“That doesn’t make sense. I don’t want to hear any more of this.”
“You are my only family. You are the only person I trust, in the City or Outside. You know me. And I’m telling you that I don’t want you to die. I didn’t on the bridge and I don’t now. The whole City is about to become a battlefield. I don’t want anyone to die, and you can help me stop it.”
He turns to face me, the movement so slow I wonder if the world has come to a screeching stop around us, focused on this one moment. “I would have done anything to protect you.” He slumps against the bed, burying his face in his hands. “But I can’t believe you now. Don’t make me call the Watch. Just leave.”
“But, Tai-ge—”
“Get out, Fourth.”
CHAPTER 41
MY BRAIN IS NUMB. I can’t do anything but cling to the branches outside his window, pretending that I’m in a world where Tai-ge trusts me. Loves me. That I’ll wake up and he’ll still be my friend.
The leaves around me are so tranquil. I wonder if they could be Asleep, slated for destruction like everything else in this City. All the times I’ve sat in this tree to throw slimy leftover noodles into Tai-ge’s room as a joke or just to wave and have him smile and wave back. Is this the last time I will ever see Tai-ge? Will he even live through the night? The ring cuts into my palm as I hold it too tight.
Tai-ge’s outline against the drapes has stopped throwing things and is now sitting again with his head buried in his arms, like a two-year-old waiting for his mom to come in and tell him it will be okay. It’ll be a long wait. I doubt Comrade Hong has ever comforted anyone.
There’s only one thing I have left. The haze of smoke obscuring the stars over the City glows orange and red with the beginnings of a new day. By the time I face the City Center’s red tile roof, the sun peeks up over the horizon, a spear of fire waiting to burn the night away. If the living won’t listen, it’s time to go ask the dead.
I creep past the openmouthed snarls of the lions that guard the City Center, eyes unable to avoid the portrait hanging high on the back wall. The Chairman’s blank face looks down at every person who enters here, hand on his son’s shoulder. I let my eyes fall, unwilling to wonder why it was I thought the boy appeared so much like Howl. How did he fool everyone? Even the Premier we met in the street assumed Howl was the Chairman’s son, though his face was covered at the time. The resemblance of the portrait sticks in my brain like a knife. It does seem remarkably like Howl. But it isn’t him.
Traitor’s Arch is set at the back wall across from the portrait, the white wood curving up about two stories, flanked by long red-and-black banners that run from ceiling to floor. Stairs mimic the bend of the Arch, leading up to the second-floor balcony that runs the length of the room, cutting the tall windows at every wall in half. Displays of City history and triumphs sit in glass cases on the balcony every few feet, seeming small and insignificant under the high ceiling. From every point in the room you can see her, standing in her glass case like a princess waiting to be kissed, her upright coffin the keystone of the Arch.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her face since that terrible day my eyes closed in Sleep, every other memory of her driven out by the horror of not being able to open them. In all the years she’s been here, I couldn’t even make myself look up at her. They bring all the schoolchildren through at least once a year to scare them, to give a face to the terror of SS, Kamar, and traitors all in one monstrous body. I could never force myself to take it in, stare always trained above or below her glass prison. Mind carefully blank to allow the voice explaining her many crimes to ricochet around in my skull without my noticing the words. Espionage. Intentional propagation of SS. Murder. A little demon gnawing at memories I knew were mine, to make them fit into this much more gruesome shape.
Sunrise yawns through the high windows, bathing Mother’s prison in bright pinks and oranges. I shy away from the white-painted wood of Traitor’s Arch, carved figures bowing under the weight of Mother’s display, arcing over a simple white chair. This must have been where Sister Shang died. Her name is carved at the base alongside hundreds of others who died in this chair. SHANG SUNAI.
My father’s name is here too, the edges of the characters still sharp where the tools gouged them into the wood.
Finally, I force my stare up. Of all the things Howl lied about, was my mother one of them? Did she try to kill me herself? Or was she trying to save me?
My feet are lead, the toes of my dirty boots streaking the floor with mud as they drag across the floor, dread and anticipation warring inside of me, knowing the hurt should be gone after all these years. But it isn’t.
The light falls in flaxen strands, tumbling over the waves of hair that curl down to her waist. Calm and peaceful. A certain pride emanates from her unlined brow, full lips slightly curved in a smile. White embroidery covers her black dress like mold, arms crossed over her chest to show the First mark on her hand, the single red star pinned over her heart. She’s beautiful standing up there. Asleep.
On the second-story balcony, a small platform allows you to walk around to the front of her coffin and look at her up close. To see the monster where she stands braced up inside her prison. But for me, her features burst open all the old pain, a gush of regret bringing me to my knees in the face of my tormentor, the woman I loved so much.
Now I have something with which to fend off the bitter, lost little girl inside of me. Hope. If only a drop.
I pull the syringe from my belt, steeling my heart. Whether Howl’s story was just part of the deception or actual truth, I tell myself there’s nothing left of me to hurt.
I cut through a tangle of wires that hook to an alarm up above her cage, as if she could somehow wake herself up and escape. Howl described this part to me too, just in case we couldn’t both come in. How to cut the wires and open the front panel of her coffin, which tube to clip the syringe into out of the mess of lines feeding into her back. I watch for a moment, holding my breath as the serum spills through the maze toward her veins. What if it’s just sugar water? Yet another part of an elaborate joke. Only one way to find out.
She blinks.
And then the world turns over. Her eyes—the same eyes I see in the mirror—shift into focus, warming my skin.
“Sevvy.” The croak belongs to a woman on death’s doorstep, moments from crumbling into powder. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She isn’t what I remember, lithe beauty lost in her brittle body. Her head lolls against the metal brace holding her upright like a porcelain doll, tied up for display but not for play. Her eyes fight to stay open, long eyelashes dark against her cheeks. Papery, cracked skin folds experimentally as she fights against the dead weight of her limbs, struggling to move. She makes me afraid. Not for myself, but that she might crumble and burn in the direct sunlight.
“Come on,” I say, lost in the maze of tubes and pins trapping her in the box. “Let’s get you out of there.”
Her laugh is dry and hoarse, dead leaves swirling in a gust of wind. “I’m not going anywhere, Sevvy. I doubt I have more than a few minutes to live, now that I’m awake.” Her gaze flicks over me and her mouth bows and crooks, white teeth sticking out. It takes a minute for me to realize she is trying to smile. “You are beautiful. So beautiful.”