I take a gulp and I’m overcome with guilt, as if by just taking one sip of the tea, I’m betraying my mother.
“I’m going to find her Seerskin and bring it back home,” I pronounce.
Cook nods. “And where do you intend to find it?”
“It’s somewhere in the Ministry.”
“Perhaps,” Cook says.
“No, it’s got to be in the Ministry. I’ve been here fifteen days. I only have nine days left,” I say.
Cook sighs. “How many days you have left doesn’t matter.”
We build the shelves for her pantry together. I hand her the nails, she pounds them in, and when we are done, I take a nap. I sleep in the same bed I slept in in the days following the fire. The sheets smell of lemon and I bury my nose in them, trying to remain a boy, but when I wake, it’s dusk and I’m seventeen. I get up and stare at myself in the mirror. How is it that nothing of my father remains in my face?
FORTY-FOUR
I LEAVE COOK’S HOUSE AND my thoughts are pulled back to Phaidra. How did she spend the day? Did she eat ham for breakfast? Did she finish Anna Karenina yet? It’s intolerable to think twelve hours have passed without my seeing her.
I think now of Phaidra’s entire life. I imagine it spread out before me, the wide span of years that claim her as their own. She learned the alphabet, swam in rivers, and grew her hair long and I never knew she existed. What I don’t let myself think about is her suffering. I only want to think of her as perfect and whole.
Nine days left with her, in this face. Do I tell her why I’m really here, who I really am? Or do I just live those days right to the end?
I’ve missed dinner. I hurry back to the house, hoping there will be some opportunity, some excuse to slip out tonight and meet Phaidra before I go to the Ministry to search for my mother’s skin. Dash is sitting on the steps of the porch, waiting for me. I see the cherry red tip of his cigarette before I see him. He’s taken a shower; his blond hair is damp. There are still lines left in it from the comb.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say perfunctorily, hoping to cut off the conversation.
“Phaidra’s taught you to use something besides a broom?”
I ignore him. “Is there anything to eat?”
“Some bread. Cold chicken.” He flicks his ashes on the ground. “Girls should be here soon. Who’s coming tonight?”
Mee-Yon and Veronica. I forgot they were coming. “I’m exhausted,” I say. “I’m going to bed. Can you tell them I’m sick?”
“I can, but I won’t. Getting tired of all the attention?”
“Come on,” I plead.
Dash stands and leans lazily against a pillar. He moves his body in a feral, predatory way.
“If you’re real nice, I might fill in for you tonight,” he says.
I let out a little snort of skepticism before I can stop it. Dash’s face darkens, but the lazy smile remains.
“Have you ever been to Spain?” he asks.
He inhales, his eyes squinting, with pain or pleasure, I can’t tell. Perhaps both—they aren’t so different after all.
“The Mediterranean? The water has a funny taste. Metallic.” He picks a speck of tobacco off his tongue delicately and wipes his finger on his pants. “I fell in love with a girl named Graciela.”
Oh God. I’m famished. He’s reaching out to me and I find myself annoyed. I’ve got neither the time nor the patience to develop a relationship with him. I think of the bread. I will eat the loaf whole.
“Are you in love, T?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He laughs. “Come on, you can tell me the truth.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” I say.
“Well, that’s funny, because you’re exhibiting all the signs of somebody who’s in love. Which girl is it?”
“I’m hungry,” I say.
Dash tosses his cigarette butt to the ground and stamps it out with the heel of his boot. “I know you’re hungry, T,” he says, in a voice just short of a snarl. “But you’re going to have to learn to put your hunger aside.”
Now I get it. He’s talking about Phaidra.
“So, the book,” he says, crossing his arms.
Damn, I knew his overlooking my Barker’s was too good to be true. He’s been waiting for just the right time to bring it up. Suddenly I remember that my name is written in the front of the primer. The scrawl of a five-year-old boy—and it says Thomas Gale, not Thomas Quicksilver. He must know Barker’s is not some arbitrary book I swiped from the Ministry library.
“‘Barker’s Juvenile Primer No. 3: Containing pertinent moral and historical lessons for the edification and improvement of all Isaurian children,’” he quotes. “Where’d you get it, Quicksilver?”
I stare at him, my mouth agape. Even though I knew this moment might come, I am remarkably unprepared for it.
He cocks his head. “I guess the better question is why,” he says. “Why do you have it?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. And this is the truth. I don’t know why I brought it with me. Certainly not for the map of the Ministry, whose layout is etched in my mind. It was the stupidest thing I could have done.
“Who are you?”
“Please don’t ask,” is all I can think to say.
“Who the hell are you?” Dash repeats, loudly.
“You know who I am,” I whisper, pleading with him not to take this any further.
His eyes narrow.
“Right. You’re the asshole who thinks everybody’s always looking at him,” he says. He grabs his sweater, which is draped over the porch railing. “You leave her alone, you hear me?” He stalks off in the direction of the Refectory. “Don’t let me hear you’ve disappointed those girls,” he calls out.
“Where are you going?” I say, trying to gauge just exactly how much trouble I’m in.
“Java time,” he says.
Relief floods through me. He’s not turning me in—not yet, anyway.
He turns around. “Want me to bring you back one?”
“Um, sure.”
“Um, keep dreaming,” he says.
FORTY-FIVE
SCREW THE CONNECTICUTS. DASH KNOWS something’s up and I’ve got an hour tops before he comes home. I find Phaidra in the common room of her dorm. It’s a place where they store all the junk. There’s a shabby, stained couch. Run-down upholstered chairs with the stuffing bursting out of the seams. Phaidra sits on the floor, her back to the wall. I stand in the doorway, panting.
“You weren’t at supper,” she says.
“I’ve brought you something.” I hand her the little packet of herbs Cook gave me. “You can stop cutting yourself now. Crush these and make a tea out of it. You need to drink it every day.”
She opens the package and sniffs. She makes a face. “What is this stuff?”
“It’ll slow down the process. The leaking,” I tell her.
She slides up the wall to her feet, alarmed. “Who gave you this?”
“There are things I have to tell you.”
“Clearly,” she says.
The room is empty except for us. There aren’t any lamps, but there is a window, and the night streams in, bathing us in a violet light.
“My name is Thomas Gale,” I begin.
FORTY-SIX
WE’RE SILENT, WALKING BACK ACROSS the green. She hasn’t said a word to me since I’ve told her everything. Who I am. Why I’m here. What I must do.
“Say something. Say anything,” I plead.
“What’s there to say? You’re leaving in nine days.”
I grab her arm. “Come with me. You know you hate it here.”
She shakes me off angrily. “That’s not possible.”
“Why not? I don’t care what was wrong with you.”
“I do,” she says icily.
“Well, I don’t.” But even as I say it, I’m not sure I believe it. The thought of going back home with my old burned face is unbea
rable, never mind having to deal with adjusting to Phaidra’s affliction. But I want to try. I do. I want to believe this has made me stronger.
“Oh, Thomas.” She whirls around to face me. “You’re a dreamer, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not,” I shout. “Goddamn it, Phaidra!”
“God’s not here,” she says harshly. “God’s never been anywhere near me.”
I grab her arm and pull her close.
“That isn’t true,” I say. I cup her ears with my hands and shake her head gently. “God’s here.” I touch my fingers to her lips. “And here.” I stroke her cheek.
She tosses her head miserably. “What if you stayed?” she asks.
“I can’t.”
“But what if you did? We could drink Cook’s tea. Maybe it would stop the leaking for good. We could . . . we could just live here.”
We could play house. She could fix holes in the roof with her hammer and I’d sweep up after.
“If I stay, my mother will die,” I say.
Her head bobs frantically; she’s searching for an answer. There isn’t one. A little sound of panic escapes her.
“I didn’t count on meeting you,” I say.
“Then you have to go. I won’t throw myself in front of a train, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she says.
She begins to cry. She doesn’t cry like a normal girl. The tears spring out of her eyes, but her face doesn’t crinkle up at all.
“We’ll find a way,” I tell her, desperate to convince both her and myself. “Alice wants to help us. Remember? We’re not alone. We have Cook and the Maker.”
Here it is, hope. I’ve managed to pull it out of my hat. It comes bop-bop-bopping along like a little rabbit on velvet paws
Phaidra is less convinced. She just looks at me forlornly.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell her. “Trust me. You’ll see.”
FORTY-SEVEN
THE NEXT MORNING AT WORK, Otak makes a surprise visit.
“When will you be done?” he asks Brian.
“Two weeks,” says Brian calmly. He’s approaching seven hundred days. I don’t think he’d make a fuss if I knocked him unconscious with my broom.
“One week,” says Otak.
“All right,” Brian agrees.
Phaidra and I are staining a cabinet. We keep our eyes pasted to our work.
“You two!” Otak yells.
I turn around slowly, with dread.
“Yes, you. And the girl,” says Otak. “A bird flew into my window again. This time it’s broken. I want it fixed by this afternoon.”
With a flurry of his robes Otak disappears, a cadre of Seers trailing after him.
Phaidra glances at me. Her eyebrows do a little victory dance at our good fortune. My heart presses painfully against my rib cage, trapped. Not yet. I don’t want to go yet.
I pick up my brush and dip it into the stain. Slowly I run the bristles down the length of the cabinet.
“Quicksilver?” says Phaidra. “Did you hear him?”
I nod. “We should finish this,” I say.
Phaidra takes the brush out of my hand. “Someone else will finish.” I halfheartedly search while Phaidra fixes the window. I make a show of pawing through Otak’s drawers and wardrobe. I open the boxes in the back of his closet. I press the tiles of the fireplace, looking for secret doors. Panic overtakes me as I finally admit to myself the truth. I don’t want to find my mother’s Seerskin.
“She told me it would be here,” I say dismally, trying to cover up my ambivalence.
Phaidra’s caulking the new window. “Did you honestly think you’d find it stuffed in his drawer?” she says. “Think outside the box.”
“I hate that expression,” I say.
“Well, it applies here,” she says.
“Damn!”
Phaidra looks at me calmly. “You’re going about this all wrong.”
“What if he shredded it up into tiny pieces?” I ask.
“I’m sure he didn’t do that,” she says. “It’s here. Somewhere.”
I groan. She’s such a better person than I am.
“It could be anywhere in Isaura!” I say.
I think of the bird, the second one that crashed into Otak’s window. Was it the offspring of the first bird that had died? Was it so filled with sorrow, so overwhelmed with grief it decided to follow its mother into death?
“I don’t want to go back, Phaidra,” I say.
Phaidra climbs down off the windowsill. She pulls a rag from her back pocket and wipes her scraper clean of the caulking. She’s thinking, carefully composing her response, but I can’t stand that she’s not answering me immediately. I want her to absolve me for saying such a blasphemous thing, but I can’t help what my heart wants—to stay with her in Isaura, where we’re both beautiful and whole. I take the scraper out of her hand and hurl it across the room. “What if it’s her time to die?” I shout.
Suddenly I feel claustrophobic. I run to the window and open it. I stick my head out and look down at the ground, gulping in huge breaths of air. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. The remains of the bird are gone, but I can see the ghost of it splayed out on the cobblestones: its bones of straw, a wing wrapped around its tiny head. If I held it in my hand, would it smell of sky?
“You can’t give up,” says Phaidra softly.
“Give up on what?” asks Otak.
“Give up on carpentry,” says Phaidra, without missing a beat. She turns around and smiles patronizingly at me. “He’s no natural, but I keep telling him practice makes—”
“For a dull life indeed,” finishes Otak. “If you’re practicing something you have no aptitude for.” He walks to the window and runs his finger across the glass. “Nicely done.” He turns to me. “You should think about finding yourself a new vocation. Now, shall I ring Roberta for some tea?” he asks pleasantly.
“No,” I say. I can’t stand the charade any longer. Underneath that charming exterior is a monster.
“Thomas needs to get back early today,” Phaidra says.
“Go,” says Otak, dismissing me. “You’ll stay,” he says to Phaidra. It’s a command, not a question.
“It’s all right if I’m late,” I say quickly, not wanting to leave her alone with him.
“Very well, then,” says Otak.
Roberta raps at the door and walks into the room.
“Tea for three,” Otak tells her.
We spend the rest of the afternoon with him. He interviews us on all things that have to do with America. He’s like Jane Goodall conducting a study on the gorillas and when we leave, I feel robbed, like my pockets have been picked while I was bending down to tie my shoe.
FORTY-EIGHT
WHEN I TELL DASH THAT I’m done with the Connecticuts, he says no way.
“No way what?” I ask.
“No way will I allow it.”
We’re stacking wood. Well, I’m stacking wood—he’s splitting it; I’m not to be trusted with an ax. The backyard is punctuated by his grunts as the blade pivots through the air. He’s an efficiency machine. Not one iota of energy is wasted. Secretly I’ve been studying his moves.
“Why would you even care?” I ask, but I know the answer. He thinks if I’m seeing the Connecticuts, he won’t have to worry about me with Phaidra.
“They’re boring,” I add.
He wipes the sweat off his forehead with a bandana. “Life is boring. You just put up with it.”
“I’m done putting up with things,” I say.
Dash slams the ax down into the chopping block in one graceful arc. Wood chips fly everywhere, including my left eye. I rub my eye vigorously and jump around on one foot. He looks at me with disgust; once again I’m overreacting.
“I’m with Phaidra,” I say angrily. “That’s why I broke it off with the others.”
Dash shakes his head. “’Fraid not, kid.”
“Look, I don’t know what went on between the two of you,” I say. �
��And to be honest, I don’t really want to know. But we’re together now.”
“That so?”
“Yeah,” I say.
Dash tosses a piece of wood over his shoulder and it lands neatly on the pile.
“There’s the little matter of the book,” he says.
“You tell them whatever you want to about the book. I stole it from the Ministry. It was a bad call. I’ll apologize; I’ll accept my punishment and move on,” I say.
“No,” says Dash. “That’s not how it’s going down. Don’t think I’m not on to you. You’re going to hurt her. I don’t know how or why, but you’re going to break her heart. And I won’t let you,” he says, his finger stabbing the air in front of me.
“You don’t have any say in it,” I retort. “Things haven’t gone your way. You lost. You didn’t get Phaidra. I did. Now get over it.”
My vision has cleared up, unfortunately. Just in time to see him toggle the ax out of the chopping block, grab it with one meaty hand, and lumber toward me. I look around frantically for help . . . and see Emma.
“Put that down,” she cries.
Dash grabs me around the neck and throws me up against the woodpile. I can hear Patrick’s voice in my head running down a list of potential countermoves from wrestling: the Corkcrew Moonsault, the Gorry Special, and the Samoan Drop. No, no, and no. I reject them all (might have something to do with the fact that I can remember none of the moves, only their names). What’s needed is something simple. Just as I’m about to ram my knee up into Dash’s groin, he hefts the ax, spins the head around, and slices my cheek with the razor-sharp edge of the gleaming blade.
“Think you’re such a prize,” he hisses.
“No, that would be you,” I say, blood seeping out from between my fingers.
Meanwhile Emma’s got her hands around his waist and is trying to peel him off me. “Get away from Thomas!” she cries.
“Don’t fall in love with her!” he roars.
“Is that an ultimatum?”
“Consider it a warning.”
“Well, it’s too late,” I yell at him.
“Dash!” I hear a woman’s voice. It’s Nancy, the Head Host.
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