She gives me the bird. It’s tiny, sculpted out of mud, and then dried. It feels weighted and earthy in my palm, and the feathers, tiny torn pieces of green silk, only cover the wings.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “The feathers—are they—”
“From the square of silk the Society sent me after my Banquet a few months ago,” she says. “I didn’t think I needed it anymore.”
She wore green, too.
“Don’t hold the bird too tightly,” she says, “it might cut you,” and then she pulls me out from under the tree’s shadow, and the parts of the bird that aren’t feathered turn starry. They glitter in the sun.
“I had to break the glass to get the silk out,” she says, “so I thought I might as well use it. I crushed it, and then, when I’d made the bird, I rolled it in the pieces. They were almost as small as sand.”
I close my eyes. I did something similar, back in the Borough, when I gave Ky the piece of my dress. I remember clearly the clean snap when I broke the scrap free.
The bird shimmers and seems to move. Glitter of glass, feathers of silk.
It looks so close to living that I have a momentary urge to toss it to the sky, to see if it will take wing. But I know I will hear only the thud of clay and see the scatter of green when it hits the ground, the shape that made it bird, flying thing destroyed. So I hold it carefully and let this knowledge rise within me like a song.
I am not the only one writing.
I am not the only one creating.
The Society took so much from us, but we still hear rumors of music, hints of poetry; we still see intimations of art in the world around us. They never did keep us from all of it. We took it in, sometimes without knowing, and many still ache for a way to let it out.
I realize all over again that we don’t need to trade our art—we could give, or share. Someone could bring a poem, someone else a painting. Even if we took nothing away, we would all have more, having looked on something beautiful or heard something true.
The breeze dances the bird’s green feathers. “It’s too beautiful,” I say, “to keep to myself.”
“That’s how I felt about your poem,” she says eagerly. “I wanted to show it to everyone.”
“What if we had a way to do that?” I ask. “What if we could gather together, and everyone could bring what they’d made?”
Where?
The Museum is the first place that comes to mind, and I turn and look at its boarded-up doors. If we could find a way inside, the Museum has glass cases and glowing golden lights. They are broken, but perhaps we could repair them. I imagine sliding open a door to one of the cases and pinning my poems inside, then stepping back to look.
A little shiver goes through me. No. That’s not the place.
I turn back and the girl watches me, her gaze level and measuring. “I’m Dalton Fuller,” she says.
We’re not supposed to give our names away as traders, but I’m not trading. “My name is Cassia Reyes,” I tell her.
“I know,” Dalton says. “You signed it on the poem you wrote.” She pauses. “I think I have a place that will work.”
“No one comes here,” she tells me, “because of the smell. But it’s starting to get better.”
We stand at the edge of the marsh that goes to the lake.We’re far enough away that we can only see the shore, not what might be washed up on it.
I’ve wondered about those dead fish bumping against the dock, my shins, my hands—was it a last-ditch effort on the Society’s part to poison more water, the way they did in the Outer Provinces and in Enemy territory? But why would the Society do something like that to their own lake?
As the Rising has cured the Plague, they’ve made the stillzone smaller. I’ve seen air ships lifting the pieces of the barricade back up into the sky, pulling the other pieces in more closely. Some of the buildings that were once within the barricade are now back outside of it.
The Rising brings the unused pieces of the barricade out to this vacant ground near the lake. Taken apart, the white pieces of the wall look like art in themselves—curving and enormous, like feathers dropped to earth by giant beings and then turned to marble, like bones risen from the ground and then turned to stone. They are a canyon shattered, with spaces to walk between.
“I’ve seen this from up on the air-train stops,” I say, “but I didn’t know what it looked like up close.”
In one place they’ve dropped two pieces closer together than the others. The pieces form what looks almost like a long hallway, curving toward each other, but not meeting at the top. I walk inside and the space underneath is cool and a little bit dark, with a neat line of blue sky streaming in light from above. I put my hand against a piece of the barricade and look up.
“Rain will still get in,” Dalton says. “But it’s sheltered enough that I think it would work.”
“We could put the pictures and poems on the walls,” I say, and she nods. “And build some kind of platform to hold things like your bird.”
And if someone knew how to sing, they could come here and we could listen. I stand there for a moment, imagining music echoing along the walls and out over the ruined, lonely lake.
I know I need to keep trading to get to my family, and sorting to keep my place in the Rising, but this also feels like something I have to do. I think Grandfather would understand.
PART THREE