“I figured out the basic principles of what it was after I’d seen it. I used to ask him questions about it once in a while.”
“It might help me find him.”
“Even if I could show you, why would I?” And Xander can’t cover it anymore; bitterness and anger mingle with the pain. “So you can go off and be happy with him? Where does that leave me? What does that leave me?”
“Don’t say that,” I tel him. “You gave me the blue tablets so I could find him, right? If I’m gone, and we can change things, maybe you can choose someone, too.”
“I did,” he says, looking at me.
I don’t know what to say.
“So I have to wish for the end of the world as I know it?” Xander asks, another hint of his old laugh in his voice.
“Not the end of the world. For the beginning of a better one,” I say, and I am frightened, too. Is this what we real y want to wish for? “One where we can get Ky back.”
“Ky,” Xander says, and there’s sadness in his voice. “Sometimes it seems like everything I’ve done has been to help you be ready for someone else.”
I don’t know what to say, how to tel him that he is wrong, how I was wrong moments ago when I thought the same thing. Because yes, Xander has helped Ky and me time and time again. But how can I explain to Xander that he is a reason for wanting a new world, too? That he is important?
That I love him?
“I can teach you,” Xander says, final y. “I’l send you some instructions in a message over the port.”
“But anyone can read those.”
“I’l make it so it looks like a love letter. We are stil Matched, after al . And we’re good at pretending.” Then he whispers, “Cassia . . . If we could choose, would you ever have chosen me?”
I’m surprised he has to ask. And then I realize that he doesn’t know that at one point I did choose him. When I first saw his face on the screen and then Ky’s over it, I wanted safe and known and expected. I wanted good and kind and handsome. I wanted Xander.
“Of course,” I say.
We both look at each other and start to laugh. Then we can’t stop. We’re laughing so hard that tears rol down our faces and Xander pul s away from me, leaning over and gasping for air. “We could stil end up together,” he says. “After al this.”
“We could,” I agree.
“Then why do any of it?”
I’m serious now. Al this time it’s taken me to understand what Grandfather meant. Why he didn’t want to have the sample stored; why he didn’t want a chance to live forever on someone else’s terms. “Because it’s about making our own choices,” I tel him. “That’s the point. Isn’t it? This is bigger than us now.”
He looks up. “I know.” Maybe for Xander it has always been bigger than us; since he’s seen more, known more, for years. As Ky has.
“How many times?” I whisper to Xander.
He shakes his head, confused.
“How many times have the rest of us taken the tablet, and we can’t remember?” I ask.
“Once, that I know of,” Xander says. “They don’t use it much on citizens. I was sure they’d make us take it after the Markhams’ son died, but they didn’t. But, one day, I’m pretty sure everyone in the Borough took it.”
“Did I?”
“I’m not positive,” he says. “I didn’t actual y see you do it. I don’t know.”
“What happened?” I ask.
Xander shakes his head. “I’m not going to say,” he whispers.
I don’t press him further. I haven’t told him everything—about the kiss on the Hil , the poem—and I cannot ask him to do what I have not. This is a difficult balance, tel ing the truth: how much to share, how much to keep, which truths wil wound but not ruin, which wil cut too deep to heal.
So I gesture to the envelope instead. “What did you put in here? Besides the tablets?”
He shrugs. “Not much. I was mostly trying to hide the tablets. A couple of newrose blooms, like the ones we planted. They won’t last long. I printed a copy of one of the Hundred Paintings from the port, that picture you did a report on a long time ago. That won’t last long either.” He’s right; the paper from the ports always deteriorates quickly. Xander looks at me, sad. “You’l have to use al of it in the next couple of months.”
“Thank you,” I tel him. “I didn’t get anything for you—everything happened so fast this morning—” I fal silent again. Because I used what time I did have for Ky. I chose him, again, over Xander.
“It’s al right,” he says. “But maybe—you could—” He looks into my eyes, deep, and I know what he wants. A kiss. Even though he knows about Ky. Xander and I are stil connected; this is stil good-bye. I know already that that kiss would be sweet. It would be what he would hold on to, as I hold on to Ky’s.
But that’s something I don’t think I can give. “Xander—”
“It’s al right,” he says, and then he stands up. I do, too, and he reaches for me, pul s me close. Xander’s arms are as warm and safe and good around me as they have always been.
We both hold on, tight.
Then he lets go and walks down the path, without another word. He doesn’t look back. But I watch him go. I watch him al the way home.
The journey to our new home is fairly straightforward: ride the air train to the City Center, change to a long-distance air train for the Farmlands of Keya Province. Most of our belongings fit into one smal case each; the few things that don’t wil be sent later.
As the four of us walk to the air-train stop, neighbors and friends come out to say good-bye and wish us wel . They know we’re being Relocated but they don’t know why; it isn’t considered polite to ask. As we come to the end of the street we see that a new sign has been hammered into place: Garden Borough. Without the trees and without the name, Mapletree Borough is gone. It’s as though it never existed. The Markhams are gone. We are gone. Everyone else wil live on here in Garden Borough. They’ve already added extra newroses to al the flower beds.
The quickness with which Ky disappeared, with which the Markhams disappeared, with which we wil disappear, makes me cold. It is as if we never happened. And I suddenly remember a time back when I was smal , when I used to look for the air train home to Stony Borough and we had paths made of low flat stones that led to our doors.
This happened before. This Borough keeps changing names. What other bad things lie beneath the surface of our Borough? What have we buried underneath our rocks and trees and flowers and houses? That time Xander won’t talk about, when we al took the red tablet—what happened? When other people left, where did they real y go?
They could not write their names, but I can write mine, and I wil again, somewhere where it wil last for a long, long time. I wil find Ky, and then I wil find that place.
Once we are on the long-distance air train, my mother and Bram both fal asleep, exhausted from the emotion and exertion of the journey.
I find it strange, with everything else that happened, that it was my mother’s obedience which spel ed the need for our Relocation. She knew too much and she admitted it in that report. She couldn’t do otherwise.
The ride is long and there are other travelers. No soldiers like Ky. They keep them on their own trains. But there are tired families who look much like ours, a group of Singles who laugh and talk excitedly about their jobs, and, in the last car, a few rows of young women about my age going on a work detail for a few months. I watch these girls with interest; they are girls who did not get work positions and therefore wil float around wherever they are needed for a time. Some of them seem sad and faded, disappointed. Others have faces turned to the windows with interest in their eyes. I catch myself glancing over at them more than I should. We’re supposed to keep to ourselves. And I need to concentrate on finding Ky. I have equipment now: blue tablets, the artifact cal ed a compass, knowledge of the Sisyphus River, memories of a grandfather who did not go gentle.
My father notices me watching the girls. While my mother and Bram sleep he says softly, “I don’t remember what happened yesterday. But I know the Markhams left the Borough and I think that has hurt you.”
I try to change the subject. I glance over at my sleeping mother. “Why didn’t they use a red tablet on her? Then we wouldn’t have had to leave.”
“A red tablet?” my father asks, surprised. “Those are only for extreme circumstances. This isn’t one of them.” Then, to my surprise, he says more.