Split the Sun Page 4

  “Don’t you get in the middle of my altercation!” Mrs. Divs thumps me in the back, for all the good it does her.

  I’ve found my feet and I don’t budge.

  The guy moves closer to retake the role of buffer, but I hold up my hand. This isn’t his fight or Mrs. Divs’s.

  “I’m the oldest!” Dee yells. “Me! That suite belongs to me. Not you, and sure as hell not Ricky.”

  Her spit flecks my cheek and lips. Sticky little slugs I’ll lose face by wiping off.

  As if she, of all people, has a right.

  I meet her eyes, search for a soul to eviscerate. “You want to talk about why you got cut out? Because trust me, Dee, I’m game.”

  She steps back, almost jerks. Some things we don’t talk about. Ever. The agreement so tactile it could be written in blood.

  Dee might consider screwing Yonni over fair game, but Greg stopping by Missa’s sick room? When Missa was dying and Yonni held her hand through every treatment, sleeping in the Medicenter then later at Missa’s cloudsuite when there was nothing left to do? When Greg came over to “offer support” and then disappeared with Missa’s last med pack so she died in pain? Because by the time I realized and tracked his sorry ass down and got some of them back, it was already too late.

  One of those things.

  Missa was a lordling. Nobody steals from lordlings, not even the pawn dealers of East 5th. Enactors have priorities, and lordlings are it.

  Dee doesn’t blink, lips curving a rebuttal.

  My fists squeeze so hard they hurt and I commit familial suicide.

  “Mrs. Divs,” I say. “Why don’t you go ahead and call those Enactors. We can have a nice, long conversation.”

  Dee freezes. Takes a beat for her mouth to work. “You wouldn’t.”

  I smile. “Watch me.”

  “Kit?” asks Mrs. Divs, uncertain.

  “No.” Dee shakes her head. “You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Really? Whose daughter am I?”

  All her light drains, her fight, her assurance.

  There’s no arguing that.

  I jerk my head for her to leave, and she does. No argument, no threat, shoulders almost hunched.

  If the Enactors ever discovered Greg stole from a lordling—not to mention what he stole, highly regulated and otherwise illegal pain meds—that’d be it. The end of Greg.

  Dee doesn’t look back as she walks down the street. She doesn’t run, but every stuttered step says she wants to.

  Dee never runs from anything.

  Whose daughter am I?

  Mom’s.

  I hug my arms and stare at nothing.

  “Kit?” A soft touch on my shoulder. It’s the guy. He has thick mop-like hair, wide lips, and narrow, relaxed eyes that arc. At least, what I can see of them under his bangs.

  The guy from the market, yesterday, lunch, who stares into fans and upturns tables.

  “You?” I ask.

  His mouth promises way more smile then it gives, a soft tug followed by a wink. “Always a pleasure.”

  What the hell?

  I shrug him off. “How do you know my name?”

  “You mean, apart from the screaming?” he asks. “That feed special.”

  Was there anyone in this city who was away from their screens that day?

  “Yes. Right.” I dig my fingers into the bridge of my nose and call up to whatever windows are still open, “Okay, show’s over. Back to your regular newscasts.”

  A tissuey hand slips around my arm. Mrs. Divs. “You poor dear, what awful relatives you have. Come in and sit.” She tugs me into the lobby, toward the hall and her suite. Mop-head follows, closing the main door behind us.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Divs, but I should get home.”

  “Why? Your father’s up there.”

  Hell. She’s right.

  “I thought your gran didn’t want him in her place. Didn’t she make a will or something?” Mrs. Divs’s cane thuds heavy on the carpet, though she leans mostly on me.

  One call to the Records Office and Mrs. Divs could get me evicted.

  “Or something,” I say.

  The guy sidles close, listening in. As if I need anyone else having power over me and my place. Not that Yonni said Dad couldn’t enter the suite, but she did state he couldn’t stay overnight.

  With any luck, no one heard him come in yesterday.

  Yeah, and the sun revolves around the moon.

  Mrs. Divs pushes open her door. “Come on in, now. You, too, Niles.”

  Of course Mrs. Divs knows him. She knows everyone in the building. Probably keeps mental files of our birth dates, Record IDs, and what we last ate for breakfast.

  The name suits him. Maybe it’s the bangs. They slope.

  He has to be recent, I don’t remember him moving in. Or the woman who stuck up for Dad, come to that.

  Niles meets my assessment and winks. Again.

  Something’s up.

  Mrs. Divs lives in spotless lace. White webs cover her lone window, the rickety side tables, and the back of her couch. Even the wall-screen with its muted newscast is lace strewn. Her furniture matches, carved legs and floral cushions worn but cared for. Must have cost a mint at one time.

  A big green jar gleams on the closest side table. Yonni moved us here when I was twelve, and while most of the world has shrunk as I’ve grown, Mrs. Divs’s cookie jar remains fat as ever.

  She catches me looking. “Go on, then. Get Niles one, too. I’ll make tea.”

  She taps off into the kitchen. I pounce on the jar. Remove the lid with slow care and sniff. Sugar, lots of sugar, dried whitepips, and . . . pacanuts? I reach in and pull out a frosted star. Bright teal. She even dyed the dough to match. The teals are best.

  I offer it to Niles.

  He shakes his head. “Not a fan of cookies.”

  “In general, or hers specifically?”

  He drops onto the couch. “General. Too crunchy.”

  “These aren’t.” I toss him the cookie and get my own—a pink moon so deep it’s almost red.

  Niles commands the couch with an elbow thrown over the back and legs askew. A crumpled mess of limbs and hair. Mrs. Divs’s furniture was once pricey, but she hasn’t much of it. Seating consists of the couch.

  Niles must catch on, because he folds himself up against one corner. Back straight, legs crossed. Demure, even. Until he tosses out that half-there smile and pats the cushion next to him.

  “What was yesterday about?” I ask.

  He shrugs, unfazed. “Looked like you could use a hand.”

  I didn’t. I was fine.

  “Were you watching me?” I ask.

  He gives me a long, slow once-over, until I can’t fight the blood in my cheeks. “What if I was?”

  And I gave this guy a cookie.

  “Gawking at the murderer’s daughter?”

  It’s his turn to blush, the carpet suddenly fascinating. “No.”

  Whatever.

  I lean against the door and watch the screen. Pristine newscasters mouth silent opinions before cutting to Lady Galton in all her blonde ringlet glory. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen, on-screen or off-, who can wear ruffles and still project power. That lace hides teeth. The captions reiterate what she’s been saying since the Lord’s death. It’s fine, we’re all fine, the Prime assures her he’s doing his best to find the next House Heir—despite his continued lack of success. As the head of the Enactors, the Prime has endless resources at his disposal, so there must be excellent reasons as to why he hasn’t found the Heir already—but regardless we can rest assured our Acting Lady, as our late Lord’s beloved wife, will see our House safely through this terrible crisis.

  Of course she will.

  Niles eyes me from the couch. “You know
, I don’t bite.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” I glance at the cookie he hasn’t touched. Such a waste of sugar.

  He grins and tosses the cookie back to me. Perfect trajectory, I barely have to move to catch it.

  “All yours,” he says.

  Mrs. Divs returns, balancing a tray. Niles hops up and takes it from her, laying the tray on the low central table.

  She beams and sits on one end of the couch, tugging the tray closer. The steam from the teapot dances.

  “Don’t you be glaring at us from on high, girl,” Mrs. Divs says. “Sit.”

  Niles grins. With Mrs. Divs in the corner, whenever I sit he’ll be right beside me. Lucky him, I’m sweaty as hell. And grimy. And probably bleeding everywhere.

  Oh hell.

  I lift a foot—which really aches, thinking about it—to find red-brown streaks smeared deep in the rug. It’s a nice rug, with flowers and swirls. Probably the only rug in the building worth not getting blood on.

  So, of course, I walk all over it.

  My breath stops. Cuts out. Smothered by the mountain in my chest that rises like a flightwing and cracks every thought into one.

  They should have just mapped me. Or the power tech should have taken the day off.

  My legs shake and I’ll be on my knees bleeding on the carpet if I don’t calm down.

  Breathe, Kit. Come on, breathe.

  “Kit,” warns Mrs. Divs, “I don’t see you sitting.”

  Air rushes in and I gasp.

  “You okay?” Niles is at my elbow, not reaching or touching, scanning me over. “Wow, your feet are—”

  “Fine,” I snap, turning to Mrs. Divs. “I’ve ruined your rug. I’ll fix it.”

  Just don’t ask me how.

  “Oh, you mean the blood? Don’t go getting all in a fuss, there are ways and means. Now you get your butt on this couch.” She pats the cushion beside her while offering the evil eye, Niles bites his lip, and there’s nothing for it but to tiptoe over and collapse as ordered.

  The fluffy cushions swallow me in, then bounce as Niles takes the last spot.

  “What ways and means specifically?” asks Niles.

  “Never you mind.” Mrs. Divs bats pale lashes, pours tea, and hands the first cup to him.

  He accepts with reverence, batting his own much darker lashes, which are also, of course, long.

  “I see you rolling your eyes, young lady,” says Mrs. Divs.

  I wasn’t. Visibly.

  My teacup arrives with her prim sniff.

  “Now, Kit, I know family can sometimes be quite beyond our control, but fighting over intercoms? Causing a ruckus in the middle of the street? One would think we lived on the Brink.”

  I balance my feet off the floor and try not to bleed on anything. “I’ll handle it.”

  “I know Yonni’s passing was . . . difficult, and then this unfortunate incident with your mother, but that is no excuse to throw good conduct after bad. Yonni would be absolutely horrified to know you let that man spend the night in her place after he showed up wasted on the doorstep—don’t think I didn’t see that.”

  She’s right. Yonni would skin me. Her last conversation with Dad involved screaming and a slap that sent Dad reeling. A month. My grandbaby was alone a month while you weren’t even on the same damn planet. How the hell are you my child?

  The first and last time I saw her strike anyone, heard that level of ice in her voice. She refused him entry last time he stopped by, and now he’s sleeping on her couch.

  I set the tea on the table, not thirsty anymore.

  “You shouldn’t have let him in,” says Mrs. Divs. “It was very bad of you—and now this with your intolerable aunt. Yonni always said her children were tyrants, but I never heard a peep from them all the time she was here. She managed them with a steel fist and that is what you must do.” She balls her wrinkled fingers and holds them up high. “Steel.”

  Apparently, blackmailing Dee with my cousin’s freedom isn’t ruthless enough.

  The cookies join the tea on the table. Sugar sticks to my palms, gritty crumbles wedged between shaking fingers. I flatten them on my thighs.

  “You can do it, dear.” Mrs. Divs squeezes my shoulder. “Now that that’s all settled, I think it’s about time you dyed your hair.”

  Wait, what?

  She folds her hands with a lordling’s authority and nods once. I rewind the last few seconds in my head and come up blank. Niles looks equally mystified, eyebrows knit and fingers tapping his knee as if counting out the replay. I catch his eye, but he shrugs in a don’t look at me.

  “My hair?” I ask.

  “Of course, dear.” Mrs. Divs clucks and shakes her head. “Niles, be a dear and go grab the box on my bed, would you? I pulled it from the closet last night. My room’s just down the hall.” Niles hops to and disappears down the hall past the kitchen and returns a minute later, box in hand. At Mrs. Divs’s nod, he gives it to me.

  I lift the hinged lid. Colorkits, a mess of them. Pretty men and women with vibrant locks. One particular redhead winks above a scrawled Sunset Luminance in curly font.

  “You’re quite distinctive, you know,” says Mrs. Divs, “just like . . . well. What with that feedshow special, it might be a good idea not to look quite so distinctive, if you take my meaning.” She pats my knee. “You’d be quite fetching as a blonde or a redhead. Niles agrees, don’t you, Niles?”

  He pockets his hands and literally distances himself from the conversation—a full step back. “I . . . defer to your judgment.”

  “That means ‘no,’” I say.

  Mrs. Divs shrugs this off. “He’s just being shy.”

  “Shy?” asks Niles.

  That’s one word for it.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Divs, but I don’t even know how to use these.” I replace the lid and push the box away.

  She pushes it right back. “It’s easy, there’s a booklet. Do this tonight, and tomorrow you’ll—how does it go?—be a new soul for the new year.”

  “But we’re midyear,” says Niles.

  I pause, hand hovering short of a second push. Everyone always mixes up that quote, and that’s not what Gilken meant. Not entirely. “‘The object of the new year isn’t that we have a new year. It’s that we are new souls, with fresh backbones, ears, and eyes. Unless we understand how to start afresh, we’ll never be effective.’”

  Mrs. Divs sips her tea. “Ah yes, that was it.”

  My eyes narrow. Gilken has many popular quotes, but that’s not one of them. “You planned that.”

  “I’ve no idea what you mean,” she says, “though it is nice to know the younger generation still respects our Archive’s founder. Such a beautiful sentiment, is it not? Reinvention to improve effectiveness.” She bunches her fingers. “Fists of steel, dear. Fists of steel. This, dear, is your new soul.”

  All sealed up in a prepackaged box.

  Two steps into the outer entrance hall, after the telltale click of Mrs. Divs’s door, Niles snags the colorkit box from my hands. He stuffs it under one arm and walks backward toward the elevator. “Walk you home.”

  “I think I can make it.” I reach for the box, but he holds it out of reach. He has only an inch on me, maybe two, but he more than makes up for it in arm length. I bounce, reach, and miss by inches. He’s fast.

  And I’m done.

  “Fine, knock yourself out.” I duck around him to the stairs.

  “Hey!” He reaches the stairwell door before I do, props it open with his back. “Don’t be like that.”

  “And what should I be like? You have that all figured out?”

  He blinks, leaning back into the door until the handle hits the wall. I move past him to the stairs.

  “Wait.” He straightens, brushing off his tank and slacks as if shedding a second skin. Swaps the box b
etween arms and holds out his hand as if we’re at some kind of fancy party. “Wasn’t trying to get off on the wrong foot. I’m Niles.”

  “And I’m the hack-bomber’s daughter.” I ignore his hand but he doesn’t drop it.

  If anything, he reaches closer. “Kit, right?”

  “Fine.” I take his hand and do the whole nice-to-meet-you bit. His fingers are cool. “Yes, Kit. Can I have the color boxes now?”

  He smiles, a habit apparently. “Then what excuse would I have to walk you home?”

  I drop his hand and hit the stairs. Three steps and he’s beside me again. “So, how are your feet?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Are you bleeding anywhere else?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “Don’t.”

  He shrugs, unfazed. “All right.”

  People are weird.

  He winks. We climb. A clatter of echoes and silence. After the first two landings, the day catches up with claws and my feet drag, each harder to lift. Setting them down doesn’t feel too great, either. We clear the third floor.

  “What was with the other day?” I ask.

  “Hmm?”

  “At the Market. You flipped the table on purpose.”

  He shrugs. “Nah, just clumsy.”

  I stop. Two steps up, so does he. We stare.

  “Cut the act,” I say.

  “Act?”

  “Charm, whatever. What was up with yesterday?”

  Another shift of arms and shoulders, the box sliding from one hand to another, back and forth. Once, twice, stop. “Answer me something.”

  “I asked first.”

  He looks at me, into me, a straight up visual lock. “Why didn’t you jump?”

  I freeze, the air taut with webs and spiders, and a stare I can’t break without letting him win. “What?”

  “On the walkway, above the fans.” Objective and neutral, like asking about the weather. Even his body language has nothing to say. “That’s what you were up there for, right? You thought about it.”

  He’s dreaming this up, he was too far away to see.

  He should have been too far away to see.