“Well, Nadia, you are looking very lovely indeed, I must say. Are you going to the clock? Would you like to walk with me?”
She extends an arm, her black robe flowing, as if showing me the way. I fall into step, no thanks not really seeming like an offered option. Janis is striking, tall, dark-eyed, with piled hair that is pure white. Her accent is very neat, clipped—a sound I could never quite manage in school, no matter how hard they tried to correct my pronunciation. Liliya was better at that. But what is Janis doing on Hawking Street? There are people walking in the same direction we are, and they are staring.
“I enjoy the Dark Days Festivals,” Janis says. “The celebration, the crisp air. And the rise of the moons is one of the best sights Canaan offers. But I think the children are my favorite. It’s so interesting to watch how they grow, consider who and what they might become. I like to walk the streets before we read the First Book, to see how the people and the city are faring. How are you faring, Nadia?”
After some consideration, “Well” is the word I settle on. I have a wild vision of knocking Janis down, finding the First Book of the Forgetting hidden somewhere beneath those black robes, making a run for it. And that, I think wryly, is all the fault of the glassblower’s son. Janis doesn’t deserve to be knocked down. Unless it’s about Jonathan.
“Oh, I’m glad,” Janis is saying. “You had excellent test scores, I remember. Quite high.”
Surely Janis doesn’t remember my test scores.
“Where are you apprenticing?”
“The Archives.”
“Oh, yes. A position of trust. We’ll be needing you soon, won’t we?”
We’re almost to the corner of Meridian, loud, thronged with people and squealing children. The forgetting trees rise over our heads. Janis stops to pat a passing beribboned child, and smiles at me.
“I would hope, Nadia,” she says, “that you feel you could come to me, if you have any questions, any concerns. I’m always happy to have guests at the Council House. I want you to know we are responsive to those needs as well, not just to the”—she hesitates—“misunderstandings about the rules.”
I see. She’s trying to tell me subtly that the current state of things in Canaan is not how she would have it. I lift my head. “I do have a concern,” I say, “since you bring it up.”
Her still, dark brows lift slightly, and she leans forward to hear.
“I’d like to know why my house was searched. What was the Council hoping to find?”
“Ah! Yes, I can see why you would ask … ”
The people on Meridian are stepping aside, making way for Janis, and my eyes go straight through the parting in the crowd to First Bridge, where Gray is standing with Imogene, Eshan, Veronika, and a few of the others who were in the blacknut grove. He’s beneath the streetlamp, hair tamed—he must have found another string—in a plain white shirt and dark green leggings, a cup in his hand. His eyes find mine as if I’d called, and he goes stock-still. I think it might have been mid-sentence. Janis pauses our walk, her brows drawn together.
“The Council,” she says quietly, “seems to feel that random inspections are good for the city, to keep rules from being broken in the first place, to keep us from having to employ the sterner measures. I believe your family’s name was drawn at random.” She smiles at me. “Please don’t take the search personally. If you do well in your work, I don’t think I’m overstepping when I say there might be a position at Council for you someday. It’s certainly something that’s been considered.”
She has to be joking.
Then she says, “Is that a piece of glass you’re wearing, Nadia?” Janis reaches out a thin finger, touches my necklace. I can feel the metal bracelet behind it, hanging down my dress. “Is it old, or is it new?” she asks.
“New.”
“Pity. I am working on a project to compile a history of Canaan, a difficult subject for our city, as you know. I’m looking for anything old that might shed light on our origins. If you happen to find something, heirlooms, anything at all, will you let me know?” She touches the glass again. “This is extraordinary. Our glassblowers are quite skillful, aren’t they? I’ll have to compliment them on their workmanship. Now, please, enjoy your festival.” And with that Janis makes her way through the path the crowd has left, leaving me in the emptiness of her wake.
I look to Gray again. I don’t think he’s moved, but his eyes have followed Janis. I watch them come back to me. His lips part. Veronika has her hand in the air, saying something irritatedly that neither of us pays attention to. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
Someone bumps me from behind, people in their finery closing Janis’s gap. My line of sight is broken and Gray is lost to the colorful clothes and the weirdly fancy hair that surrounds us. Then I realize that we’re all surging forward, to the amphitheater and the speaking platform, where Janis is going to read before the moons come up. Then they’ll start the dancing.
I’m pushed step by step, all the way down Meridian, trying to ignore being looked at. Being pressed by people like this is difficult; it makes me feel grabbed, panicked. I wonder if Mother is a bit the same way. I try to scoot my way to an edge, where I can escape if need be. Janis has gone all the way down the amphitheater stairs and is climbing up to the speaking platform, lit all around by torches, Jonathan behind her, the tower rising up above us all. The water clock rings out the hour. I see Karl of the Books, Jemma the Clothesmaker with Sasha, the little girl who was born early and who is blind. I see Hedda smile at me with her younger set of twins, and Delia, Gray’s mother, on Nash’s arm, frowning at me at the same time. Where is Liliya? I don’t see Gray, or anyone who was with him.
I’m on the top edge of the amphitheater, against the surrounding wall, not anywhere near the edge of the crowd. I look back and they’re still thronging. Janis opens the First Book of the Forgetting, and I forget about the people for a moment, strain my neck. It’s hard to judge in the wavering lights, but it looks like an ordinary book. Dark, maybe black, a bit frayed or faded. It’s not thick, but there are more pages there than are ever read aloud. I’m going to find out what you say, I think. What you really say.
The people hush, noise dying like a dropping wind. Janis looks down at the First Book, her voice ringing in the structured space.
“At the first sunrising of the twelfth year, they will forget. They will lose their memories, and without their memories, they are lost … ”
“Hey. You came.”
The voice in my ear startles me, and I realize it’s not the crowd pressed up against my back, it’s Eshan. He’s already been in the moonshine. I can smell it. I try to move away.
“Their books will be their memories, their written past selves. They will write in their books. They will keep their books … ”
“You look really pretty, Nadia … ”
Eshan is touching my hair. I try to turn my head, move his hand, move away, but the crowd is too close. “Eshan,” I whisper. “Stop.”
“They will write the truth, and the books will tell them who they have been. If a book is lost, then so are they lost … ”
“You know what I think, Nadia the Dyer’s daughter?” he says in my ear, slurring a little. “I think you’re a lot more friendly than you act.”
“I am made of my memories. Without memories, they are nothing.”
“Stop, Eshan,” I hiss. His hand is on my arm now, body tight against my back, voice close to my ear. I can’t shake him off. I can’t move. The crowd is too close. I’m going to scream if he doesn’t stop touching me. I won’t be able to help it.
“Excuse me,” whispers a voice beside us. There’s another hand, on my other arm. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”
I look up into the face of Anson the Planter. Eshan drops his hand, and I automatically move with the tug on my arm, follow Anson out of the crowd. I feel like I am walking through one of my nightmares.
�
��Books will be written in every day. In our books we are to … ”
The crowd finishes the sentence: “… write the truth.”
“Truth is not good, and truth is not bad. When we write truth, we … ”
The people say, “… write who we are.”
The familiar words echo off the buildings as the people of Canaan recite them. Anson maneuvers me out of the throng, into a side street, sits me down on the front steps of a weaver’s house. Then he lowers himself next to me. I am stiff, frozen, nearly paralyzed by my father’s nearness.
“Was that young man bothering you?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“It looked like he was to me. I’m Anson … ”
I turn my face away. Yes, Father. I know who you are.
“… and you’re Nadia. Dyer’s daughter, right?”
“… remember who we are,” chant the people in the crowd.
Anson is not put off by my silence. “You see, the thing is, Nadia, I seem to upset you. Not just the search, or the counting, but me. I upset you. I just … I want to know if you can tell me why that is.”
“… remember our truth,” says the crowd.
I’m pushing down on the cold stone of the steps with both my hands. I think so I won’t fall apart. Anson’s voice is not calm anymore. He’s the one upset.
“Nadia, I’m going to ask you a personal question. I hope you won’t be … ” I hear him breathe deep. “Do you know what happened to your father? Is it in your books?”
And then I’m not upset at all. I’m angry. At him.
“Who is Anna?” I say.
“What?”
“Anna. Who is she?”
“I … I don’t know … ”
I’m up and gone, skirting my way through the edge of the crowd, making for Meridian. I was wrong. I am upset. I’m shaking. Hard. I turn the corner, duck beneath the trees, and then a hand catches mine from behind and pulls me into an alley. I have one moment of panic before I realize it’s Gray.
“Shhh,” he says. He lets me lean against the wall, puts the hand that isn’t holding mine on the back of my neck, and pushes my forehead onto his chest. “Just wait a minute,” he says.
I breathe. I smell soap and the furnace, a hint of moonshine. He’s warm in the chill. I’m not sure how much time goes by. I’m still shaking, though not nearly as much. The streets outside are quiet, the alley dark. I can hear the murmur of Janis still talking to Canaan.
“Better?” Gray asks.
I’m aware of the question inside his chest, aware of his breathing, which is faster than mine. His voice had sounded calm, but he is not.
“Tell me who Anson the Planter is,” he says.
I don’t even hesitate. “My father. But he doesn’t remember.”
“He did it on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“Is he figuring it out?”
“I think so.”
“He’d be crazy if he wasn’t. You look just like him. Don’t stand next to him if you don’t want people to know.”
I feel his heart beat.
“And this is why you don’t tell that you can remember?” Gray says. “Because Anson would be condemned? For something he doesn’t even know he did?”
I like that Gray always puts things together so quickly; it saves me difficult speech. It feels good to be here, surrounded, between him and the white stone at my back. Completely different from being trapped by the crowd. By Eshan. My shaking is almost gone.
“You have to make a decision,” he whispers.
I don’t want to make a decision.
“Who do you want me to hit first? Anson, or Eshan?”
“I thought you already hit Eshan.”
“He was a bad friend and didn’t offer me the opportunity.” Gray lets my head up and searches my face. “You look good. Who did this to you?”
“And why do you think it wasn’t me?”
“Because you wouldn’t. Probably.”
I look away. I think I’m smiling just a little. “Fine. It was Genivee.”
“She’s an artist.”
“And she would agree with you.” And then he’s looking at me, really looking at me, and I know that Genivee was right. About everything she said.
“Let’s go,” Gray says, his voice low. “Right now. Over the wall.”
“What?”
“Let’s forget the festival. We have seven hours until resting. And I don’t want to dance with you once and then pretend I’m not looking at you the rest of the time.”
I wonder how much he’s been drinking.
“Come with me,” he says. “And we’ll run up the mountain in the dark.”
His hair may be tamed but he is wild today. Barely contained. I want to touch his face. And I do not want to go back to that crowd. He leans forward, voice near my ear.
“Go to Jin’s,” he says. “I’ll tell people I’m going places I’m not and meet you there, and we’ll climb the wall. Because we want to. Will you do that with me, Dyer’s daughter?”
There is only now, I think. And this is exactly what I want to do. “Yes,” I breathe.
I can feel his smile next to my cheek. “Don’t let anyone see you.”
I find myself standing on the rooftop of Jin’s, breathing hard in the chilly air. I came here four festivals ago, with a long, stiff ladder made of fern, and while the music was going drove two iron rings into the stone with a hammer stolen from Arthur of the Metals. It was easier to drive in those rings than stone should have allowed. I’m glad I did it.
Then Gray is at the top of the stairs. He has a bottle in his hand. We don’t speak. None of this feels real, and I don’t want to think too hard about it. I hook the rope ladder, which takes longer to find in the dark, pull it to our side, watch Gray ride the ladder to the wall with the bottle in his shirt, which he miraculously manages not to break. He sits on the wall instead of lying flat, and I take the end of the flowing tunic, tuck it back through my low collar, tying the cloth tighter to my body. I come up after him, hair flying. We flip the ladder, and then we’re over.
The dead grasses on the other side of the wall look silvery in the dark, as does the gray cliff face, but the fern fronds are lit with glowing strands, the flashflies emitting their brief stabs of light overhead. The world sparkles and smells of cold things. Gray takes the bottle out of his shirt, uncorks it, and stretches out his arm to me. I take a swig. “Strong” is not the word. Gray drinks after me, pops the cork back in, looks me up and down.
“Let’s run,” he says, and he takes off through the rustling grasses just like he did the first time.
I chase him, fern fronds whipping my face. He’s weaving around the mountainside, following the natural opening in the forest, lit by the glowworms and their gleaming silks wound through the fern fronds above us. I don’t think he’s really that much faster than me. His legs are just longer, which is not fair. And he’s deliberately leading me through soggy ground and mud holes. And he’s making sure he stays in sight, turning around, running backward for a few steps to check my progress, grinning, his white shirt glowing almost as much as everything else in the forest. I leap over a fallen fern and feel the upward slope, amazed that he remembers the way to the canyon, to my little room at the top. In the dark. The cold air burns my lungs, and I am gasping when I get there.
“Knew you couldn’t catch me,” Gray says.
He’s out of breath, too, splashing water on his face, which I can only tell from hearing and the dim clue of his white shirt. It’s dark here, a shadowy dark that the glowworm light can’t quite penetrate. The running of the stream and roar of the waterfall sound louder for it. I go to the opening and look out, and see that the canyon is lit, not like the strands we ran beneath, but like a city, alive with movement from the bugs or the wind, I don’t know which. Pale moths flutter their wings, and there’s mist on the pool below, mixing with the water spray. The moons will come soon.
“Come here, Dyer’s daughter.”
Gray is still beside the stream, by the rock where he sat and told me he’d been Lost. My white cloth must be glowing like his shirt because he has no trouble seeing me come. He offers me the bottle. I can’t believe he ran all the way up here with it in his hand. I tip it up, hand it back, and he sets it beside the rock. He says beneath his breath, “Let’s go swimming.”
My breath catches, then comes faster. He wants me to jump the waterfall with him. In the dark. And I’m going to do it.
I kick off my sandals. Gray reaches down, still looking at me, and pushes his own sandals off his feet. Then he puts his hands on the skin of my waist, feeling until he finds the tether that holds my book, and begins working at the knot. I let him, running my hands over his chest until I find the buckle of his bookstrap. Even the silence is bigger in the dark. Just water and breath.
His book comes free first, and I hold it until mine is loose. We set them on the rock, and Gray pulls his shirt over his head, throws it on top of them. I start to take off the glass-and-metal necklace, but he stops my hand.
“Wear it,” he says, and bends my head forward, moves my mass of hair to tie it up shorter, tighter. I put my forehead on his chest, like I did in the alley, feel his heart beating, this time not through cloth but through the warmth of his skin. He is so still. And there is only now, I think. I lift my head, lift a hand to his bare chest, slide it up, up to the softer skin of his neck, to his jaw, almost smooth because he’s shaved, and back to where his hair grows. I am aching for him.
“Are you ready to jump?”
I nod. He takes my other hand in his.
“Tell me you’re ready.”
I raise my eyes to his. “I’m ready to jump.”
“We’re going to run and clear the falls.”
“Yes.”
“Run hard.”
I turn and face the opening into the canyon. Gray still has my hand. I know we can’t miss the pool. I know there are no rocks, but my heart is a thing I can feel trying to push its way out of my chest. Because I don’t have my book. Gray doesn’t have his book. And we are going to fly. Through the dark. I turn to look at him, and he is looking at me. I think the corner of his mouth is lifting.
The Forgetting Page 15
