Page 24 of Enchantment of Silver and Sea
“To answer your question,” he called over his shoulder. “I wish we were headed somewhere else.”
“Whose house is this?” I asked quietly. I wasn’t sure why I felt it necessary to keep my voice low, but somehow the situation felt like it warranted it.
On the other side of a well-kept lawn was a ranch-style house. The white siding looked like it had received a fresh coat of paint sometime in the last year or two, and the same could be said for the front door, which was a pleasant chestnut. Windows covered most of the front of the house, and there were no curtains to block the view inside. As if whoever lived there had pulled them back to let in every possible ray of sunshine.
“The name isn’t important,” Cato replied, in a tone that told me it was. “What matters is what’s inside the house.”
He began walking his bicycle up the driveway, and I followed.
Driveways weren’t much use to us since cars—along with buses, trains, and airplanes—were not a usable mode of transportation. Our lack of reliable fuel and consistent access to electricity ensured that. But some houses that were built in Pre-Awakening times still had them.
We parked our bicycles in the shade against the side of the house, then strolled up the front walkway. A clean whitecement path that, like the yard, gave the impression that it was well-tended.
When we reached the front door, Cato pulled out his keyring and began flipping through an intimidating collection of keys. “This may take a moment,” he joked.
While he was busy with that, I tried not to think of the last time I had stood on the front stoop of a house.
Tried not to remember stepping through the front door and almost running right into Irene. Her face red and dripping with sweat, her bike tossed in the grass in a hurry.
Tried not to remember the whirlwind of confusion and terror as we packed a bag. How I still had no idea what was happening or where we were going when theEnforcersset fire to our home. How Irene tried to break down the door so we could escape through the back yard, and her shriek when she dislocated her shoulder.
The memories were coming too hard and too fast.
I focused on steadying my breath, calling on my five senses. Dragging myself back to the present, even as my mind tried to resist.
I made myself see Cato standing in front of me, his shirt slightly damp with sweat from our bike ride. The brown door ahead of him.
I smelled the earthy scent of naturally growing grass and bushes and trees. Things that only existed in the concrete labyrinth of the Knowledge Center when they were carefully cultivated.
I heard the sounds of children playing in the yards of neighboring homes. Children playing just outside the KnowledgeCenter, children playing here in this neighborhood…I suppose it should have been encouraging to see that so many couples were comfortable enough in our situation and confident enough in our safety to reproduce.
I tasted only sweat, but that was preferable to the bile that had been rising in my throat only a moment before.
I touched the white paint of the siding with my left hand, skimming my fingers across the smooth surface. Through the soles of my shoes, I could feel the solid ground beneath me. Holding me upright.
I inhaled a breath, held it for ten seconds, then let it out. With it, I let out all the unwelcome thoughts. I nearly jumped at the click of the key in the lock and tried to school my face into a mask of polite curiosity as I followed Cato over the threshold.
I gasped.
The inside of the home was unremarkable enough. An open floor plan with ceramic tile, a white kitchen, and simple but functional furniture. But what immediately caught my attention, impossible to miss, were the books.
So many books.
Not only on the walls, packed tightly into built-in shelves that covered all available wall space, but also piled high on every surface. The end tables that flanked either side of the cushiony sofa, the glass coffee table, the dining room table on the far side of the house, even the ground. Outside of the Library, I had never seen so many books in one place.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” The awe in Cato’s voice matched what I felt inside.
“Are these yours?”
“I wish.” There was that note in his voice again. Something heavy.
“Whose are they?” I demanded, no longer willing to accept his short, cryptic answers. This was a personal library the likes of which I could only dream of. The likes of which most everyone in Cyllene could only dream of. I had to know who had the pleasure of owning it.
And who in their right mind would be so bold, so brave, so fuck-you in their approach as to hoard illegal books right under The Council’s noses.
“They belong,” Cato said. “To someone who doesn’t get to enjoy them anymore, unfortunately.” After a pause, he added, “Someone who won’t be returning to them.”
I could feel my face fall. “So someone who passed away, then?”
