Page 47 of Coldwire
My pulse is beating a racket while I make sense of my surroundings, emerging from my daze. I’m in the hotel room, I’ve been placed in Upsie, it’s early morning, and today we begin work on our exam posting.
I breathe out. The dream felt so real. I can still smell the busy kitchen and feel the heat emanating from something lovingly prepared. I’m not sure what any of that was about, whether I was remembering Mallory or my mind made it up for fun. It definitely wasn’t my birth mom—she was long gone by the time I had the motor functions to pick up a bowl of soup.
My body shifts, trying to rise. More of my senses return gradually, but the phantom sensation of something warm remains pressed to my skin.I move my hands, and they’re fine, adjusting until I can get onto my elbows and peer down—
I freeze. I don’t know whymyfirst instinct is to avoid getting caught, even though Kieren is the one using me as a pillow, his head resting on my stomach and his back to me, legs curled so that they don’t dangle off the bed. Suddenly I’m unsure if I’m breathing too hard, if the slight movements of my torso are enough to wake him.
“Kieren,” I manage to whisper.
His shoulder twitches, but he doesn’t stir. Kieren sleeps in a way only someone who feels safe can, without bracing for sudden disturbance, without guarding his vulnerable undersides. The image is almost comforting.
“Kieren,” I say again, louder this time.
Still no response.
I smack the back of his head. Lightly.
“Ow!” he protests, rousing awake and sitting groggily. “What gives?”
“Comfy, were we?”
He glances down. In live time I track the moment he makes sense of where he was sleeping, where he must have been sleeping if he’s just sat up in the middle of the bed.
“Wow, Lia,” he says. “I knew you liked me, but you didn’t have to drag me on top of you in the middle of the night.”
I hurl a pillow at him. “You are such a—”
While Kieren is showering, I put on the hotel kettle, standing guard by the water and making two tiny braids in my overgrown bangs. I’m sifting through our briefing in my display again. It’s become a nervous tic at this point—I’ve read everything cover to cover, twice.
I’ve taken notes on Kam’s ground briefing. They didn’t recommend any of the miscellaneous matters that other cadets might be tending to, like buying transport cards or withdrawing cash, so I figure our task doesn’t warrant them.
In Upsie, our presence in and of itself won’t be suspicious. When NileCorp has matters outside of the coastal city, though, they like to send Medans. Patrolling police officers aren’t going to stop a face like mine. Non-Medans will be asked for their tourist pass. If they don’t have one, they will be questioned, their entire itinerary closely examined in suspicion of being a foreign agent.
I’m not sure how many foreign agents they’ve actually caught that way. A large part of it is for the theatrics. So that people at home feel safe.
“Ward!” Kieren bellows from the bathroom.
“What?” I answer, equally loud. My display automatically closes, triggered by my shift in attention. I finish tying my small braid with a clear elastic band.
“There aren’t any towels in here.”
“I know.” Without hesitation, I grab the tea towels on the counter and walk into the bathroom. There’s a yelp, and then the rapid rustle of the shower curtain.
“Can youknock?”
“Here.”
“Okay! Thank you!” Kieren says, strained. Half of him has stepped out of the shower, and the other half remains inside the water spray. In a scramble, he’s bunched the clear curtain in front of him to stay decent, and I toss the tea towel at him.
“Need anything else?” I ask. “Happy to help.”
“Lia, getout!”
Laughing, I swivel around, closing the door behind me. My display puts the briefing back in front of my eyes when I go to pour boiling water into two to-go cups, dropping a tea bag into each. We must be staying at a hotel designed for foreigners, because tea bags are a travesty in Medaluo. While the tea steeps, I mark the page I was on and close the briefing.
Kieren emerges from the bathroom, flinging the door open. He’s dressed now—a tight T-shirt and black sweatpants. I raise an eyebrow incomment. An attempt at a tourist look, I gather, but his appearance is too sharp to be entirely convincing. Kieren Murray is the type of person to live in button-downs and khakis, maybe a pair of jeans if he’s feeling spicy. When he runs a hand through his wet hair, it drips a neat row along his shoulder, like even the water is afraid of messing up his appearance.
I’m still wearing the same clothes from yesterday.
