I CAN’T STOP REREADING THE WORDS. I may have found something. Just sit tight. There’s no name attached, but the existence of the note itself tells me who it’s from. “Are you sure this is all there was?”
Sofia, shedding her jacket and stomping the mud from her boots, raises an eyebrow at me. “You think there was another half and I decided to leave it behind?” The jacket goes on its peg, the boots lined up next to her father’s. Everything in its place. It’s been years since I lived in a house like this.
I turn the scrap of paper over. The other side is part of a receipt for a shipment to Molly Malone’s, and though I try to see a hidden meaning, some code I could’ve missed, there’s nothing there.
“You told me the bartender said it had been there for a few days—what, does she think I’ll just wait here when she might know something?” I crumple the paper up, throwing it into the basin so the water will dissolve the ink.
“Maybe she doesn’t want your head getting chopped off.” Sofia’s tone is light, though the humor doesn’t touch her expression.
I stalk across to the window, peering through the gap between the shades and the frame. The sliver of outside shows me mud and not much else, except for the occasional flash of someone passing by too quickly for me to identify them. My legs are restless, unused to such inaction. Hiding out in the swamp, all I could think of was having a real bed to sleep in. Now I’m just aching to be free to go where I want.
And where I want to go is Jubilee.
“What is it she thinks she might have?” Sofia’s voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look over to see her watching me, leaning against the laden table.
“You read my note.”
“Please.” She lifts an eyebrow. “Tell me what’s so important.”
“We’re trying to figure out what’s happening to Avon. Why this planet never changes, why it drives people mad, why corporations are hiding secret facilities in no-man’s-land.”
Sofia’s quiet, not reacting to the revelations in my little outburst. “Well,” she says slowly, “sounds like she’s making progress. And you’re safe here a while longer before they ship me out.”
Some of my frustration drains away, sympathy rising in its place. Sofia’s only a few months shy of sixteen, but according to the law she’s a war orphan. She’ll be bound for one of the orphanages on Patron or Babel. There’s less of a chance rebel orphans will grow up into rebel fighters if you take them away from their homes. It’s where I was going to be sent after Orla died, before I fled to live with the Fianna. “When?”
“Don’t know.” She lifts a shoulder, flashing me a wan smile. “They’re trying to find my mother, but they won’t. She’s never wanted to be found. It’ll be next supply run, or the one after—they don’t tell you when they’re coming for you so you can’t run away.”
My fault. Again. “I won’t be here when they come, Sofia. I’m going onto the base. I have to find a way to get to Jubilee if she’s found a lead.”
“You’re mad, right?” Sofia straightens, staring at me. “Yes, their attention’s on the fighting, but your face still cycles through the security feed every fifteen minutes or so.”
“Then I’ll go tonight, when it’s dark.”
Sofia doesn’t answer, chewing at her bottom lip, brows drawn together. She watches me, fighting some internal battle she doesn’t voice—and then she breaks, muttering under her breath and turning for her room. “Wait here.”
She vanishes into the next room for a moment before returning with the water bucket and a small canvas bag. She sets the bucket down and drops to her knees, upending the satchel and sending clothes and a few keepsakes tumbling. When a tiny framed drawing—most of the townsfolk don’t have access to cameras—of her father clatters onto the floor, I realize what this is. It’s her grab bag, for when the officials come to take her away.
But she’s ignoring her things, emptying the bag and then grabbing a knife off the counter. She starts sawing through the lining, cutting away a false bottom. Before I can voice my surprise, she’s pulling out a few unlabeled packets and looking down at them, expression unreadable. Then she looks up, half her mouth lifting in a smile. “Sit,” she orders, jabbing a finger at the rug.
I sink down warily as she rips open one of the packets, giving its contents a curious sniff. Then she shuffles around behind me, out of sight.
Then something freezing cold dribbles onto my scalp, and I yelp. “What are you doing back there?”
“Trying to keep them from shooting you on sight,” she replies blandly. She’s working her fingers through my hair, quick and thorough, if gentle enough. A little of the gel smears across my forehead, and she brushes it away with her wrist. “I know I can’t imagine you as a platinum blond, so I don’t think anyone else will either.”
“Are you serious?” I try to pull away, and she simply grabs a handful of my hair, holding me in place like a mother cat holds a kitten. “Where the hell did you get blond hair dye?”
“I asked for it,” she replies simply. As though that’s all it takes—and for silver-tongued Sofia, perhaps that’s true, though I know she didn’t come by her skills easily. She finishes working the dye through my hair and turns back for the remaining two packets.
She fetches a plate and a rag from the kitchen and returns. She empties the packets, which contain a brown powder, onto the plate and then dribbles some water over it until it forms a paste.
“Okay,” she says, exhaling briskly. “Now, strip.”
I lift my brows at her. “No need to order me, Sof. Most guys will pretty much get undressed any time a girl asks.” She snorts, and as I’m unbuttoning my shirt, I find I can breathe a little easier for the pleasure of making her smile, even for a moment. “Now, since I know the answer isn’t the one I’m hoping for, why am I taking my clothes off?”
“This will tint your skin.” She dips the rag into the paste and reaches for my arm, scrubbing it in circles and leaving dark brown smears behind, like shoe polish. “You won’t find a white guy from Avon with a tan. Everyone will assume you’re an off-worlder.”
“I’m going to look like an idiot,” I mourn, looking down at the unnatural brown of my arm.
“What else is new?” she retorts. “Idiotic is good. Nobody pays attention to idiots—they dismiss them. No one suspects they’re hiding anything.”
I watch as she works her way up my arm. It’s clever. It’s beyond clever—it’s brilliant. It’s what a lifetime of living on a planet torn by war teaches you: How to read people. How to blend in. How to disappear. But this—this never would’ve occurred to me.
“Sofia—why do you have this stuff?”
She doesn’t answer, her lips pressing more tightly together. Instead she concentrates on working the paste into my shoulders, my neck, my ears, my face. I watch her as she dabs carefully around my eyes, noting how different she is from Jubilee. Fair, gentle, her features soft, her mouth made for smiling. She looks innocent, even happy, but for the grief in her eyes.
“You were going to run,” I say softly. “When they came for you.”
“Where would I have run to?” She spreads the mixture down my chest a ways, stopping when she’s sure the line won’t be visible under a shirt. “There’s nothing for me on Avon anymore. Unless you think the Fianna would take me.”
I watch as she shifts, leaning over so she can work at my hands, staining carefully around the nails. Someone like her would’ve been a major asset for us—quick thinking and a silver tongue. Maybe she could have helped me fend off McBride.