by Devon Monk
“Do you know where my brother is?” I repeated.
“He is on the way here, and wishes that you remain with me until he can return home with you.”
That finally pierced through the numbness and haze of my thoughts: home. “I want Abraham and Foster to come home with us too.”
“Of course,” he said. “Once they are stable. Sallyo, will you see to that and also take Ms. Case to a room to rest, please?”
Sallyo nodded, then opened the door and held it for me. I took that as my cue to follow her, which I did.
I didn’t know how long it had taken us to fight our way to Slater, but with everything that had happened, it must be the middle of the night. That meant Quinten wouldn’t be here for several hours.
“Right in here,” Sallyo said, opening for me another door that was just a short way down the hall.
This room was clean, with a functionally equipped desk against one wall, a bed, and a door at the back, through which I could see the bathroom.
“Clean up if you want,” she said. “I can get you some food or clothes.”
“Don’t,” I said.
I walked into the room and straight toward the shower. I didn’t care how wet I got my bandages.
“Matilda,” she said. “I want you to know that I’m sorry I couldn’t be more honest about this.”
I stopped, then turned around. “You were a part of this, Sallyo. A part of people living. A part of people dying. I heard what you said to Abraham when I was hacking the locks. I know you saved Neds, and did so at risk to yourself. For that, I thank you. Right now, I do not want to talk about . . . any of this. Please go away and leave me alone.”
She narrowed her eyes, gauging me. Then she must have thought better of pushing the tired, beat-up galvanized woman who had just killed a man. She nodded once and left the room.
I walked into the bathroom, stripped. I stood beneath the sanitized spray of hot water and wept.
* * *
The next morning, while I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my feet and trying to figure out how I could sneak out to see Abraham, the door to my room opened in a rush.
Quinten looked like he had gotten even less sleep than I; his hair was an unruly mess, and dark circles ringed under his eyes. He ran across the room and threw his arms around me in a tight hug.
“Don’t ever,” he said. “Don’t ever leave me like that. Don’t ever throw yourself in harm’s way like that. Not without me. Never without me.”
I wrapped my arms around him, the warmth, the reality of him sinking in through the fog that still permeated my brain.
“I wasn’t good enough,” I said. “He shot them, Quinten. Abraham and Foster. I don’t know if they’re going to live.”
He squeezed me tight. “Hush. You were more than good enough. You were remarkable. You killed Slater.” He kissed me briefly on my temple, then stepped back, holding me at arm’s length. “I’m going now to check in on Abraham and Foster. It’s been arranged for me to use the medical facility here. You have fallen into the favor of both House Water and House Fire, Matilda, though I’ll be damned how you managed it.”
“I killed Slater.”
“I heard about that,” he said gently.
From the doorway, I heard Right Ned say, “Everyone heard about that.”
I glanced over at him. Right Ned was smiling, and Left Ned slowly shook his head. “Show-off,” he said.
“I want you to know,” Quinten said, “that I will make sure Abraham and Foster recover from this. If anyone can repair them, it’s me.”
“It’s Shelley dust.”
“I know. And since I am the man who made it, I am also the man with the antidote.” He searched my face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“A few scratches. I’m fine.” I stepped out of his touch and pulled on the jacket Abraham had given me, the weight of it a comfort even though my broken ribs, bullet holes, and wrist ached.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“With you. If there’s something I can do to help, stitching or something, I want to be there.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You are amazing, Matilda. For a little sister, that is.”
* * *
Hours later, I was there when Foster woke up. I was there when Abraham opened his eyes and said my name. I am not ashamed to admit I cried.
22
I’m not one to write my thoughts down. But a galvanized named Foster came to my office with a bottle of whiskey and told me he had a long story to tell. A story in which he and I are heroes who saved the world: he by believing in a little girl, me by never giving up on my friends, scattered across two times. I find him . . . immensely likable for a killer, or, as he insists, a hero. I think this is the beginning of a most delightful friendship.
—Custodian Welton, House Earth
It turned out Neds hadn’t been kidding when he said everyone knew I had killed Slater. And while killing the head of a House came with severe punishments, those were waived as soon as Hollis brought forth his proof that Slater had manufactured the One-five plague and killed many innocent people on his way to power.
It didn’t hurt that Quinten had developed and tested the cure for the plague.
The man who owned the cure owned the world.
I thought the world was in pretty good hands.
Hollis became our most outspoken spokesman and advocate, skillfully guiding the conversation to eventually address the barbaric treatment of galvanized over the years.
He championed peace between the Houses and the House Earth compounds, and even went so far as to expunge the galvanized criminal records.
For a price. House Water, House Fire, and House Earth were willing to give the galvanized a chance to rebuild their lives. But there was community service they would need to pay forward. The galvanized would be recognized as human and would be subject to the same human rights afforded those who aligned with a House.
I think the offer was enough of a surprise to the galvanized that they had all decided they needed a little time to reflect on what they actually wanted to do with their lives and how they wanted to integrate into modern society.
No matter the pretty words they used to frame it, the galvanized were officially free to make their own way in the world.
For the first time in any world.
Which was why I was baffled that they’d all decided that my piece of land was where they wanted to settle down and think things through.
Grandma, however, was thrilled with the company.
“I’ve left a pot of soup on the stove, Matilda,” she said as she picked up her knitting bag and a jar of sweet preserves. The early-morning light slanted soft gold through the windows of our kitchen, and when it caught her white hair, she practically glowed.
I sat at the table, drinking a cup of tea, enjoying the relative silence before anyone else was up. Grandma’s mind had snapped back into place after Foster destroyed the watch. She said it was like waking up from a three-hundred-year-old dream, only to find that she hadn’t been dreaming. And then she’d found herself in the timeway with Slater and me.
We’d tossed around some ideas as to why she had lived so long, and I’d shared with her Quinten Welton’s theory. When the Welton of this time heard about it—because apparently there wasn’t anything he didn’t hear about—he’d done some digging too. The best we could come up with: standing in the eye of the storm during the original Wings of Mercury experiment had slowly drained her memories away, even as it had extended her life.
Now that time was finally, firmly in place, her years were numbered.
Which she couldn’t be happier about. And at the rate she was going, she intended to fill the handful of years she had left with three hundred years’ worth of living.
“Soup should be done by sunset,” she sa
id. “Talk Clara into making those beautiful biscuits she does so well.”
“She’s off with Dotty, Vance, and Wila, arguing over who’s building the best cottage on our property.”
Grandma chuckled. “It’s nice to have folk around again, isn’t it?” she said. “Family. Now, I won’t be home until the day after tomorrow. You know how that Peter Gruben likes to talk. I think he’s sweet on me.”
I stood up and walked over to her. “Everyone’s sweet on you,” I said. “Are you sure you should be driving at your age?”
“Matilda,” she said, and looked around the kitchen floor, as if she’d dropped something. A tiny blue sheep galloped around the corner of the hall to the kitchen. She bent with a groan and picked it up, tucking it expertly under her arm. “At my age, I need all the doing and being and living I can get. I won’t live forever. Not anymore, my dear.”
She gave me a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll see you soon,” I said.
The sound of footsteps coming down the hall made her glance that way like a startled rabbit. She pressed one finger against her lips and giggled, then dashed out the door before anyone else showed up to get in the way of her little adventure.
I grinned and moved back to the table for my tea.
Abraham and Foster strolled into the room, moving even more smoothly than a few days ago. Their skin had finally lost the sickly greenish yellow pallor from the Shelley dust poisoning.
“Good morning,” Foster said as he stepped over to the stove and poured himself some tea.
“Morning,” I said.
Abraham wore a pair of denim jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt. He carried his boots in one hand. His hair was in need of a cut, swinging almost low enough on the left side to hide the spray of stitches we’d had to set from the corner of his eye to keep his face together.
The bullet had made a mess of that side of his face, but had gone straight through, along the outer edge of his skull.
As gunshots to the head went, he had been very, very lucky.
“You’re up early,” he said as he pulled the chair opposite of where I was standing away from the table and sat in it sideways, setting his boots on the floor.
“I’d get up at all sorts of hours for a little peace and quiet.”
“Before Benik stops by?” he asked, and shoved one foot into his boot, his hair swinging to hide the side of his face.
I wanted to draw it away from his eyes, wanted to touch him to remind myself for the millionth time that he was alive and well, but instead took a drink of my tea.
“Yes, before Oscar stops by and Welton—”
“Welton?” Foster asked happily. They’d developed a fast friendship that I figured would last a long lifetime.
“He’ll be here by noon,” I said, “Gloria too. This house is just a hub of activity lately.”
“You don’t like it?” Abraham shifted to fit his heel in his boot, and the neck of his shirt opened to reveal the edge of a bandage on the left side of his chest.
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. But a little alone time now and then isn’t such a bad thing. What’s with the bandage?”
Foster chuckled, and Abraham threw him a dirty look. “It’s nothing.”
“Strip, Vail. As your nurse, and landlord, I have rights to see this nothing.”
He sighed, settling his wide back against the chair and studying me. He shook his head. “I was going to wait to show you.”
“Oh?”
“It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Prove it. Show me some skin.”
He grinned, then shrugged out of his T-shirt with that slow ripple of muscles that made me lose my breath.
“It’s not healed yet, but since you insist.”
He peeled back the adhesive tape and removed the square of cotton.
A tattoo of a watch with keys for hands spread across his left pec muscle. Below it were the words In somnis veritas.
“Why?” I breathed.
I had never told him about the tattoo I had seen from the timeway I could not choose. And for a moment, I panicked, wondering if time was about to go wrong again, even though there hadn’t been ripples for months. Not since we broke that watch and killed Slater.
“You told me you had a dream,” he said. “That I was happy, that you were happy.” He shrugged and lowered his voice. “You told me in that dream, I loved you.” He was holding my gaze with his, asking me questions I had wanted to answer for months.
“In somnis veritas?” I asked.
“‘In dreams there is truth.’ Don’t you agree?”
I wanted that. I wanted him. We had both fought so hard for a chance at this crazy, happy life with these people we loved. We had fought to mend time, save the innocent, and change the world.
We had done all that and, in doing so, we had won so much more.
We had won a life. We had won a chance to live it together.
“I do,” I said. “Although I think reality is going to be better than any dream.”
“That’s a pretty bold claim, Ms. Case,” he said. He stood and walked around the table to me. “I believe it might take years for us to prove that theory.” His hand slid around my waist; the other tangled up in my hair, his thumb stroking the edge of my cheek.
I stood on my tiptoe and pressed against him so close, my lips were brushing his. “Luckily for us, we have all the time in the world.”
Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!
