I walk slowly down the stone hall with Mustang. Out the windows, guards patrol the estate. They’re here to keep us as much as protect us. Rain falls lightly. Laughter drifts out an open door with the smells of coffee and bacon.
“What do you mean I can’t be funny?” Roque asks, offended. “tust that,” Daxo says smoothly. “I’m sure you can try, but
you’re too … scholastic.”
“Fine then, who was the first carpenter?” “Is this a joke?” Daxo asks.
“It’s intended to be.”
“tesus of Nazareth …?” Daxo guesses. “It is a history joke, yes?”
“Noah?” Pebble tries. Mustang and I pause outside the door, smiling to each other.
“tesus of Nazareth?” Roque laughs. “You can do better than that.”
“If I knew I’d be mocked for guessing, I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Pax said you were the smart one,” Thistle says. “Disappointing, Daxo. Disappointing.”
“Well, in comparison, he probably—” Clown begins before Pebble smacks him upside the head. “Ow!”
“Don’t talk shit about Pax,” Pebble snaps. “Big man was a sweetie.”
“Does no one care about the answer?” Roque asks melodically. “Fine. Fine. I understand. You all think I’m a bore.”
“We’re dying to know,” Thistle snaps. “Do tell.”
“Who was the world’s first carpenter?” Roque asks again. “You don’t have to start all over!” Pebble moans.
“Well, it works best that way.” Roque sighs. “Eve.” “Eve?” Daxo asks.
“Because …,” Roque leads. “She made Adam’s banana stand?” A collective moan.
“That’s just embarrassing,” Pebble says with a sigh. “Never thought I’d miss Tactus.”
Then a high-pitched whining laugh springs out of Daxo. tust like Pax. “Eve! Eve, he said. Banana stand. Ahh.” It’s like the giants have little ridiculous elves inside them just waiting to spring out and cackle. tust takes a lot of provocation.
“I think he broke Daxo.” Pebble giggles. “Does anyone smell that?” Clown asks.
“I smell bacon,” Daxo tries. There’s a crunch as he bites into a piece.
“No,” Clown says. “Smells like a suicidal madman recently risen from the dead after conquering a planet and abandoning his friends to get himself cut to gory ribbons like a slagging fool.”
Daxo sniffs. “That’s a particular scent.”
“Oh, Darrow dear,” Clown calls. “Are you lurking behind the door?”
Mustang pushes me out awkwardly.
“You eavesdropping Pixie!” Daxo glides to his feet and pulls me into a surprisingly gentle hug. The golden angels on his bald head glitter in the morning light. “Glad to see you, my friend.”
They all greet me in turn. More hugs than I’ve ever received from Golds. Roque hugs me mechanically. A perfunctory gesture. There is still mending to be done.
I gorge myself on breakfast as my friends banter. We spend the day on the property, whiling away time in conversation and games. It’s been so long since I’ve had either that I’ve nearly forgotten how to do nothing. Mustang has to kiss my ear and tell me to relax three times before it really sticks. We’re in the library
listening to music when she sees Roque out the window on the lawn. She nudges me.
“Go.”
I find Roque watching a pair of deer eat from a feeder underneath an old elm. He doesn’t turn to look at me as I sidle up next to him. It smells like fresh-cut grass. The sea somewhere over the hill.
“It makes sense this is where Mustang grew up,” I say. “It’s wild and tranquil all at once.”
“My home was meant to be in the city,” Roque says. “Though I snuck off to the country with my tutors whenever Mother was away. Which was often. She seemed to think there was nothing out here worthwhile. That the business of cities was more important than this. But this is why we fight, isn’t it?”
“For land?” I ask.
“For peace, in whatever way we find it.” He turns to me. “Isn’t that why you fight?”
“Some of us weren’t born with peace,” I say, gesturing to the deer and the land. “I didn’t have this growing up. Anything I have now or will have in the future I have to earn. But you’re right. It’s why I fight, so I can have this for me and the people I care for.”
His eyes search my face. “Fair enough.” “I want to apologize to you, Roque.” “Again?”
“Since the Academy, I’ve kept you at arm’s length. I’ve taken you for granted. I shouldn’t have done that. Not when you’ve always been so kind to me.” He doesn’t meet my gaze.
“I didn’t mind that it was always about you, Darrow. That was what burned Tactus, but not me. I’m not in love with you like Mustang. I don’t worship you like Sevro or the Howlers. I was a true friend. I was someone who saw your light and your dark and accepted both without judgment, without agenda. And what did you do to me? You used me like a man uses a horse. I’m better than that. Quinn was better than that.”
“Are you better than this friendship?” I ask quietly, afraid of the answer.
“I think I’m better than you,” he says. I step back, wounded. He watches the deer nibble at the grain in the feeder. “I’ve sat by the
bedsides of three friends this year. Quinn, Tactus, and you. Each time I knew I would have gladly switched places with any of you. Would you wish the same?”
“I’d give my life to bring them back,” I say, knowing it is a lie. Much as I love these Golds, I have greater responsibilities. Until this is over, it’s not my life to give.
He turns from the deer to watch me, eyes warm and sad and carrying so much more weight than they ever should. He’s different from me, from Cassius. We called him brother, and he was one better than either of us deserved. “Have you ever wondered why they put me in House Mars? I’m not the typical draft. Most would probably put me in Apollo or tuno.”
“Quinn always had that competition in her blood. But you … Yes, I’ve wondered.”
“Darrow.” I turn to see Sevro standing behind us in uniform. “It’s urgent.”
“Not now, Sevro.”
“Reap, I’m not shitting you,” he says.
I look back to Roque. “Go,” he says, and walks toward the deer, pulling berries from his pocket.
“Roque,” I call to him plaintively.
“Friendships take minutes to make, moments to break, years to repair,” he says, turning to glance over his shoulder. “We’ll talk again soon.”
I watch him go, feeling a small bit of hope warm me. I turn to Sevro and clap his back. “Good to see you. Sorry about—”
“Piss off. I’m not a whiny little bitch like the poet. It’s Ares.
Your friends, the Red, the Pink, and the Violet, have gotten themselves captured.”
“By whom?”
“Who do you think? The tackal.”
