Noticing William's attention, Tolstoy explained, "Some of the things I have studied. Perhaps later, I will explain."
Tolstoy stopped at his desk, which was littered with books and supplies, and reached for a drawer. For a moment, William was certain he would reveal some cruel, Tech Magic device to incinerate him. But it wasn't Tech Magic.
Pulling out a piece of dark fabric, Tolstoy said, "This is for you, William."
"For…me?" William asked, confused.
Taking the cloth, William discovered a long, flowing robe. William stared up and down the clothing's smooth contour, as if the garment might sprout teeth and bite him. But the robe was soft and clean, absent of the holes or dirt stains that marred the clothing he'd worn for too long. It was about his size.
It looked just like Tolstoy's, like Amelia's.
Like The Gifteds'.
"I don't know what to say," William mumbled as he turned the object over in his hands.
"A thank you is all that is required," Amelia said with a smile.
"Thank you," William parroted.
"Why don't you try it on?" Tolstoy suggested. "It might be a little tight over your clothing, but we can get an idea of how it fits. Barron can size it, if you need."
"Okay." William nodded.
Tolstoy and Amelia waited expectantly as he held it in his shaky hands.
Swallowing, William unfolded the robe, shoved his arms through the holes, and slipped it over his head.
Chapter 6: Bray
Bray sat on his bedroll, looking out through the doorway and into the courtyard, which was mostly empty. From the houses around him, he heard the clink of dishes and the hushed whispers of children. Far in the distance, the wails of the dead slave's family bled through the streets. Wiping the remnants of some leftover soup from his mouth, he looked at Teddy, who sat across from him on his bedroll.
"The man's relatives will cry for a while, but eventually, the guards will silence them, too," Teddy said.
"Unfortunately true," Bray said, grunting, "They won't even be given enough time to grieve."
"The guards always find new ways to abuse their powers." Teddy sighed. "Perhaps it is a product of too much free time."
Bray nodded. He had seen too many similar men, abusing their powers in the towns and villages from where he came.
"In some ways, it is easier to have no family to worry about," Teddy said, looking down at his boots. "I miss mine, though."
"Your mother," Bray said, recalling one of Teddy's earlier stories. "She was your only relative. You said she died of sickness."
Teddy shifted on his bedroll, clearly reliving some distant pain. "I had a family, too. I didn't tell you about them."
"A family?"
Teddy sighed. "I had a wife and a child, when I was younger in New City. I didn't speak of them, because it is too painful. I met my wife here, and my child was born within the walls."
Sensing the man's somber mood, Bray didn't push him.
After a long moment, Teddy continued. "I wish I could've saved them, but of course I couldn't." Teddy wrung his hands, recalling a painful memory. Sorrow filling his eyes, he said, "My wife and I both worked in the fields then, as you do now. Most of the time, we worked separately."
"You were Field Hands?" Bray asked, recalling that the man worked in the sewing rooms now.
"Yes. For many years. More than I can count. One hot summer day, I heard screams. I couldn't see what was happening, but when I saw a guard coming for me, I had a guess. I knew Rosalyn was involved."
"What happened?"
"She collapsed in the heat. I don't know if the work was too hard, or the sun was too much, but she fell and never got up. I remember the Head Guard's face as he told me about her death. It was as if a piece of corn had fallen from a wagon. He told me I had to finish my shift before I could see her body. I will never forget his thoughtless expression. I begged, but he wouldn't relent. And so I abided his rule, picking my corn as the sun rose higher in the sky, thinking about the guard's uncaring face."
"I don't even remember when, but something snapped. One moment I was doing my duties, the next, I had my hands wrapped around the guard's throat. I remember his choked screams as he tried breaking free. He beat his fists against my head, trying to get away, but I wouldn't relent. It was as if the guard had killed Rosalyn by his own hands. Or at least, it felt that way."
"Other guards pulled me off him before I killed him. I barely understood what I'd done. All I could think about was Rosalyn. They burned her body the next afternoon, while I was in a cell. I never said goodbye." Teddy wiped a tear from his eye.
"I am sorry," Bray said, but the words felt as hollow and empty as they always did.
"My daughter Tabatha was only four years old when this happened. I was confined to a cell. During the day, they allowed her to stay with the woman who normally watched her, but at night, they made her stay alone in our house while I was imprisoned. Perhaps that is why they kept me alive, knowing they could inflict more pain on me through my daughter."
Bray felt an empathetic outrage.
"Tabatha slept for almost a week with no parents, in a house by herself, crying herself to sleep." Teddy coughed through a lump in his throat. "She was hardly old enough to feed herself, and certainly not old enough to be left alone. One night, she wandered off. I think she was searching for me. No one knows for sure, because we never got to ask her. She got too close to the wall. A handful of Plagued Ones on the other side heard a rattle, and they came running. A few got over. They ate her, like they ate your friend." Teddy's eyes grew distant, as he stared at the house's small hearth. "When I was released, I found out she was dead. Perhaps that is why they kept me alive. They knew my memories would haunt me forever."
"Too many deaths," Bray said grimly.
"If I seem cold, that is the reason. Do not take it as an insult."
Bray nodded. In a way, Teddy resembled Bray, during his days as a Warden outside of Brighton, with only his sword, his bag, and his scalps to keep his company.
But things were different now, with Kirby and William to worry about.
Reading the expression on his face, Teddy said, "Having those you care about can be a risk, in a place such as this. Seeing your friend killed a few weeks ago reminded me of that. That is why I caution you often about being careful. Living in this city only causes pain."
Bray nodded. He thought of Kirby, eating lunch in that distant, dirty house, and to William, stowed away in that shimmering tower. He would do anything to keep both of them safe. "I understand," he said.
Chapter 7: William
William adjusted his robe as he sat at the small desk in the corner of The Library Room. The robe was itchy. In several places, it was too loose, and it scratched his skin. He wanted to pull the garment over his head and fling it off. He wanted to burn it, but he knew better. Instead, he stared at the words in the book in front of him, pretending to silently study. His eyes drifted off the page and to his left, where Herman and some other Gifted sat at their small desks. Herman let out a thin groan and shifted, reaching down to rub his lumpy knee. The Gifted were always readjusting, stretching their stiff limbs where the warts and lumps afflicted them. Their pain was a reminder of the pain that awaited William, if he lived as long as them.
He suspected their pain was the reason they retired to their quarters every afternoon, where they could spend time studying, or resting. Occasionally, he heard them moving up and down the stairs, heading to different floors. Amelia told him they exercised that way.
William's gaze drifted to the windows on the south side of the building.
Noticing his eyes off the page, Amelia walked over. William turned his attention back to the book he was reading.
"Is the robe too big for you?" Amelia asked.
"It is fine," William answered, adjusting some bunches in the fabric that hung over the sides of the chair.
"Barron can alter it."
Hearing his name, Barron looked
across the room at William, smiling. He gave a cordial wave. Each time William looked at Barron, he recalled the man's wart-covered arm locked on him, forcing him to watch the death of his friend.
"Perhaps later," William said, returning the man's polite wave. "I will let you know."
Barron nodded and refocused on his studies.
"I am going to take a break to stretch my legs," Amelia said. "Would you like to join me?"
"Sure." William set down his book, grateful for the distraction. Around him, a few of The Gifted made noises in their throats as they turned pages, or swiveled in their chairs. One or two chatted quietly. He followed Amelia through the doorway next to the bookcases, to the room where the glass cases were kept.
"Tolstoy must be proud of you," Amelia said, as William adjusted his long sleeves. "You are the first outside of our group to receive a robe in a hundred and fifty years."
"It is a nice gift," William said, thinking how much he hated it. Hoping to hide his disgust, he said, "Tolstoy's room is magnificent. He has a desk larger than any I've seen."
"He spends much time there, as you've noticed," Amelia explained. "In fact, he rarely leaves."
William nodded. He barely saw the man, other than meals, and the occasional visit to The Library Room. "What does he study?"
"He is trying to decipher the reason for our existence, and the reasons for the spore's mutation," Amelia said.
William recalled something. "Is that why he has those drawings in his room?"
She nodded. "Tolstoy is always looking for patterns in the physical mutations of the spores. He wants to discover what separates us from The Plagued Ones, or from the humans. He wants to find a pattern, so he can understand why we turned more intelligent. Perhaps one day, we will understand our existence better."
"Does he have any guesses as to why we are different?"
"Most of the tests he's performed have yielded inconclusive results," Amelia said, with a shrug.
"What tests?"
Amelia glanced at the windows on one side of the room, and back at William. "Remember when I told you about the glass windows?"
"Yes." William swallowed as he recalled that conversation. He remembered the fright he'd felt when he heard the humans that died were part of them. Parroting what Amelia would want him to remember, he said, "You told me the windows were special, because the humans' ashes live on as part of them, after they are cremated in the Glass Houses."
"That is true," Amelia said. "But the humans live on in other ways, as well, through the knowledge they give us. Many years ago, we tried to find more intelligent ones, like us."
"How did you do that?"
"We thought if we could watch some of the infected people turn, we might see patterns in how they developed. So we separated the infected humans, observing them in special conditions where we could record their progress." Amelia's tone grew reflective. "Unfortunately, none of the people turned into anything other than The Plagued Ones."
William nodded. He knew that was true, most of the time.
Amelia said, "So we tried other things."
"Like what?"
Amelia chewed her lip. "We tried to recreate the spore's mutation."
The idea didn't make sense to William. "Recreate it?"
"Many out in the wild think that the spore is the will of the gods, but we knew better. So, we collected the spore when it went on the wind, and put it into the rooms with some uninfected humans."
Fear struck William's heart. "You turned men into monsters?"
"Unfortunately, that was the end result," Amelia said. "None of those we tested turned into The Gifted, like us. Almost all turned into savages. Unfortunately, the slaves who were the next to be tested didn't realize the importance of what we were trying to do. They resisted our efforts." Amelia sighed. "And so, they died."
William couldn't stop himself from asking the question, even though he didn't want to hear the answer. "How?"
"They killed themselves trying to escape, William," Amelia said plainly, as she looked at him. "They would rather perish than participate in a study for the greater good. But that is the way of most humans. They have selfish tendencies." She tucked her hair behind her ears. "They think only of themselves. Perhaps it is better they did not become The Gifted. We have abandoned that study in the years since."
William's stomach churned as he watched Amelia's emotionless eyes, her cold face. Looking down at the robe hanging over his small frame, he wanted to tear it from his body and fling it at her.
He knew exactly how those poor, abused people had felt.
He never wanted to be one of The Gifted.
Chapter 8: Kirby
"What's wrong?" Kirby asked.
She entered her house to find Esmeralda pacing, holding Fiona, who shrieked as she rejected her mother's soothing arms.
"She's in a mood," Esmeralda said over the crying, wriggling child. Worry painted her eyes as she looked at her daughter.
"Is she sick?"
"I think she's just colicky," Esmeralda said. "I hope she does not make too much noise tonight. The guards are not patient."
A few nosy people walked by the house, giving sympathetic or annoyed looks inside. Tears filled Esmeralda's eyes. It looked as if she was drowning in a river, looking for a saving branch.
Kirby felt as if she should help, but she didn't know how. She'd never had children of her own, but she knew the hardships could sometimes feel as potent as the joys.
"Do you think she would take some cornmeal?" Kirby asked.
"She rejected if before, but I'd try anything about now."
"Let me make a fresh batch. Give me a few moments," Kirby said, rising and walking to the hearth.
"Thank you." Esmeralda seemed grateful.
Kirby gathered the ingredients. Thankfully, she had enough water to boil. She started the cornmeal, cooked it, and brought it over. Fiona continued to cry and squirm until Kirby held up a spoonful of food. Fiona puckered her lips, but with some coaxing, she took the cornmeal and stopped crying. The calm was welcome, after so many moments of disquiet.
"That's a good girl, Fiona," Esmeralda cooed. To Kirby, she said, "Thank you for your help."
"Don't mention it," Kirby said, spooning out a few portions of the meal so they could have lunch. "Perhaps the food will keep her calm."
With a moment of peace, Esmeralda sat on the bedroll. The bags under her eyes spoke of too many nights with no rest. The baby kept Kirby awake, too, but she didn't have a mother's degree of sleeplessness.
"I was hoping she would rest through the night at her age, as some of the others have," Esmeralda said, as she shifted Fiona on her lap. "I was hoping the gods would be kind."
"Soon, she will settle into a routine," Kirby assured her.
"I don't know how much longer I can take it. It is just so hard." Esmeralda sunk her head and cried. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your lunch."
Sitting on the bedroll beside her, Kirby patted her arm to console her. "You are brave to raise a child here."
"I have no choice," Esmeralda said. Looking down at Fiona, her tears continued flowing. "I did not mean to have her. It was not a decision."
Kirby nodded. She had suspected as much. She knew too many women in similar situations—attacked, or abandoned when they became pregnant. "Do you know who the father is?"
Esmeralda nodded through her tears. "It is Ollie."
"The Head Guard?" Kirby looked around, as if saying the guard's name might have put them both in danger.
Seeing the expression on Kirby's face, Esmeralda clarified, "I am only speaking what everyone knows. I am not the first to have one of his children, or the child of another guard. He attacked me after work one day, and I became pregnant with his child. It is not a secret. Even his wife knows."
Kirby felt rage swell up inside her as she watched Esmeralda's red cheeks, puffy with the weight of her tears.
"It is the story of too many women here," Esmeralda said, as if that made it
any better. "I was never married, and now I probably will never be. No man would share a home with me, now."
Tamping her rage, Kirby said, "Things will get easier."
"Fiona will get older, and some things will change, but not all of them. Most of the guard's wives stay in and raise their children, like Ollie's wife does. But not me. I was only given a certain number of months. These months will not ease the responsibility, or the hardship. Soon, I will be forced back to work, and things will be even harder. I will miss Fiona while the caretakers watch her."
"The caretakers?"
Esmeralda nodded. "The slaves tasked to keep watch over the young ones."
"There is always hope for a better life," Kirby said, wishing she could give a better answer.
Esmeralda sighed. Cleaning the last of her tears, she comforted Fiona, who was eager for another bite of food. "I do not mean to burden you with my story, Kirby. But I will tell you this: be careful where you go. Keep others around you. It will not eliminate the danger, but it might help."
Chapter 9: Kirby
Kirby peeled back the husks on her ear of corn, while the other workers in the Shucking Room chatted quietly around her. She couldn't forget Esmeralda's story. Watching the guards preen and pat each other's backs as they walked past the sweating, stinking room full of workers, she couldn't stop thinking of revenge—for Esmeralda, for all of them. Her anger was a roiling kettle in her stomach, ready to spill over and scald someone with her rage.
She wished she could say she was surprised by the guard's attacks. Of course, she wasn't. She had seen too many similar stories in her homeland.
Next to her, Jack performed his duty with mechanical, practiced hands. Over the course of weeks, he seemed to have developed a quiet kinship with Kirby. They spoke infrequently, mostly keeping out of trouble, updating each other quietly on the news.
"What happened this morning in the courtyard was a shame," he said reservedly.
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