Altered

THIRTY-THREE

WHEN WE PEEK OUT FROM THE BASEMENT, we find the halls quiet. Tattered tapestries hang precariously from the ceiling and the paneled walls are marred with tiny holes, but no one is in sight. In Erik’s quarters, I run the faucet until the water is warm, but when I reenter the bedroom, the harsh scent of whiskey prickles my nostrils.

He gestures to the bottle of liquor on the table.

“No, thanks,” I say with a shake of my head. “Should you be drinking?”

“Disinfecting,” he says as he pours some over his bloodied biceps, wincing as it hits his skin. He immediately covers it with the wet washcloth I’ve dropped on the bed.

“Should I lock this?” I cross to close the door, wanting to be helpful as much as I want to avoid looking at his wound.

“If the attack is over, security will do a sweep. Might as well leave it open or Kincaid’s goons will break it down.”

“I wish that made me feel better.” I force myself to go to him and tentatively lift the cloth to examine his wound. A blob of red blood oozes not far from his muscle.

“Flesh wound,” Erik says in a casual voice, but I catch him wince again as the air hits it.

“Is there a bullet in there?” My words are strangled with some unrecognizable emotion. I want to cry and kiss him at the same time.

“It went straight through,” he says. “It’ll be fine once the bleeding stops.”

“I can fix it,” I remind him.

“I wasn’t going to ask. I could do it myself, but two hands are better than one when patching,” Erik says. “If it makes you uncomfortable—”

I stop him. “Walk me through it.” Taking a steadying breath, I pour a little whiskey on my fingers. I’m less convinced of its disinfectant powers, but there’s no harm in trying. Further inspection reveals an exit wound on the other side of his arm.

“Concentrate,” Erik says. “See the strands.”

It sounds so serious and profound coming from Erik that I giggle, but he balks at my nervous titter and draws his arm away.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can do this.”

“Once you stop laughing and see the strands,” Erik begins, a bit sourly. “Draw together the damaged ones and connect them. It’s like the loom, Ad. Fix the hole.”

I close my eyes and focus on the fear pounding its war song in my chest. When I reopen them I can see the strands that weave together to make Erik’s arm and a stream of pulsing red fibers on his biceps calls out to me. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but I work at the shrill, off-key notes of the damaged strands until they grow harmonious, knitting together and healing.

“Not bad,” Erik says when I step back to survey my work, the room resolving into a world of physical objects.

Suddenly exhausted from the effort, I drop down on his bed. I roll onto my stomach, clutching the pillow to my chest. He wipes the excess blood from the newly patched wound and takes the ruined washcloths to the bathroom. As he goes, I consider what to say to him about Dante and my mother. I don’t have to talk about it, but I want to. I’m just not sure why. To make myself feel better? To talk through it? Those reasons make sense, but one thing holds me back. An unspoken tension that hangs between Erik and me. Talking about my mother and Dante means I’ll have to talk about the issues that he and I are constantly skirting around.

I mention it anyway.

“It’s not too late to stop him,” Erik says.

“Should I?” I ask, confusion infusing my voice. I know I should stop him, but deep down, I don’t want to. I’m not sure why though.

“No,” Erik says in a firm voice.

“Why?” I ask, wondering how he can be so certain.

“Because he loves her,” he says.

“I know that. But loving someone doesn’t mean you make the best decisions about them,” I point out.

“No. Love can be blinding,” Erik agrees. “But if he believes she’s in danger, he’s already thought through his options. He’s chosen the best one.”

“Maybe someone who can be more objective should be making the decision,” I say.

“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?”

“116.”

I shake my head. I hardly have them memorized. “Read it to me.”

A strange look passes over Erik’s face, but he clears his throat. I don’t understand why until he begins to read.

“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.’” He pauses and dares a look at me.

“Do you like it because it mentions alteration?” I tease, but secretly I hope my cheeks aren’t burning.

“It seems very applicable to our current situation,” he says.

“Continue,” I urge him.

He reads the rest of the sonnet, stumbling a bit as he goes, and yet it slides smoothly off his tongue. The words curl around me, and lull me. When he finishes, the final line hangs in the air between us.

“Why is it your favorite?” I ask.

“Because it’s true,” he murmurs. “That’s why Dante took your mother. It’s why your father died for you.”

“Careful, Erik,” I warn him. “You’re in danger of becoming downright sensitive.”

He smiles but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t want that.”

And once again I’ve disarmed the moment, cracked a joke to avoid real conversation. We slip into our familiar banter, abandoning the book and talking late into the night about plans and futures and strategies, but never about us.

Never us.