Night Vision
Veil
“I had no idea there were so many,” I say, pulling the list toward me for a better look. “I’ve only seen the Looking Glass ones.” I suddenly remember the rainstorm on the day we arrived, and Mrs. Cliffton’s inexplicably dry clothes. “And perhaps ones for keeping dry?”
“Yes, those are the Veil Variants,” Beas says, absently wrapping the dark strands of her bangs around a pencil. “They act like a water repellent. And we use the Embers to keep warm,” she explains. “Dashing a bit over you is like wearing a blanket. There’s nothing against using those at school, as long as you’re Of Age. But if you use the Fragrance Variants in a cooking class, it’s considered cheating.”
“Not smelling what I cook might be to my advantage,” I say. I took over the cooking once Mother got sick. Miles and Father had pushed around the first dinner I made, mumbling how good it tasted, even though I’d turned the chicken into charred rocks.
“And we should tell you about the most forbidden Variant for school purposes,” Beas says. “It’s called Mind’s Eye. You smear it on your eyelids, and it’s more or less enhanced memory, so you could be expelled if they catch you using it for an exam.”
Mind’s Eye, I think, remembering Will’s slip.
“The teachers always come around for an eyelid check before our tests,” Beas adds.
George positions the onion slide under the microscope. “Take a look,” he says.
I put my eye to the lens.
“What does it mean that the Variants are separated into different categories? Atoning and Enhancing?” I ask. I fiddle with the microscope knobs until the onion cells blur and then clear. There is something reassuring about how ordered they are, all formed in a neat row.
“Atoning Variants act as substitutes for Disappearances,” George says. “We have them for scents, mirrors, and some work-arounds for color. The Enhancements are a bit harder to explain.”
I straighten from the microscope and push it back toward him.
“People have stumbled upon Enhancing Variants over the years when they were looking for Atoning Variants. For instance—?the ability to see stars or have dreams—?we don’t have Variants for those yet.”
Stars, I think, my stomach clenching. Their stars have disappeared.
“But what do the Enhancing Variants have to do with the Disappearances?” I ask.
A fleeting look crosses George’s face. “We don’t know,” he says, frowning. “We don’t know if what they enhance are things that may eventually disappear—?and we’ve stumbled on the cure first—?or if it’s something else.” He turns his gaze back to the microscope. “With the Enhancements, it’s as though we’re hitting up against something that’s been unlocked. And the pieces won’t make much sense until we have the whole story.”
“But look at this list, George,” Beas says. She stops playing with her bangs and straightens. “All the Variants aren’t even on here.”
She pushes the list toward George. Then she takes my elbow and angles it out to examine my heart. “Nice,” she says with approval. She gathers her uniform skirt to show the skin just above her knee, hidden under the table. “Mine changes on the day, depending on my mood.”
My heart rises when I recognize the line written there. It is Elizabeth Barrett Browning, scrawled in Beas’s looping hand: Like a cheerful traveler, take the road singing beside the hedge.
Beas lets her hem fall back down. “And don’t think I can’t see you looking, George.”
George laughs and shakes his head as he measures liquid out in a stopper. He applies a few drops to the slides. “Such a tease, Beas.”
“Fathead,” she says, but she’s smiling, and she flips her ponytail at him before returning her attention to the list.
“And there are more Variants than this list?” I prod.
George mixes up a solution of saltwater. “A few more. Guess they’re too illegal to be included.”
“Illegal is a little strong,” Beas says, tipping open the pocket on her uniform skirt to show a purple pouch inside. “Some are merely frowned upon for the potential to draw too much attention. Like the Tempests.”
“Tempests?”
“They’re a real gas. Picture what running would feel like if you became the wind,” George says.
“These are still left from my birthday last year,” Beas says, pushing the pouch back into the fold of her skirt. “I’m already Of Age,” she explains. “I’m actually in William’s year.” She purses her lips and doodles an owl wearing a hat on my Compliance list. “Let’s just say biology and I didn’t quite work out last time.”
“It’s working out just fine for you this year, though, isn’t it,” George says under his breath, but he’s smiling as he does Beas’s part of the experiment.
