Written in Red

Meg opened the journal she had found at the General Store. She labeled the first page Books, skipped a page, then labeled the next one Music. She skipped another page, put the date at the top of the page, and stopped.

What was she supposed to write? Dear Diary, I didn’t get eaten today. That was true, but it didn’t really say much. Or maybe it said everything that needed to be said.

She still wasn’t sure if humans didn’t stay long in jobs at the Courtyard because they quit or because they didn’t survive dealing with the Others. Except for Lorne, who ran the Three Ps, and Elizabeth Bennefeld, the therapist who was available at the Good Hands Massage Parlor a couple afternoons each week, Merri Lee was the longest-employed human in the Courtyard, and she had been working at A Little Bite for just over a year. Sure, employees were considered not edible, but that didn’t mean anything if the person did something the Others considered a betrayal.

What would the Others consider a betrayal? Certainly a physical act against them would count, but what about a lie that didn’t have anything to do with them? Would that be seen as betrayal?

In the end, afraid that privacy was still an illusion, she avoided mentioning names or what parts of the Courtyard she had visited while making deliveries, but she did mention attending the Quiet Mind exercise class, which was held on the second floor of Run & Thump, and visiting the Courtyard library.

She had found three of the books Winter had requested and two for herself before running into Merri Lee, who had talked her into trying the Quiet Mind class, then went with her to a couple of stores to select an exercise mat and workout clothes.

She was making friends, developing a routine that could become a satisfying life for however long it lasted. If she just remembered to stop at the grocery store to pick up food for the evening meals, she would be all set. As it was, she scrounged what was left of the food Tess had brought, too tired to go back out once she staggered up to her apartment.

Now, muscles loosened from a hot shower and adequately fed, she tucked herself into bed with one of the books, content to read while cars rolled by and people’s voices carried in the still air as they headed home.

She heard Wolves howling, but she wasn’t sure how close they were to this part of the Courtyard. How far did the sound travel? The library had computers that could access information through the telephone lines. Maybe she could find information about the animal wolf that would help her understand the terra indigene Wolf.

She tensed when she heard a heavy footfall near her door, but she let out a sigh of relief when that was followed by the rattle of keys in the door across from hers. She had passed Henry in the Market Square that afternoon, and he had mentioned that he would be staying in one of the other efficiency apartments tonight because he wanted to remain close to his studio.

Picking up her journal, she made a note to herself to look up sculpture and totems when she had a chance to use the computer at the library.

Henry’s door opened and closed. Cars crunched by. Meg got up to make a cup of chamomile tea, then went back to bed and kept reading, slightly scandalized by the story—and more scandalized by the fact that no one had stopped her from taking out the book.

Then there were no sounds of cars, no people heading home.

Meg looked at the clock and reluctantly closed the book. She got up long enough to put her mug in the sink and go to the bathroom. Tomorrow was a rest day, and the Liaison’s Office and most of the Courtyard stores were closed. Hopefully that didn’t include the grocery store. Apples for the ponies on Moonsday? She would need to cut them just before the ponies arrived. Otherwise the chunks would turn brown from the air. She knew that from training images. The girls had spent an entire week one year looking at captioned pictures of different kinds of fruit, from fresh to rotted. In a prophecy, seeing fruit that had been rotting for a specific number of days could indicate the time a person had been missing . . . or dead.

Meg let out a gusty sigh. Maybe her kind always saw the world as images that could be recalled to create a whole picture for someone else. Or maybe it was the way she had been trained to think and learn. Jean hadn’t used the standard images all the time, but she had been unusual, difficult. Different.

You’ll have a chance to escape this life, Meg. You’ll have a chance to be someone for yourself. When the chance comes, take it and run—and don’t come back. Don’t ever let them bring you back here.

What about you?

The Walking Names made sure I can’t run, but I’ll be free someday. I saw that too.

The prickling under Meg’s skin started in her feet and ran up both legs. She stifled a cry, not wanting Henry to hear her and come pounding on the door, demanding an explanation.

She walked toward the bathroom, hoping to find something in the medicine chest that would ease the feeling.

She knew what would make the prickling go away, but it was too soon to cut again. Besides, she also knew how much it hurt to hold in a prophecy, and speaking without a listener would relieve the pressure but it wouldn’t do her any good otherwise.

As she tried to talk herself out of making another cut, the prickling faded on its own.

Meg splashed some water on her face, then returned to the living area of her apartment, determined to focus on the present and not the past because, most likely, her present could be measured in days or weeks.

The Moonsday treat. How many apples for how many ponies? She’d better bring extra in case more ponies showed up. How many lived in the Courtyard anyway? She’d have to ask Jester, since he was the one who looked after them.

Her mind on ponies and apples and what she might do on her day off, Meg pulled aside the drape and looked down at the street—and forgot all about sleeping.

The man was there again. She couldn’t make out his features, but he was wearing the same dark coat and watch cap as the man she’d seen the other night. She was sure of it.

As she watched, he crossed Crowfield Avenue, heading straight for the glass door that provided street access to the apartments. But that door was locked. She was still safe because that door was locked.

Training image. Hands manipulating slim metal instruments to open a lock.

A locked door wouldn’t keep her safe. Panic held her frozen at the window. Then the prickling returned in her legs as she heard a sound she couldn’t identify. Her hands and arms began to tingle as she remembered the last time she and Jean had spoken.

Don’t ever let them bring you back here.

Meg bolted across the room, certain now that the man had been sent by the Controller.

Couldn’t get out. Locked in, just like before when she lived in the compound! No, not like before. Now she had the keys. The dead bolt just needed a key.

She scrambled for the keys in her purse, panting as her shaking hands tried to fit the key in the lock.

Was the man coming up the stairs? Creeping down the hallway? If she opened the door, would he be right there, waiting to grab her?

The tingling in her hands became a buzz that was so painful she dropped the keys. Unable to escape, she pounded on the door and screamed, “Henry! Henry!” Could he hear her? Please, gods, let him hear me!

She felt as well as heard the roar that filled the hallway, followed by a startled cry and the clatter of boots.

Racing to the window, Meg saw the man running across the street, angling for the corner and disappearing from sight. Retracing her steps, she picked up the keys with shaking hands and finally managed to open the door.

Henry stood at the end of the hallway, looking down the stairs. She couldn’t see his expression—the lights from his apartment and hers didn’t reach that far, and he hadn’t turned on the hallway light—but she had the impression he was very angry.

“Henry?” she said hesitantly. “Should I call someone?”

“Who would you call?” he asked, sounding more curious than angry.

“I don’t know. The police? Or someone in the Courtyard?”