by L. J. Hatton
“Wait . . .”
“Stay away from me!”
A knot of leaves appeared in my path; Birch slipped around them.
“Arsenic’s poison, Penelope. He can hurt you. I’ve seen him hurt people—my friends. This girl . . . my best friend . . . she was a lot like you. Stubborn. Fearless. She refused to follow protocol, and he made her pay for it in blood.”
“I’m not willing to become a sniveling spaniel to spare myself a few licks,” I said.
“It’s more than a few licks.” Birch stopped to make sure there was no one in the room with us. Then he turned his head, and brushed the longest pieces of his hair away from his collar to show rows of jagged scars that had healed thick and ugly over the back of his neck. I could see the hint of more down his back, like the ones Winnie had. “I was lucky. Nye protected me when he could, but the others—”
“G-get out of my way.”
This wasn’t happening. I wasn’t going to spend my life in a place where scars were proof of mercy. I forced my way into the jungle Birch had created, prying apart leaves half as wide as I was tall. There was nothing but green on every side—stalks as thick as my arm.
“Birch! Let me out!”
“Not until you listen to me.”
The stalks bent outward, forming an archway to allow him through.
“You’ve ignored every single thing I’ve tried to make you understand, but you will listen to this. The scars on my neck are nothing. I’ve got others that are too humiliating to show you—that’s thanks to the man you just spit on. Nye and Arcineaux were both in line for command here. Arcineaux thought he had the position locked, and he should have. He’s a legacy warden with an uncle in the Commission office, but you cost him this post.”
“I’d think it was more Warden Nye, considering he’s in command and I’m under guard.”
“Nye’s nobody. After you wrecked the Ground Center, he was given provisional control here. Arsenic will hurt you for that, if he can.”
“He’s welcome to try.”
“This isn’t a game, Penelope! It’s not a performance or a practice run. You don’t get to go again if you make a mistake.” Birch took my face in his hands and leaned in close. It was such a similar pose to the one adopted by both wardens when they were trying to intimidate me, and yet completely opposite. “Maybe the version of you I expected is a fantasy built off photographs, but like it or not, you’ve been my bright light for a long time, and I don’t want to go back into the dark. I certainly don’t want Arcineaux to put you there.”
“I don’t want to be here. I want—”
“Forget it! Forget your sisters like I’ve forgotten mine. Forget whatever life you had before here. Be Penelope, and lock Penn inside so they can’t touch her. He can take things from you that you don’t even know you have to lose.”
He had tears in his eyes. He tried to scrub them out, but I saw them before he turned away and bid the plants recede to their former size and place.
“Come on,” he said, taking my arm by the elbow again. “I’ll get you back to your room.”
No matter what Iva or the wardens, or even I, had assumed, Birch wasn’t quite as docile as he made himself appear. He’d hidden his true self away, but maybe there was a way to help him find it. Then we’d both be free.
CHAPTER 30
Alone in my room, with only Xerxes and whoever was on the other side of that red light for company, I tried to rid myself of every trace of Warden Nye’s pet creation. I wanted Penn back, but I was stuck. The dress wouldn’t rip, and the scarlet nail polish wouldn’t chip.
In the end, I ran around the room, screaming and tearing at anything I could, while Xerxes joined in the mayhem and tried to shred the rug with his claws. He was cycling through his programming more quickly now, progressing away from the tabby’s temperament toward the gryphon’s. It didn’t make him big, but he’d already destroyed two pillows and unknit his basket’s weaving, and I was fairly certain that the furniture was next on his agenda. The training routine triggered by resetting his power source was almost complete, and I was more than happy to share my tantrum with him.
Had I been back on the train, Anise would have told me to be sensible and stop caterwauling, and Vesper would have shown me how to throw a proper tantrum, whipping up tiny whirlwinds to do her bidding.
“I grew out of crying jags when I was seven,” she would have reminded me. “That’s when I put Papa’s hats out the window because he wouldn’t buy me a hyena.”
She would’ve sent the coverlet spinning off to the ceiling and flung the pillows to create a blizzard of feather-down until we were three inches deep in winter white. The tea trolley would’ve been a victim, no doubt, because it would’ve made the most spectacular noise.
Taking a cue from my melancholy, the trolley began to rattle on its casters. The dish covers clanged, and the sugar spoon tinked against the bowl. The kettle spilled over, drip, drip, dripping into a puddle. And then the entire contraption raised itself off the floor, slamming against the back wall. The pillows flung themselves from the couch to land on opposite sides of the room, and the fibers Xerxes had scratched out of the rug took flight.
Vesper’s powers had finally made their appearance, to match her face in the mirror.
Warden Nye had done worse than hurt me physically; he’d destroyed my dreams. I had my mother back, and she was a monster. I had my real face and a costume that was as beautiful as Vesper’s, but I hated it. I was literally in the clouds, but I felt like I’d been buried under tons of stone.
I broke down sobbing on the floor.
There’d never been a time I didn’t have someone to turn to. Someone always had the answers I needed. Now all I knew for certain was that I was on my own, in enemy territory, over which continent or ocean I had no idea, and someone was knocking on my door.
My pulse lodged in the notch behind my ear, beating harder as the room’s light grew bright in time to the rhythm. I glanced at Xerxes; he was completely tangled in ribbons. He snapped his wings out, shredding the ribbons to confetti, braced his legs, and growled with as much menace as his miniaturized self could muster.
“Don’t go showing off until we’re ready to give them everything,” I told him.
We might only get one shot. I didn’t want him tipping our hand.
Xerxes fell over and meowed.
Another knock, and the knob turned. The man who entered was neither the warden nor my false mother, but he was no more welcome.
“What do you want?” I asked Greyor.
“I know you don’t trust me, and I’m not going to tell you that you should, but if you want to see Nieva, you need to come with me. We have less than an hour.”
I was at the door in an instant. Worst-case scenario, this was a lie and he was exactly what I assumed him to be, but if Evie really was here, and I didn’t take this chance to see her, I’d never forgive myself.
“Even think of calling me Penelope again, and I swear I’ll find a way to cut your throat,” I warned. “Where’s Nye?”
“I’ll choose my words carefully, and Nye’s playing host to some new arrivals. They’ll keep him busy for a while, but you have to be back in your room before he sees you’re gone.”
In The Show, we combated fear by strangling it with a woven tale; in my head I did the same as we entered an elevator lift and dropped through the floor. I was Orpheus. Greyor was my guide, taking me into the underworld to bring my sister to the surface.
“What if someone sees us? I’m not exactly hard to spot in this ridiculous dress.”
I looked like a storybook princess done up for a ball.
“None of Warden Nye’s men would lay a hand on you, but stick close if you see anyone wearing Arcineaux’s patches.”
“I don’t need a guard.”
“Most here would agree,” Greyor said. “They’
ve all heard what happened at the train, and then the church. By the time it came to the raid on Arcineaux’s compound, you’d become a legend in your own right, and legends are powerful things. There’s nothing Arcineaux loves more than power.”
“Don’t you all?”
The lift bounced to a stop, but Greyor turned toward me before we got off.
“I’ve had to do things that left me sick for days while keeping a smile on my face, Penn, but I did them,” he said. “Others do more; I can’t complain.”
As he left the lift, it sounded like he added something under his breath:
“If I do, I’m not the only one who pays for it.”
Greyor steered me down a hall guarded by two men flanking a gate at the far end. Warning signs and regulations were etched on plates so numerous and close together that they became metal wallpaper. There were no water tanks on this level.
The guard on the left stepped forward, glancing between me and my escort. He was either naturally pale or Greyor hadn’t exaggerated my reputation.
“Warden thinks she needs to see her alternative lodging choices,” Greyor said.
The guard nodded, waving to his counterpart, who opened the gate with a key. I watched the mechanism on the back of the doors roll shut once we were on the other side, ending with the sound of heavy pins to hold them in place. One more impossibility between me and the outside world.
“The locks are magnetized,” Greyor whispered. “Try to open a secure door without proper clearance, and it won’t budge.”
He pressed his hand to a plate on the wall, igniting lines of lights in the ceiling. The room was nothing but doors. They were metal, and mostly opaque, save for a viewing window that was round like you’d see on a ship, and arranged with the same tiered structure as the greenhouse. Was this the prison?
“I don’t know when they’ll move your people, but they won’t be here much longer. We have to hurry.”
We passed dozens of cells full of pitiable people. Old and young, male and female, all filthy with a crazed and starved look about them. One, I think was dead and not yet discovered, and another I refused to believe looked as much like Sister Mary Alban as a quick glance said she did. Halfway down, we boarded what looked like an open chariot that lifted us to a higher level.
“Why is everyone rocking like that?” I asked.
“The cells are filled with the sound of a ticking clock. The rhythm gets so ingrained that some forget to breathe when it’s gone.”
I stopped at another cell for a closer look, and couldn’t decide if it would be better to find someone I knew, or to see a stranger and hope my family was somewhere better. The man inside stood tall, wearing his hat as though he were offended to be there. At his side, his hand twitched in a steady rhythm against his leg.
People didn’t exist inside those walls; they were buried alive until they were dead.
“Where did they come from?” I asked.
“Places no one gets missed—streets and shelters, public hospitals and asylums. People are held here until they’re needed elsewhere, and the more pliable their minds are when they get there, the better. The ticking’s meant to break down each subject’s mental faculties so they’re easier to control. One stop, then Nieva. This won’t be a happy reunion.”
Before I could ask more questions, he waved me over to one of the porthole doors, and I ran to the window.
“Winnie!”
She was in a ball on the floor, with her face tucked into her knees and her hands over her ears, but it was Winnie, no doubt. She was still wearing the school dress that Sister Mary Alban had given her.
“We can’t open it,” Greyor said, as I slid my fingers over the door, searching for a handle.
I slapped the window and called Winnie’s name again. When that didn’t rouse her, I beat against the glass as hard as I could.
She turned around, cocking her head to the side, listening. When she stood, a new horror revealed itself. Like some twisted dream, the faceplate from her Siren costume had been fitted to her mouth. The skin around its edges had blistered, fusing to the metal.
Winnie tore at the plate with bruised hands that said she’d already failed to remove it several times. Her eyes were wild, unfocused as she tried to find the source of my knocking.
“Winnie . . .”
Her name became a tear-choked sob. She’d been so strong, and now she was this thing.
“The glass only shows through from this side,” Greyor said. “I’m amazed she could hear you.”
“Why is she wearing the rebreather on dry land?”
“Arsenic has a sick sense of humor.”
“I don’t—”
“Do you think your father granted mercy to random strangers?” Greyor asked in an accusing tone.
“She was an orphan,” I said, but Greyor shook his head.
“And how many other orphans did he pass by? Why her? Why the little girl who was at the church with you, or the boy the hummers attacked who has them all on tenterhooks? Did you never ask?”
I’d never questioned my father on anything. Why would he lie?
“They’re touched, Penn. They needed his protection. He promised it to them, and he failed them.”
Winnie had made it to the door and was patting the surface with her torn hands. She tried again to remove the rebreather, but the plate over her mouth wouldn’t budge without causing her to bleed.
“Winnie, don’t! You’ll hurt yourself.”
But she was in a frenzy.
“You have to help her,” I begged, keeping my hand against the glass.
“I don’t know how.” Greyor twitched his head and took my sleeve. “We have to go.”
He towed me back to the chariot lift while Winnie fell to pieces on the other side of the viewing window.
“Your father has a flair for dramatic irony. He’s never denied what his children are, save for you. It was no different for anyone else under his protection.”
The simplicity of that explanation was startling. My father had built my sisters’ act around their gifts, and he’d built a tail for Winnie. He put false fins on a real Siren. One who could make a man retreat with a few words, and one Arcineaux feared enough to gag. And Birdie? Maybe her gift was more than a knack for hiding. Maybe Mother Jesek was right and the little bird could really disappear. But what kind of touch was that?
I needed another crack at one of the Center’s computers. Maybe I’d ask Birch to take me there next.
“Is Klok here?” I asked. “Or Jermay?”
Klok, they might think they needed to lock away, but Jermay wasn’t threatening or violent, and he had no special gift unless peculiar eyes counted.
“Please, tell me what’s happened to Jermay. Is he still alive? I know my sisters are here. What about my father?”
“Keep your voice down,” Greyor said, opening the chariot. I trailed behind him as we emerged on a lower catwalk. “Your father is currently the most wanted man on the planet. He’s not here, but I don’t know about the others. I only found your friend because I knew what to look for.”
“Why were you looking for Winnie?”
He didn’t answer.
We passed into the deepest parts of the prison, and Greyor stopped at one of the largest doors. Unlike the others, this one was cold to the touch; extra locks lined its seam.
“She won’t be able to hear you . . . and I had nothing to do with this.”
Greyor’s dreary mood soaked through my skin like winter’s chill intent on striking bone. Foolishly I had hoped he brought me to Evie last because it would cheer me up, or even because it was in order of convenience, but somewhere in the part of me where I locked the things I didn’t wish to think about, I knew better. Once I’d actually peeked inside, I knew that if I dreamed that night, it would be a nightmare come to haunt me with the imag
e of my broken sister.
She sat crumpled at an uncomfortable angle, like a puppet with its strings severed. Her legs were bent in front of her; her arms hung limp. Her head, half-hidden by her unkempt hair, was oddly set atop her neck, with unblinking eyes and an open mouth. She was wearing a hound’s collar.
“She’s dead!” I screamed, scratching at the door.
There was an odd groaning in the metal—the sound of someone forcing a lock with an ill-fitting key. I felt the searing heat in my wrists, but didn’t care. If I fought the cuffs long enough, they would burn through my arms and I’d be free, then I could knock the Center from the sky, and all its evil with it.
“Penn, stop!” Greyor’s arms wrapped around my shoulders while his leg corralled my own. His head came down to press against mine with his chin until I was cocooned by his body with no way to move.
“Murderer!”
Everything became a blinding wall of white fire from the lamps overhead, surging to match the furious rush of blood through my veins.
This was all a cruel trick. He’d brought me here to see them suffer. Somewhere down the hall, doors banged open to slam against the walls.
“Nieva’s not dead,” Greyor said desperately.
“Liar!”
He shook me until I stopped fighting him. The light receded, taking the pain in my wrists with it.
“Penn, listen to me,” he said, now stern. “Your sister is not dead; she’s breathing.”
He shoved me at the window. Evie hadn’t moved, but every slight exhale blew the hair nearest her face.
I couldn’t stand up anymore. The adrenaline rush that hit when I first saw Evie through that window burned away and turned my muscles to mush; Greyor was the only thing keeping me from falling.
“Calm down,” he murmured. “She’s okay.”
“No she’s not!”
“She’s alive,” he argued.
His restraining arms turned into an unexpected embrace of reassurances to still the chaos in my blood. But I was vibrating with the same buzzing terror that accompanied the sounds of monsters in my room when I was a child. The lights flicked on and off. Doors along the corridor slammed open and shut, always in step with my racing heart.