WHEN I FINALLY WALK OUTSIDE AFTER CHANGING into warmer clothes and rolling my bed blanket under my arm, the sun is shifted to the west and there’s not a cloud in the sky. It’s half past four, which gives me an hour and a half at best. I hate the rushed quality of Sundays, the way the day creeps by until the very moment we’re free, at which point time flies. I look to the east, and the light reflected off the snow causes me to squint. The cave is over two rocky hills. With as much snow as there is on the ground now, I’m not even sure I’ll see the opening today. But I pull on my hat, zip up my jacket, tie the blanket around my neck like a cape, and head east.
Two tall birch trees mark the trail’s start, and my feet turn cold the second I enter the deep drifts. The blanket-cape sweeps the snow behind me, erasing my footprints. I pass a few recognizable fixtures that show the way—a rock jutting out past the others, a tree that leans at a slightly different angle. After about twenty minutes I pass the rock formation identical to a camel’s back, which tells me I’m almost there.
I have the faint sensation of being watched, possibly followed. I turn and scan the mountainside. Silence. Snow, nothing else. The blanket around my neck has done a great job of hiding my tracks. A slow, prickly feeling crawls up the back of my neck. I’ve seen the way rabbits blend into the landscape, going unnoticed until you’re almost on top of them, and I know that just because I can’t see somebody doesn’t mean they can’t see me.
Five minutes later I finally spot the rounded shrub that blocks the entrance. The cave’s mouth looks like an oversized groundhog hole cutting into the mountain, and that’s exactly what I had mistaken it for years ago. But when I’d looked more closely I knew I was wrong. The cave was deep and dark, and back then I could see next to nothing in the little light that entered. There was an implicit desire to discover the cave’s secrets, and I wonder if this is what caused the Legacy to develop: my ability to see in the dark. I can’t see in the dark as easily as I can in the day, but even the deepest recesses of black glow as though lit by candlelight.
On my knees, I knock away just enough snow to be able to slip down and in. I drop the bag ahead of me, untie the blanket from my neck and sweep it across the snow to hide my footprints, then hang it on the other side of the opening to keep out the wind. The entrance is narrow for the first three meters, followed by a slightly wider passageway that winds down a steep decline large enough to navigate while standing; and after that the cave opens, revealing itself.
The ceiling is high and echoing, and its five walls smoothly transition into one another, creating an almost perfect polygon. A stream cuts through the back right corner. I have no idea where the water comes from or where it goes—springing up through one of the walls only to disappear into the earth’s deeper depths—but the level never changes, offering a reservoir of icy cold water regardless of the time of day or season. With the constant fresh source of water, this is the perfect place to hide. From the Mogadorians, the Sisters, and the girls—even Adelina. It’s also the perfect place to use and hone my Legacies.
I drop the bag beside the stream, remove the nonperishables, and place them on the rock ledge, which already holds several chocolate bars, small bags of granola, oatmeal, cereal, powdered milk, a jar of peanut butter, and various cans of fruits, vegetables, and soup. Enough for weeks. Only when everything is put away do I stand and allow myself to be greeted by the landscapes and faces I’ve painted on the walls.
From the very first time a brush was put into my hand at school, I fell in love with painting. Painting allows me to see things as I want to and not necessarily as they are; it’s an escape, a way to preserve thoughts and memories, a way to create hopes and dreams.
I rinse the brushes, rubbing the stiffness from the bristles, and then mix the paint with water and sediment from the creek bed, creating earthy tones that match the gray of the cave’s walls. Then I walk to where John Smith’s partially completed face greets me with his uncertain grin.
I spend a lot of time on his dark blue eyes, trying to get them just right. There’s a certain glint that’s hard to replicate; and when I tire of trying, I start on a new painting, that of the girl with the raven hair I had dreamed about. Unlike John’s eyes, I have no trouble at all with hers, letting the gray wall do its magic; and I think that if I were to wave a lighted candle in front of it, the color would slightly change, as I’m sure her eyes do depending on her mood and the light around her. It’s just a feeling I get. The other faces I’ve painted are Hector’s, Adelina’s, a few of the town’s vendors I see every weekday. Because this cave is so deep and dark, I believe my paintings are safe from anyone’s eyes but mine. It’s still a risk, I know, but I just can’t help myself.
After a while I go up and push aside my blanket, poking my head out of the cave. I see nothing but drifts of white and the bottom of the sun kissing the horizon line—which tells me it’s time to go. I haven’t painted nearly as much or as long as I would have liked. Before cleaning the brushes I walk to the wall opposite John and look at the big red square I’ve painted there. Before it was a red square I’d done something foolish, something I know would have exposed me as a Garde, and painted a list.
I touch the square and think of the first three numbers that are underneath, running my fingertips over the dried, cracked paint, deeply saddened by what those lines meant. If there is any consolation in their deaths, it’s that they can now rest easy and no longer have to live in fear.
I turn from the square, from the hidden and destroyed list, clean the brushes, and put everything away.
“I’ll see you guys next week,” I say to the faces.
Before leaving the cave I take in the landscape painted on the wall beside the passageway leading in and out. It’s the first painting I’d ever attempted here, sometime around the age of twelve; and while I have touched it up a bit over the years, mostly it has remained the same. It’s the view of Lorien from my own bedroom window and I still remember it perfectly. Rolling hills and grassy plains accentuated with tall trees. A thick slice of blue river that cuts across the terrain. Small bits of paint here and there that represent the Chimæra drinking from its cool waters. And then, off in the far distance at the very top, standing tall over the nine archways representing the planet’s nine Elders, is the statue of Pittacus Lore, so small it’s almost indistinct; but there’s no mistaking it for what it really is, standing out among the others: a beacon of hope.
I hurry from the cave and back to the convent, keeping an eye open for anything out of place. The sun is just below the horizon when I leave the path, which means I’m running late. I push through the heavy oak doors to find the welcome bells ringing; somebody new has arrived.
I join the others on their way to our sleeping quarters. We have a welcoming tradition here, standing next to our beds with our hands behind our backs, facing the new girl and introducing ourselves one by one. I’d hated it when I had first arrived; hated feeling on display when all I wanted to do was hide.
In the doorway, standing beside Sister Lucia, is a small girl with auburn hair, curious brown eyes, and petite features not unlike a mouse. She stares at the stone floor, shifting her weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other. Her fingers fiddle with the waist of her gray wool dress, which is patterned with pink flowers. There’s a small pink clip in her hair, and she wears black shoes with silver buckles. I feel sorry for her. Sister Lucia waits for us all to smile, all thirty-seven of us, and then she speaks.
“This is Ella. She’s seven years old and will be staying with us from here on out. I trust that you will all make her feel welcome.”
A rumor is later whispered that her parents had been killed in an automobile accident and she’s here because she has no other relatives.
Ella flutters her eyes up as each person says their name, but mostly she keeps her gaze on the floor. It’s obvious she’s scared and sad, but I can tell she’s the kind of girl people will fall for. She won’t be here for very long.
We all walk to the nave together so Sister Lucia can explain to Ella its importance to the orphanage. Gabby García stands yawning in the back of the group, and I turn to look at her. Just beyond Gabby, framed in one of the clear panes of the stained glass window at the far wall, a dark figure stands outside looking in. I can just make him out in the oncoming nightfall, his black hair, heavy brows, and thick mustache. His eyes are trained on me; there’s no doubt about it. My heart skips a beat. I gasp and take a step backwards. Everyone’s head snaps around.
“Marina, are you okay?” Sister Lucia asks.
“Nothing,” I say, then shake my head. “I mean, yes, I’m fine. Sorry.”
My heart pounds and my hands shake. I clasp them together so it’s not noticeable. Sister Lucia says something else about welcoming Ella, but I’m too distracted to hear it. I turn back to the window. The figure is gone. The group’s dismissed.
I rush across the nave and look outside. I don’t see anyone, but I do see a single set of boot prints in the snow. I step away from the window. Perhaps it’s a potential foster parent assessing the girls from afar, or perhaps it’s one of the girl’s real parents sneaking a glance at the daughter he can’t provide for. But for some reason I don’t feel safe. I don’t like the way his eyes settled on me.
“Are you okay?” I hear behind me. I jump, then turn around. It’s Adelina, standing with her hands clasped in front of her waist. A rosary dangles from her fingers.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Worse than a ghost, I think, but I don’t say that. I’m scared after this morning’s slap, and I pocket my hands.
“There was somebody at the window watching me,” I whisper. “Just now.”
Her eyes squint.
“Look. Look at the prints,” I say, turning back and motioning to the ground.
Adelina’s back is straight and rigid, and for a moment I think she’s actually concerned; but then she softens and steps forward. She takes in the prints.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says.
“What do you mean it’s nothing? How can you say that?”
“I wouldn’t worry. It could have been anyone.”
“He was looking right at me.”
“Marina, wake up. With today’s new arrival there are thirty-eight girls here. We do the best we can keeping you girls safe, but that doesn’t mean the occasional boy from town doesn’t wander up here to sneak a peek. We’ve even caught some of them. And don’t think for a minute we don’t know the way that some of the others dress, changing clothes on the walk to school to look provocative. There are six of you turning eighteen soon, and everyone in town knows it. So, I wouldn’t worry about the man you saw. He was probably nothing more than a boy from school.”
I’m sure this was no boy from school, but I don’t say so.
“Anyway, I wanted to apologize for this morning. It was wrong of me to strike you.”
“It’s okay,” I say, and for a minute I think of bringing John Smith up again, but I decide against it. It would create more friction, which I want to avoid. I miss the way we used to be. And it’s hard enough living here without having Adelina angry at me.
Before she says anything further, Sister Dora hurries over and whispers something into Adelina’s ear. Adelina looks at me and nods and smiles.
“We’ll talk later,” she says.
They walk away, leaving me to myself. I look back down at the boot prints, and a shiver runs up my back.
For the next hour I pace from room to room looking down the hill at the dark town cast in shadow, but I don’t see the looming figure again. Perhaps Adelina is right.
But no matter how hard I try convincing myself, I don’t think she is.