The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) (37 page)

Vivienne is glaring,
but Miranda must be spot on about her hiding because the old woman
doesn’t speak one word of disagreement.

“So don’t talk to me
about rushing head first into war,” Miranda seethes. “I’m trying to
keep people alive, not put them to death.”

***

Honour

11:39. 04.11.2040. The
Free Lands, Southlands, Plymouth.

The
first thing I want to do when we’re settled into a ‘guest house’ on
the waterfront is ditch everyone and go searching for Wes. I
cannot
think about what
Cat and Kari told me, about what it all means for me, for Horatia.
I need to busy myself and the best way to do that is to find my
brother and spend as much time with my family as
possible.

I plan to go straight
across town but the landscape in front of the house catches me by
the scruff of my neck and draws me close. It’s so … open. I rest my
elbows on a wall and stare out at the mass of rainclouds gathered
over the silver sea. A couple of boats are far out on the water and
I can’t tell whether they’re abandoned or they’re—a ridiculous
thought—fishing. There’s a stretch of black land just visible
directly across from where I stand but next to it is open water,
grey and infinite. It tugs at my heart.

The boat that took us
from Harwich to Hull made me sick and disgusting but I want to go
out on the water anyway. There’s something about the way it looks,
endless, that makes me want to cross it just to find out what dark
towns and vibrant Cities it leads to—to find out where the water
ends.

Does
it end? Or does it go on
forever?

I stare at the line on
the horizon, running my hand over a road sign that says ‘Grand
Parade’, until Tia comes out for me. She leans her arms on the wall
and says, quiet enough to be nothing at all, “Wes.”

“You’re right. Let’s
go find him.”

I turn my back on the
open water and head into the town centre. A red and white striped
tower sticks out of the grey land, a pointlessly huge metal wheel
to its left. We head for the tower. I think it’ll guide us inward,
to an information centre Hele pointed out. That’s hopeful—I’m
expecting to get lost.

All the buildings we
pass are bright white and grand, with black twisted balconies and
twinkling windows. This zone practically stinks of rich people. It
wouldn’t surprise me if the President came waltzing out of one of
the fancy wooden doorways. I wince, stung by guilt for the thought
as soon as it’s formed. Marrin was rich, was the President’s son,
and he wasn’t any less a person than me. I can’t judge a person by
how much money they have. That’s not what matters anymore, if it
ever mattered.

Horatia tugs on my
hand insistently, drawing me back to Plymouth. I follow her as she
retraces our route back to the centre. Her memory is much better
than mine. I got memory for useless facts, where she got memory for
crucial information. Tia narrows her eyes at the thinning road in
front of us, contemplating. She changes direction, cutting through
a lush park. A shortcut—that’s a great idea. I don’t complain
though. I just go with it.

I think she’s got us
lost for sure when we come out on the other side of the park and
make so many turns down so many side streets that I’m dizzy. We
don’t come across anything but fancy white houses for ten minutes,
until my sister guides us out of the maze of little roads and the
city centre falls on us. We stand in the middle of shops and
cyclists going in every direction imaginable. I’m amazed. Horatia’s
sense of direction is better than mine too, apparently.

The information centre
is still a few roads away but we find it easily. The building is
actually called ‘Information and Problems Centre’, so a white board
with crude painted letters says. Inside, the place is dead but a
woman at a desk waves us over. We skulk over to her, our tired
expressions the antagonist of her sunny smile. I give her Wes’s
name, tell her we’re family.

Tia is visibly
hopeful. I expect the woman to tell us there’s no record of Wes,
that he’s not here. I don’t expect it to be so easy.

But it is.

She gives us another
smile with too many teeth and writes down an address.

Plymouth is the
closest thing to a normal town—a city before the flares—on this
whole island. Everyone has a job, like in Forgotten London, but it
isn’t mandatory and they earn money instead of credits. They have
money called pounds and pence that comes in coins and paper. I’m
amazed they managed to keep enough of it from before the flares to
be able to use it. They don’t have an allocation centre, but they
have a market and a food shop which is pretty much the same. They
have a food hall like in Manchester, but none of the food is
free—that has to be paid for, too. I think the money goes to the
cooks—since that’s their job—but I’m just guessing.

Everything seems too
complicated. When the Guardians win, if the world goes back to the
way it was, it’s going to take years to get used to the systems and
the customs. Maybe they’ll keep credits. I hope they do. I’ve grown
up with the white coins; it’d be weird to live without them.

There are students
everywhere around Plymouth, wearing dark uniforms and colourful
ties. Some are even my age which is strange to see. In Forgotten
London we left school at twelve to start work. I’d have loved to go
to school until their age. I could have read so many books, learned
so many subjects. Maybe I’d be a genius now, like Bran, if I was
still in school.

I warm to the thought.
I’d like to be able to understand my friend when he goes off on one
of his excited rants—though those are rarer lately—and to know what
Dalmar means when he talks about technology.

A man selling hot soup
calls out to us but I politely turn him down. We don’t have any of
their money. Tia stares longingly after the soup vendor, unfolding
a slip of pounds from her pocket.

“Where did you get
that?” I hiss.

She turns to me with a
tiny sly smile. “I pickpocketed a woman.”

For half a second I
just blink at her. Then I ask, excitement unfolding, “What else did
you get?”

She produces a chunk
of chocolate wrapped in gold foil, pressing it into my hands. Our
grins are an instant of mirrored glee. We jog back across the road
to the man with the soup.

14:42. 04.11.2040. The
Free Lands, Southlands, Plymouth.

Wes lives on a pretty
residential street with flower beds and bright doors. I see him
through the squares of glass in the door before he spots us. He
doesn’t look any different—same dirty blonde hair, same broad
shoulders, same serious expression, same slumped way of walking.
When he sees us, his slump becomes a run. He swings the door open
and grabs me into a hug before I can form a word. Tia sets her soup
down on the top step and coaxes Wes out of my grip. Her fingers pat
down flyaway strands of Wes’s hair. It’s obvious he doesn’t know
what to say or do for a few minutes, but then his mouth tips
up.

“I didn’t think you’d
find me,” he says. And then before we’ve had a chance to reply he
adds, “I’m so glad you’re here. John had to leave weeks ago, and
I’ve been sitting around on my own ever since.”

“We’re here now,” I
tell him.

“I’m coming back with
you.” He ducks his head back inside. “Let me get my stuff.”

“Coming with us
where?”

“I don’t care.” His
shout comes from deep inside the house. Tia and I stay on the
doorstep. I stuff my hands into my pockets, rocking on the balls of
my feet. Wes re-emerges with a grey holdall and slams the door
without bothering to lock it. “Anywhere,” he says. “I go where you
go.”

Running a hand through
his long hair to smooth it away from his face, he looks at us and
heaves a long sigh. We leave the street behind.

By the time we get
back to the guest house the sea has become more insistent and the
waterfront is windy as fuck. Wes wants to get inside as quick as
possible—I think that’s how he’s dealing with the trauma, with
Thalia’s death. He was twitchy all the way across town, staying
closer to Tia and me than he needed to.

I watch Wes hurry up
the stone steps to our latest home, desperate to get inside. All of
my family are reacting differently to this aggressive way of life.
I don’t judge Wes one bit for wanting to be out of the open.
Whatever makes him feel safe on this unsafe island is fine with me.
Besides, I have so many issues that I’ve got no right to judge
anyone based on theirs.

I don’t follow Wes.
Yosiah is stood against the wall across the road, contemplating the
water. He looks sad. Tia communicates that she’ll show Wes to a
room and I should talk to Yosiah in one elaborate wave. I make my
way over to him, bracing my body against a gust of wind.

Yosiah doesn’t turn
but it’s obvious he knows it’s me in the way he doesn’t try to
strangle me. He nods at the sea. “That’s the second boat in half an
hour.”

I squint at the white
rectangle bobbing on the sea, a trail of foam following it. It’s
not as big as the ship we took to Hull but it’s not tiny either.
“Where’s it coming from?”

“Europe.” I recognise
that soft voice unconsciously—Kari. She meets my frown with a
raised eyebrow.

Yosiah’s tone is
harsher than the wind. “I don’t remember inviting you to join this
conversation.”

Kari snaps her mouth
shut on whatever she was going to say. A flash of hurt joins the
anger on her face. She strides away without a word, throwing me a
covert glance as she heads for the guest house. I know what it
means, which is no surprise, but I don’t know what she wants me to
do. Instead of asking what’s wrong with Yosiah with words I’d
definitely screw up, I ask questions with my expression.

He avoids answering by
waving a hand at the boat. “They’re coming from France, from
Forgotten Paris. They heard about our evacuation to Bharat and they
want to join us.”

“How do you know
that?”

He rubs his face.
“Timofei.”

“Ah. Are you two …
y’know? Because I thought you and Miya—” He blinks extremely
slowly. “And that has absolutely nothing to do with me.” I stop
talking, which is perfectly fine, the right thing to do. But then
for some stupid reason, I start up again. “I’d be fine with either,
just so you know. And I think they’re both really great people.
Miya’s a little … terrifying, but if that’s what you go for that’s
great.”

“Honour.”

“And Timofei’s not
terrible. I mean—he’s got more issues than a newspaper but—”

Yosiah efficiently
stops the flow of words by covering my mouth. “Thank you. I
appreciate that, but please shut up.”

He lets go of me. I
pretend I’m not embarrassed.

We’re quiet for
minutes, watching the boat make slow progress into the town. It
eventually goes out of sight, hidden by the hulk of a white
building at the end of the road.

“What about you?”
Yosiah asks after a while.

It takes me a moment
to put together his words with a meaning, too wrapped up staring
into space. “What do you mean?”

“Well you and Branwell
are close.”

“We’re friends.”

Yosiah gives me a
smirk straight off Miya’s face. “Hmm.”

“We’re good friends.”
I’ve never thought of Branwell as anything more than a friend. I
turn the idea over in my head and I don’t hate it, not at all.

“Is that why you don’t
like strangers talking to him? Because you’re friends?”

“What?”

“You get edgy when he
talks to people you don’t know. You look like you’ll jump into a
duel to defend him if it’s needed.”

“Really?” I frown at
the sea. “I do that?”

“You do.” Yosiah’s
tone is pure sincerity so I believe him. It’s weird to think that
I’ve been doing something and not even knowing it.

I
remember in Leeds when I hugged Bran, remember being taken off
guard by the easy way he fit in my arms. I remember not wanting to
let go. I shake my head to clear it. I’m just protective of him,
that’s all. It doesn’t mean I’m
gay
.

I’m relieved when
Yosiah speaks again.

“There’s another.” He
points to the mouth of the port where another boat, this one
smaller, is sailing towards us. He narrows his eyes at the ship for
two seconds, then spins around and jogs to the guest house.

“Right,” I say to the
empty road. “I’ll wait here.”

The door across the
road slams open. Yosiah, Timofei, and Dalmar come pouring out.

“That’s the third in
an hour,” Yosiah says.

Timofei glares at the
ship. “If these people expect to come with us, we’ll need an extra
aircraft from Bharat.”

“Can you do that?” I
ask. “Just request another and they’ll send it?”

“I can,” Dalmar says.
“I’m the leader of The Guardians now.”

“Since when?” He never
said he was even thinking about taking over Alba’s position. It
cuts a little but I guess it’s not my business. I don’t have
anything to do with organising this rebellion, even if I want to
help.

“This morning,” he
says. “There wasn’t time to tell you. I decided on the spot.”

“Oh.” I put my back to
the sea, focusing on the row of houses across the road to avoid
Dalmar’s searching gaze. They’re painted either pristine white or
pastel colours, none of them a boring grey or brown, none of them
falling apart.

I should ask Dal about
helping the Guardians, about joining properly. I’ll ask him when we
get to Bharat.

“There are at least
twenty people on that ship,” Dal says.

Yosiah makes a sound
of agreement. “The other two were bigger. Fifty people, maybe. How
are they getting that many people out of a Forgotten Town without
the Officials stopping them?”