The Dark and Hollow Places - Carrie Ryan [69]
My fingers tremble as I press them to my lips.
I hear her stand, hear her footsteps. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I shouldn’t have said anything, I shouldn’t have—”
I shake my head, cutting her off. I want to tell her that I’m not used to being loved—I’m terrified of it. But she’s my twin—I can’t keep her at arm’s length. It will be too easy for her to sneak past my defenses because she’s so much like me.
“I’d like that,” I finally manage to squeak out. I turn and see the relief on her face. “I’ve missed you,” I add. “I’m sorry for leaving you.” A lightness falls over me from saying it out loud, for finally apologizing.
She waves a hand through the air, brushing away my words, erasing the need for apologies, guilt and regret. I watch her fingers, thinking how alike we are, down to the smallest details. Down to the shape of our nails, our gestures and facial expressions. It’s strange to see it after being apart for so long but at the same time there’s a comfort in being near her again.
In knowing there’s someone in the world who understands and loves me.
“We’re sisters,” she says simply, as if those words can seal the bond of all the mistakes of our past. As if it means that regardless of everything else in life we’ll have each other, always.
“Yes,” I say. “We’re sisters.”
Over the next few days my sister and I continue to search all the buildings we can sneak into. We find nothing: no hint of a tunnel access or other inspiration for finding a way off the island.
During this time I don’t see Catcher—not up close. Every now and then I may glimpse him unloading supplies from the cable car and then heading back into the Dark City. He looks more exhausted and worn with each trip.
I miss him.
My sister and I find a few odds and ends while scavenging through the abandoned buildings. She’s collected a mound of old blankets and clothes she’s been cutting up and arranging into a quilt, and after watching her for an afternoon, I’ve joined in, though it’s clear I’m not skilled or detail-oriented enough to be any good.
Elias has been spending much more time at home with us, which means our movements have become limited—he hates the idea of us going outside and possibly stirring up Recruiter ire. While my sister seems content to sit and sew day after day, I’m not used to being cooped up inside. I can only stitch so much binding, and finally I tell them I’m headed to the roof for fresh air.
Our building is the tallest in the Sanctuary, so I have an unobstructed view of the world. It’s close to evening, the clouds still belching snow while a clear strip of sky on the horizon burns a muted orange. It’s a subdued cold, one so prevalent that it envelops me, slowly leaching the residual body heat from my clothes.
I stare across the river at the City. The fires in the Neverlands have mostly burned out, although several piles of rubble are still smoldering. In the Dark City itself a few buildings glow with life: people hunkered down against the horde. I wonder how long they’ll survive—if this is what the City was like after the Return, a few sparks of life scattered like embers ready to burn again if only given the chance.
I wonder if they’ll ever catch or just slowly shimmer out as winter and the horde march on.
Even from here I can hear the Unconsecrated, their collective moans drifting across the river on the frigid wind. Generally, cold weather should slow them down, but the City’s always warmer than other places, retaining ambient heat trapped in narrow streets. And while the plague rats may be slower, they’ll still overwhelm a human. There are just too many.
I lean against the wall of the structure enclosing the stairwell, letting it break the worst of the cold air blowing from the river. From here all I can see are the tops of the old skyscrapers in the City, and I blur my eyes, trying to visualize how it once must have been. Not naked steel but gleaming towers bursting