It doesn’t take much effort to find Declan. I was hoping, rather foolishly, that I would find him somewhere public, like a hallway or the library. But those are places I go, places he hasn’t been, as if he’s giving me the grace to live in those spaces without him. But it only takes two guards to find him on the roof.
The sky is a perfect aqua. I can almost see ripples of light shimmering off its surface. The rooftop is a large expanse of stone slabs, with row after row of raised wooden garden beds. I hear Declan before I see him. His footsteps are so distinct, heavy and rhythmic, always heel-toe, heel-toe.
I freeze at the precipice of yet another maze of plants stretching out as far as the eye can see. But I can see him over them, and he can see me. He remains still, as frozen in place as I am. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move closer, just watches, letting me decide whether or not, and when, to approach him. I take a deep breath and tuck my hands into my mustard-colored skirt as I step forward.
“You found me,” he says, wiping sweat off his forehead with the backside of his arm; it leaves a fresh streak of dirt along his pink-bronze skin. His linen pants are a mess, and his taupe, Espancian-cotton shirt is unbuttoned to mid-chest, revealing a slip of bronze skin speckled with a light dusting of golden hair. I force myself to look away as heat rises in my face.
The garden to my right is overflowing with fragrant rosemary. To my left, shiny, engorged cherry tomatoes reach for the sky, and beyond that is bed after bed of zucchini squash, sage, thyme, cilantro, and bell peppers in every color.
“You did this?” I ask, watching tiny cilantro leaves waffle in the light, hot breeze. I’m transported back to Gaia’s garden, where I learned about herbs and their applications under dripping moss and the sweltering peninsula sun.
“Yes,” he says. I keep my gaze on the cilantro leaves, jostling, undulating, doing nothing, all at once. He clears his throat and continues. “I, um . . . I’m sorry about the hedge maze,” he says. I can’t bring myself to look at him. This isn’t why I’m here, and I don’t want to get distracted.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says.
“Hurt me?” I narrow my eyebrows, and finally look back at him. “You didn’t hurt me.” He lifts his chin slightly and arches a brow.
“Not physically . . . I just . . . I didn’t mean to—I mean, I didn’t . . . I’m sorry I upset you.”
“Are you?” I ask, out of curiosity more than anything. He cocks his head and sets something down on the lip of the garden bed.
“Of course. I never wanted you to feel that way. I . . . well, I misread the moment.”
“Did you?” I ask, blinking rapidly, surprised at my words.
“Well, it would seem so.” I bite the right side of my tongue and meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry I ran.” My apology tumbles out before I can reconsider. I don’t know if it’s out of habit, or if I really mean it, but it comes so easily, I think it might be the latter.
“You don’t owe me an apology. I could see you were uncomfortable, and I pushed you.”
“You wanted to show me something. It was a nice idea.” He nods, and then squints, pursing his lips.
“Did you like it?” His question feels heavy, weighted with more than the simplicity of his words, and I close my eyes, picturing the thick, leafy walls of the maze dotted by roses of every color.
“It was beautiful,” I say. I offer him the concession of a smile.
“Thank you,” he says. He reaches down and picks up the pail he set aside. “Don’t want to get your dress dirty, but you’re welcome to help if you’d like.” I laugh, wondering what sort of impression I made on him in my dirty dress that first day. Tentatively, I weave my way through the beds to the one he stands beside.
Basil leaves grow there in wild clumps, their little white flowers scenting the immediate vicinity. He shows me how to pinch the blossoms and puts them in the pail that doesn’t carry water, but weeds. I pinch the first one and drop it in, then smell the fragrance strong on my thumb and middle finger. There must be hundreds of these little flowers, and we make slow work of it. The sun burns hot against the back of my neck. I’m certain it will be red soon.
“You were upset earlier,” he says, stating fact.
“Yes.” I pinch three buds in quick succession and discard them just as easily.
“About the guests’ visit?”
“Has it ever occurred to you to ask the candidates whether they want their supporters to visit?”
“No. Why should it?” he asks. My eyes widen, and my mouth falls open.
“Are you serious?” He looks at me from the opposite side of the raised bed. Confused surprise darkens his face, and he chews on his words before he responds, as if he’s struggling to find what he wants to say.
“Okay . . . hypothetically, let’s say there’s a woman who doesn’t want her benefactor to visit. What am I supposed to tell that benefactor?”
“That they’re not invited.”
“But they’ve invested so much in these women. They want to see how they’re faring.”
I frown. “You mean, they want to check on their investment.”
“Well, that sounds a little crass, but yes.”
“It sounds crass because it is!” I say, a little too loud. He looks at me, hesitant and impassive, the way one looks at a mangy, feral cat.
“I don’t understand what’s so bad about someone investing in a woman who has no support system—providing her with the means to better her situation.”
“But that’s not what actually happens!” I say, exasperated. His eyes are narrow and intense, and I have to take a deep, cooling breath to stay calm.
“Okay, so what happens?” he asks, slow and cautious. I squeeze my eyes shut and take another breath.
“Girls are plucked from their homes—yes, disadvantaged though they may be—and are sent to live with a stranger, usually a man, where they’re then raised in his vision.”
“It doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” he says, placing each word with the same care I imagine he placed each seed in this bed. I shake my head too quickly and pull at a flower a little too hard, yanking the basil leaf off with it.
“Tell me,” he says. I can hear the question in his words: what happened to you? Every piece of me should rebel, but if I’m going to ask him to help Zerah, then I don’t see any other way. I have to trust him.
“Um . . .” I falter, and then push through. As the words escape, he sets down his pail and trowel, letting his hands fall to his sides. “When I was twelve, my mother couldn’t keep steady work and my father . . . he was gone. Anyway, one morning she bathed me and put me in her nicest dress, which was too big, but should have been bigger. She’d gotten so small . . .” I bite the side of my tongue, remembering that muslin dress with the little white dots on it.
“She put some lipstick on me. I remember thinking that was strange.” He watches me with patient eyes and says nothing. I’ve never told this story, and maybe I shouldn’t be trusting him with this, but once I start, I can’t seem to stop.
“She took me to the town square, and there was this older man there, looking at other girls my age. He got to me, and his gaze lingered. Then he said something to her, gave her some bank notes, and jerked his head to a patch of pavement where two other girls stood. My mother kissed my cheek, whispered, ‘Be good,’ and left.
“I called after her, but she kept walking. To keep from crying, I chewed on my tongue so hard it bled. And then I went to live somewhere strange, wondering why my mother didn’t want me . . . wondering how much money I was worth.” He’s quiet, watching me in silence, and the breeze rings hollow in my ears, the persistent scent of earth, basil, and rosemary out of place.
“I know you think it’s about providing a better life, but do you actually know if life gets any better for these girls? Or is it just prettier? And what about the girls who don’t last? The ones you send back? Do you know what they’re going back to?” His chest rises and falls a little slower now, and he lifts his hand, then stops, and lets it fall again to his side.
“It wasn’t better for you? With your benefactor?” he asks. I swallow hard and look out over the basil to the west. The horizon is dotted with fluffy clouds worthy of soft, frothy landscape paintings. I don’t think I’ve seen a prettier day. A shudder rolls down my spine, and I close my eyes tight, pressing the memories back down. When I open them again, his brows are high and arched, waiting for me to speak. I look away and shake my head.
“What is it?” he asks. “Please, tell me.” My pulse accelerates, and I know it’s now or never. I feel uneasy placing so much trust in him, but I’m not sure what other option I have. The weight of it is overwhelming, but it’s not just about Zerah—or even me, for that matter. It’s about Carla, and Neve, and Tatiana, and every other girl I’ve seen around the peninsula markets with the haunting hardness of survivors’ eyes. He doesn’t know them, but he does know Zerah. I know I’m breaking her trust by confiding in him, and that I may lose my neck by sticking it out too far, but Zerah is worth the risk.
“I’m worried about Zerah.”
“Zerah?” he asks, genuine surprise in his voice.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice low. “She’s not safe with her benefactor.”
“Not safe . . . how?” I close my eyes and shake my head. I’ve stepped in it, and now, I can’t get out. I have to finish this. But this isn’t my story to tell. Zerah’s word, “unnatural,” comes to me—I shake it away. Declan’s head is lowered, anxious for details. I have to be careful.
“Please don’t make me further break her trust, but believe me: she can’t go back there.”
“You’ve got to give me something,” he says, reaching out to take my hand in his. I stare at them together. His long, dirty fingers cradle my smaller hand with a loose gentleness, as if he wants me to know he’ll let go if I want. I swallow hard and nod.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed she always wears long sleeves?”
“I have, yeah,” he says. I nod, and his pupils flare. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
“I’ll talk to her—”
“Please don’t say anything.”
“I won’t tell her you said anything, but I’ll need something if I’m to . . .” He lets out a breath, as though he knows what he’s about to say is distasteful. “Before I can negotiate the terms of her contract.” I recoil from him, stepping back into the raised bed. A small splinter cuts into the back of my knee, and I lean into it, accepting the pain.
“Okay,” I say. It’s all I can think of to say. I’ve done something I can’t come back from, and though I know there was really no other way around it, I don’t yet know what the consequences will be. I have to hope that they’ll be worth it. For Zerah, if not for me.
“Thank you for telling me,” he says, and I know he means it. Everything else remains to be seen.