“And why are you telling me this now?” I demand.
“Because Cormac is after you, Adelice, and we don’t have time. We can’t stay here much longer.”
“But what about Jost?” I protest.
“We’ll wait for him, if he comes back with the others.”
“If?” I repeat in a hollow voice.
“When,” Dante says, moving past me toward the corridor. “I can’t explain now. You two need to see to that wound.”
“But I don’t—”
“You can do it.” Dante stops me. “Erik can help you. Tell no one, not even Jost, what you saw tonight.”
He doesn’t bother to wait for our promises.
THIRTY-THREE
WHEN WE PEEK OUT FROM THE BASEMENT, we find the halls quiet. Tattered tapestries hang precariously from the ceiling and the paneled walls are marred with tiny holes, but no one is in sight. In Erik’s quarters, I run the faucet until the water is warm, but when I reenter the bedroom, the harsh scent of whiskey prickles my nostrils.
He gestures to the bottle of liquor on the table.
“No, thanks,” I say with a shake of my head. “Should you be drinking?”
“Disinfecting,” he says as he pours some over his bloodied biceps, wincing as it hits his skin. He immediately covers it with the wet washcloth I’ve dropped on the bed.
“Should I lock this?” I cross to close the door, wanting to be helpful as much as I want to avoid looking at his wound.
“If the attack is over, security will do a sweep. Might as well leave it open or Kincaid’s goons will break it down.”
“I wish that made me feel better.” I force myself to go to him and tentatively lift the cloth to examine his wound. A blob of red blood oozes not far from his muscle.
“Flesh wound,” Erik says in a casual voice, but I catch him wince again as the air hits it.
“Is there a bullet in there?” My words are strangled with some unrecognizable emotion. I want to cry and kiss him at the same time.
“It went straight through,” he says. “It’ll be fine once the bleeding stops.”
“I can fix it,” I remind him.
“I wasn’t going to ask. I could do it myself, but two hands are better than one when patching,” Erik says. “If it makes you uncomfortable—”
I stop him. “Walk me through it.” Taking a steadying breath, I pour a little whiskey on my fingers. I’m less convinced of its disinfectant powers, but there’s no harm in trying. Further inspection reveals an exit wound on the other side of his arm.
“Concentrate,” Erik says. “See the strands.”
It sounds so serious and profound coming from Erik that I giggle, but he balks at my nervous titter and draws his arm away.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can do this.”
“Once you stop laughing and see the strands,” Erik begins, a bit sourly. “Draw together the damaged ones and connect them. It’s like the loom, Ad. Fix the hole.”
I close my eyes and focus on the fear pounding its war song in my chest. When I reopen them I can see the strands that weave together to make Erik’s arm and a stream of pulsing red fibers on his biceps calls out to me. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but I work at the shrill, off-key notes of the damaged strands until they grow harmonious, knitting together and healing.
“Not bad,” Erik says when I step back to survey my work, the room resolving into a world of physical objects.
Suddenly exhausted from the effort, I drop down on his bed. I roll onto my stomach, clutching the pillow to my chest. He wipes the excess blood from the newly patched wound and takes the ruined washcloths to the bathroom. As he goes, I consider what to say to him about Dante and my mother. I don’t have to talk about it, but I want to. I’m just not sure why. To make myself feel better? To talk through it? Those reasons make sense, but one thing holds me back. An unspoken tension that hangs between Erik and me. Talking about my mother and Dante means I’ll have to talk about the issues that he and I are constantly skirting around.
I mention it anyway.
“It’s not too late to stop him,” Erik says.
“Should I?” I ask, confusion infusing my voice. I know I should stop him, but deep down, I don’t want to. I’m not sure why though.
“No,” Erik says in a firm voice.
“Why?” I ask, wondering how he can be so certain.
“Because he loves her,” he says.
“I know that. But loving someone doesn’t mean you make the best decisions about them,” I point out.
“No. Love can be blinding,” Erik agrees. “But if he believes she’s in danger, he’s already thought through his options. He’s chosen the best one.”
“Maybe someone who can be more objective should be making the decision,” I say.
“Perhaps, but someone who is more objective won’t fight as hard as the person who loves her,” Erik says in a low voice. “One man will step aside when confronted while another will die. If you try to fight him, consider that.”
We aren’t only talking about Dante and my mother anymore.
“He’ll lose her either way,” I murmur.
“Doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t try,” Erik says.
“She loved someone else though. My father, my
uncle
…” I struggle with putting words to my thoughts, trying to sort out my tangled family tree. “It’s so confusing. Dante isn’t my father, not in my heart.”
“I understand,” Erik says.
“My father died for me and my mother,” I say.
“He was a good man,” Erik says. “A better man than I am.”
“You’ve leapt more than once for me—and for your brother.” It’s the first time I let it slip that I know we’re talking about the three of us as much as we’re talking about the convoluted love triangle in my family.
“I’d leap for you again,” Erik says.
I drop my head onto the pillow to avoid his eyes, and at the foot of the bed I spot a book. My book. I reach for it, running my fingers over the green canvas cover.
“Sorry,” Erik says. “You left it here weeks ago. I meant to return it, but…”
He doesn’t finish the thought and I lift my head to look at him, raising an eyebrow.
“I was reading it,” he admits.
“What did you think?” I ask, pulling the book of sonnets closer. I trace the gold-foil
Shakespeare
on the cover.
“I comprehend about half of it,” he says honestly. “But it’s beautiful.”
“I’ll never understand why people in Arras don’t write anymore,” I murmur.
“You don’t?” Erik asks. “It’s easy enough to understand.”
“Do tell,” I challenge him.
“Why aren’t there films anymore? Beyond Stream-approved programming. Why only the
Bulletin
and fashion catalogues?”
I pause and consider this. The insipid forms of art we are permitted in Arras are empty. They lack depth. There is a certain artistry to the design of clothes, the application of makeup, the structure and decor of a building, but it lacks meaning.
“Words,” Erik says.
Of course he’s right. The books in my parents’ cubby. I’d boasted of reading them, but I never considered why they were contraband. Words can tell a story. But they can also convey an idea.
“Words are dangerous,” I say.
Erik nods.
“But they’re also beautiful,” I say, holding the book out to him. “You said so yourself. How can the Guild turn their backs on poetry?”
“They’ve turned their backs on more than that,” Erik says.
I know he’s right, but the realization makes me hate the Guild a little bit more.
Erik drops down beside me and grabs the book. He leafs through it and stops on a particular page. “This is my favorite.”
“Which one?”
“116.”
I shake my head. I hardly have them memorized. “Read it to me.”
A strange look passes over Erik’s face, but he clears his throat. I don’t understand why until he begins to read.
“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.’” He pauses and dares a look at me.
“Do you like it because it mentions alteration?” I tease, but secretly I hope my cheeks aren’t burning.
“It seems very applicable to our current situation,” he says.
“Continue,” I urge him.
He reads the rest of the sonnet, stumbling a bit as he goes, and yet it slides smoothly off his tongue. The words curl around me, and lull me. When he finishes, the final line hangs in the air between us.
“Why is it your favorite?” I ask.
“Because it’s true,” he murmurs. “That’s why Dante took your mother. It’s why your father died for you.”
“Careful, Erik,” I warn him. “You’re in danger of becoming downright sensitive.”
He smiles but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t want that.”
And once again I’ve disarmed the moment, cracked a joke to avoid real conversation. We slip into our familiar banter, abandoning the book and talking late into the night about plans and futures and strategies, but never about us.
Never us.
THIRTY-FOUR
AT DAWN, ARTIFICIAL LIGHT STREAKS THROUGH THE room; it highlights Erik’s face, showing off the curves of his nose, the angle of his cheekbones. He’s stunning in his sleep, but soon his eyes flutter, and I turn away, not wanting to be caught staring.
“You look lovely,” he murmurs dreamily.
I’m caught off guard. My heart is beating so fast that it aches in my chest as I lie next to him, close enough to touch him, but not daring to. I like that he said it and it’s this realization that pushes me up on my side to face him. I stretch my fingers out, searching for the courage to reach across the space between us. Erik catches them and brings my fingertips to his lips. He kisses each softly, and tingles fall down my neck.
“I’m sorry for what she did,” he says, keeping my fingers clasped loosely.
“You couldn’t have stopped her,” I whisper, allowing myself to trace his jawline.
“I should have tried. Your hands are beautiful.”
“Not anymore,” I say.
“They’re more beautiful now. Flaws make them perfect.”
He lets my hand fall away as I swallow against the words sitting in my throat. The things I want to say to him—and then the door swings open. The one I left unlocked last night because I hadn’t planned to stay here.
“Erik, have you seen Ad?”
I’m still sleepy enough that it takes a second for everything to fall into place. Jost is back, looking tired and road weary, and he has found me on Erik’s bed. I don’t have to think hard to know what this looks like.
“Never mind,” Jost says, stumbling back outside.
I’m off the bed before Erik can respond and I dash into the hall and down the stairs. A breeze brushes past me and I notice that one of the doors to the garden is propped open. I take my chances and walk into the still morning, taking in the destruction wrought the previous day. Jost stands surveying the scene, with his back to me, and overhead the Interface flashes as though Arras is peering judgmentally down.
“Jost, wait!” I call, but he strides away.
“Hey,” I snap, when I do catch up. I grab him by his arm. As soon as his eyes meet mine, my angry rebukes and excuses seem like too little, too late. He’s already decided I’ve betrayed him, and part of me wonders if I have.
“What, Ad?” he challenges me. “I can’t wait to hear what you have to say about this.”
I stare at him, weighing each possible response. They’re all lacking.
“Don’t tell me you’re speechless,” he says. “I know that can’t be true.”
“Erik and I are friends,” I remind him.
It’s definitely the wrong thing to say.
“Really?” he asks, his voice raw. “Looked like a little more than friends to me.”
“We broke up,” I say. “You left me.”
“To find answers. Answers we both need,” Jost says. “Did you run to Erik right away?”
“I didn’t run to Erik.” But in the back of my mind poetry plays. The flash of Erik’s eyes meeting mine. I didn’t run to Erik, but I found him anyway.
“I was gone a few weeks,” he says. “I’ve come back with nothing and then this. Did you do it to prove me wrong?”
“Prove you wrong?” I repeat. It’s impossible that’s what he said. It’s impossible he thinks that’s what has happened in his absence.
“Yes, I told you we couldn’t risk
that
, so you wanted to prove me wrong. Is that it? Tell me something, Ad, did you choose Erik to see if you could drive us even farther apart or was he the first guy you ran into?”
The accusation cuts through the fragile thread holding me to him.
“So can you still do it? Can you still catch the threads?” he asks. At that moment, I realize that my skill is more important to him than anything else. More important, even, than the fact that he believes I spent the night with Erik. More important than whether we can ever get past this.
The back and forth of the last few months. Feeling so close only to sense a wall between us. My growing friendship with Erik and subsequent guilt. The assumptions and distrust. It all overwhelms the happiness I once felt with Jost. Memories of us, the want I felt for Jost, it’s all washed away as my shame shifts to indignation.
“My talent—that’s all I am to you, isn’t it?”
He stares at me, trying to understand what I’m saying.
“Was I ever more than a Spinster to you?” I ask. “Or did you always see me as a means of revenge?”
His jaw drops open, but he shakes his head. “If you believe that—”
“What am I supposed to believe, Jost?”
“If I made you feel that way, I am sorry,” he says, his expression softening a little. “I wanted to get back to the girls. I wanted to make sure we were safe, so we—”
“Could be a family,” I cut him off. “But you never once asked me if that’s what I wanted. I’m not capable of it. Can’t you see that? I’m a danger to them.”
“I guess I assumed,” he says quietly. “But apparently I assumed too much.”