Out in the alley, Crance begins loading the cart, not bothering to watch us blink out of existence with the grace of a Silver shadow. But unlike them, Harrick cannot only bend light, creating brightness and darkness—he can conjure anything he wishes. A tree, a horse, another person entirely. Now that we’re on the street, he masks us as obscure Reds with dirty faces and hoods. We are unremarkable, even to each other. He tells me this is easier than making us disappear, and a better alternative in the crowd. People won’t wonder at bumping into thin air.
Farley leads, following Ellie’s directions. We have to cross the market square, past the eyes of many Security officers, but no one gives us pause. My hair blows in the slight wind, sending a curtain of white-blond across my eyes. I almost laugh. Blond hair . . . on me.
The Marcher house is small, with a hastily built second floor that looks liable to collapse on top of us. But it has a lovely back garden, overgrown with tangles of vines and bare trees. In the summer, it must look wonderful. We pick through it, doing our best to keep the dead leaves from crunching.
“We’re invisible now,” Harrick mutters. When I look in his direction, I realize he’s gone. I smile, though no one can see it.
Someone reaches the back door before me and knocks. No answer, not even a rustle inside. They could be out for the day, working. Next to me, Farley curses under her breath. “Do we wait?” she breathes. I can’t see her, but I see the puffs of breath clouding where her face should be.
“Harrick’s not a machine,” I say, speaking for him. “We wait inside.”
I head for the door, bumping her shoulder, and sink to a knee before the lock. A simple one. I could pick it in my sleep, and it takes no time now. Within seconds, I’m greeted by a familiar, satisfying click.
The door swings back on shrieking hinges and I freeze, waiting for what might be inside. Like Ellie’s house, the inside is dark and seemingly abandoned. Still, I give it another moment, listening hard. Nothing moves inside, and I feel no tremors of electricity. Either the Marchers are out of rations, or they don’t even have electricity at all. Satisfied, I beckon over my shoulder, but nothing happens. They can’t see you, idiot.
“Head in,” I whisper, and I feel Farley at my back.
Once the door is safely shut again, we burst back into sight. I smile at Harrick, again grateful for his ability and strength, but the smell stops me cold. The air is stale in here, undisturbed, and slightly sour. With a hasty swipe of my hand, I brush half an inch of dust from the kitchen table.
“Maybe they ran. Lots of people have,” Nix offers quickly.
Something draws my focus, the tiniest whisper. Not a voice, but a spark. Barely there, so soft I almost missed it. Coming from a basket by the fireplace, covered in a dirty red rag. I drift toward it, drawn by the small beacon.
“I don’t like this. We need to regroup at Ellie’s. Harrick, pull yourself together and get ready for another illusion,” Farley barks as quietly as she can.
My knees scrape the hearthstones as I kneel over the basket. The smell is stronger here. And so is the spark. I should not do this. I know I won’t like what I find. I know it, but I can’t stop myself from pulling back the rag. The fabric is sticky and I tug, revealing what lies beneath. After a numb second, I realize what I’m looking at.
I fall backward, scrambling, gasping, almost screaming. Tears fall faster than I ever thought they could. Farley is the first to my side, her arms surrounding me, holding me steady. “What is it? Mare, what—”
She stops short, choking on the words. She sees what I see. And so do the others. Nix almost vomits and I’m surprised Harrick doesn’t faint.
In the basket is a baby, no more than a few days old. Dead. And not from abandonment or neglect. The rag is dyed in its blood. The message is disgustingly clear. The Marchers are dead too.
One tiny fist, clawed with the stiffness of death, holds the tiniest device. An alarm.
“Harrick,” I hiss through my tears. “Hide us.” His mouth falls open, confused, and I grab his leg in desperation. “Hide us.”
He disappears before my eyes, and not a moment too soon.
Officers appear in the windows, bursting through each door, guns raised, all shouting. “You’re surrounded, lightning girl! Submit to arrest!” they roar in succession, as if repeating themselves makes any difference.
Quietly, I ease myself under the kitchen table. I only hope the others have the sense to do the same.
No fewer than twelve officers crowd inside, stomping back and forth. Four break off, heading upstairs, and one pair of boots halts by the baby. The officer’s free hand twitches and I know he must be staring at the tiny corpse. After a long moment, he vomits into the fireplace.
“Easy, Myros,” one of the others says, pulling him away. “Poor thing,” he adds, moving past the baby. “Anything upstairs?”
“Nothing!” another replies, coming back down. “Alarm must’ve malfunctioned.”
“You’re sure? The governor will skin us if we’re wrong.”
“Do you see anyone here, sir?”
I almost gasp when the officer drops to a crouch right in front of me. His eyes sweep back and forth beneath the table, searching. I feel a slight pressure on my leg—one of the others. I dare not respond with a nudge of my own, and hold my breath.
“No, I don’t,” the officer finally says, standing again. “False alarm. Back to your posts.”
They leave as quickly as they burst in, but I dare not breathe until their footsteps are long gone. Then I gasp, shaking, as Harrick drops the illusion, and we all blink back into sight.
“Well done.” Farley exhales, patting Harrick on the shoulder. Like me, he can barely speak, and has to be helped to his feet.
“I could’ve taken ’em,” Nix grumbles, rolling out from beneath the stairs. He crosses to the door with short strides, one hand already on the knob. “All the same, I don’t fancy being here if they come back.”
“Mare?” Farley’s touch on my arm is gentle, especially for her.
I realize I’m standing over the baby, staring. There were no babies on Julian’s list, no children below the age of three. This was not a newblood, not according to our records or any Maven might possess. The child was murdered simply because she was here. For nothing.
With determination, I remove my jacket. I will not leave her like this, with only her own blood for a blanket.
“Mare, don’t. They’ll know we were here—”
“Let them know.”
I pull it across her—and I fight, with everything I have, the urge to lie down beside her and never get back up again. My fingers brush her tiny, cold fist. There is something beneath it. A note. Quietly, quickly, I slip it into my pocket before anyone else can see.
When we finally get back to Ada and the jet, I dare to read it. It’s dated for yesterday. Yesterday. We were so close.
October 22
A crude envelope, I know. But necessary. You must know what you are doing, what you are forcing me to do to these people. Every body is a message to you, and to my brother. Surrender to me, and it will stop. Surrender, and they will live. I am a man of my word.
Until we meet again,
Maven
We arrive back at the Notch at nightfall. I cannot eat, I cannot speak, I cannot sleep. The others discuss what happened in Templyn, but no one dares ask me. My brother tries but I walk way, deeper into the burrows of our hideaway. I cower in my cramped hole of a bedroom, convincing myself I need to be alone for now. On other nights, I hate this solitary room, being separated from the others. Now I hate it even more, but I can’t bring myself to join them. Instead, I wait for everyone to be asleep before I let myself wander. I take a blanket, but it does nothing for the cold, inside and out.
I tell myself it’s the autumn chill that sends me to his room, and not the empty feeling in my stomach. Not the frozen abyss that grows with every failure. Not the note in my pocket, burning a hole right through me.
Fire dances on the floor, confined to a neat dip ringed by stones. Even in the strange shadows, I can tell he’s awake. His eyes look alive with flame, but not angry. Not even confused. With one hand, he pulls back the blankets of his sleeper, and slides to make room for me.
“It’s cold in here,” I say.
I think he knows what I really mean.