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“Perhaps, but someone who is more objective won’t fight as hard as the person who loves her,” Erik says in a low voice. “One man will step aside when confronted while another will die. If you try to fight him, consider that.”
We aren’t only talking about Dante and my mother anymore.
“He’ll lose her either way,” I murmur.
“Doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t try,” Erik says.
“She loved someone else though. My father, my uncle…” I struggle with putting words to my thoughts, trying to sort out my tangled family tree. “It’s so confusing. Dante isn’t my father, not in my heart.”
“I understand,” Erik says.
“My father died for me and my mother,” I say.
“He was a good man,” Erik says. “A better man than I am.”
“You’ve leapt more than once for me—and for your brother.” It’s the first time I let it slip that I know we’re talking about the three of us as much as we’re talking about the convoluted love triangle in my family.
“I’d leap for you again,” Erik says.
I drop my head onto the pillow to avoid his eyes, and at the foot of the bed I spot a book. My book. I reach for it, running my fingers over the green canvas cover.
“Sorry,” Erik says. “You left it here weeks ago. I meant to return it, but…”
He doesn’t finish the thought and I lift my head to look at him, raising an eyebrow.
“I was reading it,” he admits.
“What did you think?” I ask, pulling the book of sonnets closer. I trace the gold-foil Shakespeare on the cover.
“I comprehend about half of it,” he says honestly. “But it’s beautiful.”
“I’ll never understand why people in Arras don’t write anymore,” I murmur.
“You don’t?” Erik asks. “It’s easy enough to understand.”
“Do tell,” I challenge him.
“Why aren’t there films anymore? Beyond Stream-approved programming. Why only the Bulletin and fashion catalogues?”
I pause and consider this. The insipid forms of art we are permitted in Arras are empty. They lack depth. There is a certain artistry to the design of clothes, the application of makeup, the structure and decor of a building, but it lacks meaning.
“Words,” Erik says.
Of course he’s right. The books in my parents’ cubby. I’d boasted of reading them, but I never considered why they were contraband. Words can tell a story. But they can also convey an idea.
“Words are dangerous,” I say.
Erik nods.
“But they’re also beautiful,” I say, holding the book out to him. “You said so yourself. How can the Guild turn their backs on poetry?”
“They’ve turned their backs on more than that,” Erik says.
I know he’s right, but the realization makes me hate the Guild a little bit more.
Erik drops down beside me and grabs the book. He leafs through it and stops on a particular page. “This is my favorite.”
“Which one?”
