“They’re exhausted,” I say, indicating Maude and Bruce. “Why were they put to work? They should be meditating and training to breathe on lower levels of oxygen. Are you trying to kill them?”
Maks narrows his eyes. “If we wanted to kill them, we’d have them digging their own graves, not vegetable patches.” Silas tugs on my sweater, warning me not to answer back because that’s exactly what I’m about to do. Maks nods triumphantly and leaves.
“We should think about finding somewhere else to live,” Silas says.
“You think she’ll just let us walk out the way we came in? Petra wouldn’t have.”
Song takes a lungful of air from the oxybox. “And it’s pretty well fortified here. They’ve used the old rubble and brick to build new structures. It’s solid.” He raps his knuckles against the wall of the cabin to demonstrate how sturdy it is.
“You know what’s weird?” Bruce says. “No forest. We walked all round this compound today, probably five acres, and nothing.”
“Not a single tree?” I ask. It doesn’t make sense. “You probably missed them.”
“Really? Oak trees and alders and whatnot? Yeah, cuz they’re a cinch to hide,” Maude says.
“Maybe they know trees will lead the Ministry here,” Dorian says, buttoning up his jacket.
“Then where’s the air coming from?” Song asks.
“Greenhouse,” Maude says. “Big thing behind the annex. Some little trees in there, all right. Apples and pears and the like. But they got veggies mostly. And tomato vines.”
“That won’t be enough to make a difference,” I say. The whole point in raging against the Ministry is to restore the earth to what it had been. Trees are a symbol of that, and also the only plants big enough to set people free. It might take us a millennium, but we have to start somewhere.
“I suggest we go to dinner and discuss this later,” Dorian says. “They’ll be waiting.”
We all nod in agreement. It’s best not to raise any suspicion just yet.
The red brick annex is newly built using old materials. We file in along with everyone else and choose seats around a long table as far from the stage at the front as possible. The tables are empty apart from cups and water jugs, but as we sit down, servers appear from swinging doors holding platters of food over their heads. No one joins us at first. They file into the hall in pairs and seem to take their places in predetermined seats. I’m about to stand up in case we’re sitting where we shouldn’t when a young man with long, curly hair sits next to me, and some girls join him.
“You found the loners’ table then,” the man says, and laughs. “I’m Terry.” He holds out his hand. “You can take off the masks. They pump a little air in here so we can eat comfortably.”
“Alina.” I pull off my mask and take his hand.
Opposite sits a girl with thin eyebrows and icy blue eyes who introduces herself as Wren. A black scarf is tightly wound around her head, covering up her hair. “We’ve never had a whole group join us before. Always individuals. The rumor is The Grove’s been destroyed. Is that true? You think others will follow you here?” she asks.
Maude reaches across the table and snatches a hunk of cake from a platter. Terry politely fills everyone’s cup with water.
“I doubt it,” Silas says. “They’re all dead.”
“Oh,” Wren says, emptying her cup in one long gulp and reaching forward so Terry can refill it. “The Ministry wants us all dead, don’t they? As I see it, our best bet is to finish them off first.” Wren holds my gaze for a moment. Terry and the others at the table nod, and I do, too. If there were a way to get rid of the Ministry, I’d love to hear about it.
The dining hall falls to a hush, and as Vanya and Maks enter, everyone stands. Vanya takes her place at the center of a table on the stage and Maks sits by her side. He catches my eye across the room and winks. I pretend I haven’t seen and focus on Vanya. “Here’s to life!” she shouts. Everyone cheers as the remaining platters are distributed.
“We have to give thanks,” Song says. He hasn’t touched anything on his plate. Instead he’s looking around, slightly horrified, as everyone tucks into the food on the platters.
“Just eat,” Silas says.
“I’m not going twice in one day without giving thanks . . . or remembering,” Song says.
“What’s he mean?” Wren asks, giving me a prime view of the food she’s chewing.
He means we have to remember where our food came from, but I don’t think that’s what’s really worrying him. “We haven’t forgotten Holly, you know.” I place a hand on his arm and rub it gently. No one did this for me when Abel disappeared, and I wish they had; just a pat to tell me I wasn’t alone.
“Song’s right,” Silas adds, softening. “We should keep our traditions alive.”
“We thank the earth,” Song says. I put down my knife and fork and Silas and Dorian do the same. Maude and Bruce are oblivious. Terry and Wren watch silently. “We thank the water. We thank the plants and trees—the roots, leaves, fruits, and flowers. We give thanks to one another. We give thanks to the spirits of all those who have died. We offer our devotion in the earth’s name. We salute you.” I hold my palms together in front of my heart and bow my head.
“So it is,” we say.
“Is that voodoo or something?” Wren laughs.
“We acknowledge that nature has more power than we do,” Dorian explains.
Terry wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “But it’s humanity at the center,” he says. “Well, not humanity. Us. You.”
“Do you know your pairings yet?” Wren asks. She licks her lips.
“Pairings?” I ask. I almost don’t want to know.
“Wren!” Terry snaps, and as he does, a commotion at the top table has Vanya waving and shouting. “Troopers to the gates!” No one moves.
Maks leaps from the stage. “Troopers!” he bellows. “Weapons!” He dashes past our table and slams through the doors. Around fifty others scramble to their feet and gallop after him.
“What’s happening?” Silas asks, jumping up.
“We must have more visitors,” Terry says.
19
RONAN
I take slow steps through the station toward the girl wielding the knife and the hissing child, and try to examine their faces in the waning light.
I recognize Bea Whitcraft right away, even with her mask on. I don’t know her personally, but I’ve seen her picture, and the word WANTED, flash up on the screen about a hundred times a day since the press conference.
They didn’t show any video footage, of course. I had to ask the press secretary to send me that as a favor. I had to know how it happened, and what I saw was my father shoot Bea’s parents in cold blood. So now they’re saying she’s a terrorist, though she looks more like a drifter.
On the floor are empty bottles and bloodstained rags.
“Can I help you?”
Bea swings the knife. “What do you want?”
“Who cares? Stab him,” the child mutters. Her pallor is frightening, and she doesn’t seem able to move from the floor. One leg of her pants is torn open, and blood has dried on the tiles around her. She’s crying, and there are tear tracks down Bea’s face, too.
“I won’t hurt you,” I tell them. “I heard noises, that’s all. I came to look.” Niamh complained about what she called Quinn’s stupid attachment to Bea, which could mean that if I’ve found her, he’s close by.
I stash the gun in my pocket and inch closer. Bea winces at each step, and when I’m near enough to touch her, she stiffens. “Get back,” she says. She holds the knife inches from my face. Her eyes are wide with fear, exhaustion, or madness—maybe all three.