She shook her head, biting her lip. The hard lines on her face made him ache. They said he had let her down, that he was less than she’d hoped. She was wild and passionate and alive, and he could never measure up.
“I should go.” He couldn’t bear the way the silence between them. “I’ll be late.”
“Of course. Will you allow me to walk you to your tram, Mr. Forsooth, or does our time apart start immediately?”
“I would be honoured if you walked me to the tram, Miss Tarbrook.”
They walked in silence along the banks of the river to reach the tram line. When they climbed to the platform, she fell behind, letting the distance stretch. He felt the tram coming before he saw or heard it, the power of the tainted inside driving it along the track. The wheels ground against the metal rails, the elevated structure shivering with the power of it. Glaen could scarcely imagine the talent that it took to keep the tram going, never losing speed as it climbed up the various hills and bridges. The line took Glaen away from the Brightwash only a short way, but it was faster than walking back to his own quarter, these days known simply as In the Tracks. The buildings had once belonged to Brickheart and Drystone and even the Market quarter, but a long swathe of properties had been razed in order to erect the looping track that brought the working-class residents south to various jobs in the large industrial quarter that had grown so fast in recent years.
Glaen found a seat in the tram, hoping that Gianna would sit with him. He may have been terrified of what might happen; more terrifying still was the thought of losing her. She sat a little distance away, on the opposite side of the car, looking back the way they’d come. In his private thoughts, he found himself pleading with her to forgive his weakness. As the tram rattled east, she turned back, meeting his eye, and giving a small smile, just for them. It healed all the broken pieces in him, knitting all the shards and jagged edges back together as if they had never been broken at all.
Tea may well be the cornerstone of civilization, but it was scarce comfort in an empty apartment. The days stretched out in front of Glaen. The nights were worse, cold and lonely, the wind howling in from the coast with a vicious chill that was a sure sign summer was dying. By the light of his brights, Glaen watched the world around him. The streets In the Tracks bustled with life. A shanty village had grown up under the tracks, people using piles of building materials left behind after the various structures had been razed. Walking along side the shanty village was both heartbreaking and horrible. The children that lived there were among the dirtiest and most malnourished Glaen had ever seen. Many of them were orphans, running together in a vicious and violent horde more terrifying than most adult gangs. He had learnt to avoid their attention by carrying nothing of value during his shifts—and considering the children could trade in nearly anything at all, it meant that Glaen felt safest with empty pockets.
Leaning over his cup, Glaen took a deep breath of steam in the hopes it would clear the fatigue. It didn’t help much. There was no shaking the exhaustion that lay like a fog in his skull. He closed his eyes as the steam warmed his face, feeling himself drifting on the eddies of it, like a ship loose of its moorings. In his twilight, he saw Gianna as he’d first laid eyes on her. She sat on a bench in Drystone park, leaning over a cup of coffee. Bright red leaves from the maple tree beside the bench had fallen on her, catching in her night-dark hair. She looked tired but took a sip of her coffee, her shoulders re-inflating with the simple pleasure of it.
The sound of his door opening jerked him to wakefulness. The shaky table jerked, dumping tea everywhere.
“Were you sleeping at the table again?” Gianna’s voice was bright and merry and the very sound of it was like a healing balm across Glaen’s soul. Before he could enjoy the pleasure of her arms, the fear returned.
“What are you doing here?”
Gianna came across the room, leaning in for a kiss. Her lips tasted of coffee, but Glaen turned away.
“What do you mean, ‘what am I doing here’?”
“I thought we were going to take some time apart.”
“We have.” She smiled and he couldn’t help but lean in to kiss the dimple the creased her cheek. “It’s been an entire week, hasn’t it? Was it as miserable for you as it was for me?”
“I had a bit more than a week in mind.”
She sighed, turning away. Was she leaving? His heart ached at the thought, even if it was what he was asking for. But of course, he didn’t want her to be disappointed. Sometimes it felt as if she was the only thing that kept his heart beating. But she wasn’t heading for the door. She was moving down the hallway. She kicked off her shoes as she went, leaving them beside the potbelly stove.
“Where are you going?”
“What am I doing here? Where am I going? You’re always asking questions instead of enjoying the moment.”
Her bare feet slapped against the wood floor as she went down the narrow hallway. She stopped and grinned back at him.
“Come.”
She slid open the broken pane. She hung out the window entirely, so far Glaen thought she was about to topple head-first to the cobbles below. He scrambled from his seat and darted across the room.
She came back in the window before he could reach her, but then twisted and stretched her leg out, straddling the windowsill.
“Gianna!”
She shifted, turning so she sat with both legs hanging out. The rising sun framed her silhouette, a golden glow catching the sun-streaks in her hair. She glanced over her shoulder, a smile giving him a glimpse of that dimple.
“Come out with me.”
“No! Gianna, you’ll die if you fall from such a height! Come back inside. Please!”
She threw back her head, taking in a sharp, frustrated breath. “Honestly, Glaen.”
Her weight shifted again and she stood, leaving the relative safety of the windowsill. Glaen edged closer, laying a hand on her arm, but the way she jerked from him made his heart lurch. She was so precariously balanced. He could almost see her slipping off the edge, plummeting to the ground.
“Sit with me.”
Glaen shook his head, but couldn’t bear to tell her no again. He put his hands on the windowsill, struggling to swallow the fear that clattered through his chest like a startled bird. Leaning out, he saw her feet resting on a ledge running the span of the building below the window. The stone was worn smooth by years of rain and wind, slick with the morning dew. Gianna’s toes jutted out over the edge.
“I can’t.”
“Stop looking down. You’re always looking down! All you think about is what could go wrong. What if I fall? Then I die. What if we’re processed? Then we go to the Rift. What if we never see each other again? Then my heart will ache for you as long as I live, but I’ll live better for having known you at all. The future hasn’t happened yet. By living in fear of it, you’re paralysed. You’ll never grow, my love. The future lies like shackles across your shoulders. You’re stunted, chained to this half-life you live. Stand with me, Glaen. Look up. Look up into the sky and see what beauty our city holds.”
“I can see from here.”
“No, you can’t. The window isn’t high enough. From here, you can see so much more.”
Glaen sat on the edge of the windowsill, beginning his slow climb out. His heart pounded, his limbs shook. He forced each movement through a wall of fear and the animal way his instincts bucked against his own terrible decision. He wanted to tell Gianna that worrying about the future kept people alive. How did one save grain for the winter if one didn’t fear starvation? It was an easy thing to feast on bread and porridge and baked pies when the harvest came in, but a harder thing to put most of the harvest away to last until the next year.
And yet, he listened to her. He always listened to her eventually. His boots threatened to slide on the damp stone, his feet edging ever closer to the edge. Gianna took one hand, steadying him. He hooked the other inside the window to brace him against the chill breeze c
oming off the Brightwash.
From the window ledge, he could see above the building across the street. Beyond, the city stretched on to the very limit of his vision. The roofs all around them were lit by the early morning sun’s golden glow. Lazy spirals of smoke rose from most of the chimneys, and the streets were half-filled with people who climbed early from their beds. To the west, Glaen saw the ocean, a thin line on the horizon sparkling with the same golden light. To the east, the Brightwash, and beyond it the great forest of Dunnenbrahl, turning from a blanket of green to one dotted with red and gold as the leaves fell away in anticipation of winter. The city was a lovely thing up here.
“Look.” Gianna pointed down to the people below and Glaen followed her finger, even though his heart lurched at the distance yawning between him and the ground. “They don’t see us up here. They don’t care. They flit to and fro, absorbed in their own small lives. No one ever seems to look up.”
Glaen watched them for a while, the trickle of people moving together in knots like schools of fish navigating an intricate delta.
“Up here, in this little room, no one can see us. No one cares. You should stop worrying! Up here, above the people who don’t look up, we’re safe.”
Glaen didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to argue with her even though his gut twisted and screamed that she was wrong. There were people up here with them. A dozen or more, all sharing the same floor. Below them, there were surely a hundred people, all sharing the same doorway out onto the street.
As they stood there on the ledge, Glaen felt some new vibration coming through the building. The tram was rushing toward them, sliding quietly, only the rattling of its wheels on the track and the spread of talent to herald its coming. Glaen hated the tram usually, but from up here even it was beautiful. It glowed with that same morning light, the metal cars shining. He took a deep breath, bracing himself as the tram rushed in front of them. The street was narrow and Glaen thought he might reach out and touch it as it went racing by, but he was frozen by fear. He was certain his feet were slipping off the stone ledge and he could almost feel himself falling. He clung to the window, pressing his heels against the wall so hard it ached. Gianna laughed and reached out. Her hair swirled all around her face with the burst of air that followed the tram, and then fell still again as it whistled past, swinging around the bend to slow at the main station where the two track lines met.
He realized that Gianna was looking at him. Her radiant smile hit him with as much force as the tram. She backed into the small hallway. Though he was relieved at the prospect of returning to the safety of his room, his fear of falling froze him in place. Gianna gave his arm a tug, leading him back. Going back in through the window was as slow as climbing out, his every movement a minuscule shift until most of his body was inside. Once both feet were on the floor, he thought he might collapse with relief.
When she kissed him, he felt her heart pounding against his chest, wild and fast after the encounter with the tram. The anxiety of the Rift melted away at her touch. The residual thrill of fear left his body more awake than ever before, more responsive to taste of her, smell of her, the warmth of her body. Her skin was cold from the air outside, but the core of her burned so hot it seemed she was powered by her very own foundry flames. How could he ever turn away from this woman? It wasn’t physically possible to deny her. His mind and body were drawn to her too powerfully, too completely.
She loved as passionately as she lived, with a wild abandon that couldn’t be contained. She led him to the old high-back chair in the furthest corner of the room. The leather was split and losing its stuffing, and the horsehair tickled his leg as she straddled him. He remembered what she said about them being alone up here, unseen and forgotten. It was easy to let himself believe it, as if they were the only two people in existence. The world and all his troubles melted away and there was only Gianna. He wished they could be like this forever, suspended in time, stripped of everything that weighed him down and chained him to reality.
She went with him to his cot and lay beside him, pressed close so they fit. The exertion left their bodies coated in sweat. The window was still open and the wind that came in was wet and cold with the promise of a storm. He could almost believe this was all their lives contained.
She gave a happy sigh. “I love this time of year.”
“Why? Summer is dying. Autumn will be brief and then winter brings cold and misery.”
“Winter is later. Now the leaves are starting to change and the fields are bursting with food. All the work of spring and summer is about to pay its dues. The beer laid in the cellars is almost ready to drink. The chickens and the cattle and the pigs are fat from the wealth of summer forage, and it’s almost time to cull the herds and flocks. It seems the whole world is holding its breath, waiting for the harvest. The farmer can look back and forward in the same moment, measuring their success.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in looking forward or backward.” He leaned closer, kissing the soft skin just below her jaw. “You chastise me for exactly that.”
“Glaen Forsooth, you don’t listen. It is one thing to measure the future and the past, to look upon the work you’ve done and all that you will benefit—or not—from the fields you’ve sewn. But you allow yourself to be crippled by the future that you think is coming. You look to tomorrow and you see the worse and you can’t bear to take another step. The future is coming whether you’ve made good choices or not. You can’t allow yourself to fall into inaction for fear for the effects. You must act.”
Glaen nuzzled his face against her throat, breathing in the scent of her. “How did you come to Yaelsmuir?”
“Hmm?”
“All of your metaphors are those of a farmer. How did you come to the city?”
“My talent. I registered, and the Authority didn’t want me wasting my skills on farmers and road houses. There’s no value in farmers, you see. They only feed every mouth in the Dominion, but their work is menial. The work of men and women too stupid to survive in the city.” She sighed. “I miss my little farming village. They were the best people I’ve ever had the honour of knowing. My father kept all manner of creatures. Geese, chickens, cattle, hogs. I liked the geese the most. Sweet creatures, but so very brave. They protected the chickens from foxes and weasels. It always seemed so unlikely that such clumsy creatures could stand against weasels. They’re vicious, you know, indiscriminate killers. But after we got the geese, we stopped losing chickens so often.”
Her voice, melodic and soft, sent Glaen drifting away on her words, almost asleep. She rose, rolling over him to return to her pile of clothes, rousing him fully. Her feet barely made a sound as she walked, but he laid still, pretending to sleep. He didn’t know why. Perhaps to say goodbye was to admit she was leaving this perfect little world of their creation, and that was too ugly a notion to contemplate.
When he rolled over again, he dreamt of her kiss.
“Glaen Forsooth, open your door for the National Tainted Registration Authority.” Tashué Blackwood’s voice, hard and insistent. “Open the door, Mr. Forsooth, or I will break it down.”
“Alright!” Glaen’s voice was weak and squeaky as he staggered from his bed, tripping over his own blanket. “I’m coming. I’m coming!”
Glaen fumbled with the lock, his hands so shaky he could barely grasp it. Tashué stepped forward as soon as the door opened, his great form entering the doorway. There were four other officers with him, two of them carrying gleaming black Imburleigh longrifles, freshly polished and smelling of gun oil.
“Let us in, Mr. Forsooth.” Tashué sounded sad. Or was that Glaen’s mind playing tricks on him again? “We don’t want any trouble.”
Glaen staggered back from the door. There was scarcely room for them all, standing shoulder to shoulder around the small table in the centre of the room.
“Glaen Forsooth, you are flagged non-compliant by the National Tainted Registration Authority.” No longer sad, Tashu
é’s voice was mechanical and distant.
“No!” Even as the denial came out of his mouth, his mind told him that this moment was inevitable. This was what he feared since he’d first laid eyes on Gianna. He followed the rules because he was too afraid of the consequences to do any different, but Gianna was worth it. She was so special that he couldn’t let the opportunity slip away, even as he knew Tashué Blackwood would one day come to his door and take his freedom.
“You’re non-compliant for continuing an unsanctioned fraternization with another registered tainted.”
“No, damn you!” Anger surged to life, stripping away Glaen’s fear. Who were they to tell him who he was allowed to love? Surely these people had no souls! Did they not know what love was like? It came without consent, struck you in the chest like a bolt of lightning and you couldn’t stop it.
“You’ve been issued a final warning but still refused to comply. You are hereby transferred to the Residential Institute for Feral Tainted and Non-Compliants indefinitely, or until you are deemed willing to comply.”
“Why is it a crime to want to be with people you can relate to?”
“Because you’re tainted and you can’t breathe without Authority permission!”
Glaen looked toward the speaker, an officer who held one of the longrifles. His eyes were hot and wild, eager for blood, filled with hatred so complete Glaen quailed in the face of it. It was hatred like that, unreasoning and blinding and consuming, which had turned the tainted into an inferior class. It didn’t care that they all bled the same blood, couldn’t be reasoned with or soothed. Hatred like that killed people.
Tashué stepped closer, putting his body between Glaen and the man with the longrifle. “Dress yourself, Mr. Forsooth. There’s no need for us to drag you out into the streets in your bedclothes.”
Glaen turned away. There was no privacy to be had in the small room. He felt the eyes of the other man boring into him as if he waited for some excuse to fire that vicious weapon. Even in the face of imprisonment, Glaen was afraid of the yawning nothingness that awaited him if one of those bullets found him.
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