Day pushes his chair from the table and rises. “No,” he says. His voice is flat and icy, but I remember my old, heated argument with Day well enough to recognize the deep fury beneath his calmness. Without another word, he turns from the group and walks away.
Serge starts to get up, no doubt to shout at Day about his rudeness, but Anden shoots him a warning stare and motions for him to sit. Then Anden turns to me with a look that says, Talk to him. Please.
I watch Day’s retreating figure. He has every right to refuse, every right to hate us for asking this of him. But I still find myself rising from my own chair, stepping away from the banquet table, and hurrying in his direction.
“Day, wait,” I call out. My words send me a painful reminder of the last time we’d been in the same room together, when we had said our good-byes.
We head into the smaller corridor that leads out to the main ballroom. Day doesn’t turn around, but he seems to slow his steps down in an attempt to let me catch up. When I finally reach him, I take a deep breath. “Look, I know—”
Day presses a finger to his lips, silencing me, and then grabs my hand. His skin is warm through the fabric of his glove. The feel of his fingers around mine is such a shock after all these months that I can’t remember the rest of my sentence—everything about him, his touch, his closeness, feels right. “Let’s talk in private,” he whispers.
We head inside one of the doors lining the corridor, then close it behind us and turn the lock. My eyes do a categorical sweep of the room (private dining chamber, no lights on, one round table and twelve chairs all covered in white cloths, and a single large, arched window at the back wall that lets in a stream of moonlight). Day’s hair transforms in here to a silver sheet. He turns his gaze back to me now.
Is it my imagination, or does he look as flustered as I am about our brief handhold? I feel the sudden tightness of the dress’s waist, the air hitting my exposed shoulders and collarbone, the heaviness of the fabric and the jewels in my hair. Day’s eyes linger on the ruby necklace sitting at the small of my throat. His parting gift to me. His cheeks turn a little pink in the darkness. “So,” he says, “is this seriously why I’m here?”
Despite the anger in his voice, his directness is like a cool, sweet breeze after all these months of calculated political talk. I want to breathe it in. “The Colonies refuse to accept any other terms,” I reply. “They’re convinced that we have a cure for the virus, and the only one who might carry the cure is Eden. The Republic’s already running tests on other former . . . experiments . . . to see whether they can find anything.”
Day cringes, then folds his arms in front of his chest and regards me with a scowl. “Already running tests,” he mutters to himself, looking off toward the moonlit windows. “Sorry I can’t be more enthusiastic about this idea,” he adds dryly.
I close my eyes for a moment. “We don’t have much time,” I admit. “Every day we don’t hand over a cure further angers the Colonies.”
“And what happens if we don’t give them anything?”
“You know what happens. War.”
A note of fear appears in Day’s eyes, but he still shrugs. “The Republic and the Colonies have been at war forever. How will this be any different?”
“This time they’ll win,” I whisper. “They have a strong ally. They know we’re vulnerable during our transition to a young new Elector. If we can’t hand over this cure, we don’t stand a chance.” I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you remember what we saw when we went to the Colonies?”
Day pauses for a heartbeat. Even though he doesn’t say it aloud, I can see the conflict written clearly on his face. Finally, he sighs and tightens his lips in anger. “You think I’m going to let the Republic take Eden again? If the Elector believes that, then I really did make a mistake throwing my support behind him. I didn’t help him out just to watch him toss Eden back into a lab.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. No use trying to convince him of how much Anden also hates the situation. “He shouldn’t have asked you like this.”
“He put you up to this, didn’t he? I bet you resisted too, yeah? You know how this sounds.” His tone turns more exasperated. “You knew what my answer would be. Why’d you still send for me?”
I look into his eyes and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Because I wanted to see you. Isn’t that why you agreed too?”
This makes him pause for a moment. Then he whirls around, rakes both hands through his hair, and sighs. “What do you think, then? Tell me the truth. What would you ask me to do, if you felt absolutely no pressure from anyone else in this country?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Steel yourself, June. “I’d . . . ,” I begin, then hesitate. What would I say? Logically, I agree with Anden’s assessment. If the Colonies do what they threaten, if they attack us with the full force of a superpower’s help, then many innocent lives will be lost unless we take a risk with one life. There is simply no easier choice. Besides, we could ensure that Eden would be treated as well as possible, with the best doctors and the most physical comfort. Day could be present during all of the potential procedures—he could see exactly what was happening. But how do I explain that to a boy who has already lost his entire family, who saw his brother experimented on before, who has been experimented on himself? This is the part that Anden doesn’t understand as well as I do, even though he knows Day’s past on paper—he still doesn’t know Day, hasn’t traveled with him and witnessed the suffering he’s gone through. The question is too complicated to be answered with simple logic.
Most importantly—Anden’s unable to guarantee his brother’s safety. Everything will come with a risk, and I know with dead certainty that nothing in the world could possibly make Day take this risk.
Day must see the frustration dancing across my face, because he softens and steps closer. I can practically feel the heat coming off him, the warmth of his nearness that turns my breath shallow. “I came here tonight for you,” he says in a low voice. “There’s nothing in the world they could’ve said to convince me, except that you wanted me here. And I can’t turn down a request from you. They told me you had personally . . .” He swallows. There’s a familiar war of emotions in his expression that leaves me with a sick feeling—emotions that I know are desire, for what we once had, and anguish, for desiring a girl who destroyed his family. “It’s so good to see you, June.”
He says it like he’s letting go of a huge burden that’s been holding him down. I wonder whether he can hear my heart pounding frantically against my ribs. When I speak, though, I manage to keep my voice steady and calm. “Are you okay?” I ask. “You look pale.”
The weight returns to his eyes, and his brief moment of intimacy fades as he steps away and fiddles with the edge of his gloves. He’s always hated gloves, I remember. “I’ve had a bad flu for the last couple of weeks,” he replies, flashing me a quick grin. “Getting better now, though.” (Eyes flickering subtly to the side, scratching the edge of his ear, stiffness of his limbs, timing slightly off between his words and his smile.) I tilt my head at him and frown.
“You’re such a bad liar, Day,” I say. “You might as well tell me what’s on your mind.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he replies automatically. This time he points his eyes at the floor and puts his hands in his pockets. “If I seem off, it’s because I’m worried about Eden. He’s gotten a year of treatment for his eyes and he still can’t see much. The doctors tell me that he may need some special contacts, and even then, he might never get his full eyesight back.”
I can tell this isn’t the real reason behind Day’s exhausted appearance, but he knows that bringing Eden’s recovery into this conversation will stop any questions from me. Well, if he really doesn’t want to tell me, then I won’t pressure him. I clear my throat awkwardly. “That’s terrible,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry to hear it. Is he doing okay, otherwise?”
Day nods. We fall back into our moonlit silence. I can’t help recalling the last time we were alone in a room together, when he took my face in his hands, when his tears were falling against my cheeks. I remember the way he whispered I’m sorry against my lips. Now, as we stand three feet apart and stare at each other, I feel the full distance that comes with spending so much time apart, a moment filled with the electricity of a first meeting and the uncertainty of strangers.
Day leans toward me, as if drawn by some invisible force. The tragic plea on his face twists my stomach into painful knots. Please don’t ask this of me, his eyes beg. Please don’t ask me to give up my brother. I would do anything else for you. Just not this. “June, I . . . ,” he whispers. His voice threatens to break with all the heartache he’s keeping bottled inside.
He never finishes that sentence. Instead, he sighs and bows his head. “I can’t agree to your Elector’s terms,” he says in a somber tone. “I’m not going to hand my brother to the Republic as another experiment. Tell him I’ll work with him to find another solution. I understand how serious this all is—I don’t want to see the Republic fall. I’d be glad to help and figure something else out. But Eden stays out of this.”
And that’s the end of our conversation. Day nods at me in farewell, lingers for a few last seconds, and then steps toward the door. I lean against the wall in sudden exhaustion. Without him nearby, there’s a lack of energy, a dulling of color, gray moonlight where moments earlier there had been silver. I study his paleness a final time, analyzing him from the corner of my eye. He avoids my gaze. Something is wrong, and he refuses to tell me what it is.
What am I missing here?
He pulls the door open. His expression hardens right before he steps out of the room. “And if for some reason the Republic tries to take Eden by force, I’ll turn the people against Anden so fast that a revolution will be on him before he can blink.”
SERIOUSLY, I SHOULD BE USED TO MY NIGHTMARES BY NOW.
This time I dream about me and Eden at a San Francisco hospital. A doctor’s fitting Eden with a new pair of glasses. We end up at a hospital at least once a week, so that they can monitor how Eden’s eyes are slowly adjusting to medication, but this is the first time I see the doctor smile encouragingly at my brother. Must be a good sign, yeah?
Eden turns to me, grins, and puffs his chest out in an exaggerated gesture. I have to laugh. “How does it look?” he asks me, fiddling with his huge new frames. His eyes still have that weird, pale purple color, and he can’t focus on me, but I notice that he can now make out things like the walls around him and the light coming in from the windows. My heart jumps at the sight. Progress.
“You look like an eleven-year-old owl,” I reply, walking over to ruffle his hair. He giggles and bats my hand away.
