The moon beats down on the switchback paths cut in the hill, tawny-colored and dry, as though steeped in old blood. I shoot a last glance back down at the camp, at the sea of writhing shadows—people, all those people, who don’t know that even now the guns and the bombs and the troops are drawing closer.
Raven must sense it too: the new terror in the air, the proximity of death, the way an animal must feel when it is caught in a trap. She turns and shouts down to Pippa.
“Please, Pippa.” Her voice rolls off the bare slope. Pippa is standing at the bottom of the dirt path, watching us. Beast is standing behind her. She’s holding a lantern, which illuminates her face from below, carves it into stone, into planes of shadow and light.
“Go,” Pippa says. “Don’t worry. I’ll meet you at the safe house.”
Raven stares at her for a few more seconds, and then begins to turn around again.
Then Pippa calls, “But if I’m not there in three days, don’t wait.”
Her voice never loses its calm. And I know, now, what the look was that I saw earlier in her eyes. It was beyond calm. It was resignation.
It was the look of someone who knows she will die.
We leave Pippa behind, standing in the dark, teeming bowels of the camp, while the sun begins to stain the sky electric, and from all sides the guns draw closer.
Hana
On Saturday morning I make my visit to Deering Highlands. It is becoming almost routine. I’m happy that I manage to avoid seeing Grace—the streets are still, silent, wrapped in an early-morning mist—and happy, too, that the shelves of the underground room are looking fuller already.
Back at home, I shower in too-hot water, until my skin is pink. I scrub carefully, under my fingernails even, as though the smell of the Highlands, and all the people living there, might have clung to me. But I can’t be too careful. If Cassie was invalidated because she caught the disease, or because Fred suspected her of it, I can only imagine what he will do to me and to my family if he discovers that the cure did not work perfectly.
I need to know—for good, for sure—what happened to Cassandra.
Fred is spending the day golfing with several dozen campaign donors and supporters, including my father. My mother is meeting Mrs. Hargrove at the club for lunch. I wave good-bye to my parents cheerfully and then kill time for a half hour, too antsy to watch TV or do anything but pace.
When a sufficient amount of time has elapsed, I gather up the final guest list and seating chart for the wedding, shuffling them roughly into a folder. There’s no point in being secretive about where I’m going, so I call Rick, Tony’s brother, and wait on the front porch for him to pull up the car.
“To the Hargroves’, please,” I say brightly as I slide into the backseat.
I try not to fidget too much. I don’t want Rick to know that I’m nervous. I don’t want any questions. But he doesn’t pay any attention to me at all. He keeps his eyes on the road. His bald head, nestled in his shirt collar, reminds me of a swollen pink egg.
At the Hargroves’ house, all three cars are missing from the circular driveway. So far, so good.
“Wait here,” I say to Rick. “I won’t be long.”
A girl I recognize as a member of the household staff opens the door. She can’t be more than a few years older than I am and has a permanent look of dull suspicion, like a dog kicked too many times in the head.
“Oh!” she says when she sees me, and hesitates, clearly uncertain about whether to let me in.
I start talking immediately. “I ran over here as fast as I could. Can you believe after all that, my mom forgot to bring the plans to lunch? Mrs. Hargrove needs approval over the seating chart, of course.”
“Oh!” the girl says again. She frowns. “But Mrs. Hargrove isn’t here. She’s at the club.”
I let out a groan, making a big show of surprise. “When my mom said they were having lunch, I just assumed…”
“They’re at the club,” she repeats nervously. She’s clinging to that piece of information like a lifeline.
“So stupid of me,” I say. “And of course I don’t have time to run to the club now. Maybe I could just drop them for Mrs. Hargrove…?”
“I can give them to her, if you like,” she offers.
“No, no. You don’t have to,” I say quickly. I lick my lips. “If I can just pop inside for a minute, I’ll leave her a quick note. Tables six and eight may have to be swapped, and I’m not sure what to do with Mr. and Mrs. Kimble….”
The girl retreats to let me in. “Of course,” she says, opening the door a little wider to admit me.