Prodigy (Legend 2)

Day seems disappointed by my reaction, but hides it behind a careless laugh. “I know you rich folks have all your fancy traditions, but in the poor sectors, engagements and gestures of affection usually go like this.”

Engagements? My heart flutters in my chest. I can’t help smiling. “With paper clip rings?”

Oh no. I’d meant it as an honest question of curiosity, but don’t realize I sound sarcastic until the words are already out of my mouth.

Day blushes a little; I’m immediately angry at myself for slipping up again. “With something handmade,” he corrects me after a beat. He’s looking down, clearly embarrassed, and I feel horrible for having triggered it. “Sorry it’s kind of stupid- looking,” he says in a low voice. “Wish I could make something nicer for you.”

“No, no,” I interrupt, trying to fix what I just said. “I really like it.” I run my fingers over the tiny ring, keeping my eyes fixed on it so I don’t have to meet Day’s eyes. Does he assume that I don’t think it’s good enough? Say something, June. Anything. My details come bubbling up. “Unplated galvanized steel wiring. This is good material, you know. Sturdier than the alloy ones, still bendy, and won’t rust. It’s—”

I stop when I see Day’s withering stare. “I like it,” I repeat. Idiotic reply, June. Why don’t you punch him in the face while you’re at it. I turn even more flustered when I remember that I have actually pistol-whipped him in the face before. Romantic.

“You’re welcome,” he says, shoving a couple of the unbent paper clips into his pockets.

There’s a long pause. I’m not sure what he wanted me to say back, but it probably wasn’t a list of a paper clip’s physical properties. Suddenly unsure of myself, I draw closer and rest my head against Day’s chest. He takes a quick breath, as if I’d caught him by surprise, and then he drapes his arm gently around me. There, that’s better. I close my eyes. One of his hands combs through my hair, sending goose bumps down my arms, and I allow myself to indulge in a little moment of fantasy—I imagine him running a finger along my jaw line, bringing his face down to mine.

Day leans over my ear. “How are you feeling about the plan?” he whispers.

I shrug, shoving my disappointment away. Stupid of me to fantasize about kissing Day at a time like this. “Has anyone told you what you’re supposed to do?”

“No. But I’m sure there’s going to be some kind of national broadcast to tell the country I’m still alive. I’m supposed to stir up trouble, right? Work the people into a frenzy?” Day laughs dryly, but his face doesn’t look amused. “Whatever gets me to Eden, I guess.”

“I guess,” I say.

He pulls me upright then, so that I face him. “I don’t know if they’ll let us communicate with each other,” he says. His voice drops so low I can barely hear it. “The plan sounds good, but if something goes wrong—”

“They’ll keep a close eye on me, I’m sure,” I interrupt him. “Razor’s a Republic officer. He can find a way to get me out if it starts falling apart. As for communications . . .” I bite my lip, thinking. “I’ll come up with something.”

Day touches my chin, bringing me closer until his nose brushes mine. “If anything goes wrong, if you change your mind, if you need help, you send a signal, you hear me?”

His words send shivers down my neck. “Okay,” I whisper.

Day gives me a subtle nod, then pulls away and leans back against his pillows. I let out my breath. “Are you ready?” he asks. There’s more to his sentence, I can tell, but he doesn’t say it. Are you ready to kill the Elector?

I give him a forced grin. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

We stay like that for a long time, until the light filtering in from the windows is bright and we hear the morning pledge blaring out across the city. Finally, I hear the front door swing open and close, and then Razor’s voice. Footsteps approach the bedroom, and Razor peeks in right as I straighten and sit up.

“How’s that leg of yours?” he asks Day. His face is as calm as ever, his eyes expressionless behind his glasses.

Day nods. “Good.”

“Excellent.” Razor smiles sympathetically. “I hope you’ve had enough time with your boy, Ms. Iparis. We’re moving out in an hour.”

“I thought the Medic wanted me to rest it for—” Day starts to say.

“Sorry,” Razor replies as he turns away. “We have an airship to catch. Don’t push that leg too hard just yet.”

THE PATRIOTS DISGUISE ME BEFORE WE HEAD OUT.

Kaede cuts my hair so it stops right below my shoulders, then she tints the white-blond strands a dark brownish red. She uses some sort of spray to do it, something they can remove with a special cleanser if they need to strip the color out. Razor gives me a pair of brown contact lenses that completely hide the bright blue of my eyes. Only I can tell that it’s artificial; I can still see the tiny, tiny specks of deep purple dotting my irises. These contacts are a luxury in themselves—rich trots use them to change their eye color—for fun. They would’ve come in handy for me on the streets if I’d had access to them. Kaede adds a synthetic scar to my cheek, then finishes off my disguise with a first-year air force uniform; a full black suit with red stripes running along each pant leg.

Finally, she equips me with a tiny flesh-colored earpiece and mike—the first embedded discreetly in my ear, the second inside my cheek.