Please, God, let me find Mrs. Newton’s address soon.
Solomon cranes his neck up almost the whole time we walk, taking in the multi-storied buildings and the bicycle racks. He’s traveled the world, been to High Cities . . . I’m surprised at his awe, but thankful for it. I’m sharing a part of my story with him. Is he remembering the entries I wrote about Ivanhoe, when we still communicated through the NAB?
After a few blocks, I see the mansion. I’d seen it only once before, and forgot how big it was. The front is made of brick, with three stories of smooth glass windows. Decorative black shutters lay open on each side of the windows and planters under each window explode with red and white poinsettias. Greek columns wound with pine garlands support the entrance. Under a shadowed arch stand double black doors with a gold knocker.
The mansion fans out into another layer, and at least eight giant brick chimneys stretch like beacons from the roof, indicating the enormity of the interior. I stride toward the steps, trusting everyone will follow, but a hand grabs my arm.
“Parvin, stop,” Mother says through tight teeth. “Are you sure you know what’s in there?”
I look at the entrance and back at her wide eyes. “Mrs. Newton owns this place. She and I helped organize with the Preacher so that Radicals could live here.”
Her gaze fixates on the front door. “I don’t think the Newtons were this wealthy.”
I kiss her on the cheek. “It was a gift from the Preacher. Just follow, okay?” Her nerves are so different than mine. When I first arrived in Ivanhoe, I loved the magnitude, the brain-stretching building designs, the newness. But it cripples Mother. It turns her into a follower instead of a leader.
Now, I’m the leader. Me, the girl who wasted seventeen years of her life.
I walk up the steps with that message floating in my mind, lift the gold knocker, and rap hard. Three times.
It takes a moment before the left door opens and there stands a fifteen-year-old with yellowish hair cut in a choppy style. Alive, healthy, albino–and one eye covered in a black leather patch.
Elm.
He’s alive.
He appraises me with his good eye, barely taking notice of the three hundred people behind me. “Took you long enough.”
32
“Elm!” I lurch forward to hug him, but he steps aside.
“Get in to the fires. Then we’ll talk.”
I walk in, and the three hundred people stream in behind me, but I stare at Elm. “You’re alive. You’re alive! Willow was right.”
He frowns and his crinkled brow catches on his eye-patch. “Willow is always right.”
A shout from Solomon snatches my attention. “Laelynn!”
Laelynn—a six-year-old girl in a pink dress with tight blond curls–launches into his arms with a squeal. “Solomon! Solomon! Mommy look, it’s Solomon!”
And there’s Mrs. Newton, her chestnut hair up in a loose knot, tucking a rag into one of her skirt pockets.
Mother gets to her first. It’s odd for me to watch my two mothers, embracing. Mrs. Newton comforted me and listened to my story when I came to Ivanhoe. She allowed herself to be emotional, tender, and encouraging.
Mother, on the other hand, is like a brick wall with one tiny peephole into her emotions. She’s a pillar and demands that those around her become pillars, too. But this trip has brought her out of her comfort zone—her pillarhood is shrinking.
Solomon hugs Mrs. Newton next. She whispers something in his ear and he pulls away with a nod. Then she comes to me and wraps her arms around me. I cling to the embrace.
“Welcome home,” she whispers.
I almost cry. “I didn’t think I’d ever be back.”
She leans away. “Elm told me you survived.”
“How did he know?”
She rests a hand on my shoulder. “First we’ll get everyone settled. Then we’ll talk.”
I turn to the group crowded in the entry. “Everyone, this is Mrs. Newton. She and Laelynn survived the Wall and put this place together for you, for Radicals.”
“It was mostly Parvin’s idea.” Mrs. Newton smiles at me.
I feel Mother’s stare. “We’ll get everyone settled and warmed up.”
Here’s when Mrs. Newton takes over. She leads us up a giant staircase with blue carpeting that makes it look frosted. Strings of blue and white sparkles hang from the high ceiling along the path of the staircase. I run my fingers through them and they clink together.
She assigns four people to a room. “I’m still putting bunk beds in. Someday I’ll get six to a room. The Preacher added a small hotel-like building to the back of the mansion, bringing the count up to a hundred rooms. I didn’t expect we’d use them all but”—she looks around as people file into their rooms—“I guess I was wrong. You’re the first I’ve had.”
“Once I returned through the Wall, they closed Opening Three. They’re about to close it permanently, sending Radicals to Antarctica instead or selling them as slaves. We escaped.”
“Let’s go to one of the living rooms and talk.” To everyone else, she says, “Laelynn and Elm will bring each of you towels from the main closet.”
One of the living rooms? My house in Unity doesn’t even have a living room. Mrs. Newton leads me, Mother, and Solomon back down the staircase, through the entry, and into an open living room with a giant fireplace against the opposite wall. Just as we sit down in a square of couches, Frenchie, Kaphtor, and Cap come in.
“May we join?” Kaphtor asks.
Solomon stands and embraces him. “Of course.”
Kaphtor and Cap sit at one couch opposite me. “I think it’s important that some other people hear what plans you’re making,” Cap says. “You’re acting as a leader, but you’re still a seventeen-year-old girl.”
“Eighteen.”
Cap rolls his eyes. “Woooow, an entire year.”
Solomon stiffens. “She’s gotten us all the way here. No matter her age, she’s sacrificed a lot to rescue everyone.”
Cap scrunches his nose and leans back against the couch with a huff.
I don’t deceive myself into thinking I can lead everyone correctly or make right decisions. Still, I would hope they’d trust me by now. Gabbie comes into the room next. Once we’re all sitting, we start.
It takes much less time than I expected to sum up the past couple of months for Mrs. Newton. Elm walks in halfway through and stands like a sentinel behind her, by the fire. Gabbie scribbles notes and, at one point, she holds up the NAB. I think she’s filming.
“You destroyed the projected Wall?” Mrs. Newton places a hand over her heart.
“Not for long,” I say. “They got it back up within an hour.”
“We still caused a good amount of chaos.” Gabbie swipes a finger across the NAB screen. “The projected Wall went down everywhere for a whole hour. The Council wrote it off as a maintenance glitch.”
She scans the screen and her lips curve up. “Skelley Chase said in an interview with The Daily Hemisphere that routine maintenance is standard every twenty-five years.” She shakes her head. “If only he understood what they’re really doing.”
Oh, he understands.
Now is the time to share my own agenda. They won’t like it, but I don’t need anyone’s approval except God’s. I meet Solomon’s eyes. He looks at me and then frowns.
I would have liked to share this with him privately.
Oh well.
“I’ve been thinking about what we did to the projected Wall.” I rub my hand over my stump. Just blurt it out. Just say it. “Gabbie and I are going to film a speech of me talking to the USE, using clips from our escape and survival, revealing Dusten’s overridden Clock. We’ll release it to the public, inviting them to cross the Wall and join us here.
“And”–I grip my left wrist so hard
that my stump screams a warning–“I’m going to destroy the Wall.”
Cap bursts out laughing. Gabbie films me. Mother’s head snaps up to meet my gaze. Solomon looks at his hands.
“How can you possibly do that?” Cap asks once he’s caught his breath.
“Why do you want to do zat?” Frenchie’s confusion creases her brow.
I open my arms wide. “You’ve seen what’s on this side. People. Lost Angel, Ivanhoe . . . there is rightness over here and the world can’t be denied it. That Wall is used as a cage to keep people trapped in a life of Clocks, to keep countries apart, to keep fear instilled. The Council knows there’s life on this side and they’re going to close up Opening Three.”
“I will go with Parvin.” Elm’s arms are crossed tight over his bare, albino chest. His chin is high. “We will find and save Willow.”
I nod once. He acts much more like an adult than most of these around me. It will be good to have his navigation skills along for the journey. I don’t tell him that Brickbat threatened to test her—might even be testing her now. I can only hope that Solomon’s dad somehow protected her. Don’t think about it.
“But how?” Cap asks again.
I pick at a salt crust on my pants. “I’m going to start with the actual stone Wall. When I lived in Ivanhoe, I worked for a man named Wilbur Sherrod. He makes certain outfits that can empower a person to a degree. I tested one called Brawn once. It makes a person strong. I could use it to break through the rock.”
“With one hand?” he sneers.
I shrug. “Probably.”
Mrs. Newton shakes her head. “If you destroy the Wall, people will invade this side. They might take over! The Council could ruin everything beautiful here.”
“Do we have the right to deny half the world this taste of beauty in order to assure our safety?”
Mrs. Newton smooths a hand over her hair. “Parvin, I think you ought to talk to the Preacher. This isn’t our call. This involves his city, his people. He might have a war on his hands if you open the Wall to the East.”
The Preacher does claim that it’s his Wall. So, if I have his permission, then I need nothing else. “I’ll see him tomorrow.” He won’t have a choice.
“I think you’re being impulsive.” Mother whispers loud enough that I know others hear her.
“I’ve been dwelling on this for the past two weeks, Mother. And praying over it.” I think back to the verse Solomon read me when on the cargo ship: “Because the poor are plundered, because the needy groan, I will now arise,” says the Lord; “I will place him in the safety for which he longs.”
God is arising. For us. For Radicals. We all long for safety, and He is finally placing my people into the arms of shalom. But He’s sending me to reach the others of the world—those still deceived by the Clock. I need to bring Willow home, reconnect Father and Tawny with Mother, and reveal the lies the Council has fed people for a hundred years. I need to create a safe haven for believers—like Fight, Idris, and Evarado.
“I want to return to ze East and travel back to France. To my parents.”
“I won’t allow it.” Madame stands in the doorway to the living room. How long has she been listening?
Frenchie puts her shoulders back and doesn’t bother to lower her voice. “Eet is my choice. You no longer ’ave a coffee shop. I am not your worker or your slave anymore.”
“Angelique, do you think returning to France is the best option right now?” Kaphtor speaks in a low voice, while staring at the ground.
She rests a hand on his knee. “Eet eez my ’ome.”
Cap yawns. “Well, this was boring. I’m going to bed.”
Kaphtor, wobbling on his own bum leg, helps Cap stand. Then they and Frenchie leave. Madame stalks after them, hands on hips.
Gabbie scribbles a few other things, then runs after them. “Wait, Angelique . . . can I interview you?”
Now it’s just me, Mother, Solomon, Mrs. Newton, and Elm.
“You’re going back?” Solomon still won’t meet my eyes. “The Council wants you there. They want to control and use you.”
I move over to his couch and grip his hand. “Don’t you see? Their desire to use me will protect me, and give me access to the Council, if I need it. I have to go, Solomon. Father and Tawny are there. The Wall must come down.”
He looks up and his eyes flit between the two of mine.
Please, understand.
“I’ll go with you, Parvin.”
I shake my head. “I don’t ask that of you.”
He gives a sad smile and tilts my chin up. “I don’t ask your permission. You think I’ll leave Willow, your family, the orphans, or my dad over there? Though blasting through the Wall wasn’t exactly how I imagined saving them.”
“Blasting?”
He rests both arms on the back of the couch. “You’ll need explosives. That Wall is thick. No magic suit will get completely through it.”
Mrs. Newton leans forward. “You will talk to the Preacher tomorrow, won’t you?”
I nod. “First thing in the morning.”
Mother sighs and pushes herself to her feet. “We should all get some rest then.”
“I’ll see you up in our room.” I glance toward Elm, who holds my gaze with his one eye, the fire casting a red glow against his skin. “I want to talk with Elm.”
They take the hint. Solomon’s the last to take his gaze from mine. So much time together, and yet we’re never alone. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll talk.
Elm doesn’t sit. “Where’s Willow?”
“In a government-controlled orphanage in northern New York, but the Council threatened to kill her. Solomon’s dad is monitoring her.” I don’t try to talk in layman’s terms. I won’t insult his intelligence like that.
“I will go to the Wall with you, only to rescue her.” The muscle in his temple tenses in quick succession.
“I understand. I’ve done my best to protect her, Elm.”
He shakes his head. “She would not be on the other side if she didn’t have to take you over there in the first place.”
My eyes burn. “I know.”
He seems bigger than I remember him—more muscular, taller. The only time I really got to know him, he carried my dying body to the Wall. He didn’t do it for me, but for Willow, because she cared for me.
Their devotion to each other puts my ideas of love to shame. “Elm, how did you escape the Wall?”
“I put the skeleton as a message for Willow. The scar was on the wrong eye so she would know it wasn’t me. Then, when the Wall doors opened, I slipped back out to my side before anyone could see.”
Genius. “Then what?”
“I tried climbing the Wall, but men were on top. Men all in black, building electric things. I tried climbing in a different area, but the same thing. They are building something to stop people from climbing over.”
That something sounds like a projected Wall. It fits with the Lead Enforcer’s comment regarding projection towers.
“So I came back down and built your Radical station with the Ivanhoe supplies as we promised. It is safe for Radicals now. Then I took the train back to Ivanhoe to ask Newton-lady’s help. I waited here for you.”
The fire dims and I notice it’s not burning real wood. The logs inside look fake—like they’re painted. “How did you know I was alive?”
“I told your God I needed your help. So you were alive.”
So many people prayed for my survival—Elm, Solomon, Reid–and God heard them. He granted my life. I was ready to die, but instead my survival proved a testament to God’s presence. Because I’m alive, Elm sees that God hears.
That, in itself, is worth it.
•••
It’s snowing when I wake.
I share a room with Mother, Frenchie, and Madame. Madame sn
ores loud enough to shatter the wide window in the outer wall, and Frenchie sleeps with a pillow over her head.
Mother sleeps on her back, with her hands folded over her stomach. I kiss her forehead. Even in her sleep she looks stern and concerned. Beneath her brick exterior are secrets that tear her up. I haven’t forgotten that she has a secret concerning Skelley Chase. She said she couldn’t bear for me to know. But . . .
I have to know before I return to the East to confront the Council.
I knock softly on Solomon’s door. He shares a room with Kaphtor and Cap on our same floor. It’s just the three of them in there—no one else wanted to sleep in the same room as two ex-Enforcers. I don’t know what changed Cap’s view of them. Maybe he likes the extra breathing room.
Solomon opens the door, dressed and ready to go. “Good sunrise. I hoped you’d let me join you.”
What a pleasant surprise. We walk down the hall together, into the entry, where we put on our freshly washed coats, and then outside into the snow.
Our footsteps whisper against the early morning sidewalk, the only steps breaking the pattern of smooth white. I hope no one shovels the walk. The snow is so cleansing.
“The Preacher lives in the Marble,” I say to fill the silence. “Actually, it’s technically called The Core, but I think it looks more like a marble. I’m determined to get everyone else calling it that.”
Solomon grins. Our arms brush, but our fingers don’t touch. I want to hold his hand. I don’t want to. I want him to hold my hand. Maybe.
It’s odd being in Ivanhoe—the place where I originally told Solomon I couldn’t talk to him anymore because I loved Jude. Now, Jude is dead and Solomon and I are here.
My stomach flips when I look at him, and goose bumps pop up on my arms. He makes me want to smile. I want to hug him. Do all of those things count as love? They seem too surface level. What else do I feel?
Safety. Comfort. Jude was a ticking time bomb in more ways than one. I could never tell when he was going to get angry with me or clam up. But Solomon controls his temper—except for when he left me behind to resuscitate Dusten on my own.
A Time to Speak Page 34
