by L. J. Hatton
“Rein it in,” Greyor whispered. “Make it stop before it spreads farther than the prison and the wrong people see it.”
Why? I wondered. All those nightmares, all those monsters. My father had come so quickly when I cried in the night—he must have known the only monster was me. So why rein it in, when I could let it run wild and destroy everything?
“Penn, stop!” Greyor ordered.
“No! I’ll shake this place apart!” I barely felt the burn in my wrists over the hateful fire burning the rest of me. The ringing in my ears became the most glorious song I’d ever heard. It was the sound of the Celestine rejoicing as she was set completely free.
BRING THE RAIN declared all of those signs and posters nailed up in every hall. I could do that. I could fill the sky with dark clouds and burning debris. I could rattle the clouds with a sound more terrible than thunder, and make the Center rain down on the Earth below.
“She’s alive, Penn,” Greyor pleaded. “It’s the collar. You’re alive and so are your sisters. If you do this, it won’t be the Commission that killed them, it will be you!”
Greyor’s warning had the same effect my father’s voice did when I was little. The doors along the corridor clicked shut, and the lights evened out. The Celestine’s song fell silent.
“You’re okay,” Greyor said as I wept against his arms. I could see his face reflected beside mine in Evie’s window. “I should have prepared you, but there were no words sufficient for this.”
“Is she in pain?” I asked.
“I hope not.”
“Why did you bring me down here?” I turned around, wiping my eyes. “I don’t want to see this.”
“Birch told me what happened with Arsenic in the greenhouse—it can’t happen again. And what you just did, that can’t happen, either. If you don’t care about pain or death brought on your own head, they’ll choose another target, and they will show no mercy until you break or they’re out of alternatives.”
“Would they release her if I gave up? If I went to Warden Nye and said I’d do or be whatever he wanted, then maybe—”
“No. I simply want you to understand—Nieva didn’t. There’s no middle ground, no compromise. You either lose your will to theirs, or you fight them any way you can, knowing you may lose everything anyway. You’re strong enough to fight. If you didn’t believe that before, surely you have to, now.”
“Is that what you do?”
“I do what I have to,” he said, cryptically. “Despite what you may think of me, I did try to warn her. She wouldn’t listen.”
“You should’ve gone to Anise. She would have.”
When I followed Greyor out of the prison, I didn’t glance at the guards, but kept my eyes on my feet, letting Greyor decide the route we’d take. I didn’t have to feign the somber air that had replaced my earlier hopes.
CHAPTER 31
Back in my cell, someone had cleared the tea trolley and replaced it with a tray of magazines and books. The paper kind. They’d trimmed back the greenery on the ceiling, leaving everything else the way Birch created it—a pointed reminder that they intended to keep an eye on me through that red light above my head. A blue dress, identical to my red one, was hanging on the back of my door with a note reminding me that civilized people didn’t wear the same clothes every day. I thought of burning the note, and the dress along with it, but then I thought of Greyor’s words about doing unpleasant things for a better payoff in the end. Changing clothes was a small compromise; all it cost me was my pride.
Xerxes had hit a training routine; he kept running at the wall, jumping higher and higher with each pass, knocking flowers off their stems. I’m sure my ceiling-watcher thought he’d slipped a cog.
How did Birch stand this? I knew he thought monotony was “better than” his previous life, but that was a measurement too easily moved. If “better than pain and torture” was the only guideline for an acceptable existence, there wasn’t much hope.
I flopped onto my couch and reached for the first book off the stack beside it. It was nothing special, and didn’t even have a dust cover. It looked and smelled like someone had taken it from a high school library. I flipped the pages with my thumb until a sheet of paper fell out, but all it said was “A more appropriate pastime than pitching fits.”
I hurled the book straight up at the blinking red light, but missed by two feet. The lights in my room flared. Metal devices groaned through the walls with my frustrations, creating another quandary. All it took was allowing my thoughts to stray back to Evie’s broken-doll appearance in her cell, or a flash of Winnie’s face and the deformity created by her rebreather, and an invisible vise clamped down on my wrists.
I focused on the books and let the sound of Vesper’s laugh shift my thoughts into more pleasant territory. I thought of her owls looping through the air and breathed out my irritation in one slow, controlled stream. The pages rustled.
It was a start.
I took another breath, trying to maintain that rustling sound in my ears. This time, when I breathed out, a warm breeze moved leaves all over my room.
Better, but I needed something more spectacular. I needed wings.
I stared at the stack of books to get the pages moving, then imagined air slipping between them, flat as a sheet of paper. The book on top wiggled. I concentrated harder, picturing Vesper’s feet walking up a flight of stairs. She could support her full weight with a thought; I should at least be able to manage a book.
The wiggle became a wobble, and then a jerk. One corner tipped up, and the cover flew open.
I stood up and leaned closer . . .
Knock. Knock. Knock.
That topmost book exploded into dust, creating a paper snowstorm in my room. Xerxes was unimpressed. He crossed his wings over his head to keep the flakes off while I went to the door.
“So close,” I said, slinging my hand to curb the sting brought on by the thought of what I’d like to do to whoever had interrupted me.
I set my hand on the knob, suddenly terrified of the possibility that someone might be able to peek in on me the same way I had with Winnie and Evie. The red light was bad enough; having someone gawk at me like a chimpanzee at the zoo was worse. Was I destined to be a stop on some sightseeing tour for the warden’s guests? The star in a real sideshow?
“I don’t want to go back to the greenhouse, Birch,” I said when I found he was the one at my door.
Greyor was behind him, dour and guarded. There was something familiar in his silence. The tones of brown that made up his hair and skin and eyes were set in a combination I’d seen before, like seeing a stranger walk in wearing a friend’s clothes. It was the same and different all at once. Mainly it was his eyes. The way they were shaped, and how the creases at the corners held all the words he wasn’t speaking. He looked away, and I realized I’d been staring.
“We’ve been asked to supper,” Birch said, managing to make it sound like another apology. He definitely noticed the paper snow sifting out of the air, but didn’t mention it.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“Warden Nye won’t like it if you don’t come.”
“Promise me he’ll choke on a chicken bone, and I’ll do the carving and fold the napkins.”
“Penelope, please—it’s important. All of the guests are here. They want to see you, and he can’t say no. Neither can we.”
His jeans and Commission-silver jacket had been replaced with finer things: a crisp blue shirt to match the patches of the men who answered to Warden Nye, and a tie with the Commission’s ankh embroidered on it. It also matched the dress that I’d been given.
I wanted to tell Birch that the idea of sitting at a table anywhere near Warden Nye tied my digestive tract in so many knots I might never eat again. But as much as I loathed the idea of coming when called, enduring a meal meant fuel every bit as much as cho
king down Klok’s charred fish-on-a-stick. Fuel now meant strength later.
I could do this. It was just another part to play. All I had to do was choose a voice, and I could be Nye’s wind-up toy for the night.
I thought of that charred fish, remembered the smell and texture, and focused on the few bits of white still floating in my room. Each one sparked with a tiny fire and turned to ash.
“On with the show.”
Twenty people sat in a dining room at a single table; Birch and I were directed to the far end. A lone tank of water matching the ones in the hall had been installed against the wall. Greyor became my shadow, playing the part demanded of him.
There were men and women, each in the dress uniform of a Commission official, each wearing their own patch and their own colors. No one looked directly at anyone else, but kept their heads at an upward tilt, so conversation required looking down. Other than that, it looked more like a dinner party at some fancy restaurant than a clandestine meeting being held miles above the Earth’s surface. And I was the only one wearing a dress. I really, really missed my ringmaster’s pants, ugly stripes and all.
Warden Nye’s seat was at the head of the table, where my father had sat when we ate on the train, but he was up and walking around the room. The fake Iva Roma stood at attention behind his chair.
Birch reached for a water pitcher on the table to fill my glass.
“I can serve myself,” I snapped, taking it from him.
He shrank in a bit.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m used to doing things for myself.”
It was so difficult to remember he was innocent in all of this. He spoke and moved like one of them, but he was a prisoner, too.
“Did you dress them up for our benefit? Or is this how you usually keep house?” A man with a silver moustache and tightly trimmed beard spoke from a seat at the center of the table. He, like the other guests, had someone behind him in the position Iva held with Warden Nye.
“Ignore them,” Birch said when I started to respond.
“Nye’s just showing off his new acquisition,” one of the female wardens offered.
“Oh, will she be showing off?” Warden Arcineaux asked snidely. “I do love a trick.”
“I’ll juggle knives if you want to volunteer as target,” I said. “I’ll even tell your future, if you don’t mind bad news.”
The woman down the table choked on her drink trying not to laugh.
“Manners, pet.” Warden Nye pressed me down into my seat by the shoulders, half-warning and half-amused. “Arcineaux, play with your own toys.”
I clenched my fingers around the arms of my chair.
“Isn’t it customary to gift a guest the thing he admires most about your home?” Arcineaux asked.
“Keep clear of what’s mine, or you will be admiring my home from its exterior, on your way down.”
“You can’t blame us for being the tiniest bit jealous. Your timing was impeccable,” the silver-haired man said, smiling, though there was nothing joyous about his expression, or friendly in his voice.
“Near choreographed,” Arcineaux added.
There was a storm brewing between the three of them, so close I could almost hear the crack of thunder. The moment turned so intense and concentrated in the triangle that the whole table jumped when another woman yelped, twisting in her seat.
“Is there a leak?” she asked, wiping at her forehead. Another drop of water splattered against her plate. She scooted her chair sideways.
Warden Nye leaned toward Iva. “Get a technician to adjust the fire control systems.”
She nodded and stalked out.
Warden Arcineaux was laughing, Nye was scowling, and the gray-haired man was surveying everything, as though a few drips had settled their argument.
“I think we’ve delayed dinner long enough,” Warden Nye said. He reached over me and removed my dinner knife, then slipped it into his pocket. “Can’t have you making good on the threat to throw this, can I?” He turned to Greyor. “No knives at her seat, or the boy’s. He’s housebroken; I’d hate to see you ruin him,” he told me.
Nye’s meaning was clear. He wasn’t amused by my tricks. And my actions had consequences for Birch, too. Greyor reached down and took Birch’s knife.
“And how are we supposed to cut our food?” I asked.
Half a chicken sat on my plate with roast potatoes and asparagus.
“I thought you traveling sort just dug in with your fingers and teeth,” Arcineaux said. The others at the table snickered.
I twisted my napkin in my hands beneath the table, grinding my teeth when the burn from the restriction bands hit my wrists.
Even so, the chandeliers rattled.
All of the laughter and muted gossip stopped. Attention shifted from me to the shaking crystals that hung from the lights. Birch’s hand slipped around mine in my lap.
Warden Nye discreetly pulled my hair as he left my seat. He raised his other hand, flicking two fingers.
“Check the stabilization system,” he hissed.
Another guard hurried out.
“Two issues in one day,” the silver-haired man tsked as he cut his food. “Not the best impression, under the circumstances. I’m tempted to change my vote.”
“Trouble certainly does have a way of piling on when you least need it,” added a bald man who looked more like a serpent than Nagendra ever could.
“Maybe it was a bird flying into the engines,” I suggested, stealing the smirk off his face. If I ever made it to another computer, I was going after the personnel files. I didn’t like not knowing my enemy.
Birch’s grip changed, allowing his thumb to graze the back of my hand.
Warden Nye cleared his throat and plucked a wineglass off the table.
“Back on task, if you please,” he said, and dipped the glass into the water tank. The others raised their glasses in response. “Today we stand looking down from the shoulders of those who came before, and they would be proud. Soon, the rain will fall.”
He poured the water back into the tank.
“Bring the rain,” the rest of the table chanted.
“What’s that mean?” I asked Birch. He looked away to his dinner, smashing his asparagus to paste with his spoon.
“Bring the rain,” Warden Nye said.
“Bring the rain,” the others repeated, louder.
“Seriously, what’s it mean?”
Birch mashed his potatoes.
“Bring the rain!”
Every repetition made those three words more chilling, like this was some dark litany in a sanctuary very unlike the one in that old stone church.
In the back of my mind churned Evie’s words from before our final show: You are Celestine, and they cannot hurt you. I wanted to prove the point, but I wasn’t sure who needed the reminder most.
I pushed a little harder, biting my tongue and squeezing Birch’s hand. It felt like a hot blade had sliced through the bones in my wrist. My reward was every glass shattering in time. Water and wine flew out, flooding over the sides of the table and staining the white cloth the color of blood. The tank cracked, but its walls were thick enough to hold.
The officials’ attention snapped back to me, their jaws tight and twitching as they leapt up.
“Must have been a really big bird,” I said.
If I’d had a glass in my hand, I would have tipped it at them, but I made do with tearing the leg off my dinner and taking a bite.
“Not as fresh as what you catch on the run, but it’ll do.”
“Get her out of here,” Warden Nye ordered.
I was still chewing when Greyor hoisted me out of my seat.
CHAPTER 32
“Are you actually trying to get us killed?” Greyor growled beside my ear. “Because I honestly can’t tell.”
>
He dragged me from the dining hall so quickly and so roughly that my feet caught in the hem of my dress.
“You’re the one who told me to fight,” I argued.
“Only because I made the mistake of thinking there’s more than air between your ears.”
The people we passed, guards and workmen alike, moved out of our way. Each face held a mixture of awe for Greyor’s temper and fear for what they thought I might do in retaliation.
“You’re not the first to overpower the restriction bands, Penn, but you’re the only one stupid enough to show off in front of a room full of wardens and commissioners.”
“But you heard them—”
“They were baiting you—Arcineaux is trying to prove that Nye isn’t worthy of command here by showing he can’t control one girl, much less a full roster. You embarrassed Nye.”
We’d reached the doors to the Aerie lift, and Greyor still didn’t release my arm.
“Why should I care?” I asked.
“Because whoever gets the Center gets you. You don’t want it to be Arsenic and the men who stand behind him. They’d do worse than lock you in a room with ticking clocks and too much air conditioning.”
The etched glass doors split, allowing us into the Aerie.
“If she ever regains use of her tongue, ask your friend what her life was like with Arsenic directing it.”
“Winnie was Arcineaux’s prisoner?”
“More like his crowning achievement. Ask her how she managed to escape and take half the girls’ dorm with her. She cost Arcineaux his first post with that escape, and you cost him this one with your performance at the Ground Center. He wants it back.”
If Winnie had been a part of the girls’ escape that Birch spoke of, then they were in the same center. He was there when the horrors Winnie never spoke of were inflicted upon her. Birch was so obviously terrified of Arcineaux . . . Was that the source of his scars?
