E

  ***

  The days fly by, bleak and cold. I spend yet another night lying awake. On one side of me is Miranda. On the other, Neveah. There are gaps between us that used to be occupied by the rest of our family. We're starting to become accustomed to being on our own— just us girls. Neveah and Miranda are starting to become accustomed to calming me when I wake kicking and screaming, or running for the door. This is how we are now. Dwindling.

  Apollon and Jonas have started spending the nights away, doing whatever it is they do. Every night I imagine them getting caught. Beaten. Shot in the head. Or cut apart bit by bit. In my mind, I stop on the edge of that cliff, teetering, trying to hold back thoughts of Oscar— of what would happen to him if Apollon and Jonas were discovered. I have to trust them, I tell myself. Have to believe in their competence. But there are so many factors they can't account for. So many things that could go wrong.

  Not Oscar. I won't think about him. Where he is now, he's safer from the more immediate threat of starvation.

  He brings food to share with me every day. Not part of his breakfast like he occasionally brought before, but full portions for me alone. He says Matt insists. That he says I "had better eat it". At first, I answered that Matt didn't have to know whether I ate it or not. Oscar gave me the raised eyebrows, the stubborn face, chin up, jaw set. "I'll tell him," he said. He meant it, too. He won't let me get away with not eating. And, since it's not so different than how I've behaved regarding Oscar, I can't really argue. All this time I've been trying to avoid accepting help from Matt, and turns out I take more and more. I'm in his debt, like it or not. And really, if I think about it, maybe I have been all along. Just one more thing to keep me awake at night.

  Now, as I lie here, I clamp my eyes shut against the thought of food. Jonas brings me bits and pieces, too. I'm probably eating three times as much as Miranda and Neveah, and no one really knows. I hate myself for it. I want to give them part of what I have, but I feel like I'm not supposed to. I want to refuse what Jonas brings me, but I don't. I wonder if my friends are eating extra bits in secret as well, hiding it from me, trying to stay alive. If they are, I'm hurt, for the deceit. If they're not, my own guilt is unbearable. Surely they are. Surely they come by small bits somewhere. Surely they're not still subsisting on one bite of stale bread per meal.

  I've laid here so long that light starts to ooze in through the cracks, dull at first, then insistently brighter. It's still early, but I crawl off the bed as quietly as I can and slip into my jacket. I drink some melted snow from the pan on top of the stove, open the metal door and add another board to the decaying embers. I'm just about to sneak out of the house when Miranda stretches and sits up.

  She squints at me. "Going out?"

  I nod, glancing at Neveah, who's still sleeping soundly.

  "Where?"

  "To see the boys." I've been keeping my distance from their operation, mostly, but I like to have some idea what's going on. In a very small amount of time, Jonas has managed to recruit a sizable force. Each time I've been to the warehouse hideout there have been different people there. Orange shoelaces, red stripes, beggars and businessmen. All of them seem to defer to Jonas. I don't know how he's managed to do it, or what he's promised them, but Jonas is running his own small army. Meanwhile, Apollon is up to something else, though I'm not sure what. He has his own tight group that is in and out, and always passing murmurs and meaningful looks. I don't ask what they're doing. I really don't want to know.

  Miranda grimaces, but climbs out of bed. "I'll come, too," she says, as though the task is unpleasant. I'm not sure why she wants to come. Or why I want to go. Maybe we just miss Jonas and Apollon.

  As she gets ready, my eyes fix on Neveah. She's breathing steadily, resting. Part of me is jealous, and part is worried. She's usually an early-riser.

  "She just needs the rest," Miranda whispers, waving me off. She nods toward the door. We shuffle quietly out and walk down the path through an inch or so of snow. It's frozen over, crusted and crunching under our steps. I keep my arms extended to keep from slipping on the ice underneath.

  We walk briskly toward the warehouse, taking a roundabout route and sticking to quieter streets. Someone disguised as a beggar slumps against a wall by the door, watching for intruders. I glance at him, but don't say anything. We move past him and open the door. Inside, you'd think it would be warmer. But there are no fires burning to give away a human presence here. No sun coming in to warm the rooms. Shivering, rubbing my arms, we move deeper inside, our eyes scanning the dark for our friends.

  Jonas is standing over a table where a group of men are seated, in the middle of some discourse. He looks over and sees us. There are circles under his red eyes. His hair is mussed. He must have been up all night. But more than that, he looks startled to see us. His eyes dart to Miranda, then quickly back to me. He strides toward us— to get rid of us, I think— but he's too late. The men at the table turn around to see what's going on. Miranda's eyes go wide on Donegan.

  She lets out a small squeal, but shuts it down, her fists clamping in trembling hands. Her eyes dart from Donegan to Jonas, who is now in front of us. Anger spills over, raw, bubbling with betrayal. She lunges at Jonas.

  He tries to catch her hands to hold her back, but Miranda is like a mad cat, clawing at him, beating him. She sounds like a cat, too, her words coming out in wild screeches. "How could you," she shrieks. "You know! You know! How could you!!!"

  I try, half-heartedly, to peel her off him, but really, she doesn't stop beating him until she's ready. She moves away from him with a deadly glare, then turns her back on him and marches outside. The door slams shut behind her.

  I look at Jonas, who is breathing hard through his nose, jaw tight. At the table behind him, Donegan's men are stirring, looking uneasy. Jonas will have more problems than just me to deal with. I shake my head at him, turn, and leave him to it. I go after Miranda, who is already long gone.

  I track her footprints through the snow until they join the nexus of morning traffic, then wander into the fray. I spot her up ahead. She's marching along, fists still clenched, each step smacking solidly into the frost-bitten snow. For just a second, I waver. Maybe I should let her work this out on her own. Maybe she just needs some space. Then I remember the night Oscar left us, and I sigh. I trudge onward.

  She glances back as I hurry to catch up with her, her eyebrows drawn down in the middle to form short diagonal lines. She's scowling, fighting back tears. At least I'm not Jonas.

  "Hey," I say, falling in beside her, sticking my hands in my pockets. I'll let her do the talking, if she wants to. Or we can just walk in silence for a while.

  She throws me a look that is definitely not companionable. I pretend not to notice. We crunch onward through the snow.

  For a moment, she sputters like a faucet out of water, but finally she spits out, "Donegan? Seriously?"

  I snort. "I know."

  Now her glance is calmer. She realizes I'm going to take her side. I'd be stupid to try to convince her that what Jonas is doing is OK. I may not be Miranda, but I hate Donegan enough. He hit Oscar. No way in hell would I consider him an ally. I'm swimming in disgust and disbelief.

  Miranda says "I thought Jonas— I thought—" And then she's sniffling, tears pouring down her face. She bats at them, wiping them with her sleeves. Somehow she manages to stop. Her chin is up, her face smooth. I'll give her one for composure. "I thought I knew Jonas. I thought I knew he wouldn't do something like that," she finishes, calmly.

  "Jonas doesn't seem to want anybody to know him," I say absently. "He lets you in. He pushes you out. It's really all about that thing on his arm, isn't it? We don't matter to him if we get in the way of that."

  Miranda's gaze falls on me and sticks. Summing, withering, and oddly understanding. Finally she says, "Well, I'm done with it."


  We're in the marketplace now. We stop and turn to each other. "Miranda," I say softly, but her face looks set in stone.

  She shakes her head, rubbing her arms. We face each other, but each of us is looking off into the distance.

  I'm about to suggest we go home where at least it's warm, when she speaks.

  "I'm going to help Matt," she says.

  I blink. "What?"

  "With the wall. I can help with it."

  My mouth is hanging open. This is bad. Miranda wants to join Matt's side? With all the sensitive information she knows? With all the anger she's incubating?

  "I'm not going to say anything," she whispers. "So don't freak out. I just... aren't we on the wrong side?"

  I close my mouth and swallow. I stare off into the distance. "Which side is the right side?" I ask. "Isn't it the one that's going to win?"

  She frowns at me. "You don't believe that."

  "I believe in staying alive."

  "Really," she says. "You're fine with being locked in a hole somewhere?"

  I narrow my eyes at her. She has hit home, and she doesn't even realize why. Again, I look away. Truth be told, I really don't want to think about this question. Maybe it deserves an answer, but even considering it makes my insides stir. Closing my eyes, I breathe cold air through my nose. I focus on the way my body relaxes into the deep breaths. The nausea subsides. My head feels lighter.

  Luckily, Miranda is done debating. She grabs me by the arm. "C'mon," she says. "Let's get out of the cold."

  I'm happy to drop it for now. As we walk home, I do everything I can to put it all out of my mind.