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My eyes fly open. That wasn’t a dream. It was a memory.
Beck hurt the little girl. I remember it vividly. His bloody nose. Her scream. Bethina’s shocked face.
And the conductor—he hurt the conductor, too.
I roll to my side and pull my knees into my chest. How have I never noticed his bursts of anger?
The memory of Beck on the hill with the Sensitives forces its way into my mind and my breath lodges in my throat.
He did that. The truth digs at my heart and stings. I can’t accept it. I can’t. Beck doesn’t hurt people—he doesn’t kill people. He’s kind and funny and everything that’s the opposite of wicked.
But the evidence...Is that what Bethina had meant?
Tears again. So many tears for a boy who always made me laugh.
The train rumbles on, each mile bringing me closer to my destination. But I’m no longer so sure I want to go there. I can’t change Beck. I can’t make him into a non-Sensitive. Isn’t that why Caitlyn Greene and her fellow patriots went to such lengths to identify Sensitives? Because they couldn’t be changed and will always be a threat?
I wipe the dampness from my face and sit up. By this time, Bethina knows I’m gone. I wonder if she’s told anyone?
Of course she has. It’s her responsibility. Plus, she’s a rule follower. Just like me.
But not today. Today, I’ve piled up broken rules faster than I can count. And for what? A boy who lied to me his whole life?
I rub my hands across my eyes. There has to be more to this. I need to let Beck explain. I owe him that much.
My stomach gives a low rumble and I weigh the risk of visiting the dining car. Maybe if I’m fast, no one will notice me?
I slide my feet into my shoes, put on my coat and rewrap the scarf so it doesn’t cover my face, just my chin. It would look odd to wear a hat, so I leave it on the bed. My run-in with the ticket agent highlighted the need to keep my bare wrist concealed and I pull my arm into my coat—like it’s injured.
With my free hand, I untangle the knots from my hair. No one’s ever seen me in public without my hair pulled back, nice and tidy. I pray my “Long Winter” inspired outfit and loose hair is enough of a disguise. Surely, no one expects to see me in something so ridiculous.
But then, the ticket agent knew who I was—even with my scarf pulled up.
Hunger gnaws at my stomach. Unless I want to starve, I don’t have many options. After adjusting my jacket one last time, I force open the berth door and scope out the hallway. It’s empty.
The train sways side-to-side and I bounce off the passage wall. I don’t want to fall, so I test my ability to steady myself a few feet at a time. Once I master the fine art of walking, I follow the scent of food to the dining car.
The car’s not too crowded, which isn’t good. The less people, the more attention I draw. The bartender lifts his eyes from the drink he’s preparing and glances briefly at me before turning back to his work.
Not even a flicker of recognition. Good.
I roll my shoulders, releasing tension and sink into a plush seat next to a window. I position myself so my back faces the rest of the car and my bare wrist lies snug against my chest, under my coat. I hope it looks like I’m admiring the passing scenery.
When the waiter comes, I keep myself carefully half-turned away from him, and place my order.
Ruins blur past the observation window. This area was once called Los Angeles and had a population of millions. Now, it’s nothing but deserted wasteland and crumbling buildings—like most Old World cities.
After the Long Winter, only a few larger cities—San Francisco, Calgary, Austin, Chicago and Ottawa—survived. The crush of people seeking refuge and taxing already limited resources destroyed the other large cities. Towns and rural areas simply disappeared until the State actively rebuilt them by granting large tracks of vacant land to States People as private estates. The Channing estate, Summer Hill, is one of those places, as is my mother’s in the far north.
Mile after mile of decrepit buildings whirls past. Is this what Beck saw as he was rushed away from the only home he’s ever really known?
“Oh, Beck,” I whisper and close my eyes.
A dull clunk tells me the waiter left my fruit plate on the table. I wait a minute to make sure my tears stay put and then open my eyes. Starving, I grab a piece of pineapple and inhale it in an unlady-like manner. Bethina would be appalled if she saw the juice running down my face. Not to mention my complete non-use of cutlery.
I try to prevent it but the picnic dream invades my thoughts. Beck hurt that little girl. I’m sure of it. Even Bethina knew.
And yet she didn’t report him. It doesn’t make sense.
I cut off a piece of cheese, using just my fork so that my naked wrist stays hidden under the table, and layer it over an apple slice. As I chew, I mull over Bethina’s involvement.
Perhaps Beck has the power to influence people or control them? Mr. Proctor discussed it in Society class. Sensitives can cause natural disasters, famines, wars and take people’s free will. I rack my mind and try to remember if they ever covered falling tree limbs. I don’t think so, but it doesn’t sound like a far reach.
So what about Bethina? If my memory is right, she knew Beck was Sensitive and did nothing about it. But at the house, she acted like she had no idea what was happening. It doesn’t add up.
“Five of ‘em. All students,” a nasally male voice says. The person isn’t too far behind me and I shift my attention from the lifeless, gray sky and miles of nothing to the conversation.
I stab a piece of mango in an effort to seem preoccupied.
“The West is getting soft, I tell you. The trials haven’t done a damn thing to stop the attacks and now the schools—the safe schools—are being infiltrated. What’s next?” The other male speaker has an accent I associate with the Eastern Society, trilling and fast.
I turn my head slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the two men without exposing myself. They’re dressed as States People, both with prominent blue wristbands. Every society has the same structure to make it easier to identify rank. But one of them wears a soft blue scarf instead of the normal green. Definitely a diplomat from the East. Which means, they most likely know my mother…and me.
“Do you know any of them?” nasal voice asks.
“Perhaps, the girl.” The Eastern diplomat responds. “But the rest aren’t known to me.”
I furrow my forehead. Kyra? Is he talking about Kyra? But how could they not know Beck? He’s the best known out of all of them.
“They should all be tried and executed. Every last one of them,” Nasal Voice says. “After all, that’s what they do to us. They show us no mercy.”
My stomach drops and a tiny gasp escapes my lips. Executed? Is that even possible? Would the State kill students? Even if they are Sensitive?
Panic threatens to overwhelm me, but I wait a few more minutes, eagerly eavesdropping. The conversation, however, has turned toward crop production and politics.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This can’t be happening. It has to be a nightmare. It has to be.
Going to Summer Hill is insane. If the State quarantined Beck, there’s no way I’ll be able to see him—especially, if he’s going on trial. All that will happen is I’ll become known as a Sensitive sympathizer and possibly tried as well for crimes against the State.
But I can’t leave Beck alone. The thought of him, in some dark jail cell, waiting an unknown fate is almost too awful to think about. And I know, with every piece of my being, he’d never abandon me. I owe him the same.
An unwanted possibility bubbles inside me. If Beck is Sensitive, then perhaps he won’t want to see me. I can deal with the State keeping him from me, but if he turns his back on me…
I push my chair back, leaving my half-eaten plate of fruit and cheese on the table, and walk toward the door. Above the bar, a wall screen, with volume
turned down, flickers. Images of smiling farmers and non-States people fill the screen. At least someone is happy.
A hand clasps onto my arm before I reach the door. “Mind if I join you?”
11
Maz stands next to me, his feet spread wide. He flashes me a lopsided smile and tugs at his school cloak with one hand. It’s clear he’s merely a student.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in harsh whisper and point at his cloak. “And take those off.”
He gives me a blank look.
“The cloak and wristlet, Maz. Take them off. Do you want to give us away?”
He slips his wristlet into his pocket and shrugs out of the offending garment. “Nice to see you, too.”
I study the creases on my knuckles as I open and close my hand in an effort to stay calm. “You didn’t answer my question: why are you here?”
“I saw you leave, and figured if you were going to find Beck then I’d better come too. Best friend and all,” Maz says.
“You should be searching for Kyra. I’m going to Summer Hill, Beck’s home.” I wave him away. “And unless I’m mistaken, Kyra’s parents live in the north.”
An uneasy silence settles between us. Maz ignores me by focusing on his already ragged fingernails. I return the favor by staring out the window by the bar.
Having Maz here, on the train, bothers me. It’s not that I don’t like him. He’s great actually—a nice guy and Kyra adores him. But I don’t need him tagging along and getting in my way.
My mind churns through the options for getting rid of him. Ditching him, my first choice, won’t work on a moving train. He’d just follow me. But maybe he’d be willing to get off at the next stop? I could give him money for a new ticket and he could go look for Kyra.
We can’t keep standing here, in the middle of the increasingly busy dining car without drawing attention to ourselves, so I jerk my head back toward my still empty table. Apparently, no one wants to sit at a table with half-eaten food on it. “Let’s sit down.”
It’s a short distance to the table and I sink back into my chair while Maz takes the more visible spot across from me. I push my plate out of my way, lay my chin on my arms and stare up at him. “How did you know I’d go looking for Beck?”
He rolls his eyes. “Where else would you be going?”
He has a point.
“They’re wrong about him,” I assert. ”I’m going to prove it. You should try to do the same for Kyra. If you like her the way you say you do.” I reach for my backpack, to give him money since I know he doesn’t have any, but realize I left it in my berth.
“Why don’t you ping your mother and have her fix it?”
“What?” I stammer. I’ve never asked Mother for help before; I’ve never needed to. It’s always been Bethina I’ve turned to. Plus, Mother is busy. I don’t want to interrupt her.
“You know, your mother,” he enunciates. “The Vice Head of State. The pretty lady who’s always on the news?”
“I never thought of it,” I admit.
“Because you know he’s a Sensitive.”
“No! I don’t know anything. It’s just that…” I trail off. I don’t want to share my suspicions with him. He may be Beck’s best friend, but I just can’t say it out loud. Besides, the less people who know about Beck, the better chance I have of fixing this mess.
“It’s just that you know,” he says, completing my sentence. “Maybe he never said anything. But you know, or at least have a feeling. Don’t you?”
“Keep your voice down,” I order. “Do you want everyone to hear you?” I glance at the two States Men near us. They’re still lost in conversation, oblivious to Maz and me.
I fold my arms across my chest and refuse to look at Maz. Maybe I should call my mother. After all, she could clear all this up within minutes. But if I do, and if what they’re saying about Beck is true, she’ll make me come home. Immediately.
And if she thinks I’m determined to find him, what will she let the State do to Beck? The same as they’ve done to other Sensitives in the past? Force him into a work camp, prevent him from binding and brand him a criminal? Execute him? I’d rather say goodbye to him a hundred times than think about him suffering like that. My hope of finding him rests on the State going easy on him.
“No. I can’t ping my mother.” I shake my head. “Why don’t you ping your parents?”
“They’re only mid-level States People. But you’re Malin Greene’s daughter. Don’t you think you should contact her? Seriously, I bet she’s in major damage control mode right now, and you running off probably makes it worse.”
“I barely know my mother.” Unlike most students, I’ve only visited with Mother a handful of times. Even then, she was always busy and paid more attention to Callum and Annalise than Beck and me. Maybe because Callum looks more like her, with his blond hair and blue eyes.
“What’s your deal, Lark? You say you want to find Beck but you’re not really trying, are you?”
Anger simmers inside me. I struggle to push it down.
My voice is sharp. “You have no idea how much I want to see Beck again.”
He opens his mouth to speak but stops. The set of his jaw tells me he’s upset. Our eyes lock and I glower at him.
Maz doesn’t break our stare down but his eyes soften. “He’s not good enough for you. You know that, don’t you?”
A strangled sound forces its way into my throat. Half-cry, half-surprise. “How can you say that? He’s your best friend.”
Maz shakes his head. “I love Kyra.” He shifts a little in his seat. “But you and Beck are so different; I can see that. You don’t love him—you always push him away.”
My dry throat burns. Maz is right, I do push Beck away. “It’s only because I have to. Not because I want to,” I croak.
“It’s okay, Lark. Not everyone loves—or even likes—their mate.”
“Love?” Beck’s my best friend, different than Kyra. And the way my heart races when he’s near me, isn’t that love?
“I mean, unless you two have kept everything secret? Things you didn’t tell Kyra?”
I shake my head.
Wrinkles appear between his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t believe he’s Sensitive?”
No, I’m not sure. But instead, I say, “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Kyra told me you never talk about your binding. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“No, why?” My eyes roam around the room to see if anyone is listening. The dining car is packed and people mill about waiting for an open seat. Only the bartender seems remotely interested in our discussion but he’s across the room—too far to hear anything.
Maz gazes out the window. His fingers tap the table in a quick, rhythmic beat. After about a minute, the sound irritates me and just when I’m about ready to tell him to stop, he says, “Kyra can influence people by touch. She told me.”
I turn away from him. “You knew?” My heart sinks. Kyra is Sensitive and she told Maz, but not me.
Until recently, we did everything together, shared our best secrets. But somewhere along the road our relationship changed. And I didn’t even notice.
“Yeah, she told me a few months ago.” His eyes shine. “Said her mom told her on her last visit. You remember? Her brother’s binding last year? Before he was–”
“Killed by Sensitives?” Obviously, that was a lie.
The train pitches sharply to the left.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Calm. Stay calm. “What did Kyra tell you?”
He moves his chair around the table. He’s so close now, our elbows touch. His head is near my ear. “Her whole family is Sensitive. And apparently, they’re not the only ones. Kyra said most of the ones the State catches aren’t real Sensitives. They’re just normal, human criminals.”
If Kyra’s whole family is Sensitive, then who killed her brother? The State doesn’t operate like that; we give even the most heinous cri
minals a day in court. I wrinkle my forehead. “Are you saying the State can’t identify them?
“Or they’re lying.” He raises his eyebrows. “Real Sensitives don’t start showing natural ability until around age sixteen. But I hear there are exceptions—kids who can do stuff early on.”
My shoulders round forward. Beck hurt that girl when he was a child. And the
conductor, too.
Near the bar, a light bulb burns out and casts a long shadow across the room. My thoughts follow the movements of the bartender—up, down and all over the place—as he searches for a replacement bulb and changes it.
“I’m going to say something you’re not going to like.” Maz frowns.
I let my mind drift to blankness. Nothing Maz can say is worse than what’s already stuck in my mind.
“He knew. And he didn’t tell you.”
Maz’s voice is soft, a whisper, but the words strike me like they were shouted. I recoil. The train shimmies and the people standing nearest us hold onto any table or chair they can grab.
“How could you say that?” I grit my teeth. “Did he tell you?”
Maz reaches for my hand but I pull it away. “No. But Kyra suspected. She told me.”
“Why? What did he do to make her believe that?” The lights flicker in the dining car. Out the window, a storm brews in the distance.
“We’ve both seen you upset. But one touch from Beck and you’re fine. He can control your emotions.”
A thick rope knots in my stomach. It’s true. Like in class yesterday. I wanted answers but he wanted to avoid giving them. He touched my hand, drew circles on it or something. And then I was fine.
Blood rushes hard through my body. Maybe if I sit here long enough and pretend I can’t hear him, Maz’ll go away. But another thought pops into my head.
“You plan on supporting her, don’t you? Even though she’s Sensitive?”
Maz licks his lip and hesitates. “Yeah.”
“But you don’t think I should stay with Beck?” Why should he still want Kyra, but I shouldn’t stay with my chosen mate?
“I love her, Lark. That’s the difference. You don’t love him.” He gives me a sad glance. “And you have a bigger future than I do. You’re going to move up in State fast.”
What he’s suggesting goes against everything the State has taught us.
I shake my head. “No, you’re wrong. I don’t have a future anymore.” My voice elevates. “I’m a Singleton now. No State job for me.”
Maz pushes back in his chair, his face serious. “What you’re doing is stupid. You can do better. Just because you’re birth-mated doesn’t mean you need to stay with him.”
Shock flits across my face but I wipe it away before he notices. “Beck’s my family. He’d do the same for me.” I clench my teeth to keep from yelling.
“Uh-huh.” He smirks and rocks back in his chair. “If he trusted you, he would have told you.”
Tension rolls through my stomach. A sharp pain stabs at my temple. I don’t want to think about Beck being a bad guy.
Maz jumps up. Concern covers every inch of his face. “Heya, what’s wrong with you?”
“Other than you thinking I’ve lost my mind?” I snap.
“No. Your whole body is shaking or something. Are you okay?” He sounds genuinely worried. Scared even.
My hands tremble. I had no idea.
“I’m fine. Probably just tired. Or nerves.” Strange, other than being upset, I feel fine, not sick or anything.
“Okay. But really Lark, if you need to go lay down, just let me know. Kyra would never forgive me if I let something happen to you.”
Across the room, several light bulbs explode at once sending glass spraying out across the diners. The room plunges into blackness and high-pitched shrieks fill the air. A sharp jarring motion sends me careening backward into the wall.
“Maz?” I shout over the crush of confusion. “Maz? Where are you?” I crawl on my hands across the floor and use the table to pull myself up. Emergency lights shine from the bar as the bartender hands them out to passengers.
Cold fingers lace around my ankle. Maz is curled at my feet. Through the dim light, I see a large, bloody gash across his forehead. “Are you okay?”
He coughs and runs his hand over his forehead, smearing blood further across his face. “Can you help me back to your room?”
“My room? I’ll take you to yours and help clean you up.” I kneel and wrap his arm across my shoulder. “One. Two. Three” I heft him to his feet. “Which way?”
Despite his wound, he grins. “I don’t have one. I snuck on and hoped you’d take pity.” He bats his eyes.
Great. Not only am I on a mission to find my Sensitive birth-mate but I’ve run away from home, lied, impersonated a States Woman, and who-knows-what-else. And I now have a confessed Sensitive harborer as my fare jumping travel partner.
If I’m caught now, jail may be my best option.
12
Since Maz doesn’t have a ticket and is bleeding all over the place, I have no choice but to bring him back to my room. I’m not as angry with him now that he’s injured. Still aggravated with his suggestion I leave Beck, but not angry. There is a certain logic to his thinking, after all.
I unlock the door and flick on the wall lamp. My backpack’s on the table.
And I swear I left it on the chair.
“Maz—you didn’t come by here earlier, did you?”
“No, why?”
I put my finger to my lips and pick up the bag. A quick check shows everything’s there—even the money. Maybe I’m more tired than I thought. Still, something seems off.
“Just wondering.” I motion to the chair and place myself on the bed. “Do you want me to clean that for you?”
He touches his forehead gently. His fingers find the semi-sticky blood and he pulls them away. “Is it bad?”
“Hard to tell. Head wounds always look worse than they are. You should at least clean it.”
He shrugs. From the way he winced when he touched his head, I know it hurts. Stupid male pride.
“Bathroom is in the hallway to the left. Do you think you can go by yourself or do you need help?”
He wrinkles his nose at me. “I think I’m okay.”
I stand up and help him toward the door, not quite convinced he should be wandering around by himself. “Okay. But if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming to find you.” I slide the door open.
He doesn’t argue.
A few minutes alone is just what I need. I sit on the bed cross-legged and try to piece together what Maz has told me. Out of everything he said, one thing burns brightest in my mind: Kyra told Maz. She confided in him. But not me.
So why didn’t Beck tell me? I can keep a secret just as well as Maz.
Maybe he was ashamed. Or scared. Maybe both?
The door slides open and Maz lumbers into the room with a thick pad of tissue stuck to his head.
“All better?”
He collapses in the chair. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
But from the way he holds his head, I wonder if he suffered a concussion. He probably wouldn’t admit it if I asked, so I’m just going to have to watch him. After years of watching Bethina treat Beck, I’m an expert at identifying concussions.
First thing, keep him awake and check for signs of confusion. “I know you think it’s a bad idea and all, but we should get to Summer Hill tomorrow morning. We need a plan.”
Maz clasps his hands behind his neck and stretches. “You haven’t changed your mind?”
I shake my head.
“Well in that case, I guess we’ll just walk up there and ask to see Beck. See what happens.” He’s joking, but I don’t find it funny.
“But what if it’s not that easy? What if there are guards or something?” My mind leaps ahead to prison cells and espionage. “What if he’s not there?”
“Yeah, no.” He shakes his head. ?
??Don’t think it’s gonna happen. They only lock up the really bad cases. The rest are quarantined or something.”
“Do you know what exactly they do with them? The other ones, I mean.”
“I think the State keeps them under house arrest until their trial. The ‘safer’ cases get put on a labor team and relocated to a settlement. You know that.”
I stare at the floor, studying the speckled carpet pattern. The train sways and Maz closes his eyes. I can’t let him drift off yet, but the question I need answered sits on my tongue, waiting for me to muster courage. Finally, I ask, “Kyra didn’t know until her mother told her, right?”
“She had no clue. Her mother thought she’d be torn up over it, but Kyra was excited. She said it was like learning you’re a superhero.”
She didn’t know. So maybe Beck didn’t either. At least not until today.
With my finger, I draw a series of circles on the table between the bed and chair. The repetitive movement helps me focus. “I wonder why she thinks it’s like being a superhero? She’s not saving the world. She’s a Sensitive—they’re the bad guys.”
“She has powers Lark. What’s not to like about that?”
I ignore his question. So far, he doesn’t seem confused and is recalling our earlier conversation. That’s good, even if his opinions are misguided. I get off the bed and stand in front of him, peering into his face.
“What are you doing?”
I hold up one finger. “Can you see this? Is it blurry?”
Maz’s goofy laugh fills the little room. “Doctor Lark, are you checking me for a concussion?”
I scowl. Just like a guy to make fun of my concern. “So what?”
“I never thought of you as the nurturing type.” He laughs again before patting me on the head. “See, nothing to worry about. Now, who gets the bed and who gets the floor?”
“Who do you think?” I give him my best ‘you-must-be-kidding’ glare, grab my pack and head for the restroom.
I keep my head down as I wait next to the door for another passenger to finish. Once she vacates the tiny bathroom compartment, I seal myself in and hang my pack on the clothing hook. From the free toiletries container, I retrieve toothpaste and a toothbrush. I hate bad breath.
And then I see my face. It’s just my normal face. I don’t look worn out or freakish or anything. It’s just my face.
My olive eyes stare back at me. Beck’s eyes. Our eyes.
If he didn’t know…then maybe I don’t either.
I glance away. What if Kyra lied to Maz? That’s what Sensitives do. Lie. She most likely didn’t want him to out her, so she pretended she didn’t know.
Which means Beck knew.
I hurry through the rest of my pre-bed routine but avoid looking in the mirror.
When I get back to the room, I find Maz curled with the extra pillow and his coat on the floor. I step over him and crawl into the bed.
I lay awake after Maz dozes off. The sound of his snoring is nothing like Beck’s rhythmic breathing. I peer over the edge of the bed at him. It feels wrong having this boy share my room.
I scrunch myself into the corner of the bed and shove the pillow over my head. Maybe if I try hard enough, I can imagine Maz is Beck, and I’ll sleep soundly.
I should hate Beck. I should fear him. But I don’t. I can’t. He’s ingrained in me. His smile and laugh threaded into the very fabric of me. Who am I without him?
I squeeze my eyes shut and give in to the images of Beck dancing behind my eyelids.
Hurry, Lark. I’m waiting.
Beck’s deep, honey-toned voice echoes around my brain. My eyes fly open and search for him. But, of course, he’s not here. It’s just wishful thinking.
I clutch my little bird pendent and pray his voice will weave itself into my dreams.
“I’ll be there soon. Promise,” I murmur as I drift off to sleep.