space I’ve left behind.
“Of course,” I say. Peter shuffles forward, and I help him onto the mattress. He’s only three, maybe. If he’s older, hedoesn’t seem it. “Don’t cry,” I tell him, as if that will help. I’ve never been much good with kids.
“He’s fine,” Bess says. “He just can’t sleep. He always gets like this.” She strokes his head, smoothing his stubbled hair down, his cheeks damp with tears. She holds him to her chest and looks out through the gap she’s left in the curtains. “They’re bad tonight.”
“Yes,” I say.
“But we can’t do anything.”
“No,” I agree. Then we sit there in silence. We all shut our eyes, all three of us. This reminds me of the past. That’s comforting in itself.
Screaming. Not from Bess or Peter but coming from farther away. Still, it’s close enough, and it’s so full of fear that it sinks into the air around us and won’t fade. I’ve still got my knife in my hand, and I slip my feet into my shoes and wrap a cloak around me. I think about the children the Lows killed last night and how scared they were and how I didn’t do anything. I can’t do that again. I won’t do it again.
“Stay here,” I tell Bess. “You’ll be safe here,” and I leave my berth and look around for the source of the noise. You can see the Lows’ half of the ship from here: below the arboretum, their bottom floors peering out from underneath it, a constant reminder. Over there, their torches are lit, and fires burn, and I can see them beating at their chests, rallying each other. They’re clustered somewhere down below. I can just see them through the darkness: a pack of them, cheering something. One of them is speaking to the rest.
Then the scream comes again, louder, from the next section over, on the same floor as mine. Not Low territory. My territory.
Last night I dawdled. This I can do something about.
I run down the gantry, toward the noise. It keeps going, which helps, like a beacon, calling for me. It’s them. It must be them.
I don’t stop running, flashing by the people cowering in their berths, under blankets, behind curtains and makeshift doors, their shades pulled tight. I see glimpses of their eyes peering out as I run, watching me. They’re keeping their heads down. That’s sensible. I should take a leaf from their book, I know, but I’m in this now.
Stay out of trouble, my mother’s voice says. Be selfish. Don’t die.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, but I’m not even sure that I believe it myself.
The screaming woman is on her own in a berth that’s on the far end of section IV, as close as you can get to living near the Lows and still be free. I recognize her: she works in the arboretum as well. She’s older than me, and she’s got something wrong with her left arm, which usually just hangs by her side as she works the soil. She’s holding a knife in her good hand now, her arm outstretched, swinging it wildly at the Lows who surround her. Her clothes are torn, and there’s the twitching body of a Low woman lying at her feet. There’s blood arced across her, across her berth: so much mess that it can only have been an accident that she managed to kill the Low. If you know what you’re doing, it’s alwaysneater. But there are still three others, and they’re circling her, laughing their strange half coughs at her. There’s no time to stop and take stock, to catch my breath. I can’t let last night happen again.
As they move toward her, so do I. My knife is smaller than theirs, but it’s sharp and I know how to use it well. Agatha gave it to me to protect myself. She used to use it herself. It’s good to know that it saved her life. The Lows are so focused on the girl that they don’t see me coming. I slice the little tendon at the back of the ankle of the one nearest to me. He collapses to the ground as if there’s never been a single muscle in his body holding him up, screaming his pain aloud. The other two
“Of course,” I say. Peter shuffles forward, and I help him onto the mattress. He’s only three, maybe. If he’s older, hedoesn’t seem it. “Don’t cry,” I tell him, as if that will help. I’ve never been much good with kids.
“He’s fine,” Bess says. “He just can’t sleep. He always gets like this.” She strokes his head, smoothing his stubbled hair down, his cheeks damp with tears. She holds him to her chest and looks out through the gap she’s left in the curtains. “They’re bad tonight.”
“Yes,” I say.
“But we can’t do anything.”
“No,” I agree. Then we sit there in silence. We all shut our eyes, all three of us. This reminds me of the past. That’s comforting in itself.
Screaming. Not from Bess or Peter but coming from farther away. Still, it’s close enough, and it’s so full of fear that it sinks into the air around us and won’t fade. I’ve still got my knife in my hand, and I slip my feet into my shoes and wrap a cloak around me. I think about the children the Lows killed last night and how scared they were and how I didn’t do anything. I can’t do that again. I won’t do it again.
“Stay here,” I tell Bess. “You’ll be safe here,” and I leave my berth and look around for the source of the noise. You can see the Lows’ half of the ship from here: below the arboretum, their bottom floors peering out from underneath it, a constant reminder. Over there, their torches are lit, and fires burn, and I can see them beating at their chests, rallying each other. They’re clustered somewhere down below. I can just see them through the darkness: a pack of them, cheering something. One of them is speaking to the rest.
Then the scream comes again, louder, from the next section over, on the same floor as mine. Not Low territory. My territory.
Last night I dawdled. This I can do something about.
I run down the gantry, toward the noise. It keeps going, which helps, like a beacon, calling for me. It’s them. It must be them.
I don’t stop running, flashing by the people cowering in their berths, under blankets, behind curtains and makeshift doors, their shades pulled tight. I see glimpses of their eyes peering out as I run, watching me. They’re keeping their heads down. That’s sensible. I should take a leaf from their book, I know, but I’m in this now.
Stay out of trouble, my mother’s voice says. Be selfish. Don’t die.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, but I’m not even sure that I believe it myself.
The screaming woman is on her own in a berth that’s on the far end of section IV, as close as you can get to living near the Lows and still be free. I recognize her: she works in the arboretum as well. She’s older than me, and she’s got something wrong with her left arm, which usually just hangs by her side as she works the soil. She’s holding a knife in her good hand now, her arm outstretched, swinging it wildly at the Lows who surround her. Her clothes are torn, and there’s the twitching body of a Low woman lying at her feet. There’s blood arced across her, across her berth: so much mess that it can only have been an accident that she managed to kill the Low. If you know what you’re doing, it’s alwaysneater. But there are still three others, and they’re circling her, laughing their strange half coughs at her. There’s no time to stop and take stock, to catch my breath. I can’t let last night happen again.
As they move toward her, so do I. My knife is smaller than theirs, but it’s sharp and I know how to use it well. Agatha gave it to me to protect myself. She used to use it herself. It’s good to know that it saved her life. The Lows are so focused on the girl that they don’t see me coming. I slice the little tendon at the back of the ankle of the one nearest to me. He collapses to the ground as if there’s never been a single muscle in his body holding him up, screaming his pain aloud. The other two
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