I roll up the program filled with old film stars. These people are Kincaid’s homage to the past—
his
past. Whatever he offers his actors must be substantial for them to endure so much pain. It can’t be a simple process to have your entire face altered to look like someone else.
This is the benefit of Tailoring that Kincaid wanted to show me.
“Shame, shame,” Kincaid’s high voice says, startling me. “Spying on us, eh?”
I start to defend myself, but he continues before I can think of a good excuse for being back here.
“She was quite good,” he says. He smears a rag across his forehead, wiping off some of his elaborate stage cosmetics. “Got a bit carried away. I hate to leave marks on them, but it’s part of the play.”
“She wants her face back,” I say.
“Pity, but the boys can fix her.”
“How would they do that?” I ask. I try to keep my voice steady, hoping he doesn’t hear the tremble in it that betrays my true feelings. If there is a way to reverse alterations, I could save my mother and help Amie remember. But maybe it’s easier to change a face than to undo the kind of damage the Guild inflicts.
But Kincaid is still glowing from his great theatrical accomplishment and doesn’t seem to notice. “‘All the world’s a stage,’ Adelice,” he says. “‘And all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts.’”
“I’m not interested in being pseudo-intellectual,” I say. “Can they fix her?”
Kincaid glowers, but his tone stays even as he answers. “They’ll have her original measurements on file. It’s a shame, considering how lovely she is as Veronica, but I did promise them they could be altered back. If she wants to continue in my employment, she’ll get used to a bit of alteration for the good of the performance.”
I force a small smile, but bile rises in my throat. I can’t imagine being so far indebted to Kincaid.
As we watch, the stage crew emerges from the shadows, leading the injured actors away. I bite my lip to keep the accusations from tumbling out. When I turn back to Kincaid, anger blurs my vision, bringing his strands into harsh relief, as Deniel’s had been when he attacked me. Kincaid’s central time strand glimmers. It’s not like the golden strand I witnessed being pulled from the young Tailor. It’s tarnished with age, although there’s a thin, bright fiber braided through the central portion. I blink, trying to dismiss the sight, unsure of what I’m seeing.
“Sir,” Jax says, appearing beside us, “we’ve assessed the injuries and cleared most of the cast for release.”
“Very well,” Kincaid says. “There’s an issue with the voltage drop near the pavilion. No one can get it to dim properly.”
“Probably the variable resistor. I’ll take a look at it and check the estate’s grid for any faulty circuits,” Jax says. He seems giddy at the possibility.
“Please do it quickly. We mustn’t keep the party guests waiting,” Kincaid says in a low voice.
“Are all the Sunrunners also Tailors?” I ask after Jax leaves.
“A very small portion of them are Tailors. Sunrunning takes up plenty of my workforce,” he answers, “but Jax is one of the few that’s gifted at both. He and your father.”
I can’t think of anything to say to that. I know so little about Dante.
“Do you have more questions?” Kincaid asks. “About the performance? I do hope you enjoyed it. We needed some revelry to erase that … unpleasant experience.”
He thinks I’m back here to see him, I realize. It doesn’t even occur to him that what he’s done has only increased my anxiety about the Tailors and men working on his estate. I have lots of questions, but Kincaid won’t answer them.
“No,” I say, weighing my response. It takes every ounce of energy I have to say what I say next. “I wanted to compliment you on your performance.”
Kincaid beams and claps me on the shoulder. “We’ll have more shows now that there is such a large audience.”
“What about intel? Looking for the Whorl?” I ask. It’s a question that’s been on my mind since yesterday. Deniel came too close to getting to me, which means the Guild knows I’m here. “Shouldn’t we be coming up with a plan to stop Cormac?”
It’s a stupid move bringing this up now, but I can’t push it out of my mind any longer.
“My men are looking,” he assures me. “When we have news on the Whorl, you will be informed and then we can move forward. No reason not to enjoy ourselves in the meantime though.”
“And once we find it?” I ask.
“It’s the key we’ll need to rid this world of Cormac.”
“And to rid Arras of him, too?” I prompt.
Kincaid waves me off. “Of course, sometimes I forget.”
Forget about what? I wonder. That Arras exists or that he vowed to separate the worlds? I can’t bear to ask him.
Kincaid shepherds me toward the dressing room, prattling on about the various plays he’ll put on for my delight, but as he does, I glimpse a soldier lolling forward lifelessly. I hope he’s only unconscious.
* * *
Dinner is more like a festival. We dine at small tables in the main garden. Large solar lanterns strung overhead shine like small blue moons against the sparkling Interface.
I haven’t seen the Interface since we came here from the Icebox. The lighting system always masks it, creating the illusion of a real sky most of the time. But Jax has managed to dim the lights to near twilight, and now I can appreciate the Interface’s strange and terrible beauty as its rugged strands writhe above us.
There are toasts with champagne, and tiny bits of cheese passed on silver trays, but I’m heavy with thought.
“Are you okay?” Jost whispers at my side.
I turn on my best false smile—the one I perfected during my time at the Coventry. He doesn’t seem to notice, so while my face beams, my heart slips down.
Kincaid is surrounded by men and a few of the actors. None of the players bear wounds or bandages from the performance. The woman still wears Veronica’s face, but she smiles and laughs and hangs on the arms of a fellow actor. If they aren’t sad, why should I be? Kincaid took care of them. None of them seem to be in pain.
“We’ll do another,” Kincaid promises. “Perhaps
Titus
?”
A few of the men whoop in approval. Only the actress’s smile falters. The slip reveals her terror, but her mask is back on before anyone else notices. I hope she’ll leave, run away from the stage and Kincaid, but based on how well she plays her part now, I doubt she will. She’s acting again. It’s in her blood.
Valery is absent. I see Kincaid glance to his side a few times, but she’s not there. The play upset her enough that she risks Kincaid’s displeasure, or perhaps she knew he would be so wrapped up in his own ego that her absence would go unnoticed.
“You aren’t eating,” Jost says, pulling me toward a table laden with platters and plates.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. I loop my arm through his and press my face to his shoulder.
“You should eat,” he says.
The din of the party grows louder as a man demonstrates a dance. His hands flail out and he reaches for the actress. She spins gracefully into his arms.
I look at Kincaid. I imagine he’ll be bouncing in giddy beat with them, but instead he’s engaged in deep conversation with a guard. His fingers stroke his small false beard. He issues an order I can’t hear, and when he turns back to the spectacle, our eyes meet. He smiles, but his eyes stay hard, absent their usual sparkle. Unreadable.
Kincaid can act after all.
EIGHTEEN
I SLEEP SO HEAVILY THAT THE NEXT morning I have no memory of the prior night. When I look back at the time since Deniel’s attack, it seems like a dream, even though I feel far from safe. Sleep is the dark and lovely escape of my childhood, and nightmares are now an inevitability of my waking existence. They’ll come for me again and again, but in sleep, I’m finally free.
When I was little, I would lie awake and listen to my father checking the locks on our doors. The only thing I needed so I could drift away was the sound of locks clicking in place and if I heard them, I rarely had nightmares.
Once, soon after my parents starting training me to hide my gift, I dreamed I was tangled in a web, held captive by sticky strands that wound slowly around my short legs. They wrapped up my entire body until even my eyes were glued shut from the clinging fibers, and I waited to be devoured.
My father woke me that night, and I was still screaming even after he switched on the lamp that hung over my bed. Only cocooned in his strong arms did I calm down enough to relate the dream in choking, gasping sobs.
“You’re safe,” he whispered into my hair.
“But you weren’t there,” I sobbed.
He could have lied to me—told me he would never leave me—but instead he pulled away and took my trembling chin in his warm, rough hands. “When I’m not there, remember you have the strength to free yourself.”
“But I didn’t,” I protested.
“You will,” my father said, brushing back the wisps of copper hair caught in my tears.
I fell asleep in his arms and woke the next morning to find him sleeping in a crooked heap next to me. He’d stayed with me through the night. Looking back, it was almost as though he knew our time together was drawing to a close, as though he couldn’t bear to deplete my strength before I would need it most.
Now sleep asks no more of me than it once did. It is a refuge for me like it was when I was a child—perhaps the last refuge I have left.
* * *
My father is the first person I think of when I wake—my real father. The man who brought me up and locked the doors at night to keep me safe. I only knew him as a parent—someone who cared for me, providing food, shelter, and security—but now I know there was more to Benn Lewys. In the Coventry, I blocked the memory of my retrieval night, letting it fade into a fuzzy, Valpron-tainted recollection. If I didn’t think of it, it had never happened. The fact that I would never see my father again could burn out of my mind along with the other moments too painful to recall.
But now, knowing that Dante is my biological father and that Benn kept his own painful secrets tucked away, I want to remember. And for the first time since my retrieval, I have a conduit to my past.
I find Dante piling large glass panels and coiled wire into the back of a crawler.
“Going somewhere?” I ask, suddenly glad that I’d pulled on thick blue jeans rather than a dress.
“Yeah,” Dante says, pushing another panel into the cargo bed. There’s the hesitation of a question in his voice. He knows I’m up to something.
“I want to come with you,” I say, twisting a loose strand of hair tightly around my finger. “Maybe I could learn the family business.”
Dante slams the cargo door closed and wipes his hands across his jeans. “Sunrunning is hardly the family business.”
“Still, I’d like to see it.” I’m not exactly lying. I would like to understand how Sunrunning works, but I’m more eager for some time off the estate with Dante.
“I don’t know. I was planning to go alone—”
“I don’t feel safe here anymore,” I say in a low whisper, confessing my weakness to my father as I would have as a child.
“Fine,” Dante agrees. Apparently he’s as vulnerable to my entreaties as my father once was. “I’m leaving in ten minutes. Meet me out here.”
I dash back in to grab a few supplies—a bottle for water and a jacket in case it’s cool in the open-air crawler. Unfortunately, my quick supply run puts me in the path of Jost and Erik. I’m not eager to make a party of it, but I can’t say no when they ask to come along. It means Jost and Erik can help Dante collect the solar panels after they’re charged. Dante doesn’t seem too happy about it, but he doesn’t renege on his agreement to let me come.
“And you’re sure this is safe?” I ask Dante, my attention locked on the crawler. It has the same terrifying, cage-like appearance of the one we traveled in to the estate with the added bonus of no roof.
“Perfectly,” Dante says, balancing a thick glass panel on his shoulder. “Get in and stop worrying. I thought you were a rebel.”
“I haven’t quite hit the suicidal stage of rebellion though,” I mutter.
“What every father wants to hear,” Dante says. He looks away as soon as it slips from his mouth, but awkwardness crackles in the air around us. I can appreciate his attempt to lighten things between us, but I can’t laugh about this yet.
“How far are we going?” I ask as the engine thunders to life.
“Until we see the sun,” Dante says.
“We’ll be outside Kincaid’s territory?” I ask.
“Yes,” Dante answers, not taking his eyes off the road that leads from the estate.
The ride is as rough as I predicted based on the appearance of the crawler, but when we get closer to the border, where Dante will gather the solar energy to sell in the Icebox, light creeps across the edge of the Interface. We’ve been past the border before—the night we came to Earth—but we hadn’t stayed long enough to study the relationship of the worlds. Day never came once we’d passed under the Interface into the metro of the Icebox, only an artificial morning created by the solar charges in the street lamps. I had looked at the sky that day and it hasn’t changed since. At the time I was sad to think I had left the moon and stars behind without so much as a goodbye. In a moment I will see blue laced with cottony clouds. I will see the sun.
And when I do, we’ll be deep in Guild territory.
“But what is it the border of?” Erik asks as we cross into the bright light of morning. We’re out from under the Interface now. Arras’s cover doesn’t reach this far along the rocky, mountainous shoreline.
“The Interface between Earth and Arras,” Dante says over the rumble of the crawler’s engine. That’s hardly more than we knew before though. The relationship of Earth and Arras remains hazy, although we see the parasitic effects of Arras every day. “There’s a Guild mining operation nearby.”