My fiancé turns his attention back to his meal. Slowly, I remove the locket. Thomas didn’t give it to me. Who did?
• VII •
After dinner, Thomas promises Klartino a thousand dollars if he lets us kiss in private.
We three are standing directly outside the light-rail station near the northeast bridge of my building. Klartino nods. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby,” he says to me. “Don’t take too long.”
Thomas takes my hand and pulls me out of the light, to the edge of the platform. My back is against the station’s glass wall. Beyond that is emptiness. We seem to hover over the city.
This is what I am thinking about—the dark drop to the Depths just on the other side of the glass, the long fall Hunter saved me from—when Thomas kisses me.
I wait to see if I feel anything, for our marriage’s sake, but the voice telling me I love him is gone. At least for now. It’s just lips touching. No spark.
“Is something wrong?” he asks as I pull away. His hands feel hot—too hot—against my shoulders. I shake free. His brown eyes are open with concern, his mouth smudged with traces of my lipstick. A lock of chocolate-colored hair is curled across his forehead.
“No,” I say, wiping his lips clean with my thumb. Pushing back his hair. The nighttime shadows play over his face; he looks even more handsome than he did in the restaurant. “It’s just that … I should be getting inside. I’m exhausted.”
Part of me expects Thomas to insist that I stay outside in the blazing heat with him, to tell me that he can’t bear to live a single second without me, even though I suspect that isn’t true.
But he only nods and touches two fingers to my forehead. “Go to sleep, Aria. You’ve had a long day.” He pivots and disappears back inside the station.
I slowly cross the platform and step onto the bridge that leads toward my family’s apartment. In the distance I see a figure slip out the back entrance of my building, the same entrance I used last night. I recognize the person’s cloak immediately—Davida.
What is she doing?
Davida appears to be heading downtown. Even though Klartino is waiting for me in the lobby of my building, I decide to follow her. I’m a few feet behind, on a separate bridge that runs parallel to hers, but I do my best to keep up.
The shadows from the buildings make it difficult to see her as she weaves in and out of the light, from bridge to bridge. My feet are killing me, and the arcs of the bridges make it harder to run than if I were simply on flat pavement. Damn these heels.
I pass four or five apartment buildings, then reach Seventy-Second Street and cross at the intersection, heading east. Davida’s stride is relentless, and she increases the distance between us with each step. The only way I’ll be able to catch her is to flat-out run.
Just as I am deciding to do that, I am jolted by a blast of yellow-green light and an intense noise: a power station on my left.
Four men are working, their grimy hands occupied with tools. The power station is a prismlike building with iridescent sides, one of the various triangular skyscrapers spaced around the city to give energy to the power grid. A hatch is open and a tangle of tubes is exposed—thick, snaking glass piping full of bright green mystic energy. The energy pulses and swirls like it’s alive.
One of the men, with sandy-colored hair and a spotty beard, stops and notices me. I take a step back. He powers off his drill and the others follow suit.
Eight eyes refuse to blink as they stare at me.
They recognize me, and the pale, sunken skin of their faces chills me. Drained mystics. They’re everywhere.
I look across the bridges around me and see no one. There is no one here but these sad-looking men and me. I’ve lost Davida.
I turn around immediately and head home.
“How was dinner?” asks my mother, seated on the black leather sofa of our living area. Her face is freshly scrubbed, hair still wet from the shower. She is wearing a thick pink robe and sipping from a glass tumbler. All the curtains are drawn, and the overhead lights are dimmed.
Was she waiting up for me?
Klartino has left—after chastising me in the lobby for making him wait so long—and I wasn’t expecting a conversation with my mother. “Fine,” I lie.
She arches an eyebrow. “Just fine?”
“Nice,” I say, correcting myself. “It was very nice.”
“Good.” She crosses her legs. “You should get to sleep, Aria. Don’t forget that you’re filming an ad for the campaign in the morning.”
“What?”
“Didn’t Thomas tell you about it?”
“No.” I squeeze my clutch, thinking of the locket inside. “He didn’t.”
“There was an explosion earlier tonight on the Lower East Side. A … demonstration arranged by those damned rebels.”
“There was an explosion?” I ask in shock.
She swirls the liquid in her glass. “Yes. We need to take advantage of the timing. We’re going to run ads of you and Thomas down at the wreckage, and also one of Garland working with some of the firemen. The poor fools in the Depths may think they’re doing themselves a favor by supporting that … mystic … but they couldn’t be more wrong. And we won’t let her win.”
“How many people died?”
My mother takes a swallow of her drink. “Does it matter? Those idiots think they’re rallying the poor, but they’re only reminding the public how very dangerous mystics are. The rebels will never stop. They need to be exterminated.”
I’m speechless, numb. She could at least pretend to be sad that innocent people lost their lives. I start to head up the stairs and into my room.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” my mother asks.
I tilt my head, confused.
She bats her eyelids. “Kiss goodnight?”
I force myself to peck her on the cheek. Her skin is ice cold. “Good night.”
“Oh, Aria, send Davida down, would you? I have a few things I need her to do.”
I can’t do this, of course, because Davida is not here. The last thing I want to do is get her in trouble. “Um, I sent her out.”
My mother looks genuinely shocked. “You did?”
“Yes, I wanted her to … fix the clasp on one of my bracelets.” I press my lips together. “It broke.”
She glances at her watch. “You sent her out this late? It’s past ten.”
It’s implausible, I know, but all I can do is nod and hope she believes me.
Surprisingly, she does. “I’m glad to see you’re finally using our servants properly. It’s about time. Soon you’ll be running a household of your own.” She finishes her drink in one large gulp. “Send Magdalena down instead. And be quiet—your father is already asleep.”
Kyle is waiting for me at the top of the stairs with his arms crossed.
“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“Heading over to Bennie’s,” he says.
I try to move past him, but he’s like a barricade in a navy-blue T-shirt and jeans. His hair is perfectly messy, as though he’s spent a great deal of effort in front of the mirror trying to make it seem like he didn’t try at all. Personally, I think it’s nice that after all this time dating, he still wants to impress Bennie.
“You sent Davida out on an errand?” he asks. “I don’t believe you. That would be like Kiki buying something on sale.”
“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” I tell him. “Now move.”
He doesn’t. “You never ask Davida to do anything for you. You hardly even bother Magdalena. Why now?”
“I ask her to do tons of stuff.”
“No,” he says. “You don’t. Now where is she really?”
“Like I told Mom, getting my bracelet fixed.”
Kyle takes a step closer. “Which bracelet?”
I take too long before answering, and he laughs. “I’m onto you,” Kyle whispers before stepping aside. I don’t look back as I pass him.
&nbs
p; Instead of changing out of my clothes, I wait for Kyle to leave. Then I sneak into Davida’s room.
Davida lives in the servants’ wing of our penthouse, on the opposite end of the second floor from where my bedroom is.
I haven’t been in Davida’s room in months—maybe even years—but her neatness doesn’t surprise me. The furnishings are simple and the décor is practically nonexistent: white walls, gray carpet, a narrow bed, and a tall dresser. A small closet and one window that overlooks the Hudson. The only thing that seems personalized is the stitching on her curtains. I walk over to take a closer look: tiny stars fashioned from silver thread, moons and planets intricately designed in red and blue.
Where would Davida keep something private, like a journal?
I sift through the outfits in her closet. Most are versions of her uniform, plus a few bland tops she’s allowed to wear out on her days off.
It’s not that I don’t trust Davida. It’s just that—well, I’m suspicious. Dirt from the Depths on the fingertips of her gloves, and now this: sneaking off in the night. What is she not telling me?
I feel around in the gloom under her bed and catch my thumb on the pointed edge of a metal box. I grab either side of it and pull until the thing is in full sight. The box is long enough to store a rifle, like the ones my father keeps in a glass case in his library. There are two clasps. I undo them, lift the lid, and peer inside.
Inside are some of the birthday gifts I have given Davida over the years: an aMuseMe with her favorite songs already downloaded, tiny porcelain dolls with beautifully etched faces, a bounty of jeweled rings and necklaces, an electronic reader with some of my favorite books.
And gloves.
Dozens upon dozens of gloves, all black, neatly folded and stacked in pairs. They look as though they’ve never been worn—impeccably clean and pressed, no lines or creases.
I pick up a pair and study them: they are linked together by a tiny metal clasp, which I unhook. They feel odd, soft yet durable, as though you could drag a knife across the palm and the material wouldn’t tear. The oddest thing about them, though, are the fingertips, each of which is decorated with almost imperceptible circular whorls that I’ve never noticed before.
I slip one on, and it fits perfectly. I flex my hands and the fingertip whorls immediately start to warm, filling my entire body with a subtle, inexplicable kind of heat.
I extend my hand and stare: What are these?
I rip off the glove and fix it back to its partner. I might as well keep them for a little while—there are so many pairs, Davida will never know if one is missing.
Then I pack up everything as it was and leave.
Back in my room, I tuck the gloves and my clutch safely in the back of my armoire.
After a hot bath, I dress in a worn flannel nightgown and press off my bedroom lights. Then I press open the curtains and watch as the city slowly comes into view. The mystic spires are alight with flashes of color. I study them, hoping their oscillation will soothe me to sleep: white to yellow to green.
The change of colors is so fast it’d be easy to miss. But I’ve been looking at these spires for years.
Eventually I slip underneath my covers, close my eyes, and wait for sleep to overtake me.
“Come,” he says, taking my hand as we move in the moonlight—away from the noises of the main canal, onto a narrow street barely wide enough for us to walk side by side.
Reflections of the buildings appear on the water. We run over a tiny bridge. He is in front of me, his hair whipping in the wind.
“Wait!”
“There’s no time. They’re after us.”
He turns to me. I expect to see Thomas’s face—only I don’t. I see nothing more than a dark circle, covered in a veil of fog.
“Thomas? Is that you?”
“I’m here.” He reaches out and pulls me to him. “Don’t worry.”
I frantically try to wipe away the fog. But the more I try to see him, the darker he becomes, until he’s barely there at all, until he’s nothing more than a shadow.
• VIII •
“The mystics will ruin us all!” I scream, clinging to Thomas for dear life and pointing at the man with the sallow skin.
“Cut!”
As soon as the cameras stop rolling, a crew of makeup artists rush over to me, blotting the sweat from my cheeks.
Thomas keeps his arm around me, and I survey the scene of the crime.
The rebel demonstration from the previous night has taken out an entire skyscraper. Explosives were detonated from inside—they shot upward, slicing through the building from the Depths to the Aeries. Thankfully, the occupants were mostly commercial; the only folks who lived there were the poor in the Depths, and it seems they’d been given warning and evacuated. Since the damage was done at night, everyone in the Aeries had already gone home. The explosion was mostly for show.
Unfortunately, thirty floors from the top, the walls burst and toppled over onto one of the connective bridges, snapping the wire cables and crushing a family of five who were heading home from dinner.
“Aria,” calls the director of the ad. He saunters over to where Thomas and I are standing—on a bridge perpendicular to the damaged one.
“Yes?”
The director, Kevan-Todd, wipes the top of his shaved head and frowns. “I didn’t find your fear believable.”
I slip off the mask I’m forced to wear to protect me from the still-settling debris. From a distance, my mother and some city officials look on, craning their necks to see if there’s a problem. I want to say that this is ridiculous. There’s an actor named James pretending to be a mystic, his body lathered in foundation to make him look sickly, and Kevan-Todd is worried that I’m not believable. But I know the ad is important to the campaign, so I get ready for another take.
Thomas squeezes my hand, trying to comfort me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I’m just nervous.”
“Why don’t you pretend the camera is your best friend?” Kevan-Todd suggests. “And you’re just having a casual conversation.”
I lift an eyebrow. “A casual conversation about an explosion?”
Thomas lets out a sigh. “Aria.”
“All right, all right,” I say, slipping the mask back on. “I’ll try harder.”
Kevan-Todd whips his head around to the rest of the crew. “Okay, guys. Take nine. And let’s fix the body bags, hmm? We want them to look like real dead bodies, not deflated donuts.”
One of the men rushes over to a group of long black duffels, punching them on the sides to make them seem fuller. I’m not sure what’s in them, but the people who actually died last night are already in the crematorium. Later today, their ashes will be scattered in the canals, which is where most people dispose of their loved ones.
“Aaannd … action!”
The cameras pan over the wreckage of the building and the bridge, then focus on Thomas. “I’m Thomas Foster,” he says in a slick voice, “and this is my fiancée, Aria Rose. Last night, a mystic explosion took the lives of an innocent family. This is exactly the sort of wicked terrorist bombing that our two families have joined together to put an end to. If elected mayor, my brother, Garland, will fight to keep the Aeries safe. To keep you safe.”
He pauses, and I wait for him to continue. Kevan-Todd waves his hands frantically, and I realize that I’ve nearly missed my cue.
“The mystics will ruin us all!”
Then I faint into Thomas’s arms.
“Cut!” Kevan-Todd hollers. He shoots me a tepid smile. “Well … that’s a wrap!”
Thomas yanks off his mask. “Nice job, sweetie.” He kisses my cheek. “I’m going to get some water. You want any?”
“Sure,” I say, distracted by the screams coming from the opposite bridge, where a slew of teenagers have gathered to watch the filming. Thankfully, they’ve been contained and the area we’re in is secure, but I can hear their shouts:
“Aria! We love you!”
; “Thomas is so hot!”
“I want to marry you both!”
I have to laugh because I’m so embarrassed. I’ve always been in the public eye, but I’ve never felt like a celebrity before. Two girls wave handmade banners that read:
FORBIDDEN LOVE FOREVER!
It flatters and worries me that our romance is more important to people in the Aeries than an explosion. Than death.
I motion to Thomas, wanting to know what he makes of all this attention, only he’s off chatting with some girls who have VIP passes and are holding out TouchMes for him to sign electronically.
My mother approaches and gives me a pat on the shoulder. “You were … good, Aria.” She squeezes out the compliment as if saying it were physically painful. “The ad should be ready to run by the end of the week. We’re going to play it in the Depths, make sure that as many people down there see it as possible.”
Few of the poor can afford their own television sets, so the city has installed jumbo screens in certain high-traffic areas down below for government announcements. I guess those screens will also broadcast the ad.
“I’m going to Olive and Pimentos for a fitting,” Mom continues. “My outfit for the rehearsal dinner is done. Or so I’ve been told.” She rolls her eyes. “You never know with these people. Would you like to come with me?”
I glance back at Thomas, who’s still signing autographs. He and Garland are heading to an election strategy meeting soon, and I’d prefer not to be stuck alone with my mother.
Especially when I’m planning to sneak back down to the Depths.
“Actually, I promised I’d meet Kiki for lunch.”
“I’d rather you not,” she says with a toss of her head. “There’s no one to chaperone you; Klartino and Stiggson are on business with your father.”
“But I don’t need a chaperone.”
“That was before,” my mother says.
“Before what?”
She tilts her head. “Do you really need me to spell it out for you, Aria? Before you snuck out after overdosing!”
“Mom, I’m sorry. Really.” I give her a pleading look. “Besides, Kiki and I are planning the wedding!” It’s surprising how easy it is to make up stories for my mother. “She’s promised to help me figure out who my bridesmaids should be—God knows I can’t remember enough to know who should stand with me.”