Requiem

Hana

I have counted thirty-three seconds on the clock when Fred bursts into the kitchen, red-faced.

“Where is she?” His armpits are wet with sweat, and his hair—so carefully combed and gelled at the ceremony—is a mess.

I’m tempted to ask him who he means, but I know it will only infuriate him. “Escaped,” I say.

“What do you mean? Marcus told me—”

“She hit me,” I say. I hope that Lena left a mark when she slapped me. “I—I cracked my head on the wall. She ran.”

“Shit.” Fred rakes a hand through his hair, steps out into the hall, and bellows for the guards. Then he turns back to me. “Why the hell didn’t you let Marcus take care of it? Why were you alone with her in the first place?”

“I wanted information,” I say. “I thought she was more likely to give it to me alone.”

“Shit,” Fred says again. The more worked up he gets, strangely, the calmer I feel.

“What’s going on, Fred?”

He kicks a chair suddenly, sending it skittering across the kitchen. “Goddamn chaos, that’s what’s going on.” He can’t stop moving; he clenches his fist, and for a moment, I think he might go for me, just to have something to punch. “There must be a thousand people rioting. Some of them Invalids. Some of them just kids. Stupid, stupid. . . . If they knew—”

He breaks off as his guards come jogging down the hall.

“She let the girl get away,” Fred says, without giving them a chance to ask what’s wrong. The scorn in his voice is obvious.

“She hit me,” I repeat again.

I can feel Marcus staring at me. I deliberately avoid his eyes. He can’t possibly know that I let Lena escape. I gave no indication that I knew her; I was careful not to look at her in the car.

When Marcus’s eyes pass back to Fred, I allow myself to exhale.

“What do you want us to do?” Marcus asks.

“I don’t know.” Fred rubs his forehead. “I need to think. Goddamn. I need to think.”

“The girl bragged about reinforcements on Essex,” I say. “She said there was an Invalid posted at every house on the street.”

“Shit.” Fred stands still for a moment, staring out at the backyard. Then he rolls his shoulders back. “All right. I’ll call down to 1-1-1 for reinforcements. In the meantime, get out there and start combing the streets. Look for movement in the trees. Let’s rout as many of these little shits as we can. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Got it.” Marcus and Bill disappear into the hall.

Fred picks up the phone. I put a hand on his arm. He turns to me, annoyed, and hangs up.

“What do you want?” he practically spits.

“Don’t go out there, Fred,” I say. “Please. The girl said—the girl said the others were armed. She said they’d open fire if you so much as put your head out the door—”

“I’ll be fine.” He jerks away from me.

“Please,” I repeat. I close my eyes and think a brief prayer to God. I’m sorry. “It’s not worth it, Fred. We need you. Stay inside. Let the police do their jobs. Promise me you won’t leave the house.”

A muscle flexes in his jaw. A long moment passes. At every second, I keep expecting the blast: a tornado of wooden shrapnel, a roaring tunnel of fire. I wonder if it will hurt.

God forgive me, for I have sinned.

“All right,” Fred says at last. “I promise.” He lifts up the receiver again. “Just stay out of the way. I don’t want you screwing anything up.”

“I’ll be upstairs,” I tell him. He has already turned his back to me.

I pass into the hall, letting the swinging doors close behind me. I can hear the muffled sound of his voice through the wood. Any minute now, the inferno.

I think about going upstairs, into what would have been my room. I could lie down and close my eyes; I’m almost tired enough to sleep.

But instead I ease the back door open, cross the porch, and go down into the garden, being careful to stay out of sight of the large kitchen windows. The air smells like spring, like wet earth and new growth. Birds call in the trees. Wet grass clings to my ankles, and dirties the hem of my wedding dress.

The trees enfold me, and then I can no longer see the house.

I will not stay to watch it burn.