I say a silent prayer to the Prophet before I leave the room.
A little boy stands in the hall gaping at me. He must be only four or five, and his hair is so blond it looks white. When I walk toward him, he makes a little squeaking noise and goes running down a flight of stairs to my right.
Bithia told me to come downstairs after I was dressed, so I follow the strange boy. The floors and walls are the same out here as they were in the bedroom: creamy wood and brilliant white, although I see a few tiny handprints along the stairwell. Light splashes over everything, and I look up to find a skylight over the stairs.
I’ve never been in such a large house; I’ve never really been in a house at all. The Dixons must be very wealthy. Why am I here? Is Mr. Dixon the leader of the Apostates? The thought makes me frightened. I certainly wouldn’t want to be a guest of Uncle Ruho’s for any reason.
The walls of the staircase are lined with family photos. I see Bithia, Gilad, the girl who held the silver blanket (Tabby, I assume), the white-haired boy, and an older, teenage boy I haven’t met yet. In one picture, they smile hugely, hands upon one anothers’ shoulders. Each child has Gilad’s dauntingly large, gleaming teeth.
My family doesn’t have any pictures like these. Not many people own cameras, and it’s considered prideful to display photographs of oneself in one’s home. Still, I wish I had a picture of me and Nana together.
“Mama says you should sit down at the table,” a voice says.
The white-haired boy stands at the base of the stairs. As soon as we make eye contact, he runs off again. Walking down from the landing, I discover a huge living room full of more furniture covered in flowered fabrics. An impressive dining room table stands solemnly in front of a vast picture window.
The scent of butter and something sweeter than bread makes me weak at the knees.
Sitting in one of the upholstered chairs at the enormous table, I look outside at Bithia’s vibrant green lawn. The flowers that line the edges are so perfect, I wonder if they’re plastic.
After a few minutes, Bithia appears. “Well, for goodness’ sakes. Honey, we’re all waiting for you in here!” She points behind her.
She isn’t angry exactly, but she sounds like someone who expects things to go according to plan.
I stand. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t apologize. You didn’t know,” she says, waving me toward her.
I pass through a door into a huge kitchen. Every countertop is covered in food. On my left sits Bithia’s entire family. They’re crowded around a circular table that’s much smaller than the one in the next room. Tabby and the little boy gape at me, while Gilad seems to stare right through me to the other side of the room. The teenage boy looks down at the table so that I can’t see his face.
As if sensing my confusion, Bithia says, “We only use the dining room table for special occasions.”
“Nice, Mom,” says Tabby. “Now she feels totally un-special.” Tabby has white-blond hair like her little brother. It’s short above her eyes, but long and straight on the sides. Light dances off of it like liquid, and I find it mesmerizing. Her eyes seem kind of small for her large mouth and teeth, but her nose is turned up and adorable. She wears a short-sleeved canary yellow blouse that compliments her long alabaster arms. Overall, I think she would fetch a very large bride price.
“Oh, dear. I’m sorry,” says Bithia. “Was that rude of me? We can go eat in the dining room if you’d prefer.”
I shake my head. There’s so much food on the table it would take twenty minutes to move it.
“I’m hungry now!” says the white-haired boy.
“Cornelius, mind your manners.” Bithia gives him a threatening look.
“Yeah, Corny, shut your trap,” says Tabby.
“Don’t call me Corny!” he screeches. “Mom!”
“Not today, Tabitha, please!” Bithia says.
Gilad doesn’t seem to hear the shrieking. He stares silently into the kitchen with a contented smile on his face, and I wonder if maybe there’s something wrong with him.
“What is she wearing?” says Tabby, suppressing a laugh. “She’s dressed like it’s the middle of winter.”
She and her brothers look me up and down, taking in the pants and huge sweater. These are Tabby’s clothes, so why is she ridiculing me?
“That’s Dad’s sweater,” Cornelius adds disapprovingly.
The teenage boy says nothing, studying me closely as he bites his nails. He has the same light hair as Tabby and Cornelius, but not quite as white. His eyes are hazel, and his lashes are so long and thick that, for a moment, I’m struck by the thought that he’s prettier than his sister. His T-shirt is the same awful green as my pants.
“The important thing is that the clothes are clean,” says Bithia. “Now, say ‘Good morning’ to . . .” She turns to me, frowning. “Honey, we don’t even know your name. Do you have a name?”
“Of course she has a name, Mom. She’s not a stray dog,” Tabby says.
I’m shocked at the tone Tabby uses with her family. At home, her sarcasm would get me a smack.
“Mom, can we get a dog?” says Cornelius.
“No,” says Bithia. She guides me into the chair next to Tabby. “Sit here, dear.”
Tabby rolls her eyes. I’m wondering if the teenage boy is as irritated by my presence as Tabby appears to be, when he leans over and whispers, “I’m Silas.”
Silas? The one who made the pancakes? When I try to imagine Dekker cooking, all I can picture is a pan on fire and Dekker with no eyebrows.
Silas’ voice is serene among the chaos of the others.
“I’m Mina,” I say.
“That’s a lovely name!” says Bithia. “Isn’t that a nice name?” she asks no one in particular.
Bithia takes her seat and grabs the hands of Silas and Cornelius, who sit on either side of her. She looks at Gilad, who continues to stare off into space. Bithia clears her throat, but Gilad doesn’t move. “Gilad!” she cries, and he jumps.
“Turn that thing off!” Bithia says. “We have company for goodness’ sakes.”
Gilad blinks slowly twice then turns to face his family. “Good morning.”
They all repeat, “Good morning.”
He looks me up and down, frowning. “Are you better now?”
I’m about to tell him that nothing was ever wrong with me, when Bithia says, “She’s fine, aren’t you dear?”
“I’m . . . uh . . . hungry, I guess,” I say.
“You talk funny!” Cornelius announces from across the table.
“The feeling is mutual,” I say.
He’s confused but turns out his bottom lip as my meaning sinks in.
Gilad reaches for Tabby’s and Cornelius’ hands. I understand that we are forming a circle, like when we pray at home.
When we are linked, Gilad begins: “May the Unbound flourish and may we serve the Lord as well as he serves us. So be it.”
The family repeats, “So be it,” and then we let go of one anothers’ hands.
I thought the Apostates didn’t believe in God or the Prophet. It’s strange to hear them praying, when I grew up believing they would spit on the Book. But what if they’re praying to Satan or some other horrible demon? Shivers run up my spine.
“Pass the syrup, please!” says Cornelius.
“You don’t even have pancakes yet,” Bithia says, laughing. She hands him a small pitcher of amber liquid, while passing Gilad a stack of golden pancakes.
“I’m getting ready,” says Cornelius, dipping his finger into the pitcher and then licking off the sticky substance.
“Gross!” says Tabby, filling her plate with food.
“Children,” says Gilad. “Let’s please show our guest we know how to be civilized.”
“Why? She’s the savage one,” says Cornelius.
“Cornelius!” Bithia and Gilad both shout. Turning pink, Bithia adds, “Nina, we apologize. Corny is only four, and he has no idea what he’s
saying half the time.”
“Don’t call me Corny!” the boy wails.
“I’m going to send you upstairs in about two seconds,” Gilad tells him, voice severe.
Corny becomes still, and an awkward silence falls over the table.
“What’s this mood about today, Gilad?” asks Bithia, passing a tray of bacon. “You’ve had a lemon-face all morning.”
“The Elder meeting this afternoon. We were supposed to be discussing the treaty and now . . .” He glances at me. “We’ll be discussing something else.”
Bithia indicates me in a much less subtle way and then gives her husband a look of sympathy. “Surely today’s business is more important.”
Gilad tenses. “Nothing is more important than this treaty and supporting Ram’s efforts. Too many people would be happy to see it fail.”
“Why, Dad?” says Corny.
“We’ll talk about it later, kiddo.” Gilad winks at him.
I concentrate on my food, which I confess is delicious. The pancakes melt in my mouth. There’s also crispy bacon, potatoes, sausage, and fresh orange juice. Bithia offers me seconds and thirds, and everyone keeps eating until no one seems to have the energy to lift a fork. The Apostates don’t seem to be experiencing any kind of food shortage.
“Tabby, after breakfast,” Bithia says, “I want you to take Nina to the Leisure Center.”
“But I’m meeting Phoebe and Deborah!” Tabby says.
“She should be socializing. Take her with you.”
Tabby looks at her father for help, but he says, “Do as your mother says.”
Tabby stands abruptly, sending her chair clanging backward. “Fine.” She marches out of the kitchen.
“Good luck,” whispers Silas, laughing to himself.
“What about my friends?” I ask Bithia.
Bithia looks at Gilad, a frustrated look in her eyes. If she thought a hot meal would distract me, she was wrong.
Gilad turns to me. “We have a certain way of doing things in Kingsboro, Nina.”
“Mina,” says Silas.
“And we’ve been doing things this way for a long, long time and it works for us. We like it. And we think, eventually, you’ll like it. So you’re just going to have to trust us that our way is the best way.”
I have no idea what he’s just said. It was a lot of words, but they had no real meaning. “When will I see my friends?” I ask.
Bithia sighs as if the whole breakfast has been a disaster. Standing, she begins to gather the dirty dishes from the table and put them into a wonderful machine I later learn is called a dishwasher.
“You will see your friends,” Gilad says, “when we say it is time to see your friends.”
My body stiffens. Who are these people to say what I can or cannot do? I don’t see any guns or weapons in this house. I could just run. I just have to reach the front door before anyone else . . .
Silas, on my left, murmurs, “It’s not worth it. The sirens will sound, and you won’t make it past the lawn.”
I look at him, disconcerted. “How did you––?”
“You’re tense as a violin string,” he whispers. “And if I were you, I’d be thinking the same thing.”
Oh.
“Go to the Leisure Center,” Gilad says, in a reasonable voice. “Make Bithia happy. It’s the quickest way to see your friends. Really.” He smiles, his eyes disappearing into his thick cheeks. “This is going to be a glorious day, Nina. Today is the day that you get to meet Ram.”
Bithia mentioned Ram. “Who is he?”
“He’s no one. And everyone. He’s the leader of our people, the Unbound. And he’s going to explain it all to you, and you won’t feel as confused as you do right now. Ram is the one who will show you the truth.”
So Gilad is not in charge. He still hasn’t told me why I’m staying in his home.
Gilad clenches his hands together under his chin and gives me a pitying look. “Nina, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your entire life until this day has been a lie.”
Three
Back in the bedroom, Tabby waits on the bed, towel in hand. “You should shower,” she says.
I’m mortified. We spent a long time in the water in the tunnel, and it didn’t smell very good. I’m sure I’m disgusting.
“You’re probably used to only bathing once a week, right?”
“No, I—”
“Come and find me when you’re done,” she says, shoving the towel in my hand. She walks out before I can say anything else.
The shower is an intimidating contraption that has doors that slide open like an elevator’s. With its slick white walls, it looks more like something that a Twitcher would use as a charging station than it does something for washing. I’m excited, though, because I assume that, like the Ashers, the Dixons will have instant hot water.
Once I’m inside, the doors shut swiftly. I’m baffled to find buttons instead of handles. They’re numbered 1, 2, and 3.
Having no better ideas, I press 1.
Hot water comes shooting at me from every direction. I hop in alarm, as the spurting drops hit me like pebbles. Water permeating my nose and eyes, I reach out and hold down the number 2 button.
Immediately, the water changes from scalding to freezing. I cry out and try to step out of the shooting stream, but there seems to be no place to hide within the box. Once again, my nose fills with water and begins to burn. I choke.
Images of Damon flash through my mind: He’s trying to swim, he can’t breathe, he sinks, lifeless.
Desperate, I try to pull the doors open, but they won’t budge. I don’t see an exit button. Goose pimples covering every inch of my pale skin, I hit the only button left: 3.
A creamy yellow substance replaces the cold water. It coats my skin like goat’s milk on a raw chicken leg. I’m frightened by what the liquid could be but relieved that it’s at least warmer than the water. I shut my eyes and mouth as the sprayers reach my head. The sharp smell of something chemical lingers as the machine stops.
As the goopy mess swirls down the drain, the doors of the shower open. I dart out while I can, grabbing my towel. I wipe as much of the yellow stuff off as possible and then stand wrapped in the fluffy towel, teeth chattering. That was the worst shower ever. Not only did I feel pummeled, I never even had the chance to use soap!
I must have used it incorrectly. I want to ask Tabby about it, but I dread the look of disdain she’ll give me.
When she returns, I’m dressed in the same outfit as this morning. She shakes her head, dragging me to the closet.
We have a difficult time finding an outfit that pleases us both. She wants me to wear shorts or a skirt, but I refuse to show so much skin. I want to keep on the large sweater, but Tabby insists that it’s meant for a man and will make me––and by association her––look stupid.
“You can keep on the turtleneck if you want, but you’re going to die of heatstroke,” she says.
She’s talking about my top with the tall neck, I guess. It fits tightly across my chest and I can’t possibly leave the house wearing nothing over it. “Do you have another long sleeve top that might be looser?”
She chews her lip, sorting through the clothes one more time. She holds up a silky blouse. “How about this?”
It’s loose but has no sleeves. I shake my head and she sighs.
“This one?” She holds up a shirt that looks exactly like the last one.
“I’d like to uh, cover my arms, please.”
“Oh. Is that like, a Prophet thing?” she asks, now a little more interested.
“I would just feel more comfortable . . .”
“Whatever,” she says, losing interest again. She grabs a long-sleeved shirt with a V neck and hands it to me. “This should be fine.” She walks out of the closet, so I guess we’re finished.
I change into the shirt, which is the softest thing I’ve ever touched, and leave on the yellow-green “jeans,” as Tabby calls them. She gives me a once-over. “We
have to do something about your hair.”
I touch my wet head self-consciously.
“For now, let’s just put it back. Come here.” She directs me to sit on the floor in front of the bed. Sitting right behind me, she proceeds to braid my hair.
As she pulls and tugs each strand, I feel her working out her frustration through her fingers. I wish I had the nerve to ask why she dislikes me so much. Is it me or all people from Manhattan? “All done!” she says, standing and heading for the door. “Let’s get this over with.”
When Tabby opens the front door, it isn’t locked, and when we step outside the house, I see no guards. I had expected, at the very least, to see Jeremiah looming on the edge of the lawn with his enormous gun.
But there is no one but me, Tabby, and the birds in the trees. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised after what happened with Beth. It took seconds for her to sound the alarm that brought people running from every direction. Why shouldn’t Tabby have the same power?
She walks several steps in front of me, shoulders back and head held high, her yellow blouse and skirt glowing in the morning sun. She’s annoyed to be taking me wherever it is that we’re going, but I wonder if she’s normally a happy person. It’s hard to imagine anything in this beautiful place that could make her unhappy.
We walk past house after house that looks just like Gilad and Bithia’s. Even the flowerbeds out front look exactly the same in size and color. Everyone here must be rich; I’ve never known anyone with a lawn. The streets and sidewalks seem brand new, without any cracks or potholes.
The sky seems immense—a never ending expanse of electric blue. How could it be bigger when I’ve only crossed a river?
The skyscrapers. They aren’t here to block the view. Turning all the way around, I’m startled to see Manhattan in the distance.
The Wall doesn’t seem so high from here—buildings jut out from it in a jagged pattern, and I’m struck by how black and gray the city looks, like a burnt-out stove left on the street to rot. In comparison, the town I’m standing in feels like one of Dekker’s coloring books.
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