“No,” I said, straight into her eyes.
A high melody chimes through the room. Yonni’s favorite songbird clock, tumbled on the floor with its nightstand perch. Busted wing, cracked beak, its large digit eyes blink from 6:59 to 7:00.
Early tours at the Gilken Museum start at eight, and it’s a good forty-minute walk.
I grab my uniform from the closet, a sleeveless knee-length green dress with alternating blocks of purple and blue at the hem. Green for the Gilken Museum, blue and purple signifying me as an official House employee. The colors echo in the faint glow of the medallion pinned high on the upper right breast.
Kit Franks, reads the small digiscreen planted between the medal’s blossomed vines. Information Guide.
I scrub myself raw in the shower, rush through makeup and the disaster of my hair.
Yonni was into scarves. Loud, glittery, flamboyant. I dig through the closet for the one that screams least—blue, yellow, and pink dotted—pull my hair tight and wrap my head. It takes some finagling to fold the worst of the color out of the way, but in the end it works. The dress shows off my hips, the scarf trails neatly over my shoulder, the makeup covers the worst of my undereye circles. I look . . . almost human.
I stand straight and smile for the mirror.
An awful, gutted smile.
I exhale and try again.
“Welcome to the Gilken Museum, where the official record of our House was born.”
The words come easy, airy, backed by a hundred happy repetitions. My reflection follows, relaxing into habit. Face, posture, tone. “Gilken first began his quest to create what we now know as the Archive’s datacore in the basement of an old digiwatch repair shop, which is where we’ll begin ours. Mind your step.”
She’s assured, the girl in the mirror. Bright and sleek. Pretty, well-versed, can pull out a quote with the snap of a finger.
She’s even kissable. Very kissable, I would have thought.
My stomach twists, and I flatten both hands on the counter. The reflection cracks, poise lost. She aches inside and out. Eyes shadowed, chin set. But it is set. Her shoulders too. Set to keep the breaks from spreading, but still. There’s a strength to her.
It’s the primary law of practical courage, Gilken once said, in one of his more famous political commentaries. Surviving the weakest base means graduating from the strongest school.
That particular quote gave the Prime Enactor his title.
Yeah, well. Time to test it.
Past time. The songbird flashes seven twenty-two.
The living room continues the bedroom’s mess, bottles and glasses. I ignore it. Move straight into the kitchen to grab my backup transaction card from its spot behind the PowerFlakes box—Yonni always put stuff there—and my keypass from the counter. The card’s empty, but this way Mr. Remmings can pay me for my shift.
I lock up the suite and skip the elevator for the stairs. Hit the lobby at a run.
“Kit!” calls a high, rickety voice.
I skid, narrowly missing Mrs. Divs’s outstretched cane. She’s in bright gold today, with a big floppy hat and fuzzy slippers. She always wears slippers, even when it’s baking.
She ticks a wrinkled finger. “How many times have I told you about running in the lobby?”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m late.”
“Can’t be worth giving yourself a heart attack over. Now come here, I want to talk to you.”
“I can’t, Mrs. Divs. Not now.”
“Yes, now.” She lifts her cane and points it at her open door. “In.”
“I’m on shift.” I try to inch around her, but like all the ancient, she’s surprisingly spry when she wants to be.
She slides her tiny gold self into my path. “Don’t lie to me, girl. I know you got fired.” She presses her finger into my uniform medallion. “And don’t think this fools me for a minute.”
“My boss called me in.” And if I’m any later, there’s no way I’ll ever get my job back—prior perfect track records notwithstanding. Mr. Remmings doesn’t tolerate excuses. “We’ll talk after; I’ll come right back.” I step forward.
Her cane smacks my thighs and her voice drops. “I saw your mother on the feeds yesterday.”
I freeze. Mom. The double power-out.
You will be held to Account.
The feed must have gone out of district to reach here. Maybe even planetwide. Mom’s face on every screen.
I’d forgotten. How the hell could I forget?
Mrs. Divs nods, secure in her hit. “Now, I can be your Guardian Sun and not tell the Records Office what your dad’s been up to, or you can march on out of this building and face the consequences.”
Breath disappears, words a whisper. “Please, Mrs. Divs.”
She pats my cheek. “Two can play this game, dear one.”
Without her, I won’t have a place to live if Dee gets chatty.
Without a job, I can’t afford to live, period.
“Mrs. Divs, I swear—”
“Mornin’, Mrs. Divs!” Happy, laughing.
Niles.
My face flames and my hands fist.