listen in on our call at Nornand, and he’d had to say whatever they wanted to hear. Maybe he hadn’t meant those words.
Because that wasn’t what he’d whispered as Addie and I climbed into Mr. Conivent’s car.
If you’re there, Eva, he’d said. If you’re really there … I love you, too. Always.
Always.
<Addie> I said.
The knife of her longing cut us both. <Just a few words.>
<We can’t> I said. <Addie, we can’t.>
No matter how much we ached to.
When Addie didn’t release the phone, I slipped into control and did it for us. Addie didn’t protest. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the city greeting us with a slap of wind. A passing car coughed dark exhaust into the air.
<You think …> Addie hesitated. <You think he’s okay? Lyle.>
<Yeah. I think so.>
What else could I say?
I waited at a crosswalk with a small crowd of early-morning commuters, each sunk in their own thoughts. No one paid Addie and me any attention. Anchoit was the biggest, busiest city we’d ever seen, let alone lived in. The buildings loomed over the streets, contraptions of metal and concrete. Every once in a while, one was softened by a facade of worn red brick.
Peter had chosen Anchoit for its size. For the anonymity of its quiet alleyways and busy thoroughfares. Cars, people, thoughts—everything moved quickly here. It was a far cry from old, languid Bessimir City, or the all-but-stagnant Lupside, where Addie and I had lived before.
It seemed like more happened in a night in Anchoit than in a year in Lupside. Not that Addie or I would know. Since Peter had brought us here from Nornand, I could count on one hand the number of times we’d been allowed out in the city. Peter and Emalia weren’t taking any chances.
In Anchoit, it might have been easier to hide what Addie and I were—hybrids, fugitives, less-than-normal. But it didn’t change the facts. I dreamed of roaming the neon streets after dark. Of playing games and buying junk at the boardwalk. Of splashing through the waves again.
<Police officer> Addie said quietly.
Our legs froze. It took three thundering heartbeats before I calmed down enough to move again. I crossed the street so we didn’t have to pass the policeman directly.
Chances were, his presence had absolutely nothing to do with us.
But Addie and I were hybrid.
Whatever the chance, however small, we couldn’t take it.
Emalia’s apartment building was silent but for the buzzing of overhead lights, which flickered on and off like struggling fireflies. A trash bag slouched, stinking, in the corner.
Peter had housed us Nornand refugees together in his apartment as long as he could. But he spent as much time traveling as he did living in Anchoit, and eventually, we’d been separated. Kitty and Nina lived with us at Emalia’s. The Mullan siblings were only a few floors up, with Henri, but it wasn’t the same.
Even worse, Dr. Lyanne had taken Jaime away to a little house on the fringes of the city. None of us had seen him in three weeks.
The apartment was still dim when I slipped back inside, the living room half-lit by hazy morning sunlight. Emalia and her twin soul, Sophie, kept their home achingly neat, softly decorated. In a weird way, Peter’s apartment—since Peter was so frequently absent—had seemed like our place, our home. Here, Addie and I felt like intruders in a sanctuary of muted sweaters and woven placemats.
<So> Addie said. We sank onto the couch and stared at Emalia’s potted plant. Every leaf looked meticulously arranged. Even her plants were orderly.
<So, what?> I let our eyes slide half-closed. We’d hardly slept last night, wanting to make sure we were up in time to sneak out. With our adrenaline gone, the lack of sleep dragged at our limbs.
Addie sighed. <So, what do we do now? What do we do today?>
<Same as we do every other day, I guess.>
Kitty and Nina spent most of their time curled up in front of the TV, watching whatever was on: Saturday-morning cartoons, daytime soap operas, afternoon news reports, even late-night talk shows when they couldn’t sleep. Hally and Lissa stared out the windows, listening to the music thumping from car radios.
Ryan filled his days with making stuff. Trinkets, mostly, pieced together using tools he borrowed from Henri or Emalia. Emalia was no longer surprised to come home to a salt-and-pepper shaker that rotated between the two at a press of a button, or some other vaguely useful invention.
And Addie—Addie had started drawing again. She sketched Kitty on the sofa, capturing the soft snub of her nose, the wide, brown eyes. She caught the glint of light on Hally’s glasses, spent an hour perfecting the way Hally’s curls fell, some in lazy almost-ringlets, others barely more than a dark wave.
It was nice to have Addie drawing again. But after so many days, we were all going stir-crazy.
“Oh!” came a voice behind us. It was Emalia, draped in a pink cardigan and a cream-colored blouse. She looked as soft and pastel as the dawn. Her smile was flustered. “I didn’t know you’d gotten up …”
She didn’t ask, but the question hung between us: Addie? Or Eva?
“Addie,” Addie said when I took too long to answer. By then, of course, it was. She climbed to our feet and surreptitiously stepped on the back of our heels, kicking our shoes under the couch. Addie had a thoughtless ease with our body I still didn’t.
“You’re up early,” Emalia said. “Something wrong?”
“No.” Addie shrugged. “I just woke up and couldn’t fall asleep again.”
Emalia crossed to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by only a stretch of counter. “It’s these city noises. They take a while to get used to. When I first moved here, I couldn’t get a good night’s sleep for weeks.” She gestured questioningly toward the coffee machine, but Addie shook our head.
Emalia had a bit of a caffeine addiction, but maybe that was to be expected with everything she had to do: hold down her regular job, take care of us, and complete her work for the Underground. She was the one who had forged our new documents, printing birth certificates for people who’d never been born, casting our faces onto lives we’d never lived.
I associated her now with the heavy, bittersweet smell of coffee. Even the first time we’d seen Emalia, her hair had reminded us of steam—cappuccino-colored steam curling against her pale cheeks, reaching just under her chin.
“You’re up early, too,” Addie said.
“I’m headed to the airport today. Peter’s flight arrives in a few hours.”
“No one told us Peter was back.” The words came out sharper than I’d expected. Sharper, perhaps, than Addie had intended.
Emalia’s hands stilled. “Well, it—it was a bit unanticipated. Something’s come up, so he caught an earlier flight. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d want to know.”
“I do,” Addie said, too quickly. “But it’s okay. I mean—”
“Okay, in the future I’ll—” Emalia said.
The two of them looked at each other awkwardly.
“Kitty showed me your new drawing yesterday.” The thin, golden bracelets on Emalia’s wrists clinked