“You’re stronger than you think, Ad,” Erik says, his hand reaching for his cheek.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I definitely didn’t deserve to be slapped though,” Erik says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There are repercussions for slapping your friends.”

“There are, huh?” I ask, waiting to see what Erik’s idea of a fair punishment for a slap is. His hands stay on the tiled edge of the pool, but he leans in toward me, shrinking the space between us.

And then his arms reach up and pull me down into the pool with him. We plunge into the water, and I struggle frantically, kicking my legs and pushing against Erik’s arms. When we surface, I gasp for air, spluttering a stream of foul-mouthed names at him.

“You’re only a little wet,” Erik says, dropping his hands from my waist.

I throw my arms around his shoulders, clutching at him. “No, idiot, I can’t swim!”

Erik’s head pops back a fraction of an inch to appraise me.

“Not everyone was raised in a fishing village,” I remind him.

“You like water. You love the ocean,” he says.

“I do, but that doesn’t mean I know how to swim. My family didn’t live near the ocean. I doubt even my mom knew—knows”—I correct myself—“how to swim. The closest I’ve come to swimming is my bathtub.”

“Your bathtub at the Coventry was huge,” Erik says, a guilty look settling over his face. His arms wrap tightly around my waist and I relax against him, feeling safe enough to enjoy the gentle airy pressure of the water.

“I could touch the bottom of my bathtub,” I say.

“Here,” Erik says, pushing me away from him. I shriek and splash, trying to stop him. “Put your feet down.”

My legs are still stroking against the water in frantic, helpless circles. “Don’t let me go,” I tell him.

He nods, and I relax my legs, surprised when my toes find the smooth grid of the tiled floor. The tension in my chest deflates a little, but I don’t let go of Erik’s arm. I make a mental note to ask my mom if she knows how to swim. She has no reason not to tell me. Another innocent question to fall back on.

“I’m going to teach you how to swim,” Erik says, drawing me back to the moment. “I’ll never forgive myself if you drown.”

“I’m not in the habit of jumping into large bodies of water,” I say, “but I’d like to learn how to swim.”

Erik’s hand squeezes my hip and I rest against him for a moment until I disentangle myself and take a tentative step without his help. Now that I can touch the bottom, my initial panic is subsiding. Still, I don’t go more than a few feet from Erik. He nods encouragingly and stops me when I get too close to the deep end.

After a few minutes, I remember I’m still fully dressed and I tiptoe to the end of the pool, careful to keep my head above water. Erik glides toward me, his hands lifting me out of the pool.

“Thank you,” I say, allowing myself to linger a moment on the edge, his hands still low on my hips.

“Don’t worry, Ad,” Erik says, pushing out into the water. “I’ll never let you go.”

TWENTY-SIX

“DANTE TOLD ME TAILORS AREN’T ALL BAD,” I say to Erik as we exit the pool complex into the cool night. The air creeps along my damp skin, whistling a chill down into my bones and I clutch my towel tightly.

“We aren’t,” Erik says. “I personally have a disproportionate amount of badness.”

“You talk big, but what can you do?” I challenge him.

“Are you asking me to alter something?” Erik says, stopping in his tracks.

I pause, realizing I’ve upset him. “Only if you want to.”

“What do you want me to alter?” he asks.

“Make something beautiful,” I tell him, thinking to add, “without hurting it.”

If Dante is telling the truth and alteration can be used for positive ends, I need proof of it. It feels like I’ve only seen it used for destruction on Earth. I used it myself, by accident, to bring down the aeroship and to destroy the factory. It makes me uncomfortable that even my alteration training is focused on one thing: honing my unwinding skills to protect myself in a fight. I want to see something that proves being a Tailor doesn’t make me a monster—any more than I already am.

Erik stops me and pulls me toward a manicured bush near the walkway. “Do you know what these are?” he asks.

I shake my head. Despite being pruned, there are no leaves or needles—nothing to indicate what kind of plant it is.

“Rosebushes.” Erik reaches into the branches that tangle over one another like a series of veins.

“There are no roses,” I say, wishing there were. My desire is fervent and sudden like in the moment before being kissed.

“They’ve died. These bushes were in bloom when we came to the estate. What happened?”

I shake my head. I have no clue.

“He uses Tailors to bring them in and out of season,” Erik says. His fingers move over the branches so swiftly I can’t quite see what he’s doing. But even though I’ve always suspected there was something special about Erik, seeing him now I’m in awe. The branch in his hands trembles slightly as new leaves burst forth in a shower of green, and as I watch a bud develops from a tight knot into a cocoon bursting with life. The leaves unfold gently, revealing the treasure underneath.