There’s a rainbow scratch along the floor; Eldest used this door frequently. My hands shake as I reach toward the old-fashioned knob—it’s metal, from Sol-Earth. It won’t twist, but when I pull, the door opens anyway. I stare curiously inside.
A closet.
Closets are rare; most bedrooms have wardrobes instead, but I must admit I was hoping for something more here. Disappointed, I turn away, but something catches my eye. A rag pokes out from the top box on the floor of the closet. It’s an odd sort of greenish blue, a color I remember in the deepest part of me.
I suck in my breath, then forget to breathe out again. When I reach down and pull the scrap of cloth from the box, my hands are numb.
When I first moved into the Keeper Level, one of the only things I brought with me was a blanket. Small, stained, and worn threadbare in spots. A particular shade of greenish blue.
This blanket was the oldest thing I owned. At the time, I thought that it had come from my parents. As Elder, I was never allowed to know who they were, because otherwise I’d be biased toward them. Or so Eldest told me. In reality, I’m a clone, manufactured, not born.
Eldest had me moved from family to family until I was twelve—six months with the shepherds, six months with the butchers, six months with the soy farmers.
And with all that moving, I never knew which family belonged to me.
But the blanket was mine.
My earliest memory is hiding under the blanket when I was told I’d have to move again. I don’t remember which family I was with or which I was moving to, but I remember cowering under the blanket and thinking that maybe, when I was a little baby, it had been my mother—my real mother—who had wrapped me in it and held me against her.
After the first few days on the Keeper Level, Eldest and I got in a fight, and he called me an impossible child, babied and spoiled. I promptly stormed into my room and punched the walls, knocking everything in sight off my shelf—and then I saw my blanket. The epitome of being a baby.
I’d tried to rip it in half but couldn’t, so I chucked it in the trash chute.
And, somehow, Eldest saved this piece of me. Kept it for years. I press it now against my face and think about all Eldest was, and all he wasn’t.
The only thing hanging from the rod in the closet is a heavy robe, the ceremonial robe Eldest only wore on important occasions. I drop the blanket back into the box and reach for the robe. It’s much heavier than I expected. Definitely wool—I’ve carded and spun enough from my time before Eldest began training me to recognize the waxy-rough feeling of the cloth. The embroidery spans the entire length and breadth of the robe. Stars dance along the top, crops grow along the hem, and between them is a band of horizon that never ends.
The clasp opens at my touch, and I slide under the robe. The weight of it pushes my shoulders down, makes me hunch over. The hem drags the floor by a good inch or two, and my chest isn’t broad enough to fill out the robe; the stars cave in around me.
I look ridiculous.
I pull the robe off and shove it back into the closet.
8
AMY
I HAVE TO GET OUT. I HAVE TO LEAVE. NOW. I CAN’T STAY here. Not with him. Escape. Must escape. Now. NOW. But there’s nowhere to go. He crosses the threshold and is at me in two strides. Luthor draws closer to me, so close that I can feel the heat of his body burning my skin. When I suck in a lungful of air to scream, I suck in some of his exhaled breath too. Luthor reaches toward me, and the scream in my throat dies, choking me and leaving me breathless.
Luthor flips the hood away from my face. He grabs hold of my maroon head wrap, and I jerk away, my hair spilling out over my shoulders. The bookshelf behind me is an unyielding wall. Luthor slides his hand down the side of my face and grabs a fistful of my hair. He yanks it, hard, pulling me closer to him. I strain against his grip. I don’t care if he rips the hair out of my head, I am not going to let him control me. I reach behind me and grab two books from the shelf by their spines. As Luthor twines my hair around his hand, forcing me to face him, I whip out the books, slamming them on either side of his head.
“Augh!” Luthor shouts, an inhuman roar of pain. He clutches the sides of his head, a string of curse words—some I know, some I don’t—following me as I drop the books and duck under his arm.
“Come on!” I yell at Victria, who is still hiding behind the last bookcase. She steps out and I grab her wrist and drag her behind me, out of the fiction room and toward the hall.
Luthor follows quickly, but we’ve got enough of a head start that we make it to the crowded entrance hall before he reaches us. I stop when we reach the center. The message that had filled all the screens before is gone, and the floppies have returned to normal. A short woman wearing the immaculately starched dark clothing favored by the Shippers stands near the Science floppy, deep in conversation with the group that had been studying the engine schematics earlier. A few people look up, startled by our sudden entrance, but for the most part, no one notices us.
Luthor stands with both arms gripping the doorway that leads to the hall, glaring at us. He won’t do anything now. Not with everyone else here. It’s not the Season anymore; there’s no more Phydus. He doesn’t have an excuse.
Victria yanks her hand out of my grasp. “Thanks,” she mutters, the sound more like a growl.
“Hey!” Luthor’s voice echoes throughout the entrance hall. Most people turn to look at him, but Victria dips her head low and hurries for the exit, abandoning me in the center of the hall as Luthor pushes up from the door frame and heads toward me.
“You think you can just walk away from me?” Luthor shouts.
“I know I can,” I say, and I actually make it a few steps closer to the exit before he grabs me by the elbow and spins me around.
I scan the entrance hall. Everyone’s watching us. A few have drawn closer, and from the worry in their eyes, I can see that they’re on the verge of coming to my aid. Still—they hesitate. Because he’s one of them. And I’m not.