Altered

by Gennifer Albin

  “Yes,” Erik says. “I always did what they asked. I never saw any reason not to.”

  He didn’t see anything wrong with manipulating people’s minds? With unwinding their bodies? “Why did you change your mind?” I ask. I need him to redeem himself. “You told me you were trapped at the Coventry. You helped me escape.”

  Erik’s face hints at a smile, but it’s a sad one and he shakes his head. “I get to keep a few secrets.”

  “Yes, you do.” I incline my head and meet his eyes. “I’m sorry I slapped you.”

  “You’re stronger than you think, Ad,” Erik says, his hand reaching for his cheek.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I definitely didn’t deserve to be slapped though,” Erik says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There are repercussions for slapping your friends.”

  “There are, huh?” I ask, waiting to see what Erik’s idea of a fair punishment for a slap is. His hands stay on the tiled edge of the pool, but he leans in toward me, shrinking the space between us.

  And then his arms reach up and pull me down into the pool with him. We plunge into the water, and I struggle frantically, kicking my legs and pushing against Erik’s arms. When we surface, I gasp for air, spluttering a stream of foul-mouthed names at him.

  “You’re only a little wet,” Erik says, dropping his hands from my waist.

  I throw my arms around his shoulders, clutching at him. “No, idiot, I can’t swim!”

  Erik’s head pops back a fraction of an inch to appraise me.

  “Not everyone was raised in a fishing village,” I remind him.

  “You like water. You love the ocean,” he says.

  “I do, but that doesn’t mean I know how to swim. My family didn’t live near the ocean. I doubt even my mom knew—knows”—I correct myself—“how to swim. The closest I’ve come to swimming is my bathtub.”

  “Your bathtub at the Coventry was huge,” Erik says, a guilty look settling over his face. His arms wrap tightly around my waist and I relax against him, feeling safe enough to enjoy the gentle airy pressure of the water.

  “I could touch the bottom of my bathtub,” I say.

  “Here,” Erik says, pushing me away from him. I shriek and splash, trying to stop him. “Put your feet down.”

  My legs are still stroking against the water in frantic, helpless circles. “Don’t let me go,” I tell him.

  He nods, and I relax my legs, surprised when my toes find the smooth grid of the tiled floor. The tension in my chest deflates a little, but I don’t let go of Erik’s arm. I make a mental note to ask my mom if she knows how to swim. She has no reason not to tell me. Another innocent question to fall back on.

  “I’m going to teach you how to swim,” Erik says, drawing me back to the moment. “I’ll never forgive myself if you drown.”

  “I’m not in the habit of jumping into large bodies of water,” I say, “but I’d like to learn how to swim.”

  Erik’s hand squeezes my hip and I rest against him for a moment until I disentangle myself and take a tentative step without his help. Now that I can touch the bottom, my initial panic is subsiding. Still, I don’t go more than a few feet from Erik. He nods encouragingly and stops me when I get too close to the deep end.

  After a few minutes, I remember I’m still fully dressed and I tiptoe to the end of the pool, careful to keep my head above water. Erik glides toward me, his hands lifting me out of the pool.

  “Thank you,” I say, allowing myself to linger a moment on the edge, his hands still low on my hips.

  “Don’t worry, Ad,” Erik says, pushing out into the water. “I’ll never let you go.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “DANTE TOLD ME TAILORS AREN’T ALL BAD,” I say to Erik as we exit the pool complex into the cool night. The air creeps along my damp skin, whistling a chill down into my bones and I clutch my towel tightly.

  “We aren’t,” Erik says. “I personally have a disproportionate amount of badness.”

  “You talk big, but what can you do?” I challenge him.

  “Are you asking me to alter something?” Erik says, stopping in his tracks.

  I pause, realizing I’ve upset him. “Only if you want to.”

  “What do you want me to alter?” he asks.

  “Make something beautiful,” I tell him, thinking to add, “without hurting it.”

  If Dante is telling the truth and alteration can be used for positive ends, I need proof of it. It feels like I’ve only seen it used for destruction on Earth. I used it myself, by accident, to bring down the aeroship and to destroy the factory. It makes me uncomfortable that even my alteration training is focused on one thing: honing my unwinding skills to protect myself in a fight. I want to see something that proves being a Tailor doesn’t make me a monster—any more than I already am.

  Erik stops me and pulls me toward a manicured bush near the walkway. “Do you know what these are?” he asks.

  I shake my head. Despite being pruned, there are no leaves or needles—nothing to indicate what kind of plant it is.

  “Rosebushes.” Erik reaches into the branches that tangle over one another like a series of veins.

  “There are no roses,” I say, wishing there were. My desire is fervent and sudden like in the moment before being kissed.

  “They’ve died. These bushes were in bloom when we came to the estate. What happened?”

  I shake my head. I have no clue.

  “He uses Tailors to bring them in and out of season,” Erik says. His fingers move over the branches so swiftly I can’t quite see what he’s doing. But even though I’ve always suspected there was something special about Erik, seeing him now I’m in awe. The branch in his hands trembles slightly as new leaves burst forth in a shower of green, and as I watch a bud develops from a tight knot into a cocoon bursting with life. The leaves unfold gently, revealing the treasure underneath.

  Erik pulls it from the bush and holds it out to me. I manage a small smile. My father used to bring my mother flowers, but no man has ever given me one. I take the rose and press my nose into its soft bloom, inhaling the sweet scent. The rose is snow white, and its petals velvet against my fingers. My eyes peek up at Erik, who is smiling, with his hand still outstretched. There’s a spot of blood on the top of his hand. I drop the rose and grab it.

  “You’ve hurt yourself,” I say.

  “Every rose has its thorns, Adelice,” he says, pulling it back from me and stooping to retrieve the rose. “It was worth it.”

  “Can you show me more?” I ask, gingerly holding the rose to avoid being pricked. “What else can you do?”

  “Yes.” Dante’s voice breaks the moment. “What else can you do, Erik?”

  Erik’s eyes dart to mine, but I shake my head. I haven’t told Dante anything of my suspicions.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  Dante steps forward and regards me with barely concealed fury. “Why apologize to him? He lied to you, Adelice.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first person to have lied to me,” I remind Dante.

  “You didn’t forgive me quite so quickly if I recall,” Dante says.

  “I didn’t know you.”

  “And you know him?” Dante asks. “What else haven’t you told her, Erik? What have you done for the Guild? Why were they tracking you?”

  “Tracking me?” Erik says. He looks from Dante to me. I give him a tiny nod to confirm it’s true.

  “Dante found a tracking chip in your arm.”

  “That’s what you were playing at,” Erik says. His voice pitches up an octave. “Whatever you found, I didn’t know it was there. The Guild can’t track me here. I knew you had an endgame for practicing on me.”

  “And I got the information I needed,” Dante confirms. “I suspected you could see the strands. I knew you weren’t some simple Guild assistant.”

  “Congratulations,” Erik says. “But I’ve already told Adelice everything. I have nothing to hide from her.”


  “You’ve told her everything you’ve done?” Dante asks. “And she’s still standing beside you?”

  “You told me that not all Tailors are bad,” I remind him. “We’ve all done things we’d rather forget. Who Erik is today is what matters.”

  “Believe what you want,” Dante says in a low voice, “but ask him if he would have told you if you hadn’t figured it out.”

  Erik stiffens next to me as though he’s bracing for this question, but I already know the answer. Erik only told me because I confronted him. He would have kept his secret his whole life. But what Dante can’t understand is that I don’t fault Erik for that. There are ghosts I would rather bury than face. I can’t blame Erik for feeling the same way.

  “You’re a hypocrite,” I say to Dante. “Tell me the secrets you’re hiding.”

  Dante’s jaw twitches but he doesn’t open his mouth to answer my question.

  “That’s what I thought,” I say to him. “In the future, don’t give me advice that you don’t plan on following.”

  I pull Erik’s arms, leading him out of the garden and back into the house. My clothes are still wet, but now I feel the heat of anger.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I blurt out.

  “Don’t be,” Erik says, raising a hand to stop my further apology. “He’s looking out for you. I’d be the exact same way if our positions were reversed. He’s probably trying to keep you safe.”

  “By keeping me away from a friend?” I ask. “By trying to turn me against you?”

  “Friend, huh?” Erik says, not quite able to keep his lips from turning up into a crooked grin.

  “Don’t get cocky,” I say. “The pickings are slim here.”

  “I’ll take the position however I can get it,” Erik says. “And, Ad, don’t be too upset with him. If you knew the things I know about Tailors—the things I’m sure Dante knows—maybe you wouldn’t trust me ei—”

  “Stop,” I say, placing a hand on his chest to bring his attention away from his diatribe and back to me. “I trust you, and I don’t care what’s in your past.”

  “That’s philanthropic of you,” he says, “but—”

  “No!” I say. “Stop trying to convince me otherwise, because you won’t be able to. I know you, Erik Bell. You’ve got a good heart—whether you like it or not.”

  Erik thinks on this a moment and then draws me into a hug. “Like it.”

  “See?” I say, lingering in the warmth of his arms. “Your choices are getting better every day.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I TELL MYSELF I HAVE QUESTIONS ONLY she can answer, but in truth, I visit her to stem the waves of guilt that roll through me without warning, brought on by the most innocuous things. The scent of roses drifting through the garden, the sting of hot bathwater, a bite of dry pot roast—they bring her back to me. I don’t want to attach the prisoner locked securely in the bowels of the estate with my mother. But no matter how well I understand the situation, my brain is no match for my heart.

  My mother’s curled up in a ball in the corner of her cell. She doesn’t move when I enter. For a moment, I think the worst: that she’s dead. And confused feelings swirl up inside me. Anger. Bitterness. Sadness. Relief. I wish I could lean forward and reach out to her. With her eyes closed, she looks peaceful. She’s not wearing cosmetics and her hair is clumped around her head, but it’s still her. She lifts her head, and the shift reveals a large purple scar running up her neck.

  What did the Guild do to her? Can I undo it?

  She stares at me without speaking and I see the wheels turning in her head. She’s going to play with me, but I won’t let her.

  “Meria,” I say. I can’t bring myself to call her Mom after our last meeting.

  “Adelice,” she murmurs. “Come to check in on your prisoner?”

  “You aren’t my prisoner,” I remind her.

  “Sure, your whining didn’t land me in here.” She sits up. She’s thinner than the last time I saw her. Under her threadbare shirt I can see the jut of bones, and how her clothes hang on her. She’s all points and angles.

  “Are they feeding you?” I ask.

  Her lips squash a smirk. “Yes, scraps.”

  Scraps like she is an animal. No wonder she’s so thin.

  “I’ll make sure you get real meals,” I promise her.

  “That’s so sweet of you.” Her voice is flat, as colorless as the walls around us.

  “I have some questions for you.”

  “And I have all the time in the world to answer them.” She blinks slowly.

  “Can you swim?” It seems silly and frivolous to ask a starving woman this.

  “Are you planning to drown me?”

  I plant my hands on my hips and stare down at her. “Do you see any water in here?”

  “No, I can’t.” She speaks each word with halting, dramatic emphasis.

  “Never mind,” I say. “This was a stupid idea.”

  “Your question was stupid.”

  “Fine.” My fists ball up as they did when I was a sullen child. If she wants a real question, I have those, too. “How did you get to Earth?”

  “Planning to return home?”

  “Do you remember?” I ask, bypassing her question.

  “Of course I do,” she says. “We took a loophole.”

  “Were you running to a loophole on the night I was retrieved?” I ask, abandoning any hope of a casual conversation.

  “Your parents really failed you that night,” she says, not answering my question.

  “Do you remember?” I ask, unsure I want the answer.

  “I know what happened,” she snaps. “The retrieval squad came and you were too stupid to warn your parents. They tried to run. There was a slub in Romen. You would have been safe there, but you didn’t warn them, so they couldn’t escape. You killed your parents.”

  Her words sting.

  “My parents aren’t dead,” I say. “Benn is. But you’re alive, and so is my biological father.”

  “So Dante told you?” she asks. “I wondered if he would. I didn’t think he had the courage.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why would I tell you?”

  It’s frustrating to sit here and talk with a woman who shares my history and holds the secrets to the past I can’t remember, but who doesn’t see herself as part of it. She looks at her memories from the outside.

  “I don’t suppose I’ll be calling him Daddy anytime soon,” I say.

  “That child couldn’t be a father,” she says. “He can’t see past himself. He didn’t even realize she was pregnant.”

  “You were pregnant?” I prompt.

  “Meria was pregnant.” The words are oozed venom on her tongue.

  “You are Meria.”

  “I am no one,” she says.

  And I see the truth of it in the flat deadness of her eyes. I hear the resignation seeping through her voice. I feel it as the words hang between us. It’s true because she believes it.

  “Where can I find a loophole?” I can’t keep talking circles around this subject. I can’t listen to my mother denounce me, my family, herself.

  “Around,” she says with a shrug.

  “That’s so helpful.”

  “Don’t you think someone as powerful as your host would know the answer to that question?”

  “My host is gone at the moment,” I say. Then it occurs to me that I might be giving her too much information in telling her that Kincaid is away. Maybe it’s a good thing she’s so securely kept.

  “And he left you behind?” The question digs at me.

  “I’m tired of your games,” I tell her. “I just … just wanted to see you.”

  “In the future,” she begins, and my breath hitches, caught on the unexpected hope rising in my chest, “don’t bother.”

  It stings, even though I know this is a game. I turn without a goodbye and leave her there. On my way out, I decide:

  I’m never going b
ack to her.

  * * *

  Erik is at dinner, alone. I’m not hungry, but I knew he would be in the dining room. When Kincaid left to find the Whorl, I expected meals to become less formal. But even though Valery doesn’t join us and Dante rarely does, the kitchen still serves a full five-course meal.

  “Do you know anything about loopholes?” I ask Erik, sipping the last of the coffee that was brought with the dessert tray.

  “Like bunny ears for tying your shoes?” he asks.

  “Yes, of course that’s what I mean,” I say in a flat tone.

  “I guess I don’t know then,” Erik says. He hasn’t touched his coffee, so I steal it.

  “I can’t believe you drink that stuff,” he says.

  “I can’t believe you don’t.” I slurp a long draft of it for emphasis.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “It hits me right here,” I say, poking my forehead. “Like tiny explosions.”

  “Right,” he says as he fiddles with my old digifile, barely interested.

  “Why didn’t you pawn that?” I ask.

  “It’s useless down here,” Erik says, but he doesn’t stop playing with it. “Why did you ask about loopholes?”

  “Something my mom said.”

  That gets his attention.

  “At the risk of sounding like my brother, you know it’s a bad idea to visit her, right?” Erik asks. He abandons the digifile and looks at me.

  “I know,” I admit. “But it feels like she’s the only connection I have left.”

  “You have me,” Erik says.

  “Not what I meant. My last connection to a time when life wasn’t confusing.” My words are all wrong, betraying me. I can’t explain it to him. I barely understand it myself.

  “And she told you about loops?” Erik guesses.

  I nod, trying to sort my thoughts into coherent strings of words. “Dante called them loopholes. There must be one in the Icebox with that many refugees winding up there. Someone in the grey market must know.”

  “Do you even know what a loophole is?”

  “No,” I say. “But I have an idea.”