Aligning
Becky
By the time Carrson strolls in, I’m buried behind stacks of paper that rise like skyscrapers, some of them taller than my head.
He leans over, careful not to disturb anything.
“How’s itgoing in here?”
I gesture to each stack as I name them. “Finances, politics, illegal activities, research and miscellaneous.” I point to the smallest pile. “Which includes a dry-cleaning receipt from 1952.”
Carrson’s eyebrows lift, and he hums, impressed.
“That receipt,” I add, tapping the pile, “is the only thing in this entire room with a date on it or anything identifying.”
His smile deepens, but he doesn’t say anything.
He moves behind me and drops into the rolling desk chair, then nudges himself closer with his feet. The wheels squeak softly as he pulls beside me.
I peer up at him. “Please tell me that you didn’t fabricate this entire thing as a ruse to get me to clean out your father’s office.”
He shrugs lightly, “The lawyers are always asking for stuff, and I don’t know where anything is.” His eyes sweep the room, eyebrows drawing down into a scowl. “I hate it in here,” he adds in a hushed voice, “Can’t stand the smell.”
I glare up at him, angry and maybe a little hurt that he used me like this.
His hands go up. “Hey,” he says, half-laughing, “you wanted to see. Little Missif there’s a locked door, I’m going to open itDawson.”
I cross my arms over my chest and huff.
“Besides,” he smiles, “I know you. You won’t stop until you see it all. I’d rather give it to you than have you take it and then have to fight with you over it.”
His lips tilt higher and he laughs, “Don’t get me wrong,” he adds. “I like fighting with you. How angry you get. How fiery.” He gazes down at me through his lashes. “But not over this.”
“Oh,” I say, a little breathless. “Okay.”
He tips the chair back, studying me. “Didn’t you learnanythinginteresting?”
My eyes drop back to the papers, to the neat stacks I’ve built around me, and for a moment I stare at them like they’re separate things. I’ve spent the last half hour breaking them apart, sorting, labeling, containing, convincing myself that if I could divide it cleanly enough, it would make sense.
But it doesn’t. Because it’s not separate. It’s one thing, everything, woven together.
This must be The Order, or at least the work they do. And if that’s true, they’re not only a part of the world. They’re directing it.
I hold up the paper with the rules on it. The part about bonding and mothers and fathers. “I don’t understand this.”
Carrson takes it from me and reads, his eyes moving rapidly over the text and his lip caught between his teeth. When he’s done, he hands it back. “That’s explaining how it works. The Order. It’s really all about children.”
“Children?” I echo.
He nods once, leaning back in the chair. "This lineage designation part is about how we're named—"
"Oh!" I interrupt. "I already figured that part out. All the boys have -son on their last name. I think to show who they belong to. Like who their father is."
Carrson nods, “You’re right. Good job.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “I’m not stupid.”
“No,” he says. “You’re really fucking smart, Becky.”
