I pause and consider this. The insipid forms of art we are permitted in Arras are empty. They lack depth. There is a certain artistry to the design of clothes, the application of makeup, the structure and decor of a building, but it lacks meaning.

“Words,” Erik says.

Of course he’s right. The books in my parents’ cubby. I’d boasted of reading them, but I never considered why they were contraband. Words can tell a story. But they can also convey an idea.

“Words are dangerous,” I say.

Erik nods.

“But they’re also beautiful,” I say, holding the book out to him. “You said so yourself. How can the Guild turn their backs on poetry?”

“They’ve turned their backs on more than that,” Erik says.

I know he’s right, but the realization makes me hate the Guild a little bit more.

Erik drops down beside me and grabs the book. He leafs through it and stops on a particular page. “This is my favorite.”

“Which one?”

“116.”

I shake my head. I hardly have them memorized. “Read it to me.”

A strange look passes over Erik’s face, but he clears his throat. I don’t understand why until he begins to read.

“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.’” He pauses and dares a look at me.

“Do you like it because it mentions alteration?” I tease, but secretly I hope my cheeks aren’t burning.

“It seems very applicable to our current situation,” he says.

“Continue,” I urge him.

He reads the rest of the sonnet, stumbling a bit as he goes, and yet it slides smoothly off his tongue. The words curl around me, and lull me. When he finishes, the final line hangs in the air between us.

“Why is it your favorite?” I ask.

“Because it’s true,” he murmurs. “That’s why Dante took your mother. It’s why your father died for you.”

“Careful, Erik,” I warn him. “You’re in danger of becoming downright sensitive.”

He smiles but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “Wouldn’t want that.”

And once again I’ve disarmed the moment, cracked a joke to avoid real conversation. We slip into our familiar banter, abandoning the book and talking late into the night about plans and futures and strategies, but never about us.

Never us.

THIRTY-FOUR

AT DAWN, ARTIFICIAL LIGHT STREAKS THROUGH THE room; it highlights Erik’s face, showing off the curves of his nose, the angle of his cheekbones. He’s stunning in his sleep, but soon his eyes flutter, and I turn away, not wanting to be caught staring.

“You look lovely,” he murmurs dreamily.

I’m caught off guard. My heart is beating so fast that it aches in my chest as I lie next to him, close enough to touch him, but not daring to. I like that he said it and it’s this realization that pushes me up on my side to face him. I stretch my fingers out, searching for the courage to reach across the space between us. Erik catches them and brings my fingertips to his lips. He kisses each softly, and tingles fall down my neck.

“I’m sorry for what she did,” he says, keeping my fingers clasped loosely.

“You couldn’t have stopped her,” I whisper, allowing myself to trace his jawline.

“I should have tried. Your hands are beautiful.”

“Not anymore,” I say.

“They’re more beautiful now. Flaws make them perfect.”

He lets my hand fall away as I swallow against the words sitting in my throat. The things I want to say to him—and then the door swings open. The one I left unlocked last night because I hadn’t planned to stay here.

“Erik, have you seen Ad?”

I’m still sleepy enough that it takes a second for everything to fall into place. Jost is back, looking tired and road weary, and he has found me on Erik’s bed. I don’t have to think hard to know what this looks like.

“Never mind,” Jost says, stumbling back outside.

I’m off the bed before Erik can respond and I dash into the hall and down the stairs. A breeze brushes past me and I notice that one of the doors to the garden is propped open. I take my chances and walk into the still morning, taking in the destruction wrought the previous day. Jost stands surveying the scene, with his back to me, and overhead the Interface flashes as though Arras is peering judgmentally down.

“Jost, wait!” I call, but he strides away.

“Hey,” I snap, when I do catch up. I grab him by his arm. As soon as his eyes meet mine, my angry rebukes and excuses seem like too little, too late. He’s already decided I’ve betrayed him, and part of me wonders if I have.

“What, Ad?” he challenges me. “I can’t wait to hear what you have to say about this.”

I stare at him, weighing each possible response. They’re all lacking.

“Don’t tell me you’re speechless,” he says. “I know that can’t be true.”

“Erik and I are friends,” I remind him.

It’s definitely the wrong thing to say.

“Really?” he asks, his voice raw. “Looked like a little more than friends to me.”

“We broke up,” I say. “You left me.”

“To find answers. Answers we both need,” Jost says. “Did you run to Erik right away?”