If anyone finds out that he’s stolen from the Pattons, there will be consequences. It would embarrass the Clifftons. It could get Miles kicked out of school. And then where would we go?
Not to mention that I would have to eat major crow in front of Eliza.
I can feel Miles looking at me. Part of me wants to kill him.
At least he took only the telegram, I think darkly, and not the gifts Mrs. Patton promised.
“I suppose no one needs to know,” I say slowly. “Maybe the telegram just got lost, or didn’t come through.” I rip it into tiny, unreadable shreds before I can second-guess myself. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” I promise.
He rewards me with a lopsided smile, a rare seal of his trust.
“And Miles,” I warn, “if you ever steal anything again, I’m going to rip your arms right out of your body.”
“All right, Aila,” he grumbles. “I was only trying to make you glad.” He finds something else in the depths of his pocket and throws it at me. A pouch of his Dream Variants. “For not ratting on me,” he says. “May your dreams be filled with stars and not with shadows,” he says. And then he is gone.
I sigh and flop back onto my bed, uncertainty working its way through me like a drop of dye in water. I suppose I just have to see it as choosing sides between Eliza and Miles. So of course I was right to pick Miles. He is my own flesh and blood, and it’s my job to protect him. That’s how you’re supposed to be with family.
But a small voice within me nags, Even when they’ve done something wrong?
I ignore it and turn toward Miles’s other gift.
I know how dreams work. They’re a bit of a gamble, conjuring up the loveliest visions or the darkest nightmares, forcing me to confront the deepest fears that only I know exist. I wonder if there’s any control over it, the way there is with Mind’s Eye.
I dip my hand into the pouch, cover myself with the Variants, and close my eyes, trying to prod my mind in the right direction.
Even though it hurts, I let myself picture the night of the Tempest race, of walking alone with Will in the cool darkness. Of him stretched out lazily in the grass, watching me throw my Stars at the target he made. My heartbeat slows. I drift to sleep.
When I open my eyes, I don’t see Will at all. I’m alone in the school gymnasium. Sunlight streams through the high windows, bright and warm. I look down, feeling a sword in my hand.
As soon as I glimpse Eliza striding across the floor, I know my mind has betrayed me.
She’s wearing my red coat, and I’m wearing her costume from the Harvest Fair. I touch the beads, shimmering like raindrops against my fingers. I feel naked.
Eliza suddenly lowers her mask to protect her face and charges toward me with an epee drawn. I struggle to pull down my mask and then realize with horror that I don’t have one. I instinctively raise my sword. But it hasn’t the lightness of an epee. It’s a real sword, heavy and razor sharp.
I struggle even to lift it, my balance shifting as I try to defend myself. But Eliza continues advancing, the tip of her epee stinging me again and again until I’m pushed back against the wall. Then I see my chance: one bare spot at Eliza’s neck.
I raise my sword to strike. I hesitate.
In that moment the dream dissipates, and Eliza is gone.
There is a beat of darkness. A minute might pass, or an hour. And after the darkness fades again, I see the flowers.
There are hundreds of them, bright and gorgeous, just as I remember them when Father had cut and arranged them in colorful pockets around Mother’s bed. During the final weeks he picked them every morning, refreshing any stems that drooped or wilted. He began to bring the garden in to Mother when she could no longer bring herself out to it.
Her room is dim, and I’m drawn to the flowers. I pick up the nearest vase. Inhale the white puffs of hydrangea. My brain has not forgotten what they smell like; I drink it in.
But this is less a dream and more a memory. I remember this scene. It was the last time I saw Mother alive. Here is the rain, pattering on the window. Mother’s face is so drawn and haggard, her wide eyes too large, her small frame barely making a dent on the pillow. But even then I can see the fighting spirit that still flickers. In the dream, Mother’s voice is muffled and distorted. It all comes rushing back. All the things I had wanted to say that day, and what I said instead.
“Aila.” Mother’s voice is threadbare. “Take care of your brother. You will always be tied to each other. Don’t treat him in a way you will come to regret.” Her next words are blurry and barely formed, as if I’m hearing them through thick glass. “It doesn’t always come right away,” she whispers.
I take Mother’s hand in mine. It is pointed and bony.
“I’ll take care of Miles,” I promise. “I’ll look after him.”
I look down at our hands and think about how many things die when a person does. Not just her body, but the scent of her and the sound of her voice, the way that her esses whisper off the tip of her tongue and the sound of her singing, always singing, when she washes dishes in the kitchen sink. The question feels like thorns on my tongue, but I don’t ask it now, just as I hadn’t then.
What will the world be like without you in it?
