Twitchy and skittish as he may be, Badger doesn’t miss a thing.
“Why are all the eggs gone?” Charlie asks, surveying the spread on the table.
“We ate them,” Adam answers seriously.
“All of them?”
Sammy makes a show of inspecting the empty serving plate. “Looks like it.”
“I’m the host! I’m supposed to be able to eat in my own house.”
“You should have gotten up with the rest of us then,” Adam says. “Or were you too busy reading?”
“Course I was reading. Those fictional characters are way more fun than you.”
This opens up the floor for a bunch of friendly jabs. Bree: “The characters are probably better looking than Adam, too.” Sammy: “Wouldn’t take much to be smarter, either.” Soon, the group seems to have forgotten all about the mission awaiting us, or the fact that Blaine and I are supposed to sit around like ducks during it.
When Aiden starts asking about the dogs in Charlie’s book, claiming none can possibly beat Rusty, Badger leans across the table.
“You said you wanted to make yourself useful, so why are you still here?” I glare at him, and he slips me a piece of paper bearing Mercy’s address. “Bring a case of water to cover the payment.”
The crate of water is even heavier than it looks and the handholds boast rough edges perfect for wedging splinters in even the toughest skin. Blaine and I carry it awkwardly through the streets, trying not to bang it against our thighs. The address Badger provided is meaningless to us, so we stop to ask directions from a few local kids kicking a ball outside the bookshop. We’ve got hats on, and scarves wrapped to cover half our faces because of Badger’s paranoid nudging. I doubt the kids can even tell we’re related. They point us toward the Gulf and instruct us to head north along the water.
“It’s a really skinny building,” the shortest kid says, as if they aren’t all narrow. “Painted bright red. Mercy’s shop’s on the fourth floor.”
The thought of lugging the crate of water up four flights is enough to make me want to drop it here and now, but we carry on in silence.
The harbor is busy with boats. Most are modest rigs, the vessels of fishermen who are supporting their families and selling the extra catch in town. Nothing like the massive Order ship that chased the Catherine in December. The water laps at the barricade dividing the street from the Gulf, providing a steady rhythm for our march.
“Why you didn’t tell me?” Blaine asks.
The pain of the crate driving into my palm is more preferable than his words.
“There’s no easy answer,” I say, tugging the scarf below my chin so talking is easier.
“I can’t understand or relate or help if you don’t tell me anything, Gray.”
I stop, and he does, too, the crate swinging between us.
“You can’t understand, period. That’s the problem. Our lives used to be exactly the same—same routines, same fears, same end waiting for us on our eighteenth birthday—but then we got separated and started living different lives and . . .”
Is that all life is? Growing apart from people? I haven’t seen Emma in months, Kale in even longer. My own brother feels like a stranger. We’ve always been opposites, but now it’s something else, something far more complex than having conflicting personalities. It’s like the more you grow to know and accept yourself—to find your own way in life—the more distant and mysterious everyone else becomes.
“We’ll get through it,” he says. “When this is all over, everything will go back to normal.”
“You know it’s not that simple, Blaine. There’s no going back to how things were.”
No longer able to bear the stricken expression on his face, I glance away. Between the shoulders of bustling townspeople, on the far side of the street, I spot a girl standing in the mouth of an alley.
Not any girl.
Emma.
She’s wearing a white sundress despite the cold, her hair hanging over her shoulders in tangled waves. She looks exactly the way I remember her the day we went to Claysoot’s lake and talked about birds. The shock I feel at spotting her here is mirrored on her own face. She backs down the alley, almost fearfully, shaking her head like she doesn’t want me to follow.
“Emma?” I call.
A group of teens pass by, momentarily blocking my view. When they clear, the alley is empty.
I drop the crate. “Emma!”
Blaine grabs my arm, but I shake him off and break into a run, the crate of water forgotten. Blaine’s shouts that I’m seeing things are swallowed by the wind.
I sprint down the alley and spot her at the next intersection. Her white dress is a beacon, screaming against the dreary shades of winter attire. I keep her in my sights, push my legs faster. I’m gaining on her—lost among the grid of streets given the number of turns she’s made, but gaining.
I round another corner. This road dead-ends. Emma spins to face me, eyes wide, then skirts into a building to her right. It’s a textile facility, or was. Looms tower, dusty and skeletal. Cobwebs cling to my face and limbs as I race after her. Beneath my feet, glass crunches, and a breeze drifts through the empty windowpanes.
I hear Emma trip on something. I duck between two looms to cut her off, and find her on the floor, one palm bleeding from the broken glass. She scrambles to her feet, but I’m faster. She cries out in surprise when I grab her arm and push her backward, but I don’t ease up, not even when I’ve got her against the far wall with nowhere to go. Her face is just inches from mine, and it looks exactly like her—that beauty mark on her cheek, her brown eyes gleaming—but so did her Forgery.
“When was the last time you saw me?”
She twists. “Gray, you’re hurting—”
“When was the last time you saw me!”