“Sure,” Nathan said tersely.
Jack and Myrta exchanged a glance. Myrta said, “Nate—” but he stood and stalked off, and Alphonse wondered if anyone’s family was easy.
* * *
The following evening he was unyoking his team when Myrta approached. There were only a few days left before Sangal, and he didn’t want to spend time with this girl. He pulled the animals to the pasture.
“Wait,” she called.
He slapped them in and closed the gate. “What?”
“I want to talk to you.”
She was such a little thing, dark hair and slight, every bit as nervous today as before. He pushed by her toward the road.
She followed. “Why are you working with Mr. de Reu?”
He went toward the hills on the other side without breaking stride. Why should she care? “Just a job, miss.”
She was practically running to keep up. “You had a job. You worked at the inn.”
He stopped, recognition hitting him. This was that guest. She was so easy to forget, but in hindsight she’d looked the same back then. Coarse clothing, sturdy shoes, hair knotted back.
She threw a glance over at the wagons where her brother—was it Jack?—watched them. “Why did you quit?”
“Look, no offense, but we don’t know each other. I’d like to be alone.” He started up the slopes, grasses brushing his trousers.
“Let’s try this,” she called, scrambling after him. “I’ll leave you be if you tell me why you lied about the lake.”
“Seriously?”
Her expression firmed, her little jaw thrust forward. “Do you work for Renico?”
Autore. Even here. Even here on the wagon train everything was about combustion. It owned the continent. “No.”
“Then why did you lie about the lake?”
“Look, miss. I imagine it takes courage to walk up to a complete stranger and ask questions out of the blue.” He’d give her that. She might be loose in the head, but she had fortitude to be so direct, and she’d caught onto his lie when no one else had. “The truth is, I have a lot on my mind and I don’t have time . . .” He waved a hand, searching for words. “. . . to make friends. No offense.”
He pushed around her and continued into the hills. By some grace from the powers above she didn’t follow, and after a while he collapsed under a sandsap and dug his fingers into the soil. Ignoring the burrs and prickles, he closed his eyes and turned his thoughts to his mother.
For all the decisions she’d made through his life, money was usually part of the calculation. Becoming a funder and working with Zelia for so many years had probably strengthened her financial instincts. And she was drawn to power too. That was probably why she took a job with combustion in the first place.
Mechanating the belt would be easy if it was named as a province, and mechanation meant profit, more money for her to work with. But naming it could lead to a revolt—which would undermine the entire continental economy. She stood to lose money if that happened. Not to mention that naming a fourth province would weaken Delsina’s power in Congress directly, from a third of the votes to a quarter.
And in that light, he wondered fleetingly if his assumptions were correct. Any personal power she might hold in Congress would be diluted by a fourth province. Some part of the puzzle still eluded him.
That’s why I’m going home. To speak with her. He’d never seen her willingly give up power. He’d add that to his argument. She stood to lose power both directly and indirectly. Less overall influence in the Congress and undermining goodwill with the belt. Maintaining goodwill as a type of power. That framing—it felt like something his grandfather would have argued for. It felt right.
His case against her began to take shape.
Another day passed, and another, and he ran through his final argument early one morning as he rolled up his tent. Three things drove his mother—money, power, and family. The continental economy, that was the money, and this plan was hostile to it. Maintaining goodwill was a form of power.
That left family. She loves me. More than any other piece of the puzzle, he was certain of that. She’d raised him through the hard years and the wealthy ones. They’d always been together, since he was a child, for better or worse.
The suns crested the range, pulling the autumn bite out of the air. He gathered his things and took them to the wagon.
Myrta came up. “Good morning, Alphonse. I’m with you today.” She threw a blanket onto his seat.
“What? No, you’re not.”
“Yes. Mr. de Reu said.”
He threw his things in back and went over to Reuben, who was talking with Nathan and Jack. Reuben scowled as he walked up.
“Sir, is Myrta on my wagon? I think it’s better if I drive solo.” He had nothing against the girl, but also no reason to want her around.
Reuben crossed his arms. He gave Alphonse his complete attention. “That’s my lumber, them’s my oxen, and you been fallin’ asleep on the job. You need a partner.”
That much was true, and Alphonse closed his eyes. He exhaled and opened them again. “Have another hand drive the wagon. You have enough people, sir.”
There were bags under the man’s eyes, and he spread his feet and squinted straight at Alphonse. “This ain’t up for debate. You near pulled off the byway yesterday. Myrta’s ridin’ with you and that’s final.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Using her blanket as a cushion, Myrta sat far back into the corner of the seat. She watched Alphonse, tried to figure him out. She kept one hand on the folding knife in her pocket, determined to learn what she could about this strange man.
It was why she’d convinced Reuben to let her ride with him.
Alphonse was such a strange man. A city man. She knew so few people from the cities. None really, except Ephraim who was more of a foothiller now.
He seemed so private. She waited for him to say something. Anything. But the miles rolled by and he didn’t. Even Nathan would say something.
After a while, the narrow band of coastal plains came into view, and the ocean. She’d never seen so much water in her life, all the way out as far as she could see, out to the very horizon. She threw a glance over, but Alphonse was still staring straight at the byway and still not saying a word. Myrta put her hand along her cheek and switched on her vision.
Above the ocean, water vapor went up to the sky in purple spears, like a grape taffy-pull, drifting into the clouds, becoming clouds. Brilliant, dense purple, lobed balls of colored cotton in the sky. Some of the clouds were drifting over land, where a haze of misty purple rain fell.
Water, everywhere. So much of it.
Ahead, two smudges of gray lay along the coast. Cities. Each blanketed in blue. Blue carbon. And outside each city, stronger and angrier, bruises seeped out of the ground, black and blue. She altered her vision to normal and saw nothing but the gray-smudged cities. She flicked her vision on again and there it was, carbon bleeding from the ground. Outside the cities. Methane, ethane, carbon dioxide, straight out of the ground. “Holy heavens.”
He glanced over. “What?”
She glanced back. He’d spoken! At last. She pointed at the distant carbon seeping. “What is that?”
“I don’t know. The gray blotch is Sangal City.”
Surly, that’s what this man was. He looked enough like a steader, unshaven and trail-dusty, but no steader would be so contrary.
On the other hand, him being so withdrawn didn’t feel much of a threat. “Next to it. Left. North.”
“North is Delsico and a few oil extractors. You can’t see them from here.”
In a heartbeat, Myrta understood, and not just in her head but in her gut. Seeing that carbon bleeding straight out of the ground was something the industry didn’t want anyone to know about any more than they probably
wanted her seeing the aut exhaust. “Is Renico bigger than Delsico?”
He scoffed. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Holy heavens. You don’t see that?” But of course he couldn’t. She didn’t see the carbon herself without her trait turned on.
And he didn’t answer anyway. Like a closed book, one with a hard spine, that’s what this man was. If he’d been a steader, he’d talk. She’d say “drought,” and he’d say something about profits, or next season, and they’d go from there. It was easy to talk with a steader.
Then Myrta remembered that Odile used to talk about the handyman. She used to talk about this man. “Odile’s my cousin.”
Alphonse looked over sharply. “What?”
That worked.
“We’re cousins.” Myrta took off her shoes and tossed them under the seat.
“Autore. That explains a lot.”
“Odile cares about pollution. She cares about that.” Myrta pointed again. “She’s obsessed with it. With the industry too.”
He slammed the seat between them, the boards jumped and Myrta did too. He said, “I wouldn’t work for them. Ever.”
She planted her backside back where it’d been.
“I want you off my wagon. After the break, you’re off my wagon.”
She fisted her hands and took a deep breath. “You probably think I’m crazy because what I said back at the lake, about my eyes. Well. I’m not crazy. But, imagine how nuts it’d make me feel if someone like you talked about what you heard. Imagine how insane I’d get, knowing you’re out there, somewhere, telling people that this girl you saw on Caravan thinks she can see air!”
“Autore, calm down. Why would I do that? I don’t care about you.”
“Exactly. So, you have no reason to protect me. Why do you think Jack and I waited until we were at the lake to talk about it? Did we sound crazy?”
“Yes!”
She inhaled sharply. “Have I talked about it anywhere else?
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not crazy.”
They rode in silence, and her worry grew. There was an expression in the belt, split the milk between the pails—but convincing him of her ability was the only pail she had. “There’s a river ahead. It’s big, and it’s going north to south.”
“Can you hear it?”
“No. I see it. I see the water vapor. There’re rapids. It’s a huge river, running north to south.”
He glared straight ahead again. She cried out, “Why don’t you believe me?”
“Why do you care if I believe you?”
Never had she felt so completely at the mercy of another human being as she did now, admitting her trait—her vulnerability!—to a stranger. “Because there are people after me. How do you think I got this?” She pointed at her scab. “Melville di Vaun, from Renico, did this.”
His mouth fell open. It hung there like truth to a lie. She snapped, “You know him? Great. Fantastic.” She pulled out the knife, unfolded it, and gripped it hard.
“Whoa, put that away. Look, Myrta, I swear I’m not with Renico. And no, I’ve only met the man. I don’t know him at all.”
She pointed the knife toward him and leaned closer. “Let’s pretend you’re telling the truth. Now imagine, as a person who is definitely not with Renico, that someone you cared about was attacked by them. Wouldn’t you want to protect that person?”
“Stop talking about it!”
She roared in frustration and turned away.
And Alphonse just sat there, yelling at the team and driving them all wrong. “Come on. Yah!”
He was such a total rube. “You’re holding the lines too tight. You’re hurting them.”
Groaning, he loosened his hold and called out to the team again. Myrta turned back to the hills, not knowing why she’d even bothered to correct him, except the oxen didn’t deserve this man’s ignorance any more than she did.
“Look, Myrta.” His voice broke in what sounded like pain, and somehow that was more comforting than his actual words. “I won’t tell anyone. About your . . . eyeball thing. I promise. It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not. I wouldn’t want—look, no one should be hurt by that industry. Your secret is safe.”
She watched him for a long time. His face was haunted, but it was the caving of his chest that convinced her. She folded her knife. “Thank you.”
The groans and whines of the wagon were punctuated by steady hoof strikes. Lowing from the teams, yells on the wind, all of it blended into a sort of out-of-tune trail song. Myrta pulled her hair back and shoved it down into her collar. Dust had caked onto her neck, was inside her nose, on her wrists, everywhere. The dirt was so thick she could probably flake it off in chunks.
They continued on like that for a while, and the train finally broke in the late morning. She got down and slapped her trousers, slapped the dust out. Alphonse pulled out his line and hooks from the back and came around to her in a halting way. He fidgeted with his gear. “Um. I’m wondering. Are there any lakes around here?”
She stared. In disbelief she stared at this strange city man, this surly man asking her to find a lake, for him. Then she faced up to the sky, and laughter spilled out of her. “Yes.” She wiped her eyes with one hand and pointed with the other. “Half mile that way.”
He grimaced awkwardly, maybe it was supposed to be a smile, and headed off.
She unyoked the team, still grinning. He believed her. He seemed nice even, under that hard spine of his. She led the oxen to the water barrel on the side of the road. They started lapping, their spittle floating off in white bubbles, and she wondered what had made him reconsider.
She pulled burrs off one of steers and scratched its crest. Its eyes were deep brown, the lashes long, curled and black, darker than its coat. There was something about cattle that reminded her of calves even when they were fully grown. They were gentle, and their ears so soft. Their eyes so trusting. Alphonse had a good team.
A man walked up with his own oxen. Tall and well-dressed, he stood closer than customary. “Myrtle.”
She startled as she recognized Emmett, standing there as fresh as a market morning. His face, his hands, even his clothing—he looked immaculate. Emmett must have brought a change of clothing for every single day. She wondered how he found water to bathe. Surely, she thought, he wouldn’t use the drinking water. “Hello, Emmett. It’s Myrta.”
“Myrta.” His gaze travelled down her body, then he met her eyes.
She took a step away, toward Alphonse’s nearer ox who was still lapping noisily. Emmett’s animals stood on the other side of the barrel and drank just as thirstily.
“I trust you’re well.” She willed Alphonse’s animals to hurry.
“Terrence says you left the stead.”
“That’s right.”
“But you’re here.” His eyes ran down her body again. She found herself bunching her shoulders forward.
The oxen drank and drank, and there was barely enough room for all four. His team . . . She did a double take. Both stood with their backs arched and their tails between their legs. Either of those were bad signs, and his animals showed both. She stared harder. Were those welts? Strips of raw flesh showed through the dirt on their rumps. His team had sores along their haunches and backs, as though they’d been flayed hard. Some of the sores festered, and a fly landed on one.
She looked away and told herself he hadn’t beaten his animals. She told herself she didn’t feel ill.
He stepped closer. “I expected to father children on you.”
She swallowed and crossed behind Alphonse’s team to the far side.
“I turned down other options.”
“Excuse me.” Myrta pulled the team away, and her revulsion gave way to a bizarre mix of feelings. Disbelief, realization, and underneath those a strange sense of something e
lse—gratitude. It couldn’t be plainer. Emmett, of all people? She could never make a life with a man like that.
Myrta put the oxen in and pulled the gate shut. On the heels of her relief, dismay crowded in. She’d had no idea Terrence would match her to someone abusive.
The possibility of life on a stead was more outlandish than ever.
And then, as quickly as the dismay had filled her, it faded again, and a strange new sensation filled her chest, one she didn’t recognize at first but felt she ought.
Freedom.
This was what Terrence meant when he talked about loving the belt, that an opportunity to find one’s own way, as uncertain as it was, was beyond any price. To not be bound by others’ expectations.
A hand fell on her shoulder. She jerked.
“Jumpy much?”
“Jack, I’m sorry. I just saw Emmett.”
Jack grinned. “Ah. My old ex-future-brother-in-law. How is he?”
“We didn’t talk. He just sort of measured me. With his eyes.”
And he freed me from agreeing to any match, ever.
* * *
They were underway again, and Alphonse kept looking at her. Past her, actually, morosely toward a mountain with spires on top. Above those, Bel and Letra were drawing close to one another.
“Conjunction’s coming, I guess.” She said it to get him talking again, even though everything about conjunction was silly. Plenty of steaders stayed indoors when Bel’letra formed, thinking the single sun would eat their soul. “I wonder if anyone’ll hide. You know, under their wagon or something.”
He didn’t say a word. Tentatively, she said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. No, I do not want to talk about it.”
His eyes were moist, and his face looked like the end of the road, the world too big and everyone in it too wrapped up in their own worries. That’s how he looked in this minute. Right now, he looked like death, all withdrawn and miserable.
“Whatever it is, it’s bothering you. Was it bad?”
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