Cricket strips out of her clothes down to her underwear, unabashed that we can see her dark, perfect skin, muscles like ropes, arms just as strong as any boy. She wades out into the lake, then sinks below the water line. Even her hair vanishes.
A few feet away, Noah kicks out of his boots and pulls his shirt over his head. For the first time, I see that the tattoos covering his arms trail all the way up to his chest and back, blotting out nearly every inch of his skin. He scrapes a hand along his neck, rubbing at the sore muscles; then his eyes sway to me, and I snap my focus away—embarrassed to be caught staring.
“I have a few more than you,” he says with a half smirk.
“What?” I don’t want to look at him, so I keep my eyes settled firmly on the water, where Cricket has emerged and is swimming out toward the center of the lake, arms casting perfect crescent strokes over her head.
“Tattoos,” he answers. “Although mine won’t cause a rebellion.”
Rebellion,I think. Is that what will happen if those men find me?Is that what’s already happening? How long will it take before word spreads among the towns, rumors that the Astronomer has been seen inside a saloon in Fort Bell? And soon enough, everyone will be looking for me, and there will be nowhere I’m safe. Except out here, under the cover of the stars, in this unfamiliar, unmapped stretch of wilderness.
I allow my gaze to settle back on him, on the broad outline of his shoulders, his inked chest, the chain with the silver signet ring around his neck. Most of his tattoos are nondescript, lines and arched shapes cut across his skin in solid black. “I had a friend once, who I grew up with,” he says, rubbing a hand over his shoulder, over the ink. “And we would mark our bodies.”
With my eyes, I trace the dark lines along his shoulder blades, ink spreading over the muscles of his back and down his spine. My heart hitches. “Why?” I ask, the word cracking a little.
He releases his hand from his shoulder. “It was a sign of our brotherhood, that we were banded together. And that we would die for each other.”
“Where is he now? Your friend?” I ask, easing myself onto a rock, and begin unlacing my boots, but moving slowly—unsure if I want to strip out of my clothes in front of him—let him see the rest of me, feel his eyes on my bared,bareflesh.
His mouth pulls down, a quiet, unnamable sorrow in the curve of his eyes. “Dead.”
I swallow tightly. “Was it the consumption?”
But he shakes his head, looking out at the lake.
I stand up and move closer to him. I want to touch his arm, his hand, offer some comfort—I know what it’s like to lose someone—but I’m also afraid to let my fingers rest against his warm skin. Afraid of what I’ll feel stirring in the emptiness of my stomach. He scrapes a hand across his eyes, at the tears taking shape, and that’s when I see it.
Something I hadn’t noticed before… something I missed.
Hidden under the sleeves of his shirt.
Quickly I take a step back from him—my heart crashing up into my throat, my vision narrowed to pinpricks, to a single point.He’s one of them.
Burned onto the inside of his forearm, into his flesh… is a starburst.
The brand of a Theorist.
I take another step back across the beach, through the sand, moving toward the tree line.
“You’re one of them,” I say, fighting to find the breath in my lungs, to steady my racing, cracking thoughts. “A Theorist.” I flick my eyes out to Cricket, remembering the paper she showed me when we crossed the desert, the reward for anyone who has a tattoo like the one on my neck—for the Astronomer. And now I wonder, does she have the same mark as Noah? Something I’ve missed? Both of them branded as Theorists. Have they tricked me into coming this far with them—tricked me so that I would trust them?
My breathing turns quick and hot, panic welling up in my chest.I need to run.Again, my eyes dart to the trees, only a few paces away. I could vanish into the dark, make my way through the dense forest. I’ll be fast, silent, and they won’t catch me. I’ll hide. I’ll wait.
My eyes swivel back to Noah, sensing his movement, his hand reaching out for me, but I jerk back. “Don’t touch me,” I snap,taking several more steps toward the trees, my heart a club against my chest, my hands shaking, ready to fight him if I have to, ready to claw my way free.
But he pauses, deceitful eyes leveled on me, his own breathing quick.
“You lied,” I sputter, backstepping away from him, swallowing down the hurt and pain and deceit. “You’re a Theorist.”
He breathes, keeping his gaze on me. “Yes,” he admits.The truth.The awful, burning truth that tears me apart, splinters me into a thousand little pieces of broken bone and muscle. I wanted to believe he was good, that beneath the hard wall he had built, he was protecting me, keeping me safe. But I was wrong and I want to cry, I want to scream. To run.
I take another step back, more distance between us, and Noah blows out a long breath, turning his forearm so the scar catches in the moonlight—a perfect star at the center with rays of scarred skin branching outward. He runs his thumb over it. “I’m not proud of it,” he says coolly, eyes half-lidded and dark. “I wish I could undo it.”
My lungs tighten and I want to recoil, but my eyes are focused on the brand. A mark I should have seen, should have noticed before now. But his tattoos wind around it, through it, blurring its edges. Making it harder to spot.
He is quiet a moment, remembering… and then his eyes lift back to me, shoulders relaxed, like he wants me to see that he’s not a threat. That none of it is what I think it is. “My friend’s name was Wells, and he didn’t die of the sickness—he was a Theorist too.” He shakes his head, as if the memory is still razor-sharp. “He tried to leave, escape the group… and he was killed.” He places his palm over the mark on his forearm, like he can still feel the heat burninghis flesh, the memory right at the surface, just as painful as the day it was branded into him.
“You were escaping together?” I ask, my chest still coiled tight like a rope near breaking.
