“Yes,” she replied hoarsely, marveling again at the amazing speed at which news travelled around the Belly.
“You know your way back to the hospital wing?”
“I think so.”
Evie stuck out a hand for her to take. Ronja gazed at it for a moment, then grasped it firmly. The black-haired girl tugged her to her feet, anchoring her as she swayed.
“You good?” Evie asked, slowly withdrawing her support.
“Yeah,” Ronja lied, blinking rapidly.
Evie beamed, then reached up and pressed two fingers to Ronja’s brow. This time, Ronja did not flinch away from the touch, but sank into it.
“May your song guide you home,” Evie said brightly.
Ronja found herself bobbing her head again, unsure how else to react. Was she supposed to reciprocate? To offer her thanks?
“I gotta go,” Evie said, backing away before Ronja could determine the appropriate response. “Boss’ll kill me if I’m late again.”
“Okay. Um, thank you.”
Evie raised her hand in farewell, flashing her dazzling smile, then dashed off down the curling road.
Ronja stood static for a time, attempting to gather her bearings. Her ring of gapers had disappeared, but she still felt like she was being watched. She looked around sheepishly and found a scrawny boy with large, inquisitive eyes regarding her. The boy blinked, cocked his head, as if to ask her what she had been doing rolling around on the floor.
Ronja offered him a feeble smile. For a moment his face was grave, then a sudden grin split his mask. Ronja did not have time to return it, because he was already gone, darting between the legs of adults with all the agility of an alley cat.
21: Hard From the Past
Once Ronja shook herself free from her flashbacks, she made her way back to her room and crawled under the covers. She tucked the sheets up over her head and curled her legs into her chest. Her cheeks still burned with embarrassment. Her head hummed with the remnants of those brutal memories, which had descended on her with the force and swiftness of a hurricane and now lingered like a storm’s aftermath. Her panic was gone, but she was left utterly drained.
Ronja fell asleep with her forehead pressed to her knees. No sound or nightmare could puncture her shell of exhaustion.
Hours later, Roark was forced to shake her shoulders to rouse her. “Time to wake up, love,” he said with a final jostle.
Ronja blinked lethargically. Her sheets were in a bundle around her legs. Roark stood over her, smiling widely and clutching a package wrapped in brown paper. The girl raised herself up on her elbows with a wince. She had managed to bruise her spine when she collapsed.
“That’s not my ear, is it?” she asked, nodding at the package.
Roark tossed the parcel at her lightly. It landed in her lap with a crinkle.
“What is it?” she asked, tugging at the strings gingerly.
“A gift.”
Ronja teased apart the wrappings and gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth in an overtly feminine fashion she had never thought herself capable of. In the discarded paper was a ludicrously fine emerald dress. She lifted it delicately, afraid it would disintegrate at her touch.
“Roark,” she hissed.
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
“How much was this?”
“That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”
“I . . . I can’t wear this.”
“You have to.”
“No, I mean, I can’t wear this.”
Roark narrowed his eyes.
“Why not?”
“It’d be pointless.”
Roark let out a low groan and clapped his hand to his brow.
“You girls and your standards of beauty.”
“This has nothing to do with my self-esteem,” Ronja snapped. “I’m just being realistic.”
“It’s a gift, love. Accept it with grace.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
Roark shook his head, but his usual, lopsided grin had returned.
“I’ll leave you to get ready, then. Iris will be in soon to show you where you can clean up.”
“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” she called after him as he disappeared through the drapes.
“Nope,” he shouted back with a ringing laugh.
Ronja sighed, then returned her attention to the dress in her lap. She handled it with the very tips of her fingers. She had never seen anything so beautiful, not even when she visited the middle ring as a child.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” a soft voice commented from curtained entry.
Ronja started, dropping the dress into its wrappings as if it had burned her. Iris stood in the gap, holding back the curtain with a freckled forearm. Her curls were drawn away from her face with a black ribbon, and she wore a navy dress that plunged low on her chest.
“It matches your eyes,” Iris continued, flitting into the room on the balls of her bare feet.
“Thanks,” Ronja replied.
“Trip feels bad, that’s why he got it for you.”
“Why on earth would he?” Ronja inquired dryly.
Iris smiled ruefully and perched on the edge of the bed. “You know, I was born down here,” Iris said, peering past the confines of the room. “I’ve never had a Singer. I don’t even know what The Music sounds like.”
“Lucky you,” Ronja said.
“Lucky you, too.”
Ronja arched a skeptical eyebrow. The surgeon twisted to look at her. The light from the oil lamp rebounded off her hazel irises.
“I’ve been told it’s hard at first,” the girl continued. “Withdrawal, the memories you didn’t know you had, the ones that are worse than you thought. But once you get past it, you’re really free.”
“I know,” Ronja said, more to herself than Iris. “I can think for myself, but that’s half the problem.”
Iris laughed and bobbed her head. “Aptly put,” she said. “Maybe it’s time you stopped thinking and started feeling.” The surgeon stood and clapped her hands to dispel the sudden melancholy. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Bring the dress.”
Ronja disentangled herself from the sheets and followed the spritely girl out of the alcove, the gown tucked carefully under her arm.
Iris wove expertly through the pathways. Voices droned like auto engines, smiles were exchanged like cash. The air was thick with anticipation, the fumes of celebratory cigarettes and home-cooked meals.
Iris led Ronja down the short flight of steps to the tracks that once shuttled steamers. Ronja felt queer stepping onto the rails. She could not shake the fear that a train might plow her over at any moment.
“This way,” Iris called over her shoulder, sensing she had stopped.
Ronja hurried after her guide as she made for the left-hand tunnel, which was obscured by a sheer yellow curtain. When she reached the mouth of the tube, Iris threw a smile over her shoulder and disappeared in a swish of vibrant cloth. Ronja stepped forward cautiously and brushed aside the silk.
Strings of electric lights drooped from the arching ceiling like sagging vines. Dim oil lamps dangled from hooks on the walls, accenting the glow. The air was humid and heavy with the scent of water and flowers. The noise of the Belly was inexplicably muted, though only a thin cloth separated the alcove from the platform.
In the middle of the wide-set tracks stood a massive stone bath. Three drenched plywood steps led up to the long, wide pool. Women of all ages lounged inside. Some sat on the lip scrubbing their feet. Others had submerged themselves completely, cleansing the oil and dirt from their hair. Candles, slumped from the heat of their wicks, stood on the rim of the tub, their wax pooling in the water.
“Welcome to our bathhouse,” Iris said, putting her hands on her hips.
“Wow,” was all Ronja could think to say.
“Clean ground water comes in through that tube over there,” Iris pointed at a wid
e-mouthed faucet spitting water into the tub. “And the dirty water goes out through a drain at the bottom.”
“Isn’t it freezing?” Ronja asked.
“Nah,” Iris said, grinning widely. “Some of our techis rigged up the pipes from the closest working station to bring in the steam.”
Ronja shook her head wonderingly. Some of her dirty curls escaped from her bun and fell in her eyes. She swept them away absentmindedly.
“I’ll stay with you, if you want,” Iris offered. “I’m nearly ready.”
“Thank you,” Ronja said gratefully. She shrugged off her thick jacket and folded it in the corner, then kicked off her boots and placed them atop the coat like paperweights.
She paused before slipping out of her sweater and trousers. Her body was pockmarked with scars. A discolored lump on her abdomen marked the afternoon she was stabbed with a pencil in the sixth grade. The puncture wound was never treated, and the lead was still burrowed beneath her flesh. A small white moon beneath her ribs recalled the night an Off had decided she had looked at him funny. She’d paid at the end of a stinger. A particularly nasty laceration at her left collarbone memorialized the day Layla had smashed a vodka bottle against the table and flew at her.
Ronja shuddered.
For better or worse, there was no Music to mute her memories now. If she thought too hard, they would consume her again.
Ronja took a deep breath and peeled off her woolen sweater and her pants while Iris pretended to examine her nails. She folded the articles atop her growing stack, then marched toward the bath with her chin raised.
No one stared or cringed in disgust as Ronja mounted the steps and slid into the pleasantly warm water. Relief ballooned in her chest. She sighed as the water crested her shoulders, her heavy hair fanning around her in a dark halo.
“Warm enough?” Iris asked, sitting on the side of the tub and dipping her feet into the steaming water.
In response, Ronja slipped beneath the surface, sending up a stream of air bubbles. Laughter broke out above the liquid seal.
Then the hum began, rippling around the catacomb like a breath of wind. Ronja surfaced, wiping the pearls from her eyelashes.
The collective thrum emanated from deep within the women’s chests. It rose and fell like a bird riding air currents. Ronja turned to Iris for answers, but the girl was part of the buzz. She winked, licked her lips, then spoke.
I once knew a boy with river-stone skin
Smooth from the water, hard from the past
With my marble heart we seemed akin
But when he looked at me I saw we could not last
I once knew a boy with eyes of coal
They glowed through his lids, bright as gold
I thought perhaps they would spark my soul
Still somehow his gaze was cold
Iris spun the words like threads, pitching her voice higher and lower as she followed some intangible instructions. The words were just like those Roark had spoken during her amputation. They seemed to writhe with emotion, taking on their own lives when they hit the air. The women continued to hum beneath Iris’s fluctuating voice.
Ronja listened, her jaw slack.
I once knew a boy with a birdsong tongue
He woke each morning with the rising sun
With keyboard teeth and a heart like a drum
But when winter came he was on the run
When winter came he was on the run
When winter came he was on the run
Iris fell quiet. She leaned back on her palms and let her eyes fall shut. Her feet dangled limply, their forms shivering in the water. A wave of applause flitted around the bath. Ronja joined in, though she did not understand exactly what she commending.
The chatter and bustle resumed, littered with the gentle shiftings of the pool.
“What . . . was that?” Ronja asked.
“That,” the girl replied, her eyes snapping open. “Was a song.”
22: War Paint
Despite Ronja’s repeated inquires, Iris refused to explain her bizarre performance. Swishing her feet back and forth, the redhead jabbered on about a string unrelated of subjects. Ronja did her best to follow, but it was difficult to hear over the ferocious hammering in her chest. She could not shake the lingering effect of . . . whatever it was that had just occurred.
The strange ritual filled her both with striking melancholy and inexplicable joy. The images that accompanied the words still played like a moving picture on the backs of her eyelids. The steady hum still rang in her ear each time she dipped her head below the water.
Iris told her that she needed to hurry, so Ronja washed her body quickly with the slab of homemade soap. When she was finished, Ronja stepped from the tub, shivering. Iris tossed her a towel and she wrapped it around her torso hastily. The heat drew out the color in her scars.
Reveling in the rare gift of total cleanliness, Ronja slipped into her boots and undergarments while Iris conversed with a group of women on the edge of the pool. Ronja slid into the dress Roark had given her. Iris drifted back to her to assist her with the buttons that scaled her spine.
A surge of unprecedented excitement swelled in her throat as she looked down at herself. The soap had softened her parched skin. It seemed to glow against the emerald dress, which accentuated what few curves she possessed. The rich fabric cascaded to her mid-thigh in uneven waves. It looked as though it had been purposefully shredded. The skirt shimmered dully when she moved. Her neckline did not plunge as Iris’s did, but revealed the crests of her freckled shoulders. Best of all, most of her blemishes were hidden.
“Looks like chiffon—do you like it?” Iris asked, snapping the last button into place at the base of her neck.
Ronja nodded, though she had no idea what chiffon was.
“Turn,” Iris demanded.
Ronja spun, the skirt billowing around her. She had never felt so feminine. It was not an unpleasant sensation.
“Gorgeous” Iris dubbed her, clapping her hands together.
“Thanks,” Ronja replied, itching her nose rather forcefully.
Iris jabbed a ringed finger at her face. “Makeup.”
Ronja blanched.
“It’s not what you think,” Iris promised. She grabbed Ronja by an exfoliated hand and dragged her deeper into the tunnel.
There were no homes in the dimly lit cavern, but there was plenty of furniture. Threadbare sofas, armchairs, and pillows huddled around small fires. Stacks of books as tall as Ronja lined the walls. Women and girls of all ages lounged among the stacks. Some read, others spoke in soft tones.
“Only girls are allowed back here,” Iris explained as they walked. She pointed left, where about a dozen stalls stood against the wall. Through the mesh of voices, Ronja heard the unmistakable sound of water whooshing down pipes. “We managed to set up indoor plumbing a few years ago, which is fantastic. You wouldn’t believe the smell when we had latrines.”
Ronja wrinkled her nose at the thought.
“The boys have the same thing set up on the other side,” Iris continued, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder.
“How did you get all this stuff down here?” Ronja asked, fixating on a particularly large couch that could not possibly fit in the service elevator Roark had pointed out.
“One of the tunnels used to be open, but Wilcox decided to have it closed off for obvious reasons. Although, it would be nice if we could get a new—”
“Who’s Wilcox?”
“The only guy who outranks Ito,” Iris explained, switching gears fluidly. “He and his team have infiltrated a whole bunch of Off stations around the city, so they’re gone most days. Wilcox has worked all the way up to sergeant in the core. He might even meet The Conductor some day soon. Good day for us, bad day for him. Here we are.”
The tunnel had come to an end in a hulking wall of rubble. The debris filled the tube from floor to ceiling. Scarcely a ribbon of air could snake through it. A makeshift salon had been erected in
the shadow of the impregnable barrier. Encircled by dripping candles and several powerful oil lamps was a sagging dresser, complete with a cracked mirror. Several girls roughly Ronja’s age were crowded around the mirror, applying color to their faces.
“Evie!” Iris called.
Ronja missed a step.
Evie whipped around and beamed at Iris. She was nearly unrecognizable. Her cropped hair was sleek, her skin free of grit. She wore a pair of billowing, rust-colored pants and a shirt that revealed her muscular stomach. What was most remarkable about her appearance, however, was her face. It was not smeared with makeup as Ronja had expected, but with bold streaks of black and white paint.
War paint.
Ronja jumped half a foot when Iris rushed past her and lunged at Evie with a reverberating whoop. She tackled the girl with such ferocity Ronja wondered if a fight was about to break out. Instead, Evie laughed and lifted the redhead in her arms. She spun Iris once, then planted a kiss firmly on her mouth.
Ronja blinked.
“Ronja, this is my genius girlfriend, Evie,” Iris said, slipping her hand around the taller girl’s waist. “She’s the best techi in the Belly, the only reason we have a stable stream of electricity around here.”
“Psh,” Evie waved her hand as if she were swatting a fly. “She’s exaggerating.”
Ronja eyed the techi anxiously, fumbling with her reply. She did not want Iris to know about her collapse; she would fuss incessantly.
“Nice to meet you, Ronja,” Evie said with a wink.
The movement had been so quick and subtle, Ronja wondered if she had imagined it. “You too,” she said, her voice cracking.
“You clean up nice, mate,” Evie complimented her with a grin.
“Your accent . . . ” Ronja had failed to notice the girl’s rhythmic inflection in the midst of her anxiety attack, but it was certainly not Revinian.
Vinyl: Book One of the Vinyl Trilogy Page 13
