Taken (4 page)

It is imperative that you read this, know this, and then hide it immediately. Gray cannot know. I have thought many times of how to share this with you—both of you—but have come to terms with this secret being one that you alone must bear after my passing. Know that I write this to you in my final hours, that I wish so much to be able to explain it in person, but I am a prisoner of my bed.

This world is a mysterious one, with its Heists and Wall, so unnatural that I have never been able to accept it outright. And I believe, come your eighteenth birthday, you will understand why I’ve shared this secret with you. The truth, or the pursuit of the truth, must not die with me. Above all, you must not tell your brother. I know this will be hard for you, but if Gray knows, he will look for answers. He will risk everything, and in turn jeopardize your discovering the truth. And you must. You must discover the truth for me because death will take me before I am able to witness it myself.

And so I share this with you now, my son: You and your brother are not as I’ve raised you to believe. Gray is, in fact—

I flip the letter over, but there are no more words. I search the debris on the floor, but whatever sheet once accompanied the first is no longer hidden within the frame. I reread the letter once, twice, several times over.

Gray is, in fact
— I am, in fact, what? I race into the bedroom and throw open the chest that still holds Blaine’s things. I rifle through clothing and gear until my hands find a small journal, bound with stubborn twine. I flick through it noting the dates, and stop when I find the one where our mother passed. Blaine’s entry is short.

Carter had no magic left to spin and Ma died today. She left me a peculiar letter. It made me angry at first, and confused, but I realize now that I am incredibly fortunate—to have my brother with me still. Gray, who I value more with each passing day.

I hurl the journal back into the chest and return to the kitchen, where I clench the original letter from Ma in my fist. How dare they keep a secret that so clearly affects me. And now what? They are both gone and I am left alone in the dark without any answers. Whatever truth Ma had hoped would be revealed at Blaine’s Heist remains a mystery. Especially to me.

I read Ma’s note again, and again, and when I am boiling with feelings of resentment and betrayal, I storm from the house. I have to get away from the letter, as far away from it as possible, but then I remember Chalice’s original words, the ones that sparked its discovery, and I don’t get very far.

I stand before Maude’s house and take deep breaths. I let rage settle to anger and dwindle into irritation before I knock on her door. She opens it immediately and invites me in.

Maude’s place is one of the nicest in town. She has floorboards instead of dirt and her water basin has an attached handle that can actually be pumped to supply water. A kettle whistles over her fire as I enter, and the scent of fresh bread lingers in the air.

“Tea?” she asks as I take a seat at the kitchen table. I decline, probably not as politely as I should, and wait as she pours herself a cup of hot water and brews her herbs. She joins me at the table eventually, cautiously sipping the piping drink.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask.

“Yes, yes. I’ve got a name for you.” I know what this means and I don’t want to hear it. It’s the last thing I want to think about at the moment.

“I thought you said I didn’t have to deal with that for a little while.”

“It’s been nearly three weeks, Gray.” The steam from her tea rises, twisting delicately before her nose and blending in with her white hair before it continues toward the ceiling.

“Has it really?”

“Mhmm,” she hums in agreement.

“So who is it this time?” Here comes another month of awkward formality. Me, hanging out with some girl openly enough that Maude thinks I’m sleeping with her, and then trying to turn that same girl down when the opportunity actually arises. The latter part is harder than I expect sometimes, even with the potential of fatherhood at stake.

“If there’s someone you’d prefer to see, Gray, that’s fine,” she says. “But we have to make plans when we don’t see anything materializing naturally.”

If the slatings weren’t so pressured and formal, then maybe things would happen naturally. But for me, it’s just like when I was a little boy. Ma told Blaine and me not to play with fire, and because of that we did. On the other hand, if she had forced us to play with fire, we’d likely have entertained ourselves with rocks instead. And so it is with this. I’m uninterested in the fire they force on me. I don’t like being told what to do.

“Lately I only feel like myself when I’m in the woods,” I admit. “Nothing is going to materialize on its own.”

“Very well,” she says, placing her cup on the wooden table between us. “You’ve been slated to Emma Link for the next month. You know Emma, right? Carter’s girl? Works in the Clinic?”

A knot forms in my chest. “Yeah, I know her.”

“Good. Well that is all, Gray. You may go.”

I leave without thanking her. For the first time since shattering the frame, my mind shifts away from Ma’s secret. I should like this matchup, but I don’t. Emma isn’t just another girl. I don’t want to be with her because I’ve been told to. I want to be with her on my own terms and with her reciprocating that feeling, or not at all.

Perhaps it won’t even matter; Emma will likely reject me. It’s been rumored that she hasn’t accepted a single one of her slatings, that she turns them all away. Blaine’s friend Septum Tate, who was lost to the Heist a few months back, claimed Emma had actually lodged her knee into his groin when he refused to believe she truly meant no thank you. No one believed him. Mostly because Emma is so sweet, so gentle.

I look up to find my feet have subconsciously carried me to the Clinic. I suppose now is no worse a time than any to face her. I push open the doors and step inside.

Carter is attending to someone in the front of the room. I can make out their silhouettes through one of the thin curtains. Emma sits at a desk in the rear, scrawling something onto a piece of parchment. She is wearing a long white dress and her hair is gathered haphazardly atop her head. A few stray pieces fall into her eyes as she writes. I run a hand through my bangs anxiously and then march back to her desk, plopping myself in the seat opposite her without an invitation.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” she says, barely looking up. “Do you need help with something?”

“No.” I’m still trying to work out what to say. Maybe coming to the Clinic was a bad idea. Maybe I should avoid Emma for the month.

“Then what are you doing here?” She puts her quill down and folds her arms across her chest. She looks pretty when she’s cross.

“I’ve been slated to you,” I say. There, it’s out.

“Oh, is that all? Good. I’m not interested.” She picks the quill up again and returns to writing.

“Yeah, I know. I was just hoping I could get the truth out of the way so that we can actually enjoy spending the next month together.”

She looks at me, confusion on her face. “I’m not sure you heard me, Gray. I’m not interested. We won’t be spending any time together.”

“See that’s the thing, Emma; I don’t want to be a father. Not in a million years. I don’t want to end up like Blaine, leaving a kid behind. And you’re not interested. You’ve made that clear. But the Council still wants me slated to you, and if we hang out for a few weeks, they’ll think we’re doing what they want us to, and then they’ll be off our backs. Heck, I could probably even convince them to keep me slated to you for several months, and then you won’t have to deal with matchups at all.”

She’s quiet for a moment, her dark eyes searching mine. I’m not sure what she’s looking for or what she’s thinking. She’s too good at being blank.

“Okay,” she says finally. “It’s a deal. What do you want to do?”

“What, right now?”

“Yes, right now.” She smiles, ever so slightly. It causes that pain in my chest, that heave I get when she looks at me, to pulse.

“We can do anything. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s go to the pond,” she says, putting her things away.

“What pond?”

“The pond. The only one. The one near that field of purple bellflowers.”

“That’s more of a lake.”

“Oh, it’s a pond in my mind. Come on, let’s get out of here.” And then she’s grabbing my hand and pulling me from the Clinic. I guess I won’t be hunting today.

FIVE

WE HEAD SOUTH THROUGH TOWN,
passing the school and blacksmith shop and the numerous houses, including my own, that create the border of the village. Where the dirt fades away, tall grass begins, sprouting up in patches, until finally we are entering the woods. I don’t usually hunt along the southern portion of the forest. It’s marshier, and the larger game sticks to the drier areas. The ground grows soft beneath our feet as we continue, but there’s been little rain lately and we avoid sinking into the doughy earth. When we reach the coarse thicket that I know to be concealing the lake from view, Emma grabs my arm and pulls me to a standstill.

“This way,” she says, motioning to our right.

“But it’s straight ahead. On the other side of this brush.”

“I know, but the view’s better if you climb the hill.”

“View? There’s no view.”

“Trust, Gray. Have trust.” And then without waiting to see if I follow, she starts cutting through the trees and brush, no path to guide her. She holds her dress up about her knees, and I stare at her legs as she steps over fallen logs and rocks in our path. We move slowly and up a steady incline. Maybe there will be a view after all.

When we break loose from the trees, I’m nearly speechless. We are standing on a hill that overlooks the water. From this angle it appears rather small and narrow, its thinness stretching out of view beyond another crest in the land. Surrounding us are the bellflowers, tall, thick stems that grow higher than my waist. Delicate purple petals hang from each, grouped together and dancing in the soft breeze. The southernmost portion of the Wall is barely visible in the distance.

Emma leads us into the field and toward a lone rock that sits on the hillside. The purple flowers nearly reach her shoulders, but she climbs out of their grasp.

“I used to come here with my uncle,” she tells me as we get comfortable on the stone. “Almost daily. At least until . . . you know. I was nine when he was lost. I haven’t been back in years.”

“It’s beautiful from up here,” I say. “And, to be fair, it seems much smaller from this angle. I can almost understand why you called it a pond.”

“See?”

“Yeah, well, it’s still a lake. I’m just trying to be nice.”

She sighs. “Ah, yes. That must be difficult for you.”

“You know, despite what you might think, I’m not a mean person.”

“What you did to Chalice wasn’t mean?”

“That’s different.”

“It was still mean.”

“Okay, fine. I’m not inherently a mean person.”

“I’ll give you that for now.” She plucks a clump of grass and sprinkles it into the breeze.

“So why’d you do it?” she asks, looking at me. “Why were you honest about the matchup?”

I’m not quite sure how to answer the question. There are explanations on many levels. I don’t want to be a father. I hate the formality of slatings. I want her, but not if it’s forced.

“You were being honest, right?” she asks. “You’re not going to try to attack me later or something are you? I’m stronger than I look. Everyone always thinks I’m this kind, caring thing, because of my healing hands, but I can be forceful if I need to.”

“So I’ve heard.” I chuckle. “And, yes, I was being honest.”

She gives me that look again, the same one from the Clinic.

I still can’t read it.

“I hate the slatings,” she says.

“Me, too.”

“How many have you gone through with?”

“You don’t want to know.” I can count them on two hands and even though it’s been a long time since I’ve slept with anyone, the number is still more than I want to admit to her. “You?”

“Just one.” So the rumors are wrong. “You remember Craw Phoenix?” she asks.

I nod. He was lost to the Heist about a year and a half ago.

“I liked him,” she continues. “And I mean
really
liked him. It was so nice for that month, and for some reason I thought it would last and we’d have something. I don’t know what. It was stupid, really. I wanted to continue slatings with him, but I guess the feeling wasn’t mutual. Two weeks later he was seeing Sasha Quarters, and then he was gone completely.”

“We’re all gone eventually,” I say. “That’s half the reason I hate it, too. I don’t see the point of the scheduling and the moving around. I only have ’til I’m eighteen. I’d rather find something good, something comfortable, and stay in it.”

She gives me a half smile. “You mean be with one person? Like, beyond the duration of the slating?”

“Forget the slating. Pretend there’s no slating and there’s no rules and there’s no Claysoot and then, yes, one person. Forever. Is that weird?”

It’s quiet for a moment. I know it’s an odd question, completely hypothetical and outlandish, and for a second I think she’s going to laugh at me.

“You know, some hawks mate for life.” She bites her lip and looks back out over the water. It’s a ripple of icy silver in the earth, the valley bleeding blue into its depths.

“Really?”

“Yeah, the red-tailed ones. My uncle and I used to see them here each year. Always returning, always the same pairs together. If the birds pick one mate for life, why can’t we?”

I feel foolish for a moment. I spend hours in the woods every day and I’ve never noticed this in the hawks. Then again, I was never looking for it.

“Maybe some animals mate for life and others don’t,” I say. “Maybe we’re not supposed to be like the birds.”

“Maybe we are.”

She looks so pretty, sitting there, twisting grass between her tan fingers. I wonder if we are the only people who wish this, who long to ignore the matchups and procedures and settle into something that feels right. There I go again, thinking with the feelings in my chest instead of using my head. If we were like the birds, we’d die out in a matter of decades, once all the men were gone. I still wish it were possible though, wish I were a bird and Emma were a bird and we could fly away without looking back.