Ronja halted, her heart writhing in her ribs.
The Conductor tried to kill me, she thought dimly. Why?
She racked her brains, fighting through the lingering smokescreen of withdrawal back to the chair. Back to Roark, standing over her with a cigarette. What had she felt that her Singer had not been able to subdue?
Fear. Undeniable terror. But she had felt fear before, had she not? Fear of her mother, of the Offs. Fear of failing Georgie and Cosmin. Fear for her own life and safety.
A cigarette in the eye?
There was nothing in Revinia worth seeing.
Her hand drifted to the bandages that swaddled her head. Ronja dug her fingernail beneath the adhesive that held them in place, then began to tug at the rings of linen.
Something else had wormed into her consciousness that night. It had always lurked in the corners of her mind, but had never been able to sink its claws into her.
The bandages were spiraling off her crown, layer after layer. They draped over her shoulders like cobwebs. Many were stained with crusty brown blood.
The feeling had first manifested in her hands, begging them to clench into fists. It slithered up her arms, charged her heart, filled her lungs with so much heat she thought they might burst. Her skull threatened to crack not from the pain of The Music, but from a far more potent agony.
Ronja knew the word. She had never spoken it. Was not sure if she could speak it, even without a Singer.
The last of her bandages slipped from her head, dusting her shoulders like snow.
The word was rage.
Ronja felt a scream build on her tongue. She clapped her hands over her mouth, smothering it with all her strength.
Roark had thought her an Off. One of her own tormenters. One of the men and women who carried out the orders of The Conductor, who placed her and her family at the foot of society. Beneath the foot of society. Why? Ronja had no idea. All her life she had paid for the mistakes of her mother, mistakes she could not begin to comprehend. She had been starved, assaulted, discriminated against for a crime she did not commit. For nearly two decades, she had been exposed to mutt Music, and for all she knew corrupted genetic material, based solely on the chance that she might follow in her mother’s footsteps.
Her entire world was the pain The Conductor inflicted upon her.
How dare Roark lump her in with his lackeys?
Ronja let her hand drift to the wound on the side of her head. She flinched when her fingertips brushed the raw, lumpy flesh and sutures that formed a rough headstone for her ear. Lacking a mirror, she imagined her appearance and her heart sank. She must look repulsive.
It was then she realized she could hear nothing on her right side.
Ronja snapped her fingers several times before the wound. Nothing. She was completely deaf on that side. Of course she was. Between the thick gauze and her conversations with Roark and Iris, she had not stopped to think about it.
The feeling was simmering in her gut again. The rage. She gritted her teeth, tried to keep it from clawing up through her throat. It was not directed toward Roark, or even the doctor who mutilated her.
All at once she could not hold it back anymore.
The scream ripped from her like a leech pried from skin. It was long and animalistic, a sound she did not know she was capable of making.
When she quieted, Ronja found herself on her knees. She did not remember falling. She looked around, half expecting the world to have crumbled beneath her piercing cry.
The curtains were still. The curving ceiling and the wall behind her bed did not yield. Not even a speck of dust had been dislodged from its place.
A sudden, hysteric laugh bubbled up on her chapped lips.
Passion is perilous, they had always said, but it seemed to have little impact.
“What the hell was that? Are you all right? Why did you take off your bandages? Get back in bed, now!”
Ronja whipped around, but Iris was already at the bedside. She carried a stainless steel tray laden with various medical instruments and bottles of pills. She set it on the nightstand as Ronja climbed to her feet, embarrassed.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed yet,” Iris scolded, moving quickly to take her elbow. “You were uncoupled mid-Quiet Song. That’s about as bad as it gets, and to top it off you didn’t even have a proper operation. If Trip had just mentioned to me that there was a possibility that you weren’t a . . . ”
Iris cut herself off with a huff, fluttering her hand dismissively. Ronja sat down on the squeaky cot again.
“Nothing to be done now,” Iris continued, throwing the blankets over Ronja’s twig legs. “I just wish I could have been there to see you through a proper surgery.”
“You mean they didn’t have to cut off my ear?” Ronja asked, her fingers wandering toward the wound.
Iris smacked the wayward digits away.
“They did, unfortunately. From what Trip tells me, you went into The Quiet in about three minutes. Usually, it takes a person an hour to die from that. So the answer is yes, they had to take your ear. However,” Iris grabbed a tin cup from the tray. She offered it to Ronja, who accepted it uncertainly. “I could have made a cleaner cut. Harrow may have two decades on me, but she’s not a Singer surgeon,” Iris placed a graceful hand over her heart. “I am.”
“You’re pretty young,” Ronja commented mildly. She took a sip of the water Iris had handed her. It tasted like metal, but soothed her throat.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Iris replied tartly. The surgeon took an amber bottle of pills from the tray and gave it a shake. The tablets rattled like chattering teeth. “Take two a day until they’re gone. One in the morning, one in the evening.”
“How do I know which is which?” Ronja asked sarcastically, taking the offered bottle. She unscrewed the lid and dumped one of the white tabs into her palm. “What is it?” she inquired suspiciously. She pinched the pill between her thumb and index finger and held it up to the light. It did not appear particularly menacing, but then, neither did Singers.
“Antibiotics. They’ll keep your wound from festering. I won’t force you to take them, but you’ll be begging for them later if you don’t. Also,” Iris tossed her a smaller bottle made of the same dark glass. Ronja caught it in her free hand. “Pain pills. Take them as needed, but no more than three a day.”
Ronja nodded and laid the bottles beside her on the mattress. They clinked hollowly against each other as she shifted. They reminded her of sleeping children, tucked into bed side by side.
“Are you going to take it?” Iris asked, jerking her chin at the white tablet locked between her fingers.
Ronja answered by placing the pill on her tongue and washing it down with the remainder of her water.
Iris beamed, flashing her dimples. “Brilliant! Mind if I give you a checkup? That’s not really a question. Sit up straight so I can check your heart.”
Iris examined her heart and lungs, a procedure she was forced to remain silent for. For everything that followed, however, the girl chattered incessantly.
“Don’t get the wrong idea about me and Harrow,” she said, prodding Ronja’s stomach through her thin gown. “She’s wicked smart, a fantastic doctor, but she’s got no experience taking off Singers. That’s a very specific skill that my father passed down to me and I’ve done dozens. I just don’t understand why Trip didn’t call me! Probably because he knew I’d put a stop to torturing you. I’m really sorry about that, by the way. How’s your—?”
“You’ve taken off dozens of Singers?” Ronja asked.
Iris paused. She put her hands on her hips, glaring at Ronja down her button nose.
“Evie always says I talk to much. You weren’t supposed to know that.” Iris smiled cheekily and waggled a finger at Ronja. “I like you. I hope we get to keep you.”
Before Ronja could remind the girl she was not a dog, Iris tucked her strawberry-blond curls behind her right ear. The cartilage was pierced five times. Howe
ver, it was not crowned by a Singer. It looked as though it never had been. There was no scar tissue. She was born free.
Ronja felt a tendril of senseless jealousy take root in her stomach. The lumpy swath of skin where her ear used to be prickled, vividly present.
“Don’t worry about your scar,” Iris soothed, reading her mind. “You aren’t the only one down here who lost their ear in the process. I can’t always be around to save the day. It won’t look so bad, especially with those pretty curls of yours.”
“Who are you people?” Ronja wondered aloud, shaking her head.
“I’m sure you can figure it out,” Iris said, twisting to grab an otoscope from the tray. She twirled it thrice in her hand and held it at the ready. “I’ve said too much, so you’ll just have to wait for my superiors to get back. Now, sit up and be quiet.”
Iris finished her examination without spilling any more secrets, as hard as Ronja tried to pry them from her. She did, however, continue to ramble about a string of incongruous topics Ronja could not begin to follow. Eventually, Ronja fell silent and allowed herself to be lulled by the meandering tales.
Iris checked her heart, lungs, reflexes, blood pressure, eyes, throat, and her remaining ear before she was satisfied. Ronja, who was highly unused to being labored over and had never been to an official medical appointment, was somewhat relieved to see her go.
“You need to stay here and rest, okay?” Iris said as she replaced her tools on the tray.
Ronja nodded compliantly, which seemed to all but make her caretaker’s day. The surgeon spun on her heel and flitted from the room on her bare feet, tossing farewells over her shoulder.
When she was gone, Ronja debated sneaking from the room, but something held her back. She did not think she would be hurt if she left, but it seemed as though Iris genuinely wanted her to heal.
“Five days and I’m already soft,” Ronja grumbled to herself.
She reclined into her pillow and let her eyelids sink shut. Drowsiness came with unprecedented swiftness, and when sleep took her she did not fight it.
She dreamed of running through an open field. It was a dream she had started many times in her life, but it was always burst open by a bolt from The Music. She moved forward in the scene, further than she had ever gone. Raindrops the size of baseballs fell around her, landing with uncanny softness on her hair and shoulders.
She paused. The grass brushed against her knees. She held out her palm to collect the rain. Upon closer examination, she found what was falling was not water, but tiny, translucent words. She could not see them, but she could feel them. She could hear them.
For today, my friend, I promise you are on the mend.
16: Two Cities
“Wake up, love.”
The familiar voice dragged her from her dreams. Her lids were heavy with imaginary raindrops. Or words. She had forgotten which.
“Ready for some answers?”
Ronja snapped her eyes open. Her pupils retracted painfully quickly.
Roark stood above the bed, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Her eyes latched onto the pendant swinging from his neck, the same one that had blinded her in the subtrain tunnels. Upon closer examination, Ronja saw it was a coin with a hole drilled through the mirrored profiles of The Conductor and Victor Westervelt I. She wondered at its significance, but was distracted by its wearer.
Roark seemed to have aged several years since the last time they had spoken. His mouth was tense and his jaw bulged in his cheek.
Ronja sat up, ignoring the stars that crackled her gaze. The boy offered his hand. She grabbed it with her own calloused one and rose haltingly. She swayed for a moment, but he anchored her.
“It can get a bit cold, down here,” the boy said, gently withdrawing his support.
“I had a coat,” Ronja grumbled, running her fingers through her tangled mane.
“You should be a bit more trusting,” Roark replied, squatting and opening the large drawer beneath the bedside table.
“Forgive me for not trusting my kidnapper to keep my bloody . . . oh.”
Folded in the belly of the drawer were her overcoat, sweater, pants, and undergarments. Roark pulled the coat from the compartment and shook it out. It was as frayed and patched as ever, but seemingly free of stains.
“I had everything washed for you, even had one of the buttons replaced.”
Ronja accepted the coat from Roark. Its texture and weight was familiar, but it had lost the musky scent she loved.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Ronja lied quickly.
“Liar.”
“Kidnapper.”
Roark rolled his eyes.
“Your shoes are at the end of the bed,” he said, jerking his chin toward them. “I’ll let you change.”
Ronja nodded, and the boy slipped from the room with a fleeting smile.
It was a relief to strip off her sweaty gown and don her familiar woolen sweater and soft trousers. Roark had been right about the chill, so she shrugged on her coat. It settled on her slim shoulders like a comforting embrace.
Ronja moved to the end of the cot and found her boots waiting for her. They had been scoured of dirt. The leather was much lighter than she remembered. She shoved them over her bare feet, wriggling her toes into their familiar indentations.
She looked down at herself. She appeared utterly unaltered, but beneath the layers of cloth and skin, she knew everything was changing.
“Can I come in?”
Ronja looked up. Roark was already through the curtained doorway. She glowered at him.
“You look fantastic, love.”
“Ronja.”
“Of course, Ronja, love.”
Ronja narrowed her eyes.
“What’s going to happen?” she asked, fiddling with a button on her coat to keep from socking him in the jaw.
“My superiors are going to ask you a lot of questions. Then, if they like your answers, they’re going to answer your questions.”
“How do I know the correct answers?”
“Just be honest.”
“You’re about as helpful as a square tire.”
Roark smiled crookedly and offered his elbow. Ronja took it, her heart thudding like a ball bouncing down the stairs. The pair ducked through the drapes.
Ronja blinked.
A city sprawled around her, bathed in both electric light and fire light and cocooned in arching stone walls. Its buildings were more like huts, constructed from swaths of multicolored cloth and plywood. Some were tents, others were built from privacy partitions. Where the domed ceiling drooped low, drapes were hung from hooks, encircling their occupants in thick, dusty arms. Ronja felt a rush of unprecedented affection for her own little room just behind her.
Decrepit furniture too large for the ramshackle homes littered the cavernous space. Bum-legged chairs and dressers with missing drawers were stacked high with books, their spines frayed with use. The aroma of home-cooked stew rested heavily on the air, mingling with pungent body odor and the sharp tang of underground cold.
Through the veins of the makeshift city, its citizens roamed. The walls of the impermanent homes shook as they rushed past, arms laden with food and other goods. Shouts rang out across the expanse, bouncing off the concave ceiling and firm walls.
None of them wore Singers.
Ronja was about to comment on this when the walls began to tremble. She squeezed her eyes shut, as though this would somehow quell the pain of the deafening sound. Plumes of dust cascaded from above, settling on her hair and shoulders. The rumble faded.
Suddenly, Ronja opened her eyes. She squinted at the ceiling, the walls, the floor.
“Wait . . . we’re in the subtrain tunnels.”
Roark looked at her wryly.
“What gave us away?” he drawled, stroking his chin sardonically.
“I know, but . . . ” Ronja glanced around, a grin unfurling across her cracked lips. “The tunnels aren’t really decayin
g, are they?”
Roark echoed her mischievous smile, his marble teeth flashing in the warm light.
“You pitchers almost put me out of work!” Ronja said with a disbelieving laugh.
“We rigged some explosives and brought the roof down at every entrance to the station,” the boy explained, running a sheepish hand through his black hair. “The platform extends all the way in either direction,” he gestured left and right.
Ronja stood on her tiptoes to peer over the sagging rooftops. The ocean of cloth and plywood extended as far as she could see in either direction. She had forgotten how massive some of the older stations were.
“The tunnels go even further,” Roark continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
Ronja followed the digit to the edge of the crowded platform, where a brick canyon housed two sets of parallel tracks. The wooden planks had been ripped up, but the metal rails remained, corroded from disuse. Twin archways on opposing sides of the ravine marked the entrances to the tunnels. Multicolored flags, chains of dried flowers, and strings of electric lights decorated them.
“You can walk about a quarter mile in each direction before you hit the cave-in,” Roark told her, a hint of pride ringing in his voice.
“How do you get out?” Ronja asked, twisting around toward him.
“There’s a service elevator that dumps out in an abandoned above-ground station,” he explained. “It’s safe, but pretty small. We won’t be bringing in any new furniture for a while. I don’t think Evie thought of that when she blew all the other exits.”
Ronja nodded; she knew exactly what he was talking about. The lift was in the same place in every station, and always smelled of sweat and motor oil.
“I keep hearing about Evie—is she your girlfriend?” she asked.
Roark barked a laugh. “I’ll tell her you said that, she’ll have a fit. Come on, they’re waiting for us.”
Ronja allowed him to lead her through the meandering streets of the village. She wished she had three extra sets of eyes to take in her surroundings. Her head swiveled left and right, making her look rather bewildered. Her overt awe drew a few chuckles from passersby, but the laughter was good-natured, void of malevolence. She was accustomed to attention from strangers, but it was generally negative.
Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy Page 9