“That sounds too easy,” she says. I can’t see her face but I’m positive it’s dressed in doubt and furrowed eyebrows and the most stubborn sort of scowl.
“Why are they keeping you separate from us?”
She snorts. “If I knew, I’d do something about it.”
The darkness is so thick I’m starting to grow dizzy. If it weren’t for the floor beneath me, I might not know which way is up.
“Gray?” she says, and her voice has this quaver to it I’ve never heard before. “What if we actually can’t get out of this one? What if Titus doesn’t honor the deal and what if this is it, us stuck down here? I mean, I don’t want to think that way. I keep telling myself not to. But I have this terrible feeling that—” I feel her shoulders shake next to me. She takes a deep breath. Another. “I’m scared we’re actually in over our heads this time. I’ve never felt that sort of doubt before. Not once. But then they close me in without you guys, and I’ve got nothing but walls and darkness and all these hopeless thoughts that won’t stop rocketing around my head. No matter how damn hard I try to silence them, they just get louder and louder and—”
I reach for her. Her hands are rough like mine, calloused from working a knife and throwing spears, but still so delicate. Thin. Small. I squeeze her palm and she lets out a sob.
“Bree?”
But her head is already against my chest. She’s crying, letting these giant, shameless sobs escape her. I don’t say anything because I somehow know she doesn’t need words. She’s not looking for reassurance, or for me to promise her everything will be okay. She just needs me to be here. With her. Sitting. One hand in hers, the other on her back. That’s all she needs and all she wants.
So that’s all I do.
A moment later she pulls away from me. “If you tell anyone about this, I swear I will kick the crap out of you.”
“Like you could.”
“I mean it, Gray. Don’t tell them I broke. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Who broke? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I would give anything to see her face right now. In my mind, I picture her smiling.
But she’s not, because right then the door is yanked open and as light floods the cell, I can see her. Bruises paint her skin in angry shades of purple and yellow. Most of her minor cuts have closed to dry, ragged scabs, and the bad gash above her eyebrow is now held together by stitches someone was kind enough to administer. Her eyes are puffy from crying and the blue of her irises is brighter than I remember. She looks scared. I’ve never seen fear on her face before and it freezes my heart.
Bree’s grip tightens on my hand. Her eyes glisten. Bruno drags us apart before any more tears can fall.
We’re locked in just as we were the previous night, with a lone candle that will burn through its wick long before morning. The gear I gathered sits near it, far out of reach.
Once Bruno’s and Kaz’s footsteps fade down the hall, I kick off my boot. I feel my way in the dark, peeling back the insole, finding the knife, flicking it open. It takes forever to saw through my ropes, but I manage. I grab the candle and gear bag, and untie Clipper. He digs through the supplies until he finds a spare radio. Leave it to Clipper to have extras of everything, even if it did make his pack heavier during our travels.
He fiddles with the thing for a few minutes and then hands it to me. “That should be the right channel. Reception could be poor—I’m not sure how far underground we are.”
“Xavier? Bo?” I ask hesitantly.
There is a crackle from the unit and then Xavier’s voice, slightly choppy. “Gray? Thank goodness. Bo was just about to head in after you—it’s been silent for way too long. What happened?” There is a muffled noise in the background. “Yeah, he’s fine, Emma.”
I give Xavier a quick rundown of our predicament, explaining how Clipper needs to open the Room of Whistles and Whirs to secure our freedom.
“If it’s not a control room like we suspect, we probably won’t be able to convince Titus to join our cause,” I explain. “But we’ll be able to leave so long as we get the door open. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you. If you don’t hear from us by nightfall tomorrow, something went wrong.”
“Wrong how?” he asks. “Like being held against your will wrong?”
“Probably.”
The unit crackles a few times and I can’t hear all of what he’s saying.
“. . . found more fuel in the back of the car, stored under the seats. Must have been why those other two exploded so easily when you shot them from the Catherine. Point is, we’ll have the means to run for a while if it comes to that.” Another crackle, muffled voices. “Emma, he’s okay. We’re speaking right now . . . No, you can’t talk to . . . Fine.”
“Gray?” Emma’s voice is so soft and delicate it is as if she stands beside me. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I should have been there.”
“No, I’m glad you weren’t. Trust me.”
A pause. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “We’ll be in touch tomorrow, and everything is going to be fine. I swear it.”
She lets out a tiny laugh. “You shouldn’t make such lofty promises, Gray. You might not be able to keep them.” It’s quiet for a moment and then her voice reaches me as a whisper. “I love you, Gray.”
That word. I would have given anything to hear her say it over the summer, to have had the chance to say it back, but now, more than ever, I understand its true power. How it can make you ache as much as it can make you soar. How it shouldn’t be said in return unless you mean it as deeply as the speaker. And that’s not something you can ever know. Not truly. There’s too much blind faith involved and that word is always, always a risk. You’ll get hurt. Or the other person will. You’ll stomp on someone’s heart without meaning to. Loving is foolish and risky, like trying to raise a building in a bog. Emotions don’t make strong foundations.
So when Emma says my name, repeats that word, asks me if I’m still here, I only tell her she’s breaking up, that she should put Xavier back on before the connection dies.
I end up getting Bo instead.
“There’s something else,” he says. “I was switching radio channels last night, wondering if you were trying to reach us on the wrong one, and overheard a staticky message: Friends of the Resistance, please repeat: The phoenix thinks you should engage the enemy. Then today, I came across it again. Different voice, different channel, same message. Clearer this time, too, like the source was closer.”
“The phoenix,” I say, puzzled, and I can feel my face screw up in concentration.
“Come on, Gray. Don’t you see? I thought that Ryder . . . maybe . . . because Owen said he was going to radio September when we were on the boat.”
And suddenly it is obvious.
“She got through to him! September somehow reached Ryder from Bone Harbor, told him all of our suspicions about AmWest, and this is his response, being passed on by Rebel supporters who stumble upon it. Ryder Phoenix thinks we should reach out to the Expats! Unless . . . Couldn’t engage mean battle as much as conversation?”
“We’ve always seen them as the enemy,” Bo answers. “And I know Ryder. He wouldn’t go through all the trouble of sending this message back if it only meant to keep viewing AmWest exactly as we always have.”
“So you think it means . . . ?”
“I do, yes. We were right to wonder if the Expats were another group of Rebels, not unlike us.”