My smile was back, but this time it was real.
“You go first. Slip out that way.” He nodded to an opening in the tent—a haven of shadows waited just beyond the glare of lights. “I’ll wait a few minutes, then tell people I’m going to check on you.”
His voice grew louder for the benefit of the others around us, saying, “Don’t be too long.” He kissed my hand and, out of nowhere, produced a round orange fruit and slipped it into my palm.
I rubbed a finger over the fruit, eyeing the gap in the tent. I walked toward the opening like I knew exactly where I was going, keeping my focus on the fruit instead of the crowd. Its skin felt a lot like a lime or a lemon. I held it to my nose and inhaled. It had the same citrusy smell and my mouth watered, thinking of sour lime juice.
Then I was out in the dark. But it was different from being outside in Tierra Muerta or even Pleiades. The air was warm, but not hot. And aside from an occasional burst of laughter from the pavilion, it was completely silent here. There wasn’t even any wind. I looked up, trying to fix myself by the stars, but the glass Dome was too thick and I couldn’t make them out.
Instead, I saw a pair of rustling wings outlined against the glow of the tent. A curve of a beak. Blue eyes in the dark. My heart pounded as my bird—that’s how I thought of him—landed on a nearby branch. Almost close enough to touch.
Fingertips of light brushed his feathers and I could finally see that his wings were a deep blue. Brilliant yellow-gold feathers accented his face and decorated his breast. Up close like this, he reminded me of one of the fairy tales: “The Owl.” He looked almost like the picture in my book, but not quite. He was more colorful and his hooked beak was comically huge in his round face.
“So this is where you come from,” I whispered. “Or maybe you’re a stranger to this place, like me?”
Then the owl-bird opened his wings and slipped off the branch. He drifted down to me, swooping back and forth in the air, like a leaf on the breeze. Until he stopped right in front of me, hovering so close that his wings brushed against my face.
Before, when I’d seen him out in Pleiades or Tierra Muerta, the appearance of the bird had been unsettling. But here, inside the Dome, he fit. I smiled. “Well, hello. I’m Leica.”
His blue eyes pulsed softly, echoing my greeting.
“If you’re going to keep showing up, I’ll need something to call you.” And again, I thought of the fairy tale. “How about Grimm?”
“Who are you talking to?” Edison’s voice cut through the dark trees and the owl-bird took off, one of his wings grazing my face in his hurry.
“Just myself.” The words came out without thinking—protecting this one thing, amid all the newness, that was familiar and mine. Perhaps a lie wasn’t the best way to start with Edison, but I reminded myself that I was now a Kisaeng with secrets.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the basket hanging from his arm.
“You don’t think I’d make you go hungry, do you?”
“I thought that’s what this was for.” I held up the orange fruit.
“That’s dessert.” Edison gave a sly smile that made my stomach flutter. Then his face went serious. “I meant what I said back there. I’m so grateful you’re here.”
He moved in so we were just centimeters away from each other, face-to-face. Edison slipped his hand under my hood, laying it on the back of my neck, and I closed my eyes. Standing there with him, in the quiet darkness of the trees, I relaxed. And that was the last thing I’d expected.
“Leica, I will be whatever you want me to be. Friend, lover, protector . . . all of those things if you’ll let me. But the decision is yours.”
I couldn’t think for the nearness of him, but it didn’t matter. Neither did hidden agendas or carefully sculpted fantasies. Because I knew what I wanted. I’d known it as soon I’d seen him standing there in the magnificent chaos of the tent.
I climbed up onto a nearby clump of roots so that I could look Edison straight in the eyes. Putting a hand to either side of his face, I pulled him to me. His lips seared against mine and hunger rose up inside me again.
It was all still there—my uneasiness in this new world. Marisol’s warning. The Indignos’ questions. Even so, I wanted Edison. I wanted this night. And it was incredible to realize that, for the first time in my life, I could have exactly what I wanted.
CHAPTER 16
“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” I peered out the window of the magfly as it glided through the darkness. All I could tell was we were heading away from the party. Away from the house I’d woken up in. “I can’t see anything.”
“Hold on.” Edison got up and fiddled with some buttons on a panel and we slowed down a little. Then he dimmed the lights inside the magfly so I could see the streets around us better.
We were passing by a beautiful glass building, all lit up. It was shorter than the Pleiades towers but much wider. A few blurred figures moved here and there behind the glass, but it was mostly empty. “What is it?”
“The Genetics Lab.” Edison peered over my shoulder and his voice thrummed in my ears, so much less clipped now that it wasn’t funneled through the suit’s microphone. And there was a textured warmth to it. “That’s where I work.”
“You have a job?” I don’t know why I was surprised.
“Well, we don’t lounge about feasting all day. Every Curador has some duties—manning the labs, supervising the Salvage Hall, going out to trade with the Citizens. But for the most part, the Dome takes care of itself, so we have a little more . . . recreational freedom.”
“Does Jenner work there too?” A Genetics Lab seemed like a promising lead.
“Yeah, he oversees the whole place. It’s mostly just a glorified nursery. Like I told you before, with our small population, we’ve had to—” Then Edison clamped his mouth tight and waggled his finger at me. “Nah-ah-ah. You almost got me going. No work tonight. Only play.”
He kissed my cheek and the faint reflection of his face was superimposed over the streets outside the window. We slid past more huge, important-looking buildings. It was strange to see. Aside from Pleiades—which had been protected by the foothills of the mountains—every structure I’d ever encountered had been crushed by God’s fist. Eaten away by time and sand.
But time had made its mark here as well. As larger structures gave way to houses, and then to boring, blocklike apartments, the trees grew wilder. The streets had buckled under their roots and their sprawling limbs blocked the view.
“It’s like Briar Rose,” I said in a hush.
“Like what?”
“There’s a story in my book about a princess who’s cursed by a witch. On her fifteenth birthday, she pricks her finger on a needle and falls asleep. And the whole castle falls asleep around her.”
“Everyone?” Edison asked.
“The king and queen, the servants, even the hounds. Everyone. And thorny rose bushes grow up all around the place, every year growing higher and thicker until the entire castle is nothing but an impenetrable thicket.”
We were silent, staring out the window at the fairy tale come to life. Branches stretched up through broken windows like massive hands. Saplings perched on mossy, caved-in rooftops. Whole rooms hidden behind streamers of vines instead of walls.
Edison broke the spell, “What happens?”
“A prince rescues her.” I remembered how disappointed I’d been by that ending when I was little.
Edison grinned. “There’s always a prince.”
Amid the maelstrom of green decay, the magfly slowed and stopped, its doors sliding open.
“Careful,” Edison said, helping me step over a root that’d grown up through the shattered pavement.
“What happened to this place?”
“A curse?” Edison looked sideways at me, but I wasn’t buying it. “Well, it’s as good an answe
r as any. Before the plague there were thousands in the Dome, now there’s only about four hundred Curadores. We don’t need the whole Dome and we don’t have the resources to keep it all running anymore either. So it’s falling apart.”
Alejo had said that the Curadores had been demanding more salvage for less food. It looked like the Indignos were right—the Dome did have limited resources. Almost against my will, I probed at the idea. “What about all the scrap we trade with you?”
Edison kissed the top of my head. “I promise, I’ll answer anything you ask me. I’ll give you a tour of the Salvage Hall myself. Anything.” Then his voice dropped to a whisper, as if the trees were listening. “As long as it’s tomorrow.”
“Anything?” I raised an eyebrow, giving a devious smile.
“Anything. But tonight, I want to show you something.”
There wasn’t much of a street here. Scattered pools of light from the occasional working streetlamp revealed more weeds than concrete. I wasn’t used to wearing such a long dress, or any dress, and I had to hold up the skirt to keep it from catching. Edison took my arm, guiding me through the maze of encroaching tree roots.
I breathed him in . . . a deep musk that spoke of wild things in the night. It was a scent I knew well. One that told of gathering sandstorms and hidden pockets of water beneath the sand. And of shadows who made their homes inside the dark places. My whole body came awake with it.
We stopped in front of an immense building—its thick stone looked out of place in this city of glass and metal. But its tower reached proudly into the air, taller than any of the other buildings. Taller than the trees.
We walked up the steps and my delicate shoes rang out as I climbed. Huge wooden doors greeted us at the top, but only one of them was still on its hinges. The other one was propped against the frame and Edison had to heave it out of the way. It was a testament to its bulk that he grunted as he hauled it to the side.
Then we stepped into a dark hallway. Small panels of purpley-red glass were laid into the walls and a threadbare red carpet covered the floor.
“This is my favorite place in the Dome. No one else ever comes here, but I thought you might understand.”
His voice was still hushed, but it echoed against the stone—making Edison sound solemn and grand. It made me want to tiptoe, like a child trying not to wake up her parents. Edison ducked under a rounded doorway and reached back for my hand, pulling me with him.
The whole place opened up and we were standing in a long room with great arching ceilings and intricately carved pillars. The only word for it was vast. The whole thing was made of grey stone and dark wood, except the series of tall, mottled windows. Muted light from the streetlamps filtered in through the intricate colored glass.
Here, too, the trees and plants had tried to take over. Branches had smashed windows and clawed their way inside. Roots had pushed up through the tile on the floor. Moss hung in patches on the stone walls. But this place was too strong for them to destroy. I walked into the center of the room, trying to take it all in.
“Stop right there,” Edison said. And I froze, my eyes searching for signs of danger.
But Edison just stared at me, his face breaking into a smile that managed to be wistful and satisfied at the same time.
“Yes. You look like a vision,” he said. Like he’d been picturing this moment and it was exactly the way he’d imagined.
And, watching him, I did understand about this place. Before this, I’d seen Edison masked by isolation suits or fighting for his life in the desert or in the center of a crowd. But this was the first time I had truly seen him.
He fit here. His height was perfect inside the arched building—not diminished by it, but in perfect proportion. The whole room was balanced and beautifully crafted, just like him. The columns of stone echoed in his shoulders, his great hands. Soft light glowed around him, illuminating him with power.
A greedy fire stormed my body. I wanted him—here in this place. I wanted all of it.
I turned away, startled by my sudden need. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
I was staring hard at the windows, but I was talking about him and the building and even myself. And I suspected he heard the current of tension in my voice.
He followed me as I click-click-clicked my way across the stone floor to get a closer look at the windows.
“I never get tired of looking at them, though some are fairly brutal,” he said.
I saw what he meant immediately. The small pieces of colored glass were put together so they made pictures. And though the glass was beautiful, the scenes were not. Men hung, bleeding, from some sort of torture device. A woman wept over a dead body. Somber figures paraded in heavy robes and strange hats.
“Was this a place for punishment?” I asked Edison.
He shook his head. “It’s a church. From what I understand, they held big meetings here . . . something like your Rememberings.”
Edison took my hand. He kissed the tips of my fingers—lingering on my extra pinkie—then led me to the front of the church. We passed through a low wooden fence and climbed up two steps so we were on a stretch of marble slightly higher than the rest of the room.
The only other thing up there was a statue of a woman in a robe and head covering. Edison unpacked the basket, spreading out a blanket on the cool floor in front of her. I touched my own hood, which mimicked the same look. The statue’s face had an infinite kindness that reminded me of my mother.
“Your picnic, my princess.” Grinning, Edison gave a low bow and gestured grandly to the food spread out over the blanket. I hardly recognized any of it. He poured a bloodred liquid into two glasses and, once I’d settled on the floor, handed me one.
“This is one of the best bottles of wine left in existence. Not like that machine-simulated bubbly we had earlier. This”—and he held the wine up to catch the gentle light coming in through the window, making it gleam—“was made on Earth. By hand, with real grapes growing in real dirt.”
“Earth?” And reverently, I reached for the bottle, wanting to touch it. I wiped the dust off the paper label and it crackled under my touch. There was a faded painting of mountains and I traced the ridges with my finger. Below them, rows of winding green vines led down to a rustic house. The bottle read: Les Montagne des Agnes. And in smaller letters underneath: California, 2082.
Something about the painting felt familiar and I realized that this was the sort of world the Indignos dreamed of creating. But was that even possible? I angled the bottle toward the candlelight—trying to imagine our own valley that green and lush. Then I spotted something that wiped the picture from my mind. Stamped across the label was the flower emblem I recognized. And the word LOTUS. And around it, in a circle, were the words Ad Astra Research Colony.
“This is the same as the shuttle.” I looked up at Edison, trying to keep my voice even.
“What?” And Edison took the bottle from me, then nodded. “Yeah. It’s stamped on the supply crates down in the old storerooms. That’s why I was so surprised when we found those necklaces.”
“What else is down there?” The idea of Earth was becoming more real—this bottle had come from there. Not just a broken, rusty Find, but something whole.
“The storeroom?” Edison shrugged. “There’s not much left, just a few almost-empty crates of wine.” He picked up his glass again and smiled. “To the last of the last.”
I raised my glass and Edison touched his to mine, making a rich gonging noise that resounded off the stone walls. The liquid was bitter and sweet at the same time. Instead of the burn of mezcal, this shivered down my throat with a delicious warmth. “It’s amazing.”
Edison grinned. “I know.”
And he held out his glass to me again, this time saying, “To us.”
The wine was only the first of a thousand new tastes. Edison fed me crumbs
of rich cheese, salty on my tongue. Thick bread dipped in bowls of fruity olive oil. Sweet and creamy pieces of chocolate, which I stole from him and gobbled up, refusing to share. But my favorite was the orange.
As soon as he pressed his fingernail into the peel, a sharp smell hit my nose. Edison slipped a wedge into my mouth, and it was like morning light pouring though a window. The acid tartness teased my tongue, but unlike our limes and lemons, there was a bright sweetness that trickled down my throat.
“More, more!” I grabbed at the half orange still in his hand. The juice squirted everywhere.
“That’s what you get for being so greedy. Now, hold still.” And he pinned my hands in my lap while he ever-so-gently kissed the sticky juice off my cheeks and the base of my neck, his lips drifting lower.
“I don’t think any of it got down there.” I tried to keep my voice steady. I was glad he held my hands because the same tension tremored through them.
“Well, we’ll have to do something about that, then.” Edison pulled off my hooded cape, leaving me in my plunging bodice. He kissed the newly exposed skin, leaning into me so that we both eased back onto the blanket.
He started to tug at the bodice strings, but I pushed his hand away. I wanted to untie it myself. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it my way. But it was awkward, lying down, and my extra fingers were never good at knots.
“Let me.” Edison pulled my hands away.
“No,” I snapped, shaking my hands free from his grip. Surprised at the irritation in my own voice.
So far tonight I’d had no need for any of Marisol’s lessons. Being with Edison had been easy—I’d forgotten all about her sexy strawberry and my shimmering hands. Now, for the first time all night, I felt uncertain and her words came back to me: All that matters is the fantasy. From this point forward, you are only what a Curador wants you to be.
Lotus and Thorn Page 15
