“What do you mean?” I ask.
Siena sighs. “He was so focused on girls growing up and having children,” she says. “He told us it was for the good of the tribe, to ensure our numbers didn’t dwindle. But really…” Her voice fades away in an echo.
“He wanted more available to trade.
“We still don’t know why he wants them though,” Circ says, reaching over and grabbing Siena’s hand.
“Free labor,” Buff says. “Servants, young and fresh and moldable.”
That’s the theory we’ve been working under, but even as he says it, I know it’s a weak one. Why would the most powerful man in ice country need to kidnap servants when he can buy anyone he wants? “I don’t think that’s it anymore,” I say, wishing I didn’t have to say it. I can’t think about other possibilities—not now. Not when I’m so close to finding my sister.
“Then what?” Siena says.
I don’t answer.
No one answers, because we’re all thinking the same thing: something sick, something twisted. An addiction of sorts involving little kids. My throat fills with bile.
“Don’t think about all that,” Skye says suddenly. My eyes flick to hers, relieved to hear her speak, although I’m not sure why. “What I wanna know is where my fath—where Roan got the Heater kids.”
“He just took them,” I say. I sense something behind her words, something I’m missing. “Kids go missing and life moves on,” I add, knowing full well it doesn’t.
“Yeah, he took ’em alright,” Skye agrees, “but they didn’t just go missin’. We had lots of girls go missin’, but they were always older, like Siena and me when we ran away, fifteen, sixteen years old. Never heard of any disappearin’ kids.”
“Skye’s righter’n rain,” Siena says. “The only time we ever lost kids was in accidents or early Fire, but they always died…” Her words hang in the air like a dirty piece of laundry blown off the clothesline, just before it’s swept away by the wind.
“How old did you say the kids looked?” Feve asks.
I shrug. “I dunno. Seven, maybe eight.”
Skye curses. What am I missing?
“Oh, sun goddess,” Siena says, her voice a whisper so soft I wouldn’t know she said it if I didn’t see her lips move.
“That sonofablazeshooter,” Skye says, and my eyes dance back to her.
“What?” I say.
Skye looks at Siena. Siena looks at Skye. Siena releases Circ’s hand and reaches out toward Skye, as if just by stretching she might be able to touch her. “Skye?” Siena says.
“Their younger sister,” Circ says. “She died when she was seven. Her name was Jade.”
My breath catches in my throat.
Chapter Twenny-One
“Did you see her body?” I ask, saying the wrong thing as usual.
Skye stands up, grabs the bars, tries to shake them, but they don’t so much as quiver. “The baggard. The filthy baggard,” she mutters while she yanks at the metal.
“She was taken by a brushfire,” Siena says slowly. “Father said the flames were so hot that all t’was left was ash.”
“He cried for her, the no-good tug-lovin’ baggard,” Skye spouts, pacing across her cell.
“They were real tears,” Siena says.
“No,” Skye says. “No, no, no! There was nothin’ real ’bout them.” She starts pounding her fist into her hand.
“He didn’t wanna give her up,” Siena says. “He couldn’t. He was forced to. They were real tears.”
Skye just shakes her head, continues pacing. “You can think what you want, but if he was ’ere I’d kill him agin.”
“Your sister might be alive,” I say.
Skye stops short, stops pounding her fist, stops spouting “the baggard.”
“She’s not alive,” Skye says.
“She might be,” I insist. “How long ago was the fire that supposedly killed her?”
Skye shakes her head. Siena answers. “Six years,” she says.
“It’s a long time,” Feve says. “Don’t get their hopes up.” But by the look in Siena’s eyes, I can tell her hopes are already up. Way up.
“There’s always hope,” I say, but it’s for me as much as them.
“Skye?” Siena says. She needs her sister now. My words are just words, but her sister’s, they’re feelings. Beliefs that can become real if she will only speak them.
Everyone looks at Skye.
She’s sort of grimacing, chewing on something that’s not there, like she’s trying to digest the possibility of what a few minutes earlier was impossible.
“I dunno,” she says. “I just dunno. But what I do know is that we can’t change what’s happened, but we can stop it from happening agin, save those it’s happened to. Your sister. Maybe ours if she’s there too. Jade.” I grab each of Skye’s words, bundle them in my arms, tuck them away somewhere to look at later, when I’m ready to hope again. I can see Siena doing the same, a big smile on her face.
Skye’s given us both the gift of hope. I wonder if she saved any for herself.
~~~
While we’re all energized with Skye’s words, I tell them all about Wes, and how he’s going to get us out, and how when he does, we’ll get them out too. The Wildes and Heater and Marked are all surprised, but pleased, and it only adds to the rising level of excitement.
But then, all of a sudden, it’s as if another minute of talking is more than any of us can handle, because we’re still confined, still prisoners, so we retract into our cells and our own individual thoughts. Except for Buff and Wilde, who I hear whispering to each other long after the rest of us stop listening. I wonder how that’s working out for him—flirting with the unflirtable.
But even they stop eventually, and all goes quiet.
It’s so quiet that I suspect at least a few of the group have fallen asleep. I peek through the hole and try to see Skye, but all I see is the cracked and chipped gray blocks of the opposite wall, painted shimmering hues of orange and red by the flickering torchlight.
I want to sleep too, to turn off my brain and let the hours slip by until Wes comes to crack Big on the head and give us our freedom back.
But I can’t, so I lay there in silence, worrying about Wes and Jolie, and wondering about Skye’s sister, Jade. Could she really be alive after all these years? Somewhere in this very palace?
I hear a sound, a whispered conversation. Buff and Wilde chatting again? Nay, too close. Circ and Siena.
I slither forward noiselessly, till my ear is right against the bars but I’m still outta sight. It’s a terrible thing to do, I know, spying and eavesdropping and all that, but I just have to. Everything about the thing Circ and Siena has intrigues me. They seem younger than me, a year or two perhaps, and yet there’s such certainty in each other, in their togetherness. It’s fascinating and magnetic and I wonder just how rare it is.
I can’t hear their words, but their tone tells me everything. Soft, tender, occasionally broken by laughter. I peek through the bars. They’re holding hands again, and playing some game with their fingers, trying to trap each other’s thumbs. I smile, watching them do that simple thing in this impenetrable dungeon.
I don’t know how much time passes as I watch them. They stop with the thumb fight and just talk and talk and talk, like they’ve talked this way hundreds of times before, and will continue hundreds of times after. So easy.
Finally, though, Circ rubs his eyes and scoots back, outta sight, presumably to take a nap. Siena stays by the bars, however, flicking them lightly with her forefinger, making a soft ting!ing sound.