here. They had only several minutes left, and she did not want to spend them feeling sad. She sniffed, then said brightly: “So. You’ve come to invite me to a party. When shall we celebrate? I wish I could join you for an afternoon outing, but sadly I’m not allowed to leave Baz House during the day.

Perhaps we might find a clear patch of forest in the evening? Enjoy a moonlit picnic?” To her great surprise, Omid laughed. “No,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “Miss, I mean to ask you to a real party.” He laughed again. “I’ve been invited to the ball tomorrow night as a special guest of the king.” He retrieved a heavy, gilded scroll from his inside pocket, unfurling it on the table before her. “See? It says just there”—he pointed several times—“just there it says I can bring one guest to the royal ball.” Omid unearthed two other scrolls, flattening them both before her. They were numbered, hand-lettered invitations rendered in heavy calligraphy, and stamped with the royal seal. Each admitted one guest. Omid pushed the spare invitation across the table. Carefully, Alizeh gathered up the heavy sheaf. She studied it for a long time, and then looked up at the boy. She was dumbfounded. “Is that not what it says, miss?” Omid asked after a moment. He peered again at the scroll. “I know little Ardanz, but I think they’re correct. Aren’t they?” Alizeh could hardly speak for the shock she felt. “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I don’t— I’m afraid I still don’t— Oh.” She gasped, covering her mouth with one bandaged hand. “Is this the reason you were admitted through the front door? Is this why you were allowed an audience with me? You— Oh my goodness. So these are real, then?” “Are you very pleased, miss?” Omid beamed at her, puffing out his chest a bit. “At first I weren’t allowed to bring a guest, see, but I’ve been thinking hard for a while now how to make amends, and then”—he snapped his fingers—“it just struck me, miss, just like that! “So the next time they came to see me I said to them that I’m ever so grateful for the invitation, but I’m only twelve, understand, still but a child, and a child can’t attend a ball without a chaperone, so may I please have another, else I won’t be able to go at all! And can you believe it, miss, they didn’t question me, not one bit. I fear the king’s ministers might be stupid.” Alizeh picked up the scroll, examined the wax seal. “So this . . . but it must be real. I never dreamed . . .”

There were all manner of astonishments to contend with in that moment, but perhaps the most shocking was Alizeh’s realization that— even with all her duties at Baz House—she might actually be able to go. Royal balls didn’t even begin until at least nine or ten o’clock in the evening, which meant Alizeh could leave Baz House at her leisure. It would not be the first time she’d forfeited an entire night of sleep—and it was a price she would happily pay. Even better: she’d need not tell anyone where she was going, for it was not as if she had any friends who might notice her prolonged absence. In fact, had she a proper room in the servants’ wing, she might’ve had more trouble getting away, for most servants shared rooms and were able to keep few secrets as a result. Not that it needed, strictly, to be kept a secret. Alizeh’s attendance at such a ball would not technically be unlawful— though she doubted there was much precedence for a snoda attending any royal function—but it seemed unlikely that others would take kindly to the idea of the lowest, most disposable servant of Baz House being invited to a royal event. She would be surprised, indeed, if they did not hate her for it merely out of spite, but then— Alizeh frowned. If Omid had been admitted entry to Baz House on the basis of these papers, did not Mrs. Amina already know about the invitations? Had she not already been informed on the matter, and made her decision? The housekeeper could’ve easily barred the boy from entering, could’ve denied Alizeh even a moment to speak with him. Could it be, then, that her fifteen minutes with the child were tacit approval of precisely such an outing? Had Mrs. Amina done her a kindness? Alizeh bit her lip; it was hard to know. Still, this uncertainty did not keep her from dreaming. Such an evening would be a rare treat for anyone, though perhaps especially so for the likes of Alizeh, who’d not been invited anywhere in years. In fact, she’d not done anything purely recreational in what felt like a painfully long time. This would be a singular experience, then, for not only was it an evening of excitement by any metric, but it would be embarked upon with a friend, a friend with whom she might conspire and share stories. Alizeh thought she’d be content merely to stand at the back of the ballroom and stare, to admire the gowns and glittering details of a living,

breathing world so different from the drudgery of her own waking hours. It sounded decadent. It sounded fun. “And we can eat fancy food the whole night long!” Omid was saying. “There should be all kinds of fruits and cakes and nuts and oh, I bet there will be sweet rice and beef skewers, and all sorts of stews and pickled vegetables. The palace chef is said to be a legend, miss. It’s bound to be a real feast, with music and dancing and—” The boy hesitated then, the words dying in his mouth. “I do hope,” he said, faltering a bit, “I do hope you see, miss, that this is my way of apologizing for my wrongdoing. My ma wouldn’t have been proud of me that morning, and I been thinking about it every day since. You can’t know how ashamed I am for trying to steal from you.” Alizeh conjured a faint smile. “And for trying to murder me?” At that Omid turned bright red; even the tips of his ears went scarlet. “Oh, miss, I weren’t going to murder you, I swear, I never would’ve done it. I was only”—he swallowed—“I only— I was so hungry, see, and I couldn’t think straight— It was like a demon had possessed me—” Alizeh covered his freckled hand with her own bandaged one and squeezed gently. “It’s quite all right,” she said. “The demon is gone now. And I accept your apology.” Omid looked up. “You do?” “I do.” “Just like that? No groveling or nothing?” “No, no groveling necessary.” She laughed. “Though—may I ask you a rather impertinent question?” “Anything, miss.” “Well. Forgive me for how this sounds, for I mean no disrespect—but it strikes me as odd that the king’s men agreed to your request so readily. All of high society must be devouring itself for a chance at one of these invitations. I can’t imagine it was a small thing to offer you two.” “Oh that’s true, miss, no doubt about it, but as I said, I’m pretty important now. They need me.” “Oh?” He nodded. “Pretty sure I’m meant to be there as a trophy,” he said. “Living proof, miss.” Alizeh was surprised to discover that Omid’s tone did not project arrogance, but a quiet wisdom rare for his age.

“A trophy?” she said, realization dawning. “A trophy for the prince, you mean?” “Yes, miss, exactly that.” “But why would the prince require such a trophy? Is he not enough on his own?” “I can’t say, miss. I only think I’m supposed to remind the people, you understand, of the merciful empire. To tell the tale of the heroic prince and the southern street rat.” “I see.” Alizeh’s enthusiasm dimmed. “And was he?” she asked after a moment. “Heroic?” “I can’t honestly say, miss.” Omid shrugged. “I was near-dead for the part where he saved my life.” Alizeh went quiet then, laid low by the reminder that this vibrant, eager child had tried to take his own life. She was trying to think of what to say next, and faltered. “Miss?” She looked up. “Yes?” “It’s only—I just realized you never told me your name.” “Oh.” She startled. “Yes. Of course.” Alizeh had managed to live a long time without needing to supply her name to anyone. Even Mrs. Amina had never demanded to know— preferring instead to call her you and girl. But oh, what harm would it do if she told Omid her name now? Who was listening, anyway? Quietly, she said, “I am Alizeh.” “Alizeh,” said the boy, testing the shape of it in his mouth. “I th—” “Enough.” Mrs. Amina snatched the sand timer from the table. “That is quite enough. Your fifteen minutes are up. Back to work, girl.” Alizeh swiped the scroll with lightning speed, slipping it up her sleeve with the artistry of an experienced thief. She jumped to her feet and curtsied. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. She chanced a glance in Omid’s direction, offered him a barely perceptible nod, and was already darting into the hall when he shouted— “Minda! Setunt tesh.” Tomorrow! Nine o’clock. “Manotan ani!” I’ll meet you there! Mrs. Amina straightened, her arms pinned angrily to her sides. “Someone please escort this child outside. Now.”

Two footmen appeared in an instant, arms outstretched as if to manhandle the boy, but Omid was undaunted. He was smiling, clutching his scrolls to his chest and slipping out of reach when he said— “Bep shayn aneti, eh? Wi nek snoda.” Wear something nice, okay? And no snoda.

Eighteen

at the blue mosaic work of the war room, not merely to admire the geometric ingenuity executed upon the domed ceiling, but to exercise his tortured neck away from the stiff collar of his tunic. The prince had been willing to don this shirt only because he’d been assured by his valet that it was made of pure silk—and silk, he’d assumed, KAMRAN TILTED HIS HEAD UP

would prove more comfortable than that of his other formal wear. Silk was purported to be a smooth and quiet textile, was it not? How, then, to explain the atrocity he wore now? Kamran could not understand why the blasted article was so crisp, or why it made so much noise when he moved. His valet was clearly an idiot. It had taken hours, but Kamran’s earlier anger had abated just long enough to carry him home. His frustrations still simmered at a low, constant heat, but when the haze of fury had lifted, Kamran looked about himself and decided the only way through this day was to focus on things he could control. He feared he might otherwise spend every minute staring angrily at the clock until he could be certain the girl was dead. It wouldn’t do. Much better, the prince thought, would be to exorcise his demons in the pursuit of a known enemy—and he bade Hazan assemble a gathering of a dozen high-ranking military officials. There was a great deal to discuss with respect to the brewing tensions with Tulan, and Kamran hoped to spend the remainder of the day working through strategy in the palace war room. Work, he thought, would calm him. He had miscalculated. As if this day hadn’t been from its birth an abomination, Kamran seemed doomed now to spend the rest of it accosted by halfwits; imbeciles whose jobs it was to dress him and guide him and advise him poorly in all matters both foreign and domestic. Idiots, all of them idiots. He was listening to one of those idiots now. The empire of Ardunia had a redundant, useless defense minister, and not only was the greasy creature present in the war room today, he wouldn’t cease speaking long enough to allow a more reasonable person to contradict him. “Certainly, there are some concerns about relations with Tulan,” the minister was saying, dispensing words at a sluggardly pace so tedious Kamran wanted to throttle the man. “But we have the situation well in hand, and I would humbly remind His Highness—for our esteemed prince had yet to set foot on a battlefield when these provisions were made—that it was covert Ardunian intelligence that brought to bear the promotions of several of Tulan’s highest ranking officials, who might now be counted upon to report any information of note to their Ardunian allies . . .”

Kamran briefly closed his eyes, clenching his fists to keep from boxing his own ears or tearing the shirt from his body. He’d been forced to change into formal wear for the purposes of this meeting, which was one of the more ludicrous customs of peacetime. The near decade they’d spent away from the battlefield had made the once legendary leaders of Ardunia now thick and lethargic, stripping these military summits of their urgency, degrading them all in the process. Kamran was not only prince of Ardunia, but one of only five lieutenant generals responsible for the five respective field armies—each a hundred thousand soldiers strong—and he took his position quite seriously. When the time came for Kamran to inherit the throne, so, too, would he inherit his grandfather’s role as commanding general of the entire Ardunian military, and there were few who did not resent the prince’s impending elevation to the distinguished rank at such a young age. The title should have gone to his father, yes, but such was Kamran’s fate. He could not run from it any more than he could reanimate the dead. His only recourse was to work harder—and smarter—to show what he was worth. This, among other reasons, might explain why his comrades had not taken kindly to Kamran’s overly aggressive counsel, and had all but called him an unschooled child for daring to suggest a preemptive attack on Tulanian soil. Kamran did not care. It was true that these men had the benefit of age and decades of experience to support their ideas, but so too had they been idle in the last several years of peace, preferring to laze about on their large estates, abandoning their wives and children to toss coin instead at courtesans; to dull their minds with opium. Kamran, meanwhile, had actually been reading the weekly reports sent in from the divisions. There were fifty divisions spanning the empire, each comprising ten thousand soldiers, and each commanded by a major general whose job, among others, was to compile weekly briefings based on essential findings from lower battalions and regiments. These fifty disparate briefings were then issued not to direct superiors, but to the defense minister, who read the materials and disseminated pertinent information to the king and his five lieutenant generals. Fifty briefings from across the empire, each five pages long. That made for two hundred and fifty pages a week.

Which meant every month, a thousand pages of essential material was bequeathed to a single unctuous man upon whom the king himself relied for critical intelligence and instruction. This, this was where Kamran lost his patience. The dissemination of key information through a defense minister was an ancient practice, one that had been established during wartime to spare the highest-ranking officials the critical hours that might otherwise be spent poring over hundreds of pages of material. Once upon a time, it had made sense. But Ardunia had been at peace now for seven years, and still his fellow lieutenants did not read the reports for themselves, relying instead upon a minister who grew only more unqualified by the hour. Kamran had long ago circumvented this impotent practice, preferring to read the briefings in full through the lens of his own mind and not the minister’s. Had anyone else in the room bothered to read the sitrep from these different reaches of the empire they might see as Kamran did: that the observations were at once fascinating and worrying, and together drew a bleak picture of Ardunia’s relations with the southern kingdom of Tulan. Sadly, they did not. Kamran’s jaw clenched. “Indeed,” the minister was droning on, “it is often to our benefit to maintain a sense of rivalry with another powerful nation, for a common enemy helps keep the citizens of our empire united, reminding the people to be grateful for the safety promised not only by the crown, but by the military—to which their children will devote four years of their lives, and whose movements have been so well calculated in this last century, under the guidance of our merciful king. “Our prince was divinely blessed to inherit the fruits of a kingdom built tirelessly over many millennia. Indeed the empire he is one day to inherit is now so magnificent it stands as the largest of the known world, having so successfully conquered its many enemies that its millions of citizens may now enjoy a stretch of well-deserved peace.” By the angels, the man refused to shut his mouth. “Surely there is proof in this, is there not?” the minister was saying. “Proof not only of Ardunia’s skillful leadership, but in the collective wisdom of its leaders. It is our hope that His Highness, the prince, will see in time that his experienced elders—who are also his most humble

servants—have worked diligently to make thoughtful, considered decisions at every turn, for certainly we can see how—” “Enough.” Kamran stood up with such force he nearly knocked over his chair. This was madness. He could neither continue sitting here in this damned hair shirt, nor could he listen any longer to these insipid excuses. The minster blinked slowly, his vacant eyes shining like glass beads. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, bu—” “Enough,” Kamran said again, angrily. “Enough of your blathering. Enough of your insufferable stupidity. I can no longer listen to another ridiculous word that comes out of your mouth—” “Your Highness,” Hazan cried, jumping to his feet. He shot Kamran a look of death and dire warning, and Kamran, who was usually in far better control of his faculties, could not summon the presence of mind to care. “Yes, I see,” Kamran said, looking his minister in the eye. “You’ve made it plain: you think me young and foolish. Yet I am not so young and foolish as to be blind to your ill-concealed passive aggressions, your weak attempts to pacify my genuine concerns. Indeed I know not how many times I will need to remind you, gentlemen”—he looked around the room now—“that I have only a week ago returned from an eighteen-month tour of the empire, in addition to recently accompanying our admiral on a treacherous water journey, during which half our men nearly drowned after we collided with an invisible barrier near the border of Tulan. Upon arrival in Ardunia, traces of magic were found on the hull of our ship—” Gasps. Whispers. “—a discovery which should concern everyone in this room. We have been at odds with Tulan for centuries, and sadly, I suspect our incumbent officials have grown comfortable with that which has become commonplace. You seem to grow blind when you turn your gaze south,” the prince said sharply. “No doubt our exchanges with Tulan have become as familiar to you as your own bowel movements—” There were several protests at that, exclamations of outrage that Kamran ignored, instead raising his voice to be heard above the din. “—so familiar, in fact, that you no longer see an obvious threat for what it is. Let me refresh your memories, gentlemen!” Kamran pounded the table with his fist, calling to order the moment of chaos. “In the last two years,” he said, “we have captured sixty-five Tulanian spies, who even

under extensive duress would not reveal more than limited information about their interests in our empire. With great effort we were able to conclude only that they seek something of value here; something they hope to mine from our land, and recent reports indicate that they are nearing their goal—” More protests broke out at this, and Hazan, who’d gone scarlet to his hairline, looked as if he might soon strangle the prince for his effrontery. “I say, gentlemen,” Kamran said, shouting now to be heard. “I say I do much prefer this method of discourse, and I would encourage you to direct your anger at me more regularly, so that I might respond to you in kind. We are discussing war are we not? Should we not shed the delicacy with which we approach these hardened subjects? I confess that when you speak to me in circles I find it both detestable”—he raised his voice further —“both detestable and tiresome, and I do wonder whether you hide behind wordplay merely to disguise your own ignorance—” “Your Highness,” Hazan cried. Kamran met his minister’s eyes, finally acknowledging the barely restrained wrath of the only man in the room he marginally respected. The prince took a steadying breath, his chest lifting with the effort. “Yes, Minister?” Hazan’s voice all but shook with fury as he spoke. “It has only just occurred to me, sire, that I require your immediate guidance on a matter of great importance. Might I convince you to meet me outside so that we might discuss this crucial business at once?” At that, the fight left Kamran’s body. It was no fun to fight a horde of idiots when Hazan suffered an apoplectic fit as a result. He tilted his head at his old friend. “As you wish, Minister.” The remaining officials exploded with outrage in their wake. Hazan said nothing until he’d all but bullied the prince up to his chambers, where, only once the rooms had been cleared of servants, did he close the door. Were Kamran in a different frame of mind, he might’ve laughed at the demented look in Hazan’s eyes. The young man had gone nearly purple. “What the devil is the matter with you?” Hazan said with dangerous calm. “You ordered these men to leave their posts—for some, dozens of miles away—on a whim for what you deemed an essential meeting—and

then you all but rip their throats out? Are you mad? You will lose their respect before you’ve even claimed the throne, which y—” “You don’t mind if I ring for tea, do you? I’m quite parched.” Kamran pulled the bell without waiting for a response, and his minister sputtered at the impertinence. “You ring for tea? Now?” Hazan had gone rigid with anger. “I’m of a mind to snap your neck, sire.” “You lack the heart to snap my neck, Hazan. Do not pretend otherwise.” “You underestimate me, then.” “No, Minister. I only know that, deep down, you thoroughly enjoy your position, and I daresay you can’t imagine your life without me.” “You are deluded, Your Highness. I imagine my life without you all the time.” Kamran raised his eyebrows. “But you do not deny that you enjoy your position.” There was a brief, taut silence before Hazan sighed, reluctantly. The sound severed the tension between them, but was chased quickly by an epithet. “Come now, Hazan,” the prince was saying. “Surely you can see the logic in my arguments. Those men are idiots. Tulan will come for all our throats soon enough, and then they will see, too late, how blind they’ve been.” Hazan shook his head. “These idiots, as you call them, make up the necessary framework of your empire. They’ve been loyal to Ardunia since before you were born. They know more about your own history than you do, and they deserve your basic respect—” There was a sharp knock at the door, and Hazan halted his speech to answer it, intercepting the tea tray before the servant could enter the room. He kicked the door shut, placed the tray down on a nearby table, poured them both a cup, and said— “Go on, then. I believe I was in the middle of making an excellent point, and you were just about to interrupt me.” Kamran laughed, took a quick sip of tea, and promptly swore out loud. “Why is this tea so hot?” “Apologies, sire. I’d always hoped that one day your tongue might be irreparably damaged. I see now that my prayers were answered.” “Good God, Hazan, you should be shot.” The prince shook his head as he placed the teacup on a low table. “Pray tell me,” he said, turning to face

his minister. “Tell me why—why am I considered the fool when I am in fact the sole voice of reason?” “You are a fool, sire, because you act like a fool,” Hazan said impassively. “You know better than to insult your peers and subordinates in the pursuit of progress. Even if you make a good point, this is not how it’s done. Nor is this the time to court enemies in your own house.” “Yes, but is there ever a time for that? Later, perhaps? Tomorrow? Would you make the appointment?” Hazan threw back the last of his tea. “You are acting the part of a ridiculous, spoiled prince. I cannot countenance your recklessness.” “Oh, leave me be.” “How can I? I expect more from you, sire.” “No doubt that was your first mistake.” “You think I don’t know why you pick fights today? I do. You sulk because the king intends to host a ball in your honor, because he has bade you choose a wife from a bevy of beautiful, accomplished, intelligent women—and you would much rather take up with the one destined to kill him.” Hazan shook his head. “Oh, how you suffer.” Kamran had reached for the teapot and froze now mid-movement. “Minister, do you mock me?” “I’m only making the evident observation.” Kamran straightened, the tea forgotten. “And yet the observation that is so evident to you renders me, in the same breath, an insensate human being. Tell me: do you think me incapable of suffering? Am I so unworthy of the experience?” “With all due respect, sire, I don’t believe you know what it is to suffer.” “Indeed?” Kamran sat back. “What sage wisdom from my minister. You’ve been inside my mind, have you? You’ve taken a tour of my soul?” “Enough of this,” Hazan said quietly. He would no longer look at the prince. “You are being absurd.” “Absurd?” Kamran said, picking up his glass. “You think me absurd? A girl is going to die tonight, Hazan, and her death was provoked by my own arrogance.” “Spoken like a vainglorious fool.” Kamran smiled, but it was a tortured expression. “And yet? Is it not true? That I was so determined to doubt a poor servant girl? That I thought

her so incapable of such basic decency as to show mercy to a hungry child that I had her hunted, her blood dissected?” “Don’t be stupid,” Hazan said, but Kamran could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “You know it is more than that. You know it is about far more than you.” Kamran shook his head. “I have sentenced her to death, Hazan, and you know that is true. It’s why you were loath to tell me who she was that night. You knew even then what I had wrought.” “Yes. That.” Hazan dragged a hand down his face. He looked tired suddenly. “And then I saw you with her, in the street that night. You miserable liar.” Kamran lifted his head slowly. He felt his pulse pick up. “Oh yes,” Hazan said quietly. “Or did you think me so incapable of finding you in a rainstorm? I am not blind, am I? Neither am I deaf, unfortunately.” “How very accomplished you are,” Kamran said softly. “I admit I had no idea my minister aspired to the stage. I suspect you’ll be changing careers imminently.” “I’m quite satisfied where I am, thank you.” Hazan shot a sharp look at the prince. “Though I think it is I who should be congratulating you, sire, on your fine performance that evening.” “All right. Enough,” said Kamran, exhausted. “I’ve let you berate me at your leisure. No doubt we’ve both had our fill of this unpleasantness.” “Nevertheless,” Hazan said. “You cannot convince me that your concern for the girl is all about the goodness of her heart—or yours, for that matter. You are perhaps in part moved by her innocence; yes, I might be persuaded to believe that; but you are also at war within yourself, reduced to this state by an illusion. You know nothing of this girl, meanwhile it has been foretold by our esteemed Diviners that she is to usher in the fall of your grandfather. With all due respect, sire, your feelings on the subject should be uncomplicated.” At that, Kamran fell silent, and a quiet minute stretched out between them. Finally, Hazan sighed. “I admit I could not see her face that night. Not the way you did. But I gather the girl is beautiful?” “No,” said the prince.

Hazan made a strange sound, something like a laugh. “No? Are you quite certain?” “There’s little point in discussing it. Though if you saw her, I think you would understand.” “I think I understand enough. I must remind you, sire, that as your home minister, my job is to keep you safe. My chief occupation is ensuring the security of the throne. Everything I do is to keep you alive, to protect your interests—” Kamran laughed out loud. Even to himself he sounded a bit mad. “Don’t fool yourself, Hazan. You have not protected my interests.” “Removing a threat to the throne is a protection of your interests. It does not matter how beautiful the girl is, or how kind. I will remind you once more that you do not know her. You’ve never spoken more than a few words to the girl—you could not know her history, her intentions, or of what she might be capable. You must put her out of your mind.” Kamran nodded, his eyes searching the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup. “You do realize, Minister, that by having the girl murdered my grandfather is ensuring that she remains embedded in my mind forever?” Hazan released a breath, exhaling an obvious frustration. “Do you not see what power she already holds over you? This young woman is your direct enemy. Her very existence is a threat to your life, to your livelihood. And yet—look at yourself. Reduced to these infantile behaviors. I fear, sire, you will be disappointed to discover that your mind at the moment is as common and predictable as the infinite others who came before you. You are neither the first nor the last man on earth to lose his sensibilities over a pretty face. “Does it not frighten you, sire? Are you not terrified to imagine what you might do for her—what you might do to yourself—if she became suddenly real? If she were to become flesh and blood under your hands? Does this not strike you as a terrible weakness?” Kamran felt his heart move at the thought, at the mere imagining of her in his arms. She was everything he’d never realized he wanted in his future queen: not just beauty, but grace; not just grace, but strength; not just strength, but compassion. He’d heard her speak enough to know she was not only educated but intelligent, proud but not arrogant. Why should he not admire her? And yet, Kamran did not hope to save her for himself. Hazan might not believe it, but the prince didn’t care: saving the girl’s life was about so

much more than himself. For to kill her— To kill her now, innocent as she was, seemed to him as senseless as shooting arrows at the moon. That kind of light was not so easily extinguished, and what was there to celebrate in a success that would only leave the earth dimmer as a result? But did it frighten him, the power she wielded over his emotions in so brief a time? Did it frighten him what he might be driven to do for such a girl if she became real? What he might be inspired to give up? He drew a sudden breath. No, it was not merely frightening. It felt more like terror; a feverish intoxication. Of all the young women to want, it was madness to want her. It shook him to admit this truth even in the privacy of his mind, but his feelings could no longer be denied. Did it frighten him? Quietly, he said, “Yes.” “Then it is my job,” Hazan said softly, “to make certain she disappears. With all possible haste.”

Nineteen

woman. It was a thought Alizeh could not shake as she pushed through the dark, ducking her head against the blustery wind of yet another brutally cold night. She was on her way to Follad Place—the grand home of the Lojjan ambassador—for what was doubtless one of the most important appointments of her short career. As she walked she could not help but reflect not only on the day’s many strange events, but on the mercurial housekeeper without whose permission they might not have occurred. Alizeh had timed her exit from Baz House that evening so she’d not be noticed by Mrs. Amina; for though Alizeh was not breaking any rules by leaving the house after the day’s work was done, she remained wary of having to explain to anyone what she was doing in her spare time, least of all Mrs. Amina. The woman had so often threatened Alizeh for putting on airs that Alizeh worried she’d be seen as reaching above her station by pursuing extra work as a seamstress. Which indeed she was. MRS. AMINA WAS A STRANGE

Alizeh had been struck dumb, then, when Mrs. Amina had come upon her just as Alizeh made to leave, one hand reaching for the door, the other clutching the handle of her modest carpet bag, which she’d fashioned herself. Alizeh had been but a sturdy three-year-old the day she climbed up onto the bench of a loom, settling her small bottom between the warm bodies of her parents. She’d watched their deft hands work magic even without a pattern, and had demanded right then to be taught. When her mother died, and Alizeh sank into a resolute stoicism, she’d forced her trembling fingers to work. It was during this dark time that she’d fashioned the carpet bag she carried with her always—that which housed her sewing supplies and few precious belongings—and which she disassembled whenever she found a place to rest. Most days it remained on the ground next to her cot, transformed into a small rug she used for much appreciated warmth in the room. She’d been carrying it the day she arrived at Baz House. Tonight the housekeeper had appraised Alizeh upon her exit, examining the girl from crown to boot, her keen eyes settling just a bit too long on the bag. “Not running away, are we?” Mrs. Amina had said. “No, ma’am,” Alizeh said quickly. The housekeeper almost smiled. “Not before the ball tomorrow night, anyway.” Alizeh dared not breathe at that; dared not speak. She held still for so long her body began to shake, and Mrs. Amina laughed. Shook her head. “What a strange girl you are,” she said quietly. “To behold a rose and perceive only its thorns, never the bloom.” Alizeh’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. The housekeeper studied Alizeh a moment longer before her expression changed; moods shifting as reliably as the phases of the moon. Sharply, she said, “And don’t you dare forget to bank the fire before you go to bed.” “No, ma’am,” said Alizeh. “I would never.” Mrs. Amina had turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen after that, leaving Alizeh to step into the cold night, her mind spinning. She walked along the road now with caution, taking care to remain as near as possible to the glow of the hanging gaslights as she went, for the bulk of her carpet bag was not only a bit difficult to handle, but would certainly attract unwanted attention.

Alizeh was seldom spared when she was out alone, though nighttime was always worse. A young woman of her station was reduced to such circumstances more often than not because she had no one upon whom to rely for her safety or well-being. As a result, she was more frequently accosted than others; considered an easy target by thieves and scoundrels alike. Alizeh had learned to cope with this over time—had found ways to protect herself with small measures—but she was well aware that it was her many physical strengths that’d saved her from worse fates over the years. It was easy, then, for her to imagine how many young women in her position had suffered greater blows than she ever would, though the understanding offered her cold comfort. The sharp trill of a nightjar suddenly pierced the silence, the sound promptly followed by the hoot of an eagle owl. Alizeh shivered. What had she been thinking about? Ah, yes, Mrs. Amina. Alizeh had been working at Baz House for nearly five months now, and in that time the housekeeper had shown her both unexpected kindness and stunning cruelty. She’d strike the girl across the face for minor infractions, but never once fail to remember Alizeh’s promised allotment of water. She’d threaten the girl constantly, finding fault in faultless work, and demand Alizeh do it again, and again. And then, for no apparent reason at all, she’d permit the lowest ranked servant in the house a fifteen-minute audience with a questionable guest. Alizeh did not know what to make of the woman. She realized her musings were strange—strange to be pondering the strangeness of a housekeeper who was doubtless strange even to herself— but this evening was quieter than she liked, causing her hands to twitch from more than mere cold. Alizeh’s reliable, creeping fear of the dark had evolved from uncomfortable to unsettling in the last several minutes, and with so much less to distract the senses tonight than the evening prior, she needed to keep her thoughts loud, and her wits about her. This last bit was harder to achieve than she’d have hoped. Alizeh felt sluggish as she moved, her eyes begging to close even with the incessant snap of winter against her cheeks. Mrs. Amina had worked the girl to within an inch of her life in the wake of Omid’s visit, tempering a single act of generosity with swift punishment. It was almost as if the

housekeeper had sensed Alizeh’s happiness and had made it her business to disabuse the girl of such fanciful notions. It was unfortunate, then, that Mrs. Amina had very nearly accomplished her goal. By the end of the workday Alizeh had been so ragged with exhaustion she’d startled when she walked past a window and discovered it dark. She’d been abovestairs most of the day and hardly noticed when the sun was siphoned off into the horizon, and even now, as she stepped from one pool of gaslit cobblestone to another, she could not fathom where the day had gone, or what joys it once held. The glow of Omid’s visit had faded in the aftermath of many hours of physical toil, and her melancholy was made worse by what seemed the permanent loss of her firefly. Alizeh realized only in its absence that she’d conjured an unreasonable amount of hope at the insect’s initial appearance; the sudden and complete loss of the creature made her think the firefly had found her only by mistake, and that upon realizing its error, had left to begin a fresh search. A shame, for Alizeh had been looking forward to meeting its owner. The walk from Baz House to Follad Place came to an abrupt and startling finish; Alizeh had been so lost in her own thoughts, she’d not realized how quickly she’d covered the distance. Her spirits lifting at the prospect of imminent warmth and lamplight, she headed eagerly to the servants’ entrance. Alizeh stamped her feet against the cold before knocking twice at the imposing wooden door. She wondered, distantly, whether she’d be able to use some of her new earnings to buy a bolt of wool for a proper winter coat. Maybe even a hat. Alizeh wedged her carpet bag between her legs, crossed her arms tightly against her chest. It was far more painful to remain unmoving in this weather. True, Alizeh was unnaturally cold at all times—but it really was an uncommonly frigid night. She peered up at the staggering reach of Follad Place, its sharp silhouette pressed in relief against the night sky. Alizeh knew it to be rare for an illegitimate child to be raised in such a noble home, but it was said that the Lojjan ambassador was an unusual man and had cared for Miss Huda alongside his other children in relative equality. Though Alizeh doubted the veracity of this rumor, she did not dwell upon it. She’d never met Miss Huda, and did not think her own

uninformed opinions on the matter would make a jot of difference in the facts as they stood now: Alizeh was lucky to be here. Miss Huda was as close to high society as her commissions had ever come, and she’d only even been granted the commission via Miss Huda’s lady’s maid, a woman named Bahar, who’d once stopped Alizeh in the square to offer a compliment on the draping of her skirts. Alizeh had seen an opportunity there and had not squandered it; she quickly informed the young woman that she was a seamstress in her spare hours and offered such services at excellent prices. It was not long thereafter that she’d been engaged to fashion the woman a wedding gown, which her mistress, Miss Huda, had then admired at the ceremony. Alizeh took a deep, steadying breath. It had been a long and circuitous path to this moment, and she would not fritter it away. She knocked on the door once more, a bit harder this time—and this time, it opened immediately. “Yes, girl, I heard you the first time,” Mrs. Sana said irritably. “Get inside, then.” “Good evening, ma’am, I was j— Oh,” Alizeh said, and startled. Something like a pebble had struck her against the cheek. She looked up, searching the clear sky for hail. “Well? Come on, then,” Mrs. Sana was saying, waving her forward. “It’s cold as death out there and you’re letting all the heat out.” “Yes, of course. I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Alizeh quickly crossed the threshold, but instinct bade her look back at the last moment, her eyes searching the dark. She was rewarded. Before her eyes burned a single, disembodied prick of light. In a flash it moved, striking her again on the cheek. Oh. Not hail, then, but a firefly! Was it the same as before? What were the odds that she should be found by two different fireflies in such a short window of time? Very low, she considered. And there— Her eyes widened. Just there, in the tall hedge. Was that a flutter of movement? Alizeh turned to ask the firefly a question and promptly froze, lips parted around the shape of the interrogative.

She could scarcely believe it. The fickle creature had disappeared for the second time. Frustrated, Alizeh returned her gaze to the shadows, trying again to see through veils of darkness. This time, she saw nothing. “If I have to tell you to get inside one more time, girl, I’ll simply push you out the door and be done with it.” Alizeh started, then scrambled without delay across the threshold, stifling a shudder as a rush of warmth gathered around her frozen body. “Forgive me, ma’am— I just thought I saw—” A glowering Mrs. Sana pushed past her and slammed the door shut, nearly snapping off Alizeh’s fingers in the process. “Yes?” the housekeeper demanded. “What did you see?” “Nothing,” Alizeh said quickly, pulling the carpet bag up into her arms. “Forgive me. Do let us begin.”

Twenty

NIGHT HAD COME TOO QUICKLY.

Kamran lay sprawled across his bed in nothing but a scowl, crimson sheets tangling around his limbs. His eyes were open, staring into the middle distance, his body slack as if submerged in a bath of blood.

He cut a dramatic figure. The sea of dark red silk that enveloped him served to compliment the bronze tones of his skin. The golden glow of the artfully arranged lamps further sculpted the contours of his body, depicting him more as statue than sentient being. But then Kamran would not have noticed such things even had he cared to try. He had not chosen these sheets. Nor the lamps. He’d not chosen the clothes in his wardrobe, or the furnishings in his room. All he owned that were truly his were his swords, which he’d forged himself, and which he carried with him always. All else in his life was an inheritance. Every cup, every jewel, every buckle and boot came with a price, an expectation. A legacy. Kamran hadn’t been asked to choose; instead, he’d been ordered to obey, which had never before struck him as particularly cruel, for his was not such a difficult life. He had struggles, certainly, but Kamran owned no proclivity for fairy tales. He wasn’t so deluded as to imagine he might be happier as a peasant, nor did he dream of living a humble life with a woman of common stock and weak intelligence. His was a life he’d never before questioned, for it had never before constrained him. He’d wanted for nothing, and as a result deigned not to lower himself to the experience of desire, for desire was the pastime of poorer men, men whose only weapons against the world’s cruelty were their imaginations. Kamran desired nothing. He cared little for food, for it had always been abundant. He looked upon material objects with contempt, for nothing was rare or uncommon. Gold, jewels, the most singular objects on earth—had he cared even a little he’d need only tell Hazan, and all that he wanted would be procured. But what were such trifles worth? Who did he hope to impress with baubles and trinkets? No one. He detested conversation, for there was always an abundance of callers, endless invitations, doubtless hundreds of thousands—if not millions— across the empire who wished to speak with him. Women— Women, he desired least of all. For what appeal was there in an arrangement with no uncertainty? Every eligible woman he’d ever met would happily have him even had they found him eminently unworthy.

Women were perhaps his greatest plague. They hounded him, haranguing him en masse whenever he was forced, by order of the king, to give them cause. He shuddered even at the memories of his rare appearances at court, social events at which his presence was required. He was suffocated by imitations of beauty, of poorly disguised ambition. Kamran did not possess the necessary stupidity to desire anyone who sought only to claim his money, his power, his title. The very idea filled him with revulsion. There was once a time when he’d thought to look beyond his own society for companionship, but it was quickly revealed to him that he’d never get on with an uneducated woman, and as a result, could never look beyond his peers. Kamran could not countenance dullards of any vintage; not even the most extraordinary beauty could recompense, in his mind, for brainlessness. He’d learned this lesson thoroughly in the first flush of youth, when he’d been foolish enough to be taken in by a pretty face alone. Since then, Kamran had been disappointed over and over by the young women foisted upon him by their sycophantic guardians. As he did not, and would never, possess the infinite time required to comb through hordes of women on his own, he’d promptly extinguished any expectations he might’ve once had with regard to marriage. Dismissing the possibility of his own happiness had made it easy to accept his fate: that the king— and his mother—would choose him the most suitable bride. Even in a partner, he had learned to want and hope for nothing, resigning himself instead to what seemed inevitable. Duty. It was too bad, then, that the sole object of the young man’s first and only desire was now—he glanced up at the clock—yes, almost certainly dead. Kamran dragged himself out of bed, tied on a dressing robe, and walked over to the tea tray set down earlier by his minister. The simple service had been abandoned there hours ago: silver teapot, two short tea glasses, a copper bowl filled with jagged, freshly cut sugar cubes. There was even a small painted plate laden with thick dates. Kamran lifted his cup from the tray, weighed it in his hand. The glassware was no bigger than his palm and shaped a bit like an hourglass; it was without a handle, meant to be held by the rim alone. He cradled the cup now in a loose fist, curling his fingers around its small body. He

wondered whether he should exert a bit more pressure, whether he should crush the delicate drinkware in his hand, whether the glass might then shatter and lacerate his skin. The pain, he thought, might do him good. He sighed. Carefully, he replaced the glass on the tray. The prince poured himself a cold cup of tea, tucked a sugar cube between his teeth, and threw the drink back in a single shot, the bracing, bitter liquid cut only by the grit of the sugar cube dissolving slowly on his tongue. He licked a drop of tea from his lips, refilled the short cup, and began a slow walk around his room. Kamran paused at the window, staring for a long while at the moon. He shot back the second cold cup of tea. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning, but Kamran did not hope for sleep. He dared not close his eyes. He feared what he might see if he slept; what nightmares might plague him in the night. It was his own fault, really. He hadn’t asked to know the details. He hadn’t wanted to know how they’d come for her; he hadn’t wanted to be alerted when the deed was done. What Kamran hadn’t realized, of course, was how much worse it would be to leave such details to his imagination. He drew in a deep breath. And startled, suddenly, at the sound of furious pounding at his door.

Twenty-One

in its cove, so merrily, in fact, that Alizeh was struck by the oddest notion to envy the burning logs. Even after three hours—she glanced at the clock, it was just after midnight—of standing in a toasty room, she’d not been able to draw the frost from her body. She watched hungrily now as the flames licked the charred wood and, exhausted, closed her eyes. The sound of burning kindling was comforting—and strange, too, for its pops and crackles were so similar to that of moving water. If she hadn’t known it was fire beside her, Alizeh thought she might be convinced she was listening instead to the pitter-patter of a gentle rain; a staccato beat against the roof of her attic room. How bizarre, she found herself thinking, that elements so essentially different could ever sound the same. Alizeh had been waiting several minutes while Miss Huda tried on yet another dress, but she did not entirely mind the wait, for the fire was good company, and the evening had been pleasant enough. Miss Huda had certainly been a surprise. THE ROARING FIRE CRACKLED MERRILY

Alizeh heard the groan of a door and her eyes flew open; she quickly straightened. The young woman in question now entered the room, wearing what Alizeh could only hope was the last gown of the evening. Miss Huda had insisted on trying on every article in her wardrobe, all in the pursuit of proving a point that had already been made hours ago. Goodness, but this gown really was hideous. “There,” Miss Huda said, pointing at Alizeh. “You see? I can tell merely from the set of your jaw that you hate it, and how right you are to disdain such a monstrosity. Do you see what they do to me? How I am forced to suffer?” Alizeh walked over to Miss Huda and did a slow revolution around her, carefully examining the gown from every possible angle. It had not taken long for Alizeh to comprehend why Miss Huda had granted an unproven nobody such an opportunity with her attire. Within minutes of meeting the young woman, in fact, Alizeh had understood nearly all there was to understand. Indeed, it had been a relief to understand. “Am I not the very picture of a trussed walrus?” Miss Huda was saying. “I look a fool in every gown, you see? I’m either bulging out or pinched in; a powdered pig in silk slippers. I could run away to the circus and I daresay they’d have me.” She laughed. “I swear sometimes I think Mother does it on purpose, merely to vex me—” “Forgive me,” Alizeh said sharply. Miss Huda ceased speaking, though her mouth remained open in astonishment. Alizeh could not blame her. A snoda was a mere tier above the lowest scum of society; Alizeh could scarce believe her own audacity. She felt her cheeks flush. “Forgive me, truly,” Alizeh said again, this time quietly. “It is not my intention to be discourteous. It’s only that I’ve listened silently all evening while you’ve disparaged yourself and your looks, and I begin to worry that you will mistake my silence as an endorsement of your claims. Please allow me to make myself unambiguously plain: your criticisms strike me not only as unfair, but fabricated entirely from fantasy. I would implore you never again to make unflattering comparisons of yourself to circus animals.” Miss Huda stared at her, unblinking, her astonishment building to its zenith. To Alizeh’s great consternation, the young woman said nothing. Alizeh felt a flutter of nerves.

“I fear I have shocked you,” she said softly. “But as far as I can tell, your figure is divine. That you’ve been so thoroughly convinced otherwise says only to me that you’ve been injured by the work of indifferent dressmakers who’ve not taken the time to study your form before recommending its fit. And I daresay the solution to your troubles is quite simple.” At that, the young woman finally released an exaggerated sigh, collapsed onto a chaise longue, and closed her eyes against the glittering chandelier overhead. She threw an arm over her face as a single sob escaped her. “If it is indeed as simple as you say then you must save me,” she cried. “Mother orders identical gowns for me and all my sisters—merely in different colors—even though she knows my figure is markedly different from the others. She puts me in these horrid colors and all these horrendous ruffles, and I can’t afford a traditional seamstress on my own, not with only my pin money to spend, and I’m afraid to breathe a word of it to Father, for if Mother finds out it’ll only make things worse for me at home.” She heaved another sob. “And now I’ve got nothing at all to wear to the ball tomorrow and I’ll be the laughingstock of Setar, as usual. Oh, you cannot imagine how they torment me.” “Come now,” Alizeh said gently. “There’s no need to be overwrought when I am here to help. Come and I will show you how easily the situation can be mended.” With dramatic reluctance, Miss Huda dragged herself over to the circular dais built into the dressing room, nearly tripping over her abundant skirts in the process. Alizeh attempted a smile at Miss Huda—she suspected they were nearly the same age—as the young woman stepped onto the low platform. Miss Huda returned the smile with an anemic one of her own. “I really don’t see how the situation can be salvaged,” she said. “I thought I’d have time to get a new gown made in time for the ball, for I assumed the event would be weeks away—but now that it’s nearly upon us Mother is insisting I wear this”—she faux-gagged, glancing down at the dress—“tomorrow night. She says she’s already paid for it, and that if I don’t wear it it’s only because I’m an ungrateful wretch, and she’s begun threatening to cut my pin money if I don’t stop whining.” Alizeh studied her client a moment.

She’d been studying the young woman all night, really, but Alizeh had said very little in the three hours she’d been here. As the night wore on it had become abundantly clear, however, through a series of offhand comments and anecdotes, that Miss Huda suffered a great deal of cruelty and unkindness throughout her life; not only due to her improper birth, but for all else about her that was judged uncommon or irregular. Her pain she unsuccessfully cloaked in a veneer of sarcasm and poorly feigned indifference. Alizeh snapped open her carpet bag. She carefully buttoned her pincushion around her wrist, buckled her embroidered toolbelt around her waist, and unspooled the measuring tape in her bandaged hands. Miss Huda, Alizeh knew, was not only uncomfortable in her gowns, but in her own body—and Alizeh understood that she would accomplish nothing at all if she did not first manage to activate the girl’s confidence. “Let us, for the moment, forget about your mother and your sisters, shall we?” Alizeh smiled wider at the young woman. “First, I’d like to point out that you have beautiful skin, whi—” “I most certainly do not,” said Miss Huda automatically. “Mother tells me I’ve grown too brown and that I should wash my face more often. She also tells me my nose is too big for my face, and my eyes too small.” It was some kind of miracle that Alizeh’s smile did not waver, not even as her body tensed with anger. “Goodness,” she said, struggling to keep the disdain from her voice. “What strange things your mother has said to you. I must say I think your features fine, and your complexion quite beautif—” “Are you blind, then?” Miss Huda snapped, her scowl deepening. “I would ask you not to insult me by lying to my face. You need not feed me falsehoods to earn your coppers.” Alizeh flinched at that. The insinuation that she might be willing to swindle the girl for her coin cut a shade too close to Alizeh’s pride, but she knew better than to allow such blows to land. No, Alizeh understood well what it was like to feel scared—so scared you feared even to hope, feared the pitfall of disappointment. Pain made people prickly sometimes. It was par for the course; a symptom of the condition. Alizeh knew this, and she would try again. “I mentioned your glowing complexion,” she said carefully, “only because I wanted, first, to assure you that we are in possession of a bit of

good luck tonight. The rich, jewel tones of this dress do you a great service.” Miss Huda frowned; she studied the green gown. The dress was a shot silk taffeta, which gave the fabric an iridescent sheen, and which in certain light made it look more emerald than forest green. It was not at all the textile Alizeh would’ve chosen for the girl— next time, she would choose something more fluid, maybe a heavy velvet —but for the moment, she’d have to make do with the taffeta, which she believed could be repurposed beautifully. Miss Huda, on the other hand, remained visibly unconvinced, though not aggressively so. It was a step forward. “Now, then.” Gently, Alizeh turned the girl to face the mirror. “I would ask you, secondly, to stand up straight.” Miss Huda stared at her. “I am standing up straight.” Alizeh forced a smile. She stepped onto the dais, praying she’d come far enough into the girl’s confidence tonight to be able to take certain liberties. Then, with a bit of force, she pressed the flat of her hand against Miss Huda’s lower back. The girl gasped. Her shoulders drew back, her chest lifted, her spine straightened. Miss Huda raised her chin reflexively, staring at herself in the mirror with some surprise. “Already,” Alizeh said to her, “you are transformed. But this dress, as you see, is overwrought. You are statuesque, miss. You have prominent shoulders, a full bust, a strong waist. Your natural beauty is suffocated by all the fuss and restriction of the modern fashion. All these embellishments and flounces”—Alizeh made a sweeping gesture at the gown—“are meant to enhance the assets of a woman with a more modest figure. As your figure is in no need of enhancement, the exaggerated shoulders and bustle only overwhelm you. I would recommend, going forward, that we not mind what’s currently en vogue; let us focus instead on what best complements your natural form.” Without waiting to be countermanded, Alizeh tore open the high neck, sending buttons flying across the room, one pelting the mirror with a dull plink. Alizeh had learned by now that words had done too much damage to Miss Huda to be of any use. Three hours she’d listened quietly as the girl vented her frustrations, and now it was time to offer a prescription.

Alizeh procured a pair of scissors from her toolbelt, and, after asking the startled girl to stand very, very still, she sliced open the inseams of the massive, puffed sleeves. She cut loose the remaining collar of the gown, splitting it open from shoulder to shoulder. She used a seam ripper to carefully strip the ruffles laid overtop the bodice, and opened the central darts compressing the girl’s chest. Another few snips and she wrenched apart the pleated bustle, allowing the skirt to relax around the young woman’s hips. As carefully as she could with her bandaged fingers, Alizeh then proceeded to drape and fold and pin an entirely new silhouette for the girl. Alizeh transformed the high, ruffled neckline into an unembellished boatneck. She refashioned the bodice, carefully refining the darts so they emphasized the narrowest point of the girl’s waist instead of restraining her bust, and reduced the monstrously puffed arms to simple, fitted bracelet sleeves. The skirt Alizeh draped more simply, adjusting the silk to flow around the young woman’s hips in a single clean wave instead of many tight flounces. When she was finally done, she stood back. Miss Huda clasped a hand over her mouth. “Oh,” she breathed. “Are you a witch?” Alizeh smiled. “You need very little embellishment, miss. You can see here that I did nothing just now but remove the distractions from the gown.” Miss Huda went a bit slack when the fight finally left her body. She studied herself now with a cautious optimism, first drawing her fingers down the lines of the gown, then carefully touching those same fingers to her face, to the slant of her cheekbone. “I look so elegant,” Miss Huda said softly. “Nothing at all like a trussed walrus. What incomprehensible magic this is.” “It’s not magic, I assure you,” Alizeh said to her. “You have always been elegant, miss. I’m only sorry you’ve been tortured into thinking otherwise for so long.” Alizeh did not know what time it was when she finally left Follad Place, only that she was so exhausted she’d begun to feel dizzy. It had been at least an hour since the last time she’d checked the time, which meant that, if her calculations were correct, it was well past one o’clock in the morning. She would be spared only a handful of hours to sleep before the work bell tolled.

Her heart sank in her chest. Alizeh forced her eyes open as she plodded along, even stopping to gently pinch her own cheeks when, in her fogginess, she thought she’d seen two moons in the sky. She was carrying her carpet bag as carefully as possible in the bitter cold, for it now held Miss Huda’s green gown, which she’d promised to finish mending before tomorrow’s ball. Bahar, Miss Huda’s lady’s maid, would be arriving to retrieve the gown at eight o’clock, precisely one hour after Alizeh finished her shift. She exhaled a sigh at that, staring for a moment at the icy plume her breath painted against the dark. Alizeh had taken all of Miss Huda’s measurements; the five additional gowns were to be designed however Alizeh saw fit, as per the young woman’s instructions. This was both a boon and a burden, for while it gave Alizeh full artistic license, it also placed the whole of the sartorial responsibility on her shoulders. Alizeh was at least grateful that the other gowns would not be due for another week. Already she couldn’t imagine how she’d manage all of tomorrow’s work in addition to finding something suitable for herself to wear to the ball, but she consoled herself with the reminder that what she wore would not matter, for no one would be looking at her anyway—and all the better. It was just then that Alizeh heard an unusual sound. It was unusual in that it was not a sound endemic to the night; it was more like the rasp of a kicked pebble, a skittering there and gone in a flash. It was enough. Sleep fled her brain as adrenaline moved through her body, heightening her senses. Alizeh dared not break her stride; dared not speed up or slow down. She acknowledged, quietly, that the sound could’ve been provoked by an animal. Or a large insect. She might’ve even blamed the wind except that there was no breeze. There was in fact no evidence to support Alizeh’s sudden, chilling fear that she was being followed, none but a basic instinct that cost her nothing to take seriously. If she should appear foolish for overreacting, so be it. Alizeh would take no chances at this hour. As casually as she could manage, she hefted the carpet bag up, into her arms, and snapped it open. As she walked, she strapped her pincushion to her left wrist, pulling free handfuls of the sharp objects and tucking several

needles between each of her knuckles. She retrieved her sewing scissors next, which she kept clenched in her right fist. The footsteps—soft, nearly undetectable—she heard soon thereafter. Alizeh dropped her carpet bag to the ground, felt her heartbeat rocket in her chest. She stood planted to the pavement, chest heaving as she bade herself be calm. She then closed her eyes and listened. There was more than one pair of footsteps. How many, then? Four. Five. Six. Who would send six men to chase down a defenseless servant girl? Her pulse raced, her thoughts spinning. Only someone who knew who she was, who knew what she might be worth. Six men sent to intercept her in the dead of night, and they’d found her here, halfway to Baz House, far from the safety of her own room. How had they known where she was? How long had they been tracking her? And what else had they learned? Alizeh’s eyes flew open. She felt her body tense with awareness, go suddenly solid with calm. Six heavily shadowed figures—each clad in black—approached her slowly from all sides. Alizeh sent up a silent prayer then, for she knew she would require forgiveness before the night was done. The assailants had her completely surrounded when she finally broke the silence with a single word: “Wait.” The six forms came to a surprised halt. “You do not know me,” she said quietly. “You are no doubt indifferent to me and do not personally harbor me ill will. You are performing your duty tonight. I realize that.” “What’s yer point?” one of them said gruffly. “Let’s get on wiff it then if yer so understandin’. Business to do an’ all ’at.” “I am offering you amnesty,” Alizeh said. “I give you my word: walk away now and I will spare you. Leave in peace now and I will do you no harm.” Her words were met with a roar of laughter, guffaws that filled the night.

“My, wot cheek,” a different man cried. “I think I will be sorry, miss, to kill ye tonight. I do promise to make it quick, though.” Alizeh briefly closed her eyes, disappointment flooding her body. “Then you are formally declining my offer?” “Yes, Yer Highness.” Another mocked her, feigning a bow with flourish. “We ’ave no need of yer mercy this night.” “Very well, then,” she said softly. Alizeh took a sharp breath, split the scissors open in her right hand, and lunged. She sent the blades flying, listening for contact—there, a cry—as a second assailant barreled toward her. She jumped, lifting her skirts as she spun and kicked him straight across the jaw, the force of her blow sending his head so far back she heard his neck snap just in time to face down her third opponent, at whom she threw an embroidery needle, aiming for his jugular. She missed. He roared, tearing the needle from his flesh as he unsheathed a dagger, charging toward her with an unrestrained fury. Alizeh wasted no time launching herself forward, landing an elbow in his spleen before punching him repeatedly in the throat, the carefully placed pins and needles in her fist puncturing his skin over and over in the process. When she was done with the man, she’d buried all her needles in his neck. He collapsed to the ground with a thud. The fourth and fifth came running at her together, each carrying a glinting scimitar. Alizeh didn’t flee; instead she bolted toward them and— within inches of contact—promptly disappeared, grabbing their sword arms, breaking their wrists, and flipping them onto their backs. She rematerialized then, confiscated their curved swords, and dropped to one knee, burying a blade in each of their chests simultaneously. The sixth man was right behind her. She spun around in the time it took him to blink, catching him, without warning, by the throat. She lifted the man in the air with a single hand, slowly squeezing the life from his body. “Now,” she whispered, “you might consider telling me who sent you.” The man choked, his face purpling. With great effort, he shook his head. “You were the last of the six to approach me,” she said quietly. “Which means you are either the smartest—or the weakest. Either way, you will

serve a purpose. If the former, you will know better than to cross me. If the latter, your cowardice will render you pliable.” “I don’”—he choked, with sputtering difficulty—“I don’ understand ye.” “Return to your master,” she said. “Tell them I wish to be left alone. Tell them to consider this a warning.” She then dropped the man to the ground, where he fell badly and twisted an ankle. He cried out, wheezing as he struggled upright. “Get out of my sight,” said Alizeh softly. “Before I change my mind.” “Yes, miss, r-right away, miss.” The brute hobbled away then, as quickly as his bad leg would allow. Only when he’d disappeared from view did Alizeh finally exhale. She looked around her, at the bodies littering the street. She sighed. Alizeh did not enjoy killing people. She did not take lightly the death of any living being, for not only was it a difficult and exhausting business, but it left her tremendously sad. Alizeh had tried, over the years, only to injure, never to kill. She’d tried over and over to negotiate. She tried always to be merciful. They laughed in her face every time. Alizeh had learned the hard way that an unprotected woman of small stature and low station would never be treated with respect by her enemies. They thought her stupid and incapable; they saw only weakness in her for being kind. It never occurred to most people that Alizeh’s compassionate spirit was wrought not from a frail naïveté, but from a ferocious pain. She did not seek to steep in her nightmares. She sought instead, every day, to outgrow them. And yet never once had her offers of mercy been accepted. Never once had others set aside their darkness long enough to allow Alizeh a reprieve from her own. What choice was she left, then? With a heavy heart, she pulled free her sewing scissors from the ruin of a man’s chest, wiping the blades clean on his coat before tucking them into her bag. She searched the cobblestone for her embroidery needle, then pulled each of her pins free from yet another dead man’s throat, taking care to clean each needle before putting it away. Would she have to move again? she wondered. Would she have to rebuild again? So soon?

She sighed once more, taking a moment to adjust her skirts before picking up her carpet bag, snapping it closed. Alizeh was so tired she couldn’t imagine walking the short rest of the way home, and yet— There lay the road, and below her, two feet. She did not possess wings, nor did she own a carriage or a horse. She’d not enough money for a hackney, and no one would be along to carry her. As always, the girl would have to carry herself. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time. She would remain focused until she got back to Baz House. She still had to bank the kitchen fire, but she would manage it. She would manage it all, somehow. Perhaps only then would she finally be able t— She gasped. A single prick of light flashed before her eyes, there and gone again. Alizeh blinked, slowly. Her eyes were dry, in desperate need of rest. Heavens, but she was too tired for this. “I demand you show yourself,” she said, frustrated. “I’ve had quite enough of this game. Show yourself or let me get on. I beg you.” At that, a figure suddenly materialized. It was a young man in silhouette —Alizeh could not discern his face—and he fell suddenly on one knee before her. “Your Majesty,” he said softly.

Twenty-Two

wondered. Who on earth would be pounding at his door—at this hour? He’d have known, surely, if the palace were under siege, would he not? Surely there’d have been more madness, more commotion? He’d seen nothing amiss from his window, through which he’d been staring just moments ago. Still, Kamran hastily dressed himself, and was tugging on his boots when the pounding grew suddenly louder. He knew it an indulgence, but he drew his sword belt around his waist anyway, for it was a habit so fully embedded it could not be spared even then. The prince finally went to the door, having hardly opened it before he went suddenly blind. Someone had thrown a sack over his head while another grabbed his arms, twisting them painfully behind his back. Kamran cried out, shock and confusion rendering him briefly paralyzed before he remembered himself and knocked his head back hard enough to break the nose of the monstrous figure restraining him. The man roared WAS HE GOING MAD? KAMRAN

with anger but did not loosen his hold quite enough, and worse: the second assailant swiftly tightened the hood around Kamran’s neck, choking him. The prince gasped for breath and promptly tasted leather; someone had shoved a stone into his mouth from the outside of the hood, lashing it in place with a strip of material now being tied around his skull. Kamran tried to shout, to spit it out, but managed only muffled sounds of protest. He threw his body around instead, thrashing as best he could, but both men held him securely, one torturing his arms into an unnatural position while the other bound the prince’s hands together. It soon became obvious that these men had been ordered only to kidnap, not to murder, for if they’d been ordered to kill the prince they’d certainly have done so by now. Here, Kamran had the advantage. They needed to keep him alive—but to Kamran, his life was worth little, and he was more than willing to lose it in any struggle for his freedom. What’s more, he’d been spoiling for a fight. All day the prince had been containing his rage, trying to fight back the storm in his chest. This was a relief, then. He would unleash it now. Kamran struck out with his foot, kicking backward between the assailant’s legs as hard as he could manage. The man cried out, finally loosening his grip just enough to give Kamran an inch of leverage, which the prince then used to full advantage, decking the second man with the weight of his shoulder, then his knee. With mere seconds to spare he succeeded in getting his wrists free from their unfinished bindings, but Kamran was still blind as he moved; striking out with unseeing blows, not caring where his fists landed, or how many ribs he broke. When he’d finally knocked back both men enough to spare himself the moments necessary to tear off his hood, Kamran promptly drew his sword, blinking against the sudden light, drawing in lungfuls of air. He moved toward his two attackers with all possible calm, appraising them as he went. One large, one average. Both crouched, breathing hard, and bleeding heavily from their mouths and noses. The larger of the two lunged at the prince without warning and Kamran pivoted gracefully, leveraging the man’s own weight to flip the sod over his shoulder and onto the floor. The assailant landed with a resounding

crack on his back, knocking not merely the air from his lungs but possibly the vertebrae from his spine. Kamran then tensed his fingers around the hilt of his sword and advanced upon the second brute, who glanced nervously at the supine figure of his much-larger comrade before meeting the prince’s eyes. “Please, sire,” the man said, holding up both hands, “we wish ye no harm; we was only doing as we was told—” Kamran grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, pressing the point of his blade against the other’s throat until he drew blood. The man whimpered. “Who sent you here?” Kamran said angrily. “What do you want from me?” The lout shook his head; Kamran dug the blade a bit deeper. The man squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, sire, we—” “Who sent you?” Kamran cried. “I did.” Kamran dropped the man at once, drawing away as suddenly as if he’d been set aflame. The assailant slumped to the floor and the prince turned slowly around, astonishment reducing his motor functions near to nothing. A drop of blood dripped from his sword, landed on his boot. Kamran met his grandfather’s eyes. “You will join me directly,” the king said, “as we have a great deal to discuss.”

Twenty-Three

figure bowing before her. “Forgive me,” the stranger said quietly. “I only meant to keep close to you tonight should you need assistance—which, clearly, you did not.” Even in shadow, she saw a flash of his smile. “My firefly, however, is quite taken with you and insists on seeking your attention whenever the opportunity arises.” “It is your firefly, then?” The stranger nodded. “Normally she’s more obedient, but when she sees you she seems to forget me entirely, and has been accosting you against my wishes these last two days. She first disobeyed me the night you met her at Baz House—she’d darted through the kitchen door even as I expressly forbid it. I apologize for any frustration her impulsiveness has caused.” Alizeh blinked at him, bewildered. “Who are you? How do you know me? How did you know I might need help tonight?” The stranger smiled broadly at that, a gleam of white in the dark. He then held out a gloved hand, within which was a small glass orb the size of ALIZEH STARED, STUNNED, AT THE

a marble. “First,” he said. “This is for you.” Alizeh went suddenly still. She’d recognized the object at once; it was called a nosta, an old Tulanian word for trust. To say that they were rare was a gross understatement of the truth. Alizeh had not seen one since she was a child; she thought they’d been all but lost to time. Carefully, Alizeh took the small object into her hand. In all of history, only several nostas had ever been made, for their creation required an ancient magic of which only the Diviners were capable. Alizeh’s parents had often told her that the magic in Tulan was different—stronger—than it was in Ardunia, for the southern empire, while small, had a more potent concentration of the mineral in its mountains, and a far greater population of Diviners, as a result. Many Jinn had fled to Tulan in the early Clay wars for precisely this reason; there was something about the mountains there that called to them, imbued them with power. Or so Alizeh had heard. The few nostas that ever existed in Ardunia were widely believed to have been stolen from Tulan; a few small mementos of many failed wars. How this stranger had gotten his hands on something so precious, Alizeh could not even begin to imagine. She looked down at him in astonishment. “This is for me?” “Please consider it a token of my loyalty, Your Highness. Keep it with you always, so that you never need wonder who your enemies might be.” Alizeh felt her eyes prick with unexpected emotion. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I hardly know what to say.” “Then I would be so bold as to ask for your forgiveness. You have suffered all these years alone, never knowing how many of us quietly searched for you. We are so grateful to have found you now.” “We?” “Yes. We.” Another flash of a smile, though this one was somber. “Your presence was only recently made known to me, Your Majesty, and I have been waiting every day for the right moment to approach you. In the interim, I’ve been tracking your movements so that I might offer protection if you should need it.” As he spoke, the nosta glowed warm in her hand. She knew that if he lied even a little, the orb would turn to ice. Alizeh’s mind spun so fast she could scarcely draw breath.

“You may rise,” she whispered. He did, unfolding slowly to reveal a body much broader than she first suspected. “Step into the light,” she said. He moved into the glow of a nearby gaslight, the flames setting fire to his pale hair and eyes. He was well dressed and groomed; his clothes were cut from fine cloth, his camel hair overcoat tailored to perfection. Were it not for the nosta, she did not think she’d believe this young man was fighting for her cause. He looked too well fed. She struggled now to know what to make of him. Still, the longer she stared, the more she saw. He was handsome in an unexpected way, his face composed of many small imperfections that added up to something interesting. Strong. Strange, but his features reminded her slightly of Omid—the dusky color of his skin, the generous smattering of freckles across his face. It was only his pale hair that kept him from looking like a native of the south. Alizeh took a deep, steadying breath. “You likely do not remember my mother,” the young man said quietly, “but she was a courtier. This was after the establishment of the Fire Accords, when Jinn were finally allowed to join the court freely; but she had been by that time so used to hiding who she was that she continued to keep her identity a secret.” Alizeh’s mind began to turn. As the nosta warmed in her hand, she realized there was something about this story that sounded familiar. “On one of her many evenings at court,” he went on, “my mother overheard the late queen speaking about the prophecy, and she knew then th—” “A prophecy?” Alizeh frowned, cutting him off. “A prophecy about me, you mean?” The young man went suddenly still. For a long moment he said nothing. “Sir?” Alizeh prompted. “You must accept my many apologies, Your Highness.” He sounded a bit worried now. “I did not realize you were unaware.” Now Alizeh’s heart was pounding. “Unaware of what?” “I fear I must again beg your forgiveness, for this story is a rather long one, and there is not enough time tonight to tell it. Once the matters of

your safety are settled, I promise to explain everything in greater detail. But tonight I cannot be away for too long, or I will be missed.” Again, the nosta burned hot. “I see,” Alizeh breathed. A prophecy. Had her parents known? Was this the real reason why she’d been hidden away? Why all who knew her had been murdered? The young man went on: “Allow me to say now only that my mother was once, long ago, acquainted with your parents. She acted as their eyes from inside the palace walls, and would visit your home often, always with the updates she was able to glean from the court. Occasionally, she took me along. I cannot imagine you remember me, Your Majesty—” “No,” she whispered, disbelief coloring her voice. “Can it be true? Is it possible you once taught me to play jacks?” In response, the smiling young man reached into his pocket, and presented her with a single hazelnut. A sudden, painful emotion seized her body then; a relief so large she could hardly fathom its dimensions. She thought she might cry. “I have been waiting close to the crown, as my mother once did, for any news of your discovery. When I learned of your existence I began at once to make arrangements for your safe transfer. I take it you’ve received your invitation to the ball tomorrow night?” Alizeh was still stunned, for a moment, into silence. “The ball?” she said finally. “Did you— Was that—?” The stranger shook his head. “The original thought belonged to the child. I saw an opportunity and assisted. The context will help us.” “I fear I’ve been rendered speechless,” she said softly. “I can only thank you, sir. I struggle now to think of anything else to say.” And in a gesture of goodwill, she removed her snoda. The young man started, stepped back. He stared at her with wide eyes, with something like apprehension. She watched him struggle to look at her without appearing to look at all, and the realization almost made her laugh. She realized, too late, that she’d put him in an awkward position. Doubtless he thought she expected a review. “I know my eyes make me hard to look at,” said Alizeh gently. “It’s the ice that does it, though I don’t entirely understand why. I believe my eyes are in fact brown, but I experience with some frequency a sharp pain in my head, a feeling like a sudden frost. It’s the onslaught of cold, I think, that

kills their natural color. It’s the only explanation I have for their flickering state. I hope you will be able to overlook my strangeness.” He studied her then as if he were trying to sear her image into his memory—and then looked sharply away, at the ground. “You do not look strange, Your Majesty.” The nosta glowed warm. Alizeh smiled, restored her snoda. “You say you are making arrangements for my safe transfer—what does that mean? Where do you mean to take me?” “I’m afraid I cannot say. It is better, for now, that you know as little as possible, in the case that our plans go awry and you are apprehended.” Again, the nosta glowed warm. “Then how will I know to find you?” “You will not. It is imperative that you arrive at the ball tomorrow night. Will you require assistance in accomplishing this?” “No. I think not.” “Very good. My firefly will seek you out when the moment is right. You may count on her to lead the way. Forgive me, Your Majesty.” He bowed. “It grows later by the minute, and I must now be gone. Already I have said too much.” He turned to leave. “Wait,” she said softly, grabbing his arm. “Will you not at least tell me your name?” He stared at her bandaged hand on his arm for a beat too long, and when he looked up, he said, “I am Hazan, Your Majesty. You may depend on me with your life.”

Twenty-Four

during the long walk with his grandfather, his mind spinning with all manner of confusion and betrayal. He swore to himself he wouldn’t jump to any absolute conclusions until he heard the whole explanation from the king, but it grew harder by the minute to ignore the rage simmering in his blood, for they did not appear to be heading to the king’s chambers, as Kamran had first assumed, and he could not envisage now where his grandfather was leading him. Never in his life could he have imagined the king sending mercenaries to his room in the dead of night. Why? What had happened to their relationship in so brief a time as to inspire such cruelty? Such lunacy? Luckily, the king did not keep him wondering for long. The path they followed grew darker and colder as they went, the circuitous path growing both familiar and alarming. Kamran had wandered this way precious few times in his life, for he’d seldom had cause to visit the palace dungeons. KAMRAN SAID NOTHING AT ALL

A bolt of panic branched up his spine. His grandfather was still several paces ahead, and the prince heard the groan of a metal cage opening before he saw its primeval design. That a trio of torches had been lit in anticipation of his arrival was shocking enough, but that the illumination forced the coarse, clawed-out corners of this sinister space into sharp relief rendered this horror only too real. Kamran’s fear and confusion further electrified as the steady drip of some unnamed liquid beat the ground between them, the smell of rot and wet filling his nose. He had stepped into a nightmare. Finally, King Zaal turned to face his grandson, and the prince, who even now should have bowed before his sovereign, remained standing. Neither did he sheath his sword. King Zaal stared at that sword now, studied the insolence of the young man with whom he shared these shadows. Kamran saw the barely restrained anger in his grandfather’s eyes, the outrage he did little to hide. No doubt similar feelings were mirrored upon Kamran’s own face.

“As your king,” the older man said coldly, “I charge you presently with the crime of treason—” “Treason?” Kamran exploded. “On what basis?” “—and sentence you to an indefinite period of imprisonment in the royal dungeons, whence you will be released only to perform your duties, during which you will remain under strict surveillance, and after which you will be retur—” “You would sentence me to this fate without trial, Your Majesty? Without proof? Have you gone mad?” King Zaal took a sharp breath, his chin lifting at the insult. It was a moment before he spoke. “As your king, I decree that your guilt is such that you forfeit a right to trial. But as your grandfather,” he added, with uncommon calm, “I offer you this single meeting during which you may attempt to exonerate yourself. “If you fail to argue your own innocence in a timely manner, I will order the guards to shackle you without delay. If you then insist on fighting this modified sentence for so heinous a crime, you will force upon yourself the full punishment for treason and await your execution at sunrise, at which time you will die an honorable death by sword, in a location yet to be determined, your head severed from your body and impaled on a pike for seven days and seven nights for all the empire to bear witness.” Kamran felt the blow of this declaration with his entire body, felt it shudder through him with breathtaking pain. It left him hollow. His grandfather—the man who’d raised him, who taught him most everything he knew, who’d been his role model all his life—was threatening him with execution? That King Zaal was even capable of such cruelty to his own kin was stunning enough, but more shattering was that Kamran could not begin to fathom what had brought them both to this moment. Treason? Briefly, Kamran wondered whether the minister of defense had accused him so, but Kamran struggled to believe the oily man had influence enough to move his grandfather to this level of anger. Had the minister complained to the king, Kamran would’ve more likely heard about it in the

light of day; would’ve been chastised and sent on his way with a warning to behave himself. But this— This was different. The king had enlisted armed men to fetch him from his private rooms in the dead of night. This was bigger than a moment of childishness in a boardroom. Was it not? A tense stretch of silence spun out between them, a long minute during which Kamran was forced to make peace with the worst. Kamran was a prince, yes, but he was a soldier first, and this was not the first time he’d been faced with such brutality. With forced calm, he said, “I confess I know not, Your Majesty, how to defend myself against so baseless an accusation. Even all these moments of silence have not inspired my imagination to conjure a suitable explanation for these charges. I cannot now attempt to justify that which I have no hope of understanding.” King Zaal released an angry rasp of a laugh, an exclamation of disbelief. “You deny, then—in full—any and all allegations leveled against you? You make no effort to plead your case?” “I have no case to plead,” Kamran said sharply, “for I know not why I stand here before you, nor why you would send men to my rooms to restrain me in such an inhumane manner. In what way have I committed treason, pray tell? At what point in time might I have managed such a feat?” “You insist on feigning ignorance?” King Zaal said angrily, his right hand clenched tight around his golden mace. “You would insult me even now, to my face?” A muscle jumped in Kamran’s jaw. “I see now that your mind is already decided against me. That you refuse even to tell me what crime I have committed is evidence enough. If you wish me imprisoned, so be it. If you desire my head, you may have it. Worry not that I will struggle, Your Majesty. I would not defy the orders of my king.” The prince finally sheathed his sword and bowed. He kept his gaze on the filthy, pockmarked stone floor of the dungeons for what seemed a century but was more likely minutes. Or seconds. When King Zaal finally spoke, his voice was subdued. “The girl is not dead,” he said.

Kamran looked up. It was a moment before he could speak, a brief head rush leaving him, for an instant, unsteady. “You’ve not killed her?” King Zaal stared, unblinking, at the prince. “You are surprised.” “Indeed I am, quite.” Kamran hesitated. “Though I admit I don’t understand the nature of the non sequitur. Of course, I’m deeply curious to know the reason for your changed mind toward the girl, but I am also anxious, Your Highness, to know whether I must soon make these grotesque quarters my home, and at the moment the latter point has claimed my full and undivided attention.” The king sighed. He closed his eyes, pressed the tips of his fingers to his temple. “I sent six men after her tonight. And the girl is not dead.” Slowly, the frozen gears in Kamran’s brain began to turn. His rusty mind had its excuses: the hour was late; the prince was exhausted; his consciousness had been preoccupied with a recent effort to defend himself against a surprise attack ordered by his own grandfather. Even so, he wondered that it had taken him so long to understand. When he did, the breath seemed to leave his body. Kamran closed his eyes as renewed anger—outrage—built in his bones. His voice, when he spoke, was so cold he hardly recognized himself. “You think I forewarned her.” “More than that,” said the king. “I think you assisted her.” “What an odious suggestion, Your Majesty. The very idea is absurd.” “It was quite a while before you answered your door tonight,” said Zaal. “I wonder: Were you still slithering back into your rooms? In the dead of night, dragged from your bedchamber, you now stand before me fully dressed, wearing your swords and scabbards. Do you expect me to believe you were abed?” Kamran laughed, then. Like a lunatic, he laughed. “Do you deny it?” King Zaal demanded. Kamran leveled a violent glare at his grandfather, hatred flashing through his body. “With my very soul. That you even think me capable of such unworthiness is so insulting as to astonish me to the point of madness.” “You were determined to save her.” “I asked you merely to consider sparing the life of an innocent!” Kamran cried, no longer bothering to contain his temper. “It was a basic plea for humanity, nothing more. You think me so weak as to go against a

formal decree issued by the king of my own empire? You think me so frail of mind, so weak of spine?” For the first time in Kamran’s life, he watched his grandfather falter. The older man opened then closed his mouth, struggling for the right words. “I— I did worry,” King Zaal said finally, “that you were overly preoccupied with thoughts of her. I also heard about your foolishness with the defense minister, who, despite your undisguised loathing of the man, is a prominent elder from the House of Ketab, and your speech toward him was nothing short of mutinous—” “So you sent armed men to my door? You sentenced me to indefinite imprisonment without trial? You would’ve risked my head over a mere misunderstanding—an assumption? Does this seem to you an appropriate reaction to your concerns, Your Majesty?” King Zaal turned away, pressed two fingers against his closed lips. He appeared lost in thought. Kamran, on the other hand, was vibrating with fury. The unfolding of the evening’s events struck him suddenly as so unlikely, so impossible, that he wondered distantly whether he’d detached from his own mind. It was true that he’d privately considered pushing back against his grandfather’s command to find a wife. It was true, too, that in a moment of madness he’d thought to warn the girl, had even fantasized about saving her life. But Kamran always knew, deep down, that those silent ravings were bred only of transient emotion; they were shallow feelings that could not compete with the depth of loyalty he felt for his king, for his home, for his ancestors. His empire. Kamran would never have staged a counterattack against the king and his plans—not for a girl he did not know, not against the man who had been more of a father to him than his own had ever been able. This betrayal— It could not be borne. “Kamran,” the king said finally. “You must understand. The girl was prepared. She was armed. The puncture wounds inflicted indicate she had access to highly unusual weapons, which one can only assume were supplied to her by a third party with access to a complex arsenal. She was prophesied to have formidable allies—” “And you thought one of those allies might be me?”

Zaal’s expression darkened. “Your ridiculous, childish actions—your fervent desire to spare her life even with the knowledge that she might be the death of mine—left me with no choice but to wonder, yes, for it remains highly unlikely that she was able to dispose of six armed men without assistance. Five of the six she flatly murdered; she only spared the last to send back a warni—” “The girl is a Jinn!” Kamran shouted, hardly able to breathe for the vise clamping around his chest. “She is heir to a kingdom. Never mind the fact that she has preternatural strength and speed and can call upon invisibility at will—she was no doubt trained in self-defense from a young age, much like I was. Would you not expect me to easily defend myself against six ruffians, Your Highness? And yet? What? You thought a queen might be easy to murder?” King Zaal looked suddenly livid. “You are the heir apparent to the greatest empire in the known world,” his grandfather cried. “You were raised in a palace with the best tutors and masters in existence. She is an orphaned, uneducated servant girl who has spent the last few years living mostly on the street—” “You forget, Your Highness,” Kamran said sharply. “You said yourself that she was not an ordinary girl. What’s more: I forewarned you. I told you the girl spoke Feshtoon. I shared with you from the first my suspicions of her abilities, her intelligence. I’d watched her dispatch that street child as if he were a twig and not a tree. I’ve heard her speak; she is sharp and articulate, dangerously so for a girl in a snoda—” “I say, child, you seem to know a great deal about a young woman you so vehemently deny defending.” A gust of fury blew through Kamran at that, tore through him with a virulence that stripped him entirely of heat. In its wake, he felt only cold. Numb. The prince stared at the floor, tried to breathe. He couldn’t believe the conversation he was having; he doubted he’d be able to endure much more of the suspicion in his grandfather’s eyes. A lifetime of loyalty, so easily forgotten. “You underestimated her,” Kamran said quietly. “You should’ve sent twenty men. You should’ve anticipated her resourcefulness. You made a mistake, and instead of accepting fault for your own failure, you thought it better to blame your grandson. How easily you condemn me. Am I so superfluous to you, sire?”

King Zaal made a sound at that, a disbelieving huff. “You think I took pleasure in making the decision? I did what I had to do—what I thought was right given the overwhelming circumstantial indications. Had you assisted the girl tonight you would have become a traitor to your crown, to your empire. I did you the mercy of sentencing you to so gentle a fate as imprisonment, for here, at least, you might be safe. Had news of your treasonous actions been discovered by the public, you’d have been disemboweled by a mob in short order. “Surely you can understand,” the king said, “that my duty must be to my empire first, no matter how agonizing the consequences. Indeed you should know that better than anyone. You go too far, Kamran.” Zaal shook his head. “You cannot believe I enjoyed suspecting your part in this, and I refuse to listen to any more of this dramatic nonsense.” “Dramatic nonsense?” The prince’s eyes widened. “You think me dramatic, Your Highness, for taking umbrage at your readiness to sentence me to this”—he gestured toward the dank cage behind him—“without a shred of real evidence?” “You forget that I first allowed you the opportunity to defend yourself.” “Indeed, you allowed me first to defend myself against a vicious attack ordered against me by His Majesty himself—” “Enough,” his grandfather said angrily, his voice rising an octave. “You accuse me of things you do not understand, child. The decisions I’ve had to make during my reign—the things I’ve had to do to protect the throne— would be enough to fuel your nightmares for an eternity.” “My, what joys lie ahead.” “You dare jest?” the king said darkly. “You astonish me. Never once have I led you to believe that ruling an empire would be easy or, for even a moment, enjoyable. Indeed if it does not kill you first, the crown will do its utmost to claim you, body and soul. This kingdom could never be ruled by the weak of heart. It is up to you alone to find the strength necessary to survive.” “And is that what you think of me, Your Highness? You think me weak of heart?” “Yes.” “I see.” The prince laughed, dragged both hands down his face, through his hair. He was suddenly so tired he wondered whether this was all just a dream, a strange nightmare. “Kamran.”

What was this, this feeling? This static in his chest, this burning in his throat? Was it the scorch of betrayal? Heartbreak? Why did Kamran feel suddenly as if he might cry? He would not. “You think compassion costs nothing,” his grandfather said sharply. “You think sparing an innocent life is easy; that to do otherwise is an indication only of inhumanity. You do not yet realize that you possess the luxury of compassion because I have carried in your stead the weight of every cruelty, of every mercilessness necessary to ensuring the survival of millions. “I clear away the darkness,” the king said, “so that you might enjoy the light. I destroy your enemies, so that you might reign supreme. And yet you’ve decided now, in your ignorance, to hate me for it; to purposely misunderstand my motivations when you know in your soul that everything I have ever done was to secure your livelihood, your happiness, your success.” “Do you really mean it, Grandfather?” Kamran said quietly. “Is what you say true?” “You know it is true.” “How then, pray, do you secure my livelihood and my happiness when you threaten to cut off my head?” “Kamran—” “If there is nothing else, Your Majesty.” The prince bowed. “I will now retire to my room. It has been a tediously long night.” Kamran was already halfway to the exit when the king said— “Wait.” The prince hesitated, took an unsteady breath. He didn’t look back when he said, “Yes, Your Highness?” “Spare me a minute more, child. If you truly wish to assure me of your loyalty to the empire—” Kamran turned sharply, felt his body tense. “—there is a task of some importance I wish to charge you with now.”

Twenty-Five

in a corner of the grand sitting room, hand frozen on her floor brush; her face was so close to the ground she could almost see her reflection in the glossy stone. She dared not breathe as she listened to the familiar sound of tea filling a teacup, the burbling rip of air as known to her as her own name. Excepting the elixir of water, Alizeh had never much cared for food or drink, but she loved tea as much as anyone in Ardunia. Tea drinking was so entrenched in the culture that it was as common as breathing, even for Jinn, and it sent a little flutter through her chest to be so close to the brew now. Of course, Alizeh was not supposed to be here. She’d been sent to scrub this particular corner only after a large bird had flown through the window and promptly defecated all over the marble floor. She’d not known Duchess Jamilah would be present. Though it was not as if Alizeh would get in trouble for doing her job; no, the girl’s concern was that if anyone saw her in the same room as the mistress of the house, she’d be promptly dismissed and sent to work ALIZEH WAS ON BOTH KNEES

elsewhere. Servants were not allowed to dawdle for long in rooms where occupants of the house were present. She was to do her job and be gone as quickly as possible—but for the last five minutes, Alizeh had been scrubbing the same clean spot. She did not want to go. Alizeh had never seen Duchess Jamilah before, not up close, and though she could not exactly see the woman now, Alizeh’s curiosity grew only by the second. From beneath the finely carved legs of the stiff couches, Alizeh was able to observe a horizontal stripe of the woman. Every so often the duchess stood without warning, then sat back down. Then stood up again—and changed seats. Alizeh was fascinated. She caught another sliver of the woman’s hem then, the peek of her slippers as she moved for the fourth time in as many minutes. Even from this skewed vantage Alizeh could tell that the lady wore a crinoline under her skirts, which at this early hour was not only unusual, but a bit gauche. For ten thirty in the morning, Duchess Jamilah was supremely overdressed with nowhere to go. Doubtless, then, she was expecting company. It was this last thought that inspired a terrifying flip in Alizeh’s stomach. In the two days since the announcement of the prince’s arrival in Setar, Mrs. Amina had worked the servants nearly to death, in accordance with orders issued by the lady of the house herself. Alizeh could not help now but wonder whether the highly anticipated moment had finally arrived— and whether Alizeh herself might see the prince again. Quickly, she returned her eyes to the floor. Her heart had begun to pound in her chest at the prospect. Why? Alizeh had not allowed herself to think much of the prince in the last couple of days. For some unfathomable reason, the devil had forewarned her of the young man—and every day Alizeh grew only more baffled as to why. Indeed what had, at first, seemed so foreboding had only recently been proven toothless: the prince was neither a monster nor a murderer of children. Not only had Omid’s recent visit dispelled any lingering concerns Alizeh might’ve had about the young man’s motivations toward the boy, but Alizeh herself now carried evidence of the prince’s kindness. Apart from sparing her a fight with a shadowy figure, he’d returned her parcels in the midst of a rainstorm—and never mind how he’d known to find her.

She’d decided no longer to dwell on that uncertainty, for she didn’t see the point. The devil’s warnings had always been convoluted. Iblees, Alizeh had learned, was consistent only as an omen. His brief, flickering appearances in her life were followed always by misery and upheaval—and this much, at least, had already proven to be true. The rest, she would not torture herself over. What’s more, Alizeh doubted the prince spared her a single thought; in fact, she would be astonished if he’d not altogether forgotten their fleeting interaction. These days, Alizeh had precious few faces to look upon and recall, but there was no reason the prince of Ardunia should remember that, for a single hour, a poor servant girl had existed in his life. No, it did not matter who was coming to visit. It shouldn’t matter. What held Alizeh’s attention was this: the rustling of Duchess Jamilah’s skirts as she positioned herself in the crook of yet another armchair. The woman crossed, then uncrossed her ankles. She shook out her hem, draping the material to be shown to its best advantage, and then pointed her toes so that the rounded tips of her satin slippers would peek out from under her skirts, calling attention to her narrow, dainty feet. Alizeh almost smiled. If Duchess Jamilah was indeed expecting a visit from the prince, the current situation was only more perplexing. The woman was the prince’s aunt. She was nearly thrice his age. Watching this grand lady reduce herself to these pedestrian displays of nervousness and pretension was both entertaining and surprising; and proved the perfect diversion for Alizeh’s boiling, chaotic mind. She’d had quite enough of her own troubles. Alizeh placed her floor brush on the polished stone and fought back a sudden wave of emotion. By the time she’d arrived home the evening prior, she’d been left but three hours to sleep before the work bell, and she spent two out of three tossing restlessly on her cot. A low-level anxiety hummed even now within her, not merely a consequence of being almost murdered—nor even the murdering she’d done herself—but of the young man who’d kneeled before her in the night. Your Majesty. Her parents had always told her this moment would come, but so many years had passed without word that Alizeh had long ago ceased waiting. The first year after her mother’s death she’d survived the long, bleak days

only by holding with both hands to hope; she felt certain she would be shortly found, would be rescued. Surely, if she was so important, someone would be along to protect her? Day after day, no one had come. Alizeh was thirteen years old the day her house was reduced to ash; she’d no friends who might offer her shelter. She scavenged the wreckage of her home for its surviving, mutilated bits of gold and silver, and these she sold, at a great loss, for the necessary sewing and weaving supplies she still owned today. As a precaution against revealing her identity, Alizeh moved from town to town with some frequency; for in that hopeful first year, it would not occur to her to take a position as a snoda. Instead, she pursued work as a seamstress, making her way south—over the course of years—from one hamlet to a village, from a village to a town, from a town to a small city. She took any job, no matter how small, sleeping wherever she found a reliable place to collapse. She comforted herself with the assurance that the unbearable days would soon come to an end, that imminently she would be found. Five years, and no one had come. No one had been there to spare her the gallows. No one had arrived to offer her a path to safety upon arrival in each new town; no one had been around to guide her to a gentle river or stream in the unnavigable crush of the city. No one came for her when she’d nearly died of thirst; or later, when she’d taken a desperate drink of sewer water and was poisoned so badly she’d been briefly paralyzed. For two weeks Alizeh had lain in a frozen gutter, her body wracked by violent seizures. She had only enough energy to make herself invisible—to spare herself the worst harassment. She was certain back then, as she stared up at the silver moon, her lips chapped with frost and dehydration, that she would die there in the street, and die alone. Long ago she’d ceased living with the hope of being rescued. Even when she was hunted and besieged by the worst of men and women, she no longer cried out for help—not when her many calls had gone unanswered. Alizeh had learned, instead, to rely on herself. Hers had been a lonely, agonizing journey of survival. That someone had finally found her seemed impossible, and she was gripped now by

both hope and fear, alternating between the two with such frequency she thought she might go mad. Was it foolish, she wondered, to allow herself to feel happiness for even a moment? She shifted, then, felt the nosta move against her chest. She’d hidden the orb in the only safe place she could think of: just inside her corset, the polished glass pressed close to her skin. She felt the nosta glow hot and cold as conversations ebbed and flowed around her, every change in temperature a reminder of what had happened the evening prior. The nosta had turned out to be a gift in many ways, for without it she might’ve begun to wonder whether her memories of the night before were, in fact, a dream. Hazan, he’d said his name was. Alizeh took a deep breath. It gave her great comfort to know that he remembered her parents, that he had ever been to her childhood home. It made her past life—and his place in her present—feel suddenly real, affirmed by more than her own imaginings. Still, she was plagued; not only by optimism and apprehension, but another, more shameful concern: she wasn’t sure how she felt about being found. A long time ago, Alizeh had been ready. From infancy she’d been prepared for the day she’d be called upon to lead, to be a force for change for her own people. To build for them a home, to shepherd them to safety. To peace. Now Alizeh did not know who she was. She lifted her bandaged hands, staring at them as if they did not belong to her; as if she’d never seen them before. What had she become? She startled, suddenly, at the distant, muffled sounds of voices. Alizeh had been so lost in her own thoughts she’d not noticed the new shift in Duchess Jamilah’s position, nor the sudden commotion in the front hall. Alizeh crouched impossibly closer to the ground and peered through gaps in the furniture. Duchess Jamilah was the picture of affected indifference: the casual way she held her teacup, the sigh she gave as she faux-perused a column in Setar’s local newspaper, the Daftar. The publication was famous for being printed on dusty green pages and had long been a point of interest for Alizeh, who could rarely spare the coin to purchase a copy. She squinted at it now, trying to read the day’s headline upside down. She’d only ever been able to peek at the articles on occasion, but—

Alizeh started violently. She heard the prince’s voice, far away at first, and then all at once sharp and clear, the heels of his boots connecting with marble. She covered her mouth with one hand, doubling over so as not to be seen. With her free hand she clutched the floor brush, wondering now at her own foolishness. How on earth would she escape unnoticed? The room was without warning swarmed by servants carrying tea trays and cakes; one was collecting the prince’s heavy, moss-colored coat—no cloak today—and a golden mace Alizeh had never before seen him carry. Among the bustling staff was Mrs. Amina, who had no doubt invented an excuse to be present upon the prince’s arrival. If Mrs. Amina caught Alizeh here now—in the presence of the prince—she’d likely beat the girl just to teach her a lesson. Alizeh swallowed. There was no chance she’d go unseen. By the time the visit was over, she was certain every servant in the house would’ve fabricated a reason to pass through this room for a glimpse of their royal visitor. Unfortunately for Alizeh, she could only see his boots. “Yes, thank you,” he said in response to a query about tea. Alizeh froze. The prince’s response came during a chance moment of quiet, his words ringing out so clearly Alizeh thought she might reach out and touch them. His voice was just as rich and complex as she remembered, but he sounded different today. Not unkind, exactly, but neither did he sound pleased. “I’m afraid I slept poorly last night,” he was explaining to his aunt. “More tea is always good.” “Oh, my dear,” Duchess Jamilah said breathlessly. “Why should you sleep poorly? Are you not comfortable at the palace? Would you not prefer staying awhile here, in your old room? I’ve got it all prep—” “My aunt is very kind,” he said quietly. “I thank you, but I’m quite comfortable in my own rooms. Forgive me for speaking thoughtlessly; I meant not to cause you worry.” A pause. “I’m certain I’ll sleep better tonight.” “Well if you’re sure—” “I am.” Another pause. “You may go,” Duchess Jamilah said in a colder tone, ostensibly to the servants present.

Alizeh’s pulse quickened—this was her chance. If she could only scramble upright in time, she might disappear with the others, decant herself into another room, busy herself with a task. It would be a mite tricky to manage with a soapy bucket and brush in hand, but she’d no choice. She’d have to make it work if she didn’t want to arrive at the ball tonight with a swollen eye and a bruised cheek. As quietly—and quickly—as she was able, Alizeh jumped to her feet. She all but ran to catch up with the others, but the hot water in her bucket sloshed as she moved, splashing her clothes—and, she feared, the floor. For a mere half second Alizeh glanced back to scan the marble for a spill, when she suddenly slipped in the very puddle for which she was searching. She gasped, reflexively throwing her arms out to recapture her balance, and only made the situation worse. The jerky movement disturbed the bucket entirely, heaving a scalding wave of soapy water all over her skirts —and onto the floor. Alizeh dropped the bucket in horror. In her desperation to flee the scene she moved without thinking, the toe of her boot promptly catching on the wet, dragging hem of her skirt. She fell forward with cruel force, catching herself with both hands only after slamming one knee into the marble. Pain rocketed through her, branching up her leg; Alizeh dared not shout out, muting the cry in her lungs to a single, dull sound of discomfort. In vain she implored herself to stand, but the pain was so paralyzing she could hardly think straight; indeed, she could hardly breathe. Tears pricked her eyes in shame, in anguish. Alizeh had feared many times for the end of her tenure at Baz House, but she knew now without question that this was her finish. She’d be cast out on to the street for this, and today, of all days—when she needed a safe place to ready herself for the ball— “You stupid, thoughtless girl,” Mrs. Amina cried, rushing toward her. “What have you done? Get up this instant!” Mrs. Amina didn’t wait for Alizeh to move; she grabbed the girl roughly by the arm and wrenched her upright, and Alizeh came as close to screaming as she dared, her breath releasing in a tortured gasp. “I— I beg your pardon, ma’am. It was an acci—” Mrs. Amina shoved her, hard, in the direction of the kitchens, and Alizeh stumbled, agony shooting up her injured leg. She caught herself

against the wall, excuses dying in her throat. “I’m so desperately sorry.” “You’re going to clean this up, girl, and then you’re going to clear out your things and get out of this house.” Mrs. Amina was livid, her chest heaving with an anger even Alizeh had never before witnessed. The housekeeper lifted her hand as if to slap the girl. “Of all the days to be clumsy and brainless. I should have you whipped fo—” “Put down your hand.” Mrs. Amina froze, blinking at the unexpected sound of his voice. The housekeeper’s hand fell with theatrical slow motion as she turned, confusion sharpening in her eyes, in the language of her body. “I— I beg your pardon, sire—” “Step away from the girl.” The prince’s voice was low and murderous, his eyes flashing a shade of black so fathomless it terrified even Alizeh to look at him. “You forget yourself, ma’am. It is illegal under Ardunian law to beat servants.” Mrs. Amina gasped, then fell into a deep curtsy. “But— Sire—” “I will not repeat myself again. Step away from the girl or I will have you arrested.” Mrs. Amina released a sudden, fearful sob, scrambling inelegantly to put distance between herself and Alizeh, whose heart was beating so fast she felt both dizzy and faint with fear. Pain spasmed relentlessly in her knee, taking her breath away. She did not know what to do with herself. She hardly knew where to look. There was a sudden rustling of skirts. “Oh, my dear!” Duchess Jamilah rushed over, grabbing hold of the prince’s arm. “I beg you don’t trouble yourself. The fault is mine alone for exposing you to such ineptitude. I pray you will forgive me for subjecting you to this incivility, and for inspiring your discomfort—” “My dear aunt, you misunderstand me. My discomfort, if any, is inspired only by an overt disregard for the laws that govern our empire, and which we have a duty at all times to obey.” Duchess Jamilah gave a nervous, breathy laugh. “Your strict adherence to our governance does you a great service, my dear, but surely you must see that the girl deserves to be punished—that Mrs. Amina was only doing as she saw fit t—” The prince turned sharply, disengaging himself from his aunt. “You surprise me,” he said. “Surely you don’t mean you would condone such cruelty against your servants? The girl was carrying a bucket of water and

slipped. There was no harm done to anyone but herself. You would toss her into the street over a mere accident?” Duchess Jamilah directed a strained smile at the prince, then glared at the housekeeper. “Get out of my sight,” she said acidly. “And take the girl with you.” Mrs. Amina paled. She bobbed a curtsy, said, “Yes, Your Grace,” and grabbed Alizeh’s arm, jerking her forward. Alizeh stumbled on her throbbing leg and nearly bit through her tongue to keep from crying out. Under the pretense of offering assistance, Mrs. Amina drew the girl closer. “If I could, I’d snap your neck right now,” she hissed. “And don’t you dare forget it.” Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut. The housekeeper shoved Alizeh down the hall, the sound of Duchess Jamilah’s voice fading with her every step. “Your heart is one of legend,” the duchess was saying. “Of course, we all heard the story of your saving that filthy southern child, but now you come to the defense of a snoda? Kamran, my dear, you are too good for us. Come, let us take tea in my personal parlor, where we might have more quiet to reflect . . .” Kamran. His name was Kamran. Alizeh did not know why this revelation comforted her as she was dragged away—or even why she cared. Though maybe, she wondered, this was the reason why the devil had shown her his face. Maybe it was for this moment. Maybe because his was the last face she’d think of before her life was ripped apart. Yet again.

Twenty-Six

girl was half dragged, half shoved down the hall. As if the bandages around her hands and neck weren’t evidence enough, he’d noted with a modicum of fear that he’d begun to recognize her now merely from her movements, from the lines of her figure, from her glossy black curls. Kamran murmured a vacant thanks to his aunt, who’d said something he did not hear, and allowed her to lead him to another room, the details of which he did not notice. He could hardly focus on his aunt as she spoke, nodding only when it seemed appropriate, and offering brief, monosyllabic responses when prompted. Inside, he was in turmoil. Why do you not fight back? he’d wanted to cry. In the privacy of his own mind, Kamran would not cease shouting at the girl. She was capable of killing five men in cold blood but allowed this monstrous housekeeper to treat her thus? Why? Was she really left no recourse but to work here as the lowest servant, allowing her lessers to KAMRAN STARED, UNBLINKING, AS THE

treat her like trash? To abuse her? Why did she not seek employment elsewhere? Why? With that, the fight left his body. This was the true agony: that Kamran understood why she stayed. Not only had it recently occurred to him how difficult it might be for a Jinn to find employment in a noble house, but as the days wore on his imagination expanded even to understand precisely why she sought work in such a grand home. He’d begun to discern as much when she hesitated to remove her mask even in the midst of a rainstorm; he’d understood fully only when he realized how fraught her life was with danger. Kamran had known the girl but a matter of days, but in that short time he’d already been privy to three different attacks on her life. Three. It had been made clear to him, then, not only that she wished to live her life unseen—but that she did not feel safe enough in the city to live alone. These were two desires directly opposed. Her work as a servant, Kamran had realized, provided her with more than the basic needs of coin and shelter. The snoda itself offered her a measure of anonymity, but there was safety, too, in the walls of a grand estate. Guaranteed protection. Guards stationed at all access points. A faceless servant in a busy, heavily secured house— It was, for a young woman in her position, a brilliant cover. Doubtless she accepted as incidental the regular abuse she suffered in exchange for security. It was a situation Kamran despised. The tea he sipped turned to acid in his gut, the casual position of his limbs hiding an interior tension coiling him taut from the inside out. He felt as if his muscles were atrophying slowly in the suit of his skin, a silent litany of epithets perched in his mouth even when he smiled. He murmured, “Yes, thank you,” and accepted a second puffed pastry from his aunt’s proffered dish. He tucked one pastry next to its sibling, then placed the dessert plate on a low table. He’d no appetite. “. . . much excitement about the ball this evening,” his aunt was saying. “The daughter of a dear friend of mine shall be attending, and I was hoping to introduce . . .” Why Kamran felt this overwhelming need always to protect this nameless girl, he could not explain, for she was not at all helpless, and she was not his responsibility.

“Hmm?” his aunt prompted. “What do you say, dear? You would not mind terribly, would you?” “Not at all,” the prince said, staring into his teacup. “I’d be happy to meet anyone you respect so highly.” “Oh,” his aunt cried, clapping her hands together. “What a lovely young man you are, how . . .” Still, Kamran thought it must be exhausting to live such a life as hers; to know in your soul your own strength and intelligence and yet live each day insulted and berated. The girl went every minute overlooked unless she was being hunted. And devils above, he was tired of hunting her. The prince had been sent to Baz House as a spy. It was not the first time he’d done covert work for the empire, and he knew it would not be the last. What he detested now was not the work itself, but the nature of the directive he’d been given. Though Kamran doubted the anger and animosity he now felt toward his grandfather would abate, he also knew he was doomed to bury the feelings regardless, carrying on forever as if nothing untoward had transpired between them. Kamran could neither condemn the king nor disregard his duties; he’d no choice but to persist even in his current dilemma, loathsome though it was. “. . . thinking of wearing my lavender silk,” his aunt was saying, “but there’s a darling cream satin I’ve not yet worn, and I might . . .” The king was beyond persuasion: the girl had been prophesied to have powerful allies, and as a result Zaal firmly believed she’d received assistance during the previous night’s attack. He now wanted a lead on these unknown allies. If she was working with a team of spies or rebels, his grandfather argued, it was essential that they know immediately. “We’d hoped to dispose of her with absolute discretion,” the king had said. “The events of last night have instead set us back quite a bit, for if she is indeed connected to a larger plan—or a private army—her allies are now aware that an organized attempt was made on her life. “Should we succeed in our mission upon a second attempt, details of her death might then spread across the empire, inspiring vicious rumors that would cause strife between Jinn and Clay. We cannot afford civil war,” his grandfather had insisted. “We must wait to proceed, then, until we know exactly who she’s working with, and what they’re capable of. We cannot, however, wait too long.”

The prince did not know how to undo what he himself had first set in motion. This servant girl seemed fated to be the death of him, and much as he longed to blame others for the position he was in, he could not. He experienced only unceasing torment. Kamran took an unsteady breath and startled, suddenly, at the unexpected figure of his aunt, who stood before him holding a teapot. Understanding dawned, but too slowly. She gave him a strange look. The prince murmured his thanks, held out his empty cup for a pour, and made himself conjure a smile. “I’m certain you’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear,” he said to her. “Everything suits you.” His aunt beamed. King Zaal’s men, it turned out, had trailed the girl relentlessly for nearly two days, and in doing so had gleaned a great deal—but had not found evidence of a more nefarious connection. “We need access to the girl’s quarters,” the king had explained. “Any sensitive information is doubtless hidden therein. But as she occupies her room at night, the best time to infiltrate is during the day, when she is working.” “I see,” Kamran had said quietly. “And you cannot send mercenaries into Baz House in the light of day.” “Then you understand. It is of the utmost importance to keep the crown’s interests—and concerns—as quiet as possible. Already we have risked a great deal by having her followed. If it gets out that the empire is worried about demon-like Jinn hiding in plain sight, the people will scare and turn on each other. But your visit to your aunt’s house will arouse no suspicion; in fact, she has long been expecting you.” “Yes,” the prince had said. “I am in possession of my dear aunt’s letters.” “Very good. Your task is simple. Find an excuse to wander the house on your own and search the girl’s quarters extensively. Should you discover anything that seems even remotely unusual, I want to know.” It was a strange predicament. If Kamran could manage to be both smart and lucky, he might be able to fulfill this service to the king while sparing the girl a second attack on her life. He only needed proof that she was working with a formidable ally. The problem was, the prince did not agree with his grandfather’s

conspiracy. Kamran did not think the girl had received help in dispatching the hired thugs, and as a result he did not know if he could help her. His only hope was to find something—no matter how tenuous the evidence— that might give the king pause. Kamran heard the sharp trill of silver and china, a spoon stirring in a cup. He forced himself, once again, back to the present moment. Duchess Jamilah was smiling. She reached out without warning, placing her hand overtop Kamran’s. It was no small miracle that he managed not to flinch. “I see that there is a great deal on your mind,” his aunt said kindly. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you would visit even with so much to preoccupy your thoughts.” “It’s always a pleasure to see my dear aunt,” Kamran said automatically. “I only hope you will forgive me for not coming by sooner.” “I will forgive you as long as you promise to visit more often from here on out,” she said triumphantly, sitting back in her seat. “I have dearly missed having you here.” Kamran smiled at his aunt. It was a rare, genuine smile, stirred up by ancient affection. His aunt Jamilah was his father’s older cousin, and had been more of a mother figure to him than his own ever had. The prince had spent countless days —months, even—at Baz House during his life, and it was not a lie to say that he was happy to see his aunt now. But then, it was not the same, either. “As I have missed being here,” he said, staring, unseeing, at a glossy bowl of orange persimmons. He looked up. “How have you been? Are your knees still troubling you?” “You remember your poor aunt’s ailments, do you?” She very nearly glowed with happiness. “What a thoughtful prince you are.” Kamran denied himself the laugh building in his chest; he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the effect he had on his aunt—though she required so little encouragement to praise him that it sometimes left him feeling ashamed. “My knees are old,” she said simply. “Things begin to fall apart when they get old enough. Not much to be done about it. In any case, you need not worry about me when I’m so busy worrying about you.” A pause. “Are you merely preoccupied with your regular comings and goings? Or is there something troubling you, my dear?”

Kamran did not answer at first, choosing instead to study the filigree of his teacup. “Are you quite certain,” he said finally, “that it is age alone that accounts for our steady decline? If so, I am forced to wonder. Perhaps you and I are the same age, aunt, for I fear I may be falling apart, too.” His aunt’s expression grew suddenly mournful; she squeezed his hand. “Oh, my dear. I do so wish—” “Forgive me. Would you be so kind as to indulge me a brief interlude? I’d love to wander the house a short while, and clear away my nostalgia with fresh memories of your beautiful home.” “Of course, dear child!” Duchess Jamilah placed her teacup down with a bit too much force. “This is your home as much as it is mine. Though I hope you will forgive me, as I cannot join you on your tour. My knees, as you know, cannot bear all the stairs unless absolutely necessary.” “Not at all.” He stood and bowed his head. “Please remain here at your leisure, and I will rejoin you directly.” She beamed somehow brighter. “Very good. I will see to luncheon in your absence. All will be ready for you when you’re finished with your wander.” Kamran nodded. “I’ll not be long.”

Twenty-Seven

his every move. Kamran made noise as he roamed the halls of Baz House, opening doors and wandering corridors gracelessly, leaving evidence of his interests everywhere. He stood dramatically in doorways, dragged his fingers along the intricate wall moldings; he stared moodily out of windows and picked books off their shelves, holding the leather-bound pages to his chest. Perhaps Hazan had been right. The prince was quite good at giving performances when he felt them necessary. He maintained the show for as long as he felt was needed to evince his wistful intentions; only then, when he was certain any suspicions of the staff had been thoroughly defused, did he reduce himself to shadow. Silent as light, he crept up the stairs. Kamran’s heart had begun to beat a bit too fast, a traitor in his chest. Despite the hateful circumstances, some part of him still sparked at the prospect of discovering more about the girl. THE CURIOUS SERVANTS WERE STALKING

He’d already learned from his grandfather that she was orphaned, that she’d been in Setar but a few months, and that she lived in Baz House as only a trial servant. She did not, as a result, have rooms in the servants’ wing, nor was she allowed to interact or communicate with the other servants. Instead, she’d been offered lodgings in an old storage closet at the vertex of the main house. An old storage closet. This discovery had shocked him, but his grandfather had quickly assured the prince that the isolated position of her room would only make his task easier. The king had misunderstood Kamran’s astonishment. Even as he climbed yet another flight of stairs, the prince struggled to imagine what such a closet might look like. He knew servants occupied the most humble housing, but he’d not anticipated the girl might live among rotting vegetables. Did she share a room with sacks of potatoes and pickled garlic, then? Was the poor girl left no recourse but to sleep on dank, moldy floorboards with only rats and cockroaches as her companions? She was worked so hard she nearly wore the skin off her own hands—and yet she was not recompensed with the most basic offering of a clean bed? Kamran’s gut twisted at the thought. He did not like to think how poorly these revelations reflected on his aunt, but worse: he did not know whether he would’ve done any better. The prince knew not how every snoda in the palace was treated—and it had never once occurred to him to ask. Though he considered it was perhaps not too late to find out. Kamran had by now lost count of the flights of stairs he’d climbed. Six? Seven? It was uncanny to experience the arduous commute she made day and night—and it was yet another astonishment to discover how far removed she lived from the breathing bodies of others. For a moment it made him wonder whether the girl preferred being so far from everything. Certainly no one would make such a journey up into the attic without cause. It was perhaps a comfort to feel so sheltered. Though it was perhaps desperately lonely, too. When Kamran finally stood in front of the girl’s door, he hesitated; felt a disconcerting flutter in his chest. The prince did not know what he might discover herein, but he tried to prepare himself, at least, for a vision of abject poverty. He did not look

forward to rummaging through the girl’s private life, and he closed his eyes as he pulled open the closet door, whispering a quiet apology to her ghost. Kamran promptly froze at the threshold. He was met with a soft glow of light, and overwhelmed at once by the intoxicating scent of Gol Mohammadi roses, the source of which he pinpointed to a small, crocheted basket in a corner of the room. The makeshift bowl was stacked high with corollas of slowly desiccating pink petals, a kind of homemade potpourri. Kamran was stunned. The small quarters—so small that he might’ve lain down and spanned the length of it—were warm and cozy, flooded with perfume, rich with color. No cockroach in sight. Like a madman, he wanted to laugh. How? How did she always manage to reduce him to this, to this shameful state? Once more he’d been convinced he understood her—had pitied her, even—and instead he was humbled by his own arrogance. A vision of abject poverty, indeed. The room was spotless. Its walls and floors and ceiling had been scrubbed so clean the boards did not match the black, molding exterior door—which she’d left untouched. There was a small, beautifully patterned rug arranged on the ground next to a modest cot, which was neatly dressed in a silky quilt and pillow. Her few articles of clothing hung from colorful hooks—no, they were nails, he realized, nails that had been wrapped in thread—and a collection of miscellaneous items were placed with care in a clean apple crate. They appeared to be sewing supplies, mostly. But there was a single book, too, the title of which he could not discern, and which he peered at now, taking an unconscious step into the room. The entire space came at once into view—and too late, Kamran saw the candle burning in an unseen corner. He went suddenly solid. There was the familiar press of a cold blade at his throat, the feel of her small hand at his back. He heard her soft breathing and could tell merely by the unmuffled sound that she did not wear her snoda. He must’ve surprised her. His flutter of anticipation suddenly magnified. It was a bizarre sensation, for what he felt even as she held a knife to his neck was not fear,

but elation. She was not supposed to be here, and he’d not dared to hope he might find himself alone with her again. A miracle, then: her hand still pressed against his back, her racing pulse nearly audible in the silence. “Speak,” she said. “Tell me what you seek here. Answer honestly, and I give you my word I will leave you unharmed.” Was it terrible that his heart pounded in his chest at the soft sound of her voice? Was it worrisome that he felt nothing but pleasure to be held at her mercy? What a fascinating creature she was, to be so bold as to offer him his life in exchange for information. What worlds he might be inspired to give up, he wondered, in the pursuit of knowing more of her mind. She pressed the knife harder. “Speak the truth now,” she said. “Or I will slit your throat.” Not for a moment did he doubt her. “I have been sent here as a spy,” he said. “I come here now to rummage through your room in the hopes of gathering intelligence.” The blade fell away. Kamran heard the familiar slicing sound of metal coming together and realized that what he thought was a blade was, in fact, a pair of scissors. He almost laughed. But then the girl stepped in front of him, and all thought of laughter died in his throat. She was not dressed. Her hair was loose; long, obsidian curls fell into her silver eyes, and she batted them away impatiently. Kamran watched, transfixed, as the silky locks grazed her naked shoulders, the delicate column of her neck, the smooth expanse of her chest. The dangerously low cut of her chemise was held up only by a corset, and Kamran discovered, to his dismay, that he could not breathe. The girl was not dressed. She was not undressed, not at all, but she wore only her underskirts and corset, and was covering herself poorly with one hand, clutching her sopping dress against her exposed bodice, her right fist still clenched around a pair of scissors. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was. This revelation was astonishing to him, for he’d spent more time than he cared to admit thinking about the girl, conjuring her face when he

closed his eyes at night. He did not think himself capable of forgetting anything about her, and yet he must have, for he was struck stupid anew, drawing near her now like a hungry flame to tinder. Kamran did not enjoy the feeling that overcame him then. He took little pleasure in this kind of desperation, in a desire so potent it inhaled him. He’d never felt this, not like this, for this was a uniquely powerful force, one that left him disoriented in its wake. Weak. “Turn around,” she said. “I must finish dressing.” It took him a moment to process the request. Not only had his mind been upended, but Kamran had never been ordered around by anyone but the king. He felt as if someone had shoved him bodily into a tragic inverse of his real life—and what surprised him most was that he did not dislike it. He obeyed her order without a word, silently castigating himself for his own incomprehensible reaction to the girl. Women wore all manner of scandalous garments in his presence; some wore gowns so dramatically low-cut that corsets were done away with altogether. What’s more: the prince was not a green child. He was not unaccustomed to the presence of beautiful women. How, then, to explain what overcame him now? “So,” the girl said quietly. “You have come to spy on me.” Kamran heard the distinct rustling of fabric, and he closed his eyes. He was a gentleman of honor. He would not imagine her undressing. He would not. “Yes,” he said. More fabric swishing; something hitting the ground with a dull thud. “If that is indeed true,” she said, “I wonder why you would dare admit it.” “And I wonder why you would doubt me,” he said with impressive calm. “You told me you would slit my throat if I failed to give you an honest answer.” “Then you, of all people, should understand my suspicion. Certainly it will not surprise you to hear that none before you have ever accepted my terms.” “None before me?” He smiled to himself. “Do you often find yourself in a position of negotiation with spies and cutthroats?” “A great deal too often, in fact. Why—did you think yourself the first to find me a subject of interest?” A pause. “You may turn around now.” He did.

She’d pinned her hair back, buttoned a clean dress up to her throat. It had not helped. The modest frock had done nothing to diminish her beauty. He felt bewitched as he drank her in, lingering too long on her arresting eyes, the delicate curve of her lips. “No,” he said softly. “I daresay I’m not the first.” She stared at him then, surprise rendering her, for a moment, inhumanly still. Kamran watched with some amazement as a faint blush burned across her cheeks. She turned away, clasped her hands together. Had he made her nervous? “I gave you my word,” she said quietly, “that I would leave you unharmed in exchange for your honesty. I meant what I said, and I will not now go against myself. But you must leave at once.” “Forgive me, but I will not.” She looked up sharply. “I beg your pardon?” “You asked for a confession in exchange for my life, which I readily offered. But I never once promised to forfeit my task. I will understand, of course, if you’d rather not stay while I rifle through your things—and I suspect you are anxious to return to work. Shall I wait to begin until you are gone?” The girl’s lips parted in shock, her eyes widening with disbelief. “Are you as mad as you sound, sir?” “That is twice now that you have called me sir,” he said, a slight smile on his lips. “I can’t say I care for it.” “Pray, what is it you would prefer I call you? Do tell me now and I’ll make a note to forget in future, as there is little chance our paths will cross again.” “I should be very sorry if that were the case.” “You say this even as you kick me out of my own room so that you might surveil it? Do you jest, sire?” Kamran nearly laughed. “I see now that you do know who I am.” “Yes, we are both well informed. I know your legacy as surely as you know mine.” Kamran’s smile faded altogether. “Did you think me a simpleton?” she asked angrily. “Why else would the prince of Ardunia be sent to spy on me? It was you who sent those men to kill me last night, was it not?” She turned away. “More fool me. I should have listened to the devil.” “You are mistaken,” Kamran said with some heat.

“On what point? Do you mean to say you are not responsible for the attempt on my life?” “I am not.” “And yet you were aware of it. Does it matter whose lips issued the order? Did not the directive come from your own crown?” Kamran took a breath, said nothing. There was little else he could say without making himself a traitor to his empire. His grandfather had more than proven how readily he would decree the prince’s head be separated from his body, and despite Kamran’s many protests to the contrary, he rather liked being alive. “Do you deny these allegations, sire?” the girl said, rounding on him. “How long have your men been watching me? How long have I been a subject of interest to the crown?” “You know I cannot answer such questions.” “Did you know who I was that night? The night you came to Baz House to return my parcels? Were you watching me even then?” Kamran looked away. Faltered. “I— It was complicated— I did not know, not at first—” “Goodness. And I thought you were merely being kind.” She laughed a sad laugh. “I suppose I should’ve known better than to think such a kindness might be granted without a hefty price.” “My actions that night had no ulterior motive,” Kamran said sharply. “That much is true.” “Is it really?” Kamran struggled to maintain his composure. “Yes.” “You do not wish me dead?” “No.” “The king, then. He wishes to kill me. Does he think me a threat to his throne?” “You already know I cannot answer these questions.” “You cannot answer the most pertinent questions, the ones most relevant to my life, to my welfare? And yet you smile and tease me, talk with me as if you are a friend and not a ruthless enemy. Where is your sense of honor, sire? I see you have misplaced it.” Kamran swallowed. It was a moment before he spoke. “I do not blame you for hating me,” he said quietly. “And I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. There are aspects of my role—of my

position—that bind me, and which I can only detest in the privacy of my own mind. “I would ask that you allow me only this in my own defense: Do not misunderstand me,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I wish you no harm.”

Twenty-Eight

ALIZEH STRUGGLED TO BREATHE. THE

nosta glowed hot against her skin; the

prince had not lied to her once. It should’ve been a comfort to know that he meant her no harm, but she was not in full possession of herself. He’d caught her off guard, out of sorts. She seldom, if ever, allowed herself to get so angry, but today was a strange day, made more difficult by the hour.

She’d been dismissed without hesitation. Alizeh had been sent upstairs to pack her things and exit the premises with all possible haste. She’d managed to avoid the inevitable beating, but only because she’d finally defended herself, terrifying Mrs. Amina in the process. There was no point in taking the hit, Alizeh had rationalized, if she was to be cast out regardless—though she’d not actually hit Mrs. Amina. She’d merely lifted a hand to protect herself—and the housekeeper had nearly fainted. The woman had not expected resistance, and the forceful impact of her hand against Alizeh’s forearm was such that it sprained the housekeeper’s wrist. It was a modest victory, and it had cost Alizeh dearly. At best, Mrs. Amina would deny her a reference—a reference that might’ve made all the difference in finding another position quickly. At worst, Mrs. Amina might report the sprain to Duchess Jamilah, who might then report Alizeh to the magistrates on charges of assault. The girl’s hands were shaking. She shook not merely with rage, but with fear for her life, the whole of it. For the first time she had hope of escape, but Hazan himself had said there was a chance their plans could go awry. It was imperative that Alizeh attend the ball tonight, but the deed was to be done with discretion—she would need camouflage in such a situation, which meant she needed a gown. Which meant she needed time and space to work; a safe place to prepare. How would any of that happen now? It was all beginning to drown her, the realizations sinking in like sediment. The pain in her knee had begun to ebb, but still it throbbed, and the dull ache reminded her now only of her own inexhaustible torment. Never was she spared a moment of peace; never would her demons leave her be. She was always fatigued, always tense. She couldn’t even change out of her miserable, sopping clothes without being besieged, and now she would be pitched out into the winter streets. Everything she’d tirelessly built—the pocket of light she’d dug free from darkness—had been so easily extinguished. All the world seemed frightfully bleak. The magistrates alone would’ve been terrifying enough, but with the crown in pursuit of her, Alizeh knew her life was forfeit. If she couldn’t

make things work tonight she’d have no choice but to leave Setar, to begin again elsewhere and hope Hazan could find her again. She felt suddenly close to tears. There was a whisper of movement then, a featherlight touch along her arm. She looked up. The prince was staring at her, his eyes dark as pitch, glittering in the candlelight. Alizeh could not help but be struck by him, even then. His was a face you seldom saw in a crowd; so stunning it stopped you in your tracks. Her heart had begun to race. “Forgive me,” he said. “It was not my intention to upset you.” Alizeh looked away, blinked back tears. “What a strange person you are,” she said. “So polite in your determination to rummage through my things without my permission; to deny me my privacy.” “Would it improve matters if I were rude?” “Do not attempt to distract me with such tangential conversations.” She sniffed, wiped her eyes. “You know very well that you are strange. If you truly did not wish to upset me, you would leave at once.” “I cannot.” “You must.” He bowed his head. “I will not.” “Just moments ago you said you wish me no harm. If that is true, why not leave me be?” “What if I told you that your safety was dependent on the results of my search?” “I would not believe you.” “And yet.” He almost smiled. “Your safety is dependent on the results of my search.” The nosta glowed so hot Alizeh flinched, then stared, wide-eyed, at the prince. “Do you mean to say you seek to violate my privacy in the interest of my protection?” He grimaced. “Your summary is distasteful.” “But you scarcely know me. Why would the prince of Ardunia trouble himself to protect a hated stranger?” He sighed at that, looking frustrated for the first time. “My motivations, I fear I cannot adequately explain.” “Why on earth not?”

“The truth may seem to you farfetched. I wonder whether you will believe a word of it.” Alizeh felt keenly the pressure of the little glass orb then, grateful for its presence more than ever. “I would ask you to try anyway.” At first, he did not speak. He reached into his pocket instead, retrieving what appeared to be a handkerchief—which he then held out as an offering. Alizeh gasped, recognizing it at once. Her body was seized by a static of shock as she took the familiar cloth into her own hands. Oh, she’d thought it lost. She’d thought it lost forever. The relief that overcame her then was such that she thought she might be inspired, suddenly, to cry. “How? How did you—” “It is my fault you are now being hunted,” the prince said quietly. “When I saw you disarm the Fesht boy that awful, fateful morning, I thought you’d stolen your uniform from an unsuspecting servant, as it seemed more likely to me that you were a Tulanian spy than a snoda. I made inquiries, and in the process, delivered you undue harm.” Alizeh took an unsteady step back. Even as the nosta glowed warm against her skin, verifying his every word, she struggled to believe him. “Forgive me,” he said, staring now into his hands. “I’ve been made privy to some details of your life in these last few days, and I—” Gently, he cleared his throat. “I think very highly of you,” he said. “You may not know much of me, but I’ve seen enough now to understand that you’ve been treated abominably by the world and its inhabitants, myself among them. I intend to spare you the worst of what comes next, insomuch as I am able.” Alizeh stilled, blinking against a sudden blow of emotion. She had tried to raise a shield and failed: she was touched. It had been a long time since anyone had noticed her or found her worthy of basic kindness. What had the prince seen of her life to inspire him so? She dearly wanted to know—wanted to ask—but her pride would not allow it. She stared at him instead, at his bowed head. Her eyes traveled over the thick, satin waves of his black hair, the broad shoulders beneath his intricately knit ivory sweater. He was tall and steady, so beautifully in possession of himself. She saw the prince in him then, the

elegance of nobility, of honor; he seemed in that moment every grace personified. “You say,” she said quietly, “that you think highly of me.” “I do.” The nosta warmed. “And you mean to protect me now as a kind of penance?” At that, the prince looked up. “In a way,” he said, and smiled. “Though I experience no suffering in the effort, so I suppose even in this I’ve managed to be selfish.” Alizeh took a deep breath. She wanted to laugh; she wanted to cry. What a strange day this had turned out to be. “If all that you say is true, sire, why can you not simply leave here? You need not search my room. You might return to the palace and tell His Majesty whatever you think will best accomplish your goal.” “I never said I was sent by His Majesty.” “Were you not?” “I cannot answer that.” She sighed, turning away as she said, “I see you are determined to be infuriating.” “My apologies. Perhaps you should return to work.” She spun back, all tender emotion forgotten. “You dare dismiss me from my own room? How do you manage to be so kind in one moment and so vexing in the next?” He tilted his head at her. “You are the first to think me capable of such dichotomy. I am in fact not known to possess so changeable a character, and I’m forced to wonder whether the source of your frustration is rooted elsewhere.” Alizeh’s eyes went wide at the affront. “You think the fault lies with me, then? You think me inconstant?” “With all due respect, I would point out only that you welcomed my arrival with a promise to slit my throat and have since been moved to tears at least twice in my presence. I would hardly call that sort of behavior constant.” She clenched her fists. “Do you not think I am allowed to experience a full spectrum of emotion when my nerves are so mercilessly attacked— when you lay at my feet all manner of shocking revelations?” “What I think,” he said, fighting back a smile, “is that you will soon be missed by your despicable housekeeper. I ask that you return to your duties

only for fear that any further delay will cost you. You need not worry about me.” He glanced around the room. “I, too, have a task to accomplish.” Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, she wanted to shake him. There was no use trying to convince him of anything. She moved away, bending with only a little difficulty to collect her disassembled carpet bag from the floor, and quickly pulled the threads taut, reshaping the small luggage. She was aware of the prince’s eyes on her as she worked, but did her best to ignore him. Quickly, she removed her few items from their hooks—including Miss Huda’s unfinished gown—folding them on her bed before tucking them into the bag. She reached for the apple crate next— “What are you doing?” She was tipping over the crate, dumping its contents into the bag, when she felt his hand on her arm. “Why are y—” “You will not listen to me,” she said, pulling away. “I have asked you several times now to leave, and you will neither listen nor sufficiently explain yourself. As such, I have decided to ignore you.” “Ignore me all you like, but why pack up your things? Have I not made it plain that I need to search them?” “Your arrogance, sire, is astonishing.” “I apologize, once again, for any inconvenience my personality has caused you. Please unpack your belongings.” Alizeh clenched her jaw. She wanted to kick him. “I have been dismissed from Baz House,” she said. “I cannot return to work. I have little time left to vacate the premises, after which I must, with all possible haste, run for my life.” She yanked the quilt off her bed. “So if you will please excuse me.” He moved in front of her. “That’s absurd. I won’t allow that to happen.” She stepped aside. “You do not control the universe, Your Highness.” “I control more of it than you might consider.” “Do you even hear yourself when you speak? If so, how can you stand it?” Improbably, the prince laughed. “I must say, you are a surprise. I’d not imagined you’d be so quick to anger.” “I find it difficult to believe you imagined me at all.”

“Why?” Alizeh hesitated, blinking up at him. “I beg your pardon? What reason would you have to wonder about my temperament?” “You need only one? I have many.” Alizeh’s lips parted in surprise. “Are you making fun of me?” He smiled at that, smiled so wide she saw the white flash of his teeth. It changed him, somehow. Softened him. He said nothing. “You are right, in any case,” Alizeh said. “I am not usually so quick to anger.” She bit her lip. “I fear there is something about you that makes me angrier than most.” He laughed again. “I suppose I should not mind then, so long as I am memorable.” Alizeh sighed. She shoved her small pillow into her bag, snapped the overstuffed bag closed. “All right, I w—” There was a sound. A distant creak of stairs, the sound of wood expanding and contracting. No one ever came up this far, not unless it was absolutely necessary—and if someone was here now, it was without a doubt to make certain she was gone. Alizeh did not think before she reacted, instinct alone activating her movements. Indeed it all happened so quickly she’d not even realized what she’d done until her mind was returned to her body, sensation returned to her skin. She felt him everywhere, all at once. She’d knocked them both back into a far corner of the room, where they now crouched, and where Alizeh had cloaked their bodies and her bag with invisibility. She also all but sat in his lap. Ferocious heat spread through her body, something like mortification. She could not move now for fear of exposing them, but neither did she know how she would survive this: his body pressed against hers, his warm breath at her neck. She inhaled the scent of him without meaning to— orange blossoms and leather—and the heady combination filled her head, startled her nerves. “Is it possible you’re trying to kill me?” he whispered. “Your methods are highly unusual.” She didn’t dare answer.

If she and the prince were caught alone in her room together, she could only imagine the fallout for both of them. A plausible explanation seemed impossible. When the doorknob turned a second later, she felt the prince stiffen with awareness. His hand tightened around her waist, and Alizeh’s heart pounded only harder. She’d forgotten to blow out the candle. Alizeh tensed as the door creaked open. She had no way of knowing who would be sent to check on her; if it was one of the rarer Jinn servants, her illusion of invisibility would not hold, as it was effective only on Clay. She also knew not whether her attempt to extend this protection to the prince would be successful, as she’d never before attempted such a feat. A figure entered the room—not Mrs. Amina, Alizeh noted with relief— but a footman. His eyes roved the room, and Alizeh tried to see the space as he did: stripped of all personal effects, save the small basket of dried flowers. And the candle, the blasted candle. The footman scooped up the flowers and headed straight for the flame, shaking his head with obvious irritation before blowing it out. Doubtless he wondered whether the girl had planned to set fire to the house upon her exit. He was gone a moment later, slamming the door shut behind him. That was it. The ordeal was done. Alizeh should have rejoiced in her success, but the small, windowless attic room had gone suddenly, suffocatingly dark, and a familiar panic began to claw its way up her throat, constricting her chest. She felt as if she’d been left at the bottom of the sea, consumed whole by infinite night. Worse, she found that she could not move. Alizeh blinked desperately against the jet black, willing her eyes to adjust to the impenetrable darkness, to widen their aperture enough to find a single spark of light, all to no avail. The more desperate she grew, the harder it became to remain calm; she felt her heart beat faster in her chest, her pulse fluttering in her throat. The prince moved, suddenly, touching her as he shifted, his hands circling her waist. He lifted her, just slightly, to adjust himself, but he made no effort to put space between their bodies. In fact, he drew her closer.

“I beg your pardon,” he whispered in her ear. “But do you intend to sit on me in perpetuity?” Alizeh felt a bit faint, and she did not know then whether to blame the dark or the nearness of the prince, whose ever-increasing proximity had begun to brew a counterintuitive cure for her panic. His closeness somehow dulled the sharpest edge of her fear, imbuing in her now an unexpected calm. She unclenched by degrees, sinking slowly against him with unconscious effort; every inch she conceded he easily claimed, drawing her deeper into his warmth, more fully into his embrace. His body heat soon enveloped her so completely that she imagined, for the length of the most sublime moment, that the ice in her veins had begun to thaw, that she might presently puddle at his feet. Without a sound she sighed, sighed as relief coursed through her frozen blood. Even her racing pulse began to steady. She could not name this remedy. She only knew he was strong—she could feel it even now—his limbs heavy and solid, his broad chest the ideal place to rest her head. Alizeh had been desperately fatigued for years; she was overwhelmed then by an illogical desire to wrap the comforting weight of his arms around her body and sleep. She wanted to close her eyes, wanted to drift off at long last without fear, without worry. She’d not felt safe in so long. The prince sat forward an inch and his jaw skimmed her cheek, hard and soft planes touching, retreating. She heard him exhale. “I haven’t the slightest idea what we’re doing,” he said softly. “Though if you mean to take me captive, you need only ask. I would come willingly.” Alizeh almost laughed, grateful for the reprieve. She focused her fractured consciousness on the prince, allowing his voice, his weight, to orient her. He seemed to her so wonderfully concrete, so certain not only of himself, but of the world he occupied. Alizeh, by contrast, often felt like a ship lost at sea, tossed about in every storm, narrowly avoiding disaster at every turn. She was struck, then, by a strange thought: that she might never be shipwrecked if she had such an anchor to steady her. “If I tell you something,” Alizeh whispered, her hand curling unconsciously around his forearm. “Will you promise not to tease me?”

“Absolutely not.” She made a sound in her throat, something mournful. “Very well.” He sighed. “Go on.” “I’m a bit afraid of the dark.” It was a moment before he said, “I beg your pardon?” “Petrified, actually. I’m petrified of the dark. I feel very nearly paralyzed right now.” “You’re not serious.” “I am, quite.” “You killed five men last night—in the dark—and you expect me to believe this blather?” “It’s true,” she insisted. “I see. If you’ve constructed this falsehood merely to safeguard your modesty, you should know that it only undermines your intelligence, for the lie is too weak to be believed. You would be better off simply admitting that you find me attractive and wish to be near m—” Alizeh made a sound of protest, so horrified she shot straight up and stumbled, her injured knee having been locked in one position for too long. She caught herself against her old cot and stifled a cry, clinging to the thin mattress with both hands. Her heart beat harder in her chest. She shivered violently as her body filled again with frost; her terror, too, had returned, this time with a force that shook her knees. In the absence of the prince—the absence of his heat, his reliable form—Alizeh felt cold and exposed. The darkness had grown somehow more vicious without him near; more likely to devour her whole. She stretched trembling hands out before her, reaching blindly for an exit that refused to illuminate. She knew, intellectually, that hers was an irrational fear—knew the illusion was only in her head— Still, it claimed her. It gripped her mind with two fists and spun her into a vortex of senselessness. It was all she could think, suddenly, that she did not want to die here, compressed by the darkness of the earth. She did not want to be abandoned by the sun, the moon, the stars; did not want to be inhaled whole by the force of the expanding universe. Suddenly, she could hardly breathe.

She felt his arms come around her then, strong hands steadying her, searching for purchase. He drew a map of her with his fingers until he found her face, which he took into his hands, and upon which he made a discovery that bade him be still. Alizeh felt it when he changed, when his fingers met with the tears falling slowly down her cheeks. “By the angels,” he whispered. “You really are afraid of the dark. You strange girl.” She pulled away and wiped at her face, squeezed her eyes shut. “I only need to orient myself. My—my bed is here, which means the door is just —just across there. I’ll be fine, you’ll see.” “I don’t understand. Of all the things in your life to fear— I’ve seen you in the dark before, and you never reacted like this.” “It was not”—she swallowed, steadied herself—“it was not entirely dark then. There are gas lamps lining the streets. And the moon—the moon is a great comfort to me.” “The moon is a great comfort to you,” he repeated tonelessly. “What an odd thing to say.” “Please don’t tease me. You said you wouldn’t.” “I’m not teasing you. I’m stating a fact. You are very strange.” “And you, sire, are unkind.” “You’re crying in a dark room the size of my thumb; the door is but paces away. Surely you see that you are being nonsensical.” “Oh, now you’re just being cruel.” “I’m being honest.” “You are being needlessly mean.” “Mean? You say this to the man who just saved your life?” “Saved my life?” Alizeh said, angrily wiping away the last of her tears. “How easily you praise yourself. You hardly saved my life.” “Didn’t I? Was not your life in danger? Is that not why you were crying?” “Of course not, that’s n—” “Then you accept my point,” he said. “That you were in no real danger. That you were being nonsensical.” “I—” She faltered. Her mouth fell open. “Oh, you are a horrible person. You are a mean, horrible—” “I am an extremely generous person. Have you already forgotten how long I allowed you to sit on me?” Alizeh gasped. “How dare y—”

She stopped herself, the words dying in her throat at the muffled sound of his laughter, the palpable tremble of his body as he struggled to contain it. “Why do you rile so easily?” he said, still fighting a laugh. “Do you not see that your effortless outrage only makes me want to provoke you more?” Alizeh stiffened at that; felt suddenly stupid. “You mean you were teasing me? Even after I asked you not to?” “Forgive me,” he said, the smile lingering in his voice. “I was teasing you, yes, but only because I’d hoped it would distract you from your fear. I see now that you do not laugh easily at yourself. Or others.” “Oh,” she said, feeling small. “I see.” He touched her then, a brush of his fingers down her arm, leaving a fiery path in its wake. Alizeh dared not breathe. She didn’t know when they’d arrived here, or how, but in such a brief time she felt closer to this peculiar prince than she had with most anyone. Even the way he touched her was familiar—his nearness was familiar. She could not explain why, but she felt safe by his side. No doubt it was the work of the nosta, without which she might’ve questioned his every word and action. Indeed, knowing unequivocally that all he’d said to her today was true—that he’d sought her out in the interest of her protection, ostensibly against the wishes of the king—had deeply affected her. It was not even that he was handsome or noble, or that he acted the part of a chivalrous prince— No, her pleasure was far simpler than that. Alizeh had long ago been forced into a life of obscurity and insignificance. She was accosted and spat upon, beaten and disrespected. She’d been reduced to nothing in the eyes of society, was hardly recognized as a living being, and was promptly forgotten by most everyone she met. It was a miracle, then, that he’d noticed her at all. How, she wondered, had this prince been the only one to see something notable in her, something worth remembering? She’d never have said the words aloud, but his discovery—however dangerous—meant more to her than he would ever know. She heard him draw breath.

“I want very much,” he said softly, “to tell you what I am thinking now, but you will no doubt think I exaggerate, even if I swear it to be true.” Alizeh wanted to laugh. “Do you not think it a kind of cheat, sire, to make such a declaration when you know full well I will insist upon your confession? Does it not seem unfair to you to place the burden of interest entirely on my shoulders?” There was a beat of silence then, during which Alizeh imagined she could feel his surprise. “I fear you’ve mistaken me for a different sort of person,” he said quietly. “I displaced no burden. I do not fear the repercussions of honesty.” “No?” Now she was nervous. “No.” “Oh,” she said, the word a breath. The prince closed the narrow gap between them until they were dangerously close—so close she suspected she’d need only to tilt up her chin and their lips would touch. She could not calm her heart. “You have consumed my thoughts since the moment I met you,” he said to her. “I feel now, in your presence, entirely strange. I think I might fetch you the moon if only to spare your tears again.” Once more, the nosta flashed warm against Alizeh’s skin, proof that only terrified her heart into a gallop, sent a flood of feeling through her body. She felt disoriented, hyperaware, and still confused; only dimly cognizant of another world waiting for her; of danger and urgency waiting, waiting for her to surface. “Tell me your name,” he whispered. Slowly, very slowly, Alizeh touched her fingers to his waist, anchored herself to his body. She heard his soft intake of breath. “Why?” she asked. He hesitated, briefly, before he said, “I begin to fear you’ve done me irreparable damage. I should like to know who to blame.” “Irreparable damage? Surely now you are exaggerating.” “I only wish I were.” “If that is true, sire, then it is best we part as anonymous friends, so as to spare each other further harm.” “Friends?” he said, dismayed. “If your intention was to wound me, know you have succeeded.”

“You’re right.” She grinned. “We have no hope even of friendship. Best to simply say our goodbyes. Shall we shake hands?” “Oh, now you really do wound me.” “Never fear, Your Highness. This brief interlude will be relegated to a graveyard populated by all manner of half- forgotten memories.” He laughed, briefly, at that, but there was little mirth in it. “Do you take pleasure in torturing me with this drivel?” “A bit, yes.” “Well, I’m pleased to know I’ve rendered a service, at least.” She was still smiling. “Farewell,” she whispered. “Our time together has come to an end. We will never again meet. Our worlds will never again collide.” “Don’t say that,” he said, suddenly serious. His hand moved to her waist, traveled up the curve of her rib cage. “Say anything but that.” Alizeh was no longer smiling. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might bruise. “What shall I say, then?” “Your name. I want to hear it from your lips.” She took a breath. Released it slowly. “My name,” she said, “is Alizeh. I am Alizeh of Saam, the daughter of Siavosh and Kiana. Though you may know me better as the lost queen of Arya.” He stiffened at that, went silent. Finally he moved, one hand capturing her face, his thumb grazing her cheek in a fleeting moment, there and gone again. His voice was a whisper when he said, “Do you wish to know my name, too, Your Majesty?” “Kamran,” she said softly. “I already know who you are.” She was unprepared when he kissed her, for the darkness had denied her a warning before their lips met, before he claimed her mouth with a need that stole from her an anguished sound, a faint cry that shocked her. She felt his desperation as he touched her, as he kissed her in every passing second with a need greater than the one before, inspiring in her a response she could not fathom into words. She only breathed him in, drew the fragrance of his skin into her blood, the darkly floral scent striking her mind like an opiate. He drew his hands down her body with an unconcealed longing she returned in equal measure; one she’d not even known herself to possess. She didn’t even think before she reached for him, twining her arms around his neck; she pushed her hands through the silk of his hair and he went briefly solid, then kissed her so deeply she

tasted him, heat and sugar, over and over. Every inch of her skin was suddenly so fraught with sensation she could hardly move. No, she did not want to move. She dared to touch him, too, to feel the expanse of his chest, the sculpted lines of his body; she felt him change as she discovered him, breathe harder when she touched her lips to the sharp line of his jaw, the column of his neck. He made a sound, a low moan in his throat, igniting a flare of awareness in her chest that flashed across her skin before his back was suddenly against the wall, his arms braced around her waist. Still, she could not seem to get close enough. She despaired when he broke away, feeling the loss of him even as he kissed her cheeks, her closed eyes, and suddenly his hands were in her hair, pulling pins, reaching for the buttons of her dress— Oh. Alizeh tore away, stumbled back on unsteady legs. Her bones would not cease shaking. They both struggled to catch their breath, but Alizeh hardly knew herself in that moment, hardly recognized the violent pounding of her heart, the unfathomable desire that had risen up inside her. She now wanted things she could not even name, things she knew she could never have. What on earth had she done? “Alizeh.” A frisson of feeling moved through her at that, at the tortured sound of his voice, her name on his lips. Her chest was heaving; her corset too tight. She felt suddenly dizzy, desperate for air. Heavens, she had lost her mind. The prince of Ardunia was not to be trifled with. She knew that. She knew it and yet somehow, for a brief window, it had not seemed to matter; she’d taken leave of her senses and now she’d suffer for it, for her lapse in judgment. She’d already suffered for it if the ache in her heart was any indication. Alizeh wanted nothing more than to throw herself back into his arms, even as she knew it to be a flight of madness. “Forgive me,” Kamran whispered, his voice raw, nearly unrecognizable. “I didn’t mean— I wasn’t thinking—” “I’m not upset,” she said, trying to steady herself. “You need not worry on that account. We were both of us out of our heads.”

“You misunderstand me,” he said with feeling. “I did nothing I didn’t want to do. I want nothing more than to do it again.” Oh, no, she couldn’t breathe. What she realized then, even as her body trembled, was a single, unassailable fact: what had transpired between her and the prince was much more than a kiss. Even inexperienced as she was, Alizeh possessed awareness enough to understand that something extraordinary had sparked between them. Something uncommon. It was critical that she first acknowledge this in order to next acknowledge something else: there was no future for them. Somehow she knew—somehow she saw, with shocking clarity—that a planted kernel between them had bloomed. Quavering green shoots had sprung forth from the ground beneath her feet; shoots that, if nurtured, might one day flourish into something majestic, a towering tree that not only bore fruit and offered shade, but supplied a sturdy trunk against which she might rest her weary body. This was impossible. Not only impossible, it was dangerous. Ruinous. Not merely for themselves—but for the realms they occupied. Their lives were pitted against each other. He had a kingdom to one day rule, and she had her own life to pursue. Any other avenue would lead only to chaos. His grandfather was trying to kill her. No, Alizeh understood then, even as it pierced her heart, that if she did not destroy this fragile bloom between them now, it would one day grow great enough to crush them both. She had to leave. She took a step back, felt the doorknob dig into her spine. “Wait,” the prince said. “Please—” She reached backward, wrapped her hand around the handle, and pushed it open. A single, faint beam of light penetrated the room. She spotted her carpet bag in a corner, and quickly collected it. “Alizeh,” he said, moving toward her. She saw the anguish in his eyes, a flash of panic. “Please, don’t just disappear. Not now, not when I’ve only just found you.” She stared at him, her heart beating in her throat. “Surely you must see,” she said. “There exists no bridge between our lives; no path that

connects our worlds.” “How can that matter? Is this not one day to be my empire, to rule as I see fit? I will build a bridge. I can clear a path. Or do you not think me capable?” “Don’t say things now that you cannot mean. We are neither of us in our right minds—” “I grow tired,” he said, trying to breathe, “of being in my right mind. I much prefer this kind of madness.” Alizeh gripped with both hands the handle of her carpet bag and took a nervous step back. “You should not— You should not say such things to me—” He drew closer. “Do you know I am meant to choose a bride tonight?” Alizeh was surprised by her own shock at that, by the vague nausea that struck her. She felt suddenly ill. Confused. “I am meant to marry a complete stranger,” he was saying. “A candidate chosen by others to be my wife—to one day be my queen—” “Then—then I offer my congratulations—” “I beg you do not.” He was in front of her now, one hand reaching out, as if he might touch her. She couldn’t breathe for not knowing whether he might, then couldn’t breathe when he finally did, when the tips of his fingers grazed her hip, then up, up the curve of her bodice, trembling slightly as they drew away. “Will you not give me hope?” he whispered. “Tell me I will see you again. Ask me to wait for you.” “How can you even say such things when you know the consequences would be dire— Your people will think you’ve gone mad—your own king will forsake you—” Incredibly, Kamran laughed, but it sounded angry. “Yes,” he said softly. “My own king will forsake me.” “Kamran—” He stepped forward and she gasped, took another step backward. “You must—you must know,” Alizeh said, her voice unsteady. “I must tell you now how grateful I am for what you did today—for trying to protect me. I am in your debt, sire, and I will not soon forget it.” She saw the change in his expression then, the dawning realization there that she would really leave, that this was how they’d part. “Alizeh,” he said, his eyes bright with pain. “Please— Don’t—”

Then, she was gone.

Twenty-Nine

down the stairs like a fool, as if he could ever catch up to a ghost, as if even finding her would be enough. How the prince managed in his mind to reconcile his desire for the girl and his loyalty to his king he did not know, but even as his better sense condemned him for his dissidence, he could not deny the terrifying feelings taking root inside him. His actions were both treacherous and futile, and still he could not stop himself; could not calm the pounding of his heart nor the madness that gripped him. He had to see her—to speak with her just once more— “Where on earth have you been, child?” Kamran came to a sharp, disorienting halt on the landing, his mind returning to his body with the force of a thunderclap. His aunt was staring up at him from just steps below, one hand clutching her skirts, the other gripping the banister. They were standing but two flights above the main floor, but he saw—in the light sheen at her brow, in the sharp creasing of her forehead—just how much it had cost the older woman to seek him out. KAMRAN CHASED AFTER HER, RACING

Kamran slowed. Fatigue hit him as suddenly as if he’d been struck by a physical blow, and he grabbed the banister, steadying himself against the assault. He closed his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said, quietly catching his breath. “I lost track of time.” He heard his aunt make a tsk of disapproval, and opened his eyes to see that she was looking him over, scrutinizing his hair, his eyes—even the sleeves of his sweater, which he’d at some point pulled up his forearms. Quietly, Kamran put himself to rights, running an absent hand over his hair, pushing the black waves out of his eyes. It scared him to realize how easily his heart and mind had parted. Duchess Jamilah pursed her lips and held out her hand, and Kamran quickly closed the distance between them, tucking her delicate fingers into the crook of his elbow. Carefully, he helped the older woman walk back down the stairs. “So,” she said. “You say you lost track of time.” Kamran made a noncommittal sound. “I see.” His aunt sighed. “You seem to have done a thorough job wandering the house, in any case. The servants are all in a dither over your brooding. First the street boy, then the snoda, now you’re mooning about the house, staring longingly out of windows. They all think you a tragic, hopeless romantic, and I’ll be surprised if all their gossip doesn’t earn you a few inches in the paper tomorrow.” She hesitated on a step; glanced up at him. “Take care, child. The younger girls might begin to swoon at the mere sight of you.” Kamran forced a smile. “You have a gift, dear aunt. Your flattery is always the most elaborate fiction.” She gave a rasp of a laugh. “You think I exaggerate?” “I think you enjoy exaggerating.” She gave him a light smack on the arm. “Impertinent child.” This time, his smile was genuine. They’d reached the main floor, were now walking through the great room, and still, Kamran’s heart refused to slow its erratic beating. He’d been in darkness so long it was a shock to see the sun still shining through the tall windows. He turned away from the glare, burying the sharp pang that moved through him at the sight. Kamran knew a young woman who would dearly enjoy the sun, who would find solace in its light. The moon is a great comfort to me.

He realized, with some despair, that everything would now remind him of her. The very sun and moon, the shifting of lightness and dark. Pink roses. There—they were just there, a vivid spray in a vase, the arrangement centered on a high table in the room they now occupied. Kamran disengaged from his aunt and wandered toward the bouquet without thinking; carefully, he drew a bloom from its vessel, grazing the velvet petals with his fingers before holding the flower to his nose, inhaling the intoxicating scent. His aunt gave a sharp laugh, and Kamran flinched. “You must have mercy, my dear,” she said. “News of our melancholy prince will spread far beyond Setar if you do not soon exercise some discretion.” With great care, the prince returned the flower to its vase. “Is our world really so ridiculous,” he said quietly, “that my every action is newsworthy, ripe for dissection? Am I not allowed a modicum of humanity? Can I not enjoy simple beauty without censure and suspicion?” “That you even ask such a question tells me you are not yourself.” She drew closer. “Kamran, you will one day be king. The people look to your disposition as a bellwether of all to come; the temperature of your heart will define the tenor of your rule, which will in turn affect every aspect of their lives. Surely you do not forget this. You could not resent the people their curiosity—not when you know how dearly your life concerns their own.” “Certainly not,” he said with affected calm. “How could I? I should never resent them their fears, nor could I ever forget the shackles that so loudly ornament my every waking moment.” His aunt took a deep, wavering breath, and accepted the prince’s proffered arm. They resumed their slow walk. “You begin to scare me, child,” she said softly. “Will you not tell me what has disordered you so?” Disordered. Yes. Kamran had been rearranged. He felt it; felt that his heart had moved, that his ribs had closed like a fist around his lungs. He was different, out of alignment, and he did not know whether this feeling would fade. Alizeh.

He still heard the whisper of her voice, the way she’d pressed the shape of her own name into the darkness between them; the way she’d gasped when he kissed her. She’d touched him with a tenderness that drove him wild, had looked into his eyes with a sincerity that broke him. From the first there’d been no falseness in her manner, no pretension, no agonizing self-consciousness. Alizeh had been neither impressed by the prince nor intimidated; Kamran knew without a doubt that she’d judged him entirely on his own merits, his crown be damned. That she’d found him worthy, that she’d given herself to him for even a moment— Not until that very second did he realize how much he’d longed for her good opinion. Her judgment of his character had somehow become crucial to his judgment of himself. How? He did not know, he did not care; he was not one for questioning the movements of his heart. He recognized only that she’d been so much more than he’d known to hope for, and it had altered him: her mind as sharp as her heart; her smile as overwhelming as her tears. She’d suffered so much in her life that Kamran had not known what to expect; he would have understood had she been withdrawn and cynical, but she was instead vibrant with feeling, alive in every emotion, mercifully giving of herself in all ways. He could still feel her body under his hands, the scent of her skin suffusing his head, his every thought. His own skin grew hot with the memories of her breathless sounds, the way she’d gone soft in his arms. The way she’d tasted. He wanted to put his fist through a wall. “My dear?” Kamran came back to himself with a sharp breath. “Forgive me,” he said, gently clearing his throat. “I am besieged now only by the most unimaginative of human afflictions. I slept poorly last night, and I’ve not eaten much today. I’m certain my mood will cool after we’ve enjoyed our meal together. Shall we go through for luncheon?” “Oh, my dear”—his aunt hesitated, consternation knitting her brow —“I’m afraid we must forgo luncheon today. Your minister has come to fetch you.” Kamran turned sharply to face her. “Hazan is here?” “I’m afraid so.” She looked away. “He’s been waiting some time now, and I daresay he’s not altogether pleased about it. He says your presence is

required back at the palace? Something to do with the ball, I imagine.” “Ah.” Kamran gave a nod. “Indeed.” A lie. If Hazan had come for him personally—had not trusted a messenger to inspire his hasty return—then something was very wrong. “A shame,” his aunt said, forcing cheerfulness, “that your visit was so brief.” “Please accept my sincerest apologies,” Kamran said, lowering his eyes. “I feel I have been nothing but distracted and disappointing to you this day.” They came to a stop in the front hall. “Would you allow me to make up for this lost visit with another?” She brightened at that. “That sounds just fine, my dear. You know you are welcome here anytime. You need only name the day.” Kamran took his aunt’s hand and kissed it, bowing at the waist before her. When he met her eyes again, she’d gone pink in the face. “Until next time, then.” “Your Highness.” Kamran turned at the heated sound of his minister’s voice. Hazan could not—and made no effort, in any case—to hide his irritation. Kamran forced a smile. “Heavens, Hazan, are you having a fit? Can you not allow me even to say goodbye to my aunt?” The minister did not acknowledge this. “The carriage is waiting outside, sire. Worry not about your horse, as I’ve arranged for his safe return to the palace.” “I see,” said the prince quietly. He knew Hazan well enough; something was definitely wrong. A servant handed Kamran his coat, another, his staff. In a matter of moments he’d bid goodbye to his aunt, walked the short path to the carriage, and settled into the seat across from his minister. The carriage door had only just slammed shut when Kamran’s expression grew grave. “Go on, then,” he said. Hazan sighed. “We have received word, sire, from Tulan.”

Thirty

of the busy, bustling path, eyes closed, masked eyes turned up toward the sun. It was a beautifully bright day, the air sharp with cold, not a cloud in the sky. The world around her was loud with the clop of hooves, the rattle of wheels, savory smoke from a nearby kabob shop coiling around her head. Midday in the royal city of Setar meant the gilded streets were alive with color and commotion, food carts busy with customers, shopkeepers shouting loudly about their wares. Alizeh was equal parts hopeful and devastated as she stood there, both halves of her heart rife with excuses, all of them compelling. Very soon she’d be forced to examine closely her long list of troubles, but right then she wanted only a moment to breathe, to enjoy the scene. Tiny finches hopped and tittered along the path while large, glittering crows cawed high in the sky, a few swooping low to perch on the heads and hats of passersby, the better to peck at their baubles. Angry shopkeepers chased after the winged beasts with their broomsticks, one unlucky proprietor accidentally knocking in the head a man who promptly ALIZEH STOOD IN THE MIDDLE

fell over into the capable arms of a street child, who then pinched the man’s purse and darted into the crowd. The gentleman cried out, giving chase, but his pursuit of the small thief was thwarted by the commotion of a nearby pastry shop, which had flung open its doors without warning, unleashing a stream of servants into the madness. Single file, no fewer than a dozen snodas cut a serpentine path through the crowd, each carrying a broad, circular tray high above their head, each heavy platter laden with baklava and pistachio brittle, soft nougat, syrupy donuts, and spirals of honey-soaked funnel cakes. The heady aroma of rosewater and sugar filled the air as the procession marched past, all maneuvering carefully so as not to disturb the many parked occupants of the path. Alizeh turned. Large, colorfully patterned rugs had been rolled out over the golden cobblestone, upon which women in bright, floral chadors sat cross-legged, laughing and sharing gossip as they sorted through bushels of purple saffron flowers. Their deft hands paused only occasionally, and only to sip tea from gilt-rimmed glasses; otherwise their nimble motions did not cease. Over and over they separated styles and stigmas from their lush flowers, adding the ruby-red saffron threads to the growing piles between them. Alizeh could not move, she was so mesmerized. The last time she’d dared stop for so long in the street she’d been assaulted by a child thief, and yet—how could she deny herself such an indulgence now, when she’d not been free to enjoy daylight in so long? This living, breathing world was hers to admire for this single moment in time, and she wanted to breathe it in; to luxuriate in the beating heart of civilization. After tonight, she would never see it again. If things went well, she’d be gone from here; if they went poorly, she’d have no choice but to flee. Tears sprang to Alizeh’s eyes even as she smiled. She managed to forge a path through the saffron spreads, stopping only when startled by a display of blooms arranged in the window of a nearby florist: winter roses, butter-colored camellias, and white snowdrops smiled up at her from their cut-crystal vase, and Alizeh was so enchanted by the sight she nearly collided with a farmer, who’d stopped without warning to feed alfalfa to his shaggy goat.

Unsettled, her nerves would not now quiet. Hastily Alizeh moved aside, wedging herself against the window of a millinery shop. She tried to shutter her mind but it was no good; her subconscious would no longer submit. She was battered at once by a deluge of remembered sensations: the whisper of a voice against her ear, a smile against her cheek, the weight of arms around her body. She still tasted him on her lips, could still summon the silky texture of his hair, the hard line of his jaw under her hand. The memories alone were devastating. Over and over Alizeh had tried to understand why the devil had warned her of the prince—and even now she was uncertain. Was this it, then? Was it because of a kiss? Alizeh tensed, took a breath. Even as her heart raced, her mind cooled. What had transpired between her and the prince was a moment of foolishness for a myriad of reasons—not the least of which was that he was heir to an empire whose sovereign sought to destroy her. She’d not yet even begun to unpack the ramifications of such a discovery, nor what explanations it might reveal for the beloved friends and family she’d lost to unexplained acts of violence. Did it mean the king had tried to kill her once before? Had it been he who’d issued the orders to murder her parents? It troubled her that she could not know for certain. Kamran might’ve circumvented the orders of his grandfather to help her today, but Alizeh was not a simple girl; she knew that relationships between kin were not so easily severed. The prince might have spared her a moment of kindness, but his allegiance, no doubt, was elsewhere. Still, Alizeh could not condemn herself too harshly. Not only had the dalliance been unplanned, it had been an unexpected reprieve—a rare moment of pleasure—from what seemed the interminable darkness of her days. For years she’d wondered whether anyone might ever again touch her with care, or look at her like she mattered. She did not take lightly such an experience. Indeed there had been a mercy in it, in its tenderness, which she would now gracefully accept, pocketing the memories before moving forward. Her thoughtless actions would never again be repeated. Besides, she consoled herself, she and Kamran would never again cross paths, and all the better, though— A flock of birds at her feet took flight without warning, disquieting Alizeh so thoroughly she gasped and stumbled backward, colliding with a

young man who promptly caught sight of her snoda and sneered, elbowing her out of the way. A sharp knock to her ribs and again Alizeh doddered, though this time she caught herself, and hurried forward through the crowd. She’d known, of course, even as she bade the prince farewell, that there was a chance she’d see him again at the ball that evening. She’d not felt it necessary to inform him of her attendance because she thought meeting him again a bad idea; and now that she knew the ball was in fact meant to facilitate his impending marriage— No, she would not think of it. It did not matter. It could not matter. In any case, their spheres had no hope of intersecting at such an event; she would not have cause to see him. Alizeh did not know the full scope of Hazan’s plan for her escape, but she doubted it’d have much to do with the festivities themselves, and the prince—for whom the ball had been arranged—would no doubt be expected to engage fully in its activities. No, they would certainly not see each other again. Alizeh felt a pang at that conclusiveness, a sharp pain she could not decipher; it was either longing or grief, or perhaps the two feelings were identical, split ends of the same sword. Oh, what did it matter? She sighed, sidestepping to avoid a trio of girls chasing each other through the crowd, and peered, halfheartedly, through the window against which she was pressed. A row of children were sitting at a high counter, each devouring sandwiches of pomegranate ice cream, the blush-colored treat pressed between crisp disks of freshly baked waffles. Their grown-ups stood by smiling and scolding, wiping the sticky mouths and tearstained cheeks of the children they could catch, the others tearing wildly about the shop, rummaging through crystal tubs brimming with fruit taffies and colorful marzipan, rock sugar and rose-petal nougat. Alizeh heard their muted laughter through the glass. She tightened her grip on her luggage then, tensing as her heart fractured in her chest. Alizeh, too, had once been a child, had once had parents who spoiled her thus. How good it was to be loved, she thought. How very important. A curious little girl caught her eye then, and waved. Tentatively, Alizeh waved back.

She was homeless. Jobless. All she owned in the world she carried in a single, worn carpet bag, the sum total of her coin scarcely two coppers altogether. She had nothing and no one to claim but herself, and it would have to be enough. It would always have to be enough. Even in her most desperate moments, Alizeh had found the courage to move forward by searching the depths of herself; she’d found hope in the sharpness of her mind, in the capacity of her own capable hands, in the endurance of her unrelenting spirit. She would be broken by nothing. She refused. It was time, then, for her to find escape from the travails of her life. Hazan would help—but she first had to forge a path through her current predicament. She needed to form a plan. How might she source the necessary material and notions needed to make herself a gown? She would’ve had more coin to her name except that Miss Huda had yet to pay her an advance against the five gowns she’d requested; instead, the young woman was waiting first to see how Alizeh might transform the taffeta ahead of the ball tonight, which now lay crumpled inside her bag. Alizeh sighed. Two coppers were all she had, then, and they would afford her next to nothing from the cloth merchants. She grimaced and pushed on, her mind working. An elderly man with a wispy beard and white turban shot past her on a bright-blue bicycle, coming to a terrifying halt not twenty feet away. She watched as he unfolded his narrow body from the seat, unpacked a sign from the basket of his transport, and hooked the wooden board onto the front of a nearby cart. Teethmaker, it read. When he saw her staring, he beckoned her close, offering her a discount on a pair of third molars. Alizeh almost smiled as she shook her head, staring at the scenes around her now with a touch of sadness. For months she’d lived in this royal city, and never before had she been able to see it like this, at its most dynamic, enchanting hour. Troubadours were parked at intervals with santoor and setar, filling the streets with music, flooding her heart with

emotion. She smiled in earnest as cheerful pedestrians spared what moments they had to dance, to clap hands as they passed. Her whole life seemed suddenly surreal to her, surreal because the sounds and scenes that surrounded her were so incongruously lifeaffirming. With some effort, Alizeh fought back the maelstrom of emotion threatening to upend her mind and focused her thoughts instead on the many tasks ahead. With purposeful strides she passed the confectionary shop and the noisy coppersmith next door; she shot past a dusty rug emporium, colorful rolls stacked to the ceiling and spilling out of doorways, then a bakery and its open windows, the heavenly aroma of what she knew to be fresh bread filling her nose. Suddenly, she slowed—her gaze lingering a moment on the large flour sacks by the door. Alizeh could fashion a garment out of near anything, but even if she were able to source enough of a substandard textile, arriving at the ball in a burlap dress would only make her a small spectacle. If she wanted to disappear, she’d need to look like the others in attendance, which meant wearing nothing at all unusual. She hesitated, appraising herself a moment. Alizeh had always taken meticulous care of the little she owned, but even so, her calico work dress was nearly worn through. The gray frock had always been dull, but it appeared even more lifeless at present, faded and limp with relentless wear. She had one other spare gown, and she did not have to see it to know it was in a similar state. Her stockings, however, were still serviceable; her boots, too, were sturdy despite needing a polish —though the tear in one toe had yet to be mended. Alizeh bit her lip. She was left with no option. Her vanity could not be spared; she’d simply have to disassemble one of her drab gowns and remake it, and hope she had enough workable material to get it right. She might even be able to repurpose the remainder of her torn apron to fashion a pair of simple gloves . . . if only she could find a safe space to work. She sighed. First, she decided, she would visit the local hamam. A scrub and soak she could afford, as the prices for a bath had always been reasonable for the poor, but— Alizeh came to a sudden halt.

She’d spotted the apothecary; the familiar shape of the familiar shop arresting her in place. The sight of it made her wonder about her bandages. Gingerly, she touched the linen at her neck. She’d not felt pain in her hands or throat in at least a few hours; if it was too soon to remove the bandages entirely, it was perhaps not too soon to remove them for the length of an evening, was it? For she would certainly draw unwanted attention if she arrived looking so obviously injured. Alizeh frowned and glanced again at the shop, wondering whether Deen was inside. She decided to go in, to ask his professional opinion, but then remembered with dawning horror what she’d said to him that awful night—how unfairly she’d criticized the prince, and how the shopkeeper had rebuked her for it. No, never mind, then. She hurried down the walk, narrowly avoiding impact with a woman sweeping rose petals off the street, and came to another sudden halt. Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, hard. She was being foolish. It did her no good to avoid the apothecarist, not when she now needed his assistance. She would simply avoid saying anything stupid this time. Before she could talk herself out of it, she marched back down the street and straight toward the apothecary, where she pushed open the door with a bit too much force. A bell jangled as she entered. “Be right with you,” Deen muttered, unseeing, from behind the counter. He was assisting an older woman with a large order of dried hibiscus flowers, which he was advising her to brew three times daily. “Morning, noon, and night,” he said. “A cup in the evening will help a great deal with sl—” Deen caught sight of Alizeh and promptly froze, his dark eyes widening by degrees. Alizeh lifted a limp hand in greeting, but the apothecarist looked away. “That is—it will help with sleep,” he said, accepting his customer’s coin and counting it. “If you experience any digestive discomfort, reduce your intake to two cups, morning and night.” The woman offered quiet thanks and took her leave. Alizeh watched her go, the shop bell chiming softly in her wake. There was a brief moment of quiet.

“So,” Deen said, finally looking up. “You’ve come indeed. I confess I wasn’t entirely sure you would.” Alizeh felt a flutter of nerves at that; no doubt he’d seen her deliberating outside. Privately she’d hoped Deen might’ve forgotten her altogether; the awkwardness of their last conversation included. No such luck, it seemed. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Though I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be coming, either, if I’m being honest.” “Well it’s good you’re here now.” He smiled. “Shall I fetch you your parcel?” “Oh, I—no—” Alizeh felt herself flush, the insubstantial weight of her two coppers suddenly heavy in her pocket. “I’m afraid I’m not in the market for— “Actually,” she said in a rush, “I wondered whether you might inspect my injuries a bit earlier than we discussed.” The wiry shopkeeper frowned. “That’s five days earlier than we discussed. I trust there’ve been no complications?” “No, sir.” Alizeh stepped forward. “The salves have been a tremendous help. It’s only that the bandages are—they’re, well, they are a bit conspicuous, I think. They draw quite a lot of attention, and as I’d rather not be so easily remarked upon, I was hoping to remove them altogether.” Deen stared at her a moment, studied what little of her face he could see. “You want to remove your bandages five days early?” “Yes, sir.” “Is it your housekeeper giving you trouble?” “No, sir, it’s n—” “You are well within your rights to treat injuries, you know. She is not allowed to prevent your recove—” “No, sir,” Alizeh said again, a bit sharper this time. “It’s not that.” When she said nothing else, Deen took a deep breath. He made no effort to hide his disbelief, and Alizeh was quietly surprised by his concern. “Very well, then,” he said, exhaling. “Have a seat. Let’s take a look.” Alizeh pulled herself up onto the high chair at the counter, the better to be examined. Very slowly, Deen began unraveling the bandage at her neck. “You’ve wrapped this quite nicely,” he murmured, to which she only nodded her acknowledgment. There was something soothing about his gentle motions, and for a moment, Alizeh dared to close her eyes.

Never could she articulate precisely how exhausted she was. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d slept more than a couple of hours or felt safe enough to stand still for long. Seldom was she allowed to sit, almost never was she allowed to stop. Oh, if only she could get herself to the ball tonight, anything might be possible. Relief. Safety. Peace. As for the actual shape of such dreams— She had little in the way of expectations. Alizeh was a failed queen without a kingdom, without even a small country to rule. Jinn were fractured across Ardunia, their known numbers too few, and the rest, too hard to find. Long ago there had been a plan for her ascent, the details of which Alizeh had not been made privy to at such a young age. Her parents always insisted she focus instead on her studies, on enjoying her youth a while longer. Alizeh was twelve when her father died, and only afterward did Alizeh’s mother begin to worry that her daughter knew too little of her fate. It was then that she told Alizeh of the Arya mountains, of the magic therein that was essential to unlocking the powers she was rumored to one day possess. When Alizeh had asked why she could not simply go and collect such a magic, her mother had laughed, and sadly. “It is not so simple a task,” she’d explained. “The magic must be gathered by a quorum of loyal subjects, all of whom must be willing to die for you in the process. The earth has chosen you to rule, my dear, but you must first be found worthy of the role by your own people. Five must be willing to sacrifice their lives to give rise to your reign; only then will the mountains part with their power.” It had always seemed to Alizeh an unnecessary, brutal requirement; she did not think herself capable of asking half a dozen people to die for her, not even in the interest of the common good. But as she could not now think of even a single person willing to forfeit their life in the pursuit of her interests—she felt it premature to rely upon even Hazan—it seemed a futile point to consider. What’s more, Alizeh knew that even if, through some miracle, she managed to claim her rightful throne and earn the allegiance of tens of thousands, she’d have already failed them as their queen, for she’d be sentencing her own people to death. It required little creativity to imagine that the king of Ardunia would crush a rival on his own lands; his recent pursuit of her was proof enough

of his concerns. He would never willingly lose his seat nor his people, and Jinn were among his numbers now. Alizeh opened her eyes just as Deen unfurled the last of the linen at her neck. “If you would please hold out your hands, miss, I’ll unwrap the linen there, too,” he was saying. “Though the cut at your throat appears to be healing very well . . .” Alizeh held out her hands but turned her head toward the window, distracted as she was just then by the sight of a small, ancient woman pushing past a heaving wheelbarrow. The woman had aged much like a tree might, her face so gracefully inscribed by the passage of time that Alizeh thought she might count each line to know her age. Her shock of white hair was made a brilliant orange by henna and tied back with a floral scarf that matched her vivid, floral skirt. Alizeh glimpsed the woman’s harvest: green almonds piled high in the cart, their soft fuzzy shells still intact, shimmering with frost. The old woman nodded at her, and Alizeh smiled. She had been surprised, upon arrival in Setar, to discover how much she loved the commotion of the royal city; the noise and madness were a comfort to her; a reminder that she was not alone in the world. To witness every day the collective effort of so many people striving and making and working and breathing— It brought her unexpected calm. Still, Alizeh was not like the others who lived here. Her differences were many, but perhaps her most problematic was that she did not accept, without question, the greatness of the Ardunian empire. She did not accept that the Fire Accords had been an unmitigated act of mercy. In some ways, yes, they had been a kindness, but only because most everyone had longed for an end to the millenia-long strife between the races. It was precisely why her people had conceded. Jinn had grown tired of living in fear, of having their homes set aflame, of watching their friends and families hunted and massacred. Mothers on both sides had grown tired of receiving the mutilated bodies of their children from the battlefield. The pain of the endless bloodshed had reached its pinnacle, and though both sides desired peace, their mutual hatred could not be unlearned overnight. The Accords had been enacted under the banner of unity—a plea for cohesion, for harmony and understanding—but Alizeh knew them to be

motivated entirely by military strategy. Enough Jinn had been slaughtered now that their remaining numbers were no longer considered a threat; by granting the survivors the veneer of safety and belonging, the king of Ardunia had effectively subdued, then absorbed into his empire, tens of thousands of the strongest and most powerful beings on earth, for whom a little known provision had been made: Ardunian Jinn were allowed to exercise their natural abilities only during wartime, and only on the battlefield. Four years all capable citizens were required to serve in the empire’s army, and newly absorbed Jinn were not exempt. All of Ardunia thought King Zaal a generous, just ruler, but Alizeh could not put her faith in such a man. He had, with a single, cunning decree, not only absolved Clay of all atrocities against Jinn, but rendered himself magnanimous, added to his armies a flood of supernatural recruits, and stripped ice-blooded Jinn any right to their constituents. “All right, then,” Deen said brightly. “All done, miss.” His lively tone was so unexpected Alizeh turned at once to look at him, surprise coloring her voice. “Is it good news?” she asked. “Yes, miss, your skin has restored itself exceptionally well. I must say —those salves were of my own making, so while I know their many strengths, I’m also aware of their limits, and I’ve never known them to be responsible for such rapid healing.” Alizeh felt a bolt of fear move through her at that declaration, and she quickly withdrew her hands, studying them now in the sun-soaked room. She’d only changed her bandages once since she was last here, and only in the dead of night, overcome by exhaustion, her effort lit by the dim glow of a single candle. Now Alizeh studied her hands in amazement. They were soft and unblemished, no damage, not a scar to be found. She dropped her hands in her lap, clenched them tight. Alizeh had often wondered how she’d survived so many illnesses on the street, how she’d recovered over and over even when pushed to the brink of death. Fire, she knew she could withstand—it was the deep frost in her body that repelled it—but she’d never before had such irrefutable evidence of her body’s strength. She looked up at the apothecarist then, her eyes wide with something like panic. Deen’s smile had begun to fade. “Forgive me my ignorance, miss, but as I do not treat many Jinn, I’ve little basis for comparison. Is this—is this kind of healing uncommon among your kind?”

Alizeh wanted to lie, but worried the misinformation would adversely affect his treatment of what few Jinn did seek his aid. Softly, she said, “It is rare.” “And I take it you were, until now, unaware you were capable of such swift healing?” “I was.” “I see,” he said. “Well, I suppose we should accept it, then, as an unexpected stroke of good luck, which is no doubt long overdue.” He attempted a smile. “I think you are more than ready to remove the bandages, miss. You need not worry on that account.” “Yes, sir. I thank you,” Alizeh said, moving to stand. “How much do I owe you for the visit?” Deen laughed. “I did nothing but remove your bandages and announce aloud what your own eyes might’ve easily witnessed. You owe me nothing.” “Oh, no, you’re too generous—I’ve taken up your time, certainly I sho —” “Not at all.” He waved her away. “It was but five minutes at most. Besides, I’ve been awaiting your arrival all this day, and have already been paid handsomely for the trouble.” Alizeh froze. “I beg your pardon?” “Your friend asked me to wait for you,” the shopkeeper said, frowning slightly. “Was he not the essential reason you came in today?” “My friend?” Alizeh’s heart had begun to pound. “Yes, miss.” Deen was looking at her strangely now. “He came in this morning—rather a tall fellow, wasn’t he? He wore an interesting hat and had quite the most vivid blue eyes. He was insistent that you would come, and asked me not to close my shop, not even to take lunch, as I often do. He asked that I please deliver you this”—Deen held up a finger, then disappeared below the counter to retrieve a large, unwieldy package —“when you finally arrived.” Carefully, the shopkeeper settled the heavy, pale yellow box onto the worn surface of the workbench, which he then slid across to her. “I thought for certain he’d informed you of his visit here,” Deen was saying, “for he seemed terribly confident you would come today.” A pause. “I do hope I’ve not startled you.” Alizeh stared at the box, fear moving through her at an alarming speed. She was afraid even to touch the parcel.

Gently, she swallowed. “Did my—my friend—did he give his name?” “No, miss,” said Deen, who appeared now to be realizing that something was wrong. “Was not my description of the young man enough to engage your memory? He said the whole thing was meant to be a pleasant surprise for you. I confess I thought it seemed . . . great fun.” “Yes. Of course.” Alizeh forced a laugh. “Yes, thank you. I was only— I’m only shocked, you see. I’m quite unaccustomed to receiving such extravagant gifts, and I fear I know not how to accept them graciously.” Deen recovered at that, his eyes shining brighter this time. “Yes, of course, miss. I understand completely.” There was a beat of silence, during which Alizeh pinned a smile onto her face. “When did you say my friend came to deliver the package?” “Oh, I don’t know exactly,” Deen said, his brow furrowing. “It was sometime in the late morning, I think.” Late morning. As if Deen’s description of the stranger weren’t proof enough, Alizeh was now certain the delivery was not made by the prince, who had been at Baz House at exactly that hour. There was only one other person who might’ve done such a thing for her, but for a single complication— Hazan did not have blue eyes. It was possible, of course, that the shopkeeper had made a mistake. Perhaps Deen had misspoke, or even seen Hazan in the wrong light. Hazan was tall, after all, that much was accurate; though Alizeh realized she didn’t know enough about him to judge, with any real conviction, whether he was one to wear interesting hats. Still, it was the answer that made the most sense. Hazan said he would be looking out for her, did he not? Who else would be paying such close attention to her movements—who else would spare her such generosity? Alizeh stared again at the beautiful package; at its immaculate presentation. Gingerly, she drew a finger along the scalloped edges of the outer box, the silky yellow ribbon cinching the case around the middle. Alizeh knew exactly what this was; it was her job to know what it was. Still, it seemed impossible. “Don’t you want to open it, miss?” Deen was still staring at her. “I admit I’m terribly curious myself.” “Oh,” she said softly. “Yes. Of course.”

A braided thrill of anticipation moved through her—fear and a flutter of excitement—disturbing any semblance of peace her body had recently collected. With painstaking care, she tugged loose the ribbon, then lifted the heavy lid, releasing a hush of delicate, translucent paper in the process. Deen took the lid from her trembling hands, and Alizeh peered into the box with the wide eyes of a child, discovering, in its depths, an elegant wonder of a gown. She heard Deen gasp. At first, all she saw were layers of diaphanous silk chiffon in a shade of pale lavender. She pushed away the wrappings, carefully lifting the gauzy, gossamer article up against the light. The gown was gathered softly down the bodice and cinched at the waist; a long, sheer cape was affixed at the shoulders in place of sleeves. The whisper of a skirt felt like wind in her hands, slipping through her fingers like a soft breeze. It was elegant without ostentation, the perfect balance of all that she required for the evening. Alizeh thought she might cry. She would freeze half to death in this gown and she’d not breathe a word of complaint. “There is a card, miss,” Deen said quietly. Alizeh looked up at him then, accepting the card from his outstretched hand, which she promptly tucked into her pocket. She’d decided to say her goodbyes to the shopkeeper, to read the note away from his curious eyes, but was stopped by the strange look on his face. Deen seemed . . . pleased. She saw there, in the softness of his expression, that he thought her the recipient of a romantic gesture. He had not seen her face in full, she realized, and as a result the apothecarist could only guess at her age. No doubt he assumed Alizeh was a bit older than was accurate, that she was perhaps the mistress of a married nobleman. It was under any other circumstance a deeply unflattering assumption, one that would’ve rendered her, in the eyes of society, a common harlot. Somehow, Deen did not seem to mind. “I am not so miserly as to begrudge you your happiness,” he said, reading the confusion in her eyes. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be to live your life.” Alizeh drew back, she was so surprised.

He could not have been further from the truth and still his sincerity touched her, meant more to her than she could say. In fact, she felt suddenly at a loss for the right words. “Thank you,” was all she managed. “I realize we are strangers,” Deen said, gently clearing his throat, “and as a result you might think me odd for saying so—but I’ve felt, from the beginning, a quiet kinship with you, miss.” “Kinship?” she said, stunned. “With me?” “Indeed.” He laughed, briefly, but his eyes were dark with some abstruse emotion. “I, too, feel forced to hide who I am from the world. It is a difficult thing, is it not? To worry always how you will be perceived for who you are; to wonder always whether you will be accepted if you are truly yourself?” Alizeh felt a sudden heat behind her eyes, an unexpected prick of emotion. “Yes,” she said softly. Deen smiled but still his effort was strained. “Perhaps here, between we two strangers, there might exist no such apprehension.” “You may depend upon it,” Alizeh said without hesitation. “Let us hope for the day when we might all remove our masks, sir, and live in the light without fear.” Deen reached out and clasped her hands at that, held her palms between his own in a gesture of friendship that flooded her heart with feeling. They remained like that for a long moment before slowly parting. In silence Deen helped her gather her things, and with only a brief nod, they said their goodbyes. The shop bell rang softly as she left. It was not until she was halfway down the street, her heart and mind thoroughly preoccupied with thoughts of the unexpected apothecarist, the weight of her overstuffed carpet bag, and the large, unwieldy box that housed her gossamer gown, that she remembered the card. With a violent start, Alizeh dropped her carpet bag to the ground. She tugged free the small envelope from her pocket and, heart now racing in her chest, she tore open the thick paper. She could hardly breathe as she scanned the brief note, the sharp, confident strokes of the script. Wear this tonight, and you will be seen only by those who wish you well.

Thirty-One

built into the base of Narenj Canyon, the imposing entrance positioned between treacherously steep cliffs the color of coral, against which the glittering white marble domes and minarets of the palace stood in stark contrast. The magnificent structure that was the prince’s home was cradled in a colossal fissure between land formations, at the base of which thrived lush vegetation even in winter. Acres of wild grass and burgeoning juniper touched the perpendicular rise of orange rock, the trees’ blue-green foliage twisted upon irregular branches, reaching sideways into the sky toward a vast, rushing river that ran parallel to the palace entrance. Over this tremulous, snaking body of water was built an enormous drawbridge, a fearsome masterwork that connected, eventually, to the main road—and into the heart of Setar. Kamran was stood on that drawbridge now, staring at the river that had once seemed to him so formidable. The rains had come only briefly this season, and as a result, the water underfoot was still fairly shallow, unmoving in the windless hour. THE ROYAL PALACE HAD BEEN

Everyday Kamran waited, with coiled tension, for the rains to return; for a sweep of thunderstorms to spare their empire. If they did not— “You are thinking of the cisterns,” his grandfather said quietly. “Are you not?” Kamran looked at the king. “Yes,” he said. “Good.” The two of them stood side by side on the bridge, a common stopping place for cleared visitors to the palace. All were expected to halt their horses while the guards pulled open the towering, foreboding doors that led to the royal courtyard. The prince had been surprised to discover, upon his return from Baz House, that his grandfather had been waiting at the bridge to intercept him. The carriage that delivered Kamran back to the palace was now long gone—and Hazan with it—but still, his grandfather had said little. He’d neither asked about the results of Kamran’s search, nor said a word about the Tulanian missive—the summary of which Hazan had provided on their ride home. The news had been disconcerting, indeed. Even so, the king and his heir did not discuss it. Instead, they watched in silence as a servant girl paddled a canoe on the still waters below, the lithe boat heaving with a vivid starburst of fresh flowers. Seldom did Kamran spend time here, at the outer edge of the palace grounds, though his hesitation arose not from a fear of feeling exposed. The palace was all but impenetrable to attack, guarded as it was on all sides by natural defenses. The vast grounds, too, were secured by an outer wall, the top of which grazed the clouds, and that was manned at all times by no fewer than a thousand soldiers, all of whom stood by, arrows notched in waiting. No, it was not that the prince felt unprotected. Despite the breathtaking views from this vantage point, Kamran avoided lingering too long on this bridge because it reminded him of his childhood, of one day in particular. He found it hard to believe that so much time had passed since that fateful day, for it still felt to him, in certain moments, as if the event had occurred but minutes ago. In fact, it had been seven years. Kamran’s father had been away from Ardunia then, gone from home for months to lead a senseless war in Tulan. A young Kamran had been stuck at home with tutors, a distant mother, and a preoccupied king; the long

stretches of worry and boredom had been interrupted only by visits to his aunt’s house. The day his father was due to arrive back at the palace Kamran had been watching from the high windows. He searched restlessly for the sight of his father’s familiar carriage, and when it finally arrived he’d run desperately out the doors, breathless with anticipation, coming to a stop at this very bridge, overtop this very river. He waited outside the parked carriage, lungs burning with exertion, for his father to greet him. The rainy season had been ferocious that year, rendering the river turbulent, heaving with a terrifying force. Kamran remembered this because he stood there, listening to the heft of it as he waited; waited for his father to open the door, to show himself. When, after a long moment, the doors had not opened, Kamran had wrenched them open himself. He later found out that they’d sent word—of course, they’d sent word —but none had thought to include the eleven-year-old child in the dissemination of the news, to tell him that his father was no longer coming home. That his father was, in fact, dead. There, on a lush seat in a carriage as familiar to him as his own name, Kamran saw not his father, but his father’s bloody head, sitting on a silver plate. It was not an exaggeration to say that the scene had inspired in the young prince so violent and paralyzing a reaction that he’d desired, suddenly, the arrival of his own swift death. Kamran could not imagine living in a world without his father; he could not imagine living in a world that would do such a thing to his father. He had walked calmly to the edge of the bridge, climbed its high wall, and pitched himself into the icy, churning river below. It was his grandfather who’d found him, who dove into the frozen depths to save him, who’d pulled Kamran’s limp blue body from the loving arms of Death. Even with the Diviners working to restart his heart, it was days before Kamran opened his eyes, and when he did, he saw only his grandfather’s familiar brown gaze; his grandfather’s familiar white hair. His familiar, gentle smile. Not yet, the king had said, stroking the young boy’s cheek. Not just yet.

“You think I don’t understand.” The sound of his grandfather’s voice startled Kamran back to the present, prompting him to take a sharp breath. He glanced at the king. “Your Majesty?” “You think I do not understand,” said his grandfather again, turning a degree to face him. “You think I don’t know why you did it, and I wonder how you can think me so indifferent.” Kamran said nothing. “I know why the actions of the street child shocked you so,” the king said quietly. “I know why you made a spectacle of the moment, why you felt compelled to save him. It has required of us a great deal to manage the situation, but I was not angered by your actions, for I knew you meant no harm. Indeed, I know you’d not been thinking at all.” Kamran looked into the distance. Again, he said nothing. King Zaal sighed. “I have seen the shape of your heart since the moment you first opened your eyes. All your life, I’ve been able to understand your actions—I’ve been able to find meaning even in your mistakes.” He paused. “But never before have I struggled as I do now. I cannot begin to fathom your abiding interest in this girl, and your actions have begun to frighten me more than I care to admit.” “This girl?” Kamran turned back; his chest felt suddenly tight. “There is nothing to discuss as pertains to her. I thought we’d finished with that conversation. This very morning, in fact.” “I thought so, too,” the king said, sounding suddenly tired. “And yet, already I have received reports of your unusual behavior at Baz House. Already there is discussion of your—your melancholy—as I have heard it put.” Kamran’s jaw clenched. “You defended a young woman in a snoda, did you not? Defended her loudly, disrespecting your aunt and terrifying the housekeeper in the process.” Quietly, the prince muttered an oath. “Tell me,” said the king, “was this not the very same girl we meant to extinguish? The very same snoda tethered to my demise? The one who nearly led to the ghastly transplantation of your life to our dungeons?” Kamran’s eyes flashed in anger. He could no longer dull the anger he still felt at his grandfather’s recent betrayal, nor could he bear any longer

these condescending displays of superiority. He was tired of them; tired of these pointless conversations. What had he done wrong, truly? Just today he’d gone to Baz House only to fulfill the duty charged him by his king; he’d not planned for the rest of it. It was not as if he meant to run away with the girl, or worse, marry her; make her queen of Ardunia. Kamran was not yet ready to admit to himself the entire truth: that in a fit of folly he might certainly have tried to make her his queen, if only she had let him. He did not see the point in dwelling upon it. Kamran would never see Alizeh again—of this he was certain—and he did not think he deserved to be treated thus by his grandfather. He would attend the ball tonight; he would, in the end, marry the young woman deemed best for him, and he would, with great bitterness, stand aside while his grandfather continued to make plans to kill the girl. His mistakes were none of them irreversible; none of them so foul they deserved such unrelenting condemnation. “She had dropped a bucket of water on the ground,” the prince said irritably. “The housekeeper was going to oust her for it. I interceded only to keep the girl in her position long enough for her to remain belowstairs. Searching her room, as you recall, was my sole mission, and her dismissal would’ve thwarted our plans. Still, my efforts came to nothing. She was promptly pitched out onto the street; her room was empty when I found it.” The king clasped his hands behind his back, pivoting fully to face his grandson. He stared at Kamran a long time. “And did not the perfect convenience of her dismissal strike you as unusual? Has it not occurred to you, then, that she likely orchestrated the scene herself? That she’d seen your face, suspected your aim, and designed the hour of her own exit, escaping all scrutiny in the process?” Kamran hesitated. A shot of uncertainty disordered him a moment; he needed the single second necessary to review his memories, to consider and dismiss absolutely the premise of Alizeh’s duplicity, which, had Kamran been granted but an instant more, he would have gathered enough evidence to deny. Instead, his pause for reflection cost him his credibility. “You disappoint me,” said the king. “How malleable of mind you have been made by such an obvious enemy. I can no longer pretend I’m not

wholly disturbed. Tell me, is she very beautiful? And you—are you so easily brought to your knees?” The prince’s hand tightened around the throat of his mace. “How quickly you slander my character, Your Highness. Did you imagine I’d quietly accept such defamation of my person—that I would not challenge accusations so steeped in the ridiculous, so deviated from truth that they could not possibly signify—” “No, Kamran, no, I expected from the first that you would affect outrage, as you do now.” “I cannot st—” “Enough, child. Enough.” The king closed his eyes, gripped the brass railing of the drawbridge. “This world seeks in every moment to relinquish me, and I find I lack the time and resources necessary to punish you for your foolishness. It is good, at least, that you have such ready excuses. Your explanations are sturdy, the details are well considered.” King Zaal opened his eyes, studied his grandson. “I take comfort,” said the king quietly, “in knowing that you make the effort now to conceal your unworthy actions, for your lies indicate, at the very least, that you possess a necessary awareness of your failings. I can only pray that your better judgment rules victorious, in the end.” “Your Majesty—” “The Tulanian king will be attending the ball tonight, as you no doubt have heard.” With great effort, Kamran swallowed back the epithets in his throat, bade himself be calm. “Yes,” he bit out. King Zaal nodded. “Their young king, Cyrus, is not to be trifled with. He murdered his own father, as you well know, for his seat at the throne, and his attendance at the ball tonight, while not an outright portent of war, is no doubt an unfriendliness we should approach with caution.” “I fully agree.” “Good. Very g—” His grandfather took a sharp breath, losing his balance for an alarming moment. Kamran caught King Zaal’s arms, steadying him even as the prince’s own heart raced now with fear. It did not matter how much he raged against his grandfather or how much he pretended to detest the older man; the truth was always here, in the terror that quietly gripped him at the prospect of his loss. “Are you quite all right, Your Majesty?”

“My dear child,” said the king, his eyes briefly closing. He reached out, clasped the prince’s shoulder. “You must prepare yourself. I will soon be unable to spare you the sight of a blood-soaked countryside, though Lord knows I’ve tried, these last seven years.” Kamran stilled at that; his mind grasping at a frightening supposition. All his life he’d wondered why, after the brutal murder of his father, the king had not avenged the death of his son, had not unleashed the fury of seven hells upon the southern empire. It had never made sense to the young prince, and yet, he’d never questioned it, for Kamran had feared, for so long after his father’s death, that revenge would mean he’d lose his grandfather, too. “I don’t understand,” Kamran said, his voice charged now with emotion. “Do you mean to say that you made peace with Tulan—for my sake?” The king smiled a mournful smile. His weathered hand fell away from the prince’s shoulder. “Does it shock you,” he said, “to discover that I, too, possess a fragile heart? A weak mind? That I, too, have been unwise? Indeed, I’ve been selfish. I’ve made decisions—decisions that would affect the lives of millions—that were motivated not by the wisdom of my mind, but by the desires of my heart. Yes, child,” he said softly. “I did it for you. I could not bear to see you suffer, even as I knew that suffering was inevitable. “I tried, in the early hours of the morning,” the king went on, “to take control of my own failings, to punish you the way a king should punish any man who proves disloyal. It was an overcorrection, you see. Compensation for a lifetime of restraint.” “Your Majesty.” Kamran’s heart was pounding. “I still don’t understand.” Now King Zaal smiled wider, his eyes shining with feeling. “My greatest weakness, Kamran, has always been you. I wanted always to shelter you. To protect you. After your father”—he hesitated, took an unsteady breath—“afterward, I could not bear to part from you. For seven years I managed to delay the inevitable, to convince our leaders to set down their swords and make peace. Instead, as I stand now at the finish of my life, I see I’ve only added to your burden. I ignored my own instincts in exchange for an illusion of relief. “War is coming,” he whispered. “It has been a long time coming. I only hope I’ve not left you unprepared to face it.”

Thirty-Two

to the ground outside the servants’ entrance to Follad Place, all too eager to relinquish the luggage for a moment. The large box that held her gown, however, she only readjusted in her tired arms, unwilling to set it down unless absolutely necessary. The long day was far from over, but even in the face of its many difficulties, Alizeh was hopeful. After a thorough scrub at the hamam she felt quite new, and was buoyed by the realization that her body would not be battered again so quickly by interminable hours of hard labor. Still, it was hard to be truly enthusiastic about the reprieve, for Alizeh knew that if things went poorly this evening, she’d be hard-pressed to find such a position again. She shifted her weight; tried to calm her nerves. Just last evening Follad Place had seemed to her terribly imposing, but in the dying light of day it was even more striking. Alizeh hadn’t noticed before just how robust the surrounding gardens were, nor how beautifully tended, and she wished she hadn’t cause at all to notice such details now. Alizeh did not want to be here. ALIZEH DROPPED HER CARPET BAG

She’d been avoiding as long as possible this last, inevitable task for the day, having arrived at Follad Place only to return Miss Huda’s unfinished gown, and to accept with grace the lambasting and condemnation she’d no doubt receive in exchange. It was perhaps a minimization of the truth to say that she was not looking forward to the experience. Already Alizeh had knocked at the door, after which she’d been greeted by Mrs. Sana, who, miraculously, had not dismissed outright the brazen snoda requesting an audience with a young lady of the house. She had, however, demanded to know the nature of the visit, to which Alizeh demurred, saying only that she needed to speak with Miss Huda directly. The housekeeper stared a beat too long at the beautiful garment box in Alizeh’s arms and doubtless drew her own more satisfactory explanation for the girl’s visit, one that Alizeh made no effort to deny. Now Alizeh waited anxiously for Miss Huda, who was due to receive her at any possible moment. Despite the blistering cold, Alizeh had been prepared to wait for some time in the case that the young miss had been out for the day, but here, too, Alizeh had encountered a stroke of unexpected luck. In fact, despite the recent challenges she’d lately faced— nearly being murdered, losing her position, and becoming suddenly homeless among them—she felt herself to be the unlikely recipient of a great deal of good fortune, too. Alizeh had uncovered in the process a fairly solid case for optimism, her two most compelling reasons thus: First, her neck and hands were healed, which was in and of itself a cause for celebration, for not only was it a relief to be rid of the collar around her throat and to have full use of her fingers once more, but the linen bandages had grown itchy and were made easily dirty, which had bothered her more than was reasonable. Second, Hazan had left her a breathtaking gown to wear to the ball tonight, which would not only spare her the time and possible cost of fashioning such a complicated article in a short time, but it spared her the need to find a safe space to work. This was not even mentioning the fact that the gown was somehow imbued with magic—magic that claimed it would conceal her identity from any who wished her ill. This was perhaps the greatest good fortune of all. Alizeh, who knew she could not wear her snoda to the royal ball, had decided simply to keep her eyes lowered for the length of the evening, looking up only when essential. This alternate solution was eminently preferable.

Still, she was wary, for Alizeh knew the gown to be of a shockingly rare stock. Even the royals of Ardunia did not wear magical garments, not unless they were on the battlefield—and even then there were limits to the protections such clothing might provide, for there existed no magic strong enough to repel Death. What’s more, only an exceedingly complicated technique could provide such personalized protection to a wearer of a garment, and this complexity could be conducted only by an experienced Diviner—of which there were few. Magic, Alizeh had long known, was mined much like any mineral: directly from the earth. She was not entirely certain wherefrom the empire excavated their precious commodities, for not only was it done in relative secrecy, but theirs was different from the magic Alizeh required from the Arya mountains. That which belonged to her ancestors was of a rarer strain, and though many Clay efforts had been made over millennia, the arcane material had proven impossible to quarry. Still, all genus of Ardunian magic existed only in small, exhaustible quantities, and were not meant to be manipulated by the uninitiated, for they killed easily any who mishandled the volatile substances. The Diviner population was as a result quite small; Ardunian children were taught little about magic unless they showed a sincere interest in divining, and only a select few were chosen each year to study the subject. Alizeh could not, as a result, imagine how Hazan was able to procure such rare items on her behalf. First the nosta, and now the dress? She took another deep breath, exhaling into the cold. The sun was shattering across the horizon, fragmenting color across the hills, taking with it what little warmth was left in the sky. Alizeh had been waiting at least thirty minutes now, standing outside in a thin jacket and damp hair. With no hat or scarf to cover her frozen curls, she stamped her feet, frowning at the fracturing sun, worrying over the minutes that remained of daylight. The ground underfoot was thick with decaying purple leaves, all of which had fallen—recently, it seemed—from the small forest of trees surrounding the magnificent home. The newly bare, ghostly branches arced tremulously toward one another, curling inward not unlike the crooked legs of a many-legged spider, intent on devouring its prey. It was just then, as Alizeh had conjured this disturbing image in her mind, that the heavy wooden door was wrenched open with a groan, revealing the harried face and hassled form of Miss Huda herself.

Alizeh bobbed a curtsy. “Good aftern—” “Not a sound,” the young woman said harshly, grabbing Alizeh by the arm and yanking her inside. Alizeh had only just managed to swipe her carpet bag up and into her arms before they were off, barreling wildly through the kitchen and down the halls, Alizeh’s cumbersome baggage knocking against the walls and floors as she struggled to keep up with Miss Huda’s sudden, jerky movements. When they finally stopped moving, Alizeh stumbled forward from the force of residual motion, staggering a bit as she heard the sound of a door slam shut. Her box and bag hit the floor with consecutive thuds, after which Alizeh steadied herself, turning in time to see Miss Huda struggling to catch her breath, eyes closed as she slumped back against the closed door. “Never,” Miss Huda said, still trying to breathe. “Never, ever show up unannounced. Never. Do you understand?” “I’m terribly sorry, miss. I didn’t realize—” “I was only able to arrange our last meeting because I pretended to have a megrim on an evening I knew the family had been invited to dinner, but everyone is home now, preparing for the ball, which is why my maid was supposed to come to you to collect the gown and oh, if Mother discovers I’ve hired you to make me a dress I’ll be reduced to little more than a writhing, bloody sack on the street, for she will literally tear all my limbs from my body.” Alizeh blinked. The nosta glowed neither hot nor cold against her skin in response, and Alizeh didn’t understand its lack of reaction. “Surely you do not— You could not mean she would literally—” “I meant exactly what I said,” Miss Huda snapped. “Mother is the devil incarnate.” Alizeh, who knew the devil personally, frowned at that. “Forgive me, miss, but that’s not—” “Lord, but how am I going to get you back out of the house?” Miss Huda dragged her hands down her face. “Father has guests due any minute now, and if a single one of them sees you—if even a servant sees you— Oh, heavens, Mother will surely murder me in my sleep.” Again, the nosta did not react, and for a single, terrifying moment Alizeh thought the object might be broken. “Oh, this is bad,” said Miss Huda. “This is very, very bad . . .”

The nosta glowed suddenly warm. Not broken, then. Alizeh experienced a wave of relief supplanted quickly by consternation. If the little glass orb was not broken, then it was perhaps Miss Huda who was uncertain of the veracity of her statements. Maybe, Alizeh considered with some alarm, the young woman wasn’t entirely sure whether her mother might one day murder her. Alizeh studied the panicked, overwrought figure of the girl before her and wondered whether Miss Huda wasn’t in more trouble at home than she let on. She knew the girl’s mother had proven overtly cruel, but Miss Huda had never before characterized the woman as a physical threat. Quietly, Alizeh said, “Is your mother truly so violent?” “What?” Miss Huda looked up. “Are you— Are you genuinely worried your mother might kill you? Because if you believe her a serious threat to your li—” “I beg your pardon?” Miss Huda boggled. “Have you no sense at all of hyperbole? Of course I’m not genuinely worried my mother might kill me. I am in a panic. Am I not allowed to embroider the truth a bit when I am in a panic?” “I— Yes,” Alizeh said, quietly clearing her throat. “I only meant— That is, I wanted only to ascertain whether you truly feared for your safety. I am relieved to discover you did not.” At that, Miss Huda went unexpectedly silent. She stared for what felt like a long time at Alizeh, stared at her as if she were not a person, but an enigma. It was an ungenerous stare, one that made Alizeh decidedly uncomfortable. “And what, pray,” Miss Huda said finally, “did you mean to do about it?” “I beg your pardon?” “If I had told you,” Miss Huda said with a sigh, “that my mother did indeed intend to murder me, what would you have done about it? I ask because you appeared, for a moment, quite determined. As if you had a plan.” Alizeh felt herself flush. “No, miss,” she said quietly. “Not at all.” “You did too have a plan,” Miss Huda insisted, her earlier panic dissipating now. “There’s no point in denying it, so go on. Let’s hear it. Let’s hear your plan to save me.” “It was not a plan, miss. I merely— I only had a thought.”

“So you admit it, then? You had a thought about saving me from the clutches of my murderous mother?” Alizeh lowered her eyes at that, saying nothing. She thought Miss Huda was being intolerably cruel. “Oh, very well,” the young woman said, collapsing into a chair with a touch of theater. “You need not speak it aloud if you find the confession so torturous. I was merely curious. After all, you hardly know me; I was only wondering why you cared.” The nosta glowed warm. Stunned, Alizeh said, “You wondered why I would care if your mother might actually murder you?” “Is that not what I just said?” “Are you— Are you quite serious, miss?” Alizeh knew Miss Huda was serious, but somehow she couldn’t help asking the question. “Of course I am.” Miss Huda sat up straighter. “Have I ever seemed to you interested in subtlety? I’m in fact quite known for my candor, and I daresay Mother hates my lack of refinement even more than she hates my figure. She says my mouth and hips are a product of that woman, that other woman—which is how she refers, of course, to my biological mother.” When Alizeh said nothing in response to Miss Huda’s obvious effort to shock her, the young woman raised her eyebrows. “Is it possible you didn’t know? That would make you the only person in Setar ignorant of my origins, for mine is an infamous tale, as my father refused to hide his sins from society. Still, I am quite illegitimate, the bastard child of a nobleman and a courtesan. It’s no secret that neither of my mothers have ever wanted me.” Alizeh continued to say nothing. She didn’t dare. Miss Huda’s performance of indifference was so obvious as to be painful to witness; Alizeh didn’t know whether to shake the girl or hug her. “Yes,” Alizeh said finally. “I knew.” She saw a flicker of emotion in Miss Huda’s eyes then, something like relief, there and gone again. And just like that, Alizeh’s heart softened toward the girl. Miss Huda had been worried. She’d been worried that Alizeh, a lowly servant, had not known of her parentage; she worried a lowly servant would find out and judge her

harshly. Miss Huda’s attempt to scandalize had in fact been an effort to out herself preemptively, to spare herself a painful retraction of kindness, or friendship, upon discovery. This was a fear Alizeh understood well. But that Miss Huda would lower herself to be bothered by the worthless opinion of a snoda taught Alizeh a great deal about the depth of the young woman’s insecurities; it was information she would file away in her mind, and not soon forget. Quietly, Alizeh said, “I would’ve found a way to protect you.” “Pardon?” “If you’d told me,” Alizeh clarified, “that your mother had been trying in earnest to murder you. I would’ve found a way to protect you.” “You?” Miss Huda laughed. “You would’ve protected me?” Alizeh bowed her head, fought back a renewed wave of irritation. “You asked for my confession—for the thought that crossed my mind. That was it.” There was a brief silence. “You really mean that,” the young woman said finally. Alizeh looked up at the gentle sound of the girl’s voice. She was surprised to discover the sneer gone from Miss Huda’s face; her brown eyes wide with unvarnished feeling. She looked, suddenly, quite young.

“Yes, miss,” Alizeh said. “I really mean it.” “Goodness. You are a very strange girl.” Alizeh drew a deep breath. That was the second time today someone had accused her of being strange, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it. She decided to change the subject. “More to the point,” she said, “I’ve come to you today to talk about your gown.” “Oh, yes,” Miss Huda said, eagerly getting to her feet and moving toward the large case. “Is this it, then? Can I open—” Alizeh darted for the box and claimed it, bracing it against her chest. She stepped several steps back as her heart beat hard against her sternum. “No,” she said quickly. “No, this—this is something else. For someone else. I actually came here to tell you that I haven’t finished making your gown. That, in fact, I won’t be able to finish making it.” Miss Huda’s eyes widened in outrage. “You— But how could you—” “I was dismissed from my position at Baz House,” Alizeh said quickly, grabbing blindly for her carpet bag, which she hauled into her arms. “I desperately wanted to finish the commission, miss, but I’ve no place to live, and no place to work, and the streets are so cold I can hardly hold a needle without my fingers going numb—” “You promised me— You said—you said it would be done in time for the ball—” “I’m so sorry,” Alizeh said, now inching slowly toward the door. “Truly, I am, and I can well imagine your disappointment. I see now that I should go, for I fear I’ve disturbed your day quite enough—though of course I’ll just leave the gown”—she released the latch on her bag, reached inside for the garment—“and leave you to your evening—” “Don’t you dare.” Alizeh froze. “You said you needed a place to work? Well, here.” Miss Huda gestured to the room at large. “You might as well stay and finish the work. You can manage a discreet exit once everyone leaves for the ball.” The carpet bag slipped from Alizeh’s frozen fingers, fell with a dull thump to the ground. The suggestion was outrageous. “You want me to finish it now?” Alizeh said. “Here? In your room? But what if a maid comes in? What if your mother needs you? What if—”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Miss Huda said irritably. “But I see no possibility of your leaving now anyway because Father’s guests have certainly”—she glanced at the wall clock, its golden pendulum swinging—“yes, they’ve certainly arrived by now, which means the house is sure to be flush with all the ambassadors ahead of the ball, as their lot is terribly prompt—” “But—perhaps I could climb out the window?” Miss Huda glared. “You will do no such thing. Not only is the idea preposterous, but I want my gown. I have nothing else to wear, and you, by your own admission, have nothing else to do. Is that not what you said? That you were discharged from your position?” Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes.” “So you’ve no one waiting for you, and no warm place to go on this winter evening?” Alizeh opened her eyes. “No.” “Then I do not understand your reticence. Now remove that godforsaken monstrosity from your face at once,” Miss Huda said, lifting her chin an inch. “You’re not a snoda anymore; you’re a seamstress.” Alizeh looked up at that, felt the pilot light in her heart flicker. She appreciated the young woman’s attempt to raise her spirits, but Miss Huda did not understand. If Alizeh had to wait until the whole of Follad Place departed for the ball, she herself would be terribly late. She’d no choice but to arrive to the event on foot, and had planned, as a result, to leave a good deal early. Even with preternatural speed she couldn’t move quite as fast as a carriage, and would certainly not dare move too quickly in such a delicate gown. Omid would wonder whether she’d abandoned him. Hazan would wonder whether she’d been able to secure safe passage to the ball. She couldn’t be late. She simply couldn’t. There was too much at stake. “Please, miss. I really must go. I am— I am in fact a Jinn,” Alizeh said nervously, employing now the only tactic she had left. “You need not worry that I will be seen, as I can make myself invisible upon my exi—” Miss Huda eyes widened in astonishment. “Your audacity shocks me. Do you even know to whom you are speaking? Yes, I am a bastard child, but I am the bastard child of an Ardunian ambassador,” she said, growing visibly angry. “Or did you forget that you stand now in the home of an official hand selected by the crown? How you gather the nerve to even dare suggest—in my presence—doing something so patently illegal, I cannot fathom—”

“Forgive me,” Alizeh said, panicked. Only now that she was being condemned for it did she realize the weight of her error; a different person might’ve already called for the magistrates. “I merely— I wasn’t thinking clearly— I only hoped to provide a solution to the obvious problem and I —” “The most obvious problem, I think, is that you made me a promise you’ve now unceremoniously broken.” Miss Huda narrowed her eyes. “You’ve no good excuse for not finishing the work, and I demand you do it now.” Alizeh tried to breathe. Her heart was racing at a dangerous speed in her chest. “Well? Go on, then,” said Miss Huda, her anger slowly abating. She gestured limply at the girl’s mask. “Consider this the dawn of a new age. A new beginning.” Alizeh closed her eyes. She wondered whether the snoda even mattered now. One way or another, she’d be gone from Setar at the end of the night. She’d never see Miss Huda again, and Alizeh doubted the girl would go gossiping about the strange color of her eyes—something she more than likely would not understand, as most Clay were uneducated in Jinn history and would not know the weight of what they saw. It had never been for fear of the masses that Alizeh hid her face; it was for fear of a single, careful eye. Exposure to the wrong stranger and she knew her life was forfeit; indeed, her precarious position in that very moment was proof. Somehow, impossibly, Kamran had seen through her guile, had seen through even her snoda. In all these years, he’d been the only one. She took a deep breath and cleared her head of him, spared her heart of him. She thought instead, without warning, of her parents, who’d always worried about her eyes, always worried for her life. They’d never given up hope of her taking back the land—and the crown—they believed to be rightfully hers. Alizeh had been raised from infancy to reclaim it. What would they think if they saw her now? Jobless, homeless, at the mercy of some miss. Alizeh felt quietly ashamed of herself, of her impotence in that moment. Without a word, she untied the snoda from around her eyes, and, reluctantly, let the scrap of silk slip through her fingers. When Alizeh

finally looked up to meet the young woman’s gaze, Miss Huda went rigid with fear. “Heavens,” she gasped. “It’s you.”

Thirty-Three

KAMRAN FLINCHED.

The seamstress stuck him with yet another pin, humming quietly to herself as she worked, pulling here, tucking there. The woman was either oblivious or heartless, he’d not yet decided. She never seemed to care that she was maiming him, not even when he’d asked her, several times, to desist from these nonessential acts of cruelty. He looked at the seamstress, the ancient woman in a velvet bowler so diminutive in stature she hardly reached his waist, and who tottered over him now on a small wooden stool. She smelled like caramelized eggplant. “Madame,” he said tersely. “Are we not yet finished?” She started at the sound of his voice and stabbed him yet again, causing Kamran to draw a sharp breath. The older woman blinked big, owlish eyes at him; eyes he’d always found disconcerting. “Nearly there, sire,” she said in a weathered voice. “Nearly there now. Just a few minutes more.” Soundlessly, Kamran sighed.

Kamran loathed these fittings, and could not understand why he’d needed one, not when he owned an entire wardrobe full of clothes still unworn, any number of which would’ve been sufficient for the night’s festivities. It was, in any case, his mother’s doing. The princess had intercepted him the very moment he’d stepped foot inside the palace, refusing to listen to a word of reason. She’d insisted, despite Kamran’s protests to the contrary, that whatever the king and his officials needed to discuss could wait, and that being properly dressed for his guests was far more important. Besides, she’d sworn, the fitting would take only a moment. A moment. It had been nigh on an hour. Still, it was quite possible, Kamran considered, that the seamstress was stabbing him now in protest. The prince had neither heeded his mother upon arrival, nor had he flatly refused to accompany her. Instead, he’d parted with a vague promise to return. An enemy on the battlefield he might’ve cut down with a sword, but his mother in possession of a seamstress on the night of a ball— He’d not been properly armed against such an adversary, and had settled for ignoring her. Three hours he’d spent discussing the Tulanian king’s possible motivations with Hazan, his grandfather, and a select group of officials, and when, finally, he’d returned to his dressing room, his mother had thrown a lamp at him. Miraculously, Kamran had dodged the projectile, which crashed to the floor, causing a small fire upon impact. This, the princess had ignored outright, instead approaching her son with a violent gleam in her eyes. “Careful, darling,” she’d said softly. “You overlook your mother at great cost to yourself.” Kamran was busy stamping out the flames. “I’m afraid I don’t follow your logic,” he’d said, scowling, “for I cannot imagine it costs me anything to avoid a parent who so often takes pleasure in trying to kill me.” The princess had smiled at that, even as her eyes flashed with anger. “Two days ago I told you I needed to speak with you. Two days I have waited to have a simple conversation with my own son. Two days I have been ignored repeatedly, even as you made time to spend an entire morning with your dear aunt.”

Kamran frowned. “I don’t—” “No doubt you forgot,” she said, cutting him off. “No doubt my request fell right out of your pretty head the moment it was spoken. So swiftly am I forgotten.” To this, Kamran said nothing, for if she’d indeed asked for a moment of his time, he could not now recall such a summons. His mother stepped closer. “Soon,” she said, “I will be all you have left in this palace. You will walk the halls, friendless and alone, and you will search for me then. You will want your mother only when all else is lost, and I do not promise to be easily found.” Kamran had felt an unnerving sensation move through his body at that; a foreboding he could not name. “Why do you say such things? Of what do you speak?” The princess was already walking away, gone without another word. Kamran made to follow her and was halted by the arrival of the seamstress, Madame Nezrin, who’d entered the dressing room promptly upon his mother’s exit. Again, Kamran flinched. Even if he deserved it, he did not think Madame Nezrin should be allowed to stab him with impunity. Surely she knew better. The woman was the crown’s most trusted seamstress; she’d been working with the royal family since the beginning of his grandfather’s reign. In fact, Kamran often marveled that she hadn’t gone blind by now. Then again, perhaps she had. There seemed little other explanation for the ridiculous costumes he regularly discovered in his wardrobe. Her ideas were meticulously executed, but ancient; she dressed him always on the edge of a different century. And Kamran, who knew little of fashion and fabrics, understood only that he did not like his clothes; he possessed no alternative suggestions, and as a result felt powerless in the face of such an essential problem, which drove him near to madness. Surely the mere act of getting dressed should not inspire in a person such torment? Even now she dressed him in layers of silk brocade, cinching the long emerald robes at his waist with more silk, this time a beaded belt so heavy with jewels it had to be pinned in place. At his throat was yet more of the awful material: a translucent, pale green scarf artfully knotted, the coarse silk netting like sandpaper against his skin.

His shirt, at least, was a familiar linen. On a single, regrettable occasion he’d once said to his mother— distractedly—that silk sounded just fine, and now everything he owned was an abomination. Silk, it had turned out, was not the soft, comfortable textile he’d expected; no, it was a noisy, detestable fabric that irritated his skin. The crisp, stiff collar of his robes dug into his throat now not unlike the edge of a dull knife, and he turned his head sharply away, unable to keep still any longer, paying for his impatience with yet another needle in the rib. Kamran grimaced. The pain had at least done a great deal to distract him from his mother’s ominous parting words. The sun had begun its descent in the sky, fracturing pink and orange light through the lattice screen windows of the dressing room, the geometric perforations generating a kaleidoscope of oblong shapes along the walls and floors, giving him somewhere to focus his eyes, and then, his thoughts. Too soon, guests would begin arriving at the palace, and too soon, he would be expected to greet them. One, in particular. As if he’d not been delivered enough suffering this day. The news from Tulan had been less distressing than Kamran had expected and yet, somehow, so much worse. “Remind me again, Minister, why on earth the man was even invited?” Hazan, who’d been standing quietly in the corner, now cleared his throat. He looked from Kamran to the seamstress, his eyes widening in warning. Kamran glowered. None of this was Hazan’s fault—logically, the prince understood that— but logic did not seem to matter to his abraded nerves. Kamran had been in a hateful mood all day. Everything bothered him. Everything was insufferable. He shot an aggravated look at Hazan, who’d flatly refused to leave the prince’s side in the wake of the recent news. His minister only glared back. “There’s little point in your sitting here,” the prince said irritably. “You should return to your own rooms. No doubt you have preparations to make before the evening begins.” “I thank you for your consideration, sire,” Hazan said coldly. “But I will remain here, by your side.” “You overreact,” said the prince. “Besides, if you should be concerned for anyone, it should not be me, but th—”

“Madame,” Hazan said sharply. “I must now escort His Highness to an important meeting; if you would be so kind as to finish the work in his absence? No doubt you have enough of our prince’s measurements.” Madame Nezrin blinked at Hazan; she seemed uncertain, for a moment, which of the two young men had spoken to her. “Very good,” she said. “That should be just fine.” Kamran resisted the infantile impulse to kick something. With great care, the seamstress slid loose the robes from his body, collecting every meticulously pinned article into her small arms, and nearly toppling over in the process. Briefly, Kamran’s upper half was left bare. Kamran, who spent little time staring at his own reflection, and who’d not been facing the mirror when he’d first undressed, was disquieted to see himself so exposed now. The triple-paneled looking glass loomed before him, revealing angles of his body he seldom studied. Someone handed him his sweater, which Kamran accepted without a word. He took a tentative step closer to the mirrors, drew a hand down the length of his bare torso. He frowned. “What is it?” Hazan asked, the anger in his voice tinged now with concern. “Is something the matter?” “It’s different,” Kamran said quietly. “Is it not different?” Hazan drew slowly closer. It was the tradition of Ardunian kings to hand over their heirs, on the very day of the child’s birth, to the Diviners—to have them marked by an irreversible magic that would claim them, always, as the rightful successor. It was a practice they’d stolen from Jinn, whose royals were born with such markings, sparing their kingdoms any false claims to the throne. Clay royalty had found a way to incorporate such protections into their own bloodlines, though what had once been considered a serious precaution had, over centuries, become more of a tradition—one they soon forgot had been borrowed from another people. On the day of their birth every Ardunian royal was marked by magic, and it touched them all differently. King Zaal had found a constellation of dark blue, eight-pointed stars at the base of his throat. The prince’s own father had discovered black, branching lines along his back, ominous strokes that wrapped partially around his torso.

Kamran, too, had been marked. Every year of his boyhood the prince had watched, with a kind of horrified fascination, as the skin of his chest and torso gave the illusion of splitting open down the center, revealing at its fissure a glimmer of gold leaf. The burnished gold mark appeared, as if painted, straight down his middle, from the shallow valley of his throat to the base of his abdomen. The Diviners had promised that the magic would display its final form by the end of his twelfth birthday, and so it had. The glittering lash had long ago lost his interest, for it had become as familiar to him as his eyes, the color of his hair. It had become so much a part of him that he seldom noticed it these days. But now—suddenly— It looked different. The fissure seemed a fraction wider, the once dull gold shining now a bit brighter. “I do not see a difference, sire,” Hazan asked, peering into the mirror. “Does it feel unusual in some way?” “No, it feels no different,” Kamran said absently, now running his fingers along the gold part. It was always a bit hotter there, at his center, but the mark had never hurt, had never felt strange. “It only looks . . . Well, I suppose it’s hard to say. I’ve not noticed it in so long.” “Perhaps it only seems different,” said Hazan quietly, “because you’ve lately been rendered an idiot, and stupidity has clouded your better judgment.” Kamran shot his minister a dark look and promptly pulled his sweater over his head, tugging its hem down over his torso. He looked around for the seamstress. “You need not worry,” Hazan said. “She’s gone.” “Gone?” The prince frowned. “But— Were not we the ones who were meant to leave the dressing room? Was she not meant to stay here to finish the work she’d started?” “Indeed. The woman is a bit batty.” Kamran shook his head, collapsed into a nearby chair. “How much time do we have?” “Before the ball? Two hours.” Kamran shot him a look. “You know very well to what I am referring.” “To whom you are referring, you mean?” Hazan almost smiled. “The Tulanian king is with the ambassador now. He should be arriving at the palace within the hour.”

“Lord, but I hate him,” Kamran said, pushing a hand through his hair. “He has the kind of face that should be kicked in, repeatedly.” “That seems a bit unfair. It’s not the fault of the Tulanian ambassador that he’s charged with an empire so widely detested. The gentleman himself is nice enough.” Kamran turned sharply to face his minister. “Obviously I’m speaking of the king.” Hazan frowned. “The king? Cyrus, you mean? I’d not realized you’d met him before.” “No. I’ve not yet had the pleasure. I’m merely assuming he has the kind of face that should be kicked in, repeatedly.” Hazan’s frown cleared at that; he fought back another smile. “You do not underestimate him, I hope?” “Underestimate him? The child killed his own father. He stole a bloody crown from the rightful king for all the world to bear witness, and now he shows his shameless face here? No, I do not underestimate him. I think him mad. Though I must say I fear our own officials misprize him, and to their detriment. They underestimate him for the same inane reasons they underestimate me.” “Your lack of experience, you mean?” Kamran turned away. “My age, you miserable rotter.” “So easily provoked.” Hazan stifled a laugh. “You are in quite a state, today, Your Highness.” “You might do us all a favor, Hazan, and begin to manage your expectations of my state. This is where I live, minister. Here, between angry and irritable, lies my charming personality. It does not change. You may be grateful that I am consistent, at least, in being boorish.” Hazan’s smile grew only wider. “I say, these are strange declarations from Setar’s melancholy prince.” Kamran stiffened. Very slowly, he turned to face Hazan. “I beg your pardon?” His minister retrieved from the inside of his jacket a folded copy of Setar’s most popular evening journal, the Quill & Crown. The nightly post was widely known to be trash, a sloppy rehashing of the morning’s news, cut with unsolicited opinions from its self-important editor. Indeed, there was little newsworthy about it; it was a spectacle in printed form, useless drivel. It contained rambling letters from breathless readers, and was stuffed with articles like—

Suggestions for the King, Ten Items Long —and devoted an entire page to baseless gossip of goings-on in the royal city. “It says right here,” Hazan said, scanning the paper, “that you are a sentimental idiot, that your bleeding heart has been laid bare twice now, once for a street child and now for a snoda—” “Give that to me,” Kamran said, jumping to his feet to snatch the paper out of Hazan’s hands, which he promptly tossed in the fire. “I’ve got another copy, Your Highness.” “You disloyal wretch. How can you even read such garbage?” “I may have exaggerated a bit,” Hazan admitted. “The article was actually quite complimentary. Your random acts of kindness toward the lower classes seem to have won the hearts of common folk, who seem only too eager to praise your actions.” Kamran was only slightly mollified. “Even so.” “Even so.” Hazan cleared his throat. “You were kind to a snoda, then?” “It’s not worth discussing.” “Is it not? When you spent a great part of the morning in the company of your aunt at Baz House, where we both know resides a young woman of interest? A young woman in a snoda?” “Oh, shove off, Hazan.” Kamran collapsed once again in his chair. “The king is well aware of both my actions and my reasons, which should be more than enough for you. Why are you trailing me, anyway? It’s not as if the Tulanian king will murder me in my own home.” “He might.” “What good would it do him? If you’re so concerned, you should be protecting the king. I’m perfectly capable of defending myself.” “Your Highness,” Hazan said, looking suddenly concerned. “If you harbor any uncertainty about the life hurtling toward you, allow me to assure you now: the inevitable is coming. You must prepare yourself.” Kamran turned away, exhaling toward the ceiling. “You mean my grandfather will die.” “I mean you will soon be crowned king of the largest empire in the known world.” “Yes,” said the prince. “I’m quite aware.” A tense silence stretched between them. When Hazan finally spoke, the heat was gone from his voice. “It was a formality,” he said.

Kamran looked up. “Your question,” said the minister. “You asked why the Tulanian king was invited. It is a long-standing tradition, during peacetime, to invite neighboring royalty to the most elite affairs. It’s meant as a gesture of goodwill. Many similar invitations have been made these last seven years, but never before has the Tulanian king accepted.” “Excellent,” Kamran said drily. “He’s come now to enjoy a bit of cake, no doubt.” “It’s certainly good to be cautious, fo—” Just then there was a sharp knock, immediately after which the door to the dressing room opened. The elderly palace butler entered, then bowed. “What now, Jamsheed?” The prince turned in his seat to face the man. “Tell my mother I’ve no idea where the seamstress went, nor what she did with my robes. Better yet, tell my mother to come find me herself if she wishes to speak with me, and to stop pitching you about the palace as if you haven’t far better things to do on such an evening.” “No, sire.” Jamsheed, to his credit, did not smile. “It’s not your mother. I’ve come because you have a young visitor.” Kamran frowned. “A young visitor?” “Yes, sire. He professes the king himself granted him permission to visit you, and I come to you now to ask—only out of the greatest respect for His Majesty—whether there exists even a grain of truth to the child’s claim.” Hazan stood straighter at that, looking suddenly perturbed. “Surely you cannot mean the street child?” “He does not look like a street child,” said the butler. “But neither does he appear to be trustworthy.” “Yet he’s arrived here, at this hour, demanding an audience with the prince? This is outrageous—” “Don’t tell me he has a shock of red hair?” Kamran ran a hand over his eyes. “Too tall for his age?” The butler started. “Yes, sire.” “His name is Omid?” “Why— Yes, sire,” Jamsheed said, no longer able to hide his astonishment. “He says his name is Omid Shekarzadeh.” “Where is he?” “He awaits you now in the main hall.”

“Did he say why he’s come?” Hazan demanded. “Did he give a reason for his impertinence?” “No, Minister, though his manner is a bit febrile. He seems deeply agitated.” With great reluctance, Kamran got to his feet; this day felt suddenly interminable. “Tell the boy I’ll be down in a moment.” The butler stared, stupefied, at the prince. “Then— Then what the child says is true, sire? That he has permission from the king to speak with you?” Kamran hadn’t even the chance to respond before Hazan moved in front of him, blocking his path. “Your Highness, this is absurd,” the minister said in a forceful whisper. “Why would the boy request an audience at this hour? I don’t trust it.” The prince studied Hazan a moment: the flash of panic in his eyes, the tense form of his body, the hand he held aloft to stop him. Kamran had known Hazan too many years to misunderstand him now, and a sharp, disorienting unease moved suddenly through the prince’s body. Something was wrong. “I don’t know,” Kamran said. “Though I intend to find out.” “Then you intend to make a mistake. This could be a trap—” To the butler, the prince said, “I’ll meet the boy in the receiving room.” “Yes, sire.” Jamsheed glanced from the prince to his minister. “As you wish.” “Your Highness—” “That is all,” the prince said sharply. The butler bowed at once, then disappeared, the door closing behind him. When they were alone, Hazan turned to face the prince. “Are you mad? I don’t understand why you’d consent t—” In a single, swift movement Kamran grabbed Hazan by the collar and slammed his back against the wall. Hazan gasped. “You are hiding something,” Kamran said darkly. “What is your game?” Hazan went rigid with surprise, his eyes widening with a touch of fear. “No, sire. Forgive me, I meant not to overstep—” Kamran tightened his grip. “You are lying to me, Hazan. What is your preoccupation with the b—”

The prince cut himself off, suddenly, for he was startled by a soft, buzzing sound in his left ear. Kamran turned, blinking in surprise. A slight, glowing insect hovered inches from his face, bumping incessantly against his cheek. Thop. Thop. “What on earth—” The prince grimaced and stepped back, relinquishing the minister to swat the fly from his face; Hazan slumped against the wall, breathing hard. Go, Kamran thought he heard him whisper. Or was it merely an exhale? Kamran watched, stunned, as the fly darted straight toward the door and through the keyhole, disappearing into the world beyond. Had the insect obeyed a command? Or had Kamran lost his mind? He spared his minister a single, strange glance before he quit the room, pulling open the door with forced calm and striding down the hall with unusual speed, his skin prickling with unease. Where had the blasted creature gone? “Your Highness—” Hazan called, catching up, then keeping pace. “Your Highness, forgive me— I only worried the child might prove a distraction on such an important evening— I spoke thoughtlessly. I meant no disrespect.” Kamran ignored this as he barreled down the marble staircase, his boots connecting over and over with stone, the sharp sounds filling the silence between them. “Your Highness—” “Leave me, Hazan.” Kamran made it to the main floor and kept moving, marching toward the great room with unconcealed determination. “I find your shadow cumbersome.” “I cannot leave you now, sire, not with such a threat looming—” Kamran came to an abrupt, disorienting halt. Omid. The Fesht boy was not in the receiving room where he was meant to be. Omid was instead pacing the main hall when they approached and did not wait for permission before he rushed toward the prince, darting out of reach of the footmen who sought to restrain him. “Sire,” the boy said breathlessly, before speaking in rapid-fire Feshtoon. “You’ve got to help, sire— I’ve been telling everyone but no one believes

me— I went to the magistrates and they called me a liar and of course I tried to inform the king, but n— Kamran jerked suddenly back. Omid had made the mistake of touching the prince, reaching out a trembling hand in a thoughtless, desperate motion. “Guards,” Hazan called. “Restrain this child.” “No—” Omid spun around as guards came rushing from all sides, easily pinning the child’s arms behind his back. Omid’s eyes were wild with panic. “No— Please, sire, you’ve got to come now, we’ve got to do someth—” Omid cried out as they twisted his limbs, resisting even as they dragged him away. “Get off me,” he shouted, “I need to speak with the prince— I have to— Please, I beg you, it’s important—” “You dare lay your hands on the crown prince of Ardunia?” Hazan rounded on him. “You will hang for this.” “I didn’t mean no harm,” the boy cried, thrashing against the guards. “Please, I just—” “That’s quite enough,” the prince said quietly. “But, Your Highness—” “I said, enough.” The room went suddenly, frighteningly still. The guards froze where they were; Omid went limp in their grip. All the palace seemed to stop breathing. In the silence, Kamran studied the Fesht boy, his tear-streaked face, his shaking limbs. “Release him,” he said. The guards dropped the child unceremoniously to the floor, where Omid fell hard on his knees and curled inward, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath. When the child finally looked up again, his eyes had filled with tears. “Please, sire,” he said. “I didn’t mean no harm.” Kamran was eerily calm when he said, “Tell me what has happened.” A single tear tracked down the boy’s cheek. “It’s the Diviners,” he said. “They’re all dead.”

Thirty-Four

young woman. “I really can’t believe it,” Miss Huda was saying, her eyes wide with astonishment. “It’s you. How on earth?” “Forgive me, but I don’t understa—” “This,” Miss Huda said, rushing toward a chest of drawers. She tugged open one of the compartments and rifled through her things, and not a beat later held aloft a cream-colored envelope. “This. This.” Alizeh stared. “A letter?” “I received it earlier today. Go on.” She pressed it into Alizeh’s hands. “Read it.” Unbidden, Alizeh’s heart began its familiar pounding, nerves crawling slowly across her skin. With great trepidation she tugged free the note from its sleeve, unfolded the paper, and went still at the sight of the familiar script. It was written with the same firm hand as the note she’d received earlier today; the one currently tucked into her pocket. ALIZEH STARED BLANKLY AT THE

You will meet today with a young woman with silver eyes. Kindly deliver the enclosed package into her hands. As if she were an hourglass, Alizeh felt herself fill incrementally with grains of awareness; she grew suddenly heavy with unease, with a feeling of fear. Whosoever had delivered her the gown had also written this note— but if that were true, she should have no reason to worry. Why, then, did she worry? “This says there’s an enclosed package,” Alizeh said, looking up. “Is there a package?” “Yes,” said Miss Huda, who made no effort to move. She only stared, as if Alizeh had grown a third leg. “Will you not bring it to me?” “Will you not first tell me who you are?” “Me?” Alizeh recoiled. “I am no one of consequence.” Miss Huda’s jaw clenched. “If you are no one of consequence then I am the queen of Ardunia. Whatever you think of me, I daresay I’ve never given the impression of being an idiot.” “No.” Alizeh sighed. “That you have not.” “Until just now, I’d thought the note was some kind of joke,” Miss Huda said, crossing her arms. “People have long loved to torture me with their insipid pranks. This one seemed more peculiar than the others, but still I ignored it, much as I do the frog legs I find in my bed on occasion.” She paused. “Do you take part now in some elaborate caper intended to make me appear foolish?” “Of course not,” said Alizeh sharply. “I’d never participate in such a hateful act.” Miss Huda frowned. It was a moment before she said, “Do you know, I’ve thought from the first that you speak uncommonly well for a snoda. Still, I thought it snobbish to look down on you for your attempt to educate yourself. And yet—all that time you were measuring me with your pins and needles, I never quite had the measure of you, did I?” Alizeh exhaled, the action loosening something in her bones, some essential tension responsible for securing in place her deferential facade. She didn’t see the point in being compliant any longer. Indeed, she was tired of it. “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she said to Miss Huda. “If you were unable to take the measure of me, it was because I’d not wanted you to.”

“And why, pray, is that?” “I cannot say.” “You cannot?” Miss Huda narrowed her eyes. “Or you will not?” “I cannot.” “Whyever not?” She laughed. “Why would you not want anyone to know who you are? Don’t say you’re on the run from assassins?” When Alizeh said nothing, Miss Huda quickly sobered. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “Are you in fact acquainted with assassins?” “In my experience, one does not make the acquaintance of assassins.” “But it’s true, then? Your life is in danger?” Alizeh lowered her eyes. “Miss, will you not please bring me the package?” “Oh,” she said, waving a hand. “There’s little point in the package. The parcel was empty.” Alizeh’s eyes widened. “You opened it?” “Of course I opened it. You think I believed a girl with silver eyes would come looking for a mysterious package? Naturally I assumed the box would contain bloody goat brains, or even a small family of dead birds. Instead, it was empty.” “But that can’t be right.” Alizeh frowned. “Will you not bring it to me anyway, so that I might inspect it?” Miss Huda didn’t appear to hear her. “Tell me,” she was saying, “why would you bother taking work as a seamstress if your life is in danger? Would it not be difficult to meet the demands of your customers if you needed, for example, to flee with little notice?” Suddenly, Miss Huda gasped. “Is that why you weren’t able to finish my gown?” she asked. “Are you running for your life this very moment?” “Yes.” Miss Huda gasped again, this time lifting a hand to her cheek. “Oh, how terribly thrilling.” “It’s nothing of the sort.” “Perhaps not for you. I think I wouldn’t mind running for my life. Or running away, generally.” Alizeh felt the nosta glow warm against her skin and stilled, surprised to discover the young woman did not exaggerate.

“I do nothing but avoid Mother most days,” Miss Huda was saying. “The rest of my time I spend hiding from the governess. Or a series of grotesque suitors interested only in my dowry.” “Surely you have other interests,” said Alizeh, who was growing vaguely concerned for the girl. “You must have friends—social obligations —” Miss Huda dismissed this with a flick of her hand. “I often feel as if I live in a corridor; I’m neither genteel enough for nobility, nor common enough to mix with the baseborn. I’m a well fed, poorly dressed leper. My own sisters resist being seen with me in public.” “That’s awful,” Alizeh said with feeling. “I’m truly sorry to hear it.” “Are you really?” Miss Huda looked up. She studied Alizeh’s face a moment before she smiled. It was a real smile, something earnest. “How strange you are. How very glad I am for your strangeness.” Surprised, Alizeh ventured a tentative smile back. The girls were briefly silent after that, both assessing the fragile shoots of an unexpected friendship. “Miss?” Alizeh said finally. “Yes?” “The package?” “Right.” Miss Huda nodded and, without another word, retrieved from inside her wardrobe a pale yellow box. Alizeh recognized the details right away; it appeared to be a cousin of the box that housed her gown, a perfect match in color and ornamentation, but a quarter of the size. “So—you’re not really a snoda, then?” Alizeh looked up to meet the eyes of Miss Huda, who’d yet to relinquish the parcel. “I beg your pardon?” “You’re not really a servant,” she said. “You never were, I think. Your speech is too refined, you’re on the run for your life, and now you receive mysterious packages by way of strangers? You’re also rather beautiful, but in an old-fashioned way, as if from another time—” “Old-fashioned?” “—and your skin is too nice, yes, I see that now, and your hair too glossy. I’m quite certain you’ve never had scurvy, or even a touch of the plague, and by the looks of the rest of you I suspect you’ve never spent time in a poorhouse. And your eyes are so unusual—they keep changing

color, you know—in fact, they’re so unusual it almost makes one think you might’ve worn the snoda on purpose, to hide your— “Oh,” Miss Huda cried, her eyes shining now with excitement. “Oh, I’ve figured it out, I’ve figured it out. You only wore the snoda to protect your identity, didn’t you? Did you pretend to work at Baz House, too? Are you a spy? Are you employed by the crown?” Alizeh opened her mouth to respond, and Miss Huda cut her off with a wave. “Now, listen, I know you said you can’t say who you are. But if I guess correctly, will you tell me? You need only nod your head yes.” “No.” Miss Huda frowned. “That seems terribly unfair.” Ignoring this, Alizeh snatched the parcel from Miss Huda’s hands and set the box on a nearby table. Without further delay, she lifted the lid. Miss Huda gave a small cry of delight. The box was neither empty nor teeming with goat brains; instead, nestled between delicate sheets of tissue-thin paper, were a pair of lavender boots the exact shade of the diaphanous gown. Elegantly crafted of silk jacquard, they had softly pointed toes and short, stacked heels, ribbon ties lacing all the way up the high vamp of the shoe. The boots were so beautiful Alizeh was afraid even to touch them. Tucked beside one silk boot, was a card. “Magic,” Miss Huda whispered. “That was magic, wasn’t it? Good heavens. Who the devil are you? And why did you let me order you around like you were a servant?” The young woman began pacing the room, flapping her hands as if they were on fire. “Oh, I’m experiencing quite the most painful wave of retroactive embarrassment; I hardly know what to do with myself.” Alizeh paid this small drama no attention. Instead, she picked up the enclosed card, unfolding it with care. It was more of the same script. When the path is unclear, these shoes will lead the way. Alizeh was only just beginning to process the enormity of her own astonishment—the enormity of what it all might mean—when the words on the note suddenly disappeared. She drew a sharp breath. “What is it?” Miss Huda asked eagerly. “What does it say?”

Slowly, fresh words bloomed on the blank note before her: sharp, dark strokes as substantial as if they were written in real time, by an invisible hand. Don’t be alarmed. As if on cue, alarm shot through Alizeh with the force of an arrow, startling her backward, her mind reeling as she spun around, searching for something—for someone— No, she went deathly still. The words had disappeared once more without warning, displaced now by others, but more quickly now, as if the writer were in a rush— I am not your enemy. Miss Huda snatched the note from Alizeh’s limp hands and scanned it, then made a sound of frustration. “Why do the words disappear the moment I try to read them? I take great offense to this. I want it known that I take great offense to this,” she said to the room at large. Alizeh, meanwhile, could hardly breathe. “I must get dressed,” she said. “I must get ready.” “What? Get dressed?” Miss Huda turned, blinked at her. “Have you gone quite out of your gourd? Of all the things to be thinking at this moment—” “Forgive me, but I must,” Alizeh said, snatching the two yellow boxes up into her arms, then darting behind a dressing screen in a far corner of the room. “I hope you will understand now why I cannot stay to fix your gown.” “Oh, dash the gown!” Miss Huda cried. “Where will you go?” Alizeh didn’t respond right away, occupied as she was with disrobing at breakneck speed. The dressing screen being not at all as opaque as Alizeh would prefer, she went invisible as she changed, feeling quite exposed standing in her unmentionables so close to a stranger. This was not how she’d imagined preparing herself for the ball tonight, not in a mad rush behind a dressing screen; not within reach of Miss Huda and her unceasing questions. “Will you not answer me?” It was the young miss yet again, only louder this time. “Why do you need to get dressed? Where do you intend to go? Those boots aren’t at all practical for running away. Why, if you look away

from your feet for even a moment you’re likely to step in a fresh pile of horse manure—or even an old pile, you know, as they’re never able to clear the roads quickly enough—and the silk will never be the same, this you may rely upon, for I speak from personal experie—” “I thank you for your wisdom,” Alizeh said sharply, cutting her off. “Though I don’t know where I’m going just yet, only that I—” Like a half-mute bird, Miss Huda screamed. It was a tortured sound, a strangled cry of surprise. Alizeh would’ve darted out from behind the screen if not for her nakedness—a problem she rushed now to address—and would’ve called out a question of concern if her voice had not been unceremoniously drowned out by another. “Your Majesty,” she heard someone say. Alizeh suddenly froze. It was the voice of a young man. “Forgive me,” he said. “I meant not to frighten you. I take it you received my packages?” Alizeh’s heart raced wildly in her chest. She knew the sound of Hazan’s voice—the evening they’d met had been emblazoned in her memory—and this was not he. This was the voice of no one she recognized. Who, then? Hazan hadn’t mentioned anyone else in his plans, but then, he’d mentioned little in an effort to spare her in case she should be discovered. Still, it was possible Hazan was working with someone else, was it not? “I— Yes, I received a package,” she heard Miss Huda say. “But, who are you? Why are you here?” Indeed, the more Alizeh thought about it, the more it seemed entirely probable that Hazan was working with someone else. In point of fact, he’d mentioned something about others searching for her, hadn’t he? It was more than just he who’d been looking for her all these years. At that realization, a degree of tension left her body. Alizeh adjusted the nosta, tucking it more firmly inside her corset before buttoning up her new gown like a madwoman. She was just stepping into her new boots when she heard the stranger’s voice once more. “Forgive me,” he said again, though he didn’t sound at all sorry. “I see that I’ve frightened you. We were in fact never meant to meet like this, but I’ve received a warning, and I’m duty bound now to escort y—” “Please, you misunderstand—” Miss Huda tried again. “I’m not— I’m not whoever you think I am.”

There was a brief, taut silence. Alizeh could hardly concentrate for the nerves lancing through her. She’d only just managed to tie her boot laces, kicking hastily aside her old, reliable pair. Her torn boots and worn calico work dress lay there on the lush carpet like an old skin, discarded; Alizeh felt a strange pang at the sight. There was no going back to her old life now. Then, the sound of the stranger’s emotionless voice— “Pray tell me, who do I think you are?” “I don’t—” Miss Huda hesitated. “You know, I don’t actually know her name.” Another tense silence. “I see,” he said, sounding suddenly annoyed. “So you must be the other one.” “The other one? Oh for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “Come out here right this second, Your Majesty, or I will come back there and murder you.” Alizeh drew back her invisibility, took a deep breath, and stepped out from behind the screen with stunning equanimity, even as her heart beat wildly in her chest. She could not forget herself, especially not now, when fear blew through her with the force of a summer gale. The stranger, she noted, was a surprise. His age seemed nonspecific; she suspected he was still a young man, but he presented right away as an old soul wrapped in the cloak of youth. His skin was a burnished golden brown, his hair a sharp wave of red copper. He wore simple, unadorned black clothes—coat, jacket—and clutched in one hand both a tall black hat and a golden mace. He had bright, startlingly blue eyes, but there was something tragic about them, too, a heaviness there that made him hard to look at—and all the more so when he stared at her, his eyes widening a barely there micrometer as she moved into view. “Oh,” he said. Alizeh did not spare time for niceties. “How do you know me?” “I never said I did.” “You don’t even know each other?” Miss Huda said, glancing wildly from one to the other. To Alizeh, she said, “You don’t know this person?” Alizeh shook her head.

“Then get out of my room, you madman.” Miss Huda all but pushed the stranger toward the door. “Out with you— Out at once, you horrible cad, sneaking into young ladies’ bedrooms without permi—” The young man stepped easily out of reach. “I think you misunderstand,” he said flatly. “Her Highness and I are not entirely unacquainted. We have a friend in common.” “Do we?” “Her Highness?” Miss Huda spun around, staring now at Alizeh. “You really— Are you really—?” The stranger said, “Yes,” and Alizeh said, “Not exactly,” and everyone, collectively, frowned. “There is no time for this now,” the young man said, turning to face Alizeh. “Your plans for the evening may have been compromised. We must away at once.” The nosta flashed warm against her skin, and Alizeh stiffened, her heart plummeting in her chest. Then it was true: things had gone awry. Alizeh’s disappointment was breathtaking, but she bade herself be calm. After all, it appeared Hazan had built contingencies into the plan. The nosta alone was a tremendous gift; the certainty it provided was a great balm even now, steadying her in these turbulent seas. What was it he’d said when he’d given it to her? So that you never need wonder who your enemies might be. “It was you,” Alizeh said, meeting the eyes of the stranger. “It was you who sent me this dress? And the shoes?” He hesitated a beat before saying, “Yes.” “Why?” “I was returning a favor.” “A favor?” She frowned. “A favor to me?” “No.” Alizeh drew back. “To whom, then?” “To our mutual friend.” This was twice now he’d mentioned their mutual friend. Was he concealing Hazan’s identity in front of Miss Huda? “So you do this for him,” Alizeh said softly. “Which means you’ve no vested interest in assisting me.” “My interest is only in discharging myself of an old debt,” said the young man. “Our mutual friend has asked that I repay him thus, with these

specific instructions, and so I have done. I was never meant to come here, not unless the circumstances demanded my intercession, as they do now.” “I see,” she said. The nosta was burning hot against her sternum. This stranger was neither friend nor foe, she was realizing, which made the situation rather tricky. “What is your name?” she asked. “My name is irrelevant.” “Irrelevant?” she said, surprised. “What am I to call you then?” “Nothing.” Alizeh could not hide the flash of irritation she felt at that. “Very well,” she said stiffly. “Where do we go from here?” The stranger opened his mouth to speak and hesitated at the sight of Miss Huda’s eager face. Her curious eyes. Gently, he cleared his throat. “I would really rather not discuss any of this in front of”—he glanced again at Miss Huda—“a third party, though I recognize that, in this, the mistake is mine. Somehow I thought— That is, for a moment, there appeared to be only one person in the room. I thought the young lady of the house had joined her party downstairs.” “I’m standing right here,” Miss Huda said sharply. “You need not discuss me as if I didn’t exist.” “Ah,” he said, tilting his head. “But I would really rather you didn’t.” Miss Huda’s mouth dropped open. Quickly, Alizeh turned to her. “Can I trust that you will keep the details of this day to yourself?” “Of course,” said Miss Huda, drawing herself up to her full height. “I’ve never in my life betrayed a secret. You may depend upon me to be the soul of discretion.” The nosta went ice cold at that, sending a shiver through Alizeh’s body. She grimaced. As if he, too, had felt the lie, the stranger locked eyes with Alizeh. “We have only two options,” he said. “Kill her or take her with us. The error was mine, so I will leave the decision up to you. It is my strong recommendation, however, that we kill her.” “Kill me?” Miss Huda cried. “You cannot be serious—” “No— No, we are not going to kill you,” Alizeh said, shooting an unkind look at Nothing. Then, trying for a smile, she turned to Miss Huda. “Though you did say you thought you might like to run away, didn’t you?”

Miss Huda looked suddenly as if she might faint. “Here,” Alizeh said, opening Miss Huda’s wardrobe doors and drawers, plucking essential items from their depths. “I will help you pack.” Miss Huda gaped at her. “But— I can’t—” Alizeh located a medium-sized bag in the girl’s wardrobe and pressed the small luggage into Miss Huda’s frozen hands. “Bring only as much as you can carry.” “But I don’t want to run away,” Miss Huda said in a whisper, her eyes bright with fear. “Where will we go? How would I live? How long will I be gone?” “These are all excellent questions,” Alizeh said, patting the girl’s shoulder. “You pack, and I will ask.” Mournfully, Miss Huda pulled a gown from a hanger, stuffing it halfheartedly into her bag. To the stranger, Alizeh said, “There is no need now for subterfuge, is there? You may now inform me of your plan. Where do we go from here?” Nothing stared at the scene unfolding before him, looking vaguely nauseated. “The details are spare,” he said. “I will extend you a level of protection until we reach the ball, and shortly after our arrival I will escort you to a secure method of transport. This transport will deliver you to your destination.” “But where is my destination?” Alizeh asked. “What happens when I arrive?” “Oh—and will it rain where we are going?” Miss Huda asked. “Will I need an umbrella?” The stranger closed his eyes. “I cannot now tell you where you are going, but I can assure you that your destination is safe. Already I’ve guaranteed you an extra measure of protection with the dress and shoes.” Alizeh blinked at that; at the reminder. “Of course,” she said, glancing at her gown and boots. “I nearly forgot. How do the items work, exactly?” “Did you not read the notes?” “I did, but—” “If you don’t know where to go, your feet will assist, if you fear being seen, the gown will protect your identity from those who wish you harm, et cetera, et cetera. If you do not, however, follow my exact instructions at all times, I cannot ensure your safety. Heed your own whims and I will not be responsible for what happens to you, and I will not care.”

Slowly, Alizeh looked up to face the stranger. “Did you really feel it necessary to add that last part?” “Which part?” “And I will not care,” she said, echoing his emotionless tone. “Do you enjoy being needlessly petty?” “Yes,” he said. “I do.” Alizeh opened her mouth to say something unkind, then bit her lip, drew back. She didn’t know this stranger, and he knew little of her. Even if unwillingly given, his honest commitment to help her was nothing short of miraculous, for, whoever he was, he was doubtless risking a great deal. Perhaps he was unaware how much his help was worth to her, but if things went well tonight, Alizeh’s entire life might be spared; the trials of the last several years would come to an end. Finally, she’d be free. She decided then that she could not—would not—allow herself to be rude to this young man, not even if he deserved it, not when she might soon owe him her life. She cleared her throat. “Do you know,” she said, trying to smile, “in all the excitement I’ve forgotten to say something rather important.” He cut her a dark look. “Thank you,” she said. “I know the burden is cumbersome, but you render me a great kindness tonight, and I won’t soon forget it.” The stranger flinched at that, stared at her a beat too long. “I don’t do it to be kind.” “I know.” “Then don’t,” he said, sounding, for the first time, like he owned a real emotion: anger. “Don’t thank me.” Alizeh stiffened. “Very well, then. I retract my formal thanks. Still, I am grateful.” “Don’t be.” She raised her eyebrows. “Do you intend to command me not to feel my own emotions?” “Yes.” “That’s absurd.” “And yet, if you are truly grateful for my assistance, you might do me a favor and resist speaking to me altogether.”

Alizeh went slack. “Why are you trying to be cruel?” “Oh, please don’t fight,” Miss Huda said. “This is bound to be awful enough already—” “I am inclined to agree,” the young man said coldly. “Impossible as my dreams might be, I would much prefer that we persevere in silence, and part as strangers.” “Fine,” Alizeh said quietly, her jaw clenching. “Good.” He glanced at Miss Huda. “Now we must be off.” “Wait,” said Miss Huda desperately. “Will you not reconsider? Please let me stay here. I promise I won’t say a word to anyone about what I’ve seen— I’ll be silent as death, you’ll see—” For the second time, the nosta went cold against Alizeh’s skin. She flinched. “I told you we should kill her,” said the stranger. Miss Huda whimpered. “Ignore him,” Alizeh said. “Listen, it’s only for a short while. You can come back home as soon as we’re able to get somewhere safe—” “You give the girl false hope,” said Nothing, cutting her off. “The only way she could reliably return home is if we manage to distort her memory, which requires walking her backward through time, which is exceedingly complicated, not to mention painful—” Miss Huda began to cry. “Will you not hush?” Alizeh snapped at the stranger, forgetting her promise to be nice. “How can you not see that your bullying only makes things worse? We will never manage to be inconspicuous if she won’t stop weeping.” The stranger looked at her, then looked at Miss Huda. He touched his fingers together, and Miss Huda went suddenly silent. The girl was still crying but made no sound. When the young woman realized what happened she clutched at her throat, eyes widening in fear as she struggled to speak, no doubt to scream —all in vain. Alizeh rounded on Nothing. “What have you done?” she demanded. “I insist you change her back this instant.” “I will not.” “Are you some kind of Diviner?” “No.” “A monster, then?”

He almost smiled. “Don’t say you’ve been speaking with my mother?” “How do you have access to so much magic, then? The dress, the shoes —now this—” “And this,” he said, placing his hat atop his head. Without warning, Alizeh was pitched forward into endless night.

Thirty-Five

the screaming darkness of his mind punctured occasionally by the sound of laughter, the clink of glass and silver. His dark eyes were lined with kohl; his neck bound heavily in ropes of sapphire; a single, hammered gold circlet nestled in the midnight of his hair. He stood tall in weighty layers of dark green silk, an emeraldencrusted harness crisscrossing his chest and cinched at his waist, and from which hung, as always, his swords. He was both immaculate and uncomfortable as he nodded his head, greeting, unseeing, the nobles who bowed before him, the young women who curtsied low at his feet. Occasionally Kamran glanced at the glittering throne beside him, which was occupied by his grandfather, and the one beyond that, in which sat his mother, drinking deeply from a goblet of wine. Both royals were smiling, but the king’s jolly countenance was a necessary facade, doing a great deal to belie what was no doubt an interior tempest straining at the capacity of his self-control. This would describe how Kamran felt, too. Just steps away, half obscured by a potted olive tree, was the Tulanian ambassador, who’d been ordered to stand by, ready at any time to identify the Tulanian king should the young man ever arrive. Farther in the shadows stood Hazan, awaiting orders. Kamran had not yet decided what to feel about his minister, or how best to proceed; for though the prince’s instincts insisted something was amiss, Hazan’s actions had yet to draw an obvious line to deception. Kamran, however, was watching him closely, waiting for even a hint of unusual behavior. The Fesht boy, at least, had not lied. Omid had been living at the Diviners Quarters these last days, and, by his own account, had grown quite close to the priests and priestesses who’d saved his life. He’d gone to bid them goodnight for the evening when he discovered that all twenty-five Diviners had been slaughtered in their beds. Kamran and the king had gone, of course, to bear witness. There’d been no blood to mop up, no clear evidence of violence to investigate. Their faces had been peaceful, hands clasped across their chests. Only a thorough search had revealed proof of an attack: a subtle growth of frost between their cold, parted lips. Dark magic, the king had whispered. MUSIC SWELLED IN KAMRAN’S EARS,

Nothing else could’ve so easily killed Diviners capable of wielding great power. As to the owner of the crime, there was little doubt there, too. The Tulanian king, who, earlier in the evening had been seen and spoken with at a gathering of Ardunian ambassadors, had deserted his party without notice, disappearing into the ether. Neither had he met with the king ahead of the ball, as was expected. Kamran knew not whether the young King Cyrus would show his face at the fete tonight, but his absence would indicate its own answer, for such actions were without question a declaration of war—one of the more barbaric instigations the prince had ever witnessed. Still, there was no proof. Worse, it would take weeks to collect and deliver to the Royal Square the rare other Diviners scattered throughout the empire, and until then, all of Ardunia would be left vulnerable, lacking an essential layer of protection long provided by the quorum at the Diviners Quarters. Even so, there were pretenses to be maintained. The king did not want the horrible news spread throughout the empire, not just yet. He did not want people to panic before he was ready to formally address their fears, which would not be possible until tomorrow morning, for the brutal events of the evening had rendered the ball only that much more important. More acts of violence could arrive at anytime —could threaten the crown at anytime— Which meant Ardunia needed to secure the royal line, and quickly, with another heir. Kamran, whose mind was resigned even as his heart protested, stared indifferently at the faceless horde, at the individuals peeling off to pay respect to the Ardunian royals. The prince was meant to choose a bride from among these strangers, and yet, the ladies all looked the same to him. They were all of them in nearly identical gowns, their hair styled in a similar fashion. He could not tell them apart save the occasional unflattering impressions they left behind: a barking laugh, a set of stained teeth; one girl in particular who could not stop biting her fingernails, not even when she spoke. The vast majority could scarcely look Kamran in the eye, while a select few had leaned in dramatically, whispering in his ear illicit invitations for that very evening. It all left him feeling exhausted.

Among the many travesties of the day, Kamran had not been able to relinquish the memories of one young woman in particular. He wondered, as he nodded his head at yet another girl curtsying low before him, whether Alizeh would remain with him always in his mind, in the occasional manifestation of sensation across his skin, in the sharp breath he might take at the reminder of her touch. It was a thought both strange and thrilling, and which imbued in him a striking fear. Would he forever compare all others to her? Would anyone else ever make him feel as much? And if not, would he be cursed forever to live only a half-life, a life of quiet acquiescence, of unfulfilled expectations? Was it worse, he wondered, to never know what you might have—or worse to have it snatched away before you might have it? “You are making no effort,” the king whispered sharply, startling the prince out of his reverie. Kamran dared not turn his head to look at the king. He’d not even realized the curtsying young woman had gone. “You might ask the girls a single question,” King Zaal was muttering, “instead of standing there like a statue.” “Does it truly matter, Your Highness, when I already know you will choose for me whomever you think is best?” King Zaal went quiet at that, and Kamran’s heart wrenched at the confirmation of his fears. “Even so,” the king said finally. “You might at least act as if you are at a ball and not a funeral, dire though the circumstances may be. I want your engagement announced before the week is out. I want you married before the month is done. I want an heir before the year is finished. This night is not to be disturbed before its purpose is fulfilled. Are we clear?” The prince tensed his jaw and studied the crowd, wondering how their numbers seemed to bloat before his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. Kamran’s gaze landed unexpectedly on the Fesht boy, who stood idly by, wringing his hands. The child stared often at the entrance, and with obvious anticipation. His eyes were red from sobbing, but as he’d been expressly forbidden from crying at the ball—under threat of expulsion—he only bit his lip and flinched every time a name was announced. Kamran frowned.

He could not understand what the child was searching for. Certainly Omid knew no one else here; he had no family to name. No friends. Why then, did he seem so eager? A finely dressed older woman came suddenly forward, and the prince, distracted, did not at first discern the familiar face of his aunt—and then, disarmed, could not hide his relief. Kamran was so pleased to see Duchess Jamilah that he took her outstretched hand and bowed before it, paying the woman an undue level of respect that attracted a number of unwelcome stares. A beat too late, he realized his aunt was not alone. “Your Highness,” said Duchess Jamilah, flushing slightly under his attentions. “It is my great thrill this evening to introduce to you the daughter of a dear friend of mine.” Kamran felt—and heard—the king straighten in his seat. The prince steeled himself as he turned, studying now the young woman standing beside his aunt. “Please allow me the pleasure of formally presenting Lady Golnaz, daughter of Marquess Saatchi.” Kamran nodded, and the girl fell into a graceful curtsy, rising before him to reveal clear brown eyes and an uncomplicated smile. She possessed ordinary, familiar features neither remarkable nor plain. Her brown waves were pulled back from her face in a loose chignon; she wore a nondescript gown with little to recommend its color or shape. Intellectually, Kamran understood that the girl was an approximation of pretty, but he felt nothing when he looked at her, and would never have noticed her in a crowd. Still, she seemed self-possessed in a way he appreciated. Of all things, Kamran thought he could never be married to someone he didn’t consider his emotional equal, and he struggled always to respect young ladies who only simpered, never holding up their heads with conviction. Dignity was, in his opinion, an essential quality in a queen, and he was at least relieved to discover that Lady Golnaz appeared the owner of a spine. “The pleasure is mine,” he forced himself to say to the young woman. “I trust you are enjoying yourself this evening, Lady Golnaz.” “I am, thank you,” she said in a bright voice, a smile touching her eyes. “Though I think the same cannot be said for you, Your Highness.” The prince stilled at that, studying the young woman now with a renewed appreciation. “My pride would insist that I disagree, though I—”

Kamran paused, blinking up at a blur of a girl in the distance, there and gone again. “I . . .” he said, returning his eyes to Lady Golnaz, struggling now to remember the original purpose of his statement. “I cannot . . .” Another flash of color and Kamran looked up again, wondering, even then, why he should be so distracted by a single movement when the entire room around him was a madness of motion and— Alizeh. The prince was transfixed. Blood rushed from his head without warning, leaving him light-headed. She was here. She was here—just there—incandescent in shimmering waves of lavender, obsidian curls pinned away from her unmasked face, a few loose tendrils glancing off her cheeks, which had gone pink with exertion. If he’d thought her breathtaking in the drab garb of a servant’s dress, he could not think how to describe her now. He only knew that she seemed apart from this mundane world; above it. The mere sight of her had paralyzed him. There was no linen at her throat, no bandages wrapped around her hands. She seemed to glow as she moved, float as she searched the room. Kamran lost his breath as he watched her, felt his heart hammer in his chest with a violence that scared him. How? How was she here? Had she come for him? Had she come to find him, to be with him—? “Your Highness,” someone was saying. “Sire, are you quite all right?” Another. The prince watched, as if from outside himself, as a young man grabbed Alizeh’s hand. She spun around to face him, her eyes widening in surprise, then recognition. He said something, and she laughed. Kamran felt the sound spear him like a blade, his chest seizing with an unfamiliar pain. It was an ache unlike any he’d known; one he wished to tear out of his chest. “That’s him,” Hazan whispered suddenly in his ear. Kamran took a breath and drew back, the scene around him coming sharply into focus. Alizeh had gone; disappeared into the crowd. He saw instead the worried eyes of his aunt, the curious gaze of Lady Golnaz. The frenzy of the bloated crowd before him.

“It’s the gentleman with the copper hair, Your Highness. The one carrying the unusual hat. The Tulanian ambassador has confirmed it.” It was a moment before the prince was able to say: “Is he quite certain?” “Yes, sire.” “Bring him to me,” Kamran said softly.

Thirty-Six

fell, plummeting through layers of night, nearing a death that grazed her skin without claiming her soul. She thought ALIZEH HAD SPIRALED AS SHE

she’d heard herself scream as she tumbled, but she’d wondered, too, in a flickering moment, whether she might actually be dreaming, whether her whole life was not some strange, shimmering tapestry, infinite threads of nonsense. She’d felt her feet hit the ground first, the impact shuddering up her legs, her hips, rattling her teeth. When she opened her eyes she’d crashed against him, braced herself against his chest. Music roared in her ears as she reared back, her head spinning, the din of chatter and laughter piercing the fog of her mind, the smell of sugar in her nose, the crush of bodies against her skin. There was heat and sweat, sound and sensation—too much of everything. Still, she realized at once where she was, and worried right away for Miss Huda. She pushed away from the stranger and began to search for her new friend, wondering whether the girl had made it through, wondering whether she’d lost forever the ability to speak. Alizeh trusted the stranger no longer. She didn’t care if he was an ally of Hazan’s. How could she now believe anything he said? He’d proven both cruel and capricious, and she would never again le— Someone took her hand and Alizeh spun, startled, to discover the very same blue-eyed, capricious stranger. She stared at their clasped hands, then at his face, wondering whether she imagined the terror that flitted in and out of his eyes. “Where are you going?” He sounded different; the antithesis of the impassive young man she’d first met. “You don’t intend to run away, do you?” Alizeh was so surprised by the fear in his eyes that she laughed. “No, I’m not running away, you ridiculous creature. I’m searching for Miss Huda. She is doubtless terrified somewhere and unable to call for help— because of what you did to her.” Alizeh tugged her hand free from his and pushed on through the crowd, grateful for the protections offered her by the gown—and then frowned, biting her lip as she remembered who’d given her the garment. He’d not lied to her about this, at least. The dress really was a miracle. People seemed to pass by her as if she did not exist, their gazes never quite touching her face. It was unsettling to think so many strangers did not wish her well, but it was a comfort, too, not to worry about her eyes or

her snoda. There was no one here to spit at her, no one to shove her out of the way, no one to order her to scrub feces out of porous stonework. Still, Alizeh was made uneasy by the knowledge that she owed this peculiar stranger any thanks for her safety, for everything about him seemed suddenly traitorous. If he had the ability to render Miss Huda mute, what might he do to Alizeh if she crossed him? In fact, it was possible the dress and shoes were a trap. What if they’d been bewitched to carry her somewhere unsafe? What if she followed her feet to her own demise? Perhaps she should discard the gown—or destroy it. But then what about the shoes? What would she wear instead? How would she escape? “I have undone it,” the stranger called, trailing close behind. Alizeh started, turned back. “You’ve undone what?” “The other girl. The loud one,” he said. “She will be able to speak again.” He made no effort to lower his voice even as he closed the gap between them, evincing no apparent worry for being overheard. It made Alizeh wonder whether he carried magical protections on his own garments, too. “You’ve undone it, just like that?” Alizeh said, staring at him as he approached. His was a disconcertingly fickle character. “Yes,” he said. Up close, his eyes were a truly shocking shade of blue, all the more so under the refracted light of so many chandeliers. “In exchange, I ask for your word that you will not run away, no matter what happens.” “My word?” she said, surprised. “But why are you so worried I might try to run away?” “Because this night will be difficult. I was sent here to collect you, which is my primary goal, but while I’m here I intend to complete certain tasks, in return for which I will be absolved of some rather large debts.” A pause. “Do you frighten easily?” Alizeh bristled at this. “You insult me even by asking the question.” “Good. Then I ask for your word.” “You will not have it.” His eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?” “I will only grant such a request if you first swear you won’t harm her.” “Who? The loud girl?” “Swear you won’t hurt her, or use magic on her—” “Oh, come now, you ask for too much.”

“You want my word I will not run away?” Alizeh said. “Well, I need to be able to trust you. Give me your word that you will not harm her. That is my condition.” “Very well,” he said bitterly. “But I must warn you—if you go back on your promise, there will be repercussions.” “What kinds of repercussions?” “I will not be nice to you.” Alizeh laughed. “Do you mean to imply that you are being nice to me now?” “I will come find you at half past the hour,” he said, scowling. “I must escort you to our transport before midnight, else our ride will fall asleep, and getting things running again will cost us a great deal of time.” “Our ride will fall asleep? Don’t you mean the driver?” He ignored this. “Do fetch the girl, and quickly, for I fear she will be difficult to corral.” Alizeh frowned. “And what will you be doing?” “As I mentioned, I’ve a bit of business to settle. It shouldn’t take long.” “A bit of business?” Alizeh felt a flutter of nerves at that. “With Hazan, you mean?” The stranger blinked. “Hazan?” “Yes—I have a great many questions for him. Where is he now, do you know? Will he make it to the ball?” The stranger’s eyes widened, then narrowed, not unlike the focus on a telescope. “I don’t know.” “Oh.” Alizeh bit her lip. “Well, will y—” “For now, just fix upon finding that girl. If you need help getting anywhere, your shoes will deliver you where you need to go.” “If that’s true, why must you be the one to take me to my transport?” “Because it’s my transport,” he said in a flash of anger, “and you’re only meant to borrow it.” She recoiled at that, at the venom in his voice. “And I’ll have you know,” he said, “that while you’re so busy wondering whether I’m reliable, I’m wondering the same about you. I can assure you, Your Highness, that I do not want to be here, either. I am forced into your company only by the order of a merciless master, and I’m not at all pleased about it.” Alizeh opened her mouth to protest but the stranger turned abruptly away—and left.

She watched him push through the crowd, disappearing into a sea of bodies with ease. How he moved so quickly among so many was both surprising and confusing, though not nearly as much as his last words. He was forced into her company by a merciless master? That didn’t sound like Hazan, but then, what did she really know of him? Of anyone? Alizeh stared at the broad back of the stranger as he retreated, at the simple lines of his black ensemble, the peculiar hat he carried in one hand. She could not take the measure of him, and it worried her. How could she reliably place her life in the hands of someone she could not trust? With a sigh, Alizeh turned to go, stopping only when she saw her blueeyed companion intercepted by Hazan himself, the back of his dusty-blond head a stark contrast to the rich amber of the stranger’s copper. Alizeh nearly cried for relief. So they did know each other; they had indeed planned her escape together. A crashing wave of calm overcame her nerves, soothing her many worries. The stranger’s methods were unorthodox, yes, but she’d been wrong; he was not untrustworthy. He had undone his hex on Miss Huda, he’d given his word he’d not hurt the young woman, and now she had proof that he’d not lied to her. All this time Alizeh had trusted the nosta to guide her, but there was great comfort to be derived from the kind of proof only her own eyes might provide. Finally, Alizeh felt as if she could breathe. He and Hazan were speaking quickly now, and Alizeh was torn between searching for Miss Huda and joining their small party. She had so many questions for Hazan she was eager to ask, and perhaps— Perhaps if she did not search for Miss Huda, she might not find the girl, and could then safely allow the young woman to return to her life. After all, what difference would it really make if Miss Huda told people what she’d seen? Alizeh would be long gone by then. Though it was possible the gossip would not hurt her, but her blue-eyed companion. Knowing now that he was not a wretch made it harder for her to be careless with his life, especially as she considered all he’d done to spare hers. Alizeh bit her lip, her eyes darting back and forth between the room at large, and the tall forms of the two young men. Oh, dash it all. She would let Miss Huda go. She needed to speak with Hazan; there was too much uncertainty.

Alizeh began forcing her way back through the crush, weaving between bodies to catch up with the gentlemen, who’d begun moving quickly in the opposite direction. “Wait,” she called out. “Where are y—” The copper-headed stranger turned around at that, catching her eyes with a narrowing of his own. He gave her a single, firm headshake. Danger, he seemed to say. Do not follow. Alizeh felt the nosta warm, and she gasped in surprise. How had the nosta understood an unspoken warning? She stood in place, struck still by the many curiosities of the evening, when she felt the dregs of a familiar, silky whisper flood her head, fill her with dread. A crawling fear overtook her heart, shattered across her skin, filled her mouth with heat. Blindly, she ran. It was panic that propelled her jerky movements, panic that sought irrational escape, as if she could ever outrun the devil. She knew the futility of retreat even as she pushed desperately through the densely packed room, even as she knew her efforts were in vain. Like vapor, his whisper filled her head. Beware the gold, the crown, the eye “No,” she cried as she ran. “No, n—” Beware the gold, the crown, the eye One is a king who is loath to die “Stop,” Alizeh shouted, clapping her hands around her ears. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she needed air, needed to flee the crush of the crowd. “Get out, get out of my head—” Beware the gold, the crown, the eye One is a king who is loath to die Ford the darkness, scale the wall Two have a friend who is foe to all “Leave me alone! Please, just leave me alone—” The serpent, the saber, the fiery light Three will storm and rage and fight

Alizeh caught a marble column around the middle and sagged against it, pressing her uncommonly overheated cheek to its cool skin. “Please,” she gasped. “I beg you— Leave me be—” Always the jester will interfere For there cannot be three sovereigns here Something broke, smoke unclenching from around her throat, and just like that, he was gone. Alizeh felt dizzy in the aftermath, breathless with fear. She pressed herself against the glossy marble, felt the cold penetrate her skin through her gauzy gown. She’d been so certain she’d freeze in this dress, but she’d not anticipated the crush of bodies, their collective heat, the unusual warmth she’d feel this night. Alizeh closed her eyes, tried to calm her breathing. She didn’t know where she was and she didn’t care; she could hardly hear her own thoughts over the sound of her heart, beating wildly in her chest. She’d not even been able to decode the first riddle she’d received from the devil—how was she supposed to understand this second one? Worse, so much worse: his visits had proven over and over to be an omen. It was just days ago that he’d filled her head with whispers of misery, and oh, how she’d suffered the consequences. How dramatically had her life changed and collapsed since she last heard his voice in her head? What did that mean for her now? Would she lose every crumb of hope she’d recently collected? There was no precedent for this precipitous visit from Iblees. Alizeh usually experienced months, not days, of a reprieve before his torturous voice infected her mind again, bringing with it all manner of calamity and unrest. How, now, would she be tortured? “Alizeh.” She stiffened, turning to face an altogether different torment even as she grasped for purchase at the cool column. Alizeh’s heart pounded now in an entirely new fashion, her pulse fluttering dangerously at her throat. Kamran stood before her, magnificently turned out in a heavy green coat, the open, buttonless front cinched closed with a complex emerald harness, his neck wrapped up to his chin in more gleaming jewels. His eyes were made impossibly darker with kohl, more devastating as they

searched her now. But it was the glint of the circlet in his hair that sent a terrifying bolt through her heart. He was a prince. She’d nearly forgotten. “Alizeh,” he said again, though he whispered it now, staring at her with a longing he did nothing to conceal. The infinite darkness that was his eyes took in every detail of her face, her hair, even her gown. Alizeh felt weak standing this close to him, disjointed in her mind. Nothing was going according to plan. How had he even spotted her in the melee? She’d glimpsed him, briefly, from afar, watched him coolly receive a long line of guests she’d been certain would distract him through the night. Surely he had responsibilities he could not abandon—surely someone would soon be along to collect him— The prince made a sound of distress that startled her, sharpening her instincts; Alizeh drew closer without thinking, stopping just short of touching him. She watched as Kamran winced a second time, gently tugging the collar away from his neck, doing his best to find relief without disturbing the artfully constructed ensemble. “What is it?” Alizeh asked softly. “Are you in pain?” He shook his head, attempting a brief laugh that did little to deny his obvious discomfort. “No, it’s nothing. It’s only that I find these costumes suffocating. This coat is supposed to be made of silk, but it’s frightfully stiff and coarse. It was uncomfortable before, but now I swear it feels as if it’s full of needles.” He grimaced again, pulling at the lapel of his coat. “Needles?” Alizeh frowned. Tentatively, she touched him, felt him stiffen as she drew her hand along the emerald brocade, its raised embroidery. “Do you— Do you have a sensitivity to gold?” His brows furrowed. “To gold?” “This is silk, yes,” she explained, “but it’s silk woven with a gold-spun weft. The threads are, in some places, wrapped with gold fibers. And here”—she grazed the raised embroidery at the collar, at the lapels—“here it’s overlaid with yet more goldwork. These are real gold threads, did you not know?” “No,” he said, but he was staring at her strangely; for a moment his gaze dropped to her mouth. “I didn’t know one might weave gold into fabric.” Alizeh took a breath, stole back her hand.

“Yes,” she said. “The garment should feel heavy, and perhaps a bit rough against the skin, but it shouldn’t hurt you. It certainly shouldn’t feel like needles.” “How do you know this?” “Never mind that,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “What’s more important is that you are in pain.” “Yes.” He took a step closer. “A great deal of it.” “I’m—I’m sorry to hear it,” she said, nervous now. She began to ramble. “It’s quite rare, but I think you might have an aversion to gold. You should perhaps avoid wearing such textiles in future, and if you want a softer fabric, you might be more specific and ask your seamstress for silk charmeuse, or satin, and avoid georgette and certain types of, of taffeta or —or even—” She stopped breathing when he touched her, when his hands landed at her waist, then moved down her hips, his fingers grazing her skin through the layers of sheer fabric. She gasped, felt her back sink against the marble column. He was so close. He smelled like orange blossoms and something else, heat and musk, leather— “Why did you come tonight?” he asked. “How? And your injuries— This dress—” “Kamran—” “Say you came back for me,” he whispered. There was a thread of desire in his voice that threatened the good sense in her head, her very composure. “Tell me you came to find me. That you changed your mind.” “How—how can you even say such things,” she said, her hands beginning to tremble, “on an evening you are meant to choose another as your bride?” “I choose you,” he said simply. “I want you.” “We— Kamran, you cannot— You know it would be madness.” “I see.” He bowed his head and drew away, leaving her cold. “So you’ve come for another reason entirely. Will you not share that reason with me now?” Alizeh said nothing. She could think of nothing. She heard him sigh. It was a moment before he said, “Then may I ask you a different question?”

“Yes,” she said, desperate to say something. “Yes, of course.” He looked up, met her eyes. “How, precisely, do you know the Tulanian king?”

Thirty-Seven

he waited, masking the pain that seized him now. Twin agonies assaulted his heart, his skin. The clothes he wore this evening had grown only more painful by the minute, and now this—this spasm—that threatened to fissure his chest. He could hardly KAMRAN SCHOOLED HIS EXPRESSION AS

look at Alizeh as he waited for her to speak. Had he misjudged her altogether? Had he become every inch the fool his grandfather and minister had accused him of becoming? At every turn she was a surprise, her intentions impossible to grasp, her actions confounding. Why would she be so friendly with the sovereign of an enemy empire? How—when—did their friendship begin? Kamran had hoped Alizeh might absolve herself of any objectionable suspicions by admitting she’d come tonight for him, to be with him; that she’d so easily dismissed this possibility had been both a blow and a confirmation—an endorsement of his silent fears. For why, then, had she come at all? Why would she sneak into a royal ball held inside his home, her injuries miraculously healed, her servants’ clothing miraculously gone? Why, after so many desperate efforts to cling to her snoda—to hide her identity— would she discard the mask now, revealing herself in the middle of a ball where any stranger might see her for who she was? Kamran could practically hear the king accuse her of duplicity, of manipulating his mind and emotions like some impossible siren. The prince heard every word of the imagined argument, saw every piece of plausible evidence that might condemn her, and still, he could not denounce the girl—for reasons so flimsy as to be laughable: He had a feeling she was in danger. It was his instincts that insisted, despite all damning evidence, that she was not herself a threat. On the contrary, he worried whether she might not be in trouble. Even to himself he sounded a fool. He recognized the glaring errors in his own judgment, the many missing explanations. He could not comprehend, for example, how she might’ve afforded such a stunning gown when just days ago she’d barely enough coppers to purchase medicine for her wounds. Or how, when just this morning she’d been scrubbing the floor of Baz House, she looked now every inch a breathtaking queen, laughing easily with the king of another empire. King Zaal, the prince knew, would say she’d come to lead a coup, to claim her throne. The ball was, after all, the perfect venue to declare aloud —where all the nobility of Ardunia might hear—that she had a right to rule. Perhaps Kamran had gone mad.

It seemed the only feasible explanation for his inaction, for the fear that gripped him even now. Why else did he worry for her, when he should turn her over to the king? She would be arrested, no doubt sentenced to death. It was the correct course of action, and yet—he made no move. His paralysis was an enigma even to himself. The prince had ordered Hazan to deliver him King Cyrus, but Kamran had changed his mind when he saw the young man’s exchange with Alizeh. Cyrus had said something to her and left; not long after which Alizeh ran madly through the crowd, looking nothing short of terrified. Kamran had followed her without thinking, hardly recognizing himself when he moved. He only knew he had to find her, to make certain she was okay, but now— Now, Kamran could not fathom her reaction. Alizeh seemed perplexed by his question. Her lips parted, her head canted to one side. “Of all the things you might wonder,” she said. “What a strange question you would choose to ask. Of course I do not know the Tulanian ki—” “Your Highness,” came the sound of his minister’s breathless voice. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere . . .” Hazan trailed off, coming to an abrupt halt at the prince’s side. The minister’s body was rigid with shock as he stared, not at the prince, but at Alizeh, whose silver eyes were no doubt all he needed to verify her identity. Kamran sighed. “What is it, Minister?” “Minister?” The prince turned at the surprised sound of Alizeh’s voice. She stared at Hazan curiously, as if he were a puzzle to be solved, instead of an official to be greeted. Not for the first time, Kamran thought he might be willing to part with his soul simply to know the contents of her mind. “Your Highness,” said Hazan, bowing his head, his eyes cast down. “You must go. It’s not safe for you here.” “What on earth are you talking about?” Kamran frowned. “This is my home, of course it’s safe for me here.” “There are complications, Your Highness. You must go. Surely you received my message.” Now Kamran grew irritated. “Hazan, have you lost your mind?”

“Please trust me, Your Highness. Please return to your quarters and await further direction. I worry greatly for your safety so long as you remain here. Things are not going according to plan—did you not receive my message?” “That is quite enough, Minister. Not only do you exaggerate, but you bore the young lady with talk of politics. If that is all—” “No— No, sire,” he said, lifting his head sharply. “The king has requested your presence at once. I’m to deliver you back to the throne with all possible haste.” Kamran’s jaw tensed. “I see.” He watched as Hazan glanced from Alizeh to the prince, looking suddenly frantic—and Kamran couldn’t be entirely certain, but for a moment he thought he saw Hazan shake his head at her. Or did he nod? Alizeh surprised them both by dropping into an elegant curtsy. “Good evening, sir,” she said. “Yes—yes, good evening.” Awkwardly, Hazan bowed. To the prince, he said quietly, “Sire, the king awaits.” “You may tell the king that I’ll b—” “Alizeh!” Kamran went immobile at the sound of the unexpected voice. Of all people, Omid Shekarzadeh moved fast toward them now, ignoring both the prince and his minister in his pursuit of Alizeh, who beamed at the boy. “Omid,” she called back, rushing forward to meet him. And then, to Kamran’s utter astonishment, she drew the child into her arms. She hugged the street urchin who’d nearly murdered her. Kamran and Hazan exchanged glances. When the unlikely pair drew apart, Omid’s face had gone bright red. In Feshtoon, the boy said nervously, “I wasn’t even sure it was you at first, miss, because I’ve never seen you without your mask, but I’ve been searching for you all night, and I asked near everyone I could find if they seen a girl in a snoda—in case you were still wearing yours—but they only kept pointing at the servants, and I said no, no, she’s a guest at the ball, and everyone laughed at me like I was crazy except one lady, of course, one lady, I forget her name, Miss something, she told me she knew just who I was talking about, and that you were here wearing a purple dress,

and that you weren’t a snoda, but a queen, and I laughed so hard, miss, I said—” “I beg your pardon?” Hazan interjected. “Who is this person? Why would she say such things to you? How does she know anyth—” “While we’re asking questions, how on earth do you know this young woman’s name?” Kamran interjected. “How are the two of you even on speaking terms?” “Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” Omid said, “but I could ask you the same question.” “You little blighter—” “Actually, Omid is the reason I’m here tonight,” Alizeh interjected quietly, and Kamran went taut with surprise. Always, she astonished him. He watched as she smiled fondly at the child. “He invited me to the ball as an apology for trying to kill me.” Impossibly, Omid went even redder. “Oh, but I was never gonna kill you, miss.” “You used your credit with the crown to invite a girl to a ball?” Kamran stared at the boy, agog. “You conniving rascal. Do you imagine yourself to be some kind of young libertine?” Omid scowled. “I was only trying to make amends, sire. I didn’t mean nothing inappropriate by it.” “But who was the woman?” Hazan demanded. “The one who told you that”—nervously, he glanced at Alizeh—“that this young lady was a queen?” Kamran shot his minster a warning look. “Surely it was a lark, Minister. A silly jest to startle the child.” “Oh, no, sire.” Omid shook his head emphatically. “She weren’t joking. She seemed pretty serious, and scared, actually. She said she was hiding from someone, from a man who’d done some awful magic on her, and that if I found Alizeh I should tell her to run away.” He frowned. “The lady was mighty strange.” A shock of fear moved through the prince then, apprehension he could no longer push aside. A man who’d done magic? Surely there could be little doubt as to the identity of the culprit? All of Setar’s Diviners were dead. None but King Cyrus was suspected of using magic this night. What other havoc might the monstrous king have wrought?

The prince locked eyes with Hazan, who looked similarly panicked. “Omid,” Alizeh said quietly. “Will you show me where this lady was hiding?” “Your Highness,” Hazan said abruptly, turning his eyes to the floor once more. “You must go. Go now. With all possible haste you must lea —” “Yes, very well,” Kamran said coldly. “You need not have a fit, Minister. If you would please excuse me—” He was interrupted by a sharp, bloodcurdling scream.

Thirty-Eight

chaos, her heart beating hard in her chest, Omid trailing close behind. Her mind was already spinning with the weight of so many revelations—and now this? What was happening? ALIZEH RUSHED HEADLONG INTO THE

She’d hardly a moment to wrap her head around the realization that Hazan was minister to the prince, and even less to analyze a disconcerting suspicion that Hazan had not been speaking to Kamran, but to her when he’d issued those warnings to leave the ball, that things were not safe. Indeed, Hazan had seemed so worried it scared her. Perhaps he feared she was running out of time; the stranger had said Alizeh needed to leave the palace before midnight, but he’d abandoned her with so little apprehension that she hadn’t thought he meant it literally. And yet, if what he’d said was true—she glanced up at the towering clock in the hall—there were thirty-five minutes left in the hour. That felt like plenty of time. Did Hazan mean for her to get to the transport alone, without assistance of the stranger? He said he’d sent messages, but to what message did he refer? Surely he meant the notes that came with the gown and shoes? Or was it the appearance of the copper-headed young man? No, Alizeh considered, Hazan must’ve been referring to the shoes; for what other message had she received today that might aid in her escape? Oh, if only she could get Hazan alone—if she could secure even a minute of his time— Alizeh looked around as she moved, searching for a glimpse of Hazan’s face, but Kamran and his minister had been enveloped by the surging mass more easily than she, as the horde knew to make way for the prince even in the midst of chaos. Though even the chaos was strange. The screaming had stopped, but so, too, had the music. Most people were flocking toward the source of the commotion, while others were rendered immobile by confusion; everyone seemed to be waiting to know whether the terrifying scream could be ascribed to an overstimulated attendee—maybe a young woman had fainted, maybe someone had been overly startled. All seemed to wonder whether they might continue enjoying their evening without worry, as no one had yet confirmed a cause for panic. Alizeh pushed against the swell of the crowd, worried for the fate of Miss Huda, wondering where she’d gone, when the silence was split open by yet another shriek of terror. Alizeh froze in place, struck by the sound of the young woman’s familiar voice. “No,” Miss Huda was shouting. “No, I will not—You cannot—”

Dread pooled like tar in Alizeh’s gut. The stranger was no doubt accosting Miss Huda now—of this Alizeh felt certain—though she struggled to understand his motivations. Why had he so easily broken his promise? What reason did he have to torture Miss Huda? Alizeh’s hands clenched, her body seizing with a desperate need to do something, when someone tugged at her arm. Omid. “Miss,” he said urgently. “That’s the voice of the lady who was hiding earlier. I think she needs help.” Alizeh glanced up at the tall twelve-year-old. “Yes,” she said. “Can you take me to her? And quickly?” “Right away, miss,” he said, already moving. “Just follow me.” Alizeh trailed the boy without a word, the two of them weaving between bodies, wending around chairs, occasionally crawling under tables. Omid, she realized, was quite good at uncovering the narrow, unexpected path through madness, for no matter his reformed ways, he had been a street child, and knew well how to find his way through a crowd. He led Alizeh through the throng with astonishing swiftness, delivering them both to a dark cove in a far reach of the ballroom, where Miss Huda was backing away from what appeared to be a tall shadow of a person, her arms held up defensively in front of her body. Alizeh felt she recognized that shadow. “Wait,” she said sharply, holding out an arm to halt Omid’s forward march. She pulled them both behind a perforated wooden screen, where they ducked low, peering at the scene through a series of star-shaped cutouts. Alizeh had a vague idea of what she was expecting to see, but her imaginings were so far from truth that her mouth dropped open in surprise. Miss Huda did not hold aloft her arms, but a candelabra, and she was approaching the tall shadow as if she might strike him. “Not so powerful now, are you?” she was saying. “Not so scary anymore, no, not when you’re at my mercy.” “Listen, loud one,” came the acerbic, familiar voice of the stranger. “I’ve tried to be patient with you for her sake, but if you won’t cooperate, I’ve no choice but t—” “No,” Miss Huda shouted. “You will never again use magic on me, sir, never again, or, or I’ll—I’ll do something terrible— I’ll have you trampled by a team of horses—”

“I never said I would use more magic on you,” he said sharply. “Lest you forget, I was minding my own business when you hit me on the head —in a most unladylike fashion, I might add—exhibiting such violence, and when I’ve been nothing but accommodating—” “Accommodating?” she cried. “You stole my voice! And then you dumped me unceremoniously into the heart of a royal ball in my muslin day dress! I’m not with my family, I was never formally announced, no one even knows I’m here, and now I’ll never meet the prince.” Her chest heaved as she struggled for breath. “Do you even realize the cruelty of your actions?” she said, swiping at him with the candelabra. He dodged her attacks. “I can’t let anyone see me like this. As if my social standing wasn’t already in tatters, now I’m at the palace—for possibly the biggest event of the season—and I’ve not done my hair, I’ve got food in my teeth, I’ve not changed my slippers, I’ve no idea how I’ll get home from here—” “Do you know, I’ve changed my mind,” said the young man. “Perhaps I will kill you. Though, alternatively, if you’re so apprehensive about the opinions of others I could always knock back your brain an inch—” For the third time, Miss Huda screamed. “Oh no,” Omid whispered. “This isn’t good.” People came running now, a crowd beginning to gather, among them Hazan and the prince. Alizeh and Omid watched from the shadows as the blue-eyed stranger sighed, muttered an ungentlemanly word, and stepped out of the darkness—revealing himself to all and sundry with a broad smile. Alizeh felt suddenly sick with trepidation. “Welcome, one and all,” the stranger said. “I see you’ve come for a show. I’m eager to oblige, though I confess none of this is happening as I’d envisioned it! Then again, I’ve always appreciated a bit of spontaneity.” Without warning, a ring of fire several feet in diameter erupted around himself and Miss Huda, flames three feet high, the heat so oppressive Alizeh could feel it even from where she stood. Miss Huda began to sob, this time sounding close to hysteria. Alizeh’s heart was pounding furiously in her chest; she heard Omid’s sharp intake of breath. This entire night was nothing short of a disaster. Kamran stepped forward then, and the crowd surged back with a collective gasp, leaving him exposed. The prince drew as close to the

flames as he dared, and Alizeh’s lungs constricted. She was terrified and somehow livid—furious as he studied the madman now holding her friend hostage. Fool, she wanted to scream at the unhinged stranger. You stupid, stupid fool. The prince, meanwhile, approached the aforementioned fool with sangfroid so assured one might think there was no danger at all. “Your Excellency,” Kamran said. “This is no way to treat our guests. I will ask you once to douse your fire and release the lady.” Alizeh froze, then frowned. Your Excellency? Was Kamran making fun of him? She could think of no other reason why the crown prince of Ardunia would say such a thing, though even in jest it was— Alizeh closed her eyes; felt the room spin. The memory of Kamran’s voice filled her head. How, precisely, do you know the Tulanian king? If the prince had been able to spot her in the crowd, he must’ve also seen her speaking with the blue-eyed stranger—and, devils above, what he must’ve thought of her. She’d been consorting with the Tulanian king just hours after kissing an Ardunian prince. It struck a traitorous image, even she could see that. Shame suffused Alizeh’s skin with a sudden heat; shame she need not own or claim, but felt regardless. Her confusion and apprehension tripled; for her mind would not now cease conjuring new questions. Had Hazan struck a deal with the Tulanian king? If so, how? Why? What grand favor would a minister have been able to provide a king, so much so that he’d risk his reputation as sovereign of a formidable empire to assist her? What on earth had Hazan done? Alizeh looked up again when she heard the stranger’s voice. “And you must be the prince,” he was saying. “The beloved Prince Kamran, the melancholy royal of Setar, friend to street child and servant alike. Your reputation precedes you, sire.” “How dare you speak to the prince in such a manner, you miserable swine,” Miss Huda cried, angrily swiping at her tears before lifting the candelabra above her head. “Guards! Guards!” “Oh, yes, by all means,” said the young king. “Please do summon the guards. Bring them forth, have them confess aloud their sins. All under the order of King Zaal are complicit in his crimes.”

Kamran drew his sword and approached the flames at a proximity that made Alizeh gasp. “You would speak ill of the king in his own home—on his own land?” said the prince with thunderous calm. “Release the girl now, or I will have your head.” “Pray tell me, sire, how will you reach my head? With what magic will you walk through fire to claim it? With what power will you extinguish mine when your Diviners are all dead?” At that, the room erupted in gasps and shouts, cries of astonishment and fear. Alizeh spun around, taking it all in. Her heart wouldn’t stop racing in her chest. “Is it true?” “He’s a madman—” “Where is the king?” “—but it cannot be—” “Don’t believe a word of it—” “The king! Where is the king?” King Zaal appeared then, came forth through the crowd with a silent dignity, his head held high even under the weight of a hulking crown. The young king extinguished his fire at once, releasing Miss Huda in the process. Several people rushed to her side, helping her to safety, while the blue-eyed fool charged forward to meet King Zaal, erecting another fiery circle that trapped the two sovereigns inside. Alizeh realized then that she would rather rot in the gutter than go anywhere with this copper-headed scoundrel. So these were the few tasks he’d meant to accomplish? This was the business he’d claimed wouldn’t take long? Oh, she wanted to slap him. “Your fight is with me, is it not?” King Zaal said quietly. “Not at all,” said the fool brightly. “There will be no fight, Your Majesty. When I am done with you, you will be begging me to end your life.” King Zaal barked a laugh. Someone in the crowd screamed, “Call for the soldiers! The magistrates!” “The magistrates?” The southern king laughed aloud. “You mean your weak, corrupt officials? Tell me, fine nobles of Ardunia, did you know that your magistrates are paid extra by the crown to collect street children?”

Alizeh felt Omid tense beside her. “Ah, I can see by the looks in your eyes that you did not. And why would you, really? Who would even miss a surplus of orphaned children?” “What do you want here?” King Zaal said sharply. He looked different then—angry, yes—but Alizeh thought he looked, for a moment— Scared. “Me?” The madman pointed to himself. “What do I want? I want a great deal too much, Your Highness. I’ve been bled dry for too long in repayment for my father’s sins and I’m tired of it; tired of being in debt to so cruel a master. But then, you know what that’s like, don’t you?” King Zaal drew his sword. Again, the southern king laughed. “Are you really going to challenge me?” “Your Majesty, please—” Kamran moved forward as if to enter the fiery ring, and King Zaal held up a hand to stop him. “No matter what happens tonight,” King Zaal said to him, “you must remember your duty to this empire.” “Yes, but—” “That is all, child,” he said thunderously. “Now you must leave me to fight my own battles.” “As I’ve already told you, Your Highness.” The madman again. “There will be no battle.” The Tulanian king raised his arm with a flourish and King Zaal’s robes tore open at the shoulders, revealing large swaths of skin that were both scaly and discolored. The king’s face went slack, stunned as he studied himself, then his southern enemy. “No,” he whispered. “You cannot.” “Will you not speculate?” the madman shouted into the crowd. “Will you not hazard a guess as to what the magistrates do with the street children they find?” Alizeh felt suddenly as if she couldn’t breathe. The sounds of the room seemed to quiet, the lights seemed to dim; she heard only the sound of her own harsh breaths, saw only the horror unfolding before her. She closed her eyes. There once was a man who bore a snake on each shoulder. If the snakes were well fed

their master ceased growing older. What they ate no one knew, even as the children were found with brains shucked from their skulls, bodies splayed on the ground. “It’s true,” Omid whispered, his voice trembling. “I—I’ve seen it, miss. I seen it happen. But no one believes the street kids, miss, everyone thinks we’re lying—and they started threatening us if we said anything, said they’d come for us next—” Alizeh gasped, clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Omid,” she cried. “Oh, I’m so sorry—” Two leathery white snakes reared up from the shoulders of the Ardunian king, snapping and hissing hungrily. King Zaal’s sword fell, with a clatter, to the ground.

Thirty-Nine

KAMRAN FELT HIS HEART SHATTER

what his eyes swore to be true.

in his chest even as he refused to believe

This was a horror too great. The prince knew—had heard, of course—that all around the world there had been kings who made deals with the devil; they sold a bit of their souls in exchange for power, or love, or land. The stories said that Iblees presented himself to every sovereign on earth on the day of their coronation. Never did these stories end well. For the entirety of Kamran’s life King Zaal had warned him of Iblees, warned him never to accept an offer from the devil. How, then— “No,” Kamran whispered. “No, it’s not possible—” “Your dear king should have died years ago,” Cyrus was saying. “But your melancholy prince was too young to lead, was he not? He was still too sad, too scared, too heartbroken over the death of his dear father. So the great, righteous King Zaal made a bargain with the devil to extend his life.” A pause. “Didn’t you, Your Majesty?” “Enough,” King Zaal said, lowering his eyes. “You need not say more. It would be better for everyone if you simply killed me now.” Cyrus ignored this. “What he didn’t realize, of course, was that a bargain with the devil was a bloody one. The snakes lengthen his life, yes, but even a serpent needs to eat, does it not?” Kamran could hardly breathe. He knew not what to do, knew not what to say. He felt paralyzed by the revelations, confused by the chaos of his own emotions. How could he defend a man so debased? How could he not defend the grandfather he loved? The king had bartered with his soul to spare the young prince, to give Kamran time to live a bit longer as a child— “Yes, that’s right,” said Cyrus. “They eat the fresh brains of young children.” From nothing he conjured a soggy mass of flesh, which he tossed at the snakes. “Street children, to be more specific. For the wretched and the poor are the most easily expendable, are they not?” The snakes hissed and snapped at each other, swinging their necks around to catch the morsel, which one triumphant serpent caught in his open, distended maw. Shrieks of horror pierced the silence; one woman fainted into the arms of another. The prince saw a flash of steel. A sword materialized in Cyrus’s hand and Kamran reacted without thinking, launching himself forward—but too late. The Tulanian king had

already impaled his willing grandfather straight through the chest. Kamran nearly fell to his knees. He caught his breath and charged, brandishing his sword as he leaped through the searing flames to reach Cyrus, not feeling his flesh as it burned, not hearing the screams of the crowd. Cyrus feinted, then lunged, swinging his sword in a diagonal arc; Kamran met his opponent’s blade with an impact so violent it shuddered through him. With a cry he pushed forward, launching Cyrus back several feet. Quickly, the Tulanian king steadied, then attacked, his blade glinting under the glittering lights. Kamran dodged the blow and spun, slashing his sword through the air and meeting steel; their blades crashing, slicing the air as they slid away. “My fight is not with you, melancholy prince,” Cyrus said, breathing heavily as he took a step back. “You need not die tonight. You need not leave your empire without a sovereign.” Kamran stilled at that, at the realization that his grandfather was truly dead. That Ardunia was his now. To rule as king. He cried out as he advanced, lunging at Cyrus who parried, then brought his blade down with crushing force. Kamran dropped to one knee to meet this blow, but his sword arm, which had been badly burned by the flames, could not withstand the force for long. His sword clattered to the floor. Cyrus withdrew, his chest heaving, and lifted his blade above his head to deliver what was no doubt the finishing blow. Kamran closed his eyes. He made peace with his fate in that moment, accepting that he would die, and that he would die defending his king. His grandfather. “No!” he heard someone scream. Kamran heard the mad dash of boots pounding the marble floors and looked up, startled, hardly daring to believe his eyes. Alizeh was rushing wildly toward him, shoving people aside. “Don’t!” Kamran shouted. “The fire—”

Forty

inferno without care, her diaphanous gown going up in flames, and which she beat down quickly with her bare hands. She looked at Kamran, her heart seizing in her chest, sparing what moments she had to see that he was alive, to make certain he wasn’t too badly injured. He was only staring at her in wonder. A broad strip of his right arm was bleeding profusely—had been burned straight through his clothes. The rest of the outfit was damaged beyond repair, singed more in some places than others, but he appeared otherwise okay, save a few nasty scrapes he’d collected in the match. Still, he seemed oblivious to his injuries, even to the gash across his forehead, the blood dripping slowly down his temple. The crowd, which had previously gone silent with shock, suddenly began whispering, gasping aloud their heartache and disbelief. Alizeh turned on the Tulanian king. She charged up to him in a singed gown and sooty skin and yanked the sword from his frozen hand, tossing it to the floor, where it landed with a ALIZEH RAN STRAIGHT THROUGH THE

clatter. The young king was staring at her now like she was some unfathomable sea monster, come to swallow him whole. “How dare you,” she cried. “You horrible cretin. You useless monster. How could you—” “How—how did you—” He was still staring at her, gaping. “How did you walk through the fire like that? Why are you not—burning?” “You despicable, wretched man,” she said angrily. “You know who I am, but you don’t know what I am?” “No.” She slapped him, hard, across the face, the potent force of her strength sending him reeling. The southern king reared back, colliding with a column against which he both knocked his head and braced himself. It was a moment before he looked up again, and when he did, Alizeh saw that his mouth was full of blood, which he spit out onto the floor. Then he laughed. “Damn the devil to hell,” he said softly. “He didn’t tell me you were a Jinn.” Alizeh startled. “Who?” “Our mutual friend.” “Hazan?” “Hazan?” The copper-headed king laughed at that, wiped a bit of blood from his mouth. “Hazan? Of course not Hazan.” To Kamran, he said, “Pay attention, King, for it seems even your friends have betrayed you.” Alizeh swung around to meet Kamran’s eyes just in time to see the way he looked at her—the flash of shock, the pain of betrayal—before he shuttered closed, withdrew inward. His eyes went almost inhumanly dark. She wanted to go to him, to explain— Kamran exchanged a look with a guard, scores of which now swarmed the ballroom, and Hazan, soon revealed to be the sole person trying to flee the crush, was seized not moments later, his arms bound painfully behind his back. The silence of the room was momentarily deafening; Hazan’s protests piercing the quiet as he was dragged away. Alizeh was gripped then by a violent terror. With agonizing slowness, she felt a tapestry of truth form around her; disparate threads of understanding braiding together to illustrate an answer to a question she’d long misunderstood. Of course not Hazan.

Hazan had never planned this fate for her. Hazan had been kind and trustworthy; he’d truly cared for her well-being. But this—this was all a cruel trick, was it not? She’d been deceived by the devil himself. Why? “Iblees,” she said, her voice fraught with disbelief. “All this time, you have been speaking of the devil. Why? Why did he send you to fetch me? What interest does he have in my life?” The Tulanian king frowned. “Is it not obvious? He wants you to rule.” Alizeh heard Kamran’s sharp intake of breath, heard the rumblings of the crowd around them. This conversation was madness. She’d nearly forgotten they had an audience—that all of Ardunia would hear— Again, the southern king laughed, but louder this time, looking suddenly disturbed. “A Jinn queen to rule the world. Oh, it’s so horribly seditious. The perfect revenge.” Alizeh felt herself pale then, watched her hands begin to tremble. A fragile hypothesis began to take shape in her mind; something that shook her to her core: Iblees wanted to use her. He wanted to bring her to power and control her; no doubt to ensure the mass chaos and destruction of the Clay who wronged him; the beings he blamed for his downfall. Alizeh began slowly backing away from the blue-eyed king. A strange madness had overtaken her, a fear beyond which she could not see. Without thinking, she glanced up at the clock. Five minutes to midnight. Alizeh bolted for the exit, fleeing the fiery circle for the second time unscathed; the remains of her gown going up in flames once more. She beat the fire from her dress even as she ran, even as she knew not where she was headed. The Tulanian king called after her. “Wait— Where are you going? We had a deal— Under no circumstances were you allowed to run away—” “I must,” she said desperately. She knew it sounded crazed even as she said it, for there had never been escape from the devil, never a reprieve from his whispers. Still, she could not help the anguish that overcame her then. It made her irrational.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m sorry, but I have to leave— I need to find somewhere to hide, somewhere he won’t—” Alizeh felt something catch her in the gut then. Something like a gust of wind; a wing. Her feet began kicking without warning, launching her body upward, into the air. She screamed. “Alizeh!” Kamran bellowed, rushing up to the edges of his fiery cage. “Alizeh—” Panic filled her lungs as her body soared. “Make it stop,” she cried, her arms pinwheeling. “Put me down!” She felt at once paralyzed and weightless; the movements of her body utterly beyond her control. Would this dark magic float her up to the moon? Would it drown her in a lake? Impale her on a sword? All she could do was scream. She was nearing the rafters now, rising up to the ceiling. The people below were hard to distinguish, their voices inaudible— And then, a crash. A massive beast broke through the palace wall, its leathery body bright with iridescent scales, its wingspan as wide as the room. The crowd shrieked and hollered, dove for cover. Alizeh, meanwhile, could not look away. She’d never seen a dragon before. It swooped low and roared; its long, studded tail whipping along the wall, leaving gashes in the marble. And then, like a shot, Alizeh was released. She plummeted to the ground with terrifying speed, the sounds of her own screams filling her ears, drowning out all else. She hardly had time to process that she was about to die, that she would snap in half when she hit the floor— The dragon dove and caught her, hard, on its back. She fell forward with superlative force, nearly losing her seat before she caught the studded nape of the beast that took flight without delay. Alizeh was knocked back as it launched upward, her head spinning, heart hammering in her chest. It was all she could do to hold on and keep her wits about her. The dragon gave another roar before flapping its massive wings, propelling them out the destroyed palace wall and into the night sky.

For a long time, Alizeh did not move. She felt paralyzed by fear and disbelief; her mind assaulted by a tumult of uncertainty. Slowly, sensation returned to her limbs, to the tips of her fingers. She soon felt the wind against her face, saw the night sky drape itself around her, a midnight sheet studded with stars. By degrees, she began to relax. The beast was heavy and solid, and seemed to know where it was going. She took deep lungfuls of air, trying to clear the dregs of her panic, to convince herself that she would be safe for at least as long as she clung to this wild creature. She shifted, suddenly, at the feel of soft fibers grazing her skin through what was left of her thin gown, and looked down to examine it. She hadn’t realized she was in fact sitting on a small carpet, which— Alizeh nearly screamed again. The dragon had disappeared. It was still there—she felt the beast beneath her, could feel the leathery texture of its skin—but the creature had gone invisible in the sky, leaving her floating on a patterned rug. It was deeply disorienting. Still, she understood then why the creature had disappeared; without its bulk to blind her, she could see the world below, could see the world beyond. Alizeh didn’t know where she was going, but for the moment, she forced herself not to panic. There was, after all, a strange peace in this, in the quiet that surrounded her. As her nerves relaxed, her mind sharpened. Quickly, she yanked off her boots and chucked them into the night. It gave her great satisfaction to watch them disappear into the dark. Relief. A sudden thud shifted the weight of the rug, startling her upright. Alizeh spun around, her heart racing once again in her chest; and when she saw the face of her unwelcome companion, she thought she might fling herself into the sky with the boots. “No,” she whispered. “This is my dragon,” said the Tulanian king. “You are not allowed to steal my dragon.” “I didn’t steal it, the creature took— Wait, how did you get here? Can you fly?”

He laughed at that. “Is the mighty empire of Ardunia really so poor in magic that these small tricks impress you?” “Yes,” she said, blinking. Then, “What is your name?” “Of all the non sequiturs. Why do you need to know my name?” “So that I may hate you more informally.” “Ah. Well, in that case, you may call me Cyrus.” “Cyrus,” she said. “You insufferable monster. Where on earth are we going?” Her insults seemed to have no effect on him, for he was still smiling when he said, “Have you really not figured it out?” “I’m entirely too agitated for these games. Please just tell me what horrible fate awaits me now.” “Oh, the very worst of fates, I’m sorry to say. We are currently enroute to Tulan.” The nosta burned hot against her skin, and Alizeh felt herself go rigid with fear. She was stunned, yes, and horrified, too, but to hear the king of an empire denigrate his own land thus— “Is Tulan really so terrible a place?” “Tulan?” His eyes widened in surprise. “Not at all. A single square inch of Tulan is more breathtaking than all of Ardunia, and I say that as a discernable fact, not as a subjective opinion.” “But then”—she frowned—“why did you say that it would be the very worst of fates?” “Ah. That.” Cyrus looked away then, searched the night sky. “Well. You remember how I said I owed our mutual friend a very large debt?” “Yes.” “And that helping you was the only repayment he would accept?” She swallowed. “Yes.” “And do you remember how I told you that he wanted you to rule? To be a Jinn queen?” Alizeh nodded. “Well. You have no kingdom,” he said. “No land to lord over. No empire to lead.” “No,” she said softly. “I don’t.” “Well, then. You are coming to Tulan,” Cyrus said, taking a quick breath. “To marry me.” Alizeh gave a sharp cry, and fell off the dragon.

About the Author

Photo by Ransom Riggs

TAHEREH MAFI is the National Book Award nominated and New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Shatter Me series, A Very Large Expanse of Sea, An Emotion of Great Delight, Whichwood, and Furthermore. Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Books by Tahereh Mafi

Shatter Me Unravel Me Ignite Me Destroy Me Fracture Me Shatter Me Complete Collection Restore Me Defy Me Imagine Me Shadow Me Reveal Me Believe Me A Very Large Expanse of Sea An Emotion of Great Delight Furthermore Whichwood This Woven Kingdom

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Contents Title Page Copyright Dedication Once upon a time. . . And So It Begins Chapter 1 Chapter 2 More Chapters This Way Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Turn the Page for More Chapters Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 I Haven’t Any Idea How Many Chapters Are in This Book Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 This Might Be My Favorite Part Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Here We Go Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Keep Up! There’s No Time to Waste! Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39

Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Oliver Says I’m Terrible at Chapter Headings Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 More Chapters Straight Ahead Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53

!!!!!!!! Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 For Ransom, forever

Once upon a time, a girl was born. It was rather uneventful. Her parents were happy enough, the mother glad to be done carrying it, and the father glad to be done with the mystery of it all. But then one day they realized that their baby, the one they’d named Alice, had no pigment at all. Her hair and skin were white as milk; her heart and soul as soft as silk. Her eyes alone had been spared a spot of color: only just clinging to the faintest shade of honey. It was the kind of child her world could not appreciate. Ferenwood had been built on color. Bursts of it, swaths of it, depths and breadths of it. Its people were known to be the brightest—modeled after the planets, they’d said—and young Alice was deemed simply too dim, even though she knew she was not. Once upon a time, a girl was forgot.

AND SO IT BEGINS

The sun was raining again. Soft and bright, rainlight fell through the sky, each drop tearing a neat hole in the season. Winter had been steady and predictable, but it was quite poked through now, and spring was peeking out from underneath it. The world was ready for a change. The people of Ferenwood were excited for spring, but this was to be expected; they had always been fond of predictable, reliable sorts of changes, like night turning into day and rain turning into snow. They didn’t much care for night turning into cake or rain turning into shoelaces, because that wouldn’t make sense, and making sense was terribly important to these people who’d built their lives around magic. And squint as they might, it was very difficult for them to make any sense of Alice.

Alice was a young girl and, naturally, she was all the things you’d expect a young girl to be: smart and lively and passionate about any number of critical issues. But Alice was also lacking a great deal of something important, and it was this—her lack of something important —that made her so interesting, and so very unusual. More on that soon.

The afternoon our story begins, the quiet parts of being alive were the busiest: wind unlocking windows; rainlight nudging curtains apart; fresh-cut grass tickling unsocked feet. Days like this made Alice want to set off on a great adventure, and—at almost twelve years old—she’d very nearly figured out how to fashion one together. The annual Surrender was only a single pair of days away, and Alice—who was determined to win—knew it was her chance to set sail for something new. She was on her way home now, occasionally peeking over her shoulder at the glittering town in the distance. The village square was undergoing no small transformation in honor of the upcoming festivities, and the clamor of instruction and construction rang out across the hills. Alice jumped from flagstone to flagstone, her face caught in the rainlight glow, her hands grasping for a touch of gold. The town’s excitement was contagious, and the air was so thick with promise Alice could almost bite into it. She smiled, cheeks appled in delight, and stared up at the sky. The light was beginning to spark and fade, and the clouds were still hard at work weaving together, breaking and building as they had been all week. One more day of this, Alice thought, and everything would change. She couldn’t wait. She’d moved on to the main road now, a dirt path flanked by green. She held tight to her basket as neighbors passed, nodding hello and waving good-bye, happy to have remembered her clothes today. Mother was always bothering her about that. Alice plucked a tulip from her pocket and bit off the top. She felt the petals pressing against her tongue; she could taste the velvet, the magenta of it all. She closed her eyes and licked her lips before biting into the stem. Not quite green but brighter, more vibrant; there was a song in that color and she could feel it singing inside of her. She bent down to greet a blade of grass and whispered, Hello, me too, me too, we’re still alive. Alice was an odd girl, even for Ferenwood, where the sun occasionally rained and the colors were brighter than usual and magic was as common as a frowning parent. Her oddness was evident even in the simplest things she did, though most especially in her inability to walk home in a straight line. She stopped too many times, wandering off the main path, catching deep breaths and holding them, too selfish to let them go. She spun until her skirts circled around her, smiling so wide she thought her face would break and blossom. She hopped around on tiptoe, and only when she could stand it no longer would she exhale what wasn’t hers to keep. Alice would grow up to be a wildflower, Father once said to her. A wildflower in flowing skirts, braided hair dancing from head to knee. She’d always hoped that he was right, that maybe Mother had gotten it wrong, that Alice was never meant to be such a complicated thing with all these limbs and needs. She often wanted to plant herself back into the earth to see if she’d grow into something better this time, maybe a dandelion or an oak tree or a walnut no one could crack. But Mother insisted (the way she often did) that Alice must be a girl, and so she was. Alice didn’t like Mother very much. She found her a bit old and confusing, and didn’t like the way Mother worried about walls and doors and the money that put them there. But Alice loved Mother, too, in the way that children did. Mother was soft and warm, and Mother’s smiles came easily when she looked at Alice. Anger and tears, too, but those Alice never cared for.

Alice gripped her basket tighter and danced down the road to a song she found in her ear; her toes warmed the earth, and her hair, too heavy for her head, tried to keep up. Her bangles mimicked the rain, simple melodies colliding in the space between elbows and wrists. She closed her eyes. She knew this dance the way she knew her own name; its syllables found her, rolled off her hips with an intimacy that could not be taught. This was her skill, her talent, her great gift to Ferenwood. It was her ticket to greatness. She’d been practicing for years and years and was determined that it would not be for nothing. It would not b— “Hey there! What are you doing?” Alice startled. Something tripped and fell, and she looked around in dismay to realize it had been her. Crumpled skirts and silent bangles, the rainlight gone from the sky. She was late. Mother would be upset again. “Hey!” The same voice as before. “What are you—” Alice gathered her skirts and fumbled in the dark for her basket, reaching blindly as panic set in. Don’t talk to strangers, Mother had always said—especially strange men. Being afraid meant it was okay to forget your manners. If you’re afraid, you never have to be nice. Do you understand? Alice had nodded. And now Mother was not here and she could not explain why, exactly, but Alice was afraid. So she did not feel the need to be nice. The stranger wasn’t much of a man at all, it turned out. More like a boy. Alice wanted to tell him very firmly to go away, but she’d somehow gotten it into her head that being quiet meant being invisible and so she prayed that her silence would somehow make him blind, instead of louder. Unfortunately, her wish seemed to work on both of them. The sun had folded itself away and the moon was in no hurry to replace it. Darkness engulfed her. Alice’s basket was nowhere to be felt or found. She was very worried. Suddenly Alice understood all about being worried and she promised herself she would never judge Mother for being worried all the time. Suddenly she understood that it is a very hard thing, to be afraid of things, and that it takes up so much time. Suddenly she understood why Mother rarely got around to doing the dishes. “Does this belong to you?” Alice turned just a bit and found a chest in her face. There was a chest in her face and a heart in that chest and it was beating quite hard. She could hear the pitters, the patters—the blood rushing around in ebbs and flows. Don’t be distracted, she told herself, begged herself. Think of Mother. But, oh. What a heart. What a symphony inside that body. Alice gasped. He’d touched her arm, so, really, she had no choice but to punch him. Her bangles were helpful in this regard. She punched and kicked and screamed a little and she wrenched her basket from his hands and she ran all the way home, out of breath and a little excited, so glad the moon had finally decided to join her.

Alice never did get to tell Mother her story. Mother was so upset Alice was late that she nearly bit off her daughter’s hands. She didn’t give Alice a chance to explain why her skirts were dirty or why the basket had broken (only a little bit, really) or why her hair was so full of grass. Mother made a terrible face and pointed

to a chair at the table and told Alice that if she was late one more time she would knot her fingers together. Again. Oh, Mother was always threatening her. Threatening made Mother feel better but made Alice feel bored. Alice usually ignored Mother’s threats (If you don’t eat your breakfast I will whisk you into an elephant, she once said to her, and Alice half hoped she really would), but then one time Alice took her clothes off at the dinner table and Mother threatened to turn her into a boy, and that scared her so dizzy that Alice kept on her outerthings for a whole week after that. Since then, Alice had often wondered whether her brothers had been boys to begin with, or whether they’d just been naughty enough to deserve being tricked into it.

Mother was unpacking Alice’s basket very carefully, paying far more attention to its contents than to any of her four children sitting at the worn kitchen table. Alice ran her hands along its weathered top, the bare boards rubbed smooth from years of use. Father had made this table himself, and Alice often pretended she could remember the day he built it. That was silly of course; Father had built it long before she was born. She glanced toward his place at the table. His chair was empty—as it had grown accustomed to being—and Alice dropped her head, because sadness had left hinges in her bones. With some effort she managed to look up again, and when she did, she found her brothers, whose small forms took up the three remaining chairs, staring at her expectantly, as though she might turn their tunics into turnips. On any other occasion she would’ve liked to, had she been so inclined, but Mother was already quite mad and Alice did not want to sleep with the pigs tonight. Alice was beginning to realize that while she didn’t much like Mother, Mother didn’t much like her, either. Mother didn’t care for the oddness of Alice; she wasn’t a parent who was predisposed to liking her children. She didn’t find their quirks endearing. She thought Alice was a perfectly functional, occasionally absurd child, but on an honest afternoon Mother would tell you that she didn’t care for children, never had, not really, but here they were. (There were plenty of nice things Mother had said about Alice, too, but Mother was never very good at making sure she said those things out loud.) Alice picked out a blossom from her dinner and dropped it on her tongue, rolling the taste of it around in her mouth. She loved blossoms; one bite and she felt refreshed, ready to begin again. Mother liked dipping them in honey, but Alice preferred the unmasked taste. Alice liked truth: on her lips and in her mouth. The kitchen was warm and cozy, but only halfheartedly. Alice and Mother did their best in the wake of Father’s absence, but some evenings all the unspoken hurts piled high on their plates and they ate sorrow with their syrup without saying a word about it. Tonight wasn’t so bad. Tonight the stove glowed lavender as Mother stoked the flames and tossed in some of the berries Alice had collected. Soon the whole house smelled of warm figs and peppermints and Alice was certain that if she tried, she could lick the air right out of the room. Mother was smiling, finally content. Ferenberries always succeeded in reminding Mother of happier times with Father, of days long ago when all was safe and all was good. The berries were a rare treat for those lucky enough to find them (they were a fruit especially difficult to procure), but in Father’s absence Mother had become obsessed. The trouble was, she needed Alice to find the ferenberries (I’ll explain why later), and Alice always did, because life at home had been so much better since the berries. Alice had been late and she’d been lazy, messy and argumentative, but she had never not come home with the berries. She almost hadn’t tonight.

Alice always felt Mother was using her for the berries; she knew they were the only medicine that helped Mother’s heart in Father’s absence. Alice knew Mother needed her, but she did not feel appreciated; and though she felt sad for Mother, she felt more sorry than sad. She wanted Mother to grow up—or maybe grow down—into the mother she and her brothers really needed. But Mother could not unbecome herself, so Alice was resigned to loving and disliking her just as she was, for as long as she could bear it. Soon, Alice thought, very soon, she would be on her way to something better. Something bigger. The seasons were changing in Ferenwood, and Alice had waited long enough. She would win the Surrender and she would show Mother she could make her own way in the world and she would never need a pair of stockings again. She would be an explorer! An inventor! No—a painter! She would capture the world with a few broad strokes! Her hand moved of its own accord, making shapes in her honey-laden plate. Her arm flew up in a moment of triumph and her paintbrush fork flew from her hands only to land, quite elegantly, in her brother’s hair. Alice ducked down in her chair, the future forgotten, as Mother came at her with a ladle. Oh, she would be sleeping with the pigs tonight.

MORE CHAPTERS THIS WAY

The pigs weren’t so bad. They were warm and shared their straw and made little pig noises that helped Alice relax. She pulled her only two finks from her pocket and snapped one in half, saving the other, and suddenly the pigs smelled of fresh lemons and glass apples and soon there was nothing at all to be bothered by. The night was warm and fragrant, the sky sneaking through a few broken boards in the roof. The twinkles looked merry enough, but the planets were the true stars tonight: bright spots of color seducing the sky. Six hundred and thirty-two planets dotted Alice’s upside-down vision, spinning their bangles just as she spun hers. Her two arms were bangles and bangles from elbow to wrist, her ankles similarly adorned. She’d collected these bangles from all over, from most every market in every neighborhill she’d ever climbed into. She’d traveled the whole of Ferenwood after Father left, knocking on door after door, asking anyone and everyone where he might’ve gone. Anyone and everyone had a different answer. All anyone knew was that Father took nothing but a ruler when he left, so some said he’d gone to measure the sea. Others said the sky. The moon. Maybe he’d learned to fly and had forgotten how to come back down. She never said this to Mother, but Alice often wondered whether he hadn’t planted himself back into the ground to see if maybe he’d sprout taller this time. She touched her circlets of gold and silver and stone. Mother gave her three finks every month and she always spent one on a bangle. They weren’t worth much to anyone but her, and that made them even more precious; Father had been the one to give her the first bangle —just before he left—and for every month he stayed gone, Alice added another to her collection. This week, she would have thirty-eight altogether. Maybe, she thought, her eyes heavy with sleep, her bangles would help Father find her. Maybe he would hear her looking for him. She was sure that if he listened closely, he would hear her dancing for him to come home. And then she rolled over, and began to dream. Now, while our young Alice is sleeping, let us make quick work of important details. First: The magic of Ferenwood required no wands or potions you might recognize; no incantations, not really. Ferenwood was, simply stated, a land rich in natural resources, chief among them: color and magic. It was a very small, very old village in the countryside of Fennelskein, and as no one ever went to Fennelskein (a shame, really; it’s quite lovely in the summers), the people of Ferenwood had always kept to themselves, harvesting color and magic from the air and earth and building an entire system of currency around it. There’s quite a lot to say on the history and geography of Ferenwood, but I shouldn’t like to tell you more than this, lest I spoil our story too soon. Second: Every citizen of Ferenwood was born with a bit of magical talent, but anything more than that cost money, and Alice’s family had little extra. Alice herself had never had more than a few finks, and she’d always stared longingly at other children, pockets full of stoppicks, choosing from an array of treats in shop windows. Tonight, Alice was dreaming of the dillypop she would purchase the following day. (To be clear, Alice had no idea she’d be purchasing a dillypop the following day, but we have ways of knowing these things.) Dillypops were a favorite—little cheekfuls of grass and honeycomb— and just this once she wouldn’t care that they’d cost her the remainder of her savings. It was there, nestled up with the pigs, dreaming of sugar, skirts up to her ears and bangled ankles resting on a nearby stool, that Alice heard the voice of the boy with the chest. He said something like “hello” or “how do you do” (I can’t quite remember), and Alice was too irritated by the interruption to remember to be afraid. She sighed loudly, face still turned

up at the planets, and pinched her eyes shut. “I would not like to punch and kick you again,” she said, “so if you would please carry on your way, I’d be much obliged.” “I can see your underwear,” he said. Rudely. Alice jumped up, beet-red and mortified. She nearly kicked a pig on her way up and when she finally managed to gather herself, she tripped on a slop bucket and fell backward against the wall. “Who are you?” she demanded, all the while trying to remember where she’d left the shovel. Alice heard a pair of fingers snap and soon the shed was full of light, glowing as if caught in a halo. She spotted the shovel immediately, but just as she was crafting a plan to grab it, the boy offered it to her of his own accord. She took it from him. His face was oddly familiar. Alice squinted at him in the light and held the sharp end of the shovel up to his chin. “Who are you?” she asked again angrily. Then, “And can you teach me how you did that just now? I’ve been trying to snaplight for years and it’s never worked for m—” “Alice.” He cut her off with a laugh. Shook his head. “It’s me.” She blinked, then gaped at him. “Father?” she gasped. Alice looked him up and down, dropping the shovel in the process. “Oh but Father you’ve gotten so much younger since you left—I’m not sure Mother will be pleased—” “Alice!” The perhaps-stranger laughed again and grabbed Alice’s arms, fixing her with a straight stare. His skin was a warm brown and his eyes were an alarming shade of blue, almost violet. He had a very straight nose and a very nice mouth and very nice eyebrows and very excellent cheekbones and hair the color of silver herring and he looked nothing at all like Father. She grabbed her shovel again. “Impostor!” Alice cried. She lifted the shovel above her head, ready to break it over his skull, when he caught her arms again. He was a bit (a lot) taller than her, which made it easy for him to intimidate her, but she wasn’t yet ready to admit defeat. So she bit his arm. Quite hard, I’m afraid. He yelped, stumbling backward. When he looked up, Alice hit him in the legs with the shovel and he fell hard on his knees. She stood over him, shovel hovering above his head. “Goodness, Alice, what are you doing?” he cried, shielding his face with his arms, anticipating the final blow. “It’s me, Oliver!” Alice lowered her shovel, just a little, but she wasn’t quite ready to be ashamed of herself. “Who?” He looked up slowly. “Oliver Newbanks. Don’t you remember me?” “No,” she wanted to say, because she’d been very much looking forward to hitting him on the head and dragging his limp body inside for Mother to see (I’ve protected the family from an intruder! she’d say) but Oliver looked so very scared that it wasn’t long before her excitement gave way to sympathy, and soon she was putting down the shovel and looking at Oliver Newbanks like he was someone she should remember. “Really, Alice—we were in middlecare together!” Alice considered him closely. Oliver Newbanks was a name that sounded familiar to her, but she felt certain she didn’t know him until she noticed a scar above his left ear. She gasped, this time louder than before. Oh, she knew him alright. Alice grabbed her shovel and hit him in the legs so hard his snaplight broke and the shed went dark. The pigs were squealing and Oliver was squealing and she chased him out of the

shed and into the night and was busy telling him to never come back or she’d have her brothers eat him for breaksnack when Mother came into the yard and announced she was going to cook her for breaksnack and then Alice was squealing and by the time Mother caught up to her, Oliver was long gone. Alice’s bottom hurt for a whole week after that.

Alice’s evening had left her in a foul temper. She’d woken up this morning with the smell of pig fresh in the air, straw sticking to her hair and poking at her toes. She was angry with Mother and angry with Oliver and one of the pigs had licked her face from chin to eyeball and, good-grief-and-peanut-pie, she very desperately needed a bath. Alice shook out her skirts (stupid skirts) as best she could and set off for the pond. She was so preoccupied with the sorts of thoughts that preoccupied an almost twelve-year-old that even a perfect morning full of rainlight couldn’t soothe her. Stupid Oliver Newbanks—she kicked a clump of dirt—had the gooseberries to talk to her— she kicked another clump—no good ferenbleeding skyhole! She scooped up a handful of dirt and threw it at nothing in particular. Alice hadn’t seen Oliver Newbanks since he told the entire class that she was the ugliest girl in all of Ferenwood. He went on and on about how she had a very big nose and very small eyes and very thin lips and hair the color of old milk and she thought she might cry when he said it. He was wrong, she’d insisted. Her nose was a nice nose and her eyes were quite lovely and her lips were perfectly full and her hair looked more like cotton flowers but he wouldn’t listen. No one would. It was bad enough that Father had left, bad enough that Mother had become a prune of a person, bad enough that their life savings consisted of only twenty-five stoppicks and ten tintons. Alice had been having a rough year and she couldn’t take much more. Everyone had laughed and laughed as she stomped a bangled ankle, furious and blinking back tears. She’d decided that perhaps she’d leave more of an impression on Oliver if she spent all her finks pulling off his ear and making him eat it in front of everyone. That will teach him to listen to me, she thought. But then Alice was kicked out of school because apparently what she did was worse than what he said, which seemed awful-cruel because mean words tasted so much worse than his stupid ears and anyway, Mother has had to hometeach her ever since. Alice was starting to understand why Mother might not like her very much. Alice sighed and gave up on her skirts, untying the ties and letting them fall to the grass. Clothes exhausted her. She hated pants even more than she hated skirts, so on they stayed, as long as Mother was around. It was indecent, Mother had said to her, to walk around in her underthings, so Alice decided right then that one day she would grow a pair of wings and fly away. Were it up to Alice, she would’ve walked around in her underthings forever, barefoot and bangled, vanilla hair braided down to her knees. She pulled off her blouse and tossed that to the ground, too, closing her eyes as she lifted her head toward the sun. Rainlight drenched the air, bathing everything in an unearthly glow. She opened her mouth to taste it, but no matter how desperately she’d tried, she never could. Rainlight did not touch the people, because it was made only for the land. Rainlight was what put the magic in their world; it filtered through the air and into the soil; it grew their plants and trees and added dimension and vibrance to the explosion of colors they lived in. Red was ruby, green was fluorescent, yellow was simply incandescent. Color was life. Color was everything. Color, you see, was the universal sign of magic.

The people of Ferenwood were all born with their own small spark of magic, and the food of the land nurtured that gentle flame of their being. They each had one gift. One great magical talent. And they would perform this magical talent—a Surrender, it was called—in exchange for the ultimate task. It was tradition.

Alice opened her eyes. Today the clouds seemed puffed into existence, exhalations from the mouth of a greater being. Soon the clouds, too, would rain, and Alice’s life would thunder into something new. Purpose. She would be twelve years old. This was the year. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow. She let herself breathe, casting off the Oliver Newbankses of the world, casting off the pain Mother had caused her, casting off the pain Father had caused them, casting off the uselessness of three entire brothers who were far too small to be of any help when help was needed most. So what if she wasn’t as colorful as everyone else in Ferenwood? Alice was just as magical, and she’d finally have the chance to prove it. She picked up a fallen twig and tied its bendy body around her neck, pinching it together with her thumb and index finger as she hummed a familiar song. Eyes closed, feet dancing their way toward the pond, she was her own music, her body her favorite thing she’d ever owned. Oh, life had been a lonely one, but she knew how to pass the time.

The warm pond was the color of green amethyst. It smelled of sweet nectar but tasted like nothing at all. Alice untied her underthings and left them in the grass, pausing only to unweave her braid before jumping in. She sank right to the bottom. She sat there awhile, letting her limbs relax. Soon, she felt the familiar tickles of kissingfish and opened her eyes long enough to see them nibbling at her skin. She smiled and swam up, the fish following her every move. They wriggled alongside her, nudging her elbows and knees in an attempt to get closer. Alice swam until she was so clean she practically shined, and then the warm air dried her hair and skin so quickly she had time left to wander before her ferenberry picking for the day. Alice was always trying to find her own adventures while the other kids were in school. Mother was supposed to be home-teaching her, but she rarely did. Two years ago, when Mother was still freshly angry with Alice for getting kicked out of school (and for what she’d done to Oliver Newbanks), she’d left a stack of books on the kitchen table and told Alice to study them, warning her that if she didn’t, she’d grow up to be the silliest girl in all of Ferenwood, never mind the ugliest. Sometimes Alice wanted to say unkind things to Mother. Still, Alice loved her mother. Really, she did. Alice had made peace with her parental lot in life long ago. But let us put this plainly: Alice had always preferred Father and she had no trouble saying so. Father was more than a parent to Alice; he was her friend and confidant. Life with Father had made all hard things bearable; he’d seen to it that his daughter was so thoroughly loved that she’d never known the depth of her own insecurities. In fact, he took up so much room in her heart that she’d seldom noticed she had no other friends to name. It was only when Father disappeared that Alice began to see and feel the things she’d been long protected from. The shock of loss unlatched her armor, and soon cold winds and

whispers of fear snuck through the cracks in her skin; she wept until the whites of her eyes dried up and the lids rusted open, refusing to close long enough to let her sleep. Grief was a tangible weight Alice’s small body slowly learned to carry. She was just nine years old when Father left, but even tiny Alice would wake up scraping the bottom of her heart in search of him, and each time she came up raw, hollow, and aching. Dear reader: You should know that Alice, a decidedly proud girl, wouldn’t approve of my sharing this personal information with you. I recognize that the details of her grief are private. But it is imperative, in my humble opinion, that you know just how deeply she loved Father. Losing him had unzipped her from top to bottom, and yet, her love for him had solidified her spirit. She was broken and unbroken all at once, and the longer she stayed in Ferenwood without him, the lonelier she became. For Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, some things were very simple: If Father had gone, so too would she, because Alice had never wanted anything more than to follow his lead. Succeeding in the Surrender, you see, was her only way out.

Mother was waiting in the yard when Alice got back. Her amber eyes were bright against her brown skin and narrowed in Alice’s direction. She had one hand on her hip and one hand holding a basket. Mother wore skirts, just as Alice did, but Mother liked hers clean and simple, solid colors and layers; long-sleeved blouses tucked into her skirts and folded up to the elbows. Alice’s skirts were cumbersome, weighted down with beads and jewels and sequins, intricate patterns embroidered into the cloth. Plain fabric gave Alice headaches. Alice watched Mother closely—her hay-green curls had sprung all about her face—and Alice thought she was growing finer and lovelier every day. Sometimes looking at Mother made Alice miss Father even more. If he’d had any idea how much beauty was waiting for him at home, Alice thought, surely he would have returned. Mother’s eyes softened their stare as Alice approached. She shifted her weight and let the basket gentle onto the grass, holding her now-empty hand out to her daughter. Alice took it. They walked in silence toward the four-room cottage that was their home, its honeyedstone exterior a familiar sight. A room for eating, a room for sitting, a room for Mother, and a room for Alice and the triplets. It wasn’t enough, but somehow it was. The clay shingles were suffocated by climbing ivy that had braided itself across the roof so tightly it was nearly impossible to remove. A few tendrils had escaped down the sides of the house, and Mother pushed stray vines out of the way as they walked through the open front door. The house was still. Her brothers were still at school. Mother pointed to an empty chair. Alice stared at it. Alice took her seat, and Mother sat down beside her and set her with a look so fierce that Alice hadn’t even realized she was in trouble until just then. Her heart, poor thing, had grown feet and was kicking her from the inside. She clasped her hands together and, despite a sudden moment of panic, wondered what she should eat for noonlunch. Mother sighed. “I had a visit from Mrs. Newbanks this morning.” Stupid Mrs. Newbanks, Alice nearly said out loud. “She says Oliver has been trying to get in touch with you. You remember Oliver, of course.” More silence from Alice. “Alice,” Mother said softly, looking at the wall now. “Oliver was Surrendered last year. He’s thirteen now.” Alice knew this already. Alice knew Oliver was a year older than she was, that he was never supposed to be in her middlecare class. But she also knew he’d taken a year off to tend to Mr. Newbanks when Mr.

Newbanks had come down with the fluke, so Oliver had to stay back a year and ended up in her class. Stupid, sick Mr. Newbanks ruining her entire stupid life. Stupid Mrs. Newbanks having such a stupid kid. Stupid Newbankses being stupid all over the place. Alice didn’t care if Oliver had already Surrendered. Who cared? She didn’t. She didn’t care about him. She cared about her. Tomorrow was the day her whole life would change. She was sure of it. Alice crossed her arms. Uncrossed them. “I don’t know why we’re having this conversation,” she finally said. “I don’t care a knuckle for Oliver Newbanks. Oliver Newbanks can choke on a toad.” Mother tried not to smile. She stood up to stir a pot on the stove. “You are not curious,” Mother asked, her back to Alice, “to know what his Surrender tasked him to do?” “No.” Alice got up to leave, shoving her chair back in the process, wood screeching against wood. “Sit down, Alice.” Mother’s voice was no longer gentle. Alice hesitated in the doorway, fists clenched. “No,” she said again. “Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, you will sit back down this instant.” “No.” “Alice—” She tore off running. Out the door and down the path and through the meadow and into the field, past the pond and across the bridge and over the hill and up and up and up the tallest tree in all of Ferenwood. There she sat, heart bumping into bone, and decided she would not leave this tree until she died. Or until she got bored. Whichever came first.

No one had come to find her. Alice doubted anyone would. Not Mother, certainly, and not her triplet ten-year-old brothers, who were more interested in turning their socks into slingshots than wondering where their sister had gone for the day. She was bitter, it was true. Alice had half hoped a search party would come looking for her. Maybe the village would’ve come together in a show of support for the ugliest girl in Ferenwood. She’d half hoped Mother would worry. But Alice had so often slept in trees and woods and fields and sheds that Mother already knew she’d be just fine; in fact, Mother was probably relieved she wouldn’t have to deal with her daughter until later. In any case, Alice hadn’t collected any new ferenberries today, but she’d collected enough yesterday, so she figured she had plenty of time to throw a fit and dispense with any practicalities planned for the afternoon. She sighed. Being alive, she realized, was very tiresome. Alice let her legs dangle from a branch and leaned forward to listen, to see, to take in her world. She could see all of Ferenwood from here: the rolling hills, the endless explosion of color cascading down and across the lush landscape. Reds and blues; maroons and ceruleans. Greens and pinks; shamrocks and peaches. Yellow and tangerine and violet and aquamarine. Every hue held a flavor, a heartbeat, a life. She took a deep breath and drew it all in. There were rows upon rows of little homes, windows glowing gold in the fading rainlight. Chimneys puffed and birds fell in love and blooms let their scents sweeten the sky. The rainlight was almost gone, and with it, the sun. Sundance was nearly done for the year, and that meant no rainlight for another twelve months. A part of Alice mourned the loss of

Sundance; the weeklong showers of rainlight, the way the glow gave dignity to everything it touched. But she couldn’t be too sad; not this year. Tomorrow was her day. The first day of spring. In the wake of Father’s leaving, the Surrender was all she’d ever looked forward to, and now the day was nearly upon her. Tomorrow the clouds would break open with a promise and a purpose. Tomorrow she would dance her way to fame. To a future that needed her, expected her, required her. Winning the Surrender would mean she’d finally proven herself as a true Ferenwood citizen—and it would be her one chance to escape the life that no longer included Father. Her heart nearly burst in anticipation of it all. She got to her feet, carefully balancing herself on a branch, and jumped, catching more branches to slow her fall on the way down. Her bare feet touched the grass and she tumbled into a seated position, out of breath and exhilarated. There were only a couple of hours of rainlight left, and now that she’d had enough time to sulk, Alice felt ready to be optimistic again. She was hungry, she realized. Alice plucked flowers as she went, pocketing them gently. Flowers were just about her favorite things to snack on. She liked some nuts, some berries, and some plants (they tasted best when cooked into a soup), but flowers—oh, flowers were her favorite. Alice bit down on petals and stems, savoring the flavors but stuffing herself all the same. She found a brook and took a deep drink, stopping just long enough to dip her toes in, and once all was said and done, she felt refreshed and ready to finish the day. She should’ve headed home then. Apologized to Mother. Heard what Mother had wanted to tell her. I should be mature, Alice scolded herself. Still, she hesitated. Alice had no room of her own at home. No place, no real sense of belonging. She needed to belong somewhere. But a girl like her—a daughter who looked nothing like her mother, a sister who looked nothing like her brothers—was low on options. She felt most comfortable in nature, where things weren’t required to look like the other in order to live together peacefully. Anyway, it wasn’t that she needed anyone to like her. It was just that she already liked herself so much and found herself so very interesting (and smart and creative and nice and funny and friendly and genuine) that she really couldn’t understand why it wasn’t easier for her to fit in. And besides, Alice thought she was very pretty. Her hair didn’t have any color or shape to it, but there wasn’t anything wrong with it. It didn’t talk or spit on people or accidentally kick small children in the toes. And her skin had no color or luster to it, but it covered all her inside parts, and it wasn’t foul or sticky or covered in fur. And maybe her eyes weren’t spectacularly brown—maybe they only had a tiny bit of color— but they were bright and big and, well, perhaps they hadn’t always worked perfectly, but Father had made sure Alice got her vision fixed, and anyway, she was extremely good at pretending she didn’t give a cat’s bottom what anyone thought of her. Things would be just fine. In fact, things had just started being fine again—she was practicing her dance for the hundredth time when—wouldn’t you know it—Oliver Newbanks decided to ruin everything for the third time in two days. Alice really wished she had her shovel. “Your mother told me I might find you here,” was the first thing he said to her. Alice counted beats in her head, her feet falling and hips swaying and arms rising and skirts spinning in all the right places. Her bangles moved in perfect harmony with her steps;

she felt like she was a part of it all—a part of the world itself. Music gave her access to the earth. Her feet had grown roots, planting her into the ground with each footfall. She could feel the reverberations rising through her, beyond her. She never wanted to stop. She never wanted to forget this feeling. “Alice, I’m sorry,” he said. She kept spinning. “I’m so sorry. Please, give me a chance to explain—” Alice stopped. Her skirts swung all about her, momentum whipping them against her legs. She was out of breath and out of patience and she did not care for this conversation, not one whit. She stepped right up to Oliver Newbanks and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Yanked him down to meet her eye to eye. (He was so unaccountably tall; it was only fair.) “What do you want?” she demanded. Oliver was startled but he hid it well. She could hear his heart again and she was immediately thrown by the beauty of it. The songs of his soul; the harmony within him: It was incredible. She’d heard this symphony when she first ran into his chest, too distracted then to understand what it might mean. She dropped his shirt and her jaw and took a few steps back. She didn’t want to get near him again. “Please,” he said, holding his hands together in supplication. “That was so long ago, Alice. I was a stupid kid. I didn’t mean it.” Alice stared at him for what felt like an abominably long time. Then, “Okay.” And she turned and left. She was halfway down the meadow when he caught up to her, breathing hard. “What do you mean, ‘okay’?” he asked. Alice rolled her eyes but he couldn’t see. “Does that mean we can be friends?” “Definitely not,” she said. “Why not?” “Because I will never be able to trust you.” “Aw, c’mon, Alice—I didn’t mean it—” Alice turned on him. Narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think I’m the ugliest girl in Ferenwood?” “No! Of course n—” “Then why did you say it?” He had no answer. “You’re a cruel, silly boy,” she said, walking again. “And I do not like you. So go away, and please stop talking to me.” There. Now he would leave. “I can’t.” Alice stopped. “What?” “I can’t,” he said again, this time with a sigh. He looked into his hands, looked away. So this was what Mother was smiling about. This was it. She thought it was funny. She probably thought this was hilarious. “Alice,” Oliver whispered. “Don’t say it.” “Alice—” She covered her ears and hummed.

“Alice!” Oliver pulled her arms down, gripped her hands. “Alice, I’ve been tasked . . . to you.” “Oh, Oliver.” She looked up at the sky. She wanted to kick him very hard. “You terrible liar.” “I’m in love with you.” “Good grief.” She kept walking. Oliver was stunned. He blinked a few times. “But, Alice—” “You were tasked to me? When? A year ago? And it’s taken you this long to gather the gooseberries to tell me?” “I—I was nervous,” he stammered. “I didn’t expect it. I took the year to think about it—to understand—” “You are as much in love with me as I am in love with this tree stump over here,” Alice said, pointing to the tree stump. “Now, I’ll be on my way, thank you very much. It was awful talking to you.” “But—” “Go away, Oliver.” She kept walking. “Fine,” he said, catching up to her. He was frustrated now. Frustrated and impatient. “Fine —I’m sorry.” He clenched his jaw. Fixed a look at her. “I lied, okay? I lied.” She stared back. “What do you want from me?” He shook his head, confused. “How did you know? No one can ever tell when I’m lying—it’s the only thing I’m any good at—” “What do you want?” she said again. “Alice.” He stepped in front of her. “I need your help.” Alice took a flower out of her pocket. Bit off the top. “Of course you do,” she said, mouth full of petals. She shook her head. “Typical.”

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Alice found a nice patch of grass and sat down in it, spreading her skirts about her. She leaned back on both hands, legs crossed at the ankles, the stem of an unfinished daisy sticking out of her mouth. “Go on, then,” she said, squinting up at Oliver in the rainlight. He was a pretty kind of person, she supposed, but she thought he’d look much prettier if he traded in his personality

for something better. Oliver ran a hand through his silver hair, and a few strands fell across his eyes, contrasting sharply against the brown of his skin. His hair was definitely the color of silver herring, and Alice wondered for a moment if he’d ever eaten fish as a child. She stifled a shudder. He leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed against his chest. He leveled her with a glare. She glared back. “This is going to be much more complicated than I thought,” he muttered. “Oh?” She chewed on her daisy stem. “How can you be so unaffected by persuasion?” Alice shrugged. “How can you be such an awful person?” “I’m not an awful person.” He frowned. “You still think I’m the ugliest girl in Ferenwood, don’t you?” He considered her. Hesitated. “You should know,” Alice said to him, “that I won’t help you worth a twig unless you are always honest with me.” She reached into her pocket for a tulip and offered it to him. He cringed, shook his head and looked away. “I don’t know how you eat that stuff,” she heard him say. Alice made a face and shoved the whole tulip in her mouth at once. “So?” she said, still chewing. “You think I’m hideous.” Oliver looked her over. Shook his head. Alice froze. “No?” She’d practically whispered the word, heart thumping hard. She hadn’t realized how much she’d hoped he’d changed his mind. She didn’t want to be ugly. She so very desperately didn’t want to be ugly. “You don’t think I’m hideous?” she asked him. Oliver shrugged. “I think you look like nothing.” “Oh.” Alice ducked her head. His words stung, neat little slaps for each syllable against her face. Nothing was so much worse than ugly. Alice’s cheeks had bloomed, reds and pinks warming her face. Oliver noticed. “Hey,” he said gently. “I was just being honest, just like you told me to—” “Good.” She spoke too loudly, blinking fast. She did not want his sympathy. She looked him right in the eye then, all red cheeks and racing heart, and told herself it did not matter what Oliver Newbanks thought of her, even though somehow it did. “So be honest about what you want,” she said to him. “Why are you here?” Oliver sighed. Looked into his hands and then up at her. Then back into his hands, and then finally, firmly, back at her. “I know what you can do.” A half-chewed petal fell out of her open mouth. “I’m sure I’m not sure I have any idea what you’re talking about.” “You’re not the only one who knows truths, Alice.” “What?” Her eyes went wide. “Is that how you know?” she whispered. “Can you . . . read minds?” “No.” Oliver laughed. “I have the talent of persuasion. With the added benefit of knowing one thing about each person I meet.” “Oh?” He nodded. “And what’s that?” Alice asked. “Their most private secret of all.” If she hadn’t been sitting down, Alice would’ve needed to then. It made perfect sense. His heart and bones—the beauty she’d heard before. She understood then, right then, that it was because he’d been collecting the secret songs and whispers of every soul he’d met. For thirteen years.

It was incredible. “So,” he said, more at ease now. “I’ve been honest with you. In exchange, I’ll need your help.” “Sit down,” she told him. And pointed to a place beside her. He obliged. “How long have you known?” she asked. “Known what?” “About my . . . you know . . .” Alice made a gesture that meant exactly nothing. Oliver seemed to understand anyway. “Since the day I met you,” he said. “And why now? Why tell me this now?” “Because.” He sighed. “It’s been an entire year since my Surrender, and I haven’t been able to complete my task. It’s been nearly impossible.” “But using me—that would be cheating, wouldn’t it?” “No one would have to know.” “They would if I told them,” she pointed out. “You’re not going to tell them.” Alice stood up at once. “Oliver Newbanks,” she said, astounded. “I’ve only told three lies in my entire life and I certainly will not tell a fourth one for you. And if you think you can bully me into using magic I don’t even believe in, you’ve left your head and your horse behind.” “Well no one’s asked you to do any magic, have they?” he said, scrambling to his feet as well. Alice glared. Oliver shrugged. “In any case, I think you would change your mind about helping me if you heard what I had to say.” “I wouldn’t.” “You would,” he said. “Because I can offer you something in return for your cooperation.” “There is nothing you could offer me that I would want, you overgrown pineapple.” Oliver hesitated. Looked at her carefully. “Alice,” he said. “I know where your father is.”

“Oh.” Alice felt oddly disconnected as she floated down to the ground. She looked around like she didn’t know where she was. “Oh my.” Oliver crouched in front of her. “You help me,” he said, “and I help you. It’s that simple.” Alice had never been able to prove it, but she’d always known that Father was still alive. She’d mourned his absence, yes, but she’d never mourned his death, because she’d been sure —absolutely sure—that one day, somehow, she would find him again. Father was out there. Somewhere. He had to be! Though she really ought to make sure. “What if you’re lying?” she whispered, eyes the size of sunflowers. “You would know, wouldn’t you?” He looked unhappy about that. But it was true. She would. The week after Father left, Alice had made the biggest purchase of her life. At the time, her savings were a total of seven finks—just one fink short of a stoppick—and she used them to make an ever-binding promise: For as long as a single lie never left her lips, she could never be fooled by one. It was the only way she could be sure she’d find Father one day. To never be led astray. (A gentle aside: While it is very common practice in Ferenwood to spend finks and stoppicks on any number of impermanent tricks and promises, it is my personal belief that Alice’s gesture, while exceedingly romantic, was altogether impractical. A waste of seven finks, for certain, but then, we cannot fault the girl for wanting to exercise some control over the situation, can we? But I digress.)

“Oh Oliver where is he?” Alice asked suddenly, heart racing and hopes soaring and hands shaking. “Where did he go?” “Not so fast,” Oliver said, holding up a hand. “First we solve my task, and then we get your father.” “But that doesn’t seem fair—” “It’s the only deal I’ll offer.” “We both have something to lose,” she protested. “If you don’t finish your task—” “I know,” he said, cutting her off with an unkind look. “I already know what will happen to me if I don’t finish my task. You don’t have to say it out loud.” Alice was about to say it out loud anyway when she remembered something awful. She fell back against the tree, gasping “Oh no, oh no” over and over again. “What?” Oliver tried not to look concerned. “What is it?” She looked up. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow is the first day of spring.” “So?” “So,” she insisted, irritated now. “Tomorrow I will be getting a task of my own!” “You’re twelve already?” Oliver gaped at her, running both hands through his hair. “I thought you were nine.” Alice chose to ignore that last bit. Instead, she said, “What if I have to catch a dragon like Fenny Birdfinsk? Or if I’m sent to the stars like Sellie Sodcryer or, oh, if I have to spend a year mending a cow with nothing but a silver penny!” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Oliver said. “No one has ever had to mend a cow with a silver penny. They’ll let you use a gold nickel, at the very least—” “Oh kick the cow, Oliver, it will be impossible for me to help you!” “Right,” he said, dragging a hand across his face. “Yes, right.” Alice’s hopes had been dashed. They fell into a neat pile beside her feet. “Unless,” Oliver said suddenly. She looked up. “Unless—” he said again, then hesitated. “Go on.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “Unless you waive your Surrender.” Alice gasped. Waiving her Surrender was an option that had never been an option. Her Surrender was a ticket to something new—a task that would set her life in motion. Every child in Ferenwood grew up aching to be tasked—awaiting adventure and the thrill of a challenge. Alice had been dreaming of this day her entire life. Different though she may have looked, her heart was a Ferenwood heart, and she had the right to her task just like everyone else. She’d clung to this all through kindercare and middlecare and hometeaching with Mother—this hope, this truth—that one day, no matter her differences, she would be just like everyone else in this small way. Losing it would break her heart. Just as losing Father had broken her heart.

Picnicsticks, she didn’t know what to do.

Alice wandered toward town in a daze. She wasn’t entirely sure why she was headed this way, but today had been a strange day, and she couldn’t face going home just yet. Still, she seldom traveled this far out, because going into town was a painful treat. There

was so much she wanted to explore (and purchase!) but with just one fink in her pocket, Alice could only do so much. She ambled down familiar grassy lanes toward the stone-paved streets of town with none of her usual excitement; she kept tripping over roots and sleeping birds and had to pause occasionally to rest her head against a tree trunk. There was so much on her mind she hardly had room for things like balance and hand-eye coordination. Alice sighed and prepared to set off again, but then she heard a rustle of paper and soon spotted the culprit: the town newspaper caught in a tree, clutched in a fist of branches. She managed to tug the paper free, scanning the front page with little interest. Boiled potatoes were five finks a sackful. The town square would be under construction in preparation for the Surrender, please excuse the mess. Had anyone seen Mr. Perciful’s pygmy goat? Zeynab Tinkser was selling a lemon canoe for fifteen tintons. Alice’s eyes went wide at that last line. Fifteen tintons was more magic than she’d ever seen. She couldn’t even imagine what she’d do with it all. (Though that was nonsense, wasn’t it? Of course she could. She’d use it all to find Father.) Not for the first time, Alice wished she was old enough to earn a few stoppicks of her own and not have to rely on Mother’s unreliable ways. Alice tucked the newspaper under her arm. Ferenwood never had much news to tell; things were always predictably lovely. The most recent trouble their little town had encountered was losing a few pigs to a particularly strong gust of wind, but that was a few days ago. The worst thing that had ever happened in Ferenwood was losing Father, of course. That had been the strangest thing of all, because leaving Ferenwood was something no one ever did. Not really. Alice had certainly never left Ferenwood. None of the other children had, either. Being tasked was the one great exception —it was an adventure on which every Ferenwood citizen was expected to embark—but everyone always came home in the end. Besides, they were surrounded by sea on every side but one, and to get out to the great unknown they had to pass through Fennelskein, which, as I mentioned earlier, no one ever visited, for obvious reasons. (I should note here that these reasons were not readily obvious to me, an outsider, but try as I might, I couldn’t get anyone to explain why, exactly, they never visited the town of Fennelskein. I think the unexciting answer was that they found the town unbearably dull, but we may never know for certain.) But the simple reason no one ever left Ferenwood for very long was that Ferenwood folk needed magic to survive. Father had been gone for more than three years, a length of time that was considered unsurvivable. The children of Ferenwood were taught—from the moment they could talk—that leaving for long would never do. Magic was what they ate and breathed; it was the essence of all they were. Their relationship with the land was entirely symbiotic: They lived peacefully among the plants and trees, and in return, the land helped them thrive. The seed of magic inside all people of Ferenwood was nurtured and sustained by the land they tilled and harvested. Without that, they’d be lost. And this was the real problem, the real heart of the hurt, the truth that made Father’s loss so much more painful: that there was no magic outside of Ferenwood. Certainly not anywhere anyone had heard of. There had been rumors, of course, of other distant, magical lands, but there were always rumors, weren’t there? Rumors bred of boredom and nonsense born of recklessness. And everyone in Ferenwood knew better than to believe nonsense. Ferenwood didn’t hold with nonsense. At least, Alice didn’t think they did, but she was never really sure. Losing Father to the great unknown had made Alice a believer in all kinds of nonsense, and she didn’t mind that it made her odd. Maybe Father had found a bit of magic elsewhere, and maybe he was holding on. Maybe, she thought, he was still trying to find his way home.

Alice lived in a time before proper maps, before street signs and numbered homes. She lived in a time when leaving home meant saying good-bye and hoping you’d be able to find your way back. Hope, you see, was all she had, and she would hold on to it, come hills or high water.

The center of town was always a bit of a shock for Alice no matter how many times she’d wandered through, and I can’t say I blame the girl. It was a bit of a shock at first glance. The endless sequence of bold buildings appeared to be shoved together in what was, apparently, a fine show of geometry well studied. Curves shook up and into straight lines, tops capped by triangle or dome or dollop of roof (depending on the storefront) while walls were textured by octagonal, triangular, and starlike tile work. Chimneys were spirals of brick charging into the sky, doors were tall as walls and nearly as wide, and—as you might have already imagined—colors were sharp and bright and endless. (Indeed, one might occasionally be pressed to wonder whether the aesthetic of Ferenwood wasn’t a direct answer to the question, How many colors might we fit in one place?) It was a string of streets woven together in no particular fashion and for no particular reason other than to accommodate the buildings that appeared to have sprouted straight from the ground. Alice’s family was one of the very few that lived so far from town, and though it was sometimes hard to be high up in the hills and far from the heart of things, she was also seldom bothered with the business of seeing old schoolmates or nosy grown-ups who thrived on the buzz and babble of crowds. For the most part, Alice relished her occasional ambles into the middle of the middle; but though she was eager for a peek at the excitement, she was always swiftly reminded of her place within it. Alice stood at the very edge of it all and let herself be swallowed up by the sounds and scents of city life. Rainlight ensured that the day was warm and the flowers fresh, and bells rang out while friends called to one another. Fathers clasped hands with mothers who called for children to please be still while shopkeepers stood on stoops and waved their wares. Alice felt the weight of the single fink in her pocket as she stared and wished, as always, that Father were there to hold her hand. But no matter. Alice held her own hand, one clenched tightly in the other, and pushed her way through the throng. She wasn’t tall enough to see very far ahead, but she was certainly short enough to be knocked into by strangers and occasionally snapped in the cheek by a windblown skirt. The air had been tousled by the hands of careful spicekeepers, and Alice tasted mint silk and snips of coconut and nearly everything she touched left her smelling like saffron. A gaggle of children had crowded around Asal Masal & Chai, eagerly testing samples of a tea that guaranteed they’d grow a full inch by morning. Teenagers were digging through ornate tubs of temporary enchantments— FIVE FINKS TO FALL IN LOVE SEVEN FINKS TO GROW YOUR HAIR A STOPPICK TO DISAPPEAR —while the older crowd was found relaxing at a series of tables and chairs pressed with intricate patterns of colorful glass. The ladies and gentlemen old enough to indulge puffed on curlicued gold pipes and smiled, blue and red and purple smoke escaping their lips as they laughed. Alice snuck a sniff as she tiptoed past and felt her head go sideways with the weight of it. She smiled despite herself and, not for the first time, found herself wishing she were old enough to do more interesting things. Alice pressed forward, determined, toward Shirini Firini, the absolute best sweets shop in town. She scrambled over gentle mountains of handwoven rugs, each dense with color and

detail. She slowed only to stare in awe at a stall stacked with warm, freshly baked discs of bread, all golden-brown and haphazardly kneaded. Poor Alice was so distracted by the aroma of baked goods she nearly collided with a crowd of men singing in the street; she managed to dart away just in time to avoid the sight of Danyal Rubin, who’d been crossing the road to join the crooners. Alice fought back a scowl. Oh, there was always someone to be envied, wasn’t there? For Alice-of-little-color, Danyal Rubin was a nightmare. He was the most radiant twelveyear-old she knew, with his rich black hair and ink-like eyes. His skin was the color of dusk: auburn and magenta and cinnamon all at once. He had color and he wore it well, framing his already-luminous eyes in kohl that served only to make Alice feel worse. She’d heard the whispers; she knew the rumors. The town was betting on Danyal to win the Surrender this year, because someone so colorful was undoubtedly the most magical. In the hearts of Ferenwood folk, Alice didn’t stand a chance. But she would prove them wrong. Alice clenched her fists and pushed forward through the crowd with such force that she nearly knocked into a group of girls tinting their nails with henna. For just a moment Alice froze, overcome by a great longing to join them, but quickly shook it off, keeping her head down as she passed, ever mindful of the limitations of her pocket. When she finally reached Shirini Firini, Alice was out of breath and exhausted. Coming into town was always a trek, but she should’ve known better than to have ventured out today, on the eve of the Surrender. All of Ferenwood was out to celebrate, and the festivities would likely last all week. Alice checked the sun as she stepped inside the store and noted she had very little time to get home before dark. The moment she stepped over the threshold, Alice was overpowered by a heady perfume of sugar. By second three, she was in a happy daze, her every thought sweeter, her very heart lighter, and her hands happily grabbing for everything in sight. Alice knew better than to let the sugar dust get the better of her, but she was happy to rest for just a moment longer before she found the strength to fight again. As soon as she shook off the daze, she found herself sifting through candies with a more stable mind. One fink wouldn’t afford her many options, but she liked to look around all the same. Glass apples were hung from the ceiling, honey-canes gift wrapped in packs of three; figcherry jams were stacked in windows and honeysuckle taffies were spilling out of wooden barrels stacked in each corner. There were walls of iced plums and pomegranates, bushels of baskets weighed down by gold-chocolate leaves and tens of jars of apricot honey that fizzed in your mouth. Alice looked and looked and never tired of the splendor, but she very nearly gasped herself silly when she saw the trays of zulzuls. A zulzul was a spiral of fried dough soaked in honey and covered in sugared rose petals; and on any given day, Alice would tell you that zulzuls were her favorite pastry. (Note that this confession would be entirely ridiculous, as Alice had never tasted a zulzul in her life. But she could imagine herself loving zulzuls, and somehow, that was enough.) Finally, reluctantly, Alice selected a single dillypop from a small plastic bin and promised herself that one day, someday, she would return with a pocketful of finks and choose as many sweets as she liked. One day. Her single task now accomplished, Alice was in a hurry to get home. There was very little light left, and if Alice was late one more time, she didn’t know what Mother would do. She hurried down sidewalks and tore through spice stalls and slipped between racks of skirts. She spun around shopkeepers and nearly tripped passersby and only glanced up once or thrice to sneak looks at her most favorite storefronts as she rushed home. Knot & Tug was selling self-sewing needles for only three finks apiece, and Alice tucked the information away. Sabzi, the local grocer, was selling lemon blossom twists, two finks a pound, and Alice took

note for Mother. But The Danger & The Granger—the best bookshop in town—had new books on display in the window, and Alice was thrown off course. She stopped so suddenly she nearly fell over and, despite her better judgment, she snuck closer to press her nose against the glass. Once near enough to the window, the first thing Alice noticed was a small crowd of people buzzing animatedly around a man sporting a very trim beard. He wore several spectacles and an oversized tunic and Alice realized then that he was an author, ostensibly there for a reading of his book. She squinted to scan the title of the tome in his hands— The Birth of the Stoppick: Inside the Mind of Fenjoon Heartweather and Salda Millerdon, the Greatest Harvesters of Magic in Ferenwood History —and sighed, disappointed. Alice didn’t much care for the history of harvesting. She found the business terribly boring and, if she were being honest, she might even tell you she resented the whole of it simply because she feared it would be her fate one day. Alice had worried all her young life that she’d end up good for nothing but tilling the fields. Tilling was honorable but it was an exceptionally unglamorous job, and Alice preferred to be on the other side of things: taking raw magic and transforming it into usable matter. Anyhow, she was about to push on when she remembered the very reason she’d stopped. There were two books on display in the shop window. The Surrender, The Task, and the Long Way Back: How to Cope When Your Child Leaves Home and just beside it Champions of Recent Past: Remembering our Ferenwood Heroes Alice’s eyes nearly split in four as she shoved herself through the shop doors and ran for the books in the window. Limbs trembling, heart racing, Alice picked up a copy of Champions of Recent Past and ran her hand over the cover. There, with a small selection of other town heroes, was a picture of Father, aged twelve and glorious, the winner of his own Surrender just thirty years prior. Alice had always known Father was a Champion. Father won the title for his dexterity of mind and for his ability to retain and re-create images at will; his task was to travel the land and work with the Town Elders to become the first true cartographer of Ferenwood. He and the Elders had been working together to create maps so precise and so easily navigable that one day all Ferenwood residents would have a copy of their own, enabling them to travel from one neighborhill to another without complication or confusion. In fact, his work had been so remarkable that he’d been asked to stay on with the Town Elders ever after. This kind of treatment was fairly customary for Champions, who were considered the single most talented citizens of their year; but Father had been more than just a Champion. Father was a friend to Ferenwood. He was loved by all. In fact, it was often whispered that one day Father would be named a Town Elder, too. Instead, Father had left, and not a soul knew why.

Mother was making tea when Alice finally made it home—just before dark. Alice pushed open the front door with a secret weighing down her skirts: Inside her pocket was the one dillypop, carefully wrapped, to be saved for a special occasion. Alice would have to wait weeks to get her hands on another fink but she’d made peace with the loss of the last of her money. The triplets were eating appleberry jam straight from the jar, small purple fingers sticking to their faces. Mother was humming a tune as she moved about the kitchen and, even

though Alice stood before her, Mother wiped her just-washed hands on her apron and didn’t seem to notice her daughter at all. Oh, it didn’t matter. Alice was tired, she was torn, and she took a seat, dropping her chin in her hands. What a day today had been. Nothing would shake the weight of the world from her shoulders tonight, not even a cheekful of candy. Alice wished the world would shed a few pounds. She desperately wanted to find Father, but she also desperately wanted to have a task; and so she’d come to no conclusion at all, leaving Oliver in a twist of his own. Finding Father meant trusting Oliver. It meant sacrificing her own future to help him with his, and even then there was no guarantee of anything. Besides, just because she could see through a lie did not mean she had any reason to trust Oliver Newbanks. Alice pushed away from the table and slipped into her bedroom, grateful for the chance to be alone while her brothers were busy in the kitchen. There was one small section of this room that was hers and hers alone, and it was hidden under the floorboards. Alice had hidden her life underneath this room. Books and trinkets, clothes and flowers: the only precious things she owned. She carefully removed a few planks of wood and unearthed her outfit for tomorrow. She’d been working on it for two years, carefully stitching it together, piece by piece. Four skirts, a half-sleeved blouse, a vest, and a cropped, sleeveless jacket all to be worn together. The final bit was the headpiece, crocheted by hand, trimmed with a train of yellow tulle and strung with hammered tin coins. Alice had spent months dyeing the fabrics and adorning the plain cloth, embroidering flowers, sewing beads and sequins into intricate patterns, and adding tiny mirrors to the hem to make the skirt glitter with every step. It was an explosion of colors, heavy with the weight of all the work she’d done. She even knew exactly which flowers she’d weave into her braid. Alice knew she would be incredible. She would so thoroughly impress the Town Elders that they’d have no choice but to give her the best task—the grandest task. She’d go on to be a town hero, just like Father, and she would make her family proud. She’d had it all figured out. Children in Ferenwood prepared their whole lives for their Surrender. Each child was born with a singular magical talent, and it was the job of parents and teachers to recognize and nurture that talent and, ultimately, develop their Surrender performance. The performance was crucial because it was a presentation of untapped potential; it was critical to show just how useful your magical talent could be because the best talents would go on to receive the best tasks. The best adventures. This was what Alice had dreamed of. But Alice hadn’t needed any of that extra help, because she’d figured it out on her own. Father had told her, many moons ago, what she needed to do. Maybe he hadn’t realized it then, but she had. “Do you hear that?” he asked her one night. They were standing under the night sky. “Hear what?” Alice asked. “The music.” “Which music?” Father closed his eyes and smiled at the moon. “Oh, Alice,” he whispered. “Unfold your heart. Sharpen your ears. And never say no to the world when it asks you to dance.” They slept in the grass that night, she and Father, not saying another word. Alice listened to the earth come alive: the wind singing, the grass swaying, the lakes swimming laps. Trees stretched their branches, flowers yawned themselves to sleep, the stars blinking fast as they dozed off. She witnessed it all, listening closely the whole time. She had never felt more real in all her life.

And every night after that, when Father asked her if she could hear the music, Alice knew exactly what he meant. And when the world asked her to dance, she never said no.

Alice looked up and found Mother standing in the doorway. Mother didn’t look upset, but she had her arms crossed against her chest all the same. She nodded to the skirts Alice was holding in her lap. “Are you ready?” Mother asked. “I think so,” Alice said quietly, wondering what Mother would say if she knew how selfish her daughter was. Selfish enough to consider getting tasked over finding Father. Mother would never forgive her. “What if I have to leave Ferenwood?” Alice said, feeling unexpectedly emotional. “Will you be alright without me? How will you get by?” “Oh, we’ll find a way to manage,” Mother said, staring at her hands as she smoothed out her apron. “I’ve been stowing away the berries for some time now.” Alice wondered whether Mother would ever realize how deeply those words hurt her that night. Mother had answered a question Alice did not ask. Alice wanted Mother to tell her she’d be missed, that she’d be sorry to see her go. Alice wasn’t asking about the ferenberries at all. It was only then that Alice saw how little Mother needed her. Alice did not belong in this small home where no room was her own, where her few possessions had to be buried beneath it. She knew now that no one would miss her so long as Mother had her medicine berries, and it made her feel terribly lonely. Father had already left her, and now, in her own way, Mother had, too. Alice was on her own and she knew then, in that moment, that no matter what happened, she would forever regret a decision to waive her Surrender. She would never forgive herself for not forging a path of her own. So, it was decided. She would dance tomorrow. (And Oliver Newbanks could step on a porcupine. Alice would find Father by herself.)

I HAVEN’T ANY IDEA HOW MANY CHAPTERS ARE IN THIS BOOK

The morning arrived the way Alice imagined a whisper would: in tendrils of gray and threads of gold, quietly, quietly. The sky was illuminated with great care and deliberation, and she leaned back to watch it bloom. Alice was sitting atop a very high hill, the whole of Ferenwood snoozing just below. Sleeping homes exhaled quietly, smoking chimneys gently puffing, unlit windows glinting golden in the dawn. Dew had touched the earth and the earth touched back: Blades of grass shivered awake as they reached for the sky, freshly showered and slightly damp. Bees were lounging, bread was baking, birds were chirping to the trees. Everything smelled like warm velvet tea and a freshly scrubbed face and something very, very sweet. Alice smiled, clutching her arms in the breeze.

The air was cold in places, but warm where the sun touched it, so she shifted to catch a spotlight. Her skirts glimmered in the glow as she adjusted her legs, and feeling a slight quiver in her stomach, Alice plucked a nearby dandelion and popped it in her mouth. This was it. Today she would be competing with every twelve-year-old in the village. All eighty-six of them would stand before the Town Elders and surrender their greatest talents. In exchange, they hoped to be recognized and set with a task that would change history. In truth, simply being tasked at all was a great accomplishment. Ferenwood never talked of the children who were rejected outright, dismissed on account of being so thoroughly incapable that they could not possibly live up to a challenge. Instead, the conversation was always about the greatest task and which child it would go to. This auspicious day was a grand celebration of magic; and for Alice, who desperately longed to be more than nothing, the Surrender meant everything. It meant redemption. Alice stood up and smoothed the creases in her skirts. She was so proud of this outfit and all the work she’d put into it. In fact, it was the only time she was happy to be wearing clothes. Not that there was anyone around to see them. She’d slipped out of the house while Mother and the triplets were still fast asleep. No hellos, no good-byes, just Alice moving into a new moment. This quiet morning might have been her last for a long time, and she wanted it all to herself. Happy Birthday to me, she thought. Alice was now officially twelve years old. She skipped a ways down the path toward the town square, skirts bunched in her hands, bangled ankles and wrists making a merry tune of their own. The path to the square was one of her favorites. Green stood sentinel on both sides of her. Celery trees and apple bushes and lime stalks all as tall as she, swaying to a rhythm she recognized. The dirt was soft and welcome under her bare feet, and when it felt right she stopped, digging her toes into the ground as she turned her face up to the sky. Alice could see the entire square from here, and the sight of it stopped her still, the way it always did. Ferenwood had many tall trees, but only a few tall places, and the square was the tallest place in town. And even though the trees (Ink trees and Night trees, Sink trees and Climb trees; Berry trees and Nut trees and Red trees and Wild trees) were rich in color (corn colored and raspberry stained and even a deep dark blue), and extremely varied (some grew pink stones and others dripped orange in the night), the square was tall and colorful and varied in ways the trees were not. The buildings in town seemed (understandably) magicked together, strokes of a paintbrush licking them into being. Swirls and swirls of color had been swept together by a careful artist. Colors melted up walls and rushed down doors, orange and lavender swirling into a plump onion of a roof that sat snugly upon a structure painted gold; this was the health house. Green and yellow tangled with sapphire and silver to create a colorful dollop of a dome atop the schoolhouse. Strokes of flaming blue and rosy white were slicked together like an upsidedown ice-cream cone: this, the roof of the mint-colored courthouse. In this light, Ferenwood looked delicious. Alice closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Father had taught her to love this town, and she couldn’t help but want to make her people proud. The sky was in fine form this morning, ready for its big moment. The clouds would burst open just as soon as the ceremony was over, showering the village in felicitations from the sky. Rain meant renewal, and the people of Ferenwood welcomed it. It was what their souls were made of.

When their world was built it was so breathtakingly beautiful—so rich and colorful—the sky wept for a hundred years. Tears of great joy and grief flooded the earth, fissuring it apart and, in the process, creating rivers and lakes and oceans that still exist today. There was joy for the beauty, but great sadness, too—sadness that no one was around to appreciate the majesty of it all. And so, as the story goes, Ferenwood folk were born from the tears that watered the earth and grew them into being. The Surrender was how they gave thanks. At twelve they surrendered themselves and their gifts and, in return, took on a task—the purpose of which was always to help someone or someplace in need. They gave back to the world and, in the process, they grew up. This was when their lives truly began.

I hadn’t wanted to mention this earlier, but Oliver Newbanks had been standing just to the left of our Alice for over fourteen minutes before he finally stepped forward and pulled on her braid. I also feel compelled to mention that Alice responded by pinching him very, very hard. Oliver yelped and teetered, nearly losing his balance. He tugged up his shirt to inspect the damage and offered Alice a ripe word or two to express his feelings on the matter. Alice turned away, very purposely avoiding the sight of his bare torso and the sound of his stillbabbling voice. “Would you hush?” she finally said to him. “You are ruining a perfectly good moment.” She nodded to the sun inching its way up the sky. “Alice,” he said impatiently, “you need to give me an answer. You promised you’d let me know before the Surrender this morning, and now the moment is nearly upon us.” Alice squinted into the distance, still avoiding eye contact with him. She wasn’t sure why she cared, but, for just a second, a very tiny part of her was almost sorry to disappoint him. She pushed it away. “I’m afraid I cannot help you,” she said quietly. “This day is too important, Oliver. I know Father would understand my decision.” Oliver seemed genuinely surprised. In fact, his wide eyes and high brows and open mouth came together to express their collective shock, all without saying a word. “You can’t be serious,” he whispered. “Alice, please—you can’t really be serious—” “Quite serious, I’m afraid.” “But your father—” “I will find him on my own, don’t you worry about him.” “But I already know where he is!” Oliver nearly shouted. “I could get to him right now if I wanted to!” Alice shot him a dirty look. “Then why don’t you?” Oliver gaped. “You are a rotten person,” she said. “That you would dangle my father in front of me as though he were a bit of candy. It’s not enough for you to simply bring him back to his family with no expectation of anything in return—” “Hey now—” “We have no deal, Oliver.” She cut him off. “If you have even half a heart, you may tell me where my father is. Otherwise, I have a life to attend to.” “You are unbelievable!” he sputtered. “Good day, Oliver Newbanks. And good luck with your task.” And with that, she ran down the hill toward the village square.

Oliver Newbanks was close behind.

Alice’s stomach felt stuffed with twigs, each nervous tap of her toes snapping one in half. The morning was brisk and buttery and sent a sudden shiver down her spine. She was standing in line with her peers, keeping very much to herself. Some were dressed in costume, others in plain clothes. Some looked nervous, others looked pompous. There was no way of knowing what any of it meant. The twelve-year-olds had already signed in and each been assigned a number; now all that was left to do was wait, and it was proving nearly impossible. Alice had the sudden, unfortunate need to make use of the ladies’ toilets and though she tried, she could not mute the din of voices around her. The people of Ferenwood were dressed in their Ferenwood finest. Gowns made of spider silk and hats carved from cottonwood, colors clashing and sounds smashing and cheers erupting for no reason at all. The audience was beginning to take their seats, wide-eyed and excited with the smell of spring fresh in the air. The stage looked lovely every year, but this year it looked especially fantastic. Today it was made to look just like a stretch of ocean, the plum-blue water lapping at the feet of its contestants and cascading to the ground. Just below it was an expanse of green, set with a smattering of tables and chairs carved from the arms and legs of fallen trees. Vines had knitted themselves across the backs of every chair and the tables were set with gold baskets of glass apples and honey-canes and chocolate-covered sizzle sticks and pitchers of fire-cider and candied-ice. An orchestra readied their instruments; the sky thundered in appreciation; flowers were blossoming in hundreds of glass orbs suspended in midair; and the sun set fire to the sky, streaking the backdrop with an explosion of blush and tangerine and honeyblue. It was all rather breathtaking. Quite. Whoever’s job it was to decorate had put a little too much sugar in the air and it was making Alice want to sneeze. She tried to stifle the impulse and coughed instead, startling the girl standing just to the left of her. Alice rocked back and forth on her heels and clasped her hands, smiling a shaky smile as the girl glanced her way. The girl smiled back and seemed to regret it. Alice stared down at her feet. Of the eighty-six of them, Alice was fourth in line. And she would be lying if she said she hadn’t felt like upending the contents of her stomach, just a little bit. Alice spotted Mother and the triplets as they searched for their seats, and she couldn’t help but feel a spot of warmth settle inside her, soothing her nerves. She had hoped they would come but, really, she wasn’t sure. She never could be certain with Mother, if only because Mother had proven herself to be rather fickle these past few years. But despite their strange and often uncomfortable relationship, Alice couldn’t help but want to make her mother proud. She’d hoped to make her proud today. In fact, the bitterness Alice felt toward Mother was just about to be forgotten until she saw Mother take a seat next to the Newbankses. Oliver caught her eye and glared (Alice glared back) as Mother laughed and shook hands and shared fruit with the family of the boy who’d been so cruel to her. Mother didn’t seem to spare a single thought for her feelings. Alice didn’t want to think about it then, but the truth was staring her straight in the face and she could no longer deny it: Mother never seemed to be on her side. Alice hung her head and drew in a deep breath, determined to keep moving, no matter what. One day, she said to herself, she would return home with Father in hand, and Mother would finally appreciate her. Just then came the sound of trumpets and a sudden explosion of color that fell and hung neatly in the sky. It was the official announcement. The beginning of the rest of her life.

Mr. Lottingale stepped onto the stage. A hush fell over the crowd, and the eighty-six of them—hovering just to the side—were so collectively nervous Alice could almost hear their hearts racing in unison. Mr. Lottingale was one of the Town Elders and he had come to make a speech. It was the obvious thing to do, to make a speech before the main event, but Alice could never take Mr. Lottingale seriously. He looked a bit like a pistachio. He was round and beige, cracked open only at the top, his head turtling out, and his brown-green hair flopped around in the breeze. She knew it wasn’t fair of her to focus only on Mr. Lottingale’s looks, as he was certainly a nice-enough person, but every time she looked at him she couldn’t help but think of the time she saw him lick a caterpillar off his upper lip. “Friends of Ferenwood,” he boomed, caterpillar voice creeping out of his caterpillar lips. “I congratulate you all on the first day of spring.” The crowd cheered and stomped and raised their glasses of cider. “Today is a most auspicious occasion,” Lottingale went on. And on, and on and on. He spent the next ten minutes giving a speech about the great day that is the day of their Surrender, and I can’t be bothered to remember it all (it went on for nine minutes too long, if you ask me), but suffice it to say that it was a heart-warming speech that excited the crowd and sent jitters up Alice’s skirts; and anyway, I hope you don’t mind but I’d like to skip ahead to the part where things actually happen.

They would all perform. All eighty-six of them. Only after all of the twelve-year-olds had surrendered their gifts would they be allowed to take seats with their families, where they’d attempt to eat a meal while the Elders took a break to deliberate. Once the decisions were final, an envelope would appear on their plates, their tasks carefully tucked inside. Of the group, only one task would be announced to all of Ferenwood; only one child would be celebrated. Only the best. Alice held tight to this reminder as she watched Valentina Milly take the stage. She was the first of them, and Alice admired her for it. Valentina stood in the middle of the square with a great, quiet sort of dignity, never once letting it show that she’d been crying in the bushes just a moment before. And then she sang. She had the voice of a featherlily, effortlessly charming the lot of them. Valentina sang a song Alice had never heard before, and the words wrapped around their bodies, sending shivers up tree trunks and hushing the birds into a stillness Alice had never seen. The song was so lovely that Alice was blinking back tears by the end of it, certain that something strange and frightening was coming to life inside of her. Alice knew then that Valentina Milly had no ordinary voice, and though Alice was terribly jealous, her hands found themselves clapping for her competitor all the same. Next came Haider Zanotti, a boy with the bluest hair Alice had ever seen. Electric, violent blue, thick and rich and so gorgeous she was sorely tempted to run her hands through it. Haider stepped into the very center of the square, took a bow, and then jumped. Up. High. Straight into the sky. His hands caught something Alice could not see, and he was suspended in midair, fists clenched around what seemed to be an invisible ladder. He hoisted himself up and climbed until he was standing taller than the tallest trees, a speck in the distance held up by nothing at all.

The crowd gasped and some got to their feet, shielding their eyes against the sun as they tried to get a better look at where he’d gone. Then, Haider jumped. He fell fast toward the ground and a few people screamed, but Haider was prepared. He held both arms out as he came down and, with just a few feet to fall, latched on to the air, his fists curling around some impossible bit of sky. He hung there for just a moment longer before dropping to one knee. When he finally stood up, Ferenwood had, too. They were so excited and so impressed that Mr. Lottingale had to beg them to stop cheering so the proceedings could move forward. Haider rejoined the line looking very pleased with himself. Alice knew she should’ve been happy for him, but she felt the knot in her stomach tighten and so she bit her lip, hugging herself against the sudden chill creeping down her neck. Olympia Choo was up next. Olympia was a big girl, tall and rotund, her hair pulled back so severely she looked much older than twelve. She walked onto the stage with not an ounce of nonsense about her. And when she looked out over the crowd, they seemed almost afraid to look back. Olympia clapped. And everything broke. Chairs, tables, glasses, pitchers, plates, and even one poor man’s trousers. Everything came crashing to the floor, and the citizens of Ferenwood with it. But just as they were about to start shouting out in disapproval, Olympia whistled, and all wrongs righted themselves. The tables repaired, chairs reupholstered, glasses pieced back together, and torn trousers were suddenly good as new. Alice looked down at herself; a loose thread in her skirts had sewn itself back into place. A smudge on her knee, wiped away. Even her braid was suddenly smooth, not a single hair out of place. Alice couldn’t help but be astounded. Olympia was just about to clap again when the crowd shouted NO! and ducked down in fear. Mr. Lottingale ran up to shuffle Olympia offstage. That meant Alice was next. And oh, she was terrified.

Only three others had gone before her, and already Alice knew she had made a great mistake. No one had been around to prepare her for today, not Mother who didn’t seem to care at all, and not the teachers she no longer had. Alice thought Father had given her this gift before he left— instilling in her this need to dance. She thought it was her talent. The gift she would surrender. Alice was only now realizing that this was a true talent show, and she—well, she was no talent at all. She could not sing awake the soul, could not climb air, could not right every wrong. She could only offer a dance—and she knew then that it would not be enough. Alice wanted to cry. But no, that wouldn’t do. Mr. Lottingale was calling her name and it was too late to give up now. Too late to tell Oliver she’d made a mistake, that she should’ve chosen Father over this moment of humiliation. Suddenly Alice was sorry. She was standing onstage, all alone, staring out at some ten thousand faces, and she could not make herself look at Mother. So she closed her eyes. The music found her the way it always did, and she let herself lean into it. She met the rhythm in her bones and moved the way she had a hundred times before. Alice danced the way she breathed: instinctually.

It was an in-built reflex, something her body needed in order to survive. Her arms and legs knew the rules, knew how to bend and twist and dip and switch. She spun and twirled, hips swaying, moving to a melody only she could hear. The moves came faster, quicker, more elegant and grand. Her feet pounded against the earth, drumming the ground into a clamor that roared through her. Alice’s arms were above her now, bangled arms cheering her on, and she threw her head back, face up to the sky. Faster, faster, elbows unlocking, knees bending, bangles raining music down her neck. She moved like she’d never moved before, soft and slow, sharp and fast, heels hitting and ankles flicking and fingers swimming through the air. Her skirts were a blur of color, her whole body seized by a need to know the elements, and when she was finally done, she fell to the floor. Head bowed. Hands folded in her lap. Skirts billowing out around her. Alice was a fallen flower, and she hoped she looked beautiful.

She slowly lifted her head. The audience was looking on, only politely engaged, still waiting for her to finish. Still waiting for her talent. Alice got to her feet and felt the sun explode in her cheeks. “Are you quite finished, dear?” This, from Mr. Lottingale. She nodded. “Ah,” he said, his slack jaw quickly firming into a smile. “Of course. Please rejoin the line, Ms. Queensmeadow.” There was a halted smattering of applause, the guests looking around at one another for a cue on how to react. Alice swallowed hard against the lump in her throat and walked back to her place in line, staring firmly at her feet and hardly daring to breathe. Eighty-two others performed after she did, and Alice wouldn’t remember any of them. There were a great many talents on display that day, and hers, as it turned out, was the strength to keep from bursting into tears in front of everyone.

Alice could not make herself sit with Mother. After the ceremony she found a quiet branch in a very tall tree and tried desperately to stay calm. She was inhaling and exhaling in tiny gasps and she scolded herself for it, rationalizing all the reasons why she was being ridiculous. Surely, she considered, she was just being hard on herself. She was intimidated by her peers, this was normal. Besides, she’d not expected such great talent, so she was taken by surprise. And anyway, everyone was probably feeling the same insecurities she was. Most importantly, she hadn’t been paying attention to the other performances; certainly someone else could’ve done worse. This went on for a while. Alice pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged them tight. She would not cry, she’d decided. There was no need. So maybe (probably) (well, definitely) she wouldn’t get the best task—that was okay! Perhaps if her hopes hadn’t been so high, her disappointment wouldn’t have been so great, but she would learn from this and be better for it, and whichever task she did get would be just fine. She’d be grateful for it. Maybe it wouldn’t be a coveted task— maybe she wouldn’t even get to leave Ferenwood—but still, it would be a task, and she would be happy to finally have a purpose. It would be the start of something new. It would be okay. She’d finally calmed her nerves long enough to make it down the tree. There she stood, half collapsed against the trunk, and promised herself, over and over again, that everything would be okay. She had done her best, and she couldn’t have asked for more of herself.

She had done her best. Finally, the Elders reappeared. They were all smiling (a good sign!) and this gave Alice great hope. Her shoulders sagged in relief and she managed to peek out from behind the tree. Mr. Lottingale was the first of the ten Town Elders to speak, and each of them took a moment to say something encouraging and inspiring. They spoke with such sincerity that for a minute Alice felt silly for having reacted as she did. They were looking out at the crowd with great pride; surely she’d done better than she thought. She inched forward a bit more, no longer hidden from view. But just as Alice was considering joining Mother’s table, the atmosphere changed. A trumpet blared and there was glitter in the air and thick, shimmery, plum-colored envelopes appeared on breakfast plates before her peers. The excitement was palpable. Everyone knew that an envelope contained a card of a specific color; each color represented a different score. There were five categories altogether, and Alice had them memorized for as long as she could count. Score 5 || Green = Spectacularly Done Score 4 || Blue = A Very Fine Job Score 3 || Red = Perfectly Adequate Score 2 || Yellow = Good Enough Score 1 || White = Rather Unfortunate Children were tearing their envelopes open—some with great confidence, others with great trepidation—while Alice was still straining to see if anything had arrived for her at Mother’s table. It had, indeed. Alice’s heart would not sit still. She couldn’t read Mother’s face from here, but she could see Mother holding the envelope in her hand like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it; and though she looked around the square just once, Mother didn’t seem to mind that Alice wasn’t around to pick it up. Mother often said that she could never be bothered to understand why Alice did the things she did, and now, more than ever, Alice thought never being bothered was a very lazy way to love someone. Oliver’s back was to her, so Alice couldn’t see his face, but Mother was smiling at him, so he must have been speaking. He was likely using his gift of persuasion to ruin her life. Sure enough, after only a few seconds, Mother handed him her envelope. Just handed it over. Her entire life folded into a piece of paper and Mother just gave it away to a boy Alice wanted to kick in the teeth. Alice nearly stomped over there and did just that. But the truth was, Alice was still scared. She wanted to walk back into a crowd of Ferenwood folk knowing she was one of them. It was bad enough she’d been born with hardly any color, that her skin was the color of snow and her hair the color of sugar and her eyelashes the color of milk. She never liked to admit it, but the truth was true enough: By Ferenwood standards she really was the ugliest. Her world thrived on color, and she had none. But a task did not care about color. It did not depend on anything but magical talent, and talent was something Alice thought she had; Ferenwood hearts were born with it. She, Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, had been born with a Ferenwood heart, and her talent needed a task. She could not walk into that crowd without it. Alice didn’t want to look at Oliver as he headed her way. She didn’t care for his pompousness and she certainly didn’t want to hear him tell her how terrible her talent was. She didn’t know what Oliver had surrendered, but Alice felt certain it was something stupid.

Oliver cleared his throat. She noticed he’d slung a well-worn bag across his body. He must’ve been on his way somewhere, and Alice hoped that meant he’d finally leave her alone. “Hello Oliver,” Alice said curtly, plucking the envelope from his outstretched hand. “Alice.” He nodded. “You may go now.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Oliver crossed his arms and leaned against the tree trunk. “Open it,” he said. “I do not wish to open it in front of you,” she sniffed. He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so stiff. Just because you won’t be getting the best task doesn’t mean—” “And how do you know I won’t?” Alice snapped, petulant in an instant. “There’s no saying I can’t still—” “Because Kate Zuhair already did,” he said with a sigh. “Really, Alice, calm yourself. No one is judging you.” “Oh,” she said, blinking fast. It was a small consolation, but Alice was relieved to hear that at least Danyal Rubin hadn’t been the one to best her. Still, her pride would not let her be calm. Certainly not in front of Oliver. “I got a three, you know.” Alice looked up. “You got a three?” Oliver nodded. “And it’s still the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I’m not sure you’d want a five even if you’d earned it.” Alice swallowed hard. She’d never admit this to anyone, but after that performance, she was actually hoping for a 2. Anything but a 1. 1 would be humiliating. “Go on, then.” Oliver tapped the envelope in her hand. “All will be right as rainlight as soon as you open it.” “Alright,” she whispered, wondering all the while why Oliver was being so nice to her. Probably he was still hoping she’d ditch her task in order to help him with his. Which would never happen. Her hands shook as she broke the seal on the envelope, and it was there—as fate would have it—right there, in front of Oliver Newbanks, the boy who’d crowned her the ugliest girl in all of Ferenwood, that Alice was faced with the worst reality of all. In her envelope was no card she’d ever seen before. It wasn’t yellow or even white. It was black. A simple rectangle cut from thick, heavy paper. Oliver gasped. Alice flipped it over. SCORE 0 The clouds chose that exact moment to come to life. The sky broke open and rain fell so hard and fast it nearly hurt, showering them all in what were supposed to be tears of happiness. Alice felt the cold and she felt the wet, and she felt her bones breaking inside of her, and finally she lost the strength to be brave and gained instead the heart of a coward. So she ran away. She ran until her chest cracked, until her lungs burned, until she stumbled and tore her skirts and the tears could no longer be held. She couldn’t tell who was crying harder: herself or the sky.

By the time Oliver found her, Alice was nearly at the edge of Ferenwood, right on the border of Fennelskein, hiding under a penny bush. Alice hiccuped a sob and the pennies shook, silver chimes mocking her pain. She sniffled and choked back the last of her tears and turned her face to the clouds. The rain had stopped and the sun was bright in the

sky and hundreds of rainbows had arched over everything, lending an ethereal glow to the world. Alice found the beauty unexpectedly cruel. She did not know what happened to children who were not tasked. There had only been three children to fail their Surrender in all the hundreds of years it had gone on, and Alice had assumed they simply evaporated back into the ground. Returning to Ferenwood life certainly seemed impossible. Maybe she would follow in the footsteps of Father and just disappear. “Go away, Oliver,” Alice said quietly. She didn’t want to be mean to him, as he’d done nothing in the last hour to deserve it, but she also wanted to be left alone. He crouched down beside her. “Come out from under there, Alice. I can see right up your skirts.” “Go away,” she said again, making no effort to cross her ankles. Neither one of them spoke for a little while. “You really were splendid today,” Oliver finally said. “Yes, very.” “Oh come off it, Alice. I mean it.” “If you’ll please excuse me,” she said stiffly, “I have a great many things to do.” Oliver grabbed her ankles and tugged so hard Alice nearly fell into the brook nearby. She had just gotten her mouth full of terrible things to say to him when he plucked the envelope out of her clenched fist and held her black card up to the sky. “You’re supposed to unlock it, you know.” “You only unlock it if you’re tasked,” she said to him, jumping to grab the card out of his outstretched hand. “There is nothing to unlock in a zero.” “And how would you know?” Oliver shot her a look. “It is my very firm belief.” “Oh yes,” he said. “I daresay you have many firm beliefs.” Alice turned away and crossed her arms. “What will you do now?” he asked. “I will get my card back from you, thank you very much,” and she caught his arm just long enough to snatch it back. “And now?” He stood there staring at her. “Now I will dig a very deep hole and live in it.” Oliver laughed and it lit up his face. Softened the hardness in his eyes. “You will do no such thing.” “What do you care? I can live in a hole if I please.”

“Alice, I don’t care what the Elders say. I know what you can do. Just because you chose the wrong talent to surrender—” “I did not choose the wrong talent!” “Certainly you did,” he said, one eyebrow raised. “I can’t even comprehend it. I thought for sure you would’ve—” “You hush your mouth, Oliver Newbanks!” “What? Why?” “That is not a talent,” Alice said firmly. “Not a talent!” Oliver balked. “Do you know what I would give to be able to do what you do?” “Everyone is born with color,” Alice said carefully. “Mine is simply contained on the inside. That is not talent, it is biology.” “That is a biology the rest of us don’t have,” Oliver pointed out. “I dance,” she said to him. “That is what I do. That is my gift. I feel it, Oliver. I feel it in my heart. It’s what I’m meant to do.” “I disagree.” “It’s not your place to have an opinion.” “Well, clearly your opinion did not work in your favor—” She kicked him in the shin. “Good grief, Alice!” Oliver yelped, grabbing at his leg. “What is the matter with you? I’m only trying to help.” Alice bit her lip and looked away. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I don’t mean to be cruel. It’s just that my heart is so thoroughly broken I fear I am beyond repair.” Oliver seemed slightly mollified. He sighed. “You don’t have to be so dramatic,” he said. “Besides, if you’re looking for adventure, my offer still stands. I still need your help.” “I don’t want to help you.” “Why?” he said, exasperated. “Why on earth not? Would it really be so terrible?” “Probably, yes.” “But for your father?” he said desperately. “Would it be so terrible to also find your father?” “I still don’t understand why you won’t just bring him home,” Alice said, fists clenching. “If you know where he is—” Oliver let out a frustrated cry and threw his hands up. “You don’t understand!” he said. “It’s not that simple—I can’t just bring him back, not without you!” “And why not?” she demanded. “Maybe if you first brought him back I would actually want to help you! Did you never think of that? That maybe kindness would work better than cruelty? Did you ever consider that maybe—” “Alice, please!” Oliver grabbed her arms and set her with a look so strong she couldn’t remember enough words to speak. “Alice,” he said again. “Bringing your father home is my task.”

Alice’s body was goose bumps from hair to heel. A shiver climbed into her clothes and warmed itself against her skin. Her heart was racing and her hands were clenching and she closed her eyes and drew in the deepest breath. Oh my very dear, she thought. She knew Oliver Newbanks was telling the truth. She made a sound just then, a sound that might’ve been a word but was mostly just a sound, and backed away from Oliver, teetering sideways and frontways until she spun and fell in her skirts, a heap of color swallowing her whole. Finally, Alice looked up.

Oliver had his arms crossed against his chest, his eyebrows drawn tight and low. His eyes were focused on a piece of bark peeling off a nearby tree. “Oliver,” said Alice. “What?” said he, still glaring at the tree. “Are you angry?” she asked. “Yes, quite.” He crossed his arms more tightly. “Don’t be angry.” He harrumphed. “You are insufferable.” “Well,” she said, crossing her arms, too. “So are you.” Finally, he turned to face her. “And that is all you have to say? After all I’ve shared with you? You still refuse to—” “No,” said Alice, scrambling to her feet. “No, I did not refuse.” Oliver’s arms unthawed. They hung at his sides, limp as his bottom lip. “What?” “I said,” said Alice loudly, “that I did not refuse.” “Then you agree—” “Absolutely not.” Oliver’s mouth had frozen open mid-sentence, but now his jaw snapped shut. He narrowed his eyes. “You are the most confounding girl I’ve ever encountered—” Alice smiled. “Well thank you—” “Don’t you dare!” Oliver cut her off, horrified. “I did not intend that as a compliment!” Alice’s eyes flashed. She was in a delicate state, and Oliver had just made himself the most convenient target for her anguish. “Of all the things to dislike,” said Alice angrily, “I fear I dislike you the most!” “Consider the feeling mutual,” Oliver snapped. They stood there awhile, the two of them, chests heaving as they glared at each other. Each was fighting a difficult personal battle, and both were too proud to share aloud their pain. Finally, Alice grew tired of being angry (it was an exhausting occupation) and collapsed onto the ground, biting lip and cheek and knuckle to keep from bursting into tears once more. This, Oliver seemed to understand. Carefully, cautiously, he sat down beside her, and a beat later, they spoke at the same time. He said, “Do you truly dislike me more than anything else?” And she said, “Oh, Oliver, I’ve lost everything, haven’t I?” And Oliver blinked, stunned. His heart, so hard just moments ago, softened as he realized that, for today at least, Alice’s battles were greater than his own. He spoke gently when he said, “Of course you haven’t.” Alice looked up at him, round eyes full to the brim and shining. She managed a small smile. “You’re a terrible liar.” “Well then,” he said, failing to suppress a smile of his own. “Come with me. Come and find what you’ve lost.” “But how will I ever be able to trust you?” She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, determined to pull herself together. “I haven’t the slightest inclination to run off any place with any persons who tell more lies than truths.” At this, Oliver raised an eyebrow and smiled. It was perplexing, yes, but the boy appeared to be flattered, and we won’t bother wondering why. Either way, he was now digging around in his messenger bag for something or other, and Alice was caught, deeply curious. Not a moment later Oliver reemerged, clutching no fewer than five scrolls in his fist, his smile triumphant. “I have maps,” was all he said. Alice gasped appropriately.

(Dear reader: For you and I, the acquiring of maps is an altogether unimpressive feat, as maps are, generally speaking, abundant and available to any persons desiring such things. But we must remind ourselves that in Ferenwood, maps were a rare commodity; and for Alice, they were a fierce reminder of Father. Making maps, you will remember, was his lifelong work.) Oliver, of course, understood this. Alice made an odd, startled sort of noise, and he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “They are indeed your father’s maps. The Elders gave them to me before I set off for my task.” Alice appeared unable to speak, so Oliver plowed on. “They’ve been searching for him since he left, you know.” Oliver paused, again allowing Alice an opportunity to respond. When she didn’t, he said, “But they couldn’t find the right person for the job until last year, at my Surrender. That’s when they knew my skills would be just the ticket.” Oliver grinned. “Impressive, no?” “What else do you have in that bag?” Alice finally said, eyes narrowing. “Nothing you need to be bothered with,” he said quickly. Alice opened her mouth to protest when Oliver interrupted her, hastily shoving the maps away. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I shan’t share a detail more unless you agree to help.” At this, Alice took a long and deep and careful breath. Finally, she relented. “Alright,” she said, and exhaled. “I’ll go with you. I’ll help.” Oliver, to his credit, looked so surprised Alice thought he might weep. But Alice hadn’t meant to do Oliver any favors; her decision was motivated entirely by self-interest. The way she saw it, she had only two choices now: find Father with Oliver, or stay in Ferenwood and live forever in shame. So she nodded. “I give you my word.” “Oh, Alice,” Oliver said, reaching out. “Thank you—” “Don’t thank me yet,” she said, swatting at his hand as she got to her feet, eager to put some distance between them. She didn’t want Oliver to think she was thrilled about the situation. “You are certain you know where Father is?” “Yes,” he said, clambering to his feet as well. “Yes, yes. But—don’t you see? Knowing means nothing when there’s doing to be done. It’s the getting to your father that I can’t do.” Alice clasped her hands and considered the sky, pressing her lips together as she did. She looked Oliver square in the eye, all the while digging the toes of her right foot into the grass. “And can you be sure you know where he is?” Oliver looked like he might fall dead of exasperation. “Have you been hearing nothing I’ve been saying? Of course I know where your father is, but that doesn’t—” “Yes, yes,” Alice said, waving a hand. “I heard all your etceteras. But just because I know you’re not lying doesn’t make it any easier for me to believe you.” Oliver studied her carefully. He reached into his bag and pulled out yet another scroll of parchment that he then unrolled in the palm of his hand. The paper lay flat as a board for something that had been so tightly wound, but when Oliver next touched it, it shuddered to life. Slowly it grew, the rectangle of paper shivering into a three-dimensional box taller than Oliver was wide. He touched the top with three fingers for three seconds, and the top disappeared. “Come then,” he said to her, motioning with his free hand. “Come have a look at where your father has gone.” Alice was horrified. “Father is in that box?” she gasped, clasping a hand to her chest. “Has he been trapped? Or broken? Do we have to put him back together? Oh, Oliver, I don’t know a lick about fixitation —” “He’s not broken,” Oliver said, shaking his head at the clouds. “Just come here and look,” he said. “For heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, alright,” she said, cheeks stinging. It was hard for Alice to like Oliver—on account of she didn’t like him very much—but she wanted to find Father much more than she didn’t like Oliver, so she’d have to put up with him. And so she wandered closer, close enough to peer into his box. Inside, was a door. Alice gasped again. “Yes, it’s very clever, isn’t it?” Oliver said. “But the journey will cost us a great deal—” “Oh I haven’t any money,” Alice said. “I spent my last fink on a dillypop.” “—of time.” “Right, yes, time.” Alice cleared her throat. “Once we step through,” Oliver said, “it will be very difficult to come back. We might be gone for very long.” “As long as a caterpillar?” she asked, one eyebrow arched as she pinched the sky. “Or as long as an ocean?” She threw her arms wide. “I don’t know,” he said. “Last time I was gone for a year.” “A whole year?” Alice said, dropping her arms. “That’s where you’ve been all this time? Trying to find Father?” He nodded. Alice sat down. She reached for a daisy without looking, plucking it from the ground only to stuff it in her mouth. “So where does it lead?” she asked, staring into the distance as she chewed. “The door?” Oliver sighed. Alice squinted up at him, shading her eyes against the rainbows. Finally, he placed the box on the ground and sat down beside her. “It goes to Furthermore.” Alice laughed, mouth half full of daisy. “Oh, go on,” she said. “Really. Tell me where it goes.” “It goes to Furthermore,” he said firmly. “But—” Alice faltered. Oliver raised an eyebrow. “But, no,” Alice said slowly, quietly. “I thought—everyone thought—” She hesitated. “Oliver, Furthermore isn’t real.” “Your father thought it was. He was tasked to Furthermore when he was your age, didn’t you know? He wasn’t just mapping Ferenwood, Alice. He was making maps of all magical places. He was doing work far more important than anyone in Ferenwood’s ever done.” Oliver tapped his bag twice. “Your father’s maps saved my life countless times.” Alice’s eyes had gone round as plates. Alice hadn’t known any of this. (Had Mother known about this?) Father, the town, and the Elders—they’d kept these truths from her. And even though she’d always hoped, always wanted to believe there was something more out there— another magical place in the world—now that the actual possibility was staring her in the face, she wasn’t sure how to believe it. (Still—and perhaps unfortunately—Alice knew that Oliver spoke the truth, which made it inconvenient for her to incline toward disbelief.) “What’s it like?” she whispered. “Furthermore?” Oliver looked away, but not before Alice saw a flash of nervousness flit in and out of his eyes. “There’s a reason we don’t talk about it,” was all he said. Alice gasped, finally understanding. “Oh, Oliver,” she said. “Is it dangerous? Has Father gotten himself into trouble?” Oliver turned to face her, determined now. He nodded at the box between them. “Are you willing to find out?” Alice looked into the box and the tiny door it held. She thought of fear and she thought of courage; she thought of home and hope and the chance for adventure.

She thought of Mother. Mother, who wouldn’t miss her; three brothers, who never knew her; and Father, who always loved her. Alice had nothing left to lose and an entire father to find. There it was: For the very second time, she knew what she was meant to do. So she reached inside and turned the knob.

Alice peered into the open doorway and saw nothing at all. “There doesn’t appear to be anything inside,” she told Oliver, rattling the box a little. “I think maybe you’ve got the wrong door.” “There is nothing the matter with my door.” Oliver snatched the box away from her, setting it down a few feet away. “You must step inside a world to see it honestly. A passing glance won’t do.” She wanted to say something unkind to Oliver, but decided instead to study him awhile, curiouser and curiouser about this boy with the mouth of a liar and hair the color of silver herring. She noticed then that he wore a quiet tunic with no adornments. It was not very stylish. In fact, it had little to recommend it but its hue. It was the color of an unripe eggplant. Oliver noticed her staring and began to fidget. “Well?” he said. “Are you certain the door is the only way to get in?” Alice asked. “Perhaps there’s a window, something that would give us a quick peek—” “Are you going to question everything I say?” Oliver asked, his arms flailing about. “Is this how it’ll be the entire time?” He caught a passing butterfly and whispered in its ear. “I should snip my head off right now, shouldn’t I?” Alice stifled a laugh. “Oh very well,” she said, and clambered to her feet. “Go on, then. Make me small enough so I might fit inside.” “There’s no need for that,” Oliver said, releasing the butterfly. It flew in circles around him only to land in his hair, where it promptly fell asleep. “There’s plenty of space to fit the both of us. So do be quick about it,” he said, gently plucking the butterfly from his head. “It’s rude to keep the door waiting.” Alice peered into the door before glancing back at Oliver one last time. He was fighting a losing battle with the butterfly, which had very obviously fallen in love with him. It was a silly thing to do, talking to butterflies. Falling in love was their favorite way to pass the time. Alice stepped one foot into the box and nearly screamed. “Why on earth is it wet?” she shouted, panicking. She tried to pull her foot free but it was now stuck inside the door. “Why didn’t you tell me it would be wet—?” Alice didn’t have a chance to protest before Oliver grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up. He said, “It’s wet because it’s water, you silly girl,” and dropped her in.

THIS MIGHT BE MY FAVORITE PART

Alice fell very far. She fell back for a bit and then slightly to the left, and then up for a very long while until she finally fell down with a plop, soaking wet and sinking fast. She tried to scream but spoke only in bubbles, blinking around at the sea she was drowning in. She was scared and she was mad, but mostly she was mad. Oliver had not told her she’d have to swim in these heavy clothes, and now she would die and it would be all his fault and she wouldn’t even be able to tell him so, and that made her even madder and so she kicked and kicked at the water, her delicate headpiece and ankle bracelets slipping off in the process. Horrified, she finally accepted that she could only survive if she untied her cumbersome

skirts—and, oh, how it broke her heart to watch them go—but it was then, just as she was thinking of how best to kill Oliver Newbanks, that he was tugging on her arm. As soon as her head broke the surface, she could hear what he was saying. “What in heavens are you doing?” he shouted, red in the face and shaking. “Why didn’t you come out of the water? Were you trying to kill yourself?” “What?” She spat water out of her mouth and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Me? Kill myself? What are you talking about? I was only drowning, no thanks to—” “Drowning?” he said, flabbergasted. “Alice, the water is only knee-deep!” Ah. That would explain how she was currently standing. Alice looked down and around herself and spotted her skirts floating only a few feet away. She cleared her throat and said, “If you’ll please excuse me,” before making her way toward the clothes. The water was clear and the color of turquoise. It wasn’t cold and it wasn’t hot but it was very wet and Alice was looking forward to being out of it. Once she’d secured her skirts and made her way back to Oliver, he gave her a very round look and seemed to think it best not to comment any further. “Well?” she said, head held high as she shivered in the breeze. “Where from here?” “Straight ahead,” he said, nodding toward the shore. Land was just a faint line in the distance, but she could see it, so she told him so. She followed Oliver as he went and asked no additional questions outside of the five questions she did ask, and paused only to sneeze when her nose required it. She was just in the middle of a sneeze, in fact, when she noticed the wet carpet under her feet. They were very close to the shore now, and she could see straight to the end: There were tens of dozens of ancient rugs laid out along and up the sand, cutting a vertical line to land. Each rug was a rich red, but woven with threads of gold and violet and sea-foam green into intricate, abstract, faded floral patterns. It all felt very proper. Furthermore was welcoming them, and suddenly Alice was glad to have arrived. Suddenly she wasn’t cold or wet at all. In fact, suddenly she was warm and her skirts were toasty and her hair was dry and her bare feet were walking on the thick, plush Persian rugs that had been laid straight across the beach. They were heading nowhere as far as she could tell, but she didn’t mind. The sky was very pink and the clouds were very blue and the air was sweet as lemonpearl and she felt very cozy and very lazy and very this and very that and very— “Alice!” Oliver tugged on her arm and she heard it snap. Not her arm, no. But something. Something snapped. Suddenly they were on the sand and not the beautiful rugs and she felt very cold and very worried and very hungry and very— Oliver was snapping his fingers in front of her face. “Alice? Alice. Alice.” “What?” she said, frowning. “What is it? What is the matter?” “You musn’t stay on the rugs for long,” he said urgently. “Furthermore can be tricky when you’re not paying attention.” He pulled her to her feet. Only then did she realize she’d sat down. “Where are we?” she asked, looking around. Oliver had nudged them back onto the beach, but that didn’t change what she saw. It was a barren landscape, nothing but sand and sea, not a person in sight. “We are at the beginning,” he said, and that was all. They stood in the sun and said nothing more, and Alice was so confused she couldn’t even remember how to say so. Besides, she was distracted. Oliver was holding her hand now and, though she tried to shake him off, he wouldn’t let her.

“You need to be careful,” he said to her. “We are currently at the entry of Slumber, which is just one of the sixty-eight villages we must travel through, and each village has its own very specific rules. We cannot break a single one if we are to find your father.” “Not a single rule!” she said. “In sixty-eight villages!” “Not a single rule,” he said. “In sixty-eight villages.” “But how will we know all the rules?” she asked. “I will teach them to you as we go. I lived in Furthermore for an entire year,” Oliver said, “so this is all very common to me now, but I imagine it must be very strange for you.” “Yes,” she said, sneaking a look at him. “Very strange, indeed.” Oliver was looking around carefully, his eyes darting every which way. It was as though he was seeing something she could not, something he was afraid of. “And now?” she asked. “Where do we go now?” “We don’t go anywhere,” he said. “We wait for the sun to sleep.” Alice wanted to believe Oliver was joking, but she couldn’t suss out the humor in his words. “Oh?” Oliver nodded. “Though we won’t wait too long, I hope.” He squinted at something in the distance. “The sun in Slumber is terribly lazy and always forgetting the time. It naps so frequently that its people have stopped waiting for sunshine. Their village only appears in the dark.” “Oliver,” said Alice, “are you being deliberately absurd?” It was odd, but for a girl born and bred in magic, Alice could be disappointingly unimaginative. But then I suppose there was good reason for her reaction. After all, the people of Ferenwood had always used magic in the same steady, reliable ways, and Alice had never known magic to be manipulated frivolously; she’d no idea what a little recklessness could do. The magic of Furthermore was entirely foreign to her. But Oliver still hadn’t offered an answer to her question. He was rifling through his bag again, and this time Alice heard the unmistakable clink of coins. She narrowed her eyes and poked him in the shoulder. “What else have you got in there?” Instead of responding, he unhooked their hands and folded himself into a seated position, settling in for a wait. Alice very cautiously followed suit, and she was just about to ask another question when Oliver tugged something out of his bag. It was a small notebook. “Right,” he said, perusing its pages. “I nearly forgot.” “What is it?” Alice asked. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing’s the matter yet,” said Oliver. “I’m just checking things. Making certain and so forth.” “Making certain of what?” “Oh, just sun cycles and such.” Oliver was reading with great focus, following a few scribbled sentences with his finger. “Mmm,” he said. “We should only have to wait here a few moments longer.” He looked up. “What sensational luck. If we’d arrived any later, we’d have had to wait at least a good hour for the sun to sleep, and it would’ve been the most anticlimactic introduction.” He turned back to his notebook. “This first bit of the journey can be terribly boring, you know.” Alice frowned. “Oliver, what—” “Oh, ho!” Oliver jumped up with a start, squinting up at the sky. “There we are.” “What?” Alice asked, scrambling to her feet and looking around. “What’s happening?” Oliver nodded at the sun. “There. He’s just about to take his nap.” “But—” “Now give us a second, Alice,” Oliver said impatiently. “It takes him a moment to roll over.” Alice blinked, and the world went black. Alice had never in her life seen such darkness. Back home they had moons and planets and so many stars that the nighttime was never really night. Not like this. This was something she

could not adequately describe. They had been plunged into a sky where everything had been snuffed out. She blinked and blinked and the blindness sent a chill through her heart she could not shake. A fear of the unknown, of the unseen, of what could be waiting for them here in this new world—it would not leave her. “Oliver,” she whispered. “Yes?” “Why didn’t we pass through when the sun was awake? Wouldn’t that have been safer?” Oliver shook his head. “Slumber is the entry point into all of Furthermore, and as such, the security measures are severe. Any visitors foolish enough to enter at sunlight are seen and snatched up in an instant.” “But why?” Alice asked. “Snatched up for what?” “Snatched up for what? Are you quite serious?” “Oh, and you’re surprised, are you?” Alice crossed her arms, irritated. “Surprised I know not a single thing about this land I learned existed only a moment ago?” Oliver was slightly mollified. “Right,” he said, and sighed. “My apologies. It’s just that it seems so obvious to me.” “Well when will it be obvious to me?” He squeezed her hand. “Soon, I’m sure.” “But how soon?” “Patience, Alice. Best to introduce yourself to patience now, so that it might find you when you call upon it later.” “But I have so many questions,” she said, tapping his shoulder very hard. “Why would they want to snatch up visitors? Is that what happened to Father?” Oliver smiled at her in the dark. “Not exactly, no. Your father is ten steps smarter than all that.” “But—” “While I’d like to answer all your questions,” he said lightly, “we’ve little time to spare and many appetites to avoid. I won’t be the reason you end up in someone’s stew tonight.” Alice had not a single idea what he was talking about and she told him so. “Well,” said Oliver, “if you don’t already know what to fear in Furthermore, I can’t imagine you’d want to change that now. Perhaps it’s best to be ignorant just a moment longer.” And then he held up a finger and peered up at the sky. A moment, it turned out, was all it took. The sky exploded with light, shot through with so many stars and moons and glittering planets that it was blinding in a whole new way. It looked as though the night sky had tried to snow but the flakes had fallen upside down and gotten stuck. It was, in a word, magical. Not just the sky, but the whole village. People appeared out of nowhere, shops and businesses busy in an instant. Food was cooking and chimneys were puffing and children were crying and parents were shouting and the hustle and bustle was all it took to shuffle Alice right along, right into the heart of it, and she felt her spirits soar despite her many worries. Eyes wide-open, Alice took it all in. This was a real adventure, wasn’t it? This was what she’d always dreamed of. And, oh, to find Father in the process! She nearly ran into the arms of this new world. But first, she had priorities.

“Alice, no!” Oliver tackled her. “But I’m hungry,” she said, staring at the flower she’d nearly plucked out of the ground. “You musn’t,” he said. “You can’t. And you absolutely shouldn’t.” “But—”

“No,” he said firmly. “Only on special occasions are visitors allowed to eat anything in Furthermore. And this is not one of them.” “Only on special occasions?” she said back to him. “And what are they to do until those occasions arrive?” Her hands were on her hips now. “Are they expected to starve?” “Yes,” he said, and very gently and with a smile she did not anticipate. “Now,” he said, clapping his hands together, all business. “Will you be requiring use of the toilets? There’s only one set of toilets in all of Slumber and they’re right here at the start, so best to use them now if you need to. It’ll be a long trip, you know.” “I—well, yes. Okay.” Alice dropped her hands and looked away. It was hard on her pride to be treated like an imbecile, and she hated the way Oliver seemed to know so much and she so little. She was fighting no small battle to be cooperative, if only for Father’s sake, but her patience had little practice. “But I’m also very hungry,” she said, determined to be heard. “I haven’t had any noonlunch.” “Good,” Oliver said. “That will help us quite a bit.” “And how’s that?” Oliver squinted up at the night sky and, once again, offered no answers. Alice glared at his back. Oliver was secretly relishing his role as leader of the two and, under the pretense of being older and wiser, he hoarded his knowledge, miserly sparing only a sentence or three when he felt he must. But Oliver had underestimated his female companion and her capacity for being condescended to, and he would no doubt pay for his youthful arrogance. With every new slight and casual indifference, Alice was a glass half empty, slowly filling bottom to top with resentment. As for now, all was well enough, as she distracted herself with the splendors of her new environment, but Oliver would later find much to revise in his early moments with Alice Alexis Queensmeadow. “Now then,” Oliver said, glancing at her, “we have only a couple of hours before the sun wakes up again, and a lot to do before that happens. Best to get moving,” he said, patting her on the back as a parent might. “And let’s get you to the ladies’ toilets, shall we?” Alice grimaced and trudged on, mildly embarrassed and ignoring the urge to pop Oliver in the nose. She sighed loudly whenever they passed a patch of grass and a promising bud, the grumbles in her stomach growing louder by the moment. She knew she would be a terrible companion if she missed too many meals and it worried her; this journey was too important. She needed to be her best self—healthy and full of energy—and Oliver didn’t seem to care. He was grinning cheek to cheek, happy in a way she didn’t know he could be, and she realized then that Oliver was fond of Furthermore. Happy to be back. Maybe happy to be home. Strange. Alice skipped a little as they got closer to the heart of town, abandoning her frustration in exchange for excitement, eager to be seeing and doing new things. This was a thrilling journey for a young girl (and newly twelve years old, lest we forget) who’d never left home in all her life. More exciting still, Slumber wasn’t at all like Ferenwood, where everything was an explosion of color; no, Slumber was black and bright, an inky glow, orange-yellow spilling out of corners, puncturing the sky, creeping past their feet. It was cozy and merry and perfectly odd, and if Alice weren’t so preoccupied with thoughts of Father, she might’ve been more inclined to enjoy it. There was food, everywhere. Cups full of nuts standing in bowls, jars and jars of honey stacked in storefronts, glasses full of flowers just sitting on tables. Alice wanted very desperately to eat one. Just one, she thought, couldn’t have been so bad. She said as much to Oliver. “That is not food,” he said to her. “Those are decorations. People in Furthermore do not eat flowers. They eat animals.”

“Animals!” Alice cried, and shuddered, thinking of all the cows and sheep and birds back home. The people of Ferenwood lived in peace with living things, only occasionally borrowing milk or eggs or honey in exchange for a lifelong friendship with creatures older and wiser than they. Alice was duly horrified and she suddenly remembered Oliver’s hair, which had always reminded her of silver herring. She pointed an accusing finger in his direction. “You eat them, too, don’t you? Don’t you? Oh, those poor fish!” Oliver went pink. “I haven’t any idea what you mean,” he said, and cleared his throat. “And anyway, no food is to touch your lips, not here and not at all, at least not until I tell you so.” She scowled. He scowled back. “Remember what I said earlier?” Oliver scolded her. “About how we aren’t to break a single rule if we are to find your father?” Alice nodded. “Well, this is the first one,” he said. “So don’t break it.” “Fine,” she said. And she pursed her lips, quietly hating him.

They crept through town quietly, doing little to draw attention to themselves. Strangers offered them a few glances but little else, which Alice thought was kind of them, considering how awful she must’ve looked with her sea-washed hair and clothes. Her outfit was fairly ruined and her hair was a wispy nest, and though she looked nothing at all like anyone in Slumber, they didn’t seem to mind. She realized it was because they couldn’t really tell. In the dark, they were all the same. “Here we are,” Oliver finally said. He pointed to what appeared to be a ladies’ toilet. It was little more than a wooden shack standing in the middle of all the dimness, and when Alice gaped at Oliver, all he did was shrug. So into the shack she went—tick tock tick tock—and out the shack she came. She shook out her skirts and smoothed out her top before joining Oliver where he was standing, and did her best to appear proper. She cleared her throat a little. “I’m ready now,” she said. Oliver glanced at her. “And how are you feeling? Still hungry?” “Yes,” she said. “Quite.” “Good. Very good. Shall we?” He gestured to the main path. “Where are we going?” she asked as she fell into step with him. “We have to pick up something important while we’re here. I just hope it’ll be in the same place I left it.” “Oh?” said Alice. “And what is it?” “A pocketbook.” Alice laughed. “But you’ve already got one,” she said, nodding at his bag. Oliver shot her a look. “I most certainly have not.” “Oh Oliver.” Alice sighed, rolling her eyes. “We’ll get you ten pocketbooks if you love them so.” Oliver was perplexed but let it go. He seemed distracted—nervous, even, as he wove a path through town, but Alice was experiencing no such nervousness. She followed Oliver through the narrow cobblestoned lanes and tried to be present in each moment, appreciating the scents and scenery of this new land. Lanterns were lit along every path and the sky was positively mad with power, but even so, it was hard to see. Night light made everything invisible around the edges, all slinky silhouettes and occasional spotlights. Alice did her best to keep up with Oliver, but her efforts required more than several apologies to the bodies she

collided with. Still, it smelled like cardamom in Slumber, and the pinked cheeks of bundled strangers made her want to stay forever. Oliver, however, was not having it. “But that’s not fair,” she said to him. “What if there are clues here? Clues to where Father has gone? We came all this way—I really think we should investigate the people! If Father has been here, we should shop the shops he shopped and climb the trees he climbed and see how the gentlemen wear their hair and, oh, Oliver, I would dearly love t—” “Absolutely not,” Oliver said, stopping in place. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Alice, please stop insisting we stay. I already know where your father has gone. I don’t need any more clues. And besides it all, you don’t understand how important it is that we—” “But—” “It’s not safe!” he said, finally losing his temper. “It’s not safe? To pop into a shop? Not safe to knock a hello on a neighbor’s house?” “Not safe, no! Not safe at all! We cannot, under any circumstances, go into the light,” he hissed. “Don’t you understand?” “No, I do not understand,” Alice snapped. She shook her head and shook off his hand. “You are being insufferable,” she said, “and I’m so tired of it I could fall asleep standing up.” “But—” “Now I haven’t a single idea which feathers you pluck in private—(this was a common Ferenwood expression; I’ll try to explain later)—but I can’t guess which either. And my right hand to rainlight, Oliver Newbanks, I swear it, if you go on an inch more with this nonsense of answering none of my questions, I will find a lake and push you in it and then,” she said, poking him in the chest, “then you’ll discover the only use in having a head so full of hot air.” Oliver had gone reddish. Humility had gotten lost on its journey to his ego, but the two had finally been reunited, and the meeting appeared to be painful. Oliver swallowed hard and looked away. “Alright,” he said. “Alright. I’m sorry. But let us find a quiet place first. A private place. We won’t have much time to spare, but I’ll do my best to tell you the things you need to know.” His eyes darted left and right. “And please,” he begged, “for Feren’s sake, lower your voice.” Alice sighed. “Oh, very well,” she nearly said. “Fine, fine, let’s carry on,” she nearly said. She nearly said she was perfectly ready to be amiable. But nearly said was not quite enough. Alice was distracted, frustrated, and embarrassingly stubborn, and she had stopped paying attention to anyone but Oliver. So it should come as no surprise to you then, that in that moment, just as she was about to grant Oliver her acquiescence, she was plowed into. Apologies abounded. Excuse me and pardon me and oh goodness collided in the air. Alice was dusting herself off and adjusting her skirts and clambering to her feet (with no help from Oliver, mind you), when she first saw the person with whom her body had collided. Friends, he was the most handsome boy she’d ever seen. He was tall but not too tall, perfect but not too perfect, dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. He looked like molasses had made a man. Her exact opposite in every way. Skin like silk jam, hair as dark as pitch. Eyes with lashes so thick and black and oh, how they fluttered when he blinked. Was he blinking? He was staring. At her. At her? Where she looked like nothing, he looked like everything, and she had never been so speechless in all her life. Be still her heart, he was smiling at her. Alice was convinced, after a moment or two, that she was most certainly in love with him. It seemed like the only logical explanation for what she was feeling. And it wasn’t until Oliver

pointed out (rudely) that her mouth was open (only a little, really) that she was startled back into her bones. She gasped, surprised by how loudly her jaw snapped shut, and wondered how best to ask the beautiful boy to marry her. He was maybe Oliver’s age, which meant he was close to Alice’s age, which meant none of them had any actual interest in marrying anyone, but that didn’t change what Alice said next. “Will you—” she began to say, and thought better of it. “Would you—” she said instead, and reached for his hand. Oliver snatched her arm away and gave her a very mean look. “What are you doing?” he hissed. “Oh, hush,” she whispered, waving him away. “Good sleep to you,” the beautiful boy said to her, smiling wide. “It certainly is a pleasure to be meeting you tonight.” He had a slight accent; his voice was deep and musical, like maybe it wasn’t real. Like maybe he was speaking a language she didn’t know she could understand. She didn’t much care either way. “It is a very great pleasure to be meeting you, too,” she said quickly, ignoring Oliver, who was already trying to pull her away. “Yes, yes,” Oliver said. “Pleasure. We must be on our way now. Thank you, good-bye!” “Wait!” said the boy urgently. He scanned Oliver’s face for only a moment before turning back to Alice. “You are new here. I have never seen anyone like you before,” he said, and as he did, he reached out, tangling a strand of her unfortunate white hair around his fingers. Alice nearly fainted. “Would you like to stay awhile?” he asked her. Only her. “I could show you around—” She was already nodding when Oliver interrupted them, yet again. “Please,” he said quietly. His eyes were bright and twitchy and locked on to hers. “A moment of your time in private?” Alice wanted to ignore him, but the look on Oliver’s face worried her. So she excused herself and promised the beautiful boy that she would return shortly. Oliver, however, was steaming mad. He had a whole host of unhappy things to say to her about breaking the rules and not listening to him, and though she tried to reassure him that she hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, Oliver was adamant that they keep moving. “And anyway,” Oliver said, “I haven’t any idea why you’re so enchanted by him. Residents of Slumber are very nearly covered in dust.” (Dust, I should mention, was a kind of slang for magic.) Oliver crossed his arms. “He has hoaxed you, be sure of it.” “Oh but Oliver,” Alice said, glancing over his shoulder. “Did you not see him? He is so astoundingly beautiful. Just, oh”—she was very nearly melting—“so very, very beautiful. I am sure I have never seen anyone so handsome in all my life.” She grabbed Oliver’s sleeve. “Do you not think he is the most handsome person you have ever seen in all your life?” Oliver went purple in the face. He pursed his lips and flailed his arms and almost exploded the words he spoke next. (Honestly, no one could understand a thing he said, so I won’t even try to recount any of it.) Anyhow, Alice didn’t want to upset Oliver—he seemed so very put out by the whole thing—so she prepared to tell the boy that she could not accept his generous offer. But when they returned, he’d already assembled a crowd, and by then—well, by then it was far too late. And it was all her fault.

Oliver had gone white. He was milk and paper and ghostly fright. He’d taken her hand and was squeezing so tight Alice had no choice but to shake him off. She yanked her hand back and scowled at no one in

particular, realizing all too late that she had caused quite a lot of trouble. She glanced at Oliver. He was frozen in place, eyes wide, horrified by the spectacle they’d become. The beautiful boy and his crowd of people were close, closer, and a blink later, had circled around them completely. The tallest held a torch and held it high, high above Alice’s head, so everyone could get a good look at her face. They were pointing and gesturing, heads cocked and gazes roving over her hair, her skin, her tattered skirts. She felt as though she were locked in a cabinet of curiosities, and she didn’t like it one bit. Alice narrowed her eyes at the beautiful boy, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was smiling wide, looking around at his friends like he was proud, like he’d discovered something odd and strange and oh, wouldn’t it be tops to poke fun at the nothing-girl tonight. Well, she wasn’t having any of that. Alice was not interested in being stared at, and besides, she and Oliver had a very busy schedule and no time to spare for nonsense. The beautiful boy stepped forward. “My name is Seldom,” he said. And smiled. Alice wanted very much to speak, but she was abruptly startled into silence. Seldom had moved into the torchlight and his face—well, it was nothing at all like it was in the moonlight. Here, where the fiery glow illuminated his features, she could see him far more clearly. Tall and broad, he wore a sleeveless shirt with a deep V-cut neckline, very short shorts, and a pair of moccasins. But most interesting was his skin. He was a stroke of midnight—so blue he was almost black—and he was covered, head to toe, in tattoos. Stars, moons—galaxies—were drawn upon his body in ink so gold they shimmered in the light. Alice stood there staring at him, just as he stood staring at her. Mouths agape. He was beautiful in an extraordinary way. He was beautiful in a way she did not understand. “What is your name?” Seldom asked. “Alice, don’t tell him!” Oliver said, reaching out as if to stop her. Alice didn’t even have time to roll her eyes at Oliver. “Your name is Alice?” Seldom asked. She nodded, pausing just long enough to shoot a dirty look at Oliver, who had now turned a very unflattering shade of puce. “Yes,” she said, and sighed. Oliver had already told him anyway. “My name is Alice. Can I leave now?” Seldom shook his head. “We would like to keep you.” “Oh,” she said, surprised. She looked around at the crowd. They were smiling eagerly, nodding and waving hello. Suddenly they seemed friendly, and she was convinced it was some kind of a trick. “Well, that is very kind,” she said, turning back to Seldom. “But I really must be on my way.” She took a step forward. Seldom stepped in front of her. “Where do you have to go?” Alice bit her lip and looked him square in the eye, wondering how much to say to him. She wasn’t sure how dangerous this situation was—mostly because Oliver was such a mouse he could hardly say a word—but she wasn’t going to let anyone keep her here. She knew that if she wanted to find Father, she had to first find her way through this. (I feel it necessary to mention here that were it not for Father, Alice might not have felt so brave. Love had made her fearless, and wasn’t it strange? It was so much easier to fight for another than it was to fight for oneself.) But how? Alice thought. Escape might require a lie, and she—well she had bound herself to the truth.

And yet, Alice compromised, her truths were meant only for Ferenwood, weren’t they? Technically—if we may speak technically—Alice hadn’t even known Furthermore was real when she made that pact. And anyway, she quickly convinced herself, these next words wouldn’t be a lie. Not exactly. She would tell a story, she’d decided. A fable. A work of fiction. “I am in charge of the sun,” she said loudly. “And I’m on my way to wake him up.” Seldom blinked fast. Shocked. Oliver inhaled sharply. The crowd around them went loud then silent in rapid succession. “Alice,” Oliver whispered. He was holding her hand again. He kept doing that. “What are you thinking?” “I don’t know,” she whispered back to him. She was still looking at Seldom. “I’m trying to get us out of here.” “But, Alice—” “You are in charge of the sun?” Seldom asked quietly. His eyebrows had rushed together in confusion. “Yes,” she said. And nodded, too, for added effect. “Oh.” He frowned. “We did not think a person could climb so high.” “I’m very talented,” she assured him, this time not lying at all. “There are a great many things I can do.” Seldom grunted. Alice tried to smile. “Is that why you’re so white?” Seldom asked, with no preamble. “Excuse me?” “Because your color’s all burnt off,” said someone from the crowd. “You’re white because you burnt off all your colors, didn’t you?” “Well, I wouldn’t say that I—” “So—you are not a visitor?” Seldom asked. “You’re one of us, but your color is gone? Because of the sun?” “I, um”—Alice cleared her throat and looked around at their anxious faces—“yes,” she decided, “yes, that’s exactly what happened.” And she silently congratulated herself on her storytelling abilities. “And what about him?” Seldom was pointing at Oliver. “Oh yes,” she said quickly. “Him too. He’s seen the sun too many times, too. Not as many times as me, of course, but, you know, eventually, he’ll be just as white as I am.” Seldom was crestfallen. He was so disappointed, in fact, that he seemed almost mad at Alice. He and his friends shared some words on the matter, and everyone took turns shooting her unkind looks. Slowly, they scattered. When they’d all finally walked away, Alice and Oliver were left to dwell on their feelings— and it turned out they were both very angry with the other. Oliver was still holding Alice’s hand and they were now walking very, very quickly through town, but Oliver was huffing and Alice was puffing and he said, “I can’t believe you!” and she said, “You are such a coward!” and he said, “Always causing trouble, never listening,” and she said, “Didn’t do anything at all to save us, just standing there like a stump,” and Oliver stopped so suddenly they nearly fell over. “Didn’t do anything at all to save us?” he said. “Standing there like a stump? Alice, have you gone mad?” “Oh don’t be ridiculous, Oliver! I was the one who had to think quickly—I was the one who had to—” “You did nothing at all!” Oliver nearly shouted. “Do you know how hard I had to work? To get us out of that mess?”

“What?” she said. “What are you talking about?” “Me, Alice, me.” He stabbed a finger at his chest. “While you stood there answering questions and making up stories, I had to convince them to believe you, and my head nearly exploded with the effort. I’ve been working so hard to help you, and all you do is fight me. I take your hand and you shove me away and I’m left grasping, furious—” “Well maybe I don’t want you to hold my hand,” Alice snapped, cheeks pinking. “And anyway, I had been wondering why—” “I am trying to keep us safe!” Oliver shouted, so angry now he was practically shaking. “I need to be near you in order to quietly convince everyone to leave us be! And what thanks do I get for all this? None. None at all. You’re running off, breaking away, charging into strangers! You make everything so much more difficult!” Oliver threw his hands in the air. Alice shoved him in the chest. Twice. “Maybe if you’d been honest with me about what to expect—” “Maybe if you’d been patient, or even bothered to ask nicely—” “I am not incompetent!” Alice cried. “And I don’t appreciate your patronizing me! In fact, I’ve no doubt I could find my own way through Furthermore, without a bit of help from you —” “Is that right?” Oliver’s eyes flashed. “Right as rainlight!” “So you really think,” Oliver said, stepping closer, “that you’d have gotten five feet farther without my saving you from your own silly stories? You think anyone would’ve believed you?” Alice’s confidence faltered. Her stomach did a nervous flip. Oliver looked away, shaking his head. “In charge of the sun,” he said. “Really. What nonsense was that? Of all the things to say!” He ran both hands through his hair, losing steam. “Don’t you understand why your father was tasked to me? Why the Elders sent me here, to Furthermore, to a land of tricks and puzzles? I have the gift of persuasion, Alice. And, yes, it grants me the ability to know the deepest secret of every person I meet, but the people of Furthermore are nothing like the people of Ferenwood, and their deepest secrets hardly help me at all, making the task infinitely more complicated. And if you think navigating this land is hard for me, it would be a sight near impossible for you.” “I beg to diff—” “Forgive me,” he said, exhausted. “I didn’t intend that as an insult. Truly. It’s just that some things in Furthermore are about more than being smart. In fact,” he said, “most of it is about lying, tricking, and the luck of just barely surviving.” He looked up, looked her in the eye. “Alice, this land is not generous. It does not forgive. And it would kill to devour you. “There is only one reason I have not yet met your father’s fate, and it’s that I have the ability to convince others to believe what I want them to believe. So please,” he said. “Please trust me enough to do the one thing I’m any good at. If we don’t stick together, we’re lost for good.” Alice hung her head. “But even you couldn’t save Father,” she said, staring into the darkness. “Even persuasion wasn’t enough.” “No.” Oliver sighed. “Not the first time, at least. But we’ll get it right this time. I swear it.” Alice closed her eyes and hugged herself, more terrified for Father than ever before. Furthermore was brilliant and frightening, and though she’d only seen a small slice of it, she could now understand perfectly well why Father had been so enchanted. But it was becoming clear to her that Furthermore was full of quiet dangers, and it would not be wise to be too easily distracted. It would be simple to get lost here—lost and destroyed—and she had not

realized that Oliver had been looking after her all this time, quietly convincing this world to leave her unharmed. The truth was, she hadn’t trusted Oliver. Not really. He’d hurt her somewhere deep— wounded her pride and her vanity —and it made her cold and hard and stubborn. But she could see now that she was being difficult, and fighting Oliver would do them no good. Father needed her, and that meant she had to trust Oliver, no matter how nothing he thought she looked. Oliver lifted her chin with one finger, and when their eyes met, they both apologized. Regrets and reconciliations, all at once. Oliver almost smiled. Alice almost did, too. Then she slipped her hand in his and held on tight.

HERE WE GO

They walked for days. Weeks. Months and years. “Don’t be so dramatic,” Oliver said. “It’s only been fifteen minutes.” “But I’m cold.” Alice sneezed. Oliver stopped to stare at her. “Yes, I daresay you are.” He looked a bit defeated as he looked her over. They were friends again and making their way out of Slumber, feet pounding

the cobblestoned path. “Alright,” he said, pulling her close. “Don’t worry. We’re almost there.” But almost there was still too far, and the farther they walked, the farther the town stayed behind, keeping its lights with it. They’d wound their way through the center of Slumber, Alice’s eyes eating up what her stomach could not: the fire-like glow; the slinky black backdrop; the hustle and bustle and the sounds that came with it. It was chilly but it was alive, chimney-puffing and storytelling and snips of conversations the strangest strangers left on sidewalks. They were leaving it all behind. “So where do we go?” she asked Oliver. “To get the pocketbook?” “Up,” he said cheerfully. “My goodness, Oliver, have we learned nothing in the last half hour? Up is not an answer.” “Right,” he said, startled. “Right, forgive me. I meant up, you know, in the sky. I hid it in the clouds, you see.” Alice was beginning to realize that the explanations she’d so desperately sought were now only adding to her confusion. She was no longer certain she wanted to understand Furthermore. In any case, she felt another sneeze coming, so she let go of Oliver’s hand and grabbed on to his tunic, bracing herself for the impact. But the sneeze was a false alarm, and when it passed it left her sniffling; she could feel her nose slowly growing numb. The last dregs of the sun’s heat had left them, and warmth was in short supply. “So, Oliver,” she said, still sniffling. “Tell me. Why did you fail?” “What?” he said, his body tensing. “To free Father,” Alice said. “Why did you fail to bring him home the first time? What happened?” “I . . .” Oliver trailed off. “Well . . . I . . .” He seemed to be making a decision right then; a decision that would say quite a lot about the direction of their friendship. Would he trust Alice with his insecurities? Could he dare to be vulnerable in her presence? Which would it be, hmm? Truth or omission, truth or omission, truth or— “I just wasn’t good enough,” he finally said. (Ah, a bit of truth, then. Refreshing.) “I hit a dead end. The final steps stumped me, and I knew I needed help.” “And you needed my help?” Alice asked, flattered and suspicious all at the same time. Oliver stopped walking and locked eyes with her. “Yes,” he said softly. “But you know why, don’t you? You can imagine why?” “Because he’s my father?” Alice guessed, searching Oliver’s face for answers. “Because you need to know something about him only I can tell you?” Oliver’s gaze faltered. He offered her a smile and said, “Well, we’ll talk more about it later, won’t we? For now,” he said, perking up as they walked on, “we should pay close attention to where we are. Furthermore is always awaiting our distraction. There’s always a trick, always a catch, always a danger smarter or sillier than you think. It’s a strange and terrible land to get lost in,” he said. And then, more sadly, “It’s probably why your father couldn’t get out.” “Right,” Alice said, startled. “Of course.” It was another tiny pinch of a reminder, but it was enough. Alice had worried and wondered about Father for three years, and now here they were, so close, so close. And still, so very very far. Alice had dreamed of a reunion with Father the way some people dreamt of fame and glory; she’d acted out the motions hundreds of times; she’d imagined every smile, every tear, every clinging hug. And yet, somehow, it was much easier to dream of Father from afar, because being this close to him now only filled her with fear. What if their journey went

terribly wrong? What if she ruined everything with a simple mistake and Father stayed gone for good? It would be infinitely more difficult to live with loss if Alice had herself to blame for the lack. She wore her worries like a cloak clasped tight around her throat but, come fear or failure, Alice would tread cautiously into the night. There would be no turning back.

Alice didn’t know where they were going now, but the farther they went, the darker it grew; and the darker it grew, the colder it became; and the colder it became, the quieter it was; and the quieter it was, the more there was to hear. “My goodness,” Oliver said. “Your stomach has quite a roar.” Alice felt a blush creep up her neck. “It’s no fault of mine,” she said. “I’m not to blame for needing food.” “And how are you feeling?” he asked. He’d come to a complete stop, so she did, too. There was nothing but darkness all around them; not a single thing in sight. “I’m feeling alright, I think.” Her stomach sang another song, and she sighed. “I’m feeling a bit faint, really.” “Are you quite empty, do you think?” Alice raised an eyebrow at Oliver. “Empty,” he said again. “How empty are you feeling?” “Very.” “Well I’m thrilled. This is excellent timing.” “Why Oliver Newbanks, what a rude thing to say. My hunger is not a thing to be happy about.” “Hunger is not one but two,” he said. “Emptiness is not three but four.” He was whispering to the moons, his eyes on the stars, his hands reaching up into the dark, searching for something. “What?” she asked, eyes wide. “What are you doing?” But then there it was. Oliver was tugging on a chain in the sky. He pulled once, very firmly, and it made a scissorlike sound. A lightbulb illuminated. It was hanging free and clear, right there, right in front of her, suspended not ten feet off the ground—she wouldn’t have been able to reach for it, not even with a stool—right in the middle of nothing. She was still gaping at the lightbulb, even when Oliver looked back at her. “Are you ready?” he asked. “Always,” she said. “But whatever for?” And then he took her by the waist and tossed her in the sky.

Alice thought maybe she should scream—it seemed like the right thing to do—but it didn’t feel honest. The truth was, she wasn’t scared at all, and besides, it was much warmer up here. She’d flown straight up, light as a bulb, and it was only once she’d stopped and stood around that she understood why lighting that first light was so important. It was awfully dark in the clouds. She looked around for Oliver and it was only a moment before he was standing beside her, both their feet planted firmly in the air. “It’s quite nice, isn’t it?” he said. Nice wasn’t the word Alice was searching for. It was not uncomfortable, no, but it was strange, certainly. The cloud they stood on was fairly insubstantial—and she feared she’d slip

through at any moment—but when she mentioned this to Oliver, he only shrugged and said, “As long as you’re hungry, I wouldn’t worry. It’s always best to float on an empty stomach.” Oliver was positively beaming. He kept reaching out around them, touching the dewy cotton of the clouds, running his fingers through their tangled strands. Occasionally he was too rough, and he’d rake his hand right through a stubborn knot of cloud, and the whole thing would burst into rainwater. This seemed to delight Oliver in a most particular way, as the water would then pool in the palm of his hand, and he’d proceed to drink up its contents. “Hey,” Alice said, and tugged at his shirt. “I thought you said we weren’t allowed to eat anything in Furthermore!” “This is not eating,” Oliver said, licking his fingers. “This is enjoying.” Alice was beginning to realize that the longer they stayed in Furthermore, the more relaxed Oliver became. (It was also true that he was still very nervous and overly cautious, but somehow, despite his many fears, he seemed happier.) He was nothing at all like the grumpy boy she’d met so few days ago, and Alice was surprised to find that she was actually learning to like Oliver. Just now, she couldn’t help but grin at his giddiness. Though she was a bright, interesting young girl, the difficulties of the last three years had isolated Alice from persons her own age. Now was her chance to start new and shake off the disappointments of her middlecare years, and she couldn’t contain her quiet excitement. After all, Alice was now twelve years old, which meant she was nearly grown up. And if growing up meant she’d be making new friends? Well, Alice decided she wouldn’t mind getting old. The clouds were pressed up around them now, soft and warm and doughy. The air smelled like apples and baked bread, and Alice had never known she could feel so safe in the sky. She peered down to see how high they’d floated, but could see nothing of the ground. Around them was cloud after cloud, and, oh, she could just lie here, she thought, and it would be so cozy and she’d have the best sleep of her life, definitely, definitely. Had she mentioned how soft and warm it was in the clouds? She couldn’t remember. Anyway she was so tired. So comfortable. So sleepy. So— “Alice!” Oliver said suddenly. “Alice, no!” He shook her, hard, the panic in his voice sending a chill through her body. “What is it?” she gasped, looking around. “What happened?” “You cannot sleep without a dream,” he said urgently. “Never, ever, sleep without a dream.” He looked so rattled; she didn’t know what to say. “They will always try to keep you here, but you cannot stay. Do you understand?” “No,” said Alice, who was still visibly frightened. “I don’t understand at all. Who will try to keep me? Why?” “You really don’t know, do you? You truly know nothing of Furthermore?” “Of course I don’t,” said Alice, defensive. “I’ve heard only rumors of Furthermore, and most of them nonsense. Aside from that?” She looked around. “Well, we are standing on a cloud, Oliver. I can’t possibly make any sense of this.” Oliver almost smiled. “People are so preoccupied with making sense despite it being the most uninteresting thing to manufacture.” He shook his head. “Making magic,” he said, “is far more interesting than making sense.” “But we do make magic,” Alice pointed out. “It’s all we make, isn’t it? We spend our lives harvesting magic.” “Yes,” said Oliver. “We make magic. And what do we do with it? We turn it into currency. We make laws. We build homes, we bake bread, we mend bones. We use magic so carefully you’d think we had none at all.” “And you think we should do things differently in Ferenwood?”

“No,” Oliver said quickly. “Not exactly. But I do think there’s much to be appreciated in the oddness of Furthermore. There’s something curious about a land that uses magic in a reckless way.” He smiled to himself. “I confess I sometimes enjoy the chaos; it provides a great diversion from the safe, sleepy lives we live in Ferenwood.” Alice touched a hand to her face, cold against cold, both warming each other from nothing, and kept quiet for a minute. Oliver’s opinions had left her troubled and concerned; and she wondered, for the very first time, whether she hadn’t made a very big mistake in coming here. Alice didn’t agree with Oliver, you see. Alice loved her safe, steady village, and for a girl who’d always longed for adventure, she didn’t much care for chaos. In fact, Alice had never even thought of using magic haphazardly, without regard for consequences or the well-being of others. That just wasn’t the way of Ferenwood folk; they were kind and caring people who lived mostly happy, straightforward lives. A lawless sort of magic-making seemed dangerous to Alice. Lawless magic, she realized, would make it easy to hurt someone else. And despite it taking her far too long to discern this, Alice was finally grasping something rather important. “Oliver,” she said slowly. “Yes?” “Are there people in Furthermore who want to kill us?” “Yes,” he said. “Of course.” Alice felt a pain snatch the air from her lungs. “Why, Alice,” Oliver said, surprised, “there’s a reason why the Elders keep Furthermore a secret from Ferenwood. This land is like sinking sand. Once you step inside, you’re never really meant to leave.” “Ever?” she cried. “Never.” “But why?” “I really would like to tell you, but it would take far too long to explai—” Oliver was silenced by a single, threatening look from Alice. “Oh, alright,” he said with an air of defeat. “We can spare a few—and only a few!—moments to talk this through. And I suppose it’s best to start from the beginning if you haven’t even a hint of the middle.” He looked around for something to lean on and found nothing but sky, so he began pacing the short length of the cloud. “You know the old song, don’t you?” he said. “About Furthermore and Ferenwood?” This much, Alice knew. So she nodded and promptly recited: Farther is more than Ferenwood! Go as far as the land may reach A quick dip in the sea and you’re up to your knees then cross the sleeping beach. Time is a hard and heavy rule You’ll find it behind the door Adventure is there (he’s lost all of his hair) Beyond is Furthermore! It was a nursery rhyme Alice had known forever. A tale of nonsense, she was told. Just funny words strung together to trick children into sleep. It was only now, as Alice repeated the words aloud, that she saw the secrets between the silliness. She grew quiet as she finished the poem, and Oliver nodded, recognizing her silent realization. “Long ago,” he said, “in the very, very beginning, Furthermore and Ferenwood

were united, despite being split vertically by sea. It was a land called Anymore. Things were different back then,” Oliver said thoughtfully. “Anymore had opened its borders to the nonmagical world.” Alice’s eyes went wide. This, she’d never known. “Magical folk married non-magical folk and things were alright for a while, but—you know how it is. We can’t survive without magic, and non-magical folk didn’t understand. Mixed magic made it so some children were born with talent while others were not, and they couldn’t always tell right away. Non-magical parents would want to take their children out of Anymore, to go back home, and things seldom ended well. To make matters worse, giving birth to magical babies was very hard on non-magical mothers. Many of them died in childbirth. It was a very dark, very unhappy time.” “Oh, Oliver,” Alice said, her hand on her heart. “This is a terrible story.” Oliver nodded. “And I hate telling it, so I’ll skip ahead. Do you know the origin of Feren and Further?” Alice shook her head. Oliver was solemn as he said, “They were twin sisters. Their birth had killed the mother, and they were raised by a grieving magical father. But the two girls processed their father’s grief in different ways. Feren, who’d inherited her father’s magic, wanted to prevent this sort of thing from ever happening again by cutting ties with non-magical folk. Further, who’d not inherited any magical ability, wanted to honor her non-magical mother by maintaining those ties. It was the beginning of a revolution for the land. The two became figureheads for a controversy that’d been brewing for decades. Wars were waged. Sides were taken. Anymore split in two to become Ferenwood and Furthermore as we know it now.” Alice was so stunned she could no longer stand, so she sat down, legs crossed beneath her, and leaned back on a bit of cloud. “And then what happened?” “They never spoke, not ever again,” said Oliver. “Both sides lost so much life and magic during the war that they eventually agreed to agree to only one everlasting law: That they would never meddle in each other’s magic matters, for as long as their lands still stood.” “Wow,” said Alice. “Furthermore has been true to its founder’s wishes and deals with all kinds of visitors, magical and non-magical alike. But the twisty business of Furthermore attracts the wrong sorts of visitors. Few come to Furthermore in pursuit of decent pastures.” Oliver frowned. “And it doesn’t help that this land has been reckless with their magic. It’s a deeply unsteady, turbulent place, and its people have fractured into hundreds of smaller villages, each with its own rules and officials, and each with contradictory laws and confusing legislature. It’s a land rife with inconsistencies because the confusion suits their underhanded ways. But they burn through magic faster than the land can produce it and, in their desperation for more, they’re willing to do awful things.” “What kinds of awful things?” Alice asked. Oliver paused, then said. “Well—we live off the land in Ferenwood, don’t we? We are made more magical because of the fruits and plants and nuts we eat, are we not?” Alice nodded. “Right. So.” He cleared his throat. “In Furthermore, they eat more than just fruits and plants and nuts.” Alice nearly jumped to her feet. “I knew it!” she said. “That’s why they eat animals, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Oh, how awful!” “I’m afraid it’s much worse than that,” said Oliver quietly. “What?” Alice stalled. “What do you mean?” “Furthermore is very hungry for magic, Alice. And we—that is to say, you and I—are meant to be”—he hesitated—“well, we’re meant to be consumed.”

Alice blinked and stared, confused. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Oliver said. “Consumed, Alice. They want to eat us. They will eat people for their magic. Though they do prefer to eat visitors,” he added. “Something about it being more compassionate that way. They’ll only eat their own in the most desperate situations. And in order to avoid these desperate situations, they’ve taken proactive measures.” Alice made a squeaking gasp of a sound. Oliver bit his thumb, deep in thought. “I suppose Furthermore is a lot like a series of increasingly complicated spiderwebs. Each village has a distinct way of catching its prey, which, well—you know.” He raised an eyebrow. “It makes it so it’s very difficult to stay alive here.” “How awful!” Alice cried. “Oh, I can’t imagine, I can’t even imagine—goodness,” she said, holding a hand to her chest, “I can’t breathe, can I? I’m sure I can’t breathe.” She was wrong, of course; she was entirely able to breathe, but Alice was scared, and so she was, for the moment at least, very short of breath. And it was then, as she struggled to right her breathing and keep from upsetting her stomach, that she decided she hated Furthermore more than she’d ever hated any place in her entire life. She was now fully terrified for Father, and she couldn’t imagine what horrors he’d already experienced. Oliver held out a hand to her. “Right,” he said. “Ready to finish up here?” Alice accepted his outstretched hand and, once on her feet, shook out her skirts and looked around at the slumbering darkness. She couldn’t trust anything anymore. She was sure this velvety night cloaked infinite secrets. “Oliver,” she said quietly. “Mm?” He was searching his pockets for something. “How do you know all this? All this history of Furthermore and Ferenwood? I don’t remember learning about any of it.” That held his attention. “No,” he said, looking up. “I didn’t learn any of it in Ferenwood. My friends in Furthermore taught me.” “You have friends in Furthermore?” Alice said, startled. “But I thought—” “There are good and bad in every bunch, aren’t there?” Oliver shrugged and resumed digging through his pockets. “I’ve seen many hearts here heavy with the loveliest secrets. Not everyone in Furthermore enjoys eating people, you know.” “But—” “I’m so sorry, Alice, but now we really must be going. We’ve already used up a great deal of time and any more than this would be a waste. I promise I’ll answer more of your questions when there’s time to spare.” “Alright,” she whispered, staring at their clasped hands. But then—“Can I ask just one more question?” Oliver sighed and smiled. “Yes?” “Is Father in very great danger?” Oliver’s smile wavered, and he would not answer immediately. He looked away before he spoke, and when he did, he only said, “It’s so good that you’ve come, Alice. We’ve needed you.” “We?” “Yes,” said Oliver. “Your father and I.” Shock shook her. “You’ve seen him?” Alice asked, grabbing Oliver’s shirt. “You’ve seen him?” She nearly burst into tears. “Oh, you’ve seen him, please tell me you’ve seen him—” “I—” Oliver said, swallowing hard. “That is—I mean, yes, I have.” “How was he? Did he look healthy? Did he say anything to you?”

“Yes,” Oliver said. The stars were so bright behind him. The sky, so dark. “He spoke to me, but—only once.” “And?” Alice was impatient now. Terrified. Horrified. So happy. “What did he say?” Oliver looked down. “He told me to find you.”

Alice stared at Oliver in stunned silence, just until the clouds shook and the moons flickered and the stars swayed in the sky. The air was changing, and Oliver noticed. He was in a hurry to get moving, but she was still numb, somehow. Still trying to process everything she couldn’t understand. Father had asked for her. Oh, it made her very knees tremble. It made her miss him more than ever. More in every moment. But then Oliver pulled a vial out of his pocket, and curiosity pushed her back into the present. “What’s that for?” she asked. “The sky has something we need,” he said, “so we must give it something it wants.” “What could a sky possibly want?” Alice wrapped her arms about herself and fought back a shiver as she spoke. She was suddenly cold. “That seems silly.” “Don’t be absurd,” he said, surprised. “Everything wants something.” And with that, he uncorked the vial and poured its contents upside down. It was too dark for her to see. “It’s dirt,” Oliver said, answering her silent question. “This stretch of sky,” he said, gesturing to the air around them, “will never touch the ground. It’s a prisoner, all alone, stuck here forever, always gazing down upon the land, always estranged from all the excitement.” Alice had never considered a lonely sky. It was a new thought for her, and she wanted to explore it, but then the wind snapped like a crack of lightning, and Alice and Oliver looked toward the sound. A book hung in the air, big and brown and leather-bound, and Oliver snatched it out of the sky, grabbing Alice’s hand in the process. Without a wink or a warning (or a sentence to spare on the matter), she and Oliver were sent crashing down. The weight of the book made them heavy; and though they fell far and hit the ground hard, they were only slightly bruised and out of breath upon landing. Alice opened her eyes to find their limbs tangled together, and she hurried to unhook herself from Oliver, drooping sideways as she stood up. It took her a few moments to find her head. Strangest of all: She wasn’t dead. “Why didn’t that kill us?” asked Alice, peering up at the sky. “We fell such a long way.” Oliver shrugged, dusting the dirt off his pant legs. “Falling down would be a tragically boring way to die in Furthermore. They’d never stand for it.” “Right,” said Alice, who wondered whether Oliver hadn’t gone a bit mad. Once they’d both recovered their footing, they turned their eyes to their prize. A pocketbook, Oliver had said. But this was not that. And Alice told him so. “What do you mean?” Oliver asked. “Of course this is a pocketbook. What else could it be?” “A pocketbook is a ladies’ purse,” she said, tapping the book. “And this is not a ladies’ purse.” “A ladies’ what?” Oliver asked, frowning. “See now, I haven’t the faintest idea what nonsense they’re teaching to young people these days”—Oliver cracked open the cover—“but this,” he said, “this is indeed a pocketbook.” And so it was. It was a book. Where every page had a different pocket. Alice reached out, amazed, to touch one of the pockets, and Oliver jerked the book away from her. “What are you doing?” he asked, horrified.

“I just wanted to—” “One does not simply reach into a pocket!” “Why not?” “What do you mean, why not?” Oliver looked absolutely ashamed of her. “What kind of manners were you raised with?” “Hey,” she said, stomping one foot. “That’s not fair. I have very good manners.” “Oh? And your mother taught you to go digging in other people’s pockets, then?” “No,” Alice said, going red in the face. Then, more quietly, “I didn’t realize they were other people’s pockets.” Oliver’s expression softened. “Have you never seen a pocketbook before?” Alice shook her head. Oliver’s voice was gentle and sad when he said, “I take it your mother’s hometeaching lessons were not very thorough?” “Not thorough at all,” she said, staring at her feet. “My apologies, Alice.” And he really did sound sorry. So she looked up. “Pocketbooks are full of other peoples’ pockets,” he said simply. “And one must not touch another person’s property without permission.” “That seems fair,” she said. Oliver nodded. “So how do we get permission?” she asked. “Well, we have to ask them, of course.” “All of them?” “Some of them,” he said, closing the book carefully. “Won’t you please let me look in the book?” Alice asked. “I promise I won’t pick any pockets. I’m only curious.” “I have to return this to a friend of mine,” he said, “so let’s wait until we’re in his presence. Besides, there’s very little light here, and it’s never safe when the sun comes out.” Alice stared at him. “You never told me that.” “I certainly tried to, didn’t I? Anyhow, now that we’ve got the pocketbook, we can turn our attention to other things. There are still a few items we need for our journey, so we’d better get a move on.” Alice rushed forward so eagerly she nearly tripped over her skirts. She trailed too close to Oliver and kept stepping on his heels. Alice was now rightly afraid of Furthermore and its hidden dangers (and if she had to choose between here or home, she’d choose home every time), but everything was so interesting here—so different, so suddenly terrifying—that it was somehow addicting. After all, Alice had known loss and loneliness and bone-deep sadness, but she’d never known anyone who’d wanted to eat her, and a small part of her wondered what that was like, too. The thing was—now that she’d had enough time to process the shock of it all—Alice found herself rather . . . flattered by the idea. Our young friend had been paid very few compliments in her life and, strange as it was, she was pleased to know that someone thought she’d make a fine meal. That had to mean she was high-quality magic, didn’t it? That had to mean she was made of something strong and sustainable. Didn’t it? Of course it didn’t. But then, very few grown-people have ever made sense of a young person’s mind, and I’ve no great ambitions to count myself among the pioneers. In any case, Alice was now more fascinated by Furthermore than ever before and she wanted to know everything about life in this strange land. Oliver, however, was reluctant to share. “But where did you live?” she asked him, half jogging in an effort to match his pace. “Was it nice? Did your mother come to visit?” Oliver laughed in this strange, incredulous way that twitched his face and pinched his nose. “My mother?” he said. “Come to visit? Alice, be serious.”

“But didn’t she miss you?” Oliver raised an eyebrow at her. “I doubt it. Besides, would you want your mother to visit while you were on a task?” Alice blushed. “Well, seeing as I’ll never have a task, my answer couldn’t really matter, could it?” Oliver stopped, bit the inside of his cheek, and was generous enough to look ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot.” “Yes. I nearly had, too.” “Do you still have your card?” Alice nodded, her fingers reaching for the stiff piece of paper tucked inside her skirt pocket. “I still think you should unlock it,” he said. “Yes, well, I think we should find Father,” Alice said, and looked away. Oliver opened his mouth to speak, exhaled sharply, and said nothing more on the subject. It was Alice who finally broke the silence. “So what else do we need to get?” Oliver glanced at Alice’s bare feet and said, “Shoes.” “Shoes?” Alice hurried forward, startled, to catch up with Oliver, who’d already begun walking again. “But I never wear shoes.” “You’ll also need to get clearance before we can leave Slumber,” he said. “So we’ll need to get you a ruler, of course—as all visitors must carry rulers—and then we’ll need to get it filled, which—” But Alice had frozen still. Oliver was speaking, but Alice could no longer hear him, and it took him a moment to realize she was no longer following his lead. When he finally looked back, he found Alice planted in place, her eyes wide with wonder. “What is it?” Oliver whipped around in search of danger. He was trying not to worry, but Alice had a bad habit of worrying him. “What’s the matter?” “Why?” she said. “Why what?” “Why do I need a ruler?” “Because,” he said. “Despite the many inconsistencies, following rules is very important in Furthermore.” “But—” “Now, Alice,” Oliver said, frowning, “please don’t fight me on this. We might be able to compromise on the shoes, but the ruler is very important. A visitor in Furthermore must have a ruler at all times.” “But why?” “Well,” Oliver said, “because it measures our time spent here.” He reached into his bag and procured a simple wooden ruler that looked an awful lot like something Alice had seen before. She took it from him, inspecting it, and was swiftly reminded of Father’s ruler: It was the one thing he’d taken with him when he left home. Alice had not forgotten. How could she? Father always took great care of that ruler. He’d kept it wrapped in a thin rectangle of red velvet, tucked away in the top drawer of his dresser, and checked every night to make sure it was still there. The one time Alice had taken it, hoping to engage it in a bit of play, Father had told her very firmly that it wasn’t a toy. He’d said it was special. Alice had always wondered how a ruler could be special, but now, holding Oliver’s ruler in her hand, she was finally beginning to understand. As she remembered it, Father’s ruler was much the same as Oliver’s: dark and thin and marked along the edges the way a ruler might

be. But the greatest difference between the two was also the strangest: Oliver’s ruler was much, much heavier than Father’s. “Mmm,” said Oliver, nodding. “Yes, it’s quite heavy when it’s full.” “Full of what?” “Time, of course. Time is the only thing in this land that’s actually regulated,” Oliver explained. “Furthermore is very, very persnickety about time. It’s mandatory to fill and measure the length of any visit because Furthermore likes to keep a close eye on all who pass through.” “Time,” Alice said softly, eyes still locked on the ruler in her hand. “How odd.” “Yes. They don’t like to waste time here. For years Furthermore let visitors take as much time as they wanted, but so much of it was spent on thinking and wondering and deciding that it’s now very strictly regulated.” And then, seeing the look on Alice’s face, he added, “Studies have shown that thinking and wondering lead to thoughtful decision-making. It’s an epidemic.” Alice’s mouth popped open in surprise. “You mean to say that Furthermore doesn’t want visitors to make thoughtful decisions?” “Of course they don’t,” Oliver said, tugging the ruler out of her hands. “Stupid people are much easier to eat.” “I beg your pardon?” “If you force visitors to make hasty, hurried decisions, they’re bound to make poor choices more quickly, which will more efficiently lead to their demise. But going slowly won’t do, either. They’ll make a nice stew out of you for wasting time. It’s a simple trap,” he said. “You lose either way. So we’ll have to settle for being quick and clever.” Alice relinquished the ruler, but reluctantly. Distractedly. She was done being shocked by Oliver’s explanations, but she was now lost in her own thoughts. “Did you know,” said Alice quietly, “that Father left Ferenwood with nothing but a ruler?” “I did.” “So he knew,” Alice said, confirming her own suspicions. “Before he left. Father knew where he was going.” “He must’ve known,” said Oliver. “He’d been here plenty of times before—he knew how it all worked. In fact, it was because of his notes and knowledge of Furthermore that I’d known what to do when I got here. I owe him a great debt.” This was too much for Alice to process. Why would Father come back to Furthermore after all these years? What did he want here? Alice had long suspected that Father was different from everyone else in Ferenwood—his thoughts were richer, his mind was fuller, his eyes were brighter—but Alice never thought of Father as a man with secrets, and now she was beginning to wonder if she’d really known Father at all. She bit her lip and bundled her thoughts, setting aside her feelings of unease. Loving Father meant loving all of him—his open windows as well as his dusty corners—and she refused to love him less for secrets unknown. Alice had secrets, too, didn’t she? And she was beginning to realize that part of growing up meant growing tender, and that secrets were sometimes wrapped around tender things to keep them safe. “So,” Oliver said as he straightened the hem of his tunic. “Shall we see about getting you that pair of shoes?” Alice looked down at her feet. Horrifying, I know, but Alice had never much cared for shoes. She’d only ever worn shoes in the winter, and when she had, they were linen boots lined with cotton flowers; soft and springy and comfortable. But it wasn’t winter, and she couldn’t imagine wearing them now. “Do I have to?” she asked Oliver.

“There’s a tremendous hike ahead of us,” he said, making an effort to look sympathetic. “I do highly recommend it.” “Well,” said Alice, biting her lip. “Alright. If wearing shoes will make it easier to find Father, then I suppose it’s—oh!” Alice hesitated, remembering something important. “What is it?” Oliver said. “I haven’t any finks,” she said. Then, more quietly, “Do they even accept finks here? How do we buy things in Furthermore?” “You know, I don’t know,” Oliver said, smiling. “I just ask people to give me things when I want them.” “But that’s stealing!” “For me, it’s asking.” “Oh, Oliver,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You’re awful.” “Anyway,” he said, cheering up, “I happen to have some currency on my person. Just a moment.” Oliver reached into his bag and dug around a bit. He held up a few red coins (they looked a lot like buttons, but imagine them heavier) for just a moment before snapping them all in half, releasing their magic. One fink contained only an ounce of magic, but three finks would be three times as much, and a lot could be done with three ounces of magic. Working quickly with his hands, Oliver fashioned his finks into a simple pair of shoes, which, needless to say, was a complicated task for a thirteen-year-old. Most people didn’t bother making things from scratch anymore; most people traded in their finks (red) and stoppicks (blue) and tintons (green) for ready-made products fashioned together by expert artisans. Alice was impressed. More impressive still: the shoes themselves. They were simple ballet slippers made of bright blue satin with ribbon-laces trailing like glossy tendrils. Oliver could’ve magicked together any style of shoe for Alice, but he chose the slippers on purpose; they were the dancing shoes she never had, and Alice was deeply flattered by the gesture. In fact, for a girl who didn’t care for shoes, Alice was surprised to find that she genuinely liked (almost loved) the slippers; but her pride kept her from telling Oliver the whole truth. So she smiled and thanked him, very politely stating that they were perfectly good (when indeed they were great), and entirely sensible (when in fact they felt luxurious), and Alice had already told so many small lies since arriving in Furthermore that she no longer noticed how easily she slipped into a few more. It had become so easy to fib little fibs and tell little fictions that truth had become gray; and Alice had no way of knowing that her one protection against Oliver (and all other untrustworthy souls) had failed long ago. So she happily tied her blue shoes to her feet, danced around on tiptoe in anticipation, and followed Oliver into the dark.

Slumber really was quite tediously dark. I say this not only because it’s true, but because at this point in the story there is little other scenery to comment on. Alice and Oliver were leaving the city lights of Slumber far behind; from here there was no firelight visible, no floating bulb brightening the sky. It was dark. Cold. Very quiet. Alice and Oliver had been walking along in companionable silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts. They were heading toward somewhere or other—to a place where Alice would acquire a ruler and other miscellaneous necessities—but neither of the two children seemed, at least in the present moment, much interested in discussing it. Alice was loping along, poking at the dark with one finger and hoping to make a hole in it. She was searching for light, for answers, for Father. Her desperate need for him had led her here: wading through perfect darkness, navigating blindly a world she did not know. Father had left on purpose.

Alice knew this now, and somehow that changed everything. Had Father left her on purpose? Or had he left Mother on purpose? What did all of it mean? Why would he leave their home for a land that might consume him? Why take that risk? For what? Alice’s head had filled with so many questions she’d run out of the space needed for paying attention. So she didn’t notice Oliver or the sudden spring in his step or the crooked smile on his face. Alice couldn’t have known what Oliver was thinking—so I really shouldn’t tell you, either—but I think we know each other well enough now to take care of each other’s secrets. So I’ll tell you this: Oliver was feeling relieved. He’d told Alice a bold lie not too long ago, and now he was finally sure he’d gotten away with it. Which was the lie I will not say—but Alice, Oliver had realized, was no longer immune to his charms. Let’s not forget this. Alice, oblivious, was still deep in thought, distracted only by her first glimpse of light in the distance: a single, pulsing beam that grew larger as they drew closer. Alice tapped Oliver on the arm and they were both soon alert, Oliver reclaiming his wariness as Alice grew once again curious. She turned to Oliver. “What—” “It’s the border crossing,” Oliver said briskly. “Border crossing? I thought I was getting a ruler.” Oliver nodded, and Alice could just barely make out his silhouette in the growing light. “Yes, you’ll be issued a ruler as soon as you receive clearance,” he said. “Slumber is the point of entry for all visitors. The real Furthermore is still beyond.” Alice’s eyes and mouth went round at the same time. “And what do I have to do to gain clearance?” Oliver hesitated. “I haven’t any absolute idea,” he said. “It’s different for everyone. But we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?” He nodded ahead. The light was growing larger by the moment, and now it was nearly blinding. “Just a bit farther.” Alice pressed forward, shielding her eyes against the glare. It was nearly impossible to see anything anymore; the brightness was almost painful. In fact, Alice was just in the middle of thinking she didn’t know how much more of this she could stand when suddenly, the light went dim. It took Alice several tries to get her eyes to focus. She blinked and blinked until the multiple halos disappeared and she could finally be certain of what she was looking at. There was a single white door planted upright into the ground. In the center of it was a very large doorbell. Above the doorbell were hammered gold letters that read PRESS HERE FOR ADVENTURE Alice looked to Oliver for reassurance, and he nodded. Carefully, very carefully, Alice reached one finger forward and pressed the button. It beeped softly, like it might’ve been sleeping. A moment later the door disappeared, instantly replaced by a person and a desk, one behind the other. The person was wearing several shirts in varying shades of piglet pink and Alice couldn’t tell if the person was in fact a person (or perhaps a thing) but she didn’t have time to deliberate before it spoke. “Name?” said all the pink. (It turned out that it was indeed a person, the kind who wore a powder-blue top hat.) Alice startled and hurried forward. She noticed a nameplate on the desk that read TED ADVENTURE BORDER CONTROL

VILLAGE OF SLUMBER “Name?” Ted demanded again. “Alice Alexis Queensmeadow,” said Alice quickly. She tried to smile. “Business?” “Business?” Alice repeated nervously. She glanced at Oliver. “I, um, I’m here to look for my f—” “Fruit tree,” Oliver finished for her, jumping forward and flashing a smile at Ted. “She lost her fruit tree in the town of Slender and she’s desperate to get it back. Raised it from a seedling, you know.” Ted blinked at Oliver several times, wordlessly shuffling paperwork around. “Seedling,” he finally mumbled. “Yes, of course, I’ve got that here.” “I’m sure you’ll find all her documents are in order,” Oliver added with another smile. Ted nodded again, his head heavy with Oliver’s persuasion. “So if you would be so kind as to issue her the proper ruler and fill it with—oh, I’d say six months’ worth of time—we’ll be on our way.” Oliver slid his own ruler across the desk. “I’ll take a refill on mine, too, thank you. Same as last time will be just fine.” “Same as last time,” said Ted. “Mmm-hmm.” Ted got to work, quickly stamping papers and rifling through desk drawers, and Alice was —for the very first time—amazed by Oliver’s ability. She thought she knew what he was capable of, but she’d never really seen him in action. Not like this. This was truly extraordinary, she thought. And while a part of her felt guilty for tricking her way through Furthermore, another part of her realized that that was just the way things were. It was, as Oliver had said, a land of tricks and puzzles, and Alice and Oliver had to play along if they were ever going to make it through. “Your ruler,” Ted said suddenly. Alice felt a flutter in her stomach as she stepped forward. The ruler Ted pushed across his desk was different from Oliver’s; hers was a bleached wood, a bit shorter (but sturdier), and looked as though it’d been salvaged from a garbage bin. It was riddled with nicks and scratches—clearly used to death—but Alice didn’t mind. Her ruler felt worn and well loved and easy to hold. It was solid. Heavy. Full of time. She flipped it over to find a brief inscription carved into the wood. ALICE ALEXIS QUEENSMEADOW SNAP IN THREE IN CASE OF EMERGENCY “In case of emergency?” she said, looking up at Ted. “What does that mean?” Ted stared. “Excuse me,” she tried again. “What does—”

“Your time is up when the wood loses its weight,” Ted said, not appearing to have heard her. “So be sure to get back here before then.” “Alright,” said Alice. “But what happens if I don’t get back here before then?” Ted blinked. “You’ll be arrested for stealing.” “What?” Alice gasped. Ted blinked again. “I will now ask you a series of routine questions.” “But—” Alice swallowed hard. “Okay.” “Are you a visitor traveling with a disability or a medical condition?” Ted was reading from a sheaf of paper, at which he now squinted. He shifted closer to his desk lamp. “I-I don’t—” “Are you traveling with any special items?” Ted asked. He was making small notes on the page as she answered. “No,” Alice said. “I mean I don’t think—” “Are you a visitor aged seventy-five or older?” At this, Alice frowned. “Obviously not. I’ve only just turned twelve.” Ted pushed a button on his desk and a shock of confetti exploded over his head and onto the brim of his top hat. (Alice now understood why he wore it.) “Congratulations,” he said. “Are you traveling with any food or gifts?” At this, Ted looked her square in the eye, and Alice could see a flicker of his stubborn mind breaking free of Oliver’s hold. “N-no,” she said, shooting a worried glance at Oliver. “No food or gifts.” Oliver squeezed her hand, and a moment later, Ted’s eyes had glazed over again. He asked her no more questions. “Don’t forget to take your visitor pamphlets,” Ted said, shoving some glossy documents across the desk. “And remember to review the Permitted and Prohibited Items list, as we’ve recently updated the—” “Alright, sure,” Alice said quickly, pocketing the pamphlets without looking at them. “But what about earlier—when you said something about being arrested? What did you mean by that?” Ted had just opened his mouth to answer when Oliver began tugging her away. “Thanks so much! See you soon!” he called to Ted, and quickly tucked his own ruler back inside his bag. “Best not to talk too much to Ted right now,” Oliver whispered. “The more he tries to think, the more easily he’ll be able to push through my persuasion, and we can’t risk that.” “Okay,” Alice whispered back, absently shoving the ruler in her skirt pocket. “But Oliver, what did he mean I’d get arrested?” “I’ll tell you more about that soon, I promise,” he said. “But right now we have to hurry, because the sun is about to wake. We need to head straight to the village of Still, and it’s going to be rather tricky.” “Trickier than all this?” she asked. “Much.” “How much?” “Very.” She stared at him. He stared at her. They stared ahead. The sky, you see, was ripping itself in half.

“Run!” Oliver shouted, and Alice knew better than to ask why. The sky was actually ripping apart, right in front of them, and though she hadn’t the slightest idea why it was happening, she knew the answer couldn’t have been good. But strangest of all wasn’t why they were running in the face of danger—it was why they were

running directly toward it. There were so many questions Alice wanted to ask, but she was doing her best to keep up with Oliver’s long legs, and she was already out of breath. “Oliver,” she said, panting. “Why is the sky ripping apart? What’s happening?” “What do you mean?” Oliver asked. “The day is over. Today is getting dressed for tomorrow.” “That,” she said, breathing hard, “is one of the silliest things you’ve ever said to me.” “Why is that so strange?” he asked. He was breathing hard, too. “Don’t you change your clothes every day?” “Well, yes,” she said. “But I’m a person.” “Oh?” Oliver shot her a look. “And people are the only ones allowed to care about their appearance?” Oliver clenched his teeth as they ran the next hundred feet, breathing harder than before. He was almost entirely out of breath when he said, “Alice, if you plan on surviving in Furthermore, you really must change the way you think.” He was gasping now. “Narrowmindedness will only get you as far as Nowhere, and once you’re there, you’re lost forever.” “You think I’m narrow-minded?” she asked him, clasping a hand to her chest, her heart hammering with each running step. “Me?” Oliver never answered her, though probably because he could no longer breathe. He was wheezing more and more every second, and so was Alice, but Oliver was carrying the pocketbook, which looked very heavy; she was sure his struggle was greater than hers. But even though they were running as fast as they could, it seemed impossible to reach the horizon. Alice wasn’t sure what Oliver was trying to do. “When I tell you to jump,” he said, still gasping for air, “we must jump.” He glanced at her. “Okay?” “Yes,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “Yes, okay.” The sky was straight ahead, midnight curtains pulling apart as slivers of gold and silky blue peeked out from underneath. It was an infant sky, innocent as a day unknown. “JUMP,” Oliver shouted. “JUMP, ALICE, JUMP!” Jump, she did. The wind caught them in an instant, wrapping around their limbs and hushing their gasping, rasping breaths, and when the moment was right—as it seldom was—they were tossed into the center of a changing sky. Down they fell, from Slumber to Still.

Two thumps later, in Still they sat. Alice and Oliver were sitting on their bottoms, legs outstretched in front of them. The wind was gone from their lungs and aches stirred awake in their joints and Alice had so much to be concerned about, but no time to be concerned. Still had stopped the clock. Winter snow and autumn leaves and spring showers had frozen in place. Raindrops shimmered, suspended, like the air wore earrings, and thousands at a time. Snowflakes stuck to the sky like glitter to glue. Autumn leaves had fallen but never to the ground, and they fluttered in the gentle wind, ornaments hung on a holiday breeze, brown and orange and red and yellow, caught in a moment that could not be forgot. Alice looked up and around in awe, parted lips and clear eyes, and leaned back on her hands to take it all in. It was quiet as a feather, and so calm it was tender. The sky was a smoky lavender and the sun was a yellow cloud puffing along in the distance, lending an eerie golden glow to everything it touched. Homes were made of colorful squares and triangle roofs; gray sidewalks curved down streets made of the blackest stone. Birds sat on stoops and did not sing, and it was all very sweet and all very small. Alice could see straight for miles from where she sat, and there wasn’t a person in sight until she stood up.

She gasped. Stepped back. The strangest scene was set before her. Alice couldn’t understand why everything was so different so suddenly, but it had been her movements—however small—that disturbed the land of Still, and now she stood facing all of its occupants: A sea of citizens had appeared in silent protest. There were ladies, ladies, everywhere. They wore suits. An orange pantsuit here, green over there, purple in one corner, red in another. They were a rainbow of ladies sitting perfectly still on stools and tables and crates and benches, on sidewalks and steps and bicycle seats. Hundreds of them. And they were all, every one of them, staring at her. “Oliver?” Alice could feel him standing beside her, but she was afraid to break eye contact with the ladies. “Oliver,” she whispered. “What do we do?” He said something so quietly she could hardly hear him. “What?” She glanced in his direction. The ladies gasped. Round eyes and round mouths gaped at her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t—” More gasps. Horrified faces. Stunned silence. Alice was starting to grow nervous. Apparently speaking was not allowed in Still. No speaking, no moving, no disruptions at all. (This was all an assumption, of course, as Alice didn’t know the first thing about Still, or anything at all, in re: what she was or wasn’t allowed to do here, as Oliver [as usual] appeared to be no help. He hadn’t prepared her a stitch for what to expect in Still, and if they were eaten alive by a group of angry young ladies—well, Alice thought—he would have no one to blame but himself.) Now, before we get to what Alice did next, allow me first the opportunity to defend her actions. In retrospect I realize her decision wasn’t very constructive, but she wasn’t going to stand still for all of eternity (after all, she had Father to think of) so I will say this: In my opinion, her decision was—at least in the moment—a realistic one: She took a few steps forward. Someone screamed. Something shattered. Alice knew immediately that she’d made a mistake, but in her haste to correct the error, she made a few more. She scrambled backward, trying to undo what she’d done, but the more she moved, the more it disturbed the ladies of Still, and soon they were shrieking, all of them, screaming and howling and pulling at their hair, their clothes. They raked their fingers down their faces and drew blood, shed tears, and lost themselves in crazed, choking sobs. (Alice felt like crying, too, but for very different reasons.) The ladies had begun to stand now, but slowly. Their eyes, openly weeping, never left Alice’s face, and the sight of it all was so monstrous that Alice’s poor heart nearly quit. The ladies’ movements were so careful, so slow and methodical, that it was all somehow worse. It would be a slow death, Alice thought, a careful torture, an agony she could not scream through. Terror had so thoroughly overtaken her she was afraid to breathe. “Alice, run!” Oliver grabbed her hand and they charged through Still, destroying every bit of composure the village had carefully preserved. They tore through leaves that then crashed to the ground; they whipped through raindrops that broke on their faces and splashed down their necks; they plowed through snowflakes that caught in their hair and clung to their clothes. The ladies sprang after them. “Faster!” yelled Oliver. “We must go faster!” And though Alice wanted to kick him in the feet and tell him she was running as fast as she possibly could, she was also in the unfortunate position of being unable to breathe, and so decided to save her quips for a better time. She pushed herself, one small leg after another, to climb up the very high hill that led to

the only street that ran through Still and tried very hard not to focus on the fact that they were probably going to die. Admittedly, she was not very good at this. The ladies of Still were close behind. They were screeching in pain, no doubt agonized by all this exercise that had been forced upon them, and Alice was crying—albeit only a little— but mostly because she was so desperately tired, and because she thought she should very definitely stop running lest her lungs should shatter. But no matter, the ladies of Still did not give a fig about Alice’s lungs, and so her legs and lungs would have to soldier through, whatever the cost. Oliver’s hand was wrapped tightly around hers, and he was nearly dragging her up the main street now. Alice had no idea how he was managing all this and still carrying the pocketbook, but she was in no position to ask or even offer any help, as she realized rather quickly that the black stone with which this road was paved was in fact quite slippery, and she was already doing all she could to stay upright. They skidded as they ran, slipping and stumbling and holding on to each other for dear life. The ladies were now silent as snow, catching up to them even without their realizing it, and Alice turned back just in time to catch a glimpse. They were running on tiptoe, knees up and knocking into their chests, and they looked so ridiculous Alice was almost ready to laugh. In agony. Ridiculous though they may have looked, at least they knew what they were doing; these ladies had mastered the road while Alice and Oliver only struggled to survive it. The two children staggered and slipped, constantly readjusting, never fully regaining their footing. All seemed lost. Alice’s legs felt as though they were melting beneath her, and if Oliver ever said a word to her, she could not hear him. Her breaths, hard and rasping, were all she knew, and the pounding in her chest had spread up to her head and down her arms and she was so blinded by pain that she could hardly see. She wanted to give up. She nearly did. Instead, Alice shook her head and forced herself to focus. Quitting would be easy. Dying would be simple. But neither would solve her problems, and both would leave Father lost forever. She had to find a way to keep the two of them alive. Well, and Oliver, too. Suddenly, she had an idea: All this running they’d done, all this energy they’d exerted—it could be put to good use, couldn’t it? There was no time to deliberate. She grabbed Oliver’s shirt, kicked him in the backs of his knees, and knocked the both of them onto their backs. Before Oliver had even a chance to shout about it, they were flying. Sliding, gliding, they were practically penguins sloping down the shiny street, moving so quickly you’d think they had wings. Up and left and down and right, the street curved and swayed and dipped and flipped and with it they went, human roller coasters ready to be sick upon stopping. Eventually, the road came to an end, and with it, Alice’s only hope for escape. She and Oliver had been dumped at the outer edge of Still, beyond which was nothing but grass for miles on end. There was no way out, it seemed, and certainly no time to celebrate Alice’s temporary stroke of genius. In the few moments they wasted catching their breaths, the ladies of Still had spent catching up to their bodies. Hundreds of ladies in colorful suits and angry, bloodied faces were waiting to attack two dizzy, dazed, and broken children. They had nothing left to spare. Not an ounce of energy. Not a shred of power. Not a single—

“Alice,” Oliver gasped. “Oh, Alice. Bless you. Bless you,” he said, “bless you for getting us to the other side, you wonderful girl,” and he tugged a stoppick out of his bag, broke it in half with his teeth, turned back for only a moment, and threw it hard in the direction of their attackers. Everything slowed. The broken casings spun with no real speed, but the very presence of magic sent the ladies into a wild-eyed frenzy. They were salivating, faces distorted by tortured excitement as the magic drew closer, but their eagerness turned to anger as the remains of the stoppick froze and shattered in midair. The ladies shrieked and shrank back, clawing at their eyes, as tens of thousands of colorful threads fell from the sky and wove themselves across the land, creating a beautiful and terrifying barricade. Alice couldn’t believe something so simple had worked. She also wondered where Oliver had gotten so much magic, and how much more he had left. Oliver collapsed. “Alice,” he said, “oh, Alice, you were excellent. That could’ve gone so badly,” he said. “But you did so well.” “That could’ve gone badly?” Alice was staring at him in shock, even as she crumpled to the ground. “You mean it could’ve gone worse than them nearly killing us? Oliver, have you gone mental?” Oliver shook his head. He was on his hands and knees, trying to breathe. “You have no idea how much worse it could’ve been,” he said. “The first time I met the ladies of Still”—he laughed, wheezed—“I tried to be charming.” “Oh, Oliver,” Alice said, cringing. “You didn’t.” She coughed twice and prayed for her legs to stop cramping. “I did,” he said, sitting up. His breathing was a little better now, still broken, but evening out. “And it was a most thorough rejection. I did my best, but it proved impossible to persuade such a large number of ladies to believe anything I said.” “So how did you get through?” she asked, as she, too, pushed herself up into a more comfortable position. “Well, the first time I only broke free by accident. I was very nearly done for. They’d had me strip down to my underpants and climb into a pot over the fire—” Alice gasped and covered her mouth with both hands. “—because it had been a long time since they’d had any dinner, you see.” “They were really going to eat you,” she cried, dropping her hands. “I still can’t believe—” “Yes,” Oliver said, “but”—he held up one finger—“while they were busy trying to light the fire, one of the ladies tripped over my clothes and stepped on a few stoppicks that’d tumbled out, accidentally releasing their magic.” He waved his hand with a flourish. “They went mad. They were thrilled. All they want is magic, after all—it’s the central reason they want to eat us —but I hardly had time to be relieved before they were demanding more. More magic. Everything I had. They took me for every fink they could find and it still wasn’t enough. So they were going to eat me anyway.” Alice was shaking her head in horror. “Luckily, all their procrastination gave me time to form a better plan. I had one last stoppick tucked behind my ear, and I decided to put it to good use. I was outnumbered and would’ve been completely useless in any kind of battle; and as I had only a single stoppick— which isn’t enough magic to do much damage—I had to think quickly. A temporary barrier seemed like just the thing to help me get away.” Oliver nodded at the woven wall he’d built. “This will fade, eventually, but it’ll keep for at least several hours or so.” He laughed. “Good grief. Getting in and out of Still has proven a highly expensive endeavor, hasn’t it? Though I do hope I can say with some confidence that our lives were worth it,” he said, still laughing.

Oliver was thrilled, grinning from cheek to cheek, feeling far too triumphant to notice the careful narrowing of Alice’s eyes. Using magic to solve a problem felt like cheating. After all, not everyone had spare stoppicks just lying around, and it made Alice angry—now that she thought about it—to know that she’d need more than just courage to survive in Furthermore. She pressed her lips together. Alice had been considering Oliver’s finks and stoppicks for some time now, often wondering at his casual use of magic and his practiced skills in conjuring and manipulation. These were skills Alice never had access to, and not for a lack of wanting. She had, of course, taken basic classes on the harnessing and transformation of contained magic, but that was all theory. She’d never interacted with much raw magic, and when she did have a few finks her in pocket, they were very precious to her; she used them carefully and thoughtfully. Alice had never known anyone who could throw money around the way Oliver had in the last few hours, and she couldn’t imagine what that kind of luxury was like. Thinking about money made Alice unspeakably sad. She still had much to learn in life, but she’d seen enough to know that money mattered, and though she didn’t understand the whole of it, she did understand that a few extra stoppicks in a pocket often made it easier to live. A thousand times Alice had wondered whether having money would’ve helped her find Father sooner, and thinking about it now put a pinch in her heart. Alice bit her lip as she looked Oliver over, taking care to really notice him now. She squinted at the simple clothes he wore—the ones she’d so carelessly dismissed earlier—and this time noted the careful stitching, the heavy fabric, and the expertly tailored fit. She noticed his hands, smooth and unblemished, his nails clean and short and buffed. Her eyes roved over his shiny hair, his glowing brown skin, the healthy brightness in his blue-violet eyes. Alice was beginning to realize something about Oliver that she’d never realized before. “Oliver,” she said quietly. “Are you very rich?” Oliver blinked fast. “What?” “Do you have a great deal of money?” she asked, valiantly ignoring the heat blooming in her cheeks. “A great deal?” he said, eyes wide and surprised. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so. Not any more than most people, I imagine.” Alice bit the inside of her cheek and swallowed back all the things she nearly said. Much more than me, she nearly said. I’ve never touched a stoppick in all my life, she nearly said. “Oh,” was what she actually said. Oliver wore a pained expression, his cheeks warmed by a truth neither one of them wished to acknowledge, and Alice was surprised to find that his discomfort bothered her. Embarrassed her, even. So she changed the subject. “The town of Still seems so small compared to Slumber,” she said, staring at the colorful barricade Oliver had built. “Where are we now? Why isn’t anyone trying to eat us anymore?” “Right! Yes!” Oliver said too loudly, relieved to be discussing something new. “Well! The villages in Furthermore are all built differently.” He nodded. “Some are big, some are small, some are very, very tall. But Still isn’t a proper village—and it’s not meant to be. Still is only home to one person.” “One person?” said Alice. “But what about all the ladies who just tried to eat us?” “Ah, well—the ladies of Still are just a security measure,” Oliver explained. “They’re here to protect the land from unwanted visitors. But the person we’re here to meet has no interest in eating anyone. In fact, he’s one of my few good friends in Furthermore.” “Who is he?” she asked. “Who are we here to meet?” Oliver met her gaze, the moon glinting behind him. “Time.”

Alice sat there a moment longer, waiting for Oliver to tell her he was joking, when he tugged on her braid and said, “Narrow-mindedness, Alice, will do us no good.” Alice scowled and slapped his hand away from her hair. “I’m not narrow-minded,” she said. “It’s just difficult for me to believe that we are actually about to meet Time.” She nearly rolled her eyes. Oliver gasped—and very loudly. His eyes were wide and horrified, and he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Listen closely,” he said. “Do not let those words leave your lips again. You do not disbelieve in Furthermore. Do it enough times and you’ll end up there.” “End up where?” “In Disbelief,” he said, and shuddered. “It’s a horrid town.” Alice was afraid to ask him why, so she only nodded and said nothing more, keeping her disbelief to herself. After their lungs had rested awhile, they walked on tired legs into the Still night, where birds were free to sing and crickets were free to dance and frogs would happily croak. They walked through grass that grew up to their knees and ponds that kicked quietly at their shores. Oliver stomped on and smiled at nothing in particular, while Alice distracted herself by peeking into the dark woods that crept just beyond, wondering all the while where everyone had gone, or if anyone had ever been, and what Time would look like, and would Time be nice, and what would happen if Time grew old? What would they do if Time died? And then she had a thought that wasn’t relevant at all, because she was reminded in a quiet moment that she’d been hungry—very hungry—not too long ago. Strange. She didn’t feel it at all anymore. She mentioned this to Oliver. “That’s not strange,” he said. “Eventually you’ll stop being hungry ever again.” “Really?” she asked him. “But why?” “Because the longer you stay in Furthermore, the farther you get from Ferenwood.” “I don’t understand,” she said. Oliver hesitated. Tilted his head. “Back home in Ferenwood,” he explained, “we have to sleep every night and eat frequently throughout the day, don’t we?” Alice nodded. “Right. So, life without those two things,” he said, “would be impossible.” “But not in Furthermore?” Oliver shook his head. “In Furthermore you sleep for the dream and eat for the taste.” Alice hesitated, considering his words. “So when they eat people,” she said, “they do it only for the taste?” Oliver was so caught off guard by her question that he laughed and coughed at the same time. “Well—no,” he said. “Not exactly. I have heard that humans have a very particular taste, and that the magical ones give the meals an extra kick”—Alice shuddered at the thought —“but,” Oliver said, holding a finger up in the air, “they eat people because their souls are empty, not their stomachs. “Here, hunger and exhaustion don’t exist the way they do back home. The infrastructure of Furthermore was built with so much magic as to make the very air we breathe work differently—it makes it so food and sleep are no longer a necessity, but a luxury. It was an irreversible decadence that magically bankrupted the land. Now people can indulge in dinners and dreams only in the pursuit of pleasure. Because doing so for any other reason,” he said simply, “is considered a waste of—” “—time,” she finished for him.

Oliver stopped walking and looked at her. He nodded slowly. “Yes.” He smiled, just a little. “You seem to be catching on.” “You think so?” she said. “I don’t think so.” “No?” “No,” Alice said. “I don’t think I’m catching on at all. I haven’t the faintest idea why we need to meet Time, not a clue what it has to do with the pocketbook, and not the tiniest inkling what any of this has to do with finding Father.” She sighed. “Oliver,” she said, “I have never been more confused in all my life.” Oliver looked worried for only a moment before his worries danced away. He laughed, which made him look lovely; and then he charged ahead, whistling a tune she could not place.

Finally. They stood in front of a door attached to no house (this seemed to be commonplace in Furthermore), and Oliver was looking nervous. Alice couldn’t understand why—it was just a door, after all, and very similar to the one they had encountered at Border Control—though this one was even bigger, and much taller, and bright red and shiny as an apple, with a fancy handle made of gold. It was a beautiful door, but its secrets must’ve been contained somewhere she could not see, because on the other side of the door was nothing but trees. She took a moment to inspect it. “Where—Alice, where are on earth are you going?” Oliver said. “I just want to look around,” she said. “It’s only right that I have a chance to see what we’re getting ourselves into, isn’t it?” Oliver threw his hands up in defeat. And then he leaned against the door frame, crossed his arms, and nodded, as if to say, Please, by all means, take a good look. So she did. They were right at the edge of the woods now and surrounded on every side by very, very tall trees whose densely packed, triangle-shaped leaves were a shade of green so dark she had to squint to see their silhouettes. But when she tiptoed farther into the forest, Oliver panicked. “Not in there,” he said, pleading. “Not—Alice—” “Why?” She glanced back. The look on his face, really. “What’s the matter?” “Not in the forest,” he said quietly. “Please, Alice.” “Oh very well.” Alice relented and tried not to roll her eyes, thinking of how gracious, how patient and tolerant she was of Oliver’s whining, and turned to leave. But then— Well, it was strange. She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to alarm Oliver, so she didn’t say a word, and anyway she was sure she’d just gotten her skirts caught on a branch or some such. It certainly felt that way. Maybe if she tugged a little harder? Hm. No, that wasn’t working either. She tried again. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Oliver?” she said loudly. “I appear to be stuck.” “What do you mean?” Oliver was in front of her in an instant, paler than a wax moon, but careful to maintain his distance. “Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,” she assured him. “Really.” She tried to smile. “It’s just that”—she tried tugging—“I can’t seem to”—she tugged again—“get free.” She sighed. “Will you see if my skirts are caught on something?” Oliver went even paler. He was such a little turtle sometimes, his neck disappearing into his chest. “I told you not to go in the forest,” was all he managed to whisper.

“Oliver, please,” Alice said, irritated now. “Don’t be such a—” There was no time to finish that sentence, I’m afraid. No time at all, no, because Alice was suddenly screaming. It was all fairly embarrassing, actually, because the ordeal was over and done with in only a moment. Alice fell to the ground at Oliver’s feet and righted herself in a hurry, dusting off her skirts and whipping around too quickly, trying to get a look at her assailant. But Oliver’s face froze her still. He was staring at something with a look of shock she could not have anticipated. She thought nothing in Furthermore could surprise him. She thought he’d seen it all. Apparently not. This was a fox. An origami fox. A sheet of rust-and-white paper folded expertly into a real, live, deceptively lovely animal. It scampered about and made little fox noises and yipped and jumped and chased itself; and when it trotted along toward Alice, she wasn’t afraid at all. Oliver had nearly climbed a tree in fright, but Alice stepped forward, hand outstretched, ready to pet the paper fox. It bounded forward and nuzzled her hand before plowing into her legs, and she laughed and laughed and touched the top of its head, awed by the coarse paper of its fur. “What’s your name?” she whispered, crouching down to greet him. Or her. She didn’t know. “Are you a boy or a girl?” The fox jumped around her and bit her skirts, tugging on her clothes. For a fox with no teeth, it had quite a bite. Still, she felt no danger. Her new fox friend held her in place until finally she pet its head again. “Will you let me go?” she asked. Slowly, it nodded, stepped back, and fell into a bow. “You understand me?” she asked, astounded. Again, the fox nodded. “Alice,” said Oliver, his voice high and shaky. He was rifling through his bag with great urgency. “Could we please get going?” “Do you know anything about paper foxes?” she asked him. “Have you ever seen one before?” Oliver looked up, startled, his maps clutched in one hand, his notebook in the other, and shook his head. “Furthermore is made up of hundreds of villages,” he explained, now flipping through the pages of his notebook, “and I’ve only been to sixty-eight of them.” He paused, scanned a few pages, gave a disappointed sigh, and stuffed the notebook back in his bag. Alice was surprised to see Oliver so anxious. “I haven’t any idea where this fox came from,” Oliver continued, “but he’s not from here, and your father—well, your father never mentioned a paper fox in his entries, so this can’t possibly be good. No, this can’t possibly . . .” “His entries?” Alice said, surprised. “You mean that notebook belonged to Father?” But Oliver wasn’t listening. He’d unrolled a few map scrolls and was reading them upside down and then right side up, collapsing paper staircases and poking open miniature doors and unlocking tiny windows and finding nothing behind them. He even gave the maps a good shake to see if anything new would fall out, all to no avail. He was looking increasingly worried, which Alice, bless her heart, found highly entertaining. “It’s not right,” Oliver was saying, jabbing at different parts of the map with one finger. “It’s not as it should be. There’s nothing here about a fox.” He shook his head, hard, and rolled up the scrolls he’d so hastily unfurled. “Oliver,” Alice tried again. “Is that Father’s journal you’ve got there?” Oliver’s jaw twitched. “What? This? Oh,” he said. “Yes, well, it was all part of my task, you know, to help m—”

“May I see it?” Alice asked, stepping forward. “Please? I’d dearly love to see what Father wrote down.” Oliver was clinging to his messenger bag so tightly he was nearly vibrating in place. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said. “The Elders put very firm magical restrictions on the items I’ve been loaned for my journey, and if they’re handled by anyone but me, they’ll know.” “Oh,” said Alice, crestfallen. She knew how tasks worked and she could imagine the Elders having done such a thing. But more importantly, Alice was still operating under the assumption that she could trust Oliver; she thought she’d be able to tell when he was spinning a lie. So she believed him. Oliver was visibly relieved, but Alice, who was once again distracted by the paper fox, didn’t seem to notice. Oliver cleared his throat. “We, um, we should really get going.” “But he looks so sweet,” she said. “Can’t we bring him along?” Alice had little to hold on to in this strange land and she was proud to have discovered something Oliver had not. She wanted to contribute something important to their journey and couldn’t bring herself to give up on the fox just yet. But Oliver was shaking his head. “Don’t be fooled by Furthermore,” he said as he shoved the maps back into his bag. “Please, Alice. Remember why we’re here. If we don’t stick to my original plan, we might never reach your father.” Any reminder of Father was enough to set Alice’s spine straight. “Of course I remember why we’re here,” she said quickly, cheeks aflame. “No need to remind me.” Oliver nodded and even looked a little sorry to have said anything. No distractions, Alice scolded herself. No distractions. Think of Father, she thought. Waiting for help. Hurting somewhere. That was all it took. She offered a small smile to the fox (who then scampered back into the forest) and joined Oliver at the red door. They were here to meet Time. They were here to save Father. She took a deep breath. “Are you ready?” Oliver asked her. “Always,” she said. And they knocked. The two of them together, her knuckles and his. Oliver said these were important manners in Furthermore. When two people came to visit, both people should knock. “Otherwise,” he said, “it would feel like a lie, wouldn’t it?” He smiled. “Thinking only one person was coming over for tea, when actually it was two!” Alice raised an eyebrow. She didn’t say it then, but she was thinking it: Oliver was growing odder by the moment. So they knocked on Time’s door until Oliver said they’d knocked enough, and then it was time to wait. “How long?” Alice asked. “How long do we wait?” “As long as it takes,” he said. “We wait until Time comes.”

Ten minutes later, Alice was grumpy. She thought this was all a bit ridiculous. Waiting for Time. Oh, she was losing her mind, she was sure of it. She tried to remember the last time she’d slept, and couldn’t. What day was it? How long had they been gone? Had Mother and her brothers finally noticed she’d left? Alice was paid such unaffectionate attention at home that it was hard for her to believe Mother would miss her. But Alice underestimated the space she took up in the hearts and

minds of those she met and she had no way of knowing how her absence would affect the ones she loved. Nor did she have time to dwell on it. Her days were dizzier than ever here in Furthermore, and though she missed her home, she didn’t miss the long, empty hours or the interminable stretches of loneliness. Here at least she had Oliver—a friend unlike any she’d ever had—and constant adventure to fill her mind. Speaking of which, the big red door had finally opened. Behind it was a little boy. He wore denim overalls over a bright red T-shirt and he peered up at them through a pair of spectacles far too large for his face, taking care to stare at Alice the longest. She and Oliver said nothing. “Good,” the boy finally said with a sigh. He sounded like he’d lived the life of an old man. “Very good that you’ve brought her.” And then he turned around and left, walking back through a door into a world she couldn’t see the end of. Oliver moved to follow him, and Alice shot him an anxious look. “Don’t worry,” Oliver said, reaching for her hand. “He’s my friend. And I’ve been here before.”

They followed the boy through a house so dark Alice almost thought she’d gone blind. In fact, it was so impossible to see anything but the boy that the darkness actually seemed intentional. Time was private, apparently. They three tiptoed through hallways and up stairways and under doorways until finally they reached a room that was brightly lit. Inside was a very old desk and very old chairs (you’ll find that young people are very good at spotting old things), and every inch of the room was covered in numbers. Plastered to the walls and tables, framed and hung as photos, upholstered to the chairs; books and books of numbers were piled on floors and windowsills and coffee tables. It was bizarre. The little boy asked them to sit down, and then, to Alice’s surprise, took his seat behind the large desk, laced his fingers on the table, and said, “Alice, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” “Oh,” she said, startled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr.—um, Mr. Time.” “No need to be so formal,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Call me Tim. And please”—he smiled and gestured to his appearance—“forgive my age,” he said. “It changes on the hour.” Alice tried to smile. “Thank you for meeting me here again,” he said to Oliver. “I know how much trouble it is to negotiate with my security team, but I can only ever be of use to you when I can stand to be still.” To Alice, he said, “I hope my friends didn’t frighten you too much. Some people find those pantsuits extremely intimidating.” “Not at all,” she said shakily. “I thought their pantsuits were lovely.” But Alice was distracted. Tim was dark-haired and olive-skinned in a way that reminded her of Father. Father’s skin was not such a lovely brown as Mother’s, but just a shade or two lighter, and Alice’s heart was hit with a sudden swell of emotion as she remembered her parents’ faces. “Now then,” Tim said as he turned to Oliver, all business. “You brought the book?” Oliver nodded and placed the pocketbook on the table. “Very well, very well,” said Tim, looking vaguely disappointed. “Thank you for returning it.” Alice glanced at Oliver, all question marks. He still hadn’t told her anything about what they were doing here, and she was beginning to realize he seldom did—not until it was too late.

Tim seemed to understand. “Oliver paid me a visit,” he explained, “the last time he was in Furthermore. I’d respectfully requested that—in the very likely chance he should fail in his mission—he return the pocketbook to me. And now he’s here, true to his word.” Tim folded his hands on his desk and took a moment to smile at Oliver in a kind, fatherly fashion, which, truth be told, was uncomfortable to witness, as Tim had the face and build of a seven-year-old and appeared to be in no position to have fathered anyone. “But why was Oliver here before?” Alice asked. “What did he need the pocketbook for?” “Well,” Tim said, surprised. “To find your father’s pocket, of course.” “My father’s—I’m sorry,” she said, stunned, “my father’s pocket is in there?” “Yes,” Oliver said quickly. “The pocketbook brought me to Tim the last time I was here. I needed to hand over to him the contents of your father’s pocket.” “Oliver!” Alice gasped, horrified. “You just handed over Father’s things to someone else? How could you?” Oliver sat up in his seat. “No,” he said, “it wasn’t—I didn’t—” “Your father got himself into a bit of a bind,” Tim said gently. “Oliver was only trying to help mend the matter.” “What?” Alice looked at Oliver, panicked. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” she cried. “What did Father do? Was it awful? Did he . . . eat someone?” (Tim flinched at that last bit, but we won’t dwell on it.) “Of course not,” said Oliver. “But he took far too much time to make a decision. Remember, Alice—we talked about this—it’s a grave offense.” Alice was stunned. It took her a full minute to find her voice, and when she did, she said, “That is one of the most ridiculous rules I’ve ever heard in all my life.” Tim cleared his throat, visibly offended, studied a chipped corner of his desk and pinched his bottom lip between two fingers. Finally he dropped his fingers and, affecting a tone of sympathy, said, “See, it’s quite simple, really. In Furthermore we do not waste time, share time, or spare time, and I’m afraid your father took more than his measure. Because what he took belonged to me, I was the only one with permission to search his pockets.” He paused. “Though I’m afraid there wasn’t much to reclaim. I had no choice but to repossess his ruler.” Alice’s hands fell into her lap as she sat straight up and stared, unblinking, at Tim’s round, ticking face. His mouth twitched; his hands twitched. He looked like an old clock. Suddenly, Alice understood. “Is that what Ted meant?” she said slowly. “About being arrested?” She looked from Tim to Oliver. “Was Father arrested for taking too much time?” Tim’s eyebrows hiked up an inch and his oversized glasses slipped down his nose. “Yes, I’d say so,” he said, pushing the glasses back into place. “I’d say so, yes.” “Oh my.” Alice had taken to flapping her hands around as the seriousness of it all finally set in. “Oh, oh, oh—” “I know this isn’t much in the way of comfort,” Oliver said gently, “but . . . would you like to see his pocket?” Alice dropped her flapping hands. And nodded. Oliver checked to make sure it was alright with Tim, and Tim tilted his head approvingly. Oliver gave Alice a warm smile, cracked open the pocketbook, and Alice was on her feet and looking over Oliver’s shoulder in the same second it took Tim to sneeze. The old, musty pages of the pocketbook had unleashed a foot of dust into the air, and while Tim used up the moment to blow his boyish nose, Oliver bent over the book with great care. The spine creaked and wheezed like an ancient staircase mounted by mighty beasts, and though Oliver did his best to be gentle, he couldn’t help but disturb the peace of the pocketbook. Alice was no help either. She was so amazed—so very enchanted—she reached out and touched it.

Jabbed it, really. She pressed a firm finger against a page and Oliver jolted in his seat, dropping the book in horror. Tim shook his head, sighed, and sneezed twice more into his handkerchief. But worst of all—worst of all—the book actually yelled at her. Oliver snatched the book off the floor—shooting Alice an admonishing look as he moved it out of her reach—and though he tried to turn the affronted page, the affronted page was refusing to turn. “Oh, be good,” Tim finally said, waving his handkerchief at the pocket. “No need to throw a fit,” he said. “She was only curious.” “I didn’t realize a pocket could be angry,” Alice said. “These pockets belong to actual people,” Oliver explained. “Some of them are attached to the clothes they’re still wearing. I believe the woman you just poked was sleeping,” Oliver said, fighting back a smile. But his search for Father’s pocket was taking a lot longer than Alice had expected, and it was making her anxious. “Is Father’s pocket attached to him, too?” she asked, hoping no one could hear the desperation in her voice. Oliver shook his head. Her heart sank. “Pockets,” Tim explained, “are usually catalogued only after they’ve been lost. Abandoned. Sometimes a person will want to index the contents of an important pocket they’re still wearing, but most others prefer privacy. A pocketbook is often the best place to search for things we’ve misplaced.” Tim clapped a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and smiled at Alice. “Very clever of your friend to go looking for it, don’t you think?” Alice didn’t know what to say. Oliver, seeing the blank look on her face, did his best to explain. “We have pocketbooks in Ferenwood, too,” he said. “And when I arrived in Furthermore my first order of business was to try and find one, because I hoped your father’s lost belongings had been catalogued.” Clever indeed, Alice thought. But she daren’t say it aloud. She didn’t want to admit this, but she was beginning to resent Oliver’s depth of knowledge and experience in Furthermore. She, too, wanted to be smart. She wanted to save the day. It was her father, after all. Where were all her good ideas? Why wasn’t she the hero of this story? “As all pockets are cross-referenced with the date, time, and location of discovery,” Oliver was saying, “I knew that even if I couldn’t access the contents of your father’s pocket, I would at least know where he’d lost it. Where he’d been. A little luck and a lot of persuasion helped a great deal in my quest. Ultimately, my discovery led me to Tim, who became a great friend. He’s taught me so much about Furthermore.” Again, Tim looked on like a proud parent. Alice felt herself go numb, feeling more useless by the moment. “Oh,” was all she said. Oliver turned another page in the book and then, finally, “Ah. Here we are.” He tapped (gently, very gently) the open page and the book groaned, but quietly this time. “This is it,” Oliver said. “This is the one.” And there it was. Father’s pocket. Alice recognized it instantly. It was the only pocket on his faded denim jacket; she remembered this because he was wearing it the last time she’d seen him, nearly three years ago. “Oliver,” she whispered, her two eyes on the book, and two hands clasped in her lap. “Please tell me what’s going on. What happened to Father after he was arrested? Did he manage to get free? Is he hiding somewhere?” Tim looked to Oliver.

Oliver looked away. Alice bit her lip; emotion had drenched her heart and she was running out of ways to wring it dry. “What is it? What’s the problem?” “My dear girl,” Tim said gravely. “Your father is in prison.” Alice heard her breath hitch. “And his sentence is very long,” said Oliver. “Oh yes,” said Tim. “It was made up of many words.” Alice turned to Oliver, her eyes filling fast. “So when you said you knew where Father was, this was what you meant? You knew he’d been imprisoned?” Oliver nodded. “The last time I was here,” he said, “I tried to get him out the proper way. I thought if I followed the rules I’d be able to get him released.” He shook his head. “But now I know that the only way to get him out is to break him free.” Alice sniffed away her tears and tried to be brave. “So we have to do something illegal?” Oliver nodded again. “Well,” said Alice, pulling herself together. “Go on then.” She looked from Oliver to Tim. “What is it? What do we have to do?” Neither of them had a quick answer. Tim finally leaned forward, studied the two children before him, and said, “Oliver, have you never told Alice what you need her for? Does she not know why she’s here?” “Of course I know why I’m here,” said Alice, interjecting. “I’m here to help find my father.” Tim raised an eyebrow. “I’m certain you are,” he said. “But did you not ask why Oliver needed your help? Your help, specifically?” “Well, yes, I did, but—” Alice stopped short to glance at Oliver, whose face had turned a fine shade of tomato. “Well,” she said hastily, “Oliver said that it was Father who asked for me. It was Father who told Oliver to find me. I’m not sure why Father asked for me, exactly,” she admitted, wringing her hands. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? Father wants me here. Father asked for my help.” Tim removed his glasses and sighed. Alice looked from him to Oliver and back again, growing more anxious by the moment. “Oliver,” said Tim, disappointment heavy in his voice. “I didn’t expect such scheming from you. You should’ve been honest with her about your hopes and expectations on this journey.” “What hopes?” said Alice, turning frantically to Oliver. “What expectations? What’s going on?” Oliver had turned maroon. He refused to make eye contact with Alice, no matter how hard she looked at him, and Alice was suddenly accosted by terror; she felt a fist of panic clench around her throat and, despite her efforts to shout angry things at Oliver, she struggled to speak. “Alice, dear,” Tim said to her as he replaced the glasses on his face. “Oliver has never met with your father. He’s never spoken a word to him.” Alice nearly fell out of her chair. “But—but he said—” “I’m afraid he lied to you.” “No,” Alice gasped, looking desperately at Oliver. “That’s not possible. You see I made an ever-binding p-promise—” Tim was shaking his head. “Oliver has never seen your father—at least not in Furthermore,” he said firmly. “He’s never made it that far.” Alice, poor thing, was beginning to hyperventilate. “Breaking your father out of prison is a fine idea,” Tim went on, “but the problem is no one knows exactly where the prisons are located. There are dozens and dozens of them; each an entire village unto itself, and all secured by intensely private entrances. They’re meant to be nearly impossible to access. Don’t you see? It’s not as simple as—Alice? Alice—?” Alice’s mind was spinning.

Oliver had lied to her. Which meant Oliver had been lying to her. But for how long? How many lies had he told? And how had he managed to trick her? And how could she ever trust him now? How would she ev— Tim rapped the desk to get her attention. “Young lady,” Tim said sharply. “Are you listening at all? I said I need to see your visitor pamphlets. I do hope you have your visitor pamphlets,” he said with a frown. “You should’ve received them at Border Control. You did go through Border Control, didn’t you? It would make matters infinitely worse if you were here without a ruler.” “No,” Alice managed to say. “I mean yes. Yes, I have my ruler. And the pamphlets.” She dug through her pockets, unearthed a stack of glossy brochures, and pushed them across the desk. She was dizzy with fear and couldn’t bring herself to look at Oliver anymore. Tim adjusted his glasses and picked up the first (and thinnest) of the bunch, which was titled — WHAT TO KNOW BEFORE YOU GO — A Quick and Easy Guide to Furthermore When Tim opened the slim pamphlet, it unfolded itself across the desk and onto the floor until it grew to be no shorter than ten feet in length, every inch of which was covered in cramped, spasmodically capital-lettered print, and was more than occasionally punctuated by overzealous exclamation points. Alice found the entire business overwhelming and was silently grateful she hadn’t bothered to peruse the other pamphlets— — FURTHERMORE PHRASEBOOK — How to Understand the Languages You Don’t Speak — DESTINATION GUIDE — The Top 10 Villages You Should Visit This Year and — SHOP LIKE A LOCAL — Insider Secrets to the Best Gifts in Town —because it all looked like information for tourists, and Alice didn’t consider herself a tourist. She considered herself the brave heroine of an unlikely tale. “Ah,” said Tim, tapping a bit of text on the page. “Here—do you see? Under the Permitted and Prohibited Items list. It’s been recently updated, you know.” He glanced at Alice and scooted closer, making room so she could get a better look. Time is permitted until it is prohibited, that is, until it has expired, which is to say: until it is no longer valid under the terms and conditions it was originally acquired (said terms and conditions having been agreed to upon the receipt of 1 [ONE] Furthermore Standard Issue Ruler, the procurement of which is required for all visitors as of sixty-and-two years hence [see section 172-5.42]), and as such, the illegal acquisition of Time shall be punishable by The Law of All Lands, and the punishment shall be no fewer than five years Enslaved Imprisonment in Isolation, (hereafter referred to as EII), a sentence bound by The Laws of Exile, the duration of which may vary. Amended to add: In an effort to emphasize the severity of Time Thievery, EII shall be henceforth effectuated by The Laws of Complex Color. Alice sat back and collapsed in her chair. She was sure her bones had come loose; in fact, for a moment she thought she could hear them—elbows knocking against wrists cracking

against knuckles—but it wasn’t that at all. It was Tim; Tim who was rapping the desk again, trying to get her attention. Alice jerked in her seat. “Alice? Alice,” Tim was saying. “Do you understand what you’ve just read?” “I do.” Alice’s voice was steady, but she couldn’t make herself look at Tim. “Father has been enslaved for wasting time.” “Yes, my dear, but it’s more complicated than that. Furthermore has been reinforcing all prison sentences with The Law of Complex Color.” Alice blinked. Tim leaned in. “Do you know what that is?” Alice glanced at Oliver one final, awful time in an effort to make him speak, but Oliver was determined to look at the floor. The coward, she thought. It made her hate him, to know that he’d known all this and never told her. She’d thought they’d moved past these obstacles; she’d thought they were equals now, that he would’ve shared all truths with her. Instead he’d tricked her into trusting him and had lied to her the moment he was able. She felt more foolish than ever. He’d pretended to be her friend, and it was all a lie, wasn’t it? (No, it wasn’t, but we’ll get to that.) Alice was angry and hurt and heartbroken and she would stand for this no longer. Her pride wouldn’t bear it. “Alice?” Tim again. “No,” Alice finally said, a little angrier than she meant it. “I don’t know what The Law of Complex Color is. Should I? It didn’t sound as awful as everything else I just read.” “But it is,” said Tim. His glasses had slid down the bridge of his nose again; he pushed them back up. “It’s terrifying. Don’t you see? They’ve stripped him of his color.” “What?” Alice startled. She felt Oliver flinch. “His color, my dear. His color.” “But I don’t understand,” she said. “How could they—” “You should understand better than anyone, coming from Ferenwood as you do,” Tim said. “The laws work the same in Furthermore: Living off the land gives us our color; it’s the magic we consume that makes us bright. Without it—well,” Tim said, gesturing to her face. “I’m sure you know better than anyone the effects of having little magic.” Alice felt she’d been slapped in the face. She’d always known what people thought of her; she’d heard the whispers around town. Ferenwood folk had skin and hair and eyes as rich and bright as the land itself; it was the magic in the fruits and plants they ate that gave the people their hue. Being colorful was the mark of being magical, and Alice, having no color, was presumed to have no magic, either. And after her recent display at her Surrender, Alice was sure she’d finally proven true all their false suspicions. She hung her head in shame. She didn’t even try to refute Tim’s point. “So Father looks like me, now?” she said quietly. “He has no color at all?” “It’s a bit different than that,” said Tim. “Once an inmate is placed in solitary confinement, he is stripped of all rich color and left only as a grayscale version of himself. He carries not a single bit of brightness, not in his eyes, not in his cheeks. But you, Alice, you exist in fullcolor, not grayscale,” Tim explained. “The bit of brown in your eyes—or maybe the soft pink in your cheeks—these are full and real colors, despite their limited presence. “But prisons in Furthermore are built only in scales of gray. Currently, your father possesses no full-color of any kind, which makes him incompatible with the real world. If he tried to go home as he is now, the physical demands of a full-color existence would crush him. It’s a security measure that makes it impossible for him to escape.” A single sob escaped Alice’s lips before she clapped a hand over her mouth. There was such a sudden influx of awful news to contend with that Alice didn’t even know where to begin.

At least she finally understood why Oliver so desperately needed her. He wanted to solve his task by using her talent. The talent Alice hadn’t shared with anyone. The one she should have surrendered, and had not. The talent she hated. Oh, she could kill him for it. For lying to her. For deceiving her. For making her think he actually cared about her or Father or any of the pain she’d suffered in Father’s absence. Oliver didn’t care about her, Alice thought. He cared only about completing his task. Oh, how could she ever trust him again? She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. “Alice?” It was Tim again. Tim, the only person willing to tell her the whole, ugly truth. “Do you understand? Do you now understand why you’re so desperately needed?” “I do,” she said softly. “But there’s still one thing I don’t understand.” “Yes?” Alice didn’t know how to put this delicately. “Why didn’t they just eat him?” she asked. “Why put him in prison?” Tim was suddenly and visibly uncomfortable. “Well,” he said airily. “You mustn’t see us all through the same lens, Ms. Queensmeadow. We don’t all approve of eating visitors, you know. In fact,” he said, holding up a finger, “in fact, just the other day I initiated a petition to spare the young ones, you know, whose magic is most pure, and thus most coveted—” “All the same,” Alice said steadily. “Why is he still alive?” Tim cleared his throat. “Well, you see, it’s the law that requires it. The law says that prisoners must be made as useful as possible before they’re . . . sold off to the highest bidder.” “Right.” Alice nodded. “So, just to be clear: You enslave us, work us nearly to death, sell us, and only then do you eat us.” “Why, Ms. Queensmeadow, when you put it like that it sounds almost inhumane—” Alice stood up carefully, collected her pamphlets, her dignity, and her broken heart, shoved them in her pockets, and turned to Oliver. “Our deal is done, Oliver Newbanks. You may return home now. I will find Father on my own.” And with that, she turned on her heel, stormed out the door and down the stairs and through the hall and back outside, and left in her wake a stunned Oliver and a disheartened Tim, and did not cry but six tears before she sniffed the rest away. And then she ran. She ran as far as she could get from Tim’s red door, ran directly into and through the forest Oliver had told her to stay away from (Alice didn’t care a whit what Oliver thought anymore) until she reached the edge of the woods and could go no farther. It was there, in the middle of nowhere (not to be confused with Nowhere), that Alice fell to her knees and hugged herself through a crush of heartache. Father was in Enslaved Imprisonment. This was a truth Alice’s young heart could not handle. Three long years Alice had been lost and tortured, hoping and wishing that Father would come home. She’d always prayed he was okay, that she would one day know what had happened to him, but now that that day had arrived, she was sorry for it. Her heart seized, her lungs squeezed, and Alice fought through the pain for a gasp of air. She felt infinitely powerless in the face of Father’s enslavement, but being angry gave her something to do, so she took hold of it with both hands and refused to let it go. Oh, there was so much to be angry about. Speaking of which: Oliver was a liar. This, another truth that broke Alice’s heart. She’d trusted him, befriended him, and Oliver had lied. He’d manipulated her. He’d withheld information from Alice over and over and he’d kept secret the most critical details of her father’s imprisonment. He should’ve told Alice exactly what he needed from her; he should’ve secured her voluntary participation in all parts of his plan. He’d made a series of increasingly stupid, shortsighted decisions.

He was entirely at fault. But between you and me, dear reader, I would dare to share my humble opinion that Oliver’s stupidity alone was flimsy reasoning for Alice abandoning her otherwise welltraveled, well-informed partner at such a critical juncture in the story. If Alice had any sense of self-preservation she would’ve waited for a safer moment (or a safer place) to have walked away; but Alice and Oliver had more in common than they realized: The two possessed passionate, rumpled spirits and they were both guilty of crimes committed of childish ignorance. Alice had neither the maturity nor the self-awareness to wonder at Oliver’s ability to be such a consistently talented liar; she did not think his skills could be a symptom of some greater problem. So she couldn’t have known then that Oliver’s lies were motivated not by cruelty, but by fear. Fear of rejection, of abandonment, of interminable loneliness. There was very little she knew about his interior life, simply because she’d never asked. Oliver, too, had made no effort to understand Alice. His young life had always been safe and boring and predictably comfortable; he’d never known the weight of grief or poverty. He did not understand that a broken heart long untended would eventually cease to beat. And Alice, whose heart had been badly broken for some years now, desperately needed a body upon which to unburden her pain. Tonight, she chose Oliver. In this moment, anger was a magic all its own: It gave Alice energy, adrenaline, and a distorted sense of self-righteousness that would, for a short time only, power her through a pair of unwise decisions. Abandoning Oliver would be the first.

KEEP UP! THERE’S NO TIME TO WASTE!

Oliver Newbanks was equal parts terror and anguish. He’d dashed out of Tim’s home and was running around in a blind panic, checking under every lake and hill for a glimpse of his friend—but she was not to be found. If only Oliver had known where to go looking for Alice, he would have had no trouble finding her, as she was making no effort to

disappear. In fact, she’d made quite a spectacle of herself when she thought no one was looking. Alice was sitting on her bottom in the middle of the woods—her head dropped into one hand, her skirts bunched up to her knees—and was currently in the process of turning the entire forest an electrifying shade of blue. She’d changed the color of these woods several times now, but couldn’t decide which hue would do. And then, as she squinted up at the trees and allowed herself another brief, self-indulgent little cry, she thought, Oh, those leaves would look better in pink, wouldn’t they? and then turned the trunks pink, too. Playing with magic had always made her feel better. Clever reader: I’m sure by now you’ve guessed it, haven’t you? I know I’ve not kept it much of a secret—and maybe I should’ve done—but I’m glad you’ve guessed it, because I’d like to finally be able to say this honest thing: Despite her protests to the contrary, Alice’s gift was never to be a dancer. Her true magical ability was to be a living paintbrush. Alice could change the colors of anything without lifting an eyelid. She could turn a person blue and a thing green and a place yellow and even though she should’ve been proud of her skill, she resented it. Hated it. Denied it so vehemently that she’d actually convinced herself it wasn’t a real talent. Because Alice—no-color Alice—could change the color of anything and everything but her own colorless self. She was sure it was a magic that existed to mock her. Still, the motions of making color always helped calm her heart, and when she’d finally had her fill, she dusted off her hands and dug through her pockets for the pamphlets she’d neglected to read earlier. She’d had enough of relying on Oliver to make all the decisions and to tell her where to go. She could figure it out on her own, she’d decided, especially now that she knew the basics of Furthermore. And besides, she had information right here, right in her hands; all she had to do was study it. But Alice couldn’t focus. Her hands were shaking and her thoughts were clouded and the truth was, she was scared. Alice had hoped to be brave—she’d hoped she was stronger than her fears—but Alice was injured on the inside; and though her anger kept her upright, it couldn’t keep her steady, and from moment to moment Alice would slip. She was tired and she was worried and she was consumed by thoughts of Father, of what his life had been like these past years and how she’d ever reach him. He was in danger, she knew that now, but she also knew Furthermore would do its best to keep him from her. This would be no ordinary task, she was realizing, and suddenly the seriousness of it all was weighing down on her. She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to save anyone anymore, not even herself. Alice ran absent hands across her face and rubbed at her eyes. She picked up her pamphlets, put them down, and picked them up again. She wanted to rest, but there was no time for that. She wanted to bathe, but there was no time for that, either. She felt tattered and dirty and she desperately needed a washing but there was Father to think of. Father whom she loved. Father who left when she needed him most. Father who got lost and couldn’t find his way back to her. There was never a day she didn’t think of him. Never a day she didn’t need him. She missed him with a fierceness that crippled her sometimes. She missed everything about him, about them, about how they used to be. She missed the way they used to fight, she and he, every day. He would tell her she was beautiful and she’d call him a liar and they would argue until she gave in. He never let her win, never let her convince him she was right. He fought harder for her than she ever fought for herself. Alice closed her eyes.

“Enough,” Father said, shaking his head. He was pacing around the room. He was angry: His cheeks flushed, his eyes pinched, his brows furrowed. “I hate hearing you talk about yourself like this. You’re a blank canvas, Alice. No person is better primed for color than you are.” Alice looked up at him, frustrated and exhausted. “Then when?” she asked. “When will I have color of my own? When will I look like you and Mother?” “Darling Alice,” he said, reaching for her. “Why must you look like the rest of us? Why do you have to be the one to change? Change the way we see. Don’t change the way you are.” “But how?” she asked, her little fists clenched around his fingers. She tugged him closer. “How can I do that, Father?” “You’re an artist.” He smiled. “You can paint the world with the color inside of you.” The memories tugged on her joints; her fists unclenched. Her heart ached. It was a moment of weakness, and she allowed it. She felt she’d earned it. She’d decided long ago that life was a long journey. She would be strong and she would be weak, and both would be okay. So she bit the inside of her cheek, let her chin fall against her chest, raked all ten fingers through her knotted, tangled hair, and she let herself feel weak. But then— Well, it was strange, she’d just realized, that she hadn’t thought much of her white hair at all lately. Certainly not as much as she used to. Before coming to Furthermore Alice could seldom move from moment to moment without being reminded of her nothing-hair and her nothing-skin. But not here. In fact, it struck her as silly now, to be bothered by her missing colors. What did it matter what she looked like when she had purpose? She sat up a little straighter. So what if Oliver was a liar? So what if she’d failed her Surrender? So what if she was lost in a strange land with no idea how to get home? Father needed her, and need didn’t care what nothing looked like. Alice had a proper mission now, and she would not back down. She would fight harder for Father than he could fight for himself. Nothing would stand in her way.

Alice had only managed to take one step forward before the fox found her again. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, suddenly sitting in front of her, proper paper tail wagging in the fading light. He looked calm and sweet and bowed his head every time Alice looked at him. She wanted to pick him up and take him home. Alice could hear the ghost of Oliver’s voice in her head advising her to be careful. She could almost picture the fear in his face, the warning in his eyes. But Alice didn’t care about Oliver’s advice anymore and she was determined to prove she could make wiser decisions without him. She bent down in front of the paper fox and scratched him (or her?) under the chin; the rough copper-colored paper felt strange and warm against her fingers. He seemed to like that, so she pet him between the ears and he nuzzled right into her hand. “Hello, Fox,” she said. Fox jumped back, bit her skirts, and crinkled his paper nose at her feet. Alice laughed and felt the cracks in her heart mend, bit by bit. She took it as a sign. Maybe the fox was the thing Oliver had missed. Maybe the fox was sent especially for her. What if the fox was trying to lead her to Father? Alice already knew what Oliver would say about her theory, and even his imaginary condescension made her angry. So she made a sudden decision.

“Fox,” she said. The fox yipped and its paper tongue lolled. “Fox, will you take me to my father?” The fox nodded eagerly. Alice clapped her hands together in joy. “Oh, you do know what I’m saying, don’t you?” she asked. Again, the fox nodded. “So you’ll help me?” she said. “Will you help me save Father?” Once more, the fox nodded. Alice cried out and wrapped her arms around the fox. “Thank you!” she said. “Oh, thank you!” The fox jumped around and yipped again and was already bounding ahead of her through the forest, turning back every few feet to make sure she was following. Alice didn’t know what was waiting for her but she was excited to be taking charge and making decisions for once. She felt certain that this was right, that she would make her way through Furthermore in a way Oliver couldn’t. Oliver had never even made it to Father, so what did he know about saving him? She was sure that this fox was the key. This optimism carried her through the next half hour. Wherever the fox lived, it was far from where he found her, and the farther they went, the stranger the landscape became. Alice assumed they were still in Still, but she couldn’t be sure. For just a fleeting moment Alice caught herself wishing Oliver was around to tell her where they were headed, but she quickly checked the impulse and focused instead on her certainty that the fox would help her find Father. But the truth was, she was beginning to worry. The ground beneath her was losing its grass, becoming sparer and drier as they went. Night had tilted into day, and the sun swung back into the sky. Heat filled the gaps in everything, and though Alice felt her instincts prick, denial kept her from registering the warning. Alice was in a daze by minute thirty-four, one foot following the other and neither knowing their way. She blinked once, twice, so many times before the horizon stood upright and everything slipped sideways. It was strange, she thought, so very, very strange, how her feet kept moving even when she didn’t want them to. Not only did she not want them to keep moving, she wanted them to do the very opposite of keep-moving, but there was no one to tell her feet anything at all, as her mind was always missing when she needed it most. Her throat was awfully dry. She licked her lips and the sky flew in and filled her up, so hot it stuck to her teeth. The earth beneath her was crisping at the edges, every inch fried sunny-side up. Oh, it was hot. Horribly, suffocatingly hot. Alice ached for miles from heel to toe, wincing in the blinding light of what seemed an endless summer, and wondered, in a moment of clarity, if Oliver was worried about her. She had no idea where she was. She tried to look around but the moment she turned her head she was flat on the ground. She was pancake thin, plastered to the earth; she was physically impossible. She was suffocated by her eyes, her lips, the length of her face, the impossible weight of her bones and the skin that zipped her in too tightly. She was too human, too many dimensions for this world, and she only realized her eyes were closed when she decided it would be wise to wrench them open. Sheer force of will pried her eyelids apart. She gasped and wheezed, her eyesight flattening at the edges, and when she blinked again, once more, and three and four times after that, she found herself staring upside down at a bright paper sun stapled to a spinning, glittery thread. She couldn’t have known it at the time, but Alice had just come upon the village of Print, a two-dimensional town that could not sustain her.

Alice sat up slowly, reaching one arm forward to steady herself, and heard the crunch and rustle of something very wrong; her eyes shuttered, broke open, and focused on a world made entirely of paper everything. Paper clouds chugged alongside a paper sun, their bottoms taped to the tops of red-and-white-striped straws. A crumpled, folded-and-refolded halfmoon was pinned to the blue construction-paper backdrop. Paper trees stood tall and not, and fat and not, and animals hop-walked around parallelograms of pasture. Homes were rectangles and triangles stapled together, chimneys puffing swirls of smoky tissue straight into the sky. Hills were pasted, one on top of the other, in different shades of green, and stick-figured people stomped around flat and sideways, an entire dimension of being snipped right off. It was confounding. Astounding. She was out of breath with excitement. Amazement. Alice had no idea she was in danger—how could she? Eagerly, she leaned into her arm to push herself up and onto her feet, but fell forward, her arm now limp where a limb should be. And when she looked down at herself, she felt the strangest sensation. She heard the strangest sound.

Alice was very likely screaming, though if you ask her about this today, she denies it, and I don’t know why. Pride, I suppose. I’d not guilt her for screaming had she done so; her histrionics would have been for good reason. The fox, you will remember, was still with her, except that he now had Alice’s arm in his mouth, and was very desperately trying to tug her sideways into his paper world. Alice was on the cusp of entering the village of Print, and she was still suffering the effects of being just close enough to a village that could collapse her. She was now moments from being dragged inside and made two-dimensional forever, and she was fighting for her life. It was Fox against Alice. Alice tugged and tugged, but it was difficult to know how hard to fight, because in so many ways she felt nothing. Part of her felt half real. Paper-thin. She could only sort of feel the pain of being pulled in different directions, because some part of her had suddenly become something else, and she didn’t know what that was. She hadn’t realized that the fox had managed to pull one of her arms all the way through to the two-dimensional town, and it wasn’t until she heard a great roaring rip that she understood how tremendously wrong all this had become. Technically, she won the fight. The fox was scampering away, so Alice must’ve won the fight. Why, then, was Alice screaming so much louder now? (Again, she denies this.) What was there to shout about? And while we’re asking questions, I’d like to wonder, why, in that very same moment, was Alice feeling so much regret? Well, I will tell you what I think. I think Alice was wishing she’d never run away from Tim and Oliver. I think she was wishing she’d never left Ferenwood at all. I think she was wishing Furthermore had never existed and that she’d never had a twelfth birthday and that she’d never Surrendered the wrong talent. Oh, I think Alice was filled with all kinds of regret. She ran blindly, wildly, charging back down an impossible path of impossible gravity, one foot pounding harder than the other in the blazing heat of an impossible sun. Alice was sorry. She was sorry for everything. She was sorry Mother didn’t love her and sorry Father had left her and sorry for ever thinking she could save him. Alice ran until she tripped, until she fell to her knees and her face hit the ground, until she felt tears falling fast down her face. Only then did Alice understand true loss. Only then did she discover she was missing an entire arm.

She wasn’t bleeding, and this was the first thing Alice noticed. The second thing she noticed was that her right arm had been ripped off at the shoulder, and as she was only now beginning to regain the full use of her mind, the third thing she noticed was that she had been partly turned to paper. Where blood should have been there were instead wisps of tissue, and where bone should have been there was instead a strange breeze. And though she felt the inclination to bend her arm, to make a fist, to shake herself out of hysteria and tell herself to stop crying—(It’s alright, I’m alive, I’ll survive, she would say)—she could do nothing but stare at the space where something important once was. And then, dear friends, the fourth thing she noticed: Her bangles were gone. The loss of an arm and an entire arm’s worth of bangles (the latter, of course, being the greater loss) was too much to digest, especially like this. Like this: her head aching from the hit, her legs cramping from the run; still climbing to her feet and stumbling to stay upright, still moving, now panting, two short legs trying not to trip; her two feet pounding the earth, hard hits like heartbeats against the cracked dirt beneath them. She was off balance, unsteady with only one arm but she wouldn’t stop, she wouldn’t think, she refused to acknowledge any of this, not even for a moment, not until the dirt turned back into grass and the sun fell over sideways and night climbed over day and she was back where she started, forever moving forward just to move backward in time. Finally, Alice fell to the ground. She rolled over in the grass, adrenaline keeping her from collapsing into panic, and took a moment to marvel at the twilight she’d returned to. Just above her head was Tim’s big red door, and just in front of her was wide-open nowhere with a pond nearby. The crickets sang to scratch an itch and the frogs croaked along because it was a catchy tune; the tall grass danced with a sultry breeze and the moon sat atop an unwashed cloud, shining over everything. Somehow, even in this moment of perfect terribleness, the Still night was still lovely, fragrant, and awfully enchanting, and Oliver Newbanks stood before her, looking like he’d been spun from glass. Oliver Newbanks, who appeared to be catching his breath. Oliver Newbanks, who was looking at Alice, eyes wide, chest heaving, sweat beading at his brow, and he said once, softly, “Alice?” So she whispered once, softly, “Oliver?” “Alice,” he said, urgently now, eyes tight and shining, “are you alright?” His voice was pitched low, like he was afraid it might crack. And Alice shook her head. No. No, she wasn’t okay. The moon was quickly rising, and with it, a veil of darkness that partially obscured Alice from view. So Oliver drew closer, and only then did he see what had happened to her. He jerked back, clapped a hand to his mouth, and cried, “Oh goodness, Alice!” She didn’t know what to say. Oliver reached out to touch the place where her arm might’ve been, and she saw his hand shake. “Are you in pain?” he whispered, his voice trembling. Alice shook her head again. No. In fact, she felt nothing at all. She hadn’t yet processed the shock of losing her arm, so she wasn’t sure how to react. Should she be scared? Should she be strong? “Will it grow back?” she asked. Oliver’s eyes went so wide Alice could see the white rims around his irises. “No,” he said softly. “The effects of Furthermore, when they can’t be fixed, are always final.” That’s when Alice began to feel.

His words stabbed at a corner of her brain; it was a twisty, piercing pain that exploded behind her eyes and took her breath away. For no reason at all she was suddenly desperate and aching, aching, where her arm used to be, and suddenly there was nothing in the world she wanted more than to have two arms. Suddenly all she could think about was having two arms. Suddenly there were a million hundred trillion thousand things she wanted to do with her arms and suddenly she couldn’t, suddenly she couldn’t, and it was all too much. The stabbing pain caught fire and dropped a flame down her throat and this shocked her heart into a terrible, tripping beat, and in less than a moment she was so thoroughly and absolutely shattered she couldn’t calm down long enough to make herself scream. She looked at Oliver. “. . . have to find a painter,” he was saying. “What?” The word was more of a rasp than a word. Alice had already lost a father, the length of her right arm, and an entire set of bangles, so it made sense that her voice would follow suit. “Yes,” Oliver was saying. “It’s the only way.” He was on his feet now, arms crossed, pacing the length of the same five-foot stretch. “The problem is, I don’t quite know how to find one. I’d only ever heard rumors, you know?” He looked up at her. “And the trip will take us off course, of course, and cost us a great deal of time.” He looked away again, mumbling. “Though obviously the expense would be worth it.” He seemed to be speaking entirely to himself. “Wait,” she rasped again. “What do you mean?” Oliver stopped pacing, looked up in surprise. “We have to get your arm fixed,” he said. “But I thought you said—” He shook his head, hard. “No, no, it won’t grow back. But we could get someone to paint you a new one.” Alice was about to ask more questions, but a sudden hope had taken up too much room inside of her and she couldn’t think around it. She made the strangest noises. Startled, squeaky sounds that made it too obvious she was trying not to cry. “Alice,” Oliver said quietly. “Will you tell me what happened?” He offered her a handkerchief and she took it. “Where did you go? Who did this to you? How did you get back?” So Alice told him the story. She told him about trusting the fox she shouldn’t have trusted, about the paper world she saw, about the fox ripping off her arm as she tried to escape. Oliver was devastated. Alice was ashamed. They were each convinced of their guilt, and they were right to be; they two had torn holes in each other, and the wounds, unhealed, had only led to more pain. The simple truth was that they were both to blame for what had happened. Oliver for his reluctance to trust Alice and for his failure to make her feel like a true partner; and Alice for making decisions motivated by anger and hurt and recklessness. But young hearts are more resilient than most. They would both recover. “Shall we?” said Oliver tentatively. “Time is such a tricky thing. We can never take too much.” His eyes were nervous, asking all the questions he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud. He was worried, Alice knew, that she would abandon him again. So when Alice nodded, Oliver smiled, relief sagging his shoulders. “Where will we go?” Alice asked. “To fix my arm? How will we get there?” Oliver looked stricken as he stared at her, and Alice thought it was because he felt sorry for her; but that wasn’t it at all. Oliver felt much more than sorry for Alice. His heart had grown ten sizes since he’d met her, and the hours he’d lost her had nearly broken him. She was injured and he knew it to be his fault—to be a result of his selfishness and stupidity—and he wasn’t sure he could forgive himself.

“I don’t honestly know,” Oliver said softly. He looked out into the distance. “But notknowing is only temporary when we’ve got the minds to figure it out. We’ll find a way.” Alice nodded. She had no fewer than a thousand questions and concerns, but she managed to swallow them down. Right now, she would make do with this reconciliation, and the rest, she hoped, would come. Oliver knelt in front of her and smiled. A single tear had escaped down the side of his face, and the breeze touched his tunic, folding it gently between its fingers. Oliver closed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Alice,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.” And because she was a girl made of more heart than hurt, she forgave him on the condition that he, too, forgive her. Easily done. Oliver took her only hand and held it right up against his chest, and then they sank, he and she, together, the two of them, right into the ground.

When Alice opened her eyes again, she felt the blazing heat of a familiar sun beating down her back. Alice’s whole body stiffened, and Oliver, who was now paying close attention, misunderstood her fear. “Sorry about that,” he said. “These emergency exits can be a bit uncomfortable.” “Emergency exits?” said Alice, distracted. Oliver nodded. “If you want to get to the next closest village as quickly as possible, you always exit downward. But the transitions can be a bit rough.” He laughed. “One time I down-exited directly into a mass of dead sheep and I couldn’t get the wool out of my mouth for days after. I was coughing up hairballs for hours—” “Oliver, we should leave. Now.” The ground beneath them was blisteringly hot, and Alice was beginning to see spots. “This is where the fox took me. This is near the entrance of that paper village. I’m sure of it.” Oliver froze, words still caught in his mouth; luckily, his shock lasted only a moment. He took Alice’s hand and began to run, but just as they picked up speed Oliver was knocked sideways, hitting the ground hard as he fell. Alice cried out, panicked, and tried to help him up, but she was abruptly yanked backward, tossed face-first into the dirt, and dragged off by the hem of her skirts. She kicked and screamed and managed to break free twice before being pinned down again, but fear had finally paralyzed her. The paper fox had returned, and this time, he’d brought his friends.

Four paper foxes had cornered them. Three of the four were built of a rather normal (read: dull) shade of brown paper, and these three had Oliver cowed on the ground. The only fox built of a vibrant copper color was the one standing directly over Alice’s body. This was her fox. The very same one from before. “Alice!” Oliver shouted. She could hear him struggling. “Alice, are you—” But his voice was quickly muffled. Alice chanced a glance his way only to find that one of the foxes had wrapped its tail around Oliver’s mouth. Alice felt her pulse racing. The heat was sweltering; sweat was beading at her brow. The fox had locked eyes with her and she was doing all she could to stay calm. Alice knew she should say something, but she wasn’t sure where or how to begin. This was a paper fox, after all, and as far as Alice was concerned, there was no such thing as magic that could make animals talk. Still, she had to try. “What do you want from me?” she said. The fox stared at her for just a beat longer before pawing aggressively at her skirt pockets.

“What is it?” Alice pulled herself up to a seated position, and the fox retreated a few steps. She patted her pockets with her single hand and unearthed their contents: four visitor pamphlets, her black card, and her blond ruler. Alice held them out to the fox. “What do you want?” she asked. “Which one?” The fox nodded through her wares, took one of the pamphlets into his mouth, and made a strange whine, indicating with his head that she should retrieve the pamphlet from him. Alice wasn’t sure what was happening, exactly, but she was relieved to know that at least her life was no longer in immediate danger. She tugged the pamphlet out from between the fox’s paper jaws and glanced at the title. — FURTHERMORE PHRASEBOOK — How to Understand the Languages You Don’t Speak Alice inhaled sharply. She looked from the fox to the pamphlet and felt her heart pound quickly in her chest—but this time, Alice wasn’t afraid. She was excited. She flipped open the pamphlet with an eagerness that dispelled any lingering fears she might’ve had, but Alice’s eagerness quickly turned to dismay. Every inch of the inside pages was blank. Heartbroken, she hung her head. Perhaps the fox (or maybe Ted?) had made a mistake. (Or, you know, there’d been a printing error.) Whatever the reason for her misfortune, Alice was disappointed. She’d already begun refolding the pamphlet when a gentle, handsome voice said, “Leave it open.” Alice froze. “Ms. Queensmeadow, please. Look at me.” In that moment Alice was certain she’d misplaced the whole of her mind; but let me reassure you, dear reader, that she was in full possession of her faculties. The fox was most definitely speaking to her, and— Can I just say? I don’t know that I understand the extent of her shock. The fox, like most animals (paper or no), is fully capable of speech. That we make few concerted efforts to understand the fox language is a fault entirely our own. Now, where were we? “Ms. Queensmeadow, please,” said the fox. “Look at me.” Alice looked up, astounded. “You are in danger, Ms. Queensmeadow. You must leave here at once.” “Of course I’m in danger,” said Alice. “You’ve tried to kill me twice already!” The fox shook his head. “I was not trying to kill you. I was trying to hide you. I do sincerely apologize for what happened to your arm—” Alice harrumphed. “—but I thought you’d be safer in my world. You should go, Ms. Queensmeadow. Go back to where you came from.” “And why should I? Why do you care what happens to me?” “I know why you’re here. We all do. And we know you’ve lost no fruit tree in the town of Slender.” Alice gasped. “Your journey to find your father is a noble one,” said the fox. “But he had no right to meddle in our affairs, and neither do you.” “What do you mean?” said Alice. “What did Father do to meddle in your affairs?” The fox tilted his head at her. “Our lands agreed long ago not to go poking in each other’s magical matters. And your father—who is publicly known for consorting closely with Ferenwood Town Elders—was found here in Furthermore asking too many questions about our magic and how we use it.”

“But he was arrested for wasting time—” “Yes,” said the fox. “He was indeed arrested for time thievery. But he was also charged with suspected espionage.” “What?” Alice felt the blood drain from her face. “Tread carefully,” said the fox. “Furthermore knows you’re here to find him, and this land will not give up a spy so easily.” “But he’s not—he can’t be—” “Go home, Ms. Queensmeadow. Unless you, too, would like to be held accountable for his actions.” “But—if you think my father’s a spy—” Alice faltered. “Why are you trying to help me?” “You are an innocent.” The fox tossed back his head. “And I don’t agree that you should be harmed for seeking out a lost loved one. Besides,” he added, “I don’t approve of eating children. It’s uncivilized.” Alice didn’t know what to say. “You don’t have much time, Ms. Queensmeadow.” The fox was growing anxious; he’d begun circling around her. “Everyone here is waiting for you. Go home. Now. Before you’re found.” “Who?” said Alice. “Who’s waiting for me—?” There was a sudden rustle in the distance and the fox’s eyes darted around. He looked back at Alice with a wild nervousness. “Snap in three in case of emergency.” “What . . . ?” “Trust a friend who looks like one.” “What are you—” “We know,” said the fox. “We all know.” Alice felt a prick of terror pinch the back of her neck. She couldn’t explain how, exactly, but she felt certain that something was about to go terribly wrong. “Please,” she whispered. “I just want to find my father. Can’t you help me?” “I’m afraid I can’t. You would do better to return home.” He turned to leave. “Wait!” Alice grabbed the fox’s leg. He stopped and stared at Alice’s hand. “Will you let my friend go?” she asked. The fox narrowed his eyes. “You may go freely on your way, Ms. Queensmeadow, but I’m afraid the boy will have to come with us.” “What?” said Alice, stunned. “But I thought you didn’t approve of eating children—” “I don’t approve of eating good children. But your friend is an untrustworthy, duplicitous lout, whose long list of infractions could fill the many trunks of our trees.” The fox held his head high. “Little liars will not be rewarded in Furthermore.” “But—he didn’t mean any harm—” “Liars have the longest tongues, Ms. Queensmeadow. A delicacy we all enjoy. And we’ve all been hungry for so long, you see, that it’s hard to deny ourselves a fresh meal when it’s so well deserved. I’m sure you understand.” With that, the fox took a deep bow, broke free of Alice’s hand, and scampered off in Oliver’s direction.

Alice sprang to her feet, shoving her belongings in her pockets as best she could with one hand. The four foxes were already busy carting Oliver off into the distance, and now that his mouth was unmuffled, Alice could hear him screaming into the sunlight. She ran forward, horrified but determined, and snatched the ruler from her pocket, charging at the paper creatures as though it were a dagger. She swung and swatted at the

foxes, kicking and yelling as they yelped and fell away. Alice hadn’t managed to do much real damage to the animals (who, for paper creatures, made formidable opponents), but her own friendly fox looked so heartbroken by her betrayal that Alice was tempted to feel sorry for him. Fortunately, her guilt was quickly wicked away. She didn’t care that her life had been spared—no fox would eat her friend, no matter the lies he’d told. But the foxes would not be beat. They threw themselves forward more quickly than Alice could shove them back. She managed to land a few hard thwacks with her ruler, but her single arm was quickly tiring, and though Alice was now huddled protectively over Oliver’s body, the foxes were showing no signs of letting up. Alice had underestimated the power of animal hunger; these creatures had been promised a meal and they would not leave without it. Oliver tried several times to aid in his own defense, but the foxes were thrashing about so forcefully—growling and snapping—that Alice was worried they’d bite his head clean off. “Down-exit!” she cried, crouched low over Oliver’s back. “Down-exit, please!” But nothing was working. (Oliver, to his credit, had tried desperately to persuade the foxes to let him go, but his talent had been withered by fear; his occasional flickers of success weren’t strong enough to fight all four foxes.) Alice, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly panicked. She was fumbling, losing her grip on the ruler as her arm weakened under strain, and all it took was a moment’s hesitation— Alice was flung backward. She landed heavily on her only arm, her head slamming hard against the ground. It took her a few seconds to blink away the dizziness, but she clenched her jaw against the dull, throbbing pain and drew herself up, determined not to sway. Alice could still hear Oliver shouting and fighting, landing kicks and punches wherever he could, and she was just about to charge forward again, ruler clenched tightly in her hand, when she felt the ground shift beneath her. One of the foxes had slammed its head into Oliver’s jaw with a resounding crack —and Oliver had gone still. The foxes snapped around his limp figure, fighting to see who’d get to take the first bite, and Alice felt her brain disconnect from her body. “NO!” she cried. She stumbled as she threw herself forward, falling hard onto her knees, her agonized screams ringing out across the barren landscape. She bent into the raging heat and blinding light of this strange town and felt the fresh pain of fear and loss pry open an iron door in her chest and all at once—everything changed. The land, the sky, the foxes, and even Oliver: disappeared. Alice had reduced the color of all things around her—the large, the infinitesimal, and everything in between—to a single shade of black, and she was so wholly unaware of the magnitude of what she’d done that it wasn’t until she heard the confused, frenzied foxes knocking into one another that she realized she’d snuffed out the sun. Alice alone stood in stark contrast to the painted night. She examined her single arm—the white of her skin glowing neon in the dark—and for the very first time in her life, Alice Alexis Queensmeadow felt powerful. Alice heard the foxes scamper off into the distance, the four of them no longer brave enough to fight blindly. When she was finally sure they were gone for good, Alice closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and—with the simple twitch of her mind—reset the colors she’d so fully distorted. She spotted Oliver instantly. He was on his back, his arms and legs splayed, his lip bloody—but, thank heavens, he was still breathing. Alice ran to her friend, tossed her ruler to the ground, and pulled him up against her.

She shook him, but he wouldn’t wake. She slapped him, but he wouldn’t speak. “Oliver, please!” she cried. But he wouldn’t stir. Tears were streaking fast down her face and though she fought valiantly to hold on to hope, she wasn’t sure how to fight this. Panic had overtaken her. Alice was just in the middle of giving Oliver another good shake when her eyes hit upon the ruler she’d dropped so carelessly onto the ground. The inscription in the blond wood was staring up at her. SNAP IN THREE IN CASE OF EMERGENCY If this wasn’t an emergency, Alice was a dill pickle. She didn’t hesitate—desperation had left her no options. She grabbed the ruler, held it in place with her foot, snapped it twice—leaving her with three broken pieces—and cried, “Help! Help! This is an emergency!” And everything slowed. The scene before her went soft and blurry, and a moment later, all things froze. The bees went still in midair; sitting birds went silent mid-chirp. Only Alice was free to move, and when she did, she stood up. A crack, a zip, and an exclamation point later, three extremely thin, ludicrously tall, bright orange doors were set before her. Hung on each door was a different sign: STEP THROUGH TO FIX YOUR ARM ENTER HERE TO SAVE YOUR FRIEND OPEN ME TO FIND YOUR FATHER And then, in small print under each sign, CHOOSE ONLY ONE DOOR OR DIE A PAINFUL DEATH

It’s a great testament to the tender heart of our dear Alice that she did not agonize over this decision. Alice Alexis Queensmeadow knew right away what she would do. (She’d decided to save Oliver, of course.) Alice would no longer be bullied by the tricks and games of Furthermore. She didn’t care what the doors said. She would have her friend and her father. (And maybe her arm, too.) She would find a way. So she marched right up to the door she’d chosen, turned the knob with great conviction, and tripped—in the most unflattering way—straight over the threshold. With a sudden twist in her stomach and the uncomfortable displacement of her heart to her throat, Alice fell forward, screaming, into a strange sky. She flipped upside down only to tumble right side up only to plummet horribly to her death, and it was only the sound of someone else’s blistering screams that so swiftly silenced her own. Oliver came barreling through the sky like a bullet, slamming into Alice so hard she nearly knocked her head against his nose. She righted him as best she could and then took hold of his hand, squeezing it tightly, relief and joy flooding through her. She had no idea how much she’d come to care for Oliver until she’d nearly lost him. “Don’t worry,” was the first thing she said to him. “Everything will be alright.” And Oliver beamed at her. After ascertaining that he was indeed in one piece and not two, Alice quickly explained everything that’d happened with the fox and her ruler and the emergency doors, careful to leave out the part about things changing colors. (Alice wasn’t ready to talk about that yet.) Oliver’s head was spinning with the weight of all this frightening new information, but

somehow, despite the horrors they’d seen, a huge smile had hinged itself to his cheeks. (Alice had chosen him, you see. Alice had chosen to save him, and Oliver was euphoric. It was all rather sweet.) But Alice was thinking of other things now. The thing was they’d been falling through the sky for quite a long while now, and they still hadn’t reached the bottom of anything—and it was beginning to make Alice anxious. To make matters worse, it was taking a great deal of effort to keep her skirts out of her face (and with only one arm, my goodness), and she was growing tired. “Oliver,” she said. “Yes?” he said. “When do you think we’ll reach the bottom?” “Of what?” “Of . . .” Alice looked around at the emptiness surrounding them. The bluest skies, a couple of clouds, and no sun she could see from where she sank. “Of this,” she said, nodding at nothing in particular. “When do we get to the bottom of this?” “I haven’t any idea,” he said simply. And right then they hit the ground. Alice and Oliver landed with two great thumps, one after the other, the impact rattling their teeth and bruising their knees. “Right,” said Alice, as she picked herself up off the ground, dizzy and light-headed. She squinted at the scene set before them. “I take it you’ve never been here before, have you?” Oliver shook his head. They were standing in a narrow lane walled in by hedges three times taller than Oliver and packed so densely with roses and lilies and peonies and lilacs (and gardenias and freesia and hyacinth) that the two of them could hardly breathe. The flowers were stunning, but the sweet scent was so intoxicating as to be sickening, and the farther they walked, the more difficult it was to tolerate. “Well,” said Alice. “I suppose we’re about to die, aren’t we?” “You jest,” said Oliver, raising an eyebrow. “But it’s entirely possible.” Alice shot him a halfhearted grin. “Well then, should we down-exit?” Oliver laughed. “You can’t just down-exit your way through Furthermore, Alice. You’re only allowed to do it once every five villages.” “See—how do you even know that?” Alice said, throwing her only hand up in defeat. “I haven’t any idea how to go about unearthing information like that.” She sighed, then mumbled, “And anyway I was wondering why it hadn’t worked for me earlier.” Oliver offered her a sympathetic look. “To be fair,” he said, “I’ve had your father’s journals to guide me. I’d have been lost without them.” Alice sighed, kicked at a patch of dirt, and trudged on. Quietly, she said, “I suppose I’ve now thrown us entirely off course, haven’t I?” She looked up. “I’ve made a great mess of things.” “Not at all,” Oliver said brightly. “I know it might not seem like it, but you’re doing exceptionally well in Furthermore. Most people don’t make it this far.” “Oliver,” she said, visibly embarrassed, “I tried to make it on my own for five minutes and I had my arm ripped off! The result of which forced us to take an unknown path that ended with our being attacked by a skulk of foxes who nearly bit off your head and forced me to snap my ruler in three.” She put her hand on her hip. “I don’t think that makes me any good at this.” “Well”—he hesitated—“no, maybe you’re not an expert, but—” “Oh, don’t bother, Oliver. I’m terrible on my own and we both know it.” Oliver bit his lip. His mouth twitched. And Alice couldn’t help it: She started laughing. So Oliver did, too.

The two of them laughed and laughed until tears streamed down their faces, and for just a moment, neither child was bothered by the strange floral lane they walked through or the dangers they’d survived or the ones they’d soon encounter. This was a time of ease and release, and while it was possible they’d sniffed one too many sweet blooms and were unnaturally moved to silliness, it was far more likely that they’d just discovered one of life’s greatest tricks: Laughter was a silk that would soften even the roughest moments. “You’re right,” Oliver was saying. “We should probably stick together from now on.” “Yes, please,” said Alice, still giggling. “I’ve no interest at all in doing this on my own anymore. And I hope you will at least try to stop me if I attempt to abandon you again.” “I’m glad to hear it,” said Oliver, eyes shining. “I’m so glad.” Alice smiled. Oliver smiled back. Alice was missing an arm, and somehow it didn’t matter; she was much happier now than when she had a spare. “Alice,” said Oliver, once the laughter had subsided. He was looking at her only hand. “Yes?” she said. “Did you really snap your ruler in three parts?” Alice nodded and, after tugging them out of her pocket, held up the broken pieces for him to see. Oliver looked suddenly anxious. “You know,” he said, “snapping your ruler like that—that is, I’m terribly grateful—but—” “What is it?” Alice narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong?” “It’s just—your ruler is a container. If you snap it open, its contents scatter—and you lose all the time you’ve been allotted. And . . . if you lose all the time you’ve been allotted, you’ll have to live on borrowed time; and if you’re caught borrowing time, you’ll be arrested for stealing.” Alice’s mouth had fallen open. “Then why does it say to snap my ruler in case of emergency?” “For its own selfish reasons, I suppose. You’d get your emergency sorted out just in time to be carted off for Time Thievery.” “So I’m going to be arrested?” Oliver said nothing. “Oliver!” “Probably?” He looked anguished. “Maybe? I don’t know, Alice, I have no real experience in this matter. Only theories.” Alice groaned. “I’m truly sorry. And I could be wrong, you know.” Alice sighed, defeated, and looked off into the distance. Time had turned against her, and she didn’t know how much she had left. “Maybe,” she said, trying not to sound too hopeful, “maybe if I get arrested, you could use your emergency option to help me?” Oliver shook his head. “I wish I could. But all Tibbins are different. Mine isn’t the same as yours.” “Tibbin?” Alice said. “Is that what it’s called?” “Yes. Furthermore likes to pretend its rulings are fair and forgiving, so every visitor is offered one bit of help on their journey through the land. But the help is different for everyone, and it’s always decided at Border Control. Once it’s been issued, it’s inscribed on the back of your ruler. It’s called a Tibbin.” Alice frowned. “How could they know what bit of help I’d need on my journey before I’d even begun?” Oliver raised an eyebrow. “How do you think?”

“But, Oliver,” she said, confounded, “using magic to tell the future—they couldn’t possibly —” “Couldn’t they? Furthermore does what it wishes.” “But happenstance is the most unstable, imprecise kind of magic—surely even Furthermore would know better than to rely on magic that grants only flickers of the future.” “You think too highly of this land if you think it wouldn’t resort to lowly tactics,” said Oliver. “Remember: Furthermore has no interest in playing fair. They could snatch us up at any moment, Alice. They could kill us right now if they wanted to. Don’t you see? We’re alive only because they want us to be.” “That makes no sense.” “It makes perfect sense. Furthermore doesn’t want to kill and conquer its meals with no fuss or fanfare. It’s far too easy that way—too boring.” Oliver shook his head. “No, this is a land that likes to play with its food.” “But Oliver,” said Alice slowly, carefully. “Do you think it’s possible they’re torturing us a bit more than they do most people?” Oliver’s eyebrows shot up his forehead in surprise. “What makes you say that?” “Something the fox said to me.” Alice looked away. “He said that Father was charged with suspected espionage. They think he’s a Ferenwood spy come to meddle in their magic.” “Wow.” Oliver let out a low whistle. “This is entirely new information to me. But goodness, it would explain a lot.” Alice looked up. “You think so?” Oliver nodded. “Your father’s early journals never expressed such fear as I’ve felt on my journeys. It would make sense that your father had done something to anger them; that we were on some kind of hateful watch list as a result—and that our path would be more intentionally treacherous.” He hesitated. “Which is why I’m now even more concerned that you’ve used your Tibbin.” Alice bit her lip. “Is it really that awful to spend it? Have you never used one before?” “Not ever. I had one the last time I was here, too, but I never trusted it. I don’t like accepting offers of help from Furthermore.” Alice bit her knuckles. She was growing more anxious by the moment. “Well, I had no choice, did I? Anyway what does your Tibbin say this time?” Oliver didn’t even have to look. He’d already memorized it. “Trust a friend who looks like one. And I haven’t any idea what it means. Gibberish, most likely.” But Alice had just remembered something. “Oliver,” she said, “the fox—”

“Yes?” “The fox said that very thing to me. Just before he walked away. First he said Snap in three in case of emergency, and then he said Trust a friend who looks like one.” Alice frowned. “At first I thought it was nonsense, but now I think he was—” “Telling you our Tibbins?” Oliver’s mouth had popped open. “They’re supposed to be private information!” Alice shook her head. “All the fox said was We know. We all know. He also said he knew I was here to find Father.” Now Oliver looked convinced. “They’re definitely watching us. They know our Tibbins and they know I lied to them at Border Control. Goodness . . . he was a very helpful fox, wasn’t he? I might’ve even liked him if he hadn’t tried to eat me.” “Me too,” said Alice softly. “He was very kind otherwise. It was all very strange. He was a strange fox.” And then, more thoughtfully, “I do wonder . . . what do you think Father was doing here?” It was a very good question, though perhaps one Alice should’ve asked sooner. The thing was, Alice hadn’t really wanted to think about why Father was here, because she hadn’t wanted to believe that Father had left home on purpose. (Alice, you will note, had a bad habit of ignoring matters of unpleasantness in her life [see also Alice’s fervent denial of her true magical ability], no matter the consequences.) Alice still hoped Father had been trapped or tricked or had been forced to come to Furthermore; she couldn’t understand why he would leave her voluntarily nor what he’d hoped to do here, in a land so far from Ferenwood. “Well,” said Oliver, clasping and unclasping his hands. “It—it could’ve been for any number reasons, couldn’t it?” “But why was he meddling in Furthermore magic? You don’t think he was really a spy, do you?” “No,” Oliver said firmly. “I definitely don’t think he was a spy. I will say, however, that I think Furthermore is more than a little paranoid.” “But then why would he come here? Why do visitors ever come to Futhermore?” Alice prodded. “What’s the draw?” “Vacation?” Oliver said too loudly. “Perhaps a bit of travel—” “Oliver, please,” said Alice. “You mustn’t hide things from me anymore. I can handle the truth, whatever it is.” She stared at him. “Really, I can.” “Honestly, Alice.” He sighed. “Your father’s motives, I don’t truly know. I have only my assumptions.” “And they are?” Oliver shrugged. “Visitors only ever travel to Furthermore when they want something they can’t otherwise procure. It’s a land that deals in the dangerous and the unlawful; if what you want exists nowhere else, it’s likely to exist here. But getting here is incredibly complicated. It’s a perilous journey, and the stakes are too high for nonessential wants and needs. No,” Oliver said, shaking his head. “People only ever come to Furthermore when they are in desperate need of something important. Something worth all the risks.” He looked up, locked eyes with Alice. “So, you tell me,” he said. “Is there something your father wants more than anything else in the world?” Alice hesitated, thinking carefully before answering. “I don’t think so,” she finally said. “I confess I wouldn’t really know.” Oliver shook his head again. “It’s inconceivable that he’d come here for no reason. Think, Alice. You’re overlooking something wildly obvious.” “What’s that?” she asked. “You.” “Me?” “Yes,” said Oliver. “You’re underestimating how much your father loves you.”

“What?” Alice’s heart was kicking around in her chest. “You think Father came here for me?” “What I think,” said Oliver, “is that what your father wants, more than anything else in the world, is for you to be happy.” Alice blinked, her eyes stinging with emotion, and looked away. “And what does your father think will make you happy?” Oliver asked. “What is the secret desire of your heart?” Oliver knew. Of course he knew. He’d known the secret desire of her heart since the first time he met her; this was a part of his talent. And Alice’s deepest secret was more than just the truth of her real ability; it was also her deepest wish. Her forever fantasy. “Color,” she said, her voice catching. “I want color.” “And don’t you think,” Oliver said quietly, “that your father, knowing your pain, would come here for you? In search of a solution? Furthermore uses magic in ways Ferenwood never has; it’s a place of endless experimentation and infinite possibility. It makes sense that he would search here, especially if he’s been here before.” Alice’s heart was thrown into chaos. She could hardly speak and, even if she could, she didn’t know what to say. To think that Father had put himself in such danger—that he’d risked so much—for her? It was impossible to describe her heart’s simultaneous pain and joy; so she was silently grateful she didn’t have to. Because just as she parted her lips to respond, Oliver did her a great kindness and changed the subject. “So anyway,” he said, staring off into the distance. “I do hope we’ll still be able to find him.” “What do you mean?” Alice said sharply, the gentle moment forgotten. “Why wouldn’t we be able to find Father?” Oliver clapped a hand behind his head and looked off into the distance. “It took me sixtyeight villages just to unearth the basic facts of your father’s imprisonment. And when I failed to reach him, I thought we needed to start over in the same pattern—only I figured we’d need to do it better this time. It’d taken so much work just to be able to get a glimpse of where your father had gone that I was too afraid to do anything differently; I didn’t want to lose track of him. But ever since we left Tim, we’ve been taking paths I’ve never traveled, and I don’t know what that means for us.” “Well, I don’t want to lose Father,” Alice said nervously. “Maybe we should go back to the original plan, Oliver, I think that might be—” “No,” he said. “Absolutely not. We will find your father, yes, but we will fix you first.” He looked at where her right arm used to be. “This is an emergency,” he said softly. “It’s not a waste of time. In cases of physical wound or peril, Furthermore has been known to overlook the expense; your father won’t suffer for our delay. I can promise you that.” “You’re sure?” said Alice anxiously. “Because I’ve already got one arm, and I’m sure I don’t need two. I’d really rather find Father.” “Alice,” Oliver said with a laugh, “you are so very, very strange.” He was staring at her, a gentle smile strung from ear to ear, and it was then that Alice realized how different he’d become in this short time. Alice couldn’t explain why, exactly, but she knew now that things had changed between them. Oliver had become her friend in an absolute, uncomplicated way. She was done fighting him, and he was done lying to her. Their friendship had changed seasons. And now, after all they’d fought through, she couldn’t imagine returning to Ferenwood life without him. She couldn’t think of sleeping with the pigs and fighting with Mother and sharing a room with her tiny brothers and finding ways to pass the time on her own. How

could she forget the excitement of an adventure with Oliver? What would her life be like when they finally returned home? Strange, she hadn’t thought of it until just then. It scared her a little. “A new adventure awaits!” Oliver cried, charging forward. “I’m very glad you’re excited”—Alice laughed as she ran to catch up to him—“but we still haven’t a single idea how to get to a painter to fix my arm. What do we do now?” “We figure it out.” Oliver grinned. “Furthermore is a land of tricks and puzzles, so we must use the only tools we’ve got.” “And what tools are those?” Oliver beamed. “Our brains, of course.”

Alice and Oliver had been wandering a long while before the floral hedges finally opened up to an expansive clearing. Endless green hills rolled off into the distance, their gentle slopes dotted with wildflowers. Soft, golden light filtered through spider-webbing tree branches, creating an impression of sweetness that the land of Furthermore did not deserve. Most curious, however, was the great, glimmering lake set just beyond the hills. A long wooden pier had been built out to the middle of the water, where the path was then split in two: Separate footbridges led to either ends of the lake—one going left, and the other, right— but where those paths went, Alice could not see. “Oh, this is splendid,” said Oliver, awed as he looked around. “And much more interesting. I thought for sure that we were in another village.” “And we’re not?” Oliver nodded at the lake. “Your emergency door dropped us inside of an intersection.” He looked at Alice. “This is a Traveler’s Turning Point.” “So we have to choose which way to go?” “Yes.” “And . . . I’m guessing it won’t be easy,” said Alice. Oliver laughed. They didn’t speak as they climbed the gentle hills, but Alice was studying the idyllic scene like it was something to be feared. Birds were pirouetting through the air and lambs were bleating their woes and flowers dipped and swayed in the wind like this was just another perfect day. But Alice wouldn’t believe it. And when they finally, reluctantly, stood at the end of the pier in the very middle of the lake, she and Oliver didn’t know which way to turn. “So,” said Alice. “Left or right?” “Wrong,” said Oliver. Alice raised an eyebrow. “We have four choices, not two,” he said. “Up, down, left, or right.” “Down?” said Alice, taken aback. “You mean—down into the lake?” “And up into the sky. Yes.” “Oh, for Feren’s sake,” Alice said, and sat down. Alice hadn’t the faintest idea which way to go, but she didn’t say as much because her vanity wouldn’t allow it. Oliver was now relying on them to use their brains to navigate Furthermore, and as she was currently the smartest person she knew (outside of Father, of course), Alice didn’t want to lose that title to Oliver. She wanted to prove herself. She wanted to be useful. (She wanted to be smarter than Oliver.) And then she had a sudden stroke of inspiration. “Perhaps the answer is in the pamphlets!” Alice cried, and not a moment later she was digging papers out of her pocket and soon she was unfolding “What to Know Before You Go,” all ten feet of it rattling and unfurling across the pier.

Oliver flit about anxiously as Alice perused the papers, shooting her skeptical looks and claiming he’d never had to rely on pamphlets to get him through Furthermore and “it’s all nonsense anyway, not meant for anything but confusing” but Alice paid him no mind. She carried on perusing, and soon his anxiety gave way to acquiescence, and moments later he was sitting by her side. The two of them pored over the pages in hopes of finding a single useful word, and though it took them nearly ten minutes to come upon it, they eventually found their answer in large, shouting capital letters: CONSTRUCTION NOTICES: ALL INTERSECTIONS UP AND DOWN EXITS PERMANENTLY CLOSED FOR REPAIR!!! DO NOT ATTEMPT DOWN-EXIT WITHOUT PERMIT. DO NOT ATTEMPT UP-EXIT ON MONDAY THROUGH FRIDAY OR SATURDAY AND DEFINITELY NOT SUNDAY!!!! IF EXIT IS NECESSARY, RIGHT AND LEFT ARE UNDER CONSTRUCTION BUT CURRENTLY OPERATIONAL. PROCEED WITH CAUTION!!!! NOTE: DOWN-EXIT DISALLOWED ON MONDAYS FROM 2:00 to 6:00 p.m. “Well, that wasn’t helpful at all, was it?” Alice said with a sigh. “What do you mean?” Oliver was beaming. “It says here that up- and down-exits are closed! Narrows things down, doesn’t it? Now we only have to choose between left and right.” “Well, yes,” Alice said, “but do we go left or do we go right?” “Oh,” Oliver said, the smile gone from his face. “I don’t know.” “Let’s go left,” Alice said, deciding. She got to her feet. “Everyone is always going right, and if so many people are going right, it’s bound to be wrong, I think.” “Okay then,” Oliver said, looking at her like he was proud. And surprised. But mostly proud. “Left it is. Left we go.” “Left we go!” Alice cheered. So that was that. They took the Left footbridge and ran as left as it would go—

until they ran into a wall. They were knocked backward with two short screams, one after another, and landed painfully on their backsides. Oliver moaned. Alice groaned. “My head,” he said. “My eyes,” she cried. “I can’t see a thing.” “Alice?” “Oliver?” “Yes?” “Are you alright?” “Just fine,” said Oliver. “Oh, good. Me too.” They were both silent a moment. “Well,” Oliver finally said. “I can’t see a stitch.” “No,” said Alice. “Neither can I. And it smells like dirt.” “And wood,” Oliver said. “It smells like dirt and wood.” “It does, doesn’t it?” A pause. “Where are you?” Alice hadn’t any idea where they’d landed. She stumbled to her feet and tread carefully, single arm out, feeling for familiarity. Alice and Oliver both breathed sighs of relief when they collided, and he quickly took hold of her only hand, holding tight as they forged forward, sniffing and sensing and listening for a hint of what would come next. They hit wall after wall of old, musty wood—strange, the wood felt damp—until they finally stumbled upon a door. Alice’s heart did a happy flip in relief, and Oliver laughed a nervous

sort of laugh, and then . . . they hesitated. Alice wanted to turn the knob, but Oliver said they had to knock. “It’s the Furthermore way,” he reminded her. “It’s improper to walk, uninvited, through a door that isn’t your own. You always have to knock.” “But what if no one answers?” she asked. “What if we knock forever and no one comes?” “Nonsense,” Oliver said with a wave of his hand. “There’s no door in Furthermore that isn’t aching to be opened.” Alice took a deep breath. “Very well,” she said. “If you’re certain.” “Quite certain.” They were both quiet a moment. “Are you ready?” said Alice. “Always,” said Oliver. And together, his knuckles and hers, they knocked on the door made of damp, musty wood, and tried not to think too hard about what might be waiting for them on the other side.

After only a moment, the door creaked open. Wood straining against wood, the door no longer seemed to fit in its frame. It was so old and warped it was almost as though it’d never been opened until that very moment. Alice was goose bumps everywhere. Inch by inch, light poured into the dim room they stood in, until soon the lengths of it were flooded with light, and Alice and Oliver had to squint to see who stood on the other side. Alice blinked and blinked until a figure finally came into focus, but even then she was confused. It was either an owl or a very old man, she couldn’t be sure. All she did know for certain was that he was very happy to see them. She knew this because the first thing he did was burst into tears. “Honorable guests of Left,” he said, sobbing, “you are most welcome to our land. Oh honorable guests,” he wept, “bless you for bestowing your good graces on our home. Bless you,” he said, “for choosing Left when you could’ve gone Right. Bless you,” he said, his voice cracking, “for we’ve wanted for visitors for so long. We hoped and danced for the chance to speak to another. Waited and waited for a moment with a new friend. Oh honorable guests!” He was half bent, hands clutching his knees and weeping (Alice could see now that he was indeed an old man, and not an owl), and she was so startled, so moved, so touched, and so tentative, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. She looked at Oliver. He shrugged. “Please,” the old man said (after he’d pulled himself together), “please,” he said, gesturing toward the light. He moved just outside the door to allow them room to pass. “Step into the land of Left. The land of my home. A land,” he said with sudden pride, puffing his birdlike chest into the air, “no longer ignored. No longer neglected. Oh joy, oh joy,” he said. “What a day, what a day!” Oliver stepped forward cautiously and peeked his head out. She heard him gasp, and then he looked back, eyes wild, and made an effort to smile. “It’s okay,” he whispered. Alice took Oliver’s outstretched hand and followed him out the door. She didn’t know what she felt more: nervousness or excitement, or a nervous sort of excitement, but, oh, where they were she didn’t know and didn’t mind, because it was beautiful and strange. The little old man was beside himself with joy, and she didn’t think anyone had ever been happier to see her than he was just then. Friends, they had just stepped out of a tree trunk.

These were trees as tall as giants who were tall for their size. Trees as grand as mountains, tree trunks as wide as treetops, trees chock-full of leaves so green she could barely stand to look at them. They were high, high above the ground, but in the land of Left there was a clear bottom: Many thousands of feet below them was an expanse of green that seemed to go on forever; she could see little yellow flowers dotting the tall, wild grass. But most interesting wasn’t the web of interconnected trees. It wasn’t the many busy people tending to their lives in a brilliantly lit forest. Well, I mean, it was—it was all of that—but it was more: Here, their homes were made from empty eggshells; mostly whole or one-quarter missing, each one painted a different geometric design. They were bright and steady and somehow unbroken, hung from branches with thick, glittering white rope. Inside each one was a little world, a home that held hearts and minds; and it was immediately obvious to Alice—and Oliver—that the people of Left were a happy sort. But experience had taught her to be suspicious. The little old man was waiting for them under a canopy of branches. There was just enough shade to protect them from the sun, but occasionally the light would slip through a crack and remind them all how dim they were without it. Alice and Oliver carefully balanced their way down a branch and followed their new guide. Suddenly he came to an abrupt stop, jumped straight up in surprise, and turned back to face them. “My goodness,” he said. “I have taken leave of my manners.” He shook his head and bowed slightly. “Please forgive the oversight,” he said. “It’s only that I am so very pleased to see you that I forgot everything but my own excitement.” He lifted his head and looked them in the eye. “I am Paramint,” he said. “And it is my great honor and privilege to meet you both.” Alice and Oliver introduced themselves, and as they did, Alice noticed that Paramint was wearing an outfit she’d never seen any person wear before: a mustard-colored buttoned-down shirt with a bright-blue vest and a red-on-rust pinstriped jacket paired with olive-green velvet trousers. He wore chocolate-brown boots so shiny Alice swore she heard them glitter, and he carried in his hand a very tall candy cane, presumably for walking. So many clothes for a man. Alice was impressed. Alice had only ever seen father wear loose tunics and linen slacks. (And occasionally his denim jacket, when it was cold.) But not only was Paramint wearing a shirt, a vest, trousers, and a jacket, he was also wearing some kind of knitted cloth—a scarf, perhaps?—knotted around his neck, and he’d stuffed a handkerchief in his jacket pocket. It made her wonder if he sneezed a lot. But never mind all that, because Paramint was the nicest, cleanest old man she’d ever met. He explained that it was his job to guard the Visiting Door, and to always be ready for guests; he said it was all he did, all day long. He made sure he was prepared (and looked presentable) for the day the land of Left would finally receive a visitor. He said he’d been waiting fifty-six years. Paramint ushered them down one branch and up another, all the while announcing very loudly to anyone who would listen that Alice and Oliver were the honorable guests who’d finally arrived. There were many gasps, a few short screams, and occasionally, someone would faint. (Oliver had a bad habit of laughing very nervously when this happened.) The whole of Left was dressed in complicated clothes. A few of the ladies wore suits much like Paramint’s, and though they were well tailored and colorfully done, the truth was Alice hated suits just as much as she hated pants, so really, it was only the gowns she loved. There were a few ladies (and even a gentleman or three) who wore the most beautiful gowns— flowing skirts and intricate tops—and did very interesting things with their hair. Alice looked down at her own tattered clothes and touched her matted, knotted hair and, for just a moment, was silly enough to be sad she wasn’t a bit more presentable. She imagined that she and Oliver must’ve looked very strange indeed. What a pair of dirty visitors they were. Were it

not for the blue shoes Oliver had made for her, Alice would’ve had nothing to be proud of, because those blue shoes were now the most beautiful things she owned. And no matter her running, jumping, and nearly dying, the slippers still looked brand-new. Oliver had done some very skillful magic. Speaking of Oliver, he was currently engaged in the practice of awe. He was looking around, bright-eyed and blooming, truly wowed by the land of Left. Alice thought Oliver had seen all there was to see in Furthermore—she thought he could never be wooed again, not the way Alice was when she first arrived—but clearly she was wrong. Oliver had grown accustomed to the things he’d already seen, but beyond that, he was just as vulnerable as she was. She knew then that they’d have to be even more vigilant now; without Oliver’s constant caution, they’d have to work even harder to keep from falling prey to the fancy twists and feasts of Furthermore. Alice took a nervous breath and squeezed Oliver’s hand. He squeezed back. Neither one of them was an expert here, and here, in the land of Left, they’d be faced with an entirely new challenge.

OLIVER SAYS I’M TERRIBLE AT CHAPTER HEADINGS

Paramint never wanted them to leave. He’d been waiting fifty-six years for visitors, which meant he’d had fifty-six years to plan all the things they would do when visitors finally arrived.

Alice only realized this when they’d reached Paramint’s home. The hanging homes were quite spacious and sturdy, despite their eggshell exteriors, which made Alice wonder where these eggs had come from. What kind of creature could lay an egg so large? She decided she didn’t want to think about it. But then, she also didn’t want to think about the very large scroll Paramint was pulling out of a trunk in the round of his home, but there wasn’t much she could do to stop it happening. “We’ll start with a celebration, of course,” Paramint said as the scroll unfurled at his feet. “And it will be a very grand day indeed. A feast for all, even the little ones! We’ll have dozens of cakes and every fresh berry and pitchers of fairysnip and candied–corn husks. We’ll have a musical jamboree! We’ll sing every dawn and dance every night!” (Alice and Oliver were sitting on Paramint’s very small pumpkin-orange couch, not saying a word.) “Of course, we must first alert the queens,” Paramint was saying, “who’ll then alert the princesses, who will then alert the twincesses, who will then—” “Paramint,” Alice said, clearing her throat quietly. “Yes, your honorableness,” he said, dropping the scroll in an instant. “What good thing may I do for you?” Alice smiled an uncertain smile, unaccustomed to such attentions, and said, “We are so, so grateful for all your kindness, and so excited to be in the land of Left—” “It really is the most lovely place,” Oliver said, smiling as he looked around. “Oh, thank you, sir,” said Paramint, blushing. “Thank you so much.” “But I’m afraid we can’t stay for very long,” Alice said carefully. “Is there any chance we could cut short the festivities?” Paramint was deathly still for only a few moments before he began nodding, very quickly. “Of course,” he said. “Of course. Forgive me, your honorableness, I should not have assumed you would want to celebrate so much.” Alice smiled, relieved. “I will make the proper changes to our schedule,” Paramint said, still nodding. “I’m certain that with the right planning, we may yet have a wonderful time—and celebrate just as thoroughly!—over a ten-year period.” Paramint was smiling a pained sort of smile. “Will that be alright, do you think? It will be difficult, yes, and it will mean a lot of very busy days, but I’m sure, together, we can make it work.” Alice looked from Paramint to Oliver, and from Oliver to the eggshell house, and from the eggshell house to the world that lay beyond it, and she began to panic all over. Every inch, panicking. And she didn’t know what to do.

Oliver didn’t appear to either. They said nothing, the two of them. Alice sat there like a stone, turned solid from the inside out, and Paramint didn’t even seem to notice. She was all dread and worry and fear and she didn’t know how they’d get themselves out of this one, she really didn’t. She rolled Paramint’s words over and over in her mind. How many queens were there? How many princesses? How many twincesses? More importantly, how angry would the twincesses be if Alice and Oliver tried to escape? And where, where, did those eggshells come from? Alice wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answers to her own questions. But she knew they needed a plan. Paramint had left them alone for a stretch (he was seeing about their baths, he’d said) and she and Oliver were still sitting on that little couch in the eggshell house, staring at each other like they thought they could summon solutions out of each other’s brains. Speaking of brains, using theirs had turned out to be a very bad idea, and Alice said as much to Oliver. He didn’t seem bothered at all.

“Oh, don’t worry about Paramint,” Oliver said, waving a hand as he got to his feet. “That’s what I’m here for, remember? I can always persuade him to let us go. I’m not worried about that.” Relief flooded through Alice so quickly she would’ve needed to sit down if she weren’t already sitting. “Well, why didn’t you say something sooner?” She collapsed backward on the couch, every tense muscle in her body coming undone. “And why didn’t you try to convince Paramint while he was still here?” “Because I haven’t the faintest idea where we’ll go if we leave right now,” Oliver said. “We need a safe place to stay until we figure out how to find a painter. Perhaps Paramint will be able to help us.” Alice made a small sound of agreement before letting herself melt more completely into the couch. Alice was so tired and so full of fears and worries that she could almost understand what it was like to be a real grown-up. In any case, she desperately needed a break and she was grateful for the chance to let her guard down for just a moment longer. But Oliver wouldn’t allow it. “Up, up, up,” he said abruptly. “Now’s not the time to be lazy, Alice. We must remember to pay extra attention while we’re here, especially now that we know we’re being watched more closely than most.” Alice threw Oliver a grumpy look and stumbled up to her feet. “Now, I don’t think Paramint is the one to worry about,” said Oliver, “but all the same, we must keep our eyes and ears open for anything that seems interesting or suspicious. Perhaps if we listen closely we’ll be able to unearth something new. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about finding a painter.” It wasn’t much to go on, but it would have to do. Alice sighed. It was a struggle to remain optimistic. Everything had already gone terribly, horribly wrong, and for every minute they spent searching for anyone but Father, Alice grew more anxious. She was being crushed by the guilt of her own perceived selfishness—and if they didn’t find a painter soon, she would insist they abandon the plan to fix her arm. Her priority was Father above all else, and she couldn’t risk losing him again.

Alice and Oliver desperately needed a bath. Paramint led them down a mossy branch that led to a ladder nailed into the trunk of a nearby tree. They climbed until they reached the very top of the trunk, which had long since been hacked off and flattened out. The top of the tree was now a large, flat, oblong expanse of polished wood, and atop it were dozens of gleaming porcelain tubs. Ladies and gentlemen dressed much like Paramint were awaiting Alice’s and Oliver’s arrival with towels, robes, bouquets of flowers, and pots and pots of something warm. Alice was so excited to be clean again that she was already untying the ties of her skirts. Oliver, ever the gentleman, saw Alice half undressing and began to fidget, clearing his throat and stuffing his hands in his pockets and studying a tree branch very carefully. Unfortunately for Oliver, his discomfort was no discomfort of hers, as Alice was unaware of his blushing and fidgeting. She hated clothes and was happy to be rid of them. Alice gladly followed a smiling lady to an empty tub and let herself relax; she was about to have a bath and, just this once, she would allow herself to enjoy something in Furthermore. She would bathe, and it would be beautiful. She couldn’t wait. The lady helping Alice introduced herself as Ancilly, and Alice decided she liked Ancilly’s smiling, honey-hued face and frizzy shock of red hair. Ancilly helped Alice step out of the rest of her clothes and into the tub, and there Alice sat, using her one arm to pull her knees to her chest. She shivered as a cool breeze blew past. And then: pure, undiluted delight. Friends, this was not a bath of hot water, but of warm milk: rich and silky in a way that made Alice’s very bones unclench. Ancilly poured pot after pot of warm milk into the tub until

it was sloshing against Alice’s shoulders. She sank down and let her limbs melt into the milk, and just as she thought the beauty of this moment had reached its maximum, Ancilly brought out the bouquets she’d been carrying. She broke off the blooms one handful at a time and carefully tossed them into the tub. The flowers bobbed at the surface, rainbow icing on the cake of a delicious experience, and Alice closed her eyes, enjoying every minute. Their fragrance soothed her, and the warm milk soothed her, and the colors soothed her, and soon Alice was cocooned in pleasure, and she was reminded, all at once, why Furthermore was so dangerous. Alice knew she could lie there, in that tub, forever, and she knew then that she had to be even more cautious as the moments passed. Soon, she thought. Very soon she would be cautious. But right now—for right now—she would relax.

Too soon, Ancilly had returned with a warm towel, and too soon, Alice was dry and clean and smelling of sunshine. Alice was swiftly wrapped in a toasty robe, and Ancilly set to work running a comb through her wet hair. Ancilly hummed as she worked out the knots and, once that was done, she sang a sweet, sad song as she braided it all together. Her voice was low and soothing—almost a murmur—and Alice, who was nearly drunk on relaxation, could only just make out the last few words. In the sky In the sky I fell one day Into the sky In the sky In the sky I fell one day I learned to fly Alice had very nearly fallen asleep. She startled her eyes open just in time, ever fearful of Oliver’s warning to never sleep without a dream. But Ancilly’s song was so rich and somber that Alice’s heart had turned to jelly. Our young friend was warm and loopy, and Ancilly’s gentle hands were busy weaving flowers into her hair. Alice stifled a small yawn. The unexpected pop of color from the flowers against the bright white of her hair and skin made Alice very, very happy. Alice thanked Ancilly profusely and the lady blushed, waving off Alice’s gratitude. “Please, your honorableness,” she said. “It’s a treasure to have you here. If you would please wait a moment, I will return with a gift.” So Alice waited. She sat on a little chair and thought about how pleasant it was to be clean, and how strange it was to have only one arm, and how frustrating it was to want to use the lost limb only to have to keep reminding herself that it was gone. These thoughts occupied her until Ancilly returned, and her patience was soon rewarded with something extraordinary. In Ancilly’s hands was the most beautiful gown Alice had ever seen. This dress was a true explosion of light. It was clear that it had been designed by a proper artist and made from only the richest materials; and it was certainly more beautiful than anything Alice could have sewn herself. The many skirts and bodice were a cascade of color: ruby melting into dusk, golds becoming greens, blue and plum and raspberry drenching the hem. Each layer was pieced together delicately and deliberately, a thousand sheets of onion thin silk scalloped and shimmering like the broken wings of a butterfly. The skirts were full

and robust but still weightless, ethereal. Alice was sure she could float away in this dress. She could fly in this dress. “Ancilly,” she cried, clutching the gown to her chest. “Did you make this yourself?” “Oh no, your honorableness,” she said, and bowed her head. “This dress was made by the greatest seamstress of the land of Left. It is Left tradition to present our visitors with only our finest gifts.” Her voice caught. “We never thought we’d have another visitor,” Ancilly said, looking like she might cry. “We are so proud, your honorableness. We are so grateful to you for bestowing your graces on our humble home. Left is so often overlooked.” “Oh, Ancilly,” Alice said. “The pleasure is all my own.” And even though Alice meant what she said, she couldn’t help but feel guilty, too. She knew she had to leave—and soon—and in order to do so she’d have to disappoint an entire village. It broke her heart, but she knew there was no other way. Ancilly helped Alice into the new dress (Alice noticed it had no sleeves, which suited her one arm very nicely), and she took a moment to admire its details as she tucked her pamphlets, black card, and the broken pieces of her ruler into the deep pockets of the skirt. A spray of feathers was built into the collar, up and outward, creating the illusion that Alice wore wings; every stitch was a work of art, and Alice couldn’t help but admire the finery. She’d never worn anything so elegant in all her life. She spun and swam with each step, the silk ebbing and flowing against her legs. It made her miss the quiet moments she’d once resented, dancing alone in the forest, her heartbeats synchronized to the sounds of the world. Alice was in tears. It was all so very, very lovely. Alice was genuinely touched and couldn’t believe for a second that Ancilly would ever want to eat her. After all, Oliver had said there were good and bad in every bunch, and these, Alice thought, these must be the good ones. Which made her wonder. “Ancilly,” said Alice, still admiring her gown. “If you have a seamstress here in Left—do you have a painter, too?” Ancilly looked surprised. “I’m afraid we don’t, your honorableness. Why do you ask?” Alice nodded to where her arm used to be. “I was hoping to repair the damage,” she said. “And I’ve been told to find a painter.” She sighed. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find one, would you?” Ancilly shook her head. Alice was disappointed. She knew it was Oliver’s job to persuade information out of others, but Ancilly seemed like someone Alice could confide in. Besides, she and Oliver had very few options. They were already out of time; they had to get to a painter soon. So Alice tried again. “Is there anyone here who might know where I could find a painter? Maybe the seamstress?” Ancilly stiffened. “Perhaps,” said Alice quickly, “perhaps the artists of Furthermore know each other—” But Alice had said the wrong thing. Ancilly’s warmth went instantly cold, and she turned away so Alice couldn’t read her face. When Ancilly next spoke, her words were clipped. “The seamstress might’ve known where to find a painter, but she was pushed off the branch long ago.” Alice startled. “Pushed off the branch? Do you mean—” “She is gone.” “But I thought you said she made this dress?” said Alice. “How could she be gone?” “She worked for many years, making clothes in all shapes and sizes in preparation for the day our visitors would arrive. We had to be ready,” Ancilly said quietly, “even if we couldn’t be sure anyone would come.” Alice touched her arm. “Oh, Ancilly,” she said, “I’m so sor—”

“Please excuse me, your honorableness.” Ancilly stood in one swift motion and immediately began tidying the bath things. She said not another word to Alice. Alice was dismayed—certain she’d done something to offend—and attempted to apologize. “I’m truly sorry,” she tried to say, “I didn’t—” But Ancilly had begun humming very loudly and pretended not to hear her. Alice looked away, dejected. And then she heard Ancilly sing. It was the same song as before—she recognized the tune—but this time, Alice paid closer attention. I fell into the sky one day And it didn’t hurt at all I fell into the sky one day But I didn’t fall at all I saw a lady reach for me She told me not to fear I saw a lady speak to me She told me help was here Oh, I didn’t know A truth from lie She looked so strange to me But when she pointed At the sky I knew where I should be In the sky In the sky I fell one day Into the sky In the sky In the sky I fell one day I learned to fly

Oliver was waiting for her back at the eggshell house. Paramint had given up his home for them that evening—and for the duration of their stay— and Alice was immensely grateful for his sacrifice. In fact, she’d lost track of all the kind things Paramint had done for them since they’d arrived. It felt indulgent to take so much time for themselves here in the land of Left, but when Alice was being honest with herself, she was able to admit that a bit of rest was necessary. Jumping from village to village was beginning to wear on her, and she wanted to be at her best when they finally found their way to Father. She’d plopped down on the couch next to Oliver and had already begun telling him all about Ancilly and the peculiar case of the seamstress when she noticed he was looking at her in a very odd way. “What is it?” she asked him. “What’s happened?” “Nothing,” Oliver said. “It’s just that you look . . . different.” “Do I?” She looked down at herself. “I think it’s because I’m clean. And because of this staggeringly beautiful gown, obviously.” She laughed and looked admiringly at her skirts. She and Oliver had already marveled together at the gifts they’d received. Oliver had been given

ropes and ropes of their finest pearls, which he currently wore draped around his neck and chest, creating the illusion of a collared bib. Oliver tilted his head. “Perhaps.” “Well, you look the same,” she said to him, looking him over. “How do you always manage to stay so clean?” He smiled and ignored her question. “Alright then,” he said. “Tell me more about the seamstress.” Oliver was wide-eyed by the end of her story. He was so full of thoughts and questions he could hardly sit still. In fact, he was already up and pacing the length of the room. “This is very, very interesting news,” he said. “Very interesting.” “And the song,” Alice said. “So strange, isn’t it?” Oliver met her eyes from across the room. “Very strange. It sounds like Ancilly was trying to tell you something without actually telling you anything.” “Yes, I quite agree,” Alice said. “I wonder what it all means.” “Me too,” said Oliver, hesitating. “But I have to say, I can’t see how the secrets of the seamstress would lead us to a painter.” “Well,” Alice said, grasping for a connection. “They’re both artists. Maybe they did know each other?” Oliver frowned. “Possible. Unlikely, but possible.” Alice sighed. “But that song,” said Oliver. “So strange.” “And so sad,” said Alice. “To think that the seamstress was pushed off the branch! Oh, how I wonder what happened.” Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Do you think the song is true, then? You think the seamstress has flown away?” “If by flown away you mean fell to her death, then yes,” said Alice, “I think it’s true.” “A dead end, then? Pardon the pun,” he said, fighting back a smile, “but I’m assuming a dead seamstress wouldn’t have much to say.” “Well, it’s all we’ve got for now,” said Alice, defeated. She slumped lower on the couch and kicked up her feet. And then, very, very quietly—so quietly she almost hoped Oliver wouldn’t hear her—she said, “I hope we haven’t made a serious mistake choosing to fix my arm over finding Father.” Oliver joined her on the couch. “Alice,” he said gently. Alice mumbled something. “Alice,” he said again. “Please look at me.” She did so, but reluctantly. Oliver’s eyes were such a striking shade of violet. So bright against his skin. “Finding a way to fix your arm,” he said, “will never be a mistake. Please understand that.” Alice looked away. “But what if we never find Father because of me?” “That won’t happen.” “But—” “It just won’t,” Oliver said. “Oh, alright,” Alice said, and sighed. “But I do hope we figure out the next step soon. We can’t afford to stay here much longer.” “I know,” said Oliver, and he laughed a little. “And it’s too bad, really. Under any other circumstances I think we’d actually have a nice time in the land of Left. I mean—I know better than to believe anything good can come of Furthermore, I really do, but they’re just so terribly nice to us here. I’ll feel bad leaving them, especially as they’ve waited fifty-six years for a visitor.” He shook his head. “I can already picture Paramint’s grief-stricken face.”

“Me too,” Alice said quietly. “I was thinking the same thing earlier. And I don’t think they could ever want to eat us, do you? Don’t you think they’re the good ones?” Oliver nodded. “I read Paramint’s heart when we first arrived here, and do you know what his greatest secret was? His greatest wish?” Alice thought she could guess, but she let Oliver tell her anyway. “He wanted to be able to open that door,” said Oliver. “His greatest, most secret, most ardent wish was to have a visitor come to the village of Left.” “Oh, now I feel awful,” said Alice. “But what choice do we have?” “I know. We must forge ahead. After all,” Oliver said, “we belong in Ferenwood, not Furthermore,” and this made Alice smile. “And while I do love a good adventure,” Oliver went on, “I’m very much looking forward to going home. I think I’ve had enough of Furthermore to last me a good long while.” “Me too,” Alice said. “Me too.” She dropped her eyes and touched the only bangles she had left. “But I want Father to come home, too. I don’t want to go back without him.” Oliver nodded, just once, and said, “I know.” “What about you?” Alice asked him, perking up. “What do you miss the most about home?” “Me?” Oliver said, surprised. He tilted his head like he’d never considered it before. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps the comforts of not nearly dying every day.” Alice laughed and said, “Really, though—are you close to your parents? Don’t they miss you while you’re gone?” “I don’t think so.” Oliver shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t really know my parents, and I’m not sure they really know me.” “What do you mean?” “My talent”—Oliver sighed—“is both a blessing and a burden. I learned from a very young age how to manipulate my parents into doing exactly what I wanted—into being the kind of parents I wanted them to be. “I only discovered many years later that a five-year-old’s idea of the perfect parent is far from ideal. But by then it was too late. When I stopped interfering and let them take over, they couldn’t remember how. They barely even knew me—I’d taken away the most critical years of our life together. They could hardly remember how I’d grown up. And the problem wasn’t with just my parents. I’d done it with everyone. “I never really meant to,” Oliver said quietly. “I was just so little—I couldn’t understand the consequences of my actions. It was when my father got sick with the fluke that I realized how frail he was—and that one day I would lose him. I was sorry I’d never given him a chance to teach me what he knew. To be my father the way he’d wanted to be.” Oliver laughed a sad, humorless laugh. “I’d single-handedly destroyed every important relationship in my life by the time I was ten years old.” He hesitated, then said, “I have no idea what kind of parents I would’ve had if I hadn’t changed them so early on.” Alice drew in a deep, shaky breath. “Oh, Oliver,” she said, and took his hand. “That’s just the saddest story I’ve ever heard.” “Sometimes,” Oliver said, “I feel like my entire life is just a story I tell myself. A lie atop a lie; nipping and tucking at people until they’re exactly what I want.” He sighed. “I hate it.” “Well,” said Alice. “Why don’t you stop?” “Stop what?” said Oliver. “Stop changing everyone,” she said. “Stop manipulating people. I know it won’t change the past, but it’ll certainly change the future. It’s not too late to get to know your parents.” “I suppose it’s not,” said Oliver, but he was very quiet now. “But you don’t want to?” Oliver shook his head. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just—I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid.” “Of what?” said Alice.

“Don’t you see?” Oliver closed his eyes. “No one would like me if I didn’t trick them into it.” And then he looked at her, really looked at her. “That’s why I was so terrible to you in middlecare,” he said. “It wasn’t because I thought you were ugly. I didn’t think that at all. It was because I knew you didn’t like me, and I couldn’t convince you not to. I didn’t understand then why my persuasion wouldn’t work on you—I didn’t know about your ever-binding promise—and it scared me. Here was the one person in all of Ferenwood who wasn’t swayed by my lies, and she didn’t like me. It confirmed all my fears: If I let people be themselves, they’d all abandon me. My parents wouldn’t love me.” “But, Oliver,” she said, squeezing his hand, “I didn’t like you because you were one of the most sincerely rude people I’d ever met. You were arrogant and unkind and a horrible, raging skyhole.” Oliver groaned and got up to leave. “Wait!” she said quickly, grabbing his tunic. “There’s more, I promise.” Oliver shot her a hard look. “There’s more and it’s nice,” Alice amended. Oliver relented, sinking back into the couch. “Alright then,” he said. “Go on.” “Well—look at you now! You’re the nicest person, and so friendly and loyal! Who wouldn’t like you now? Your parents would adore you. And anyway, I think you’re wonderful, and you can trust that to be true. No tricking required.” Oliver had turned a blotchy sort of red. “You really think I’m wonderful?” Alice beamed at him, and nodded. Oliver looked away and mumbled something she couldn’t decipher, but he was smiling now, the silliest look on his face, and Alice was smiling, too, looking even sillier than he did, and they just sat there a moment, neither one of them being skyholes, and Alice realized right then that Oliver was her first best friend. It was a moment she would never forget.

Finally, Oliver cleared his throat. “Now I’ve told you all my secrets,” he said. “Will you tell me yours?” Alice bit her lip and looked into her lap. Her heart had begun to skip in nervous beats. “You already know my secrets, Oliver. I wish I didn’t have to repeat them.” “Alice,” he said gently, “I don’t understand. Why won’t you accept that you have an incredible talent? Why does it bother you so?” Here it was. Her greatest heartbreak of all. The talent she didn’t want, the one she wished she never had, the one she convinced herself wasn’t really hers, and all because it didn’t work where it mattered most. Alice wanted to tell Oliver the truth, but she was afraid it would make her cry, and she desperately didn’t want to cry. Still, it was high time to talk about it, and Oliver had earned the right to know. “So,” she said, nodding. “I can change the colors of things.” A chill coursed through her; her stomach was already doing flips. She hadn’t talked about this since long before Father left. Oliver took her hand and squeezed. “I can change the color of anything. The sky,” she said. “The sun. The grass and trees and bugs and leaves. Anything I want,” she said softly. “I could make day into night and night into day. I could change the color of the air we breathe, of the water we drink.” “But you don’t,” said Oliver. “You don’t. And I don’t know why. So much talent,” he said. “So much talent and—” Alice shook her head, hard, cutting him off. “So much talent,” she said, “and I can’t even change the color of me.” She looked up, looked at him, her eyes wild and desperate. “I could change you,” she said, and touched a finger to his cheek, his face flipping colors from brown to red to green. “I could turn you ten shades of blue in the time it takes to blink,” she said

softly, and dropped her hand. “I can change the colors of everyone else, but I can’t change this skin,” she said, raking her fingers down her face. “Can’t change my eyes. Can’t even make myself look more like my own family,” she said, her voice breaking. “Do you know how hard it is,” she said, “to have the power to change everything but myself?” “Alice—” “I have no color, Oliver.” Her voice was a whisper now. “No pigment. I don’t look anything like the people I love.” “But, Alice,” Oliver said softly. “The people who love you wouldn’t care if you had giraffe skin.” Alice focused on the rug under her foot, and nearly smiled. “Father probably wouldn’t mind,” she said. “Father would probably love me no matter anything.” “And your mother,” Oliver said, “she loves you, too,” but Alice shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, and bit her lip. “Mother was so excited when she first learned of my ability—Father was the one who told her, even though I asked him not to.” She hesitated. “But after Father left, something happened to Mother. Something changed in her, made her mean.” She paused, remembering. “Mother made me practice—every day in the mirror—she made me practice turning myself a different color. But it never worked, and Mother soon tired of me. But then she remembered how much she liked ferenberries—” Oliver gasped. “—and made me go hunting for them.” Alice looked away. “Gathering ferenberries is the only thing I’m any good for.” “But I thought ferenberries were invisible!” Oliver said, eyes wide. And then he whispered, “And I thought they weren’t allowed under the Ferenwood Code of Permissible Food Things.” “They’re not really invisible,” Alice said, scrunching up her face. “They’re just very good chameleons. They blend almost perfectly into any background, so they’re hard to find.” She shrugged. “But all I had to do was find a single one, and I could change all of them to a color I could see. So I’d pick dozens at a time.” Oliver was visibly impressed. “And I didn’t know they weren’t allowed under the Ferenwood Code of Permissible Food Things,” Alice added nervously. Oliver was so stunned he had to stand. “Well,” he finally said. “Your mother sounds absolutely hideous.” And then, “Forgive me,” he said, clapping a hand over his mouth. “I spoke out of turn. It’s not my place to—” “That’s alright,” Alice said with a shaky smile. “Mother will be better when Father comes home. He always made her nicer. But I think I’ve disappointed Mother since even before Father left. Perhaps in every way. “And now,” she said quietly, “the only person who ever really loved me is trapped, hurting somewhere, lost in a world that wants to keep him forever, and I’d do anything to get him back. Anything at all.” Alice touched the silk of her skirts. “You know,” she said quietly, “Father used to tell me I was beautiful.” Alice’s eyes had filled with tears, so she knew it was time to stop. She stood as elegantly as she could, excused herself, and told Oliver she needed some air. He let her pass without a word. When Alice stepped outside, her hardships were easily forgotten. Here, in the land of Left, was more to enchant the eye than possibly anywhere else. The sun had begun its descent, and the sky had turned a dusty, smoky blue; ambers and golds and violets melted along the horizon and kaleidoscoped through the branches, snowflaking spectacular shapes of light across the land. Everything was vivid green and richest brown and the air was so full of freshness; one deep inhale and her tears were zipped away, carefully stored for another day. Alice closed her eyes and let the breeze wash over her. She was stronger than Mother.

And if she wasn’t, she would be. She would be strong enough to fight for Father and not fall apart without him. He needed her to be smart, to stay alive, to keep fighting. Her love for Father made her brave. It made her better. It made her ready.

MORE CHAPTERS STRAIGHT AHEAD

“Is there anything you’d like to taste?” Paramint asked them. He’d popped his head into the egghouse to see how they were doing. She and Oliver had been sitting together on the floor, making a list of all the things they’d do with Father when they finally brought him home. It was Oliver’s idea, to make the list. It was the first thing he’d said to her when she came back inside. He said that Father would want to know what had happened while he was gone, and since an awful lot had happened while he was gone, they should probably make a list. “He’ll want to see the new ponds and the fishing trees and, oh—we’ll have to show him the boats that fell in Penelope’s garden, we can’t forget that.” Oliver was already reaching for a sheaf of paper. “Or how about the penny bushes near the brook? They’re so big now! Don’t you think he’d like to see that? Alice?”

Alice was so touched she could hardly speak. So there they sat, he and she, making plans for the day Father would come home, when suddenly Paramint was asking them whether there was anything they wanted to taste. “Taste?” Alice said, sitting up straighter. “What do you mean?” “Well,” Paramint said, still standing at the door. “We have a very generous tasting menu at our disposal. Perhaps not as grand as you’re accustomed,” he said, blushing, “but we do have a divine center-cut filet mignon that I’d humbly recommend for your tasting pleasure.” He bowed just a bit. “It was specially prepared for you by our resident chef, seasoned to perfection with rock salt and tea leaves, set on a bed of spiced couscous and served with a side of truffled risotto. Though of course if that is not to your liking we do have any number of sandwiches and roasts and hams to choose from—” “Oh my,” she said, glancing at Oliver, “I’m afraid I don’t know what any of that is.” Paramint had frozen solid with full words still stuck in his mouth. To his great credit, he thawed rather quickly, and said, “Is there something else I might offer you, your honorableness?” Alice thought for a moment and said, “Do you have any tulips?” “We . . .” Paramint looked a little confused, but mostly he looked terrified of disappointing her, which made Alice feel awful. “Well, your honorableness, we have, um, we do have a great many flowers, but none in bloom at this hour, I’m afraid.” “Dear Paramint,” said Oliver, “please don’t concern yourself with the flowers. Alice is only teasing you,” he said, shooting her a swift look that said, Let me handle this. “Perhaps we’ll skip the main tasting this evening, and go straight for the desserts,” Oliver said. “It’s been a long journey, and something sweet sounds nice.” “Oh, a fine idea, your honorableness!” Paramint was so excited he actually jumped in place. “A fine idea! I’ll bring out a great selection of cakes and pies and muffins for you to feast on!” He was smiling with every bit of his face, so eager to do anything to make them happy. “Is there any other good thing I might do for you, your honorablenesses? Perhaps after you’re done tasting, you’d like some time to dream?” This last bit caught Alice’s attention, and she was nodding before she’d even asked for details. “That sounds wonderful,” she said. “I would dearly love to dream.” “Very good, your honorableness,” said Paramint, beaming. “So very, very good. I shall return swiftly.” And with a bow and another smile, Paramint was gone. Alice immediately turned to Oliver, overcome with excitement. “I’ve missed dreaming so much! I dearly love dreaming, you know. It’s my favorite part of sleeping.” Oliver laughed. “I can’t believe you’re more excited about sleeping than you are about dessert.” “Oh,” said Alice, distracted. “That reminds me. What is a filet mignon, exactly?” Oliver froze, his mouth caught open in a neat little O. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he said hastily. “Nothing at all.”

Alice had never realized what a pleasure it could be to simply wake up in the morning. She and Oliver hadn’t stayed in any town long enough to enjoy the luxury of sleeping (or dreaming), and now, for the first time in what felt like a very, very long time, she blinked open bleary eyes and yawned her way into dawn, stretching one arm and two legs as far as they’d go. She was muddled and foggy and still a little dozy, but she was happier than she’d ever been in Furthermore, and feeling ready to face the beginning of another endless day. Alice sprang to her feet and headed to Paramint’s private toilets (which he’d said they might use) and splashed fresh water on her face, stopping to taste the few drops that fell on her lips. Minty, she thought.

She’d dreamt all night long: topsy-turvy dreams no doubt inspired by her days in Furthermore. She’d been running upside down, her feet stomping along the ceilings of homes she didn’t recognize, chasing a man she thought to be Father. The problem was, every time she got close enough, Oliver would pop out of a window and rip her arm off, and she’d lose track of Father all over again. She’d had to remind herself three times already not to be angry with Oliver for being such a nuisance in her dreams, and just as she was reminding herself for the fourth time, she stepped out of the toilets to find him waiting for her. “Good morning,” she said with a smile. “Good morning,” said Oliver, but he looked awful. Half asleep and a little sickly. “Excuse me, Alice,” he said, and nodded toward the toilets. “May I? I’m afraid I’m not feeling very well.” “Oh, Oliver,” she said. “Is there anything I can do?” He made a weak effort to shake his head. “I think I’ll just rest here a while, and hope the feeling passes.” He rubbed at his face. “I vow I shall never eat a pie again,” he said, and tried to laugh. Alice gave him a sympathetic look and nodded. While she’d taken only a few tastes, Oliver had tasted nearly half of everything Paramint brought them last night. She’d asked Oliver several times to take care—which is likely the only reason he hadn’t devoured all ten cakes, seven pies, fifteen muffins, and four puddings—and now she was glad to have guilted him so. She hadn’t known Oliver had such a fondness for these decadent things, though he certainly seemed sorry for it this morning. She patted him on the shoulder and let him pass. While Oliver locked himself in the toilets, Alice tidied up the rest of the house. She hoped it would be their last day here, so she wanted to do good by Paramint and make sure they left his home just as nice as it was when they arrived. She rolled up the dreaming-bags Paramint brought them (they were little sacks with pillows sewn all along the insides, very soft and cozy), and rearranged all his papers, careful to fold away the list they’d made for Father. She tucked the list into the pocket of her new silk gown (which, for a gown, had proven very comfortable) and then sat down on the pumpkin-orange couch, and waited for Paramint and Oliver. Except she soon tired of waiting and decided to step outside. It was a beautiful day, just as she’d expected. The sun had only barely begun to rise, and the land of Left was already in bloom. Its occupants scurried about, hanging freshly laundered clothes and buying freshly baked bread and stopping to chat with neighbors about one fascinating topic or another. The sight of it all made her miss home more than ever. “Good day to you, your honorableness!” It was an eager and smiling Paramint, who seemed surprised to find her up so early. “Good day to you, too, Paramint,” she said, smiling just as wide. “Did you dream well?” he asked. “Did you enjoy the tasting?” “Yes to both,” she said happily. Then, more quietly, “Though I’m afraid Oliver may have tasted a bit too much.” Paramint’s eyes went wide for just a moment before he laughed a hearty laugh. “This is excellent news, your honorableness! I’m thrilled to hear he enjoyed himself.” Alice didn’t have the heart to tell him that Oliver’s enjoyment was short-lived. “He certainly did,” she said. “Thank you again.” “You’re quite welcome!” Paramint was bouncing up and down on his toes, bursting with excitement. “Well, I can’t keep it in any longer, your honorableness!” “Keep wh—” “We have GREAT news, your honorableness. GREAT NEWS!” “Oh?” “Yes, indeed, today will be the MOST excellent day, your honorableness. Last night we had the MOST exciting evening, and today we’ve had the MOST exciting morning. Such

INCREDIBLE news!” “How . . . lovely,” Alice said politely. She couldn’t articulate why, exactly, but Paramint’s eagerness was making her uncomfortable. “I do hope good things are in store for the land of Left.” “They are! The best things! The very BEST things!” “Well, that’s very nice. I better get back t—” “You,” Paramint said, wagging a finger at her. “You have done a very bad thing, your honorableness. A very, very bad thing! But your bad thing has been the best news for the land of Left! The best news!” Alice swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak even with the surge of panic seizing her body. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” she managed to say. Paramint laughed and laughed. “You’ve broken the law! You’ve stolen time! Hours and hours you’ve stolen! We were notified just last night that we had a criminal in our midst.” He beamed. “The land of Left! Can you believe it? Our visitor—a criminal! Oh, you’ve made us famous, your honorableness. We’ve not been contacted by the Elders for fifty-six years,” he said, “and now, here we are, with a visitor who brings attention to our land! What a day, what a day!” “Is that what you’re happy about?” Alice nearly collapsed with relief. “Well,” she said meekly, “I’m certainly glad to be of service.” Paramint lowered his voice and leaned in. “Now, we’re going to do our best to keep the Elders from arresting you, but we can’t hold them off for long. We’ll have to be quick about things! So come with me, come with me—lots to do!” Alice refused to move. “What do you mean? Where are we going?” “To prepare the feast, of course!” cried Paramint. “We wouldn’t normally plan the feast until the end of your stay,” he said in a low voice, “but now that we know you’ve broken the law, there’s no reason to wait. Besides, your getting arrested will only complicate matters,” he said, waving a hand. “But if we take care of things before the authorities arrive, everyone will be so pleased! The queens haven’t had a full meal in far too long, and you and your friend are sure to satisfy a large appetite. The twincesses will be thrilled!” Alice stood frozen, sick with fright, and nodded as best she could before Paramint—kindly old Paramint—darted away, expecting her to follow. Alice’s skin was clammy with cold sweat and sudden, horrible, slithering fear, and she could feel her throat beginning to close. Why she had ever allowed herself to feel safe in Furthermore she did not know, but now she knew there was only one thing left to do. Run.

Alice flew back into the room as fast as she could, heart beating hard, hoping she could get to Oliver and out the door before Paramint ever came back. She pounded on the toilet door, shouting Oliver’s name several times, but there was no answer. She had no choice but to break a very important rule in Furthermore and open the door without permission. Thank heavens she did. Oliver was lying on the floor, half conscious, mostly limp, and extremely heavy. He looked half dead already. Suddenly her talk with Paramint put everything in perspective: This was no matter of overindulgence. Paramint had tried to poison them in preparation for the impending feast. He wanted them weak and pliant; he wanted them drugged. And it took every bit of strength she had to keep from panicking. Instead, she slapped Oliver in the face. He blinked his eyes open. “Oliver,” she said (still trying—and failing—not to panic), “Oliver, please—please wake up, please wake up—”

“I’m sorry, Alice,” he said, breathing hard, “I’m afraid I’m not”—he swallowed—“not feeling very well.” “Yes, yes, I know, dear friend, but you must get to your feet,” she said. “Please, please try to get to your feet, because we need to go. We must leave right this instant.” “What?” Oliver blinked at her again. “Why, Alice? What’s the matter?” Alice hesitated, terrified, then said, “They want to eat us.” Oliver’s eyes flew open. He knew better than to waste time asking why. Maybe at another time, in a different state of mind, Oliver might’ve been able to persuade them out of this, but he was painfully sick and not himself, and she knew she couldn’t ask him to save their lives. For the second time, she had to save him. And somehow, even now, during one of the most terrifying moments of her life, she felt a rush of true affection for Oliver, because she knew he’d decided right then to put his life in her hand(s), and to follow her lead. “Let’s go,” he said. And in an act of great determination, he pulled himself to his feet. Alice slung his bag over his shoulder, his heavy arm over her shoulder, and allowed Oliver to lean against her much-smaller frame. And though at any other time this might have seemed impossible, their weights didn’t matter now; they were both adrenaline from head to foot, and moving on instinct. Still, Alice felt like it took forever to reach the front door. In her mind their every slow movement brought Paramint closer, and every sudden sound meant Paramint was around the corner, waiting to pounce. In fact, Alice was so focused on outrunning Paramint that it hadn’t even occurred to her where they’d go to outrun him; not until they reached the door, and Oliver said, “Where now, Alice?” But she didn’t know. She was in a real panic. She looked left, looked right: They were surrounded on all sides by the busy bodies making up the land of Left, and there was no other place to go, no other person to trust. Eggshell homes had been strung from nearly every branch as far as she could see, and there was no doubt in her mind that if they tried to hide here, they would too easily be found. For a moment Alice even considered turning everything black again—after all, it had worked on the foxes—but they were not on flat land, which made everything more dangerous. Alice and Oliver would be running across a series of treetops—it would be too dangerous to run blindly; one misstep and they’d plummet to their deaths. But maybe— Maybe they stayed put. Maybe they stayed here and bided their time, played nice with Paramint until they formed a real plan—until Oliver was feeling better and could persuade them to have someone else for dinner. Maybe they’d be able to think more clearly in a couple of hours. After all, Paramint wanted to plan a feast. They wouldn’t be eaten in the next five minutes. Maybe Alice had gotten ahead of herself; she was too anxious and panicked; she was sure that was it. In fact, now she was sure they would do better to stay. Racing around with no rational plan couldn’t help them at all, she thought. So she exhaled a deep breath and glanced back at the eggshell home, ready to tell Oliver her new idea. Except that when she glanced back, there stood Paramint, hovering just to the side of his own front door, smiling at her in a way that she no longer trusted. He carried in one hand a very large linen sack. And, in the other, a very large butcher knife. Something inside of Alice screamed, but she didn’t say a word. Paramint’s eyes were locked on to hers, and when he next spoke, his voice was suddenly too high, too happy, all wrong. “Where are you going, your honorableness?” At any other time, they might’ve been able to dash past Paramint and head back from whence they came, but Oliver could barely stand, much less sprint. Alice scanned the forest

floor for options and found little solace in the thousand-foot fall below them. Oliver had said that falling in Furthermore was too anticlimactic to be deadly, but Alice felt certain that this drop would be an exception. After all, if it were safe to fall so far, why was the seamstress pushed off the branch? All these thoughts rushed through Alice’s mind in only a snip of a second, but this last question reminded Alice of something she’d nearly forgotten. It was something Ancilly had said—something she sang. I fell into the sky one day And it didn’t hurt at all I fell into the sky one day But I didn’t fall at all Was it possible? Was Ancilly trying to tell her how to escape? Well, Alice had no idea, but trusting Ancilly was her only option at the moment, as Paramint was still holding a butcher knife within slicing distance. Alice was out of options and fully tapped of time but she’d not yet lost her hope. So she took a deep breath and whispered, “Fall, Oliver, fall.” And they did.

She and Oliver clung to each other as they fell, and in her mind Alice was already apologizing to him for being the reason he died. Alice was half hope, half horror, split vertically down the middle about her chances at survival. She wanted to believe there was merit to Ancilly’s song, but how could she? She was currently plummeting to her death. Worse still, this didn’t feel anything like flying. This felt like dying. Though at least this death, Alice thought, would be a less brutal one. Alice had no interest in being eaten. So there they were: falling to their deaths. Neither one of them screamed (as it seemed to serve no purpose), and all Alice saw were Oliver’s eyes, wide and scared and sad, so she closed her own, wrapped her single arm more tightly around his, and prayed for a quick, relatively painless exit from these worlds. But no matter how dramatic they tried to make the moment—muscles tensed, whispering quiet goodbyes to the ones they loved—their imminent demise was running a bit late. Eventually Alice opened her eyes and found that Oliver had, too. They were indeed still falling, and there was indeed a ground coming up beneath them, but something strange was happening, too: The farther they fell, the slower the fall, and soon they weren’t rushing to the ground at all, but floating; floating, gently and steadily, all the way down. They landed on the forest floor with their feet flat on the ground. She and Oliver were so surprised to still be alive that they spent the first few moments just staring at each other. “Are you alright?” Alice finally said. Oliver was standing on his own now, and he looked wide awake. “Are you feeling okay?” Oliver nodded. “I think that just scared the sick out of me.” “Well, thank heavens for small presents,” Alice said, now feeling weak in the knees. She sank to the ground. “You don’t think they’ll jump after us, do you?” said Oliver. Alice looked up, startled. “I don’t—” “They might,” said a voice she didn’t recognize.

Alice jumped straight up and back and hit her head against Oliver’s chest. His heart was beating as hard as hers; he steadied her shoulder against him, and they both looked toward the stranger.

The voice had come from a woman, the likes of which Alice had never seen before—except perhaps in a mirror. She was pale as moonlight and exceptionally tall, and she wore a cloak made entirely of golden leaves: vibrant yellow, dingy mustard, lemon and honey and saffron and sunlight. The leaves layered together looked like a collection of slivered wings, creating the illusion of something both monstrous and beautiful, all at once. The lengths of the stranger’s robes dragged beneath her, swallowing up her arms and legs; only her hands—paler even than Alice’s—could still be seen. The hood of her cloak, also created from leaves, did not mask her face; she wore her hood only halfway, and the long, impossibly yellow locks of her hair—nearly indistinguishable from her hood—fell to her shoulders, and her face, ghostly white, was lit only by a pair of matching golden eyes. “They might,” she said again. “So you’d do best to come with me.” There was something terrifying about her—glowing and beautiful and looming over them— but there was something else about her, too; something in her eyes. This woman had felt true pain before, and somehow Alice knew this was true. Again, Alice thought of Ancilly. Ancilly, whose song had saved their life. I saw a lady reach for me She told me not to fear I saw a lady speak to me She told me help was here “Who are you?” Alice finally managed to ask. “I am Isal,” she said. She did not blink. “Would you like to die?” “No,” Oliver said quickly; Alice could hear his heart quicken. “Of course we wouldn’t.” “Then come with me,” she said, and turned away. As she walked, she left a trail of golden leaves behind, like a snail that could not help but make a map of its travels. But Isal was no snail; that much was obvious, and Alice envied her steady, quiet strength. She wanted to follow her. And anyway, they had no other choices. She and Oliver marched along behind her, sending each other sideways glances that did little more than remind them that they were not alone. They followed Isal deep, deep into the maze of the woods, but walking wasn’t without its challenges: The forest floor was zigzagged by giant trunks of gigantic trees, the tops of which made up the land of Left. The roots that covered the forest floor were monstrously large; they were among the widest and tallest Alice would ever see; these trunks were thicker than most homes. As she and Oliver did their best to scramble over the mountain-sized roots, Alice was suddenly grateful for Isal’s colorful cloak —without it, they’d have lost her long ago. Finally, they reached a small clearing where a dilapidated cottage had been shoved unceremoniously against a tree trunk wider than the cottage itself. The home was simply made; the exterior whitewashed a dull shade. There were two windows cut into a wall not obscured by the tree, but the glass looked dingy and yellow, like the ancient windows had never seen a breeze. Tall, wild grass grew up the sides of the house, and the roof looked like it’d collapsed a bit, right in the middle, and Alice could see why: Five forevergreen trees had planted themselves on top of the cottage, nearly suffocating the slanted brick chimney, while haphazardly grown tufts of grass and roots gripped the roof in a proprietary fist. This home seemed to have been planted here. It was as if it had grown in and within the forest itself. Isal opened the front door and turned to face them. “You may come inside.” But Alice and Oliver hesitated. “Who are you?” Oliver said.

Isal stepped forward. “I am Isal,” she said. “Yes, but that doesn’t help us at all, does it?” said Oliver. Isal looked confused. “Your companion is wearing my designs,” she said to him. “And yet you do not know who I am?” “The seamstress,” Alice whispered. Isal nodded at Alice. “Yes,” she said, before looking away. There was a stroke of sadness in her eyes. “I was the seamstress. I am not anymore.” Alice was too struck to speak. There was so much to be afraid of—so much to be concerned about in that moment—but Alice couldn’t help but be awed by the woman standing before her. Isal, even in her loneliness—even in her sadness—was entirely too elegant to be real. She was everything Alice had ever hoped to be: strong, brave, dignified. And yet, Isal was here. A gem, buried in the forest. An outcast. Alice felt a kind of kinship with this stranger and she couldn’t find the words to explain why. Isal stepped forward and touched the feathers on Alice’s dress. “I remember this gown,” she said softly. “It took me two years to collect enough featherlilies to finish the collar.” She dropped her hand. “Ancilly sent word that you were coming.” “She sent word?” Alice said. “But—” “She was my apprentice many years ago,” Isal said. “Long before I was pushed off the branch.” “So they really pushed you off the branch?” Oliver said, aghast. “Why?” Isal finally blinked. “Fifty-six years ago,” she said, “when we’d had our last visitor—a young girl, not much older than you,” she said to Alice, “I tried to warn her away. I knew that ultimately, she would be sacrificed for the queens.” Isal looked away. “I did not agree with the queens’ methods, and my actions were not appreciated. I was considered a traitor, and pushed off the branch.” Alice’s eyes went impossibly wide. “So they thought you would die,” Oliver said. Isal nodded. “But there is great magic at the bottom of the trees, and it does not wish to do harm. I have been safe here.” “Do they know?” Oliver asked, gesturing to the sky, to the land of Left. “Do they know it’s safe down here?” “They suspect it might be,” she said. “But they do not know for certain. So we must hurry. We do not know if they will come looking for you. Please,” she said. “Come inside. I can help you.” “But you say you’ve been here all this time,” Alice said nervously. “And yet you’ve never been discovered. How can we trust that your story is true? What if you’re working with everyone else? What if we step inside your house only to be stuffed in an oven?” Isal smiled a strange, sad smile and pulled back her hood. Her golden hair, no longer framed by the yellow of her cloak, was dimmer now. Desaturated. She looked almost as white as Alice did, pale on pale; all color sapped from her skin. And when she spoke, she spoke only to Oliver. “Perhaps you should trust a friend who looks like one.”

Oliver couldn’t shake off his shock. “How did you know?” he said. “How did you know my Tibbin?” Isal considered him carefully. “Furthermore is only occasionally as helpful as it pretends to be,” she said. “All Tibbins are created purposely—in conjunction with Furthermore citizens — and in accordance with the happenstance of your path through this land. The moment you arrived, your future was measured, hypotheses were made, and I was sent notification of my role in your journey. Now that you’re here, I’m tasked with providing you one piece of advice that will aid you in the rest of your excursion. Once the help is received, my bit is done.”

Alice and Oliver were stunned. “We are never allowed to speak of our roles in all this,” Isal said, “but as I gave up on my loyalty to Furthermore long ago, I don’t see the harm in telling you. But to deny a Tibbin is a moral offense, not a legal one, and so I am honor bound to assist you.” She bowed her head forward an inch, and let her eyes rest on Alice’s and Oliver’s slack-jawed expressions. “No one has ever found me, you know.” “Yes,” Oliver said, and looked around. “I can imagine.” “No,” said Isal. “You don’t understand. A Tibbin pinned to me is most ungenerous. Left is a land long forgotten, and I, Isal, am the most unremembered of them all.” She paused, studying the two of them carefully. “Assigning a Tibbin to me means the Elders were never trying to help you. In fact, it’s likely they expected you to fail many moves ago. That you were clever enough to find me means that you are close to achieving what you desire. But tread carefully; the Elders cannot be happy about this.” Alice and Oliver swallowed their fear and said nothing. “Now,” said Isal, and clasped her hands. “I have more than answered all your questions. So I must insist, for the final time, that you come inside. If you stand here a moment longer I will not be responsible for your deaths.” Alice and Oliver stumbled after Isal into her humble home, hearts racing in unison. Furthermore was meaner and twistier than even Oliver had imagined. They knew for certain now that their every move had been mapped and choreographed; the odds had been deliberately stacked against them. Their combined talents had kept them alive just long enough to move from one village to another, but the longer they stayed in Furthermore, the faster their luck would run out, and they would have to be sharper than ever if they were to have any hope of surviving the rest of their journey. They were now fugitives, on the run. And both Tibbins had been spent. Alice was shaken back to the present as she walked into the organized chaos of Isal’s home. Her cottage was little more than a glorified storage box. Every inch of wall space was covered in ornately framed oil paintings—“All my things were saved and pushed off the branch by dear Ancilly,” she’d said—while the interior square footage was set aside for her sewing supplies. Pins and needles and spools of thread and endless bolts of luscious fabrics were stacked up to the ceiling. Dress forms, boxes of jewels and baskets of feathers were arranged in tidy rows. Her home was small, but it was colorful and clean, and once they’d stepped fully inside, Isal removed her cape. Isal managed to be beautiful in entirely her own way. She wore soft blue silks that draped around and across her body, and they made her look like a barely remembered dream: blurred at the edges and impossible to grasp. It was the first time Alice had ever thought a pale person could be beautiful, and it gave her great hope. Isal was not like Alice, not entirely, for she had depths of gold, even in her paleness, but even so, she looked very different from everyone back home in Ferenwood. “So,” Isal said abruptly, “you are looking for a painter.” “Yes,” Oliver said, startled. “How did you know?” Isal narrowed her eyes at Oliver like he might be a bit bent in the head. “Your friend is missing an arm.” “Right,” he said quickly. “Right, of course.” “And you are certain,” Isal said, “that this is the one piece of information you seek? There is no greater question you’d care to ask?” Alice’s heart kicked into gear. She looked frantically at Oliver. Would this be their only chance to ask for help? Shouldn’t they use it to ask about Father? “Oliver,” she said, “don’t you think—” “This is not your decision,” Isal said swiftly. She gave Alice a look that was not exactly unkind, but a bit cold. “It’s not your Tibbin to interfere.”

“But—” “I’m certain,” Oliver said firmly. “We need to get her arm fixed.” “Oliver, please—” “We can still do both,” he said to her, taking her only hand. “I promise, Alice. We’ll find a way. Even if we have to start all over again. But before we do anything else, you’re getting your arm back.” Alice swallowed hard. She was nearly in tears. “Very good,” Isal said. “Your solution is simple. Pick any painting”—she gestured to her walls—“and step inside.” Oliver’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s all?” Isal nodded. Alice and Oliver looked at each other, faces breaking into smiles, relief flooding through their veins. “Alright,” Oliver said, grinning up to his ears. He looked over the paintings. “How about— oh, I don’t know—how’s this one?” he said to Alice. Isal stepped in front of him. “Choose wisely,” she said. “If the painter refuses to let you enter his home, you will remain here,” she said, touching the canvas, “in the painting of your choosing.” “What?” said Oliver. “For how long?” said Alice. “Forever,” Isal said. Sudden horror buckled Alice’s knees. “What do you mean?” Oliver demanded. “What nonsense is this? Why didn’t you tell us there was a catch before you gave us our answer? You said the solution was simple,” he said, his neck going red with anger. “It is not my job to protect you from the consequences of your own questions,” Isal said unkindly. “You wanted to know how to find a painter. I told you how to find one. My duty is done.” “But—” Suddenly the ground groaned and the walls shook; just outside the window a storm of yellow leaves had thrown itself against the glass. Alice knew instantly that it was a sign. Those were the leaves Isal had left behind, and now they’d come to find her. “They’re here,” Isal said softly, staring at nothing as she spoke. And in the time it took Alice and Oliver to catch their breath, there were four knocks at the door: one for every set of knuckles, which meant four people were waiting outside. Alice knew they wouldn’t be polite for very long. Isal grabbed her cloak. “Choose wisely,” she whispered. “Choose wisely, and good luck.”

Oliver met Alice’s eyes in a sudden panic, and she knew there was no time to deliberate. She took Oliver’s hand, scanned the frames for a scene that reminded her most of home and love and Father, and pushed their clasped hands through the painting. It really was that simple. Their bodies were sucked through by a force Alice could not name, and soon they were pulled and pushed through a tightness that squeezed their chests until she was sure they would burst, and when Alice next opened her eyes, she and Oliver were standing in what looked like an ancient prison cell; it smelled like mold and rust, the ceiling so low Oliver was forced to stoop. The two of them didn’t even have a chance to panic before a slim panel in the wall was forced open, letting a slice of light slip through. Alice squinted against the brightness. “What’s your business?” a voice barked at them. It sounded distinctly male, but there was no way to be certain. “I-I’ve come to fix my arm,” said Alice nervously. “I heard you were a p—”

“Which arm is it?” the stranger snapped. “My right.” The man grunted, but said no more. “Please,” she said. “Please help us—” The panel slammed shut. Alice was nearly in tears with worry. This was their last chance, and she didn’t know what they’d do if the painter didn’t allow them clearance to pass. And no sooner had she begun to wonder whether the painter wouldn’t simply leave them in that cell to die, when one of the cell walls swung open, and she and Oliver were ejected unceremoniously into a foot of fresh snow. Once she shook the snow out of her eyes, Alice tried to take in their surroundings; but no matter how many times she blinked, she couldn’t get the colors to come into focus. The trouble was, there were no colors here at all. It was like a scene clipped from a newspaper and made whole unto itself. They were in the middle of an eerily flat, snowy landscape, not a single tree in sight, and every shade and shadow was a variation on white and black. Compared to this world, Alice was practically neon, and her whiteness seemed suddenly nuanced, layered: its own kind of color. Where she and Oliver felt real and full of life, everything in this world looked drab and dim and, frankly, a little dead. It was as though all color had been snuffed out, sapped of life, and in its place were gray skies, gray wind, gray cold. Before them and beyond them was absolutely nothing, save one single, solitary structure: A giant half globe, made entirely of gray glass. Its contents were spare, but visually arresting: the pops of black that made up the furniture contrasted starkly against the very white snow, making for a stunning, simple presentation of beauty in contrasts. More romantic still: It was snowing. Confetti flakes fell from the sky, piling up all around them and frosting the top of the grayglass globe. It looked like a lost ornament, fallen and frozen in the snow of a holiday season. The more Alice looked at this black-and-white scene, the more she began to appreciate the subtleties of light and shadow, and though Alice eventually found it quite lovely, it was also entirely foreign to her. They were not in the painting she’d chosen—the painting she’d chosen had been rich in autumnal colors—which had to mean that they’d not been refused access to the painter. They’d not been refused. Oh, the shock of it. Alice thought she might scream. So she did just that. She fell back in the snow and she shouted for joy and she grabbed Oliver’s arm and said, “This isn’t the painting I picked—this isn’t the one! The one I picked was in a meadow, and it was autumn, and there were leaves on the ground, and there were little homes everywhere, and, oh, Oliver,” she said. “We made it!” Oliver sat down beside her, looking solemn but kind, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Yes,” he said softly. “I daresay we have.” They hugged, he and she, for a very long time, just clinging to each other, happy to be alive; grateful to have survived yet another stage of Furthermore. It was starting to wear on them now, nearly dying all the time. Alice promised herself that if they made it back to Ferenwood she would never again complain about a lack of adventure. She would be perfectly happy with a walk to the town square and a peek at the boats in Penelope’s garden. She tried to convince herself that it would be enough for her, that she could be happy with a simple, safe life tethered to Ferenwood, but even now, at the tail end of a crisis, she couldn’t quite manage it. Because she knew that wasn’t true. She wanted to go home, yes, and she wanted to spend more time with Father and she wanted to eat tulips and sit by the pond, but even after all the

trials and tribulations of Furthermore—or perhaps because of them—she didn’t think she could ever go back to an ordinary life. She knew she’d never say no to adventure. Alice broke away from Oliver and beamed at him. “Don’t just park your hindquarters in the snow,” someone barked at them. “Good grief, girl, you’ll catch your death out there!” Alice and Oliver looked up to discover a man scowling at them. He looked human enough, but the distance between his world and theirs seemed infinite. She realized then that a man in black and white seems impossibly gray, and even more impossible to reach; it was almost as though he existed in a different dimension. Something was nagging at the back of Alice’s mind. A bit of conversation. Something Tim had told her. “Hey! I’m talking to you,” the man shouted again, and Alice sprang to attention. The man was brandishing a cane at the two of them. Alice noticed that he had a scruffy black beard and wore a wool cap that pushed down over his eyes, and between his lips was an unlit pipe, and as he talked, it bobbed around in his mouth. “Sitting in the snow in a silk gown,” he grumbled. “Up, the lot of you,” he said, poking Oliver with his cane. “Get inside.” She and Oliver stumbled to their feet and stared at the man. “Are you—?” she started to say. “Of course I am,” he said. “Do you see anyone else here? Now hurry up,” he said. “I’ve put the kettle on, and it’ll be whistling by now.” They did as they were told and followed the old man toward the half-globe home. The man stopped short a few feet and then began to disappear from his ankles up; it was only as she got closer that Alice realized he was walking down a set of stairs. They quickly followed his lead. It was him, then her, then Oliver, disappearing into the ground only to then climb their way back up; except when they finally faced a door, it opened from overhead. Alice stomped the snow off her feet as they climbed and, as they crossed the threshold up and into the glass home, she did her best not to trail any dirt or wet onto the old man’s floor. Suddenly, she and Oliver were standing in the middle of a clear dome, and looking out at the snowy world from the comfort of a toasty, cozy sanctuary. As promised, the kettle had already begun to whistle. The old man moved quickly and easily for someone who carried a cane, and she wondered for a moment why he carried it. She noticed then that there was no real kitchen, no living room or bedroom, but one big space where everything sat out in the open; there were no secrets here, no closed doors, no walls or windows. All the furniture was minimal and spare: clean lines and simple frames, black seat cushions, gray pillows and a threadbare blanket that was neatly folded and placed atop a bed. Solid shades of gray dotted her vision; this home was a place where colors did not exist and patterns were not made. It was steady, sturdy, and extremely tidy. The rug underfoot was soft and gray and fluffy, and not bothered by a single spot. Alice and Oliver weren’t sure what to do with themselves. It was a strange home for a painter, stranger still that there was no sign of his paintings anywhere. Alice cleared her throat, rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, and waited for the old man to return. He came forward with fast, heavy footfalls—now moving without the assistance of his cane —holding two cups of hot tea that spilled into their saucers with his every step, and set them down on a small table around which a large couch and a few chairs had gathered. No cream, no sugar, no please or thank you.

“Well, sit down, then,” said the man, looking from her to Oliver, obviously irritated. He pulled the wool cap off his head to reveal a rather large tuft of dark hair that stuck straight up before falling into his face, and as she and Oliver tentatively took their seats, so did he. He seemed much younger than Alice had originally thought he was. In fact, she was fairly certain he wasn’t old at all. He was just crabby. She tried to get a better look at his face, but he’d ducked his chin into his chest, and his eyes were now partially obscured by his hair. Alice sat back, confused. It was coming back to her now—her conversations with Tim—and she looked around, carefully cataloguing all the gray. There was not a spot of bright color anywhere, and Alice was growing more convinced by the moment: This must be a prison village. But how could it be? Could the painter also be an inmate? Alice wasn’t sure. She didn’t know Furthermore well enough to know whether this was possible. Alice looked to Oliver and nearly told him what she was thinking (she was thinking that if this was a prison village, that perhaps this man might be able to tell her how to find Father), but fear had made her too afraid to hope, so she kept her theories to herself. Oliver cleared his throat. The painter crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair (she noticed then that he wore thick wool socks), and leveled them with a stare she couldn’t quite match. Alice felt too open, too vulnerable and bright-eyed, so she looked away. “So you’ve come about your arm, then?” he said to her. Alice nodded. “And how did you manage to lose it?” he said. She blinked up at him, then looked down again, frowning. “I—well, I made a mistake,” she said, digging the toe of her shoe into the carpet. “What kind of mistake?” he said. “I followed a paper fox,” Alice said quietly. “My right arm turned to paper.” She hesitated. “And then the fox ripped my arm off.” Alice didn’t know why she was speaking so stiltedly or, more importantly, she didn’t know why the painter made her so nervous, but her hand was sweating and her heart was pounding and her emotions were trying to tell her something she couldn’t yet hear. The painter laughed a loud, humorless laugh. “You followed a paper fox and got your arm ripped off.” He sighed. “Yep. Sounds about right.” His voice was rough from lack of use, but there was something about it that made Alice feel like she was overheating. Something in it—somewhere in the rustiness—that reminded her of something, of someone she could not place— “What’s your name?” he said, tilting his head, and for just a moment, his hair shifted out of his eyes. Alice thought she might collapse. “Oliver,” she cried. “Oliver—” “Your name is Oliver? That’s a strange name for a girl.” “My name is Oliver,” said Oliver, who’d jumped up and was now looking anxiously at Alice. “What’s wrong?” he said to her. “What’s the matter?” But Alice couldn’t get the words out. She was seeing spots; she thought her throat might close up. “Alice?” said Oliver, panicking. “Alice, what are you—” “Her name is Alice?” said the painter, who was now on his feet. “Father,” she gasped. “Father.” And then she fainted.

!!!!!!!!

I don’t know how much time elapsed between when she fell and when she woke—Oliver says it was at least several minutes—but when Alice finally blinked open her eyes, they’d already filled to the brim with tears. Alice Alexis Queensmeadow had finally found Father. Accidentally, unintentionally (serendipitously), Alice had found Father and she was unsinkably happy. Their reunion was long and joyous; tears were shed, laughter was shared, stories were recounted from all. Alice’s and Oliver’s stories are already familiar to you, so I won’t bother relating them again, but Father’s story was new, and certainly new to you, too, so I’ll do my best to remember exactly what was said. However, before I do, I’d like to address one detail that must be bothering you:

Strange, you must think, that Father hadn’t recognized Alice himself. You are wise to wonder so. And when Alice first told me how it all happened, I thought it strange, too. But we must remember that Father had been locked away for three Ferenwood years in the heart of an impossible land. Father had never dreamed—never dared to think it possible—that his young daughter would, firstly, know a single thing about Furthermore and, secondly, have survived long enough to find him, when he, a grown man, had barely survived himself. He had never dreamed Alice might show up. In fact, when Father saw Alice and Oliver requesting permission to enter his village, he accepted their request solely because the young girl he saw—her white hair, her white skin—reminded him a great deal of his own daughter. Alice, too, had no idea how much she’d changed since the last time she’d seen him. The girl who sat in front of Father now was a girl greatly changed from the nine-year-old Father remembered. This new Alice was confident and bold; she was articulate and passionate; she had become the kind of person who’d lived through hardship and survived with grace. Father hardly recognized her. Though it took very little encouragement for him to be reminded. Now, let us return to their reunion. As you might imagine, Alice and Oliver had thousands of questions for Father. What happened after he arrived in Furthermore? Why had he come? Why hadn’t he told anyone? What happened to get him stuck? Was he really a spy? And so forth. But as their conversations were exhaustive, rerouted by endless tangents, and punctuated by waves of tears and silent embraces, I will, in the interest of expediency, make an effort to summarize all that was said in a short set of paragraphs. Father had indeed been arrested for wasting time, and Enslaved Imprisonment was indeed his punishment. He was sentenced to the prison village of Ink, which was where he’d been isolated ever since. It was a comfortable setup—he had his own home and he wasn’t wearing shackles—but what was life without color? No friends, no family (not even a cellmate!), not a single thing to read. Father had been desperately depressed and lonely. He’d grown gruff and angry, and his bitterness made him reject nearly every job request he’d received. Being a painter, you see, was his enslavement. He was forced to do labor for Furthermore as a means of penance, and in this case, it was painting new limbs for those who’d lost them. Occasionally Father would paint someone a leg instead of an arm, or a finger instead of a toe, just to keep things interesting, but mostly it was a tedium of the same, boring work. “You’d be surprised,” he said, “how many people lose limbs in Furthermore.” But Father’s greater story began many moons back, beginning with his own Surrender and with the task he’d been tasked by the Ferenwood Elders. Father, as you know, had been sent to map the many magical lands and, after having lived and survived in Furthermore so long, he thought he’d have no trouble surviving again. “What I didn’t realize,” he said, “was that my brain was different when I was younger. I was successful because my mind was nimble and my ideas about the world were flexible. The tricks and twists of Furthermore were easier to navigate.” He sighed. “But as I got older, I became more set in my ways. It was harder to think differently and it took me longer to figure everything out. I had so much more to lose this time around, and the fear crippled me. I was too nervous, too careful. I made too many mistakes.” He shook his head. “I never should’ve come back. I wouldn’t have dared if I didn’t think it would be worth it.” Oliver, you see, had been right about why Father returned to Furthermore. He was no spy for Ferenwood. His effort was entirely for Alice. Always for Alice. This, dear reader, was the most difficult conversation for the group of them to get through, because there was so much emotion to contend with. Alice was devastated to have been the reason Father had put himself in danger. After all, Father had never wanted Alice to change—

he’d only wanted her to be happy—and it broke her heart to think of all he’d risked for her. Thankfully, her hurts were healing quickly. And Alice was learning to be happy. Alice knew that being different would always be difficult; she knew that there was no magic that would erase narrow-mindedness or iron out the inequities in life. But Alice was also beginning to learn that life was never lived in absolutes. People would both love her and rebuff her; they would show both kindness and prejudice. The simple truth was that Alice would always be different—but to be different was to be extraordinary, and to be extraordinary was an adventure. It no longer mattered how the world saw her; what mattered was how Alice saw herself. Alice would choose to love herself, different and extraordinary, every day of the week.

Dear reader: I do hope you enjoy a happy ending. We are coming upon the last bit of our story now—the bit where Father and Alice and Oliver finally return home—and I’m feeling bittersweet about it. Father, as you might imagine, fixed Alice’s arm in a pinch, and she was a fully limbed young lady once more. Alice, for her part, very deftly magicked the village of Ink into a land absolutely drenched in color, and Father was reimagined into an even more stunning iteration of his former self. Oliver, good sport that he was, tapped open his magical box with its little door, and they three clambered in, one after the other, and soon, very soon, they were right back where they started, back home in Ferenwood. A great deal of time had passed while they journeyed through Furthermore, though Alice didn’t know how much. All she knew was that it was winter in Ferenwood, which meant they’d been gone not quite a full year. Snow had descended upon the land in their absence, icing the many hills and valleys in a neat layer of white. Thousands of trees had attempted to shiver their branches free of frost, and when she squinted, Alice could see their green skeletons peeking through. Chimneys chugged atop warmly lit homes, and the town was still, and they three were silent, and Alice exhaled as she closed her eyes. She had never been more grateful for this town or for this life, and she never again wanted to take it for granted. She was happy to be home and happy to have a home. And she couldn’t wait to see Mother’s reaction, Mother who didn’t know Father was here. Alice and Oliver hugged each other tightly as they said their good-byes, and Oliver promised to come over the very next day to help her build an igloo and make plans for the spring. Oliver would be moving on to upper-level schooling now that he’d completed his Surrender, but Alice had no idea what she’d do next. Father was surprised to hear her say so. “But, Alice,” he said. “Didn’t you say you received a black card? For failing your Surrender?” “Yes,” said Alice quietly. She ducked her head. “I did.” Father lifted Alice’s chin and looked her in the eye. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. A black card just means you get another try the following year. Did you never unlock it?” “What?” she said, hardly daring to breathe. “I get to try again? I get to do my Surrender over?” “Of course you do,” said Father, smiling. “What did you think would happen? Did you think the Elders would toss you out of Ferenwood?” “Well, yes,” said Alice. “I thought they might.” “I told you,” Oliver said, beaming. “Didn’t I? I told you to unlock it earlier—I told you you were supposed to unlock it but you didn’t listen to me.” Alice went pink. “Alright,” she said. “You were right.” “I’m glad I was right,” said Oliver, who was grinning from ear to ear. And then, finally, it was time for Oliver to go home. He hugged Alice once more, then hugged Father, too, and then he ran as best he could through the snow. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” he called over his shoulder. “I can’t wait!” Alice called back.

And then she took Father’s hand in hers, and Alice decided she would never, ever lose him again.

Alice and Father stood together quietly just outside their little home, each lost in their own thoughts. The house was just as Alice had left it (save the snow that iced the roof and blanketed the ground); and the chimney puffed gently in the soft evening light, and the windows were lit from the life within. It was a warm, welcoming sight. But suddenly Alice was nervous. Alice knew how Mother would react to seeing Father again, but she didn’t know how Mother would react to seeing her again—and this new unknown frightened her. After all, Alice had run off without saying a single good-bye; she couldn’t expect Mother to be forgiving. What about the ferenberries? What about the washing and the mending? What about the shame she’d brought upon her family by failing the Surrender? Mother was sure to be livid. Alice was certain that when the front door opened, she would be met with anger and punishment and crushing disappointment, and it almost made her wish she hadn’t come. For a moment Alice wondered whether she shouldn’t run straight to Oliver’s house and hide until Father could smooth things over—but she didn’t think Father would allow it. In any case, Alice could no longer dawdle. Father was eager to go inside, and Alice couldn’t deny him such a simple request. Not after everything he’d been through. Father squeezed her hand and gave her an encouraging look and said, “Are you ready, darling? Shall we go in together?” But Alice shook her head—she knew she should face Mother alone. (Though perhaps after Mother had her fill of yelling and screaming, Alice would call Father inside to save her.) So Alice told Father her plan. Well, part of it. “This way, it’ll be a surprise,” she said. “How Mother will cry when she sees you!” Father laughed. “Very well,” he said. “If that’s what you prefer.” Alice nodded, Father hid, and the two of them shared a wink before Alice walked up to the front door. Then, after only a moment’s hesitation, Alice knocked twice. Once for her and once for Father. (It was Furthermore tradition, after all.) A moment later, the front door swung open. Mother was exactly as Alice remembered her—beautiful and elegant and desperately sad. Her green corkscrew curls had sprung free of their ponytail, making her golden eyes seem somehow bigger and lonelier. Alice felt a sharp tug at her heart as she locked eyes with Mother, and both of them were suddenly still. Well, Alice was still. Mother appeared to be frozen. “Alice?” she whispered. “Hello Mother.” Alice attempted a smile, but quickly dropped her head and shrank inward lest Mother should think she was being deliberately insolent. Alice swallowed hard and braced herself for the imminent onslaught of anger, determined to be brave for Father once more. But then, dear friends, the strangest thing happened. Mother fell to her knees. She threw her arms around her daughter and pulled her tight to her chest and wept, long and loud. Mother’s pain felt real and hot against Alice’s small body, and Alice could almost hear Mother coming untethered, tears cracking open ribs to let the pain pass through. “I’m sorry,” Mother cried. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t ever run away again. Please forgive me.” “But, Mother—” Alice tried to say. “I blamed you,” she said. “I knew why Father left and I blamed you for it and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” “You knew?” said Alice, stunned. “You knew why he left?” Mother looked up at Alice, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, and nodded. “He went to find color for you. He thought—he thought it would make you happy. But when he never came back, I

blamed you for it.” She shook her head. “I treated you horribly. Please forgive me, Alice. I can’t bear to lose you both.” “But you haven’t lost us, Mother,” said Alice softly. “You never did.” Alice stepped backward to let Father step forward, and she wandered off in a daze, her head heavy and swimming with truths newly collected. For Alice, who’d only ever wanted to be loved and cared for, Mother’s confession was a revelation. And a curious life lesson. She and Mother had both loved Father dearly; but though this love had carried Alice, it had crushed Mother, and this was a power she hadn’t known a heart could possess. Love, it turned out, could both hurt and heal. Strange. “I told you she loved you,” said a familiar voice. Alice was so startled she jumped nearly a foot in the air. “Why Oliver Newbanks!” she shout-whispered. “How dare you spy on me!” (But she was secretly pleased to see him.) “I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” he said, smiling. “I knew this would be a hard moment for you.” The sun was setting overhead, making the sky look as if it’d been slit open to rush the sunshine out. Oliver appeared to be glowing in the halo. “I am,” said Alice, but she was quiet about it. Thoughtful. “What is it?” Oliver said, studying her. “What are you thinking?” “I’m going to redo my Surrender, you know.” She sighed. “In the spring. And I’ll finally have a task of my own.” “Of course you will,” said Oliver, beaming. “And you’ll do splendidly.” “Well,” she said, examining her fingers. “I might be gone a very long time.” Oliver’s smile slipped. He cleared his throat and said, “Right. Of course.” “So,” said Alice, looking off into the distance. “I was wondering if you’d come with me.” Oliver blinked, surprised. “I mean you don’t have to,” Alice said quickly. “Firstly it’s illegal and secondly I know you’ll be busy with other th—” “I wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “Not for anything.” And Oliver smiled and Alice smiled back, and she looked up at the sky and wondered, as she closed her eyes, how this small, cluttered world had managed to make room for all her happiness. Father was home and Mother was kind and Alice and Oliver would be friends for a very long time and that, as they say, was that. Or at least it is all I will say on the subject. Until next time, dear reader.

THE END

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DEDICATION

For my readers. For your love and support. This one’s for you.

CONTENTS Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two

Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Chapter Fifty-Eight Chapter Fifty-Nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty-One Chapter Sixty-Two Chapter Sixty-Three Chapter Sixty-Four Chapter Sixty-Five Chapter Sixty-Six Chapter Sixty-Seven Chapter Sixty-Eight Chapter Sixty-Nine Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One Chapter Seventy-Two Chapter Seventy-Three Chapter Seventy-Four Chapter Seventy-Five Chapter Seventy-Six Chapter Seventy-Seven Chapter Seventy-Eight Acknowledgments Back Ads About the Author Books by Tahereh Mafi Credits Copyright About the Publisher

ONE I am an hourglass.

My seventeen years have collapsed and buried me from the inside out. My legs feel full of sand and stapled together, my mind overflowing with grains of indecision, choices unmade and impatient as time runs out of my body. The small hand of a clock taps me at one and two, three and four, whispering hello, get up, stand up, it’s time to wake up wake up “Wake up,” he whispers. A sharp intake of breath and I’m awake but not up, surprised but not scared, somehow staring into the very desperately green eyes that seem to know too much, too well. Aaron Warner Anderson is bent over me, his worried eyes inspecting me, his hand caught in the air like he might’ve been about to touch me. He jerks back. He stares, unblinking, chest rising and falling.

“Good morning,” I assume. I’m unsure of my voice, of the hour and this day, of these words leaving my lips and this body that contains me. I notice he’s wearing a white button-down, half untucked into his curiously unrumpled black slacks. His shirtsleeves are folded, pushed up past his elbows. His smile looks like it hurts. I pull myself into a seated position and Warner shifts to accommodate me. I have to close my eyes to steady the sudden dizziness, but I force myself to remain still until the feeling passes. I’m tired and weak from hunger, but other than a few general aches, I seem to be fine. I’m alive. I’m breathing and blinking and feeling human and I know exactly why. I meet his eyes. “You saved my life.” I was shot in the chest. Warner’s father put a bullet in my body and I can still feel the echoes of it. If I focus, I can relive the exact moment it happened; the pain: so intense, so excruciating; I’ll never be able to forget it. I suck in a startled breath. I’m finally aware of the familiar foreignness of this room and I’m quickly seized by a panic that screams I did not wake up where I fell asleep. My heart is racing and I’m inching away from him, hitting my back against the headboard, clutching at these sheets, trying not to stare at the chandelier I remember all too well— “It’s okay—” Warner is saying. “It’s all right—” “What am I doing here?” Panic, panic; terror clouds my consciousness. “Why did you bring me here again—?” “Juliette, please, I’m not going to hurt you—” “Then why did you bring me here?” My voice is starting to break and I’m struggling to keep it steady. “Why bring me back to this hellhole—” “I had to hide you.” He exhales, looks up at the wall. “What? Why?” “No one knows you’re alive.” He turns to look at me. “I had to get back to base. I needed to pretend everything was back to normal and I was running out of time.” I force myself to lock away the fear. I study his face and analyze his patient, earnest tone. I remember him last night—it must’ve been last night—I remember his face, remember

him lying next to me in the dark. He was tender and kind and gentle and he saved me, saved my life. Probably carried me into bed. Tucked me in beside him. It must’ve been him. But when I glance down at my body I realize I’m wearing clean clothes, no blood or holes or anything anywhere and I wonder who washed me, wonder who changed me, and worry that might’ve been Warner, too. “Did you . . .” I hesitate, touching the hem of the shirt I’m wearing. “Did—I mean—my clothes—” He smiles. He stares until I’m blushing and I decide I hate him a little and then he shakes his head. Looks into his palms. “No,” he says. “The girls took care of that. I just carried you to bed.” “The girls,” I whisper, dazed. The girls. Sonya and Sara. They were there too, the healer twins, they helped Warner. They helped him save me because he’s the only one who can touch me now, the only person in the world who’d have been able to transfer their healing power safely into my body. My thoughts are on fire. Where are the girls what happened to the girls and where is Anderson and the war and oh God what’s happened to Adam and Kenji and Castle and I have to get up I have to get up I have to get up and get out of bed and get going but I try to move and Warner catches me. I’m off-balance, unsteady; I still feel as though my legs are anchored to this bed and I’m suddenly unable to breathe, seeing spots and feeling faint. Need up. Need out. Can’t. “Warner.” My eyes are frantic on his face. “What happened? What’s happening with the battle—?” “Please,” he says, gripping my shoulders. “You need to start slowly; you should eat something—” “Tell me—” “Don’t you want to eat first? Or shower?” “No,” I hear myself say. “I have to know now.” One moment. Two and three.

Warner takes a deep breath. A million more. Right hand over left, spinning the jade ring on his pinkie finger over and over and over and over “It’s over,” he says. “What?” I say the word but my lips make no sound. I’m numb, somehow. Blinking and seeing nothing. “It’s over,” he says again. “No.” I exhale the word, exhale the impossibility. He nods. He’s disagreeing with me. “No.” “Juliette.” “No,” I say. “No. No. Don’t be stupid,” I say to him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say to him. “Don’t lie to me goddamn you,” but now my voice is high and broken and shaking and “No,” I gasp, “no, no, no—” I actually stand up this time. My eyes are filling fast with tears and I blink and blink but the world is a mess and I want to laugh because all I can think is how horrible and beautiful it is, that our eyes blur the truth when we can’t bear to see it. The ground is hard. I know this to be an actual fact because it’s suddenly pressed against my face and Warner is trying to touch me but I think I scream and slap his hands away because I already know the answer. I must already know the answer because I can feel the revulsion bubbling up and unsettling my insides but I ask anyway. I’m horizontal and somehow still tipping over and the holes in my head are tearing open and I’m staring at a spot on the carpet not ten feet away and I’m not sure I’m even alive but I have to hear him say it. “Why?” I ask. It’s just a word, stupid and simple. “Why is the battle over?” I ask. I’m not breathing anymore, not really speaking at all; just expelling letters through my lips. Warner is not looking at me. He’s looking at the wall and at the floor and at the bedsheets and at the way his knuckles look when he clenches his fists but no not at me he won’t look at me and his next words are so, so soft. “Because they’re dead, love. They’re all dead.”

TWO My body locks.

My bones, my blood, my brain freeze in place, seizing in some kind of sudden, uncontrollable paralysis that spreads through me so quickly I can’t seem to breathe. I’m wheezing in deep, strained inhalations, and the walls won’t stop swaying in front of me. Warner pulls me into his arms. “Let go of me,” I scream, but, oh, only in my imagination because my lips are finished working and my heart has just expired and my mind has gone to hell for the day and my eyes my eyes I think they’re bleeding. Warner is whispering words of comfort I can’t hear and his arms are wrapped entirely around me, trying to keep me together through sheer physical force but it’s no use. I feel nothing. Warner is shushing me, rocking me back and forth, and it’s only then that I realize I’m making the most excruciating, earsplitting sound, agony ripping through me. I want to speak, to protest, to accuse Warner, to blame him, to call him a liar, but I can say nothing, can form nothing but sounds so pitiful I’m almost ashamed of myself. I break free of his arms, gasping and doubling over, clutching my stomach. “Adam.” I choke on his name. “Juliette, please—” “Kenji.” I’m hyperventilating into the carpet now. “Please, love, let me help you—” “What about James?” I hear myself say. “He was left at Omega Point —he wasn’t a-allowed to c-come—” “It’s all been destroyed,” Warner says slowly, quietly. “Everything. They tortured some of your members into giving away the exact location of Omega Point. Then they bombed the entire thing.” “Oh, God.” I cover my mouth with one hand and stare, unblinking, at the ceiling. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “You have no idea how sorry I am.” “Liar,” I whisper, venom in my voice. I’m angry and mean and I can’t be bothered to care. “You’re not sorry at all.” I glance at Warner just long enough to see the hurt flash in and out of his eyes. He clears his throat.

“I am sorry,” he says again, quiet but firm. He picks up his jacket from where it was hanging on a nearby rack; shrugs it on without a word. “Where are you going?” I ask, guilty in an instant. “You need time to process this and you clearly have no use for my company. I will attend to a few tasks until you’re ready to talk.” “Please tell me you’re wrong.” My voice breaks. My breath catches. “Tell me there’s a chance you could be wrong—” Warner stares at me for what feels like a long time. “If there were even the slightest chance I could spare you this pain,” he finally says, “I would’ve taken it. You must know I wouldn’t have said it if it weren’t absolutely true.” And it’s this—his sincerity—that finally snaps me in half. Because the truth is so unbearable I wish he’d spare me a lie. I don’t remember when Warner left. I don’t remember how he left or what he said. All I know is that I’ve been lying here curled up on the floor long enough. Long enough for the tears to turn to salt, long enough for my throat to dry up and my lips to chap and my head to pound as hard as my heart. I sit up slowly, feel my brain twist somewhere in my skull. I manage to climb onto the bed and sit there, still numb but less so, and pull my knees to my chest. Life without Adam. Life without Kenji, without James and Castle and Sonya and Sara and Brendan and Winston and all of Omega Point. My friends, all destroyed with the flick of a switch. Life without Adam. I hold on tight, pray the pain will pass. It doesn’t. Adam is gone. My first love. My first friend. My only friend when I had none and now he’s gone and I don’t know how I feel. Strange, mostly. Delirious, too. I feel empty and broken and cheated and guilty and angry and desperately, desperately sad. We’d been growing apart since escaping to Omega Point, but that was my fault. He wanted more from me, but I wanted him to live a long life. I wanted to protect him from the pain I would cause him. I tried to forget

him, to move on without him, to prepare myself for a future separate and apart from him. I thought staying away would keep him alive. Stupid girl. The tears are fresh and falling fast now, traveling quietly down my cheeks and into my open, gasping mouth. My shoulders won’t stop shaking and my fists keep clenching and my body is cramping and my knees are knocking and old habits are crawling out of my skin and I’m counting cracks and colors and sounds and shudders and rocking back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and I have to let him go I have to let him go I have to I have to I close my eyes and breathe. Harsh, hard, rasping breaths. In. Out. Count them. I’ve been here before, I tell myself. I’ve been lonelier than this, more hopeless than this, more desperate than this. I’ve been here before and I survived. I can get through this. But never have I been so thoroughly robbed. Love and possibility, friendships and futures: gone. I have to start over now; face the world alone again. I have to make one final choice: give up or go on. So I get to my feet. My head is spinning, thoughts knocking into one another, but I swallow back the tears. I clench my fists and try not to scream and I tuck my friends in my heart and revenge I think has never looked so sweet. THREE Hang tight

Hold on Look up

Stay strong Hang on Hold tight Look strong Stay up One day I might break One day I might break free Warner can’t hide his surprise when he walks back into the room. I look up, close the notebook in my hands. “I’m taking this back,” I say to him. He blinks at me. “You’re feeling better.” I nod over my shoulder. “My notebook was just sitting here, on the bedside table.” “Yes,” he says slowly. Carefully. “I’m taking it back.” “I understand.” He’s still standing by the door, still frozen in place, still staring. “Are you”—he shakes his head—“I’m sorry, are you going somewhere?” It’s only then that I realize I’m already halfway to the door. “I need to get out of here.” Warner says nothing. He takes a few careful steps into the room, slips off his jacket, drapes it over a chair. He pulls three guns out of the holster strapped to his back and takes his time placing them on the table where my notebook used to be. When he finally looks up he has a slight smile on his face. Hands in his pockets. His smile a little bigger. “Where are you going, love?” “I have some things I need to take care of.” “Is that right?” He leans one shoulder against the wall, crosses his arms against his chest. He can’t stop smiling. “Yes.” I’m getting irritated now. Warner waits. Stares. Nods once, as if to say, Go on. “Your father—” “Is not here.”

“Oh.” I try to hide my shock, but now I don’t know why I was so certain Anderson would still be here. This complicates things. “You really thought you could just walk out of this room,” Warner says to me, “knock on my father’s door, and do away with him?” Yes. “No.” “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Warner says softly. I glare at him. “My father is gone,” Warner says. “He’s gone back to the capital, and he’s taken Sonya and Sara with him.” I gasp, horrified. “No.” Warner isn’t smiling anymore. “Are they . . . alive?” I ask. “I don’t know.” A simple shrug. “I imagine they must be, as they’re of no use to my father in any other condition.” “They’re alive?” My heart picks up so quickly I might be having a heart attack. “I have to get them back—I have to find them, I—” “You what?” Warner is looking at me closely. “How will you get to my father? How will you fight him?” “I don’t know!” I’m pacing across the room now. “But I have to find them. They might be my only friends left in this world and—” I stop. I spin around suddenly, heart in my throat. “What if there are others?” I whisper, too afraid to hope. I meet Warner across the room. “What if there are other survivors?” I ask, louder now. “What if they’re hiding somewhere?” “That seems unlikely.” “But there’s a chance, isn’t there?” I’m desperate. “If there’s even the slightest chance—” Warner sighs. Runs a hand through the hair at the back of his head. “If you’d seen the devastation the way that I did, you wouldn’t be saying such things. Hope will break your heart all over again.” My knees have begun to buckle. I cling to the bed frame, breathing fast, hands shaking. I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t actually know what’s happened to Omega Point. I don’t know where the capital is or how I’d get there. I don’t know

if I’d even be able to get to Sonya and Sara in time. But I can’t shake this sudden, stupid hope that more of my friends have somehow survived. Because they’re stronger than this—smarter. “They’ve been planning for war for such a long time,” I hear myself say. “They must have had some kind of a backup plan. A place to hide—” “Juliette—” “Dammit, Warner! I have to try. You have to let me look.” “This is unhealthy.” He won’t meet my eyes. “It’s dangerous for you to think there’s a chance anyone might still be alive.” I stare at his strong, steady profile. He studies his hands. “Please,” I whisper. He sighs. “I have to head to the compounds in the next day or so, just to better oversee the process of rebuilding the area.” He tenses as he speaks. “We lost many civilians,” he says. “Too many. The remaining citizens are understandably traumatized and subdued, as was my father’s intention. They’ve been stripped of any last hope they might’ve had for rebellion.” A tight breath. “And now everything must be quickly put back in order,” he says. “The bodies are being cleared out and incinerated. The damaged housing units are being replaced. Civilians are being forced to go back to work, orphans are being moved, and the remaining children are required to attend their sector schools. “The Reestablishment,” he says, “does not allow time for people to grieve.” There’s a heavy silence between us. “While I’m overseeing the compounds,” Warner says, “I can find a way to take you back to Omega Point. I can show you what’s happened. And then, once you have proof, you will have to make your choice.” “What choice?” “You have to decide your next move. You can stay with me,” he says, hesitating, “or, if you prefer, I can arrange for you to live undetected, somewhere on unregulated grounds. But it will be a solitary existence,” he says quietly. “You can never be discovered.” “Oh.” A pause.

“Yes,” he says. Another pause. “Or,” I say to him, “I leave, find your father, kill him, and deal with the consequences on my own.” Warner fights a smile and fails. He glances down and laughs just a little before looking me right in the eye. He shakes his head. “What’s so funny?” “My dear girl.” “What?” “I have been waiting for this moment for a long time now.” “What do you mean?” “You’re finally ready,” he says. “You’re finally ready to fight.” Shock courses through me. “Of course I am.” In an instant I’m bombarded by memories of the battlefield, the terror of being shot to death. I have not forgotten my friends or my renewed conviction, my determination to do things differently. To make a difference. To really fight this time, with no hesitation. No matter what happens—and no matter what I discover—there’s no turning back for me anymore. There are no other alternatives. I have not forgotten. “I forge forward or die.” Warner laughs out loud. He looks like he might cry. “I am going to kill your father,” I say to him, “and I’m going to destroy The Reestablishment.” He’s still smiling. “I will.” “I know,” he says. “Then why are you laughing at me?” “I’m not,” he says softly. “I’m only wondering,” he says, “if you would like my help.” FOUR “What?” I blink fast, disbelieving.

“I’ve always told you,” Warner says to me, “that we would make an excellent team. I’ve always said that I’ve been waiting for you to be ready

—for you to recognize your anger, your own strength. I’ve been waiting since the day I met you.” “But you wanted to use me for The Reestablishment—you wanted me to torture innocent people—” “Not true.” “What? What are you talking about? You told me yourself—” “I lied.” He shrugs. My mouth has fallen open. “There are three things you should know about me, love.” He steps forward. “The first,” he says, “is that I hate my father more than you might ever be capable of understanding.” He clears his throat. “Second, is that I am an unapologetically selfish person, who, in almost every situation, makes decisions based entirely on self-interest. And third.” A pause as he looks down. Laughs a little. “I never had any intention of using you as a weapon.” Words have failed me. I sit down. Numb. “That was an elaborate scheme I designed entirely for my father’s benefit,” Warner says. “I had to convince him it would be a good idea to invest in someone like you, that we might utilize you for military gain. And to be quite, quite honest, I’m still not sure how I managed it. The idea is ludicrous. To spend all that time, money, and energy on reforming a supposedly psychotic girl just for the sake of torture?” He shakes his head. “I knew from the beginning it would be a fruitless endeavor; a complete waste of time. There are far more effective methods of extracting information from the unwilling.” “Then why—why did you want me?” His eyes are jarring in their sincerity. “I wanted to study you.” “What?” I gasp. He turns his back to me. “Did you know,” he says, so quietly I have to strain to hear him, “that my mother lives in that house?” He looks to the closed door. “The one my father brought you to? The one where he shot you? She was in her room. Just down the hall from where he was keeping you.” When I don’t respond, Warner turns to face me. “Yes,” I whisper. “Your father mentioned something about her.”

“Oh?” Alarm flits in and out of his features. He quickly masks the emotion. “And what,” he says, making an effort to sound calm, “did he say about her?” “That she’s sick,” I tell him, hating myself for the tremor that goes through his body. “That he stores her there because she doesn’t do well in the compounds.” Warner leans back against the wall, looking as if he requires the support. He takes a hard breath. “Yes,” he finally says. “It’s true. She’s sick. She became ill very suddenly.” His eyes are focused on a distant point in another world. “When I was a child, she seemed perfectly fine,” he says, turning and turning the jade ring around his finger. “But then one day she just . . . fell apart. For years I fought my father to seek treatment, to find a cure, but he never cared. I was on my own to find help for her, and no matter who I contacted, no doctor was able to treat her. No one,” he says, hardly breathing now, “knew what was wrong with her. She exists in a constant state of agony,” he says, “and I’ve always been too selfish to let her die.” He looks up. “And then I heard about you. I’d heard stories about you, rumors,” he says. “And it gave me hope for the very first time. I wanted access to you; I wanted to study you. I wanted to know and understand you firsthand. Because in all my research, you were the only person I’d ever heard of who might be able to offer me answers about my mother’s condition. I was desperate,” he says. “I was willing to try anything.” “What do you mean?” I ask. “How could someone like me be able to help you with your mother?” His eyes find mine again, bright with anguish. “Because, love. You cannot touch anyone. And she,” he says, “she cannot be touched.” FIVE I’ve lost the ability to speak.

“I finally understand her pain,” Warner says. “I finally understand what it must be like for her. Because of you. Because I saw what it did to you—what it does to you—to carry that kind of burden, to exist with that much power and to live among those who do not understand.”

He tilts his head back against the wall, presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “She, much like you,” he says, “must feel as though there is a monster inside of her. But unlike you, her only victim is herself. She cannot live in her own skin. She cannot be touched by anyone; not even by her own hands. Not to brush a hair from her forehead or to clench her fists. She’s afraid to speak, to move her legs, to stretch her arms, even to shift to a more comfortable position, simply because the sensation of her skin brushing against itself causes her an excruciating amount of pain.” He drops his hands. “It seems,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady, “that something in the heat of human contact triggers this terrible, destructive power within her, and because she is both the originator and the recipient of the pain, she’s somehow incapable of killing herself. Instead, she exists as a prisoner in her own bones, unable to escape this self-inflicted torture.” My eyes are stinging hard. I blink fast. For so many years I thought my life was difficult; I thought I understood what it meant to suffer. But this. This is something I can’t even begin to comprehend. I never stopped to consider that someone else might have it worse than I do. It makes me feel ashamed for ever having felt sorry for myself. “For a long time,” Warner continues, “I thought she was just . . . sick. I thought she’d developed some kind of illness that was attacking her immune system, something that made her skin sensitive and painful. I assumed that, with the proper treatment, she would eventually heal. I kept hoping,” he says, “until I finally realized that years had gone by and nothing had changed. The constant agony began to destroy her mental stability; she eventually gave up on life. She let the pain take over. She refused to get out of bed or to eat regularly; she stopped caring about basic hygiene. And my father’s solution was to drug her. “He keeps her locked in that house with no one but a nurse to keep her company. She’s now addicted to morphine and has completely lost her mind. She doesn’t even know me anymore. Doesn’t recognize me. And the few times I’ve ever tried to get her off the drugs,” he says, speaking quietly now, “she’s tried to kill me.” He’s silent for a second, looking as if he’s forgotten I’m still in the room. “My childhood was almost bearable

sometimes,” he says, “if only because of her. And instead of caring for her, my father turned her into something unrecognizable.” He looks up, laughing. “I always thought I could fix it,” he says. “I thought if I could only find the root of it—I thought I could do something, I thought I could—” He stops. Drags a hand across his face. “I don’t know,” he whispers. Turns away. “But I never had any intention of using you against your will. The idea has never appealed to me. I only had to maintain the pretense. My father, you see, does not approve of my interest in my mother’s wellbeing.” He smiles a strange, twisted sort of smile. Looks toward the door. Laughs. “He never wanted to help her. She is a burden he is disgusted by. He thinks that by keeping her alive he’s doing her a great kindness for which I should be grateful. He thinks this should be enough for me, to be able to watch my mother turn into a feral creature so utterly consumed by her own agony she’s completely vacated her mind.” He runs a shaky hand through his hair, grips the back of his neck. “But it wasn’t,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t enough. I became obsessed with trying to help her. To bring her back to life. And I wanted to feel it,” he says to me, looking directly into my eyes. “I wanted to know what it would be like to endure a pain like that. I wanted to know what she must experience every day. “I was never afraid of your touch,” he says. “In fact, I welcomed it. I was so sure you would eventually strike out at me, that you would try to defend yourself against me; and I was looking forward to that moment. But you never did.” He shakes his head. “Everything I’d read in your files told me you were an unrestrained, vicious creature. I was expecting you to be an animal, someone who would try to kill me and my men at every opportunity—someone who needed to be closely watched. But you disappointed me by being too human, too lovely. So unbearably naive. You wouldn’t fight back.” His eyes are unfocused, remembering. “You didn’t react against my threats. You wouldn’t respond to the things that mattered. You acted like an insolent child,” he says. “You didn’t like your clothes. You wouldn’t eat your fancy food.” He laughs out loud and rolls his eyes and I’ve suddenly forgotten my sympathy.

I’m tempted to throw something at him. “You were so hurt,” he says, “that I’d asked you to wear a dress.” He looks at me then, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Here I was, prepared to defend my life against an uncontrollable monster who could kill,” he says, “kill a man with her bare hands—” He bites back another laugh. “And you threw tantrums over clean clothes and hot meals. Oh,” he says, shaking his head at the ceiling, “you were ridiculous. You were completely ridiculous and it was the most entertainment I’d ever had. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed it. I loved making you mad,” he says to me, his eyes wicked. “I love making you mad.” I’m gripping one of his pillows so tightly I’m afraid I might tear it. I glare at him. He laughs at me. “I was so distracted,” he says, smiling. “Always wanting to spend time with you. Pretending to plan things for your supposed future with The Reestablishment. You were harmless and beautiful and you always yelled at me,” he says, grinning widely now. “God, you would yell at me over the most inconsequential things,” he says, remembering. “But you never laid a hand on me. Not once, not even to save your own life.” His smile fades. “It worried me. It scared me to think you were so ready to sacrifice yourself before using your abilities to defend yourself.” A breath. “So I changed tactics. I tried to bully you into touching me.” I flinch, remembering that day in the blue room too well. When he taunted me and manipulated me and I came so close to hurting him. He’d finally managed to find exactly the right things to say to hurt me enough to want to hurt him back. I nearly did. He cocks his head. Exhales a deep, defeated breath. “But that didn’t work either. And I quickly began to lose sight of my original purpose. I became so invested in you that I’d forgotten why I’d brought you on base to begin with. I was frustrated that you wouldn’t give in, that you refused to lash out even when I knew you wanted to. But every time I was ready to give up, you would have these moments,” he says, shaking his head. “You had these incredible moments when you’d finally show glimpses of raw, unbridled strength. It was incredible.” He stops. Leans back against

the wall. “But then you’d always retreat. Like you were ashamed. Like you didn’t want to recognize those feelings in yourself. “So I changed tactics again. I tried something else. Something that I knew—with certainty—would push you past your breaking point. And I must say, it really was everything I hoped it would be.” He smiles. “You looked truly alive for the very first time.” My hands are suddenly ice cold. “The torture room,” I gasp. SIX “I suppose you could call it that.” Warner shrugs. “We call it a simulation chamber.”

“You made me torture that child,” I say to him, the anger and the rage of that day rising up inside of me. How could I forget what he did? What he made me do? The horrible memories he forced me to relive all for the sake of his entertainment. “I will never forgive you for that,” I snap, acid in my voice. “I will never forgive you for what you did to that little boy. For what you made me do to him!” Warner frowns. “I’m sorry—what?” “You would sacrifice a child!” My voice is shaking now. “For your stupid games! How could you do something so despicable?” I throw my pillow at him. “You sick, heartless, monster!” Warner catches the pillow as it hits his chest, staring at me like he’s never seen me before. But then a kind of understanding settles into place for him, and the pillow slips from his hands. Falls to the floor. “Oh,” he says, so slowly. He’s squeezing his eyes shut, trying to suppress his amusement. “Oh, you’re going to kill me,” he says, laughing openly now. “I don’t think I can handle this—” “What are you talking about? What’s wrong with you?” I demand. He’s still smiling as he says, “Tell me, love. Tell me exactly what happened that day.” I clench my fists, offended by his flippancy and shaking with renewed anger. “You gave me stupid, skimpy clothes to wear! And then you took me down to the lower levels of Sector 45 and locked me in a dirty room. I remember it perfectly,” I tell him, fighting to remain calm. “It had disgusting yellow walls. Old green carpet. A huge two-way mirror.”

Warner raises his eyebrows. Gestures for me to continue. “Then . . . you hit some kind of a switch,” I say, forcing myself to keep talking. I don’t know why I’m beginning to doubt myself. “And these huge, metal spikes started coming out of the ground. And then”—I hesitate, steeling myself—“a toddler walked in. He was blindfolded. And you said he was your replacement. You said that if I didn’t save him, you wouldn’t either.” Warner is looking at me closely now. Studying my eyes. “Are you sure I said that?” “Yes.” “Yes?” He cocks his head. “Yes, you saw me say that with your own eyes?” “N-no,” I say quickly, feeling defensive, “but there were loudspeakers —I could hear your voice—” He takes a deep breath. “Right; of course.” “I did,” I tell him. “So after you heard me say that, what happened?” I swallow hard. “I had to save the boy. He was going to die. He couldn’t see where he was going and he was going to be impaled by those spikes. I had to pull him into my arms and try to find a way to hold on to him without killing him.” A beat of silence. “And did you succeed?” Warner asks me. “Yes,” I whisper, unable to understand why he’s asking me this when he saw it all happen for himself. “But the boy went limp,” I say. “He was temporarily paralyzed in my arms. And then you hit another switch and the spikes disappeared, and I let him down and he—he started crying again and bumped into my bare legs. And he started screaming. And I . . . I got so mad at you . . .” “That you broke through concrete,” Warner says, a faint smile touching his lips. “You broke through a concrete wall just to try and choke me to death.” “You deserved it,” I hear myself say. “You deserved worse.” “Well,” he sighs. “If I did, in fact, do what you say I did, it certainly sounds like I deserved it.” “What do you mean, if you did? I know you did—” “Is that right?”

“Of course it’s right!” “Then tell me, love, what happened to the boy?” “What?” I freeze; icicles creep up my arms. “What happened,” he says, “to that little boy? You say that you set him on the ground. But then you proceeded to break through a concrete wall fitted with a thick, six-foot-wide mirror, with no apparent regard for the toddler you claim was wandering around the room. Don’t you think the poor child would’ve been injured in such a wild, reckless display? My soldiers certainly were. You broke down a wall of concrete, love. You crushed an enormous piece of glass. You did not stop to ascertain where the blocks or the shattered bits had fallen or who they might’ve injured in the process.” He stops. Stares. “Did you?” “No,” I gasp, blood draining from my body. “So what happened after you walked away?” he asks. “Or do you not remember that part? You turned around and left, just after destroying the room, injuring my men, and tossing me to the floor. You turned around,” he says, “and walked right out.” I’m numb now, remembering. It’s true. I did. I didn’t think. I just knew I needed to get out of there as fast as possible. I needed to get away, to clear my head. “So what happened to the boy?” Warner insists. “Where was he when you were leaving? Did you see him?” A lift of his eyebrows. “And what about the spikes?” he says. “Did you bother to look closely at the ground to see where they might’ve come from? Or how they might’ve punctured a carpeted floor without causing any damage? Did you feel the surface under your feet to be shredded or uneven?” I’m breathing hard now, struggling to stay calm. I can’t tear myself away from his gaze. “Juliette, love,” he says softly. “There were no speakers in that room. That room is entirely soundproof, equipped with nothing but sensors and cameras. It is a simulation chamber.” “No,” I breathe, refusing to believe. Not wanting to accept that I was wrong, that Warner isn’t the monster I thought he was. He can’t change things now. Can’t confuse me like this. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to work. “That’s not possible—” “I am guilty,” he says, “of forcing you to undergo such a cruel simulation. I accept the fault for that, and I’ve already apologized for my

actions. I only meant to push you into finally reacting, and I knew that sort of re-creation would quickly trigger something inside of you. But good God, love”—he shakes his head—“you must have an absurdly low opinion of me if you think I would steal someone’s child just to watch you torture it.” “It wasn’t real?” I don’t recognize my own raspy, panicked voice. “It wasn’t real?” He offers me a sympathetic smile. “I designed the basic elements of the simulation, but the beauty of the program is that it will evolve and adapt as it processes a soldier’s most visceral responses. We use it to train soldiers who must overcome specific fears or prepare for a particularly sensitive mission. We can re-create almost any environment,” he says. “Even soldiers who know what they’re getting into will forget that they’re performing in a simulation.” He averts his eyes. “I knew it would be terrifying for you, and I did it anyway. And for hurting you, I feel true regret. But no,” he says quietly, meeting my eyes again. “None of it was real. You imagined my voice in that room. You imagined the pain, the sounds, the smells. All of it was in your mind.” “I don’t want to believe you,” I say to him, my voice scarcely a whisper. He tries to smile. “Why do you think I gave you those clothes?” he asks. “The material of that outfit was lined with a chemical designed to react to the sensors in that room. And the less you’re wearing, the more easily the cameras can track the heat in your body, your movements.” He shakes his head. “I never had a chance to explain what you’d experienced. I wanted to follow you immediately, but I thought I should give you time to collect yourself. It was a stupid decision, on my end.” His jaw tenses. “I waited, and I shouldn’t have. Because when I found you, it was too late. You were ready to jump out a window just to get away from me.” “For good reason,” I snap. He holds up his hands in surrender. “You are a terrible person!” I explode, throwing the rest of the pillows at his face, angry and horrified and humiliated all at once. “Why would you put me through something like that when you know what I’ve been through, you stupid, arrogant—” “Juliette, please,” he says, stepping forward, dodging a pillow to reach for my arms. “I am sorry for hurting you, but I really think it was worth

—” “Don’t touch me!” I jerk away, glaring, clutching the foot of his bed like it might be a weapon. “I should shoot you all over again for doing that to me! I should—I should—” “What?” He laughs. “You’re going to throw another pillow at me?” I shove him, hard, and when he doesn’t budge, I start throwing punches. I’m hitting his chest, his arms, his stomach, and his legs, anywhere I can reach, wishing more than ever that he weren’t able to absorb my power, that I could actually crush all the bones in his body and make him writhe in pain beneath my hands. “You . . . selfish . . . monster!” I keep throwing poorly aimed fists in his direction, not realizing how much the effort exhausts me, not realizing how quickly the anger dissolves into pain. Suddenly all I want to do is cry. My body is shaking in both relief and terror, finally unshackled from the fear that I’d caused another innocent child some kind of irreparable damage, and simultaneously horrified that Warner would ever force such a terrible thing on me. To help me. “I’m so sorry,” he says, stepping closer. “I really, truly am. I didn’t know you then. Not like I do now. I’d never do that to you now.” “You don’t know me,” I mumble, wiping away tears. “You think you know me just because you’ve read my journal—you stupid, prying, privacy-stealing asshole—” “Oh, right—about that—” He smiles, one quick hand plucking the journal out of my pocket as he moves toward the door. “I’m afraid I wasn’t finished reading this.” “Hey!” I protest, swiping at him as he walks away. “You said you’d give that back to me!” “I said no such thing,” he says, subdued, dropping the journal into his own pants pocket. “Now please wait here a moment. I’m going to get you something to eat.” I’m still shouting as he closes the door behind him. SEVEN I fall backward onto the bed and make an angry noise deep inside my throat. Chuck a pillow at the wall.

I need to do something. I need to start moving. I need to finish forming a plan. I’ve been on the defense and on the run for so long now that my mind has often been occupied by elaborate and hopeless daydreams about overthrowing The Reestablishment. I spent most of my 264 days in that cell fantasizing about exactly this kind of impossible moment: the day I’d be able to spit in the face of those who’d oppressed me and everyone else just beyond my window. And though I dreamed up a million different scenarios in which I would stand up and defend myself, I never actually thought I’d have a chance to make it happen. I never thought I’d have the power, the opportunity, or the courage. But now? Everyone is gone. I might be the only one left. At Omega Point I was happy to let Castle lead. I didn’t know much about anything, and I was still too scared to act. Castle was already in charge and already had a plan, so I trusted that he knew best; that they knew better. A mistake. I’ve always known, deep down, who should be leading this resistance. I’ve felt it quietly for some time now, always too scared to bring the words to my lips. Someone who’s got nothing left to lose and everything to gain. Someone no longer afraid of anyone. Not Castle. Not Kenji. Not Adam. Not even Warner. It should be me. I look closely at my outfit for the first time and realize I must be wearing more of Warner’s old clothes. I’m drowning in a faded orange T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants that almost falls off my hips every time I stand up straight. I take a moment to regain my equilibrium, testing my full weight on the thick, plush carpet under my bare feet. I roll the waistband of the pants a few times, just until they sit snugly at my hip bone, and then I ball up the extra material of the T-shirt and knot it at the back. I’m vaguely aware that I must look ridiculous, but fitting the clothes to my frame gives me some modicum of control and I cling to it. It makes me feel a little more awake, a little more in command of my situation. All I need now is a rubber band. My hair is too heavy; it’s begun to feel like it’s

suffocating me, and I’m desperate to get it off my neck. I’m desperate to take a shower, actually. I spin around at the sound of the door. I’m caught in the middle of a thought, holding my hair up with both hands in a makeshift ponytail, and suddenly acutely aware of the fact that I’m not wearing any underwear. Warner is holding a tray. He’s staring at me, unblinking. His gaze sweeps across my face, down my neck, my arms. Stops at my waist. I follow his eyes only to realize that my movements have lifted my shirt and exposed my stomach. And I suddenly understand why he’s staring. The memory of his kisses along my torso; his hands exploring my back, my bare legs, the backs of my thighs, his fingers hooking around the elastic band of my underwear— Oh I drop my hands and my hair at the same time, the brown waves falling hard and fast around my shoulders, my back, hitting my waist. My face is on fire. Warner is suddenly transfixed by a spot directly above my head. “I should probably cut my hair,” I say to no one in particular, not understanding why I’ve even said it. I don’t want to cut my hair. I want to lock myself in the toilet. He doesn’t respond. He carries the tray closer to the bed and it’s not until I spot the glasses of water and the plates of food that I realize exactly how hungry I am. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything; I’ve been surviving off the energy recharge I received when my wound was healed. “Have a seat,” he says, not meeting my eyes. He nods to the floor before folding himself onto the carpet. I sit down across from him. He pushes the tray in front of me. “Thank you,” I say, my eyes focused on the meal. “This looks delicious.” There’s tossed salad and fragrant, colorful rice. Diced, seasoned potatoes and a small helping of steamed vegetables. A little cup of chocolate pudding. A bowl of fresh-cut fruit. Two glasses of water. It’s a meal I would’ve scoffed at when I first arrived. If I knew then what I know now, I would’ve taken advantage of every opportunity Warner had given me. I would’ve eaten the food and taken the

clothes. I would’ve built up my strength and paid closer attention when he showed me around base. I would’ve been looking for escape routes and excuses to tour the compounds. And then I would’ve bolted. I would’ve found a way to survive on my own. And I never would’ve dragged Adam down with me. I never would’ve gotten myself and so many others into this mess. If only I had eaten the stupid food. I was a scared, broken girl, fighting back the only way I knew how. It’s no wonder I failed. I wasn’t in my right mind. I was weak and terrified and blind to the idea of possibility. I had no experience with stealth or manipulation. I hardly knew how to interact with people—could barely understand the words in my own head. It shocks me to think how much I’ve changed in these past months. I feel like a completely different person. Sharper, somehow. Hardened, absolutely. And for the first time in my life, willing to admit that I’m angry. It’s liberating. I look up suddenly, feeling the weight of Warner’s gaze. He’s staring at me like he’s intrigued, fascinated. “What are you thinking about?” he asks. I stab a piece of potato with my fork. “I’m thinking I was an idiot for ever turning down a plate of hot food.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “I can’t say I disagree.” I shoot him a dirty look. “You were so broken when you got here,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I was so confused. I kept waiting for you to go insane, to jump on the table at dinner and start taking swipes at my soldiers. I was sure you were going to try and kill everyone, and instead, you were stubborn and pouty, refusing to change out of your filthy clothes and complaining about eating your vegetables.” I go pink. “At first,” he says, laughing, “I thought you were plotting something. I thought you were pretending to be complacent just to distract me from some greater goal. I thought your anger over such petty things was a ruse,” he says, his eyes mocking me. “I figured it had to be.” I cross my arms. “The extravagance was disgusting. So much money is wasted on the army while other people are starving to death.”

Warner waves a hand, shaking his head. “That’s not the point. The point,” he says, “is that I hadn’t provided you with any of those things for some calculated, underhanded reason. It wasn’t some kind of a test.” He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to challenge you and your scruples. I thought I was doing you a favor. You’d come from this disgusting, miserable hole in the ground. I wanted you to have a real mattress. To be able to shower in peace. To have beautiful, fresh clothes. And you needed to eat,” he says. “You’d been starved half to death.” I stiffen, slightly mollified. “Maybe,” I say. “But you were crazy. You were a controlling maniac. You wouldn’t even let me talk to the other soldiers.” “Because they are animals,” he snaps, his voice unexpectedly sharp. I look up, startled, to meet his angry, flashing green eyes. “You, who have spent the majority of your life locked away,” he says, “have not had the opportunity to understand just how beautiful you are, or what kind of effect that can have on a person. I was worried for your safety,” he says. “You were timid and weak and living on a military base full of lonely, fully armed, thickheaded soldiers three times your size. I didn’t want them harassing you. I made a spectacle out of your display with Jenkins because I wanted them to have proof of your abilities. I needed them to see that you were a formidable opponent—one they’d do well to stay away from. I was trying to protect you.” I can’t look away from the intensity in his eyes. “How little you must think of me.” He shakes his head in shock. “I had no idea you hated me so much. That everything I tried to do to help you had come under such harsh scrutiny.” “How can you be surprised? What choice did I have but to expect the worst from you? You were arrogant and crass and you treated me like a piece of property—” “Because I had to!” He cuts me off, unrepentant. “My every move— every word—is monitored when I am not confined to my own quarters. My entire life depends on maintaining a certain type of personality.” “What about that soldier you shot in the forehead? Seamus Fletcher?” I challenge him, angry again. Now that I’ve let it enter my life, I’m realizing anger comes a little too naturally to me. “Was that all a part of your plan, too? No wait, don’t tell me”—I hold up a hand—“that was just a simulation, right?”

Warner goes rigid. He sits back; his jaw twitches. He looks at me with a mixture of sadness and rage in his eyes. “No,” he finally says, deathly soft. “That was not a simulation.” “So you have no problem with that?” I ask him. “You have no regrets over killing a man for stealing a little extra food? For trying to survive, just like you?” Warner bites down on his bottom lip for half a second. Clasps his hands in his lap. “Wow,” he says. “How quickly you jump to his defense.” “He was an innocent man,” I tell him. “He didn’t deserve to die. Not for that. Not like that.” “Seamus Fletcher,” Warner says calmly, staring into his open palms, “was a drunken bastard who was beating his wife and children. He hadn’t fed them in two weeks. He’d punched his nine-year-old daughter in the mouth, breaking her two front teeth and fracturing her jaw. He beat his pregnant wife so hard she lost the child. He had two other children, too,” he says. “A seven-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl.” A pause. “He broke both their arms.” My food is forgotten. “I monitor the lives of our citizens very carefully,” Warner says. “I like to know who they are and how they’re thriving. I probably shouldn’t care,” he says, “but I do.” I’m thinking I’m never going to open my mouth ever again. “I have never claimed to live by any set of principles,” Warner says to me. “I’ve never claimed to be right, or good, or even justified in my actions. The simple truth is that I do not care. I have been forced to do terrible things in my life, love, and I am seeking neither your forgiveness nor your approval. Because I do not have the luxury of philosophizing over scruples when I’m forced to act on basic instinct every day.” He meets my eyes. “Judge me,” he says, “all you like. But I have no tolerance,” he says sharply, “for a man who beats his wife. No tolerance,” he says, “for a man who beats his children.” He’s breathing hard now. “Seamus Fletcher was murdering his family,” he says to me. “And you can call it whatever the hell you want to call it, but I will never regret killing a man who would bash his wife’s face into a wall. I will never regret killing a man who would punch his nine-year-old daughter in the mouth. I am not sorry,” he

says. “And I will not apologize. Because a child is better off with no father, and a wife is better off with no husband, than one like that.” I watch the hard movement in his throat. “I would know.” “I’m sorry—Warner, I—” He holds up a hand to stop me. He steadies himself, his eyes focused on the plates of untouched food. “I’ve said it before, love, and I’m sorry I have to say it again, but you do not understand the choices I have to make. You don’t know what I’ve seen and what I’m forced to witness every single day.” He hesitates. “And I wouldn’t want you to. But do not presume to understand my actions,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “Because if you do, I can assure you you’ll only be met with disappointment. And if you insist on continuing to make assumptions about my character, I’ll advise you only this: assume you will always be wrong.” He hauls himself up with a casual elegance that startles me. Smooths out his slacks. Pushes his sleeves up again. “I’ve had your armoire moved into my closet,” he says. “There are things for you to change into, if you’d like that. The bed and bathroom are yours. I have work to do,” he says. “I’ll be sleeping in my office tonight.” And with that, he opens the adjoining door to his office, and locks himself inside. EIGHT My food is cold.

I poke at the potatoes and force myself to finish the meal even though I’ve lost my appetite. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve finally pushed Warner too far. I thought the revelations had come to a close for today, but I was wrong again. It makes me wonder just how much is left, and how much more I’ll learn about Warner in the coming days. Months. And I’m scared. Because the more I discover about him, the fewer excuses I have to push him away. He’s unraveling before me, becoming something entirely different; terrifying me in a way I never could’ve expected. And all I can think is not now.

Not here. Not when so much is uncertain. If only my emotions would understand the importance of excellent timing. I never realized Warner was unaware of how deeply I’d detested him. I suppose now I can better understand how he saw himself, how he’d never viewed his actions as guilty or criminal. Maybe he thought I would’ve given him the benefit of the doubt. That I would’ve been able to read him as easily as he’s been able to read me. But I couldn’t. I didn’t. And now I can’t help but wonder if I’ve managed to disappoint him, somehow. Why I even care. I clamber to my feet with a sigh, hating my own uncertainty. Because while I might not be able to deny my physical attraction to him, I still can’t shake my initial impressions of his character. It’s not easy for me to switch so suddenly, to recognize him as anything but some kind of manipulative monster. I need time to adjust to the idea of Warner as a normal person. But I’m tired of thinking. And right now, all I want to do is shower. I drag myself toward the open door of the bathroom before I remember what Warner said about my clothes. That he’d moved my armoire into his closet. I look around, searching for another door and finding none but the locked entry to his office. I’m half tempted to knock and ask him directly but decide against it. Instead, I study the walls more closely, wondering why Warner wouldn’t have given me instructions if his closet was hard to find. But then I see it. A switch. It’s more of a button, actually, but it sits flush with the wall. It would be almost impossible to spot if you weren’t actively searching for it. I press the button. A panel in the wall slides out of place. And as I step across the threshold, the room illuminates on its own. This closet is bigger than his entire bedroom. The walls and ceiling are tiled with slabs of white stone that gleam under the fluorescent recessed lighting; the floors are covered with thick Oriental rugs. There’s a small suede couch the color of light-green jade stationed in the very center of the room, but it’s an odd sort of couch: it doesn’t have a back. It looks like an oversized ottoman. And strangest of all: there’s not a single mirror in here. I spin around, my eyes searching,

certain I must’ve overlooked such an obvious staple, and I’m so caught up in the details of the space that I almost miss the clothes. The clothes. They’re everywhere, on display as if they were works of art. Glossy, dark wood units are built into the walls, shelves lined with rows and rows of shoes. All the other closet space is dedicated to hanging racks, each wall housing different categories of clothing. Everything is color coordinated. He owns more coats, more shoes, more pants and shirts than I’ve ever seen in my life. Ties and bow ties, belts, scarves, gloves, and cuff links. Beautiful, rich fabrics: silk blends and starched cotton, soft wool and cashmere. Dress shoes and buttery leather boots buffed and polished to perfection. A peacoat in a dark, burnt shade of orange; a trench coat in a deep navy blue. A winter toggle coat in a stunning shade of plum. I dare to run my fingers along the different materials, wondering how many of these pieces he’s actually worn. I’m amazed. It’s always been apparent that Warner takes pride in his appearance; his outfits are impeccable; his clothes fit him like they were cut for his body. But now I finally understand why he took such care with my wardrobe. He wasn’t trying to patronize me. He was enjoying himself. Aaron Warner Anderson, chief commander and regent of Sector 45, son of the supreme commander of The Reestablishment. He has a soft spot for fashion. After my initial shock wears off, I’m able to easily locate my old armoire. It’s been placed unceremoniously in a corner of the room, and I’m almost sorry for it. It stands out awkwardly against the rest of the space. I quickly shuffle through the drawers, grateful for the first time to have clean things to change into. Warner anticipated all of my needs before I arrived on base. The armoire is full of dresses and shirts and pants, but it’s also been stocked with socks, bras, and underwear. And even though I know this should make me feel awkward, somehow it doesn’t. The underwear is simple and understated. Cotton basics that are exactly average and perfectly functional. He bought these things before he

knew me, and knowing that they weren’t purchased with any level of intimacy makes me feel less self-conscious about it all. I grab a small T-shirt, a pair of cotton pajama bottoms, and all of my brand-new underthings, and slip out of the room. The lights immediately switch off as soon as I’m back in the bedroom, and I hit the button to close the panel. I look around his bedroom with new eyes, reacclimating to this smaller, standard sort of space. Warner’s bedroom looks almost identical to the one I occupied while on base, and I always wondered why. There are no personal effects anywhere; no pictures, no odd knickknacks. But suddenly it all makes sense. His bedroom doesn’t mean anything to him. It’s little more than a place to sleep. But his closet—that was his style, his design. It’s probably the only space he cares about in this room. It makes me wonder what the inside of his office looks like, and my eyes dart to his door before I remember how he’s locked himself inside. I stifle a sigh and head toward the bathroom, planning to shower, change, and fall asleep immediately. This day felt more like a few years, and I’m ready to be done with it. Hopefully tomorrow we’ll be able to head back to Omega Point and finally make some progress. But no matter what happens next, and no matter what we discover, I’m determined to find my way to Anderson, even if I have to go alone. NINE I can’t scream.

My lungs won’t expand. My breaths keep coming in short gasps. My chest feels too tight and my throat is closing up and I’m trying to shout and I can’t, I can’t stop wheezing, thrashing my arms and trying desperately to breathe but the effort is futile. No one can hear me. No one will ever know that I’m dying, that there’s a hole in my chest filling with blood and pain and such unbearable agony and there’s so much of it, so much blood, hot and pooling around me and I can’t, I can’t, I can’t breathe— “Juliette—Juliette, love, wake up—wake up—”

I jerk up so quickly I double over. I’m heaving in deep, harsh, gasping breaths, so overcome, so relieved to be able to get oxygen into my lungs that I can’t speak, can’t do anything but try to inhale as much as possible. My whole body is shaking, my skin is clammy, going from hot to cold too quickly. I can’t steady myself, can’t stop the silent tears, can’t shake the nightmare, can’t shake the memory. I can’t stop gasping for air. Warner’s hands cup my face. The warmth of his skin helps calm me somehow, and I finally feel my heart rate begin to slow. “Look at me,” he says. I force myself to meet his eyes, shaking as I catch my breath. “It’s okay,” he whispers, still holding my cheeks. “It was just a bad dream. Try closing your mouth,” he says, “and breathing through your nose.” He nods. “There you go. Easy. You’re okay.” His voice is so soft, so melodic, so inexplicably tender. I can’t look away from his eyes. I’m afraid to blink, afraid to be pulled back into my nightmare. “I won’t let go until you’re ready,” he tells me. “Don’t worry. Take your time.” I close my eyes. I feel my heart slow to a normal beat. My muscles begin to unclench, my hands steady their tremble. And even though I’m not actively crying, I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face. But then something in my body breaks, crumples from the inside, and I’m suddenly so exhausted I can no longer hold myself up. Somehow, Warner seems to understand. He helps me sit back on the bed, pulls the blankets up around my shoulders. I’m shivering, wiping away the last of my tears. Warner runs a hand over my hair. “It’s okay,” he says softly. “You’re okay.” “Aren’t y-you going to sleep, too?” I stammer, wondering what time it is. I notice he’s still fully dressed. “I . . . yes,” he says. Even in this dim light I can see the surprise in his eyes. “Eventually. I don’t often go to bed this early.” “Oh.” I blink, breathing a little easier now. “What time is it?” “Two o’clock in the morning.” It’s my turn to be surprised. “Don’t we have to be up in a few hours?” “Yes.” The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “But I’m almost never able to fall asleep when I should. I can’t seem to turn my mind off,” he

says, grinning at me for only a moment longer before he turns to leave. “Stay.” The word escapes my lips even before I’ve had a chance to think it through. I’m not sure why I’ve said it. Maybe because it’s late and I’m still shaking, and maybe having him close might scare my nightmares away. Or maybe it’s because I’m weak and grieving and need a friend right now. I’m not sure. But there’s something about the darkness, the stillness of this hour, I think, that creates a language of its own. There’s a strange kind of freedom in the dark; a terrifying vulnerability we allow ourselves at exactly the wrong moment, tricked by the darkness into thinking it will keep our secrets. We forget that the blackness is not a blanket; we forget that the sun will soon rise. But in the moment, at least, we feel brave enough to say things we’d never say in the light. Except for Warner, who doesn’t say a word. For a split second he actually looks alarmed. He’s staring at me in silent terror, too stunned to speak, and I’m about to take it all back and hide under the covers when he catches my arm. I still. He tugs me forward until I’m nestled against his chest. His arms fall around me carefully, as if he’s telling me I can pull away, that he’ll understand, that it’s my choice. But I feel so safe, so warm, so devastatingly content that I can’t seem to come up with a single reason why I shouldn’t enjoy this moment. I press closer, hiding my face in the soft folds of his shirt, and his arms wrap more tightly around me, his chest rising and falling. My hands come up to rest against his stomach, the hard muscles tensed under my touch. My left hand slips around his ribs, up his back, and Warner freezes, his heart racing under my ear. My eyes fall closed just as I feel him try to inhale. “Oh God,” he gasps. He jerks back, breaks away. “I can’t do this. I won’t survive it.” “What?” He’s already on his feet and I can only make out enough of his silhouette to see that he’s shaking. “I can’t keep doing this—” “Warner—” “I thought I could walk away the last time,” he says. “I thought I could let you go and hate you for it but I can’t. Because you make it so damn difficult,” he says. “Because you don’t play fair. You go and do

something like get yourself shot,” he says, “and you ruin me in the process.” I try to remain perfectly still. I try not to make a sound. But my mind won’t stop racing and my heart won’t stop pounding and with just a few words he’s managed to dismantle my most concentrated efforts to forget what I did to him. I don’t know what to do. My eyes finally adjust to the darkness and I blink, only to find him looking into my eyes like he can see into my soul. I’m not ready for this. Not yet. Not yet. Not like this. But a rush of feelings, images of his hands, his arms, his lips are charging through my mind and I try but can’t push the thoughts away, can’t ignore the scent of his skin and the insane familiarity of his body. I can almost hear his heart thrumming in his chest, can see the tense movement in his jaw, can feel the power quietly contained within him. And suddenly his face changes. Worries. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Are you scared?” I startle, breathing faster, grateful he can only sense the general direction of my feelings and not more than that. For a moment I actually want to say no. No, I’m not scared. I’m petrified. Because being this close to you is doing things to me. Strange things and irrational things and things that flutter against my chest and braid my bones together. I want a pocketful of punctuation marks to end the thoughts he’s forced into my head. But I don’t say any of those things. Instead, I ask a question I already know the answer to. “Why would I be scared?” “You’re shaking,” he says. “Oh.” The two letters and their small, startled sound run right out of my mouth to seek refuge in a place far from here. I keep wishing I had the strength to look away from him in moments like this. I keep wishing my cheeks wouldn’t so easily enflame. I keep wasting my wishes on stupid things, I think.

“No, I’m not scared,” I finally say. But I really need him to step away from me. I really need him to do me that favor. “I’m just surprised.” He’s silent, then, his eyes imploring me for an explanation. He’s become both familiar and foreign to me in such a short period of time; exactly and nothing like I thought he’d be. “You allow the world to think you’re a heartless murderer,” I tell him. “And you’re not.” He laughs, once; his eyebrows lift in surprise. “No,” he says. “I’m afraid I’m just the regular kind of murderer.” “But why—why would you pretend to be so ruthless?” I ask. “Why do you allow people to treat you that way?” He sighs. Pushes his rolled-up shirtsleeves above his elbows again. I can’t help but follow the movement, my eyes lingering along his forearms. And I realize, for the first time, that he doesn’t sport any military tattoos like everyone else. I wonder why. “What difference does it make?” he says. “People can think whatever they like. I don’t desire their validation.” “So you don’t mind,” I ask him, “that people judge you so harshly?” “I have no one to impress,” he says. “No one who cares about what happens to me. I’m not in the business of making friends, love. My job is to lead an army, and it’s the only thing I’m good at. No one,” he says, “would be proud of the things I’ve accomplished. My mother doesn’t even know me anymore. My father thinks I’m weak and pathetic. My soldiers want me dead. The world is going to hell. And the conversations I have with you are the longest I’ve ever had.” “What—really?” I ask, eyes wide. “Really.” “And you trust me with all this information?” I say. “Why share your secrets with me?” His eyes darken, deaden, all of a sudden. He looks toward the wall. “Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t ask me questions you already know the answers to. Twice I’ve laid myself bare for you and all it’s gotten me was a bullet wound and a broken heart. Don’t torture me,” he says, meeting my eyes again. “It’s a cruel thing to do, even to someone like me.” “Warner—” “I don’t understand!” He breaks, finally losing his composure, his voice rising in pitch. “What could Kent,” he says, spitting the name,

“possibly do for you?” I’m so shocked, so unprepared to answer such a question that I’m rendered momentarily speechless. I don’t even know what’s happened to Adam, where he might be or what our future holds. Right now all I’m clinging to is a hope that he made it out alive. That he’s out there somewhere, surviving against the odds. Right now, that certainty would be enough for me. So I take a deep breath and try to find the right words, the right way to explain that there are so many bigger, heavier issues to deal with, but when I look up I find Warner is still staring at me, waiting for an answer to a question I now realize he’s been trying hard to suppress. Something that must be eating away at him. And I suppose he deserves an answer. Especially after what I did to him. So I take a deep breath. “It’s not something I know how to explain,” I say. “He’s . . . I don’t know.” I stare into my hands. “He was my first friend. The first person to treat me with respect—to love me.” I’m quiet a moment. “He’s always been so kind to me.” Warner flinches. His eyes widen in shock. “He’s always been so kind to you?” “Yes,” I whisper. Warner laughs a harsh, hollow sort of laugh. “This is incredible,” he says, staring at the door, one hand caught in his hair. “I’ve been consumed by this question for the past three days, trying desperately to understand why you would give yourself to me so willingly, just to rip my heart out at the very last moment for some—some bland, utterly replaceable automaton. I kept thinking there had to be some great reason, something I’d overlooked, something I wasn’t able to fathom.” “And I was ready to accept it,” he says. “I’d forced myself to accept it because I figured your reasons were deep and beyond my grasp. I was willing to let you go if you’d found something extraordinary. Someone who could know you in ways I’d never be able to comprehend. Because you deserve that,” he says. “I told myself you deserved more than me, more than my miserable offerings.” He shakes his head. “But this?” he

says, appalled. “These words? This explanation? You chose him because he’s kind to you? Because he’s offered you basic charity?” I’m suddenly angry. I’m suddenly mortified. I’m outraged by the permission Warner’s granted himself to judge my life—that he thought he’d been generous by stepping aside. I narrow my eyes, clench my fists. “It’s not charity,” I snap. “He cares about me—and I care about him!” Warner nods, unimpressed. “You should get a dog, love. I hear they share much the same qualities.” “You are unbelievable!” I shove myself upward, scrambling to my feet and regretting it. I have to cling to the bed frame to steady myself. “My relationship with Adam is none of your business!” “Your relationship?” Warner laughs, loud. He moves quickly to face me from the other side of the bed, leaving several feet between us. “What relationship? Does he even know anything about you? Does he understand you? Does he know your wants, your fears, the truth you conceal in your heart?” “Oh, and what? You do?” “You know damn well that I do!” he shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “And I’m willing to bet my life that he has no idea what you’re really like. You tiptoe around his feelings, pretending to be a nice little girl for him, don’t you? You’re afraid of scaring him off. You’re afraid of telling him too much—” “You don’t know anything!” “Oh I know,” he says, rushing forward. “I understand perfectly. He’s fallen for your quiet, timid shell. For who you used to be. He has no idea what you’re capable of. What you might do if you’re pushed too far.” His hand slips behind my neck; he leans in until our lips are only inches apart. What is happening to my lungs. “You’re a coward,” he whispers. “You want to be with me and it terrifies you. And you’re ashamed,” he says. “Ashamed you could ever want someone like me. Aren’t you?” He drops his gaze and his nose grazes mine and I can almost count the millimeters between our lips. I’m struggling to focus, trying to remember that I’m mad at him, mad about something, but his mouth is right in front of mine and my mind can’t stop trying to figure out how to shove aside the space between us.

“You want me,” he says softly, his hands moving up my back, “and it’s killing you.” I jerk backward, breaking away, hating my body for reacting to him, for falling apart like this. My joints feel flimsy, my legs have lost their bones. I need oxygen, need a brain, need to find my lungs— “You deserve so much more than charity,” he says, his chest heaving. “You deserve to live. You deserve to be alive.” He’s staring at me, unblinking. “Come back to life, love. I’ll be here when you wake up.” TEN I wake up on my stomach.

My face is buried in the pillows, my arms hugging their soft contours. I blink steadily, my bleary eyes taking in my surroundings, trying to remember where I am. I squint into the brightness of the day. My hair falls into my face as I lift my head to look around. “Good morning.” I startle for no good reason, sitting up too quickly and clutching a pillow to my chest for an equally inexplicable reason. Warner is standing at the foot of the bed, fully dressed. He’s wearing black pants and a slategreen sweater that clings to the shape of his body, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. His hair is perfect. His eyes are alert, awake, impossibly brightened by the green of his shirt. And he’s holding a steaming mug in his hand. Smiling at me. I offer him a limp wave. “Coffee?” he asks, offering me the mug. I stare at it, doubtful. “I’ve never had coffee before.” “It isn’t terrible,” he says with a shrug. “Delalieu is obsessed with it. Isn’t that right, Delalieu?” I jerk backward on the bed, my head nearly hitting the wall behind me. An older, kindly-looking gentleman smiles at me from the corner of the room. His thin brown hair and twitchy mustache look vaguely familiar to me, as if I’ve seen him on base before. I notice he’s standing next to a breakfast cart. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you, Miss Ferrars,” he

says. His voice is a little shaky, but not at all intimidating. His eyes are unexpectedly sincere. “The coffee really is quite good,” he says. “I have it every day. Though I always have m-mine with—” “Cream and sugar,” Warner says with a wry smile, his eyes laughing as if at some private joke. “Yes. Though I’m afraid the sugar is a bit too much for me. I find I prefer the bitterness.” He glances at me again. “The choice is yours.” “What’s going on?” I ask. “Breakfast,” Warner says, his eyes revealing nothing. “I thought you might be hungry.” “It’s okay that he’s here?” I whisper, knowing full well that Delalieu can hear me. “That he knows I’m here?” Warner nods. Offers me no other explanation. “Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll try the coffee.” I crawl across the bed to reach for the mug, and Warner’s eyes follow my movements, traveling from my face to the shape of my body to the rumpled pillows and sheets beneath my hands and knees. When he finally meets my eyes he looks away too quickly, handing me the mug only to put an entire room between us. “So how much does Delalieu know?” I ask, glancing at the older gentleman. “What do you mean?” Warner raises an eyebrow. “Well, does he know that I’m leaving?” I raise an eyebrow, too. Warner stares. “You promised you’d get me off base,” I say to him, “and I’m hoping Delalieu is here to help you with that. Though if it’s too much trouble, I’m always happy to take the window.” I cock my head. “It worked out well the last time.” Warner narrows his eyes at me, his lips a thin line. He’s still glaring when he nods at the breakfast cart beside him. “This is how we’re getting you out of here today.” I choke on my first sip of coffee. “What?” “It’s the easiest, most efficient solution,” Warner says. “You’re small and lightweight, you can easily fold yourself into a tight space, and the cloth panels will keep you hidden from sight. I’m often working in my room,” he says. “Delalieu brings me my breakfast trays from time to time. No one will suspect anything unusual.” I look at Delalieu for some kind of confirmation.

He nods eagerly. “How did you get me here in the first place?” I ask. “Why can’t we just do the same thing?” Warner studies one of the breakfast plates. “I’m afraid that option is no longer available to us.” “What do you mean?” My body seizes with a sudden anxiety. “How did you get me in here?” “You weren’t exactly conscious,” he says. “We had to be a little more . . . creative.” “Delalieu.” The old man looks up at the sound of my voice, clearly surprised to be addressed so directly. “Yes, miss?” “How did you get me into the building?” Delalieu glances at Warner, whose gaze is now firmly fixed on the wall. Delalieu looks at me, offers me an apologetic smile. “We—well, we carted you in,” he says. “How?” “Sir,” Delalieu says suddenly, his eyes imploring Warner for direction. “We brought you in,” Warner says, stifling a sigh, “in a body bag.” My limbs go stiff with fear. “You what?” “You were unconscious, love. We didn’t have many options. I couldn’t very well carry you onto base in my arms.” He shoots me a look. “There were many casualties from the battle,” he says. “On both sides. A body bag was easily overlooked.” I’m gaping at him. “Don’t worry.” He smiles. “I cut some holes in it for you.” “You’re so thoughtful,” I snap. “It was thoughtful,” I hear Delalieu say. I look at him to find he’s watching me in shock, appalled by my behavior. “Our commander was saving your life.” I flinch. I stare into my coffee cup, heat coloring my cheeks. My conversations with Warner have never had an audience before. I wonder what our interactions must look like to an outside observer. “It’s all right, Lieutenant,” Warner says. “She tends to get angry when she’s terrified. It’s little more than a defense mechanism. The idea of

being folded into such a small space has likely triggered her claustrophobic tendencies.” I look up suddenly. Warner is staring directly at me, his eyes deep with an unspoken understanding. I keep forgetting that Warner is able to sense emotions, that he can always tell what I’m really feeling. And he knows me well enough to be able to put everything into context. I’m utterly transparent to him. And somehow—right now, at least—I’m grateful for it. “Of course, sir,” Delalieu says. “My apologies.” “Feel free to shower and change,” Warner says to me. “I left some clothes for you in the bathroom—no dresses,” he says, fighting a smile. “We’ll wait here. Delalieu and I have a few things to discuss.” I nod, untangling myself from the bedsheets and stumbling to my feet. I tug on the hem of my T-shirt, self-conscious all of a sudden, feeling rumpled and disheveled in front of these two military men. I stare at them for a moment. Warner gestures to the bathroom door. I take the coffee with me as I go, wondering all the while who Delalieu is and why Warner seems to trust him. I thought he said all of his soldiers wanted him dead. I wish I could listen in on their conversation, but they’re both careful to say nothing until the bathroom door shuts behind me. ELEVEN I take a quick shower, careful not to let the water touch my hair. I already washed it last night, and the temperature feels brisk this morning; if we’re headed out, I don’t want to risk catching a cold. It’s difficult, though, to avoid the temptation of a long shower—and hot water—in Warner’s bathroom.

I dress quickly, grabbing the folded clothes Warner left on a shelf for me. Dark jeans and a soft, navy-blue sweater. Fresh socks and underwear. A brand-new pair of tennis shoes. The sizes are perfect. Of course they are.

I haven’t worn jeans in so many years that at first the material feels strange to me. The fit is so tight, so tapered; I have to bend my knees to stretch the denim a little. But by the time I tug the sweater over my head, I’m finally feeling comfortable. And even though I miss my suit, there’s something nice about wearing real clothes. No fancy dresses, no cargo pants, no spandex. Just jeans and a sweater, like a normal person. It’s an odd reality. I take a quick look in the mirror, blinking at my reflection. I wish I had something to tie my hair back with; I got so used to being able to pull it out of my face while I was at Omega Point. I look away with a resigned sigh, hoping to get a start on this day as soon as possible. But the minute I crack open the bathroom door, I hear voices. I freeze in place. Listening. “—sure it’s safe, sir?” Delalieu is talking. “Forgive me,” the older man says quickly. “I don’t mean to seem impertinent, but I can’t help but be concerned—” “It’ll be fine. Just make sure our troops aren’t patrolling that area. We should only be gone a few hours at the most.” “Yes, sir.” Silence. Then “Juliette,” Warner says, and I nearly fall into the toilet. “Come out here, love. It’s rude to eavesdrop.” I step out of the bathroom slowly, face flushed with heat from the shower and the shame of being caught in such a juvenile act. I suddenly have no idea what to do with my hands. Warner is enjoying my embarrassment. “Ready to go?” No. No, I’m not. Suddenly hope and fear are strangling me and I have to remind myself to breathe. I’m not ready to face the death and destruction of all my friends. Of course I’m not. But “Yes, of course” is what I say out loud. I’m steeling myself for the truth, in whatever form it arrives.

TWELVE Warner was right.

Being carted through Sector 45 was a lot easier than I expected. No one noticed us, and the empty space underneath the cart was actually spacious enough for me to sit comfortably. It’s only when Delalieu flips open one of the cloth panels that I realize where we are. I glance around quickly, my eyes taking inventory of the military tanks parked in this vast space. “Quickly,” Delalieu whispers. He motions toward the tank parked closest to us. I watch as the door is pushed open from the inside. “Hurry, miss. You cannot be seen.” I scramble. I jump out from underneath the cart and into the open door of the tank, clambering up and into the seat. The door shuts behind me, and I turn back to see Delalieu looking on, his watery eyes pinched together with worry. The tank starts moving. I nearly fall forward. “Stay low and buckle up, love. These tanks weren’t built for comfort.” Warner is smiling as he stares straight ahead, his hands sheathed in black leather gloves, his body draped in a steel-gray overcoat. I duck down in my seat and fumble for the straps, buckling myself in as best I can. “So you know how to get there?” I ask him. “Of course.” “But your father said you couldn’t remember anything about Omega Point.” Warner glances over, his eyes laughing. “How convenient for us that I’ve regained my memory.” “Hey—how did you even get out of there?” I ask him. “How did you get past the guards?” He shrugs. “I told them I had permission to be out of my room.” I gape at him. “You’re not serious.” “Very.” “But how did you find your way out?” I ask. “You got past the guards, fine. But that place is like a labyrinth—I couldn’t find my way around even after I’d been living there for a month.”

Warner checks a display on the dashboard. Hits a few buttons for functions I don’t understand. “I wasn’t completely unconscious when I was carried in,” he says. “I forced myself to pay attention to the entrance,” he says. “I did my best to memorize any obvious landmarks. I also kept track of the amount of time it took to carry me from the entrance to the medical wing, and then from the medical wing to my room. And whenever Castle took me on my rounds to the bathroom,” he says, “I studied my surroundings, trying to gauge how far I was from the exit.” “So—” I frown. “You could’ve defended yourself against the guards and tried to escape much sooner. Why didn’t you?” “I already told you,” he says. “It was oddly luxurious, being confined like that. I was able to catch up on weeks of sleep. I didn’t have to work or deal with any military issues. But the most obvious answer,” he says, exhaling, “is that I stayed because I was able to see you every day.” “Oh.” Warner laughs, his eyes pressed shut for a second. “You really never wanted to be there, did you?” “What do you mean?” He shakes his head. “If you’re going to survive,” he says to me, “you can never be indifferent to your surroundings. You can’t depend on others to take care of you. You cannot presume that someone else will do things right.” “What are you talking about?” “You didn’t care,” he says. “You were there, underground for over a month, grouped together with these supernaturally inclined rebels spouting big, lofty ideals about saving the world, and you say you couldn’t even find your way around. It’s because you didn’t care,” he says. “You didn’t want to participate. If you did, you would’ve taken the initiative to learn as much as possible about your new home. You would’ve been beside yourself with excitement. Instead, you were apathetic. Indifferent.” I open my mouth to protest but I don’t have a chance. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “Their goals were unrealistic. I don’t care how flexible your limbs are or how many objects you can move with your mind. If you do not understand your opponent—or worse, if you underestimate your opponent—you are going to lose.” His jaw tightens. “I kept trying to tell you,” he says, “that Castle was going to lead your group

into a massacre. He was too optimistic to be a proper leader, too hopeful to logically consider the odds stacked against him, and too ignorant of The Reestablishment to truly understand how they deal with voices of opposition. “The Reestablishment,” Warner says, “is not interested in maintaining a facade of kindness. The civilians are nothing more than peons to them. They want power,” he says to me, “and they want to be entertained. They are not interested in fixing our problems. They only want to make sure that they are as comfortable as possible as we dig our own graves.” “No.” “Yes,” he says. “It is exactly that simple. Everything else is just a joke to them. The texts, the artifacts, the languages. They just want to scare people, to keep them submissive, and to strip them of their individuality— to herd them into a singular mentality that serves no purpose but their own. This is why they can and will destroy all rebel movements. And this is a fact that your friends did not fully understand. And now,” he says, “they have suffered for their ignorance.” He stops the tank. Turns off the engine. Unlocks my door. And I’m still not ready to face this. THIRTEEN Anyone would be able to find Omega Point now. Any citizen, any civilian, anyone with working vision would be able to tell you where the large crater in Sector 45 is located.

Warner was right. I unbuckle myself slowly, reaching blindly for the door handle. I feel like I’m moving through fog, like my legs have been formed from fresh clay. I fail to account for the height of the tank above the ground and stumble into the open air. This is it. The empty, barren stretch of land I’d come to recognize as the area just around Omega Point; the land Castle told us was once lush with greenery and vegetation. He said it’d been the ideal hiding place for Omega Point. But this was before things started changing. Before the

weather warped and the plants struggled to flourish. Now it’s a graveyard. Skeletal trees and howling winds, a thin layer of snow powdered over the cold, packed earth. Omega Point is gone. It’s nothing but a huge, gaping hole in the ground about a mile across and 50 feet deep. It’s a bowlful of innards, of death and destruction, silent in the wake of tragedy. Years of effort, so much time and energy spent toward a specific goal, one purpose: a plan to save humanity. Obliterated overnight. A gust of wind climbs into my clothes then, wraps itself around my bones. Icy fingers tiptoe up my pant legs, clench their fists around my knees and pull; suddenly I’m not sure how I’m still standing. My blood feels frozen, brittle. My hands are covering my mouth and I don’t know who put them there. Something heavy falls onto my shoulders. A coat. I look back to find that Warner is watching me. He holds out a pair of gloves. I take the gloves and tug them on over my frozen fingers and wonder why I’m not waking up yet, why no one has reached out to tell me it’s okay, it’s just a bad dream, that everything is going to be fine. I feel as though I’ve been scooped out from the inside, like someone has spooned out all the organs I need to function and I’m left with nothing, just emptiness, just complete and utter disbelief. Because this is impossible. Omega Point. Gone. Completely destroyed. “JULIETTE, GET DOWN—” FOURTEEN Warner tackles me to the ground just as the sound of gunshots fills the air.

His arms are under me, cradling me to his chest, his body shielding mine from whatever imminent danger we’ve just gotten ourselves into. My heart is beating so loudly I can hardly hear Warner’s voice as he

speaks into my ear. “Are you all right?” he whispers, pulling me tighter against him. I try to nod. “Stay down,” he says. “Don’t move.” I wasn’t planning on it, I don’t say to him. “STEP AWAY FROM HER, YOU WORTHLESS SACK OF SHIT —” My body goes stiff. That voice. I know that voice. I hear footsteps coming closer, crunching on the snow and ice and dirt. Warner loosens his hold around me, and I realize he’s reaching for his gun. “Kenji—no—,” I try to shout, my voice muffled by the snow. “GET UP!” Kenji bellows, still moving closer. “Stand up, coward!” I’ve officially begun to panic. Warner’s lips brush against my ear. “I’ll be right back.” Just as I turn to protest, Warner’s weight is lifted. His body gone. He’s completely disappeared. I scramble to my feet, spinning around. My eyes land on Kenji. He’s stopped in place, confused and scanning the area, and I’m so happy to see him that I can’t be bothered to care about Warner right now. I’m almost ready to cry. I squeak out Kenji’s name. His eyes lock on to mine. He charges forward, closing the gap between us and tackling me in a hug so fierce he practically cuts off my circulation. “Holy shit it’s good to see you,” he says, breathless, squeezing me tighter. I cling to him, so relieved, so stunned. I press my eyes shut, unable to stop the tears. Kenji pulls back to look me in the eye, his face bright with pain and joy. “What the hell are you doing out here? I thought you were dead—” “I thought you were dead!” He stops then. The smile vanishes from his face. “Where the hell did Warner go?” he says, eyes taking in our surroundings. “You were with him, right? I’m not losing my mind, am I?” “Yes—listen—Warner brought me here,” I tell him, trying to speak calmly, hoping to cool the anger in his eyes. “But he’s not trying to fight.

When he told me about what happened to Omega Point, I didn’t believe him, so I asked him to show me proof—” “Is that right?” Kenji says, eyes flashing with a kind of hatred I’ve never seen in him before. “He came to show off what they did? To show you how many people he MURDERED!” Kenji breaks away from me, shaking with fury. “Did he tell you how many children were in there? Did he tell you how many of our men and women were slaughtered because of him?” He stops, heaving. “Did he tell you that?” he asks again, screaming into the air. “COME BACK OUT HERE, YOU SICK BASTARD!” “Kenji, no—” But Kenji’s already gone, darting away so quickly he’s just a speck in the distance now. I know he’s searching the vast space for glimpses of Warner and I need to do something, I need to stop him but I don’t know how— “Don’t move.” Warner’s whispers are at my ear, his hands planted firmly on my shoulders. I try to spin around and he holds me in place. “I said don’t move.” “What are you d—” “Shhhh,” he says. “No one can see me.” “What?” I crane my neck to try and glance behind me, but my head knocks against Warner’s chin. His invisible chin. “No,” I hear myself gasp. “But you’re not touching him—” “Look straight ahead,” he whispers. “It won’t do us any good for you to be caught talking to invisible people.” I turn my face forward. Kenji is no longer in sight. “How?” I ask Warner. “How did you—” Warner shrugs behind me. “I’ve felt different since we did that experiment with your power. Now that I know exactly what it’s like to take hold of another ability, I’m more easily able to recognize it. Like right now,” he says. “I feel as though I could quite literally reach forward and take hold of your energy. It was just as simple with Kenji,” he says. “He was standing right there. My survival instincts took over.” And even though this is a terrible moment to dwell on these things, I can’t help but allow myself to panic. That Warner can so easily project his powers. With no training. No practice. He can tap into my abilities and use them as he pleases.

This can’t possibly be good. Warner’s hands squeeze my shoulders. “What are you doing?” I whisper. “I’m trying to see if I can pass the power on to you—if I can retransfer it and make us both invisible—but it seems I’m unable. Once I’ve taken the energy from someone else, I can use it, but I can’t seem to share it. After I release the energy, it can only be returned to the owner.” “How do you know so much already?” I ask, astonished. “You just learned about this a few days ago.” “I’ve been practicing,” he says. “But how? With who?” I pause. “Oh.” “Yes,” he says. “It’s been rather incredible having you stay with me. For so many reasons.” His hands fall from my shoulders. “I was worried I might be able to hurt you with your own power. I wasn’t sure I could absorb it without accidentally using it against you. But we seem to cancel each other out,” he says. “Once I take it from you, I can only ever give it back.” I’m not breathing. “Let’s go,” Warner says. “Kenji is moving out of range and I won’t be able to hold on to his energy for much longer. We have to get out of here.” “I can’t leave,” I tell him. “I can’t just abandon Kenji, not like this—” “He’s going to try and kill me, love. And while I know I’ve proved otherwise in your case, I can assure you I’m generally incapable of standing by as someone makes an attempt on my life. So unless you want to watch me shoot him first, I suggest we get out of here as soon as possible. I can feel him circling back.” “No. You can go. You should go. But I’m going to stay here.” Warner stills behind me. “What?” “Go,” I tell him. “You have to go to the compounds—you have things to take care of. You should go. But I need to be here. I have to know what’s happened to everyone else, and I have to move forward from there.” “You’re asking me to leave you here,” he says, not bothering to hide his shock. “Indefinitely.” “Yes,” I say to him. “I’m not leaving until I get some answers. And you’re right. Kenji will definitely shoot first and ask questions later, so it’s

best that you leave. I’ll talk to him, try to tell him what’s happened. Maybe we could all work together—” “What?” “It doesn’t just have to be me and you,” I tell him. “You said you wanted to help me kill your father and take down The Reestablishment, right?” Warner nods slowly against the back of my head. “Okay. So.” I take a deep breath. “I accept your offer.” Warner goes rigid. “You accept my offer.” “Yes.” “Do you understand what you’re saying?” “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. I’m not sure I’ll be able to do this without you.” I feel the breath rush out of him, his heart beating hard against my back. “But I need to know who else is still alive,” I insist. “And the group of us can work together. We’ll be stronger that way, and we’ll all be fighting toward the same goal—” “No.” “It’s the only way—” “I have to go,” he says, spinning me around. “Kenji is almost here.” He shoves a hard plastic object into my hand. “Activate this pager,” he says, “whenever you’re ready. Keep it with you and I’ll know where to find you.” “But—” “You have four hours,” he says. “If I don’t hear from you before then, I’ll assume you are in some kind of danger, and I will come find you myself.” He’s still holding my hand, the pager still pressed against my palm. It’s the craziest feeling, to be touched by someone you can’t see. “Do you understand?” I nod, once. I have no idea where to look. And then I freeze, every inch of me hot and cold all at once because he presses his lips to the back of my fingers in one soft, tender moment and when he pulls away I’m reeling, heady, unsteady. Just as I’m regaining my footing, I hear the familiar sound of an electric thrum, and realize Warner has already begun to drive away.

And I’m left to wonder what on earth I’ve just agreed to. FIFTEEN Kenji is stomping toward me, his eyes blazing.

“Where the hell did he go? Did you see where he went?” I shake my head as I reach forward, grabbing his arms in an attempt to focus his eyes. “Talk to me, Kenji. Tell me what happened—where is everyone—?” “There is no everyone!” he snaps, breaking away. “Omega Point is gone—everything gone—everything—” He drops to his knees, heaving as he falls forward, his forehead digging into the snow. “I thought you were dead, too—I thought—” “No,” I gasp. “No, Kenji—they can’t all have died—not everyone—” Not Adam. Not Adam. Please please please not Adam I’d been too optimistic about today. I’d been lying to myself. I didn’t really believe Warner. I didn’t believe it could be this bad. But now, to see the truth, and to hear Kenji’s agony—the reality of all that happened is hitting me so hard I feel like I’m falling backward into my own grave. My knees have hit the ground. “Please,” I’m saying, “please tell me there are others—Adam has to be alive—” “I grew up here,” Kenji is saying. He’s not listening to me and I don’t recognize his raw, aching voice. I want the old Kenji, the one who knew how to take charge, to take control. And this isn’t him. This Kenji is terrifying me. “This was my whole life,” he says, looking toward the crater that used to be Omega Point. “The only place—all those people—” He chokes. “They were my family. My only family—” “Kenji, please . . .” I try to shake him. I need him to snap out of his grief before I succumb to it, too. We need to move out of plain sight and

I’m only now beginning to realize that Kenji doesn’t care. He wants to put himself in danger. He wants to fight. He wants to die. I can’t let that happen. Someone needs to take control of this situation right now and right now I might be the only one capable. “Get up,” I snap, my voice harsher than I intended. “You need to get up, and you need to stop acting reckless. You know we’re not safe out here, and we have to move. Where are you staying?” I grab his arm and pull, but he won’t budge. “Get up!” I shout again. “Get—” And then, just like that, I remember I’m a whole hell of a lot stronger than Kenji will ever be. It almost makes me smile. I close my eyes and focus, trying to remember everything Kenji taught me, everything I’ve learned about how to control my strength, how to tap into it when I need to. I spent so many years bottling everything up and locking it away that it still takes some time to remember it’s there, waiting for me to harness it. But the moment I welcome it, I feel it rush into me. It’s a raw power so potent it makes me feel invincible. And then, just like that, I yank Kenji up off the ground and toss him over my shoulder. Me. I do that. Kenji, of course, unleashes a string of the foulest expletives I’ve ever heard. He’s kicking at me but I can hardly feel it; my arms are wrapped loosely around him, my strength carefully reined in so as not to crush him. He’s angry, but at least he’s swearing again. This is something I recognize. I cut him off midexpletive. “Tell me where you’re staying,” I say to him, “and pull yourself together. You can’t fall apart on me now.” Kenji is silent a moment. “Hey, um, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a friend of mine,” he says. “Have you seen her? She’s a tiny little thing, cries a lot, spends too much time with her feelings—” “Shut up, Kenji.” “Oh wait!” he says. “It is you.” “Where are we going?” “When are you going to put me down?” he counters, no longer amused. “I mean, I’ve got an excellent view of your ass from here, but if you don’t mind me staring—”

I drop him without thinking. “Goddammit, Juliette—what the hell—” “How’s the view from down there?” I stand over his splayed body, arms crossed over my chest. “I hate you.” “Get up, please.” “When did you learn to do that?” he grumbles, stumbling to his feet and rubbing his back. I roll my eyes. Squint into the distance. Nothing and no one in sight, so far. “I didn’t.” “Oh, right,” he says. “Because that makes sense. Because tossing a grown-ass man over your shoulders is just so freaking easy. That shit just comes naturally to you.” I shrug. Kenji lets out a low whistle. “Cocky as hell, too.” “Yeah.” I shade my eyes against the cold sunlight. “I think spending all that time with you really screwed me up.” “Ohhh-ho,” he says, clapping his hands together, unamused. “Stand up, princess. You’re a comedian.” “I’m already standing up.” “It’s called a joke, smart-ass.” “Where are we going?” I ask him again. I start walking in no particular direction. “I really need to know where we’re headed.” “Unregulated turf.” He falls into step with me, taking my hand to lead the way. We go invisible immediately. “It was the only place we could think of.” “We?” “Yeah. It’s Adam’s old place, remember? It’s where I first—” I stop walking, chest heaving. I’m crushing Kenji’s hand in mine and he yanks it free, unleashing expletives as he does, making us visible again. “Adam is still alive?” I ask, searching his eyes. “Of course he’s still alive.” Kenji shoots me a dirty look as he rubs at his hand. “Have you heard nothing I’ve been saying to you?” “But you said everyone was dead,” I gasp. “You said—” “Everyone is dead,” Kenji says, his features darkening again. “There were over a hundred of us at Omega Point. There are only nine of us left.”

SIXTEEN “Who?” I ask, my heart constricting. “Who survived? How?”

Kenji lets out a long breath, running both hands through his hair as he focuses on a point behind me. “You just want a list?” he asks. “Or do you want to know how it all happened?” “I want to know everything.” He nods. Looks down, stomps on a clump of snow. He takes my hand again, and we start walking, two invisible kids in the middle of nowhere. “I guess,” Kenji finally says, “that on some level we have you to thank for us still being alive. Because if we’d never gone to find you, we probably would’ve died on the battlefield with everyone else.” He hesitates. “Adam and I noticed you were missing pretty quickly, but by the time we fought our way back to the front, we were too late. We were still maybe twenty feet out, and could only see them hauling you into the tank.” He shakes his head. “We couldn’t just run after you,” he says. “We were trying not to get shot at.” His voice gets deeper, more somber as he tells the story. “So we decided we’d go an alternate route—avoiding all the main roads—to try and follow you back to base, because that’s where we thought you were headed. But just as we got there, we ran into Castle, Lily, Ian, and Alia, who were on their way out. They’d managed to complete their own mission successfully; they broke into Sector 45 and stole Winston and Brendan back. Those two were half dead when Castle found them,” Kenji says quietly. He takes a sharp breath. “And then Castle told us what they’d heard while they were on base— that the troops were mobilizing for an air assault on Omega Point. They were going to drop bombs on the entire area, hoping that if they hit it with enough firepower, everything underground would just collapse in on itself. There’d be no escape for anyone inside, and everything we’d built would be destroyed.” I feel him tense beside me. We stop moving for just a moment before I feel Kenji tug on my hand. I duck into the cold and wind, steeling myself against the weather and his words.

“Apparently they’d tortured the location out of our people on the battlefield,” he says. “Just before killing them.” He shakes his head. “We knew we didn’t have much time, but we were still close enough to base that I managed to commandeer one of the army tanks. We loaded up and headed straight for Point, hoping to get everyone out in time. But I think, deep down,” he says, “we knew it wasn’t going to work. The planes were overhead. Already on their way.” He laughs, suddenly, but the action seems to cause him pain. “And by some freak miracle of insanity, we intercepted James almost a mile out. He’d managed to sneak out, and was on his way toward the battlefield. The poor kid had pissed the whole front of his pants he was so scared, but he said he was tired of being left behind. Said he wanted to fight with his brother.” Kenji’s voice is strained. “And the craziest shit,” he says, “is that if James had stayed at Point like we told him to, where we thought he’d be safe, he would’ve died with everyone else.” Kenji laughs a little. “And that was it. There was nothing we could do. We just had to stand there, watching as they dropped bombs on thirty years of work, killed everyone too young or too old to fight back, and then massacred the rest of our team on the field.” He clenches his hand around mine. “I come back here every day,” he says. “Hoping someone will show up. Hoping to find something to take back.” He stops then, voice tight with emotion. “And here you are. This shit doesn’t even seem real.” I squeeze his fingers—gently, this time—and huddle closer to him. “We’re going to be okay, Kenji. I promise. We’ll stick together. We’ll get through this.” Kenji tugs his hand out of mine only to slip it around my shoulder, pulling me tight against his side. His voice is soft when he speaks. “What happened to you, princess? You seem different.” “Bad different?” “Good different,” he says. “Like you finally put your big-girl pants on.” I laugh out loud. “I’m serious,” he says. “Well.” I pause. “Sometimes different is better, isn’t it?” “Yeah,” Kenji says. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He hesitates. “So . . . are you going to tell me what happened? Because last I saw you, you were being

shoved into the backseat of an army tank, and this morning you show up all freshly showered and shiny-white-sneakered and you’re walking around with Warner,” he says, releasing my shoulder and taking my hand again. “And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that that shit doesn’t make any sense.” I take a deep, steadying breath. It’s strange not being able to see Kenji right now; it feels as if I’m making these confessions to the wind. “Anderson shot me,” I tell him. Kenji stills beside me. I can hear him breathing hard. “What?” I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I wasn’t taken back to base. The soldiers delivered me to Anderson; he was waiting in one of the houses on unregulated turf. I think he wanted privacy,” I tell Kenji, carefully omitting any information about Warner’s mom. Those secrets are too private, and not mine to share. “Anderson wanted revenge,” I say instead, “for what I did to his legs. He was crippled; when I saw him he was using a cane. But before I could figure out what was happening, he pulled out a gun and shot me. Right in the chest.” “Holy shit,” Kenji breathes. “I remember it so well.” I hesitate. “Dying. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I couldn’t scream because my lungs were torn apart or full of blood. I don’t know. I just had to lie there, trying to breathe, hoping to drop dead as quickly as possible. And the whole time,” I say, “the whole time I kept thinking about how I’d spent my entire life being a coward, and how it got me nowhere. And I knew that if I had the chance to do it all again, I’d do it differently. I promised myself I’d finally stop being afraid.” “Yeah, that’s all super heartwarming,” Kenji says, “but how in the hell did you survive a shot to the chest?” he demands. “You should be dead right now.” “Oh.” I clear my throat a little. “Yeah, um, Warner saved my life.” “Shut the hell up.” I try not to laugh. “I’m serious,” I say, taking a minute to explain how the girls were there and how Warner used their power to save me. How Anderson left me to die and how Warner took me back to base with him, hid me, and helped me recover. “And by the way,” I say to Kenji, “Sonya and Sara are almost definitely still alive. Anderson took them back to the

capital with him; he wants to force them to serve as his own personal healers. He’s probably gotten them to fix his legs by now.” “Okay, you know what”—Kenji stops walking, grabs my shoulders —“you need to just back up, okay, because you are dumping way too much information on me all at once, and I need you to start from the beginning, and I need you to tell me everything,” he says, his voice rising in pitch. “What the hell is going on? The girls are still alive? And what do you mean, Warner transferred their power to you? How the hell is that possible?” So I tell him. I finally tell him the things I’ve always wanted to confess. I tell him the truth about Warner’s ability and the truth about how Kenji was injured outside the dining hall that night. I tell him how Warner had no idea what he was capable of, and how I let him practice with me in the tunnel while everyone was in the medical wing. How together we broke through the floor. “Holy shit,” Kenji whispers. “So that asshole tried to kill me.” “Not on purpose,” I point out. Kenji mutters something crude under his breath. And though I mention nothing about Warner’s unexpected visit to my room later that night, I do tell Kenji how Warner escaped, and how Anderson was waiting for Warner to show up before shooting me. Because Anderson knew how Warner felt about me, I tell Kenji, and wanted to punish him for it. “Wait.” Kenji cuts me off. “What do you mean, he knew how Warner felt about you? We all knew how Warner felt about you. He wanted to use you as a weapon,” Kenji says. “That shouldn’t have been a revelation. I thought his dad was happy about that.” I go stiff. I forgot this part was still a secret. That I’d never revealed the truth about my connection to Warner. Because while Adam might’ve suspected that Warner had more than a professional interest in me, I’d never told anyone about my intimate moments with Warner. Or any of the things he’s said to me. I swallow, hard. “Juliette,” Kenji says, a warning in his voice. “You can’t hold this shit back anymore. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

I feel myself sway. “Juliette—” “He’s in love with me,” I whisper. I’ve never admitted that out loud before, not even to myself. I think I hoped I could ignore it. Hide it. Make it go away so Adam would never find out. “He’s—wait—what?” I take a deep breath. I suddenly feel exhausted. “Please tell me you’re joking,” Kenji says. I shake my head, forgetting he can’t see me. “Wow.” “Kenji, I—” “This is soooo weird. Because I always thought Warner was crazy, you know?” Kenji laughs. “But now, I mean, now there’s no doubt.” My eyes fly wide open, shocking me into laughter. I push his invisible shoulder, hard. Kenji laughs again, half amused, half reeling from disbelief. He takes a deep breath. “So, okay, wait, so, how do you know he’s in love with you?” “What do you mean?” “I mean, like—what, he took you out on a date or something? Bought you chocolates and wrote you some really shitty poetry? Warner doesn’t exactly seem like the affectionate type, if you know what I mean.” “Oh.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “No, it was nothing like that.” “Then?” “He just . . . told me.” Kenji stops walking so abruptly I nearly fall over. “No he didn’t.” I don’t know how to respond to that. “He actually said those words? To your face? Like, directly to your face?” “Yes.” “So—so—so wait, so he tells you he loves you . . . and you said? What?” Kenji demands, dumbfounded. “‘Thank you’?” “No.” I stifle a cringe, remembering all too well that I actually shot Warner for it the first time. “I mean I didn’t—I mean—I don’t know, Kenji, it’s all really weird for me right now. I still haven’t found a way to deal with it.” My voice drops to a whisper. “Warner is really . . . intense,”

I say, and I’m overcome by a flood of memories, my emotions colliding into one jumble of insanity. His kisses on my body. My pants on the floor. His desperate confessions unhinging my joints. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling too hot, too unsteady, everything all too suddenly. “That’s definitely one way of putting it,” Kenji mutters, snapping me out of my reverie. I hear him sigh. “So Warner still has no idea that he and Kent are brothers?” “No,” I say, immediately sobered. Brothers. Brothers who hate each other. Brothers who want to kill each other. And I’m caught in the middle. Good God, what has happened to my life. “And both of these guys can touch you?” “Yes? But—well, no, not really.” I try to explain. “Adam . . . can’t really touch me. I mean, he can, sort of . . . ?” I trail off. “It’s complicated. He has to actively work and train to counteract my energy with his own. But with Warner—” I shake my head, staring down at my invisible feet as I walk. “Warner can touch me with no consequences. It doesn’t do anything to him. He just absorbs it.” “Damn,” Kenji says after a moment. “Damn damn damn. This shit is bananas.” “I know.” “So—okay—you’re telling me that Warner saved your life? That he actually begged the girls to help him heal you? And that he then hid you in his own room, and took care of you? Fed you and gave you clothes and shit and let you sleep in his bed?” “Yes.” “Yeah. Okay. I have a really hard time believing that.” “I know,” I say again, this time blowing out an exasperated breath. “But he’s really not what you guys think. I know he seems kind of crazy, but he’s actually really—” “Whoa, wait—are you defending him?” Kenji’s voice is laced with shock. “We are talking about the same dude who locked you up and tried to make you his military slave, right?” I’m shaking my head, wishing I could try to explain everything Warner’s told me without sounding like a naive, gullible idiot. “It’s not—”

I sigh. “He didn’t actually want to use me like that—,” I try to say. Kenji barks out a laugh. “Holy shit,” he says. “You actually believe him, don’t you? You’re buying into all the bullshit he’s fed you—” “You don’t know him, Kenji, that’s not fair—” “Oh my God,” he breathes, laughing again. “You are seriously going to try and tell me that I don’t know the man who led me into battle? He was my goddamn commander,” Kenji says to me. “I know exactly who he is—” “I’m not trying to argue with you, okay? I don’t expect you to understand—” “This is hilarious,” Kenji says, wheezing through another laugh. “You really don’t get it, do you?” “Get what?” “Ohhh, man,” he says suddenly. “Kent is going to be pissed,” he says, dragging out the word in glee. He actually giggles. “Wait—what? What does Adam have to do with this?” “You do realize you haven’t asked me a single question about him, right?” A pause. “I mean, I just told you the whole saga of all the shit that happened to us and you were just like, Oh, okay, cool story, bro, thanks for sharing. You didn’t freak out or ask if Adam was injured. You didn’t ask me what happened to him or even how he’s coping right now, especially seeing as how he thinks you’re dead and everything.” I feel sick all of a sudden. Stopped in my tracks. Mortified and guilty guilty guilty. “And now you’re standing here, defending Warner,” Kenji is saying. “The same guy who tried to kill Adam, and you’re acting like he’s your friend or someshit. Like he’s just some normal dude who’s a little misunderstood. Like every single other person on the planet got it wrong, and probably because we’re all just a bunch of judgmental, jealous assholes who hate him for having such a pretty, pretty face.” Shame singes my skin. “I’m not an idiot, Kenji. I have reasons for the things I say.” “Yeah, and maybe I’m just saying that you have no idea what you’re saying.” “Whatever.” “Don’t whatever me—” “Whatever,” I say again.

“Oh my God,” Kenji says to no one in particular. “I think this girl wants to get her ass kicked.” “You couldn’t kick my ass if I had ten of them.” Kenji laughs out loud. “Is that a challenge?” “It’s a warning,” I say to him. “Ohhhhhh, so you’re threatening me now? Little crybaby knows how to make threats now?” “Shut up, Kenji.” “Shut up, Kenji,” he repeats in a whiny voice, mocking me. “How much farther do we have to go?” I ask too loudly, irritated and trying to change the subject. “We’re almost there,” he shoots back, his words clipped. Neither one of us speaks for a few minutes. Then “So . . . why did you walk all this way?” I ask. “Didn’t you say you had a tank?” “Yeah,” Kenji says with a sigh, our argument momentarily forgotten. “We have two, actually. Kent said he stole one when you guys first escaped; it’s still sitting in his garage.” Of course. How could I forget? “But I like walking,” Kenji continues. “I don’t have to worry about anyone seeing me, and I always hope that maybe if I’m on foot, I’ll be able to notice things I wouldn’t be able to otherwise. I’m still hoping,” he says, his voice tight again, “that we’ll find more of our own hidden out here somewhere.” I squeeze Kenji’s hand again, clinging closer to him. “Me too,” I whisper. SEVENTEEN Adam’s old place is exactly as I remember it.

Kenji and I sneak in from the underground parking garage, and scale a few flights of stairs to the upper levels. I’m suddenly so nervous I can hardly speak. I’ve had to grieve the loss of my friends twice already, and

part of me feels like this can’t possibly be happening. But it must be. It has to be. I’m going to see Adam. I’m going to see Adam’s face. He’s going to be real. “They blasted the door open when they were searching for us that first time,” Kenji is saying, “so the door is pretty jammed up—we’d been piling a bunch of furniture against it to keep it closed, but then it got stuck the other way, soo . . . yeah, it might take them a while to open it. But other than that, this little place has been good to us. Kent’s still got a ton of food in storage, and all the plumbing still works because he’d paid for almost everything through the end of the year. All in all, we got pretty lucky,” he says. I’m nodding my head, too afraid to open my mouth. That coffee from this morning suddenly doesn’t feel very good in my stomach, and I’m jittery from head to toe. Adam. I’m about to see Adam. Kenji bangs on the door. “Open up,” he shouts. “It’s me.” For a minute all I hear is the sound of heavy movement, creaky wood, screechy metal, and a series of thuds. I watch the doorframe as it shakes; someone on the other side is yanking on the door, trying to get it unjammed. And then it opens. So slowly. I’m gripping my hands to keep myself steady. Winston is standing at the door. Gaping at me. “Holy shit,” he says. He pulls his glasses off—I notice they’ve been taped together—and blinks at me. His face is bruised and battered, his bottom lip swollen, split open. His left hand is bandaged, the gauze wrapped several times around the palm of his hand. I offer him a timid smile. Winston grabs ahold of Kenji’s shirt and yanks him forward, eyes still focused on my face. “Am I hallucinating again?” he asks. “Because I’m going to be so pissed if I’m hallucinating again. Dammit,” he says, not waiting for Kenji to respond. “If I had any idea how much it would suck

to have a concussion, I’d have shot myself in the face when I had a chance —” “You’re not hallucinating.” Kenji cuts him off with a laugh. “Now let us inside.” Winston is still blinking at me, eyes wide as he backs away, giving us room to enter. But the minute I step over the threshold I’m thrust into another world, a whole different set of memories. This is Adam’s home. The first place I ever found sanctuary. The first place I ever felt safe. And now it’s full of people, the space far too small to house so many large bodies. Castle and Brendan and Lily and Ian and Alia and James— they’ve all frozen midmovement, midsentence. They’re all staring at me in disbelief. And I’m just about to say something, just about to find something acceptable to say to my only group of battered, broken friends, when Adam walks out of the small room I know used to belong to James. He’s holding something in his hands, distracted, not noticing the abrupt change in the atmosphere. But then he looks up. His lips are parted as if to speak, and whatever he was holding hits the ground, shattering into so many sounds it startles everyone back to life. Adam is staring at me, eyes locked on my face, his chest heaving, his face fighting so many different emotions. He looks half terrified, half hopeful. Or maybe terrified to be hopeful. And though I realize I should probably be the first to speak, I suddenly have no idea what to say. Kenji pulls up beside me, his face splitting into a huge smile. He slips his arm around my shoulder. Squeezes. Says, “Lookie what I found.” Adam begins to move across the room, but it feels strange—like everything has begun to slow down, like this moment isn’t real, somehow. There’s so much pain in his eyes. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. But then there he is, right in front of me, his hands searching my body as if to ensure that I’m real, that I’m still intact. He’s studying my face, my features, his fingers weaving into my hair. And then all at once he seems to accept that I’m not a ghost, not a nightmare, and he hauls me against himself so quickly I can’t help but gasp in response. “Juliette,” he breathes.

His heart is beating hard against my ear, his arms wrapped tight around me, and I melt into his embrace, relishing the warm comfort, the familiarity of his body, his scent, his skin. My hands reach around him, slip up his back and grip him hard, and I don’t even realize silent tears have fallen down my face until he pulls back to look me in the eye. He tells me not to cry, tells me it’s okay, that everything is going to be okay and I know it’s all a lie but it still feels so good to hear. He’s studying my face again, his hands carefully cradling the back of my head, so careful not to touch my skin. The reminder sends a sharp pain through my heart. “I can’t believe you’re really here,” he says, his voice breaking. “I can’t believe this is actually happening—” Kenji clears his throat. “Hey—guys? Your loin passion is grossing out the little ones.” “I’m not a little one,” James says, visibly offended. “And I don’t think it’s gross.” Kenji spins around. “You’re not bothered by all the heavy breathing going on over here?” He makes a haphazard gesture toward us. I jump away from Adam reflexively. “No,” James says, crossing his arms. “Are you?” “Disgust was my general reaction, yeah.” “I bet you wouldn’t think it was gross if it was you.” A long pause. “You make a good point,” Kenji finally says. “Maybe you should find me a lady in this crappy sector. I’m okay with anyone between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five.” He points at James. “So how about you get on that, thanks.” James seems to take the challenge a little too seriously. He nods several times. “Okay,” he says. “How about Alia? Or Lily?” he says, immediately pointing out the only other women in the room. Kenji’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “Yeah, no thanks, kid. These two are like my sisters.” “So smooth,” Lily says to Kenji, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve really heard her speak. “I bet you win over all the eligible women by telling them they’re like sisters to you. I bet the ladies are just lining up to jump into bed with your punkass.” “Rude.” Kenji crosses his arms. James is laughing.

“You see what I have to deal with?” Kenji says to him. “There’s no love for Kenji. I give and I give and I give, and I get nothing in return. I need a woman who will appreciate all of this,” he says, gesturing to the length of his body. He’s clearly overexaggerating, hoping to entertain James with his ridiculousness, and his efforts are appreciated. Kenji is probably their only chance for comedic relief in this cramped space, and it makes me wonder if that’s why he sets off on his own every day. Maybe he needs time to grieve in silence, in a place where no one expects him to be the funny one. My heart starts and stops as I hesitate, wondering at how hard it must be for Kenji to keep it together even when he wants to fall apart. I caught a glimpse of that side of him for the first time today, and it surprised me more than it should have. Adam squeezes my shoulder, and I turn to face him. He smiles a tender, tortured smile, his eyes heavy with pain and joy. But of all the things I could be feeling right now, guilt hits me the hardest. Everyone in this room is carrying such heavy burdens. Brief moments of levity puncture the general gloom shrouding this space, but as soon as the jokes subside, the grief slides back into place. And though I know I should grieve for the lives lost, I don’t know how. They were all strangers to me. I was only just beginning to develop a relationship with Sonya and Sara. But when I look around I see that I’m alone in feeling this way. I see the lines of loss creasing my friends’ faces. I see the sadness buried in their clothes, perched atop their furrowed brows. And something in the back of my mind is nagging at me, disappointed in me, telling me I should be one of them, that I should be just as defeated as they are. But I’m not. I can’t be that girl anymore. For so many years I lived in constant terror of myself. Doubt had married my fear and moved into my mind, where it built castles and ruled kingdoms and reigned over me, bowing my will to its whispers until I was little more than an acquiescing peon, too terrified to disobey, too terrified to disagree. I had been shackled, a prisoner in my own mind. But finally, finally, I have learned to break free.

I am upset for our losses. I’m horrified. But I’m also anxious and restless. Sonya and Sara are still alive, living at the mercy of Anderson. They still need our help. So I don’t know how to be sad when all I feel is an unrelenting determination to do something. I am no longer afraid of fear, and I will not let it rule me. Fear will learn to fear me. EIGHTEEN Adam leads me toward the couch, but Kenji intercepts us. “You guys can have your moment, I promise,” he says, “but right now we all need to get on the same page, say hello and how are you and whatever whatever and we need to do it fast; Juliette has information everyone needs to hear.”

Adam looks from Kenji to me. “What’s going on?” I turn to Kenji. “What are you talking about?” He rolls his eyes at me. Looks away and says, “Have a seat, Kent.” Adam backs away—just an inch or two—his curiosity winning out for the moment, and Kenji tugs me forward so I’m standing in the middle of this tiny room. Everyone is staring at me like I might pull turnips out of my pants. “Kenji, what—” “Alia, you remember Juliette,” Kenji says, nodding at a slim blond girl sitting in a back corner of the room. She offers me a quick smile before looking away, blushing for no apparent reason. I remember her; she’s the one who designed my custom knuckle braces—the intricate pieces I’d worn over my gloves both times we went out to battle. I’d never really paid close attention to her before, and I now realize it’s because she tries to be invisible. She’s a soft, sweet-looking girl with gentle brown eyes; she also happens to be an exceptional designer. I wonder how she developed her skill. “Lily—you definitely remember Juliette,” Kenji is saying to her. “We all broke into the storage compounds together.” He glances at me. “You remember, right?” I nod. Grin at Lily. I don’t really know her, but I like her energy. She mock-salutes me, smiling wide as her springy brown curls fall into her face. “Nice to see you again,” she says. “And thanks for not being dead. It sucks being the only girl around here.” Alia’s blond head pops up for only a second before she retreats deeper into the corner.

“Sorry,” Lily says, looking only slightly remorseful. “I meant the only talking girl around here. Please tell me you talk,” she says to me. “Oh, she talks,” Kenji says, shooting me a look. “Cusses like a sailor, too.” “I do not cuss like a—” “Brendan, Winston.” Kenji cuts me off, pointing at the two guys sitting on the couch. “These two definitely don’t require an introduction, but, as you can see,” he says, “they look a little different now. Behold, the transformative powers of being held hostage by a bunch of sadistic bastards!” He flourishes a hand in their direction, his sarcasm accompanied by a brittle smile. “Now they look like a pair of wildebeests. But, you know, by comparison, I look like a damn king. So it’s good news all around.” Winston points at my face. His eyes are a little unfocused, and he has to blink a few times before saying, “I like you. It’s pretty nice you’re not dead.” “I second that, mate.” Brendan claps Winston on the shoulder but he’s smiling at me. His eyes are still so very light blue, and his hair, so very white blond. But he has a huge gash running from his right temple down to his jawline, and it looks like it’s only just beginning to scab up. I can’t imagine where else he’s hurt. What else Anderson must’ve done to both him and Winston. A sick, slithery feeling moves through me. “It’s so good to see you again,” Brendan is saying, his British accent always surprising me. “Sorry we couldn’t be a bit more presentable.” I offer them both a smile. “I’m so happy you’re all right.” “Ian,” Kenji says, gesturing to the tall, lanky guy perched on the arm of the couch. Ian Sanchez. I remember him as a guy on my assembly team when we broke into the storage compound, but more important, I know him to be one of the four guys who were kidnapped by Anderson’s men. He, Winston, Brendan, and another guy named Emory. We’d managed to get Ian and Emory back, but not Brendan and Winston. I remember Kenji saying that Ian and Emory were so messed up when we brought them in that even with the girls helping to heal them, it’d still taken them a while to recover. Ian looks okay to me now, but he, too, must’ve undergone some horrific things. And Emory clearly isn’t here. I swallow, hard, offering Ian what I’m hoping is a strong smile.

He doesn’t smile back. “How are you still alive?” he demands, with no preamble. “You don’t look like anyone beat the shit out of you, so, I mean, no offense or whatever, but I don’t trust you.” “We’re getting to that part,” Kenji says, cutting Adam off just as he begins to protest on my behalf. “She has a solid explanation, I promise. I already know all the details.” He shoots Ian a sharp look, but Ian doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still staring at me, one eyebrow raised as if in challenge. I cock my head at him, considering him closely. Kenji snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Focus, princess, I’m already getting bored.” He glances around the room, looking for anyone we might’ve missed for the reintroductions. “James,” he says, his eyes landing on the upturned face of my only ten-year-old friend. “Anything you want to say to Juliette before we get started?” James looks at me, his blue eyes bright below his sandy-blond hair. He shrugs. “I never thought you were dead,” he says simply. “Is that right?” Kenji says with a laugh. James nods. “I had a feeling,” he says, tapping his head. Kenji grins. “All right, well, that’s it. Let’s get started.” “What about Ca—,” I begin to say, but stop dead at the flicker of alarm that flits in and out of Kenji’s features. My gaze lands on Castle, studying his face in a way I hadn’t when I first arrived. Castle’s eyes are unfocused, his eyebrows furrowed as if he’s caught in an endlessly frustrating conversation with himself; his hands are knotted together in his lap. His hair has broken free of its always-perfect ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his dreads have sprung around his face, falling into his eyes. He’s unshaven, and looks as though he’s been dragged through mud; as though he sat down in that chair the moment he walked in and hasn’t left it since. And I realize that of the group of us, Castle has been hit the hardest. Omega Point was his life. His dreams were in every brick, every echo of that space. And in one night, he lost everything. His hopes, his vision for the future, the entire community he strove to build. His only family. Gone.

“He’s had it really rough,” Adam whispers to me, and I’m startled by his presence, not realizing he was standing beside me again. “Castle’s been like that for a little while now.” My heart breaks. I try to meet Kenji’s eyes, try to apologize wordlessly, to tell him I understand. But Kenji won’t look at me. It takes him a few moments to pull himself together, and only then does it hit me just how hard all of this must be for him right now. It’s not just Omega Point. It’s not just everyone he’s lost, not just all the work that’s been destroyed. It’s Castle. Castle, who’s been like a father to Kenji, his closest confidant, his dearest friend. He’s become a husk of who he was. My heart feels weighed down by the depth of Kenji’s pain; I wish so much that I could do something to help. To fix things. And in that moment I promise myself I will. I’ll do everything I can. “All right.” Kenji claps his hands together, nods a few times before taking a tight breath. “Everyone all warm and fuzzy? Good? Good.” He nods again. “Now let me tell you the story of how our friend Juliette was shot in the chest.” NINETEEN Everyone is gaping at me.

Kenji has just finished giving them every detail I shared with him, taking care to leave out the parts about Warner telling me he loves me, and I’m silently grateful. Even though I told Adam that he and I shouldn’t be together anymore, everything between us is still so raw and unresolved. I’ve tried to move on, to distance myself from him because I wanted to protect him; but I’ve had to mourn Adam’s loss in so many different ways now that I’m not sure I even know how to feel anymore. I have no idea what he thinks of me. There are so many things Adam and I need to talk about; I just don’t want Warner to be one of them. Warner has always been a tense topic

between us—especially now that Adam knows they’re brothers—and I’m not in the mood for arguing, especially not on my first day back. But it seems I won’t be able to get off that easily. “Warner saved your life?” Lily asks, not bothering to hide her shock or her repulsion. Even Alia is sitting up and paying attention now, her eyes glued to my face. “Why the hell would he do that?” “Dude, forget that,” Ian cuts in. “What are we going to do about the fact that Warner can just steal our powers and shit?” “You don’t have any powers,” Winston answers him. “So you don’t have anything to worry about.” “You know what I mean,” Ian snaps, a hint of color flushing up his neck. “It’s not safe for a psycho like him to have that kind of ability. It freaks me the hell out.” “He’s not a psych—,” I try to say, but the room erupts into a cacophony of voices, all vying for a chance to be heard. “What does this even mean—” “—dangerous?” “So Sonya and Sara are still alive—” “—actually saw Anderson? What did he look like?” “But why would he even—”

“—okay, but that’s not—” “WAIT,” Adam cuts everyone off. “Where the hell is he now?” He turns to look me in the eye. “You said Warner brought you out here to show you what happened to Omega Point, but then the minute Kenji shows up, he just disappears.” A pause. “Right?” I nod. “So—what?” he says. “He’s done? He’s just walking away?” Adam spins around, looks at everyone. “Guys, he knows that at least one of us is still alive! He’s probably gone to get backup, to find a way to take the rest of us out—” He stops, shakes his head, hard. “Shit,” he says under his breath. “SHIT.” Everyone freezes at the same time. Horrified. “No,” I say quickly, holding up both hands. “No—he’s not going to do that—” Eight pairs of eyes turn on me. “He doesn’t care about killing you guys. He doesn’t even like The Reestablishment. And he hates his father—” “What are you talking about?” Adam cuts me off, alarmed. “Warner is an animal—” I take a steadying breath. I need to remember how little they know Warner, how little they’ve heard from his point of view; I have to remind myself what I used to think of him just a few days ago. Warner’s revelations are still so recent. I don’t know how to properly defend him or how to reconcile these polarizing impressions of him, and for a moment it makes me furious with him and his stupid pretenses, for ever having put me in this position. If only he didn’t come across as a sick, twisted psycho, I wouldn’t have to stand up for him right now. “He wants to take down The Reestablishment,” I try to explain. “And he wants to kill Anderson, too—” The room explodes into more arguments. Shouts and epithets that all boil down to no one believing me, everyone thinking I’m insane and that Warner’s brainwashed me; they think he’s a proven murderer who locked me up and tried to use me to torture people. And they’re not wrong. Except that they are. I want so desperately to tell them they don’t understand. None of them know the truth, and they’re not giving me a chance to explain. But just as I’m about to say something else in my own defense, I

catch a glimpse of Ian out of the corner of my eye. He’s laughing at me. Out loud, slapping his knee, head thrown back, howling with glee at what he thinks is my stupidity, and for a moment I seriously begin to doubt myself and everything Warner said to me. I squeeze my eyes shut. How will I ever really know if I can trust him? How do I know he wasn’t lying to me like he always did, like he claims he has been from the beginning? I’m so sick of this uncertainty. So sick and tired of it. But I blink and I’m being pulled out of the crowd, tugged toward James’s bedroom door; to the storage closet that used to be his room. Adam pulls me inside and shuts the door on the insanity behind us. He’s holding my arms, looking into my eyes with a strange, burning intensity that startles me. I’m trapped. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Why are you defending Warner? After everything he did to you, you should hate him—you should be furious—” “I can’t, Adam, I—” “What do you mean you can’t?” “I just—it’s not that easy anymore.” I shake my head, try to explain the unexplainable. “I don’t know what to think of him now. There are so many things I misunderstood. Things I couldn’t comprehend.” I drop my eyes. “He’s really . . .” I hesitate, conflicted. I don’t know how to tell the truth without sounding like a liar. “I don’t know,” I finally say, staring into my hands. “I don’t know. He’s just . . . he’s not as bad as I thought.” “Wow.” Adam exhales, shocked. “He’s not as bad as you thought. He’s not as bad as you thought? How on earth could he be any better than you thought—?” “Adam—” “What the hell are you thinking, Juliette?” I look up. He can’t hide the disgust in his eyes. I panic. I need to find a way to explain, to present an irrefutable example— proof that Warner is not who I thought he was—but I can already tell that

Adam has lost confidence in me, that he doesn’t trust me or believe me anymore, and I flounder. He opens his mouth to speak. I beat him to it. “Do you remember that day you found me crying in the shower? After Warner forced me to torture that toddler?” Adam hesitates before nodding slowly, reluctantly. “That was one of the reasons I hated him so much. I thought he’d actually put a child in that room—that he’d stolen someone’s kid and wanted to watch me torture it. It was just so despicable,” I say. “So disgusting, so horrifying. I thought he was inhuman. Completely evil. But . . . it wasn’t real,” I whisper. Adam looks confused. “It was just a simulation,” I try to explain. “Warner told me it was a simulation chamber, not a torture room. He said it all happened in my imagination.” “Juliette,” Adam says. Sighs. He looks away, looks back at me. “What are you talking about? Of course it was a simulation.” “What?” Adam laughs a small, confused sort of laugh. “You knew it wasn’t real . . . ?” I ask. He stares at me. “But when you found me—you said it wasn’t my fault—you told me you’d heard about what happened, and that it wasn’t my fault—” Adam runs a hand through the hair at the back of his neck. “I thought you were upset about breaking down that wall,” he says. “I mean, I knew the simulation would probably be scary as hell, but I thought Warner would’ve told you what it was beforehand. I had no idea you’d walked into something like that thinking it was going to be real.” He presses his eyes shut for a second. “I thought you were upset about learning you had this whole new crazy ability. And about the soldiers who were injured in the aftermath.” I’m blinking at him, stunned. All this time, a small part of me was still holding on to doubt— believing that maybe the torture chamber was real and that Warner was just lying to me. Again. But now, to have confirmation from Adam himself. I’m floored.

Adam is shaking his head. “That bastard,” he’s saying. “I can’t believe he did that to you.” I lower my eyes. “Warner’s done a lot of crazy things,” I say, “but he really thought he was helping me.” “But he wasn’t helping you,” Adam says, angry again. “He was torturing you—” “No. That’s not true.” I focus my eyes on a crack in the wall. “In some strange way . . . he did help me.” I hesitate before meeting Adam’s gaze. “That moment in the simulation chamber was the first time I ever allowed myself to be angry. I never knew how much more I could do—that I could be so physically strong—until that moment.” I look away. Clasp and unclasp my hands. “Warner puts up this facade,” I’m saying. “He acts like he’s a sick, heartless monster, but he’s . . . I don’t know . . .” I trail off, my eyes trained on something I can’t quite see. A memory, maybe. Of Warner smiling. His gentle hands wiping away my tears. It’s okay, you’re okay, he’d said to me. “He’s really—” “I don’t, um—” Adam breaks away, blows out a strange, shaky breath. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to understand this,” he says, looking unsteady. “You—what? You like him now? You’re friends with him? The same guy who tried to kill me?” He’s barely able to conceal the pain in his voice. “He had me hung from a conveyor belt in a slaughterhouse, Juliette. Or have you already forgotten that?” I flinch. Drop my head in shame. I had forgotten about that. I’d forgotten that Warner almost killed Adam, that he’d shot Adam right in front of my face. He saw Adam as a traitor, as a soldier who held a gun to the back of his head; defied him and stole me away. It makes me sick. “I’m just . . . I’m so confused,” I finally manage to say. “I want to hate him but I just don’t know how anymore—” Adam is staring at me like he has no idea who I am. I need to talk about something else. “What’s going on with Castle?” I ask. “Is he sick?” Adam hesitates before answering, realizing I’m trying to change the subject. Finally, he relents. Sighs. “It’s bad,” he says to me. “He’s been hit

worse than the rest of us. And Castle taking it all so hard has really affected Kenji.” I study Adam’s face as he speaks, unable to stop myself from searching for similarities to Anderson and Warner. “He doesn’t really leave that chair,” Adam is saying. “He sits there all day until he collapses from exhaustion, and even then, he just falls asleep sitting in the same spot. Then he wakes up the next morning and does the same thing again, all day. He only eats when we force him to, and only moves to go to the bathroom.” Adam shakes his head. “We’re all hoping he’ll snap out of it pretty soon, but it’s been really weird to just lose a leader like that. Castle was in charge of everything. And now he doesn’t seem to care about anything.” “He’s probably still in shock,” I say, remembering it’s only been three days since the battle. “Hopefully, with time,” I tell him, “he’ll be all right.” “Yeah,” Adam says. Nods. Studies his hands. “But we really need to figure out what we’re going to do. I don’t know how much longer we can live like this. We’re going to run out of food in a few weeks at the most,” he says. “We’ve got ten people to feed now. Plus, Brendan and Winston are still hurting; I’ve done what I can for them using the limited supplies I have here, but they need actual medical attention and pain medication, if we can swing it.” A pause. “I don’t know what Kenji’s told you, but they were seriously messed up when we brought them in here. Winston’s swelling has only just gone down. We really can’t stay here for much longer,” he says. “We need a plan.” “Yes.” I’m so relieved to hear he’s ready to be proactive. “Yes. Yes. We need a plan. What are you thinking? Do you already have something in mind?” Adam shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe we can keep breaking into the storage units like we used to—steal supplies every once in a while—and lie low in a bigger space on unregulated ground. But we’ll never be able to set foot on the compounds,” he says. “There’s too much risk. They’ll shoot us dead on sight if we’re caught. So . . . I don’t know,” he says. He looks sheepish as he laughs. “I’m kind of hoping I’m not the only one with ideas.” “But . . .” I hesitate, confused. “That’s it? You’re not thinking of fighting back anymore? You think we should just find a way to live—like

this?” I gesture to the door, to what lies beyond it. Adam looks at me, surprised by my reaction. “It’s not like I want this,” he says. “But I can’t see how we could possibly fight back without getting ourselves killed. I’m trying to be practical.” He runs an agitated hand through his hair. “I took a chance,” he says, lowering his voice. “I tried to fight back, and it got us all massacred. I shouldn’t even be alive right now. But for some crazy reason, I am, and so is James, and God, Juliette, so are you. “And I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head, looking away. “I feel like I’ve been given a chance to live my life. I’ll need to think of new ways to find food and put a roof over my head. I have no money coming in, I’ll never be able to enlist in this sector again, and I’m not a registered citizen, so I’ll never be able to work. Right now all I’m focused on is how I’ll be able to feed my family and my friends in a few weeks.” His jaw tenses. “Maybe one day another group will be smarter—stronger—but I don’t think that’s us anymore. I don’t think we stand a chance.” I’m blinking at him, stunned. “I can’t believe this.” “You can’t believe what?” “You’re giving up.” I hear the accusation in my voice and I do nothing to hide it. “You’re just giving up.” “What choice do I have?” he asks, his eyes hurt, angry. “I’m not trying to be a martyr,” he says. “We gave it a shot. We tried to fight back, and it came to shit. Everyone we know is dead, and that battered group of people you saw out there is all that’s left of our resistance. How are the nine of us supposed to fight the world?” he demands. “It’s not a fair fight, Juliette.” I’m nodding. Staring into my hands. Trying and failing to hide my shock. “I’m not a coward,” he says to me, struggling to moderate his voice. “I just want to protect my family. I don’t want James to have to worry that I’m going to show up dead every day. He needs me to be rational.” “But living like this,” I say to him. “As fugitives? Stealing to survive and hiding from the world? How is that any better? You’ll be worried every single day, constantly looking over your shoulder, terrified of ever leaving James alone. You’ll be miserable.” “But I’ll be alive.” “That’s not being alive,” I say to him. “That’s not living—”

“How would you know?” he snaps. His mood shifts so suddenly I’m stunned into silence. “What do you know about being alive?” he demands. “You wouldn’t say a word when I first found you. You were afraid of your own shadow. You were so consumed by grief and guilt that you’d gone almost completely insane—living so far inside your own head that you had no idea what happened to the world while you were gone.” I flinch, stung by the venom in his voice. I’ve never seen Adam so bitter or cruel. This isn’t the Adam I know. I want him to stop. Rewind. Apologize. Erase the things he’s just said. But he doesn’t. “You think you’ve had it hard,” he’s saying to me. “Living in psych wards and being thrown in jail—you think that was difficult. But what you don’t realize is that you’ve always had a roof over your head, and food delivered to you on a regular basis.” His hands are clenching, unclenching. “And that’s more than most people will ever have. You have no idea what it’s really like to live out here—no idea what it’s like to starve and watch your family die in front of you. You have no idea,” he says to me, “what it means to truly suffer. Sometimes I think you live in some fantasy land where everyone survives on optimism—but it doesn’t work that way out here. In this world you’re either alive, about to die, or dead. There’s no romance in it. No illusion. So don’t try to pretend you have any idea what it means to be alive today. Right now. Because you don’t.” Words, I think, are such unpredictable creatures. No gun, no sword, no army or king will ever be more powerful than a sentence. Swords may cut and kill, but words will stab and stay, burying themselves in our bones to become corpses we carry into the future, all the time digging and failing to rip their skeletons from our flesh. I swallow, hard one two three and steady myself to respond quietly. Carefully. He’s just upset, I’m telling myself. He’s just scared and worried and stressed out and he doesn’t mean any of it, not really, I keep telling myself. He’s just upset.

He doesn’t mean it. “Maybe,” I say. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t know what it’s like to live. Maybe I’m still not human enough to know more than what’s right in front of me.” I stare straight into his eyes. “But I do know what it’s like to hide from the world. I know what it’s like to live as though I don’t exist, caged away and isolated from society. And I won’t do it again,” I say. “I can’t. I’ve finally gotten to a point in my life where I’m not afraid to speak. Where my shadow no longer haunts me. And I don’t want to lose that freedom—not again. I can’t go backward. I’d rather be shot dead screaming for justice than die alone in a prison of my own making.” Adam looks toward the wall, laughs, looks back at me. “Are you even hearing yourself right now?” he asks. “You’re telling me you want to jump in front of a bunch of soldiers and tell them how much you hate The Reestablishment, just to prove a point? Just so they can kill you before your eighteenth birthday? That doesn’t make any sense,” he says. “It doesn’t serve anything. And this doesn’t sound like you,” he says, shaking his head. “I thought you wanted to live on your own. You never wanted to be caught up in war—you just wanted to be free of Warner and the asylum and your crazy parents. I thought you’d be happy to be done with all the fighting.” “What are you talking about?” I say. “I’ve always said I wanted to fight back. I’ve said it from the beginning—from the moment I told you I wanted to escape when we were on base. This is me,” I insist. “This is how I feel. It’s the same way I’ve always felt.” “No,” he says. “No, we didn’t leave base to start a war. We left to get the hell away from The Reestablishment, to resist in our own way, but most of all to find a life together. But then Kenji showed up and took us to Omega Point and everything changed, and we decided to fight back. Because it seemed like it might actually work—because it seemed like we might actually have a chance. But now”—he looks around the room, at the closed door—“what do we have left? We’re all half dead,” he says. “We are eight poorly armed men and women and one ten-year-old boy trying to fight entire armies. It’s just not feasible,” he says. “And if I’m going to die, I don’t want it to be for a stupid reason. If I go to war—if I risk my life—it’s going to be because the odds are in my favor. Not otherwise.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid to fight for humanity—” “You have no idea what you’re saying,” he snaps, his jaw tensing. “There’s nothing we can do now.” “There’s always something, Adam. There has to be. Because I won’t live like this anymore. Not ever again.” “Juliette, please,” he says, his words desperate all of a sudden, anguished. “I don’t want you to get killed—I don’t want to lose you again —” “This isn’t about you, Adam.” I feel terrible saying it, but he has to understand. “You’re so important to me. You’ve loved me and you were there for me when no one else was. I never want you to think I don’t care about you, because I do,” I tell him. “But this decision has nothing to do with you. It’s about me,” I tell him. “And this life”—I point to the door —“the life on the other side of that wall? That’s not what I want.” My words only seem to upset him more. “Then you’d rather be dead?” he asks, angry again. “Is that what you’re saying? You’d rather be dead than try to build a life with me here?” “I would rather be dead,” I say to him, inching away from his outstretched hand, “than go back to being silent and suffocated.” And Adam is just about to respond—he’s parting his lips to speak— when the sounds of chaos reach us from the other side of the wall. We share one panicked look before yanking the bedroom door open and rushing into the living room. My heart stops. Starts. Stops again. Warner is here. TWENTY He’s standing at the front door, hands shoved casually in his pockets, no fewer than six different guns pointed at his face. My mind is racing as it tries to process what to do next, how best to proceed. But Warner’s face changes seasons as I enter the room: the cold line of his mouth blossoms into a bright smile. His eyes shine as he grins at me, not seeming to mind or even notice the many lethal weapons aimed in his direction.

I can’t help but wonder how he found me. I begin to move forward but Adam grabs my arm. I turn around, wondering at my sudden irritation with him. I’m almost irritated with

myself for being irritated with him. This is not how I imagined it would be to see Adam again. I don’t want it to be this way. I want to start over. “What are you doing?” Adam says to me. “Don’t go near him.” I stare at his hand on my arm. Look up to meet his gaze. Adam doesn’t budge. “Let go of me,” I say to him. His face clears all of a sudden, like he’s startled, somehow. He looks down at his hand; releases me without a word. I put as much space between us as I can, the whole time scanning the room for Kenji. His sharp black eyes meet mine immediately and he raises one eyebrow; his head is cocked to the side, the twitch of his lips telling me the next move is mine and I’d better make it count. I part my way through my friends until I’m standing in front of Warner, facing my friends and their guns and hoping they won’t fire at me instead. I make an effort to sound calm. “Please,” I say. “Don’t shoot him.” “And why the hell not?” Ian demands, his grip tightening around his gun. “Juliette, love,” Warner says, leaning into my ear. His voice is still loud enough for everyone to hear. “I do appreciate you defending me, but really, I’m quite able to handle the situation.” “It’s eight against one,” I say to him, forgetting my fear in the temptation to roll my eyes. “They’ve all got guns pointed at your face. I’m pretty sure you need my interference.” I hear him laugh behind me, just once, just before every gun in the room is yanked out of every hand and thrown up against the ceiling. I spin around in shock, catching a glimpse of the astonishment on every face behind me. “Why do you always hesitate?” Warner asks, shaking his head as he glances around the room. “Shoot if you want to shoot. Don’t waste my time with theatrics.” “How the hell did you do that?” Ian demands. Warner says nothing. He tugs off his gloves carefully, pulling at each finger before slipping them off his hands. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “They already know.” Warner looks up. Raises an eyebrow at me. Smiles a little. “Do they really?” “Yes. I told them.”

Warner’s smile changes into something almost self-mocking as he turns away, his eyes laughing as he contemplates the ceiling. Finally he nods at Castle, who’s staring at the commotion with a vaguely displeased expression. “I borrowed,” Warner says to Ian, “from present company.” “Hot damn,” Ian breathes. “What do you want?” Lily asks, fists clenched, standing in a far corner of the room. “Nothing from you,” Warner says to her. “I’m here to pick up Juliette. I have no wish to disturb your . . . slumber party,” he says, looking around at the pillows and blankets piled on the living room floor. Adam goes rigid with alarm. “What are you talking about? She’s not going anywhere with you.” Warner scratches the back of his head. “Do you never get exhausted being so wholly unbearable? You have as much charisma as the rotting innards of unidentified roadkill.” I hear an abrupt wheezing noise and turn toward the sound. Kenji has a hand pressed to his mouth, desperately trying to suppress a smile. He’s shaking his head, holding up a hand in apology. And then he breaks, laughing out loud, snorting as he tries to muffle the sound. “I’m sorry,” he says, pressing his lips together, shaking his head again. “This is not a funny moment. It’s not. I’m not laughing.” Adam looks like he might punch Kenji in the face. “So you don’t want to kill us?” Winston says. “Because if you’re not going to kill us, you should probably get the hell out of here before we kill you first.” “No,” Warner says calmly. “I am not going to kill you. And though I wouldn’t mind disposing of these two”—he nods at Adam and Kenji —“the idea is little more than exhausting to me now. I am no longer interested in your sad, pathetic lives. I am only here to accompany and transport Juliette safely home. She and I have urgent matters to attend to.” “No,” I hear James say suddenly. He clambers to his feet, stares Warner straight in the eye. “This is her home now. You can’t take her away. I don’t want anyone to hurt her.” Warner’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. He seems genuinely startled, as though he’s only now noticing the ten-year-old. Warner and James have never actually met before; neither one of them knows they’re brothers. I look at Kenji. He looks back.

This is a big moment. Warner studies James’s face with rapt fascination. He bends down on one knee, meets James at eye level. “And who are you?” he asks. Everyone in the room is silent, watching. James blinks steadily and doesn’t answer right away. He finally shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the floor. “I’m James. Adam’s brother. Who are you?” Warner tilts his head a little. “No one of consequence,” he says. He tries to smile. “But it’s very nice to meet you, James. I’m pleased to see your concern for Juliette’s safety. You should know, however, that I have no intention of hurting her. It’s just that she’s made me a promise, and I intend to see it through.” “What kind of promise?” James asks. “Yeah, what kind of promise?” Kenji cuts in, his voice loud—and angry—all of sudden. I look up, look around. Everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to answer. Adam’s eyes are wide with horror and disbelief. I meet Warner’s gaze. “I’m not leaving,” I tell him. “I never promised I would stay on base with you.” He frowns. “You’d rather stay here?” he asks. “Why?” “I need my friends,” I tell him. “And they need me. Besides, we’re all going to have to work together, so we may as well get started now. And I don’t want to have to be smuggled in and out of base,” I add. “You can just meet me here.” “Whoa—wait—what do you mean we can all work together?” Ian interrupts. “And why are you inviting him to come back here? What the hell are you guys talking about?” “What kind of promise did you make him, Juliette?” Adam’s voice is loud and accusing. I turn toward the group of them. Me, standing beside Warner, facing Adam’s angry eyes along with the confused, soon-to-be-angry faces of my friends. Oh how strange all of this has become in such a short period of time. I take a tight, bracing breath. “I’m ready to fight,” I say, addressing the entire group. “I know some of you might feel defeated; some of you might think there’s no hope left, especially not after what happened to Omega Point. But Sonya and Sara

are still out there, and they need our help. So does the rest of the world. And I haven’t come this far just to turn back now. I’m ready to take action and Warner has offered to help me.” I look directly at Kenji. “I’ve accepted his offer. I’ve promised to be his ally; to fight by his side; to kill Anderson and to take down The Reestablishment.” Kenji narrows his eyes at me and I can’t tell if he’s angry, or if he’s really, really angry. I look at the rest of my friends. “But we can all work together,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” I go on, “and I think the group of us still has a chance, especially if we combine our strengths with Warner’s. He knows things about The Reestablishment and his father that we’d never be able to know otherwise.” I swallow hard as I take in the shocked, horrified looks on the faces of those around me. “But,” I hurry to say, “if you aren’t interested in fighting back anymore, I totally understand. And if you’d rather I didn’t stay here among you, I would respect your decision. Either way, I’ve already made my choice,” I tell them. “Whether or not you choose to join me, I’ve decided to fight. I will take down The Reestablishment or I will die trying. There’s nothing left for me otherwise.” TWENTY-ONE The room is quiet for a long time. I’ve dropped my eyes, too afraid to see the looks on their faces.

Alia is the first to speak. “I’ll fight with you,” she says, her soft voice ringing strong and confident in the silence. I look up to meet her eyes and she smiles, her cheeks flushed with color and determination. But before I even have a chance to respond, Winston jumps in. “Me too,” he says. “As soon as my head stops hurting, but yeah, me too. I’ve got nothing left to lose,” he says with a shrug. “And I’ll kick some ass just to get the girls back, even if we can’t save the rest of the world.” “Same,” Brendan says, nodding at me. “I’m in, too.” Ian is shaking his head. “How the hell can we trust this guy?” he asks. “How do we know he’s not full of shit?”

“Yeah,” Lily pipes up. “This doesn’t feel right.” She focuses her eyes on Warner. “Why would you want to help any of us?” she asks him. “Since when have you ever been trustworthy?” Warner runs a hand through his hair. Smiles unkindly. Glances at me. He’s not amused. “I am not trustworthy,” Warner finally says, looking up to meet Lily’s eyes. “And I have no interest in helping you,” he says. “In fact, I think I was very clear just a moment ago when I said that I was here for Juliette. I did not sign up to help her friends, and I will make zero guarantees for your survival or your safety. So if you’re seeking reassurance,” he says, “I can, and will, offer you none.” Ian is actually smiling. Lily looks a little mollified. Kenji is shaking his head. “All right.” Ian nods. “That’s cool.” He rubs his forehead. “So what’s the game plan?” “Have you all lost your minds?” Adam explodes. “Are you forgetting who you’re talking to? He just busts down our door and demands to take Juliette away and you want to stand by his side and fight with him? The same guy who’s responsible for destroying Omega Point?” he says. “Everyone is dead because of him!” “I am not responsible for that,” Warner says sharply, his expression darkening. “That was not my call, nor did I have any idea it was happening. By the time I broke out of Omega Point and found my way back to base, my father’s plans were already under way. I was not a part of the battle, nor was I a part of the assault on Omega Point.” “It’s true,” Lily says. “The supreme is the one who ordered the air strike against Omega Point.” “Yeah, and as much as I hate this guy by default,” Winston adds, jerking a thumb at Warner, “I hate his father a whole hell of a lot more. He’s the one who kidnapped us. It was his men who held us captive; not the soldiers of Sector 45. So yeah,” Winston says, stretching back on the couch, “I’d love to watch the supreme die a slow, miserable death.” “I have to admit,” Brendan says, “I’m not often keen on revenge, but it does sound very sweet right now.” “I want to watch that bastard bleed,” Ian says.

“How nice that we all have something in common,” Warner mutters, irritated. He sighs. Looks at me. “Juliette, a word, please?” “This is bullshit!” Adam shouts. He looks around. “How can you all so easily forget yourselves? How can you forget what he’s done—what he did to me—what he did to Kenji?” Adam pivots to face me then. “How can you even look at him,” he says to me, “knowing how he treated us? He nearly murdered me—leaving me to bleed out slowly so he could take his time torturing me to death—” “Kent, man, please—you need to calm down, okay?” Kenji steps forward. “I understand that you’re pissed—I’m not happy about this either —but things get crazy in the aftermath of war. Alliances form in unlikely ways.” He shrugs. “If this is the only way to take Anderson out, maybe we should consider—” “I can’t believe this.” Adam cuts him off, looking around. “I can’t believe this is happening. You’ve all lost your minds. You’re all insane,” he says, gripping the back of his head. “This guy is a psycho—he’s a murderer—” “Adam,” I try to say. “Please—” “What’s happened to you?” He turns on me. “I don’t even know who you are anymore. I thought you were dead—I thought he’d killed you,” he says, pointing at Warner. “And now you’re standing here, teaming up with the guy who tried to ruin your life? Talking about fighting back because you have nothing left to live for? What about me?” he demands. “What about our relationship? When did that stop being enough for you?” “This isn’t about us,” I try to tell him. “Please, Adam—let me explain —” “I have to get out of here,” he says abruptly, moving toward the door. “I can’t be here right now—I can’t process all of this in one day. It’s too much,” he says. “It’s too much for me—” “Adam—” I catch his arm in one last attempt, one last effort to try and talk to him, but he breaks away. “All of this,” he says, meeting my eyes, his voice quieting to a raw, aching whisper, “was for you. I left everything I knew because I thought we were in this together. I thought it was going to be me and you.” His eyes are so dark, so deep, so hurt. Looking at him makes me want to curl up and die. “What are you doing?” he says, desperate now. “What are you thinking?”

And I realize he actually wants an answer. Because he waits. He stands there, and he waits. Waits to hear my response while everyone watches us, likely entertained by the spectacle we’ve made. I can’t believe he’s doing this to me. Here. Right now. In front of everyone. In front of Warner. I try to meet Adam’s eyes, but find I can’t hold his gaze for very long. “I don’t want to live in fear anymore,” I say, hoping I sound stronger than I feel. “I have to fight back,” I tell him. “I thought we wanted the same things.” “No—I wanted you,” he says, struggling to keep his voice steady. “That’s all I wanted. From the very beginning, Juliette. You were it. You were all I wanted.” And I can’t speak. I can’t speak I can’t cough up the words because I can’t break his heart like this but he’s waiting, he’s waiting and he’s looking at me and “I need more,” I choke out. “I wanted you, too, Adam, but I need more than that. I need to be free. Please, try to understand—” “STOP!” Adam explodes. “Stop trying to get me to understand a bunch of bullshit! I can’t deal with you anymore.” And then he grabs the jacket sitting on the sofa, hauls the door open, and slams it shut behind him. There’s a moment of absolute silence. I try to run after him. Kenji catches me around the waist, yanks me backward. Gives me a hard, knowing look. “I’ll take care of Kent. You stay here and clean up the mess you made,” he says, cocking his head at Warner. I swallow, hard. Don’t say a word. It’s only after Kenji has disappeared that I turn around to face the remaining members of our audience, and I’m still searching for the right thing to say when I hear the one voice I least expected. “Ah, Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says. “It’s so good to have you back. Things are always so much more entertaining when you’re around.” Ian bursts into tears.

TWENTY-TWO Everyone crowds around Castle at once; James practically tackles him. Ian shoves everyone else out of the way in his attempt to get closer. Castle is smiling, laughing a little. He finally looks more like the man I remember.

“I’m all right,” he’s saying. He sounds exhausted, as if the words are costing him a great deal to get out. “Thank you so much for your concern. But I’ll be all right. I just need a little more time, that’s all.” I meet his eyes. I’m afraid to approach him. “Please,” Castle says to Alia and Winston—the two standing closest on either side of him—“help me up. I’d like to greet our newest visitor.” He’s not talking about me. Castle gets to his feet with some difficulty, even with everyone scrambling to help him. The entire room suddenly feels different: lighter; happier, somehow. I hadn’t realized how much of everyone’s grief was tied up in Castle’s well-being. “Mr. Warner,” Castle says, locking eyes with him from across the room. “How very nice of you to join us.” “I’m not joining anyth—” “I always knew you would,” Castle says. He smiles a little. “And I am pleased.” Warner seems to be trying not to roll his eyes. “You may let the guns down now,” Castle says to him. “I promise I will watch them closely in your absence.” We all glance up at the ceiling. I hear Warner sigh. All at once, the guns float to the floor, settling gently onto the carpet. “Very good,” Castle says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m in desperate need of a long shower. I hope you won’t mistake my early exit for rudeness,” he adds. “It’s only that I feel quite certain we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in these next weeks.” Warner’s jaw tenses by way of response. Castle smiles. Winston and Brendan help Castle to the bathroom, while Ian shouts eagerly about grabbing him a change of clothes. Me, Warner, James, Alia, and Lily are the only ones left in the room. “Juliette?” Warner says. I glance in his direction. “A moment of your time, please? In private?”

I hesitate. “You can use my room,” James interjects. “I don’t mind.” I look at him, shocked he’d offer up his personal space so freely to the likes of me and Warner; especially after having seen his brother’s outburst just now. “Adam will be okay,” James says to me, as if reading my mind. “He’s just really stressed out. He’s worried about a lot of things. He thinks we’re going to run out of food and stuff.” “James—” “It’s really okay,” James says. “I’ll hang out with Alia and Lily.” I glance at the two girls, but their faces reveal nothing. Alia offers me only the slightest of sympathetic smiles. Lily is staring at Warner, sizing him up. I finally sigh, relenting. I follow Warner into the small storage closet, closing the door behind me. He doesn’t waste any time. “Why are you inviting your friends to join us? I told you I didn’t want to work with them.” “How did you find me?” I counter. “I never pressed the button on that pager you gave me.” Warner studies my eyes, his sharp green gaze locked on to mine as if trying to read me for clues. But the intensity of his gaze is always too much for me; I break the connection too soon, feeling untethered, somehow. “It was simple deductive reasoning,” he finally says. “Kent was the only member of your group with a life outside of Omega Point; his old home was the only place they’d have been able to retreat to without causing a disturbance. And, as such,” Warner says, “it was the first place I checked.” A slight shake of his head. “Contrary to what you might believe, love, I am not an idiot.” “I never thought you were an idiot,” I say, surprised. “I thought you were crazy,” I tell him, “but not an idiot.” I hesitate. “I actually think you’re brilliant,” I confess. “I wish I could think like you.” I look away and look back at him too quickly, feeling a lot like I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

Warner’s face clears. His eyes crinkle in amusement as he smiles. “I don’t want your friends on my team,” he says. “I don’t like them.” “I don’t care.” “They will only slow us down.” “They will give us an advantage,” I insist. “I know you don’t think they did things the right way at Omega Point, but they did know how to survive. They all have important strengths.” “They’re completely broken.” “They’re grieving,” I tell him, annoyed. “Don’t underestimate them. Castle is a natural leader,” I say. “Kenji is a genius and an excellent fighter. He acts like an idiot sometimes, but you know better than anyone else that it’s just a show. He’s smarter than all of us. Plus, Winston and Alia can design anything we need as long as they have the materials; Lily has an incredible photographic memory; Brendan can handle electricity and Winston can stretch his limbs into just about anything. And Ian . . .” I falter. “Well, Ian is . . . good for something, I’m sure.” Warner laughs a little, his smile softening until it disappears altogether. His features settle into an uncertain expression. “And Kent?” Warner finally asks. I feel my face pale. “What about him?” “What is he good for?” I hesitate before answering. “Adam is a great soldier.” “Is that all?” My heart is pounding so hard. Too hard. Warner looks away, carefully neutralizes his expression, his tone. “You care for him.” It’s not a question. “Yes,” I manage to say. “Of course I do.” “And what does that entail, exactly?” “I don’t know what you mean,” I lie. Warner is staring at the wall, holding himself very still, his eyes revealing nothing of what he’s really thinking, what he’s feeling. “Do you love him?” I’m stunned. I can’t even imagine what it must cost him to ask this question so directly. I almost admire him for being brave enough to do it.

But for the first time, I’m not really sure what to say. If this were one week ago, two weeks ago, I would’ve answered without hesitation. I would’ve known, definitively, that I loved Adam, and I wouldn’t have been afraid to say so. But now I can’t help but wonder if I even know what love is; if what I felt for Adam was love or just a mix of deep affection and physical attraction. Because if I loved him—if I really, truly loved him—would I hesitate now? Would I so easily be able to detach myself from his life? His pain? I’ve worried so much about Adam these past weeks—the effects of his training, the news of his father—but I don’t know if it’s been out of love, or if it’s been out of guilt. He left everything for me; because he wanted to be with me. But as much as it pains me to admit it, I know I didn’t run away to be with him. Adam wasn’t my main reason; he wasn’t the driving force. I ran away for me. Because I wanted to be free. “Juliette?” Warner’s soft whisper brings me back to the present, hauls me up and into myself, jarring my consciousness back to reality. I’m afraid to dwell on the truths I’ve just uncovered. I meet Warner’s eyes. “Yes?” “Do you love him?” he asks again, more quietly this time. And I suddenly have to force myself to say three words I never, ever thought I’d say. “I don’t know.” Warner closes his eyes. He exhales, the tension clear in his shoulders and in the line of his jaw and when he finally looks at me again there are stories in his eyes, thoughts and feelings and whispers of things I’ve never even seen before. Truths he might never bring himself to say; impossible things and unbelievable things and an abundance of feeling I’ve never thought him capable of. His whole body seems to relax in relief. I don’t know this boy standing before me. He’s a perfect stranger, an entirely different being; the type of person I might never have known if my parents hadn’t tossed me away. “Juliette,” he whispers. I’m only now realizing just how close he is. I could press my face against his neck if I wanted to. Could place my hands on his chest if I wanted to.

If I wanted to. “I’d really love for you to come back with me,” he says. “I can’t,” I say to him, heart racing suddenly. “I have to stay here.” “But it’s not practical,” he says. “We need to plan. We need to talk strategy—it could take days—” “I already have a plan.” His eyebrows fly up and I tilt my head, fixing him with a hard look before I reach for the door. TWENTY-THREE Kenji is waiting on the other side.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” he says. “Get your asses out here, right now.” I head straight into the living room, eager to put distance between me and whatever keeps happening to my head when Warner gets too close. I need air. I need a new brain. I need to jump out of a window and catch a ride with a dragon to a world far from here. But the moment I look up and try to steady myself, I find Adam staring at me. Blinking like he’s starting to see something he wishes he could unsee, and I feel my face flush so fast that for a moment I’m surprised I’m not standing in a toilet. “Adam,” I hear myself say. “No—it’s not—” “I can’t even talk to you right now.” He’s shaking his head, his voice strangled. “I can’t even be near you right now—” “Please,” I try to say. “We were just talking—” “You were just talking? Alone? In my brother’s bedroom?” He’s holding his jacket in his hands. He tosses it onto the couch. Laughs like he might be losing his mind. Runs a hand through his hair and glances up at the ceiling. Stares back at me. “What the hell is going on, Juliette?” he asks, his jaw tensing. “What is happening right now?” “Can’t we talk about this in private—?” “No.” His chest is heaving. “I want to talk about this right now. I don’t care who hears it.” My eyes immediately go to Warner. He’s leaning against the wall just outside James’s room, arms crossed loosely at his chest. He’s watching

Adam with a calm, focused interest. Warner stills suddenly, as if he can feel my eyes on him. He looks up, looks at me for exactly two seconds before turning away. He seems to be laughing. “Why do you keep looking at him?” Adam demands, eyes flashing. “Why are you even looking at him at all? Why are you so interested in some demented psycho—” I’m so tired of this. I’m tired of all the secrets and all my inner turmoil and all the guilt and confusion I’ve felt over these two brothers. More than anything else, I don’t like this angry Adam in front of me. I try to talk to him and he won’t listen to me. I try to reason with him and he attacks me. I try to be honest with him and he won’t believe me. I have no idea what else to do. “What’s really going on between you guys?” Adam is still asking me. “What’s really happening, Juliette? I need you to stop lying to me—” “Adam.” I cut him off. I’m surprised by how calm I sound. “There’s so much we need to be discussing right now,” I say to him, “and this isn’t it. Our personal problems don’t need to be shared with everyone.” “So you admit it then?” he says, somehow angrier. “That we have problems, that something is wrong—” “Something’s been wrong for a while,” I say, exasperated. “I can’t even talk to y—” “Yeah, ever since we dragged this asshole back to Omega Point,” Adam says. He turns to glare at Kenji. “It was your idea—” “Hey, don’t pull me into your bullshit, okay?” Kenji counters. “Don’t blame me for your issues.” “We were fine until she started spending so much goddamn time with him—,” Adam begins to say. “She spent just as much time with him while we were still on base, genius—” “Stop,” I say. “Please understand: Warner is here to help us. He wants to take down The Reestablishment and kill the supreme just like we do— he’s not our enemy anymore—” “He’s going to help us?” Adam asks, eyes wide, feigning surprise. “Oh, you mean just like he helped us the last time he said he was going to fight on our side? Right before he broke out of Omega Point and bailed?”

Adam laughs out loud, disbelieving. “I can’t believe you’re falling for all of his bullshit—” “This isn’t some kind of trick, Adam—I’m not stupid—” “Are you sure?” “What?” I can’t believe he just insulted me. “I asked you if you were sure,” he snaps. “Because you’re acting pretty damn stupid right now, so I don’t know if I can trust your judgment anymore.” “What is wrong with you—” “What’s wrong with you?” he shouts back, eyes blazing. “You don’t do this. You don’t act like this,” he says. “You’re like a completely different person—” “Me?” I demand, my voice rising. I’ve been trying so hard to control my temper but I just don’t think I can anymore. He says he wants to have this conversation in front of everyone? Fine. We’ll have this conversation in front of everyone. “If I’ve changed,” I say to him, “then so have you. Because the Adam I remember is kind and gentle and he’d never insult me like this. I know things have been rough for you lately, and I’m trying to understand, to be patient, to give you space—but these last few weeks have been rough on all of us. We’re all going through a hard time but we don’t put each other down. We don’t hurt each other. But you can’t even be nice to Kenji,” I tell him. “You used to be friends with Kenji, remember? Now every time he so much as cracks a joke you look at him like you want to kill him, and I don’t know why—” “You’re going to defend everyone in this room except for me, aren’t you?” Adam says. “You love Kenji so much, you spend all your goddamn time with Kenji—” “He’s my friend!” “I’m your boyfriend!” “No,” I tell him. “You’re not.” Adam is shaking, fists clenched. “I can’t even believe you right now.” “We broke up, Adam.” My voice is steady. “We broke up a month ago.” “Right,” Adam says. “We broke up because you said you loved me. Because you said you didn’t want to hurt me.”

“I don’t,” I tell him. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve never wanted to hurt you.” “What the hell do you think you’re doing right now?” he shouts. “I don’t know how to talk to you,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I don’t understand—” “No—you don’t understand anything,” he snaps. “You don’t understand me, you don’t understand yourself, and you don’t understand that you’re acting like a stupid child who’s allowed herself to be brainwashed by a psychopath.” Time seems to stand still. Everything I want to say and everything I’ve wished to say begins to take shape, falling to the floor and scrambling upright. Paragraphs and paragraphs begin building walls around me, blocking and justifying as they find ways to fit together, linking and weaving and leaving no room for escape. And every single space between every unspoken word clambers up and into my open mouth, down my throat and into my chest, filling me with so much emptiness I think I might just float away. I’m breathing. So hard. A throat clears. “Yes, right, I’m really sorry to interrupt,” Warner says, stepping forward. “But Juliette, I need to get going. Are you sure you want to stay here?” I freeze. “GET OUT,” Adam shouts. “Get the hell out of my house, you piece of shit. And don’t come back here.” “Well,” Warner says, cocking his head at me. “Never mind. It looks like you don’t really have a choice.” He holds out his hand. “Shall we?” “You’re not taking her anywhere.” Adam turns on him. “She’s not leaving with you, and she’s not partnering up with you. Now get lost.” “Adam. STOP.” My voice is angrier than I mean it to be, but I can’t help it anymore. “I don’t need your permission. I’m not going to live like this. I’m not hiding anymore. You don’t have to come with me—you don’t even have to understand,” I tell him. “But if you loved me, you wouldn’t stand in my way.” Warner is smiling. Adam notices.

“Is there something you want to say?” Adam turns on him. “God, no,” Warner says. “Juliette doesn’t require my assistance. And you might not have realized it yet, but it’s obvious to everyone else that you’ve lost this fight, Kent.” Adam snaps. He charges forward, fist pulled back and ready to swing, and it all happens so quickly I only have time to gasp before I hear a sharp crack. Adam’s fist is frozen only inches from Warner’s face. It’s caught in Warner’s hand. Adam is shocked into silence, his whole body shaking from the unspent energy. Warner leans into his brother’s face, whispers, “You really don’t want to fight me, you idiot,” and hurls Adam’s fist back with so much force that Adam flies backward, catching himself just before hitting the floor. Adam is up. Bolting across the room. Angrier. Kenji tackles him. Adam is shouting for Kenji to let him go, to stop getting involved, and Kenji is yanking Adam across the room against his will. He somehow manages to haul open the front door, and pulls himself and Adam outside. The door slams shut behind them. TWENTY-FOUR James, is my first thought.

I spin around, searching the room for him, hoping he’s all right, only to find that Lily has already had the foresight to take him into his room. Everyone else is staring at me. “What the hell was that?” Ian is the first to break the silence. He, Brendan, and Winston are all gaping at me. Alia is standing off to the side, arms wrapped around her body. Castle must still be in the shower. I flinch as someone touches my shoulder. Warner. He leans into my ear, speaking softly so only I can hear him. “It’s getting late, love, and I really must get back to base.” A pause. “And I’m sorry to keep asking, but are you certain you want to stay here?”

I look up to meet his eyes. Nod. “I need to talk to Kenji,” I tell him. “I don’t know how everyone else feels anymore, but I don’t want to do this without Kenji.” I hesitate. “I mean, I can,” I say, “if I have to. But I don’t want to.” Warner nods. Looks past me at a point behind my head. “Right.” He frowns a little. “I expect one day you’ll tell me what you find so incredibly appealing about him?” “Who? Kenji?” Another nod. “Oh,” I say, blinking in surprise. “He’s my best friend.” Warner looks at me. Raises an eyebrow. I stare back. “Is that going to be a problem?” He stares into his hands, shakes his head. “No, of course not,” he says quietly. He clears his throat. “So, I’ll come back tomorrow? Thirteen hundred hours.” “Thirteen hundred hours . . . from now?” Warner laughs. Looks up. “One o’clock in the afternoon.” “Okay.” He looks into my eyes then. Smiles for just a moment too long before he turns around and walks out the door. Without a word to anyone. Ian is gaping at me. Again. “I’m—right, I’m so confused,” Brendan says, blinking. “Right then— what just happened? Was he smiling at you? Genuinely smiling at you?” “Looked to me like he was in love with you,” Winston says, frowning. “But that’s probably just because my head is messed up, right?” I’m doing my best to look at the wall. Kenji slams the front door open. Steps inside. Alone. “You,” he says, pointing at me, eyes narrowed. “Get your ass over here, right now. You and me,” he says, “we need to talk.” TWENTY-FIVE I shuffle over to the door and Kenji grabs my arm to lead me outside. He turns back and shouts, “Get yourselves some dinner” to everyone else, just before we leave.

We’re standing on the landing just outside Adam’s house, and I realize for the first time that there are more stairwells leading up. To somewhere. “Come on, princess,” Kenji says. “Follow me.” And we climb. Four, five flights of stairs. Maybe eight. Or fifty. I have no idea. All I know is that by the time we reach the top I’m both out of breath and embarrassed for being out of breath. When I’m finally able to inhale normally, I chance a look around. Incredible. We’re on the roof, outside, where the world is pitch-black but for the stars and the sliver of moon someone has hung from the sky. Sometimes I wonder if the planets are still up there, still aligned, still managing to get along after all this time. Maybe we could learn a thing or two from them. The wind tangles around us and I shiver as my body adjusts to the temperature. “Come here,” Kenji says to me. He motions to the ledge of the roof, and sits down right on the edge, legs swinging over what would be his fastest path to death. “Don’t worry,” he says when he sees my face. “It’ll be fine. I sit here a lot.” When I’m finally sitting next to him, I dare to look down. My feet are dangling from the top of the world. Kenji drops an arm around me. Rubs my shoulder to keep me warm. “So,” he says. “When’s the big day? Have you set a date yet?” “What?” I startle. “For what?” “For the day you’re going to stop being such a dumbass,” he says, shooting me a sharp look. “Oh.” I cringe. Kick at the air. “Yeah, that’ll probably never happen.” “Yeah, you’re probably right.” “Shut up.” “You know,” he says, “I don’t know where Adam is.” I stiffen. Sit up. “Is he okay?” “He’ll be fine,” Kenji says with a resigned sigh. “He’s just super pissed off. And hurt. And embarrassed. And all that emotional shit.” I drop my eyes again. Kenji’s arm hangs loosely around my neck, and he pulls me closer, tucking me into his side. I rest my head on his chest. Moments and minutes and memories build and break between us. “I really thought you guys were solid,” Kenji finally says to me.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Me too.” A few seconds jump off the roof. “I’m such a horrible person,” I say, so quietly. “Yeah, well.” Kenji sighs. I groan. Drop my head into my hands. Kenji sighs again. “Don’t worry, Kent was being an asshole, too.” He takes a deep breath. “But damn, princess.” Kenji looks at me, shakes his head an inch, looks back into the night. “Seriously? Warner?” I look up. “What are you talking about?” Kenji raises an eyebrow at me. “I know for a fact that you’re not stupid, so please don’t act like you are.” I roll my eyes. “I really don’t want to have this conversation again—” “I don’t care if you don’t want to have this conversation again. You have to talk about this. You can’t just fall for a guy like Warner without telling me why. I need to make sure he didn’t stick a chip in your head or someshit.” I’m silent for almost a full minute. “I’m not falling for Warner,” I say quietly. “Sure you aren’t.” “I’m not,” I insist. “I’m just—I don’t know.” I sigh. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.” “They’re called hormones.” I shoot him a dirty look. “I’m serious.” “Me too.” He cocks his head at me. “That’s like, biological and shit. Scientific. Maybe your lady bits are scientifically confused.” “My lady bits?” “Oh, I’m sorry”—Kenji pretends to look offended—“would you rather I use the proper anatomical terminology? Because your lady bits do not scare me—” “Yeah, no thanks.” I manage to laugh a little, my sad attempt dissolving into a sigh. God, everything is changing. “He’s just . . . so different,” I hear myself say. “Warner. He’s not what you guys think. He’s sweet. And kind. And his father is so, so horrible to him. You can’t even imagine,” I trail off, thinking of the scars I saw on Warner’s back. “And more than anything else . . . I don’t know,” I say,

staring into the darkness. “He really . . . believes in me?” I glance up at Kenji. “Does that sound stupid?” Kenji shoots me a doubtful look. “Adam believes in you, too.” “Yeah,” I say, looking into the darkness. “I guess.” “What do you mean, you guess? The kid thinks you invented air.” I almost smile. “I don’t know which version of me Adam likes. I’m not the same person I was when we were in school. I’m not that girl anymore. I think he wants that,” I say, glancing up at Kenji. “I think he wants to pretend I’m the girl who doesn’t really speak and spends most of her time being scared. The kind of girl he needs to protect and take care of all the time. I don’t know if he likes who I am now. I don’t know if he can handle it.” “So the minute you opened your mouth you just shattered all his dreams, huh?” “I will push you off the roof.” “Yeah, I can definitely see why Adam wouldn’t like you.” I roll my eyes. Kenji laughs. Leans back and pulls me down with him. The concrete is under our heads now, the sky draped all around us. It’s like I’ve been dropped into a vat of ink. “You know, it actually makes a lot of sense,” Kenji finally says. “What does?” “I don’t know, I mean—you’ve been locked up basically forever, right? It’s not like you were busy touching a bunch of dudes your whole life.” “What?” “Like—Adam was the first guy who was ever . . . nice to you. Hell, he was probably the first person in the world who was nice to you. And he can touch you. And he’s not, you know, disgusting looking.” A pause. “I can’t blame you, to be honest. It’s hard being lonely. We all get a little desperate sometimes.” “Okay,” I say slowly. “I am just saying,” Kenji says, “that I guess it makes sense you’d fall for him. Like, by default. Because if not him, who else? Your options were super limited.” “Oh,” I say, quietly now. “Right. By default.” I try to laugh and fail, swallowing hard against the emotion caught in my throat. “Sometimes I’m

not sure I even know what’s real anymore.” “What do you mean?” I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I whisper, mostly to myself. A heavy pause. “Did you really love him . . . ?” I hesitate before answering. “I think so? I don’t know?” I sigh. “Is it possible to love someone and then stop loving them? I don’t think I even know what love is.” Kenji blows out a breath. Runs a hand through his hair. “Well shit,” he mutters. “Have you ever been in love?” I ask, turning on my side to look at him. He stares up at the sky. Blinks a few times. “Nope.” I roll back, disappointed. “Oh.” “This is so depressing,” Kenji says. “Yeah.” “We suck.” “Yeah.” “So tell me again why you like Warner so much? Did he, like, take all his clothes off or something?” “What?” I gasp, so glad it’s too dark for him to see me blushing. “No,” I say quickly. “No, he—” “Damn, princess.” Kenji laughs, hard. “I had no idea.” I punch him in the arm. “Hey—be gentle with me!” he protests, rubbing at the sore spot. “I’m weaker than you!” “You know, I can sort of control it now,” I tell him, beaming. “I can moderate my strength levels.” “Good for you. I’ll buy you a balloon the minute the world stops shitting on itself.” “Thank you,” I say, pleased. “You’re a good teacher.” “I’m good at everything,” he points out. “Humble, too.” “And really good-looking.” I choke on a laugh. “You still haven’t answered my question,” Kenji says. He shifts, folds his hands behind his head. “Why do you like the rich boy so much?”

I take a tight breath. Focus on the brightest star in the sky. “I like the way I feel about myself when I’m with him,” I say quietly. “Warner thinks I’m strong and smart and capable and he actually values my opinion. He makes me feel like his equal—like I can accomplish just as much as he can, and more. And if I do something incredible, he’s not even surprised. He expects it. He doesn’t treat me like I’m some fragile little girl who needs to be protected all the time.” Kenji snorts. “That’s because you’re not fragile,” Kenji says. “If anything, everyone needs to protect themselves from you. You’re like a freaking beast,” he says. Then adds, “I mean, you know—like, a cute beast. A little beast that tears shit up and breaks the earth and sucks the life out of people.” “Nice.” “I’m here for you.” “I can tell.” “So that’s it?” Kenji says. “You just like him for his personality, huh?” “What?” “All of this,” Kenji says, waving a hand in the air, “has nothing to do with him being all sexy and shit and him being able to touch you all the time?” “You think Warner is sexy?” “That is not what I said.” I laugh. “I do like his face.” “And the touching?” “What touching?” Kenji looks at me, eyes wide, eyebrows up. “I am not Adam, okay? You can’t bullshit me with your innocent act. You tell me this guy can touch you, and that he’s into you, and you’re clearly into him, and you spent the night in his bed last night, and then I walk in on the two of you in a freaking closet—no wait, I’m sorry, not a closet—a child’s bedroom —and you’re telling me there has been zero touching?” He stares at me. “Is that what you’re telling me?” “No,” I whisper, face on fire. “You’re just growing up so quickly. You’re getting all excited about being able to touch shit for the first time, and I just want to be sure you are observing sanitary regulations—” “Stop being so disgusting.”

“Hey—I’m just looking out for y—” “Kenji?” “Yeah?” I take a deep breath. Try to count the stars. “What am I going to do?” “About what?” I hesitate. “About everything.” Kenji makes a strange sound. “Shit if I know.” “I don’t want to do this without you,” I whisper. He leans back. “Who said you’re going to do anything without me?” My heart skips a few beats. I stare at him. “What?” he asks. Raises his eyebrows. “You’re surprised?” “You’ll fight with me?” I ask him, hardly breathing. “Fight back with me? Even if it’s with Warner?” Kenji smiles. Looks up at the sky. “Hell yeah,” he says. “Really?” “I’m here for you, kid. That’s what friends are for.” TWENTY-SIX When we make it back to the house, Castle is standing in the far corner, talking to Winston.

Kenji freezes in the doorframe. I’d forgotten Kenji hadn’t had a chance to see Castle on his feet yet, and I feel a true ache as I look at him. I’m a terrible friend. All I do is dump my problems on him, never thinking to ask him about his own. He must have so much on his mind. Kenji moves across the room in a daze, not stopping until he reaches Castle. He puts a hand on his shoulder. Castle turns around. The whole room stops to watch. Castle smiles. Nods, just once. Kenji pulls him into a fierce hug, holding on for only a few seconds before breaking away. The two stare at each other with some kind of silent recognition. Castle rests a hand on Kenji’s arm. Kenji grins. And then he spins around and smiles at me, and I’m suddenly so happy, so relieved and thrilled and overjoyed that Kenji gets to sleep with a lighter heart tonight. I feel like I might burst from happiness.

The door slams open. I turn around. Adam steps inside. My heart deflates. Adam doesn’t even look at me as he walks in. “James,” he says, crossing the room. “Let’s go, buddy. It’s time for bed.” James nods and darts into his bedroom. Adam follows him in. The door closes behind them. “He’s home,” Castle says. He looks relieved. No one says anything for a second. “All right, we should get ready for bed, too,” Kenji says, looking around. He walks over to the corner and grabs a stack of blankets. Passes them out. “Does everyone sleep on the floor?” I ask. Kenji nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Warner wasn’t wrong. It really is like a slumber party.” I try to laugh. Can’t. Everyone gets busy setting up blankets on the ground. Winston, Brendan, and Ian take over one side of the room, Alia and Lily the other. Castle sleeps on the couch. Kenji points to the middle. “You and me go there.” “Romantic.” “You wish.” “Where does Adam sleep?” I ask, lowering my voice. Kenji stops midway through tossing down a blanket. Looks up. “Kent’s not coming back out,” he says to me. “He sleeps with James. Poor kid has really bad nightmares every night.” “Oh,” I say, surprised and ashamed of myself for not remembering this. “Of course.” Of course he does. Kenji must know this firsthand, too. They all used to room together at Omega Point. Winston hits a switch. The lights go out. There’s a rustle of blankets. “If I hear any of you talk,” Winston says, “I will personally send Brendan over to kick you in the face.” “I am not going to kick anyone in the face.” “Kick yourself in the face, Brendan.” “I don’t even know why we’re friends.”

“Please shut up,” Lily shouts from her corner. “You heard the lady,” Winston says. “Everyone shut up.” “You’re the one talking, dumbass,” Ian says. “Brendan, kick him in the face, please.” “Shut up, mate, I am not kicking any—” “Good night,” Castle says. Everyone stops breathing. “Good night, sir,” Kenji whispers. I roll over so I’m face-to-face with Kenji. He grins at me in the dark. I grin back. “Good night,” I mouth. He winks at me. My eyes fall shut. TWENTY-SEVEN Adam is ignoring me.

He hasn’t said a word about yesterday; doesn’t betray even a hint of anger or frustration. He talks to everyone, laughs with James, helps get breakfast together. He also pretends I don’t exist. I tried saying good morning to him and he pretended not to hear me. Or maybe he really didn’t hear me. Maybe he’s managed to train his brain not to hear or see me at all anymore. I feel like I’m being punched in the heart. Repeatedly. “So what do you guys do all day?” I ask, trying desperately to make conversation. We’re all sitting on the floor, eating bowls of granola. We woke up late, ate breakfast late. No one has bothered to clean up the blankets yet, and Warner is supposed to be here in about an hour. “Nothing,” Ian says. “We try not to die, mostly,” Winston says. “It’s boring as hell,” Lily says. “Why?” Kenji asks. “You have something in mind?” “Oh,” I say. “No, I just . . .” I hesitate. “Well, Warner’s going to be here in an hour, so I wasn’t sure if—”

Something crashes in the kitchen. A bowl. In the sink. Silverware flying everywhere. Adam steps into the living room. His eyes. “He’s not coming back here.” These, the first five words Adam says to me. “But I already told him,” I try to say. “He’s going to—” “This is my home,” he says, eyes flashing. “I won’t let him in here.” I’m staring at Adam, heart beating out of my chest. I never thought he’d be capable of looking at me like he hates me. Really, really hates me. “Kent, man—,” I hear Kenji say. “NO.” “C’mon bro, it doesn’t have to be like this—” “If you want to see him so badly,” Adam says to me, “you can get the hell out of my house. But he’s not coming back here. Not ever.” I blink. This isn’t really happening. “Where is she supposed to go?” Kenji says to him. “You want her to stand on the side of the street? So someone can report her and get her killed? Are you out of your mind?” “I don’t give a shit anymore,” Adam says. “She can go do whatever the hell she wants.” He turns to me again. “You want to be with him?” He points to the door. “Go. Drop dead.” Ice is eating away at my body. I stumble to my feet. My legs are unsteady. I’m nodding and I don’t know why but I can’t seem to stop. I make my way to the door. “Juliette—” I spin around, even though it’s Kenji calling my name, not Adam. “Don’t go anywhere,” Kenji says to me. “Don’t move. This is ridiculous.” This has spiraled out of control. This isn’t just a fight anymore. There is pure, unadulterated hatred in Adam’s eyes, and I’m so blindsided by the impossibility of it—so thrown off guard—that I don’t know how to react. I never could’ve anticipated this—never could’ve imagined things could turn out this way. The real Adam wouldn’t kick me out of his house like this. He wouldn’t talk to me like this. Not the Adam I know. The Adam I thought I

knew. “Kent,” Kenji says again, “you need to calm down. There is nothing going on between her and Warner, okay? She’s just trying to do what she thinks is right—” “Bullshit!” Adam explodes. “That’s bullshit, and you know it, and you’re a jackass for denying it. She’s been lying to me this whole damn time—” “You guys aren’t even together, man, you can’t lay a claim on her—” “We never broke up!” Adam shouts. “Of course you did,” Kenji snaps back. “Every single person at Point heard your melodramatic ass in the freaking tunnels. We all know you broke up. So stop fighting it.” “That didn’t count as a breakup,” Adam says, his voice rough. “We still loved each other—” “Okay, you know what? Whatever. I don’t care.” Kenji waves his hands, rolls his eyes. “But we’re in the middle of a war right now. For shit’s sake, she was shot in the chest a couple days ago and almost died. Don’t you think it’s possible she’s really trying to think of something bigger than just the two of you? Warner’s crazy, but he can help—” “She looks at that psycho like she’s in love with him,” Adam barks back. “You think I don’t know what that look is? You think I wouldn’t be able to tell? She used to look at me like that. I know her—I know her so well—” “Maybe you don’t.” “Stop defending her!” “You don’t even know what you’re saying,” Kenji tells him. “You’re acting crazy—” “I was happier,” Adam says, “when I thought she was dead.” “You don’t mean that. Don’t say things like that, man. Once you say that kind of shit you can’t take it back—” “Oh, I mean it,” Adam says. “I really, really mean it.” He finally looks at me. Fists clenched. “Thinking you were dead,” he says to me, “was so much better. It hurt so much less than this.” The walls are moving. I’m seeing spots, blinking at nothing. This isn’t really happening, I keep telling myself. This is just a terrible nightmare, and when I wake up Adam will be gentle and kind and wonderful again. Because he isn’t cruel like this. Not

to me. Never to me. “You, of all people,” Adam says to me. He looks so disgusted. “I trusted you—told you things I never should’ve told you—and now you’re going out of your way to throw it all back in my face. I can’t believe you’d do this to me. That you’d fall for him. What the hell is wrong with you?” he demands, his voice rising in pitch. “How sick in the head do you have to be?” I’m so afraid to speak. So afraid to move my lips. I’m so scared that if I move even an inch, my body will snap in half and everyone will see that my insides are made up of nothing but all the tears I’m swallowing back right now. Adam shakes his head. Laughs a sad, twisted laugh. “You won’t even deny it,” he says. “Unbelievable.” “Leave her alone, Kent,” Kenji says suddenly, his voice deathly sharp. “I’m serious.” “This is none of your business—” “You’re being a dick—” “You think I give a shit what you think?” Adam turns on him. “This isn’t your fight, Kenji. Just because she’s too much of a coward to say anything doesn’t mean you have to defend her—” I feel like I’ve stepped outside of myself. Like my body has collapsed onto the floor and I’m looking on, watching as Adam transforms into a completely different human being. Every word. Every insult he hurls at me seems to fracture my bones. Pretty soon I’ll be nothing but blood and a beating heart. “I’m leaving,” Adam is saying. “I’m leaving, and when I come back, I want her gone.” Don’t cry, I keep saying to myself. Don’t cry. This isn’t real. “You and me,” Adam is saying to me now, his voice so rough, so angry, “we’re done. We’re finished,” he snaps. “I never want to see you again. Not anywhere in this world, and definitely not in my own goddamn house.” He stares at me, chest heaving. “So get the hell out. Get out before I get back.” He stalks across the room. Grabs a coat. Yanks the door open.

The walls shake as he slams it shut. TWENTY-EIGHT I’m standing in the middle of the room, staring at nothing.

I’m suddenly freezing. My hands, I think, are shaking. Or maybe it’s my bones. Maybe my bones are shaking. I move mechanically, so slowly, my mind still fuzzy. I’m vaguely aware that someone might be saying something to me, but I’m too focused on getting my coat because I’m so cold. It’s so cold in here. I really need my jacket. And maybe my gloves. I can’t stop shivering. I pull my coat on. Shove my hands into the pockets. I feel like someone might be talking to me but I can’t hear anything through the weird haze muting my senses. I clench my fists and my fingers fumble against a piece of plastic. The pager. I’d almost forgotten. I pull it out of my pocket. It’s a tiny little thing; a thin, black rectangle with a button set flush against the length of it. I press it without thinking. I press it over and over and over again, because the action calms me. Soothes me, somehow. Click click. I like the repetitive motion. Click. Click click. I don’t know what else to do. Click. Hands land on my shoulders. I turn around. Castle is standing just behind me, his eyes heavy with concern. “You’re not going to leave,” he says to me. “We’ll work things out. It’ll be all right.” “No.” My tongue is dust. My teeth have crumbled away. “I have to go.” I can’t stop pressing the button on this pager. Click. Click click. “Come sit down,” Castle is saying to me. “Adam is upset, but he’ll be okay. I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said.” “I’m pretty sure he did,” Ian says. Castle shoots him a sharp look.

“You can’t leave,” says Winston. “I thought we were going to kick some ass together. You promised.” “Yeah,” Lily pipes up, trying to sound upbeat. But her eyes are wary, pulled together in fear or concern and I realize she’s terrified for me. Not of me. For me. It’s the strangest sensation. Click click click. Click click. “If you go,” she’s saying, trying to smile, “we’ll have to live like this forever. And I don’t want to live with a bunch of smelly guys for the rest of my life.” Click. Click click. “Don’t go,” James says. He looks so sad. So serious. “I’m sorry Adam was mean to you. But I don’t want you to die,” he says. “And I don’t wish you were dead. I swear I don’t.” James. Sweet James. His eyes break my heart. “I can’t stay.” My voice sounds strange to me. Broken. “He really meant what he said—” “We’ll be a sad, sorry lot if you leave.” Brendan cuts me off. “And I have to agree with Lily. I don’t want to live like this for much longer.” “But how—” The front door flies open. “JULIETTE—Juliette—” I spin around. Warner is standing there, face flushed, chest rising and falling, staring at me like I might be a ghost. He strides across the room before I have a chance to say a word and cups my face in his hands, his eyes searching me. “Are you okay?” he’s saying. “God—are you okay? What happened? Are you all right?” He’s here. He’s here and all I want to do is fall apart but I don’t. I won’t. “Thank you,” I manage to say to him. “Thank you for coming—” He wraps me up in his arms, not caring about the eight sets of eyes watching us. He just holds me, one arm tight around my waist, the other

held to the back of my head. My face is buried in his chest and the warmth of him is so familiar to me now. Oddly comforting. He runs his hand up and down my back, tilts his head toward mine. “What’s wrong, love?” he whispers. “What happened? Please tell me—” I blink. “Do you want me to take you back?” I don’t answer. I don’t know what I want or need to do anymore. Everyone is telling me to stay, but this isn’t their home. This is Adam’s home, and it’s so clear he hates me now. But I also don’t want to leave my friends. I don’t want to leave Kenji. “Do you want me to leave?” Warner asks. “No,” I say too quickly. “No.” Warner leans back, just a little. “Tell me what you want,” he says desperately. “Tell me what to do,” he says, “and I’ll do it.” “This is, by far, the craziest shit I have ever seen,” Kenji says. “I really never would’ve believed it. Not in a million years.” “It’s like a soap opera.” Ian nods. “But with worse acting.” “I think it’s kind of sweet,” Winston says. I jerk back, half spinning around. Everyone is staring at us. Winston is the only one smiling. “What’s going on?” Warner asks them. “Why does she look like she’s about to cry?” No one answers. “Where’s Kent?” Warner asks, eyes narrowing as he reads their faces. “What did he do to her?” “He’s out,” Lily says. “He left a little bit ago.” Warner’s eyes darken as he processes the information. He turns to me. “Please tell me you don’t want to stay here anymore.” I drop my head into my hands. “Everyone wants to help—to fight— except for Adam. But they can’t leave. And I don’t want to leave them behind.” Warner sighs. Closes his eyes. “Then stay,” he says gently. “If that’s what you want. Stay here. I can always meet you.” “I can’t,” I tell him. “I have to go. I’m not allowed to come back here again.”

“What?” Anger. In and out of his eyes. “What do you mean you’re not allowed?” “Adam doesn’t want me to stay here anymore. I have to be gone before he gets back.” Warner’s jaw tightens. He stares at me for what feels like a century. I can almost see him thinking—his mind working at an impossible rate—to find a solution. “Okay,” he finally says. “Okay.” He exhales. “Kishimoto,” he says all at once, never breaking eye contact with me. “Present, sir.” Warner tries not to roll his eyes as he turns toward Kenji. “I will set up your group in my private training quarters on base. I will require a day to work out the details, but I will make sure you are granted easy access and clearance to enter the grounds upon arrival. You will make yourself and your team invisible and follow my lead. You are free to stay in these quarters until we are ready to proceed with the first stage of our plan.” A pause. “Will this arrangement work for you?” Kenji actually looks disgusted. “Hell no.” “Why not?” “You’re going to lock us up in your ‘private training quarters’?” Kenji says, making air quotes with his fingers. “Why don’t you just say you’re going to put us in a cage and kill us slowly? You think I’m a moron? What reason would I have to believe that kind of shit?” “I will make sure you are fed well and regularly,” Warner says by way of response. “Your accommodations will be simple, but they will not be simpler than this,” he says, gesturing to the room. “The arrangement will provide us ample opportunity to meet and structure our next moves. You must know that you’re putting everyone at risk by staying on unregulated territory. You and your friends will be safer with me.” “Why would you do that, though?” Ian asks. “Why would you want to help us and feed us and keep us alive? That doesn’t make any sense—” “It doesn’t need to make sense.” “Of course it does,” Lily counters. Her eyes are hard, angry. “We’re not going to walk onto a military base just to get ourselves killed,” she snaps. “This could be some sick trick.” “Fine,” Warner says. “Fine, what?” Lily asks. “Don’t come.”

“Oh.” Lily blinks. Warner turns to Kenji. “You are officially refusing my offer, then?” “Yeah, no thanks,” Kenji says. Warner nods. Looks to me. “Should we get going?” “But—no—” I’m panicking now, looking from Warner to Kenji and back to Warner again. “I can’t just leave—I can’t just never see them again—” I turn to Kenji. “You’re just going to stay here?” I ask. “And I’ll never see you again?” “You can stay here with us.” Kenji crosses his arms against his chest. “You don’t have to go.” “You know I can’t stay,” I tell him, angry and hurt. “You know Adam meant what he said—he’ll go crazy if he comes back and I’m still here—” “So you’re just going to leave, then?” Kenji says sharply. “You’re going to walk away from all of us”—he gestures to everyone—“just because Adam decided to be a douchebag? You’re trading all of us in for Warner?” “Kenji—I’m not—I have nowhere else to live! What am I supposed to —” “Stay.” “Adam will throw me out—” “No he won’t,” Kenji says. “We won’t let him.” “I won’t force myself on him. I won’t beg him. Let me at least leave with a shred of dignity—” Kenji throws his arms in the air in frustration. “This is bullshit!” “Come with me,” I say to him. “Please—I want us to stay together—” “We can’t,” he says. “We can’t risk that, J. I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” he says, gesturing between me and Warner. “Maybe he really is different with you, I don’t know, whatever—but I can’t put all of our lives at risk based on emotions and an assumption. Maybe he cares about you,” Kenji says, “but he doesn’t give a shit about the rest of us.” He looks at Warner. “Do you?” “Do I what?” Warner asks. “Do you care about any of us? About our survival—our well-being?” “No.” Kenji almost laughs. “Well at least you’re honest.”

“My offer, however, still stands. And you’re an idiot to refuse,” Warner says. “You’ll all die out here, and you know that better than I do.” “We’ll take our chances.” “No,” I gasp. “Kenji—” “It’ll be all right,” he says to me. His forehead is pinched, his eyes heavy. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to see each other one day. Do what you need to do.” “No,” I’m trying to say. Trying to breathe. My lungs are swelling up, my heart racing so fast I can hear it pounding in my ears. I’m feeling hot and cold and too hot, too cold, and all I can think is no, it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, it wasn’t all supposed to fall apart, not again not again — Warner grabs my arms. “Please,” he’s saying, his voice urgent, panicked. “Please don’t do that, love, I need you not to do that—” “Dammit, Kenji!” I explode, breaking away from Warner. “Please, for the love of God, don’t be an idiot. You have to come with me—I need you —” “I need some kind of guarantee, J”—Kenji is pacing, hands in his hair —“I can’t just trust that everything is going to be all right—” I turn on Warner, chest heaving, fists clenched. “Give them what they want. I don’t care what it is,” I say to him. “Please, you have to negotiate. You have to make this work. I need him. I need my friends.” Warner looks at me for a long time. “Please,” I whisper. He looks away. Looks back at me. He finally meets Kenji’s eyes. Sighs. “What do you want?” “I want a hot bath,” I hear Winston say. And then he giggles. He actually giggles. “Two of my men are ill and injured,” Kenji says, immediately switching gears. His voice is clipped, sharp. Unfeeling. “They need medicine and medical attention. We don’t want to be monitored, we don’t want a curfew, and we want to be able to eat more than the Automat food. We want protein. Fruits. Vegetables. Real meals. We want regular access to showers. We’ll need new clothes. And we want to remain armed at all times.”

Warner is standing so still beside me I can hardly hear him breathing anymore. My head is pounding so hard and my heart is still racing in my chest, but I’ve calmed down enough that I’m able to breathe a little easier now. Warner glances down at me. He holds my gaze for just a moment before he closes his eyes. Exhales a sharp breath. Looks up. “Fine,” he says. Kenji is staring at him. “Wait—what?” “I will be back tomorrow at fourteen hundred hours to guide you to your new quarters.” “Holy shit.” Winston is bouncing on the couch. “Holy shit holy shit holy shit.” “Do you have your things?” Warner asks me. I nod. “Good,” he says. “Let’s go.” TWENTY-NINE Warner is holding my hand.

I only have enough energy to focus on this single, strange fact as he leads me down the stairs and into the parking garage. He opens the door of the tank and helps me in before closing it behind me. He climbs into the other side. Turns on the engine. We’re already on the road and I’ve blinked only six times since we left Adam’s house. I still can’t believe what just happened. I can’t believe we’re all going to be working together. I can’t believe I told Warner what to do and he listened to me. I turn to look at him. It’s strange: I’ve never felt so safe or so relieved to be beside him. I never thought I could feel this way with him. “Thank you,” I whisper, grateful and guilty, somehow, about everything that’s happened. About leaving Adam behind. I realize now that I’ve made the kind of choice I can’t undo. My heart is still breaking.

“Really,” I say again. “Thank you so much. For coming to get me. I appreciate—” “Please,” he says. “I’m begging you to stop.” I still. “I can’t stomach your pain,” he says. “I can feel it so strongly and it’s making me crazy—please,” he says to me. “Don’t be sad. Or hurt. Or guilty. You’ve done nothing wrong.” “I’m sorry—” “Don’t be sorry, either,” he says. “God, the only reason I’m not going to kill Kent for this is because I know it would only upset you more.” “You’re right,” I say after a moment. “But it’s not just him.” “What?” he asks. “What do you mean?” “I don’t want you to kill anyone at all,” I say. “Not just Adam.” Warner laughs a sharp, strange laugh. He looks almost relieved. “Do you have any other stipulations?” “Not really.” “You don’t want to fix me, then? You don’t have a long list of things I need to work on?” “No.” I stare out the window. The view is so bleak. So cold. Covered in ice and snow. “There’s nothing wrong with you that isn’t already wrong with me,” I say quietly. “And if I were smart I’d first figure out how to fix myself.” We’re both silent awhile. The tension is so thick in this small space. “Aaron?” I say, still watching the scenery fly by. I hear the small hitch in his breath. The hesitation. It’s the first time I’ve used his first name so casually. “Yes?” he says. “I want you to know,” I tell him, “that I don’t think you’re crazy.” “What?” He startles. “I don’t think you’re crazy.” The world is blurring away as I watch it through the window. “And I don’t think you’re a psychopath. I also don’t think you’re a sick, twisted monster. I don’t think you’re a heartless murderer, and I don’t think you deserve to die, and I don’t think you’re pathetic. Or stupid. Or a coward. I don’t think you’re any of the things people have said about you.” I turn to look at him. Warner is staring out the windshield.

“You don’t?” His voice is so soft and so scared I can scarcely hear it. “No,” I say. “I don’t. And I just thought you should know. I’m not trying to fix you; I don’t think you need to be fixed. I’m not trying to turn you into someone else. I only want you to be who you really are. Because I think I know the real you. I think I’ve seen him.” Warner says nothing, his chest rising and falling. “I don’t care what anyone else says about you,” I tell him. “I think you’re a good person.” Warner is blinking fast now. I can hear him breathing. In and out. Unevenly. He says nothing. “Do you . . . believe me?” I ask after a moment. “Can you sense that I’m telling the truth? That I really mean it?” Warner’s hands are clenched around the steering wheel. His knuckles are white. He nods. Just once. THIRTY Warner still hasn’t said a single word to me.

We’re in his room now, courtesy of Delalieu, who Warner was quick to dismiss. It feels strange and familiar to be back here, in this room that I’ve found both fear and comfort in. Now it feels right to me. This is Warner’s room. And Warner, to me, is no longer something to be afraid of. These past few months have transformed him in my eyes, and these past two days have been full of revelations that I’m still recovering from. I can’t deny that he seems different to me now. I feel like I understand him in a way I never did before. He’s like a terrified, tortured animal. A creature who spent his whole life being beaten, abused, and caged away. He was forced into a life he never asked for, and was never given an opportunity to choose anything else. And though he’s been given all the tools to kill a person, he’s too

emotionally tortured to be able to use those skills against his own father— the very man who taught him to be a murderer. Because somehow, in some strange, inexplicable way, he still wants his father to love him. And I understand that. I really, really do. “What happened?” Warner finally says to me. I’m sitting on his bed; he’s standing by the door, staring at the wall. “What do you mean?” “With Kent,” he says. “Earlier. What did he say to you?” “Oh.” I flush. Embarrassed. “He kicked me out of his house.” “But why?” “He was mad,” I explain. “That I was defending you. That I’d invited you to come back at all.” “Oh.” I can almost hear our hearts beat in the silence between us. “You were defending me,” Warner finally says. “Yes.” He says nothing. I say nothing. “So he told you to leave,” Warner says, “because you were defending me.” “Yes.” “Is that all?” My heart is racing. I’m suddenly nervous. “No.” “There were other things?” “Yes.” Warner blinks at the wall. Unmoving. “Really.” I nod. He says nothing. “He was upset,” I whisper, “because I didn’t agree that you were crazy. And he was accusing me”—I hesitate—“of being in love with you.” Warner exhales sharply. Touches a hand to the doorframe. My heart is pounding so hard. Warner’s eyes are glued to the wall. “And you told him he was an idiot.” Breathe. “No.”

Warner turns, just halfway. I see his profile, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. He’s staring directly at the door now, and it’s clear it’s costing him a great deal of effort to speak. “Then you told him he was crazy. You told him he had to be out of his mind to say something like that.” “No.” “No,” he echoes. I try not to move. Warner takes a hard, shaky breath. “Then what did you say to him?” Seven seconds die between us. “Nothing,” I whisper. Warner stills. I don’t breathe. No one speaks for what feels like forever. “Of course,” Warner finally says. He looks pale, unsteady. “You said nothing. Of course.” “Aaron—” I get to my feet. “There are a lot of things I have to do before tomorrow,” he says. “Especially if your friends will be joining us on base.” His hands tremble in the second it takes him to reach for the door. “Forgive me,” he says. “But I have to go.” THIRTY-ONE I decide to take a bath.

I’ve never taken a bath before. I poke around the bathroom as the tub fills with hot water, and discover stacks and stacks of scented soaps. All different kinds. All different sizes. Each bar of soap has been wrapped in a thick piece of parchment, and tied with twine. There are small labels affixed to each package to distinguish one scent from another. I pick up one of the bundles. HONEYSUCKLE I clutch the soap and can’t help but think how different it was to take a shower at Omega Point. We had nothing so fancy as this. Our soaps were harsh and smelled strange and were fairly ineffective. Kenji used to bring

them into our training sessions and break off pieces to pelt at me when I wasn’t focusing. The memory makes me inexplicably emotional. My heart swells as I remember that my friends will be here tomorrow. This is really going to happen, I think. We’ll be unstoppable, all of us together. I can’t wait. I look more closely at the label. Top notes of jasmine and nuances of grape. Mild notes of lilac, honeysuckle, rose, and cinnamon. Orange-flower and powder base notes complete the fragrance. Sounds amazing. I steal one of Warner’s soaps. I’m freshly scrubbed and wearing a clean set of clothes. I keep sniffing my skin, pleasantly surprised by how nice it is to smell like a flower. I’ve never smelled like anything before. I keep running my fingers down my arms, wondering at how much of a difference a good bar of soap can make. I’ve never felt so clean in my life. I didn’t realize soap could lather like that or react so well to my body. The only soap I’ve ever used before always dried up my skin and left me feeling uncomfortable for a few hours. But this is weird. Wonderful. I feel soft and smooth and so refreshed. I also have absolutely nothing to do. I sit down on Warner’s bed, pull my feet up underneath me. Stare at his office door. I’m so tempted to see if the door is unlocked. My conscience, however, overrules me. I sink into the pillows with a sigh. Kick up the blankets and snuggle beneath them. Close my eyes. My mind is instantly flooded with images of Adam’s angry face, his shaking fists, his hurtful words. I try to push the memories away and I can’t. My eyes fly open. I wonder if I’ll ever see him and James again. Maybe this is what Adam wanted. He can go back to his life with his little brother now. He won’t have to worry about sharing his rations with

eight other people and he’ll be able to survive much longer this way. But then what? I can’t help but think. He’ll be all alone. With no food. No friends. No income. It breaks my heart to imagine it. To think of him struggling to find a way to live, to provide for his brother. Because even though Adam seems to hate me now, I don’t think I could ever reciprocate those feelings. I don’t even know that I understand what just happened between us. It seems impossible that Adam and I could fissure and break apart so abruptly. I care so deeply for him. He was there for me when no one else was; he gave me hope when I needed it most; he loved me when no one else would. He’s not anyone I want to erase from my life. I want him around. I want my friend back. But I’m realizing now that Kenji was right. Adam was the first and only person who’d ever shown me compassion. The first, and, at the time, only person who was able to touch me. I was caught up in the impossibility of it, so convinced fate had brought us together. His tattoo was a perfect snapshot of my dreams. I thought it was about us. About my escape. About our happily-everafter. And it was. And it wasn’t. I want to laugh at my own blindness. It linked us, I realize. That tattoo. It did bring me and Adam together, but not because we were destined for one another. Not because he was my flight to freedom. But because we have one major connection between the two of us. One kind of hope neither one of us was able to see. Warner. A white bird with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head. A fair-skinned boy with gold hair, the leader of Sector 45. It was always him. All along. The link. Warner, Adam’s brother, my captor and now comrade. He inadvertently brought me and Adam together. And being with Adam gave me a new kind of strength. I was still scared and still very broken and Adam cared for me, giving me a reason to stand up for myself when I was too weak to realize I had always been reason enough. It was affection and a desperate desire for physical connection. Two things I’d been so

deprived of, and so wholly unfamiliar with. I had nothing to compare these new experiences to. Of course I thought I was in love. But while I don’t know much, I do know that if Adam really loved me, he wouldn’t have treated me the way he did today. He wouldn’t prefer that I was dead. I know this, because I’ve seen proof of his opposite. Because I was dying. And Warner could’ve let me die. He was angry and hurt and had every reason to be bitter. I’d just ripped his heart out; I’d let him believe something would come of our relationship. I let him confess the depth of his feelings to me; I let him touch me in ways even Adam hadn’t. I didn’t ask him to stop. Every inch of me was saying yes. And then I took it all back. Because I was scared, and confused, and conflicted. Because of Adam. Warner told me he loved me, and in return I insulted him and lied to him and yelled at him and pushed him away. And when he had the chance to stand back and watch me die, he didn’t. He found a way to save my life. With no demands. No expectations. Believing full well that I was in love with someone else, and that saving my life meant making me whole again only to give me back to another guy. And right now, I can’t say I know what Adam would do if I were dying in front of him. I’m not sure if he would save my life. And that uncertainty alone makes me certain that something wasn’t right between us. Something wasn’t real. Maybe we both fell in love with the illusion of something more. THIRTY-TWO My eyes fly open.

It’s pitch-black. Quiet. I sit up too fast. I must’ve fallen asleep. I have no idea what time it is, but a quick glance around the room tells me Warner isn’t here.

I slip out of bed. I’m still wearing socks and I’m suddenly grateful; I have to wrap my arms around myself, shivering as the cold winter air creeps through the thin material of my T-shirt. My hair is still slightly damp from the bath. Warner’s office door is cracked open. There’s a sliver of light peeking through the opening, and it makes me wonder if he really forgot to close it, or if maybe he’s only just walked in. Maybe he’s not in there at all. But my curiosity beats out my conscience this time. I want to know where he works and what his desk looks like; I want to know if he’s messy or organized or if he keeps personal items around. I wonder if he has any pictures of himself as a kid. Or of his mother. I tiptoe forward, butterflies stirring awake in my stomach. I shouldn’t be nervous, I tell myself. I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m just going to see if he’s in there, and if he’s not, I’ll leave. I’m only going to walk in for a second. I’m not going to search through any of his things. I’m not. I hesitate outside his door. It’s so quiet that I’m almost certain my heart is beating loud and hard enough for him to hear. I don’t know why I’m so scared. I knock twice against the door as I nudge it open. “Aaron, are you—” Something crashes to the floor. I push the door open and rush inside, jerking to a stop just as I cross the threshold. Stunned. His office is enormous. It’s the size of his entire bedroom and closet combined. Bigger. There’s so much space in here—room enough to house the huge boardroom table and the six chairs stationed on either side of it. There’s a couch and a few side tables set off in the corner, and one wall is made up of nothing but bookshelves. Loaded with books. Bursting with books. Old books and new books and books with spines falling off. Everything in here is made of dark wood. Wood so brown it looks black. Clean, straight lines, simple cuts. Nothing is ornate or bulky. No leather. No high-backed chairs or overly detailed woodwork. Minimal.

The boardroom table is stacked with file folders and papers and binders and notebooks. The floor is covered in a thick, plush Oriental rug, similar to the one in his closet. And at the far end of the room is his desk. Warner is staring at me in shock. He’s wearing nothing but his slacks and a pair of socks, his shirt and belt discarded. He’s standing in front of his desk, clinging to something in his hands—something I can’t quite see. “What are you doing here?” he says. “The door was open.” What a stupid answer. He stares at me. “What time is it?” I ask. “One thirty in the morning,” he says automatically. “Oh.” “You should go back to bed.” I don’t know why he looks so nervous. Why his eyes keep darting from me to the door. “I’m not tired anymore.” “Oh.” He fumbles with what I now realize is a small jar in his hands. Sets it on the desk behind him without turning around. He’s been so off today, I think. Unlike himself. He’s usually so composed, so self-assured. But recently he’s been so shaky around me. The inconsistency is unnerving. “What are you doing?” I ask. There’s about ten feet between us, and neither one of us is making any effort to bridge the gap. We’re talking like we don’t know each other, like we’re strangers who’ve just found themselves in a compromising situation. Which is ridiculous. I begin to cross the room, to make my way over to him. He freezes. I stop. “Is everything okay?” “Yes,” he says too quickly. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the little plastic jar. “You should go back to sleep, love. You’re probably more tired than you think—” I walk right up to him, reach around and grab the jar before he can do much to stop me.

“That is a violation of privacy,” he says sharply, sounding more like himself. “Give that back to me—” “Medicine?” I ask, surprised. I turn the little jar around in my hands, reading the label. I look up at him. Finally understanding. “This is for scars.” He runs a hand through his hair. Looks toward the wall. “Yes,” he says. “Now please give it back to me.” “Do you need help?” I ask. He stills. “What?” “This is for your back, isn’t it?” He runs a hand across his mouth, down his chin. “You won’t allow me to walk away from this with even an ounce of self-respect, will you?” “I didn’t know you cared about your scars,” I say to him. I take a step forward. He takes a step back. “I don’t.” “Then why this?” I hold up the jar. “Where did you even get this from?” “It’s nothing—it’s just—” He shakes his head. “Delalieu found it for me. It’s ridiculous,” he says. “I feel ridiculous.” “Because you can’t reach your own back?” He stares at me then. Sighs. “Turn around,” I tell him. “No.” “You’re being weird about nothing. I’ve already seen your scars.” “That doesn’t mean you need to see them again.” I can’t help but smile a little. “What?” he demands. “What’s so funny?” “You just don’t seem like the kind of person who would be selfconscious about something like this.” “I’m not.” “Obviously.” “Please,” he says, “just go back to bed.” “I’m wide-awake.” “That’s not my problem.” “Turn around,” I tell him again. He narrows his eyes at me.

“Why are you even using this stuff?” I ask him for the second time. “You don’t need it. Don’t use it if it makes you uncomfortable.” He’s quiet a moment. “You don’t think I need it?” “Of course not. Why . . . ? Are you in pain? Do your scars hurt?” “Sometimes,” he says quietly. “Not as much as they used to. I actually can’t feel much of anything on my back anymore.” Something cold and sharp hits me in the stomach. “Really?” He nods. “Will you tell me where they came from?” I whisper, unable to meet his eyes. He’s silent for so long I’m finally forced to look up. His eyes are dead of emotion, his face set to neutral. He clears his throat. “They were my birthday presents,” he says. “Every year from the time I was five. Until I turned eighteen,” he says. “He didn’t come back for my nineteenth birthday.” I’m frozen in horror. “Right.” Warner looks into his hands. “So—” “He cut you?” My voice is so hoarse. “Whip.” “Oh my God,” I gasp, covering my mouth. I have to look toward the wall to pull myself together. I blink several times, struggle to swallow back the pain and rage building inside of me. “I’m so sorry,” I choke out. “Aaron. I’m so sorry.” “I don’t want you to be repulsed by me,” he says quietly. I spin around, stunned. Mildly horrified. “You’re not serious.” His eyes say that he is. “Have you never looked in a mirror?” I ask, angry now. “Excuse me?” “You’re perfect,” I tell him, so overcome I forget myself. “All of you. Your entire body. Proportionally. Symmetrically. You’re absurdly, mathematically perfect. It doesn’t even make sense that a person could look like you,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t believe you would ever say something like that—” “Juliette, please. Don’t talk to me like that.” “What? Why?” “Because it’s cruel,” he says, losing his composure. “It’s cruel and it’s heartless and you don’t even realize—”

“Aaron—” “I take it back,” he says. “I don’t want you to call me Aaron anymore —” “Aaron,” I say again, more firmly this time. “Please—you can’t really think you repulse me? You can’t really think I would care—that I would be put off by your scars—” “I don’t know,” he says. He’s pacing in front of his desk, his eyes fixed on the ground. “I thought you could sense feelings,” I say to him. “I thought mine would be so obvious to you.” “I can’t always think clearly,” he says, frustrated, rubbing his face, his forehead. “Especially when my emotions are involved. I can’t always be objective—and sometimes I make assumptions,” he says, “that aren’t true —and I don’t—I just don’t trust my own judgment anymore. Because I’ve done that,” he says, “and it’s backfired. So terribly.” He looks up, finally. Looks me in the eye. “You’re right,” I whisper. He looks away. “You’ve made a lot of mistakes,” I say to him. “You did everything wrong.” He runs a hand down the length of his face. “But it’s not too late to fix things—you can make it right—” “Please—” “It’s not too late—” “Stop saying that to me!” he explodes. “You don’t know me—you don’t know what I’ve done or what I’d need to do to make things right—” “Don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter—you can choose to be different now—” “I thought you weren’t going to try and change me!” “I’m not trying to change you,” I say, lowering my voice. “I’m just trying to get you to understand that your life isn’t over. You don’t have to be who you’ve been. You can make different choices now. You can be happy—” “Juliette.” One sharp word. His green eyes so intense. I stop. I glance at his trembling hands; he clenches them into fists. “Go,” he says quietly. “I don’t want you to be here right now.”

“Then why did you bring me back with you?” I ask, angry. “If you don’t even want to see me—” “Why don’t you understand?” He looks up at me and his eyes are so full of pain and devastation it actually takes my breath away. My hands are shaking. “Understand what—?” “I love you.” He breaks. His voice. His back. His knees. His face. He breaks. He has to hold on to the side of his desk. He can’t meet my eyes. “I love you,” he says, his words harsh and soft all at once. “I love you and it isn’t enough. I thought it would be enough and I was wrong. I thought I could fight for you and I was wrong. Because I can’t. I can’t even face you anymore—” “Aaron—” “Tell me it isn’t true,” he says. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m blind. Tell me you love me.” My heart won’t stop screaming as it breaks in half. I can’t lie to him. “I don’t—I don’t know how to understand what I feel,” I try to explain. “Please,” he whispers. “Please just go—” “Aaron, please understand—I thought I knew what love was before and I was wrong—I don’t want to make that mistake again—” “Please”—he’s begging now—“for the love of God, Juliette, I have lost my dignity—” “Okay.” I nod. “Okay. I’m sorry. Okay.” I back away. I turn around. And I don’t look back. THIRTY-THREE “I have to leave in seven minutes.”

Warner and I are both fully dressed, talking to each other like perfect acquaintances; like last night never happened. Delalieu brought us

breakfast and we ate quietly in separate rooms. No talk of him or me or us or what might’ve been or what might be. There is no us. There’s the absence of Adam, and there’s fighting against The Reestablishment. That’s it. I get it now. “I’d bring you with me,” he’s saying, “but I think it’ll be hard to disguise you on this trip. If you want, you can wait in the training rooms —I’ll bring the group of them straight there. You can say hello as soon as they arrive.” He finally looks at me. “Is that okay?” I nod. “Very good,” he says. “I’ll show you how to get there.” He leads me back into his office, and into one of the far corners by the couch. There’s an exit in here I didn’t see last night. Warner hits a button on the wall. The doors slide open. It’s an elevator. We walk in and he hits the button for the ground floor. The doors close and we start moving. I glance up at him. “I never knew you had an elevator in your room.” “I needed private access to my training facilities.” “You keep saying that,” I tell him. “Training facilities. What’s a training facility?” The elevator stops. The doors slide open. He holds them open for me. “This.” I’ve never seen so many machines in my life. Running machines and leg machines and machines that work your arms, your shoulders, your abdominals. There are even machines that look like bikes. I don’t know what any of them are called. I know one of these things is a bench press. I also know what dumbbells look like, and there are racks and racks of those, in all different sizes. Weights, I think. Free weights. There are also bars attached to the ceiling in some places, but I can’t imagine what those are for. There are tons of things around this room, actually, that look entirely foreign to me. And each wall is used for something different. One wall seems to be made of stone. Or rock. There are little grooves in it that are accented by what look like pieces of plastic in different

colors. Another wall is covered in guns. Hundreds of guns resting on pegs that keep them in place. They’re pristine. Gleaming as if they’ve just been cleaned. There’s a door in that same wall; I wonder where it goes. The third wall is covered in the same black, spongelike material that covers the floors. It looks like it might be soft and springy. And the final wall is the one we’ve just walked through. It houses the elevator, and one other door, and nothing else. The dimensions are enormous. This space is at least two or three times the size of Warner’s bedroom, his closet, and his office put together. It doesn’t seem possible that all of this is for one person. “This is amazing,” I say, turning to face him. “You use all of this?” He nods. “I’m usually in here at least two or three times a day,” he says. “I got off track when I was injured,” he says, “but in general, yes.” He steps forward, touches the spongy black wall. “This has been my life for as long as I’ve known it. Training,” he says. “I’ve been training forever. And this is where we’re going to start with you, too.” “Me?” He nods. “But I don’t need to train,” I tell him. “Not like this.” He tries to meet my eyes and can’t. “I have to go,” he says. “If you get bored in here, take the elevator back up. This elevator can only access two levels, so you can’t get lost.” He buttons his blazer. “I’ll return as soon as I can.” “Okay.” I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t. “You’ll still be here,” he finally says, “when I return.” It’s not exactly a question. I nod anyway. “It doesn’t seem possible,” he says, so quietly, “that you’re not trying to run away.” I say nothing. He exhales a hard breath. Pivots on one heel. And leaves. THIRTY-FOUR I’m sitting on one of the benches, toying with five-pound dumbbells, when I hear his voice.

“Holy shit,” he’s saying. “This place is legit.” I jump up, nearly dropping the weights on my foot. Kenji and Winston and Castle and Brendan and Ian and Alia and Lily are all walking through the extra door in the gun wall. Kenji’s face lights up when he sees me. I run forward and he catches me in his arms, hugs me tight before breaking away. “Well, I’ll be damned,” Kenji says. “He didn’t kill you. That’s a really good sign.” I shove him a little. Suppress a grin. I quickly say hi to everyone. I’m practically bouncing I’m so excited to have them here. But they’re all looking around in shock. Like they really thought Warner was leading them into a trap. “There’s a locker room through here,” Warner is telling them. He points to the door beside the elevator. “There are plenty of showers and bathroom stalls and anything else you might need to keep from smelling like an animal. Towels, soap, laundry machines. All through here.” I’m so focused on Warner I almost don’t notice Delalieu standing in the corner. I stifle a gasp. He’s standing quietly, hands clasped behind his back, watching closely as everyone listens to Warner talk. And not for the first time, I wonder who he really is. Why Warner seems to trust him so much. “Your meals will be delivered to you three times a day,” Warner is saying. “If you don’t eat, or if you miss a meal and find yourself hungry, feel free to shed your tears in the shower. And then learn to set a schedule. Don’t bring your complaints to me. “You already have your own weapons,” he goes on, “but, as you can see, this room is also fully stocked and—” “Sweet,” Ian says. He looks a little too excited as he heads toward a set of rifles. “If you touch any of my guns, I will break both of your hands,” Warner says to him. Ian freezes in place. “This wall is off-limits to you. All of you,” he says, looking around the room. “Everything else is available for your use. Do not damage any of my equipment. Leave things the way you found them. And if you do not shower on a regular basis, do not come within ten feet of me.”

Kenji snorts. “I have other work to attend to,” Warner says. “I will return at nineteen hundred hours, at which time we can reconvene and begin our discussions. In the interim, take advantage of the opportunity to get situated. You may use the extra mats in the corner to sleep on. I hope for your sake you brought your own blankets.” Alia’s bag slips out of her hands and thuds onto the floor. Everyone spins in her direction. She goes scarlet. “Are there any questions?” Warner asks. “Yeah,” Kenji says. “Where’s the medicine?” Warner nods to Delalieu, who’s still standing in the corner. “Give my lieutenant a detailed account of any injuries and illnesses. He will procure the necessary treatments.” Kenji nods, and means it. He actually looks grateful. “Thank you,” he says. Warner holds Kenji’s gaze for just a moment. “You’re welcome.” Kenji raises his eyebrows. Even I’m surprised. Warner looks at me then. He looks at me for just a split second before looking away. And then, without a word, he hits the button for the elevator. Steps inside. I watch the doors close behind him. THIRTY-FIVE Kenji is staring at me, concerned. “What the hell was that?”

Winston and Ian are looking at me too, making no effort to hide their confusion. Lily is unpacking her things. Castle is watching me closely. Brendan and Alia are deep in conversation. “What do you mean?” I ask. I’m trying to be nonchalant, but I think my ears have gone pink. Kenji clasps one hand behind his neck. Shrugs. “You two get into a fight or something?” “No,” I say too quickly. “Uh-huh.” Kenji cocks his head at me.

“How’s Adam?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. Kenji blows out a long breath; looks away; rubs at his eyes just before dropping his bag on the floor. He leans back against the wall. “I’m not gonna lie to you, J,” he says, lowering his voice. “This crap with Kent is really stressing me out. Your drama is making things messy. He didn’t make it easy for us to leave.” “What? But he said he didn’t want to fight back anymore—” “Yeah, well.” Kenji nods. “Apparently that doesn’t mean he wants to lose all his friends at once.” I shake my head. “He’s not being fair.” “I know,” Kenji says. Sighs again. “Anyway, it’s good to see you, princess, but I’m tired as hell. And hungry. Grumpy. You know.” He makes a haphazard motion with his hand. Slumps to the floor. He’s not telling me something. “What’s wrong?” I sit down across from him and lower my voice. He looks up, meets my eyes. “I miss James, okay? I miss that kid.” Kenji sounds so tired. I can actually see the exhaustion in his eyes. “I didn’t want to leave him behind.” My heart sinks fast. Of course. James. “I’m so sorry. I wish there’d been a way we could’ve brought him with us.” Kenji flicks an imaginary piece of lint off his shirt. “It’s probably safer for him where he is,” he says, but it’s obvious he doesn’t believe a word of it. “I just wish Kent would stop being such a dick.” I cringe. “This could all be amazing if he would just get his shit together,” Kenji says. “But no, he has to go and get all weird and crazy and dramatic.” He blows out a breath. “He’s so freaking emotional,” Kenji says suddenly. “Everything is such a big deal to him. He can’t just let things go. He can’t just be cool and move on with his life. I just . . . I don’t know. Whatever. I just wish James were here. I miss him.” “I’m sorry,” I say again. Kenji makes a weird face. Waves his hand at nothing. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

I look up and find that everyone else has dispersed. Castle, Ian, Alia, and Lily are heading to the locker room, while Winston and Brendan wander around the facility. They’re touching the rock wall right now, having a conversation I can’t hear. I scoot closer to Kenji. Prop my head in my hands. “So,” he says. “I don’t see you for twenty-four hours and you and Warner go from let’s-hug-in-super-dramatic-fashion to let-me-give-youan-ice-cold-shoulder, huh?” Kenji is tracing shapes into the mats underneath us. “Must be an interesting story there.” “I doubt it.” “You’re seriously not going to tell me what happened?” He looks up, offended. “I tell you everything.” “Sure you don’t.” “Don’t be fresh.” “What’s really going on, Kenji?” I study his face, his weak attempt at humor. “You seem different today. Off.” “Nothing,” he mumbles. “I told you. I just didn’t want to leave James.” “But that’s not all, is it?” He says nothing. I look into my lap. “You can tell me anything, you know. You’ve always been there for me and I’ll always be here if you need to talk, too.” Kenji rolls his eyes. “Why do you have to make me feel all guilty about not wanting to participate in share-your-feelings-story-time?” “I’m n—” “I’m just—I’m in a really shitty mood, okay?” He looks off to the side. “I feel weird. Like I just want to be pissed off today. Like I just want to punch people in the face for no reason.” I pull my knees up to my chest. Rest my chin on my knees. Nod. “You’ve had a hard day.” He grunts. Nods and looks at the wall. Presses a fist into the mat. “Sometimes I just get really tired, you know?” He stares at his fist, at the shapes he makes by pressing his knuckles into the soft, spongy material. “Like I just get really fed up.” His voice is suddenly so quiet, it’s almost like he’s not talking to me at all. I can see his throat move, the emotions caught in his chest. “I keep losing people,” he says. “It’s like every day

I’m losing people. Every goddamn day. I’m so sick of it—I’m so sick and tired of it—” “Kenji—,” I try to say. “I missed you, J.” He’s still studying the mats. “I wish you’d been there last night.” “I missed you, too.” “I don’t have anyone else to talk to.” “I thought you didn’t like talking about your feelings,” I tease him, trying to lighten the mood. He doesn’t bite. “It just gets really heavy sometimes.” He looks away. “Too heavy. Even for me. And some days I don’t want to laugh,” he says. “I don’t want to be funny. I don’t want to give a shit about anything. Some days I just want to sit on my ass and cry. All day long.” His hands stop moving against the mats. “Is that crazy?” he asks quietly, still not meeting my gaze. I blink hard against the stinging in my eyes. “No,” I tell him. “No, that’s not crazy at all.” He stares at the floor. “Hanging out with you has made me weird, J. All I do is sit around thinking about my feelings these days. Thanks for that.” I crawl forward and hug him right around the middle and he responds immediately, wrapping me up against him. My face is pressed to his chest and I can hear his heart beating so hard. He’s still hurting so badly right now, and I keep forgetting that. I need to not forget that. I cling to him, wishing I could ease his pain. I wish I could take his burdens and make them mine. “It’s weird, isn’t it?” he says. “What is?” “If we were naked right now, I’d be dead.” “Shut up,” I say, laughing against his chest. We’re both wearing long sleeves, long pants. As long as my face and hands don’t touch his skin, he’s perfectly safe. “Well, it’s true.” “In what alternate universe would I ever be naked with you?” “I am just saying,” he says. “Shit happens. You never know.” “I think you need a girlfriend.”

“Nah,” he says. “I just need a hug. From my friend.” I lean back to look at him. Try to read his eyes. “You’re my best friend, Kenji. You know that, right?” “Yeah, kid.” He grins at me. “I do. And I can’t believe I got stuck with your skinny ass.” I break free of his arms. Narrow my eyes at him. He laughs. “So how’s the new boyfriend?” My smiles fall away. “He’s not my boyfriend.” “Are you sure about that? Because I’m pretty sure Romeo wouldn’t have let us come live with him if he weren’t a little bit madly in love with you.” I look into my hands. “Maybe one day Warner and I will learn to be friends.” “Seriously?” Kenji looks shocked. “I thought you were super into him?” I shrug. “I’m . . . attracted to him.” “But?” “But Warner still has a long way to go, you know?” “Well, yeah,” Kenji says. Exhales. Leans back. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” We both say nothing for a while. “This shit is still super freaking weird, though,” Kenji says all of a sudden. “What do you mean?” I glance up. “Which part?” “Warner,” Kenji says. “Warner is so freaking weird to me right now.” Kenji looks at me. Really looks at me. “You know—in all my time on base, I never saw him have, like, a single casual conversation with a soldier before. Never. He was ice cold, J. Ice. Cold,” he says again. “He never smiled. Never laughed. Never showed any emotion. And he never, ever talked unless he was issuing orders. He was like a machine,” Kenji says. “And this?” He points at the elevator. “This guy who just left here? The guy who showed up at the house yesterday? I don’t know who the hell that is. I can’t even wrap my mind around it right now. Shit is unreal.” “I didn’t know that,” I say to him, surprised. “I had no idea he was like that.” “He wasn’t like that with you?” Kenji asks. “When you first got here?”

“No,” I say. “He was always pretty . . . animated with me. Not, like, nice animated,” I clarify, “but, I mean . . . I don’t know. He talked a lot.” I’m silent as the memories resurface. “He was always talking, actually. That’s kind of all he ever did. And he smiled at me all the time.” I pause. “I thought he was doing it on purpose. To make fun of me. Or try to scare me.” Kenji leans back on his hands. “Yeah, no.” “Huh,” I say, my eyes focused on a point in the distance. Kenji sighs. “Is he . . . like . . . nice to you, at least?” I look down. Stare at my feet. “Yeah,” I whisper. “He’s really nice to me.” “But you guys are not an item or anything?” I make a face. “Okay,” Kenji says quickly, holding up both hands. “All right—I was just curious. This is a judgment-free zone, J.” I snort. “Yeah it isn’t.” Kenji relaxes a little. “You know, Adam really thinks you and Warner are, like, a thing now.” I roll my eyes. “Adam is stupid.” “Tsk, tsk, princess. We need to talk about your language—” “Adam needs to tell Warner they’re brothers.” Kenji looks up, alarmed. “Lower your voice,” he whispers. “You can’t just go around saying that. You know how Kent feels about it.” “I think it’s unfair. Warner has a right to know.” “Why?” Kenji says. “You think he and Kent are going to become besties all of a sudden?” I look at him then, my eyes steady, serious. “James is his brother, too, Kenji.” Kenji’s body goes stiff, his face blank. His eyes widen, just a little. I tilt my head. Raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t even . . . wow,” he says. He presses a fist to his forehead. “I didn’t even think about that.” “It’s not fair to either of them,” I say. “And I really think Warner would love to know he has brothers in this world. At least James and Adam have each other,” I say. “But Warner has always been alone.” Kenji is shaking his head. Disbelief etched across his features. “This just keeps getting more and more twisted,” he says. “It’s like you think it

couldn’t possibly get more convoluted, and then, bam.” “He deserves to know, Kenji,” I say again. “You know Warner at least deserves to know. It’s his right. It’s his blood, too.” Kenji looks up. Sighs. “Damn.” “If Adam doesn’t tell him,” I say, “I will.” “You wouldn’t.” I stare at him. Hard. “That’s messed up, J.” Kenji looks surprised. “You can’t do that.” “Why do you keep calling me J?” I ask him. “When did that even happen? You’ve already given me, like, fifty different nicknames.” He shrugs. “You should be flattered.” “Oh really?” I say. “Nicknames are flattering, huh?” He nods. “Then how about I call you Kenny?” Kenji crosses his arms. Stares me down. “That’s not even a little bit funny.” I grin. “It is, a little bit.” “How about I call your new boyfriend King Stick-Up-His-Ass?” “He’s not my boyfriend, Kenny.” Kenji shoots me a warning look. Points at my face. “I am not amused, princess.” “Hey, don’t you need to shower?” I ask him. “So now you’re telling me I smell.” I roll my eyes. He clambers to his feet. Sniffs his shirt. “Damn, I do kind of smell, don’t I?” “Go,” I say. “Go and hurry back. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.” THIRTY-SIX We’re all sitting on benches around the training room. Warner is sitting next to me and I’m doing everything I can to make sure our shoulders don’t accidentally touch.

“All right, so, first things first, right?” Winston says, looking around. “We have to get Sonya and Sara back. The question is how.” A pause. “We have no idea how to get to the supreme.”

Everyone looks at Warner. Warner looks at his watch. “Well?” Kenji says. “Well, what?” Warner says, bored. “Well, aren’t you going to help us?” Ian snaps. “This is your territory.” Warner looks at me for the first time all evening. “You’re absolutely sure you trust these people?” he asks me. “All of them?” “Yes,” I say quietly. “I really do.” “Very well.” Warner takes a deep breath before addressing the group. “My father,” he says calmly, “is on a ship. In the middle of the ocean.” “He’s on a ship?” Kenji asks, startled. “The capital is a ship?” “Not exactly.” Warner hesitates. “But the point is, we have to lure him here. Going to him will not work. We have to create a problem big enough for him to be forced to come to us.” He looks at me then. “Juliette says she already has a plan.” I nod. Take a deep breath. Study the faces before me. “I think we should take over Sector 45.” Stunned silence. “I think, together,” I tell them, “we’ll be able to convince the soldiers to fight on our side. At the end of the day, no one is benefiting from The Reestablishment except for the people in charge. The soldiers are tired and hungry and probably only took this job because there were no other options.” I pause. “We can rally the civilians and the soldiers. Everyone in the sector. Get them to join us. And they know me,” I say. “The soldiers. They’ve already seen me—they know what I can do. But all of us together?” I shake my head. “That would be amazing. We could show them that we’re different. Stronger. We can give them hope—a reason to fight back. “And then,” I say, “once we have their support, news will spread, and Anderson will be forced to come back here. He’ll have to try and take us down—he’ll have no other choice. And once he’s back, we take him out. We fight him and his army and we win. And then we take over the country.” “My goodness.” Castle is the first to speak. “Ms. Ferrars,” he says, “you’ve given this a great deal of thought.”

I nod. Kenji is looking at me like he’s not sure if he should laugh or applaud. “What do you think?” I ask, looking around. “What if it doesn’t work?” Lily says. “What if the soldiers are too scared to change their allegiance? What if they kill you instead?” “That’s a definite possibility,” I say. “But I think if we’re strong enough—if the nine of us stand united, with all of our strengths combined —I think they’ll believe we can do something pretty amazing.” “Yeah but how will they know what our strengths are?” Brendan asks. “What if they don’t believe us?” “We can show them.” “And if they shoot us?” Ian counters. “I can do it alone, if you’re worried about that. I don’t mind. Kenji was teaching me how to project my energy before the war, and I think if I can learn to master that, I could do some pretty scary things. Things that might impress them enough to join us.” “You can project?” Winston asks, eyes wide. “You mean you can, like, mass-kill everyone with your life-sucking thing?” “Um, no,” I say. “I mean, well, yes, I suppose I could do that, too, but I’m not talking about that. I mean I can project my strength. Not the . . . life-sucking thing—” “Wait, what strength?” Brendan asks, confused. “I thought it’s your skin that’s lethal?” I’m about to respond when I remember that Brendan and Winston and Ian were all taken hostage before I’d begun to seriously train. I don’t know that they knew much about my progress at all. So I start from the top. “My . . . power,” I say, “has to do with more than just my skin.” I glance at Kenji. Gesture to him. “We’d been working together for a while, trying to figure out what it was, exactly, I was capable of, and Kenji realized that my true energy is coming from deep within me, not the surface. It’s in my bones, my blood, and my skin,” I try to explain. “My real power is an insane kind of superstrength. “My skin is just one element of that,” I tell them. “It’s like the most heightened form of my energy, and the craziest form of protection; it’s like my body has put up a shield. Metaphorical barbed wire. It keeps intruders away.” I almost laugh, wondering when it became so easy for me

to talk about this stuff. To be comfortable with it. “But I’m also strong enough to break through just about anything,” I tell them, “and without even injuring myself. Concrete. Brick. Glass—” “The earth,” Kenji adds. “Yes,” I say, smiling at him. “Even the earth.” “She created an earthquake,” Alia says eagerly, and I’m actually surprised to hear her voice. “During the first battle,” she tells Brendan and Winston and Ian. “When we were trying to save you guys. She punched the ground and it split open. That’s how we were able to get away.” The guys are gawking at me. “So, what I’m trying to say,” I tell them, “is that if I can project my strength, and really learn to control it? I don’t know.” I shrug. “I could move mountains, probably.” “That’s a bit ambitious.” Kenji grins, ever the proud parent. “Ambitious, but probably not impossible.” I grin back. “Wow,” Lily says. “So you can just . . . destroy stuff? Like, anything?” I nod. Glance at Warner. “Do you mind?” “Not at all,” he says. His eyes are carefully inscrutable. I get to my feet and walk over to the stacks of dumbbells, all the while prepping myself mentally to tap into my energy. This is still the trickiest part for me: learning how to moderate my strength with finesse. I pick up a fifty-pound free weight and carry it over to the group. For a moment I wonder if this should feel heavy to me, especially considering how it weighs about half of what I do, but I can’t really feel it. I sit back down on the bench. Rest the weight on the ground. “What are you going to do with that?” Ian asks, eyes wide. “What do you want me to do?” I ask him. “You’re telling me you can just, like, rip that apart or whatever?” Winston says. I nod. “Do it,” Kenji says. He’s practically bouncing in his seat. “Do it do it.” So I do. I pick it up, and literally crush the weight between my hands. It becomes a mangled mess of metal. A fifty-pound lump. I rip it in half and drop the two pieces on the floor.

The benches shake. “Sorry,” I say quickly, looking around. “I didn’t mean to toss it like that—” “Goddamn,” Ian says. “That is so cool.” “Do it again,” Winston says, eyes bright. “I’d really rather she didn’t destroy all of my property,” Warner cuts in. “Hey, so—wait—,” Winston says, realizing something as he stares at Warner. “You can do that, too, can’t you? You can just take her power and use it like that, too?” “I can take all of your powers,” Warner corrects him. “And do whatever I want with them.” The terror in the room is a very palpable thing. I frown at Warner. “Please don’t scare them.” He says nothing. Looks at nothing. “So the two of you”—Ian tries to find his voice—“I mean, together— you two could basically—” “Take over the world?” Warner is looking at the wall now. “I was going to say you could kick some serious ass, but yeah, that, too, I guess.” Ian shakes his head. “Are you sure you trust this guy?” Lily asks me, jerking a thumb at Warner and looking at me like she’s seriously, genuinely concerned. “What if he’s just using you for your power?” “I trust him with my life,” I say quietly. “I already have, and I’d do it again.” Warner looks at me and looks away, and for a brief second I catch the charge of emotion in his eyes. “So, let me get this straight,” Winston says. “Our plan is to basically seduce the soldiers and civilians of Sector 45 into fighting with us?” Kenji crosses his arms. “Yeah, it sounds like we’re going to go all peacock and hope they find us attractive enough to mate with.” “Gross.” Brendan frowns. “Despite how weird Kenji just made this sound,” I say, shooting a stern look in his direction, “the answer is yes, basically. We can provide them with a group to rally around. We take charge of the army, and then take charge of the people. And then we lead them into battle. We really, truly fight back.”

“And if you win?” Castle asks. He’s been so quiet all this time. “What do you plan to do then?” “What do you mean?” I ask. “Let’s say you are successful,” he says. “You defeat the supreme. You kill him and his men. Then what? Who will take over as the supreme commander?” “I will.” The room gasps. I feel Warner go stiff beside me. “Damn, princess,” Kenji says quietly. “And then?” Castle asks, ignoring everyone but me. “After that?” His eyes are worried. Scared, almost. “You’re going to kill whoever else stands in your way? All the other sector leaders, all across the nation? That’s 554 more wars—” “Some will surrender,” I tell him. “And the others?” he asks. “How can you lead a nation in the right direction when you’ve just slaughtered all who oppose you? How will you be any different from those you’ve defeated?” “I trust myself,” I tell him, “to be strong enough to do what’s right. Our world is dying right now. You said yourself that we have the means to reclaim our land—to change things back to the way they were. Once power is in the right place—with us—you can rebuild what you started at Omega Point. You’ll have the freedom to implement those changes to our land, water, animals, and atmosphere, and save millions of lives in the process—giving the new generations hope for a different future. We have to try,” I tell him. “We can’t just sit back and watch people die when we have the power to make a difference.” The room goes silent. Still. “Hell,” Winston says. “I’d follow you into battle.” “Me too,” Alia says. “And me.” Brendan. “You know I’m in,” Kenji says. “Me too,” Lily and Ian say at the same time. Castle takes a deep breath. “Maybe,” he says. He leans back in his chair, clasps his hands. “Maybe you’ll be able to do right what I did wrong.” He shakes his head. “I am twenty-seven years your senior and I’ve never had your confidence, but I do understand your heart. And I trust that you say what you believe to be true.” A pause. A careful look.

“We will support you. But know now that you are taking on a great and terrifying responsibility. One that may backfire in an irreversible way.” “I do understand that,” I say quietly. “Very well then, Ms. Ferrars. Good luck, and godspeed. Our world is in your hands.” THIRTY-SEVEN “You didn’t tell me what you thought of my plan.”

Warner and I have just stepped back into his room and he still hasn’t said a word to me. He’s standing by the door to his office, his eyes on the floor. “I didn’t realize you wanted my opinion.” “Of course I want your opinion.” “I should really get back to work,” he says, and turns to go. I touch his arm. Warner goes rigid. He stands, unmoving, his eyes trained on the hand I’ve placed on his forearm. “Please,” I whisper. “I don’t want it to be like this with us. I want us to be able to talk. To get to know each other again, properly—to be friends—” Warner makes a strange sound deep in his throat. Puts a few feet between us. “I am doing my best, love. But I don’t know how to be just your friend.” “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing,” I try to tell him. “There can be steps in between—I just need time to understand you like this—as a different person—” “But that’s just it.” His voice is worn thin. “You need time to understand me as a different person. You need time to fix your perception of me.” “Why is that so wrong—” “Because I am not a different person,” he says firmly. “I am the same man I’ve always been and I have never tried to be different. You have misunderstood me, Juliette. You’ve judged me, you’ve perceived me to be something I am not, but that is no fault of mine. I have not changed, and I will not change—” “You already have.”

His jaw clenches. “You have quite a lot of gall to speak with such conviction on matters you know nothing about.” I swallow, hard. Warner steps so close to me I’m actually afraid to move. “You once accused me of not knowing the meaning of love,” he says. “But you were wrong. You fault me, perhaps, for loving you too much.” His eyes are so intense. So green. So cold. “But at least I do not deny my own heart.” “And you think I do,” I whisper. Warner drops his eyes. Says nothing. “What you don’t understand,” I tell him, my voice catching, “is that I don’t even know my own heart anymore. I don’t know how to name what I feel yet and I need time to figure it out. You want more right now but right now what I need is for you to be my friend—” Warner flinches. “I do not have friends,” he says. “Why can’t you try?” He shakes his head. “Why? Why not give it a chance—” “Because I am afraid,” he finally says, voice shaking, “that your friendship would be the end of me.” I’m still frozen in place as his office door slams shut behind him. THIRTY-EIGHT I never thought I’d see Warner in sweatpants.

Or sneakers. And right now, he’s wearing both. Plus a T-shirt. Now that our group is staying in Warner’s training facilities, I have a reason to tag along as he starts his day. I always knew he spent a lot of time working, but I never knew how much of his time was spent working out. He’s so disciplined, so precise about everything. It amazes me. He starts his mornings on a stationary bike, ends his evenings with a run on the treadmill. And every weekday he works out a different part of his body.

“Mondays are for legs,” I heard him explain to Castle. “Tuesdays I work chest. Wednesdays I work my shoulders and my back. Thursdays are for triceps and deltoids. Fridays are for biceps and forearms. And every day is for abdominals and cardio. I also spend most weekends doing target practice,” he said. Today is Tuesday. Which means right now, I’m watching him bench-press three hundred and fifteen pounds. Three forty-five-pound plates on each side of what Kenji told me is called an Olympic bar, which weighs an additional fortyfive pounds. I can’t stop staring. I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to him in all the time I’ve known him. Kenji pulls up next to me. Nods at Warner. “So this gets you going, huh?” I’m mortified. Kenji barks out a laugh. “I’ve never seen him in sweatpants before.” I try to sound normal. “I’ve never even seen him in shorts.” Kenji raises an eyebrow at me. “I bet you’ve seen him in less.” I want to die. Kenji and I are supposed to spend this next month training. That’s the plan. I need to train enough to fight and use my strength without being overpowered ever again. This isn’t the kind of situation we can go into without absolute confidence, and since I’m supposed to be leading the mission, I still have a lot of work to do. I need to be able to access my energy in an instant, and I need to be able to moderate the amount of power I exert at any given time. In other words: I need to achieve absolute mastery over my ability. Kenji is also training in his own way; he wants to perfect his skill in projecting; he wants to be able to do it without having to make direct contact with another person. But he and I are the only ones who have any real work to do. Castle has been in control of himself for decades now, and everyone else has fairly straightforward skills that they’ve very naturally adapted to. In my case, I have seventeen years of psychological trauma to undo. I need to break down these self-made walls.

Today, Kenji’s starting small. He wants me to move a dumbbell across the room through sheer force of will. But all I’ve managed to do was make it twitch. And I’m not even sure that was me. “You’re not focusing,” Kenji says to me. “You need to connect—find your core and pull from within,” he’s saying. “You have to, like, literally pull it out of yourself and then push it out around you, J. It’s only difficult in the beginning,” he says, “because your body is so used to containing the energy. In your case it’s going to be even harder, because you’ve spent your whole life bottling it up. You have to give yourself permission to let it go. Let down your guard. Find it. Harness it. Release it.” He gives me the same speech, over and over again. And I keep trying, over and over again. I count to three. I close my eyes and try to really, truly focus this time. I listen to the sudden urge to lift my arms, planting my feet firmly on the floor. I blow out a breath. Squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I feel the energy surging up, through my bones, my blood, raging and rising until it culminates into a mass so potent I can no longer contain it. I know it needs release, and needs it now. But how? Before, I always thought I needed to touch something to let the power out. It never occurred to me to throw the energy into a stationary object. I thought my hands were the final destination; I never considered using them as a transmitter, as a medium for the energy to pass through. But I’m just now realizing that I can try to push it out through my hands—through my skin. And maybe, if I’m strong enough, I might be able to learn to manipulate the power in midair, forcing it to move whichever way I want. My sudden realization gives me a renewed burst of confidence. I’m excited now, eager to see if my theory is correct. I steel myself, feeling the rush of power flood through me again. My shoulders tense as the energy coats my hands, my wrists, my forearms. It feels so warm, so intense, almost like it’s a tangible thing; the kind of power that could tangle in my fingers. I curl my fists. Pull back my arms. And then fling them forward, opening my hands at the same time.

Silence. I squint one eye open, sneaking a look at the dumbbell still sitting in the same spot. Sigh. “GET DOWN,” Kenji shouts, yanking me backward and shoving me face-first onto the floor. I can hear everyone shouting and thudding to the ground around us. I crane my neck up only to see that they’ve all got their hands over their heads, faces covered; I try to look around. Panic seizes me by the throat. The rock wall is fissuring into what might be a hundred pieces, creaking and groaning as it falls apart. I watch, horrified, as one huge, jagged chunk trembles just before unhinging from the wall. Warner is standing underneath. I’m about to scream before I see him look up, both hands outstretched toward the chaos. Immediately, the wall stops shaking. The pieces hover, trembling only slightly, caught between falling and fitting back into place. My mouth is still open. Warner looks to his right. Nods. I follow his line of sight and see Castle on the other side, using his power to hold up the other end. Together they control the pieces as they fall to the floor, allowing them to float down, settling each broken slab and each jagged bit gently against what remains of the wall. Everyone begins to pop their heads up, realizing something has changed. We slowly get to our feet, and watch, dumbstruck, as Castle and Warner contain the disaster and confine it to one space. Nothing else is damaged. No one is hurt. I’m still looking on, eyes wide with awe. When the work is finally done, Warner and Castle share a brief moment of acknowledgment before they head in opposite directions. Warner comes to find me. Castle to everyone else. “Are you okay?” Warner asks. His tone is businesslike, but his eyes give him away. “You’re not injured?” I shake my head. “That was incredible.” “I can’t take any credit for it,” he says. “It was Castle’s power I borrowed.” “But you’re so good at it,” I tell him, forgetting for a moment that we’re supposed to be mad at each other. “You just learned you have this

ability, and you can already control it. So naturally. But then when I try to do something, I nearly kill everyone in the process.” I drop my head. “I’m the worst at everything,” I mutter. “The worst.” “Don’t feel bad,” he says quietly. “You’ll figure it out.” “Was it ever hard for you?” I look up, hopeful. “Figuring out how to control the energy?” “Oh,” he says, surprised. “No. Though I’ve always been very good at everything I do.” I drop my head again. Sigh. Warner laughs and I peek up. He’s smiling. “What?” “Nothing,” he whispers. I hear a sharp whistle. Spin around. “Hey—jazz hands!” Kenji barks. “Get your ass back over here.” He makes it a point to look as irritated as possible. “Back to work. And this time, focus. You’re not an ape. Don’t just throw your shit everywhere.” Warner actually laughs. Out loud. I look back at him, and he’s looking toward the wall, trying to suppress a wide smile as he runs a hand through his hair, down the back of his neck. “At least someone appreciates my sense of humor,” Kenji says before tugging at my arm. “Come on, princess. Let’s try that again. And please, try not to kill everyone in this room.” THIRTY-NINE We’ve been practicing all week.

I’m so exhausted I can’t even stand up anymore, but I’ve made more progress than I ever could’ve hoped for. Kenji is still working with me directly, and Castle is overseeing my progress, but everyone else spends time training on all the various machines. Winston and Brendan seem to be in better spirits every day—they look healthier, livelier—and the gash on Brendan’s face is starting to fade.

I’m so happy to see their progress, and doubly thrilled Delalieu was able to find the right medicines for them. The two of them spend most days eating and sleeping and jumping from the bikes to the treadmill. Lily has been messing around with a little of everything, and today she’s exercising with the medicine balls in the corner. Ian has been lifting weights and looking after Castle, and Alia has spent all week sitting in the corner, sketching things in a notepad. She seems happier, more settled. And I can’t help but wonder if Adam and James are okay, too. I hope they’re safe. Warner is always gone during the day. Every once in a while I glance at the elevator doors, secretly hoping they’ll open and deposit him back inside this room. Sometimes he stops by for a bit—jumps on the bike or goes for a quick run—but mostly he’s gone. I only really see him in the mornings for his early workout, and in the evenings when he does another round of cardio. The end of the night is my favorite part of the day. It’s when all nine of us sit down and talk about our progress. Winston and Brendan are healing, I’m getting stronger, and Warner lets us know if there’ve been any new developments from the civilians, the soldiers, or The Reestablishment—so far, everything is still quiet. And then Warner and I go back up to his quarters, where we shower and head to separate rooms. I sleep on his bed. He sleeps on the couch in his office. Every night I tell myself I’ll be brave enough to knock on his door, but I never have. I still don’t know what to say. Kenji tugs on my hair. “Ow—” I jerk back, scowling. “What’s wrong with you?” “You’ve been hit extra hard with the stupid stick today.” “What? I thought you said I was doing okay—” “You are. But you’re distracted. You keep staring at the elevator like it’s about to grant you three wishes.” “Oh,” I say. I look away. “Well. Sorry.” “Don’t apologize,” he sighs. Frowns a little. “What the hell is going on between you guys, anyway? Do I even want to know?”

I sigh. Flop onto the mats. “I have no idea, Kenji. He’s hot and cold.” I shrug. “I guess it’s fine. I just need a little space for now.” “But you like him?” Kenji raises an eyebrow. I say nothing. Feel my face warm. Kenji rolls his eyes. “You know, I really never would’ve thought Warner could make you happy.” “Do I look happy?” I counter. “Good point.” He sighs. “I just mean that you always seemed so happy with Kent. This is a little hard for me to process.” He hesitates. Rubs his forehead. “Well. Actually, you were a hell of a lot weirder when you were with Kent. Super whiny. And so dramatic. And you cried. All. The. Damn. Time.” He screws up his face. “Jesus. I can’t decide which one of them is worse.” “You think I’m dramatic?” I ask him, eyes wide. “Do you even know yourself at all?” “I am not dramatic, okay? My presence just commands a certain kind of attention—” I snort. “Hey,” he says, pointing at my face. “I am just saying that I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’ve already been on this merry-go-round. First Adam. Now Warner. Next week you’re going to try and hook up with me.” “You really wish that were true, don’t you?” “Whatever,” he says, looking away. “I don’t even like you.” “You think I’m pretty.” “I think you’re delusional.” “I don’t even know what this is, Kenji.” I meet his eyes. “That’s the problem. I don’t know how to explain it, and I’m not sure I understand the depth of it yet. All I know is that whatever this is, I never felt it with Adam.” Kenji’s eyes pull together, surprised and scared. He says nothing for a second. Blows out a breath. “Seriously?” I nod. “Seriously, seriously?” “Yeah,” I say. “I feel so . . . light. Like I could just . . . I don’t know . . .” I trail off. “It’s like I feel like, for the first time in my life, I’m going to be okay. Like I’m going to be strong.”

“But that sounds like it’s just you,” he says. “That has nothing to do with Warner.” “That’s true,” I tell him. “But sometimes people can weigh us down, too. And I know Adam didn’t mean to, but he was weighing me down. We were two sad people stuck together.” “Huh.” Kenji leans back on his hands. “Being with Adam was always overshadowed by some kind of pain or difficulty,” I explain, “and Adam was always so serious. He was intense in a way that exhausted me sometimes. We were always hiding, or sneaking around, or on the run, and we never found enough uninterrupted moments to be together. It was almost like the universe was trying to tell me I was trying too hard to make things work with him.” “Kent wasn’t that bad, J.” Kenji frowns. “You’re not giving him enough credit. He’s been acting kind of dickish lately, but he’s a good guy. You know he is. Shit is just really rough for him right now.” “I know,” I sigh, feeling sad, somehow. “But this world is still falling apart. Even if we win this war, everything is going to get much, much worse before it gets better.” I pause. Stare into my hands. “And I think people become who they really are when things get rough. I’ve seen it firsthand. With myself, my parents, with society, even. And yeah, Adam is a good guy. He really is. But just because he’s a good guy doesn’t make him the right guy for me.” I look up. “I’m so different now. I’m not right for him anymore, and he’s not right for me.” “But he still loves you.” “No,” I say. “He doesn’t.” “That’s a pretty heavy accusation.” “It’s not an accusation,” I say. “One day Adam will realize that what he felt for me was just a crazy kind of desperation. We were two people who really needed someone to hold on to, and we had this past that made us seem so compatible. But it wasn’t enough. Because if it were, I wouldn’t have been able to walk away so easily.” I drop my eyes, my voice. “Warner didn’t seduce me, Kenji. He didn’t steal me away. I just . . . I reached a point where everything changed for me. “Everything I thought I knew about Warner was wrong. Everything I thought I believed about myself was wrong. And I knew I was changing,”

I say to him. “I wanted to move forward. I wanted to be angry and I wanted to scream for the first time in my life and I couldn’t. I didn’t want people to be afraid of me, so I tried to shut up and disappear, hoping it would make them more comfortable. But I hate that I let myself be so passive my whole life, and I see now how differently things could’ve been if I’d had faith in myself when it mattered. I don’t want to go back to that,” I tell him. “I won’t. Not ever.” “You don’t have to,” Kenji points out. “Why would you? I don’t think Kent wanted you to be passive.” I shrug. “I still wonder if he wants me to be the girl he first fell for. The person I was when we met.” “And that’s bad?” “That’s not who I am anymore, Kenji. Do I still seem like that girl to you?” “How the hell should I know?” “You don’t know,” I say, exasperated. “That’s why you don’t understand. You don’t know what I used to be like. You don’t know what it was like in my head. I lived in a really dark place,” I say to him. “I wasn’t safe in my own mind. I woke up every morning hoping to die and then spent the rest of the day wondering if maybe I was already dead because I couldn’t even tell the difference,” I say, more harshly than I mean to. “I had a small thread of hope and I clung to it, but the majority of my life was spent waiting around to see if someone would take pity on me.” Kenji is just staring at me, his eyes tight. “Don’t you think I’ve realized,” I say to him, angrier now, “that if I’d allowed myself to get mad a long time ago, I would’ve discovered I had the strength to break through that asylum with my own two hands?” Kenji flinches. “Don’t you think that I think about that, all the time?” I ask him, my voice shaking. “Don’t you think it kills me to know that it was my own unwillingness to recognize myself as a human being that kept me trapped for so long? For two hundred and sixty-four days, Kenji,” I say, swallowing hard. “Two hundred and sixty-four days I was in there and the whole time, I had the power to break myself out and I didn’t, because I had no idea I could. Because I never even tried. Because I let the world teach me to hate myself. I was a coward,” I say, “who needed someone

else to tell me I was worth something before I took any steps to save myself. “This isn’t about Adam or Warner,” I tell him. “This is about me and what I want. This is about me finally understanding where I want to be in ten years. Because I’m going to be alive, Kenji. I will be alive in ten years, and I’m going to be happy. I’m going to be strong. And I don’t need anyone to tell me that anymore. I am enough, and I always will be.” I’m breathing hard now, trying to calm my heart. Kenji is staring at me, mildly terrified. “I want Adam to be happy, Kenji, I really do. But he and I would end up like water going nowhere.” “What do you mean . . . ?” “Water that never moves,” I say to him. “It’s fine for a little while. You can drink from it and it’ll sustain you. But if it sits too long it goes bad. It grows stale. It becomes toxic.” I shake my head. “I need waves. I need waterfalls. I want rushing currents.” “Damn,” Kenji says. He laughs nervously, scratches the back of his head. “I think you should write that speech down, princess. Because you’re going to have to tell him all of that yourself.” “What?” My body goes rigid. “Yeah.” Kenji coughs. “Adam and James are coming here tomorrow.” “What?” I gasp. “Yeah. Awkward, right?” He tries to laugh. “Sooo awkward.” “Why? Why would he come here? How do you even know?” “I’ve, um, kind of been going back?” He clears his throat. “To, you know, check up on them. Mostly James. But you know.” He looks away. Looks around. “To check up on them?” “Yeah. Just to make sure they’re doing okay.” He nods at nothing. “Like, I told him that we had a really awesome plan in place,” Kenji says, pointing at me. “Thanks to you, of course. Really awesome plan. So. And I told him the food was good,” Kenji adds. “And the showers are hot. So, like, he knows Warner didn’t cheap out on us or anything. And yeah, you know, some other stuff.” “What other stuff?” I ask, suspicious now. “What did you say to him?” “Hmm?” Kenji is studying the hem of his shirt, pulling at it.

“Kenji.” “Okay, listen,” Kenji says, holding up both hands. “Just—don’t get mad, okay?” “I’m already getting mad—” “They were going to die out there. I couldn’t just let them stay in that crappy little space all by themselves—especially not James—and especially not now that we’ve got a solid plan in place—” “What did you tell him, Kenji?” My patience is wearing thin. “Maybe,” he says, backing away now, “maybe I told him how you were a calm, rational, very nice person who does not like to hurt people, especially not her very good-looking friend Kenji—” “Dammit, Kenji, tell me what you did—” “I need five feet,” he says. “What?” “Five feet. Of space,” he says. “Between us.” “I will give you five inches.” Kenji swallows, hard. “Okay, well, maybe,” he says, “maybe I told him . . . that . . . um, you missed him. A lot.” I nearly rock backward, reeling from the impact of his words. “You did what?” My voice drops to a whisper. “It was the only way I could get him here, okay? He thought you were in love with Warner, and his pride is such a freaking issue with him—” “What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout. “They’re going to kill each other!” “This could be their chance to make up,” Kenji says. “And then we can all be friends, just like you wanted—” “Oh my God,” I say, running a hand over my eyes. “Are you insane? Why would you do that? I’ll have to break his heart all over again!” “Yeah, you know, I was thinking maybe you could pretend to be, like, not interested in Warner? Just until after this war is over? Because that would make things a little less stressful. And then we’d all get along, and Adam and James wouldn’t die out there all alone. You know? Happy ending.” I’m so mad right now I’m shaking. “You told him something else, didn’t you?” I ask, my eyes narrowing. “You said something else to him. About me. Didn’t you?” “What?” Kenji is moving backward now. “I don’t—”

“Is that all you told him?” I demand. “That I missed him? Or did you tell him something else, too?” “Oh. Well, now that you mention it, yeah, um, I might’ve told him, um, that you were still in love with him?” My brain is screaming. “And . . . that maybe you talk about him all the time? And maybe I told him that you cry a lot about how much you miss him. Maybe. I don’t know, we talked about a lot of things, so—” “I am going to MURDER YOU—” “No,” he says, pointing at me as he shifts backward again. “Bad Juliette. You don’t like to kill people, remember? You’re against that, remember? You like to talk about feelings and rainbows—” “Why, Kenji?” I drop my head into my hands. “Why? Why would you lie to him?” “Because,” he snaps, frustrated. “This is bullshit. Everyone is already dying in this world. Everyone has lost their homes, their families— everything they’ve ever loved. And you and Kent should be able to work out your stupid high school drama like two adults. We shouldn’t have to lose each other like this. We’ve already lost everyone else,” he says, angry now. “They’re alive, J. They’re still alive.” He looks at me, eyes bright with barely restrained emotion. “That’s reason enough for me to try and keep them in my life.” He looks away. Lowers his voice. “Please,” he says. “This is such crap. This whole thing. I feel like I’m the kid caught in the middle of a divorce. And I didn’t want to lie to him, okay? I didn’t. But at least I convinced him to come back. And maybe once he gets here, he’ll want to stay.” I glare at him. “When are they going to be here?” Kenji takes a beat to breathe. “I’m getting them in the morning.” “You know I’m going to tell Warner, right? You know you can’t just keep them here and make them invisible.” “I know,” he says. “Fine.” I’m so furious I don’t even know what to say anymore. I can’t even look at him right now. “So . . . ,” Kenji says. “Good talk?” I spin around. My voice is deathly soft, my face only inches from his. “If they kill each other,” I say to him, “I will break your neck.”

“Damn, princess. When did you get so violent?” “I’m not kidding, Kenji. They’ve tried to kill each other before, and they almost succeeded. I hope you didn’t forget that detail when you were making your happy rainbow plans.” I stare him down. “This isn’t just the story of two guys who don’t like each other. They want each other dead.” Kenji sighs. Looks toward the wall. “It’ll be okay,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.” “No,” I say to him. “You’ll figure it out.” “Can’t you try to see where I’m coming from?” he asks. “Can’t you see how much better it would be for us to all be together? There’s no one left, J. It’s just us. We shouldn’t all have to suffer just because you and Kent aren’t making out anymore. We shouldn’t be living like this.” I close my eyes. Sigh deeply and try to calm down. “I do,” I say quietly. “I do see where you’re coming from. I really, really do. And I love you for wanting everyone to be okay, and I love you for looking out for me, and for wanting me and Adam to be together again. I know how much you’re going through right now. And I’m so sorry, Kenji. I really am. I know this isn’t easy for you. But that’s also exactly why I don’t understand why you’d force the two of them together. You want to stick them in the same room. In a confined space. I thought you didn’t want them to die.” “I think you’re being a little pessimistic about this.” “Dammit, Kenji!” I throw my arm out, exasperated, and don’t even realize what I’ve done until I hear a crash. I look toward the sound. I’ve managed to knock down an entire rack of free weights. From across the room. I am a walking catastrophe. “I need to cool off,” I tell him, trying to moderate my voice. “I’ll be back to shave your head while you’re sleeping.” Kenji looks genuinely terrified for the first time. “You wouldn’t.” I head toward the opposite wall. Hit the button for the elevator. “You’re a heavy sleeper, right?” “That’s not funny, J—that’s not even a little bit funny—” The elevator pings open. I step inside. “Good night, Kenji.” I can still hear him shouting at me as the doors close.

FORTY Warner is in the shower when I get back up to the room.

I glance at the clock. This would be about the time he’d start heading down to the training rooms; I usually meet him there for our nightly recap. Instead I fall face-first onto the bed. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Adam is going to show up here tomorrow thinking I still want to be with him. I don’t want to have to walk away again, to see the hurt in his eyes. I don’t want to hurt him. I really don’t. I never have. I’m going to kill Kenji. I shove my head under the pillows, stacking them on my head and squishing them down around my ears until I’ve managed to shut out the world. I don’t want to think about this right now. Now, of all the times to be thinking about this. Why do things always have to be so complicated? Why? I feel a hand on my back. I jerk up, pillows flying everywhere, and I’m so stupidly startled I actually fall off the bed. A pillow topples over and hits me in the face. I groan, clutching the pillow to my chest. I press my forehead to the soft cushion of it, squeezing my eyes shut. I’ve never had such a terrible headache. “Juliette?” A tentative voice. “Are you okay?” I lower the pillow. Blink up. Warner is wearing a towel. A towel. I want to roll under the bed. “Adam and James are coming here tomorrow,” I say to him, all at once. I just say it, just like that. Warner raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize they’d received an invitation.” “Kenji is bringing them here. He’s been sneaking out to go check on them, and now he’s bringing them here. Tomorrow morning.” Warner’s face is carefully neutral, his voice unaffected. He might be talking about the color of the walls. “I thought he wasn’t interested in joining your resistance anymore.”

For a moment I can’t believe I’m still lying on the ground, clutching a pillow to my chest, staring at Warner who’s wearing a towel and nothing else. I can’t even take myself seriously. “Kenji told Adam I’m still in love with him.” There it is. A flash of anger. In and out. Warner’s eyes spark and fade. He looks to the wall, silent a moment. “I see.” His voice is quiet, controlled. “He knew it was the only way to get Adam back here.” Warner says nothing. “But I’m not, you know. In love with him.” I’m surprised at how easily the words leave my lips, and even more surprised that I feel the need to say them out loud. That I’d need to reassure Warner, of all people. “I care about Adam,” I say to him, “in the way that I’ll always care about the few people who’ve shown me kindness in my life, but everything else is just . . . gone.” “I understand,” he says. I don’t believe him. “So what do you want to do?” I ask. “About tomorrow? And Adam?” “What do you think should be done?” I sigh. “I’m going to have to talk to him. I’ll have to break up with him for the third time,” I say, groaning again. “This is so stupid. So stupid.” I finally drop the pillow. Drop my arms to my sides. But when I look up again, Warner is gone. I sit up, alert. Glance around. He’s standing in the corner, putting on a pair of pants. I try not to look at him as I climb back onto the bed. I kick off my shoes and sink under the blankets, burrowing into the pillows until my head is buried beneath them. I feel the weight shift on the bed, and realize Warner must be sitting beside me. He plucks one of the pillows off my head. Leans in. Our noses are only inches apart. “You don’t love him at all?” Warner asks me. My voice is being stupid. “Romantically?” He nods. “No.” “You’re not attracted to him?” “I’m attracted to you.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “So am I.” Warner’s still staring at me. He blinks, once. “Don’t you believe me?” I ask. He looks away. “Can’t you tell?” I ask him. “Can’t you feel it?” And I am either losing my mind or Warner just blushed. “You give me too much credit, love.” His eyes are focused on the blanket, his words soft. “I will disappoint you. I am every bit the defective human being you don’t think I am.” I sit up. Look at him closely. “You’re so different,” I whisper. “So different and exactly the same.” “What do you mean?” “You’re so gentle now. You’re very . . . calm,” I tell him. “Much more than you were before.” He says nothing for a long time. And then he stands up. His tone is curt when he says, “Yes, well, I’m sure you and Kishimoto will find a way to sort this situation out. Excuse me.” And then he leaves. Again. I have no idea what to make of him anymore. FORTY-ONE Adam is already here.

Warner was completely uninterested in dealing with Adam. So he’s gone about his day and his duties, having skipped his morning workout. And now I’m here. I’ve just stepped out of the elevator, and the pinging sound that signals the opening of the doors has alerted everyone to my presence. Adam was standing in the corner, talking to James. He’s now staring at me. It’s weird, how I feel when I look at him now. There is no extreme emotion in me. No excess of happiness or sadness. Not upset. Not overjoyed. His face is familiar to me; his body, familiar to me. His unsteady smile, as he looks at me, is familiar to me. How strange that we can go from friends to inseparable to hateful then casual all in one lifetime.

“Hi,” I say. “Hey.” He looks away. “Hi, James.” I smile. “Hi!” He waves, buoyant. He’s standing just next to Adam, eyes lit up, clearly thrilled to be back among us. “This place is so cool.” “It is,” I agree. “Have you had a chance to take a shower yet? The water is warm here.” “Oh, right,” he says, shyly now. “Kenji told me about that.” “Why don’t you get washed up? Delalieu will be bringing lunch down soon. I’m sure Brendan can show you around the locker room—and where to put all your stuff. You can have your own locker,” I tell him, glancing at Brendan as I do. He nods, taking the hint and jumping to his feet right away. “Really?” James is saying. “That’s so cool. So they just bring the food to you? And you get to shower whenever you want? Is there a curfew?” “Yes, yes, and no,” Brendan answers him. He takes James’s hand. Grabs his little bag. “We can stay up as late as we like,” he tells him. “Maybe after dinner I’ll show you how to use the bicycles in here,” he says, his voice fading to an echo as he and James disappear into the locker room. Once James is gone, everyone seems to exhale. I steel myself. Step forward. “I’m really sorry,” Adam says first, crossing the room to meet me. “You have no idea—” “Adam.” I cut him off, anxious. Nervous. I have to say this and I have to say it now. “Kenji lied to you.” Adam stops. Stills. “I haven’t been crying over you,” I say, wondering if it’s even possible to deliver this kind of information without both humiliating him and breaking his heart. I feel like such a monster. “And I’m really, really happy you’re here, but I don’t think we should be together anymore.” “Oh,” he says. Rocks back on his heels. Drops his eyes. Runs both hands through his hair. “Right.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kenji looking at me. He’s waving his hand, trying to get my attention, but I’m still too mad at him right now. I don’t want to talk to him until I’ve fixed this. “Adam,” I say. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, holding up a hand to stop me. He looks dazed, sort of. Strange. “It’s okay. Really. I already knew you were going to say that to me.” He laughs a little, but awkwardly. “I guess I thought knowing in advance would make it feel a lot less like I was being punched in the gut.” He cringes. “But nope. Still hurts like hell.” He backs up against the wall. Slides down to the floor. He’s not looking at me. “How did you know?” I ask. “How did you know what I was going to say?” “I told him before you got here,” Kenji says, stepping forward. He shoots me a sharp look. “I came clean. I told him what we talked about yesterday. All the things you said.” “Then why is he still here?” I ask, stunned. I turn to face Adam. “I thought you said you never wanted to see me again.” “I never should’ve said that.” Adam is still looking at the floor. “So . . . you’re okay?” I ask him. “With Warner?” Adam looks up in disgust, so different in an instant. “Are you out of your mind? I want to put his head through a goddamn wall.” “Then why are you still here?” I ask again. “I don’t understand—” “Because I don’t want to die,” he says to me. “Because I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out how to feed my little brother and I’ve come up with exactly jack and shit in the way of solutions. Because it’s cold as hell outside, and he’s hungry, and because our electricity is going to get shut off soon.” Adam is breathing hard. “I didn’t know what else to do. So now I’m here, my pride in the toilet, hoping I can stay in my ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend’s bachelor pad, and I want to kill myself.” He swallows. “And I can suffer through that,” he says, “if it means James will be safe. But right now I’m still waiting for your shithead of a boyfriend to show up and try to kill me.” “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say quietly. “And he’s not going to kill you. He doesn’t even care that you’re here.” Adam laughs out loud. “Bullshit,” he says. “I’m serious.” Adam gets to his feet. Studies my eyes. “You’re telling me I can stay here, in his room, and eat his food, and he’s just going to let me?” Adam’s eyes are wide, incredulous. “You still don’t understand this guy. He doesn’t operate the way you think he does, Juliette. He doesn’t think like a

normal human being. He’s a freaking sociopath. And you really are insane,” he says, “if you think it’s okay to be with someone like that.” I flinch, stung. “Be very careful how you speak to me, Adam. I won’t tolerate your insults again.” “I can’t even believe you,” he says. “I can’t believe you can stand there and treat me like this.” His face is twisted into something so intensely unattractive. Anger. “I’m not trying to hurt you—” “Maybe you should’ve remembered that before you ran into the arms of some psycho!” “Calm your ass down, Kent.” I hear Kenji’s sharp warning from the corner of the room. “I thought you said you were going to be cool.” “I am being cool,” he says, his voice rising, eyes on fire. “I’m a freaking saint. I don’t know anyone else who would be as generous as I am right now.” He looks back at me. “You were lying to me the whole time we were together. You were cheating on me—” “No I wasn’t.” “This kind of shit doesn’t just happen overnight,” he shouts. “You don’t just fall out of love with someone like that—” “We’re done, Adam. I’m not doing this again. You’re welcome to stay here,” I tell him. “Especially for James’s sake. But you can’t stay here and insult me. You have no right.” Adam tenses his jaw. Grabs his things. And charges into the locker room. FORTY-TWO “I am going to kill you.”

“He wasn’t like that when I went to visit,” Kenji says to me. “I swear. He was fine. He was sad.” “Yeah, well, obviously seeing my face isn’t bringing back happy memories for him.” Kenji sighs. Looks away. “I’m really sorry,” he says. “I swear. But he wasn’t lying, J. They were down to practically nothing the last time I went back there. Kent said half their supplies went bad because he didn’t

realize the blast had broken some of the shelves in their storage room. Some of the jars had cracked open and there were rodents and shit eating their food. And they were all alone out there. It’s cold as all hell and you have no idea how depressing it was, seeing them like that, and James—” “I get it, Kenji.” I blow out a breath. Fold myself onto the floor. “I really do.” I look up, look around. Everyone is busying themselves with some kind of task. Running or sketching or training or lifting weights. I think we’re all exhausted by this drama. No one wants to deal with it anymore. Kenji sits down across from me. “He can’t keep treating me like that,” I finally say. “And I won’t keep having the same conversation with him.” I look up. “You brought him here. He’s your responsibility. We have three weeks before we initiate this plan, and we’re already cutting it really close. I need to be able to come down here and train every day, and I don’t want to have to worry about him freaking out on me.” “I know,” he says. “I know.” “Good.” “Hey, so—were you serious?” Kenji asks. “When you said Warner doesn’t care about him being here?” “Yeah. Why?” Kenji raises his eyebrows. “That’s . . . weird.” “One day,” I say to him, “you’ll realize that Warner is not as crazy as you think he is.” “Yeah,” Kenji says. “Or maybe one day we’ll be able to reprogram that chip in your head.” “Shut up.” I laugh, shoving him a little. “All right. Up. Let’s go. It’s time to work.” FORTY-THREE Alia has designed me a new suit.

We’re sitting on the mats like we always do in the evenings, and right now, Alia is showing us her designs. I’ve never seen her this animated before.

She’s more confident talking about the contents of her sketchbook than she is the weather. She’s talking fast and fluid, describing the details and the dimensions, even outlining the materials we’ll need in order to make it. It’s built with carbon. Carbon fibers, to be precise. She explained that carbon fibers are so stiff and abrasive that they’ll need to be bonded with something very flexible in order to become wearable, so she’s planning on experimenting with several different materials. Something about polymers. And synthetic something. And a bunch of other words I didn’t really understand. Her sketches show how the carbon fibers are literally woven into a textile, creating a durable and lightweight material that will serve as a stronger basis for what I need. Her idea was inspired by the knuckle braces she made for me. She said she originally wanted the suit to be made of thousands of pieces of gunmetal, but then she realized she’d never have the tools to make the pieces as thin as she’d like them, and therefore, the suit would be too heavy. But this is sounding just as amazing. “It’ll complement and enhance your strength,” she’s saying to me. “The carbon fibers will give you an added level of protection; they won’t damage easily, so you’ll be able to move more freely through different terrains. And when you’re in a dangerous environment, you must remember to maintain a state of electricum at all times; that way your body will become virtually indestructible,” she says. “What do you mean . . . ?” I look from her to Castle for clarification. “How can that be possible?” “Because,” Alia explains. “In the same way that you can break through concrete without hurting yourself, you should also be able to sustain an attack—from a bullet, for example—without harm.” She smiles. “Your powers make you functionally invincible.” Wow. “This suit is a precaution more than anything else,” she goes on. “We’ve seen in the past that you can, in fact, damage your skin if you’re not wholly in control of your power. When you broke the ground in the research rooms,” she says, “we thought it was the enormity of the act that injured you. But after examining the situation and your abilities more thoroughly, Castle and I found this deduction to be inaccurate.”

“Our energies are never inconsistent,” Castle jumps in, nodding at Alia. “They follow a pattern—an almost mathematical precision. If you cannot injure yourself while breaking through a concrete wall, it does not then follow that you should be able to injure yourself by breaking the ground, only to remain uninjured after breaking the ground a second time.” He looks at me. “Your injuries have to do with your hold on your ability. If you ever slip out of electricum—if you dial it back for even a moment—you will be vulnerable. Remember to be on, at all times. If you do, you cannot be defeated.” “I hate you so hard right now,” Kenji mutters under his breath. “Functionally invincible my ass.” “Jealous?” I grin at him. “I can’t even look at you.” “You shouldn’t be surprised.” Warner has just walked in. I spin around to find he’s heading toward our group, smiling a brittle smile at no one in particular. He sits down across from me. Meets my eyes as he says, “I always knew your powers, once harnessed, would be unmatched.” I try to breathe. Warner finally breaks eye contact with me to glance around the room. “Good evening, everyone,” he says. He nods at Castle. A special sort of acknowledgment. Adam has a special sort of acknowledgment of his own. He’s staring at Warner with an intense, unmasked hatred, looking as though he truly wants to murder Warner, and I’m suddenly more anxious than I’ve been all day. I’m looking from Adam to Warner and back again and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if something is about to happen and I’m so desperate for things to be civil that I— “Hi,” James says, so loudly it startles all of us. He’s looking at Warner. “What are you doing here?” Warner raises an eyebrow. “I live here.” “This is your house?” James asks. Strange. I wonder what Adam and Kenji told him about where they were going. Warner nods. “In some capacity, yes,” he says. “It serves as my home. I live upstairs.” “That’s so cool,” James says, grinning. “This whole place is so cool.” He frowns. “Hey I thought we were supposed to hate you, though.”

“James,” Adam says, shooting his brother a warning glance. “What?” James asks. “You are free to hate me,” Warner says. “If you want to. I don’t mind.” “Well you should mind,” James says, surprised. “I’d be really upset if someone hated me.” “You are young.” “I’m almost twelve,” James says to him. “I was told you were ten.” “I said almost twelve.” James rolls his eyes. “How old are you?” Everyone is watching. Listening. Too fascinated to look away. Warner studies James. Takes his time answering. “I’m nineteen years old.” James’s eyes go wide. “You’re only a year older than Adam,” he says. “How do you have so many nice things if you’re only a year older than Adam? I don’t know anyone your age who has nice things.” Warner looks over at me. Looks back at James. Looks at me again. “Is there nothing you want to add to this conversation, love?” I shake my head. Smiling. “Why do you call her ‘love’?” James asks. “I’ve heard you say that before, too. A lot. Are you in love with her? I think Adam’s in love with her. Kenji’s not in love with her, though. I already asked him.” Warner blinks at him. “Well?” James asks. “Well what?” “Are you in love with her?” “Are you in love with her?” “What?” James blushes. “No. She’s like a million years older than me.” “Would anyone like to take over this conversation?” Warner asks, looking around the group. “You never answered my question,” James says. “About why you have so many things. I’m not trying to be rude,” he says. “Really. I’m just wondering. I’ve never taken a shower with hot water before. And you have so much food. It must be really nice to have so much food all the time.”

Warner flinches, unexpectedly. He looks more carefully at James. “No,” he says slowly. “It is not a terrible thing to have food and hot water all the time.” “So then are you going to answer my question? About where you got all this stuff?” Warner sighs. “I am the commander and regent of Sector 45,” he says. “We are currently on an army base, where it is my job to oversee our soldiers and all the civilians who live on the accompanying compounds. I am paid to live here.” “Oh.” James goes pale in an instant; he suddenly looks inhumanly terrified. “You work for The Reestablishment?” “Hey, it’s okay, buddy,” Kenji says to James. “You’re safe here. Okay? No one’s going to hurt you.” “This is the kind of guy you’re into, huh?” Adam snaps at me. “The kind of guy who petrifies children?” “It’s nice to see you again, Kent.” Warner is watching Adam now. “How are you enjoying your stay?” Adam seems to be fighting back the urge to say a lot of unkind things. “So you really work for them?” James is asking Warner again, his words just a breath, his eyes still frozen on Warner’s face. He’s shaking so hard it breaks my heart. “You work for The Reestablishment?” Warner hesitates. Looks away and looks back again. “Theoretically,” he says. “Yes.” “What do you mean?” James asks. Warner is looking into his hands. “What do you mean, theoretically?” James demands. “Are you asking,” Warner says with a sigh, “because you are actually seeking clarification? Or is it because you don’t know what the word theoretically means?” James hesitates, his panic dissolving into frustration for a moment. He screws up his face, annoyed. “Fine. What does theoretically mean?” “Theoretically,” Warner says, “I’m supposed to work for The Reestablishment. But, obviously, as I’m hosting a group of rebels on this government-owned military base—in my private quarters, no less—and sustaining said rebels so that they might overthrow our current regime, I would say no. I am not, exactly, working for The Reestablishment. I have

committed treason,” he says to James. “A crime that is punishable by death.” James stares at him for a long time. “That’s what theoretically means?” Warner looks up at the wall. Sighs again. I bite back a laugh. “So, wait—then you’re not the bad guy,” James says all of a sudden. “You’re on our side, right?” Warner turns slowly to meet James’s eyes. Says nothing. “Well?” James asks, impatient. “Aren’t you on our side?” Warner blinks. Twice. “So it seems,” he says, looking as though he can hardly believe he’s saying it. “Perhaps we should get back to the suit,” Castle cuts in. He’s looking at Warner, smiling triumphantly. “Alia has spent a long time designing it, and I know she has more details to share.” “Yeah,” Kenji says, excited. “This looks badass, Alia. I want one. Can I have one?” I wonder if I’m the only person who notices that Warner’s hands are shaking. FORTY-FOUR “Punch me.”

Warner is standing directly across from me, head cocked to the side. Everyone is watching us. I shake my head, fast. “Don’t be afraid, love,” he says to me. “I just want you to try.” His arms are relaxed at his sides. His stance so casual. It’s Saturday morning, which means he has time off from his daily workout routine. Which means he’s decided to work with me, instead. I shake my head again. He laughs. “Your training with Kenji is good,” he says, “but this is just as important. You need to learn how to fight. You have to be able to defend yourself.” “But I can defend myself,” I say to him. “I’m strong enough.”

“Strength is excellent,” he says, “but it’s worth nothing without technique. If you can be overpowered, you are not strong enough.” “I don’t think I could be overpowered,” I say to him. “Not really.” “I admire your confidence.” “Well, it’s true.” “When you met my father for the first time,” he says, “were you not initially overpowered?” My blood runs cold. “And when you set out to fight after I left Omega Point,” he says to me, “were you not overpowered again?” I clench my fists. “And even after you were captured,” he says quietly, “was my father not able to overpower you once more?” I drop my head. “I want you to be able to defend yourself,” Warner says, his voice gentle now. “I want you to learn how to fight. Kenji was right the other day, when he said you can’t just throw your energy around. You have to be able to project with precision. Your moves must always be deliberate. You have to be able to anticipate your opponent in every possible way, both mentally and physically. Strength is only the first step.” I look up, meet his eyes. “Now punch me,” he says. “I don’t know how,” I finally admit, embarrassed. He’s trying so hard not to smile. “Are you looking for volunteers?” I hear Kenji ask. He steps closer. “Because I’ll gladly kick your ass if Juliette isn’t interested.” “Kenji,” I snap, spinning around. I narrow my eyes. “What?” “Come on, love,” Warner says to me. He’s unfazed by Kenji’s comment, looking at me as if no one else in this room exists. “I want you to try. Use your strength. Tap into every bit of power you have. And then punch me.” “I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.” Warner laughs again. Looks away. Bites his lip as he stifles another smile. “You’re not going to hurt me,” he says. “Trust me.” “Because you’ll absorb the power?”

“No,” he says. “Because you won’t be able to hurt me. You don’t know how.” I frown, annoyed. “Fine.” I swing my fist in what I assume a punch is supposed to look like. But my motion is limp and wobbly and so humiliatingly bad I almost give up halfway. Warner catches my arm. He meets my eyes. “Focus,” he says to me. “Imagine you are terrified. You are cornered. You are fighting for your life. Defend yourself,” he demands. I pull my arm back with more intensity, ready to try harder this time, when Warner stops me. He grabs my elbow. Shakes it a little. “You are not playing baseball,” he says. “You do not wind up for a punch, and you do not need to lift your elbow up to your ear. Do not give your opponent advance notice of what you’re about to do,” he says. “The impact should be unexpected.” I try again. “My face is in the center, love, right here,” he says, tapping a finger against his chin. “Why are you trying to hit my shoulder?” I try again. “Better—control your arm—keep your left fist up—protect your face —” I punch hard, a cheap shot, an unexpected hit even though I know he isn’t ready. His reflexes are too fast. His fist is clenched around my forearm in an instant. He yanks, hard, pulling my arm forward and down until I’m off-balance and toppling toward him. Our faces are an inch apart. I look up, embarrassed. “That was cute,” he says, unamused as he releases me. “Try again.” I do. He blocks my punch with the back of his hand, slamming into the space just inside my wrist, knocking my arm sideways. I try again. He uses the same hand to grab my arm in midair and pull me close again. He leans in. “Do not allow anyone to catch your arms like this,” he says. “Because once they do, they’ll be able to control you.” And, as if to

prove it, he uses his hold on my arm to pull me in and then shove me backward, hard. Not too hard. But still. I’m starting to get irritated, and he can tell. He smiles. “You really want me to hurt you?” I ask him, eyes narrowing. “I don’t think you can,” he says. “I think you’re pretty cocky about that.” “Prove me wrong, love.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Please.” I swing. He blocks. I strike again. He blocks. His forearms are made of steel. “I thought this was about punching,” I say to him, rubbing at my arms. “Why do you keep hitting my forearms?” “Your fist does not carry your strength,” he says. “It’s just a tool.” I swing again, faltering at the last minute, my confidence failing me. He catches my arm. Drops it. “If you’re going to hesitate,” he says, “do it on purpose. If you’re going to hurt someone, do it on purpose. If you’re going to lose a fight,” he says, “do it on purpose.” “I just—I can’t do this right,” I tell him. “My hands are shaking and my arms are starting to hurt—” “Watch what I do,” he says. “Watch my form.” His feet are planted about shoulder-width apart, his legs slightly bent at the knees. His left fist is up and held back, protecting the side of his face, and his right fist is leading, sitting higher and slightly diagonal from his left. Both elbows are tucked in, hovering close to his chest. He swings at me, slowly, so I can study the movement. His body is tensed, his aim focused, every movement controlled. The power comes from somewhere deep inside of him; it’s the kind of strength that is a consequence of years of careful training. His muscles know how to move. Know how to fight. His power is not a gimmick of supernatural coincidence. His knuckles gently graze the edge of my chin.

He makes it look so easy to punch someone. I had no idea it was this difficult. “Do you want to switch?” he asks. “What?” “If I try to punch you,” he says. “Can you defend yourself?” “No.” “Try,” he says to me. “Just try to block me.” “Okay,” I say, not actually wanting to. I feel stupid and petulant. He swings again, slowly, for my sake. I slap his arm out of the way. He drops his hands. Tries not to laugh. “You are so much worse at this than I thought you’d be.” I scowl. “Use your forearms,” he says. “Block my swing. Knock it out of the way and shift your body with it. Remember to move your head when you block. You want to move yourself away from danger. Don’t just stand there and slap.” I nod. He starts to swing. I block too quickly, my forearm hitting his fist. Hard. I wince. “It’s good to anticipate,” he says to me, his eyes sharp. “But don’t get eager.” Another swing. I catch his forearm. Stare at it. I try to pull it down like he did with mine, but he literally does not budge. At all. Not even an inch. It’s like tugging on a metal pole buried in concrete. “That was . . . okay,” he says, smiling. “Try again. Focus.” He’s studying my eyes. “Focus, love.” “I am focused,” I insist, irritated. “Look at your feet,” he says. “You’re putting your weight on the front of your feet and you look like you’re about to tip over. Plant yourself in place,” he says. “But be ready to move. Your weight should rest on the heels of your feet,” he says, tapping the back of his own foot. “Fine,” I snap, angry now. “I’m standing on the heels of my feet. I’m not tipping over anymore.”

Warner looks at me. Captures my eyes. “Never fight when you’re angry,” he says quietly. “Anger will make you weak and clumsy. It will divert your focus. Your instincts will fail you.” I bite the inside of my cheek. Frustrated and ashamed. “Try again,” he says slowly. “Stay calm. Have faith in yourself. If you don’t believe you can do it,” he says, “you won’t.” I nod, slightly mollified. Try to concentrate. I tell him I’m ready. He swings. My left arm bends at the elbow in a perfect ninety-degree angle that slams into his forearm so hard it stops his swing. My head has shifted out of the way, my feet turned in the direction of his punch; I’m still standing steady. Warner is amused. He swings with his other fist. I grab his forearm in midair, my fist closed around the space above his wrist, and I take advantage of his surprise to throw him off-balance, pulling his arm down and yanking him forward. He almost crashes into me. His face is right in front of mine. And I’m so surprised that for a moment I don’t know what to do. I’m caught in his eyes. “Push me,” he whispers. I tighten my hold around his arm, and then shove him across the room. He flies back, catching himself before hitting the floor. I’m frozen in place. Shocked. Someone whistles. I turn around. Kenji is clapping. “Well done, princess,” he says, trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you had it in you.” I grin, half embarrassed and half absurdly proud of myself. I meet Warner’s eyes across the room. He nods, smiling so wide. “Good,” he says. “Very good. You’re a fast learner. But we still have a lot of work to do.” I finally look away, catching a glimpse of Adam in the process. He looks pissed.

FORTY-FIVE The days have flown by, kites carrying them off into the distance.

Warner’s been working with me every morning now. After his workout, and after my training with Kenji, he’s carved out two hours a day to spend with me. Seven days a week. He’s an extraordinary teacher. So patient with me. So pleasant. He’s never frustrated, never bothered by how long it takes me to learn something new. He takes the time to explain the logic behind every detail, every motion, every position. He wants me to understand what I’m doing on an elemental level. He makes sure I’m internalizing the information and replicating it on my own, not just mimicking his movements. I’m finally learning how to be strong in more ways than one. It’s strange. I never thought knowing how to throw a punch could make a difference, but the simple knowledge of understanding how to defend myself has made me so much more confident. I’m so much more aware of myself now. I walk around feeling the strength in my limbs. I’m able to name the individual muscles in my body, knowing exactly how to use them—and how to abuse them, if I do things wrong. My reflexes are getting better, my senses are heightened. I’m beginning to understand my surroundings, to anticipate danger, and to recognize the subtle shifts in body language that indicate anger and aggression. And my projection is almost too easy now. Warner collected all sorts of things for me to destroy, just for target practice. Scraps of wood and metal, old chairs and tables. Blocks of concrete. Anything that would test my strength. Castle uses his energy to toss the objects into the air and it’s my job to destroy them from across the room. At first it was nearly impossible; it’s an extremely intense exercise that requires me to be wholly in control of myself. But now, it’s one of my favorite games. I can stop and crush anything in the air. From any distance across the room. All I need are my hands to control the energy. I can move my own power in any direction, focusing it on small objects and then widening the scope for a larger mass.

I can move everything in the training room now. Nothing is difficult anymore. Kenji thinks I need a new challenge. “I want to take her outside,” Kenji says. He’s talking directly to Warner—so casually—something that’s still strange for me to see. “I think she needs to start experimenting with natural materials. We’re too limited in here.” Warner looks at me. “What do you think?” “Will it be safe?” I ask. “Well,” he says, “it doesn’t really matter, does it? In one week we’ll be outing ourselves anyway.” “Good point.” I try to smile. Adam has been unusually quiet these past couple weeks. I don’t know if it’s because Kenji talked to him and told him to be careful, or if it’s because he’s really resigned himself to this situation. Maybe he’s realized there’s nothing romantic happening between me and Warner. Which both pleases and disappoints me. Warner and I seem to have reached some kind of understanding. A civil, oddly formal relationship that balances precariously between friendship and something else that has never been defined. I can’t say I enjoy it. Adam doesn’t interfere, however, when James speaks to Warner, and Kenji told me it’s because Adam doesn’t want to traumatize James by giving him a reason to be afraid of living here. Which means James is constantly talking to Warner. He’s a curious kid, and Warner is so naturally private that he’s the most obvious target for James’s questions. Their exchanges are always entertaining for all of us. James is thoroughly unapologetic, and bolder than most anyone would ever be when talking to Warner. It’s kind of cute, actually. Other than that, everyone has been progressing well. Brendan and Winston are back to perfect, Castle is in better spirits every day, and Lily is a self-sufficient kind of girl who doesn’t need much to be entertained— though she and Ian seem to have found a sort of solace in each other’s company.

I suppose it makes sense that this kind of isolation would bring people together. Like Adam and Alia. He’s been spending a lot of time with her lately, and I don’t know what that means; it might be nothing more than friendship. But for most of the time I’ve been down in the training room, I’ve seen him sitting next her, just watching her sketch, asking the occasional question. She’s always blushing. In some ways, she reminds me a lot of how I used to be. I adore Alia, but sometimes watching them together makes me wonder if this is what Adam’s always wanted. A sweet, quiet, gentle girl. Someone who would compensate for all the roughness he’s seen in his life. He said that to me once, I remember. He said he loved that about me. That I was so good. So sweet. That I was the only good thing left in this world. I think I always knew that wasn’t true. Maybe he’s starting to see it, too. FORTY-SIX “I have to visit my mother today.”

These are the seven words that begin our morning. Warner has just walked out of his office, his hair a golden mess around his head, his eyes so green and so simultaneously transparent that they defy true description. He hasn’t bothered to button his rumpled shirt and his slacks are unbelted and hanging low on his waist. He looks completely disoriented. I don’t think he’s slept all night and I want so desperately to know what’s been happening in his life but I know it’s not my place to ask. Worse still, I know he wouldn’t even tell me if I did. There’s no level of intimacy between us anymore. Everything was moving so quickly between us and then it halted to a complete stop. All those thoughts and feelings and emotions frozen in place. And now I’m so afraid that if I make the wrong move, everything will break. But I miss him.

He stands in front of me every day and I train with him and work alongside him like a colleague and it’s not enough for me anymore. I miss our easy conversations, his open smiles, the way he always used to meet my eyes. I miss him. And I need to talk to him, but I don’t know how. Or when. Or what to say. Coward. “Why today . . . ?” I ask tentatively. “Did something happen?” Warner says nothing for a long time, just stares at the wall. “Today is her birthday.” “Oh,” I whisper, heart breaking. “You wanted to practice outdoors,” he says, still staring straight ahead. “With Kenji. I can take you with me when I leave, as long as he promises to keep you invisible. I’ll drop you off somewhere on unregulated territory and pick you up when I’m heading back. Will that be all right?” “Yes.” He says nothing else, but his eyes are wild and unfocused. He’s looking at the wall like it might be a window. “Aaron?” “Yes, love.” “Are you scared?” He takes a tight breath. Exhales it slowly. “I never know what to expect when I visit her,” he says quietly. “She’s different each time. Sometimes she’s so drugged up she doesn’t even move. Sometimes her eyes are open and she just stares at the ceiling. Sometimes,” he says, “she’s completely hysterical.” My heart twists. “It’s good that you still visit her,” I say to him. “You know that, right?” “Is it?” He laughs a strange, nervous sort of laugh. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.” “Yes. It is.” “How can you know?” He looks at me now, looks at me as though he’s almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Because if she can tell, for even a second, that you’re in the room with her, you’ve given her an extraordinary gift. She is not gone completely,” I tell him. “She knows. Even if it’s not all the time, and even if she can’t show it. She knows you’ve been there. And I know it must mean so much to her.” He takes in another shaky breath. He’s staring at the ceiling now. “That is a very nice thing to say.” “I really mean it.” “I know,” he says. “I know you do.” I look at him a little longer, wondering if there’s ever an appropriate time to ask questions about his mother. But there’s one thing I’ve always wanted to ask. So I do. “She gave you that ring, didn’t she?” Warner goes still. I think I can hear his heart racing from here. “What?” I walk up to him and take his left hand. “This one,” I say, pointing to the jade ring he’s always worn on his left pinkie finger. He never takes it off. Not to shower. Not to sleep. Not ever. He nods, so slowly. “But . . . you don’t like to talk about it,” I say, remembering the last time I asked him about his ring. I count exactly ten seconds before he speaks again. “I was never allowed,” he says very, very quietly, “to receive presents. From anyone. My father hated the idea of presents. He hated birthday parties and holidays. He never let anyone give anything to me, and especially not my mother. He said that accepting gifts would make me weak. He thought they would encourage me to rely on the charity of others. “But we were hiding one day,” he says. “My mother and I.” His eyes are up, off, lost in another place. He might not be talking to me at all. “It was my sixth birthday and she was trying to hide me. Because she knew what he wanted to do to me.” He blinks. His voice is a whisper, half dead of emotion. “I remember her hands were shaking,” he says. “I remember because I kept looking at her hands. Because she was holding mine to her chest. And she was wearing this ring.” He quiets, remembering. “I’d never seen much jewelry in my life. I didn’t know what it was, exactly. But she

saw me staring and she wanted to distract me,” he says. “She wanted to keep me entertained.” My stomach is threatening to be sick. “So she told me a story. A story about a boy who was born with very green eyes, and the man who was so captivated by their color that he searched the world for a stone in exactly the same shade.” His voice is fading now, falling into whispers so quiet I can hardly hear him. “She said the boy was me. That this ring was made from that very same stone, and that the man had given it to her, hoping one day she’d be able to give it to me. It was his gift, she said, for my birthday.” He stops. Breathes. “And then she took it off, slipped it on my index finger, and said, ‘If you hide your heart, he will never be able to take it from you.’” He looks toward the wall. “It’s the only gift,” he says, “anyone has ever given to me.” My tears fall backward, burning as they singe their way down my throat. FORTY-SEVEN I feel strange, all day.

I feel off, somehow. Kenji is thrilled to be getting off base, excited about testing my strength in new places, and everyone else is jealous that we get to leave. So I should be happy. I should be eager. But I feel strange. My head is in a weird place, and I think it’s because I haven’t been able to shake Warner’s story from my mind. I can’t stop trying to imagine him as he was. As a small, terrified child. No one knows where he’s headed today. No one knows the depth of it. And he does nothing to betray how he’s really feeling. He’s been as calm as ever, controlled and careful in his words, his actions. Kenji and I are meeting him again in just a moment. We’re slipping through the door in the gun wall, and I’m finally able to see firsthand how Warner sneaked them inside. We’re crossing through a shooting range. There are gun stations and little cubicles with targets set hundreds of feet away, and right now, the entire place is deserted. This must be another

one of Warner’s practice rooms. There’s a door at the end of the walkway, and Kenji pushes it open. He doesn’t need to touch me at all anymore in order to keep me invisible, and it’s so much more convenient this way. We can move freely as long as I’m within fifty feet of him, which gives us the flexibility we need to be able to work outside today. We’re now on the other side of the door. Standing in an enormous storage facility. The space is at least five hundred feet across, and maybe twice as high. I’ve never seen more boxes in my entire life. I have no idea what they contain, and no time to wonder. Kenji is pulling me through the maze. We sidestep boxes of all different sizes, careful not to trip over electrical cords and the machinery used to move the heavier items. There are rows and rows and more rows divided into even more rows that house everything in very organized sections. I notice there are labels on every shelf and in all the aisles, but I can’t get close enough to read them. When we finally make it to the end of the storage room, there are two huge, fifty-foot doors that lead to the exit. This is clearly a loading zone for trucks and tanks. Kenji grabs my arm and keeps me close as we pass several guards stationed by the exit. We dart through the trucks parked all around the loading zone, until we finally get to the meeting point where we’re supposed to find Warner. I wish Kenji could’ve been around to make me invisible when I first tried to get on and off base. It would’ve been so nice to just walk out like a human being, instead of being carted through the halls, jolting and teetering and clinging to the legs of a wheeling tray table. Warner is leaning against a tank. Both doors are open, and he’s looking around like he might be overseeing the work being done with the loading units. He nods to several soldiers as they pass. We clamber into the passenger side unnoticed. And just as I’m about to whisper a notification to Warner, he walks around to the passenger side, says, “Watch your legs, love,” and shuts the door. And then he climbs into the other side. Starts driving. We’re still invisible.

“How did you know we were in here?” Kenji asks immediately. “Can you, like, see invisible people, too?” “No,” Warner says to him, eyes focused in front of him. “I can feel your presence. Hers, most of all.” “Really?” Kenji says. “That’s some weird shit. What do I feel like? Peanut butter?” Warner is unamused. Kenji clears his throat. “J, I think you should switch spots with me.” “Why?” “I think your boyfriend is touching my leg.” “You flatter yourself,” Warner says. “Switch spots with me, J. He’s making me feel all goosebumpy and shit, like maybe he’s about to knife me.” “Fine.” I sigh. I try clambering over him, but it’s difficult, considering I can see neither my own body nor his. “Ow—dammit—you almost kicked me in the face—” “Sorry!” I say, trying to scramble over his knees. “Just move,” he says. “God, how much do you weigh—” He shifts, all at once, slipping out from under me, and gives me a small shove to move me over. I fall face-first into Warner’s lap. I hear Warner’s brief, sharp intake of breath, and I scramble upright, blushing so hard, and I’m suddenly so relieved no one can see me right now. I want to punch Kenji in the nose. No one talks much after that. As we get closer to unregulated territory, the scenery starts to change. The simple, signless, semipaved roads give way to the streets of our old world. The houses are painted in shades that promised to be colorful once upon a time, and the roads are lined with sidewalks that might’ve carried children safely home from school. The houses are all falling apart now. Everything is broken, dilapidated. The windows boarded up. The lawns overgrown and iced over. The winter bite looks fresh in the air, and it casts a gloom over the scene in a way that says this all might be different in another season. Who knows. Warner stops the tank.

He climbs out and walks over to our door, just in case anyone is still out here, and makes it seem as though he’s opening it for a specific reason. To check the interior. To examine a problem. It doesn’t matter. Kenji jumps out first, and Warner seems to be able to tell that he’s gone. I reach for Warner’s hand, because I know he can’t see me. His fingers immediately tighten around mine. His eyes are focused on the floor. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell him. “Okay?” “Yes,” he says. “I’m sure you’re right.” I hesitate. “Will you be back soon?” “Yes,” he whispers. “I’ll return for you in exactly two hours. Will that be sufficient time?” “Yes.” “Good. I’ll meet you back here, then. In this exact location.” “Okay.” He says nothing for a second. Then, “Okay.” I squeeze his hand. He smiles at the ground. I stand up and he shifts to the side, allowing me room to get by. I touch him as I move past, just briefly. Just as a reminder. That I’m here for him. He flinches, startled, and steps back. And then he climbs into the tank, and leaves. FORTY-EIGHT Warner is late.

Kenji and I had a semisuccessful session, one that consisted mainly of us arguing over where we were standing and what we were looking at. We’re going to have to come up with much better signals next time, because trying to coordinate a training session between two invisible people is a lot more difficult than it sounds. Which is saying a lot. So now we’re tired and slightly disappointed, having accomplished little in the way of progress, and we’re standing in exactly the same place

Warner dropped us off. And Warner is late. This is unusual for many reasons. The first of which is that Warner is never late. Not for anything. And the second is that if he were going to be late, it definitely wouldn’t be for something like this. This situation is far too dangerous to be casual about. He wouldn’t have taken it lightly. I know he wouldn’t have. So I’m pacing. “I’m sure it’s fine,” Kenji is saying to me. “He probably just got hung up doing whatever it is he’s doing. You know, commandering and shit.” “Commandering is not a word.” “It has letters, doesn’t it? Sounds like a word to me.” I’m too nervous to banter right now. Kenji sighs. I hear him stomp his feet against the cold. “He’ll be here.” “I don’t feel right, Kenji.” “I don’t feel right, either,” he says. “I’m hungry as hell.” “Warner wouldn’t be late. It’s not like him to be late.” “How would you know?” Kenji shoots back. “You’ve known him for how long, exactly? Five months? And you think you know him so well? Maybe he’s in a secret jazz club where he sings a cappella and wears sparkly vests and thinks it’s cool to do the cancan.” “Warner wouldn’t wear sparkly vests,” I snap. “But you think he’d be down with the cancan.” “Kenji, I love you, I really do, but right now I’m so anxious, and I feel so sick, that the more you speak, the more I want to kill you.” “Don’t talk sexy to me, J.” I huff, irritated. God, I’m so worried. “What time is it?” “Two forty-five.” “This isn’t right. We should go find him.” “We don’t even know where he is.” “I do,” I say. “I know where he is.” “What? How?” “Do you remember where we met Anderson for the first time?” I ask him. “Do you remember how to get back to Sycamore Street?” “Yeah . . . ,” Kenji says slowly. “Why?” “He’s about two streets down from there.”

“Um. What the hell? Why is he down there?” “Will you go with me?” I ask, nervous. “Please? Now?” “Okay,” he says, unconvinced. “But only because I’m curious. And because it’s cold as hell out here and I need to move my legs before I freeze to death.” “Thank you,” I say. “Where are you?” We follow the sounds of each other’s voices until we bump right into one another. Kenji slips his arm into mine. We huddle together against the cold. He leads the way. FORTY-NINE This is it.

The robin’s-egg-blue house. The one I woke up in. The one Warner lived in. The one his mother is stored in. We’re standing in front of it and it looks exactly as it did the last two times I was here. Beautiful and terrifying. Wind chimes whipping back and forth. “Why the hell would Warner be here?” Kenji asks. “What is this place?” “I can’t really tell you,” I say to him. “Why not?” “Because it’s not my secret to tell.” Kenji is silent a moment. “So what do you want me to do?” “Can you wait here?” I ask him. “Will I be able to stay invisible if I go inside? Or will I get out of range?” Kenji sighs. “I don’t know. You can definitely try. I’ve never tried to do this from outside a house before.” He hesitates. “But if you’re going to go in without me, can you please hurry the hell up? I’m already freezing my ass off.” “Yes. I promise. I’ll be fast. I just want to make sure he’s all right—or that he’s even in here. Because if he’s not inside, he might be waiting for us back at the drop-off.” “And all of this will have been a huge waste of time.” “I’m sorry,” I say to him. “I’m really sorry. But I just have to make sure.”

“Go,” he says. “Go and come back fast.” “Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.” I break away and climb up the stairs to the little porch. Test the handle. It’s unlocked. I turn it, push the door open. Step inside. This is where I was shot. The bloodstain from where I was lying on the ground has already been cleaned up. Or maybe the carpet was changed. I’m not sure. Either way, the memories still surround me. I can’t walk back into this house without feeling sick to my stomach. Everything is wrong in here. Everything is so wrong. So off. Something has happened. I can feel it. I’m careful to shut the door gently behind me. I creep up the stairs, remembering how the floorboards squeaked when I was first captured and brought here, and I’m able to sidestep the noisiest parts; the rest of it, thankfully, just sounds like it could be the wind. When I’m upstairs, I count three doors. Three rooms. On the left: Warner’s old room. The one I woke up in. In the middle: the bathroom. The one I was bathed in. On the far end of the hall, all the way to the right: his mother’s room. The one I’m looking for. My heart is racing in my chest. I can hardly breathe as I tiptoe closer. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. I don’t know what I’m hoping will come of this trip. I don’t have any idea, even, if Warner is still in here. And I have no idea what it’ll be like to see his mother. But something is pulling me forward, urging me to open the door and check. I need to know. I just have to know. My mind won’t rest otherwise. So I inch forward. Take several deep breaths. I grasp the doorknob and turn, so slowly, not even realizing I’ve lost invisibility until I see my feet crossing the threshold. I panic in an instant, my brain calculating contingency plans, and though I briefly consider turning around and bolting out the door, my eyes have already scanned the room. And I know I can’t turn back now.

FIFTY There’s a bed in here.

A single bed. Surrounded by machines and IVs and bottles and brandnew bedpans. There are stacks of bedsheets and stacks of blankets and the most beautiful bookcases and embroidered pillows and adorable stuffed animals piled everywhere. There are fresh flowers in five different vases and four brightly painted walls and there’s a little desk in the corner with a little matching chair and there’s a potted plant and a set of old paintbrushes and there are picture frames, everywhere. On the walls, on the desk, sitting on the table beside the bed. A blond woman. A little blond boy. Together. They never age, I notice. The pictures never move past a certain year. They never show the evolution of this child’s life. The boy in these photos is always young, and always startled, and always holding fast to the hand of the lady standing beside him. But that lady is not here. And her nurse is gone, too. The machines are off. The lights are out. The bed is empty. Warner has collapsed in the corner. He’s curled into himself, knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, his head buried in his arms. And he’s shaking. Tremors are rocking his entire body. I’ve never, ever seen him look like a child before. Never, not once, not in all the time I’ve known him. But right now, he looks just like a little boy. Scared. Vulnerable. All alone. It doesn’t take much to understand why. I fall to my knees in front of him. I know he must be able to sense my presence, but I don’t know if he wants to see me right now. I don’t know how he’s going to react if I reach out. But I have to try. I touch his arms, so gently. I run my hand down his back, his shoulders. And then I dare to wrap myself around him until he slowly breaks apart, unfolding in front of me. He lifts his head.

His eyes are red-rimmed and a startling, striking shade of green, shining with barely restrained emotion. His face is the picture of so much pain. I almost can’t breathe. An earthquake hits my heart then, cracks it right down the middle. And I think here, in him, there is more feeling than any one person should ever have to contain. I try to hold him closer but he wraps his arms around my hips instead, his head falling into my lap. I bend over him instinctively, shielding his body with my own. I press my cheek to his forehead. Press a kiss to his temple. And then he breaks. Shaking violently, shattering in my arms, a million gasping, choking pieces I’m trying so hard to hold together. And I promise myself then, in that moment, that I will hold him forever, just like this, until all the pain and torture and suffering is gone, until he’s given a chance to live the kind of life where no one can wound him this deeply ever again. And we are quotation marks, inverted and upside down, clinging to one another at the end of this life sentence. Trapped by lives we did not choose. It’s time, I think, to break free. FIFTY-ONE Kenji is waiting in the tank when we get back. He managed to find it.

He’s sitting in the passenger side, invisibility off, and he doesn’t say a single word as Warner and I climb inside. I try to meet his eyes, already prepared to concoct some crazy story for why it took me an hour to get Warner out of the house, but then Kenji looks at me. Really looks at me. And I close my mouth forever. Warner doesn’t say a single word. He doesn’t even breathe loudly. And when we get back to base, he lets me and Kenji leave the tank under our guise of invisibility and he still says nothing, not even to me. As soon as we’re out of the tank, he closes our door, and climbs back inside. I’m watching him drive off again when Kenji slips his arm into mine.

We weave back through the storage facility without a problem. Cross through the shooting range without a problem. But just before we reach the door to Warner’s training facility, Kenji pulls me aside. “I followed you in,” he says, with no preamble. “You took too long and I got worried and I followed you up there.” A pause. A heavy pause. “I saw you guys,” he says, so quietly. “In that room.” Not for the first time today, I’m glad he can’t see my face. “Okay,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say. Not knowing what Kenji will do with the information. “I just—” Kenji takes a deep breath. “I’m just confused, okay? I don’t need to know all the details—I realize that whatever was happening in there was none of my business—but are you okay? Did something happen?” I exhale. Close my eyes as I say, “His mom died today.” “What?” Kenji asks, stunned. “What—h-how? His mom was in there?” “She’d been sick for a long time,” I say, the words rushing out of me. “Anderson kept her locked in that house and he abandoned her. He left her to die. Warner had been trying to help her, and he didn’t know how. She couldn’t be touched, just like I can’t touch anyone, and the pain of it was killing her every day.” I’m losing control now, unable to keep my feelings contained any longer. “Warner never wanted to use me as a weapon,” I say to him. “He made that up so he had a story to tell his father. He found me by accident. Because he was trying to find a solution. To help her. All these years.” Kenji takes a sharp breath. “I had no idea,” he says. “I didn’t even know he was close to his mom.” “You don’t know him at all,” I say, not caring how desperate I sound. “You think you do but you really don’t.” I feel raw, like I’ve been sanded down to the bone. He says nothing. “Let’s go,” I say. “I need some time to breathe. To think.” “Yeah,” he says. He exhales. “Yeah, sure. Of course.” I turn to go. “J,” he says, stopping me, his hand still on my arm. I wait. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t know.”

I blink fast against the burning in my eyes. Swallow back the emotion building in my throat. “It’s okay, Kenji. You were never supposed to.” FIFTY-TWO I finally manage to pull myself together long enough to head back to the training rooms. It’s getting late, but I don’t anticipate seeing Warner down here tonight. I think he’ll want the time alone.

I’m making myself scarce on purpose. I’ve had enough. I came so close to killing Anderson once, and I’ll make sure I have that chance again. But this time, I’ll follow through. I wasn’t ready last time. I wouldn’t have known what to do even if I’d killed him then. I would’ve handed control over to Castle and I would’ve watched quietly as someone else tried to fix our world again. But I see now that Castle was wrong for this job. He’s too tender. Too anxious to please everyone. I, on the other hand, am left with no concerns at all. I will be unapologetic. I will live with no regrets. I will reach into the earth and rip out the injustice and I will crush it in my bare hands. I want Anderson to fear me and I want him to beg for mercy and I want to say no, not for you. Never for you. And I don’t care if that’s not nice enough. FIFTY-THREE I get to my feet.

Adam is standing across the room, talking to Winston and Ian. Everyone falls silent as I approach. And if Adam is thinking or feeling anything at all about me, he doesn’t show it. “You have to tell him,” I say. “What?” Adam startles. “You have to tell him the truth,” I say. “And if you don’t, I will.” All at once Adam’s eyes are a frozen ocean, cold and closed off. “Don’t push me, Juliette. Don’t say stupid things you’re going to regret.”

“You have no right to keep this from him. He has no one in this world, and he deserves to know.” “This is none of your business,” Adam says. He’s towering over me, his fists clenched. “Stay out of it. Don’t force me to do something I don’t want to do.” “Are you actually threatening me?” I ask. “Are you insane?” “Maybe you’ve forgotten,” he says, “that I’m the only one in this room who can shut you off. But I haven’t. You have no power against me.” “Of course I have power against you,” I tell him. “My touch was killing you when we were together—” “Yeah, well, things have changed a lot since then.” He grabs my hand, yanking so hard I nearly fall forward. I try to pull away and I can’t. He’s too strong. “Adam, let go of me—” “Can you feel that?” he asks, eyes a crazy, stormy shade of blue. “What?” I ask. “Feel what?” “Exactly,” he says. “There’s nothing there. You’re empty. No power, no fire, no superstrength. Just a girl who can’t throw a punch to save her life. And I’m perfectly fine. Unharmed.” I swallow hard and meet his cold gaze. “So you’ve done it, then?” I ask. “You managed to control it?” “Of course I did,” he says angrily. “And you couldn’t wait—even though I told you I could do it—you couldn’t wait even though I told you I was training so we could be together—” “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I’m staring at my hand in his, his refusal to let go. “We would’ve ended up in the same place sooner or later.” “That’s not true—this is proof!” he says, holding up my hand. “We could’ve made it work—” “We’re too different now. We want different things. And this?” I say, nodding at our hands. “All this managed to prove is that you are extremely good at turning me off.” Adam’s jaw clenches. “Now let go of my hand.” “Hey—can we please refrain from putting on a shitshow tonight?” Kenji’s voice booms from across the room. He’s heading toward us. Pissed.

“Stay out of this,” Adam snaps at him. “It’s called consideration. There are other people living in this room, jackass,” Kenji says once he’s close enough. He grabs Adam’s arm. “So knock it off.” Adam breaks away angrily. “Don’t touch me.” Kenji shoots him a sharp look. “Let go of her.” “You know what?” Adam says, his anger taking over. “You’re so obsessed with her—jumping to her defense all the time, getting involved in our conversations all the time—you like her so much? Fine. You can have her.” Time freezes all around us. The stage is set: Adam and his wild eyes, his rage and his red face. Kenji standing next to him, annoyed, slightly confused. And me, my hand still locked in Adam’s viselike grip, his touch so quickly and easily reducing me back to who I was when we first met. I’m completely powerless. But then, in one movement, everything changes: Adam grabs Kenji’s bare hand and presses it into my empty one. For just long enough. FIFTY-FOUR It takes a couple of seconds for the two of us to register what’s just happened before Kenji rips his hand away, and in a moment of perfect spontaneity, uses it to punch Adam in the face.

Everyone else in the room is now up and alert. Castle runs forward immediately, and Ian and Winston—who were already standing close by —hurry to join him. Brendan rushes out of the locker room in a towel, eyes searching for the source of the commotion; Lily and Alia jump off the bikes and crowd around us. We’re lucky it’s so late; James is already sleeping quietly in the corner. Adam was thrown back by Kenji’s punch, but he quickly regained his footing. He’s breathing hard, dragging the back of his hand across his now-bloody lip. He does not apologize. No sound escapes my open, horrified mouth.

“What in God’s name is wrong with you?” Kenji’s voice is soft but deathly sharp, his right fist still clenched. “Were you trying to get me killed?” Adam rolls his eyes. “I knew it wouldn’t kill you. Not that quickly. I’ve felt it before,” he says. “It just burns a little.” “Pull yourself together, dickhead,” Kenji snaps. “You’re acting insane.” Adam says nothing. He actually laughs, flips Kenji off, and heads in the direction of the locker room. “Hey—are you okay?” I ask Kenji, trying to catch a glimpse of his hand. “I’m fine,” he sighs, glancing at Adam’s retreating figure before looking back at me. “But his jaw is hard as hell.” He flexes his fist a little. “But my touch—it didn’t hurt you?” Kenji shakes his head. “Nah, I didn’t feel anything,” he says. “And I’d know if I did.” He almost laughs, and frowns instead. I cringe at the memory of the last time this happened. “I think Kent was deflecting your power somehow,” Kenji says. “No he wasn’t,” I whisper. “He let go of my other hand. I felt the energy come back into me.” We both look at Adam’s retreating figure. Kenji shrugs. “But then how—” “I don’t know,” Kenji says again. He sighs. “I guess I just got lucky. Listen”—he looks around at everyone—“I don’t want to talk right now, okay? I’m going to go sit down. I need to cool off.” The group breaks up slowly, everyone going back to their corners. But I can’t walk away. I’m rooted in place. I felt my skin touch Kenji’s, and that’s not something I can ignore. Those kinds of moments are so rare for me that I can’t just shake them off; I never get to be that close to people without serious consequences. And I felt the power inside my body. Kenji should’ve felt something. My mind is working fast, trying to solve an impossible equation, and a crazy theory takes root inside of me, crystallizing in a way I’d never thought it could. This whole time I’ve been training to control my power, to contain it, to focus it—but I never thought I’d be able to turn it off. And I don’t know

why. Adam had a similar problem: he’d been running on electricum his whole life. But now he’s learned how to control it. To power it down when he needs to. Shouldn’t I be able to do the same? Kenji can go visible and invisible whenever he likes—it was something he had to teach himself after training for a long time, after understanding how to shift from one state of being to another. I remember the story he told me from when he was little: he turned invisible for a couple of days without knowing how to change back. But eventually he did. Castle, Brendan, Winston, Lily—they can all turn their abilities on and off. Castle doesn’t move things with his mind by accident. Brendan doesn’t electrocute everything he touches. Winston can tighten and loosen his limbs at will, and Lily can look around normally, without taking snapshots of everything with her eyes. Why am I the only one without an off switch? My mind is overwhelmed as I process the possibilities. I begin to realize that I never even tried to turn my power off, because I always thought it would be impossible. I assumed I was fated to this life, to an existence in which my hands—my skin—would always, always keep me away from others. But now? “Kenji!” I cry out as I run toward him. Kenji glances over his shoulder at me, but doesn’t have the chance to turn all the way around before I crash into him, grabbing his hands and squeezing them in my own. “Don’t let go,” I tell him, eyes filling fast with tears. “Don’t let go. You don’t have to let go.” Kenji is frozen, shock and amazement all over his face. He looks at our hands. Looks back up at me. “You learned how to control it?” he asks. I can hardly speak. I manage to nod, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I think I’ve had it contained, all this time, and just didn’t know it. I never would’ve risked practicing it on anyone.” “Damn, princess,” he says softly, his own eyes shining. “I’m so proud of you.” Everyone is crowding around us now.

Castle pulls me into a fierce hug, and Brendan and Winston and Lily and Ian and Alia jump on top of him, crushing me all at once. They’re cheering and clapping and shaking my hand and I’ve never felt so much support or so much strength in our group before. No moment in my life has ever been more extraordinary than this. But when the congratulations ebb and the good-nights begin, I pull Kenji aside for one last hug. “So,” I say to him, rocking on my heels. “I can touch anyone I want now.” “Yeah, I know.” He laughs, cocking an eyebrow. “Do you know what that means?” “Are you asking me out?” “You know what this means, right?” “Because I’m flattered, really, but I still think we’re much better off as friends—” “Kenji.” He grins. Musses my hair. “No,” he says. “I don’t know. What does it mean?” “It means a million things,” I say to him, standing on tiptoe to look him in the eye. “But it also means that now I will never end up with anyone by default. I can do anything I want now. Be with anyone I want. And it’ll be my choice.” Kenji just looks at me for a long time. Smiles. Finally, he drops his eyes. Nods. And says, “Go do what you gotta do, J.”

FIFTY-FIVE When I get off the elevator and step into Warner’s office, all the lights are off. Everything is swimming in an inky sort of black, and it takes me several tries to adjust my eyes to the darkness. I pad my way through the office carefully, searching for any sign of its owner, and find none.

I head into the bedroom. Warner is sitting on the edge of the mattress, his coat thrown on the floor, his boots kicked off to the side. He’s sitting in silence, palms up on his lap, looking into his hands like he’s searching for something he cannot find. “Aaron?” I whisper, moving forward. He lifts his head. Looks at me. And something inside of me shatters. Every vertebra, every knuckle, both kneecaps, both hips. I am a pile of bones on the floor and no one knows it but me. I am a broken skeleton with a beating heart. Exhale, I tell myself. Exhale. “I’m so sorry,” are the first words I whisper. He nods. Gets to his feet. “Thank you,” he says to no one at all as he walks out the door. I follow him across the bedroom and into his office. Call out his name. He stops in front of the boardroom table, his back to me, his hands gripping the edge. “Please, Juliette, not tonight, I can’t—” “You’re right,” I finally say. “You’ve always been right.” He turns around, so slowly. I’m looking into his eyes and I’m suddenly petrified. I’m suddenly nervous and suddenly worried and suddenly so sure I’m going to do this all wrong but maybe wrong is the only way to do it because I can’t keep it to myself anymore. There are so many things I need to tell him. Things I’ve been too much of a coward to admit, even to myself. “Right about what?” His green eyes are wide. Scared. I hold my fingers to my mouth, still so afraid to speak. I do so much with these lips, I think.

I taste and touch and kiss and I’ve pressed them to the tender parts of his skin and I’ve made promises and told lies and touched lives all with these two lips and the words they form, the shapes and sounds they curve around. But right now my lips wish he would just read my mind because the truth is I’ve been hoping I’d never have to say any of it, these thoughts, out loud. “I do want you,” I say to him, my voice shaking. “I want you so much it scares me.” I see the movement in his throat, the effort he’s making to keep still. His eyes are terrified. “I lied to you,” I tell him, words tripping and stumbling out of me. “That night. When I said I didn’t want to be with you. I lied. Because you were right. I was a coward. I didn’t want to admit the truth to myself, and I felt so guilty for preferring you, for wanting to spend all my time with you, even when everything was falling apart. I was confused about Adam, I was confused about who I was supposed to be and I didn’t know what I was doing and I was stupid,” I say. “I was stupid and inconsiderate and I tried to blame it on you and I hurt you, so badly.” I try to breathe. “And I’m so, so sorry.” “What—” Warner is blinking fast. His voice is fragile, uneven. “What are you saying?” “I love you,” I whisper. “I love you exactly as you are.” Warner is looking at me like he might be going deaf and blind at the same time. “No,” he gasps. One broken, broken word. Barely even a sound. He’s shaking his head and he’s looking away from me and his hand is caught in his hair, his body turned toward the table and he says “No. No, no—” “Aaron—” “No,” he says, backing away. “No, you don’t know what you’re saying—” “I love you,” I tell him again. “I love you and I want you and I wanted you then,” I say to him, “I wanted you so much and I still want you, I want you right now—” Stop. Stop time. Stop the world.

Stop everything for the moment he crosses the room and pulls me into his arms and pins me against the wall and I’m spinning and standing and not even breathing but I’m alive so alive so very very alive and he’s kissing me. Deeply, desperately. His hands are around my waist and he’s breathing so hard and he hoists me up, into his arms, and my legs wrap around his hips and he’s kissing my neck, my throat, and he sets me down on the edge of the boardroom table. He has one hand under my neck, the other under my shirt and he’s running his fingers up my back and suddenly his thigh is between my legs and his hand is slipping behind my knee and up, higher, pulling me closer, and when he breaks the kiss I’m breathing so fast, head spinning as I try to hold on to him. “Up,” he says, gasping for air. “Lift your arms up.” I do. He tugs up my shirt. Pulls it over my head. Tosses it to the floor. “Lie back,” he says to me, still breathing hard, guiding me onto the table as his hands slide down my spine, under my backside. He unbuttons my jeans. Unzips them. Says, “Lift your hips for me, love,” and hooks his fingers around the waist of my pants and my underwear at the same time. Tugs them down. I gasp. I’m lying on his table in nothing but my bra. Then that’s gone, too. His hands are moving up my legs and the insides of my thighs and his lips are making their way down my chest, and he’s undoing what little is left of my composure and every bit of my sanity and I’m aching, everywhere, tasting colors and sounds I didn’t even know existed. My head is pressed back against the table and my hands are gripping his shoulders and he’s hot, everywhere, gentle and somehow so urgent, and I’m trying not to scream and he’s already moving down my body, he’s already chosen where to kiss me. How to kiss me. And he’s not going to stop. I’m beyond rational thought. Beyond words, beyond comprehensible ideas. Seconds are merging into minutes and hearts are collapsing and hands are grasping and I’ve tripped over a planet and I don’t know anything anymore, I don’t know anything because nothing will ever be

able to compare to this. Nothing will ever capture the way I’m feeling right now. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing but this moment and his mouth on my body, his hands on my skin, his kisses in brand-new places making me absolutely, certifiably insane. I cry out and cling to him, dying and somehow being brought back to life in the same moment, the same breath. He’s on his knees. I bite back the moan caught in my throat just before he lifts me up and carries me to the bed. He’s on top of me in an instant, kissing me with a kind of intensity that makes me wonder why I haven’t died or caught on fire or woken up from this dream yet. He’s running his hands down my body only to bring them back up to my face and he kisses me once, twice, and his teeth catch my bottom lip for just a second and I’m clinging to him, wrapping my arms around his neck and running my hands through his hair and pulling him into me. He tastes so sweet. So hot and so sweet and I keep trying to say his name but I can’t even find the time to breathe, much less to say a single word. I shove him up, off me. I undo his shirt, my hands shaking and fumbling with the buttons and I get so frustrated I just rip it open, buttons flying everywhere, and I don’t have a chance to push the fabric off his body before he pulls me into his lap. He wraps my legs around his hips and dips me backward until the mattress is under my head and he leans over me, cupping my face in his hands, his thumbs two parentheses around my mouth and he pulls me close and he kisses me, kisses me until time topples over and my head spins into oblivion. It’s a heavy, unbelievable kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that inspires stars to climb into the sky and light up the world. The kind that takes forever and no time at all. His hands are holding my cheeks, and he pulls back just to look me in the eye and his chest is heaving and he says, “I think,” he says, “my heart is going to explode,” and I wish, more than ever, that I knew how to capture moments like these and revisit them forever. Because this. This is everything.

FIFTY-SIX Warner has been asleep all morning.

He didn’t wake up to work out. Didn’t wake up to shower. Didn’t wake up to do anything. He’s just lying here, on his stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow. I’ve been awake since 8:00 a.m., and I’ve been staring at him for two hours. He’s usually up at five thirty. Sometimes earlier. I worry that he might’ve missed a lot of important things by now. I have no idea if he has meetings or specific places to be today. I don’t know if he’s ruined his schedule by being asleep so late. I don’t know if anyone will come to check on him. I have no idea. I do know that I don’t want to wake him. We were up very late last night. I run my fingers down his back, still confused by the word IGNITE tattooed on his skin, and train my eyes to see his scars as something other than the terrifying abuse he’s suffered his whole life. I can’t handle the horrible truth of it. I curl my body around his, rest my face against his back, my arms holding fast to his sides. I drop a kiss on his spine. I can feel him breathing, in and out, so evenly. So steadily. Warner shifts, just a little. I sit up. He rolls over slowly, still half asleep. Uses the back of one fist to rub his eyes. Blinks several times. And then he sees me. Smiles. It’s a sleepy, sleepy smile. I can’t help but smile back. I feel like I’ve been split open and stuffed with sunshine. I’ve never seen a sleepy Warner before. Never woken up in his arms. Never seen him be anything but awake and alert and sharp. He looks almost lazy right now. It’s adorable. “Come here,” he says, reaching for me. I crawl into his arms and cling, and he holds me tight against him. Drops a kiss on the top of my head. Whispers, “Good morning, sweetheart.”

“I like that,” I say quietly, smiling even though he can’t see it. “I like it when you call me sweetheart.” He laughs then, his shoulders shaking as he does. He rolls onto his back, arms stretched out at his sides. God, he looks so good without his clothes on. “I have never slept so well in my entire life,” he says softly. He grins, eyes still closed. Dimples on both cheeks. “I feel so strange.” “You slept for a long time,” I tell him, lacing his fingers in mine. He peeks at me through one eye. “Did I?” I nod. “It’s late. It’s already ten thirty.” He stiffens. “Really?” I nod again. “I didn’t want to wake you.” He sighs. “I’m afraid I should get going then. Delalieu has likely had an aneurysm.” A pause. “Aaron,” I say tentatively. “Who is Delalieu, exactly? Why is he so trustworthy with all of this?” A deep breath. “I’ve known him for many, many years.” “Is that all . . . ?” I ask, leaning back to look him in the eye. “He knows so much about us and what we’re doing and it worries me sometimes. I thought you said all your soldiers hated you. Shouldn’t you be suspicious? Trust him less?” “Yes,” he says quietly, “you’d think I would.” “But you don’t.” Warner meets my eyes. Softens his voice. “He’s my mother’s father, love.” I stiffen in an instant, jerking back. “What?” Warner looks up at the ceiling. “He’s your grandfather?” I’m sitting up in bed now. Warner nods. “How long have you known?” I don’t know how to stay calm about this. “My entire life.” Warner shrugs. “He’s always been around. I’ve known his face since I was a child; I used to see him around our house, sitting in on meetings for The Reestablishment, all organized by my father.”

I’m so stunned I hardly know what to say. “But . . . you treat him like he’s . . .” “My lieutenant?” Warner stretches his neck. “Well, he is.” “But he’s your family—” “He was assigned to this sector by my father, and I had no reason to believe he was any different from the man who gave me half my DNA. He’s never gone to visit my mother. Never asks about her. Has never shown any interest in her. It’s taken Delalieu nineteen years to earn my trust, and I’ve only just allowed myself this weakness because I’ve been able to sense his sincerity with regular consistency throughout the years.” Warner pauses. “And even though we’ve reached some level of familiarity, he has never, and will never, acknowledge our shared biology.” “But why not?” “Because he is no more my grandfather than I am my father’s son.” I stare at Warner for a long time before I realize there’s no point in continuing this conversation. Because I think I understand. He and Delalieu have nothing more than an odd, formal sort of respect for each other. And just because you’re bound by blood does not make you a family. I would know. “So do you have to go now?” I whisper, sorry I even brought up the topic of Delalieu. “Not just yet.” He smiles. Touches my cheek. We’re both silent a moment. “What are you thinking?” I ask him. He leans in, kisses me so softly. Shakes his head. I touch the tip of my finger to his lips. “There are secrets in here,” I say. “I want them out.” He tries to bite my finger. I steal it back. “Why do you smell so good?” he asks, still smiling as he avoids my question. He leans in again, leaves light kisses along my jawline, under my chin. “It’s making me crazy.” “I’ve been stealing your soaps,” I tell him. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Sorry.” I feel myself blush.

“Don’t feel bad,” he says, serious so suddenly. “You can have anything of mine you want. You can have all of it.” I’m caught off guard, so touched by the sincerity in his voice. “Really?” I ask. “Because I do love that soap.” He grins at me then. His eyes are wicked. “What?” He shakes his head. Breaks away. Slips out of bed. “Aaron—” “I’ll be right back,” he says. I watch him walk into the bathroom. I hear the sound of a faucet, the rush of water filling a tub. My heart starts racing. He walks back into the room and I’m clinging to the sheets, already protesting what I think he’s about to do. He tugs on the blanket. Tilts his head at me. “Let go, please.” “No.” “Why not?” “What are you going to do?” I ask. “Nothing.” “Liar.” “It’s okay, love.” His eyes are teasing me. “Don’t be embarrassed.” “It’s too bright in here. Turn the lights off.” He laughs out loud. Yanks the covers off the bed. I bite back a scream. “Aaron—” “You are perfect,” he says. “Every inch of you. Perfect,” he says again. “Don’t hide from me.” “I take it back,” I say, panicked, clutching a pillow to my body. “I don’t want your soap—I take it back—” But then he plucks the pillow out of my arms, scoops me up, and carries me away. FIFTY-SEVEN My suit is ready.

Warner made sure Alia and Winston would have everything they needed in order to create it, and though I’d seen them tackling the project

a little more every day, I never would’ve thought all those different materials could turn into this. It looks like snakeskin. The material is both black and gunmetal gray, but it looks almost gold in certain flashes of light. The pattern moves when I do, and it’s dizzying how the threads seem to converge and diverge, looking as though they swim together and come apart. It fits me in a way that’s both uncomfortable and reassuring; it’s skintight and a little stiff at first, but once I start moving my arms and legs I begin to understand just how much hidden flexibility it holds. It all seems strangely counterintuitive. This suit is even lighter than the one I had before—it hardly feels like I’m wearing anything at all—and yet it feels so much more durable, so much stronger. I feel like I could block a knife in this suit. Like I could be dragged across a mile of pavement in this suit. I also have new boots. They’re very similar to my old ones, but these cut off at my calf, not my ankle. They’re flat, springy, and soundless as I walk around in them. I didn’t ask for any gloves. I’m flexing my bare hands, walking the length of the room and back, bending my knees and familiarizing myself with the sensation of wearing a new kind of outfit. It serves a different purpose. I’m not trying to hide my skin from the world anymore. I’m only trying to enhance the power I already have. It feels so good. “These are for you, too,” Alia says, beaming as she blushes. “I thought you might like a new set.” She holds out exact replicas of the knuckle braces she made for me once before. The ones I lost. In a battle we lost. These, more than anything else, represent so much to me. It’s a second chance. An opportunity to do things right. “Thank you,” I tell her, hoping she knows how much I mean it. I fit the braces over my bare knuckles, flexing my fingers as I do. I look up. Look around. Everyone is staring at me. “What do you think?” I ask. “Your suit looks just like mine.” Kenji frowns. “I’m supposed to be the one with the black suit. Why can’t you have a pink suit? Or a yellow

suit—” “Because we’re not the freaking Power Rangers,” Winston says, rolling his eyes. “What the hell is a Power Ranger?” Kenji shoots back. “I think it looks awesome,” James says, grinning big. “You look way cooler than you did before.” “Yeah, that is seriously badass,” Lily says. “I love it.” “It’s your best work, mates,” Brendan says to both Winston and Alia. “Really. And the knuckle—things . . . ,” he says, gesturing to my hands. “Those are just . . . they bring the whole thing together, I think. It’s brilliant.” “You look very sharp, Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says to me. “I think it quite suits you,” he says, “if you’ll forgive the pun.” I grin. Warner’s hand is on my back. He leans in, whispers, “How easy is it to take this thing off?” and I force myself not to look at him and the smile he’s surely enjoying at my expense. I hate that he can still make me blush. My eyes try to find a new focus around the room. Adam. He’s staring at me, his features unexpectedly relaxed. Calm. And for one moment, one very brief moment, I catch a glimpse of the boy I once knew. The one I first fell for. He turns away. I can’t stop hoping he’ll be okay; he only has twelve hours to pull himself together. Because tonight, we go over the plan, one last time. And tomorrow, it all begins. FIFTY-EIGHT “Aaron?” I whisper.

The lights are out. We’re lying in bed. I’m stretched out across his body, my head pillowed on his chest. My eyes are on the ceiling. He’s running his hand over my hair, his fingers occasionally combing through the strands. “Your hair is like water,” he whispers. “It’s so fluid. Like silk.” “Aaron.”

He leaves a light kiss on top of my head. Rubs his hands down my arms. “Are you cold?” he asks. “You can’t avoid this forever.” “We don’t have to avoid it at all,” he says. “There’s nothing to avoid.” “I just want to know you’re okay,” I say. “I’m worried about you.” He still hasn’t said a single thing to me about his mother. He never said a word the entire time we were in her room, and he hasn’t spoken about it since. Hasn’t even alluded to it. Not once. Even now, he says nothing. “Aaron?” “Yes, love.” “You’re not going to talk about it?” He’s silent again for so long I’m about to turn around to face him. But then. “She’s no longer in pain,” he says softly. “This is a great consolation to me.” I don’t push him to speak after that. “Juliette,” he says. “Yes?” I can hear him breathing. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For being my friend.” I turn around then. Press close to him, my nose grazing his neck. “I will always be here if you need me,” I say, the darkness catching and hushing my voice. “Please remember that. Always remember that.” More seconds drown in the darkness. I feel myself drifting off to sleep. “Is this really happening?” I hear him whisper. “What?” I blink, try to stay awake. “You feel so real,” he says. “You sound so real. I want so badly for this to be real.” “This is real,” I say. “And things are going to get better. Things are going to get so much better. I promise.” He takes a tight breath. “The scariest part,” he says, so quietly, “is that for the first time in my life, I actually believe that.” “Good,” I say softly, turning my face into his chest. I close my eyes. Warner’s arms slip around me, pulling me closer. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?” he whispers.

“Mmm?” “I don’t like these,” he says. He tugs on my pants. I touch my lips to his neck, just barely. It’s a feather of a kiss. “Then take them off.” He pulls back the covers. I only have a second to bite back a shiver before he’s kneeling between my legs. He finds the waistband of my pants and tugs, pulling them off, over my hips, down my thighs. So slowly. My heart is asking me all kinds of questions. He bunches my pants in one fist and throws them across the room. And then his arms slip behind my back, pulling me up and against his chest. His hands move under my shirt, up my spine. Soon my shirt is gone. Tossed in the same direction as my pants. I shiver, just a little, and he eases me back onto the pillows, careful not to crush me under his weight. His body heat is so welcome, so warm. My head tilts backward. My eyes are still closed. My lips part for no reason at all. “I want to be able to feel you,” he whispers, his words at my ear. “I want your skin against mine.” His gentle hands move down my body. “God, you’re so soft,” he says, his voice husky with emotion. He’s kissing my neck. My head is spinning. Everything goes hot and cold and something is stirring to life inside of me and my hands reach for his chest, looking for something to hold on to and my eyes are trying and failing to stay open and I’m only just conscious enough to whisper his name. “Yes, love?” I try to say more but my mouth won’t listen. “Are you asleep now?” he asks. Yes, I think. I don’t know. Yes. I nod. “That’s good,” he says quietly. He lifts my head, pulls my hair away from my neck so my face falls more easily onto the pillow. He shifts so he’s beside me on the bed. “You need to sleep more,” he says. I nod again, curling onto my side. He pulls the blankets up around my arms.

He kisses the curve of my shoulder. My shoulder blade. Five kisses down my spine, one softer than the next. “I will be here every night,” he whispers, his words so soft, so tortured, “to keep you warm. I will kiss you until I can’t keep my eyes open.” My head is caught in a cloud. Can you hear my heart? I want to ask him. I want you to make a list of all of your favorite things, and I want to be on it. But I’m falling asleep so fast I’ve lost my grasp on reality, and I don’t know how to move my mouth. Time has fallen all around me, wrapped me in this moment. And Warner is still talking. So quietly, so softly. He thinks I’m asleep now. He thinks I can’t hear him. “Did you know,” he’s whispering, “that I wake up, every morning, convinced you’ll be gone?” Wake up, I keep telling myself. Wake up. Pay attention. “That all of this,” he says, “these moments, will be confirmed as some kind of extraordinary dream? But then I hear you speak to me,” he says. “I see the way you look at me and I can feel how real it is. I can feel the truth in your emotions, and in the way you touch me,” he whispers, the back of his hand brushing my cheek. My eyes flicker open. I blink once, twice. His lips are set in a soft smile. “Aaron,” I whisper. “I love you,” he says. My heart no longer fits in my chest. “Everything looks so different to me now,” he says. “It feels different. It tastes different. You brought me back to life.” He’s quiet a moment. “I have never known this kind of peace. Never known this kind of comfort. And sometimes I am afraid,” he says, dropping his eyes, “that my love will terrify you.” He looks up, so slowly, gold lashes lifting to reveal more sadness and beauty than I’ve ever seen in the same moment. I didn’t know a person could convey so much with just one look. There’s extraordinary pain in him. Extraordinary passion. It takes my breath away. I take his face in my hands and kiss him, so slowly.

His eyes fall closed. His mouth responds to mine. His hands reach up to pull me closer and I stop him. “No,” I whisper. “Don’t move.” He drops his hands. “Lie back,” I whisper. He does. I kiss him everywhere. His cheeks. His chin. The tip of his nose and the space between his eyebrows. All across his forehead and along his jawline. Every inch of his face. Small, soft kisses that say so much more than I ever could. I want him to know how I feel. I want him to know it the way only he can, the way he can sense the depth of emotion behind my movements. I want him to know and never doubt. And I want to take my time. My mouth moves down to his neck and he gasps, and I breathe in the scent of his skin, take in the taste of him and I run my hands down his chest, kissing my way across and down the line of his torso. He keeps trying to reach for me, keeps trying to touch me, and I have to tell him to stop. “Please,” he says, “I want to feel you—” I gentle his arms back down. “Not yet. Not now.” My hands move to his pants. His eyes fly open. “Close your eyes,” I have to tell him. “No.” He can hardly speak. “Close your eyes.” He shakes his head. “Fine.” I unbutton his pants. Unzip. “Juliette,” he breathes. “What—” I’m pulling off his pants. He sits up. “Lie down. Please.” He’s staring at me, eyes wide. He finally falls back. I tug his pants off all the way. Toss them to the floor. He’s in his underwear. I trace the stitching on the soft cotton, following the lines on the overlapping pieces of his boxer-briefs as they intersect in the middle. He’s

breathing so fast I can hear him, can see his chest moving. His eyes are squeezed shut. His head tilted back. His lips parted. I touch him again, so gently. He stifles a moan, turns his face into the pillows. His whole body is trembling, his hands clutching at the sheets. I run my hands down his legs, gripping them just above his knees and inching them apart to make room for the kisses I trail up the insides of his thighs. My nose skims his skin. He looks like he’s in pain. So much pain. I find the elastic waist of his underwear. Tug it down. Slowly. Slowly. The tattoo is sitting just below his hip bone. hell is empty and all the devils are here I kiss my way across the words. Kissing away the devils. Kissing away the pain. FIFTY-NINE I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows propped up on my knees, face dropped into my hands.

“Are you ready?” he asks me. I look up. Stand up. Shake my head. “Breathe, sweetheart.” He stands in front of me, slips his hands around my face. His eyes are bright, intense, steady, and so full of confidence. In me. “You are magnificent. You are extraordinary.” I try to laugh and it comes out all wrong. Warner leans his forehead against mine. “There is nothing to fear. Nothing to worry about. Grieve nothing in this transitory world,” he says softly. I tilt back, a question in my eyes. “It’s the only way I know how to exist,” he says. “In a world where there is so much to grieve and so little good to take? I grieve nothing. I take everything.” I stare into his eyes for what feels like forever.

He leans into my ear. Lowers his voice. “Ignite, my love. Ignite.” Warner has called for an assembly. He says it’s a fairly routine procedure, one wherein the soldiers are required to wear a standard black uniform. “And they will be unarmed,” Warner said to me. Kenji and Castle and everyone else are coming to watch, care of Kenji’s invisibility, but I’m the only one who’s going to speak today. I told them I wanted to lead. I told them I’d be willing to take the first risk. So here I am. Warner walks me out of his bedroom door. The halls are abandoned. The soldiers patrolling his quarters are gone, already assembled and awaiting his presence. The reality of what I’m about to do is only just starting to sink in. Because no matter the outcome today, I am putting myself on display. It is a message from me to Anderson. A message I know he’ll receive. I am alive. I will use your own armies to hunt you down. And I will kill you. Something about this thought makes me absurdly happy. We walk into the elevator and Warner takes my hand. I squeeze his fingers. He smiles straight ahead. And suddenly we’re walking out of the elevator and through another door and right into the open courtyard I’ve only ever stood in once before. How odd, I think, that I should return to this roof not as a captive. No longer afraid. And clinging fast to the hand of the same blond boy who brought me here before. How very strange this world is. Warner hesitates before moving into view. He looks at me for confirmation. I nod. He releases my hand. We step forward together. SIXTY There’s an audible gasp from the soldiers standing just below.

They definitely remember me.

Warner pulls a square piece of mesh out of his pocket and presses it to his lips, just once, before holding it in his fist. His voice is amplified across the crowd when he speaks. “Sector 45,” he says. They shift. Their right fists rise up to fall on their chests, their left fists released, dropping to their sides. “You were told,” he says, “a little over a month ago, that we’d won the battle against a resistance group by the name of Omega Point. You were told we decimated their home base and slaughtered their remaining men and women on the battlefield. You were told,” he says, “never to doubt the power of The Reestablishment. We are unbeatable. Unsurpassed in military power and land control. You were told that we are the future. The only hope.” His voice rings out over the crowd, his eyes scanning the faces of his men. “And I hope,” he says, “that you did not believe it.” The soldiers are staring, stunned, as Warner speaks. They seem afraid to step out of line in case this turns out to be some kind of elaborate joke, or perhaps a test from The Reestablishment. They do nothing but stare, no longer taking care to make their faces appear as stoic as possible. “Juliette Ferrars,” he says, “is not dead. She is here, standing beside me, despite the claims made by our supreme commander. He did, in fact, shoot her in the chest. And he did leave her to die. But she was able to survive his attack on her life, and she has arrived here today to make you an offer.” I take the mesh from Warner’s hand, touch it to my lips just as he did. Drop it into my fist. I take a deep breath. And say six words. “I want to destroy The Reestablishment.” My voice is so loud, so powerfully projected over the crowd, that for a moment it surprises me. The soldiers are staring at me in horror. Shock. Disbelief. Astonishment. They’re starting to whisper. “I want to lead you into battle,” I say to them. “I want to fight back —” No one is listening to me anymore. Their perfectly organized lines have been abandoned. They’re now converging together in one mass, speaking and shouting and trying to

deliberate among themselves. Trying to understand what’s happening. I can’t believe I lost their attention so quickly. “Don’t hesitate,” Warner says to me. “You must react. Now.” I was hoping to save this for later. Right now, we’re only about fifteen feet off the ground, but Warner told me there are four more levels, if I want to go all the way up. The highest level houses the speakers designated for this particular area. It has a small maintenance platform that is only ever accessed by technicians. I’m already climbing my way up. The soldiers are distracted again, pointing at me as I scale the stairs; still talking loudly with one another. I have no idea if it’s possible for news of this situation to have already reached the civilians or the spies who report back to the supreme. I have no time to care right now because I haven’t even finished giving my speech, and I’ve already lost them. This isn’t good. When I finally reach the top level, I’m about a hundred feet off the ground. I’m careful as I step onto the platform, but I’m more careful not to look down for too long. And when I’ve finally planted my feet, I look up and around the crowd. I have their attention again. I close my fist over the microphonic mesh. “I only have one question,” I say, my words powerful and clear, projecting into the distance. “What has The Reestablishment ever done for you?” They’re actually looking at me now. Listening. “They have given you nothing but meager wages and promises for a future that will never come. They have divided your families and forced them across what’s left of this earth. They have starved your children and destroyed your homes. They lie to you, over and over again, forcing you to take jobs in their army so they might control you. And you have no other choice,” I say. “No other options. So you fight in their wars, and you kill your own friends, just so you might feed your families.” Yes, I have their attention now. “The person you allow to lead this nation is a coward,” I say to them. “He is a weak man who’s too afraid to show his face to the public. He lives in secrecy, hides from the people who rely on him, and yet he’s

taught you to fear him,” I say. “He’s taught you to cower when his name is spoken. “Maybe you haven’t met him yet,” I say. “But I have. And I was not impressed.” I can’t believe no one has shot me yet. I don’t care if they’re supposed to be unarmed. Someone probably has a gun. And no one has shot me yet. “Join a new resistance,” I say to them, calling out to the crowd. “We are the majority, and we can stand united. Will you continue to live like this?” I ask them, pointing to the compounds in the distance. “Will you continue to starve? Because they will continue to lie to you!” I say. “Our world is not beyond repair. It’s not beyond saving. We can be our own army,” I say to them. “We can stand together. Join me,” I say, “and I promise things will change.” “How?” I hear someone shout. “How can you promise something like that?” “I am not intimidated by The Reestablishment,” I tell them. “And I have more strength than you might realize. I have the kind of power that the supreme commander cannot stand against.” “We already know what you can do!” someone else yells. “That didn’t save you before!” “No,” I say to them, “you don’t know what I can do. You have no idea what I can do.” I reach my arms out in front of me, both hands pointed in the direction of the crowd. I try to find a good middle. And then I focus. Feel your power, Kenji said to me once. It’s a part of you—a part of your body and mind. It will listen to you if you can learn how to control it. I plant my feet. Steel myself. And then I pry the crowd apart. Slowly. I focus my energy on recognizing the individual bodies and allow my power to move fluidly, working around the soldiers in a gentle fashion, as opposed to rushing through them and accidentally ripping them apart. My power clings to their forms as my fingers would, finally finding a perfect center that divides the group into two halves. They’re already looking at each other from across the courtyard, trying to understand why they can’t move against the invisible walls pushing them apart. But once the energy is set in place, I open my arms, wide.

Pull. The soldiers are knocked back. Half to the left. Half to the right. Not enough to be injured, but just enough to be startled. I want them to feel the power I’m containing. I want them to know that I’m holding back. “I can protect you,” I say to them, my voice still ringing loud over them. “And I have friends who could do more. Who will stand beside you and fight.” And then, as if on cue, the group of them appear out of thin air, in the very center of the courtyard, in the space I’ve just cleared. The soldiers jerk back, stunned, shifting farther into their corners. Castle reaches up one arm, coaxing a small tree in the distance to uproot itself. He uses both hands to pull it out of the ground, and once he does, the tree careens out of control, flying through the air, branches rattling in the wind. Castle pulls it back, yanking on it with nothing more than his mind. He tosses it higher in the air, just over their heads, and Brendan raises his arms. Claps his hands, hard. A bolt of electricity hits the tree at the base and travels up the trunk so quickly, and with such extreme power, it practically disintegrates; the only remaining pieces rain to the ground. I was not expecting that; they weren’t even supposed to be helping me today. But they’ve just created the perfect introduction for me. Now. Right now. All the soldiers are watching. The courtyard has been cleared. I find Kenji’s eyes down below and check for confirmation. He nods. I jump. A hundred feet in the air, eyes closed, legs straight, arms out. And I feel more power rushing through my being than ever before. I harness it. Project it. And land so hard on the ground that it shatters beneath me. I’m crouched, knees bent, one hand outstretched in front of me. The courtyard is shaking so badly that for a second I’m not sure I haven’t caused another earthquake. When I finally stand up and look around, I can see the soldiers much more clearly. Their faces, their worries. They’re looking at me in awe,

eyes wide with wonder and a touch of fear. “You will not be alone,” I say to them, spinning to see their faces. “You don’t need to be afraid anymore. We want to take back our world. We want to save the lives of our family members, our friends. We want your children to have a chance at a better future. And we want to fight. We want to win.” I lock eyes with them. “And we are asking for your help.” There’s absolute silence. And then, absolute chaos. Cheers. Screams and shouts. Stomping feet. I feel the mesh square tugged out of my hand. It flies up into the air and into Warner’s hand. He addresses his men. “Congratulations, gentlemen,” he says. “Send word to your families. Your friends. Tomorrow, everything will change. The supreme will be here in a matter of days,” he says. “Prepare for war.” And then, all at once. Kenji makes us disappear. SIXTY-ONE We’re running through the courtyard and right through base, and as soon as we’re out of sight, Kenji pulls back the invisibility. He darts ahead of the group, leading us toward the training room, winding and twisting and darting through the storage facility and up the shooting range until we’re all toppling into the room at once.

James has been waiting for us. He stands up, eyes wide. “How’d it go?” Kenji runs forward and flips James into his arms. “How do you think it went?” “Um. Good?” James is laughing. Castle claps me on the back. I turn to face him. He’s beaming at me, eyes shining, prouder than I’ve ever seen him. “Well done, Ms. Ferrars,” he says quietly. “Well done.” Brendan and Winston rush over, grinning from ear to ear. “That was so freaking cool,” Winston says. “It was like we were celebrities or something.”

Lily, Ian, and Alia join the group. I thank them all for their help, for their show of support at the last minute. “Do you really think it’ll work?” I’m asking. “Do you think it’s enough?” “It’s certainly a start,” Castle says. “We’ll need to move quickly now. I imagine the news has already spread, but the other sectors will surely stand down until the supreme arrives.” Castle looks at me. “I hope you understand that this will be a fight against the entire country.” “Not if the other sectors join us, too,” I say. “Such confidence,” Castle says. He’s staring at me like I’m a strange, alien being. One he doesn’t know how to understand or identify. “You surprise me, Ms. Ferrars.” The elevator pings open. Warner. He walks right up to me. “The base has been secured,” he says. “We are on lockdown until my father arrives. No one will enter or exit the premises.” “So what do we do now?” Ian asks. “We wait,” Warner says. He looks around at us. “If he does not already know, he will within the next five minutes. The supreme will know that some members of your group are still alive. That Juliette is still alive. He will know that I have defied him and stood against him publicly. And he will be very, very angry,” Warner says. “This much I can absolutely guarantee.” “So we go to war,” Brendan says. “Yes.” Warner is calm, so calm. “We fight. Soon.” “And the soldiers?” I ask him. “Are they really on board?” He holds my eyes for just a moment too long. “Yes,” he says. “I can feel the depth of their passion. Their sudden respect for you. There are many among them who are still afraid, and others still who are rigid in their skepticism, but you were right, love. They might fear, but they do not want to be soldiers. Not like this. Not for The Reestablishment. They are ready to join us.” “And the civilians?” I ask, amazed. “They will follow.” “Are you sure?”

“I can be sure of nothing,” he says quietly. “But I have never, in all my time in this sector, felt the kind of hope in my men that I felt today. It was so powerful, so all-consuming, I can still feel it from here. It’s practically vibrating in my blood.” I can hardly breathe. “Juliette, love,” he says to me, still holding my eyes. “You have just started a war.” SIXTY-TWO Warner pulls me to the side. Away from everyone else.

We’re standing in a corner of the training room, and his hands are gripped around my shoulders. He’s looking at me like I’ve just pulled the moon out of my pocket. “I have to go,” he says urgently. “There are many things that must be set in motion now, and I have to reconvene with Delalieu. I will handle every aspect of the military details, love. I will see to it that you have everything you need, and that my men are equipped in every possible way.” I’m nodding, trying to thank him. But he’s still looking at me, searching my eyes like he’s found something he can’t bear to walk away from. His hands move to my face; his thumb brushes my cheek. His voice is so tender when he speaks. “You will go on to greatness,” he whispers. “I have never deserved you.” My heart. He leans in, kisses my forehead, so gently. And then he leaves. I’m still watching the elevator doors close when I catch a glimpse of Adam out of the corner of my eye. He walks up to me. “Hey,” he says. He looks nervous, uncomfortable. “Hi.” He’s nodding, staring at his feet. “So,” he says. Blows out a breath. He’s still not looking at me. “Nice show.” I’m not really sure what to say. So I say nothing. Adam sighs. “You really have changed,” he whispers. “Haven’t you?”

“Yes. I have.” He nods, just once. Laughs a strange laugh. And walks away. SIXTY-THREE We’re all sitting around again.

Talking. Discussing. Thinking and planning. James is snoring soundly in the corner. We’re all caught somewhere between being excited and being terrified, and yet, somehow, we’re mostly excited. This is, after all, what everyone at Omega Point had always been planning; they’d joined Castle hoping it would one day come to this. A chance to defeat The Reestablishment. They’ve all been training for this. Even Adam, who somehow convinced himself to stand with us, has been a soldier. Kenji, a soldier. All of them in peak physical condition. They are all fighters; even Alia, whose quiet shell contains so much. I couldn’t have asked for a more solid group of individuals. “So when do you think he’ll be here?” Ian is asking. “Tomorrow?” “Maybe,” Kenji says. “But I don’t think it’ll take him more than two days.” “I thought he was on a ship? In the middle of the ocean?” Lily asks. “How is he supposed to get here in two days?” “I don’t think it’s the kind of ship you’re thinking of,” Castle says to her. “I imagine he is on an army vessel; one equipped with a landing strip. If he calls for a jet, they will deliver him to us.” “Wow.” Brendan leans back, rests on his hands. “This is really happening, then? The supreme commander of The Reestablishment. Winston and I never saw him, not once, even though his men were holding us captive.” He shakes his head. Glances at me. “What does he look like?” “He’s extremely handsome,” I say. Lily laughs out loud. “I’m serious,” I say to her. “It’s almost sick how beautiful he is.” “Really?” Winston is staring at me, eyes wide. Kenji nods. “Very pretty guy.”

Lily is gawking. “And you said his name is Anderson?” Alia asks. I nod. “That’s strange,” Lily says. “I always thought Warner’s last name was Warner, not Anderson.” She thinks for a second. “So his name is Warner Anderson?” “No,” I say to her. “You’re right. Warner is his last name—but not his dad’s. He took his mom’s last name,” I say. “He didn’t want to be associated with his father.” Adam snorts. We all look at him. “So what’s Warner’s first name?” Ian asks. “Do you know?” I nod. “And?” Winston asks. “You’re not going to tell us?” “Ask him yourself,” I say. “If he wants to tell you, I’m sure he will.” “Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” Winston says. “I’m not asking that guy personal questions.” I try not to laugh. “So—do you know Anderson’s first name?” Ian asks. “Or is that a secret, too? I mean this whole thing is really weird, right? That they’d be so secretive about their names?” “Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “I’m not sure. There’s a lot of power in a name, I guess. And no,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t actually know Anderson’s first name. I never asked.” “You’re not missing anything,” Adam says, irritated. “It’s a stupid name.” He’s staring at his shoes. “His name is Paris.” “How did you know that?” I spin around and find Warner standing just outside the open elevator. It’s still pinging softly, only just now signaling his arrival. The doors close behind him. He’s staring at Adam in shock. Adam blinks fast at Warner and then at us, unsure what to do. “How did you know that?” Warner demands again. He walks right through our group and grabs Adam by the shirt, moving so quickly Adam has no time to react. He pins him against the wall. I’ve never heard Warner raise his voice like this before. Never seen him so angry. “Who do you answer to, soldier?” he shouts. “Who is your

commander?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Adam yells back. He tries breaking away and Warner grabs him with both fists, shoving him harder against the wall. I’m beginning to panic. “How long have you been working for him?” Warner shouts again. “How long have you been infiltrating my base—” I jump to my feet. Kenji is close behind. “Warner,” I say, “please, he’s not a spy—” “There’s no way he could know something like that,” Warner says to me, still looking at Adam. “Not unless he is a member of the Supreme Guard, where even then it would be questionable. A foot soldier would never have that kind of information—” “I’m not a Supreme Soldier,” Adam tries to say, “I swear—” “Liar,” Warner barks, shoving him harder against the wall. Adam’s shirt is starting to tear. “Why were you sent here? What is your mission? Has he sent you to kill me?” “Warner,” I call again, pleading this time, running forward until I’m in his line of vision. “Please—he’s not working for the supreme, I promise —” “How can you know?” Warner finally glances at me, just for a second. “I’m telling you,” he says, “it’s impossible for him to know this—” “He’s your brother,” I finally choke out. “Please. He’s your brother. You have the same father.” Warner goes rigid. He turns to me. “What?” he breathes. “It’s true,” I tell him, feeling so heartbroken as I do. “And I know you can tell I’m not lying.” I shake my head. “He’s your brother. Your father was leading a double life. He abandoned Adam and James a long time ago. After Adam’s mom died.” Warner drops Adam to the floor. “No,” Warner says. He’s not even blinking. Just staring. Hands shaking. I turn to look at Adam, eyes tight with emotion. “Tell him,” I say, desperate now. “Tell him the truth.” Adam says nothing.

“Dammit, Adam, tell him!” “You knew, all this time?” Warner asks, turning to face me. “You knew this and yet you said nothing?” “I wanted to—I really, really wanted to, but I didn’t think it was my place—” “No,” he says, cutting me off. He’s shaking his head. “No, this doesn’t make any sense. How—how is that even possible?” He looks up, looks around. “That doesn’t—” He stops. Looks at Adam. “Tell me the truth,” he says. He walks up to Adam again, looking like he might shake him. “Tell me! I have a right to know!” And every moment in the world drops dead just then, because they woke up and realized they’d never be as important as this one. “It’s true,” Adam says. Two words to change the world. Warner steps back, hand caught in his hair. He’s rubbing his eyes, his forehead, running his hand down his mouth, his neck. He’s breathing so hard. “How?” he finally asks. And then. And then. The truth. Little by little. It’s pulled out of Adam. One word at a time. And the rest of us are looking on, and James is still sleeping, and I go silent as these two brothers have the hardest conversation I’ve ever had to watch. SIXTY-FOUR Warner is sitting in one corner. Adam in another. They’ve both asked to be left alone.

And they’re both staring at James. James, who’s still just a little snoring lump. Adam looks exhausted, but not defeated. Tired, but not upset. He looks freer. His eyebrows unfurrowed. His fists unclenched. His face is calm in a way I haven’t seen it in what feels like a long time. He looks relieved.

As if he’d been carrying this great burden he thought might kill him. As if he’d thought sharing this truth with Warner might somehow inspire a lifelong war between him and his brand-new biological sibling. But Warner wasn’t angry at all. He wasn’t even upset. He was just shocked beyond belief. One father, I think. Three brothers. Two who nearly killed each other, all because of the world they were bred in. Because of the many words, the many lies they were fed. Words are like seeds, I think, planted into our hearts at a tender age. They take root in us as we grow, settling deep into our souls. The good words plant well. They flourish and find homes in our hearts. They build trunks around our spines, steadying us when we’re feeling most flimsy; planting our feet firmly when we’re feeling most unsure. But the bad words grow poorly. Our trunks infest and spoil until we are hollow and housing the interests of others and not our own. We are forced to eat the fruit those words have borne, held hostage by the branches growing arms around our necks, suffocating us to death, one word at a time. I don’t know how Adam and Warner are going to break the news to James. Maybe they won’t tell him until he’s older and able to deal with the ramifications of knowing his heritage. I don’t know what it’ll do to James to learn that his father is actually a mass murderer and a despicable human being who’s destroyed every life he’s ever touched. No. Maybe it’s better James doesn’t know, not just yet. Maybe it’s enough for now that Warner knows at all. I can’t help but find it both painful and beautiful that Warner lost a mother and gained two brothers in the same week. And though I understand that he’s asked to be left alone, I can’t stop myself from walking over to him. I won’t say a word, I promise myself. But I just want to be close to him right now. So I sit down beside him, and lean my head against the wall. Just breathing. “You should’ve told me,” he whispers. I hesitate before answering. “You have no idea how many times I wanted to.” “You should’ve told me.” “I’m so sorry,” I say, dropping my head. My voice. “I’m really sorry.”

Silence. More silence. Then. A whisper. “I have two brothers.” I lift my head. Look at him. “I have two brothers,” he says again, his voice so soft. “And I almost killed one of them.” His eyes are focused on a point far, far from here, pinched together in pain and confusion, and something that looks like regret. “I suppose I should’ve known,” he says to me. “He can touch you. He lives in the same sector. And his eyes have always been oddly familiar to me. I realize now that they’re shaped just like my father’s.” He sighs. “This is so unbearably inconvenient,” he says. “I was prepared to hate him for the rest of my life.” I startle, surprised. “You mean . . . you don’t hate him anymore?” Warner drops his head. His voice is so low I can hardly hear it. “How can I hate his anger,” he says, “when I know so well where it comes from?” I’m staring at him. Stunned. “I can well imagine the extent of his relationship with my father,” Warner says, shaking his head. “And that he has managed to survive it at all, and with more humanity than I did?” A pause. “No,” he says. “I cannot hate him. And I would be lying if I said I didn’t admire him.” I think I might cry. The minutes pass between us, silent and still, stopping only to hear us breathe. “Come on,” I finally whisper, reaching for his hand. “Let’s go to bed.” Warner nods, gets to his feet, but then he stops. Confused. So tortured. He looks at Adam. Adam looks back. They stare at each other for a long time. “Please excuse me,” Warner says. And I watch, astonished, as he crosses the room. Adam is on his feet in an instant, defensive, uncertain. But as Warner approaches, Adam seems to thaw. The two are now face-to-face, and Warner is speaking.

Adam’s jaw tenses. He looks at the floor. He nods. Warner is still speaking. Adam swallows, hard. He nods again. Then he looks up. The two of them acknowledge each other for a long moment. And then Warner places one hand on Adam’s shoulder. I must be dreaming. The two exchange a few more words before Warner pivots on one foot, and walks away. SIXTY-FIVE “What did you say to him?” I ask as soon as the elevator doors close.

Warner takes a deep breath. He says nothing. “You’re not going to tell me?” “I’d rather not,” he says quietly. I take his hand. Squeeze. The elevator doors open. “Will this be weird for you?” Warner asks. He looks surprised by his own question, as though he can’t believe he’s even asking it. “Will what be weird?” “That Kent and I are . . . brothers.” “No,” I say to him. “I’ve known for a while now. It doesn’t change anything for me.” “That’s good,” he says quietly. I’m nodding, confused. We’ve moved into the bedroom. We’re sitting on the bed now. “You wouldn’t mind, then?” Warner asks. I’m still confused. “If he and I,” Warner says, “spent some time together?” “What?” I ask, unable to hide my disbelief. “No,” I say quickly. “No, of course not—I think that would be amazing.” Warner’s eyes are on the wall. “So . . . you want to spend time with him?” I’m trying so hard to give Warner space, and I don’t want to pry, but I just can’t help myself.

“I would like to know my own brother, yes.” “And James?” I ask. Warner laughs a little. “Yes. And James.” “So you’re . . . happy about this?” He doesn’t answer right away. “I am not unhappy.” I climb into his lap. Cup his face in my hands, tilting his chin up so I can see his eyes. I’m smiling a stupid smile. “I think that’s so wonderful,” I tell him. “Do you?” He grins. “How interesting.” I nod. Over and over again. And I kiss him once, very softly. Warner closes his eyes. Smiles slightly, his cheek dimpled on one side. He looks thoughtful now. “How strange this has all become.” I feel like I might die of happiness. Warner picks me up off his lap, lays me back on the bed. Crawls over me, on top of me. “And why are you so thrilled?” he asks, trying not to laugh. “You’re practically buoyant.” “I want you to be happy,” I tell him, my eyes searching his. “I want you to have a family. I want you to be surrounded by people who care about you,” I say. “You deserve that.” “I have you,” he says, resting his forehead against mine. His eyes shut. “You should have more than me.” “No,” he whispers. He shakes his head. His nose grazes mine. “Yes.” “What about you? And your parents?” he asks me. “Do you ever want to find them?” “No,” I say quietly. “They were never parents to me. Besides, I have my friends.” “And me,” he says. “You are my friend,” I tell him. “But not your best friend. Kenji is your best friend.” I try so hard not to laugh at the jealousy in his voice. “Yes, but you’re my favorite friend.” Warner leans in, bypasses my lips. “Good,” he whispers, kissing my neck. “Now flip over,” he says. “On your stomach.” I stare at him. “Please,” he says. Smiles.

I do. Very slowly. “What are you doing?” I whisper, turning to look at him. He gentles my body back down. “I want you to know,” he says, pulling on the zipper holding this suit together, “how much I value your friendship.” The seam is coming apart and my skin is now open to the elements; I bite back a shiver. The zipper stops at the base of my spine. “But I’d like you to reconsider my title,” Warner says. He drops a soft kiss in the middle of my back. Runs his hands up my skin and pushes the sleeves off my shoulders, leaving kisses against my shoulder blades, the back of my neck. “Because my friendship,” he whispers, “comes with so many more benefits than Kenji could ever offer.” I can’t breathe. Can’t. “Don’t you think?” Warner asks. “Yes,” I say too quickly. “Yes.” And then I’m spinning, lost in sensations, and wondering how soon we’ll be losing these moments, and wondering how long it’ll be before we’ll have them again. I don’t know where we’re going, he and I, but I know I want to get there. We are hours and minutes reaching for the same second, holding hands as we spin forward into new days and the promise of something better. But though we’ll know forward and we’ve known backward, we will never know the present. This moment and the next one and even the one that would’ve been right now are gone, already passed, and all we’re left with are these tired bodies, the only proof that we’ve lived through time and survived it. It’ll be worth it, though, in the end. Fighting for a lifetime of this. SIXTY-SIX It took one day.

“I want one.” I’m staring at the gun wall in the training room. “Which one is the best one?”

Delalieu arrived just this morning to deliver the news. The supreme has arrived. He’s been transported from the ocean by jet, but he’s now staying on one of Sector 45’s army ships, stationed at the dock. His guard is close behind. And his armies will be following soon. Sometimes I’m not so sure we’re not going to die. “You don’t need a gun,” Warner says to me, surprised. “You can certainly have one, but I don’t think you need one.” “I want two.” “All right,” he laughs. But he’s the only one. Everyone else is frozen in the moments before fear takes over. We’re all cautiously optimistic, but concerned nonetheless. Warner has already assembled his troops, and the civilians have already been notified; if they want to join us, a station has been set up to provide weapons and ammunition. All they have to do is present their RR cards to prove they are residents of Sector 45, and they will be granted amnesty. Shelters and relief centers have been created in the soldiers’ barracks to stow away any remaining men, women, and children who cannot, or will not, join the battle. They will be allowed to take refuge here, and wait out the bloodshed. These extra efforts were all coordinated by Warner. “What if he just bombs everyone again?” Ian asks, breaking the silence. “Just like he did with Omega Point?” “He won’t,” Warner says to him. “He’s too arrogant, and this war has become personal. He’ll want to toy with us. He’ll want to draw this out as long as possible. He is a man who has always been fascinated by the idea of torture. This is going to be fun for him.” “Yeah, that’s making me feel real good,” Kenji says. “Thanks for the pep talk.” “Anytime,” Warner says. Kenji almost laughs. Almost. “So he’s staying in another ship?” Winston asks. “Here?” “This is my understanding, yes,” Warner says. “Normally he would stay on base, but as we are currently the enemy, it’s become a bit of a problem. Apparently he’s also granted sector clearance to soldiers across the country in order to have them join him. He has his own elite guard, as well as the soldiers who maintain the capital, but he’s also collecting men

from around the nation. It’s all for show,” Warner says. “We are not so vast in number that he’d need that many men. He just wants to terrify us.” “Well, it’s working,” Ian says. “And you’re sure,” I ask Warner, “that he won’t be on the battlefield? You’re positive?” This is the part of the plan that’s the most important. The most critical. Warner nods. Anderson never fights in his own wars. He never shows his face. And we’re relying on his cowardice to be our biggest advantage. Because while he might be able to anticipate an attempt on his life, we’re hoping he won’t be able to anticipate invisible attackers. Warner has to oversee the troops. Castle, Brendan, Winston, Lily, Alia, and Adam will be supporting him. James will be staying behind on base. But me and Kenji are going to the source. And right now, we’re ready to go. We’re suited up, armed, and highly caffeinated. I hear the sound of a gun being reloaded. Spin around. Warner is looking at me. It’s time to go. SIXTY-SEVEN Kenji grabs my arm.

Everyone else is going up and out of Warner’s room, but Kenji and I will head out the back way, alerting no one to our presence. We want everyone, even the soldiers, to think we are in the midst of battle. We don’t want to show up only to disappear; we don’t want anyone to notice we’re missing. So we stand back and watch as our friends load into the elevator to go up to the main floor. James is still waving as the doors close and leave him behind. My heart stops for a second.

Kenji kisses James good-bye. It’s an obnoxious, noisy kiss, right on top of his head. “Watch my back, okay?” he says to James. “If anyone comes in here, I want you to kick the shit out of them.” “Okay,” James says. He’s laughing to pretend he’s not crying. “I’m serious,” Kenji says. “Just start whaling on them. Like just go batshit.” He makes a weird fighting motion with his hands. “Get super crazy,” he says. “Beat the crazy with crazy—” “No one is going to come in here, James,” I say, shooting a sharp look at Kenji. “You won’t have to worry about defending yourself. You’re going to be perfectly safe. And then we’ll come back.” “Really?” he asks, turning his eyes on me. “All of you?” Smart kid. “Yes,” I lie. “All of us are going to come back.” “Okay,” he whispers. He bites down on his trembling lip. “Good luck.” “No tears necessary,” Kenji says to him, wrapping him up in a ferocious hug. “We’ll be back soon.” James nods. Kenji breaks away. And then we head out the door in the gun wall. The first part, I think, is going to be the hardest. Our trek to the port will be made entirely on foot, because we can’t risk stealing vehicles. Even if Kenji could make the tank invisible, we’d have to abandon it in its visible form, and an extra, unexpected tank stationed at the port would be too much of a giveaway. Anderson must have his place completely guarded. Kenji and I don’t speak as we move. When Delalieu told us the supreme would be stationed at the port, Kenji immediately knew where it was. So did Warner and Adam and Castle and just about everyone except for me. “I spent some time on one of those ships,” Kenji said. “Just for a bit. For bad behavior.” He smiled. “I know my way around.” So I’m holding on to his arm and he’s leading the way. There’s never been a colder day, I think. Never been more ice in the air. This ship looks like a small city; it’s so enormous I can’t even see the end of it. We scan the perimeter, attempting to gauge exactly how difficult it’ll

be to infiltrate the premises. Extremely difficult. Nearly impossible. These are Kenji’s exact words. Sort of. “Shit,” he says. “This is ridiculous. I have never seen this level of security before. This is backed up,” he says. And he’s right. There are soldiers everywhere. On land. At the entrance. On deck. And they’re all so heavily armed it makes me feel stupid with my two handguns and the simple holster swung around my shoulders. “So what do we do?” He’s quiet a moment. “Can you swim?” “What? No.” “Shit.” “We can’t just jump in the ocean, Kenji—” “Well it’s not like we can fly.” “Maybe we can fight them?” “Are you out of your goddamn mind? You think we can take on two hundred soldiers? I know I am an extremely attractive man, J, but I am not Bruce Lee.” “Who’s Bruce Lee?” “Who’s Bruce Lee?” Kenji asks, horrified. “Oh my God. We can’t even be friends anymore.” “Why? Was he a friend of yours?” “You know what,” he says, “just stop. Just—I can’t even talk to you right now.” “Then how are we supposed to get inside?” “Shit if I know. How are we supposed to get all those guys off the ship?” “Oh,” I gasp. “Oh my God. Kenji—” I grab his invisible arm. “Yeah, that’s my leg, and you’re cutting it a little too close there, princess.” “Kenji, I can shove them off,” I say, ignoring him. “I can just push them into the water. Will that work?” Silence. “Well?” I ask.

“Your hand is still on my leg.” “Oh.” I jerk back. “So? What do you think? Will it work?” “Obviously,” Kenji says, exasperated. “Do it now, please. And hurry.” So I do. I stand back and pull all my energy up and into my arms. Power, harnessed. Arms, positioned. Energy, projected. I move my arm through the air like I might be clearing off a table. And all the soldiers topple into the water. It looks almost comical from here. Like they were a bunch of toys I was pushing off my desk. And now they’re bouncing in the water, trying to figure out what’s just happened. “Let’s go,” Kenji says suddenly, grabbing my arm. We’re darting forward and down the hundred-foot pier. “They’re not stupid,” he says. “Someone is going to sound the alarm and they’re going to seal the doors soon. We’ve probably got a minute before it all goes on lockdown.” So we’re bolting. We’re racing across the pier and clambering up, onto the deck, and Kenji pulls on my arm to tell me where to go. We’re becoming so much more aware of each other’s bodies now. I can almost feel his presence beside me, even though I can’t see him. “Down here,” he shouts, and I look down, spotting what looks like a narrow, circular opening with a ladder affixed to the inside. “I’m going in,” he says. “Start climbing down in five seconds!” I can hear the alarms already going off, sirens wailing in the distance. The ship is steady against the dock, but the water in the distance goes on forever, disappearing into the edge of the earth. My five seconds are up. I’m climbing after him. SIXTY-EIGHT I have no idea where Kenji is.

It’s cramped and claustrophobic down here and I can already hear a rush of footsteps coming toward me, shouts and cries echoing down the

hall; they must know something has happened above deck. I’m trying really hard not to panic, but I’m no longer sure what the next step should be. I never anticipated doing this alone. I keep whispering Kenji’s name and hoping for a response, but there’s nothing. I can’t believe I’ve already lost him. At least I’m still invisible, which means he can’t be more than fifty feet away, but the soldiers are too close for me to take any chances right now. I can’t do anything that would draw attention to my presence—or Kenji’s. So I have to force myself to stay calm. The problem is I have no idea where I am. No idea what I’m looking at. I’ve never even been on a boat before, much less an army ship of this magnitude. But I have to try and understand my surroundings. I’m standing in the middle of what looks like a very long hallway; wooden panels run across the floors, the walls, and even the low ceiling above my head. There are little nooks every few feet, where the wall seems to be scooped out. They’re for doors, I realize. I wonder where they lead. Where I’ll have to go. Boots are thundering closer now. My heart starts racing and I try to shove myself against the wall, but these hallways are too narrow; even though they can’t see me, there’s no way I’d be able to slip past them. I can see a group approaching now, can hear them barking orders at one another. At any moment they’re going to slam right into me. I shift backward as fast as I can and run, keeping my weight on my toes to minimize sound as much as possible. I skid to a stop. Hit the wall behind me. More soldiers are bolting down the halls now, clearly alerted to something, and for a second I feel my heart fail. I’m so worried about Kenji. But as long as I’m invisible, Kenji must be close, I think. He must be alive. I cling to this hope as the soldiers approach. I look to my left. Look to my right. They’re closing in on me without even realizing it. I have no idea where they’re headed—maybe they’re going back up, outside—but I have to make a move, fast, and I don’t want

to alert them to my presence. Not yet. It’s too soon to try to take them out. I know Alia promised I could sustain a bullet wound as long as my power is on, but my last experience with being shot in the chest has left me traumatized enough to want to avoid that option as much as possible. So I do the only thing I can think of. I jump into one of the doorways and plant my hands against the inside of the frame, holding myself in place, my back pressed against the door. Please please please, I think, please don’t let there be someone in this room. All anyone has to do is open the door and I’ll be dead. The soldiers are getting closer. I stop breathing as they pass. One of their elbows grazes my arm. My heart is pounding, so hard. As soon as they’re gone I dart out of the doorway and bolt, running down halls that only lead into more halls. This place is like a maze. I have no idea where I am, no idea what’s happening. Not a single clue where I’ll find Anderson. And the soldiers won’t stop coming. They’re everywhere, all at once and then not at all, and I’m turning down corners and spinning in different directions and trying my best to outrun them. But then I notice my hands. I’m no longer invisible. I bite back a scream. I jump into another doorway, hoping to press myself out of sight, but now I’m both nervous and horrified, because not only do I not know what’s happened to Kenji, but I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, either. This was such a stupid idea. I am such a stupid person. I don’t know what I was thinking. That I ever thought I could do this. Boots. Stomping toward me. I steel myself and suck up my fear and try to be as prepared as possible. There’s no way they won’t notice me now. I haul my energy up and into myself, feel my bones thrumming with the rush of it and the thrill of power raging through me. If I can maintain this state for as long as I’m down here, I should be able to protect myself. I know how to fight now. I can disarm a man, steal away his weapon. I’ve learned to do so much.

But I’m still fairly terrified, and I’ve never needed to use the bathroom as much as I do right now. Think, I keep telling myself. Think. What can you do? Where can you go? Where would Anderson be hiding? Deeper? Lower? Where would the largest room on this ship be? Certainly not on the top level. I have to drop down. But how? The soldiers are getting closer. I wonder what these rooms contain, what this doorway leads to. If it’s just a room, then it’s a dead end. But if it’s an entrance to a larger space, then I might have a chance. But if there’s someone in here, I’ll definitely be in trouble. I don’t know if I should take the risk. A shout. A cry. A gunshot. They’ve seen me. SIXTY-NINE I slam my elbow into the door behind me, shattering the wood into splinters that fly everywhere. I turn around and punch my way through the rest of it, kicking the door down with a sudden burst of adrenaline, and as soon as I see that this room is just a small bunker and a dead end, I do the only thing I can think of.

I jump. And land. And go right through the floor. I fall into a tumble and manage to catch myself in time. The soldiers are jumping down after me, shouting and screaming. Boots chase me as I yank open the door and dart down the hall. Alarms are going off everywhere, sounds so loud and so obnoxious I can hardly hear myself think. I feel like I’m running through a haze, the sirens flashing red lights that circle the halls, screeching and blaring and signaling an intruder. I’m on my own now. I’m darting around more corners, spinning around bends in this floor plan and trying to get a feel for the difference between this level and the one just above it. There doesn’t seem to be any. They look exactly the same, and the soldiers are just as aggressive.

They’re shooting freely now, the earsplitting sound of gunshots colliding with the blare of the sirens. I’m not even sure I haven’t gone deaf yet. I can’t believe they keep managing to miss me. It seems impossible, statistically speaking, that so many soldiers at such close range wouldn’t be able to find a target on my body. That can’t be right. I slam through the floor again. Land on my feet this time. I’m crouched, looking around, and for the first time, I see that this level is different. The hallways are wider, the doors set farther apart. I wish Kenji were here. I wish I had any idea what this means, what the difference is between the levels. I wish I knew where to go, where to start looking. I kick open a door. Nothing. I run forward, kick down another one. Nothing. I keep running. I’m starting to see the inner workings of the ship. Machines, pipes, steel beams, huge tanks, puffs of steam. I must be headed in the wrong direction. But I have no idea how many floors this ship has, and I have no idea if I can keep moving down. I’m still being shot at, and I’m staying only just a step ahead. I’m slipping around tight bends and pulling myself against the wall, turning into dark corners and hoping they won’t see me. Where is Kenji? I keep asking myself. Where is he? I need to be on the other side of this ship. I don’t want boiler rooms and water tanks. This can’t be right. Everything is different about this side of the ship. Even the doors look different. They’re made of steel, not wood. I kick open a few, just to be sure. A radio control room, abandoned. A meeting room, abandoned. No. I want real rooms. Big offices and living quarters. Anderson wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be found by the gas pipes and the whirring engines.

I tiptoe out of my newest hiding spot, peek my head out. Shouts. Cries. More gunshots. I pull back. Take a deep breath. Harness all my energy, all at once, and decide I have no choice but to test Alia’s theory. I jump out and charge down the hall. Running, racing like I never have before. Bullets are flying past my head and pelting my body, hitting my face, my back, my arms, and I force myself to keep running, force myself to keep breathing, not feeling pain, not feeling terror, but holding on to my energy like a lifeline and not letting anything stop me. I’m trampling over soldiers, knocking them out with my elbows, not hesitating long enough to do more than shove them out of my way. Three of them come flying at me, trying to tackle me to the ground, and I shove them all back. One runs forward again and I punch him directly in the face, feeling his nose break against my metal knuckles. Another tries to grab my arm from behind and I catch his hand, breaking his fingers in my grip only to catch his forearm, pull him close, and shove him through a wall. I spin around to face the rest of them and they’re all staring at me, panic and terror mixing in their eyes. “Fight me,” I say to them, blood and urgency and a crazy kind of adrenaline rushing through me. “I dare you.” Five of them lift their guns in my direction, point them at my face. Shoot. Over and over and over again, unloading round after round. My instinct is to protect myself from the bullets, but I focus instead on the men, on their bodies and their angry, twisted faces. I have to close my eyes for a second, because I can’t see through the barrage of metal being crushed against my body. And when I’m ready, I bring my fist close to my chest, feeling the power rise up inside of me, and I throw it forward, all at once, knocking seventy-five soldiers down like they’re made of matchsticks. I take a moment to breathe. My chest is heaving, my heart racing, and I look around, feeling the stillness within the madness, blinking hard against the flashing red lights of the alarm, and find that the soldiers do not stir. They’re still alive, I can

tell, but they’re unconscious. And I allow myself one instant to look down. I’m surrounded. Bullets. Hundreds of bullets. A puddle of bullets. All around my feet. Dropping off my suit. My face. I taste something cold and hard in my mouth and spit it into my hand. It looks like a broken, mangled piece of metal. Like it was too flimsy to stand against me. Smart little bullet, I think. And then I run. SEVENTY The halls are still now. The footsteps, fewer.

I’ve already tossed two hundred soldiers into the ocean. Knocked down about a hundred more. I have no idea how many more soldiers Anderson has left guarding this ship. But I’m going to find out. I’m breathing hard as I make my way through this maze. It’s a sad truth that while I’ve learned to fight and I’ve learned to project, I still have no idea how to run. For someone with so much power, I’m terribly out of shape. I kick down the first door I see. Another. Then another. I’m going to rip apart every inch of this ship until I find Anderson. I will tear it down with my own two hands if I need to. Because he has Sonya and Sara. And he might have Kenji. And first, I need to make them safe. And second, I need him dead. Another door splinters open. I kick the next one down with my foot. They’re all empty. I see a set of swinging double doors at the end of the hall and I shove through them, hoping for something, anything, any sign of life.

It’s a kitchen. Knives and stoves and food and tables. Rows and rows and rows of canned goods. I make a mental note to come back for this. It seems a shame to let all this food go to waste. I bolt back out the doors. And jump. Hard. Stomping through the deck and hoping there’s another floor to this ship. Hoping. I land badly on the toes of my feet, slightly off-balance and toppling backward. I catch myself just in time. Look around. This, I think. This is right. This is totally different. The halls are huge down here; windows to the outside cut into the walls. The floor is made of wood again, long, thin panels that are brightly glossed and polished. It looks nice down here. Fancy. Clean. The sirens feel muted on this level, like a distant threat that means little anymore, and I realize I must be close. Footsteps, rushing toward me. I spin around. There’s a soldier charging in my direction, and this time, I don’t hide. I run toward him, tucking my head in as I do, and my right shoulder slams into his chest so hard he goes flying across the hall. Someone tries to shoot me from behind. I spin around and walk right up to him, swatting the bullets from my face like they might be flies. And then I grab his shoulders, pull him close, and knee him in the groin. He doubles over, gasping and groaning and curling into himself on the floor. I bend down, rip the gun out of his hand, and clutch a fistful of his shirt. Pick him up with one hand. Slam him into the wall. Press the gun to his forehead. I’m tired of waiting. “Where is he?” I demand. He won’t answer me. “Where?” I shout. “I d-don’t know,” he finally says, his voice shaking, his body twitching, trembling in my grip. And for some reason, I believe him. I try to read his eyes for something, and get nothing but terror. I drop him to the floor. Crush his

gun in my hand. Toss it into his lap. I kick open another door. I’m getting so frustrated, so angry now, and so blindly terrified for Kenji’s well-being that I’m shaking with rage. I don’t even know who to look for first. Sonya. Sara. Kenji. Anderson. I stand in front of another door, defeated. The soldiers have stopped coming. The sirens are still blaring, but from a distance now. And suddenly I’m wondering if this was all just a waste of time. If maybe Anderson isn’t even on this ship. If maybe we’re not even on the right ship. And for some reason, I don’t kick down the door this time. For some reason, I decide to try the handle first. It’s unlocked. SEVENTY-ONE There’s a huge bed in here with a large window and a beautiful view of the ocean. It’s lovely, actually, how wide and expansive everything is. Lovelier still are its occupants.

Sonya and Sara are staring at me. They’re perfect. Alive. Just as beautiful as they’ve ever been. I rush over to them, so relieved I nearly burst into tears. “Are you okay?” I ask, gasping, unable to control myself. “Are you all right?” They throw themselves into my arms, looking like they’ve been through hell and back, tortured from the inside, and all I want to do is carry them out of this ship and take them home. But as soon as the initial hyperventilations are out of the way, Sonya says something that stops my heart. “Kenji was looking for you,” she says. “He was just here, not too long ago, and he asked us if we’d seen you—” “He said you got split up,” Sara says.

“And that he didn’t know what happened to you,” Sonya says. “We were so worried you were dead,” they say together. “No,” I tell them, feeling crazy now. “No, no, I’m not dead. But I have to go. Stay here,” I’m saying to them. “Don’t move. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back, I promise,” I say. “I just have to go find Kenji—I have to find Anderson—” “He’s two doors over,” Sara says, eyes wide. “The one all the way at the end of the hall,” Sonya says. “It’s the one with the blue door,” they tell me. “Wait!” Sonya stops me as I turn to go. “Be careful,” Sara says. “We’ve heard some things—” “About a weapon he’s brought with him,” Sonya says. “What kind of weapon?” I ask, heart slowing. “We don’t know,” they say together. “But it made him very happy,” Sara whispers. “Yes, very happy,” Sonya adds. I clench my fists. “Thank you,” I say to them. “Thank you—I’ll see you soon,” I’m saying. “Very soon—” And I’m backing out, backing away, rushing down the hall and I hear them shouting for me to be safe, and good luck, just behind me. But I don’t need luck anymore. I need these two fists and this spine of steel. I waste no time at all getting to the blue room. I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t hesitate. I won’t hesitate. Never again. I kick it down. “JULIETTE—NO—” SEVENTY-TWO Kenji’s voice hits me like a fist to the throat.

I don’t even have time to blink before I’m thrown against the wall. My back, I think. Something is wrong with my back. The pain is so excruciating that I can’t help but wonder if it’s broken. I’m dizzy and I feel slow; my head is spinning and there’s a strange ringing in my ears.

I clamber to my feet. I’m hit, again, so hard. And I don’t even know where the pain is coming from. I can’t blink fast enough, can’t steady my head long enough to shake the confusion. Everything is tilting sideways. I’m trying so hard to shake it off. I’m stronger than this. Better than this. I’m supposed to be indestructible. Up, again. Slowly. Something hits me so hard I fly across the room, slamming into the wall. I slide down to the floor. I’m bent over now, holding my hands to my head, trying to blink, trying to understand what’s happening. I don’t understand what could possibly be hitting me. This hard. Nothing should be able to hit me this hard. Not over and over again. It feels like someone is calling my name, but I can’t seem to hear it. Everything is so muffled, so slippery and off-balance, like it’s there, just out of reach, and I can’t seem to find it. Feel it. I need a new plan. I don’t stand up again. I stay on my knees, crawling forward, and this time, when the hit comes, I try to beat it back. I’m trying so hard to push my energy forward, but all the hits to my head have made me unsteady. I’m clinging to my energy with a manic desperation, and though I don’t manage to move forward, I’m also not thrown back. I try to lift my head. Slowly. There’s nothing in front of me. No machine. No strange element that might be able to create these powerful impacts. I blink hard against the ringing in my ears, trying frantically to clear my vision. Something hits me again. The intensity threatens to beat me back but I dig my fingers into the ground until they go through the wood and I’m clinging to the floor. I would scream, if I could. If I had any energy left. I lift my head again. Try again to see. And this time, two figures come into focus. One is Anderson.

The other is someone I don’t recognize. He’s a stocky blond with closely cropped hair and flinty eyes. He looks vaguely familiar to me. And he’s standing beside Anderson with a cocky smile on his face, his hands held out in front of him. He claps. Just once. I’m ripped from the floor and thrown back against the wall. Sound waves. These are pressure waves, I realize. Anderson has found himself a toy. I shake my head and try to clear it again, but the hits are coming faster now. Harder. More intense. I have to close my eyes against the pressure of the hits and try to crawl, desperately, breaking through the floorboards to get a grip on something. Another hit. Hard to the head. It’s like he’s causing an explosion every time his hands clap together, and what’s killing me isn’t the explosion. It isn’t direct impact. It’s the pressure released from a bomb. Over and over and over again. I know the only reason I’m able to survive this is because I’m too strong. But Kenji, I think. Kenji must be somewhere in this room. He was the one who called my name, who tried to warn me. He must be here, somewhere, and if I can hardly survive this right now, I don’t know how he could be doing any better. He must be doing worse. Much worse. That fear is enough for me. I’m fortified with a new kind of strength, a desperate, animal intensity that overpowers me and forces me upright. I manage to stand in the face of each impact, each blow as it rattles my head and rings in my ears. And I walk. One step at a time, I walk. I hear a gunshot. Three. Five more. And realize they’re all aimed in my direction. Bullets breaking off my body.

The blond is moving. Backing up. Trying to get away from me. He’s increasing the frequency of his hits, hoping to throw me off course, but I’ve come too far to lose this fight. I’m not even thinking now, barely even lucid, focused solely on reaching him and silencing him forever. I have no idea if he’s managed to kill Kenji yet. I have no idea if I’m about to die. I have no idea how much longer I can withstand this. But I have to try. One more step, I tell myself. Move your leg. Now your foot. Bend at the knee. You’re almost there, I tell myself. Think of Kenji. Think of James. Think of the promises you made to that ten-year-old boy, I tell myself. Bring Kenji home. Bring yourself home. There he is. Right in front of you. I reach forward as if through a cloud, and clench my fist around his neck. Squeeze. Squeeze until the sound waves stop. I hear something crack. The blond falls to the floor. And I collapse. SEVENTY-THREE Anderson is standing over me now, pointing a gun at my face.

He shoots. Again. Once more. I close my eyes and pull deep, deep within myself for my last dregs of strength, because somehow, some instinct inside of my body is still screaming at me to stay alive. I remember Sonya and Sara telling me once that our energies could be depleted. That we could overexert ourselves. That they were trying to make medicines to help with that sort of thing. I wish I had that kind of medicine right now. I blink up at Anderson, his form blurring at the edges. He’s standing just behind my head, the toes of his shiny boots touching the top of my

skull. I can’t hear much but the echoes in my bones, can’t see anything other than the bullets raining down around me. He’s still shooting. Still unloading his gun into my body, waiting for the moment when he knows I won’t be able to hold on any longer. I’m dying, I think. I must be. I thought I knew what it felt like to die, but I must’ve been wrong. Because this is a whole different kind of dying. A whole different kind of pain. But I suppose, if I have to die, I may as well do one more thing before I go. I reach up. Grab Anderson’s ankles. Clench my fists. And crush his bones in my hands. His screams pierce the haze of my mind, long enough to bring the world back into focus. I’m blinking fast, looking around and able to see clearly for the first time. Kenji is slumped in the corner. Blond boy is on the floor. Anderson has been disconnected from his feet. My thoughts are sharper all of a sudden, like I’m in control again. I don’t know if this is what hope does to a person, if it really has the power to bring someone back to life, but seeing Anderson writhing on the floor does something to me. It makes me think I still have a chance. He’s screaming so much, scrambling back and dragging himself across the floor with his arms. He’s dropped his gun, clearly too pained and too petrified to reach for it any longer, and I can see the agony in his eyes. The weakness. The terror. He’s only now understanding the horror of what’s about to happen to him. How it had to happen to him. That he would be brought to nothing by a silly little girl who was too much of a coward, he said, to defend herself. And it’s then that I realize he’s trying to say something to me. He’s trying to talk. Maybe he’s pleading. Maybe he’s crying. Maybe he’s begging for mercy. But I’m not listening anymore. I have absolutely nothing to say. I reach back, pull the gun out of my holster. And shoot him in the forehead. SEVENTY-FOUR

Twice.

Once for Adam. Once for Warner. SEVENTY-FIVE I tuck the gun back into its holster. Walk over to Kenji’s limp, still-breathing form, and throw him over my shoulder.

I kick down the door. Walk directly back down the hall. Kick my way through the entry to Sonya and Sara’s room, and drop Kenji on the bed. “Fix him,” I say, hardly breathing now. “Please fix him.” I drop to my knees. Sonya and Sara are on in an instant. They don’t speak. They don’t cry. They don’t scream. They don’t fall apart. They immediately get to work and I don’t think I have ever loved them more than I do in this moment. They lay him out flat on the bed, Sara standing on one side of him, Sonya on the other, and they hold their hands to his head, first. Then his heart. Then they alternate, taking turns forcing life back into different parts of his body until Kenji is stirring, his eyes flickering but not opening, his head whipping back and forth. I’m beginning to worry, but I’m too afraid, and too tired to move, not even an inch. Finally, finally, they step back. Kenji’s eyes still aren’t open. “Did it work?” I ask, terrified to hear the answer. Sonya and Sara nod. “He’s asleep,” they say. “Will he get better? Fully?” I ask, desperate now. “We hope,” Sonya says. “But he’ll be asleep for a few days,” Sara says. “The damage was very deep,” they say together. “What happened?” “Pressure waves,” I tell them, my words a whisper. “He shouldn’t have been able to survive at all.” Sonya and Sara are staring at me, still waiting. I force myself to my feet. “Anderson is dead.” “You killed him,” they whisper. It’s not a question.

I nod. They’re staring at me, slack-jawed and stunned. “Let’s go,” I say. “This war is over. We have to tell the others.” “But how will we get out?” Sara asks. “There are soldiers everywhere,” Sonya says. “Not anymore,” I tell them, too tired to explain, but so grateful for their help. For their existence. For the fact that they’re still alive. I offer them a small smile before walking over to the bed, and haul Kenji’s body up and over my shoulders. His chest is curved over my back, one of his arms thrown over my left shoulder, the other hanging in front of me. My right arm is wrapped around both his legs. I hoist him higher up on my shoulders. “Ready?” I say, looking at the two of them. They nod. I lead them out the door and down the halls, forgetting for a moment that I have no idea how to actually exit this ship. But the halls are lifeless. Everyone is either injured, unconscious, or gone. We sidestep fallen bodies, shift arms and legs out of the way. We’re all that’s left. Me, carrying Kenji. Sonya and Sara close behind. I finally find a ladder. Climb up. Sonya and Sara hold Kenji’s weight between them and I reach down to haul him up. We have to do this three more times, until we’re finally on the top deck, where I toss him up over my shoulders for the final time. And then we walk, silently, across the abandoned ship, down the pier, and back onto dry land. This time, I don’t care about stealing tanks. I don’t care about being seen. I don’t care about anything but finding my friends. And ending this war. There’s an army tank abandoned on the side of the road. I test the door. Unlocked. The girls clamber in and they help me haul Kenji onto their laps. I close the door shut behind them. Climb into the driver’s side. I press my thumb to the scanner to start the engine; so grateful Warner had us programmed to gain access to the system. It’s only then that I remember I still have no idea how to drive.

It’s probably a good thing I’m driving a tank. I don’t pay attention to stop signs or streets. I drive the tank right off the road and straight back into the heart of the sector, in the general direction I know we came from. I’m too heavy on the gas, and too heavy on the brakes, but my mind is in a place where nothing else matters anymore. I had a goal. Step one has been accomplished. And now I will see it through to the end. I drop Sonya and Sara off at the barracks and help them carry Kenji out. Here, they’ll be safe. Here, they can rest. But it’s not my turn to stop yet. I head directly up and through the military base, up the elevator to where I remember we got off for the assembly. I slam through door after door, heading straight outside and into the courtyard, where I climb until I reach the top. One hundred feet in the air. Where it all began. There’s a technician stand here, a maintenance system for the speakers that run throughout the sector. I remember this. I remember all of this now, even though my brain is numb and my hands are still shaking, and blood that does not belong to me is dripping down my face and onto my neck. But this was the plan. I have to finish the plan. I punch the pass code into the keypad and wait to hear the click. The technician box snaps open. I scan the different fuses and buttons, and flip the switch that reads ALL SPEAKERS, and take a deep breath. Hit the intercom key. “Attention, Sector 45,” I say, the words rough and loud and mottled in my ear. “The supreme commander of The Reestablishment is dead. The capital has surrendered. The war is over.” I’m shaking so hard now, my finger slipping on the button as I try to hold it down. “I repeat, the supreme commander of The Reestablishment is dead. The capital has surrendered. The war is over.” Finish it, I tell myself. Finish it now. “I am Juliette Ferrars, and I will lead this nation. I challenge anyone who would stand against me.”

SEVENTY-SIX I take a step forward and my legs tremble, threaten to bend and break beneath me, but I push myself to keep moving. I push myself to get through the door, to get down the elevator, and to get out, onto the battlefield.

It doesn’t take long to get there. There are hundreds of bodies in huddled, bloody masses on the ground, but there are hundreds more still standing; more alive than I could’ve hoped for. The news has spread more quickly than I thought it would. It’s almost as if they’ve known for a little while now that the battle was over. The surviving soldiers from Anderson’s ship are standing alongside our own, some still soaking wet, frozen to the bone in this icy weather. They must’ve found their way ashore and shared the news of our assault, of Anderson’s imminent demise. Everyone is looking around, staring at each other in shock, staring at their own hands or up into the sky. Others still are checking the mass of bodies for friends and family members, relief and fear apparent on their faces. Their worn bodies do not want to go on like this. The doors to the barracks have burst open and the remaining civilians flood the grounds, running out to reunite with loved ones, and for a moment the scene is both so terribly bleak, and so terribly beautiful, that I don’t know whether to cry out in pain or joy. I don’t cry at all. I walk forward, forcing my limbs to move, begging my bones to stay steady, to carry me through the end of this day, and into the rest of my life. I want to see my friends. I need to know they’re okay. I need visual confirmation that they’re okay. But as soon as I walk into the crowd, the soldiers of Sector 45 lose control. The bloodied and beaten on our battlefield are shouting and cheering despite the stain of death they stand in, saluting me as I pass. And as I look around I realize that they are my soldiers now. They trusted me, fought with me and alongside me, and now I will trust them. I will fight for them. This is the first of many battles to come. There will be many more days like this. I’m covered in blood, my suit ripped and riddled with splintered wood and broken bits of metal. My hands are trembling so hard I don’t even recognize them anymore.

And yet I feel so calm. So unbelievably calm. Like the depth of what just happened hasn’t managed to hit me yet. It’s impossible not to brush against outstretched hands and arms as I cross the battlefield, and it’s strange to me, somehow, strange that I don’t flinch, strange that I don’t hide my hands, strange that I’m not worried I’ll injure them. They can touch me if they like, and maybe it’ll hurt, but my skin won’t kill anyone anymore. Because I’ll never let it get that far. Because I now know how to control it. SEVENTY-SEVEN The compounds are such bleak, barren places, I think, as I pass through them. These should be the first to go. Our homes should be rebuilt. Restored.

We need to start again. I climb up the side of one of the little compound homes. Climb its second story, too. I reach up, clinging to the roof, and pull myself over. I kick the solar panels off, onto the ground, and plant myself on top, right in the middle, as I look out over the crowd. Searching for familiar faces. Hoping they’ll see me and come forward. Hoping. I stand on the roof of this home for what feels like days, months, years, and I see nothing but faces of soldiers and their families. None of my friends. I feel myself sway, dizziness threatening to overtake me, my pulse racing fast and hard. I’m ready to give up. I’ve stood here long enough for people to point, for my face to be recognized, for word to spread that I’m standing here, waiting for something. Someone. Anyone. I’m just about to dive back into the crowd to search for their fallen bodies when hope seizes my heart. One by one, they emerge, from all corners of the field, from deep inside the barracks, from across the compounds. Bloodied and bruised. Adam, Alia, Castle, Ian, Lily, Brendan, and Winston each make their way

toward me only to turn and wait for the others to arrive. Winston is sobbing. Sonya and Sara are dragging Kenji out of the barracks, small steps hauling him forward. I see that his eyes have opened now, just a little. Stubborn, stubborn Kenji. Of course he’s awake when he should be asleep. James comes running toward them. He crashes into Adam, clinging to his legs, and Adam hauls his little brother up, into his arms, smiling like I’ve never seen him smile before. Castle nods at me, beaming. Lily blows me a kiss. Ian makes some strange finger-gun motion and Brendan waves. Alia has never looked more jubilant. And I’m looking out over them, my smile steady, held there by nothing but sheer force of will. I’m still staring, waiting for my last friend to show up. Waiting for him to find us. But he isn’t here. I’m scanning the thousands of people scattered around this icy, icy ground and I don’t see him, not anywhere, and the terror of this moment kicks me in the gut until I’m out of breath and out of hope, blinking fast and trying to hold myself together. The metal roof under my feet is shaking. I turn toward the sound, heart pounding, and see a hand reach over the top. SEVENTY-EIGHT He pulls himself up onto the roof and walks over to me, so steadily. Calm, like there’s nothing in the world we’d planned to do today but to stand here, together, looking out over a field of dead bodies and happy children.

“Aaron,” I whisper. He pulls me into his arms. And I fall. Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in my body comes undone at his touch and I cling to him, holding on for dear life. “You know,” he whispers, his lips at my ear, “the whole world will be coming for us now.” I lean back. Look into his eyes.

“I can’t wait to watch them try.” ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I’ve reached the end.

And here, at the finish line, I am suddenly speechless, unable to articulate in any number of words just how many helpers I’ve had, how many hands have touched this book, or how many minds have shaped this story. But you were there all along, reading with me and writing to me and cheering me on, helping me through hard moments and always holding my hand. My many dear friends at HarperCollins and Writers House. My family, steadfast, always. Ransom Riggs, an angel on earth. Tara Weikum, a magician. Jodi Reamer, a saint. And you, dear reader, you, most of all. I am indebted to you for your support, your love, your friendship on the pages and on the internet. Thank you for following Juliette’s journey with me; thank you for caring so deeply. It is my very great hope that you will find this a worthy final installment. Lots of love,

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR TAHEREH MAFI is a girl. She was born in a small city somewhere in Connecticut and currently resides in Orange County, California, where the weather is just a little too perfect for her taste. When unable to find a book, she can be found reading candy wrappers, coupons, and old receipts. Ignite Me is the final novel in a trilogy about Juliette. You can visit Tahereh online at www.taherehbooks.com.

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BOOKS BY TAHEREH MAFI

Shatter Me Unravel Me Destroy Me: A Shatter Me Novella Fracture Me: A Shatter Me Novella CREDITS

COVER ART © 2014 BY COLIN ANDERSON COVER ART INSPIRED BY A PHOTOGRAPH BY SHAREE DAVENPORT COVER DESIGN BY CARA E. PETRUS COPYRIGHT

IGNITE ME Copyright © 2014 by Tahereh Mafi All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks. www.epicreads.com Library of Congress Control Number: 2013951749 ISBN 978-0-06-208557-3 EPub Edition © DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062085597 13 14 15 16 17 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

FIRST EDITION ABOUT THE PUBLISHER Australia

HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia http://www.harpercollins.com.au Canada HarperCollins Canada 2 Bloor Street East – 20th Floor Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada http://www.harpercollins.ca New Zealand HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www.harpercollins.co.nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www.harpercollins.co.uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www.harpercollins.com

DEDICATION For my mother. The best person I’ve ever known.

Contents Dedication

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Chapter Fifty-Eight Chapter Fifty-Nine Chapter Sixty Chapter Sixty-One Chapter Sixty-Two Chapter Sixty-Three Chapter Sixty-Four Chapter Sixty-Five Chapter Sixty-Six Chapter Sixty-Seven Chapter Sixty-Eight Chapter Sixty-Nine Chapter Seventy Chapter Seventy-One Chapter Seventy-Two Chapter Seventy-Three Acknowledgments About the Author Credits Copyright Back Ads About the Publisher

ONE The world might be sunny-side up today.

The big ball of yellow might be spilling into the clouds, runny and yolky and blurring into the bluest sky, bright with cold hope and false promises about fond memories, real families, hearty breakfasts, stacks of pancakes drizzled in maple syrup sitting on a plate in a world that doesn’t exist anymore. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s dark and wet today, whistling wind so sharp it stings the skin off the knuckles of grown men. Maybe it’s snowing, maybe it’s raining, I don’t know maybe it’s freezing it’s hailing it’s a hurricane slip slipping into a tornado and the earth is quaking apart to make room for our mistakes. I wouldn’t have any idea. I don’t have a window anymore. I don’t have a view. It’s a million degrees below zero in my blood and I’m buried 50 feet underground in a training room that’s become my second home lately. Every day I stare at these 4 walls and remind myself I’m not a prisoner I’m not a prisoner I’m not a prisoner but sometimes the old fears streak across my skin and I can’t seem to break free of the claustrophobia clutching at my throat. I made so many promises when I arrived here. Now I’m not so sure. Now I’m worried. Now my mind is a traitor because my thoughts crawl out of bed every morning with darting eyes and sweating palms and nervous giggles that sit in my chest, build in my chest, threaten to burst through my chest, and the pressure is tightening and tightening and tightening Life around here isn’t what I expected it to be. My new world is etched in gunmetal, sealed in silver, drowning in the scents of stone and steel. The air is icy, the mats are orange; the lights and switches beep and flicker, electronic and electric, neon bright. It’s busy here, busy with bodies, busy with halls stuffed full of whispers and shouts, pounding feet and thoughtful footsteps. If I listen closely I can hear the sounds of brains working and foreheads pinching and fingers tap tapping at chins and lips and furrowed brows. Ideas are carried in pockets, thoughts propped up on the tips of every tongue; eyes are narrowed in concentration, in careful planning I should want to know about. But nothing is working and all my parts are broken. I’m supposed to harness my Energy, Castle said. Our gifts are different forms of Energy. Matter is never created or destroyed, he said to me, and as our world changed, so did the Energy within it. Our abilities are taken from the universe, from other matter, from other Energies. We are not anomalies. We are inevitabilities of the perverse manipulations of our Earth. Our Energy came from somewhere, he said. And somewhere is in the chaos all around us. It makes sense. I remember what the world looked like when I left it. I remember the pissed-off skies and the sequence of sunsets collapsing beneath the moon. I remember the cracked earth and the scratchy bushes and the used-to-be-greens that are now too close to brown. I think about the water we can’t drink and the birds that don’t fly and how human civilization has been reduced to nothing but a series of compounds stretched out over what’s left of our ravaged land. This planet is a broken bone that didn’t set right, a hundred pieces of crystal glued together. We’ve been shattered and reconstructed, told to make an effort every single day to pretend we still function the way we’re supposed to. But it’s a lie, it’s all a lie. I do not function properly. I am nothing more than the consequence of catastrophe. 2 weeks have collapsed at the side of the road, abandoned, already forgotten. 2 weeks I’ve been here and in 2 weeks I’ve taken up residence on a bed of eggshells, wondering when something is going to break, when I’ll be the first to break it, wondering when everything is going to fall apart. In 2 weeks I should’ve been happier, healthier, sleeping better, more soundly

in this safe space. Instead I worry about what will happen when if I can’t get this right, if I don’t figure out how to train properly, if I hurt someone on purpose by accident. We’re preparing for a bloody war. That’s why I’m training. We’re all trying to prepare ourselves to take down Warner and his men. To win one battle at a time. To show the citizens of our world that there is hope yet—that they do not have to acquiesce to the demands of The Reestablishment and become slaves to a regime that wants nothing more than to exploit them for power. And I agreed to fight. To be a warrior. To use my power against my better judgment. But the thought of laying a hand on someone brings back a world of memories, feelings, a flush of power I experience only when I make contact with skin not immune to my own. It’s a rush of invincibility; a tormented kind of euphoria; a wave of intensity flooding every pore in my body. I don’t know what it will do to me. I don’t know if I can trust myself to take pleasure in someone else’s pain. All I know is that Warner’s last words are caught in my chest and I can’t cough out the cold or the truth hacking at the back of my throat. Adam has no idea that Warner can touch me. No one does. Warner was supposed to be dead. Warner was supposed to be dead because I was supposed to have shot him but no one supposed I’d need to know how to fire a gun so now I suppose he’s come to find me. He’s come to fight. For me.

TWO A sharp knock and the door flies open. “Ah, Ms. Ferrars. I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by sitting in the corner.” Castle’s easy grin dances into the room before he does. I take a tight breath and try to make myself look at Castle but I can’t. Instead I whisper an apology and listen to the sorry sound my words make in this large room. I feel my shaking fingers clench against the thick, padded mats spread out across the floor and think about how I’ve accomplished nothing since I’ve been here. It’s humiliating, so humiliating to disappoint one of the only people who’s ever been kind to me. Castle stands directly in front of me, waits until I finally look up. “There’s no need to apologize,” he says. His sharp, clear brown eyes and friendly smile make it easy to forget he’s the leader of Omega Point. The leader of this entire underground movement dedicated to fighting The Reestablishment. His voice is too gentle, too kind, and it’s almost worse. Sometimes I wish he would just yell at me. “But,” he continues, “you do have to learn how to harness your Energy, Ms. Ferrars.” A pause. A pace. His hands rest on the stack of bricks I was supposed to have destroyed. He pretends not to notice the red rims around my eyes or the metal pipes I threw across the room. His gaze carefully avoids the bloody smears on the wooden planks set off to the side; his questions don’t ask me why my fists are clenched so tight and whether or not I’ve injured myself again. He cocks his head in my direction but he’s staring at a spot directly behind me and his voice is soft when he speaks. “I know this is difficult for you,” he says. “But you must learn. You have to. Your life will depend upon it.”

I nod, lean back against the wall, welcome the cold and the pain of the brick digging into my spine. I pull my knees up to my chest and feel my feet press into the protective mats covering the ground. I’m so close to tears I’m afraid I might scream. “I just don’t know how,” I finally say to him. “I don’t know any of this. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing.” I stare at the ceiling and blink blink blink. My eyes feel shiny, damp. “I don’t know how to make things happen.” “Then you have to think,” Castle says, undeterred. He picks up a discarded metal pipe. Weighs it in his hands. “You have to find links between the events that transpired. When you broke through the concrete in Warner’s torture chamber—when you punched through the steel door to save Mr. Kent—what happened? Why in those two instances were you able to react in such an extraordinary way?” He sits down some feet away from me. Pushes the pipe in my direction. “I need you to analyze your abilities, Ms. Ferrars. You have to focus.” Focus. It’s one word but it’s enough, it’s all it takes to make me feel sick. Everyone, it seems, needs me to focus. First Warner needed me to focus, and now Castle needs me to focus. I’ve never been able to follow through. Castle’s deep, sad sigh brings me back to the present. He gets to his feet. He smooths out the only navy-blue blazer he seems to own and I catch a glimpse of the silver Omega symbol embroidered into the back. An absent hand touches the end of his ponytail; he always ties his dreads in a clean knot at the base of his neck. “You are resisting yourself,” he says, though he says it gently. “Maybe you should work with someone else for a change. Maybe a partner will help you work things out—to discover the connection between these two events.” My shoulders stiffen, surprised. “I thought you said I had to work alone.” He squints past me. Scratches a spot beneath his ear, shoves his other hand into a pocket. “I didn’t actually want you to work alone,” he says. “But no one volunteered for the task.” I don’t know why I suck in my breath, why I’m so surprised. I shouldn’t be surprised. Not everyone is Adam. Not everyone is safe from me the way he is. No one but Adam has ever touched me and enjoyed it. No one except for Warner. But despite Adam’s best intentions, he can’t train with me. He’s busy with other things. Things no one wants to tell me about. But Castle is staring at me with hopeful eyes, generous eyes, eyes that have no idea that these new words he’s offered me are so much worse. Worse because as much as I know the truth, it still hurts to hear it. It hurts to remember that though I might live in a warm bubble with Adam, the rest of the world still sees me as a threat. A monster. An abomination. Warner was right. No matter where I go, I can’t seem to run from this. “What’s changed?” I ask him. “Who’s willing to train me now?” I pause. “You?” Castle smiles. It’s the kind of smile that flushes humiliated heat up my neck and spears my pride right through the vertebrae. I have to resist the urge to bolt out the door. Please please please do not pity me, is what I want to say. “I wish I had the time,” Castle says to me. “But Kenji is finally free—we were able to reorganize his schedule—and he said he’d be happy to work with you.” A moment of hesitation. “That is, if that’s all right with you.” Kenji. I want to laugh out loud. Kenji would be the only one willing to risk working with me. I injured him once. By accident. But he and I haven’t spent much time together since he first led our expedition into Omega Point. It was like he was just doing a task, fulfilling a mission; once complete, he went back to his own life. Apparently Kenji is important around here. He has a million things to do. Things to regulate. People seem to like him, respect him, even.

I wonder if they’ve ever known him as the obnoxious, foul-mouthed Kenji I first met. “Sure,” I tell Castle, attempting a pleasant expression for the first time since he arrived. “That sounds great.” Castle stands up. His eyes are bright, eager, easily pleased. “Perfect. I’ll have him meet you at breakfast tomorrow. You can eat together and go from there.” “Oh but I usually—” “I know.” Castle cuts me off. His smile is pressed into a thin line now, his forehead creased with concern. “You like to eat your meals with Mr. Kent. I know this. But you’ve hardly spent any time with the others, Ms. Ferrars, and if you’re going to be here, you need to start trusting us. The people of Omega Point feel close to Kenji. He can vouch for you. If everyone sees you spending time together, they’ll feel less intimidated by your presence. It will help you adjust.” Heat like hot oil spatters across my face; I flinch, feel my fingers twitch, try to find a place to look, try to pretend I can’t feel the pain caught in my chest. “They’re—they’re afraid of me,” I tell him, I whisper, I trail off. “I don’t—I didn’t want to bother anyone. I didn’t want to get in their way....” Castle sighs, long and loud. He looks down and up, scratches the soft spot beneath his chin. “They’re only afraid,” he says finally, “because they don’t know you. If you just tried a little harder—if you made even the smallest effort to get to know anyone—” He stops. Frowns. “Ms. Ferrars, you have been here two weeks and you hardly even speak to your roommates.” “But that’s not—I think they’re great—” “And yet you ignore them? You spend no time with them? Why?” Because I’ve never had girl friends before. Because I’m afraid I’ll do something wrong, say something wrong and they’ll end up hating me like all the other girls I’ve known. And I like them too much, which will make their inevitable rejection so much harder to endure. I say nothing. Castle shakes his head. “You did so well the first day you arrived. You seemed almost friendly with Brendan. I don’t know what happened,” Castle continues. “I thought you would do well here.” Brendan. The thin boy with platinum-blond hair and electric currents running through his veins. I remember him. He was nice to me. “I like Brendan,” I tell Castle, bewildered. “Is he upset with me?” “Upset?” Castle shakes his head, laughs out loud. He doesn’t answer my question. “I don’t understand, Ms. Ferrars. I’ve tried to be patient with you, I’ve tried to give you time, but I confess I’m quite perplexed. You were so different when you first arrived—you were excited to be here! But it took less than a week for you to withdraw completely. You don’t even look at anyone when you walk through the halls. What happened to conversation? To friendship?” Yes. It took 1 day for me to settle in. 1 day for me to look around. 1 day for me to get excited about a different life and 1 day for everyone to find out who I am and what I’ve done. Castle doesn’t say anything about the mothers who see me walking down the hall and yank their children out of my way. He doesn’t mention the hostile stares and the unwelcoming words I’ve endured since I’ve arrived. He doesn’t say anything about the kids who’ve been warned to stay far, far away, and the handful of elderly people who watch me too closely. I can only imagine what they’ve heard, where they got their stories from. Juliette. A girl with a lethal touch that saps the strength and energy of human beings until they’re limp, paralyzed carcasses wheezing on the floor. A girl who spent most of her life in hospitals and juvenile detention centers, a girl who was cast off by her own parents, labeled as certifiably insane, and sentenced to isolation in an asylum where even the rats were afraid to live. A girl.

So power hungry that she killed a small child. She tortured a toddler. She brought a grown man gasping to his knees. She doesn’t even have the decency to kill herself. None of it is a lie. So I look at Castle with spots of color on my cheeks and unspoken letters on my lips and eyes that refuse to reveal their secrets. He sighs. He almost says something. He tries to speak but his eyes inspect my face and he changes his mind. He only offers me a quick nod, a deep breath, taps his watch, says, “Three hours until lights-out,” and turns to go. Pauses in the doorway. “Ms. Ferrars,” he says suddenly, softly, without turning around. “You’ve chosen to stay with us, to fight with us, to become a member of Omega Point.” A pause. “We’re going to need your help. And I’m afraid we’re running out of time.” I watch him leave. I listen to his departing footsteps and lean my head back against the wall. Close my eyes against the ceiling. Hear his voice, solemn and steady, ringing in my ears. We’re running out of time, he said. As if time were the kind of thing you could run out of, as if it were measured into bowls that were handed to us at birth and if we ate too much or too fast or right before jumping into the water then our time would be lost, wasted, already spent. But time is beyond our finite comprehension. It’s endless, it exists outside of us; we cannot run out of it or lose track of it or find a way to hold on to it. Time goes on even when we do not. We have plenty of time, is what Castle should have said. We have all the time in the world, is what he should have said to me. But he didn’t because what he meant tick tock is that our time tick tock is shifting. It’s hurtling forward heading in an entirely new direction slamming facefirst into something else and tick tick tick tick tick it’s almost time for war.

THREE I could touch him from here. His eyes, dark blue. His hair, dark brown. His shirt, too tight in all the right places and his lips, his lips twitch up to flick the switch that lights the fire in my heart and I don’t even have time to blink and exhale before I’m caught in his arms. Adam. “Hey, you,” he whispers, right up against my neck. I bite back a shiver as the blood rushes up to blush my cheeks and for a moment, just for this moment, I drop my bones and allow him to hold me together. “Hey.” I smile, inhaling the scent of him. Luxurious, is what this is.

We rarely ever see each other alone. Adam is staying in Kenji’s room with his little brother, James, and I bunk with the healer twins. We probably have less than 20 minutes before the girls get back to this room, and I intend to make the most of this opportunity. My eyes fall shut. Adam’s arms wrap around my waist, pulling me closer, and the pleasure is so tremendous I can hardly keep myself from shaking. It’s like my skin and bones have been craving contact, warm affection, human interaction for so many years that I don’t know how to pace myself. I’m a starving child trying to stuff my stomach, gorging my senses on the decadence of these moments as if I’ll wake up in the morning and realize I’m still sweeping cinders for my stepmother. But then Adam’s lips press against my head and my worries put on a fancy dress and pretend to be something else for a while. “How are you?” I ask, and it’s so embarrassing because my words are already unsteady even though he’s hardly held me but I can’t make myself let go. Laughter shakes the shape of his body, soft and rich and indulgent. But he doesn’t respond to my question and I know he won’t. We’ve tried so many times to sneak off together, only to be caught and chastised for our negligence. We are not allowed outside of our rooms after lights-out. Once our grace period—a leniency granted on account of our very abrupt arrival—ended, Adam and I had to follow the rules just like everyone else. And there are a lot of rules to follow. These security measures—cameras everywhere, around every corner, in every hallway— exist to prepare us in the case of an attack. Guards patrol at night, looking for any suspicious noise, activity, or sign of a breach. Castle and his team are vigilant in protecting Omega Point, and they’re unwilling to take even the slightest risks; if trespassers get too close to this hideout, someone has to do anything and everything necessary to keep them away. Castle claims it’s their very vigilance that’s kept them from discovery for so long, and if I’m perfectly honest, I can see his rationale in being so strict about it. But these same strict measures keep me and Adam apart. He and I never see each other except during mealtimes, when we’re always surrounded by other people, and any free time I have is spent locked in a training room where I’m supposed to “harness my Energy.” Adam is just as unhappy about it as I am. I touch his cheek. He takes a tight breath. Turns to me. Tells me too much with his eyes, so much that I have to look away because I feel it all too acutely. My skin is hypersensitive, finally finally finally awake and thrumming with life, humming with feelings so intense it’s almost indecent. I can’t even hide it. He sees what he does to me, what happens to me when his fingers graze my skin, when his lips get too close to my face, when the heat of his body against mine forces my eyes to close and my limbs to tremble and my knees to buckle under pressure. I see what it does to him, too, to know that he has that effect on me. He tortures me sometimes, smiling as he takes too long to bridge the gap between us, reveling in the sound of my heart slamming against my chest, in the sharp breaths I fight so hard to control, in the way I swallow a hundred times just before he moves to kiss me. I can’t even look at him without reliving every moment we’ve had together, every memory of his lips, his touch, his scent, his skin. It’s too much for me, too much, so much, so new, so many exquisite sensations I’ve never known, never felt, never even had access to before. Sometimes I’m afraid it will kill me. I break free of his arms; I’m hot and cold and feeling unsteady, hoping I can get myself under control, hoping he’ll forget how easily he affects me, and I know I need a moment to pull myself together. I stumble backward; I cover my face with my hands and try to think of

something to say but everything is shaking and I catch him looking at me, looking like he might inhale the length of me in one breath. No is the word I think I hear him whisper. All I know next are his arms, the desperate edge to his voice when he says my name, and I’m unraveling in his embrace, I’m frayed and falling apart and I’m making no effort to control the tremors in my bones and he’s so hot his skin is so hot and I don’t even know where I am anymore. His right hand slides up my spine and tugs on the zipper holding my suit together until it’s halfway down my back and I don’t care. I have 17 years to make up for and I want to feel everything. I’m not interested in waiting around and risking the who-knows and the what-ifs and the huge regrets. I want to feel all of it because what if I wake up to find this phenomenon has passed, that the expiration date has arrived, that my chance came and went and would never return. That these hands will feel this warmth never again. I can’t. I won’t. I don’t even realize I’ve pressed myself into him until I feel every contour of his frame under the thin cotton of his clothes. My hands slip up under his shirt and I hear his strained breath; I look up to find his eyes squeezed shut, his features caught in an expression resembling some kind of pain and suddenly his hands are in my hair, desperate, his lips so close. He leans in and gravity moves out of his way and my feet leave the floor and I’m floating, I’m flying, I’m anchored by nothing but this hurricane in my lungs and this heart beating a skip a skip a skip too fast. Our lips touch and I know I’m going to split at the seams. He’s kissing me like he’s lost me and he’s found me and I’m slipping away and he’s never going to let me go. I want to scream, sometimes, I want to collapse, sometimes, I want to die knowing that I’ve known what it was like to live with this kiss, this heart, this soft soft explosion that makes me feel like I’ve taken a sip of the sun, like I’ve eaten clouds 8, 9, and 10. This. This makes me ache everywhere. He pulls away, he’s breathing hard, his hands slip under the soft material of my suit and he’s so hot his skin is so hot and I think I’ve already said that but I can’t remember and I’m so distracted that when he speaks I don’t quite understand. But it’s something. Words, deep and husky in my ear but I catch little more than an unintelligible utterance, consonants and vowels and broken syllables all mixed together. His heartbeats crash through his chest and topple into mine. His fingers are tracing secret messages on my body. His hands glide down the smooth, satiny material of this suit, slipping down the insides of my thighs, around the backs of my knees and up and up and up and I wonder if it’s possible to faint and still be conscious at the same time and I’m betting this is what it feels like to hyper, to hyperventilate when he tugs us backward. He slams his back into the wall. Finds a firm grip on my hips. Pulls me hard against his body. I gasp. His lips are on my neck. His lashes tickle the skin under my chin and he says something, something that sounds like my name and he kisses up and down my collarbone, kisses along the arc of my shoulder, and his lips, his lips and his hands and his lips are searching the curves and slopes of my body and his chest is heaving when he swears and he stops and he says God you feel so good and my heart has flown to the moon without me.

I love it when he says that to me. I love it when he tells me that he likes the way I feel because it goes against everything I’ve heard my entire life and I wish I could put his words in my pocket just to touch them once in a while and remind myself that they exist. “Juliette.” I can hardly breathe. I can hardly look up and look straight and see anything but the absolute perfection of this moment but none of that even matters because he’s smiling. He’s smiling like someone’s strung the stars across his lips and he’s looking at me, looking at me like I’m everything and I want to weep. “Close your eyes,” he whispers. And I trust him. So I do. My eyes fall closed and he kisses one, then the other. Then my chin, my nose, my forehead. My cheeks. Both temples. Every inch of my neck and he pulls back so quickly he bangs his head against the rough wall. A few choice words slip out before he can stop them. I’m frozen, startled and suddenly scared. “What happened?” I whisper, and I don’t know why I’m whispering. “Are you okay?” Adam fights not to grimace but he’s breathing hard and looking around and stammering “Ssorry” as he clutches the back of his head. “That was—I mean I thought—” He looks away. Clears his throat. “I—I think—I thought I heard something. I thought someone was about to come inside.” Of course. Adam is not allowed to be in here. The guys and the girls stay in different wings at Omega Point. Castle says it’s mostly to make sure the girls feel safe and comfortable in their living quarters—especially because we have communal bathrooms—so for the most part, I don’t have a problem with it. It’s nice not to have to shower with old men. But it makes it hard for the two of us to find any time together— and during whatever time we do manage to scrounge up, we’re always hyperaware of being discovered. Adam leans back against the wall and winces. I reach up to touch his head. He flinches. I freeze. “Are you okay …?” “Yeah.” He sighs. “I just—I mean—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.” Drops his voice. His eyes. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.” “Hey.” I brush my fingertips against his stomach. The cotton of his shirt is still warm from his body heat and I have to resist the urge to bury my face in it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “You were just being careful.” He smiles a strange, sad sort of smile. “I’m not talking about my head.” I stare at him. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Pries it open again. “It’s—I mean, this—” He motions between us. He won’t finish. He won’t look at me. “I don’t understand—” “I’m losing my mind,” he says, but whispers it like he’s not sure he’s even saying it out loud. I look at him. I look and blink and trip on words I can’t see and can’t find and can’t speak.

He’s shaking his head. He grips the back of his skull, hard, and he looks embarrassed and I’m struggling to understand why. Adam doesn’t get embarrassed. Adam never gets embarrassed. His voice is thick when he finally speaks. “I’ve waited so long to be with you,” he says. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you for so long and now, after everything—” “Adam, what are y—” “I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep and I think about you all—all the time and I can’t—” He stops. Presses the heels of his hands to his forehead. Squeezes his eyes shut. Turns toward the wall so I can’t see his face. “You should know—you have to know,” he says, the words raw, seeming to drain him, “that I have never wanted anything like I’ve wanted you. Nothing. Because this—this —I mean, God, I want you, Juliette, I want—I want—” His words falter as he turns to me, eyes too bright, emotion flushing up the planes of his face. His gaze lingers along the lines of my body, long enough to strike a match to the lighter fluid flowing in my veins. I ignite. I want to say something, something right and steady and reassuring. I want to tell him that I understand, that I want the same thing, that I want him, too, but the moment feels so charged and urgent that I’m half convinced I’m dreaming. It’s like I’m down to my last letters and all I have are Qs and Zs and I’ve only just remembered that someone invented a dictionary when he finally rips his eyes away from me. He swallows, hard, his eyes down. Looks away again. One of his hands is caught in his hair, the other is curled into a fist against the wall. “You have no idea,” he says, his voice ragged, “what you do to me. What you make me feel. When you touch me—” He runs a shaky hand across his face. He almost laughs, but his breathing is heavy and uneven; he won’t meet my eyes. He steps back, swears under his breath. Pumps his fist against his forehead. “Jesus. What the hell am I saying. Shit. Shit. I’m sorry—forget that—forget I said anything—I should go—” I try to stop him, try to find my voice, try to say, It’s all right, it’s okay, but I’m nervous now, so nervous, so confused, because none of this makes any sense. I don’t understand what’s happening or why he seems so uncertain about me and us and him and me and he and I and all of those pronouns put together. I’m not rejecting him. I’ve never rejected him. My feelings for him have always been so clear—he has no reason to feel unsure about me or around me and I don’t know why he’s looking at me like something is wrong— “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m—I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just—I’m—shit. I shouldn’t have come. I should go—I have to go—” “What? Adam, what happened? What are you talking about?” “This was a bad idea,” he says. “I’m so stupid—I shouldn’t have even been here—” “You are not stupid—it’s okay—everything is okay—” He laughs, loud, hollow. The echo of an uncomfortable smile lingers on his face as he stops, stares at a point directly behind my head. He says nothing for a long time, until finally he does. “Well,” he says. He tries to sound upbeat. “That’s not what Castle thinks.” “What?” I breathe, caught off guard. I know we’re not talking about our relationship anymore. “Yeah.” His hands are in his pockets. “No.” Adam nods. Shrugs. Looks at me and looks away. “I don’t know. I think so.” “But the testing—it’s—I mean”—I can’t stop shaking my head—“has he found something?” Adam won’t look at me. “Oh my God,” I say, and I whisper it like if I whisper, it’ll somehow make this easier. “So it’s true? Castle’s right?” My voice is inching higher and my muscles are beginning to tighten and I don’t know why this feels like fear, this feeling slithering up my back. I shouldn’t be afraid

if Adam has a gift like I do; I should’ve known it couldn’t have been that easy, that it couldn’t have been so simple. This was Castle’s theory all along—that Adam can touch me because he too has some kind of Energy that allows it. Castle never thought Adam’s immunity from my ability was a happy coincidence. He thought it had to be bigger than that, more scientific than that, more specific than that. I always wanted to believe I just got lucky. And Adam wanted to know. He was excited about finding out, actually. But once he started testing with Castle, Adam stopped wanting to talk about it. He’s never given me more than the barest status updates. The excitement of the experience faded far too fast for him. Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Of course it is. “We don’t know anything conclusive,” Adam tells me, but I can see he’s holding back. “I have to do a couple more sessions—Castle says there are a few more things he needs to … examine.” I don’t miss the mechanical way Adam is delivering this information. Something isn’t right and I can’t believe I didn’t notice the signs until just now. I haven’t wanted to, I realize. I haven’t wanted to admit to myself that Adam looks more exhausted, more strained, more tightly wound than I’ve ever seen him. Anxiety has built a home on his shoulders. “Adam—” “Don’t worry about me.” His words aren’t harsh, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency in his tone I can’t ignore, and he pulls me into his arms before I find a chance to speak. His fingers work to zip up my suit. “I’m fine,” he says. “Really. I just want to know you’re okay. If you’re all right here, then I am too. Everything is fine.” His breath catches. “Okay? Everything is going to be fine.” The shaky smile on his face is making my pulse forget it has a job to do. “Okay.” It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Okay sure but—” The door opens and Sonya and Sara are halfway into the room before they freeze, eyes fixed on our bodies wound together. “Oh!” Sara says. “Um.” Sonya looks down. Adam swears under his breath. “We can come back later—,” the twins say together. They’re headed out the door when I stop them. I won’t kick them out of their own room. I ask them not to leave. They ask me if I’m sure. I take one look at Adam’s face and know I’m going to regret forfeiting even a minute of our time together, but I also know I can’t take advantage of my roommates. This is their personal space, and it’s almost time for lights-out. They can’t be wandering the corridors. Adam isn’t looking at me anymore, but he’s not letting go, either. I lean forward and leave a light kiss on his heart. He finally meets my eyes. Offers me a small, pained smile. “I love you,” I tell him, quietly, so only he can hear me. He exhales a short, uneven breath. Whispers, “You have no idea,” and pulls himself away. Pivots on one heel. Heads out the door. My heart is beating in my throat. The girls are staring at me. Concerned. Sonya is about to speak, but then a switch a click a flicker

and the lights are out.

FOUR The dreams are back. They’d left me for a while, shortly after I’d been freshly imprisoned on base with Warner. I thought I’d lost the bird, the white bird, the bird with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head. It used to meet me in my dreams, flying strong and smooth, sailing over the world like it knew better, like it had secrets we’d never suspect, like it was leading me somewhere safe. It was my one piece of hope in the bitter darkness of the asylum, just until I met its twin tattooed on Adam’s chest. It was like it flew right out of my dreams only to rest atop his heart. I thought it was a signal, a message telling me I was finally safe. That I’d flown away and finally found peace, sanctuary. I didn’t expect to see the bird again. But now it’s back and looks exactly the same. It’s the same white bird in the same blue sky with the same yellow crown. Only this time, it’s frozen. Flapping its wings in place like it’s been caught in an invisible cage, like it’s destined to repeat the same motion forever. The bird seems to be flying: it’s in the air; its wings work. It looks as if it’s free to soar through the skies. But it’s stuck. Unable to fly upward. Unable to fall. I’ve had the same dream every night for the past week, and all 7 mornings I’ve woken up shaking, shuddering into the earthy, icy air, struggling to steady the bleating in my chest. Struggling to understand what this means. I crawl out of bed and slip into the same suit I wear every day; the only article of clothing I own anymore. It’s the richest shade of purple, so plum it’s almost black. It has a slight sheen, a bit of a shimmer in the light. It’s one piece from neck to wrists to ankles and it’s skintight without being tight at all. I move like a gymnast in this outfit. I have springy leather ankle boots that mold to the shape of my feet and render me soundless as I pad across the floor. I have black leather gloves that prevent me from touching something I’m not supposed to. Sonya and Sara lent me one of their hair ties and for the first time in years I’ve been able to pull my hair out of my face. I wear it in a high ponytail and I’ve learned to zip myself up without help from anyone. This suit makes me feel extraordinary. It makes me feel invincible. It was a gift from Castle. He had it custom-made for me before I arrived at Omega Point. He thought I might like to finally have an outfit that would protect me from myself and others while simultaneously offering me the option of hurting others. If I wanted to. Or needed to. The suit is made of some kind of special material that’s supposed to keep me cool in the heat and keep me warm in the cold. So far it’s been perfect. So far so far so far I head to breakfast by myself. Sonya and Sara are always gone by the time I’m awake. Their work in the medical wing is never-ending—not only are they able to heal the wounded but they also spend their days trying to create antidotes and ointments. The one time we ever had a conversation, Sonya explained to me how some Energies can be depleted if we exert ourselves too much—how we can exhaust

our bodies enough that they’ll just break down. The girls say that they want to be able to create medicines to use in the case of multiple injuries they can’t heal all at once. They are, after all, only 2 people. And war seems imminent. Heads still spin in my direction when I walk into the dining hall. I am a spectacle, an anomaly even among the anomalies. I should be used to it by now, after all these years. I should be tougher, jaded, indifferent to the opinions of others. I should be a lot of things. I clear my eyes and keep my hands to my sides and pretend I’m unable to make eye contact with anything but that spot, that little mark on the wall 50 feet from where I’m standing. I pretend I’m just a number. No emotions on my face. Lips perfectly still. Back straight, hands unclenched. I am a robot, a ghost slipping through the crowds. 6 steps forward. 15 tables to pass. 42 43 44 seconds and counting. I am scared I am scared I am scared I am strong. Food is served at only 3 times throughout the day: breakfast from 7:00 to 8:00 a.m., lunch from 12:00 to 1:00 p.m., and dinner from 5:00 to 7:00 p.m. Dinner is an hour longer because it’s at the end of the day; it’s like our reward for working hard. But mealtimes aren’t a fancy, luxurious event—the experience is very different from dining with Warner. Here we just stand in a long line, pick up our prefilled bowls, and head toward the eating area—which is nothing more than a series of rectangular tables arranged in parallel lines across the room. Nothing superfluous so nothing is wasted. I spot Adam standing in line and head in his direction. 68 69 70 seconds and counting. “Hey, gorgeous.” Something lumpy hits me in the back. Falls to the floor. I turn around, my face flexing the 43 muscles required to frown before I see him. Kenji. Big, easy smile. Eyes the color of onyx. Hair even darker, sharper, stick-straight and slipping into his eyes. His jaw is twitching and his lips are twitching and the impressive lines of his cheekbones are appled up into a smile struggling to stay suppressed. He’s looking at me like I’ve been walking around with toilet paper in my hair and I can’t help but wonder why I haven’t spent time with him since we got here. He did, on a purely technical level, save my life. And Adam’s life. James’, too. Kenji bends down to pick up what looks like a wadded ball of socks. He weighs them in his hand like he’s considering throwing them at me again. “Where are you going?” he says. “I thought you were supposed to meet me here? Castle said—” “Why did you bring a pair of socks in here?” I cut him off. “People are trying to eat.” He freezes for only a split second before he rolls his eyes. Pulls up beside me. Tugs on my ponytail. “I was running late to meet you, your highness. I didn’t have time to put my socks on.” He gestures to the socks in his hand and the boots on his feet. “That’s so gross.” “You know, you have a really strange way of telling me you’re attracted to me.” I shake my head, try to bite back my amusement. Kenji is a walking paradox of Unflinchingly Serious Person and 12-Year-Old Boy Going Through Puberty all rolled into one. But I’d forgotten how much easier it is to breathe around him; it seems natural to laugh when he’s near. So I keep walking and I’m careful not to say a word, but a smile is still tugging at my lips as I grab a tray and head into the heart of the kitchen. Kenji is half a step behind me. “So. We’re working together today.”

“Yup.” “So, what—you just walk right past me? Don’t even say hello?” He clutches the socks to his chest. “I’m crushed. I saved us a table and everything.” I glance at him. Keep walking. He catches up. “I’m serious. Do you have any idea how awkward it is to wave at someone and have them ignore you? And then you’re just looking around like a jackass, trying to be all, ‘No, really, I swear, I know that girl’ and no one believes y—” “Are you kidding?” I stop in the middle of the kitchen. Spin around. My face is pulled together in disbelief. “You’ve spoken to me maybe once in the two weeks I’ve been here. I hardly even notice you anymore.” “Okay, hold up,” he says, turning to block my path. “We both know there’s no way you haven’t noticed all of this”—he gestures to himself—“so if you’re trying to play games with me, I should let you know up front that it’s not going to work.” “What?” I frown. “What are you talking abou—” “You can’t play hard to get, kid.” He raises an eyebrow. “I can’t even touch you. Takes ‘hard to get’ to a whole new level, if you know what I mean.” “Oh my God,” I mouth, eyes closed, shaking my head. “You are insane.” He falls to his knees. “Insane for your sweet, sweet love!” “Kenji!” I can’t lift my eyes because I’m afraid to look around, but I’m desperate for him to stop talking. To put an entire room between us at all times. I know he’s joking, but I might be the only one. “What?” he says, his voice booming around the room. “Does my love embarrass you?” “Please—please get up—and lower your voice—” “Hell no.” “Why not?” I’m pleading now. “Because if I lower my voice, I won’t be able to hear myself speak. And that,” he says, “is my favorite part.” I can’t even look at him. “Don’t deny me, Juliette. I’m a lonely man.” “What is wrong with you?” “You’re breaking my heart.” His voice is even louder now, his arms making sad, sweeping gestures that almost hit me as I back away, panicked. But then I realize everyone is watching him. Entertained. I manage an awkward smile as I glance around the room and I’m surprised to find that no one is looking at me now. They’re all grinning, clearly accustomed to Kenji’s antics, staring at him with a mixture of adoration and something else. Adam is staring, too. He’s standing with his tray in his hands, his head cocked and his eyes confused. He smiles a tentative sort of smile when our gazes meet. I head toward him. “Hey—wait up, kid.” Kenji jumps up to grab my arm. “You know I was just messing with —” He follows my eyes to where Adam is standing. Slaps a palm to his forehead. “Of course! How could I forget? You’re in love with my roommate.” I turn to face him. “Listen, I’m grateful you’re going to help me train now—really, I am. Thank you for that. But you can’t go around proclaiming your fake love to me—especially not in front of Adam—and you have to let me cross this room before the breakfast hour is over, okay? I hardly ever get to see him.” Kenji nods very slowly, looks a little solemn. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I get it.” “Thank you.” “Adam is jealous of our love.”

“Just go get your food!” I push him, hard, fighting back an exasperated laugh. Kenji is one of the only people here—with the exception of Adam, of course—who isn’t afraid to touch me. In truth, no one really has anything to fear when I’m wearing this suit, but I usually take my gloves off when I eat and my reputation is always walking 5 feet ahead of me. People keep their distance. And even though I accidentally attacked Kenji once, he’s not afraid. I think it would take an astronomical amount of something horrible to get him down. I admire that about him. Adam doesn’t say much when we meet. He doesn’t have to say more than “Hey,” because his lips quirk up on one side and I can already see him standing a little taller, a little tighter, a little tenser. And I don’t know much about anything in this world but I do know how to read the book written in his eyes. The way he looks at me. His eyes are heavy now in a way that worries me, but his gaze is still so tender, so focused and full of feeling that I can hardly keep myself out of his arms when I’m around him. I find myself watching him do the simplest things—shifting his weight, grabbing a tray, nodding good morning to someone—just to track the movement of his body. My moments with him are so few that my chest is always too tight, my heart too spastic. He makes me want to be impractical all the time. He never lets go of my hand. “You okay?” I ask him, still feeling a little apprehensive about the night before. He nods. Tries to smile. “Yeah. I, uh …” Clears his throat. Takes a deep breath. Looks away. “Yeah, I’m sorry about last night. I kind of … I freaked out a little.” “About what, though?” He’s looking over my shoulder. Frowning. “Adam …?” “Yeah?” “Why were you freaked out?” His eyes meet mine again. Wide. Round. “What? Nothing.” “I don’t understa—” “Why the hell are you guys taking so long?” I spin around. Kenji is standing just behind me, so much food piled on his tray I’m surprised no one said anything. He must’ve convinced the cooks to give him extra. “Well?” Kenji is staring, unblinking, waiting for us to respond. He finally cocks his head backward, in a motion that says follow me, before walking away. Adam blows out his breath and looks so distracted that I decide to drop the subject of last night. Soon. We’ll talk soon. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing at all. We’ll talk soon and everything is going to be fine.

FIVE Kenji is waiting for us at an empty table. James used to join us at mealtimes, but now he’s friends with the handful of younger kids at Omega Point, and prefers sitting with them. He seems the happiest of all of us to be here—and I’m happy he’s happy—but I have to admit I miss his company. I’m afraid to mention it though; sometimes I’m not sure if I want to know why he doesn’t spend time with Adam when I’m around. I don’t think I want to know if the other kids managed to convince him that I’m dangerous. I mean, I am dangerous, but I just

Adam sits down on the bench seat and I slide in next to him. Kenji sits across from us. Adam and I hide our linked hands under the table and I allow myself to enjoy the simple luxury of his proximity. I’m still wearing my gloves but just being this close to him is enough; flowers are blooming in my stomach, the soft petals tickling every inch of my nervous system. It’s like I’ve been granted 3 wishes: to touch, to taste, to feel. It’s the strangest phenomenon. A crazy happy impossibility wrapped in tissue paper, tied with a bow, tucked away in my heart. It often feels like a privilege I don’t deserve. Adam shifts so the length of his leg is pressed against mine. I look up to find him smiling at me, a secret, tiny sort of smile that says so many things, the kinds of things no one should be saying at a breakfast table. I force myself to breathe as I suppress a grin. I turn to focus on my food. Hope I’m not blushing. Adam leans into my ear. I feel the soft whispers of his breath just before he begins to speak. “You guys are disgusting, you know that, right?” I look up, startled, and find Kenji frozen midmovement, his spoon halfway to his mouth, his head cocked in our direction. He gestures with his spoon at our faces. “What the hell is this? You guys playing footsie under the table or someshit?” Adam moves away from me, just an inch or 2, and exhales a deep, irritated sigh. “You know, if you don’t like it, you can leave.” He nods at the tables around us. “No one asked you to sit here.” This is Adam making a concerted effort to be nice to Kenji. The 2 of them were friends back on base, but somehow Kenji knows exactly how to provoke Adam. I almost forget for a moment that they’re roommates. I wonder what it must be like for them to live together. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” Kenji says. “I told you this morning that I had to sit with you guys. Castle wants me to help the two of you adjust.” He snorts. Nods in my direction. “Listen, I don’t have a clue what you see in this guy,” he says, “but you should try living with him. The man is moody as hell.” “I am not moody—” “Yeah, bro.” Kenji puts his utensils down. “You are moody. It’s always ‘Shut up, Kenji.’ ‘Go to sleep, Kenji.’ ‘No one wants to see you naked, Kenji.’ When I know for a fact that there are thousands of people who would love to see me naked—” “How long do you have to sit here?” Adam looks away, rubs his eyes with his free hand. Kenji sits up straighter. Picks up his spoon only to stab it through the air again. “You should consider yourself lucky that I’m sitting at your table. I’m making you cool by association.” I feel Adam tense beside me and decide to intervene. “Hey, can we talk about something else?” Kenji grunts. Rolls his eyes. Shovels another spoonful of breakfast into his mouth. I’m worried. Now that I’m paying closer attention, I can see the weariness in Adam’s eyes, the heaviness in his brow, the stiff set of his shoulders. I can’t help but wonder what he’s going through. What he’s not telling me. I tug on Adam’s hand a little and he turns to me. “You sure you’re okay?” I whisper. I feel like I keep asking him the same question over and over and over His eyes immediately soften, looking tired but slightly amused. His hand releases mine under the table just to rest on my lap, just to slip down my thigh, and I almost lose control of my vocabulary before he leaves a light kiss in my hair. I swallow too hard, almost drop my fork on the floor. It takes me a moment to remember that he hasn’t actually answered my question. It’s not until he’s looked away, staring at his food, when he finally nods, says, “I’m okay.” But I’m not breathing and his hand is still tracing patterns on my leg. “Ms. Ferrars? Mr. Kent?”

I sit up so fast I slam my knuckles under the table at the sound of Castle’s voice. There’s something about his presence that makes me feel like he’s my teacher, like I’ve been caught misbehaving in class. Adam, on the other hand, doesn’t seem remotely startled. I cling to Adam’s fingers as I lift my head. Castle is standing over our table and Kenji is leaving to deposit his bowl in the kitchen. He claps Castle on the back like they’re old friends and Castle flashes Kenji a warm smile as he passes. “I’ll be right back,” Kenji shouts over his shoulder, twisting to flash us an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Try not to get naked in front of everyone, okay? There are kids in here.” I cringe and glance at Adam but he seems oddly focused on his food. He hasn’t said a word since Castle arrived. I decide to answer for the both of us. Paste on a bright smile. “Good morning.” Castle nods, touches the lapel of his blazer; his stature is strong and poised. He beams at me. “I just came to say hello and to check in. I’m so happy to see that you’re expanding your circle of friends, Ms. Ferrars.” “Oh. Thank you. But I can’t take credit for the idea,” I point out. “You’re the one who told me to sit with Kenji.” Castle’s smile is a little too tight. “Yes. Well,” he says, “I’m happy to see that you took my advice.” I nod at my food. Rub absently at my forehead. Adam looks like he’s not even breathing. I’m about to say something when Castle cuts me off. “So, Mr. Kent,” he says. “Did Ms. Ferrars tell you she’ll be training with Kenji now? I’m hoping it will help her progress.” Adam doesn’t answer. Castle soldiers on. “I actually thought it might be interesting for her to work with you, too. As long as I’m there to supervise.” Adam’s eyes snap up to attention. Alarmed. “What are you talking about?” “Well—” Castle pauses. I watch his gaze shift between the two of us. “I thought it would be interesting to run some tests on you and her. Together.” Adam stands up so quickly he almost bangs his knee into the table. “Absolutely not.” “Mr. Kent—,” Castle starts. “There’s no chance in hell—” “It’s her choice to make—” “I don’t want to discuss this here—” I jump to my feet. Adam looks ready to set something on fire. His fists are clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed into a tight glare; his forehead is taut, his entire frame shaking with energy and anxiety. “What is going on?” I demand. Castle shakes his head. He’s not addressing me when he speaks. “I only want to see what happens when she touches you. That’s it.” “Are you insane—” “This is for her,” Castle continues, his voice careful, extra calm. “It has nothing to do with your progress—” “What progress?” I cut in. “We’re just trying to help her figure out how to affect nonliving organisms,” Castle is saying. “Animals and humans we’ve figured out—we know one touch is sufficient. Plants don’t seem to factor into her abilities at all. But everything else? It’s … different. She doesn’t know how to handle that part yet, and I want to help her. That’s all we’re doing,” he says. “Helping Ms. Ferrars.”

Adam takes a step closer to me. “If you’re helping her figure out how to destroy nonliving things, why do you need me?” For a second Castle actually looks defeated. “I don’t really know,” he says. “The unique nature of your relationship—it’s quite fascinating. Especially with everything we’ve learned so far, it’s—” “What have you learned?” I jump in again. “—entirely possible,” Castle is still saying, “that everything is connected in a way we don’t yet understand.” Adam looks unconvinced. His lips are pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t look like he wants to answer. Castle turns to me. Tries to sound excited. “What do you think? Are you interested?” “Interested?” I look at Castle. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. And I want to know why no one is answering my questions. What have you discovered about Adam?” I ask. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong?” Adam is breathing extra hard and trying not to show it; his hands keep clenching and unclenching. “Someone, please, tell me what’s going on.” Castle frowns. He’s studying me, confused, his eyebrows pulled together. “Mr. Kent,” he says, still looking at me. “Am I to understand that you have not yet shared our discoveries with Ms. Ferrars?” “What discoveries?” My heart is racing hard now, so hard it’s beginning to hurt. “Mr. Kent—” “That’s none of your business,” Adam snaps. “She should know—” “We don’t know anything yet!” “We know enough.” “Bullshit. We’re not done yet—” “The only thing left is to test the two of you together—” Adam steps directly in front of Castle, grabbing his breakfast tray with a little too much strength. “Maybe,” he says very, very carefully, “some other time.” He turns to leave. I touch his arm. He stops. Drops his tray, pivots in my direction. There’s less than half an inch between us and I almost forget we’re standing in a crowded room. His breath is hot and his breathing shallow and the heat from his body is melting my blood only to splash it across my cheeks. Panic is doing backflips in my bones. “Everything is fine,” he says. “Everything is going to be fine. I promise.” “But—” “I promise,” he says again, grabbing my hand. “I swear. I’m going to fix this—” “Fix this?” I think I’m dreaming. I think I’m dying. “Fix what?” Something is breaking in my brain and something is happening without my permission and I’m lost, I’m so lost, I’m so much everything confused and I’m drowning in confusion. “Adam, I don’t underst—” “I mean, really though?” Kenji is making his way back to our group. “You’re going to do that here? In front of everyone? Because these tables aren’t as comfortable as they look—” Adam pulls back and slams into Kenji’s shoulder on his way out. “Don’t.” Is all I hear him say before he disappears.

SIX

Kenji lets out a low whistle. Castle is calling Adam’s name, asking him to slow down, to speak to him, to discuss things in a rational manner. Adam never looks back. “I told you he was moody,” Kenji mutters. “He’s not moody,” I hear myself say, but the words feel distant, disconnected from my lips. I feel numb, like my arms have been hollowed out. Where did I leave my voice I can’t find my voice I can’t find my “So! You and me, huh?” Kenji claps his hands together. “Ready to get your ass kicked?” “Kenji.” “Yeah?” “I want you to take me to wherever they went.” Kenji is looking at me like I’ve just asked him to kick himself in the face. “Uh, yeah—how about a warm hell no to that request? Does that work for you? Because it works for me.” “I need to know what’s going on.” I turn to him, desperate, feeling stupid. “You know, don’t you? You know what’s wrong—” “Of course I know.” He crosses his arms. Levels a look at me. “I live with that poor bastard and I practically run this place. I know everything.” “So why won’t you tell me? Kenji, please—” “Yeah, um, I’m going to pass on that, but you know what I will do? I will help you to remove yourself the hell out of this dining hall where everyone is listening to everything we say.” This last bit he says extra loudly, looking around at the room, shaking his head. “Get back to your breakfasts, people. Nothing to see here.” It’s only then that I realize what a spectacle we’ve made. Every eye in the room is blinking at me. I attempt a weak smile and a twitchy wave before allowing Kenji to shuffle me out of the room. “No need to wave at the people, princess. It’s not a coronation ceremony.” He pulls me into one of the many long, dimly lit corridors. “Tell me what’s happening.” I have to blink several times before my eyes adjust to the lighting. “This isn’t fair—everyone knows what’s going on except for me.” He shrugs, leans one shoulder against the wall. “It’s not my place to tell. I mean, I like to mess with the guy, but I’m not an asshole. He asked me not to say anything. So I’m not going to say anything.” “But—I mean—is he okay? Can you at least tell me if he’s okay?” Kenji runs a hand over his eyes; exhales, annoyed. Shoots me a look. Says, “All right, like, have you ever seen a train wreck?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I saw one when I was a kid. It was one of those big, crazy trains with a billion cars all hitched up together, totally derailed, half exploded. Shit was on fire and everyone was screaming and you just know people are either dead or they’re about to die and you really don’t want to watch but you just can’t look away, you know?” He nods. Bites the inside of his cheek. “This is kind of like that. Your boy is a freaking train wreck.” I can’t feel my legs. “I mean, I don’t know,” Kenji goes on. “Personally? I think he’s overreacting. Worse things have happened, right? Hell, aren’t we up to our earlobes in crazier shit? But no, Mr. Adam Kent doesn’t seem to know that. I don’t even think he sleeps anymore. And you know what,” he adds, leaning in, “I think he’s starting to freak James out a little, and to be honest it’s starting to piss me off because that kid is way too nice and way too cool to have to deal with Adam’s drama—” But I’m not listening anymore. I’m envisioning the worst possible scenarios, the worst possible outcomes. Horrible, terrifying things that all end with Adam dying in some miserable way. He must be sick, or he

must have some kind of terrible affliction, or something that causes him to do things he can’t control or oh, God, no “You have to tell me.” I don’t recognize my own voice. Kenji is looking at me, shocked, wide-eyed, genuine fear written across his features and it’s only then that I realize I’ve pinned him against the wall. My 10 fingers are curled into his shirt, fistfuls of fabric clenched in each hand, and I can only imagine what I must look like to him right now. The scariest part is that I don’t even care. “You’re going to tell me something, Kenji. You have to. I need to know.” “You, uh”—he licks his lips, looks around, laughs a nervous laugh—“you want to let go of me, maybe?” “Will you help me?” He scratches behind his hear. Cringes a little. “No?” I slam him harder into the wall, recognize a rush of some wild kind of adrenaline burning in my veins. It’s strange, but I feel as though I could rip through the ground with my bare hands. It seems like it would be easy. So easy. “Okay—all right—goddamn.” Kenji is holding his arms up, breathing a little fast. “Just— how about you let me go, and I’ll, uh, I’ll take you to the research labs.” “The research labs.” “Yeah, that’s where they do the testing. It’s where we do all of our testing.” “You promise you’ll take me if I let go?” “Are you going to bash my brain into the wall if I don’t?” “Probably,” I lie. “Then yeah. I’ll take you. Damn.” I drop him and stumble backward; make an effort to pull myself together. I feel a little embarrassed now that I’ve let go of him. Some part of me feels like I must’ve overreacted. “I’m sorry about that,” I tell him. “But thank you. I appreciate your help.” I try to lift my chin with some dignity. Kenji snorts. He’s looking at me like he has no idea who I am, like he’s not sure if he should laugh or applaud or run like hell in the opposite direction. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes intent on my face. He won’t stop staring. “What?” I ask. “How much do you weigh?” “Wow. Is that how you talk to every girl you meet? That explains so much.” “I’m about one hundred seventy-five pounds,” he says. “Of muscle.” I stare at him. “Would you like an award?” “Well, well, well,” he says, cocking his head, the barest hint of a smile flickering across his face. “Look who’s the smart-ass now.” “I think you’re rubbing off on me,” I say. But he’s not smiling anymore. “Listen,” he says. “I’m not trying to flatter myself by pointing this out, but I could toss you across the room with my pinkie finger. You weigh, like, less than nothing. I’m almost twice your body mass.” He pauses. “So how the hell did you pin me against the wall?” “What?” I frown. “What are you talking about?” “I’m talking about you”—he points at me—“pinning me”—he points at himself—“against the wall.” He points at the wall. “You mean you actually couldn’t move?” I blink. “I thought you were just afraid of touching me.” “No,” he says. “I legit could not move. I could hardly breathe.”

“You’re kidding.” “Have you ever done that before?” “No.” I’m shaking my head. “I mean I don’t think I …” I gasp, as the memory of Warner and his torture chamber rushes to the forefront of my mind; I have to close my eyes against the influx of images. The barest recollection of that event is enough to make me feel unbearably nauseous; I can already feel my skin break into a cold sweat. Warner was testing me, trying to put me in a position where I’d be forced to use my power on a toddler. I was so horrified, so enraged that I crashed through the concrete barrier to get to Warner, who was waiting on the other side. I’d pinned him against the wall, too. Only I didn’t realize he was cowed by my strength. I thought he was afraid to move because I’d gotten too close to touching him. I guess I was wrong. “Yeah,” Kenji says, nodding at something he must see on my face. “Well. That’s what I thought. We’ll have to remember this juicy tidbit when we get around to our real training sessions.” He throws me a loaded look. “Whenever that actually happens.” I’m nodding, not really paying attention. “Sure. Fine. But first, take me to the research rooms.” Kenji sighs. Waves his hand with a bow and a flourish. “After you, princess.”

SEVEN We’re trailing down a series of corridors I’ve never seen before. We’re passing all of the regular halls and wings, past the training room I normally occupy, and for the first time since I’ve been here, I’m really paying attention to my surroundings. All of a sudden my senses feel sharper, clearer; my entire being feels like it’s humming with a renewed kind of energy. I am electric. This entire hideout has been dug out of the ground—it’s nothing but cavernous tunnels and interconnected passageways, all powered by supplies and electricity stolen from secret storage units belonging to The Reestablishment. This space is invaluable. Castle told us once that it took him at least a decade to design it, and a decade more to get the work done. By then he’d also managed to recruit all of the other members of this underground world. I can understand why he’s so relentless about security down here, why he’s not willing to let anything happen to it. I don’t think I would either. Kenji stops. We reach what looks like a dead end—what could be the very end of Omega Point. Kenji pulls out a key card I didn’t know he was hiding, and his hand fumbles for a panel buried in the stone. He slides the panel open. Does something I can’t see. Swipes the key card. Hits a switch. The entire wall rumbles to life. The pieces are coming apart, shifting out of place until they reveal a hole big enough for our bodies to clamber through. Kenji motions for me to follow his lead and I scramble through the entryway, glancing back to watch the wall close up behind me. My feet hit the ground on the other side. It’s like a cave. Massive, wide, separated into 3 longitudinal sections. The middle section is the most narrow and serves as a walkway; square glass rooms fit with slim glass doors make up the left and right sections. Each clear wall acts as a partition to rooms on either side—everything is see-through. There’s an electric aura engulfing the entire space; each cube is bright with white light and blinking machinery; sharp and dull hums of energy pulse through the vast dimensions.

There are at least 20 rooms down here. 10 on either side, all of them unobstructed from view. I recognize a number of faces from the dining hall down here, some of them strapped to machines, needles stuck in their bodies, monitors beeping about some kind of information I can’t understand. Doors slide open and closed open and closed open and closed; words and whispers and footsteps, hand gestures and half-formed thoughts collect in the air. This. This is where everything happens. Castle told me 2 weeks ago—the day after I arrived—that he had a pretty good idea why we are the way we are. He said that they’d been doing research for years. Research. I see figures running, gasping on what resemble inordinately fast treadmills. I see a woman reloading a gun in a room bursting with weapons and I see a man holding something that emits a bright blue flame. I see a person standing in a chamber full of nothing but water and there are ropes stacked high and strung across the ceiling and all kinds of liquids, chemicals, contraptions I can’t name and my brain won’t stop screaming and my lungs keep catching fire and it’s too much too much too much too much Too many machines, too many lights, too many people in too many rooms taking notes, talking amongst themselves, glancing at the clocks every few seconds and I’m stumbling forward, looking too closely and not closely enough and then I hear it. I try so hard not to but it’s barely contained behind these thick glass walls and there it is again. The low, guttural sound of human agony. It hits me right in the face. Punches me right in the stomach. Realization jumps on my back and explodes in my skin and rakes its fingernails down my neck and I’m choking on impossibility. Adam. I see him. He’s already here, in one of the glass rooms. Shirtless. Strapped down to a gurney, arms and legs clamped in place, wires from a nearby machine taped to his temples, his forehead, just below his collarbone. His eyes are pressed shut, his fists are clenched, his jaw is tight, his face too taut from the effort not to scream. I don’t understand what they’re doing to him. I don’t know what’s happening I don’t understand why it’s happening or why he needs a machine or why it keeps blinking or beeping and I can’t seem to move or breathe and I’m trying to remember my voice, my hands, my head, and my feet and then he jerks. He convulses against the stays, strains against the pain until his fists are pounding the padding of the gurney and I hear him cry out in anguish and for a moment the world stops, everything slows down, sounds are strangled, colors look smeared and the floor seems set on its side and I think wow, I think I’m actually going to die. I’m going to drop dead or I’m going to kill the person responsible for this. It’s one or the other. That’s when I see Castle. Castle, standing in the corner of Adam’s room, watching in silence as this 18-year-old boy rages in agony while he does nothing. Nothing except watch, except to take notes in his little book, to purse his lips as he tilts his head to the side. To glance at the monitor on the beeping machine. And the thought is so simple when it slips into my head. So calm. So easy. So, so easy. I’m going to kill him. “Juliette—no—”

Kenji grabs me by the waist, arms like bands of iron around me and I think I’m screaming, I think I’m saying things I’ve never heard myself say before and Kenji is telling me to calm down, he’s saying, “This is exactly why I didn’t want to bring you in here—you don’t understand—it’s not what it looks like—” And I decide I should probably kill Kenji, too. Just for being an idiot. “LET GO OF ME—” “Stop kicking me—” “I’m going to murder him—” “Yeah, you should really stop saying that out loud, okay? You’re not doing yourself any favors—” “LET GO OF ME, KENJI, I SWEAR TO GOD—” “Ms. Ferrars!” Castle is standing at the end of the walkway, a few feet from Adam’s glass room. The door is open. Adam isn’t jerking anymore, but he doesn’t appear to be conscious, either. White, hot rage. It’s all I know right now. The world looks so black-and-white from here, so easy to demolish and conquer. This is anger like nothing I’ve known before. It’s an anger so raw, so potent it’s actually calming, like a feeling that’s finally found its place, a feeling that finally sits comfortably as it settles into my bones. I’ve become a mold for liquid metal; thick, searing heat distributes itself throughout my body and the excess coats my hands, forging my fists with a strength so breathtaking, an energy so intense I think it might engulf me. I’m light-headed from the rush of it. I could do anything. Anything. Kenji’s arms drop away from me. I don’t have to look at him to know that he’s stumbling back. Afraid. Confused. Probably disturbed. I don’t care. “So this is where you’ve been,” I say to Castle, and I’m surprised by the cool, fluid tone of my voice. “This is what you’ve been doing.” Castle steps closer and appears to regret it. He looks startled, surprised by something he sees on my face. He tries to speak and I cut him off. “What have you done to him?” I demand. “What have you been doing to him—” “Ms. Ferrars, please—” “He is not your experiment!” I explode, and the composure is gone, the steadiness in my voice is gone and I’m suddenly so unstable again I can hardly keep my hands from shaking. “You think you can just use him for your research—” “Ms. Ferrars, please, you must calm yourself—” “Don’t tell me to calm down!” I can’t imagine what they must have done to him down here, testing him, treating him like some kind of specimen. They’re torturing him. “I would not have expected you to have such an adverse reaction to this room,” Castle says. He’s trying to be conversational. Reasonable. Charismatic, even. It makes me wonder what I must look like right now. I wonder if he’s afraid of me. “I thought you understood the importance of the research we do at Omega Point,” he says. “Without it, how could we possibly hope to understand our origins?” “You’re hurting him—you’re killing him! What have you done—” “Nothing he hasn’t asked to be a part of.” Castle’s voice is tight and his lips are tight and I can see his patience is starting to wear thin. “Ms. Ferrars, if you are insinuating that I’ve used him for my own personal experimentation, I would recommend you take a closer look at the

situation.” He says the last few syllables with a little too much emphasis, a little too much fire, and I realize I’ve never seen him angry before. “I know that you’ve been struggling here,” Castle continues. “I know you are unaccustomed to seeing yourself as part of a group, and I’ve made an effort to understand where you might be coming from—I’ve tried to help you adjust. But you must look around!” He gestures toward the glass walls and the people behind them. “We are all the same. We are working on the same team! I have subjected Adam to nothing I have not undergone myself. We are simply running tests to see where his supernatural abilities lie. We cannot know for certain what he is capable of if we do not test him first.” His voice drops an octave or 2. “And we do not have the luxury of waiting several years until he accidentally discovers something that might be useful to our cause right now.” And it’s strange. Because it’s like a real thing, this anger. I feel it wrapping itself around my fingers like I could fling it at his face. I feel it coiling itself around my spine, planting itself in my stomach and shooting branches down my legs, up my arms, through my neck. It’s choking me. Choking me because it needs release, needs relief. Needs it now. “You,” I tell him, and I can hardly spit the words out. “You think you’re any better than The Reestablishment if you’re just using us—experimenting on us to further your cause—” “MS. FERRARS!” Castle bellows. His eyes are flashing bright, too bright, and I realize everyone in this underground tunnel is now staring at us. His fingers are in fists at his sides and his jaw is unmistakably set and I feel Kenji’s hand on my back before I realize the earth is vibrating under my feet. The glass walls are beginning to tremble and Castle is planted right in the middle of everything, rigid, raw with anger and indignation and I remember that he has an impossibly advanced level of psychokinesis. I remember that he can move things with his mind. He lifts his right hand, palm splayed outward, and the glass panel not a few feet away begins to shake, shudder, and I realize I’m not even breathing. “You do not want to upset me.” Castle’s voice is far too calm for his eyes. “If you have a problem with my methods, I would gladly invite you to state your claims in a rational manner. I will not tolerate you speaking to me in such a fashion. My concerns for the future of our world may be more than you can fathom, but you should not fault me for your own ignorance!” He drops his right hand and the glass buckles back just in time. “My ignorance?” I’m breathing hard again. “You think because I don’t understand why you would subject anyone to—to this—” I wave a hand around the room. “You think that means I’m ignorant—?” “Hey, Juliette, it’s okay—,” Kenji starts. “Take her away,” Castle says. “Take her back to her training quarters.” He shoots an unhappy look at Kenji. “And you and I—we will discuss this later. What were you thinking, bringing her here? She’s not ready to see this—she can hardly even handle herself right now—” He’s right. I can’t handle this. I can’t hear anything but the sounds of machines beeping, screeching in my head, can’t see anything but Adam’s limp form lying on a thin mattress. I can’t stop imagining what he must’ve been going through, what he had to endure just to understand what he might be and I realize it’s all my fault. It’s my fault he’s here, it’s my fault he’s in danger, it’s my fault Warner wants to kill him and Castle wants to test him and if it weren’t for me he’d still be living with James in a home that hasn’t been destroyed; he’d be safe and comfortable and free from the chaos I’ve introduced to his life.

I brought him here. If he’d never touched me none of this would’ve happened. He’d be healthy and strong and he wouldn’t be suffering, wouldn’t be hiding, wouldn’t be trapped 50 feet underground. He wouldn’t be spending his days strapped to a gurney. It’s my fault it’s my fault it’s my fault it’s all my fault it’s all my fault I snap. It’s like I’ve been stuffed full of twigs and all I have to do is bend and my entire body will break. All the guilt, the anger, the frustration, the pent-up aggression inside of me has found an outlet and now it can’t be controlled. Energy is coursing through me with a vigor I’ve never felt before and I’m not even thinking but I have to do something I have to touch something and I’m curling my fingers and bending my knees and pulling back my arm and punching my fist right through the floor. The earth fissures under my fingers and the reverberations surge through my being, ricocheting through my bones until my skull is spinning and my heart is a pendulum slamming into my rib cage. My eyesight fades in and out of focus and I have to blink a hundred times to clear it only to see a crack creaking under my feet, a thin line splintering the ground. Everything around me is suddenly off-balance. The stone is groaning under our weight and the glass walls are rattling and the machines are shifting out of place and the water is sloshing against its container and the people— The people. The people are frozen in terror and horror and the fear in their expressions rips me apart. I fall backward, cradling my right fist to my chest and try to remind myself I am not a monster, I do not have to be a monster, I do not want to hurt people I do not want to hurt people I do not want to hurt people and it’s not working. Because it’s all a lie. Because this was me, trying to help. I look around. At the ground. At what I’ve done. And I understand, for the first time, that I have the power to destroy everything.

EIGHT Castle is limp. His jaw is unhinged. His arms are slack at his sides, his eyes wide with worry and wonder and a sliver of intimidation and though he moves his lips he can’t seem to make a sound. I feel like now might be a good time to jump off a cliff. Kenji touches my arm and I turn to face him only to realize I’m petrified. I’m always waiting for him and Adam and Castle to realize that being kind to me is a mistake, that it’ll end

badly, that I’m not worth it, that I’m nothing more than a tool, a weapon, a closet murderer. But he takes my right fist in his hand so gently. Takes care not to touch my skin as he slips off the now-tattered leather glove and sucks in his breath at the sight of my knuckles. The skin is torn and blood is everywhere and I can’t move my fingers. I realize I am in agony. I blink and stars explode and a new torture rages through my limbs in such a hurry I can no longer speak. I gasp and the world di s a p

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NINE My mouth tastes like death. I manage to pry my eyes open and immediately feel the wrath of hell ripping through my right arm. My hand has been bandaged in so many layers of gauze it’s rendered my 5 fingers immobile and I find I’m grateful for it. I’m so exhausted I don’t have the energy to cry. I blink. Try to look around but my neck is too stiff. Fingers brush my shoulder and I discover myself wanting to exhale. I blink again. Once more. A girl’s face blurs in and out of focus. I turn my head to get a better view and blink blink blink some more. “How’re you feeling?” she whispers. “I’m okay,” I say to the blur, but I think I’m lying. “Who are you?” “It’s me,” she says. Even without seeing her clearly I can hear the kindness in her voice. “Sonya.” Of course. Sara is probably here, too. I must be in the medical wing. “What happened?” I ask. “How long have I been out?” She doesn’t answer and I wonder if she didn’t hear me. “Sonya?” I try to meet her eyes. “How long have I been sleeping?” “You’ve been really sick,” she says. “Your body needed time—” “How long?” My voice drops to a whisper. “Three days.” I sit straight up and know I’m going to be sick. Luckily, Sonya’s had the foresight to anticipate my needs. A bucket appears just in time for me to empty the meager contents of my stomach into it and then I’m dry-heaving into what is not my suit but some kind of hospital gown and someone is wiping a hot, damp cloth across my face. Sonya and Sara are hovering over me, the hot cloths in their hands, wiping down my bare limbs, making soothing sounds and telling me I’m going to be fine, I just need to rest, I’m

finally awake long enough to eat something, I shouldn’t be worried because there’s nothing to worry about and they’re going to take care of me. But then I look more closely. I notice their hands, so carefully sheathed in latex gloves; I notice the IV stuck in my arm; I notice the urgent but cautious way they approach me and then I realize the problem. The healers can’t touch me.

TEN They’ve never had to deal with a problem like me before. Injuries are always treated by the healers. They can set broken bones and repair bullet wounds and revive collapsed lungs and mend even the worst kinds of cuts—I know this because Adam had to be carried into Omega Point on a stretcher when we arrived. He’d suffered at the hands of Warner and his men after we escaped the military base and I thought his body would be scarred forever. But he’s perfect. Brand-new. It took all of 1 day to put him back together; it was like magic. But there are no magic medicines for me. No miracles. Sonya and Sara explain that I must’ve suffered some kind of immense shock. They say my body overloaded on its own abilities and it’s a miracle I even managed to survive. They also think my body has been passed out long enough to have repaired most of the psychological damage, though I’m not so sure that’s true. I think it’d take quite a lot to fix that sort of thing. I’ve been psychologically damaged for a very long time. But at least the physical pain has settled. It’s little more than a steady throbbing that I’m able to ignore for short periods of time. I remember something. “Before,” I tell them. “In Warner’s torture rooms, and then with Adam and the steel door—I never—this never happened—I never injured myself—” “Castle told us about that,” Sonya tells me. “But breaking through one door or one wall is very different from trying to split the earth in two.” She attempts a smile. “We’re pretty sure this can’t even compare to what you did before. This was a lot stronger—we all felt it when it happened. We actually thought explosives had gone off. The tunnels,” she says. “They almost collapsed in on themselves.” “No.” My stomach turns to stone. “It’s okay,” Sara tries to reassure me. “You pulled back just in time.” I can’t catch my breath. “You couldn’t have known—,” Sonya starts. “I almost killed—I almost killed all of you—” Sonya shakes her head. “You have an amazing amount of power. It’s not your fault. You didn’t know what you were capable of.” “I could’ve killed you. I could’ve killed Adam—I could’ve—” My head whips around. “Is he here? Is Adam here?” The girls stare at me. Stare at each other. I hear a throat clear and I jerk toward the sound. Kenji steps out of the corner. He waves a half wave, offers me a crooked smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry,” he says to me, “but we had to keep him out of here.” “Why?” I ask, but I’m afraid to know the answer.

Kenji pushes his hair out of his eyes. Considers my question. “Well. Where should I begin?” He counts off on his fingers. “After he found out what happened, he tried to kill me, he went ballistic on Castle, he refused to leave the medical wing, and then he wou—” “Please.” I stop him. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Never mind. Don’t. I can’t.” “You asked.” “Where is he?” I open my eyes. “Is he okay?” Kenji rubs the back of his neck. Looks away. “He’ll be all right.” “Can I see him?” Kenji sighs. Turns to the girls. Says, “Hey, can we get a second alone?” and the 2 of them are suddenly in a hurry to go. “Of course,” Sara says. “No problem,” Sonya says. “We’ll give you some privacy,” they say at the same time. And they leave. Kenji grabs 1 of the chairs pushed up against the wall and carries it over to my bed. Sits down. Props the ankle of 1 foot on the knee of the other and leans back. Links his hands behind his head. Looks at me. I shift on the mattress so I’m better seated to see him. “What is it?” “You and Kent need to talk.” “Oh.” I swallow. “Yes. I know.” “Do you?” “Of course.” “Good.” He nods. Looks away. Taps his foot too fast against the floor. “What?” I ask after a moment. “What are you not telling me?” His foot stops tapping but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He covers his mouth with his left hand. Drops it. “That was some crazy shit you pulled back there.” All at once I feel humiliated. “I’m sorry, Kenji. I’m so sorry—I didn’t think—I didn’t know —” He turns to face me and the look in his eyes stops me in place. He’s trying to read me. Trying to figure me out. Trying, I realize, to decide whether or not he can trust me. Whether or not the rumors about the monster in me are true. “I’ve never done that before,” I hear myself whisper. “I swear—I didn’t mean for that to happen—” “Are you sure?” “What?” “It’s a question, Juliette. It’s a legitimate question.” I’ve never seen him so serious. “I brought you here because Castle wanted you here. Because he thought we could help you—he thought we could provide you with a safe place to live. To get you away from the assholes trying to use you for their own benefit. But you come here and you don’t even seem to want to be a part of anything. You don’t talk to people. You don’t make any progress with your training. You do nothing, basically.” “I’m sorry, I really—” “And then I believe Castle when he says he’s worried about you. He tells me you’re not adjusting, that you’re having a hard time fitting in. That people heard negative things about you and they’re not being as welcoming as they should be. And I should kick my own ass for it, but I feel sorry for you. So I tell him I’ll help. I rearrange my entire goddamn schedule just to help you deal with your issues. Because I think you’re a nice girl who’s just a little misunderstood. Because Castle is the most decent guy I’ve ever known and I want to help him out.” My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised it’s not bleeding.

“So I’m wondering,” he says to me. He drops the foot he was resting on his knee. Leans forward. Props his elbows on his thighs. “I’m wondering if it’s possible that all of this is just coincidence. I mean, was it just some crazy coincidence that I ended up working with you? Me? One of the very few people here who have access to that room? Or was it coincidence that you managed to threaten me into taking you down to the research labs? That you then, somehow, accidentally, coincidentally, unknowingly punched a fist into the ground that shook this place so hard we all thought the walls were caving in?” He stares at me, hard. “Was it a coincidence,” he says, “that if you’d held on for just a few more seconds, this entire place would’ve collapsed in on itself?” My eyes are wide, horrified, caught. He leans back. Looks down. Presses 2 fingers to his lips. “Do you actually want to be here?” he asks. “Or are you just trying to bring us down from the inside?” “What?” I gasp. “No—” “Because you either know exactly what you’re doing—and you’re a hell of a lot sneakier than you pretend to be—or you really have no clue what you’re doing and you just have really shitty luck. I haven’t decided yet.” “Kenji, I swear, I never—I n-never—” I have to bite back the words to blink back the tears. It’s crippling, this feeling, this not knowing how to prove your own innocence. It’s my entire life replayed over and over and over again, trying to convince people that I’m not dangerous, that I never meant to hurt anyone, that I didn’t intend for things to turn out this way. That I’m not a bad person. But it never seems to work out. “I’m so sorry,” I choke, the tears flowing fast now. I’m so disgusted with myself. I tried so hard to be different, to be better, to be good, and I just went and ruined everything and lost everything all over again and I don’t even know how to tell him he’s wrong. Because he might be right. I knew I was angry. I knew I wanted to hurt Castle and I didn’t care. In that moment, I meant it. In the anger of that moment, I really, truly meant it. I don’t know what I would’ve done if Kenji hadn’t been there to hold me back. I don’t know. I have no idea. I don’t even understand what I’m capable of. How many times, I hear a voice whisper in my head, how many times will you apologize for who you are? I hear Kenji sigh. Shift in his seat. I don’t dare lift my eyes. “I had to ask, Juliette.” Kenji sounds uncomfortable. “I’m sorry you’re crying but I’m not sorry I asked. It’s my job to constantly be thinking of our safety—and that means I have to look at every possible angle. No one knows what you can do yet. Not even you. But you keep trying to act like what you’re capable of isn’t a big deal, and it’s not helping anything. You need to stop trying to pretend you’re not dangerous.” I look up too fast. “But I’m not—I’m n-not trying to hurt anyone—” “That doesn’t matter,” he says, standing up. “Good intentions are great, but they don’t change the facts. You are dangerous. Shit, you’re scary dangerous. More dangerous than me and everyone else in here. So don’t ask me to act like that knowledge, in and of itself, isn’t a threat to us. If you’re going to stay here,” he says to me, “you have to learn how to control what you do—how to contain it. You have to deal with who you are and you have to figure out how to live with it. Just like the rest of us.” 3 knocks at the door. Kenji is still staring at me. Waiting. “Okay,” I whisper.

“And you and Kent need to sort out your drama ASAP,” he adds, just as Sonya and Sara walk back into the room. “I don’t have the time, the energy, or the interest to deal with your problems. I like to mess with you from time to time because, well, let’s face it”—he shrugs —“the world is going to hell out there and I suppose if I’m going to be shot dead before I’m twenty-five, I’d at least like to remember what it’s like to laugh before I do. But that does not make me your clown or your babysitter. At the end of the day I do not give two shits about whether or not you and Kent are going steady. We have a million things to take care of down here, and less than none of them involve your love life.” A pause. “Is that clear?” I nod, not trusting myself to speak. “So are you in?” he says. Another nod. “I want to hear you say it. If you’re in, you’re all in. No more feeling sorry for yourself. No more sitting in the training room all day, crying because you can’t break a metal pipe—” “How did you kn—” “Are you in?” “I’m in,” I tell him. “I’m in. I promise.” He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his hair. “Good. Meet me outside of the dining hall tomorrow morning at six a.m.” “But my hand—” He waves my words away. “Your hand, nothing. You’ll be fine. You didn’t even break anything. You messed up your knuckles and your brain freaked out a little and basically you just fell asleep for three days. I don’t call that an injury,” he says. “I call that a goddamn vacation.” He stops to consider something. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve gone on vacation—” “But aren’t we training?” I interrupt him. “I can’t do anything if my hand is wrapped up, can I?” “Trust me.” He cocks his head. “You’ll be fine. This … is going to be a little different.” I stare at him. Wait. “You can consider it your official welcome to Omega Point,” he says. “But—” “Tomorrow. Six a.m.” I open my mouth to ask another question but he presses a finger to his lips, offers me a 2finger salute, and walks backward toward the exit just as Sonya and Sara head over to my bed. I watch as he nods good-bye to both of them, pivots on 1 foot, and strides out the door. 6:00 a.m.

ELEVEN I catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall and realize it’s only 2:00 in the afternoon. Which means 6:00 a.m. is 16 hours from now. Which means I have a lot of hours to fill. Which means I have to get dressed. Because I need to get out of here. And I really need to talk to Adam. “Juliette?”

I jolt out of my own head and back to the present moment to find Sonya and Sara staring at me. “Can we get you anything?” they ask. “Are you feeling well enough to get out of bed?” But I look from one set of eyes to another and back again, and instead of answering their questions, I feel a crippling sense of shame dig into my soul and I can’t help but revert back to another version of myself. A scared little girl who wants to keep folding herself in half until she can’t be found anymore. I keep saying, “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry about everything, for all of this, for all the trouble, for all the damage, really, I’m so, so sorry—” I hear myself go on and on and on and I can’t get myself to stop. It’s like a button in my brain is broken, like I’ve developed a disease that forces me to apologize for everything, for existing, for wanting more than what I’ve been given, and I can’t stop. It’s what I do. I’m always apologizing. Forever apologizing. For who I am and what I never meant to be and for this body I was born into, this DNA I never asked for, this person I can’t unbecome. 17 years I’ve spent trying to be different. Every single day. Trying to be someone else for someone else. And it never seems to matter. But then I realize they’re talking to me. “There’s nothing to apologize for—” “Please, it’s all right—” Both of them are trying to speak to me, but Sara is closer. I dare to meet her eyes and I’m surprised to see how soft they are. Gentle and green and squinty from smiling. She sits down on the right side of my bed. Pats my bare arm with her latex glove, unafraid. Unflinching. Sonya stands just next to her, looking at me like she’s worried, like she’s sad for me, and I don’t have long to dwell on it because I’m distracted. I smell the scent of jasmine filling the room, just as it did the very first time I stepped in here. When we first arrived at Omega Point. When Adam was injured. Dying. He was dying and they saved his life. These 2 girls in front of me. They saved his life and I’ve been living with them for 2 weeks and I realize, right then, exactly how selfish I’ve been. So I decide to try a new set of words. “Thank you,” I whisper. I feel myself begin to blush and I wonder at my inability to be so free with words and feelings. I wonder at my incapacity for easy banter, smooth conversation, empty words to fill awkward moments. I don’t have a closet filled with umms and ellipses ready to insert at the beginnings and ends of sentences. I don’t know how to be a verb, an adverb, any kind of modifier. I’m a noun through and through. Stuffed so full of people places things and ideas that I don’t know how to break out of my own brain. How to start a conversation. I want to trust but it scares the skin off my bones. But then I remember my promise to Castle and my promise to Kenji and my worries over Adam and I think maybe I should take a risk. Maybe I should try to find a new friend or 2. And I think of how wonderful it would be to be friends with a girl. A girl, just like me. I’ve never had one of those before. So when Sonya and Sara smile and tell me they’re “happy to help” and they’re here “anytime” and that they’re always around if I “need someone to talk to,” I tell them I’d love that. I tell them I’d really appreciate that. I tell them I’d love to have a friend to talk to. Maybe sometime.

TWELVE “Let’s get you back into your suit,” Sara says to me. The air down here is cool and cold and often damp, the winter winds relentless as they whip the world above our heads into submission. Even in my suit I feel the chill, especially early in the morning, especially right now. Sonya and Sara are helping me out of this hospital dress and back into my normal uniform and I’m shaking in my skin. Only once they’ve zipped me up does the material begin to react to my body temperature, but I’m still so weak from being in bed for so long that I’m struggling to stay upright. “I really don’t need a wheelchair,” I tell Sara for the third time. “Thank you—really—I-I appreciate it,” I stammer, “but I need to get the blood flowing in my legs. I have to be strong on my feet.” I have to be strong, period. Castle and Adam are waiting for me in my room. Sonya told me that while I was talking to Kenji, she and Sara went to notify Castle that I was awake. So. Now they’re there. Waiting for me. In the room I share with Sonya and Sara. And I’m so afraid of what is about to happen that I’m worried I might conveniently forget how to get to my own room. Because I’m fairly certain that whatever I’m about to hear isn’t going to be good. “You can’t walk back to the room by yourself,” Sara is saying. “You can hardly stand on your own—” “I’m okay,” I insist. I try to smile. “Really, I should be able to manage as long as I can stay close to the wall. I’m sure I’ll be back to normal just as soon as I start moving.” Sonya and Sara glance at each other before scrutinizing my face. “How’s your hand?” they ask at the same time. “It’s okay,” I tell them, this time more earnestly. “It feels a lot better. Really. Thank you so much.” The cuts are practically healed and I can actually move my fingers now. I inspect the brandnew, thinner bandage they’ve wrapped across my knuckles. The girls explained to me that most of the damage was internal; it seems I traumatized whatever invisible bone in my body is responsible for my curse “gift.” “All right. Let’s go,” Sara says, shaking her head. “We’re walking you back to the room.” “No—please—it’s okay—” I try to protest but they’re already grabbing my arms and I’m too feeble to fight back. “This is unnecessary—” “You’re being ridiculous,” they chorus. “I don’t want you to have to go through the trouble—” “You’re being ridiculous,” they chorus again. “I—I’m really not—” But they’re already leading me out of the room and down the hall and I’m hobbling along between them. “I promise I’m fine,” I tell them. “Really.” Sonya and Sara share a loaded look before they smile at me, not unkindly, but there’s an awkward silence between us as we move through the halls. I spot people walking past us and immediately duck my head. I don’t want to make eye contact with anyone right now. I can’t even imagine what they must’ve heard about the damage I’ve caused. I know I’ve managed to confirm all of their worst fears about me. “They’re only afraid of you because they don’t know you,” Sara says quietly. “Really,” Sonya adds. “We barely know you and we think you’re great.” I’m blushing fiercely, wondering why embarrassment always feels like ice water in my veins. It’s like all of my insides are freezing even though my skin is burning hot too hot. I hate this. I hate this feeling.

Sonya and Sara stop abruptly. “Here we are,” they say together. We’re in front of our bedroom door. I try to unlatch myself from their arms but they stop me. Insist on staying with me until they’re sure I’ve gotten inside okay. So I stay with them. And I knock on my own door, because I’m not sure what else to do. Once. Twice. I’m waiting just a few seconds, just a few moments for fate to answer when I realize the full impact of Sonya’s and Sara’s presence beside me. They’re offering me smiles that are supposed to be encouraging, bracing, reinforcing. They’re trying to lend me their strength because they know I’m about to face something that isn’t going to make me happy. And this thought makes me happy. If only for a fleeting moment. Because I think wow, I imagine this is what it’s like to have friends. “Ms. Ferrars.” Castle opens the door just enough for me to see his face. He nods at me. Glances down at my injured hand. Back up at my face. “Very good,” he says, mostly to himself. “Good, good. I’m happy to see you’re doing better.” “Yes,” I manage to say. “I—th-thank you, I—” “Girls,” he says to Sonya and Sara. He offers them a bright, genuine smile. “Thank you for all you’ve done. I’ll take it from here.” They nod. Squeeze my arms once before letting go and I sway for just a second before I find my footing. “I’m all right,” I tell them as they try to reach for me. “I’ll be fine.” They nod again. Wave, just a little, as they back away. “Come inside,” Castle says to me. I follow him in.

THIRTEEN 1 bunk bed on one side of the wall. 1 single bed on the other side. That’s all this room consists of. That, and Adam, who is sitting on my single bed, elbows propped up on his knees, face in his hands. Castle shuts the door behind us, and Adam startles. Jumps up. “Juliette,” he says, but he’s not looking at me; he’s looking at all of me. His eyes are searching my body as if to ensure I’m still intact, arms and legs and everything in between. It’s only when he finds my face that he meets my gaze; I step into the sea of blue in his eyes, dive right in and drown. I feel like someone’s punched a fist into my lungs and snatched up all my oxygen. “Please, have a seat, Ms. Ferrars.” Castle gestures to Sonya’s bottom bunk, the bed right across from where Adam is sitting. I make my way over slowly, trying not to betray the dizziness, the nausea I’m feeling. My chest is rising and falling too quickly. I drop my hands into my lap. I feel Adam’s presence in this room like a real weight against my chest but I choose to study the careful wrapping of my new bandage—the gauze stretched tight across the knuckles of my right hand—because I’m too much of a coward to look up. I want nothing more than to go to

him, to have him hold me, to transport me back to the few moments of bliss I’ve ever known in my life but there’s something gnawing at my core, scraping at my insides, telling me that something is wrong and it’s probably best if I stay exactly where I am. Castle is standing in the space between the beds, between me and Adam. He’s staring at the wall, hands clasped behind his back. His voice is quiet when he says, “I am very, very disappointed in your behavior, Ms. Ferrars.” Hot, terrible shame creeps up my neck and forces my head down again. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Castle takes a deep breath. Exhales very slowly. “I have to be frank with you,” he says, “and admit that I’m not ready to discuss what happened just yet. I am still too upset to be able to speak about the matter calmly. Your actions,” he says, “were childish. Selfish. Thoughtless! The damage you caused—the years of work that went into building and planning that room, I can’t even begin to tell you—” He catches himself, swallows hard. “That will be a subject,” he says steadily, “for another time. Perhaps just between the two of us. But I am here today because Mr. Kent asked me to be here.” I look up. Look at Castle. Look at Adam. Adam looks like he wants to run. I decide I can’t wait any longer. “You’ve learned something about him,” I say, and it’s less of a question than it is a fact. It’s so obvious. There’s no other reason why Adam would bring Castle here to talk to me. Something terrible has already happened. Something terrible is about to happen. I can feel it. Adam is staring at me now, unblinking, his hands in fists pressed into his thighs. He looks nervous; scared. I don’t know what to do except to stare back at him. I don’t know how to offer him comfort. I don’t even know how to smile right now. I feel like I’m trapped in someone else’s story. Castle nods, once, slowly. Says, “Yes. Yes, we’ve discovered the very intriguing nature of Mr. Kent’s ability.” He walks toward the wall and leans against it, allowing me a clearer view of Adam. “We believe we now understand why he’s able to touch you, Ms. Ferrars.” Adam turns away, presses one of his fists to his mouth. His hand looks like it might be shaking but he, at least, seems to be doing better than I am. Because my insides are screaming and my head is on fire and panic is stepping on my throat, suffocating me to death. Bad news offers no returns once received. “What is it?” I fix my eyes on the floor and count stones and sounds and cracks and nothing. 1 2, 3, 4 1 2, 3, 4 1 2, 3, 4 “He … can disable things,” Castle says to me. 5, 6, 7, 8 million times I blink, confused. All my numbers crash to the floor, adding and subtracting and multiplying and dividing. “What?” I ask him. This news is wrong. This news doesn’t sound horrible at all. “The discovery was quite accidental, actually,” Castle explains. “We weren’t having much luck with any of the tests we’d been running. But then one day I was in the middle of a training exercise, and Mr. Kent was trying to get my attention. He touched my shoulder.” Wait for it.

“And … suddenly,” Castle says, pulling in a breath, “I couldn’t perform. It was as if—as if a wire inside of my body had been cut. I felt it right away. He wanted my attention and he inadvertently shut me off in an attempt to redirect my focus. It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” He shakes his head. “We’ve now been working with him to see if he can control his ability at will. And,” Castle adds, excited, “we want to see if he can project. “You see, Mr. Kent does not need to make contact with the skin—I was wearing my blazer when he touched my arm. So this means he’s already projecting, if only just a little bit. And I believe, with some work, he’ll be able to extend his gift to a greater surface area.” I have no idea what that means. I try to meet Adam’s eyes; I want him to tell me these things himself but he won’t look up. He won’t speak and I don’t understand. This doesn’t seem like bad news. In fact, it sounds quite good, which can’t be right. I turn to Castle. “So Adam can just make someone else’s power— their gift—whatever it is—he can just make it stop? He can turn it off?” “I appears that way, yes.” “Have you tested this on anyone else?” Castle looks offended. “Of course we have. We’ve tried it on every gifted member at Omega Point.” But something isn’t making sense. “What about when he arrived?” I ask. “And he was injured? And the girls were able to heal him? Why didn’t he cut off their abilities?” “Ah.” Castle nods. Clears his throat. “Yes. Very astute, Ms. Ferrars.” He paces the length of the room. “This … is where the explanation gets a little tricky. After much study, we’ve been able to conclude that his ability is a kind of … defense mechanism. One that he does not yet know how to control. It’s something that’s been working on autopilot his entire life, even though it only works to disable other preternatural abilities. If there was ever a risk, if Mr. Kent was ever in any state of danger, in any situation where his body was on high alert, feeling threatened or at risk of injury, his ability automatically set in.” He stops. Looks at me. Really looks at me. “When you first met, for example, Mr. Kent was working as a soldier, on guard, always aware of the risks in his surroundings. He was in a constant state of electricum—a term we use to define when our Energy is ‘on,’ so to speak—because he was always in a state of danger.” Castle tucks his hands into his blazer pockets. “A series of tests have further shown that his body temperature rises when he is in a state of electricum—just a couple of degrees higher than normal. His elevated body temperature indicates that he is exerting more energy than usual to sustain this. And, in short,” Castle says, “this constant exertion has been exhausting him. Weakening his defenses, his immune system, his self-control.” His elevated body temperature. That’s why Adam’s skin was always so hot when we were together. Why it was always so intense when he was with me. His ability was working to fight mine. His energy was working to defuse mine. It was exhausting him. Weakening his defenses. Oh. God. “Your physical relationship with Mr. Kent,” Castle says, “is, in truth, none of my business. But because of the very unique nature of your gifts, it’s been of great interest to me on a purely scientific level. But you must know, Ms. Ferrars, that though these new developments no doubt fascinate me, I take absolutely no pleasure in them. You’ve made it clear that you do not think much of my character, but you must believe that I would never find joy in your troubles.” My troubles.

My troubles have arrived fashionably late to this conversation, inconsiderate beasts that they are. “Please,” I whisper. “Please just tell me what the problem is. There’s a problem, isn’t there? Something is wrong.” I look at Adam but he’s still staring away, at the wall, at everything but at my face, and I feel myself rising to my feet, trying to get his attention. “Adam? Do you know? Do you know what he’s talking about? Please—” “Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says quickly. “I beg you to sit down. I know this must be difficult for you, but you must let me finish. I’ve asked Mr. Kent not to speak until I’m done explaining everything. Someone needs to deliver this information in a clear, rational manner, and I’m afraid he is in no position to do so.” I fall back onto the bed. Castle lets out a breath. “You brought up an excellent point earlier—about why Mr. Kent was able to interact with our healer twins when he first arrived. But it was different with them,” Castle says. “He was weak; he knew he needed help. His body would not—and, more importantly, could not—refuse that kind of medical attention. He was vulnerable and therefore unable to defend himself even if he wanted to. The last of his Energy was depleted when he arrived. He felt safe and he was seeking aid; his body was out of immediate danger and therefore unafraid, not primed for a defensive strategy.” Castle looks up. Looks me in the eye. “Mr. Kent has begun having a similar problem with you.” “What?” I gasp. “I’m afraid he doesn’t know how to control his abilities yet. It’s something we’re hoping we can work on, but it will take a lot of time—a lot of energy and focus—” “What do you mean,” I hear myself ask, my words heavy with panic, “that he has already begun having a similar problem with me?” Castle takes a small breath. “It—it seems that he is weakest when he is with you. The more time he spends in your company, the less threatened he feels. And the more … intimate you become,” Castle says, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “the less control he has over his body.” A pause. “He is too open, too vulnerable with you. And in the few moments his defenses have slipped thus far, he’s already felt the very distinct pain associated with your touch.” There it is. There’s my head, lying on the floor, cracked right open, my brain spilling out in every direction and I can’t I don’t I can’t even I’m sitting here, struck, numb, slightly dizzy. Horrified. Adam is not immune to me. Adam has to work to defend himself against me and I’m exhausting him. I’m making him sick and I’m weakening his body and if he ever slips again. If he ever forgets. If he ever makes a mistake or loses focus or becomes too aware of the fact that he’s using his gift to control what I might do— I could hurt him. I could kill him.

FOURTEEN Castle is staring at me. Waiting for my reaction.

I haven’t been able to spit the chalk out of my mouth long enough to string a sentence together. “Ms. Ferrars,” he says, rushing to speak now, “we are working with Mr. Kent to help him control his abilities. He’s going to train—just as you are—to learn how to exercise this particular element of who he is. It will take some time until we can be certain he’ll be safe with you, but it will be all right, I assure you—” “No.” I’m standing up. “No no no no no.” I’m tripping sideways. “NO.” I’m staring at my feet and at my hands and at these walls and I want to scream. I want to run. I want to fall to my knees. I want to curse the world for cursing me, for torturing me, for taking away the only good thing I’ve ever known and I’m stumbling toward the door, searching for an outlet, for escape from this nightmare that is my life and “Juliette—please—” The sound of Adam’s voice stops my heart. I force myself to turn around. To face him. But the moment he meets my eyes his mouth falls closed. His arm is outstretched toward me, trying to stop me from 10 feet away and I want to sob and laugh at the same time, at the terrible hilarity of it all. He will not touch me. I will not allow him to touch me. Never again. “Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says gently. “I’m sure it’s hard to stomach right now, but I’ve already told you this isn’t permanent. With enough training—” “When you touch me,” I ask Adam, my voice breaking, “is it an effort for you? Does it exhaust you? Does it drain you to have to constantly be fighting me and what I am?” Adam tries to answer. He tries to say something but instead he says nothing and his unspoken words are so much worse. I spin in Castle’s direction. “That’s what you said, isn’t it?” My voice is even shakier now, too close to tears. “That he’s using his Energy to extinguish mine, and that if he ever forgets—if he ever gets c-carried away or t-too vulnerable—that I could hurt him—that I’ve already h-hurt him—” “Ms. Ferrars, please—” “Just answer the question!” “Well yes,” he says, “for now, at least, that’s all we know—” “Oh, God, I—I can’t—” I’m tripping to reach the door again but my legs are still weak, my head is still spinning, my eyes are blurring and the world is being washed of all its color when I feel familiar arms wrap around my waist, tugging me backward. “Juliette,” he says, so urgently, “please, we have to talk about this—” “Let go of me.” My voice is barely a breath. “Adam, please—I can’t—” “Castle.” Adam cuts me off. “Do you think you can give us some time alone?” “Oh.” He startles. “Of course,” he says, just a beat too late. “Sure, yes, yes, of course.” He walks to the door. Hesitates. “I will—well, right. Yes. You know where to find me when you’re ready.” He nods at both of us, offers me a strained sort of smile, and leaves the room. The door clicks shut behind him. Silence pours into the space between us. “Adam, please,” I finally say, and hate myself for saying it. “Let go of me.” “No.” I feel his breath on the back of my neck and it’s killing me to be so close to him. It’s killing me to know that I have to rebuild the walls I’d so carelessly demolished the moment he came back into my life. “Let’s talk about this,” he says. “Don’t go anywhere. Please. Just talk to me.” I’m rooted in place.

“Please,” he says again, this time more softly, and my resolve runs out the door without me. I follow him back to the beds. He sits on one side of the room. I sit on the other. He stares at me. His eyes are too tired, too strained. He looks like he hasn’t been eating enough, like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He hesitates, licks his lips before pressing them tight, before he speaks. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I never meant to upset you.” And I want to laugh and laugh and laugh until the tears dissolve me. “I understand why you didn’t tell me,” I whisper. “It makes perfect sense. You wanted to avoid all of this.” I wave a limp hand around the room. “You’re not mad?” His eyes are so terribly hopeful. He looks like he wants to walk over to me and I have to hold out a hand to stop him. The smile on my face is literally killing me. “How could I be mad at you? You were torturing yourself down there just to figure out what was happening to you. You’re torturing yourself right now just trying to find a way to fix this.” He looks relieved. Relieved and confused and afraid to be happy all at the same time. “But something’s wrong,” he says. “You’re crying. Why are you crying if you’re not upset?” I actually laugh this time. Out loud. Laugh and hiccup and want to die, so desperately. “Because I was an idiot for thinking things could be different,” I tell him. “For thinking you were a fluke. For thinking my life could ever be better than it was, that I could ever be better than I was.” I try to speak again but instead clamp a hand over my mouth like I can’t believe what I’m about to say. I force myself to swallow the stone in my throat. I drop my hand. “Adam.” My voice is raw, aching. “This isn’t going to work.” “What?” He’s frozen in place, his eyes too wide, his chest rising and falling too fast. “What are you talking about?” “You can’t touch me,” I tell him. “You can’t touch me and I’ve already hurt you—” “No—Juliette—” Adam is up, he’s cleared the room, he’s on his knees next to me and he reaches for my hands but I have to snatch them back because my gloves were ruined, ruined in the research lab and now my fingers are bare. Dangerous. Adam stares at the hands I’ve hidden behind my back like I’ve slapped him across the face. “What are you doing?” he asks, but he’s not looking at me. He’s still staring at my hands. Barely breathing. “I can’t do this to you.” I shake my head too hard. “I don’t want to be the reason why you’re hurting yourself or weakening yourself and I don’t want you to always have to worry that I might accidentally kill you—” “No, Juliette, listen to me.” He’s desperate now, his eyes up, searching my face. “I was worried too, okay? I was worried too. Really worried. I thought—I thought that maybe—I don’t know, I thought maybe it would be bad or that maybe we wouldn’t be able to work through it but I talked to Castle. I talked to him and explained everything and he said that I just have to learn to control it. I’ll learn how to turn it on and off—” “Except when you’re with me? Except when we’re together—” “No—what? No, especially when we’re together!” “Touching me—being with me—it takes a physical toll on you! You run a fever when we’re together, Adam, did you realize that? You’d get sick just trying to fight me off—” “You’re not hearing me—please—I’m telling you, I’ll learn to control all of that—” “When?” I ask, and I can actually feel my bones breaking, 1 by 1. “What? What do you mean? I’ll learn now—I’m learning now—” “And how’s it going? Is it easy?”

His mouth falls closed but he’s looking at me, struggling with some kind of emotion, struggling to find composure. “What are you trying to say?” he finally asks. “Are you”—he’s breathing hard—“are you—I mean—you don’t want to make this work?” “Adam—” “What are you saying, Juliette?” He’s up now, a shaky hand caught in his hair. “You don’t— you don’t want to be with me?” I’m on my feet, blinking back the tears burning my eyes, desperate to run to him but unable to move. My voice breaks when I speak. “Of course I want to be with you.” He drops his hand from his hair. Looks at me with eyes so open and vulnerable but his jaw is tight, his muscles are tense, his upper body is heaving from the effort to inhale, exhale. “Then what’s happening right now? Because something is happening right now and it doesn’t feel okay,” he says, his voice catching. “It doesn’t feel okay, Juliette, it feels like the opposite of whatever the hell okay is and I really just want to hold you—” “I don’t want to h-hurt you—” “You’re not going to hurt me,” he says, and then he’s in front of me, looking at me, pleading with me. “I swear. It’ll be fine—we’ll be fine—and I’m better now. I’ve been working on it and I’m stronger—” “It’s too dangerous, Adam, please.” I’m begging him, backing away, wiping furiously at the tears escaping down my face. “It’s better for you this way. It’s better for you to just stay away from me—” “But that’s not what I want—you’re not asking me what I want—,” he says, following me as I dodge his advances. “I want to be with you and I don’t give a damn if it’s hard. I still want it. I still want you.” I’m trapped. I’m caught between him and the wall and I have nowhere to go and I wouldn’t want to go even if I could. I don’t want to have to fight this even though there’s something inside of me screaming that it’s wrong to be so selfish, to allow him to be with me if it’ll only end up hurting him. But he’s looking at me, looking at me like I’m killing him and I realize I’m hurting him more by trying to stay away. I’m shaking. Wanting him so desperately and knowing now, more than ever, that what I want will have to wait. And I hate that it has to be this way. I hate it so much I could scream. But maybe we can try. “Juliette.” Adam’s voice is hoarse, broken with feeling. His hands are at my waist, trembling just a little, waiting for my permission. “Please.” And I don’t protest. He’s breathing harder now, leaning into me, resting his forehead against my shoulder. He places his hands flat against the center of my stomach, only to inch them down my body, slowly, so slowly and I gasp. There’s an earthquake happening in my bones, tectonic plates shifting from panic to pleasure as his fingers take their time moving around my thighs, up my back, over my shoulders and down my arms. He hesitates at my wrists. This is where the fabric ends, where my skin begins. But he takes a breath. And he takes my hands. For a moment I’m paralyzed, searching his face for any sign of pain or danger but then we both exhale and I see him attempt a smile with new hope, a new optimism that maybe everything is going to work out. But then he blinks and his eyes change. His eyes are deeper now. Desperate. Hungry. He’s searching me like he’s trying to read the words etched inside of me and I can already feel the heat of his body, the power in his limbs, the strength in his chest and I don’t have time to stop him before he’s kissing me.

His left hand is cupping the back of my head, his right tightening around my waist, pressing me hard against him and destroying every rational thought I’ve ever had. It’s deep. So strong. It’s an introduction to a side of him I’ve never known before and I’m gasping gasping gasping for air. It’s hot rain and humid days and broken thermostats. It’s screaming teakettles and raging steam engines and wanting to take your clothes off just to feel a breeze. It’s the kind of kiss that makes you realize oxygen is overrated. And I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I know it’s probably stupid and irresponsible after everything we’ve just learned but someone would have to shoot me to make me want to stop. I’m pulling at his shirt, desperate for a raft or a life preserver or something, anything to anchor me to reality but he breaks away to catch his breath and rips off his shirt, tosses it to the floor, pulls me into his arms and we both fall onto my bed. Somehow I end up on top of him. He reaches up only to pull me down and he’s kissing me, my throat, my cheeks, and my hands are searching his body, exploring the lines, the planes, the muscle and he pulls back, his forehead is pressed against my own and his eyes are squeezed shut when he says, “How is it possible,” he says, “that I’m this close to you and it’s killing me that you’re still so far away?” And I remember I promised him, 2 weeks ago, that once he got better, once he’d healed, I would memorize every inch of his body with my lips. I figure now is probably a good time to fulfill that promise. I start at his mouth, move to his cheek, under his jawline, down his neck to his shoulders and his arms, which are wrapped around me. His hands are skimming my suit and he’s so hot, so tense from the effort to remain still but I can hear his heart beating hard, too fast against his chest. Against mine. I trace the white bird soaring across his skin, a tattoo of the one impossible thing I hope to see in my life. A bird. White with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head. It will fly. Birds don’t fly, is what the scientists say, but history says they used to. And one day I want to see it. I want to touch it. I want to watch it fly like it should, like it hasn’t been able to in my dreams. I dip down to kiss the yellow crown of its head, tattooed deep into Adam’s chest. I hear the spike in his breathing. “I love this tattoo,” I tell him, looking up to meet his eyes. “I haven’t seen it since we got here. I haven’t seen you without a shirt on since we got here,” I whisper. “Do you still sleep without your shirt on?” But Adam answers with a strange smile, like he’s laughing at his own private joke. He takes my hand from his chest and tugs me down so we’re facing each other, and it’s strange, because I haven’t felt a breeze since we got here, but it’s like the wind has found a home in my body and it’s funneling through my lungs, blowing through my blood, mingling with my breath and making it hard for me to breathe. “I can’t sleep at all,” he says to me, his voice so low I have to strain to hear it. “It doesn’t feel right to be without you every night.” His left hand is threaded in my hair, his right wrapped around me. “God I’ve missed you,” he says, his words a husky whisper in my ear. “Juliette.” I am lit on fire. It’s like swimming in molasses, this kiss, it’s like being dipped in gold, this kiss, it’s like I’m diving into an ocean of emotion and I’m too swept up in the current to realize I’m drowning and nothing even matters anymore. Not my hand which no longer seems to hurt, not this room that

isn’t entirely mine, not this war we’re supposed to be fighting, not my worries about who or what I am and what I might become. This is the only thing that matters. This. This moment. These lips. This strong body pressed against me and these firm hands finding a way to bring me closer and I know I want so much more of him, I want all of him, I want to feel the beauty of this love with the tips of my fingers and the palms of my hands and every fiber and bone in my being. I want all of it. My hands are in his hair and I’m reeling him in until he’s practically on top of me and he breaks for air but I pull him back, kissing his neck, his shoulders, his chest, running my hands down his back and the sides of his torso and it’s incredible, the energy, the unbelievable power I feel in just being with him, touching him, holding him like this. I’m alive with a rush of adrenaline so potent, so euphoric that I feel rejuvenated, indestructible— I jerk back. Push away so quickly that I’m scrambling and I fall off the bed only to slam my head into the stone floor and I’m swaying as I attempt to stand, struggling to hear the sound of his voice but all I hear are wheezing, paralyzed breaths and I can’t think straight, I can’t see anything and everything is blurry and I can’t, I refuse to believe this is actually happening— “J-Jul—” He tries to speak. “I-I c-ca—” And I fall to my knees. Screaming. Screaming like I’ve never screamed in my entire life.

FIFTEEN I count everything. Even numbers, odd numbers, multiples of 10. I count the ticks of the clock I count the tocks of the clock I count the lines between the lines on a sheet of paper. I count the broken beats of my heart I count my pulse and my blinks and the number of tries it takes to inhale enough oxygen for my lungs. I stay like this I stand like this I count like this until the feeling stops. Until the tears stop spilling, until my fists stop shaking, until my heart stops aching. There are never enough numbers. Adam is in the medical wing. He is in the medical wing and I have been asked not to visit him. I have been asked to give him space, to give him time to heal, to leave him the hell alone. He is going to be okay, is what Sonya and Sara told me. They told me not to worry, that everything would be fine, but their smiles were a little less exuberant than they usually are and I’m beginning to wonder if they, too, are finally beginning to see me for what I truly am. A horrible, selfish, pathetic monster. I took what I wanted. I knew better and I took it anyway. Adam couldn’t have known, he could never have known what it would be like to really suffer at my hands. He was innocent of the depth of it, of the cruel reality of it. He’d only felt bursts of my power, according to Castle. He’d only felt small stabs of it and was able and aware enough to let go without feeling the full effects.

But I knew better. I knew what I was capable of. I knew what the risks were and I did it anyway. I allowed myself to forget, to be reckless, to be greedy and stupid because I wanted what I couldn’t have. I wanted to believe in fairy tales and happy endings and pure possibility. I wanted to pretend that I was a better person than I actually am but instead I managed to out myself as the terror I’ve always been accused of being. My parents were right to get rid of me. Castle isn’t even speaking to me. Kenji, however, still expects me to show up at 6:00 a.m. for whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing tomorrow, and I find I’m actually kind of grateful for the distraction. I only wish it would come sooner. Life will be solitary for me from now on, just as it always has been, and it’s best if I find a way to fill my time. To forget. It keeps hitting me, over and over and over again, this complete and utter loneliness. This absence of him in my life, this realization that I will never know the warmth of his body, the tenderness of his touch ever again. This reminder of who I am and what I’ve done and where I belong. But I’ve accepted the terms and conditions of my new reality. I cannot be with him. I will not be with him. I won’t risk hurting him again, won’t risk becoming the creature he’s always afraid of, too scared to touch, to kiss, to hold. I don’t want to keep him from having a normal life with someone who isn’t going to accidentally kill him all the time. So I have to cut myself out of his world. Cut him out of mine. It’s much harder now. So much harder to resign myself to an existence of ice and emptiness now that I’ve known heat, urgency, tenderness, and passion; the extraordinary comfort of being able to touch another being. It’s humiliating. That I thought I could slip into the role of a regular girl with a regular boyfriend; that I thought I could live out the stories I’d read in so many books as a child. Me. Juliette with a dream. Just the thought of it is enough to fill me with mortification. How embarrassing for me, that I thought I could change what I’d been dealt. That I looked in the mirror and actually liked the pale face staring back at me.

How sad. I always dared to identify with the princess, the one who runs away and finds a fairy godmother to transform her into a beautiful girl with a bright future. I clung to something like hope, to a thread of maybes and possiblys and perhapses. But I should’ve listened when my parents told me that things like me aren’t allowed to have dreams. Things like me are better off destroyed, is what my mother said to me. And I’m beginning to think they were right. I’m beginning to wonder if I should just bury myself in the ground before I remember that technically, I already am. I never even needed a shovel. It’s strange. How hollow I feel. Like there might be echoes inside of me. Like I’m one of those chocolate rabbits they used to sell around Easter, the ones that were nothing more than a sweet shell encapsulating a world of nothing. I’m like that. I encapsulate a world of nothing. Everyone here hates me. The tenuous bonds of friendship I’d begun to form have now been destroyed. Kenji is tired of me. Castle is disgusted, disappointed, angry, even. I’ve caused nothing but trouble since I arrived and the 1 person who’s ever tried to see good in me is now paying for it with his life. The 1 person who’s ever dared to touch me. Well. 1 of 2. I find myself thinking about Warner too much. I remember his eyes and his odd kindness and his cruel, calculating demeanor. I remember the way he looked at me when I first jumped out the window to escape and I remember the horror on his face when I pointed his own gun at his heart and then I wonder at my preoccupation with this person who is nothing like me and still so similar. I wonder if I will have to face him again, sometime soon, and I wonder how he will greet me. I have no idea if he wants to keep me alive anymore, especially not after I tried to kill him, and I have no idea what could propel a 19-year-old man boy person into such a miserable, murderous lifestyle and then I realize I’m lying to myself. Because I do know. Because I might be the only person who could ever understand him. And this is what I’ve learned: I know that he is a tortured soul who, like me, never grew up with the warmth of friendship or love or peaceful coexistence. I know that his father is the leader of The Reestablishment and applauds his son’s murders instead of condemning them and I know that Warner has no idea what it’s like to be normal. Neither do I. He’s spent his life fighting to fulfill his father’s expectations of global domination without questioning why, without considering the repercussions, without stopping long enough to weigh the worth of a human life. He has a power, a strength, a position in society that enables him to do too much damage and he owns it with pride. He kills without remorse or regret and he wants me to join him. He sees me for what I am and expects me to live up to that potential. Scary, monstrous girl with a lethal touch. Sad, pathetic girl with nothing else to contribute to this world. Good for nothing but a weapon, a tool for torture and taking control. That’s what he wants from me. And lately I’m not sure if he’s wrong. Lately, I’m not sure of anything. Lately, I don’t know anything about anything I’ve ever believed in, not anymore, and I know the least about who I am. Warner’s whispers pace the space in my head, telling me I could be more, I could be stronger, I could be everything; I could be so much more than a scared little girl. He says I could be power.

But still, I hesitate. Still, I see no appeal in the life he’s offered. I see no future in it. I take no pleasure in it. Still, I tell myself, despite everything, I know that I do not want to hurt people. It’s not something I crave. And even if the world hates me, even if they never stop hating me, I will never avenge myself on an innocent person. If I die, if I am killed, if I am murdered in my sleep, I will at least die with a shred of dignity. A piece of humanity that is still entirely mine, entirely under my control. And I will not allow anyone to take that from me. So I have to keep remembering that Warner and I are 2 different words. We are synonyms but not the same. Synonyms know each other like old colleagues, like a set of friends who’ve seen the world together. They swap stories, reminisce about their origins and forget that though they are similar, they are entirely different, and though they share a certain set of attributes, one can never be the other. Because a quiet night is not the same as a silent one, a firm man is not the same as a steady one, and a bright light is not the same as a brilliant one because the way they wedge themselves into a sentence changes everything. They are not the same. I’ve spent my entire life fighting to be better. Fighting to be stronger. Because unlike Warner I don’t want to be a terror on this Earth. I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want to use my power to cripple anyone. But then I look at my own 2 hands and I remember exactly what I’m capable of. I remember exactly what I’ve done and I’m too aware of what I might do. Because it’s so difficult to fight what you cannot control and right now I can’t even control my own imagination as it grips my hair and drags me into the dark.

SIXTEEN Loneliness is a strange sort of thing. It creeps up on you, quiet and still, sits by your side in the dark, strokes your hair as you sleep. It wraps itself around your bones, squeezing so tight you almost can’t breathe. It leaves lies in your heart, lies next to you at night, leaches the light out from every corner. It’s a constant companion, clasping your hand only to yank you down when you’re struggling to stand up. You wake up in the morning and wonder who you are. You fail to fall asleep at night and tremble in your skin. You doubt you doubt you doubt do I don’t I should I why won’t I And even when you’re ready to let go. When you’re ready to break free. When you’re ready to be brand-new. Loneliness is an old friend standing beside you in the mirror, looking you in the eye, challenging you to live your life without it. You can’t find the words to fight yourself, to fight the words screaming that you’re not enough never enough never ever enough. Loneliness is a bitter, wretched companion. Sometimes it just won’t let go. “Helloooooo?”

I blink and gasp and flinch away from the fingers snapping in front of my face as the familiar stone walls of Omega Point come back into focus. I manage to spin around. Kenji is staring at me. “What?” I shoot him a panicked, nervous look as I clasp and unclasp my ungloved hands, wishing I had something warm to wrap my fingers in. This suit does not come with pockets and I wasn’t able to salvage the gloves I ruined in the research rooms. I haven’t received any replacements, either. “You’re early,” Kenji says to me, cocking his head, watching me with eyes both surprised and curious. I shrug and try to hide my face, unwilling to admit that I hardly slept through the night. I’ve been awake since 3:00 a.m., fully dressed and ready to go by 4:00. I’ve been dying for an excuse to fill my mind with things that have nothing to do with my own thoughts. “I’m excited,” I lie. “What are we doing today?” He shakes his head a bit. Squints at something over my shoulder as he speaks to me. “You, um”—he clears his throat—“you okay?” “Yes, of course.” “Huh.” “What?” “Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just, you know.” A haphazard gesture toward my face. “You don’t look so good, princess. You look kind of like you did that first day you showed up with Warner back on base. All scared and dead-looking and, no offense, but you look like you could use a shower.” I smile and pretend I can’t feel my face shaking from the effort. I try to relax my shoulders, try to look normal, calm, when I say, “I’m fine. Really.” I drop my eyes. “I’m just—it’s a little cold down here, that’s all. I’m not used to being without my gloves.” Kenji is nodding, still not looking at me. “Right. Well. He’s going to be okay, you know.” “What?” Breathing. I’m so bad at breathing. “Kent.” He turns to me. “Your boyfriend. Adam. He’s going to be fine.” 1 word, 1 simple, stupid reminder of him startles the butterflies sleeping in my stomach before I remember that Adam is not my boyfriend anymore. He’s not my anything anymore. He can’t be. And the butterflies drop dead. This. I can’t do this. “So,” I say too brightly. “Shouldn’t we get going? We should get going, right?” Kenji shoots me an odd look but doesn’t comment. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sure. Follow me.”

SEVENTEEN Kenji leads me to a door I’ve never seen before. A door belonging to a room I’ve never been in before. I hear voices inside. Kenji knocks twice before turning the handle and all at once the cacophony overwhelms me. We’re walking into a room bursting with people, faces I’ve only ever seen from far away, people sharing smiles and laughter I’ve never been welcome to. There are individual desks with individual chairs set up in the vast space so that it resembles a classroom. There’s a whiteboard built into the wall next to a monitor blinking with information. I spot Castle. Standing in the

corner, looking over a clipboard with such focus that he doesn’t even notice our entry until Kenji shouts a greeting. Castle’s entire face lights up. I’d noticed it before, the connection between them, but it’s now becoming increasingly apparent to me that Castle harbors a special kind of affection for Kenji. A sweet, proud sort of affection that’s usually reserved for parents. It makes me wonder about the nature of their relationship. Where it began, how it began, what must’ve happened to bring them together. It makes me wonder at how little I know about the people of Omega Point. I look around at their eager faces, men and women, youthful and middle-aged, all different ethnicities, shapes, and sizes. They’re interacting with one another like they’re part of a family and I feel a strange sort of pain stabbing at my side, poking holes in me until I deflate. It’s like my face is pressed up against the glass, watching a scene from far, far away, wishing and wanting to be a part of something I know I’ll never really be a part of. I forget, sometimes, that there are people out there who still manage to smile every day, despite everything. They haven’t lost hope yet. Suddenly I feel sheepish, ashamed, even. Daylight makes my thoughts look dark and sad and I want to pretend I’m still optimistic, I want to believe that I’ll find a way to live. That maybe, somehow, there’s still a chance for me somewhere. Someone whistles. “All right, everyone,” Kenji calls out, hands cupped around his mouth. “Everyone take a seat, okay? We’re doing another orientation for those of you who’ve never done this before, and I need all of you to get settled for a bit.” He scans the crowd. “Right. Yeah. Everyone just take a seat. Wherever is fine. Lily—you don’t have to—okay, fine, that’s fine. Just settle down. We’re going to get started in five minutes, okay?” He holds up an open palm, fingers splayed. “Five minutes.” I slip into the closest empty seat without looking around. I keep my head down, my eyes focused on the individual grains of wood on the desk as everyone collapses into chairs around me. Finally, I dare to glance to my right. Bright white hair and snow-white skin and clear blue eyes blink back at me. Brendan. The electricity boy. He smiles. Offers me a 2-finger wave. I duck my head. “Oh—hey,” I hear someone say. “What are you doing here?” I jerk toward my left to find sandy-blond hair and black plastic glasses sitting on a crooked nose. An ironic smile twisted onto a pale face. Winston. I remember him. He interviewed me when I first arrived at Omega Point. Said he was some kind of psychologist. But he also happens to be the one who designed the suit I’m wearing. The gloves I destroyed. I think he’s some kind of genius. I’m not sure. Right now, he’s chewing on the cap of his pen, staring at me. He uses an index finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I remember he’s asked me a question and I make an effort to answer. “I’m not actually sure,” I tell him. “Kenji brought me here but didn’t tell me why.” Winston doesn’t seem surprised. He rolls his eyes. “Him with the freaking mysteries all the time. I don’t know why he thinks it’s such a good idea to keep people in suspense. It’s like the guy thinks his life is a movie or something. Always so dramatic about everything. It’s irritating as hell.” I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that. I can’t help thinking that Adam would agree with him and then I can’t help thinking about Adam and then I “Ah, don’t listen to him.” An English accent steps into the conversation. I turn around to see Brendan still smiling at me. “Winston’s always a bit beastly this early in the morning.”

“Jesus. How early is it?” Winston asks. “I would kick a soldier in the crotch for a cup of coffee right now.” “It’s your own fault you never sleep, mate,” Brendan counters. “You think you can survive on three hours a night? You’re mad.” Winston drops his chewed-up pen on the desk. Runs a tired hand through his hair. Tugs his glasses off and rubs at his face. “It’s the freaking patrols. Every goddamn night. Something is going on and it’s getting intense out there. So many soldiers just walking around? What the hell are they doing? I have to actually be awake the whole time—” “What are you talking about?” I ask before I can stop myself. My ears are perked and my interest is piqued. News from the outside is something I’ve never had the opportunity to hear before. Castle was so intent on me focusing all my energy on training that I never heard much more than his constant reminders that we’re running out of time and that I need to learn before it’s too late. I’m beginning to wonder if things are worse than I thought. “The patrols?” Brendan asks. He waves a knowing hand. “Oh, it’s just, we work in shifts, right? In pairs—take turns keeping watch at night,” he explains. “Most of the time it’s no problem, just routine, nothing too serious.” “But it’s been weird lately,” Winston cuts in. “It’s like they’re really searching for us now. Like it’s not just some crazy theory anymore. They know we’re a real threat and it’s like they actually have a clue where we are.” He shakes his head. “But that’s impossible.” “Apparently not, mate.” “Well, whatever it is, it’s starting to freak me out,” Winston says. “There are soldiers all over the place, way too close to where we are. We see them on camera,” he says to me, noticing my confusion. “And the weirdest part,” he adds, leaning in, lowering his voice, “is that Warner is always with them. Every single night. Walking around, issuing orders I can’t hear. And his arm is still injured. He walks around with it in a sling.” “Warner?” My eyes go wide. “He’s with them? Is that—is that … unusual?” “It’s quite odd,” Brendan says. “He’s CCR—chief commander and regent—of Sector 45. In normal circumstances he would delegate this task to a colonel, a lieutenant, even. His priorities should be on base, overseeing his soldiers.” Brendan shakes his head. “He’s a bit daft, I think, taking a risk like that. Spending time away from his own camp. Seems strange that he’d be able to get away so many nights.” “Right,” Winston says, nodding his head. “Exactly.” He points at the 2 of us, stabbing at the air. “And it makes you wonder who he’s leaving in charge. The guy doesn’t trust anyone—he’s not known for his delegation skills to begin with—so for him to leave the base behind every night?” A pause. “It doesn’t add up. Something is going on.” “Do you think,” I ask, feeling scared and feeling brave, “that maybe he’s looking for someone something?” “Yup.” Winston exhales. Scratches the side of his nose. “That’s exactly what I think. And I’d love to know what the hell he’s looking for.” “Us, obviously,” Brendan says. “He’s looking for us.” Winston seems unconvinced. “I don’t know,” he says. “This is different. They’ve been searching for us for years, but they’ve never done anything like this. Never spent so much manpower on this kind of a mission. And they’ve never gotten this close.” “Wow,” I whisper, not trusting myself to posit any of my own theories. Not wanting to think too hard about who what it is, exactly, Warner is searching for. And all the time wondering why these 2 guys are speaking to me so freely, as if I’m trustworthy, as if I’m one of their own. I don’t dare mention it. “Yeah,” Winston says, picking up his chewed-up pen again. “Crazy. Anyway, if we don’t get a fresh batch of coffee today, I am seriously going to lose my shit.”

I look around the room. I don’t see coffee anywhere. No food, either. I wonder what that means for Winston. “Are we going to have breakfast before we start?” “Nah,” he says. “Today we get to eat on a different schedule. Besides, we’ll have plenty to choose from when we get back. We get first picks. It’s the only perk.” “Get back from where?” “Outside,” Brendan says, leaning back in his chair. He points up at the ceiling. “We’re going up and out.” “What?” I gasp, feeling true excitement for the first time. “Really?” “Yup.” Winston puts his glasses back on. “And it looks like you’re about to get your first introduction to what it is we do here.” He nods at the front of the room, and I see Kenji hauling a huge trunk onto a table. “What do you mean?” I ask. “What are we doing?” “Oh, you know.” Winston shrugs. Clasps his hands behind his head. “Grand larceny. Armed robbery. That sort of thing.” I begin to laugh when Brendan stops me. He actually puts his hand on my shoulder and for a moment I’m mildly terrified. Wondering if he’s lost his mind. “He’s not joking,” Brendan says to me. “And I hope you know how to use a gun.”

EIGHTEEN We look homeless. Which means we look like civilians. We’ve moved out of the classroom and into the hallway, and we’re all wearing a similar sort of ensemble, tattered and grayish and frayed. Everyone is adjusting their outfits as we go; Winston slips off his glasses and shoves them into his jacket only to zip up his coat. The collar comes up to his chin and he huddles into it. Lily, one of the other girls among us, wraps a thick scarf around her mouth and pulls the hood of her coat over her head. I see Kenji pull on a pair of gloves and readjust his cargo pants to better hide the gun tucked inside. Brendan shifts beside me. He pulls a skullcap out of his pocket and tugs it on over his head, zipping his coat up to his neck. It’s startling the way the blackness of the beanie offsets the blue in his eyes to make them even brighter, sharper than they looked before. He flashes me a smile when he catches me watching. Then he tosses me a pair of old gloves 2 sizes too big before bending down to tighten the laces on his boots. I take a small breath. I try to focus all my energy on where I am, on what I’m doing and what I’m about to do. I tell myself not to think of Adam, not to think about what he’s doing or how he’s healing or what he must be feeling right now. I beg myself not to dwell on my last moments with him, the way he touched me, how he held me, his lips and his hands and his breaths coming in too fast— I fail. I can’t help but think about how he always tried to protect me, how he nearly lost his life in the process. He was always defending me, always watching out for me, never realizing that it was me, it was always me who was the biggest threat. The most dangerous. He thinks too highly of me, places me on a pedestal I’ve never deserved. I definitely don’t need protection. I don’t need anyone to worry for me or wonder about me or risk falling in love with me. I am unstable. I need to be avoided. It’s right that people fear me. They should.

“Hey.” Kenji stops beside me, grabs my elbow. “You ready?” I nod. Offer him a small smile. The clothes I’m wearing are borrowed. The card hanging from my neck, hidden under my suit, is brand-new. Today I was given a fake RR card—a Reestablishment Registration card. It’s proof that I work and live on the compounds; proof that I’m registered as a citizen in regulated territory. Every legal citizen has one. I never did, because I was tossed into an asylum; it was never necessary for someone like me. In fact, I’m fairly certain they just expected me to die in there. Identification was not necessary. But this RR card is special. Not everyone at Omega Point receives a counterfeit card. Apparently they’re extremely difficult to replicate. They’re thin rectangles made out of a very rare type of titanium, laseretched with a bar code as well as the owner’s biographical data, and contain a tracking device that monitors the whereabouts of the citizen. “RR cards track everything,” Castle explained. “They’re necessary for entering and exiting compounds, necessary for entering and exiting a person’s place of work. Citizens are paid in REST dollars—wages based on a complicated algorithm that calculates the difficulty of their profession, as well as the number of hours they spend working, in order to determine how much their efforts are worth. This electronic currency is dispensed in weekly installments and automatically uploaded to a chip built into their RR cards. REST dollars can then be exchanged at Supply Centers for food and basic necessities. Losing an RR card,” he said, “means losing your livelihood, your earnings, your legal status as a registered citizen. “If you’re stopped by a soldier and asked for proof of identification,” Castle continued, “you must present your RR card. Failure to present your card,” he said, “will result in … very unhappy consequences. Citizens who walk around without their cards are considered a threat to The Reestablishment. They are seen as purposely defying the law, as characters worthy of suspicion. Being uncooperative in any way—even if that means you simply do not want your every movement to be tracked and monitored—makes you seem sympathetic to rebel parties. And that makes you a threat. A threat,” he said, “that The Reestablishment has no qualms about removing. “Therefore,” he said, taking a deep breath, “you cannot, and you will not, lose your RR card. Our counterfeit cards do not have the tracking device nor the chip necessary for monitoring REST dollars, because we don’t have the need for either. But! That does not mean they are not just as valuable as decoys,” he said. “And while for citizens on regulated territory, RR cards are part of a life sentence, at Omega Point, they are considered a privilege. And you will treat them as such.” A privilege. Among the many things I learned in our meeting this morning, I discovered that these cards are only granted to those who go on missions outside of Omega Point. All of the people in that room today were hand-selected as being the best, the strongest, the most trustworthy. Inviting me to be in that room was a bold move on Kenji’s part. I realize now that it was his way of telling me he trusts me. Despite everything, he’s telling me—and everyone else—that I’m welcome here. Which explains why Winston and Brendan felt so comfortable opening up to me. Because they trust the system at Omega Point. And they trust Kenji if he says he trusts me. So now I am one of them. And as my first official act as a member? I’m supposed to be a thief.

NINETEEN We’re heading up. Castle should be joining us any moment now to lead our group out of this underground city and into the real world. It will be my first opportunity to see what’s happened to our society in almost 3 years. I was 14 when I was dragged away from home for killing an innocent child. I spent 2 years bouncing from hospital to law office to detention center to psych ward until they finally decided to put me away for good. Sticking me in the asylum was worse than sending me to prison; smarter, according to my parents. If I’d been sent to prison, the guards would’ve had to treat me like a human being; instead, I spent the past year of my life treated like a rabid animal, trapped in a dark hole with no link to the outside world. Most everything I’ve witnessed of our planet thus far has been out of a window or while running for my life. And now I’m not sure what to expect. But I want to see it. I need to see it. I’m tired of being blind and I’m tired of relying on my memories of the past and the bits and pieces I’ve managed to scrape together of our present. All I really know is that The Reestablishment has been a household name for 10 years. I know this because they began campaigning when I was 7 years old. I’ll never forget the beginning of our falling apart. I remember the days when things were still fairly normal, when people were only sort-of dying all the time, when there was enough food for those with enough money to pay for it. This was before cancer became a common illness and the weather became a turbulent, angry creature. I remember how excited everyone was about The Reestablishment. I remember the hope in my teachers’ faces and the announcements we were forced to watch in the middle of the school day. I remember those things. And just 4 months before my 14-year-old self committed an unforgivable crime, The Reestablishment was elected by the people of our world to lead us into a better future. Hope. They had so much hope. My parents, my neighbors, my teachers and classmates. Everyone was hoping for the best when they cheered for The Reestablishment and promised their unflagging support. Hope can make people do terrible things. I remember seeing the protests just before I was taken away. I remember seeing the streets flooded with angry mobs who wanted a refund on their purchase. I remember how The Reestablishment painted the protesters red from head to toe and told them they should’ve read the fine print before they left their houses that morning. All sales are final. Castle and Kenji are allowing me on this expedition because they’re trying to welcome me into the heart of Omega Point. They want me to join them, to really accept them, to understand why their mission is so important. Castle wants me to fight against The Reestablishment and what they have planned for the world. The books, the artifacts, the language and history they plan on destroying; the simple, empty, monochromatic life they want to force upon the upcoming generations. He wants me to see that our Earth is still not so damaged as to be irreparable; he wants to prove that our future is salvageable, that things can get better as long as power is put in the right hands. He wants me to trust. I want to trust. But I get scared, sometimes. In my very limited experience I’ve already found that people seeking power are not to be trusted. People with lofty goals and fancy speeches and easy smiles

have done nothing to calm my heart. Men with guns have never put me at ease no matter how many times they promised they were killing for good reason. It has not gone past my notice that the people of Omega Point are very excellently armed. But I’m curious. I’m so desperately curious. So I’m camouflaged in old, ragged clothes and a thick woolen hat that nearly covers my eyes. I wear a heavy jacket that must’ve belonged to a man and my leather boots are almost hidden by the too-large pants puddling around my ankles. I look like a civilian. A poor, tortured civilian struggling to find food for her family. A door clicks shut and we all turn at once. Castle beams. Looks around at the group of us. Me. Winston. Kenji. Brendan. The girl named Lily. 10 other people I still don’t really know. We’re 16 altogether, including Castle. A perfectly even number. “All right, everyone,” Castle says, clapping his hands together. I notice he’s wearing gloves, too. Everyone is. Today, I’m just a girl in a group wearing normal clothes and normal gloves. Today, I’m just a number. No one of significance. Just an ordinary person. Just for today. It’s so absurd I feel like smiling. And then I remember how I nearly killed Adam yesterday and suddenly I’m not sure how to move my lips. “Are we ready?” Castle looks around. “Don’t forget what we discussed,” he says. A pause. A careful glance. Eye contact with each one of us. Eyes on me for a moment too long. “Okay then. Follow me.” No one really speaks as we follow Castle down these corridors, and I’m left to wonder how easy it would be to just disappear in this inconspicuous outfit. I could run away, blend into the background and never be found again. Like a coward. I search for something to say to shake the silence. “So how are we getting there?” I ask anyone. “We walk,” Winston says. Our feet pound the floors in response. “Most civilians don’t have cars,” Kenji explains. “And we sure as hell can’t be caught in a tank. If we want to blend in, we have to do as the people do. And walk.” I lose track of which tunnels break off in which directions as Castle leads us toward the exit. I’m increasingly aware of how little I understand about this place, how little I’ve seen of it. Although if I’m perfectly honest, I’ll admit I haven’t made much of an effort to explore anything. I need to do something about that. It’s only when the terrain under my feet changes that I realize how close we are to getting outside. We’re walking uphill, up a series of stone stairs stacked into the ground. I can see what looks like a small square of a metal door from here. It has a latch. I realize I’m a little nervous. Anxious. Eager and afraid. Today I will see the world as a civilian, really see things up close for the very first time. I will see what the people of this new society must endure now. See what my parents must be experiencing wherever they are. Castle pauses at the door, which looks small enough to be a window. Turns to face us. “Who are you?” he demands. No one answers. Castle draws himself up to his full height. Crosses his arms. “Lily,” he says. “Name. ID. Age. Sector and occupation. Now.”

Lily tugs the scarf away from her mouth. She sounds slightly robotic when she says, “My name is Erica Fontaine, 1117-52QZ. I’m twenty-six years old. I live in Sector 45.” “Occupation,” Castle says again, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. “Textile. Factory 19A-XC2.” “Winston,” Castle orders. “My name is Keith Hunter, 4556-65DS,” Winston says. “Thirty-four years old. Sector 45. I work in Metal. Factory 15B-XC2.” Kenji doesn’t wait for a prompt when he says, “Hiro Yamasaki, 8891-11DX. Age twenty. Sector 45. Artillery. 13A-XC2.” Castle nods as everyone takes turns regurgitating the information etched into their fake RR cards. He smiles, satisfied. Then he focuses his eyes on me until everyone is staring, watching, waiting to see if I screw it up. “Delia Dupont,” I say, the words slipping from my lips more easily than I expected. We’re not planning on being stopped, but this is an extra precaution in the event that we’re asked to identify ourselves; we have to know the information on our RR cards as if it were our own. Kenji also said that even though the soldiers overseeing the compounds are from Sector 45, they’re always different from the guards back on base. He doesn’t think we’ll run into anyone who will recognize us. But. Just in case. I clear my throat. “ID number 1223-99SX. Seventeen years old. Sector 45. I work in Metal. Factory 15A-XC2.” Castle stares at me for just a second too long. Finally, he nods. Looks around at all of us. “And what,” he says, his voice deep and clear and booming, “are the three things you will ask yourself before you speak?” Again, no one answers. Though it’s not because we don’t know the answer. Castle counts off on his fingers. “First! Does this need to be said? Second! Does this need to be said by me? And third! Does this need to be said by me right now?” Still, no one says a word. “We do not speak unless absolutely necessary,” Castle says. “We do not laugh, we do not smile. We do not make eye contact with one another if we can help it. We will not act as if we know each other. We are to do nothing at all to encourage extra glances in our direction. We do not draw attention to ourselves.” A pause. “You understand this, yes? This is clear?” We nod. “And if something goes wrong?” “We scatter.” Kenji clears his throat. “We run. We hide. We think of only ourselves. And we never, ever betray the location of Omega Point.” Everyone takes a deep breath at the same time. Castle pushes the small door open. Peeks outside before motioning for us to follow him, and we do. We scramble through, one by one, silent as the words we don’t speak. I haven’t been aboveground in almost 3 weeks. It feels like it’s been 3 months. The moment my face hits the air, I feel the wind snap against my skin in a way that’s familiar, admonishing. It’s as if the wind is scolding me for being away for so long. We’re in the middle of a frozen wasteland. The air is icy and sharp, dead leaves dancing around us. The few trees still standing are waving in the wind, their broken, lonely branches begging for companionship. I look left. I look right. I look straight ahead. There is nothing. Castle told us this area used to be covered in lush, dense vegetation. He said when he first sought out a hiding place for Omega Point, this particular stretch of ground was ideal. But that

was so long ago—decades ago—that now everything has changed. Nature itself has changed. And it’s too late to move this hideout. So we do what we can. This part, he said, is the hardest. Out here, we’re vulnerable. Easy to spot even as civilians because we’re out of place. Civilians have no business being anywhere outside of the compounds; they do not leave the regulated grounds deemed safe by The Reestablishment. Being caught anywhere on unregulated turf is considered a breach of the laws set in place by our new pseudogovernment, and the consequences are severe. So we have to get ourselves to the compounds as quickly as possible. The plan is for Kenji—whose gift enables him to blend into any background—to travel ahead of the pack, making himself invisible as he checks to make sure our paths are clear. The rest of us hang back, careful, completely silent. We keep a few feet of distance between ourselves, ready to run, to save ourselves if necessary. It’s strange, considering the tight-knit nature of the community at Omega Point, that Castle wouldn’t encourage us to stay together. But this, he explained, is for the good of the majority. It’s a sacrifice. One of us has to be willing to get caught in order for the others to escape. Take one for the team. Our path is clear. We’ve been walking for at least half an hour and no one seems to be guarding this deserted piece of land. Soon, the compounds come into view. Blocks and blocks and blocks of metal boxes, cubes clustered in heaps across the ancient, wheezing ground. I clutch my coat closer to my body as the wind flips on its side just to fillet our human flesh. It’s too cold to be alive today. I’m wearing my suit—which regulates my body heat—under this outfit and I’m still freezing. I can’t imagine what everyone else must be going through right now. I glance at Brendan only to find him already doing the same. Our eyes meet for less than a second but I could swear he smiled at me, his cheeks slapped into pinks and reds by a wind jealous of his wandering eyes. Blue. So blue. Such a different, lighter, almost transparent shade of blue but still, so very, very blue. Blue eyes will always remind me of Adam, I think. And it hits me again. Hits me so hard, right in the core of my very being. The ache. “Hurry!” Kenji’s voice reaches us through the wind, but his body is nowhere in sight. We’re not 5 feet from setting foot in the first cluster of compounds, but I’m somehow frozen in place, blood and ice and broken forks running down my back. “MOVE!” Kenji’s voice booms again. “Get close to the compounds and keep your faces covered! Soldiers at three o’clock!” We all jump up at once, rushing forward while trying to remain inconspicuous and soon we’ve ducked behind the side of a metal housing unit; we get low, each pretending to be one of the many people picking scraps of steel and iron out from the heaps of trash stacked in piles all over the ground. The compounds are set in one big field of waste. Garbage and plastic and mangled bits of metal sprinkled like craft confetti all over a child’s floor. There’s a fine layer of snow powdered over everything, as if the Earth was making a weak attempt to cover up its ugly bits just before we arrived. I look up. Look over my shoulder.

Look around in ways I’m not supposed to but I can’t help it. I’m supposed to keep my eyes on the ground like I live here, like there’s nothing new to see, like I can’t stand to lift my face only to have it stung by the cold. I should be huddled into myself like all the other strangers trying to stay warm. But there’s so much to see. So much to observe. So much I’ve never been exposed to before. So I dare to lift my head. And the wind grabs me by the throat.

TWENTY Warner is standing not 20 feet away from me. His suit is tailor-made and closely fitted to his form in a shade of black so rich it’s almost blinding. His shoulders are draped in an open peacoat the color of mossy trunks 5 shades darker than his green, green eyes; the bright gold buttons are the perfect complement to his golden hair. He’s wearing a black tie. Black leather gloves. Shiny black boots. He looks immaculate. Flawless, especially as he stands here among the dirt and destruction, surrounded by the bleakest colors this landscape has to offer. He’s a vision of emerald and onyx, silhouetted in the sunlight in the most deceiving way. He could be glowing. That could be a halo around his head. This could be the world’s way of making an example out of irony. Because Warner is beautiful in ways even Adam isn’t. Because Warner is not human. Nothing about him is normal. He’s looking around, eyes squinting against the morning light, and the wind blows open his unbuttoned coat long enough for me to catch a glimpse of his arm underneath. Bandaged. Bound in a sling. So close. I was so close. The soldiers hovering around him are waiting for orders, waiting for something, and I can’t tear my eyes away. I can’t help but experience a strange thrill in being so close to him, and yet so far away. It feels almost like an advantage—being able to study him without his knowledge. He is a strange, strange, twisted boy. I don’t know if I can forget what he did to me. What he made me do. How I came so close to killing all over again. I will hate him forever for it even though I’m sure I’ll have to face him again. One day. I never thought I’d see Warner on the compounds. I had no idea he even visited the civilians —though, in truth, I never knew much about how he spent his days unless he spent them with me. I have no idea what he’s doing here. He finally says something to the soldiers and they nod, once, quickly. Then disappear. I pretend to be focused on something just to the right of him, careful to keep my head down and cocked slightly to the side so he can’t catch a glimpse of my face even if he does look in my direction. My left hand reaches up to tug my hat down over my ears, and my right hand pretends to sort trash, pretends to pick out pieces of scraps to salvage for the day. This is how some people make their living. Another miserable occupation. Warner runs his good hand over his face, covering his eyes for just a moment before his hand rests on his mouth, pressing against his lips as though he has something he can’t bear to say.

His eyes look almost … worried. Though I’m sure I’m just reading him wrong. I watch him as he watches the people around him. I watch him closely enough to be able to notice that his gaze lingers on the small children, the way they run after each other with an innocence that says they have no idea what kind of world they’ve lost. This bleak, dark place is the only thing they’ve ever known. I try to read Warner’s expression as he studies them, but he’s careful to keep himself completely neutral. He doesn’t do more than blink as he stands perfectly still, a statue in the wind. A stray dog is heading straight toward him. I’m suddenly petrified. I’m worried for this scrappy creature, this weak, frozen little animal probably seeking out small bits of food, something to keep it from starving for the next few hours. My heart starts racing in my chest, the blood pumping too fast and too hard and I don’t know why I feel like something terrible is about to happen. The dog bolts right into the backs of Warner’s legs, as if it’s half blind and can’t see where it’s going. It’s panting hard, tongue lolling to the side like it doesn’t know how to get it back in. It whines and whimpers a little, slobbering all over Warner’s very exquisite pants and I’m holding my breath as the golden boy turns around. I half expect him to take out his gun and shoot the dog right in the head. I’ve already seen him do it to a human being. But Warner’s face breaks apart at the sight of the small dog, cracks forming in the perfect cast of his features, surprise lifting his eyebrows and widening his gaze for just a moment. Long enough for me to notice. He looks around, his eyes swift as they survey his surroundings before he scoops the animal into his arms and disappears around a low fence—one of the short, squat fences that are used to section off squares of land for each compound. I’m suddenly desperate to see what he’s going to do and I’m feeling anxious, so anxious, still unable to breathe. I’ve seen what Warner can do to a person. I’ve seen his callous heart and his unfeeling eyes and his complete indifference, his cool, collected demeanor unshaken after killing a man in cold blood. I can only imagine what he has planned for an innocent dog. I have to see it for myself. I have to get his face out of my head and this is exactly what I need. It’s proof that he’s sick, twisted, that he’s wrong, and will always be wrong. If only I could stand up, I could see him. I could see what he’s doing to that poor animal and maybe I could find a way to stop him before it’s too late but I hear Castle’s voice, a loud whisper calling us. Telling us the coast is clear to move forward now that Warner is out of sight. “We all move, and we move separately,” he says. “Stick to the plan! No one trails anyone else. We all meet at the drop-off. If you don’t make it, we will leave you behind. You have thirty minutes.” Kenji is tugging on my arm, telling me to get to my feet, to focus, to look in the right direction. I look up long enough to see that the rest of the group has already dispersed; Kenji, however, refuses to budge. He curses under his breath until finally I stand up. I nod. I tell him I understand the plan and motion for him to move on without me. I remind him that we can’t be seen together. That we cannot walk in groups or pairs. We cannot be conspicuous. Finally, finally, he turns to go. I watch Kenji leave. Then I take a few steps forward only to spin around and dart back to the corner of the compound, sliding my back up against the wall, hidden from view. My eyes scan the area until I spot the fence where I last saw Warner; I tip up on my toes to peer over. I have to cover my mouth to keep from gasping out loud.

Warner is crouched on the ground, feeding something to the dog with his good hand. The animal’s quivering, bony body is huddled inside of Warner’s open coat, shivering as its stubby limbs try to find warmth after being frozen for so long. The dog wags its tail hard, pulling back to look Warner in the eye only to plow into the warmth of his jacket again. I hear Warner laugh. I see him smile. It’s the kind of smile that transforms him into someone else entirely, the kind of smile that puts stars in his eyes and a dazzle on his lips and I realize I’ve never seen him like this before. I’ve never even seen his teeth—so straight, so white, nothing less than perfect. A flawless, flawless exterior for a boy with a black, black heart. It’s hard to believe there’s blood on the hands of the person I’m staring at. He looks soft and vulnerable—so human. His eyes are squinting from all his grinning and his cheeks are pink from the cold. He has dimples. He’s easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I wish I’d never seen it. Because something inside of my heart is ripping apart and it feels like fear, it tastes like panic and anxiety and desperation and I don’t know how to understand the image in front of me. I don’t want to see Warner like this. I don’t want to think of him as anything other than a monster. This isn’t right. I shift too fast and too far in the wrong direction, suddenly too stupid to find my footing and hating myself for wasting time I could’ve used to escape. I know Castle and Kenji would be ready to kill me for taking such a risk but they don’t understand what it’s like in my head right now, they don’t understand what I’m— “Hey!” he barks. “You there—” I look up without intending to, without realizing that I’ve responded to Warner’s voice until it’s too late. He’s up, frozen in place, staring straight into my eyes, his good hand paused midmovement until it falls limp at his side, his jaw slack; stunned, temporarily stupefied. I watch as the words die in his throat. I’m paralyzed, caught in his gaze as he stands there, his chest heaving so hard and his lips ready to form the words that will surely sentence me to my death, all because of my stupid, senseless, idiotic— “Whatever you do, don’t scream.” Someone closes a hand over my mouth.

TWENTY-ONE I don’t move. “I’m going to let go of you, okay? I want you to take my hand.” I reach out without looking down and feel our gloved hands fit together. Kenji lets go of my face. “You are such an idiot,” he says to me, but I’m still staring at Warner. Warner who’s now looking around like he’s just seen a ghost, blinking and rubbing his eyes like he’s confused, glancing at the dog like maybe the little animal managed to bewitch him. He grabs a tight hold of his blond hair, mussing it out of its perfect state, and stalks off so fast my eyes don’t know how to follow him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Kenji is saying to me. “Are you even listening to me? Are you insane?”

“What did you just do? Why didn’t he—oh my God,” I gasp, sparing a look at my own body. I’m completely invisible. “You’re welcome,” Kenji snaps, dragging me away from the compound. “And keep your voice down. Being invisible doesn’t mean the world can’t hear you.” “You can do that?” I try to find his face but I might as well be speaking to the air. “Yeah—it’s called projecting, remember? Didn’t Castle explain this to you already?” he asks, eager to rush through the explanation so he can get back to yelling at me. “Not everyone can do it—not all abilities are the same—but maybe if you manage to stop being a dumbass long enough not to die, I might be able to teach you one day.” “You came back for me,” I say to him, struggling to keep up with his brisk pace and not at all offended by his anger. “Why’d you come back for me?” “Because you’re a dumbass,” he says again. “I know. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t help it.” “Well, help it,” he says, his voice gruff as he yanks me by the arm. “We’re going to have to run to recover all the time you just wasted.” “Why’d you come back, Kenji?” I ask again, undeterred. “How’d you know I was still here?” “I was watching you,” he says. “What? What do you—” “I watch you,” he says, his words rushing out again, impatient. “It’s part of what I do. It’s what I’ve been doing since day one. I enlisted in Warner’s army for you and only you. It’s what Castle sent me for. You were my job.” His voice is clipped, fast, unfeeling. “I already told you this.” “Wait, what do you mean, you watch me?” I hesitate, tugging on his invisible arm to slow him down a little. “You follow me around everywhere? Even now? Even at Omega Point?” He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his words are reluctant. “Sort of.” “But why? I’m here. Your job is done, isn’t it?” “We’ve already had this conversation,” he says. “Remember? Castle wanted me to make sure you were okay. He told me to keep an eye on you—nothing serious—just, you know, make sure you weren’t having any psychotic breakdowns or anything.” I hear him sigh. “You’ve been through a lot. He’s a little worried about you. Especially now—after what just happened? You don’t look okay. You look like you want to throw yourself in front of a tank.” “I would never do something like that,” I say to him. “Yeah,” he says. “Fine. Whatever. I’m just pointing out the obvious. You only function on two settings: you’re either moping or you’re making out with Adam—and I have to say, I kind of prefer the moping—” “Kenji!” I nearly yank my hand out of his. His grip tightens around my fingers. “Don’t let go,” he snaps at me again. “You can’t let go or it breaks the connection.” Kenji is dragging me through the middle of a clearing. We’re far enough from the compounds now that we won’t be overheard, but we’re still too far from the drop-off to be considered safe just yet. Luckily the snow isn’t sticking enough for us to leave tracks. “I can’t believe you spied on us!” “I was not spying on you, okay? Damn. Calm down. Hell, both of you need to calm down. Adam was already all up in my face about it—” “What?” I feel the pieces of this puzzle finally beginning to fit together. “Is that why he was being mean to you at breakfast last week?” Kenji slows our pace a little. He takes a deep, long breath. “He thought I was, like, taking advantage of the situation.” He says advantage like it’s a strange, dirty word. “He thinks I get

invisible just to see you naked or something. Listen—I don’t even know, okay? He was being an idiot about it. I’m just doing my job.” “But—you’re not, right? You’re not trying to see me naked or anything?” Kenji snorts, chokes on his laughter. “Listen, Juliette,” he says through another laugh, “I’m not blind, okay? On a purely physical level? Yeah, you’re pretty sexy—and that suit you have to wear all the time doesn’t hurt. But even if you didn’t have that whole ‘I kill you if I touch you’ thing going on, you are definitely not my type. And more importantly, I’m not some perverted asshole,” he says. “I take my job seriously. I get real shit done in this world, and I like to think people respect me for it. But your boy Adam is a little too blinded by his pants to think straight. Maybe you should do something about that.” I drop my eyes. Say nothing for a moment. Then: “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that anymore.” “Ah, shit.” Kenji sighs, like he can’t believe he got stuck listening to problems about my love life. “I just walked right into that, didn’t I?” “We can go, Kenji. We don’t have to talk about this.” An irritated breath. “It’s not that I don’t care about what you’re going through,” he says. “It’s not like I want to see you all depressed or whatever. It’s just that this life is messed up enough as it is,” he says. “And I’m sick of you being so caught up in your own little world all the time. You act like this whole thing—everything we do—is a joke. You don’t take any of it seriously—” “What?” I cut him off. “That’s not true—I do take this seriously—” “Bullshit.” He laughs a short, sharp, angry laugh. “All you do is sit around and think about your feelings. You’ve got problems. Boo-freaking-hoo,” he says. “Your parents hate you and it’s so hard but you have to wear gloves for the rest of your life because you kill people when you touch them. Who gives a shit?” He’s breathing hard enough for me to hear him. “As far as I can tell, you’ve got food in your mouth and clothes on your back and a place to pee in peace whenever you feel like it. Those aren’t problems. That’s called living like a king. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d grow the hell up and stop walking around like the world crapped on your only roll of toilet paper. Because it’s stupid,” he says, barely reining in his temper. “It’s stupid, and it’s ungrateful. You don’t have a clue what everyone else in the world is going through right now. You don’t have a clue, Juliette. And you don’t seem to give a damn, either.” I swallow, so hard. “Now I am trying,” he says, “to give you a chance to fix things. I keep giving you opportunities to do things differently. To see past the sad little girl you used to be—the sad little girl you keep clinging to—and stand up for yourself. Stop crying. Stop sitting in the dark counting out all your individual feelings about how sad and lonely you are. Wake up,” he says. “You’re not the only person in this world who doesn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. You’re not the only one with daddy issues and severely screwed-up DNA. You can be whoever the hell you want to be now. You’re not with your shitty parents anymore. You’re not in that shitty asylum, and you’re no longer stuck being Warner’s shitty little experiment. So make a choice,” he says. “Make a choice and stop wasting everyone’s time. Stop wasting your own time. Okay?” Shame is pooling in every inch of my body. Heat has flamed its way up my core, singeing me from the inside out. I’m so horrified, so terrified to hear the truth in his words. “Let’s go,” he says, but his voice is just a tiny bit gentler. “We have to run.” And I nod even though he can’t see me. I nod and nod and nod and I’m so happy no one can see my face right now.

TWENTY-TWO “Stop throwing boxes at me, jackass. That’s my job.” Winston laughs and grabs a package heavily bandaged in cellophane only to chuck it at another guy’s head. The guy standing right next to me. I duck. The other guy grunts as he catches the package, and then grins as he offers Winston an excellent view of his middle finger. “Keep it classy, Sanchez,” Winston says as he tosses him another package. Sanchez. His name is Ian Sanchez. I just learned this a few minutes ago when he and I and a few others were grouped together to form an assembly line. We are currently standing in one of the official storage compounds of The Reestablishment. Kenji and I managed to catch up to everyone else just in time. We all congregated at the drop-off (which turned out to be little more than a glorified ditch), and then Kenji gave me a sharp look, pointed at me, grinned, and left me with the rest of the group while he and Castle communicated about the next part of our mission. Which was getting into the storage compound. The irony, however, is that we traveled aboveground for supplies only to have to go back underground to get them. The storage compounds are, for all intents and purposes, invisible. They’re underground cellars filled with just about everything imaginable: food, medicine, weapons. All the things needed to survive. Castle explained everything in our orientation this morning. He said that while having supplies buried underground is a clever method of concealment against the civilians, it actually worked out in his favor. Castle said he can sense— and move—objects from a great distance, even if that distance is 25 feet belowground. He said that when he approaches one of the storage facilities he can feel the difference immediately, because he can recognize the energy in each object. This, he explained, is what allows him to move things with his mind: he’s able to touch the inherent energy in everything. Castle and Kenji have managed to track down 5 compounds within 20 miles of Omega Point just by walking around; Castle sensing, Kenji projecting to keep them invisible. They’ve located 5 more within 50 miles. The storage compounds they access are on a rotation. They never take the same things and never in the same quantity, and they take from as many different facilities as possible. The farther the compound, the more intricate the mission becomes. This particular compound is closest, and therefore the mission is, relatively speaking, the easiest. That explains why I was allowed to come along. All the legwork has already been done. Brendan already knows how to confuse the electrical system in order to deactivate all the sensors and security cameras; Kenji acquired the pass code simply by shadowing a soldier who punched in the right numbers. All of this gives us a 30-minute window of time to work as quickly as possible to get everything we need into the drop-off, where we’ll spend most of the day waiting to load our stolen supplies into vehicles that will carry the items away. The system they use is fascinating. There are 6 vans altogether, each slightly different in appearance, and all scheduled to arrive at different times. This way there are fewer chances of everyone being caught, and there’s a higher probability that at least 1 of the vans will get back to Omega Point without a problem. Castle outlined what seemed like 100 different contingency plans in case of danger. I’m the only one here, however, who appears even remotely nervous about what we’re doing. In fact, with the exception of me and 3 others, everyone here has visited this particular compound several times, so they’re walking around like it’s familiar territory. Everyone is

careful and efficient, but they feel comfortable enough to laugh and joke around, too. They know exactly what they’re doing. The moment we got inside, they split themselves into 2 groups: 1 team formed the assembly line, and the other collected the things we need. Others have more important tasks. Lily has a photographic memory that puts photographs to shame. She walked in before the rest of us and immediately scanned the room, collecting and cataloging every minute detail. She’s the one who will make sure that we leave nothing behind when we exit, and that, aside from the things we take, nothing else is missing or out of place. Brendan is our backup generator. He’s managed to shut off power to the security system while still lighting the dark dimensions of this room. Winston is overseeing our 2 groups, mediating between the givers and the takers, making sure we’re securing the right items and the right quantities. His arms and legs have the elastic ability to stretch at will, which enables him to reach both sides of the room quickly and easily. Castle is the one who moves our supplies outside. He stands at the very end of the assembly line, in constant radio contact with Kenji. And as long as the area is clear, Castle needs to use only one hand to direct the hundreds of pounds of supplies we’ve hoarded into the drop-off. Kenji, of course, is standing as lookout. If it weren’t for Kenji, the rest of this wouldn’t even be possible. He’s our invisible eyes and ears. Without him, we’d have no way of being so secure, so sure that we’ll be safe on such a dangerous mission. Not for the first time today, I’m beginning to realize why he’s so important. “Hey, Winston, can you get someone to check if they have any chocolate in here?” Emory— another guy on my assembly team—is smiling at Winston like he’s hoping for good news. But then, Emory is always smiling. I’ve only known him for a few hours, but he’s been smiling since 6:00 a.m., when we all met in the orientation room this morning. He’s super tall, super bulky, and he has a super-huge afro that somehow manages to fall into his eyes a lot. He’s moving boxes down the line like they’re full of cotton. Winston is shaking his head, trying not to laugh as he passes the question along. “Seriously?” He shoots a look at Emory, nudging his plastic glasses up his nose at the same time. “Of all the things in here, you want chocolate?” Emory’s smile vanishes. “Shut up, man, you know my mom loves that stuff.” “You say that every time.” “That’s because it’s true every time.” Winston says something to someone about grabbing another box of soap before turning back to Emory. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your mom eat a piece of chocolate before.” Emory tells Winston to do something very inappropriate with his preternaturally flexible limbs, and I glance down at the box Ian has just handed to me, pausing to study the packaging carefully before passing it on. “Hey, do you know why these are all stamped with the letters R N W?” Ian turns around. Stunned. Looks at me like I’ve just asked him to take his clothes off. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “She speaks.” “Of course I speak,” I say, no longer interested in speaking at all. Ian passes me another box. Shrugs. “Well, now I know.” “Now you do.” “The mystery has been solved.” “You really didn’t think I could speak?” I ask after a moment. “Like, you thought I was mute?” I wonder what other things people are saying about me around here. Ian looks over his shoulder at me, smiles like he’s trying not to laugh. Shakes his head and doesn’t answer me. “The stamp,” he says, “is just regulation. They stamp everything RNW so they can track it. It’s nothing fancy.”

“But what does RNW mean? Who’s stamping it?” “RNW,” he says, repeating the 3 letters like I’m supposed to recognize them. “Reestablished Nations of the World. Everything’s gone global, you know. They all trade commodities. And that,” he says, “is something no one really knows. It’s another reason why the whole Reestablishment thing is a pile of crap. They’ve monopolized the resources of the entire planet and they’re just keeping it all for themselves.” I remember some of this. I remember talking to Adam about this when he and I were locked in the asylum together. Back before I knew what it was like to touch him. To be with him. To hurt him. The Reestablishment has always been a global movement. I just didn’t realize it had a name. “Right,” I say to Ian, suddenly distracted. “Of course.” Ian pauses as he hands me another package. “So is it true?” he asks, studying my face. “That you really have no clue what’s happened to everything?” “I know some things.” I bristle. “I’m just not clear on all the details.” “Well,” Ian says, “if you still remember how to speak when we get back to Point, maybe you should join us at lunch sometime. We can fill you in.” “Really?” I turn to face him. “Yeah, kid.” He laughs, tosses me another box. “Really. We don’t bite.”

TWENTY-THREE Sometimes I wonder about glue. No one ever stops to ask glue how it’s holding up. If it’s tired of sticking things together or worried about falling apart or wondering how it will pay its bills next week. Kenji is kind of like that. He’s like glue. He works behind the scenes to keep things together and I’ve never stopped to think about what his story might be. Why he hides behind the jokes and the snark and the snide remarks. But he was right. Everything he said to me was right. Yesterday was a good idea. I needed to get away, to get out, to be productive. And now I need to take Kenji’s advice and get over myself. I need to get my head straight. I need to focus on my priorities. I need to figure out what I’m doing here and how I can help. And if I care at all about Adam, I’ll try to stay out of his life. Part of me wishes I could see him; I want to make sure he’s really going to be okay, that he’s recovering well and eating enough and getting sleep at night. But another part of me is afraid to see him now. Because seeing Adam means saying good-bye. It means really recognizing that I can’t be with him anymore and knowing that I have to find a new life for myself. Alone. But at least at Omega Point I’ll have options. And maybe if I can find a way to stop being scared, I’ll actually figure out how to make friends. To be strong. To stop wallowing in my own problems. Things have to be different now. I grab my food and manage to lift my head; I nod hello to the faces I recognize from yesterday. Not everyone knows about my being on the trip—the invitations to go on missions outside of Omega Point are exclusive—but people, in general, seem to be a little less tense around me. I think. I might be imagining it. I try to find a place to sit down but then I see Kenji waving me over. Brendan and Winston and Emory are sitting at his table. I feel a smile tug at my lips as I approach them.

Brendan scoots over on the bench seat to make room for me. Winston and Emory nod hello as they shovel food into their mouths. Kenji shoots me a half smile, his eyes laughing at my surprise to be welcomed at his table. I’m feeling okay. Like maybe things are going to be okay. “Juliette?” And suddenly I’m going to tip over. I turn very, very slowly, half convinced that the voice I’m hearing belongs to a ghost, because there’s no way Adam could’ve been released from the medical wing so soon. I wasn’t expecting to have to face him so soon. I didn’t think we’d have to have this talk so soon. Not here. Not in the middle of the dining hall. I’m not prepared. I’m not prepared. Adam looks terrible. He’s pale. Unsteady. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and his lips are pressed together and his eyes are weary, tortured, deep and bottomless wells. His hair is messy. His T-shirt is straining across his chest, his tattooed forearms more pronounced than ever. I want nothing more than to dive into his arms. Instead, I’m sitting here, reminding myself to breathe. “Can I talk to you?” he says, looking like he’s half afraid to hear my answer. “Alone?” I nod, still unable to speak. Abandon my food without looking back at Kenji or Winston or Brendan or Emory so I have no idea what they must be thinking right now. I don’t even care. Adam. Adam is here and he’s in front of me and he wants to talk to me and I have to tell him things that will surely be the death of me. But I follow him out the door anyway. Into the hall. Down a dark corridor. Finally we stop. Adam looks at me like he knows what I’m going to say so I don’t bother saying it. I don’t want to say anything unless it becomes absolutely necessary. I’d rather just stand here and stare at him, shamelessly drink in the sight of him one last time without having to speak a word. Without having to say anything at all. He swallows, hard. Looks up. Looks away. Blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck, clasps both hands behind his head and turns around so I can’t see his face. But the effort causes his shirt to ride up his torso and I have to actually clench my fingers to keep from touching the sliver of skin exposed low on his abdomen, his lower back. He’s still looking away from me when he says, “I really—I really need you to say something.” And the sound of his voice—so wretched, so agonized—makes me want to fall to my knees. Still, I do not speak. And he turns. Faces me. “There has to be something,” he says, his hands in his hair now, gripping his skull. “Some kind of compromise—something I can say to convince you to make this work. Tell me there’s something.” And I’m so scared. So scared I’m going to start sobbing in front of him. “Please,” he says, and he looks like he’s about to crack, like he’s done, like this is it he’s about to fall apart and he says, “say something, I’m begging you—” I bite my trembling lip. He freezes in place, watching me, waiting. “Adam,” I breathe, trying to keep my voice steady. “I will always, a-always love you—” “No,” he says. “No, don’t say that—don’t say that—” And I’m shaking my head, shaking it fast and hard, so hard it’s making me dizzy but I can’t stop. I can’t say another word unless I want to start screaming and I can’t look at his face, I can’t

bear to see what I’m doing to him— “No, Juliette—Juliette—” I’m backing away, stumbling, tripping over my own feet as I reach blindly for the wall when I feel his arms around me. I try to pull away but he’s too strong, he’s holding me too tight and his voice is choked when he says, “It was my fault—this is my fault—I shouldn’t have kissed you—you tried to tell me but I didn’t listen and I’m so—I’m so sorry,” he says, gasping the words. “I should’ve listened to you. I wasn’t strong enough. But it’ll be different this time, I swear,” he says, burying his face in my shoulder. “I’ll never forgive myself for this. You were willing to give it a shot and I screwed everything up and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” I have officially, absolutely collapsed inside. I hate myself for what happened, hate myself for what I have to do, hate that I can’t take his pain away, that I can’t tell him we can try, that it’ll be hard but we’ll make it work anyway. Because this isn’t a normal relationship. Because our problems aren’t fixable. Because my skin will never change. All the training in the world won’t remove the very real possibility that I could hurt him. Kill him, if we ever got carried away. I will always be a threat to him. Especially during the most tender moments, the most important, vulnerable moments. The moments I want most. Those are the things I can never have with him, and he deserves so much more than me, than this tortured person with so little to offer. But I’d rather stand here and feel his arms around me than say a single thing. Because I’m weak, I’m so weak and I want him so much it’s killing me. I can’t stop shaking, I can’t see straight, I can’t see through the curtain of tears obscuring my vision. And he won’t let go of me. He keeps whispering “Please” and I want to die. But I think if I stay here any longer I will actually go insane. So I raise a trembling hand to his chest and feel him stiffen, pull back, and I don’t dare look at his eyes, I can’t stand to see him looking hopeful, even if it’s for only a second. I take advantage of his momentary surprise and slackened arms to slip away, out of the shelter of his warmth, away from his beating heart. And I hold out my hand to stop him from reaching for me again. “Adam,” I whisper. “Please don’t. I can’t—I c-can’t—” “There’s never been anyone else,” he says, not bothering to keep his voice down anymore, not caring that his words are echoing through these tunnels. His hand is shaking as he covers his mouth, as he drags it across his face, through his hair. “There’s never going to be anyone else— I’m never going to want anyone else—” “Stop it—you have to stop—” I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t breathe “You don’t want this—you don’t want to be with someone like me—someone who will only end up h-hurting you—” “Dammit, Juliette”—he turns to slam his palms against the wall, his chest heaving, his head down, his voice broken, catching on every other syllable—“you’re hurting me now,” he says. “You’re killing me—” “Adam—” “Don’t walk away,” he says, his voice tight, his eyes squeezed shut like he already knows I’m going to. Like he can’t bear to see it happen. “Please,” he whispers, tormented. “Don’t walk away from this.” “I-I wish,” I tell him, shaking violently now, “I wish I d-didn’t have to. I wish I could love you less.” And I hear him call after me as I bolt down the corridor. I hear him shouting my name but I’m running, running away, running past the huge crowd gathered outside the dining hall, watching, listening to everything. I’m running to hide even though I know it will be impossible.

I will have to see him every single day. Wanting him from a million miles away. And I remember Kenji’s words, his demands for me to wake up and stop crying and make a change, and I realize fulfilling my new promises might take a little longer than I expected. Because I can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now than find a dark corner and cry.

TWENTY-FOUR Kenji finds me first. He’s standing in the middle of my training room. Looking around like he’s never seen the place before, even though I’m sure that can’t be true. I still don’t know exactly what he does, but it’s at least become clear to me that Kenji is one of the most important people at Omega Point. He’s always on the move. Always busy. No one—except for me, and only lately—really sees him for more than a few moments at a time. It’s almost as if he spends the majority of his days … invisible. “So,” he says, nodding his head slowly, taking his time walking around the room with his hands clasped behind his back. “That was one hell of a show back there. That’s the kind of entertainment we never really get underground.” Mortification. I’m draped in it. Painted in it. Buried in it. “I mean, I just have to say—that last line? ‘I wish I could love you less’? That was genius. Really, really nice. I think Winston actually shed a tear—” “SHUT UP, KENJI.” “I’m serious!” he says to me, offended. “That was, I don’t know. It was kind of beautiful. I had no idea you guys were so intense.” I pull my knees up to my chest, burrow deeper into the corner of this room, bury my face in my arms. “No offense, but I really don’t want to t-talk to you right now, okay?” “Nope. Not okay,” he says. “You and me, we have work to do.” “No.” “Come on,” he says. “Get. Up.” He grabs my elbow, tugging me to my feet as I try to take a swipe at him. I wipe angrily at my cheeks, scrub at the stains my tears left behind. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes, Kenji. Please just go away. Leave me alone.” “No one,” he says, “is joking.” Kenji picks up one of the bricks stacked against the wall. “And the world isn’t going to stop waging war against itself just because you broke up with your boyfriend.” I stare at him, fists shaking, wanting to scream. He doesn’t seem concerned. “So what do you do in here?” he asks. “You just sit around trying to … what?” He weighs the brick in his hand. “Break this stuff?” I give up, defeated. Fold myself onto the floor. “I don’t know,” I tell him. I sniff away the last of my tears. Try to wipe my nose. “Castle kept telling me to ‘focus’ and ‘harness my Energy.’” I use air quotes to illustrate my point. “But all I know about myself is that I can break things—I don’t know why it happens. So I don’t know how he expects me to replicate what I’ve already done. I had no idea what I was doing then, and I don’t know what I’m doing now, either. Nothing’s changed.”

“Hold up,” Kenji says, dropping the brick back onto the stack before falling on the mats across from me. He splays out on the ground, body stretched out, arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. “What are we talking about again? What events are you supposed to be replicating?” I lie back against the mats, too; mimic Kenji’s position. Our heads are only a few inches apart. “Remember? The concrete I broke back in Warner’s psycho room. The metal door I attacked when I was looking for A-Adam.” My voice catches and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to quell the pain. I can’t even say his name right now. Kenji grunts. I feel him nodding his head on the mats. “All right. Well, what Castle told me is that he thinks there’s more to you than just the touching thing. That maybe you also have this weird superhuman strength or something.” A pause. “That sound about right to you?” “I guess.” “So what happened?” he asks, tilting his head back to get a good look at me. “When you went all psycho-monster on everything? Do you remember if there was a trigger?” I shake my head. “I don’t really know. When it happens, it’s like—it’s like I really am completely out of my mind,” I tell him. “Something changes in my head and it makes me … it makes me crazy. Like, really, legitimately insane.” I glance over at him but his face betrays no emotion. He just blinks, waiting for me to finish. So I take a deep breath and continue. “It’s like I can’t think straight. I’m just so paralyzed by the adrenaline and I can’t stop it; I can’t control it. Once that crazy feeling takes over, it needs an outlet. I have to touch something. I have to release it.” Kenji props himself up on one elbow. Looks at me. “So what gets you all crazy, though?” he asks. “What were you feeling? Does it only happen when you’re really pissed off?” I take a second to think about it before I say, “No. Not always.” I hesitate. “The first time,” I tell him, my voice a little unsteady, “I wanted to kill Warner because of what he made me do to that little kid. I was so devastated. I was angry—I was really angry—but I was also … so sad.” I trail off. “And then when I was looking for Adam?” Deep breaths. “I was desperate. Really desperate. I had to save him.” “And what about when you went all Superman on me? Slamming me into the wall like that?” “I was scared.” “And then? In the research labs?” “Angry,” I whisper, my eyes unfocused as I stare up at the ceiling, remembering the rage of that day. “I was angrier than I’ve ever been in my entire life. I never even knew I could feel that way. To be so mad. And I felt guilty,” I add, so quietly. “Guilty for being the reason why Adam was in there at all.” Kenji takes a deep, long breath. Pulls himself up into a sitting position and leans against the wall. He says nothing. “What are you thinking …?” I ask, shifting to sit up and join him. “I don’t know,” Kenji finally says. “But it’s obvious that all of these incidents were the result of really intense emotions. Makes me think the whole system must be pretty straightforward.” “What do you mean?” “Like there has to be some kind of trigger involved,” he says. “Like, when you lose control, your body goes into automatic self-protect mode, you know?” “No?” Kenji turns so he’s facing me. Crosses his legs underneath him. Leans back on his hands. “Like, listen. When I first found out I could do this invisible thing? I mean, it was an accident. I was nine years old. Scared out of my mind. Fast-forward through all the shitty details and my point is this: I needed a place to hide and couldn’t find one. But I was so freaked out that my

body, like, automatically did it for me. I just disappeared into the wall. Blended or whatever.” He laughs. “Tripped me the hell out, because I didn’t realize what’d happened for a good ten minutes. And then I didn’t know how to turn myself back to normal. It was crazy. I actually thought I was dead for a couple of days.” “No way,” I gasp. “Yup.” “That’s crazy.” “That’s what I said.” “So … so, what? You think my body taps into its defense mode when I freak out?” “Pretty much.” “Okay.” I think. “Well, how am I supposed to tap into my defense mode? How did you figure yours out?” He shrugs. “Once I realized I wasn’t some kind of ghost and I wasn’t hallucinating, it actually became kind of cool. I was a kid, you know? I was excited, like I could tie on a cape and kill bad guys or something. I liked it. And it became this part of me that I could access whenever I wanted. But,” he adds, “it wasn’t until I really started training that I learned how to control and maintain it for long periods of time. That took a lot of work. A lot of focus.” “A lot of work.” “Yeah—I mean, all of this takes a lot of work to figure out. But once I accepted it as a part of me, it became easier to manage.” “Well,” I say, leaning back again, blowing out an exasperated breath, “I’ve already accepted it. But it definitely hasn’t made things easier.” Kenji laughs out loud. “My ass you’ve accepted it. You haven’t accepted anything.” “I’ve been like this my entire life, Kenji—I’m pretty sure I’ve accepted it—” “No.” He cuts me off. “Hell no. You hate being in your own skin. You can’t stand it. That’s not called acceptance. That’s called—I don’t know—the opposite of acceptance. You,” he says, pointing a finger at me, “you are the opposite of acceptance.” “What are you trying to say?” I shoot back. “That I have to like being this way?” I don’t give him a chance to respond before I say, “You have no idea what it’s like to be stuck in my skin— to be trapped in my body, afraid to breathe too close to anything with a beating heart. If you did, you’d never ask me to be happy to live like this.” “Come on, Juliette—I’m just saying—” “No. Let me make this clear for you, Kenji. I kill people. I kill them. That’s what my ‘special’ power is. I don’t blend into backgrounds or move things with my mind or have really stretchy arms. You touch me for too long and you die. Try living like that for seventeen years and then tell me how easy it is to accept myself.” I taste too much bitterness on my tongue. It’s new for me. “Listen,” he says, his voice noticeably softer. “I’m not trying to judge, okay? I’m just trying to point out that because you don’t want it, you might subconsciously be sabotaging your efforts to figure it out.” He puts his hands up in mock defeat. “Just my two cents. I mean, obviously you’ve got some crazy powers going on. You touch people and bam, done. But then you can crush through walls and shit, too? I mean, hell, I’d want to learn how to do that, are you kidding me? That would be insane.” “Yeah,” I say, slumping against the wall. “I guess that part wouldn’t be so bad.” “Right?” Kenji perks up. “That would be awesome. And then—you know, if you leave your gloves on—you could just crush random stuff without actually killing anyone. Then you wouldn’t feel so bad, right?” “I guess not.”

“So. Great. You just need to relax.” He gets to his feet. Grabs the brick he was toying with earlier. “Come on,” he says. “Get up. Come over here.” I walk over to his side of the room and stare at the brick he’s holding. He gives it to me like he’s handing over some kind of family heirloom. “Now,” he says. “You have to let yourself get comfortable, okay? Allow your body to touch base with its core. Stop blocking your own Energy. You’ve probably got a million mental blocks in your head. You can’t hold back anymore.” “I don’t have mental blocks—” “Yeah you do.” He snorts. “You definitely do. You have severe mental constipation.” “Mental what—” “Focus your anger on the brick. On the brick,” he says to me. “Remember. Open mind. You want to crush the brick. Remind yourself that this is what you want. It’s your choice. You’re not doing this for Castle, you’re not doing it for me, you’re not doing it to fight anyone. This is just something you feel like doing. For fun. Because you feel like it. Let your mind and body take over. Okay?” I take a deep breath. Nod a few times. “Okay. I think I’m—” “Holy shit.” He lets out a low whistle. “What?” I spin around. “What happened—” “How did you not just feel that?” “Feel what—” “Look in your hand!” I gasp. Stumble backward. My hand is full of what looks like red sand and brown clay pulverized into tiny particles. The bigger chunks of brick crumble to the floor and I let the debris slip through the cracks between my fingers only to lift the guilty hand to my face. I look up. Kenji is shaking his head, shaking with laughter. “I am so jealous right now you have no idea.” “Oh my God.” “I know. I KNOW. So badass. Now think about it: if you can do that to a brick, imagine what you could do to the human body—” That wasn’t the right thing to say. Not now. Not after Adam. Not after trying to pick up the pieces of my hopes and dreams and fumbling to glue them back together. Because now there’s nothing left. Because now I realize that somewhere, deep down, I was harboring a small hope that Adam and I would find a way to work things out. Somewhere, deep down, I was still clinging to possibility. And now that’s gone. Because now it’s not just my skin Adam has to be afraid of. It’s not just my touch but my grip, my hugs, my hands, a kiss—anything I do could injure him. I’d have to be careful just holding his hand. And this new knowledge, this new information about just exactly how deadly I am— It leaves me with no alternative. I will forever and ever and ever be alone because no one is safe from me. I fall to the floor, my mind whirring, my own brain no longer a safe space to inhabit because I can’t stop thinking, I can’t stop wondering, I can’t stop anything and it’s like I’m caught in what could be a head-on collision and I’m not the innocent bystander. I’m the train. I’m the one careening out of control. Because sometimes you see yourself—you see yourself the way you could be—the way you might be if things were different. And if you look too closely, what you see will scare you, it’ll

make you wonder what you might do if given the opportunity. You know there’s a different side of yourself you don’t want to recognize, a side you don’t want to see in the daylight. You spend your whole life doing everything to push it down and away, out of sight, out of mind. You pretend that a piece of yourself doesn’t exist. You live like that for a long time. For a long time, you’re safe. And then you’re not.

TWENTY-FIVE Another morning. Another meal. I’m headed to breakfast to meet Kenji before our next training session. He came to a conclusion about my abilities yesterday: he thinks that the inhuman power in my touch is just an evolved form of my Energy. That skin-to-skin contact is simply the rawest form of my ability—that my true gift is actually a kind of all-consuming strength that manifests itself in every part of my body. My bones, my blood, my skin. I told him it was an interesting theory. I told him I’d always seen myself as some sick version of a Venus flytrap and he said, “OH MY GOD. Yes. YES. You are exactly like that. Holy shit, yes.” Beautiful enough to lure in your prey, he said. Strong enough to clamp down and destroy, he said. Poisonous enough to digest your victims when the flesh makes contact. “You digest your prey,” he said to me, laughing as though it was amusing, as though it was funny, as if it was perfectly acceptable to compare a girl to a carnivorous plant. Flattering, even. “Right? You said that when you touch people, it’s, like, you’re taking their energy, right? It makes you feel stronger?” I didn’t respond. “So you’re exactly like a Venus flytrap. You reel ’em in. Clamp ’em down. Eat ’em up.” I didn’t respond. “Mmmmmmm,” he said. “You’re like a sexy, super-scary plant.” I closed my eyes. Covered my mouth in horror. “Why is that so wrong?” he said. Bent down to meet my gaze. Tugged on a lock of my hair to get me to look up. “Why does this have to be so horrible? Why can’t you see how awesome this is?” He shook his head at me. “You are seriously missing out, you know that? This could be so cool if you would just own it.” Own it. Yes. How easy it would be to just clamp down on the world around me. Suck up its life force and leave it dead in the street just because someone tells me I should. Because someone points a finger and says “Those are the bad guys. Those men over there.” Kill, they say. Kill because you trust us. Kill because you’re fighting for the right team. Kill because they’re bad, and we’re good. Kill because we tell you to. Because some people are so stupid that they actually think there are thick neon lines separating good and evil. That it’s easy to make that kind of distinction and go to sleep at night with a clear conscience. Because it’s okay.

It’s okay to kill a man if someone else deems him unfit to live. What I really want to say is who the hell are you and who are you to decide who gets to die. Who are you to decide who should be killed. Who are you to tell me which father I should destroy and which child I should orphan and which mother should be left without her son, which brother should be left without a sister, which grandmother should spend the rest of her life crying in the early hours of the morning because the body of her grandchild was buried in the ground before her own. What I really want to say is who the hell do you think you are to tell me that it’s awesome to be able to kill a living thing, that it’s interesting to be able to ensnare another soul, that it’s fair to choose a victim simply because I’m capable of killing without a gun. I want to say mean things and angry things and hurtful things and I want to throw expletives in the air and run far, far away; I want to disappear into the horizon and I want to dump myself on the side of the road if only it will bring me toward some semblance of freedom but I don’t know where to go. I have nowhere else to go. And I feel responsible. Because there are times when the anger bleeds away until it’s nothing but a raw ache in the pit of my stomach and I see the world and wonder about its people and what it’s become and I think about hope and maybe and possibly and possibility and potential. I think about glasses half full and glasses to see the world clearly. I think about sacrifice. And compromise. I think about what will happen if no one fights back. I think about a world where no one stands up to injustice. And I wonder if maybe everyone here is right. If maybe it’s time to fight. I wonder if it’s ever actually possible to justify killing as a means to an end and then I think of Kenji. I think of what he said. And I wonder if he would still call it awesome if I decided to make him my prey. I’m guessing not.

TWENTY-SIX Kenji is already waiting for me. He and Winston and Brendan are sitting at the same table again, and I slide into my seat with a distracted nod and eyes that refuse to focus in front of me. “He’s not here,” Kenji says, shoving a spoonful of breakfast into his mouth. “What?” Oh how fascinating look at this fork and this spoon and this table. “What do y—” “Not here,” he says, his mouth still half full of food. Winston clears his throat, scratches the back of his head. Brendan shifts in his seat beside me. “Oh. I—I, um—” Heat flushes up my neck as I look around at the 3 guys sitting at this table. I want to ask Kenji where Adam is, why he isn’t here, how he’s doing, if he’s okay, if he’s been eating regularly. I want to ask a million questions I shouldn’t be asking but it’s blatantly clear that none of them want to talk about the awkward details of my personal life. And I don’t want to be that sad, pathetic girl. I don’t want pity. I don’t want to see the uncomfortable sympathy in their eyes. So I sit up. Clear my throat. “What’s going on with the patrols?” I ask Winston. “Is it getting any worse?”

Winston looks up midchew, surprised. He swallows down the food too quickly and coughs once, twice. Takes a sip of his coffee—tar black—and leans forward, looking eager. “It’s getting weirder,” he says. “Really?” “Yeah, so, remember how I told you guys that Warner was showing up every night?” Warner. I can’t get the image of his smiling, laughing face out of my head. We nod. “Well.” He leans back in his chair. Holds up his hands. “Last night? Nothing.” “Nothing?” Brendan’s eyebrows are high on his forehead. “What do you mean, nothing?” “I mean no one was there.” He shrugs. Picks up his fork. Stabs at a piece of food. “Not Warner, not a single soldier. Night before last?” He looks around at us. “Fifty, maybe seventyfive soldiers. Last night, zero.” “Did you tell Castle about this?” Kenji isn’t eating anymore. He’s staring at Winston with a focused, too-serious look on his face. It’s worrying me. “Yeah.” Winston nods as he takes another sip of his coffee. “I turned in my report about an hour ago.” “You mean you haven’t gone to sleep yet?” I ask, eyes wide. “I slept yesterday,” he says, waving a haphazard hand at me. “Or the day before yesterday. I can’t remember. God, this coffee is disgusting,” he says, gulping it down. “Right. Maybe you should lay off the coffee, yeah?” Brendan tries to grab Winston’s cup. Winston slaps at his hand, shoots him a dark look. “Not all of us have electricity running through our veins,” he says. “I’m not a freaking powerhouse of energy like you are.” “I only did that once—” “Twice!” “—and it was an emergency,” he says, looking a little sheepish. “What are you guys talking about?” I ask. “This guy”—Kenji jerks a thumb at Brendan—“can, like, literally recharge his own body. He doesn’t need to sleep. It’s insane.” “It’s not fair,” Winston mutters, ripping a piece of bread in half. I turn to Brendan, jaw unhinged. “No way.” He nods. Shrugs. “I’ve only done it once.” “Twice!” Winston says again. “And he’s a freaking fetus,” he says to me. “He’s already got way too much energy as it is—shit, all of you kids do—and yet he’s the one who comes with a rechargeable battery life.” “I am not a fetus,” Brendan says, spluttering, glancing at me as heat colors his cheeks. “He’s —that’s not—you’re mad,” he says, glaring at Winston. “Yeah,” Winston says, nodding, his mouth full of food again. “I am mad. I’m pissed off.” He swallows. “And I’m cranky as hell because I’m tired. And I’m hungry. And I need more coffee.” He shoves away from the table. Stands up. “I’m going to go get more coffee.” “I thought you said it was disgusting.” He levels a look at me. “Yes, but I am a sad, sad man with very low standards.” “It’s true,” Brendan says. “Shut up, fetus.” “You’re only allowed one cup,” Kenji points out, looking up to meet Winston’s eyes. “Don’t worry, I always tell them I’m taking yours,” he says, and stalks off. Kenji is laughing, shoulders shaking. Brendan is mumbling “I am not a fetus” under his breath, stabbing at his food with renewed vigor. “How old are you?” I ask, curious. He’s so white-blond and pale-blue-eyed that he doesn’t seem real. He looks like the kind of person who could never age, who would remain forever

preserved in this ethereal form. “Twenty-four,” he says, looking grateful for a chance at validation. “Just turned twenty-four, actually. Had my birthday last week.” “Oh, wow.” I’m surprised. He doesn’t look much older than 18. I wonder what it must be like to celebrate a birthday at Omega Point. “Well, happy birthday,” I say, smiling at him. “I hope—I hope you have a very good year. And”—I try to think of something nice to say—“and a lot of happy days.” He’s staring back at me now, amused, looking straight into my eyes. Grinning. He says, “Thanks.” Smiles a bit wider. “Thanks very much.” And he doesn’t look away. My face is hot. I’m struggling to understand why he’s still smiling at me, why he doesn’t stop smiling even when he finally looks away, why Kenji keeps glancing at me like he’s trying to hold in a laugh and I’m flustered, feeling oddly embarrassed and searching for something to say. “So what are we going to do today?” I ask Kenji, hoping my voice sounds neutral, normal. Kenji drains his water cup. Wipes his mouth. “Today,” he says, “I’m going to teach you how to shoot.” “A gun?” “Yup.” He grabs his tray. Grabs mine, too. “Wait here, I’m gonna drop these off.” He moves to go before he stops, turns back, glances at Brendan and says, “Put it out of your head, bro.” Brendan looks up, confused. “What?” “It’s not going to happen.” “Wha—” Kenji stares at him, eyebrows raised. Brendan’s mouth falls closed. His cheeks are pink again. “I know that.” “Uh-huh.” Kenji shakes his head, and walks away. Brendan is suddenly in a hurry to go about his day.

TWENTY-SEVEN “Juliette? Juliette!” “Please wake up—” I gasp as I sit straight up in bed, heart pounding, eyes blinking too fast as they try to focus. I blink blink blink. “What’s going on? What’s happening?” “Kenji is outside,” Sonya says. “He says he needs you,” Sara adds, “that something happened—” I’m tripping out of bed so fast I pull the covers down with me. I’m groping around in the dark, trying to find my suit—I sleep in a pajama set I borrowed from Sara—and making an effort not to panic. “Do you know what’s going on?” I ask. “Do you know—did he tell you anything—” Sonya is shoving my suit into my arms, saying, “No, he just said that it was urgent, that something happened, that we should wake you up right away.” “Okay. I’m sure it’s going to be okay,” I tell them, though I don’t know why I’m saying it, or how I could possibly be of any reassurance to them. I wish I could turn on a light but all the lights are controlled by the same switch. It’s one of the ways they conserve power—and one of the ways they manage to maintain the semblance of night and day down here—by only using it during specific hours.

I finally manage to slip into my suit and I’m zipping it up, heading for the door when I hear Sara call my name. She’s holding my boots. “Thank you—thank you both,” I say. They nod several times. And I’m tugging on my boots and running out the door. I slam face-first into something solid. Something human. Male. I hear his sharp intake of breath, feel his hands steady my frame, feel the blood in my body run right out from under me. “Adam,” I gasp. He hasn’t let go of me. I can hear his heart beating fast and hard and loud in the silence between us and he feels too still, too tense, like he’s trying to maintain some kind of control over his body. “Hi,” he whispers, but it sounds like he can’t really breathe. My heart is failing. “Adam, I—” “I can’t let go,” he says, and I feel his hands shake, just a little, as if the effort to keep them in one place is too much for him. “I can’t let go of you. I’m trying, but I—” “Well, it’s a good thing I’m here then, isn’t it?” Kenji yanks me out of Adam’s arms and takes a deep, uneven breath. “Jesus. Are you guys done here? We have to go.” “What—what’s going on?” I stammer, trying to cover up my embarrassment. I really wish Kenji weren’t always catching me in the middle of such vulnerable moments. I wish he could see me being strong and confident. And then I wonder when I began caring about Kenji’s opinion of me. “Is everything okay?” “I have no idea,” Kenji says as he strides down the dark halls. He must have these tunnels memorized, I think, because I can’t see a thing. I have to practically run to keep up with him. “But,” he says, “I’m assuming some kind of shit has officially hit the fan. Castle sent me a message about fifteen minutes ago—said to get me and you and Kent up to his office ASAP. So,” he says, “that’s what I’m doing.” “But—now? In the middle of the night?” “Shit hitting the fan doesn’t work around your schedule, princess.” I decide to stop talking. We follow Kenji to a single solitary door at the end of a narrow tunnel. He knocks twice, pauses. Knocks 3 times, pauses. Knocks once. I wonder if I need to remember that. The door creaks open on its own and Castle waves us in. “Close the door, please,” he says from behind his desk. I have to blink several times to readjust to the light in here. There’s a traditional reading lamp on Castle’s desk with just enough wattage to illuminate this small space. I use the moment to look around. Castle’s office is nothing more than a room with a few bookcases and a simple table that doubles as a workstation. Everything is made of recycled metal. His desk looks like it used to be a pickup truck. There are heaps of books and papers stacked all over the floor; diagrams, machinery, and computer parts shoved onto the bookcases, thousands of wires and electrical units peeking out of their metal bodies; they must either be damaged or broken or perhaps part of a project Castle is working on. In other words: his office is a mess. Not something I was expecting from someone so incredibly put-together.

“Have a seat,” he says to us. I look around for chairs but only find two upside-down garbage cans and a stool. “I’ll be right with you. Give me one moment.” We nod. We sit. We wait. We look around. Only then do I realize why Castle doesn’t care about the disorganized nature of his office. He seems to be in the middle of something, but I can’t see what it is, and it doesn’t really matter. I’m too focused on watching him work. His hands shift up and down, flick from side to side, and everything he needs or wants simply gravitates toward him. A particular piece of paper? A notepad? The clock buried under the pile of books farthest from his desk? He looks for a pencil and lifts his hand to catch it. He’s searching for his notes and lifts his fingers to find them. He doesn’t need to be organized. He has a system of his own. Incredible. He finally looks up. Puts his pencil down. Nods. Nods again. “Good. Good; you’re all here.” “Yes, sir,” Kenji says. “You said you needed to speak with us.” “Indeed I do.” Castle folds his hands over his desk. “Indeed I do.” Takes a careful breath. “The supreme commander,” he says, “has arrived at the headquarters of Sector 45.” Kenji swears. Adam is frozen. I’m confused. “Who’s the supreme commander?” Castle’s gaze rests on me. “Warner’s father.” His eyes narrow, scrutinizing me. “You didn’t know that Warner’s father is the supreme commander of The Reestablishment?” “Oh,” I gasp, unable to imagine the monster that must be Warner’s father. “I—yes—I knew that,” I tell him. “I just didn’t know what his title was.” “Yes,” Castle says. “There are six supreme commanders around the world, one for each of the six divisions: North America, South America, Europe, Asia, Africa, and Oceania. Each section is divided into 555 sectors for a total of 3,330 sectors around the globe. Warner’s father is not only in charge of this continent, he is also one of the founders of The Reestablishment, and currently our biggest threat.” “But I thought there were 3,333 sectors,” I tell Castle, “not 3,330. Am I remembering that wrong?” “The other three are capitals,” Kenji says to me. “We’re pretty sure that one of them is somewhere in North America, but no one knows for certain where any of them are located. So yeah,” he adds, “you’re remembering right. The Reestablishment has some crazy fascination with exact numbers. 3,333 sectors altogether and 555 sectors each. Everyone gets the same thing, regardless of size. They think it shows how equally they’ve divided everything, but it’s just a bunch of bullshit.” “Wow.” Every single day I’m floored by how much I still need to learn. I look at Castle. “So is this the emergency? That Warner’s dad is here and not at one of the capitals?” Castle nods. “Yes, he …” He hesitates. Clears his throat. “Well. Let me start from the beginning. It is imperative that you be aware of all the details.” “We’re listening,” Kenji says, back straight, eyes alert, muscles tensed for action. “Go on.” “Apparently,” Castle says, “he’s been in town for some time now—he arrived very quietly, very discreetly, a couple of weeks ago. It seems he heard what his son has been up to lately, and he wasn’t thrilled about it. He …” Castle takes a deep, steady breath. “He is … particularly angry about what happened with you, Ms. Ferrars.” “Me?” Heart pounding. Heart pounding. Heart pounding. “Yes,” Castle says. “Our sources say that he’s angry Warner allowed you to escape. And, of course, that he lost two of his soldiers in the process.” He nods in Adam and Kenji’s direction. “Worse still, rumors are now circulating among the citizens about this defecting girl and her strange ability and they’re starting to put the pieces together; they’re starting to realize there’s

another movement—our movement—preparing to fight back. It’s creating unrest and resistance among the civilians, who are all too eager to get involved. “So.” Castle clasps his hands. “Warner’s father has undoubtedly arrived to spearhead this war and remove all doubt of The Reestablishment’s power.” He pauses to look at each of us. “In other words, he’s arrived to punish us and his son at the same time.” “But that doesn’t change our plans, does it?” Kenji asks. “Not exactly. We’ve always known that a fight would be inevitable, but this … changes things. Now that Warner’s father is in town, this war is going to happen a lot sooner than we hoped,” Castle says. “And it’s going to be a lot bigger than we anticipated.” He levels his gaze at me, looking grave. “Ms. Ferrars, I’m afraid we’re going to need your help.” I’m staring at him, struck. “Me?” “Yes.” “Aren’t—aren’t you still angry with me?” “You are not a child, Ms. Ferrars. I would not fault you for an overreaction. Kenji says he believes that your behavior lately has been the result of ignorance and not malicious intent, and I trust his judgment. I trust his word. But I do want you to understand that we are a team,” he says, “and we need your strength. What you can do—your power—it is unparalleled. Especially now that you’ve been working with Kenji and have at least some knowledge of what you’re capable of, we’re going to need you. We’ll do whatever we can to support you—we’ll reinforce your suit, provide you with weapons and armor. And Winston—” He stops. His breath catches. “Winston,” he says, quieter now, “just finished making you a new pair of gloves.” He looks into my face. “We want you on our team,” he says. “And if you cooperate with me, I promise you will see results.” “Of course,” I whisper. I match his steady, solemn gaze. “Of course I’ll help.” “Good,” Castle says. “That is very good.” He looks distracted as he leans back in his chair, runs a tired hand across his face. “Thank you.” “Sir,” Kenji says, “I hate to be so blunt, but would you please tell me what the hell is going on?” Castle nods. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, yes, of course. I—forgive me. It’s been a difficult night.” Kenji’s voice is tight. “What happened?” “He … has sent word.” “Warner’s father?” I ask. “Warner’s father sent word? To us?” I glance around at Adam and Kenji. Adam is blinking fast, lips just barely parted in shock. Kenji looks like he’s about to be sick. I’m beginning to panic. “Yes,” Castle says to me. “Warner’s father. He wants to meet. He wants … to talk.” Kenji jumps to his feet. His entire face is leached of color. “No—sir—this is a setup—he doesn’t want to talk, you must know he’s lying—” “He’s taken four of our men hostage, Kenji. I’m afraid we don’t have another choice.”

TWENTY-EIGHT “What?” Kenji has gone limp. His voice is a horrified rasp. “Who? How—” “Winston and Brendan were patrolling topside tonight.” Castle shakes his head. “I don’t know what happened. They must’ve been ambushed. They were too far out of range and the security footage only shows us that Emory and Ian noticed a disturbance and tried to investigate. We don’t see anything in the tapes after that. Emory and Ian,” he says, “never came back either.”

Kenji is back in his chair again, his face in his hands. He looks up with a sudden burst of hope. “But Winston and Brendan—maybe they can find a way out, right? They could do something—they have enough power between the two of them to figure something out.” Castle offers Kenji a sympathetic smile. “I don’t know where he’s taken them or how they’re being treated. If he’s beaten them, or if he’s already”—he hesitates—“if he’s already tortured them, shot them—if they’re bleeding to death—they certainly won’t be able to fight back. And even if the two of them could save themselves,” he says after a moment, “they wouldn’t leave the others behind.” Kenji presses his fists into his thighs. “So. He wants to talk.” It’s the first time Adam has said a word. Castle nods. “Lily found this package where they’d disappeared.” He tosses us a small knapsack and we take turns rummaging through it. It contains only Winston’s broken glasses and Brendan’s radio. Smeared in blood. I have to grip my hands to keep them from shaking. I was just getting to know these guys. I’d only just met Emory and Ian. I was just learning to build new friendships, to feel comfortable with the people of Omega Point. I just had breakfast with Brendan and Winston. I glance at the clock on Castle’s wall; it’s 3:31 a.m. I last saw them about 20 hours ago. Brendan’s birthday was last week. “Winston knew,” I hear myself say out loud. “He knew something was wrong. He knew there was something weird about all those soldiers everywhere—” “I know,” Castle says, shaking his head. “I’ve been reading and rereading all of his reports.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Closes his eyes. “I’d only just begun to piece it all together. But it was too late. I was too late.” “What do you think they were planning?” Kenji asks. “Do you have a theory?” Castle sighs. Drops his hand from his face. “Well, now we know why Warner was out with his soldiers every night—how he was able to leave the base for as long as he did for so many days.” “His father,” Kenji says. Castle nods. “Yes. It’s my opinion that the supreme sent Warner out himself. That he wanted Warner to begin hunting us more aggressively. He’s always known about us,” Castle says to me. “He’s never been a stupid man, the supreme. He’s always believed the rumors about us, always known that we were out here. But we’ve never been a threat to him before. Not until now,” he says. “Because now that the civilians are talking about us, it’s upsetting the balance of power. The people are reenergized—looking for hope in our resistance. And that’s not something The Reestablishment can afford right now. “Anyway,” he goes on, “I think it’s clear that they couldn’t find the entrance to Omega Point, and settled for taking hostages, hoping to provoke us to come out on our own.” Castle retrieves a piece of paper from his pile. Holds it up. It’s a note. “But there are conditions,” he says. “The supreme has given us very specific directions on how next to proceed.” “And?” Kenji is rigid with intensity. “The three of you will go. Alone.” Holy crap. “What?” Adam gapes at Castle, astonished. “Why us?” “He hasn’t asked to see me,” Castle says. “I’m not the one he’s interested in.” “And you’re just going to agree to that?” Adam asks. “You’re just going to throw us at him?” Castle leans forward. “Of course not.” “You have a plan?” I ask.

“The supreme wants to meet with you at exactly twelve p.m. tomorrow—well, today, technically—at a specific location on unregulated turf. The details are in the note.” He takes a deep breath. “And, even though I know this is exactly what he wants, I think we should all be ready to go. We should move together. This is, after all, what we’ve been training for. I’ve no doubt he has bad intentions, and I highly doubt he’s inviting you to chat over a cup of tea. So I think we should be ready to defend against an offensive attack. I imagine his own men will be armed and ready to fight, and I’m fully prepared to lead mine into battle.” “So we’re the bait?” Kenji asks, his eyebrows pulled together. “We don’t even get to fight— we’re just the distraction?” “Kenji—” “This is bullshit,” Adam says, and I’m surprised to see such emotion from him. “There has to be another way. We shouldn’t be playing by his rules. We should be using this opportunity to ambush them or—I don’t know—create a diversion or a distraction so we can attack offensively! I mean, hell, doesn’t anyone burst into flames or something? Don’t we have anyone who can do something crazy enough to throw everything off? To give us an advantage?” Castle turns to stare at me. Adam looks like he might punch Castle in the face. “You are out of your mind—” “Then no,” he says. “No, we don’t have anyone else that can do something so … earthshattering.” “You think that’s funny?” Adam snaps. “I’m afraid I’m not trying to be funny, Mr. Kent. And your anger is not helping our situation. You may opt out if you like, but I will—respectfully—request Ms. Ferrars’ assistance in this matter. She is the only one the supreme actually wants to see. Sending the two of you with her was my idea.” “What?” All 3 of us are stunned. “Why me?” “I really wish I could tell you,” Castle says to me. “I wish I knew more. As of right now, I can only do my best to extrapolate from the information I have, and all I’ve concluded thus far is that Warner has made a glaring error that needs to be set right. Somehow you managed to get caught in the middle.” A pause. “Warner’s father,” he says, “has asked very specifically for you in exchange for the hostages. He says if you do not arrive at the appointed time, he will kill our men. And I have no reason to doubt his word. Murdering the innocent is something that comes very naturally to him.” “And you were just going to let her walk into that!” Adam knocks over his garbage can as he jumps to his feet. “You weren’t even going to say anything? You were going to let us assume that she wasn’t a target? Are you insane?” Castle rubs his forehead. Takes a few calming breaths. “No,” he says, his voice carefully measured. “I was not going to let her walk right into anything. What I’m saying is that we will all fight together, but you two will go with Ms. Ferrars. The three of you have worked together before, and both you and Kenji have military training. You’re more familiar with the rules, the techniques, the strategy they might employ. You would help keep her safe and embody the element of surprise—your presence could be what gives us an advantage in this situation. If he wants her badly enough, he’ll have to find a way to juggle the three of you—” “Or—you know, I don’t know,” Kenji says, affecting nonchalance, “maybe he’ll just shoot us both in the face and drag Juliette away while we’re too busy being dead to stop him.” “It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll do it. I’ll go.” “What?” Adam is looking at me, panic forcing his eyes wide. “Juliette—no—” “Yeah, you might want to think about this for a second,” Kenji cuts in, sounding a little nervous.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” I tell them. “But I’ll go.” Castle smiles, relief written across his features. “This is what we’re here for, right?” I look around. “We’re supposed to fight back. This is our chance.” Castle is beaming, his eyes bright with something that might be pride. “We will be with you every step of the way, Ms. Ferrars. You can count on it.” I nod. And I realize this is probably what I’m meant to do. Maybe this is exactly why I’m here. Maybe I’m just supposed to die.

TWENTY-NINE The morning is a blur. There’s so much to do, so much to prepare for, and there are so many people getting ready. But I know that ultimately this is my battle; I have unfinished business to deal with. I know this meeting has nothing to do with the supreme commander. He has no reason to care so much about me. I’ve never even met the man; I should be nothing more than expendable to him. This is Warner’s move. It has to be Warner who asked for me. This has something and everything to do with him; it’s a smoke signal telling me he still wants me and he’s not yet given up. And I have to face him. I only wonder how he managed to get his father to pull these strings for him. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. Someone is calling my name. I stop in place. Spin around. James. He runs up to me just outside the dining hall. His hair, so blond; his eyes, so blue, just like his older brother’s. But I’ve missed his face in a way that has nothing to do with how much he reminds me of Adam. James is a special kid. A sharp kid. The kind of 10-year-old who is always underestimated. And he’s asking me if we can talk. He points to one of the many corridors. I nod. Follow him into an empty tunnel. He stops walking and turns away for a moment. Stands there looking uncomfortable. I’m stunned he even wants to talk to me; I haven’t spoken a single word to him in 3 weeks. He started spending time with the other kids at Omega Point shortly after we arrived, and then things somehow got awkward between us. He stopped smiling when he’d see me, stopped waving hello from across the dining hall. I always imagined he’d heard rumors about me from the other kids and decided he was better off staying away. And now, after everything that’s happened with Adam—after our very public display in the tunnel—I’m shocked he wants to say anything to me. His head is still down when he whispers, “I was really, really mad at you.” And the stitches in my heart begin to pop. One by one.

He looks up. Looks at me like he’s trying to gauge whether or not his opening words have upset me, whether or not I’m going to yell at him for being honest with me. And I don’t know what he sees in my face but it seems to disarm him. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Rubs his sneaker in circles on the floor. Says, “You didn’t tell me you killed someone before.” I take an unsteady breath and wonder if there will ever be a proper way to respond to a statement like that. I wonder if anyone other than James will ever even say something like that to me. I think not. So I just nod. And say, “I’m really sorry. I should’ve told y—” “Then why didn’t you?” he shouts, shocking me. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did everyone else know except for me?” And I’m floored for a moment, floored by the hurt in his voice, the anger in his eyes. I never knew he considered me a friend, and I realize I should have. James hasn’t known many people in his life; Adam is his entire world. Kenji and I were 2 of the only people he’d ever really met before we got to Omega Point. And for an orphaned child in his circumstances, it must’ve meant a lot to have new friends. But I’ve been so concerned with my own issues that it never occurred to me that James would care so much. I never realized my omission would’ve seemed like a betrayal to him. That the rumors he heard from the other children must’ve hurt him just as much as they hurt me. So I decide to sit down, right there in the tunnel. I make room for him to sit down beside me. And I tell him the truth. “I didn’t want you to hate me.” He glares at the floor. Says, “I don’t hate you.” “No?” He picks at his shoelaces. Sighs. Shakes his head. “And I didn’t like what they were saying about you,” he says, quieter now. “The other kids. They said you were mean and nasty and I told them you weren’t. I told them you were quiet and nice. And that you have nice hair. And they told me I was lying.” I swallow, hard, punched in the heart. “You think I have nice hair?” “Why did you kill him?” James asks me, eyes so open, so ready to be understanding. “Was he trying to hurt you? Were you scared?” I take a few breaths before I answer. “Do you remember,” I say to him, feeling unsteady now, “what Adam told you about me? About how I can’t touch anyone without hurting them?” James nods. “Well, that’s what happened,” I say. “I touched him and he died.” “But why?” he asks. “Why’d you touch him? Because you wanted him to die?” My face feels like cracked china. “No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I was young—only a couple of years older than you, actually. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know that I could kill people by touching them. He’d fallen down at the grocery store and I was just trying to help him get to his feet.” A long pause. “It was an accident.” James is silent for a while. He takes turns looking at me, looking at his shoes, at the knees he’s tucked up against his chest. He’s staring at the ground when he finally whispers, “I’m sorry I was mad at you.” “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth,” I whisper back. He nods. Scratches a spot on his nose. Looks at me. “So can we be friends again?” “You want to be friends with me?” I blink hard against the stinging in my eyes. “You’re not afraid of me?” “Are you going to be mean to me?” “Never.” “Then why would I be afraid of you?” And I laugh, mostly because I don’t want to cry. I nod too many times. “Yes,” I say to him. “Let’s be friends again.”

“Good,” he says, and gets to his feet. “Because I don’t want to eat lunch with those other kids anymore.” I stand up. Dust off the back of my suit. “Eat with us,” I tell him. “You can always sit at our table.” “Okay.” He nods. Looks away again. Tugs on his ear a little. “So did you know Adam is really sad all the time?” He turns his blue eyes on me. I can’t speak. Can’t speak at all. “Adam says he’s sad because of you.” James looks at me like he’s waiting for me to deny it. “Did you hurt him by accident too? He was in the medical wing, did you know that? He was sick.” And I think I’m going to fall apart, right there, but somehow I don’t. I can’t lie to him. “Yes,” I tell James. “I hurt him by accident, but now—n-now I stay away from him. So I can’t hurt him anymore.” “Then why’s he still so sad? If you’re not hurting him anymore?” I’m shaking my head, pressing my lips together because I don’t want to cry and I don’t know what to say. And James seems to understand. He throws his arms around me. Right around my waist. Hugs me and tells me not to cry because he believes me. He believes I only hurt Adam by accident. And the little boy, too. And then he says, “But be careful today, okay? And kick some ass, too.” I’m so stunned that it takes me a moment to realize that not only did he use a bad word, he just touched me for the very first time. I try to hold on for as long as I can without making things awkward between us, but I think my heart is still in a puddle somewhere on the floor. And that’s when I realize: everyone knows. James and I walk into the dining hall together and I can already tell that the stares are different now. Their faces are full of pride, strength, and acknowledgment when they look at me. No fear. No suspicion. I’ve officially become one of them. I will fight with them, for them, against the same enemy. I can see what’s in their eyes because I’m beginning to remember what it feels like. Hope. It’s like a drop of honey, a field of tulips blooming in the springtime. It’s fresh rain, a whispered promise, a cloudless sky, the perfect punctuation mark at the end of a sentence. And it’s the only thing in the world keeping me afloat.

THIRTY “This isn’t how we wanted it to happen,” Castle says to me, “but these things never usually go according to plan.” Adam and Kenji and I are being fitted for battle. We’re camped out in one of the larger training rooms with 5 others I’ve never met before. They’re in charge of weapons and armor. It’s incredible how every single person at Omega Point has a job. Everyone contributes. Everyone has a task. They all work together. “Now, we still don’t know yet exactly why or how you can do what you do, Ms. Ferrars, but I’m hoping that when the time comes, your Energy will present itself. These kinds of high-stress situations are perfect for provoking our abilities—in fact, seventy-eight percent of Point members reported initial discovery of their ability while in critical, high-risk circumstances.” Yup, I don’t say to him. That sounds about right.

Castle takes something from one of the women in the room—Alia, I think is her name. “And you shouldn’t worry about a thing,” he says. “We’ll be right there in case something should happen.” I don’t point out that I never once said I was worried. Not out loud, anyway. “These are your new gloves,” Castle says, handing them to me. “Try them on.” These new gloves are shorter, softer: they stop precisely at my wrist and fasten with a snapbutton. They feel thicker, a little heavier, but they fit my fingers perfectly. I curl my hand into a fist. Smile a little. “These are incredible,” I tell him. “Didn’t you say Winston designed them?” Castle’s face falls. “Yes,” he says quietly. “He finished them just yesterday.” Winston. His was the very first face I saw when I woke up at Omega Point. His crooked nose, his plastic glasses, his sandy-blond hair and his background in psychology. His need for disgusting coffee. I remember the broken glasses we found in the knapsack. I have no idea what’s happened to him. Alia returns with a leather contraption in her hands. It looks like a harness. She asks me to lift my arms and helps me slip into the piece, and I recognize it as a holster. There are thick leather shoulder straps that intersect in the center of my back, and 50 different straps of very thin black leather overlapping around the highest part of my waist—just underneath my chest—like some kind of incomplete bustier. It’s like a bra with no cups. Alia has to buckle everything together for me and I still don’t really understand what I’m wearing. I’m waiting for some kind of explanation. Then I see the guns. “There was nothing in the note about arriving unarmed,” Castle says as Alia passes him two automatic handguns in a shape and size I’ve come to recognize. I practiced shooting with these just yesterday. I was terrible at it. “And I see no reason for you to be without a weapon,” Castle is saying. He shows me where the holsters are on either side of my rib cage. Teaches me how the guns fit, how to snap the holder into place, where the extra cartridges go. I don’t bother to mention that I have no idea how to reload a weapon. Kenji and I never got to that part in our lesson. He was too busy trying to remind me not to use a gun to gesticulate while asking questions. “I’m hoping the firearms will be a last resort,” Castle says to me. “You have enough weapons in your personal arsenal—you shouldn’t need to shoot anyone. And, just in case you find yourself using your gift to destroy something, I suggest you wear these.” He holds up a set of what look like elaborate variations on brass knuckles. “Alia designed these for you.” I look from her to Castle to the foreign objects in his hand. He’s beaming. I thank Alia for taking the time to create something for me and she stammers out an incoherent response, blushing like she can’t believe I’m talking to her. I’m baffled. I take the pieces from Castle and inspect them. The underside is made up of 4 concentric circles welded together, big enough in diameter to fit like a set of rings, snug over my gloves. I slip my fingers through the holes and turn my hand over to inspect the upper part. It’s like a mini shield, a million pieces of gunmetal that cover my knuckles, my fingers, the entire back of my hand. I can curl my fist and the metal moves with the motion of my joints. It’s not nearly as heavy as it looks. I slip the other piece on. Curl my fingers. Reach for the guns now strapped to my body. Easy. I can do this.

“Do you like it?” Castle asks. I’ve never seen him smile so wide before. “I love it,” I tell him. “Everything is perfect. Thank you.” “Very good. I’m so pleased. Now,” he says, “if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to a few other details before we leave. I will return shortly.” He offers me a curt nod before heading out the door. Everyone but me, Kenji, and Adam leaves the room. I turn to see how the guys are doing. Kenji is wearing a suit. Some kind of bodysuit. He’s black from head to toe, his jet-black hair and eyes a perfect match for the outfit molded to every contour of his body. The suit seems to have a synthetic feel to it, almost like plastic; it gleams in the fluorescent lighting of the room and looks like it’d be too stiff to move around in. But then I see him stretching his arms and rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet and the suit suddenly looks fluid, like it moves with him. He’s wearing boots but no gloves, and a harness, just like me. But his is different: it has simple holsters that sling over his arms like the straps of a backpack. And Adam. Adam is gorgeous wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt, dark blue and dangerously tight across his chest. I can’t help but linger over the details of his outfit, can’t help but remember what it was like to be held against him, in his arms. He’s standing right in front of me and I miss him like I haven’t seen him in years. His black cargo pants are tucked into the same pair of black boots he was wearing when I first met him in the asylum, shin-high and sleek, created from smooth leather that fits him so perfectly it’s a surprise they weren’t made for his body. But there are no weapons on his person. And I’m curious enough to ask. “Adam?” He lifts his head to look up and freezes. Blinks, eyebrows up, lips parted. His eyes travel down every inch of my body, pausing to study the harness framing my chest, the guns slung close to my waist. He says nothing. He runs a hand through his hair, presses the heel of his palm to his forehead and says something about being right back. He leaves the room. I feel sick. Kenji clears his throat, loud. Shakes his head. Says, “Wow. I mean, really, are you trying to kill the guy?” “What?” Kenji is looking at me like I’m an idiot. “You can’t just go around all ‘Oh, Adam, look at me, look at how sexy I am in my new outfit’ and bat your eyelashes—” “Bat my eyelashes?” I balk at him. “What are you talking about? I’m not batting my eyelashes at him! And this is the same outfit I’ve worn every day—” Kenji grunts. Shrugs and says, “Yeah, well, it looks different.” “You’re crazy.” “I am just saying,” he says, hands up in mock surrender, “that if I were him? And you were my girl? And you were walking around looking like that, and I couldn’t touch you?” He looks away. Shrugs again. “I am just saying I do not envy the poor bastard.” “I don’t know what to do,” I whisper. “I’m not trying to hurt him—” “Oh hell. Forget I said anything,” he says, waving his hands around. “Seriously. It is none of my business.” He shoots me a look. “And do not consider this an invitation for you to start telling me all of your secret feelings now.” I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not going to tell you anything about my feelings.” “Good. Because I don’t want to know.” “Have you ever had a girlfriend, Kenji?”

“What?” He looks mortally offended. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’s never had a girlfriend? Have you even met me?” I roll my eyes. “Forget I asked.” “I can’t even believe you just said that.” “You’re the one who’s always going on about not wanting to talk about your feelings,” I snap. “No,” he says. “I said I don’t want to talk about your feelings.” He points at me. “I have zero problem talking about my own.” “So do you want to talk about your feelings?” “Hell no.” “Bu—” “No.” “Fine.” I look away. Pull at the straps tugging at my back. “So what’s up with your suit?” I ask him. “What do you mean, what’s up with it?” He frowns. He runs his hands down his outfit. “This suit is badass.” I bite back a smile. “I just meant, why are you wearing a suit? Why do you get one and Adam doesn’t?” He shrugs. “Adam doesn’t need one. Few people do—it all depends on what kind of gift we have. For me, this suit makes my life a hell of a lot easier. I don’t always use it, but when I need to get serious about a mission, it really helps. Like, when I need to blend into a background,” he explains, “it’s less complicated if I’m shifting one solid color—hence, the black. And if I have too many layers and too many extra pieces floating around my body, I have to focus that much more on making sure I blend all the details. If I’m one solid piece and one solid color, I’m a much better chameleon. Besides,” he adds, stretching out the muscles in his arms, “I look sexy as hell in this outfit.” It takes all the self-control I have not to burst into laughter. “So, but what about Adam?” I ask him. “Adam doesn’t need a suit or guns? That doesn’t seem right.” “I do have guns,” Adam says as he walks back into the room. His eyes are focused on the fists he’s clenching and unclenching in front of him. “You just can’t see them.” I can’t stop looking at him, can’t stop staring. “Invisible guns, huh?” Kenji smirks. “That’s cute. I don’t think I ever went through that phase.” Adam glares at Kenji. “I have nine different weapons concealed on my body right now. Would you like to choose the one I use to shoot you in the face? Or should I?” “It was a joke, Kent. Damn. I was joking—” “All right, everyone.” We all spin around at the sound of Castle’s voice. He examines the 3 of us. “Are you ready?” I say, “Yes.” Adam nods. Kenji says, “Let’s do this shit.” Castle says, “Follow me.”

THIRTY-ONE It’s 10:32 a.m.

We have exactly 1 hour and 28 minutes before we’re supposed to meet the supreme commander. This is the plan: Castle and every able body from Omega Point are already in position. They left half an hour ago. They’re hiding in the abandoned buildings skirting the circumference of the meeting point indicated in the note. They will be ready to engage in an offensive strike just as soon as Castle gives the signal—and Castle will only give that signal if he senses we’re in danger. Adam and Kenji and I are going to travel by foot. Kenji and Adam are familiar with unregulated turf because as soldiers, they were required to know which sections of land were strictly off-limits. No one is allowed to trespass on the grounds of our past world. The strange alleyways, side streets, old restaurants and office buildings are forbidden territory. Kenji says our meeting point is in one of the few suburban areas still standing; he says he knows it well. Apparently as a soldier he was sent on several errands in this area, each time required to drop off unmarked packages in an abandoned mailbox. The packages were never explained, and he wasn’t stupid enough to ask. He says it’s odd that any of these old houses are even functional, especially considering how strict The Reestablishment is about making sure the civilians never try to go back. In fact, most of the residential neighborhoods were torn down immediately after the initial takeover. So it’s very, very rare to find sections left untouched. But there it is, written on the note in too-tight capital letters: 1542 SYCAMORE We’re meeting the supreme commander inside of what used to be someone’s home. “So what do you think we should do? Just ring the doorbell?” Kenji is leading us toward the exit of Omega Point. I’m staring straight ahead in the dim light of this tunnel, trying not to focus on the woodpeckers in my stomach. “What do you think?” Kenji asks again. “Would that be too much? Maybe we should just knock?” I try to laugh, but the effort is halfhearted at best. Adam doesn’t say a word. “All right, all right,” Kenji says, all seriousness now. “Once we get out there, you know the drill. We link hands. I project to blend the three of us. One of you on either side of me. Got it?” I’m nodding, trying not to look at Adam as I do. This is going to be one of the first tests for him and his ability; he’ll have to be able to turn off his Energy just as long as he’s linked to Kenji. If he can’t manage it, Kenji’s projection won’t work on Adam, and Adam will be exposed. In danger. “Kent,” Kenji says, “you understand the risks, right? If you can’t pull this off?” Adam nods. His face is unflinching. He says he’s been training every day, working with Castle to get himself under control. He says he’s going to be fine. He looks at me as he says it. My emotions jump out of a plane. I hardly even notice we’re nearing the surface when Kenji motions for us to follow him up a ladder. I climb and try to think at the same time, going over and over the plan we spent the early hours of the morning strategizing. Getting there is the easy part. Getting inside is where things get tricky. We’re supposed to pretend we’re doing a swap—our hostages are supposed to be with the supreme commander, and I’m supposed to oversee their release. It’s supposed to be an exchange. Me for them.

But the truth is that we have no idea what will actually happen. We don’t know, for example, who will answer the door. We don’t know if anyone will answer the door. We don’t even know if we’re actually meeting inside the house or if we’re simply meeting outside of it. We also don’t know how they’ll react to seeing Adam and Kenji and the makeshift armory we have strapped to our bodies. We don’t know if they’ll start shooting right away. This is the part that scares me. I’m not worried for myself as much as I am for Adam and Kenji. They are the twist in this plan. They are the element of surprise. They’re either the unexpected pieces that give us the only advantage we can afford right now, or they’re the unexpected pieces that end up dead the minute they’re spotted. And I’m starting to think this was a very bad idea. I’m starting to wonder if I was wrong. If maybe I can’t handle this. But it’s too late to turn back now.

THIRTY-TWO “Wait here.” Kenji tells us to lie low as he pops his head out of the exit. He’s already disappeared from sight, his figure blending into the background. He’s going to let us know if we’re clear to surface. I’m too nervous to speak. Too nervous to think. I can do this we can do this we have no choice but to do this, is all I keep saying to myself. “Let’s go.” I hear Kenji’s voice from above our heads. Adam and I follow him up the last stretch of the ladder. We’re taking one of the alternate exit routes out of Omega Point—one that only 7 people know about, according to Castle. We’re taking as many precautions as necessary. Adam and I manage to haul our bodies aboveground and I immediately feel the cold and Kenji’s hand slip around my waist. Cold cold cold. It cuts through the air like little knives slicing across our skin. I look down at my feet and see nothing but a barely perceptible shimmer where my boots are supposed to be. I wiggle my fingers in front of my face. Nothing. I look around. No Adam and no Kenji except for Kenji’s invisible hand, now resting at the small of my back. It worked. Adam made it work. I’m so relieved I want to sing. “Can you guys hear me?” I whisper, happy no one can see me smiling. “Yup.” “Yeah, I’m right here,” Adam says. “Nice work, Kent,” Kenji says to him. “I know this can’t be easy for you.” “It’s fine,” Adam says. “I’m fine. Let’s go.” “Done.” We’re like a human chain. Kenji is between me and Adam and we’re linked, holding hands as Kenji guides us through this deserted area. I have no idea where we are, and I’m starting to realize that I seldom do. This

world is still so foreign to me, still so new. Spending so much time in isolation while the planet crumbled to pieces didn’t do me any favors. The farther we go, the closer we get to the main road and the closer we get to the compounds that are settled not a mile from here. I can see the boxy shape of their steel structures from where we’re standing. Kenji jerks to a halt. Says nothing. “Why aren’t we moving?” I ask. Kenji shushes me. “Can you hear that?” “What?” Adam pulls in a breath. “Shit. Someone’s coming.” “A tank,” Kenji clarifies. “More than one,” Adam adds. “So why are we still standing here—” “Wait, Juliette, hold on a second—” And then I see it. A parade of tanks coming down the main road. I count 6 of them altogether. Kenji unleashes a series of expletives under his breath. “What is it?” I ask. “What’s the problem?” “There was only one reason Warner ever ordered us to take more than two tanks out at a time, on the same route,” Adam says to me. “What—” “They’re preparing for a fight.” I gasp. “He knows,” Kenji says. “Dammit! Of course he knows. Castle was right. He knows we’re bringing backup. Shit.” “What time is it, Kenji?” “We have about forty-five minutes.” “Then let’s move,” I tell him. “We don’t have time to worry about what’s going to happen afterward. Castle is prepared—he’s anticipating something like this. We’ll be okay. But if we don’t get to that house on time, Winston and Brendan and everyone else might die today.” “We might die today,” he points out. “Yeah,” I tell him. “That, too.” We’re moving through the streets quickly now. Swiftly. Darting through the clearing toward some semblance of civilization and that’s when I see it: the remnants of an achingly familiar universe. Little square houses with little square yards that are now nothing more than wild weeds decaying in the wind. The dead grass crunches under our feet, icy and uninviting. We count down the houses. 1542 Sycamore. It must be this one. It’s impossible to miss. It’s the only house on this entire street that looks fully functional. The paint is fresh, clean, a beautiful shade of robin’s-egg blue. A small set of stairs leads up to the front porch, where I notice 2 white wicker rocking chairs and a huge planter full of bright blue flowers I’ve never seen before. I see a welcome mat made of rubber, wind chimes hanging from a wooden beam, clay pots and a small shovel tucked into a corner. It’s everything we can never have anymore. Someone lives here. It’s impossible that this exists. I’m pulling Kenji and Adam toward the home, overcome with emotion, almost forgetting that we’re no longer allowed to live in this old, beautiful world.

Someone is yanking me backward. “This isn’t it,” Kenji says to me. “This is the wrong street. Shit. This is the wrong street— we’re supposed to be two streets down—” “But this house—it’s—I mean, Kenji, someone lives here—” “No one lives here,” he says. “Someone probably set this up to throw us off—in fact, I bet that house is lined with C4. It’s probably a trap designed to catch people wandering unregulated turf. Now come on”—he yanks at my hand again—“we have to hurry. We have seven minutes!” And even though we’re running forward, I keep looking back, waiting to see some sign of life, waiting to see someone step outside to check the mail, waiting to see a bird fly by. And maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m insane. But I could’ve sworn I just saw a curtain flutter in an upstairs window.

THIRTY-THREE 90 seconds. The real 1542 Sycamore is just as dilapidated as I’d originally imagined it would be. It’s a crumbling mess, its roof groaning under the weight of too many years’ negligence. Adam and Kenji and I are standing just around the corner, out of sight even though we’re technically still invisible. There is not a single person anywhere, and the entire house looks abandoned. I’m beginning to wonder if this was all just an elaborate joke. 75 seconds. “You guys stay hidden,” I tell Kenji and Adam, struck by sudden inspiration. “I want him to think I’m alone. If anything goes wrong, you guys can jump in, okay? There’s too much of a risk that your presence will throw things off too quickly.” They’re both quiet a moment. “Damn. That’s a good idea,” Kenji says. “I should’ve thought of that.” I can’t help but grin, just a little. “I’m going to let go now.” “Hey—good luck,” Kenji says, his voice unexpectedly soft. “We’ll be right behind you.” “Juliette—” I hesitate at the sound of Adam’s voice. He almost says something but seems to change his mind. He clears his throat. Whispers, “Promise you’ll be careful.” “I promise,” I say into the wind, fighting back emotion. Not now. I can’t deal with this right now. I have to focus. So I take a deep breath. Step forward. Let go. 10 seconds and I’m trying to breathe 9 and I’m trying to be brave 8 but the truth is I’m scared out of my mind 7 and I have no idea what’s waiting for me behind that door 6

and I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a heart attack 5 but I can’t turn back now 4 because there it is 3 the door is right in front of me 2 all I have to do is knock 1 but the door flies open first. “Oh good,” he says to me. “You’re right on time.”

THIRTY-FOUR “It’s refreshing, really,” he says. “To see that the youth still value things like punctuality. It’s always so frustrating when people waste my time.” My head is full of missing buttons and shards of glass and broken pencil tips. I’m nodding too slowly, blinking like an idiot, unable to find the words in my mouth either because they’re lost or because they never existed or simply because I have no idea what to say. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe I thought he’d be old and slumped and slightly blind. Maybe he’d be wearing a patch on one eye and have to walk with a cane. Maybe he’d have rotting teeth and ragged skin and coarse, balding hair and maybe he’d be a centaur, a unicorn, an old witch with a pointy hat anything anything anything but this. Because this isn’t possible. This is so hard for me to understand and whatever I was expecting was wrong so utterly, incredibly, horribly wrong. I’m staring at a man who is absolutely, breathtakingly beautiful. And he is a man. He has to be at least 45 years old, tall and strong and silhouetted in a suit that fits him so perfectly it’s almost unfair. His hair is thick, smooth like hazelnut spread; his jawline is sharp, the lines of his face perfectly symmetrical, his cheekbones hardened by life and age. But it’s his eyes that make all the difference. His eyes are the most spectacular things I’ve ever seen. They’re almost aquamarine. “Please,” he says, flashing me an incredible smile. “Come in.” And it hits me then, right in that moment, because everything suddenly makes sense. His look; his stature; his smooth, classy demeanor; the ease with which I nearly forgot he was a villain—this man. This is Warner’s father. I step into what looks like a small living room. There are old, lumpy couches settled around a tiny coffee table. The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling from age. The house is heavy with a strange, moldy smell that indicates the cracked glass windows haven’t been opened in years, and the carpet is forest green under my feet, the walls embellished with fake wood panels that don’t make sense to me at all. This house is, in a word, ugly. It seems ridiculous for a man so striking to be found inside of a house so horribly inferior. “Oh wait,” he says, “just one thing.”

“Wha—” He’s pinned me against the wall by the throat, his hands carefully sheathed in a pair of leather gloves, already prepared to touch my skin to cut off my oxygen, choke me to death and I’m so sure I’m dying, I’m so sure that this is what it feels like to die, to be utterly immobilized, limp from the neck down. I try to claw at him, kicking at his body with the last of my energy until I’m giving up, forfeiting to my own stupidity, my last thoughts condemning me for being such an idiot, for thinking I could actually come in here and accomplish anything until I realize he’s undone my holsters, stolen my guns, put them in his pockets. He lets me go. I drop to the floor. He tells me to have a seat. I shake my head, coughing against the torture in my lungs, wheezing into the dirty, musty air, heaving in strange, horrible gasps, my whole body in spasms against the pain. I’ve been inside for less than 2 minutes and he’s already overpowered me. I have to figure out how to do something, how to get through this alive. Now’s not the time to hold back. I press my eyes shut for a moment. Try to clear my airways, try to find my head. When I finally look up I see he’s already seated himself on one of the chairs, staring at me as though thoroughly entertained. I can hardly speak. “Where are the hostages?” “They’re fine.” This man whose name I do not know waves an indifferent hand in the air. “They’ll be just fine. Are you sure you won’t sit down?”

“What—” I try to clear my throat and regret it immediately, forcing myself to blink back the traitorous tears burning my eyes. “What do you want from me?” He leans forward in his seat. Clasps his hands. “You know, I’m not entirely sure anymore.” “What?” “Well, you’ve certainly figured out that all of this”—he nods at me, around the room—“is just a distraction, right?” He smiles that same incredible smile. “Surely you’ve realized that my ultimate goal was to lure your people out into my territory? My men are waiting for just one word. One word from me and they will seek out and destroy all of your little friends waiting so patiently within this half-mile radius.” Terror waves hello to me. He laughs a little. “If you think I don’t know exactly what’s going on in my own land, young lady, you are quite mistaken.” He shakes his head. “I’ve let these freaks live too freely among us, and it was my mistake. They’re causing me too much trouble, and now it’s time to take them out.” “I am one of those freaks,” I tell him, trying to control the tremble in my voice. “Why did you bring me here if all you want is to kill us? Why me? You didn’t have to single me out.” “You’re right.” He nods. Stands up. Shoves his hands into his pockets. “I came here with a purpose: to clean up the mess my son made, and to finally put an end to the naive efforts of a group of idiotic aberrations. To erase the lot of you from this sorry world. But then,” he says, laughing a little, “just as I began drafting my plans, my son came to me and begged me not to kill you. Just you.” He stops. Looks up. “He actually begged me not to kill you.” Laughs again. “It was just as pathetic as it was surprising. “Of course then I knew I had to meet you,” he says, smiling, staring at me like he might be enchanted. “‘I must meet the girl who’s managed to bewitch my boy!’ I said to myself. This girl who’s managed to make him lose sight of his pride—his dignity—long enough to beg me for a favor.” A pause. “Do you know,” he says to me, “when my son has ever asked me for a favor?” He cocks his head. Waits for me to answer. I shake my head. “Never.” He takes a breath. “Never. Not once in nineteen years has he ever asked me for anything. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” His smile is wider, brilliant. “I take full credit, of course. I raised him well. Taught him to be entirely self-reliant, self-possessed, unencumbered by the needs and wants that break most other men. So to hear these disgraceful, pleading words come out of his mouth?” He shakes his head. “Well. Naturally, I was intrigued. I had to see you for myself. I needed to understand what he’d seen, what was so special about you that it could’ve caused such a colossal lapse in judgment. Though, to be perfectly honest,” he says, “I really didn’t think you’d show up.” He takes one hand out of his pocket, gestures with it as he speaks. “I mean I certainly hoped you would. But I thought if you did, you’d at least come with support —some form of backup. But here you are, wearing this spandex monstrosity”—he laughs out loud—“and you’re all alone.” He studies me. “Very stupid,” he says. “But brave. I like that. I can admire bravery. “Anyhow, I brought you here to teach my son a lesson. I had every intention of killing you,” he says, assuming a slow, steady walk around the room. “And I preferred to do it where he would be sure to see it. War is messy,” he adds, waving his hand. “It’s easy to lose track of who’s been killed and how they died and who killed whom, et cetera, et cetera. I wanted this particular death to be as clean and simple as the message it would convey. It’s not good for him to form these kinds of attachments, after all. It’s my duty as his father to put an end to that kind of nonsense.” I feel sick, so sick, so tremendously sick to my stomach. This man is far worse than I ever could have imagined.

My voice is one hard breath, one loud whisper when I speak. “So why don’t you just kill me?” He hesitates. Says, “I don’t know. I had no idea you were going to be quite so lovely. I’m afraid my son never mentioned how beautiful you are. And it’s always so difficult to kill a beautiful thing,” he sighs. “Besides, you surprised me. You arrived on time. Alone. You were actually willing to sacrifice yourself to save the worthless creatures stupid enough to get themselves caught.” He takes a sharp breath. “Maybe we could keep you. If you don’t prove useful, you might prove entertaining, at the very least.” He tilts his head, thoughtful. “Though if we did keep you, I suppose you’d have to come back to the capital with me, because I can’t trust my son to do anything right anymore. I’ve given him far too many chances.” “Thanks for the offer,” I tell him. “But I’d really rather jump off a cliff.” His laughter is like a hundred little bells, happy and wholesome and contagious. “Oh my.” He smiles, bright and warm and devastatingly sincere. He shakes his head. Calls over his shoulder toward what looks like it might be another room—maybe the kitchen, I can’t be sure— and says, “Son, would you come in here, please?” And all I can think is that sometimes you’re dying, sometimes you’re about to explode, sometimes you’re 6 feet under and you’re searching for a window when someone pours lighter fluid in your hair and lights a match on your face. I feel my bones ignite. Warner is here.

THIRTY-FIVE He appears in a doorway directly across from where I’m now standing and he looks exactly as I remember him. Golden hair and perfect skin and eyes too bright for their faded shade of emerald. His is an exquisitely handsome face, one I now realize he’s inherited from his father. It’s the kind of face no one believes in anymore; lines and angles and easy symmetry that’s almost offensive in its perfection. No one should ever want a face like that. It’s a face destined for trouble, for danger, for an outlet to overcompensate for the excess it stole from an unsuspecting innocent. It’s overdone. It’s too much. It frightens me. Black and green and gold seem to be his colors. His pitch-black suit is tailored to his frame, lean but muscular, offset by the crisp white of his shirt underneath and complemented by the simple black tie knotted at his throat. He stands straight, tall, unflinching. To anyone else he would look imposing, even with his right arm still in a sling. He’s the kind of boy who was only ever taught to be a man, who was told to erase the concept of childhood from his life’s expectations. His lips do not dare to smile, his forehead does not crease in distress. He has been taught to disguise his emotions, to hide his thoughts from the world and to trust no one and nothing. To take what he wants by whatever means necessary. I can see all of this so clearly. But he looks different to me. His gaze is too heavy, his eyes, too deep. His expression is too full of something I don’t want to recognize. He’s looking at me like I succeeded, like I shot him in the heart and shattered

him, like I left him to die after he told me he loved me and I refused to think it was even possible. And I see the difference in him now. I see what’s changed. He’s making no effort to hide his emotions from me. My lungs are liars, pretending they can’t expand just to have a laugh at my expense and my fingers are fluttering, struggling to escape the prison of my bones as if they’ve waited 17 years to fly away. Escape, is what my fingers say to me. Breathe, is what I keep saying to myself. Warner as a child. Warner as a son. Warner as a boy who has only a limited grasp of his own life. Warner with a father who would teach him a lesson by killing the one thing he’d ever be willing to beg for. Warner as a human being terrifies me more than anything else. The supreme commander is impatient. “Sit down,” he says to his son, motioning to the couch he was just sitting on. Warner doesn’t say a word to me. His eyes are glued to my face, my body, to the harness strapped to my chest; his gaze lingers on my neck, on the marks his father likely left behind and I see the motion in his throat, I see the difficulty he has swallowing down the sight in front of him before he finally rips himself away and walks into the living room. He’s so like his father, I’m beginning to realize. The way he walks, the way he looks in a suit, the way he’s so meticulous about his hygiene. And yet there is no doubt in my mind that he detests the man he fails so miserably not to emulate. “So I would like to know,” the supreme says, “how, exactly, you managed to get away.” He looks at me. “I’m suddenly curious, and my son has made it very difficult to extract these details.” I blink at him. “Tell me,” he says. “How did you escape?” I’m confused. “The first or the second time?” “Twice! You managed to escape twice!” He’s laughing heartily now; he slaps his knee. “Incredible. Both times, then. How did you get away both times?” I wonder why he’s stalling for time. I don’t understand why he wants to talk when so many people are waiting for a war and I can’t help but hope that Adam and Kenji and Castle and everyone else haven’t frozen to death outside. And while I don’t have a plan, I do have a hunch. I have a feeling our hostages might be hidden in the kitchen. So I figure I’ll humor him for a little while. I tell him I jumped out the window the first time. Shot Warner the second time. The supreme is no longer smiling. “You shot him?” I spare a glance at Warner to see his eyes are still fixed firmly on my face, his mouth still in no danger of moving. I have no idea what he’s thinking and I’m suddenly so curious I want to provoke him. “Yes,” I say, meeting Warner’s gaze. “I shot him. With his own gun.” And the sudden tension in his jaw, the eyes that drop down to the hands he’s gripping too tightly in his lap—he looks as if he’s wrenched the bullet out of his body with his own 5 fingers. The supreme runs a hand through his hair, rubs his chin. I notice he seems unsettled for the first time since I’ve arrived and I wonder how it’s possible he had no idea how I escaped. I wonder what Warner must have said about the bullet wound in his arm. “What’s your name?” I ask before I can stop myself, catching the words just a moment too late. I shouldn’t be asking stupid questions but I hate that I keep referring to him as “the supreme,” as if he’s some kind of untouchable entity. Warner’s father looks at me. “My name?”

I nod. “You may call me Supreme Commander Anderson,” he says, still confused. “Why does that matter?” “Anderson? But I thought your last name was Warner.” I thought he had a first name I could use to distinguish between him and the Warner I’ve grown to know too well. Anderson takes a hard breath, spares a disgusted glance at his son. “Definitely not,” he says to me. “My son thought it would be a good idea to take his mother’s last name, because that’s exactly the kind of stupid thing he’d do. The mistake,” he says, almost announcing it now, “that he always makes, time and time again—allowing his emotions to get in the way of his duty—it’s pathetic,” he says, spitting in Warner’s direction. “Which is why as much as I’d like to let you live, my dear, I’m afraid you’re too much of a distraction in his life. I cannot allow him to protect a person who has attempted to kill him.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe I even have to have this conversation. What an embarrassment he’s proven to be.” Anderson reaches into his pocket, pulls out a gun, aims it at my forehead. Changes his mind. “I’m sick of always cleaning up after you,” he barks at Warner, grabbing his arm, pulling him up from the couch. He pushes his son directly across from me, presses the gun into his good hand. “Shoot her,” he says. “Shoot her right now.”

THIRTY-SIX Warner’s gaze is locked onto mine. He’s looking at me, eyes raw with emotion and I’m not sure I even know him anymore. I’m not sure I understand him, I’m not sure I know what he’s going to do when he lifts the gun with a strong, steady hand and points it directly at my face. “Hurry up,” Anderson says. “The sooner you do this, the sooner you can move on. Now get this over with—” But Warner cocks his head. Turns around. Points the gun at his father. I actually gasp. Anderson looks bored, irritated, annoyed. He runs an impatient hand across his face before he pulls out another gun—my other gun—from his pocket. It’s unbelievable. Father and son, both threatening to kill each other. “Point the gun in the right direction, Aaron. This is ridiculous.” Aaron. I almost laugh in the middle of this insanity. Warner’s first name is Aaron. “I have no interest in killing her,” Warner Aaron he says to his father. “Fine.” Anderson points the gun at my head again. “I’ll do it then.” “Shoot her,” Warner says, “and I will put a bullet through your skull.” It’s a triangle of death. Warner pointing a gun at his father, his father pointing a gun at me. I’m the only one without a weapon and I don’t know what to do. If I move, I’m going to die. If I don’t move, I’m going to die. Anderson is smiling. “How charming,” he says. He’s wearing an easy, lazy grin, his grip on the gun in his hand so deceptively casual. “What is it? Does she make you feel brave, boy?” A pause. “Does she make you feel strong?”

Warner says nothing. “Does she make you wish you could be a better man?” A little chuckle. “Has she filled your head with dreams about your future?” A harder laugh. “You have lost your mind,” he says, “over a stupid child who’s too much of a coward to defend herself even with the barrel of a gun pointed straight at her face. This,” he says, pointing the gun harder in my direction, “is the silly little girl you’ve fallen in love with.” He exhales a short, hard breath. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.” A new tightness in his breathing. A new tightness in his grip around the gun in his hand. These are the only signs that Warner is even remotely affected by his father’s words. “How many times,” Anderson asks, “have you threatened to kill me? How many times have I woken up in the middle of the night to find you, even as a little boy, trying to shoot me in my sleep?” He cocks his head. “Ten times? Maybe fifteen? I have to admit I’ve lost count.” He stares at Warner. Smiles again. “And how many times,” he says, his voice so much louder now, “were you able to go through with it? How many times did you succeed? How many times,” he says, “did you burst into tears, apologizing, clinging to me like some demented—” “Shut your mouth,” Warner says, his voice so low, so even, his frame so still it’s terrifying. “You are weak,” Anderson spits, disgusted. “Too pathetically sentimental. Don’t want to kill your own father? Too afraid it’ll break your miserable heart?” Warner’s jaw tenses. “Shoot me,” Anderson says, his eyes dancing, bright with amusement. “I said shoot me!” he shouts, this time reaching for Warner’s injured arm, grabbing him until his fingers are clenched tight around the wound, twisting his arm back until Warner actually gasps from the pain, blinking too fast, trying desperately to suppress the scream building inside of him. His grip on the gun in his good hand wavers, just a little. Anderson releases his son. Pushes him so hard that Warner stumbles as he tries to maintain his balance. His face is chalk-white. The sling wrapped around his arm is seeping with blood. “So much talk,” Anderson says, shaking his head. “So much talk and never enough followthrough. You embarrass me,” he says to Warner, face twisted in repulsion. “You make me sick.” A sharp crack. Anderson backhands Warner in the face so hard Warner actually sways for a moment, already unsteady from all the blood he’s losing. But he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t make a sound. He stands there, bearing the pain, blinking fast, jaw so tight, staring at his father with absolutely no emotion on his face; there’s no indication he’s just been slapped but the bright red mark across his cheek, his temple, and part of his forehead. But his arm sling is more blood than cotton now, and he looks far too ill to be on his feet. Still, he says nothing. “Do you want to threaten me again?” Anderson is breathing hard as he speaks. “Do you still think you can defend your little girlfriend? You think I’m going to allow your stupid infatuation to get in the way of everything I’ve built? Everything I’ve worked toward?” Anderson’s gun is no longer pointed at me. He forgets me long enough to press the barrel of his gun into Warner’s forehead, twisting it, jabbing it against his skin as he speaks. “Have I taught you nothing?” he shouts. “Have you learned nothing from me—” I don’t know how to explain what happens next. All I know is that my hand is around Anderson’s throat and I’ve pinned him to the wall, so overcome by a blind, burning, all-consuming rage that I think my brain has already caught on fire and dissolved into ash. I squeeze a little harder. He’s sputtering. He’s gasping. He’s trying to get at my arms, clawing limp hands at my body and he’s turning red and blue and purple and I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying it so, so much.

I think I’m smiling. I bring my face less than an inch away from his ear and whisper, “Drop the gun.” He does. I drop him and grab the gun at the same time. Anderson is wheezing, coughing on the floor, trying to breathe, trying to speak, trying to reach for something to defend himself with and I’m amused by his pain. I’m floating in a cloud of absolute, undiluted hatred for this man and all that he’s done and I want to sit and laugh until the tears choke me into a contented sort of silence. I understand so much now. So much. “Juliette—” “Warner,” I say, so softly, still staring at Anderson’s body slumped on the floor in front of me, “I’m going to need you to leave me alone right now.” I weigh the gun in my hands. Test my finger on the trigger. Try to remember what Kenji taught me about taking aim. About keeping my hands and arms steady. Preparing for the kickback—the recoil—of the shot. I tilt my head. Take inventory of his body parts. “You,” Anderson finally manages to gasp, “you—” I shoot him in the leg. He’s screaming. I think he’s screaming. I can’t really hear anything anymore. My ears feel stuffed full of cotton, like someone might be trying to speak to me or maybe someone is shouting at me but everything is muffled and I have too much to focus on right now to pay attention to whatever annoying things are happening in the background. All I know is the reverberation of this weapon in my hand. All I hear is the gunshot echoing through my head. And I decide I’d like to do it again. I shoot him in the other leg. There’s so much screaming. I’m entertained by the horror in his eyes. The blood ruining the expensive fabric of his clothes. I want to tell him he doesn’t look very attractive with his mouth open like that but then I think he probably wouldn’t care about my opinion anyway. I’m just a silly girl to him. Just a silly little girl, a stupid child with a pretty face who’s too much of a coward, he said, too much of a coward to defend herself. And oh, wouldn’t he like to keep me. Wouldn’t he like to keep me as his little pet. And I realize no. I shouldn’t bother sharing my thoughts with him. There’s no point wasting words on someone who’s about to die. I take aim at his chest. Try to remember where the heart is. Not quite to the left. Not quite in the center. Just—there. Perfect.

THIRTY-SEVEN I am a thief. I stole this notebook and this pen from one of the doctors, from one of his lab coats when he wasn’t looking, and I shoved them both down my pants. This was just before he ordered those men to come and get me. The ones in the strange suits with the thick gloves and the gas masks with the foggy plastic windows hiding their eyes. They were aliens, I remember thinking. I remember thinking they must’ve been aliens because they couldn’t have been human, the ones who handcuffed my hands behind my back, the ones who strapped me to my seat. They stuck Tasers to my skin over and over for no reason other than to hear me scream but I wouldn’t. I whimpered but I never said a word. I felt the tears streak down my cheeks but I wasn’t crying.

I think it made them angry. They slapped me awake even though my eyes were open when we arrived. Someone unstrapped me without removing my handcuffs and kicked me in both kneecaps before ordering me to rise. And I tried. I tried but I couldn’t and finally 6 hands shoved me out the door and my face was bleeding on the concrete for a while. I can’t really remember the part where they dragged me inside. I feel cold all the time. I feel empty, like there is nothing inside of me but this broken heart, the only organ left in this shell. I feel the bleats echo within me, I feel the thumping reverberate around my skeleton. I have a heart, says science, but I am a monster, says society. And I know it, of course I know it. I know what I’ve done. I’m not asking for sympathy. But sometimes I think—sometimes I wonder—if I were a monster, surely, I would feel it by now? I would feel angry and vicious and vengeful. I’d know blind rage and bloodlust and a need for vindication. Instead I feel an abyss within me that’s so deep, so dark I can’t see within it; I can’t see what it holds. I do not know what I am or what might happen to me. I do not know what I might do again.

THIRTY-EIGHT An explosion. The sound of glass shattering. Someone yanks me back just as I pull the trigger and the bullet hits the window behind Anderson’s head. I’m spun around. Kenji is shaking me, shaking me so hard I feel my head jerk back and forth and he’s screaming at me, telling me we have to go, that I need to drop the gun, he’s breathing hard and he’s saying, “I’m going to need you to walk away, okay? Juliette? Can you understand me? I need you to back off right now. You’re going to be okay—you’re going to be all right—you’re going to be fine, you just have to—” “No, Kenji—” I’m trying to stop him from pulling me away, trying to keep my feet planted where they are because he doesn’t understand. He needs to understand. “I have to kill him. I have to make sure he dies,” I’m telling him. “I just need you to give me another second—” “No,” he says, “not yet, not right now,” and he’s looking at me like he’s about to break, like he’s seen something in my face that he wishes he’d never seen, and he says, “We can’t. We can’t kill him yet. It’s too soon, okay?” But it’s not okay and I don’t understand what’s happening but Kenji is reaching for my hand, he’s prying the gun out of the fingers I didn’t realize were wrapped so tightly around the handle. And I’m blinking. I feel confused and disappointed. I look down at my hands. At my suit. And I can’t understand for a moment where all the blood came from. I glance at Anderson. His eyes are rolled back in his head. Kenji is checking his pulse. Looks at me, says, “I think he fainted.” And my body has begun to shake so violently I can hardly stand. What have I done. I back away, needing to find a wall to cling to, something solid to hold on to and Kenji catches me, he’s holding me so tightly with one arm and cradling my head with his other hand

and I feel like I might want to cry but for some reason I can’t. I can’t do anything but endure these tremors rocking the length of my entire frame. “We have to go,” Kenji says to me, stroking my hair in a show of tenderness I know is rare for him. I close my eyes against his shoulder, wanting to draw strength from his warmth. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks me. “I need you to walk with me, all right? We’ll have to run, too.” “Warner,” I gasp, ripping out of Kenji’s embrace, eyes wild. “Where’s—” He’s unconscious. A heap on the floor. Arms bound behind his back, an empty syringe tossed on the carpet beside him. “I took care of Warner,” Kenji says. Suddenly everything is slamming into me all at the same time. All the reasons why we were supposed to be here, what we were trying to accomplish in the first place, the reality of what I’ve done and what I was about to do. “Kenji,” I’m gasping, “Kenji, where’s Adam? What happened? Where are the hostages? Is everyone okay?” “Adam is fine,” he reassures me. “We slipped in the back door and found Ian and Emory.” He looks toward the kitchen area. “They’re in pretty bad shape, but Adam’s hauling them out, trying to get them to wake up.” “What about the others? Brendan? A-and Winston?” Kenji shakes his head. “I have no idea. But I have a feeling we’ll be able to get them back.” “How?” Kenji nods at Warner. “We’re going to take this kid hostage.” “What?” “It’s our best bet,” he says to me. “Another trade. A real one, this time. Besides, it’ll be fine. You take away his guns, and this golden boy is harmless.” He walks toward Warner’s unmoving figure. Nudges him with the toe of his boot before hauling him up, flipping Warner’s body over his shoulder. I can’t help but notice that Warner’s injured arm is now completely soaked through with blood. “Come on,” Kenji says to me, not unkindly, eyes assessing my frame like he’s not sure if I’m stable yet. “Let’s get out of here—it’s insanity out there and we don’t have much time before they move into this street—” “What?” I’m blinking too fast. “What do you mean—” Kenji looks at me, disbelief written across his features. “The war, princess. They’re all fighting to the death out there—” “But Anderson never made the call—he said they were waiting for a word from him—” “No,” Kenji says. “Anderson didn’t make the call. Castle did.” Oh God. “Juliette!” Adam is rushing into the house, whipping around to find my face until I run forward and he catches me in his arms without thinking, without remembering that we don’t do this anymore, that we’re not together anymore, that he shouldn’t be touching me at all. “You’re okay—you’re okay—” “LET’S GO,” Kenji barks for the final time. “I know this is an emotional moment or whatever, but we have to get our asses the hell out of here. I swear, Kent—” But Kenji stops. His eyes drop. Adam is on his knees, a look of fear and pain and horror and anger and terror etched into every line on his face and I’m trying to shake him, I’m trying to get him to tell me what’s wrong and he can’t move, he’s frozen on the ground, his eyes glued to Anderson’s body, his hands

reaching out to touch the hair that was so perfectly set almost a moment ago and I’m begging him to speak to me, begging him to tell me what happened and it’s like the world shifts in his eyes, like nothing will ever be right in this world and nothing can ever be good again and he parts his lips. He tries to speak. “My father,” he says. “This man is my father.”

THIRTY-NINE “Shit.” Kenji presses his eyes shut like he can’t believe this is happening. “Shit shit shit.” He shifts Warner against his shoulders, wavers between being sensitive and being a soldier and says, “Adam, man, I’m sorry, but we really have to get out of here—” Adam gets up, blinking back what I can only imagine are a thousand thoughts, memories, worries, hypotheses, and I call his name but it’s like he can’t even hear it. He’s confused, disoriented, and I’m wondering how this man could possibly be his father when Adam told me his dad was dead. Now is not the time for these conversations. Something explodes in the distance and the impact rattles the ground, the windows, the doors of this house, and Adam seems to snap back to reality. He jumps forward, grabs my arm, and we’re bolting out the door. Kenji is in the lead, somehow managing to run despite the weight of Warner’s body, limp, hanging over his shoulder, and he’s shouting at us to stay close behind. I’m spinning, analyzing the chaos around us. The sounds of gunshots are too close too close too close. “Where are Ian and Emory?” I ask Adam. “Did you get them out?” “A couple of our guys were fighting not too far from here and managed to commandeer one of the tanks—I got them to carry those two back to Point,” he tells me, shouting so I can hear him. “It was the safest transport possible.” I’m nodding, gasping for air as we fly through the streets and I’m trying to focus on the sounds around us, trying to figure out who’s winning, trying to figure out if our numbers have been decimated. We round the corner. You’d think it’d be a massacre. 50 of our people are fighting against 500 of Anderson’s soldiers, who are unloading round after round, shooting at anything that could possibly be a target. Castle and the others are holding their ground, bloody and wounded but fighting back as best they can. Our men and women are armed and storming forward to match the shots of the opposition; others are fighting the only way they know how: one man has his hands to the ground, freezing the earth beneath the soldiers’ feet, causing them to lose balance; another man is darting through the soldiers with such speed he’s nothing but a blur, confusing the men and knocking them down and stealing their guns. I look up and see a woman hiding in a tree, throwing what must be knives or arrows in such rapid succession that the soldiers don’t have a moment to react before they’re hit from above. Then there’s Castle in the middle of it all, his hands outstretched over his head, collecting a whirlwind of particles, debris, scattered strips of steel and broken branches with nothing more than the coercion of his fingertips. The others have formed a human wall around him, protecting him as he forms a cyclone of such magnitude that even I can see he’s straining to maintain control of it. Then

he lets go. The soldiers are shouting, screaming, running back and ducking for cover but most are too slow to escape the reach of so much destruction and they’re down, impaled by shards of glass and stone and wood and broken metal but I know this defense won’t last for long. Someone has to tell Castle. Someone has to tell him to go, to get out of here, that Anderson is down and that we have 2 of our hostages and Warner in tow. He has to get our men and women back to Omega Point before the soldiers get smart and someone throws a bomb big enough to destroy everything. Our numbers won’t hold up for much longer and this is the perfect opportunity for them to get safe. I tell Adam and Kenji what I’m thinking. “But how?” Kenji shouts above the chaos. “How can we get to him? If we run through there we’re dead! We need some kind of distraction—” “What?” I yell back. “A distraction!” he shouts. “We need something to throw off the soldiers long enough for one of us to grab Castle and give him the green light—we don’t have much time—” Adam is already trying to grab me, he’s already trying to stop me, he’s already begging me not to do what he thinks I’m going to do and I tell him it’s okay. I tell him not to worry. I tell him to get the others to safety and promise him I’m going to be just fine but he reaches for me, he’s pleading with his eyes and I’m so tempted to stay here, right next to him, but I break away. I finally know what I need to do; I’m finally ready to help; I’m finally kind of a little bit sure that maybe this time I might be able to control it and I have to try. So I stumble back. I close my eyes. I let go. I fall to my knees and press my palm to the ground and feel the power coursing through me, feel it curdling in my blood and mixing with the anger, the passion, the fire inside of me and I think of every time my parents called me a monster, a horrible terrifying mistake and I think of all the nights I sobbed myself to sleep and see all the faces that wanted me dead and then it’s like a slide show of images reeling through my mind, men and women and children, innocent protesters run over in the streets; I see guns and bombs, fire and devastation, so much suffering suffering suffering and I steel myself. I flex my fist. I pull back my arm and I shatter what’s left of this earth.

FORTY I’m still here. I open my eyes and I’m momentarily astonished, confused, half expecting to find myself dead or brain-damaged or at the very least mangled on the ground, but this reality refuses to vanish. The world under my feet is rumbling, rattling, shaking and thundering to life and my fist is still pressed into the ground and I’m afraid to let go. I’m on my knees, looking up at both sides of this battle and I see the soldiers slowing down. I see their eyes dart around. I see their feet slipping failing to stay standing and the snaps, the groans, the unmistakable cracks that are now

creaking through the middle of the pavement cannot be ignored and it’s like the jaws of life are stretching their joints, grinding their teeth, yawning themselves awake to witness our disgrace. The ground looks around, its mouth gaping open at the injustice, the violence, the calculated ploys for power that stop for no one and nothing and are sated only by the blood of the weak, the screams of the unwilling. It’s as if the earth thought to take a peek at what we’ve been doing all this time and it’s terrifying just how disappointed it sounds. Adam is running. He’s dashing through a crowd still gasping for air and an explanation for the earthquake under their feet and he tackles Castle, he pins him down, he’s shouting to the men and the women and he ducks, he dodges a stray bullet, he pulls Castle to his feet and our people have begun to run. The soldiers on the opposite side are stumbling over each other and tripping into a tangle of limbs as they try to outrun one another and I’m wondering how much longer I have to hold on, how much longer this must go on before it’s sufficient, and Kenji shouts, “Juliette!” And I spin around just in time to hear him tell me to let go. So I do. The wind the trees the fallen leaves all slip and slide back into place with one giant inhalation and everything stops and for a moment I can’t remember what it’s like to live in a world that isn’t falling apart. Kenji yanks me up by the arm and we’re running, we’re the last of our group to leave and he’s asking me if I’m okay and I’m wondering how he’s still carrying Warner, I’m thinking Kenji must be a hell of a lot stronger than he looks, and I’m thinking I’m too hard on him sometimes, I’m thinking I don’t give him enough credit. I’m just beginning to realize that he’s one of my favorite people on this planet and I’m so happy he’s okay. I’m so happy he’s my friend. I cling to his hand and let him lead me toward a tank abandoned on our side of the divide and suddenly I realize I can’t see Adam, that I don’t know where he’s gone and I’m frantic, I’m screaming his name until I feel his arms around my waist, his words in my ear, and we’re still diving for cover as the final shots sound in the distance. We clamber into the tank. We close the doors. We disappear.

FORTY-ONE Warner’s head is on my lap. His face is smooth and calm and peaceful in a way I’ve never seen it and I almost reach out to stroke his hair before I remember exactly how awkward this actually is. Murderer on my lap Murderer on my lap Murderer on my lap I look to my right. Warner’s legs are resting on Adam’s knees and he looks just as uncomfortable as I am. “Hang tight, guys,” Kenji says, still driving the tank toward Omega Point. “I know this is about a million different kinds of weird, but I didn’t exactly have enough time to think of a better plan.” He glances at the 2 3 of us but no one says a word until

“I’m so happy you guys are okay.” I say it like those 9 syllables have been sitting inside of me for too long, like they’ve been kicked out, evicted from my mouth, and only then do I realize exactly how worried I was that the 3 of us wouldn’t make it back alive. “I’m so, so happy you’re okay.” Deep, solemn, steady breathing all around. “How are you feeling?” Adam asks me. “Your arm—you’re all right?” “Yeah.” I flex my wrist and try not to wince. “I’m okay. These gloves and this metal thing actually helped, I think.” I wiggle my fingers. Examine my gloves. “Nothing is broken.” “That was pretty badass,” Kenji says to me. “You really saved us back there.” I shake my head. “Kenji—about what happened—in the house—I’m really sorry, I—” “Hey, how about let’s not talk about that right now.” “What’s going on?” Adam asks, alert. “What happened?” “Nothing,” Kenji says quickly. Adam ignores him. Looks at me. “What happened? Are you all right?” “I just—I j-just—” I struggle to speak. “What happened—with Warner’s da—” Kenji swears very loudly. My mouth freezes midmovement. My cheeks burn as I realize what I’ve said. As I remember what Adam said just before we ran from that house. He’s suddenly pale, pressing his lips together and looking away, out the tiny window of this tank. “Listen …” Kenji clears his throat. “We don’t have to talk about that, okay? In fact, I think I might rather not talk about that? Because that shit is just too weird for me to—” “I don’t know how it’s even possible,” Adam whispers. He’s blinking, staring straight ahead now, blinking and blinking and blinking and “I keep thinking I must be dreaming,” he says, “that I’m just hallucinating this whole thing. But then”—he drops his head in his hands, laughs a harsh laugh—“that is one face I will never forget.” “Didn’t—didn’t you ever meet the supreme commander?” I dare to ask. “Or even see a picture of him …? Isn’t that something you’d see in the army?” Adam shakes his head. Kenji speaks. “His whole kick was always being, like, invisible. He got some sick thrill out of being this unseen power.” “Fear of the unknown?” “Something like that, yeah. I heard he didn’t want his pictures anywhere—didn’t make any public speeches, either—because he thought if people could put a face on him, it would make him vulnerable. Human. And he always got his thrills from scaring the shit out of everyone. Being the ultimate power. The ultimate threat. Like—how can you fight something if you can’t even see it? Can’t even find it?” “That’s why it was such a big deal for him to be here,” I realize out loud. “Pretty much.” “But you thought your dad was dead,” I say to Adam. “I thought you said he was dead?” “Just so you guys know,” Kenji interjects, “I’m still voting for the we don’t have to talk about this option. You know. Just so you know. Just putting that out there.” “I thought he was,” Adam says, still not looking at me. “That’s what they told me.” “Who did?” Kenji asks. Catches himself. Winces. “Shit. Fine. Fine. I’m curious.” Adam shrugs. “It’s all starting to come together now. All the things I didn’t understand. How messed up my life was with James. After my mom died, my dad was never around unless he wanted to get drunk and beat the crap out of someone. I guess he was living a completely different life somewhere else. That’s why he used to leave me and James alone all the time.” “But that doesn’t make sense,” Kenji says. “I mean, not the parts about your dad being a dick, but just, like, the whole scope of it. Because if you and Warner are brothers, and you’re

eighteen, and Warner is nineteen, and Anderson has always been married to Warner’s mom—” “My parents were never married,” Adam says, eyes widening as he speaks the last word. “You were the love child?” Kenji says, disgusted. “I mean—you know, no offense to you— it’s just, I do not want to think about Anderson having some kind of passionate love affair. That is just sick.” Adam looks like he’s been frozen solid. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “But I mean, why even have a love affair?” Kenji asks. “I never understood that kind of crap. If you’re not happy, just leave. Don’t cheat. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that shit out. I mean”—he hesitates—“I’m assuming it was a love affair,” Kenji says, still driving and unable to see the look on Adam’s face. “Maybe it wasn’t a love affair. Maybe it was just another dudebeing-a-jackass kind of th—” He catches himself, cringes. “Shit. See, this is why I do not talk to people about their personal problems—” “It was,” Adam says, barely breathing now. “I have no idea why he never married her, but I know he loved my mom. He never gave a damn about the rest of us,” he says. “Just her. It was always about her. Everything was about her. The few times a month he was ever at home, I was always supposed to stay in my room. I was supposed to be very quiet. I had to knock on my own door and get permission before I could come out, even just to use the bathroom. And he used to get pissed whenever my mom would let me out. He didn’t want to see me unless he had to. My mom had to sneak me my dinner just so he wouldn’t go nuts about how she was feeding me too much and not saving anything for herself,” he says. He shakes his head. “And he was even worse when James was born.” Adam blinks like he’s going blind. “And then when she died,” he says, taking a deep breath, “when she died all he ever did was blame me for her death. He always told me it was my fault she got sick, and it was my fault she died. That I needed too much, that she didn’t eat enough, that she got weak because she was too busy taking care of us, giving food to us, giving … everything to us. To me and James.” His eyebrows pull together. “And I believed him for so long. I figured that was why he left all the time. I thought it was some kind of punishment. I thought I deserved it.” I’m too horrified to speak. “And then he just … I mean he was never around when I was growing up,” Adam says, “and he was always an asshole. But after she died he just … lost his mind. He used to come by just to get piss-drunk. He used to force me to stand in front of him so he could throw his empty bottles at me. And if I flinched—if I flinched—” He swallows, hard. “That’s all he ever did,” Adam says, his voice quieter now. “He would come over. Get drunk. Beat the shit out of me. I was fourteen when he stopped coming back.” Adam stares at his hands, palms up. “He sent some money every month for us to survive on and then—” A pause. “Two years later I got a letter from our brand-new government telling me my father was dead. I figured he probably got wasted again and did something stupid. Got hit by a car. Fell into the ocean. Whatever. It didn’t matter. I was happy he was dead, but I had to drop out of school. I enlisted because the money was gone and I had to take care of James and I knew I wouldn’t find another job.” Adam shakes his head. “He left us with nothing, not a single penny, not even a piece of meat to live off of, and now I’m sitting here, in this tank, running from a global war my own father has helped orchestrate”—he laughs a hard, hollow laugh—“and the one other worthless person on this planet is lying unconscious in my lap.” Adam is actually laughing now, laughing hard, disbelieving, his hand caught in his hair, tugging at the roots, gripping his skull. “And he’s my brother. My own flesh and blood. “My father had an entirely separate life I didn’t know about and instead of being dead like he should be, he gave me a brother who almost tortured me to death in a slaughterhouse—” He

runs an unsteady hand over the length of his face, suddenly cracking, suddenly slipping, suddenly losing control and his hands are shaking and he has to curl them into fists and he presses them against his forehead and says, “He has to die.” And I’m not breathing, not even a little bit, not even at all, when he says, “My father,” he says, “I have to kill him.”

FORTY-TWO I’m going to tell you a secret. I don’t regret what I did. I’m not sorry at all. In fact, if I had a chance to do it again I know this time I’d do it right. I’d shoot Anderson right through the heart. And I would enjoy it.

FORTY-THREE I don’t even know where to begin. Adam’s pain is like a handful of straw shoved down my throat. He has no parents but a father who beat him, abused him, abandoned him only to ruin the rest of the world and left him a brand-new brother who is exactly his opposite in every possible way. Warner whose first name is no longer a mystery, Adam whose last name isn’t actually Kent. Kent is his middle name, Adam said to me. He said he didn’t want to have anything to do with his father and never told people his real last name. He has that much, at least, in common with his brother. That, and the fact that both of them have some kind of immunity to my touch. Adam and Aaron Anderson. Brothers. I’m sitting in my room, sitting in the dark, struggling to reconcile Adam with his new sibling who is really nothing more than a boy, a child who hates his father and as a result, a child who made a series of very unfortunate decisions in life. 2 brothers. 2 very different sets of choices. 2 very different lives. Castle came to me this morning—now that all the injured have been set up in the medical wing and the insanity has subsided—he came to me and he said, “Ms. Ferrars, you were very brave yesterday. I wanted to extend my gratitude to you, and thank you for what you did—for showing your support. I don’t know that we would’ve made it out of there without you.” I smiled, struggled to swallow the compliment and assumed he was finished but then he said, “In fact, I’m so impressed that I’d like to offer you your first official assignment at Omega Point.” My first official assignment. “Are you interested?” he asked. I said yes yes yes of course I was interested, I was definitely interested, I was so very, very interested to finally have something to do—something to accomplish—and he smiled and he

said, “I’m so happy to hear it. Because I can’t think of anyone better suited to this particular position than you.” I beamed. The sun and the moon and the stars called and said, “Turn down the beaming, please, because you’re making it hard for us to see,” and I didn’t listen, I just kept on beaming. And then I asked Castle for the details of my official assignment. The one perfectly suited to me. And he said “I’d like you to be in charge of maintaining and interrogating our new visitor.” And I stopped beaming. I stared at Castle. “I will, of course, be overseeing the entire process,” Castle continued, “so feel free to come to me with questions and concerns. But we’ll need to take advantage of his presence here, and that means trying to get him to speak.” Castle was quiet a moment. “He … seems to have an odd sort of attachment to you, Ms. Ferrars, and—forgive me—but I think it would behoove us to exploit it. I don’t think we can afford the luxury of ignoring any possible advantages available to us. Anything he can tell us about his father’s plans, or where our hostages might be, will be invaluable to our efforts. And we don’t have much time,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll need you to get started right away.” And I asked the world to open up, I said, world, please open up, because I’d love to fall into a river of magma and die, just a little bit, but the world couldn’t hear me because Castle was still talking and he said, “Perhaps you can talk some sense into him? Tell him we’re not interested in hurting him? Convince him to help us get our remaining hostages back?” I said, “Oh,” I said surely, “he’s in some kind of holding cell? Behind bars or something?” But Castle laughed, amused by my sudden, unexpected hilarity and said don’t be silly, Ms. Ferrars, “We don’t have anything like that here. I never thought we’d need to keep anyone captive at Omega Point. But yes, he’s in his own room, and yes, the door is locked.” “So you want me to go inside of his room?” I asked. “With him? Alone?” Calm! Of course I was calm. I was definitely absolutely everything that is the opposite of calm. But then Castle’s forehead tightened, concerned. “Is that a problem?” he asked me. “I thought—because he can’t touch you—I actually thought you might not feel as threatened by him as the others do. He’s aware of your abilities, is he not? I imagine he would be wise to stay away from you for his own benefit.” And it was funny, because there it was: a vat of ice, all over my head, dripping leaking seeping into my bones, and actually no, it wasn’t funny at all, because I had to say, “Yes. Right. Yes, of course. I almost forgot. Of course he wouldn’t be able to touch me,” you’re quite right, Mr. Castle, sir, what on earth was I thinking. Castle was relieved, so relieved, as if he’d taken a dip in a warm pool he was sure would be frozen. And now I’m here, sitting in exactly the same position I was in 2 hours ago and I’m beginning to wonder how much longer I can keep this secret to myself.

FORTY-FOUR This is the door.

This one, right in front of me, this is where Warner is staying. There are no windows and there is no way to see inside of his room and I’m starting to think that this situation is the exact antonym of excellent. Yes. I am going to walk into his room, completely unarmed, because the guns are buried deep down in the armory and because I’m lethal, so why would I need a gun? No one in their right mind would lay a hand on me, no one but Warner, of course, whose half-crazed attempt at stopping me from escaping out of my window resulted in this discovery, his discovery that he can touch me without harming himself. And I’ve said a word of this to exactly no one. I really thought that perhaps I’d imagined it, just until Warner kissed me and told me he loved me and then, that’s when I knew I could no longer pretend this wasn’t happening. But it’s only been about 4 weeks since that day, and I didn’t know how to bring it up. I thought maybe I wouldn’t have to bring it up. I really, quite desperately didn’t want to bring it up. And now, the thought of telling anyone, of making it known to Adam, of all people, that the one person he hates most in this world—second only to his own father—is the one other person who can touch me? That Warner has already touched me, that his hands have known the shape of my body and his lips have known the taste of my mouth—never mind that it wasn’t something I actually wanted—I just can’t do it. Not now. Not after everything. So this situation is entirely my own fault. And I have to deal with it. I steel myself and step forward. There are 2 men I’ve never met before standing guard outside Warner’s door. This doesn’t mean much, but it gives me a modicum of calm. I nod hello in the guards’ direction and they greet me with such enthusiasm I actually wonder whether they’ve confused me with someone else. “Thanks so much for coming,” one of them says to me, his long, shaggy blond hair slipping into his eyes. “He’s been completely insane since he woke up—throwing things around and trying to destroy the walls—he’s been threatening to kill all of us. He says you’re the only one he wants to talk to, and he’s only just calmed down because we told him you were on your way.” “We had to take out all the furniture,” the other guard adds, his brown eyes wide, incredulous. “He was breaking everything. He wouldn’t even eat the food we gave him.” The antonym of excellent. The antonym of excellent. The antonym of excellent. I manage a feeble smile and tell them I’ll see what I can do to sedate him. They nod, eager to believe I’m capable of something I know I’m not and they unlock the door. “Just knock to let us know when you’re ready to leave,” they tell me. “Call for us and we’ll open the door.” I’m nodding yes and sure and of course and trying to ignore the fact that I’m more nervous right now than I was meeting his father. To be alone in a room with Warner—to be alone with him and to not know what he might do or what he’s capable of and I’m so confused, because I don’t even know who he is anymore. He’s 100 different people. He’s the person who forced me to torture a toddler against my will. He’s the child so terrorized, so psychologically tormented that he’d try to kill his own father in his sleep. He’s the boy who shot a defecting soldier in the forehead; the boy who was trained to be a cold, heartless murderer by a man he thought he could trust. I see Warner as a child desperately seeking his dad’s approval. I see him as the leader of an entire sector, eager to conquer me, to use me. I see

him feeding a stray dog. I see him torturing Adam almost to death. And then I hear him telling me he loves me, feel him kissing me with such unexpected passion and desperation that I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know what I’m walking into. I don’t know who he’ll be this time. Which side of himself he’ll show me today. But then I think this must be different. Because he’s in my territory now, and I can always call for help if something goes wrong. He’s not going to hurt me. I hope.

FORTY-FIVE I step inside. The door slams shut behind me but the Warner I find inside this room is not one I recognize at all. He’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, legs outstretched in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing nothing but socks, a simple white T-shirt, and a pair of black slacks. His coat, his shoes, and his fancy shirt are all discarded on the ground. His body is toned and muscular and hardly contained by his undershirt; his hair is a blond mess, disheveled for what’s probably the first time in his life. But he’s not looking at me. He doesn’t even look up as I take a step closer. He doesn’t flinch. I’ve forgotten how to breathe again. Then “Do you have any idea,” he says, so quietly, “how many times I’ve read this?” He lifts his hand but not his head and holds up a small, faded rectangle between 2 fingers. And I’m wondering how it’s possible to be punched in the gut by so many fists at the same time. My notebook. He’s holding my notebook. Of course he is. I can’t believe I’d forgotten. He was the last person to touch my notebook; the last person to see it. He took it from me when he found that I’d hidden it in the pocket of my dress back on base. This was just before I escaped, just before Adam and I jumped out the window and ran away. Just before Warner realized he could touch me. And now, to know that he’s read my most painful thoughts, my most anguished confessions —the things I wrote while in complete and utter isolation, certain that I would die in that very cell, so certain no one would ever read the things I wrote down—to know that he’s read these desperate whispers of my private mind. I feel absolutely, unbearably naked. Petrified. So vulnerable. He flips the notebook open at random. Scans the page until he stops. He finally looks up, his eyes sharper, brighter, a more beautiful shade of green than they’ve ever been and my heart is beating so fast I can’t even feel it anymore. And he begins to read. “No—,” I gasp, but it’s too late. “I sit here every day,” he says. “175 days I’ve sat here so far. Some days I stand up and stretch and feel these stiff bones, these creaky joints, this trampled spirit cramped inside my being. I roll my shoulders, I blink my eyes, I count the seconds creeping up the walls, the

minutes shivering under my skin, the breaths I have to remember to take. Sometimes I allow my mouth to drop open, just a little bit; I touch my tongue to the backs of my teeth and the seam of my lips and I walk around this small space, I trail my fingers along the cracks in the concrete and wonder, I wonder what it would be like to speak out loud and be heard. I hold my breath, listen closely for anything, any sound of life and wonder at the beauty, the impossibility of possibly hearing another person breathing beside me.” He presses the back of his fist to his mouth for just a moment before continuing. “I stop. I stand still. I close my eyes and try to remember a world beyond these walls. I wonder what it would be like to know that I’m not dreaming, that this isolated existence is not caged within my own mind. “And I do,” he says, reciting the words from memory now, his head resting back against the wall, eyes pressed shut as he whispers, “I do wonder, I think about it all the time. What it would be like to kill myself. Because I never really know, I still can’t tell the difference, I’m never quite certain whether or not I’m actually alive. So I sit here. I sit here every single day.” I’m rooted to the ground, frozen in my own skin, unable to move forward or backward for fear of waking up and realizing that this is actually happening. I feel like I might die of embarrassment, of this invasion of privacy, and I want to run and run and run and run and run “Run, I said to myself.” Warner has picked up my notebook again. “Please.” I’m begging him. “Please s-stop—” He looks up, looks at me like he can really see me, see into me, like he wants me to see into him and then he drops his eyes, he clears his throat, he starts over, he reads from my journal. “Run, I said to myself. Run until your lungs collapse, until the wind whips and snaps at your tattered clothes, until you’re a blur that blends into the background. “Run, Juliette, run faster, run until your bones break and your shins split and your muscles atrophy and your heart dies because it was always too big for your chest and it beat too fast for too long and run. “Run run run until you can’t hear their feet behind you. Run until they drop their fists and their shouts dissolve in the air. Run with your eyes open and your mouth shut and dam the river rushing up behind your eyes. Run, Juliette. “Run until you drop dead. “Make sure your heart stops before they ever reach you. Before they ever touch you. “Run, I said.” I have to clench my fists until I feel pain, anything to push these memories away. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to think about these things anymore. I don’t want to think about what else I wrote on those pages, what else Warner knows about me now, what he must think of me. I can only imagine how pathetic and lonely and desperate I must appear to him. I don’t know why I care. “Do you know,” he says, closing the cover of the journal only to lay his hand on top of it. Protecting it. Staring at it. “I couldn’t sleep for days after I read that entry. I kept wanting to know which people were chasing you down the street, who it was you were running from. I wanted to find them,” he says, so softly, “and I wanted to rip their limbs off, one by one. I wanted to murder them in ways that would horrify you to hear.” I’m shaking now, whispering, “Please, please give that back to me.” He touches the tips of his fingers to his lips. Tilts his head back, just a little. Smiles a strange, unhappy smile. Says, “You must know how sorry I am. That I”—he swallows—“that I kissed you like that. I confess I had no idea you would shoot me for it.” And I realize something. “Your arm,” I breathe, astonished. He wears no sling. He moves with no difficulty. There’s no bruising or swelling or scars I can see. His smile is brittle. “Yes,” he says. “It was healed when I woke up to find myself in this room.”

Sonya and Sara. They helped him. I wonder why anyone here would do him such a kindness. I force myself to take a step back. “Please,” I tell him. “My notebook, I—” “I promise you,” he says, “I never would’ve kissed you if I didn’t think you wanted me to.” And I’m so shocked that for a moment I forget all about my notebook. I meet his heavy gaze. Manage to steady my voice. “I told you I hated you.” “Yes,” he says. He nods. “Well. You’d be surprised how many people say that to me.” “I don’t think I would.” His lips twitch. “You tried to kill me.” “That amuses you.” “Oh yes,” he says, his grin growing. “I find it fascinating.” A pause. “Would you like to know why?” I stare at him. “Because all you ever said to me,” he explains, “was that you didn’t want to hurt anyone. You didn’t want to murder people.” “I don’t.” “Except for me?” I’m all out of letters. Fresh out of words. Someone has robbed me of my entire vocabulary. “That decision was so easy for you to make,” he says. “So simple. You had a gun. You wanted to run away. You pulled the trigger. That was it.” He’s right. I keep telling myself I have no interest in killing people but somehow I find a way to justify it, to rationalize it when I want to. Warner. Castle. Anderson. I wanted to kill every single one of them. And I would have. What is happening to me. I’ve made a huge mistake coming here. Accepting this assignment. Because I can’t be alone with Warner. Not like this. Being alone with him is making my insides hurt in ways I don’t want to understand. I have to leave. “Don’t go,” he whispers, eyes on my notebook again. “Please,” he says. “Sit with me. Stay with me. I just want to see you. You don’t even have to say anything.” Some crazed, confused part of my brain actually wants to sit down next to him, actually wants to hear what he has to say before I remember Adam and what he would think if he knew, what he would say if he were here and could see I was interested in spending my time with the same person who shot him in the leg, broke his ribs, and hung him on a conveyor belt in an abandoned slaughterhouse, leaving him to bleed to death one minute at a time. I must be insane. Still, I don’t move. Warner relaxes against the wall. “Would you like me to read to you?” I’m shaking my head over and over and over again, whispering, “Why are you doing this to me?” And he looks like he’s about to respond before he changes his mind. Looks away. Lifts his eyes to the ceiling and smiles, just a tiny bit. “You know,” he says, “I could tell, the very first day I met you. There was something about you that felt different to me. Something in your eyes that was so tender. Raw. Like you hadn’t yet learned how to hide your heart from the world.” He’s nodding now, nodding to himself about something and I can’t imagine what it is. “Finding this,” he says, his voice soft as he pats the cover of my notebook, “was so”—his eyebrows pull together—“it was so extraordinarily painful.” He finally looks at me and he looks like a completely different person. Like he’s trying to solve a tremendously difficult equation. “It was like meeting a friend for the very first time.”

Why are my hands trembling. He takes a deep breath. Looks down. Whispers, “I am so tired, love. I’m so very, very tired.” Why won’t my heart stop racing. “How much time,” he says after a moment, “do I have before they kill me?” “Kill you?” He stares at me. I’m startled into speaking. “We’re not going to kill you,” I tell him. “We have no intention of hurting you. We just want to use you to get back our men. We’re holding you hostage.” Warner’s eyes go wide, his shoulders stiffen. “What?” “We have no reason to kill you,” I explain. “We only need to barter with your life—” Warner laughs a loud, full-bodied laugh. Shakes his head. Smiles at me in that way I’ve only ever seen once before, looking at me like I’m the sweetest thing he’s ever decided to eat. Those dimples. “Dear, sweet, beautiful girl,” he says. “Your team here has greatly overestimated my father’s affection for me. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but keeping me here is not going to give you the advantage you were hoping for. I doubt my father has even noticed I’m gone. So I would like to request that you please either kill me, or let me go. But I beg you not to waste my time by confining me here.” I’m checking my pockets for spare words and sentences but I’m finding none, not an adverb, not a preposition or even a dangling participle because there doesn’t exist a single response to such an outlandish request. Warner is still smiling at me, shoulders shaking in silent amusement. “But that’s not even a viable argument,” I tell him. “No one likes to be held hostage—” He takes a tight breath. Runs a hand through his hair. Shrugs. “Your men are wasting their time,” he says. “Kidnapping me will never work to your advantage. This much,” he says, “I can guarantee.”

FORTY-SIX Time for lunch. Kenji and I are sitting on one side of the table, Adam and James on the other. We’ve been sitting here for half an hour now, deliberating over my conversation with Warner. I conveniently left out the parts about my journal, though I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve mentioned it. I’m also starting to wonder if I should just come clean about Warner being able to touch me. But every time I look at Adam I just can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t even know why Warner can touch me. Maybe Warner is the fluke I thought Adam was. Maybe all of this is some kind of cosmic joke told at my expense. I don’t know what to do yet. But somehow the extra details of my conversation with Warner seem too personal, too embarrassing to share. I don’t want anyone to know, for example, that Warner told me he loves me. I don’t want anyone to know that he has my journal, or that he’s read it. Adam is the only other person who even knows it exists, and he, at least, was kind enough to respect my privacy. He’s the one who saved my journal from the asylum, the one who brought it back to me in the first place. But he said he never read the things I wrote. He said he knew they must’ve been very private thoughts and that he didn’t want to intrude. Warner, on the other hand, has ransacked my mind. I feel so much more apprehensive around him now. Just thinking about being near him makes me feel anxious, nervous, so vulnerable. I hate that he knows my secrets. My secret

thoughts. It shouldn’t be him who knows anything about me at all. It should be him. The one sitting right across from me. The one with the dark-blue eyes and the dark-brown hair and the hands that have touched my heart, my body. And he doesn’t seem okay right now. Adam’s head is down, his eyebrows drawn, his hands clenched together on the table. He hasn’t touched his food and he hasn’t said a word since I summarized my meeting with Warner. Kenji has been just as quiet. Everyone’s been a bit more solemn since our recent battle; we lost several people from Omega Point. I take a deep breath and try again. “So what do you think?” I ask them. “About what he said about Anderson?” I’m careful not to use the word dad or father anymore, especially around James. I don’t know what, if anything, Adam has said to James about the issue, and it’s not my business to pry. Worse still, Adam hasn’t said a word about it since we got back, and it’s already been 2 days. “Do you think he’s right that Anderson won’t care if he’s been taken hostage?” James squirms around in his seat, eyes narrowed as he chews the food in his mouth, looking at the group of us like he’s waiting to memorize everything we say. Adam rubs his forehead. “That,” he finally says, “might actually have some merit.” Kenji frowns, folds his arms, leans forward. “Yeah. It is kind of weird. We haven’t heard a single thing from their side, and it’s been over forty-eight hours.” “What does Castle think?” I ask. Kenji shrugs. “He’s stressed out. Ian and Emory were really messed up when we found them. I don’t think they’re conscious yet, even though Sonya and Sara have been working around the clock to help them. I think he’s worried we won’t get Winston and Brendan back at all.” “Maybe,” Adam says, “their silence has to do with the fact that you shot Anderson in both his legs. Maybe he’s just recovering.” I almost choke on the water I was attempting to drink. I chance a look at Kenji to see if he’s going to correct Adam’s assumption, but he doesn’t even flinch. So I say nothing. Kenji is nodding. Says, “Right. Yeah. I almost forgot about that.” A pause. “Makes sense.” “You shot him in the legs?” James asks, eyes wide in Kenji’s direction. Kenji clears his throat but is careful not to look at me. I wonder why he’s protecting me from this. Why he thinks it’s better not to tell the truth about what really happened. “Yup,” he says, and takes a bite of his food. Adam exhales. Pushes up his shirtsleeves, studies the series of concentric circles inked onto his forearms, military mementos of a past life. “But why?” James asks Kenji. “Why what, kid?” “Why didn’t you kill him? Why just shoot him in the legs? Didn’t you say he’s the worst? The reason why we have all the problems we have now?” Kenji is quiet for a moment. He’s gripping his spoon, poking at his food. Finally he puts the spoon down. Motions for James to join him on our side of the table. I slide down to make room. “Come here,” he says to James, pulling him tight against the right side of his body. James wraps his arms around Kenji’s waist and Kenji drops his hand on James’ head, mussing his hair. I had no idea they were so close. I keep forgetting that the 3 of them are roommates. “So, okay. You ready for a little lesson?” he says to James. James nods. “It’s like this: Castle always teaches us that we can’t just cut off the head, you know?” He hesitates; collects his thoughts. “Like, if we just kill the enemy leader, then what? What would

happen?” “World peace,” James says. “Wrong. It would be mass chaos.” Kenji shakes his head. Rubs the tip of his nose. “And chaos is a hell of a lot harder to fight.” “Then how do you win?” “Right,” Kenji says. “Well that’s the thing. We can only take out the leader of the opposition when we’re ready to take over—only when there’s a new leader ready to take the place of the old one. People need someone to rally around, right? And we’re not ready yet.” He shrugs. “This was supposed to be a fight against Warner—taking him out wouldn’t have been an issue. But to take out Anderson would be asking for absolute anarchy, all over the country. And anarchy means there’s a chance someone else—someone even worse, possibly—could take control before we do.” James says something in response but I don’t hear it. Adam is staring at me. He’s staring at me and he’s not pretending not to. He’s not looking away. He’s not saying a word. His gaze moves from my eyes to my mouth, focusing on my lips for a moment too long. Finally he turns away, just for a brief second before his eyes are fixed on mine again. Deeper. Hungrier. My heart is starting to hurt. I watch the hard movement in his throat. The rise and fall of his chest. The tense line of his jaw and the way he’s sitting so perfectly still. He doesn’t say anything, anything at all. I want so desperately to touch him. “Smartass.” Kenji is chuckling, shaking his head as he reacts to something James just said. “You know that’s not what I meant. Anyway,” he sighs, “we’re not ready to deal with that kind of insanity just yet. We take out Anderson when we’re ready to take over. That’s the only way to do this right.” Adam stands up abruptly. He pushes away his untouched bowl of food and clears his throat. Looks at Kenji. “So that’s why you didn’t kill him when he was right in front of you.” Kenji scratches the back of his head, uncomfortable. “Listen man, if I had any idea—” “Forget it.” Adam cuts him off. “You did me a favor.” “What do you mean?” Kenji asks. “Hey man—where’re you going—” But Adam is already walking away.

FORTY-SEVEN I go after him. I’m following Adam down an empty corridor as he exits the dining hall even though I know I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t be talking to him like this, shouldn’t be encouraging the feelings I have for him but I’m worried. I can’t help it. He’s disappearing into himself, withdrawing into a world I can’t penetrate and I can’t even blame him for it. I can only imagine what he must be experiencing right now. These recent revelations would be enough to drive a weaker person absolutely insane. And even though we’ve managed to work together lately, it’s always been during such high-stress situations that there’s hardly been any time for us to dwell on our personal issues. And I need to know that he’s all right. I can’t just stop caring about him.

“Adam?” He stops at the sound of my voice. His spine goes rigid with surprise. He turns around and I see his expression shift from hope to confusion to worry in a matter of seconds. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is everything okay?” Suddenly he’s in front of me, all 6 feet of him, and I’m drowning in memories and feelings I’ve made no effort to forget. I’m trying to remember why I wanted to talk to him. Why I ever told him we couldn’t be together. Why I would ever keep myself from a chance at even 5 seconds in his arms and he’s saying my name, saying, “Juliette—what’s wrong? Did something happen?” I want so desperately to say yes, yes, horrible things have happened, and I’m sick, I’m so sick and tired and I really just want to collapse in your arms and forget the rest of the world. Instead I manage to look up, manage to meet his eyes. They’re such a dark, haunting shade of blue. “I’m worried about you,” I tell him. And his eyes are immediately different, uncomfortable, closed off. “You’re worried about me.” He blows out a hard breath. Runs a hand through his hair. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay—” He’s shaking his head in disbelief. “What are you doing?” he says. “Are you mocking me?” “What?” He’s pounding a closed fist against his lips. Looking up. Looking like he’s not sure what to say and then he speaks, his voice strained and hurt and confused and he says, “You broke up with me. You gave up on us—on our entire future together. You basically reached in and ripped my heart out and now you’re asking me if I’m okay? How the hell am I supposed to be okay, Juliette? What kind of a question is that?” I’m swaying in place. “I didn’t mean—” I swallow, hard. “I-I was t-talking about your—your dad—I thought maybe—oh, God, I’m sorry—you’re right, I’m so stupid—I shouldn’t have come, I sh-shouldn’t —” “Juliette,” he says, so desperately, catching me around the waist as I back away. His eyes are shut tight. “Please,” he says, “tell me what I’m supposed to do. How am I supposed to feel? It’s one shitty thing right after another and I’m trying to be okay—God, I’m trying so hard but it’s really freaking difficult and I miss”—his voice catches—“I miss you,” he says. “I miss you so much it’s killing me.” My fingers are clenched in his shirt. My heart is hammering in the silence. I see the difficulty he has in meeting my eyes when he whispers, “Do you still love me?” And I’m straining every muscle in my body just to keep myself from reaching forward to touch him. “Adam—of course I still love you—” “You know,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, “I’ve never had anything like this before. I can barely remember my mom, and other than that it was just me and James and my piece-of-shit dad. And James has always loved me in his own way, but you—with you—” He falters. Looks down. “How am I supposed to go back?” he asks, so quietly. “How am I supposed to forget what it was like to be with you? To be loved by you?” I don’t even realize I’m crying until it’s too late. “You say you love me,” he says. “And I know I love you.” He looks up, meets my eyes. “So why the hell can’t we be together?” And I don’t know how to say anything but “I’m s-sorry, I’m so sorry, you have no idea how sorry I am—” “Why can’t we just try?” He’s gripping my shoulders now, his words urgent, anguished; our faces too dangerously close. “I’m willing to take whatever I can get, I swear, I just want to know I have you in my life—”

“We can’t,” I tell him. “It won’t be enough, Adam, and you know it. One day we’ll take a stupid risk or take a chance we shouldn’t. One day we’ll think it’ll be okay and it won’t. And it won’t end well.” “But look at us now,” he says. “We can make this work—I can be close to you without kissing you—I just need to spend a few more months training—” “Your training might never be enough.” I cut him off, knowing I need to tell him everything now. Knowing he has a right to know the same things I do. “Because the more I train, the more I learn exactly how dangerous I am. And you c-can’t be near me. It’s not just my skin anymore. I could hurt you just by holding your hand.” “What?” He blinks several times. “What are you talking about?” I take a deep breath. Press my palm flat against the side of the tunnel before digging my fingers in and dragging them right through the stone. I punch my fist into the wall and grab a handful of rough rock, crush it in my hand, allow it to sift as sand through my fingers to the floor. Adam is staring at me. Astonished. “I’m the one who shot your father,” I tell him. “I don’t know why Kenji was covering for me. I don’t know why he didn’t tell you the truth. But I was so blinded by this—this allconsuming rage—I just wanted to kill him. And I was torturing him,” I whisper. “I shot him in his legs because I was taking my time. Because I wanted to enjoy that last moment. That last bullet I was about to put through his heart. And I was so close. I was so close, and Kenji,” I tell him, “Kenji had to pull me away. Because he saw that I’d gone insane. “I’m out of control.” My voice is a rasp, a broken plea. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me or what’s happening to me and I don’t even know what I’m capable of yet. I don’t know how much worse this is going to get. Every day I learn something new about myself and every day it terrifies me. I’ve done terrible things to people,” I whisper. I swallow back the sob building in my throat. “And I’m not okay,” I tell him. “I’m not okay, Adam. I’m not okay and I’m not safe for you to be around.” He’s staring at me, so stunned he’s forgotten how to speak. “Now you know that the rumors are true,” I whisper. “I am crazy. And I am a monster.” “No,” he breathes. “No—” “Yes.” “No,” he says, desperate now. “That’s not true—you’re stronger than this—I know you are —I know you,” he says. “I’ve known your heart for ten years,” he says, “and I’ve seen what you had to live through, what you had to go through, and I’m not giving up on you now, not because of this, not because of something like this—” “How can you say that? How can you still believe that, after everything—after all of this—” “You,” he says to me, his hands gripping me tighter now, “are one of the bravest, strongest people I’ve ever met. You have the best heart, the best intentions—” He stops. Takes a tight, shaky breath. “You’re the best person I’ve ever known,” he says to me. “You’ve been through the worst possible experiences and you survived with your humanity still intact. How the hell,” he says, his voice breaking now, “am I supposed to let go of you? How can I walk away from you?” “Adam—” “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I refuse to believe that this is the end of us. Not if you still love me. Because you’re going to get through this,” he says, “and I will be waiting for you when you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere. There won’t be another person for me. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted and that’s never,” he says, “that’s never going to change.” “How touching.” Adam and I freeze. Turn around slowly to face the unwelcome voice. He’s right there.

Warner is standing right in front of us, his hands tied behind his back, his eyes blazing bright with anger and hurt and disgust. Castle comes up behind him to lead him in whatever whichever wherever direction and he sees where Warner is stuck, still, staring at us, and Adam is like one block of marble, not moving, not making any effort to breathe or speak or look away. I’m fairly certain I’m burning so bright I’ve burnt to a crisp. “You’re so lovely when you’re blushing,” Warner says to me. “But I really wish you wouldn’t waste your affections on someone who has to beg for your love.” He cocks his head at Adam. “How sad for you,” he says. “This must be terribly embarrassing.” “You sick bastard,” Adam says to him, his voice like steel. “At least I still have my dignity.” Castle shakes his head, exasperated. Pushes Warner forward. “Please get back to work— both of you,” he shouts at us as he and Warner make their way past. “You’re wasting valuable time standing out here.” “You can go to hell,” Adam shouts at Warner. “Just because I’m going to hell,” Warner says, “doesn’t mean you’ll ever deserve her.” And Adam doesn’t answer. He just watches, eyes focused, as Warner and Castle disappear around the corner.

FORTY-EIGHT James joins us during our training session before dinner. He’s been hanging out with us a lot since we got back, and we all seem happier when he’s around. There’s something about his presence that’s so disarming, so welcome. It’s so good to have him back. I’ve been showing him how easily I can break things now. The bricks are nothing. It feels like crushing a piece of cake. The metal pipes bend in my hands like plastic straws. Wood is a little tricky because if I break it the wrong way I can catch a splinter, but just about nothing is difficult anymore. Kenji has been thinking of new ways to test my abilities; lately he’s been trying to see if I can project—if I can focus my power from a distance. Not all abilities are designed for projection, apparently. Lily, for example, has that incredible photographic memory. But she’d never be able to project that ability onto anyone else. Projection is, by far, the most difficult thing I’ve ever attempted to do. It’s extremely complicated and requires both mental and physical exertion. I have to be wholly in control of my mind, and I have to know exactly how my brain communicates with whichever invisible bone in my body is responsible for my gift. Which means I have to know how to locate the source of my ability—and how to focus it into one concentrated point of power I can tap into from anywhere. It’s hurting my brain. “Can I try to break something, too?” James is asking. He grabs one of the bricks off the stack and weighs it in his hands. “Maybe I’m super strong like you.” “Have you ever felt super strong?” Kenji asks him. “Like, you know, abnormally strong?” “No,” James says, “but I’ve never tried to break anything, either.” He blinks at Kenji. “Do you think maybe I could be like you guys? That maybe I have some kind of power, too?” Kenji studies him. Seems to be sorting some things out in his head. Says, “It’s definitely possible. Your brother’s obviously got something in his DNA, which means you might, too.” “Really?” James is practically jumping up and down.

Kenji chuckles. “I have no idea. I’m just saying it might be possi—no,” he shouts, “James —” “Oops.” James is wincing, dropping the brick to the floor and clenching his fist against the gash bleeding in the palm of his hand. “I think I pressed too hard and it slipped,” he says, struggling not to cry. “You think?” Kenji is shaking his head, breathing fast. “Damn, kid, you can’t just go around slicing your hand open like that. You’re going to give me a freaking heart attack. Come here,” he says, more gently now. “Let me take a look.” “It’s okay,” James says, cheeks flushed, hiding his hand behind his back. “It’s nothing. It’ll go away soon.” “That kind of cut is not just going to go away,” Kenji says. “Now let me take a look at it—” “Wait.” I interrupt him, caught by the intense look on James’ face, the way he seems to be so focused on the clenched fist he’s hiding. “James—what do you mean it’ll ‘go away’? Do you mean it’s going to get better? On its own?” James blinks at me. “Well yeah,” he says. “It always gets better really quickly.” “What does? What gets better really quickly?” Kenji is staring too now, already catching on to my theory and throwing looks at me, mouthing Holy shit over and over again. “When I get hurt,” James says, looking at us like we’ve lost our minds. “Like if you cut yourself,” he says to Kenji, “wouldn’t it just get better?” “It depends on the size of the cut,” Kenji tells him. “But for a gash like the one on your hand?” He shakes his head. “I’d need to clean it to make sure it didn’t get infected. Then I’d have to wrap it up in gauze and some kind of ointment to keep it from scarring. And then,” he says, “it would take at least a couple days for it to scab up. And then it would begin to heal.” James is blinking like he’s never heard of something so absurd in his life. “Let me see your hand,” Kenji says to him. James hesitates. “It’s all right,” I tell him. “Really. We’re just curious.” Slowly, so slowly, James shows us his clenched fist. Even more slowly, he uncurls his fingers, watching our reactions the whole time. And exactly where just a moment ago there was a huge gash, now there’s nothing but perfect pink skin and a little pool of blood. “Holy shit on a cracker,” Kenji breathes. “Sorry,” he says to me, jumping forward to grab James’ arm, barely able to rein in his smiles, “but I need to get this guy over to the medical wing. That okay? We can pick up again tomorrow—” “But I’m not hurt anymore,” James protests. “I’m okay—” “I know, kid, but you’re going to want to come with me.” “But why?” “How would you like,” he says, leading James out the door, “to start spending some time with two very pretty girls....” And they’re gone. And I’m laughing. Sitting in the middle of the training room all by myself when I hear 2 familiar knocks at my door. I already know who it’s going to be. “Ms. Ferrars.” I whip around, not because I’m surprised to hear Castle’s voice, but because I’m surprised at the intonation. His eyes are narrowed, his lips tight, his eyes sharp and flashing in this light. He is very, very angry. Crap. “I’m sorry about the hallway,” I tell him, “I didn’t—”

“We can discuss your public and wildly inappropriate displays of affection at a later time, Ms. Ferrars, but right now I have a very important question to ask you and I would advise you to be honest, as acutely honest as is physically possible.” “What”—I can hardly breathe—“what is it?” Castle narrows his eyes at me. “I have just had a conversation with Warner, who says he is able to touch you without consequence, and that this information is something you are well aware of.” And I think, Wow, I did it. I actually managed to die of a stroke at age 17. “I need to know,” Castle hurries on, “whether or not this information is true and I need to know right now.” There’s glue all over my tongue, stuck to my teeth, my lips, the roof of my mouth, and I can’t speak, I can’t move, I’m pretty sure I just had a seizure or an aneurysm or heart failure or something equally as awful but I can’t explain any of this to Castle because I can’t move my jaw even an inch. “Ms. Ferrars. I don’t think you understand how important this question is. I need an answer from you, and I need it thirty seconds ago.” “I … I—” “Today, I need an answer today, right now, this very moment—” “Yes,” I choke out, blushing through my skull, horribly ashamed, embarrassed, horrified in every possible way and the only thing I can think of is Adam Adam Adam how will Adam respond to this information now, why does this have to happen now, why did Warner say anything at all and I want to kill him for sharing the secret that was mine to tell, mine to hide, mine to hoard. Castle looks like he’s a balloon that fell in love with a pushpin that got too close and ruined him forever. “So it’s true, then?” I drop my eyes. “Yes, it’s true.” He falls to the floor right across from me, astonished. “How is it even possible, do you think?” Because Warner is Adam’s brother, I don’t tell him. And I don’t tell him because it is Adam’s secret to tell and I will not talk about it until he does, even though I desperately want to tell Castle that the connection must be in their blood, that they both must share a similar kind of gift or Energy, or oh oh oh Oh God. Oh no. Warner is one of us.

FORTY-NINE “It changes everything.” Castle isn’t even looking at me. “This—I mean—this means so many things,” he says. “We’ll have to tell him everything and we’ll have to test him to be sure, but I’m fairly positive it’s the only explanation. And he would be welcome to take refuge here if he wanted it—I would have to give him a regular room, allow him to live among us as an equal. I cannot keep him here as a prisoner, at the very least—” “What—but, Castle—why? He’s the one who almost killed Adam! And Kenji!”

“You have to understand—this news might change his entire outlook on life.” Castle is shaking his head, one hand almost covering his mouth, his eyes wide. “He might not take it well —he might be thrilled—he might lose his mind completely—he might wake up a new man in the morning. You would be surprised what these kinds of revelations will do to people. “Omega Point will always be a place of refuge for our kind,” he continues. “It’s an oath I made to myself many years ago. I cannot deny him food and shelter if, for example, his father were to cast him out entirely.” This can’t be happening. “But I don’t understand,” Castle says suddenly, looking up at me. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why not report this information? This is important for us to know and it doesn’t condemn you in any way—” “I didn’t want Adam to know,” I admit out loud for the first time, my voice 6 broken bits of shame strung together. “I just …” I shake my head. “I didn’t want him to know.” Castle actually looks sad for me. He says, “I wish I could help you keep your secret, Ms. Ferrars, but even if I wanted to, I’m not sure Warner will.” I focus on the mats laid out on the floor. My voice sounds tiny when I ask, “Why did he even tell you? How did that even come up in conversation?” Castle rubs his chin, thoughtful. “He told me of his own accord. I volunteered to take him on his daily rounds—walking him to the restroom, et cetera—because I wanted to follow up and ask him questions about his father and see what he knew about the state of our hostages. He seemed perfectly fine. In fact, he looked much better than he was when he first showed up. He was compliant, almost polite. But his attitude changed rather dramatically after we stumbled upon you and Adam in the hall....” His voice trails off, his eyes snap up, his mind working quickly to fit all the pieces together and he’s gaping at me, staring at me in a way that is entirely foreign to Castle, in a way that says he is utterly, absolutely baffled. I’m not sure if I should be offended. “He’s in love with you,” Castle whispers, a dawning, groundbreaking realization in his voice. He laughs, once, hard, fast. Shakes his head. “He held you captive and managed to fall in love with you in the process.” I’m staring at the mats like they’re the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen in my life. “Oh, Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says to me. “I do not envy you your predicament. I can see now why this situation must be uncomfortable for you.” I want to say to him, You have no idea, Castle. You have no idea because you don’t even know the entire story. You don’t know that they’re brothers, brothers who hate each other, brothers who only seem to agree on one thing, and that one thing happens to be killing their own father. But I don’t say any of those things. I don’t say anything, in fact. I sit on these mats with my head in my hands and I’m trying to figure out what else could possibly go wrong. I’m wondering how many more mistakes I’ll have to make before things finally fall into place. If they ever will.

FIFTY I’m so humiliated. I’ve been thinking about this all night and I came to a realization this morning. Warner must’ve told Castle on purpose. Because he’s playing games with me, because he hasn’t

changed, because he’s still trying to get me to do his bidding. He’s still trying to get me to be his project and he’s trying to hurt me. I won’t allow it. I will not allow Warner to lie to me, to manipulate my emotions to get what he wants. I can’t believe I felt pity for him—that I felt weakness, tenderness for him when I saw him with his father—that I believed him when he told me his thoughts about my journal. I’m such a gullible fool. I was an idiot to ever think he might be capable of human emotion. I told Castle that maybe he should put someone else on this assignment now that he knows Warner can touch me; I told him it might be dangerous now. But he laughed and he laughed and he laughed and he said, “Oh, Ms. Ferrars, I’m quite, quite certain you will be able to defend yourself. In fact, you’re probably much better equipped against him than any of us. Besides,” he added, “this is an ideal situation. If he truly is in love with you, you must be able to use that to our advantage somehow. We need your help,” he said to me, serious again. “We need all the help we can find, and right now you’re the one person who might be able to get the answers we need. Please,” he said. “Try to find out anything you can. Anything at all. Winston and Brendan’s lives are at risk.” And he’s right. So I’m shoving my own concerns aside because Winston and Brendan are out there, hurting somewhere, and we need to find them. And I’m going to do whatever I can to help. Which means I have to talk to Warner again. I have to treat him just like the prisoner that he is. No more side conversations. No falling for his efforts to confuse me. Not again and again and again. I’m going to be better. Smarter. And I want my notebook back. The guards are unlocking his room for me and I’m marching in, I’m sealing the door shut behind me and I’m getting ready to give him the speech I’ve already prepared when I stop in place. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe I thought I’d catch him trying to break a hole in the wall or maybe he’d be plotting the demise of every person at Omega Point or I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know anything because I only know how to fight an angry body, an insolent creature, an arrogant monster, and I do not know what to do with this. He’s sleeping. Someone put a mattress in here, a simple rectangle of average quality, thin and worn but better than the ground, at least, and he’s lying on top of it in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. His clothes are on the floor. His pants, his shirts, his socks are slightly damp, wrinkled, obviously hand-washed and laid out to dry; his coat is folded neatly over his boots, and his gloves are resting right next to each other on top of his coat. He hasn’t moved an inch since I stepped into this room. He’s resting on his side, his back to the wall, his left arm tucked under his face, his right arm against his torso, his entire body perfect bare, strong, smooth, and smelling faintly of soap. I don’t know why I can’t stop staring at him. I don’t know what it is about sleep that makes our faces appear so soft and innocent, so peaceful and vulnerable, but I’m trying to look away and I can’t. I’m losing sight of my own purpose, forgetting all the brave things I said to myself before I stepped in here. Because there’s something about him—there’s always been something about him that’s intrigued me and I don’t understand it. I wish I could ignore it but I can’t. Because I look at him and wonder if maybe it’s just me? Maybe I’m naive?

But I see layers, shades of gold and green and a person who’s never been given a chance to be human and I wonder if I’m just as cruel as my own oppressors if I decide that society is right, that some people are too far gone, that sometimes you can’t turn back, that there are people in this world who don’t deserve a second chance and I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t help but disagree. I can’t help but think that 19 is too young to give up on someone, that 19 years old is just the beginning, that it’s too soon to tell anyone they will never amount to anything but evil in this world. I can’t help but wonder what my life would’ve been like if someone had taken a chance on me. So I back away. I turn to leave. I let him sleep. I stop in place. I catch a glimpse of my notebook lying on the mattress next to his outstretched hand, his fingers looking as if they’ve only just let go. It’s the perfect opportunity to steal it back if I can be stealthy enough. I tiptoe forward, forever grateful that these boots I wear are designed to make no sound at all. But the closer I inch toward his body, the more my attention is caught by something on his back. A little rectangular blur of black. I creep closer. Blink. Squint. Lean in. It’s a tattoo. No pictures. Just 1 word. 1 word, typed into the very center of his upper back. In ink. IGNITE And his skin is shredded with scars. Blood is rushing to my head so quickly I’m beginning to feel faint. I feel sick. Like I might actually, truly upturn the contents of my stomach right now. I want to panic, I want to shake someone, I want to know how to understand the emotions choking me because I can’t even imagine, can’t even imagine, can’t even imagine what he must’ve endured to carry such suffering on his skin. His entire back is a map of pain. Thick and thin and uneven and terrible. Scars like roads that lead to nowhere. They’re gashes and ragged slices I can’t understand, marks of torture I never could have expected. They’re the only imperfections on his entire body, imperfections hidden away and hiding secrets of their own. And I realize, not for the first time, that I have no idea who Warner really is. “Juliette?” I freeze. “What are you doing here?” His eyes are wide, alert. “I—I came to talk to you—”

“Jesus,” he gasps, jumping away from me. “I’m very flattered, love, but you could’ve at least given me a chance to put my pants on.” He’s pulled himself up against the wall but makes no effort to grab his clothes. His eyes keep darting from me to the pants on the floor like he doesn’t know what to do. He seems determined not to turn his back to me. “Would you mind?” he says, nodding to the clothes next to my feet and affecting an air of nonchalance that does little to hide the apprehension in his eyes. “It gets chilly in here.” But I’m staring at him, staring at the length of him, awed by how incredibly flawless he looks from the front. Strong, lean frame, toned and muscular without being bulky. He’s fair without being pale, skin tinted with just enough sunlight to look effortlessly healthy. The body of a perfect boy. What a lie appearances can be. What a terrible, terrible lie. His gaze is fixed on mine, his eyes green flames that will not extinguish and his chest is rising and falling so fast, so fast, so fast. “What happened to your back?” I hear myself whisper. I watch as the color drains from his face. He looks away, runs a hand across his mouth, his chin, down the back of his neck. “Who hurt you?” I ask, so quietly. I’m beginning to recognize the strange feeling I get just before I do something terrible. Like right now. Right now I feel like I could kill someone for this. “Juliette, please, my clothes—” “Was it your father?” I ask, my voice a little sharper. “Did he do this to you—” “It doesn’t matter.” Warner cuts me off, frustrated now. “Of course it matters!” He says nothing. “That tattoo,” I say to him, “that word—” “Yes,” he says, though he says it quietly. Clears his throat. “I don’t …” I blink. “What does it mean?” Warner shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “Is it from a book?” “Why do you care?” he asks, looking away again. “Why are you suddenly so interested in my life?” I don’t know, I want to tell him. I want to tell him I don’t know but that’s not true. Because I feel it. I feel the clicks and the turns and the creaking of a million keys unlocking a million doors in my mind. It’s like I’m finally allowing myself to see what I really think, how I really feel, like I’m discovering my own secrets for the first time. And then I search his eyes, search his features for something I can’t even name. And I realize I don’t want to be his enemy anymore. “It’s over,” I say to him. “I’m not on base with you this time. I’m not going to be your weapon and you’ll never be able to change my mind about that. I think you know that now.” I study the floor. “So why are we still fighting each other? Why are you still trying to manipulate me? Why are you still trying to get me to fall for your tricks?” “I have no idea,” he says, looking at me like he’s not sure I’m even real, “no idea what you’re talking about.” “Why did you tell Castle you could touch me? That wasn’t your secret to share.” “Right.” He exhales a deep breath. “Of course.” Seems to return to himself. “Listen, love, could you at least toss me my jacket if you’re going to stay here and ask me all these questions?” I toss him his jacket. He catches it. Slides down to the floor. And instead of putting his jacket on, he drapes it over his lap. Finally, he says, “Yes, I did tell Castle I could touch you. He

had a right to know.” “That wasn’t any of his business.” “Of course it’s his business,” Warner says. “The entire world he’s created down here thrives on exactly that kind of information. And you’re here, living among them. He should know.” “He doesn’t need to know.” “Why is it such a big deal?” he asks, studying my eyes too carefully. “Why does it bother you so much for someone to know that I can touch you? Why does it have to be a secret?” I struggle to find the words that won’t come. “Are you worried about Kent? You think he’d have a problem knowing I can touch you?” “I didn’t want him to find out like this—” “But why does it matter?” he insists. “You seem to care so much about something that makes no difference in your personal life. It wouldn’t,” he says, “make any difference in your personal life. Not if you still claim to feel nothing but hatred for me. Because that’s what you said, isn’t it? That you hate me?” I fold myself to the floor across from Warner. Pull my knees up to my chest. Focus on the stone under my feet. “I don’t hate you.” Warner seems to stop breathing. “I think I understand you sometimes,” I tell him. “I really do. But just when I think I finally get you, you surprise me. And I never really know who you are or who you’re going to be.” I look up. “But I know that I don’t hate you anymore. I’ve tried,” I say, “I’ve tried so hard. Because you’ve done so many terrible, terrible things. To innocent people. To me. But I know too much about you now. I’ve seen too much. You’re too human.” His hair is so gold. His eyes so green. His voice is tortured when he speaks. “Are you saying,” he says, “that you want to be my friend?” “I-I don’t know.” I’m so petrified, so, so petrified of this possibility. “I didn’t think about that. I’m just saying that I don’t know”—I hesitate, breathe—“I don’t know how to hate you anymore. Even though I want to. I really want to and I know I should but I just can’t.” He looks away. And he smiles. It’s the kind of smile that makes me forget how to do everything but blink and blink and I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t know why I can’t convince my eyes to find something else to focus on. I don’t know why my heart is losing its mind. He touches my notebook like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. His fingers run the length of the cover once, twice, before he registers where my eyes have gone and he stops. “You wrote these words?” He touches the notebook again. “Every single one?” I nod. He says, “Juliette.” I stop breathing. He says, “I would like that very much. To be your friend,” he says. “I’d like that.” And I don’t really know what happens in my brain. Maybe it’s because he’s broken and I’m foolish enough to think I can fix him. Maybe it’s because I see myself, I see 3, 4, 5, 6, 17-year-old Juliette abandoned, neglected, mistreated, abused for something outside of her control and I think of Warner as someone who’s just like me, someone who was never given a chance at life. I think about how everyone already hates him, how hating him is a universally accepted fact. Warner is horrible. There are no discussions, no reservations, no questions asked. It has already been decided that he is a despicable human being who thrives on murder and power and torturing others. But I want to know. I need to know. I have to know.

If it’s really that simple. Because what if one day I slip? What if one day I fall through the cracks and no one is willing to pull me back? What happens to me then? So I meet his eyes. I take a deep breath. And I run. I run right out the door.

FIFTY-ONE Just a moment. Just 1 second, just 1 more minute, just give me another hour or maybe the weekend to think it over it’s not so much it’s not so hard it’s all we ever ask for it’s a simple request. But the moments the seconds the minutes the hours the days and years become one big mistake, one extraordinary opportunity slipped right through our fingers because we couldn’t decide, we couldn’t understand, we needed more time, we didn’t know what to do. We don’t even know what we’ve done. We have no idea how we even got here when all we ever wanted was to wake up in the morning and go to sleep at night and maybe stop for ice cream on the way home and that one decision, that one choice, that one accidental opportunity unraveled everything we’ve ever known and ever believed in and what do we do? What do we do from here?

FIFTY-TWO Things are getting worse. The tension among the citizens of Omega Point is getting tighter with each passing hour. We’ve tried to make contact with Anderson’s men to no avail—we’ve heard nothing from their team or their soldiers, and we have no updates on our hostages. But the civilians of Sector 45— the sector Warner used to be in charge of, the sector he used to oversee—are beginning to grow more and more unsettled. Rumors about us and our resistance are spreading too quickly. The Reestablishment tried to cover up the news of our recent battle by calling it a standard attack on rebel party members, but the people are getting smarter. Protests are breaking out among them and some are refusing to work, standing up to authority, trying to escape the compounds, and running back to unregulated territory. It never ends well. The losses have been too many and Castle is anxious to do something. We all have a feeling we’re going to be heading out again, and soon. We haven’t received any reports that Anderson is dead, which means he’s probably just biding his time—or maybe Adam is right, and he’s just recovering. But whatever the reason, Anderson’s silence can’t be good. “What are you doing here?” Castle says to me. I’ve just collected my dinner. I’ve just sat down at my usual table with Adam and Kenji and James. I blink at Castle, confused.

Kenji says, “What’s going on?” Adam says, “Is everything all right?” Castle says, “My apologies, Ms. Ferrars, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I confess I’m just a bit surprised to see you here. I thought you were currently on assignment.” “Oh.” I startle. Glance at my food and back at Castle again. “I—well yes, I am—but I’ve talked to Warner twice already—I actually just saw him yesterday—” “Oh, that’s excellent news, Ms. Ferrars. Excellent news.” Castle clasps his hands together; his face is the picture of relief. “And what have you been able to discover?” He looks so hopeful that I actually begin to feel ashamed of myself. Everyone is staring at me and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I shake my head. “Ah.” Castle drops his hands. Looks down. Nods to himself. “So. You’ve decided that your two visits have been more than sufficient?” He won’t look at me. “What is your professional opinion, Ms. Ferrars? Do you think it would be best to take your time in this particular situation? That Winston and Brendan will be relaxing comfortably until you find an opportunity in your busy schedule to interrogate the only person who might be able to help us find them? Do you think that y—” “I’ll go right now.” I grab my tray and jump up from table, nearly tripping over myself in the process. “I’m sorry—I’m just—I’ll go right now. I’ll see you guys at breakfast,” I whisper, and run out the door. Brendan and Winston Brendan and Winston Brendan and Winston, I keep telling myself. I hear Kenji laughing as I leave. I’m not very good at interrogation, apparently. I have so many questions for Warner but none of them have to do with our hostage situation. Every time I tell myself I’m going to ask the right questions, Warner somehow manages to distract me. It’s almost like he knows what I’m going to ask and is already prepared to redirect the conversation. It’s confusing. “Do you have any tattoos?” he’s asking me, smiling as he leans back against the wall in his undershirt; pants on, socks on, shoes off. “Everyone seems to have tattoos these days.” This is not a conversation I ever thought I’d have with Warner. “No,” I tell him. “I’ve never had an opportunity to get one. Besides, I don’t think anyone would ever want to get that close to my skin.” He studies his hands. Smiles. Says, “Maybe someday.” “Maybe,” I agree. A pause. “So what about your tattoo?” I ask. “Why IGNITE?” His smile is bigger now. Dimples again. He shakes his head, says, “Why not?” “I don’t get it.” I tilt my head at him, confused. “You want to remind yourself to catch on fire?” He smiles, presses back a laugh. “A handful of letters doesn’t always make a word, love.” “I … have no idea what you’re talking about.” He takes a deep breath. Sits up straighter. “So,” he says. “You used to read a lot?” I’m caught off guard. It’s a strange question, and I can’t help but wonder for a moment if it’s a trick. If admitting to such a thing might get me into trouble. And then I remember that Warner is my hostage, not the other way around. “Yes,” I say to him. “I used to.”

His smile fades into something a bit more serious, calculated. His features are carefully wiped clean of emotion. “And when did you have a chance to read?” “What do you mean?” He shrugs slowly, glances at nothing across the room. “It just seems strange that a girl who’s been so wholly isolated her entire life would have much access to literature. Especially in this world.” I say nothing. He says nothing. I breathe a few beats before answering him. “I … I never got to choose my own books,” I tell him, and I don’t know why I feel so nervous saying this out loud, why I have to remind myself not to whisper. “I read whatever was available. My schools always had little libraries and my parents had some things around the house. And later …” I hesitate. “Later, I spent a couple of years in hospitals and psychiatric wards and a juvenile d-detention center.” My face enflames as if on cue, always ready to be ashamed of my past, of who I’ve been and continue to be. But it’s strange. While one part of me struggles to be so candid, another part of me actually feels comfortable talking to Warner. Safe. Familiar. Because he already knows everything about me. He knows every detail of my 17 years. He has all of my medical records, knows all about my incidents with the police and the painful relationship I have had with my parents. And now he’s read my notebook, too. There’s nothing I could reveal about my history that would surprise him; nothing about what I’ve done would shock or horrify him. I don’t worry that he’ll judge me or run away from me. And this realization, perhaps more than anything else, rattles my bones. And gives me some sense of relief. “There were always books around,” I continue, somehow unable to stop now, eyes glued to the floor. “In the detention center. A lot of them were old and worn and didn’t have covers, so I didn’t always know what they were called or who wrote them. I just read anything I could find. Fairy tales and mysteries and history and poetry. It didn’t matter what it was. I would read it over and over and over again. The books … they helped keep me from losing my mind altogether …” I trail off, catching myself before I say much more. Horrified as I realize just how much I want to confide in him. In Warner. Terrible, terrible Warner who tried to kill Adam and Kenji. Who made me his toy. I hate that I should feel safe enough to speak so freely around him. I hate that of all people, Warner is the one person I can be completely honest with. I always feel like I have to protect Adam from me, from the horror story that is my life. I never want to scare him or tell him too much for fear that he’ll change his mind and realize what a mistake he’s made in trusting me; in showing me affection. But with Warner there’s nothing to hide. I want to see his expression; I want to know what he’s thinking now that I’ve opened up, offered him a personal look at my past, but I can’t make myself face him. So I sit here, frozen, humiliation perched on my shoulders and he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t shift an inch, doesn’t make a single sound. Seconds fly by, swarming the room all at once and I want to swat them all away; I want to catch them and shove them into my pockets just long enough to stop time. Finally, he interrupts the silence. “I like to read, too,” he says. I look up, startled. He’s leaned back against the wall, one hand caught in his hair. He runs his fingers through the golden layers just once. Drops his hand. Meets my gaze. His eyes are so, so green.

“You like to read?” I ask. “You’re surprised.” “I thought The Reestablishment was going to destroy all of those things. I thought it was illegal.” “They are, and it will be,” he says, shifting a little. “Soon, anyway. They’ve destroyed some of it already, actually.” He looks uncomfortable for the first time. “It’s ironic,” he says, “that I only really started reading when the plan was in place to destroy everything. I was assigned to sort through some lists—give my opinion on which things we’d keep, which things we’d get rid of, which things we’d recycle for use in campaigns, in future curriculum, et cetera.” “And you think that’s okay?” I ask him. “To destroy what’s left of culture—all the languages —all those texts? Do you agree?” He’s playing with my notebook again. “There … are many things I’d do differently,” he says, “if I were in charge.” A deep breath. “But a soldier does not always have to agree in order to obey.” “What would you do differently?” I ask. “If you were in charge?” He laughs. Sighs. Looks at me, smiles at me out of the corner of his eye. “You ask too many questions.” “I can’t help it,” I tell him. “You just seem so different now. Everything you say surprises me.” “How so?” “I don’t know,” I say. “You’re just … so calm. A little less crazy.” He laughs one of those silent laughs, the kind that shakes his chest without making a sound, and he says, “My life has been nothing but battle and destruction. Being here?” He looks around. “Away from duties, responsibilities. Death,” he says, eyes intent on the wall. “It’s like a vacation. I don’t have to think all the time. I don’t have to do anything or talk to anyone or be anywhere. I’ve never had so many hours to simply sleep,” he says, smiling. “It’s actually kind of luxurious. I think I’d like to get held hostage more often,” he adds, mostly to himself. And I can’t help but study him. I study his face in a way I’ve never dared to before and I realize I don’t have the faintest idea what it must be like to live his life. He told me once that I didn’t have a clue, that I couldn’t possibly understand the strange laws of his world, and I’m only just beginning to see how right he was. Because I don’t know anything about that kind of bloody, regimented existence. But I suddenly want to know. I suddenly want to understand. I watch his careful movements, the effort he makes to look unconcerned, relaxed. But I see how calculated it is. How there’s a reason behind every shift, every readjustment of his body. He’s always listening, always touching a hand to the ground, the wall, staring at the door, studying its outline, the hinges, the handle. I see the way he tenses—just a little bit—at the sound of small noises, the scratch of metal, muffled voices outside the room. It’s obvious he’s always alert, always on edge, ready to fight, to react. It makes me wonder if he’s ever known tranquillity. Safety. If he’s ever been able to sleep through the night. If he’s ever been able to go anywhere without constantly looking over his own shoulder. His hands are clasped together. He’s playing with a ring on his left hand, turning and turning and turning it around his pinkie finger. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to notice he’s wearing it; it’s a solid band of jade, a shade of green pale enough to perfectly match his eyes. And then I remember, all at once, seeing it before. Just one time. The morning after I’d hurt Jenkins. When Warner came to collect me from his room. He caught me staring at his ring and quickly slipped his gloves on.

It’s déjà vu. He catches me looking at his hands and quickly clenches his left fist, covers it with his right. “Wha—” “It’s just a ring,” he says. “It’s nothing.” “Why are you hiding it if it’s nothing?” I’m already so much more curious than I was a moment ago, too eager for any opportunity to crack him open, to figure out what on earth goes on inside of his head. He sighs. Flexes and unflexes his fingers. Stares at his hands, palms down, fingers spread. Slips the ring off his pinkie and holds it up to the fluorescent light; looks at it. It’s a little O of green. Finally, he meets my eyes. Drops the ring into the palm of his hand and closes a fist around it. “You’re not going to tell me?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Why not?” He rubs the side of his neck, massages the tension out of the lowest part, the part that just touches his upper back. I can’t help but watch. Can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have someone massage the pain out of my body that way. His hands look so strong. I’ve just about forgotten what we were talking about when he says, “I’ve had this ring for almost ten years. It used to fit my index finger.” He glances at me before looking away again. “And I don’t talk about it.” “Ever?” “No.” “Oh.” I bite down on my bottom lip. Disappointed. “Do you like Shakespeare?” he asks me. An odd segue. I shake my head. “All I know about him is that he stole my name and spelled it wrong.” Warner stares at me for a full second before he bursts into laughter—strong, unrestrained gales of laughter—trying to rein it in and failing. I’m suddenly uncomfortable, nervous in front of this strange boy who laughs and wears secret rings and asks me about books and poetry. “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” I manage to tell him. But his eyes are still full of smiles when he says, “Don’t worry. I didn’t know much about him until roughly a year ago. I still don’t understand half the things he says, so I think we’re going to get rid of most of it, but he did write a line I really liked.” “What was it?” “Would you like to see it?” “See it?” But Warner is already on his feet, unbuttoning his pants and I’m wondering what could possibly be happening, worried I’m being tricked into some new sick game of his when he stops. Catches the horrified look on my face. Says, “Don’t worry, love. I’m not getting naked, I promise. It’s just another tattoo.” “Where?” I ask, frozen in place, wanting and not wanting to look away. He doesn’t answer. His pants are unzipped but hanging low on his waist. His boxer-briefs are visible underneath. He tugs and tugs on the elastic band of his underwear until it sits just below his hipbone. I’m blushing through my hairline. I’ve never seen such an intimate area of any boy’s body before, and I can’t make myself look away. My moments with Adam were always in the dark and always interrupted; I never saw this much of him not because I didn’t want to, but because I never had a chance to. And

now the lights are on and Warner’s standing right in front of me and I’m so caught, so intrigued by the cut of his frame. I can’t help but notice the way his waist narrows into his hips and disappears under a piece of fabric. I want to know what it would be like to understand another person without those barriers. To know a person so thoroughly, so privately. I want to study the secrets tucked between his elbows and the whispers caught behind his knees. I want to follow the lines of his silhouette with my eyes and the tips of my fingers. I want to trace rivers and valleys along the curved muscles of his body. My thoughts shock me. There’s a desperate heat in the pit of my stomach I wish I could ignore. There are butterflies in my chest I wish I could explain away. There’s an ache in my core that I’m unwilling to name. Beautiful. He’s so beautiful. I must be insane. “It’s interesting,” he says. “It feels very … relevant, I think. Even though it was written so long ago.” “What?” I rip my eyes away from his lower half, desperately trying to keep my imagination from drawing in the details. I look back at the words tattooed onto his skin and focus this time. “Oh,” I say. “Yes.” It’s 2 lines. Font like a typewriter inked across the very bottom of his torso. hell is empty and all the devils are here Yes. Interesting. Yes. Sure. I think I need to lie down. “Books,” he’s saying, pulling his boxer-briefs up and rezipping his pants, “are easily destroyed. But words will live as long as people can remember them. Tattoos, for example, are very hard to forget.” He buttons his button. “I think there’s something about the impermanence of life these days that makes it necessary to etch ink into our skin,” he says. “It reminds us that we’ve been marked by the world, that we’re still alive. That we’ll never forget.” “Who are you?” I don’t know this Warner. I’d never be able to recognize this Warner. He smiles to himself. Sits down again. Says, “No one else will ever need to know.” “What do you mean?” “I know who I am,” he says. “That’s enough for me.” I’m silent a moment. I frown at the floor. “It must be great to go through life with so much confidence.” “You are confident,” he says to me. “You’re stubborn and resilient. So brave. So strong. So inhumanly beautiful. You could conquer the world.” I actually laugh, look up to meet his eyes. “I cry too much. And I’m not interested in conquering the world.” “That,” he says, “is something I will never understand.” He shakes his head. “You’re just scared. You’re afraid of what you’re unfamiliar with. You’re too worried about disappointing people. You stifle your own potential,” he says, “because of what you think others expect of you —because you still follow the rules you’ve been given.” He looks at me, hard. “I wish you wouldn’t.” “I wish you’d stop expecting me to use my power to kill people.” He shrugs. “I never said you had to. But it will happen along the way; it’s an inevitability in war. Killing is statistically impossible to avoid.” “You’re joking, right?”

“Definitely not.” “You can always avoid killing people, Warner. You avoid killing them by not going to war.” But he grins, so brilliantly, not even paying attention. “I love it when you say my name,” he says. “I don’t even know why.” “Warner isn’t your name,” I point out. “Your name is Aaron.” His smile is wide, so wide. “God, I love that.” “Your name?” “Only when you say it.” “Aaron? Or Warner?” His eyes close. He tilts his head back against the wall. Dimples. Suddenly I’m struck by the reality of what I’m doing here. Sitting here, spending time with Warner like we have so many hours to waste. Like there isn’t a very terrible world outside of these walls. I don’t know how I manage to keep getting distracted and I promise myself that this time I won’t let the conversation veer out of control. But when I open my mouth he says “I’m not going to give you your notebook back.” My mouth falls closed. “I know you want it back,” he says, “but I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep it forever.” He holds it up, shows it to me. Grins. And then puts it in his pocket. The one place I’d never dare to reach. “Why?” I can’t help but ask. “Why do you want it so much?” He spends far too long just looking at me. Not answering my question. And then he says “On the darkest days you have to search for a spot of brightness, on the coldest days you have to seek out a spot of warmth; on the bleakest days you have to keep your eyes onward and upward and on the saddest days you have to leave them open to let them cry. To then let them dry. To give them a chance to wash out the pain in order to see fresh and clear once again.” “I can’t believe you have that memorized,” I whisper. He leans back again. Closes his eyes again. Says, “Nothing in this life will ever make sense to me but I can’t help but try to collect the change and hope it’s enough to pay for our mistakes.” “I wrote that, too?” I ask him, unable to believe it’s possible he’s reciting the same words that fell from my lips to my fingertips and bled onto a page. Still unable to believe he’s now privy to my private thoughts, feelings I captured with a tortured mind and hammered into sentences I shoved into paragraphs, ideas I pinned together with punctuation marks that serve no function but to determine where one thought ends and another begins. This blond boy has my secrets in his mouth. “You wrote a lot of things,” he says, not looking at me. “About your parents, your childhood, your experiences with other people. You talked about hope and redemption and what it would be like to see a bird fly by. You wrote about pain. And what it’s like to think you’re a monster. What it was like to be judged by everyone before you’d even spoken two words to them.” A deep inhale. “So much of it was like seeing myself on paper,” he whispers. “Like reading all the things I never knew how to say.” And I wish my heart would just shut up shut up shut up shut up. “Every single day I’m sorry,” he says, his words barely a breath now. “Sorry for believing the things I heard about you. And then for hurting you when I thought I was helping you. I can’t apologize for who I am,” he says. “That part of me is already done; already ruined. I gave up on myself a long time ago. But I am sorry I didn’t understand you better. Everything I did, I did because I wanted to help you to be stronger. I wanted you to use your anger as a tool, as a weapon to help harness the strength inside of you; I wanted you to be able to fight the world. I provoked you on purpose,” he says. “I pushed you too far, too hard, did things to horrify and disgust you and I did it all on purpose. Because that’s how I was taught to steel myself against

the terror in this world. That’s how I was trained to fight back. And I wanted to teach you. I knew you had the potential to be more, so much more. I could see greatness in you.” He looks at me. Really, really looks at me. “You’re going to go on to do incredible things,” he says. “I’ve always known that. I think I just wanted to be a part of it.” And I try. I try so hard to remember all the reasons why I’m supposed to hate him, I try to remember all the horrible things I’ve seen him do. But I’m tortured because I understand too much about what it’s like to be tortured. To do things because you don’t know any better. To do things because you think they’re right because you were never taught what was wrong. Because it’s so hard to be kind to the world when all you’ve ever felt is hate. Because it’s so hard to see goodness in the world when all you’ve ever known is terror. And I want to say something to him. Something profound and complete and memorable but he seems to understand. He offers me a strange, unsteady smile that doesn’t reach his eyes but says so much. Then “Tell your team,” he says, “to prepare for war. Unless his plans have changed, my father will be ordering an attack on civilians the day after tomorrow and it will be nothing short of a massacre. It will also be your only opportunity to save your men. They are being held captive somewhere in the lower levels of Sector 45 Headquarters. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.” “How did you—” “I know why you’re here, love. I’m not an idiot. I know why you’re being forced to spend time with me.” “But why offer the information so freely?” I ask him. “What reason do you have to help us?” There’s a flicker of change in his eyes that doesn’t last long enough for me to examine it. And though his expression is carefully neutral, something in the space between us feels different all of a sudden. Charged. “Go,” he says. “You must tell them now.”

FIFTY-THREE Adam, Kenji, Castle, and I are camped out in his office trying to discuss strategy. Last night I ran straight to Kenji—who then took me to Castle—to tell him what Warner told me. Castle was both relieved and horrified, and I think he still hasn’t digested the information yet. He told me he was going to meet with Warner in the morning, just to follow up, just to see if Warner would be willing to elaborate at all (he wasn’t), and that Kenji, Adam, and I should meet him in his office at lunch. So now we’re all crammed into his small space, along with 7 others. The faces in this room are many of the same ones I saw when we journeyed into The Reestablishment’s storage compound; that means they’re important, integral to this movement. And it makes me wonder when I ever became a part of Castle’s core group at Omega Point. I can’t help but feel a little proud. A little thrilled to be someone he relies on. To be contributing. And it makes me wonder how much I’ve changed in such a short period of time. How different my life has become, how much stronger and how much weaker I feel now. It makes me wonder whether things would’ve turned out differently if Adam and I had found a way to stay together. If I ever would’ve ventured outside of the safety he introduced to my life. I wonder about a lot of things.

But when I look up and catch him staring at me, my wonders disappear; and I’m left with nothing but the pains of missing him. Left wishing he wouldn’t look away the moment I look up. This was my miserable choice. I brought it upon myself. Castle is sitting at his desk, elbows propped up on the table, chin resting on clasped hands. His eyebrows are furrowed, his lips pursed, his eyes focused on the papers in front of him. He hasn’t said a word in 5 minutes. Finally, he looks up. Looks at Kenji, who is sitting right in front of him, between me and Adam. “What do you think?” he says. “Offensive or defensive?” “Guerrilla warfare,” Kenji says without hesitation. “Nothing else.” A deep breath. “Yes,” Castle says. “I thought so too.” “We need to be split up,” Kenji says. “Do you want to assign groups, or should I?” “I’ll assign the preliminary groups. I’d like you to look them over and suggest changes, if any.” Kenji nods. “Perfect. And weapons—” “I’ll oversee that,” Adam says. “I can make sure everything is clean, loaded, ready to go. I’m already familiar with the armory.” I had no idea. “Good. Excellent. We’ll assign one group to try and get on base to find Winston and Brendan; everyone else will spread out among the compounds. Our mission is simple: save as many civilians as possible. Take out only as many soldiers as is absolutely necessary. Our fight is not against the men, but against their leaders—we must never forget that. Kenji,” he says, “I’d like you to oversee the groups entering the compounds. Do you feel comfortable doing that?” Kenji nods. “I will lead the group onto base,” Castle says. “While you and Mr. Kent would be ideal for infiltrating Sector 45, I’d like you to stay with Ms. Ferrars; the three of you work well together, and we could use your strengths on the ground. Now,” he says, spreading out the papers in front of him, “I’ve been studying these blueprints all ni—” Someone is banging on the glass window in Castle’s door. He’s a youngish man I’ve never seen before, with bright, light-brown eyes and hair cropped so close to the crown I can’t even make out the color. His eyes are pulled together, his forehead tight, tense. “Sir!” he’s shouting, he’s been shouting, I realize, but his voice is muffled and only then does it dawn on me that this room must be soundproof, if only just a little bit. Kenji jumps out of his chair, yanks the door open. “Sir!” The man is out of breath. It’s clear he ran all the way here. “Sir, please—” “Samuel?” Castle is up, around his desk, charging forward to grip this boy’s shoulders, trying to focus his eyes. “What is it—what’s wrong?” “Sir,” Samuel says again, this time more normally, his breathing almost within his grasp. “We have a—a situation.” “Tell me everything—now is not the time to hold back if something has happened—” “It’s nothing to do with anything topside, sir, it’s just—” His eyes dart in my direction for one split second. “Our … visitor—he—he is not cooperating, sir, he’s—he’s giving the guards a lot of trouble—” “What kind of trouble?” Castle’s eyes are two slits. Samuel drops his voice. “He’s managed to make a dent in the door, sir. He’s managed to dent the steel door, sir, and he’s threatening the guards and they’re beginning to worry—” “Juliette.” No.

“I need your help,” Castle says without looking at me. “I know you don’t want to do this, but you’re the only one he’ll listen to and we can’t afford this distraction, not right now.” His voice is so thin, so stretched it sounds as if it might actually crack. “Please do what you can to contain him, and when you deem it safe for one of the girls to enter, perhaps we can find a way to sedate him without endangering them in the process.” My eyes flick up to Adam almost accidentally. He doesn’t look happy. “Juliette.” Castle’s jaw tightens. “Please. Go now.” I nod. Turn to leave. “Get ready,” Castle adds as I walk out the door, his voice too soft for the words he speaks next. “Unless we have been deceived, the supreme will be massacring unarmed civilians tomorrow, and we can’t afford to assume Warner has given us false information. We leave at dawn.”

FIFTY-FOUR The guards let me into Warner’s room without a single word. My eyes dart around the now partially furnished space, heart pounding, fists clenching, blood racing racing racing. Something is wrong. Something has happened. Warner was perfectly fine when I left him last night and I can’t imagine what could’ve inspired him to lose his mind like this but I’m scared. Someone has given him a chair. I realize now how he was able to dent the steel door. No one should’ve given him a chair. Warner is sitting in it, his back to me. Only his head is visible from where I’m standing. “You came back,” he says. “Of course I came back,” I tell him, inching closer. “What’s wrong? Is something wrong?” He laughs. Runs a hand through his hair. Looks up at the ceiling. “What happened?” I’m so worried now. “Are you—did something happen to you? Are you okay?” “I need to get out of here,” he says. “I need to leave. I can’t be here anymore.” “Warner—” “Do you know what he said to me? Did he tell you what he said to me?” Silence. “He just walked into my room this morning. He walked right in here and said he wanted to have a conversation with me.” Warner laughs again, loud, too loud. Shakes his head. “He told me I can change. He said I might have a gift like everyone else here—that maybe I have an ability. He said I can be different, love. He said he believes I can be different if I want to be.” Castle told him. Warner stands up but doesn’t turn around all the way and I see he’s not wearing a shirt. He doesn’t even seem to mind that I can see the scars on his back, the word IGNITE tattooed on his body. His hair is messy, untamed, falling into his face and his pants are zipped but unbuttoned and I’ve never seen him so disheveled before. He presses his palms against the stone wall, arms outstretched; his body is bowed, his head down as if in prayer. His entire body is tense, tight, muscles straining against his skin. His clothes are in a pile on the floor and his mattress is in the middle of the room and the chair he was just sitting in is facing the wall, staring at nothing at all and I realize he’s begun to lose his mind in here. “Can you believe that?” he asks me, still not looking in my direction. “Can you believe he thinks I can just wake up one morning and be different? Sing happy songs and give money to the

poor and beg the world to forgive me for what I’ve done? Do you think that’s possible? Do you think I can change?” He finally turns to face me and his eyes are laughing, his eyes are like emeralds glinting in the setting sun and his mouth is twitching, suppressing a smile. “Do you think I could be different?” He takes a few steps toward me and I don’t know why it affects my breathing. Why I can’t find my mouth. “It’s just a question,” he says, and he’s right in front of me and I don’t even know how he got there. He’s still looking at me, his eyes so focused and so simultaneously unnerving, brilliant, blazing with something I can never place. My heart it will not be still it refuses to stop skipping skipping skipping “Tell me, Juliette. I’d love to know what you really think of me.” “Why?” Barely a whisper in an attempt to buy some time. Warner’s lips flicker up and into a smile before they fall open, just a bit, just enough to twitch into a strange, curious look that lingers in his eyes. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t say a word. He only moves closer to me, studying me and I’m frozen in place, my mouth stuffed full of the seconds he doesn’t speak and I’m fighting every atom in my body, every stupid cell in my system for being so attracted to him. Oh. God. I am so horribly attracted to him. The guilt is growing inside of me in stacks, settling on my bones, snapping me in half. It’s a cable twisted around my neck, a caterpillar crawling across my stomach. It’s the night and midnight and the twilight of indecision. It’s too many secrets I no longer contain. I don’t understand why I want this. I am a terrible person. And it’s like he sees what I’m thinking, like he can feel the change happening in my head, because suddenly he’s different. His energy slows down, his eyes are deep, troubled, tender; his lips are soft, still slightly parted and now the air in this room is too tight, too full of cotton and I feel the blood rushing around in my head, crashing into every rational region of my brain. I wish someone would remind me how to breathe. “Why can’t you answer my question?” He’s looking so deeply into my eyes that I’m surprised I haven’t buckled under the intensity and I realize then, right in this moment I realize that everything about him is intense. Nothing about him is manageable or easy to compartmentalize. He’s too much. Everything about him is too much. His emotions, his actions, his anger, his aggression. His love. He’s dangerous, electric, impossible to contain. His body is rippling with an energy so extraordinary that even when he’s calmed down it’s almost palpable. It has a presence. But I’ve developed a strange, frightening faith in who Warner really is and who he has the capacity to become. I want to find the 19-year-old boy who would feed a stray dog. I want to believe in the boy with a tortured childhood and an abusive father. I want to understand him. I want to unravel him. I want to believe he is more than the mold he was forced into. “I think you can change,” I hear myself saying. “I think anyone can change.” And he smiles. It’s a slow, delighted smile. The kind of smile that breaks into a laugh and lights up his features and makes him sigh. He closes his eyes. His face is so touched, so amused. “It’s just so sweet,” he says. “So unbearably sweet. Because you really believe that.” “Of course I do.” He finally looks at me when he whispers, “But you’re wrong.”

“What?” “I’m heartless,” he says to me, his words cold, hollow, directed inward. “I’m a heartless bastard and a cruel, vicious being. I don’t care about people’s feelings. I don’t care about their fears or their futures. I don’t care about what they want or whether or not they have a family, and I’m not sorry,” he says. “I’ve never been sorry for anything I’ve done.” It actually takes me a few moments to find my head. “But you apologized to me,” I tell him. “You apologized to me just last night—” “You’re different,” he says, cutting me off. “You don’t count.” “I’m not different,” I tell him. “I’m just another person, just like everyone else. And you’ve proven you have the capacity for remorse. For compassion. I know you can be kind—” “That’s not who I am.” His voice is suddenly hard, suddenly too strong. “And I’m not going to change. I can’t erase the nineteen miserable years of my life. I can’t misplace the memories of what I’ve done. I can’t wake up one morning and decide to live on borrowed hopes and dreams. Someone else’s promises for a brighter future. “And I won’t lie to you,” he says. “I’ve never given a damn about others and I don’t make sacrifices and I do not compromise. I am not good, or fair, or decent, and I never will be. I can’t be. Because to try to be any of those things would be embarrassing.” “How can you think that?” I want to shake him. “How can you be ashamed of an attempt to be better?” But he’s not listening. He’s laughing. He’s saying, “Can you even picture me? Smiling at small children and handing out presents at birthday parties? Can you picture me helping a stranger? Playing with the neighbor’s dog?” “Yes,” I say to him. “Yes I can.” I’ve already seen it, I don’t say to him. “No.” “Why not?” I insist. “Why is that so hard to believe?” “That kind of life,” he says, “is impossible for me.” “But why?” Warner clenches and unclenches 5 fingers before running them through his hair. “Because I feel it,” he says, quieter now. “I’ve always been able to feel it.” “Feel what?” I whisper. “What people think of me.” “What …?” “Their feelings—their energy—it’s—I don’t know what it is,” he says, frustrated, stumbling backward, shaking his head. “I’ve always been able to tell. I know how everyone hates me. I know how little my father cares for me. I know the agony of my mother’s heart. I know that you’re not like everyone else.” His voice catches. “I know you’re telling the truth when you say you don’t hate me. That you want to and you can’t. Because there’s no ill will in your heart, not toward me, and if there was I would know. Just like I know,” he says, his voice husky with restraint, “that you felt something when we kissed. You felt the same thing I did and you’re ashamed of it.” I’m dripping panic everywhere. “How can you know that?” I ask him. “H-how—you can’t just know things like that—” “No one has ever looked at me like you do,” he whispers. “No one ever talks to me like you do, Juliette. You’re different,” he says. “You’re so different. You would understand me. But the rest of the world does not want my sympathies. They don’t want my smiles. Castle is the only man on Earth who’s been the exception to this rule, and his eagerness to trust and accept me only shows how weak this resistance is. No one here knows what they’re doing and they’re all going to get themselves slaughtered—” “That’s not true—that can’t be true—”

“Listen to me,” Warner says, urgently now. “You must understand—the only people who matter in this wretched world are the ones with real power. And you,” he says, “you have power. You have the kind of strength that could shake this planet—that could conquer it. And maybe it’s still too soon, maybe you need more time to recognize your own potential, but I will always be waiting. I will always want you on my side. Because the two of us—the two of us,” he says, he stops. He sounds breathless. “Can you imagine?” His eyes are intent on mine, eyebrows drawn together. Studying me. “Of course you can,” he whispers. “You think about it all the time.” I gasp. “You don’t belong here,” he says. “You don’t belong with these people. They will drag you down with them and get you killed—” “I have no other choice!” I’m angry now, indignant. “I’d rather stay here with those who are trying to help—trying to make a difference! At least they’re not murdering innocent people—” “You think your new friends have never killed before?” Warner shouts, pointing at the door. “You think Kent has never killed anyone? That Kenji has never put a bullet through a stranger’s body? They were my soldiers!” he says. “I saw them do it with my own eyes!” “They were trying to survive,” I tell him, shaking, fighting to ignore the terror of my own imagination. “Their loyalties were never with The Reestablishment—” “My loyalties,” he says, “do not lie with The Reestablishment. My loyalties lie with those who know how to live. I only have two options in this game, love.” He’s breathing hard. “Kill. Or be killed.” “No,” I tell him, backing away, feeling sick. “It doesn’t have to be like that. You don’t have to live like that. You could get away from your father, from that life. You don’t have to be what he wants you to be—” “The damage,” he says, “is already done. It’s too late for me. I’ve already accepted my fate.” “No—Warner—” “I’m not asking you to worry about me,” he says. “I know exactly what my future looks like and I’m okay with it. I’m happy to live in solitude. I’m not afraid of spending the rest of my life in the company of my own person. I do not fear loneliness.” “You don’t have to have that life,” I tell him. “You don’t have to be alone.” “I will not stay here,” he says. “I just wanted you to know that. I’m going to find a way out of here and I’m going to leave as soon as I have the chance. My vacation,” he says, “has officially come to an end.”

FIFTY-FIVE Tick tock. Castle called an impromptu meeting to brief everyone on the details of tomorrow’s fight; there are less than 12 hours until we leave. We’ve gathered in the dining hall because it’s the easiest place to seat everyone at once. We had 1 final meal, a handful of forced conversation, 2 tense hours filled with brief, spastic moments of laughter that sounded more like choking. Sara and Sonya were the last to sneak into the hall, both spotting me and waving a quick hello before they sat down on the other side of the room. Then Castle began to speak. Everyone will need to fight. All able-bodied men and women. The elderly unable to enter battle will stay back with the youngest ones, and the youngest ones will include James and his old group of friends. James is currently crushing Adam’s hand.

Anderson is going after the people, Castle says. The people have been rioting, raging against The Reestablishment now more than ever. Our battle gave them hope, Castle says to us. They’d only heard rumors of a resistance, and the battle concretized those rumors. They are looking to us to support them, to stand by them, and now, for the first time, we will be fighting with our gifts out in the open. On the compounds. Where the civilians will see us for what we are. Castle is telling us to prepare for aggression on both sides. He says that sometimes, especially when frightened, people will not react positively to seeing our kind. They prefer the familiar terror as opposed to the unknown or the inexplicable, and our presence, our public display might create new enemies. We have to be ready for that. “Then why should we care?” someone shouts from the back of the room. She gets to her feet and I notice her sleek black hair, one heavy sheet of ink that stops at her waist. Her eyes are glittering under the fluorescent lights. “If they’re only going to hate us,” she says, “why should we even defend them? That’s ridiculous!” Castle takes a deep breath. “We cannot fault them all for the foolishness of one.” “But it’s not just one, is it?” a new voice chimes in. “How many of them are going to turn on us?” “We have no way of knowing,” Castle says. “It could be one. It could be none. I am merely advising you to be cautious. You must never forget that these civilians are innocent and unarmed. They are being murdered for their disobedience—for merely speaking out and asking for fair treatment. They are starved and they’ve lost their homes, their families. Surely, you must be able to relate. Many of you still have family lost, scattered across the country, do you not?” There’s a general murmur among the crowd. “You must imagine that it is your mother. Your father. Your brothers and sisters among them. They are hurting and they are beaten down. We have to do what little we can to help. It’s the only way. We are their only hope.” “What about our men?” Another person gets to his feet. He must be in his late 40s, round and robust, towering over the room. “Where is the guarantee that we will get Winston and Brendan back?” Castle’s gaze drops for only a second. I wonder if I’m the only one who noticed the pain flit in and out of his eyes. “There is no guarantee, my friend. There never is. But we will do our best. We will not give up.” “Then what good was it to take the kid hostage?” he protests. “Why not just kill him? Why are we keeping him alive? He’s done us no good and he’s eating our food and using resources that should go to the rest of us!” The crowd bursts into an aggravated frenzy, angry, insane with emotions. Everyone is shouting at once, shouting things like, “Kill him!” and “That’ll show the supreme!” and “We have to make a statement!” and “He deserves to die!” There’s a sudden constriction in my heart. I’ve almost begun to hyperventilate and I realize, for the very first time, that the thought of Warner dead is anything but appealing to me. It horrifies me. I look to Adam for a different kind of reaction but I don’t know what I was expecting. I’m stupid to be surprised at the tension in his eyes, his forehead, the stiff set of his lips. I’m stupid to have expected anything but hatred from Adam. Of course Adam hates Warner. Of course he does. Warner tried to murder him. Of course he, too, wants Warner dead. I think I’m going to be sick.

“Please!” Castle shouts. “I know you’re upset! Tomorrow is a difficult thing to face, but we can’t channel our aggression onto one person. We have to use it as fuel for our fight and we have to remain united. We cannot allow anything to divide us. Not now!” 6 ticks of silence. “I won’t fight until he’s dead!” “We kill him tonight!”

“Let’s get him now!” The crowd is a roar of angry bodies, determined, ugly faces so scary, so savage, so twisted in inhuman rage. I hadn’t realized that the people of Omega Point were harboring so much resentment. “STOP!” Castle’s hands are in the air, his eyes on fire. Every table and chair in the room has begun to rattle. People are looking around, scattered and scared, unnerved. They’re still unwilling to undermine Castle’s authority. At least for now. “Our hostage,” Castle begins, “is no longer a hostage.” Impossible. It’s impossible. It’s not possible. “He has come to me, just tonight,” Castle says, “and asked for sanctuary at Omega Point.” My brain is screaming, raging against the 14 words Castle has just confessed. It can’t be true. Warner said he was going to leave. He said he was going to find a way to get out. But Omega Point is even more shocked than I am. Even Adam is shaking with anger beside me. I’m afraid to look at his face. “SILENCE! PLEASE!” Castle holds out another hand to quell the explosion of protests. He says, “We have recently discovered that he, too, has a gift. And he says he wants to join us. He says he will fight with us tomorrow. He says he will fight against his father and help us find Brendan and Winston.” Chaos Chaos Chaos explodes in every corner of the room. “He’s a liar!” “Prove it!” “How can you believe him?” “He’s a traitor to his own people! He’ll be a traitor to us!” “I’ll never fight beside him!” “I’ll kill him first!” Castle’s eyes narrow, flashing under the fluorescent lights, and his hands move through the air like whisks, gathering up every plate, every spoon, every glass cup in the room and he holds them there, right in midair, daring someone to speak, to shout, to disagree. “You will not touch him,” he says quietly. “I took an oath to help the members of our kind and I will not break it now. Think of yourselves!” he shouts. “Think of the day you found out! Think of the loneliness, the isolation, the terror that overcame you! Think of how you were cast off by your families and your friends! You don’t think he could be a changed man? How have you changed, friends? You judge him now! You judge one of your own who asks for amnesty!” Castle looks disgusted. “If he does anything to compromise any of us, if he does one single thing to disprove his loyalty—only then are you free to pass judgment upon his person. But we first give him a chance, do we not?” He is no longer bothering to hide his anger. “He says he will help us find our men! He says he will fight against his father! He has valuable information we can use! Why should we be unwilling to take a chance? He is no more than a child of nineteen! He is only one and we are many more!” The crowd is hushed, whispering amongst itself and I hear snippets of conversation and things like “naive” and “ridiculous” and “he’s going to get all of us killed!” but no one speaks up and I’m relieved. I can’t believe what I’m feeling right now and I wish I didn’t care at all about what happens to Warner. I wish I could want him dead. I wish I felt nothing for him.

But I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. “How do you know?” someone asks. A new voice, a calm voice, a voice struggling to be rational. The voice sitting right beside me. Adam gets to his feet. Swallows, hard. Says, “How do you know he has a gift? Have you tested him?” And he looks at me, Castle looks at me, he stares at me as if to will me to speak and I feel like I’ve sucked all of the air out of this room, like I’ve been thrown into a vat of boiling water, like I will never find my heartbeat ever again and I am begging praying hoping and wishing he will not say the words he says next but he does. Of course he does. “Yes,” Castle says. “We know that he, like you, can touch Juliette.”

FIFTY-SIX It’s like spending 6 months just trying to inhale. It’s like forgetting how to move your muscles and reliving every nauseous moment in your life and struggling to get all the splinters out from underneath your skin. It’s like that one time you woke up and tripped down a rabbit hole and a blond girl in a blue dress kept asking you for directions but you couldn’t tell her, you had no idea, you kept trying to speak but your throat was full of rain clouds and it’s like someone has taken the ocean and filled it with silence and dumped it all over this room. It’s like this. No one is speaking. No one is moving. Everyone is staring. At me. At Adam. At Adam staring at me. His eyes are wide, blinking too fast, his features shifting in and out of confusion and anger and pain and confusion so much confusion and a touch of betrayal, of suspicion, of so much more confusion and an extra dose of pain and I’m gaping like a fish in the moments before it dies. I wish he would say something. I wish he would at least ask or accuse or demand something but he says nothing, he only studies me, stares at me, and I watch as the light goes out of his eyes, as the anger gives way to the pain and the extraordinary impossibility he must be experiencing right now and he sits down. He does not look in my direction. “Adam—” He’s up. He’s up. He’s up and he’s charging out of the room and I scramble to my feet, I chase him out the door and I hear the chaos erupt in my wake, the crowd dissolving into anger all over again and I almost slam right into him, I’m gasping and he spins around and he says “I don’t understand.” His eyes are so hurt, so deep, so blue. “Adam, I—” “He’s touched you.” It’s not a question. He can hardly meet my eyes and he looks almost embarrassed by the words he speaks next. “He’s touched your skin.” If only it were just that. If only it were that simple. If only I could get these currents out of my blood and Warner out of my head and why am I so confused “Juliette.” “Yes,” I tell him, I hardly move my lips. The answer to his nonquestion is yes. Adam touches his fingers to his mouth, looks up, looks away, makes a strange, disbelieving sound. “When?”

I tell him. I tell him when it happened, how it all began, I tell him how I was wearing one of the dresses Warner always made me wear, how he was fighting to stop me before I jumped out the window, how his hand grazed my leg and how he touched me and nothing happened. I tell him how I tried to pretend it was all just a figment of my imagination until Warner caught us again. I don’t tell him how Warner told me he missed me, how he told me he loved me and he kissed me, how he kissed me with such wild, reckless intensity. I don’t tell him that I pretended to return Warner’s affections just so I could slip my hands under his coat to get the gun out of his inside pocket. I don’t tell him that I was surprised, shocked, even, at how it felt to be in his arms, and that I pushed away those strange feelings because I hated Warner, because I was so horrified that he’d shot Adam that I wanted to kill him. All Adam knows is that I almost did. That I almost killed Warner. And now Adam is blinking, digesting the words I’m telling him, innocent of the things I’ve kept to myself. I really am a monster. “I didn’t want you to know,” I manage to say. “I thought it would complicate things between us—after everything we’ve had to deal with—I just thought it would be better to ignore it and I don’t know.” I fumble, fail for words. “It was stupid. I was stupid. I should have told you and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to find out like this.” Adam is breathing hard, rubbing the back of his head before running a hand through his hair and he says, “I don’t—I don’t get it—I mean—do we know why he can touch you? Is it like me? Can he do what I do? I don’t—God, Juliette, and you’ve been spending all that time alone with him—” “Nothing happened,” I tell him. “All I did was talk to him and he never tried to touch me. And I have no idea why he can touch me—I don’t think anyone does. He hasn’t started testing with Castle yet.” Adam sighs and drags a hand across his face and says, so quietly only I can hear him, “I don’t even know why I’m surprised. We share the same goddamn DNA.” He swears under his breath. Swears again. “Am I ever going to catch a break?” he asks, raising his voice, talking to the air. “Is there ever going to be a time when some shitty thing isn’t being thrown in my face? Jesus. It’s like this insanity is never going to end.” I want to tell him that I don’t think it ever will. “Juliette.” I freeze at the sound of his voice. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, so tight, refusing to believe my ears. Warner cannot be here. Of course he’s not here. It’s not even possible for him to be out here but then I remember. Castle said he’s no longer a hostage. Castle must’ve let him out of his room. Oh. Oh no. This can’t be happening. Warner is not standing so close to me and Adam right now, not again, not like this not after everything this cannot be happening but Adam looks over my shoulder, looks behind me at the person I’m trying so hard to ignore and I can’t lift my eyes. I don’t want to see what’s about to happen. Adam’s voice is like acid when he speaks. “What the hell are you doing here?” “It’s good to see you again, Kent.” I can actually hear Warner smile. “We should catch up, you know. Especially in light of this new discovery. I had no idea we had so much in common.” You really, truly have no idea, I want to say out loud. “You sick piece of shit,” Adam says to him, his voice low, measured.

“Such unfortunate language.” Warner shakes his head. “Only those who cannot express themselves intelligently would resort to such crude substitutions in vocabulary.” A pause. “Is it because I intimidate you, Kent? Am I making you nervous?” He laughs. “You seem to be struggling to hold yourself together.” “I will kill you—” Adam charges forward to grab Warner by the throat just as Kenji slams into him, into both of them, shoving them apart with a look of absolute disgust on his face. “What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” His eyes are blazing. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but you’re standing right in front of the doorway and you’re scaring the shit out of the little kids, Kent, so I’m going to have to ask you to calm your ass down.” Adam tries to speak but Kenji cuts him off. “Listen, I don’t have a clue what Warner is doing out of his room, but that’s not my call to make. Castle is in charge around here, and we have to respect that. You can’t go around killing people just because you feel like it.” “This is the same guy who tried to torture me to death!” Adam shouts. “He had his men beat the shit out of you! And I have to live with him? Fight with him? Pretend everything is fine? Has Castle lost his mind—” “Castle knows what he’s doing,” Kenji snaps. “You don’t need to have an opinion. You will defer to his judgment.” Adam throws his hands in the air, furious. “I don’t believe this. This is a joke! Who does this? Who treats hostages like they’re on some kind of retreat?” he shouts again, making no effort to keep his voice down. “He could go back and give away every detail of this place—he could give away our exact location!” “That’s impossible,” Warner says. “I have no idea where we are.” Adam turns on Warner so quickly that I spin around just as fast, just to catch the action. Adam is shouting, saying something, looking like he might attack Warner right here in this moment and Kenji is trying to restrain him but I can hardly hear what’s going on around me. The blood is pounding too hard in my head and my eyes are forgetting to blink because Warner is looking at me, only me, his eyes so focused, so intent, so heart-wrenchingly deep it renders me completely still. Warner’s chest is rising and falling, strong enough that I can see it from where I’m standing. He’s not paying attention to the commotion beside him, the chaos of the dining hall or Adam trying to pummel him into the ground; he’s not moved a single inch. He will not look away and I know I have to do it for him. I turn my head. Kenji is yelling at Adam to calm down about something and I reach out, I grab Adam’s arm, I offer him a small smile and he stills. “Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go back inside. Castle isn’t finished yet and we need to hear what he’s saying.” Adam makes an effort to regain control of himself. Takes a deep breath. Offers me a quick nod and allows me to lead him forward. I’m forcing myself to focus on Adam so I can pretend Warner isn’t here. Warner isn’t a fan of my plan. He’s now standing in front of us, blocking our path and I look at him despite my best intentions only to see something I’ve never seen before. Not to this degree, not like this. Pain. “Move,” Adam snaps at him, but Warner doesn’t seem to notice. He’s looking at me. He’s looking at my hand clenched around Adam’s covered arm and the agony in his eyes is breaking my knees and I can’t speak, I shouldn’t speak, I wouldn’t know what to say even if I could speak and then he says my name. He says it again. He says, “Juliette —” “Move!” Adam barks again, this time losing restraint and pushing Warner with enough strength to knock him to the floor. Except Warner doesn’t fall. He trips backward, just a little, but the movement somehow triggers something within him, some kind of dormant anger he’s all too

eager to unleash and he’s charging forward, ready to inflict damage and I’m trying to figure out what to do to make it stop, I’m trying to come up with a plan and I’m stupid. I’m stupid enough to step in the middle. Adam grabs me to try and pull me back but I’m already pressing a palm to Warner’s chest and I don’t know what I’m thinking but I’m not thinking at all and that seems to be the problem. I’m here, I’m caught in the milliseconds standing between 2 brothers willing to destroy one another and it’s not even me who manages to do anything at all. It’s Kenji. He grabs both boys by the arms and tries to pry them apart but the sudden sound that rips through his throat is a torture and a terror I wish I could tear out of my skull. He’s down. He’s on the ground. He’s choking, gasping, writhing on the floor until he goes limp, until he can hardly breathe and then he’s still, too still, and I think I’m screaming, I keep touching my lips to see where this sound is coming from and I’m on my knees. I’m trying to shake him awake but he’s not moving, he’s not responding and I have no idea what just happened. I have no idea if Kenji is dead.

FIFTY-SEVEN I’m definitely screaming. Arms are pulling me up off the floor and I hear voices and sounds I don’t care to recognize because all I know is that this can’t happen, not to Kenji, not to my funny, complicated friend who keeps secrets behind his smiles and I’m ripping away from the hands holding me back and I’m blind, I’m bolting into the dining hall and a hundred blurry faces blend into the background because the only one I want to see is wearing a navy-blue blazer and headful of dreads tied into a ponytail. “Castle!” I’m screaming. I’m still screaming. I may have fallen to the floor, I’m not sure, but I can tell my kneecaps are starting to hurt and I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care—“Castle! It’s Kenji—he’s—please—” I’ve never seen Castle run before. He charges through the room at an inhuman speed, past me and into the hall. Everyone in the room is up, frantic, some shouting, panicked, and I’m chasing Castle back into the tunnel and Kenji is still there. Still limp. Still. Too still. “Where are the girls?” Castle is shouting. “Someone—get the girls!” He’s cradling Kenji’s head, trying to pull Kenji’s heavy body into his arms and I’ve never heard him like this before, not even when he talked about our hostages, not even when he talked about what Anderson has done to the civilians. I look around and see the members of Omega Point standing all around us, pain carved into their features and so many of them have already started crying, clutching at each other and I realize I never fully recognized Kenji. I didn’t understand the reach of his authority. I’d never really seen just how much he means to the people in this room. How much they love him. I blink and Adam is one of 50 different people trying to help carry Kenji and now they’re running, they’re hoping against hope and someone is saying, “They’ve gone to the medical wing! They’re preparing a bed for him!” And it’s like a stampede, everyone rushing after them, trying to find out what’s wrong and no one will look at me, no one will meet my eyes and I pull myself

away, out of sight, around the corner, into the darkness. I taste the tears as they fall into my mouth, I count each salty drop because I can’t understand what happened, how it happened, how this is even possible because I wasn’t touching him, I couldn’t have been touching him please please please I couldn’t have touched him but then I freeze. Icicles form along my arms as I realize: I’m not wearing my gloves. I forgot my gloves. I was in such a rush to get here tonight that I just jumped out of the shower and left my gloves in my room and it doesn’t seem real, it doesn’t seem possible that I could’ve done this, that I could’ve forgotten, that I could be responsible for yet another life lost and I just I just I just I fall to the floor. “Juliette.” I look up. I jump up. I say, “Stay away from me” and I’m shaking, I’m trying to push the tears back but I’m shrinking into nothingness because I’m thinking this must be it. This must be my ultimate punishment. I deserve this pain, I deserve to have killed one of my only friends in the world and I want to shrivel up and disappear forever. “Go away—” “Juliette, please,” Warner says, coming closer. His face is cast in shadow. This tunnel is only half lit and I don’t know where it leads. All I know is that I do not want to be alone with Warner. Not now. Not ever again. “I said stay away from me.” My voice is trembling. “I don’t want to talk to you. Please—just leave me alone!” “I can’t abandon you like this!” he says. “Not when you’re crying!” “Maybe you wouldn’t understand that emotion,” I snap at him. “Maybe you wouldn’t care because killing people means nothing to you!” He’s breathing hard. Too fast. “What are you talking about?” “I’m talking about Kenji!” I explode. “I did that! It’s my fault! It’s my fault you and Adam were fighting and it’s my fault Kenji came out to stop you and it’s my fault—” My voice breaks once, twice. “It’s my fault he’s dead!” Warner’s eyes go wide. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “He’s not dead.” I’m agony. I’m sobbing about what I’ve done and how of course he’s dead, didn’t you see him, he wasn’t even moving and I killed him and Warner remains utterly silent. He doesn’t say a single thing as I hurl awful, horrible insults at him and accuse him of being too coldhearted to understand what it’s like to grieve. I don’t even realize he’s pulled me into his arms until I’m nestled against his chest and I don’t fight it. I don’t fight it at all. I cling to him because I need this warmth, I miss feeling strong arms around me and I’m only just beginning to realize how quickly I came to rely on the healing properties of an excellent hug. How desperately I’ve missed this. And he just holds me. He smooths back my hair, he runs a gentle hand down my back, and I hear his heart beat a strange, crazy beat that sounds far too fast to be human. His arms are wrapped entirely around me when he says, “You didn’t kill him, love.” And I say, “Maybe you didn’t see what I saw.” “You are misunderstanding the situation entirely. You didn’t do anything to hurt him.” I shake my head against his chest. “What are you talking about?” “It wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t you.” I pull back. Look up into his eyes. “How can you know something like that?” “Because,” he says. “It wasn’t you who hurt Kenji. It was me.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

“What?” “He’s not dead,” Warner says, “though he is severely injured. I suspect they should be able to revive him.” “What”—I’m panicking, panicking in my bones—“what are you talking about—” “Please,” Warner says. “Sit down. I’ll explain.” He folds himself onto the floor and pats the place beside him. I don’t know what else to do and my legs are now officially too shaky to stand on their own. My limbs spill onto the ground, both our backs against the wall, his right side and my left side divided only by a thin inch of air. 1 2 3 seconds pass. “I didn’t want to believe Castle when he told me I might have a … a gift,” Warner says. His voice is pitched so low that I have to strain to hear it even though I’m only inches away. “A part of me hoped he was trying to drive me mad for his own benefit.” A small sigh. “But it did make a bit of sense, if I really thought about it. Castle told me about Kent, too,” Warner says. “About how he can touch you and how they’ve discovered why. For a moment I wondered if perhaps I had a similar ability. One just as pathetic. Equally as useless.” He laughs. “I was extremely reluctant to believe it.” “It’s not a useless ability,” I hear myself saying. “Really?” He turns to face me. Our shoulders are almost touching. “Tell me, love. What can he do?” “He can disable things. Abilities.” “Right,” he says, “but how will that ever help him? How could it ever help him to disable the powers of his own people? It’s absurd. It’s wasteful. It won’t help at all in this war.” I bristle. Decide to ignore that. “What does any of this have to do with Kenji?” He turns away from me again. His voice is softer when he says, “Would you believe me if I told you I could sense your energy right now? Sense the tone and weight of it?” I stare at him, study his features and the earnest, tentative note in his voice. “Yes,” I tell him. “I think I’d believe you.” Warner smiles in a way that seems to sadden him. “I can sense,” he says, taking a deep breath, “the emotions you’re feeling most strongly. And because I know you, I’m able to put those feelings into context. I know the fear you’re feeling right now, for example, is not directed toward me, but toward yourself, and what you think you’ve done to Kenji. I sense your hesitation—your reluctance to believe that it wasn’t your fault. I feel your sadness, your grief.” “You can really feel that?” I ask. He nods without looking at me. “I never knew that was possible,” I tell him. “I didn’t either—I wasn’t aware of it,” he says. “Not for a very long time. I actually thought it was normal to be so acutely aware of human emotions. I thought perhaps I was more perceptive than most. It’s a big factor in why my father allowed me to take over Sector 45,” he tells me. “Because I have an uncanny ability to tell whenever someone is hiding something, or feeling guilty, or, most importantly, lying.” A pause. “That,” he says, “and because I’m not afraid to deliver consequences if the occasion calls for it. “It wasn’t until Castle suggested there might be something more to me that I really began to analyze it. I nearly lost my mind.” He shakes his head. “I kept going over it, thinking of ways to prove and disprove his theories. Even with all my careful deliberation, I dismissed it. And while I am a bit sorry—for your sake, not for mine—that Kenji had to be stupid enough to interfere tonight, I think it was actually quite serendipitous. Because now I finally have proof. Proof that I was wrong. That Castle,” he says, “was right.” “What do you mean?”

“I took your Energy,” he tells me, “and I didn’t know I could. I could feel it all very vividly when the four of us connected. Adam was inaccessible—which, by the way, explains why I never suspected him of being disloyal. His emotions were always hidden; always blocked off. I was naive and assumed he was merely robotic, devoid of any real personality or interests. He eluded me and it was my own fault. I trusted myself too much to be able to anticipate a flaw in my system.” And I want to say, Adam’s ability isn’t so useless after all, is it? But I don’t. “And Kenji,” Warner says after a moment. He rubs his forehead. Laughs a little. “Kenji was … very smart. A lot smarter than I gave him credit for—which, as it turns out, was exactly his tactic. Kenji,” he says, blowing out a breath, “was careful to be an obvious threat as opposed to a discreet one. “He was always getting into trouble—demanding extra portions at meals, fighting with the other soldiers, breaking curfew. He broke simple rules in order to draw attention to himself. In order to trick me into seeing him as an irritant and nothing more. I always felt there was something off about him, but I attributed it to his loud, raucous behavior and his inability to follow rules. I dismissed him as a poor soldier. Someone who would never be promoted. Someone who would always be recognized as a waste of time.” He shakes his head. Raises his eyebrows at the ground. “Brilliant,” he says, looking almost impressed. “It was brilliant. His only mistake,” Warner adds after a moment, “was being too openly friendly with Kent. And that mistake nearly cost him his life.” “So—what? You were trying to finish him off tonight?” I’m still so confused, trying to make an attempt to refocus the conversation. “Did you hurt him on purpose?” “Not on purpose.” Warner shakes his head. “I didn’t actually know what I was doing. Not at first. I’ve only ever just sensed Energy; I never knew I could take it. But I touched yours simply by touching you—there was so much adrenaline among the group of us that yours practically threw itself at me. And when Kenji grabbed my arm,” he says, “you and I, we were still connected. And I … somehow I managed to redirect your power in his direction. It was quite accidental but I felt it happen. I felt your power rush into me. Rush out of me.” He looks up. Meets my eyes. “It was the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever experienced.” I think I’d fall down if I weren’t already sitting. “So you can take—you can just take other people’s powers?” I ask him. “Apparently.” “And you’re sure you didn’t hurt Kenji on purpose?” Warner laughs, looks at me like I’ve just said something highly amusing. “If I had wanted to kill him, I would have. And I wouldn’t have needed such a complicated setup to accomplish it. I’m not interested in theatrics,” he says. “If I want to hurt someone, I won’t require much more than my own two hands.” I’m stunned into silence. “I’m actually amazed,” Warner says, “how you manage to contain so much without finding ways to release the excess. I could barely hold on to it. The transfer from my body to Kenji’s was not only immediate, it was necessary. I couldn’t tolerate the intensity for very long.” “And I can’t hurt you?” I blink at him, astonished. “At all? My power just goes into you? You just absorb it?” He nods. Says, “Would you like to see?” And I’m saying yes with my head and my eyes and my lips and I’ve never been more terrified to be excited in my life. “What do I have to do?” I ask him. “Nothing,” he says, so quietly. “Just touch me.” My heart is beating pounding racing running through my body and I’m trying to focus. Trying to stay calm. This is going to be fine, I say to myself. It’s going to be fine. It’s just an experiment.

There’s no need to get so excited about being able to touch someone again, I keep saying to myself. But oh, I am so, so excited. He holds out his bare hand. I take it. I wait to feel something, some feeling of weakness, some depletion of my Energy, some sign that a transfer is taking place from my body to his but I feel nothing at all. I feel exactly the same. But I watch Warner’s face as his eyes close and he makes an effort to focus. Then I feel his hand tighten around mine and he gasps. His eyes fly open and his free hand goes right through the floor. I jerk back, panicked. I’m tipping sideways, my hands catching me from behind. I must be hallucinating. I must be hallucinating the hole in the floor not 4 inches from where Warner is still sitting on the ground. I must’ve been hallucinating when I saw his resting palm press too hard and go right through. I must be hallucinating everything. All of this. I’m dreaming and I’m sure I’m going to wake up soon. That must be it. “Don’t be afraid—” “H-how,” I stammer, “how did you d-do that—” “Don’t be frightened, love, it’s all right, I promise—it’s new for me, too—” “My—my power? It doesn’t—you don’t feel any pain?” He shakes his head. “On the contrary. It’s the most incredible rush of adrenaline—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known. I actually feel a little light-headed,” he says, “in the best possible way.” He laughs. Smiles to himself. Drops his head into his hands. Looks up. “Can we do it again?” “No,” I say too quickly. He’s grinning. “Are you sure?” “I can’t—I just, I still can’t believe you can touch me. That you really—I mean”—I’m shaking my head—“there’s no catch? There are no conditions? You touch me and no one gets hurt? And not only does no one get hurt, but you enjoy it? You actually like the way it feels to touch me?” He’s blinking at me now, staring like he’s not sure how to answer my question. “Well?” “Yes,” he says, but it’s a breathless word. “Yes, what?” I can hear how hard his heart is beating. I can actually hear it in the silence between us. “Yes,” he says. “I like it.” Impossible. “You never have to be afraid of touching me,” he says. “It won’t hurt me. It can only give me strength.” I want to laugh one of those strange, high-pitched, delusional laughs that signals the end of a person’s sanity. Because this world, I think, has a terrible, terrible sense of humor. It always seems to be laughing at me. At my expense. Making my life infinitely more complicated all the time. Ruining all of my best-laid plans by making every choice so difficult. Making everything so confusing. I can’t touch the boy I love. But I can use my touch to strengthen the boy who tried to kill the one I love. No one, I want to tell the world, is laughing. “Warner.” I look up, hit with a sudden realization. “You have to tell Castle.” “Why would I do that?” “Because he has to know! It would explain Kenji’s situation and it could help us tomorrow! You’ll be fighting with us and it might come in handy—” Warner laughs.

He laughs and laughs and laughs, his eyes brilliant, gleaming even in this dim light. He laughs until it’s just a hard breath, until it becomes a gentle sigh, until it dissolves into an amused smile. And then he grins at me until he’s grinning to himself, until he looks down and his gaze drops to my hand, the one lying limp on my lap and he hesitates just a moment before his fingers brush the soft, thin skin covering my knuckles. I don’t breathe. I don’t speak. I don’t even move. He’s hesitant, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll pull away and I should, I know I should but I don’t. So he takes my hand. Studies it. Runs his fingers along the lines of my palm, the creases at my joints, the sensitive spot between my thumb and index finger and his touch is so tender, so delicate and gentle and it feels so good it hurts, it actually hurts. And it’s too much for my heart to handle right now. I snatch back my hand in a jerky, awkward motion, face flushing, pulse tripping. Warner doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even seem surprised. He only stares at his now empty hands as he speaks. “You know,” he says, his voice both strange and soft, “I think Castle is little more than an optimistic fool. He tries too hard to welcome too many people and it’s going to backfire, simply because it’s impossible to please everyone.” A pause. “He is the perfect example of the kind of person who doesn’t know the rules of this game. Someone who thinks too much with his heart and clings too desperately to some fantastical notion of hope and peace. It will never help him,” he sighs. “In fact, it will be the end of him, I’m quite sure of it. “But there is something about you,” Warner says, “something about the way you hope for things.” He shakes his head. “It’s so naive that it’s oddly endearing. You like to believe people when they speak,” he says. “You prefer kindness.” He smiles, just a little. Looks up. “It amuses me.” All at once I feel like an idiot. “You’re not fighting with us tomorrow.” Warner is smiling openly now, his eyes so warm. “I’m going to leave.” “You’re going to leave.” I’m numb. “I don’t belong here.” I’m shaking my head, saying, “I don’t understand—how can you leave? You told Castle you’re going to fight with us tomorrow—does he know you’re leaving? Does anyone know?” I ask him, searching his face. “What do you have planned? What are you going to do?” He doesn’t answer. “What are you going to do, Warner—” “Juliette,” he whispers, and his eyes are urgent, tortured all of a sudden. “I need to ask you somethi—” Someone is bolting down the tunnels. Calling my name. Adam.

FIFTY-NINE I jump up, frantic, and tell Warner I’ll be right back. I’m saying don’t leave yet, don’t go anywhere just yet I’ll be right back but I don’t wait for his response because I’m on my feet and I’m running toward the lighted hallway and I almost slam right into Adam. He steadies me and pulls me tight, so close, always forgetting not to touch me like this and he’s anxious and he says, “Are you okay?” and “I’m so sorry,” and “I’ve been

looking for you everywhere,” and “I thought you’d come down to the medical wing,” and “it wasn’t your fault, I hope you know that—” It keeps hitting me in the face, in the skull, in the spine, this knowledge of just how much I care about him. How much I know he cares about me. Being close to him like this is a painful reminder of everything I had to force myself to walk away from. I take a deep breath. “Adam,” I ask, “is Kenji okay?” “He’s not conscious yet,” he says to me, “but Sara and Sonya think he’s going to be okay. They’re going to stay up with him all night, just to be sure he makes it through in one piece.” A pause. “No one knows what happened,” he says. “But it wasn’t you.” His eyes lock mine in place. “You know that, right? You didn’t even touch him. I know you didn’t.” And even though I open my mouth a million times to say, It was Warner. Warner did it. He’s the one who did this to Kenji, you have to get him and catch him and stop him he is lying to all of you! He’s going to escape tomorrow! I don’t say any of it and I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m protecting him. I think part of me is afraid to say the words out loud, afraid to make them true. I still don’t know whether or not Warner is really going to leave or even how he’s going to escape; I don’t know if it’s even possible. And I don’t know if I can tell anyone about Warner’s ability yet; I don’t think I want to explain to Adam that while he and the rest of Omega Point were tending to Kenji, I was hiding in a tunnel with Warner—our enemy and hostage—holding his hand and testing out his new power. I wish I weren’t so confused. I wish my interactions with Warner would stop making me feel so guilty. Every moment I spend with him, every conversation I have with him makes me feel like I’ve somehow betrayed Adam, even though technically we’re not even together anymore. My heart still feels so tied to Adam; I feel bound to him, like I need to make up for already having hurt him so much. I don’t want to be the reason for the pain in his eyes, not again, and somehow I’ve decided that keeping secrets is the only way to keep him from getting hurt. But deep down, I know this can’t be right. Deep down, I know it could end badly. But I don’t know what else to do. “Juliette?” Adam is still holding me tight, still so close and warm and wonderful. “Are you okay?” And I’m not sure what makes me ask it, but suddenly I need to know. “Are you ever going to tell him?” Adam pulls back, just an inch. “What?” “Warner. Are you ever going to tell him the truth? About the two of you?” Adam is blinking, stunned, caught off guard by my question. “No,” he finally says. “Never.” “Why not?” “Because it takes a lot more than blood to be family,” he says. “And I want nothing to do with him. I’d like to be able to watch him die and feel no sympathy, no remorse. He’s the textbook definition of a monster,” Adam says to me. “Just like my dad. And I’ll drop dead before I recognize him as my brother.” Suddenly I’m feeling like I might fall over. Adam grabs my waist, tries to focus my eyes. “You’re still in shock,” he says. “We need to get you something to eat—or maybe some water—” “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m okay.” I allow myself to enjoy one last second in his arms before I break away, needing to breathe. I keep trying to convince myself that Adam is right, that Warner has done terrible, awful things and I shouldn’t forgive him. I shouldn’t smile at him. I shouldn’t even talk to him. And then I want to scream because I don’t think my brain can handle the split personality I seem to be developing lately. I tell Adam I need a minute. I tell him I need to stop by the bathroom before we head over to the medical wing and he says okay, he says he’ll wait for me.

He says he’ll wait for me until I’m ready. And I tiptoe back into the dark tunnel to tell Warner that I have to leave, that I won’t be coming back after all, but when I squint into the darkness I can’t see a thing. I look around. He’s already gone.

SIXTY We don’t have to do anything at all to die. We can hide in a cupboard under the stairs our whole life and it’ll still find us. Death will show up wearing an invisible cloak and it will wave a magic wand and whisk us away when we least expect it. It will erase every trace of our existence on this earth and it will do all this work for free. It will ask for nothing in return. It will take a bow at our funeral and accept the accolades for a job well done and then it will disappear. Living is a little more complex. There’s one thing we always have to do. Breathe. In and out, every single day in every hour minute and moment we must inhale whether we like it or not. Even as we plan to asphyxiate our hopes and dreams still we breathe. Even as we wither away and sell our dignity to the man on the corner we breathe. We breathe when we’re wrong, we breathe when we’re right, we breathe even as we slip off the ledge toward an early grave. It cannot be undone. So I breathe. I count all the steps I’ve climbed toward the noose hanging from the ceiling of my existence and I count out the number of times I’ve been stupid and I run out of numbers. Kenji almost died today. Because of me. It’s still my fault that Adam and Warner were fighting. It’s still my fault that I stepped between them. It’s still my fault that Kenji felt the need to pull them apart and if I hadn’t been caught in the middle Kenji never would’ve been hurt. And I’m standing here. Staring at him. He’s barely breathing and I’m begging him. I’m begging him to do the one thing that matters. The only thing that matters. I need him to hold on but he’s not listening. He can’t hear me and I need him to be okay. I need him to pull through. I need him to breathe. I need him. Castle didn’t have much more to say. Everyone was standing around, some wedged into the medical wing, others standing on the other side of the glass, watching silently. Castle gave a small speech about how we need to stick together, how we’re a family and if we don’t have each other then who do we have? He said we’re all scared, sure, but now is the time for us to support one another. Now is the time to band together and fight back. Now is the time, he said, for us to take back our world. “Now is the time for us to live,” he said. “We’ll postpone tomorrow’s departure just long enough for everyone to have a final breakfast together. We cannot go into battle divided,” he said. “We have to have faith in ourselves and in each other. Take a little more time in the morning to find peace with yourselves. After breakfast we leave. As one.”

“What about Kenji?” someone asked, and I was startled to hear the familiar voice. James. He was standing there with his fists clenched, tearstains streaked across his face, his bottom lip trembling even as he fought to hide the pain in his voice. My heart split clean in half. “What do you mean?” Castle asked him. “Will he fight tomorrow?” James demanded, sniffing back the last of his tears, fists beginning to shake. “He wants to fight tomorrow. He told me he wants to fight tomorrow.” Castle’s face creased as it pulled together. He took his time responding. “I … I’m afraid I don’t think Kenji will be able to join us tomorrow. But perhaps,” he said, “perhaps you could stay and keep him company?” James didn’t respond. He only stared at Castle. Then he stared at Kenji. He blinked several times before pushing through the crowd to clamber onto Kenji’s bed. Burrowed into his side and promptly fell asleep. We all took that as our cue to leave. Well. Everyone but me, Adam, Castle, and the girls. I find it interesting that everyone refers to Sonya and Sara as “the girls,” as if they’re the only girls in this entire place. They’re not. I don’t even know how they got that nickname and while a part of me wants to know, another part of me is too exhausted to ask. I curl into my seat and stare at Kenji, who is struggling to breathe in and out. I prop my head up on my fist, fighting the sleep weaving its way into my consciousness. I don’t deserve to sleep. I should stay here all night and watch over him. I would, too, if I could touch him without destroying his life. “You two should really get to bed.” I jolt awake, jerking up, not realizing I’d actually dozed off for a second. Castle is staring at me with a soft, strange look on his face. “I’m not tired,” I lie. “Go to bed,” he says. “We have a big day tomorrow. You need to sleep.” “I can walk her out,” Adam says. He moves to stand up. “And then I can be right back—” “Please.” Castle cuts him off. “Go. I’ll be fine with the girls.” “But you need to sleep more than we do,” I tell him. Castle smiles a sad smile. “I’m afraid I won’t be getting any sleep tonight.” He turns to look at Kenji, his eyes crinkling in happiness or pain or something in between. “Did you know,” Castle says to us, “that I’ve known Kenji since he was a small boy? I found him shortly after I’d built Omega Point. He grew up here. When I first met him he was living in an old shopping cart he’d found on the side of the highway.” Castle pauses. “Has he ever told you that story?” Adam sits back down. I’m suddenly wide-awake. “No,” we both say at the same time. “Ah—forgive me.” Castle shakes his head. “I shouldn’t waste your time with these things,” he says. “I think there’s too much on my mind right now. I’m forgetting which stories to keep to myself.” “No—please—I want to know,” I tell him. “Really.” Castle stares into his hands. Smiles a little. “There’s not much to it,” he says. “Kenji has never talked to me about what happened to his parents, and I try not to ask. All he ever had was a name and an age. I stumbled upon him quite accidentally. He was just a boy sitting in a shopping cart. Far from civilization. It was the dead of winter and he was wearing nothing but an old T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants a few sizes too big for him. He looked like he was freezing, like he could use a few meals and place to sleep. I couldn’t just walk away,” Castle says. “I couldn’t just leave him there. So, I asked him if he was hungry.” He stops, remembering. “Kenji didn’t say a single thing for at least thirty seconds. He simply stared at me. I almost walked away, thinking I’d frightened him. But then, finally, he reached out, grabbed my hand,

placed it in his palm and shook it. Very hard. And then he said, ‘Hello, sir. My name is Kenji Kishimoto and I am nine years old. It’s very nice to meet you.’” Castle laughs out loud, his eyes shining with an emotion that betrays his smiles. “He must’ve been starving, the poor kid. He always,” Castle says, blinking up at the ceiling now, “he always had a strong, determined sort of personality. So much pride. Unstoppable, that boy.” We’re all silent for a while. “I had no idea,” Adam says, “that you two were so close.” Castle stands up. Looks around at us and smiles too brightly, too tightly. Says, “Yes. Well, I’m sure he’s going to be just fine. He’ll be just fine in the morning, so you two should definitely get some sleep.” “Are you su—” “Yes, please, get to bed. I’ll be fine here with the girls, I promise.” So we get up. We get up and Adam manages to lift James from Kenji’s bed and into his arms without waking him. And we walk out. I glance back. I see Castle fall into his chair and drop his head into his hands and rest his elbows on his knees. I see him reach out a shaky hand to rest on Kenji’s leg and I wonder at how much I still don’t know about these people I live with. How little I’ve allowed myself to become a part of their world. And I know I want to change that.

SIXTY-ONE Adam walks me to my room. It’s been lights-out for about an hour now, and, with the exception of faint emergency lights glowing every few feet, everything is, quite literally, out. It’s absolute blackness, and even still, the guards on patrol manage to spot us only to warn us to go straight to our separate quarters. Adam and I don’t really speak until we reach the mouth of the women’s wing. There’s so much tension, so many unspoken worries between us. So many thoughts about today and tomorrow and the many weeks we’ve already spent together. So much we don’t know about what’s already happening to us and what will eventually happen to us. Just looking at him, being so close and being so far away from him—it’s painful. I want so desperately to bridge the gap between our bodies. I want to press my lips to every part of him and I want to savor the scent of his skin, the strength in his limbs, in his heart. I want to wrap myself in the warmth and reassurance I’ve come to rely on. But. In other ways, I’ve come to realize that being away from him has forced me to rely on myself. To allow myself to be scared and to find my own way through it. I’ve had to train without him, fight without him, face Warner and Anderson and the chaos of my mind all without him by my side. And I feel different now. I feel stronger since putting space between us. And I don’t know what that means. All I know is that it’ll never be safe for me to rely on someone else again, to need constant reassurance of who I am and who I might someday be. I can love him, but I can’t depend on him to be my backbone. I can’t be my own person if I constantly require someone else to hold me together.

My mind is a mess. Every single day I’m confused, uncertain, worried I’m going to make a new mistake, worried I’m going to lose control, worried I’m going to lose myself. But it’s something I have to work through. Because for the rest of my life, I’ll always, always be stronger than everyone around me. But at least I’ll never have to be scared anymore. “Are you going to be okay?” Adam asks, finally dispelling the silence between us. I look up to find that his eyes are worried, trying to read me. “Yes,” I tell him. “Yes. I’m going to be fine.” I offer him a tight smile, but it feels wrong to be this close to him without being able to touch him at all. Adam nods. Hesitates. Says, “It’s been one hell of a night.” “And it’ll be one hell of day tomorrow, too,” I whisper. “Yeah,” he says quietly, still looking at me like he’s trying to find something, like he’s searching for an answer to an unspoken question and I wonder if he sees something different in my eyes now. He grins a small grin. Says, “I should probably go,” and nods at James bundled in his arms. I nod, not sure what else to do. What to say. So much is uncertain. “We’ll get through this,” Adam says, answering my silent thoughts. “All of it. We’re going to be okay. And Kenji will be fine.” He touches my shoulder, allows his fingers to trail down my arm and stop just short of my bare hand. I close my eyes, try to savor the moment. And then his fingers graze my skin and my eyes fly open, my heart racing in my chest. He’s staring at me like he might’ve done much more than touch my hand if he weren’t holding James against his chest. “Adam—” “I’m going to find a way,” he says to me. “I’m going to find a way to make this work. I promise. I just need some time.” I’m afraid to speak. Afraid of what I might say, what I might do; afraid of the hope ballooning inside of me. “Good night,” he whispers. “Good night,” I say. I’m beginning to think of hope as a dangerous, terrifying thing.

SIXTY-TWO I’m so tired when I walk into my room that I’m only half conscious as I change into the tank top and pajama pants I sleep in. They were a gift from Sara. It was her recommendation that I change out of my suit while I sleep; she and Sonya think it’s important to give my skin direct contact with fresh air. I’m about to climb under the covers when I hear a soft knock at my door. Adam is my first thought. But then I open the door. And promptly close it. I must be dreaming. “Juliette?” Oh. God. “What are you doing here?” I shout-whisper through the closed door.

“I need to speak with you.” “Right now. You need to speak with me right now.” “Yes. It’s important,” Warner says. “I heard Kent telling you that those twin girls would be in the medical wing tonight and I figured it would be a good time for us to speak privately.” “You heard my conversation with Adam?” I begin to panic, worried he might’ve heard too much. “I have zero interest in your conversation with Kent,” he says, his tone suddenly flat, neutral. “I left just as soon as I heard you’d be alone tonight.” “Oh.” I exhale. “How did you even get in here without guards stopping you?” “Maybe you should open the door so I can explain.” I don’t move. “Please, love, I’m not going to do anything to hurt you. You should know that by now.” “I’m giving you five minutes. Then I have to sleep, okay? I’m exhausted.” “Okay,” he says. “Five minutes.” I take a deep breath. Crack the door open. Peek at him. He’s smiling. Looking entirely unapologetic. I shake my head. He slips past me and sits down directly on my bed. I close the door, make my way across the room from him, and sit on Sonya’s bed, suddenly all too aware of what I’m wearing and how incredibly exposed I feel. I cross my arms over the thin cotton clinging to my chest—even though I’m sure he can’t actually see me—and make an effort to ignore the cold chill in the air. I always forget just how much the suit does to regulate my body temperature so far belowground. Winston was a genius to design it for me. Winston. Winston and Brendan. Oh how I hope they’re okay. “So … what is it?” I ask Warner. I can’t see a single thing in this darkness; I can hardly make out the form of his silhouette. “You just left earlier, in the tunnel. Even though I asked you to wait.” A few beats of silence. “Your bed is so much more comfortable than mine,” he says quietly. “You have a pillow. And an actual blanket?” He laughs. “You’re living like a queen in these quarters. They treat you well.” “Warner.” I’m feeling nervous now. Anxious. Worried. Shivering a little and not from the cold. “What’s going on? Why are you here?” Nothing. Still nothing. Suddenly. A tight breath. “I want you to come with me.” The world stops spinning. “When I leave tomorrow,” he says. “I want you to come with me. I never had a chance to finish talking to you earlier and I thought asking you in the morning would be bad timing all around.” “You want me to come with you.” I’m not sure I’m still breathing. “Yes.” “You want me to run away with you.” This can’t possibly be happening. A pause. “Yes.” “I can’t believe it.” I’m shaking my head over and over and over again. “You really have lost your mind.”

I can almost hear him smile in the dark. “Where’s your face? I feel like I’m talking to a ghost.” “I’m right here.” “Where?” I stand up. “I’m here.” “I still can’t see you,” he says, but his voice is suddenly much closer than it was before. “Can you see me?” “No,” I lie, and I’m trying to ignore the immediate tension, the electricity humming in the air between us. I take a step back. I feel his hands on my arms, I feel his skin against my skin and I’m holding my breath. I don’t move an inch. I don’t say a word as his hands drop to my waist, to the thin material making a poor attempt to cover my body. His fingers graze the soft skin of my lower back, right underneath the hem of my shirt and I’m losing count of the number of times my heart skips a beat. I’m struggling to get oxygen in my lungs. I’m struggling to keep my hands to myself. “Is it even possible,” he whispers, “that you can’t feel this fire between us?” His hands are traveling up my arms again, his touch so light, his fingers slipping under the straps of my shirt and it’s ripping me apart, it’s aching in my core, it’s a pulse beating in every inch of my body and I’m trying to convince myself not to lose my head when I feel the straps fall down and everything stops. The air is still. My skin is scared. Even my thoughts are whispering. 2 4 6 seconds I forget to breathe. Then I feel his lips against my shoulder, soft and scorching and tender, so gentle I could almost believe it’s the kiss of a breeze and not a boy. Again. This time on my collarbone and it’s like I’m dreaming, reliving the caress of a forgotten memory and it’s like an ache looking to be soothed, it’s a steaming pan thrown in ice water, it’s a flushed cheek pressed to a cool pillow on a hot hot hot night and I’m thinking yes, I’m thinking this, I’m thinking thank you thank you thank you before I remember his mouth is on my body and I’m doing nothing to stop him. He pulls back. My eyes refuse to open. His finger t-touches my bottom lip. He traces the shape of my mouth, the curves the seam the dip and my lips part even though I asked them not to and he steps closer. I feel him so much closer, filling the air around me until there’s nothing but him and his body heat, the smell of fresh soap and something unidentifiable, something sweet but not, something real and hot, something that smells like him, like it belongs to him, like he was poured into the bottle I’m drowning in and I don’t even realize I’m leaning into him, inhaling the scent of his neck until I find his fingers are no longer on my lips because his hands are around my waist and he says “You,” and he whispers it, letter by letter he presses the word into my skin before he hesitates. Then. Softer. His chest, heaving harder this time. His words, almost gasping this time. “You destroy me.” I am falling to pieces in his arms.

My fists are full of unlucky pennies and my heart is a jukebox demanding a few nickels and my head is flipping quarters heads or tails heads or tails heads or tails heads or tails “Juliette,” he says, and he mouths the name, barely speaking at all, and he’s pouring molten lava into my limbs and I never even knew I could melt straight to death. “I want you,” he says. He says “I want all of you. I want you inside and out and catching your breath and aching for me like I ache for you.” He says it like it’s a lit cigarette lodged in his throat, like he wants to dip me in warm honey and he says “It’s never been a secret. I’ve never tried to hide that from you. I’ve never pretended I wanted anything less.” “You—you said you wanted f-friendship—” “Yes,” he says, he swallows, “I did. I do. I do want to be your friend.” He nods and I register the slight movement in the air between us. “I want to be the friend you fall hopelessly in love with. The one you take into your arms and into your bed and into the private world you keep trapped in your head. I want to be that kind of friend,” he says. “The one who will memorize the things you say as well as the shape of your lips when you say them. I want to know every curve, every freckle, every shiver of your body, Juliette—” “No,” I gasp. “Don’t—don’t s-say that—” I don’t know what I’ll do if he keeps talking I don’t know what I’ll do and I don’t trust myself “I want to know where to touch you,” he says. “I want to know how to touch you. I want to know how to convince you to design a smile just for me.” I feel his chest rising, falling, up and down and up and down and “Yes,” he says. “I do want to be your friend.” He says “I want to be your best friend in the entire world.” I can’t think. I can’t breathe “I want so many things,” he whispers. “I want your mind. Your strength. I want to be worth your time.” His fingers graze the hem of my top and he says “I want this up.” He tugs on the waist of my pants and says “I want these down.” He touches the tips of his fingers to the sides of my body and says, “I want to feel your skin on fire. I want to feel your heart racing next to mine and I want to know it’s racing because of me, because you want me. Because you never,” he says, he breathes, “never want me to stop. I want every second. Every inch of you. I want all of it.” And I drop dead, all over the floor. “Juliette.” I can’t understand why I can still hear him speaking because I’m dead, I’m already dead, I’ve died over and over and over again He swallows, hard, his chest heaving, his words a breathless, shaky whisper when he says “I’m so—I’m so desperately in love with you—” I’m rooted to the ground, spinning while standing, dizzy in my blood and in my bones and I’m breathing like I’m the first human who’s ever learned to fly, like I’ve been inhaling the kind of oxygen only found in the clouds and I’m trying but I don’t know how to keep my body from reacting to him, to his words, to the ache in his voice. He touches my cheek. Soft, so soft, like he’s not sure if I’m real, like he’s afraid if he gets too close I’ll just oh, look she’s gone, she’s just disappeared. His 4 fingers graze the side of my face, slowly, so slowly before they slip behind my head, caught in that in-between spot just above my neck. His thumb brushes the apple of my cheek. He keeps looking at me, looking into my eyes for help, for guidance, for some sign of a protest like he’s so sure I’m going to start screaming or crying or running away but I won’t. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to because I don’t want to. I want to stay here. Right here. I want to be paralyzed by this moment. He moves closer, just an inch. His free hand reaches up to cup the other side of my face. He’s holding me like I’m made of feathers.

He’s holding my face and looking at his own hands like he can’t believe he’s caught this bird who’s always so desperate to fly away. His hands are shaking, just a little bit, just enough for me to feel the slight tremble against my skin. Gone is the boy with the guns and the skeletons in his closet. These hands holding me have never held a weapon. These hands have never touched death. These hands are perfect and kind and tender. And he leans in, so carefully. Breathing and not breathing and hearts beating between us and he’s so close, he’s so close and I can’t feel my legs anymore. I can’t feel my fingers or the cold or the emptiness of this room because all I feel is him, everywhere, filling everything and he whispers “Please.” He says “Please don’t shoot me for this.” And he kisses me. His lips are softer than anything I’ve ever known, soft like a first snowfall, like biting into cotton candy, like melting and floating and being weightless in water. It’s sweet, it’s so effortlessly sweet. And then it changes. “Oh God—” He kisses me again, this time stronger, desperate, like he has to have me, like he’s dying to memorize the feel of my lips against his own. The taste of him is making me crazy; he’s all heat and desire and peppermint and I want more. I’ve just begun reeling him in, pulling him into me when he breaks away. He’s breathing like he’s lost his mind and he’s looking at me like something has broken inside of him, like he’s woken up to find that his nightmares were just that, that they never existed, that it was all just a bad dream that felt far too real but now he’s awake and he’s safe and everything is going to be okay and I’m falling. I’m falling apart and into his heart and I’m a disaster. He’s searching me, searching my eyes for something, for yeses or nos or maybe a cue to keep going and all I want is to drown in him. I want him to kiss me until I collapse in his arms, until I’ve left my bones behind and floated up into a new space that is entirely our own. No words. Just his lips. Again. Deep and urgent like he can’t afford to take his time anymore, like there’s so much he wants to feel and there aren’t enough years to experience it all. His hands travel the length of my back, learning every curve of my figure and he’s kissing my neck, my throat, the slope of my shoulders and his breaths come harder, faster, his hands suddenly threaded in my hair and I’m spinning, I’m dizzy, I’m moving and reaching up behind his neck and clinging to him and it’s ice-cold heat, it’s an ache that attacks every cell in my body. It’s a wanting so desperate, a need so exquisite that it rivals everything, every happy moment I ever thought I knew. I’m against the wall. He’s kissing me like the world is rolling right off a cliff, like he’s trying to hang on and he’s decided to hold on to me, like he’s starving for life and love and he’s never known it could ever feel this good to be close to someone. Like it’s the first time he’s ever felt anything but hunger and he doesn’t know how to pace himself, doesn’t know how to eat in small bites, doesn’t know how to do anything anything anything in moderation. My pants fall to the floor and his hands are responsible. I’m in his arms in my underwear and a tank top that’s doing little to keep me decent and he pulls back just to look at me, to drink in the sight of me and he’s saying “you’re so beautiful” he’s saying “you’re so unbelievably beautiful” and he pulls me into his arms again and he picks me up, he carries me to my bed and suddenly I’m resting against my pillows and he’s straddling my

hips and his shirt is no longer on his body and I have no idea where it went. All I know is that I’m looking up and into his eyes and I’m thinking there isn’t a single thing I would change about this moment. He has a hundred thousand million kisses and he’s giving them all to me. He kisses my top lip. He kisses my bottom lip. He kisses just under my chin, the tip of my nose, the length of my forehead, both temples, my cheeks, all across my jawline. Then my neck, behind my ears, all the way down my throat and his hands slide down my body. His entire form is moving down my figure, disappearing as he shifts downward and suddenly his chest is hovering above my hips; suddenly I can’t see him anymore. I can only make out the top of his head, the curve of his shoulders, the unsteady rise and fall of his back as he inhales, exhales. He’s running his hands down and around my bare thighs and up again, up past my ribs, around my lower back and down again, just past my hip bone. His fingers hook around the elastic waist of my underwear and I gasp. His lips touch my bare stomach. It’s just a whisper of a kiss but something collapses in my skull. It’s a feather-light brush of his mouth against my skin in a place I can’t quite see. It’s my mind speaking in a thousand different languages I don’t understand. And I realize he’s working his way up my body. He’s leaving a trail of fire along my torso, one kiss after another, and I really don’t think I can take much more of this; I really don’t think I’ll be able to survive this. There’s a whimper building in my throat, begging to break free and I’m locking my fingers in his hair and I’m pulling him up, onto me, on top of me. I need to kiss him. I’m reaching up only to slip my hands down his neck, over his chest and down the length of his body and I realize I’ve never felt this, not to this degree, not like every moment is about to explode, like every breath could be our last, like every touch is enough to ignite the world. I’m forgetting everything, forgetting the danger and the horror and the terror of tomorrow and I can’t even remember why I’m forgetting, what I’m forgetting, that there’s something I already seem to have forgotten. It’s too hard to pay attention to anything but his eyes, burning; his skin, bare; his body, perfect. He’s completely unharmed by my touch. He’s careful not to crush me, his elbows propped up on either side of my head, and I think I must be smiling at him because he’s smiling at me, but he’s smiling like he might be petrified; he’s breathing like he’s forgotten he’s supposed to, looking at me like he’s not sure how to do this, hesitating like he’s unsure how to let me see him like this. Like he has no idea how to be so vulnerable. But here he is. And here I am. Warner’s forehead is pressed against mine, his skin flushed with heat, his nose touching my own. He shifts his weight to one arm, uses his free hand to softly stroke my cheek, to cup my face like it’s spun from glass and I realize I’m still holding my breath and I can’t even remember the last time I exhaled. His eyes shift down to my lips and back again. His gaze is heavy, hungry, weighed down by emotion I never thought him capable of. I never thought he could be so full, so human, so real. But it’s there. It’s right there. Raw, written across his face like it’s been ripped out of his chest. He’s handing me his heart. And he says one word. He whispers one thing. So urgently.

He says, “Juliette.” I close my eyes. He says, “I don’t want you to call me Warner anymore.” I open my eyes. “I want you to know me,” he says, breathless, his fingers pushing a stray strand of hair away from my face. “I don’t want to be Warner with you,” he says. “I want it to be different now. I want you to call me Aaron.” And I’m about to say yes, of course, I completely understand, but there’s something about this stretch of silence that confuses me; something about this moment and the feel of his name on my tongue that unlocks other parts of my brain and there’s something there, something pushing and pulling at my skin and trying to remind me, trying to tell me and it slaps me in the face it punches me in the jaw it dumps me right into the ocean. “Adam.” My bones are full of ice. My entire being wants to vomit. I’m tripping out from under him and pulling myself away and I almost fall right to the floor and this feeling, this feeling, this overwhelming feeling of absolute self-loathing sticks in my stomach like the slice of a knife too sharp, too thick, too lethal to keep me standing and I’m clutching at myself, I’m trying not to cry and I’m saying no no no this can’t happen this can’t be happening I love Adam, my heart is with Adam, I can’t do this to him and Warner looks like I’ve shot him all over again, like I’ve wedged a bullet in his heart with my bare hands and he gets to his feet but he can hardly stand. His frame is shaking and he’s looking at me like he wants to say something but every time he tries to speak he fails. “I’m s-sorry,” I stammer, “I’m so sorry—I never meant for this to happen—I wasn’t thinking —” But he’s not listening. He’s shaking his head over and over and over and he’s looking at his hands like he’s waiting for the part where someone tells him this isn’t real and he whispers “What’s happening to me? Am I dreaming?” And I’m so sick, I’m so confused, because I want him, I want him and I want Adam, too, and I want too much and I’ve never felt more like a monster than I have tonight. The pain is so plain on his face and it’s killing me. I feel it. I feel it killing me. I’m trying so hard to look away, to forget, to figure out how to erase what just happened but all I can think is that life is like a broken tire swing, an unborn child, a fistful of wishbones. It’s all possibility and potential, wrong and right steps toward a future we’re not even guaranteed and I, I am so wrong. All of my steps are wrong, always wrong. I am the incarnation of error. Because this never should have happened. This was a mistake. “You’re choosing him?” Warner asks, barely breathing, still looking as if he might fall over. “Is that what just happened? You’re choosing Kent over me? Because I don’t think I understand what just happened and I need you to say something, I need you to tell me what the hell is happening to me right now—” “No,” I gasp. “No, I’m not choosing anyone—I’m not—I’m n-not—” But I am. And I don’t even know how I got here. “Why?” he says. “Because he’s the safer choice for you? Because you think you owe him something? You are making a mistake,” he says, his voice louder now. “You’re scared. You don’t want to make the difficult choice and you’re running away from me.” “Maybe I just d-don’t want to be with you.” “I know you want to be with me!” he explodes.

“You’re wrong.” Oh my God what am I saying I don’t even know where I’m finding these words, where they’re coming from or which tree I’ve plucked them from. They just keep growing in my mouth and sometimes I bite down too hard on an adverb or a pronoun and sometimes the words are bitter, sometimes they’re sweet, but right now everything tastes like romance and regret and liar liar pants on fire all the way down my throat. Warner is still staring. “Really?” He struggles to rein in his temper and takes a step closer, so much closer, and I can see his face too clearly, I can see his lips too clearly, I can see the anger and the pain and the disbelief etched into his features and I’m not so sure I should be standing anymore. I don’t think my legs can carry me much longer. “Y-yes.” I pluck another word from the tree lying in my mouth, lying lying lying on my lips. “So I’m wrong.” He says the sentence quietly, so, so quietly. “I’m wrong that you want me. That you want to be with me.” His fingers graze my shoulders, my arms; his hands slide down the sides of my body, tracing every inch of me and I’m pressing my mouth shut to keep the truth from falling out but I’m failing and failing and failing because the only truth I know right now is that I’m mere moments from losing my mind. “Tell me something, love.” His lips are whispering against my jaw. “Am I blind, too?” I am actually going to die. “I will not be your clown!” He breaks away from me. “I will not allow you to make a mockery of my feelings for you! I could respect your decision to shoot me, Juliette, but doing this —doing—doing what you just did—” He can hardly speak. He runs a hand across his face, both hands through his hair, looking like he wants to scream, to break something, like he’s really, truly about to lose his mind. His voice is a rough whisper when he finally speaks. “It’s the play of a coward,” he says. “I thought you were so much better than that.” “I’m not a coward—” “Then be honest with yourself!” he says. “Be honest with me! Tell me the truth!” My head is rolling around on the floor, spinning like a wooden top, circling around and around and around and I can’t make it stop. I can’t make the world stop spinning and my confusion is bleeding into guilt which quickly evolves into anger and suddenly it’s bubbling raging rising to the surface and I look at him. I clench my shaking hands into fists. “The truth,” I tell him, “is that I never know what to think of you! Your actions, your behavior—you’re never consistent! You’re horrible to me and then you’re kind to me and you tell me you love me and then you hurt the ones I care most about! “And you’re a liar,” I snap, backing away from him. “You say you don’t care about what you do—you say you don’t care about other people and what you’ve done to them but I don’t believe it. I think you’re hiding. I think the real you is hiding underneath all of the destruction and I think you’re better than this life you’ve chosen for yourself. I think you can change. I think you could be different. And I feel sorry for you!” These words these stupid stupid words they won’t stop spilling from my mouth. “I’m sorry for your horrible childhood. I’m sorry you have such a miserable, worthless father and I’m sorry no one ever took a chance on you. I’m sorry for the terrible decisions you’ve made. I’m sorry that you feel trapped by them, that you think of yourself as a monster who can’t be changed. But most of all,” I tell him, “most of all I’m sorry that you have no mercy for yourself!” Warner flinches like I’ve slapped him in the face. The silence between us has slaughtered a thousand innocent seconds and when he finally speaks his voice is barely audible, raw with disbelief. “You pity me.” My breath catches. My resolve wavers. “You think I’m some kind of broken project you can repair.” “No—I didn’t—”

“You have no idea what I’ve done!” His words are furious as he steps forward. “You have no idea what I’ve seen, what I’ve had to be a part of. You have no idea what I’m capable of or how much mercy I deserve. I know my own heart,” he snaps. “I know who I am. Don’t you dare pity me!” Oh my legs are definitely not working. “I thought you could love me for me,” he says. “I thought you would be the one person in this godforsaken world who would accept me as I am! I thought you, of all people, would understand.” His face is right in front of mine when he says, “I was wrong. I was so horribly, horribly wrong.” He backs away. He grabs his shirt and he turns to leave and I should let him go, I should let him walk out the door and out of my life but I can’t, I catch his arm, I pull him back and I say, “Please—that’s not what I meant—” He spins around and he says, “I do not want your sympathy!” “I wasn’t trying to hurt you—” “The truth,” he says, “is a painful reminder of why I prefer to live among the lies.” I can’t stomach the look in his eyes, the wretched, awful pain he’s making no effort to conceal. I don’t know what to say to make this right. I don’t know how to take my words back. I know I don’t want him to leave. Not like this. He looks as if he might speak; he changes his mind. He takes a tight breath, presses his lips together as if to stop the words from escaping and I’m about to say something, I’m about to try again when he pulls in a shaky breath, when he says, “Good-bye, Juliette.” And I don’t know why it’s killing me, I can’t understand my sudden anxiety and I need to know, I have to say it, I have to ask the question that isn’t a question and I say “I won’t see you again.” I watch him struggle to find the words, I watch him turn to me and turn away and for one split second I see what’s happened, I see the difference in his eyes, the shine of emotion I never would’ve dreamed him capable of and I know, I understand why he won’t look at me and I can’t believe it. I want to fall to the floor as he fights himself, fights to speak, fights to swallow back the tremor in his voice when he says, “I certainly hope not.” And that’s it. He walks out. I’m split clean in half and he’s gone. He’s gone forever.

SIXTY-THREE Breakfast is an ordeal. Warner has disappeared and he’s left a trail of chaos in his wake. No one knows how he escaped, how he managed to get out of his room and find his way out of here and everyone is blaming Castle. Everyone is saying he was stupid to trust Warner, to give him a chance, to believe he might have changed. Angry is an insult to the level of aggression in here right now. But I’m not going to be the one to tell everyone that Warner was already out of his room last night. I’m not going to be the one to tell them that he probably didn’t have to do much to find the exit. I won’t explain to them that he’s not an idiot. I’m sure he figured it out easily enough. I’m sure he found a way to get past the guards.

Now everyone is ready to fight, but for all the wrong reasons. They want to murder Warner: first for all he’s done; second for betraying their trust. More frightening still, everyone is worried that he’ll give away all of our most sensitive information. I have no idea what Warner managed to discover about this place before he left, but nothing that happens now can possibly be good. No one has even touched their breakfasts. We’re all dressed, armed, ready to face what could be an almost instant death, and I’m feeling little more than entirely numb. I didn’t sleep at all last night, my heart and mind plagued and conflicted and I can’t feel my limbs, I can’t taste the food I’m not eating and I can’t see straight, I can’t focus on the things I’m supposed to be hearing. All I can think about are all the casualties and Warner’s lips on my neck, his hands on my body, the pain and passion in his eyes and the many possible ways I could die today. I can only think about Warner touching me, kissing me, torturing me with his heart and Adam sitting beside me, not knowing what I’ve done. It probably won’t even matter after today. Maybe I’ll be killed and maybe all the agony of these past 17 years will have been for naught. Maybe I’ll just fall right off the face of the Earth, gone forever, and all of my adolescent angst will have been a ridiculous afterthought, a laughable memory. But maybe I’ll survive. Maybe I’ll survive and I’ll have to face the consequences of my actions. I’ll have to stop lying to myself; I’ll have to actually make a decision. I have to face the fact that I’m battling feelings for someone who has no qualms about putting a bullet in another man’s head. I have to consider the possibility that I might really be turning into a monster. A horrible, selfish creature who cares only about herself. Maybe Warner was right all along. Maybe he and I really are perfect for each other. Just about everyone has filed out of the dining hall. People are saying last-minute good-byes to the old and the young ones they’re leaving behind. James and Adam had a lengthy good-bye just this morning. Adam and I have to head out in about 10 minutes. “Well damn. Who died?” I spin around at the sound of his voice. Kenji is up. He’s in this room. He’s standing next to our table and he looks like he’s about to fall right over but he’s awake. He’s alive. He’s breathing. “Holy crap.” Adam is gaping. “Holy shit.” “Good to see you too, Kent.” Kenji grins a crooked grin. He nods at me. “You ready to kick some ass today?” I tackle him. “WHOA—hey—thank you, yeah—that’s—uh—” He clears his throat. Tries to shift away from me and I flinch, pull back. I’m covered everywhere except for my face; I’m wearing my gloves and my reinforced knuckles, and my suit is zipped up to my neck. Kenji never usually shies away from me. “Hey, uh, maybe you should hold off on touching me for a little while, yeah?” Kenji tries to smile, tries to make it sound like he’s joking, but I feel the weight of his words, the tension and the sliver of fear he’s trying so hard to hide. “I’m not too steady on my feet just yet.” I feel the blood rush out of me, leaving me weak in the knees and needing to sit down. “It wasn’t her,” Adam says. “You know she didn’t even touch you.” “I don’t know that, actually,” Kenji says. “And it’s not like I’m blaming her—I’m just saying maybe she’s projecting and doesn’t know it, okay? Because last I checked, I don’t think we have any other explanations for what happened last night. It sure as hell wasn’t you,” he says to Adam, “and shit, for all we know, Warner being able to touch Juliette could just be a fluke. We don’t

know anything about him yet.” A pause. He looks around. “Right? Unless Warner pulled some kind of magical rabbit out of his ass while I was busy being dead last night?” Adam scowls. I don’t say a word. “Right,” Kenji says. “That’s what I thought. So. I think it’s best if, unless absolutely necessary, I stay away.” He turns to me. “Right? No offense, right? I mean, I did nearly just die. I think you could cut me some slack.” I can hardly hear my own voice when I say, “Yeah, of course.” I try to laugh. I try to figure out why I’m not telling them about Warner. Why I’m still protecting him. Probably because I’m just as guilty as he is. “So anyway,” Kenji says. “When are we leaving?” “You’re insane,” Adam tells him. “You’re not going anywhere.” “Bullshit I’m not.” “You can barely stand up on your own!” Adam says. And he’s right. Kenji is clearly leaning on the table for support. “I’d rather die out there than sit in here like some kind of idiot.” “Kenji—” “Hey,” Kenji says, cutting me off. “So I heard through the very loud grapevine that Warner got his ass the hell out of here last night. What’s that about?” Adam makes a strange sound. It’s not quite a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Who even knows. I never thought it was a good idea to keep him hostage here. It was an even stupider idea to trust him.” “So first you insult my idea, and then you insult Castle’s, huh?” Kenji’s eyebrow is cocked. “They were bad calls,” Adam says. “Bad ideas. Now we have to pay for it.” “Well how was I supposed to know Anderson would be so willing to let his own son rot in hell?” Adam flinches and Kenji backpedals. “Oh, hey—I’m sorry, man—I didn’t mean to say it like that—” “Forget it.” Adam cuts him off. His face is suddenly hard, suddenly cold, closed off. “Maybe you should get back to the medical wing. We’re leaving soon.” “I’m not going anywhere but out of here.” “Kenji, please—” “Nope.” “You’re being unreasonable. This isn’t a joke,” I tell him. “People are going to die today.” But he laughs at me. Looks at me like I’ve said something obliquely entertaining. “I’m sorry, are you trying to teach me about the realities of war?” He shakes his head. “Are you forgetting that I was a soldier in Warner’s army? Do you have any idea how much crazy shit we’ve seen?” He gestures between himself and Adam. “I know exactly what to expect today. Warner was insane. If Anderson is even twice as bad as his son, then we are diving right into a bloodbath. I can’t leave you guys hanging like that.” But I’m caught on one sentence. One word. I just want to ask. “Was he really that bad … ?” “Who?” Kenji is staring at me. “Warner. Was he really that ruthless?” Kenji laughs out loud. Laughs louder. Doubles over. He’s practically wheezing when he says, “Ruthless? Juliette, the guy is sick. He’s an animal. I don’t think he even knows what it means to be human. If there’s a hell out there, I’m guessing it was designed especially for him.” It’s so hard to pull this sword out of my stomach. A rush of footsteps. I turn around. Everyone is supposed to exit the tunnels in a single-file line in an attempt to maintain order as we leave this underground world. Kenji and Adam and I are the only fighters who haven’t joined the group yet.

We all get to our feet. “Hey—so, does Castle know what you’re doing?” Adam is looking at Kenji. “I don’t think he’d be okay with you going out there today.” “Castle wants me to be happy,” Kenji says matter-of-factly. “And I won’t be happy if I stay here. I’ve got work to do. People to save. Ladies to impress. He’d respect that.” “What about everyone else?” I ask him. “Everyone was so worried about you—have you even seen them yet? To at least tell them you’re okay?” “Nah,” Kenji says. “They’d probably shit a brick if they knew I was going up. I thought it’d be safer to keep it quiet. I don’t want to freak anyone out. And Sonya and Sara—poor kids— they’re passed the hell out. It’s my fault they’re so exhausted, and they’re still talking about heading out today. They want to fight even though they’re going to have a lot of work to do once we’re done with Anderson’s army. I’ve been trying to convince them to stay here but they can be so damn stubborn. They need to save their strength,” he says, “and they’ve already wasted too much of it on me.” “It’s not a waste—,” I try to tell him. “Anywayyy,” Kenji says. “Can we please get going? I know you’re all about hunting down Anderson,” he says to Adam, “but personally? I would love to catch Warner. Put a bullet through that worthless piece of crap and be done with it.” Something punches me in the gut so hard I’m afraid I’m actually going to be sick. I’m seeing spots, struggling to keep myself standing, fighting to ignore the image of Warner dead, his body crumpled in red. “Hey—you okay?” Adam pulls me to the side. Takes a good look at my face. “I’m okay,” I lie to him. Nod too many times. Shake my head once or twice. “I just didn’t get enough sleep last night, but I’ll be fine.” He hesitates. “Are you sure?” “I’m positive,” I lie again. I pause. Grab his shirt. “Hey—just be careful out there, okay?” He exhales a heavy breath. Nods once. “Yeah. You too.” “Let’s go let’s go let’s go!” Kenji interrupts us. “Today is our day to die, ladies.” Adam shoves him. A little. “Oh, so now you’re abusing the crippled kid, huh?” Kenji takes a moment to steady himself before punching Adam in the arm. “Save your angst for the battlefield, bro. You’re going to need it.” A shrill whistle sounds in the distance. It’s time to go.

SIXTY-FOUR It’s raining. The world is weeping at our feet in anticipation of what we’re about to do. We’re all supposed to split off into clusters, fighting in tight groups so we can’t all be killed at once. We don’t have enough people to fight offensively so we have to be stealthy. And though I feel a pang of guilt for admitting it, I’m so happy Kenji decided to come with us. We would’ve been weaker without him. But we have to get out of the rain. We’re already soaked through, and while Kenji and I are wearing suits that offer at least a modicum of protection against the natural elements, Adam is wearing nothing but crisp cotton basics, and I’m worried we won’t last long like this. All members of Omega Point have already

scattered. The immediate area above the Point is still nothing but a barren stretch of land that leaves us vulnerable upon exiting. Lucky for us, we have Kenji. The 3 of us are already invisible. Anderson’s men aren’t far from here. All we know is that ever since Anderson arrived, he’s been going out of his way to make a point about his power and the iron grip of The Reestablishment. Any voice of opposition, no matter how weak or feeble, no matter how unthreatening or innocuous, has been silenced. He’s angry that we’ve inspired rebellion and now he’s trying to make a statement. What he really wants is to destroy all of us. The poor civilians are just caught in his friendly fire. Gunshots. We automatically move toward the sound echoing in the distance. We aren’t saying a word. We understand what we need to do and how we have to operate. Our only mission is to get as close as possible to the devastation and then to take out as many of Anderson’s men as we can. We protect the innocent. We support our fellow Point men and women. We try very hard not to die. I can make out the compounds creeping closer in the distance, but the rain is making it difficult to see. All the colors are bleeding together, melting into the horizon, and I have to strain to discern what lies ahead of us. I instinctively touch the guns attached to the holsters on my back and I’m momentarily reminded of my last encounter with Anderson—my only encounter with the horrible, despicable man—and I wonder what’s happened to him. I wonder if maybe Adam was right when he said that Anderson might be severely wounded, that perhaps he’s still struggling to recuperate. I wonder if Anderson will make an appearance on the battlefield. I wonder if perhaps he’s too much of a coward to fight in his own wars. The screams tell us we’re getting closer. The world around us is a blurry landscape of blues and grays and mottled hues and the few trees still standing have a hundred shaky, quivering arms ripping through their trunks, reaching up to the sky as if in prayer, begging for relief from the tragedy they’ve been rooted in. It’s enough to make me feel sorry for the plants and animals forced to bear witness to what we’ve done. They never asked for this. Kenji guides us toward the outskirts of the compounds and we slip forward to stand flush against the wall of one of the little square houses, huddled under the extra bit of roof that, at least for a moment, grants us reprieve from the clenched fists falling from the sky. Wind is gnawing at the windows, straining against the walls. Rain is popping against the roof like popcorn against a pane of glass. The message from the sky is clear: we are pissed. We are pissed and we will punish you and we will make you pay for the blood you spill so freely. We will not sit idly by, not anymore, not ever again. We will ruin you, is what the sky says to us. How could you do this to me? it whispers in the wind. I gave you everything, it says to us. Nothing will ever be the same again. I’m wondering why I still can’t see any sign of the army. I don’t see anyone else from Omega Point. I don’t see anyone at all. In fact, I’m starting to feel like this compound is a little too peaceful. I’m about to suggest we move when I hear a door slam open. “This is the last of them,” someone shouts. “She was hiding out over here.” A soldier is dragging a crying woman out from the compound we’re huddled against and she’s screaming, she’s begging for mercy and asking about her husband and the soldier barks at her to shut up.

I have to keep the emotions from spilling out of my eyes, my mouth. I do not speak. I do not breathe. Another soldier jogs over from somewhere I can’t see. He shouts some kind of approving message and makes a motion with his hands that I don’t understand. I feel Kenji stiffen beside me. Something is wrong. “Toss her in with everyone else,” the second soldier shouts. “And then we’ll call this area clear.” The woman is hysterical. She’s screeching, clawing at the soldier, telling him she’s done nothing wrong, she doesn’t understand, where is her husband, she’s been looking for her daughter everywhere and what is happening, she cries, she screams, she flails her fists at the man gripping her like an animal. He presses the barrel of his gun to her neck. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll shoot you right now.” She whimpers once, twice, and then she’s limp. She’s fainted in his arms and the soldier looks disgusted as he pulls her out of sight toward wherever they’re keeping everyone else. I have no idea what’s happening. I don’t understand what’s happening. We follow them. The wind and the rain pick up in pace and there’s enough noise in the air and distance between us and the soldiers that I feel safe to speak. I squeeze Kenji’s hand. He’s still the glue between me and Adam, projecting his powers to keep us all invisible. “What do you think is going on?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away. “They’re rounding them up,” he says after a moment. “They’re creating groups of people to kill all at once.” “The woman—” “Yeah.” I hear him clear his throat. “Yeah, she and whoever else they think might be connected to the protests. They don’t just kill the inciters,” he tells me. “They kill the friends and the family members, too. It’s the best way to keep people in line. It never fails to scare the shit out of the few left alive.” I have to swallow back the vomit threatening to overpower me. “There has to be a way to get them out of there,” Adam says. “Maybe we can take out the soldiers in charge.” “Yeah, but listen, you guys know I’m going to have to let go of you, right? I’m already kind of losing strength; my Energy is fading faster than normal. So you’ll be visible,” Kenji says. “You’ll be a clearer target.” “But what other choice do we have?” I ask. “We could try to take them out sniper-style,” Kenji says. “We don’t have to engage in direct combat. We have that option.” He pauses. “Juliette, you’ve never been in this kind of situation before. I want you to know I’d respect your decision to stay out of the direct line of fire. Not everyone can stomach what we might see if we follow those soldiers. There’s no shame or blame in that.” I taste metal in my mouth as I lie. “I’ll be okay.” He’s quiet a moment. “Just—all right—but don’t be afraid to use your abilities to defend yourself,” he says to me. “I know you’re all weird about not wanting to hurt people or whatever, but these guys aren’t messing around. They will try to kill you.” I nod even though I know he can’t see me. “Right,” I say. “Yeah.” But I’m panicked through my mind. “Let’s go,” I whisper.

SIXTY-FIVE I can’t feel my knees. There are 27 people lined up, standing side by side in the middle of a big, barren field. Men and women and children of all different ages. All different sizes. All standing before what could be called a firing squad of 6 soldiers. The rain is rushing down around us, hard and angry, pelting everything and everyone with teardrops as hard as my bones. The wind is absolutely frantic. The soldiers are deciding what to do. How to kill them. How to dispose of the 27 sets of eyes staring straight ahead. Some are sobbing, some are shaking from fear and grief and horror, others still are standing perfectly straight, stoic in the face of death. One of the soldiers fires a shot. The first man crumples to the ground and I feel like I’ve been whipped in the spine. So many emotions rush in and out of me in the span of a few seconds that I’m afraid I might faint; I’m clinging to consciousness with an animal desperation and trying to swallow back the tears, trying to ignore the pain spearing through me. I can’t understand why no one is moving, why we’re not moving, why none of the civilians are moving even just to jump out of the way and it occurs to me, it dawns on me that running, trying to escape or trying to fight back is simply not a viable option. They are utterly overpowered. They have no guns. No ammunition of any kind. But I do. I have a gun. I have 2, in fact. This is the moment, this is where we have to let go, this is where we fight alone, just the 3 of us, 3 ancient kids fighting to save 26 faces or we die trying. My eyes are locked on a little girl who can’t be much older than James, her eyes so wide, so terrified, the front of her pants already wet from fear and it rips me to pieces, it kills me, and my free hand is already reaching for my gun when I tell Kenji I’m ready. I watch the same soldier focus his weapon on the next victim when Kenji releases us. 3 guns are up, aimed to fire, and I hear the bullets before they’re released into the air; I see one find its mark in a soldier’s neck and I have no idea if it’s mine. It doesn’t matter now. There are still 5 soldiers left to face, and now they can see us. We’re running. We’re dodging the bullets aimed in our direction and I see Adam dropping to the ground, I see him shooting with perfect precision and still failing to find a target. I look around for Kenji only to find that he’s disappeared and I’m so happy for it; 3 soldiers go down almost instantly. Adam takes advantage of the remaining soldiers’ distraction and takes out a fourth. I shoot the fifth from behind. I don’t know whether or not I’ve killed him. We’re screaming for the people to follow us, we’re herding them back to the compounds, yelling for them to stay down, to stay out of sight; we tell them help is coming and we’ll do whatever we can to protect them and they’re trying to reach out to us, to touch us, to thank us and take our hands but we don’t have time. We have to hurry them to some semblance of safety and move on to wherever the rest of this decimation is taking place. I still haven’t forgotten the one man we weren’t able to save. I haven’t forgotten number 27. I never want that to happen again. We’re bolting across the many miles of land dedicated to these compounds now, not bothering to keep ourselves hidden or to come up with a definitive plan. We still haven’t spoken. We haven’t discussed what we’ve done or what we might do and we only know that we need to keep moving.

We follow Kenji. He weaves his way through a demolished cluster of compounds and we know something has gone horribly wrong. There’s no sign of life anywhere. The little metal boxes that used to house civilians are completely destroyed and we don’t know if there were people inside when this happened. Kenji tells us we have to keep looking. We move deeper through the regulated territory, these pieces of land dedicated to human habitation, until we hear a rush of footsteps, the sound of a softly churning mechanical sound. The tanks. They run on electricity so they’re less conspicuous as they move through the streets, but I’m familiar enough with these tanks to be able to recognize the electric thrum. Adam and Kenji do too. We follow the noise. We’re fighting against the wind trying push us away and it’s almost as if it knows, as if the wind is trying to protect us from whatever is waiting on the other side of this compound. It doesn’t want us to have to see this. It doesn’t want us to have to die today. Something explodes. A raging fire rips through the atmosphere not 50 feet from where we’re standing. The flames lick the earth, lapping up the oxygen, and even the rain can’t douse the devastation all at once. The fire whips and sways in the wind, dying down just enough, humbled into submission by the sky. We need to be wherever that fire is. Our feet fight for traction on the muddy ground and I don’t feel the cold as we run, I don’t feel the wet, I only feel the adrenaline coursing through my limbs, forcing me to move forward, gun clenched too tight in my fist, too ready to aim, too ready to fire. But when we reach the flames I almost drop my weapon. I almost fall to the floor. I almost can’t believe my eyes.

SIXTY-SIX Dead dead dead is everywhere. So many bodies mixed and meshed into the earth that I have no idea whether they’re ours or theirs and I’m beginning to wonder what it means, I’m beginning to doubt myself and this weapon in my hand and I can’t help but wonder about these soldiers, I wonder how they could be just like Adam, just like a million other tortured, orphaned souls who simply needed to survive and took the only job they could get. My conscience has declared war against itself. I’m blinking back tears and rain and horror and I know I need to move my legs, I know I need to push forward and be brave, I have to fight whether I like it or not because we can’t let this happen. I’m tackled from behind. Someone pins me down and my face is buried in the ground and I’m kicking, I’m trying to scream but I feel the gun wrenched out of my grip, I feel an elbow in my spine and I know Adam and Kenji are gone, they’re deep in battle and I know I’m about to die. I know it’s over and it doesn’t feel real, somehow, it feels like this is a story someone else is telling, like death is a strange, distant thing you’ve only ever seen happen to people you’ve never known and surely it doesn’t happen to me, to you, to any of the rest of us. But here it is.

It’s a gun in the back of my head and a boot pressed down on my back and it’s my mouth full of mud and it’s a million worthless moments I never really lived and it’s all right in front of me. I see it so clearly. Someone flips me over. The same someone who held a gun to my head is now pointing it at my face, inspecting me as if trying to read me and I’m confused, I don’t understand his angry gray eyes or the stiff set of his mouth because he’s not pulling the trigger. He’s not killing me and this, this more than anything else is what petrifies me. I need to take off my gloves. My captor shouts something I don’t catch because he’s not talking to me, he’s not looking in my direction because he’s calling to someone else and I use his moment of distraction to yank off the steel knuckle brace on my left hand only to toss it to the ground. I have to get my glove off. I have to get my glove off because it’s my only chance for survival but the rain has made the leather too wet and it’s sticking to my skin, refusing to come off easily and the soldier spins back too soon. He sees what I’m trying to do and he yanks me to my feet, pulls me into a headlock and presses the gun to my skull. “I know what you’re trying to do, you little freak,” he says. “I’ve heard about you. You move even an inch and I will kill you.” Somehow, I don’t believe him. I don’t think he’s supposed to shoot me, because if he wanted to, he would’ve done it already. But he’s waiting for something. He’s waiting for something I don’t understand and I need to act fast. I need a plan but I have no idea what to do and I’m only clawing at his covered arm, at the muscle he’s bound around my neck and he shakes me, shouts at me to stop squirming and he pulls me tighter to cut off my air supply and my fingers are clenched around his forearm, trying to fight the viselike grip he has around me and I can’t breathe and I’m panicked, I’m suddenly not so sure he’s not going to kill me and I don’t even realize what I’ve done until I hear him scream. I’ve crushed all the bones in his arm. He falls to the floor, he drops his gun to grab at his arm, and he’s screaming with a pain so excruciating I’m almost tempted to feel remorse for what I’ve done. Instead, I run. I’ve only gotten a few feet before 3 more soldiers slam into me, alerted by what I’ve done to their comrade, and they see my face and they’re alight with recognition. One of them appears vaguely familiar, almost as if I’ve seen his shaggy brown hair before, and I realize: they know me. These soldiers knew me when Warner held me captive. Warner had made a complete spectacle out of me. Of course they’d recognize my face. And they’re not letting me go. The 3 of them are pushing me face-first into the ground, pinning down my arms and legs until I’m fairly certain they’ve decided to rip my limbs off. I’m trying to fight back, I’m trying to get my mind in the right place to focus my Energy, and I’m just about to knock them back but then a sharp blow to my head and I’m rendered almost entirely unconscious. Sounds are mixing together, voices are becoming one big mess of noise and I can’t see colors, I don’t know what’s happening to me because I can’t feel my legs anymore. I don’t even know if I’m walking or if I’m being carried but I feel the rain. I feel it fall fast down the planes of my face until I hear the sound of metal on metal, I hear a familiar electric thrum and then the rain stops, it disappears from the sky and I only know 2 things and I only know 1 of those things for certain. I am in a tank. I am going to die.

SIXTY-SEVEN

I hear wind chimes. I hear wind chimes being blown into hysteria by a wind so violent as to be a legitimate threat and all I can think is that the tinkling sounds seem so incredibly familiar to me. My head is still spinning but I have to stay as aware as possible. I have to know where they’re taking me. I have to have some idea of where I am. I need to have a point of reference and I’m struggling to keep my head straight without making it known that I’m not unconscious. The soldiers don’t speak. I was hoping to at least glean a bit of information from the conversations they might have but they do not say a word to one another. They are like machines, like robots programmed to follow through with a specific assignment, and I wonder, I’m so curious, I can’t figure out why I had to be dragged away from the battlefield to be killed. I wonder why my death has to be so special. I wonder why they’re carrying me out of the tank toward the chaos of an angry wind chime and I dare to open my eyes just a sliver and I nearly gasp. It’s the house. It’s the house, the house on unregulated turf, the one painted the perfect shade of robin’s-egg blue and the only traditional, functioning home within a 500-mile radius. It’s the same house Kenji told me must be a trap, it’s the house where I was so sure I’d meet Warner’s father, and then it hits me. A sledgehammer. A bullet train. A rush of realization crushing my brain. Anderson must be here. He must want to kill me himself. I am a special delivery. They even ring the doorbell. I hear feet shuffling. I hear creaks and groans. I hear the wind snapping through the world and then I see my future, I see Anderson torturing me to death in every possible way and I wonder how I’m going to get myself out of this. Anderson is too smart. He will probably chain me to the floor and cut off my hands and feet one at a time. He is likely going to want to enjoy this. He answers the door. “Ah! Gentlemen. Thank you very much,” he says. “Please follow me.” And I feel the soldier carrying me shift his weight under my damp, limp, suddenly heavy body. I’m starting to feel a cold chill seep into my bones and I realize I’ve been running through the pouring rain for too long. I’m shaking and it’s not from fear. I’m burning and it’s not from anger. I’m so delirious that even if I had the strength to defend myself I’m not sure I’d be able to do it right. It’s amazing how many different ways I could meet my end today. Anderson smells rich and earthy; I can smell him even though I’m being carried in someone else’s arms, and the scent is disturbingly pleasant. He closes the front door behind us just after advising the waiting soldiers to return to work. Which is essentially an order for them to go kill more people. I think I’m starting to hallucinate. I see a warm fireplace like the kind I’ve only ever read about. I see a cozy living room with soft, plush couches and a thick oriental rug gracing the floor. I see a mantel with pictures on it that I can’t recognize from here and Anderson is telling me to wake up, he’s saying you need to take a bath, you’ve gotten yourself quite dirty haven’t you, and that won’t do, will it? I’m going to need you to be awake and fully coherent or this won’t be much fun at all, he says, and I’m fairly certain I’m losing my mind. I feel the thud thud thud of heavy footsteps climbing a stairwell and realize my body is moving with it. I hear a door whine open, I hear the shuffle of other feet and there are words being spoken that I can’t distinguish anymore. Someone says something to someone and I’m dropped onto a cold, hard floor. I hear myself whimper.

“Be careful not to touch her skin,” is the only sentence I can make out in a single thread. Everything else is “bathe” and “sleep” and “in the morning” and “no, I don’t think so” and “very good,” and I hear another door slam shut. It’s the one right next to my head. Someone is trying to take my suit off. I snap up so quickly it’s painful; I feel something sear through me, through my head until it hits me square in the eye and I know I’m a mix of so many things right now. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything and I haven’t truly slept in over 24 hours. My body is soaked through, my head is pounding with pain, my body has been twisted and stepped on, and I’m aching in a million different ways. But I will not allow any strange man to take my clothes off. I’d rather be dead. But the voice I hear isn’t male at all. It sounds soft and gentle, motherly. She’s speaking to me in a language I don’t understand but maybe it’s just my head that can’t understand anything at all. She makes soothing noises, she rubs her hands in small circles on my back. I hear a rush of water and feel the heat rise up around me and it’s so warm, it feels like steam and I think this must be a bathroom, or a tub, and I can’t help but think that I haven’t taken a hot shower since I was back at the headquarters with Warner. I try to open my eyes and fail. It’s like two anvils are sitting on my eyelids, like everything is black and messy and confusing and exhausting and I can only make out the general circumstances of my situation. I see through little more than slits; I see only the gleaming porcelain of what I assume is a bathtub and I crawl over despite the protests in my ear and clamber up. I topple right into the hot water fully clothed, gloves and boots and suit intact and it’s an unbelievable pleasure I didn’t expect to experience. My bones begin to thaw and my teeth are slowing their chatter and my muscles are learning to relax. My hair floats up around my face and I feel it tickle my nose. I sink beneath the surface. I fall asleep.

SIXTY-EIGHT I wake up in a bed made of heaven and I’m wearing clothes that belong to a boy. I’m warm and comfortable but I can still feel the creak in my bones, the ache in my head, the confusion clouding my mind. I sit up. I look around. I’m in someone’s bedroom. I’m tangled in blue-and-orange bedsheets decorated with little baseball mitts. There’s a little desk with a little chair set off to the side and there’s a set of drawers, a collection of plastic trophies in perfectly straight rows on top. I see a simple wooden door with a traditional brass knob that must lead outside; I see a sliding set of mirrors that must be hiding a closet. I look to my right to find a little bedside table with an alarm clock and a glass of water and I grab it. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly I inhale the contents. I climb out of bed only to find that I’m wearing a pair of navy gym shorts that are hanging so low on my hips I’m afraid they’re going to fall off. I’m wearing a gray T-shirt with some kind of logo on it and I’m swimming in the extra material. I have no socks. No gloves. No underwear. I have nothing. I wonder if I’m allowed to step outside and I decide it’s worth a shot. I have no idea what I’m doing here. I have no idea why I’m not dead yet. I freeze in front of the mirrored doors.

My hair has been washed well and it falls in thick, soft waves around my face. My skin is bright and, with the exception of a few scratches, relatively unscathed. My eyes are wide; an odd, vibrant mix of green and blue blinking back at me, surprised and surprisingly unafraid. But my neck. My neck is one mess of purple, one big bruise that discolors my entire appearance. I hadn’t realized just how tightly I was being choked to death yesterday—I think it was yesterday—and I only now realize just how much it hurts to swallow. I take a sharp breath and push past the mirrors. I need to find a way to get out of here. The door opens at my touch. I look around the hallway for any sign of life. I don’t have any idea what time of day it is or what I’ve gotten myself into. I don’t know if anyone exists in this house except for Anderson—and whoever it was that helped me in the bathroom—but I have to assess my situation. I have to figure out exactly how much danger I’m in before I can devise a plan to fight my way out. I try to tiptoe quietly down the stairs. It doesn’t work. The stairs creak and groan under my weight and I hardly have a chance to backpedal before I hear him call my name. He’s downstairs. Anderson is downstairs. “Don’t be shy,” he says. I hear the rustle of something that sounds like paper. “I have food for you and I know you must be starving.” My heart is suddenly beating in my throat. I wonder what choices I have, what options I have to consider and I decide I can’t hide from him in his own hideout. I meet him downstairs. He’s the same beautiful man he was before. Hair perfect and polished, clothing crisp, clean, expertly pressed. He’s sitting in the living room in an overstuffed chair with a blanket draped over his lap. I notice a gorgeous, rustic-looking, intricately carved walking stick leaning against the armrest. He has a stack of papers in his hand. I smell coffee. “Please,” he says to me, not at all surprised by my strange, wild appearance. “Have a seat.” I do. “How are you feeling?” he asks. I look up. I don’t answer him. He nods. “Yes, well, I’m sure you’re very surprised to see me here. It’s a lovely little house, isn’t it?” He looks around. “I had this preserved shortly after I moved my family to what is now Sector 45. This sector was supposed to be mine, after all. It turned out to be the ideal place to store my wife.” He waves a hand. “Apparently she doesn’t do very well in the compounds,” he says, as if I’m supposed to have any idea what he’s talking about. Store his wife? I don’t know why I allow anything out of his mouth to surprise me. Anderson seems to catch my confusion. He looks amused. “Am I to understand that my lovestruck boy didn’t tell you about his beloved mother? He didn’t go on and on and on about his pathetic love for the creature that gave birth to him?” “What?” is the first word I speak. “I am truly shocked,” Anderson says, smiling like he’s not shocked at all. “He didn’t bother to mention that he has a sick, ailing mother who lives in this house? He didn’t tell you that’s why he wanted the post here, in this sector, so desperately? No? He didn’t tell you anything about that?” He cocks his head. “I am just so shocked,” he lies again. I’m trying to keep my heart rate down, trying to figure out why on earth he’s telling me this, trying to stay one step ahead of him, but he’s doing a damn good job of confusing the hell out of

me. “When I was chosen as supreme commander,” he goes on, “I was going to leave Aaron’s mother here and take him with me to the capital. But the boy didn’t want to leave his mother behind. He wanted to take care of her. He didn’t want to leave her. He needed to be with her like some stupid child,” he says, raising his voice at the end, forgetting himself for a moment. He swallows. Regains his composure. And I’m waiting. Waiting for the anvil he’s preparing to drop on my head. “Did he tell you how many other soldiers wanted be in charge of Sector 45? How many fine candidates we had to choose from? He was only eighteen years old!” He laughs. “Everyone thought he’d gone mad. But I gave him a chance,” Anderson says. “I thought it might be good for him to take on that kind of responsibility.” Still waiting. A deep, contented sigh. “Did he ever tell you,” Anderson says, “what he had to do to prove he was worthy?” There it is. “Did he ever tell you what I made him do to earn it?” I feel so dead inside. “No,” Anderson says, eyes bright, too bright. “I suspect he didn’t want to mention that part, did he? I bet he didn’t include that part of his past, did he?” I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to know this. I don’t want to listen anymore— “Don’t worry,” Anderson says. “I won’t spoil it for you. Best to let him share those details with you himself.” I’m not calm anymore. I’m not calm and I’ve officially begun to panic. “I’ll be heading back to base in just a bit,” Anderson says, sorting through his papers, not seeming to mind having an entirely one-sided conversation with me. “I can’t stand to be under the same roof as his mother for very long—I do not get on well with the ill, unfortunately—but this has turned out to be a convenient little camp under the present circumstances. I’ve been using it as a base from which to oversee all that’s going on at the compounds.” The battle. The fighting. The bloodshed and Adam and Kenji and Castle and everyone I’ve left behind How could I forget The horrifying, terrifying possibilities are flashing through my mind. I have no idea what’s happened. If they’re okay. If they know I’m still alive. If Castle managed to get Brendan and Winston back. If anyone I know has died. My eyes are crazed, darting around. I get to my feet, convinced that this is all just an elaborate trap, that perhaps someone is going to maul me from behind or someone is waiting in the kitchen with a cleaver, and I can’t catch my breath, I’m wheezing and I’m trying to figure out what to do what to do what to do and I say “What am I doing here? Why did you bring me here? Why haven’t you killed me yet?” Anderson looks at me. He cocks his head. He says, “I am very upset with you, Juliette. Very, very unhappy.” He says, “You have done a very bad thing.” “What?” seems to be the only question I know how to ask. “What are you talking about?” For one crazy moment I wonder if he knows about what happened with Warner. I almost feel myself blush. But he takes a deep breath. Grabs the cane resting against his chair. He has to use his entire upper body to get to his feet. He’s shaking, even with the cane to support him. He’s crippled.

He says, “You did this to me. You managed to overpower me. You shot me in my legs. You almost shot me in the heart. And you kidnapped my son.” “No,” I gasp, “that wasn’t—” “You did this to me.” He cuts me off. “And now I want compensation.”

SIXTY-NINE Breathing. I have to remember to keep breathing. “It’s quite extraordinary,” Anderson says, “what you were able to do entirely on your own. There were only three people in that room,” he says. “You, me, and my son. My soldiers were watching that entire area for anyone else who might’ve come with you, and they said you were utterly alone.” A pause. “I actually thought you’d come with a team, you see. I didn’t think you’d be brave enough to meet me by yourself. But then you single-handedly disarmed me and stole back your hostages. You had to carry two men—not including my son—out to safety. How you managed to do it is entirely beyond my comprehension.” And it hits me: this choice is simple. I either tell him the truth about Kenji and Adam and risk having Anderson go after them, or I take the fall. So I meet Anderson’s eyes. I nod. I say, “You called me a stupid little girl. You said I was too much of a coward to defend myself.” He looks uncomfortable for the very first time. Seems to realize that I could probably do the same thing to him again, right now if I wanted. And I think, yes, I probably could. What an excellent idea. But for now, I’m still strangely curious to see what he wants from me. Why he’s talking to me. I’m not worried about attacking him right away; I know that I have an advantage over him now. I should be able to overtake him easily. Anderson clears his throat. “I was planning on returning to the capital,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “But it’s clear that my work here is not yet finished. Your people are making things infinitely more complicated and it’s becoming harder and harder to simply kill all the civilians.” A pause. “Well, no, actually, that’s not true. It’s not hard to kill them, it’s only that it’s becoming impractical.” He looks at me. “If I were to kill them all, I wouldn’t have any left to rule over, would I?” He actually laughs. Laughs as if he’s said something funny. “What do you want with me?” I ask him. He takes a deep breath. He’s smiling. “I must admit, Juliette—I’m thoroughly impressed. You alone were able to overpower me. You had enough foresight to think of taking my son hostage. You saved two of your own men. You caused an earthquake to save the rest of your team!” He laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs. I don’t bother telling him that only 2 of those things are true. “I see now that my son was right. You could be invaluable to us, especially right now. You know the inside of their headquarters better than anything Aaron is able to remember.” So Warner has been to see his father. He’s shared our secrets. Of course he has. I can’t imagine why I’m so surprised. “You,” Anderson says to me, “could help me destroy all of your little friends. You could tell me everything I need to know. You could tell me all about the other freaks, what they’re capable of, what their strengths and weaknesses are. You could take me to their hideout. You would do whatever I asked you to do.” I want to spit in his face.

“I would sooner die,” I tell him. “I’d rather be burned alive.” “Oh, I highly doubt that,” he says. He shifts his weight onto the cane to better hold himself up. “I think you’d change your mind if you actually had the opportunity to feel the skin melt off your face. But,” he says, “I am not unkind. I certainly won’t rule it out as an option, if you’re really that interested.” Horrible, horrible man. He smiles, wide, satisfied by my silence. “Yes, I didn’t think so.” The front door flies open. I don’t move. I don’t turn around. I don’t know if I want to see what’s about to happen to me but then I hear Anderson greet his visitor. Invite him in. Ask him to say hello to their new guest. Warner steps into my line of vision. I’m suddenly weak through the bone, sick and slightly mortified. Warner doesn’t say a word. He’s wearing his perfect suit with his perfect hair and he looks exactly like the Warner I first met; the only difference now is the look in his eyes. He’s staring at me in a state of shock so debilitating he actually looks ill. “You kids remember each other, right?” Anderson is the only one laughing. Warner is breathing like he’s hiked several mountains, like he can’t understand what he’s seeing or why he’s seeing it and he’s staring at my neck, at what must be the ugly blotchy bruise staining my skin and his face twists into something that looks like anger and horror and heartbreak. His eyes drop to my shirt, to my shorts, and his mouth falls open just enough for me to notice before he’s reining himself in, wiping the emotions off his face. He’s struggling to stay composed but I can see the rapid motions of his chest rising and falling. His voice isn’t nearly as strong as it could be when he says, “What is she doing here?” “I’ve had her collected for us,” Anderson says simply. “For what?” Warner asks. “You said you didn’t want her—” “Well,” Anderson says, considering. “That’s not entirely true. I could certainly benefit from having her around, but I decided at the last moment that I wasn’t interested in her company anymore.” He shakes his head. Looks down at his legs. Sighs. “It’s just so frustrating to be crippled like this,” he says, laughing again. “It’s just so unbelievably frustrating. But,” he says, smiling, “at least I’ve found a fast and easy way to fix it. To put it all back to normal, as they say. It’ll be just like magic.” Something about his eyes, the sick smile in his voice, the way he says that last line makes me feel ill. “What do you mean?” I ask, almost afraid to hear his response. “I’m surprised you even have to ask, my dear. I mean, honestly—did you really think I wouldn’t notice my son’s brand-new shoulder?” He laughs. “Did you think I wouldn’t find it strange to see him come home not only unharmed, but entirely healed? No scars, no tenderness, no weakness—as if he’d never been shot at all! It’s a miracle,” he says. “A miracle, my son informs me, that was performed by two of your little freaks.” “No.” Horror is building inside of me, blinding me. “Oh yes.” He glances at Warner. “Isn’t that right, son?” “No,” I gasp. “Oh, God—what have you done—WHERE ARE THEY—” “Calm yourself,” Anderson says to me. “They are perfectly unharmed. I simply had them collected, just as I had you collected. I need them to stay alive and healthy if they’re going to heal me, don’t you think?” “Did you know about this?” I turn to Warner, frantic. “Did you do this? Did you know—” “No—Juliette,” he says, “I swear—this wasn’t my idea—” “You are both getting agitated over nothing,” Anderson says, waving a lazy hand in our direction. “We have more important things to focus on right now. More pressing issues to deal with.” “What,” Warner asks, “are you talking about?” He doesn’t seem to be breathing.

“Justice, son.” Anderson is staring at me now. “I’m talking about justice. I like the idea of setting things right. Of putting order back into the world. And I was waiting for you to arrive so I could show you exactly what I mean. This,” he says, “is what I should’ve done the first time.” He glances at Warner. “Are you listening? Pay close attention now. Are you watching?” He pulls out a gun. And shoots me in the chest.

SEVENTY My heart has exploded. I’m thrown backward, tripping over my own feet until I hit the floor, my head slamming into the carpeted ground, my arms doing little to break my fall. It’s pain like I’ve never known it, pain I never thought I could feel, never would have even imagined. It’s like dynamite has gone off in my chest, like I’ve been lit on fire from the inside out, and suddenly everything slows down. So this, I think, is what it feels like to die. I’m blinking and it seems to take forever. I see an unfocused series of images in front of me, colors and bodies and lights swaying, stilted movements all blurred together. Sounds are warped, garbled, too high and too low for me to hear clearly. There are icy, electric bursts surging through my veins, like every part of my body has fallen asleep and is trying to wake up again. There’s a face in front of me. I try to concentrate on the shape, the colors, try to bring everything into focus but it’s too difficult and suddenly I can’t breathe, suddenly I feel like there are knives in my throat, holes punched into my lungs, and the more I blink, the less clearly I’m able to see. Soon I’m only able to take in the tightest breaths, tiny little gasps that remind me of when I was a child, when the doctors told me I suffered from asthma attacks. They were wrong, though; my shortness of breath had nothing to do with asthma. It had to do with panic and anxiety and hyperventilation. But this feeling I’m feeling right now is very similar to what I experienced then. It’s like trying to take in oxygen by breathing through the thinnest straw. Like your lungs are just closing up, gone for the holidays. I feel the dizziness take over, the light-headed feeling take over. And the pain, the pain, the pain. The pain is terrible. The pain is the worst. The pain never seems to stop. Suddenly I’m blind. I feel rather than see the blood, feel it leaking out of me as I blink and blink and blink in a desperate attempt to regain my vision. But I can see nothing but a haze of white. I hear nothing but the pounding in my eardrums and the short, the short, the short frantic gasp gasp gasps of my own breath and I feel hot, so hot, the blood of my body still so fresh and warm and pooling underneath me, all around me. Life is seeping out of me and it makes me think about death, makes me think about how short a life I lived and how little I lived it. How I spent most of my years cowering in fear, never standing up for myself, always trying to be what someone else wanted. For 17 years I tried to force myself into a mold that I hoped would make other people feel comfortable, safe, unthreatened. And it never helped. I will have died having accomplished nothing. I am still no one. I am nothing more than a silly little girl bleeding to death on a psychotic man’s floor. And I think, if I could do it over again, I’d do it so differently. I’d be better. I’d make something of myself. I’d make a difference in this sorry, sorry world. And I’d start by killing Anderson.

It’s too bad I’m already so close to dead.

SEVENTY-ONE My eyes open. I’m looking around and wondering at this strange version of an afterlife. Odd, that Warner is here, that I still can’t seem to move, that I still feel such extraordinary pain. Stranger still to see Sonya and Sara in front of me. I can’t even pretend to understand their presence in this picture. I’m hearing things. Sounds are beginning to come in more clearly, and, because I can’t lift my head to look around, I try instead to focus on what they’re saying. They’re arguing. “You have to!” Warner shouts. “But we can’t—we can’t t-touch her,” Sonya is saying, choking back tears. “There’s no way for us to help her—” “I can’t believe she’s actually dying,” Sara gasps. “I didn’t think you were telling the truth—” “She’s not dying!” Warner says. “She is not going to die! Please, listen, I’m telling you,” he says, desperate now, “you can help her—I’ve been trying to explain to you,” he says, “all you have to do is touch me and I can take your power—I can be the transfer, I can control it and redirect your Energy—” “That’s not possible,” Sonya says. “That’s not—Castle never said you could do that—he would’ve told us if you could do that—” “Jesus, please, just listen to me,” he says, his voice breaking. “I’m not trying to trick you—” “You kidnapped us!” they both shout at the same time. “That wasn’t me! I wasn’t the one who kidnapped you—” “How are we supposed to trust you?” Sara says. “How do we know you didn’t do this to her yourself?” “Why don’t you care?” He’s breathing so hard now. “How can you not care? Why don’t you care that she’s bleeding to death—I thought you were her friends—” “Of course we care!” Sara says, her voice catching on the last word. “But how can we help her now? Where can we take her? Who can we take her to? No one can touch her and she’s lost so much blood already—just look at he—” A sharp intake of breath. “Juliette?” Footsteps stomp stomp stomp the ground. Rushing around my head. All the sounds are banging into each other, colliding again, spinning around me. I can’t believe I’m not dead yet. I have no idea how long I’ve been lying here. “Juliette? JULIETTE—” Warner’s voice is a rope I want to cling to. I want to catch it and tie it around my waist and I want him to haul me out of this paralyzed world I’m trapped in. I want to tell him not to worry, that it’s fine, that I’m going to be okay because I’ve accepted it, I’m ready to die now, but I can’t. I can’t say anything. I still can’t breathe, can hardly shape my lips into words. All I can do is take these torturous little gasps and wonder why the hell my body hasn’t given up yet. All of a sudden Warner is straddling my bleeding body, careful not to allow any of his weight to touch me, and he shoves up my shirtsleeves. Grabs ahold of my bare arms and says, “You are going to be okay. We’re going to fix this—they’re going to help me fix this and you—you’re going to be fine.” Deep breaths. “You’re going to be perfect. Do you hear me? Juliette, can you hear me?”

I blink at him. I blink and blink and blink at him and find I’m still fascinated by his eyes. Such a startling shade of green. “Each one of you, grab my arms,” he shouts to the girls, his hands still gripped firmly around my shoulders. “Now! Please! I’m begging you—” And for some reason they listen. Maybe they see something in him, see something in his face, in his features. Maybe they see what I see from this disjointed, foggy perspective. The desperation in his expression, the anguish carved into his features, the way he looks at me, like he might die if I do. And I can’t help but think this is an interesting parting gift from the world. That at least, in the end, I didn’t die alone.

SEVENTY-TWO I’m blind again. Heat is pouring into my being with such intensity it’s literally taken over my vision. I can’t feel anything but hot, hot, searing hot heat flooding my bones, my nerves, my skin, my cells. Everything is on fire. At first I think it’s the same heat in my chest, the same pain from the hole where my heart used to be, but then I realize this heat doesn’t actually hurt. It’s a soothing kind of heat. So potent, so intense, but somehow it’s welcome. My body does not want to reject it. Does not want to flinch away from it, is not looking for a way to protect itself from it. I actually feel my back lift off the floor when the fire hits my lungs. I’m suddenly gasping in huge, raging hyperventilated breaths, taking in lungfuls of air like I might cry if I don’t. I’m drinking oxygen, devouring it, choking on it, taking it in as quickly as possible, my entire body heaving as it strains to return to normal. My chest feels like it’s being stitched back together, like the flesh is regenerating itself, healing itself at an inhuman rate and I’m blinking and breathing and I’m moving my head and trying to see but it’s still so blurry, still unclear but it’s getting easier. I can feel my fingers and my toes and the life in my limbs and I can actually hear my heart beating again and suddenly the faces above me come into focus. All at once the heat is gone. The hands are gone. I collapse back onto the floor. And everything goes black.

SEVENTY-THREE Warner is sleeping. I know this because he’s sleeping right next to me. It’s dark enough that it takes me several tries to blink my eyes open and understand that I’m not blind this time. I catch a glimpse out the window and find the moon filled to the brim, pouring light into this little room. I’m still here. In Anderson’s house. In what probably used to be Warner’s bedroom. And he’s asleep on the pillow right next to me.

His features are so soft, so ethereal in the moonlight. His face is deceptively calm, so unassuming and innocent. And I think of how impossible it is that he’s here, lying next to me. That I’m here, lying next to him. That we’re lying in his childhood bed together. That he saved my life. Impossible is such a stupid word. I shift hardly at all and Warner reacts immediately, sitting straight up, chest heaving, eyes blinking. He looks at me, sees that I’m awake, that my eyes are open, and he freezes in place. There are so many things I want to say to him. So many things I have to tell him. So many things I need to do now, that I need to sort through, that I have to decide. But for now, I only have one question. “Where’s your father?” I whisper. It takes Warner a moment to find his voice. He says, “He’s back on base. He left right after”—he hesitates, struggles for a second—“right after he shot you.” Incredible. He left me bleeding all over his living room floor. What a nice little present for his son to clean up. What a nice little lesson for his son to learn. Fall in love, and you get to watch your love get shot. “So he doesn’t know I’m here?” I ask Warner. “He doesn’t know I’m alive?” Warner shakes his head. “No.” And I think, Good. That’s very good. It’ll be so much better if he thinks I’m dead. Warner is still looking at me. Looking and looking and looking at me like he wants to touch me but he’s afraid to get too close. Finally, he whispers, “Are you okay, love? How do you feel?” And I smile to myself, thinking of all the ways I could answer that question. I think of how my body is more exhausted, more defeated, more drained than it’s ever been in my life. I think about how I’ve had nothing but a glass of water in 2 days. How I’ve never been more confused about people, about who they seem to be and who they actually are, and I think about how I’m lying here, sharing a bed in a house we were told doesn’t exist anymore, with one of the most hated and feared people of Sector 45. And I think about how that terrifying creature has the capacity for such tenderness, how he saved my life. How his own father shot me in the chest. How only hours earlier I was lying in a pool of my own blood. I think about how my friends are probably still locked in battle, how Adam must be suffering not knowing where I am or what’s happened to me. How Kenji is still pulling the weight of so many. How Brendan and Winston might still be lost. How the people of Omega Point might all be dead. And it makes me think. I feel better than I ever have in my entire life. I’m amazed by how different I feel now. How different I know things will be now. I have so many things to do. So many scores to settle. So many friends who need my help. Everything has changed. Because once upon a time I was just a child. Today I’m still just a child, but this time I’ve got an iron will and 2 fists made of steel and I’ve aged 50 years. Now I finally have a clue. I’ve finally figured out that I’m strong enough, that maybe I’m a touch brave enough, that maybe this time I can do what I was meant to do. This time I am a force. A deviation of human nature. I am living, breathing proof that nature is officially screwed, afraid of what it’s done, what it’s become. And I’m stronger. I’m angrier. I’m ready to do something I’ll definitely regret and this time I don’t care. I’m done being nice. I’m done being nervous. I’m not afraid of anything anymore. Mass chaos is in my future.

And I’m leaving my gloves behind.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS My mother. My father. My brothers. My family. I love you laughing. I love you crying. I love you laughing and crying into every pot of tea we’ve ever finished together. You’re the most incredible people I’ve ever met and you’ll be forced to know me all my life and you’ve never once complained. Thank you always, for every hot cup. For never letting go of my hand. Jodi Reamer. I said hello and you smiled so I asked about the weather and you said the weather? The weather is unpredictable. I said what about the road? You said the road is known to be bumpy. I said do you know what’s going to happen? You said absolutely not. And then you introduced me to some of the best years of my life. I say, forgetting you, it’s impossible. Tara Weikum. You read the words I write with my heart and my hands and understand them with an accuracy that is both painful and astounding. Your brilliance, your patience, your unfailing kindness. Your generous smiles. It’s such an honor to work with you. Tana. Randa. We’ve shed many tears together—in sadness, in joy. But the most tears I’ve ever wept were in the moments I spent laughing with you. Your friendship has been the greatest gift; it’s a blessing I’m determined every day to deserve. Sarah. Nathan. For your unwavering support. You two are beyond-words amazing. Sumayyah. For your shoulder and your ear and the safe space you grant me. I don’t know what I’d do without it. A huge, huge thank-you to all of my dear friends at HarperCollins and Writers House who are never thanked enough for all they do: Melissa Miller, for all your love and enthusiasm; Christina Colangelo, Diane Naughton, and Lauren Flower, for your energy and passion and invaluable marketing prowess; Hallie Patterson, my exceptionally talented publicist, who is both clever and unfailingly kind. More thanks to Cara Petrus and Sarah Kaufman, for their fabulous design work; and Colin Anderson, the digital illustrator whose work continues to astound me. Thanks also to Brenna Franzitta: because I’m thankful every single day to have a copy editor as brilliant as you (and I hope I just used that colon correctly); Alec Shane, for everything, but also for knowing how to respond gracefully when oddly shaped, leaking children’s toys show up in his office; Cecilia de la Campa, for always working to make my books available all around the world; Beth Miller, for her continued support; and Kassie Evashevski at UTA, for her silent grace and razorsharp instinct. Thanks always to all my readers! Without you I’d have no one to talk to but the characters in my head. Thank you for sharing Juliette’s journey with me. And to all my friends on Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, and my blog: Thank you. Really. I wonder if you’ll ever truly know how much I appreciate your friendship, your support, and your generosity. Thank you forever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Tahereh Mafi is a girl. She was born in a small city somewhere in Connecticut and currently resides in Orange County, California, where the weather is just a little too perfect for her taste. When unable to find a book, she can be found reading candy wrappers, coupons, and old receipts. Shatter Me and Unravel Me are the first two novels in a trilogy about Juliette. You can visit Tahereh online at www.taherehbooks.com.

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CREDITS COVER ART © 2013 BY COLIN ANDERSON COVER ART INSPIRED BY A PHOTOGRAPH BY SHAREE DAVENPORT COVER DESIGN BY CARA E. PETRUS

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Unravel Me Copyright © 2013 by Tahereh Mafi All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. www.epicreads.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Mafi, Tahereh. Unravel me / Tahereh Mafi. — 1st ed. p. cm. Summary: “Juliette has escaped to Omega Point, the headquarters of the rebel resistance and a safe haven for people with abilities like hers. She is finally free from The Reestablishment and their plans to use her as a weapon, but Warner, her former captor, won’t let her go without a fight.”—Provided by publisher. ISBN 978-0-06-208553-5 (trade bdg.) ISBN 978-0-06-225093-3 (international edition) EPub Edition © DECEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780062085566 [1. Science fiction. 2. Ability—Fiction. 3. Love—Fiction. 4. Soldiers—Fiction. 5. Dictatorship—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.M2695Un 2013 2012028389 [Fic]—dc23 CIP AC 12 13 14 15 16 LP/RRDH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 FIRST EDITION

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Contents Cover Title Page One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight About the Author Books by Tahereh Mafi Back Ad Copyright About the Publisher

One I’m already awake when my alarm goes off, but I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I’m too tired. My muscles are tight, still painfully sore from an intense training session two days ago, and my body feels heavy. Dead. My brain hurts. The alarm is shrill and persistent. I ignore it. I stretch out the muscles in my neck and groan, quietly. The clock won’t stop screeching. Someone pounds, hard, against the wall near my head, and I hear Adam’s muffled voice shouting at me to shut off the alarm. “Every morning,” he shouts. “You do this every morning. I swear to God, Kenji, one of these days I’m going to come in there and destroy that thing.” “All right,” I mumble, mostly to myself. “All right. Calm down.” “Turn it off.”

I take a deep, ragged breath. Slap blindly at the clock until it stops blaring. We finally got our own rooms on base, but I still can’t seem to find peace. Or privacy. These walls are paper thin, and Adam hasn’t changed a bit. Still moody. No sense of humor. Generally irritated. Sometimes I can’t remember why we’re friends. With some effort, I drag myself up, into a sitting position. I rub at my eyes, making a mental list of all the things I have to do today, and then, in a sudden, horrible rush— I remember what happened yesterday. Jesus. So much drama in one day I can hardly keep it all straight. Apparently Juliette has a long-lost sister. Apparently Warner tortured Juliette’s sister. Warner and Juliette broke up. Juliette ran off screaming. Warner had a panic attack. Warner’s ex-girlfriend showed up. His exgirlfriend slapped him. Juliette got drunk. No, wait—J got drunk and she shaved her head. And then I saw Juliette in her underwear—an image I’m still trying to erase from my mind—and then, as if all that wasn’t enough to deal with, after dinner last night, I did something very, very stupid. I drop my head in my hands and hate myself, remembering. A fresh wave of embarrassment hits me, hard, and I take another deep breath. Force myself to look up. To clear my thoughts. Not everything is horrible. I have my own room now—a small room—but my own room with a window and a view of industrial AC units. I have a desk. A bed. A basic closet. I still have to share a bathroom with some of the other guys, but I can’t complain. A private room is a luxury I haven’t had in a while. It’s nice to have space at the end of the night to be alone with my thoughts. Somewhere to hang the happy face I force myself to wear even when I’m having a shitty day. I’m grateful. I’m exhausted, overworked, and stressed out, but I’m grateful. I force myself to say it, out loud. I’m grateful. I take a few moments to feel it. Recognize it. I force myself to smile, to unclench the tightness in my face that would otherwise default too easily to anger. I whisper a quick thank-you to the unknown, to the air, to the lonely ghosts eavesdropping on my private conversations with no one. I have a roof over my head and clothes on my back and food waiting for me every morning. I have friends. A makeshift family. I’m lonely but I’m not alone. My body works, my

brain works, I’m alive. It’s a good life. I have to make a conscious effort to remember that. To choose to be happy every day. If I didn’t, I think my own pain would’ve killed me a long time ago. I’m grateful. Someone knocks at my door—two sharp raps—and I jump to my feet, startled. The knock is unusually formal; most of us don’t even bother with the courtesy. I yank on a pair of sweatpants and, tentatively, open the door. Warner. My eyes widen as I look him up and down. I don’t think he’s ever shown up at my door before, and I can’t decide what’s weirder: the fact that he’s here or the fact that he looks so normal. Well, normal for Warner. He looks exactly like he always does. Shiny. Polished. Eerily calm and pulled together for someone whose girlfriend dumped him the day before. You’d never know he was the same dude who, in the aftermath, I found lying on the floor having a panic attack. “Uh, hey.” I clear the sleep from my throat. “What’s going on?” “Did you just wake up?” he says, looking at me like I’m an insect. “It’s six in the morning. Everyone in this wing wakes up at six in the morning. You don’t have to look so disappointed.” Warner peers past me, into my room, and for a moment, says nothing. Then, quietly: “Kishimoto, if I considered other people’s mediocre standards a sufficient metric by which to measure my own accomplishments, I’d never have amounted to anything.” He looks up, meets my eyes. “You should demand more of yourself. You’re entirely capable.” “Are you—?” I blink, stunned. “I’m sorry, was that your idea of a compliment?” He stares at me, his face impassive. “Get dressed.” I raise my eyebrows. “You taking me out to breakfast?” “We have three more unexpected guests. They just arrived.” “Oh.” I take an unconscious step back. “Oh shit.” “Yes.” “More kids of the supreme commanders?” Warner nods. “Are they dangerous?” I ask. Warner almost smiles, but he looks unhappy. “Would they be here if they weren’t?”

“Right.” I sigh. “Good point.” “Meet me downstairs in five minutes, and I’ll fill you in.” “Five minutes?” My eyes widen. “Uh-uh, no way. I need to take a shower. I haven’t even eaten breakfast—” “If you’d been up at three, you would’ve had time for all that and more.” “Three in the morning?” I gape at him. “Are you out of your mind?” And when he says, without a hint of irony— “No more than usual” —it’s crystal clear to me that this dude is not okay. I sigh, hard, and turn away, hating myself for always noticing this kind of thing, and hating myself even more for my constant need to follow up. I can’t help it. Castle said it to me once when I was a kid: he told me I was unusually compassionate. I never thought about it like that—with words, with an explanation—until he’d said it to me. I always hated it about myself, that I couldn’t be tougher. Hated that I cried so hard when I saw a dead bird for the first time. Or that I used to bring home all the stray animals I found until Castle finally told me I had to stop, that we didn’t have the resources to keep them all. I was twelve. He made me let them go, and I cried for a week. I hated that I cried. Hated that I couldn’t help it. Everyone thinks I’m not supposed to give a shit—that I shouldn’t—but I do. I always do. And I give a shit about this asshole, too. So I take a tight breath and say, “Hey, man— Are you all right?” “I’m fine.” His response is fast. Cold. I could let it go. He’s giving me an out. I should take it. I should take it and pretend I don’t notice the strain in his jaw or the raw, red look around his eyes. I’ve got my own problems, my own burdens, my own pain and frustration, and besides, no one ever asks me about my day. No one ever follows up with me, no one ever bothers to peer beneath the surface of my smile. So why should I care? I shouldn’t. Leave it alone, I tell myself. I open my mouth to change the subject. I open my mouth to move on, and, instead, I hear myself say— “C’mon, bro. We both know that’s bullshit.” Warner looks away. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“You had a hard day yesterday,” I say. “It’s all right to have a rough morning, too.” After a long pause, he says, “I’ve been up for a while.” I blow out a breath. It’s nothing I wasn’t expecting. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I get it.” He looks up. Meets my eyes. “Do you?” “Yeah. I do.” “I don’t think you do, actually. In fact, I hope you don’t. I wouldn’t want you to know how I feel right now. I wouldn’t wish that for you.” That hits me harder than I expect. For a moment I don’t know what to say. I decide to stare at the floor. “Have you seen her yet?” I ask. And then, so quietly I almost miss it— “No.” Shit. This kid is breaking my heart. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” he says, his eyes flashing as they meet mine. “What? I don’t— I’m not—” “Get dressed,” Warner says sharply. “I’ll see you downstairs.” I blink, startled. “Right,” I say. “Cool. Okay.” And then he’s gone.

Two I stand in the doorway for a minute, running my hands through my hair and trying to convince myself to move. I’ve developed a sudden headache. Somehow, I’ve become a magnet for pain. Other people’s pain. My own pain. The thing is, I have no one to blame but myself. I ask the follow-up questions that land me here. I care too much. I make it my business when I shouldn’t, and I only ever seem to get shit for it. I shake my head and then—wince.

The only thing Warner and I seem to have in common is that we both like to blow off steam in the gym. I pushed too much weight the other day and didn’t stretch afterward—and now I’m paying for it. I can hardly lift my arms. I take a deep breath, arch my back. Stretch my neck. Try to work out the knots in my shoulder. I hear someone whistle down the hall and I look up. Lily winks at me in an obvious, exaggerated way, and I roll my eyes. I’d really like to be flattered, because I’m not modest enough to deny that I have a nice body, but Lily could not give fewer shits about me. Instead, she does this— mocks me for walking around without a shirt on—nearly every morning. Her and Ian. Together. The two have been low-key dating for a couple of months now. “Looking good, bro.” Ian smiles. “Is that sweat or baby oil? You’re so shiny.” I flip him off. “Those purple boxers are really working for you, though,” says Lily. “Nice choice. They suit your skin tone.” I shoot her an incredulous look. I might not be wearing a shirt, but I’m definitely—I glance down—wearing sweatpants. My underwear is nowhere in sight. “How could you possibly know the color of my boxers?” “Photographic memory,” she says, tapping her temple. “Lil, that doesn’t mean you have X-ray vision.” “You’re wearing purple underwear?” Winston’s voice—and a distinct whiff of coffee—carries down the hall. “That’s inspired.” “All right, fuck off, all of you.” “Hey— Whoa— I thought you weren’t allowed to use foul language.” Winston comes into view, his boots heavy on the concrete floor. He’s fighting back a laugh when he says, “I thought you and Castle had an agreement.” “That’s not true,” I say, pointing at him. “Castle and I agreed I could say shit as much as I wanted.” Winston raises his eyebrows. “Anyway,” I mutter, “Castle isn’t here right now, is he? So I stand by my original statement. Fuck off, all of you.” Winston laughs, Ian shakes his head, and Lily pretends to look offended, when—

“I most definitely am here right now, and I heard that,” Castle calls from his office. I cringe. I used to swear profusely as a teenager—much worse than I do now— and it really used to upset Castle. He said he worried I’d never find a way to articulate my emotions without anger. He wanted me to slow down when I spoke, to use specific words to describe how I was feeling instead of angrily shouting obscenities. He seemed so worried about it that I agreed to tone down my language. But I made that promise four years ago, and as much as I love Castle, I often regret it. “Kenji?” Castle again. I know he’s waiting for an apology. I peer down the hall and spot his open door. We’re all squeezed up against each other, even with the new accommodations. Warner basically had to reinvent this floor, and it took a lot of work and sacrifice, so, again, I’m not complaining. But still. It’s hard not to be annoyed by the overwhelming lack of privacy. “My bad,” I shout back. I can actually hear Castle sigh, even from across the hall. “A touching display of remorse,” Winston says. “All right, show’s over.” I wave them all away. “I have to shower.” “Yeah you do,” Ian says, raising an eyebrow. I shake my head, exhausted. “I can’t believe I put up with you assholes.” Ian laughs. “You know I’m messing with you, right?” When I don’t respond he says, “Seriously—you look good. We should hit the gym later. I need someone to spot me.” I nod, only a little mollified, and mumble a goodbye. I head back into my room to grab my shower caddy, but Winston follows me in, leans against the doorframe. It’s just then that I notice he’s holding a paper to-go cup. My eyes light up. “Is that coffee?” Winston pulls away from the door, horrified. “It’s my coffee.” “Hand it over.” “What? No.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Why can’t you get your own?” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This is only my second cup. You know it takes at least

three before I’m even half awake.” “Yeah, well, I have to be downstairs in five minutes or Warner’s going to murder me and I haven’t had any breakfast yet and I’m already exhausted and I really—” “Fine.” Winston’s face darkens as he hands it over. “You monster.” I take the cup. “I’m a goddamn joy.” Winston mutters something foul under his breath. “Hey”—I take a sip of the coffee—“by the way— Did you, uh—?” Winston’s neck goes suddenly red. He averts his eyes. “No.” I hold up my free hand. “Hey—no pressure or anything. I was just wondering.” “I’m still waiting for the right time,” he says. “Cool. Of course. I’m just excited for you, that’s all.” Winston looks up. Shoots me an uncertain smile. Winston’s been in love with Brendan for a long time, but I’m the only one who knows about it. Winston never thought Brendan would be interested, because as far as we knew, he’d only ever dated women, but a few months ago Brendan was linked, briefly, to this other dude from Point, and that was when Winston opened up to me about the whole thing. He asked me to keep it to myself, said he wanted to be the one to talk about it when it felt right, and he’s been trying to build up the courage to say something to Brendan ever since. The problem is that Winston thinks he’s a little old for Brendan, and he’s worried that if Brendan turns him down it might ruin their friendship. So he’s been waiting. For the right moment. I clap him on the shoulder. “I’m happy for you, bro.” Winston lets out a breathy, nervous laugh that’s unlike him. “Don’t be too happy just yet,” he says. And then he shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyway—enjoy the coffee. I need to go get another one.” I raise the coffee cup in a gesture that says both thank you and goodbye, and as I turn away to gather my things for a quick shower, my smile slips. Somehow I can’t help but be reminded, all the time, of my own solitude. I kill the coffee in a couple of quick, deep pulls, and toss the cup. Quietly, I make my way to the shower, my movements mechanical as I turn on the water. Strip. Lather. Rinse. Whatever. I’m frozen for a moment, watching the water pool in my upturned hands. I sigh, press my forehead to the cool, slick tile as the hot water pelts my back. I feel a measure of relief as my muscles begin to relax, the heat and steam releasing knots of tension under my skin. I try to focus on the

luxury of this shower, on my gratitude for this miracle of hot water, but my less gracious thoughts keep circling me, pecking at my heart and mind like emotional vultures. I’m so happy for my friends. I love them, even when they piss me off. I care about them. I want their joy. But it still hurts a little when it feels like, everywhere I look, everyone seems to have someone. Everyone but me. It’s crazy how much I wish I didn’t care. I wish, so much, all the time, that I didn’t give a shit about this sort of thing—that I could be like Warner, a frozen, unforgiving island; or even like Adam, who’s found his happiness in family, in his relationship with his brother—but I’m like neither. Instead, I’m a big, raw, bleeding heart, and I spend my days pretending not to notice that I want more. That I need more. Maybe it sounds weird to say, but I know I could love the shit out of someone. I feel it, in my heart. This capacity to love. To be romantic and passionate. Like it’s a superpower I have. A gift, even. And I’ve got no one to share it with. Everyone thinks I’m a joke. I run my hands down my face, squeezing my eyes shut as I remember my interaction with Nazeera last night. She came up to me, I try to remind myself. I never approached her. I didn’t even try to talk to her again, not after that day on the beach when she made it clear she wasn’t even a little bit interested in me. Though it’s not like I would’ve had a chance to talk to her after that, anyway; everything got crazy after that. J got shot and everyone was reeling, and then all that shit with Warner and Juliette went down, and now here we are. But last night I was just minding my own business, still trying to figure out what to do about the fact that our supreme commander was slowly marinating in half a pint of Anderson’s best whisky, when Nazeera came up to me. Out of the blue. It was right after dinner—hell, she wasn’t even present at dinner—and she just showed up, like an apparition, cornering me as I was leaving the dining room. Literally backed me into a corner and asked me if it was true, that I had the power of invisibility. She looked so mad. I was so confused. I didn’t know how she knew and I didn’t know why she cared, but there she was, right in front of me, demanding an answer, and I didn’t see the harm in telling her the truth. So I said yes, it was true. And she looked suddenly angrier.

“Why?” I said. “Why what?” Her eyes flashed, big and wide and electric with feeling. She was wearing a leather hood, and the lights of a nearby chandelier glinted off the diamond piercing near her bottom lip. I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted. Full. Soft. I forced myself to look up. “What?” She narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?” “I thought— I’m sorry, what are we talking about?” She turned away, but not before I saw the look of disbelief on her face. There might’ve been outrage, too. And then, lightning fast, she spun back around. “Are you just pretending to be dumb all the time? Or do you always talk like you’re drunk?” I froze. Pain and confusion swirled in my head. Pain from the insult, and confusion from— Yeah, I had no idea what was happening. “What?” I said again. “I don’t talk like I’m drunk.” “You’re looking at me like you’re drunk.” Shit, she was pretty. “I’m not drunk,” I said. Stupidly. And then I shook my head and remembered to be angry—she’d just insulted me, after all—and I said, “Anyway, you’re the one who came after me, remember? You started this conversation. And I don’t know why you’re so mad— Hell, I don’t even know why you care. It’s not my fault that I can be invisible. It just happened to me.” And then she shoved her hood back from her face and her hair shook out, dark and silky and heavy, and she said something I didn’t hear because my brain was freaking out, like, should I tell her that I can see her hair? Does she know that I can see her hair? Did she mean for me to see her hair? Would she freak out, right now, if I told her that I could see her hair? But then, also, just in case I wasn’t supposed to be seeing her hair right now, I didn’t want to tell her that I could see her hair because I was afraid she’d cover it up again, and, if I was being honest, I was really enjoying the view. She snapped her fingers in my face. I blinked. “What?” And then, realizing I’d overused that word tonight, I added a “Hmm?” “You’re not listening to me.” “I can see your hair,” I said, and pointed.

She took a deep, irritated breath. She seemed impatient. “I don’t always cover my hair, you know.” I shook my head. “No,” I said dumbly. “I did not know that.” “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. It’s illegal, remember?” I frowned. “Then why have you been covering your hair? And why’d you give me such a hard time about it?” She unhooked the hood from around her shoulders and crossed her arms. Her hair was long. Dark. Her eyes were deep. They were a light, honey color, bright against her brown skin. She was so beautiful it was scaring me. “I know a lot of women who lost the right to dress like that under The Reestablishment. There was a huge Muslim population in Asia, did you know that?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I had to watch, quietly, as my own father sent down the decrees to have the women stripped. Soldiers paraded them into the streets and tore the clothing from their bodies. Ripped the scarves from their heads and publicly shamed them. It was violent and inhumane, and I was forced to bear witness. I was eleven years old,” she whispered. “I hated it. I hated my father for doing it. For making me watch. So I try to honor those women, when I can. For me, it’s a symbol of resistance.” “Huh.” Nazeera sighed. She looked frustrated, but then—she laughed. It wasn’t a funny laugh, it was more like a sound of disbelief, but I thought of it as progress. “I just told you something really important to me,” she said, “and all you can say is huh?” I thought about it. And then, carefully: “No?” And somehow, for some unknowable reason, she smiled. She rolled her eyes as she did it, but her face lit up and she looked suddenly younger— sweeter—and I couldn’t stop staring at her. I didn’t know what I’d done to earn that look on her face. I’d probably done nothing to earn it. She was probably laughing at me. I didn’t care. “I, uh, think that’s really cool,” I said, remembering to say something. To acknowledge the importance of what she’d shared with me. “You think what’s cool?” She raised an eyebrow.

“You know.” I nodded in the direction of her head. “Your whole— thing. That story. You know.” That’s when she laughed for real. Out loud. She bit her lip to cut the sound and she shook her head as she said, softly, “You’re not messing with me, are you? You’re just really bad at this.” I blinked at her. I didn’t think I understood the question. “You’re terrible at talking to me,” she said. “I make you nervous.” I blanched. “I didn’t— I mean, I wouldn’t say that y—” “I think maybe I’ve been a little hard on you,” she said, and sighed. She looked away. Bit her lip again. “I thought—that first night I met you—I thought you were trying to be an asshole. You know?” She met my eyes. “Like, I thought you were playing mind games with me. Being hot and cold on purpose. Insulting me one minute, asking me out the next.” “What?” My eyes widened. “I’d never do that.” “Yeah,” she said softly. “I think I’m realizing that. Most of the guys I’ve known have been manipulative, condescending jackasses—my brother included—so I guess I wasn’t expecting you to be so . . . honest.” “Oh.” I frowned. I wasn’t sure if she meant that to be a compliment. “Thank you?” She laughed again. “I think we should start over,” she said, and held out her hand as if to shake mine. “I’m Nazeera. It’s nice to meet you.” Tentatively, I took her hand. Held my breath. Her skin was smooth, soft against my calloused palm. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Kenji.” She smiled. It was a happy, genuine smile. I had a feeling that smile was going to kill me. In fact, I was pretty sure this whole situation was going to kill me. “That’s a great name,” she said, dropping my hand. “You’re Japanese, right?” I nodded. “Do you speak?” I shook my head. “Yeah. It’s tough. Beautiful but tough. I studied Japanese for a few years,” she explained, “but it’s a difficult language to master. I still have only a rudimentary grasp on it. I actually lived in Japan—well, what used to be Japan—for a month. I did a pretty extensive tour of the re-mapped Asian continent, actually.” And then I think she asked me another question, but I’d gone suddenly deaf. I’d lost my head. She was talking to me about the country my parents

were born in—a place that really means something to me—and I couldn’t even concentrate. She touched her mouth a lot. Ran her finger along the edge of her bottom lip a lot. She had a habit of tapping, often, at the diamond piercing there, and I’m not sure she was even aware she was doing it. But it was almost like she was telling me—directing me—to look at her mouth. I couldn’t help it. I was thinking about kissing her. I was thinking about a lot of things. Pinning her to the wall. Undressing her slowly. Running my hands down her naked body. And then, suddenly— Taking a cold shower. All at once, her smile faded. Her voice was soft, a little concerned when she said, “Hey, are you okay?” Not okay. She was too close. She was too close and my body was definitely overreacting to her and I didn’t know how to cool off. Shut down. “Kenji?” And then she touched my arm. She touched my arm and then seemed surprised she’d done it, just stared at her hand on my bicep and I forced myself to remain still, forced myself not to move a muscle as her fingertips grazed my skin and a wave of pleasure flooded my body so fast I felt suddenly drunk. She dropped her hand and looked away. Looked back at me. She looked confused. “Shit,” I said softly. “I think I might be in love with you.” And then, with a seismic jolt of terror, sense was knocked sideways into my head. I bolted upright in my own skin. I thought I might die. I thought I might actually die of embarrassment. I wanted to. I wanted to melt into the Earth. Evaporate. Disappear. Jesus, I nearly did. I couldn’t believe I’d said the words out loud. I couldn’t believe I’d been betrayed by my own goddamn mouth like that. Nazeera stared at me, stunned and still processing, and somehow— through nothing short of a miracle—I managed to recover. I laughed. Laughed. And then I said, with perfect nonchalance, “I’m joking, obviously. I think I’m just exhausted. Anyway, good night.” I managed to walk, not run, back to my room, and was able to hold on to what was left of my dignity. I hope.

Then again, who the hell knows. I’m going to have to see her again, probably very soon, and I’m sure she’ll let me know if I should make plans to fly directly into the sun. Shit. I turn off the water and stand there, still sopping wet. And then, because I hate myself, I take a deep breath and turn on the cold water for ten, painful seconds. It does the trick. Clears my head. Cools my heart. I trip getting out of the shower. I drag myself across the hall, forcing my legs to bend, but I’m still moving like I’m injured. I glance at the clock on the wall and swear under my breath. I’m late. Warner is going to kill me. I really need to spend an hour stretching—my muscles are still way too tight, even after a hot shower—but I have no time. And then, with a grimace, I realize that Warner was right. A couple extra hours to myself this morning would’ve done me a lot of good. I sigh, heavily, and move toward my room. I’m wearing my sweatpants, but I have only a towel draped around my neck because I’m in too much pain to pull a shirt over my head. I figure maybe I can steal one of Winston’s button-downs—something I can slip on and off more easily than one of my own sweaters—when I hear someone’s voice. I glance back, distracted, and in those two seconds I lose sight of where I’m going and slam into someone. Someone. Words fly out of my head. Just like that. Gone. I’m an idiot. “You’re wet,” Nazeera says, wrinkling her nose as she jumps backward. “Why are you—” And then I watch her, watch as she looks down. Looks up. Scans my body, slowly. I watch her look away and clear her throat, and suddenly she can’t meet my eyes. Hope blooms in my chest. Unlocks my tongue. “Hey,” I say. “Hey.” She nods. Crosses her arms. “Good morning.” “You need something?” “Me? No.”

I fight back a smile. It’s strange to see her flustered. “Then what are you doing here?” She’s squinting at something behind me. “Do you—um, do you always walk around without a shirt on?” I raise my eyebrows. “Up here? Yeah. Pretty much all the time.” She nods again. “I’ll remember that.” When I say nothing, she finally meets my eyes. “I was looking for Castle,” she says quietly. “His office is down that way”—I gesture with my head—“but he’s probably made his way downstairs by now.” “Oh,” she says. “Thanks.” She’s still looking at me. She’s still looking at me and it’s causing my chest to constrict. I take a step forward almost without realizing it. Wondering, just wondering. I don’t know what she’s thinking. I don’t know if I managed to screw everything up last night. But for some reason, right now— She’s staring at my mouth. Her eyes move up, meet mine, and then she’s staring at my mouth again. I wonder if she knows she’s doing it. I wonder if she has any idea what she’s doing to me. My lungs feel too small. My heart feels both fast and absurdly heavy. When Nazeera meets my eyes again she takes a sudden, sharp breath. We’re so close I can feel her exhalation against my bare chest and I’m overwhelmed by a disorienting need to kiss her. I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her, and for a moment I actually think she might let me. Just the thought of it sends a thrill up my spine, a dizzying feeling that inspires my mind to jump too far, too fast. I can picture it with terrifying clarity— the fantasy of having her in my arms, her eyes dark and heavy with desire. I can imagine her under me, her fingers digging into my shoulder blades as she screams— Jesus Christ. I force myself to turn away. I almost slap myself in the face. I’m not this guy. I’m not some fifteen-year-old boy who can’t keep his pants on. I’m not. “I, uh, I have to get dressed,” I say, and even I can hear the unsteadiness in my voice. “I’ll see you downstairs.” But then Nazeera’s hand is on my arm again, and my body stiffens, like I’m trying to contain something beyond myself. It’s wild. Desire like I’ve never known it before. I try to remind myself that that’s all this is, that it’s

like what J said—I don’t even know this girl. I’m just going through something. I don’t know what, or why, but I’m just, like, clearly infatuated. I don’t even know her. This isn’t real. “Hey,” she says. I hold still. “Yeah?” I’m hardly breathing. I have to force myself to turn back an inch, meet her eyes. “I wanted to tell you something. Last night. But I didn’t have the chance.” “Oh.” I frown. “Okay.” There’s something in her voice that sounds almost like fear—and it clears my head in an instant. “Tell me.” “Not here,” she says. “Not now.” And I’m suddenly worried. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?” “Oh—no— I mean, yeah— I’m fine. It’s just—” She hesitates. Offers me a half smile and a shrug. “I just wanted to tell you something. It’s nothing important.” She looks away, bites her lip. She bites that bottom lip a lot, I notice. “Well, it’s important to me, I guess.” “Nazeera,” I say, enjoying the sound of her name in my mouth. She looks up. “You’re freaking me out a little. Are you sure you can’t tell me right now?” She nods. Shoots me a tight smile. “No need to freak out, I promise. It’s really not a big deal. Maybe we can talk later tonight?” My heart constricts again. “Sure.” She nods once more. We say goodbye. But when I glance back, not a second after I’ve started walking away, she’s already gone. Disappeared.

Three Warner is definitely pissed.

I’m super late, and Warner is waiting for me, perched carefully on a stiff chair in a conference room downstairs, staring at a wall. I managed to snag a muffin on my way down, and I wipe quickly at my face, hoping I haven’t left evidence around my mouth. I don’t know how Warner feels about muffins, but I’m guessing he’s not a fan. “Hey,” I say, and I sound out of breath. “What’d I miss?” “This is my fault,” he says, waving a hand around the room. He doesn’t even look at me. “I mean, I already know it’s your fault,” I say quickly, “but, like, just to be clear—what are we talking about?” “This,” he says. Finally, he looks at me. “This situation.” I wait. “It’s my fault,” he says, pausing dramatically, “for thinking I could depend on you.” I make an effort not to roll my eyes. “All right, all right, calm down. I’m here now.” “You’re thirty minutes late.” “Bro.” Warner looks suddenly tired. “The children of the supreme commanders of Africa and South America are here. They’re waiting in the adjacent room.” “Yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. “So what’s the deal? What do you need from me?” “I need you to be present,” he says sharply. “I’m not sure I know exactly why they’re here, but all rational thought points to impending war. It’s my suspicion that they’re here to spy on us and send word back to their parents. They’ve sent their children to affect an air of camaraderie. A feeling of nostalgia. Maybe they think they can appeal to our new, young commander with other young faces. In any case, I think it’s important for us to show a strong, united front.” “So no J, then, huh?” Warner looks up. He seems stunned, and for a second I see something like pain in his eyes. I blink and he’s a statue again. “No,” he says. “I still haven’t seen her. And it’s more important than ever that they don’t know that.” He takes a breath. “Where’s Castle? He needs to be here, too.” I shrug. “I thought he was already down here.” “I saw him a moment ago. I’ll collect him.” I drop down into a chair. “Cool.”

Warner walks to the door and then hesitates. Slowly, he turns to face me. “You’re having trouble again.” I look up, surprised. “What?” “In love. You’re having trouble in your love life. Is that why you were late?” I feel the blood drain from my face. “How the hell would you know something like that?” “You reek of it.” He nods at me, my body. “You’re practically emanating lovelorn agony.” I stare at him, stunned. I don’t even know if it’s worth denying. “It’s Nazeera, isn’t it?” Warner says. His eyes are clear, free of judgment. I force myself to nod. “Does she return your affections?” I shoot him a belligerent look. “How the hell am I supposed to know?” Warner smiles. It’s the first real emotion he’s shown all morning. “I suspected she might eviscerate you,” he says. “But I admit I thought she would use a knife.” I force out a humorless: “Ha.” “Be careful, Kishimoto. I find it necessary to remind you that she was raised to be lethal. I wouldn’t cross her.” “Great,” I mutter, dropping my head in my hands. “I feel so good about this. Thanks for the pep talk.” “You should also know that there’s something she’s hiding.” My head snaps up. “What do you mean?” “I don’t know, exactly. I only know she’s hiding something. I don’t yet know what it is. But I would advise you to tread cautiously.” I feel suddenly ill, my forehead pinched with panic. I wonder about her cryptic message earlier. What it was she wanted to say to me last night. What she still might say to me—tonight. And then I realize— “Wait a second.” I frown. “Did you just give me dating advice?” Warner tilts his head. A flicker of a smile again. “I’m merely returning the favor.” I laugh, surprised. “Thanks, man. I appreciate that.” He nods. And then, with an elegant pivot, he opens the door and closes it behind him. The dude moves like a prince. He’s always dressed like a prince.

Shiny boots and fitted suits and shit. I sigh, irrationally irritated. Am I jealous? Damn, maybe I’m jealous. Warner always seems so pulled together. He’s always cold and cool. Always has a line, a comeback. A clear head. I bet he’s never struggled like I have with a girl. Never had to work so hard t— Wow. I’m an idiot. I don’t know how I managed to forget that his girlfriend literally just broke up with him. I was there. I saw the fallout. Dude had a panic attack all over the floor. He was crying. I sigh, hard, and run both hands through my hair. I know it should make me feel better, but it only makes me feel worse to realize that Warner is just as prone to relationship failure as I am. It makes me think I don’t stand a chance with Nazeera. Ugh, I hate everything. I wait a couple of minutes for Warner and Castle to return, and while I’m waiting, I tug another muffin out of my pocket. I stress-eat it, ripping off huge chunks and blindly shoving them in my mouth. When Castle walks through the door I’m nearly choking on muffin crumbs, but I wheeze through a quick hello. Castle frowns, clearly disapproving of my general state, and I pretend not to notice. I wave and try to swallow the last of the muffin. My eyes are tearing a little. Warner steps inside, closes the door behind them. “Why do you insist on eating like an animal?” he snaps at me. I frown, begin to speak, and he cuts me off with one hand. “Don’t you dare speak to me with your mouth full.” I swallow too quickly and nearly choke, but I force the rest of the muffin down. I clear my throat before saying, “You know what? I’m tired of this shit. You always make fun of the way I eat, and it’s not fair.” Warner tries to speak and I cut him off. “No,” I say. “I don’t eat like an animal. I just happen to be hungry. And maybe you should spend a few years starving to death before you think about making fun of the way I eat, okay asshole?” It’s startling, how quickly it happens, but something changes in Warner’s face. Not the tightness in his jaw or the furrow in his brow. But for a moment, the light goes out of his eyes.

He turns almost exactly forty-five degrees away from me. And his voice is solemn when he says, “They’re waiting for us in the next room.” “I accept your apology,” I say. Warner looks back at me. Looks away. Castle and I follow him out of the room. Okay, maybe I missed something, but these new kids don’t seem that scary. There’s a set of twins—a boy and a girl—who speak to each other very quickly in Spanish, and a tall black guy with a British accent. Haider and Nazeera and Lena are conspicuously absent, but everyone is being polite and pretending not to notice. They’re all pretty nice, actually. Especially Stephan, the son of the supreme commander of Africa. He seems cool; I’m getting fewer serial-killer vibes from him than I have from the other kids. But he’s wearing a bracelet on his left hand, something silver set with thick, heavy red stones that look like rubies, and I can’t stop feeling like I’ve seen something like it before. I keep staring, trying to figure out why it feels familiar, when, all of a sudden— Juliette shows up. At least, I think it’s Juliette. She looks like a different person. She steps into the room wearing an outfit I’ve never seen her in, black from head to toe, and she looks good—beautiful, as always—but different. She seems harder. Angrier. I didn’t think I’d like the short hair on her— last night it was a botched, haphazard job—but she must’ve cleaned it up this morning. The cut is a uniform crop throughout. A simple, sleek buzz cut. She makes it work. “Good morning,” she says, and her voice is so hollow that, for a moment, I’m stunned. She manages to make those two words sound mean, and it’s so unlike her that it scares me. “Damn princess,” I say softly. “Is that really you?” She looks at me for only a second, but it feels more like she looks through me, and something about the cold, poisonous expression in her eyes breaks my heart like nothing else. I don’t know what happened to my friend. And then, as if this shit couldn’t get more dramatic, Lena busts through the door like a freaking debutante. She was probably waiting in the wings for the right time to make her entrance. To throw Juliette off her game. It doesn’t work.

I watch, as if through water, as Juliette meets Lena for the first time. Juliette is stiff and superior, and I’m proud of her for being strong—but I can’t recognize her in the moment. J isn’t like this. She’s not cold like this. I’ve seen her get angry—hell, I’ve seen her lose her mind—but she’s never been cruel. She’s not mean. And it’s not that I think Lena deserves better, because I don’t. I don’t give a shit about Lena. But this—this display—is so out of character for Juliette that it must mean she’s hurting even more than I thought. More than I could’ve imagined. Like the pain has disfigured her. I would know. I know her. Warner might murder me if he knew I felt this way, but the truth is, I know Juliette better than anyone. Better than he does. The math is simple: J and I have been closer, longer. She and I have been through more shit together. We’ve had more time to talk about real things together. She’s my closest friend. Castle has been there for me, too, but he’s like a father to me, and I can’t talk to him or anyone else the way I do with Juliette. She’s different. She gets me. I give her a lot of crap for being emotional all the time, but I love how empathetic she is. I love how she feels things so deeply that sometimes even joy manages to wound her. It’s who she is. She’s all heart. And this—this version of her I’m seeing right now? It’s bullshit. I can’t accept it because I know it’s not real. Because I know it means something is wrong. Suddenly, a swell of angry voices breaks through my reverie. I look up just in time to realize Lena has said something nasty. Valentina, one of the twins, turns on her, and I force myself to pay closer attention as she says— “I should’ve cut off your ears when I had the chance.” My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. I step forward, confused, and glance around the room for a clue, but a strange, uncomfortable tension has reduced everyone to silence. “Uh, I’m sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “Am I missing something?” More silence. It’s Lena who finally volunteers an explanation, but I already know better than to trust her when she says, “Valentina likes to play pretend.”

Nicolás, the other twin, rounds on her in an instant, furiously firing back in Spanish. Valentina pats her brother on the shoulder. “No,” she says, “you know what? It’s okay. Let her talk. Lena thinks I like to pretend”—she says a word in Spanish—“I won’t be pretending”—more words in Spanish. Stephan’s mouth drops open in what appears to be shock, but Lena just rolls her eyes, so I have no idea what just happened. I frown. It’s a frustrating conversation to follow. But when I glance over at Juliette I realize, with welcome relief, that I’m not the only one feeling this way; J doesn’t understand what they’re talking about, either. Neither does Castle. And just as I think that Warner must be confused, too, he starts talking to Valentina in fluent Spanish. Suddenly my head is spinning. “Damn, bro,” I say. “You speak Spanish, too, huh? I’m going to have to get used to this.” “We all speak many languages,” Nicolás says to me. He still seems a little irritated, but I’m grateful for the explanation. “We have to be able to communi—” Juliette cuts him off angrily. “Listen, guys, I don’t care about your personal dramas. I have a massive headache and a million things to do today, and I’d like to get started.” Ha. Of course. Juliette has a hangover. I bet she’s never had a hangover. And if this weren’t, like, a life or death situation, I’d think it was kind of hilarious. Nicolás says something softly in response to her, and then drops his head in a mini-bow. I cross my arms. I don’t trust him. “What?” Juliette stares at him, confused. “I don’t know what that means.” Nicolás smiles at her. He says something else in Spanish—and by now it’s obvious he’s screwing with her—and I nearly kick the little shit in the face. Warner gets to him before I do. He says something to Nicolás, something else I don’t understand, but somehow this makes Juliette angrier. What a weird morning.

I hear Nicolás say, “We are pleased to meet you,” in English, and I’m officially so goddamn confused I think I should just see myself out. Juliette says, “I take it you’ll all be attending the symposium today?” Another douche-bow from Nicolás. More words in Spanish. “That’s a yes,” Warner translates. That seems to piss her off. She spins around, turns to face him. “What other languages do you speak?” she says, her eyes flashing, and Warner goes so suddenly still my heart hurts for him. This moment is too real. Warner and Juliette are both so full of shit today. They’re pretending to be so hard, so cool and collected, and then—this. Juliette says one thing to him and Warner turns into an idiot. He’s staring at her, too dumb to speak, and she’s flushed, looking all hot and bothered just because he’s looking at her. Jesus. I wonder if Warner has any idea what he looks like right now, staring at Juliette like all the words were shoved right out of his head, and then, with a jolt, I wonder if that’s what I looked like when I was talking to Nazeera. An involuntary shudder runs through me. Finally, Stephan puts Warner out of his misery. He clears his throat and says, “We were taught many languages from a very young age. It was critical that the commanders and their families all knew how to communicate with one another.” Juliette looks down, collects herself. When she turns to Stephan, her face has lost most of its flush, but she still looks a little blotchy. “I thought The Reestablishment wanted to get rid of all the languages,” Juliette says. “I thought you were working toward a single, universal language—” “Sí, Madam Supreme,” Valentina says. (I know the word sí. It means yes. I’m not a complete idiot.) “That’s true,” she says. “But first we had to be able to speak with each other, no?” And then— I don’t know why, but something about Valentina’s response breaks something open in Juliette. She looks almost like herself again. Her face loses its tension. Her eyes are wide—almost sad. “Where are you from?” she says quietly, and her voice is so unguarded it gives me hope—hope that the real J is still in there, somewhere. “Before

the world was remapped,” she says, “what were the names of your countries?” “We were born in Argentina,” the twins say. “My family is from Kenya,” Stephan says. “And you’ve visited each other?” Juliette turns, scans their faces. “You travel to each other’s continents?” They nod. “Wow,” she says. “That must be incredible.” “You must come visit us, too, Madam Supreme,” Stephan says, smiling. “We’d love to have you stay with us. After all,” he says, “you are one of us now.” And just like that, Juliette’s smile is gone. Her face closes off. Shutters shut. She reverts back to the cold shell of a person she was when she walked in, and her voice is severe when she says, “Warner, Castle, Kenji?” I clear my throat. “Yeah?” I hear Castle say, “Yes, Ms. Ferrars?” I glance over at Warner, but he doesn’t say a word. He only stares at her. “If we’re done here, I’d like to speak with the three of you alone, please.” I look from Warner to Castle, waiting for someone to say something, but no one does. “Uh, yeah,” I say quickly. “No, uh, no problem.” I shoot Castle a look, like, What the hell? And he jumps in with a “Certainly.” Warner is still staring at her. He says nothing. I almost slap him. Juliette seems to agree with my line of thinking, because she stalks off, looking extremely pissed off as she goes, and I start following her out the door when I feel a hand on my shoulder. A heavy hand. I look up directly into Warner’s eyes, and, I’m not going to lie—it’s a disorienting experience. That dude has some wild eyes. Pale, ice green. It’s a little unnerving. “Give me a minute with her,” he says. I nod. Take a step back. “Yeah, whatever you need.” And he’s gone. I hear him call after her, and I stand there awkwardly, watching the open door and ignoring the other kids in the room. I cross my arms. Clear my throat.

“So it’s true, then,” Stephan says. I turn, surprised. “What do you mean?” “They really love each other.” He nods toward the open door. “Those two.” “Yeah,” I say, confused. “It’s true.” “We’ve heard about it, of course,” Nicolás says. “But it’s interesting to witness in person.” “Interesting?” I raise an eyebrow. “Interesting how?” “It’s rather moving,” Valentina says, and she sounds like she means it. Castle walks up to me then. “It’s been at least a minute,” he says quietly. “Right.” I nod. “Well, we’ll see you kids later,” I say to the room. “If you guys haven’t had breakfast yet, feel free to grab some muffins from the kitchen. They’re good. I had two.”

Four I nearly stumble trying to stop in place when we get out into the hall. Warner and Juliette haven’t gone far, and they’re standing close together, clearly having a heated, important conversation. “We should get out of here,” I say to Castle. “They need space to talk.” But Castle doesn’t answer right away. He’s staring at them with an intense look on his face, and for the first time in my life, I see him differently. Like I don’t know him. After everything Warner told me yesterday—about how Castle always knew Juliette had a complicated history, knew she was a critical asset, knew she’d been adopted, knew that her biological parents had donated her to The Reestablishment and that he’d sent me on an undercover mission to collect her—I’ve felt a little strange. Not bad, exactly. Just strange. All this isn’t enough of a revelation for me to lose faith in Castle entirely; he and I have been through too much for me to doubt his love. But I feel off.

Unsettled. I want to ask him why he kept all this from me. I want to demand an explanation. But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet, anyway. I think maybe I’m afraid to hear the answers to my own questions. I worry about what they might reveal about me. “Yes,” Castle finally says, the sound of his voice refocusing my thoughts. “Perhaps we should give them the space they need.” I shoot him an uncertain look. “You don’t think they’re good together, huh?” Castle turns to me, surprised. “On the contrary,” he says. “I think they’re lucky to have found each other in this hellish world. But if they want a chance at happiness, they’ll have to continue to heal. Individually.” He turns away again, studies their figures in the distance. “I worry, sometimes, about the secrets between them. I want them to do the hard work of sucking out the poison from their past.” “Gross.” Castle smiles. “Indeed.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder. Squeezes. “My greatest wish for you,” he says, “is for you to see yourself the way that I do: as a brilliant, handsome, compassionate young man who would do anything for the people he loves.” I pull back, surprised. “What made you say that?” “It’s just something I’ve been reminding myself to say out loud.” He sighs. “I want you to understand that Nazeera is a very, very lucky girl to be the object of your affections. I wish you would realize that. She is accomplished and beautiful, yes, but you—” “Wait. What?” I feel suddenly nauseous. “How did y—?” “Oh,” Castle says, his eyes wide. “Oh, was it a secret? I didn’t realize it was a secret. My apologies.” I grumble something foul. He laughs. “I have to say, if you’re interested in keeping it to yourself, you might want to change your tactics.” “What do you mean?” He shrugs. “You don’t see yourself around her. Your feelings are obvious to everyone. From anywhere.” I drop my head into my hands with a groan. And when I finally look up, ready to respond, I’m so distracted by the scene in front of me that I forget to speak. Warner and Juliette are having a moment.

A pretty passionate moment, right here, in the hall. I realize, as I watch them, that I’ve never seen them kiss before. I’m frozen. A little stunned. And I know I should, like, look away—I mean, I know in my head that I should? That it’s the decent thing to do? But I’m kind of fascinated. They clearly have crazy chemistry. Their relationship never made a lot of sense to me—I couldn’t understand how someone like Warner could be an emotional partner to anyone, much less someone like Juliette: a girl who eats, sleeps, and breathes emotion. I rarely saw him emote anything. I worried that Juliette was giving him too much credit, that she put up with too much of his bullshit in exchange for—I don’t even know what. A sociopath with an extensive coat collection? Mostly, I worried that she wasn’t getting the kind of love she deserved. But now, suddenly— Their relationship makes sense. Suddenly everything she’s ever said to me about him makes sense. I still don’t think I understand Warner, but it’s obvious that something about her lights a fire in him. He looks alive when she’s in his arms. Human like I’ve never seen him before. Like he’s in love. And not only in love, but beyond salvation. When they break apart they both look a little crazy, but Warner looks especially unhinged. His body is shaking. And when she suddenly takes off running down the hall, I know this won’t end well. My heart aches. For both of them. I watch as Warner slumps back, against the wall, sinking into the stone until his limbs give out. He collapses onto the floor. “I’ll talk to him,” Castle says, and the devastated look on his face surprises me. “You go find Ms. Ferrars. She shouldn’t be alone right now.” I take a tight breath. “Got it.” And then: “Good luck.” He only nods. I have to pound on Juliette’s door a few times before she finally opens it. She cracks it open an inch, says, “Never mind,” and then tries to slam it closed. I catch the door with my boot. “Never mind what?” I lean my shoulder into the door, and with a little shove, I manage to squeeze my way inside. “What’s going on?” She stalks across the room, as far away from me as she can get.

I don’t understand this. I don’t understand why she’s treating me like this. And I open my mouth to say exactly that when she says— “Never mind, I don’t want to talk to any of you. Please go away. Or maybe you can all go to hell. I don’t actually care.” I flinch. Her words land like physical blows. She’s talking to me like I’m the enemy, and I can’t believe it. “Are you—wait, are you serious right now?” “Nazeera and I are leaving for the symposium in an hour,” she snaps at me. She still won’t look at me, though. “I have to get ready.” “What?” First of all, when the hell did she become best friends with Nazeera? And second of all: “What’s happening, J? What’s wrong with you?” She spins around, her face a stunning caricature. She looks mutinous. “What’s wrong with me? Oh, like you don’t know?” The force of her anger sends me a step back. I remind myself that this girl could probably kill me with the twitch of her hand if she wanted to. “I mean, I heard about what happened with Warner, yeah, but I’m pretty sure I just saw you guys making out in the hallway, so I’m, uh, really confused —” “He lied to me, Kenji. He lied to me this whole time. About so many things. And so did Castle. So did you—” “Wait, what?” This time I grab her arm before she has a chance to walk away again. “Wait—I didn’t lie to you about shit. Don’t mix me up in this mess. I had nothing to do with any of it. Hell, I still haven’t figured out what to say to Castle. I can’t believe he kept all of this from me.” Juliette goes suddenly still. Her eyes widen, bright with unshed tears. And then, finally, I understand. She thought I’d betrayed her, too. “You weren’t in on all this?” she whispers. “With Castle?” “Uh-uh. No way.” I take a step forward. “I had no clue about any of this insanity until Warner told me about it yesterday.” She stares at me, still uncertain. And I can’t help it; I roll my eyes. “Well, how am I supposed to trust you?” she says, her voice breaking. “Everyone’s been lying to me—” “J,” I say, “c’mon.” I shake my head, hard. I can’t believe I even have to say this. I can’t believe she doubted me—that she didn’t talk to me about this sooner. “You know me,” I say to her. “You know I don’t bullshit. That’s not my style.”

A single tear escapes down the side of her face and the sight of it is simultaneously heartbreaking and reassuring. This is the girl I know. The friend I love. She’s all heart. She whispers, “You promise?” “Hey.” I hold out my hand. “Come here, kid.” She still seems a little skeptical, but she takes the necessary steps forward and I reel her in, pulling her against my chest and squeezing tight. She’s so tiny. Like a little bird with hollow bones. You’d never know she was technically invincible. That she could probably melt the skin off my face if she wanted to. I squeeze a little tighter, run a hand up and down her back in a comforting, familiar gesture, and I feel her finally relax. I feel the exact moment when the tension leaves her body, when she collapses fully against my chest. Her tears soak through my shirt, hot and unrelenting. “You’re going to be okay,” I whisper. “I promise.” “Liar.” I smile. “Well, there’s a fifty percent chance I’m right.” “Kenji?” “Mm?” “If I find out you’re lying to me about any of this, I swear to God I will rip all the bones out of your body.” I almost choke on a sudden, surprised laugh. “Uh, yeah, okay.” “I’m serious.” “Uh-huh.” I pat her head. So fuzzy. “I will.” “I know, princess. I know.” We settle into a comfortable silence, the two of us still holding on, and I’m thinking about how important this relationship is to me—how important Juliette is to me—when she says, suddenly: “Kenji?” “Mm?” “They’re going to destroy Sector 45.” “Who is?” “Everyone.” Shock straightens my spine. I pull back, confused. “Everyone who?” “All the other supreme commanders,” Juliette says. “Nazeera told me everything.” And then, suddenly, I get it. Her new friendship with Nazeera.

This must be the secret Warner said she was hiding—Nazeera must be a traitor to The Reestablishment. It’s either that, or she’s lying to all of us. The latter doesn’t seem likely, though. Maybe I’m being foolishly optimistic, but Nazeera practically said as much to me the other night with her whole speech about wearing a symbol of resistance and hating her dad and honoring the women he shamed. Maybe Nazeera’s big secret is that she’s actually here to help us. Maybe there’s nothing to be afraid of. Maybe the woman is just perfect. I’m suddenly grinning like an idiot. “So Nazeera is one of the good guys, huh? She’s on our team? Trying to help you out?” “Oh my God, Kenji, please focus—” “I’m just saying.” I hold up my hands, take a step back. “The girl is fine as hell is all I’m saying.” Juliette is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, but she laughs. She sniffs, gently, and brushes away a few forgotten tears. “So.” I nod, encouraging her to speak. “What’s the deal? The details? Who’s coming? When? How? Et cetera?” “I don’t know,” Juliette says, shaking her head. “Nazeera is still trying to figure it out. She thinks maybe in the next week or so? The kids are here to monitor me and send back information, but they’re coming to the symposium, specifically, because the commanders want to know how the other sector leaders will react to seeing me. Nazeera says she thinks the information will help inform their next moves. I’m guessing we have maybe a matter of days.” My eyes go painfully wide. A matter of days was not what I was expecting to hear. I was hoping for months. Weeks, at the very least. This is bad. “Oh,” I say. “Shit.” “Yeah.” Juliette shoots me a beleaguered look. “But when they decide to obliterate Sector 45, their plan is to also take me prisoner. The Reestablishment wants to bring me back in, apparently. Whatever that means.” “Bring you back in?” I frown. “For what? More testing? Torture? What do they want to do with you?” “I have no idea,” Juliette says, shaking her head. “I have no clue who these people are. My sister is apparently still being tested and tortured somewhere. So I’m pretty sure they’re not bringing me back for a big family reunion, you know?”

“Wow.” I look away. Blow out a breath. “That is some next-level drama.” “Yeah.” “So—what are we going to do?” I say. Juliette studies me for a second. Her eyes pull together. “I mean, I don’t know, Kenji. They’re coming to kill everyone in Sector 45. I really don’t think I have a choice.” I raise my eyebrows. “What do you mean?” “I mean, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to kill them first.”

Five I leave Juliette’s room in a daze. It doesn’t seem right that so much horrible shit should be, like, allowed to go down in such a short period of time. There should be a fail-safe in the universe somewhere, something that automatically shuts down in the event of extreme human stupidity. Maybe an emergency lever. A button, even. This is ridiculous. I sigh, feeling suddenly sick to my stomach. I guess we’ll have to wait to discuss all this tonight, after the symposium, which is going to be its own kind of shitshow. There doesn’t seem to be a point to attending the symposium now, but Juliette said she didn’t want to bail, not this late in the game, so we’re all supposed to make nice and act like everything is normal. Six hundred sector leaders gathered in the same room and we’re supposed to make nice and act like everything is normal. I don’t get it. It’s no secret to anyone that we, as a sector, have betrayed the entire establishment, so I don’t understand why we’re even bothering to pretend. But Castle says maintaining these pretenses means something to the system, so we have to follow through. Jumping ship now is basically like flipping off the rest of the continent. It’d be a declaration of war. Honestly, the ridiculousness of this whole thing would almost be funny if I didn’t think we were all probably going to die.

What a day. I spot Sonya and Sara on my way back to my room and I nod a quick greeting, but Sara grabs my arm. “Have you seen Castle?” she says. “We’ve been trying to get ahold of him for an hour,” says Sonya. The urgency in their voices sends a sudden spike of fear through my body, and the viselike grip Sara’s still got on my arm isn’t helping. It’s not like either of them to be so anxious; for as long as I’ve known them, these two have always been gentle and generally calm—through everything. “What’s wrong?” I say. “What’s going on? Anything I can do to help?” They shake their heads at the same time. “We need to talk to Castle.” “Last I saw him, he was downstairs, talking to Warner. Why don’t you page him? He’s always wearing his earpiece.” “We’ve tried,” Sonya says. “Several times.” “Can you at least tell me what this is about? Just so I don’t have a heart attack?” Sara’s eyes widen. “Have you been experiencing chest pains?” “Have you been feeling unusually lethargic?” Sonya chimes in. “Shortness of breath?” Sara again. “What? No. Guys, stop—I meant that as a figure of speech. I’m not actually going to have a heart attack. I’m just—I’m worried.” Sonya ignores me. She rummages around in the messenger bag she carries around in case of emergencies and unearths a small medicine bottle. She and Sara are twins and our resident healers—and they’re an interesting combination of gentle but extremely serious. They’re doctors with the perfect bedside manner, and they never let any mention of pain, illness, or injury go ignored. Once, back at Point, I said casually that I was sick and tired of being underground all the time, and the two of them forced me into a bed and demanded I give them a list of my symptoms. When I was finally able to explain that I’d been joking—that “sick and tired” was just a thing people say sometimes—they didn’t think it was funny. They were irritated with me for a week after that. “Take this with you, as a precaution,” Sonya says, and presses the blue, cylindrical bottle into my hand. “As you know, Sara and I have been working on this for a while, but this is the first time we feel like it might be ready for the field. That,” she says, nodding at the bottle in my hand, “is one of the test batches, but we haven’t had any trouble with it. Actually, we think it might be ready for production.”

That gets my attention. I stare in awe at the bottle in my hand. It’s heavy. Glass. “No way,” I say softly. “You did it?” I look up, look into their eyes. They smile at exactly the same time. These two have been working on creating healing pills for as long as I can remember. They wanted to give us something to take on the road—in the middle of battle—to keep us going if and/or when they’re not around. “Did James work on this at all?” Sonya smiles wider. “He helped.” “Yeah?” I smile, too. “How’s his training going? Everything okay?” They nod. “We’re about to go pick him up, actually,” Sara says. “For his afternoon session. He’s a fast study. He’s growing into his powers nicely.” Almost without realizing it, I stand up a bit taller, puff my chest like a peacock. I don’t know what right I have to feel proprietary about that kid, but I’m so proud of him. I know he’s got a big future ahead of him. “All right, well”—I hold up the bottle—“thank you for this. I’m going to take it with me, because”—I shake the bottle—“this is amazing. But don’t worry. Seriously. I’m not going to have a heart attack.” “Good,” they both say. I grin. “So you want me to tell Castle you’re looking for him?” They nod. “And you’re not going to tell me what the urgency is all about?” Sara and Sonya exchange glances. I raise an eyebrow. Finally, Sara says— “Do you remember when Juliette was shot?” “She was shot three days ago, Sara.” I offer her an incredulous look. “I’m not likely to forget.” Sonya jumps in and says, “Yes, but, the thing you don’t know—the thing that no one but Warner and Castle know—is that something happened to Juliette when she was shot. Something we weren’t able to heal.” “What?” I say sharply. “What do you mean?” “There was some kind of poison in the bullets,” Sara explains. “Something that was giving her hallucinations.” I stare, horrified.

“We’ve been studying the properties of the poison for days, trying to come up with an antidote,” she says. “Instead, we discovered something . . . unexpected. Something even more important.” After a beat of silence, I can’t take it anymore. “And?” I say, gesturing with my hand that they should continue. “We really want to tell you everything,” Sonya says, “but we have to speak to Castle first. He needs to be the first to know.” She hesitates. “I can only tell you that we think we’ve discovered something that directly corresponds with the tattoos on the dead body of Juliette’s assailant.” “That guy Nazeera killed,” I say, remembering. “She saved Juliette’s life.” They nod. Another spike of fear spears through me. “All right,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, steady. I don’t want to freak them out with my own worries. “Okay. I’ll tell Castle to come find you right away. Will you be in the medical wing?” They nod again. And then, as I walk away, Sara calls after me. I turn around. “Tell him—” She hesitates again, and then seems to make a decision. “Tell him it’s about Sector 241. Tell him we think it’s a message. From Nouria.” “What?” I freeze in place, disbelieving. “That’s impossible.” “Yes,” Sara says. “We know.” I take the stairs. I don’t have time to wait for the elevator, and besides, my body is too full of nervous energy right now to stand still. I take the stairs two, three at a time, flying even as I keep a hand on the handrail to steady myself. I didn’t think this day could get crazier. Nouria. Shit. I don’t know how Castle will react to hearing her name. He hasn’t heard a word from Nouria in years. Not since—well, not since the boys were murdered. Castle told me he gave Nouria space because he thought she needed time. He figured they’d find their way back to each other again after she recovered. But after the sectors were erected, it became near impossible to contact loved ones. The internet was one of the first things The Reestablishment took away, and without it the world became—in an

instant—a bigger, scarier place. Everything was harder. Everyone felt helpless. I don’t think anyone realized just how much we relied on the internet for literally everything until the lights went off. Computers and phones were taken away. Destroyed. Hackers were found and publicly hanged. Borders were closed without clearance. And then The Reestablishment tore families apart. On purpose. In the beginning they pretended they were doing it for the good of humanity. They called it a new form of integration. They said race relations were at their worst because we were all so isolated from one another, and that part of the problem was that people had built these extensive family units—The Reestablishment referred to big families as dynasties—and that these dynasties only reinforced homogeneity within homogenous communities. They said that the only way to fix this was to rip those dynasties apart. They ran algorithms that helped them manufacture diversity by rebuilding communities with specific ratios. But it wasn’t long before they stopped pretending to give a shit about diverse communities. Soon, small infractions alone would be enough to have you taken from your family. Show up late to work one day and sometimes they’d send you—or worse, someone you loved—across the planet. So far away you’d never be able to find your way back. That’s what happened to Brendan. He was torn from his family and sent here, to Sector 45, when he was fifteen. Castle found him and took him in. Lily, too. She’s from what used to be Haiti. They took her from her parents when she was only twelve. They put her in a group home with a ton of other displaced children. They were glorified orphanages. I ran away from one of those orphanages when I was eight. Sometimes I think that’s why I care about James so much. I feel connected to him, in a way. When we were on base together Adam never told me that his little brother practically lived in one of those orphanages. It wasn’t until that day when we were on the run—when James and I had to hide out together while Adam and Juliette tried to find a car—that I realized where we were. I took one glance around those grounds and I saw that place for what it was. All those kids. James was luckier than the other children—not only did he have a living relative, but he had a relative who lived close by, one who could afford to keep him in a private apartment. But when I asked James about

his “school” and his “friends” and about Benny, the woman who was supposed to bring him his government-issue meals on a regular basis, I got all the answers I needed. James got to sleep in his own bed at night, but he spent his days in an orphanage, with other orphaned children. Adam paid Benny a little extra to keep an eye on James, but ultimately, her loyalty was to a paycheck. At the end of the day, James was a ten-year-old kid living all alone. Maybe all this is why I feel like I understand Adam. Why I fight for him, even when he’s a dick. He comes off as an angry, explosive guy—and sometimes he really is an asshole—but it must be hard to watch your kid brother live all alone on a compound for tortured, abandoned children. It slowly kills your soul to watch a ten-year-old kid sob and scream in the middle of the night because his nightmares keep getting worse, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to make it better. I lived with Adam and James for months. I saw the cycle every night. And I watched, every night, as Adam tried to calm James down. How he’d rock his little brother in his arms until the sun came up. I think James is finally doing better, but sometimes I’m not sure Adam will ever recover from the blows he’s been dealt. It’s obvious he has PTSD. I don’t think he even sleeps anymore. I think he’s slowly losing his mind. And sometimes I wonder— If I had to live with that every day, I wonder if it would make me crazy, too. Because it’s not the pain that’s unendurable. It’s the hopelessness. It’s the hopelessness that makes you reckless. I would know. It only took two hours in the orphanage before I realized I couldn’t trust adults anymore, and by the time Castle found me on the run—a nine-yearold kid trying to keep warm in a shopping cart on the side of the road—I was so disillusioned with the world I thought I’d never recover. It took a long time for Castle to earn my trust completely; in the beginning, I spent all my free time picking locked doors and sneaking through his things when I thought he wasn’t looking. The day he found me, sitting in his closet inspecting the contents of an old photo album, I was so sure he would take a bat to my back I nearly ruined my pants. I was terrified, unconsciously flickering in and out of invisibility. But instead of yelling at me, he sat down next to me and asked me about my family; I’d only ever told him that they were dead. He wanted to know now if I’d tell him what

happened. I shook my head repeatedly. I wasn’t ready to talk. I didn’t think I’d ever be ready to talk. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t even seem to mind that I’d ransacked his personal belongings. Instead, he picked up the photo album in my lap and told me about his own family. It was the first time I’d ever seen him cry.

Six When I finally find Castle, he’s not alone. And he’s not okay. Nazeera, Haider, Warner, and Castle are leaving a conference room at the same time, and only the siblings look like they’re not about to vomit. I’m still breathing hard, having just raced down six flights of stairs, and I sound winded when I say, “What’s going on?” I nod at Warner and Castle. “Why do you two look so freaked out?” “Let’s discuss it later,” Castle says quietly. He won’t look at me. “I have to go,” Warner says, and bolts. Down the hall and far, far away. I watch him leave. Castle is about to slip away, too, but I grab his arm. “Hey,” I say, forcing him to meet my eyes. “The girls need to talk to you. It’s critical.” “Yes,” he says, and he sounds strained. “I just saw all their messages. I’m sure it can wait until after the symposium. I need a minute to—” “It can’t wait.” I hold his gaze. “It’s critical.” Finally, Castle seems to grasp the gravity of what I’m trying to relay. His shoulders stiffen. His eyes narrow. “Nouria,” I say. And Castle looks so stunned I worry he might fall over. “I wouldn’t bring you a bullshit message, sir. Go. Now. They’re waiting in the medical wing.” And then he’s gone, too. “Who’s Nouria?” I look up to see Haider studying me curiously.

“His cat,” I say. Nazeera fights back a smile. “Castle received an urgent message from his cat?” “I didn’t know he had a cat,” Haider says, his brows furrowing. He has a slight accent, unlike Nazeera, but his English is flawless. “I haven’t seen any animals on base. Are you allowed to keep animals as pets in Sector 45?” “Nah. But don’t worry, it’s an invisible cat.” Nazeera tries and fails to force back a laugh. She coughs, hard. Haider looks at her, confused, and I watch for the moment he realizes I’ve been screwing with him. And then— He glares at me. “Hemar.” “Say what?” “He just called you an ass,” Nazeera explains. “Wow. Nice.” “Hatha shlon damaghsiz,” Haider says to his sister. “Let’s go.” “Okay—wait—that sounded like it might be a compliment.” “Nope.” Nazeera smiles wider. “He just said you’re an idiot.” “Cool. Well, I’m glad to be learning all these important words in Arabic.” Haider shakes his head, outraged. “This was not meant to be a lesson.” I stare at him for a moment, genuinely baffled. “Your brother has no sense of humor, huh?” I say to Nazeera. “He’s not good with subtlety,” she says, still smiling at me. “You have to knock him over the head with a joke or he doesn’t get it.” I place a hand over my heart. “Wow, I’m so sorry. That must be so difficult for you.” She laughs but quickly bites her lip to kill the sound. And she sounds serious when she says, “You have no idea.” Haider frowns. “What are you talking about?” “You see what I mean?” she says. I laugh, staring into her eyes for just a second too long. Haider shoots me a murderous look. I take that as my cue to leave. “All right, yeah,” I say, and take a quick breath. “I better get going. Symposium starts in”—I glance at my watch; my eyes widen—“thirty minutes. Shit.” I look up. “Bye.” This thing is a scene.

There are around six hundred commanders and regents—officers at the same level as Warner—in the audience, and the place is buzzing. People are still settling in, taking their seats, and Juliette is up at the podium. The group of us are standing behind her, onstage with her, and I’m not going to lie—it feels a little risky. We’re perfect targets for any psycho who might show up with a gun. We’ve taken precautions of course—no one is supposed to be allowed in here with any kind of weapon—but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. But we all agreed that standing united like this would send the strongest message. The girls remained back on base—we decided it would be best for them to stay safe long enough to save us if we get injured—and James and Adam are MIA. Castle said that Adam doesn’t want to participate in anything even remotely hostile anymore. Not unless he has to. I get it. In my less charitable moments I might call him a coward, but I get it. I’d opt out, too, if I could. I just don’t feel like I can. There’s still too much I’m willing to die for. Anyway. Juliette is pretty much invincible, so as long as she keeps her Energy on, she should be fine. The rest of us are vulnerable—but at the first sign of danger we’re supposed to scatter. We’re too outnumbered to fight; our best chance of survival is to spread out, spread far. That’s the plan. That’s the whole goddamn plan. We hardly even had time to talk about the plan, because everything has been so insane lately, but Castle gave us all a quick pep talk before J took the stage, and that was it. That was all we were going to get. A quick good luck and I hope you don’t die. I’m definitely nervous. I shift my weight, feeling suddenly restless, as the crowd goes still. It’s a sea of military faces, the iconic red/green/blue stripes of The Reestablishment emblazoned on every uniform. I know they’re regular people—blood and guts and bones—but they look like machines. And they turn their heads up at the same time, eyes blinking in unison as Juliette begins to speak. It’s creepy as hell. We always knew that no one outside of Sector 45 would willingly accept Juliette as their new supreme commander, but it’s chilling to witness in person. They clearly have no respect for Juliette, and as she

talks about her love for the people, for the hardworking men and women whose lives were stripped for parts, I can see them strain to contain their anger. There’s a reason so many are still loyal to The Reestablishment— and the proof of it is right here, in this room. These people are paid better. They’re given perks, privileges. I never would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but once you see the things people are willing to do for an extra bowl of rice, you can’t unsee it. The Reestablishment keeps their higher-ups happy. They don’t have to mingle with the masses. They get to keep their finery and live in real homes on unregulated territory. These men and women sneering at Juliette as she speaks—they don’t want her version of the world. They don’t want to lose their rank and the privileges that rank affords. Everything she’s saying about the failures of The Reestablishment, about the need to start over and give the people back their homes, their families, their voices— Her words are a threat to their livelihood. So it’s really no surprise at all to me when the crowd decides they’ve had enough. I feel their restlessness growing more wild as she speaks, and when someone suddenly stands up and screams at her—makes fun of her —I worry this won’t end well. Juliette keeps cool, keeps talking even as more of them jump to their feet and shout. They’re shaking their fists and demanding she be removed from the podium, demanding she be executed for treason, demanding she be imprisoned, at the very least, for speaking against The Reestablishment, but her voice can hardly be heard over the crowd. And then she starts shouting. This is bad. This is really, really bad, and my instincts are telling me to panic, that this will only end in bloodshed. I’m trying to look around and still keep my cool, but when Warner catches my eye I know, right away, that he gets it. We’re both thinking the same thing: Abort mission. Get the hell out of here as soon as possible. And then— “This was an ambush. Tell your team to run. Now.” I spin around in an exaggerated motion, so freaked out I nearly lose my balance. I’m hearing Nazeera. I’m hearing Nazeera. I’m sure I’m hearing her voice. The problem is, I don’t see her anywhere. Am I dying? I must be dying. “Kenji. Listen to me.”

I freeze in place. I can feel the warmth of her body edging up against mine. I can feel her mouth at my ear, the gentle whisper of her breath against my skin. Jesus. I know how this works. I invented this shit. “You’re invisible,” I say, so quietly I hardly move my lips. I feel the tickle of her hair against my neck as she leans closer, and I have to suppress the urge to shiver. It’s so strange. So strange to be feeling so many emotions at once. Terror, fear, worry, want. It’s confusing. And her hand is on my arm when she says, “I was hoping to explain later. But now you know. And now you have to run.” Shit. I turn to Ian, who’s standing to the left of me, and say, “It’s time to bail, bro. Let’s go.” Ian looks at me, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second, and then he grabs Lily’s hand and shouts, “Run—RUN—” The sound of a gunshot splits open a moment of silence. It feels like slow motion. It feels like the world slows down, turns on its side, and swings back around. Somehow I think I can see the bullet as it moves, fast and strong, right at Juliette’s head. It hits its mark with a dull thud. I’m hardly breathing. I’m beyond pretending I’m not terrified. Shit just got real, super fast, and I have no idea what’s about to happen. I know I need to move, need to get the hell out of here before things get worse, but — I don’t know why, but I can’t convince my legs to work. Can’t convince myself to look away. No one can. The crowd has gone deathly still in the aftermath. People are staring at Juliette like they didn’t believe the rumors. Like they wanted to know if it was really true that this seventeen-year-old girl could murder the most intimidating despot this nation has ever known, and then stand in front of a crowd and peel a bullet off her forehead after an attempted assassination, looking for all the world like the experience was no more annoying than swatting a fly. I suppose now they know that the rumors were true. But Juliette looks suddenly more than annoyed. She looks both surprised and furious as she stares at the ruined bullet in the palm of her hand. From this vantage point it looks like a mutilated coin. And then,

disgusted, she tosses it to the ground. The sound of the metal hitting stone is delicate. Elegant. And then— That’s it. Everyone goes apeshit. People lose their goddamn minds. The crowd is on its feet, roaring threats and obscenities, and they all pull weapons from their bodies and I’m thinking, Where the hell did they get them from? How did so many of them get through? Who’s our mole? More gunshots split the air. I swear, loudly, and move to tackle Castle to the ground—and then I hear it. I hear it before I see it. The surprised gasp. The heavy thud. The reverberations of the stage under my feet. Brendan is on the ground. Winston is sobbing. Desperately, I push through my teammates, falling to my knees to assess the wound. Brendan’s been shot in the shoulder. Relief sags my body. He’ll be okay. I toss the glass pill bottle at Winston and tell him to force a few down Brendan’s throat, tell him to apply pressure to the wound and remind him that Brendan’s going to be okay, that we just need to get him to Sonya and Sara—and then I remember. I remember. I know this girl. I look up, panicked, and scream, “Juliette, DON’T—” But she’s already lost control.

Seven She’s screaming. She’s just screaming words, I think. They’re just words. But she’s screaming, screaming at the top of her lungs, with an agony that seems almost an exaggeration, and it’s causing devastation I never knew possible. It’s like she just—imploded. It doesn’t seem real.

I mean, I knew Juliette was strong—and I knew we hadn’t discovered the depth of her powers—but I never imagined she’d be capable of this. Of this: The ceiling is splitting open. Seismic currents are thundering up the walls, across the floors, chattering my teeth. The ground is rumbling under my feet. People are frozen in place even as they shake, the room vibrating around them. The chandeliers swing too fast and the lights flicker ominously. And then, with one last vibration, three of the massive chandeliers rip free from the ceiling and shatter as they hit the floor. Crystal flies everywhere. The room loses half its light and suddenly, it’s hard to see exactly what’s happening. I look at Juliette and see her staring, slack-jawed, frozen at the sight of the devastation, and I realize she must’ve stopped screamed a moment ago. She can’t stop this. She already put the energy into the world and now— It has to go somewhere. The shudders ripple with renewed fervor across the floorboards, ripping new cracks in walls and seats and people. I don’t actually believe it until I see the blood. It seems fake, for a second, all the limp bodies in seats with their chests butterflied open. It seems staged—like a bad joke, like a bad theater production. But when the blood arrives, heavy and viscous, seeping through clothes and upholstery, dripping down frozen hands, I know we’ll never recover from this. Juliette just murdered six hundred people at once. There’s no recovering from this.

Eight I shove my way through the quiet, stunned, still-breathing bodies of my friends. I hear Winston’s soft, insistent whimpers and Brendan’s steady, reassuring response that the wound isn’t as bad as it looks, that he’s going to be okay, that he’s been through worse than this and survived it— And I know my priority right now needs to be Juliette.

When I reach her I pull her into my arms, and her cold, unresponsive body reminds me of the time I found her standing over Anderson, a gun aimed at his chest. She was so terrified—so surprised—by what she’d done that she could hardly speak. She looked like she’d disappeared into herself somewhere—like she’d found a small room in her brain and had locked herself inside. It took a minute to coax her back out again. She hadn’t even killed anyone that time. I try to warm some sense into her again, begging her now to return to herself, to hurry back to her mind, to the present moment. “I know shit is crazy right now, but I need you to snap out of this, J. Wake up. Get out of your head. We have to get out of here.” She doesn’t blink. “Princess, please,” I say, shaking her a little. “We have to go—now—” And when she still doesn’t move, I figure I have no choice but to move her myself. I start hauling her backward. Her limp body is heavier than I expect, and she makes a small, wheezing sound that’s almost like a sob. Fear sparks in my nerves. I nod at Castle and the others to go, to move on without me, but when I glance around, looking for Warner, I realize I can’t find him anywhere. What happens next knocks the wind from my lungs. The room tilts. My vision blackens, clears, and then darkens only at the edges in a dizzying moment that lasts hardly a second. I feel off-center. I stumble. And then, all at once— Juliette is gone. Not figuratively. She’s literally gone. Disappeared. One second she’s in my arms, and the next, I’m grasping at air. I blink fast, convinced I’m losing my mind, but when I look around the room I see the audience members begin to stir. Their shirts are torn and their faces are scratched, but no one appears to be dead. Instead, they begin to stand, confused, and as soon as they start shuffling around, someone shoves me, hard. I look up to see Ian swearing at me, telling me to get moving while we still have a chance, and I try to push back, try to tell him that we lost Juliette—that I haven’t seen Warner—and he doesn’t hear me, he just forces me forward, offstage, and when I hear the murmur of the crowd grow into a roar, I know I have no choice. I have to go.

About the Author

Photo by Tana Gandhi

TAHEREH MAFI is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Shatter Me series, Furthermore, and Whichwood. She can usually be found overcaffeinated and stuck in a book. You can find her online just about anywhere @TaherehMafi or at www.taherehbooks.com. Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Books by Tahereh Mafi Shatter Me Unravel Me Ignite Me Destroy Me Fracture Me Shatter Me Complete Collection Restore Me Defy Me Shadow Me A Very Large Expanse of Sea

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First published in USA in 2020 by HarperCollins Children’s Books First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Electric Monkey, an imprint of Egmont UK Limited 2 Minster Court, 10th floor, London EC3R 7BB Published by arrangement with HarperCollins Children’s Books, a division of HarperCollins Publishers, New York, New York, USA Text copyright © 2020 Tahereh Mafi The moral rights of the author have been asserted First e-book edition 2020 ISBN 978 1 4052 9704 2 Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 9711 0 www.egmont.co.uk A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright

ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE

KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA JULIETTE KENJI ELLA (JULIETTE)

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ELLA JULIETTE

In the dead of night, I hear birds.

I hear them, I see them, I close my eyes and feel them, feathers shuddering in the air, bending the wind, wings grazing my shoulders when they ascend, when they alight. Discordant shrieks ring and echo, ring and echo— How many? Hundreds. White birds, white with streaks of gold, like crowns atop their heads. They fly. They soar through the sky with strong, steady wings, masters of their destinies. They used to make me hope. Never again. I turn my face into the pillow, digging fingers into cotton flesh as the memories crash into me.

“Do you like them?ˮ she says.

We’re in a big, wide room that smells like dirt. There are trees everywhere, so tall they nearly touch the pipes and beams of the open ceiling. Birds, dozens of them, screech as they stretch their wings. Their calls are loud. A little scary. I try not to flinch as one of the large white birds swoops past me. It wears a bright, neon-green bracelet around one leg. They all do. This doesn’t make sense. I remind myself that we’re indoors—the white walls, the concrete floor under my feet—and I look up at my mother, confused. I’ve never seen Mum smile so much. Mostly she smiles when Dad is around, or when she and Dad are off in the corner, whispering together, but right now it’s just me and Mum and a bunch of birds and she’s so happy I decide to ignore the funny feeling in my stomach. Things are better when Mum is in a good mood. “Yes,” I lie. “I like them a lot.” Her eyes brighten. “I knew you would. Emmaline didn’t care for them, but you—you’ve always been a bit too fond of things, haven’t you, darling? Not at all like your sister.” Somehow, her words come out mean. They don’t seem mean, but they sound mean. I frown. I’m still trying to figure out what’s happening when she says— “I had one as a pet when I was about your age. Back then, they were so common we could never be rid of them.” She laughs, and I watch her as she watches a bird, midflight. “One of them lived in a tree near my house, and it called my name whenever I walked past. Can you imagine?” Her smile fades as she asks the question. Finally, she turns to look at me. “They’re very nearly extinct now. You understand why I couldn’t let that happen.” “Of course,” I say, but I’m lying again. There is little I understand about Mum. She nods. “These are a special sort of creature. Intelligent. They can speak, dance. And each of them wears a crown.” She turns away again, staring at the birds the way she stares at all the things she makes for work: with joy. “The sulphur-crested cockatoo mates for life,” she says. “Just like me and your father.”

The sulphur-crested cockatoo. I shiver, suddenly, at the unexpected sensation of a warm hand on my back, fingers trailing lightly along my spine. “Love,” he says, “are you all right?” When I say nothing he shifts, the sheets rustling, and he tucks me into his hollows, his body curving around mine. He’s warm and strong and as his hand slides down my torso I cant my head toward him, finding peace in his presence, in the safety of his arms. His lips touch my skin, a graze against my neck so subtle it sparks, hot and cold, right down to my toes. “Is it happening again?” he whispers. My mother was born in Australia. I know this because she once told me so, and because now, despite my desperation to resist many of the memories now returned to me, I can’t forget. She once told me that the sulphur-crested cockatoo was native to Australia. It was introduced to New Zealand in the nineteenth century, but Evie, my mother, didn’t discover them there. She fell in love with the birds back home, as a child, when one of them, she claims, saved her life. These were the birds that once haunted my dreams. These birds, kept and bred by a crazy woman. I feel embarrassed to realize I’d held fast to nonsense, to the faded, disfigured impressions of old memories poorly discarded. I’d hoped for

more. Dreamed of more. Disappointment lodges in my throat, a cold stone I’m unable to swallow. And then again I feel it I stiffen against the nausea that precedes a vision, the sudden punch to the gut that means there’s more, there’s more, there’s always more. Aaron pulls me closer, holds me tighter against his chest. “Breathe,” he whispers. “I’m right here, love. I’ll be right here.” I cling to him, squeezing my eyes shut as my head swims. These memories were a gift from my sister, Emmaline. The sister I only just discovered, only just recovered. And only because she fought to find me. Despite my parents’ relentless efforts to rid our minds of the lingering proof of their atrocities, Emmaline prevailed. She used her psychokinetic powers to return to me what was stolen from my memories. She gave me this gift—this gift of remembering—to help me save myself. To save her. To stop our parents. To fix the world. But now, in the wake of a narrow escape, this gift has become a curse. Every hour my mind is reborn. Altered. The memories keep coming. And my dead mother refuses to be silenced. “Little bird,” she whispers, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “It’s time for you to fly away now.” “But I don’t want to go,” I say, fear making my voice shake. “I want to stay here, with you and Dad and Emmaline. I still don’t understand why I have to leave.” “You don’t have to understand,” she says gently. I go uncomfortably still. Mum doesn’t yell. She’s never yelled. My whole life, she’s never raised a hand to me, never shouted or called me names. Not like Aaron’s dad. But Mum doesn’t need to yell. Sometimes she just says things, things like you don’t have to understand and there’s a warning there, a finality in her words that’s always scared me. I feel tears forming, burning the whites of my eyes, and— “No crying,” she says. “You’re far too old for that now.” I sniff, hard, fighting back the tears. But my hands won’t stop shaking. Mum looks up, nods at someone behind me. I turn around just in time to spot Paris, Mr. Anderson, waiting with my suitcase. There’s no kindness in his eyes. No warmth at all. He turns away from me, looks at Mum. He doesn’t say hello. He says: “Has Max settled in yet?” “Oh, he’s been ready for days.” Mum glances at her watch, distracted. “You know Max,” she says, smiling faintly. “Always a perfectionist.” “Only when it comes to your wishes,” says Mr. Anderson. “I’ve never seen a grown man so besotted with his wife.” Mum smiles wider. She seems about to say something, but I cut her off. “Are you talking about Dad?” I ask, my heart racing. “Will Dad be there?” My mother turns to me, surprised, like she’d forgotten I was there. She turns back to Mr. Anderson. “How’s Leila doing, by the way?” “Fine,” he says. But he sounds irritated. “Mum?” Tears threaten again. “Am I going to stay with Dad?” But Mum doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s talking to Mr. Anderson when she says, “Max will walk you through everything when you arrive, and he’ll be able to answer most of your questions. If there’s something he can’t answer, it’s likely beyond your clearance.” Mr. Anderson looks suddenly annoyed, but he says nothing. Mum says nothing. I can’t stand it.

Tears are spilling down my face now, my body shaking so hard it makes my breaths rattle. “Mum?” I whisper. “Mum, please a-answer me—” Mum clamps a cold, hard hand around my shoulder and I go instantly still. Quiet. She’s not looking at me. She won’t look at me. “You’ll handle this, too,” she says. “Won’t you, Paris?” Mr. Anderson meets my eyes then. So blue. So cold. “Of course.” A flash of heat courses through me. A rage so sudden it briefly replaces my terror. I hate him. I hate him so much that it does something to me when I look at him—and the abrupt surge of emotion makes me feel brave. I turn back to Mum. Try again. “Why does Emmaline get to stay?” I ask, wiping angrily at my wet cheeks. “If I have to go, can’t we at least go toge—” I cut myself off when I spot her. My sister, Emmaline, is peeking out at me from behind the mostly closed door. She’s not supposed to be here. Mum said so. Emmaline is supposed to be doing her swimming lessons. But she’s here, her wet hair dripping on the floor, and she’s staring at me, eyes wide as plates. She’s trying to say something, but her lips move too fast for me to follow. And then, out of nowhere, a bolt of electricity runs up my spine and I hear her voice, sharp and strange—

Liars. LIARS. KILL THEM ALL

My eyes fly open and I can’t catch my breath, my chest heaving, heart pounding. Warner holds me, making soothing sounds as he runs a reassuring hand up and down my arm. Tears spill down my face and I swipe at them, hands shaking. “I hate this,” I whisper, horrified at the tremble in my voice. “I hate this so much. I hate that it keeps happening. I hate what it does to me,” I say. “I hate it.” Warner Aaron presses his cheek against my shoulder with a sigh, his breath teasing my skin. “I hate it, too,” he says softly. I turn, carefully, in the cradle of his arms, and press my forehead to his bare chest. It’s been less than two days since we escaped Oceania. Two days since I killed my own mother. Two days since I met the residue of my sister, Emmaline. Only two days since my entire life was upended yet again, which feels impossible. Two days and already things are on fire around us. This is our second night here, at the Sanctuary, the locus of the rebel group run by Nouria— Castle’s daughter—and her wife, Sam. We’re supposed to be safe here. We’re supposed to be able to breathe and regroup after the hell of the last few weeks, but my body refuses to settle. My mind is overrun, under attack. I thought the rush of new memories would eventually gutter out, but these last twenty-four hours have been an unusually brutal assault, and I seem to be the only one struggling. Emmaline gifted all of us—all the children of the supreme commanders—with memories stolen by our parents. One by one we were awoken to the truths our parents had buried, and one by one we were returned to normal lives. All but me.

The others have since moved on, reconciled their timelines, made sense of the betrayal. My mind, on the other hand, continues to falter. Spin. But then, none of the others lost as much as I did; they don’t have as much to remember. Even Warner—Aaron—isn’t experiencing so thorough a reimagining of his life. It’s beginning to scare me. I feel as though my history is being rewritten, infinite paragraphs scratched out and hastily revised. Old and new images—memories—layer atop each other until the ink runs, rupturing the scenes into something new, something incomprehensible. Occasionally my thoughts feel like disturbing hallucinations, and the onslaught is so invasive I fear it’s doing irreparable damage. Because something is changing. Every new memory is delivered with an emotional violence that drives into me, reorders my mind. I’d been feeling this pain in flickers—the sickness, the nausea, the disorientation—but I haven’t wanted to question it too deeply. I haven’t wanted to look too closely. The truth is, I didn’t want to believe my own fears. But the truth is: I am a punctured tire. Every injection of air leaves me both fuller and flatter. I am forgetting. “Ella?” Terror bubbles up inside of me, bleeds through my open eyes. It takes me a moment to remember that I am Juliette Ella. Each time, it takes me a moment longer. Hysteria threatens— I force it down. “Yes,” I say, forcing air into my lungs. “Yes.” Warner Aaron stiffens. “Love, what’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I lie. My heart is pounding fast, too fast. I don’t know why I’m lying. It’s a fruitless effort; he can sense everything I’m feeling. I should just tell him. I don’t know why I’m not telling him. I know why I’m not telling him. I’m waiting. I’m waiting to see if this will pass, if the lapses in my memory are only glitches waiting to be repaired. Saying it out loud makes it too real, and it’s too soon to say these thoughts aloud, to give in to the fear. After all, it’s only been a day since it started. It only occurred to me yesterday that something was truly wrong. It occurred to me because I made a mistake. Mistakes. We were sitting outside, staring at the stars. I couldn’t remember ever seeing the stars like that— sharp, clear. It was late, so late it wasn’t night but infant morning, and the view was dizzying. I was freezing. A brave wind stole through a copse nearby, filling the air with steady sound. I was full of cake. Warner smelled like sugar, like decadence. I felt drunk on joy. I don’t want to wait, he said, taking my hand. Squeezing it. Let’s not wait. I blinked up at him. For what?

For what? For what? How did I forget what had happened just hours earlier? How did I forget the moment he asked me to marry him? It was a glitch. It felt like a glitch. Where there was once a memory was suddenly a vacancy, a cavity held empty only until nudged into realignment.

I recovered, remembered. Warner laughed. I did not. I forgot the name of Castle’s daughter. I forgot how we landed at the Sanctuary. I forgot, for a full two minutes, how I ever escaped Oceania. But my errors were temporary; they seemed like natural delays. I experienced only confusion as my mind buffered, hesitation as the memories resurfaced, waterlogged and vague. I thought maybe I was tired. Overwhelmed. I took none of it seriously, not until I was sitting under the stars and couldn’t remember promising to spend the rest of my life with someone. Mortification. Mortification so acute I thought I’d expire from the full force of it. Even now fresh heat floods my face, and I find I’m relieved Warner can’t see in the dark. Aaron, not Warner. Aaron. “I can’t tell just now whether you’re afraid or embarrassed,” he says, and exhales softly. It sounds almost like a laugh. “Are you worried about Kenji? About the others?” I grab on to this half-truth with my whole heart. “Yes,” I say. “Kenji. James. Adam.” Kenji has been sick in bed since very early this morning. I squint at the slant of moon through our window and remember that it’s long past midnight, which would mean that, technically, Kenji got sick yesterday morning. Regardless, it was terrifying for all of us. The drugs Nazeera forced into Kenji on their international flight from Sector 45 to Oceania were a dose too strong, and he’s been reeling ever since. He finally collapsed—the twins, Sonya and Sara, have checked in on him and say he’s going to be just fine—but not before we learned that Anderson has been rounding up the children of the supreme commanders. Adam and James and Lena and Valentina and Nicolás are all in Anderson’s custody. James is in his custody. It’s been a devastating, awful couple of days. It’s been a devastating, awful couple of weeks. Months, really. Years. Some days, no matter how far back I go, I can’t seem to find the good times. Some days, the occasional happiness I’ve known feels like a bizarre dream. An error. Hyperreal and unfocused, the colors too bright and the sounds too strong. Figments of my imagination. It was just days ago that clarity came to me, bearing gifts. Just days ago that the worst seemed behind me, that the world seemed full of potential, that my body was stronger than ever, my mind fuller, sharper, more capable than I’d ever known it. But now But now But now I feel like I’m clinging to the blurring edges of sanity, that elusive, fair-weather friend always breaking my heart. Aaron pulls me close and I melt into him, grateful for his warmth, for the steadiness of his arms around me. I take a deep, shuddering breath and let it all go, exhaling against him. I inhale the rich, heady scent of his skin, the faint aroma of gardenias he somehow carries with him always. Seconds pass in perfect silence and we listen to each other breathe. Slowly, my heart rate steadies. The tears dry up. The fears take five. Terror is distracted by a passing butterfly and sadness takes a nap. For a little while it’s just me and him and us and everything is untarnished, untouched by darkness.

I knew I loved Warner Aaron before all this—before we were captured by The Reestablishment, before we were ripped apart, before we learned of our shared history—but that love was new, green, its depths uncharted, untested. In that brief, glimmering window during which the gaping holes in my memory felt fully accounted for, things between us changed. Everything between us changed. Even now, even with the noise in my head, I feel it. Here. This. My bones against his bones. This is my home. I feel him suddenly stiffen and I pull back, concerned. I can’t see much of him in this perfect darkness, but I feel the delicate rise of goose bumps along his arms when he says, “What are you thinking about?” My eyes widen, comprehension dethroning concern. “I was thinking about you.” “Me?” I close the gap between us again. Nod against his chest. He says nothing, but I can hear his heart, racing in the quiet, and eventually I hear him exhale. It’s a heavy, uneven sound, like he might’ve been holding his breath for too long. I wish I could see his face. No matter how much time we spend together, I still forget how much he can feel my emotions, especially at times like this, when our bodies are pressed together. Gently, I run my hand down his back. “I was thinking about how much I love you,” I say. He goes uncommonly still, but only for a moment. And then he touches my hair, his fingers slowly combing the strands. “Did you feel it?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I pull back again. I blink against the black until I’m able to make out the glint of his eyes, the shadow of his mouth. “Aaron?” “Yes,” he says, but he sounds a little breathless. “Yes, you felt it?” “Yes,” he says again. “What does it feel like?” He sighs. Rolls onto his back. He’s quiet for so long that, for a while, I’m not sure he’s going to answer. Then, softly, he says: “It’s hard to describe. It’s a pleasure so close to pain I sometimes can’t tell the two apart.” “That sounds awful.” “No,” he says. “It’s exquisite.” “I love you.” A sharp intake of breath. Even in this darkness I see the strain in his jaw—the tension there—as he stares at the ceiling. I sit straight up, surprised. Aaron’s reaction is so unstudied I don’t know how I never noticed it before. But then, maybe this is new. Maybe something really has changed between us. Maybe I never loved him this much before. That would make sense, I suppose. Because when I think about it, when I really think about how much I love him now, after everything we’ve— Another sudden, sharp breath. And then he laughs, nervously. “Wow,” I say. He claps a hand over his eyes. “This is vaguely mortifying.” I’m smiling now, very nearly laughing. “Hey. It’s—” My body seizes. A violent shudder rushes up my skin and my spine goes rigid, my bones held in place by invisible pins, my mouth frozen open and trying to draw breath. Heat fills my vision.

I hear nothing but static, grand rapids, white water, ferocious wind. Feel nothing. Think nothing. Am nothing. I am, for the most infinitesimal moment— Free. My eyelids flutter open closed open closed open closed I am a wing, two wings, a swinging door, five birds Fire climbs inside of me, explodes.

Ella? The voice appears in my mind with swift strength, sharp, like darts to the brain. Dully, I realize that I’m in pain— my jaw aches, my body still suspended in an unnatural position—but I ignore it. The voice tries again: Juliette? Realization strikes, a knife to the knees. Images of my sister fill my mind: bones and melted skin, webbed fingers, sodden mouth, no eyes. Her body suspended underwater, long brown hair like a swarm of eels. Her strange, disembodied voice pierces through me. And so I say, without speaking: Emmaline? Emotion drives into me, fingers digging in my flesh, sensation scraping across my skin. Her relief is tangible. I can taste it. She’s relieved, relieved I recognized her, relieved she found me, relieved relieved relieved— What happened? I ask. A deluge of images floods my brain until it sinks, I sink. Her memories drown my senses, clog lungs. I choke as the feelings crash into me. I see Max, my father, inconsolable in the wake of his wife’s murder; I see Supreme Commander Ibrahim, frantic and furious, demanding Anderson gather the other children before it’s too late; I see Emmaline, briefly abandoned, seizing an opportunity— I gasp.

Evie made it so that only she or Max could control Emmaline’s powers, and with Evie dead, the fail-safes implemented were suddenly weakened. Emmaline realized that in the wake of our mother’s death there would be a brief window of opportunity—a brief window during which she might be able to wrest back control of her own mind before Max remade the algorithms. But Evie’s work was too good, and Max’s reaction too prompt. Emmaline was only partly successful.

Dying, she says to me. Dying.

Every flash of her emotion is accompanied by torturous assault. My flesh feels bruised. My spine seems liquid, my eyes blind, searing. I feel Emmaline—her voice, her feelings, her visions—more strongly than before, because she’s stronger than before. That she managed to regain enough power to find me is proof alone that she is at least partly untethered, unrestrained. Max and Evie had been experimenting on Emmaline to a reckless degree in the last several months, trying to make her stronger even as her body withered. This, this, is the consequence. Being this close to her is nothing short of excruciating. I think I’ve screamed. Have I screamed? Everything about Emmaline is heightened to a fever pitch; her presence is wild, breathtaking, and it shudders to life inside my nerves. Sound and sensation streak across my vision, barrel through me violently. I hear a spider scuttle across the wooden floor. Tired moths drag their wings along the wall. A mouse startles, settles, in its sleep. Dust motes fracture against a window, shrapnel skidding across the glass. My eyes skitter, unhinged in my skull. I feel the oppressive weight of my hair, my limbs, my flesh wrapped around me like cellophane, a leather casket. My tongue, my tongue is a dead lizard perched in my mouth, rough and heavy. The fine hairs on my arms stand and sway, stand and sway. My fists are so tightly clenched my fingernails pierce the soft flesh of my palms. I feel a hand on me. Where? Am I?

Lonely, she says. She shows me. A vision of us, back in the laboratory where I first saw her, where I killed our mother. I see myself from Emmaline’s point of view and it’s startling. She can’t see much more than a blur, but she can feel my presence, can make out the shape of my form, the heat emanating from my body. And then my words, my own words, hurled back into my brain—

there has to be another way you don’t have to die we can get through this together please i want my sister back i want you to live Emmaline i won’t let you die here Emmaline Emmaline we can get through this together we can get through this together we can get through this together A cold, metallic sensation begins to bloom in my chest. It moves through me, up my arms, down my throat, pushes into my gut. My teeth throb. Emmaline’s pain claws and slithers, clings with a ferocity I can’t bear. Her tenderness, too, is desperate, terrifying in its sincerity. She’s overcome by emotion, hot and cold, fueled by rage and devastation. She’s been looking for me, all this time. In these last couple of days Emmaline has been searching the conscious world for my mind, trying to find safe harbor, a place to rest. A place to die.

Emmaline, I say. Please— Sister. Something tightens in my mind, squeezes. Fear propels through me, punctures organs. I’m wheezing. I smell earth and damp, decomposing leaves and I feel the stars staring at my skin, wind pushing through darkness like an anxious parent. My mouth is open, catching moths. I am on the ground. Where? No longer in my bed, I realize, no longer in my tent, I realize, no longer protected. But when did I walk? Who moved my feet? Who pushed my body? How far? I try to look around but I’m blind, my head trapped in a vise, my neck reduced to fraying sinew. My breaths fill my ears, harsh and loud, harsh and loud, rough rough gasping efforts my head

swings My fists unclench, nails scraping as my fingers uncurl, palms flattening, I smell heat, taste wind, hear dirt. Dirt under my hands, in my mouth, under my fingernails. I’m screaming, I realize. Someone is touching me and I’m screaming.

Stop, I scream. Please, Emmaline— Please don’t do this— Lonely, she says. lonely And with a sudden, ferocious agony— I am displaced.

It feels weird to call it luck.

KENJI

It feels weird, but in some perverse, twisted way, this is luck. Luck that I’m standing in the middle of damp, freezing woodlands before the sun’s bothered to lift its head. Luck that my bare upper body is half-numb from cold. Luck that Nazeera’s with me. We pulled on our invisibility almost instantly, so she and I are at least temporarily safe here, in the half-mile stretch of untouched wilderness between regulated and unregulated territories. The Sanctuary was built on a couple of acres of unregulated land not far from where I’m standing, and it’s masterfully hidden in plain sight only because of Nouria’s unnatural talent for bending and manipulating light. Within Nouria’s jurisdiction, the climate is somehow more temperate, the weather more predictable. But out here in the wild, the winds are relentless and combative. The temperatures are dangerous. Still— We’re lucky to be here at all. Nazeera and I had been out of bed for a while, racing through the dark in an attempt at murdering one another. In the end it all turned out to be a complicated misunderstanding, but it was also a kind of kismet: If Nazeera hadn’t snuck into my room at three o’clock in the morning and nearly killed me, I wouldn’t have chased her through the forest, beyond the sight and soundproof protections of the Sanctuary. If we hadn’t been so far from the Sanctuary, we never would’ve heard the distant, echoing screams of citizens crying out in terror. If we hadn’t heard those cries, we never would’ve rushed toward the source. And if we hadn’t done any of that, I never would’ve seen my best friend screaming her way into dawn. I would’ve missed this. This: J on her knees in the cold dirt, Warner crouched down beside her, both of them looking like death while the clouds literally melt out of the sky above them. The two of them are parked right outside the entrance to the Sanctuary, straddling the untouched stretch of forest that serves as a buffer between our camp and the heart of the nearest sector, number 241. Why? I froze when I saw them there, two broken figures entwined, limbs planted in the ground. I was paralyzed by confusion, then fear, then disbelief, all while the trees bent sideways and the wind snapped at my body, cruelly reminding me that I’d never had a chance to put on a shirt. If my night had gone differently, I might’ve had that chance.

If my night had gone differently, I might’ve enjoyed, for the first time in my life, a romantic sunrise and an overdue reconciliation with a beautiful girl. Nazeera and I would’ve laughed about how she’d kicked me in the back and almost killed me, and how afterward I almost shot her for it. After that I would’ve taken a long shower, slept until noon, and eaten my weight in breakfast foods. I had a plan for today: take it easy. I wanted a little more time to heal after my most recent near-death experience, and I didn’t think I was asking for much. I thought that, maybe, after everything I’d been through, the world might finally cut me some slack. Let me breathe between tragedies. Nah. Instead, I’m here, dying of frostbite and horror, watching the world fall to pieces around me. The sky, swinging wildly between horizontal and vertical horizons. The air, puncturing at random. Trees, sinking into the ground. Leaves, tap-dancing around me. I’m seeing it—I’m actively witnessing it—and still I can’t believe it. But I’m choosing to call it luck. Luck that I’m seeing this, luck that I feel like I might throw up, luck that I ran all this way in my still-ill, injured body just in time to score a front-row seat to the end of the world. Luck, fate, coincidence, serendipity— I’ll call this sick, sinking feeling in my gut a fucking magic trick if it’ll help me keep my eyes open long enough to bear witness. To figure out how to help. Because no one else is here. No one but me and Nazeera, which seems crazy to an improbable degree. The Sanctuary is supposed to have security on patrol at all times, but I see no sentries, and no sign of incoming aid. No soldiers from the nearby sector, either. Not even curious, hysterical civilians. Nothing. It’s like we’re standing in a vacuum, on an invisible plane of existence. I don’t know how J and Warner made it this far without being spotted. The two of them look like they were literally dragged through the dirt; I have no idea how they escaped notice. And though it’s possible J only just started screaming, I still have a thousand unanswered questions. They’ll have to wait. I glance at Nazeera out of habit, forgetting for a moment that she and I are invisible. But then I feel her step closer, and I breathe a sigh of relief as her hand slips into mine. She squeezes my fingers. I return the pressure. Lucky, I remind myself. It’s lucky that we’re here right now, because if I’d been in bed where I should’ve been, I wouldn’t have even known J was in trouble. I would’ve missed the tremble in my friend’s voice as she cried out, begging for mercy. I would’ve missed the shattering colors of a twisted sunrise, a peacock in the middle of hell. I would’ve missed the way J clamped her head between her hands and sobbed. I would’ve missed the sharp scents of pine and sulfur in the wind, would’ve missed the dry ache in my throat, the tremor moving through my body. I would’ve missed the moment J mentioned her sister by name. I wouldn’t have heard J specifically ask her sister not to do something. Yeah, this is definitely luck. Because if I hadn’t heard any of that, I wouldn’t have known who to blame.

Emmaline.

ELLA JULIETTE

I have eyes, two, feel them, rolling back and forth, around and around in my skull I have lips, two, feel them, wet and and heavy, pry them open have teeth, many, tongue, one and fingers, ten, count them onetwothreefourfive, again on the other side strange, ssstrange to have a tongue, sstrange it’s a sssstrange ssort of thing, a strange ssssssssssortofthing

loneliness it creeps up on you quiet and still, sits by your side in the dark, strokes your hair as you sleep wrapssitself around your bones squeezing sotightyoualmostcan’t breathe almost can’t hear the pulse racing in your blood as it rush, rushes up your

skin touches its lips to the soft hairs at the back of your neck loneliness is a strangesortof thinga sstrangesortofthing an old friend standing beside you in the mirror screaming you’re notenoughneverenough never ever enough sssssometimes it just won’t

let go

KENJI

I sidestep an eruption in the ground and duck just in time to avoid a cluster of vines growing in midair. A distant rock balloons to an astronomical size, and the moment it starts barreling in our direction I tighten my hold on Nazeera’s hand and dive for cover. The sky is ripping apart. The ground is fracturing beneath my feet. The sun flickers, strobing darkness, strobing light, everything stilted. And the clouds— There’s something newly wrong with

the clouds. They’re disintegrating. Trees can’t decide whether to stand up or lie down, gusts of wind shoot up from the ground with terrifying power, and suddenly the sky is full of birds. Full of fucking birds. Emmaline is out of control. We knew that her telekinetic and psychokinetic powers were godlike—beyond anything we’ve ever known—and we knew that The Reestablishment built Emmaline to control our experience of the world. But that was all, and that was just talk. Theory. We’d never seen her like this. Wild. She’s clearly doing something to J right now, ravaging her mind while lashing out at the world around us, because the acid trip I’m staring at is only getting worse. “Go back,” I cry out over the din. “Get help—bring the girls!” A single shout of agreement and Nazeera’s hand slips free from mine, her heavy boots on the ground my only indication that she’s bolting toward the Sanctuary. But even now—especially now —her swift, certain actions fill me with no small measure of relief. It feels good to have a capable partner. I claw my way across the sparse forest, grateful to have avoided the worst of the obstacles, and when I’m finally close enough to properly discern Warner’s face, I pull back my invisibility. I’m shaking with exhaustion. I’d only barely recovered from being drugged nearly to death, and yet here I am, already about to die again. But when I look up, half-bent, hands on my knees and trying to breathe, I realize I have no right to complain. Warner looks even worse than l expected. Raw, clenched, a vein straining at his temple. He’s on his knees holding on to J like he’s trying to hold back a riot, and I didn’t realize until just this second that he might be here for more than just emotional support. The whole thing is surreal: they’re both practically naked, in the dirt, on their knees—J with her hands pressed flat against her ears—and I can’t help but wonder what kind of hell brought them to this moment. I thought I was the one having a weird night. Something slams suddenly into my gut and I double over, hitting the ground hard. Arms shaking, I push up onto all fours and scan the immediate area for the culprit. When I spot it, I gag. A dead bird, a couple feet away. Jesus. J is still screaming. I shove my way through a sudden, violent gust of wind—and just when I’ve regained my balance, ready to clear the last fifty feet toward my friends—the world goes mute. Sound, off. No howling winds, no tortured screams, no coughs, no sneezes. This is not ordinary quiet. It’s not stillness, not silence. It’s more than that. It’s nothing at all. I blink, blink, my head turning in slow, excruciating motion as I scan the distance for answers, willing the explanations to appear. Hoping the sheer force of my mind is enough to sprout reason from the ground. It isn’t. I’ve gone deaf. Nazeera is no longer here, J and Warner are still fifty feet away, and I’ve gone deaf. Deaf to the sound of the wind, to the shuddering trees. Deaf to my own labored breathing, to the cries of

citizens in the compounds beyond. I try to clench my fists and it takes forever, like the air has grown dense. Thick. Something is wrong with me. I’m slow, slower than I’ve ever been, like I’m running underwater. Something is purposely keeping me back, physically pushing me away from Juliette—and suddenly, it all makes sense. My earlier confusion dissolves. Of course no one else is here. Of course no one else has come to help. Emmaline would never allow it. Maybe I got this far only because she was too busy to notice me right away—to sense me here, in my invisible state. It makes me wonder what else she’s done to keep this area clear of trespassers. It makes me wonder if I’ll survive. It’s growing harder to think. It takes forever to fuse thoughts. Takes forever to move my arms. To lift my head. To look around. By the time I manage to pry open my mouth, I’ve forgotten that my voice makes no sound. A flash of gold in the distance. I spot Warner, shifting so slowly I wonder whether we’re both suffering from the same affliction. He’s fighting desperately to sit up next to J—J who’s still on her knees, bent forward, mouth open. Her eyes are squeezed shut in concentration, but if she’s screaming, I can’t hear it. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified. I’m close enough to Warner and J to be able to make out their expressions, but it’s no good; I have no idea whether they’re injured, so I don’t know the extent of what we’re dealing with. I have to get closer, somehow. But when I take a single, painful step forward, a sharp keening explodes in my ears. I cry out soundlessly, clapping my hands to my head as the silence is suddenly—viciously— compounded by pressure. The knifelike pain needles into me, pressure building in my ears with an intensity that threatens to crush me from the inside. It’s like someone has overfilled my head with helium, like any minute now the balloon that is my brain will explode. And just when I think the pressure might kill me, just when I think I can’t bear the pain any longer, the ground begins to rumble. Tremble. There’s a seismic crack— And sound comes back online. Sound so violent it rips open something inside of me, and when I finally tear my hands away from my ears they’re red, dripping. I stagger as my head pounds. Rings. Rings. I wipe my bloody hands on my bare torso and my vision swims. I lunge forward in a stupor and land badly, my still-damp palms hitting the earth so hard the force of it shudders up my bones. The dirt beneath my feet has gone slick. Wet. I look up, squinting at the sky and the sudden, torrential rain. My head continues to swing on a well-oiled hinge. A single drop of blood drips down my ear, lands on my shoulder. A second drop of blood drips down my ear, lands on my shoulder. A third drop of blood drips down my— Name. Someone calls my name. The sound is large, aggressive. The word careens dizzily in my head, expanding and contracting. I can’t pin it down.

Kenji I turn around and my head rings, rings. Kenji

I blink and it takes days, revolutions around the sun. Trusted friend Something is touching me, under me, hauling me up, but it’s no good. I don’t move. Too heavy I try to speak but can’t. I say nothing, do nothing as my mind is broken open, as cold fingers reach inside my skull and disconnect the circuitry within. I stand still. Stiffen. The voice echoes to life in the blackness behind my eyes, speaking words that feel more like memory than conversation, words I don’t know, don’t understand the pain I carry, the fears I should’ve left behind. I sag under the weight of loneliness, the chains of disappointment. My heart alone weighs a thousand pounds. I’m so heavy I can no longer be lifted away from the earth. I’m so heavy I have no choice now but to be buried beneath it. I’m so heavy, too heavy

I exhale as I go down. My knees crack as they hit the ground. My body slumps forward. Dirt kisses my face, welcomes me home.

The world goes suddenly dark. Brave My eyes flicker. Sound hums in my ears, something like dull, steady electricity. Everything is plunged into darkness. A blackout, a blackout in the natural world. Fear clings to my skin. Covers me. but weak

Knives bore holes into my bones that fill quickly with sorrow, sorrow so acute it takes my breath away. I’ve never been so hopeful to cease existing.

I am floating. Weightless and yet—weighted down, destined to sink forever. Dim light fractures the blackness behind my eyes and in the light, I see water. My sun and moon are the sea, my mountains the ocean. I live in liquid I never drink, drowning steadily in marbled, milky waters. My breathing is heavy, automatic, mechanic. I am forced to inhale, forced to exhale. The harsh, shuddering rasp of my own breath is my constant reminder of the grave that is my home. I hear something. It reverberates through the tank, dull metal against dull metal, arriving at my ears as if from outer space. I squint at the fresh set of shapes and colors, blurred forms. I clench my fists but my flesh is soft, my bones like fresh dough, my skin peeling in moist flakes. I’m surrounded by water but my thirst is insatiable and my anger— My anger—

Something snaps. My head. My mind. My neck. My eyes are wide, my breathing panicked. I’m on my knees, my forehead pressed into the dirt, my hands buried in wet earth. I sit straight up and back, my head spinning. “What the fuck?” I’m still trying to breathe. I look around. My heart is racing. “What— What—” I was digging my own grave. Slithering, terrifying horror moves through my body as I understand: Emmaline was in my head. She wanted to see if she could get me to kill myself. And even as I think it—even as I look down at the miserable attempt I made to bury myself alive— I feel a dull, stabbing sympathy for Emmaline. Because I felt her pain, and it wasn’t cruel. It was desperate. Like she was hoping that if I killed myself while she was in my head, somehow I’d be able to kill her, too.

J is screaming again. I stagger to my feet, heart in my throat as the skies wrench open, releasing their wrath upon me. I’m not sure why Emmaline gave the inside of my head a shot—brave but weak—but I know enough to understand that whatever the hell is happening here is more than I can handle on my own. Right now, I can only hope that everyone in the Sanctuary is okay—and that Nazeera gets back here soon. Until then, my broken body will have to do its best. I push forward. Even as old, cold blood dries in my ears, across my chest, I push forward, steeling myself against the increasingly volatile weather conditions. The steady succession of earthquakes. The lightning strikes. The raging thunderstorm growing quickly into a hurricane.

Once I’m finally close enough, Warner looks up. He seems stunned. It occurs to me then that he’s only just seeing me—after all this—he’s only just realizing I’m here. A flicker of relief flashes through his eyes, too quickly replaced by pain. And then he calls out two words—two words I never thought I’d inspire him to say: “Help me.” The sentence is carried off in the wind, but the agony in his eyes remains. And from this vantage point, I finally understand the depth of what he’s endured. At first I’d thought Warner was only holding her steady, trying to be supportive. I was wrong. J is vibrating with power, and Warner is only barely hanging on to her. Holding her still. Something —someone—is physically animating Juliette’s body, articulating her limbs, trying to force her upright and possibly away from here, and it’s only because of Warner that Emmaline hasn’t succeeded. I have no idea how he’s doing it. J’s skin has gone translucent, veins bright and freakish in her pale face. She’s nearly blue, ready to crack. A low-level hum emanates from her body, the crackle of energy, the buzz of power. I grab on to her arm and in the half second Warner shifts to distribute her weight between us, the three of us are flung forward. We hit the ground so hard I can hardly breathe, and when I’m finally able to lift my head I look at Warner, my own eyes wide with unmasked terror. “Emmaline is doing this,” I say, shouting the words at him. He nods, his face grim. “What can we do?” I cry. “How can she just keep screaming like this?” Warner only looks at me. He just looks at me, and the tortured expression in his eyes tells me everything I need to know. J can’t keep screaming like this. She can’t just be here on her knees screaming for a century. This shit is going to kill her. Jesus Christ. I knew it was bad, but for some reason I didn’t think it was this bad. J looks like she’s going to die. “Should we try to pick her up?” I don’t even know why I ask. I doubt I could lift her arm above my head, much less her whole body. My own body is still shaking, so much so that I can barely do my part to keep this girl from lifting directly off the ground. I have no idea what kind of crazy shit is pumping through her veins right now, but J is on another planet. She looks half-alive, mostly alien. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her jaw unhinged. She’s radiating energy. It’s fucking terrifying. And I can barely keep up. The ache in my arms has begun to creep up my shoulders and down my back and I shiver, violently, when a sharp wind strikes my bare, overheated skin. “Let’s try,” Warner says. I nod. Take a deep breath. Beg myself to be stronger than I am. I don’t know how I do it, but through nothing short of a miracle, I make it to my feet. Warner and I manage to bind Juliette between us, and when I look over at him, I’m at least relieved to discover that he looks like he’s struggling, too. I’ve never seen Warner struggle, not really, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen him sweat. But as much as I’d love to laugh a little right now, the sight of him straining so hard just to hold on to her only sends a fresh wave of fear through me. I have no idea how long he’s been trying to restrain her all by himself. I have no idea what would’ve happened to her if he hadn’t been there to hold on. And I have no idea what would happen to her right now, if we were to let go.

Something about that realization gives me renewed strength. It takes choice out of the situation. J needs us right now, period. Which means I have to be stronger. Standing upright like this has made us an easy target in all this madness, and I call out a warning as a piece of debris flies toward us. I pivot sharply to protect J, but take a hit to my spine, the pain so breathtaking I’m seeing stars. My back was already injured earlier tonight, and the bruises are bound to be worse now. But when Warner locks eyes with me in a sudden, terrified panic, I nod, letting him know I’m okay. I’ve got her. Inch by agonizing inch, we move back toward the Sanctuary. We’re dragging J like she’s Jesus between us, her head flung backward, feet dragging across the ground. She’s finally stopped screaming, but now she’s convulsing, her body seizing uncontrollably, and Warner looks like he’s hanging on to his sanity by a single, fraying thread. It feels like centuries pass before we see Nazeera again, but the rational part of my brain suspects it must’ve been only twenty, thirty minutes. Who knows. I’m sure she was trying her best to get back here with people who could help, but it feels like we’re too late. Everything feels too late. I have no idea what the hell is happening anymore. Yesterday, this morning—an hour ago—I was worried about James and Adam. I thought our problems were simple and straightforward: get the kids back, kill the supreme commanders, have a nice lunch. But now— Nazeera and Castle and Brendan and Nouria rush to a sudden stop before us. They look between us. They look beyond us. Their eyes go round, their lips parting as they gasp. I crane my neck to see what they’re seeing and realize that there’s a tidal wave of fire headed straight toward us. I think I’m going to collapse. My body is worse than unsteady. By this point, my legs are made of rubber. I can barely support my own weight, and it’s a miracle I’m holding on to J at all. In fact, a quick glance at Warner’s clenched, insanely tense body is all it takes to realize that he’s probably doing most of the work right now. I don’t know how any of us are going to survive this. I can’t move. I sure as hell can’t outrun a wave of fire. And I don’t really understand everything that happens next. I hear an inhuman cry, and Stephan is suddenly rushing toward us. Stephan. He’s suddenly in front of us, suddenly between us. He picks J up and into his arms like she might be a rag doll, and starts shouting at all of us to run. Castle hangs back to redirect water from a nearby well, and though his efforts at dousing the flames aren’t entirely successful, it’s enough to give us the edge we need to escape. Warner and I drag ourselves back to camp with the others, and the minute we cross the threshold into the Sanctuary, we’re met with a frantic sea of faces. Countless figures surge forward, their shouts and cries and hysterical commotion fusing into a single, unbroken soundstorm. Logically, I understand why people are out here, worried, crying, shouting unanswered questions at each other—but right now I just want them all to get the hell out of my way. Nouria and Sam seem to read my mind. They bark orders into the crowd and the nameless bodies begin to clear out. Stephan is no longer running, but walking briskly, elbowing people out of his way as necessary, and I’m grateful. But when Sonya and Sara come sprinting toward us, shouting for us to follow them to the medical tent, I nearly launch myself forward and kiss them both. I don’t. Instead, I take a moment to search for Castle, wondering if he made it out okay. But when I look back, scanning our stretch of protected land, I experience a sudden, sobering moment of

realization. The disparity between in here and out there is unreal. In here, the sky is clear. The weather, settled. The ground seems to have sutured itself back together. The wall of fire that tried to chase us all the way back to the Sanctuary is now nothing but fading smoke. The trees are in their upright positions; the hurricane is little more than a fine mist. The morning looks almost pretty. For a second I could’ve sworn I heard a bird chirping. I’m probably out of my mind. I collapse in the middle of a well-worn path leading back to our tents, my face thudding against wet grass. The smell of fresh, damp earth fills my head and I breathe it in, all of it. It’s a balm. A miracle. Maybe, I think. Maybe we’re going to be okay. Maybe I can close my eyes. Take a moment. Warner stalks past my prone body, his motions so intense I’m startled upright, into a sitting position. I have no idea how he’s still moving. He’s not even wearing shoes. No shirt, no socks, no shoes. Just a pair of sweatpants. I notice for the first time that he’s got a huge gash across his chest. Several cuts on his arms. A nasty scratch on his neck. Blood is dripping slowly down his torso, and Warner doesn’t even seem to notice. Scars all over his back, blood smeared across his front. He looks insane. But he’s still moving, his eyes hot with rage and something else— Something that scares the shit out of me. He catches up to Stephan, who’s still holding J—who’s still having seizures—and I crawl toward a tree, using the trunk to hoist myself off the ground. I drag myself after them, flinching involuntarily at a sudden breeze. I turn too fast, scanning the open woods for debris or a flying boulder, and find only Nazeera, who rests a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry,” she says. “We’re safe within the borders of the Sanctuary.” I blink at her. And then around, at the familiar white tents that cloak every solid, freestanding structure on the glorified campsite that is this place of refuge. Nazeera nods. “Yeah—that’s what the tents are for. Nouria enhanced all of her light protections with some kind of antidote that makes us immune to the illusions Emmaline creates. Both acres of land are protected, and the reflective material covering the tents provides more assured protection indoors.” “How do you know all of that?” “I asked.” I blink at her again. I feel dumb. Numb. Like I broke something deep inside my brain. Deep inside my body. “Juliette,” I say. It’s the only word I’ve got right now, and Nazeera doesn’t even bother to correct me, to tell me her real name is Ella. She just takes my hand and squeezes.

ELLA JULIETTE

When I dream, I dream of sound.

Rain, taking its time, softly popping against concrete. Rain, gathering, drumming, until sound turns into static. Rain, so sudden, so strong, it startles itself. I dream of water dripping down lips and tips of noses, rain falling off branches into shallow, murky pools. I hear death when puddles shatter, assaulted by heavy feet. I hear leaves— Leaves, shuddering under the weight of resignation, yoked to branches too easily bent, broken. I dream of wind, lengths of it. Yards of wind, acres of wind, infinite whispers fusing to create a single breeze. I hear wind comb the wild grass of distant mountains, I hear wind howling

confessions in empty, lonely plains. I hear the sh sh sh of desperate rivers trying to hush the world in a fruitless effort to hush itself. But buried in the din is a single scream so steady it goes every day unheard. We see, but do not understand the way it stutters hearts, clenches jaws, curls fingers into fists. It’s a surprise, always a surprise, when it finally stops screaming long enough to speak. Fingers tremble. Flowers die. The sun flinches, the stars expire. You are in a room, a closet, a vault, no key— Just a single voice that says

Kill me J is sleeping.

KENJI

She seems so close to death I can hardly look at her. Skin so white it’s blue. Lips so blue they’re purple. Somehow, in the last couple of hours, she lost weight. She looks like a little bird, young and small and fragile. Her long hair is fanned around her face and she’s motionless, a little blue doll with her face pointed straight up at the ceiling. She looks like she could be lying in a casket. I don’t say any of this out loud, of course. Warner seems pretty close to death himself. He looks pale, disoriented. Sickly. And he’s become impossible to talk to. These past months of forced camaraderie nearly had me brainwashed; I’d almost forgotten what Warner used to be like. Cold. Cutting. Eerily quiet. He seems like an echo of himself right now, sitting stiffly in a chair next to her bed. We dragged J back here hours ago and he still won’t really look at anyone. The cut on his chest looks even worse now, but he does nothing about it. He disappeared at one point, but only for a couple of minutes, and returned wearing his boots. He didn’t bother to wipe the blood off his body. Didn’t stop long enough to put on a shirt. He could easily steal Sonya’s and Sara’s powers to heal himself, but he makes no effort. He refuses to be touched. He refuses to eat. The few words out of his mouth were so scathing he made three different people cry. Nouria finally told him that if he didn’t stop attacking her teammates she’d take him out back and shoot him. I think it was Warner’s lack of protest that kept her from following through. He’s nothing but thorns. Old Kenji would’ve shrugged it off and rolled his eyes. Old Kenji would’ve thrown a dart at Dickhead Warner and, honestly, would’ve probably been happy to see him suffer like this. But I’m not that guy anymore. I know Warner too well now. I know how much he loves J. I know he’d turn his skin inside out just to make her happy. He wanted to marry her, for God’s sake. And I just watched him nearly kill himself to save her, suffering for hours through the worst levels of hell just to keep her alive. Almost two hours, to be exact. Warner said he’d been out there with J for nearly an hour before I showed up, and it was at least another forty-five minutes before the girls were able to stabilize her. He spent nearly two hours physically fighting to keep Juliette from harm, protecting her with his own body as he was lashed by fallen trees, flying rocks, errant debris, and violent winds. The girls said they could tell just by

looking at him that he had at least two broken ribs. A fracture in his right arm. A dislocated shoulder. Probably internal bleeding. They raged at him so much that he finally sat down in a chair, wrapped his good hand around the wrist of his injured arm, and pulled his own shoulder back in place. The only proof of his pain was a single, sharp breath. Sonya screamed, rushing forward, too late to stop him. And then he broke open the seam at the ankle of his sweatpants, tore off a length of cotton, and made a sling for his freshly socketed arm. Only after that did he finally look up at the girls. “Now leave me alone,” he said darkly. Sonya and Sara looked so frustrated—their eyes blazing with rare anger—I almost didn’t recognize them. I know he’s being an asshole. I know he’s being stubborn and stupid and cruel. But I can’t find the strength to be mad at him right now. I can’t. My heart is breaking for the guy.

We’re all standing around J’s bed, just staring at her. A monitor beeps softly in the corner. The room smells like chemicals. Sonya and Sara had to inject J with serious tranquilizers in order to get her body to settle, but it seemed to help: the moment she slowed down, the world outside did, too. The Reestablishment was quick on the uptake, doing such seamless damage control I almost couldn’t believe it. They capitalized on the problem, claiming that what happened this morning was a taste of future devastation. They claimed that they managed to get it under control before it got any worse, and they reminded the people to be grateful for the protections provided by The Reestablishment; that, without them, the world would be a lot worse. It fairly scared the shit out of everyone. Things feel a lot quieter now. The civilians seem subdued in a way they weren’t before. It’s stunning, really, how The Reestablishment managed to convince people that the sky collapsing while the sun just disappeared for a full minute were normal things that could happen in the world. It’s unbelievable that they feed people that kind of bullshit, and it’s unbelievable that people eat it up. But when I’m being super honest with myself, I’ll admit that what scares me the most is that, if I didn’t know any better, I might’ve eaten that shit up, too. I sigh, hard. Drag a hand down my face. This morning feels like a weird dream. Surreal, like one of those melting clock paintings The Reestablishment destroyed. And I’m so wrung out, so tired, I don’t even have the energy to be angry. I’ve only got enough energy to be sad. We’re all just really, really sad. The few of us who could squeeze into this room: me, Castle, Nouria, Sam, Superman (my new nickname for Stephan), Haider, Nazeera, Brendan, Winston, Warner. All of us, sad, sorry sacks. Sonya and Sara left for a bit, but they’ll be coming back soon, and when they do, they’ll be sad, too. Ian and Lily wanted to be here, but Warner kicked them out. He just straight up told them to get out, for reasons he didn’t offer to disclose. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t even look at Ian. Just told him to turn around and leave. Brendan was so stunned his eyes nearly fell out of his head. But all of us were too afraid of Warner to say anything. A small, guilty part of me wondered if maybe Warner knew that Ian talked shit about him that one time, that Warner knew (who knows how) that Ian didn’t want to make the effort to go after him

and J when we lost them at the symposium. I don’t know. It’s just a theory. But it’s obvious Warner is done playing the game. He’s done with courtesy, done with patience, done with giving a single shit about anyone but J. Which means the tension in here is insane right now. Even Castle seems a little nervous around Warner, like he’s not sure about him anymore. The problem is, we all got too comfortable. For a couple of months we forgot that Warner was scary. He smiled like four and a half times and we decided to forget that he was basically a psychopath with a long history of ruthless murder. We thought he’d been reformed. Gone soft. We forgot that he was only tolerating any of us because of Juliette. And now, without her— He no longer seems to belong. Without her, we’re fracturing. The energy in this room has palpably changed. We don’t really feel like a team anymore, and it’s scary how quickly it happened. If only Warner weren’t so determined to be a dickhead. If only he weren’t so eager to put on his old skin, to alienate everyone in this room. If only he’d muster the smallest bit of goodwill, we could turn this whole thing around. Seems unlikely. I’m not as terrified as the others, but I’m not stupid, either. I know his threats of violence aren’t a bluff. The only people unperturbed are the supreme kids. They look right at home with this version of him. Haider, maybe most of all. That dude always seemed on edge, like he had no idea who Warner had turned into and he didn’t know how to process the change. But now? No problem. Super comfortable with psycho Warner. Old pals. Nouria finally breaks the silence. Gently, she clears her throat. A couple of people lift their heads. Warner glares at the floor. “Kenji,” she says softly, “can I talk to you for a minute? Outside?” My body stiffens. I look around, uncertain, like she’s got me confused with someone else. Castle and Nazeera turn sharply in my direction, surprise widening their eyes. Sam, on the other hand, is staring at her wife, struggling to hide her frustration. “Um”—I scratch my head—“maybe we should talk in here,” I say. “As a group?” “Outside, Kishimoto.” Nouria is on her feet, the softness gone from her voice, her face. “Now, please.” Reluctantly, I get to my feet. I lock eyes with Nazeera, wondering if she has an opinion on the situation, but her expression is unreadable. Nouria calls my name again. I shake my head but follow her out the door. She leads me around a corner, into a narrow hallway. It smells overwhelmingly like bleach. J is posted up inside the MT—an obvious nickname for their medical tent—which feels like a misnomer, actually, because the tent element is entirely superficial. The inside of the building is a lot more like a proper hospital, with individual suites and operating rooms. It blew my mind a little the first time I first walked through here, because this space is super different from what we had at Omega Point and Sector 45. But then, before Sonya and Sara showed up, the Sanctuary had no healers. Their medical work was a lot more traditional: practiced by a handful of self-taught doctors and surgeons. There’s something about their old-fashioned, life-threatening medical practices that makes this place feel a lot more like a relic of our old world. A building full of fear. Out here, in the main corridor, I can hear more clearly the standard sounds of a hospital—machines beeping, carts rolling, occasional moans, shouts, pages over an intercom. I flatten myself against the wall as a team of people barrels past, pushing a gurney down the hallway. Its occupant is an

elderly man hooked up to an IV, an oxygen mask on his face. When he sees Nouria, he lifts his hand in a weak wave. Attempts a smile. Nouria gives him a bright smile in return, holding it steady until the man is wheeled into another room. The moment he’s out of sight, she corners me. Her eyes flash, her dark brown skin glowing in the dim light like a warning. My spine straightens. Nouria is surprisingly terrifying. “What the hell happened out there?” she says. “What did you do?” “Okay, first of all”—I hold up both hands—“I didn’t do anything. And I already told you guys exactly what happened—” “You never told me that Emmaline tried to access your mind.” That stops me up. “What? Yes I did. I literally told you that. I used those exact words.” “But you didn’t provide the necessary details,” she says. “How did it start? What did it feel like? Why did she let go?” “I don’t know,” I say, frowning. “I don’t understand what happened—all I’ve got are guesses.” “Then guess,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Unless— She’s not still in your head, is she?” “What? No.” Nouria sighs, more irritation than relief. She touches her fingers to her temples in a show of resignation. “This doesn’t make sense,” she says, almost to herself. “Why would she try so hard to infiltrate Ella’s mind? Why yours? I thought she was fighting against The Reestablishment. This feels more like she’s working for them.” I shake my head. “I don’t think so. When Emmaline was in my head it felt more to me like a desperate, last-ditch effort—like she was worried J wouldn’t have the heart to kill her, and she was hoping I’d get it done faster. She called me brave, but weak. Like, I don’t know, maybe this sounds crazy, but it felt almost like Emmaline thought— for a second—that if I’d made it that far in her presence, I might’ve been strong enough to contain her. But then she jumped in my head and realized she was wrong. I wasn’t strong enough to hold her mind, and definitely not strong enough to kill her.” I shrug. “So she bailed.” Nouria straightens. When she looks at me, she looks stunned. “You think she’s really that desperate to die? You think she wouldn’t put up a fight if someone tried to kill her?” “Yeah, it’s awful,” I say, looking away. “Emmaline’s in a really bad place.” “But she can exist, at least partially, in Ella’s body.” Nouria frowns. “Both consciousnesses in one person. How?” “I don’t know.” I shrug again. “J said that Evie did a bunch of work on her muscles and bones and stuff while she was in Oceania—priming her for Operation Synthesis—to basically become Emmaline’s new body. So I think, ultimately, J playing host to Emmaline is what Evie had planned all along.” “And Emmaline must’ve known,” Nouria says quietly. It’s my turn to frown. “What are you getting at?” “I don’t know, exactly. But this situation complicates things. Because if our goal was to kill Emmaline, and Emmaline is now living in Ella’s body—” “Wait.” My stomach does a terrifying flip. “Is that why we’re out here? Is this why you’re being so secretive?” “Lower your voice,” Nouria says sharply, glancing at something behind me. “I will not lower my fucking voice,” I say. “What the hell are you thinking? What are you— Wait, what do you keep looking at?” I crane my neck but see only a blank wall behind my head. My heart is racing, my mind working too fast. I whip back around to face her. “Tell me the truth,” I demand. “Is this why you cornered me? Because you’re trying to figure out if we can kill J while she’s got Emmaline inside of her? Is that it? Are you insane?” Nouria glares at me. “Is it insane to want to save the world? Emmaline is at the center of everything wrong with our universe right now, and she’s trapped inside a body lying in a room just

down the hall. Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for a moment like this? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t love this line of thinking, Kishimoto, but I’m not—” “Nouria.” At the sound of her wife’s voice, Nouria goes visibly still. She takes a step back from me, and I finally relax. A little. We both turn around. Sam’s not alone. Castle is standing next to her, both of them looking more than a little pissed. “Leave him alone,” Castle says. “Kenji’s been through enough already. He needs time to recuperate.” Nouria tries to respond, but Sam cuts her off. “How many times are we going to talk about this?” she says. “You can’t just shut me out when you’re stressed. You can’t just go off on your own without telling me.” Her blond hair falls into her eyes and, frustrated, she shoves the strands out of her face. “I’m your partner. This is our Sanctuary. Our life. We built it together, remember?” “Sam.” Nouria sighs, squeezing her eyes closed. “You know I’m not trying to shut you out. You know that’s not—” “You are literally shutting me out. You literally shut the door.” My eyebrows fly up my forehead. Castle and I connect glances: we seem to have walked into a private argument. Good. “Hey, Sam,” I say, “did you know that your wife wants to kill Juliette?” Castle gasps. Sam’s body goes slack. She stares at Nouria, stunned. “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Nouria wants to murder her right now, actually, while she’s still comatose. What do you think?” I tilt my head at Sam. “Good idea? Bad idea? Maybe sleep on it?” “That can’t be true,” Sam says, still staring at her wife. “Tell me he’s joking.” “It’s not that simple,” says Nouria, who shoots me a look so venomous I almost feel bad for being petty. I don’t actually want Nouria and Sam to fight, but whatever. She can’t casually suggest murdering my best friend and expect me to be nice about it. “I was just pointing out th—” “Okay, enough.” I look up at the sound of Nazeera’s voice. I have no idea when she showed up, but she’s suddenly in front of us, arms crossed against her chest. “We’re not doing this. No side conversations. No subgroups. We all need to talk about the impending shitstorm headed our way, and if we’re going to have any chance of figuring out how to fight it, we have to stick together.” “Which impending shitstorm?” I ask. “Please be specific.” “I agree with Nazeera,” Sam says, her eyes narrowing at her wife. “Let’s all go back inside the room and talk. To each other. At the same time.” “Sam,” Nouria tries again. “I’m not—” “Bloody hell.” Stephan stops short at the sight of us, his shoes squeaking on the tile. He seems to tower over our group, looking too polished and civilized to belong here. “What on earth are you lot doing out here?” Then, quietly, to Nazeera: “And why’ve you left us alone with him? He’s being a proper ass. Nearly made Haider cry just now.” Nazeera sighs, closing her eyes as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “Haider does this to himself. I don’t understand why he’s deluded himself into thinking Warner is his best friend.” “That, he might well be,” Stephan says, frowning. “The bar is quite low, as you know.” Nazeera sighs again. “If it makes Haider feel any better, Warner’s being equally horrible to just about everyone,” Sam says. She looks at Nouria. “Amir still won’t tell me what Warner said to him, by the way.” “Amir?” Castle frowns. “The young man who oversees the patrol unit?” Sam nods. “He quit this morning.”

“No.” Nouria blinks, stunned. “You’re kidding.” “I wish I were. I had to give his job to Jenna.” “This is crazy.” Nouria shakes her head. “It’s only been three days and already we’re falling apart.” “Three days?” says Stephan. “Three days since we arrived, is that it? That’s not a very nice thing to say.” “We are not falling apart,” Nazeera says suddenly. Angrily. “We can’t afford to fall apart. Not right now. Not with The Reestablishment about to appear at our doorstep.” “Wait—what?” Sam frowns. “The Reestablishment has no idea where we—” “God, this is so depressing,” I groan, running both hands through my hair. “Why are we all at each other’s throats right now? If Juliette were awake, she’d be so pissed at all of us. And she’d be super pissed at Warner for acting like this, for pushing us apart. Doesn’t he realize that?” “No,” Castle says quietly. “Of course he doesn’t.” A sharp knock knock— And we all look up. Winston and Brendan are peering around the corner at us, Brendan’s closed fist held aloft an inch from the wall. He knocks once more against the plaster. Nouria exhales loudly. “Can we help you?” They march over to us, their expressions so different it’s almost—almost—funny. Like light and dark, these two. “Hello, everyone,” Brendan says, smiling brightly. Winston yanks the glasses off his face. Glowers. “What the hell is going on? Why are you all having a conference out here on your own? And why did you leave us alone with him?” “We didn’t,” I try to say. “We’re not,” Sam and Nazeera say at the same time. Winston rolls his eyes. Shoves his glasses back on. “I’m getting too fucking old for this.” “You just need some coffee,” Brendan says, gently patting Winston’s shoulder. “Winston doesn’t sleep very well at night,” he explains to the rest of us. Winston perks up. Goes instantly pink. I smile. I swear, it’s all I do. I just smile, and in a fraction of a second Winston’s locked eyes with me, his death stare screaming, Shut your mouth, Kishimoto, and I don’t even have a chance to be offended before he turns abruptly away, his ears bright red. An uncomfortable silence descends. I wonder, for the first time, if it’s really possible that Brendan has no idea how Winston feels about him. He seems oblivious, but who knows. It’s definitely not a secret to the rest of us. “Well.” Castle takes a sharp breath, claps his hands together. “We were about to go back inside the room to have a proper discussion. So if you gentlemen”—he nods at Winston and Brendan —“wouldn’t mind turning back the way you came? We’re getting a bit cramped in the hall.” “Right.” Brendan glances quickly behind him. “But, um, do you think we might wait another minute or so? Haider was crying, you see, and I think he’d appreciate the privacy.” “Oh, for the love of God,” I groan. “What happened?” Nazeera asks, concern creasing her forehead. “Should I go in there?” Brendan shrugs, his extremely white face glowing almost neon in this dark corridor. “He said something to Warner in Arabic, I believe. And I don’t know exactly what Warner said back to him, but I’m pretty sure he told Haider to sod off, in one way or another.” “Asshole,” Winston mutters. “It’s true, unfortunately.” Brendan frowns. I shake my head. “All right, okay, I know he’s being a dick, but I think we can cut Warner a little slack, right? He’s devastated. Let’s not forget the hell he went through this morning.”

“Pass.” Winston crosses his arms, anger seeming to lift him out of embarrassment. “Haider is crying. Haider Ibrahim. Son of the supreme commander of Asia. He’s sitting in a hospital chair crying because Warner hurt his feelings. I don’t know how you can defend that.” “To be fair,” Stephan interjects, “Haider’s always been a bit delicate.” “Listen, I’m not defending Warner, I’m just—” “Enough.” Castle’s voice is loud. Sharp. “That is quite enough.” Something tugs gently at my neck, startling me, and I notice Castle’s hands are up in the air. Like he just physically turned our heads to face him. He points back down the hall, toward J’s recovery room. I feel a slight push at my back. “Back inside. All of you. Now.”

Haider doesn’t seem any different when we step back inside the room. No evidence of tears. He’s standing in a corner, alone, staring into the middle distance. Warner is in exactly the same position we left him in, sitting stiffly beside J. Staring at her. Staring at her like he might be able to will her back into consciousness. Nazeera claps her hands together, hard. “All right,” she says, “no more interruptions. We need to talk about strategy before we do anything else.” Sam frowns. “Strategy for what? Right now, we need to discuss Emmaline. We need to understand the events of the morning before we can even think about discussing the next steps forward.” “We are going to talk about Emmaline, and the events of the morning,” Nazeera says. “But in order to discuss the Emmaline situation, we’ll need to talk about the Ella situation, which will necessitate a conversation about a larger, overarching strategy—one that will dovetail neatly with a plan to get the supreme kids back.” Castle stares at her, looking just as confused as Sam. “You want to discuss the supreme kids right now? Isn’t it better if we star—” “Idiots,” Haider mutters under his breath. We ignore him. Well, most of us. Nazeera is shaking her head, giving the room at large that same look she gives me so often—the one that expresses her general exhaustion at being surrounded by idiots. “How are you so unable to see how these things connect? The Reestablishment is looking for us. More specifically, they’re looking for Ella. We were supposed to be in hiding, remember? But Emmaline’s egregious display this morning just blew the cover on our location. We all saw the news— you all read the emergency reports. The Reestablishment did serious damage control to subdue the citizens. That means they know what happened here.” Again, more blank stares. “Emmaline just led them directly to Ella,” she says. She says this last sentence really slowly, like she fears for our collective intelligence. “Whether on purpose or by accident, The Reestablishment now has an approximate idea of our location.” Nouria looks stricken. “Which means,” Haider says, drawing the words out with his own irritating condescension, “they’re much closer to finding us now than they were a few hours ago.” Everyone sits up straighter in their chairs. The air is suddenly different, intense in a new way. Nouria and Sam exchange worried glances. It’s Nouria who says, “You really think they know where we are?” “I knew this would happen,” Sam says, shaking her head. Castle stiffens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam bristles, but her words are calm when she says: “We took an enormous risk letting your team stay here. We risked our livelihood and the safety of our own men and women to allow you to take shelter among us. You’re here for three days and already you’ve managed to disclose our location to the world.” “We haven’t disclosed anything— And what happened today was no one’s fault—” Nouria lifts a hand. “Stop,” she says, shooting a look at Sam, a look so brief I almost miss it. “We’re losing our focus again. Nazeera was right when she said we were all in this together. In fact, we came together for the express purpose of defeating The Reestablishment. It’s what we’ve always been working toward. We were never meant to live forever in self-made cages and communities.” “I understand that,” Sam says, her steady voice belying the anger in her eyes. “But if they really know which sector to search, we could be discovered in a matter of days. The Reestablishment will be increasing their military presence within the hour, if they haven’t done so already.” “They have done,” Stephan says, looking just as exasperated as Nazeera. “Of course they have.” “So naive, these people,” Haider says, shooting a dark look at his sister. Nazeera sighs. Winston swears. Sam shakes her head. “So what do you propose?” Winston says, but he’s not looking at Nouria or Sam or Castle. He’s looking at Nazeera. Nazeera doesn’t hesitate. “We wait. We wait for Ella to wake up,” she says. “We need to know as much as we can about what happened to her, and we need to prioritize her security above all else. There’s a reason why Anderson wants her so desperately, and we need to find out what that reason is before we take any next steps.” “But what about a plan for getting the other kids back?” Winston asks. “If we wait for Ella to wake up before making a move to save them, we could be too late.” Nazeera shakes her head. “The plan for the other kids has to be tied up in the plan to save Ella,” she says. “I’m certain that Anderson is using the kidnapping of the supreme kids as bait. A bullshit lure designed to draw us out into the open. Plus, he designed that scheme before he had any idea we’d accidentally out ourselves, which only further supports my theory that this was a bullshit lure. He was only hoping we’d step outside of our protections just long enough to give away our approximate location.” “Which we’ve now done,” Brendan says, quietly horrified. I drop my head in my hands. “Shit.” “It seems clear that Anderson wasn’t planning on doing any kind of honest trade for the hostages,” Nazeera says. “How could he possibly? He never told us where he was. Never told us where to meet him. And most interestingly: he didn’t even ask for the rest of the supreme kids. Whatever his plans are, he doesn’t seem to require the full set of us. He didn’t want Warner or me or Haider or Stephan. All he wanted was Ella, right?” She glances at Nouria. “That’s what you said. That he only wanted Ella?” “Yes,” Nouria says. “That’s true— But I still don’t think I understand. You just laid out all the reasons for us to go to war, but your plan of attack involves doing nothing.” Nazeera can’t hide her irritation. “We should still be making plans to fight,” she says. “We’ll need a plan to find the kids, steal them back, and then, eventually, murder our parents. But I’m proposing we wait for Ella until we make any moves. I’m suggesting we do a full and complete lockdown here at the Sanctuary until Ella is conscious. No going in or out until she wakes up. If you need emergency supplies, Kenji and I can use our stealth to go on discreet missions to find what you need. The Reestablishment will have soldiers posted up everywhere, monitoring every

movement in this area, but as long as we remain isolated, we should be able to buy ourselves some time.” “But we have no idea how long it’ll take for Ella to wake up,” Sam says. “It could be weeks—it could be never—” “Our mission,” Nazeera says, cutting her off, “has to be about protecting Ella at all costs. If we lose her, we lose everything. That’s it. That’s the whole plan right now. Keeping Ella alive and safe is the priority. Saving the kids is secondary. Besides, the kids will be fine. Most of us have been through worse in basic training simulations.” Haider laughs. Stephan makes an amused sound of agreement. “But what about James?” I protest. “What about Adam? They’re not like you guys. They’ve never been prepared for this shit. For God’s sake, James is only ten years old.” Nazeera looks at me then, and for a moment, she falters. “We’ll do our best,” she says. And though her words sound genuinely sympathetic, that’s all she gives me. Our best. That’s it. I feel my heart rate begin to spike. “So we’re just supposed to risk letting them die?” Winston asks. “We’re just supposed to gamble on a ten-year-old’s life? Let him remain imprisoned and tortured at the hands of a sociopath and hope for the best? Are you serious?” “Sometimes sacrifices are necessary,” Stephan says. Haider merely shrugs. “No way, no way,” I say, panicking. “We need another plan. A better plan. A plan that saves everyone, and quickly.” Nazeera looks at me like she feels sorry for me. That’s enough to straighten my spine. I spin around, my panic transforming quickly into anger. I home in on Warner, sitting in the corner like a useless sack of meat. “What about you?” I say to him. “What do you think about this? You’re okay with letting your own brothers die?” The silence is suddenly suffocating. Warner doesn’t answer me for a long time, and the room is too stunned at my stupidity to interfere. I just broke a tacit agreement to pretend Warner doesn’t exist, but now that I’ve provoked the beast, everyone wants to see what happens next. Eventually, Warner sighs. It’s not a calm, relaxing sound. It’s a harsh, angry sound that only seems to leave him more tightly wound. He doesn’t even lift his head when he says, “I’m okay with a lot of things, Kishimoto.” But I’m too far gone to turn back now. “That’s bullshit,” I say, my fists clenching. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. You’re better than this.” Warner says nothing. He doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t stop staring at the same spot on the floor. And I know I shouldn’t antagonize him—I know he’s in a fragile state right now—but I can’t help it. I can’t let this go, not like this. “So that’s it? After everything—that’s it? You’re just going to let James die?” My heart is pounding, hard and heavy in my chest. I feel my frustration peaking, spiraling. “What do you think J would say right now, huh? How do you think she’d feel about you letting someone murder a child?” Warner stands up. Fast, too fast. Warner is on his feet and I’m suddenly sorry. I was feeling a little brave but now I’m feeling nothing but regret. I take an uncertain step back. Warner follows. Suddenly he’s standing in front of me, studying my eyes, but it turns out I can’t hold his gaze for longer than a second. His

eyes are such a pale green they’re disorienting to look at on his good days. But today— Right now — He looks insane. I notice, when I turn away, that he’s still got blood on his fingers. Blood smeared across his throat. Blood streaking through his gold hair. “Look at me,” he says. “Um, no thanks.” “Look at me,” he says again, quietly this time. I don’t know why I do it. I don’t know why I give in. I don’t know why there’s still a part of me that believes in Warner and hopes to see something human in his eyes. But when I finally look up, I lose that hope. Warner looks cold. Detached. All wrong. I don’t understand it. I mean, I’m devastated, too. I’m upset, too, but I didn’t turn into a completely different person. And right now, Warner seems like a completely different person. Where’s the guy who was going to propose to my best friend? Where’s the guy having a panic attack on his bedroom floor? Where’s the guy who laughed so hard his cheeks dimpled? Where’s the guy I thought was my friend? “What happened to you, man?” I whisper. “Where’d you go?” “Hell,” he says. “I’ve finally found hell.”

ELLA JULIETTE

I wake in waves, consciousness bathing me slowly. I break the surface of sleep, gasping for air before I’m pulled under another current another current another Memories wrap around me, bind my bones. I sleep. When I sleep, I dream I am sleeping. In those dreams, I dream I am dead. I can’t tell real from fiction, can’t tell dreams from truth, can’t tell time anymore it might’ve been days or years who knows who knows I begin to s t i r I dream even as I wake, dream of red lips and slender fingers, dream of eyes, hundreds of eyes, I dream of air and anger and death. I dream Emmaline’s dreams. She’s here. She went quiet once she settled here, in my mind. She stilled, retreated. Hid from me, from the world. I feel heavy with her presence but she does not speak, she only decays, her mind decomposing slowly, leaving compost in its wake. I am heavy with it, heavy with her refuse. I am incapable of carrying this weight, no matter how strong Evie made me I am incapable, incompatible. I am not enough to hold our minds, combined. Emmaline’s powers are too much. I drown in it, I drown in it, I gasp when my head breaks the surface again. I drag air into my lungs, beg my eyes to open and they laugh. Eyes laughing at lungs gasping at pain ricocheting up my spine.

Today, there is a boy. Not one of the regular boys. Not Aaron or Stephan or Haider. This is a new boy, a boy I’ve never met before. I can tell, just by standing next to him, that he’s terrified. We stand in the big, wide room filled with trees. We stare at the white birds, the birds with the yellow streaks and the crowns on their heads. The boy stares at the birds like he’s never seen anything like them. He stares at everything with surprise. Or fear. Or worry. It makes me realize that he doesn’t know how to hide his emotions. Whenever Mr. Anderson looks at him, he sucks in his breath. Whenever I look at him, he goes bright red. Whenever Mum speaks to him, he stutters. “What do you think?” Mr. Anderson says to Mum. He tries to whisper, but this room is so big it echoes a little. Mum tilts her head at the boy. Studies him. “He’s what, six years old now?” But she doesn’t wait for him to answer. Mum just shakes her head and sighs. “Has it really been that long?” Mr. Anderson looks at the boy. “Unfortunately.” I glance at him, at the boy standing next to me, and watch as he stiffens. Tears spring to his eyes, and it hurts to watch. It hurts so much. I hate Mr. Anderson so much. I don’t know why Mum likes him. I don’t know why anyone likes him. Mr. Anderson is an awful person, and he hurts Aaron all the time. In fact— Now that I think about it, there’s something about this boy that reminds me of Aaron. Something about his eyes. “Hey,” I whisper, and turn to face him. He swallows, hard. Wipes at his tears with the edge of his sleeve. “Hey,” I try again. “I’m Ella. What’s your name?” The boy looks up, then. His eyes are a deep, dark blue. He’s the saddest boy I’ve ever met, and it makes me sad just to look at him. “I’m A-Adam,” he says quietly. He turns red again. I take his hand in mine. Smile at him. “We’re going to be friends, okay? Don’t worry about Mr. Anderson. No one likes him. He’s mean to all of us, I promise.” Adam laughs, but his eyes are still red. His hand trembles in mine, but he doesn’t let go. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “He’s pretty mean to me.” I squeeze his hand. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll protect you.” Adam smiles at me then. Smiles a real smile. But when we finally look up again, Mr. Anderson is staring at us. He looks angry.

There’s a buzzing building inside of me, a mass of sound that consumes thought, devours conversation. We are flies—gathering, swarming—bulging eyes and fragile bones flittering nervously toward imagined destinies. We hurl our bodies at the panes of tantalizing windows, aching for the world promised on the other side. Day after day we drag injured wings and eyes and organs around the same four walls; open or closed, the exits elude us. We hope to be rescued by a breeze, hoping for a chance to see the sun. Decades pass. Centuries stack together. Our bruised bodies still careen through the air. We continue to hurl ourselves at promises. There is madness in the repetition, in the repetition, in the repetition that underscores our lives. It is only in the desperate seconds before death that we realize the windows against which we broke our bodies were only mirrors, all along.

KENJI

It’s been four days. Four days of nothing. J is still sleeping. The twins are calling it a coma, but I’m calling it sleeping. I’m choosing to believe J is just really, really tired. She just needs to sleep off some stress and she’ll be fine. This is what I keep telling everyone. She’ll be fine. “She’s just tired,” I say to Brendan. “And when she wakes up she’ll be glad we waited for her to go get James. It’ll be fine.” We’re in the Q, which is short for the quiet tent, which is stupid because it’s never quiet in here. The Q is the default common room. It’s a gathering space slash game room where people at the Sanctuary get together in the evenings and relax. I’m in the kitchen area, leaning against the insubstantial counter. Brendan and Winston and Ian and I are waiting for the electric kettle to boil. Tea. This was Brendan’s idea, of course. For some reason, we could never get our hands on tea back at Omega Point. We only had coffee, and it was seriously rationed. Only after we moved onto base in Sector 45 did Brendan realize we could get our hands on tea, but even then he wasn’t so militant about it. But here— Brendan’s made it his mission to force hot tea down our throats every night. He doesn’t even need the caffeine—his ability to manipulate electricity always keeps his body charged—but he says he likes it because he finds the ritual soothing. So, whatever. Now we gather in the evenings and drink tea. Brendan puts milk in his tea. Winston adds whiskey. Ian and I drink it black. “Right?” I say, when no one answers me. “I mean, a coma is basically just a really long nap. J will be fine. The girls will get her better, and then she’ll be fine, and everything will be fine. And James and Adam will be fine, obviously, because Sam’s seen them and she says they’re fine.” “Sam saw them and said they were unconscious,” Ian says, opening and closing cabinets. When he finds what he’s looking for—a sleeve of cookies—he rips the package open. He doesn’t even have a chance to pull one free before Winston’s swiped it. “Those cookies are for our tea,” he says sharply. Ian glowers. We all glance at Brendan, who seems oblivious to the sacrifices being made in his honor. “Yes, Sam said that they were unconscious,” he says, collecting small spoons from a drawer. “But she also said they looked stable. Alive.” “Exactly,” I say, pointing at Brendan. “Thank you. Stable. Alive. These are the critical words.” Brendan takes the rescued sleeve of cookies from Winston’s proffered hand, and begins arranging dishes and flatware with a confidence that baffles us all. He doesn’t look up when he says, “It’s really kind of amazing, isn’t it?” Winston and I share a confused look. “I wouldn’t call it amazing,” Ian says, plucking a spoon from the tray. He examines it. “But I guess forks and shit are pretty cool, as far as inventions go.” Brendan frowns. Looks up. “I’m talking about Sam. Her ability to see across long distances.” He retrieves the spoon from Ian’s hand and replaces it on the tray. “What a remarkable skill.” Sam’s preternatural ability to see across long distances was what convinced us of Anderson’s threats to begin with. Several days ago—when we first got the news about the kidnapping—she’d used both data and sheer determination to pinpoint Anderson’s location to our old base at Sector 45. She’d spent a straight fourteen hours searching, and though she hadn’t been able to get a visual on the other supreme kids, she’d been able to see flickers of James and Adam, who are the only ones I care about anyway. Those flickers of life—unconscious, but alive and stable—aren’t much in the way of assurances, but I’m willing to take anything at this point. “Anyway, yeah. Sam is great,” I say, stretching out against the counter. “Which brings me back to my original point: Adam and James are going to be fine. And J is going to wake up soon and be

fine. The world owes me at least that much, right?” Brendan and Ian exchange glances. Winston takes off his glasses and cleans them, slowly, with the hem of his shirt. The electric kettle pops and steams. Brendan drops a couple of tea bags into a proper teapot and fills its porcelain belly with the hot water from the kettle. He then wraps the teapot in a towel and hands it to Winston, and the two of them carry everything over to the little corner of the room we’ve been claiming for ourselves lately. It’s nothing major, just a cluster of seats with a couple of low tables in the middle. The rest of the room is abuzz with activity. Lots of talking and mingling. Nouria and Sam are alone in a corner, deep in conversation. Castle is talking quietly with the girls, Sonya and Sara. We’ve all been spending a lot of time here—pretty much everyone has—ever since the Sanctuary was declared officially on lockdown. We’re all in this weird limbo right now; there’s so much happening, but we’re not allowed to leave the grounds. We can’t go anywhere or do anything about anything. Not yet, anyway. Just waiting for J to wake up. Any minute now. There are a ton of other people here, too—but only some I’m beginning to recognize. I nod hello to a couple of people I know only by name, and drop into a soft, well-worn armchair. It smells like coffee and old wood in here, but I’m starting to like it. It’s becoming a familiar routine. Brendan, as usual, finishes setting everything up on the coffee table. Teacups, spoons, little plates and triangle napkins. A little pitcher for milk. He’s really, really into this whole thing. He readjusts the cookies he’d already arranged on a plate, and smooths out the paper napkins. Ian stares at him with the same expression every night—like Brendan is crazy. “Hey,” Winston says sharply. “Knock it off.” “Knock what off ?” Ian says, incredulous. “Come on, man, you don’t think this is a little weird? Having tea parties every night?” Winston lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’ll kill you if you ruin this for him.” “All right, enough. I’m not deaf, you know.” Brendan narrows his eyes at Ian. “And I don’t care if you lot think it’s weird. I’ve little left of England, save this.” That shuts us up. I stare at the teapot. Brendan says it’s steeping. And then, suddenly, he claps his hands together. He stares straight at me, his ice-blue eyes and white-blond hair giving me Warner vibes. But somehow, even with all his bright, white, cold hues, Brendan is the opposite of Warner. Unlike Warner, Brendan glows. He’s warm. Kind. Naturally hopeful and super smiley. Poor Winston. Winston, who’s secretly in love with Brendan and too afraid of ruining their friendship to say anything about it. Winston thinks he’s too old for Brendan, but the thing is— he’s not getting any younger, either. I keep telling Winston that if he wants to make a move, he should do it now, while he’s still got his original hips, and he says, Ha ha I’ll murder you, asshole, and reminds me he’s waiting for the right moment. But I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’ll keep it inside forever. And I’m worried it might kill him. “So, listen,” Brendan says carefully. “We wanted to talk to you.” I blink, refocusing. “Who? Me?” I glance around at their faces. Suddenly, they all look serious. Too serious. I try to laugh when I ask, “What’s going on? Is this some kind of intervention?” “Yes,” Brendan says. “Sort of.” I go suddenly stiff. Brendan sighs. Winston scratches a spot on his forehead. Ian says, “Juliette is probably going to die, you know that, right?”

Relief and irritation flood through me simultaneously. I manage to roll my eyes and shake my head at the same time. “Stop doing this, Sanchez. Don’t be that guy. It’s not funny anymore.” “I’m not trying to be funny.” I roll my eyes again, this time looking to Winston for support, but he just shakes his head at me. His eyebrows furrow so hard his glasses slip down his nose. He tugs them off his face. “This is serious,” he says. “She’s not okay. And even if she does wake up again— I mean, whatever happened to her—” “She’s not going to be the same,” Brendan finishes for him. “Says who?” I frown. “The girls said—” “Bro, the girls said that something about her chemistry changed. They’ve been running tests on her for days. Emmaline did something weird to her—something that’s, like, physically altered her DNA. Plus, her brain is fried.” “I know what they said,” I snap, irritated. “I was there when they said it. But the girls were just being cautious. They think it’s possible that whatever happened to her might’ve left some damage, but—this is Sonya and Sara we’re talking about. They can heal anything. All we need to do is wait for J to wake up.” Winston shakes his head again. “They wouldn’t be able to heal something like that,” he says. “The girls can’t repair that kind of neurological devastation. They might be able to keep her alive, but I’m not sure they’ll be able t—” “She might not even wake up,” Ian says, cutting him off. “Like, ever. Or, best-case scenario, she could be in a coma for years. Listen, the point here is that we need to start making plans without her. If we’re going to save James and Adam, we need to go now. I know Sam’s been checking on them, and I know she says they’re stable for now, but we can’t wait anymore. Anderson doesn’t know what happened to Juliette, which means he’s still waiting for us to give her up. Which means Adam and James are still at risk— Which means we’re running out of time. And, for once,” he says, taking a breath, “I’m not the only one who feels this way.” I sit back, stunned. “You’re messing with me, right?” Brendan pours tea. Winston pulls a flask out of his pocket and weighs it in his hand before holding it out to me. “Maybe you should have this tonight,” he says. I glare at him. He shrugs, and empties half the flask into his teacup. “Listen,” Brendan says gently. “Ian is a beast with no bedside manner, but he’s not wrong. It’s time to think of a new plan. We all still love Juliette, it’s just—” He cuts himself off, frowns. “Wait, is it Juliette or Ella? Was there ever a consensus?” I’m still scowling when I say, “I’m calling her Juliette.” “But I thought she wanted to be called Ella,” Winston says. “She’s in a fucking coma,” Ian says, and takes a loud sip of tea. “She doesn’t care what you call her.” “Don’t be such a brute,” Brendan says. “She’s our friend.” “Your friend,” he mutters. “Wait— Is that what this is about?” I sit forward. “Are you jealous she never best-friended you, Sanchez?” Ian rolls his eyes, looks away. Winston is watching with fascinated interest. “All right, drink your tea,” Brendan says, biting into a biscuit. He gestures at me with the halfeaten cookie. “It’s getting cold.” I shoot him a tired look, but I take an obligatory sip and nearly choke. It tastes weird tonight. And I’m about to push it away when I realize Brendan is still staring at me, so I take a long, disgusting pull of the dark liquid before replacing the cup in the saucer. I try not to gag.

“Okay,” I say, slamming my palms down on my thighs. “Let’s put it to a vote: Who here thinks Ian is annoyed that J didn’t fall in love with him when she showed up at Point?” Winston and Brendan share a look. Slowly, they both lift their hands. Ian rolls his eyes again. “Pendejos,” he mutters. “The theory holds at least a little water,” Winston says. “I have a girlfriend, dumbasses.” And as if on cue, Lily looks up from across the room, locks eyes with Ian. She’s sitting with Alia and some other girl I don’t recognize. Lily waves. Ian waves back. “Yes, but you’re used to a certain level of attention,” Winston says, reaching for a biscuit. He looks up, scans the room. “Like those girls, right over there,” he says, gesturing with his head. “They’ve been staring at you since you walked in.” “They have not,” Ian says, but he can’t help but glance over. “It’s true.” Brendan shrugs. “You’re a handsome guy.” Winston chokes on his tea. “Okay, enough.” Ian holds up his hands. “I know you guys think this is hilarious, but I’m being serious. At the end of the day, Juliette is your friend. Not mine.” I exhale dramatically. Ian shoots me a look. “When she first showed up at Point, I tried reaching out to her, to offer her my friendship, and she never followed up. And even after we were taken hostage by Anderson”— he nods an acknowledgment at Brendan and Winston—“she took her sweet time trying to get information out of Warner. She never gave a shit about the rest of us, and all we’ve ever done is put everything on the line to protect her.” “Hey, that’s not fair,” Winston says, shaking his head. “She was in an awful position—” “Whatever,” Ian mutters. He looks down, into his tea. “This whole situation is some kind of bullshit.” “Cheers to that,” Brendan says, refilling his cup. “Now have more tea.” Ian mutters a quiet, angry thank-you, and lifts the cup to his lips. Suddenly, he stiffens. “And then there’s this,” he says, raising an eyebrow. As if all that weren’t enough, we have to deal with this douche bag.” Ian gestures, with the teacup, toward the entrance. Shit. Warner is here. “She brought him here,” Ian is saying, but he has the sense, at least, to keep his voice down. “It’s because of her that we have to tolerate this asshole.” “To be fair, that was originally Castle’s idea,” I point out. Ian flips me off. “What’s he doing here?” Brendan asks quietly. I shake my head and take another unconscious sip of my disgusting tea. There’s something about the grossness that’s beginning to feel familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. I look up again. I haven’t spoken a word to Warner since that first day—The day J got attacked by Emmaline. He’s been a ghost since then. No one has really seen him, no one but the supreme kids, I think. He went straight back to his roots. It looks like he finally took a shower, though. No blood. And I’m guessing he healed himself, though there’s no way to be sure, because he’s fully clothed, wearing an outfit I can only assume was borrowed from Haider. A lot of leather. I watch, for only a few seconds, as he stalks clear across the room—straight through people and conversations and apologizing to no one—toward Sonya and Sara, who are still talking to Castle. Whatever.

Dude doesn’t even look at me anymore. Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. Not that I care. It’s not like we were actually friends. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. Somehow I’ve already drained my teacup, because Brendan’s refilled it. I throw back the fresh cup in a couple of quick gulps and shove a dry biscuit in my mouth. And then I shake my head. “All right, we’re getting distracted,” I say, and the words feel just a little too loud, even to my own ears. “Focus, please.” “Right,” Winston says. “Focus. What are we focusing on?” “New mission,” Ian says, sitting back in his chair. He counts off on his fingers: “Save Adam and James. Kill the other supreme commanders. Finally get some sleep.” “Nice and easy,” Brendan says. “I like it.” “You know what?” I say. “I think I should go talk to him.” Winston raises an eyebrow. “Talk to who?” “Warner, obviously.” My brain feels warm. A little fuzzy. “I should go talk to him. No one talks to him. Why are we just letting him revert back into an asshole? I should talk to him.” “That’s a great idea,” Ian says, smiling as he sits forward. “Go for it.” “Don’t you dare listen to him,” Winston says, shoving Ian back into his chair. “Ian just wants to watch you get murdered.” “Fucking rude, Sanchez.” Ian shrugs. “On an unrelated note,” Winston says to me. “How does your head feel?” I frown, gingerly touching my fingers to my skull. “What do you mean?” “I mean,” Winston says, “that this is probably a good time to tell you I’ve been pouring whiskey in your tea all night.” “What the hell?” I sit up too fast. Bad idea. “Why?” “You seemed stressed.” “I’m not stressed.” Everyone stares at me. “All right, whatever,” I say. “I’m stressed. But I’m not drunk.” “No.” He peers at me. “But you probably need all the brain cells you can spare if you’re going to talk to Warner. I would. I’m not too proud to admit that I find him genuinely terrifying.” Ian rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing terrifying about that guy. His only problem is that he’s an arrogant son of a puta with his own head stuck so far up his ass he ca—” “Wait,” I say, blinking. “Where’d he go?” Everyone spins around, looking for him. I swear, five seconds ago he was standing right there. I swivel my head back and forth like a cartoon character, understanding only vaguely that I’m moving both a little too fast and a little too slow due to Winston, number one idiot slash well-meaning friend. But in the process of scanning the room for Warner, I spot the one person I’d been making an effort to avoid: Nazeera. I fling myself back down in my chair too hard, nearly knocking myself out. I hunch over, breathing a little funny, and then, for no rational reason, I start laughing. Winston, Ian, and Brendan are all staring at me like I’m insane, and I don’t blame them. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t even know why I’m hiding from Nazeera. There’s nothing scary about her, not exactly. Nothing more scary than the fact that we haven’t really discussed the last emotional conversation we had, shortly after she kicked me in the back and I nearly murdered her for it. She told me I was her first kiss. And then the sky melted and Juliette was possessed by her sister and the romantic moment was forever interrupted. It’s been about five days since she and I had that conversation, and ever since

then it’s just been super stress and work and more stress and Anderson is an asshole and James and Adam are being held hostage. Also: I’ve been pissed at her. There’s a part of me that would really, really like to just carry her away to a private corner somewhere, but there’s another part of me that won’t allow it. Because I’m mad at her. She knew how much it meant to me to go after James, and she just shrugged it off with little to no sympathy. A little sympathy, I guess. But not much. Anyway, am I thinking too much? I think I’m thinking too much. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Ian is staring at me, stunned. “Nazeera is here.” “So?” “So, I don’t know, Nazeera is here,” I say, keeping my voice low. “And I don’t want to talk to her.” “Why not?” “Because my head is stupid right now, that’s why not.” I glare at Winston. “You did this to me. You made my head stupid, and now I have to avoid Nazeera, because if I don’t, I will almost certainly do and or say something extremely stupid and fuck everything up. So I need to hide.” “Damn,” Ian says, and shrugs. “That’s too bad, because she’s heading straight here.” I stiffen. Stare at him. And then, to Brendan: “Is he lying?” Brendan shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, mate.” “Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit.” “It’s nice to see you, too, Kenji.” I look up. She’s smiling. Ugh, so pretty. “Hi,” I say. “How are you?” She looks around. Fights back a laugh. “I’m good,” she says. “How . . . are you?” “Fine. Fine. Thanks for asking. It was nice seeing you.” Nazeera glances from me to the other guys and back again. “I know you hate it when I ask you this, but— Are you drunk?” “No,” I say too loudly. I slump down farther in my seat. “Not drunk. Just a little . . . fuzzy.” The whiskey is starting to settle now, warm, liquid fingers reaching up around my brain and squeezing. She raises an eyebrow. “Winston did it,” I say, and point. He shakes his head and sighs. “All right,” Nazeera says, but I can hear the mild irritation in her voice. “Well, this is not the ideal situation, but I’m going to need you on your feet.” “What?” I crane my head. Look at her. “Why?” “There’s been a development with Ella.” “What kind of development?” I sit straight up, feeling suddenly sober. “Is she awake?” Nazeera tilts her head. “Not exactly,” she says. “Then what?” “You should come see for yourself.”

Adam feels close.

ELLA JULIETTE

I can almost see him in my mind, a blurred form, watercolors bleeding through membrane, staining the whites of my eyes. He is a flooded river, blues in lakes so dark, water in oceans so heavy I sag, surrendering to the heft of the sea.

I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with tears, feathers of strange birds fluttering against my closed eyes. I see a flash of dirty-blond hair and darkness and stone I see blue and green and Warmth, suddenly, an exhalation in my veins— Emmaline. Still here, still swimming. She has grown quiet of late, the fire of her presence reduced to glowing embers. She is sorry for taking me from myself. Sorry for the inconvenience. Sorry to have disturbed my world so deeply. Still, she does not want to leave. She likes it here, likes stretching out inside my bones. She likes the dry air and the taste of real oxygen. She likes the shape of my fingers, the sharpness of my teeth. She is sorry, but not sorry enough to go back, so she is trying to be very small and very quiet. She hopes to make it up to me by taking up as little space as possible. I don’t know how I understand this so clearly, except that her mind seems to have fused with mine. Conversation is no longer necessary. Explanations, redundant. In the beginning, she inhaled everything. Excited, eager—she took it all. New skin. Eyes and mouth. I felt her marvel at my anatomy, at the systems drawing in air through my nose. I seemed to exist here almost as an afterthought, blood pumping through an organ beating merely to pass the time. I was little more than a passenger in my own body, doing nothing as she explored and decayed in starts and sparks, steel scraping against itself, stunning contractions of pain like claws digging, digging. It’s better now that she’s settled, but her presence has faded to all but an aching sadness. She seems desperate to find purchase as she disintegrates, unwittingly taking with her bits and pieces of my mind. Some days are better than others. Some days the fire of her existence is so acute I forget to draw breath. But most days I am an idea, and nothing more. I am foam and smoke moonlighting as skin. Dandelions gather in my rib cage, moss growing steadily along my spine. Rainwater floods my eyes, pools in my open mouth, dribbles down the hinges holding together my lips. I continue to

sink. And then— why now? suddenly surprisingly chest heaving, lungs working, fists clenching, knees bending, pulse racing, blood pumping

I float

“Ms. Ferrars— That is, Ella—”

“Her name is Juliette. Just call her Juliette, for God’s sake.” “Why don’t we call her what she wants to be called?” “Right. Exactly.” “But I thought she wanted to be called Ella.” “There was never a consensus. Was there a consensus?”

Slowly, my eyelids flutter open. Silence explodes, coating mouths and walls and doors and dust motes. It hangs in the air, cloaking everything, for all of two seconds. Then Shouts, screams, a million sounds. I try to count them all and my head spins, swims. My heart is pounding hard and fast in my chest, recklessly shaking me, shaking my hands, ringing my skull. I look around fast, too fast, head whipping back and forth and everything swings around and around and So many faces, blurred and strange. I’m breathing too hard, spots dotting my vision, and I place two hands down on the—I look down —bed below me and squeeze my eyes shut

What am I Who am I Where am I

Silence again, swift and complete, like magic, magic, a hush falls over everyone, everything, and I exhale, panic draining out of me and I sit back, soaking in the dregs when Warm hands touch mine. Familiar.

I go suddenly still. My eyes stay closed. Feeling moves through me like a wildfire, flames devouring the dust in my chest, the kindling in my bones. Hands become arms around me and the fire blazes. My own hands are caught between us and I feel the hard lines of his body through the soft cotton of his shirt. A face appears, disappears, behind my eyes. There’s something so safe here in the feel of him, in the scent of him—something entirely his own. Being near him does something to me, something I can’t even explain, can’t control. I know I shouldn’t, know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but drag the tips of my fingers down the perfect lines of his torso. I hear his breath catch. Flames leap through me, jump up my lungs and I inhale, dragging oxygen into my body that only fans the flames further. One of his hands clasps the back of my head, the other grasps at my waist. A flash of heat roars up my spine, reaches into my skull. His lips are at my ear whispering, whispering

Come back to life, love I’ll be here when you wake up

My eyes fly open. The heat is merciless. Confusing. Consuming. It calms me, settles my raging heart. His hands move along my body, light touches along my arms, the sides of my torso. I claw my way back to him by memory, my shaking hands tracing the familiar shape of his back, my cheek still pressed against the familiar beat of his heart. The scent of him, so familiar, so familiar, and then I look up — His eyes, something about his eyes

Please, he says, please don’t shoot me for this The room comes into focus by degrees, my head settling onto my neck, my skin settling onto my bones, my eyes staring into the very desperately green eyes that seem to know too much, too well. Aaron Warner Anderson is bent over me, his worried eyes inspecting me, his hand caught in the air like he might’ve been about to touch me. He jerks back. He stares, unblinking, chest rising and falling. “Good morning,” I assume. I’m unsure of my voice, of the hour and this day, of these words leaving my lips and this body that contains me. His smile looks like it hurts. “Something’s wrong,” he whispers. He touches my cheek. Soft, so soft, like he’s not sure if I’m real, like he’s afraid if he gets too close I’ll just oh, look she’s gone, she’s just disappeared. His four fingers graze the side of my face, slowly, so slowly before they slip behind my head, caught in that in-between spot just above my neck. His thumb brushes the apple of my cheek. My heart implodes. He keeps looking at me, looking into my eyes for help, for guidance, for some sign of a protest like he’s so sure I’m going to start screaming or crying or running away but I won’t. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to because I don’t want to. I want to stay here. Right here. I want to be paralyzed by this moment. He moves closer, just an inch. His free hand reaches up to cup the other side of my face. He’s holding me like I’m made of feathers. Like I’m a bird. White with streaks of gold like a crown atop its head. I will fly. A soft, shuddering breath leaves his body. “Something’s wrong,” he says again, but distantly, like he might be talking to someone else. “Her energy is different. Tainted.” The sound of his voice coils through me, spirals around my spine. I feel myself straighten even as I feel strange, jet-lagged, like I’ve traveled through time. I pull myself into a seated position and Warner shifts to accommodate me. I’m tired and weak from hunger, but other than a few general aches, I seem to be fine. I’m alive. I’m breathing and blinking and feeling human and I know exactly why. I meet his eyes. “You saved my life.” He tilts his head at me.

He’s still studying me, his gaze so intense I flush, confused, and turn away. The moment I do, I nearly jump out of my skin. Castle and Kenji and Winston and Brendan and a ton of other people I don’t recognize are all staring at me, at Warner’s hands on me, and I’m suddenly so mortified I don’t even know what to do with myself. “Hey, princess.” Kenji waves. “You okay?” I try to stand and Warner tries to help me and the moment his skin brushes mine another sudden, destabilizing bolt of feeling runs me over. I stumble, sideways, into his arms and he pulls me in, his heat setting fire to my body all over again. I’m trembling, heart pounding, nervous pleasure pulsing through me. I don’t understand. I’m overcome by a sudden, inexplicable need to touch him, to press my skin against his skin until the friction sets fire to us both. Because there’s something about him—there’s always been something about him that’s intrigued me and I don’t understand it. I pull away, startled by the intensity of my own thoughts, but his fingers catch me under the chin. He tilts my face toward him. I look up. His eyes are such a strange shade of green: bright, crystal clear, piercing in the most alarming way. His hair is thick, the richest slice of gold. Everything about him is meticulous. Pristine. His breath is cool and fresh. I can feel it on my face. My eyes close automatically. I breathe him in, feeling suddenly giddy. A bubble of laughter escapes my lips. “Something’s definitely wrong,” someone says. “Yeah, she doesn’t look like she’s okay.” Someone else. “Oh, okay, so we’re all just saying really obvious things out loud? Is that what we’re doing?” Kenji. Warner says nothing. I feel his arms tighten around me and my eyes flicker open. His gaze is fixed on mine, his eyes green flames that will not extinguish and his chest is rising and falling so fast, so fast, so fast. His lips are there, right there above mine. “Ella?” he whispers. I frown. My eyes flick up, to his eyes, then down, to his lips. “Love, do you hear me?” When I don’t answer, his face changes. “Juliette,” he says softly, “can you hear me?” I blink at him. I blink and blink and blink at him and find I’m still fascinated by his eyes. Such a startling shade of green. “We’re going to need everyone to clear the room,” someone says suddenly. Loudly. “We need to begin running tests immediately.” The girls, I realize. It’s the girls. They’re here. They’re trying to get him away from me, trying to get him to break away from me. But Warner’s arms are like steel bands around my body. He refuses. “Not yet,” he says urgently. “Not just yet.” And for some reason they listen. Maybe they see something in him, see something in his face, in his features. Maybe they see what I see from this disjointed, foggy perspective. The desperation in his expression, the anguish carved into his features, the way he looks at me, like he might die if I do. Tentatively, I reach up, touch my fingers to his face. His skin is smooth and cold. Porcelain. He doesn’t seem real. “What’s wrong?” I say. “What happened?” Impossibly, Warner goes paler. He shakes his head and presses his face to my cheek. “Please,” he whispers. “Come back to me, love.”

“Aaron?” I hear the small hitch in his breath. The hesitation. It’s the first time I’ve used his name so casually. “Yes?” “I want you to know,” I tell him, “that I don’t think you’re crazy.” “What?” He startles. “I don’t think you’re crazy,” I say. “And I don’t think you’re a psychopath. I don’t think you’re a heartless murderer. I don’t care what anyone else says about you. I think you’re a good person.” Warner is blinking fast now. I can hear him breathing. In and out. Unevenly. A flash of stunning, searing pain, and my body goes suddenly slack. I see the glint of metal. I feel the burn of the syringe. My head begins to swim and all the sounds begin to melt together. “Come on, son,” Castle says, his voice expanding, slowing down, “I know this is hard, but we need you to step back. We have t—” An abrupt, violent sound gives me a sudden moment of clarity. A man I don’t recognize is at the door, one hand on the doorframe, gasping for breath. “They’re here,” he says. “They’ve found us. They’re here. Jenna is dead.”

KENJI

The guy gasping at the doorframe is still finishing his sentence when everyone jumps into action. Nouria and Sam rush past him into the hall, shouting orders and commands—something about initiating protocol for System Z, something about gathering the children, the elderly, and the sick. Sonya and Sara press something into Warner’s hands, glance one last time at J’s limp, unconscious figure, and chase Nouria and Sam out the door. Castle crouches to the ground, closing his eyes as he flattens his hands against the floor, listening. Feeling. “Eleven—no twelve, bodies. About five hundred feet out. I’d guess we have about two minutes before they reach us. I’ll do my best to slow them down until we can clear out of here.” He looks up. “Mr. Ibrahim?” I don’t even realize Haider is here with us until he says, “That’s more than enough time.” He stalks across the room to the wall opposite Juliette’s bed, running his hands along the smooth surface, ripping down picture frames and monitors as he goes. Glass and wood shatter in a heap on the floor. Nazeera gasps, goes suddenly still. I turn, terrified, to face her and she says— “I need to tell Stephan.” She dashes out the door. Warner is unhooking Juliette from the bed, removing her needles, bandaging her wounds. Once she’s free, he wraps her sleeping body in the soft blue robe hanging nearby, and at nearly the exact same moment, I hear the telltale ticking of a bomb. I glance back, at the wall where Haider still stands. Two carefully spaced explosives are now affixed to the plaster, and I hardly even have time to digest this before Haider bellows at us to move out into the hall. Warner is already halfway out the door, holding the carefully wrapped bundle of J in his arms. I hear Castle’s voice—a sudden cry—and my own body is lifted and thrown out the door, too. The room explodes. The walls shake so hard it rattles my teeth, but when the tremors settle, I rush back into the room. Haider blew off a single wall.

A perfect, exact rectangle of wall. Gone. I didn’t even know such a feat was possible. Pieces of brick and wood and drywall are scattered on the open ground beyond J’s room, and cold night winds rush in, slapping me awake. The moon is excessively full and bright tonight, a spotlight shining directly into my eyes. I’m stunned. Haider explains without prompting: “The hospital is too big, too complicated—we needed an efficient exit. The Reestablishment won’t care about collateral damage when they come for us—in fact, they might be craving it—but if we’re to have any hope of sparing innocent lives, we have to remove ourselves as far from the central buildings and common spaces as possible. Now move out,” he shouts. “Let’s go.” But I’m reeling. I blink at Haider, still recovering from the blast, the lingering whisper of whiskey in my brain, and now this: Proof that Haider Ibrahim has a conscience. He and Warner stalk past me, through the open wall, and start running into the gleaming woods, Warner with J in his arms. Neither of them bothers to explain what they’re thinking. Where they’re going. What the hell is going to happen next. Well, actually, I think that last part is obvious. What’s going to happen next is that Anderson is going to show up and try to murder us. Castle and I lock eyes—we’re the last people still standing in what remains of J’s hospital room— and we chase after Warner and Haider toward a clearing at the far end of the Sanctuary, as far away from the tents as possible. At one point Warner breaks off from our group, disappearing down a path so dark I can’t see the end of it. When I move to follow, Haider barks at me to leave him alone. I don’t know what Warner does with Juliette, but when he rejoins us, she’s no longer in his arms. He says something, briefly, to Haider, but it sounds like French. Not Arabic. French. Whatever. I don’t have time to think about it. It’s already been five minutes, by my estimate. Five minutes, which means they should be here any second now. There are twelve bodies incoming. There are only four of us here. Me, Haider, Castle, Warner. I’m freezing. We’re standing quietly in the darkness, waiting for death, and the individual seconds seem to tick by with excruciating slowness. The smell of wet earth and decaying vegetation fills my head and I look down, feeling but not seeing the thick pile of leaves underfoot. They’re soft and slightly damp, rustling a little when I shift my weight. I try not to move. Every sound unnerves me. A sudden shudder of branches. An innocent breeze. My own ragged breaths. It’s too dark. Even the bright, robust moon isn’t enough to properly penetrate these woods. I don’t know how we’re going to fight anyone if we can’t see what’s coming. The light is uneven, scattering through branches, shattering across the soft earth. I look down, examining a narrow shaft of light illuminating the tops of my boots, and watch as a spider scuttles up and around the obstacle of my feet. My heart is pounding. There’s no time. If only we had more time. It’s all I can think. Over and over again. They caught us off guard, we weren’t prepared, it didn’t have to go down like this. My head is spinning with what-ifs and maybes and it could’ve beens even as I face down the reality right in front of me. Even as I stare straight into the black hole devouring my future, I can’t help but wonder if we could’ve done this differently. The seconds build. Minutes pass.

Nothing. The rapid beating of my heart slows into a sick stutter of dread. I’ve lost perspective—my sense of time is warped in the dark—but I swear it feels like we’ve been here for too long. “Something is wrong,” Warner says. I hear a sharp intake of breath. Haider. Warner says softly, “We miscalculated.” “No,” Castle cries. That’s when I hear the screams. We run without hesitation, all four of us, hurtling ourselves toward the sounds. We tear through branches, sprain ankles on overgrown roots, propel ourselves into the darkness with the force of pure, undiluted panic. Rage. Sobs rend the sky. Violent cries echo into the distance. Inarticulate voices, guttural moans, goose bumps rising along my flesh. We are sprinting toward death. I know we’re close when I see the light. Nouria. She’s cast an ethereal glow above the scene, bringing the remains of a battlefield into sharp focus. We slow down. Time seems to expand, fracturing apart as I bear witness to a massacre. Anderson and his men made a detour. We hoped they’d come straight for Warner, straight for Juliette. We hoped. We tried. We took a gamble. We bet wrong. And we know The Reestablishment well enough to understand that they were punishing these innocent people for harboring us. Slaughtering entire families for providing us aid and relief. Nausea hits me with the force of a blade, stunning me, knocking me sideways. I slump against a tree. I can feel my mind disconnecting, threatening unconsciousness, and somehow I force myself not to pass out from horror. Terror. Heartbreak. I keep my eyes open. Sam and Nouria are on their knees, holding broken, bleeding bodies close to their chests, their tortured cries piercing the strange half night. Castle stands beside me, his body slack. I hear his half-choked sob. We knew it was possible—Haider said they might do this—but somehow I still can’t believe my eyes. I desperately want this to be a nightmare. I would cut off my right arm for a nightmare. But reality persists. The Sanctuary is little more than a graveyard. Unarmed men and women mowed down. From where I’m standing I count six children, dead. Eyes open, mouths agape, fresh blood still dripping down limp bodies. Ian is on his knees, vomiting. Winston stumbles backward, hits a tree. His glasses slide down his face and he only remembers to catch them at the last moment. Only the supreme kids still seem to have their heads on straight, and there’s something about that realization that strikes fear into my heart. Nazeera, Haider, Warner, Stephan. They walk calmly through the wreckage, faces unchanged and solemn. I don’t know what they’ve seen—what they’ve been a part of—that makes them able to stand here, still relatively cool in the face of so much human devastation, and I don’t think I want to know. I offer Castle my hand and he takes it, steadies himself. We exchange a single glance before diving into the fray. Anderson is easy to spot, standing tall in the midst of hell, but hard to reach. His Supreme Guard swarms us, weapons drawn. Still, we move closer. No matter what comes next, we fight to the death. That was always the plan, from the first. And it’s what we’ll do now. Round two. The still-living fighters on the field straighten at our approach, at the scene forming, and steal glances at one another. We’re surrounded by firepower, that’s true, but nearly everyone here has a

supernatural gift. There’s no reason we shouldn’t be able to put up a fight. A crowd gathers slowly around us—half Sanctuary, half Point—hale bodies breaking away from the wreckage to form a new battalion. I feel the fresh hope moving through the air. The tantalizing maybe. Carefully, I pull free a gun from my side holster. And just as I’m about to make a move— “Don’t.” Anderson’s voice is loud. Clear. He breaks through his wall of soldiers, stalking toward us casually, looking as polished as always. I don’t understand, at first, why so many people gasp at his approach. I don’t see it. I don’t notice the body he’s dragging with him, and when I finally notice the body, I don’t recognize it. Not right away. It’s not until Anderson jerks the small figure upright, nudging his head back with a gun, that I feel the blood exit my heart. Anderson presses the gun to James’s throat, and my knees nearly give out. “This is very simple,” Anderson says. “You will hand over the girl, and in return, I won’t execute the boy.” We’re all frozen. “I should clarify, however, that this is not an exchange. I’m not offering to return him to you. I’m only offering not to murder him here, on the spot. But if you hand over the girl now, without a fight, I will consider letting most of you disappear into the shadows.” “Most of us?” I say. Anderson’s eyes glance off my face and the faces of several others. “Yes, most of you,” he says, his gaze lingering on Haider. “Your father is very disappointed in you, young man.” A single gunshot explodes without warning, ripping open a hole in Anderson’s throat. He grabs at his neck and falls, with a choked cry, on one knee, looking around for his assailant. Nazeera. She materializes in front of him just in time to jump up, into the sky. The supreme soldiers start shooting upward, releasing round after round with impunity, and though I’m terrified for Nazeera, I realize she took that risk for me. For James. We’ll do our best, she’d said. I didn’t realize her best included risking her life for that kid. For me. God, I fucking love her. I go invisible. Anderson is struggling to stanch the flow of blood at his throat while keeping his grip on James, who appears to be unconscious. Two guards remain at his side. I fire two shots. They both go down, crying out and clutching limbs, and Anderson nearly roars. He starts clawing at the air in front of him, then fumbles for his gun with one red hand, blood still seeping from his lips. I take that opportunity to punch him in the face. He rears back, more surprised than injured, but Brendan moves in quickly, clapping his hands together to create a twisting, crackling bolt of electricity he wraps around Anderson’s legs, temporarily paralyzing him. Anderson drops James. I catch him before he hits the floor, and bolt toward Lily, who’s waiting just outside of Nouria’s ring of light. I unload his unconscious body into her arms and Brendan builds an electric shield around their bodies. A beat later, they’re gone. Relief floods through me. Too quickly. It unsteadies me. My invisibility falters for less than a second, and in less than a second I’m attacked from behind. I hit the ground, hard, air leaving my lungs. I struggle to flip over, to stand up, but a supreme soldier is already pointing a rifle at my face. He shoots.

Castle comes out of nowhere, knocking the soldier off his feet, stopping the bullets with a single gesture. He redirects the ammunition meant for my body, and I don’t even realize what’s happened until I see the dude drop to his knees. He’s a human sieve, bleeding out the last of his life right in front of me, and it all feels suddenly surreal. I drag myself up, my head pounding in my throat. Castle is already moving, ripping a tree from its roots as he goes. Stephan is using his superstrength to pummel as many soldiers as he can, but they won’t stop shooting, and he’s moving slowly, blood staining nearly every inch of his clothing. I watch him sway. I run toward him, try to shout a warning, but my voice gets lost in the din, and my legs won’t move fast enough. Another soldier charges at him, unloading rounds, and this time, I scream. Haider comes running. He dives in front of his friend with a cry, knocking Stephan to the ground, protecting his body with his own, throwing something into the air as he goes. It explodes. I’m thrown backward, my skull ringing. I lift my head, delirious, and spot Nazeera and Warner, each locked in hand-to-hand combat. I hear a bloodcurdling scream and force myself up, toward the sound. It’s Sam. Nouria beats me to her, falling to her knees to lift her wife’s body off the ground. She wraps blinding bands of light around the two of them, the protective spirals so bright they’re excruciating to look at. A nearby soldier throws his arm over his eyes as he shoots, crying out and holding steady even as the force of Nouria’s light begins to melt the flesh off his hands. I put a bullet through his teeth. Five more guards appear out of nowhere, coming at me from all sides, and for half a second I can’t help but be surprised. Castle said there were only twelve bodies, two of which belonged to Anderson and James, and I thought we’d taken out at least several of the others by now. I glance around the battlefield, at the dozens of soldiers still actively attacking our team, and then back again, at the five heading my way. My head swims with confusion. And then, when they all begin to shoot—terror. I go invisible, stealing through the single foot of space between two of them, turning back just long enough to open fire. A couple of my shots find their marks; the others are wasted. I reload the clip, tossing the now-empty one to the ground, and just as I’m about to shoot again, I hear her voice. “Hang on,” she whispers. Nazeera wraps her arms around my waist and jumps. Up. A bullet whizzes past my calf. I feel the burn as it grazes skin, but the night sky is cool and bracing, and I allow myself to take a steadying breath, to close my eyes for a full and complete second. Up here, the screams are muted, the blood could be water, the screams could be laughter. The dream lasts for only a moment. Our feet touch the ground again and my ears refill with the sounds of war. I squeeze Nazeera’s hand by way of thanks, and we split up. I charge toward a group of men and women I only vaguely recognize—people from the Sanctuary—and throw myself into the bloodshed, urging one of the injured fighters to pull back and take shelter. I’m soon lost in the motions of battle, defending and attacking, guns firing. Guttural moaning. I don’t even think to look up until I feel the ground shake beneath my feet. Castle. His arms are pointed upward, toward a nearby building. The structure begins to shake violently, nails flying, windows shuddering. A cluster of supreme guards reaches for their guns but stop short at the sound of Anderson’s voice. I can’t hear what he says, but he seems to be nearly himself

again, and his command appears to be shocking enough to inspire a moment of hesitation in his soldiers. For no reason I can fathom, the guards I’d been fighting suddenly slink away. Too late. The roof of the nearby building collapses with a scream, and with a final, violent shove, Castle tears off a wall. With one arm he shoves aside the few of our teammates standing in harm’s way, and with the other he drops the ton of wall to the ground, where it lands with an explosive crash. Glass flies everywhere, wooden beams groaning as they buckle and break. A few supreme soldiers escape, diving for cover, but at least three of them get caught under the rubble. We all brace for a retaliatory attack— But Anderson holds up a single arm. His soldiers go instantly still, weapons going slack in their hands. Almost in unison, they stand at attention. Waiting. I glance at Castle for a directive, but he’s got eyes on Anderson just like the rest of us. Everyone seems paralyzed by a delirious hope that this war might be over. I watch Castle turn and lock eyes with Nouria, who’s still cradling Sam to her chest. A moment later, Castle raises his arm. A temporary standstill. I don’t trust it. Silence coats the night as Anderson staggers forward, his lips a violent, liquid red, his hand casually holding a handkerchief to his neck. We’d heard about this, of course—about his ability to heal himself—but seeing it actually happen in real time is something else altogether. It’s wild. When he speaks, his voice shatters the quiet. Breaks the spell. “Enough,” he says. “Where is my son?” Murmurs move through the crowd of bloodied fighters, a red sea slowly parting at his approach. It’s not long before Warner appears, striding forward in the silence, his face spattered in red. A machine gun is locked in his right hand. He looks up at his father. He says nothing. “What did you do with her?” Anderson says softly, and spits blood on the ground. He wipes his lips with the same cloth he’s using to contain the open wound on his neck. The whole scene is disgusting. Warner continues to say nothing. I don’t think any of us know where he hid her. J seems to have disappeared, I realize. Seconds pass in a silence so intense we all begin to worry about the fate of our standstill. I see a few of the supreme soldiers lift their guns in Warner’s direction, and not a second later a single lightning bolt fractures the sky above us. Brendan. I glance at him, then at Castle, but Anderson once again lifts his arm to stall his soldiers. Once again, they stand down. “I will only ask you one more time,” Anderson says to his son, his voice trembling as it grows louder. “What did you do with her?” Still, Warner stares impassively. He’s spattered in unknown blood, holding a machine gun like it might be a briefcase, and staring at his father like he might be staring at the ceiling. Anderson can’t control his temper the way Warner can—and it’s obvious to everyone that this is a battle of wills he’s going to lose. Anderson already looks half out of his mind. His hair is matted and sticking up in places. Blood is congealing on his face, his eyes shot through with red. He looks so deranged—so unlike himself—that I honestly have no idea what’s going to happen next. And then he lunges for Warner.

He’s like a belligerent drunk, wild and angry, unhinged in a way I’ve never seen before. His swings are wild but strong, unsteady but studied. He reminds me, in a sudden, frightening flash of understanding, of the father Adam so often described to me. A violent drunk fueled by rage. Except that Anderson doesn’t appear to be drunk at the moment. No. This is pure, unadulterated anger. Anderson seems to have lost his mind. He doesn’t just want to shoot Warner. He doesn’t want someone else to shoot Warner. He wants to beat him to a pulp. He wants physical satisfaction. He wants to break bones and rupture organs with his own hands. Anderson wants the pleasure of knowing that he and he alone was able to destroy his own son. But Warner isn’t giving him that satisfaction. He meets Anderson blow for blow in fluid, precise movements, ducking and sidestepping and twisting and defending. He never misses a beat. It’s almost like he can read Anderson’s mind. I’m not the only one who’s stunned. I’ve never seen Warner move like this, and I almost can’t believe I’ve never seen it before. I feel a sudden, unbidden surge of respect for him as I watch him block attack after attack. I keep waiting for him to knock the dude out, but Warner makes no effort to hit Anderson; he only defends. And only when I see the increasing fury on Anderson’s face do I realize that Warner is doing this on purpose. He’s not fighting back because he knows it’s what Anderson wants. The cool, emotionless expression on Warner’s face is driving Anderson insane. And the more he fails to rattle his son, the more enraged Anderson gets. Blood still trickles, slowly, from the half-healed wound on his neck when he cries out, angrily, and pulls free a gun from inside his jacket pocket. “Enough,” he shouts. “That is enough.” Warner takes a careful step back. “Give me the girl, Aaron. Give me the girl and I will spare the rest of these idiots. I only want the girl.” Warner is an immovable object. “Fine,” Anderson says angrily. “Seize him.” Six supreme guards begin advancing on Warner, and he doesn’t so much as flinch. I exchange glances with Winston and it’s enough; I throw my invisibility over Winston just as he throws his arms out, his ability to stretch his limbs knocking three of them to the ground. In the same moment, Haider pulls a machete from somewhere inside the bloodied chain mail he’s wearing under his coat, and tosses it to Warner, who drops the machine gun and catches the blade by the hilt without even looking. A fucking machete. Castle is on his knees, arms toward the sky as he breaks off more pieces of the half-devastated building, but this time Anderson’s men don’t give him the chance. I run forward, too late to help as Castle is knocked out from behind, and still I throw myself into the fight, battling for ownership of the soldier’s gun with skills I developed as a teenager: a single, solid punch to the nose. A clean uppercut. A hard kick to the chest. A good old-fashioned strangulation. I look up, gasping for breath, hoping for good news— And do a double take. Ten men have closed in on Warner, and I don’t understand where they came from. I thought we were down to three or four. I spin around, confused, turning back just in time to watch Warner drop to one knee and swing up with the machete in a sudden, perfect arc, gutting the man like a fish. Warner turns, another strong swing slicing through the guy on his left, disconnecting the dude’s spine in a move so horrific I have to look away. In the second it takes me to turn back, another guard has already charged forward. Warner pivots sharply, shoving the blade directly up the guy’s

throat and into his open, screaming mouth. With a final tug, Warner pulls the blade free, and the man falls to the ground with a single, soft thud. The remaining members of the Supreme Guard hesitate. I realize then, that—whoever these new soldiers are—they’ve been given specific orders to attack Warner, and no one else. The rest of us are suddenly without an obvious task, free to sink into the ground, disappear into exhaustion. Tempting. I search for Castle, wanting to make sure he’s okay, and realize he looks stricken. He’s staring at Warner. Warner, who’s staring at the blood pooling beneath his feet, his chest heaving, his fist still clenched around the shank of the machete. All this time, Castle really thought Warner was just a nice boy who’d made some simple mistakes. The kind of kid he could bring back from the brink. Not today. Warner looks up at his father, his face more blood than skin, his body shaking with rage. “Is this what you wanted?” he cries. But even Anderson seems surprised. Another guard moves forward so silently I don’t even see the gun he’s aimed in Warner’s direction until the soldier screams and collapses to the ground. His eyes bulge as he clutches at his throat, where a shard of glass the size of my hand is caught in his jugular. I whip my head around to face Warner. He’s still staring at Anderson, but his free hand is now dripping blood. Jesus Christ. “Take me, instead,” Warner says, his voice piercing the quiet. Anderson seems to come back to himself. “What?” “Leave her. Leave them all. Give me your word that you will leave her alone, and I will come back with you.” I go suddenly still. And then I look around, eyes wild, for any indication that we’re going to stop this idiot from doing something reckless, but no one meets my eyes. Everyone is riveted. Terrified. But when I feel a familiar presence suddenly materialize beside me, relief floods through my body. I reach for her hand at the same time she reaches for mine, squeezing her fingers once before breaking the brief connection. Right now, it’s enough to know she’s here, standing next to me. Nazeera is okay. We all wait in silence for the scene to change, hoping for something we don’t even know how to name. It doesn’t come. “I wish it were that simple,” Anderson says finally. “I really do. But I’m afraid we need the girl. She is not so easily replaced.” “You said that Emmaline’s body was deteriorating.” Warner’s voice is low, but clear. Miraculously steady. “You said that without a strong enough body to contain her, she’d become volatile.” Anderson visibly stiffens. “You need a replacement,” Warner says. “A new body. Someone to help you complete Operation Synthesis.” “No,” Castle cries. “No— Don’t do this—” “Take me,” Warner says. “I will be your surrogate.” Anderson’s eyes go cold. He sounds almost convincingly calm when he says, “You would be willing to sacrifice yourself— your youth and your health and your entire life—to let that damaged, deranged girl continue to walk the earth?” Anderson’s voice begins to rise in pitch. He seems suddenly on the verge of another breakdown.

“Do you even understand what you’re saying? You have every opportunity—all the potential—and you’d be willing to throw it all away? In exchange for what?” he cries. “Do you even know the kind of life to which you’d be sentencing yourself ?” A dark look passes over Warner’s face. “I think I would know better than most.” Anderson pales. “Why would you do this?” It becomes clear to me then that even now, despite everything, Anderson doesn’t actually want to lose Warner. Not like this. But Warner is unmoved. He says nothing. Betrays nothing. He only blinks as someone else’s blood drips down his face. “Give me your word,” Warner finally says. “Your word that you will leave her alone forever. I want you to let her disappear. I want you to stop tracking her every move. I want you to forget she ever existed.” He pauses. “In exchange, you can have what’s left of my life.” Nazeera gasps. Haider takes a sudden, angry step forward and Stephan grabs his arm, somehow still strong enough to restrain Haider even as his own body bleeds out. “This is his choice,” Stephan gasps, wrapping his free arm around a tree for support. “Leave him.” “This is a stupid choice,” Haider cries. “You can’t do this, habibi. Don’t be an idiot.” But Warner doesn’t seem to hear anyone anymore. He stares only at Anderson, who seems genuinely distraught. “I will stop fighting you,” Warner says. “I will do exactly as you ask. Whatever you want. Just let her live.” Anderson is silent for so long it sends a chill through me. Then: “No.” Without warning, Anderson raises his arm and fires two shots. The first, at Nazeera, hitting her square in the chest. The second— At me. Several people scream. I stumble, then sway, before collapsing. Shit. “Find her,” Anderson says, his voice booming. “Burn the whole place to the ground if you have to.” The pain is blinding. It moves through me in waves, electric and searing. Someone is touching me, moving my body. I’m okay, I try to say. I’m okay. I’m okay. But the words don’t come. He’s hit me in my shoulder, I think. Just shy of my chest. I’m not sure. But Nazeera— Someone needs to get to Nazeera. “I had a feeling you’d do something like this,” I hear Anderson say. “And I know you used one of these two”—I imagine him pointing to my prone body, to Nazeera’s—“in order to make it happen.” Silence. “Oh, I see,” Anderson says. “You thought you were clever. You thought I didn’t know you had any powers at all.” Anderson’s voice seems suddenly loud, too loud. He laughs. “You thought I didn’t know? As if you could hide something like that from me. I knew it the day I found you in her holding cell. You were sixteen. You think I didn’t have you tested after that? You think I haven’t known, all these years, what you yourself didn’t realize until six months ago?” A fresh wave of fear washes over me. Anderson seems too pleased and Warner’s gone quiet again, and I don’t know what any of that means for us. But just as I’m beginning to experience full-blown panic, I hear a familiar cry. It’s a sound of such horrific agony I can’t help but try to see what’s happening, even as flashes of white blur my vision. I catch a mottled glimpse:

Warner standing over Anderson’s body, his right hand clenched around the handle of the machete he’s buried in his father’s chest. He plants his right foot on his father’s gut, and, roughly, pulls out the blade. Anderson’s moan is so animal, so pathetic I almost feel sorry for him. Warner wipes the blade on the grass, and tosses it back to Haider, who catches it easily by the hilt even as he stands there, stunned, staring at—me, I realize. Me and Nazeera. I’ve never seen him so unmasked. He seems paralyzed by fear. “Watch him,” Warner shouts to someone. He examines a gun he stole from his father, and, satisfied, he’s off, running after the Supreme Guard. Shots ring out in the distance. My vision begins to go spotty. Sounds bleed together, shifting focus. For moments at a time all I hear is the sound of my own breathing, my heart beating. At least, I hope that’s the sound of my heart beating. Everything smells sharp, like rust and steel. I realize then, in a sudden, startling moment, that I can’t feel my fingers. Finally I hear the muffled sounds of nearby movement, of hands on my body, trying to move me. “Kenji?” Someone shakes me. “Kenji, can you hear me?” Winston. I make a sound in my throat. My lips seem fused together. “Kenji?” More shaking. “Are you okay?” With great difficulty, I pry my lips apart, but my mouth makes no sound. Then, all at once: “Heyyyyybuddy.” Weird. “He’s conscious,” Winston says, “but disoriented. “We don’t have much time. I’ll carry these two. See if you can find a way to transport the others. Where are the girls?” Someone says something back to him, and I don’t catch it. I reach out suddenly with my good hand, clamping down on Winston’s forearm. “Don’t let them get J,” I try to say. “Don’t let—”

ELLA JULIETTE

When I open my eyes, I feel steel.

Strapped and molded across my body, thick, silver stripes pressed against my pale skin. I’m in a cage the exact size and shape of my silhouette. I can’t move. Can hardly part my lips or bat an eyelash; I only know what I look like because I can see my reflection in the stainless steel of the ceiling. Anderson is here. I see him right away, standing in a corner of the room, staring at the wall like he’s both pleased and angry, a strange sneer plastered to his face. There’s a woman here, too, someone I’ve never seen before. Blond, very blond. Tall and freckled and willowy. She reminds me of someone I’ve seen before, someone I can’t presently remember. And then, suddenly— My mind catches up to me with a ferociousness that’s nearly paralyzing. James and Adam, kidnapped by Anderson. Kenji, falling ill. New memories from my own life, continuing to assault my mind and taking with them, bits and pieces of me. And then, Emmaline. Emmaline, stealing into my consciousness. Emmaline, her presence so overwhelming I was forced into near oblivion, coaxed to sleep. I remember waking, eventually, but my recollection of that moment is vague. I remember confusion, mostly. Distorted reels. I take a moment to check in with myself. My limbs. My heart. My mind. Intact? I don’t know.

Despite a bit of disorientation, I feel almost fully myself. I can still sense pockets of darkness in my memories, but I feel like I’ve finally broken the surface of my own consciousness. And it’s only then that I realize I no longer feel even a whisper of Emmaline. Quickly, I close my eyes again. I feel around for my sister in my head, seeking her out with a desperate panic that surprises me.

Emmaline? Are you still here? In response, a gentle warmth rushes through me. A single, soft shudder of life. She must be close to the end, I realize. Nearly gone. Pain shoots through my heart. My love for Emmaline is at once new and ancient, so complicated I don’t even know how to properly articulate my feelings about it. I only know that I have nothing but compassion for her. For her pain, her sacrifices, her broken spirit, her longing for all that her life could’ve been. I feel no anger or resentment toward her for infiltrating my mind, for violently disrupting my world to make room for herself in my skin. Somehow I understand that the brutality of her act was nothing more than a desperate plea for companionship in the last days of her life. She wants to die knowing she was loved. And I, I love her. I was able to see, when our minds were fused, that Emmaline had found a way to split her consciousness, leaving a necessary bit of it behind to play her role in Oceania. The small part of her that broke off to find me—that was the small part of her that still felt human, that felt the world acutely. And now, it seems, that human piece of her is beginning to fade away. The callused fingers of grief curve around my throat. My thoughts are interrupted by the sharp staccato of heels against stone. Someone is moving toward me. I’m careful not to flinch. “She should’ve been awake by now,” the female voice says. “This is odd.” “Perhaps the sedative you gave her was stronger than you thought.” Anderson. “I’m going to assume your head is still full of morphine, Paris, which is the only reason I’m going to overlook that statement.” Anderson sighs. Stiffly, he says: “I’m sure she’ll be awake any minute now.” Fear trips the alarms in my head. What’s happening? I ask Emmaline. Where are we? The dregs of a gentle warmth become a searing heat that blazes up my arms. Goose bumps rise along my skin. Emmaline is afraid.

Show me where we are, I say. It takes longer than I’m used to, but very slowly Emmaline fills my head with images of my room, of steel walls and glittering glass, long tables laid out with all manner of tools and blades, surgical equipment. Microscopes as tall as the wall. Geometric patterns in the ceiling glow with warm, bright light. And then there’s me. I am mummified in metal.

I’m lying supine on a gleaming table, thick horizontal stripes holding me in place. I am naked but for the carefully placed restraints keeping me from full exposure. Realization dawns with painful speed. I recognize these rooms, these tools, these walls. Even the smell—stale air, synthetic lemon, bleach and rust. Dread creeps through me slowly at first, and then all at once. I am back on base in Oceania. I feel suddenly ill. I am a world away. An international flight away from my chosen family, back again in the house of horrors I grew up in. I have no recollection of how I got here, and I don’t know what devastation Anderson left in my wake. I don’t know where my friends are. I don’t know what’s become of Warner. I can’t remember anything useful. I only know that something must be terribly, terribly wrong. Even so, my fear feels different. My captors—Anderson? This woman?—have obviously done something to me, because I can’t feel my powers the way I normally do, but there’s something about this horrible, familiar pattern that’s almost comforting. I’ve woken up in chains more times than I can remember, and every time, I’ve found my way out. I’ll find my way out of this, too. And at least this time, I’m not alone. Emmaline is here. As far as I’m aware, Anderson has no idea she’s with me, and it gives me hope. The silence is broken by a long-suffering sigh. “Why do we need her to be awake, anyway?” the woman says. “Why can’t we perform the procedure while she’s asleep?” “They’re not my rules, Tatiana. You know as well as I do that Evie set this all in motion. Protocol states that the subject must be awake when the transfer is initiated.” I take it back. I take it back. Pure, unadulterated terror spikes through me, dispelling my earlier confidence with a single blow. It should’ve occurred to me right away that they’d try to do to me what Evie didn’t get right the first time. Of course they would. My sudden panic nearly gives me away. “Two daughters with the exact same DNA fingerprint,” Tatiana says suddenly. “Anyone else would think it was a wild coincidence. But Evie was always careful about having a backup plan, wasn’t she?” “From the very beginning,” Anderson says quietly. “She made sure there was a spare.” The words are a blow I couldn’t have anticipated. A spare. That’s all I ever was, I realize. A spare part kept in captivity. A backup weapon in the case that all else failed. Shatter me. Break glass in case of emergency. It takes everything I’ve got to remain still, to fight back the urge to swallow the sudden swell of emotion in my throat. Even now, even from the grave, my mother manages to wound me. “How lucky for us,” the woman says. “Indeed,” Anderson says, but there’s tension in his voice. Tension I’m only just beginning to notice. Tatiana starts rambling. She begins talking about how clever Evie was to realize that someone had interfered with her work, how clever she was to have realized right away that Emmaline was the one who’d tampered with the results of the procedure she’d performed on me. Evie always knew, Tatiana is saying, that

there was a risk in bringing me back to base in Oceania—and the risk, she says, was Emmaline’s physical closeness. “After all,” Tatiana says, “the two girls hadn’t been in such close proximity in nearly a decade. Evie was worried Emmaline would try to make contact with her sister.” A pause. “And she did.” “What is your point?” “My point,” Tatiana says slowly, like she’s talking to a child, “is that this seems dangerous. Don’t you think it’s more than a little unwise to put the two girls under the same roof again? After what happened last time? Doesn’t this seem a little . . . reckless?” Stupid hope blooms in my chest. Of course. Emmaline’s body is nearby. Maybe Emmaline’s voice disappearing from my mind has nothing to do with her impending death—maybe she feels farther away simply because she moved. It’s possible that upon reentry to Oceania the two parts of her consciousness reconnected. Maybe Emmaline feels distant now only because she’s reaching out to me from her tank—the way she did the last time I was here. Sharp, searing heat flashes behind my eyes, and my heart leaps at her response.

I am not alone, I say to her. You are not alone. “You know as well as I do that this was the only way,” Anderson says to Tatiana. “I needed Max’s help. My injuries were too serious.” “You seem to be needing Max’s help quite a lot these days,” she says coldly. “And I’m not the only one who thinks your needs are becoming liabilities.” “Don’t push me,” he says quietly. “This isn’t the day.” “I don’t care. You know as well as I do that it would’ve been safer to initiate this transfer back at Sector 45, thousands of miles away from Emmaline. We had to transport the boy, too, remember? Extremely inconvenient. That you so desperately needed Max to assist with your vanity is an altogether different issue, one that concerns both your failings and your ineptitude.” Silence falls, heavy and thick. I have no idea what’s happening above my head, but I can only imagine the two of them are glaring each other into the ground. “Evie had a soft spot for you,” Tatiana says finally. “We all know that. We all know how willing she was to overlook your mistakes. But Evie is dead now, isn’t she? And her daughter would be two for two if it weren’t for Max’s constant efforts to keep you alive. The rest of us are running out of patience.” Before Anderson has a chance to respond, a door slams open. “Well?” A new voice. “Is it done?” For the first time, Tatiana seems subdued. “She’s not yet awake, I’m afraid.” “Then wake her up,” the voice demands. “We’re out of time. All the children have been tainted. We still have to get the rest of them under control and clear their minds as soon as possible.” “But not before we figure out what they know,” Anderson says quickly, “and who they might’ve told.” Heavy footsteps move into the room, fast and hard. I hear a rustle of movement, a sudden brief gasp. “Haider told me something interesting when your men dragged him back here,” the man says quietly. “He says you shot my daughter.” “It was a practical decision,” Anderson says. “She and Kishimoto were possible targets. I had no choice but to take them both out.” It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from screaming.

Kenji. Anderson shot Kenji. Kenji, and this man’s daughter. He must be talking about Nazeera. Oh my God. Anderson shot Kenji and Nazeera. Which would make this man— “Ibrahim, it was for the best.” Tatiana’s heels click against the floor. “I’m sure she’s fine. They’ve got those healer girls, you know.” Supreme Commander Ibrahim ignores her. “If my daughter is not returned to me alive,” he says angrily, “I will personally remove your brain from your skull.” The door slams shut behind him. “Wake her up,” Anderson says. “It’s not that simple— There’s a process—” “I won’t say it again, Tatiana.” Anderson is shouting now, his temperature spiking without warning. “Wake her up now. I want this over with.” “Paris, you have to calm d—” “I tried to kill her months ago.” Metal slams against metal. “I told all of you to finish the job. If we’re in this position right now—if Evie is dead—it’s because no one listened to me when they should have.” “You are unbelievable.” Tatiana laughs, but the sound is flat. “That you ever assumed you had the authority to murder Evie’s daughter tells me everything I need to know about you, Paris. You’re an idiot.” “Get out,” he says, seething. “I don’t need you breathing down my neck. Go check in on your own insipid daughter. I’ll take care of this one.” “Feeling fatherly?” “Get. Out.” Tatiana says nothing more. I hear the sound of a door opening and closing. The soft, distant clangs and chimes of metal and glass. I have no idea what Anderson is doing, but my heart is beating wildly. Angry, indignant Anderson is nothing to take lightly. I would know. And when I feel a sudden, ruthless spike of pain, I scream. Panic forces my eyes open. “I had a feeling you were faking it,” he says. Roughly, he yanks the scalpel out of my thigh. I choke back another scream. I’ve hardly had a chance to catch my breath when, again, he buries the scalpel in my flesh—deeper this time. I cry out in agony, my lungs constricting. When he finally wrenches the tool free I nearly pass out from the pain. I’m making labored, gasping sounds, my chest so tightly bound I can’t breathe properly. “I was hoping you’d hear that conversation,” Anderson says calmly, pausing to wipe the scalpel on his lab coat. The blood is dark. Thick. My vision fades in and out. “I wanted you to know that your mother wasn’t stupid. I wanted you to know that she was aware that something had gone wrong. She didn’t know the exact failings of the procedure—but she suspected the injections hadn’t done everything they were meant to do. And when she suspected foul play, she made a contingency plan.” I’m still gasping for air, my head spinning. The pain in my leg is searing, clouding my mind. “You didn’t think she was that stupid, did you? Evie Sommers?” Anderson almost laughs. “Evie Sommers hasn’t been stupid a day in her life. Even on the day she died, she died with a plan in place to save The Reestablishment, because she’d dedicated her life to this cause. This was it,” he says, prodding at my wound. “You. “You and your sister. You were her life’s work, and she wasn’t about to let it all go up in flames without a fight.” I don’t understand, I try to say.

“I know you don’t understand,” he says. “Of course you don’t understand. You never did inherit your mother’s genius, did you? You never had her mind. No, you were only ever meant to be a tool, from the very beginning. So here’s everything you need to understand: you now belong to me.” “No,” I gasp. I struggle, uselessly, against the restraints. “No—” I feel the sting and the fire at the same time. Anderson has stuck me with something, something that blazes through me with a pain so excruciating my heart hardly remembers to beat. My skin breaks out in an all-consuming sweat. My hair begins to stick to my face. I feel at once paralyzed and as if I’m falling, free-falling, sinking into the coldest depths of hell.

Emmaline, I cry. My eyelids flutter. I see Anderson, flashes of Anderson, his eyes dark and troubled. He looks at me like he’s finally got me exactly where he wants me, where he’s always wanted me, and I understand then, without understanding why, exactly, that he’s excited. I sense his happiness. I don’t know how I know. I can just tell from the way he stands, the way he stares. He’s feeling joyous. It terrifies me. My body makes another effort to move but the action is futile. There’s no point in moving, no point in struggle. This is over, something tells me. I have lost. I’ve lost the battle and the war. I’ve lost the boy. I’ve lost my friends. I’ve lost my will to live, the voice says to me. And then I understand: Anderson is in my head. My eyes are not open. My eyes might never again open. Wherever I am is not in my control. I belong to Anderson now. I belong to The Reestablishment, where I’ve always belonged, where you’ve always belonged, he says to me, where you will remain forever. I’ve been waiting for this moment for a very, very long time, he says to me, and now, finally, there’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing. Even then, I don’t understand. Not right away. I don’t understand even as I hear the machines roar to life. I don’t understand even as I see the flash of light behind my eyelids. I hear my own breath, loud and strange and reverberating in my skull. I can feel my hands shaking. I can feel the metal sinking into the soft flesh of my body. I am here, strapped into steel against my will and there is no one to save me.

Emmaline, I cry. A whisper of heat moves through me in response, a whisper so subtle, so quickly extinguished, I fear I might’ve imagined it.

Emmaline is nearly dead, Anderson says. Once her body is removed from the tank, you will take her place. Until then, this is where you’ll live. Until then, this is where you’ll exist. This is all you were ever meant for, he says to me. This is all you will ever be. No one comes to the funeral.

KENJI

It took two days to bury all the bodies. Castle tired his mind nearly to sickness digging up so much dirt. The rest of us used shovels. But there weren’t many of us to do the work then, and there aren’t enough of us to attend a funeral now. Still, I sit here at dawn, perched atop a boulder, sitting high above the valley where we buried our friends. Teammates. My left arm is in a sling, my head hurts like a bitch, my heart is permanently broken. I’m okay, otherwise. Alia comes up behind me, so quiet I hardly even notice her. I hardly ever notice her. But there are too few bodies for her to hide behind now. I scoot over on the rock and she settles down beside me, the two of us staring out at the sea of graves below. She’s holding two dandelions. Offers one to me. I take it. Together, we drop the flowers, watching them as they float gently into the chasm. Alia sighs. “You okay?” I ask her. “No.” “Yeah.” I nod. Seconds pass. A gentle breeze pushes the hair out of my face. I stare directly into the newborn sun, daring it to burn my eyes out. “Kenji?” “Yeah?” “Where’s Adam?” I shake my head. Shrug. “Do you think we’ll find him?” she asks, her voice practically a whisper. I look up. There’s a yearning there—something more than general concern in her tone. I turn fully to meet her eyes, but she won’t look at me. She’s suddenly blushing. “I don’t know,” I say to her. “I hope so.” “Me too,” she says softly. She rests her head on my shoulder. We stare out, into the distance. Let the silence devour our bodies. “You did an amazing job, by the way.” I nod at the valley below. “This is beautiful.” Alia really outdid herself. She and Winston. The monuments they designed are simple and elegant, made from stone sourced from the land itself. And there are two. One for the lives lost here, at the Sanctuary, two days ago. The other for the lives lost there, at Omega Point, two months ago. The list of names is long. The injustice of it all roars through me. Alia takes my hand. Squeezes. I realize I’m crying.

I turn away, feeling stupid, and Alia lets go, gives me space to pull myself together. I wipe at my eyes with excessive force, angry with myself for falling apart. Angry with myself for being disappointed. Angry with myself for ever allowing hope. We lost J. We’re not even sure exactly how it happened. Warner has been virtually comatose since that day, and getting information out of him has been near impossible. But it sounds like we never really stood a chance, in the end. One of Anderson’s men had the preternatural ability to clone himself, and it took us too long to figure it out. We couldn’t understand why their defense would suddenly double and triple just as we thought we were wearing them down. But it turns out Anderson had an inexhaustible supply of dummy soldiers. Warner couldn’t get over it. It was the one thing he kept repeating, over and over— I should’ve known, I should’ve known —and despite the fact that Warner’s been killing himself for the oversight, Castle says it was precisely because of Warner that any of us are still alive. There weren’t supposed to be any survivors. That was Anderson’s decree. The command he gave after I went down. Warner figured out the trick just in time. His ability to harness the soldier’s powers and use it against him was our one saving grace, apparently, and when the dude realized he had competition, he took what he could get and ran. Which means he managed to snag an unconscious Haider and Stephan. It means Anderson escaped. And J, of course. It means they got J. “Should we head back?” Alia says quietly. “Castle was awake when I left. He said he wanted to talk to you.” “Yeah.” I nod, get to my feet. Pull myself together. “Any update on James, by the way? Is he cleared for visitors yet?” Alia shakes her head. Stands up, too. “Not yet,” she says. “But he’ll be awake soon. The girls are optimistic. Between his healing powers and theirs, they feel certain they’ll be able to get him through it.” “Yeah,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’m sure you’re right.” Wrong. I’m not sure of anything. The wreckage left in the wake of Anderson’s attack has laid all of us low. Sonya and Sara are working around the clock. Sam was severely injured. Nazeera is still unconscious. Castle is weak. Hundreds of others are trying to heal. A serious darkness has descended upon us all. We fought hard, but we took too many hits. We were too few to begin with. There was only so much any of us could do. These are the things I keep telling myself, anyway. We start walking. “This feels worse, doesn’t it?” Alia says. “Worse than last time.” She stops, suddenly, and I follow her line of sight, study the scene before us. The torn-down buildings, the detritus along the paths. We did our best to clean up the worst of it, but if I look in the wrong place at the wrong time, I can still find blood on broken tree branches. Shards of glass. “Yeah,” I say. “Somehow, this is so much worse.” Maybe because the stakes were higher. Maybe because we’ve never lost J before. Maybe because I’ve never seen Warner this lost or this broken. Angry Warner was better than this. At least angry Warner had some fight left in him.

Alia and I part ways when we enter the dining tent. She’s been volunteering her time, going from cot to cot to check on people, offering food and water where necessary, and this dining tent is currently her place of work. The massive space has been made into a sort of convalescent home. Sonya and Sara are prioritizing major injuries; minor wounds are being treated the traditional way, by what’s left of the original staff of doctors and nurses. This room is stacked, end to end, with those of us who are either healing from minor injuries, or resting after major intervention. Nazeera is here, but she’s sleeping. I drop down in a seat next to her cot, checking up on her the way I do every hour. Nothing’s changed. She’s still lying here, still as stone, the only proof of life coming from a nearby monitor and the gentle movements of her breathing. Her wound was a lot worse than mine. The girls say she’s going to be okay, but they think she’ll be asleep until at least tomorrow. Even so, it kills me to look at her. Watching that girl go down was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to witness. I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. I still feel like shit, but at least I’m awake. Few of us are. Warner is one of them. He’s still covered in dry blood, refusing to be helped. He’s conscious, but he’s been lying on his back, staring at the ceiling since the day he was dragged in here. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was a corpse. I’ve been checking, too, every once in a while—making sure I caught that gentle rise and fall of his chest—just to be certain he was still breathing. I think he’s in shock. Apparently, once he realized J was gone, he tore the remaining soldiers to pieces with his bare hands. Apparently. I don’t buy it, of course, because the story sounds just a little to the left of what I consider credible, but then, I’ve been hearing all kinds of shit about Warner these last couple of days. He went from being only relatively consequential to becoming genuinely terrifying to assuming superhero status —in thirty-six hours. In a plot twist I never could’ve expected, people here are suddenly obsessed with him. They think he saved our lives. One of the volunteers checking my wound yesterday told me that she heard someone else say that they saw Warner uproot an entire tree with only one hand. Translation: He probably broke off a tree branch. Someone else told me that they’d heard from a friend that some girl had seen him save a cluster of children from friendly fire. Translation: He probably shoved a bunch of kids to the ground. Another person told me that Warner had single-handedly murdered nearly all the supreme soldiers. Translation— Okay, that last one is kind of true. But I know Warner wasn’t trying to do anyone around here a favor. He doesn’t give a shit about being a hero. He was only trying to save J’s life. “You should talk to him,” Castle says, and I startle so badly he jumps back, freaking out for a second, too. “Sorry, sir,” I say, trying to slow my heart rate. “I didn’t see you there.” “That’s quite all right,” Castle says. He’s smiling, but his eyes are sad. Exhausted. “How are you doing?” “As well as can be expected,” I say. “How’s Sam?”

“As well as can be expected,” he says. “Nouria is struggling, of course, but Sam should be able to make a full recovery. The girls say it was mostly a flesh wound. Her skull was fractured, but they’re confident they can get it nearly back to the way it was.” He sighs. “They’ll be all right, both of them. In time.” I study him for a moment, suddenly seeing him like I’ve never seen him before: Old. Castle’s dreads are untied, hanging loose about his face, and something about the break from his usual style—locs tied neatly at the base of his neck—makes me notice things I’d never seen before. New gray hairs. New creases around his eyes, his forehead. It takes him a little longer to stand up straight like he used to. He seems worn out. Looking like he’s been kicked down one too many times. Kind of like the rest of us. “I hate that this is the thing that seems to have conquered the distance between us,” he says after a stretch of silence. “But now Nouria and I—both resistance leaders—have each suffered great losses. The whole thing has been hard for her, just as it was for me. She needs more time to recover.” I take a sharp breath. Even the mention of that dark time inspires an ache in my heart. I don’t allow myself to dwell for too long on the husk of a person Castle became after we lost Omega Point. If I do, the feelings overwhelm me so completely I pivot straight to anger. I know he was hurting. I know there was so much else going on. I know it was hard for everyone. But for me, losing Castle like that—however temporarily—was worse than losing everyone else. I needed him, and it felt like he’d abandoned me. “I don’t know,” I say, clearing my throat. “It’s not really the same thing, is it? What we lost— I mean, we lost literally everything in the bombing. Not only our people and our home, but years of research. Priceless equipment. Personal treasures.” I hesitate, try to be delicate. “Nouria and Sam only lost half of their people, and their base is still standing. This loss isn’t nearly as great.” Castle turns, surprised. “It’s not as if it’s a competition.” “I know that,” I say. “It’s just th—” “And I wouldn’t want my daughter to know the kind of grief we’ve experienced. You have no idea the depth of what she’s already suffered in her young life. She certainly doesn’t need to experience more pain to be deserving of your compassion.” “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I’m only trying to point out th—” “Have you seen James yet?” I gape at him, my mouth still shaped around an unspoken word. Castle just changed the subject so quickly it nearly gave me whiplash. This isn’t like him. This isn’t like us. Castle and I never used to have trouble talking. We never avoided hard topics and sensitive conversations. But things have felt off for a little while now, if I’m being honest. Maybe ever since I realized Castle had been lying to me, all these years, about J. Maybe I’ve been a little less respectful lately. Crossed lines. Maybe all this tension is coming from me— maybe I’m the one pushing him away without realizing it. I don’t know. I want to fix whatever is happening between us, but right now, I’m just too wrung out. Between J and Warner and James and unconscious Nazeera— My head is in such a weird place I’m not sure I have the bandwidth for much else. So I let it go. “No, I haven’t seen James,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “Still waiting on that green light.” Last I checked, James was in the medical tent with Sonya and Sara. James has his own healing abilities, so he should be fine, physically—I know that—but he’s been through so much lately. The girls wanted to make sure he was fully rested and fed and hydrated before he had any visitors.

Castle nods. “Warner is gone,” he says after a moment, a non sequitur if there ever was one. “What? No I just saw him. He—” I cut myself off as I glance up, expecting to find the familiar sight of him lying on his cot like a carcass. But Castle’s right. He’s gone. I whip my head around, scanning the room for his retreating figure. I get nothing. “I still think you should talk to him,” Castle says, returning to his opening statement. I bristle. “You’re the adult,” I point out. “You’re the one who wanted him to take refuge among us. You’re the one who believed he could change. Maybe you should be the one to talk to him.” “That’s not what he needs, and you know it.” Castle sighs. Glances across the room. “Why is everyone so afraid of him? Why are you so afraid of him?” “Me?” My eyes widen. “I’m not afraid of him. Or, I mean, whatever, I’m not the only one afraid of him. Though let’s be real,” I mutter, “anyone with two brain cells to rub together should be afraid of him.” Castle raises an eyebrow. “Except for you, of course,” I add hastily. “What reason would you have to be afraid of Warner? He’s such a nice guy. Loves children. Big talker. Oh, and bonus: He no longer murders people professionally. No, now murdering people is just a fulfilling hobby.” Castle sighs, visibly annoyed. I crack a smile. “Sir, all I’m saying is that we don’t really know him, right? When Juliette was around—” “Ella. Her name is Ella.” “Uh-huh. When she was around, Warner was tolerable. Barely. But now she’s not around, and he’s acting just like the guy I remember when I enlisted, the guy he was when he was working for his dad and running Sector 45. What reason does he have to be loyal or kind to the rest of us?” Castle opens his mouth to respond, but just then arrives my salvation: lunch. A smiling volunteer comes by, handing out simple salads in bowls of foil. I take the proffered food and plastic silverware with an overenthusiastic thanks, and promptly rip the lid off the container. “Warner has been dealt a punishing blow,” Castle says. “He needs us now more than ever.” I glance up at Castle. Shove a forkful of salad in my mouth. I chew slowly, still deciding how to respond, when I’m distracted by movement in the distance. I look up. Brendan and Winston and Ian and Lily are in the corner gathered around a small, makeshift table, all of them holding tinfoil lunch bowls. They’re waving us over. I gesture with a forkful of salad. Speak with my mouth full. “You want to join us?” Castle sighs even as he stands, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in his black pants. I glance over at Nazeera’s sleeping figure as I collect my things. I know, rationally, that she’s going to be fine, but she’s recovering from a full blow to the chest—not unlike J once did—and it hurts to see her so vulnerable. Especially for a girl who once laughed in my face at the prospect of ever being overpowered. It scares me. “Coming?” Castle says, glancing over his shoulder. He’s already a few steps away, and I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here, staring at Nazeera. “Oh, yeah,” I say. “Right behind you.”

The minute we sit down at their table, I know something is off. Brendan and Winston are sitting stiffly, side by side, and Ian doesn’t do more than glance at me when I sit down. I find this reception especially strange,

considering the fact that they flagged me down. You’d think they’d be happy to see me. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Castle speaks. “I was just telling Kenji,” he says, “that he should be the one to talk to Warner.” Brendan looks up. “That’s a great idea.” I shoot him a dark look. “No, really,” he says, carefully choosing a piece of potato to spear. Wait—where did they get potatoes? All I got was salad. “Someone definitely needs to talk to him.” “Someone definitely does,” I say, irritated. I narrow my eyes at Brendan’s potatoes. “Where’d you get those?” “This is just what they gave me,” Brendan says, looking up in surprise. “Of course, I’m happy to share.” I move quickly, jumping out of my seat to spear a chunk of potato from his bowl. I shove the whole piece in my mouth before I even sit back down, and I’m still chewing when I thank him. He looks mildly repulsed. I guess I am a bit of a caveman when Warner isn’t around to keep me decent. “Anyway, Castle’s right,” Lily says. “You should talk to him, and soon. I think he’s kind of a loose cannon right now.” I stab a piece of lettuce, roll my eyes. “Can I maybe eat my lunch before everyone starts jumping down my throat? This is the first real meal I’ve had since I got shot.” “No one is jumping down your throat.” Castle frowns. “And I thought Nouria said the normal dining hours went back into effect yesterday morning.” “They did,” I say. “But you were shot three days ago,” Winston says. “Which means—” “All right, okay, calm down, Detective Winston. Can we change the subject, please?” I take another bite of lettuce. “I don’t like this one.” Brendan puts down his knife and fork. Hard. I straighten. “Go talk to him,” he says again, this time with an air of finality that surprises me. I swallow my food. Too fast. Nearly choke. “I’m serious,” Brendan says, frowning as I cough up a lung. “This is a wretched time for all of us, and you’ve more of a connection with him than anyone else here. Which means you have a moral responsibility to find out what he’s thinking.” “A moral responsibility?” My cough turns into a laugh. “Yes. A moral responsibility. And Winston agrees with me.” I look up, raising my eyebrows at Winston. “I bet he does. I bet Winston agrees with you all the time.” Winston adjusts his glasses. He stabs blindly at his food and mutters, “I hate you,” under his breath. “Oh yeah?” I gesture between Winston and Brendan with my fork. “What the hell is going on here? This energy is super weird.” When no one answers me I kick Winston under the table. He turns away, mumbling nonsense before taking a long pull from his water glass. “Okay,” I say slowly. I pick up my own water glass. Take a sip. “Seriously. What’s going on? You two playing footsie under the table or someshit?” Winston goes full tomato. Brendan picks up his utensils and, looking down at his plate, says, “Go ahead. Tell him.” “Tell me what?” I say, glancing between the two of them. When no one responds, I look over at Ian like, What the hell? Ian only shrugs.

Ian’s been quieter than usual. He and Lily have been spending a lot more time together lately, which is understandable, but it also means I haven’t really seen him much in the last couple of days. Castle suddenly stands. He claps me on the back. “Talk to Mr. Warner,” he says. “He’s vulnerable right now, and he needs his friends.” “Are you—?” I make a show of looking around, over my shoulders. “I’m sorry, which friends are you referring to? Because as far as I know, Warner doesn’t have any.” Castle narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t do this,” he says. “Don’t deny your own emotional intelligence in favor of petty grievances. You know better. Be better. If you care about him at all, you will sacrifice your pride to reach out to him. Make sure he’s okay.” “Why do you have to make it sound so dramatic?” I say, looking away. “It’s not that big of a deal. He’ll survive.” Castle rests his hand on my shoulder. Forces me to meet his eyes. “No,” he says to me. “He might not.” I wait until Castle is gone before I finally set down my fork. I’m irritated, but I know he’s right. I mumble a general good-bye to my friends as I push away from the table, but not before I notice Brendan smiling triumphantly in my direction. I’m about to give him shit for it, but then I notice, with a start, that Winston has turned a shade of pink so magnificent you could probably see it from space. And then, there it is: Brendan is holding Winston’s hand under the table. I gasp, audibly. “Shut up,” Winston says. “I don’t want to hear it.” My enthusiasm withers. “You don’t want to hear me say congratulations?” “No, I don’t want to hear you say I told you so.” “Yes, but I did fucking tell you so, didn’t I?” A wave of happiness moves through me, conjures a smile. I didn’t know I still had it in me. Joy. “I’m so happy for you guys,” I say. “Truly. You just made this shitty day so much better.” Winston looks up, suspicious. But Brendan beams at me. I stab a finger in their direction. “But if you two turn into Adam and Juliette clones I swear to God I will lose my mind.” Brendan’s eyes go wide. Winston turns purple. “Kidding!” I say. “I’m just kidding! Obviously I’m super happy for you two!” After a dead beat, I clear my throat. “No but seriously, though.” “Fuck off, Kenji.” “Yup.” I shoot a finger gun at Winston. “You got it.” “Kenji,” I hear Castle call out. “Language.” I swivel around, surprised. I thought Castle was gone. “It wasn’t me!” I shout back. “For the first time, I swear, it wasn’t me!” I see only the back of Castle’s head as he turns away, but somehow, I can tell he’s still annoyed. I shake my head. I can’t stop smiling. It’s time to regroup. Pick up the pieces. Keep going. Find J. Find Adam. Tear down The Reestablishment, once and for all. And the truth is—we’re going to need Warner’s help. Which means Castle is right, I need to talk to Warner. Shit. I look back at my friends. Lily’s got her head on Ian’s shoulder, and he’s trying to hide his smile. Winston flips me off, but he’s laughing. Brendan pops another piece of potato in his mouth and shoos me away. “Go on, then.”

“All right, all right,” I say. But just as I’m about to take the necessary steps forward, I’m saved yet again. Alia comes running toward me, her face lit in an expression of happiness I rarely see on her. It’s transformative. Hell, she’s glowing. It’s easy to lose track of Alia, who’s quiet in both voice and presence. But when she smiles like that— She looks beautiful. “James is awake,” she says, nearly out of breath. She’s squeezing my arm so hard it’s cutting off my circulation. I don’t care. I’d been carrying this tension for almost two weeks now. Worrying, all this time, about James and whether he was okay. When I saw him for the first time the other day, bound and gagged by Anderson, I felt my knees give out. We had no idea how he was doing or what kind of trauma he’d sustained. But if the girls are letting him have visitors— That’s got to be a good sign. I send up silent thanks to anyone who might be listening. Mom. Dad. Ghosts. I’m grateful. Alia is half dragging me down the hall, and even though her physical effort isn’t necessary, I let her do it. She seems so excited I don’t have the heart to stop her. “James is officially up and ready for visitors,” she says, “and he asked to see you.”

When I wake, I am cold.

ELLA JULIETTE

I dress in the dark, pulling on crisp fatigues and polished boots. I pull my hair back in a tight ponytail and perform a series of efficient ablutions at the small sink in my chamber. Teeth brushed. Face washed. After three days of rigorous training, I was selected as a candidate for supreme soldier, honored with the prospect of serving our North American commander. Today is my opportunity to prove I deserve the position. I lace my boots, knotting them twice. Satisfied, I pull the release latch. The lock exhales as it comes open, and the seam around my door lets through a ring of light that cuts straight across my vision. I turn away from the glare only to be met by my own reflection in a small mirror above the sink. I blink, focusing. Pale skin, dark hair, odd eyes. I blink again. A flash of light catches my eye in the mirror. I turn. The monitor adjacent to my sleep pod has been dark all night, but now it flashes with information: Juliette Ferrars, report Juliette Ferrars, report

My hand vibrates. I glance down, palm up, as a soft blue light beams through the thin skin at my wrist.

report I push open the door.

Cool morning air rushes in, shuddering against my face. The sun is still rising. Golden light bathes everything, briefly distorting my vision. Birds chirp as I climb my way up the side of the steep hill that protects my private chamber against the howling winds. I haul myself over the edge. Immediately, I spot the compound in the distance. Mountains stagger across the sky. A massive lake glitters nearby. I push against tangles of wild, ferocious gusts of wind as I hike toward base. For no reason at all, a butterfly lands on my shoulder. I come to a halt. I pluck the insect off my shirt, pinching its wings between my fingers. It flutters desperately as I study it, scrutinizing its hideous body as I turn it over in my hand. Slowly, I increase the intensity of my touch, and its flutters grow more desperate, wings snapping against my skin. I blink. The butterfly thrashes. A low hum drums up from its insect body, a soft buzz that passes for a scream. I wait, patiently, for the creature to die, but it only beats its wings harder, resisting the inevitable. Irritated, I close my fingers, crushing it in my fist. I wipe its remains against an overgrown stalk of wheat and soldier on. It’s the fifth of May. This is technically fall weather in Oceania, but the temperatures are erratic, inconsistent. Today the winds are particularly angry, which makes it unseasonably cold. My nose grows numb as I forge my way through the field; when I find a paltry slant of sunlight I lean into it, warming under its rays. Every morning and evening, I make this two-mile hike to base. My commander says it’s necessary. He did not explain why.

When I finally reach headquarters, the sun has shifted in the sky. I glance up at the dying star as I push open the front door, and the moment I step foot in the entry, I’m assaulted by the scent of burnt coffee. Quietly, I make my way down the hall, ignoring the sounds and stares of workers and armed soldiers. Once outside his office, I stop. It’s only a couple of seconds before the door slides open. Supreme Commander Anderson looks up at me from his desk. He smiles. I salute. “Step inside, soldier.” I do. “How are you adjusting?” he says, closing a folder on his desk. He does not ask me to sit down. “It’s been a few days since your transfer from 241.” “Yes, sir.” “And?” He leans forward, clasps his hands in front of him. “How are you feeling?” “Sir?” He tilts his head at me. Picks up a mug of coffee. The acrid scent of the dark liquid burns my nose. I watch him take a sip and the simple action conjures a stutter of emotion inside of me. Feeling presses against my mind in flashes of memory: a bed, a green sweater, a pair of black glasses, then nothing. Flint failing to spark a flame. “Are you missing your family?” he asks. “I have no family, sir.” “Friends? A boyfriend?” Vague irritation rises up inside of me; I push it aside. “None, sir.”

He relaxes in his chair, his smile growing wider. “It’s better that way, of course. Easier.” “Yes, sir.” He gets to his feet. “Your work these past couple of days has been remarkable. Your training has been even more successful than we expected.” He glances up at me then, waiting for a reaction. I merely stare. He takes another sip of the coffee before setting the cup down beside a sheaf of papers. He walks around the desk and stands in front of me, assessing. One step closer and the smell of coffee overwhelms me. I inhale the bitter, nutty scent and it floods my senses, leaving me vaguely nauseated. Still, I stare straight ahead. The closer he gets, the more aware of him I become. His physical presence is solid. Categorically male. He’s a wall of muscle standing before me, and even the suit he wears can’t hide the subtle, sculpted curves of his arms and legs. His face is hard, the line of his jaw so sharp I can see it even out of focus. He smells like coffee and something else, something clean and fragrant. It’s unexpectedly pleasant; it fills my head. “Juliette,” he says. A needle of unease pierces my mind. It is more than unusual for the supreme commander to call me by my first name. “Look at me.” I obey, lifting my head to meet his eyes. He stares down at me, his expression fiery. His eyes are a strange, stark shade of blue, and there’s something about him—his heavy brow, his sharp nose—that stirs up ancient feelings inside my chest. Silence gathers around us, unspoken curiosities pulling us together. He searches my face for so long that I begin to search him, too. Somehow I know that this is rare; that he might never again give me the opportunity to look at him like this. I seize it. I catalog the faint lines creasing his forehead, the starbursts around his eyes. I’m so close I can see the grain of his skin, rough but not yet leathery, his most recent shave evidenced in a microscopic nick at the base of his jaw. His brown hair is full and thick, his cheekbones high and his lips a dusky shade of pink. He touches a finger to my chin, tilts up my face. “Your beauty is excessive,” he says. “I don’t know what your mother was thinking.” Surprise and confusion flare through me, but it does not presently occur to me to be afraid. I do not feel threatened by him. His words seem perfunctory. When he speaks, I catch a glimpse of a slight chip on his bottom incisor. “Today,” he says. “Things will change. You will shadow me from here on out. Your duty is to protect and serve my interests, and mine alone.” “Yes, sir.” His lips curve, just slightly. There’s something there behind his eyes, something more, something else. “You understand,” he says, “that you belong to me now.” “Yes, sir.” “My rule is your law. You will obey no other.” “Yes, sir.” He steps forward. His irises are so blue. A lock of dark hair curves across his eyes. “I am your master,” he says. “Yes, sir.” He’s so close I can feel his breath against my skin. Coffee and mint and something else, something subtle, fermented. Alcohol, I realize. He steps back. “Get on your knees.” I stare at him, frozen. The command was clear enough, but it feels like an error. “Sir?” “On your knees, soldier. Now.”

Carefully, I comply. The floor is hard and cold and my uniform is too stiff to make this position comfortable. Still, I remain on my knees for so long that a curious spider scuttles forward, peering at me from underneath a chair. I stare at Anderson’s polished boots, the muscled curves of his calves noticeable even through his pants. The floor smells like bleach and lemon and dust. When he commands me to, I look up. “Now say it,” he says softly. I blink at him. “Sir?” “Tell me that I am your master.” My mind goes blank. A dull, warm sensation washes over me, a searching paralysis that locks my tongue, jams my mind. Fear propels through me, drowning me, and I fight to break the surface, clawing my way back to the moment. I meet his eyes. “You are my master,” I say. His stiff smile bends, curves. Joy catches fire in his eyes. “Good,” he says softly. “Very good. How strange that you might turn out to be my favorite yet.”

I stop short at the door.

KENJI

Warner is here. Warner and James, together. James was given his own private section of the MT— which is otherwise full and cramped—and the two of them are here, Warner sitting in a chair beside James’s bed, James propped up against a stack of pillows. I’m so relieved to see him looking okay. His dirty-blond hair is a little too long, but his light, bright blue eyes are open and animated. Still, he looks more than a little tired, which probably explains the IV hooked up to his body. Under normal circumstances, James should be able to heal himself, but if his body is drained, it makes the job harder. He must’ve arrived malnourished and dehydrated. The girls are probably doing what they can to help speed up the recovery process. I feel a rush of relief. James will be better soon. He’s such a strong kid. After everything he’s been through— He’ll get through this, too. And he won’t be alone. I glance again at Warner, who looks only marginally better than the last time I saw him. He really needs to wash that blood off his body. It’s not like Warner to overlook basic rules of hygiene— which should be proof enough that the guy is close to a full-on breakdown—but for now, at least, he seems okay. He and James appear to be deep in conversation. I remain at the door, eavesdropping. It only belatedly occurs to me that I should give them privacy, but by then I’m too invested to walk away. I’m almost positive Anderson told James the truth about Warner. Or, I don’t know, exactly. I can’t actually imagine a scenario in which Anderson would gleefully reveal to James that Warner is his brother, or that Anderson is his dad. But somehow I can just tell that James knows. Someone told him. I can tell by the look on his face. This is the come-to-Jesus moment. This is the moment where Warner and James finally come face-to-face not as strangers, but as brothers. Surreal. But they’re speaking quietly, and I can only catch bits and pieces of their conversation, so I decide to do something truly reprehensible: I go invisible, and step farther into the room. The moment I do, Warner stiffens. Shit. I see him glance around, his eyes alert. His senses are too sharp. Quietly, I back up a few steps.

“You’re not answering my question,” James says, poking Warner in the arm. Warner shakes him off, his eyes narrowed at a spot a mere foot from where I’m standing. “Warner?” Reluctantly, Warner turns to face the ten-year-old. “Yes,” he says, distracted. “I mean— What were you saying?” “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” James says, sitting up straighter. The bedsheets fall down, puddle in his lap. “Why didn’t you say anything to me before? That whole time we lived together—” “I didn’t want to scare you.” “Why would I be scared?” Warner sighs, stares out the window when he says, quietly, “Because I’m not known for my charm.” “That’s not fair,” James says. He looks genuinely upset, but his visible exhaustion is keeping him from reacting too strongly. “I’ve seen a lot worse than you.” “Yes. I realize that now.” “And no one told me. I can’t believe no one told me. Not even Adam. I’ve been so mad at him.” James hesitates. “Did everyone know? Did Kenji know?” I stiffen. Warner turns again, this time staring precisely in my direction when he says, “Why don’t you ask him yourself ?” “Son of a bitch,” I mutter, my invisibility melting away. Warner almost smiles. James’s eyes go wide. This was not the reunion I was hoping for. Still, James’s face breaks into the biggest smile, which— I’m not going to lie—does wonders for my self-esteem. He throws off the covers and tries to jump out of bed, barefoot and oblivious to the needle stuck in his arm, and in those two and a half seconds I manage to experience both joy and terror. I shout a warning, rushing forward to stop him from ripping open the flesh of his forearm, but Warner beats me to it. He’s already on his feet, not so gently pushing the kid back down. “Oh.” James blushes. “Sorry.” I tackle him anyway, pulling him in for a long, excessive hug, and the way he clings to me makes me think I’m the first to do it. I try to fight back a rush of anger, but I’m unsuccessful. He’s a tenyear-old kid, for God’s sake. He’s been through hell. How has no one given him the physical reassurance he almost certainly needs right now? When we finally break apart, James has tears in his eyes. He wipes at his face and I turn away, trying to give him privacy, but when I take a seat at the foot of James’s bed I catch a flash of pain steal in and out of Warner’s eyes. It lasts for only half a second, but it’s enough to make me feel bad for the guy. And it’s enough to make me think he might be human again. “Hey,” I say, speaking to Warner directly for the first time. “So what, uh— What are you doing here?” Warner looks at me like I’m an insect. His signature look. “What do you think I’m doing here?” “Really?” I say, unable to hide my surprise. “That’s so decent of you. I didn’t think you’d be so . . . emotionally . . . responsible.” I clear my throat. Smile at James. He’s studying us curiously. “But I’m happy to be wrong, bro. And I’m sorry I misjudged you.” “I’m here to gather information,” Warner says coldly. “James is one of the only people who might be able to tell us where my father is located.” My compassion quickly turns to dust. Catches fire. Turns to rage. “You’re here to interrogate him?” I say, nearly shouting. “Are you insane? The kid has only barely recovered from unbelievable trauma, and you’re here trying to mine him for information? He was

probably tortured. He’s a freaking child. What the hell is wrong with you?” Warner is unmoved by my theatrics. “He was not tortured.” That stops me cold. I turn to James. “You weren’t?” James shakes his head. “Not exactly.” “Huh.” I frown. “I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m thrilled—but if he didn’t torture you, what did Anderson do with you?” James shrugs. “He mostly left me in solitary confinement. They didn’t beat me,” he says, rubbing absently at his ribs, “but the guards were pretty rough. And they didn’t feed me much.” He shrugs again. “But honestly, the worst part was not seeing Adam.” I pull James into my arms again, hold him tight. “I’m so sorry,” I say gently. “That sounds horrible. And they wouldn’t let you see Adam at all? Not even once?” I pull back. Look him in the eye. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m sure he’s okay, little man. We’ll find him. Don’t worry.” Warner makes a sound. A sound that seems almost like a laugh. I spin around angrily. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I say. “This isn’t funny.” “Isn’t it? I find the situation hilarious.” I’m about to say something to Warner I really shouldn’t say in front of a ten-year-old, but when I glance back at James, I pull up short. James is rapidly shaking his head at me, his bottom lip trembling. He looks like he’s about to cry again. I turn back to Warner. “Okay, what is going on?” Warner almost smiles when he says, “They weren’t kidnapped.” My eyebrows fly up my forehead. “Say what now?” “They weren’t kidnapped.” “I don’t understand.” “Of course you don’t.” “This is not the time, bro. Tell me what’s going on.” “Kent tracked down Anderson on his own,” Warner says, his gaze shifting to James. “He offered his allegiance in exchange for protection.” My entire body goes slack. I nearly fall off the bed. Warner goes on: “Kent wasn’t lying when he said he would try for amnesty. But he left out the part about being a traitor.” “No. No way. No fucking way.” “There was never an abduction,” Warner says. “No kidnapping. Kent bartered himself in exchange for James’s protection.” This time, I actually fall off the bed. “Barter himself— how?” I manage to drag myself up off the floor, stumbling to my feet. “What does Adam even have to barter with? Anderson already knows all our secrets.” It’s James who says quietly, “He gave them his power.” I stare at the kid, blinking like an idiot. “I don’t understand,” I say. “How can you give someone your power? You can’t just give someone your power. Right? It’s not like a pair of pants you can just take off and hand over.” “No,” Warner says. “But it’s something The Reestablishment knows how to harvest. How else do you think my father took Sonya’s and Sara’s healing powers?” “Adam told them what he can d-do,” James says, his voice breaking. “He told them that he can use his power to turn other people’s powers off. He thought it m-might be useful to them.” “Imagine the possibilities,” Warner says, affecting awe. “Imagine how they might weaponize a power like that for global use—how they could make such a thing so powerful they could effectively shut down every single rebel group in the world. Reduce their Unnatural opposition to zero.” “Jesus fucking Christ.”

I think I’m going to pass out. I actually feel faint. Dizzy. Like I can’t breathe. Like this is impossible. “No way,” I’m saying. I’m practically breathing the words. “No way. Not possible.” “I once said that Kent’s ability was useless,” Warner says quietly. “But I see now that I was a fool.” “He didn’t want to do it,” James says. He’s actively crying now, the silent tears moving down his face. “I swear he only did it to save me. He offered the only thing he had—the only thing he thought they’d want—to keep me safe. I know he didn’t want to do it. He was just desperate. He thought he was doing the right thing. He kept telling me he was going to keep me safe.” “By running into the arms of the man who abused him his whole life?” I’m clutching my hair in my hands. “This doesn’t make any sense. How does this— How—? How?” I look up suddenly, realizing. “And then look what he did,” I say, stunned. “After everything, Anderson still used you as bait. He brought you here as leverage. He would’ve killed you, even after everything Adam gave up.” “Kent was a desperate idiot,” Warner says. “That he was ever willing to trust my father with James’s well-being tells you exactly how far gone he was.” “He was desperate, but he’s not an idiot,” James says angrily, his eyes refilling with tears. “He loves me and he was just trying to keep me safe. I’m so worried about him. I’m so scared something happened to him. And I’m so scared Anderson did something awful to him.” James swallows, hard. “What are we going to do now? How are we going to get Adam and Juliette back?” I squeeze my eyes shut, try to take deep breaths. “Listen, don’t stress about this, okay? We’re going to get them back. And when we do, I’m going to murder Adam myself.” James gasps. “Ignore him,” Warner says. “He doesn’t mean it.” “Yes, I damn well do mean it.” Warner pretends not to hear me. “According to the information I gathered just moments before you barged in here,” he says calmly, “it sounds like my father was holding court back in Sector 45, just as Sam predicated. But he won’t be there now, of that I’m certain.” “How can you be certain of anything right now?” “Because I know my father,” he says. “I know what matters most to him. And I know that when he left here, he was severely, gruesomely injured. There’s only one place he’d go in a state like that.” I blink at him. “Where?” “Oceania. Back to Maximillian Sommers, the only person capable of piecing him back together.” That stops me dead. “Oceania? Please tell me you’re joking. We have to go back to Oceania?” I groan. “Dammit. That means we have to steal another plane.” “We,” he says, irritated, “aren’t doing anything.” “Of course we—” Just then, the girls walk in. They come up short at the sight of me and Warner. Two sets of eyes blink at us. “What are you doing here?” they ask at the same time. Warner is on his feet in an instant. “I was just leaving.” “I think you mean we were just leaving,” I say sharply. Warner ignores me, nods at James, and heads for the door. I’m following him out of the room before I remember, suddenly— “James,” I say, spinning around. “You’re going to be okay, you know that, right? We’re going to find Adam and bring him home and make all of this okay. Your job from here on out is to relax and eat chocolate and sleep. All right? Don’t worry about anything. Do you understand?” James blinks at me. He nods. “Good.” I step forward to plant a kiss on the top of his head. “Good,” I say again. “You’re going to be just fine. Everything is going to be fine. I’m going to make sure everything is fine, okay?” James stares up at me. “Okay,” he says, wiping away the last of his tears.

“Good,” I say for the third time, and nod, still staring at his small, innocent face. “Okay, I’m going to go make that happen now. Cool?” Finally, James smiles. “Cool.” I smile back, giving him everything I’ve got, and then dart out the door, hoping to catch Warner before he tries to rescue J without me.

It is a relief not to speak.

ELLA JULIETTE

Something changed between us this morning, something broke. Anderson seems relaxed in front of me in a way that seems unorthodox, but it’s not my business to question him. I’m honored to have this position, to be his most trusted supreme soldier, and that’s all that matters. Today is my first official day of work, and I’m happy to be here, even when he ignores me completely. In fact, I enjoy it. I find comfort in pretending to disappear. I exist only to shadow him as he moves from one task to another. I stand aside, staring straight ahead. I do not watch him as he works, but I feel him, constantly. He takes up all available space. I am attuned to his every movement, his every sound. It is my job now to know him completely, to anticipate his needs and fears, to protect him with my life, and to serve his interests entirely. So I listen, for hours, to the details. The creak of his chair as he leans back, considering. The sighs that escape him as he types. Leather chair and wool pants meeting, shifting. The dull thud of a ceramic mug hitting the surface of a wooden desk. The tinkle of crystal, the quick pour of bourbon. The sharp, sweet scent of tobacco and the rustle of tissue-thin paper. Keystrokes. A pen scratching. The sudden tear and fizz of a match. Sulfur. Keystrokes. A snap of a rubber band. Smoke, making my eyes tear. A stack of papers slapping together like a settling deck of cards. His voice, deep and melodic on a series of phone calls so brief I can’t tell them apart. Keystrokes. He never seems to require use of the bathroom. I do not think about my own needs, and he does not ask. Keystrokes. Occasionally he looks up at me, studying me, and I keep my eyes straight ahead. Somehow, I can feel his smile. I am a ghost. I wait. I hear little. I learn little. Finally— “Come.” He’s on his feet and out the door and I hasten to follow. We’re up high, on the top floor of the compound. The hallways circle around an interior courtyard, in the center of which is a large tree, branches heavy with orange and red leaves. Fall colors. I glance, without moving my head, outside one of the many tall windows gracing the halls, and my mind registers the incongruence of the two images. Outside, things are a strange mix of green and desolate. Inside, this tree is warm and rosyhued. Perfect autumn foliage. I shake off the thought. I have to walk twice as fast to keep up with Anderson’s long strides. He stops for no one. Men and women in lab coats jump aside as we approach, mumbling apologies in our wake, and I’m surprised by the giddy sensation that rises up inside of me. I like their fear. I enjoy this power, this feeling of unapologetic dominion. Dopamine floods my brain. I pick up speed, still hurrying to keep up. It occurs to me then that Anderson never looks back to make sure I’m following him, and it makes me wonder what he’d do if he discovered I was

missing. And then, just as quickly, the thought strikes me as bizarre. He has no reason to look back. I would never go missing. The compound feels busier than usual today. Announcements blare through the speakers and the air around me fills with fervor. Names are called; demands made. People come and go. We take the stairs. Anderson never stops, never seems out of breath. He moves with the strength of a younger man but with the kind of confidence acquired only by age. He carries himself with a certainty both terrifying and aspirational. Faces pale at the sight of him. Most look away. Some can’t help but stare. One woman nearly faints when his body brushes against hers, and Anderson doesn’t even break his stride when she causes a scene. I am fascinated. The speakers crackle. A smooth, robotic female voice announces a code-green situation so calmly I can’t help but be surprised by the collective reaction. I witness something akin to chaos as doors slam open around the building. It all seems to happen in sync, a domino effect echoing along corridors from top to bottom of the compound. Men and women in lab coats surge and swarm all levels, jamming the walkways as they scuttle along. Still, Anderson does not stop. The world revolves around him, makes room for him. Slows when he speeds up. He does not accommodate anyone. Anything. I am taking notes. Finally, we reach a door. Anderson presses his hand against the biometric scanner, then peers into a camera that reads his eyes. The door fissures open. I smell something sterile, like antiseptic, and the moment we step into the room the scent burns my nose, causing my eyes to tear. The entrance is unusual; a short hallway that hides the rest of the room from immediate view. As we approach, I hear three monitors beep at three different decibel levels. When we round the corner, the room quadruples in size. The space is vast and bright, natural light combining with the searing white glow of artificial bulbs overhead. There’s little else here but a single bed and the figure strapped into it. The beeping is coming not from three machines, but seven, all of which seem to be affixed to the unconscious body of a boy. I don’t know him, but he can’t be much older than I am. His hair is cropped close to his scalp, a soft buzz of brown interrupted only by the wires drilled into his skull. There’s a sheet pulled up to his neck, so I can’t see much more than his resting face, but the sight of him there, strapped down like that, reminds me of something. A flash of memory flares through me. It’s vague, distorted. I try to peel back the hazy layers, but when I manage a glimpse of something —a cave, a tall black man, a tank full of water—I feel a sharp, electrifying sting of rage that leaves my hands shaking. It unmoors me. I take a jerky step back and shake my head a fraction of an inch, trying to compose myself, but my mind feels foggy, confused. When I finally pull myself together, I realize Anderson is watching me. Slowly, he takes a step forward, his eyes narrowed in my direction. He says nothing, but I feel, without knowing why, exactly, that I’m not allowed to look away. I’m supposed to maintain eye contact for as long as he wants. It’s brutal. “You felt something when you walked in here,” he says. It’s not a question. I’m not sure it requires an answer. Still— “Nothing of consequence, sir.” “Consequence,” he says, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. He takes a few steps toward one of the massive windows, clasps his hands behind his back. For a while, he’s silent. “So interesting,” he says finally. “That we never did discuss consequences.” Fear slithers, creeps up my spine.

He’s still staring out the window when he says softly, “You will not withhold anything from me. Everything you feel, every emotion you experience—it belongs to me. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir.” “You felt something when you walked in here,” he says again. This time, his voice is heavy with something, something dark and terrifying. “Yes, sir.” “And what was it?” “I felt anger, sir.” He turns around at that. Raises his eyebrows. “After anger, I felt confusion.” “But anger,” he says, stepping toward me. “Why anger?” “I don’t know, sir.” “Do you recognize this boy?” he says, pointing at the prone body without even looking at it. “No, sir.” “No.” His jaw clenches. “But he reminds you of someone.” I hesitate. Tremors threaten, and I will them away. Anderson’s gaze is so intense I can hardly meet his eyes. I glance again at the boy’s sleeping face. “Yes, sir.” Anderson’s eyes narrow. He waits for more. “Sir,” I say quietly. “He reminds me of you.” Unexpectedly, Anderson goes still. Surprise rearranges his expression and suddenly, startlingly— He laughs. It’s a laugh so genuine it seems to shock him even more than it shocks me. Eventually, the laughter settles into a smile. Anderson shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the window frame. He stares at me with something resembling fascination, and it’s such a pure moment, a moment so untainted by malice that he strikes me, suddenly, as beautiful. More than that. The sight of him—something about his eyes, something about the way he moves, the way he smiles— The sight of him suddenly stirs something in my heart. Ancient heat. A kaleidoscope of dead butterflies kicked up by a brief, dry gust of wind. It leaves me feeling sick. The stony look returns to his face. “That. Right there.” He draws a circle in the air with his index finger. “That look on your face. What was that?” My eyes widen. Unease floods through me, heating my cheeks. For the first time, I falter. He moves swiftly, charging toward me so angrily I wonder at my ability to remain steady. Roughly, he takes my chin in his hand, tilts up my face. There are no secrets here, this close to him. I can hide nothing. “Now,” he says, his voice low. Angry. “Tell me now.” I break eye contact, trying desperately to gather my thoughts, and he barks at me to look at him. I force myself to meet his eyes. And then I hate myself, hate my mouth for betraying my mind. Hate my mind for thinking at all. “You— You are extremely handsome, sir.” Anderson drops his hand like he’s been burned. He backs away, looking, for the first time— Uncomfortable. “Are you—” He stops, frowns. And then, too soon, anger clouds his expression. His voice is practically a growl when he says, “You are lying to me.” “No, sir.” I hate the sound of my voice, the breathy panic.

His eyes sharpen. He must see something in my expression that gives him pause, because the anger evaporates from his face. He blinks at me. Then, carefully, he says: “In the middle of all of this”— he waves around the room, at the sleeping figure hooked up to the machines—“of all the things that could be going through your mind, you were thinking . . . that you find me attractive.” A traitorous heat floods my face. “Yes, sir.” Anderson frowns. He seems about to say something, and then hesitates. For the first time, he seems unmoored. A few seconds of tortured silence stretch between us, and I’m not sure how best to proceed. “This is unsettling,” Anderson finally says, and mostly to himself. He presses two fingers to the inside of his wrist, and lifts his wrist to his mouth. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Tell Max there’s been an unusual development. I need to see him at once.” Anderson spares me a brief glance before dismissing, with a single shake of his head, the entire mortifying exchange. He stalks toward the boy strapped down on the bed and says, “This young man is part of an ongoing experiment.” I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing. Anderson bends over the boy, toying with various wires, and then stiffens, suddenly. Looks up at me out of the corner of his eye. “Can you imagine why this boy is part of an experiment?” “No sir.” “He has a gift,” Anderson says, straightening. “He came to me voluntarily and offered to share it with me.” I blink, still uncertain how to respond. “But there are many of you—Unnaturals—running wild on this planet,” Anderson says. “So many powers. So many different abilities. Our asylums are teeming with them, overrun with power. I have access to nearly anything I want. So what makes him special, hmm?” He tilts his head at me. “What power could he possibly have that would be greater than yours? More useful?” Again, I say nothing. “Do you want to know?” he asks, a hint of a smile touching his lips. This feels like a trick. I consider my options. Finally, I say, “I want to know only if you want to tell me, sir.” Anderson’s smile blooms. White teeth. Genuine pleasure. I feel my chest warm at his quiet praise. Pride straightens my shoulders. I avert my eyes, staring quietly at the wall. Still, I see Anderson turn away again, appraising the boy with another single, careful look. “These powers were wasted on him anyway.” He removes the touchpad slotted into a compartment of the boy’s bed and begins tapping the digital screen, scrolling and scanning for information. He looks up, once, at the monitors beeping out various vitals, and frowns. Finally, he sighs, dragging a hand through his perfectly arranged hair. I think it looks better for being mussed. Warmer. Softer. Familiar. The observation frightens me. I turn away sharply and glance out the window, wondering, suddenly, if I will ever be allowed to use the bathroom. “Juliette.” The angry timbre of his voice sends my heart racing. I straighten in an instant. Look straight ahead. “Yes, sir,” I say, sounding a little breathless. I realize then that he’s not even looking at me. He’s still typing something into the touchpad when he says, calmly, “Were you daydreaming?” “No, sir.”

He returns the touchpad to its compartment, the pieces connecting with a satisfying metallic click. He looks up. “This is growing tiresome,” he says quietly. “I’m already losing patience with you, and we haven’t even come to the end of your first day.” He hesitates. “Do you want to know what happens when I lose patience with you, Juliette?” My fingers tremble; I clench them into fists. “No, sir.” He holds out his hand. “Then give me what belongs to me.” I take an uncertain step forward and his outstretched hand flies up, palm out, stopping me in place. His jaw clenches. “I am referring to your mind,” he says. “I want to know what you were thinking when you lost your head long enough to gaze out the window. I want to know what you are thinking right now. I will always want to know what you’re thinking,” he says sharply. “In every moment. I want every word, every detail, every emotion. Every single loose, fluttering thought that passes through your head, I want it,” he says, stalking toward me. “Do you understand? It’s mine. You are mine.” He comes to a halt just inches from my face. “Yes, sir,” I say, my voice failing me. “I will only ask this once more,” he says, making an effort to moderate his voice. “And if you ever make me work this hard again to get the answers I need, you will be punished. Is that clear?” “Yes, sir.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes narrow. “What were you daydreaming about?” I swallow. Look at him. Look away. Quietly, I say: “I was wondering, sir, if you would ever let me use the bathroom.”

Anderson’s face goes suddenly blank. He seems stunned. He regards me a moment longer before saying, flatly: “You were wondering if you could use the bathroom.” “Yes, sir.” My face heats. Anderson crosses his arms across his chest. “That’s all?” I feel suddenly compelled to tell him what I thought about his hair, but I fight against the urge. Guilt floods through me at the indulgence, but my mind is soothed by a strange, familiar warmth, and suddenly I feel no guilt at all for being only partly truthful. “Yes, sir. That’s all.” Anderson tilts his head at me. “No new surges of anger? No questions about what we’re doing here? No concerns over the well-being of the boy”—he points—“or the powers he might have?” “No, sir.” “I see,” he says. I stare. Anderson takes a deep breath and undoes a button of his blazer. He pushes both hands through his hair. Begins to pace. He’s becoming flustered, I realize, and I don’t know what to do about it. “It’s almost funny,” he says. “This is exactly what I wanted, and yet, somehow, I’m disappointed.” He takes a deep, sharp breath, and spins around. Studies me. “What would you do,” he says, nodding his head an inch to his left, “if I asked you to throw yourself out that window?” I turn, examining the large window looming over us both. It’s a massive, circular stained glass window that takes up half the wall. Colors scatter across the ground, creating a beautiful, distracted work of art over the polished concrete floors. I walk over to window, run my fingers along the ornate panes of glass. I peer down at the expanse of green below. We’re at least five hundred feet above the ground, but the distance doesn’t inspire my fear. I could make that jump easily, without injury. I look up. “I would do it with pleasure, sir.” He takes a step closer. “What if I asked you to do it without using your powers? What if it was simply my desire that you throw yourself out the window?” A wave of searing, blistering heat moves through me, seals shut my mouth. Binds my arms. I can’t pry my own mouth open against the terrifying assault, but I can only imagine it’s part of this challenge. Anderson must be trying to test my allegiance. He must be trying to trap me into a moment of disobedience. Which means I need to prove myself. My loyalty. It takes an extraordinary amount of my own supernatural strength to fight back the invisible forces clamping my mouth shut, but I manage it. And when I can finally speak, I say, “I would do it with pleasure, sir.” Anderson takes yet another step closer, his eyes glittering with something— Something brand-new. Something akin to wonder. “Would you, really?” he says softly. “Yes, sir.” “Would you do anything I asked you to do? Anything at all?” “Yes, sir.” Anderson’s still holding my gaze when he lifts his wrist to his mouth again and says quietly: “Come in here. Now.” He drops his hand.

My heart begins to pound. Anderson refuses to look away from me, his eyes growing bluer and brighter by the second. It’s almost like he knows that his eyes alone are enough to upset my equilibrium. And then, without warning, he grabs my wrist. I realize too late that he’s checking my pulse. “So fast,” he says softly. “Like a little bird. Tell me, Juliette. Are you afraid?” “No, sir.” “Are you excited?” “I— I don’t know, sir.” The door slides open and Anderson drops my wrist. For the first time in minutes, Anderson looks away from me, finally breaking some painful, invisible connection between us. My body goes slack with relief and, remembering myself, I quickly straighten. A man walks in. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. He’s young, younger than Anderson, I think, but older than me. He wears a headset. He looks uncertain. “Juliette,” Anderson says, “this is Darius.” I turn to face Darius. Darius says nothing. He looks paralyzed. “I won’t be requiring Darius’s services anymore,” Anderson says, glancing in my direction. Darius blanches. Even from where I’m standing, I can see his body begin to tremble. “Sir?” I say, confused. “Isn’t it obvious?” Anderson says. “I would like you to dispose of him.” Understanding dawns. “Certainly, sir.” The moment I turn in Darius’s direction, he screams; it’s a sharp, bloodcurdling sound that irritates my ears. He makes a run for the door and I pivot quickly, throwing out my arm to stop him. The force of my power sends him flying the rest of the way to the exit, his body slamming hard against the steel wall. He slumps, with a soft moan, to the ground. I open my palm. He screams. Power surges through me, filling my blood with fire. The feeling is intoxicating. Delicious. I lift my hand and Darius’s body lifts off the floor, his head thrown back in agony, his body run through by invisible rods. He continues to scream and the sound fills my ears, floods my body with endorphins. My skin hums with his energy. I close my eyes. Then I close my fist. Fresh screams pierce the silence, echoing around the vast, cavernous space. I feel a smile tugging at my lips and I lose myself in the feeling, in the freedom of my own power. There’s a joy in this, in using my strength so freely, in finally letting go. Bliss. My eyes flutter open but I feel drugged, deliriously happy as I watch his seized, suspended body begin to convulse. Blood spurts from his nose, bubbles up inside his open, gasping mouth. He’s choking. Nearly dead. And I’m just beginning t— The fire leaves my body so suddenly it sends me stumbling backward. Darius falls, with a bone-cracking thud, to the floor. A desperate emptiness burns through me, leaves me feeling faint. I hold my hands up as if in prayer, trying to figure out what happened, feeling suddenly close to tears. I spin around, trying to understand— Anderson is pointing a weapon at me. I drop my hands. Anderson drops his weapon. Power surges through me once more and I take a deep, grateful breath, finding relief in the feeling as it floods my senses, refilling my veins. I blink several times, trying to clear my head, but it’s

Darius’s pathetic, agonized whimpers that bring me back to the present moment. I stare at his broken body, the shallow pools of blood on the floor. I feel vaguely annoyed. “Incredible.” I turn around. Anderson is staring at me with unvarnished amazement. “Incredible,” he says again. “That was incredible.” I stare at him, uncertain. “How do you feel?” he asks. “Disappointed, sir.” His eyebrows pull together. “Why disappointed?” I glance at Darius. “Because he’s still alive, sir. I didn’t complete the task.” Anderson’s face breaks into a smile so wide it electrifies his features. He looks young. He looks kind. He looks wonderful. “My God,” he says softly. “You’re perfect.”

“Hey,” I call out. “Wait up!”

KENJI

I’m still sprinting after Warner and, in a move that surprises absolutely no one, he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t even slow down. In fact, I’m pretty sure he speeds up. I realize, as I pick up the pace, that I haven’t felt fresh air in a couple of days. I look around as I go, trying to take in the details. The sky is bluer than I’ve ever seen it. There’s no cloud in sight for miles. I don’t know if this weather is unique to the geographical location of Sector 241, or if it’s just regular climate change. Regardless, I take a deep breath. Air feels good. I was getting claustrophobic in the dining hall, spending endless hours with the ill and injured. The colors of the room had begun to bleed together, all the linen and ash-colored cots and the toobright, unnatural light. The smells were intense, too. Blood and bleach. Antiseptic. It was making my head swim. I woke up with a massive headache this morning—though, to be fair, I wake up with a massive headache almost every morning—but being outside is beginning to soothe the ache. Who knew. It’s nice out here, even if it’s a little hot in this outfit. I’m wearing a pair of old fatigues I found in my room. Sam and Nouria made sure from the start that we had everything we needed—even now, even after the battle. We have toiletries. Clean clothes. Warner, on the other hand— I squint at his retreating figure. I can’t believe he still hasn’t taken a shower. He’s still wearing Haider’s leather jacket, but it’s practically destroyed. His black pants are torn, his face still smudged with what I can only imagine is a combination of blood and dirt. His hair is wild. His boots are dull. And somehow—somehow—he still manages to look put together. I don’t get it. I slow my pace when I pull up next to him, but I’m still power walking. Breathing hard. Beginning to sweat. “Hey,” I say, pinching my shirt away from my chest, where it’s starting to stick. The weather is getting weirder; it’s suddenly sweltering. I wince upward, toward the sun. Here, within the Sanctuary, I’ve been getting a better idea of the state of our world. News flash: The earth is still basically going to shit. The Reestablishment has just been taking advantage of the aforementioned shit, making things seem irreparably bad. The truth, on the other hand, is that they’re only reparably bad. Ha. “Hey,” I say again, this time clapping Warner on the shoulder. He shoves off my hand with so much enthusiasm I nearly stumble. “Okay, listen, I know you’re upset, but—” Warner suddenly disappears.

“Hey, where the hell are you going?” I shout, my voice ringing out. “Are you heading back to your room? Should I just meet you there?” A couple of people turn to stare at me. The normally busy paths are pretty empty right now because so many of us are still convalescing, but the few people lingering in the bright sun shoot me dirty looks. Like I’m the weirdo. “Leave him alone,” someone hisses at me. “He’s grieving.” I roll my eyes. “Hey—douche bag,” I shout, hoping Warner’s still close enough to hear me. “I know you love her, but so do I, and I’m—” Warner reappears so close to my face I nearly scream. I take a sudden, terrified step backward. “If you value your life,” he says, “don’t come near me.” I’m about to point out that he’s being dramatic, but he cuts me off. “I didn’t say that to be dramatic. I didn’t even say it to scare you. I’m saying it out of respect for Ella, because I know she’d rather I didn’t kill you.” I’m quiet for a full second. And then I frown. “Are you fucking with me right now? You’re definitely fucking with me right now. Right?” Warner’s eyes go flinty. Electric. That scary kind of crazy.

“Every single time you claim to understand even a fraction of what I’m feeling, I want to disembowel you. I want to sever your carotid artery. I want to rip out your vertebrae, one by one. You have no idea what it is to love her,” he says angrily. “You couldn’t even begin to imagine. So stop trying to understand.” Wow, sometimes I really hate this guy. I have to literally clench my jaw to keep myself from saying what I’m really thinking right now, which is that I want to put my fist through his skull. (I actually imagine it for a moment, imagine what it’d be like to crush his head like a walnut. It’s oddly satisfying.) But then I remember that we need this asshole, and that J’s life is on the line. The fate of the world is on the line. So I fight back my anger and try again. “Listen,” I say, making an effort to gentle my voice. “I know what you guys have is special. I know that I can’t really understand that kind of love. I mean, hell, I know you were even thinking about proposing to her—and that must’ve—” “I did propose to her.” I suddenly stiffen. I can tell just by the sound of his voice that he’s not joking. And I can tell by the look on his face— the infinitesimal flash of misery in his eyes—that this is my opening. This is the data I’ve been missing. This is the source of the agony that’s been drowning him. I scan the immediate area for eavesdroppers. Yep. Too many new members of the Warner fan club clutching their hearts. “Come on,” I say to him. “I’m taking you to lunch.” Warner blinks, confusion temporarily clearing his anger. And then, sharply: “I’m not hungry.” “That’s obviously bullshit.” I look him up and down. He looks good—he always looks good, the asshole—but he looks hungry. Not just the regular kind of hungry, either, but that desperate hunger that’s so hungry it doesn’t even feel like hunger anymore. “You haven’t eaten anything in days,” I say to him. “And you know better than I do that you’ll be useless on a rescue mission if you pass out before you even get there.” He glares at me.

“Come on, bro. You want J to come home to skin and bones? The way you’re going, she’ll take one look at you and run screaming in the opposite direction. This is not a good look. All these muscles need to eat.” I poke at his bicep. “Feed your children.” Warner jerks away from me and takes a long, irritated breath. The sound of it almost makes me smile. Feels like old times. I think I’m making progress. Because this time, when I tell him to follow me, he doesn’t fight.

ELLA JULIETTE

Anderson takes me to meet Max.

I follow him down into the bowels of the compound, through winding, circuitous paths. Anderson’s steps echo along the stone and steel walkways, the lights flickering as we go. The occasional, overly bright lights cast stark shadows in strange shapes. I feel my skin prickle. My mind wanders. A flash of Darius’s limp body blazes in my mind, carrying with it a sharp twinge that twists my gut. I fight against an impulse to vomit, even as I feel the contents of my meager breakfast coming up my throat. With effort, I force back the bile. Sweat beads along my forehead, the back of my neck. My body is screaming to stop moving. My lungs want to expand, collect air. I allow neither. I force myself to keep walking. I wick away the images, expunging thoughts of Darius from my mind. The churning in my stomach begins to slow, but in its wake my skin takes on a damp, clammy sensation. I struggle to recount the things I ate this morning. I must’ve eaten poorly; something isn’t agreeing with my stomach. I feel feverish. I blink. I blink again, but this time for too long and I see a flash of blood, bubbling up inside Darius’s open mouth. The nausea returns with a swiftness that scares me. I suck in a breath, my fingers fluttering, desperate to press against my stomach. Somehow, I hold steady. I keep my eyes open, widening them to the point of pain. My heart starts pounding. I try desperately to maintain control over my spiraling thoughts, but my skin begins to crawl. I clench my fists. Nothing helps. Nothing helps. Nothing, I think. nothing nothing nothing I begin to count the lights we pass. I count my fingers. I count my breaths. I count my footsteps, measuring the force of every footfall that thunders up my legs, reverberates around my hips. I remember that Darius is still alive. He was carried away, ostensibly to be patched up and returned to his former position. Anderson didn’t seem to mind that Darius was still alive. Anderson was only testing me, I realized. Testing me, once again, to make sure that I was obedient to him and him alone. I take in a deep, fortifying breath. I focus on Anderson’s retreating figure. For reasons I can’t explain, staring at him steadies me. Slows my pulse. Settles my stomach. And from this vantage point, I can’t help but admire the way he moves. He has an impressive, muscular frame—broad shoulders, narrow waist, strong legs—but I marvel most at the way he carries himself. He has a confident stride. He walks tall, with smooth, effortless efficiency. As I watch him, a familiar feeling flutters through me. It gathers in my stomach, sparking dim heat that sends a brief shock to my heart.

I don’t fight it. There’s something about him. Something about his face. His carriage. I find myself moving unconsciously closer to him, watching him almost too intently. I’ve noticed that he wears no jewelry, not even a watch. He has a faded scar between his right thumb and index finger. His hands are rough and callused. His dark hair is shot through with silver, the extent of which is only visible up close. His eyes are the blue-green of shallow, turquoise waters. Unusual. Aquamarine. He has long brown lashes and laugh lines. Full, curving lips. His skin grows rougher as the day wears on, the shadow of facial hair hinting at a version of him I try and fail to imagine. I realize I’m beginning to like him. Trust him. Suddenly, he stops. We’re standing outside a steel door, next to which is a keypad and biometric scanner. He brings his wrist to his mouth. “Yes.” A pause. “I’m outside.” I feel my own wrist vibrate. I look down, surprised, at the blue light flashing through the skin at my pulse. I’m being summoned. This is strange. Anderson is standing right next to me; I thought he was the only one with the authority to summon me. “Sir?” I say. He glances back, his eyebrows raised as if to say— Yes? And something that feels like happiness blooms to life inside of me. I know it’s unwise to make so much of so little, but his movements and expressions feel suddenly softer now, more casual. It’s clear that he’s begun to trust me, too. I lift my wrist to show him the message. He frowns. He steps closer to me, taking my flashing arm in his hands. The tips of his fingers press against my skin as he gently bends back the joint, his eyes narrowing as he studies the summons. I go unnaturally still. He makes a sound of irritation and exhales, his breath skittering across my skin. A bolt of sensation moves through me. He’s still holding my arm when he speaks into his own wrist. “Tell Ibrahim to back off. I have it under control.” In the silence, Anderson tilts his head, listening on an earpiece that isn’t readily visible. I can only watch. Wait. “I don’t care,” he says angrily, his fingers closing unconsciously around my wrist. I gasp, surprised, and he turns, our eyes meeting, clashing. Anderson frowns. His pleasant, masculine scent fills my head and I breathe him in almost without meaning to. Being this close to him is difficult. Strange. My head is swimming with confusion. Broken images flood my mind—a flash of golden hair, fingers grazing bare skin—and then nausea. Dizziness. It nearly knocks me over. I look away just as Anderson tugs my arm up, toward a floodlight, squinting to get a better look. Our bodies nearly touch, and I’m suddenly so close I can see the edges of a tattoo, dark and curving, creeping up the edge of his collarbone. My eyes widen in surprise. Anderson lets go of my wrist. “I already know it was him,” he says, speaking quickly, his eyes darting at and away from me. “His code is in the timestamp.” A pause. “Just clear the summons. And then remind him that she reports only to me. I decide if and when he gets to talk to her.” He drops his wrist. Touches a finger to his temple. And then, narrows his eyes at me. My heart jumps. I straighten. I no longer wait to be prompted. When he looks at me like that, I know it’s my cue to confess.

“You have a tattoo, sir. I was surprised. I wondered what it was.” Anderson raises an eyebrow at me. He seems about to speak when, finally, the steel door exhales open. A curl of steam escapes the doorway, behind which emerges a man. He’s tall, taller than Anderson, with wavy brown hair, light brown skin, and light, bright eyes the color of which aren’t immediately obvious. He wears a white lab coat. Tall rubber boots. A face mask hangs around his neck, and a dozen pens have been shoved into the pocket of his coat. He makes no effort to move forward or to step aside; he only stands in the doorway, seemingly undecided. “What’s going on?” Anderson says. “I sent you a message an hour ago and you never showed up. Then I come to your door and you make me wait.” The man—Anderson told me his name was Max—says nothing. Instead, he appraises me, his eyes moving up and down my body in a show of undisguised hatred. I’m not sure how to process his reaction. Anderson sighs, grasping something that isn’t obvious to me. “Max,” he says quietly. “You can’t be serious.” Max shoots Anderson a sharp look. “Unlike you, we’re not all made of stone.” And then, looking away: “At least not entirely.” I’m surprised to discover that Max has an accent, one not unlike the citizens of Oceania. Max must originate from this region. Anderson sighs again. “All right,” Max says coolly. “What did you want to discuss?” He pulls a pen out of his pocket, uncapping it with his teeth. He reaches into his other pocket and pulls free a notebook. Flips it open. I go suddenly blind. In the span of a single instant darkness floods my vision. Clears. Hazy images reappear, time speeding up and slowing down in fits and starts. Colors streak across my eyes, dilate my pupils. Stars explode, lights flashing, sparking. I hear voices. A single voice. A whisper—

I am a thief The tape rewinds. Plays back. The file corrupts. I am I am III am a thief a thief I stole I stole this notebook andthispenfromoneofthedoctors

“Of course you did.” Anderson’s sharp voice brings me back to the present moment. My heart is beating in my throat. Fear presses against my skin, conjuring goose bumps along my arms. My eyes move too quickly, darting around in distress until they rest, finally, on Anderson’s familiar face. He’s not looking at me. He’s not even speaking to me. Quiet relief floods through me at the realization. My interlude lasted but a moment, which means I haven’t missed much more than a couple of exchanged words. Max turns to me, studying me curiously.

“Come inside,” he says, and disappears through the door. I follow Anderson through the entryway, and as soon as I cross the threshold, a blast of icy air sends a shiver up my skin. I don’t make it much farther than the entrance before I’m distracted. Amazed. Steel and glass are responsible for most of the structures in the space—massive screens and monitors; microscopes; long glass tables littered with beakers and half-filled test tubes. Accordion pipes sever vertical space around the room, connecting tabletops and ceilings. Blocks of artificial light fixtures are suspended in midair, humming steadily. The light temperature in here is so blue I don’t know how Max can stand it. I follow Max and Anderson over to a crescent-shaped desk that looks more like a command center. Papers are stacked on one side of the steel top, screens flickering above. More pens are stuffed into a chipped coffee mug sitting atop a thick book. A book. I haven’t seen a relic like that in a long time. Max takes his seat. He gestures at a stool tucked under a nearby table, and Anderson shakes his head. I continue to stand. “All right, then, go on,” Max says, his eyes flickering in my direction. “You said there was a problem.” Anderson looks suddenly uncomfortable. He says nothing for so long that, eventually, Max smiles. “Out with it,” Max says, gesturing with his pen. “What did you do wrong this time?” “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Anderson says sharply. Then he frowns. “I don’t think so, anyway.” “Then what is it?” Anderson takes a deep breath. Finally: “She says that she’s . . . attracted to me.” Max’s eyes widen. He glances from Anderson to me and then back again. And then, suddenly— He laughs. My face heats. I stare straight ahead, studying the strange equipment stacked on shelves against the far wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Max scribbling in a notepad. All this modern technology, but he still seems to enjoy writing by hand. The observation strikes me as odd. I file the information away, not really understanding why. “Fascinating,” Max says, still smiling. He gives his head a quick shake. “Makes perfect sense, of course.” “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Anderson says, visibly irritated. “But I don’t like it.” Max laughs again. He leans back in his chair, his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He’s clearly intrigued—excited, even—by the development, and it’s causing his earlier iciness to thaw. He bites down on the pen cap, considering Anderson. There’s a glint in his eye. “Do mine eyes deceive me,” he says, “or does the great Paris Anderson admit to having a conscience? Or perhaps: a sense of morality?” “You know better than anyone that I’ve never owned either, so I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what it feels like.” “Touché.” “Anyway—” “I’m sorry,” Max says, his smile widening. “But I need another moment with this revelation. Can you blame me for being fascinated? Considering the uncontested fact of your being one of the most depraved human beings I’ve ever known—and among our social circles, that’s saying a lot—” “Ha ha,” Anderson says flatly. “—I think I’m just surprised. Why is this too much? Why is this the line you won’t cross? Of all the things . . .”

“Max, be serious.” “I am being serious.” “Aside from the obvious reasons why this situation should be disturbing to anyone— The girl’s not even eighteen. Even I am not as depraved as that.” Max shakes his head. Holds up his pen. “Actually, she’s been eighteen for four months.” Anderson seems about to argue, and then— “Of course,” he says. “I was remembering the wrong paperwork.” He glances at me as he says it, and I feel my face grow hotter. I am simultaneously confused and mortified. Curious. Horrified. “Either way,” Anderson says sharply, “I don’t like it. Can you fix it?” Max sits forward, crosses his arms. “Can I fix it? Can I fix the fact that she can’t help but be attracted to the man who spawned the two faces she’s known most intimately?” He shakes his head. Laughs again. “That kind of wiring isn’t undone without incurring serious repercussions. Repercussions that would set us back.” “What kind of repercussions? Set us back how?” Max glances at me. Glances at Anderson. Anderson sighs. “Juliette,” he barks. “Yes, sir.” “Leave us.” “Yes, sir.” I pivot sharply and head for the exit. The door slides open in anticipation of my approach, but I hesitate, just a few feet away, when I hear Max laugh again. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop. I know it’s wrong. I know I’d be punished if I were caught. I know this. Still, I can’t seem to move. My body is revolting, screaming at me to cross the threshold, but a pervasive heat has begun to seep into my mind, dulling the compulsion. I’m still frozen in front of the open door, trying to decide what to do, when their voices carry over. “She clearly has a type,” Max is saying. “At this point, it’s practically written in her DNA.” Anderson says something I don’t hear. “Is it really such a bad thing?” Max says. “Perhaps her affection for you could work out in your favor. Take advantage of it.” “You think I’m so desperate for companionship—or so completely incompetent—that I’d need to result to seduction in order to get what I want out of the girl?” Max barks out a laugh. “We both know you’ve never been desperate for companionship. But as to your competence . . .” “I don’t know why I even bother with you.” “It’s been thirty years, Paris, and I’m still waiting for you to develop a sense of humor.” “It’s been thirty years, Max, and you’d think I’d have found some new friends by now. Better ones.” “You know, your kids aren’t funny, either,” Max says, ignoring him. “Interesting how that works, isn’t it?” Anderson groans. Max only laughs louder. I frown. I stand there, trying and failing to process their interactions. Max just insulted a supreme commander of The Reestablishment—multiple times. As Anderson’s subordinate, he should be

punished for speaking so disrespectfully. He should be fired, at the very least. Executed, if Anderson deems it preferable. But when I hear the distant sound of Anderson’s laughter, I realize that he and Max are laughing together. It’s a realization that both startles and stuns me: That they must be friends. One of the overhead lights pops and hums, startling me out of my reverie. I give my head a quick shake and head out the door.

KENJI

I’m suddenly a big fan of the Warner groupies. On our way back to my tent, I told only a couple of people I spotted on the path that Warner was hungry—but still not feeling well enough to join everyone in the dining hall—and they’ve been delivering packages of food to my room ever since. The problem is, all this kindness comes with a price. Six different girls (and two guys) have shown up so far, each one of them expecting payment for their generosity in the form of a conversation with Warner, which—obviously— never happens. But they usually settle for a good long look at him. It’s weird. I mean, even I know, objectively, that Warner’s not disgusting to look at, but this whole production of unabashed flirtation is really starting to feel weird. I’m not used to being in an environment where people openly admit to liking anything about Warner. Back at Omega Point—and even on base in Sector 45—everyone seemed to agree that he was a monster. No one denied their fear or disgust long enough to treat him like the kind of guy at whom they might bat their eyelashes. But what’s funny is: I’m the only one getting irritated. Every time the doorbell rings I’m like, this is it, this is the time Warner is finally going to lose his mind and shoot someone, but he never even seems to notice. Of all the things that piss him off, gawking men and women don’t appear to be on the list. “So is this, like, normal for you, or what?” I’m still arranging food on plates in the little dining area of my room. Warner is standing stiffly in a random spot by the window. He chose that random spot when we walked in and he’s just been standing there, staring at nothing, ever since. “Is what normal for me?” “All these people,” I say, gesturing at the door. “Coming in here pretending they’re not imagining you without your clothes on. Is that just, like, a normal day for you?” “I think you’re forgetting,” he says quietly, “that I’ve been able to sense emotions for most of my life.” I raise my eyebrows. “So this is just a normal day for you.” He sighs. Stares out the window again. “You’re not even going to pretend it’s not true?” I rip open a foil container. More potatoes. “You won’t even pretend you don’t know that the entire world finds you attractive?” “Was that a confession?” “You wish, dickhead.” “I find it boring,” Warner says. “Besides, if I paid attention to every single person who found me attractive I’d never have time for anything else.” I nearly drop the potatoes. I wait for him to crack a smile, to tell me he’s joking, and when he doesn’t, I shake my head, stunned. “Wow,” I say. “Your humility is a fucking inspiration.” He shrugs. “Hey,” I say, “speaking of things that disgust me— Do you maybe want to, like, wash a little bit of the blood off your face before we eat?”

Warner glares at me in response. I hold up my hands. “Okay. Cool. That’s fine.” I point at him. “Actually, I heard that blood’s good for you. You know—organic. Antioxidants and shit. Very popular with vampires.” “Are you able to hear the things you say out loud? Do you not realize how perfectly idiotic you sound?” I roll my eyes. “All right, beauty queen, food’s ready.” “I’m serious,” he says. “Does it never occur to you to think things through before you speak? Does it never occur to you to cease speaking altogether? If it doesn’t, it should.” “Come on, asswipe. Sit down.” Reluctantly, Warner makes his way over. He sits down and stares, blankly, at the meal in front of him. I give him a few seconds of this before I say— “Do you still remember how to do this? Or did you need me to feed you?” I stab a piece of tofu and point it in his direction. “Say ah. The tofu choo choo is coming.” “One more joke, Kishimoto, and I will remove your spine.” “You’re right.” I put down the fork. “I get it. I’m cranky when I’m hungry, too.” He looks up sharply. “That wasn’t a joke!” I say. “I’m being serious.” Warner sighs. Picks up his utensils. Looks longingly at the door. I don’t push my luck. I keep my face on my food—I’m genuinely excited to be getting a second lunch—and wait until he takes several bites before I go for the jugular. “So,” I finally say. “You proposed, huh?” Warner stops chewing and looks up. He strikes me, suddenly, as a young guy. Aside from the obvious need for a shower and a change of clothes, he looks like he’s finally beginning to shed the tiniest, tiniest bit of tension. And I can tell by the way he’s holding his knife and fork now— with a little more gusto—that I was right. He was hungry. I wonder what he would’ve done if I hadn’t dragged him in here and sat him down. Forced him to eat. Would he have just driven himself into the ground? Accidentally died of hunger on his way to save Juliette? He seems to have no real care for his physical self. No care for his own needs. It strikes me, suddenly, as bizarre. And concerning. “Yes,” he says quietly. “I proposed.” I’m seized by a knee-jerk reaction to tease him—to suggest that his bad mood makes sense now, that she probably turned him down—but even I know better than that. Whatever is happening in Warner’s head right now is dark. Serious. And I need to handle this part of the conversation with care. So I tread carefully. “I’m guessing she said yes.” Warner doesn’t meet my eyes. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. It’s all beginning to make sense now. In the early days after Castle took me in, my guard was up so high I couldn’t even see over the top of it. I trusted no one. I believed nothing. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I let anger rock me to sleep at night because being angry was far less scary than having faith in people — or in the future. I kept waiting for things to fall apart. I was so sure this happiness and safety wouldn’t last, that Castle would turn me out, or that he’d turn out to be a piece of shit. Abusive. Some kind of monster. I couldn’t relax.

It took me years before I truly believed that I had a family. It took me years to accept, without hesitation, that Castle really loved me, or that good things could last. That I could be happy again without fear of repercussion. That’s why losing Omega Point was so cataclysmic. It was the amalgamation of nearly all my fears. So many people I loved had been wiped out overnight. My home. My family. My refuge. And the devastation had taken Castle, too. Castle, who’d been my rock and my role model; in the aftermath, he was a ghost. Unrecognizable. I didn’t know how anything would shake out after that. I didn’t know how we’d survive. Didn’t know where we’d go. It was Juliette who pulled us through. Those were the days when she and I got really close. That was when I realized I could not only trust her and open up to her, but that I could depend on her. I never knew just how strong she was until I saw her take charge, rising up and rallying us all when we were at our lowest, when even Castle was too broken too stand. J made magic out of tragedy. She found us safety and hope. Unified us with Sector 45— with Warner and Delalieu—even in the face of opposition, at the risk of losing Adam. She didn’t sit around waiting for Castle to take the reins like the rest of us did; there was no time for that. Instead, she dove right into the middle of hell, completely inexperienced and unprepared, because she was determined to save us. And to sacrifice herself in the process, if that was the cost. If it weren’t for her—if it weren’t for what she did, for all of us—I don’t know where we’d be. She saved our lives. She saved my life, that’s for sure. Reached out a hand in the darkness. Pulled me out. But none of it would’ve hurt as much if I’d lost Omega Point during my early years there. It wouldn’t have taken me so long to recover, and I wouldn’t have needed so much help to get through the pain. It hurt like that because I’d finally let my guard down. I’d finally allowed myself to believe that things were going to be okay. I’d begun to hope. To dream. To relax. I’d finally walked away from my own pessimism, and the moment I did, life stuck a knife in my back. It’s easy, during those moments, to throw in the towel. To shrug off humanity. To tell yourself that you tried to be happy, and look what happened: more pain. Worse pain. Betrayed by the world. You realize then that anger is safer than kindness, that isolation is safer than community. You shut everything out. Everyone. But some days, no matter what you do, the pain gets so bad you’d bury yourself alive just to make it stop. I would know. I’ve been there. And I’m looking at Warner right now and I see the same deadness behind his eyes. The torture that chases hope. That specific flavor of self-hatred experienced only after being dealt a tragic blow in response to optimism. I’m looking at him and I’m remembering the look on his face when he blew out his birthday candles. I’m remembering him and J afterward, cuddled up in the corner of the dining tent. I’m remembering how angry he was when I showed up at their room at the asscrack of dawn, determined to drag J out of bed on the morning of his birthday. I’m thinking— “Fuck.” I throw down my fork. The plastic hits the foil plate with a surprising thud. “You two were engaged?” Warner is staring at his food. He seems calm, but when he says, “Yes,” the word is a whisper so sad it drags a knife through my heart. I shake my head. “I’m so sorry, man. I really am. You have no idea.”

Warner’s eyes flick up in surprise, but only for a moment. Eventually, he stabs a piece of broccoli. Stares at it. “This is disgusting,” he says. Which I realize is code for Thank you. “Yeah,” I say. “It is.” Which is code for No worries, bro. I’m here for you. Warner sighs. He puts down his utensils. Stares out the window. I can tell he’s about to say something when, abruptly, the doorbell rings. I swear under my breath. I shove away from the table to answer the door, but this time, I only open it a crack. A girl about my age peers back at me, standing there with a tinfoil package in her arms. She smiles. I open the door a bit more. “I brought this for Warner,” she says, stage-whispering. “I heard he was hungry.” Her smile is so big you could probably see it from Mars. I have to make a real effort not to roll my eyes. “Thanks. I’ll take th—” “Oh,” she says, jerking the package out of reach. “I thought I could deliver it to him personally. You know, just to be sure it’s being delivered to the right person.” She beams. This time, I actually roll my eyes. Reluctantly, I pull open the door, stepping aside to let her enter. I turn to tell Warner that another member of his fan club is here to take a long look at his green eyes, but in the second it takes me to move, I hear her scream. The container of food crashes to the ground, spaghetti noodles and red sauce spilling everywhere. I spin around, stunned. Warner has the girl pinned to the wall, his hand around her throat. “Who sent you here?” he says. She struggles to break free, her feet kicking hard against the wall, her cries choked and desperate. My head is spinning. I blink and Warner’s got her on the floor, on her knees. His boot is planted in the middle of her back, both of her arms bent backward, locked in his grip. He twists. She cries out. “Who sent you here?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, gasping for breath. My heart is pounding like crazy. I have no idea what the hell just happened, but I know better than to ask questions. I remove the Glock tucked inside my waistband and aim it in her direction. And then, just as I’m beginning to wrap my head around the fact that this is an ambush—and likely from someone here, from inside the Sanctuary—I notice the food begin to move. Three massive scorpions begin to scuttle out from underneath the noodles, and the sight is so disturbing I nearly throw up and pass out at the same time. I’ve never seen scorpions in real life. Breaking news: they’re horrifying. I thought I wasn’t afraid of spiders, but this is like if spiders were on crack, like if spiders were very, very large and kind of see-through and wore armor and had huge, venomous stingers on one end just primed and ready to murder you. The creatures make a sharp turn, and all three of them head straight for Warner. I let out a panicked gasp of breath. “Uh, bro—not to, um, freak you out or anything, but there are, like, three scorpions headed straight toward y—” Suddenly, the scorpions freeze in place. Warner drops the girl’s arms and she scrambles away so fast her back slams against the wall. Warner stares at the scorpions. The girl stares, too. The two of them are having a battle of wills, I realize, and it’s easy for me to figure out who’s going to win. So when the scorpions begin to move again—this time, toward her—I try not to pump my fist in the air.

The girl jumps to her feet, her eyes wild. “Who sent you?” Warner asks again. She’s breathing hard now, still staring at the scorpions as she backs farther into a corner. They’re climbing up her shoes now. “Who?” Warner demands. “Your father sent me,” she says breathlessly. Shins. Knees. Scorpions on her knees. Oh my God, scorpions on her knees. “Anderson sent me here, okay? Call them off !” “Liar.” “It was him, I swear!” “You were sent here by a fool,” Warner says, “if you were led to believe you could lie to me repeatedly without repercussion. And you are yourself a fool if you believe I will be anything close to merciful.” The creatures are moving up her torso now. Climbing up her chest. She gasps. Locks eyes with him. “I see,” he says, tilting his head at her. “Someone lied to you.” Her eyes widen. “You were misled,” he says, holding her gaze. “I am not kind. I am not forgiving. I do not care about your life.” As he speaks, the scorpions creep farther up her body. They’re sitting near her collarbone now, just waiting, venomous stingers hovering below her face. And then, slowly, the scorpions’ stingers begin curving toward the soft skin at her throat. “Call them off !” she cries. “This is your last chance,” Warner says. “Tell me what you’re doing here.” She’s breathing so hard now that her chest heaves, her nostrils flaring. Her eyes dart around the room in a wild panic. The scorpions’ stingers press closer to her throat. She flattens against the wall, a broken gasp escaping her lips. “Tragic,” Warner says. She moves fast. Lightning fast. Pulls a gun from somewhere inside her shirt and aims it in Warner’s direction and I don’t even think, I just react. I shoot. The sound echoes, expands—it seems violently loud—but it’s a perfect shot. A clean hole through the neck. The girl goes comically still and then slumps, slowly, to the ground. Blood and scorpions pool around our feet. The body of a dead girl is splayed on my floor, just inches from the bed I woke up in, her limbs bent at awkward angles. The scene is surreal. I look up. Warner and I lock eyes. “I’m coming with you to get J,” I say. “End of discussion.” Warner glances from me to the dead body, and then back again. “Fine,” he says, and sighs.

ELLA JULIETTE

I’ve been standing outside the door staring at a smooth, polished stone wall for at least fifteen minutes before I check my wrist for a summons. Still nothing. When I’m with Anderson I don’t have a lot of flexibility to look around, but standing here has given me time to freely examine my surroundings. The stretch of the hallway is eerily quiet, empty of doctors or soldiers in a way that unsettles me. There are long, vertical grates underfoot where the floor should be, and I’ve been standing here long enough to have become attuned to the incessant drips and mechanical roars that fill the background.

I glance at my wrist again. Glance around the hall. The walls aren’t gray, like I originally thought. It turns out they’re a dull white. Heavy shadows make them appear darker than they are—and in fact, make this entire floor appear darker. The overhead lights are unusual honeycomb clusters arranged along both the walls and ceilings. The oddly shaped lights scatter illumination, casting oblong hexagons in all directions, plunging some walls into complete darkness. I take a cautious step forward, peering more closely at a rectangle of blackness I’d previously ignored. It’s a hallway, I realize, cast entirely in shadow. I feel a sudden compulsion to explore its depths, and I have to physically stop myself from stepping forward. My duty is here, at this door. It’s not my business to explore or ask questions unless I’ve been explicitly asked to explore or ask questions. My eyelids flutter. Heat presses down on me, flames like fingers digging into my mind. Heat travels down my spine, wraps around my tailbone. And then shoots upward, fast and strong, forcing my eyes open. I’m breathing hard, spinning around. Confused. Suddenly, it makes perfect sense that I should explore the darkened hallway. Suddenly there seems no need at all to question my motives or any possible consequences for my actions. But I’ve only taken a single step into the darkness when I’m pushed aggressively back. A girl’s face peers out at me. “Did you need something?” she says. I throw up my hands, then I hesitate. I might not be authorized to hurt this person. She steps forward. She’s wearing civilian clothes, but doesn’t appear to be armed. I wait for her to speak, and she doesn’t. “Who are you?” I demand. “Who gave you the authority to be down here?” “I am Valentina Castillo. I have authority everywhere.” I drop my hands. Valentina Castillo is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America, Santiago Castillo. I don’t know what Valentina is supposed to look like, so this girl might be an impostor. Then again, if I take a risk and I’m wrong— I could be executed. I peer around her and see nothing but blackness. My curiosity—and unease—is growing by the minute. I glance at my wrist. Still no summons. “Who are you?” she says. “I am Juliette Ferrars. I am a supreme soldier for our North American commander. Let me pass.” Valentina stares at me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. I hear a dull click, like the sound of something opening, and I spin around, looking for the source of the sound. There’s no one. “You have unlocked your message, Juliette Ferrars.” “What message?” “Juliette? Juliette.” Valentina’s voice changes. She suddenly sounds like she’s scared and breathless, like she’s on the move. Her voice echoes. I hear the sounds of footsteps pounding the floor, but they seem far away, like she’s not the only one running. “Viste, there wasn’t much time,” she says, her Spanish accent getting thicker. “This was the best I could do. I have a plan, but no sé si será posible. Este mensaje es en caso de emergencia. “They took Lena and Nicolás down in this direction,” she says, pointing toward the darkness. “I’m on my way to try and find them. But if I can’t—”

Her voice begins to fade. The light illuminating her face begins to glitch, almost like she’s disappearing. “Wait—” I say, reaching out. “Where are you—” My hand moves straight through her and I gasp. She has no form. Her face is an illusion. A hologram. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice beginning to warp. “I’m sorry. This was the best I could do.” Once her form evaporates completely, I push into the darkness, heart pounding. I don’t understand what’s happening, but if the daughter of the supreme commander of South America is in trouble, I have a duty to find her and protect her. I know that my loyalty is to Anderson, but that strange, familiar heat is still pressing against the inside of my mind, quieting the impulse telling me to turn around. I find I’m grateful for it. I realize, distantly, that my mind is a strange mess of contradictions, but I don’t have more than a moment to dwell on it. This hall is far too dark for easy access, but I’d observed earlier that what I once thought were decorative grooves in the walls were actually inset doors, so here, instead of relying on my eyes, I use my hands. I run my fingers along the wall as I walk, waiting for a disruption in the pattern. It’s a long hallway —I expect there to be multiple doors to sort through—but there appears to be little in this direction. Nothing visible by touch or sight, at least. When I finally feel the familiar pattern of a door, I hesitate. I press both my hands against the wall, prepared to destroy it if I have to, when it suddenly fissures open beneath my hands, as if it was waiting for me. Expecting me. I move into the room, my senses heightened. Dim blue light pulses out along the floors, but other than that, the space is almost completely dark. I keep moving, and even though I don’t need to use a gun, I reach for the rifle strapped across my back. I walk slowly, my soft boots soundless, and follow the distant, pulsing lights. As I move deeper into the room, lights begin to flicker on. Overhead lights in that familiar honeycomb pattern flare to life, shattering the floor in unusual slants of light. The vast dimensions of the room begin to take shape. I stare up at the massive dome-shaped room, at the empty tank of water taking up an entire wall. There are abandoned desks, their respective chairs askew. Touchpads are stacked precariously on floors and desks, papers and binders piling everywhere. This place looks haunted. Deserted. But it’s clear it was once in full use. Safety goggles hang from a nearby rack. Lab coats from another. There are large, empty glass cases standing upright in seemingly random and intermittent locations, and as I move even farther into the room, I notice a steady purple glow emanating from somewhere nearby. I round the corner, and there’s the source: Eight glass cylinders, each as tall as the room and as wide as a desk, are arranged in a perfect line, straight across the laboratory. Five of them contain human figures. Three on the end remain empty. The purple light originates from within the individual cylinders, and as I approach, I realize the bodies are suspended in the air, bound entirely by light. There are three boys I don’t recognize. One girl I don’t recognize. The other— I step closer to the tank and gasp. Valentina. “What are you doing here?” I spin around, rifle up and aimed in the direction of the voice. I drop my gun when I see Anderson’s face. In an instant, the pervasive heat retreats from my head. My mind is returned to me. My mind, my name, my station, my place—my shameful, disloyal, reckless behavior. Horror and fear flood through me, coloring my features. How do I explain what I do not understand?

Anderson’s face remains stony. “Sir,” I say quickly. “This young woman is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America. As a servant of The Reestablishment, I felt compelled to help her.” Anderson only stares at me. Finally, he says: “How do you know that this girl is the daughter of the supreme commander of South America?” I shake my head. “Sir, there was . . . some kind of vision. Standing in the hallway. She told me that she was Valentina Castillo, and that she needed help. She knew my name. She told me where to go.” Anderson exhales, his shoulders releasing their tension. “This is not the daughter of a supreme commander of The Reestablishment,” he says quietly. “You were misled by a practice exercise.” Renewed mortification sends a fresh heat to my face. Anderson sighs. “I’m so sorry, sir. I thought— I thought it was my duty to help her, sir.” Anderson meets my eyes again. “Of course you did.” I hold my head steady, but shame sears me from within. “And?” he says. “What did you think?” Anderson gestures at the line of glass cylinders, at the figures displayed within. “I think it’s a beautiful display, sir.” Anderson almost smiles. He takes a step closer, studying me. “A beautiful display, indeed.” I swallow. His voice changes, becomes soft. Gentle. “You would never betray me, would you, Juliette?” “No, sir,” I say quickly. “Never.” “Tell me something,” he says, lifting his hand to my face. The backs of his knuckles graze my cheek, trail down my jawline. “Would you die for me?” My heart is thundering in my chest. “Yes, sir.” He takes my face in his hand now, his thumb brushing, gently, across my chin. “Would you do anything for me?” “Yes, sir.” “And yet, you deliberately disobeyed me.” He drops his hand. My face feels suddenly cold. “I asked you to wait outside,” he says quietly. “I did not ask you to wander. I did not ask you to speak. I did not ask you to think for yourself or to save anyone who claimed to need saving. Did I?” “No, sir.” “Did you forget,” he says, “that I am your master?” “No, sir.” “Liar,” he cries. My heart is in my throat. I swallow hard. Say nothing. “I will ask you one more time,” he says, locking eyes with me. “Did you forget that I am your master?” “Y-yes, sir.” His eyes flash. “Should I remind you, Juliette? Should I remind you to whom you owe your life and your loyalty?” “Yes, sir,” I say, but I sound breathless. I feel sick with fear. Feverish. Heat prickles my skin. He retrieves a blade from inside his jacket pocket. Carefully, he unfolds it, the metal glinting in the neon light. He presses the hilt into my right hand. He takes my left hand and explores it with both of his own, tracing the lines of my palm and the shapes of my fingers, the seams of my knuckles. Sensations spiral through me, wonderful and horrible.

He presses down lightly on my index finger. He meets my eyes. “This one,” he says. “Give it to me.” My heart is in my throat. In my gut. Beating behind my eyes. “Cut it off. Place it in my hand. And all will be forgiven.” “Yes, sir,” I whisper. With shaking hands, I press the blade to the tender skin at the base of my finger. The blade is so sharp it pierces the flesh instantly, and with a stifled, agonized cry I press it deeper, hesitating only when I feel resistance. Knife against bone. The pain explodes through me, blinding me. I fall on one knee. There’s blood everywhere. I’m breathing so hard I’m heaving, trying desperately not to vomit from either the pain or the horror. I clench my teeth so hard it sends shocks of fresh pain upward, straight to my brain, and the distraction is helpful. I have to press my bloodied hand against the dirty floor to keep it steady, but with one final, desperate cry, I cut through the bone. The knife falls from my trembling hand, clattering to the floor. My index finger is still hanging on to my hand by a single scrap of flesh, and I rip it off in a quick, violent motion. My body is shaking so excessively I can hardly stand, but somehow I manage to deposit the finger in Anderson’s outstretched palm before collapsing to the ground. “Good girl,” he says softly. “Good girl.” It’s all I hear him say before I black out.

KENJI

We both stare at the bloody scene a moment longer before Warner suddenly straightens and heads out the door. I tuck my gun into the waistband of my pants and chase after him, remembering to close the door behind us. I don’t want those scorpions getting loose. “Hey,” I say, catching up to him. “Where are you going?” “To find Castle.” “Cool. Okay. But do you think that maybe next time, instead of just, you know, leaving without a word, you could tell me what the hell is going on? I don’t like chasing after you like this. It’s demeaning.” “That sounds like a personal problem.” “Yeah but I thought personal problems were your area of expertise,” I say. “You’ve got what, at least a few thousand personal problems, right? Or was it a few million?” Warner shoots me a dark look. “You’d do well to address your own mental turbulence before criticizing mine.” “Uh, what’s that supposed to mean?” “It means that a rabid dog could sniff out your desperate, broken state. You’re in no position to judge me.” “Excuse me?” “You lie to yourself, Kishimoto. You hide your true feelings behind a thin veneer, playing the clown, when all the while you’re amassing emotional detritus you refuse to examine. At least I do not hide from myself. I know where my faults lie and I accept them. But you,” he says. “Perhaps you should seek help.” My eyes widen to the point of pain, my head whipping back and forth between him and the path in front of me. “You have got to be kidding me right now. You’re telling me to get help with my issues? What is happening?” I look up at the sky. “Am I dead? Is this hell?” “I want to know what’s happening with you and Castle.” I’m so surprised I briefly stop in place.

“What?” I blink at him. Still confused. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with me and Castle.” “You’ve been more profane in the last several weeks than in the entire time I’ve known you. Something is wrong.” “I’m stressed,” I say, feeling myself bristle. “Sometimes I swear when I’m stressed.” He shakes his head. “This is different. You’re experiencing an unusual amount of stress, even for you.” “Wow.” My eyebrows fly up. “I really hope you didn’t bother using your”—I make air quotes —“supernatural ability to sense emotions”—I drop the air quotes—“to figure that one out. Obviously I’m extra stressed out right now. The world is on fucking fire. The list of things stressing me out is so long I can’t even keep track. We’re up to our necks in shit. J is gone. Adam defected. Nazeera’s been shot. You’ve had your head so far up your own ass I thought you’d never emerge—” He tries to cut me off but I keep talking. “—and literally five minutes ago,” I say, “someone from the Sanctuary—ha, hilarious, horrible name—just tried to kill you, and I killed her for it. Five minutes ago. So yeah, I think I’m experiencing an unusual amount of stress right now, genius.” Warner dismisses my speech with a single shake of his head. “Your use of profanity increases exponentially when you’re irritated with Castle. Your language appears to be directly connected to your relationship with him. Why?” I try not to roll my eyes. “Not that this information is actually relevant, but Castle and I struck a deal a few years ago. He thought that my”—I make more air quotes— “overreliance on profanity was inhibiting my ability to express my emotions in a constructive manner.” “So you promised him you’d tone down your language.” “Yeah.” “I see. It seems you’ve reneged on the terms of that arrangement.” “Why do you care?” I ask. “Why are we even talking about this? Why are we losing sight of the fact that we were just attacked by someone from inside of the Sanctuary? We need to find Sam and Nouria and find out who this girl was, because she was clearly from this camp, and they should know th—” “You can tell Sam and Nouria whatever you want,” Warner says. “But I need to talk to Castle.” Something in his tone frightens me. “Why?” I demand. “What is going on? Why are you so obsessed with Castle right now?” Finally, Warner stops moving. “Because,” he says. “Castle had something to do with this.” “What?” I feel the blood drain from my body. “No way. Not possible.” Warner says nothing. “Come on, man, don’t be crazy— Castle’s not perfect, but he would never—” “Hey— What the hell just happened?” Winston, breathless and panicked, comes running up to us. “I heard a gunshot coming from the direction of your tent, but when I went to check on you, I saw — I saw—” “Yeah.” “What happened?” Winston’s voice is shrill. Terrified. At that exact moment, more people come running. Winston starts offering people explanations I don’t bother to edit, because my head is still full of steam. I have no idea what the hell Warner is getting at, but I’m also worried that I know him too well to deny his mind. My heart says Castle would never betray us, but my brain says that Warner is usually right when it comes to sussing out this kind of shit. So I’m freaking out. I spot Nouria in the distance, her dark skin gleaming in the bright sun, and relief floods through me. Finally.

Nouria will know more about the girl with the scorpions. She has to. And whatever she knows will almost certainly help absolve Castle of any affiliation with this mess. And as soon as we can resolve this freak accident, Warner and I can get the hell out of here and start searching for J. That’s it. That’s the plan. It makes me feel good to have a plan. But when we’re close enough, Nouria narrows her eyes at both me and Warner, and the look on her face sends a brand-new wave of fear through my body. “Follow me,” she says. We do.

Warner looks livid. Castle looks freaked out. Nouria and Sam look like they’re sick and tired of all of us. I might be imagining things, but I’m pretty sure Sam just shot Nouria a look—the subtext of which was probably Why the hell did you have to let your dad come stay with us?—that was so withering Nouria didn’t even get upset, she just shook her head, resigned. And the problem is, I don’t even know whose side I’m on. In the end, Warner was right about Castle, but he was also wrong. Castle wasn’t plotting anything nefarious; he didn’t send that girl—her name was Amelia—after Warner. Castle’s mistake was thinking that all rebel groups shared the same worldview. At first it didn’t occur to me, either, that the vibe might be different around here. Different from our group at Point, at least. At Point we were led by Castle, who was more of a nurturer than a warrior. In his days before The Reestablishment he was a social worker. He saw tons of kids coming in and out of the system, and with Omega Point he sought to build a home and refuge for the marginalized. We were all about love and community at Point. And even though we knew that we were gearing up for a fight against The Reestablishment, we didn’t always resort to violence; Castle didn’t like using his powers in authoritative ways. He was more like a father figure to most of us. But here— It didn’t take long to realize that Nouria was different from her dad. She’s nice enough, but she’s also all business. She doesn’t like to spend much time on small talk, and she and Sam mostly keep to themselves. They don’t always take their meals with everyone else. They don’t always participate in group things. And when it comes right down to it, Sam and Nouria are ready and willing to set shit on fire. Hell, they seem to be looking forward to it. Castle was never really that guy. I think he was a little blindsided when we showed up here. He was suddenly out of a job when he realized that Nouria and Sam weren’t going to take orders from him. And then, when he tried to get to know people— He was disappointed. “Amelia was a bit of a zealot,” Sam says, sighing. “She’d never exhibited dangerous, violent tendencies, of course, which is why we let her stay—but we all felt that her views were a little intense. She was one of the rare members who felt like the lines between The Reestablishment and the rebel groups should be clear and finite. She never felt safe with the children of the supreme commanders in our midst, and I know that because she took me aside to tell me so. I had a long talk with her about the situation, but I see now that she wasn’t convinced.” “Obviously,” I mutter. Nouria shoots me a look. I clear my throat. Sam goes on: “When everyone but Warner was basically kidnapped—and Nazeera was shot— Amelia probably figured she could finish the job and get rid of Warner, too.” She shakes her head. “What a horrible situation.”

“Did you have to shoot her?” Nouria says to me. “Was she really that dangerous?” “She had three scorpions!” I cry. “She pulled a gun on Warner!” “What else was he supposed to think?” Castle says gently. He’s staring at the ground, his long dreads freed from their usual tie at the base of his neck. I wish I could see the expression on his face. “If I hadn’t known Amelia personally, even I would’ve thought she was working for someone.” “Tell me, again,” Warner says to Castle, “exactly what you said to her about me.” Castle looks up. Sighs. “She and I got into a bit of a heated discussion,” he says. “Amelia was determined that members of The Reestablishment could never change, that they were evil and would remain evil. I told her I didn’t believe that. I told her that I believed that all people were capable of change.” I raise an eyebrow. “Wait, like, you mean you think even someone like Anderson is capable of change?” Castle hesitates. And I know, just by looking at his eyes, what he’s about to say. My heart jumps in my chest. In fear. “I think if Anderson were truly remorseful,” Castle says, “that he, too, could make a change. Yes. I do believe that.” Nouria rolls her eyes. Sam drops her head in her hands. “Wait. Wait.” I hold up a finger. “So, like, in a hypothetical situation— If Anderson came to Point asking for amnesty, claiming to be a changed man, you’d . . . ?” Castle just looks at me. I throw myself back in my chair with a groan. “Kenji,” Castle says softly. “You know better than anyone else how we did things at Omega Point. I dedicated my life to giving second—and third—chances to those who’d been cast out by the world. You’d be stunned if you knew how many people’s lives were derailed by a simple mistake that snowballed, escalating beyond their control because no one was ever there to offer a hand or even an hour of assistance—” “Castle. Sir.” I hold up my hands. “I love you. I really do. But Anderson isn’t a regular person. He —” “Of course he’s a regular person, son. That’s exactly the point. We’re all just regular people, when you strip us down. There’s nothing to be afraid of when you look at Anderson; he’s just as human as you or me. Just as terrified. And I’m sure if he could go back and do his life over again, he’d make very different decisions.” Nouria shakes her head. “You don’t know that, Dad.” “Maybe not,” he says quietly. “But it’s what I believe.” “Is that what you believe about me, too?” Warner asks. “Is that what you told her? That I was just a nice boy, a defenseless child who’d never lift a finger to hurt her? That if I could do it all over again I’d choose to live my life as a monk, dedicating my days to giving charity and spreading goodwill?” “No,” Castle says sharply. It’s clear he’s starting to get irritated. “I told her that your anger was a defense mechanism, and that you couldn’t help that you were born to an abusive father. I told her that in your heart, you’re a good person, and that you don’t want to hurt anyone. Not really.” Warner’s eyes flash. “I want to hurt people all the time,” he says. “Sometimes I can’t sleep at night because I’m thinking about all the people I’d like to murder.” “Great.” I nod, leaning back in my chair. “This is super great. All of this information we’re collecting is super helpful and useful.” I count off on my fingers: “Amelia was a psycho, Castle wants to be BFFs with Anderson, Warner has midnight fantasies about killing people, and Castle made Amelia think that Warner is a lost little bunny trying to find his way home.” When everyone stares at me, confused, I clarify:

“Castle basically gave Amelia the idea that she could walk into a room and murder Warner! He pretty much told her that Warner was about as harmful as a dumpling.” “Oh,” Sam and Nouria say at the same time. “I don’t think she wanted to murder him,” Castle says quickly. “I’m sure she just—” “Dad, please.” Nouria’s voice is sharp and final. “Enough.” She shares a glance with Sam, and takes a deep breath. “Listen,” she says, trying for a calmer tone. “We knew, when you got here, that we’d have to deal with this situation eventually, but I think it’s time we had a talk about our roles and responsibilities around here.” “Oh. I see.” Castle clasps his hands. Stares at the wall. He looks so sad and small and ancient. Even his dreads seem more silver than black these days. Sometimes I forget he’s almost fifty. Most people think he’s, like, fifteen years younger than he actually is, but that’s just because he’s always looked really, really good for his age. But for the first time in years, I feel like I’m beginning to see the number on his face. He looks tired. Worn out. But that doesn’t mean he’s done here. Castle’s still got so much more to do. So much more to give. And I can’t just sit here and let him be shoved aside. Ignored. I want to shout at someone. I want to tell Nouria and Sam that they can’t just kick Castle to the curb like this. Not after everything. Not like this. And I’m about to say something exactly like that, when Nouria speaks. “Sam and I,” she says, “would like to offer you an official position as our senior adviser here at the Sanctuary.” Castle’s head perks up. “Senior adviser?” He stares at Nouria. Stares at Sam. “You’re not asking me to leave?” Nouria looks suddenly confused. “Leave? Dad, you just got here. Sam and I want you to stay for as long as you like. We just think it’s important that we all know what we’re doing here, so that we can manage things in as efficient and organized a manner as possible. It’s hard for Sam and me to be effective at our jobs if we’re worried about tiptoeing around your feelings, and even though it’s hard to have conversations like this, we figured it would be best to jus—” Castle pulls Nouria into a hug so fierce, so full of love, I feel my eyes sting with emotion. I actually have to look away for a moment. When I turn back, Castle is beaming. “I’d be honored to advise in any way that I can,” Castle says. “And if I haven’t said it enough, let me say it again: I’m so proud of you, Nouria. So proud of both of you,” he says, looking at Sam. “The boys would’ve been so proud.” Nouria’s eyes go glassy with emotion. Even Sam seems moved. One more minute of this, and I’m going to need a tissue. “Right, well.” Warner is on his feet. “I’m glad the attempt on my life was able to bring your family together. I’m leaving now.” “Wait—” I grab Warner’s arm and he shoves me off. “If you keep touching me without my permission, I will remove your hands from your body.” I ignore that. “Shouldn’t we tell them that we’re leaving?” Sam frowns. “Leaving?” Nouria’s eyebrows fly up. “We?” “We’re going to get J,” I explain. “She’s back in Oceania. James told us everything. Speaking of which— You should probably talk to him. He’s got some news about Adam you won’t like, news that I don’t care to repeat.” “Kent betrayed all of you to save himself.” “To save James,” I clarify, shooting Warner a dirty look. “And that was not cool, man. I just said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m trying to be efficient.” Castle looks stunned. He says nothing. He just looks stunned. “Talk to James,” I say. “He’ll tell you what’s happening. But Warner and I are going to catch a plane—” “Steal a plane.” “Right, steal a plane, before the end of the day. And, uh, you know—we’ll just go get J and be back real quick, bim bam boom.” Nouria and Sam are staring at me like I’m an idiot. “Bim bam boom?” Warner says. “Yeah, you know, like”—I clap my hands together—“boom. Done. Easy.” Warner turns away from me with a sigh. “Wait— So, just the two of you are doing this?” Sam asks. She’s frowning. “Honestly, the fewer, the better,” Nouria answers for me. “That way, there are fewer bodies to hide, fewer actions to coordinate. Regardless, I’d offer to come with you, but we have so many still wounded that we need to care for—and now that Amelia is dead, there’s sure to be more emotional upheaval to manage.” Castle’s eyes light up. “While they’re going after Ella,” he says to Nouria and Sam, “and the two of you are running things here, I was thinking I’d reach out to the friends in my network. Let them know what’s happening, and that change is afoot. I can help coordinate our moves around the globe.” “That’s a great idea,” Sam says. “Maybe we c—” “I don’t care,” Warner says loudly, and turns for the door. “And I’m leaving now. Kishimoto, if you’re coming, keep up.” “Right,” I say, trying to sound important. “Yup. Bye.” I shoot a quick two-finger salute at everyone and run straight for the door only to slam hard into Nazeera. Nazeera. Holy shit. She’s awake. She’s perfect. She’s pissed. “You two aren’t going anywhere without me,” she says.

I am a thief.

ELLA JULIETTE

I stole this notebook and this pen from one of the doctors, from one of his lab coats when he wasn’t looking, and I shoved them both down my pants. This was just before he ordered those men to come and get me. The ones in the strange suits with the thick gloves and the gas masks with the foggy plastic windows hiding their eyes. They were aliens, I remember thinking. I remember thinking they must’ve been aliens because they couldn’t have been human, the ones who handcuffed my hands behind my back, the ones who strapped me to my seat. They stuck Tasers to my skin over and over for no reason other than to hear me scream but I wouldn’t. I whimpered but I never said a word. I felt the tears streak down my cheeks but I wasn’t crying. I think it made them angry. They slapped me awake even though my eyes were open when we arrived. Someone unstrapped me without removing my handcuffs and kicked me in both kneecaps before ordering me to rise. And I tried. I tried but I couldn’t and finally 6 hands shoved me out the door and my face was bleeding on the concrete for a while. I can’t really remember the part where they dragged me inside. I feel cold all the time. I feel empty, like there is nothing inside of me but this broken heart, the only organ left in this hell. I feel the bleats echo within me, I feel the thumping reverberate around my skeleton. I have a heart,

says science, but I am a monster, says society. And I know it, of course I know it. I know what I’ve done. I’m not asking for sympathy. But sometimes I think—sometimes I wonder—if I were a monster—surely, I would feel it by now? I would feel angry and vicious and vengeful. I’d know blind rage and bloodlust and a need for vindication. Instead I feel an abyss within me that’s so deep, so dark I can’t see within it; I can’t see what it holds. I do not know what I am or what might happen to me. I do not know what I might do again.

—An excerpt from Juliette’s journals in the asylum

KENJI

I stand stock-still for a moment, letting the shock of everything settle around me, and when it finally hits me that Nazeera is really here, really awake, really okay, I pull her into my arms. Her defensive posture melts away, and suddenly she’s just a girl—my girl—and happiness rockets through me. She’s not even close to being short, but in my arms, she feels small. Pocket-sized. Like she was always meant to fit here, against my chest. It’s like heaven. When we finally pull apart, I’m beaming like an idiot. I don’t even care that everyone is staring at us. I just want to live in this moment. “Hey,” I say to her. “I’m so happy you’re okay.” She takes a deep, unsteady breath, and then—smiles. It changes her whole face. It makes her look a lot less like a mercenary and a lot more like an eighteen-year-old girl. Though I think I like both versions, if I’m being honest. “I’m so happy you’re okay, too,” she says quietly. We stare at each other a moment longer before I hear someone clear their throat in a dramatic fashion. Reluctantly, I turn around. I know, in an instant, that the throat-clearing came from Nouria. I can tell by the way her arms are crossed, the way her eyes are narrowed. Sam, on the other hand, looks amused. But Castle looks happy. Surprised, but happy. I grin at him. Nouria’s frown deepens. “You two know Warner left, right?” That wipes the smile off my face. I spin around, but there’s no sign of him. I turn back, swearing quietly under my breath. Nazeera shoots me a look. “I know,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s going to try and leave without us.” She almost laughs. “Definitely.” I’m about to say my good-byes again when Nouria jumps to her feet. “Wait,” she says. “No time,” I say, already backing out the door. “Warner is going to bail on us, and I c—” “He’s about to take a shower,” Sam says, cutting me off. I freeze so fast I nearly fall over. I turn around, eyebrows high. “He’s what now?” “He’s about to take a shower,” she says again. I blink at her slowly, like I’m stupid, which, honestly, is kind of how I’m feeling at the moment. “You mean you’re, like, watching him get ready to take a shower?”

“It’s not weird,” Nouria says flatly. “Stop making it weird.” I squint at Sam. “What’s Warner doing right now?” I ask her. “Is he in the shower yet?” “Yes.” Nazeera raises a single eyebrow. “So you’re just, like, watching a naked Warner in the shower right now?” “I’m not looking at his body,” Sam says, sounding very close to irritated. “But you could,” I say, stunned. “That’s what’s so weird about this. You could just watch any of us take extremely naked showers.” “You know what?” Nouria says sharply. “I was going to do something to make things easier for you guys on your way out, but I think I’ve changed my mind.” “Wait—” Nazeera says. “Make things easier how?” “I was going to help you steal a jet.” “Okay, all right, I take it back,” I say, holding up my hands in apology. “I retract all my previous comments about nakedness. I would also like to formally apologize to Sam, who we all know is way too nice and way too cool to ever spy on anyone in the shower.” Sam rolls her eyes. Cracks a smile. Nouria sighs. “I don’t understand how you deal with him,” she says to Castle. “I can’t stand all the jokes. It would drive me insane to have to listen to this all day.” I’m about to protest when Castle responds. “That’s only because you don’t know him well enough,” Castle says, smiling at me. “Besides, we don’t love him for his jokes, do we, Nazeera?” The two of them lock eyes for a moment. “We love him for his heart.” At that, the smile slips from my face. I’m still processing the weight of that statement—the generosity of such a statement—when I realize I’ve already missed a beat. Nouria is talking. “The air base isn’t far from here,” she’s saying, “and I guess this is as good a time as any to let you all know that Sam and I are about to take a page out of Ella’s playbook and take over Sector 241. Stealing a plane will be the least of the damage—and, in fact, I think it’s a great way to launch our offensive strategy.” She glances over her shoulder. “What do you think, Sam?” “Brilliant,” she says, “as usual.” Nouria smiles. “I didn’t realize that was your strategy,” Castle says, the smile fading from his face. “Don’t you think, based on how things turned out the last time, that m—” “Why don’t we discuss this after we’ve sent the kids off on their mission? Right now it’s more important that we get them situated and give them a proper send-off before it’s officially too late.” “Hey, speaking of which,” I say quickly, “what makes you think we’re not already too late?” Nouria meets my eyes. “If they’d done the transfer,” she says, “we would’ve felt it.” “Felt it how?” It’s Sam who responds: “In order for their plan to work, Emmaline has to die. They won’t let that happen naturally, of course, because a natural death could occur in any number of ways, which leaves too many factors up in the air. They need to be able to control the experiment at all times— which is why they were so desperate to get their hands on Ella before Emmaline died. They’re almost certainly going to kill Emmaline in a controlled environment, and they’ll set it up in a way that leaves no room for error. Even so, we’re bound to feel something change. “That infinitesimal shift—after Emmaline’s powers recede, but before they’re funneled into a new host body— will dramatically glitch our visual of the world. And that moment hasn’t happened yet, which makes us think that Ella is probably still safe.” Sam shrugs. “But it could be happening any minute now. Time really is of the essence.” “How do you know so much about this?” Nazeera asks, her brows furrowed. “For years I tried to get my hands on this information, and I came up with nothing, despite being so close to the source.

But you seem to know all of this on some kind of personal level. It’s incredible.” “It’s not that incredible,” Nouria says, shaking her head. “We’ve just been focused in our search. All rebel groups have a different strength or core principle. For some, it’s safety. For others, it’s war. For us, it’s been research. The things we’ve seen have been out there for everyone to see— there are glitches all the time—but when you’re not looking for them, you don’t notice them. But I noticed. Sam noticed. It was one of the things that brought us together.” The two women share a glance. “We felt really sure that part of our oppression was in an illusion,” Sam says. “And we’ve been chasing down the truth with every resource we’ve got. Unfortunately, we still don’t know everything.” “But we’re closer than most,” Nouria says. She takes a sharp breath, refocusing. “We’ll be holding down our end of things while you’re gone. Hopefully, when you return, we’ll have flipped more than one sector to our side.” “You really think you’ll be able to accomplish that much in such a short period of time?” I ask, eyes wide. “I was hoping we wouldn’t be gone for more than a couple days.” Nouria smiles at me then, but it’s a strange smile, a searching smile. “Don’t you understand?” she says. “This is it. This is the end. This is the defining moment we’ve all been fighting for. The end of an era. The end of a revolution. We currently—finally—have every advantage. We have people on the inside. If we do this right, we could collapse The Reestablishment in a matter of days.” “But all of that hinges on us getting to J on time,” I say. “What if we’re too late?” “You’ll have to kill her.” “Nouria,” Castle gasps. “You’re joking,” I say. “Tell me you’re joking.” “Not joking in the slightest,” she says. “If you get there and Emmaline is dead and Ella has taken her place, you must kill Ella. You have to kill her and as many of the supreme commanders as you can.” My jaw has come unhinged. “What about all that shit you said to J the night we got here? What about all that talk about how inspiring she is and how so many people were moved by her actions— how she’s basically a hero? What happened to all that nonsense?” “It wasn’t nonsense,” Nouria says. “I meant every word. But we’re at war, Kishimoto. We don’t have time to be sentimental.” “Sentimental? Are you out of your—” Nazeera places a calming hand on my arm. “We’ll find another way. There has to be another way.” “It’s impossible to reverse the process once it’s in effect,” Sam says calmly. “Operation Synthesis will remove every trace of your old friend. She will be unrecognizable. A super soldier in every sense of the word. Beyond salvation.” “I’m not listening to this,” I say angrily. “I’m not listening to this.” Nouria puts up her hands. “This conversation might turn out to be unnecessary. As long as you can get to her in time, it won’t matter. But remember: if you get there and Ella is still alive, you need to make sure that she kills Emmaline above all else. Removing Emmaline is key. Once she’s gone, the supreme commanders become easy targets. Vulnerable.” “Wait.” I frown, still angry. “Why does it have to be J who kills Emmaline? Couldn’t one of us do it?” Nouria shakes her head. “If it were that simple,” she says, “don’t you think it would’ve been done by now?” I raise my eyebrows. “Not if no one knew she existed.” “We knew she existed,” Sam says quietly. “We’ve known about Emmaline for a while now.” Nouria goes on: “Why do you think we reached out to your team? Why do you think we risked the life of one of our own to get a message to Ella? Why do you think we opened our doors to you,

even when we knew we’d be exposing ourselves to a possible attack? We made a series of increasingly difficult decisions, putting the lives of all those who depended on us at risk.” She sighs. “But even now, after suffering a disastrous loss, Sam and I think that, ultimately, we did the right thing. Can you imagine why?” “Because you’re . . . Good Samaritans?” “Because we realized, months ago, that Ella was the only one strong enough to kill her own sister. We need her just as much as you do. Not just us”—Nouria gestures to herself and Sam—“but the whole world. If Ella is able to kill Emmaline before any powers can be transferred, then she’s killed The Reestablishment’s greatest weapon. If she doesn’t kill Emmaline now, while power still runs through Emmaline’s veins, The Reestablishment can continue to harness and transfer that power to a new host.” “We once thought that Ella would have to fight her sister,” Sam says. “But based on the information Ella shared with us while she was here, it seems like Emmaline is ready and willing to die.” Sam shakes her head. “Even so, killing her is not as simple as pulling a plug. Ella will be going to war with the ghost of her mother’s genius. Evie undoubtedly put in place numerous failsafes to keep Emmaline invulnerable to attacks from others and from herself. I have no idea what Ella will be up against, but I can guarantee it won’t be easy.” “Jesus.” I drop my head into my hands. I thought I was already living with peak levels of stress, but I was wrong. This stress I’m experiencing now is on a whole new level. I feel Nazeera’s hand on my back and I look up. Her face looks as uncertain as mine feels, and somehow, it makes me feel better. “Pack your bags,” Nouria says. “Catch up with Warner. I’ll meet the three of you at the entrance in twenty minutes.”

ELLA JULIETTE

In the darkness, I imagine light.

I dream of suns, moons, mothers. I see children laughing, crying, I see blood, I smell sugar. Light shatters across the blackness pressing against my eyes, fracturing nothing into something. Nameless shapes expand and spin, crash into each other, dissolving on contact. I see dust. I see dark walls, a small window, I see water, I see words on a page—

I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not

insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane I am not insane In the pain, I imagine bliss. My thoughts are like wind, rushing, curling into the depths of myself, expelling, dispelling darkness I imagine love, I imagine wind, I imagine gold hair and green eyes and whispers, laughter I imagine

Me extraordinary, unbroken the girl who shocked herself by surviving, the girl who loved herself through learning, the girl who respected her skin, understood her worth, found her strength strong

s t r o n g e r strongest Imagine me master of my own universe I am everything I ever dreamed of

We’re in the air.

KENJI

We’ve been in the air for hours now. I spent the first four hours sleeping—I can usually fall asleep anywhere, in any position—and I spent the last two hours eating all the snacks on the plane. We’ve got about an hour left in our flight and I’m so bored I’ve begun poking myself in the eye just to pass the time. We got off to a good start—Nouria helped us steal a plane, as promised, by shielding our actions with a sheet of light—but now that we’re up here, we’re basically on our own. Nazeera had to fend off a few questions over the radio, but because most of the military has no idea what level of shit has already gone down, she still has the necessary clout to bypass inquiries from nosy sector leaders and soldiers. We realize it’s only a matter of time, though, before someone realizes we don’t have the authority to be up here. Until then— I glance around. I’m sitting close enough to the cockpit to be within earshot of Nazeera, but she and I both decided that I should hang back to keep an eye on Warner, who’s sitting just far enough away to keep me safe from his scowl. Honestly, the look on his face is so intense I’m surprised he hasn’t started aging prematurely.

Suffice it to say that he didn’t like Nouria’s game plan. I mean, I don’t like it, either—and I have no intentions of following through with it—but Warner looked like he might shoot Nouria for even thinking that we might have to kill J. He’s been sitting stiffly in the back of the plane ever since we boarded, and I’ve been wary of approaching him, despite our recent reconciliation. Semi-reconciliation? I’m calling it a reconciliation. But right now I think he needs space. Or maybe it’s me, maybe I’m the one who needs space. He’s exhausting to deal with. Without J around, Warner has no soft edges. He never smiles. He rarely looks at people. He’s always irritated. Right now, I honestly can’t remember why J likes him so much. In fact, in the last couple of months I’d forgotten what he was like without her around. But this reminder has been more than enough. Too much, in fact. I don’t want any more reminders. I can guarantee that I will never again forget that Warner is not a fun guy to spend time with. That dude carries so much tension in his body it’s practically contagious. So yeah, I’m giving him space. So far, I’ve given him seven hours’ worth of space. I steal another glance at him, wondering how he holds himself so still—so stiff—for seven hours straight. How does he not pull a muscle? Why does he never have to use the bathroom? Where does it all go? The only concession we got from Warner was that he showed up looking more like his normal self. Sam was right: Warner took a shower. You’d think he was going on a date, not a murder/rescue mission. It’s obvious he wants to make a good impression. He’s wearing more Haider castoffs: a pale green blazer, matching pants. Black boots. But because these pieces were selected by Haider, the blazer is not a normal blazer. Of course it isn’t. This blazer has no lapels, no buttons. The silhouette is cut in sharp lines that force the jacket to hang open, exposing Warner’s shirt underneath—a simple white V-neck that shows more of his chest than I feel comfortable staring at. Still, he looks okay. A little nervous, but— “Your thoughts are very loud,” Warner says, still staring out the window. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say, feigning shock. “I’d turn the volume down, but I’d have to die in order for my brain to stop working.” “A problem easily rectified,” he mutters. “I heard that.” “I meant for you to hear that.” “Hey,” I say, realizing something. “Doesn’t this feel like some kind of weird déjà vu?” “No.” “No, no, I’m being serious. What are the odds that the three of us would be on a trip like this again? Though the last time we were all on a trip like this, we ended up being shot out of the sky, so—yeah, I don’t want to relive that. Also, J isn’t here. So. Huh.” I hesitate. “Okay, I think I’m realizing that maybe I don’t actually understand what déjà vu means.” “It’s French,” Warner says, bored. “It literally means already seen.” “Wait, so then I do know what it means.” “That you know what anything means is astonishing to me.” Before I have a chance to defend myself, Nazeera’s voice carries over from the cockpit. “Hey,” she calls. “Are you guys being friends again?” I hear the familiar click and slide of metal—a sound that means Nazeera is unbuckling herself from pilot mode. Every once in a while she puts the plane on cruise control (or whatever) and makes her way over to me. But it’s been at least half an hour since her last break, and I’ve missed her. She folds herself into the chair next to me. I beam at her. “I’m so glad you two are finally talking,” she says, sighing as she sinks into the seat. “The silence has been depressing.” My smile dies.

Warner’s expression darkens. “Listen,” she says, looking at Warner. “I know this whole thing is horrible—that the very reason we’re on this plane is horrible—but you have to stop being like this. We have, like, thirty minutes left on this flight, which means we’re about to go out there, together, to do something huge. Which means we all have to get on the same page. We have to be able to trust each other and work together. If we don’t, or if you don’t let us, we could end up losing everything.” When Warner says nothing, Nazeera sighs again. “I don’t care what Nouria thinks,” she says, trying for a gentle tone. “We’re not going to lose Ella.” “You don’t understand,” Warner says quietly. He’s still not looking at us. “I’ve already lost her.” “You don’t know that,” Nazeera says forcefully. “Ella might still be alive. We can still turn this around.” Warner shakes his head. “She was different even before she was taken,” he says. “Something had changed inside of her, and I don’t know what it was, but I could feel it. I’ve always been able to feel her—I’ve always been able to sense her energy—and she wasn’t the same. Emmaline did something to her, changed something inside of her. I have no idea what she’s going to be like when I see her again. If I see her again.” He stares out the window. “But I’m here because I can do nothing else. Because this is the only way forward.” And then, even though I know it’s going to piss him off, I say to Nazeera: “Warner and J were engaged.” “What?” Nazeera stills. Her eyes go wide. Super wide. Wider than the plane. Her eyes go so wide they basically fill the sky. “When? How? Why did no one tell me?” “I told you that in confidence,” Warner says sharply, shooting me a glare. “I know.” I shrug. “But Nazeera’s right. We’re a team now, whether you like it or not, and we should get all of this out in the open. Air it out.” “Out in the open? What about the fact that you and Nazeera are in a relationship that you never bothered mentioning?” “Hey,” I say, “I was going t—” “Wait. Wait.” Nazeera cuts me off. She holds up her hands. “Why are we changing the subject? Warner, engaged! Oh my God, this is— This is so good. This is a big deal, it could give us a per —” “It’s not that big of a deal.” I turn, frown at her. “We all knew this kind of thing was coming. The two of them are basically destined to be together, even I can admit that.” I tilt my head, considering. “I mean, true, I think they’re a little young, but—” Nazeera is shaking her head. “No. No. That’s not what I’m talking about. I don’t care about the actual engagement.” She stops, glances up at Warner. “I mean—um, congratulations and everything.” Warner looks beyond annoyed. “I just mean that this reminded me of something. Something so good. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. God, it would give us the perfect edge.” “What would?” But Nazeera is out of her chair, stalking over to Warner and, cautiously, I follow. “Do you remember,” she says to him, “when you and Lena were together?” Warner shoots Nazeera a venomous look and says, with dramatic iciness, “I’d really rather not.” Nazeera waves away his statement with her hand. “Well, I remember. I remember a lot more than I should, probably, because Lena used to complain to me about your relationship all the time. And I remember, specifically, how much your dad and her mom wanted you guys to, like, I don’t know— promise yourselves to each other for the foreseeable future, for the protection of the movement—” “Promise themselves?” I frown. “Yes, like—” She hesitates, her arms pinwheeling as she gathers her thoughts, but Warner suddenly sits up straighter in his seat, seeming to understand.

“Yes,” he says calmly. The irritation is gone from his eyes. “I remember my father saying something to me about the importance of uniting our families. Unfortunately, my recollection of the interaction is vague, at best.” “Right, well, I’m sure your parents were both chasing after the idea for political gain, but Lena was —and probably still is—like, genuinely in love with you, and was always sort of obsessed with the idea of being your wife. She was always talking to me about marrying you, about her dreams for the future, about what your children would look like—” I glance at Warner to catch his reaction to that statement, and the revolted look on his face is surprisingly satisfying. “—but I remember her saying something even then, about how detached you were, and how closed off, and how one day, when the two of you got married, she’d finally be able to link your family profiles in the database, which would grant her the necessary security clearance to track your—” The plane gives a sudden, violent jolt. Nazeera goes still, words dying in her throat. Warner jumps to his feet. We all make a dash for the cockpit. The lights are flashing, screaming alerts I don’t understand. Nazeera scans the monitor at the same time as Warner, and the two of them share a look. The plane gives another violent jolt, and I slam, hard, into the something sharp and metal. I let out a long string of curses and for some reason, when Nazeera reaches out to help me up— I freak out. “Will someone tell me what the hell is going on? What’s happening? Are we being shot out of the sky right now?” I spin around, taking in the flashing lights, the steady beep echoing through the cabin. “Fucking déjà vu! I knew it!” Nazeera takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes. “We’re not being shot out of the sky.” “Then—” “When we entered Oceania’s airspace,” Warner explains, “their base was alerted to the presence of our unauthorized aircraft.” He glances at the monitor. “They know we’re here, and they’re not happy about it.” “Right, I get that, but—” Another violent jolt and I hit the floor. Warner doesn’t even seem to startle. Nazeera stumbles, but gracefully, and collapses into the cockpit seat. She looks strangely deflated. “So, um, okay— What’s happening?” I’m breathing hard. My heart is racing. “Are you sure we’re not being shot out of the sky again? Why is no one freaking out? Am I having a heart attack?” “You’re not having a heart attack, and they’re not shooting us out of the sky,” Nazeera says again, her fingers flying over the dials, swiping across screens. “But they’ve activated remote control of the aircraft. They’ve taken over the plane.” “And you can’t override it?” She shakes her head. “I don’t have the authority to override a supreme commander’s missive.” After a beat of silence, she straightens. Turns to face us. “Maybe this isn’t so bad,” she says. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly sure how we’d land here or how it would all go down, but it’s got to be a good sign that they want us to walk in there alive, right?” “Not necessarily,” Warner says quietly. “Right.” Nazeera frowns. “Yeah, I realized that was wrong only after I said it out loud.” “So we’re just supposed to wait here?” I’m feeling my intense panic begin to fade, but only a little. “We just wait here until they land our plane and then when they land our plane they surround us with armed soldiers and then when we walk off the plane they murder us and then—you know, we’re dead? That’s the plan?” “That,” Nazeera says, “or they could tell our plane to crash itself into the ocean or something.” “Oh my God, Nazeera, this isn’t funny.” Warner looks out the window. “She wasn’t joking.”

“Okay, I’m only going to ask this one more time: Why am I the only one who’s freaking out?” “Because I have a plan,” Nazeera says. She glances at the dashboard once more. “We have exactly fourteen minutes before the plane lands, but that gives me more than enough time to tell you both exactly what we’re going to do.”

First, I see light.

ELLA JULIETTE

Bright, orange, flaring behind my eyelids. Sounds begin to emerge shortly thereafter but the reveal is slow, muddy. I hear my own breath, then faint beeping. A metal shhh, a rush of air, the sound of laughter. Footsteps, footsteps, a voice that says—

Ella Just as I’m about to open my eyes a flood of heat flushes through my body, burns through bone. It’s violent, pervasive. It presses hard against my throat, choking me. Suddenly, I’m numb.

Ella, the voice says. Ella Listen “Any minute now.” Anderson’s familiar voice breaks through the haze of my mind. My fingers twitch against cotton sheets. I feel the insubstantial weight of a thin blanket covering the lower half of my body. The pinch and sting of needles. A roar of pain. I realize, then, that I cannot move my left hand. Someone clears their throat. “This is twice now that the sedative hasn’t worked the way it should,” someone says. The voice is unfamiliar. Angry. “With Evie gone this whole place is going to hell.” “Evie made substantial changes to Ella’s body,” Anderson says, and I wonder who he’s talking about. “It’s possible that something in her new physical makeup prevents the sedative from clearing as quickly as it should.” A humorless laugh. “Your friendship with Max has gotten you many things over the last couple of decades, but a medical degree is not one of them.” “It’s only a theory. I think it might be po—” “I don’t care to know your theories,” the man says, cutting him off. “What I want to know is why on earth you thought it would be a good idea to injure our key subject, when maintaining her physical and mental stability is crucial to—” “Ibrahim, be reasonable,” Anderson interjects. “After what happened last time, I just wanted to be sure that everything was working as it should. I was only testing her lo—”

“We all know about your fetish for torture, Paris, but the novelty of your singularly sick mind has worn off. We’re out of time.” “We are not out of time,” Anderson says, sounding remarkably calm. “This is only a minor setback; Max was able to fix it right away.” “A minor setback?” Ibrahim thunders. “The girl lost consciousness. We’re still at high risk for regression. The subject is supposed to be in stasis. I allowed you free rein of the girl, once again, because I honestly didn’t think you would be this stupid. Because I don’t have time to babysit you. Because Tatiana, Santiago, and Azi and I all have our hands full trying to do both your job and Evie’s in addition to our own. In addition to everything else.” “I was doing my own job just fine,” Anderson says, his voice like acid. “No one asked you to step in.” “You’re forgetting that you lost your job and your continent the moment Evie’s daughter shot you in the head and claimed your leavings for herself. You let a teenage girl take your life, your livelihood, your children, and your soldiers from right under your nose.” “You know as well as I do that she’s not an ordinary teenage girl,” Anderson says. “She’s Evie’s daughter. You know what she’s capable of—” “But she didn’t!” Ibrahim cries. “Half the reason the girl was meant to live a life of isolation was so that she’d never know the full extent of her powers. She was meant only to metamorphose quietly, undetected, while we waited for the right moment to establish ourselves as a movement. She was only entrusted to your care because of your decades-long friendship with Max—and because you were a scheming, conniving upstart who was willing to take whatever job you could get in order to move up.” “That’s funny,” Anderson says, unamused. “You used to like me for being a scheming, conniving upstart who was willing to take whatever job I could get.” “I liked you,” Ibrahim says, seething, “when you got the job done. But in the last year, you’ve been nothing but deadweight. We’ve given you ample opportunity to correct your mistakes, but you can’t seem to get things right. You’re lucky Max was able to fix her hand so quickly, but we still know nothing of her mental state. And I swear to you, Paris, if there are unanticipated, irreversible consequences for your actions I will challenge you before the committee.” “You wouldn’t dare.” “You might’ve gotten away with this nonsense while Evie was still alive, but the rest of us know that the only reason you even made it this far was because of Evie’s indulgence of Max, who continues to vouch for you for reasons unfathomable to the rest of us.” “For reasons unfathomable to the rest of us?” Anderson laughs. “You mean you can’t remember why you’ve kept me around all these years? Let me help refresh your memory. As I recall, you liked me best when I was the only one willing to do the abject, immoral, and unsavory jobs that helped get this movement off the ground.” A pause. “You’ve kept me around all these years, Ibrahim, because in exchange, I’ve kept the blood off your hands. Or have you forgotten? You once called me your savior.” “I don’t care if I once called you a prophet.” Something shatters. Metal and glass slamming hard into something else. “We can’t continue to pay for your careless mistakes. We are at war right now, and at the moment we’re barely holding on to our lead. If you can’t understand the possible ramifications of even a minor setback at this critical hour, you don’t deserve to stand among us.” A sudden crash. A door, slamming shut. Anderson sighs, long and slow. Somehow I can tell, even from the sound of his exhalation, that he’s not angry. I’m surprised. He just seems tired. By degrees, the fingers of heat uncurl from around my throat. After a few more seconds of silence, my eyes flutter open.

I stare up at the ceiling, my eyes adjusting to the intense burst of white light. I feel slightly immobilized, but I seem to be okay. “Juliette?” Anderson’s voice is soft. Far more gentle than I’d expected. I blink at the ceiling and then, with some effort, manage to move my neck. I lock eyes with him. He looks unlike himself. Unshaven. Uncertain. “Yes, sir,” I say, but my voice is rough. Unused. “How are you feeling?” “I feel stiff, sir.” He hits a button and my bed moves, readjusting me so that I’m sitting relatively upright. Blood rushes from my head to my extremities and I’m left slightly dizzy. I blink, slowly, trying to recalibrate. Anderson turns off the machines attached to my body, and I watch, fascinated. And then he straightens. He turns his back to me, faces a small, high window. It’s too far up for me to see the view. He raises his arms and runs his hands through his hair with a sigh. “I need a drink,” he says to the wall. Anderson nods to himself and walks out the adjoining door. At first, I’m surprised to be left alone, but when I hear muffled sounds of movement and the familiar trill of glasses, clinking, I’m no longer surprised. I’m confused. I realize then that I have no idea where I am. Now that the needles have been removed from my body, I can more easily move, and as I swivel around to take in the space, it dawns on me that I am not in a medical wing, as I first suspected. This looks more like someone’s bedroom. Or maybe even a hotel room. Everything is extremely white. Sterile. I’m in a big white bed with white sheets and a white comforter. Even the bed frame is made of a white, blond wood. Next to the various carts and nowdead monitors, there’s a single nightstand decorated with a single, simple lamp. There’s a slim door standing ajar, and through a slant of light I think I spy what serves as a closet, though it appears to be empty. Adjacent to the door is a suitcase, closed but unzipped. There’s a screen mounted on the wall directly opposite me, and underneath it, a bureau. One of the drawers isn’t completely closed, and it piques my interest. It occurs to me then that I am not wearing any clothes. I’m wearing a hospital gown, but no real clothes. My eyes scan the room for my military uniform and I come up short. There’s nothing here. I remember then, in a moment of clarity, that I must’ve bled all over my clothes. I remember kneeling on the floor. I remember the growing puddle of my own blood in which I collapsed. I glance down at my injured hand. I only injured my index finger, but my entire left hand is bound in gauze. The pain has reduced to a dull throb. I take that as a good sign. Gingerly, I begin to remove the bandages. Just then, Anderson reappears. His suit jacket is gone. His tie, gone. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, the black curl of ink more clearly visible, and his hair is disheveled. He seems more relaxed. He remains in the doorway and takes a long drink from a glass half-full of amber liquid. When he makes eye contact with me, I say: “Sir, I was wondering where I am. I was also wondering where my clothes are.” Anderson takes another sip. He closes his eyes as he swallows, leans back against the doorframe. Sighs. “You’re in my room,” he says, his eyes still closed. “This compound is vast, and the medical wings —of which there are many—are, for the most part, situated on the opposite end of the facility, about a mile away. After Max attended to your needs, I had him deposit you here so that I’d be able

to keep a close eye on you through the night. As to your clothes, I have no idea.” He takes another sip. “I think Max had them incinerated. I’m sure someone will bring you replacements soon.” “Thank you, sir.” Anderson says nothing. I say nothing more. With his eyes closed, I feel safer to stare at him. I take advantage of the rare opportunity to peer closer at his tattoo, but I still can’t make sense of it. Mostly, I stare at his face, which I’ve never seen like this: Soft. Relaxed. Almost smiling. Even so, I can tell that something is troubling him. “What?” he says without looking at me. “What is it now?” “I was wondering, sir, if you’re okay.” His eyes open. He tilts his head to look at me, but his gaze is inscrutable. Slowly, he turns. He throws back the last of his drink, rests the glass on the nightstand, and sits down in a nearby armchair. “I had you cut off your own finger last night, do you remember?” “Yes, sir.” “And today you’re asking me if I’m okay.” “Yes, sir. You seem upset, sir.” He leans back in the chair, looking thoughtful. Suddenly, he shakes his head. “You know, I realize now that I’ve been too hard on you. I’ve put you through too much. Tested your loyalty perhaps too much. But you and I have a long history, Juliette. And it’s not easy for me to forgive. I certainly don’t forget.” I say nothing. “You have no idea how much I hated you,” he says, speaking more to the wall than to me. “How much I still hate you, sometimes. But now, finally—” He sits up, looks me in the eye. “Now you’re perfect.” He laughs, but there’s no heart in it. “Now you’re absolutely perfect and I have to just give you away. Toss your body to science.” He turns toward the wall again. “What a shame.” Fear creeps up, through my chest. I ignore it. Anderson stands, grabs the empty glass off the nightstand, and disappears for a minute to refill it. When he returns, he stares at me from the doorway. I stare back. We remain like that for a while before he says, suddenly— “You know, when I was very young, I wanted to be a baker.” Surprise shoots through me, widens my eyes. “I know,” he says, taking another swallow of the amber liquid. He almost laughs. “Not what you’d expect. But I’ve always had a fondness for cake. Few people realize this, but baking requires infinite precision and patience. It is an exacting, cruel science. I would’ve been an excellent baker.” And then: “I’m not really sure why I’m telling you this. I suppose it’s been a long time since I’ve felt I could speak openly with anyone.” “You can tell me anything, sir.” “Yes,” he says quietly. “I’m beginning to believe that.” We’re both silent then, but I can’t stop staring at him, my mind suddenly overrun with unanswerable questions. Another twenty seconds of this and he finally breaks the silence. “All right, what is it?” His voice is dry. Self-mocking. “What is it you’re dying to know?” “I’m sorry, sir,” I say. “I was just wondering— Why didn’t you try? To be a baker?” Anderson shrugs, spins the glass around in his hands. “When I got a bit older, my mother used to force bleach down my throat. Ammonia. Whatever she could find under the sink. It was never enough to kill me,” he says, meeting my eyes. “Just enough to torture me for all of eternity.” He throws back the rest of the drink. “You might say that I lost my appetite.” I can’t mask my horror quickly enough. Anderson laughs at me, laughs at the look on my face.

“She never even had a good reason for doing it,” he says, turning away. “She just hated me.” “Sir,” I say, “Sir, I—” Max barges into the room. I flinch. “What the hell did you do?” “There are so many possible answers to that question,” Anderson says, glancing back. “Please be more specific. By the way, what did you do with her clothes?” “I’m talking about Kent,” Max says angrily. “What did you do?” Anderson looks suddenly uncertain. He glances from Max to me then back again. “Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere.” But Max looks beyond reason. His eyes are so wild I can’t tell if he’s angry or terrified. “Please tell me the tapes were tampered with. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you didn’t perform the procedure on yourself.” Anderson looks at once relieved and irritated. “Calm yourself,” he says. “I watched Evie do this kind of thing countless times—and the last time, on me. The boy had already been drained. The vial was ready, just sitting there on the counter, and you were so busy with”—he glances at me —“anyway, I had a while to wait, and I figured I’d make myself useful while I stood around.” “I can’t believe— Of course you don’t see the problem,” Max says, grabbing a fistful of his own hair. He’s shaking his head. “You never see the problem.” “That seems an unfair accusation.” “Paris, there’s a reason why most Unnaturals only have one ability.” He’s beginning to pace now. “The occurrence of two supernatural gifts in the same person is exceedingly rare.” “What about Ibrahim’s girl?” he says. “Wasn’t that your work? Evie’s?” “No,” Max says forcefully. “That was a random, natural error. We were just as surprised by the discovery as anyone else.” Anderson goes suddenly solid with tension. “What, exactly, is the problem?” “It’s not—” A sudden blare of sirens and the words die in Max’s throat. “Not again,” he whispers. “God, not again.” Anderson spares me a single glance before he disappears into his room, and this time, he reappears fully assembled. Not a hair out of place. He checks the cartridge of a handgun before he tucks it away, in a hidden holster. “Juliette,” he says sharply. “Yes, sir?” “I am ordering you to remain here. No matter what you see, no matter what you hear, you are not to leave this room. You are to do nothing unless I command you otherwise. Do you understand? “ “Yes, sir.”

“Max, get her something to wear,” Anderson barks. “And then keep her hidden. Guard her with your life.”

This was the plan:

KENJI

We were all supposed to go invisible—Warner borrowing his power from me and Nazeera—and jump out of the plane just before it landed. Nazeera would then activate her flying powers, and with Warner bolstering her power, the three of us would bypass the welcoming committee intent on murdering us. We’d then make our way directly into the heart of the vast compound, where we’d begin our search for Juliette. This is what actually happens: All three of us go invisible and jump out of the plane as it lands. That part worked. The thing we weren’t expecting, of course, was for the welcoming/murdering committee to so thoroughly anticipate our moves. We’re up in the air, flying over the heads of at least two dozen highly armed soldiers and one dude who looks like he might be Nazeera’s dad, when someone flashes some kind of long-barreled gun up, into the sky. He seems to be searching for something. Us. “He’s scanning for heat signatures,” Warner says. “I realize that,” Nazeera says, sounding frustrated. She picks up speed, but it doesn’t matter. Seconds later, the guy with the heat gun shouts something to someone else, who aims a different weapon at us, one that immediately disables our powers. It’s just as horrifying as it sounds. I don’t even have a chance to scream. I don’t have time to think about the fact that my heart is racing a mile a minute, or that my hands are shaking, or that Nazeera—fearless, invulnerable Nazeera—looks suddenly terrified as the sky falls out from under her. Even Warner seems stunned. I was already super freaked out about the idea of being shot out of the sky again, but I can honestly say that I wasn’t mentally prepared for this. This is a whole new level of terror. The three of us are suddenly visible and spiraling to our deaths and the soldiers below are just staring at us, waiting. For what? I think. Why are they just staring at us as we die? Why go to all the trouble to take over our plane and land us here, safely, just to watch us fall out of the sky? Do they find this entertaining? Time feels strange. Infinite and nonexistent. Wind is rushing up against my feet, and all I can see is the ground, coming at us too fast, but I can’t stop thinking about how, in all my nightmares, I never thought I’d die like this. I never thought I’d die because of gravity. I didn’t think that this was the way I was destined to exit the world, and it seems wrong, and it seems unfair, and I’m thinking about how quickly we failed, how we never stood a chance— when I hear a sudden explosion. A flash of fire, discordant cries, the faraway sounds of Warner shouting, and then I’m no longer falling, no longer visible. It all happens so fast I feel dizzy. Nazeera’s arm is wrapped around me and she’s hauling me upward, struggling a bit, and then Warner materializes beside me, helping to prop me up. His sharp voice and familiar presence are my only proof of his existence. “Nice shot,” Nazeera says, her breathless words loud in my ear. “How long do you think we have?” “Ten seconds before it occurs to them to start shooting blindly at us,” Warner calls out. “We have to move out of range. Now.” “On it,” Nazeera shouts back. We narrowly avoid gunfire as the three of us plummet, at a sharp diagonal, to the ground. We were already so close to the ground that it doesn’t take us long to land in the middle of a field, far

enough away from danger to be able to breathe a momentary sigh of relief, but too far from the compound for the relief to last long. I’m bent over, hands on my knees, gasping for breath, trying to calm down. “What did you do you? What the hell just happened?” “Warner threw a grenade,” Nazeera explains. Then, to Warner: “You found that in Haider’s bag, didn’t you?” “That, and a few other useful things. We need to move.” I hear the sound of his retreating footsteps—boots crushing grass—and I hurry to follow. “They’ll regroup quickly,” Warner is saying, “so we have only moments to come up with a new plan. I think we should split up.” “No,” Nazeera and I say at the same time. “There’s no time,” Warner says. “They know we’re here, and they’ve obviously had ample opportunity to prepare for our arrival. Unfortunately, our parents aren’t idiots; they know we’re here to save Ella. Our presence has almost certainly inspired them to begin the transfer if they haven’t done so already. The three of us together are inefficient. Easy targets.” “But one of us has to stay with you,” Nazeera says. “You need us within close proximity if you’re going to use stealth to get around.” “I’ll take my chances.” “No way,” Nazeera says flatly. “Listen, I know this compound, so I’ll be okay on my own. But Kenji doesn’t know this place well enough. The entire footprint measures out to about a hundred and twenty acres of land—which means you can easily get lost if you don’t know where to look. You two stick together. Kenji will lend you his stealth, and you can be his guide. I’ll go alone.” “What?” I say, panicked. “No, no way—” “Warner’s not wrong,” Nazeera says, cutting me off. “The three of us, as a group, really do make for an easier target. There are too many variables. Besides, I have something I need to do, and the sooner I can get to a computer, the smoother things will go for you both. It’s probably best if I tackle that on my own.” “Wait, what?” “What are you planning?” Warner asks. “I’m going to trick the systems into thinking that your family and Ella’s are linked,” she says to Warner. “There’s protocol for this sort of thing already in place within The Reestablishment, so if I can create the necessary profiles and authorizations, the database will recognize you as a member of the Sommers family. You’ll be granted easy access to most of the high-security rooms throughout the compound. But it’s not foolproof. The system does a self-scan for anomalies every hour. If it’s able to see through my bullshit, you’ll be locked out and reported. But until then— you’ll be able to more easily search the buildings for Ella.” “Nazeera,” Warner says, sounding unusually impressed. “That’s . . . great.” “Better than great,” I add. “That’s amazing.” “Thanks,” she says. “But I should get going. The sooner I start flying, the sooner I can get started, which hopefully means that by the time you reach base, I’ll have made something happen.” “But what if you get caught?” I ask. “What if you can’t do it? How will we find you?” “You won’t.” “But— Nazeera—” “We’re at war, Kishimoto,” she says, a slight smile in her voice. “We don’t have time to be sentimental.” “That’s not funny. I hate that joke. I hate it so much.” “Nazeera is going to be fine,” Warner says. “You obviously don’t know her well if you think she’s easily captured.” “She literally just woke up! After being shot! In the chest! She nearly died!” “That was a fluke,” Warner and Nazeera say at the same time.

“But—” “Hey,” Nazeera says, her voice suddenly close. “I have a feeling I’m about four months away from falling madly in love with you, so please don’t get yourself killed, okay?” I’m about to respond when I feel a sudden rush of air. I hear her launching up, into the sky, and even though I know I won’t see her, I crane my neck as if to watch her go. And just like that— She’s gone. My heart is pounding in my chest, blood rushing to my head. I feel confused: terrified, excited, hopeful, horrified. All the best and worst things always seem to happen to me at the same time. It’s not fair. “Fucking hell,” I say out loud. “Come on,” Warner says. “Let’s move out.”

ELLA JULIETTE

Max is staring at me like I’m an alien.

He hasn’t moved since Anderson left; he just stands there, stiff and strange, rooted to the floor. I remember the look he gave me the first time we met—the unguarded hostility in his eyes—and I blink at him from my bed, wondering why he hates me so much. After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, I clear my throat. It’s obvious that Anderson respects Max—likes him, even—so I decide I should address him with a similar level of respect. “Sir,” I say. “I’d really like to get dressed.” Max startles at the sound of my voice. His body language is entirely different now that Anderson isn’t here, and I’m still struggling to figure him out. He seems skittish. I wonder if I should feel threatened by him. His affection for Anderson is no indication that he might treat me as anything but a nameless soldier. A subordinate. Max sighs. It’s a loud, rough sound that seems to shake him from his stupor. He shoots me a last look before he disappears into the adjoining room, from where I hear indiscernible, shuffling sounds. When he reappears, his arms are empty. He stares blankly at me, looking more rattled than he did a moment ago. He shoves a hand through his hair. It sticks up in places. “Anderson doesn’t have anything that would fit you,” he says. “No, sir,” I say carefully. Still confused. “I was hoping I might be given a replacement uniform.” Max turns away, stares at nothing. “A replacement uniform,” he says to himself. “Right.” But when he takes in a long, shuddering breath, it becomes clear to me that he’s trying to stay calm. Trying to stay calm. I realize, suddenly, that Max might be afraid of me. Maybe he saw what I did to Darius. Maybe he’s the doctor who patched him up. Still— I don’t see what reason he’d have to think I’d hurt him. After all, my orders come from Anderson, and as far as I’m aware, Max is an ally. I watch him closely as he lifts his wrist to his mouth, quietly requesting that someone deliver a fresh set of clothes for me. And then he backs away from me until he’s flush with the wall. There’s a single, sharp thud as the heels of his boots hit the baseboards, and then, silence. Silence. It erupts, settling completely into the room, the quiet reaching even the farthest corners. I feel physically trapped by it. The lack of sound feels oppressive. Paralyzing.

I pass the time by counting the bruises on my body. I don’t think I’ve spent this much time looking at myself in the last few days; I hadn’t realized how many wounds I had. There seem to be several fresh cuts on my arms and legs, and I feel a vague stinging along my lower abdomen. I pull back the collar of the hospital gown, peering through the overly large neck hole at my naked body underneath. Pale. Bruised. There’s a small, fresh scar running vertically down the side of my torso, and I don’t know what I did to acquire it. In fact, my body seems to have amassed an entire constellation of fresh incisions and faded bruises. For some reason, I can’t remember where they came from. I glance up, suddenly, when I feel the heat of Max’s gaze. He’s staring at me as I study myself, and the sharp look in his eyes makes me wary. I sit up. Sit back. I don’t feel comfortable asking him any of the questions piling in my mouth. So I look at my hands. I’ve already removed the rest of my bandages; my left hand is mostly healed. There’s no visible scar where my finger was detached, but my skin is mottled up to my forearm, mostly purple and dark blue, a few spots of yellow. I curl my fingers into a fist, let it go. It hurts only a little. The pain is fading by the hour. The next words leave my lips before I can stop them: “Thank you, sir, for fixing my hand.” Max stares at me, uncertain, when his wrist lights up. He glances down at the message, and then at the door, and as he darts to the entrance, he tosses strange, wild looks at me over his shoulder, as if he’s afraid to turn his back on me. Max grows more bizarre by the moment. When the door opens, the room is flooded with sound. Flashing lights pulse through the slice of open doorway, shouts and footsteps thundering down the hall. I hear metal crashing into metal, the distant blare of an alarm. My heart picks up. I’m on my feet before I can even stop myself, my sharpened senses oblivious to the fact that my hospital gown does little to cover my body. All I know is a sudden, urgent need to join the commotion, to do what I can to assist, and to find my commander and protect him. It’s what I was built to do. I can’t just stand here. But then I remember that my commander gave me explicit orders to remain here, and the fight leaves my body. Max shuts the door, silencing the chaos with that single motion. I open my mouth to say something, but the look in his eyes warns me not to speak. He places a stack of clothes on the bed —refusing to even come near me—and steps out of the room. I change into the clothes quickly, shedding the loose gown for the starched, stiff fabric of a freshly washed military uniform. Max brought me no undergarments, but I don’t bother pointing this out; I’m just relieved to have something to wear. I’m still buttoning the front placket, my fingers working as quickly as possible, when my gaze falls once more to the bureau directly opposite the bed. There’s a single drawer left slightly open, as if it was closed in a hurry. I’d noticed it earlier. I can’t stop staring at it now. Something pulls me forward, some need I can’t explain. It’s becoming familiar now—almost normal—to feel the strange heat filling my head, so I don’t question my compulsion to move closer. Something somewhere inside of me is screaming at me to stand down, but I’m only dimly aware of it. I hear Max’s muffled, low voice in the other room; he’s speaking with someone in harried, aggressive tones. He seems fully distracted.

Encouraged, I step forward. My hand curls around the drawer pull, and it takes only a little effort to tug it open. It’s a smooth, soft system. The wood makes almost no sound as it moves. And I’m just about to peer inside when — “What are you doing?” Max’s voice sends a sharp note of clarity through my brain, clearing the haze. I take a step back, blinking. Trying to understand what I was doing. “The drawer was open, sir. I was going to close it.” The lie comes automatically. Easily. I marvel at it. Max slams the drawer closed and stares, suspiciously, at my face. I blink at him, blithely meeting his gaze. I notice then that he’s holding my boots. He shoves them at me; I take them. I want to ask him if he has a hair tie—my hair is unusually long; I have a vague memory of it being much shorter—but I decide against it. He watches me closely as I pull on my boots, and once I’m upright again, he barks at me to follow him. I don’t move. “Sir, my commander gave me direct orders to remain in this room. I will stay here until otherwise instructed.” “You’re currently being instructed. I’m instructing you.” “With all due respect, sir, you are not my commanding officer.” Max sighs, irritation darkening his features, and he lifts his wrist to his mouth. “Did you hear that? I told you she wouldn’t listen to me.” A pause. “Yes. You’ll have to come get her yourself.” Another pause. Max is listening on an invisible earpiece not unlike the one I’ve seen Anderson use—an earpiece I’m now realizing must be implanted in their brains. “Absolutely not,” Max says, his anger so sudden it startles me. He shakes his head. “I’m not touching her.” Another beat of silence, and— “I realize that,” he says sharply. “But it’s different when her eyes are open. There’s something about her face. I don’t like the way she looks at me.” My heart slows. Blackness fills my vision, flickers back to light. I hear my heart beating, hear myself breathe in, breathe out, hear my own voice, loud—so loud—

There was something about my face The words slur, slow down there wassomething about my facesssomething facessssomething about my eyes, the way I looked at her

about

my

My eyes fly open with a start. I’m breathing hard, confused, and I have hardly a moment to reflect on what just happened in my head before the door flies open again. A roar of noise fills my ears—more sirens, more shouts, more sounds of urgent, chaotic movement—

“Juliette Ferrars.” There’s a man in front of me. Tall. Forbidding. Black hair, brown skin, green eyes. I can tell, just by looking at him, that he wields a great deal of power. “I am Supreme Commander Ibrahim.” My eyes widen. Musa Ibrahim is the supreme commander of Asia. By all accounts, the supreme commanders of The Reestablishment have equal levels of authority—but Supreme Commander Ibrahim is widely known to be one of the founders of the movement, and one of the only supreme commanders to have held the position from the beginning. He’s extremely well respected. So when he says, “Come with me,” I say— “Yes, sir.”

I follow him out the door and into the chaos, but I don’t have long to take in the pandemonium before we make a sharp turn into a dark hallway. I follow Ibrahim down a slim, narrow path, the lights dimming as we go. I glance back a few times to see if Max is still with us, but he seems to have gone in another direction. “This way,” Ibrahim says sharply. We make one more turn and, suddenly, the narrow path opens onto a large, brightly lit landing area. There’s an industrial stairwell to the left and a large, gleaming steel elevator to the right. Ibrahim heads for the elevator, and places his hand flat against the seamless door. After a moment, the metal emits a quiet beep, hissing as it slides open. Once we’re both inside, Ibrahim gives me a wide berth. I wait for him to direct the elevator—I scan the interior for buttons or a monitor of some kind—but he does nothing. A second later, without prompting, the elevator moves. The ride is so smooth it takes me a minute to realize we’re moving sideways, rather than up or down. I glance around, taking the opportunity to more closely examine the interior, and only then do I notice the rounded corners. I thought this unit was rectangular; it appears to be circular. I wonder, then, if we’re moving as a bullet would, boring through the earth. Surreptitiously, I glance at Ibrahim. He says nothing. Indicates nothing. He seems neither interested nor perturbed by my presence, which is new. He holds himself with a certainty that reminds me a great deal of Anderson, but there’s something else about Ibrahim— something more—that feels unique. Even from a passing glance it’s obvious that he feels absolutely sure about himself. I’m not sure even Anderson feels absolutely sure of himself. He’s always testing and prodding—examining and questioning. Ibrahim, on the other hand, seems comfortable. Unbothered. Effortlessly confident. I wonder what that must feel like. And then I shock myself for wondering. Once the elevator stops, it makes three brief, harsh, buzzing sounds. A moment later, the doors open. I wait for Ibrahim to exit first, and then I follow. When I cross the threshold, I’m first stunned by the smell. The air quality is so poor that I can’t even open my eyes properly. There’s an acrid smell in the air, something reminiscent of sulfur, and I step through a cloud of smoke so thick it immediately makes my eyes burn. It’s not long before I’m coughing, covering my face with my arm as I force my way through the room. I don’t know how Ibrahim can stand this. Only after I’ve pushed through the cloud does the stinging smell begin to dissipate, but by then, I’ve lost track of Ibrahim. I spin around, trying to take in my surroundings, but there are no visual cues to root me. This laboratory doesn’t seem much different from the others I’ve seen. A great

deal of glass and steel. Dozens of long, metal tables stretched across the room, all of them covered in beakers and test tubes and what look like massive microscopes. The one big difference here is that there are huge glass domes drilled into the walls, the smooth, transparent semicircles appearing more like portholes than anything else. As I get closer I realize that they’re planters of some kind, each one containing unusual vegetation I’ve never seen. Lights flicker on as I move through the vast space, but much of it is still shrouded in darkness, and I gasp, suddenly, when I walk straight into a glass wall. I take a step back, my eyes adjusting to the light. It’s not a wall. It’s an aquarium. An aquarium larger than I am. An aquarium the size of a wall. It’s not the first water tank I’ve seen in a laboratory here in Oceania, and I’m beginning to wonder why there are so many of them. I take another step back, still trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Dissatisfied, I step closer again. There’s a dim blue light in the tank, but it doesn’t do much to illuminate the large dimensions. I crane my neck to see the top of it, but I lose my balance, catching myself against the glass at the last second. This is a futile effort. I need to find Ibrahim. Just as I’m about to step back, I notice a flash of movement in the tank. The water trembles within, begins to thrash. A hand slams hard against the glass. I gasp. Slowly, the hand retreats. I stand there, frozen in fear and fascination, when someone clamps down on my arm. This time, I almost scream. “Where have you been?” Ibrahim says angrily. “I’m sorry, sir,” I say quickly. “I got lost. The smoke was so thick that I—” “What are you talking about? What smoke?” The words die in my throat. I thought I saw smoke. Was there no smoke? Is this another test? Ibrahim sighs. “Come with me.” “Yes, sir.” This time, I keep my eyes on Ibrahim at all times. And this time, when we walk through the darkened laboratory into a blindingly bright, circular room, I know I’m in the right place. Because something is wrong. Someone is dead.

KENJI

When we finally make it to the compound, I’m exhausted, thirsty, and really have to use the bathroom. Warner is none of those things, apparently, because Warner is made of uranium or plutonium or some shit, so I have to beg him to let me take a quick break. And by begging him I mean I grab him by the back of the shirt and force him to slow down— and then I basically collapse behind a wall. Warner shoves away from me, and the sound of his irritated exhalation is all I need to know that my “break” is half a second from over. “We don’t take breaks,” he says sharply. “If you can’t keep up, stay here.” “Bro, I’m not asking to stop. I’m not even asking for a real break. I just need a second to catch my breath. Two seconds. Maybe five seconds. That’s not crazy. And just because I have to catch my

breath doesn’t mean I don’t love J. It means we just ran like a thousand miles. It means my lungs aren’t made of steel.” “Two miles,” he says. “We ran two miles.” “In the sun. Uphill. You’re in a fucking suit. Do you even sweat? How are you not tired?” “If by now you don’t understand, I certainly can’t teach you.” I haul myself to my feet. We start moving again. “I’m not sure I even want to know what you’re talking about,” I say, lowering my voice as I reach for my gun. We’re rounding the corner to the entrance, where our big, fancy plan to break into the building involves waiting for someone to open the door, and catching that door before it closes. No luck yet. “Hey,” I whisper. “What?” Warner sounds annoyed. “How’d you end up proposing?” Silence. “Come on, bro. I’m curious. Also, I, uh, really have to pee, so if you don’t distract me right now all I’m going to think about is how much I have to pee.” “You know, sometimes I wish I could remove the part of my brain that stores the things you say to me.” I ignore that. “So? How’d you do it?” Someone comes through the door and I tense, ready to jump forward, but there’s not enough time. My body relaxes back against the wall. “Did you get the ring like I told you to?” “No.” “What? What do you mean, no?” I hesitate. “Did you at least, like, light a candle? Make her dinner?” “No.” “Buy her chocolates? Get down on one knee?” “No.” “No? No, you didn’t do even one of those things? None of them?” My whispers are turning into whisper-yells. “You didn’t do a single thing I told you to do?” “No.” “Son of a bitch.” “Why does it matter?” he asks. “She said yes.” I groan. “You’re the worst, you know that? The worst. You don’t deserve her.” Warner sighs. “I thought that was already obvious.” “Hey— Don’t you dare make me feel sorry for y—” I cut myself off when the door suddenly opens. A small group of doctors (scientists? I don’t know) exits the building, and Warner and I jump to our feet and get into position. This group has just enough people—and they take just long enough exiting—that when I grab the door and hold it open for a few seconds longer, it doesn’t seem to register. We’re in. And we’ve only been inside for less than a second before Warner slams me into the wall, knocking the air from my lungs. “Don’t move,” he whispers. “Not an inch.” “Why not?” I wheeze. “Look up,” he says, “but only with your eyes. Don’t move your head. Do you see the cameras?” “No.” “They anticipated us,” he says. “They anticipated our moves. Look up again, but do it carefully. Those small black dots are cameras. Sensors. Infrared scanners. Thermal imagers. They’re searching for inconsistencies in the security footage.”

“Shit.” “Yes.” “So what do we do?” “I’m not sure,” Warner says. “You’re not sure?” I say, trying not to freak out. “How can you not be sure?” “I’m thinking,” he whispers, irritated. “And I don’t hear you contributing any ideas.” “Listen, bro, all I know is that I really, really need to p—” I’m interrupted by the distant sound of a toilet flushing. A moment later, a door swings open. I turn my head a millimeter and realize we’re right next to the men’s bathroom. Warner and I seize the moment, catching the door before it falls closed. Once inside the bathroom we press up against the wall, our backs to the cold tile. I’m trying hard not to think about all the pee residue touching my body, when Warner exhales. It’s a brief, quiet sound—but he sounds relieved. I’m guessing that means there are no scanners or cameras in this bathroom, but I can’t be sure, because Warner doesn’t say a word, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. We’re not sure if we’re alone in here. I can’t see him do it, but I’m pretty sure Warner is checking the stalls right now. It’s what I’m doing, anyway. This isn’t a huge bathroom—as I’m sure it’s one of many—and it’s right by the entrance/exit of the building, so right now it doesn’t seem to be getting a lot of traffic. When we’re both certain the room is clear, Warner says— “We’re going to go up, through the vent. If you truly need to use the bathroom, do it now.” “Okay, but why do you have to sound so disgusted about it? Do you really expect me to believe that you never have to use the bathroom? Are basic human needs below you?” Warner ignores me. I see the stall door open, and I hear his careful sounds as he climbs the metal cubicles. There’s a large vent in the ceiling just above one of the stalls, and I watch as his invisible hands make short work of the grate. Quickly, I use the bathroom. And then I wash my hands as loudly as possible, just in case Warner feels the need to make a juvenile comment about my hygiene. Surprisingly, he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Are you ready?” And I can tell by the echoing sound of his voice that he’s already halfway up the vent. “I’m ready. Just let me know when you’re in.” More careful movement, the metal drumming as he goes. “I’m in,” he says. “Make sure you reattach the grate after you climb up.” “Got it.” “On a related note, I hope you’re not claustrophobic. Though if you are . . . Good luck.” I take a deep breath. Let it go. And we begin our journey into hell.

ELLA JULIETTE

Max, Anderson, a blond woman, and a tall black man are all standing in the center of the room, staring at a dead body, and they look up only when Ibrahim approaches. Anderson’s eyes home in on me immediately.

I feel my heart jump. I don’t know how Max got here before we did, and I don’t know if I’m about to be punished for obeying Supreme Commander Ibrahim. My mind spirals. “What’s she doing here?” Anderson asks, his expression wild. “I told her to stay in the r—” “I overruled your orders,” Ibrahim says sharply, “and told her to come with me.” “My bedroom is one of the most secure locations on this wing,” Anderson says, barely holding on to his anger. “You’ve put us all at risk by moving her.” “We are currently under attack,” Ibrahim says. “You left her alone, completely unattended—” “I left her with Max!” “Max, who’s too terrified of his own creation to spend even a few minutes alone with the girl. You forget, there’s a reason he was never granted a military position.” Anderson shoots Max a strange, confused look. Somehow, the confusion on Anderson’s face makes me feel better about my own. I have no idea what’s happening. No idea to whom I should answer. No idea what Ibrahim meant by creation. Max just shakes his head. “The children are here,” Ibrahim says, changing the subject. “They’re here, in our midst, completely undetected. They’re going room by room searching for her, and already they’ve killed four of our key scientists in the process.” He nods at the dead body—a graying, middle-aged man, blood pooling beneath him. “How did this happen? Why haven’t they been spotted yet?” “Nothing has registered on the cameras,” Anderson says. “Not yet, anyway.” “So you’re telling me that this—and the three other dead bodies we’ve found so far—was the work of ghosts?” “They must’ve found a way to trick the system,” the woman says. “It’s the only possible answer.” “Yes, Tatiana, I realize that—but the question is how.” Ibrahim pinches his nose between his thumb and index finger. And it’s clear he’s talking to Anderson when he says: “All the preparations you claimed to have made in anticipation of a possible assault—they were all for nothing?” “What did you expect?” Anderson is no longer trying to control his anger. “They’re our children. We bred them for this. I’d be disappointed if they were stupid enough to fall into our traps right away.” Our children? “Enough,” Ibrahim cries. “Enough of this. We need to initiate the transfer now.” “I already told you why we can’t,” Max says urgently. “Not yet. We need more time. Emmaline still needs to fall below ten percent viability in order for the procedure to operate smoothly, and right now, she’s at twelve percent. Another few days—maybe a couple of weeks—and we should be able to move forward. But anything above ten percent viability means there’s a chance she’ll still be strong enough to resis—” “I don’t care,” Ibrahim says. “We’ve waited long enough. And we’ve wasted enough time and money trying to keep both her alive and her sister in our custody. We can’t risk another failure.” “But initiating the transfer at twelve percent viability has a thirty-eight percent chance of failure,” Max says, speaking quickly. “We could be risking a great deal—” “Then find more ways to reduce viability,” Ibrahim snaps. “We’re already at the top end of what we can do right now,” Max says. “She’s still too strong— she’s fighting our efforts—” “That’s only more reason to get rid of her sooner,” Ibrahim says, cutting him off again. “We’re expending an egregious amount of resources just to keep the other kids isolated from her advances —when God only knows what damage she’s already done. She’s been meddling everywhere, causing needless disaster. We need a new host. A healthy one. And we need it now.” “Ibrahim, don’t be rash,” Anderson says, trying to sound calm. “This could be a huge mistake. Juliette is a perfect soldier—she’s more than proven herself—and right now she could be a huge help. Instead of locking her away, we should be sending her out. Giving her a mission.”

“Absolutely not.” “Ibrahim, he makes a good point,” the tall black man says. “The kids won’t be expecting her. She’d be the perfect lure.” “See? Azi agrees with me.” “I don’t.” Tatiana shakes her head. “It’s too dangerous,” she says. “Too many things could go wrong.” “What could possibly go wrong?” Anderson asks. “She’s more powerful than any of them, and completely obedient to me. To us. To the movement. You all know as well as I do that she’s proven her loyalty again and again. She’d be able to capture them in a matter of minutes. This could all be over in an hour, and we’d be able to move on with our lives.” Anderson locks eyes with me. “You wouldn’t mind rounding up a few rebels, would you, Juliette?” “I would be happy to, sir.” “See?” Anderson gestures to me. A sudden alarm blares, the sound so loud it’s painful. I’m still rooted in place, so overwhelmed and confused by this sudden flood of dizzying information that I don’t even know what to do with myself. But the supreme commanders look suddenly terrified. “Azi, where is Santiago?” Tatiana cries. “You were last with him, weren’t you? Someone check in with Santiago—” “He’s down,” Azi says, tapping against his temple. “He’s not responding.” “Max,” Anderson says sharply, but Max is already rushing out the door, Azi and Tatiana on his heels. “Go collect your son,” Ibrahim barks at Anderson. “Why don’t you go collect your daughter?” Anderson shoots back. Ibrahim’s eyes narrow. “I’m taking the girl,” he says quietly. “I’m finishing this job, and I’ll do it alone if I have to.” Anderson glances from me to Ibrahim. “You’re making a mistake,” he says. “She’s finally become our asset. Don’t let your pride keep you from seeing the answer in front of us. Juliette should be the one tracking down the kids right now. The fact that they won’t be anticipating her as an assailant makes them easier targets. It’s the most obvious solution.” “You are out of your mind,” Ibrahim shouts, “if you think I’m foolish enough to take such a risk. I will not just hand her over to her friends like some common idiot.” Friends? I have friends? “Hey, princess,” someone whispers in my ear.

KENJI

Warner just about slaps me upside the head.

He yanks me back, grabbing me roughly by the shoulder, and drags us both across the overly bright, extremely creepy laboratory. Once we’re far enough away from Anderson, Ibrahim, and Robot J, I expect Warner to say something—anything— He doesn’t. The two of us watch the distant conversation grow more heated by the moment, but we can’t really hear what they’re saying from here. Though I think even if we could hear what they were saying, Warner wouldn’t be paying attention. The fight seems to have left his body. I can’t even see him right now, but I can feel it. Something about his movements, his quiet sighs. His mind is on Juliette. Juliette, who looks the same. Better, in fact. She looks healthy, her eyes bright, her skin glowing. Her hair is down—long, heavy, dark—the way it was the first time I ever saw her. But she’s not the same. Even I can see that.

And it’s devastating. I guess this is somehow better than if she’d replaced Emmaline altogether, but this weird, robotic, super-soldier version of J is also deeply concerning. I think. I keep waiting for Warner to finally break the silence, to give me some indication of his feelings and/or theories on the matter—and maybe, while he’s at it, offer me his professional opinion on what the hell we should be doing next—but the seconds continue to pass in perfect silence. Finally, I give up. “All right, get it out,” I whisper. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” Warner lets out a long breath. “This doesn’t make sense.” I nod, even though he can’t see me. “I get that. Nothing makes sense in situations like these. I always feel like it’s unfair, you know, like the worl—” “I’m not being philosophical,” Warner says, cutting me off. “I mean it literally doesn’t make sense. Nouria and Sam said that Operation Synthesis would turn Ella into a super soldier—and that once the program went into effect, the result would be irreversible. “But this is not Operation Synthesis,” he says. “Operation Synthesis is literally about synthesizing Ella’s and Emmaline’s powers, and right now, there’s no—” “Synthesis,” I say. “I get it.” “This doesn’t feel right. They did things out of order.” “Maybe they freaked out after Evie’s attempt to wipe J’s mind didn’t work. Maybe they needed to find a way to fix that fail, and quick. I mean, it’s much easier to keep her around if she’s docile, right? Loyal to their interests. It’s much easier than keeping her in a holding cell, anyway. Babysitting her constantly. Monitoring her every movement. Always worried she’s going to magic the toilet paper into a shiv and break out. “Honestly”—I shrug—“it feels to me like they’re just getting lazy. I think they’re sick and tired of J always breaking out and fighting back. This is literally the path of least resistance.” “Yes,” Warner says slowly. “Exactly.” “Wait— Exactly what?” “Whatever they did to her—prematurely initiating this phase—was done hastily. It was a patch job.” A lightbulb flickers to life in my head. “Which means their work was sloppy.” “And if their work was sloppy—” “—there are definitely holes in it.” “Stop finishing my sentences,” he says, irritated. “Stop being so predictable.” “Stop acting like a child.” “You stop acting like a child.” “You are being ridicu—” Warner goes suddenly silent as Ibrahim’s shaking, angry voice booms across the laboratory. “I said, get out of the way.” “I can’t let you do this,” Anderson says, his voice growing louder. “Did you not just hear that alarm? Santiago is out. They took out yet another supreme commander. How much longer are we going to let this go on?” “Juliette,” Ibrahim says sharply. “You’re coming with me.” “Yes, sir.” “Juliette, stop,” Anderson demands. “Yes, sir.”

What the hell is happening?

Warner and I dart forward to get a better look, but it doesn’t matter how close we get; I still can’t believe my eyes. The scene is surreal. Anderson is guarding Juliette. The same Anderson who’s spent so much of his energy trying to murder her—is now standing in front of her with his arms out, guarding her with his life. What the hell happened while she was here? Did Anderson get a new brain? A new heart? A parasite? And I know I’m not alone in my confusion when I hear Warner mutter, “What on earth?” under his breath. “Stop being foolish,” Anderson says. “You’re taking advantage of a tragedy to make an unauthorized decision, when you know as well as I do that we all need to agree on something this important before moving forward. I’m just asking you to wait, Ibrahim. Wait for the others to return, and we’ll put it to a vote. Let the council decide.” Ibrahim pulls a gun on Anderson. Ibrahim pulls a gun on Anderson. I nearly lose my shit. I gasp so loud I almost blow our cover. “Step aside, Paris,” he says. “You’ve already ruined this mission. I’ve given you dozens of chances to get this right. You gave me your word that we’d intercept the children before they even stepped foot in the building, and look how that turned out. You’ve promised me—all of us—time and time again that you would make this right, and instead all you do is cost us our time, our money, our power, our lives. Everything. “It’s now up to me to make this right,” Ibrahim says, anger making his voice unsteady. He shakes his head. “You don’t even understand, do you? You don’t understand how much Evie’s death has cost us. You don’t understand how much of our success was built with her genius, her technological advances. You don’t understand that Max will never be what Evie was—that he could never replace her. And you don’t seem to understand that she’s no longer here to forgive your constant mistakes. “No,” he says. “It’s up to me now. It’s up to me to fix things, because I’m the only one with his head on straight. I’m the only one who seems to grasp the enormity of what’s ahead of us. I’m the only one who sees how close we are to complete and utter ruination. I am determined to make this right, Paris, even if it means taking you out in the process. So step aside.” “Be reasonable,” Anderson says, his eyes wary. “I can’t just step aside. I want our movement— everything we’ve worked so hard to build—I want it to be a success, too. Surely you must realize that. You must realize that I haven’t given up my life for nothing; you must know that my loyalty is to you, to the council, to The Reestablishment. But you must also know that she’s worth too much. I can’t let this go so easily. We’ve come too far. We’ve all made too many sacrifices to screw this up now.” “Don’t force my hand, Paris. Don’t make me do this.” J steps forward, about to say something, and Anderson pushes her body behind him. “I ordered you to remain silent,” he says, glancing back at her. “And I am now ordering you to remain safe, at all costs. Do you hear me, Juliette? Do y—” When the shot rings out, I don’t believe it. I think my mind is playing tricks on me. I think this is some kind of weird interlude—a strange dream, a moment of confusion—I keep waiting for the scene to change. Clear. Reset. It doesn’t. No one thought it would happen like this. No one thought the supreme commanders would destroy themselves. No one thought we’d see Anderson felled by one his own, no one thought he’d clutch his bleeding chest and use his last gasp of breath to say: “Run, Juliette. Run—” Ibrahim shoots again, and this time, Anderson goes silent.

“Juliette,” Ibrahim says, “you’re coming with me.” J doesn’t move. She’s frozen in place, staring at Anderson’s still figure. It’s so weird. I keep waiting for him to wake up. I keep waiting for his healing powers to kick in. I keep waiting for that annoying moment when he comes back to life, clutching a pocket square to his wound— But he doesn’t move. “Juliette,” Ibrahim says sharply. “You will answer to me now. And I am ordering you to follow me.” J looks up at him. Her face is blank. Her eyes are blank. “Yes, sir,” she says. And that’s when I know. That’s when I know exactly what’s going to happen next. I can feel it, can feel some strange electricity in the air before he makes his move. Before he blows our cover. Warner pulls back his invisibility. He stands there motionless for only a moment, for just long enough for Ibrahim to register his presence, to cry out, to reach for his gun. But he’s not fast enough. Warner is standing ten feet away when Ibrahim goes suddenly slack, when he chokes and the gun slips from his hand, when his eyes bulge. A thin red line appears in the middle of Ibrahim’s forehead, a terrifying trickle of blood that precipitates the sudden, soft sound of his skull breaking open. It’s the sound of tearing flesh, an innocuous sound that reminds me of ripping open an orange. And it doesn’t take long before Ibrahim’s knees hit the floor. He falls without grace, his body collapsing into itself. I know he’s dead because I can see directly into his skull. Clumps of his fleshy brain matter leak out onto the floor. This, I think, is the kind of horrifying shit J is capable of. This is what she’s always been capable of. She’s just always been too good a person to use it. Warner, on the other hand— He doesn’t even seem bothered by the fact that he just ripped open a man’s skull. He seems totally calm about the brain matter dripping on the floor. No, he’s only got eyes for J, who’s staring back at him, confused. She glances from Ibrahim’s limp body to Anderson’s limp body and she throws her arms forward with a sudden, desperate cry— And nothing happens. Robo J has no idea that Warner can absorb her powers. Warner takes a step toward her and she narrows her eyes before slamming her fist into the floor. The room begins to shake. The floor begins to fissure. My teeth are rattling so hard I lose my balance, slam against the wall, and accidentally pull back my invisibility. When Juliette spots me, she screams. I fly out of the way, throwing myself forward, diving over a table. Glass crashes to the floor, shatters everywhere. I hear someone groan. I peek through the legs of a table just in time to see Anderson begin to move. This time, I actually gasp. The whole world seems to pause. Anderson struggles up, to his feet. He doesn’t look okay. He looks sick, pale—an imitation of his former self. Something is wrong with his healing power, because he looks only half-alive, blood oozing from two places on his torso. He sways as he gets to his feet, coughing up blood. His skin goes gray. He uses his sleeve to wipe blood from his mouth. J goes rushing toward him, but Anderson lifts a hand in her direction, and she halts. His bleak face registers a moment of surprise as he gazes at Ibrahim’s dead body. He laughs. Coughs. Wipes away more blood. “Did you do this?” he says, his eyes locked on his own kid. “You did me a favor.”

“What have you done to her?” Warner demands. Anderson smiles. “Why don’t I show you?” He glances at J. “Juliette?” “Yes, sir.” “Kill them.” “Yes, sir.” J moves forward just as Anderson pulls something from his pocket, aiming its sharp, blue light in Warner’s direction. This time, when J throws her arm out, Warner goes flying, his body slamming hard against the stone wall. He falls to the floor with a gasp, the wind knocked from his lungs, and I take advantage of the moment to rush forward, pulling my invisibility around us both. He shoves me away. “Come on, bro, we have to get out of here— This isn’t a fair fight—” “You go,” he says, clutching his side. “Go find Nazeera, and then find the other kids. I’ll be fine.” “You’re not going to be fine,” I hiss. “She’s going to kill you.” “That’s fine, too.” “Don’t be stupid—” The metal tables providing us our only bit of cover go flying, crashing hard against the opposite wall. I take one last glance at Warner and make a split-second decision. I throw myself into the fight. I know I only have a second before my brain matter joins Ibrahim’s on the floor, so I make it count. I pull my gun from its holster and shoot three, four times. Five. Six. I bury lead in Anderson’s body until he’s knocked back by the force of it, sagging to the floor with a hacking, bloody cough. J rushes forward but I disappear, darting behind a table, and once the weapon in Anderson’s hand clatters to the floor, I shoot that, too. It pops and cracks, briefly catching fire as the tech explodes. J cries out, falling to her knees beside him. “Kill them,” Anderson gasps, blood staining the edges of his lips. “Kill them all. Kill anyone who stands in your way.” “Yes, sir,” Juliette says. Anderson coughs. Fresh blood seeps from his wounds. J gets to her feet and turns around, scanning the room for us, but I’m already rushing over to Warner, throwing my invisibility over us both. Warner seems a little stunned, but he’s miraculously uninjured. I try to help him to his feet, and for the first time, he doesn’t push away my arm. I hear him inhale. Exhale. Never mind, he’s a little injured. I wait for him to do something, say something, but he just stands there, staring at J. And then— He pulls back his invisibility. I nearly scream. J pivots when she spots him, and immediately runs forward. She picks up a table, throws it at us. We dive out of the way so hard I nearly break my nose against the ground. I can still hear things shattering around us when I say, “What the hell were you thinking? You just blew our chance to get out of here!” Warner shifts, glass crunching beneath him. He’s breathing hard. “I was serious about what I said, Kishimoto. You should go. Find Nazeera. But this is where I need to be.” “You mean you need to be getting killed right now? That’s where you need to be? Do you even hear yourself ?”

“Something is wrong,” Warner says, dragging himself to his feet. “Her mind is trapped, trapped inside of something. A program. A virus. Whatever it is, she needs help.” J screams, sending another earthquake through the room. I slam into a table and stumble backward. A sharp pain shoots through my gut and I suck in my breath. Swear. Warner has one arm out against the wall, steadying himself. I can tell he’s about to step forward, directly into the fight, and I grab his arm, pull him back. “I’m not saying we give up on her, okay? I’m saying that there has to be another way. We need to get out of here, regroup. Come up with a better plan.” “No.” “Bro, I don’t think you understand.” I glance at J, who’s stalking forward, eyes burning, the ground fissuring before her. “She’s really going to kill you.” “Then I will die.” That’s it. Warner’s last words before he leaves. He meets J in the middle of the room and she doesn’t hesitate before taking a violent swing at his face. He blocks. She swings again. He blocks. She kicks. He ducks. He’s not fighting her. He only matches her, move for move, meeting her blows, anticipating her mind. It reminds me of his fight with Anderson back at the Sanctuary—how he never struck his father, only defended himself. It was obvious then that he was just trying to enrage his father. But this— This is different. It’s clear that he’s not enjoying this. He’s not trying to enrage her, and he’s not trying to defend himself. He’s fighting her for her. To protect her. To save her, somehow. And I have no idea if this is going to work. J clenches her fists and screams. The walls shake, the floor continues to crack open. I stumble, catch myself against a table. And I’m just standing here like an idiot, racking my brain for a clue, trying to figure out what to do, how to help— “Holy shit,” Nazeera says. “What the hell is going on?” Relief floods through me fast and hot. I have to resist the impulse to pull her invisible body into my arms. To tuck her close to my chest and keep her from leaving again. Instead, I pretend to be cool. “How’d you get here?” I ask. “How’d you find us?” “I was hacking the systems, remember? I saw you on the cameras. You guys aren’t exactly being quiet up here.” “Right. Good point.” “Hey, I have news, by the way, I foun—” She cuts herself off abruptly, her words fading to nothing. And then, after a beat, she says quietly: “Who killed my dad?” My stomach turns to stone. I take a sharp breath before I say, “Warner did that.” “Oh.” “You okay?” I hear her exhale. “I don’t know.” J screams again and I look up. She’s furious.

I can tell, even from here, that she’s frustrated. She can’t use her powers on Warner directly, and he’s too good a fighter to be beat without an edge. She’s resorted to throwing very large, very heavy objects at him. Whatever she can find. Random medical equipment. Pieces of the wall. This is not good. “He wouldn’t leave,” I tell Nazeera. “He wanted to stay. He thinks he can help her.” She sighs. “We should let him try. In the interim, I could use your help.” I turn, reflexively, to face her, forgetting for a moment that she’s invisible. “Help with what?” I ask. “I found the other kids,” she says. “That’s why I was gone for so long. Getting that security clearance for you guys was way easier than I thought it’d be. So I stuck around to do some deeplevel hacking into the cameras—and I found out where they’re hiding the other supreme kids. But it’s not pretty. And I could use a hand.” I look up to catch one last glimpse of Warner. Of J.

But they’re gone.

Run, Juliette

ELLA JULIETTE

run faster, run until your bones break and your shins split and your muscles atrophy Run run run until you can’t hear their feet behind you Run until you drop dead. Make sure your heart stops before they ever reach you. Before they ever touch you. Run, I said.

The words appear, unbidden, in my mind. I don’t know where they come from and I don’t know why I know them, but I say them to myself as I go, my boots pounding the ground, my head a strangled mess of chaos. I don’t understand what just happened. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t understand anything anymore. The boy is close. He moves more swiftly than I anticipated, and I’m surprised. I didn’t expect him to be able to meet my blows. I didn’t expect him to face me so easily. Mostly, I’m stunned he’s somehow immune to my power. I didn’t even know that was possible. I don’t understand. I’m racking my brain, trying desperately to comprehend how such a thing might’ve happened— and whether I might’ve been responsible for the anomaly—but nothing makes sense. Not his presence. Not his attitude. Not even the way he fights. Which is to say: he doesn’t. He doesn’t even want to fight. He seems to have no interest in beating me, despite the ample evidence that we are well matched. He only fends me off, making only the most basic effort to protect himself, and still I haven’t killed him. There’s something strange about him. Something about him that’s getting under my skin. Unsettling me.

But he dashed out of sight when I threw another table at him, and he’s been running ever since. It feels like a trap. I know it, and yet, I feel compelled to find him. Face him. Destroy him. I spot him, suddenly, at the far end of the laboratory, and he meets my eyes with an insouciance that enrages me. I charge forward but he moves swiftly, disappearing through an adjoining door. This is a trap, I remind myself. Then again, I’m not sure it matters whether this is a trap. I am under orders to find him. Kill him. I just have to be better. Smarter. So I follow. From the time I met this boy—from the first moment we began exchanging blows—I’ve ignored the dizzying sensations coursing through my body. I’ve tried to deny my sudden, feverish skin, my trembling hands. But when a fresh wave of nausea nearly sends me reeling, I can no longer deny my fear: There’s something wrong with me. I catch another glimpse of his golden hair and my vision blurs, clears, my heart slows. For a moment, my muscles seem to spasm. There is a creeping, tremulous terror clenching its fist around my lungs and I don’t understand it. I keep hoping the feeling will change. Clear. Disappear. But as the minutes pass and the symptoms show no signs of abating, I begin to panic. I’m not tired, no. My body is too strong. I can feel it—can feel my muscles, their strength, their steadiness—and I can tell that I could keep fighting like this for hours. Days. I’m not worried about giving up, I’m not worried about breaking down. I’m worried about my head. My confusion. The uncertainty seeping through me, spreading like a poison. Ibrahim is dead. Anderson, nearly so. Will he recover? Will he die? Who would I be without him? What was it Ibrahim wanted to do to me? From what was Anderson trying to protect me? Who are these children I’m meant to kill? Why did Ibrahim call them my friends? My questions are endless. I kill them. I shove aside a series of steel desks and catch a glimpse of the boy before he darts around a corner. Anger punches through me, shooting a jolt of adrenaline to my brain, and I start running again, renewed determination focusing my mind. I charge through the dimly lit room, shoving my way through an endless sea of medical paraphernalia. When I stop moving, silence descends. Silence so pure it’s deafening. I spin around, searching. The boy is gone. I blink, confused, scanning the room as my pulse races with renewed fear. Seconds pass, gather into moments that feel like minutes, hours. This is a trap. The laboratory is perfectly still—the lights so perfectly dim—that as the silence drags on I begin to wonder if I’m caught in a dream. I feel suddenly paranoid, uncertain. Like maybe that boy was a figment of my imagination. Like maybe all of this is some strange nightmare, and maybe I’ll wake up soon and Anderson will be back in his office, and Ibrahim will be a man I’ve never met, and tomorrow I’ll wake up in my pod by the water. Maybe, I think, this is all just another test. A simulation. Maybe Anderson is challenging my loyalty one last time. Maybe it’s my job to stay put, to keep myself safe like he asked me to, and to destroy anyone who tries to stand in my way. Or maybe— Stop. I sense movement.

Movement so fine it’s nearly imperceptible. Movement so gentle it could’ve been a breeze, except for one thing: I hear a heart beating. Someone is here, someone motionless, someone sly. I straighten, my senses heightened, my heart racing in my chest. Someone is here someone is here someone is here— Where? There. He appears, as if out of a dream, standing before me like a statue, still as cooling steel. He stares at me, green eyes the color of sea glass, the color of celadon. I never really had a chance to see his face. Not like this. My heart races as I assess him, his white shirt, green jacket, gold hair. Skin like porcelain. He does not slouch or fidget and, for a moment, I’m certain I was right, that perhaps he’s nothing more than a mirage. A program. Another hologram. I reach out, uncertain, the tips of my fingers grazing the exposed skin at his throat and he takes a sharp, shaky breath. Real, then. I flatten my hand against his chest, just to be sure, and I feel his heart racing under my palm. Fast, lightning fast. I glance up, surprised. He’s nervous. Another unsteady breath escapes him and this time, takes with it a measure of control. He steps back, shakes his head, stares up at the ceiling. Not nervous. He is distraught.

I should kill him now, I think. Kill him now. A wave of nausea hits me so hard it nearly knocks me off my feet. I take a few unsteady steps backward, catching myself against a steel table. My fingers grip the cold metal edge and I hang on, teeth clenched, willing my mind to clear. Heat floods my body. Heat, torturous heat, presses against my lungs, fills my blood. My lips part. I feel parched. I look up and he’s right in front of me and I do nothing. I do nothing as I watch his throat move. I do nothing as my eyes devour him. I feel faint. I study the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle slope where his neck meets shoulder. His lips look soft. His cheekbones high, his nose sharp, his brows heavy, gold. He is finely made. Beautiful, strong hands. Short, clean nails. I notice he wears a jade ring on his left pinkie finger. He sighs. He shakes off his jacket, carefully folding it over the back of a nearby chair. Underneath he wears only a simple white T-shirt, the sculpted contours of his bare arms catching the attention of the dim lights. He moves slowly, his motions unhurried. When he begins to pace I watch him, study the shape of him. I am not surprised to discover that he moves beautifully. I am fascinated by him, by his form, his measured strides, the muscles honed under skin. He seems like he might be my age,

maybe a little older, but there’s something about the way he looks at me that makes him seem older than our years combined. Whatever it is, I like it. I wonder what I’m supposed to do with this, all of this. Is it truly a test? If so, why send someone like him? Why a face so refined? Why a body so perfectly honed? Was I meant to enjoy this? A strange, delirious feeling stirs inside of me at the thought. Something ancient. Something wonderful. It is almost too bad, I think, that I will have to kill him. And it is the heat, the dullness, the inexplicable numbness in my mind that compels me to say— “Where did they make you?” He startles. I didn’t think he would startle. But when he turns to look at me, he seems confused. I explain: “You are unusually beautiful.” His eyes widen. His lips part, press together, tremble into a curve that surprises me. Surprises him. He smiles. He smiles and I stare—two dimples, straight teeth, shining eyes. A sudden, incomprehensible heat rushes across my skin, sets me aflame. I feel violently hot. Sick with fever. Finally, he says: “So you are in there.” “Who?” “Ella,” he says, but he’s speaking softly now. “Juliette. They said you’d be gone.” “I’m not gone,” I say, my hands shaking as I pull myself together. “I am Juliette Ferrars, supreme soldier to our North American commander. Who are you?” He moves closer. His eyes darken as he stares at me, but there’s no true darkness there. I try to stand taller, straighter. I remind myself that I have a task, that this is my moment to attack, to fulfill my orders. Perhaps I sh— “Love,” he whispers. Heat flashes across my skin. Pain presses against my mind, a vague realization that I’ve left something overlooked. Dusty emotion trembles inside of me, and I kill it. He steps forward, takes my face in his hands. I think about breaking his fingers. Snapping his wrists. My heart is racing. I cannot move. “You shouldn’t touch me,” I say, gasping the words. “Why not?” “Because I will kill you.” Gently, he tilts my head back, his hands possessive, persuasive. An ache seizes my muscles, holds me in place. My eyes close reflexively. I breathe him in and my mouth fills with flavor—fresh air, fragrant flowers, heat, happiness—and I’m struck by the strangest idea that we’ve been here before, that I’ve lived this before, that I’ve known him before and then I feel, I feel his breath on my skin and the sensation, the sensation is— heady, disorienting. I’m losing track of my mind, trying desperately to locate my purpose, to focus my thoughts, when he moves the earth tilts, his lips graze my jaw and I make a sound, a desperate, unconscious sound that stuns me. My skin is frenzied, burning. That familiar warmth contaminates my blood, my temperature spiking, my face flushing. “Do I—” I try to speak but he kisses my neck and I gasp, his hands still caught around my face. I’m breathless, heart pounding, pulse pounding, head pounding. He touches me like he knows me,

knows what I want, knows what I need. I feel insane. I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice when I finally manage to say, “Do I know you?” “Yes.” My heart leaps. The simplicity of his answer strangles my mind, digs for truth. It feels true. Feels true that I’ve known these hands, this mouth, those eyes. Feels real. “Yes,” he says again, his own voice rough with feeling. His hands leave my face and I’m lost in the loss, searching for warmth. I press closer to him without even meaning to, asking him for something I don’t understand. But then his hands slide under my shirt, his palms pressing against my back, and the magnitude of the sudden, skin-to-skin contact sets my body on fire. I feel explosive. I feel dangerously close to something that might kill me, and still I lean into him, blinded by instinct, deaf to everything but the ferocious beat of my own heart. He pulls back, just an inch. His hands are still caught under my shirt, his bare arms wrapped around my bare skin and his mouth lingers above mine, the heat between us threatening to ignite. He pulls me closer and I bite back a moan, losing my head as the hard lines of his body sink into me. He is everywhere, his scent, his skin, his breath. I see nothing but him, sense nothing but him, his hands spreading across my torso, my lungs compressing under his careful, searing exploration. I lean into the sensations, his fingers grazing my stomach, the small of my back. He touches his forehead to mine and I press up, onto my toes, asking for something, begging for something— “What,” I gasp, “what is happening—” He kisses me. Soft lips, waves of sensation. Feeling overflows the vacancies in my mind. My hands begin to shake. My heart beats so hard I can hardly keep still when he nudges my mouth open, takes me in. He tastes like heat and peppermint, like summer, like the sun. I want more. I take his face in my hands and pull him closer and he makes a soft, desperate sound in the back of his throat that sends a spike of pleasure directly to my brain. Pure, electric heat lifts me up, outside of myself. I seem to be floating here, surrendered to this strange moment, held in place by an ancient mold that fits my body perfectly. I feel frantic, seized by a need to know more, a need I don’t even understand. When we break apart his chest his heaving and his face is flushed and he says— “Come back to me, love. Come back.” I’m still struggling to breathe, desperately searching his eyes for answers. Explanations. “Where?” “Here,” he whispers, pressing my hands to his heart. “Home.” “But I don’t—” Flashes of light streak across my vision. I stumble backward, half-blind, like I’m dreaming, reliving the caress of a forgotten memory, and it’s like an ache looking to be soothed, it’s a steaming pan thrown in ice water, it’s a flushed cheek pressed to a cool pillow on a hot hot night and heat gathers, collects behind my eyes, distorting sights, dimming sounds.

Here. This. My bones against his bones. This is my home.

I return to my skin with a sudden, violent shudder and feel wild, unstable. I stare at him, my heart seizing, my lungs fighting for air. He stares back, his eyes such a pale green in the light that, for a moment, he doesn’t even seem human. Something is happening to my head. Pain is collecting in my blood, calcifying around my heart. I feel at war with myself, lost and wounded, my mind spinning with uncertainty. “What is your name?” I ask. He steps forward, so close our lips touch. Part. His breath whispers across my skin and my nerves hum, spark. “You know my name,” he says quietly. I try to shake my head. He catches my chin. This time, he’s not careful. This time, he’s desperate. This time, when he kisses me he breaks me open, heat coming off him in waves. He tastes like springwater and something sweet, something searing. I feel dazed. Delirious. When he breaks away I’m shaking, my lungs shaking, my breaths shaking, my heart shaking. I watch, as if in a dream, as he pulls off his shirt, tosses it to the ground. And then he’s here again, he’s back again, he’s caught me in his arms and he’s kissing me so deeply my knees give out. He picks me up, bracing my body as he sets me down on the long, steel table. The cool metal seeps through the fabric of my pants, sending goose bumps along my heated skin and I gasp, my eyes closing as he straddles my legs, claims my mouth. He presses my hands to his chest, drags my fingers down his naked torso and I make a desperate, broken sound, pleasure and pain stunning me, paralyzing me. He unbuttons my shirt, his deft hands moving quickly even as he kisses my neck, my cheeks, my mouth, my throat. I cry out when he moves, his kisses shifting down my body, searching, exploring. He pushes aside the two halves of my shirt, his mouth still hot against my skin, and then he closes the gap between us, pressing his bare chest to mine, and my heart explodes. Something snaps inside of me. Severs. A sudden, fractured sob escapes my throat. Unbidden tears sting my eyes, startling me as they fall down my face. Unknown emotion soars through me, expanding my heart, confusing my head. He pulls me impossibly closer, our bodies soldered together. And then he presses his forehead to my collarbone, his body trembling with emotion when he says— “Come back.” My head is full of sand, sound, sensations spinning in my mind. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, I don’t understand this pain, this unbelievable pleasure. I’m staining his skin with my tears and he only pulls me tighter, pressing our hearts together until the feeling sinks its teeth into my bones, splits open my lungs. I want to bury myself in this moment, I want to pull him into me, I want to drag myself out of myself but there’s something wrong, something blocked, something stopped— Something broken. Realization arrives in gentle waves, theories lapping and overlapping at the shores of my consciousness until I’m drenched in confusion. Awareness. Terror. “You know my name,” he says softly. “You’ve always known me, love. I’ve always known you. And I’m so—I’m so desperately in love with you—” The pain begins in my ears. It collects, expanding, pressure building to a peak so acute it transforms, sharpening into a torture that stops my heart.

First I go deaf, stiff. Second I go blind, slack. Third, my heart restarts. I come back to life with a sudden, terrifying inhalation that nearly chokes me, blood rushing to my ears, my eyes, leaking from my nose. I taste it, taste my own blood in my mouth as I begin to understand: there is something inside of me. A poison. A violence. Something wrong something wrong something wrong And then, as if from miles away, I hear myself scream. There’s cold tile under my knees, rough grout pressing into my knuckles. I scream into the silence, power building power, electricity charging my blood. My mind is separating from itself, trying to identify the poison, this parasite residing inside of me. I have to kill it. I scream, forcing my own energy inward, screaming until the explosive energy building inside of me ruptures my eardrums. I scream until I feel the blood drip from my ears and down my neck, I scream until the lights in the laboratory begin to pop and break. I scream until my teeth bleed, until the floor fissures beneath my feet, until the skin at my knees begins to crack. I scream until the monster inside of me begins to die. And only then— Only when I’m certain I’ve killed some small part of my own self do I finally collapse. I’m choking, coughing up blood, my chest heaving from the effort expended. The room swims. Swings around. I press my forehead to the cold floor and fight back a wave of nausea. And then I feel a familiar, heavy hand against my back. With excruciating slowness, I manage to lift my head. A blur of gold appears, disappears before me. I blink once, twice, and try to push up with my arms but a sharp, searing pain in my wrist nearly blinds me. I look down, examining the strange, hazy sight. I blink again. Ten times more. Finally, my eyes focus. The skin inside my right arm has split open. Blood is smeared across my skin, dripping on the floor. From within the fresh wound, a single blue light pulses from a steel, circular body, the edges of which push up against my torn flesh. With one final effort, I rip the flashing mechanism from my arm, the last vestige of this monster. It drops from my shaking fingers, clatters to the floor. And this time, when I look up, I see his face. “Aaron,” I gasp. He drops to his knees. He pulls my bleeding body into his arms and I break, I break apart, sobs cracking open my chest. I cry until the pain spirals and peaks, I cry until my head throbs and my eyes swell. I cry, pressing my face against his neck, my fingers digging into his back, desperate for purchase. Proof. He holds me, silent and steady, gathering my blood and bones against his body even as the tears recede, even when I begin to tremble. He holds me tight as my body shakes, holds me close when the tears start anew, holds me in his arms and strokes my hair and tells me that everything, everything is going to be okay.

KENJI

I was assigned to keep watch outside this door, which, initially, was supposed to be a good thing—assisting in the rescue mission, et cetera— but the longer I wait out here, guarding Nazeera while she hacks the computers keeping the supreme kids in some freaky state of hypersleep, the more things go wrong.

This place is falling apart. Literally. The lights in the ceiling are beginning to spark and sputter, the massive staircases are beginning to groan. The huge windows lining either side of this fifty-story building are beginning to crack. Doctors are running, screaming. Alarms are flashing like crazy, sirens blaring. Some robotic voice is announcing a crisis over the speakers like it’s the most casual thing in the world. I have no idea what’s happening right now, though if I had to guess, I’d say it had something to do with Emmaline. But I just have to stand here, bracing myself against the door so as not to be accidentally trampled, and wait for whatever is happening to come to an end. The problem is, I don’t know if it’s going to be a happy ending or a sad one— For anyone. I haven’t heard anything from Warner since we split up, and I’m trying really, really hard not to think about it. I’m choosing to focus, instead, on the positive things that happened today, like the fact that we managed to kill three supreme commanders—four if you count Evie—and that Nazeera’s genius hacking work was a success, because without her, there’s no way we’d have made much headway at all. After our sojourn through the vents, Warner and I managed to drop down into the heart of the compound, undetected. It was easier to avoid the cameras once we were in the center of things; the rooms were closer together, and though the higher security areas have more security access points —some of them have fewer cameras. So as long as we avoided certain angles, the cameras didn’t notice us, and with the fake clearance Nazeera built for us, we got through easily. It was because of her that we were in the right place—after having unintentionally killed a super-important scientist —when all the supreme commanders began to swarm. It was because of her that we were able to take out Ibrahim and Anderson. And it was because of her that Warner is locked up with Robo J somewhere. Honestly, I don’t even know how to feel about it all. I haven’t really allowed myself to think about the fact that J might never come back, that I might never see my best friend again. If I think about it too much, I start feeling like I can’t breathe, and I can’t afford to stop breathing right now. Not yet. So I try not to think about it. But Warner— Warner is either going to come out of this alive and happy, or dead doing something he believed in. And there’s nothing I can do about it. The problem is, I haven’t seen him in over an hour, and I have no idea what that means. It could either be really good news or really, really bad. He never shared his plan with me—surprise surprise—so I don’t even know exactly what he’d planned to do to once he got her alone. And even though I know better than to doubt him, I have to admit that there’s a tiny part of me that wonders if he’s even alive right now. An ancient, earsplitting groan interrupts my thoughts. I look up, toward the source of the sound, and realize that the ceiling is caving in. The roof is coming apart. The walls are beginning to crumble. The long, circuitous hallways all ring around an interior courtyard within which lives a massive, prehistoric-looking tree. For no reason I can understand, the steel railings around the hallways are beginning to melt apart. I watch in real time as the tree catches fire, flames roaring higher at an astonishing rate. Smoke builds, curling in my direction, already beginning to suffocate the halls, and my heart is racing as I look around, my panic spiking. I start banging on the door, not caring who hears me now. It’s the end of the fucking world out here. I’m screaming for Nazeera, begging her to come out, to get out here before it’s too late, and I’m coughing now, smoke catching in my lungs, still hoping desperately that she’ll hear my voice when suddenly, violently— The door swings open.

I’m knocked backward by the force of it, and when I look up, eyes burning, Nazeera is there. Nazeera, Lena, Stephan, Haider, Valentina, Nicolás, and Adam. Adam. I can’t explain exactly what happens next. There’s so much shouting. So much running. Stephan punches a clean hole through a crumbling wall, and Nazeera helps fly us all out to safety. It happens in a blur. I see things unfold in flashes, in screams. It feels like a dream. My eyes stinging, tearing. I’m crying because of the fire, I think. It’s the heat, the sky, the roaring flames devouring everything. I watch the capital of Oceania—all 120 acres of it—go up in flames. And Warner and Juliette go with it.

ELLA (JULIETTE)

The first thing we do is find Emmaline.

I reach out to her in my mind and she answers right away. Heat, fingers of heat, curling around my bones. Sparking to life in my heart. She was always here, always with me. I understand now. I understand that the moments that saved me were gifts from my sister, gifts she was able to give only by destroying herself in return. She’s so much weaker now than she was two weeks ago because she expended so much of herself to keep me alive. To keep their machinations from reaching my heart. My soul. I remember everything now. My mind is sharpened to a new point, honed to a clarity I’ve never before experienced. I see everything. Understand everything. It doesn’t take long to find her. I don’t apologize for the people I scatter, the walls I shatter along the way. I don’t apologize for my anger or my pain. I don’t stop moving when I see Tatiana and Azi; I don’t have to. I snap their necks from where I’m standing. I tear their bodies in half with a single gesture. When I reach my sister, the agony inside of me reaches its peak. She is limp inside her tank, a desiccated fish, a dying spider. She’s curled into herself in its darkest corner, her long dark hair wrapping around her wrinkled, sagging figure. A low keening emanates from her tank. She is crying. She is small. Scared. She reminds me of another version of myself, a person I can hardly remember, a young girl thrown in prison, too broken by the world to realize that she’d always had the power to break herself free. To conquer the earth. I had that luxury. Emmaline didn’t. The sight of her makes me want to fall to pieces. My heart rages with anger, devastation. When I think about what they did to her—what they’ve done to her—

Don’t I don’t. I take a deep, shuddering breath. Try to collect myself. I feel Aaron take my hand and I squeeze his fingers in gratitude. It steadies me to have him

here. To know he’s beside me. With me. My partner in everything.

Tell me what you want, I say to Emmaline. Anything at all. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Silence. Emmaline?

A sharp, desperate fear jumps through me. Her fear, not mine. Distorted sensations flash behind my eyes—flares of color, the sounds of grinding metal—and her panic intensifies. Tightens. I feel it hum down my spine.

“What’s wrong?” I say out loud. “What happened?” Here Here Her milky form disappears into the tank, sinking deep underwater. Goose bumps rise along my arms. “You seem to have forgotten about me.” My father steps into the room, his tall rubber boots thudding softly against the floor. I throw my arms out immediately, hoping to rip out his spleen, but he’s too fast—his movements too fast. He presses a single button on a small, handheld remote, and I hardly have time to take a breath before my body begins to convulse. I cry out, my eyes blinded by violent, violet light, and manage to turn my head only in small, excruciating movements. Aaron. He and I are both frozen here, bathed in a toxic light emanating from the ceiling. Gasping for breath. Shaking uncontrollably. My mind spins, working desperately to think of a plan, a loophole, a way out. “I am astonished by your arrogance,” my father says. “Astonished that you thought you could just walk in here and assist in your sister’s suicide. You thought it would be simple? You thought there wouldn’t be consequences?” He turns a dial and my body seizes more violently, lifting off the floor. The pain is blinding. Light flashes in and out of my eyes, stunning my mind, numbing my ability to think. I hang in the air, no longer able to turn my head. Gravity pushes and pulls at my body, threatens to tear apart my limbs. If I could scream, I would. “Anyway, it’s good you’re here. Best to get this over with now. We’ve waited long enough.” He nods, absently, at Emmaline’s tank. “Obviously you’ve seen how desperate we are for a new host.”

NO

The word is like a scream inside my head. Max stiffens. He looks up, staring at precisely nothing, the anger in his eyes barely held in check. I only realize then that he can hear her, too. Of course he can. Emmaline pounds against her tank, the sounds dull, the effort alone seeming to exhaust her. Still, she presses forward, her sunken cheek flattening against the glass. Max hesitates, vacillating. He’s no good at hiding his emotions—and his present uncertainty is easily discernible. It’s clear, even from my disoriented perspective, that he’s trying to decide which of us he needs to deal with first. Emmaline pounds her fist again, weaker this time.

NO Another scream inside my head. With a stifled sigh, Max decides on Emmaline. I watch him pivot, stalk toward her tank. He presses his hand flat against the glass and it brightens to a neon blue. The blue light expands, then scatters around the chamber, slowly revealing an intricate series of electrical circuits. The neon veins are thicker in some places, occasionally braided, mostly fine. It resembles a cardiovascular system not unlike the one inside my own body. My own body. Something gasps to life inside of me. Reason. Rational thought. I’m trapped here, tricked by the pain into thinking I have no control over my powers, but that’s not true. When I force myself to remember, I can feel it. My energy still thrums through me. It’s a faint, desperate whisper—but it’s there. Bit by agonizing bit, I gather my mind. I grit my teeth, focusing my thoughts, clenching my body to its breaking point. Slowly, I braid together the disparate strands of my power, holding on to the threads for dear life. And even more slowly, I claw my hand through the light. The effort splits open my knuckles, the tips of my fingers. Fresh blood streaks across my hand and spills down my wrist as I lift my arm in a sluggish, excruciating arc above my head. As if from light-years away, I hear beeping. Max. He’s inputting new codes into Emmaline’s tank. I have no idea what that means for her, but I can’t imagine it’s good. Hurry. Hurry, I tell myself. Violently, I force my arm through the light, biting back a scream as I do. One by one, my fingers uncurl above my head, blood dripping from each digit down my bleeding wrist and into my eyes. My hand opens, palm up toward the ceiling. Fresh blood snakes down the planes of my face as I drive my energy into the light. The ceiling shatters. Aaron and I fall to the floor, hard, and I hear something snap in my leg, the pain screaming through me. I fight it back. The lights pop and shriek, the polished concrete ceiling beginning to crack. Max spins around, horror seizing his face as I throw my hand forward. Close my fist.

Emmaline’s tank fissures with a sudden, violent crack. “NO!” he cries. Feverishly, he pulls the remote free from his lab coat, hitting its now useless buttons. “No! No, no—” The glass groans open with an angry yawn, giving way with one final, shattering roar. Max goes comically still. Stunned. He dies, then, with exactly that expression on his face. And it’s not me who kills him. It’s Emmaline. Emmaline, who pulls her webbed hands free of the broken glass and presses her fingers to her father’s head. She kills him with nothing more than the force of her own mind. The mind he gave her. When she is done, his skull has split open. Blood leaks from his dead eyes. His teeth have fallen out of his face, onto his shirt. His intestines spill out from a severe rupture in his torso. I look away. Emmaline collapses to the floor. She’s gasping through the regulator fused to her face. Her already weak limbs begin to tremble, violently, and she’s making sounds I can only assume are meant to be words she’s no longer able to speak. She is more amphibian than human. I realize this only now, only when faced with the proof of her incompatibility with our air, with the outside world. I crawl toward her, dragging my broken, bloodied leg behind me. Aaron tries to help, but when we lock eyes, he falls back. He understands that I need to do this myself. I gather my sister’s small, withered body against my own, pulling her wet limbs into my lap, pressing her head against my chest. And I say to her, for the second time: “Tell me what you want. Anything at all. Whatever it is, I’ll do it.” Her slick fingers clutch at my neck, clinging for dear life. A vision fills my head, a vision of everything going up in flames. A vision of this compound, her prison, disintegrating. She wants it razed, returned to dust. “Consider it done,” I say to her. She has another request. Just one more. And I say nothing for too long.

Please Her voice is in my heart, begging. Desperate. Her agony is acute. Her terror palpable. Tears spring to my eyes. I press my cheek against her wet hair. I tell her how much I love her. How much she means to me. How much more I wish we could’ve had. I tell her that I will never forget her. That I will miss her, every single day. And then I ask her to let me take her body home with me when I am done. A gentle warmth floods my mind, a heady feeling. Happiness. Yes, she says.

When it’s done, when I’ve ripped the tubes from her body, when I’ve gathered her wet, trembling bones against my own, when I’ve pressed my

poisonous cheek to hers, when I’ve leeched out what little life was left in her body. When it is done, I curl myself around her cold corpse and cry. I clutch her hollow body against my heart and feel the injustice of it all roar through me. I feel it fracture me apart. I feel her take part of me with her as she goes. And then I scream. I scream until I feel the earth move beneath my feet, until I feel the wind change directions. I scream until the walls collapse, until I feel the electricity spark, until I feel the lights catch fire. I scream until the ground fissures, until all falls down.

And then we carry my sister home.

EPILOGUE WARNER one.

The wall is unusually white. More white than is usual. Most people think white walls are true white, but the truth is, they only seem white, and are not actually white. Most shades of white are mixed in with a bit of yellow, which helps soften the harsh edges of a pure white, making it more of an ecru, or ivory. Various shades of cream. Egg white, even. True white is practically intolerable as a color, so white it’s nearly blue. This wall, in particular, is not so white as to be offensive, but a sharp enough shade of white to pique my curiosity, which is nothing short of a miracle, really, because I’ve been staring at it for the greater part of an hour. Thirty-seven minutes, to be exact. I am being held hostage by custom. Formality. “Five more minutes,” she says. “I promise.” I hear the rustle of fabric. Zippers. A shudder of— “Is that tulle?” “You’re not supposed to be listening!” “You know, love, it occurs to me now that I’ve lived through actual hostage situations far less torturous than this.” “Okay, okay, it’s off. Packed away. I just need a second to put on my cl—” “That won’t be necessary,” I say, turning around. “Surely this part, I should be allowed to watch.” I lean against the unusually white wall, studying her as she frowns at me, her lips still parted around the shape of a word she seems to have forgotten. “Please continue,” I say, gesturing with a nod. “Whatever you were doing before.” She holds on to her frown for a moment longer than is honest, her eyes narrowing in a show of frustration that is pure fraud. She compounds this farce by clutching an article of clothing to her chest, feigning modesty. I do not mind, not one single bit.

I drink her in, her soft curves, her smooth skin. Her hair is beautiful at any length, but it’s been longer lately. Long and rich, silky against her skin, and when I’m lucky—against mine. Slowly, she drops the shirt. I suddenly stand up straighter. “I’m supposed to wear this under the dress,” she says, her fake anger already forgotten. She fidgets with the boning of a cream-colored corset, her fingers lingering absently along the garter belt, the lace-trimmed stockings. She can’t meet my eyes. She’s gone suddenly shy, and this time, it’s real. Do you like it? The unspoken question. I assumed, when she invited me into this dressing room, that it was for reasons beyond me staring at the color variations in an unusually white wall. I assumed she wanted me here to see something. To see her. I see now that I was correct. “You are so beautiful,” I say, unable to shed the awe in my voice. I hear it, the childish wonder in my tone, and it embarrasses me more than it should. I know I shouldn’t be ashamed to feel deeply. To be moved. Still, I feel awkward. Young. Quietly, she says, “I feel like I just spoiled the surprise. You’re not supposed to see any of this until the wedding night.” My heart actually stops for a moment. The wedding night. She closes the distance between us and twines her arms around me, freeing me from my momentary paralysis. My heart beats faster with her here, so close. And though I don’t know how she knew that I suddenly required the reassurance of her touch, I’m grateful. I exhale, pulling her fully against me, our bodies relaxing, remembering each other. I press my face into her hair, breathe in the sweet scent of her shampoo, her skin. It’s only been two weeks. Two weeks since the end of an old world. The beginning of a new one. She still feels like a dream to me. “Is this really happening?” I whisper. A sharp knock at the door startles my spine straight. Ella frowns at the sound. “Yes?” “So sorry to bother you right now, miss, but there’s a gentleman here wishing to speak with Mr. Warner.” Ella and I lock eyes. “Okay,” she says quickly. “Don’t be mad.” My eyes narrow. “Why would I be mad?” Ella pulls away to better look me in the eye. Her own eyes are bright, beautiful. Full of concern. “It’s Kenji.” I force down a spike of anger so violent I think I give myself a stroke. It leaves me light-headed. “What is he doing here?” I manage to get out. “How on earth did he know how to find us? She bites her lip. “We took Amir and Olivier with us.” “I see.” We took extra guards along, which means our outing was posted to the public security bulletin. Of course. Ella nods. “He found me just before we left. He was worried—he wanted to know why we were heading back into the old regulated lands.” I try to say something then, to marvel aloud at Kenji’s inability to make a simple deduction despite the abundance of contextual clues right before his eyes—but she holds up a finger. “I told him,” she says, “that we were looking for replacement outfits, and reminded him that, for now, the supply centers are still the only places to shop for food or clothing or”—she waves a

hand, frowns—“anything, at the moment. Anyway, he said he’d try to meet us here. He said he wanted to help.” My eyes widen slightly. I feel another stroke incoming. “He said he wanted to help.” She nods. “Astonishing.” A muscle ticks in my jaw. “And funny, too, because he’s already helped so much— just last night he helped us both a great deal by destroying my suit and your dress, forcing us to now purchase clothing from a”—I look around, gesture at nothing—“a store on the very day we’re supposed to get married.” “Aaron,” she whispers. She steps closer again. Places a hand on my chest. “He feels terrible about it.” “And you?” I say, studying her face, her feelings. “Don’t you feel terrible about it? Alia and Winston worked so hard to make you something beautiful, something designed precisely for you —” “I don’t mind.” She shrugs. “It’s just a dress.” “But it was your wedding dress,” I say, my voice failing me now, practically breaking on the word. She sighs, and in the sound I hear her heart break, more for me than for herself. She turns around and unzips the massive garment bag hanging on a hook above her head. “You’re not supposed to see this,” she says, tugging yards of tulle out of the bag, “but I think it might mean more to you than it does to me, so”—she turns back, smiles—“I’ll let you help me decide what to wear tonight.” I nearly groan aloud at the reminder. A nighttime wedding. Who on earth is married at night? Only the hapless. The unfortunate. Though I suppose we now count among their ranks. Rather than reschedule the entire thing, we pushed it forward by a few hours so that we’d have time to purchase new clothes. Well, I have clothes. My clothes don’t matter as much. But her dress. He destroyed her dress the night before our wedding. Like a monster. I’m going to murder him. “You can’t murder him,” she says, still pulling handfuls of fabric out of the bag. “I’m certain I said no such thing out loud.” “No,” she says, “but you were thinking it, weren’t you?” “Wholeheartedly.” “You can’t murder him,” she says simply. “Not now. Not ever.” I sigh. She’s still struggling to unearth the gown. “Forgive me, love, but if all this”—I nod at the garment bag, the explosion of tulle—“is for a single dress, I’m afraid I already know how I feel about it.” She stops tugging. Turns around, eyes wide. “You don’t like it? You haven’t even seen it yet.” “I’ve seen enough to know that whatever this is, it’s not a gown. This is a haphazard layering of polyester.” I lean around her, pinching the fabric between my fingers. “Do they not carry silk tulle in this store? Perhaps we can speak to the seamstress.” “They don’t have a seamstress here.” “This is a clothing store,” I say. I turn the bodice inside out, frowning at the stitches. “Surely there must be a seamstress. Not a very good one, clearly, but—” “These dresses are made in a factory,” she says to me. “Mostly by machine.” I straighten. “You know, most people didn’t grow up with private tailors at their disposal,” she says, a smile playing at her lips. “The rest of us had to buy clothes off the rack. Premade. Ill-fitting.” “Yes,” I say stiffly. I feel suddenly stupid. “Of course. Forgive me. The dress is very nice. Perhaps I should wait for you to try it on. I gave my opinion too hastily.” For some reason, my response only makes things worse.

She groans, shooting me a single, defeated look before folding herself into the little dressing room chair. My heart plummets. She drops her face in her hands. “It really is a disaster, isn’t it?” Another swift knock at the door. “Sir? The gentleman seems very eager t—” “He’s certainly not a gentleman,” I say sharply. “Tell him to wait.” A moment of hesitation. Then, quietly: “Yes, sir.” “Aaron.” I don’t need to look up to know that she’s unhappy with my rudeness. The owners of this particular supply center shut down their entire store for us, and they’ve been excruciatingly kind. I know I’m being cruel. At present, I can’t seem to help it. “Aaron.” “Today is your wedding day,” I say, unable to meet her eyes. “He has ruined your wedding day. Our wedding day.” She gets to her feet. I feel her frustration fade. Transform. Shuffle through sadness, happiness, hope, fear, and finally— Resignation. One of the worst possible feelings on what should be a joyous day. Resignation is worse than frustration. Far worse. My anger calcifies. “He hasn’t ruined it,” she says finally. “We can still make this work.” “You’re right,” I say, pulling her into my arms. “Of course you’re right. It doesn’t matter, really. None of it does.” “But it’s my wedding day,” she says. “And I have nothing to wear.” “You’re right.” I kiss the top of her head. “I’m going to kill him.” A sudden pounding at the door. I stiffen. Spin around. “Hey, guys?” More pounding. “I know you’re super pissed at me, but I have good news, I swear. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to make it up to you.” I’m just about to respond when Ella tugs at my hand, silencing my scathing retort with a single motion. She shoots me a look that plainly says— Give him a chance. I sigh as the anger settles inside my body, my shoulders dropping with the weight of it. Reluctantly, I step aside to allow her to deal with this idiot in the manner she prefers. It is her wedding day, after all. Ella steps closer to the door. Points at it, jabbing her finger at the unusually white paint as she speaks. “This better be good, Kenji, or Warner is going to kill you, and I’m going to help him do it.” And then, just like that— I’m smiling again.

two. We’re driven back to the Sanctuary the same way we’re driven everywhere these days—in a black, all-terrain, bulletproof SUV—but the

car and its heavily tinted windows only make us more conspicuous, which I find worrisome. But then, as Castle likes to point out, I have no ready solution for the problem, so we remain at an impasse. I try to hide my reaction as we drive up through the wooded area just outside the Sanctuary, but I can’t help my grimace or the way my body locks down, preparing for a fight. After the fall of The Reestablishment, most rebel groups emerged from hiding to rejoin the world— But not us. Just last week we cleared this dirt path for the SUV, enabling it to now get as close as possible to the unmarked entrance, but I’m not sure it’s doing much to help. A mob of people has already crowded in so tightly around us that we’re moving no more than an inch at a time. Most of them are well-meaning, but they scream and pound at the car with the enthusiasm of a belligerent crowd, and every time we endure this circus I have to physically force myself to remain calm. To sit quietly in my seat and ignore the urge to remove the gun from its holster beneath my jacket. Difficult. I know Ella can protect herself—she’s proven this fact a thousand times over—but still, I worry. She’s become notorious to a near-terrifying degree. To some extent, we all have. But Juliette Ferrars, as she’s known around the world, can go nowhere and do nothing without drawing a crowd. They say they love her. Even so, we remain cautious. There are still many around the globe who would love to bring back to life the emaciated remains of The Reestablishment, and assassinating a beloved hero would be the most effective start to such a scheme. Though we have unprecedented levels of privacy in the Sanctuary, where Nouria’s sight and sound protections around the grounds grant us freedoms we enjoy nowhere else, we’ve been unable to hide our precise location. People know, generally, where to find us, and that small bit of information has been feeding them for weeks. The civilians wait here—thousands and thousands of them—every single day. For no more than a glimpse. We’ve had to put barricades in place. We’ve had to hire extra security, recruiting armed soldiers from the local sectors. This area is unrecognizable from what it was a month ago. It’s a different world already. And I feel my body go solid as we approach the entrance. Nearly there now. I look up, ready to say something— “Don’t worry.” Kenji locks eyes with me. “Nouria upped the security. There should be a team of people waiting for us.” “I don’t know why all this is necessary,” Ella says, still staring out the window. “Why can’t I just stop for a minute and talk to them?” “Because the last time you did that you were nearly trampled,” Kenji says, exasperated. “Just the one time.” Kenji’s eyes go wide with outrage, and on this point, he and I are in full agreement. I sit back and watch as he counts off on his fingers. “The same day you were nearly trampled, someone tried to cut off your hair. Another day a bunch of people tried to kiss you. People literally throw their newborn babies at you. Plus, I’ve already counted six people who’ve peed their pants in your presence, which, I have to add, is not only upsetting, but unsanitary, especially when they try to hug you while they’re still wetting themselves.” He shakes his head. “The mobs are too big, princess. Too strong. Too passionate. Everyone screams in your face, fights to put their hands on you. And half the time we can’t protect you.” “But—” “I know that most of these people are well-intentioned,” I say, taking her hand. She turns in her seat, meets my eyes. “They are, for the most part, kind. Curious. Overwhelmed with gratitude and desperate to put a face to their freedom.

“I know this,” I say, “because I always check the crowds, searching their energy for anger or violence. And though the vast majority of them are good”—I sigh, shake my head— “sweetheart, you’ve just made a lot of enemies. These massive, unfiltered crowds are not safe. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I know you’re right,” she says quietly. “But somehow it feels wrong not to be able to talk to the people we’ve been fighting for. I want them to know how I feel. I want them to know how much we care—and how much we’re still planning on doing to rebuild, to get things right.” “You will,” I say. “I’ll make sure you have the chance to say all those things. But it’s only been two weeks, love. And right now we don’t have the necessary infrastructure to make that happen.” “But we’re working on it, right?” “We’re working on it,” Kenji says. “Which, actually—not that I’m making excuses or anything— but if you hadn’t asked me to prioritize the reconstruction committee, I probably wouldn’t have issued orders to knock down a series of unsafe buildings, one of which included Winston and Alia’s studio, which”—he holds up his hands—“for the record, I didn’t know was their studio. And again, not that I’m making excuses for my reprehensible behavior or anything—but how the hell was I supposed to know it was an art studio? It was officially listed in the books as unsafe, marked for demolition—” “They didn’t know it was marked for demolition,” Ella says, a hint of impatience in her voice. “They made it into their studio precisely because no one was using it.” “Yes,” Kenji says, pointing at her. “Right. But, see, I didn’t know that.” “Winston and Alia are your friends,” I point out unkindly. “Isn’t it your business to know things like that?” “Listen, man, it’s been a really hectic two weeks since the world fell apart, okay? I’ve been busy.” “We’ve all been busy.” “Okay, enough,” Ella says, holding up a hand. She’s looking out the window, frowning. “Someone is coming.” Kent. “What’s Adam doing here?” Ella asks. She turns back to look at Kenji. “Did you know he was coming?” If Kenji responds, I don’t hear him. I’m peering out of the very-tinted windows at the scene outside, watching Adam push his way through the crowd toward the car. He appears to be unarmed. He shouts something into the sea of people, but they won’t be quieted right away. A few more tries—and they settle down. Thousands of faces turn to stare at him. I struggle to make out his words. And then, slowly, he stands back as ten heavily armed men and women approach our car. Their bodies form a barricade between the vehicle and the entrance into the Sanctuary, and Kenji jumps out first, invisible and leading the way. He projects his power to protect Ella, and I steal his stealth for myself. The three of us—our bodies invisible— move cautiously toward the entrance. Only once we’re on the other side, safely within the boundaries of the Sanctuary, do I finally relax. A little. I glance back, the way I always do, at the crowd gathered just beyond the invisible barrier that protects our camp. Some days I just stand here and study their faces, searching for something. Anything. A threat still unknown, unnamed. “Hey—awesome,” Winston says, his unexpected voice shaking me out of my reverie. I turn back to look at him, discovering him sweaty and out of breath as he pulls up to us. “So glad you guys are back,” he says, still panting. “Do any of you happen to know anything about fixing pipes? We’ve got kind of a sewage problem in one of the tents, and it’s all hands on deck.” Our return to reality is swift. And humbling.

But Ella steps forward, already reaching for the—dear God, is it wet?—wrench in Winston’s hand, and I almost can’t believe it. I wrap an arm around her waist, tugging her back. “Please, love. Not today. Any other day, maybe. But not today.” “What?” She glances back. “Why not? I’m really good with a wrench. Hey, by the way,” she says, turning to the others, “did you know that Ian is secretly really good at woodworking?” Winston laughs. “It’s only been a secret to you, princess,” Kenji says. She frowns. “Well, we were fixing one of the more savable buildings the other day, and he taught me how to use everything in his toolbox. I helped him repair the roof,” she says, beaming. “That’s a strange justification for spending the hours before your wedding digging feces out of a toilet.” Kent saunters up to us. He’s laughing. My brother. So strange. He’s a happier, healthier version of himself than I’ve ever seen before. He took a week to recover after we got him back here, but when he regained consciousness and we told him what happened— and assured him that James was safe—he fainted. And didn’t wake up for another two days. He’s become an entirely different person in the days since. Practically jubilant. Happy for everyone. A darkness still clings to all of us—will probably cling to all of us forever— But Adam seems undeniably changed. “I just wanted to give you guys a heads-up,” he says, “that we’re doing a new thing now. Nouria wants me to go out there and do a general deactivation before anyone enters or exits the grounds. Just as a precaution.” He looks at Ella. “Juliette, is that okay with you?” Juliette. So many things changed when we came home, and this was one of them. She took back her name. Reclaimed it. She said that by erasing Juliette from her life she feared she was giving the ghost of my father too much power over her. She realized she didn’t want to forget her years as Juliette—or to diminish the young woman she was, fighting against all odds to survive. Juliette Ferrars is who she was when she was made known to the world, and she wants it to remain that way. I’m the only one allowed to call her Ella now. It’s just for us. A tether to our shared history, a nod to our past, to the love I’ve always felt for her, no matter her name. I watch her as she laughs with her friends, as she pulls a hammer free from Winston’s tool belt and pretends to hit Kenji with it—no doubt for something he deserves. Lily and Nazeera come out of nowhere, Lily carrying a small bundle of a dog she and Ian saved from an abandoned building nearby. Ella drops the hammer with a sudden cry and Adam jumps back in alarm. She takes the dirty, filthy creature into her arms, smothering it with kisses even as it barks at her with a wild ferocity. And then she turns to look at me, the animal still yipping in her ear, and I realize there are tears in her eyes. She is crying over a dog. Juliette Ferrars, one of the most feared, most lauded heroes of our known world, is crying over a dog. Perhaps no one else would understand, but I know that this is the first time she’s ever held one. Without hesitation, without fear, without danger of causing an innocent creature any harm. For her, this is true joy. To the world, she is formidable. To me? She is the world. So when she dumps the creature into my reluctant arms, I hold it steady, uncomplaining when the beast licks my face with the same tongue it used, no doubt, to clean its hindquarters. I remain steady, betraying nothing even when warm drool drips down my neck. I hold still as its grimy feet dig into my coat, nails catching at the wool. I am so still, in fact, that eventually the creature quiets,

his anxious limbs settling against my chest. He whines as he stares at me, whines until I finally lift a hand, drag it over his head. When I hear her laugh, I am happy.

ALSO BY TAHEREH MAFI

SHATTER ME SERIES: Shatter Me Unravel Me

Ignite Me

RESTORE ME SERIES: Restore Me Defy Me

NOVELLA COLLECTIONS: Unite Me (Destroy Me & Fracture Me) Find Me (Shadow Me & Reveal Me)

A Very Large Expanse of Sea

BELIEVE ME

ALSO BY TAHEREH MAFI SHATTER ME SERIES: Shatter Me Unravel Me Ignite Me RESTORE ME SERIES: Restore Me Defy Me Imagine Me NOVELLA COLLECTIONS: Unite Me (Destroy Me & Fracture Me) Find Me (Shadow Me & Reveal Me) A Very Large Expanse of Sea An Emotion of Great Delight

BELIEVE ME

TAHEREH MAFI

First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Electric Monkey, part of Farshore An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF farshore.co.uk HarperCollinsPublishers 1st Floor, Watermarque Building, Ringsend Road, Dublin 4, Ireland

Text copyright © 2021 Tahereh Mafi The moral rights of the author have been asserted eISBN 978 0 0085 1806 6 1 Typeset by Avon DataSet Ltd, Alcester, Warwickshire All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner. Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Farshore is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

ONE The wall is unusually white. More white than is usual. Most people think white walls are true white, but the truth is, they only seem white and are not actually white. Most shades of white are mixed in with a bit of yellow, which helps soften the harsh edges of a pure white, making it more of an ecru, or ivory. Various shades of cream. Egg white, even. True white is practically intolerable as a color, so white it’s nearly blue. This wall, in particular, is not so white as to be offensive, but a sharp enough shade of white to pique my curiosity, which is nothing short of a miracle, really, because I’ve been staring at it for the greater part of an hour. Thirty-seven minutes, to be exact. I am being held hostage by custom. Formality. “Five more minutes,” she says. “I promise.” I hear the rustle of fabric. Zippers. A shudder of— “Is that tulle?” “You’re not supposed to be listening!”

“You know, love, it occurs to me now that I’ve lived through hostage situations less torturous than this.” “Okay, okay, it’s off. Packed away. I just need a second to put on my cl —” “That won’t be necessary,” I say, turning around. “Surely this part, I should be allowed to watch.” I lean against the unusually white wall, studying her as she frowns at me, her lips still parted around the shape of a word she seems to have forgotten. “Please continue,” I say, gesturing with a nod. “Whatever you were doing before.” She holds on to her frown for a moment longer than is honest, her eyes narrowing in a show of frustration that is pure fraud. She compounds this farce by clutching an article of clothing to her chest, feigning modesty. I do not mind, not one single bit. I drink her in, her soft curves, her smooth skin. Her hair is beautiful at any length, but it’s been longer lately. Long and rich, silky against her skin, and—when I’m lucky— against mine. Slowly, she drops the shirt. I stand up straighter. “I’m supposed to wear this under the dress,” she says, her fake anger already forgotten. She fidgets with the boning of a cream-colored corset, her fingers lingering along the garter belt, the lace-trimmed stockings. She can’t meet my eyes. She’s gone shy, and this time, it’s real. Do you like it? The unspoken question. I assumed, when she invited me into this dressing room, that it was for reasons beyond me staring at the color variations in an unusually white wall. I assumed she wanted me here to see something. To see her. I see now that I was correct. “You are so beautiful,” I say, unable to shed the awe in my voice. I hear it, the childish wonder in my tone, and it embarrasses me more than it should. I know I shouldn’t be ashamed to feel deeply. To be moved. Still, I feel awkward.

Young. Quietly, she says, “I feel like I just spoiled the surprise. You’re not supposed to see any of this until the wedding night.” My heart actually stops for a moment. The wedding night. She closes the distance between us and twines her arms around me, freeing me from my momentary paralysis. My heart beats faster with her here, so close. And though I don’t know how she knew that I suddenly required the reassurance of her touch, I’m grateful. I exhale, pulling her fully against me, our bodies relaxing, remembering each other. I press my face into her hair, breathe in the sweet scent of her shampoo, her skin. It’s only been two weeks. Two weeks since the end of an old world. The beginning of a new one. She still feels like a dream to me. “Is this really happening?” I whisper. A sharp knock at the door startles my spine straight. Ella frowns at the sound. “Yes?” “So sorry to bother you right now, miss, but there’s a gentleman here wishing to speak with Mr. Warner.” Ella and I lock eyes. “Okay,” she says quickly. “Don’t be mad.” “Why would I be mad?” Ella pulls away to better look me in the eye. Her own eyes are bright, beautiful. Full of concern. “It’s Kenji.” I force down a spike of anger so violent I think I give myself a stroke. “What is he doing here?” I manage to get out. “How did he know how to find us?” She bites her lip. “We took Amir and Olivier with us.” “I see.” We took extra guards along, which means our outing was posted to the public security bulletin. Of course. Ella nods. “He found me just before we left. He was worried—he wanted to know why we were heading back into the old regulated lands.”

I try to say something then, to marvel aloud at Kenji’s inability to make a simple deduction despite the abundance of contextual clues right before his eyes—but she holds up a finger. “I told him,” she says, “that we were looking for replacement outfits and reminded him that, for now, the Supply Centers are still the only places to shop for food or clothing or”—she waves a hand, frowns—“anything, at the moment. Anyway, he said he’d try to meet us here. He said he wanted to help.” My eyes widen slightly. I feel another stroke incoming. “He said he wanted to help.” She nods. “Astonishing.” A muscle ticks in my jaw. “And funny, too, because he’s already helped so much—just last night he helped us both a great deal by destroying my suit and your dress, forcing us to now purchase clothing from a”—I look around, gesture at nothing—“a store on the very day we’re supposed to get married.” “Aaron,” she whispers. She steps closer again. Places a hand on my chest. “He feels terrible about it.” “And you?” I say, studying her face, her feelings. “Don’t you feel terrible about it? Alia and Winston worked so hard to make you something beautiful, something designed precisely for you—” “I don’t mind.” She shrugs. “It’s just a dress.” “But it was your wedding dress,” I say, my voice failing me now. She sighs, and in the sound I hear her heart break, more for me than for herself. She turns around and unzips the massive garment bag hanging on a hook above her head. “You’re not supposed to see this,” she says, tugging yards of tulle out of the bag, “but I think it might mean more to you than it does to me, so”—she turns back, smiles—“I’ll let you help me decide what to wear tonight.” I nearly groan aloud at the reminder. A nighttime wedding. Who on earth is married at night? Only the hapless. The unfortunate. Though I suppose we now count among their ranks. Rather than reschedule the entire thing, we pushed it a few hours so that we’d have time to purchase new clothes. Well, I have clothes. My clothes

don’t matter as much. But her dress. He destroyed her dress the night before our wedding. Like a monster. I’m going to murder him. “You can’t murder him,” she says, still pulling handfuls of fabric out of the bag. “I’m certain I said no such thing out loud.” “No,” she says, “but you were thinking it, weren’t you?” “Wholeheartedly.” “You can’t murder him,” she says simply. “Not now. Not ever.” I sigh. She’s still struggling to unearth the gown. “Forgive me, love, but if all this”—I nod at the garment bag, the explosion of tulle—“is for a single dress, I’m afraid I already know how I feel about it.” She stops tugging. Turns around, eyes wide. “You don’t like it? You haven’t even seen it yet.” “I’ve seen enough to know that whatever this is, it’s not a gown. This is a haphazard layering of polyester.” I lean around her, pinching the fabric between my fingers. “Do they not carry silk tulle in this store? Perhaps we can speak to the seamstress.” “They don’t have a seamstress here.” “This is a clothing store,” I say. I turn the bodice inside out, frowning at the stitches. “Surely there must be a seamstress. Not a very good one, clearly, but—” “These dresses are made in a factory,” she says to me. “Mostly by machine.” I straighten. “You know, most people didn’t grow up with private tailors at their disposal,” she says, a smile playing at her lips. “The rest of us had to buy clothes off the rack. Premade. Ill-fitting.” “Yes,” I say stiffly. I feel suddenly stupid. “Of course. Forgive me. The dress is very nice. Perhaps I should wait for you to try it on. I gave my opinion too hastily.”

For some reason, my response only makes things worse. She groans, shooting me a single, defeated look before folding herself into the little dressing room chair. My heart plummets. She drops her face in her hands. “It really is a disaster, isn’t it?” Another swift knock at the door. “Sir? The gentleman seems very eager t —” “He’s certainly not a gentleman,” I say sharply. “Tell him to wait.” A moment of hesitation. Then, quietly: “Yes, sir.” “Aaron.” I don’t need to look up to know that she’s unhappy with my rudeness. The owners of this particular Supply Center shut down their entire store for us, and they’ve been excruciatingly kind. I know I’m being an ass. At present, I can’t seem to help it. “Aaron.” “Today is your wedding day,” I say, unable to meet her eyes. “He has ruined your wedding day. Our wedding day.” She gets to her feet. I feel her frustration fade. Transform. Shuffle through sadness, happiness, hope, fear, and finally— Resignation. One of the worst possible feelings on what should be a joyous day. Resignation is worse than frustration. Far worse. My anger calcifies. “He hasn’t ruined it,” she says finally. “We can still make this work.” “You’re right,” I say, pulling her into my arms. “Of course you’re right. It doesn’t matter, really. None of it does.” “But it’s my wedding day,” she says. “And I have nothing to wear.” “You’re right.” I kiss the top of her head. “I’m going to kill him.” A sudden pounding at the door. I stiffen. Spin around. “Hey, guys?” More pounding. “I know you’re super pissed at me, but I have good news, I swear. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to make it up to you.”

I’m just about to respond when Ella tugs at my hand, silencing my scathing retort with a single motion. She shoots me a look that plainly says — Give him a chance. I sigh as the anger settles inside my body, my shoulders dropping with the weight of it. Reluctantly, I step aside to allow her to deal with this idiot in the manner she prefers. It is her wedding day, after all. Ella steps closer to the door. Points at it, jabbing her finger at the unusually white paint as she speaks. “This better be good, Kenji, or Warner is going to kill you, and I’m going to help him do it.” And then, just like that— I’m smiling again.

TWO We’re driven back to the Sanctuary the same way we’re driven everywhere these days—in a black, all-terrain, bullet-proof SUV—but the car and its heavily tinted windows only make us more conspicuous, which I find worrisome. But then, as Castle likes to point out, I have no ready solution for the problem, so we remain at an impasse. I try to hide my reaction as we drive up through the wooded area just outside the Sanctuary, but I can’t help my grimace or the way my body locks down, preparing for a fight. After the fall of The Reestablishment, most rebel groups emerged from hiding to rejoin the world— But not us. Just last week we cleared this dirt path for the SUV, enabling it to now get as close as possible to the unmarked entrance, but I’m not sure it’s doing much to help. A mob of people has already crowded in so tightly around us that we’re moving no more than an inch at a time. Most of them are wellmeaning, but they scream and pound at the car with the enthusiasm of a

belligerent crowd, and every time we endure this circus I have to physically force myself to remain calm. To sit quietly in my seat and ignore the urge to remove the gun from its holster beneath my jacket. Difficult. I know Ella can protect herself—she’s proven this fact a thousand times over—but still, I can’t help but worry. She’s become notorious to a nearterrifying degree. To some extent, we all have. But Juliette Ferrars, as she’s known around the world, can go nowhere and do nothing without drawing a crowd. They say they love her. Even so, we remain cautious. There are still many around the globe who would love to bring back to life the emaciated remains of The Reestablishment, and assassinating a beloved hero would be the most effective start to such a scheme. Though we have unprecedented levels of privacy in the Sanctuary, where Nouria’s sight and sound protections around the grounds grant us freedoms we enjoy nowhere else, we’ve been unable to hide our precise location. People know, generally, where to find us, and that small bit of information has been feeding them for weeks. The civilians wait here—thousands and thousands of them—every single day. For no more than a glimpse. We’ve had to put barricades in place. We’ve had to hire extra security, recruiting armed soldiers from the local sectors. This area is unrecognizable from what it was a month ago. It’s a different world already. And I feel my body go solid as we approach the entrance. Nearly there now. I look up, ready to say something— “Don’t worry.” Kenji locks eyes with me. “Nouria upped the security. There should be a team of people waiting for us.” “I don’t know why all this is necessary,” Ella says, still staring out the window. “Why can’t I just stop for a minute and talk to them?” “Because the last time you did that you were nearly trampled,” Kenji says, exasperated. “Just the one time.” Kenji’s eyes go wide with outrage, and on this point, he and I are in full agreement. I sit back and watch as he counts off on his fingers. “The same

day you were nearly trampled, someone tried to cut off your hair. Another day a bunch of people tried to kiss you. People literally throw their newborn babies at you. I’ve already counted six people who’ve peed their pants in your presence, which, I have to add, is not only upsetting but unsanitary, especially when they try to hug you while they’re still wetting themselves.” He shakes his head. “The mobs are too big, princess. Too strong. Too passionate. Everyone screams in your face, fights to put their hands on you. And half the time we can’t protect you.” “But—” “I know that most of these people are well intentioned,” I say, taking her hand. She turns in her seat, meets my eyes. “They are, for the most part, kind. Curious. Overwhelmed with gratitude and desperate to put a face to their freedom. “I know this,” I say, “because I always check the crowds, searching their energy for anger or violence. And though the vast majority of them are good”—I sigh, shake my head— “sweetheart, you’ve just made a lot of enemies. These massive, unfiltered crowds are not safe. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I know you’re right,” she says quietly. “But somehow it feels wrong not to be able to talk to the people we’ve been fighting for. I want them to know how I feel. I want them to know much we care—and how much we’re still planning on doing to rebuild, to get things right.” “You will,” I say. “I’ll make sure you have the chance to say all those things. But it’s only been two weeks, love. We don’t have the necessary infrastructure to make that happen.” “But we’re working on it, right?” “We’re working on it,” Kenji says. “Which, actually— not that I’m making excuses or anything—but if you hadn’t asked me to prioritize the reconstruction committee, I probably wouldn’t have issued orders to knock down a series of unsafe buildings, one of which included Winston and Alia’s studio, which”—he holds up his hands—“for the record, I didn’t know was their studio. And again, not that I’m making excuses for my reprehensible behavior or anything—but how the hell was I supposed to know it was an art

studio? It was officially listed in the books as unsafe, marked for demolition —” “They didn’t know it was marked for demolition,” Ella says, a hint of impatience in her voice. “They made it into their studio precisely because no one was using it.” “Yes,” Kenji says, pointing at her. “Right. But, see, I didn’t know that.” “Winston and Alia are your friends,” I say unkindly. “Isn’t it your business to know things like that?” “Listen, man, it’s been a really hectic two weeks since the world fell apart, okay? I’ve been busy.” “We’ve all been busy.” “Okay, enough,” Ella says, holding up a hand. She’s looking out the window, frowning. “Someone is coming.” Kent. “What’s Adam doing here?” Ella asks. She turns back to look at Kenji. “Did you know he was coming?” If Kenji responds, I don’t hear him. I’m peering out of the very-tinted windows at the scene outside, watching Adam push his way through the crowd toward the car. He appears to be unarmed. He shouts something into the sea of people, but they won’t be quieted right away. A few more tries— and they settle down. Thousands of faces turn to stare at him. I struggle to make out his words. And then, slowly, he stands back as ten heavily armed men and women approach our car. Their bodies form a barricade between the vehicle and the entrance into the Sanctuary, and Kenji jumps out first, going invisible and leading the way. He projects his power to protect Ella, and I steal his stealth for myself. The three of us—our bodies invisible—move cautiously toward the entrance. Only once we’re on the other side, safely within the boundaries of the Sanctuary, do I finally relax. A little. I glance back, the way I always do, at the crowd gathered just beyond the invisible barrier that protects our camp. Some days I just stand here and

study their faces, searching for something. Anything. A threat still unknown, unnamed. “Hey—awesome,” Winston says, his unexpected voice shaking me out of my reverie. I turn to look at him, discovering him sweaty and out of breath. “So glad you guys are back,” he says. “Do any of you happen to know anything about fixing pipes? We’ve got a kind of sewage problem in one of the tents, and it’s all hands on deck.” Our return to reality is swift. And humbling. But Ella steps forward, already reaching for the—dear God, is it wet?— wrench in Winston’s hand, and I almost can’t believe it. I wrap an arm around her waist, tugging her back. “Please, love. Not today. Any other day, maybe. But not today.” “What?” She glances back. “Why not? I’m really good with a wrench. Hey, by the way,” she says, turning to the others, “did you know that Ian is secretly good at woodworking?” Winston laughs. “It’s only been a secret to you, princess,” Kenji says. She frowns. “Well, we were fixing one of the more savable buildings the other day, and he taught me how to use everything in his toolbox. I helped him build a wall,” she says, beaming. “That’s a strange justification for spending the hours before your wedding digging feces out of a toilet.” Kent again. He’s laughing. My brother. So strange. He saunters up to us, a happier, healthier version of him than I’ve ever seen before. He took a week to recover after we got him back here, but when he regained consciousness and we told him what happened—and assured him that James was safe—he fainted. And didn’t wake up for another two days. He’s become an entirely different person in the days since. Practically jubilant. Happy for everyone. A darkness still clings to all of us—will probably cling to all of us forever—

But Adam seems undeniably changed. “Just a heads-up,” he says, “that we’re doing a new thing now. Nouria wants me to go out there and do a general deactivation before anyone enters or exits the grounds. Just as a precaution.” He looks at Ella. “Juliette, is that okay with you?” Juliette. So many things changed when we came home, and this was one of them. She took back her name. Reclaimed it. She said that by erasing Juliette from her life she feared she was giving the ghost of my father too much power over her. She realized she didn’t want to forget her years as Juliette—or to diminish the young woman she was, fighting against all odds to survive. Juliette Ferrars is who she was when she was made known to the world, and she wants it to remain that way. I’m the only one allowed to call her Ella now. It’s just for us. A tether to our shared history, a nod to our past, to the love I’ve always felt for her, no matter her name. I watch her as she laughs with her friends, as she pulls a hammer free from Winston’s tool belt and pretends to hit Kenji with it—no doubt for something he deserves. Lily and Nazeera come out of nowhere, Lily carrying a small bundle of a dog she and Ian saved from an abandoned building nearby. Ella drops the hammer with a sudden cry and Adam jumps back in alarm. She takes the filthy beast into her arms, smothering it with kisses even as it barks at her with a wild ferocity. And then she turns to look at me, the animal still yipping in her ear, and I realize there are tears in her eyes. She is crying over a dog. Juliette Ferrars, one of the most feared, most lauded heroes of our known world, is crying over a dog. Perhaps no one else would understand, but I know that this is the first time she’s ever held one. Without hesitation, without fear, without danger of causing an innocent creature any harm. For her, this is true joy. To the world, she is formidable. To me? She is the world. So when she dumps the creature into my reluctant arms, I hold it steady, uncomplaining when the beast licks my face with the same tongue it used, no doubt, to clean its hindquarters. I remain steady, betraying

nothing even when warm drool drips down my neck. I hold still as its grimy feet dig into my coat, nails catching at the wool. I am so still, in fact, that eventually the creature quiets, its anxious limbs settling against my chest. It whines as it stares at me, whines until I finally lift a hand, drag it over its head. When I hear her laugh, I am happy.

THREE “Warner?” “Mr. Warner?” The invocation of my name in stereo nearly startles me; I absorb this surprise with practiced calm, carefully releasing the dog to the ground. I begin to turn in the direction of the familiar voices, but the liberated creature decides to do nothing with its freedom, instead lifting a paw to my trousers as it whines, yet again, its upturned face imploring me to do something. Feed it? Pet it? It barks then, and I spare it a single sharp look, after which it quiets, eyes cast down as its mangy body slumps to the ground, head resting on its paws. The dog settles so close to me its little black snout bumps my boot. I sigh. “Mr. Warner?” Castle, again. He and his daughter, Nouria, are staring at me, the latter breaking eye contact only to shoot her father a nearly imperceptible look of frustration. I glance between them. Clearly, the two still haven’t fully settled the specifics of their roles around here. “Yes?” I say, even as a feeling of unease blooms in my chest. Castle and Nouria have come to collect me for a private conversation; I can sense this right away. That my mind reaches for anger in response is irrational—I understand this even as it happens—for they cannot know the fear I experience when I leave Ella behind. I have a sudden need to search for her eyes then, to reach for her hand, and I crush the impulse even as my

heart rate climbs, a symptom of the new panic lately born in my body. These reactions began shortly after we returned to the Sanctuary; when, to the soundtrack of horrified screams, Ella’s limp figure was carted off the plane and planted in the medical tent, where she lived and slept for ten of the fourteen days we’ve been back. It has been, in a word—difficult. And now, whenever I can’t see her, my brain tries to convince me she’s dead. Castle says, “Could we steal you for a brief window? Something urgent has come up, and w—” Nouria presses pause on this statement with a gentle touch to her father’s forearm. Her smile is forced. “I’ll need only a few minutes of your time,” she says, glancing briefly at someone—Ella, probably—before meeting my eyes again. “I promise it won’t take long.” I want to say no. Instead, I say, “Of course,” and finally compel myself to look at Ella, whose steady gaze I have been avoiding. I smile at her as my brain attempts to override its own instincts, to do the calculus necessary to prove my fears a manifestation of an imaginary threat. Every day that Ella remains alive and well is a victory, a concrete set of numbers to add to a column, all of which make it easier for me to do this math; I’m able to process the panic a bit faster now than I did those first few nights. Still—despite my efforts to keep this from her—I have felt Ella watch me. Worry. Even now, my smile has not convinced her. She scrutinizes my eyes as she presses a bouquet of newly acquired tools —screwdrivers?—into Kenji’s arms. She walks over to me and promptly takes my hand and I’m dealt the blow of an emotional eye roll from our audience. It is a miracle, then, that Ella’s love is louder; and I’m so grateful for the reassurance of her touch it pierces me through the chest. “What’s going on?” she says to Nouria. “Maybe I can help.” I catch a note of worry from Nouria then, and, impressive: it never touches her features. She grins when she says, “I think you have enough to do today. Warner and I just have some things we need to discuss. Privately.” She says this last bit in a teasing way, the implication that our discussion might have something to do with the wedding. I stare intently at Nouria, who will not now meet my eyes.

Ella squeezes my hand and I turn to face her. You okay? she seems to say. She’s done this a lot lately, speaking to me with her thoughts, her emotions. For a moment, I can only stare at her. A riot of feeling seems to have fused inside me, fear and joy and love and terror now indistinguishable from one another. I lean down, kiss her gently on the cheek. Her skin is so soft I’m tempted to linger, even as the emotional disgust of our audience ratchets only higher. I’ve been afraid to touch her lately. In fact, I’ve done little more than hold her since we fled Oceania. She nearly died on the flight home. She was already weak when we found Emmaline, having spent most of her energy fighting to kill the poisonous program overriding her mind; worse, she’d torn the tech free from her arm, leaving behind a gaping, gruesome wound. She was still bleeding from her ears, her nose, her eyes, and her teeth when she tore through Max’s light, stripping the flesh from her fingers in the process. She was so drained by this point that even with Evie’s reinforcements her body was failing. She landed badly and snapped her femur when she fell loose from Max’s holding chamber, and then used what little strength she had left to first kill her own sister and then set fire to the capital of Oceania. When the adrenaline wore off and I saw, for the first time, the edge of severed bone jutting through her pant leg— The memory is not worth describing. The next several hours were grim; we had no healers on the flight home, no sufficient pain medication, nothing more than a basic first aid kit. Ella had lost so much blood—and was in such excruciating pain—that she soon fell unconscious. I had no doubt she would die before we touched ground. That she survived that horrific plane ride was its own miracle. When we finally arrived on base Sonya and Sara did everything they could to help Ella, but they made no promises; even as Ella’s physical injuries healed, she was unresponsive. She was incapable of even opening her eyes. For days, I wasn’t sure she would make it.

“Aaron—” “Secrets,” I whisper, forcing myself to draw away. “Nothing to worry about.” She studies my eyes. I feel her quietly wage war, happiness and doubt fighting for dominance. “Good secrets?” she asks hopefully. My heart lurches at the softness in her voice, the smile that lights up her eyes. I never cease wondering at how skillfully she compartmentalizes her emotions, even in the wake of so much brutality. Ella is strong where I have forever been weak. I lost faith in people—in the world—long ago. But no matter how much bloodshed and darkness she experiences, Ella never seems to lose hope in humanity. She is always striving to build a better future. She is always gentle and kind with those she loves. It is still so strange to me that I am one of those people. I feel the hum of Castle and Nouria’s increasing impatience, and my resentment grows only larger; I generate a fresh smile for Ella and walk away as I do, having left her question unanswered. I don’t know what Nouria needs from me, but I fear her news is bleak; no doubt Ella’s life is at risk in some new way we’d not anticipated. The thought alone fills me with dread. Unbidden, I feel my hands tremble; I shove them in my pockets as I go. The hesitant bark of a mangy dog is soon followed by the sound of its paws tapping the ground, the little beast picking up speed as it hurries to keep pace with me. Briefly, I close my eyes. This place is a zoo. Even as I recognize the importance of our work, there remains a regrettably large portion of my mind that finds everyone here detestable— everything here detestable. I am tired. I want nothing more than to escape this noise with Ella. I want, above all else, for her to be safe. I want people to stop trying to kill her. I want, for the first time in my life, to live in peace, undisturbed; I want to be required by no one but my wife.

These, I realize, are unattainable fantasies. Castle and Nouria both nod at me as I approach, indicating that I should follow their lead as they turn down the path. I already know they’re headed to Nouria and Sam’s office—affectionately labeled the war room—where we’ve had many similar meetings. I glance back just once, hoping to catch a final glimpse of Ella’s face, and instead home in on Kenji, whose thoughts are so loud they’re impossible to ignore. I experience a flash of anger; I know he’s going to follow me even before he moves in my direction. Between him and the dog trailing me, I’d choose the dog. Still, both creatures are on my heels now, and I hear Adam laugh as he says something unintelligible to Winston, the two of them no doubt enjoying the spectacle that is my life. “What?” I say sharply. The approaching shadow soon evolves into flesh beside me, Kenji matching my strides down the overgrown path, our boots crushing aggressive weeds underfoot. Figures dot the periphery of my vision, their feelings assaulting me as I go. Some of them still think I’m some kind of hero, and are consumed as a result by an idiotic devotion to a warped perception of my identity. My face. My body. I find these interactions suffocating. Just now, Kenji’s anger toward me is so audible I feel it giving me a headache. Still—better anger, I think, than grief. The collective grief of a crowd is nearly unbearable. “You know, I really thought you’d be less of an asshole once we got J home,” he says flatly. “I see nothing has changed. I see all the efforts I made to defend your shitty behavior were for nothing.” The dog barks. I hear it panting. It barks again. “So you’re just going to ignore me?” Kenji exhales, irritated. “Why? Why are you like this? Why are you always such a dick?” Sometimes I’m so desperate for quiet I think I might commit murder for a moment of silence. Instead, I shut down incrementally, tuning out as many voices as I’m able. It wasn’t so bad before I was forced to join this peace

cult. In my previous life at Sector 45 I was left alone. At Omega Point, I spent most of my time in solitary confinement. When we later took over 45, I retained the privacy of my rooms. Here, I am losing my mind. I am bombarded, en masse, by the emotional downloads of others. There is no reprieve from the pandemonium. Ella likes spending time with these people, and these people do everything in crowds. Meals are taken in a massive dining tent. End-of-day mingling is done communally, in the quiet tent, where it is never quiet. Many of the cabins were damaged or destroyed in the battle, which means everyone is currently sharing space—or sleeping in common areas—while we rebuild. Nouria and Sam did us a kindness by repurposing Ella’s room in the medical tent; it seemed the only alternative to bunking with everyone else in a makeshift barracks. Still, our room smells always of antiseptic and death. There is only one narrow hospital bed, over which Ella and I argue each night. She insists, despite my unassailable protests, that I take the bed while she sleeps on the floor. It’s the only time I ever get upset with her. I don’t mind the cold floor. I don’t mind physical discomfort. No, what I hate is lying awake every night listening to the pain and grief of others still recovering. I hate being reminded constantly of the ten days I spent standing in the corner of our room watching Ella struggle to come back to life. My need for silence has grown debilitating. Sometimes I think if I could kill this part of me, I would. “Don’t touch me,” I say suddenly, sensing Kenji’s intention to make contact with me—to tap my shoulder or grab my arm—before it happens. It takes a great deal of self-control not to physically respond. “Why do you have to say it like that?” he says, wounded. “Why do you make it sound like I was going to enjoy touching you? I’m just trying to get your attention.” “What do you need, Kishimoto?” I ask unkindly. “I’m not interested in your company.” His responding pain is loud; it glances off my chest, leaving a vague impression. This pathetic new development fills me with shame. I desperately don’t want to care, and yet— Ella adores this idiot.

I come to a sudden stop on the path. The dog bumps my legs, wagging its tail violently before barking again. I take a deep breath, stare at a tree in the distance. “What is it you need?” I ask again, this time gently. I feel him frown as he processes his feelings. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I just wanted to tell you that I got it.” I stiffen at that, my body activating with awareness. I pivot fully to face him. Suddenly, Kenji Kishimoto appears to me vividly rendered: his tired eyes, his tanned skin, his heavy, sharp black brows—and his hair, in desperate need of a cut. There’s a bruise fading along his temple, his left hand wrapped in gauze. I hear the rattle of leaves and spot a squirrel, darting into a bush. The dog goes berserk. “You got what?” I say carefully. “Oh, now you’re interested?” He meets my eyes, his own narrowed in anger. “Now you’re going to look at me like I’m a human being? You know what? Fuck this. I don’t even know why I do shit for you.” “You didn’t do it for me.” Kenji makes a sound of disbelief, looking away before looking back at me. “Yeah, well, she deserves to have a nice ring, doesn’t she? You miserable piece of shit. Who proposes to a girl without a ring?” “I might remind you that you are in no position to exercise moral superiority,” I say, my voice growing lethal even as I will myself to remain calm. “Having destroyed her wedding dress.” “That was an accident!” he cries. “Yours was an oversight!” “Your very existence is an oversight.” “Oh, wow.” He throws up his hands. “Ha ha. Very mature comeback.” “Do you have it or not?” “Yeah. I do.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “But, you know, now I’m thinking I should just give it to her myself. After all, I was the one who did all of this for you. I was the one who asked Winston to sketch your design. I was the one who found someone to make the goddamn thing—” “I was not going to leave the grounds while she was lying in a hospital bed,” I say, so close to shouting that Kenji visibly startles. He steps back, studies me a moment.

I neutralize my expression, but too late. Kenji loses his anger as he stands there, softening as he stares at me. I experience nothing but rage in response. He never seems to understand. It’s his constant pity— his sympathy, not his stupidity—that makes me want to kill him. I take a step forward, lower my voice. “If you are idiotic enough to think I will allow you to be the one to give her this wedding ring, you have clearly underestimated me. I might not be able to kill you, Kishimoto, but I will devote my life to making yours a palpable, never-ending hellscape.” He cracks a smile. “I’m not going to give her the ring, man. I wouldn’t do that. I was just messing with you.” I stare at him. I can hardly speak for wanting to throttle him. “You were just messing with me? That was your idea of a joke?” “Yeah, okay, listen, you are way too intense,” he says, making a face. “Juliette would’ve thought that was funny.” “You clearly don’t know her very well if you think so.” “Whatever.” Kenji crosses his arms. “I’ve known her longer than you have, asshole.” At this, I experience an anger so acute I think I might actually kill him. Kenji must see this, because he backpedals. “No—you’re right,” he says, pointing at me. “My bad, bro. I forgot about all the memory-wiping stuff. I didn’t mean that. I only meant, like— I know her, too, you know?” “I’m going to give you five seconds to get to your point.” “See? Who says stuff like that?” Kenji’s brows furrow; his anger is back. “What does that even mean? What are you going to do to me in five seconds? What if I don’t even have a point? No—you know what, I do have a point. My point is that I’m sick of this. I’m sick of your attitude. I’m sick of making excuses for your crappy behavior. I really thought you’d try to be cool for J’s sake, especially now, after everything she’s been through—” “I know what she’s been through,” I say darkly. “Oh, really?” Kenji says, feigning surprise. “So then maybe you already know this, too”—he makes a dramatic gesture with his hands—“news flash: she’s, like, a genuinely nice person. She actually gives a shit about other

people. She doesn’t threaten to murder people all the time. And she likes my jokes.” “She’s very charitable, I know.” Kenji exhales angrily and looks around, searching the sky for inspiration. “You know, I’ve tried, I really have, but I just don’t know what she sees in you. She’s like—she’s like sunshine. And you’re a dark, violent rain cloud. Sun and rain don’t—” Kenji cuts himself off, blinking. I walk away before the realization hits him. Nothing is worth listening to him finish that sentence. “Oh my God,” he says, his voice carrying. “Oh my God.” I pick up speed. “Hey— Don’t walk away from me when I’m about to say something awesome—” “Don’t you dare say it—” “I’m going to say it, man. I have to say it,” Kenji says, jumping ahead of me on the path. He’s walking backward now, grinning like an idiot. “I was wrong,” he says, making a crude heart shape with his hands. “Sun and rain make a rainbow.” I come to a sudden halt. For a moment, I close my eyes. “I want to throw up now,” Kenji says, still smiling. “Really. Actual vomit. You disgust me.” I’m able to manufacture only mild anger in response to this slew of insults, as the feeling dissipates in the face of irrefutable evidence: Kenji’s words belie his emotions. He’s genuinely happy for us; I can feel it. He’s happy for Ella, in particular. I experience a pang at that, at the love and devotion she’s inspired in others. It’s a rare thing to find even a single person who desires your unqualified joy; she has found many. She’s built her own family. I exist on the outskirts of this phenomenon: hyperaware that I eclipse her light with my darkness, worried always that she will find me wanting. These relationships mean a great deal to her; I have long known this, and I have tried, for her sake, to be more social. To be nicer to her friends. I don’t

protest when she asks to gather with the others; I no longer suggest that we take our meals alone together. I follow her around, sitting quietly beside her as she talks and laughs with people whose names I struggle to remember. I watch her bloom in the company of those she cares about, all while I try to drown out their voices, to kill the noise in my head. I worry, constantly, that despite my efforts, I will not be able to be what she wants. It’s true; I am insufferable. I wonder whether it is only a matter of time before Ella discovers this fact for herself. Subdued, the fight leaves my body. “Either give me the ring or leave me alone,” I say, hearing the exhaustion in my voice. “Nouria and Castle are waiting for me.” Kenji registers the change in my tone and switches gears, activating in himself a rarely witnessed solemnity. He looks at me for longer than I am comfortable before reaching into his pocket, from which he withdraws a dark blue velvet box. This, he holds out to me. I experience an unsettling spike of nerves as I study the box, and collect the object with trepidation, closing my fingers around its soft contours while staring into the distance, trying to collect myself. I was not expecting to feel like this. My heart is hammering in my chest. I feel like a nervous child. I wish Kenji were not here to witness this moment, and I wish I cared less about the contents of this box than I actually do, which is impossible. It’s desperately important to me that Ella love it. Very slowly, I force myself to open the lid, the delicate objects inside catching the light before I’ve even had a chance to examine them. The rings glitter in the sun, refracting color everywhere. I don’t dare remove them from their case, choosing instead only to stare, heart pounding as I do. I couldn’t decide between the two. Kenji told me it was stupid to get two rings, but as I seldom care for Kenji’s opinions, I’d ignored him. Now, as I stare at the set, I wonder if she will think me absurd. One is meant to be an engagement ring, and the other a wedding band—but they are both equally stunning, each in their own way.

The engagement ring is more traditional; the gold band is ultrathin, simple and elegant. There is a single center stone—repurposed from an antique—and though it’s quite large, it seemed to me a study in contrasts that reflected how I saw Ella: both powerful and gentle. The jeweler had sent me a selection of stones, each extracted from rings salvaged from different eras. I’d been fascinated by the unusual faceting of an old mine cut diamond. It had been forged by hand a very, very long time ago and was, as a result, slightly imperfect, but I liked that it wasn’t machine-made. The tedious, painful honing of a dull but unbreakable stone into a state of dazzling brilliance—it seemed appropriate. Kenji had assured me there was such a thing as a princess-cut diamond, which he thought would be a hilarious choice for Ella, as it recalls his ridiculous nickname for her. I told him I had no interest in choosing a ring based on a joke; neither did I want my wife’s wedding ring reminding her of another man. Besides, when I saw the shape of the stone in question, it felt wrong. The square was too sharp—all hard edges. It didn’t remind me of Ella at all. I asked that the antique stone be placed in a lightly filigreed, brushedgold setting, the whisper-thin band of which I wanted to resemble an organic, delicate twig. This design is matched in the wedding band: a fine, curving branch rendered in gold, bare but for two tiny emerald leaves growing on opposite sides of the same path. “It’s really beautiful, man. She’s going to love it.” I snap the box shut, returning to the present moment with a disorienting jolt. I look up to discover a contemplative Kenji has been watching me too closely; and I feel so suddenly uncomfortable in his presence that I fantasize, for a moment, about disappearing. Then, I do. “Son of a bitch,” Kenji says angrily. He runs both hands through his hair, glaring at the place I stood. I tuck the velvet box into my pocket and turn down the path. The dog barks twice. “That’s real mature, bro,” Kenji shouts in my direction. “Very nice.” Then —acidly—“And you’re welcome, by the way. Dickhead.” The dog, still barking, haunts me all the way to the war room.

FOUR The unvarnished wooden table has been worn smooth over the years, its raw edges buffed into submission by the calloused hands of rebels and revolutionaries. I run my fingers along the natural grooves, the faded age lines of a long-dead tree. The soft tick of a hanging clock signals what I already know to be true: that I have been here too long, and that every passing second costs me more of my sanity. “Warner—” “Absolutely not,” I say quietly. “We’ve hardly even discussed it. Don’t dismiss the idea outright,” Nouria says, her flat tone doing little to hide her true frustration, simmering too close to the surface. But then, Nouria is seldom able to hide how much she dislikes me. I shove away from the table, my chair scraping against wood. It should probably concern me how easily my mind turns to murder for a solution to my problems, but I cannot now dissect these thoughts. They separated me from Ella for this. “You already know my position on the matter,” I say, staring at the exit. “And it’s not changing.” “I understand that. I know you’re worried about her safety—we’re all worried about her safety—but we need help around here. We have to be able to bend the rules a little.” I meet Nouria’s eyes then, my own bright with anger. The room shifts out of focus around her and still I see it: dark walls, old maps, a feeble bookshelf stocked with a collection of chipped coffee mugs. The air smells stale. It’s depressing in here, shafts of sunlight slicing us all in half. Things have been far from easy since we took power. Those who lived well under the reign of The Reestablishment continue to cause us trouble—disobeying missives, refusing to leave their posts,

continuing to rule their fiefdoms as if The Reestablishment were still at large. We don’t have enough resources quite yet to track all of them down— most of whom know they will be promptly arrested and prosecuted for their crimes—and while some are bold enough to remain at their posts, others have been smart enough to go into hiding, from where they’ve been hiring mercenaries to carry out all manner of espionage— and inevitably, assassinations. These ex-officials are convening, recruiting ex-supreme soldiers to their side, and attempting to infiltrate our ranks in order to break us from within. They are perhaps the greatest threat to all that we are struggling to become. I am deeply concerned. I say little about this to Ella, as she’s only just come back to herself in recent days, but our grasp on the world is tenuous at best. History has taught us that revolutions often fail—even after they’ve won—for fighters and rebels are often unequipped to handle the crushing weight of all they’ve fought for, and worse: they make for terrible politicians. This is the problem I’ve always had with Castle, and now with Nouria and Sam. Revolutionaries are naive. They don’t seem to understand how the world really works, or how difficult it is to sate the whims and wishes of so many. It’s a struggle every day to hold on to our lead, and I lose a great deal of sleep thinking about the havoc our enemies will inevitably wreak, the fear and anger they will foment against us. Still, my own allies refuse to trust me. “I know we need help,” I say coldly. “I’m not blind. But bending the rules means putting Juliette’s life at risk. We cannot afford to start bringing in civilians—” “You won’t even let us bring in soldiers!” “That is patently untrue,” I say, bristling. “I never objected to you bringing in extra soldiers to secure the grounds.” “To secure the exterior, yes, but you refused to let us bring them inside the Sanctuary—” “I didn’t refuse anything. I’m not the one telling you what to do, Nouria. Lest you forget, those orders came from Juliette—”

“With all due respect, Mr. Warner,” Castle interjects, clearing his throat. “We’re all aware how much Ms. Ferrars values your opinion. We’re hoping you might be able to convince her to change her mind.” I pivot to face him, taking in his graying locs, his weathered brown skin. Castle has aged several years in a short time; these past months have taken their toll on all of us. “You would have me convince her to put her own life at risk? Have you lost your mind?” “Hey,” Nouria barks at me. “Watch your tone.” I feel myself stiffen in response; old impulses dare me to reach for my gun. It is a miracle that I am able to speak at all when I say: “Your first offense was separating me from my fiancée on my wedding day. That you would then ask me to allow unvetted persons to enter the only safe space she is allowed in the entire known world—” “They wouldn’t be unvetted!” Nouria cries, getting to her feet as she loses her temper. She glows a bit when she’s mad, I’ve noticed, the preternatural light making her dark skin luminous. “You would be there to vet them,” she says, gesturing at me from across the table. “You could tell us whether they’re safe. That’s the whole point of this conversation—to get your cooperation.” “You expect me to follow these people around, then? Twenty-four hours a day? Or did you think it was as simple as making a single deduction and being done with it?” “It wouldn’t be twenty-four hours,” she says. “They wouldn’t live here— we’d have teams come inside to complete projects, during the day—” “We’ve only been in power a matter of weeks. You really think it wise to start bringing strangers into our inner sanctum? My powers are not infallible. People can hide their true feelings from me,” I point out, my voice hardening, “and have done so in the past. I am, therefore, entirely capable of making mistakes, which means you cannot depend on me to be a foolproof defense against unknown entities, which means your plan is faulty.” Nouria sighs. “I will acknowledge that there is a very, very small chance that you might miss something, but I really feel that it might be wor—” “Absolutely not.”

“Mr. Warner.” Castle, this time. Softer. “We know this is a lot to ask. We’re not trying to put undue pressure on you. Your position here, among us, is critical. None of us know the intricacies of The Reestablishment as well as you do— none of us is as equipped to dismantle, from the inside, the North American system better than you are. We value what you bring to our team, son. We value your opinions. But you have to see that we’re running out of options. The situation is dire, and we need your support.” “And this was your plan?” I ask, almost tempted to laugh. “You really thought you could sway me with a bit of good cop, bad cop?” I look at Nouria. “And I take it you’re the bad cop?” “We have more to do than ever before,” Nouria says angrily. “We can hardly get our own cabins rebuilt. People need privacy, and proper places to sleep. We need to get the schools running again for the children. We need to stop living off generators and automat dinners.” She gesticulates wildly with her arm, accidentally knocking a stack of papers to the floor. “We’re struggling to take care of our own people—how can we be expected to take care of the people of 241, or the sectors beyond that?” She drops her emotional armor for only a second, but I feel it: the weight of her grief is profound. “We’re drowning,” she says quietly, running a hand down her face. “We need help. We lost too many of our own in the battle. The Sanctuary is falling apart, and we don’t have time to rebuild slowly. The whole world is watching us now. We need more hands on deck, more crews to come in and help us do the work. If we don’t, we’re going to fail before we’ve even had a chance to start.” For a moment, I’m silent. Nouria’s not wrong; the Sanctuary is a disaster. So, too, is the planet. I’ve already sent Haider and Stephan and Lena and the twins back to their respective continents; we needed capable proxies on the ground assessing the current situation abroad—neutralizing chaos wherever possible— and no one was better suited. Nazeera is the only one who stayed behind, claiming that Haider would be fine on his own, that she wanted to stick around for my wedding. I might’ve been flattered by this nonsense if I didn’t know she was lying. She wanted to stay here to be with Kenji.

Still, I’ve been grateful for her presence. Nazeera is smart and resourceful and has been an immense help these last couple of weeks. The Sanctuary had enough to do when it was trying only to keep its own people alive; now the entire world is looking to us for direction. Looking to Ella for direction. What they don’t know, of course, is that she’s been conscious for only four days. When she finally woke up there was so much for her to do—the world had been waiting for proof that Juliette Ferrars had survived—and despite my many, many protests, she agreed to make limited appearances, to issue statements, to begin discussing what the future might look like for the people. She insisted that we get started right away, that we put together a committee responsible for designing the world’s largest public works project —rebuilding towns, schools, hospitals. Investing in infrastructure. Creating jobs, remapping cities. On a global scale. Even so, there’s hardly been time to think about these things. I spent most of the last two weeks doing what I could to keep Ella alive while trying to put out as many fires as possible. In a moment of honesty I might even be willing to admit that Kenji’s mistake—knocking down the wrong building— was almost inevitable. There is an infinite number of things to do and never enough people to do it, or to oversee the details. Which means we’re often making mistakes. On a micro level, we’re also required to pitch in, rebuild our cabins. Cut the grass. Cook the food. Wash the dishes. Ella dragged me into the kitchen as soon as she was able, slapping a pair of questionable rubber gloves against my chest before tugging on a grimy pair of her own, all the while grinning at the gluey bottom of an oatmeal-encrusted cauldron like it was a gift. If Ella were a house, she would be a grand home, one with many rooms and doors, all of which were easily unlocked, flung open. If I were a house, I would be haunted. “And I would remind you,” Nouria says, her brittle voice returning me to the present, “that you are not the only person on earth ever to have been married. I’m sorry you can’t bear to be separated from your fiancée long enough to have a single vital discussion about our failing world, but the rest

of us must continue to move, Warner, even if it means deprioritizing your personal happiness.” Her words strike a raw nerve. “Too true,” I say quietly. “There are few, indeed, who’ve ever prioritized my personal happiness. I wouldn’t expect you to be the exception.” I regret the words the moment they’ve left my mouth. I steel myself as Nouria reels, processing my uncomfortable moment of honesty. She looks away, guilt flickering, fighting with irritation. Her anger ultimately wins the battle, but when she meets my eyes again, there’s a note of regret there, in her gaze, and I realize only then that I have been tricked. There is more. I take an imperceptible breath; the true purpose of this meeting is only now about to be revealed to me. “While we’re on the subject,” Nouria says, sparing her father an anxious glance. “I—well. I’m really sorry, Warner, but we’re going to have to postpone the wedding.” I stare at her. My body goes slowly solid, a dull panic working its way through my nervous system. I feel multiple things at once— anger, grief, confusion. A strange sort of resignation rises up above them all, crowning a familiar pain, a familiar fear: that joy, like dew, evaporates from my life the moment I begin to trust the sun. This is it, then. Par for the course. “Postpone the wedding,” I say, hollow. “Today is just turning out to be a bad day for everyone,” she says, rushing to get the words out. “There’s too much going on. There’s a major sewage problem we need to get under control, which is using up most of our manpower at the moment, and everyone else is knee-deep in other projects. We don’t have enough hands to set up or break things down—and we tried, we really tried to make it work, but we just can’t spare the generator tonight. Our electricity has been touch and go, and the temperatures are supposed to be brutal tonight; we can’t let the kids freeze in their beds.” “I don’t understand. I spoke with Brendan, he offered—”

“Brendan is drained. We’ve been relying on him too much lately. Winston has already threatened to kill me if we don’t let him sleep tonight.” “I see.” I stare at the table, then my hands. I have turned to stone, even as my heart races in my chest. “We’d need the generator for only an hour.” “An hour?” Nouria laughs, but she seems unnerved. “Have you ever been to a wedding? Outside? At night? You’d need lights and heat and music. Not to mention all that we’d have to do to get the kitchen going that late, and distributing food— We never got around to making a cake—” “I don’t need a wedding,” I say, cutting her off. I sound strange even to myself, nervous. “I just need an officiant. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” “I think it might be a big deal to Juliette.” I look up at that. I have no worthy response; I can’t speak for Ella. I’d never deny her a real wedding if it’s what she wants. The whole thing feels suddenly doomed. The day after I proposed to Ella, she was attacked by her sister, after which she fell into a coma and came home to me nearly dead. We were supposed to have been married this morning, except that her dress was destroyed, and now— “Postpone until when?” “I’m not sure, if I’m being honest.” Nouria’s nerves and apprehension are growing louder now. I try to meet her eyes, but she keeps glancing at Castle, who only shakes his head. “I was hoping maybe we could look at the calendar,” she says to me, “think about planning something when things are less crazy around here—” “You can’t be serious.” “Of course I’m serious.” “You know as well as I do,” I say angrily, “that there is no guarantee things will ever calm down around here, or that we’ll ever be able to get this situation under control—” “Well, right now is a bad time, okay?” She crosses her arms. “It’s just a bad time.” I look away. My heart seems to be racing in my head now, pounding against my skull. I feel myself dissociating— detaching from the moment— and struggle to remain present.

“Is this some kind of perverse revenge?” I ask. “Are you trying to prevent my wedding because I won’t let you bring in civilians? Because I refuse to put Juliette’s life in jeopardy?” Nouria is quiet for so long I’m forced to look up, to return my mind to itself. She’s staring at me with the strangest look in her eyes, something like guilt—or regret—washing her out completely. “Warner,” she says quietly. “It was Juliette’s idea.”

FIVE The small velvet box weighs heavy in my pocket, the right angles of which dig into my thigh as I sit here, at the edge of a short cliff, staring down at our very own graveyard. This area was built shortly after the battle—a memorial to all the lives lost. It’s become an unexpected refuge for me. Few people come through here anymore; for some, the pain is still too fresh, for others, the demands on their time too many. Either way, I’m grateful for the quiet. It was one of the only places to escape while Ella was in recovery, which meant I spent quite a bit of time acquainting myself with this view, and with my seat: a smooth, flat stretch of a massive boulder. The view from this rock is surprisingly peaceful. Today, it fails to calm me. I hear a sound then; a distant, faded trill my mind can only describe as birdsong. The dog lifts its head and barks. I stare at the animal. The dirty little creature waited for me outside the war room only to follow me here. I’ve done nothing to inspire its loyalty. I don’t know how to get rid of him. Or her. As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, the dog turns to face me, panting lightly now, looking for all the world as if it might be smiling. I’ve

hardly had a chance to digest this before it jerks away to bark once more at the sky. That oddly familiar chirp, again. I’ve heard birdsong more often lately; we all have. Castle, who’s always insisted all was not lost, claims even now that the animals had not died out entirely. He said that traditionally, birds hide during severe weather, not unlike humans. They seek shelter when experiencing illness, too, during what they believe to be the last moments of their life. He argues that the birds went into mass hiding—either from fear, or from sickness—and that now, with Emmaline’s weather manipulations gone, what’s left of them have come out of hiding. It’s not a foolproof theory, but lately it’s grown harder to deny. Even I find myself searching the sky these days, hoping for a glimpse of the impossible creature. A cold wind barrels through the valley then, pushing through my hair, snapping against my skin. It is with some regret that I realize I left my coat in the war room. The dog whimpers, nudging my leg with its nose. Reluctantly, I rest my hand on what is no doubt its flea-infested head, and the dog quiets. Its thin body curls into a tight ball at my feet, tail tapping the ground. I sigh. The day had dawned bright this morning, the sun unencumbered in the sky, but each passing hour has brought with it heavier clouds and an inescapable chill. Nouria was right; this night will be brutal. Anxious as I always am to be apart from Ella, my impulses were blunted after meeting with Castle and Nouria. Confused. I wanted nothing more than to seek out Ella; I wanted nothing more than to be alone. I ended up here, in the end—my feet carrying me when my head made no decision—staring into a valley of death, circling the drain of my mind. This morning had been agitating but rewarding; full of irritation but hope, too. I hadn’t resented the ticking clock against which I’d been marking time. In the end, the afternoon has proven empty. My evening, cleared. Save the myriad domestic and international disasters that remain unresolved, I’ve no reason to hurry anymore. I’d thought I was getting

married tonight. As it turns out, I’m not. I tug free the velvet box from my pocket, clutching it in my fist a moment before taking a sharp breath, then carefully opening the lid. I stare at the glittering contents not unlike a child witnessing fire for the first time. Naive. It’s strange: of all the reprehensible things I’ve known myself to be, I’d never thought I was stupid. I snap the lid closed, tuck the box back into my pocket. Nouria didn’t lie when she said my wedding wouldn’t happen tonight. She didn’t lie when she told me it was Ella’s idea to postpone. What I don’t understand is why Ella never mentioned this to me—or why she said nothing this morning at the dress shop. Perhaps most confusing of all: I’ve felt no hesitation from her on the matter. Surely, if she didn’t want to marry me, I’d have known. I clench my jaw against the cold. Somehow, despite the howling wind, the dog appears to have fallen asleep, its body vibrating like a small motor at my feet. I take a moment to study its patchy brown fur, noticing, for the first time, that there’s a piece missing from one of its ears. I exhale, slowly, and rest my elbows on my knees, drop my head into my hands. The small box digs deeper into my flesh. I’m trying to convince myself to get going—to return to work—when I feel Ella approach. I stiffen, then straighten. My pulse picks up. I sense her long before I see her, and when she finally comes into view my heart reacts, contracting in my chest even as my body remains motionless. She lifts a hand when she sees me, the single moment of distraction costing her a fight with a bramble. This area, like so many others, is carpeted in half-dead brush, ripe for a wildfire. Ella struggles to disentangle herself, yanking hard to free her shirt—and promptly frowns when she’s released. She studies what appears to be the torn edge of her sweater before looking up at me. She shrugs. I didn’t really care about this sweater anyway, she seems to say, and I can’t help but smile.

Ella laughs. She is windswept. The gusts are growing more aggressive, whipping her hair so that it wraps around her face as she heads in my direction. I can hardly see her eyes; only glimpses of her lips and cheeks, pink with exertion. She swipes at her dark hair with one hand, pushing at overgrown weeds with the other. She is gently rendered in this light, soft in a nondescript sweater the color of moss. Dark jeans. Tennis shoes. The light changes as she moves, the clouds fighting to hide the sun and occasionally failing. It makes the scene feel dreamlike. She looks so much like herself in this moment that it startles me; it’s almost as if she’s stepped out of some of my favorite memories. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she says breathlessly, laughing as she collapses beside me on the boulder. She smells like apricot—it’s a new shampoo—and the scent of it fills my head. She pokes me in the stomach. “Where’ve you been?” “Here.” “Very funny,” she says, but her smile fades as she studies my face. I find it difficult to meet her gaze. “Hey,” she says softly. “Hi,” I say. “What’s wrong?” I shake my head slowly. “Nothing.” “Liar,” she whispers. I close my eyes. I feel myself change when she’s near me; the effect is powerful. My body unclenches, my limbs grow heavy. All the tension I carry seems to melt away, taking with it my resolve; I become almost lethargic with relief. I take a shallow breath. “Hey,” she says again, touching her cool fingers to my face, grazing my cheek. “Who do I have to kill?” I pull away, smiling faintly at the ground when I say, “Did you tell Nouria you wanted to postpone our wedding?” Ella’s horror is immediate.

She sits back and stares at me, fear and shock and anger coalescing into a single, indistinguishable mass of feeling. I avert my eyes as she processes my question, but her reaction does quite a bit to ameliorate my headspace. Just until she says— “Yes.” I go unnaturally still. “But Nouria wasn’t supposed to tell you that.” I look up at her then. Ella is trying to hide her panic from me. She looks away, looks into her hands. I don’t understand what’s happening, and I say this out loud. Ella can’t stop shaking her head. She clasps her hands tight. “Nouria wasn’t supposed to tell you that. That wasn’t—she wasn’t—” “But it’s true.” Ella meets my eyes. “It’s technically true, yes, but she shouldn’t have— She shouldn’t have been the one to say that to you. Nouria and I discussed this a couple of days ago. I’d said that if we couldn’t—if we couldn’t pull things together in time, that maybe, maybe we could wait—” “Oh.” I squint up into the sky, searching for the sun. “I was going to tell you myself,” she says, more quietly now. “I was just waiting to know . . . more. About how today might turn out. There were some unexpected setbacks this morning, which cost us a lot of time, but I was still hoping we’d be able to figure everything out. Everyone has been working really hard—Kenji told me there was a chance we could still pull it all together today, but if Nouria—” “I see.” I push a hand through my hair, drag it down my neck. “So you discussed this with everyone? Everyone but me.” “Aaron. I’m so sorry. This sounds horrible. I hear it—I hear myself saying it, and I hear how horrible it sounds.” I take a deep, shaky breath. I don’t know what to do with my arms, or my legs. They feel prickly suddenly; all pins and needles. I want to tear them off my body. I’m staring at the ground when I say, “Have you changed your mind? About marrying me?”

“No,” she says, the word and the emotional force behind it so potent I’m compelled to look up. I see the anguish in her eyes, and I feel it, too; she seems racked with guilt and resignation, an unusual combination of feelings I can’t parse. But her love for me is palpable. She takes my hands and the feeling magnifies, flooding my body with a relief so acute I want to lie down. Something seems to unclench in my chest. “I love you,” she whispers. “I love you so much. I just want to do this right—for both of us. I want you to have a beautiful wedding. I think it matters more to you than you think.” “It doesn’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t care, love. I don’t care about any of it. I just want you. I want you to be my family.” She doesn’t argue with me. Instead, she squeezes my fingers as her emotions spiral, compound. I close my eyes against the force of it. When I finally look up again, her eyes are shining with unshed tears. The sight drives a stake into my heart. “No,” I whisper, brushing the backs of my fingers along her jaw, the skin there cold and silken. “Postpone the wedding for as long as you want. We can get married whenever you want, I don’t care.” “Aaron—” I move slowly at first, kissing her cheek and lingering there, pressing my face to the softness of her skin. There’s no one here but us. No thoughts but hers and mine. She touches my chest in response, sighing softly as she trails a hand up the back of my neck, into my hair. My body responds before my mind has had a chance to catch up. I take her face in my hands and kiss her like I’ve wanted to for days. Weeks. I nudge her mouth open and taste her, running my hands down her body now, drawing her closer. Her desires consume me as they evolve, leaving me slightly intoxicated. It’s always a heady cocktail, experiencing her like this, feeling her emotions in real time. The harder I kiss her the more she wants, the more desperate her needs become. It’s dangerous; it makes it hard to think straight, to remember where we are.

She makes a sound when I kiss her neck, a soft moan followed by the whisper of my name, and the combination incites a riot in my body. My hands are under her sweater now, grazing the satin of her skin, the clasp of her bra, and she’s reaching for me, for the button of my pants, and I can hear, but choose to ignore, the distant voice in my head telling me that there has to be a better place for this— somewhere warmer, somewhere softer, somewhere that isn’t a graveyard— The dog barks loudly, and Ella breaks away from me with a startled cry. “Oh my God,” she says, clutching a hand to her chest. “I didn’t— Oh my God. Has the dog been here this whole time?” I struggle to catch my breath. My heart is pounding in my chest. “Yes,” I say, still staring at her. I pull her back into my arms, claiming her mouth with a single-minded focus that renders the moment surreal, even for me. She’s surprised for only a second before she goes soft in my arms, breaking open, kissing me back. I haven’t touched her like this in so long—we haven’t been together like this in so long— Something registers in the back of my mind. I break away, struggling once more to breathe, hoping the muted warning bell in my head was a mistake. “What’s wrong?” Ella says, her hands going to my face. She’s still languid with pleasure, her thoughts undiluted by the noise that plagues me always. She kisses my throat, soft and slow. My eyes close. “Nothing,” I whisper, wishing more than ever that we had a bedroom—or even a proper bed. “Nothing. I just thought I heard—” “Oh my God. This is where you guys have been hiding?” I go suddenly solid, ice chasing away the heat in my veins so fast I almost shudder. “Crap,” Ella whispers. “You two have no shame, huh? You were just going to desecrate a graveyard? Can’t even keep your clothes on in this freezing weather?” “Kenji,” Ella says quietly. The word is a warning. “What?” He crosses his arms. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: gross. I think I need to go bleach my eyes.”

I help Ella to her feet, drawing an arm around her waist. “What do you want?” I say to Kenji, entirely unable to rein in my anger. “Nothing from you, buddy, thanks. I’m here because I need Juliette.” “Why?” Ella and I ask at the same time. Kenji blows out a breath, looking away once before looking back at Ella. Cryptically, he says, “I just need you to come with me, okay?” “Oh.” Her eyes widen a fraction. “Okay.” “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Do you need help?” Ella shakes her head. I feel her apprehension, but she pastes on a smile. “No, it’s nothing—just boring stuff out on unregulated turf. We actually managed to track down one of the pre-Reestablishment city planners in this area, and he’s coming by to discuss our ideas.” “Oh,” I say. Ella is hiding something. I can feel it—can feel that she’s not being entirely truthful. The realization provokes a sinking feeling in my gut that scares me. “You won’t miss me, right?” Her smile is strained. “I know you always have a ton of stuff to do.” “Yes.” I look away. “There’s always a great deal to accomplish.” A pause. “So—I’ll see you tonight?” “Tonight?” I glance at Ella, then the sun. There are still hours left before nightfall, which means she intends to be gone for all of them. My mind is overrun with doubt. First our wedding, now this. I don’t understand why Ella isn’t being honest with me. I want to say something to her, to ask her a direct question, but not here, not in front of Kenji— Ella’s emotions take a sudden turn. I look up to find her staring at me now with concern, with a palpable fear —for me. “Or I can stay here,” she says more quietly. “I don’t have to go anywhere.” “Uh, yes, princess, you do—” “Be quiet, Kenji.”

“We need you out there,” he insists, throwing his arms wide. “You have to be there—we can’t just deci—” “Aaron,” Ella says, placing a hand on my chest. “Are you going to be okay?” I stiffen, then step back. The question inspires in me a reaction I do not admire. I bristle at the sympathy in her voice, at the thought that she might think me incapable of surviving a few hours on my own. Understanding hits me with the force of a sledgehammer: Ella thinks I am broken. “I’ll be fine,” I say, unable to meet her eyes. “I have, as you said, a great deal to do.” “Oh,” she says carefully. “Okay.” I can still feel her studying me, and though I don’t know what she sees in my face, my expression appears to have convinced her that I won’t turn to dust in her absence. An approximation of the truth. A tense silence stretches out between us. “All right, great,” Ella finally says, all false brightness. “So, I’ll see you tonight? Or sooner— I mean, depending on how quickly I can—” Kenji makes a sound; something like a choked laugh. “Yeah, if I were you, I’d clear my schedule.” “Love,” I say quietly. “Are you sure everything is okay?” “Absolutely,” she says, straining to smile wider. She squeezes my hand, kissing me briefly before pulling away. “I promise. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Ella is still lying. It hits me like a blow. “Hey, sorry about the wedding, man,” Kenji says, making a face. “Who knew the downside of overthrowing a corrupt government was that we’d have absolutely no free time?” I swallow, hard, ignoring the fresh vise around my chest. “I see everyone already knows about that.” “Yeah, I mean, it was J’s idea to postpone. There’s just so much to do, and trying to have the wedding at night was going to be really complicated, and she thought it would be better to jus—”

“Kenji,” she says sharply. She shoots him a look I can’t entirely decipher, but her anger surprises me. “My bad, princess.” Kenji holds up both hands. “My bad. I didn’t realize it was controversial to let the groom know what was happening with his own wedding, but I guess I just don’t know how weddings work, do I?” He says that last part with an edge, irritation souring his expression. I have no idea what’s going on between them. Ella rolls her eyes, more frustrated with Kenji than I’ve ever seen her. She practically stomps toward him, hugging herself against the cold. I hear her mutter, “You’re going to pay for that,” before they’re off, the two of them disappearing into the distance without a backward glance. Without me. I stand there for so long after they’re gone that the sun finally moves toward the horizon, taking with it any lingering warmth. I shiver slightly as the temperatures plummet, but I can ignore the cold. I cannot, however, seem to ignore the dull ache in my chest. When I woke up this morning I’d thought this would be the happiest day of my life. Instead, as the day approaches dusk— I feel hollow. The dog barks suddenly, a series of sharp yaps in a row. When I turn to face the creature it makes an altogether different sound, something like a growl, and jumps up enthusiastically, lifting its paws to my pant leg. I give the animal a firm look, indicating with my index finger that it should disengage immediately. It sinks, slowly, back onto its feet, tail wagging. Another bark. I sigh at the sight of its eager, upturned face. “I suppose I shouldn’t be ungrateful. You seem to be the only one interested in my company today.” A bark. “Very well. You may come with me.” The dog rises up onto all four legs, panting, tail wagging harder. “But if you defecate on any interior surface—or chew up my boots, or urinate on my clothes—I will put you right back outside. You will hold your bowel movements until you are a considerable distance away from me. Is that clear?”

Another responding bark. “Good,” I say, and walk away. The dog chases after me so quickly its snout bumps my heels. I listen to the sound of its paws hitting the ground; I can hear it breathing, sniffing the earth. “First,” I tell it, “someone needs to give you a bath. Not me, obviously. But someone.” The dog gives an aggressive, eager yap at that, and I realize with a start that I’m able to get a bead on its emotions. The reading, however, is imprecise; the creature doesn’t always understand what I’m saying, so its emotional responses are inconsistent. But I see now that the dog understands essential truths. For some inexplicable reason, this animal trusts me. More perplexing: my earlier declaration made it happy. I don’t know much about dogs, but I’ve never heard of one that enjoyed being bathed. Though it occurs to me then that if the animal understood the word bath, it must once have had an owner. I come to a sudden stop, turning to study the creature: its matted brown fur, its half-eaten ear. It pauses when I do, lifting a leg to scratch behind its head in an undignified manner. I see now that it’s a boy. Otherwise, I have no idea what kind of dog this is; I wouldn’t even know how to begin classifying his species. He’s obviously some kind of mutt, and he’s either young, or naturally small. He has no collar. He’s clearly underfed. And yet, a single glance at its nether regions confirmed that the animal had been neutered. He must’ve once had a proper home. A family. Though he likely lost his owner some time ago to have been reduced to this half-feral state. I’m compelled to wonder, then, what happened. I meet the dog’s deep, dark eyes. We’re both quiet, assessing each other. “You mean to tell me that you like the idea of taking a bath?” Another happy bark. “How strange,” I say, turning once more down the path. “So do I.”

SIX By the time I step foot in the dining tent, it’s already nine o’clock. Ella has been gone several hours now, and I have succeeded only a little in distracting myself from this fact. I know, intellectually, that she is not in danger; but then, my mind has always been my fiercest adversary. All the day’s compounding uncertainties have led to a mounting apprehension in my body, the experience of which recalls the sensation of sandpaper against my skin. The worst uncertainties are the ones I cannot kill or control. In the absence of action I am forced instead to marinate in these thoughts, the anxiety abrading me more in every minute, corroding my nerves. So thorough is this excoriation that my entire body is rendered an open wound in the aftermath, so raw that even a metaphorical breeze feels like an attack. The mental exertion necessary to withstand these simple blows leaves me worse than irritable, and quick to anger. More than anything, these exhausting efforts make me want to be alone. I don’t know what’s happening anymore. I scan the dining tent as I head toward the unusually short serving line, searching for familiar faces. The interior space isn’t nearly as large as it once was; a great portion of it has been sectioned off to use for temporary sleeping arrangements. Still, the room is emptier than I expect. There are only a few people occupying the scattered dining tables, none of whom I know personally—save one. Sam. She’s sitting alone with a stack of papers and a mug of coffee, fully absorbed in her reading. I make my way through the tables to stand in the short serving line, accepting, after a brief wait, my foil bowl of food. I choose a seat for myself in a far corner of the room, sitting down with some reluctance. I waited as

long as I could to have this meal with Ella, and eating alone feels a bit like admitting defeat. It is perhaps maudlin to ruminate on this fact, to imagine myself abandoned. Still, it’s how I feel. Even the dog is gone. It disturbs me to I think I might trade the relative quiet of this room for its regular chaos if only to have Ella by my side. It’s an unnerving thought, one that does nothing but magnify my childish longing. I tear back the foil lid and stare at its contents: a single gelatinous mass of something resembling stir-fry. I set my plastic fork on the table, sit back in my seat. Nouria was right about one thing, at least. This is unsustainable. After finding someone to take the dog, I spent the afternoon catching up on digital correspondence, most of which required fielding calls and perusing reports from the supreme kids, all of whom are dealing with different—and equally concerning—dilemmas. Luckily, Nazeera helped us set up a more sophisticated network here at the Sanctuary, which has since made it easier to be in touch with our international counterparts. The Sanctuary has been great for many things, but there has been, since the beginning, a dearth of accessible technology. Omega Point, by comparison, was home to formidable, futuristic tech that was impressive even by The Reestablishment’s standards. This quality of tech, I realized, was something I’d taken for granted; as it turns out, not all rebel headquarters are built equally. When I realized the Sanctuary was to be our new, permanent home, I insisted we make changes. This was when Nouria and I first discovered the depth of our mutual dislike. Unlike Sam, Nouria is quick to wound; she is injured too easily by perceived slights against her camp—and her leadership—which has made it difficult to push for change. Progress. Still, I pushed. We took as much hardware from the local military headquarters as we were able, sacrificing what was once the elementary school tent to piece together a functioning command center, the capabilities of which were entirely unfamiliar to both Nouria and Sam, who still refuse to learn more than its most basic functions.

Lucky for them, I don’t need assistance. I do my work most days surrounded by the ancient hieroglyphics of sticky children; crayon drawings of indecipherable creatures are thumbtacked to the wall above my desk; crudely formed bees and butterflies flutter from the ceiling. I hang my jacket on a rack painted in colors of the rainbow, slinging my gun holster around the back of a small yellow chair decorated with handprints. The disturbing dichotomy is not lost on me. Still, between Nazeera and Castle—who surprised me by revealing he was the mastermind behind most of Omega Point’s innovative tech—we’re close to designing an interface that would rival what we’d built at Sector 45. I buried myself in work for hours, hardly coming up for air, not even to eat. In addition to all else, I’ve been designing a plan—a safer plan—that would help us bring in the assistance we need while mitigating our risk of exposure. Ella’s, most of all. Usually, this kind of work is enough to hold my focus. But today, of all days—a day my mind continues to remind me was meant to be my wedding day— It doesn’t matter what I do; I am distracted. I sigh, resting my hands on my thighs, too uncomfortably aware of the little velvet box still tucked into my pocket. I clench, unclench my fists. I scan the dining room again, restless with nervous energy. It’s still surprising to me how easily I shed my solitude for the privilege of Ella’s company. The truth is, I learned to enjoy the mechanics of life with her by my side; her presence renders my world brighter, the details richer. It is impossible not to feel the difference when she is gone. Still, this has been a strange and difficult day. I know Ella loves me—and I know she means it when she says she wants to be with me—but today has been ripe not merely with disappointment but also concerning obfuscations. Ella is hiding something from me, and I have been waiting all day for her to return so that I might ask her, privately, a single clarifying question that might resolve this incertitude. Until then, it’s hard to know how to feel, or what to believe. More simply: I miss her.

I regret even relinquishing the dog. Upon my return from the gravesite, I searched the grounds for a familiar face—to find someone to take him—and despite my efforts, I couldn’t find anyone I recognized. There’s a great deal of work to do in the previously unregulated areas outside the Sanctuary, so it’s not surprising to see people gone; I was only surprised to find myself disappointed. All I’ve wanted for so long was a single moment of quiet, and now that I have it in abundance, I’m not sure I want it. The realization has quietly shocked me. Regardless, I was about to abandon the idea of bathing the animal when a nervous young woman approached me, her face as red as her hair as she stammered aloud a suspicion that I might need help. I appreciated the effort on her part, but the conversation was far from ideal. The girl turned out to be a part of a persistent, ridiculous subsection of people here at the Sanctuary, a lingering group of men and women who still insist on treating me like I’m some kind of a hero. I fought off my father’s supreme soldiers in a failed attempt at protecting Ella, and these wellmeaning fools have somehow idealized this failure; one of the worst days of my life now fossilized in their memories as a day that should be celebrated. It makes me ill. They’ve romanticized me in their minds, these people, romanticized the very idea of my existence, and often objectify me in the process. Every time I looked this young woman in the eye she would visibly tremble, her feelings both indecent and sincere, the mixture of which was almost too uncomfortable to recount. I thought she might be more at ease if I stared at the animal as I spoke, which I did, and which seemed to calm her. I told her about the dog— explaining that he needed a bath, and food—and which she generously offered to take into her care. As I sensed no actual danger from the girl, I accepted her overture. “Does he have a name?” she’d asked. “He is a dog,” I’d said, frowning as I looked up. “You may call him a dog.”

The young woman froze at that, at our sudden eye contact. I watched her pupils dilate as she grappled with an emotional combination too often flung in my direction: abject terror and desire. It confirmed for me then what I’ve always known to be true—that most people are disappointing and should be avoided. She said nothing to me after that, only scooping up the reluctant, whining animal into her trembling arms and shuffling away. I’ve not seen either of them since. It would not be an exaggeration to say that this day has been a thorough disappointment. I push back my chair and get to my feet, taking the foil bowl to go; I plan to save the food-adjacent mass for the dog, should I ever see him again. I glance up at the large clock on the wall, noting that I managed only to kill another thirty minutes. Quietly, I acknowledge I should accept this day for the nonevent it turned out to be—and, as it appears unlikely I will see Ella tonight, I should go to bed. Still, I’m demoralized by this turn of events; so much so that it takes me a moment to realize Sam is calling my name. I pivot in her direction. She’s waving me over, but I have no interest in a conversation right now. I want nothing more than to retreat, fester in my wounds. Instead, I force myself to clear the short distance between us, unable to generate even a modicum of warmth as I approach. I stare at her by way of hello. Sam is even more exhausted than I first assumed, her eyes held up by lavender half-moons. Her skin is grayer than I’ve ever seen it, her short blond hair limp, falling into her face. She spares no time for formalities, either. “Have you read the recent incident reports from”—she looks down at her papers, rubbing one eye with the palm of her hand—“18, 22, 36, 37, 142 through 223, and 305?” “Yes.” “Have you noticed what they all have in common?” I sigh, feeling my body tense anew when I say, “Yes.”

Sam folds her arms atop her stack of papers, peering up at me from her seat. “Great. Then you’ll understand why we need Juliette to tour the continent. She has to make appearances—physical appearances—” “No.” “They are rioting in the streets, Warner.” Sam’s voice is unusually hard. “Against us. Not against The Reestablishment—against us!” “People are impatient and ungrateful,” I say sharply. “Worse: they are stupid. They don’t understand that change takes time. Clearly they assumed that the fall of The Reestablishment would bring instant peace and prosperity to the world, and in the two weeks since we’ve been in power, they can’t understand why their lives haven’t miraculously improved.” “Yes, okay, but the solution isn’t in ignoring them. These people need hope—they need to see her face—” “She’s done televised broadcasts. She’s made a couple of local appearances—” “It’s not enough,” Sam says, cutting me off. “Listen. We all know the only reason Juliette isn’t doing more is because of you. You’re so worried about keeping her safe that you’re putting our entire movement in jeopardy. She did this, Warner. It was her choice to take on The Reestablishment— it was her choice to carry this burden. The world needs her now, which means you have to get your shit together. You have to be braver than this.” I stiffen at that, at the surgical precision of her blade. I say nothing. Sam exhales in the wake of my silence, something like a laugh. “You think I don’t understand what it’s like to be with someone whose life is constantly in danger? You think I don’t understand how terrifying it is to watch them step foot out the door every day? Do you have any idea how many attempts have been made on Nouria’s life?” Still, I say nothing. “It’s really fucking hard,” she says angrily, surprising me with her language. Sam pushes both hands through her hair before rubbing her eyes again. “It’s really, really, really hard.” “Yes,” I say quietly.

She meets my eyes then. “Look. I know you’re not doing this on purpose. I know you only want the best for her. But you’re holding her back. You’re holding all of us back. I don’t know exactly what you two have been through —whatever it was, it must’ve been serious, because Juliette’s clearly more worried for you than she is for herself, but—” “What?” I frown. “That’s not—” “Trust me. She and I have had a lot of conversations about this. Juliette doesn’t want to do anything to scare you. She thinks you’re processing something right now— she wouldn’t tell me what—and she’s adamant that she won’t do anything risky until she’s sure you can handle it. Which means I need you to handle it. Now.” “I’m doing fine,” I say, my jaw clenching. “Wonderful.” Sam generates a smile. “If you’re doing fine, go ahead and tell her that. Encourage Juliette to go on an international tour—or at minimum, a national one. Juliette knows how to talk to crowds; when she’s looking people in the eye they believe her. I know you’ve seen it. In fact, you probably know better than anyone that no one cares more about these people than she does. She genuinely cares about their families, their futures —and right now, the world needs a reminder. They need reassurance. Which means you have to let her do her job.” I feel my heart rate spike. “I would never keep her from doing her job. I just want her to be safe.” “Yes—you prioritize her safety above all else, to the detriment of the world. You’re making decisions from a place of fear, Warner. You can’t help heal the planet if you’re only thinking about what’s best for one person—” “I never got into this to heal the planet,” I say sharply. “I have never pretended to care about the future of our pathetic civilization, and if you ever took me for a revolutionary, that was your mistake. I see now that I have to make something clear, so remember this: I would happily watch the world go up in flames if anything happened to her, and if that’s not enough for you, you can go to hell.” Sam shoves back her chair so fast it makes a piercing, skin-crawling screech that echoes around the near-empty dining tent. She’s on her feet now, boring a hole in the floor with the heat of her anger. The few faces still dotting the room turn to look at us; I feel their surprise, their mounting

curiosity. Sam is diminutive in stature, but fierce when she chooses to be, and right now she looks as if she’s considering killing me with her bare hands. “You are not special,” she says. “You are not the only one of us who’s ever suffered. You’re not the only one who lies awake at night worrying for the safety of their loved ones. I have no sympathy for your pain, or your problems.” “Good,” I say, more than matching her anger. “As long as we understand each other.” Sam shakes her head and throws up her hands, looking for a moment like she might laugh. Or cry. “What on earth does she see in you? You’re nothing but a callous, coldhearted narcissist. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. I hope you know how lucky you are that Juliette tolerates your presence. You wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for her. I sure as hell wouldn’t vouch for you.” I lower my eyes, absorbing these blows with studied indifference. My body is not unlike the moon, cratered so thoroughly by brutality it’s hard to imagine it untouched by violence. “Good night,” I say quietly, and turn to leave. I hear Sam sigh, her regret building as I walk away. “Warner, wait,” she says, calling after me. “I’m sorry—that was over the line— It’s been a long day, I didn’t mean—” I don’t look back.

SEVEN I’m sandwiched between two thin blankets on the frozen floor of this hospital room, eyes closed, pretending to sleep, when I hear the soft whine of the door, Ella’s familiar presence entering the room. It’s hours past midnight.

She brings with her the faint smell of something slightly chemical, which confuses me, but more important: I feel her fear as she tiptoes into the space, all displaced by a sudden relief when she catches sight, no doubt, of my prone body. Relief. I don’t understand. She is relieved to discover me asleep. She is relieved she doesn’t have to speak with me. The pressure in my chest intensifies. I listen to the sounds of her shedding her shoes and clothes in the dark, wondering how best I might shatter the silence, bracing myself for her surprise—then disappointment—to discover I am awake. I give her a moment, hearing the familiar sounds of sheets rustling. I’m imagining her climbing into the narrow hospital bed, tucking herself under the covers, when her emotions pivot without warning: she experiences a sharp, stunning wave of happiness. Somehow, this only scares me more. Ella is not merely relieved, then, but happy to have evaded me. She’s happy to be going to sleep without being disturbed. My heart races faster, dread multiplying. I’m almost afraid to say anything now, knowing that the sound of my voice would only prompt the demolition of her joy. Still, I have to speak with her. I need to know what’s happening between us—and I’m preparing to say as much when I hear her breathing change. She is already asleep. I have been lying awake fully clothed, sinking into darkness for hours. Ella has fallen asleep in moments. I feel frozen. Fastened to this cold floor by fear, familiar pins and needles sparking to life in my limbs. My eyes fly open; I can’t seem to breathe. I hadn’t known what to do with the jewelry box in my pocket. I was afraid to leave it somewhere, worried it might be misplaced, or discovered. It remains with me instead, branding my leg with its presence, reminding me of all that feels suddenly and terrifyingly lost.

Unconsciously, I reach for an altogether different piece of jewelry, my fingers finding the smooth stone of the jade ring in the dark, the piece so much a part of me now that I can’t remember what my hand looks like without it. I spin the cold band around my pinkie finger in a familiar, repetitive motion, wondering whether it has been a mistake, all these years, to keep this token of grief so close to my skin. The ring had been a gift from my mother; it was the only present I’d ever received as a child. And yet, the memories associated with this object are so dark and painful— reminders in every moment of my father’s tyranny, my mother’s suffering, my grandfather’s betrayal— I have often wanted to lock away this memento of my tortured childhood. Touching it even now reminds me of versions of myself—six years old, then seven, eight, nine, and on and on—that once clutched it desperately even as I screamed, explosive pain branching across my back, over and over. For a long time, I hadn’t wanted to forget. The ring reminded me always of my father’s brutality, of the hatred that motivated me to stay alive if only to spite him. More than that, it is all I have left of my mother. And yet, perhaps this ring has tethered me to my own darkness, this symbol of infinite repetition fated to conjure, forever, the agonies of my past. Sometimes I fear I will be trapped forever in this cycle: incapable of happiness, inseparable from my demons. I close my eyes, scenes from the day replaying as if on an automatic loop. I seem doomed to relive the events in perpetuity, combing them for answers, for evidence of anything that might explain what’s happening to my life. And despite my best efforts to shut them out, I recall Sam’s voice, then Kenji’s— You’re nothing but a callous, coldhearted narcissist. I hope you know how lucky you are that Juliette tolerates your presence. I’m sick of your attitude. I’m sick of making excuses for your crappy behavior. I just don’t know what she sees in you. What on earth does she see in you?

EIGHT When I open my eyes, the light is filtering through the half-closed curtains, blinding me. I can tell just by its position in the room that the sun is new; the morning is young. I don’t know when I fell asleep; I don’t even know how I managed to accomplish this feat except through sheer exhaustion. My body succumbed to the need even as my mind refused, protesting this decision with a series of nightmares that begin to replay as I sit up, closing my eyes against the glare. I spent the night outrunning an indecipherable natural disaster. It was that vintage of vague dream-element that makes sense only in the dream and none at all upon waking. I couldn’t stop running. I had no choice but to keep moving for fear of being decimated by the impending calamity, searching all the while for Ella, from whom I had been separated. When I finally heard her voice it was from high above: Ella was sitting in a tree, far from danger, staring happily at the clouds as I ran for my life. The disaster—something like a tornado or tsunami or both—increased in intensity, and I picked up speed, unable to slow down long enough to speak with her, or even to climb the tree, whose trunk was so impossibly tall I couldn’t understand how she’d scaled it. In a desperate effort I called her name, but she didn’t hear me; she was turned away, laughing, and I realized then that Kenji was sitting in the tree with her. So was Nazeera, who’d no doubt flew them both to safety. I screamed Ella’s name once more, and this time she turned at the sound of my voice, meeting my eyes with a kind smile. I finally stopped then, falling to my knees from overexertion. Ella waved at me just as I was pulled under. A sharp knock at the hospital door has me upright in a moment, my mind on a delay even as my instincts sharpen. I notice only then that Ella is not

here. Her rumpled hospital sheets are the only evidence she ever was. I drag a hand down my face as I head for the door, faintly aware that I’m still in the clothes I was wearing yesterday. My eyes are dry, my stomach empty, my body exhausted. I am wrung out. I open the door, so surprised to see Winston’s face that I take a step back. I seldom—if ever—speak with Winston. I’ve never had any specific reason to dislike him, but then, he and I are ill-acquainted. I don’t even know if I’ve ever seen his face from so close a distance. “Wow,” he says, blinking at me. “You look like shit.” “Good morning.” “Right. Yeah. Good morning.” He takes a deep breath and attempts a smile, adjusting his black glasses for no reason but nerves. Winston, I’m baffled to discover, is very nervous to be near me. “Sorry, I was just surprised,” he says, rushing his words. “You’re usually really—you know, like, put together. Anyway you might want to take a shower before we get going.” I’m so unable to process the absurdity—or the audacity— of this request, that I close the door in his face. Turn the lock. The pounding begins immediately after. “Hey,” he says, shouting to be heard. “I’m serious— I’m supposed to take you to breakfast this morning, but I really th—” “I don’t need a chaperone,” I say, pulling off my sweater. This hospital room is one of the larger ones, with an en suite, industrial bathroom/shower combination. “And I don’t need you to remind me to bathe.” “I didn’t mean it as an insult! Damn.” A nervous laugh. “Literally everyone tried to warn me that you were hard to deal with, but I thought maybe they were exaggerating, at least a little. That was my mistake. Listen, you look fine. You don’t smell or anything. I just think you’ll want to take a shower—” “Again, I don’t need your advice on this matter.” I’m stepping out of my pants, folding them carefully to contain the small box still trapped in the pocket. “Leave.”

I turn on the shower, the sound of which distorts Winston’s voice. “Come on, man, don’t make this difficult. I was the only one willing to come get you this morning. Everyone else was too afraid. Even Kenji said he was too tired today to deal with your shit.” I hesitate then. I abandon the bathroom, returning to the closed door in only my boxer briefs. “Come get me for what?” I feel Winston startle at the sound of my voice, so close. He equivocates, saying only: “Um, yeah, I can’t actually tell you.” A terrifying unease moves through me at that. Winston’s guilt and fear is palpable, his anxiety growing. Something is wrong. I glance one last time at Ella’s empty bed before unlatching the lock. I’m only dimly aware of my appearance, that I’m opening the door in my underwear. I’m reminded swiftly of this fact when Winston does an exaggerated double take upon seeing me. He quickly averts his eyes. “Fucking hell—why did you have to take off your clothes?” “What is going on?” I ask coldly. “Where is Juliette?” “What? I don’t know.” Winston is turned away entirely now, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “And I’m not allowed to tell you what’s going on.” “Why not?” He looks up at that, meeting my eyes for only a nanosecond before turning sharply away; a mottled heat rushes up his neck, burns his ears. “Please, for the love of God,” he says, yanking off his glasses to rub at his face. “Put on some clothes. I can’t talk to you like this.” “Then leave.” Winston only shakes his head, crossing his arms against his chest. “I can’t. And I can’t tell you what’s going on, because it’s supposed to be a surprise.” The fight leaves my body in a single gust, leaving me light-headed. “A surprise?”

“Can you please go take a shower? I’ll wait for you outside the MT. Just —just show up with your clothes on. Please.” I let the door slam shut between us, then stare at it, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. There’s a wave of relief from Winston, then a flicker of happiness. He seems—excited. I finally walk away, stepping out of my underwear and tossing it into a nearby laundry bin before entering the quickly steaming bathroom. I catch my reflection in the floor-length mirror affixed to the wall, my face and body being devoured slowly by steam. It’s supposed to be a surprise. For a protracted moment, I can’t seem to move. My eyes, I notice, are dilated in this dim light—darker. I look slightly different to myself, my body hardening by degrees every day. I’ve always been toned, but this is different. My face has lost any lingering softness. My chest is broader, my legs more firmly planted. These slight changes in muscle definition, in vascularity— I can see myself getting older. Our research for The Reestablishment indicated that there was once a time when the twenties were considered the prime years of youth. I always struggled to visualize this world, one wherein teenagers were treated like children, where those in their twenties felt young and carefree, their futures boundless. It sounded like fiction. And yet—I have often played this game in the privacy of my mind. In another world, I might live in a house with my parents. In another world, I might not even be expected to have a job. In another world, I might not know the weight of death, might never have held a gun, shot a bullet, killed so many. The thoughts register as absurd even as I think them: that in an alternate universe I might be considered some kind of adolescent, free from responsibility. Strange. Was there ever truly a world wherein parents did the job expected of them? Was there ever a reality in which the adults were not murdered merely

for resisting fascism, leaving their young children behind to raise themselves? Here, we are nearly all of us a contingent of orphans roaming—then running—this broken planet. I often imagine what it would be like to step into such an alternate reality. I wonder what it would be like to set down the weight of darkness in exchange for a family, a home, a refuge. I abandon my reflection to step under the hot water. I never thought I’d come close to touching such a dream; I never thought I’d be able to trust, or love, or find peace. I’ve been searching for so long for a pocket of quiet to inhabit, a place to exist unencumbered. I always wanted a door I might close—for even a moment—against the violence of the world. I didn’t understand then that a home is not always a place. Sometimes, it’s a person. I would sleep on the cold floor of our hospital room for the rest of my life if it meant staying by Ella’s side. I can forgo quiet. I can compartmentalize my need for space. My desire for privacy. But to lose her— I close my eyes against the water pressure, the jet forging tributaries against my face, my body. The heat is a balm, welcome against my skin. I want to burn off the residue of yesterday. I want an explanation for all that happened—or even to forget it altogether. When things are out of alignment between myself and Ella, I can’t focus. The world seems colorless; my bones too large for my body. All I want, more than anything else, is to bridge the distance between us. I want this uncertainty gone. I turn my face up toward the jet, closing my eyes as the water pelts my face. I breathe deep, drawing in water and steam, trying to steady my heartbeat. I know better than to be optimistic, but even as I forbid myself to think it, I cannot help but reflect that the word surprise is seldom associated with something negative. It might’ve been a poor choice of words on Winston’s part, but his moment of excitement seemed to confirm this choice; he might’ve chosen a

more pejorative term had he wished to manage my expectations of disappointment. Despite my every silent protest, hope takes hold of me, forces from me the dregs of my composure. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, the water beating the scars on my back. I can hardly feel it, the sensations there dulled from nerve damage. Scar tissue. I straighten at a sudden sound. I turn, heart racing, at the soft shudder of the bathroom door opening. I already know it’s her. I always feel her before I can see her, and when I see her—when she opens the bathroom door and stands there, smiling at me— My relief is so acute I reach for the wall, bracing myself against the cold tile. Ella is holding two mugs of coffee, dressed the way she often is: in a soft sweater and jeans, her dark brown hair so long now it skims her elbows. She grins at me, then disappears into the outer room, and I start to follow her, nearly slipping in my haste. I catch the doorframe to steady myself, watching as she rests the coffee mugs on a nearby table. She slips off her tennis shoes. Tugs off her socks. When she pulls her sweater over her head, I have a minor heart attack. She’s facing away from me, but her back is bare. She’s not wearing a bra. “You were sound asleep this morning,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at me as she unbuttons her jeans. “I was afraid to wake you up. I went out to get us some coffee, but the line at breakfast was really long. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” She shimmies out of her jeans then, tugging them down over her hips. She’s wearing a scrap of lace masquerading as underwear, and I watch, immobilized, as she bends over to yank off the last of the jeans, pulling her feet free. When she turns around, I’m struggling to breathe. She’s so beautiful I can hardly look at her; I feel as if I’ve stepped into some strange dream, the debilitating fears that gripped me yesterday somehow forgotten in a moment. Heat courses through me at a dangerous speed, my mind unable to grasp what my body clearly understands. There’s so much I still need to say to her—so much I remember wanting to ask her. But when she steps out of her underwear and walks through the open

bathroom door, into the shower, and then directly into my arms, I remember nothing. My brain shuts down. Her soft, naked body is pressed against every hard inch of mine, and suddenly I want nothing, nothing but this. The need is so great it actually feels like it might break me. “Hey, handsome,” she says, peering up at me. She runs her hands down my back, then lower. I can hear her smile. “You look too good in here to be all by yourself.” I can’t speak. She takes my hand, still smiling, and rests it against her breast before slowly guiding it down her body; she’s showing me exactly what she wants from me. How she wants it. But I already know. I know where she wants my hands. I know where she wants my mouth. I know where she wants me most of all. I take her into my arms, hitching her leg around my thigh before I kiss her, breaking her open. She’s so soft, slick, and eager in my arms, kissing me back with an urgency that drives me wild. I tilt her head back as I break away, kissing her neck, then lower; slowly, carefully, replacing my hands with my mouth everywhere on her body. Her desperate, anguished sounds send shock waves of pleasure through me, setting me on fire. She reaches behind her, searching for purchase against the tile wall, her back arching with pleasure. I love the way she loses herself with me, the way she lets go, trusting me completely with her needs, her pleasure. I never feel closer to her than when we’re so entwined, when there’s nothing but openness and love between us. She touches me then, gently wraps her hand around me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hardly able to contain the sound I make, low in my throat. All I can think in this moment is that I don’t want this to be over; I want to be trapped in here for hours, her slick body against mine, her voice in my ear begging me, as she is now, to make love to her. “Please,” she says, still touching me. “Aaron—”

I sink down, without warning, onto my knees. Ella steps back, confused for all of a second before her eyes widen with understanding. “Come here, love.” Ella is hesitant at first. I feel her sudden shyness, desire, and selfconsciousness colliding, and I study her as she stands there, the sheen of her wet curves in this light, her long dark hair painted to her skin. Hot drops of water race down her breasts, skim her navel. She’s dripping wet, so gorgeous I hardly know what to do with myself. She makes her way over to me slowly, her cheeks pink with heat, her eyes dark with need. I intercept her once she’s standing in front of me, planting my hands around her hips. I look up at her in time to see her blush, a moment of self-consciousness gone in seconds. She’s soon gasping my name, her hands in my hair, at the back of my neck. She’s already so wet, so ready for me; the sight of her—the taste of her—it’s too much. I feel like I’m detaching from my mind as I watch her lose herself. I can feel her legs shaking as she cries out for more, for me, and when she comes she stifles her scream in my hair. I’m on my feet a moment later, capturing the last of her cries with my mouth, kissing her as she trembles in my arms, her harsh breaths slowing down. Ella reaches for me even then, touches me until I’m blind with pleasure. She pushes me, gently, up against the wall, kissing my throat, running her hands down my chest, my torso, and then she sinks to her knees in front of me, taking me into her mouth— I make a tortured sound, grasping at the wall, hardly able to breathe. The pleasure is white-hot; all-encompassing. I can’t think around it. I can hardly see straight. And for a moment I think I’ve actually lost my mind, separated from my body. “Ella,” I gasp. “I want you,” she says, breaking away, her words hot against my skin. “Please—now—” My heart still pounding in my chest, I step aside. Turn off the shower. Ella startles, surprised even as she gets to her feet. I step past her to grab a towel for each of us and she accepts hers with some confusion, refusing to dry herself off. “But—”

I scoop her up without a word and she squeaks, half laughing as I carry her over to the single bed in our room. I lay her down carefully, and she looks up at me, eyes wide with wonder, her wet hair plastered to her skin, water dripping everywhere. I couldn’t care less if we flooded this room. I join her on the bed, carefully straddling her damp, gleaming body before leaning down to kiss her, this need so brutal it’s almost indistinguishable from anguish. I touch her while I kiss her, stroking her slowly at first, then deeper, more urgent. She whimpers against my mouth, urging me closer, lifting her hips. I move inside her with painstaking slowness, the pleasure so profound it seems to sever my connection to reality. “God, you feel so good,” I say, hardly recognizing the ragged sound of my own voice. “I can’t believe you’re mine.” She only moans my name in response, her arms wrapped tight around my neck as she pulls me closer. I can feel her growing torment, her need for release as great as my own. We find a rhythm as we move. Ella hooks her legs around my waist, and she doesn’t stop kissing me; my mouth, my cheeks, my jaw—any part of me she can reach—her feverish touches interrupted only by desperate pleas begging me for more—faster, harder— “I love you,” she says desperately. “I love you so much—” I let go when I feel her come apart, losing myself in the moment with a stifled cry, my body seizing as it succumbs to this, the most acute form of pleasure. I bury my face in her chest, listening to the sound of her racing heart for only a moment before disengaging myself, for fear of crushing her. Somehow the two of us manage, just barely, to squeeze in together on the narrow bed. Ella tucks herself into my side, pressing her face against my neck, and I reach for the insubstantial covers, drawing them up around us. She grazes my chest with the tips of her fingers, drawing patterns, and this single action ignites a low heat deep inside me. I could do this all day.

I don’t care what happened yesterday. I don’t need an explanation. None of it seems to matter anymore, not when she’s here with me. Not when her naked body is wrapped up in mine, not when she draws her hands along my skin, touching me with a tenderness that tells me everything I need to know. All I want is this. Her. Us. I don’t even realize I’ve fallen asleep until her voice startles me awake. “Aaron,” she whispers. It takes me a moment to open my eyes, to find my voice. I turn toward her as if in a dream, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Yes, love?” “There’s something I want to show you.”

NINE The morning is cool and serene, everything limned in golden light. Touches of dew dot leaves and grass, the sun still stretching itself into the sky. The air is fresh with scents I cannot adequately describe; it’s an amalgam of early morning fragrances, the familiar smell of the world shuddering awake. That I notice these things at all is unusual; it is clear, even to me, that my mood is greatly improved. Ella is holding my hand. She’s been buoyant this morning. She got dressed even more quickly than I did, tugging me out the door with an enthusiasm that almost made me laugh. Winston, who we discover waiting for us just outside the medical tent, possesses a range of emotions diametrically opposed. He says nothing when Ella and I approach, first taking in the two of us, then glancing at his watch. “Hey, Winston,” Ella says, still beaming. “What are you doing here?” “Who, me?” He points at himself, feigning shock. “Oh, nothing. Just waiting out here for this jackass”—he shoots me a dark look—“for over an hour.”

“What? Why?” Ella frowns. “And don’t call him a jackass.” I process this exchange with some confusion. I’d not realized until just that moment how much I’d been hoping Winston’s appearance at my door had something to do with Ella. I see now that it does not. “Winston came to our room this morning,” I explain to her. “He told me he had . . . a surprise for me.” Ella’s frown deepens. “A surprise?” “An hour ago,” Winston adds angrily. “Yes,” I say, meeting his eyes. “An hour ago.” He visibly clenches his jaw. “You really are the worst, you know that? I mean, everyone is always telling me that you’re the worst—not that I’ve ever doubted it—but wow, this morning has just proven to me how completely self-absorbed you are. I can’t believe I even offered to come get —” “Winston.” Ella’s voice is quiet, carefully controlled, but her anger is loud. I turn to look at her, not surprised, exactly, but— Yes, surprised. I’m still unfamiliar with this dynamic. I’m still not used to someone taking my side. “Look,” she says. “Warner might be too nice to say anything when you talk to him like that—” Winston sounds for a moment like he’s choking. “—but I’m not. So don’t. Not only because it’s awful, but because you’re wrong.” Winston is still staring at Ella, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry— You think he’s too nice to say anything? You think the reason Warner gets all quiet and gives people death stares is because he’s too nice? To say anything?” Winston glances at me. “Him?” I am smiling. Ella is indignant, Winston is furious, and I am smiling. Very nearly laughing. “Yes,” Ella says, refusing to back down. “You guys are too comfortable bullying him.”

Winston looks around himself a moment, for all the world as if he’s entered some alternate universe. He opens his mouth to say something, looks at me, looks away, and then crosses his arms. “You heard what he was like, right?” he finally says to Ella. “When you were gone? You heard all the stories about how h—” “Yes,” she says, her voice darker now. “I heard exactly what happened.” “And? So you know about all the people he murdered and how horrible he was to everyone and how he made a ton of people here cry and how Nouria nearly shot him for it—and you think we are the ones bullying him? That’s what you think is happening here?” “Clearly.” “And you,” Winston says, turning to face me, his eyes narrowing with barely suppressed anger. “You agree with this assessment of your character?” I smile wider. “Yes.” “Wow, you really are an asshole.” “Winston—” “He made me wait out here for an hour! And this was after I told him I had a surprise for him, and after he slammed the door in my face—multiple times.” Winston shakes his head. “You should’ve heard him. He’s so scathing—so rude—” “Hey, what the hell is going on over here?” Kenji is stalking toward us. “And where have you been?” he says to Ella. “We’re all waiting for you guys!” “Waiting for us?” I ask. “For what?” Kenji throws up his arms in frustration. “Oh my God. You haven’t told him yet?” he says to Ella. “What are you waiting for? Listen, I thought this idea was dumb to begin with, but now it’s just getting ridiculous—” “I was going to tell him this morning,” she says, tensing. “I just haven’t had a chance yet. We’ve been busy—” “I bet you were, princess,” Kenji says, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Why is your hair wet?” “I took a shower.” “You took a shower,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Really.”

“Okay— What is going on?” I ask, glancing between Ella and the others as a familiar dread moves up my spine. “Is this about the surprise?” “The surprise?” Kenji is confused only a moment before understanding alights in his eyes. He looks at Winston. “Wait—I thought we sent you to go get him an hour ago?” Winston explodes. “This is exactly what I’ve been trying to say— This son of a bitch made me wait outside the MT for an hour, even though I was perfectly nice to him, despite my better judgment—” “Fucking hell,” Kenji mutters angrily, pushing his hands through his hair. “As if we didn’t have enough going on today.” He turns to me. “You made Winston wait an entire hour just to give you the damn dog?” “The dog?” I frown. “The dog is the surprise? How is it a surprise if I already know it exists?” “Wait, what dog?” Ella looks at me, then at the others. “You mean the dog from yesterday?” “Yeah.” Kenji sighs. “Yara took the dog last night. She gave him a bath, scrubbed him up. She got him a collar and everything. She really wanted it to be a surprise for Warner and made us promise not to say anything about it. The dog is wearing a stupid bow on his head right now.” Ella has stiffened beside me. “Who’s Yara?” Her faint, almost undetectable note of jealousy— possessiveness—only cements my smile in place. “You know Yara,” Kenji says to Ella. “Redhead? Tall? Runs the school group? You’ve talked to her—” Kenji catches sight of my face and cuts himself off. “And what the hell are you smiling about? You’ve messed up our entire schedule, dickhead. We’re an hour behind on everything now, all becau—” “Stop,” Ella says angrily. “Stop calling him names. He’s not a dickhead. He’s not a jackass. He’s not self-absorbed. I don’t know why you guys think it’s okay to just say whatever terrible things you want about him—to his face — as if he’s made of stone. You all do it. You all insult him over and over again and he just takes it—he doesn’t even say anything—and somehow you’ve convinced yourselves it’s okay. Why? He’s a real, flesh-and-blood

person. Why don’t you care? Why don’t you think he has feelings? What the hell is wrong with you?” My smile is gone in an instant. I experience a strange pain then, a sensation not unlike dissolving slowly from the inside. This feeling sharpens to a point, piercing me. I turn to look at Ella. She seems to sense the change in me; for a moment, they all do. I feel a vague mortification at that, at the realization that I’ve somehow exposed myself. The proceeding silence is brief but torturous, and when Ella wraps her arms around my waist, hugging me close even in the midst of all this, I hear Winston clear his throat. Tentatively, I lift a hand to her head, drawing it slowly down her hair. I worry, sometimes, that my love for her will expand beyond the limitations of my body, that it will one day kill me with its heft. Kenji averts his eyes. He is subdued when he says, “Yeah. Um, anyway, last I checked, the dog was in the dining tent, eating breakfast with everyone.” Another awkward beat, and Winston sighs. “Should I go get Yara? Do we even have time?” “I don’t think so,” Kenji says. “I think we should tell her to keep the dog until after.” “After what?” I ask, trying to read the maelstrom of emotions around me and failing. “What’s going on?” Kenji blows out a breath. He looks exhausted. “J, you have to tell him.” She pulls away from me, panicked in an instant. “But I had a plan—I was going to take him there first—” “We don’t have time for this, princess. You waited too long, and now it’s officially a problem. Tell him what’s happening.” “Right now? While you’re standing here?” “Yes.” “No way.” She shakes her head. “You have to at least give us some privacy.” “Absolutely not.” Kenji crosses his arms. “I’ve given you tons of privacy, and you’ve proven you can’t be trusted. If I leave you two alone together

you’ll either end up in bed or accomplish nothing, neither of which are conducive to our goals.” “Was that really necessary?” I say, irritated. “Did you really feel the need to comment on our private life?” “When it costs us an hour of our lives, yes,” Winston says, moving, in an act of solidarity, to stand next to Kenji. He even crosses his arms against his chest, matching Kenji’s stance. “Go ahead.” He nods at Ella. “Tell him.” Ella looks nervous. Winston and Kenji are an irritated, impatient audience; they stare us down, unrelenting, and I don’t even know whether to be angry about it— because the truth is, I want to know what’s going on, too. I want Ella to tell me what’s happening. I look from her to them, my heart pounding in my chest. I have no idea what she’s about to say. No idea whether this revelation will be good or bad —though her nerves seem to indicate something is wrong. I brace myself as I watch her take a deep breath. “Okay,” she says, exhaling. “Okay.” Another quick breath and she remembers to look at me, this time pasting an anxious smile on her face. “So —I didn’t want to tell you like this, but I’d been thinking for a little while about how to do this in the best possible way, because I wanted everything to be right, you know? Right for both of us—and also, I didn’t want it be anticlimactic. I didn’t want this big thing to happen and then it was just, like, we go back to the status quo—I wanted it to feel special—like something was going to change—and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, it was supposed to be a surprise, but it just wasn’t ready in time, and if I’d told you about it, it wouldn’t have been a surprise anymore, and Kenji kept insisting that I tell you anyway but I just—I’m sorry about yesterday, by the way, and I’m sorry about Nouria—I’ve been planning this whole thing with her since I woke up, practically, but she wasn’t supposed to say anything to you, and she knows she wasn’t supposed to say anything to you, because she and I had an agreement that I was supposed to tell you what was going on but yesterday I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen and I was waiting for more information because we were still trying really hard to make everything work in time but I know how important it is to you t—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Winston mutters. Kenji shouts: “You two are getting married today.” I turn sharply, stunned, to look at them. “Kenji, what the hell—” “You were taking too long—” “We’re getting married today?” I turn back to meet Ella’s eyes, my heart pounding now for an entirely new reason. A better reason. “We’re getting married today?” “Yes,” she says, blushing fiercely. “I mean—only if you want to.” I smile at her then, smile so wide I start laughing, disbelief rendering me foreign even to myself. I hardly recognize this sound. The sensations moving through my body right now—it’s hard to explain. The relief flooding my veins is intoxicating; I feel as if someone punched a hole through my chest in the best possible way. This is some kind of madness. I’m trying, but I can’t stop laughing. “Huh,” says Winston quietly. “I didn’t even know his face could do that.” “Yeah,” Kenji says. “It’s super weird the first time you see it.” “I can’t look away. I’m trying to look away and I can’t. It’s like if a baby was born with a full set of teeth.” “Yes! Exactly. It’s exactly like that!” “But nice, too.” “Yeah.” Kenji sighs. “Nice, too.” “Hey, did you know he had dimples? I didn’t know he had dimples.” “C’mon, man, that’s old news—” “Could you two just—please—be quiet for a second?” Ella says, squeezing her eyes shut. “Just for one second?” Kenji and Winston mime zipping their mouths shut before taking a step back, holding their hands up in surrender. Ella bites her lip before meeting my eyes. “So,” she says. “What do you think?” She clasps, unclasps her hands. “Are you busy this morning? There’s still something I want to show you—

something I’ve been working on for the last few—” I take her in my arms and she laughs, breathlessly, just until she meets my eyes. Her smile is soon replaced by a look—a softness in her expression that likely mirrors my own. I can still feel the outline of that little velvet box against my leg; I’ve been carrying it with me everywhere, too afraid to leave it behind, too afraid to lose hope. “I love you,” I whisper. When I kiss her I breathe her in, inhaling the scent of her skin as I draw my hands down her back, pulling her tighter. Her response is immediate; her small hands move up my chest to claim my face, holding me close as she deepens the kiss, standing on tiptoe as she slowly twines her arms around my neck. The pilot light in my body catches fire. I break away reluctantly, and only because I remember we have an audience. Still, I press my forehead to hers, keeping her close. I’m smiling again. Like a common idiot. “Okay, well, that took a gross turn.” “Is it over yet?” Kenji asks. “I had to close my eyes.” “I don’t know. I think it might be over, but if I were you I’d keep my eyes shut for another minute just in case—” “Can you two keep your commentary to yourselves?” I say, pivoting to face them. “Is it so impossible for you to just be happy for—” The words die in my throat. Winston and Kenji are both bright-eyed and beaming, the two of them failing to fight back enormous smiles. “Congratulations, man,” Kenji says softly. His sincerity is so unexpected it strikes me before I’ve had a chance to armor myself, and the consequences leave me reeling. An unfamiliar, overwhelming heat erupts in my head, in my chest, pricking the whites of my eyes. Ella takes my hand. I can’t help but study Kenji’s face; I’m astonished by the kindness there, the happiness he does nothing to hide. It becomes more obvious by the moment that he’s played a larger role in executing Ella’s plans than I

might’ve suspected, and I experience the truth then—feel it clearly, for the first time—the realization like a physical jolt. Kenji genuinely wants me to be happy. “Thank you,” I say to him. He smiles, but it’s only a flicker of movement. Everything else is in his expression, in the tight nod he gives me by way of response. “Anytime,” he says quietly. There’s a beat of silence, broken only by the sound of Winston sniffing. “All right, okay, that was a really beautiful moment, but you guys need to knock it off before I start crying,” he says, laughing even as he tugs off his glasses to rub at his eyes. “Besides, we still have a shit ton of work to do.” “Work,” I say, searching the sky for the sun. “Of course.” It can’t be much later than eight in the morning, but I’m usually at my desk much earlier. “I’ll need to make a quick stop at the command center. How long do you think we’ll be gone today? I have to reschedule some calls. There are time-sensitive materials I’m supposed to deliver today, and if I—” “Not that kind of work,” Kenji says, a strange smile on his face. “You don’t need to worry about that today. It’s all been taken care of.” “Taken care of?” I frown. “How?” “Juliette already notified everyone last night. Obviously we can’t check out of work completely, but we’ve divvied up today’s responsibilities. We’re all going to take shifts.” He hesitates. “Not you, two, obviously. Both your schedules have been cleared for the day.” Somehow, this is a greater surprise than everything else. If our schedules have been cleared, that means today wasn’t some spurof-the-moment decision. It means things didn’t just serendipitously align in time to make it happen. This was orchestrated. Premeditated. “I don’t think I understand,” I say slowly. “As much as I appreciate the time off, this shouldn’t take much more than an hour. We only need an officiant and a couple of witnesses. Ella doesn’t even have a dress. Nouria said there was no time to make food, or a cake, or even to spare people to help set up, so it won’t—” Ella squeezes my hand, and I meet her eyes.

“I know we’d agreed to do something really small,” she says softly. “I know you weren’t expecting much. But I thought you might like this better.” I stare at her, dumbfounded. “Like what better?” As if on cue, Brendan pops his white-blond head around a corner. “Morning, everyone! All right to bring everyone through? Or do you lot need another minute?” Winston lights up at the sight of him, assuring Brendan that we need just a few more minutes. Brendan says, “Roger that,” and promptly disappears. I turn to Ella, my mind whirring. Save the birthday cake she surprised me with last month, I have very little in my life to offer me a frame of reference for this experience. My brain is at war with itself, understanding—while incapable of understanding—what now seems obvious. Ella has organized something elaborate. In secret. All of her earlier evasiveness, her half-truths and missing explanations— my fear that she’d been hiding something from me— Suddenly everything makes sense. “How long have you been planning this?” I ask, and Ella visibly tenses with excitement, emanating the kind of joy I’ve only ever felt in the presence of small children. It nearly takes my breath away. She wraps her arms around my waist, peering up at me. “Do you remember when we were on the plane ride home,” she says, “and the adrenaline wore off, and I started kind of losing my mind? And I kept looking at the bone sticking out my leg and screaming?” Of all things, this was not what I was expecting her to say. “Yes,” I say carefully. I have no interest in recalling the events of that plane ride. Or discussing them. “I remember.” “And do you remember what I said to you?”

I look away, sighing as I stare at a point in the distance. “You said you couldn’t wear a wedding dress with part of your bone sticking out.” “Yeah,” she says, and laughs. “Wow. I was pretty out of it.” “It’s not funny,” I whisper. “No,” she says, drawing her hands up my back. “No, it’s not funny. But it was strange, how nothing was really making sense in my head. We’d just been through hell, but all I could think as I stared at myself was how impractical it was to be bleeding so much. I told you I couldn’t marry you if the bleeding didn’t stop, because then I’d get blood all over my dress, and your suit, and then we’d both just be covered in blood, and everything we touched would get bloody. And you”—she takes a deep breath—“you said you’d marry me right then. You said you’d marry me with my bleeding teeth, with a visibly broken leg, with dried blood on my face, with blood dripping from my ears.” I flinch at that, at the memory of what my father put her through. What her own parents did to her. Ella suffered and sacrificed so much for this world—all to bring The Reestablishment to its knees. All because she cared so much about this planet, and the people in it. I feel suddenly ill. What I hate, perhaps more than anything else, is that it doesn’t stop. The demands on her body never stop. It doesn’t seem to matter what side of history we’re on; good or evil, everyone asks for more of her. Even now, after the fall of The Reestablishment, the people and their leaders still want more from her. They don’t seem to care that she’s only one person, or that she’s already given so much. The more she gives, the more they require, and the quicker their gratitude shrivels up, the desiccated remains of which become something else altogether: expectation. If it were up to them, they’d keep taking from her until they’ve bled her dry—and I will never allow that to happen. “Aaron.” Finally, I meet her eyes. “I meant what I said, love.” “I was hideous.” “You have never been hideous.”

“I was a monster.” She smiles as she says this. “I had that huge gash in my arm, the skin on my hands had split open, my nose wouldn’t stop bleeding, my eyes wouldn’t stop bleeding. I even had a freshly sutured finger. I was Frankenstein’s monster. You remember? From that book—” “Ella—please— We don’t have to talk about this—” “And I couldn’t stop screaming,” she says. “I was in so much pain, and I was so upset that I wouldn’t stop bleeding, and I kept saying the craziest things, and you just sat next to me and listened. You answered every ridiculous question I asked like I wasn’t completely out of my mind. For hours. I still remember, Aaron. I remember everything you said to me. Even after I passed out I heard you, on a loop, in my dreams. It was like your voice got caught in my head.” She pauses. “I can only imagine what that experience must’ve been like for you.” I shake my head. “It wasn’t about me. My experience doesn’t matter—” “Of course it does. It matters to me. You don’t get to be the only one who worries about the person you love. I get to do that, too,” she says, breaking away to better look me in the eye. “You spend so much time thinking about what’s best for me. You’re always worried about my safety and my happiness and the things I might need. Why don’t I get to do that for you? Why don’t I get to think about your happiness?” “I am happy, love,” I say quietly. “You make me happy.” She looks away at that, but when she meets my eyes again, she’s fighting tears. “But if you could marry me however you wanted, you’d choose to do it differently, wouldn’t you?” “Ella,” I whisper, tugging her back into my arms. “Sweetheart, why are you crying? I don’t care about having a wedding. It doesn’t matter to me. I’ll marry you as you are right now, in the clothes we’re wearing, right where we’re standing.” “But if you could do it however you wanted, you’d do it differently,” she says, looking up at me. “You’d do it better than that, wouldn’t you?” “Well— Yes—” I falter. “I mean, if it were a different world, maybe. If things were different for us, if we had more time, or more resources. And maybe one day we’ll have a chance to do it over again, but right now all I —”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want to do it over again. I don’t want you to look back on our wedding day as a placeholder for something else, or for what might’ve been. I want us to do it right the first time. I want to walk down an aisle to reach you. I want you to see me in a pretty dress. I want someone to take our picture. I want you to have that. You deserve to have that.” “But—how—” I look up, distracted by the sounds of movement, voices. A crowd of people is swarming, moving toward us. Nazeera and Brendan lead the charge; Lily and Ian and Alia and Adam and James and Castle and Nouria and Sam and dozens of others— They’re all holding things: bouquets of flowers and covered trays of food and colorful boxes and folded linens and— My blood pressure seems to plummet at the sight, leaving me dangerously light-headed. I take a sharp breath, try to clear my head. When I speak, I hardly recognize my voice. “Ella, what did you do?” She only smiles at me, eyes shining with feeling. “How did you find so many flowers? Where—” “All right,” Winston says, holding up his hands. He sniffs, twice, and I see then that his eyes are red. “No more divulging secrets. We’re done here.” Kenji, I notice, is looking determinedly away from all of us. He clears his throat then, still staring at the sky when he says, “For what it’s worth, bro, I tried to get her to tell you. I don’t approve of this whole surprise-wedding nonsense. I told her—I said, if it were me, I’d want to know.” Finally, Kenji meets my eyes. “But she wouldn’t listen. She said it had to be a surprise. I said, You’re going to go back to your room tonight smelling like paint, and he’s going to know! The man is not an idiot! And she was like blah blah blah he’s not going to know, blah blah blah, I’m the queen of the world, blah blah—” “KENJI.” “What?” Ella’s fists are clenched. She looks like she might punch him in the face. “Please. Stop speaking.”

“Why?” Kenji looks around. “What’d I say?” “Paint,” I say, frowning as I remember. “Of course. I thought you smelled like something faintly chemical last night. I wasn’t sure what it was, though.” “What?” Ella says, crestfallen. “How? I thought you were asleep.” I shake my head, smiling now, though mostly for her benefit. Ella’s guilt is palpable, and multiplying quickly. “What was the paint for?” I ask. “Nope!” Winston claps his hands together. “We’re not doing that right now! You guys ready to get started? Good. Kenji and I will lead the way.”

TEN Ella is holding my hand like a lifeline, grinning as we forge an unfamiliar path through the Sanctuary. Her happiness is so electric it’s contagious. I feel heavy with it, overwhelmed by it. I don’t even think my body knows what to do with this much of it. But seeing her like this— It’s impossible to describe what it does to me to see her so happy, smiling so wide she can hardly speak. I only know that I never want to do anything to make it stop. We’re following Kenji and Winston, both of whom were quickly joined by their counterparts, Nazeera and Brendan, while the rest of the crowd follows close behind. I seem to be the only one of us who doesn’t know where we’re going, and Ella still refuses to tell me anything more about our destination. “Will you at least tell me whether we’re leaving the Sanctuary?” I ask. She smiles up at me. “Yes and no.” I frown. “Are we going somewhere to see the thing you wanted to show me? Or is this something else?” Her smile grows bigger. “Yes and no.”

“I see,” I say, squinting into the distance. “So you’re torturing me on purpose.” “Yes,” she says, poking me in the stomach. “And no.” I shake my head, laughing a little, and she pokes me in the stomach again. “Ow,” I say quietly. Ella beams before wrapping her arms around my waist, hugging me as we walk, not seeming to care at all that she stumbles every few steps. I’m so incomprehensibly happy I seem to have misplaced most of my brain cells. I can hardly gather my thoughts. After a moment, Ella says, “You know, it’s not much fun to poke you in the stomach. It’s not even possible, really, to poke hard muscle.” She slides her hand up under my shirt, then slowly down my torso. “This whole thing would work much better if you had some body fat.” I take a steadying breath. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.” “I never said I was disappointed,” she says, still smiling. “I love your body.” Her words conjure a simmering heat somewhere deep inside me. I tense as she draws patterns along my skin, her fingers grazing my navel before moving slowly up again, tracing lines with excruciating care. I finally cover her hand with my own. “That,” I say, “is very distracting.” “What is?” She’s not even looking at the path ahead anymore. One of her arms is wrapped around my waist, and the other is tucked unabashedly under my shirt. “This?” She drags her hand across my abs, moving steadily downward. “Is this distracting?” I inhale. “Yes.” “What about this?” she says, staring up at me, the picture of innocence as her free hand travels lower, then slips just underneath my waistband. “Is this distracting?” “Ella.” “Yes?” I laugh, but the sound is breathless. Nervous. It’s a struggle to maintain the control necessary to keep my body from announcing to everyone exactly what I would rather be doing right now.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asks. “No.” She smiles wider. “Good, because—” “If you two are going to be disgusting on your wedding day,” Kenji says over his shoulder, “could you at least whisper? It’s close quarters in this crowd, okay? No one wants to hear your filthy conversations.” “Yeah,” Nazeera says, turning to look at us. “No cute talk, either. Cute talk is highly discouraged on any day, but especially on your wedding day.” Ella’s hand is gone from my body in an instant. She turns to face them, the moment all but forgotten; I, on the other hand, need a minute. The effect she has on my nerves takes longer to dissipate. I exhale slowly. “I’m starting to think you two might be turning into the same person,” Ella says. “And I’m not sure I mean that as a compliment.” Kenji and Nazeera laugh at that, Kenji drawing an arm around Nazeera’s waist as they walk, pulling her closer. She leans into him, planting a brief kiss at the base of his jaw. Kenji’s provocations have grown innocuous in recent weeks. His bite is more habit than harmful, as he’s in no position to criticize. He and Nazeera are as inseparable as is possible these days, the two of them ensconced in darkened corners at every available opportunity. To be fair, we’re all lacking in privacy right now; very few people have their own rooms at the moment, which means we’re not the only ones engaging in public displays of affection. Kenji and Nazeera seem truly happy, though. I’ve not known Kenji a particularly long time, but Nazeera—I never thought I’d see her like this. I suppose she might say the same about me. “You know, technically, you two shouldn’t even be together right now,” Winston says, swiveling to face us. He walks backward as he says, “The bride and groom can’t just hang out together on their wedding day. Tradition frowns upon it.” “Excellent point,” Brendan adds. “And as they’re both such pure, innocent souls, we wouldn’t want them to risk accidental, indecent skin-to-

skin contact.” “Yeah, I think it might be too late for that,” Kenji says. “Seriously?” Brendan and Nazeera say at the same time. Brendan laughs, but Nazeera turns sharply around to look at Ella, whose responding blush all but confirms their suspicions. “Wow,” Nazeera says after a moment, nodding. “Nice. You have interesting priorities.” “Oh my God,” Ella says, covering her face with her hand. “Sometimes I really hate you guys.” I decide to change the subject. “Will we be arriving at this mysterious destination soon?” I ask. “We’ve been walking for so long I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ll need international clearance.” “Is this guy serious?” Winston calls back, exasperated. “It’s been maybe five minutes.” “Sprinting two miles—uphill, in the heat, in a suit—and he doesn’t break a sweat,” Kenji says. “Wouldn’t even let me rest for thirty-seconds. But this —yeah, this is too much for him. Makes sense.” “Okay, you can ignore them,” Ella says, taking my hand again. “We’re pretty close now.” I feel her enthusiasm building anew, her eyes brightening as she peers ahead. “So—what changed yesterday?” I ask her. “To make all this happen?” Ella looks up. “What do you mean?” “Yesterday Nouria told me that, for a number of different reasons, it was basically out of the question for us to have a wedding. But today”—I glance around us, at the mass of people sacrificing hours of their work and life to help organize this event—“those issues no longer seem to be relevant.” “Oh,” Ella says, and sighs. “Yeah. Yesterday was a mess. I really didn’t want to postpone things, but there were just so many different disasters to deal with. Losing our clothes was one obstacle, but trying to host the wedding at night was proving a logistical nightmare. I realized we could either get married last night and have to compromise on almost everything, or push it by a day, and maybe, just maybe, be able to do it right—”

“A day?” I frown. “Nouria made it seem like it might be months before we could reschedule. She made it sound functionally impossible.” “Months?” Ella stiffens. “Why would she say that?” “You must’ve really pissed her off,” Kenji says, his laughter echoing. “Nouria knew Juliette wouldn’t have postponed the wedding that long. She was probably just torturing you.” “Really.” The revelation makes me scowl. Between her and Sam, I seem to have made two very powerful enemies. “Hey—I’m sorry she said that to you,” Ella says softly, hugging me from the side as we walk. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, holding her tight against me. “I think Nouria leaned a little too hard into the cover story,” she says. “I had no idea you thought we might be postponing the wedding that far into the future. I’m only now realizing that yesterday must’ve been pretty rough for you.” “It wasn’t,” I lie, gently cupping the back of her head, my fingers threading through the silk of her hair. I study her face as she stares up at me, noticing then how the sun changes her eyes; her irises look more green in the light. Blue in the dark. “It was fine.” Ella doesn’t buy this. Her hands graze my hips as she draws away, lingering before she lets go. “I was so busy trying to make everything work that I didn’t even—” She cuts herself off, her emotions changing without warning. “Hey,” she says. “What’s this?” “What’s what?” “This,” she says, gently prodding my pant leg in a manner that would disturb Kenji for weeks. “This box.” “Oh.” I come to a sudden and complete stop, heart pounding as the crowd surges around us, several of them calling out congratulations as they pass. Someone sticks a homemade tiara on Ella’s head at one point, which she accepts with a gracious nod before discreetly tugging it out of her hair. They seem to know better than to touch me.

In the distance, I hear Winston clap his hands. “All right, everyone, we’re basically here. Juliette, will you and Warner pl— Wait, where’s Juliette?” “I’m back here!” “Why the hell are you back there?” Kenji cries. I hear faint grumbling from Winston, more exasperated words from Kenji; all this is followed by soothing sounds made by their partners. The sequence would be comical if I were in any mood to laugh. Instead, I have turned to stone. “We’ll be right there!” Ella reassures them. “You can start setting up without us!” “Set up without you? If I find out this was your plan all along, princess, Nazeera is going to kick your ass.” “I absolutely won’t,” she calls out cheerfully. “In fact, I fully support the two of you tearing off each other’s clothes, if that’s what you’ve got planned!” “Oh my God, Nazeera—” “What?” “Don’t encourage them,” Kenji and Winston shout at the same time. “Why not?” Brendan says. “I think it’s romantic.” They bicker a bit more while my mind spins. I feel the outline of the box against my leg more acutely than ever, a square spot of heat against my skin. This is happening out of order. I manage to comfort myself with the reminder that everything about us has unfolded in an unconventional way; I shouldn’t be too surprised to discover that, here, too, things are not going to plan. Then again, I didn’t really have a plan. In an ideal scenario, I would’ve proposed to her with the ring; she should’ve already had it on her finger. Instead, we are now fast approaching our actual wedding and I’ve yet to give it to her. And while it occurs to me that I could find a way to evade her curiosity right now, I’m not sure there’s any point in prolonging it. I have no idea where we’re going. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I might not even have time later to do this properly.

I swallow, hard, trying to force back my apprehension. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. That’s not true. I know why I’m nervous. I’m worried she’s going to hate it, and I don’t know what I’ll do if she hates it. I suppose I’ll have to return it. I’ll have to marry her without a ring, acknowledging all the while that I am an idiot of astronomical proportions, one who couldn’t even manage to pick out a decent ring for his fiancée. This imagining inspires in me a wave of dread so severe I close my eyes against the force of it. “Aaron,” Ella says, and my eyes fly open, bringing me back to the present. She is smiling at me. Ella, I realize, already knows what’s in the box. Somehow, this makes me more nervous. I look around myself, searching for calm, and register a beat too late that we’re all alone. The crowd has dispersed into the distance beyond us, and as I watch them disappear—their bodies growing smaller by the second—I recognize only then that I have no idea where we are. I take stock of our surroundings: there are paved roads and sidewalks not far away, wilting trees planted at regular intervals. The air smells different— sharper—and the sun seems brighter, unencumbered by dense woods. I hear that familiar trill of birdsong and search the sky again, trying to orient myself. My mind searches itself for maps, blueprints, old information. This area looks less wild than the Sanctuary, stripped back. I feel quite certain we must be encroaching upon old, unregulated territory, but as we still appear to be within the boundary of Nouria’s protections, that can’t be possible. The lights that delineate our space from the outside world are clearly visible. “Where are we?” I ask. For a moment, my nerves are forgotten. “This isn’t—” “We can get to that in just a second,” Ella says, still smiling. She drops the homemade tiara to the ground and steps forward, drawing her hand slowly up my thigh, tracing a faint circle around the impression of the box. “But first, I feel like I have no choice but to make a terrible joke about finding something hard in your pants.”

I drag a hand down my face, vaguely mortified. “Please don’t.” Ella fights to be serious, biting her lip to keep from smiling. She mimes locking her mouth, tossing the key. I actually laugh then, after which I sigh, staring for a moment into the distance. “So. What’s in the box?” she asks, her joy so bright it’s blinding. “Is it for me?” “Yes.” When I make no move to procure the object, she frowns. “Can I . . . have it?” With great reluctance, I tug free the little velvet box from my pocket, clenching it tight for so long she finally reaches for my hand. Gently, she wraps her small fingers around my fist. “Aaron,” she says. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” I take a deep breath. “Nothing is wrong. I just—” I force myself to open my palm to her, heart still pounding. “I really hope you like it.” She smiles as she takes the box. “I’m sure I’m going to love it.” “It’s okay if you don’t. You don’t have to love it. If you hate it I can always get you something else—” “You know, I’m not used to seeing you nervous like this.” She tilts her head at me. “It’s kind of adorable.” “I feel like an idiot,” I say, trying and failing to smile. “Though I’m glad you find it entertaining.” She opens the box as I say this, giving me no time to brace myself before she gasps, her eyes widening in astonishment. She covers her mouth with one hand, her emotions so unrestrained I can hardly read them. There’s too much all at once: shock, happiness, confusion— The effort to say nothing nearly costs me my sanity. “Where did you get this?” she says, finally dropping her hand away from her face. Carefully, she tugs the engagement ring free from its setting, examining it closely before staring up at me. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“I had it made,” I manage to say, my body still so tense it’s difficult to speak. She hasn’t said whether she likes it, which means the vise around my chest refuses to disengage. Still, I force myself to retrieve the glittering piece from her, taking her left hand in mine with great care. My own hands are miraculously steady as I slide the ring into place on her fourth finger. The fit, as I knew it would be, is perfect. I took the necessary measurements while she was heavily asleep, still recovering in the medical tent. “You had it made?” Ella is staring at her hand, the ring refracting the light, shattering color everywhere. The center stone is large, but not garishly so, and suits her beautifully. I think so, anyway. I watch her as she studies the ring, turning her hand left and right. “How did you get it made?” she asks. “When? I thought there’d be a simple wedding band inside, I didn’t think—” “There is a wedding band inside. There are two rings.” She looks up at me then, and I see, for the first time, that her eyes are bright with tears. The sight cuts me straight through the heart but brings with it the hope of relief. It might be the only time in my life I’ve ever been happy to see her cry. With great trepidation, Ella reopens the velvet box, slowly retrieving from its depths the wedding band. She holds it up to the sky with a trembling hand, staring at its detail. The brushed gold band resembles a twig, so delicate it looks almost as if it were forged from thread. It glints in the sun, the two emerald leaves bright against the infinite branch. She slips it onto her finger, gasping softly when it settles into place. It was designed to fit perfectly against the engagement ring. “The leaves—are supposed to be—like us,” I say, hearing how stupid it sounds when I say it out loud. How perfectly pedestrian. I suddenly hate myself. Still, Ella says nothing, and I can’t hold the question in any longer. “Do you like it? If you don’t like it I can always—”

She snaps the box shut and throws her arms around my neck, hugging me so tight I feel the damp press of her cheek against my jaw. She pulls back to pepper my face with kisses, half laughing as she does, swiping at her tears with shaking hands. “How can you even ask me that?” she says. “I’ve never owned anything so beautiful in my whole life. I love these rings. I love them so much. And I know you probably didn’t think about this when you had them made— because you wouldn’t—but the emeralds remind me of your eyes. They’re stunning.” I blink at that, surprised. “My eyes?” “Yes,” she says quietly, her expression softening. “And you’re right. They are like us. We’ve been growing toward each other from the opposite sides of the same path since the beginning, haven’t we?” Relief hits me like an opiate. I pull her into my arms, burying my face in her neck before I kiss her— softly at first—and our slow, searing touches quickly change into something else altogether. Ella is drawing her hand under my shirt again, my skin heating under her touch. “I love you,” she whispers, kissing my throat, my jaw, my chin, my lips. “And I never want to take these off.” Her words are accompanied by a passion so profound I can hardly breathe around it. I close my eyes as the sensations build and spiral; the cold graze of her rings against my chest striking my skin like a match. Desire soon shuts down my mind. When we break apart I’m breathing hard, molten heat coursing through my veins. I’m imagining scenarios far too impractical to execute. Being with Ella this morning was like breaking a dam; I’d been so afraid to touch her while she was in recovery, and then terrified to overwhelm her in the days after. I’d wanted to make sure she was okay, that she took her time getting back to normal, at her own pace, without anyone crowding her personal space. But now— Now that she’s ready—now that my body remembers this—it’s suddenly impossible to get enough.

“I’m so glad you like the rings, love,” I whisper against her mouth. “But I’m going to need to take back the band.” “What?” she says, pulling away. She stares at her hand, heartbroken in an instant. “Why?” “Those are the rules.” I’m still smiling when I touch her face, grazing her cheek with my knuckles. “I promise, after I give this ring to you today, I’ll never ask for it back.” When still she makes no move, I reach, without looking, for the box clenched in her right fist. She relinquishes the item with great reluctance, sighing as she steps back to slip the wedding band off her finger. I open the recovered box, presenting it to her, and after she settles the ring back into its nest I snap the lid shut, tucking the object safely back into my pocket. My heart has grown ten sizes in the last several minutes. “We should probably get going if you want to get this back,” I say, touching her waist, then tugging her close. My lips are at her ear when I whisper: “I’m going to marry you today. And then I’m going to make love to you until you can’t remember your name.” Ella makes a startled, breathless sound, her hands tightening in my shirt. She pulls me closer and kisses me, nipping my bottom lip before claiming my mouth, touching me now with a new desperation; a hunger still unmet. She presses her body against me, hard and soft soldered together, and I lose myself in it, in the intoxication of knowing just how much she wants this. Me. Her mouth is hot and sweet, her limbs heavy with pleasure. She drags her hand down the front of my pants and I make an anguished sound somewhere deep in my chest. I take her face in my hands as she touches me, kissing her deeper, harder, still unable to find relief. She seems to be torturing me on purpose—torturing both of us—knowing there’s nothing we can do here, knowing there are people waiting for us— “Ella,” I gasp, the word practically a plea as I break away, trying and failing to cool my head, my thoughts. I can’t walk back into a crowd right now, looking like this. I can’t even think straight. My thoughts are wild.

I want nothing more than to strip her bare. I want to fall to my knees and taste her, make her lose her mind with pleasure. I want her to beg before I make her come, right here, in the middle of nowhere. “I really don’t think you understand what you do to me, love,” I say, trying to steady myself. “You have no idea how badly I want you. You have no idea what I want to do to you right now.” My words do not have the intended effect. Ella is not deterred. Her desire seems to intensify, more in every second. That she could ever want me like this—that I could ever inspire in her the kind of need she inspires in me— It still seems impossible. And it’s addicting. “You have no idea,” she says softly, “how you make me feel when you look at me like that.” I take a deep, unsteady breath when she touches me again, dragging my hands down her body before sliding a hand under her sweater, up the curve of her rib cage. She gasps as I skim the soft, heavy swell of her breasts, her body responding in an instant to my touch. Her skin here, like everywhere, is like satin. “God,” I breathe. “I can never get enough of you.” Ella shakes her head even as she closes her eyes, surrendering to my hands. “Kenji was right,” she says breathlessly. “We can’t be left alone together.” I kiss her neck slowly, tasting her there until she moans, not enough to leave a mark. She reaches for me then, her own hands grasping for the button of my pants. In my delirium I let it happen, forgetting for a moment where we are or what we need to be doing until I feel her soft fingers wrap around me—a cool hand against my feverish skin— and my head nearly catches fire. I’m moments away from losing my mind. I want to strip off her sweater. I want to unhook her bra. I want her to undress in front of me before I— This is madness. Common sense is returned to me only through a brutal, agonizing reclamation of self-control, just enough for me to place a hand over hers,

forcing myself to breathe slowly. “We can’t do this here,” I say, hating myself even as I say it. “Not here. Not now.” She looks around herself then as if emerging from a dream, the real world coming back into focus by degrees. I take advantage of her distraction to put myself to rights, stunned to realize I was only moments away from doing something reckless. Ella’s disappointment is palpable. “I need to take you to bed, love,” I say, my voice still rough with desire. “I need hours. Days. Alone with you.” She nods, her ring catching the light as she reaches for me, collapsing against my chest. “Yes. Please. I really hope you’re not planning on falling asleep tonight.” I laugh at that, the sound still a bit shaky. “One day we’ll have a proper bed,” I say, kissing her forehead. “And then I doubt I will ever sleep again.” Ella jerks back suddenly. Her eyes widen with something like comprehension, then delight. She nearly bounces up and down before taking my hand, and with only a sharp exclamation of excitement, she tugs me forward. “Wait— Ella—” “I still have something to show you!” she cries, and breaks off into a run. I have no choice but to chase after her.

ELEVEN At first, I hear only Ella’s laughter, the effortless joy of a carefree moment. Her hair whips around her as she runs, streaming in the sun. I enjoy this sight more than I know how to explain; she runs through the several remaining feet of undeveloped land into the center of an abandoned street, all with the uninhibitedness of a child. I’m so entranced by this scene that it’s a moment before I register the distant scream of an ungreased hinge: the

repetition of steel abrading itself. My feet finally hit pavement as I follow her down the neglected road, the impact of my boots on the ground signifying the sudden change in place with hard, definitive thuds. The sun bears down on me as I run, surprising me with its severity, the light undiminished by cloud or tree cover. I slow down as the distant whine grows louder, and when the source of this keening finally comes into view, I skid to a sudden stop. A playground. Rusted and abandoned, a set of swings screeching as the wind pushes around their empty seats. I’ve seen such things before; playgrounds were common in a time before The Reestablishment; I saw a great deal of them on my tours of old unregulated territory. They were built most often in areas where there existed large groupings of homes. Neighborhoods. Playgrounds were not known to be found at random near densely forested areas like the Sanctuary, nor were they built for no reason in the middle of nowhere. Not for the first time, I’m desperate to understand where we are. I wander closer to the rusting structure, surprised to feel a distinct lack of resistance when I step onto the haunted play area. The playground is built atop material that gives a bit when I walk; it seems to be made from something like rubber, surrounded otherwise by concrete pavers anchored by metal benches, paint peeling in sharp ribbons. There are long stretches of dirt beyond the borders, where no doubt grass and trees once thrived. I frown. This couldn’t possibly be any part of the Sanctuary—and yet there’s no question at all that we’re still within Nouria’s jurisdiction. I look around then, searching for Ella. I catch a glimpse of her before she disappears down yet another poorly paved road—the asphalt ancient and cracked—and silently berate myself for falling behind. I’m about to cross what appears to be the remains of an intersection when suddenly she’s back, her distant figure rushing into view before coming to a halt. She noticed I was gone.

It’s a small gesture—I realize this even as I react to it—but it makes me smile nonetheless. I watch her as she spins around, searching the street for me, and I lift a hand to let her know where I am. When our eyes finally meet she jumps up and down, waving me forward. “Hurry,” she cries, cupping her mouth with her hands. I clear the distance between us, analyzing my surroundings as I do. The old street signs have been vandalized so completely they’re now rendered meaningless, but there remain a few traffic lights still hung at intervals. Relics of the old speaker system installed in the early days of The Reestablishment have survived as well, the ominous black boxes still affixed to lampposts. People used to live here, then. When I finally reach Ella, I take her hand, and she immediately tugs me forward, even as she’s slightly out of breath. Running has always been harder for Ella than it is for me. Still, I resist her effort to drag me along. “Love,” I say. “Where are we?” “I’m not going to tell you,” she says, beaming. “Even though I have a feeling you’ve already figured it out.” “This is unregulated territory.” “Yes.” She smiles brighter, then dims. “Well, sort of.” “But how—” She shakes her head before attempting to pull me forward again, now with greater difficulty. “No explanations yet! Come on, we’re almost there!” Her energy is so effervescent it makes me laugh. I watch her a moment as she struggles to move me, her effort not unlike that of a cartoon character. I imagine it must frustrate her not to be able to use her powers on me, but then I remind myself that Ella would never do something like that even if she could; she’d never overpower me just to get what she wanted. That’s not who she is. She is, and always has been, a better person than I will ever be. I take her in then, her eyes glinting in the sun, the wind tousling her hair. She is a vision of loveliness, her cheeks flushed with feeling and exertion. “Aaron,” she says, pretending to be mad. I don’t think it productive to tell her, but I find this adorable. When she finally lets go of my hand, she throws

up her arms in defeat. I’m smiling as I tuck a windblown hair behind her ear; her pretend anger dissipates quickly. “You really don’t want to tell me anything about where we’re going?” I ask. “Not a single thing? I’m not allowed to ask even one clarifying question?” She shakes her head. “I see. And is there any particular reason why our destination is such a highly guarded secret?” “That was a question!” “Right.” I frown, squinting into the distance. “Yes.” Ella puts her hands on her hips. “You’re going to ask me another question, aren’t you?” “I just want to know how Nouria managed to draw unregulated territory into her protection. I’d also like to know why no one told me she had plans to do such a thing. And why—” “No, no, I can’t answer those questions without spoiling the surprise.” Ella blows out a breath, thinking. “What if I promise to explain everything when we get there?” “How much longer until we get there?” “Aaron.” “Okay,” I say, fighting back a laugh. “Okay. No more questions.” “You swear?” “I swear.” She makes an exclamation of delight before kissing me quickly on the cheek, and then takes my hand again. This time, I let her drag me forward, following her, without another word, onto an unmarked road. The street curves as we go, unwilling even now to reveal our destination. We ignore the sidewalks, as cars aren’t to be expected here, but it still feels strange to be walking down the center of a street, our feet following the faded yellow lines of another world, avoiding potholes as we go. There are more trees here than I expected, more green leaves and patches of living grass than I thought we’d find. These are vestiges of another time, still managing to survive, somehow, despite everything. The limp greenery

seems to multiply the farther we walk, the half-bare trees planted on either side of the pockmarked road clasping branches overhead to form an eerie tunnel around us. Sunlight shatters through the wooden webbing above, casting a kaleidoscope of light and shadow across our bodies. I know we must be getting close to our destination when Ella’s energy changes, her emotions a jumble of joy and nerves. It’s not long before the dead road finally opens up onto an expansive view—and I come to a violent halt. This is a residential street. Just under a dozen houses, each several feet apart, separated by dead, square lawns. My heart pounds wildly in my chest, but this is nothing I haven’t seen before. It’s a vision of a bygone era; these homes, like so many others on unregulated turf, are in various states of decay, succumbing to time and weather and neglect. Roofs collapsing, walls boarded up, windows broken, front doors hanging from their hinges, all of them half-destroyed. It’s like so many other neighborhoods around the continent, save one extraordinary difference. In the center is a home. Not a house—not a building—but a home, salvaged from the wreckage. It’s been painted a simple, tasteful shade of white—not too white—its walls and roof repaired, the front door and shutters a pale sage green. The sight gives me déjà vu; I’m reminded at once of another house of a different vintage, in a different place. Robin’s-egg blue. The difference between them, however, is somehow palpable. My parents’ old house was little more than a graveyard, a museum of darkness. This house is bright with possibility, the windows big and brilliant, and beyond them: people. Familiar faces and bodies, crowding together in the front room. If I strain, I can hear their muted voices. This must be some kind of dream. The lawn is in desperate need of water, the single tree in the front yard withering slowly in the sun. There’s a duo of rusty garbage bins visible in a side alley, where a surprise street cat languishes in a streak of sunlight. I can’t recall the last time I saw a cat. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a time machine, into a vision of a future I was told I’d never have. “Ella,” I whisper. “What did you do?”

She squeezes my hand; I hear her laugh. I turn slowly to face her, a wealth of feeling rising up inside me with a force so great it scares me. “What is this?” I ask, hardly able to speak. “What am I looking at?” Ella takes a deep breath, exhaling as she clasps her hands together. She’s nervous, I realize. This astonishes me. “I had the idea a long time ago,” she says, “but it wasn’t workable back then. I always wanted us to be able to reclaim these old neighborhoods; it always seemed like such a waste to lose them altogether. We’re still going to have to demolish most of them, because the majority are too far gone for repair, but that means we can redesign better, too—and it means we can tie it all into the new infrastructure package, creating jobs for people. “I’ve been in talks with our newly contracted city planner, by the way.” She smiles tightly. “I never got to tell you about that yesterday. We’re hoping to rebuild these areas in phases, prioritizing the transplantation of the disabled and the elderly and those with special needs. The Reestablishment did everything it could to throw anyone they deemed unfit into the asylums, which means none of the compounds they built made provisions for the old or infirm or all the orphans—which, I mean—of course, you already know all this.” She looks sharply away at that, hugging herself tightly. When she looks up again I’m struck by the potency of her grief and gratitude. “I really don’t think I’ve said thank you enough for all that you’ve done,” she says, her voice breaking as she speaks. “You have no idea how much it meant to me. Thank you. So much.” She throws herself into my arms, and I hold her tight, still stunned into silence. I feel all her emotions at once, love and pain and fear, I realize, for the future. My heart is jackhammering in my chest. Ella has always been deeply concerned with the well-being of the asylum inmates. After reclaiming Sector 45, she and I would talk late into the night about her dreams for change; she often said the first thing she’d do after the fall of The Reestablishment would be to find a way to reopen and staff the old hospitals—in anticipation of the immediate transfer of asylum residents. While Ella was in recovery, I launched this initiative personally.

We’ve begun staffing the newly open hospitals not only with reclaimed doctors and nurses from the compounds but with supplies and soldiers from local sector headquarters all across the continent. The plan is to assess each asylum victim before deciding whether they need continued medical treatment and/or physical rehabilitation. Any healthy and able among them will be released back into the care of their living relatives, or else found safe accommodations. Ella has thanked me for doing this a thousand times, and each time I’ve assured her that my efforts were nominal at best. Still, she refuses to believe me. “There’s no one in the whole world like you,” she says, and I can practically feel her heart beating between us. “I’m so grateful for you.” These words cause me an acute pain, a kind of pleasure that makes it hard to breathe. “I am nothing,” I say to her. “If I manage to be anything, it is only because of you.” “Don’t say that,” she says, hugging me tighter. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.” “It’s true.” I never would’ve been able to get things done so quickly for her if Ella hadn’t already won over the military contingent, a feat managed almost entirely through rumor and gossip regarding her treatment of the soldiers from my old sector. During her brief tenure in 45, Ella gave soldiers leave to reunite with their families, allocated those with children larger rations, and removed execution as a punishment for any infraction, minor or major. She regularly shrugs off these changes as if they were nothing. To her, they were casual declarations made over a meal, a young woman waving a fork around as she raged against the fundamental dignities denied our soldiers. But these changes were radical. Her effortless compassion toward even the lowest foot soldiers gained Ella loyalty across the continent. It took little work, in the end, to convince our North American infantrymen and -women to take orders from Juliette Ferrars; they moved quickly when I bade them to do so on her behalf. Their superiors, however, have proven an altogether different struggle.

Even so, Ella doesn’t see yet just how much power she wields, or how significantly her point of view changes the lives of so many. She refuses herself, as a result, any claim to credit; attributing her decisions to what she calls “a basic grasp of human decency.” I tell her, over and over again, how rare it is to find any among us who’ve retained such decency. Even fewer remain who can look beyond their own struggles long enough to bear witness to the suffering of others; fewer still, who would do anything about it. That Juliette Ferrars is incapable of seeing herself as an exception is part of what makes her extraordinary. I take a deep, steadying breath as I hold her, still studying the house in the distance. I hear the muted sound of laughter, the bustle of movement. A door opens somewhere, then slams shut, unleashing sound and clamor, voices growing louder. “Where do you want these chairs?” I hear someone shout, the proceeding answer too quiet to be intelligible. Emotional tremors continue to wreck me. They are setting up for our wedding, I realize. In our house. “No,” Ella whispers against my chest. “It’s not true. You deserve every good thing in the world, Aaron. I love you more every single day, and I didn’t even think that was possible.” This declaration nearly kills me. Ella pulls back to look me in the eye, now fighting tears, and I can hardly look at her for fear I might do the same. “You never complain when I want to eat every meal with everyone. You never complain when we spend hours in the Q in the evening. You never complain about sleeping on the floor of our hospital room, which you’ve done every single night for the last fourteen nights. But I know you. I know it must be killing you.” She takes a sharp breath, and suddenly she can’t meet my eyes. “You need quiet,” she says. “You need space, and privacy. I want you to know that I know that—that I see you. I appreciate everything you do for me, and I see it, I see it every single time you sacrifice your comfort for

mine. But I want to take care of you, too. I want to give you peace. I want to give you a home. With me.” There’s a terrifying heat behind my eyes, a feeling I force myself always to kill at all costs, and which today I am unable to defeat entirely. It’s too much; I feel too full; I am too many things. I look away and take a sharp breath, but my exhalation is unsteady, my body unsteady, my heart wild. Ella looks up, slowly at first, her expression softening at the sight of my face. I wonder what she sees in me then. I wonder whether she’s able to see right through me even now, and then I surprise myself for wondering. Ella is the only one who’s ever bothered to wonder whether I’m more than I appear. Still, I can only shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. Ella experiences a sharp stab of fear in the intervening silence, and bites her lip before asking: “Was I wrong? Do you hate it?” “Hate it?” I break away from her entirely at that, finding my voice only as a strange panic seizes me, making it hard for me to breathe. “Ella, I don’t . . . I’ve done nothing to deserve you. The way you make me feel—the things you say to me— It’s terrifying. I keep thinking the world will realize, any second now, how completely unworthy I am. I keep waiting for something horrible to happen, something to reset the scales and return me to hell, where I belong, and then all of this will just disappear. You’ll just disappear. God, just thinking about it—” Ella is shaking her head. “You and I— Aaron, people like us think good things will disappear because that’s how it’s always been. Good things have never lasted in our lives; happiness has never lasted. And somehow we can only expect what we’ve experienced.” I’m sustaining full-blown anxiety now, my traitorous body shutting down, and Ella takes my hands, anchoring me. I look into her eyes even as my heart races. “But do you know what I’ve realized?” she says. “I’ve realized that we have the power to break these cycles. We can choose happiness for ourselves and for each other, and if we do it often enough, it’ll become our new normal, displacing the past. Happiness will stop feeling strange if we see it every day.”

“Ella—” “I love you,” she says. “I’ve always loved you. I’m not going anywhere.” I take her into my arms then, pulling her tightly against me, breathing in the familiar scent of her. When she’s here, right here, it’s so much easier to breathe. She’s real when she’s in my arms. “I don’t even know how to thank you for this,” I whisper into her hair, closing my eyes against the heat in my head, in my chest. “You have no idea what it means to me, love. It’s the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.” She laughs then, soft and gentle. “Don’t thank me yet,” she says, peering up. “The house still needs a lot of work. The exterior is in pretty good shape now, but the inside is still kind of a disaster. We were only able to get one of the rooms ready in time, but it was—” “We?” I lean back, frowning. Ella laughs out loud at the look on my face. “Of course we,” she says. “Did you think I did this all on my own? Everyone helped. They all gave up so much of their time to make this happen for you.” I shake my head. “If people helped, they did it for you,” I point out. “Not me.” “They care about you, too, Aaron.” “That is a very generous lie,” I say, smiling now. “It’s not a lie.” “It’s possibly the biggest lie you’ve ever told.” “It’s not! Even Ian helped. He taught me how to frame a wall—and he was so patient—and you know how he feels about me. Even Nouria helped. Well, especially Nouria. We couldn’t have done any of this without Nouria.” I find this especially surprising, given her undisguised loathing of my existence. “She pulled this area into her protection? Just for me?” Ella nods, then frowns. “Well. Yes. I mean, sort of. It’s also part of a larger plan.” I smile wider at that. “Really,” I say. Nouria’s involvement—and the involvement of the others—makes a great deal more sense if this project is in fact one small part of a broader initiative,

though I keep this to myself. Ella seems incapable of believing how much everyone here hates me, and I don’t relish disabusing her of this notion. “We’re going to build a campus for the Sanctuary,” she explains, “and this is the first phase. We had scouts do a ton of site visits beforehand; these are the best and most functional homes in the surrounding area, because some of them were used in various capacities by the local sector CCR and her subordinates.” I raise my eyebrows, fascinated. Ella never told me about this. She’s clearly been hiding this project from me for days—which is both concerning and not. Part of me is relieved to finally understand the distance I’ve felt between us, while the other part of me wishes I’d been involved. “So, yeah, we’ve reclaimed several dozen acres of unregulated territory here,” she says. “All of which, up until a couple of weeks ago, were under military control. I figured that, as long as we need absolute security—which might be a while—we can’t live like we’re in prison. We’re going to need to expand the Sanctuary, and give our people here a real, viable life. “It’s going to be a long road to recovery,” Ella adds with a sigh. “The work is going to be brutal. The least I can do is give proper shelter, privacy, and amenities to those dedicating their lives to its reconstruction. I want to rebuild all the houses in this area first. Then I want to build schools, and a proper hospital. We can safeguard some of the original undeveloped land, turning it into parks. I’m hoping it’ll one day become a private campus—a new capital—as we rebuild the world. And then, maybe one day when things are safer, we can let down our walls and reunite with the general public.” “Wow.” I detach from her a moment to look up and down the street, then into the distance. What she’s describing is an enormous undertaking. I can’t believe how much space they were already able to reclaim. “This is a remarkable idea, Ella. Truly. It’s brilliant.” I look back at her, forcing a smile. “I only wish I could’ve helped.” “I really, really wanted to tell you about it,” she says, her brows knitting together. “But I couldn’t say anything because I knew you’d want to come see the area, and then you would’ve noticed all the building materials, and then you would’ve wanted to know why so many people were working so

hard on this one house, and then you would’ve wanted to know who was going to live in it—” “I wouldn’t have asked that many questions.” She shoots me a hard look. “No, you’re right.” I nod. “I would’ve ruined the surprise.” “HEY!” I spin around at the sound of the familiar voice. Kenji is coming around the side yard of the house. He’s holding a folding chair in one hand, and waving what appears to be a sprig of some kind of flower in the other. “You two coming in or what? Brendan is complaining about losing the light or some shit—he says the sun will be directly overhead in a couple of hours, which is apparently really bad for photos? Anyway, Nazeera is getting impatient, too; she says J needs to start getting ready soon.” I stare at Kenji, then Ella, dumbfounded. She already looks perfect. “Get ready how?” “I have to put on my dress,” she says, and laughs. “And makeup,” Kenji shouts from across the street. “Nazeera and Alia say they need to do her makeup. And something about her hair.” I stiffen. “You have a dress? But I thought—” Ella kisses me on the cheek, cutting me off. “Okay, there might be a few more surprises left in the day.” “I’m not sure my heart can handle any more surprises, love.” “How’s this for a surprise?” Kenji says, leaning against the folding chair. “This beautiful piece of shit right here?” He gestures at the dilapidated house next door. “This one’s mine.” That wipes the smile off my face. “That’s right, buddy.” Kenji is grinning now. “We’re going to be neighbors.”

TWELVE

Ella is soon whisked away by a tornado of women—Nazeera, Alia, and Lily —who come charging out the door in a swarm, enveloping her in their depths before I’ve even had a chance to say a proper goodbye. There’s little more than a faint squeak from Ella— And she’s gone. I find myself standing alone in front of what I’m still processing as my own home, my mind spinning, heart racing, when Kenji walks over to me. “C’mon, man,” he says, still smiling. “You’ve got stuff to do, too.” I look at him. “What kind of stuff?” “Well, first of all, this is for you,” he says, offering me the small sprig I noticed in his hand earlier. “It’s for your lapel. It’s like a, you know—like a —a—” “I know what a boutonniere is,” I say stiffly. I accept the small spray, examining it now with surprise. It’s a single gardenia nestled against a tasteful arrangement of its own glossy leaves, the stems tied up with a bit of black ribbon, struck through with a pin. The bundle is elegant and shockingly fragrant. Gardenias are in fact one of my favorite flowers. I look up at Kenji then, unable to hide my confusion. He shrugs. “Don’t look at me, bro. I have no idea what kind of flower that is. J just told me what she wanted.” “Wait.” I frown at that, more confused by the moment. “You did this?” “I just did what she asked me to do, okay?” he says, putting up his hands. “So if you hate the flower you should talk to your fiancée, because it’s not my fault—” “But where did this flower come from? I saw people with flowers earlier, too, and I didn’t understand where—” “Oh.” Kenji drops his hands. He stares at me a moment before saying, “The old sector headquarters. You remember how you guys always had these rare flower arrangements at 45? We never knew where or how they were being sourced, but everyone always thought it was strange that the HQ could get fancy orchids or whatever, while civilians couldn’t get their hands on much more than dandelions. Anyway it was Juliette’s idea, actually. She recommended we track down the flower guy who used to carry out orders for The Reestablishment in this area. He helped us get everything we needed

—but the flowers weren’t delivered until late last night. Another reason why J wanted to postpone.” “Right.” I’m stunned. “Of course.” My astonishment has nothing to do with discovering that Ella is just as impressive and resourceful as I’ve always known her to be; no, I’m simply incapable of believing anyone would go to such lengths for me. I’m still reeling a bit as I attempt to pin the flower to my sweater, when Kenji holds up a hand again. “Uh, don’t do that just yet,” he says. “Come on.” “Why?” “Because, man, we still have things to do.” He turns as if to go, but I remain rooted to the ground. “What kinds of things?” I ask. “You know.” He makes an indecipherable gesture, frowning at me. “Wedding things?” I feel myself tense. “If the purpose of my question has not yet been made evident to you, Kishimoto, allow me to be crystal clear now: I am asking you to be specific.” He laughs at that. “Do you ever do anything anyone asks you to do without first asking a million questions?” “No.” “Right.” He laughs again. “Okay. Well, J is probably going to be getting her hair and makeup done for a little while, which means you can help us finish setting up in the backyard. But first, Winston has a surprise for you.” “No, thank you.” Kenji blinks. “What do you mean, no, thank you?” “I don’t want any more surprises,” I say, my chest constricting at the very thought. “I can’t take any more surprises.” “Listen, I can honestly understand what you might be feeling right now.” He sighs. “Your head is probably spinning. I tried to tell her—I told her it wasn’t a good idea to spring a wedding on a person, but whatever. She just does her own thing. Anyway, this is a good surprise, I promise. Plus, I can give you a little tour of your new place.” It’s this last line that uproots me from where I stand.

There’s a short set of steps leading up to the house, and I take them slowly, my heart pounding nervously as I look around. There’s a sizable front porch with freshly painted beams and railings, a decent area to set up a table and chairs when the weather’s nice. The large windows flanking the front door are accented with what appear to be functioning, pale-sage-green shutters, the front door painted to match. Slowly, I push open this door— which has been left ajar— crossing the threshold now with even greater trepidation. The wood floor underfoot creaks as I step into the front hall, the clamor and commotion of the room coming to a sudden, eerie halt as I enter. Everyone turns to look at me. The drumbeat in my chest pounds harder, and I feel, for a moment, afloat in this sea of uncertainty. I’m lost for words, having never been prepared, in all my life, to deal with such a strange scenario. I try to think, then, of what Ella would do. “Thank you,” I say into the silence. “For everything.” The crowd erupts into whoops and cheers at that, the tension gone in an instant. People shout congratulations into the din, and as my nerves begin to relax, I’m better able to make out their individual faces—some I recognize; others I don’t. Adam is the first to wave at me from a distant corner, and I notice then that he’s got his free arm wrapped around the waist of a young woman with blond hair. Alia. I remember her name. She’s a painfully quiet girl, one of the troupe who collected Ella earlier—and one of Winston’s friends. Today she seems unusually bright and happy. So does Adam. I nod at him in response, and he smiles before turning away to whisper something in Alia’s ear. James appears then, almost out of nowhere, tapping Adam on the arm aggressively, after which the three of them engage in a brief, quiet discussion that ends with Alia nodding fervently. She kisses Adam on the cheek before disappearing into a room just down the hall, and I stare at the door of this room long after she’s closed it. Ella must be in there.

For what feels like a dangerously long time I feel paralyzed in place, studying the imperfect walls and windows of a home that is mine, that will be mine today, tonight, tomorrow. I can’t believe it. I could kiss its rotting floor. “Follow me,” Kenji says, his voice stirring me from my stupor. He leads me through the small house as if he’s walked these paths a hundred times— and I realize then that he has. All these days he’s been working on this project. For Ella. For me. I experience a sharp, distracting stab of guilt. “Hello?” Kenji waves a hand in front of my face. “You want to see the kitchen, or no? I mean, I don’t really recommend it, because the kitchen probably needs the most work, but hey, it’s your house.” “I don’t need to see the kitchen.” “Great, then we’ll just get right to it. Winston first, then the backyard. Sound good? You never seem to have a problem working in a suit, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem for you today, either.” I sigh. “I have no problem assisting with manual labor, Kishimoto. In fact, I would’ve been happy to do so earlier.” “Great, well, that’s what we like to hear.” Kenji slaps me on the back, and I grit my teeth to keep from killing him. “All right,” he says. “So, I’m not going to torture you with any more unknowns, because I don’t think you actually like surprises. I also think you’re probably the kind of guy who likes to be able to pre-visualize stuff— helps manage the anxiety of not knowing things—so I’m going to walk you through this step-by-step. Sound good?” I come to a sudden stop, staring at Kenji like I’ve never seen him before. “What?” “What do you mean, what?” “How did you know that I don’t like surprises?” “Bro, you’re forgetting that I watched you have an actual panic attack.” He taps his head. “I know some things, okay?” I narrow my eyes at him.

“Okay, well”—he clears his throat—“there’s also this doctor we’re working with now—one of the ladies leading the exit evaluations for the asylum residents—and she’s, like, crazy smart. She’s got all kinds of interesting things to say about these patients, and everything they’ve been through. Anyway, you should talk to her. We had a patient who was cleared —healthy, fine, totally normal—to be returned to their relatives, but this dude couldn’t get on a plane without having a major panic attack. The doctor was explaining to Sam that, for some people, getting on a plane is terrifying because they have to be able to trust the pilot to control the plane—and some people just can’t trust like that. They can’t cede control. Anyway, it made me think of you.” I deeply loathe this comparison, and I tell him as much. “I am perfectly capable of getting on planes,” I point out. “Yeah, I know, but—you know what I mean, right? Generally?” “No.” Kenji sighs. “I’m just saying that I think it probably helps you to know exactly what’s going to happen next. You like being in control. You don’t like not knowing things. You probably like to imagine things in your head before they happen.” “You had a single conversation with a doctor and now you think you’re capable of psychoanalyzing me?” “I’m not—” Kenji throws up his arms. “You know what, whatever. Let’s go. Winston’s waiting.” “Wait.” Kenji looks up at me, irritation written all over his features. “What?” “There might be a small grain of truth in what you said. A very, very small grain.” “I knew it,” he says, pointing at me. “I told her, too, I was like, wow, you should really talk to this one guy we know, he could use a lot of help working through some—” “You didn’t.” A muscle jumps in my jaw. “Tell me you didn’t actually say that to her.” “I did too say that to her. She was a smart lady, and I think she might have some really interesting things to say to you. She was talking about

some of these inmates and the problems they were facing and I was like, oh my God, you could be describing Warner right now.” “I see,” I say, and nod. “I should just kill you here, shouldn’t I? In my own house. On my wedding day. It could be your gift to me.” “This, right here!” He throws out his arms. “This is a perfect example! You don’t know how to problem solve without resorting to murder! How do you not see this as an issue?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, man, you really might want to consider—” I take a sharp breath, staring up at the ceiling. “For the love of God, Kishimoto. Where is Winston, and what does he want with me?” “Did someone say my name?” Winston pops his head out of a door in the corridor ahead. “Come on in. I’m all ready for you.” I shoot Kenji a scathing look before retreating down the hall, peering into the new room with some concern. It appears to be some kind of a bedroom, though it’s in desperate need of work. And paint. Winston has set up what appears to be a small command center—a dingy folding table displaying an artfully arranged selection of ties, bow ties, cuff links, and socks. I stare at it, beginning to understand, but I’m distracted by a strange, pungent odor that only seems to strengthen the longer I stand here. “What on earth is that smell?” I ask, frowning at the old wood paneling. “Yeah,” Winston says, shrugging. “We don’t know. We think maybe there’s a dead rat in the wall. Or maybe a couple of dead rats.” “What?” I look at him sharply. “Or!” Kenji says brightly. “Or, it’s just mold!” “A delightful alternative.” “Okay.” Winston claps his hands together, beaming. “We can talk about the rats tomorrow. You ready to see your suit?” “What suit?” “Your wedding suit,” Winston says, staring at me now with a strange expression on his face. “You didn’t really think you were getting married today in the clothes you’re wearing, did you?” “Not they aren’t nice clothes,” Kenji adds. “To be fair.” I meet Winston’s eyes. “I haven’t been able to predict a single thing that was going to happen to me today. How was I supposed to

know that you’d managed to salvage my wedding suit from the wreckage? No one told me.” “We didn’t salvage it from the wreckage,” Winston says, laughing. “I made you a new one.” This leaves me briefly speechless. I stare at Winston, then Kenji. “You made me a new suit? How? Why? When?” “What do you mean?” Winston is still smiling. “We couldn’t let you get married without a proper suit.” “But how did you find the time? You must’ve—” “Been up all night?” Brendan ducks his head into the room, then steps fully inside. “Finishing most of the work by hand? Yes, Winston was up all night on your behalf. Hardly slept at all. Which is why it wasn’t very nice of you to be so rude to him this morning.” I glance from Brendan to Winston to Kenji. I have no idea what to say, and I’m just thinking of how to respond when Adam and James show up at the door, two sets of knuckles knocking a rapid staccato on the frame. “Hi!” James says, abandoning the door and his brother to invade my personal space. “Did they tell you I’m the only kid allowed at the wedding?” “No.” “Well, I am. I’m the only kid allowed at the wedding. My friends are super jealous right now because they’re all stuck in class.” “And was there any particular reason,” I ask carefully, “why they made an exception for you?” James rolls his eyes and lunges at me, hugging me right around the middle in a show of unprecedented self-assurance that shocks me, briefly, into paralysis. “Congratulations,” he says against my sweater. “I’m really happy for you guys.” I have to remind myself that James is not only— biologically—my brother, but also a child, and undeserving of rejection. I pat him on the head in a single, wooden movement that startles a laugh out of Kenji, a gasp from Winston, stunned silence from Brendan, and slack-jawed astonishment from Adam.

I clear my throat, disengaging from James as gently as I can. “Thank you,” I say to him. “You’re welcome,” he says, beaming. “Thanks for inviting me.” “I didn’t invi—” “So!” Adam cuts me off, trying and failing now to fight a smile. “We, um, we just came by to check in with you on a couple of details.” He glances at James. “Right, buddy?” James nods. “Right.” “First of all: Did anyone talk to you about your vows? Do you want to go traditional, or do you plan on saying something—” “He’s going traditional,” Kenji says, answering for me before I’ve had a chance to respond. “I already told Castle.” He turns to face me. “Castle is doing the ceremony, by the way—you know that, right?” “No,” I say, staring at him. “I did not know that. But what makes you think I don’t want to write my own vows?” He shrugs. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who likes to get up in front of a crowd and shoot from the heart. But I’m happy to be wrong,” he says. “If you want to write your own vows, stand in front of a ton of people —most of whom you hardly know—and tell Juliette her face reminds you of a sunrise, no problem. Castle is flexible.” “I would rather impale myself on a pike.” “Yeah.” Kenji grins. “That’s what I thought.” Kenji turns away to ask Adam a question, something about ceremony logistics, and I study the back of his head, confused. How? I want to ask. How did you know? Winston unfolds a garment bag, hangs it on a nearby door, and unzips the length of it while Brendan unearths a box of shoes from a dingy closet. Adam says, “Okay, I still have a few questions for Warner, but I need to confirm with Castle about the vows, so we’ll be right back—and I’ll find out about the music—” And I feel as if I’ve stepped into a strange, alternate reality, into a world where I didn’t think I’d ever belong. I could never have anticipated that somehow, somewhere along this tumultuous path— I’d acquired friends.

THIRTEEN The backyard is a modest rectangle of scorched land, the sparse and parched grass nicely obscured by a selection of time-worn wooden folding chairs, the arrangement parted down the middle by an artificial aisle, all of which face a hand-wrought wedding arch. Two thick, ten-foot cylindrical wooden stakes have been hammered into the ground, the five feet of empty space between them bridged at the top by a raw, severed tree limb, the joints bound together by rope. This crudely constructed bower is decorated with a robust selection of colorful wildflowers; leaves and petals flutter in the gentle breeze, infusing the early-morning air with their combined fragrance. The scene is at once simple and breathtaking, and I am immobilized by the sight of it. I am in a perfectly tailored, dark green, three-piece suit with a white shirt and black tie. My original suit was black, by request; Winston told me he decided to go with this deep shade of green because he thought it would suit my eyes and offset my gold hair. I wanted to argue with him except that I was genuinely impressed with the quality of his work, and did not protest when he handed me a pair of black, patent leather shoes to match. Absently, I touch the gardenia affixed to my lapel, feeling the always-present weight of the velvet box against my thigh. There are folding tables arranged along the opposite end of the yard still waiting for their tablecloths, and I have been assigned the task of dressing them. I have also been ordered to see to the tables and chairs that need to be arranged inside the as-yet-unfurnished living and dining rooms, where the reception is meant to take place later this evening after a break postceremony, during which our guests will change work shifts, see to things back at the base, and Ella and I will have a chance to take pictures. This all sounds so perfectly human as to render me ill. I have, as a result, done none of things requested of me. I’ve been unable to move from this spot, staring at the wedding arch where I will soon be

expected to stand and wait. I clutch the back of a chair, holding on for dear life as the weight of the day’s revelations inhale me, drowning me in their depths. Kenji is right; I don’t enjoy surprises. This is fundamentally true, and yet—I would like to be the kind of person who enjoys surprises. I want to live a life like this, to be able to withstand unexpected moments of kindness delivered by the person I love most in the world. It’s only that I don’t know what to do with these experiences; my body doesn’t know how to accept or digest them. I am so happy it’s physically uncomfortable; I am so full of hope it seems to depress my chest, forcing the air from my lungs. I draw in a sharp breath against this feeling, forcing myself to be calm while doing, over and over, the mental gymnastics necessary to remind myself that my fears are irrational, when I feel the approach of a familiar nervous energy. I turn around carefully to meet her, surprised she’s sought me out at all. “Hey,” Sam says, trying to smile. She’s dressed up; she even appears to have attempted something like makeup, her eyelids shimmering in the soft light of the morning. “Big day.” “Yes.” “Listen, I’m sorry.” She sighs. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you like that last night. Really, I didn’t.” I nod, then look away, staring into the distance. This yard is separated from its neighbor’s by only a short, shabby wooden fence. Kenji will no doubt spend the rest of our lives tormenting me from over top of it. Sam sighs again, louder this time. “I know you and I don’t always see eye to eye,” she says, “but I’m hoping maybe—if we get to know each other better—that’ll change.” I look up at that, analyzing Sam now. She is being sincere, but I find her suggestion unlikely. I notice Nouria in my periphery then, huddled up with her father and three others, and shift my gaze in her direction. She’s wearing a simple sheath dress in a shade of chartreuse that compliments her dark skin. She appears to be happy at the moment—smiling—which even I realize is rare for Nouria these days.

Sam follows my line of sight, seeming to understand where my thoughts have gone. “I know she’s a little hard on you sometimes, but she’s been under crazy amounts of pressure lately. She’s never had to oversee so many people, or so many details, and The Reestablishment has been a lot harder to deconstruct than we’d thought—you can’t even imagine—” “Can’t I?” I almost smile, even as my jaw tenses. “You think me incapable of understanding the weight of the burden we shoulder now?” Sam looks away. “I didn’t say that. That’s not what I meant.” “Our position is worse than precarious,” I say to her. “And whatever you think of me—whatever you think you understand about me—I am only trying to help.” For the third time, Sam sighs. Now, more than ever, those of us at the Sanctuary should be allied, but Sam and Nouria have grown to detest me over the last couple of weeks because I challenge them at every turn, refusing to agree with their tactics or ideology when I find it lacking—and unwilling to acquiesce merely to get along. They find this fundamentally infuriating, and I don’t care. I refuse to do anything that would put Ella’s life in jeopardy, and letting our movement fail would be doing exactly that. “I want us to try again,” Sam says, steely now as she meets my eyes. “I want us to start over. We’ve been fighting a lot lately, and I think you would agree with me that it’s not sustainable. We should be united right now.” “United? Nouria deliberately made me think I couldn’t get married. She willfully manipulated the truth to make the situation seem dire, simply to wound me. How can such petty machinations form any foundation for unity?” “She wasn’t trying to wound you. She was trying to protect you.” “In what alternate reality could that possibly be true?” Sam’s anger flares. “You know what your problem is?” “Yes. The list is long.” “Oh my God,” she says, her irritation building. “This, this is exactly your problem. You think you know everything. You’re uncooperative, you’re

uncompromising, and you’ve already decided you’ve figured everything out. You don’t know how to be part of a team—” “You and Nouria don’t know how to take constructive criticism.” “Constructive criticism?” Sam gapes at me. “You call your criticism constructive?” “You’re free to call it whatever you like,” I say unkindly. “But I refuse to remain silent when I believe you and Nouria are making the wrong choices. You regularly forget that I was raised within The Reestablishment, from its infancy, and that there is a great deal I understand about the mechanics of our enemies’ minds—more than you are even willing to consider—” “All okay over here?” Castle asks, striding toward us. His smile is uncertain. “We’re not talking about work right now, are we?” “Oh, everything is fine,” Sam says too brightly. “I was just reminding Warner here how much Nouria has done to keep him and Juliette safe on their wedding day. An event I think we all agree would render them both most vulnerable to an outside threat.” I go suddenly still. “Well—yes,” Castle says, confused. “Of course. You already know that, though, don’t you, Mr. Warner? News of your impending nuptials was beginning to spread, and we feared the possible repercussions for both you and Ms. Ferrars on such a joyous day.” I’m still staring at Sam when I say quietly: “That’s why you all lied to me yesterday?” “Nouria thought it was imperative that we convince you,” Sam says stiffly, “more than anyone else, that you wouldn’t be getting married today. The supreme kids knew about the wedding before they left, and Nouria worried that even a whiff of an exchange on the subject yesterday might be intercepted in your daily communications, which we wanted to make certain you carried out as normal. The notifications Juliette sent out last night were done in code.” “I see,” I say, glancing again at Nouria, who’s now deep in conversation with the girls—Sonya and Sara—both of whom are holding what appear to be small black suitcases.

I should be touched by this gesture of protection, but the fact that they felt I couldn’t be trusted with such a plan does little to improve my mood. “You do realize you could’ve simply asked me to say nothing, don’t you? I’m perfectly capable of discretion—” “What is going on between you two?” Castle frowns. “This is not the energy I expected from either of you on—” “Sir?” Ian is standing at the sliding screen door—the only access point into the house from the backyard—and motioning Castle forward with an agitated wave. “Can you come here, please? Now?” Castle frowns, then glances between myself and Sam. “There will be plenty of time to discuss unpleasant matters later, do you understand? Today is a day of celebration. For all of us.” “Oh, don’t worry,” Sam says to Castle. “Everything will be fine—right, Warner?” “Perhaps,” I say, holding her gaze. Sam and I say nothing else, and Castle shakes his head before stalking off, leaving the two of us alone to enjoy an uncomfortable moment of silence. Sam takes a sudden deep breath. “Anyway,” she says loudly, looking around now for an exit. “Exciting day. Best wishes and everything.” My jaw clenches. I’m saved the need to respond to this limp performance of civility by the abrupt, sharp bark of a dog, accompanied by the timid admonishment of a human. Sam and I both spin around toward the sounds. An animal I hardly recognize is scratching wildly at the screen door, yapping—at me, specifically—from several feet away. Its once mangy, matted fur is now a healthy brown, with an unexpected smattering of white; this accomplishment is undermined by its bright red collar and ridiculous, matching headband, the undignified accessory crowned with a large crimson bow, which sits atop the animal’s head. The perpetrator of this crime is standing just beyond the dog, a tall, redheaded young woman desperately begging the pup to be calm. Kenji had said her name was Yara.

She struggles in vain; the creature pays her no mind as he barks over and over, all the while pawing anxiously at the screen door—my screen door— which he will no doubt destroy if he does not soon desist. “Let him out,” I say to her, my voice carrying. The young woman startles at that, quickly fumbling now to unlatch the screen door. When she finally manages to slide the panel open, the animal all but lunges through the doorway, yanking her along with him. Beside me, Sam makes a poorly muffled sound of disgust. “I didn’t realize you hated animals,” I say without looking at her. “Oh, I love animals. Animals are better at being human than people are.” “I don’t disagree.” “Shocking.” I turn to face her, surprised. “Why are you so angry?” Sam sighs and nods discreetly at Yara, who waves enthusiastically even as she’s dragged along in our direction. I raise my eyebrows at Sam. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she says, irritated. “You have no idea what Nouria and I have had to deal with since you arrived. It got a hundred times worse after everyone decided you were some kind of a hero. It was a really low moment for us, realizing that so many people we respected were shockingly shallow.” “If it makes you feel any better,” I say, taking a breath as I lift a hand in Yara’s direction, “I don’t like it, either.” “Bullshit,” Sam says automatically, but I sense her flicker of uncertainty. I lower my voice as Yara closes in on us. “Would you enjoy being reduced to nothing but your physical footprint, forced all the while to absorb the weight of strangers’ indecent emotions as they assess and undress you?” Sam stiffens beside me. She turns to look at me, her feelings scattered and confused. I feel her reexamining me. “Hi!” Yara says, coming to a stop in front of us. She is an objectively kind young woman; I recognize this even as I fight back a wave of revulsion. Yara has done the animal—and me, by extension —a great courtesy, which she needn’t have done for a stranger on such short

notice. Still, her feelings are both generous and disconcerting, some of them loud enough to make me physically uncomfortable. The dog is wise enough to halt at my feet. He lifts a tentative paw as if to touch me, and I give him a sharp look, after which the paw retreats. In the intervening silence, the dog stares up at me with big, dark eyes, his tail wagging furiously. “It was kind of you to wash the animal,” I say to Yara, still staring at the dog. “He looks much better now.” “Oh, it was my pleasure,” she says, hesitating before adding: “You look —you look really, really nice today.” My smile is tight. I don’t want to feel what she’s feeling right now. I don’t want to know these things—not ever—but especially not on my wedding day. I bend down to look the dog in the eye and draw a gentle hand over his head, into which he eagerly leans. He sniffs me, nosing the palm of my hand, and I pull away before the beast decides to lick me. I decide instead to check his collar; there is a single metal coin hanging from the red strap, and I pinch it between two fingers, the better to examine it. It reads: DOG. “That’s what you said you wanted to call him, right?” Yara is still smiling. “Dog?” I look up at her then, meeting the young woman’s eyes against my better judgment, and her smile trembles. Sam stifles a laugh. “Yes,” I say slowly. “I suppose I did say something like that.” Yara beams. “Well, he’s all yours now. Happy wedding and everything.” I stand up sharply. “What?” “Oh, and it looks like he’s already been neutered, so I think he’s had a family before. You made a great choice. I’m not sure what kind of dog he is —he’s definitely some kind of mixed breed—but he’s not totally wild, and I think he’ll be a good— “I’m afraid you’ve gravely misunderstood the situation. I don’t want a dog. I merely wanted you to wash the animal, and maybe feed it—” Sam is laughing openly now, and I pivot to face her.

“You think this is funny? What am I supposed to do with a dog?” “Um, I don’t know”—she shoots me an incredulous look—“give it a loving home?” “Don’t be ridiculous.” “I’m—I’m so sorry,” Yara says, her eyes widening now with panic. “I thought he was your dog—I didn’t think he was— I mean he doesn’t obey anyone else, and he seems really attached to you—” “Don’t worry, Yara,” Sam says gently. “You did great. Warner just wasn’t expecting you to be so generous, and he’s kind of, um, overwhelmed with gratitude right now. Isn’t that right, Warner?” She turns to me. “Yara was so kind to get . . . Dog here all washed and ready for your wedding day. Wasn’t she?” “Very kind,” I say, my jaw tensing. Yara looks nervously in my direction. “Really?” Briefly, I meet her eyes. “Really.” She flushes. “Yara, why don’t you hold on to”—she fights back a smile—“Dog until the end of the ceremony? Maybe make sure he gets something to eat.” “Oh, sure.” Yara shoots me one last furtive look before tugging gently on the animal’s leash. The dog whines at that, then barks as she coaxes him, one foot at a time, back toward the house. I turn my eyes skyward. “This is unforgivable.” “Why?” I can hear practically hear Sam smile. “I bet Juliette would love to have a dog.” I look at Sam. “Did you know, I once watched a dog vomit—and then proceed to eat its own vomit.” “Okay, but—” “And then vomit. Again.” Sam crosses her arms. “That was one dog.” “Another dog once defecated right in front of me while I was patrolling a compound.” “That’s perfectly norm—” “After which it promptly ate its own feces.”

Sam crosses her arms. “All right. Well. That’s still better than the awful things I’ve seen humans do.” I’m prevented from responding by a sudden swell of commotion. People are starting to rush around, pushing past us to scatter wildflowers in the grassy aisle. Sonya and Sara, clad in identical green gowns, take positions adjacent to the wedding arch, their black suitcases gone. In their hands they hold matching violins and bows, the sight of which paralyzes me anew. I feel that familiar pain in my chest, something like fear. It’s beginning. “You’re right, though,” I say quietly to Sam, wondering, for the hundredth time, what Ella might be doing inside the house. “She’d love to have a dog.” “Wait— I’m sorry, did you just say I was right about something?” I release a sharp breath. It sounds almost like a laugh. “You know,” Sam says thoughtfully. “I think this might be the most pleasant conversation you and I have ever had.” “Your standards are very low, then.” “When it comes to you, Warner, my standards have to be low.” I manage to smile at that, but I’m still distracted. Castle is walking toward the arch now, a small leather-bound notebook in his hand, a sprig of lavender pinned to his lapel. He nods at me as he goes, and I can only stare, feeling suddenly like I can’t breathe. “I’ve seen her, by the way,” Sam says softly. I turn to face her. “Juliette.” Sam smiles. “She looks beautiful.” I’m struggling to formulate a response to this when I sense the approach of a familiar presence; his hand lands on my arm, and for the first time, I don’t flinch. “Hey, man,” Kenji says, materializing at my side in a surprisingly sharp suit. “You ready? There’s not much of a wedding party, so we’re not doing a processional, which means J will be walking down the aisle pretty soon. Nazeera just gave us the ten-minute . . .” Kenji trails off, distracted as if on cue, by Nazeera herself. She saunters toward the wedding arch, tall and steady in a gauzy, blush-colored gown.

She grins at Castle, who acknowledges her with a smile of his own; Nazeera takes a position just off to the side of the arch, adjusting her skirts as she settles in place. It becomes terrifyingly clear to me then exactly where Ella is expected to soon stand. Where I am expected to soon stand. “But I haven’t finished with the tablecloths,” I say, “or the seating inside —” “Yeah. I noticed.” Kenji takes a sharp breath, tearing his gaze away from Nazeera to look me in the eye. “Anyway, don’t worry. We took care of it. You seemed really busy standing still for half an hour, staring at nothing. We didn’t want to interrupt.” “All right, I think I should get going,” Sam says, offering me a real, genuine smile. “Nouria is saving me a seat. Good luck out there.” I nod at her as she goes, surprised to discover that, despite the long road ahead, there might be hope of a truce between us after all. “Okay.” Kenji claps his hands together. “First things first: do you need to go to the bathroom or anything before we start? Personally, I think you should go even if you don’t think you have to, because it would be really awkward if you suddenly had t—” “Stop.” “Oh—right!” Kenji says, slapping his hand to his forehead. “My bad, bro, I forgot—you never have to use the bathroom, do you?” “No.” “No, of course not. Because that would be human, and we both know you’re secretly a robot.” I sigh, resisting the urge to run my hands through my hair. “Seriously, though—anything you need to do before you go up there? You’ve got the ring, right?” “No.” My heart is pounding furiously in my chest now. “And yes.” “Okay, then.” Kenji nods toward the wedding arch. “Go ahead and get into position under that flower thing. Castle will show you exactly where to stand—” I turn sharply to face him. “You’re not coming with me?”

Kenji goes stock-still at that, his mouth slightly agape. I realize, a moment too late, exactly what I’ve just suggested— and still I can’t bring myself to retract the question, and I can’t explain why. Right now, it doesn’t seem to matter. Right now, I can’t quite feel my legs. Kenji, to his credit, does not laugh in my face. Instead, his expression relaxes by micrometers, his dark eyes assessing me in that careful way I detest. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Of course I’m coming with you.”

FOURTEEN Sunlight glances off my eyes, the glare shifting, flickering through a webbing of bare branches as a gentle breeze moves through the yard, fluttering leaves and skirts and flower petals. The scent of the gardenia affixed to my lapel wafts upward, filling my head with a heady perfume as the sharp collar of my shirt scrapes against my neck, my tie too tight; I clasp my hands in front of me to keep from adjusting it, my palms brushing against the wool of my suit, the fabric soft and lightweight and still somehow abrasive, suffocating me as I stand here in stiff shoes sinking slowly into dead grass, staring out at a sea of people come to bear witness to what might be one of the most publicly vulnerable moments of my life. I can’t seem to breathe. I can’t seem to make out their faces, but I can feel them, the individual emotional capsules that make up the members of this audience, the collective frenzy of their thoughts and feelings overwhelming me in a breathtaking crush that crowds my already chaotic thoughts. I feel myself begin to panic—my heart rate increasing rapidly—as I try to digest this noise, to tune out the barrage of other people’s nervousness and excitement. It’s a struggle even to hear myself think, to unearth my own consciousness. I try, desperately, to find an anchor in this madness.

It is nearly impossible. Sonya and Sara lift their violins, sharing a glance before one of the sisters, Sonya, takes the lead, launching into the opening of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Sara soon accompanies her, and the evocative, heart-wrenching notes fill the air, igniting in my chest a flare of emotion that only intensifies my apprehension, pulling my nerves taut to a painful degree. I swallow, hard, my pulse racing dangerously fast. My hands seem to spark and fade with feeling, prickling hot and cold, and I flex them into fists. “Hey, man,” Kenji whispers beside me. “You all right?” I shake my head an inch. “What’s wrong?” I can feel Kenji studying my face. “Oh—shit—are you having a panic attack?” “Not yet,” I manage to say. I close my eyes, try to breathe. “It’s too loud in here.” “The music?” “The people.” “Okay. Okay. Shit. So you can, like, feel everything they’re feeling right now? Right. Shit. Of course you can. Okay. All right, what should I do? You want me to talk to you? How about I just talk to you? Why don’t you just focus on me, on the sound of my voice. Fade everything else out.” “I don’t know if that will work,” I say, taking a shaky breath. “But I can try.” “Cool. Okay. First of all, open your eyes. Juliette is going to walk out in a couple of minutes, and you won’t want to miss it. Her dress is awesome.” He whispers this, his voice altered just enough that I can tell he’s trying not to move his lips. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything about it, because, you know, it’s supposed to be a surprise, but whatever, we’re throwing surprises out the window right now because this is an emergency, and I have a feeling that once you see her your brain will do that creepy super-focus thing it always does—you know, like when you ignore literally everyone around you—and then you’ll start feeling better because, um, yeah”—he laughs, nervously—“you know what? I’m beginning to realize only right this second that, uh, when she’s around you don’t even seem to notice other

people, so, um—until then I can—yeah, I’m just going to describe her to you, because, like I said, she’s going to look great. Her dress is, like, really, really pretty, and I don’t even know anything about dresses, so that should tell you something.” The sound of his voice is a strange lifeline. The more he speaks, filling my head with easily digestible nonsense, I feel my heart rate start to slow, the iron fist around my lungs beginning, slowly, to unclench. I force my eyes open, and the scene briefly blurs in and out of focus, the pounding of my heart still loud in my head. I glance at Kenji, who is staring straight ahead, his face at rest as if nothing is amiss. This helps ground me, somehow, and I manage to pull myself together long enough to look down the petal-dusted aisle. “So Juliette’s dress is, um, like, really glittery, but also really softlooking? Winston and Alia had to come up with a new design on such short notice,” Kenji explains, “but they were able to repurpose some gown you guys got at the Supply Center yesterday. There was lots of, like, sheer fluffy fabric, I don’t know what it’s call—” “Tulle.” “Yes. Tulle. Yes. Whatever. Anyway Alia spent all night, like, first of all, making it nicer, and then sewing these little glittery beads all over it—but, like, in a nice way. It’s really nice. And it’s got, like, these little tulle sleeves that aren’t really sleeves—they sort of fall off the shoulder— Hey, is this helping?” “Yes,” I say, drawing in a full breath for the first time in minutes. “Great, so—nice sleeves, and, and um, you know, it’s got a long fluffy skirt— Okay, yeah, I’m sorry, bro, but I’m kind of out of descriptions for Juliette’s dress, but— Oh, hey, here’s a fun fact: Did you know that Sonya and Sara used to be, like, young virtuosos, way back in the day, preReestablishment?” “No.” “Yeah—yeah, so they started playing violin when they were fresh out of diapers. Pretty cool, huh? Nazeera helped us confiscate the violins they’re using today from old Reestablishment holdings. They’re playing this song

from memory. I don’t know what it’s called, but I’m pretty sure it’s something fancy, from some old dead dude—” “Of course you know what it’s called,” I say, still staring straight ahead. “Everyone knows it.” “Well I don’t know it.” “This is the work of German composer Johann Pachelbel,” I explain, struggling not to frown. “It’s often called Pachelbel’s Canon in D, because it was meant to be played in the key of D major. Do you know nothing about music?” “Yeah, I don’t even know what the hell you just said.” “How can y—” “All right, shut up, no one cares—the music is changing, do you hear that? When it goes high like that? That means she’s going to come out any second now—” The audience rises almost at once, a rush of breaths and bodies clambering to their feet, craning their necks, and for a moment, I can’t see her at all. And then, suddenly, I do. Relief hits me like a gust, leaving me so suddenly unsteady I worry, for a moment, that I might not make it. Ella looks spun from gossamer, glowing as she glitters in the soft light. Her gown has a corseted, glimmering bodice that flows into a soft, decadent skirt, her arms bare save delicate, off-the-shoulder scraps of tulle that graze her skin. She is luminous. I’ve never seen her wear makeup, and I have no idea what they’ve done to her face, except that she is now so beautiful as to be unreal, her hair in an elegant arrangement atop her head, a long veil gracing her shoulders, flowing with her as she walks. She does not look like she belongs in this world, or in this dingy backyard, or in this dilapidated neighborhood, or on this crumbling planet. She is above it. Above us all. A spark of light separated from the sun. A dangerous heat builds behind my eyes and I force myself to fight it back, to remain calm, but when she sees me, she smiles—and I nearly lose

the fight. “I told you it was a nice dress,” Kenji whispers. “Kenji.” “Yes?” “Thank you,” I say, still staring at Ella. “For everything.” “Anytime,” he says, his voice more subdued than before. “This is the beginning of a new chapter for all of us, man. For the whole world. This wedding is making history right now. You know that, right? Nothing is ever going to be the same.” Ella glides toward me, nearly within reach. I feel my heart pounding in my chest, happiness threatening to destroy me. I’m smiling now, smiling like the most ordinary of men, staring at the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known. “Believe me,” I whisper. “I do.” Keep reading for a sneak peek at

the first book in Tahereh Mafi’s stunning fantasy series!

ONE

ALIZEH STITCHED IN THE KITCHEN by the light of star and fire, sitting, as she often did, curled up inside the hearth. Soot stained her skin and skirts in haphazard streaks: smudges along the crest of a cheek, a dusting of yet more darkness above one eye. She didn’t seem to notice. Alizeh was cold. No, she was freezing. She often wished she were a body with hinges, that she might throw open a door in her chest and fill its cavity with coal, then kerosene. Strike a match. Alas. She tugged up her skirts and shifted nearer the fire, careful lest she destroy the garment she still owed the illegitimate daughter of the Lojjan ambassador. The intricate, glittering piece was her only order this month, but Alizeh nursed a secret hope that the gown would conjure clients on its own, for such fashionable commissions were, after all, the direct result of an envy born only in a ballroom, around a dinner table. So long as the kingdom remained at peace, the royal elite—legitimate and illegitimate alike—would continue to host parties and incur debt, which meant Alizeh might yet find ways to extract coin from their embroidered pockets. She shivered violently then, nearly missing a stitch, nearly toppling into the fire. As a toddling child Alizeh had once been so desperately cold she’d crawled onto the searing hearth on purpose. Of course it had never occurred to her that she might be consumed by the blaze; she’d been but a babe following an instinct to seek warmth. Alizeh couldn’t have known then the singularity of her affliction, for so rare was the frost that grew inside her body that she stood in stark relief even among her own people, who were thought to be strange indeed. A miracle, then, that the fire had only disintegrated her clothes and clogged the small house with a smoke that singed her eyes. A subsequent scream, however, signaled to the snug tot that her scheme was at an end. Frustrated by a body that would not warm, she’d wept frigid tears as she was collected from the flames, her mother sustaining terrible burns in the process, the scars of which Alizeh would study for years to come. “Her eyes,” the trembling woman had cried to her husband, who’d come running at the sounds of distress. “See what’s happened to her eyes— They will kill her for this—”

Alizeh rubbed her eyes now and coughed. Surely she’d been too young to remember the precise words her parents had spoken; no doubt Alizeh’s was a memory merely of a story oft-repeated, one so thoroughly worn into her mind she only imagined she could recall her mother’s voice. She swallowed. Soot had stuck in her throat. Her fingers had gone numb. Exhausted, she exhaled her worries into the hearth, the action disturbing to life another flurry of soot. Alizeh coughed for the second time then, this time so hard she stabbed the stitching needle into her small finger. She absorbed the shock of pain with preternatural calm, carefully dislodging the bit before inspecting the injury. The puncture was deep. Slowly, almost one at a time, her fingers closed around the gown still clutched in her hand, the finest silk stanching the trickle of her blood. After a few moments—during which she stared blankly up, into the chimney, for the sixteenth time that night—she released the gown, cut the thread with her teeth, and tossed the gem-encrusted novelty onto a nearby chair. Never fear; Alizeh knew her blood would not stain. Still, it was a good excuse to cede defeat, to set aside the gown. She appraised it now, sprawled as it was across the seat. The bodice had collapsed, bowing over the skirt much like a child might slump in a chair. Silk pooled around the wooden legs, beadwork catching the light. A weak breeze rattled a poorly latched window and a single candle blew out, taking with it the remaining composure of the commission. The gown slid farther down the chair, one heavy sleeve releasing itself with a hush, its glittering cuff grazing the sooty floor. Alizeh sighed. This gown, like all the others, was far from beautiful. She thought the design trite, the construction only passably good. She dreamed of unleashing her mind, of freeing her hands to create without hesitation—but the roar of Alizeh’s imagination was quieted, always, by an unfortunate need for selfpreservation.

It was only during her grandmother’s lifetime that the Fire Accords had been established, unprecedented peace agreements that allowed Jinn and humans to mix freely for the first time in nearly a millennia. Though superficially identical, Jinn bodies had been forged from the essence of fire, imbuing in them certain physical advantages; while humans, whose beginnings were established in dirt and water, had long been labeled Clay. Jinn had conceded to the establishment of the Accords with a variegated relief, for the two races had been locked in bloodshed for eons, and though the enmity between them remained unresolved, all had tired of death. The streets had been gilded with liquid sun to usher in the era of this tenuous peacetime, the empire’s flag and coin reimagined in triumph. Every royal article was stamped with the maxim of a new age: MERAS May Equality Reign Always Supreme Equality, as it turned out, had meant Jinn were to lower themselves to the weakness of humans, denying at all times the inherent powers of their race, the speed and strength and elective evanescence born unto their bodies. They were to cease at once what the king had declared “such supernatural operations” or face certain death, and Clay, who had exposed themselves as an insecure sort of creature, were only too willing cry cheat no matter the context. Alizeh could still hear the screams, the riots in the streets— She stared now at the mediocre gown. Always she struggled not to design an article too exquisite, for extraordinary work came under harsher scrutiny, and was only too quickly denounced as the result of a preternatural trick. Only once, having grown increasingly desperate to earn a decent living, had Alizeh thought to impress a customer not with style, but with craftsmanship. Not only was the quality of her work many orders of magnitude higher than that of the local modiste, but Alizeh could fashion an elegant morning gown in a quarter of the time, and had been willing to charge half as much. The oversight had sent her to the gallows.

It had not been the happy customer, but the rival dressmaker who’d reported Alizeh to the magistrates. Miracle of miracles, she’d managed to evade their attempt to drag her away in the night, and fled the familiar countryside of her childhood for the anonymity of the city, hoping to be lost among the masses. Would that she might slough off the burdens she carried with her always, but Alizeh knew an abundance of reasons to keep to the shadows, chief among them the reminder that her parents had forfeited their lives in the interest of her quiet survival, and to comport herself carelessly now would be to dishonor their efforts. No, Alizeh had learned the hard way to relinquish her commissions long before she grew to love them. She stood and a cloud of soot stood with her, billowing around her skirts. She’d need to clean the kitchen hearth before Mrs. Amina came down in the morning or she’d likely be out on the street again. Despite her best efforts, Alizeh had been turned out onto the street more times than she could count. She’d always supposed it took little encouragement to dispose of that which was already seen as disposable, but these thoughts had done little to calm her. Alizeh collected a broom, flinching a little as the fire died. It was late; very late. The steady tick tick of the clock wound something in her heart, made her anxious. Alizeh had a natural aversion to the dark, a rooted fear she could not fully articulate. She’d have rather worked a needle and thread by the light of the sun, but she spent her days doing the work that really mattered: scrubbing the rooms and latrines of Baz House, the grand estate of Her Grace, the Duchess Jamilah of Fetrous. Alizeh had never met the duchess, only seen the glittering older woman from afar. Alizeh’s meetings were with Mrs. Amina, the housekeeper, who’d hired Alizeh on a trial basis only, as she’d arrived with no references. As a result, Alizeh was not yet permitted to interact with the other servants, nor was she allotted a proper room in the servants’ wing. Instead, she’d been given a rotting closet in the attic, wherein she’d discovered a cot, its motheaten mattress, and half a candle. Alizeh had lain awake in her narrow bed that first night, so overcome she could hardly breathe. She minded neither the rotting attic nor its moth-eaten

mattress, for Alizeh knew herself to be in possession of great fortune. That any grand house was willing to employ a Jinn was shocking enough, but that she’d been given a room—a respite from the winter streets— True, Alizeh had found stretches of work since her parents’ deaths, and often she’d been granted leave to sleep indoors, or in the hayloft; but never had she been given a space of her own. This was the first time in years she had privacy, a door she might close; and Alizeh had felt so thoroughly saturated with happiness she feared she might sink through the floor. Her body shook as she stared up at the wooden beams that night, at the thicket of cobwebs that crowded her head. A large spider had unspooled a length of thread, lowering itself to look her in the eye, and Alizeh had only smiled, clutching a skin of water to her chest. The water had been her single request. “A skin of water?” Mrs. Amina had frowned at her, frowned as if she’d asked to eat the woman’s child. “You can fetch your own water, girl.” “Forgive me, I would,” Alizeh had said, eyes on her shoes, on the torn leather around the toe she’d not yet mended. “But I’m still new to the city, and I’ve found it difficult to access fresh water so far from home. There’s no reliable cistern nearby, and I cannot yet afford the glass water in the market —” Mrs. Amina roared with laughter. Alizeh went silent, heat rising up her neck. She did not know why the woman laughed at her. “Can you read, child?” Alizeh looked up without meaning to, registering the familiar, fearful gasp before she’d even locked eyes with the woman. Mrs. Amina stepped back, lost her smile. “Yes,” said Alizeh. “I can read.” “Then you must try to forget.” Alizeh started. “I beg your pardon?” “Don’t be daft.” Mrs. Amina’s eyes narrowed. “No one wants a servant who can read. You ruin your own prospects with that tongue. Where did you say you were from?” Alizeh had frozen solid.

She couldn’t tell whether this woman was being cruel or kind. It was the first time anyone had suggested her intelligence might present a problem to the position, and Alizeh wondered then whether it wasn’t true: perhaps it had been her head, too full as it was, that kept landing her in the street. Perhaps, if she was careful, she might finally manage to keep a position for longer than a few weeks. No doubt she could feign stupidity in exchange for safety. “I’m from the north, ma’am,” she’d said quietly. “Your accent isn’t northern.” Alizeh nearly admitted aloud that she’d been raised in relative isolation, that she’d learned to speak as her tutors had taught her; but then she remembered herself, remembered her station, and said nothing. “As I suspected,” Mrs. Amina had said into the silence. “Rid yourself of that ridiculous accent. You sound like an idiot, pretending to be some kind of toff. Better yet, say nothing at all. If you can manage that, you may prove useful to me. I’ve heard your kind don’t tire out so easily, and I expect your work to satisfy such rumors, else I’ll not scruple to toss you back into the street. Have I made myself clear?” “Yes, ma’am.” “You may have your skin of water.” “Thank you, ma’am.” Alizeh curtsied, turned to go. “Oh—and one more thing—” Alizeh turned back. “Yes, ma’am?” “Get yourself a snoda as soon as possible. I never want to see your face again.”

TWO

ALIZEH HAD ONLY JUST PULLED open the door to her closet when she felt it, felt him as if she’d pushed her arms through the sleeves of a winter coat. She hesitated, heart pounding, and stood framed in the doorway. Foolish. Alizeh shook her head to clear it. She was imagining things, and no surprise: she was in desperate need of sleep. After sweeping the hearth, she’d had to scrub clean her sooty hands and face, too, and it had all taken much longer than she’d hoped; her weary mind could hardly be held responsible for its delirious thoughts at this hour. With a sigh, Alizeh dipped a single foot into the inky depths of her room, feeling blindly for the match and candle she kept always near the door. Mrs. Amina had not allowed Alizeh a second taper to carry upstairs in the evenings, for she could neither fathom the indulgence nor the possibility that the girl might still be working long after the gas lamps had been extinguished. Even so, the housekeeper’s lack of imagination did nothing to alter the facts as they were: this high up in so large an estate it was near impossible for distant light to penetrate. Save the occasional slant of the moon through a mingy corridor window, the attic presented opaque in the night; black as tar. Were it not for the glimmer of the night sky to help her navigate the many flights to her closet, Alizeh might not have found her way, for she experienced a fear so paralyzing in the company of perfect darkness that, when faced with such a fate, she held an illogical preference for death. Her single candle quickly found, the sought after match was promptly struck, a tear of air and the wick lit. A warm glow illuminated a sphere in the center of her room, and for the first time that day, Alizeh relaxed. Quietly she pulled closed the closet door behind her, stepping fully into a room hardly big enough to hold her cot. Just so, she loved it. She’d scrubbed the filthy closet until her knuckles had bled, until her knees had throbbed. In these ancient, beautiful estates, most everything was once built to perfection, and buried under layers of mold, cobwebs, and caked-on grime, Alizeh had discovered elegant herringbone floors, solid wood beams in the ceiling. When she’d finished with it, the room positively gleamed.

Mrs. Amina had not, naturally, been to visit the old storage closet since it’d been handed over to the help, but Alizeh often wondered what the housekeeper might say if she saw the space now, for the room was unrecognizable. But then, Alizeh had long ago learned to be resourceful. She removed her snoda, unwinding the delicate sheet of tulle from around her eyes. The silk was required of all those who worked in service, the mask marking its wearer as a member of the lower classes. The textile was designed for hard work, woven loosely enough to blur her features without obscuring necessary vision. Alizeh had chosen this profession with great forethought, and clung every day to the anonymity her position provided, rarely removing her snoda even outside of her room; for though most people did not understand the strangeness they saw in her eyes, she feared that one day the wrong person might. She breathed deeply now, pressing the tips of her fingers against her cheeks and temples, gently massaging the face she’d not seen in what felt like years. Alizeh did not own a looking glass, and her occasional glances at the mirrors in Baz House revealed only the bottom third of her face: lips, chin, the column of her neck. She was otherwise a faceless servant, one of dozens, and had only vague memories of what she looked like—or what she’d once been told she looked like. It was the whisper of her mother’s voice in her ear, the feel of her father’s calloused hand against her cheek. You are the finest of us all, he’d once said. Alizeh closed her mind to the memory as she took off her shoes, set the boots in their corner. Over the years Alizeh had collected enough scraps from old commissions to stitch herself the quilt and matching pillow currently laid atop her mattress. Her clothes she hung from old nails wrapped meticulously in colorful thread; all other personal affects she’darranged inside anapple crate she’d founddiscardedin one of the chicken coops. She rolled off her stockings now and hung them—to air them out—from a taut bit of twine. Her dress went to one of the colorful hooks, her corset to another, her snoda to the last. Everything Alizeh owned, everything she touched, was clean and orderly, for she had learned long ago that when a home was not found, it was forged; indeed it could be fashioned even from nothing.

Clad only in her shift, she yawned, yawned as she sat on her cot, as the mattress sank, as she pulled the pins from her hair. The day—and her long, heavy curls—crashed down around her shoulders. Her thoughts had begun to slur. With great reluctance she blew out the candle, pulled her legs against her chest, and fell over like a poorly weighted insect. The illogic of her phobia was consistent only in perplexing her, for when she was abed and her eyes closed, Alizeh imagined she could more easily conquer the dark, and even as she trembled with a familiar chill, she succumbed quickly to sleep. She reached for her soft quilt and drew it up over her shoulders, trying not to think about how cold she was, trying not to think at all. In fact she shivered so violently she hardly noticed when he sat down, his weight depressing the mattress at the foot of her bed. Alizeh bit back a scream. Her eyes flew open, tired pupils fighting to widen their aperture. Frantically, Alizeh patted down her quilt, her pillow, her threadbare mattress. There was no body on her bed. No one in her room. Had she been hallucinating? She fumbled for her candle and dropped it, her hands shaking. Surely, she’d been dreaming. The mattress groaned—the weight shifting—and Alizeh experienced a fear so violent she saw sparks. She pushed backward, knocking her head against the wall, and some how the pain focused her panic. A sharp snap and a flame caught between his barely there fingers, illuminated the contours of his face. Alizeh dared not breathe. Even in silhouette she couldn’t see him, not properly, but then—it was not his face, but his voice, that had made the devil notorious. Alizeh knew this better than most. Seldom did the devil present himself in some approximation of flesh; rare were his clear and memorable communications. Indeed, the creature was not as powerful as his legacy insisted, for he’d been denied the right to speak as another might, doomed forever to hold forth in riddles, and allowed permission only to persuade a person to ruin, never to command.

It was not usual, then, for one to claim an acquaintance with the devil, nor was it with any conviction that a person might speak of his methods, for the presence of such evil was experienced most often only through a provoking of sensation. Alizeh did not like to be the exception. Indeed it was with some pain that she acknowledged the circumstances of her birth: that it had been the devil to first offer congratulations at her cradle, his unwelcome ciphers as inescapable as the wet of rain. Alizeh’s parents had tried, desperately, to banish such a beast from their home, but he had returned again and again, forever embroidering the tapestry of her life with ominous forebodings, in what seemed a promise of destruction she could not outmaneuver. Even now she felt the devil’s voice, felt it like a breath loosed inside her body, an exhale against her bones. There once was a man, he whispered. “No,” she nearly shouted, panicking. “Not another riddle—please—” There once was a man, he whispered, who bore a snake on each shoulder. Alizeh clapped both hands over her ears and shook her head; she’d never wanted so badly to cry. “Please,” she said, “please don’t—” Again: There once was a man who bore a snake on each shoulder. If the snakes were well-fed their master ceased growing older. Alizeh squeezed her eyes shut, pulled her knees to her chest. He wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t shut him out.

What they ate no one knew, even as the children— “Please,” she said, begging now. “Please, I don’t want to know—” What they ate no one knew, even as the children were found with brains shucked from their skulls, bodies splayed on the ground. She inhaled sharply and he was gone, gone, the devil’s voice torn free from her bones. The room suddenly shuddered around her, shadows lifting and stretching—and in the warped light a strange, hazy face peered back at her. Alizeh bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. It was a young man staring at her now, one she did not recognize. That he was human, Alizeh had no doubt—but something about him seemed different from the others. In the dim light the young man seemed carved not from clay, but marble, his face trapped in hard lines, centered by a soft mouth. The longer she stared at him the harder her heart raced. Was this the man with the snakes? Why did it even matter? Why would she ever believe a single word spoken by the devil? Ah, but she already knew the answer to the latter. Alizeh was losing her calm. Her mind screamed at her to look away from the conjured face, screamed that this was all madness—and yet. Heat crept up her neck. Alizeh was unaccustomed to staring too long at any face, and this one was violently handsome. He had noble features, all straight lines and hollows, easy arrogance at rest. He tilted his head as he took her in, unflinching as he studied her eyes. All his unwavering attention stoked a forgotten flame inside her, startling her tired mind. And then, a hand. His hand, conjured from a curl of darkness. He was looking straight into her eyes when he dragged a vanishing finger across her lips. She screamed.

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“A bluntly powerful read that shouldn’t be missed.” —ALA Booklist (starred review)

DECEMBER

2003 ONE

The sunlight was heavy today, fingers of heat forming sweaty hands that braced my face, dared me to flinch. I was stone, still as I stared up into the eye of an unblinking sun, hoping to be blinded. I loved it, loved the blistering heat, loved the way it seared my lips. It felt good to be touched. It was a perfect summer day out of place in the fall, the stagnant heat disturbed only by a brief, fragrant breeze I couldn’t source. A dog barked; I pitied it. Airplanes droned overhead, and I envied them. Cars rushed by and I heard only their engines, filthy metal bodies leaving their excrement behind and yet— Deep, I took a deep breath and held it, the smell of diesel in my lungs, on my tongue. It tasted like memory, of movement. Of a promise to go somewhere, I released the breath, anywhere. I, I was going nowhere. There was nothing to smile about and still I smiled, the tremble in my lips an almost certain indication of oncoming hysteria. I was comfortably blind now, the sun having burned so deeply into my retinas that I saw little more

than glowing orbs, shimmering darkness. I laid backward on dusty asphalt, so hot it stuck to my skin. I pictured my father again. His gleaming head, two tufts of dark hair perched atop his ears like poorly placed headphones. His reassuring smile that everything would be fine. The dizzying glare of fluorescent lights. My father was nearly dead again, but all I could think about was how if he died I didn’t know how long I’d have to spend pretending to be sad about it. Or worse, so much worse: how if he died I might not have to pretend to be sad about it. I swallowed back a sudden, unwelcome knot of emotion in my throat. I felt the telltale burn of tears and squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to get up. Stand up. Walk. When I opened my eyes again a ten-thousand-foot-tall police officer was looming over me. Babble on his walkie-talkie. Heavy boots, a metallic swish of something as he adjusted his weight. I blinked and backed up, crab-like, and evolved from legless snake to upright human, startled and confused. “This yours?” he said, holding up a dingy, pale blue backpack. “Yes,” I said, reaching for it. “Yeah.” He dropped the bag as I touched it, and the weight of it nearly toppled me forward. I’d ditched the bloated carcass for a reason. Among other things, it contained four massive textbooks, three binders, three notebooks, and two worn paperbacks I still had to read for English. The after-school pickup was near a patch of grass I too-optimistically frequented, too often hoping someone in my family would remember I existed and spare me the walk home. Today, no such luck. I’d abandoned the bag and the grass for the empty parking lot. Static on the walkie-talkie. More voices, garbled. I looked up. Up, up a cloven chin and thin lips, nose and sparse lashes, flashes of bright blue eyes. The officer wore a hat. I could not see his hair. “Got a call,” he said, still peering at me. “You go to school here?” A crow swooped low and cawed, minding my business.

“Yeah,” I said. My heart had begun to race. “Yes.” He tilted his head at me. “What were you doing on the ground?” “What?” “Were you praying or something?” My racing heart began to slow. Sink. I was not devoid of a brain, two eyes, the ability to read the news, a room, this man stripping my face for parts. I knew anger, but fear and I were better acquainted. “No,” I said quietly. “I was just lying in the sun.” The officer didn’t seem to buy this. His eyes traveled over my face again, at the scarf I wore around my head. “Aren’t you hot in that thing?” “Right now, yes.” He almost smiled. Instead he turned away, scanned the empty parking lot. “Where are your parents?” “I don’t know.” A single eyebrow went up. “They forget about me,” I said. Both eyebrows. “They forget about you?” “I always hope someone will show up,” I explained. “If not, I walk home.” The officer looked at me for a long time. Finally, he sighed. “All right.” He backhanded the sky. “All right, get going. But don’t do this again,” he said sharply. “This is public property. Do your prayers at home.” I was shaking my head. “I wasn’t—” I tried to say. I wasn’t, I wanted to scream. I wasn’t. But he was already walking away.

TWO

It took a full three minutes for the fire in my bones to die out. In the increasing quiet, I looked up. The once-white clouds had grown fat and gray; the gentle breeze was now a chilling gust. The drunk December day had sobered with a suddenness that bordered on extreme and I frowned at the scene, at its burnt edges, at the crow still circling above my head, its caw caw a constant refrain. Thunder roared, suddenly, in the distance. The officer was mostly memory now. What was left of him was marching off into the fading light, his boots heavy, his gait uneven; I watched him smile as he murmured into his radio. Lightning tore the sky in two and I shivered, jerkily, as if electrocuted. I did not have an umbrella. I reached under my shirt and tugged free the folded newspaper from where I’d stashed it in my waistband, flush against my torso, and tucked it under my arm. The air was heavy with the promise of a storm, the wind shuddering through the trees. I didn’t really think a newspaper would hold up against the rain, but it was all I had. These days, it was what I always had. There was a newspaper vending machine around the corner from my house, and a few months ago, on a whim, I’d purchased a copy of the New York Times. I’d been curious about Adults Reading the Newspaper, curious about the articles therein that sparked the conversations that seemed to be shaping my life, my identity, the bombing of my friends’ families in the Middle East. After two years of panic and mourning post-9/11, our country had decided on aggressive political action: we had declared war on Iraq. The coverage was relentless. The television offered a glaring, violent dissemination of information on the subject, the kind I could seldom stomach. But the slow, quiet business of reading a newspaper suited me. Even better, it filled the holes in my free time. I’d started shoving quarters in my pocket every day, purchasing copies of the newspaper on my way to school. I perused the articles as I walked the single mile, the exercise of mind and body elevating my blood pressure to dangerous heights. By the time I reached first period I’d lost both my appetite and my focus. I was growing sick on the news, sick of it, heedlessly gorging myself on the pain, searching in vain for an antidote in the poison.

Even now my thumb moved slowly over the worn ink of old stories, back and forth, caressing my addiction. I stared up at the sky. The lone crow overhead would not cease its staring, the weight of its presence seeming to depress the air from my lungs. I forced myself to move, to shutter the windows in my mind as I went. Silence was too welcoming of unwanted thoughts; I listened instead to the sounds of passing cars, to the wind sharpening against their metal bodies. There were two people in particular I did not want to think about. Neither did I want to think about looming college applications, the police officer, or the newspaper still clenched in my fist, and yet— I stopped, unfurled the paper, smoothed its corners. Afghan Villagers Torn by Grief After US Raid Kills 9 Children My phone rang. I retrieved it from my pocket, going still as I scanned the flashing number on the screen. A blade of feeling impaled me—and then, just as suddenly, withdrew. Different number. Heady relief nearly prompted me to laugh, the sensation held at bay only by the dull ache in my chest. It felt as if actual steel had been buried between my lungs. I flipped open the phone. “Hello?” Silence. A voice finally broke through, a mere half word emerging from a mess of static. I glanced at the screen, at my dying battery, my single bar of reception. When I flipped the phone shut, a prickle of fear moved down my spine. I thought of my mother. My mother, my optimistic mother who thought that if she locked herself in her closet I wouldn’t hear her sobs. A single, fat drop of water landed on my head. I looked up.

I thought of my father, six feet of dying man swaddled in a hospital bed, staring into the middle distance. I thought of my sister. A second drop of rain fell in my eye. The sky ruptured with a sudden crack and in the intervening second—in the heartbeat before the deluge—I contemplated stillness. I considered lying down in the middle of the road, lying there forever. But then, rain. It arrived in a hurry, battering my face, blackening my clothes, pooling in the folds of my backpack. The newspaper I lifted over my head endured all of four seconds before succumbing to the wet, and I hastily tucked it away, this time in my bag. I squinted into the downpour, readjusted the demon on my back, and pulled my thin jacket more tightly around my body. Walked.

LAST YEAR

PART I Two sharp knocks at my door and I groaned, pulled the blanket over my head. I’d been up late last night memorizing equations for my physics class, and I’d gotten maybe four hours of sleep as a result. The very idea of getting out of bed made me want to weep. Another hard knock. “It’s too early,” I said, my voice muffled by the blanket. “Go away.” “Pasho,” I heard my mother say. Get up. “Nemikham,” I called back. I don’t want to. “Pasho.” “Actually, I don’t think I can go to school today. I think I have tuberculosis.” I heard the soft shh of the door pushing open against carpet, and I curled away instinctively, a nautilus in its shell. I made a pitiful sound as I waited

for what seemed inevitable— for my mother to drag me, bodily, out of bed, or, at the very least, to rip off the covers. Instead, she sat on me. I nearly screamed at the unexpected weight. It was excruciating to be sat upon while curled in the fetal position; somehow my stacked bones made me more vulnerable to damage. I thrashed around, shouted at her to get off me, and she just laughed, pinched my leg. I cried out. “Goftam pasho.” I said get up. “How am I supposed to get up now?” I asked, batting away the sheets from my face. “You’ve broken all my bones.” “Eh?” She raised her eyebrows. “You say that to me? Your mother”—she said all this in Farsi—“is so heavy she could break all your bones? Is that what you’re saying?” “Yes.” She gasped, her eyes wide. “Ay, bacheyeh bad.” Oh, you bad child. And with a slight bounce, she sat more heavily on my thighs. I let out a strangled cry. “Okay okay I’ll get up I’ll get up oh my God—” “Maman? Are you up here?” At the sound of my sister’s voice, my mom got to her feet. She whipped the covers off my bed and said, “In here!” Then, to me, with narrowed eyes: “Pasho.” “I’m pasho-ing, I’m pasho-ing,” I grumbled. I got to my feet and glanced, out of habit, at the alarm clock I’d already silenced a half dozen times, and nearly had a stroke when I saw the hour. “I’m going to be late!” “Man keh behet goftam,” my mom said with a shrug. I told you. “You told me nothing.” I turned, eyes wide. “You never told me what time it was.” “I did tell you. Maybe your tuberculosis made you deaf.” “Wow.” I shook my head as I stalked past her. “Hilarious.” “I know, I know, I’m heelareeus,” she said with a flourish of her hand. She switched back to Farsi. “By the way, I can’t take you to school today. I have a dentist appointment. Shayda is taking you instead.”

“No I’m not,” my sister called, her voice growing louder as she approached. She popped her head inside my room. “I have to leave right now, and Shadi isn’t even dressed.” “No— Wait—” I startled scrambling. “I can be dressed in five minutes —” “No you can’t.” “Yes I can!” I was already across the hall in our shared bathroom, applying toothpaste to my toothbrush like a crazy person. “Just wait, okay, just—” “No way. I’m not going to be late because of you.” “Shayda, what the hell—” “You can walk.” “It’ll take me forty-five minutes!” “Then ask Mehdi.” “Mehdi is still asleep!” “Did someone say my name?” I heard my brother coming up the stairs, his words a little rounder than usual, like maybe he was eating something as he spoke. My heart gave a sudden leap. I spat toothpaste into the sink, ran into the hall. “I need a ride to school,” I cried, toothbrush still clenched in my fist. “Can you take me?” “Never mind. I’ve gone suddenly deaf.” He barreled back down the stairs. “Oh my God. What is wrong with everyone in this family?” My dad’s voice boomed upward. “Man raftam! Khodafez!” I’m leaving! Bye! “Khodafez!” the four of us shouted in unison. I heard the front door slam shut as I flew to the banister, caught sight of Mehdi on the landing below. “Wait,” I said, “please, please—” Mehdi looked up at me and smiled his signature, devastating smile, the kind I knew had already ruined a few lives. His hazel eyes glittered in the early-morning light. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got plans.”

“How do you have plans at seven thirty in the morning?” “Sorry,” he said again, his lean form disappearing from view. “Busy day.” My mom patted me on the shoulder. “Mikhasti zoodtar pashi.” You could’ve woken up earlier. “An excellent point,” Shayda said, swinging her backpack over one shoulder. “Bye.” “No!” I ran back into the bathroom, rinsed my mouth, splashed water on my face. “I’m almost ready! Two more minutes!” “Shadi, you’re not even wearing pants.” “What?” I looked down. I was wearing an oversize T-shirt. No pants. “Wait— Shayda—” But she was already moving down the stairs. “Manam bayad beram,” my mom said. I have to go, too. She shot me a sympathetic glance. “I’ll pick you up after school, okay?” I acknowledged this with a distracted goodbye and darted back into my room. I changed into jeans and a thermal at breakneck speed, nearly stumbling over myself as I grabbed socks, a hair tie, my scarf, and my halfzipped backpack. I flew downstairs like a maniac, screaming Shayda’s name. “Wait,” I cried. “Wait, I’m ready! Thirty seconds!” I hopped on one foot as I pulled on my socks, slipped on my shoes. I tied back my hair, knotted my scarf à la Jackie O— or, you know, a lot of Persian ladies—and bolted out the door. Shayda was at the curb, unlocking her car, and my mom was settling into her minivan, still parked in the driveway. I waved at her, breathless as I shouted— “I made it!” My mom smiled and flashed me a thumbs-up, both of which I promptly reciprocated. I then turned the wattage of my smile on Shayda, who only rolled her eyes and, with a heavy sigh, granted me passage in her ancient Toyota Camry. I was euphoric. I waved another goodbye at my mom—who’d just turned on her car— before depositing my unwieldy bag in Shayda’s back seat. My sister was still buckling herself into the driver’s side, arranging her things, placing her

coffee mug in the cup holder, et cetera, and I leaned against the passenger side door, taking advantage of the moment to both catch my breath and enjoy my victory. Too late, I realized I was freezing. It was the end of September, the beginning of fall, and I hadn’t yet adjusted to the new season. The weather was inconsistent, the days plagued by both hot and cold stretches, and I wasn’t sure it was worth risking Shayda’s wrath to run upstairs and grab my jacket. My sister seemed to read my mind. “Hey,” she barked at me from inside the car. “Don’t even think about it. If you go back in the house, I’m leaving.” My mom, who was also a mind reader, suddenly hit the brakes on her minivan, rolled down the window. “Bea,” she called. Here. “Catch.” I held out my hands as she tossed a balled-up sweatshirt in my direction. I caught it, assessed it, held it up to the sky. It was a standard-issue black hoodie, the kind you pulled over your head. Its only distinguishing features were the drawstrings, which were a vibrant blue. “Whose is this?” I asked. My mom shrugged. “It must be Mehdi’s,” she said in Farsi. “It’s been in the car for a long time.” “A long time?” I frowned. “How long is a long time?” My mom shrugged again, put on her sunglasses. I gave the cotton a suspicious sniff, but it must not have been abandoned in our car for too long, because the sweater still smelled nice. Something like cologne. Something that made my skin hum with awareness. My frown deepened. I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, watched my mom disappear down the drive. The hoodie was soft and warm and way too big for me in the best way, but this close to my skin that faint, pleasant scent was suddenly overwhelming. My thoughts had begun to race, my mind working too hard to answer a simple question. Shayda honked the horn. I nearly had a heart attack. “Get in right now,” she shouted, “or I’m running you over.”

Contents Cover Title Page December 2003 One Two Last Year: Part I December 2003 Three Four Five Last Year: Part II December 2003 Six Seven Eight Nine Last Year: Part III December 2003 Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Last Year: Part IV December 2003

Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three About the Author Books by Tahereh Mafi Back Ads Copyright About the Publisher

December

2003 One The sunlight was heavy today, fingers of heat forming sweaty hands that braced my face, dared me to flinch. I was stone, still as I stared up into the eye of an unblinking sun, hoping to be blinded. I loved it, loved the blistering heat, loved the way it seared my lips. It felt good to be touched. It was a perfect summer day out of place in the fall, the stagnant heat disturbed only by a brief, fragrant breeze I couldn’t source. A dog barked; I pitied it. Airplanes droned overhead, and I envied them. Cars rushed by and I heard only their engines, filthy metal bodies leaving their excrement behind and yet—

Deep, I took a deep breath and held it, the smell of diesel in my lungs, on my tongue. It tasted like memory, of movement. Of a promise to go somewhere, I released the breath, anywhere. I, I was going nowhere. There was nothing to smile about and still I smiled, the tremble in my lips an almost certain indication of oncoming hysteria. I was comfortably blind now, the sun having burned so deeply into my retinas that I saw little more than glowing orbs, shimmering darkness. I laid backward on dusty asphalt, so hot it stuck to my skin. I pictured my father again. His gleaming head, two tufts of dark hair perched atop his ears like poorly placed headphones. His reassuring smile that everything would be fine. The dizzying glare of fluorescent lights. My father was nearly dead again, but all I could think about was how if he died I didn’t know how long I’d have to spend pretending to be sad about it. Or worse, so much worse: how if he died I might not have to pretend to be sad about it. I swallowed back a sudden, unwelcome knot of emotion in my throat. I felt the telltale burn of tears and squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to get up. Stand up. Walk. When I opened my eyes again a ten-thousand-foot-tall police officer was looming over me. Babble on his walkie-talkie. Heavy boots, a metallic swish of something as he adjusted his weight. I blinked and backed up, crab-like, and evolved from legless snake to upright human, startled and confused. “This yours?” he said, holding up a dingy, pale blue backpack. “Yes,” I said, reaching for it. “Yeah.” He dropped the bag as I touched it, and the weight of it nearly toppled me forward. I’d ditched the bloated carcass for a reason. Among other things, it contained four massive textbooks, three binders, three notebooks, and two worn paperbacks I still had to read for English. The after-school pickup was near a patch of grass I too-optimistically frequented, too often hoping someone in my family would remember I existed and spare me the walk home. Today, no such luck. I’d abandoned the bag and the grass for the empty parking lot. Static on the walkie-talkie. More voices, garbled. I looked up.

Up, up a cloven chin and thin lips, nose and sparse lashes, flashes of bright blue eyes. The officer wore a hat. I could not see his hair. “Got a call,” he said, still peering at me. “You go to school here?” A crow swooped low and cawed, minding my business. “Yeah,” I said. My heart had begun to race. “Yes.” He tilted his head at me. “What were you doing on the ground?” “What?” “Were you praying or something?” My racing heart began to slow. Sink. I was not devoid of a brain, two eyes, the ability to read the news, a room, this man stripping my face for parts. I knew anger, but fear and I were better acquainted. “No,” I said quietly. “I was just lying in the sun.” The officer didn’t seem to buy this. His eyes traveled over my face again, at the scarf I wore around my head. “Aren’t you hot in that thing?” “Right now, yes.” He almost smiled. Instead he turned away, scanned the empty parking lot. “Where are your parents?” “I don’t know.” A single eyebrow went up. “They forget about me,” I said. Both eyebrows. “They forget about you?” “I always hope someone will show up,” I explained. “If not, I walk home.” The officer looked at me for a long time. Finally, he sighed. “All right.” He backhanded the sky. “All right, get going. But don’t do this again,” he said sharply. “This is public property. Do your prayers at home.” I was shaking my head. “I wasn’t—” I tried to say. I wasn’t, I wanted to scream. I wasn’t. But he was already walking away.

Two

It took a full three minutes for the fire in my bones to die out. In the increasing quiet, I looked up. The once-white clouds had grown fat and gray; the gentle breeze was now a chilling gust. The drunk December day had sobered with a suddenness that bordered on extreme and I frowned at the scene, at its burnt edges, at the crow still circling above my head, its caw caw a constant refrain. Thunder roared, suddenly, in the distance. The officer was mostly memory now. What was left of him was marching off into the fading light, his boots heavy, his gait uneven; I watched him smile as he murmured into his radio. Lightning tore the sky in two and I shivered, jerkily, as if electrocuted. I did not have an umbrella. I reached under my shirt and tugged free the folded newspaper from where I’d stashed it in my waistband, flush against my torso, and tucked it under my arm. The air was heavy with the promise of a storm, the wind shuddering through the trees. I didn’t really think a newspaper would hold up against the rain, but it was all I had. These days, it was what I always had. There was a newspaper vending machine around the corner from my house, and a few months ago, on a whim, I’d purchased a copy of the New York Times. I’d been curious about Adults Reading the Newspaper, curious about the articles therein that sparked the conversations that seemed to be shaping my life, my identity, the bombing of my friends’ families in the Middle East. After two years of panic and mourning post-9/11, our country had decided on aggressive political action: we had declared war on Iraq. The coverage was relentless. The television offered a glaring, violent dissemination of information on the subject, the kind I could seldom stomach. But the slow, quiet business of reading a newspaper suited me. Even better, it filled the holes in my free time. I’d started shoving quarters in my pocket every day, purchasing copies of the newspaper on my way to school. I perused the articles as I walked the single mile, the exercise of mind and body elevating my blood pressure to dangerous heights. By the time I reached first period I’d lost both my appetite and my focus. I was growing sick on the news, sick of it, heedlessly gorging myself on the pain, searching in vain for an antidote in the poison. Even now my thumb moved slowly over the worn ink of old stories, back and forth, caressing my addiction.

I stared up at the sky. The lone crow overhead would not cease its staring, the weight of its presence seeming to depress the air from my lungs. I forced myself to move, to shutter the windows in my mind as I went. Silence was too welcoming of unwanted thoughts; I listened instead to the sounds of passing cars, to the wind sharpening against their metal bodies. There were two people in particular I did not want to think about. Neither did I want to think about looming college applications, the police officer, or the newspaper still clenched in my fist, and yet— I stopped, unfurled the paper, smoothed its corners. Afghan Villagers Torn by Grief After US Raid Kills 9 Children My phone rang. I retrieved it from my pocket, going still as I scanned the flashing number on the screen. A blade of feeling impaled me—and then, just as suddenly, withdrew. Different number. Heady relief nearly prompted me to laugh, the sensation held at bay only by the dull ache in my chest. It felt as if actual steel had been buried between my lungs. I flipped open the phone. “Hello?” Silence. A voice finally broke through, a mere half word emerging from a mess of static. I glanced at the screen, at my dying battery, my single bar of reception. When I flipped the phone shut, a prickle of fear moved down my spine. I thought of my mother. My mother, my optimistic mother who thought that if she locked herself in her closet I wouldn’t hear her sobs. A single, fat drop of water landed on my head. I looked up. I thought of my father, six feet of dying man swaddled in a hospital bed, staring into the middle distance. I thought of my sister. A second drop of rain fell in my eye. The sky ruptured with a sudden crack and in the intervening second— in the heartbeat before the deluge—I contemplated stillness. I considered lying down in the middle of the road, lying there forever. But then, rain.

It arrived in a hurry, battering my face, blackening my clothes, pooling in the folds of my backpack. The newspaper I lifted over my head endured all of four seconds before succumbing to the wet, and I hastily tucked it away, this time in my bag. I squinted into the downpour, readjusted the demon on my back, and pulled my thin jacket more tightly around my body. Walked.

Last Year

Part I Two sharp knocks at my door and I groaned, pulled the blanket over my head. I’d been up late last night memorizing equations for my physics class, and I’d gotten maybe four hours of sleep as a result. The very idea of getting out of bed made me want to weep. Another hard knock. “It’s too early,” I said, my voice muffled by the blanket. “Go away.” “Pasho,” I heard my mother say. Get up. “Nemikham,” I called back. I don’t want to. “Pasho.” “Actually, I don’t think I can go to school today. I think I have tuberculosis.” I heard the soft shh of the door pushing open against carpet, and I curled away instinctively, a nautilus in its shell. I made a pitiful sound as I waited for what seemed inevitable—for my mother to drag me, bodily, out of bed, or, at the very least, to rip off the covers. Instead, she sat on me. I nearly screamed at the unexpected weight. It was excruciating to be sat upon while curled in the fetal position; somehow my stacked bones made me more vulnerable to damage. I thrashed around, shouted at her to get off me, and she just laughed, pinched my leg. I cried out. “Goftam pasho.” I said get up.

“How am I supposed to get up now?” I asked, batting away the sheets from my face. “You’ve broken all my bones.” “Eh?” She raised her eyebrows. “You say that to me? Your mother”— she said all this in Farsi—“is so heavy she could break all your bones? Is that what you’re saying?” “Yes.” She gasped, her eyes wide. “Ay, bacheyeh bad.” Oh, you bad child. And with a slight bounce, she sat more heavily on my thighs. I let out a strangled cry. “Okay okay I’ll get up I’ll get up oh my God —” “Maman? Are you up here?” At the sound of my sister’s voice, my mom got to her feet. She whipped the covers off my bed and said, “In here!” Then, to me, with narrowed eyes: “Pasho.” “I’m pasho-ing, I’m pasho-ing,” I grumbled. I got to my feet and glanced, out of habit, at the alarm clock I’d already silenced a half dozen times, and nearly had a stroke when I saw the hour. “I’m going to be late!” “Man keh behet goftam,” my mom said with a shrug. I told you. “You told me nothing.” I turned, eyes wide. “You never told me what time it was.” “I did tell you. Maybe your tuberculosis made you deaf.” “Wow.” I shook my head as I stalked past her. “Hilarious.” “I know, I know, I’m heelareeus,” she said with a flourish of her hand. She switched back to Farsi. “By the way, I can’t take you to school today. I have a dentist appointment. Shayda is taking you instead.” “No I’m not,” my sister called, her voice growing louder as she approached. She popped her head inside my room. “I have to leave right now, and Shadi isn’t even dressed.” “No— Wait—” I startled scrambling. “I can be dressed in five minutes —” “No you can’t.” “Yes I can!” I was already across the hall in our shared bathroom, applying toothpaste to my toothbrush like a crazy person. “Just wait, okay, just—” “No way. I’m not going to be late because of you.” “Shayda, what the hell—” “You can walk.”

“It’ll take me forty-five minutes!” “Then ask Mehdi.” “Mehdi is still asleep!” “Did someone say my name?” I heard my brother coming up the stairs, his words a little rounder than usual, like maybe he was eating something as he spoke. My heart gave a sudden leap. I spat toothpaste into the sink, ran into the hall. “I need a ride to school,” I cried, toothbrush still clenched in my fist. “Can you take me?” “Never mind. I’ve gone suddenly deaf.” He barreled back down the stairs. “Oh my God. What is wrong with everyone in this family?” My dad’s voice boomed upward. “Man raftam! Khodafez!” I’m leaving! Bye! “Khodafez!” the four of us shouted in unison. I heard the front door slam shut as I flew to the banister, caught sight of Mehdi on the landing below. “Wait,” I said, “please, please—” Mehdi looked up at me and smiled his signature, devastating smile, the kind I knew had already ruined a few lives. His hazel eyes glittered in the early-morning light. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got plans.” “How do you have plans at seven thirty in the morning?” “Sorry,” he said again, his lean form disappearing from view. “Busy day.” My mom patted me on the shoulder. “Mikhasti zoodtar pashi.” You could’ve woken up earlier. “An excellent point,” Shayda said, swinging her backpack over one shoulder. “Bye.” “No!” I ran back into the bathroom, rinsed my mouth, splashed water on my face. “I’m almost ready! Two more minutes!” “Shadi, you’re not even wearing pants.” “What?” I looked down. I was wearing an oversize T-shirt. No pants. “Wait— Shayda—” But she was already moving down the stairs. “Manam bayad beram,” my mom said. I have to go, too. She shot me a sympathetic glance. “I’ll pick you up after school, okay?” I acknowledged this with a distracted goodbye and darted back into my room. I changed into jeans and a thermal at breakneck speed, nearly

stumbling over myself as I grabbed socks, a hair tie, my scarf, and my half-zipped backpack. I flew downstairs like a maniac, screaming Shayda’s name. “Wait,” I cried. “Wait, I’m ready! Thirty seconds!” I hopped on one foot as I pulled on my socks, slipped on my shoes. I tied back my hair, knotted my scarf à la Jackie O—or, you know, a lot of Persian ladies—and bolted out the door. Shayda was at the curb, unlocking her car, and my mom was settling into her minivan, still parked in the driveway. I waved at her, breathless as I shouted— “I made it!” My mom smiled and flashed me a thumbs-up, both of which I promptly reciprocated. I then turned the wattage of my smile on Shayda, who only rolled her eyes and, with a heavy sigh, granted me passage in her ancient Toyota Camry. I was euphoric. I waved another goodbye at my mom—who’d just turned on her car— before depositing my unwieldy bag in Shayda’s back seat. My sister was still buckling herself into the driver’s side, arranging her things, placing her coffee mug in the cup holder, et cetera, and I leaned against the passenger side door, taking advantage of the moment to both catch my breath and enjoy my victory. Too late, I realized I was freezing. It was the end of September, the beginning of fall, and I hadn’t yet adjusted to the new season. The weather was inconsistent, the days plagued by both hot and cold stretches, and I wasn’t sure it was worth risking Shayda’s wrath to run upstairs and grab my jacket. My sister seemed to read my mind. “Hey,” she barked at me from inside the car. “Don’t even think about it. If you go back in the house, I’m leaving.” My mom, who was also a mind reader, suddenly hit the brakes on her minivan, rolled down the window. “Bea,” she called. Here. “Catch.” I held out my hands as she tossed a balled-up sweatshirt in my direction. I caught it, assessed it, held it up to the sky. It was a standardissue black hoodie, the kind you pulled over your head. Its only distinguishing features were the drawstrings, which were a vibrant blue. “Whose is this?” I asked.

My mom shrugged. “It must be Mehdi’s,” she said in Farsi. “It’s been in the car for a long time.” “A long time?” I frowned. “How long is a long time?” My mom shrugged again, put on her sunglasses. I gave the cotton a suspicious sniff, but it must not have been abandoned in our car for too long, because the sweater still smelled nice. Something like cologne. Something that made my skin hum with awareness. My frown deepened. I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, watched my mom disappear down the drive. The hoodie was soft and warm and way too big for me in the best way, but this close to my skin that faint, pleasant scent was suddenly overwhelming. My thoughts had begun to race, my mind working too hard to answer a simple question. Shayda honked the horn. I nearly had a heart attack. “Get in right now,” she shouted, “or I’m running you over.”

December

2003 Three When it rained like this people often shot me knowing glances and friendly finger-guns, said things like, “Lucky you, eh? Einstein over here doesn’t even need an umbrella,” finger-gun, finger-gun, eyebrow waggle. I’d always smile when someone said something like this to me, smile one of those polite smiles that held my mouth firmly shut. I never understood this assumption, this idea that my scarf was somehow impervious to water. It was discernibly not.

My scarf was discernibly not neoprene; it did not resemble vinyl. It was silk, an intentional choice, not just for its weight and texture but for the sake of my vanity. Silk caressed my hair during the day, made it smooth and shiny by the time I got home. That anyone thought my hijab capable of withstanding a thunderstorm was baffling to me, and yet it was a logic maintained by a surprisingly large number of people. If only they could see me now. The rain had drenched my scarf, the skin of which was now plastered to my head. Water ran in rivulets down the sides of my neck, my hair heavy, dripping. A few rebellious strands had come loose, harsh winds whipping them across my eyes, and though I made to tuck them away, to pull myself together, my efforts were more habit than hopeful. I was no fool. I knew I was going to die of pneumonia today, possibly before my next class even started. I was a senior in high school but on Monday and Wednesday evenings I took a multivariable calculus class at the local community college. It was the equivalent of taking an AP class. The units were transferrable, helped inflate my GPA. My parents were into it. Most parents were into it. But my parents, like many Middle Eastern mothers and fathers, expected it. They expected me to take multivariable calculus as a senior in high school the way they expected me to become a doctor. Or a lawyer. A PhD would also be accepted, though with decidedly less enthusiasm. I looked up again, at the opposition. The rain was falling harder now, faster, but there was no time to take shelter. If I wanted to get to class on time, I had to be walking now. I knew I’d spent too long after school hoping someone would come get me, but I couldn’t help it; my hope was greater on Mondays and Wednesdays. Greater because I hoped for more than a ride home—I wanted to be spared the long walk to the college, two and a half miles away. I was tempted to skip. The temptation was so palpable I felt a tremble in my spine. I imagined my sodden bones carrying me straight home and my heart stuttered at the thought, happiness threatening. Cars flew past me, spraying me with dirty water, and I wavered further, shivering in soaked jeans and sopping shoes. I was a smudge with a dream, standing at a literal crossroads. I dreamed of going left instead of right. I dreamed of hot tea and dry clothes. I wanted to go home, home, wanted to sit in the shower for an hour, boil my blood.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t miss class because I’d already missed a day last month, and missing two days would drop my grade, which would hurt my GPA, which would hurt my mother, which would break the single most important rule I’d made in my life, which was to become so innocuous a child as to disappear altogether. It was all for my mother, of course. I was ambivalent about my father, but my mother, I didn’t want my mother to cry, not for me. She cried enough for everyone else these days. I wondered then whether she’d look out the window, whether she’d be reminded, in a rare moment, of her youngest child, of my pilgrimage to calculus. My father, I knew, would not. He was either asleep or watching reruns of Hawaii Five-0 on a television stapled to a partition. My sister would certainly not be bothered, not with anything. No one else I knew would even know to come for me. Last year, my mother would’ve come. Last year, she would’ve known my schedule. She would’ve called, checked in, threatened my sister with violence for abandoning me to the elements. But in the wake of my brother’s death my mother’s soul had been rearranged, her skeleton reconfigured. The crushing waves of grief that once drowned me had begun, slowly, to ebb, but my mother— Over a year later my mother still seemed to me not unlike sentient driftwood, bobbing along in the cool, undiluted waters of agony. So I’d become a ghost. I’d managed to reduce my entire person to a nonevent so insignificant my mother seldom even asked me questions anymore. Seldom realized I was around. I told myself I was helping, giving her space, becoming one less child to worry about—mantras that helped me ignore the sharp pain that accompanied the success of my disappearing act. I only hoped I was right. A sudden gust of wind rattled through the streets, pushing me back. I’d no choice but to duck my head against the gust, the motion exposing my open collar to the rain. A tree trembled overhead and a stunning, icy torrent of water shot straight down my shirt. I audibly gasped. Please, God, I thought, please please don’t let me die of pneumonia. My socks were soup, my teeth chattering, my clenched fingers growing slowly numb. I decided to check my cell phone for a sign of life, mentally sorting through the short list of people I might be able to call for a favor—

but by the time I fished the metal brick out of the marsh of my pocket it was waterlogged and glitching. Never mind pneumonia, I would likely die of electrocution. My future had never looked so bright. I smiled at my own joke, my lips curving toward insanity, when a car sped by so quickly it just about bathed me in runoff. I stopped then, stopped and stared at myself, at my amphibious state. It was unreal how I looked. I couldn’t possibly go to school like this, and yet I would, I would, propelled forward by some greater scruple, some nonsense that gave my life meaning. It all suddenly struck me as ridiculous, my life, so ridiculous I laughed. Laughed and then choked, having aspirated a bit of sewer water. Never mind. Never mind, I was wrong; I would die of neither pneumonia nor electrocution. Asphyxiation would usher the angel of death to my door. This time I did not laugh. The speeding car had come to a complete and sudden stop. Right there, right in the middle of the slick road. The taillights came on, white and bright, and the car idled for at least fifteen seconds before making a decision. Tires squealing, it reversed in the empty street, skidding to a terrifying halt beside me. Wrong again. Not pneumonia, not electrocution, not asphyxiation, no—Today, I was going to be murdered. I stared up at the sky again. Dear God, I thought, this was not what I meant when we last spoke.

Four I stood stock-still and waited, waited for the window to roll down, for my future to be determined. Waited for fate. Nothing happened. Seconds passed—several and then a dozen—and nothing, nothing. The silver car idled beside me, its heavy, glistening body dripping steadily into dusk. I waited for its driver to do something. Anything.

Nothing. I couldn’t quell my disappointment. In the breathless interlude, my curiosity had grown greater than my fear, which now felt perilously close to something like anticipation. This near-denouement was the closest I’d been to excitement since the day I thought my father would die, and bonus: the car looked warm. At least death, I thought, would be warm. Dry. I was ready to ignore everything I’d ever learned about getting into cars with strangers. But this was taking too long. I squinted into the rain; I couldn’t see much from where I stood, just darkened windows and exhaust fumes. It was a short distance from the sidewalk to the car, and I wanted to clear that distance, wanted to knock on the car’s window, demand an explanation. I was stopped short by the sound of trapped, muted voices. Not talking—arguing. I frowned. The voices grew louder, more agitated. I approached the car like a crescent moon, my back curved against the rain, head bowed toward the passenger door. I had no way of being entirely certain of my fate today, but if I really was going to be murdered I wanted to get it over with. I squelched the three steps across the sidewalk, adjusted my sopping headscarf, and waved at the dark window of the strange car. I might’ve even smiled. My trembling, secret hope was that the driver was not a murderer, but a kind Samaritan. Someone who’d seen me drowning and wanted to help. The car sped away. Without warning—its tired engine revving a little too hard—it sped away, bathing me anew in sewer water. I stood there dripping on the sidewalk, skin burning with unaccountable embarrassment. I couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t understand how I’d just been appraised and rejected by a murderer. A murdering duo, even. It occurred to me, briefly, that the car had seemed familiar, that the driver might’ve been someone I knew. This thought was not comforting to me, and yet it was a clinging thought, one that could not, at this hour, be probed sufficiently for truth. I shook my head, shook the congealing hypothesis from my mind. The sky was going gray, and silver Honda Civics were ubiquitous; I couldn’t be sure of anything. I lifted one wet foot, then the other.

Of all things, I had the Toys R Us jingle stuck in my head, and I hummed it as I walked, as I passed faceless shopping malls and gas stations. I kept humming it until it became a part of me, until it became the disorienting background music for the PowerPoint presentation of disappointments looping behind my eyes. I saw that Honda Civic again when I finally got to school. It was parked there in the parking lot, and I dripped past it on my way toward the main building. The rain had stopped, but it was nearly dark now, and I was nearly dead. Right now I had only enough functioning brain matter to keep my teeth from chattering, but I couldn’t stop myself from staring at that Honda Civic as I walked onto campus, my neck turned at a comically uncomfortable angle. I was trying to look more closely at the car, but the sky seemed to have sunk down, sat on the ground. Everything and everyone was gray. I moved through clinging mist, couldn’t really see where I was going. Metaphors, everywhere. I tried not to think about my throbbing head or the blue tint to my skin. I tried to focus, even with the fog. Now, perhaps more than before, I wanted to understand what had happened. I wanted to know who drove that car and whether I really did know the driver. I was trying to understand why the car had pulled over without murdering me. I was trying to suppress the panic in my chest that wondered whether I was being followed. And then I fell. There were stairs leading up to the school, stairs I’d climbed a thousand times, and yet tonight I didn’t, couldn’t see them. I fell onto them instead, indenting skin and bones and catching myself with slippery hands. My head only just grazed the stone and I was grateful, but I’d slammed my knee pretty hard and could feel it bleeding. I rolled over onto my back, my backpack; closed my eyes. Cold wind skated over the planes of my face, chilled my damp clothes. I couldn’t stop laughing. Mine was the mute variety, the kind betrayed only by the curve of my smile, the shaking of my shoulders. Pain was fracturing up my leg; I felt it in my neck. I didn’t want to get up. I wanted to lie here until someone carried me out, carried me away. I wanted my mother. Dear God, I thought. Why? Why why why?

I sighed, opened my eyes to the sky. And with a single, herculean effort, I pushed myself upright. I wasn’t going to class tonight. But I wasn’t going home, either. I decided to stay awhile, steep in my failures. Today had been disappointing on so many levels; I figured I might as well go all in, toss all twenty-four hours in the trash, start over tomorrow. I should take advantage of the rain, I thought, take advantage of my destroyed clothes, I thought, take advantage of the quiet, the silence, and the opportunity to sin in peace.

Five The school was fairly well lit at night, well enough to see without being seen. I found my familiar spot, planted my wet bag on the wet concrete, and rooted around in my things with shaking hands. I was ruthless with my hands. I scraped my knuckles against stone, drew blood, cut my palms on cardboard, drew blood. I shoved those same hands in pockets and held my breath as they throbbed. I didn’t bandage cuts. I ignored burns. When I looked at my hands I was presented with the evidence of my station: bruises untended, scrapes unhealed. I was unnoticed except in the worst ways. As far as the larger world was concerned, I was about as remarkable as a thumb. My presence was notable only occasionally and only because my face seemed familiar to people—familiar the way fear was familiar, the way dread was familiar. Everywhere I went strangers squinted at me, minds buffering for all of half a second before they placed my entire person in a box, taped it shut. Adults were always seeking me out—why? why?—to ask me direct and specific questions about international relations as if I were some kind of proxy for my parents, for their home country, for some larger answer to a desperate question. As if my seventeen-year-old body were old enough to

understand the complexities of any of this, as if I were a seasoned politician whose tenuous connection to a Middle Eastern country I rarely visited would suddenly make me an expert in politics. I didn’t know how to tell people that I was just as stupid today as I was yesterday, and that I spent most of my time thinking about how my life was falling apart in ways that had nothing to do with the news cycle. But there was something about my hijab that made people disregard my age, made me seem like fair game. We were, after all, at war with people who looked just like me. I unearthed my damp newspaper along with my damp cigarettes, tucked a cylinder between my lips, dropped the paper in my lap, and zipped my backpack shut. I stretched out my injured leg, grimacing as I reached for the lighter in my pocket. It took a few tries, but when the butane finally caught, I took a moment to stare at the flame. I’d spun the spark wheel enough times that it had abraded the pad of my thumb. I took a deep drag, held it in, let it go, sat back, stared up. I couldn’t see the stars. On the one hand, smoking was not cool. Smoking would kill you. Smoking was a vile, disgusting habit I did not condone. On the other hand— Dear God, I thought, exhaling the poison. Would you please just kill my father already? I can’t take the suspense. I picked up the paper, stared at the melting headline. When I read the newspaper I saw myself, my family, and my faith reflected back at me as if in a fun-house mirror. I felt a hopelessness building in my chest every day, this desperation to tell someone, to shake strangers, to stand on a park bench and scream— There’s no such thing as an Islamic terrorist. It was morally impossible—philosophically impossible—to be Muslim and a terrorist at the same time. There was nothing in Islam that condoned the taking of innocent lives. And yet there it was, every day, every day, the conflation: Muslim terrorist. Islamic terrorist. The Middle East, our president had said, was the axis of evil. I saw the latent danger in the storytelling, the caricature we were becoming, two billion Muslims quickly solidifying into a faceless, terrifying mass. We were being stripped of gradation, of complexity. The

news was turning us into monsters, which made us so much easier to murder. I pinched the cigarette between my thumb and forefinger, held it up against the sky. I hated how much I enjoyed this disgusting pastime. Hated how it seemed to steady me, befriend me in my darkest hours. I could already feel the fist unclench in my chest and I relished it, closing my eyes as I took another drag, this time exhaling the smoke across the wilting article. The piece was about the recklessness of our airstrikes on Afghan villages, about how our military intelligence appeared questionable; hundreds of innocent Afghans were killed in the search for Al Qaeda members who never materialized. I’d read the last paragraph a thousand times. “The Americans are all the time making these mistakes,” said Mr. Khan, whose two sons, Faizullah, 8, and Obeidullah, 10, were killed. “What kind of Al Qaeda are they? Look at their little shoes and hats. Are they terrorists?” “Wow.” The voice came from the fog, from outer space. It was a single word but it startled me with its heft and depth, with its fullness. It had been hours since I’d spoken to anyone but a police officer, and I seemed to have forgotten how sounds sounded. Nerves spiked through me. Hastily, I put out the cigarette, but I knew it was too late, knew there was no denying any of this. I would be eighteen in six weeks, but right now that didn’t matter. Right now I was seventeen years old, and what I was doing was illegal. Stupid. But then the stranger laughed. The stranger laughed and my fear froze, my heart unclenched. I experienced relief for all of two seconds before I caught a glimpse of his face. He’d stepped into the severe light of a streetlamp and my eyes focused, unfocused; my soul fled my body. I felt it then—knew, somehow, even then, that I would not survive this night unchanged. He wouldn’t stop laughing. “My dear sister in Islam,” he said, affecting horror. “Astaghfirullah. This is shameful.” Mortification was a powerful chemical. It had dissolved my organs, evaporated my bones. I was loose flesh splayed on concrete.

He did not seem to notice. He placed a hand on his chest, continued the show. “A young sister in hijab,” he said, tsking as he towered over me. “Alone, late at night. Smoking. What would your parents—” He hesitated. “Wait. Are you bleeding?” He was staring at my knee, at the tear in my jeans. A dark stain had been spreading slowly across the denim. I dropped my face in my hands. An arm reached for my arm, waited for my cooperation. I did not cooperate. He retreated. “Hey, are you okay?” he said, his voice appreciably gentler. “Did something happen?” I lifted my head. “I fell.” He frowned as he studied me; I averted my eyes. We were now positioned under the same shaft of light, his face so close to mine it scared me. “Jesus,” he said softly. “My sister is such an asshole.” I met his gaze. He took a sharp breath. “All right, I’m taking you home.” That rattled my brain into action. “No, thank you,” I said quickly. “You’re going to die of pneumonia,” he said. “Or lung cancer. Or”—he shook his head, made a disapproving noise—“depression. Are you seriously reading the newspaper?” “It helps me de-stress.” He laughed. My body tensed at the sound. Ancient history wrenched open the ground beneath me, unearthing old caskets, corpses of emotion. I hadn’t talked to him in over a year—hadn’t been this close to him in over a year —and I wasn’t sure my heart could handle being alone with him now. “I already have a ride home,” I lied, staggering upright. I stumbled, gasped. My injured knee was screaming. “You do?” I closed my eyes. Tried to breathe normally. I felt the weight of my dead cell phone in my pocket. The weight of the entire day, balanced between my shoulder blades. I was freezing. Bleeding. Exhausted. I knew no one was coming for me. My shoulders sagged as I opened my eyes. I sighed as I looked him over, sighed because I already knew what he looked like. Thick brown hair

so dark it was basically black. Deep brown eyes. Strong chin. Sharp nose. Excellent bone structure. Eyelashes, eyelashes, eyelashes. Classically Persian. He rolled his eyes at my indecision. “I’m Ali, by the way. I’m not sure if you remember me.” I felt a flash of anger. “That’s not funny.” “I don’t know,” he said, looking away. “It’s a little funny.” But his smile had vanished. Ali was my ex–best friend’s older brother. He and his sister, Zahra, were the two people I did not want to think about. My memories of them both were so saturated in emotion I could hardly breathe around the thoughts, and barreling face-first into my past wasn’t helping matters in my chest. Even now, I was barely holding it together, so assaulted were my senses by the mere sight of him. It was almost cruel. Ali was, among other things, the kind of handsome that transcended the insular social circles frequented by most members of Middle Eastern communities. He was the kind of good-looking that made white people forget he was terrorist-adjacent. He was the kind of brown guy who charmed PTA moms, dazzled otherwise racist teachers, inspired people to learn a thing or two about Ramadan. I’d once hated Ali. Hated him for so effortlessly straddling the line between two worlds. Hated that he seemed to pay no price for his happiness. But then, for a very long time, I didn’t. Didn’t hate him at all. I sighed. My tired body needed to lean against something or else start moving and never stop, but I could presently do neither. Instead, I sat back down, folding myself onto the concrete with all the grace of a newborn calf. I picked up the forgotten lighter off the ground, ran my thumb over the top. Ali had gone solid in the last thirty seconds. Silent. So I spoke. “Do you go to school here now?” He was quiet a moment longer before he exhaled, seemed to come back to himself. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah.” Ali was a year older than me, and I’d thought for sure he’d go out of state for college. Zahra rarely fed me details on her brother’s life, and I’d never dared to ask; I just assumed. The Ali I’d known had been effortlessly smart and had big plans for his future. Then again, I knew how quickly

things could change. My own life was unrecognizable from what it was a year ago. I knew this, and yet I couldn’t seem to help it when I said— “I thought you got into Yale?” Ali turned. Surprise brightened his eyes for only a second before they faded back to black. He looked away again and the harsh lamplight rewarded him, casting his features in stark, beautiful lines. He swallowed, the slight, near-imperceptible movement sending a bolt of feeling through my chest. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.” “Then why are y—” “Listen, I don’t really want to talk about last year, okay?” “Oh.” My heart was suddenly racing. “Okay.” He took a deep breath, exhaled a degree of tension. “When did you start smoking?” I put down the lighter. “I don’t really want to talk about last year, either.” He looked at me then, looked for so long I thought it might kill me. Quietly, he said, “What are you doing here?” “I take a class here.” “I know that. I meant what are you doing here”—he nodded at the ground—“soaking wet and smoking cigarettes?” “Wait, how do you know I take a class here?” Ali looked away, ran a hand through his hair. “Shadi, come on.” My mind went blank. I felt suddenly stupid. “What?” He turned to face me. He met my eyes with brazen defiance, almost daring me to look away. I felt the heat of that look in my blood. Felt it in my cheeks, the pit of my stomach. “I asked,” he said. It was both a confession and a condemnation; I felt the weight of it at once. It was suddenly clear that he’d asked Zahra about me, about my life —even now, after everything. I had not. I’d tried instead to forget him entirely, and I’d not succeeded. “Listen,” he said, but his voice had gone cold. “If you already have a ride, I’ll leave you alone. But if you don’t, let me drive you home. You’re bleeding. You’re shivering. You look terrible.” My eyes widened at the insult before the rational part of my brain even had a chance to process the context, but Ali registered his mistake

immediately. Spoke in a rush. “I didn’t— You know what I mean. You don’t look terrible. You look —” He hesitated, his eyes fixed on my face. “The same.” I felt death bloom bright in my chest. I’d always been the kind of coward who couldn’t survive even the vaguest suggestion of a compliment. “No. You’re right.” I gestured to myself. “I look like a drowned cat.” He didn’t laugh. I’d learned, recently, that some people thought I was beautiful. Moms, mostly. The moms at the mosque loved me. They thought I was beautiful because I had green eyes and white skin and because a huge swath of Middle Eastern people were racist. They were blithely unaware of the fact; had no idea that their unabashed preference for European features was shameful. I, too, had once been flattered by this kind of praise, just until I learned how to read a history book. Beyond this select group of undiscerning moms, only one person had ever told me I was beautiful— and he was standing right in front of me. With some difficulty, I got to my feet. The pain in my knee had begun to ebb, but my body had stiffened in the aftermath. Carefully, I bent my joints. Rubbed my elbows. “Okay,” I said finally. “I would appreciate the ride.” “Good call.” Ali stalked off; I followed. He led me straight to his car without so much as a backward glance, and suddenly it was right there, right in front of me: the silver Honda Civic I’d seen before. The one that nearly killed me.

Last Year

Part II My concerns over the hoodie had been mostly forgotten. The steadily plummeting temperatures forced me to abandon my reservations and focus, instead, on my gratitude for the extra layer.

I shivered when the lunch bell rang. I stood up, gathered my things, pulled on my backpack. It was much warmer inside the school than outside it, but even with artificial heating I remained on the edge of uncomfortable, huddling deeper into the soft material. I pushed into the crowded hallway and tugged the too-long sleeves over my hands, crossed my arms against my chest. It seemed unlikely that the sweatshirt belonged to anyone but Mehdi, but even if it didn’t—who would know? It was the most ubiquitous variety of black hoodie. I was definitely overthinking this. Still, I couldn’t deny the frisson of feeling that moved through me at the thought of the alternative: that the sweatshirt belonged to someone else, to someone I knew, to someone strictly off-limits to me. I took an unsteady breath. Zahra and I had only one class together this semester, and since I’d been running late this morning, we hadn’t yet crossed paths. Our parents still carpooled a couple days a week, but our previously braided schedules had begun, slowly, to part, and I wasn’t sure what that meant for us. More than anything else, I felt uncertainty. Every day it seemed like she and I were teetering on the edge of something—something that wasn’t necessarily good—and it made me nervous. I often felt like I was walking on eggshells around Zahra, never certain what I might do to upset her, never certain what kind of emotional turbulence she might introduce to my day. It made everything feel like an ordeal. I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to say something about the tension between us without sounding accusatory. Worse, I worried she might leverage any perceived slight into an excuse to shut me out. There was a great deal of history between us—layers and layers of sediment I dearly treasured—and I didn’t want to lose what we had. I wanted only for us to evolve backward, into the versions of ourselves that never caught fire when we collided. I cried out. Someone had slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs and the thoughts from my head. The stranger muttered an insincere Sorry before shoving past, and I shook my head, deciding then to stop fighting the tide. I needed to drop off some books at my locker before I joined Zahra in our

usual spot, but it felt like the whole school had a similar idea. We were all of us heading to the locker bays. I was still moving at a glacial pace when I became aware of a gentle pressure at the base of my spine. I felt the heat of his hand even through the hoodie, his fingers grazing my waist as they drew away. The simple contact struck a match against my skin. “Hey,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was smiling into the crowd, watching where he was going. “Hi.” I could no longer remember feeling cold. Ali glanced in my direction. His hand had abandoned me but he leaned in when he said—without meeting my eyes— “Are you wearing my hoodie?” I nearly stopped in place. Twin gusts (pleasure, mortification) blew through me, and then, dominating all else— Panic. Eventually, the bottleneck broke. We’d arrived at my locker. I dropped my backpack to the floor, spun around to face him, felt the metal frame press against my shoulder blades. Ali was staring at me with the strangest look on his face, something close to delight. “I didn’t know this was yours,” I said quietly. “My mom found it in her car.” He touched one of the bright-blue drawstrings, wound it around his finger. “Yeah,” he said, meeting my gaze. “This is mine.” A wash of heat colored my cheeks and I closed my eyes as if it made any difference, as if I could stop us both from seeing it. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.” “Hey, don’t apologize, I don’t—” Carefully, without disturbing my scarf, I pulled the hoodie over my head and handed it to him, practically shoved it at him. “Shadi.” He frowned, tried to give it back. “I don’t care if you wear it. You can have it.” I was shaking my head. I didn’t know how to say even a little bit without saying everything. “I can’t.” “Shadi. Come on.” I turned around, turned the combination on my locker. Wordlessly, I unzipped my backpack, swapped out my books.

Ali moved closer, bent his head over my shoulder. “Keep it,” he said, his breath touching my cheek. “I want you to keep it.” I felt my body tense with a familiar ache, a familiar fear. I couldn’t move. “Hey.” I straightened at the sound of Zahra’s voice. “Hi,” I said, forcing myself to speak. My heart was now racing for entirely new reasons. Zahra stepped closer. “What are you guys doing?” Then, to me, with an approximation of a laugh: “Why did you just give my brother your sweater?” “Oh. My mom actually found it in her car this morning.” Zahra frowned. My answer was not an answer. “I, um, thought it belonged to Mehdi,” I amended. “But it belongs to Ali. I was just giving it back to him.” Zahra looked at Ali—whose face had shuttered closed. He glanced at me before he shoved a hand through his hair, balled the sweatshirt under his arm. “I’ll see you later,” he said to no one, and disappeared into the crowd. Zahra and I stood in silence, watching him go. My heart would not cease racing. I felt as if I were standing, in real time, in front of a ticking bomb. Boom. “What the fuck, Shadi?” I tried to explain: “I didn’t know it was his. I was running late and I’d forgotten my jacket and—” “Bullshit.” “Zahra.” My heart was pounding. “I’m not lying.” “How long have you been doing this?” “What? Doing what?” “This, Shadi, this. Hooking up with my brother.” “Hooking up with . . .” I blinked, my head was spinning. “I’m not . . .” “Was that what you were doing last night? Were you out with my brother?” I was shaking my head, certain this was some kind of nightmare. “I was doing my physics homework.” “God, you’re unbelievable,” she said. “Fucking unbelievable.”

A few heads turned for the second time, passersby always surprised to hear a girl in hijab swearing loudly in the hall. I lowered my voice a few octaves in an effort to compensate. “There is literally nothing going on between me and Ali. I swear to God. I swear on my life.” Zahra was still livid, her jaw tensed as she stared at me. But she’d at least stopped yelling, which gave me hope. “I swear,” I said, trying again. “I had no idea the hoodie was his. It was a crazy morning, and I was rushing around so much I forgot to grab my jacket, and my mom found his sweatshirt in her car. Ali must’ve forgotten it at some point. We all thought it was Mehdi’s.” Zahra looked at me for a long time, and though I was the one holding my breath, she was the one who finally exhaled. Slowly—very slowly—the tension left her body. When her anger broke, she looked suddenly close to tears. “You’re really not hooking up with my brother?” “Zahra, come on. Can you even imagine? Listen to yourself.” “I know. I know.” She sniffed, wiped her eyes. “Ugh, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry. He’d never even be interested in someone like you.” “Exactly.” What? “I mean, no offense or anything.” She shot me a look. “But you’re definitely not his type.” I tried to smile. “I’m no one’s type. Most people take one look at me and run screaming in the opposite direction.” She laughed. I was only half kidding. Suddenly, Zahra dropped her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m just—” She sighed. Shook her head. “I’m sorry.” “Hey,” I said, squeezing her shoulder. “Can we just forget this whole thing? Please? Let’s get some lunch.” She took a deep breath. Let it go. We left. I only realized later that she’d never answered my question.

December

2003 Six I couldn’t believe it. I gave the silver car a wide berth, wouldn’t move any closer. The wind was pushing against my legs, shoving cold up my sleeves, but I was frozen in place, looking from him to the Honda. Finally, finally, Ali turned to face me. “That was you?” I asked. He had the decency to look ashamed. “My sister takes a chem class here a couple nights a week.” I already knew that. “My mom makes me drive her.” This was now obvious. “I saw you drowning in the rain,” he said, finally getting to the point. “I wanted to offer you a ride.” “But you didn’t.” He inhaled deep. “Zahra wouldn’t let me.” I was staring at my shoes now, at the shattered remains of a leaf trapped in my laces. I was stunned. “You didn’t even have an umbrella,” Ali was saying. “But she just—I don’t know. I didn’t understand. I still don’t get what happened between you guys.” This was so much. Too much to unpack. Several months ago, when we officially declared war on Iraq, most of my friends started crying. I was devastated, too, but I kept my head down. I didn’t argue with people who didn’t seem to understand that Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan and Iraq were all very different countries. I said

nothing when my history teacher’s army reserve unit got called up, said nothing when he stared at me while making the announcement. I didn’t know why he stared at me. It was like he wanted something from me, either an apology or a show of gratitude, I wasn’t sure. I wrote nothing but my name in the card we gave him at his going-away party. Hate crimes were on the rise. Muslim communities were in turmoil. Women were taking off their scarves, guys changing their names. People were freaked out. Our mosques were bugged, set on fire. Last month we found out that Brother Farid—Brother Farid, the guy always volunteering and helping out, the guy so beloved he was invited to a half dozen weddings last year—was an undercover FBI agent. Heartbreak. It was a time of change, turbulence, shifting sands. People were making names for themselves, even the most useless teenagers blooming into activists and advocates for change. Heretofore nobodies rallied for grassroots organizations, organized peace talks. I was growing weary of everyone. I hated the posturing at the mosque, the competitions to prove piousness in the face of persecution. I hated the gossip meant to shame the women who’d taken off their hijabs. People were particularly vicious to the older women, said they were all uglier sans scarves, decrepit. What’s the point of taking it off when you’re that old? people would ask, and laugh, as if a woman’s motivations to put on a hijab had anything to do with making herself more or less attractive. As if anyone had any right to judge another person’s fear. Zahra had taken off her scarf. Zahra, who’d been my best friend for years. Two months ago she stopped wearing hijab and stopped talking to me, too. Cut me out of her world—effectively shattered my heart—without further explanation. She wouldn’t even look at me at school anymore, didn’t want to be associated with me. From the outside, her reasons seemed obvious. I knew better. I knew Zahra hadn’t thrown away six years of friendship because of a single sea change. She’d hid the truth in another truth; we’d split for a Russian nesting doll of reasons. But this—tonight—to discover that she harbored this level of hatred toward me, this kind of anger—

I felt physically ill. “I’m really sorry,” Ali was saying, when he hesitated. “Actually, I don’t know why I’m apologizing. I didn’t do anything wrong.” “No,” I said. “No, you didn’t.” Something wet landed on my cheek and I looked up, eyelashes fluttering against the unexpected drizzle. A sharp wind shook up a pile of dead leaves, wrapped around my ankles. It smelled like decay. “We should get going,” Ali said, his eyes following mine upward. He had a hand on the roof of his car, a hand on the driver door. “Don’t worry about Zahra, okay? I usually wait in the library while she’s in class, catch up on homework. I’ll come back for her.” “Okay.” Rain dribbled down my cheeks, dripped from my lips. I didn’t move. Ali laughed, then frowned. Looked at me like I’d lost my mind. Perhaps I had. Tentacles of fear had suddenly reached up my throat, driven into my skull. I had turned to stone. I’d felt it suddenly, felt it like a bullet to the chest, cold and solid and real— Something terrible had happened. “You okay?” Ali opened the driver’s side door; rain blew sideways into the car. “Seriously, I’m sorry about my sister. I think she’s just going through a lot right now.” I heard a phone ring, distantly, miles away. “Is that yours?” I heard myself say. “What?” He closed the car door. “My what?” “Your phone. Ringing.” Ali’s frown deepened, a furrow bordering on irritation. “My phone isn’t ringing. No one’s phone is ringing. Listen—” I was staring at a single windshield wiper on Ali’s silver Honda Civic when my dead phone rang with a shrillness that broke the night, my paralysis. I answered it. At first I couldn’t hear my sister’s voice. At first I heard only my heart pound, heard only the wind. I heard my name the third time she screamed it, heard everything she said after that. My older sister was hysterical, screaming half-formed thoughts and incomplete information in my ear and I tried to listen, tried to ask the right follow-up questions, but the cell phone fell from my shaking hand, snapped when it hit the ground.

I’d gone blind. I heard my own breathing, loud in my head, heard my blood moving, fast in my veins. Ali did not get to me before I fell. He dove to the pavement half a beat later, caught my head before it cracked. He was saying something, shouting something. Please, God, I thought. Dear God, I thought. Please, God, I thought. “Shadi? Shadi—” I came back to my body with a sudden gasp. I sat on trembling legs, steadied myself with trembling arms. My eyes were wild; I could feel it, could feel them dilate, dart back and forth, focus on nothing. “What’s going on?” he was saying. “What just happened?” I was looking at the ground. I remember it, remember the way the wet pavement glittered under the streetlamp. I remember the smell of dirt, the damp press of silk against my cheek. I remember the way the branches shook, the way my body did. “I need you to drive me to the hospital,” I said.

Seven Ali did not look at me while we drove. He did not speak. I did not feel his eyes on me, did not feel him move more than was absolutely necessary to perform his task. I looked at myself. Somehow I’d multiplied, one iteration sitting in the passenger seat, the other running alongside the car, peering in the window. The first thing I noticed was the cut on my chin. Freshly serrated skin, bright red blood smeared across my jaw. My silk scarf was once pale green, shiny; it was now a dull slate, pockmarked with fresh water stains. I’d chosen this scarf because I knew it complimented my eyes and because I was impractical. Silk scarves were an older woman’s game; few girls my age cared for the slippery material, opting instead for basic cottons, polyesters. Fabric that stayed in place with little fuss.

I was an idiot in many ways, it had turned out. My scarf had been pushed back and forth enough times that it had bunched in places, shifted backward. My dark hair was pitch-black when wet, loose strands wild around my face, curling with damp. I was always pale, but today my pallor was deathly. I looked gaunt. My eyes were bigger, greener than usual. Glazed. I did not think I was ugly. But I also did not think I would rate mention were it not for my eyes—for my irises—for the cold, sharp green of that which is not yet grown. I’d inherited my unripe eyes from my father, and some days I found it hard not to resent them both. I became aware of my eyes in earnest last year, about the time my mother started locking herself in her closet. I became aware of my eyes because others had become aware of my eyes. My face. My body. So many women—always the women, only the women—talked about me, dissected me, my skin, my waist, the size of my feet, the slope of my nose, my eyes my eyes my eyes. By the time I turned seventeen I’d definitively shed the wild awkwardness expected of most teenagers my age. This was right around the time my mother would not stop crying, around the time I’d lie awake in bed and pray to God to kill my father. I stopped laughing so loudly, stopped running around so recklessly, stopped smiling, generally. I had aged. People thought I was growing up, and perhaps I was, perhaps this was growing up—this, this, an uncertain spiral into a darkness lined with teeth. My sadness had made me noteworthy. Beautiful. Had imbued in me a kind of dignity, a weight I could not uncarry. I knew this because I heard it all the time, heard it from old ladies at the mosque who praised me for my still lips, my folded hands, my reluctance to smile. They’d declared me demure, a good Muslim girl with fair skin, light eyes. My mother had since received five marriage proposals from other mothers, their grown sons standing behind them, beaming. My mother threatened to move away. Threatened to leave the mosque. Damned the other women to hell, stormed through the house slamming doors. She’s only seventeen, she’d scream. A child. I didn’t remember walking into the hospital. I didn’t remember parking or opening the car door. I didn’t notice, not right away, when Ali came with

me, said nothing when he lied to the nurse, assuring her that yes, we were siblings, and yes, the patient was our mother. Our mother. Not my mother. Not my mother, not my mother, my mother, who was supposed to be at home staring listlessly at the wall or else singing terribly melodramatic Persian songs off-key in the kitchen. My mother was young, relatively healthy, the one who never got sick and never, ever took time off for herself. This was a clerical error, a mistake made by God or maybe this guy, the one wearing blue scrubs and a Dora the Explorer lanyard, the one squinting at his computer screen in search of my mother’s room number. It was my father who was meant for this place, this fate. My father who’d earned the right to be murdered by his own heart and for whom I waited, with baited breath, for a similar phone call, for a summons to such a place, for a justice still overdue. Dear God, I thought, this is not funny. I saw my sister at the exact moment the Dora the Explorer lanyard stopped bobbing up and down. I felt, but did not see, when the nurse looked up, said something—a floor, a room number— “Where the hell have you been?” Shayda said, marching up to me, her long, dark blue scarf billowing around her. I had the strangest thought as I watched her move, as the long lines of her manteau rippled in the air. The thought was so strange I nearly laughed. You look like a jellyfish, I wanted to say to her. Tentacles and elegance. No heart. “Where is she?” I said instead. “What happened?” “She’s fine,” my sister said sharply. “We’re waiting on some paperwork, and then we can leave.” I nearly sank to the floor. I looked around for a place to fall apart, for a seat or an unoccupied corner, and made it only as far as the wall, at which I stared. There was a terror in my throat so large I could not swallow. I turned around. I needed to move, I wanted to see my mother, I wanted answers and reasons to sleep tonight, but my nerves would not settle. I stared at my sister with wide eyes, wings beating in my chest. “Hey, you okay?” Ali said gently, reminding me he was there. I looked up at him, not seeing him. Shayda made a sound in her throat, something like disbelief. I swung my head around, blinked. Her irritation dissolved, evolved as she took me in, analyzed the mess. “So this is why you didn’t answer your phone? Too

busy doing whatever you two were doing”—she shot a disgusted look at Ali—“to care that your mother is in the hospital?” “What?” Ali said, stepping forward. “That’s n—” I was still staring at my sister when I held up a hand to stop him. It was meant to be a gesture only, a signal. But he walked straight into my open palm, broad chest pressed against my splayed fingers. I felt warm cotton, a shallow valley, hard and soft planes. I pulled my hand away. Our eyes did not meet. “Don’t worry about her,” I said quietly. My mom hated it when my sister and I fought, so I rarely rose to the bait these days, but cutting out the petty fights had left us with little else. When we weren’t fighting, we seldom had reason to speak. I always thought it would help matters to ignore her, and yet, for some reason, my silence only drove my sister crazier. Even now I could see her anger building, her body tensing. “What are you even doing here?” Shayda said, turning on Ali. “You know people might see you standing next to us, right? They might think you know us. Or—gasp—they might think you’re Muslim.” Ali frowned. “What are you—” “Please. Don’t engage with her. Please just ignore her.” Shayda practically exploded. “What do you mean, just ignore her? When was the last time you saw him at the mosque, Shadi? When was the last time he said a single word to either of us? Or to Maman and Baba? Last month he saw Maman at the store and she’d only talked to him for a minute or two—nothing more— but apparently it was too much. He left the store after that. Walked out the door. He abandoned his grocery cart in the middle of the aisle so he wouldn’t have to bump into her again. Can you even believe that?” I looked at Ali, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He stared at the wall instead—stared at a blank, bright wall with a barely contained anger I’d never even known him to possess. I couldn’t process this right now. Not right now. My mother was in the hospital. I turned back around. “Shayda— Please—” “Why are you even with him? He doesn’t associate with people like us anymore. His reputation can’t handle it.”

I felt Ali move before I saw the motion. He stalked toward my sister, looking suddenly murderous, eyes flashing. I could tell he was about to say something and I nearly shouted just to beat him to it. “Stop,” I said. “Shayda, you’re yelling at the wrong person. Please. Please just tell me what happened. I couldn’t understand what you said on the phone. Is she hurt? How did she get here? Did you have to call an ambulance?” Fear flitted in and out of Shayda’s face, giving her away. Her eyes shone, then dulled, the only evidence of the war within her, and in that moment she transformed. She was suddenly more than my stupid sister— she was the sister I loved, the sister for whom I would cut off an appendage, take a bullet. I pulled her into my arms even as she stiffened, held on tight when she softened. I heard the hitch in her breath. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay,” I whispered, and she flinched. Jerked back. Became a stranger. “Why do you smell like cigarettes?” Panic rioted through me. Lie, I screamed at myself. Lie, you idiot. “That’s my fault,” Ali said, and I spun around, stunned. His anger was gone, but in its absence he looked wrung-out. Run-down. “My bad.” “You smoke now?” Shayda again. “That’s disgusting. And haram.” “Really?” he asked, eyebrows up. “I thought it was a gray area.” Shayda’s eyes darkened. “Whatever. You can go now.” Ali didn’t move. He looked away from Shayda, his eyes glancing off the wall, the ceiling, the floor. But he didn’t move. He looked at me. “Are you sure you want me to go? Do you guys even have a ride home?” “Shayda has her car,” I explained. “What about your dad? Do you want me to call him?” I was still processing that, still trying to find a tidy way to explain that my father was likely sleeping in a room not unlike the one my mother currently occupied when he said— “What about Mehdi? Did h—” Ali froze, as suddenly as if he’d been struck by lightning. Slowly, he dragged both hands down his face. “Fuck,” he breathed. Squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Shayda walked away.

She left, left without a word, the lines of her lean form rippling in the distance. Me, I’d fossilized in place. I stood staring at a single flickering bulb in the brightly lit corridor long after she disappeared from sight. My sister was wrong about many things, but she was at least partly right about one: Ali didn’t associate with us anymore. It was surreal how it happened, surreal how different my life had become in his absence. Ali and I, Shayda and Zahra—we used to see each other every day. My first year of high school we’d all carpool, our moms taking turns driving us to and from campus. Once Ali and Shayda got their own cars they tore free, only too happy to break up the band, pursue their independence. Still, my life kept colliding into his. His life kept colliding into mine. Ali and I had been fixtures in each other’s lives for five years until one day, a week before my brother died, everything between us broke. We stopped talking at the beginning of my junior year, his senior year. Overnight, we’d become strangers. “Shadi.” I looked up. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m—” I shook my head too fast. “Oh, Ali. It’s okay.” I smiled and realized I was crying, my eyes bleeding slow tears that made no sound. My emotions had finally boiled over. I didn’t know why they chose that moment, didn’t know why they were directed at him; but I knew, even then, even as I could do nothing about it, that the picture I made must’ve been terrifying. Ali looked struck; he stepped forward. I walked away.

Eight The teakettle was screaming. I stared at it, the steam curling, silver body shuddering on the stovetop, demanding attention. We had an old electric stove, its white paint chipping

in places, burned-on grease splattered across the steel drip-bowls within which sat lopsided heating elements. The lopsided heating elements made it so that nothing heated evenly, which made it impossible to cook anything properly on this stove, which was one of the quiet shames of my family. The only thing this stove ever did well was bring water to an acceptable boil. I turned down the heat. Poured the hot water from the kettle into the waiting belly of a porcelain teapot, brewing the leaves within. I wrapped the whole thing in a hand towel, set it aside, let it steep. We didn’t have a proper samovar, so this would have to suffice. I heard murmurs of conversation coming from the living room, where my mother and my sister were waiting. I did, did not want to join them, did, did not want to know what they were discussing. I lingered in the kitchen too long, arranging cookies on a plate, selecting glasses for our tea. My mother had thought she was having a heart attack. Shayda was at the house when it happened, called 911. She’d called me, too, apparently, several times, but my dying phone had connected only once. The ambulance came, drove straight to our home for the third time in as many weeks, strapped my mother to a stretcher, and wheeled her away. A lamp had been knocked over, small things had been disarranged. There was dirt on the rug from their boots, the paramedics, dirt from their boots and their equipment. The sight had sent a cold shudder through my body. My mother had thought she was having a heart attack, and I could see why. My father had just had two, both of them in the same month. She’d seen and heard him describe, at length, the symptoms, the possible warning signs. The doctor ran all kinds of tests on her, but they came back negative. She had not had a heart attack, he’d said. She’d had a panic attack. She was going to be fine. They’d given her something, some drug she would no doubt have refused had she known exactly what was in it, but it helped calm her down. Helped steady the horrible stutter in her heart. For some reason, the doctor had thought I was the eldest. He didn’t even ask, he’d just assumed, and he’d motioned for me to follow him out into the hall, closed my mother’s door behind him. Shayda had gone to pull the car around. My mother was changing back into her clothes. The doctor grimaced as he turned to me, grimaced and said—

“You’re the older sister, right? Listen, there’s something I need to discuss with you about your mom.” Perhaps I should’ve told him the truth. There was no doubt a reason he wanted to speak with the oldest child, no doubt a legal or moral or psychological reason why I was uniquely unqualified, as the youngest, to hear what he was about to say. But my terrified curiosity would not allow me to walk away from an opportunity to know more about my mother. I wanted to know what was happening to her. I needed to know. At first, the doctor said nothing. Finally, he sighed. “I noticed your father is here in the hospital, too.” “Yes.” He tried to smile. “You okay?” Heat pushed up my throat, the backs of my eyes, seared the roof of my mouth. I swallowed. Swallowed. “Yes,” I said. He looked down at his clipboard, looked back up. Sighed again. “Does your mother have a history of depression?” I blinked at the doctor, at the dark scruff growing down his neck, at the surgical mask stuffed into his coat pocket. He wore a scuffed gold band on his ring finger, and in that hand he clenched a stethoscope. There was a smudge of something on his shirt, chocolate or blood, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know what his eyes looked like. I couldn’t meet them. I did not understand. “When your brother died,” he said, and I looked up then, took the hit to the chest, felt it shudder through my bones. “When your brother died did she”—he frowned—“has she been—has it been hard for her? Harder than what might seem normal?” The question was so stupid it struck me hard across the face. The doctor backpedaled, apologized, tried again. “There’s no right way to say this. I’ve never had to have this conversation with the child. Usually I have these conversations with the parent.” He took a breath. “But I feel that, considering the circumstances—with your father in a delicate state at the hospital, and with your younger sister to care for—I think you should know what’s happening here. I think you should know that I’m highly recommending your mother seek professional help.” “I don’t understand.” I did not want to understand. “She’s been cutting herself,” he said sharply, angrily, as if he hated me for forcing him to say it out loud, to say it to a child. “She’s self-harming. I think she needs to be in therapy.”

He gave me something, a piece of paper with something written on it, and assured me there would be more information in her file, with the nurse, or someone, somewhere. He’d recommended a doctor, a program. Grief counseling. “She’s going to be okay,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. I nearly fell to the ground. “She just needs time. And she needs support.” I carried the tea tray into the living room with trembling hands, glass shuddering against metal, jangling against itself. My mother was smiling at something my sister was saying, her delicate hands clasped in her lap. She was a beautiful woman, lithe with big, dark eyes. Few others had the privilege of seeing her like this, her long hair curling around her shoulder in a single brown wave. She looked up as I entered. Smiled wider. “Bea beshin, azizam.” Come sit down, my dear. She thanked me for making tea, thanked me when I poured her the cup, thanked me again when I handed it to her. She was trying too hard, and it was making my heart pound. “I’m sorry I scared you,” she said in Farsi, her eyes shining. She laughed, shook her head. “Anyway, khodaroshokr”—thank God —“everything is fine. The doctor said I just need to get more sleep. This tea is excellent, by the way.” It was not. I’d taken too long to bring it out, and the temperature of the tea had dropped just below what was acceptable, which was a tea so boiling hot it burned your throat. If my mother were herself she would’ve sent it back. Even my sister seemed to realize that. “The tea is cold,” Shayda said, frowning. This was a gross exaggeration. The tea was plenty hot, hot enough for any sane person. It just wasn’t boiling hot. “The tea is fine,” my mother said, waving dismissively. She took a sip. She was still speaking in Farsi. “Your father is doing better, by the way. They think he might come home soon.” “What?” I blanched. I nearly dropped my cup. “But I thought they said his situation was critical. I thought—” “You are unbelievable, Shadi.” I looked up, surprised, to meet my sister’s eyes. “You can’t even hide your disappointment. What, were you hoping he’d die? What kind of a horrible person hopes for their father to die?”

I felt that familiar, stinging heat rise up my throat again, press against my teeth, sear the whites of my eyes. The nurse found cuts on her wrists and on her legs, the doctor had said. Some were relatively fresh. Has she ever said anything to make you think she might be a danger to herself? My mother shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said in rapid-fire Farsi. “That’s a slanderous thing to say about a person.” “And yet, she doesn’t deny it’s true.” My mother turned to me, eyes wide. “Shadi?” Heat knotted together at the base of my throat. I shook my head, about to lie a perfect, beautiful lie when the doorbell rang. I jumped to my feet. I was happy for the interruption, but also, I was the only one among us still wearing a scarf. I touched my head absently, the wilted silk somehow still intact. I marveled at that, at how I’d forgotten to take it off. I’d forgotten to do all kinds of things. Forgotten to eat, for example. Or shower. I’d forgotten to bandage the cut on my knee, forgotten to wash the blood off my chin. That was the first thing my mother said to me when she saw me, the first thing she did. She took my chin in her hand and yelled at me, demanded to know what I’d done to my face, as if my wound were greater than hers. She doesn’t know I’m telling you this, the doctor had said. She begged me not to tell you or your sister. I swallowed against the rising heat, swallowed against the stinging burn. I moved toward the front door and heard the rain howl, lash against the windows. I reached for the handle just as my mother laughed, the soft trill wrenching apart my heart. I opened the door. For the second time today, someone stood before me and held aloft my ugly blue backpack. Ali’s clothes were wet. His hair was soaked. His eyelashes were sooty, glittering with damp. In the warm glow of the porch light, I saw him as I hadn’t earlier: hyperreal, many-dimensional. He was tall, even imposing, his skin a golden brown without blemish, the lines of his face sharp, beautiful. What was once a clean shave had given way to a 10 p.m. shadow, adding an unexpected depth to his appearance. He’d probably not looked in a mirror in hours. He probably had no idea what he looked like, no idea the picture he presented. A single drop of rain dripped

down his forehead, slid along his nose, tucked itself between his lips. He prized them open. “You forgot this in my car,” he said quietly. My eyes were filling with tears again, had been threatening to fill all night. I pushed back the army with almighty force, felt their fire travel down my esophagus, set my insides aflame. “You okay?” Over and over again, he asked me this question. He was staring at me ruthlessly, his eyes lingering on my face, the cut on my chin. I felt the friction between us as palpably as I felt the pounding in my heart. He was angry. Afraid. He stared at me with an authority I found surprising, with a concern I’d not felt in a long time. I watched him swallow as he waited. His throat was wet; the movement was mesmerizing. “Please,” he whispered. “Please answer me.” I didn’t lift my head. “Are you okay?” “No,” I said, and took the bag. I heard his exhale; it was a tortured sound. “Shadi—” “Who is it?” my mom asked, her voice carrying over from the living room. “Is it a package?” “Bye,” I said softly, and closed the door in his face.

Nine Were I a fly perched upside down, legs clinging to a fiber ceiling, I would’ve seen a sea of hairy heads bent over papers placed atop desks, human hands clenched around number two pencils, each seat showcasing a similar scene save one. Mine. My silk head turned in sharp, erratic movements, my mind unable to settle. I had an exam today in my AP Art History class, an exam for which I’d not had the opportunity to prepare. I fell asleep last night in molting silk, fully dressed and freezing, awoke in my own blood. The wound on

my chin had ripped open as I slept and I found evidence of this fact on my pillow, in my hair, smeared across my eyelids. In my dreams my teeth rotted, fell out of my head, I screamed the screams of dreams that made no sound and sat straight up at the screech of my alarm, my chest tight with terror. It seemed my constant companion, this feeling, this word. Terror. It haunted me, tormented me, terror, terrifying, terrorist, terrorism, these were my definitions in the dictionary along with my face and surname, first name, date of birth. I’d made more of an effort than usual this morning, convinced, somehow, that eyeliner would detract from the bandage on my chin. I didn’t want the world to know my secrets, didn’t want my wounds torn open before the masses, and yet, there was no escaping notice. I’d already had to listen to someone make a joke they thought I didn’t hear, something low, a laugh, a tittering: “Looks like someone punched Osama in the face last night,” followed by an “Oh my God, Josh, shut up,” all neatly rounded out by another chorus of laughter. I was a turkey carved up every day, all manner of passersby eager for a piece. My flesh had been so thoroughly stripped I was now more bone than meat, with little left to give up but my marrow. I stared at the printed sheet in front of me now, the ink swimming. My eyes felt perpetually hot, overheated, my heart poorly digested in my gut. I tapped my pencil on the page, stared at a block of text I was meant to analyze, a painting I was meant to recognize. For the third time in the last half hour, I felt a pair of eyes on my face. This time, I did not pretend them away. This time, I lifted my head, looked in their direction. The eyes quickly averted, the familiar face bowed once again over her paper, hand scribbling furiously at nonsense. Due to the nature of the art history course—and the interminable amount of time we spent staring at slides—our class was held in the only amphitheater on campus. We were all arranged in an incomplete circle, our raised seats gradually descending toward a single podium in the middle of the room behind which was a massive screen. The teacher currently stood sentinel in the center, watching us closely as we worked. Our class didn’t have assigned seats, but I always sat toward the back, where the desks

were illuminated by only dim lighting, and when Zahra glanced my way for the fourth time, I marveled that she could see me at all. Her attention toward me did not bode well. I glanced at my exam again. Thirty minutes in, and I’d written only four things: my name, my class, the period number, and the date. My eyes homed in on the year. 2003. I felt my mind spiral, rewind its own tape, a pencil in the cassette reel spinning backward. Memories surfaced and dissolved, sounds streaking into flashes of light. I conjured a vague, distorted impression of my slightly younger self, marveled at her naivete. Last year I had no idea the extent of what was coming for me. No idea, even now, how I would survive it. My breath caught. Pain speared me without warning, a javelin through the throat. I forced myself to take a calming breath, forced myself to return to the present moment, to the pressing task at hand. We were down to twenty minutes in class and I hadn’t yet answered a single question. I reached for my pencil, compelled myself to focus. My fingers closed around air. I frowned. Looked around. I was about to give up on the writing instrument I thought I’d had, about to reach into my bag for a new one when someone tapped me, gently, on the shoulder. I turned. Wordlessly, my neighbor handed over my pencil. “You dropped it,” he mouthed. I stared at him for just a moment too long, my mind catching up to my body as if on a delay. My heart was pounding. “Thank you,” I finally said, but even my whisper was too loud. I ignored a few fleeting looks from my classmates, sat back in my seat. I glanced again at my neighbor out of the corner of my eye, though not surreptitiously enough. He met my gaze, smiled. I averted my eyes, worried I’d just made myself seem more than casually interested in this guy. Noah. His name was Noah. He was one of the only Black kids in our school, which was enough to make him memorable, but more than that—he was new. He’d transferred in about a month ago, and I didn’t think I’d ever spoken to him prior to this moment.

In fact, I couldn’t presently recall ever sitting next to him. Then again, there were forty-five students in this class, and I couldn’t trust my memory; I was terrible at noticing details these days. Then again again, I didn’t think I was so checked out that I couldn’t even remember who sat next to me in class. I slumped lower in my chair. Concentrate. The painting poorly printed on my exam came suddenly into sharp focus. Two women were working together to behead a man, one pinning him to the mattress as he struggled, the other sawing into his throat with a dagger. I tapped my pencil against the picture; my heart thudded nervously in my chest. I closed my eyes for a second, two seconds, more. Ali’s reappearance last night had dredged up feelings I hadn’t allowed myself to think about in months. I seldom allowed myself to think about last year, my junior year; I often thought it a miracle I was still alive to remember those days at all. September of last year my heart had been left for dead under an avalanche of emotion delivered in triplicate: Love. Hate. Grief. Three different blows delivered in quick succession. I was stunned to discover, all these months later, that hatred had been the hardest to overcome. Artemisia Gentileschi. Her name came to me all at once: Artemisia Gentileschi, one of the most critically acclaimed and simultaneously overlooked painters of the seventeenth century. My mind parroted back to me the information I’d once memorized, names and dates I’d made into flash cards. Born in Rome, 1593. Died in Naples, 1653. I knew the answers, but my hand would not move. I felt my lungs constrict as panic flooded my chest. The tips of my fingers went numb, sparked back to life. I could hardly hold my pencil. This painting can be attributed to a follower of Caravaggio based on which of the following formal qualities? A) Monochromatic palette B) Dramatic tenebrism C) Pyramidal composition D) Prominent grisaille

My relationship with Zahra had been strained for a while, but last September tensions between us reached their pinnacle, an achievement for which there seemed no obvious impetus. Still, I spent the last year of our friendship navigating a maze of passive aggression, parrying every day the thinly veiled insults she lobbed my way. It only occurred to me now that Zahra had held on to our friendship a year longer than she’d wanted. She’d not been so reprehensible a person to kick me while I was down; she had enough mercy, at least, to spare me such a blow so soon after my brother died. I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve, but I’d been willfully blind. I’d been so mired in grief I could hardly survive my parents’ nightly fights, could hardly survive the rigorous demands of my junior year. I was desperate for even the scraps of the familiar, desperate to hold on to the friend who knew my history, to the escape that was her home. I’d not been able to spare the emotional expense necessary to see what was right in front of me—that my best friend had begun to hate me. Hate me. When the bell rang, I turned in a blank exam.

Last Year

Part III My mom was waiting for me after school, her champagne-colored minivan wedged between two nearly identical models. I knew her minivan was a champagne color—not a variation on beige, not a sort-of-brown—but champagne, specifically, because the salesman who’d sold it to my parents had emphasized the color as a selling point. My poor parents had been scandalized. They’d sat the salesman down and explained to him that they did not drink alcohol, they did not want a champagne car, could they please have a different one. I smiled now, remembering this story—Mehdi loved telling it at social gatherings—and trudged toward our drunken minivan, Zahra trailing

behind. The after-school pickup was always a logistical nightmare, but my mom had long ago found a way to manage it: she arrived half an hour early, and usually she brought a book. Today, however, she was squinting through her reading glasses at the glossy pages of a magazine, a publication I wasn’t immediately able to identify. I rapped on the window when we arrived, and my mom jumped a foot in her seat. She turned and scowled at me, set down the magazine. “Hi,” I said, beaming at her. My mom rolled her eyes, smiled. The side door slid open and we all exchanged hellos, settled into our seats. The minivan’s interior smelled vaguely of Cheez-Its, which, for some reason, I found comforting. My mom tugged off her reading glasses. “Madreseh khoob bood?” Was school okay? Then, to Zahra: “Zahra joonam, chetori?” Zahra dear, how are you? “How’s your mom?” Zahra was busy responding to my mother in flawless Farsi when I noticed, with a start, the discarded magazine on the console. I picked it up. It was an old issue of Cosmopolitan featuring a highly airbrushed photo of Denise Richards—under whose name it read: Be Naughty with Him! And, as if that weren’t alarming enough, there was the headline—in bold, white type— Our Best Sex Secret I looked up. Zahra was saying something to my mom about SAT prep courses, and I couldn’t wait. I cut her off. “Hey,” I said, shaking the magazine at my mom. “Hey, what the hell is this?” My mom stilled. She spared me a single glance before inserting the key in the ignition. “Man chemidoonam,” she said. How am I supposed to know? “It was at the dentist’s office.” Zahra laughed. “Um, Nasreen khanoom”—Mrs. Nasreen—“I don’t think you’re supposed to take the magazines.” “Eh? Vaughan?” My mom turned on the car. Oh? Really? I was shaking my head. I did not believe for a second that my mom thought the old, grimy magazines at the dentist’s office were free for the taking. “So is the secret any good?” I asked. “Because it says right here”— I scanned the cover again—“that it’s a secret so hot, so breathtaking, experts are raving about it.”

My mom was driving now, but she still managed to glare at me in the rearview mirror. “Ay, beetarbiat.” Oh, you rude child. I was fighting back a smile. “Don’t lie, Maman. I saw you reading it.” She said something in Farsi then, an expression difficult to translate. To put it simply: she threatened to kick my ass when we got home. I couldn’t stop laughing. Zahra had swiped the magazine, and she was now scanning the article in question. Slowly, she looked up at me. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I love your mom.” My mother muttered something like What am I supposed to do with you kids? in Farsi, and then turned on the radio. My mom loved pop radio. Currently, she was a loyal fan of Enrique Iglesias, because she grew up listening to his dad—Julio Iglesias—and when Enrique was first introduced on the radio she clasped her heart and sighed. These days she championed Enrique Iglesias as if it were her civic duty, as if Julio were watching and she hoped to make him proud. Right now, Escape was blasting through the speakers at a ridiculous volume, in what was no doubt an effort to drown out our voices. “Hey,” I shouted, “you’re not getting off that easily.” “Chi?” she shouted back. What? I tried for a higher decibel. “I said, you’re not getting off that easily.” “What?” She cupped a hand to her ear, pretended to be deaf. I fought back another laugh and shook my head at her. She smiled, put on her sunglasses, adjusted her scarf, and gently bobbed her head to the music. “Hey.” Zahra tapped my knee. “Shadi?” I turned, raised my eyebrows. “Yeah?” “We’re, like, five minutes away from my house,” she said, glancing out the window. “And I just—before I go, I wanted to say sorry. Again. About today.” “Oh,” I said, surprised. “It’s okay.” “It’s not okay. I shouldn’t have just attacked you like that.” She sat back in her seat, stared into her hands. “Ali just— He always gets everything, you know? Things are so easy for him. Relationships. Friendships. He doesn’t know what it’s like for me, what it’s like to wear hijab or how horrible people can be or how hard it is to make friends.” “I know,” I said softly. “I know.”

“I know you do.” She smiled then, her eyes shining with feeling. “You’re like the only one who gets it. And everything is just”—she shook her head, looked out the window—“school is so fucking brutal right now. Do you remember that guy who pulled off my scarf?” I stiffened. “Of course.” “He keeps following me around,” she said, swallowing. “And it’s really freaking me out.” I felt my chest constrict with panic and I fought it back, kept my face placid for her sake. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I don’t know. I thought maybe I was imagining things.” “We’ll report him,” I said sharply. “We’ll tell someone.” Zahra laughed. “As if that’ll make any difference.” “Hey”—I took her hands, squeezed—“look, I’ll stay with you. I’ll walk you to class. I’ll make sure you’re not alone.” She took a deep breath, her chest shuddering as she exhaled. “This is stupid, Shadi. This whole situation is so stupid. Why do we even have to have these conversations? Why do I have to be scared all the time? Why? Because of a bunch of ignorant assholes?” “I know. I know, I hate it, too.” She shook her head, shook off the emotion. “I’m just—I’m sorry I’m taking things out on you. I don’t mean to.” “I know.” “Everyone is different now. All my old friends. Even some of the teachers.” She looked away. “I think I’m worried I’m going to lose you, too.” “You’re not going to lose me.” “I know.” She laughed, wiped her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry. I know.” But when she looked up again, she looked uncertain. She whispered: “So you’re really not hooking up with my brother?” “Zahra.” I sighed. Shook my head. “Come on.” “I’m sorry, I know, I’m crazy.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I just—I don’t know. Sometimes I need to hear you say it.” I stole a furtive glance at my mom, who was now tapping the steering wheel along to a Nelly song. “Zahra,” I said sharply. “I am not hooking up with your brother.” She smiled at that, seemed suddenly delighted. “And you’re not going to, like, fall in love with him and ditch me?”

I rolled my eyes. “No. I am not going to fall in love with him and ditch you.” “You promise?” “Wow, okay, now you’re starting to piss me off.” She laughed. I laughed. And just like that, I had my best friend back.

December

2003 Ten I left the classroom with the tide, grateful today, as I was most days, that our school was home to the nearly three thousand students who gave me the cover to disappear. I felt lucky, too, that our student body included just enough Muslim kids—and a couple of girls who wore hijab—that I didn’t have to bear the weight of representation entirely on my own. Recently they’d formed a Muslim Student Union, an on-campus club through which they set up conferences and organized interfaith dialogues and patiently answered all manner of ignorant questions for the masses. The MSU president flagged me down a few times, generously inviting me to their events, and I never had the heart to say no to her. Instead, I’d do the more detestable thing, and make promises I never intended to keep. I avoided those kids not because I didn’t admire them, but because I was a husk of a person with little fight left to give, and I didn’t think they’d understand. Or maybe I was afraid they would. Maybe I wasn’t ready to talk.

In the two months since Zahra and I had parted ways, I’d been eating lunch alone. I was too tired to drum up the enthusiasm needed to strike up conversations with people who didn’t know the intimate details of my life. I chose instead to sit far from the crowds, alone with my optimistic thoughts and my optimistic newspaper. Only recently had my innumerable attractions lured a stranger to my lunch table: a foreign exchange student from Japan who smiled often and said little. Her name was Yumiko. We were perfect for each other. Dramatic tenebrism. It hit me suddenly, like a slap to the head. The answer was B. Dramatic tenebrism. A less intense chiaroscuro. Damn. I sighed as I followed the sea of students down the hall. I had one more class before lunch, and I needed to switch out my books. Miraculously, my body knew this without prompting; the autopilot feature had flickered on in my brain and was already guiding my feet down a familiar path to my locker. I pushed my way through a tangle of bodies, found the metal casket that housed my things, spun the dial on the lock. My hands moved mechanically, swapping textbooks for textbooks, my eyes seeing nothing. It took very little for Zahra to ambush me. I turned around and there she was, brown curls and almond eyes, perfectly manicured brows furrowed, arms crossed at her chest. She was angry. I took a step back, felt the sharp edge of my open locker dig into my spine. It was all in my head, I knew that even then, but it seemed to me that the world stopped in that moment, the din dimmed, the light changed, a camera lens focused. I held my breath and waited for something, hoped for something, feared so much. When Zahra first cut me out of her life, I had no idea what was happening. I didn’t understand why she’d stopped eating lunch with me, didn’t understand why she’d stopped returning my calls. She plucked me from her tree of life with such efficiency I didn’t even realize what happened until I hit the ground. After that, I let her go. I made no demands, insisted on no explanations. Once I understood that she’d ejected me without so much as a goodbye, I’d not possessed the selfhatred necessary to beg her to stick around. Instead, I grieved quietly—in the privacy of my bedroom, on the shower floor, in the middle of the night.

I’d learned from my mother to hide the pain that mattered most, to allow it an audience only behind closed doors, with only God as my witness. I had other friends, I knew other people. I was not desperate for company. Still, I had violent dreams about her. I screamed at her in my delirium, sobbed while she stood over me and stared, her face impassive. I asked her questions she’d never answer, threw punches that never landed. It felt strange to look at her now. “Hi,” I said quietly. Her eyes flashed. “I want you to stop talking to my brother.” A cold weight drove into my chest, punctured a vital organ. “What?” “I don’t know what you’re thinking or why you would even think it, but you have to stop throwing yourself at him. Stay away from him, stay away from me, and stay the hell out of my life—” “Zahra, stop,” I said sharply. “Stop.” My heart was racing so fast I felt it pounding in my head. “I’m not talking to your brother. I saw him yesterday by accident, and he drove me t—” “By accident.” “Yes.” “You saw him by accident.” “Yes, I—” “So you saw him by accident, he gave you a ride home by accident, you left your backpack in his car by accident, you were wearing his sweatshirt by accident.” I drew in a sharp breath. Something flickered in Zahra’s eyes, something akin to triumph, and my composure broke. Anger filled my head with stunning speed, black heat edging into my vision. Through nothing short of a miracle, I fought it back. “I’ve told you a hundred times,” I said, “that I didn’t know it was his. I thought that sweatshirt belonged to Mehdi. And I don’t know why you refuse to believe me.” She shook her head, disgust marring the face that was once so familiar to me. “You’re a shitty liar, Shadi.” “I’m not lying.” She wasn’t listening. “Every time I asked if something was going on between you and my brother, you’d always act so innocent and hurt, like you had no idea what I was talking about. I can’t believe you really

thought I was that stupid. I can’t believe you thought I wouldn’t figure it out.” “Figure what out? What are you talking about?” “Ali,” she said angrily. “My brother. Did you think I wouldn’t put it all together? Did you think I wouldn’t notice what you did to him? God, if you were going to mess around with my brother the least you could’ve done was not break his fucking heart.” “What?” I was panicking. I could feel myself panicking. “Is that what he told you? Did he tell you that?” “He didn’t have to tell me. It was pretty easy to put the whole thing together.” She made a gesture with her hand. “One day he comes home looking like he got shot in the chest, and the next day he stops speaking to you forever.” “No.” I was shaking my head, shaking it so hard I felt dizzy. “No, that’s not what happened. You don’t unders—” “Bullshit, Shadi.” Her eyes were bright with an anger that scared me, worried me. I took an involuntary step back, but she followed. “You lied to me for years. Not only did you hook up with my brother behind my back, but you broke his heart, and worst of all—God, Shadi, worst of all, you pretended to be so perfect and good, when that whole time you were actually just a slutty, lying piece of shit.” I felt, suddenly, like I’d gone numb. “I just wanted you to know,” she was saying. “I wanted you to know that I know the truth. Maybe no one else sees through all your bullshit— maybe everyone at the mosque thinks you’re some kind of a saint—but I know better. So stay the hell away from my family,” she said. And walked away. I stood there, staring into space until the final bell rang, until the chaotic hall became a ghost town. I was going to be late to my next class. I squeezed my eyes shut, tried to breathe. I wanted, desperately, to disappear. Zahra and I had been friends since I was eleven; I met her and Ali at the same time. Our family was new in town and my parents wanted us to make friends, so they sent me and Shayda and Mehdi to a Muslim summer camp, a camp none of us had wanted to attend. It was our shared loathing of spending summer afternoons listening to religious sermons that brought us all together. If only I’d known then that we’d usher in our end with a similar emotion.

Zahra had always hated me, just a little bit. She’d always said it like it was a joke, a charming turn of phrase, like it was normal to roll your eyes and say every other day, God, I hate you so much, to the person who was, ostensibly, your best friend. For years, her hatred was innocuous enough to ignore—she hated the way I avoided coffee, hated how I took the evil eye seriously, hated the sad music I listened to, hated the way I turned into a prim, obedient child when I spoke Farsi—but in the last year, her hatred had changed. I think, deep down, I’d always known we wouldn’t last. I’d known about Zahra’s old pain; I knew she’d been used and discarded by other girls who’d feigned interest in her friendship only to get close to her brother. I tried always to be sensitive to this, to make sure she knew that our friendship was more important to me than anything. What I hadn’t realized was how paranoid she’d become over the years, how she’d already painted upon my face a picture of her own insecurities. She was so certain that I’d ditch her for Ali that she nearly fulfilled her own prophecy just to be right, just to prove to me—and to herself—that I’d been worthless all along. Soon, she hated everything about me. She hated how much her parents liked me, hated how they were always inviting me to things. But most of all, she hated, hated, that I was always asking to come over to her house. I felt a flush of heat move across my skin at the memories, ancient mortification refusing to die. I just want to know why, okay? Why do you always want to come over? Why are you always here? Why do you always want to spend the night? Why? I’d told her the truth a thousand times, but she never believed me for longer than a week before she was suspicious again. And so it went, my screams soldiering on in their usual vein, unnoticed.

Eleven

I dropped my backpack on the damp, pebbled concrete, took a seat on the dirty curb. I stared out at the sea of glistening cars quietly settling in the parking lot of an outdoor shopping mall. So this was freedom. Yumiko and I had spent enough lunches together now that I’d begun to feel a sense of obligation toward our meetings. I always tried to tell her when I wouldn’t be around, and though I’d invited her to join me on this unexciting sojourn off campus, she gently reminded me that she was only a junior. Seniors alone were allowed to leave school for lunch, but given the time restraints—and my lack of a car—the local shopping mall was as far as I ever got, which often diminished my motivation to make the effort. Today, however, I’d needed the walk. I’d purchased a slice of pizza from a beloved local place, a place run by a guy named Giovanni. Giovanni was never able to hide his disappointment when I showed up. Giovanni always broke into a sweat when I walked in, his eyes darting around nervously as I ordered. Giovanni and I both knew his real name was Javad, and he’d never forgiven me for asking him, out loud, in front of a long line of people, whether he was Iranian. When he’d denied it, looking aghast at the insinuation, I was dumbstruck. I’d stared at the crayon drawings taped to the wall behind his head, shakily done stick figures with titles like baba and amoo. Dad. Uncle. I hadn’t known it was a secret. His Iranian accent was so thick I was astonished anyone was dumb enough to accept it as Italian. And I’d heard such great things about Giovanni’s that, when I first showed up and discovered a Persian man behind the counter, I was delighted. Proud. Javad never looked me in the eye anymore. I bit into my cold slice of pizza, retrieved the newspaper from my waistband. I cracked the paper open with one hand, took a second bite of pizza with the other. I felt a familiar dread as I scanned the headlines, and prepared for a deep dive into a brand-new existential crisis. “Hey.” A body collapsed beside me with an exhale, blocked my view of a particularly dirty minivan. “Okay if I sit here?” I stared, unblinking, at the newcomer. To say that I was confused would’ve been a disservice to the maelstrom of thoughts suddenly kicked up in my head. Noah from AP Art History

was sitting next to me, and I gaped at him like he’d opened a third eye. I’d forgotten my manners entirely. Noah’s smile faded. He picked up his plate, the paper graying with pizza grease. “I can go,” he said, moving to stand. “I didn’t mean t—” “No. Oh my God. No, of course you can stay,” I said too quickly, too loudly. “Please stay. I was just—surprised.” His smile grew back, bigger this time. “Cool.” I attempted a smile of my own before picking up my newspaper again. I shook out the crease, tried to find my spot. I didn’t mind Noah sitting next to me, not as long as he was willing to be quiet. I’d never had a chance to finish reading a piece about the terrifying similarities between the Iraq and Vietnam Wars, and I’d been waiting all day to get back to it. I took another bite of pizza. “So, um, your name is Shadi, right?” I looked up. Felt the distant world come back into focus. I saw only Noah’s eyes over the top of my paper, and I realized then that I’d never studied him closely. I folded the paper down; the rest of his face came into view. His black curls were cropped close to his head, his deep-set eyes a couple shades darker than his brown skin. He had unusually striking features—something about his cheekbones, the line of his nose. He was undeniably good-looking. I didn’t know why he was talking to me. “Yes.” I frowned. “You’re Noah?” “Yeah.” His eyes lit up. He seemed delighted by this, the revelation that I knew his name. “I just moved here. Like, last month.” “Oh. Wow.” I gestured with my pizza to the damp, depressing parking lot. “I’m sorry.” He laughed. “It’s not so bad.” I raised an eyebrow. He bit back another laugh. “Yeah, okay. It’s pretty bad.” I cracked a smile then. Picked up my paper. “So, um, you’re Muslim, right?” I was still reading when I said, “What gave it away?” He laughed for a third time. I liked that he laughed so much, so easily. The sound alone made my heart kick a little. “Yes,” I said, my face buried in the article. “I’m Muslim.”

Gently, he pushed the newspaper down, away from me, and I flinched at his closeness, sat back an inch. He was staring at me with barely suppressed mirth, like he was fighting a smile. “What?” “Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. I’m going to say something right now, and please don’t take this the wrong way or anything”—he held up his hands—“but I didn’t think you’d be so funny.” I raised both eyebrows. “Don’t take this the wrong way?” “You just seem so intense all the time,” he said, his whole body like an exclamation point. “Like, why are you always reading the newspaper? That seems unhealthy.” I frowned at him. “I’m a masochist.” He frowned back. “Doesn’t that mean you like to hurt people?” “It means I like to hurt myself.” “Weird.” “Hey, how do you know I’m always reading the newspaper?” Noah’s smile slipped. He looked suddenly nervous. “Okay—please don’t freak out—” “Jesus Christ, Noah.” “Wait—are you talking to me?” He pointed at himself. “Or are you just listing prophets?” My eyes widened. He couldn’t stop laughing, not even when he said, “Okay, okay, complete honesty: I’ve been, like, trying to figure out how to talk to you for a little while.” I sighed. Put down the paper. “Let me guess: you’re a serial killer.” “I’m not! I swear, I just—I promised to do my mom a favor, and I didn’t know exactly how to approach you.” I straightened. Noah suddenly had my full attention; I was one hundred percent freaked out. “What kind of favor?” “Nothing weird.” “Oh my God.” He spoke in a rush. “Okay, so, my mom was dropping me off at school one day and she saw you on campus and she wanted me to talk to you.” “Why?” I was suddenly wishing I’d never gone out for lunch. I was suddenly wishing I’d told Noah not to sit next to me. He sighed. “Because we’re new here, and my parents have been looking for a mosque to go to, and my mom thought you’d—”

“Wait.” I held up a hand, cut him off. “You’re Muslim?” He frowned. “Did I not mention that?” I hit him with my newspaper. “What the hell is wrong with you? You scared the crap out of me.” “I’m sorry!” He jerked out of reach. “I’m sorry. My mom just saw a girl in hijab and sent me on a mission to talk to you like it was normal, and it’s not normal. It’s super awkward.” I shot him a look. “More awkward than this?” “You’re right. I’m sorry.” But his attempt at penitence was belied by his smile. “So? Can you help me out?” I sighed. “Yes.” “Cool.” “But I swear to God,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him, “if you turn out to be an undercover FBI agent I will be so pissed.” “What?” His smile vanished. “FBI agent?” My guilt was instantaneous. Noah looked suddenly freaked out, so different from his lighthearted mien a moment ago, and I didn’t like that I’d put that look on his face. His family had just moved here; I didn’t want to scare him. “Nothing.” I forced a smile. “I was just giving you a hard time.” “Oh,” he said. “Okay.” But the wariness in his eyes said he wasn’t sure if he believed me. I tried to move past it. “So, there are a couple of different mosques around here,” I explained, “but the one my family goes to has a predominantly Persian congregation. I can give you other—” “Oh, no, that’s perfect.” Noah’s smile returned in full force. “My mom will love that. I’m half-Persian.” I went suddenly stupid. I stared at him, slack-jawed. “What?” He was laughing again. “Damn, the look on your face right now. I wish you could see yourself.” “You’re half-Persian?” “I speak a little Farsi, too.” He cleared his throat, made a big show. “Haleh shoma chetoreh?” “That’s not terrible,” I said, trying not to laugh. “So—your mom is Persian?” He nodded. “Yeah.” “That’s so cool. That makes me so happy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why happy?” “I don’t know.” I hesitated. “I guess I thought most Persian people were racist.” Noah froze, his eyes widening. Then he laughed so hard he doubled over. He laughed so hard it attracted notice, passersby pausing to stare at the source of the unbridled sound. “Hey. Stop.” I pushed at his arm to get his attention. “Why are you laughing?” He shook his head, wiped tears from his eyes. “I’m just—” He shrugged, shook his head again, his shoulders still shaking with silent laughter. “Just, damn, Shadi. Wow.” “What?” “I’m just glad you said it and not me.” He took a sharp breath, held it, let it go as he stared into the distance. “Man, my mom is going to love that. You don’t even know the shit my parents have had to deal with.” “I can only imagine.” “Well, you’d be the first to try. People never want to admit we have problems like that in our own communities.” He sighed, shook his head, jumped to his feet. “All right, we should go. We’re going to be late.” I realized then that I didn’t even know what time it was. It had been too long since I’d spent my lunch break focused on anything but the fractures in my heart, and when I got to my feet, I felt a little lighter. Noah and I tossed our plates, walked back to campus. I told him the name of our mosque. Gave him a phone number his mom could call. We were nearly back at school when I remembered— “Oh, hey, I’ll be there this weekend, actually. My sister and I volunteer on Saturday nights to help people learn how to use computers, set up email addresses, that sort of thing. If your parents want to stop by, I can introduce them to some people.” Noah raised his eyebrows. “Saturday night computer classes at the mosque. Nice.” My smiles were coming more easily now. “We have a lot of refugees in our community,” I explained. “People who fled Afghanistan, ran for their lives from the Taliban. There are a few people at our mosque whose entire families were beheaded by Saddam Hussein. Most of them came here with nothing, and they need help getting started again.” “Jesus,” he said, sobering quickly. “Yeah,” I said. “Their stories are insane.”

“Insane how?” A sharp breeze stole into my jacket then, and I struggled, for a moment, to pull the zipper closed. “I don’t know,” I said, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Like, you know what a burqa is? Those gross tent things the Taliban forces women to wear in Afghanistan?” He nodded. “Well, apparently they’re really good for hiding people. Imagine disguising your entire family—men, women, children—in those burqas, and running for your life through the mountains and deserts of Afghanistan, hoping at every turn not to be found out and executed.” “Holy shit.” We’d come to an abrupt stop at an intersection. Noah turned to look at me, his eyes wide. “You actually know people who did that? Went through that?” “Yeah,” I said, hitting the button for the crosswalk. “They go to our mosque.” “That’s . . . crazy.” Noah’s solemn tone—and his proceeding silence—made me aware, a beat too late, of the dark tension I’d just carried into the conversation. We were still waiting at the crosswalk, quietly watching the seconds tick down until the light would change. I tried to salvage the moment. “Hey,” I said, pasting a smile on my face, “you’re welcome to join us on Saturday night. We might even order pizza.” Noah laughed, raised his eyebrows at me. “That’s quite an offer.” “It’s also worth noting,” I said, “that it will be extremely boring.” “Amazing.” He shook his head slowly, his smile growing impossibly wider. “I mean, I’m going to pass? But thanks.” “Honestly, if you’d said yes I would’ve judged you.” He laughed. Noah and I had classes in different directions, so we split up when we got back to the campus parking lot. He was already several feet away when he turned back and shouted, “Hey, I’ll find you at lunch tomorrow.” He pointed at me. “I’ll even bring my own newspaper.” I was still smiling long after he disappeared from sight. I felt strangely buoyant, more like a real person than I’d felt in a long time. I tried to hold on to the feeling as I wended my way through the parked vehicles, but my luck abruptly ran out.

It was moments like this that made me believe in fate. It seemed impossible that coincidence alone could account for the thousand tiny decisions I’d made today that nudged my feet into this exact position, at precisely this hour, into the wrong person at the wrong time. Everything around me seemed suddenly to be happening in slow motion, the scene pulling apart to make room for my thoughts, my unprocessed emotions. And then, all at once, the moment hurled itself back together with a gasp. Mine. My breath left my body in a single, painful exhalation as my back slammed into metal, my head spinning. A girl was standing in front of me. My ears were still ringing from the impact, from the severe turn my body had to make in order to now be flattened against a parked vehicle. I counted four heads—three girls, one guy. The one who shoved me had long, dirty-blond hair that moved when she did, and I was staring at those limp yellow waves when she stabbed me in the collarbone with a single finger, her face contorting as she shouted. I felt my mind dissolve. My brain retreated from my body, panic shutting down my nervous system. Everything seemed to disconnect inside of my skull. I heard her words as if from a distance, as if I were someone else watching this happen to someone else. I listened as she told me to go back to where I came from, listened as she called me a filthy towelhead, stared at her as she stared at me, her eyes bright with a violence I found breathtaking. And then, suddenly, she stopped. She was done, all done, just a couple of angry sentences and that was it, the moment was over. I frowned. I’d thought, for some reason, that there’d be more, something new. I’d been stopped at least a dozen times by people who’d all spoken these exact same lines to me, and I was beginning to realize that none of them talked to each other, compared notes, jazzed things up. She jerked back, let me go. I straightened too quickly, nearly stumbled. Blood rushed back into my head, my nerves fired back to life. Sounds seemed suddenly too loud, the ground too far. My heartbeat was strange. The girl was frowning at me. She was frowning at me like she was confused, maybe disappointed. And then—so suddenly I could practically see the moment she answered

her own question—her eyes lit up. “Oh my God, you don’t even speak English, do you?” She started laughing. “Oh my God, you don’t even fucking speak English.” She laughed again and again, hysterically now, a hyena. “This fucking piece of shit doesn’t even fucking speak English,” she said to the sky, to the moon, to her friends, and they laughed and laughed and laughed. This wasn’t new, either. People always assumed I wasn’t born here. They always assumed I wasn’t American, that English wasn’t my first language. People, I knew, thought I was dumb. I didn’t care. I closed my eyes, let the pain leak from my body. I waited for them to get tired of me, waited for them to leave. I waited, quietly, because there was nothing else I could do. I’d promised my mom I’d never engage with bigots, never talk back, never make a scene. Shayda had refused to make such promises to my mother, so my mom had turned to me instead, begging me to be reasonable, to walk away, to exercise the self-restraint that Shayda refused to employ. So I’d promised. Sworn it. I took the hits to my pride for my mother, for my mother alone. She was the reason I seldom spoke these days, the reason I didn’t fight. My mother. And the police, if I’m being honest. The police and the FBI. The CIA. DHS. The Patriot Act. Guantanamo Bay. The No Fly List. When I opened my eyes again, the group was gone. I collected myself, gathered my bones. I walked to class on unsteady legs, clenched and unclenched my shaking hands. I felt my heart grow harder as I moved through the halls, felt it get heavier. One day, I worried, it would simply fall out.

Twelve

I sat in the wet grass after school, pulled my knees up to my injured chin. I was perilously close to something that felt like a flood, oceans dammed behind my eyes. I did not hope for a ride home today; I was merely tired. My father had been unable to work for nearly a month now, and my mom had taken a part-time job at Macy’s to help with the pressure on our finances, which meant that my sister’s mercy was the axis upon which my world turned—which meant my world was oft static, merciless. I lifted my head, took a deep breath, drew the scent of cold wind and wet dirt into my body. Petrichor. It was a strange word, an excellent word. You know there’s a word for that, right? Ali had said to me once. For that smell. The smell of water hitting the earth. I’d been standing in the backyard of my old house breathing in the drizzle when Ali said those words, walking toward me in the dark. Our living room had a sliding glass door that opened to the yard, and he’d left it open in his wake; I’d looked past him, past his milky, silhouetted stride to the glow of bodies in the living room, all of them laughing, talking. Remnants of conversation carried over to us in the darkness, and the effect was unexpectedly cozy. Ali’s family had come over for dinner, but I’d disappeared after dessert, wanting to escape the commotion for a moment with the evening breeze. “You left the door open,” I’d said. “All the bugs are going to get inside.” He’d smiled. “It’s called petrichor.” I shook my head, smiled back. “I know what it’s called.” “Right.” He laughed. Looked up at the sky. “Of course you do.” “Ali, the mosquitoes are going to eat everyone alive.” He glanced back. “Someone will close the door.” I’d rolled my eyes at him, started heading for the house. “They’re not going to notice until it’s—” I jumped back, suddenly, when my foot sank into a muddy patch of grass, and promptly collided into Ali, who’d been following me inside. I’d been wearing a silk dress that summer day, but when he touched me, I might’ve been wearing nothing at all. The delicate fabric did little to dull the blow of sensation; I felt his hands on me like they were pressed against my skin, like I was naked in his arms.

I’d felt it, too, when he became aware of me, of the shape of me under his hands. When we collided he’d caught me from behind; I couldn’t see his face. Instead, I’d felt his weight pressed up against my own, heard the change in his breath when we touched, when his hands froze where they’d landed. One of his palms was flat against my stomach, the other holding fast to my hip. He let go of me slowly, with excruciating care, like he’d caught a crystal bowl in midair. His fingers grazed my torso as they retreated, skated across my belly button. We’d both gone quiet, the sounds of our breathing amplified in the silence. Ali had finally drawn back but I felt the whisper of his touch at the base of my spine, felt his chest move as he inhaled, exhaled. Softly—so softly it was little more than an idea—his fingers traced the indentation at my waist, the curve of my hips. He said, “God, Shadi, you’re so beautiful sometimes I can’t even look at you,” and I’d just stood there, my heart jackhammering in my chest, my eyes closing on a sound, a desperate sound that escaped my lips, shattered the dream. I’d come back to myself with a terrifying awareness, walked back into the house without a word, without looking back. Ali and I never discussed that moment, never even alluded to it. I think maybe we both knew, even then, that it was the beginning of something— something that might tear our lives to shreds. I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory, pressed my forehead to my knees. Seeing Ali yesterday had broken the barricade in my mind meant to hold back precisely this kind of emotional stampede. I needed to pull myself together. I lifted my head, shoved my hands in my coat pockets, let the weather push me around. It wasn’t raining, not yet, but it had been storming all day, crows circling, trees rattling. I loved watching things breathe, loved watching branches sway, leaves hanging on for dear life. I didn’t mind the terrible gusts that nearly knocked back my scarf. There was something brutal about the wind, the way it slapped you in the face, left your ears ringing. It made me feel alive. The winds were currently too strong to allow a comfortable perusal of the newspaper, but there was a single cigarette abandoned in the linty lining of my right pocket, and I rolled it between my fingers, clenched and unclenched it in my fist. I nearly smiled. These cigarettes had belonged to my brother.

I confiscated them before they came for his things, stole them out of their hiding places along with his weed, his dirty magazines, a box of condoms, and a single glass pipe. I didn’t want him to do anything more to break my parents’ hearts from beyond the grave. I didn’t want him to be defined by his weaknesses any more than I wanted to be defined by mine. It seemed a terrible injustice to be exposed in death, to be found out as predictably human, as frail as everyone else. My father knew, of course. Or at least suspected. My father was a connoisseur of all things—he had, in fact, given this mantle to himself. He loved to hear himself speak aloud the truths he’d decided were holy, and he felt strongly about all manner of diverse subjects: worthy hobbies, the best attributes, a precise work ethic, the exact ratio of water to espresso in an Americano. He had many ideas about the world, ideas he’d spent his entire life honing, and which he often felt compelled to share, loudly, with the still-forming clay of his children. My dad often declared that he and my mother were decent, pious people who’d brought their children up to be better than drug addicts. Those were his words, my father’s words, the ones he’d shouted when my brother came home with bloodshot eyes, smelling vaguely of weed for the umpteenth time. My brother was a lazy liar. Mehdi, too, drove a Honda Civic. A Honda Civic SI, bright blue, eighteen-inch rims. He’d modified it himself, put in a special exhaust, illegal blue lights, an insane sound system, a garish lip kit. He was expressly forbidden from drinking the alcohol he drank, expressly forbidden from dating the girls he dated, expressly forbidden from sneaking out of the house at night, which he did, nearly all the time. It was my window he used to climb out of, mine because of the ledge, the tree, the easy drop to the ground and the distance from my parents’ bedroom. He’d always kiss me on the forehead before he left, and I’d always leave my phone under my pillow, waiting, waiting for the buzz of his late-night text message asking me to unlock the front door. My father had never been cruel, but he had always been cold. He loved rules, and he demanded respect from his children. He no doubt thought he was doing the right thing by trying to control Mehdi, but my dad had been so focused on the differences between them that he never seemed to understand that they were also the same. Unyielding.

My father tried to break him, so my brother became water. My father tried to contain him, so my brother became the sea. I heard a sudden crash. I got to my feet in time to see two cars collide, slide, spin wildly out of control. Screeching tires, the horrifying sound of metal devouring metal, glass shattering. Old panic rose up inside of me, stole my breath. I was running before I understood why, tearing across the grass in a frenzy. I fumbled for my phone and realized I didn’t know where mine was, didn’t remember what I’d done with it, didn’t know where I’d left— “Call 911!” I screamed at someone, my lungs on fire. I was sprinting, realizing too late that I was still wearing this terrible backpack, deadweight dragging me down, and yet, for some reason, it didn’t occur to me to drop it, to throw it aside. The asphalt was slick underfoot, some parts of the road flooded, and I barreled through the shallow rivers, not even feeling the icy water penetrate my skin. My heart thundered in my chest as I approached the wreckage, my emotions spiraling dangerously. I was only vaguely aware of myself, only vaguely aware that I might be overreacting, that perhaps I was the wrong person for this job, that perhaps there was an adult or a doctor around who could do better, be better, but somehow I couldn’t stop, didn’t know how. One of the cars was discernibly worse off than the other and I headed there first, yanking on the damaged driver’s side door until it opened with a miraculous groan. Inside, the driver was unconscious, her head bowed just above the steering wheel, a single line of blood trickling down her face. Please, God, I thought. Please, please. I reached around her, registering dimly that the airbags had not deployed, and tried to unbuckle her seat belt. It wouldn’t unlatch. I yanked at it desperately, tried to rip the thing out from its base, but it wouldn’t yield. I heard the distant sound of sirens. I yanked again at the seat belt, and this time, the girl stirred. She lifted her head with pronounced slowness, bleary eyes blinking open. She was maybe my age, just a kid, another kid, just a kid. “Are you okay?” The scream of my voice startled me. “Are you all right?” She frowned, looked around, realization dawning by painful degrees. I watched as her confusion gave way to understanding, understanding

quickly giving way to a fear so profound it sent renewed horror through my body. “Are you okay?” I said again, still hysterical. “Can you feel your legs? Do you know your name?” “Oh my God,” she said, and clapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh my God, oh my God, ohmygodohmygod ohmygod—” “What is it? What’s wrong? The ambulance is almost here, someone called 911, don’t—” “My parents,” she said, dropping her hands. Her face had paled. Her body had begun to tremble. “I just got my license. I’m not on the insurance yet. My parents are going to kill me, oh my God.” Something broke in me then, broke me down. I began shaking uncontrollably, my bones like dice in a closed fist. I sagged to the ground, knees digging into the wet, gritty asphalt. “Your parents,” I said, gasping the words, “will be h-happy. So happy you’re a-alive.”

Thirteen I heard shouting, deafening sirens, heavy, running footfalls. I dragged myself out of the way, staggered upright, headed for the sidewalk. I’d neither seen anything useful nor had I done anything of value; I did not need to leave behind my residue on the wreckage. Besides, I hated talking to the police. I made it to the sidewalk and stared at my feet, my heart beating erratically in my chest. I’d been fighting tears all day, all week, all year; it was exhausting. I often promised myself I’d cry them free when I got home, that I’d find a safe place to experience my anguish in full, and yet, I seldom did. It was not an exciting extracurricular activity, not the sort of thing most kids looked forward to upon arriving home from school. So I held them in. They remained here, unshed and overfilling my chest, pressing painfully against my sternum. Always threatening.

I looked up at the gray sky, watched a bird until I was thinking of birds, thought of birds until I was thinking of flight, thought of flight until I saw a plane, watched the plane until it soared away, left me behind. Changed the subject. A gale of wind tore past me and I stumbled, heard the trees shudder in the distance. The clouds were fattening, the birds were feverish. I didn’t feel at all like myself but I was at least upright, nearly walking, so I figured I should continue on in this vein, trudge home, try to make it back before the rain knocked me sideways. I’d only managed a few feet before I heard someone call my name. Shout it, scream it. I turned around, slightly stunned, and saw Ali standing not fifty feet away, planted in the middle of the sidewalk. His appearance alone was surprising enough, but what I couldn’t understand was his face. Even from here, I could tell he was livid. Fight or flight? Fight or flight? I made no decision and instead waited for him to stalk over to me, his anger appearing to grow exponentially with every footfall. He wasn’t quite ten feet away when he started yelling again, gesticulating at nothing when he said, “What the hell were you doing? What were you thinking?” I frowned. I opened my mouth to protest my confusion but he was nearly upon me now, a footstep or two away from walking straight through me, and I wondered whether he would stop. “Why would you run into the middle of a car accident?” he shouted. “You’re not a paramedic. You’re not trained for that. This isn’t some kind of—” He stopped short suddenly, his words dying in his mouth. “Jesus. I’m sorry. Don’t cry. I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair, seemed agitated to an unnecessary degree. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.” I hadn’t realized I was crying. Horrified, I turned around, walked away, wiped at my cheeks with trembling hands. “Wait—where are you going?” he said, keeping up. I was still moving, now staring at a distant stoplight. I waited for the red light to turn green, waited for my body to stop shaking before I said, as steadily as I could manage, “What are you doing here?” “What do you mean? I was picking my sister up from school.” I stopped walking. In the last year of my friendship with Zahra, Ali refused to drive his sister to school, refused to pick her up. I thought I knew why—it seemed

obvious he was trying to avoid me—and my hypotheses were occasionally validated by Zahra’s mom, who’d suddenly become my only ride to and from school. It was a lot of work for Zahra’s mom to shuttle us around everywhere, and she’d been looking forward to bullying Ali into doing some of the work for her. She’d complain about him as she took us around, making empty threats to take away his car, lamenting the fact that she could never get her son to listen or take direction. I often felt like Zahra’s mom made the drives more for me than she did her own daughter; she seemed to know, somehow, that if she didn’t show up for me, no one would. Of course, this was a baseless theory, one I found both comforting and embarrassing, but I’d been grateful to her nonetheless—most of all for never making me feel like a burden. The day I realized Zahra and I were no longer friends was the day I arrived at the after-school pickup before she did. I’d seen Zahra’s mom, waved hello. I’d just begun walking over to her car when Zahra showed up and said Oh my God, stop following me around everywhere. And for once in your life, get your own ride home. That was the day she tore off my head and filled me with a humiliation so dense I nearly sank straight into the earth. There were some things I had not yet learned how to forget. Slowly, I turned around. Ali was staring at me. Ali the liar, standing there lying to my face. “Since when,” I said to him, “do you pick up your sister from school?” He frowned. “I pick her up all the time.” Liar. He could only dare to lie like this because he had no idea that my own mom never took me anywhere anymore. Up until two months ago I’d sat beside his sister in his mother’s red minivan every single day; I still saw his mom’s car come and go in the school parking lot. I narrowed my eyes at him. It was becoming clear to me now that there was something Ali had come here to say, and I decided to give him the chance to say it before I disappeared from his life—because I intended to disappear, this time for good. I didn’t want to be accosted by Zahra anymore. I was sick of her accusations, sick of being made to feel like a terrible person—in perpetuity —for something I hadn’t even done. I took an unsteady breath. Ali had lied to me, and though I saw no point in exposing his lie, I did not also see the point in making this easy for him. Instead, I kept my eyes

on his, the deep wells of brown, the shatteringly dark lashes. Mostly I stared at his face so I wouldn’t stare at anything else; I worried he’d catch me grazing his neck with my eyes, touching his shoulders with the tilt of my head. He’d always been hard to ignore. Ali loved soccer, was religious about the sport not unlike many men— especially Iranian men—but his obsession was unique in that he actually played the sport, and kicking that ball around had honed his body into something beautiful. I knew this because I had seen him, on a single occasion, by pure accident, without his shirt on. I had walked the hallowed halls of the shrine that was his home for six years, had been attacked by the evidence of his existence since I was eleven. I didn’t even need to see him without his clothes on to know why the female contingent loved him. He was a rare specimen. And it had always driven Zahra insane. Finally, Ali broke. “What?” he said, and sighed. “Why are you looking at me like that?” “Why did you come here?” He turned away, shoved both hands through his hair. Most guys wore so much gel in their hair these days you could break the strands with a hammer. Ali did not appear to care for this trend. “I didn’t know,” he said finally. “About your dad.” I held my breath. “I wanted to apologize. For all of it. For not knowing. For forgetting about Mehdi. I just—I needed to say it.” My anger died on the spot. The feeling deserted me so quickly I felt light-headed in its absence. Limp. “Oh,” I said. “That’s okay. There’s no reason for you to know things about my life.” Ali exhaled, frustrated. “I just wish I’d known. Sometimes I ask Zahra how you’re doing, but she never tells me much.” “Hey, maybe in the future”—I hesitated—“maybe you shouldn’t talk to Zahra about me. At all. She’s not— She’s getting the wrong idea.” Ali frowned. “I don’t talk to her about you. I almost never talk to her about you. But after I left the hospital I went to pick her up from school, and she saw your backpack in my car. When she asked me about it I told her I’d given you a ride to the hospital.” “Oh.”

“And, I mean, she asked me what happened, and I explained, and then I asked her about your dad and then . . .” He trailed off. His face cleared, realization imminent. “Okay. Yeah, I might’ve asked her a lot of questions about you last night.” He looked over his shoulder suddenly. “Speaking of which, I should probably go. She’s waiting for me.” I nodded, looked at nothing. And then I swallowed my pride and said, “When you see her, will you please tell her that there’s nothing happening between us?” Ali spun back around like I’d slapped him. “What?” “Or maybe you can tell her that nothing ever happened between us? Because she thinks”—I shook my head—“I don’t know, she came up to me today, and she was really upset. She seemed to think that we, that, I don’t know—” “Are you joking?” Ali blinked, stunned, took a step back. “Please tell me you’re joking.” “What? Why?” “I can’t believe you’re still doing this. I can’t believe you’re still letting her do this to you, even now, when she’s not even—Listen, Shadi, I don’t need anyone else’s permission to live my own life. And you shouldn’t, either.” “She’s not just anyone else,” I said quietly. “She’s your sister.” “I know she’s my sister.” “Ali—” “Listen, I don’t care, okay? This isn’t about us. You told me to jump off a cliff, and I did. I jumped off a fucking cliff. I cut myself out of your life because you asked me to, because you can’t see that my sister is just jealous of you, that she’s always been jealous of you, and can’t stand the idea of you being happy.” Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. “I’m not trying to change your mind anymore,” he said. “All right? I moved on. And if I’m standing here right now asking questions it’s only because I’m worried about you, because we used to be friends.” I flinched. “I know that.” “Then stop letting my sister dictate the terms of your life. Or mine, for that matter. Make your own choices.” “Ali, she was my friend,” I said. “My best friend.”

“Your best friend. Wow. Okay.” He nodded, then laughed. “Tell me something, Shadi—what kind of best friend doesn’t want you to be happy? What kind of best friend doesn’t care if she hurts you? What kind of best friend denies you the right to make decisions for yourself?” “That isn’t fair,” I said, “it wasn’t that simple—” “We were friends, too, weren’t we? Why didn’t I get a vote?” I looked up at him then, caught the flash of pain in his eyes before it disappeared. I thought to say something, wanted to say something, and I never had the chance. Ali laughed. He laughed, dragged his hands down his face, stared up at the sky. He seemed to be laughing at something only he understood. I watched as his body went slack, as the light left his eyes. He took a steadying breath, stared into the distance as he exhaled. When Ali finally met my eyes again he looked tired. He smiled, and it broke my heart. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll tell my sister that nothing ever happened between us.” I stared at him. Heat was pushing up my throat again, pressing against my eyes, and I knew I couldn’t take much more of this. I nodded toward the long walk that awaited me. “I should get going.” “Right. Yeah.” He clapped his hands together. Took a step back. “Okay.” I’d just turned to leave when I heard him say— “Wait.” It was soft, uncertain. I turned back around, the question in my eyes. Ali moved toward me again. His face was different now, worried. “Last night,” he said, “when I asked you if you were okay—you said no.” My hesitant smile disappeared. My face became a mask. “I’m sorry I said that. I shouldn’t have said that.” “Don’t— Shadi, don’t apologize. I just wanted to know—are you okay now?” “Oh. Yeah.” I took a deep breath, forced a smile back on my face, swallowed down the heat, willed my eyes to remain dry. “Yeah. Great.” “Is your mom okay?” “Yeah, she’s great, too.” I nodded. “So much better. Thanks.”

He was about to say something else, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I cut him off in a rush, terrified the tremble would return to my lips. “I have to go, actually. I need to get home for dinner. My mom’s waiting for me.” “Oh,” he said, surprised. “That’s . . . great.” “Yeah,” I said again, eyes still dry, legs still working. “Really great.”

Fourteen When I got home, the house was dark. I closed the door behind me, the familiar whine of an ungreased hinge preceding the heavy close. I leaned back against the door, rested my head against the cheap wood. I smelled new paint, stale air, the faint aroma of Windex. We’d moved into this sterile rental not long after my brother died. It had become impossible to live in a place that housed the museum of his life, the modest bedroom from which my father would drag my mother’s prone, sobbing body every night. I saw her with my own eyes only once, just once before my father chased me out, shouting at me to go back to bed. My mother was curled on the floor of my brother’s room, banging her head against the baseboard, begging God to be merciful and kill her. Somehow, through the power of violent self-delusion, my parents thought we wouldn’t hear them fighting late at night, thought we wouldn’t have ways of seeing them in the hallway, thought we wouldn’t hear my father begging my mother to come back to bed, begging in a voice I’d never known him to possess. Come back, come back, come back, come back. She’d slapped him in the face. She’d thrown feeble, desperate punches at his chest, clawing at him until he finally let go, let her sink to the floor. I watched from a half-inch opening in my bedroom door, my heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe. In the dead of night my parents became strangers, each utterly transformed into versions of themselves I did not know.

I watched my father fall to his knees before my mother, a penitent dictator. I watched my mother reduce him to ash. On the morning my father announced we were moving, no one even lifted their heads. There were no questions, no discussions. There was no need. We left that place behind, did not drive past our old street, did not discuss the hours my mother now spent in her closet. But when I closed my eyes I still heard her voice; I still saw her desperate, inhuman face. Kill me, dear God, she’d cry. She’d slap herself in the chest, drag fingernails down her face. Mano bokosho az een donya bebar. Kill me and take me away from this world. I turned on the lights. I dropped my backpack by the door, kicked off my shoes. My chest was tightening like a vise around my lungs, my vision blurring. In my mind I saw a stethoscope, a brown smudge, a scuffed gold wedding band. Has she ever said anything to make you think she might be a danger to herself? I felt heavy and cold. I stared at an ancient, painted nail buried in the wall by the door, stood in the entryway staring at it for what felt like forever. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was hungry, I had homework, I needed to shower, I had to find my phone, I wanted to put on a sweater, and I needed to change the bandage on my knee, the wound of which had been throbbing since yesterday. I was cold and damp and shivering, my head hot, my hands unsteady. I had a thousand human needs that needed tending to and I felt paralyzed by the weight of those needs, felt impotent in the face of all that I required. I’d been starting to scare myself lately, worrying that I perhaps I wasn’t eating enough or sleeping enough. I couldn’t afford to fall apart, which meant I needed to do better, but my heart and mind were so full these days they were stretching at the seams, leaving little room for the efforts I’d once made to participate in my own life, in my own interests. Somehow, I dragged myself upstairs. I locked myself in the bathroom and tugged off my scarf, stripped off my clothes, stepped into a scalding shower. I stood under the water until my legs could no longer hold my weight, sat down on the shower floor until my head grew heavy. I pressed my forehead to the tile, the rough grout abrading my skin. I breathed deep, inhaling water. Closed my eyes. Dear God, I thought. Help me.

My tears made no sound. I didn’t know how long I spent there, my body poorly heated by a weak showerhead, didn’t know how long I’d been crying. I’d gone back in time, turned into a fetus, laid there on the shower floor like an infant unclaimed. Soundless sobs wracked my body, tore open my chest. I did not know what to do with all this pain. I did not know whether I wanted to be born. I was startled suddenly by a sharp knock at the door. Another knock—no, a heavy pounding—and I was upright so fast I nearly slipped in the tub. My mind had grown accustomed to panic and went there easily now, with little encouragement. My heart was racing, my eyes felt swollen. I scrubbed violently at my face, made a concerted effort to remain calm. When I felt ready, I turned off the water. “Yes?” “You’ve been in there for like two hours,” my sister said. “I need to use the bathroom.” I marveled at the exaggeration. Then, distracted, I wondered when she’d arrived home, what time it was, whether my mother was back from work. “You can use the other bathroom,” I said, clinging to the plastic shower curtain. “I’m almost done.” “Let me in,” she said. “I don’t want to keep shouting.” That was unusual for Shayda. Gingerly, I stepped out of the shower, grabbed a fresh towel, and unlocked the bathroom door. I’d just jumped back into the tub and pulled the shower curtain closed when I heard the door rattle and swing open. “Okay get out, right now,” my sister said sharply. “I’m about to,” I said, hastily wrapping the towel around my body. “Why? What’s going on?” “Hassan’s mom is here.” “So?” I said. And then: “Oh.” “Yes. Exactly. So get your lazy ass out of the shower and come make tea.” I frowned, about to argue, then changed my mind. I realized that, in her own weird way, Shayda was asking for my help. She wanted me around for support during a stressful situation. I was touched. I felt it in truth, like a finger of heat pressed to my chest. But when she left half a second later, slamming the door so hard I felt the shower rod shake, I was decidedly less enthused. Still, it was something.

Shayda really seemed to despise me most days. It was easy to dismiss our strained relationship with a shrug and a platitude about how she and I were just different, but I knew it was more complicated than that. We’d never been very close, but our paths had only recently split in earnest, and only because we couldn’t agree on a single matter of great importance. I blamed my father, unequivocally, for Mehdi’s death. Shayda did not. I’d been stunned by her position on the matter. I’d never before had cause to know, in detail, our many differences, hadn’t reason to ask Shayda what she considered most important in life, faith, family. I’d never known exactly how she felt about dogma, or our parents, or even how harshly she’d judged our brother’s life. But when Mehdi died, the four of us left behind were forced to tear ourselves open, to examine the innards that made us tick. Death demanded we question the privately held, stillforming philosophies that shaped our hearts. We studied one another’s weak flesh and festering minds in the harsh, unflattering light of a midday sun, and when the moon rose, we’d found ourselves alone on different quadrants of the earth. I stood as far away from my sister as my mother did from my father, and I’d spent the last year trying and failing to bridge those distances. The trouble was, I was often the only one making the effort. I tiptoed to my bedroom in a towel, combed my fingers through damp, clean hair. The bandage on my chin had come off in the shower, and I was happy to discover the wound beginning to heal. Gingerly, I touched the cut with the tips of my fingers, tapping at the pain as I slid open my closet door, studied the contents within. Unlike me, Shayda was eager to get married. She’d fought with my mom over this, insisting it was something she wanted. She’d already picked out the guy, had accepted his hand, had a five-year plan. Shayda was nineteen, in her second year at the junior college, but she was going to transfer to a local university soon, and she wanted to be engaged for the next couple of years. Her plan was to get married just after graduation. She did not want to have children, not ever. She just wanted the husband. This plan struck most non-Muslim people as either stupid or bizarre, but within many religious communities, it wasn’t uncommon. A lot of people got married relatively young, or at least got engaged young. They’d

get engaged for a couple of years, spend time together with the express purpose of marriage, then get married. There were happy and unhappy couples. Divorce was not taboo; we had plenty of that, too. Which—not for the first time—made me wonder about my own parents. A single knock on my bedroom door was my only warning before Shayda barged into my room, looking overheated. “Why aren’t you dressed?” And then, taking a long look at me: “Why are your eyes all red and puffy?” I startled, glanced in the mirror. “Oh,” I said. “Allergies?” “You don’t have allergies.” “Maybe I do.” I tried to laugh. “Is it really bad?” “Whatever, I don’t care,” she said, distracted. “Just get dressed, please. I can’t go down there without you.” “What? Why not?” “Because,” she said. She narrowed her eyes, pinwheeled her arms like I should understand. I did not. And then she shook her head, shook her head like she was talking to an idiot. “I don’t want to look too eager, okay? I’m trying to be—” She waved her hand around, searching for the right word. “Nonchalant?” “What? Why can’t you talk like a normal person?” “I do talk like a nor—” “God, I don’t care, okay?” She cut me off. “I don’t care. How do I look?” I took a deep breath and thought of my mother, my mother, my mother. And then, carefully, I processed the scene in front of me. Shayda was wearing a dress—long and frilly and glittery—with a shiny hijab to match. She looked nice, but extremely overdressed, a truth I wasn’t sure I should impart. I didn’t know how to tell her that it didn’t matter how many people accompanied her as she descended the stairs; her outfit screamed the truth. She looked too eager. “You look really nice,” I said instead. She rolled her eyes and shot me a look so scathing it scared me a little. “Forget it, I’ll go without you.” She was already at the door, turning the handle, when I said:

“What is your problem?” I could no longer keep the anger out of my voice. “I just told you that you look really nice. Why is that a bad thing?” “I said forget it, Shadi. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I was stupid to even ask you to care.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “What do you think it means?” She spun back without warning. “It means you don’t care. It means you don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself.” I stepped back like I’d been struck. “That’s not true,” I said, but I was stunned, which made me sound uncertain, which only proved her point. She laughed, but the sound was hollow, angry. “You don’t care about anything. Not about us, not about Baba. You never talk to Maman, you never ask me anything about my life.” “I didn’t know you wanted me to ask—I didn’t even know you wanted to talk to me—” Her eyes went wide. “Shadi, you’re my sister. Who else am I supposed to talk to?” I took a step forward and she drew suddenly back, her face flushing. “Don’t you dare try to hug me. Don’t you dare try to patronize me.” “I’m not trying to patronize you, I just—” “You have no idea how hard it’s been for me this last year,” she said, her eyes shining with sudden emotion. “You have no idea, Shadi.” She shook her head, looked around. “Who do you think keeps the house running these days? Who do you think makes sure we have food in the fridge? Who do you think takes out the trash, cleans the kitchen, brings in the mail, sorts the bills, makes sure Maman has gas in her car, cashes her checks, makes sure Baba’s insurance is going through?” “Shayda—” “Me, Shadi.” She stabbed a finger at her chest. “It’s me. And you don’t lift a finger to help. You don’t even pretend to give a shit. You have no idea what I’ve been going through or how much I have to do every day or even this”—she waved her hands around—“this, today, with Hassan.” She laughed, suddenly, sounded hysterical. “You don’t even know what’s happening, do you? You’ve never asked me a single question about him. You know literally nothing about my life, and you couldn’t care less.” “Of course I care. Shayda, I want to know—please, listen to me—”

“No—I’m sick of how selfish you’ve been. I’m sick and tired of it. You’re out doing God-knows-what with Ali, of all people, who treats the rest of us like shit, who hasn’t even talked to us in like a year—and you never, ever want to know how Baba is doing. You never visit him at the hospital. You don’t even care about him. You want him to die. Don’t you? Don’t you?” She was just screaming at me now, her painted lips curving around the awful sounds. I’d frozen in place, my compassion turning to dust as I imagined my mother sitting downstairs, pretending not to hear some distorted version of this in front of her guest. I was picturing her mortification, her horror. “Please,” I said quietly. “Please stop shouting.” She would not. “You want our family to fall apart. You want our parents to get a divorce. After everything we’ve been through—after everything, you just want it all to get worse. Why? What the hell is wrong with you?” “Shayda,” I said desperately. “There are people downstairs. They can hear you. Maman will hear you.” “So you’re not even going to answer my questions?” She shook her head, disgusted, and with that movement the fight left her body. She looked bereft in the aftermath. Bereft and cruel. “You’re not going to answer my questions, but you’re going to stand there and pretend to be righteous, pretend to be better than me, than all the rest of us?” “Shayda. Stop.” “You didn’t even cry at his funeral,” she said, and I heard her breath hitch. “Sometimes I think you don’t even care that he’s dead.” I was suddenly breathing so hard I thought my chest would explode. I stared at the carpet under my feet, tried desperately to keep my anger in check. This time, I failed. “Get out.” “What?” She startled. “Get out. Get out of my room. Go get married. Good luck.” “I’m not getting married,” she said, still confused. “I’m just—” I looked up, locked eyes with her. She visibly flinched. “You don’t know anything about me, Shayda. You don’t know anything at all.” I walked past her, yanked open the door. “Now leave.” She wouldn’t. So I did.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and an old hoodie, tugged a wool beanie over my wet hair. Shayda was telling me that I’d lost my mind, that I’d officially gone insane, that I couldn’t go downstairs looking like that without embarrassing her, and that I couldn’t leave without saying hello to Hassan’s mom or else disrespect their entire family, and that this—this— was only further proof that I didn’t care about anyone but myself, that I was a monster, a monster of a human being who didn’t care about anyone, didn’t care about anyone— These were the words she shouted at me as I barreled down the stairs. My mother stood erect, waiting for me as I entered the living room, the look on her face violent enough to commit a double homicide. I’d missed that look. “I’m sorry,” I said breathlessly, and forced a smile. I did my best to make quick work of the extremely polite and overly formal hellos and apologies necessary, my stilted, accented Farsi making the scene even more ridiculous. I thanked the woman I assumed was Hassan’s mom for honoring our home with her presence, for being gracious enough to overlook my appearance, and to please, please sit down and make herself comfortable. Her lips kept twitching as I talked, as she took me in, staring at me as though she were trying hard not to laugh. My mother sighed. But when I started putting on my shoes, she sharpened. “Koja dari miri?” she said. Where are you going? I knew it was only out of courtesy for her guest that she didn’t rip open my spleen right there on the living room floor, and it filled me with no small amount of joy to see her like this, something like herself. I didn’t mind at all that she would no doubt kill me later. “I forgot my phone at Zahra’s house,” I said quickly, affecting nonchalance. Insouciance. Indifference. I hated Shayda. “I need to run back and grab it.” “Alaan?” Right now? My mother peered out the window, at the increasing darkness. Zahra’s house wasn’t far from here, only about four streets down. For a few months Zahra’s proximity to our new house had been the only fringe benefit in moving. Three months ago, when I’d been sent to the nurse’s office after passing out in the middle of second period, I couldn’t get ahold of anyone. Instead, I called Zahra’s mom, who sent her husband to pick me up. He left work, bought me five different kinds of medicine I didn’t need,

and let me sleep in Zahra’s bed. I was so astonished by their kindness I wrote them a letter right there in Zahra’s bedroom, at her desk, using her paper and pen. It was a long letter, the contents of which were an exaggeration of emotion, embarrassing in their sincerity. I’d left the letter in their mailbox. Walked home. Said nothing to my own family about my day. Zahra told me, when I went back to school, that her parents had found my letter. She told me at lunch. She kept peering at me over her sandwich, looking at me like she’d never seen me properly before, like maybe I was crazy. “That was a weird letter,” she’d said, and laughed. She kept laughing. My parents thought it was sweet, but I thought it was so funny. It was a joke, right? My mom didn’t know that Zahra and I were no longer friends. I never told her what happened, because telling my mom what happened would only cause her to worry about me, which would break my vow to spare her the need to ever worry about me. I didn’t want her to worry. Not about me. Not about anyone. And yet— Even in this, I was occasionally a failure. My mother was still staring out the window, and I could tell she was about to forbid me from leaving the house. I could feel it, could see the words forming— “Zahra’s waiting for me,” I said quickly. “I’ll just run there and be back. Ten minutes!” I slammed the door shut behind me.

Fifteen The day my brother died, my mother was making ghormeh sabzi. The kitchen was warm with the heat of the stove, the air heavy with the smells of caramelized meat and fresh rice. I was sitting at the kitchen table, offering no assistance at all as she cleaned up the mess. I was in a daze,

watching her with unusual fascination as she took apart the food processor she’d used to mince a half ton of parsley. I’d seen her do this a thousand times before—had done it myself—but that day I felt numb as I sat there. Incomprehensibly paralyzed. My father was pacing, lecturing the air as my mother worked, as I sat. I’d tuned it out, most of it. I thought about Shayda, who was at the mosque; they had a youth group on Friday nights. I hadn’t gone, despite her insistence that I accompany her, and I was regretting that decision then. I watched my mother place dirty bowls in the dishwasher, watched her shoot my father an irritated look as he stalked across the living room— a look he didn’t catch. I glanced at him, at his two tufts of dark hair, at his salt-and-pepper beard. He was in a frenzy. That morning, my father had needed to move my brother’s car, because Mehdi had blocked the garage with his Civic. My dad was in a hurry, running late for work, and asked me to fetch my brother’s keys. I did, because I knew precisely where they were: in a pocket of his discarded jeans, lying on his bedroom floor. It was still early, and Mehdi, who was in college, did not have class for at least another two hours. I snuck into his room while he was sleeping, stole his car keys, crept back downstairs. Placed the keys in my father’s hand. Too often, my mind stopped there. I could seldom convince my brain to remember what happened next. I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want any of these memories, these distorted loops of sounds and images. I didn’t want to remember that it was me, me who betrayed my brother. I handed those keys to my father, my father who kissed me on the cheek and said, Merci, azizam, and promptly discovered a six-pack of beer in my brother’s back seat. My dad waited all day to lose his mind. His anger festered while he was at work, his imagination spiraling. He managed to convince himself of all kinds of things, all without my brother’s assistance, without the clarity that might be provided by a single conversation. I’d heard his theories that night, sitting at the kitchen table while my mother stirred the stew with a wooden spoon. “He’s drinking, doing drugs, maybe selling drugs—” “Mansour.” My mother spun around, horrified. “Een harfa chiyeh? We don’t know what happened,” she’d said in Farsi. “There’s still a chance the alcohol didn’t even belong to Mehdi.”

My father laughed out loud at that. His eyes were flinty, furious. My mother was angry, too, but she said she wanted to wait until Mehdi got home, wanted to give him a chance to explain himself. Calm down, she said. My dad very nearly exploded at the suggestion. Let’s talk to him first, she said. My father went purple. Talk to him? Talk to him? I don’t need to talk to him. You think I don’t know? You think I don’t know? He thinks I’m an idiot, that he can hide things from me, that I don’t know what he smells like every day, what his eyes look like? Everyone thinks I’m stupid, that I don’t know what’s going on? Talk to him? Talk to him about what? My brother hadn’t been home all day. My parents were still waiting for him to get back, waiting to ambush him. I’d let him know, of course. I’d texted him. Told him what happened. I’m so sorry, I’d written. I’m so sorry I didn’t know Baba had to go to work I didn’t know I’m so sorry I’m so, so so so sorry Mehdi, I’m so sorry It’s okay, he’d written back. It’s not your fault. I’d stared at that message a thousand times, pressed the screen to my throat on desperate nights. I could never have known how things would escalate. Could never have anticipated the proceeding argument, the explosive screaming match that met my brother’s reluctant arrival back home. It was late. I remember, when my dad threw open the front door, that the crickets would not quiet. Streetlamps were bright and blurry, streaking the sky in the distance, cold air piercing everything. I remember, when my father told him to get out, Mehdi did not hesitate. My mother screamed. My brother shoved on his shoes, his face grim with determination, and though my mother begged him to be reasonable, begged him to come back inside,

Mehdi did not hear her. He wasn’t looking at my mother. He was looking at my father, my prideful father who did not seem to understand that he and his son suffered from the same affliction, that my brother would not break. Mehdi left. My mother chased her firstborn child into the dark, chased him barefoot down the driveway. My mother, for whom propriety and privacy meant a great deal, ran through our neighborhood screaming his name. If Mehdi was the sea, my father was an immovable object, human stone standing in the living room, unwilling to be eroded. I retreated to the stairs, sat on the narrow, carpeted step with my arms wrapped around my shins, cried with my head buried in my lap. Mehdi was killed, not ten minutes later, by a drunk driver. I came back to my body with a sudden gasp of awareness, startling at the cold drip. Tentative raindrops tested out the sky, the trees, the slope of my nose, made way for the others. It wasn’t much, just a drizzle. Still I shivered, violently. I didn’t know where I’d left my phone. I had no intention of actually looking for it; I just wanted an excuse to walk, clear my head, think in peace—and I hoped that the mehmooni taking place at my house would be diverting enough to buy me some time. My feet walked a familiar pattern, a pattern my feet knew but my mind could not remember. I stared occasionally at the sky, searching for the moon. It was true, I thought. I did want my father to die. My heart sagged a little more in my chest. I realized, when I was suddenly blinded by a dot diagram of lights, that I’d walked into a local park. I’d been to this park a hundred times with Zahra, the two of us pretending to be children, sitting on swings and climbing backward up the slide. We sat in the sand and discussed school and boys and minor social dramas that held critical importance in our lives. We’d spent days here. Weekends. Untold hours of my life, gone up in flames. My friendship with Zahra had long been imperfect. She’d been cruel to me in a thousand small ways for years, had proven herself a fickle, disloyal friend many times over. I should’ve been the one to walk away, should’ve done it long ago. But she’d been one of the few solid things in my life, and I hadn’t been ready to let go. I clung with the

tips of my fingers to the fast-crumbling cliff of our friendship, and when she finally kicked me down, into the chasm, I experienced a strange, disorienting relief. Part of me missed her fiercely. A greater part of me did not. I shuddered as a gust of wind tore through the park, whipping at my body. I was naked underneath this hoodie and I suddenly regretted my haphazard choices. I wrapped my arms around myself. Held on tight. This graveyard of memories was nearly empty now, save a distant soccer field still dotted with players. The streetlights were unnecessarily aggressive, and I sat away from one, atop a bench, my legs curled under me. The bench wasn’t wet, exactly, but damp with drizzle and fog, and the cold seeped through my clothes, chilling me further. A child’s swing swayed gently in the breeze; I stared at it. I clasped and unclasped the old, loose cigarette rolling around in my pocket. I’d been trying not to think about this cigarette. I’d known it was here, tucked away in a zippered pocket; I’d known, because I left cigarettes everywhere. It was a stupid, reckless indulgence, but I couldn’t seem to help it; I liked finding them in my clothes. I carried them around like some kind of talisman, smoking them only occasionally, and at first only because I was curious. I’d since developed a dangerous taste for the poison, which worried me. But I couldn’t part with them. Mehdi had stashed two large cartons of cigarettes in his closet, a bulk quantity I can only assume he purchased through a third party. I’d tossed his dirty magazines, disposed of the weed, destroyed the glass pipe, chucked the condoms into a massive garbage bin behind a grocery store. The cigarettes, I kept. I sighed, tucked one between my lips and left it there. I found a lighter in the pocket of my jeans, weighed it in my hand. I knew I couldn’t smoke this cigarette, no matter how much I wanted to. I had to get home soon, before my mom came looking for me and unraveled a long string of lies I did not want to acknowledge. But I wasn’t ready to leave. I spun the spark wheel a few times, stared at the flame. I thought often of the stupidity of man. One, in particular. I thought often of my father’s self-righteousness, his self-assured certainty, his unequivocal conviction that his thoughts and actions were sanctioned by God. It was perhaps true that my father had never had a drop of alcohol. I knew he regularly gave charity, never missed one of his daily

prayers, fasted during Ramadan. My brother, on the other hand, had done none of those things. And yet I felt quite certain that, in the eyes of God, my brother was the better person. I didn’t mind dogma. I liked guideposts, appreciated a little structure. But I could not understand those people who disregarded the essence of faith—love, compassion, forgiveness, the necessary expansion of the soul —in favor of a set of rules, a set of rules they declared to be true divinity. This—this— I did not think Shayda and I would ever agree on this. Here was where we diverged, where our lives tore on a perforated line. She felt that my father had been right to be angry with Mehdi, that Mehdi had broken the rules, had made poor choices, had angered my father when he should’ve been repentant, and deliberately disrespected my mother, who begged him to stay. He made his own choice, she’d said. I thought it was the job of the parent to be smarter than the child, I’d said. I thought it was the job of the parent to protect their child from harm, I’d said. I thought it was the job of the parent to lead by example, I’d said. She’d screamed at me. Thrown me out of her room. We’d never talked about Mehdi again, not until tonight. I sighed, ran my thumb over the top of the lighter. Spun the starter. Spark and flame. Spark and flame. And what about me? I thought. What did it make me, if I sat around, cold and without compassion, hoping for my father to die? Did that make me any different from him? Or just worse? I sat up suddenly, startled free of my reverie by a sharp motion, a blur of movement. A body sat down heavily on the seat beside me, and I turned to stare at it. Him. Ali was holding my cigarette, which he’d snatched from my lips. “Give that back,” I said quietly. He laughed. I’d wondered, when I saw the brilliantly lit soccer field, whether Ali might not be out there tonight. He lived close by. He played soccer. I didn’t know exactly what he played—it was some kind of local, intramural team—but my thoughts ended there, did not build a bridge elsewhere. The

field was situated far from my bench, and I’d not determined there to be a high probability of our worlds colliding. So I was surprised. He took the lighter from my limp hand, his fingers grazing my palm in the process. I held my breath as he lit the cigarette I would not smoke, put it between his lips. It was all I could think as I watched him smoke it, that the cigarette touching his mouth had been touching mine not a moment ago. “This is so bad for you,” he said, exhaling with an elegance attained only with practice. “You shouldn’t smoke these things.” He offered me the cigarette without turning his head, and when I whispered, “No, thank you,” he smiled. He still wasn’t looking at me; he was staring into the darkness. I found his silence fascinating. His appearance, here, confusing. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “What are you doing here?” he said, and laughed. “I live here.” He gestured, generally, at nothing. “You know. Around here.” “Right.” I took a deep breath. “Yeah.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “So,” he said, exhaling a neat line of smoke. “You want to tell me why you’re stalking me?” “What?” I said sharply. I felt my face heat. “I’m not stalking you.” “No?” He turned a little in his seat, looked me up and down. He was almost smiling. “Then why do you look like you’re undercover?” I shook my head. Looked away. “It’s a long story.” “I’ve got time.” “It’s a stupid story,” I amended. “Even better.” “My sister is getting married.” Ali choked, started coughing violently. He tossed the cigarette to the ground, stamped it out with his foot. Kept coughing. Ali was about to die of asphyxiation, and I was suddenly very close to laughing. I also noticed, for the first time, what he was wearing: cleats and shorts, a blue soccer jersey. It was freezing out, and his arms and legs were bare and he didn’t seem at all bothered by the temperature. The streetlamps bolstered the wan moonlight, sculpting his body in the darkness. I watched him press the heels of his hands to his tearing eyes, watched as the muscles in his arms tightened, released under his skin. When he finally sat back and took a normal, steadying breath, my head felt uncomfortably hot.

“Oh my God,” he said. Another cough. “Is your sister insane?” I was fully smiling now, rare for me. “She’s not getting married this second. But she’s on her way, I guess. Picked out the guy.” “Picked out the guy? What does that even mean? And what does any of that have to do with you looking like a”—he gestured at me, my face —“getaway driver?” I laughed. I missed this version of us, the easy conversations we’d once had. Ali and I had always been so comfortable together, and remembering that now—remembering what I’d lost—made my smile feel suddenly brittle. I shook my head to clear it. “He came khastegari,” I said. “She accepted. And tonight h—” “Wait, what’s khastegari?” I frowned, turned to face him. “Since when do you not know how to speak Farsi?” Ali shrugged. “I always spoke Farsi like a child.” “Oh.” I was still frowning. “Well, it just means he proposed.” “But you said she picked him out. Like a peach at the grocery store.” “Well, yeah, I mean, lots of guys propose,” I said, squinting up at the blinking light of an airplane. “But she picked him.” “Shadi, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know any guys who propose.” I laughed again. He didn’t. “I’m serious,” he said. “This sounds fake. It sounds like you’re describing The Bachelor in reverse.” “The Bachelorette.” “Whatever.” “Yeah, I guess it’s sort of like that. Sort of.” I frowned again. Turned to face him, again. “You’ve really never heard of khastegari?” “Why on earth would I know what that means?” “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It’s a pretty common thing.” “You mean this is normal? This happens all the time? More than one guy will ask the same girl to marry him and then just stand around waiting until she chooses?” I laughed. “No.” “Thank God.” “But, I mean, sometimes.” I took a sharp breath. I was beginning to feel self-conscious. “Sometimes that happens.”

“That sounds insane.” “It’s not completely insane,” I said, no longer smiling. Ali turned in his seat without warning, one of his arms bracing the back of the bench. He was studying my face from an uncomfortably close distance when he said: “Holy shit. Are these assholes kasigaring you, too?” “It’s khastegari.” “Whatever.” “They’re not assholes.” “Oh my God.” He sat back against the bench, stared at me, slack-jawed. “Who would propose to you? You’re seventeen. How is that not illegal?” I bristled. Who would propose to you? was possibly the most offensive question I’d ever been asked, and I’d been asked a great deal of offensive questions. “First of all, I’ll be eighteen in like a month.” “Still illegal!” “Listen,” I said, irritated. “You’ve clearly been away from the mosque for too long, because you don’t seem to understand how this works. You don’t just get married. Proposing is a formality, a custom. A khastegari is basically just a request to date, to get to know each other with the specific intention of possibly, one day—maybe even years into the future—getting married. It’s considered a courtesy. Dating done properly, respectfully, with honorable intentions.” He wasn’t listening to me. “How many guys kassgaried you?” “Khastegari.” “How many?” I hesitated. “Two?” His eyes widened. “Three?” I looked away. “More than three?” “Five.” “Holy fucking hell.” He stiffened and stared at me, stared at me out of the corner of his eye like he’d never seen me before. Like I’d contracted leprosy. None of this was flattering. “You’re telling me that there are five dudes just waiting around to see if you’ll choose one of them?” I sighed.

“There are five dudes just sitting at home, staring at the wall, waiting for you to decide which one of them gets to marry you?” I rolled my eyes. “Wait.” He laughed. “Do these guys even know you smoke? Do they know you wander around abandoned playgrounds at night, stalking innocent men?” I shot him a hard look. “Okay, I think I should go.” I stood up and he stopped me, his hand curving around my forearm. I stared, surprised by the scene sketched poorly in the uneven light, surprised by the weight of such a simple touch. “Wait,” he said. He was no longer smiling. “Wait a second.” I sat back down, tugged at my beanie. “What?” I said, still irritated. “You’re not actually going to marry one of these guys, right?” I looked up at that, at the horror on his face. I was angry with him, suddenly. Angry with him for making me feel small, for shattering what little was left of my vanity. “I thought you said I shouldn’t need anyone else’s permission to live my own life.” He flinched at that. Hesitated. “This is different,” he said. “This just seems wrong.” “Why is it wrong? What if I actually like one of them? What if it’s actually something I want?” His eyebrows flew up. He seemed suddenly unmoored. “Do you?” “Do I what?” “Do you—I mean—do you actually like one of them?” I almost laughed. “Why would I tell you, even if I did? You’ve just spent this entire conversation horrified by the idea that anyone would even consider marrying me, and now you want me to dissect the inner workings of my heart for you?” His eyes widened. “Shadi, I just—I care about you. You’re like— I mean, I’d be upset if this were happening to my sister, too, you know?” He straightened. “Wait, there aren’t dudes kargarying my sister, are there?” I went still. “No.” “No one at all?” “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t talked to Zahra in a long time.” “But, like, to the best of your knowledge?” “No.”

“Huh.” He looked out into the night. “I think I’m offended.” “Yeah.” I tried to laugh. I sighed, instead. The first time someone’s mother proposed to my mother the whole thing struck me as unbelievably funny, and I shared the story with Zahra, shared it so we could analyze this strange situation and laugh about it together. The second khastegari, too. But after the third one, Zahra threw up a wall. She started making fun of me, started wondering aloud why any of these guys would ever be interested in me. And I, because I did not want to fight with Zahra, would laugh along with her, insist she was right. I’d always agree that it didn’t make sense that anyone would be interested in me. “Well, it’s because you have green eyes,” she’d said to me once. Everyone is obsessed with your eyes. It’s so dumb. It was true. People were obsessed with my eyes, and it was dumb. Still, I should’ve known then. I should’ve seen it then, that our friendship was fast approaching its expiration date. My problem was that I didn’t know friendships could have an expiration date at all. “Hey,” Ali said quietly, the sound of his voice startling me back to the present. “I didn’t mean to insult you. Honestly. That wasn’t my intention.” “Yeah,” I said, whispered the word into the darkness. I couldn’t look at him anymore. I was tired. I was growing weary of jokes made at my expense, growing weary of carrying untold weight. I felt so heavy some days that I could hardly get out of bed, and I found it increasingly difficult to take so many different hits on a daily basis. My body had worn thin, lacked refuge. I no longer knew where I might fall apart in peace. “Sometimes,” I said softly, “I wish I could just leave.” “Leave where? Your parents’ house?” “Just leave,” I said, staring up at the night sky. “Start walking and never, ever stop.” Ali was quiet for a long time. I’d begun to deeply regret my entire conversation with him when he said, softly: “Why?” I turned to face him and realized he was sitting close to me, much closer than before. I nearly jumped out of my skin. We locked eyes and he made as if to speak, his lips parting for the briefest moment before they

froze like that, a breath apart. He was just staring at me now, looking into my eyes with a startling intensity. I felt fear skitter through my blood. His voice was different—almost unrecognizable—when he said, “Were you crying?” Too fast, I turned away. “Is that what you were doing out here?” A little louder now, a little sharper. “Shadi?” I felt it then, felt the awful, burning threat, felt it building inside me again. I swallowed it down, tried to regain my composure. Ali touched my arm, gently, and I stilled at the sensation. Could not meet his eyes. “Hey,” he said. “What’s going on? What happened?” The heat would not abate. It was ravenous again, hungry and terrible, pooling in my gut, my throat, behind my eyes. I’d tried for months to keep everything inside, to say nothing, speak to no one, soldier through. For nearly a year I’d held my breath, stitched closed my lips, devoured myself until I could not manage another bite. I’d not known the limits of my own body at the onset, had not known how long it would take to digest pain, had not realized I might not be able to contain it or that it might continue to multiply. I spent every day standing at the edge of a terrifying precipice, peering into the abyss, wanting, not wanting to plummet. When his fingers grazed my cheek, I stopped breathing. “Shadi,” he whispered. “Look at me.” He took my face in his hands, pinned me in place with his eyes and I, I was so desperate to exhale this pain that I could not bring myself to break away. I was shaking, my heart trembling in my chest. Even now I was trying to push it all back, pretend it away, pull myself together, but there was something about his skin against my skin, the heat radiating from his body—that broke the last of my self-control. When I started sobbing, he froze. And then, before I could take another breath, he pulled me into his arms. I was crying so hard I couldn’t speak, could hardly drag air into my lungs. I collapsed against him, bones shuddering, and was surprised to feel his skin against my face. His jersey was a V-neck, exposing a triangle of his chest to the night, to my cheek. I pressed my face against that heat, wet eyelashes fluttering against his throat, listened to his heart pound recklessly. My hands were caught between us, the thin jersey doing little to

conceal his body from mine. He was warm and solid and strong and he was holding me in his arms like he needed me there, like he’d hold me forever if I wanted. It all felt like a strange dream. I might’ve never let go if it hadn’t been for my brain, for my stuttering brain, for my slowly dawning embarrassment. Only after, after my tears slowed, after untold minutes had elapsed, after I’d spent the heat in my heart on a single purchase did I realize I’d just fallen apart on a guy I had no right to touch, no right to burden with my tears or my pain. I tore away suddenly, gasping a hundred apologies. I wiped at my eyes, scrubbed at my face. I was suddenly mortified, afraid to look at him. Silence descended, expanded in the darkness, grew thick with tension. And when I finally dared to look up, I was surprised. Ali looked shaken. He was breathing so hard I could see it, could see his chest move up and down, up and down. He stared at me like he’d seen a ghost, witnessed a murder. He was still staring at me when he touched my elbow, traced a line down my arm, took my hand, tugged me forward. Kissed me. Heat, soft, silk. His hand was under my chin, tilting me up, breaking me open. I didn’t understand, didn’t know what to do with my hands. I had never been touched like this, had never felt anything like this, was defenseless in the face of it. He dragged his fingers down the side of my neck, my shoulder, grabbed at my waist, my sweater pulling, bunching in his fist. My heart was pounding dangerously in my chest, harder and faster than I’d ever felt it and I gasped as he moved against me, gasped as I drowned, went boneless as he broke away, kissed my throat, tasted the salt of my skin. A whisper, a whisper of my name and a hand behind my head and then a sudden, desperate explosion in my chest. He kissed me with a fire I’d never, never, I’d never, I’d gone limp, trembling everywhere, my brain failing to spark a thought. I pulled back, backed away, fell off the earth. I braced my liquid body against the bench, unable to breathe, certain I would never again be able to stand. I did not understand what had just happened, did not know how it happened. I only knew that it was probably bad. Probably very bad. Almost certainly, maybe, probably a mistake. Ali looked at me, looked at me and then looked away, stood up too quickly, pushed both hands through his hair. He looked panicked.

“Oh my God,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t—” He couldn’t catch his breath, I could see it from here, even in this halflight. He looked as shaken as I felt, and his disorder comforted me, made me feel less adrift. Less insane. I stumbled to my feet, unsteady. I had to leave. I knew that much, knew I had to go home, get there somehow, but my heart would not calm down. My head was spinning. No one had ever kissed me before. No one had ever touched me before, not like that, not like this, not like this, here, he was here again, his hands around my face again, his mouth soft and hot and tasting faintly of cigarettes. My knees nearly gave out as he held me, parted my lips with his, kissed me so deeply I cried out, made a sound I didn’t even know existed. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I felt certain I was dreaming, my mind failing me. He kissed my cheek, my chin, his teeth grazed my jaw, his arms drawing me tighter, closer. I felt every inch of him under my hands, felt him move, felt his body harden into a solid weight, a wall of lean muscle. The scent of him, his skin, hit me, confused me. I breathed him in like something essential, the resulting sensation so heady it shattered something vital inside of me, startled my consciousness back to life. This was too much. I had no idea what I was doing. I had no idea what I’d done, what I’d just undone. I needed space, needed time, needed, needed to breathe. I broke away desperately, gasping for air. My hands were shaking. Ali was breathing hard. He looked unsteady as he stood there, closed his eyes. Opened them. “Shadi,” he said. “Shadi.” I shook my head. Shook my head over and over and over again. “I’m sorry,” he was saying. “I’m—I didn’t mean—” I ran home.

Sixteen

I was a corpse lying in bed, face pointed up at the ceiling, my body frozen and unwilling to warm. I watched, as if from outside of myself, as the moon stole through the slats of my poorly designed blinds, scattering light across my popcorn ceiling, creating uncanny constellations. My father was coming home tomorrow. I discovered this upon arrival, my brain mostly soup. I got caught in a sudden, torrential rain as I ran home, the resulting effects of which were nothing short of a miracle. I was soaked through, sopping wet and pathetic, and my mother was too busy berating me for my thoughtlessness to notice the evidence of my recent tears or worse, infinitely worse: the proof of someone else’s mouth on my lips, my cheeks, my chin, my throat. Hands, hands all over my body. I was burning up under the wet, feeling feverish. I was hurried into the shower, hurried into warm clothes, forced to sit on the couch with a hot cup of tea. I sank into the unexpected comfort, savored the attentions I’d long been terrified to extract from my mother. She and my sister didn’t even seem to remember the awful scene from earlier, the two of them too distracted by good news, good news I nearly choked on, hot tea scalding my throat. My father was coming home tomorrow. I couldn’t stop staring at my mother, at the smile on her face. I’d thought she and I had a tacit understanding of the situation. I’d thought we were on the same page. But she seemed happy about the news, seemed grateful. I’d frozen as she shared it, chiseled a smile onto my face. Et tu, Brute? I thought. I’d been so certain he would die. His most recent stint in the hospital had lasted two weeks; everyone expected the worst. I’d made plans for his death, had imagined my future in the wake of his absence. It had seemed to me like a foregone conclusion that my father would die. His first heart attack had seemed to me a kind of poetic justice, the kind meted out by the Most Just, made possible by Providence. Dear God, I thought. Am I being punished for kissing a boy? I’d been listening, of course, had always been listening to the details my mother and sister provided about my father’s situation. After his first heart attack they’d done something called a coronary angiography, which helped them determine where, exactly, the blockage had occurred. After that they placed a stent in his heart, a relatively straightforward procedure that

involved inserting a piece of metal inside a blocked artery to help open the valve and increase blood flow to the heart. It seemed, at the time, like a scary procedure, but he was discharged a few days later, and after a couple of nights at home, was cleared to go back to work. Everyone thought he’d be all right. When the second heart attack hit, things got complicated. This one was worse. More aggressive. A blood clot developed where the stent had been placed, shutting everything down. There was real fear now, even in the doctors’ voices, about how such an occurrence was extremely rare, how my father might be at greater risk than they suspected. Suddenly there was talk of open-heart surgery. Suddenly he was being examined for more than a heart attack—he was being examined for heart disease. It was confusing. My father was a healthy man who didn’t smoke or drink or eat a great deal of red meat. He exercised regularly and looked pretty fit for his age. But his cholesterol levels had suddenly skyrocketed, something his doctor determined was a result of crushing external stress. Emotional stress. The doctors really wanted to avoid open-heart surgery. It was an extreme surgery, with crippling side effects and a long recovery, so they wanted first to try an alternate route. More stents, beta blockers, statins— these were the words I’d heard thrown around over and over again. The doctors performed a couple more procedures on him, but each one left him lower, more lethargic, needing longer and longer to recover. The angioplasty—the surgical procedure that precedes the placement of a stent —required cutting opening a vein in his thigh, and the last time I’d seen him he’d been lying there with a sandbag on his lap, a necessary precaution to keep the wound from reopening. They’d been monitoring him for longer than was usual, keeping him in the hospital until his levels dropped below a certain number. His cholesterol was so high they were worried he’d have another heart attack. This one, they said, might kill him. I’d not doubted it would. I’d been waiting for that call, for the moment that would redefine my life, make sense of my brother’s death, establish some kind of existential equilibrium. I’d been waiting for it, praying for it — And now he was coming home. I didn’t know how to feel.

I didn’t know that I wanted to feel anything at all. I sighed as I turned over, pressed my cold face against the cold pillow. I was curled up like a fiddlehead, my frozen feet tucked against each other. No matter how hard I tried to create friction under the heavy covers, my body would not warm. I shivered, squeezed my eyes shut, listened to the faint ticking of the clock above my desk. Listened to my racing heart. It had never stopped pounding. My heart was still beating so hard it was beginning to scare me, beginning to hurt. It thudded dangerously in my chest even now, in the dead of night, made it somehow impossible to breathe. I did not know how to describe what I was feeling, what I was thinking. I’d been trying to disregard the entire night, trying to bury it the way I buried all else that troubled me, but this—somehow this was different. I had lost my head when my heart was most exposed, easily pierced. Recovery, I realized, would be slow. I thought of God. I had broken a rule by kissing Ali, had snapped in half a piece of dogma, kicked to the ground a religious guidepost. It wasn’t the first time I’d done as much, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but I was disconcerted nonetheless. Even Mehdi, I knew, would’ve been stunned. Mehdi was three years older than Ali, and the two of them had grazed each other’s lives in the way those of their stratum did. Ali and Mehdi were that specific vintage of beautiful Muslim teenager who showed up at the mosque only occasionally, usually for major events and holidays, and often forced into attendance by their parents. They found religion equal parts compelling and ridiculous, and were generally uncertain about God. But it was precisely their lack of firm conviction that made it easier for them to assimilate—made it easier for them to belong to many groups, as opposed to one. I’d always envied that kind of freedom. It would’ve been easier, I often thought, to have been exactly that variety of half-hearted Muslim, one who could more easily walk away from faith in order to be accepted. What was it like? I wondered, to slough off this skin when convenient, to be looked upon by the world as something other than a cockroach. I feared I’d never know. I’d always carried with me a burden of conviction I could not set down. I could not deny the beliefs that shaped me any more than I could deny the color of my eyes.

It made for a lonely life. There was no refuge for my brand of loneliness. I was neither Iranian enough to be accepted by Iranians, nor American enough to be accepted by my peers. I was neither religious enough for people at the mosque, nor secular enough for the rest of the world. I lived, always, on the uncertain plane of a hyphen. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. Even now I could feel Ali’s lips against my throat, could smell him as if he’d been trapped here, against my skin. My eyes flew open. I had finally proven Zahra right. I’d finally crossed the line she’d always feared I’d cross. I’d finally ceded control, given in to myself. I had no intention of telling anyone what happened between me and Ali tonight, but I pictured Zahra’s face nonetheless, imagined her outrage. For the very first time, I could not bring myself to care.

Last Year

Part IV It had been a strange, exhausting day. I’d woken up late, rushed to school, worn the wrong sweater, fought with my best friend, fumbled my way through classes. I’d started the day wrong and spent the rest of it trying to catch up, hoping to salvage what was left of the afternoon. And up until fifteen seconds ago, I thought I’d done just that. I thought I’d survived the worst of it. But now—now I wondered whether this day might kill me after all. Can we talk? I’d been staring at his message for the last fifteen seconds. I just stood there, frozen in the middle of my room, paralyzed by indecision. Today, after months of tension, Zahra and I had finally managed to find our way back to something like normal. Things had been shaky between us for so long—her mood swings were particularly hard to navigate—but I

was beginning to hope we could fix things. Zahra had been, at times, shockingly cruel to me, but it wasn’t difficult to forgive her lapses, especially not when I understood why she was struggling. We were all struggling. It was an awful time—politically and emotionally—for everyone in America, but there was a special pain in being made to feel like we weren’t allowed join in, like we had no right to mourn alongside our fellow citizens. American Muslims had a great deal to mourn—more than most people bothered to imagine. We were gutted not only by the horrible tragedy that had befallen our country, but by the disastrous fallout affecting our religious communities, and the personal losses we suffered— friends and family dead, missing—in the wars overseas. But none of that seemed to matter; no one wanted to hear about our pain. Most days, I understood why. Some days, I wanted to scream. It was a lonely, isolating time. I didn’t want to lose Zahra; I knew too well how difficult it was to find a true friend, especially now. But Ali was my friend, too. I looked up then, looked out the window. My phone vibrated. I can come by Zahra was wrong. Her accusations were baseless. There was nothing going on between me and Ali, we had never hooked up, had never done anything inappropriate. But the truth didn’t seem to matter. It had become increasingly clear to me that the only way to keep both siblings in my life was to keep Ali at a distance—a task proving harder to accomplish than I’d ever imagined. A low-voltage charge had existed between the two of us for as long as I’d been old enough to understand it, and some time last year that charge finally sparked, caught fire. I’d been trying desperately to ignore it. Ali had not. Just for a few minutes? I wrote back. Okay Another buzz. Same spot? Guilt briefly seized my mind, paralyzed my fingers.

Twice. Twice we’d met up before. Only twice, and only in the last month, but somehow we’d already acquired a spot. Ali and I had spent a lot of time together over the years, but we’d never arranged it, never aligned our lives with the express purpose of being alone together. Not until he’d texted me that first time— Can you come outside? And I’d run out the door. “What’s going on?” I’d said, racing toward him. I was out of breath and confused, trying to read the look on his face. “Is everything okay?” “Wow.” Ali shook his head, smiled. “Okay, I didn’t realize someone had to die in order for me to have a minute alone with you.” I’d gone suddenly, unearthly still. “What?” “I just wanted to see you,” he’d said. “Is that okay?” “Oh.” I could not seem to steady my breathing. “Oh.” He’d laughed. “You just”—I frowned—“you mean you don’t have anything important you need to tell me?” He laughed again. “Not really.” “You just wanted to see me?” He smiled at the sky. “Yeah.” “But we see each other every day.” Finally, he looked me in the eye. Took a deep breath. “Shadi.” “Yeah?” He shoved his hands in his pockets, nodded toward the sidewalk. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Walk with me.” That was the first time. The second time—I had no good excuse for seeing him the second time. The second time was probably a mistake, the kind of decision born of simple, reflexive desire. I liked to tell myself that nothing happened, because nothing happened. I’d been doing homework while shaking a box of Nerds into my mouth when he texted me, so I closed my binder and tucked the box under my arm. We went on another walk that day, passing the candy between us as we went. We didn’t mean to go anywhere in particular, but ended up at the library near my house, which was where I always told my mom I was going anyway.

I quickly lost track of time. We were sitting on a bench outside the building, talking about all manner of nothing. At one point I laughed so hard at something he said I nearly choked to death on Nerds, after which I tried harder to be serious, an effort that only made me nervous—and that forced into stark relief the unnamed body of truth that sat between us. Ali didn’t mind the quiet. He stared at me, unspeaking, and I felt it, felt everything he did not say. It was there in the way he breathed, in the way he shifted beside me, in the way his gaze dropped, briefly, to my lips. My hands trembled. I dropped the box of candy and its contents went flying across the street. My heart raced as I stared at the mess, at the pink and purple pebbles settling into cracks in the concrete. My every instinct was screaming at me, screaming that something was about to happen. I’d just looked up at him when my phone rang. It was my mom. My mom, who, after angrily pointing out that the sun was nearly gone from the sky, demanded I return home. I hung up and felt not unlike a dying light, flaring bright before burning out. I couldn’t bring myself to meet Ali’s eyes. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never have said what I was really thinking, which was that I wanted to stay there, with him, forever. It was a shocking thought. Terrifying in scope, in the demands it placed upon our bodies. Somehow, he seemed to understand. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.” I took a deep breath now, looked out the window again. My chest felt tight, like my heart was pushing, pulling, trying to escape. The mere sight of his name in my phone inspired in me a paroxysm of emotion I could not ignore. But one way or another, something always forced me to walk away from him, and I knew—knew, and didn’t know how—that this, the third time, would be the last. Yes, I typed back. Same spot. I stepped out into the light of a falling sun. The weather had changed its mind again, the skies clearing, heating up in the second half of the day. It was an early evening in late September, the air warm and fragrant, the glow only just beginning to gild the streets. It was one of those rare golden hours, full of promise.

I’d been so certain of my commitment to see Ali for only a few minutes that I hadn’t even told my parents I was leaving. We lived in a safe, sleepy neighborhood—the kind of place you didn’t drive through if you didn’t live there—which meant that, for the most part, the streets were empty. Quiet. I’d disappeared into the yard, slipped through the back gate; I figured I’d be back before anyone even noticed I was gone. I glanced at the sun as I walked, felt the wind shape itself around me. On days like this I imagined myself moving with grace, my body inspired into elegance by the breeze, the flattering light. Most of the time, this sort of quiet made me calm. Today, I could hardly breathe. I felt nothing but nerves as I neared the end of the street. I was trying, desperately, to steady my pounding heart, to kill the butterflies trapped between my ribs. Ali was sitting on the curb. He stood up when he saw me, stared at me until he was blinded by a shaft of golden light. He shielded his face with his forearm, turned his body away from the sun. For a moment, he looked like he’d been caught in a flame. “Hey,” I said quietly. Ali said nothing at first, then took a sharp breath. “Hi,” he said, and exhaled. We found a patch of shade under a tree, stood in it. I looked at leaves, branches. Wondered how fast a heart could beat before it broke. Ali was staring at a stop sign when he said, “Shadi, I can’t do this anymore.” Impossibly, my heart found a way to beat faster. “But we’re not doing anything,” I said. He met my eyes. “I know.” I wanted to sit down. Lie down. My mind wasn’t entirely certain what was happening, but my body—my faint, feverish body—had no doubt. Even my skin seemed to know. Every inch of me was taut with fear, with feeling. I had the strangest desire to find a shovel, to bury myself under the weight of it all. Ali looked away then, made a sound, something like a laugh. Three times he opened his mouth to speak, and each time he came up short. Finally, he said—

“Please. Say something.” I was staring at him. I couldn’t stop staring at him. “I can’t.” “Why not?” I was horrified to hear my voice shake when I said, “Because I’m scared.” He took a step closer. “Why are you scared?” I whispered his name and it was practically a plea, a bid for mercy. He said: “I keep waiting, Shadi. I keep waiting for this feeling to go away, but it’s just getting worse. Sometimes I feel like it’s actually killing me.” He laughed. I couldn’t breathe. “Isn’t that strange?” he said. I saw the tremble in his hands before he pushed them through his hair. “I thought this sort of thing was supposed to make people happy.” Something unlocked my tongue then. Unlocked my bones. “What sort of thing?” He turned to face me, his arms dropping to his sides. “You know, I don’t even think I know exactly when I fell in love with you. It was years ago.” I thought, for a moment, that my feet might be sinking into the earth. I looked down, looked back up, heard my heart beating. I took an unconscious step backward and nearly stumbled over the base of a nearby tree, its overgrown roots. “Shadi, I love you,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve always loved you—” “Ali, please.” My eyes were filling with tears. I couldn’t stop shaking my head. “Please. Please. I can’t do this.” He was silent for so long it almost scared me. I watched him swallow. I saw him struggle to collect himself, his thoughts—and then, quietly— “You can’t do what?” “I can’t do this to her. To Zahra.” Something flickered in his eyes then. Surprise. Confusion. “You can’t do what to Zahra?” “This, this—” “What’s this, Shadi?” He closed the remaining distance between us and suddenly he was right in front of me, suddenly I couldn’t think straight. My heart seemed to be screaming, pounding fists against my chest. I wanted desperately to touch him, to tell him the truth, to admit that I fell

asleep most nights thinking about him, that I found his face in nearly all my favorite memories. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. The sun was streaking across the sky, painting his face in ethereal ribbons of color, blurring the edges of everything. I felt like we were disappearing. I couldn’t help it when I whispered, “You look like a Renoir painting right now.” He blinked. “What?” “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I—” “Shadi—” “Please,” I said, cutting him off. My voice was breaking. “Please don’t make me do this.” “I’m not making you do anything.” “You are. You’re making me choose between you and Zahra, and I can’t. You know I can’t. It’s not a fair fight.” Ali shook his head. “Why would you have to choose? This has nothing to do with my sister.” “It has everything to do with your sister,” I said desperately. “She’s my best friend. This—us—it would ruin my relationship with her. It would ruin your relationship with her.” “What? How? What would we be doing wrong?” “You don’t understand,” I said. “It’s complicated—she—” “God,” he cried, turning away. “I fucking hate my sister.” I felt the fight leave me then. Felt the emotion drain from my body. “Ali. This is the problem. This is the whole problem.” He spun back around. “For the love of God, Shadi, just tell me what you want. Do you want me? Do you want to be with me? Because if you do, that’s all that matters. We can figure out everything else.” “We can’t,” I said. “It’s not that simple.” He was shaking his head. “It is that simple. I need it to be that simple. Because I can’t do this anymore. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t see you every day and just pretend this isn’t killing me.” “You have to.” He went suddenly still. I watched it happen, watched him stiffen, then straighten, in real time. And then, two words, so raw they might’ve been ripped out of his chest:

“I can’t.” I thought I might actually lose my head then, thought I might start crying, or worse, kiss him, and instead I racked my mind for an answer, for a solution to this madness, and seized upon the first stupid thought that entered my head. I spoke recklessly, hastily, before I’d even had a chance to think it through. “Then maybe—maybe it would be better if we didn’t see each other. Maybe we just shouldn’t be in each other’s lives anymore.” Ali recoiled, stepping back as if he’d been struck. He waited for what seemed an eternity for me to speak, to take it back, but my lips had gone numb, my mind too stupid to navigate this labyrinth of emotion. I did not know what I’d just done. Finally—without a word—Ali walked away. Disappeared into the dying sunset. I realized, as I cried myself to sleep that night, that I might’ve hurt him less had I simply driven a stake through his heart.

December

2003 Seventeen I kicked off the covers, dragged myself out of bed. I couldn’t sleep, likely wouldn’t sleep with this pounding, tangled mess of a head, heart. I wrapped myself in my blanket, quietly opened my bedroom door, and padded downstairs. All the bedrooms were on the same floor, which left the living room fair game at night. Once downstairs, I switched on a light.

The scene flickered to life, the unbroken hum of electricity filling me with a vague sadness. Dining room, kitchen, living room. It all felt cold without my mother in it. I collapsed onto the couch and burrowed into my blanket, hoping to numb my mind with a reliable opiate. I turned on the television, was not rewarded. Flashing banners across the bottom of the screen read BREAKING NEWS, a scrolling marquee neatly summarizing the storms I would weather at school for the next six weeks. Right now the news anchors were discussing the possibility of other undercover Al Qaeda members living here, in America, new data suggesting that they’d slipped into the country around the same time as the 9/11 hijackers. We were currently searching for them. I turned off the television. The FBI had been cold-calling members of our congregation recently, interrogating them over the phone and terrifying them witless. So many people had been assigned an agent that, for some people, it had become kind of a running joke. I didn’t find it funny. The random interrogations were creating division, causing people to question and distrust each other. The Muslim community had never been perfect—we’d always had our weirdos and our disagreements and a spiny generation of racist, sexist elders far too attached to culture and tradition to see things clearly— But we had so much more than that, too. We fed the poor, volunteered endlessly, organized peace dialogues, took in refugees. Nearly all the kids at the mosque had been born to parents who’d fled war in another country, or else came here to find better and safer opportunities for their families. We’d built a sanctuary together, a safe house for the otherwise marginalized. I loved our mosque. Loved gathering there for prayers and holidays and holy months. But things were changing. The FBI wasn’t just interrogating people—they were also looking for recruits within the congregation. They were offering large sums of money to anyone willing to spy on their friends and family. We knew this because people shared their horror stories after prayers, stood near the exit wearing only one shoe, gesticulating wildly with the other. What we didn’t know, of course, was who had turned. We didn’t know who among us had

accepted the paycheck, and as a result, we were poised to devour ourselves alive. The thought made me hungry. I made myself a bowl of cereal, sat under dim light at the kitchen table. There was once a time when my parents kept the kitchen fully stocked, when meals were a gathering time, when food was the great smoother of troubles, delicious and plentiful. These days when I opened the fridge I found milk and wrinkled cucumbers and a carton of eggs. In the pantry we had little but canned tomato paste, a box of cereal, dried herbs, and Top Ramen—a perfect recipe for our electric stove that was only any good at boiling water. I listened to the lights hum. I took another bite of cold cereal, shivering as I tried again to remember where I’d left my phone. It had been easier than I’d expected to go so long without it; I’d little use for it without Zahra in my life. Other than her, my brother was the only one who ever contacted me. My heart leaped at that thought, tried to wrench loose my emotional control, but I forced down another spoonful of Cheerios and compelled myself to think, instead, about not choking. And perhaps about homework. I had endless amounts of homework. I had been unwilling to look too closely at my recent failures. Failure number one: I missed my multivariable calculus class last night, which meant that even perfect scores across the board would get me no more than a B. This seemed an unbelievable, riotous injustice, and though it occurred to me that I could probably explain to the teacher that my mother had been in the hospital, the slim chance that he might not believe me—or worse, ask for proof of my mother’s mental breakdown—was motivation enough for me to remain silent. Failure number two: I’d failed my AP Art History exam today. I didn’t need to wait for the results to know this truth. I’d turned in a blank exam; I was going to fail it. Still, there was a chance it might not weigh as heavily, in the end. My teacher was the kind who liked to make the final exam worth half our grade, and as we’d just entered the second week of December, my last chance was right around the corner. In fact, in a couple of weeks I’d have to survive a deluge of examinations, and I had no idea how I’d catch up. There was still so much more looming—college applications, for example. College applications.

I inhaled so suddenly I coughed, milk and half a Cheerio having gone down the wrong pipe. What was I thinking? I wasn’t going away for college. My eyes teared and I wiped at them with my sleeve, covering my mouth as I continued to cough. Was I going away for college? Could I abandon my mother here? All this time I’d been waiting for my father to die, I’d also been considering my future. Shayda was well on her way to transferring elsewhere, to getting married. With three of the five of us gone, I didn’t think I’d have the heart to leave my mother behind. But now— A shoot of hope pushed up through my rotting ribs. The one fringe benefit of my father not dying: I might be able to go away. Start over somewhere else. When the phone rang I startled so badly I spilled cereal all over myself. I stood up, felt scattered, reached for a towel. I mopped myself up as best I could, sighed over the state of my blanket, glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight, far too late for friendly calls. Fear shot through me as I lifted the receiver. “Hello?” I said. A beat. “Hello?” I tried again. “Babajoon, toh ee?” My already erratic heart rate spiked. Babajoon was a term of endearment—it literally meant Father’s dear—and hearing it without warning, hearing it in my father’s unexpectedly tender voice— I lost my composure. I took a deep breath, forced a smile on my face. “Salam, Baba,” I said. “Khoobeen shoma?” So formal. I always used formal pronouns and conjugations with my father, even to say Are you well? “Alhamdullilah. Alhamdullilah.” He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say he was fine. He said, Thank God, thank God, which could mean any number of things. “What are you doing awake so late?” he said in Farsi. “Don’t you have school tomorrow? I can’t remember what day it is.” I held steady as my heart sustained a hairline fracture. How long had he been in the hospital, drugged and dissected, that he couldn’t remember what day it was?

“Yes,” I said. “I do have school tomorrow. I just couldn’t sleep.” He laughed. The fracture deepened. “Me neither,” he said softly. Sighed. “I miss you all so much.”
 I clenched the phone desperately. “Maman said you’re coming home tomorrow. She said you’re doing better.” He went quiet. “Mamanet khabeedeh?” Is your mother asleep? “Yes,” I said, my eyes burning, threatening. “Why? What’s wrong?” “Hichi, azizam. Hichi.” Nothing, my love. Nothing. He was lying. “Baba?” I was holding the phone with two hands now. “Are you coming home tomorrow?” “I don’t know,” he said in English. “I don’t know.” “But—” “Babajoonam, could you wake your mother for me?” Back to Farsi. “Yes,” I said quickly. “Yes, of course. I’ll—” “It’s so good to hear your voice,” he said, sounding suddenly faraway. Tired. “I haven’t seen you lately. You’ve been busy? How’s Zahra?” My eyes were filling with tears, my traitorous heart tearing apart. My father was dying. My father was dying and I had not been to visit him, had not wanted to talk to him, had delighted in planning his funeral. I suddenly hated myself with a violence I could not articulate, with a passion that nearly took my breath away. “Yes,” I said shakily. “Zahra’s good. She—” “Khaylee dooset daram, Shadi joon. Midooni? Khaylee ziad. Mikhastam faghat bedooni.” I love you, Shadi dear. Did you know? Very much. I just wanted you to know. Tears spilled down my cheeks and I held the phone to my chest, gasped back a sudden sob, pressed my fist to my mouth. My father did not talk like this. He never talked like this. I’d never doubted that he loved me, but he’d never said it out loud. Never, not once in my entire life. “Shadi? Rafti?” Did you leave? I heard his voice, small and staticky, the speaker muffled against my shirt. I brought the phone back to my ear, took a breath, then another. “I love you, too, Baba.” “Geryeh nakon, azizam. Geryeh nakon.” Don’t cry, my love. Don’t cry. “Everything will be okay.”

“I’ll go get Maman,” I said, eyes welling, hands trembling. I no longer trusted myself, no longer understood my mercurial heart. “I’ll be right back.”

Eighteen At dawn, I broke down my mother’s door. I’d never gone back to sleep. I’d run up the stairs with the cordless phone, woken my mom as gently as possible, and, once I’d pressed the receiver into her hands, tiptoed back outside to wait. I stood in the shadows, held my breath. I was waiting for her to emerge, waiting for news about my father. She never came out. Instead, my mother had been crying for hours, the muted, muffled sounds no more easily ignored than a piercing scream. I felt close to vomiting as I sat in the hall outside her bedroom, sat in the dark like a dead spider, arms wrapped around legs crossed and bent at the knees. I held myself as I shivered, shivered as I waited, waited for it to stop, for her to stop crying, to go back to bed. I waited so long I heard the whine of a hinge, a soft close. I felt Shayda move down the hall, felt her warmth as she sat next to me. Our shoulders touched. She didn’t flinch. We didn’t speak. I’d knocked on my mother’s door a hundred times, rattled the handle to no response. I stood again and pounded on it now, shouted for her to open the door. Only once, weakly, did she respond. “Please, azizam,” she said. “I just want to be alone.” The sun was coming up over the horizon, splintering the world in blinding strokes of color, painting the white walls of our house with a terrible, morbid beauty. I left. I ran down the stairs, ignoring Shayda’s sharp, relentless questions. I slammed open the connecting door to the garage, rifled through my

father’s toolbox, retrieved a hammer, and charged back up the stairs, recognizing my mania only in Shayda’s horrified face. I didn’t care. I couldn’t take it anymore, not now that I knew, not now that I knew what my mother was doing, why she was hiding. I couldn’t just stand here and let it happen. Shayda looked at me like I was crazy, tried to yank the hammer out of my hand. She insisted that our mother deserved her privacy. “She’s upset,” Shayda said, more gently than I knew her capable. “She’d gotten her hopes up about Baba. She’ll be okay in the morning.” “Shayda,” I said, flexing my fingers around the hilt. “It is morning.” “This is wrong. Maman has the right to be left alone. Sometimes it’s good to cry—maybe it’ll make her feel better.” I looked her in the eye. “You don’t understand.” “Shadi, stop—” “Go back to bed,” I barked at my older sister. Her eyes widened. “Oh my God. You really have lost your mind.” I swung the hammer. Shayda screamed. I swung it again, three more times, shattered the cheap metal knob, splintered the thin wood. I kicked the door, slammed it open with my shoulder. I tossed the tool to the carpet, found my mother in her bathroom. She was sitting on the cold tile in a robe, her bare legs stretched out in front of her. She was staring at the ground like a broken doll, her neck limp, a pair of open cuticle scissors clenched in one hand. I saw the marks on her shins, the cuts that scored the skin but had not yet split. She was not bleeding. “Maman,” I breathed. When she looked up, she looked no older than me. Terrified, shamefaced. Alone. Tears had stained her cheeks, her clothes. “I couldn’t do it,” she said in Farsi, her voice breaking. “I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it.” I dropped to my knees in front of her. Took her hand. Pried the cuticle scissors from her fingers, tossed them aside. “I kept thinking of you, and your sister,” she was saying, tears falling fast down her face. “I couldn’t do it.” I lifted her up, braced her head against my chest as she shattered in my arms. Her cries were desperate, ragged, gut-wrenching sobs. She clung to me like a child, wept like a baby.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered. “You’re going to be okay.” I felt, but did not hear, a soundless movement. I turned my head carefully, slowly so my mother wouldn’t notice. Shayda was standing in the broken doorway, staring at the scene in a state of paralyzing disbelief. I felt true love for her in that moment, felt our souls solder together, knew our lives would be forever forged by a similar pain. We locked eyes. She covered her mouth with her hands, shook her head. She was gone before her tears made a sound. My mother went to work an hour later. Shayda and I went to our respective schools. For all the world we were your garden variety of incomprehensible Muslim, one-note and easily caricatured. We articulated limbs, moved our lips to make sounds, smiled at customers, said hello to teachers. The world continued to spin, taking with it, my mind. I felt true delirium as I moved, exhaustion unlike any I’d ever known. I couldn’t even fathom how I was still upright; I felt like I was hearing everything from far away, felt like my body was not my own. My mind had the processing speed of molasses, my eyes blurring constantly. I needed to find a way to focus, needed to remember how to pay attention. I had failed, once again, to complete any of the homework due today, and I felt shame as I watched other students turn in their essays and worksheets, raise their hands to answer questions in clear and focused sentences. This month was suddenly more critical than ever and I was drowning, drowning when I needed, desperately, to keep my head above water. As long as my father stayed alive, I planned on going away to college. I didn’t want to stay here, spend two years at the community college, transfer eventually. I wanted to leave as soon as possible. I wanted to leave and maybe never, ever come back. And I wanted to get into a good school. I nearly screamed at the sound of a gunshot. I sat up suddenly, hyperventilating, heart racing in my chest. I heard a roar of laughter, looked up, looked around, realized I’d fallen asleep. My seat was in the far right corner of this class, but it was in the first row, and my AP Chemistry teacher, Mr. Mathis, was standing in front of my desk now, arms crossed, shaking his head. At his feet was a massive textbook— a textbook, I realized, he’d dropped on purpose. It was a cruel joke.

I felt my face flush, heat jolting through my body. People were still laughing. I sat up in my seat, kept my eyes on my desk. I wanted to turn my skin inside out. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “You want to stay out late? That’s not my problem,” Mr. Mathis said sharply. “Get your sleep at home. Not in my class.” “Of course. I’m sorry.” He shot me a dark look. Carried on with his lecture. I spent the rest of the period staring at the textbook at my feet, feeling as though all the blood had drained from my body, pooled onto the floor. My father was not coming home today. He was not dying just yet, but he was also not coming home today, and that was all I really understood at the moment. My mom hadn’t talked much, hadn’t explained more than was absolutely necessary, and flatly refused my suggestion that she go to a support group for grieving parents. She’d audibly gasped when I proposed she see a therapist. She’d looked so outraged I actually panicked; I thought for a moment she might never speak to me again. But then she ate the eggs I made her for breakfast. Something had changed between us that morning, and I still didn’t know what it was, had not yet figured out how to define it. But I could tell, just by looking into her eyes, that my mother had unclenched an iota. She seemed relieved—relieved, perhaps, to no longer be living with such a crushing secret. “I’ll be okay,” she kept saying. “I’ll be fine.” I did not believe her. I spent my lunch period sleeping at a table in the library, head bowed over my folded arms. I felt like I’d only just closed my eyes when someone shook my shoulder, rattled my skeleton back to life. I awoke suddenly, my nerves fraying in an instant. When I looked up, I saw a blur of color. Eyes. Mouth. “Noah.” “Hey,” he said, but he was frowning. “Are you okay? The bell just rang.” “Oh.” I tried to stand, but the action proved harder to accomplish than I’d expected. “What—what are you doing here?” “We were supposed to have lunch together, remember?” He suddenly smiled. “I brought a newspaper and everything. But your friend Yumiko told me you’d bailed on her for the library.”

I frowned. Dimly, I remembered running into her, telling her I’d be in the library for lunch. That conversation felt like it’d happened a lifetime ago. “You brought a newspaper?” Noah smiled wider. “Yeah.” I laughed, collected my things in a daze, moved through the room with a pronounced slowness. I wanted to say, That’s so nice, but it seemed like too much work. “Hey—what’s wrong? Are you sick?” I heard his voice, heard it like it was coming from the stars. I shook my head, the single motion disorienting me. I tried to say I’m just tired, but I wasn’t sure it went through. My feet moved even more stupidly than my mind and I suddenly tripped over my own shoes, caught myself against a research table, the sharp edge slamming into my gut. I gasped as I steadied myself, caught my breath. I looked up, stared at the exit, wondered why the end always seemed so far away. Someone touched me. I turned my head as if through panes of glass, sounds shattering against my face. Noah. Noah was here, his hand on my arm, his head bent toward my face, he said, “Shadi,” he said, “are you okay?” and I heard his voice like I pictured sound—slow and loud, reverberating. I saw color, flashes of it. Are you? he said. Okay? Are you Do you need to see do you need the the nursedoyou okay maybe see the go, go home home? I felt it, when I fell. I heard someone shout, I felt something soft—warm arms, a gentle landing—a gasp, rough carpet under my face, my eyes closing. I heard sound, so much sound, loud and round, shuddering. I tried to pry open my eyes. They refused. My lips, on the other hand, acquiesced. “Please.” My mouth moved against commercial carpeting, my nose filled with dust. I felt everything move, felt my body spin. Someone was talking to me. Hands on my back. “Please,” I whispered. “Don’t let them call my mother. She’s not— She — Please,” I said, felt myself drifting. I didn’t know whether I was dreaming.

Don’t let them call my mother, I tried to say. Tried to scream it. Please —

Nineteen Zahra had redecorated. I stared first at her ceiling, the smooth white skin blemished by neither light fixture nor popcorn, no cobwebs to be seen. I turned my head a single micrometer in this grave of pillows and saw her new desk atop which sat her new computer, a stack of makeup and books, a small mirror. I saw a new lamp—still lit—standing in a corner. I saw the same laundry basket, the same six hooks on the wall from which hung a dozen purses. A single tennis shoe was pushing free of her closet door, the handle of which was hung with an ornament of the evil eye. I’d made a huge mistake. I tried, but could not move my arms, not yet. I felt thick with weight, forgotten under setting concrete. I tore open my mouth, wet my lips, remembered I had teeth. I did not know how long I’d been sleeping, but a single glance out Zahra’s darkened window was enough to awaken my fear. I sat straight up and regretted it, felt my head fissure with pain. I pushed myself to my feet, felt a familiar scrape against my ribs. I reached under my shirt to retrieve today’s newspaper from my waistband and promptly tossed the paper in Zahra’s trash. The sight inspired in me a flicker of memory. Noah. I vaguely remembered sitting in the nurse’s office. I vaguely remembered that Noah came with me, that he half carried me there. He’d brought a newspaper. The thought almost made me smile. It was a strange silver lining in all this chaos to think that I’d somehow managed to make a new friend, that the rest of the school year might be a little less lonely. But then I remembered the sound of my own voice begging, begging them

even as I sat in a hard, wooden chair with my eyes closed, to spare my mother the phone call. I’d not thought this through. Please don’t call my mother was all I’d had, my sole functioning brain cell screaming out a single directive. I’d not thought about who they might call instead. My father was in the hospital. Shayda was not listed as one of my emergency contacts. But I still remember the form Zahra’s dad had to fill out the day he came to get me, just three months ago. Zahra’s parents were in my file. I stood stock-still in my ex–best friend’s bedroom and stared at myself in her mirror, the mirror above her dresser, the one she’d had for as long as I’d known her. I took in my strange, ghostly appearance, the blush-colored silk scarf tied loosely at my throat, half-fallen off my head. My dark hair was coming loose, my normally pale skin now pink with heat, with the flush of fresh sleep. My eyes were the bright, strange green of a person on drugs. I looked slow, soft, newly cooked. It was how I felt, too. Zahra must’ve known I was here. Zahra—who’d accused me of being a calculating opportunist, who’d warned me to stay the hell away from her family—had to have known that I’d been asleep in her beautiful, soft bed, and she had to have hated it, hated me for it, for forcing her to play nice at what was no doubt her parents’ behest. The thought made me suddenly sick. I didn’t know whether it was even possible to escape the mortification of such a scene. I thought it might inhale me. I glanced at the clock on the wall and was comforted, for a moment, by the knowledge that Zahra was in class at the community college right now. It was Wednesday night, the night I, too, was supposed to be in class at the community college. This was the third time I’d missed my multivariable calculus class, which meant that even with perfect scores, my best possible grade had now dropped to a C. The realization struck me like a blow. I’d never gotten a C in anything before. Worse, that C was contingent upon flawless work in all other areas. But I’d already missed three days; I’d already missed homework, would struggle to catch up for exams. I’d more than likely end up with a D, which was considered failing. I’d have to retake the class. I didn’t even know if they’d let me retake the class.

I stared at a single thing as my heart raced: a plush pink teddy bear perched in an armchair beside Zahra’s bed. I stared at its big glass eyes, at the tiny red heart stitched onto its white belly. I did not own any stuffed animals. My father had gotten rid of mine when I was twelve; he’d taken my childhood things to Goodwill while I was at school. When I’d cried, he’d told me it was time to grow up. Zahra would have all that I only ever dreamed of: the necessary love and stability to survive this life with grace, and the parental support required to be the dutiful, promising student I’d tried and failed to be. I took a ragged breath. Clasped my shaking hands. I had another hour before Zahra’s class ended, and I thought I might escape before then, find somewhere to kill time until I could walk home at my normal hour, pretend everything was as it should be. I stepped into the adjoining bathroom, apologizing to Zahra’s ghost as I borrowed her toothpaste, finger-brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth. I splashed cold water on my face, but my cheeks would not cool. I looked overheated to the extreme, my lips brighter, redder than usual, everything hot to the touch. I shivered, suddenly. I readjusted my scarf, tried to contain my slippery straight hair, but I’d lost a couple of the bobby pins that held my longer bangs in place, and dark strands kept coming loose. I stared, longingly, at some of Zahra’s hair clips, and tried to decide whether it would be truly reprehensible to take them without her permission. I picked them up. Weighed them in my hands. We had such a long, storied history that I didn’t think she’d begrudge me something so small. But then I remembered, with a sinking sensation, that she’d been unwilling to offer me even a ride in the pouring rain. We’d both been headed to the same destination—her, in a warm, dry car; me, caught in a deluge without an umbrella. I dropped the pins back on her counter. When I turned around, I collided with a wall of heat. I knew, I knew, I’d known he might be here but I’d not allowed myself to think about it, could not bring myself to process the possibility of so much humiliation. This was not how I wanted to see Ali again. Not like this, not trapped inside his sister’s bedroom after a delirious collapse, not saved by his parents because I had no one of my own to call. I knew how I

presented, could see how his family must see me, with pity, with pity and charity, an aching sadness in their eyes that tore me in half. This was not what I wanted. My heart pounded dangerously as I looked up at him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. It broke the rules of basic propriety for him to have entered his sister’s bedroom while I slept. I was a guest in his home, a guest who’d not given him permission to enter, and we both knew it. I didn’t need to say it. I could tell by the frightened look on his face that he knew he’d taken a risk, one that might end in disaster. “Hey,” he said. He took a deep breath, gave it back. He had the darkest eyes. Thick, inky lashes. There was a depth in his gaze, a collapsed star that beckoned, tempted me to peer inside, lose myself, and if not there—here, in the elegant lines of his face, in the sharpness of his jaw, in his smooth, dusky skin. There was so much to appreciate, so much for the eyes to enjoy. But I, I could not stop staring at his mouth. “Hi,” I whispered. “Hi,” he said. “You really shouldn’t be here.” “I know. I’m sorry. I just—” He cut himself off. Did not continue. I nodded for no reason. I stared at my socked feet, wondered who’d removed my shoes. “I called you,” he said quietly. “Last night.” He laughed, then. Sighed. Turned away. “I lost my phone.” He looked up. “Oh.” When I said nothing he exhaled, pushed a hand through his hair. It was a nervous habit, something he did a lot. I’d watched him do it for years, and I watched him do it now. I’d often wondered what it would feel like to touch him like that. His hair looked so soft. “Shadi,” he said. “What’s going on?” I dragged my eyes back to his face. “What do you mean?” He froze at that, froze with something like anger. “What do you mean, what do I mean? You collapsed at school.” “Right. Yeah. Yes,” I said. My heart was suddenly pounding again. “Shadi.” I met his eyes. I saw the effort he was making to breathe, could see his chest moving, even out of focus. He was struggling to contain his

frustration. “What happened? The school told my parents you’d begged them not to call your own mom. Is that true?” “Yes,” I whispered. “Why?” I shook my head, looked away, bit my lip too hard. I was desperate to confess, to say nothing. I didn’t know what to do; I only knew what my parents would want me to do, which was to protect their secrets, to protect their pain from public viewing. So I said nothing. I stared at his chest and said nothing. “You’ve been asleep here for the last four hours,” he said quietly. “And no one knows what’s going on.” “I’m sorry. I’m going to leave. I was going to leave before y—” “Stop,” he said angrily. “Stop. Just stop, okay? I’ve been trying to let this go, I’ve been trying not to push you to explain yourself, but I can’t take it anymore. I can’t. You have to tell me what’s happening, Shadi, because you’re starting to scare the shit out of me. Every single time I see you lately you’re crying or injured or completely out of your mind and I ca —” “I’ve never been out of my mind.” His eyebrows flew up. “You ran into the middle of a car accident! Tried to pull someone out of a damaged vehicle!” “Oh.” I’d forgotten about that. “Yeah. Did you forget?” He smiled, but his eyes were angry. “Did you also forget when you nearly broke your skull? Is that why you never mentioned it again? You got that phone call about your mom and I drove you to the hospital and I didn’t even ask you to explain—but I did think that, maybe, considering the fact that I had to get four stitches in my arm after catching your head on the pavement—” “You had to get stitches? I didn’t—” “Yes, I had to get stitches, and I lied for you, lied to my parents and told them I’d ripped my arm open playing soccer because I didn’t think you wanted people to know what was happening, but I thought you might at least tell me why your mom was in the hospital or why you fainted, but you never did, and still I let it go, told myself it was none of my business. And then, the next day, after you’re done pretending to be a paramedic—” “Ali—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry about your arm—”

“—you tell me everything is great, that your mom is waiting for you at home, and I knew you were lying—I knew it, I could just tell, it was written all over your face—but I told myself to let it go, told myself not to pry—” “Ali. Please.” “And then,” he said, breathing hard, dragging both hands down his face. “And then, God, and then—last night. Fucking last night, Shadi.” “Ali—” “Stop saying my name like that. Don’t—” “Ali—” “You’re killing me,” he said, his voice breaking. “What is happening? What are you doing to me? I used to have a life, I swear, three days ago I had a good life, Shadi, I’d moved on, I’d finally moved on after you tore my heart out of my fucking chest and now, now I’m— I don’t know what I am.” “I’m sorry.” “Stop,” he said desperately. “Stop saying you’re sorry. Stop standing there looking at me like that. I can’t take it, okay? I can’t—” “Ali, just let me say something— I just want t—” The words died in my throat. He’d walked away without warning, sat down heavily on Zahra’s bed. “Please,” he said, gesturing at me. “By all means, say something. For the love of God, say something.” I stared at him then, lost my nerve. Words jammed in my chest, inside my mouth. My excuses vanished, the day’s events momentarily forgotten. I studied the tension in his shoulders; caught the tremble in his fingers before he curled them into fists. I looked into his dark eyes and thought only one thing. “I’m sorry.” “Jesus.” He dropped his head in his hands. “Why do you keep apologizing?” “Because,” I said. “Because I never did.” Ali’s head lifted slowly, his spine straightened slowly. He unfurled before my eyes, turning toward me not unlike a bloom in search of the sun. “I never wanted to hurt you,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.” He went deathly still. He stared at me now with a strange terror, stared at me like I might be about to kill him. “What are you talking about?”

“Us,” I said. “You.” I shook my head, felt close to tears. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I need you to know I thought I was doing the right thing. But I was sorry the moment I said it. I’ve been sorry every day since.” Ali got to his feet. He became larger than life then, tall and stunning and real and he walked right up to me, was now standing right in front of me and I stepped back, felt my shoulders nudge open Zahra’s bathroom door. Ali was breathing hard. “What does that mean?” I looked up at him, felt my world collapse. We were now standing in Zahra’s bathroom—we were standing in Zahra’s bathroom—and there wasn’t enough space between our bodies to lift a finger. My head was filling with steam, my thoughts evaporating. “Ali, I don’t— You’re too close. I can’t talk to you when you’re this close to me. I can’t even breathe when y—” I gasped when he leaned in, pressed his forehead to mine. His hands were at my waist now, reeling me in, and I sank against his body with a sound, a kind of surrender. He said nothing for what seemed like an eternity. I listened to our hearts race, felt my skin heat. I felt desperate for something I could not articulate, for a need I could not fathom. We were standing this close and still light-years from where I wanted to be. Ali closed his eyes. My hands were on his chest. They’d landed there and I’d left them there and I loved the feel of him, his heat, this racing heartbeat under my hands that proved he was real, that this moment was real. Slowly, I dragged my hands down his chest, down the hard lines of his torso. I heard his sharp intake of breath, felt a tremor move through him, through me. We both went suddenly still. I was staring at his throat, the soft line of his neck, the hint of his collarbone. I watched him swallow. His hands tightened around my waist. I looked up. He said nothing but my name before he kissed me. It was heat, a blistering sun, a pleasure so potent it felt closer to pain. I didn’t know how but my back was suddenly against a wall, my bones trembling under the weight of him, his body pressed so hard against mine I thought it might leave an impression. He touched me desperately, dragged his hands up my body, braced my face as he broke me open. His lips were

so soft against mine, against my cheeks, the tender skin beneath my jaw. I tried to hold on—pushing myself up on tiptoe, twining my arms around his neck—but he froze, suddenly, when my body moved against his, our jagged edges catching, tectonic plates striking. He stilled and seemed to stop breathing, our bodies fusing together. Tentatively, I pushed my fingers through his hair. He thawed by degrees, his eyes closing, his breathing ragged as I drew my hands away from his head, trailed my fingers down his neck, pressed closer. Gently, I kissed the column of his throat, tasting salt and heat over and over until he made a sound, something desperate, something that shot pleasure through my body even as he tore away, took a step back. He dropped his face into trembling hands, let them fall to his sides. He looked into my eyes with a depth of emotion that nearly split me in half. I felt like I might sink into the ground. Two sharp knocks at Zahra’s door and I straightened, we both stiffened. The real world came hurtling back into focus with stunning, sobering speed and I didn’t even think, I just ran past him, closed the bathroom door behind me, locked him inside. I had to lean against the wall to catch my breath, steady my head. My heart was pounding dangerously in my chest and I closed my eyes, gave myself two more seconds to pull myself together before I headed for the door, glancing in the mirror as I went. I froze. Horror, horror at the state of my face, my appearance in general. I was flushed beyond reason, my eyes dilated with pleasure. Desire. I was losing control. Losing my head. I was certain now that I was probably going straight to hell for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was my virulent desire for my father’s death, and now this—this— I spun around, took it all in. Zahra’s bedroom. I’d kissed Ali in her own bedroom. Any ancient sense of honor I’d once had compelled me now to recoil with shame. I was not proud of myself. I hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. This, here, today, just now—I’d crossed a line, turned my back on the ghost of my best friend. Even after all this time, after all her cruelty, I felt punctured by sorrow. I’d wanted so much more for us. But then—even as I felt the cold lash of guilt cool my feverish skin, I grew tired. Tired of this feeling, tired of owing Zahra a tithe of my

happiness. My guilt was tempered by a realization, an awareness that nothing I’d ever done had been enough for her. I knew that for certain now. So many times I felt like I’d been strapped to the tracks of our friendship, Zahra the train that repeatedly ran me over, only to later complain that my body had broken her axles. I was tired of it. I’d been ashamed of myself for a number of things lately, but Zahra’s unfair judgments were no longer among them. I would never again let her hold my feelings hostage. I would never again let her dictate the terms of my life. Another sharp knock at the door and I startled. Steadied. It was time, I realized, to close the book of our friendship.

Twenty I nearly gasped when I saw her face. I looked into her eyes—Zahra’s mom’s eyes—and my heart steadied on its own, my fears disappeared, my face blossomed into a familiar smile. I’d missed her, missed her face. A sudden, cold pain pierced through me. Fereshteh khanoom, I called her. Khanoom meant lady; it was an affectionate term, respectful. But her name, Fereshteh, meant angel. “Bidari, khoshgelam?” She smiled. Are you awake, my beauty? She opened her arms to me and I stepped into her hug, held on. She smelled the same, the way she always did, like rose water. I pulled back, feeling suddenly young. “Chetori?” she said. How are you? “Khoob khabeedi?” Did you sleep well? “Thank you, yes,” I said quietly. “Thank you for everything.” She beamed. “Asslan harfesham nazan,” she said, dismissing my statement with a flutter of her fingers.

She was still wearing her hijab, and seemed to realize it as she spoke. In a single motion she slipped it off her head, explained with a laugh that she’d gotten home from work not long ago, had forgotten to take it off. She’d gotten home late, I realized. She’d probably stayed later than usual at the office, no doubt to make up for the time she’d lost in the middle of the day. My smile felt suddenly weak. “Bea bereem paeen,” she said, not missing a beat. “Ghaza hazereh.” Let’s go downstairs. Food is ready. “Oh, no,” I said, panicked. “I can’t— I should get home.” She laughed at me. Laughed and took me by the arm and literally dragged me down the stairs. My heart was pounding, my fear spiking. “Please, Fereshteh khanoom. Lotf dareen, shoma.” You are very kind. In Farsi, I said, “But I swear to God I’m not just trying to be polite. You’ve embarrassed me with your kindness.” I was laying it on thick with some old-school, effusive statements, but I did it on purpose. Iranian parents always seemed delighted when I talked like that, when I made the effort to be formal and polite. They found my incompetent Farsi oddly charming, especially with my American accent. And just then, I did not disappoint. Fereshteh khanoom lit up like a Christmas tree, her eyes glittering as we stepped off the stairs and into the dining room. She turned to face me, pinched my cheek. “Vay, cheghad dokhtareh nazi hasteetoh.” My, what a sweet, darling girl you are. Never mind, it had backfired. “Dariush,” she said, calling for her husband. “Bodo biyah. Shadi bidareh.” Come quickly. Shadi is awake. Agha—Mister—Dariush, as I called him, hurried into the living room, smiling and saying hello with a level of fanfare and enthusiasm that left me painfully embarrassed. I felt flush with joy and horror, unsure what to do with myself. Their kindness was too much, an overcorrection, but I actually believed them when they said they’d missed me. I felt it like a dart to the heart. “Thank you. Thank you. But I should go,” I tried again. “Please, really, I’m so grateful, thank you—I’m so sorry for troubling you—but I really, truly—” “Khob, ghaza bokhoreem?” Zahra’s dad cut me off with a wink and a smile, clapped his hands together. So, should we eat?

My heart sank. He frowned, looked around. “Fereshteh,” he said, “Ali kojast?” Where’s Ali? Fereshteh khanoom was standing in the kitchen, pulling plates out of a cupboard. She didn’t even look up when she started shouting his name. “Ali,” she bellowed. Then, in Farsi: “The food is getting cold!” “Fereshteh khanoom,” I said, trying, one last time, to exit stage left without insulting them. It was the height of cruelty to refuse them the chance to feed me—practically a sin—and I knew it. They knew it. And they weren’t letting me off the hook. “Please,” I said. “You’ve already done so much. I’m so grateful. Mozahemetoon nemikham besham.” I don’t want to be a burden. “Boro beshin, azizam,” she said, shoving a plate in my hands. Go sit down, my love. “I already called your mother. I told her you’d be having dinner here tonight.” A violent fear briefly paralyzed me. She’d called my mother. Of course she’d called my mother. My smile slipped and Fereshteh khanoom caught it, point oh five seconds of weakness and she caught it, her eyes narrowing at my face. “I didn’t tell her what happened,” she said quietly, still speaking in Farsi. “But before the end of this night, you are going to tell me. Do you understand?” My chest was heaving. I felt suddenly faint. “Shadi. Look at me.” I met her eyes. She must’ve seen something in my face then, because the hard edge to her expression melted away. She set the stack of plates on the table. Took my hands in hers. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “It’s going to be okay.” Heat, heat, rising up my chest, pushing against my throat, singeing my eyes. I said nothing. Fereshteh khanoom was still holding my hands when she suddenly turned her head toward the stairs. “Ali,” she shouted. “For the love of your mother, come downstairs! Your food has frozen solid.” So, too, had my limbs.

Twenty-One When Zahra arrived, I was surprised. Confused. She froze in the doorway when she saw me, her eyes giving away her shock, then disappointment. I saw her glance at the clock in the living room. Glance at her mother. “Bea beshin, Zahra,” her mother said evenly. Come sit down. That was when I understood. Zahra had known I was here. She’d known and she’d left on purpose to avoid me, had estimated my hour of departure incorrectly. What I didn’t understand was why she wasn’t in class, where the both of us were supposed to be—and as my mind worked desperately to solve this riddle, I struck gold. A memory. The recollection was faint, but certain: a faded syllabus, a blur of due dates. There was some kind of school-wide event today, something teachers were required to attend. Classes had long ago been canceled. The professor had mentioned it on the first day—he’d told us to highlight the date, make note of it in our calendars. I couldn’t believe it. The serrated edge of hope was pressing against my sternum, threatening, threatening. I felt, suddenly, like I couldn’t breathe. This had been my single stroke of good luck in months. I wasn’t going to fail my class. Tears pricked at my eyes just as Zahra mumbled hello, kicked off her shoes. Fereshteh khanoom shot me a look as I blinked away the emotion, and it didn’t even bother me that she misunderstood. I’d shed many tears over Zahra; there was no falsehood in that. I tried not to watch her as she dumped her backpack next to mine on the living room couch, but I still saw her out of the corner of my eye. She said something about using the bathroom and promptly disappeared, never once glancing in my direction. I stared at my plate, heat creeping up my face. I wasn’t welcome here. I’d known I wasn’t welcome here. I wanted to tell Zahra as much, that I knew it and that I didn’t mean to be here, that

none of this had been intentional. It was a horrible series of accidents, I wanted to say to her. One mistake after another. I would’ve left, I wanted to leave, they wouldn’t let me, I wanted to scream. I’d been sitting at this dinner table for forty minutes, answering a barrage of questions against my will, and I couldn’t take much more. It would’ve been hard enough explaining my mother’s panic attack, the many ambulances, my father’s heart attacks—his surgeries, near misses with death, an unfulfilled promise to come home—with only Zahra’s parents to judge and analyze. That Ali had been sitting at the table the whole time, refusing to look away from me as I spoke, was more than I could handle. I couldn’t tear open my heart in front of Zahra, too. Worse: they weren’t done interrogating me. I hadn’t wanted to tell them about all the hours—the year—my mother had spent crying. I couldn’t tell them she’d been self-harming. I didn’t tell them what the doctor said, didn’t tell them that I broke down her door this morning. I didn’t want to give away her secrets; I knew she’d never forgive me. But I had to share part of it, haltingly, with difficulty, in order to explain why I’d passed out at school today—and why I’d begged the nurse not to call my mother. Still, they’d found my answers insufficient. But why? they wanted to know. Why? Why? “Yes—but why?” agha Dariush had asked. “She’d had a difficult night —bad news from your father, her reaction was understandable, especially after everything—but why wouldn’t you call her? She’d want to know, azizam. She wouldn’t want you to hide these things from her.” I shook my head, said nothing. Fereshteh khanoom cleared her throat. “Okay. Basseh,” she’d said. Enough. “Chai bokhoreem?” Should we have tea? We’d not yet answered her question when Zahra arrived home. We sat quietly at the table now, all of us staring at our plates while Zahra disappeared down the hall. We listened to the distant sounds of running water as she washed her hands, stalled for time. I knew she’d have to come out at some point, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here when she did. I hadn’t been prepared to face Zahra, not like this, not in front of her whole family. I stood up suddenly. “Please accept my apologies. I’m so grateful. You’ve been so kind. But I should go.”

“You didn’t even touch your food,” Fereshteh khanoom cried. “You have to stay—you’re wasting away. Smaller and smaller every time I see you.” She turned to her husband. “Isn’t it true? I don’t like it.” “It’s true,” agha Dariush said, smiling at his wife. He turned to me. “You should eat more, Shadi joon. Just a little bit more, okay azizam? Beshin.” Sit. I stared at my full plate. I had no appetite. “Please,” I said, my voice practically a whisper. “Forgive me. I’m so sorry for intruding and for interrupting your day. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me—” “There’s no need.” Agha Dariush cut me off with a tender smile. “We still have your letter, azizam. You don’t need to thank us anymore.” “What letter?” were the first words Ali had spoken since he’d arrived downstairs. I wanted, suddenly, to die. That stupid letter. I was out of my mind when I wrote it. I’d been delirious with insomnia for days, trapped under a vicious grief, the waking nightmare that was my life. My brother was dead. My parents were killing each other. Every night my father would fall to his knees begging, begging like a child before a strange, hysterical version of my mother. She’d cry when she slapped him. She’d slap him and scream at him and he’d say nothing, do nothing, not even when she collapsed, dragging her fingernails down her own face. I didn’t sleep for four days. I’d lie awake in bed imagining my mother curled on the floor of my brother’s bedroom begging God to kill her and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t close my eyes. When I finally collapsed at school I’d been so grateful for the reprieve, so grateful for the few hours of peace and comfort Zahra’s parents provided that it nearly broke me. I didn’t know why I’d decided to immortalize those feelings in a letter, the ghost of which kept haunting me. I didn’t want anyone else to see it. I thought I would actually selfimmolate if Ali read that letter. Fereshteh khanoom made a sound—a sharp eh—something like irritation. It was a sound I’d heard a hundred other Iranian parents make when they were frustrated. “Why’d you say anything about her letter?” she snapped at her husband in Farsi. “Now you’ve embarrassed her.” “I really should go,” I managed to choke out. “Please. I should get home.”

Fereshteh khanoom shook her head at her husband. “Didi chikar kardi?” Do you see what you did? “Hey,” Ali said, looking at his parents. “What letter?” “Oh, this was months ago,” his mom said. “How the hell is that an answer?” “Don’t say hell to your mother,” agha Dariush said sharply, pointing his fork at his son. Fereshteh khanoom smacked Ali on the arm. “Beetarbiat.” No manners. He rolled his eyes. “Can someone please just tell me what this letter is?” “I have to go,” I said desperately. “Please. I’ve infringed upon your kindness enough.” “Mashallah, she’s so articulate, nah?” Agha Dariush beamed at his wife. “‘Infringed’ khaylee loghateh khoobiyeh.” “Infringed” is such a good word. “Jesus Christ,” Ali muttered. His mother hit him again. Agha Dariush looked up at me then, put me out of my misery. “Of course you can go, azizam. You must want to get home to your mother.” “Yes, thank you.” “Ali,” he said to his son. “Pasho.” Get up. To me, he said: “Ali will drive you home.” Ali pushed back his chair too quickly, wood screeching against wood so hard he nearly knocked over his seat. I watched as Fereshteh khanoom stared at him in surprise, studied his face with a sudden, dawning comprehension that drove the fear of God into my heart. “No,” I said quickly. “That’s okay. I can walk home.” “It’s freezing outside,” Ali said, half shouting the words. I looked at him, felt my heart quicken. Turned away. “I like the cold,” I said to his father. “But thank you for the offer.” “You don’t even have a coat,” Ali said. “Why do you never have a coat?” “Yanni chi, never?” Agha Dariush was looking at his son like he’d lost his mind. “If she wants to walk home, let her walk home.” “Shadi, why won’t you let me drive you home?” I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe Ali was doing nothing to conceal his frustration. I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t pretend, for five more

seconds, in front of his family. It was as if he didn’t know—or perhaps didn’t care—that his mother was watching, seeing everything. “I only live four streets away,” I said, inching backward. “You live half a mile from here.” “I don’t—” I swallowed, grew flustered. Zahra had reappeared at the dinner table, and she did not look happy. “I’ll just, I’m sorry, I—” “Wait,” he said, “at least let me give you a jacket—” “I’m sorry,” I said, staring at the carpet. “Forgive me. Thank you for dinner. It was delicious. I’m sorry.” I nearly ran to the door.

Twenty-Two Dear Fereshteh khanoom and agha Dariush, Thank you for picking me up from school today. I didn’t think anyone would come for me. You were so kind. You bought me medicine and let me sleep in your house, and agha Dariush made me a sandwich and I think it was the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten. I think Zahra is the luckiest person in the whole world to have you for parents, and I hope she knows how wonderful you are, that you are special parents, that not all parents are like you, and that she is very, very blessed to have you. I don’t know what would’ve happened to me today if you hadn’t come for me, and I’m so grateful. It had been a very hard day but you made it so much better, and I will always remember today, I will always remember how you treated me, and how you didn’t get upset with me for not using the medicine you bought. I hope it wasn’t very expensive. I will always be grateful to you and I pray that God blesses you and your family for your kindness, and for your generous hearts, and I hope I will know you forever. Thank you again for everything. Thank you for being kind to me, and thank you to Fereshteh khanoom for letting me borrow some of

Zahra’s clothes, I will wash them and return them as soon as possible. God bless you, Shadi I walked home hunched over, huddled into myself. I’d left my jacket in my locker and had never returned to school to grab it, and I was sorry to admit that Ali was right. It was freezing. I shoved my hands in my pockets, looked up at the dark sky, prayed it wouldn’t rain. My fingers closed, suddenly, around a piece of paper. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, tugged it free. It was a poor rectangle, folded hastily. I pried it open, smoothed it out. It was a form. Something from the nurse’s office—the kind of thing students were asked to fill out upon arrival—but this one was blank. There was no information, not even my own name, just a scribble across the bottom with a phone number and a brief message: Call me when you wake up, okay? I’d like to make sure you’re not dead. (This is Noah.) I surprised myself when I smiled. I was shivering in the cold without a jacket, terrified about the future, but I was smiling. It felt strange. I didn’t know what to do about anything these days—not about my mom, who wouldn’t accept professional help, not about my classes or my looming college applications, and not about my father, who may or may not have been dying. I didn’t know what to do about Ali. I didn’t know what was waiting for us or what the future might hold, whether it would hold us at all. Still, I felt a burgeoning hope when I thought of him, felt it push through the pain. I felt, for the first time, like one of the raging fires in my life had snuffed out. I’d apologized. Not long ago I thought I’d have to live my entire life plagued by the drumbeat of a single regret. Not long ago I thought Ali would never speak to me again. Not long ago I thought I’d lost forever something I knew now to be precious. Rare. I looked up then, searched the sky.

When I found the moon I found God, when I saw the stars I saw God, when I let myself be inhaled by the vast, expanding universe, I understood God the way Seneca once did—God is everything one sees and everything one does not see. I did not often believe in men, but I always believed in more. The God I knew had no gender, no form. Islam did not accept the personification of God, did not believe in containing God. The common use of he as a pronoun was an error of translation. There was only they, the collective we, the idea of infinity. I’d always seen religion as a rope, a tool to help us grow nearer to our own hearts, to our place in this universe. I did not understand those who would malign, without forgiveness or empathy, others who did not conform to a series of static rules—rules that were never meant to inspire competition, but to build us up, make us better. Such moral superiority was antithetical to the essence of divinity, to the point of faith. It was made clear, time and time again, that it was not our place to exercise harsh, human judgment over those whose hearts we did not know. It was made unequivocally clear in the Qur’an that there should be no compulsion in religion. And yet. We were all of us lost. When I pushed open the front door, I realized two things simultaneously: First, that I’d left my backpack—my stupid, cumbersome, ridiculous backpack—at Zahra’s house, which meant that if I wanted to have any chance of ever catching up on my homework, I’d have to go back and get it, the mere idea of which sent a chill through my heart. And second— Second, I realized my father was home. My first clue were his shoes, sitting neatly by the door, the familiar pair of brown leather loafers I hadn’t seen in weeks. My second clue was the smell of olive oil, chopped onions, sautéed beef, and the soft, sweet smell of fresh, sleeping rice. I heard the sound of my sister’s voice, a peal of laughter. Quietly, I shut the door behind me, and the scene came suddenly into view. My mother was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of food made with ingredients that, just hours ago, had not existed in our cupboards. My father was sitting in a chair at the dining table, looking bone-weary but

happy, his face older than I remembered it, his hair grayer. Shayda was sitting in a chair next to him, holding one of his hands in both of hers. She looked close to tears but lovely, her dark hair framing her face, her wide brown eyes rich with emotion. I seldom understood my sister, and did not understand her then, either. I didn’t know how she could love a complicated man without it complicating her love. I didn’t know how her mind sorted and prioritized emotion; I didn’t know how she’d landed here —looking incandescent—after all we’d been through. I realized then that it was none of my business. I had no right to drag Shayda down with me. Had no right to steal the joy from her body. It was not my fault that I could not bend my heart to behave as hers did, and it was not her fault that she couldn’t do the same for me. I supposed we really were just different, in the end. My father was the first to notice me. He stood up too fast, gripped the table for support. Shayda cried out a warning, worried, and my father didn’t seem to notice. His face changed as he took me in, studied my eyes. His eyes. He looked away, looked back, seemed to understand that I hated him, loved him. Hated him. I didn’t even realize I was crying until he came forward on slow, unsteady legs, didn’t realize I was sobbing until he pulled me into his arms. I cried harder when he became real, his arms real, his shape real, his body real. I cried like the child I was, like the child I wanted to be. I’d missed him, missed my horrible father, missed the way it felt to be held like this, to press my face against his chest, to inhale his familiar scent. He smelled like flowers, like rain, like leather. He smelled like exhaust fumes and coffee and paper. He was a horrible person, a wonderful person. He was cold and stupid and funny. I hated him. I hated him as he held me, hated him as I cried. The man who’d once felt to me like a solid block of concrete felt suddenly like blown glass, papier-mâché. I felt his arms shaking. Felt the cold, papery skin of his hands against my face as he pulled back, looked at me. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I looked away, looked down, looked over his shoulder. My mother and sister were watching us closely, the two of them standing side by side in the kitchen. I stared at my mother, her hands clenching a towel, tears streaming down her face.

“Shadi,” my father said quietly. I looked up. He smiled, his skin wrinkling, his eyes shining. He pulled me close again, wrapped me against his insubstantial figure. I could feel his ribs under my hands. Could count them. He spoke to me then, spoke in Farsi, pressed his cheek against my head. “God alone,” he said, his voice shaking, “God alone knows the depth of my regrets.”

Twenty-Three I ran through the night on shaking legs, tore through gusts of wind, propelled myself through the freezing cold by sheer force of will. I wanted to run forever, wanted to fling myself into orbit, wanted to drive my body into the ground. My skin was crawling with unspent emotion, the sensations spiraling up my back, skittering through my head. I wanted to scream. I’d run out the door based on a pretense, the pretense that I’d left my backpack at Zahra’s house and needed to get it back, a pretense that held weight only as a result of Zahra’s mom having called my mom to inform her that I’d had dinner there that night. It has all my homework in it, I’d said. I’ll just be gone for a little while. A different version of me had used a similar excuse a thousand times to buy myself more time away from these walls, from the suffocating sorrow they contained. I was always inventing reasons to spend longer at Zahra’s house so I wouldn’t have to be trapped in the amber of my own home and my parents knew this, had always seen through me. They probably knew I was up to no good even now, but perhaps they’d also seen something in my face, understood how I might be feeling, that I needed to leave. Run for my life. Reluctantly, suspiciously, my parents let me go. I ran.

I ran through the night on burning legs, with burning lungs, dragged air into my chest with difficulty. My limbs were trembling, my body shutting down. I pushed harder. I let the wind sear my skin, let it whip the tears from my eyes. I let the cold numb my nose, my chin, the tips of my fingers, and I ran, ran through darkness, chest heaving, breaths ragged. I collapsed when I got to the park, my knees sinking into wet grass. I rested for only a moment, body bowed halfway to prostration before I pushed myself up again, dragged myself across an open field. When I saw the shimmering lights in the distance, I realized I knew what I wanted to do. I also knew then that Shayda had been right. I’d probably lost my mind. The gate was locked so I jumped the fence, landed poorly. Pain shot up my leg and I welcomed it, ignored it. As I stood, I stalled. I caught my breath, stared. There was no one here. There was never anyone here. I’d walked past this pool a thousand times on similar evenings, wondering always at the effort expended to maintain such a place for the mere mice and ghosts who haunted it. The light was ethereal here, bright and glowing, the glittery depths swaying a little in the wind. I had no plan. I had no exit strategy. I had no way of knowing how I’d get home or in what state. I only knew I felt my chest heaving, my bones heavy with ice and heat. I was sweating and freezing, fully clothed, desperate for something I could not explain. I kicked off my shoes. Tore off my jacket. Dove into the water. I sank. Closed my eyes and sank. Screamed. Silk wrapped around my head and I screamed, tore the sorrow from my lungs, water filling my mouth. I screamed and nearly choked in the effort, thought it might kill me. The water absorbed me instead, swallowed my pain, kept my secrets. Let me drown. I kicked up suddenly, struggled as my clothes grew heavy. I broke the surface with a gasp, drank in the cool night air, swallowed untold amounts of chlorinated water. The pool was unexpectedly warm, welcoming, like a bath. I took a deep, steadying breath. Another.

Sank back down. I listened to the whir of silence, to the thick, distant thuds of water. I let myself fall, let my weight drag me down. It was somehow a comfort not to breathe. I sat at the bottom of the pool and the water compressed me, held me with its heft. Slowly, my heartbeat began to steady. The home I’d run from tonight had been warm, hopeful— unrecognizable from what it had become in the last year. Until tonight I’d never even considered we might be happy again; I’d never dreamed we might use the broken pieces of our old life to build something new. I’d thought, for so long, that this pain I clenched every day in my fist would be my sole possession, all I ever carried for the rest of my life. I’d forgotten I had two hands. I felt a key click into the clockwork of my heart then, felt a terrifying turning in my chest that promised to keep me going, to buy me more time in this searing life. I felt it, felt my body restart with a climbing, aching fear. I feared that something was changing, that maybe I was changing, that my entire life was shedding a skin it had outgrown at last, at last. It scared me. I didn’t know how to handle the shape of hope. I didn’t know how such a thing might fit in my body. I was so afraid, so afraid of being disappointed. I felt him before I saw him, arms around my body, a blur of movement, shuddering motion. The world came back to me in an explosion of sound, heaving breaths and cool air, the shaking of branches, whispering leaves. I was gasping, clinging to the slick edge of the pool, my thin clothes painted to my body, my scarf suctioned to my head. I dragged myself out of the water, collapsed sideways. I was breathing hard, staring up at the sky. I could feel my heart pounding, my pulse racing. “Sometimes, I swear, I really think you’re trying to kill me.” I pulled myself up at the sound of his voice, bent my sopping knees to my chest. Ali was sitting at the edge of the pool, his legs still in the water, his body drenched. I watched him as he stared into the glowing depths, his hands planted on either side of him. Rivulets of water snaked down his face. He was beginning to shiver. “What are you doing here?”

He turned to look at me. “Are you?” he asked. “Are you trying to kill me?” “No,” I whispered. “I went to your house,” he said. “You forgot your backpack in my living room. But when I got there your mom told me you’d gone to get it yourself, she said that maybe I’d missed you on the way over.” I sighed, stared into the water. “How’d you know I was here?” “I didn’t. I searched the park. I saw your shoes through the fence.” He nodded at the bars around the community swimming pool. “So I jumped it. God, Shadi, I didn’t know what you were doing.” He dropped his face in his hands. Pushed wet hair out of his eyes. “You scared the shit out of me.” “What did you think I was doing?” “I don’t know,” he said, exhaling suddenly. “I don’t know.” I knew. I picked up my sopping self, dripped over to him, sat down beside him. I noticed then that his fists were clenched. His body was shaking. “Come on,” I said softly, tugging at his arm. “You’re freezing. You have to go home. You have to get dry.” “Shadi.” I hesitated at the sound of his voice. He sounded raw, close to pain. He turned, I turned, I searched his eyes. I saw something in his face that scared me, sent my heart racing. I touched his cheek almost without meaning to, traced the curve of his cheekbone. He sighed, the sound scattered. “What are we doing?” he whispered. I felt something snap inside of me, felt something sever. I stared at him with a trembling hope. My soggy mind didn’t know what it was doing. My own name pressed against my tongue. Shadi meant joy, and all I ever did was cry. Ali touched my chin, grazed my lips with his fingers. “Do you know what my mom said to me when you left?” I shook my head. “She was like, Ali, you idiot, that girl will never be interested in you. You don’t even know how to talk to girls like that. She’s way too good for you.” I almost laughed. I felt closer to crying. “Seriously,” he said, and I felt him smile, felt his words touch my skin as he spoke. “My own mother.”

That heat, that inexpressible heat pushed up my throat again, the feeling so familiar now I almost didn’t notice it. His smile faded in the proceeding silence. He took a deep, bracing breath. He was trembling with cold, with fear. “You know what I want?” he said, pressing his forehead to mine. “What I want more than anything?” “No.” His hands were around my waist now, the two of us holding each other upright. “I want you to be happy.” My eyes stung; I blinked. “Ali—” “I still love you,” he whispered. “I still love you and I don’t know how to stop.” I was becoming familiar with this feeling, these wings beating in my chest, this desperate acceleration of emotion. I couldn’t breathe around it, couldn’t see around it, couldn’t have imagined my heart could fissure and fuse, fissure and fuse on into infinity. “Don’t,” I said softly. “I never did.”

About the Author

Photo by Ransom Riggs

TAHEREH MAFI is the National Book Award–nominated and New York Times bestselling author of many books for children and young adults. She lives in Southern California with her family. Find her online at www.taherehmafi.com. Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

Books by Tahereh Mafi

Furthermore Whichwood Shatter Me Unravel Me Ignite Me Destroy Me Fracture Me Shatter Me Complete Collection Restore Me Defy Me Imagine Me Shadow Me Reveal Me A Very Large Expanse of Sea An Emotion of Great Delight

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Copyright AN EMOTION OF GREAT DELIGHT. Copyright © 2021 by Tahereh Mafi. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. www.epicreads.com Cover illustration © 2021 by Rik Lee Cover design © 2021 by Rodrigo Corral Design Library of Congress Control Number: 2020949382 Digital Edition JUNE 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-297243-9 Print ISBN: 978-0-06-297241-5 21 22 23 24 25 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 FIRST EDITION

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Contents Cover Title Page 1. One 2. Two 3. Three 4. Four 5. Five 6. Six 7. Seven 8. Eight 9. Nine 10. Ten 11. Eleven 12. Twelve 13. Thirteen 14. Fourteen 15. Fifteen 16. Sixteen 17. Seventeen 18. Eighteen 19. Nineteen 20. Twenty 21. Twenty-One 22. Twenty-Two 23. Twenty-Three 24. Twenty-Four 25. Twenty-Five 26. Twenty-Six 27. Twenty-Seven 28. Twenty-Eight 29. Twenty-Nine 30. Thirty 31. Thirty-One

32. Thirty-Two 33. Thirty-Three 34. Thirty-Four 35. Thirty-Five 36. Thirty-Six 37. Thirty-Seven 38. Thirty-Eight About the Author Books by Tahereh Mafi Back Ads Copyright About the Publisher

1 One We always seemed to be moving, always for the better, always to make our lives better, whatever. I couldn’t keep up with the emotional whiplash. I’d attended so many elementary schools and middle schools I couldn’t keep their names straight anymore but this, this switching high schools all the time thing was really starting to make me want to die. This was my third high school in less than two years and my life seemed suddenly to comprise such a jumble of bullshit every day that sometimes I could hardly move my lips. I worried that if I spoke or screamed my anger would grip both sides of my open mouth and rip me in half. So I said nothing. It was the end of August, all volatile heat and the occasional breeze. I was surrounded by starched backpacks and stiff denim and kids who smelled like fresh plastic. They seemed happy. I sighed and slammed my locker shut. For me, today was just another first day of school in another new city, so I did what I always did when I showed up at a new school: I didn’t look at people. People were always looking at me, and when I looked back they

often took it as an invitation to speak to me, and when they spoke to me they nearly always said something offensive or stupid or both and I’d decided a long time ago that it was easier to pretend they just didn’t exist. I’d managed to survive the first three classes of the day without major incident, but I was still struggling to navigate the school itself. My next class seemed to be on the other side of campus, and I was trying to figure out where I was—cross-checking room numbers against my new class schedule—when the final bell rang. In the time it took my stunned self to glance up at the clock, the masses of students around me had disappeared. I was suddenly alone in a long, empty hallway, my printed schedule now crumpled in one fist. I squeezed my eyes shut and swore under my breath. When I finally found my next class I was seven minutes late. I pushed open the door, the hinges slightly squeaking, and students turned around in their seats. The teacher stopped talking, his mouth still caught around a sound, his face frozen between expressions. He blinked at me. I averted my eyes, even as I felt the room contract around me. I slid into the nearest empty seat and said nothing. I took a notebook out of my bag. Grabbed a pen. I was hardly breathing, waiting for the moment to pass, waiting for people to turn away, waiting for my teacher to start talking again when he suddenly cleared his throat and said— “Anyway, as I was saying: our syllabus includes quite a bit of required reading, and those of you who are new here”—he hesitated, glanced at the roster in his hands—“might be unaccustomed to our school’s intense and, ah, highly demanding curriculum.” He stopped. Hesitated again. Squinted at the paper in his hands. And then, as if out of nowhere, he said, “Now—forgive me if I’m saying this incorrectly—but is it—Sharon?” He looked up, looked me directly in the eye. I said, “It’s Shirin.” Students turned to look at me again. “Ah.” My teacher, Mr. Webber, didn’t try to pronounce my name again. “Welcome.” I didn’t answer him. “So.” He smiled. “You understand that this is an honors English class.” I hesitated. I wasn’t sure what he was expecting me to say to such an obvious statement. Finally, I said, “Yes?”

He nodded, then laughed, and said, “Sweetheart, I think you might be in the wrong class.” I wanted to tell him not to call me sweetheart. I wanted to tell him not to talk to me, ever, as a general rule. Instead, I said, “I’m in the right class,” and held up my crumpled schedule. Mr. Webber shook his head, even as he kept smiling. “Don’t worry— this isn’t your fault. It happens sometimes with new students. But the ESL office is actually just down the—” “I’m in the right class, okay?” I said the words more forcefully than I’d intended. “I’m in the right class.” This shit was always happening to me. It didn’t matter how unaccented my English was. It didn’t matter that I told people, over and over again, that I was born here, in America, that English was my first language, that my cousins in Iran made fun of me for speaking mediocre Farsi with an American accent—it didn’t matter. Everyone assumed I was fresh off the boat from a foreign land. Mr. Webber’s smile faltered. “Oh,” he said. “Okay.” The kids around me started laughing and I felt my face getting hot. I looked down and opened my blank notebook to a random page, hoping the action would inspire an end to the conversation. Instead, Mr. Webber held up his hands and said, “Listen—me, personally? I want you to stay, okay? But this is a really advanced class, and even though I’m sure your English is really good, it’s still—” “My English,” I said, “isn’t really good. My English is fucking perfect.” I spent the rest of the hour in the principal’s office. I was given a stern talking-to about the kind of behavior expected of students at this school and warned that, if I was going to be deliberately hostile and uncooperative, maybe this wasn’t the school for me. And then I was given detention for using vulgar language in class. The lunch bell rang while the principal was yelling at me, so when he finally let me go I grabbed my things and bolted. I wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere; I was only looking forward to being away from people. I had two more classes to get through after lunch but I wasn’t sure my head could take it; I’d already surpassed my threshold for stupidity for the day. I was balancing my lunch tray on my lap in a bathroom stall, my head in a viselike grip between my hands, when my phone buzzed. It was my

brother. what are you doing? eating lunch bullshit. where are you hiding? in the bathroom what? why? what else am i supposed to do for 37 minutes? stare at people? And then he told me to get the hell out of the bathroom and come have lunch with him, apparently the school had already sent out a welcome wagon full of brand-new friends in celebration of his pretty face, and I should join him instead of hiding. no thanks, I typed. And then I threw my lunch in the trash and hid in the library until the bell rang. My brother is two years older than me; we’d almost always been in the same school at the same time. But he didn’t hate moving like I did; he didn’t always suffer when we got to a new city. There were two big differences between me and my brother: first, that he was extremely handsome, and second, that he didn’t walk around wearing a metaphorical neon sign nailed to his forehead flashing CAUTION, TERRORIST APPROACHING. I shit you not, girls lined up to show my brother around the school. He was the good-looking new guy. The interesting boy with an interesting past and an interesting name. The handsome exotic boy all these pretty girls would inevitably use to satisfy their need to experiment and one day rebel against their parents. I’d learned the hard way that I couldn’t eat lunch with him and his friends. Every time I showed up, tail between my legs and my pride in the trash, it took all of five seconds for me to realize that the only reason his new lady friends were being nice to me was because they wanted to use me to get to my brother. I’d rather eat in the toilet. I told myself I didn’t care, but obviously I did. I had to. The news cycle never let me breathe anymore. 9/11 happened last fall, two weeks into my freshman year, and a couple of weeks later two dudes attacked me while I was walking home from school and the worst part—the worst part—was that it took me days to shake off the denial; it took me days to fathom the why. I kept hoping the explanation would turn out to be more complex,

that there’d turn out to be more than pure, blind hatred to motivate their actions. I wanted there to be some other reason why two strangers would follow me home, some other reason why they’d yank my scarf off my head and try to choke me with it. I didn’t understand how anyone could be so violently angry with me for something I hadn’t done, so much so that they’d feel justified in assaulting me in broad daylight as I walked down the street. I didn’t want to understand it. But there it was. I hadn’t expected much when we moved here, but I was still sorry to discover that this school seemed no better than my last one. I was stuck in another small town, trapped in another universe populated by the kind of people who’d only ever seen faces like mine on their evening news, and I hated it. I hated the exhausting, lonely months it took to settle into a new school; I hated how long it took for the kids around me to realize I was neither terrifying nor dangerous; I hated the pathetic, soul-sucking effort it took to finally make a single friend brave enough to sit next to me in public. I’d had to relive this awful cycle so many times, at so many different schools, that sometimes I really wanted to put my head through a wall. All I wanted from the world anymore was to be perfectly unremarkable. I wanted to know what it was like to walk through a room and be stared at by no one. But a single glance around campus deflated any hopes I might’ve had for blending in. The student body was, for the most part, a homogenous mass of about two thousand people who were apparently in love with basketball. I’d already walked past dozens of posters—and a massive banner hung over the front doors—celebrating a team that wasn’t even in season yet. There were oversize black-and-white numbers taped to hallway walls, signs screaming at passersby to count down the days until the first game of the season. I had no interest in basketball. Instead, I’d been counting the number of dipshit things people had said to me today. I’d been holding strong at fourteen until I made my way to my next class and some kid passing me in the hall asked if I wore that thing on my head because I was hiding bombs underneath and I ignored him, and then his friend said that maybe I was secretly bald and I ignored him, and then a third one said that I was probably, actually, a man, and just trying to hide it and finally I told them all to fuck off, even as they

congratulated one another on having drummed up these excellent hypotheses. I had no idea what these asswipes looked like because I never glanced in their direction, but I was thinking seventeen, seventeen, as I got to my next class way too early and waited, in the dark, for everyone else to show up. These, the regular injections of poison I was gifted from strangers, were definitely the worst things about wearing a headscarf. But the best thing about it was that my teachers couldn’t see me listening to music. It gave me the perfect cover for my earbuds. Music made my day so much easier. Walking through the halls at school was somehow easier; sitting alone all the time was easier. I loved that no one could tell I was listening to music and that, because no one knew, I was never asked to turn it off. I’d had multiple conversations with teachers who had no idea I was only half hearing whatever they were saying to me, and for some reason this made me happy. Music seemed to steady me like a second skeleton; I leaned on it when my own bones were too shaken to stand. I always listened to music on the iPod I’d stolen from my brother and, here—as I did last year, when he first bought the thing—I walked to class like I was listening to the soundtrack of my own shitty movie. It gave me an inexplicable kind of hope. When my last class of the day had finally assembled, I was already watching my teacher on mute. My mind wandered; I kept checking the clock, desperate to escape. Today, the Fugees were filling the holes in my head, and I stared at my pencil case, turning it over and over in my hands. I was really into mechanical pencils. Like, nice ones. I had a small collection, actually, that I’d gotten from an old friend from four moves ago; she’d brought them back for me from Japan and I was mildly obsessed. The pencils were delicate and colorful and glittery and they’d come with a set of adorable erasers and this really cute case with a cartoon picture of a sheep on it, and the sheep said Do not make light of me just because I am a sheep, and I’d always thought it was so funny and strange and I was remembering this now, smiling a little, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. Hard. “What?” I turned around as I said it, speaking too loudly by accident. Some dude. He looked startled. “What?” I said quietly, irritated now. He said something but I couldn’t hear him. I tugged the iPod out of my pocket and hit pause.

“Uh.” He blinked at me. Smiled, but seemed confused about it. “You’re listening to music under there?” “Can I help you?” “Oh. No. No, I just bumped your shoulder with my book. By accident. I was trying to say sorry.” “Okay.” I turned back around. I hit play on my music again. The day passed. People had butchered my name, teachers hadn’t known what the hell to do with me, my math teacher looked at my face and gave a five-minute speech to the class about how people who don’t love this country should just go back to where they came from and I stared at my textbook so hard it was days before I could get the quadratic equation out of my head. Not one of my classmates spoke to me, no one but the kid who accidentally assaulted my shoulder with his bio book. I wished I didn’t care. I walked home that day feeling both relieved and dejected. It took a lot out of me to put up the walls that kept me safe from heartbreak, and at the end of every day I felt so withered by the emotional exertion that sometimes my whole body felt shaky. I was trying to steady myself as I made my way down the quiet stretch of sidewalk that would carry me home—trying to shake this heavy, sad fog from my head—when a car slowed down just long enough for a lady to shout at me that I was in America now, so I should dress like it, and I was just, I don’t know, I was so goddamn tired I couldn’t even drum up the enthusiasm to be angry, not even as I offered her a full view of my middle finger as she drove away. Two and a half more years, was all I could think. Two and a half more years until I could get free from this panopticon they called high school, these monsters they called people. I was desperate to escape the institution of idiots. I wanted to go to college, make my own life. I just had to survive until then.

2 Two

My parents were actually pretty great, as far as human beings went. They were proud Iranian immigrants who worked hard, all day, to make my life —and my brother’s life—better. Every move we made was to bring us into a better neighborhood, into a bigger house, into a better school district with better options for our future. They never stopped fighting, my parents. Never stopped striving. I knew they loved me. But you have to know, right up front, that they had zero sympathy for what they considered were my unremarkable struggles. My parents never talked to my teachers. They never called my school. They never threatened to call some other kid’s mother because her son threw a rock at my face. People had been shitting on me for having the wrong name/race/religion and socioeconomic status since as far back as I could remember, but my life had been so easy in comparison to my parents’ own upbringing that they genuinely couldn’t understand why I didn’t wake up singing every morning. My dad’s personal story was so insane—he’d left home, all alone, for America when he was sixteen—that the part where he was drafted to go to war in Vietnam actually seemed like a highlight. When I was a kid and would tell my mom that people at school were mean to me, she’d pat me on the head and tell me stories about how she’d lived through war and an actual revolution, and when she was fifteen someone cracked open her skull in the middle of the street while her best friend was gutted like a fish so, hey, why don’t you just eat your Cheerios and walk it off, you ungrateful American child. I ate my Cheerios. I didn’t talk about it. I loved my parents, I really did. But I never talked to them about my own pain. It was impossible to compete for sympathy with a mother and father who thought I was lucky to attend a school where the teachers only said mean things to you and didn’t actually beat the shit out of you. So I never said much anymore. I’d come home from school and shrug through my parents’ many questions about my day. I’d do my homework; I’d keep myself busy. I read a lot of books. It’s such a cliché, I know, the lonely kid and her books, but the day my brother walked into my room and chucked a copy of Harry Potter at my head and said, “I won this at school, looks like something you’d enjoy,” was one of the best days of my life. The few friends I’d made who didn’t live exclusively on paper had collapsed into little more than memories and even those were fading fast. I’d lost a lot in our moves —things, stuff, objects—but nothing hurt as much as losing people.

Anyway, I was usually on my own. My brother, though, he was always busy. He and I used to be close, used to be best friends, but then one day he woke up to discover he was cool and handsome and I was not, that in fact my very existence scared the crap out of people, and, I don’t know, we lost touch. It wasn’t on purpose. He just always had people to see, things to do, girls to call, and I didn’t. I liked my brother, though. Loved him, even. He was a good guy when he wasn’t annoying the shit out of me. I survived the first three weeks at my new school with very little to report. It was unexciting. Tedious. I interacted with people on only the most basic, perfunctory levels, and otherwise spent most of my time listening to music. Reading. Flipping through Vogue. I was really into complicated fashion that I could never afford and I spent my weekends scouring thrift stores, trying to find pieces that were reminiscent of my favorite looks from the runway, looks that I would later, in the quiet of my bedroom, attempt to re-create. But I was only mediocre with a sewing machine; I did my best work by hand. Even so, I kept breaking needles and accidentally stabbing myself and showing up to school with too many Band-Aids on my fingers, prompting my teachers to shoot me even weirder looks than usual. Still, it kept me distracted. It was only the middle of September and I was already struggling to give even the vaguest shit about school. After another exhilarating day at the panopticon I collapsed onto the couch. My parents weren’t home from work yet, and I didn’t know where my brother was. I sighed, turned on the television, and tugged my scarf off my head. Pulled the ponytail free and ran a hand through my hair. Settled back onto the couch. There were Matlock reruns on TV every afternoon at exactly this hour, and I was not embarrassed to admit out loud that I loved them. I loved Matlock. It was a show that was created even before I was born, about a really old, really expensive lawyer named Matlock who solved criminal cases for a ton of money. These days it was popular only with the geriatric crowd, but this didn’t bother me. I often felt like a very old person trapped in a young person’s body; Matlock was my people. All I needed was a bowl of prunes or a cup of applesauce to finish off the look, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe we had some stashed somewhere in the fridge when I heard my brother come home. At first I didn’t think anything of it. He shouted a hello to the house and I made a noncommittal noise; Matlock was being awesome and I couldn’t

be bothered to look away. “Hey—didn’t you hear me?” I popped my head up. Saw my brother’s face. “I brought some friends over,” he was saying, and even then I didn’t quite understand, not until one of the guys walked into the living room and I stood up so fast I almost fell over. “What the hell, Navid?” I hissed, and grabbed my scarf. It was a comfortable, pashmina shawl that was normally very easy to wear, but I fumbled in the moment, feeling flustered, and somehow ended up shoving it onto my head. The guy just smiled at me. “Oh—don’t worry,” he said quickly. “I’m like eighty percent gay.” “That’s nice,” I said, irritated, “but this isn’t about you.” “This is Bijan,” Navid said to me, and he could hardly contain his laughter as he nodded at the new guy, who was so obviously Persian I almost couldn’t believe it; I didn’t think there were other Middle Eastern people in this town. But Navid was now laughing at my face and I realized then that I must’ve looked ridiculous, standing there with my scarf bunched awkwardly on my head. “Carlos and Jacobi are—” “Bye.” I ran upstairs. I spent a few minutes considering, as I paced the length of my bedroom floor, how embarrassing that incident had been. I felt flustered and stupid, caught off guard like that, but I finally decided that though the whole thing was kind of embarrassing, it was not so embarrassing that I could justify hiding up here for hours without food. So I tied my hair back, carefully reassembled myself—I didn’t like pinning my scarf in place, so I usually wrapped it loosely around my head, tossing the longer ends over my shoulders—and reemerged. When I walked into the living room, I discovered the four boys sitting on the couch and eating, what looked like, everything in our pantry. One of them had actually found a bag of prunes and was currently engaged in stuffing them in his mouth. “Hey.” Navid glanced up. “Hi.” The boy with the prunes looked at me. “So you’re the little sister?” I crossed my arms. “This is Carlos,” Navid said. He nodded at the other guy I hadn’t met, this really tall black dude, and said, “That’s Jacobi.”

Jacobi waved an unenthusiastic hand without even looking in my direction. He was eating all the rosewater nougat my mom’s sister had sent her from Iran. I doubted he even knew what it was. Not for the first time, I was left in awe of the insatiable appetite of teenage boys. It grossed me out in a way I couldn’t really articulate. Navid was the only one who wasn’t eating anything at the moment; instead, he was drinking one of those disgusting protein shakes. Bijan looked me up and down and said, “You look better.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “How long are you guys going to be here?” “Don’t be rude,” Navid said without looking up. He was now on his knees, messing with the VCR. “I wanted to show these guys Breakin’.” I was more than a little surprised. Breakin’ was one of my favorite movies. I couldn’t remember how our obsession started, exactly, but my brother and I had always loved breakdancing videos. Movies about breakdancing; hours-long breakdancing competitions from around the world; whatever, anything. It was a thing we shared—a love of this forgotten sport—that had often brought us together at the end of the day. We’d found this movie, Breakin’, at a flea market a few years ago, and we’d watched it at least twenty times already. “Why?” I said. I sat down in an armchair, curled my legs up underneath me. I wasn’t going anywhere. Breakin’ was one of the few things I enjoyed more than Matlock. “What’s the occasion?” Navid turned back. Smiled at me. “I want to start a breakdancing crew.” I stared at him. “Are you serious?” Navid and I had talked about this so many times before: what it would be like to breakdance—to really learn and perform—but we’d never actually done anything about it. It was something I’d thought about for years. Navid stood up then. He smiled wider. I knew he could tell I was super excited. “You in?” “Fuck yeah,” I said softly. My mom walked into the room at that exact moment and whacked me in the back of the head with a wooden spoon. “Fosh nadeh,” she snapped. Don’t swear. I rubbed the back of my head. “Damn, Ma,” I said. “That shit hurt.” She whacked me in the back of the head again. “Damn.”

“Who’s this?” she said, and nodded at my brother’s new friends. Navid made quick work of the introductions while my mother took inventory of all that they’d eaten. She shook her head. “Een chiyeh?” she said. What’s this? And then, in English: “This isn’t food.” “It’s all we had,” Navid said to her. Which was sort of true. My parents never, ever bought junk food. We never had chips or cookies lying around. When I wanted a snack my mom would hand me a cucumber. My mother sighed dramatically at Navid’s comment and started scrounging up actual food for us. She then said something in Farsi about how she’d spent all these years teaching her kids how to cook and if she came home from work tomorrow and someone hadn’t already made dinner for her we were both going to get our asses kicked—and I was only forty percent sure she was joking. Navid looked annoyed and I almost started laughing when my mom turned on me and said, “How’s school?” That wiped the smile off my face pretty quickly. But I knew she wasn’t asking about my social life. My mom wanted to know about my grades. I’d been in school for less than a month and she was already asking about my grades. “School’s fine,” I said. She nodded, and then she was gone. Always moving, doing, surviving. I turned to my brother. “So?” “Tomorrow,” he said, “we’re going to meet after school.” “And if we get a teacher to supervise,” Carlos said, “we could make it an official club on campus.” “Nice.” I beamed at my brother. “I know, right?” “So, uh, small detail,” I said, frowning. “Something I think you might’ve forgotten—?” Navid raised an eyebrow. “Who’s going to teach us to breakdance?” “I am,” Navid said, and smiled. My brother had a bench press in his bedroom that took up half the floor. He found it, disassembled and rusted, next to a dumpster one day, and he hauled it back to one of our old apartments, fixed it, spray-painted it, and slowly amassed a collection of weights to go with it. He dragged that thing around with us everywhere we moved. He loved to train, my brother. To run. To box. He used to take gymnastic classes until they got to be too

expensive, and I think he secretly wanted to be a personal trainer. He’d been working out since he was twelve; he was all muscle and virtually no body fat, and I knew this because he liked to update me on his body-fat percentage on a regular basis. Once, when I’d said, “Good for you,” he’d pinched my arm and pursed his lips and said, “Not bad, not bad, but you could stand to build more muscle,” and he’d been forcing me to work out with him and his bench press ever since. So when he said he wanted to teach us how to breakdance, I believed him. But things were about to get weird.

3 Three It happened a lot, right? In high school? Lab partners. That shit. I hated that shit. It was always an ordeal for me, the awkward, agonizing embarrassment of having no one to work with, having to talk to the teacher quietly at the end of class to tell her you don’t have a partner, could you work by yourself, would that be possible, and she’d say no, she’d smile beatifically, she’d think she was doing you a favor by making you the third in a pair that had been very excited about working the hell alone, Jesus Christ— Well, it didn’t happen that way this time. This time God parted the heavens and slapped some sense into my teacher who made us partner off at random, selecting pairs based on our seats, and that was how I found myself in the sudden position of being ordered to skin a dead cat with the guy who hit me in the shoulder with his bio book on the first day of school. His name was Ocean. People took one look at my face and they expected my name to be strange, but one look at this dude’s very Ken-Barbie face and I had not expected his name to be Ocean. “My parents are weird,” was all he said by way of explanation. I shrugged.

We skinned the dead cat in silence, mostly because it was disgusting and no one wanted to narrate the experience of cutting into sopping flesh that stank of formaldehyde, and all I could think was that high school was so stupid, and what the hell were we doing, why was this a requirement oh my God this was so sick, so sick, I couldn’t believe we had to work on the same dead cat for two months— “I can’t stay long, but I have a little time after school,” Ocean said. It felt like a sudden statement, but I realized only then that he’d been talking for a while; I was so focused on this flimsy scalpel in my hand that I hadn’t noticed. I looked up. “Excuse me?” He was filling out his lab sheet. “We still have to write a report for today’s findings,” he said, and glanced up at the clock. “But the bell is about to ring. So we should probably finish this after school.” He looked at me. “Right?” “Oh. Well. I can’t meet after school.” Ocean went a little pink around the ears. “Oh,” he said. “Right. I get it. Are you— I mean, are you not allowed, to, like—” “Wow,” I said, my eyes going wide. “Wow.” I shook my head, washed my hands, and sighed. “Wow what?” he said quietly. I looked at him. “Listen, I don’t know what you’ve already decided about what you think my life is like, but I’m not about to be sold off by my parents for a pile of goats, okay?” “Herd of goats,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s a herd—” “Whatever the hell kind of goats, I don’t care.” He flinched. “I just happen to have shit to do after school.” “Oh.” “So maybe we can figure this out some other way,” I said. “Okay?” “Oh. Okay. What, uh, what are you doing after school?” I’d been stuffing my things into my backpack when he asked the question, and I was so caught off guard I dropped my pencil case. I reached down to grab it. When I stood up he was staring at me. “What?” I said. “Why do you care?” He looked really uncomfortable now. “I don’t know.” I studied him just long enough to analyze the situation. Maybe I was being a little too hard on Ocean with the weird parents. I shoved my pencil

case into my backpack and zipped the whole thing away. Adjusted the straps over my shoulders. “I’m joining a breakdancing crew,” I said. Ocean frowned and smiled at the same time. “Is that a joke?” I rolled my eyes. The bell rang. “I have to go,” I said. “But what about the lab work?” I mulled over my options and finally just wrote down my phone number. I handed it to him. “You can text me. We’ll work on it tonight.” He stared at the piece of paper. “But be careful with that,” I said, nodding at the paper, “because if you text me too much, you’ll have to marry me. It’s the rules of my religion.” He blanched. “Wait. What?” I was almost smiling. “I have to go, Ocean.” “Wait— No, seriously— You’re joking, right?” “Wow,” I said, and I shook my head. “Bye.” My brother, as promised, had managed to get a teacher to sign off on the whole breakdancing thing. We’d have paperwork by the end of the week to make the club official, which meant that, for the first time in my life, I’d be involved in an extracurricular activity, which felt strange. Extracurricular activities weren’t really my thing. Still, I was over the goddamn moon. I’d always wanted to do something like this. Breakdancing was something I’d admired forever and always from afar; I’d watched b-girls perform in competitions and I thought they looked so cool—so strong. I wanted to be like them. But breakdancing wasn’t like ballet; it wasn’t something you could look up in the yellow pages. There weren’t breakdancing schools, not where I lived. There weren’t retired breakdancers just lying around, waiting for my parents to pay them in Persian food to teach me to perfect a flare. I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to do something like this if it weren’t for Navid. He’d confessed to me, last night, that he’d been secretly learning and practicing on his own these last couple of years, and I was blown away by how much he’d progressed all by himself. Of the two of us, he was the one who’d really taken our dream seriously—and the realization made me both proud of him and disappointed in myself. Navid was taking a risk. We moved around so much that I felt like I could never make plans anymore. I never made commitments, never joined school clubs. Never

bought a yearbook. I never memorized phone numbers or street names or learned anything more than was absolutely necessary about the town I lived in. There didn’t seem to be a point. Navid had struggled with this, too, in his own way, but he said he was done waiting for the right moment. He would be graduating this year, and he finally wanted to give breakdancing a shot before he went off to college and everything changed. I was proud of him. I waved when I walked into our first practice. We were meeting in one of the dance rooms inside the school’s gym, and my brother’s three new friends looked me up and down again, even though we’d already met. They seemed to be assessing me. “So,” Carlos said. “You break?” “Not yet,” I said, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “That’s not true.” My brother stepped forward and smiled at me. “Her uprock isn’t bad and she does a decent six-step.” “But I don’t know any power moves,” I said. “That’s okay. I’m going to teach you.” It was then that I sat down and wondered whether Navid wasn’t doing this whole thing just to throw me a bone. Maybe I was imagining it, but for the first time in a long while, my brother seemed to be mine again, and I didn’t realize until just that moment how much I’d missed him. He was dyslexic, my brother. When he started middle school and began failing every subject, I finally realized that he and I hated school for very different reasons. Words and letters never made sense to him like they did to me. And it wasn’t until two years ago when he was threatened with expulsion that he finally told me the truth. Screamed it, actually. My mom had ordered me to help him with his homework. We couldn’t afford a tutor, so I would have to do, and I was pissed. Tutoring my older brother was not how I wanted to spend my free time. So when he refused to do the work, I got angry. “Just answer the question,” I’d snap at him. “It’s simple reading comprehension. Read the paragraph and summarize, in a couple of sentences, what it was about. That’s it. It’s not rocket science.” He refused. I pushed. He refused. I insulted him.

He insulted me back. I insulted him more. “Just answer the goddamn question why are you so lazy what the hell is wrong with you—” And finally he just exploded. That was the day I learned that my brother, my beautiful, brilliant older brother, couldn’t make sense of words and letters the way that I could. He’d spend half an hour reading a paragraph over and over again and even then, he didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t craft sentences. He struggled, tremendously, to translate his thoughts into words. So I started teaching him how. We worked together every day for hours, late into the night, until one day he could put sentences together by himself. Months later he was writing paragraphs. It took a year, but he finally wrote his own research paper. And the thing no one ever knew was that I did all his schoolwork in the interim. All his writing assignments. I wrote every paper for him until he could do it on his own. I thought maybe this was his way of saying thanks. I mean, it almost certainly wasn’t, but I couldn’t help but wonder why else he’d take this chance on me. The other guys he’d collected—Jacobi, Carlos, and Bijan— already had experience in other crews. None of them were experts, but they weren’t novices, either. I was the one who needed the most work, and Navid was the only one who didn’t seem irritated about it. Carlos, in particular, wouldn’t stop looking at me. He seemed skeptical that I’d end up any good, and he told me so. He wasn’t even mean about it, just matter of fact. “What?” I said. “Why not?” He shrugged. But he was staring at my outfit. I’d switched into some of the only gym clothes I owned—a pair of slim sweatpants and a thin hoodie—but I was also wearing a different scarf; it was made of a light, cotton material that I’d tied up into a turban style, and this seemed to distract him. Finally, he nodded at my head and said, “You can breakdance in that?” My eyes widened. For some reason I was surprised. I don’t know why I’d thought these dudes would be marginally less stupid than all the other ones I’d known. “Are you for real?” I said. “What a dick thing to say.”

He laughed and said, “I’m sorry, I’ve just never seen anyone try to breakdance like that before.” “Wow,” I said, stunned. “I’ve literally never seen you take off that beanie, but you’re giving me shit for this?” Carlos looked surprised. He laughed harder. He tugged the beanie off his head and ran his hand through his hair. He had very black, springy curls that were slightly too long and kept falling in his face. He put the beanie back on. “All right,” he said. “All right. Okay. Sorry.” “Whatever.” “I’m sorry,” he said, but he was smiling. “Seriously. I’m sorry. That was a dick thing to say. You’re right. I’m an asshole.” “Clearly.” Navid was laughing so hard. I suddenly hated everyone. Jacobi shook his head and said, “Damn.” “Wow,” I said. “You all suck.” “Hey—” Bijan was in the middle of stretching his legs. He pretended to look hurt. “That’s not fair. Jacobi and I didn’t even say anything.” “Yeah but you were thinking it, weren’t you?” Bijan grinned. “Navid,” I said, “your friends suck.” “They’re a work in progress,” he said, and chucked a water bottle at Carlos, who dodged it easily. Carlos was still laughing. He walked over to where I was sitting on the floor and offered me his hand. I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “Really.” I took his hand. He hauled me to my feet. “All right,” he said. “Let me see that six-step I keep hearing about.” I spent the rest of that day practicing simple skills: doing handstands and push-ups and trying to improve my uprock. An uprock was the dance you did while you were upright. Much of breakdancing was performed on the ground, but an uprock was given its own, special attention; it was what you did first—it was an introduction, an opportunity to set the stage— before you broke your body down, figuratively, into a downrock and the subsequent power moves and poses that generally constituted a single performance. I knew how to do a very basic uprock. My footwork was simple, my movements fluid but uninspired. I had a natural feel for the beats in the

music—could easily sync my movements to the rhythm—but that wasn’t enough. The best breakdancers had their own signature styles, and my moves were still generic. I knew this—had always known this—but the guys pointed it out to me anyway. We were talking, as a group, about what we knew and what we wanted to learn, and I was leaning back on my hands when my brother tapped my knuckles and said, “Let me see your wrists.” I held out my hands. He bent them forward and backward. “You’ve got really flexible wrists,” he said. He pressed my palm backward. “This doesn’t hurt?” I shook my head. He smiled, his eyes bright with excitement. “We’re going to teach you how to do the crab walk. That will be your signature power move.” My eyes widened. The crab walk was exactly as strange as it sounded. It was nothing at all like the sort of thing they taught you in elementary school gym classes; instead, it was a move that, like much of breakdancing, challenged the basic rules of gravity. It required total core strength. You held your body weight up on your hands—your elbows tucked into your torso—and you walked. With your hands. It was hard. Really hard. “Cool,” I said. Somehow, it had been the best day of high school I’d ever had.

4 Four I didn’t end up getting home until around five, and by the time I’d finished showering my mom had already shouted at us several times that dinner was ready. I made my way downstairs even though I knew I had a bunch of worried, and later, exasperated, text messages from Ocean waiting for me on my phone, but only because I didn’t have the kind of parents who allowed me to ignore dinner—not even for homework. Ocean would have to wait.

Everyone was already assembled when I made it downstairs. My dad had his laptop out—the ethernet cable dragging all across the floor—and his reading glasses on his head; he waved me over when I walked into the room. He was reading an article about pickling cucumbers. “Mibini?” he was saying to me. Do you see? “Very easy.” It didn’t look particularly easy to me, but I shrugged. My dad was a master of making things, and he was always trying to recruit me to join him in his projects, which I didn’t mind at all. In fact, it was kind of our thing. I was nine the first time my dad took me to a hardware store, and I’d thought the place was so cool my brain just about exploded. I began daydreaming about going back there, about saving up the money I would’ve otherwise spent on Lisa Frank notebooks and instead purchasing a piece of plywood just to see what I could do with it. Later, my dad was the one who taught me how to work a needle and thread. He’d seen me stapling the cuffs of my jeans to keep them from dragging, and one night he showed me how to properly hem a pair of pants. He also taught me how to swing an ax to split firewood. How to change a flat tire. But sometimes my dad’s mind worked so quickly I almost couldn’t keep up. My father’s father—my grandfather—had been an architect in Iran, responsible for designing some of the country’s most beautiful buildings, and I could see that same kind of brain in my dad. He devoured books even faster than I did; he carried them around with him everywhere. Wherever we’d lived, our garage became his workshop. He’d rebuild car engines, for fun. He built the table we were currently sitting around—it was a re-creation of a mid-century Danish style he’d always loved—and when my mom went back to school and needed a bag, my dad insisted on making one for her. He studied patterns. He bought the leather. And then he pieced it together for her, stitch by stitch. He still has a scar, spanning three of his fingers, where he accidentally sliced his skin open. It was his idea of a romantic gesture. Dinner was already on the table, slightly steaming. I’d been able to smell it from upstairs: the scents of buttery basmati rice and fesenjoon had flooded the whole house. Fesenjoon was a kind of stew made of walnut paste and pomegranate molasses, which sounds weird, I know, but it was so, so good. Most people made fesenjoon with chicken, but my late aunt had reinvented it with bite-size meatballs, and it had become a family recipe in her honor. There were also little side dishes of pickled vegetables

and garlic yogurt and the still-warm disks of fresh bread that my dad baked every evening. There was a plate of fresh herbs and radishes and little towers of feta cheese. A bowl of dates. A cup of fresh, baby walnuts. The samovar, gurgling quietly in the background. Food was a fixture in our home, and in Persian culture in general. Mealtimes were gathering moments, and my parents never allowed us to break this tradition, no matter how badly we wanted to watch something on TV or had somewhere else we wanted to be. It had only occurred to me a couple of years ago, when a friend of Navid’s had come over for dinner, that not everyone cared about food like this. He thought it was kind of crazy. But this—here, on the table tonight—this was the extremely stripped down version of a Persian dinner. This was how we set a table when we were really busy and no one was coming to visit. For us, it was normal. It was home. When I finally made it upstairs, it was past eight, and Ocean had hit peak panic. I cringed as I clicked through his messages. hey you there? this is ocean i really hope this is the right number hello? this is ocean, your lab partner, remember? it’s getting late and now i’m getting worried we really have to finish this before class tomorrow are you there? I’d only gotten a cell phone a few months ago, and it had taken a great deal of begging—everyone I knew got theirs the year prior—before my parents finally, begrudgingly, took me to a T-Mobile store to get my very own Nokia brick. We had a family plan, which meant our limited bundle of minutes and text messages were to be shared by all four of us, and text messaging, though still kind of a brand-new phenomenon, had already caused me a lot of trouble. Somehow, in my excitement to experience the novelty of text messages (I’d once sent Navid thirty messages in a row just to piss him off), I’d gone way over our limit in the span of a single week,

racking up a bill that caused my parents to sit me down and threaten to take away my phone. I realized far too late that I was being charged not only for the texts I sent, but also for the ones I received. One glance at Ocean’s long string of messages told me a lot about the state of his bank account. hi, I wrote. you know these text messages are expensive, right? Ocean wrote back immediately. oh, hey i nearly gave up on you sorry about the texts do you have AIM? AIM was how I figured we’d do most of our talking tonight. Sometimes kids used MSN Messenger to connect, but mostly we used the tried-andtrue, the one and only, the magical portal that was AOL Instant Messenger. Still, I was always a bit behind on the technological front. I knew there were teenagers out there with fancy Apple computers and their own digital cameras, but we’d only just gotten DSL in my house, and it was an actual miracle that I had an old, busted computer in my bedroom that managed to connect to the internet. It took me like fifteen minutes just to turn the thing on, but eventually we were both logged in. Our names now lived in a little square messaging window all our own. I was really impressed Ocean didn’t have some kind of douchey screen name. riversandoceans04: Hey jujehpolo: Hi I checked his profile automatically—it was practically a reflex—but I was surprised to find that he’d left it blank. Well, not blank, exactly. It said paranoid android and nothing else. I almost smiled. I wasn’t sure, but I was hoping this was a reference to a Radiohead song. Then again, maybe I was imagining something that wasn’t there; I really liked Radiohead. In fact, my AIM profile currently contained a list of songs I was listening to on repeat last week— 1. Differences, by Ginuwine 2. 7 Days, by Craig David 3. Hate Me Now, by Nas 4. No Surprises, by Radiohead

5. Whenever, Wherever, by Shakira 6. Pardon Me, by Incubus 7. Doo Wop, by Lauryn Hill —and only then did I realize that Ocean might check my profile, too. I froze. For some reason, I quickly deleted the contents. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t explain why I didn’t want him to know what kind of music I listened to. It was just that the whole thing felt suddenly too invasive. Too personal. riversandoceans04: Where were you today? jujehpolo: Sorry jujehpolo: I had a really busy afternoon jujehpolo: I just saw your messages riversandoceans04: Were you really breakdancing after school? jujehpolo: Yeah riversandoceans04: Wow. That’s cool. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t really know how to respond. I’d just looked away to grab my backpack when I heard, once again, the soft double ding that indicated I’d received a new message, and I turned down the volume on my computer. I checked to make sure my door was closed. I felt suddenly self-conscious. I was talking to a boy in my bedroom. I was talking to a boy in my bedroom. AIM made things feel unexpectedly intimate. riversandoceans04: Hey I’m sorry for thinking you weren’t allowed to do things after school. double ding riversandoceans04: I shouldn’t have said that And I sighed. Ocean was trying to be friendly. He was trying to be a friend, even. Maybe. But Ocean was all the traditionally pleasant things a girl might like about a guy, which made his friendliness dangerous to me. I might’ve been an angry teenager, but I wasn’t also blind. I wasn’t magically immune to cute guys, and it had not escaped my notice that Ocean was a superlative kind of good-looking. He dressed nicely. He smelled pleasant. He was

very polite. But he and I seemed to come from worlds so diametrically opposed that I knew better than to allow his friendship in my life. I didn’t want to get to know him. I didn’t want to be attracted to him. I didn’t want to think about him, period. Not just him, in fact, but anyone like him. I was so good at denying myself this, the simple pleasure of even a secret crush, that the thoughts were never allowed to marinate in my mind. I’d been here so many times before. Though for most guys I was little more than an object of ridicule, occasionally I became an object of fascination. For whatever reason, some guys developed an intense, focused interest in me and my life that I used to misunderstand as romantic interest. Instead, I discovered—after a great deal of embarrassment—that it was more like they thought of me as a curiosity; an exotic specimen behind glass. They wanted only to observe me from a comfortable distance, not for me to exist in their lives in any permanent way. I’d experienced this enough times to have learned by now that I was never a real candidate for friendship—and certainly nothing more than that. I knew that Ocean, for example, would never befriend me beyond this school assignment. I knew he wouldn’t invite me into his inner circle where I’d fit in as well as a carrot might, when pushed through a juicer. Ocean was trying to be nice, sure, but I knew that his sudden sympathetic heart was born only of awkward guilt, and that this was a road that would lead to nowhere. I found it exhausting. jujehpolo: It’s okay riversandoceans04: It’s not okay. I’ve felt terrible about it all afternoon. riversandoceans04: I’m really sorry jujehpolo: Okay riversandoceans04: I’ve just never actually talked to a girl who wears the headpiece thing before. jujehpolo: Headpiece thing, wow riversandoceans04: See? I don’t know anything jujehpolo: You can just call it a scarf riversandoceans04: Oh riversandoceans04: That’s easy jujehpolo: Yeah riversandoceans04: I thought it was called something else. jujehpolo: Listen, it’s really not a big deal. Can we just do the homework?

riversandoceans04: Oh riversandoceans04: Yeah riversandoceans04: Okay And I’d turned away for five seconds to grab the worksheets out of my backpack when there it was again—the soft double ding. Twice. I looked up. riversandoceans04: Sorry riversandoceans04: I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Jesus Christ. jujehpolo: I’m not uncomfortable. jujehpolo: I think maybe you’re uncomfortable, though. riversandoceans04: What? No riversandoceans04: I’m not uncomfortable riversandoceans04: What do you mean? jujehpolo: I mean, is this going to be a problem? My headpiece thing? jujehpolo: Is my whole situation just too weird for you? Ocean didn’t respond for at least twenty seconds, which, in the moment, felt like an actual lifetime. I felt bad. Maybe I’d been too blunt. Maybe I was being mean. But he was trying so hard to be, I don’t know? Way too nice to me. It felt unnatural. And I just, I don’t know, it was making me mad. Still, guilt gnawed at my mind. Maybe I’d hurt his feelings. I drummed my fingers against the keyboard, wondering what to say. How to walk this back. We still had to be lab partners, after all. Or maybe we didn’t. Maybe he’d just ask the teacher for a new partner. It had happened before. Once, when I’d been paired at random with another student, she’d just revolted. She flat out refused to be my partner in front of the entire class and then demanded to work with her friend. My teacher, flimsy pancake that she was, panicked and said okay. I ended up working alone. It was humiliating. Shit. Maybe this time I’d brought the humiliation upon myself. Maybe Ocean would revolt, too. My stomach sank. And then— double ding

riversandoceans04: I don’t think you’re weird. I blinked at the computer screen. double ding riversandoceans04: I’m sorry Ocean appeared to be a chronic apologizer. jujehpolo: It’s okay jujehpolo: I’m sorry for putting you on the spot like that. You were just trying to be nice. jujehpolo: I get it jujehpolo: It’s fine Another five seconds dragged on. riversandoceans04: Okay I sighed. Dropped my face into my hands. Somehow I’d made things awkward. Everything was fine, totally normal, and then I had to go and make it weird. There was only one way to fix this now. So I took a deep, sad breath, and typed. jujehpolo: You don’t have to be my lab partner if you don’t want to be. jujehpolo: It’s okay jujehpolo: I can tell Mrs. Cho tomorrow. riversandoceans04: What? riversandoceans04: Why would you say that? riversandoceans04: You don’t want to be my lab partner? I frowned. jujehpolo: Uh, okay, I don’t know what’s happening. riversandoceans04: Me neither riversandoceans04: Do you want to be my lab partner? jujehpolo: Sure riversandoceans04: Okay riversandoceans04: Good jujehpolo: Okay riversandoceans04: I’m sorry

I stared at my computer. This conversation was giving me a headache. jujehpolo: Why are you sorry? Another couple of seconds. riversandoceans04: I don’t actually know anymore I almost laughed. I didn’t understand what the hell had just happened. I didn’t understand his apologies or his confusion and I didn’t even think I wanted to know. What I wanted was to go back to not caring about Ocean James, the boy with two first names. I’d spoken to this kid for a total of maybe an hour and suddenly his presence was in my bedroom, in my personal space, stressing me out. I didn’t like it. It made me feel weird. So I tried to keep things simple. jujehpolo: Why don’t we just do the homework? Another ten seconds. riversandoceans04: Okay And we did. But I felt something change between us, and I had no idea what it was.

5 Five The next morning, my brother, who had a zero period and always left for school an hour before I did, stopped by my room to borrow the Wu-Tang CD I’d stolen from him. I’d been putting on mascara when he started knocking on my door, and he was now demanding I give him back not only his CD but his iPod, too, and I was shouting back that his iPod was far more useful to me during the school day then it had ever been for him, and I was still making this argument when I opened the door and he

suddenly froze. He looked me up and down and his eyes widened, just a little. “What?” I said. “Nothing.” I let him inside. I gave him the CD he was looking for. He kept looking at me. “What?” I said again, irritated. “Nothing,” he said, and laughed. “You look nice.” I raised an eyebrow. This was a trick. “New outfit?” I looked down at what I was wearing. My sweater wasn’t new. But I’d bought these jeans from the thrift store last week and had just finished altering them. They’d been a few sizes too big for me, but the quality of the denim was too good to pass up. Besides, they’d only cost me fifty cents. “Sort of,” I said. “The jeans are new.” He nodded. “Well, they’re nice.” “Yeah. Okay,” I said. “Why are you being weird?” He shrugged. “I’m not being weird,” he said. “The jeans are nice. They’re just, uh, really tight. I’m not used to seeing you in pants like that.” “Gross.” “Hey, listen, I don’t care. They look good on you.” “Uh-huh.” “No, I mean it. They look nice.” He was still smiling. “Oh my God, what?” “Nothing,” he said for the third time. “I just, you know, I don’t think Ma is going to like seeing your ass in those jeans.” I rolled my eyes. “Well she doesn’t have to look at my ass if she doesn’t want to.” Navid laughed. “It’s just—sometimes what you wear doesn’t really match, you know? It’s a little confusing.” He gestured, vaguely, at my head, even though I hadn’t put on my scarf yet. Still, I knew what he was trying to say. I knew he was trying not to be judgmental. But the conversation irritated me. People—and often guys—liked to say that Muslim women wore headscarves because they were trying to be demure, or because they were trying to cover up their beauty, and I knew that there were ladies in the world who felt that way. I couldn’t speak for all Muslim women—no one could—but it was a sentiment with which I fundamentally disagreed. I

didn’t believe it was possible to hide a woman’s beauty. I thought women were gorgeous no matter what they wore, and I didn’t think they owed anyone an explanation for their sartorial choices. Different women felt comfortable in different outfits. They were all beautiful. But it was only the monsters who forced women to wear human potato sacks all day that managed to make headline news, and these assholes had somehow set the tone for all of us. No one even asked me the question anymore; people just assumed they knew the answer, and they were nearly always wrong. I dressed the way I did not because I was trying to be a nun, but because it felt good—and because it made me feel less vulnerable in general, like I wore a kind of armor every day. It was a personal preference. I definitely didn’t do it because I was trying to be modest for the sake of some douchebag who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. People struggled to believe this, because people struggled to believe women in general. It was one of the greatest frustrations of my life. So I shoved Navid out of my room and told him it was none of his business what my ass looked like in my jeans and he said, “No, I know— that’s not what I meant—” “Don’t make it weird,” I said, and closed the door in his face. After he left, I looked in the mirror. The jeans were nice. The days continued to dissolve, and quietly. Aside from breakdancing, pretty much nothing had changed except that Ocean was suddenly different around me in bio. He’d been different ever since that first, and only, AIM conversation we’d had, over two weeks ago. He talked too much. He was always saying things like Wow, the weather is so weird today and How was your weekend? and Hey, did you study for the quiz on Friday? and it surprised me, every single time. I’d glance at him for only a second and say Yeah, the weather is weird and Um, my weekend was fine and No, I didn’t study for the quiz on Friday and he’d smile and say I know, right? and That’s nice and Really? I’ve been studying all week and I’d usually ignore him. I never asked him a follow-up question. Maybe I was being rude, but I didn’t care. Ocean was a really good-looking guy, and I know this doesn’t sound like a valid reason to dislike someone, but it was reason enough for me. He

made me nervous. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to get to know him. I didn’t want to like him, which was harder than you’d think, because he was very likable. Falling for someone like Ocean, I knew, would only end badly for me. I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Today he’d been trying really hard to make small talk—which I guessed was understandable, as it was otherwise awkward to sit around for an hour saying nothing while you picked apart a dead cat—and he said, “So, are you going to homecoming?” I’d actually looked up, then. I looked up because I was amazed. I laughed, softly, and turned away. His question was so ridiculous I didn’t even answer him. We’d been having pep rallies all week in anticipation of the homecoming game—it was a football thing, I think—and I’d been skipping them. We were also, apparently, having class spirit competitions, whatever that meant. I was supposed to be wearing green or blue or something today, but I wasn’t. People were losing their minds over this shit. “You don’t really do school stuff, huh?” Ocean said, and I wondered why he cared. “No,” I said quietly. “I don’t really do school stuff.” “Oh.” There was a part of me that wanted to be friendlier to Ocean, but sometimes it made me really, actually, physically uncomfortable when he was nice to me. It felt so fake. Some days our interactions felt like he was trying really hard to overcompensate for that first error, for thinking my parents were about to ship me off to a harem or something. Like he wanted another chance to prove he wasn’t close-minded, like he thought I might not notice that he went from thinking I couldn’t even meet up after school to thinking I might show up at a homecoming dance, all in the span of two weeks. I didn’t like it. I just didn’t trust it. So I cut the heart out of a dead cat and called it a day. I showed up to practice a little too early that afternoon and the room was still locked; Navid was the one who had the key that would let us in and he hadn’t arrived yet, so I slumped down on the ground and waited. I knew that basketball season was starting sometime next month—I knew this, because I saw the posters plastered everywhere—but the gym was, for some reason, already busier than I’d ever seen it. It was loud. Super loud. Lots of shouting. Lots of whistles blowing and sneakers squeaking. I didn’t really know what was happening; I didn’t know much about sports,

in general. All I heard were the thunderous sounds of many feet running across a court. I could hear it through the walls. When I finally got into the dance room with the other guys, we turned up the music and did our best to drown out the reverberations of the many basketballs hitting the floor. I was working with Jacobi today, who was showing me how to improve my footwork. I already knew how to do a basic six-step, which was exactly what it sounded like: it was a series of six steps performed on the ground. You held yourself up on your arms while your legs did most of the work, moving you in a sort of circular motion. This served as an introduction to your power move—which was your acrobatic move—the kind of thing that looked, sometimes, like what you saw gymnasts do on a pommel horse, except way cooler. Breakdancing was, in many ways, closer to something like capoeira, an Afro-Brazilian form of martial arts that involves a lot of kicks and spins in midair; capoeira made kicking someone’s ass look both scary and beautiful. Breakdancing was kind of like that. Jacobi was showing me how to add CCs to my six-step. They were called CCs because they were invented by a group of breakers who called themselves the Crazy Commandos, and not because the move looked anything like a c. They were body rotations that made my legwork more complex, and just, overall, made the routine look cooler. I’d been working at it for a while. I’d already learned how to do a double-handed CC, but I was still getting the hang of doing a one-handed CC, and Jacobi was watching me as I tried, over and over again, to get the thing right. When I finally did, he clapped, hard. He was beaming. “Nice job,” he said. I just about fell backward. I was on the ground, splayed like a starfish, but I was smiling. This was nothing; these were baby steps. But it felt so good. Jacobi helped me to my feet and squeezed my shoulder. “Nice,” he said. “Seriously.” I smiled at him. I turned around to find my water bottle and suddenly froze. Ocean was leaning against the doorframe, not quite in the room and not quite outside of it, a gym bag slung across his chest. He waved at me.

I looked around, confused, like maybe he’d been waving at someone else, but he laughed at me. Finally I just met him at the door, and I realized then that someone had propped it open. It happened, sometimes, when it got really hot in here; one of the guys would wedge the door open to let the room breathe a little. Still, our open door had never attracted visitors before. “Uh, hi,” I said. “What are you doing here?” Ocean shook his head. He seemed, somehow, even more surprised than I was. “I was just walking by,” he said. “I heard the music. I wanted to know what was happening.” I raised an eyebrow. “You were just walking by.” “Yeah.” He smiled. “I, um, spend a lot of time in the gym. Anyway, I honestly didn’t know you’d be in here. Your music is just super loud.” “Okay.” “But I figured I should say hi instead of standing here, watching you like a creep.” “Good call,” I said, but I was frowning. Still processing. “So you don’t, like, need something? For class?” He shook his head. I stared at him. Finally, he took a deep breath. “You really weren’t kidding,” he said. “About the breakdancing thing.” I laughed. Looked at him incredulously. “You thought I would lie about something like that?” “No,” he said, but he seemed suddenly uncertain. “I just, I don’t know. I didn’t know.” “Uh-huh.” “Are these your friends?” Ocean said. He was staring at Jacobi, who was shooting me a look that said Who’s the guy? and What’s going on? all at the same time. “Sort of,” I said. “That’s cool.” “Yeah.” I was so confused. “Um, I should go.” Ocean nodded. Stood up straighter. “Yeah, me too.” We said awkward goodbyes. As soon as he was out of sight, I closed the door. Jacobi was the only one who noticed me talking to Ocean that day, and when he asked me about it, I said it was nothing, just a kid from class who

needed something. I wasn’t even sure why I lied about it. I was totally perplexed.

6 Six Things in my life began to find a rhythm. I was settling into a new routine in this town, and my anxieties about being friendless at school were beginning to fade. I was no longer a shock to the system; instead, I’d become a regular fixture at school, one that most of my classmates could now comfortably ignore. People still enjoyed referring to me as the Taliban as I walked by, and every once in a while I’d find an anonymous note in my locker telling me to fuck off back to where I came from, and occasionally someone would take the time to point out that towelheads like me didn’t deserve to live in their country—but I tried not to let it bother me. I tried to get used to it. I’d heard somewhere that people could get used to anything. Luckily, breakdancing kept me busy in the best possible way. I loved everything about it: the music, the moves, even the history. Breakdancing started back in the 1970s in the South Bronx, New York, and slowly, over time, made its way across the country to Los Angeles. It was an iteration, a simultaneous arm and evolution of hip-hop, and, coolest of all—it was originally used as an alternative to physical violence. In their fights over territories, gangs would have breakdancing battles to determine ownership—and that’s why the term battle still exists today. Breaking crews don’t compete; they battle. Each crew member delivers a performance. Best b-boy—or b-girl—wins. I threw myself into the work, hitting the gym nearly every day. When we didn’t have access to the school’s dance studio we’d break down oversize cardboard boxes in abandoned streets and parking lots, set up a boom box, and practice. Navid would drag me out of bed way too early on weekend mornings to do ten-mile runs with him. We started training together, regularly. Breakdancing involved extremely taxing physical

work, but it was work that filled me with joy and purpose. In fact, I was so focused on this new life outside of school—and so tired after practice every day—that I hardly had time to be angry about all the assholes littered everywhere. The educational aspect of school was pretty boring. I’d figured out a long time ago how to get As without trying; my secret to success was that I genuinely didn’t care. I felt no pressure to perform, so I usually did fine. I’d stopped caring about school a few years ago, right around the time I was old enough to realize that caring about a school—its teachers, its students, its walls and doors and many hallways—nearly always ended in heartbreak. So I just stopped. I stopped remembering things. People. Faces. In time, the institutions and their many names all blurred together. Mrs. Someone was my first grade teacher. Mr. Whatsisname taught third grade. Who knew. I was required by law and the wooden spoon my mom liked to whoop my ass with to show up every day, so I did. I showed up, I did the work, I dealt with the dependable, unrelenting microaggressions from the masses that influenced the emotional weather patterns of my day. I didn’t stress about getting into a good college because I already knew I couldn’t afford to go to a good college. I didn’t stress about AP classes because I didn’t think of them as any different from regular classes. I didn’t stress about the SATs because who gave a shit about the SATs. Not me. I don’t know, I guess I always thought I’d turn out okay, no matter how badly my many schools tried to mutilate me. And I held on to that feeling every day. Two and a half more years, I thought. Just two and a half more years until I could get the hell away from this existence organized by school bells that, let’s be honest, didn’t even ring. They beeped. This was what I was thinking as I peeled another layer of soggy cat flesh away from soggy cat muscle. I was thinking about how much I hated this. How I was already anxious to get into the gym again. I was getting better at holding the crab pose now—I’d almost managed to hold my body weight up on my elbows yesterday—and I wanted to see if I’d make more progress this afternoon. I was headed to my first live breakdancing battle this weekend, and I wanted to feel like I knew something when I got there. I finished my shift with the cat and peeled off my gloves, tossing them into the trash before washing my hands—for good measure—in our lab station’s sink. So far, our discoveries had been underwhelming, which was

how I liked them. One of the groups in our class discovered that the cat they’d been dissecting had died pregnant; they’d found a litter of unborn kittens in her uterus. This was a seriously messed-up school assignment. “Your turn,” I said, glancing at Ocean, whose attitude toward me had changed, rather dramatically, in the last week. He’d stopped talking to me in class. He no longer asked me generic questions about my evenings or my weekends. In fact, he’d said no more than a couple of words to me in the last few days, not since that afternoon I saw him in the dance studio. I often caught him looking at me, but then, people were always looking at me. Ocean at least had the decency to pretend he wasn’t looking at me, and he never said anything about it, for which I was secretly grateful. I much preferred silent stares to the loud assholes who told me, unprompted, exactly what they thought of me. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little confused. I thought I’d had Ocean pretty figured out, but suddenly I wasn’t so sure. Aside from the unusual name, he seemed to me like an extremely ordinary boy raised by extremely ordinary parents. The kind of parents who bought canned soup, lied to their kids about Santa Claus, believed everything they read in their history books and didn’t really talk about their feelings. My parents were the exact opposite. I was fascinated by canned food simply because that miracle of Western invention was never allowed in my house. My parents made everything from scratch, no matter how basic; we never celebrated Christmas, except that sometimes my mom and dad took pity on us—I received a box of envelopes one year—and my parents had taught us about the atrocities of war and colonialism since before I could read. They also had no problem sharing their feelings with me. They relished it. My parents loved telling me what they felt was wrong with me—it was what they called my unfortunate attitude—all the time. Anyway, I couldn’t really get a bead on Ocean anymore, and it bothered me that it even bothered me. His silence was what I thought I wanted; it was, in fact, exactly what I’d been working toward. But now that he really had ignored me, I couldn’t help but wonder why. Even so, I thought his silence was for the best.

Today, though, was a little different. Today, after a twenty-minute stretch of perfect quiet, he spoke. “Hey,” he said, “what happened to your hand?” I’d been trying to tear open a seam in a leather jacket last night and I’d tugged a little too hard; the seam ripper slipped and sliced open the back of my left hand. I had a pretty intense bandage taped over the space between my finger and thumb. I met Ocean’s eyes. “Sewing accident,” I said. His eyebrows pulled together. “Sewing accident? What’s a sewing accident?” “Sewing,” I said. “Like, sewing clothes? I make a lot of my own clothes,” I said, when he didn’t seem to understand. “Or, I mean, often I’ll just buy vintage and do the alterations myself.” I lifted my hand as proof. “Either way, I’m not great at it.” “You make your own clothes?” His eyes had widened, just a little. “Sometimes,” I said. “Why?” I laughed. It was a reasonable question. “Well, uh, because the clothes I really want are out of my price range.” Ocean only stared at me. “Do you know anything about fashion?” I asked him. He shook his head. “Oh,” I said, and tried to smile. “Yeah. I guess it’s not for everyone.” But I loved it. Alexander McQueen’s fall line had just hit stores and, after a lot of begging, I’d convinced my mom to drive me to one of the fancy malls around here just so I could see the pieces in person. I didn’t even touch them. I just stood near them, staring. I thought Alexander McQueen was a genius. “So—did you do that to your shoes?” Ocean said suddenly. “Like, on purpose?” I glanced down. I was wearing what used to be a pair of simple white Nikes, but I’d drawn all over them. And my backpack. And my binders. It was just something I did sometimes. I’d lock myself in my room, listen to music, and draw on things. Sometimes it was random doodles, but lately I’d been experimenting with graffiti—tagging, specifically—because some tagging techniques reminded me of highly stylized Persian calligraphy. I wasn’t

like Navid, though; I’d never graffitied public property. Not more than twice, anyway. “Yeah,” I said slowly. “I did that on purpose.” “Oh. That’s cool.” I laughed at the look on his face. “No, really,” he said. “I like it.” Still, I hesitated. “Thanks.” “You have another pair like that, too, huh?” “Yes.” I raised an eyebrow. “How’d you know?” “You sit in front of me,” he said. He looked me right in the eye and he almost smiled, but it looked like a question. “You’ve been sitting in front of me for two months. I stare at you every day.” My eyes widened. And then I frowned. I didn’t even have a chance to say the words before he said— “I didn’t mean”—he shook his head, looked away—“wow, I didn’t mean that, like, I stare at you. I just meant that I see you. You know. Shit,” he said softly, and mostly to himself. “Never mind.” I half laughed, but it sounded weird. “Okay.” And that was it. He didn’t say anything else worth remembering for the rest of the period.

7 Seven I was dropping off my books in my locker after school—and grabbing the workout clothes I’d stashed in there with my gym bag—when I heard a sudden swell of voices. The halls were usually pretty quiet at this hour, and I rarely saw people after school let out, so the sounds were unusual. I turned around before I could think it through. Cheerleaders. There were three of them. Very pretty and peppy. They weren’t in official cheerleading uniforms—they were wearing matching tracksuits— but somehow it was obvious that they were cheerleaders. Interestingly,

cheerleaders had never been mean to me; instead, they ignored me so completely that I found their presence unexpectedly comforting. I turned back around. I’d just slung my gym bag over my shoulder when I heard someone call out a greeting and I was very certain that whoever was talking was not talking to me, and that even if they were talking to me, that I’d turn around only to be met with some new creative bullshit, so I ignored it. I slammed my locker closed, spun the combination, and walked away. “Hey—” I kept walking, but now I was beginning to feel a little creeped out because the voice did seem to be focused in my direction and I didn’t think I wanted to know why someone was trying to flag me down right now. All the people I knew at this school were waiting for me, at this exact moment, inside of a dance room in the gym, so whoever this was, they were almost certainly trying to bother me and— “Shirin!” I froze. This was an unusual development. Generally, the assholes who harassed me in the hallways didn’t know my name. I turned around, but only halfway. “Hey.” It was Ocean, looking a little exasperated. I had to make a physical effort to keep from looking too surprised. “You dropped your phone,” he said, and held it out for me to take. I looked at my phone in his hand. Looked at him. I didn’t understand why the world kept throwing him in my path, but I also didn’t know how to be mad at him for being a decent person, so I took the phone. “Thanks,” I said. He looked at me and his expression was somehow both frustrated and amused and still he said nothing, which would’ve been fine, except that he looked at me for just three seconds too long, and suddenly it was weird. I took a deep breath. I was about to say goodbye when someone called his name. I looked past him to see that it was one of the cheerleaders. I was surprised but tried not to show it. And then I left, without a word. That night, after a particularly exhausting training session, I felt too wired to sleep, and I couldn’t explain why. I was sitting in bed, writing, writing, writing. I’d always kept a pretty intense diary. I scribbled in that thing every day, multiple times a day. In the middle of class, even. During lunch hours. The thing was so precious to me that I

carried it around everywhere I went, because it was the only thing I could think to do—the only way to keep it safe. I worried that one day my mom might get her hands on it, read it, realize her daughter was a complicated, flawed human being—one who often disregarded the dogma of religion— and have an actual aneurysm. So I always kept it close. But tonight, I couldn’t focus my mind. Every once in a while I’d look up, look at my computer, its dead, dark face gleaming in the dim light, and I’d hesitate. It was really late, maybe one in the morning. Everyone was asleep. I put my pen down. The old, hulking computer in my room was a bulky, unwieldy thing. My mother had built it, piece by piece, a couple of years ago when she was getting some new level of certification in computer programming. It was a bit like Frankenstein’s monster, except that it was my mother’s monster, and I’d been the lucky recipient of its great girth. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I turned the thing on. It was loud. The screen lit up, blinding and ostentatious, and its CPU component started whirring like crazy. The fan was working too hard, the hard drive was click-clicking away, and I immediately regretted my decision. I’d heard stories of parents who let their kids stay up all night, but I didn’t know them. Instead, my parents were always on my case, and always suspicious—though generally for good reason; my brother and I weren’t very good at following rules—and I was sure that they would hear me tooling around in here, barge inside, and force me to go to sleep. I bit my lip and waited. The damn computer had finally turned on. It took like ten minutes. It took another ten to click around and get the internet to work, because sometimes my computer was just, I don’t know, obstinate. I was weirdly nervous. I didn’t even know what I was doing. Why I was doing it. Not exactly. My AIM account logged in automatically, and my short list of buddies were all offline. Except one. My heart did something weird and I stood up too fast, feeling suddenly stupid and embarrassed. I didn’t even know this guy. He was not—would never be—even remotely interested in someone like me and I knew this. I already knew this and I was still standing here, being an idiot. I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t going to make an ass out of myself.

I turned back to my computer, ready to hit the power switch and shut this whole thing down when— double ding double ding double ding riversandoceans04: Hey riversandoceans04: You’re online riversandoceans04: You’re never online I stared, finger frozen over the power switch. double ding riversandoceans04: Hello? I sat down at my desk. jujehpolo: Hey riversandoceans04: Hey riversandoceans04: What are you doing up so late? I started typing, I don’t know, before I realized my answer might be way too obvious. So I tried for something generic. jujehpolo: I couldn’t sleep. riversandoceans04: Oh riversandoceans04: Hey, can I ask you a question? I stared at the messaging window. Felt a little scared. jujehpolo: Sure riversandoceans04: What does jujehpolo mean? I was so relieved he hadn’t asked me something super offensive I almost laughed out loud. jujehpolo: It’s, like, a Persian thing. Jujeh means small, but it’s also the word for a baby chicken. jujehpolo: And polo means rice.

jujehpolo: I realize as I’m typing this that that doesn’t make any sense, but it’s just, like, an inside joke, I guess. My family calls me jujeh, because I’m small, and jujeh kabab and rice is, like, a kind of food . . . jujehpolo: Anyway jujehpolo: It’s just a nickname. riversandoceans04: No, I get it. That’s nice. riversandoceans04: So you’re Persian? jujehpolo: Yeah riversandoceans04: That’s so cool. I really like Persian food. My eyebrows shot up my forehead. Surprised. jujehpolo: You do? riversandoceans04: Yeah. I really like hummus. riversandoceans04: And falafel. Ah. Yeah. Okay. jujehpolo: Neither one of those things is Persian. riversandoceans04: They’re not? jujehpolo: No riversandoceans04: Oh I dropped my head in my hands. I suddenly hated myself. What the hell was I doing? This conversation was so stupid. I was so stupid. I couldn’t believe I turned on my computer for this. jujehpolo: Anyway, I should probably go to bed. riversandoceans04: Oh, okay I’d already typed the word Bye, was just about to hit enter— riversandoceans04: Hey, before you go I hesitated. Deleted. Rewrote. jujehpolo: Yeah? riversandoceans04: Maybe some day you can show me what Persian food is. I stared at my screen for too long. I was confused. My first instinct told me he was asking me out; my second, wiser instinct told me that he would

never, ever be stupid enough to do something like that, that he was almost certainly aware of the fact that nice white boys did not presume to ask weird Muslim girls out on dates, but then, barring that, I was mystified. Did he want me to, like, educate him on Persian food? Teach him about the ways of my people? What the hell? So I decided to be honest. jujehpolo: I don’t think I understand what you mean. riversandoceans04: I want to try Persian food riversandoceans04: Are there any Persian restaurants around here? jujehpolo: Lol jujehpolo: Around here? No jujehpolo: Not unless you count my mom’s kitchen riversandoceans04: Oh riversandoceans04: Then maybe I can come over for dinner I nearly fell out of my chair. The balls on this kid, holy shit. jujehpolo: You want to come into my house and have dinner with my family? riversandoceans04: Is that weird? jujehpolo: Um, a little riversandoceans04: Oh riversandoceans04: So is that a no? jujehpolo: I don’t know I frowned at my computer. jujehpolo: I guess I can ask my parents. riversandoceans04: Cool riversandoceans04: Okay, goodnight jujehpolo: Uh jujehpolo: Goodnight I had no idea what the actual hell had just happened.

8

Eight I spent the weekend ignoring my computer. It was the middle of October, I’d been in school for a couple of months, and I was still trying to wrap my head around it. I hadn’t made any of my own friends, but I wasn’t feeling lonely, which was new. Plus, I was busy —also new—and bonus, I suddenly had plans. In fact, I was getting ready to head out. Tonight, I had a breakdancing battle to attend. We were just going to be in the audience, but the prospect still excited me. We wanted to join the breaking scene in this new city and see where it would take us. Maybe, once we were good enough, we’d start battling other crews. Maybe one day, we dreamed, we’d enter regional and state and maybe, maybe international competitions. We had big dreams. And they had been parent-approved. My parents were a little conservative, a little traditional, and, in some ways, surprisingly progressive. Generally, they were pretty cool. Still, they had massive double standards. They were terrified that the world would hurt me, as a young girl, far more than it would my brother, and so they were stricter with me, with my curfews, with what I could and could not do. They never tried to cut me off, socially, but they always wanted to know everything about where I was going and who I was going with and exactly when I would be back and on and on and on and they almost never did this with Navid. When Navid came home late they’d only be mildly irritated. Once, I came home an hour late after watching the first Harry Potter movie—I had no idea the thing would be three hours long—and my mom was so upset she couldn’t decide whether to cry or kill me. This reaction baffled me because my social activities were so mild as to be almost nonexistent. I wasn’t out late partying, ever. I wasn’t sitting around getting drunk somewhere. I’d do stupid shit with my friends like wander around Target and buy the cheapest stuff we could find and use it to decorate the cars in the parking lot. My mom did not approve of this. The upside of breakdancing with my brother was that my parents worried less when they knew he was with me, ready to punch an unsuspecting harasser in the face if necessary. But my brother and I had

also learned a long time ago how to game the system; when I wanted to go out somewhere, and I knew my parents wouldn’t approve, he’d vouch for me. I’d do the same for him. But Navid had just turned eighteen. He was older and, as a result, freer. He’d been working odd jobs everywhere we’d lived since he was younger than even me, and he’d saved up long enough to buy himself an iPod and a car. It was the teenage dream. He was currently the proud owner of a 1988 Nissan Sentra he would one day use to run over my foot. Until then, my ass was still walking to school every day. Sometimes I’d catch a ride with him, but he had that zero period in the mornings and he usually ditched me after practice to do something with his friends. Today, we’d be driving that beautiful beast into a new world. A world that would give me a new title and hone a new facet of my identity. I wanted to become a b-girl in the full sense of the word. It would be so much better to be called a b-girl, a breakdancer, than the Girl Who Wore That Thing on Her Head. The event was even more exciting than I hoped it’d be. I’d seen battles before, of course—we’d been watching old breakdancing competitions on VHS for years—but it was something else entirely to witness these things in person. The space was relatively small—it looked like a converted art gallery—and people were assembled like cigarettes in a pack, pressed up against the walls and doors, squeezing together to leave enough empty space in the center of the room. The energy was palpable. Music was reverberating against the walls and ceilings, the bass pulsing in my eardrums. In here, people didn’t seem to care at all about me; no one looked at me, eyes merely glanced off my face and body as they scanned the room. I didn’t know why it suddenly didn’t matter what I looked like, why my appearance garnered no reactions. Maybe it was because the selfselecting demographic in here was different. I was surrounded by diverse bodies and faces; I was hearing Spanish in one ear and Chinese in the other. We were white and black and brown brought together by a single interest. I loved it. Somehow I knew, in that moment, that all that mattered in this particular world was talent. If I were a decent breakdancer, these people would respect me. Here, I could be more than the settings applied to my life by society. It was all I’d ever wanted.

I came home that night feeling more exhilarated than I’d felt—maybe, ever. I talked my mom’s ear off about the whole thing and she smiled, unimpressed, and told me to go do my homework. School would be waiting for me, bright and early the following day, but tonight, I was still aglow. Echoes of the music were dancing around in my head. I got ready for bed and couldn’t focus on the schoolwork I’d left unfinished. Instead, I cleared a space in the center of my room and practiced the crab pose for so long the carpet began to burn my palms. I kept falling forward—kissing the floor, as my brother liked to say—and couldn’t get it quite right. I still had a long way to go before I’d become even a decent breakdancer, but then, I’d never been afraid of hard work.

9 Nine My second class of the day was called Global Perspectives. My teacher was one of those wild, creative thinkers, one of those guys determined to make breakthroughs with teenagers. He was cooler than most teachers, but it was obvious, most days, that he was trying a little too hard to convince us of this fact. Still, I didn’t hate his class. The only thing he ever required of us was class participation. There were no exams; no homework assignments. Instead, he forced us to discuss current events. Politics. Controversial topics. He wanted us to ask each other hard questions—to question ourselves and our ideas about the world—and he wanted us to engage directly with each other in ways we otherwise never would. Those of us who refused to participate—refused to voice aloud our opinions—would fail. I was into it. Thus far, the class had been pretty drama-free. He’d started out with softballs. We’d walked in on the second day of class to discover he’d divided all the desks into groups of four. We were supposed to start there, in a smaller group, before he’d change things up.

After thirty minutes of intense discussions, he came by our little cluster and asked us to recap what we’d talked about. And then, he’d said— “Great, great. So what are the names of everyone in your group?” That was the thing that got me to take him seriously. Because wow, we’d been talking for a while and we’d never once asked to know each other’s names. I thought maybe this guy was smart. I thought maybe he would be different. I thought, hey, Mr. Jordan might actually know something. But today was a new Monday. Time for a change. I’d barely gotten to my seat when he shouted at me. “Shirin and Travis,” he called, “come over here, please.” I looked at him, confused, but he only waved me over. I dropped my backpack on the floor next to my chair and went, reluctantly, to the front of the class. I stared at my feet, at the wall. I was feeling nervous. I hadn’t met Travis yet—he wasn’t one of the four people in my group —but Travis was everything television taught you a jock was supposed to look like. He was big, blond, and burly, and he was wearing a letterman jacket. He, too, I noticed, was looking around awkwardly. Mr. Jordan was smiling. “A new experiment,” he said to the class, clapping his hands together before he turned back to us. “All right, you two,” he said, turning our shoulders so that Travis and I were facing each other. “No squirming. I want you to look at each other’s faces.” Someone kill me. I looked at Travis only because I didn’t want to fail this class. Travis didn’t seem thrilled about staring at my face, either, and I felt bad for him. Neither one of us wanted to be doing whatever the hell my teacher was about to make us do. “Keep looking,” Mr. Jordan said. “I want you two to see each other. Really, really see each other. Are you looking?” I shot a hard glare at Mr. Jordan. I said nothing. “Okay,” he said. He was smiling like a maniac. “Now, Travis,” he said, “I want you to tell me exactly what you think when you look at Shirin.” And I lost feeling in my legs. I felt suddenly faint and somehow still rooted to the ground. I felt panic and outrage—I felt betrayed—and I had no idea what to do. How could I

justify turning to my teacher and telling him he was insane? How could I do that without getting into trouble? Travis had gone bright red. He started sputtering. “Be honest,” Mr. Jordan was saying. “Remember, honesty is everything. Without it, we can never move forward. We can never have productive discussions. So be honest. Tell me exactly what you think when you look at her face. First impressions. Off the cuff. Now, now.” I’d gone numb. I was paralyzed by an impotence and embarrassment I didn’t know how to explain. I stood there, hating myself, while Travis fumbled for the words. “I don’t know,” he said. He could barely look at me. “Bullshit,” Mr. Jordan said, his eyes flashing. “That’s bullshit, Travis, and you know it. Now be honest.” I was breathing too fast. I was staring at Travis, begging him with my eyes to just walk away, to leave me alone, but Travis was lost in his own panic. He couldn’t see mine. “I—I don’t know,” he said again. “When I look at her I don’t see anything.” “What?” Mr. Jordan again. He’d walked up to Travis, was studying him, hard. “What do you mean you don’t see anything?” “I mean, I mean—” Travis sighed. His face had gone blotchy with redness. “I mean she doesn’t, like—I just don’t see her. It’s like she doesn’t exist for me. When I look at her I see nothing.” Anger fled my body. I felt suddenly limp. Hollow. Tears pricked my eyes; I fought them back. I heard Mr. Jordan’s vague, distorted sounds of victory. I heard him clap his hands together, excited. I saw him move in my direction, ostensibly to make me take a turn performing his stupid experiment and instead I just stared at him, my face numb. And I walked away. I grabbed my backpack from where I’d left it and moved, in what felt like slow motion, straight out the door. I felt blind and deaf at the same time, like I was moving through fog, and I realized then—as I realized every time something like this happened—that I was never as strong as I hoped to be. I still cared too much. I was still so easily, pathetically, punctured. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I had to go. Had to leave, had to get out of there before I cried in front of the class, cussed out Mr.

Jordan, and got myself expelled. I’d charged blindly out the door and down the hall and halfway across the school before I realized I wanted to go home. I wanted to clear my head; I wanted to get away from everything for a little while. So I cut across the quad and through the parking lot and was just about to step off campus when I felt someone grab my arm. “Holy shit you walk fast—” I spun around, stunned. Ocean’s hand was on my arm, his eyes full of something like fear or concern and he said, “I’ve been calling your name this whole time. Didn’t you hear me?” I looked around like I was losing my mind. How did this keep happening to me? What the hell was Ocean doing here? “I’m sorry,” I said. I faltered. I realized he was still touching me and I took a sudden, nervous step backward. “I, um, I was kind of lost in my head.” “Yeah, I figured,” he said, and sighed. “Mr. Jordan is a dick. What a complete asshole.” My eyes went wide. I was now, somehow, even more confused. “How did you know about Mr. Jordan?” Ocean stared at me. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether or not I was joking. “I’m in your class,” he said finally. I blinked. “Are you serious?” he said. “You didn’t know I was in your class?” He laughed, but it sounded sad. He shook his head. “Wow.” I still couldn’t process this. It was too much—too much was happening all at once. “Did you just transfer in or something?” I asked. “Or have you always been in my class?” Ocean looked stunned. “Oh, wow, I’m really sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t, like, ignoring you. I just —I don’t really look at people most of the time.” “Yeah,” he said, and laughed again. “I know.” I raised my eyebrows. And he sighed. “Hey, really, though—are you okay? I can’t believe he did that to you.” “Yeah.” I looked away. “I feel kind of bad for Travis.” Ocean made a sound of disbelief. “Travis will be fine.” “Yeah.”

“So you’re okay? You don’t need me to go back in there and kick his ass?” And I looked up, unable to contain my surprise. When had Ocean become the kind of guy willing to defend my honor? When had I leveled up to become the kind of person for whom he’d even offer? I barely talked to the guy, and even then, we’d never discussed much. Last week he’d hardly spoken to me in bio. I realized then that I didn’t know Ocean at all. “I’m okay,” I said. I mean, I wasn’t, but I didn’t know what else to say. I just really wanted to leave. And it only occurred to me that I’d said that last part out loud when he said— “Good idea. Let’s get out of here.” “What?” I accidentally laughed at him. “Are you serious?” “You were about to cut class,” he said. “Weren’t you?” I nodded. “Well,” he said, and shrugged. “I’ll come with you.” “You don’t need to do that.” “I know I don’t need to do that,” he said. “I just want to. Is that okay?” I stared at him. I stared at him and his simple, uncomplicated brown hair. His soft blue sweater and dark jeans. He was wearing very white sneakers. He was also squinting at me in the cold sunlight, waiting for my response, and he finally tugged a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. They were nice sunglasses. They looked good on him. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “That’s okay.”

10 Ten We walked to IHOP. It wasn’t far from campus, and it seemed like an innocuous enough destination for cheap food and a little change of scenery. But then we were sitting in a booth, sitting across from each other, and I suddenly had no idea what I was doing. What we were doing.

I was trying to think of what to say, how to say it, when Ocean seemed to suddenly remember he was still wearing sunglasses. He said, “Oh, right—” And took them off. It was such a simple thing. It was a quiet, completely unmomentous moment. The world didn’t stop turning; birds didn’t suddenly start singing. Obviously I’d seen his eyes before. But somehow, suddenly, it was like I was seeing them for the first time. And somehow, suddenly, I couldn’t stop staring at his face. Something fluttered against my heart. I felt my armor begin to break. He had really beautiful eyes. They were an unusual mix of blue and brown, and together they made a kind of gray. I’d never caught the subtleties before. Maybe because he’d never looked at me like this before. Straight on. Smiling. Really, smiling at me. I only then realized that I’d never gotten a full smile from Ocean before. Most of the time his smiles were confused or scared or a combination of any number of other things. But for some reason, right now, in this extremely ugly booth at IHOP, he was smiling at me like there was something to celebrate. “What?” he finally said. I blinked fast, startled. Embarrassed. I looked down at my menu and said, “Nothing,” very quietly. “Why were you staring at me?” “I wasn’t staring at you.” I held the menu closer to my face. No one said anything for a few seconds. “You never came back online over the weekend,” he said. “Yeah.” “Why not?” He reached forward and gently pushed the menu away from my face. Oh my God. I couldn’t unsee it. I couldn’t unsee it, oh my God, someone save me from myself, I couldn’t unsee his face. What had happened to me? Why was I suddenly so attracted to him? Why? I reached around blindly in my mind for walls, old armor, anything to keep me safe from this—from the danger of all the stupid things that happened to my head around cute boys—but nothing was working because he wouldn’t stop looking at me.

“I was busy,” I said, but the words came out a little weird. “Oh,” he said, and sat back. His face was inscrutable. He picked up his menu, his eyes scanning its many options. And then, I just, I don’t know. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you hanging out with me?” I said. The words just kind of happened. They just came out, breathless and a little angry. I didn’t understand him, didn’t like what was happening to my heart around him, didn’t like that I had no idea what he was thinking. I was confused as hell and it made me feel so off-kilter, off my game, and I just needed to break this thing open and be done with it. I couldn’t help it. Ocean sat up, put down his menu. He looked surprised. “What do you mean?” “I mean”—I looked at the ceiling, bit my lip—“I mean I don’t understand what’s happening here. Why are you being so nice to me? Why are you following me out of class? Why are you asking to have dinner at my house—” “Oh, hey, yeah, did you ask your parents about tha—” “I don’t understand what you’re doing,” I said, cutting him off. I could feel my face getting hot. “What do you want from me?” His eyes widened. “I don’t want anything from you.” I swallowed, hard. Looked away. “This isn’t normal, Ocean.” “What isn’t normal?” “This,” I said, gesturing between us. “This. This isn’t normal. Guys like you don’t talk to girls like me.” “Girls like you?” “Yes,” I said. “Girls like me.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Please don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, okay? I’m not an idiot.” He stared at me. “I just want to know what’s going on,” I said. “I don’t understand why you’re trying so hard to be my friend. I don’t understand why you keep showing up in my life. Do you, like, feel sorry for me or something?” “Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “Wow.” “Because if you’re just being nice to me because you feel sorry for me, please don’t.” He smiled, a little, and only to himself. “You don’t understand,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“No, I don’t understand. I’m trying to understand and I don’t understand and it’s freaking me out.” He laughed, just once. “Why is it freaking you out?” “It just is.” “Okay.” “You know what?” I shook my head. “Never mind. I think I should go.” “Don’t—” He sighed, hard, cutting himself off. “Don’t go.” He mussed his hair, muttered, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath, and finally said, “I just think you seem cool, okay?” He looked at me. “Is that so hard to believe?” “Kind of.” “I also think you’re really goddamn beautiful but you just won’t give me a chance to be cool about this, will you?” I thought, for certain, that my heart had stopped. I knew, rationally, that such a thing was impossible, but for some reason it felt true. The only time anyone had ever called me anything close to beautiful was when I was in eighth grade. I’d overheard someone say it. She was explaining to another kid that she didn’t like me because she thought I was one of those girls who was really pretty and really mean. She’d said it in an unkind, flippant way that made me think she really meant it. At the time, it had been the nicest thing anyone had ever said about me. I’d often wondered, since that day, if I really was pretty, but no one but my mother had ever bothered to corroborate her statement. And now, here— I was stunned. “Oh,” was all I managed to say. My face felt like it had been set on fire. “Yeah,” he said. I wasn’t looking at him anymore, but I could tell he was smiling. “Do you understand now?” “Kind of,” I said. And then we ordered pancakes.

11 Eleven

We spent the rest of our IHOP experience talking about nothing in particular. In fact, we changed gears so quickly from serious to superficial that I actually walked out the door wondering if I’d imagined the part where he told me I was beautiful. I think it was my fault. I kind of froze. I’d pushed him so hard to give me a straight answer but the one I got wasn’t the one I was expecting and it threw me off-balance. I didn’t know what to do with it. It made me feel vulnerable. So we talked about movies. Things we’d seen; things we hadn’t. It was fine, but it was kind of boring. I think we were both relieved when we finally left IHOP behind, like we were trying to shake off something embarrassing. “Do you know what time it is?” I asked him. We’d been walking in silence, side by side, heading in no particular direction. He glanced at his watch and said, “Third period is almost over.” I sighed. “I guess we should go back to school.” “Yeah.” “So much for ditching.” He stopped walking and touched my arm. Said my name. I looked up. Ocean was quite a bit taller than me, and I’d never looked up at him like this before. I was standing in his shadow. We were on the sidewalk, facing each other, and there wasn’t much space between us. He smelled really nice. My heart was being weird again. But his eyes were worried. He opened his mouth to say something and then, very suddenly, changed his mind. Looked away. “What is it?” I said. He shook his head. Smiled at me out of the corner of his eye, but only briefly. “Nothing. Never mind.” I could tell that something was bothering him, but his reluctance to share made me think I probably didn’t want to know what he was thinking. So I changed the subject. “Hey, how long have you lived here?” Unexpectedly, Ocean smiled. He seemed both pleased and surprised to be asked the question. “Forever,” he said. And then, “I mean, I moved here when I was, like, six, but yeah, basically forever.” “Wow,” I said. I almost whispered the word. He’d described in a single sentence something I’d often dreamed about. “Must be nice to live in the

same place for so long.” We’d started walking again. Ocean reached up, plucked a leaf from a tree we were passing, and spun it around in his hands. “It’s okay.” He shrugged. “Gets kind of boring, actually.” “I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds really nice. You probably know your neighbors, huh? And you get to go to school with all the same people.” “Same people,” he said, nodding. “Yeah. But trust me, it gets old, fast. I’m dying to get the hell out of here.” “Really?” I turned to look at him. “Why?” He tossed the leaf, shoved his hands into his pockets. “There’s so much I want to do,” he said. “Things I want to see. I don’t want to get stuck here forever. I want to live in a big city. Travel.” He glanced at me. “I’ve never even left the country, you know?” I smiled at him, kind of. “Not really,” I said. “I think I’ve traveled enough for the both of us. I’m ready to retire. Settle down. Get old.” “You’re sixteen.” “But in my heart I’m a seventy-five-year-old man.” “Wow, I really hope not.” “You know, when I was eight,” I said, “my parents tried to move back to Iran. They packed up all our shit and sold the house and just, took a leap.” I adjusted the backpack on my shoulders. Sighed. “Ultimately, it didn’t work out. We were too American. Too much had changed. But I lived in Iran for six months, bouncing between the city and the countryside. I went to this really fancy international school in Tehran for a while, and all my classmates were these horrible, spoiled, dipshit children of diplomats. I’d cry every day. Beg my mom to let me stay home. But then we spent some time farther north, in a part of the country even closer to the Caspian Sea, and I went to class with a bunch of village kids. The entire school was a single room—straight out of Anne of Green Gables— and of the twelve schools I’ve attended in my life, it’s still my favorite.” I laughed. “The kids used to chase me around at lunchtime and beg me to say things in English. They were obsessed with America,” I explained. “I’d never been so popular in my life.” I laughed, again, and looked up to meet Ocean’s eyes, but he’d slowed down. He was staring at me, and I couldn’t read his expression. “What?” I said. “Too weird?”

The intense look in his eyes evaporated. In fact, he seemed suddenly frustrated. He shook his head and said, “I wish you’d stop saying things like that to me. I don’t think you’re weird. And I don’t know why you think I’m going to have a sudden epiphany that you’re weird and start freaking out. I’m not. Okay? I genuinely don’t care that you cover your hair. I don’t. I mean”—he hesitated—“as long as it’s, like, something you actually want to do.” He looked at me. Waited for something. I looked back, confused. “I mean,” he said, “your parents don’t, like, force you to wear a headscarf, do they?” “What?” I frowned. “No. No, I mean, I don’t love the way people treat me for wearing it—which often makes me wonder whether I shouldn’t just stop—but no,” I said. I looked off in the distance. “When I’m not thinking about people harassing me every day, I actually like the way it makes me feel. It’s nice.” “Nice how?” We’d officially stopped walking. We were standing on the sidewalk, next to a sort of busy road, where I was having one of the most personal conversations I’d ever had with a boy. “I mean, I don’t know,” I said. “It makes me feel, I don’t know. Like I’m in control. I get to choose who gets to see me. How they see me. I don’t think it’s for everyone,” I said, and shrugged. “I’ve met girls who do feel forced to wear it and they hate it. And I think that’s bullshit. Obviously I don’t think anyone should wear it if they don’t want to. But I like it,” I said. “I like that you have to ask for my permission to see my hair.” Ocean’s eyes widened suddenly. “Can I see your hair?” “No.” He laughed out loud. Looked away. He said, “Okay.” And then, quietly, “I can already kind of see your hair, though.” I looked at him, surprised. I wrapped my scarf a little loosely, which made it so that a little of my hair, at the top, sometimes showed, and some people were obsessed with this detail. I wasn’t sure why, but they loved pointing out to me that they could already see an inch of my hair, like maybe that would be enough to nullify the whole thing. I found this fixation kind of hilarious.

“Yeah,” I said. “Well, I mean, that’s usually all it takes. Guys see an inch of my hair and they just, you know”—I mimed an explosion with my hand—“lose their minds. And then it’s just, like, marriage proposals, all over the place.” Ocean looked confused. He didn’t say anything for a second, and then— “Oh. Oh. You’re joking.” I looked curiously at him. “Yes,” I said. “I’m super joking.” He was looking at me just as curiously as I looked at him. We were still standing on the sidewalk, talking. Staring at each other. Finally, he said: “So you’re trying to tell me that what I said was stupid, huh? I only just got that.” “Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m usually more direct.” And he laughed. He looked away. Looked back at me. “Am I making this weird? Should I stop asking you these questions?” “No, no.” I shook my head. Smiled, even. “No one ever asks me these questions. I like that you ask. Most people just assume they know what I’m thinking.” “Well, I have no idea what you’re thinking. Like, ever.” “Right now,” I said, “I’m thinking you’re so much ballsier than I thought you’d be. I’m kind of impressed.” “Wait, what do you mean, than you thought I’d be?” I couldn’t help it, I was suddenly laughing. “Like, I don’t know. When I first met you? You seemed really—timid,” I said. “Kind of terrified.” “Well, to be fair, you’re kind of terrifying.” “Yeah,” I said, sobered in an instant. “I know.” “I don’t mean”—he shook his head, laughed—“I don’t mean because of your scarf or your religion or whatever. I just mean I don’t think you see yourself the way other people do.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m pretty sure I know how other people see me.” “Maybe some people,” he said. “Yeah. I’m positive there are horrible people in the world. But there are a lot of other people who are looking at you because they think you’re interesting.” “Well I don’t want to be interesting,” I said. “I don’t exist to fascinate strangers. I’m just trying to live. I just want people to be normal around me.”

Ocean wasn’t looking at me when he said, quietly, “I have no idea how anyone is supposed to be normal around you. I can’t even be normal around you.” “What? Why not?” “Because you’re crazy intimidating,” he said. “And you don’t even see it. You don’t look at people, you don’t talk to people, you don’t seem to care about anything most kids are obsessed with. I mean, you show up to school looking like you just walked out of a magazine and you think people are staring at you because of something they saw on the news.” I went suddenly still. My heart seemed to speed up and slow down. I didn’t know what to say, and Ocean wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Anyway,” he said. He cleared his throat. I noticed he’d gone pink around the ears. “So you went to twelve different schools?” I nodded. “Damn.” “Yeah,” I said. “It sucked. Continues to suck.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” “I mean, it doesn’t suck right now,” I said, staring at our feet. “Right now it’s not so bad.” “No?” I glanced up. He was smiling at me. “No,” I said. “Right now it’s not bad at all.”

12 Twelve Ocean and I split up for lunch. I think he might’ve joined me, if I’d asked, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t know what he did for lunch, who his friends were, what his social obligations might be, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know yet. At the moment, I just wanted space to process our conversation. I wanted space to figure out what to do about Mr. Jordan’s class. I wanted time to get my

brain on straight. I was no longer hungry, thanks to the stack of pancakes I’d eaten at IHOP, so I headed straight to my tree. This had been my solution to the lonely lunchtime problem. I’d grown tired of both the bathroom and the library, and enough time had passed that I no longer felt too self-conscious about eating alone. This school had a couple of green spaces, and I’d picked one at random to make my own. I chose a tree. I sat under it, leaning against the trunk. I ate food if I was hungry; but mostly I wrote in my journal or read a book. Today, I was late. And someone else was sitting under my tree. I hadn’t been looking at people, as was my unfortunate habit, so I hadn’t noticed the person sitting under my tree until I nearly stepped on him. He shouted. I jumped back. Startled. “Oh,” I said, “Oh my God, I’m sorry.” He stood up, frowned, and I took one real look at his face and just about fell over. He was, wow, he was possibly the most good-looking guy I’d ever seen. He had warm brown skin and hazel eyes and he looked distinctly Middle Eastern. I had, like, a Spidey-sense for that sort of thing. He was also clearly not a sophomore, whoever he was; he was maybe my brother’s age. “Hi,” I said. “Hey,” he said back. He was looking curiously at me. “You new here?” “Yeah. I transferred in this year.” “Wow, cool,” he said. “We don’t get a lot of hijabis in these parts. That’s pretty brave,” he said, nodding at my head. But I was distracted. I never thought I’d hear any kid at this school use the word hijab so casually. Hijab was the word for a headscarf in Arabic. Hijabis was a sort of colloquial term some people used to describe girls who wore hijab. There had to be a reason he knew that. “Are you Muslim?” I asked. He nodded. “Hey, why were you about to step on me?” “Oh,” I said, and felt suddenly awkward. “I usually sit here during lunch. I just didn’t see you.” “Oh, my bad,” he said, looking back at the tree. “I didn’t realize this was someone’s spot. I was catching up on some homework before class. Needed a quiet place to work.” “The library is pretty reliable for that sort of thing,” I said.

He laughed, but didn’t offer to explain why he’d bypassed the library. Instead, he said, “Are you Syrian?” I shook my head. “Turkish?” I shook my head again. I got this a lot. There was something about my face, apparently, that made it so people never really knew where to place me on the map. “I’m Persian.” “Oh,” he said, his eyebrows high. “Cool, cool. I’m Lebanese.” I nodded, unsurprised. In my experience, the hottest Middle Eastern guys were always Lebanese. “Anyway,” he said, and took a deep breath. “It was nice to meet you.” “You too,” I said. “I’m Shirin.” “Shirin,” he said, and smiled. “Nice. Well, I hope I see you again sometime. I’m Yusef.” “Okay,” I said, which was kind of a stupid thing to say, but I didn’t really notice in the moment. “Bye.” He waved and walked away and I was not too proud to watch him go. He was wearing a tight sweater that did little to hide the fact that he had the body of an athlete. Damn. I was really beginning to like this school. Bio was my last class of the day. I was expecting to see Ocean, but he never showed up. I dropped my bag on the floor and looked around the classroom. I sat in my seat and felt distracted. When we were sent to our lab stations, I cut into my soggy cat and couldn’t stop wondering where he was. I even worried, for a second, that something bad might’ve happened. But there was nothing to be done about it. When the bell rang, I headed to practice. “So I heard you cut class today,” was the first thing my brother said to me. Shit. I’d almost forgotten about that. “Who told you I cut class?” “Mr. Jordan.” “What?” Outrage, again. “Why? How do you two even know each other?” Navid just shook his head. He almost laughed. “Mr. Jordan is our supervisor for the breakdancing club.” “Of course he is.” Cool Teacher Mr. Jordan would’ve jumped at the chance to supervise a breakdancing club. Of course.

“He said he was worried about you. He said you got upset during class and ran out without a word.” Navid paused. Leveled me with a look. “He said you ran off with some dude.” “What?” I frowned. “First of all, I didn’t run out of class. And second of all, I didn’t leave with some dude. He followed me out.” “Whatever,” Navid said. “What’s going on here? You’re ditching class? Running off campus with random guys? Am I going to have to kick the shit out of someone tomorrow?” I rolled my eyes. Carlos, Bijan, and Jacobi were watching our conversation with great fascination and I was annoyed with all of them. “Mr. Jordan was being an asshole,” I said. “He forced me and this other guy to stare at each other in front of the whole class, and then he told the guy to say, out loud, exactly what he was thinking when he looked at me.” “And?” My brother crossed his arms. “So what?” I looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean, so what? What do you think happened? It was humiliating.” Navid dropped his arms. “What do you mean it was humiliating?” “I mean it was horrible. He said I looked like nothing. That I basically didn’t even exist.” I waved a frustrated hand. “Whatever. It sounds stupid now, I know, but it really hurt my feelings. So I walked out.” “Damn,” Navid said quietly. “So I really do have to kick the shit out of someone tomorrow.” “You don’t have to kick the shit out of anyone,” I said, and slumped down on the floor. “It’s fine. I think I might just drop the class. There’s still time.” “I don’t think so.” Navid shook his head at me. “I’m pretty sure you missed the window. You can still withdraw, but it’ll show up on your transcript like that, which m—” “I don’t give a damn about my transcript,” I said, irritated. “Okay,” he said, holding up his hands. “Okay.” My brother looked at me, genuinely sympathetic, for all of five seconds before he suddenly frowned. “Wait, I don’t understand one thing—why would you ditch class with a guy who thinks you don’t exist?” I shook my head. Sighed. “Different guy,” I said. Navid raised his eyebrows. “Different guy?” He glanced at his friends. “You three hearing this shit? She says it was a different guy.” Carlos laughed. “These kids grow up fast,” Jacobi said.

Bijan grinned at me and said, “Damn, girl.” “Oh my God,” I said, squeezing my eyes closed. “Shut up, all of you. You’re being ridiculous.” “So who’s the different guy?” Navid asked. “Does he have a name?” I opened my eyes. Stared at him. “No.” Navid’s mouth dropped open. He was half smiling, half surprised. “Wow,” he said. “Wow. You must really like him.” “I don’t like him,” I snapped. “I just don’t want you bothering him.” “Why would we bother him?” My brother was still smiling. “Can we just get started on practice? Please?” “Not until you tell me his name.” I sighed. I knew my evasiveness would only make the situation worse, so I gave in. “His name is Ocean.” Navid frowned. “What the hell kind of a name is Ocean?” “You know, people wonder the same thing about you.” “Whatever,” he said. “My name is awesome.” “Anyway,” I said, “Ocean is my lab partner in another class. He just felt bad that Mr. Jordan was being a jerk.” My brother still seemed skeptical, but he didn’t push it. I could feel him begin to pull away, to lose interest in the conversation, and it made me suddenly anxious. There was something I still wanted to say. Something that had been bothering me all day. I’d been deliberating for hours whether or not to ask the question—even how to ask the question—and, finally, I just gave in and made a mess of it. “Hey, Navid?” I said quietly. He’d just turned to grab something out of his bag, and he looked back at me. “Yeah?” “Do you—” I hesitated. Reconsidered. “Do I what?” I took a deep breath. “Do you think I’m pretty?” Navid’s reaction to my question was so absurd I almost don’t even know how to describe it. He looked somehow shocked and confused and hysterical all at the same time. Eventually, he laughed. Hard. It sounded strange. I was mortified. “Oh my God, never mind,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry I even asked. That was so stupid.”

I was halfway across the room when Navid jogged—slowly, dragging his sneakers—after me, and said, “Wait, wait, I’m sorry—” “Forget it,” I said angrily. I was blushing past my hairline. I was now standing way too close to Bijan, Carlos, and Jacobi, and I did not want them to hear this conversation. I tried desperately to convey this with my eyes, but Navid seemed incapable of picking up my signals. “I don’t want to talk about this, okay? Forget I said anything.” “Hey, listen,” Navid said, “I was just surprised. I wasn’t expecting you to say something like that.” “Say something like what?” This, from Bijan. I wanted to die. “Nothing,” I said to Bijan. I glared at Navid. “Nothing, okay?” Navid looked over at the guys and sighed. “Shirin wants to know if I think she’s pretty. But, listen,” he said, looking at me again, “I don’t think I should be answering that question. That feels like a really weird question for a sister to ask her brother, you know? Maybe you should be asking these guys,” he said, nodding at the rest of the group. “Oh my God,” I said, half whispering the words. I really thought I might murder my brother. I wanted to close my hands around his throat. “What is wrong with you?” I shouted. And then— “I think you’re pretty,” Carlos said. He was retying his shoelaces. He’d said the statement like he was talking about the weather. I looked at him. I felt slightly stunned. “I mean, I think you’re scary as hell,” he said, and shrugged. “But, yeah. I mean, yeah. Very cute.” “You think I’m scary?” I said, and frowned. Carlos nodded. He wouldn’t even look at me. “Do you think I’m scary?” I said to Bijan. “Oh,” he said, and raised his eyebrows. “Definitely.” I actually took a step back, I was so surprised. “Are you serious? Do you all feel this way?” And they all nodded. Even Navid. “I think you’re beautiful, though,” Bijan said. “If that helps.” My mouth fell open. “Why do you all think I’m so scary?” They collectively shrugged. “People think you’re mean,” Navid finally said to me. “People are assholes,” I snapped.

“See?” Navid pointed at me. “This is the thing you do.” “What thing?” I said, frustrated again. “People are flaming pieces of shit to me, like, all day long, and I’m not supposed to be mad about it?” “You can be mad about it,” Jacobi said, and the sound of his voice startled me. He seemed, suddenly, very serious. “But, like, you seem to think everyone is horrible.” “That’s because everyone is horrible.” Jacobi shook his head. “Listen,” he said, “I know what it’s like to be angry all the time, okay? I do. Your shit—the shit you have to deal with— it’s hard, yeah. But you just—you can’t do this. You can’t be angry all the time. Trust me,” he said. “I’ve tried that. It’ll kill you.” I looked at him. Really looked at him. There was something in Jacobi’s eyes that was sympathetic in a way I’d never experienced before. It wasn’t pity. It was recognition. He actually seemed to acknowledge me, my pain, and my anger, in a way no one else ever had. Not my parents. Not even my brother. I felt suddenly like I’d been pierced in the chest. I felt suddenly like I wanted to cry. “Just try to be happy,” Jacobi finally said to me. “Your happiness is the one thing these assholes can’t stand.”

13 Thirteen All afternoon, I’d been thinking about what Jacobi said to me. I got home and I took a shower and I thought about it. All through dinner, I thought about it. I sat at my desk and stared at the wall and listened to music and thought about it and thought about it and thought about it. I locked myself in my bedroom and thought about it. It was just past nine o’clock. The house was still. These were the quiet hours before my parents demanded I be asleep—the hours during which all members of my family performed a small mercy and left one another alone for a while. I was sitting in bed, staring at a blank page in my journal. Thinking.

I wondered, for the very first time, if maybe I was doing this whole thing wrong. If maybe I’d allowed myself to be blinded by my own anger to the exclusion of all else. If maybe, just maybe, I’d been so determined not to be stereotyped that I’d begun to stereotype everyone around me. It made me think about Ocean. He kept trying to be nice to me and, in an unexpected turn of events, his kindness left me angry and confused. I pushed him away because I was afraid to be even remotely close to someone who, I was certain, would one day hurt me. I trusted no one anymore. I was so raw from repeated exposure to cruelty that now even the most minor abrasions left a mark. The checkout lady at the grocery store would be rude to me and her simple unkindness would unnerve me for the rest of the day because I never knew —I had no way of knowing— Are you racist? Or are you just having a bad day? I could no longer distinguish people from monsters. I looked out at the world around me and no longer saw nuance. I saw nothing but the potential for pain and the subsequent need to protect myself, constantly. Damn, I thought. This really was exhausting. I sighed and picked up my phone. hey. why weren’t you in class today? Ocean responded right away. wow i didn’t think you’d notice i was gone can you get online? I smiled. jujehpolo: Hey riversandoceans04: Hi riversandoceans04: Sorry for bailing on you in bio riversandoceans04: No one should have to slice into a dead cat by themselves jujehpolo: It really is, like, the worst school assignment I’ve ever had riversandoceans04: Same here

And then— I wasn’t sure why, exactly, but I had this sudden, strange feeling that something was wrong. It was hard to tell from a few typed words, but I felt it in my gut. Ocean seemed off, somehow, and I couldn’t shake it. jujehpolo: Hey, is everything okay? riversandoceans04: Yeah riversandoceans04: Sort of I waited. I waited and nothing happened. He wrote nothing else. jujehpolo: You don’t want to talk about it? riversandoceans04: Not really jujehpolo: Did you get in trouble for ditching class? riversandoceans04: No jujehpolo: Are you in trouble for something else? riversandoceans04: Lol riversandoceans04: You do realize this is the exact opposite of not talking about it, right jujehpolo: Yes riversandoceans04: But we’re still talking about it jujehpolo: I’m worried I got you in trouble And then, our messages crossed paths in the ether: I wrote my brother didn’t bother you, did he? and Ocean wrote don’t worry, it has nothing to do with you And then— riversandoceans04: What? riversandoceans04: Why would your brother bother me? riversandoceans04: I didn’t even know you had a brother riversandoceans04: Wait riversandoceans04: You told your brother about me? Shit. jujehpolo: Apparently Mr. Jordan is supervising our breakdancing club jujehpolo: He told my brother I ditched class with a guy today

jujehpolo: And my brother was mad jujehpolo: It’s fine now. I told him what happened. riversandoceans04: Oh riversandoceans04: So what does that have to do with your brother bothering me jujehpolo: Nothing jujehpolo: He just thought we’d ditched class together riversandoceans04: But we did jujehpolo: I know riversandoceans04: So your brother hates me now? jujehpolo: He doesn’t even know you jujehpolo: He was just being overprotective riversandoceans04: Wait a second, who’s your brother again? He goes to our school? jujehpolo: Yeah. He’s a senior. His name is Navid. riversandoceans04: Oh riversandoceans04: I don’t think I know him. jujehpolo: You probably wouldn’t riversandoceans04: So should I be worried? riversandoceans04: About your brother? jujehpolo: No jujehpolo: Lol jujehpolo: Listen, I’m not trying to freak you out, I’m sorry riversandoceans04: I’m not freaked out Sure he wasn’t. I waited a few seconds to see if he’d say anything else, but he didn’t. Finally, I wrote: jujehpolo: So you’re really not going to tell me what happened to you today? riversandoceans04: That depends riversandoceans04: A lot of things happened to me today My stomach did a little flip. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was talking about us. Our earlier conversations. The lack of physical distance between our bodies as we stood on an unimportant sidewalk in the middle of an unimportant town. I didn’t know what any of it meant—or if it would

ever mean anything. Maybe I was the only one experiencing these little stomach flips. Maybe I was projecting my own feelings onto his words. Maybe I was nuts. I hadn’t yet decided what to say when he sent another message. riversandoceans04: Hey jujehpolo: Yeah? riversandoceans04: Can you get on the phone? jujehpolo: Oh jujehpolo: You want to talk on the phone? riversandoceans04: Yeah jujehpolo: Why? riversandoceans04: I want to hear your voice A weird, not exactly unwelcome nervousness flooded through me. My brain felt suddenly warm and like maybe someone had filled my head with fizzy water. I would’ve vastly preferred to have disappeared in that moment; instead of getting on the phone I wanted to dissect this conversation somewhere else, somewhere by myself. I wanted to pick the whole thing apart and put it back together again. I wanted to understand what seemed inexplicable to me. In fact, I would’ve been happy if I want to hear your voice had been the last thing Ocean ever said to me. Instead, I wrote, okay Ocean’s voice pressed up against my ear might’ve been one of the most intense physical experiences I’d ever had. It was strange. It made me surprisingly nervous. I’d talked to him so many times—he was my lab partner, after all—but somehow, this was different. The two of us on the phone felt so private. Like our voices had met in outer space. He said, “Hey,” and I felt the sound wash over me. “Hi,” I said. “This is weird.” He laughed. “I think it’s nice. You seem real, like this.” I’d never noticed it in person, with so much else to distract me, but he had a really attractive voice. It sounded different—good, really good—in stereo. “Oh.” My heart was racing. “I guess so.” “So your brother wants to kick my ass, huh?” “What? No.” I hesitated. “I mean, I don’t think so. Not really.” He laughed again.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked. “No.” “Oh. Well. That’s probably for the best.” “I don’t know,” he said. “It sounds nice.” “Sometimes it really is nice,” I said, considering it. “My brother and I are pretty close. But we also went through a period where we would literally beat the shit out of each other.” “Okay, that sounds bad.” “Yeah.” I paused. “But he also taught me how to fight, which was an unexpected fringe benefit.” “Really?” He sounded surprised. “You can fight?” “Not well.” He said, “Huh,” in a thoughtful way, and then went quiet. I waited a couple of seconds before I said, “So what happened to you today?” He sighed. “If you really, really don’t want to talk about it,” I said, “we don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to talk about it even a little bit, I’m happy to listen.” “I want to tell you,” he said, but his voice sounded suddenly far away. “I just also don’t want to tell you.” “Oh,” I said. Confused. “Okay.” “It’s too heavy, too soon.” “Oh,” I said. “Maybe we can talk about my messed-up parental issues after I’ve learned your middle name, for example.” “I don’t have a middle name.” “Huh. Okay, how about—” “You ask me a lot of questions.” Silence. “Is that bad?” “No,” I said. “I just—can I ask you some questions?” He said nothing for a second. And then, quietly, “Okay.” He told me why his parents named him Ocean, that the story wasn’t that exciting, he said his mom was obsessed with the water and that it was ironic, actually, because he’d always had this strange fear of drowning and was a lousy swimmer and had never really cared for the ocean, actually, and that his middle name was Desmond, so he had not two, but three first

names, and I told him I really liked the name Desmond, and he said it had been his grandfather’s name, there was nothing special about it, and I asked him if he’d known his grandfather and he said no, he said that his parents had split up when he was five and he’d lost touch with that side of his family, that he’d only seen his dad occasionally since then. I wanted to ask more questions about his parents but I didn’t, because I knew he didn’t want to talk about it, so instead I asked him where he wanted to go to college and he said he was torn between Columbia and Berkeley, because Berkeley sounded perfect but wasn’t in a big city, and he said he really wanted to live in a big city, and I said yes, you said that before, and he said, “Yeah. Sometimes I just feel like I was born into the wrong family.” “What do you mean?” “I feel like everyone around me is dead,” he said, and his anger surprised me. “Like no one thinks anymore. Everyone seems satisfied with the most depressing shit. I don’t want to be like that.” “I wouldn’t want to be like that either.” “Yeah, well, I don’t think you’re in any danger of that.” “Oh,” I said, surprised. “Thanks.” And then he said, “Have you ever had a boyfriend?” —and I felt the moment freeze all around me. I had never had a boyfriend, I said to him, no, I had not. “Why not?” “Um.” I laughed. “Wow, where do I even begin with this? First of all, I’m pretty sure my parents would be horrified if I ever so much as intimated that I had feelings for a boy, because I think they still think I’m five. “Second of all, I’ve never really lived in one place long enough for something like that to play out, and um, I don’t know, Ocean”—I laughed again—“the truth is, guys don’t, uh—they don’t really ask me out.” “Well what if a guy did ask you out?” I didn’t like where this was going. I didn’t want to act out this scenario. Honestly, I never thought it would get this far. I was so certain Ocean would never be interested in me that I didn’t bother to consider how bad it would be if he were. I thought Ocean was a nice guy, but I also thought he was naive. Maybe I could try letting go of my anger—maybe I could try being kinder for a change—but I knew that even the most optimistic attitude wouldn’t change the structure of the world we lived in. Ocean was a nice,

handsome, heterosexual white guy, and the world expected great things from him. Those things did not involve falling for a highly controversial Middle Eastern girl in a headscarf. I had to save him from himself. So I didn’t answer his question. Instead, I said, “I mean, it’s not a frequent occurrence in my life, but it actually has happened before. When I was in middle school my brother went through a phase where he was a total and complete asshole, and he’d go through my diary and find out about these rare, brave souls and hunt them down. He’d scare the shit out of them.” I paused. “It did wonders for my love life, as I’m sure you can imagine.” And I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, exactly, but when Ocean said, “You keep a diary?” I realized I hadn’t been expecting him to say that. “Oh,” I said. “Yeah.” “That’s really cool.” And I knew then, somehow, that I needed to end this conversation. Something was happening; something was changing and it was scaring me. So I said, a little suddenly, “Hey, I should probably get going. It’s late and I still have a lot of homework to do.” “Oh,” he said. And I could tell, even in that small word, that he sounded surprised, and maybe—maybe—disappointed. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” “Sure,” he said. “Okay.” I tried to smile, even though he couldn’t see me. “Bye.” After we hung up, I collapsed onto my bed and closed my eyes. This dizziness was in my marrow, in my mind. I was being stupid. I knew better, and I’d texted him anyway, and now I was confusing this poor kid who didn’t have a clue what he was wading into. This whole thing probably seemed simple to him: Ocean thought I was pretty and he’d told me so; I hadn’t told him to go to hell, so here we were. He was trying, maybe, to ask me out? Asking out a girl he thought was pretty probably seemed like an obvious move to him, but that just wasn’t something I wanted to happen. That was drama I didn’t want, had no interest in. Wow, I was stupid. I’d let my guard down. I did that thing—the thing where I allowed cute boys to get in my head and mess with my common sense—and I’d let my

conversation with Jacobi distract me from the bigger picture here. Nothing had changed. I’d made a mistake by opening myself up like this. This was a mistake. I had to stop talking to Ocean. I had to dial this back. Switch gears. And fast.

14 Fourteen I bailed on Mr. Jordan’s class four days in a row. I’d gone to my academic counselor and told her I wanted to withdraw from my Global Perspectives class and she asked why and I said I didn’t like the class, that I didn’t like Mr. Jordan’s teaching methods, and she said it was too late to drop the class, that I’d have a W on my transcript and that colleges didn’t like that, and I shrugged and she frowned and we both stared at each other for a minute. Finally she said she’d have to notify Mr. Jordan that I’d be withdrawing from the class. She said he’d have to approve the action, was I aware of this, and I said, “Yeah, that’s fine.” And I just stopped going to Mr. Jordan’s class. This worked well enough in the beginning, but on the fourth day—it was now Thursday—he found me at my locker. He said, “Hey. I haven’t seen you in class in a couple of days.” I glanced at him. Slammed my locker shut; spun the combination. “That’s because I’m not taking your class anymore.” “I heard.” “Okay.” I started walking. He kept up. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” “You’re talking to me now.” “Shirin,” he said, “I’m really sorry. I realize I did something wrong, and I’d really like to discuss it with you.” I stopped in the middle of the hallway. Turned to face him. I was feeling brave, apparently. “What would you like to discuss?” “Well, obviously I’ve upset you—”

“Obviously you’ve upset me, yes.” I looked at him. “Why would you pull such a dick move, Mr. Jordan? You knew Travis was going to say something awful about me, and you wanted him to.” Students were rushing around us, some of them slowing down to stare as they went. Mr. Jordan looked flustered. “That’s not true,” he said, his neck going red. “I didn’t want him to say anything awful about you. I just wanted us to be able to talk about stereotypes and how harmful they are. How you are more than what he might have assumed about you.” “Whatever,” I said. “That’s maybe sixty percent true. The other forty percent is that you sacrificed my comfort just to make yourself seem progressive. You put me in that shitty situation because you thought it would be shocking and exciting.” “Can we please talk about this somewhere else?” he said, pleading with his eyes. “Maybe in my classroom?” I sighed heavily. “Fine.” Honestly, I didn’t know why he cared. I didn’t realize it would be such a big deal to drop his class, but then, I didn’t know anything about being a teacher. Maybe my complaint got Mr. Jordan in trouble. I had no idea. But he just wasn’t giving this up. “I’m sorry,” he said for the fifth time. “I really am. I never meant to upset you like this. I really didn’t think it would hurt you.” “Then you didn’t think,” I said. My voice was shaking a little; some of my bravado had worn off. Here, separated by his desk, I was suddenly very aware of the fact that I was talking to a teacher, and old, deeply ingrained habits were reminding me that I was just a sixteen-year-old kid very much at the mercy of these random, underpaid adults. “It’s not much of a leap,” I said to him, speaking more calmly now, “to imagine something like that being hurtful. And anyway, this isn’t even about you hurting my feelings.” “It’s not?” “No,” I said. “It’s about the fact that you think you’re being helpful. But if you’d stopped to consider for even five seconds what my life was actually like you’d have realized you weren’t doing me a favor. I don’t need to hear any more people say stupid shit to my face, okay? I don’t. I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime. You don’t get to make an example out of me,” I said. “Not like that.”

“I’m sorry.” I shook my head. Looked away. “What can I do to get you to come back to class?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not looking to strike a deal.” “But we need your voice in the classroom,” he said. “What you just said to me here, right now—I want to hear you say that in class. You’re allowed to tell me when I’m messing up, too, okay? But if you walk away the second it gets hard, how will any of us ever learn? Who will be there to guide us?” “Maybe you can look it up. Visit a library.” He laughed. Sighed. Sat back in his chair. “I get it,” he said, throwing up his hands in defeat. “I do. It’s not your job to educate the ignorant.” “No,” I said. “It’s not. I’m tired as hell, Mr. Jordan. I’ve been trying to educate people for years and it’s exhausting. I’m tired of being patient with bigots. I’m tired of trying to explain why I don’t deserve to be treated like a piece of shit all the time. I’m tired of begging everyone to understand that people of color aren’t all the same, that we don’t all believe the same things or feel the same things or experience the world the same way.” I shook my head, hard. “I’m just—I’m sick and tired of trying to explain to the world why racism is bad, okay? Why is that my job?” “It’s not.” “You’re right,” I said. “It’s not.” “I know.” “I don’t think you do.” He leaned forward. “Come back to class,” he said. “Please. I’m sorry.” Mr. Jordan was wearing me down. I’d never talked to a teacher like this before, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised I was getting away with it. He also seemed—I don’t know? He actually seemed genuine. It made me want to give him another chance. Still, I said, “Listen, I appreciate your apology, but I don’t know if you’d actually want me back in your class.” He seemed surprised. “Why not?” “Because,” I said, “if you pull another stunt like this I’m liable to tell you to go to hell in front of all your students.” He seemed unfazed. “I can accept these terms.” Finally, I said, “Fine.” Mr. Jordan smiled so big I thought it might break his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, whatever.” I stood up. “It’s going to be a great semester,” he said. “You won’t regret it.” “Uh-huh.” Mr. Jordan stood up, too. “By the way—I’m really excited to see you guys perform in the talent show. Congratulations.” I froze. “Excuse me?” “The school talent show,” he said. He looked confused. “The breakdancing club—?” “What about it?” “Your brother signed you guys up two weeks ago. He didn’t tell you? Your application was accepted today. It’s a really big deal, actually—” “Oh, shit,” I said, and groaned. “Hey—it’ll be great—you guys will do great—” “Yeah, I have to go,” I said. And I had one foot out the door when Mr. Jordan called my name. I turned back to look at him. His eyes were suddenly sad. “I really hope you won’t let this stuff get you down,” he said. “Life gets way better after high school, I swear.” I wanted to say, Then why are you still here? But I decided to cut him some slack. Instead, I shot him a half smile and bolted.

15 Fifteen I walked into practice and Navid clapped his hands together, grinned, and said, “Big news.” “Oh yeah?” I dropped my bag on the ground. I wanted to kill him. “School talent show,” he said, and smiled wider. “It’s a couple weeks after we get back from winter break, which means we’ve got about three months to prepare. And we’re going to start now.” “Bullshit, Navid.” His smile disappeared. “Hey,” he said, “I thought you were going to be nicer now. What happened to that new plan?”

I rolled my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you signed us up for the freaking school talent show?” “I didn’t think you’d mind.” “Well I mind, okay? I mind. I have no idea why you’d think I’d want to perform in front of the whole school. I hate this school.” “Yes, but, to be fair,” he said, pointing at me, “you kind of hate everything.” “You guys are okay with this?” I said, spinning around. Jacobi, Carlos, and Bijan had been pretending they couldn’t hear our conversation, and they looked up, suddenly. “All three of you want to perform in front of the school?” Carlos shrugged. Bijan chose that moment to drink deeply from his water bottle. Jacobi just laughed at me. “I mean, I’m not mad at it,” he said. “It could be cool.” Great. So I was overreacting. I was the only one here who thought this was a stupid idea. That was just great. I sighed, said, “Whatever,” and sat down. I’d changed into my sneakers too quickly today and hadn’t yet tied my shoes. “Hey, it’ll be fun,” Navid said to me. “I promise.” “I can barely even hold a pose right now,” I said, and glared at him. “How will that be fun? I’m going to make an ass out of myself.” “Let me worry about that, okay? You’re getting better every day. We’ve still got time.” I grumbled something under my breath. Bijan came over and sat next to me. I looked up at him out of the corner of my eye. “What?” I said. “Nothing.” He was wearing big, square diamond studs, one in each ear. His eyebrows were perfect. His teeth were super white. I noticed this last bit because he was suddenly smiling at me. “What?” I said again. “What is your deal?” he said, and laughed. “Why are you sweatin’ this so much?” I finished tying my shoelaces. “I’m not. It’s fine.” “All right,” he said. “Get up.” “What? Why?” “I’m going to teach you to do a backflip.” My eyes widened.

He waved a hand. “Up, please.” “Why?” I said. Bijan laughed. “Because it’s fun. You’re small, but you look strong. Shouldn’t be too hard for you.” It was hard. In fact, I was pretty sure I nearly broke both my arms. And my back. But yeah, it turned out to be fun, too. Bijan had been, in a former life, a gymnast. His moves were so clean and strong I couldn’t help but be surprised he was willing to waste his time here, with our little club. Still, I was grateful. Bijan seemed to feel sorry for me in a way that I found only a little demeaning, so I didn’t mind his company. And it didn’t bother me too much that he spent the rest of the hour basically making fun of me. After what felt like my hundredth failed attempt at a backflip, I finally fell down and didn’t get back up. I was breathing hard. My arms and legs were shaking. Navid was walking around the dance room on his hands, doing scissor kicks. Jacobi was practicing windmills, a classic power move he’d long ago perfected; he was trying now to turn his windmills into flares in the same routine. Carlos was watching him, hands on his hips, a helmet under his arm. Carlos could do head spins for days; he didn’t even need the helmet. I felt at once excited and inferior as I stared at them. I was, by far, the least talented of the group. Of course they felt more comfortable performing in public. They were already so good. Me, on the other hand, I needed a lot of work. “You’ll be fine,” Bijan said to me, and nudged my arm. I looked up at him. “And you’re not the only one who hates high school, you know? You didn’t invent that.” I raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I didn’t think I did.” “Good.” He glanced at me. “Just checking.” “So, hey,” I said to him, “if you’re only eighty percent gay, wouldn’t that make you bisexual?” Bijan frowned. Faltered a moment. “Huh,” he said. “Yeah, I guess.” “You don’t know?” He tilted his head at me and said, “I’m still figuring it out.” “Do your parents know?” “Uh.” He raised his eyebrows. “What do you think?” “I’m guessing no?”

“Yeah, and let’s keep it that way, okay? I’m not interested in having that conversation right now.” “Okay.” “Maybe, like, on my deathbed.” “Whatever you want,” I said, and shrugged. “Your eighty percent is safe with me.” Bijan laughed. He just looked at me. “You don’t make any sense, you know that?” “What? Why not?” He shook his head. Stared out across the room. “You just don’t.” I didn’t have a chance to ask him another question. Navid was shouting at me to grab my bag, because our time in the dance room was up. “I’m hungry as hell,” he said, as he jogged over to us. “You guys want to get something to eat?” It hadn’t occurred to me that there might be something strange about me, a sophomore, hanging out with a bunch of senior guys all the time. I never thought about it that way. Navid was my brother, and these were his friends. This was a familiar habitat for me. Navid had been infesting my personal space—at home, at school—with his many guy friends since forever, and, generally, I didn’t care for it. He and his friends were always eating my food. Messing with my stuff. They’d walk out of my bathroom and say, with zero self-awareness, that they’d cracked a window in there but if I had any interest in self-preservation I might want to use a different toilet for a while. It was gross. My brother’s friends always started out vaguely good-looking, but all it took was a single week of focused observation before these dudes made me want to barricade myself in my room. So it wasn’t until we were leaving the dance studio that I was suddenly reminded that I was in high school, and that, for some reason, Navid and his friends were kind of cool. Cool enough that a cheerleader would be inspired to speak to me. I’d begun noticing them, all the time now. The cheerleaders. They were always around, after school, and it took me an embarrassing length of time to realize that they were probably around all the time because they were getting together for practice every day. So when we ran into a group of girls as we were leaving, I was no longer surprised. What surprised me was when one of them waved me over.

At first I was confused. I thought she was having a conniption. And I was so certain that this girl was not waving at me that I ignored her for a full fifteen seconds before Navid finally nudged me and said, “Uh, I think that girl is trying to get your attention.” It was crazy, but she was. “That’s nice,” I said. “Can we go?” “You’re just going to ignore her?” Jacobi looked amazed, and not in a good way. “There is a one hundred percent chance that she has no good reason to talk to me,” I said. “So, yes. I’m going to ignore her.” Bijan shook his head at me. He almost—almost—smiled. Navid shoved me forward. “You said you were going to be nice.” “No I didn’t.” But they all looked so disappointed in me that I finally gave in. I loathed myself the entire twenty-five-foot walk over to her, but I did it. The moment I was close enough, she grabbed my arm. I stiffened. “Hey,” she said quickly. She wasn’t even looking at me; she was looking behind me. “Who’s that guy over there?” Wow, there was little I hated more than this conversation. “Uh, who are you?” I said. “What?” She glanced at me. “Oh. I’m Bethany. Hey, how are you even friends with these guys?” This was it. This, right here. This was why I didn’t talk to people. “Is this why you called me over here? Because you want me to hook you up with one of these dudes?” “Yeah. That one.” She gestured with her head. “The one with the blue eyes.” “Who? Carlos?” I frowned. “The guy with the curly black hair?” She nodded. “His name is Carlos?” I sighed. “Carlos,” I shouted. “Will you come over here, please?” He walked over, confused. But then I introduced him to Bethany, and he looked suddenly delighted. “Have fun,” I said. “Bye.” Bethany tried to thank me, but I waved her away. I’d never been so disappointed in my own gender. The quality of this female interaction had

been worse than abysmal. And I was just about to leave when I was suddenly distracted by a familiar face. It was Ocean, exiting the gym. He had that large gym bag strapped across his chest and he looked like he’d taken a shower; his hair was wet and his cheeks were pink. I saw him for only a second before he crossed the hall into another room and disappeared. My heart sank. I hadn’t talked to Ocean in three days. I wanted to. I really, really wanted to, but I was trying to do what I thought was the right thing. I didn’t want to lead him on. I didn’t want him to think that there was potential here, between us. He tried, twice, to catch up with me after class, but I brushed him off. I did my best to avoid his eyes. I didn’t go online. I kept our bio conversations as brief and boring as possible. I was trying not to engage with him anymore, because I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. But I could tell he was both hurt and confused. I didn’t know what else to do. There was a small, cowardly part of me that hoped Ocean would realize on his own that I wasn’t an option worth exploring. He seemed fascinated by me in a way that felt familiar but also entirely new, and I wondered if his fascination would wear off, like it always did in these kinds of situations. I wondered if he’d learn to forget about me. Go back to his friends. Find a nice blond girlfriend. It was confusing, I know, how I’d gone from wanting a new friend in this school to suddenly wishing I could hit undo on the whole thing. Though, to be fair, I’d been looking for a platonic friend, preferably female. Not a boyfriend, not anything even close to that. I’d just wanted, like, a normal teenage experience. I wanted to eat lunch with friends, plural. I wanted to go to the movies with someone. I maybe even wanted to pretend to give a shit about the SATs. I don’t know. But I was beginning to wonder if a normal teenage experience was even a thing. “Hey, can we go? I’m starving.” It was Navid, tapping me on the shoulder. “Oh. Yeah,” I said. But I was still staring at the door through which Ocean had disappeared. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

16 Sixteen I showed up to Mr. Jordan’s class the next day, as promised, but my return was weirder than I’d expected. I hadn’t realized that everyone would’ve known—or even noticed—that I’d walked out of class and hadn’t been back most of the week. I didn’t think anyone would care. But when I took my normal seat, the kids in my little cluster looked at me like I’d sprouted wings. “What?” I said. I dropped my bag on the ground next to me. “Did you really try to drop the class?” This, from one of the girls. Her name was Shauna. “Yeah,” I said. “Why?” “Wow.” The other girl, Leilani, was staring at me. “That’s crazy.” Ryan, the fourth member of our group—a guy who always talked at me and never looked me in the eye—chose that moment to yawn. Loudly. I frowned at Leilani. “Why is that crazy? Mr. Jordan made me super uncomfortable.” Neither of the girls seemed to think this was an acceptable answer. “Hey, why did Ocean follow you out the other day? What was that about?” Leilani again. Now I was truly stunned. I couldn’t begin to imagine why they cared about any of this. I hadn’t even realized Leilani knew who Ocean was. This class was an elective, so there was flexibility in the roster—we weren’t all in the same grade; Leilani and Shauna, for example, were juniors. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess he felt bad.” Shauna was about to ask me another question when Mr. Jordan clapped his hands together, hard, and called out a greeting. “All right everyone, we’re switching things up today.” Mr. Jordan was dancing the cha-cha in front of the room. He was so weird. I laughed, and he stopped, caught my eye. He smiled and said, “Good to see you again, Shirin,” and people turned to stare at me. I stopped laughing. “So,” he said. He was speaking to the class again. “Are you guys ready for this?” He paused for just a second before he said, “New groups! Everyone stand up.”

The class groaned, loudly, and I agreed with the collective sentiment. I definitely didn’t want to meet any more new people. I hated meeting new people. But I also understood that this was kind of the point. So I sighed, resigned, as Mr. Jordan started sorting us into new clusters. I ended up across the room, sitting with three new girls, and we all avoided looking at each other for a few minutes. “Hey.” I turned, startled. Ocean was sitting, not next to me, exactly, but near me. In a different group. He was leaning back in his chair. He smiled, but his eyes looked wary, a little worried. “Hi,” I said. “Hi,” he said. He had a pencil behind his ear. I didn’t think people actually did that, but he currently had an actual pencil behind his ear. It was so cute. He was so cute. “You dropped this,” he said, and held out a small, folded piece of paper. I eyed the paper in his hand. I was pretty sure I hadn’t dropped anything, but then again, who knew. I took it from him, and, just like that, the worry in his eyes warmed into something else. I felt my heart speed up. Has anyone else figured out that you’re always listening to music in class? Are you listening to music right now? How do you listen to music all the time without failing all your classes? Why did you delete your AIM profile that first time we talked? I have so many questions. I looked back at him, surprised, and he smiled so hard he almost laughed. He looked very pleased with himself. I shook my head, but I was smiling, too. And then I deliberately pulled the iPod out of my pocket and hit play. When I turned back around in my seat, I nearly jumped out of my skin. The three other girls in my cluster were now staring blankly at me, looking possibly more confused by my existence than I’d expected. “Don’t forget to introduce yourselves,” Mr. Jordan bellowed. “Names are important!” And then he picked up the large mason jar that sat on his desk every day and said, “Today’s topic is”—he pulled a piece of paper

out of the jar, read it—“the Israeli-Palestinian conflict! This one should be really good,” he said. “Hamas! Terrorism! Is Iran complicit? Talking points will be on the board! Have fun!” I dropped my head onto my desk. It will probably surprise no one to hear that I was terrible at ignoring Ocean. I pretended, really hard, to appear uninterested in him, but that’s all it was. I was just really good at pretending. I’d denied myself permission to think about him, which somehow made it so that I thought about him all the time. I noticed him too much now. He seemed to be everywhere, suddenly. So much so that I started wondering if maybe I was wrong, if maybe it wasn’t mere coincidence that kept bringing us together. Maybe, instead, he’d always been there, and maybe I’d only just begun to see him. It was like when Navid bought that Nissan Sentra; before Navid got the car, I’d never, ever noticed one of them on the road before. Now I saw old Nissan Sentras everywhere. This whole thing was stressing me out. I felt nervous, even just sitting in the same class with him. Our work in bio had become more difficult than ever, simply because I was trying to dislike him and it wasn’t working; he was almost bionically likable. He had this really calming presence that always made me feel like, I don’t know, like I could let my guard down when I was with him. Which, somehow, only made me more nervous. I thought being quiet—speaking only when I absolutely had to—would help defuse whatever tension existed between us, but it only seemed to make things more intense. When we didn’t talk, some invisible lever was still winding a coil between our bodies. In some ways, my silence was more telling than anything else. It was a breathless sort of standoff. I kept trying to break away, and I couldn’t. Today—it was now Monday—I only made it through thirty minutes of ignoring Ocean in bio. I was tapping my pencil against a blank page in my notebook, avoiding the dead cat between us and instead trying to think of things to hate about him, when Ocean turned to me, apropos of nothing, and said, “Hey, am I saying your name right?” I was so surprised I sat up. Stared at him. “No,” I said.

“What? Are you serious?” He laughed, but he looked upset. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I shrugged. Turned back to my notebook. “No one ever says my name right.” “Well, I’d like to,” he said. He touched my arm, and I looked up again. “How am I supposed to say it?” He’d been pronouncing my name Shi-reen, which was better than most people; most people had been saying it in two hard syllables: Shir-in, which was very wrong. It was actually pronounced Shee-reen. I tried to explain this to him. I tried to tell him that he had to roll the r. That the whole thing was meant to be pronounced softly. Gently, even. Ocean tried, several times, to say it correctly, and I was genuinely touched. A little amused. “It sounds so pretty,” he said. “What does it mean?” I laughed. I didn’t want to tell him, so I shook my head. “What?” he said. His eyes widened. “Is it bad?” “No.” I sighed. “It means sweet. I just think it’s funny. I think my parents were hoping for a different kind of kid.” “What do you mean?” “I mean no one has ever accused me of being sweet.” Ocean laughed. He shrugged, slowly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess you’re not sweet exactly. But”—he hesitated; picked up his pencil, rolled it between his hands—“you’re, just, like—” He stopped. Sighed. He wouldn’t look at me. And I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I definitely wanted to know what he was thinking but I didn’t want him to know that I wanted to know what he was thinking, so I just sat there, waiting. “You’re so strong,” he said finally. He was still staring at his pencil. “You don’t seem to be afraid of anything.” I didn’t know what I’d been hoping he’d say, exactly, but I was surprised. So surprised, in fact, that I was rendered, for a moment, speechless. I so rarely felt strong. Mostly I felt scared. When he finally looked up, I was already staring at him. “I’m afraid of lots of things,” I whispered. We’d just been looking at each other, hardly breathing, when suddenly the bell rang. I jumped up, feeling unexpectedly embarrassed, grabbed my things, and disappeared.

He texted me that night. what are you afraid of? he wrote. But I didn’t respond. I walked into bio the next day, prepared to make the herculean effort to be an aloof, boring lab partner yet again, when the whole thing finally just fell apart. Collapsed. Ocean ran into me. I don’t know what happened, exactly. He’d sidestepped too fast— someone had been rushing between the lab tables with a sopping dead cat in their hands—and he’d slammed into me just as I was walking up. It was like something out of a movie. His body was hard and soft and my hands flew up, found purchase around his back and he caught me, wrapped his arms around me, said, “Oh — Sorry—” but we were still pressed together when instinct forced my head up, surprised, and I tried to speak but instead my lips grazed his neck, and for one second I could breathe him in, and he let go, too fast, and I stumbled; he caught my hands, and I looked at him, his eyes wide, deep, scared, and I pulled back, broke the connection, reeling. It was the clumsiest production of physical interaction; the whole thing lasted no more than several seconds. I’m sure no one else even noticed it happen. But I saw him touch his neck where my mouth had been. I felt my heart stutter when I remembered his arms around me. And neither of us spoke for the rest of the period. I grabbed my bag when the bell rang, ready to run for my life, when he said my name and only the very basic rules of etiquette held me in place. My heart was racing, had been racing for an hour. I felt electric, like an overcharged battery. Things were sparking inside of me and I needed to go away, get away from him. Sitting next to him all through class had been profound and excruciating. I’d had many unimportant, insignificant crushes on boys before. I’d had pathetic daydreams and silly fantasies and had devoted many pages in my journal to entirely forgettable people I’d known and quickly discarded over the years. But I had never, ever touched someone and felt like this: like I was holding electricity inside of me. “Hey,” he said.

It took a lot of effort to turn around, but I did, and when I did, he looked different. Like maybe he was just as terrified as I was. “Hi,” I said, but the word didn’t make much sound. “Can we talk?” I shook my head. “I have to go.” I watched him swallow, the Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat. He said, “Okay,” but then he walked up to me, walked right up to me, and I felt something pop inside my head. Brain cells dying, probably. He wasn’t looking at me, he was looking at the two inches of floor between us and I thought maybe he was going to say something but he didn’t. He just stood there, and I watched the gentle motions of his chest as he breathed, in and out, up and down, and I felt a faint spinning in my head, and like my body had overheated, and my heart would not stop, could not stop racing and finally he whispered the words—without touching me, without even looking at me—he said, “I just need to know,” he said, “are you feeling this, too?” He looked up, then. Looked me in the eye. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t remember how. But