A large garden circled the outside of the Turret House, filled with brick paths and archways, and what had once been snaking tunnels and spreading canopies of green. Now it was dead, like everything else here. Brittle, dry ivy clung to the walls and hung all over the ledges and spilled from window sills, brown tangles of vines like waterfalls of brittle hair. Once, this House must have been like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, a place of flowing life and beauty. And not just above—on the ground level, topiary animals stood tall and lonely around her. Sad shapes of giraffes, dolphins and elephants still soared above her head, graceful curves dead and brown. A parade of brown, singed topiary animals stood guard against the distant helicopter lights in the sky.
Beside them, a huge stone gargoyle sat in a thinker’s position in a silent vigil, chin resting on its giant sculpted fist. It cast a comforting shadow, and Evelyn spread the blanket on the ground and curled up under the protective stone wings.
She slept. This wasn’t home—but it was as close as she could get.
❈
In his dream, Regan was buried alive. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, and the entire weight of Parole pressed down on him, suffocating him in a pitch-black, roaring furnace. He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. Searing, toxic air burned his lungs; he was drowning in smoke, in darkness and fire. He reached up, trying to claw his way to the surface, but his hands closed on flames.
And he wasn’t alone.
“Help me!” Someone was crying in the dark and heat. Someone’s voice echoed from miles away. “Help me—I’m trapped!”
“What? Where are you—talk to me!” Regan still could see nothing but black smoke and blazing fire. “Hans? Is that you?”
“No! My name’s Gabriel!” The name had a Spanish accent instead of the Americanized “Gabe.” Like so many words, so many names, so many faces, this name had the feeling of disjointed importance, of recognition but with nothing attached to it. Whatever belonged had been cut off. Regan grasped for it the way he grasped for a handhold, but just kept spinning in the dark.
“I’m so sorry—I don’t remember,” Regan felt the tears dry instantly on his scorched face. “I knew your name once but I lost it. I can’t—”
“You have to remember me! Somebody has to remember me!”
“I can’t! I don’t even know who I am, I lost my… no. No, he took it.” Regan’s slow, cold anger was the only thing that didn’t burn. “Hans took it from me. He took everything. He took away me.”
“You’re trapped,” said the voice, not screaming anymore. It was soft, not like Hans’s mocking voice in his ear, but somehow from within. And yet still from far, far below. “You’re trapped just like I am.”
“I know,” Regan whispered, somehow sure that whoever was speaking to him would be able to hear. “I don’t know how to escape. I have to get out. I have to breathe, I have to see what’s out there. I don’t remember anything else, but I remember that.”
Silence. He tried to take a breath, and found he could.
“Through the fire,” whispered the voice. Gabriel. Gabriel whispered the words.
“What?” Regan started as if shaking himself from a deep sleep, but the dream remained. “No—no, I don’t want to go down there. I don’t want to burn—”
“That’s where you’ll find the answers. That’s where you’ll find you.”
“The only way out is down, is that it?” He sobbed, almost a laugh but not quite. “I—I knew it. Falling, that’s the only way out for—”
“No. Walk through the fire.”
He couldn’t answer. But somehow, nothing hurt anymore. Nothing burned.
“Find me. Save me. Find you. Save you.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Me too. Everyone’s afraid here.”
“How do we stop?” The question was faint. Tired. Even a voice in a dream had to know more than he did. “Being afraid?”
“I don’t know… I think it starts by waking up, and taking a breath..”
When Regan woke up, he didn’t stop being afraid. But he did take a breath.
Sometimes Rose thought she was starting to forget the sun. It hadn’t shone over Parole for nearly ten years. Perpetual smoke blocked out the sky, blotting out the blue with a sick, orange-gray canopy of smog. Her son had never seen it, and all she could tell him about it was that “it was wonderful, bright and warm, and it fed all the plant life. Even me!” But now, even with their sun lamp and greenhouse at home, Rose was hungry all the time. Every day she spread her arms to soak up the sick remnants of a forgotten sun, and every day it got a little harder. She could never get as much as the day before, and that scared her almost as much as the fading memories.
But there was a way to supplement, and after adjusting to life in Parole, one tended to accept survival wherever it came, and leave judgment behind.
Rose’s metal feet crunched on the thin strip of dry, dead earth as she slowly made her way through the long-dead gardens surrounding the Turret House, looking for the clearest patch of ground. Stomach grumbling, she bent down, scooped up a handful of earth, more ash than soil, and stuck it in her mouth, chewing carefully. Crunchy. And dry, powdery with a sharp, oily taste that made her nose wrinkle. Everything here had been scorched by the fires underneath and tainted by the polluted air, all the nutrients burned away, leaving behind all the nutrition and flavor of a papery communion wafer soaked in gasoline. Rose let the remaining cinders trickle through her fingers and moved on, rubbing her complaining stomach.
Rose stopped beside a huge stone gargoyle in a thinker’s pose, stone wings spread protectively over the dead garden. He couldn’t protect the plants—or Parole—from decay, but the ground in the wings’ shadow wasn’t quite so burnt. She bent down again.
Rose laid her hands on the ground and shut her eyes, whispering in a singsong prayer, and her skin began to open. Little slits parted in her wrists and out crept new-green little tendrils, baby vines reaching for the air and sun like newborn fingers. They flowed down into the earth, tunneling and taking root, soaking up nutrients from the soil and giving some back. She stayed there for a long time, eyes closed and humming softly while the vines embraced the dead earth.
When she opened her eyes, the vines stopped growing. Rose gave her hands a vigorous shake, breaking the stems, and scooped up a heaping handful of soil, now much darker, cool, and with a fresh scent of newly-fallen rain. She took a tentative bite and smiled. Moist, sweet and nourishing—like biting into a fresh apple. She stood up, happily munching her earthy snack, and took a few strides to circle around a large stone gargoyle—and promptly crashed over something lying on the ground on the other side, going down in a tangle of hair and legs and vines.
“Good morning.” Rose peered over her shoulder at the bedraggled Evelyn who lurched upright under her ankles. “Did I wake you?”
“You could say that,” Evelyn mumbled, untangling herself from the vines and sitting up. She picked dry brown leaves out of her pink hair and blinked sleepily, leaning back against the gargoyle’s cold knee. She didn’t meet Rose’s eyes, didn’t look like she was really seeing anything.
“What are you doing out here?” Rose asked slowly.
“Until very recently? Sleeping.”
“You slept out here?” Rose's eyebrows shot up as her eyes widened in concern. “The whole night?”
“Part of it. Maybe two, three hours of actual sleeping. Surprisingly, the ground is even less comfortable than you’d think.” She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, still looking anywhere that wasn’t up at the house.
Rose looked around, seeing a rumpled blanket but nothing else. “Without a mask? Not even a handker-Evelyn.”
She shrugged. “I left mine at home.”
“Okay,” Rose took a slow breath in and out—which Evelyn noted, and Rose definitely saw her watching. “I understand you not wanting to set foot back in that place—”
“Well, good,” Evelyn grumbled. �
��If you didn’t by now… Sorry,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Sorry, Rosie, I’m just… cranky. Bad sleep, that’s all.”
“Cranky? I’d be furious in your position. Terrified. Frustrated, feeling trapped, helpless, unheard, powerless…”
“Yeah, okay,” she sighed. “All of the above. But also cranky.”
“And if you weren’t, I’d be even more worried.” Rose reached out one hand to caress Evelyn’s cheek. Evelyn hesitated—then closed her eyes, smiled, and leaned into Rose’s hand. She let out a long sigh, some of the awful tension melted from her bones, and her rigid shoulders sank. They stayed that way for a while, Rose’s thumb gently stroking Evelyn’s cheekbone, until Evelyn opened her eyes again. She took Rose’s hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “You do need a mask, though. Just because we’re surrounded by poison doesn’t mean you have to breathe it in too. If you don’t want to go inside, I’ll go get you one.”
“No, no, stay, please.” Evelyn kept a hold on her hand, and Rose didn’t move. “I’ll go in, really, just—just five minutes. Besides, you’re not wearing one.”
“I’m a plant person, Ev, I filter my own air.” She brushed aside some dead leaves and scratched gently at the surface of the dry earth over here, trying to gauge if it was any more promising. It wasn’t. “But they don’t have a sun lamp and I couldn’t bring ours from home, or any of my good stuff.” She held up a loose handful of ashy soil and let it sift through her fingers. “I got hungry. Had to make my own.”
“Right, right… I knew that.” Evelyn put her forehead in her hand and massaged her temples. “Sorry. This place is throwing me off, I don’t know if I’m coming or going or standing still…”
“Don’t be sorry, babe. They’re the ones making their guests make their own breakfast.”
Rose leaned back against the stone gargoyle and they sat together in the noise of the morning. Parole was never really quiet, and birdsong had long since been replaced by crackling flames and helicopter roars, but they still managed to grab a few minutes of peace now and then.
“Putting something together?” Evelyn asked after a little while, turning her head to see her wife’s face scrunched up in a downcast variation of one of her thinking-so-hard-it-was-almost-telepathic expressions.
“It’s just…in the taxi, did you hear Radio Angel?”
“No,” Evelyn’s eyebrows came together as she frowned at the memory, one of many. “I was a little… there was a lot going on. Bad news?”
“One of my patients, Cairus Maddox. He’s missing.”
“I’m sorry,” Evelyn said, squeezing her hand like she was consoling her after a funeral. ‘Missing’ in Parole usually meant about the same thing. “I think I… he’s come to some of my shows, hasn’t he?”
“Yeah. He hangs around the Bar. Wants to help however he can—actually, I think he wants to be Garrett when he grows up. Or maybe you. Good kid. Got a lot on his plate, though.”
“Don’t we all.” Evelyn sighed. “Hope he turns up. I’ll keep an eye out… soon as we actually get out of here and back where we belong.” She looked over again, painful muscle tension and even headache melting away a little at the warmth in Rose’s serene, never-judging eyes. Her pink shirt was wrinkled and sweat-stained, but it still told her that Everything Is Going To Be Okay. Even Evelyn doubted the words sometimes, at least when she said them. But never when they came from Rose. “I haven’t belonged here for… never. I never have.”
Rose reached out and picked some dead leaves out of Evelyn’s hair. “I know,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I want to talk about it,” Evelyn said, quickly and quietly. “Just for a second. Just to you. I’ll power through it as soon as we go inside but I just… I need…”
“I’m here. I’m listening.” Rose’s hands were always warm and usually coated with a fine layer of soil, tiny leaves sprouting from the valleys between her fingers. Today was no different, and Evelyn held on tightly, focusing on the feeling, how some things never changed.
“I can’t be in there. Everything comes back. Even though it’s so different now, I still see everything the way it was, and I don’t know which is worse: how it’s changed or…” She trailed off, shaking her head. Evelyn glanced over her shoulder at the towering building. Like a stalker, she thought, always there in the back of her mind. But now she looked up, and it was really there. “I just can’t stay. This place crushes me—and I can’t breathe. So I came out here.”
“Stay out here all you want—just wear a mask. You can help me make it beautiful.” She rested her hand on the back of Evelyn’s neck, wishing she could bring her back to life the same way she’d helped the earth. A blossom opened between her second and third fingers, and she tucked it behind Evelyn’s ear.
“Heh.” Evelyn looked around at her and managed to smile. “Won’t take much, with you here.”
“You know it’s different this time, right?” Rose said, searching her face. “You’re not alone now. You’ve got me. And Danae, and Jack—and our new friend Regan. You’ll never have to face this place or these people alone ever again, I promise.”
“Thanks, love.” Evelyn smiled a little, and slowly stood up. Her bones ached after a night on the ground, and grime clung to her skin and clothes. “You’re right. I’m being ridiculous, hiding from a house…” She started toward the stairs, but stopped to stare at the huge looming shape, the black, sharp angles that cut against the sick orange and grey sky.
Rose quietly came up behind and slipped her arm through Evelyn’s. “I’m right here. Breakfast can wait.”
“Okay,” she whispered back.
They slipped back inside, arm in arm.
❈
Evelyn clenched her teeth and took a deep breath. On the other side of the door waited dear Liam, and their brunch date from Hell. Every memory of this house, every ghost weighed her down like balls and chains and she stripped them off one by one and laid them down.
“I am strong,” Evelyn whispered to herself, eyes closed. “I am brave. I am a goddess who contains multitudes of galaxies. My spirit is infinite, my soul is towering, and my shoes…” she cracked open one eye, glanced down. This entire morning had been one giant anxiety-blur. Had she even remembered to put on shoes? Yes. She smiled. “Hella cute. All right. I can do this.”
Evelyn filled her lungs with fear and exhaled. Then she pushed the door open.
“Hello, dearest cousin!” she chirped, heels clacking on the marble and skirt rustling in a flourish of noise and energy. “And how are you this beautiful morning?”
“Afternoon.” Liam swirled his crystal clear water, listening to the ice cubes clink. The balcony jutted over the bottom half of the Frankenstein’s-Monster house, looking out on the gutted, burning city. Sick orange sunlight filtered down through the perma-smog, and Liam sat stiffly on a metal patio chair, waiting for her. His white suit was immaculate despite the smoke and heat. A white cloth mask covered the lower half of his face, the kind most sensible people in Parole wore when they had to be outside for more than a minute. He only lowered it to sip the chilled water, replacing it immediately after. “You must have gotten lost on the way down.”
“Well, like we noticed yesterday, a lot of things changed around here.”
“Have they? I suppose when one watches it change gradually instead of coming back after a long absence, one hardly notices.” Liam gestured to a silver tray on the table, with another breathing mask and sparkling glass pitcher of ice water. Evelyn’s mouth watered at the sight and the sound of ice clinking against the sides—it had been years since she’d seen so much, so clean, so accessible. “Please, drink.”
“I… thank you.” Evelyn poured herself a glass, careful not to spill a drop, but then just held it in front of her without drinking. Could she somehow steal the pitcher to share with her friends, or store for later? She held a small fortune in her hands now, and was already thinking of all the necessi
ties it could buy.
“Oh, please, enjoy.” Liam prodded again. “You don’t have to hoard your water rations here. There’s more where this came from, believe me.”
Evelyn gave him a slow nod, gingerly picking up the water glass and taking a sip. Her teeth ached at the unaccustomed cold, and her tongue tingled; the water was freshened with lemon, a luxury she hadn’t tasted in over a decade. She’d almost forgotten it existed! Her eyes widened, and she drank again, this time gulping down the entire thing. Without meeting Liam’s eyes, she wiped her mouth and secured the cloth mask and over her nose and mouth. Evelyn had to admit she felt more secure with it on. Sleeping outside really hadn’t been one of her best ideas, and she was starting to get a cough from Parole’s toxic smog. “Thank you.”
Liam watched her carefully over the rim of his glass. “I did always hope to see you again.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I wasn’t ever really sure.”
“Of course. You’re family, that’s everything. And besides that, you’re the only one of this family I ever felt really understood me.”
“Thank you, Liam. I was sure we’d see one another again. I hoped we would, at least.” Maybe the power of diplomacy would be enough to get her through this. It helped when what she said was true, in a way. She was almost able to smile.
“But I just have to say,” he continued, and Evelyn held very still, waiting and preparing to minimize her visible reaction. Whatever came next might make her sigh in annoyance, or get up and walk out the door—but whenever Liam ‘just had to say’ anything, you were going to react. “That I expected to see you as I knew you. As I remembered.”
“The person you were expecting never actually existed.”
“Sixteen years of trust and confiding in him would indicate otherwise.”
“All right, now it’s my turn to ‘just say something.’” Evelyn put her glass down on the table with a loud clunk and slid her chair back from the table. “You haven’t called me by my name once since I got home.” She waited. When he said nothing, she pulled her mask down fully so he could clearly see her entire face, and uncompromising glare aimed directly into his eyes. “It’s Evelyn.”
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