This Shattered World
Page 52
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“I just need a place to sleep for a night,” I whisper. “And some answers. I know it’s dangerous. I’ll be gone by morning.”
“Come,” she says softly. “I’ll draw some water, and you can get clean. You can borrow some of my father’s clothes.” She speaks without a hitch in her voice, but despite the long years we’ve been separated by this fight we’ve inherited, I still know her well. I can see the pain drawn clear on her face. “You’ll stay here with me as long as you need to.”
My heart thuds hard, fear and relief warring with each other. “I can’t accept that, Sof. They find me here and they’ll arrest you too. How can you—”
“Because you tried to save her from this Fury,” she interrupts, voice quickening with the same fire I remember from when we were children. “Because if someone had tried to save my father, I would’ve kept them hidden until the soldiers came to drag me from this house.”
It takes four basins of frigid water before the dirty washcloth wrings out clear, but Sofia keeps bringing new buckets from the pump anyway. Though the shirt and trousers she finds for me are far too large, the feel of clean, dry fabric without a trace of blood or grime is bliss. But once I’m sitting on the floor in front of the tiny stove, my thoughts return; my eyes are on the cuffs of my trousers, which have been carefully mended over and over again. The stitches are neat and orderly; the thread is a faded butter-yellow.
When Sofia sits down, handing me a thick, doughy slice of what we locals call arán, I notice the thread mending her father’s cuffs matches the color of her tunic, which is a few inches shorter than it ought to be.
I close my eyes, the arán suddenly tasting like ash in my mouth. This isn’t her fight—and yet it is. It’s all of ours. I just wish it weren’t coming to this violent end.
“Don’t you need to eat too?” I ask once I’ve managed to swallow.
She shrugs, eyes on the glowing red coils of the stove. “Seems like all I do now is eat and sleep. People keep bringing me food. But I can’t eat it all—there’s only me now, after all.”
It’s always been just Sofia and her father, since we were children. Her mother left when the first rebellion started heating up, and as far as I know, Sofia hasn’t heard from her since. I glance at the table piled high with offerings from the town. “It was you, wasn’t it?” I lower my voice, though we’re alone. “The girl in the security footage, right before…right before.”
Her face tightens, eyes closing as she swallows hard, cheeks flushed. I want to take her hand, show her I feel this agony too, but the tension singing through her body keeps me still. “You know,” she whispers, “you’d think the worst part about this would be the looks I get. It wasn’t all soldiers who died in the explosion. People here lost family too. They all look at me like I should have known it was about to happen, or stopped it. But I don’t care.” Her voice thins and catches roughly. “I just miss my dad.”
Her grief catches at mine, resonating hollow in my chest. Loneliness shouldn’t be the worst of this; the thing that makes my heart hurt shouldn’t be how much I miss the trodaire I’ve only known for a few weeks. Because the Fury took her from me too. “There was nothing for you to know,” I murmur. “This never should have happened.”
She inhales sharply, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. “It wasn’t him, Flynn. I know they’ve got footage, I know they’re saying he had the detonator. But he wasn’t planning anything. He didn’t want any part in the fight. He’d been vague, tired, but I thought it was just the stress of his new job on the base. He’d never have done anything to risk my life, and even if somehow he was forced, I’d have seen it in him.” Her gaze is distant, replaying those last minutes. “I would have known.”
“I believe you, Sof.” My eyes fall on the bandages again.
“Well, if you believe me, you’re the only one who does.” She meets my eyes, the sharp edge of bitterness showing through. “The trodairí say the families always deny their loved ones are capable of violence.”
“This Fury—this thing we thought was a trodairí excuse—it’s real. I’ve seen it.” I force myself to take another bite of the arán. I’m ravenous, and yet each mouthful is a hard lump in my throat. “And if it touched your father too, then it’s getting worse.”
“I was the one who got him the job on the base.” She’s still, betraying nothing with her body language. “Taking samples, being in that cold water all day, it was making his arthritis so bad he could barely walk in the mornings. I talked the military supply officers into hiring him as a stocker.”
Even as a child, Sofia’s silver tongue could get us out of any scrape.
“If it weren’t for me,” she whispers, her hollow eyes fixed on the waders still standing by the door, “he wouldn’t have even been there.”
In the morning, I’m ripped from sleep by the clatter of hail on the roof, and I lurch up with a rush of adrenaline. Shabby prefab walls surround me, and for a wild moment I’m completely disoriented. Then it comes to me: I’m at Sofia’s, sleeping in her father’s old room.
And that sound isn’t hail. It’s distant gunfire.
I clamber from under the thin blanket, dazed, stumbling to my feet and hauling open the back door. The muddy, makeshift streets of the town are full of people rushing this way and that as civilians try to find cover. The gunfire’s echoing from beyond, out in the swamp. The military’s increased patrols must have found McBride and his men—or else McBride has drawn them into a trap. Tactics my sister invented. Tactics I helped hand down.
Whole platoons of soldiers run double-time toward the sounds of fighting. There’s no sign of Jubilee, but I’m not sure I’d be able to tell if she was among them. When they’re all wearing their helmets and their body armor and power packs for ammo, it’s impossible to even tell the men from the women. They all look alike.
A hand wraps around my arm and jerks me back. “They’ll see you,” hisses Sofia, face flushed with sleep and fear. She throws her father’s shirt at me, making me realize I’m still half naked, sleep dazed, then shoves me away from the back exit.
“Come,” she says softly. “I’ll draw some water, and you can get clean. You can borrow some of my father’s clothes.” She speaks without a hitch in her voice, but despite the long years we’ve been separated by this fight we’ve inherited, I still know her well. I can see the pain drawn clear on her face. “You’ll stay here with me as long as you need to.”
My heart thuds hard, fear and relief warring with each other. “I can’t accept that, Sof. They find me here and they’ll arrest you too. How can you—”
“Because you tried to save her from this Fury,” she interrupts, voice quickening with the same fire I remember from when we were children. “Because if someone had tried to save my father, I would’ve kept them hidden until the soldiers came to drag me from this house.”
It takes four basins of frigid water before the dirty washcloth wrings out clear, but Sofia keeps bringing new buckets from the pump anyway. Though the shirt and trousers she finds for me are far too large, the feel of clean, dry fabric without a trace of blood or grime is bliss. But once I’m sitting on the floor in front of the tiny stove, my thoughts return; my eyes are on the cuffs of my trousers, which have been carefully mended over and over again. The stitches are neat and orderly; the thread is a faded butter-yellow.
When Sofia sits down, handing me a thick, doughy slice of what we locals call arán, I notice the thread mending her father’s cuffs matches the color of her tunic, which is a few inches shorter than it ought to be.
I close my eyes, the arán suddenly tasting like ash in my mouth. This isn’t her fight—and yet it is. It’s all of ours. I just wish it weren’t coming to this violent end.
“Don’t you need to eat too?” I ask once I’ve managed to swallow.
She shrugs, eyes on the glowing red coils of the stove. “Seems like all I do now is eat and sleep. People keep bringing me food. But I can’t eat it all—there’s only me now, after all.”
It’s always been just Sofia and her father, since we were children. Her mother left when the first rebellion started heating up, and as far as I know, Sofia hasn’t heard from her since. I glance at the table piled high with offerings from the town. “It was you, wasn’t it?” I lower my voice, though we’re alone. “The girl in the security footage, right before…right before.”
Her face tightens, eyes closing as she swallows hard, cheeks flushed. I want to take her hand, show her I feel this agony too, but the tension singing through her body keeps me still. “You know,” she whispers, “you’d think the worst part about this would be the looks I get. It wasn’t all soldiers who died in the explosion. People here lost family too. They all look at me like I should have known it was about to happen, or stopped it. But I don’t care.” Her voice thins and catches roughly. “I just miss my dad.”
Her grief catches at mine, resonating hollow in my chest. Loneliness shouldn’t be the worst of this; the thing that makes my heart hurt shouldn’t be how much I miss the trodaire I’ve only known for a few weeks. Because the Fury took her from me too. “There was nothing for you to know,” I murmur. “This never should have happened.”
She inhales sharply, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. “It wasn’t him, Flynn. I know they’ve got footage, I know they’re saying he had the detonator. But he wasn’t planning anything. He didn’t want any part in the fight. He’d been vague, tired, but I thought it was just the stress of his new job on the base. He’d never have done anything to risk my life, and even if somehow he was forced, I’d have seen it in him.” Her gaze is distant, replaying those last minutes. “I would have known.”
“I believe you, Sof.” My eyes fall on the bandages again.
“Well, if you believe me, you’re the only one who does.” She meets my eyes, the sharp edge of bitterness showing through. “The trodairí say the families always deny their loved ones are capable of violence.”
“This Fury—this thing we thought was a trodairí excuse—it’s real. I’ve seen it.” I force myself to take another bite of the arán. I’m ravenous, and yet each mouthful is a hard lump in my throat. “And if it touched your father too, then it’s getting worse.”
“I was the one who got him the job on the base.” She’s still, betraying nothing with her body language. “Taking samples, being in that cold water all day, it was making his arthritis so bad he could barely walk in the mornings. I talked the military supply officers into hiring him as a stocker.”
Even as a child, Sofia’s silver tongue could get us out of any scrape.
“If it weren’t for me,” she whispers, her hollow eyes fixed on the waders still standing by the door, “he wouldn’t have even been there.”
In the morning, I’m ripped from sleep by the clatter of hail on the roof, and I lurch up with a rush of adrenaline. Shabby prefab walls surround me, and for a wild moment I’m completely disoriented. Then it comes to me: I’m at Sofia’s, sleeping in her father’s old room.
And that sound isn’t hail. It’s distant gunfire.
I clamber from under the thin blanket, dazed, stumbling to my feet and hauling open the back door. The muddy, makeshift streets of the town are full of people rushing this way and that as civilians try to find cover. The gunfire’s echoing from beyond, out in the swamp. The military’s increased patrols must have found McBride and his men—or else McBride has drawn them into a trap. Tactics my sister invented. Tactics I helped hand down.
Whole platoons of soldiers run double-time toward the sounds of fighting. There’s no sign of Jubilee, but I’m not sure I’d be able to tell if she was among them. When they’re all wearing their helmets and their body armor and power packs for ammo, it’s impossible to even tell the men from the women. They all look alike.
A hand wraps around my arm and jerks me back. “They’ll see you,” hisses Sofia, face flushed with sleep and fear. She throws her father’s shirt at me, making me realize I’m still half naked, sleep dazed, then shoves me away from the back exit.
