The City of Mirrors (The Passage 3)

“Where are you going?” Lore called after him.

“To cut some fucking steel.”

* * *

68

The time was 1730; the sun would set in three hours. For the moment, Peter had done all he could. He was well past the need to sleep but wanted a moment to collect himself. He thought of Jock as he walked to the house. He had no particular allegiance to the man; he had been a callow and obnoxious kid who had nearly gotten Peter killed. The rifle was probably wasted on him. But Peter recognized that day on the roof as a turning point, and he believed in second chances.

The security detail was gone.

Peter darted up the stairs and raced into the house. “Amy?” he called.

A silence, then: “In here.”

She was sitting on the bed, facing the door, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She looked up. Her face changed; she gave him a melancholy smile. A peculiar quiet took the room—not merely an absence of sound but something deeper, more fraught. “Yes. I’m fine.” She patted the mattress. “Come sit with me.”

He took a place beside her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She took his hand, not looking at him. He sensed she was on the verge of some announcement.

“When I was in the water, I went someplace,” she said. “At least, my mind did. I’m not sure I can explain this right. I was so happy there.”

He realized what she was saying. “The farmstead.”

Her eyes found his.

“I’ve been there, too.” Strangely, he felt no surprise; the words had been waiting to be said.

“I was playing the piano.”

“Yes.”

“And we were together.”

“Yes. We were. Just the two of us.”

How good to say it, to speak the words. To know that he was not alone with his dreams after all, that there was some reality to it, though he could not know what that reality was, only that it existed. He existed. Amy existed. The farmstead, and their happiness in that place, existed.

“You asked me this morning why I came to you in Iowa,” Amy said. “I didn’t tell you the truth. Or, at least, not all of it.”

Peter waited.

“When you change, you get to keep one thing, one memory. Whatever was closest to your heart. From all your life, just the one.” She looked up. “What I wanted to keep was you.”

She was crying, just a little: small, jeweled tears that hung suspended on the tips of her lashes, like drops of dew upon leaves. “Peter, will you do something for me?”

He nodded.

“Please kiss me.”

He did. He did not so much kiss her as fall into the world of her. Time slowed, stopped, moved in an unhurried circle around them, like waves around a pier. He felt at peace. His senses were soaring. His mind was in two places, this world and also the other: the world of the farmstead, a place beyond space, beyond time, where only the two of them resided.

They parted. Their faces were inches apart. Amy cupped his cheek, her eyes locked on his.

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

The remark was strange. Her gaze deepened.

“I know what you’re planning to do,” she said. “You wouldn’t survive it.”

Something came undone inside him. All strength drained from his body. He tried to speak but couldn’t.

“You’re tired,” Amy said.

She caught him as he fell.

—

Amy laid him on the bed. In the outer room, she pulled her frock over her head and replaced it with the clothing that Greer had fetched for her: heavy canvas pants with pockets, leather boots, a tan shirt, the sleeves torn away, with the insignia of the Expeditionary on the shoulders. They possessed a warm, human odor—a smell of work, of life. Whoever had owned these articles was small; the fit was nearly perfect. On the back porch the soldiers slept soundly, like babies, hands tucked under their cheeks, lost to all cares. Amy gently relieved one of his pistol and tucked it into her trousers, against her spine.

A deep quiet held the street, everyone in hiding, bracing for the storm. As Amy made her way toward the center of town, soldiers began to take notice, yet none spoke to her; their minds were elsewhere, what did one woman matter? The exterior of the stockade was unguarded. Amy strode purposefully to the door and stepped inside.

She counted three men. Behind the counter, the officer in charge glanced up.

“Help you, soldier?”

—

The sound of tumblers: Alicia raised her eyes. Amy?

“Hello, sister.”