A Time to Speak

by Nadine Brandes

  We round the corner onto Straight Street far too soon. His fingers squeeze my arm and he stops in front of the Newton’s door, possibly to give me time to gather my strength. A few houses up, flickering light illuminates the lattice window of . . . dare I call it home?

  “I live here, Parvin.” Hawke pulls my gaze away from my house. He points at the old Newton house.

  “You live . . . here?” My lungs squeeze my chest cavity into a tiny ball.

  “In case you need me.”

  I can’t take my eyes off the front door. Hawke moved into the Newton house, maybe to take care of it in their absence. It reveals something precious about him—a tiny corner of a deeper Hawke. I want to know this Hawke.

  “I thought Enforcers lived in the county building.”

  He shrugs and urges me forward with a firm hand. “With a strong enough voice, there can be change.”

  We reach my door and he raises his fist to knock. I snatch his wrist. “Don’t. Please don’t knock.” He lowers his arm and looks at me. The morning light flashes against his teal eyes. “It makes me feel even more like I don’t belong.”

  “Don’t strive to belong, Parvin. Your effort is much better placed elsewhere.”

  Semi-blinded by my nervousness and unsure of his meaning, I settle with, “Thanks.”

  “Welks.”

  I push the door open and enter as quietly as I can. The entry and kitchen are empty and silent other than the pop and crackle of the fire. I hang my coat on one of the loose pegs by the small mirror and walk into the kitchen.

  All four chairs are pushed tight against the table. By the looks of the thin fire-eaten logs, someone tossed them on around sunrise. Whoever it was must have gone back to bed.

  I set a few smaller sticks atop the charcoal pieces and then fill Mother’s new kettle at the sink pump. It takes a few tries to set the kettle in the correct spot in the washtub so that the water flows into the hole. So many small things used to be easier with two hands. I plop in a bag of coffee grounds, return the kettle lid, and set it on the hook above the fire. A few drops of water fall onto the coals, hissing.

  I sit at the table and pull The Daily Hemisphere electrosheet from my bag. I try not to think about Tawny, Elm, Willow, or Hawke. Right now, if I could, I would empty my memories and enter the day with fresh clarity.

  I run my hand down the curled electrosheet and it springs apart, settling into a stiff rectangle. The headline blares from the front.

  Will the Council Take Action Against Chase’s Rash Behavior at the Wall?

  So, Skelley Chase is in trouble with the people who killed Jude. As much as I hate the Council for torturing Jude’s orphans and then hunting him down, I can’t think of a better group to sic on the man who shot my brother.

  I scan down the gaze-controlled screen to read the article, but then a new headline catches my eye.

  Can We Control the Clocks? – An Interview with Skelley Chase.

  I skip the intro and read just the interview between a newspaper correspondent named Gabbie Kenard and Skelley Chase.

  Gabbie: Thank you for granting us an interview, Mr. Chase. We’ll just jump right in, shall we? Many people were a little shaken up by your actions at the Wall, when you shot famous Radical, Parvin Blackwater’s, brother. Tell me, why did you do this?

  Yes, why did you shoot Reid, Skelley Chase? What possessed you to insert a medibot inside my shoulder and then blow my brother’s brains out?

  SC: Many reasons, but the main was for the people. Miss Blackwater carried information regarding Clock-matching that is crucial for everyone’s welfare.

  Gabbie: Ah yes, we’ve heard rumors of new Clock information. So, in a way, you chose to kill this man in order to let Parvin live and bring the information to the Council?

  SC: In a way, yes.

  Gabbie: This almost sounds as if you can control the Clocks. In fact, many people wonder if you did change the Blackwater Clock. Miss Blackwater appeared on schedule for zeroing out until you altered things with the medibot and her brother. Can you expound? Can we control the Clocks?

  SC: Absolutely not. As we all know, the Numbers are never wrong. They are nothing more than a connection to unchangeable information regarding our deaths. I simply deduced—call it intuition, if you will—that the Clock belonged to Reid Blackwater. I’ve spent my life as a biographer and I’ve come to understand Clocks in a way many people might call supernatural. I made Reid Blackwater’s Good-bye as painless as possible.

  I stop reading. If The Daily Hemisphere were made of paper, I would crush it, tear it, and then burn it. I’d prefer to crush, tear, and burn Skelley Chase, but that’s even less of an option.

  His explanation for Reid’s murder might make sense if it weren’t a lie. I carried no knowledge regarding Clock-matching when I returned. The Council had already stolen Jude’s invention using the assassin. Why is Skelley Chase lying? Why would the Council even let him take credit for all of this?

  Maybe they’re using his fame to help them, and he’s doing it to keep from being punished for shooting Reid. I guess murderers stick together.

  It’s too much—too many lies for me to decipher, too many questions tumbling in my mind. I can do nothing about it. I’m just a dangerous Radical living in a Low City. Meanwhile, Skelley Chase is being interviewed like a celebrity instead of convicted for murder.

  What a twisted world.

  Does no one care that Reid’s death destroyed my family? Then again, death has always meant more to me than to others because I never knew for sure when Reid or I would die. We weren’t like the rest of the population. We weren’t prepared. And others would scoff at us for that.

  A crack of pain jolts me. I’d inadvertently clenched my nails into the wood of the table and one snapped backward. Blood lines the soft skin beneath it. I hiss in a breath.

  “Back so soon?” Tawny stands in the doorway to my old room. Her arms are folded over a skimpy black lacy nightgown and her hair is messy in that I’m-a-perfect-model type of way. What startles me most are her eyes—red and puffy, but narrowed into slits, like an angry cat.

  “You turned us in!” I’m staring at Skelley Chase in female form—she told Hawke and Kaphtor we’d left.

  Her eyes narrow even more. “Of course. I’m a Radical, Parvin. Even though I was registered in a High City, your rashness brings the Enforcers’ focus on me! No one’s safe around you.”

  My jaw falls open.

  “I can only assume you’re here to give it back.” Her voice cracks.

  I press my bleeding finger against my leg to help the pain. “Give what back?”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “Reid’s Clock.”

  “Oh.” I bite my lip. Drat. “I don’t have it anymore.”

  Her glare wavers as if determined not to allow tears to interrupt, but I can see she’s struggling to keep the rage hot.

  “I’m sorry. I would give it back if I did.”

  She doesn’t ask why I took it. She doesn’t ask where it is. Her arms fall to her sides and she retreats back into her room.

  Ugh. What was I to do? I needed a zeroed-out Clock to open the door for Elm. The Wallkeeper took it from me, probably to make sure I never try to breach the Wall again.

  The kettle whistles. I pick up a thick towel and lift it from the fire, moving it to the top of the cold wood stove. I don’t pour myself a cup. Instead, I lay my face against the smooth wood of the table and try not to think.

  It’s impossible.

  The Council may be using Jude’s Clock invention soon. I need to stop this, but how can one Radical go up against the leaders of an entire nation? I can’t even stand tall among my own people.

  Mother comes out of her bedroom, dressed and hair combed, but with hollow eyes. I lift my head off the table. She glances at me, then at the fire.

  “The coffee’s hot,” I
say. “May I pour you a cup?” Odd to be discussing coffee when I really want to release the pressure of my own story.

  She snags a mug from the cupboard and pours it herself. “Where’s Willow?”

  Where’s Willow? No, Good morning, Parvin or How was your night? Just Where’s Willow? She doesn’t even know Willow.

  “In the containment center. The Council has custody over her.”

  “Oh.” She sits at the table and stares at her coffee.

  I don’t know what to do or how to speak to her. I don’t even feel like her daughter any more. “I’m not going to give up on her, Mother. I’ll protect her in every way I can.” But can I? Can I protect Willow?

  Mother leans her chin on her hand, staring out the window. Maybe she’s thinking about Reid. I always wondered if she loved him more. Now that she’s a permanent mourner and stares through me, it’s near impossible to convince myself otherwise.

  I lean forward, interrupting her view of the window. Fighting a tremble, I take her hand. “Mother?” My voice is softer than a downy blanket. I suck in a breath. “Do you hate me?”

  Something in her returns for a moment—the mask of hardness that often flares when I probe her emotions. Our gaze holds.

  “No.” She gives a brief shake of her head. “Not you.”

  “Who then?” But I think I know. While I hope it is Skelley Chase, I’m not surprised when she says, “Myself.”

  My fingers tighten around hers and my broken fingernail twinges. “None of this was your fault.”

  Her eyes narrow and she pulls her hand from mine. “Hush.”

  “It’s true, Mom.” Tawny steps into the kitchen, now wearing a brown knitted sweater with giant wood buttons and white leggings. “This wasn’t your fault.”

  Mom? Tawny’s been part of this family for six months . . . and the majority of those months she spent in Florida. Even I don’t call Mother something so informal as Mom.

  I play deaf to the hidden accusation in her words—it’s not Mother’s fault, it’s my fault. I don’t mind her blaming me as long as Mother doesn’t blame herself.

  Mother adds a teaspoon of sugar to her coffee. Perhaps, in her silence, she believes us. Should I tell her what Reid wrote in his journal? That he somehow knew he was going to die? That might set her at ease . . . or might crush her even more.

  “So are you back for good or something?” Tawny pours herself some coffee.

  I shrug. “I guess, but I’m still under house watch.”

  Tawny sits. “So the Enforcers will still be outside our house?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighs and rolls her eyes. “You do know I’m a Radical, don’t you?”

  I rub my forehead. “Yeah, but you’re registered.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything here and you know that.”

  “The Wall is currently closed. There are no trials or Radical executions right now. You’re safe.”

  A gust of wind slams into the window. It rattles and Mother grips her coffee mug tighter. “How do you know all that?”

  “I went to the Wall last night to save Elm.”

  They both go silent. Tawny blows on her coffee, then takes a sip. “Mmm, Mom your coffee is always the best.”

  “Parvin made it this morning.”

  I use every iota of willpower to squish the urge to smirk.

  Mother looks at me. “So did you save Elm, then?”

  The desire to smirk dissipates with a single breath. “No.” What else do I say? That the flesh-eating beasts hiding inside the Wall devoured him? “Willow says he escaped and is coming to rescue her. We don’t really know what happened.”

  Silence. Coffee sips. Fire crackles. Never have I so greatly desired conversation. We’re almost acting like a family—well, a cold, distant, semi-hateful family.

  “Where’s Father?”

  “At the shop.” Tawny’s voice is tight. “Working on Reid’s grave marker. It will be carved, since we can’t afford stone.”

  “Oh.” Trust me to somehow steer the conversation back to death. “That will be beautiful, and Father’s woodwork is created to last.” Hollow. Hollow. Hollow. What do I say?

  Mother returns to her room with her mug. Tawny throws one glance at me, then retreats to her own room.

  That night, while my family is in the kitchen, I change into a thin shirt and shorts and crawl beneath the covers of the bed Tawny and I will share. The fresh clothing is like a thousand kisses on my skin—the only comfort I’ve found since returning ‘home.’ I scoot to the very edge of the bed so Tawny will have plenty of room when she comes in.

  She enters an hour later, smelling like soap. I lay on my side, my back to her. She lights a candle and crawls into bed. Her foot brushes mine and I move it. I don’t want to touch her. We’re not close. We’ll never be close.

  “I hadn’t planned on sharing a room with you,” she says, as if she knows I’m awake.

  “I don’t have to sleep here.” I inch closer to the edge.

  “But you want to be in your own bed, don’t you?” She shifts her weight and it feels like she’s trying to look at me.

  I keep my eyes tightly shut. “I haven’t been in my own bed for six months. I had a different idea of where I’d be sleeping when I returned east.” Like in a grave.

  She sucks in a breath. “Yes, so did I.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be sleeping at all. I thought you’d be dead and that Reid would be next to me.”

  At last, she’s confirmed what I suspected. “Well, it’s nice to have this out in the open.”

  “Good night, Parvin.” She spits this out like a fly from her mouth.

  “Mhmm.”

  She snuffs the candle. I’m thankful for her tartness. I’d much rather understand her anger than wonder if the surmounting silence among my family is my fault. Because now . . .

  I know it is.

  6

  I wake at sunrise, lost.

  Okay, God, my family hates me, Elm is dead (maybe), Solomon is probably in trouble, and I’m back in Unity Village. You said you were calling me. I need details, please. What am I supposed to do?

  SPEAK.

  I bolt upright. Finally! His voice! Speak? How? When? To whom? What do I say?

  Silence.

  Tawny is no longer in bed, but dishes clatter from the kitchen. My heart squeezes at the thought of her having my morning coffee time with Mother. Maybe this is where I need to start—creating peace with my family.

  I try to change quickly into day clothes, but my stump hinders me. After much squirming and use of my teeth, I pull up some thick leggings and get a cream, wool long-sleeved shirt over my head.

  I enter the kitchen with Reid’s journal under my left arm and my NAB in hand. Mother’s not here, but the kettle is over the cooking fire. Tawny stands at the sink washtub in a loose grey top and coal-blue jeans, scrubbing a wooden mug with a towel.

  She sure has a lot of clothes. “Where’s Mother?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “She never sleeps this late.”

  Tawny sets the mug on a drying stick and turns to me. “You haven’t been home. You don’t know her anymore.”

  The punch of anger that hits my chest is squashed by regret. Tawny’s right. I hate it . . . but she is. “Where’s Father?”

  “The Silent Man is at his store.”

  “Silent Man?”

  She averts her eyes. “Oliver never speaks to me.”

  That doesn’t seem like Father—he’s all warmth and kindness wrapped up in human skin. I don’t want to hear Tawny talk bad about him. “Are Hawke and Kaphtor still outside?” I sit at the table, setting Reid’s water-puffed journal on top of my NAB.

  “No, there are new Enforcers keeping watch.” She moves the ke
ttle from the cooking fire. “Coffee.”

  “Yes, please.” Is Hawke in trouble?

  “Well, it’s ready. Help yourself.” She turns back to the washtub even though there are no dishes in it. I close my eyes for a long moment, then get up. What did Reid see in her?

  Snatching a dry mug from one of the pegs on the wall, I set it on the table, grab a cloth, and lift the kettle from the hook with my good hand. I pour carefully, trying not to tip over the mug with a slosh of coffee. The weight of the full kettle sparks a twinge in my wrist. I fill half the mug before the pain in my wrist is too much. I replace the kettle on the hook.

  I lay my hand on the cover of Reid’s journal, almost as a good-bye. Then I slide it across the table. “This is for you.”

  Tawny glances over her shoulder at the book. “I’m not much of a reader.”

  “It’s Reid’s journal.” She stills and I surge forward. “That’s how I found out you and he were married, from an emotigraph inside. The journal got ruined when I fell into the Dregs—uh, into a giant swamp canyon—but some of it is still readable.”

  I want to know her response. Will this instate peace between us? Allow us to actually be sisters? Move past our mourning?

  Mother exits her room and sits at the table. Her eyes are red and heavy, sleep wrinkles line one side of her face, and she doesn’t greet either of us.

  “Good morning, Mom.” Tawny pulls down a mug and fills it for her in a flash, saying nothing about Reid’s journal. Ignoring me.

  Well . . . I tried. I turn to Mother. “How did you sleep?”

  She rubs a hand down her face and sits across from me. “Fine.”

  Tawny sits beside her with the sugar bowl. “Mom, I want to talk to you about the sleeping arrangement.”

  My head jerks up at this. What sleeping arrangement? Ours?

  “I really don’t think Parvin and I should share a room.”

  “What?” I shout and Mother jumps in her seat. I place my hand on her arm, surprised at her easy startle. “Sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Turning back to Tawny, I unleash my harshest glare. “You and I could have talked about this. You don’t have to burden Mother.”