“Your father was the impulsive one. Emotional, passionate. The two of them complemented one another quite well.”
“I don’t consider myself any of those things,” I reply. “Emotional or passionate.”
Theia smiles at me, a degree or two away from affectionate. “I cannot think of anything more foolishly emotional than committing treason for love. That is your father in you. I hoped if you inherited his depthless devotion, I could steer it toward our cause. But love is…a most unpredictable variable.”
“My devotion to the cause never wavered.” My whole life consisted of the Order, the war, the rebellion. I huffed it like aerosol in a paper bag, addicted to the recycled high. But then…Lucy came to me like a gasp of fresh air. “The ideals we believe—the ideals you instilled in me—required I keep her alive. Shewasour ideals. It was you who felt friction. You didn’t give me a choice.”
“I gave you a choice,” Theia says, taking on a sharp tone. “Your affection for her I did not mind. Your love for her, if that is truly what it was, I could have accepted. However, you were going to let a tyrannical, ruthless leader live because you had gone soft for his daughter. That is what I found unacceptable. If you found her so beguiling as to commit this level of treason, what else would you have done for her?”
Anything and everything is the answer, but I do not respond as such. “May I ask one more question?”
“You may.”
“When did you know?”
It’s the one thing I haven’t been able to figure out. I was so careful. I told no one, not even Mason. The plan was tight right up until Theia insisted I take Lucy with me on the missions. Surely, I thought, she would want to keep an eye on the most valuable prisoner the Order ever had. Lucy would’ve lived in the cells beneath HQ—not comfortable, but alive and safe. I hoped, over time, Theia might see what I saw and want to keep Lucy around.
“I had my suspicions when you returned from the ball.” She smirks, but it lacks venom. It’s rather sad. “You’d never failed a mission before.”
I can’t help the inner wince at the mention of a failure. “Then why did you send us off together?”
“Evidence to support intuition.” Theia shrugs. “I did not think it would come to this. As I said, love is a most unpredictable variable.”
She sighs, almost like she gets it, but I know she does not. Theia’s love, if it can be called that, is conditional and thorny. It must prove itself, it must boast. But I’ve seen a love that has no bounds, no conditions, no limit.
Theia gestures to the door. “I must take my leave. Mason will debrief you. Good luck.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
The door is closed and locked behind her. I will be deployed soon. My heart thumps faster. Flashes of Detroit, of the whole MidCountry, flick through my brain faster than I can see them. The smoke, the noise, the stench of death. The screams of the hurt and the lifeless stares of the fallen.
No, I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration.
I’m scared anyway. So, I curl in my corner, pull one of her books into my lap, and breathe. Her memory brings me comfort and carries me into slumber. I wish she was here. I wish she was anywhere.
But she’s not. Because I killed her.
20
Putting on a bra is a nightmare. The elastic rubs and burns my fresh wounds. Despite the pain I soldier on, and tuck myself into standard-issue pants and a crisp shirt. Uniforms have improved greatly. The material is higher quality than before the victory, perhaps a sturdier cotton from the Southeast, in an olive-green camouflage pattern with patches sewn on. I’ve seen Private Frank and both Perezes in these uniforms, but never close enough to inspect the new hardware. I’m not sure what many of these mean—colored patches and award buttons—but where a last name would be over the breast pocket, mine readsEOSin thick black thread.
My watch waits for me on the dresser between overturned frames. With a deep breath, I secure the metal around the bruising on my wrist and hear the familiar beeping of the power turning on.
The uniform fits me well, but loose. I’m sure my measurements have decreased since the last time I was fitted for clothes. With a wince, I pull my hair up into a more practical bun, and secure it with provided hair ties. My brain uncontrollably somersaults into a memory from themasquerade, and the reflection before me warps into myself in a suit. After climbing through the window, careful to avoid breaking the fragile but stupidly convenient trellis, I had to quickly get downstairs before someone came to check on Lucy.
However, I remember being stricken midway through the room. I was in her room. I’d been in her room before, the time she was sleeping and I nearly threw up from the sudden onset of nerves, and a few other times to scope out the interior. But this time was different. I stopped to look at myself in the mirror, overcome with rare vanity. A bit of hair had come loose from the bun I’d so painstakingly constructed, but there was no time to fix it. I pulled the mask from my breast pocket and secured it around my head. What if she refused my dance? What if she didn’t like me?
Somehow, she did like me. She was flirtatious and forward, and every part of me wanted to abandon that dance floor and abscond to her bedroom. I was so enraptured by her I nearly missed the encroaching Clandestine Officers.
And then she didn’t like me as much, at least not outwardly, which was, of course, understandable. But I still liked her. I liked her a lot, a feeling which grew exponentially as we spent more time together. It became more difficult to hide. I’m not good at that sort of deception; I have a hard time understanding my feelings anyway, and hiding them requires more emotional intelligence than I possess.
And then she loved me. Me, a murderer. Me, an outcast with no last name and nothing to offer. She loved me. She kissed me. She saved my life.
A knock interrupts my thoughts, and Mason enters. He walks gingerly, as if he knows he’s stepping on hallowed ground. Once the door is closed, he takes two giant strides and hugs me around my shoulders with one arm. The tips of my whip scars sting, but the comfort of his embrace nullifies any hurt. I sink into him—it’s less a hug and more being held. Lucy unlocked this in me, the want to be held. My aversion to hugs lies in my instinct not to let anyone get close, but Mason’s about as close as one can get. My brother, not by water of the womb, but the blood of the covenant.
“I missed you, T.” Before he releases me, he leans into my ear to whisper softly, “Beehive.”
As children, Mason, Hunter, and I exchanged a lot of code talk and secret passwords. “Beehive” is our “it isn’t safe to talk here” code word, based on Hunter’s idea that you would not want to open your mouth in a beehive. Silly, but useful.
