Curio (3 page)

Mother yanked the door open, and flickering gaslight spilled into the night. Dark eyes flitted from Grey's face and blood-stained hands to the deputy beside her, and then to the black craft stationed at the end of the walkway.

“Grey—”

“What's the charge?” Father's voice boomed over the sound of the engine. A moment later he filled the doorway, harsh lines dragging at his face.

Grey's throat stung, but she kept her shoulders rigid.

“Curfew violation.” The deputy recited the usual order for parents. “The Chemist Council holds parents responsible for the administering of discipline until a citizen achieves the Age of the Stripe. Do not show leniency to your child, for leniency will not be given to citizens upon reaching the Age of the Stripe. If the Council is made aware of leniency on the part of a parent, that parent shall be punished under the law.”

As he droned on, listing suggested discipline, Grey uncurled her fingers and loosed a shaky sigh.

This deputy, part of the second patrol, hadn't witnessed her defiance. He wrapped up his speech with no mention of her challenge to the Chemist agents who took Whit. After Father vowed to punish Grey, the brute turned and stalked toward the waiting craft. When he'd boarded, the flying boat glided down the narrow street and around the corner, leaving green mist swirling in the frigid air.

Grey tugged out of her mother's grasp and whirled back to the yard. “Whit. They took Whit. I have to go tell his mother.”

Halfway across the lawn, she stumbled in the dead grass and flung her hands out. Father's thick arm circled her before she hit the ground. He pulled her to her feet and held her tight against his chest until the beat of his heart thudded against her shoulder blade. The warmth of his embrace thawed her cold skin.

Grey thrashed until shudders overtook her. Father relaxed his hold, and she turned into his chest, inhaling the piney scent of healing ointment lingering on his clothes. He'd already seen one of the Chemists' victims today. Probably more than one.

His voice rumbled in her ear. “Come inside.” He led her back to the house.

Mother waited on the porch. She snatched Grey's sleeve and pulled her closer, but the whole family froze as the banging of a door echoed through the silent neighborhood.

“Josephine.” Mother almost moaned the name.

Mrs. Bryacre slipped into view and hurried to join Grey and her parents. The light from the Hawards' open door made pits of Josephine's dark eyes and painted bruises on her sunken cheeks.

The frantic throb in Grey's heart quieted. She stepped out of the protection of Father's arms and faced Mrs. Bryacre. “It was my fault. I should have been the one they took.”

Josephine Bryacre looked like a child sitting in Granddad's wingback chair. Whit must have gotten his height—and his stubborn streak—from his father. How could the woman stand it? First her husband disappeared. Now her son.

Grey bowed her head and focused on the wet washcloth Mother had pressed to her injured hand. Her stomach heaved at the brownish-pink color of diluted blood. She held back a wince when the woven fabric of the sofa upholstery snagged her crusted stocking. She hadn't mentioned the gash on the back of her leg yet. What did it matter when the Chemists would carve Whit's back for touching her?

“This is a first offense,” Father said. “Whit will be home tomorrow. With any luck the stripes will be few, and he'll heal in a week's time.” His wooden chair creaked as he leaned toward Josephine. “You know we'll do everything we can.”

At her father's words, Grey counted the potion bottles lined up on a low table near the entryway. Only four. One for her grandfather. One for her father. One for her mother. And one for Grey. She still had to stop herself from automatically counting to five.

She forced down the growing ache and let boldness fill the cavern it left. “Let me give Whit my ration.”

Mother stiffened beside her and gripped the arm of the sofa. Father and Josephine jerked to scan her face.

Josephine broke the silence first. “It's true then. You're ration dealers?”

“Not dealers.” Her father leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders sloping.

How much of her family's secret would he reveal? Grey swallowed hard at the image of the Chemist bearing down on Granddad. Where was he now? Maybe it was too late for caution.

“We don't dilute the Chemist's potion with harmful chemicals,” Father said. “And we don't accept payment.”

“Stein.” Mother stretched out her hand. Her next words were clipped. “The less Jo knows, the better.”

Josephine's eyes lingered on the four ration bottles waiting for the morning trip to the dispensary. “I'll take the risk. For Whit. Tell me.”

Father exchanged a steady look with Mother then turned to Josephine. “An extra dose of potion will help Whit heal faster. I'll reserve a portion of mine for him tomorrow.”

“He can have mine.” Grey scooted forward, her fingers clenched so tightly around the rag that drops of rust-tinted water landed on the faded area rug. “He can have it all. I told you what he did for me.”

“Leave this to me, Grey,” Father said.

“Let me help. Please! It's time I joined you and Grandda—”

“Grey, we've discussed this.” Mother's fingers dug into Grey's arm. “You will obey the law—”

“Father doesn't. Neither does Granddad.”

“But you'd die.” Josephine's voice cut through. She leaned toward Grey, hunching her shoulders. The fabric of her crimson blouse gaped over her pronounced collarbone. “You can't give him all of your ration, honey. You'd die.”

Realization flickered like a candle burning at the edge of Grey's sight. The shadows under Josephine's eyes. Her skeletal wrists. Whit wasn't strong because he took after his father or because the mine built his muscles. How long had Josephine been pouring her own ration into Whit's bottle and swallowing just enough to keep herself alive?

“We don't know that Grey can go without it like you.” Mother's words, meant for Father, drew everyone's focus.

“Of course she's like her father.” Granddad stood in the arch between the kitchen and living room, shrugging out of his coat. His yellow hair brushed the low ceiling.

The tight laces around Grey's heart loosened a smidge. Granddad was here. Safe.

He winked at Grey before turning to his daughter-in-law. “Look at her, Maire.” His gruff tone reverberated from his barrel chest. “More than a head taller than you. As blonde as her Viking ancestors and built for war.”

Grey's cheeks burned and she dropped her gaze. The arms resting in her lap were thick compared to Josephine's. A coil of streaked blonde hair had escaped her chignon and clung to the strained fabric over her chest. Next to the brunette waifs in the Foothills Quarter, she looked like a doughy giant.

“What do you mean ‘like her father'?” Josephine's eyes shifted between Grey and Father.

Granddad bellowed into the cramped space. “My son and I are not dependent on Chemist potion to stay alive. Our bodies are different. We still digest food normally.”

Josephine turned her attention from Granddad to Grey. “And you?”

“They've never let me go without. Underage or not, the penalty for giving away your ration is—” Her voice faded. Again her eyes found the corked bottles near the door. One. Two. Three. Four.

Only four now.

CHAPTER

3

G
rey lay in bed and wished the tears would come again. This—this staring at the ceiling only to picture Whit's back, only to imagine the number of stripes they would cut into his skin—it was like stuffing her beating heart into a thimble.

The bandaged gash on her calf itched. She wanted to tear at the wound, make the stupid thing bleed again, make it really hurt. Or cut matching lines up her leg. One for each of Whit's stripes.

Foolish thought. Pain stalked as close as the nearest patrol. No sense borrowing it early.

The same rationale behind why she took her daily potion and kept her head down, just like everyone else. Everyone except Father and Granddad. But they wouldn't let her help. Father refused every time she offered to send some of her ration to the refugees in the mountains.

And Granddad only humored her schemes of donating her potion toward his efforts to reproduce the mixture. When he left for his lab hidden beneath the shop on Colfax, he never took the ration she offered.

Grey flopped to her side. The springs beneath the thin mattress creaked with every movement. She wrapped her arms and legs around a pillow, squeezing as hard as she could. It didn't help. Nothing blocked out Whit's face.

He hadn't touched her after she turned ten, as Mercury City law dictated. His smoky blue eyes had been wide on that birthday. His mouth a serious line as he set a bracelet made of buttons on the table and retreated before she reached for the gift. The withdrawal pricked her young heart. Why was the boy who raced her down the street and shared biscuits, marbles, and jokes suddenly afraid of her?

She and Whit hadn't understood the law at the time, but it wasn't long before her classes at the Council Girls' School covered Gregor Mendel's theory of inheritance and the science of disease according to Pasteur, Koch, and Lister. With the lesson came an explanation of the Chemist Council's regulations and dedication to monitoring the starvation trait passed down from the region's settlers. If Mercury City, Colorado, were to be an example of health, industry, and morality to other cities, then nothing could interfere with the Chemists' work.

And Grey had no intention to. Until one afternoon almost a year ago, when Whit had sauntered around the corner onto Reinbar and headed toward their usual meeting spot. The blue of his Council School uniform deepened his eyes, and a smile tugged his lips the moment he caught sight of her. Her stomach fluttered and heat trailed over her skin. By the time he reached her, she could do nothing but stare at the ground, mentally measuring the gap between them. They walked home together as they always had, but this time Grey never moved an inch into the three feet of space separating them. Her body told her what no one had ever fully explained.

And now he'd touched her.

She closed her eyes and felt his arms behind her back and beneath her knees once again. Her skin tingled with the memory of being pressed against him. Despite the blood
and the panic, something deep inside her responded to Whit's touch. She deserved to be in the Council jail tonight. Not him.

Determination quieted the heat building in her veins, replacing the fury with a numb shell. Tomorrow the deputies would return Whit to his home. And she would be waiting with her ration.

The first blast woke Grey and rattled the framed sketch on her wall. End of the night shift. Her pocket watch read quarter to six. Father would be preparing to leave for his daily trip to the ration dispensary.

She untangled herself from the sheets and scrambled to dress in the cold. First came thick stockings rolled up over her calves, then oxblood knee pants tugged on beneath her nightgown. With shirtwaist and chemise laid out and ready, she yanked the gown up over her head and let it drop to the floor. But before she could retrieve her undergarment, her hand froze and her breath fled. A strange mark bloomed on her belly, spreading out in all directions from her navel like a veiny blue flower. On instinct she cupped a hand over the symbol. She hadn't been struck. Maybe the cause was internal. Some kind of poison? But she wasn't sick or in pain. With a deep breath she steeled herself for a closer inspection. The thread-like design forked into branches and twigs like winter tree limbs. She traced one line with her fingertip. What could cause such a reaction?