“And I got the information I needed,” Dante confirms. “I suspected you could see the strands. I knew you weren’t some simple Guild assistant.”
“Congratulations,” Erik says. “But I’ve already told Adelice everything. I have nothing to hide from her.”
“You’ve told her everything you’ve done?” Dante asks. “And she’s still standing beside you?”
“You told me that not all Tailors are bad,” I remind him. “We’ve all done things we’d rather forget. Who Erik is today is what matters.”
“Believe what you want,” Dante says in a low voice, “but ask him if he would have told you if you hadn’t figured it out.”
Erik stiffens next to me as though he’s bracing for this question, but I already know the answer. Erik only told me because I confronted him. He would have kept his secret his whole life. But what Dante can’t understand is that I don’t fault Erik for that. There are ghosts I would rather bury than face. I can’t blame Erik for feeling the same way.
“You’re a hypocrite,” I say to Dante. “Tell me the secrets you’re hiding.”
Dante’s jaw twitches but he doesn’t open his mouth to answer my question.
“That’s what I thought,” I say to him. “In the future, don’t give me advice that you don’t plan on following.”
I pull Erik’s arms, leading him out of the garden and back into the house. My clothes are still wet, but now I feel the heat of anger.
“I’m sorry about that,” I blurt out.
“Don’t be,” Erik says, raising a hand to stop my further apology. “He’s looking out for you. I’d be the exact same way if our positions were reversed. He’s probably trying to keep you safe.”
“By keeping me away from a friend?” I ask. “By trying to turn me against you?”
“Friend, huh?” Erik says, not quite able to keep his lips from turning up into a crooked grin.
“Don’t get cocky,” I say. “The pickings are slim here.”
“I’ll take the position however I can get it,” Erik says. “And, Ad, don’t be too upset with him. If you knew the things I know about Tailors—the things I’m sure Dante knows—maybe you wouldn’t trust me ei—”
“Stop,” I say, placing a hand on his chest to bring his attention away from his diatribe and back to me. “I trust you, and I don’t care what’s in your past.”
“That’s philanthropic of you,” he says, “but—”
“No!” I say. “Stop trying to convince me otherwise, because you won’t be able to. I know you, Erik Bell. You’ve got a good heart—whether you like it or not.”
Erik thinks on this a moment and then draws me into a hug. “Like it.”
“See?” I say, lingering in the warmth of his arms. “Your choices are getting better every day.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
I TELL MYSELF I HAVE QUESTIONS ONLY she can answer, but in truth, I visit her to stem the waves of guilt that roll through me without warning, brought on by the most innocuous things. The scent of roses drifting through the garden, the sting of hot bathwater, a bite of dry pot roast—they bring her back to me. I don’t want to attach the prisoner locked securely in the bowels of the estate with my mother. But no matter how well I understand the situation, my brain is no match for my heart.
My mother’s curled up in a ball in the corner of her cell. She doesn’t move when I enter. For a moment, I think the worst: that she’s dead. And confused feelings swirl up inside me. Anger. Bitterness. Sadness. Relief. I wish I could lean forward and reach out to her. With her eyes closed, she looks peaceful. She’s not wearing cosmetics and her hair is clumped around her head, but it’s still her. She lifts her head, and the shift reveals a large purple scar running up her neck.
What did the Guild do to her? Can I undo it?
She stares at me without speaking and I see the wheels turning in her head. She’s going to play with me, but I won’t let her.
“Meria,” I say. I can’t bring myself to call her Mom after our last meeting.
“Adelice,” she murmurs. “Come to check in on your prisoner?”
“You aren’t my prisoner,” I remind her.
“Sure, your whining didn’t land me in here.” She sits up. She’s thinner than the last time I saw her. Under her threadbare shirt I can see the jut of bones, and how her clothes hang on her. She’s all points and angles.
“Are they feeding you?” I ask.
Her lips squash a smirk. “Yes, scraps.”
Scraps like she is an animal. No wonder she’s so thin.
“I’ll make sure you get real meals,” I promise her.
“That’s so sweet of you.” Her voice is flat, as colorless as the walls around us.
“I have some questions for you.”
“And I have all the time in the world to answer them.” She blinks slowly.
“Can you swim?” It seems silly and frivolous to ask a starving woman this.
“Are you planning to drown me?”
I plant my hands on my hips and stare down at her. “Do you see any water in here?”
“No, I can’t.” She speaks each word with halting, dramatic emphasis.
“Never mind,” I say. “This was a stupid idea.”
“Your question was stupid.”
“Fine.” My fists ball up as they did when I was a sullen child. If she wants a real question, I have those, too. “How did you get to Earth?”
“Planning to return home?”
“Do you remember?” I ask, bypassing her question.
“Of course I do,” she says. “We took a loophole.”
“Were you running to a loophole on the night I was retrieved?” I ask, abandoning any hope of a casual conversation.
“Your parents really failed you that night,” she says, not answering my question.
“Do you remember?” I ask, unsure I want the answer.
“I know what happened,” she snaps. “The retrieval squad came and you were too stupid to warn your parents. They tried to run. There was a slub in Romen. You would have been safe there, but you didn’t warn them, so they couldn’t escape. You killed your parents.”
Her words sting.
“My parents aren’t dead,” I say. “Benn is. But you’re alive, and so is my biological father.”
“So Dante told you?” she asks. “I wondered if he would. I didn’t think he had the courage.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why would I tell you?”
It’s frustrating to sit here and talk with a woman who shares my history and holds the secrets to the past I can’t remember, but who doesn’t see herself as part of it. She looks at her memories from the outside.
“I don’t suppose I’ll be calling him Daddy anytime soon,” I say.
“That child couldn’t be a father,” she says. “He can’t see past himself. He didn’t even realize she was pregnant.”
“You were pregnant?” I prompt.
“Meria was pregnant.” The words are oozed venom on her tongue.
“You are Meria.”
“I am no one,” she says.
And I see the truth of it in the flat deadness of her eyes. I hear the resignation seeping through her voice. I feel it as the words hang between us. It’s true because she believes it.
“Where can I find a loophole?” I can’t keep talking circles around this subject. I can’t listen to my mother
