She’s been under my roof for twelve hours. One hour was spent trying to cook and eat a meal without accidentally brushing up against each other and without engaging in conversation. Mostly because she looked shocked and lost, and I had no words that would make it better.
Two-point-five hours were spent listening to her move around the tiny loft above me while I worked on a design for a tracking device and told myself no one should have that much power over my ability to concentrate.
The other eight-point-five hours, we slept. Or she did. I hope she did. I lay awake for more hours than I care to recall listening for a telltale catch in her breathing that would tell me how deeply she must be hurting. She remained silent, and I remained mostly sleepless.
Now the morning light feels harsh against my eyes, and my brain feels incapable of even the most rudimentary exercise in logic. Twelve hours into my role as her Protector and I’m sure of one thing: Moving Rachel into my little brick-and-mortar cottage wasn’t one of my better ideas.
The small stipend I receive as Jared’s apprentice is enough to pay for a house of my own with a bit left over for tech supplies and food. I have no idea how I’m going to make it stretch to cover Rachel’s needs as well. However, considering the current state of our relationship, money is the least of my current difficulties.
I’m sitting on my patched leather couch when she climbs down from the loft, sunlight tangling in the red strands of her hair and shimmering like fire. Her face is pale and composed, at odds with the fierce glint in her eyes as she looks at everything but me.
I should say something.
Anything.
No, not just anything. She had a rough day yesterday. She probably needs words of comfort and compassion.
I should’ve invited Oliver to breakfast.
She wanders through the living room, bypassing stacks of books and running her finger along my mantel, leaving a flurry of dust in her wake.
Did I ever realize there was dust on the mantel?
The silence between us feels unwieldy. I clear my throat and try to think of the most conciliatory greeting I can compose. How are you? Did you enjoy sleeping in my tiny loft instead of the comfortable bed you’ve always known? It’s somewhat cold outside. Did you bring your heavy cloak when you packed up all your belongings to move here because I didn’t think fast enough on my feet to realize I should let you keep your home?
If those sound half as stupid coming out of my mouth as they do in my head, I can’t say them. Maybe I should just offer her some breakfast.
Her shoulders are tense as she moves away from my mantel and toward the slab of pine I use as my kitchen table. Its surface is covered with papers, inkwells, wires, and bits of copper. In the center, beside a stack of carefully drawn designs, lie the beginnings of the invention I’m hoping will solve this entire situation.
Her lips are pressed tight, dipping down in the corners.
I can say I’m sorry. She’ll hear the sincerity in my voice. I’ll say I’m sorry and then—
She reaches her hand toward the delicately spliced wires of my new invention. I leap to my feet, scattering books across the floor, and say, “Don’t touch that!”
She freezes and looks at me for the first time.
“I mean … it’s still a work in progress and it needs … Did you sleep okay? Of course not. You have your cloak, right? Because the weather is … I’m just going to make you some breakfast.”
I sound like an idiot. Being solely responsible for a girl—no, being solely responsible for Rachel—has apparently short-circuited my ability to form coherent speech. Partially because the only girl I’ve ever really talked to is Rachel, and we stopped talking two years ago. And partially because ever since she said she loved me, I’ve felt unbearably self-conscious around her.
She stares me down and then deliberately presses her finger against the half-finished device before her. Her expression dares me to pick a fight, and I could easily take her up on it. It might be a relief to get some of the uncomfortable, volatile emotions from yesterday out into the open.
But Rachel doesn’t need to deal with my grief and anger. She needs an outlet for her own. Any other Baalboden girl would want sympathy and the cushion of her Protector keeping all hardship from her. But while other girls were raised to be dependent and obedient, Rachel was taught to think and act for herself. I know exactly how to help her.
“Want to spar?”
She frowns and slowly pulls her hand away from the wires. “Spar?”
“Yes.”
She glances around as if looking for the trap. “Why?”
“Because it’s been two and a half years since you last knocked me flat on my back. I figure I’m due.” Not that I’m going to make it easy for her to beat me. She’d hate me if I did.
I smile as I walk toward her and nearly trip on a stack of haphazardly organized books.
Why don’t I ever put things away around here?
She lifts her chin. “I only spar with—”
Jared. She only spars with Jared, but she can’t make herself finish the sentence. Her lips tremble before she presses them back into an unyielding line.
“I’m sorry.” I reach a hand toward her, but she doesn’t look at it, and I let it fall. “I wish I could change things. I wish I hadn’t made you move in here when I should’ve let you stay in your home. I wish Oliver had been named your Protector, so you’d feel comfortable. And I wish Jared …”
I can’t say I wish he wasn’t dead, because I don’t think he is. The Commander doesn’t think he’s dead either. I’m hoping to be the first to prove that theory right. If I can’t finish my invention and track Jared across the Wasteland before the Commander homes in on him, I’m afraid Jared will face the kind of brutal death only our leader is capable of dispensing.
Rachel’s glare softens into something bright and fervent. “You don’t think Dad’s dead, do you?”
I shake my head.
“I knew it. I hoped I could count on you.” Her cheeks flush faintly, and she leans closer. Warmth unfurls in my chest at her faith in me. If she can learn to trust me, maybe we can start over. Rebuild our friendship and figure out how to make this impossible situation work.
She says, “I’ve been thinking of ways we can get out of Baalboden so we can find him. If there’s a sanctioned highwayman trading day, we could …”
The warmth within me turns to ice as she talks, one wild escape idea after another spilling from her mouth, a collection of dangerous pitfalls guaranteed to trap her beneath the merciless foot of the Commander. The memory of his whip falling in cruel precision across my mother’s back slaps at me with a swift shock of pain.
Jared is counting on me to protect Rachel. Oliver is too. And with the Commander already suspicious that we know Jared’s whereabouts, the risk of getting caught in an escape attempt is high.
Too high to allow her to come along.
She’ll fight me on it. Probably hate me for it. But since she already despises me, I’ve got nothing to lose by standing in her way.
“We aren’t leaving Baalboden to go looking for Jared,” I say quietly.
The sudden silence between us is fraught with tension.
“But you said you think he’s alive.” She sounds baffled and hurt, and regret is a bitter taste in my mouth, but I can’t allow her to risk everything. Jared wouldn’t want his daughter to die trying to save him.
I don’t want her to die either. She may not like me now, but I haven’t forgotten that of all the citizens in Baalboden, only Oliver, Jared, and Rachel ever bothered to look at me like I was worth something.
“Logan?”
I make myself meet her eyes. Make myself memorize the way they look when they aren’t filled with animosity or anger. Then I shove my regret into a corner and focus on the more important task: Keep Rachel safe until I can stash her with Oliver and go out into the Wasteland to find Jared myself. I don’t know what Jared could’ve done to gain the Commander’s merciless animosity, but he’s become family to me. I can’t stand back and do nothing.
“I do think he’s alive,” I say. “But we aren’t going out looking for him. It’s a suicide mission, one he’d never allow you to—”
“Don’t tell me what Dad would allow me to do!”
“Rachel …”
Her face is dead white, her eyes a blaze of misery and fury. “So, you’re content to just sit here in your little house, doing whatever it is you do all day, while somewhere out there Dad needs our help?”
No, I want to tell her. I’m about ten days out from finishing an invention I made specifically because I couldn’t stand to sit here doing nothing while somewhere out there Jared is missing. But if I tell her that, it’s tantamount to giving her permission to come along. And I’m not willing to do that.
I clench my jaw and say, “We aren’t going.”
Her lip curls, a scornful expression that seems to say I’ve just lived up to her lowest estimation of me, and she steps back. Her disappointment hurts, but I meet her gaze without flinching.
“I’m sorry, Rachel.”
She turns and walks out of the house.