“Whoa, what just happened?” Kenji says, his face falling. “I was just joking. I just wanted to see what she’d say.”
“We have to go,” I say.
“What? Now?”
“Yes.”
“No dumplings?”
“No dumplings.” I meet his eyes. “We’ll have to stop by the armory on our way.”
Kenji changes—hardens—in an instant. “Where are we headed?”
“Evidence of enemy transport has been identified at the docks.”
30
Rosabelle
“To be clear, when I said you should say something to the group, I meant, like, you could sayhello,” James says, cutting into the stack of waffles before him. “What you said was good, too—I mean, no, actually, it was horrible—but, you know, helpful—Hey, is this okay?” He looks up at me, the knife and fork paused in his hands. “Or should I make the pieces smaller?”
I stare at the plate.
My plate.
Syrup drips steadily down the jutting edges of the neatly severed waffle stack, powdered sugar dusting the rim of the dish, melting in the heat of so much crispy batter. There’s a little bowl of mixed berries on the side, and I stare at them a moment.
I can’t believe they’re real.
I can’t believe this isn’t some kind of trap, that I could theoretically reach out and put one in my mouth without being forced to kill someone first.
My head is pounding.
I’m dangerously depleted. My heart is a mess. James insisted on sitting right next to me and I’ve come unraveled ever since. I kept my coat on if only to serve as a bufferbetween our bodies, but occasionally his thigh brushes against mine and each time this happens I think I might climb out of my own skin. The world around me is all knives and sharp focus; my body bristles with aching awareness; and all my carefully managed pain has been torn from its trappings, demanding attention. I don’t know how to explain to James that in order to help me he has to get away from me.
I’ve lost all control.
My right arm was trembling so badly by the time our food arrived that I couldn’t hold my knife. I kept thinking of Clara, my mind at war with my heart, guilt spearing me even as I tried to rationalize my situation. I know I need to be strong enough to get back to the island, to manage myself and my emotions. I need to be strong enough to save Clara.
To kill Klaus.
I told myself over and over that eating all this food while Clara starves will help me help her—but my arm shook so hard the silverware kept clattering against the plate as I tried to cut a piece of waffle. The more this upset me, the worse it got. The knife dropped out of my hand so many times I wanted to scream. I kept hearing her voice—
Rosa.Are you dead?
I couldn’t calm myself down.
I don’t know, I’d said to her.Are you?
I’d heard the unspoken answers in her silence, all her pain implicit. It took her so long to respond.
No, she’d said.
I clench my hands in my lap now, twisting the soft materialof the jacket in my fists, but this only chases the shudder higher up my body. I feel sick with sensation, my heart pinwheeling in my chest. I’m too vulnerable. I’m distracted by this exhaustive ache in my body, this low-grade fever that spikes every time James so much as looks in my direction.
The diner is so loud. These people are so loud. This world is so loud—
The honeyed scents and strangle of sounds are dizzying. So many people talking, and talking over one another. The ring of a bell. The slam of a door. Clara would love it here. Bursts of laughter. Muted shouts. A child begins to cry and James flinches at the sound, his body seizing. Clara would love the painted mural on the wall. A chair falls over. The child stops crying. A blur of motion. Another burst of laughter. James shifts in his seat, tensing. Releasing. The ring of a bell. The slam of a door. James glances at me.
