Before I begin undressing, I call out, “Julian?”
“Yes?” His voice is muffled. From the sound of it, he is in the sleeping space.
“Stay where you are, okay?”
There is no door on the bathing room. It is unnecessary, and things that are unnecessary in the Wilds do not get built, made, or used.
There is a slight pause. “Okay,” he says. I wonder what he is thinking. His voice sounds high, strained, although that might be the effect of distortion through the tin and plywood walls.
I place the gun on the floor, then strip out of my clothes, enjoying the heavy thud of my jeans on the ground. For a moment my body looks alien, even to myself. There was a time when I was a little bit round everywhere, despite the muscles in my thighs and calves from running. My stomach had swell to it, my breasts were full and heavy.
Now I am all carved inward—wire and rope. My breasts are two small, hard peaks; my skin is crisscrossed with bruises. I wonder if Alex would still find me beautiful. I wonder if Julian thinks I am ugly.
I push away both thoughts. Unnecessary; irrelevant.
I scrub every last inch of my body: under my fingernails, behind my ears, inside my ears—between my toes, and between my legs. I lather my hair and let soap run into my eyes, burning. When I finally stand up, still slippery with soap, like a fish, the tub is ringed with dirt. I’m once again grateful that we have no mirrors here; my reflection is darkly indistinct on the surface of the water, a shadow-self. I don’t want to see more clearly what I look like.
I dry myself and put on clean clothes: sweatpants, heavy socks, and a large sweatshirt. My bath has rejuvenated me, and I feel strong enough to draw more water from the well and fill another tub for Julian.
I find him in the storage room. He is squatting in front of a low shelf. Someone has left a dozen books, all of them banned long ago. He is leafing through one of them.
“Your turn,” I say, and he jerks, slamming the book shut. He straightens up, and when he turns to me his face is guilty. Then his eyes shift, an expression I can’t identify.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You can read what you like here.”
“I—” He starts to speak, then breaks off, shaking his head. He is still watching me with that strange look on his face. My skin feels hot. The bath must have been too warm. “I remember this book,” he says finally, but I get the sense that is not what he was going to say originally. “It was in my father’s study. His second study. The one I told you about.”
I nod. He holds up the book. It’s a copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.
“I haven’t read it yet,” I confess. “Tack always said it was one of his favorites—” I suck in a quick breath. I shouldn’t have said Tack’s name. I’ve been trusting Julian, letting him in. But he is still Julian Fineman, and the resistance’s strength depends on its secrets.
Fortunately, he doesn’t comment on it. “My brother—” He coughs and begins again. “I found this book with his things. After he died. I don’t know why; I don’t know what I was looking for.”
A way back, I think, but I don’t say it.
“I kept it.” Julian twists one side of his mouth into a smile. “I cut a slit in my mattress; I used to store it in there, so my dad wouldn’t find it. I started reading it that day.”
“Is it good?” I ask him.
“It’s full of illegal things,” Julian says slowly, as though he’s reevaluating the meaning of the words. His eyes slide away from mine, and for a moment there’s a heavy pause. Then his eyes click back to mine, and this time when he smiles, it’s full of light. “But yes. It’s good. It’s great, I think.”
For some reason I laugh; just that, the way he says it, breaks up the tension in the room, makes everything seem easy and manageable. We were kidnapped; we were beaten and chased; we have no way to get home. We come from two different worlds, and we belonged to two different sides. But everything will be okay.
“I filled a bath for you,” I say. “It should be hot by now. You can take clean clothes.” I gesture to the shelves, neatly stacked and labeled: MEN’S SHIRTS, WOMEN’S PANTS, CHILDREN’S SHOES. Raven’s work, of course.
“Thanks.” Julian grabs a new shirt and pants from the shelves, and, after a moment of hesitation, replaces Great Expectations among the books. Then he straightens up, hugging the clothes to his chest. “It’s not so bad here, you know?”
I shrug. “We do what we can,” I say, but I’m secretly pleased.
He starts to move around me, toward the bathing room. When we’re side by side he stops abruptly. His whole body stiffens. I see a tremor run through him, and for a terrifying second I think, Oh my God, he’s having an attack.
Then he says simply, “Your hair…”
“What?” I’m so surprised I can barely croak out the word.