‘Don’t take his side,’ declares Emory hotly. ‘You came out here, which means you’re on my side, and being on my side requires you to be as angry with him as I am.’
Clara offers a playful yelp, making her mother laugh.
‘I don’t think you know how anger works,’ says Emory, calming down.
Ants are crawling across her feet, travelling in huge black convoys towards the exercise yard, hoping to pick up any scraps of food that have fallen from the tables. They’ll be disappointed, she thinks. Most of the stores are still missing, the funeral feast reduced to leftovers and almost-ripe vegetables dragged early from the earth.
She takes her daughter’s hands, which are dirty, hot and hurt. Her arms are smooth and thin, the skin freckled. They’re the only things about her that haven’t really changed since she was little.
‘What’s wrong, love?’ she says gently.
‘Why was Hui’s blood on my knife, Mum? I’d never hurt her, not for any reason.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ says Emory, turning around to stare into Clara’s troubled face, startled by where her daughter’s line of thought has led her. ‘The crime was impulsive, and you were sitting close to the bird bath with a knife. Whoever attacked Hui and Niema grabbed it from you because it was the nearest thing at hand. If it had been a hammer, or a saw, the killer would have used that.’
Emory presses her hands to Clara’s cheeks, lowering her own head to make eye contact.
‘The only thing I’m certain about is that you have no part in it,’ says Emory. ‘That heart of yours is much too large.’
‘What if you’re wrong? I was so angry with Hui for treating me the way she did. I thought she … What if I snapped and did something terrible?’
‘We still haven’t found anything to confirm that Hui’s dead. Your grandfather woke up with her blood on his shirt, probably because he saw her being attacked in the exercise yard. He’d never hurt her, so he was probably trying to help. He was an apprentice for a long time, which means he was trained in first aid by Thea, and is probably good at it, knowing how dangerous that work is. I think the three of us put Hui into the back of that cart and took her out to Adil’s shack, though that’s where my theory falls down, because I don’t know why we’d do that. I can only assume Adil took her somewhere afterwards, and he’d have no need to do that if she was dead.’
Clara’s shoulders rise, her head lifting, as hope flows back into her.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers.
‘I’m just thinking out loud,’ replies Emory, rubbing her eyes wearily. ‘And I’m not sure it’s getting us any closer to the murderer.’
She cocks an ear, listening to the clink of cutlery being put away. It will be curfew in an hour and everybody’s starting to clean up after the funeral.
‘I think it’s about time we told everybody what’s been happening on this island,’ she says.
FIFTY
Emory ascends the stage nervously, holding her hands up to get everybody’s attention.
The villagers are clearing the tables and taking down the decorations, but everything’s happening at half speed. Usually, they’d be preparing for bed by now, but they’re afraid to leave the comfort of other people.
For the last two hours, the encroaching fog is all they’ve thought about. They’ve pelted me with questions I couldn’t answer, and searched for the elders who’ve both disappeared. They feel abandoned, which is not helped by seeing Emory fidgeting onstage. They’d hoped for Thea or Hephaestus: somebody with authority and answers.
Emory is the living representation of their doubt.
Her whole life she’s unsettled them with her questions, pointing out inequalities they were afraid to see, and delivering them mysteries they worked hard to overlook. They’ve learned to avoid her wherever possible, even edging away from her at dinner, until she sat by herself every evening, a lonely little island.
‘We’ve been lied to,’ says Emory bluntly, once every face has turned towards her. ‘By the elders, and by Abi. We’re not human. We’re something they made. They grow us in the cauldron to serve them, and we die at sixty because they decided we should.’
The villagers murmur in surprise, but otherwise meet this information with rapt, unblinking silence, waiting for her to go on.
Emory had expected anger, or disbelief – something to propel her. There’s no fuel in this dim expectation. She’s trying to dance on water.
She plunges on, telling them about the humans stored in Blackheath, and how the villagers get out of their beds every night to maintain the equipment keeping them alive. She stumbles over her words, falters, then goes back to fill in the gaps.
Their reactions remain muted.
They nod and murmur, the information sinking through them like stones through honey. They’ve spent their entire lives being told what matters, what to care about and when to be curious. They’ve never had to process so many things at once, all by themselves.
Emory’s itchy and uncomfortable under their scrutiny, unsure what she should be saying.
‘Give them hope,’ I say gently. ‘They’re afraid. That’s what they need.’
We really are in trouble if they need that from me, she thinks. How many people have ever felt better after talking to me?
She scans their faces, searching for the right combination of words.
‘Niema didn’t die accidentally,’ she blurts out, coming up empty-handed. ‘She was killed intentionally. Her death is the reason the fog’s surging towards the island. If I can find out who’s responsible, we can get the barrier back up. We can save ourselves.’
Unease ripples through the crowd, followed by murmurs of excitement as they register what she said.
Emory spots Magdalene, who’s perched on the edge of the fountain. Her friend is hastily sketching this performance with a stick of charcoal, only adding to Emory’s nerves. It’s one thing being the spokesperson for the end of the world, and quite another having somebody keep a record of you doing it.
A little away from the rest, she sees Ben drawing in the dirt with a stick, while Sherko looks at him in concern. Clara’s kneeling down, examining the drawings with a furrowed brow. They must be more equations, thinks Emory.
‘How does finding Niema’s killer help us get the barrier back up?’ asks Seth, who’s standing in the shadows near the kitchen, with his arms crossed.
Emory hadn’t noticed her father before, and his presence immediately kindles the anger from earlier.
‘Once the killer’s confessed, Hephaestus will execute them,’ she says, hating the words coming out her mouth. They sound like validation. It’s as if she’s endorsing murder.
A chorus of protests erupts.
‘There has to be another way!’ shouts Johannes, leaping up in anger.
‘They’re Abi’s rules,’ points out Clara. ‘My mum’s only doing what she was asked to do. Why don’t you go and shout at Hephaestus!? He’d have killed half of us already if it wasn’t for her.’
She glares at Johannes until he sits down again, shamefaced at his outburst.
‘Are you okay with this, Emory?’ asks Seth, coming into the light. ‘Serving up somebody to die?’
She falters, suddenly unsure of herself. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, in truth. Her preoccupation has been with asking questions, rather than the consequences of finding the answers.
‘The fog will hit the island in a little under a day and a half,’ she replies evasively.
‘We don’t kill people, Emory,’ he argues. ‘We don’t help others make excuses for killing, or betray who we are because we’re scared, or angry.’