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He says it like he’s letting go of a huge burden that’s been holding him down. I wonder whether he can hear my heart pounding frantically against my ribs. When I speak, though, I manage to keep my voice steady and calm. “Are you okay?” I ask. “You look pale.”
The weight returns to his eyes, and his brief moment of intimacy fades as he steps away and fiddles with the edge of his gloves. He’s always hated gloves, I remember. “I’ve had a bad flu for the last couple of weeks,” he replies, flashing me a quick grin. “Getting better now, though.” (Eyes flickering subtly to the side, scratching the edge of his ear, stiffness of his limbs, timing slightly off between his words and his smile.) I tilt my head at him and frown.
“You’re such a bad liar, Day,” I say. “You might as well tell me what’s on your mind.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he replies automatically. This time he points his eyes at the floor and puts his hands in his pockets. “If I seem off, it’s because I’m worried about Eden. He’s gotten a year of treatment for his eyes and he still can’t see much. The doctors tell me that he may need some special contacts, and even then, he might never get his full eyesight back.”
I can tell this isn’t the real reason behind Day’s exhausted appearance, but he knows that bringing Eden’s recovery into this conversation will stop any questions from me. Well, if he really doesn’t want to tell me, then I won’t pressure him. I clear my throat awkwardly. “That’s terrible,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry to hear it. Is he doing okay, otherwise?”
Day nods. We fall back into our moonlit silence. I can’t help recalling the last time we were alone in a room together, when he took my face in his hands, when his tears were falling against my cheeks. I remember the way he whispered I’m sorry against my lips. Now, as we stand three feet apart and stare at each other, I feel the full distance that comes with spending so much time apart, a moment filled with the electricity of a first meeting and the uncertainty of strangers.
Day leans toward me, as if drawn by some invisible force. The tragic plea on his face twists my stomach into painful knots. Please don’t ask this of me, his eyes beg. Please don’t ask me to give up my brother. I would do anything else for you. Just not this. “June, I . . . ,” he whispers. His voice threatens to break with all the heartache he’s keeping bottled inside.
He never finishes that sentence. Instead, he sighs and bows his head. “I can’t agree to your Elector’s terms,” he says in a somber tone. “I’m not going to hand my brother to the Republic as another experiment. Tell him I’ll work with him to find another solution. I understand how serious this all is—I don’t want to see the Republic fall. I’d be glad to help and figure something else out. But Eden stays out of this.”
And that’s the end of our conversation. Day nods at me in farewell, lingers for a few last seconds, and then steps toward the door. I lean against the wall in sudden exhaustion. Without him nearby, there’s a lack of energy, a dulling of color, gray moonlight where moments earlier there had been silver. I study his paleness a final time, analyzing him from the corner of my eye. He avoids my gaze. Something is wrong, and he refuses to tell me what it is.
What am I missing here?
He pulls the door open. His expression hardens right before he steps out of the room. “And if for some reason the Republic tries to take Eden by force, I’ll turn the people against Anden so fast that a revolution will be on him before he can blink.”
SERIOUSLY, I SHOULD BE USED TO MY NIGHTMARES BY NOW.
This time I dream about me and Eden at a San Francisco hospital. A doctor’s fitting Eden with a new pair of glasses. We end up at a hospital at least once a week, so that they can monitor how Eden’s eyes are slowly adjusting to medication, but this is the first time I see the doctor smile encouragingly at my brother. Must be a good sign, yeah?
Eden turns to me, grins, and puffs his chest out in an exaggerated gesture. I have to laugh. “How does it look?” he asks me, fiddling with his huge new frames. His eyes still have that weird, pale purple color, and he can’t focus on me, but I notice that he can now make out things like the walls around him and the light coming in from the windows. My heart jumps at the sight. Progress.
“You look like an eleven-year-old owl,” I reply, walking over to ruffle his hair. He giggles and bats my hand away.
As we sit together in the office, waiting for paperwork, I watch Eden busily folding pieces of paper together into some kind of elaborate design. He has to hunch close to the papers to see what he’s doing, his broken eyes almost crossed with concentration, his fingers nimble and deliberate. I swear, this kid’s always making something or other.
“What is it?” I ask him after a while.
He’s concentrating too hard to answer me right away. Finally, when he tucks one last paper triangle into the design, he holds it up and gives me that cheeky grin. “Here,” he says, pointing to what looks like a paper leaf sticking out of the ball of paper. “Pull this.”
I do as he says. To my amazement, the design transforms into an elaborate 3-D paper rose. I smile back at him in my dream. “Pretty impressive.”
Eden takes his paper design back.
In that instant, an alarm blares throughout the hospital. Eden drops the paper flower and jumps to his feet. His blind eyes are wide open in terror. I glance to the hospital’s windows, where doctors and nurses have gathered. Out along the horizon of San Francisco, a row of Colonies airships sail closer and closer to us. The city below them burns from a dozen fires.
