right.”
A feeling of terrible inevitability was uncoiling inside Cass, a horror that was building and drowning out the sound of Mary’s voice. Tried in absentia…crime calls for solitary…first such prisoner…
“Who…?” she whispered, licking her dry lips, suddenly unable to speak.
“Of course, they patched him up a little, because no one wanted him to die on the trip down here,” Mary continued, and Cass could feel her unblinking gaze on her. “He and these other two, they were lashed to the back of a flatbed we use for supply transport. Didn’t want them soiling any of our passenger vehicles. Tell me, Cass, are you familiar with Clausewitz’s ‘Principles of War’?”
Cass forced herself to meet Mary’s relentless gaze.
“No, I’m…afraid I’m not.”
“Well, that will make for a fascinating discussion one day soon. If you’ll indulge me. Clausewitz was a nineteenthcentury Prussian soldier and a brilliant strategist. He said everything in war is simple, but the simple is difficult.”
“Oh…I see.” But she didn’t see, didn’t have any idea what Mary was trying to say.
“So many of my staff, they’ve lost any appreciation for history they might once have had. But I like to think I’m a true student of history, one who searches for meaning in the shape of what has come before and-well.” She chuckled modestly. “Cass, may I speak frankly with you? I feel like we have a special affinity, me with my-well, what some people call my crackpot theories about society, and you with your genetic anomaly…”
Mary droned on as Cass willed Alvin to get out of the way so she could see the broken man’s face. Finally, having adjusted the linens to his satisfaction, he stepped deferentially out of the way.
And Cass got a look.
But what was left of his face was smashed, mangled, crushed. The skin was swollen and blackened. The lips were split and bloodied. The eyes were purple and swelled shut, and a gash across his cheek revealed the muscle below, a glint of white tooth. His hair was matted with red-black blood, and it was impossible to tell what color it had been, but Cass didn’t need that clue, because around his neck the man wore a simple leather cord from which, unbelievably, a small token still dangled.
Under a layer of blood and grime, the facets of the tiny crystal teardrop barely sparkled.
Cass had stolen the crystal from a man who had shown her great kindness. A squatter who lived with his memories and a dwindling cache of weed in the middle of Silva, not far from the library where she’d once lived with Ruthie. Cass had accepted his offer of shelter for the night, and in the morning she stole the pretty little suncatcher, slipping it into her pocket without ever knowing why.
The next day someone else had stolen it from her. Pretty things had no place Aftertime; it seemed almost fitting that it should slip through her fingers before she ever had a chance to cherish it.
But one other person had been with her when she’d first pocketed it, had been there when the thief took it from her.
That person was Smoke.
Cass felt the cry building deep deep inside, gathering speed and urgency as it traveled along the tendons and nerves and veins of her body, ready to burst from her lips in a desperate anguished keening. It was
Smoke. Her lover. Her betrayer. Here, on the edge of death.
He was the first and only man she loved and in this moment Cass realized that she hadn’t even begun grieving his loss, that she didn’t know the first thing about grief. She felt she could lie down next to him and welcome the blade to the throat, the steel barrel to the temple. That she could die right here next to him. Her fingers twitched with the urge to clasp his savaged hand; his blood would flow on her skin, and she would press herself to him, cradling the ruins of his body, and she would breathe in the presence of Death hovering, and she would say,
Cass was frozen-she was made of ice and of glass and of marble. Mary was watching her. Mary was observing and calculating and judging. Cass no longer cared. Let the woman have what she wanted. Let the crazy woman with her history and her plans and her schemes-let her have the death of Smoke and Cass and every other innocent on her hands. In death they would all be free.
Except for the thing that always brought her back, every single time.
Ruthie, whose voice had been bound and locked, had spoken her name today.
She had to deny him. Even as she accepted the terrible truth, she was steeling herself, composing her features; her eyelids lowered in a virtuoso approximation of indifference and her lips curved in a bored frown. She turned away from him and looked deep into Mary’s eyes, and traded one heartbreak for another.
“I feel the same way,” she lied, and her lie was deft and convincing because it had to be. “I’ve always loved history. But if this…man did the things you say he did… I’m sorry, I guess I just can’t handle it with calm the way you do. The pain he caused…”
She stutter-stepped backward, faking a stumble, letting her voice go frail and shaky. Mary’s hand shot out to steady her and Cass forced herself not to react to the woman’s clammy grip.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, deliberately turning away from her broken, wounded lover. She could not look at him, not now, not while she told her lies. “Only, right now, I think I need to get back to David. He’ll be wondering where I am. It’s been a long day.”
Mary studied her for a long moment and then nodded. Alvin didn’t have to be told twice; he was already adjusting the blankets around Smoke, straightening the pillow. Mary walked back down the corridor toward the stairs, ignoring the other prisoners. The other guard had remained standing the entire time; he nodded fractionally when they passed by.
“What will his punishment be, anyway?” Cass asked as casually as she could.
“Considering that he murdered two people who were traveling on a mission of peace, and attacked one of our teams this morning, while they were on their way to rescue a group of endangered shelterers-I’d say there’s little chance of leniency.”
So he’d found them, Cass thought. The ones who’d burned the library. “Oh,” she said as neutrally as she could, hiding her disgust at Mary’s casual use of the word
“We’re still tracing the intelligence breach, trying to figure out where he got his information,” she added. “Earlier, when I told you I’d been talking to Evangeline…she thought you and he might have been close.”
“Me and
And there it was, the moment when she had to pretend the hardest thing. To stave off the pain of what she was about to do, she let herself spin back into a memory.
A spring morning two decades earlier, following a long winter of heavy rains. An El Nino winter. Her mother had been irritated that the rains had washed out the gravel from the flower beds; weeds had begun poking through the matted layer of sodden leaves that had collected there. Mim had never been much of a gardener, even before her dad began taking longer and longer trips up and down the coast with his band. And now, trying to juggle her job and Cass, she didn’t even pretend to make an effort.
Under a clump of sycamore leaves, Cass found tender green shoots that were unlike any others. She was waiting for Mrs. Cross, who drove her and Shelby Cross to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. When it was Mim’s turn to drive, Mrs. Cross always waited in the driveway with Shelby, wearing her ratty old terry cloth robe and sneakers. Mim dressed in a satiny gown and matching slippers but there was no way she’d ever come outside to wait, and so Cass had been poking around at the edges of the garden, saying the names of the plants she knew from the books she checked out of the library. Foxglove, anemone, hyacinth. And there: palest green, stems twined together.
She’d knelt down, trying to keep her knees off the soggy ground-her mother would throw a fit if Cass went to school dirty-and gently pushed the leaves out of the way, exposing rich black dirt, a couple of roly-polies, the mound
