Just then, Elián came bursting out the door. He saw us. He stopped.
Xie pulled away from me. A flush crept up her throat. I could not remember that I had ever seen Da-Xia blush. But she blushed under Elián’s panting silence.
“Oh,” he said.
“Elián—” I felt the urge to explain. And then a surge of anger: What was there to explain? And what right had he to an explanation? He’d held a gun on me, listened to plans to have me tortured. And, all right, I’d told him to, but—
“You’re not armed,” said Xie.
“Yeah, well—” Elián scratched behind his ear. “Some question in there about where my loyalties are.”
“Out here, too,” said Xie.
“God, Xie, like I’d ever—” He cut himself off and turned to me. “Greta. I didn’t know, I swear. How could I know?”
“Da-Xia did explain.”
“And Thandi,” said Xie. “And Grego . . .”
“But I didn’t—” He was breathing hard, his voice climbing toward hysteria. “I didn’t know. I’m a sheep farmer, Greta. I like to bake. I go bowling.”
“How quaint,” said Xie.
I flipped up a hand to stop her, and sagged down against the wall. “Do you know what they’re planning, Elián?”
He shook his head to deny it, but there was knowledge in his face. He must have seen me read it; he came out with it slowly. “I only know . . . That man—Tolliver Burr—he’s having them— He wants them . . .” His voice dropped and he nearly gagged. “He wants them to move the apple press out onto the lawn. Where the light is better for filming.”
We considered that. I tried—oh, how I tried—not to consider it too closely. But there is no rest for a restless mind. The apple press—huge and ancient, with its screws as thick as a thigh, hand-turned from oak trunks in some unimaginable time before machines could speak. And the screws needed to be strong, to carry the force it took to juice an apple—to bring down the iron-bound oak top of the press, turn by turn. It was big, the press. You could lay a bushel of apples in it, or a bushel of potatoes, in the days when Vitor and Atta had tried to make vodka, before the unfortunate explosion of the still. You could put a bushel of carrots into it, or a human torso. Or perhaps just a hand . . . There were so many nerves in the hand. My own hands were cramping into fists. I could feel how much force it took, to turn the press those last few clicks.
I wrenched away from the wall and folded forward, retching.
I crouched by the wall a long time. They knelt with me. Xie rubbed circles on my back. Elián put his hand over mine, where it was digging into the thatch of the grass.
“Sorry,” I gasped as the fit passed. “Sorry.”
They both shook their heads. There was silence. I leaned back limply against the wall, grateful for its cool strength.
“Tolliver Burr,” said Da-Xia, rolling the name around. “Do you know, I could grow to dislike him. And Armenteros, too—no offense, Elián.”
“You should—” I coughed, and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. The bitter taste of fear was still strong enough to choke me. Well, it was either fear or yesterday’s stuffed zucchini. “Elián, you should go back to your grandmother.”
Elián made a disbelieving huff. “No way am I leaving you.”
Da-Xia picked up my hand. “None of us will, Greta. Lean into that.”
I shook my head. “Elián—think. Our countries are at war. When Talis reestablishes control over the Precepture, both our lives are forfeit.” I tried to concentrate. “I meant it when I said to go. I meant it. Go back to the Cumberlanders. Your only way out of here is with them.”
“The expletive I will, Greta,” said Elián.
“But there’s no way out for me,” I said. “You can’t save me. Go.”
“Dipshit,” he whispered, and put a hand in my hair. “The expletive I will.”
“Elián Palnik, I think there’s hope for you,” said Xie. She paused. “Albeit in a somewhat abstract sense. In the concrete sense, you’re clearly doomed.”
“I can’t go back, anyhow. Grandma—I feathered her good. They were going to court-martial me, except”—he smiled at Da-Xia—“turns out I’m not a soldier.”
“I haven’t figured you out yet,” she answered. “But I think I concur.”
“I haven’t figured you out either.” His gaze flipped between us. “I’m guessing there’s a bunch of stuff I haven’t figured out.”
Again, I could have explained. Da-Xia and I were not lovers, we were— What were we? How could I be worried about this when the apple press was being made ready? How could it be that I could still conjure a quickening in my blood when I thought of her kiss? We were not— We were . . . I did not know.
So I explained nothing, but stood up, wiping my hands down the rough linen of my samue. “Let’s go see if any of the pumpkins can be salvaged.”
“The . . . pumpkins?” said Elián. I disliked his they’ve-broken-her-already-poor-thing tone.
“As an act of normalcy,” explained Da-Xia.