Chapter 7 Saskia
Your name , he demands.
I’m paralyzed—more with fear or curiosity, I’m not sure. When I first put the necklace on, the vial settling against my chest, something within it seemed to reach out and grab onto my heartbeat.
Now, there’s a literal voice in my head.
And even though I’m fairly certain I must be hallucinating, that voice is so dark and rough and masculine that I can’t help but wonder how my own mind could conjure something so…
not me. It reminds me of the rich soil on the southern end of Xantera, where our farmers tend to our fall harvest. And I want to keep unearthing it.
But I shouldn’t be curious. It goes against the Cardinal List of Rules for me to wish for more. I should be ripping this thing off my chest and chucking it as far away from me as I can.
I don’t know who you are, and you won’t tell me your name, I say instead, despite my better judgment. Maybe Malcolm was right earlier when he asked if I have a fever. I must have caught a bug from the Healing Center. Or maybe the vial itself radiates some kind of sickness.
You’re not sick, the voice growls in my head, cutting through my own thoughts. A trickle of uneasiness filters into me at how real he sounds. What do you look like then?
Excuse me?
My patience is wearing thin at how rude this fever is.
You refuse to tell me your name, and I’d like a sense of who I’m talking to, the voice says.
I—I— I stutter, trying to piece together his words and the confusion they pump into my veins. I look down at the crimson vial laying over my heart. I don’t know. I don’t know what I look like.
How can you not know what you look like? he questions me.
Why would I need to know?
What? His exasperation pushes against my mind, holds itself there, daring me. Haven’t you ever looked in a mirror?
We don’t have mirrors, I reply automatically, even though my mind flits guiltily to how I stared at myself in our screen’s reflection just a few days ago. They’re self-indulgent.
There’s not a single mirror? he asks sarcastically.
Not in my housing unit.
I swivel my head to catalog my room, as if doing so will help me make sense of this absurd conversation I can’t possibly be having.
What purpose would a mirror serve? Every morning, I open my tiny closet in the far back corner and put on the same outfit: brown pants, a white linen shirt, and a cloak that fastens overtop.
I run a comb through my hair to prevent tangles and knot it at the back of my head.
Sometimes, I sit in the chair by the window and read my Healing textbooks or mend my clothes with our standard-issue sewing kit.
None of that would require an actual mirror.
I close my eyes and roll to my side. If I’m not sick, then I must be dreaming, caught in one of those dark, twisted nightmares I never tell anyone about.
You’re not asleep, he says, his own impatience beginning to lace his tone.
My eyes pop open again. That’s what a nightmare would say.
Or maybe I’m the one sleeping, he croons, and you’re the thing that haunts my dreams.
I can’t even wrap my head around the concept of that, and for some reason, I’m desperate to prove him wrong. To prove that I’m real. I’m not nearly as scary as you are.
How can you be so sure? Considering I don’t know what you look like, you very well could be. He laughs a deep sound that rolls down my arms. Find a mirror, and we’ll see who’s scarier.
What? No! Guardians, this is crazy. Maybe Diggory was infectious. None of this is possible or even reasonable, and my mind turns to a more haunting possibility that plunges my heart into fear. Diggory, is this you? A spirit? A ghost?
Ah, right. Diggory, he says in recognition. How do you suppose he fared?
The sentries weren’t gentle, I say quickly, so used to giving reports that the response is programmed.
From the dislocated shoulder alone, it would take a skilled healer to make sure it was placed back properly.
But citizens dragged to the Blood Moon Palace, they…
I don’t want to dwell on what happens to them right now.
His tone turns slightly… empathetic? He knew what he was doing. If anything successful comes from this, his name won’t be forgotten a second time. I’ll make sure of it.
The sudden earnestness surprises me, and I swallow down a lump in my throat. But underneath that, something in his voice still gives off an air of superiority. A troubling possibility gnaws at me before I let it simmer to the top of my thoughts. You’re not a… Guardian, are you? Is this a test?
If anyone could make it possible to talk to someone mind-to-mind by means of a chained vial, it would be one of the Twelve.
Is this why they didn’t pick me at the last Choosing?
I failed whatever task they bestowed upon me, and they’re testing me again?
I’m worthy! I want to scream. I’m worthy enough to join those you’ve Chosen in the past.
Worthiness. His scoff scratches at my brain. I’d rather rip out my own vocal cords than be so worried about the worthiness of others. But that brain of yours… I think I can guess a thing or two about you—other than your name and your appearance.
Thank you. I like to think I’m predictable, I almost say. That’s what makes a productive citizen, one who contributes and does what is expected of them. But the tone of his next words makes me doubt myself, like it’s somehow despicable.
I bet you do.
And even if it is a Guardian, I can’t stop my thoughts from turning admonishing. Quit it. It’s rude to read my thoughts. What’s wrong with giving people what they expect of you? I try to reason with him. No surprises.
Your Guardians wouldn’t take kindly to being surprised, would they?
My Guardians? His tone sure doesn’t make it sound like he’s one of them. But even if he’s another citizen, shouldn’t he be talking about the Guardians with respect?
You always do as you’re told, he continues. I bite my tongue, just in case he really is the Third, testing my response to such blasphemy.
I’d assume you don’t have children yet, since there are no remnants of them in your thoughts, so you’re probably in your early twenties.
Twenty-three, I answer almost involuntarily.
Twenty-three, he repeats smugly, a hint of interest buried beneath the tone. And you’re surprisingly talkative, but you don’t ask the important questions—that makes me think you’re a teacher or nurse.
I ask lots of important questions, I defend myself.
It’s part of my job, figuring out what is wrong with people.
Frustration picks at the darkest parts of my mind.
Even if he is a Guardian, this voice acts like he knows me beneath the surface.
And if there’s one thing I’ve determined from my relationship with Malcolm, it’s that the Guardians don’t—could never—know the deepest parts of me.
The voice laughs with a mixture of victory and an emotion I can’t quite pin down, but I know it makes my stomach spark, the embers swirling in my ribcage. I pull my covers over myself to smother it.
Ahhh, and now we’re back to Malcolm, he practically purrs, taunting. Your boyfriend? Husband? Is he everything you dreamed of?
I keep my mouth shut, but his smirk slides across my thoughts as he reads them anyway.
Monotonous, isn’t it? he tsks. All that lost passion.
We’re chosen for each other, perfect. It will come with time, I say, clinging to what I told Malcolm—that no one could possibly know what we decided outside of our four walls.
Time, he says, his voice turning to gravel, is not a luxury we have. Something frightening and vicious alights within me… or him. Find a mirror, little nightmare. I need to know what you look like.
My heartbeat speeds up, or perhaps it’s his own. Two rhythms blending into one, woven together for a string of time, a quick but steady thump, thump, thump shared between us.
That is, until the tempo of mine picks up faster in my chest at the realization that all of my secret thoughts are laid out bare here in my mind, ripe for his taking.
Whoever he is.
Whether this is the doing of a fever, a ghost, or a Guardian, I can’t keep indulging.
Wait, the voice growls out. Don’t you dare lea—
Without a second thought, I tear the chain away from my neck, and I’m alone in my room.
The next morning at breakfast, Malcolm and I sit down across the table from each other with a new energy between us. It’s slightly warmer, more relaxed, than ever before, and it gives me the strength to clear my throat over a spoonful of porridge.
“What are you teaching at the Institution nowadays?”
He raises one eyebrow, surprise etching into the grooves between both. “Right now, we’re going over the Dark Days.”
I nod. I remember that section of my schooling well. It was the time before the Guardians, when all anyone ever did was fight and steal and lie and cheat. When the Monster snatched up anyone it fancied at any time, and there was no Wall to protect us from its teeth and claws.
“Do you remember,” I start uncertainly, trying not to fidget, “what people used to wear?”
Malcolm frowns at me. “Like clothing-wise? Some of them went around practically nude, if that’s what you—”
“No, no.” I shake my head, trying not to imagine why anyone would want to walk around in public so exposed. “I mean, the greedy, self-indulgent things they wore. The shiny objects they hung around parts of their bodies—like their fingers or wrists or necks.”
All last night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time my eyes started to flutter, I’d jolt awake and stare at my dresser across the room, where I dropped the vial into a drawer by its chain.
Nothing whispered in my mind, though. No dark, masculine voice teased or taunted me. It was as if those five minutes of eternity where I had a conversation in my own head didn’t even happen, even though I could still feel the goosebumps that voice seemed to breathe over my skin for hours afterward.
How can you not know what you look like?
You don’t ask the right questions.