I look up at him, my heart thudding against my ribs.
An honest answer to his question would cost me too much. I don’t want their world to suffer, but neither do I want to exchange death for a life rotting in captivity, being endlessly tortured for information only to lose what matters to me anyway. They’d siphon off my marrow, draining me for intel while I fester—for what?
A half-life of a half-life?
These people are not capable of comprehending my world. Even a theoretical understanding of the sophisticated surveillance of the Ark wouldn’t be enough; if I were shackled to a team of their soldiers on a mission to take out Klaus, they’d get us all killed in seconds. They’re too loud, too weak; too unfamiliar with the terrors of a true surveillance state. And they’d never prioritize saving Clara. They wouldn’t care about Clara—
“Tell me something, Rosabelle Wolff.”
I draw breath at the sound of Warner’s voice, staring up into his disorienting eyes as a shaft of light cuts across his face.
It’s hard to believe this man is married.
It’s hard to believe he’d be interested in the institution; that he might’ve experienced enough delicate emotion to entertain the idea of a wife. I can’t imagine him being gentle; he seems incapable of warmth. It’s only his close relationshipwith James that gives me pause about his character. The fact that he shot his own brother in the leg notwithstanding, James doesn’t seem afraid of him at all.
I can’t figure out what that means.
“You spent nearly ten days in prison,” Warner says, taking another step closer to me. “Ten days, and you never said a word. You didn’t take one audible breath.”
Looking into his eyes feels a little like catching fire.
“Imagine my surprise to discover your complete refusal to speak—when for weeks prior to your incarceration you were engaged in regular conversation with my brother.”
My heart beats harder.
“Tonight, I learn you’re once again capable of forming complete sentences.” He hesitates. Studies me. “What is it about James that makes you so talkative?”
“Bro, this isn’t—” James tries to say.
Warner holds up a hand, his eyes on me. “Did you really decide to confide more in him during the bloodshed and chaos of the past several hours than you might’ve shared with your own father in over a week?”
Your own father.
I keep my eyes on the ground.
Rosa, it’s not what you think—
I didn’t abandon you, they’d left me for dead— These people saved my life—
Rosa— Look at me—
No.
I stay where I am despite my every instinct to run; if Ishift even an inch my legs will give out from under me.
“Did you really tell him,” Warner goes on, “that we have seven weeks before some new hell befalls our world?”
Rosa, is your mother still alive?
Rosa, does Clara remember me?
No—
NO.
“Rosabelle,” James says quietly. “Please.”
I turn my head as a first leaf might turn toward the sun, the tender shoot of life inside me responding instinctively to the resonance of his voice, recognizing light.
