Nevada instructs us to work in teams of three, and to sew up the three jagged tarp rips nearest the compound, with worn rolls of twine she hands us. I get stuck with Vesper and Bea.
Nevada deems Thorn too short to help. He runs off with an odd grin on his face. What’s so funny, I’d like to ask? But I’m forbidden to run off after him. Sometimes I wonder if he’s more spoiled than brain addled, and then I silently scold myself for having the thought. He has been through more hell than most.
The tarp is so dry from sun damage that it may have cracked on its own. I suspect this until I see that it’s the clumsy cuts of an amateur using a very dull blade. Which makes it all the harder for Bea and me to pull the two sides together while Vesper tries to sew. Vesper has quite a mouth on her and Bea and I are subjected to every rotten curse in Vesper’s rotten vernacular. It gives me perverse satisfaction to see Bea roll her eyes at Vesper.
“How will you use the Fireseed leaves for clothes?” Vesper asks Bea in a lighter moment.
“I make my own patterns,” says Bea. “Leaves for flat parts, parts of the stalk for belts.”
“Where did Nevada get that incredible cellular fabric that you all wear?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” Bea admits. “But it’s worn out. We need something new. We get burns through it now, in the faded parts.”
“I’d be a model for you, if you need fittings,” I offer.
“Who asked you, Cult Girl?” Vesper scowls at me.
I look to Bea to vouch that I’m okay to talk to since we’ve shared a word last night. But Bea’s eyes are impassive and she’s not saying anything. “No one asked me, Vesper, I believe I asked Bea,” I retort. Bea stifles a snort of laughter. I may not be able to see Bea’s true expression under her mask, but I surely hear it, and it gives me great satisfaction.
Radius and Jan saunter by on their way out. “Hey, Beehive, how’s the repair job going?” asks Radius as he brushes against Bea. She lets out a delighted laugh and gives him a playful shove. Blane gives me a long look, but doesn’t say anything obnoxious. “You girls need to work harder,” Jan remarks before they all thunder off into the crimson jungle.
We do work hard. We manage to fix one massive tear before lunch.
Exhausted from the effort of clutching the heavy tarp above our heads, the sweat pours off of us as we remove our suits. Vesper and Bea talk about going up to sponge off before lunch. As soon a Bea leaves the room, Vesper turns to me. “Drug addict,” she hisses. “We all know it.” Has Bea told her? They don’t get it. Oblivion powder is not to get high on. It is for deleting.
Rattled by this latest comment, I wait to clean up, and instead, look for Thorn. When I last saw him, he was headed to the parlor.
He’s not there. Not in the project room, or his room, or in the bathroom, or anywhere. I feel a hard spasm of panic. Why is he biting his fingernails day and night? Why was he grinning when the Fireseed crop is in jeopardy? I need to find him and get something out of him, even it if involves no words.
I head to the big chair in the parlor, ease into its friendly squash and smell its dusty essence. Let me rest here, take a break from all of the stress, Bea’s mixed messages, Vesper’s petty jealousy, the worry of where Thorn could be.
Armonk wanders in. “Mind if I sit in here?” he asks.
“’Course not.” I raise my heavy lids to glance over at him, in the seat under the Axiom poster. “Your face!” I hurry over to him. “The cut opened when you were playing soccer. It’s infected.”
“It’s nothing. Just needs time to heal,” he says but doesn’t sound so sure.
“Do you mind if I take a look?” I examine it closer. It’s an angry, swelled up mess with edges that are turning almost blackish-green. Gangrene? My belly curdles.
“What’s your verdict?” he asks, studying my face for clues.
“You need something, fast. I’ll be back,” I say and dash up to tier three.
The project room is blessedly empty. I get out the Spatter venom and mix it with a peck of the Fireseed and Antler Powder. Determining that one of the Axiom oils is a simple fixer, I add in a few drops, blend the ingredients and carry the jar downstairs. It will heal him, do nothing, or make it much worse. There’s no way to predict, not even my dad could’ve called this one. All I can hope is that Spatter is similar to Dragon Elixir. After all, they are from the same lizard genus.
Drawing in an uneasy breath I say, “Settle back on the headrest.”