I wrestle Jillian into the tunic and leggings of undyed cloth, the clothes I wore the day Nita died, retrieved from the bushes before we went up the last cliff. And twice I have to pull back and cache, to keep from falling into the memory of the cave. I even let myself fall when I was sitting beside Aunt Letitia’s broken body.
It made me angry at Aunt Letitia, seeing her like that. She might as well have been holding Uncle Towlend’s hand when she jumped off that cliff. And then my anger fanned my rage. Which is why I have to get back into the city. To break the Council that killed my brother. Into pieces. To fix this, if I can. For all of us. But I have to find a safe place for Beckett and Jillian first. I owe them that much at least.
I put one of the blankets over Jillian, slip farther back into the blacknut grove, and change back into my tunic. The cloth of the Knowing will immediately draw the eye, but at least these clothes aren’t inexplicable, like the ones from Earth. Beckett sits where I left him, propped on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him, watching the sunset deepen over the Outside. And he’s taken off the glasses, holding them to one side. A gesture to tell me I’ve had privacy. Without having to ask. A kindness, even when he’s hurt.
And right then, I think I could tell him everything. All the terrible things I’ve done. What I was going to do and why. Maybe he would understand. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he would be worse than angry, and be disgusted.
I don’t want to remember his disgust.
Then, without turning around, Beckett asks, “What will happen, if we’re caught?”
I Know exactly what will happen to me. I’m not as sure about him. “If we’re caught,” I say, “you should do whatever you can to get away.”
“And what is your Reddix going to do with his information?”
I don’t argue his incorrect possessive. “He said he wouldn’t tell.”
“And do you believe that?”
“It’s … possible.” But I would very much like to Know how Reddix was aware of Earth’s presence in the first place.
Beckett slides the glasses back onto his face and gets to his feet, and I help hoist Jillian up onto his back. She’s not any better, but she’s not worse, either. I get all three of the packs, and then we are on the move again, skirting the perimeter of the Outside on the level of the groves, hidden by the shadows.
There are steps cut every so often, leading down to the next level of the barren fields, but I don’t want to take them yet. I want to stay out of sight, until we are as close as possible to Nita’s house. If we go in after curfew, just a little more than a bell from now, there will be only four supervisors to avoid. I Know the changing patterns of their patrol. The danger is in someone not sticking to their route, like going inside that unused supply hut on the day Nita died.
I’m not sure what Annis is going to say to me when I come knocking after curfew, ragged and bedraggled, with two strangers in tow. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to any of them. How much will they blame me for what happened to Nita? They should blame me, probably more than they know. And now I am nervous, guilty. Pained by the grief I Know I will see. And that means memories are lurking. Ready to jump up and snatch me. I try to measure my breaths.
“We should wait here,” I whisper to Beckett, “until the resting bell rings. I’ll have to tell them you’re one of the Knowing, so … do your best to act like you have memory.” His brows go up. “And they might call me Nadia. Or they might say Samara.”
“Nadia? Why?”
“It’s … Just don’t be surprised.”
Beckett doesn’t question me anymore. He’s staring down at the roofs of the houses. They look pretend. Like toys. “Are you sure you Know when the bell rings?” he asks. “There’s nobody near us that’s not inside a house.”
I look down, startled. Of course I Know when the bell rings. But I think he’s right. It’s too quiet. No shadows in front of the streetlamps. Fear builds in the pit of my stomach. But if there’s no one on the streets, we should go. Now.
“Come on,” I whisper, and we slip down a set of stone steps to the level of the fields, and then to the next level, and the next. Two more and we are among the workshops and houses of the Outside.
Glowworm lamps shine at the street corners, but I avoid these, sticking to the pools of darkness along the house walls. We flit to the intersection of two lanes. It’s so quiet I can hear Jillian’s breath, a hollow kind of wheeze. I think we’re going to have to dose her again. Soon. But I shouldn’t be able to hear her at all. Not on a street like this. There should be voices from inside the houses at least, the clang of cooking or conversation. Singing. But the Outside is silent. It’s eerie.
Beckett is sweating, struggling to hold up Jillian. I hurry us across the rutted street, to the pillar of an open workshop. I can feel the heat of the glassblowing furnaces, their doors dark and shut. And then I do hear voices, a metal-capped stick thumping on wood.
I hold up a hand to stop Beckett, get an eye around the corner of the workshop. Four supervisors stand in the yellow light of a mirror maker’s opening door. Not Craddock, but one of his sisters, and three of his cousins. They go inside, indistinct words coming soft before the door latches shut behind them. I don’t understand what’s happening or what the mirror maker could have done, but we need to get off this street. We round the corner to Nita’s house, one lamp shining behind a closed curtain.
I knock, very soft. There’s a rustle inside that stills to quiet. Beckett slides Jillian to the ground, holding her upright. I knock again and say, “Annis!” right into the crack of the door. It jerks open.
Nita’s mother has round cheeks, their color a little faded like the hair that hangs loose past her shoulders. But her expression leaps at the sight of me, gaze darting behind me, where Beckett stands with Jillian, and I watch her face fall. My insides do the same. Either she doesn’t know Nita is dead, or had hoped against hope that she wasn’t.
She grabs my arm and pulls me inside, Beckett coming after, now just carrying Jillian in his arms. Annis shuts and bars the door, then turns to face me. She has shadows beneath her eyes. “Where is Nita?”
I drop the packs and glance around the room. Grandpapa is rising from his chair, in its place beside the rounded corner made by the clay heating furnace, the central pillar of the house, and when I look up to the loft, there are four sets of eyes gazing over the edge. Nathan, nearly grown, Luc, Ari, and Jasmina, the smallest, who is four. I feel the attention of the family like a weight, the pull of Nita’s memory so heavy I want to fall through the floor.
“Annis,” I whisper, “Nita is dead.”
I watch her eyes close, a spasm of pain, and after a long moment she says, “Thank you. We were so afraid she wasn’t.” She crosses the room to Grandpapa as he sinks back to his chair, and kisses the top of his head. “Was she … alive long?”
I shake my head, mute. She looks relieved again, comes to me, and holds my face once before kissing each cheek. I am choking on my guilt. Then her eyes snap to the door. “You have to go.”
“I can’t—” I begin.
“You have to. No argument.”
“But—”