“Wiley,” she gasped as the Boer turned to greet her.
“You must be Neva,” he said warmly, offering his hand, palm up. “Pleased to meet you.”
She forced herself to let him kiss the back of her hand and smile rapturously. “It’s nice to meet you as well. I’m sorry—we should have knocked.”
“Not at all. Derek never does.” Wiley grinned at her brother, who shrugged awkwardly. “Here,” the Boer continued, gesturing Neva to the only chair in the living room. “Sit, sit, off your feet. I’ll get you something to drink. Will tea suffice?”
She sat, not unwillingly, and nodded.
“Marvelous to have indoor plumbing,” he called on his way to the kitchen. “Just give me a moment to fill the kettle and see to the stove.”
Derek winced when Neva turned her gaze on him. “I’m sorry. It was the best I could do.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m sure it wasn’t easy. I just didn’t expect a spitting image.”
When they’d gone back to the smoldering ruins of the Fair to recover Augie’s body, and Brin had shaped the Wheel away from his crushed—yet already regenerating—form, Neva had won the argument about what to do with him: create an organizer in Wiley’s mold, with his ambition and charisma, but sounder judgment.
She hadn’t meant the new guise should look like Wiley, though.
“I imagine it’s because I had him so much in my mind,” Derek whispered. “And I brushed his once, while we were debating Pullman Town; he was the model, and none of my deviations stuck ... I’m sorry. I’m used to designing railcars, not men.”
“You did well.” Better than she’d expected when she’d persuaded him to direct Augie’s new guise by adjusting the electrical impulses in his renewing brain, drawing on what had transpired with Wherrit—and Catherine, Derek’s former wife. It had been a hard sell, and very much a long shot. But a near miss might be close enough to the mark. Of course ... “You could have warned me.”
Wiley’s reentry into the living room forestalled Derek’s next apology.
“The water will be ready in a moment,” the Boer said. “Would you like something to eat?”
Neva patted her stomach as if she’d recently eaten, being careful not to flinch. “Thank you, but no—I can’t stay long. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“I’m much better now. I understand I have you to thank for that as much as Derek and Brin?”
It was true, but not in any way she wished to explain. “Only at the beginning. Derek’s been here far more than I.” Through much of July, he’d stayed up nights trying to get it right, to be sure. And not just once. When they’d satisfied themselves that his first effort—a blurred form that looked more mannequin than man—didn’t remember anything, they’d started the cycle again to confirm that subsequent transformations wouldn’t undo the changes to Augie’s core mind. Neva had wielded the knife that time, and the time after, when they’d conducted one more test to be certain, taking heart in the fact that insects no longer appeared during any point of the process.
“Do you recall anything yet?” she asked as casually as she could.
“No,” Wiley answered, his confusion seeming genuine. “Only what Derek and Brin have told me.” It hadn’t been much: the agreed-upon story was that he’d suffered a blow to the head during the rioting at the Fair, lost his faculties, and become a raging danger to others for a short while—thus the ropes when he’d woken. “I can’t thank you enough for having faith in my recovery and not taking me to the sanatorium. I’m not sure I’d have survived it.”
“It was the least we could do, considering how instrumental you were to the strikers’ near-victory.”
“I wish I could recollect exactly how I was so useful.”
“You will,” she said, injecting optimism into her voice to cover her real emotions.
The sound of boiling water bubbled from the kitchen, followed by a low keening noise. “That’s the kettle,” he said. “Back in a moment.”
Neva watched him hurry out of the living room. His mannerisms weren’t quite Wiley’s; Derek had changed that much at least. And the guise’s mind was a blank slate—he didn’t seem to have any memories, not even fuzzy, filtered ones from Augie’s true past. That should make him biddable enough to be directed into the right arenas. The world certainly still needed fixing.
But if he reverted to anything dangerous ... Well, she still had her knife. She hoped never to have to cut her brother again, but she was ready to do so if required. And Derek believed burning Augie’s brain—fully burning it, to the point of incineration (and not just the scalding it must have received in the Cold Storage blaze)—would put an end to his regenerative abilities.
Another fire. Please, God, don’t let it come to that.
“Would you like a bit of honey?” asked Wiley.
“Plain would be fine,” she answered, trying not to dwell on the fact that her dead admirer’s guise was speaking to her through the transformed mouth of her mind-swept brother.
She’d never been less happy to have a plan succeed.
BACK AT DEREK’S HOUSE, Neva slumped into one of his overstuffed chairs, reached into her pocket, and pulled out the amazing drawing Augie had done of their family while he’d thought himself Mr. DeBell.
They could have tried any of these guises instead. Her mother, who she’d never known. Or her stillborn sister, who’d never had a chance at life—Neva had sketched her into the picture a few days ago. Or even Augie, without the madness.
But she wouldn’t have been able to stay near him for long. Or any of them. That had been clear after spending a few minutes with the almost-Wiley guise.
Brin would guide him, though. She’d reintegrate him into the organizing community—perhaps in a different city, since it would be hard to explain the Boer’s resurrection to those who’d known him in Chicago. Especially if Quill was still alive. But with luck, Wiley would make up for at least some
