Resonance (4 page)

CHA
PTER SIX

I
'D VISITED AMELIA EVERY DAY
since Simon's disappearance. Simon had asked me to take care of her, but I would have done it even without my promise. Helping her was the one thing I could do to make up for all she'd lost. Selfishly, spending time with her helped me, too. There was nobody else I could share my grief with: not Eliot, whose feelings were too raw to hear about how much I missed Simon; not Addie, who worried about my mental state; and definitely not my parents, who were completely in the dark, consumed as usual by their work.

The cottage lights glowed warmly, like she'd left them on for me. I headed around back, and before my hand touched the doorknob, a woof and a thud announced my presence.

I let myself in, bracing against the counter as eighty-five pounds of chocolate Lab hurtled toward me.

“Hey, Iggy. How's she doing today?” I knelt and scratched his ears, kissed the top of his head, and pulled a dog treat out of my pocket. Iggy snatched it up and burrowed closer.

“I'm hanging in there,” called Amelia from the family room. She was sitting on the couch, laptop propped on her knees, medical dictionaries at her side. Before she'd gotten sick, she'd
managed a pediatrician's office; after the diagnosis she'd decided to do transcription from home. “I thought I'd try to do a little work, get back into a routine, but . . .”

But her heart wasn't in it. I understood. Iggy must have heard the quaver in her voice, because he bounded back across the room. She held up a hand. “No food on the carpet, Ig.”

He snuffled and dropped the treat exactly where the linoleum met the rug, giving her his most winsome expression.

“Beast,” she said affectionately. “Eat up.”

The biscuit disappeared, and a moment later he'd planted himself at Amelia's feet.

“I swear you're the only one he listens to.”

“He's a good boy. Most of the time,” she added, scratching his head. Her hands looked thin and pale against his dark fur. Her hair had grown back enough that she rarely wore a scarf anymore, the short blond strands emphasizing the blue of her eyes and the delicacy of her features. “Rough day?”

“Weird day.” I bit my lip. As cruel as it was to hold back the truth, asking her to live with more uncertainty seemed worse. She wouldn't be able to see Simon, if he stayed in the Echoes. Then again, knowing he was okay would give her a boost. I stood, wavering. “How was yours?”

“Slow. There may have been some napping involved.” Her sheepish grin was so like Simon's that my heart twisted. She motioned to the couch, unwilling to be diverted. “Tell me about the weird day—and how you got that scratch on your cheek.”

I grimaced. “Bree Carlson. She's got it out for me.”

“Bree. She was . . . late summer, wasn't she? The actress?” At my nod, she mused, “I never met her. But she was very persistent, if her phone calls were anything to go by.”

“Still is.” I definitely wasn't going to tell Amelia about Bree looking into Simon's disappearance. “Did you take your medications? Do you want some tea?”

“I wouldn't mind a fresh cup.”

I returned to the kitchen and put the kettle on, fending off Iggy's whimpering pleas for a walk. “In a minute, fella.”

“Something's wrong, isn't it? More than Bree.”

I busied myself with the tea. “What do you remember about the Free Walkers?”

She stood slowly, and joined me at the counter. “Why do you want to know? Have they approached you?”

To spare us both from a lie, I didn't answer.

“I see.” She nudged me out of the way and started assembling a tray: spoons, cups, milk, and sugar. “Gil was working with them long before we met. The Consort had assigned him to investigate the pivots stemming from the crash. You know how rigid the Consort is about Walkers and Originals mingling. He would never have asked me out if he hadn't been a Free Walker.”

She chuckled, the sound rueful. “Simon got his charm from his father, you know.”

“What did you say when he told you the truth? Or did you catch him Walking?” The way Simon had caught me.

“He told me. He had to, really. I knew he was keeping something back—I was only getting a fraction of him, and I
wanted the whole. So I broke it off, and he told me everything.”

“Did you think he was crazy?”

“At first.” She ran a finger over her wedding band. “Eventually I believed him, and when he explained about the Free Walkers, I believed in them, too. They were so dedicated, and passionate . . . it was impossible not to be swept up in it. I helped, you know. I wasn't just the girl on the sidelines.”

I must have looked puzzled, because she laughed. “How do you think you ended up with pivots all over your house, Del?”

“That was you?” Walker houses didn't typically have a lot of pivots, but ours did. I'd always assumed it was due to the fact that it was old—plenty of repairmen had passed through our doors, and their choices littered the house, same as their cigarette stubs and Styrofoam coffee cups.

“Did you think Gil was only interested in my looks?” She smiled. “I believed in the Free Walkers' cause. Forming pivots in houses—so they could move in and out without the Consort noticing—was an easy way for me to help.

“And then I got pregnant with Simon. It must sound crazy, but we were so happy, despite the danger.”

“But . . . your Echoes . . . they were pregnant too.”

She folded her hands and met my eyes. “Yes.”

“Gil couldn't be with them. They were alone.” It seemed selfish, somehow, and irresponsible. Two words I'd never have used to describe Amelia. “You were okay with that? Choosing for them?”

“I chose for myself,” she said. “Walkers don't have to weigh
their decisions, and neither do most Originals. They don't know that the power of their choices crosses worlds. I loved Gil, and I believed we were building a life together.”

“Your Echoes couldn't. They'd be single moms.”

“They had my memories; they knew Gil, and what I'd done. They would remember our time together as if it was their own. Having Simon meant they would have a piece of Gil in their lives forever—that's what I gave them, and it was the right thing to do.”

“How do you know?”

She met my eyes. “Because it's what I would have wanted in their place.”

“But—”

“I'm not sorry I did it,” she said, lifting her chin. “Not when the result was Simon.”

“Me neither,” I said softly. The irony was, her Echoes—the ones who had lived—still had a Simon. She was the only one who had to grieve.

She dusted off her hands to show the topic was closed. “And then, Gil was gone.”

“What happened?” I asked, welcoming the change of subject. I'd heard Ms. Powell's explanation, but it seemed vital that I hear Amelia's version too. The personal cost instead of the political one.

“I'm not sure. In the months before Simon was born, we were making progress—converting some high-ranking official, cauterizing a major branch before it could be cleaved—but
the Consort always managed to get ahead of us. The official would disappear. We'd save one Echo, and three more would be cleaved. Monty was going to be named to the Consort, and then Lattimer got the job. They'd found . . .” She trailed off. “. . . something. A fail-safe, Rose called it. But a few days after Simon was born, Gil vanished.”

The kettle screamed, and I turned it off, willing her to continue.

“He'd always been careful to keep me hidden from the Consort—he wasn't living here, and he wasn't always able to get away. Rose kept checking on me, but I knew this was different. Nothing would have kept him from his son. When Monty came looking for Rose, I cut off the whole group. I told him if a Free Walker contacted me or came near Simon—ever—I'd tell the Consort everything I knew.”

I didn't doubt it. She might have been frail, but there was steel in her spine.

“Why did you stay?” I asked. “Why not pick up and move to the other side of the country?”

“I thought Gil might come back,” she said quietly, and twisted her ring. “Besides, running would have drawn more attention, especially from your kind. Walkers worry about change, not consistency.”

In my mind I overlaid her story with what Ms. Powell had told me, the picture slowly coming into focus, the overlapping parts adding depth and clarity. Only one thing didn't fit.

“What was the fail-safe?”

“Gil never said, exactly.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead, her voice turning vague. “There was a lot he didn't tell me, you know. He wanted to keep us safe, and the best way to do that was to keep us hidden.”

Whatever it was, the fail-safe hadn't worked. Amelia looked pale—I'd pushed too hard, called up too many memories.

“Sit down,” I urged, guiding her toward the table. When she was seated, Iggy's head on her knee, I poured out tea and placed the cup in front of her. “I have to stop the Consort.”

She nodded, absently rubbing Iggy's ears. “They're dangerous.”

“I know. But I can't let them keep cleaving. Not when—”

“I didn't mean the Consort. They need to be stopped. I don't deny it. But . . . I've given the Free Walkers everything, and they've failed, time and time and time again. It's one thing to sacrifice for a cause, but sacrificing for a lost cause is a different thing entirely.”

“I understand.” But I couldn't allow myself to believe it was lost, because that would mean Simon was lost. That the wrong I had done could never be made right.

“You're my last tie to him, you and this ridiculous dog. I couldn't bear it if you were another pointless casualty.”

“What if . . .” What if I could bring him back? To keep myself from asking, I hugged her carefully. “I won't be.”

C
HAPTER SEVEN

A
MAZDA CONVERTIBLE SAT IN
the driveway, gleaming red where the porch lights glinted off it. I sighed and let myself in the house.

“Hey,” Addie called from the couch. She smoothed her hair down, cheeks turning pink. “Laurel's here.”

“I noticed. Hey, Laurel.”

“Hi, Del. How's it going?” Laurel didn't bother fixing her hair, dark curls corkscrewing in every direction, or her smudged lipstick.

“It's going.” I threw my coat on a hook and headed to the pantry for a sugar fix. My talk with Ms. Powell and the Walk to see Cemetery Simon had left me dizzy in more ways than one. I needed to counteract the frequency poisoning. “Don't let me interrupt.”

It wasn't that I disliked Addie having a girlfriend. In the short time she and Laurel had been together, she'd been happier—and easier to be around, since Happy Addie and Nitpicky Addie couldn't coexist.

And I couldn't have picked a better girlfriend for her than Laurel, an apprentice Archivist. In some ways she reminded me
of Eliot—supersmart, a little spacey—but she was much more easygoing than he was, comfortable in her skin and in speaking her mind. Most importantly, she was crazy about Addie.

But watching the two of them together made the ache of losing Simon sharpen until it felt like a knife between my ribs.

I grabbed a box of graham crackers and a tub of Nutella, careful not to listen too closely to their murmured conversation. People in new relationships want everyone to be as happy as they are, and I was too exhausted to play along.

When I emerged from the pantry, Addie was sitting at the kitchen island and Laurel was standing next to her, their fingers intertwined.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Addie asked, brow furrowed in concern.

“Fine,” I said shortly, finally noticing her clothes. Black pants and a loose-fitting black sweater, red-gold hair pulled back in a neat bun. Ballet flats instead of her usual heels. Polished and lovely, as always, but it was an outfit you could move in. Could run in, should things go wrong. “You were cleaving today.”

My voice wobbled alarmingly. How many people had died, how many worlds unraveled in the hours since Ms. Powell had told me the truth? I bit my lip until I tasted copper, the secret threatening to burst free. Addie would never cleave again, once she knew the effects.

And then what would we do? Addie was too well-regarded around the Consort to simply quit. Lattimer had singled her out for a special project, the one that had brought her and Laurel
together, but she'd barely spoken about it. If she were to stop cleaving, or disappear altogether, the Consort would investigate. Walkers worry about change, not consistency, Amelia had warned. I couldn't afford more scrutiny now.

“I know the idea of cleaving is hard for you, Del, but it's my job. It's more than a job, actually. It's a—”

“I know. A calling. Mom read the same scriptures to both of us.” I pushed away from the table, took in the empty room. “Where are they, anyway?”

“Mom and Dad? Working late.”

“As usual.” For once, I was relieved their Consort duties took precedence.

“Not usual,” Laurel said. She wandered over to the stove and poked at whatever was steaming on the back burner. “A Tacet.”

“A what?”

“A Tacet,” Addie said. “I just got back to regular duty, so I don't know all the details, but the Consort's planning a major cleaving.”

“Tacet means ‘silence,'” Laurel added. “They're silencing the Echoes.”

“Which branch?” I choked out.

“A whole bunch. We're getting double or triple the usual requests.” As an apprentice Archivist, Laurel maintained all the records of Consort activity in the Echoes: cleavings, exploratory walks, branch maps. “Coordinating that many cleavings takes a lot of prep work.”

“Why would they do it?” I asked.

They exchanged glances, and Addie said, “The official story is that they're trying to contain damage from the anomaly. A Tacet transfers a lot of energy to the Key World. Reinforces the weak spots.”

“And unofficially?”

“The Free Walkers live in the Echoes,” Laurel said flatly. “Nobody knows where, but if you cleave enough branches . . . you'll hit something.”

Addie frowned at her.

“Unofficially,” Laurel amended. “And theoretically.”

“When?” I asked, wondering if I had enough time to warn Ms. Powell.

“Three weeks, at least. It's a complicated operation,” Addie said. “On another note, Shaw stopped by my desk today. He wants you back in training.”

I mashed a thumb into my graham cracker, scattering crumbs. “Soon.”

“The Consort's taking apprenticeship applications,” she said. “You need to get moving on yours.”

“Have you decided where you're applying?” Laurel asked.

“Not yet.”

Addie swung into big-sister mode. “Del, you can't put this off. If you don't start showing up to class, the Consort is going to slot you in wherever they need warm bodies. And right now, they need Cleavers.”

“I'm not cleaving.”

“If your ranking's high enough, you can transfer to another
Consort. That's what I did,” Laurel said, dimpling. “It's worked out pretty well.”

I scowled. “Maybe I'll apply for an Enforcement position.”

Laurel's smile fell away. “I'm not sure you're cut out for Enforcement. They're pretty . . . hard-core.”

“Relax,” I said. “The Consort wouldn't let me within three Echoes of an Enforcement position. Can you imagine me trying to make other people follow the rules? I'll figure out something.”

Laurel wound a curl around her finger. “My advice is, don't rush it. Take your time.”

“She needs to choose.” Addie turned to her. “It's a big deal.”

“Exactly,” Laurel said. “It's her whole life. Why should she settle for something other than what she really wants? I didn't.”

Addie's expression softened, and she leaned her forehead against Laurel's shoulder.

“It's your future, Del,” she said. “Don't let someone else choose it for you. Not after everything Simon did to make sure you'd have one.”