Rise

twenty six

QUINN HAD CHOSEN THE BIGGEST HOUSEBOAT ON THE BAY, A gargantuan thing now green with algae. It still held the possessions of the past owners-gold statues of ducks, a long leather couch, and a ripped painting that looked vaguely like one I'd seen in my old art book, by a man named Rothko. In two days the girls had settled in. Their few belongings were strewn everywhere, finding their way onto countertops, hanging over the tops of doors and tucked beneath the couch cushions.

I knew it was best for them-to be here, to be settled. Tully, an older woman who'd practiced as a doctor before the plague, examined Helene's foot. She reset it, believing there was a chance for it to heal correctly, even now. Silas and Benny had befriended Lilac, though Maeve had warned her against it. They fit in easily, and despite the rule, most of the women had agreed they were young enough to stay.

With Benny, Silas, and the younger girls asleep upstairs, Quinn moved easily around the hull, plucking a few plates from a high cabinet. Outside, the water rose over the portholes. Barnacles clung to the glass.

"And here you are," she said, setting the plates down in front of us. She pointed to the steaming pot of abalone in the middle of the table, just visible in the candlelight. "Hope you're not sick of it yet."

"We've been eating dried chipmunk," Clara said with a laugh, referring to the jarred, salted meats we'd found in the dugout. In our days on the road I'd determined it was squirrel, not chipmunk, but it seemed pointless to mention that now. "Besides, there's no seafood in the City. I consider this a delicacy." She plucked one of the shells from the pot and put it on her plate, Beatrice and Ruby following her lead.

I watched Quinn as she moved around the kitchen, pulling out a few silver forks and extra plates from the rusted stove, the useless cord duct taped to the side of it. "Do I have to beg?" I asked. "It's been two days, and you haven't said a word about that message. What do you know that we don't?"

Quinn set the forks down on the table. She rested her hands on the back of the chair, squeezing it so hard her knuckles went white. "What's the use in sharing it now?" she said. "The siege is over. We can't change anything." She paused before she sat, glancing quickly at my stomach.

"Since when do you need to protect me, Quinn?" I asked. "No special treatment. You don't think I can handle what you're going to say? Just because I'm pregnant?"

"It's upsetting," Quinn said, lowering her voice. "That's all." She slid an abalone off its iridescent shell, popping the soft meat into her mouth.

Clara was silent for a moment. She set down her fork. "We still have friends and family inside the City walls," she said. "My mother's there . . . and Charles. We thought the fighting was over."

"The fighting is over," Quinn said. "But as I understand it, things there are even worse now. There have been raids in the middle of the night. Families in the Outlands have been broken up-people have been accused of fighting against the King during the siege. They've left the bodies of the executed there, in front of the Palace, rotting for days. There was a message that the army from the colonies will come, that they've been rallied by a rebel leader from the west. But it's still uncertain . . ."

She glanced at me again, then looked down, nudging the glossy shells on her plate.

"Go on, Quinn," I prodded. "We need to know."

She pressed her lips together, then let out a deep sigh. "There was this message the other night from the City. It was a woman's voice. She didn't even use a code. She identified herself as a Palace worker. A man was yelling in the background. She said the Princess betrayed her father and was working for the rebel cause. They were taking Palace workers into custody to question them, to see who was involved. Most hadn't returned afterward. She believed one of the workers was executed because he didn't cooperate."