floor and walls. A large board with bands of gray and red smeared across it in thick, irregular lines is sitting on an easel. It looks wet, but it’s dry to the touch.
“What does it mean?” I ask, approaching the easel.
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need my therapist,” he says, and grins.
“I like it,” I tell him. Something about the fury of the strokes speaks to me. Maybe I could paint. In the future. If I have one.
“Every color I use, I find in the sky,” he says. He points at the wide skylight in the roof. The only thing visible through it is the pod’s glass surface and the sun. The space is completely private. A refuge. If I were Ronan, I’d never leave it. But now that we know the Ministry is planning to cut off the oxygen in all empty apartments, he’s giving it up to hide Harriet, Gideon, and any other Resistance members on the Ministry’s hit list—there’s been no way for him to secretly get hold of enough airtanks to keep the wanted Resistance members alive in airless apartments.
“You’re a good person,” I tell him, in case he doesn’t already know it.
“Sometimes,” he says.
He collects the cans of paint, plaster, and glue, piles them in the corner, and hangs the paintings resting against the walls on crooked nails to get them off the floor. He stops when we hear a light tap on the door and puts his ear against it. When Ronan unlocks the door, Wendy bundles into the studio carrying a stack of sheets and blankets. “This is all I have spare,” she says, throwing the bedding on the floor. “I’ll look in your room, too. We have to get a move on though. Niamh will be back soon. And what about food? How am I going to justify the expense?”
“I can sort that out,” Ronan says. Considering what he’s doing, he’s very calm. It’s not even my house, and my heart is racing.
“And what if they need the bathroom?” Wendy asks. She grimaces and I find myself doing the same. Ronan remains unruffled.
He picks up a drop cloth from the floor and hangs one side to a hook in the ceiling, the other to a screw sticking out from the wall. “It’ll be no more than a bucket with a lid, and I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to empty it every hour with Niamh prowling around, but it’s the best we can do,” he says.
“How many are there?” Wendy asks. She prods the bedding with her toe. They both look at me.
“Around fifteen,” I say.
“Once Niamh’s gone to bed, we’ll bring them up. But I still think it’s an awful risk hiding them here,” Wendy says. Keeping me in her annex overnight has been stressful enough, but the idea of hiding hordes of Resistance members in the house, right above Niamh and any visiting ministers, has Wendy on edge.
Ronan picks up a blanket and shakes it out. “No one will think of looking here,” he says. “Would you?”
Wendy shakes her head. Still, keeping everyone fed, clean, and quiet won’t be easy.
“Did you bring up my stuff?” I ask Wendy.
She blinks and looks at Ronan. “There’s no need for you to sleep here with everyone else, love,” she says. “After what you’ve been through, a little privacy is what you need.” Ronan coughs and Wendy stops talking. She pulls her lips into her mouth. He must have told her what happened with the drifters.
“It wouldn’t be fair if I got special treatment,” I mumble. I wish he hadn’t said anything. Quinn never would have. He knows how to keep a secret.
“I’ll see if I can dig out more sheets,” Wendy says, opening the door and tiptoeing away. Ronan locks the door behind her. “You don’t have to be a martyr, you know.”
What? Is that how he thinks I behave? “I act like a martyr?”
“Bea . . . I don’t mean it like that. Please stay in the annex with Wendy.” He tilts his head and looks inconsolably sad.
I turn away from him and step closer to one of his paintings: a series of blue circles along with smaller, seemingly arbitrary turquoise splotches. “You don’t paint real things. And there’s a violence to them. Why?”
“People see what they want,” he says. “And you see violence.”
I ignore him and reach out to touch the painting. The color looks like it might drip down the board and onto the floor, but it’s hard and rubbery. “Do you think we can recruit enough people to make a difference?”
He squats next to me. “We have to try, don’t we?” he says.
“No, Ronan. We have to win.”
“And we will,” he says.
Ronan powers up a radio and a thick beat thunders through the studio. Everyone looks at him. “I play music when I paint,” he tells us.
“Well, you were right. Two hours ago the air in the apartment got siphoned off,” Harriet says. She unrolls her sleeping bag next to Gideon’s, then puts her hands on her hips and studies the other Resistance members unpacking their meager belongings. A group of girls is beneath the skylight setting up. When they see me, they smile. Some men and boys are at the far end of the studio whispering and arranging.
I’ve already chosen a spot by the door, and Wendy has given me an extra blanket in case I get cold.
“What now? We’re useless in here,” Gideon says.
“You’re alive,” I tell him. Plenty of people aren’t.
Ronan runs his hand through his hair. “Tonight Old Watson and I will round up more applicants for the army. When we have enough people and they’re all armed, we fight.”
“Could be a long wait,” Gideon says.
“And we can wait,” Harriet says. “Bea’s right. Not being dead or imprisoned is enough for now.”
“And what if his sister comes up here?” Gideon asks, speaking to everyone except Ronan. I keep quiet when what I should do is remind him that Ronan has just saved his life—he could be a little more grateful.
“It’s thumbprint activated, and mine is the only one registered,” Ronan says.
“A thumb pad.
I can’t listen anymore. “Ronan is doing his best. If you want to go out and live in the alleyways until you get picked up, do it. This is no one’s ideal situation,” I tell him.
Harriet frowns at her husband. “Gideon’s grateful. We all are,” she says.
Ronan rubs his hands together. “I’ll be up once a day, if I can. I’ll bring food.” He switches off the music. Everyone in the studio looks at him. “You should tiptoe and avoid raised voices,” he says.
I join Ronan by the main door. Suddenly I don’t want him to go. I hold on to the tail of his shirt. “You’re in charge,” he says. He looks at my hand, which is still clutching him, and touches it with the tips of his fingers. If I asked Ronan to take me with him, he would. But I have to keep order up here.
I release him. “Goodnight,” I say, and he slips out the door.
I go to my sleeping spot and lie down facing the wall. I close my eyes and see Quinn. For a while I thought I might never see him again, even clearly in my mind. But that was only because I was scared of losing him forever.
I don’t think I’m scared anymore.
41
QUINN
Every time the dining hall doors open I hope it’ll be Alina, and after I’ve given up on her, she marches in. She gives me this stony look and takes a seat with the other troopers. A server lays a red dessert at the other end of my table, and the academics ladle out hefty portions for themselves, ignoring our end. “I’ll get us some,” Clarice says.
“Not for me,” I say, and push my bowl of green food away. I rest my chin in my hands, waiting for dinner to end. I can feel Clarice watching me, but I don’t bother making conversation.
After a painfully long time, the bell rings and we’re allowed to leave. I make for the doors, and Alina, when there’s a tug on my arm. “Are you trying to lose me?” Clarice asks teasingly.
“Of course not. Come on,” I say. The last thing I need is her running to Vanya to tell her I’ve been inattentive.
