Mystic City (31 page)

She said that? I’m not surprised.

“I’ll have to ask my mom,” I say, “and I doubt—”

“We already got her okay!” Bennie says with a little jump. “Oh, this is going to be so upper! And don’t worry, Aria—we’re planning everything.”

“You just have to show up,” Kiki says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

Even though a party is the absolute last thing I want to have—besides a wedding—I nod. Kiki and Bennie squeal with excitement.

Well
, I think,
at least some people in the world are happy
.

A few hours after they’re gone, I begin to hear a lot of noise—what sounds like four or five women chattering and walking back and forth past my bedroom.

A vacuum begins to whir, and at the same time, my mother raps on my door. She opens it and speaks to me from the doorframe. I’m resting in bed, on top of the covers.

“Aria,” she says, “just so you know, I’m heading downtown with Erica Foster.”

“Okay. What’s with all the noise?”

She glances down the hallway. “Oh, we’ve hired a cleaning service to go through and dispose of Davida’s things.” She straightens the diamond pendant around her neck. “Anyway, I’ll be back by four. They should be finished by then.”

I watch her leave my room, then lean my head back against the pillow. I wonder what happened to Davida. She was probably so traumatized by what my family’s done that she’s gone off to be with her mother. I’m about to close my eyes when I think of something and sit back up.

Davida’s stash of gloves. I can’t let them be thrown away.

I hop out of bed and sneak down the hallway, past Kyle’s bedroom and into the servants’ corridor.

Davida’s door is wide open. I poke my head inside and see
dozens upon dozens of garbage bags, halfway stuffed. Three women in all-white uniforms are sifting through the mess. The sight makes me incredibly upset. Not only have I lost Hunter, but I am losing Davida, too.

“Excuse me?”

The women stop what they’re doing and look up at me.

“I just need a moment in here alone—can you come back in five minutes?”

They look at each other and shrug, then leave the room. I shut the door and go straight to where I last saw the gloves—underneath Davida’s bed. I drop to the floor, reaching out my hand and feeling for the sharp corners of the metal box.

It’s not there.

I pull back my hand and glance around the room. There must be at least twenty bags filled with the clothes and books and trinkets Davida has collected since childhood. Thankfully, the bags are open, so I don’t have to undo any knots. I quickly sift through it all—two bags are filled with uniforms of different sizes, some so small they must have been from her girlhood. Did Davida never throw anything away? Another bag is packed with toiletries and underwear; none of the bags holds a metal box. Or the gloves. Where in the Aeries could they be?

I stand and wipe the sweat from my forehead with my pajama sleeve. What’s left?

Her closet.

It has been left open, mostly empty. I scroll through what little remains—a few casual sweaters and dresses my parents gave
Davida for special occasions, the clothes she only wore once. She was always in her uniform. These garments are all practically new.

I pull out a pink gown with rhinestones on the collar and begin to tear up. This is the dress I gave Davida for her sixteenth birthday.

I press the soft material to my face and breathe in. Traces of rose-scented detergent fill my nostrils. I picture Davida on the night of Hunter’s death, looking between us and sobbing.

I put back the dress and remove a sweater that used to be mine. I suppose I’ll take it back until she turns up again. But instead of it feeling soft, it feels … crunchy.

What?

I hold the sweater up to the light. It looks normal, but then I slip my hands inside and feel something stiff lining the material. Slowly, I turn the sweater inside out. I gasp at what I see: the entire inside is lined with paper, the paper covered with Davida’s handwriting, stitched into the cotton.

I place the sweater on Davida’s bed, then remove another piece of clothing—a thin white nightshirt. I slip my hands inside and feel the same stiffness, then roll up the bottom: there is another set of notes sewn inside.

I go through the rest of Davida’s closet: a red knit dress she wore once to temple, a white jersey dress with black trim, a stark black blazer, a pleated navy skirt, a soft green cardigan. There are at least a dozen pieces here that are filled with writing. Without hesitating, I grab the items off the hangers, bundle them into my arms, and take them back to my bedroom.

My parents have turned off my door lock, so I must work
quickly. From one of my drawers, I take a jeweled letter opener and use it on one of the garments—the sweater. Carefully, I cut through the stitches and watch as the notes fall to the floor like playing cards.

Once they’re all out, I wad up the clothes, take them back to Davida’s room, and stuff them in the first open sack. Then I go back to my room, close the door, gather the notes together, and begin to read. The first one I grab is dated over a year ago.

There are no safe places to record my thoughts. My TouchMe is compromised and monitored; my email is read by Mr. R’s crew. Maybe the old ways are best—they’re too full of themselves to look for old-fashioned evidence of who I am—ink and paper, words written in heart’s blood
.

I can’t say what they suspect and what they don’t. My eyes and ears are open, alert for any information I can relay back to the team—anything we can use to help stop this travesty
.

Seems I’ve come across a diary of sorts—notes Davida thought would stay hidden if her room was searched. I place the cards on my bedspread. I sift through the piles; there are notes here that date back over six years, from when Davida first came to live with us. I search out the more recent ones, then continue reading:

5/14

Snuck home today. How good to see everyone. I wanted to stay, but they tell me I’m more important where I am, that I must be patient … but how long do I have to wait?

6/24

Today was a dry day. Aria isn’t feeling well; her head is still hurting from the operation. I don’t know exactly what they’ve told her—only the lie that she overdosed on Stic. I wonder if she’ll believe what she’s been told. She’s too smart to be fooled by such simple lies. I pray that she recovers
.

So Davida knew that my parents lied to me about the overdose—and she didn’t tell me?

The next note was written the night of my engagement party:

6/28

Garland Foster will be a candidate in the upcoming election. Aria is to marry Thomas Foster, who will then move to the West Side of Manhattan and live under the Rose family’s watch. The news is epic, and so unexpected. I have sent word to the others, who must prepare immediately
.

6/29

My heart hurts today. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen my family. Sometimes the hours pass like days up here, and the days pass like years. When can I go home for good? When will I see him again?

7/8

Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself. It’s so hard to keep my true feelings hidden. Especially when I want to be honest with her … only I can’t. Not yet. But when I saw them together, I nearly cried out in pain. I felt as though the air around me was a noose, suffocating me, choking the very life out of me. It’s not fair
.

7/9

Last night I dreamed about my own wedding, the white dress I’ll surely wear, the vows I’ll read, which I wrote over a year ago.… It’s hard to believe I’ve been engaged for nearly as long as I’ve been alive, but the day is getting closer.… I’ll be eighteen in just a few months, and then I’ll be going home. To him
.

The more I read, the more I begin to form a picture of who Davida really is. She was placed in my household as a child with the intention of getting into my parents’ good graces and eventually, when she was old enough, reporting back to the rebels with information that would help them overthrow the Roses. The orphanage? A lie. No woman named Shelly taught her to conceal her powers. The gloves were supplied by her family, the story about her scars concocted by her parents. All the times she’s gone missing recently, she was traveling into the Depths, to the rebels. Not only that: she’s been betrothed to a rebel mystic practically since birth.

7/10

Today I baked a cinnamon coffee cake with Magdalena. She asked to see my scars, but I refused—

I continue flipping through the papers. Davida’s notes seem to run the gamut from entries about my family and me, to her general musings on life, to politics. Then I stop on this one:

7/15

Sometimes I fear he doesn’t love me as I love him. I can still remember the way we played together when we were children. But it’s been so long. So very long that I’ve been hidden away up here … Can he even recall my face?

Tonight I saw him. But his heart belongs to another. My soul, I fear, has been irreparably shattered. I can never tell her the truth. It is not her fault but his. And mine, I suppose, for believing in fairytale endings
.

How could Davida never have told me any of this? How could I not have known, never have suspected? I’ve lived under the same roof as the girl for practically my entire life.

I feel betrayed. By Davida
and
by my parents, who’ve manipulated me to no end.

When I get to the most recent note, I feel my heart stop.

I’ll do my best to forget him. To focus on the task at hand.… I’ve heard whispers about retaliation against Violet.… I’ve sent warning already, but hope I’m not too late
.

The name of my betrothed will no longer pass my lips. He is not mine to have; he loves another
.

This is the last time I will write it—now let me rid myself of him forever:

Hunter Brooks

• XXIV •

Dr. May flashes me a scary look. “Honestly, Aria, I’m just trying to help you.”

The room is as white as I remember, and it smells like a combination of fresh lemons and antiseptic. His old assistant, Patricia, is nowhere to be seen.

“I don’t believe you,” I say, cocking my head toward the metal tray full of needles. “This isn’t exactly a music hall.”

I was told we were leaving the apartment to hear the orchestra for the wedding ceremony perform. I thought it was odd, as my father was with us, and this seemed like something he’d leave up to my mother. As soon as we got into the light-rail, I knew where I was really being taken: Dr. May’s office.

I don’t have all the answers yet, but here’s the only thing that makes sense: Dr. May is involved in altering my memories. Before, I thought he was trying to bring them back, but now I know he’s responsible for removing them. He’ll erase my memories of Hunter and replace them with fake feelings for Thomas. Probably at my parents’ request.

Hunter. Davida. Even though I’m about to be operated on, all
I can think about is the fact that they were … well, what were they? Davida was in love with him—that much I gathered from her writings—but I have no idea how Hunter felt. And it’s not like I can ask him.

Dr. May grabs for my arm. I throw myself toward the end of the table.

All he does is laugh. “You’re fighting the inevitable,” he says, nodding toward the door that my parents are waiting behind. Dr. May rolls up the sleeves of his white lab coat, then picks up a fresh syringe. “You can either agree to the operation now, or we can sedate you and
then
operate.”

Dr. May reaches for me again. This time, I raise one of my legs and kick him in the stomach. “Oof!” he grunts, doubling over. He staggers to the wall and hits a red button.

An assistant enters. “Get me a sedative,” Dr. May tells the young woman. “Now.”

The woman is turning to comply when Patrick Benedict walks into the room. I recoil—he’s just about the last person I want to see here.

“Perhaps I can be of some help,” Benedict says to Dr. May. They shake hands; of course they’re friends.

“She’s impossible, this one,” Dr. May says, pointing to me with the needle. “I would’ve used a sedative from the start, but it interferes with the procedure. I suppose it’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

“Why don’t you give me a few moments alone with her?” Benedict suggests. “Aria and I have always had a certain
understanding
.”

Dr. May gives Benedict a firm nod, then strides out the door,
motioning for his assistant to follow. I watch as he pulls my parents into a tight huddle in the hallway.

The door zips closed.

“Alone at last,” I say in jest. Benedict has never liked me—his being here is a terrible sign.

He ignores my comment, keeping his eyes on my parents and Dr. May through the window. He waits a few seconds, then roughly grips my shoulders.

“Ow!” I say.

“Shhh!” He lowers his lips to my ear, and whispers urgently. “We only have a minute, so listen carefully, Aria. I am going to give you a pill that you must swallow immediately. Then allow them to submit you to the machine. The memory alteration procedure will be a failure; however, when you emerge from the machine, you must pretend it was a success. You will be asked a series of questions. Watch for me before you answer. If I blink once, answer in the affirmative. If I blink twice, answer negatively. Do you understand?”