My mother rests her palm against my cheek. “Poor thing. A little wedding planning is probably just what you need.” She looks around, as if convincing herself that there are no lurking dangers, then smiles warmly. “Just be sure you’re back in time for dinner with the governor. You know how your father hates for his children to be late!”
Apparently, I need to feign excitement for wedding planning more often. I feel bad for lying to her, but not too bad. I kiss her cheek, then say a quick goodbye to Thomas and strike off for the light-rail, waving until they’re out of sight.
And then I’m off to the Magnificent Block.
The gondolier pulls up to one of the blue-and-white hitching posts that dot the edges of all the canals, and the boat automatically stops. “Here you are, miss,” the old man says, looping a rope around the post and dragging the gondola against the elevated sidewalk.
If he recognizes me, he doesn’t mention it. I’ve brushed my hair out to cover my face as much as I can, but I’m still wearing my dress from the filming: yellow jersey studded with Swarovski crystals, a thick turquoise belt with a silver buckle, and high-heeled sandals that tie around my ankles. I am slightly worried that I’m being tracked, but so far I’ve been lucky. Either no one has cared to check any of the POD transit histories as of late, or I have my very own Grid guardian angel.
I’d put my money on the former.
Everything in the Depths is much different in the daylight: the water is dingier and browner, the stench—like rotting fish—worse than I remember, the people oddly cheerier. The streets and raised walkways are aswarm with men and women hustling to and fro with bundles under their arms and children attached to their hands. I hop out of the boat and onto a set of cracked steps. It’s so hot you could fry an egg on my skin.
“Thank you,” I say, dropping a few coins into the gondolier’s palm.
A few feet ahead, I see the awning of Java River and step inside.
The old-fashioned bell on the door jingles. People turn to look, then go back to their cups of coffee and plates of sweets. I warm at the sight—the large booths and framed pictures on the walls, the glass case filled with baked goods near the register, the waitress with a piercing in her nostril who served me and Hunter the other night.
I sit down in one of the empty booths. “What can I get you?” the waitress asks.
“Water.” Before she can walk away, I add, “And I have a question.”
“Well?” she says, tapping one shoe on the tile. “I don’t got all day.”
I clear my throat. “I was here the other night, with a boy.” She stares at me blankly. “A boy named Hunter. He has, um, sort of blondish hair. Kinda rough-looking, but very handsome. Not a model, but—you know … modelesque?”
After a moment or so, she rolls her eyes and says, “I don’t remember any guy like that. And I don’t remember you.”
Then she walks away.
I get up and follow her. She disappears into the kitchen, however, so I ask the woman at the register the same thing.
“We were here the other night,” I repeat, trying to grab the attention of the older woman, the one with the knotted hair whose skin is covered in liver spots.
“No, you weren’t,” the woman says while using a rag to wipe the counter clean. “If you know what’s good fer you, leave right now. And don’t come back, you hear?”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “I’m just looking for some information about the boy I was with. Hunter. Where I can find him.”
The woman grits her teeth. “I told you, girl. I never seen you, nor no boy named Hunter. Understand? Now git.” She points to the door of the shop. “Git.”
Outside, I blot my forehead with an embroidered handkerchief and search for an open gondola.
The raised sidewalk is mere feet from a canal. A few people are sitting and eating sandwiches, dangling their feet over the water. Down the road, at one of the docks, a line of men and women wait for the water taxi, a boat that holds around fifty people and navigates some of the larger canals. It’s cheaper than a gondola, but I can’t afford to be recognized by so many people. I haven’t been here long; I still have a decent amount of time to get home, shower, and be ready for dinner.
For a moment, I feel a sense of calm—the Depths are less scary during the daytime. I notice the colors of the buildings: faded pink and watery blue, gray and brown and white. Some are decorated with columns, now old and crusty, or carvings of cherubs’ faces, which are falling apart. They’re almost charming.
I walk down the sidewalk, away from the dock, and look at some of the hitching poles jutting out of the water, hoping a gondolier has roped in, but I don’t see any. A string of ratty-looking children push past, nearly knocking me to the ground. “Hey, watch where you’re going!” I yell, but no one seems to hear me. Or care.
And then I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I whirl around to see a girl about my age standing before me. She has short brown hair cut just above her shoulders, with eyes of the same color, and she’s wearing a dress that seems two sizes too big. Her skin is pale, almost white, and she has the telltale sign of mystic drainings: yellow-green circles underneath her eyes.
“You’re not crazy.” Taking my arm, she pulls me down a deserted alleyway that’s a bit darker and cooler thanks to the shade of the tall buildings.
“I’m Tabitha.” She sticks out her hand.
I take it in mine. Her grip is surprisingly light. Frail. “I’m—”
“Aria Rose,” she says. “I know. I work in the back at Java River. I’m … a friend of Turk’s.”
My eyes widen at his name. “So you remember me?”
“Look, I can’t say much, but I can tell you how to find Hunter.” She raises her thin arm and points down the alleyway. In the distance, I can see a mystic spire rising above the rest of the buildings. Even in the daytime, it is extraordinarily bright. “Follow the lights,” she says cryptically, in a hushed voice.
I wait for her to explain, but she doesn’t.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “The lights are on poles. They don’t lead anywhere.”
Tabitha glances around nervously. “They do if you know how to read them,” she says. “They’re not steady. The way they pulse? All the colors? It means something.”
I think back to last night, when I was watching the lights flicker from my bedroom window. “So you’re saying there’s a pattern? How the lights work … it’s not random?”
Tabitha nods fervently. “The spires hold mystic energy, which is alive—it can speak to those who know how to listen.”
“No offense, but I don’t understand what this has to do with me. Or Hunter.”
“Our energy is part of how we communicate,” Tabitha says. “How we tell people things that can’t be spoken aloud.” She cranes her neck to see if we’ve been noticed. “Normally, two mystics can communicate without talking through a simple touch. I no longer have that ability—that’s what happens when we’re drained. They use some of the energy to fuel the city and store the extra in the spires.”
“Why do they drain more energy than they need?”
She shrugs her bony shoulders. “Power. And money. What else is there?”
“Money … what do you mean?”
Tabitha tilts her head. “Stic, obviously. Manhattan has one of the biggest mystic populations in the States. Stic is made from drained mystic energy, then sold illegally all over the world.” She looks at me as if I should know better. “Think about it, Aria.”
But I don’t want to. Who cares if people sell Stic? I’ve been taught that mystics are dangerous, the mortal enemies of nonmystics, and that their deepest desire is to kill me and everyone else in the Aeries. I was taught that the mystics were responsible for the Mother’s Day Conflagration.
How much of that is true?
“Look,” Tabitha says, glancing nervously down the alleyway. “Forget all that for now. If you can understand the energy, it will show you how to find Hun
ter.”
“But I’m not a mystic. I don’t know how to read the energy from the spires. Can’t you just tell me where he is?”
Tabitha shakes her head rapidly. “No,” she says. “The rebels would kill me if I led you to them.”
“They’d kill you? Then why are you even telling me any of this?”
“Because,” she says, her voice softening. “I can tell you love him.”
Now it’s my turn to shake my head. “Hunter? I don’t love him,” I say. “I barely know him. I’m engaged—to someone else.”
“Then why are you trying to find him?”
“It’s complicated.” I look away, wondering how much I should reveal. “I had an accident. And now I’m supposed to be married in a month and I can’t remember my fiancé. I’ve been having strange dreams. I thought maybe Hunter could help me.”
Tabitha listens quietly as I speak. Then she leans in and says, “You don’t need Hunter to help you with that.”
“I don’t?”
“No. You need Lyrica.”
“I’m sorry—who?”
“Lyrica.” Tabitha spews out an address. “If anyone can help you, she can.” She turns and says, “They’ll have noticed that I left by now. I’ve got to go.” A cough racks her skinny frame. “Wait until dark, then follow the lights. Trust me. You’ll find your answers.”
At dinner that night, I eat like a proper lady, as always, the way I have been taught.
Kyle rolls his eyes at me across the table, and even then I do not laugh. I am on my best behavior. I listen quietly as my parents discuss politics with the governor.
“Johnny, do you really think this mystic Violet Brooks has a chance?” the governor asks.
My father is silent, then says, “Yes.”
The word sounds deadly coming from his mouth. What would happen if Violet did win the election, if some of my father’s stronghold over the city was diminished? Would my parents still want me to marry Thomas?
After our main course—rack of lamb, fresh asparagus, and wasabi mashed potatoes—Governor Boch asks why I’ve been so quiet. “You’ve always been quite the chatterbox,” he says.
I fake a yawn. “Excuse me. I’m just tired.”
“Aria filmed a campaign spot this morning,” my mother chimes in. “She was very effective.” Is this her way of trying to be nice? “How was your lunch with Kiki?” she asks, playing with one of her rings, a ruby set in yellow gold. Nothing about my mother is subtle—the blouse she’s wearing tonight has fur trim on the sleeves. Only someone like my mother would wear fur in one of the hottest cities in the world.
“It was fun. We picked the bridesmaids for the wedding. Five of them.” I’ll have to ask Kiki to cover for me. And help me come up with names for bridesmaids.
“That’s wonderful, dear.”
Kyle is busy texting someone, his phone hidden in his lap. My father just stares at me, his dark eyes fixed on mine.
“Do you have any questions about the election I can help answer?” Governor Boch asks, sipping from his wineglass. He’s finished nearly an entire bottle by himself—his lips have taken on a dark purple stain. “I’d be happy to.”
“Actually, I do have one,” I say. My father raises his thick eyebrows. “Why are more mystics drained than are needed to fuel the city?”
The governor sputters as he’s swallowing his wine, making a choking sound.
Kyle leans over and smacks him on the back. “All clear,” Kyle says loudly.
“Aria!” my mother says. “What kind of question is that for the governor?”
“A legitimate one,” I say. “Isn’t it?”
My father raises his knife and points it directly at me. “That’s enough, Aria.” He waits a moment, then slams the knife back down on the table. “What are you going to do before the wedding? Mope around here all summer and ask ridiculous questions? You have an entire year before you enter university. What’s your plan?”
I choose not to answer him. The silence is deafening.
“Well?” he says.
“I could get a job,” I hear myself saying.
“Aria, be serious.” My mother lets out a laugh.
“I am serious!” I say. I’ve never worked before, of course, but it suddenly feels like the perfect way to escape my parents. If I had a job, I’d have a reason to leave the apartment every day.
Kyle stops texting long enough to chime in. “The only thing Aria is qualified to do is shop and hang out with Kiki. And the last time I checked, neither of those are jobs.”
“Like you’ve ever been employed?” I retort. “Please.”
“Surprise, surprise, Aria—you’re wrong. As usual,” Kyle says. “I worked for Dad two summers ago. I was Eggs’s assistant.”
Dad chuckles, but my mother tsk-tsks. “Kyle, I told you not to call him that.” She turns to the governor, who looks confused. “When Kyle was young, he loved to have eggs Benedict for breakfast. He’s since taken to referring to Patrick Benedict as Eggs.” She dabs the corners of her lips with a napkin. “It’s highly disrespectful,” Mom says to Kyle. “You’re far too much of a gentleman for that.”
I start to object about Kyle being a gentleman, then decide to appeal to my father instead. “If Kyle has had work experience, why can’t I? I’d do anything—sort mail, answer phones, whatever.”
I don’t know much about Benedict, only that he’s a reformed mystic who is now a stalwart Rose supporter and does something associated with regulating mystic energy. He’s the only mystic I’ve ever seen my father speak to, let alone trust.
“But Aria,” my mother protests. “What would people say? Besides, you have the wedding to think about—there’s so much to do!”
“That’s why we have a wedding planner,” I say. “Actually, that’s why we have three wedding planners—you should know, you chose them yourself.”
“I so wanted four, but Johnny put his foot down,” my mother says to the governor. “Weddings can be so tiring, and I do hate odd numbers.”
“I don’t know much about weddings, Melinda,” the governor says, holding up his ringless hand. “I’ve been a bachelor all my life.”
My mother takes a quick sip of her wine. “How tragic.”
“Maybe if I had a job,” I continue, looking down, pretending to be suddenly sad, “I wouldn’t worry so much about the wedding. And my memory problems.”
It’s a dirty move, I know, but at this point I’m sure my parents will do anything if they think it’ll make me go along with the marriage.
Dad’s bottom lip quivers, which means he’s actually considering my proposition. “Fine,” he says after what feels like a lifetime. “I’ll call Patrick in the morning. Having to be answerable to somebody else for a change might actually do you some good.”
Mom frowns, but I don’t care. For the first time in what feels like forever, I give my father a real smile.
And much to my surprise, he smiles back.
Before I go to sleep, I stare once again out my bedroom windows, this time with new knowledge of the mystic spires.
They’re still enigmas. Energy shoots through them like an electric current. Bright yellow. Hot white. Electric green. The colors flow together so smoothly they seem like one continuous stream.
I glance at my clock, then back out the window, focusing on one spire. There is a flash of yellow—four seconds. A burst of white—six seconds. The ripple of green is the shortest—two seconds.
What does that mean?
I look to the right, where a different spire is nestled between two skyscrapers along the Hudson. I time this one as well. The pulse here changes at a slower rate—yellow radiates for ten seconds, then white for ten seconds. No hint of green.
Tabitha told me to listen. But what in the Aeries am I listening for?
Making Love, Not War
These days, getting cozy with your sworn enemy is all the rage.
By now, everyone knows the story of Aria Rose and Thomas Foster’s secret ro
mance—how they defied their parents and fell in love. But unlike Romeo and Juliet, this pair of New York City lovers is getting their happy ending: a wedding at the end of the summer, just after the August 21 mayoral election in which Thomas’s older brother, Garland Foster, is running against registered mystic Violet Brooks.
The teen lovebirds have been mum on any details, leading us all to wonder: How did they meet? How did they convince their parents—whose political rivalry dates back to the early twentieth century—to let them be together?
“Forbidden love has been around since the beginning of time,” says Professor Jinner of West University. “It’s a theme we’ve seen in the earliest plays and books.”
Then why is everyone so obsessed with Aria and Thomas?
“I’m fourteen years old and I’ve never even been to the East Side,” says Talia St. John, whose family supports the Roses. “But now my mom says we can go. There are probably so many cute boys over there, and now I get to meet them! Everything is changing, and I like it.”
Well put, Talia.
But seriously—the union of Aria Rose and Thomas Foster will erase the invisible dividing line that has marked our city for years. And most people see this as a good thing.
Aria and Thomas, no strangers to the flashes of paparazzi cameras, have frequently been photographed on both Manhattan’s East and West sides.
“They’re showing that two people really can make a difference,” says Talia.
And let’s face the truth: it doesn’t hurt that they’re both gorgeous.
Thomas, with his movie star looks, has been making girls all over the city swoon for years. And Aria has the classic features of a storybook princess.
Plus, they really do seem to be in love. Even a simple touch of his hand on her back shows how taken Manhattan’s no-longer-so-eligible bachelor is with his bride-to-be.
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