The Gender Plan (The Gender Game #6)

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll pull the curtains, but he’s sleeping. He doesn’t like it when I do it when he’s awake, although it’s more difficult this way.”


She dropped the sponge into a basin next to her, and then pulled on the curtain that some of the refugees had helped her rig to hang from the ceiling, blocking my view of Quinn’s bed. I tried to push away the image of the rows of sutures crisscrossing Quinn’s body, making him seem more like a patchwork doll than a human. I couldn’t—they would be forever imprinted on my mind, and it was heartbreakingly sad, in spite of his efforts to handle it with humor.

Moving over to the chair Owen had been in earlier, I dragged it over to the side of Tim’s bed and dropped into it. I settled back, adjusting my seat slightly, and then looked up at Tim, surprised to see his eyes open and watching me.

“Oh my God. Tim!”

I was up again in an instant, hovering over my brother’s head. He squinted up at me and then started to raise his hand, wincing when he pulled at the IV. “Violet? Where?” He cocked his head, studying me closer. “Hair?”

I reached up and touched my hair, frowning. “I… I got hurt at the palace. I’m okay, but… they needed to cut my hair for an operation. And we’re at a farmhouse in the country. We’re safe. Are you okay?”

He closed his eyes and then nodded. “Head hurts. Little… thirsty.”

“I can do something about that,” I said. I bent over to the little nightstand by his bed, picking up the glass jar filled with water that always seemed to be present in the sickroom, and poured some into a cup. I pulled out a straw from the drawer, slipping it into the cup, and then presented it to Tim with a flourish. “See? One glass of water.”

I pressed the straw to his lips, and he began to suck, drinking more than half the glass before he was satisfied. I set the cup back down on the nightstand and sank down on the bed next to him, being careful not to actually brush his legs with mine. He’d suffered enough skin damage from his condition already. “Tim, before Ashabee’s, what happened to you? I was so worried.”

Tim blinked, and then shifted slightly, easing himself up on the pillows. “At palace. I cover Jay. Thomas. Then… explosion. Wall fall. I… sleep. Wake up—still night. Crawl out. Wardens. Everywhere. Grabbing people. Dead. Injured. Put in trucks. Then barrels. Big red ones. Put in different truck. I run. Then… lost. No can call. I look for home, but… don’t find. Three days in forest. Eat corn. Apples. Stolen.”

He gave me a guilty look, and I shook my head at him, impressed all over again at his sweetness. “That’s okay,” I said. “You had to eat. How’d you get back to Ashabee’s?”

“Walk. But lost. Took time. Find, and then hide. Wait for you.”

I bit my lip. “Tim, I am so sorry we didn’t find you sooner. We thought if you had found your way back there, the wardens would’ve grabbed you.”

“I smart. More smart than wardens.”

My smile was sad. “But Tim, you were there for so long. I should’ve looked for you, should’ve come back sooner.”

Tim frowned and then shook his head. “No. You hurt. In palace. Head and hand. You sick. I find you.”

“That’s not your responsibility!” I insisted. “I’m supposed to take care of you.”

Tim smiled crookedly at me, and shook his head. “No. Take care Violet, take care me. Team.”

I gave him a doubtful look, and he shifted his hand over, resting it on mine. “Team,” he repeated, his eyes stern.

I smiled softly under his scrutiny, and then nodded. “Team,” I said back to him, and he relaxed visibly, leaning back into the pillow. “I love you.”

He smiled back. “Love you too.”





10





Viggo





I was so glad Violet had told me about Owen’s confession before he had given it. Although, sitting there in the kitchen at our noon meeting, it was hard not to act upon my initial instinct and get up to punch him. The only things holding me in place were the fact that Violet had begged me not to hurt him, and the tiny voice inside me, still whispering that all of this was my fault.

The room was tense and unhappy, people’s expressions ranging from shocked to disenchanted to faces that said this couldn’t get any worse. We’d already had one conversation, the night before, when Ms. Dale and I had brought back four unconscious people—Violet, Owen, Tim, and Desmond. I was glad Violet had been asleep for the argument that had followed. Nobody liked Desmond being here, but try as we might, none of us could think of a solution that didn’t end in the possibility of disaster. We were stuck with her. And we all hated how she’d played us, even if her story was true.

Now, as Owen’s story emerged, it felt like just another blow to our group’s tight-knit dynamics and carefully made plans. I tried to remind myself that everything wasn’t falling apart—that we were not terribly worse off than we’d been before.

Owen stood in front of the room, his expression flat, his words bare. “When I got the coordinates for Tim’s location from Thomas, I didn’t think we would actually find Tim there. I realized how close the coordinates were to Ashabee’s mansion, and, despite knowing it was a bad idea, I reached out to Desmond.”

Everyone in the room gasped except for Violet and me. She reached out under the table to take my hand, squeezing my fingers, but her eyes remained locked on the table surface in front of her. I squeezed her fingers back, knowing how difficult this was for her to hear.

“I told Desmond that I would take her up on the deal she offered Viggo on the night… on the night that Ian died. If she let the rest of the boys go and promised never to hurt them, I would give her the king’s location, the real egg, and… Violet.”

The shocked silence spread across the room like oil and water, broken only by Amber saying in a voice that was half snarl, half whisper, “You told her about the egg?”

Owen looked down, and I saw Violet’s face tighten, but she murmured, “Amber, let him finish.”