I watch the exchange, spying something I didn’t notice before. Ky’s eyes are two different shades, one green and one brown. Strange. Beautiful.
It’s almost as if he senses me staring. He whips his head in my direction, and for the briefest moment our eyes meet.
I scowl at my boots. What am I thinking? He’s a scumbag. There’s nothing beautiful about him.
“Careful now, traitor.” Gage lifts Ky in the air as if he weighs nothing. “You wouldn’t want me to lose my patience.” His regard remains just out of Ky’s line of vision. “And if I find out you had a hand in whatever is delaying Archer and David . . .”
Joshua. Kill me. Kill me now. If just hearing his name unravels me, how am I supposed to . . . ?
Mom. Concentrate on Mom.
Gage whistles like he’s hailing a cab, and a girl of maybe fifteen appears. She’s wearing a sky-blue Bohemian-style skirt and a cream-colored peasant top with a drawstring neck. A waterfall braid pulls luxuriant brown hair off her face, only a stripe of lavender resting against her cheek.
For the first time Gage smiles. Says to me, “Welcome. I am Lieutenant Commander Jonathan Gage, but you may refer to me as the latter.”
“El,” I say.
He gives a slight bow. “Commander Archer sent word we should anticipate your arrival.” He withdraws a small scroll from his pants pocket and hands it to me.
It’s literally torture to unfurl the yellowed paper, which is actually two pages rolled together. My lips move silently as I bite back the pain and read the first page. I skim Makai’s short explanation—he and Joshua are returning, and they’re bringing a girl. Me. He even warned Gage we might be compromised and requested he send someone to watch for us in Lynbrook Province.
When I move on to the second page, an inner gasp scratches my throat. One side of the paper is ripped, the page torn from its former home. The profile sketch of me is recent, not quite a year old. Mom does one for every birthday. Since we don’t have a ton of pictures, this is her way of commemorating the milestones. She always drew the profile from my left side, my good side. Just another way she showed her love. Mom knew I’d hate to have my ugliness recorded.
My fingers tremor as I roll the papers together and hand them back to Gage.
He pockets the scroll and quirks a brow. “I must admit, I expected Commander Archer and Lieutenant David to accompany you.”
I close my eyes, shielding tears. Shake my head.
“I see.” Gage clears his throat. “This is Robyn. She’ll take care of you from here. If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend.” He lowers Ky, gives me a departing nod. They disappear below the crown of trees.
Robyn comes over and kneels. Her catlike hazel eyes examine me. “You’re injured.”
Nod. Wince. “Haman.” Swallow. “He did something to—”
“Say no more.” She holds up a hand. “Can you move at all?” Her voice is tender, pretty. The tonal quality suggests she’d make a lovely singer.
I lean forward. Bad idea. “Listen, my mom . . .”
Her hand warms my shoulder. “One moment.” She vanishes beyond the landing. Moments later, a gorgeous Bengal tiger creeps forward, a bundle of clothes in its mouth. The animal is larger than a cub, but not fully grown either. What strikes me most is its teeth are flat, not at all menacing as they glisten dramatically in the sunlight. I hold perfectly, statuesquely still. What other option do I have? I can’t even twitch, let alone move. Wait, that purple tuft of fur on one cheek, the wad of blue and cream cloth in its mouth. Robyn? Can she shape-shift too?
I drive rationality aside as the tiger approaches. She lowers her body, scooting toward me like a submissive pet. Her clawless paw touches my leg, and she jerks her head backward. The tiger wants to take me for a ride.
Weirder things have happened today.
I hunch over the throbbing in my stomach, biting my lip and closing my eyes. My crawl onto her silky back is slower than service at McDonald’s in Times Square on New Year’s. When I’m straddling her body, clutching her fur, Robyn walks to the platform’s end and pad, pad, pads down a spiral staircase.
The scene below is a vision for homesick eyes. Tromes and cabins. Brick towers and cottages. Woven together along networks of paths and roads. Women, men, children, animals. How many of them can transform the way Wren and Robyn can? How many are merely wildlife? My questions could fill Carnegie Hall.
Robyn leaps from the last stair onto the soil, her shoulder bones peaking and sinking with each step.
I lift my head an inch. Earthy scents. One stands out. Basil. A very Manhattan sort of smell. I don’t know why. It just is.
We head down a road. Multicolored storefronts cluster on either side, giving it a Chinatown feel. A woman with a baby attached to her hip by a wide piece of cloth sells eggs. We pass by and her green eyes expand, the corner of her mouth lifting.
A stranger just smiled at me. Definitely not New York.
Chop! An enormous fish head tumbles off a counter, plops into a basket on the ground. The butcher drops his cleaver, wraps the headless fish in brown paper, and hands it to an older man with a wheelbarrow. Their carefree exchange ascends on laughter and pleasantries. There’s a vibe to this place, a distinctive quality of interconnection and community.
The style seems to be a mixture of medieval bohemian and not-so-distant-future dystopian. Unlike Wren, the girls and women wear long skirts and lengthy tops accented with knotted sashes. Braids and teased buns and makeshift twists for hairstyles, handmade Uggs decorated with beads and feathers for shoes. The men sport boots and fabrics in muddied hues. Flannel shirts. Loose-fitting cargo pants. Casual. Farmer-esque.
A log cabin stands at the end of one lane, a garden to its right. Smoke rises from a chimney, and curtains the color of Robyn’s skirt trim the windows. Some of Mom’s earlier paintings featured mountain scenes. Cottage homes cozied up among thickets of trees. Did her inspiration transpire here?
Robyn walks up two steps, nudges the slightly open door with her nose, and enters.
The one-room cabin is larger than it first appears. My nostrils flare when the smells of aloe vera and ash intrude on my senses. A fire crackles in an ancient-looking wood-burning stove. Hammocks tied to wooden frames line the far wall, a curtain hiding one. A pair of boots peeks out where the hanging fabric ends. Subdued voices converse on the other side.
“I’m sorry, Wren. I won’t be able to clear you until your ankle heals.”
“What?” Wren’s owl-like screech reminds me she’s no ordinary human. “It’s no big deal. I’m fine.”
“You are not fine. That’s a nasty sprain. You must have overexerted it.”
The curtain swishes open. Wren springs from a hammock and hobbles toward us. Her fury is a hot coal in my stomach. A lit match at my ear. “This is your fault.”
The guy with the boots walks over and places a hand on her back. His weathered smile reaches his grandfatherly eyes, and surprise, surprise, a blue braid nestles behind his ear. “Go get some supper, Wren. You need your strength.”
She shrugs him off with a blood-chilling scowl. Then she tromps away. Limp, shuffle, limp. Slam! The walls shake. Bottles on shelves rattle and clink.
The man scratches Robyn between her ears. “How can sisters be so different, kitten?” He strokes the underside of her chin and she purrs. “In a few years your Confine will lift. We’ll see how tough Wren is once your fangs and claws come in, hmm? She won’t be so ferocious with a full-grown tiger in our midst.”