Mom’s face evaporates under the weight of two dueling images—the destruction of Casendellyn, and the flight stations lining up around the Brinker’s planet.
“The left feed is thirty years old; meet the last independent we gutted for fuel. The feed on the right was shot last week; it’s the Outer Brink planet Lady Galton wants to gut. You might want to pay attention, it’ll play nonstop for everyone running backup generators until someone learns to give a shit.”
Everyone without generators won’t be powering anything.
I close my eyes. Soak in space and city, energy and heat.
I should stop here. If I had any brain at all, I’d stop here.
“And—” I swallow twice and try again. “And for everyone who maybe isn’t a complete asshole—assuming they could go anywhere and be anything—there might be a sticky roll somewhere in Our Divinity. Come eat your weight in sugar.”
I fist my hand around Yonni’s heart and hold it close to mine.
“Kill the grid,” I say and the city blacks out.
He doesn’t come.
It’s cold in the House of Westlet, or at least in their capital. Their streets are green and, well, green. Trees grow everywhere. Along thoroughfares, between towers, sometimes inside towers—surrounded by flowers on the other side of multilevel windows, and walkways of fitted stones with swirls etched along the edge in endless detail.
Total waste of someone’s time and effort.
But pretty though.
The shopfronts mirror the walkways, clean and ornate. There are four shops this side of Old Town’s skytower. Three boutiques and a bakery. I know. I’ve been by them every day for two weeks.
The old woman with the jewelry shop waves when she sees me. I huddle into my new Westlet hoodie—green, of course—and wave back. Another few steps, and the painted sign of Our Divinity Bakery swings overhead. My feet falter, like always, but I’ve had some practice now.
Speed is everything.
I grab the door handle and swing it open between one breath and the next. Scan the room before my heart can rise too high.
It skyrockets anyway.
The shop isn’t empty.
But everyone is fair. No mop-y black hair swishes over dark eyes and lanky limbs. There are no males, period. Only a high glass bakery case with every sweet thing under the sun, shelves of tea and spices left and right, and two women at the counter.
No one else.
I step inside. Soft painted florals wind over the walls and down to the floor, tracing my steps. Someone must have done them by hand, and here I am walking all over them.
The woman behind the counter, Hannah—who has a daughter about my age and a dog named Mitts—retrieves a sticky roll from the case and a plate from a low shelf.
The girl on this side looks like she’s been through hell and not long ago, either, judging by her skinned head and impressive scar—a starburst of multilayered rivets that take up half her skull. She digs through her pockets as Hannah lays the plate on the counter. Each one comes up empty.
Hannah waits, patient, but it’s obvious and the silence gets long. Finally, Rivets gives up and stands to attention, like a soldier called to task.
“Forgive me,” she says. “It seems I—”
“I’ve got it,” I say.
Rivets spins, which is apparently a bad idea. It almost upends her. She weaves, blinking.
I slide up to the counter and link my arm through hers. “Sorry, I’m late. Hey, Hannah. Any pinenuts today?”
All of Hannah’s sticky rolls are worth jumping Houses for, but the pinenuts shame the rest.
Hannah lights up like I’ve just given her the moon and leans across the counter. “So is this who you’ve been waiting for?”
My smile freezes. Paste on my skin, glue in my heart. “Absolutely, who else? Can I have that sticky roll?”
Hannah gently pats my hand, because I am 100 percent convincing, then retrieves another plate and roll and pushes them across the counter. “On the house.”
“You’re going to go belly up if you keep handing me free things,” I say.
“Well, that’s my choice now, isn’t it?” She peers down her nose, which would work better without the accompanying wink.
People are . . . weird in Westlet.
“Thanks.” I grab the plates and turn to Rivets. “Inside or out?”
She watches like I’m the weird one. “Out.”
We unlink and she moves ahead to open the door. The shopside garden is green, treed, and empty. Three small tables fill the patio, with woven metal legs and chairs. It’s too cold to be outside. The breeze too brisk, the air too clean.
I sit here most days.
Rivets has some trouble with her chair, but not too much. I don’t pretend not to notice, but I don’t comment.
She smiles. “Am I going to mess with your date?”
I wish people wouldn’t ask. I hate it when they ask. I hate that they somehow even know to ask.
“He’s not going to show,” I say. “So no, you won’t.”
If he was coming, he’d have shown by now.
Niles doesn’t play games. Not those kind. Not the ones that jack with a person’s soul just because.
I shake my head.
Like I would know. He lied the entire time we were together—which, how long was that exactly?
Yonni would have a fit.
She’d be right.