Frozen by Erin Bowman Page B

you do when this is all over?” she asks, cutting my bangs back so they no longer fall into my eyes. “Group A, Frank, everything. What then?”
    “I haven’t thought that far ahead. It almost feels dangerous to be so optimistic.”
    “I’ll go back to Claysoot,” she says. “I miss my mother. And I want to find Laurel, too; tell her that I was never crazy to believe there was more, even though she laughed at all my theories when we were younger.”
    I picture the reunions. Emma’s mother and best friend dissolving into tears, hugging Emma so tightly she can barely breathe.
    “Will you stay there?” I ask.
    She shrugs. “It depends. It might have too many tough memories, of being a prison and a lie. But then, it’s still home, and maybe it won’t seem so bad when we can cross the Wall freely.”
    “I’ll go with you. To see Blaine, because I know he’ll go there immediately, looking for Kale. And then maybe I’ll fight with Chalice for good measure, just to watch you stitch her chin up again.”
    Emma grins and puts the scissors down. “You are not good with grudges.”
    “I know,” I say, standing. “I’m terrible with them.”
    “Well, no one’s perfect. Least of all me.”
    A few months ago I would have said that Emma was as close to perfect as a person can be. Kind, helpful, confident. Loyal. But now, even though I’ve known her my whole life, she feels like a stranger.
    “I really am sorry.” She looks at me, and her eyes are terrifyingly doubtful, like she fears we’re ruined forever. More than once, I’ve had the same thought myself.
    “Whenever you decide I deserve that second chance, I’ll be ready,” she adds. “I hope you know that.”
    She brushes past me and into the sitting room. I squeeze the lip of the sink with both hands, stare at myself in the mirror. I wish I knew how to forgive her, wish I could love this Emma the way I loved the one in my memories.
    I fetch a blade from the other room and shave. It will make me look more like the face on the wanted posters, but I don’t care. I just want to feel like myself.
    By the time I step into the sitting room, Aiden has grown tired of his hand games. He’s lying on the couch, his head on Jackson’s lap, eyes struggling to stay open. Jackson has an arm draped over the boy in an almost parental manner. The Forgery: a pillow, a protector. It’s so ridiculous I almost laugh.
    I gather my gear, tell the others to do the same. Aiden yawns and says something about using the bathroom first, and I snap at him to hurry. Emma gives me a chastising look, but the sun is setting. I don’t feel like pushing our luck in the house much longer.
    I flip through a handful of letters lying on a cluttered desk while we wait for Aiden. They are handwritten in elegant script, all smooth arcs and flourishes. I find the most recent one, dated a week back, and read.
     
Carl—
Badger told me he won’t run our letters anymore, even if you are trading with him. He says it’s getting too risky. The Expats are gaining momentum—I know some of their stories have made it to Bone Harbor—and Order troops along the borders have doubled as a result. Ships on the Gulf are being stopped more and more often. They’re looking for reasons to arrest people, Carl. So long as it’s a blow to the Expats—dulls enthusiasm—they won’t hesitate.
Badger claims these notes hold too much damning evidence. I’ve pleaded with him, said we can change names, places, anything—we’ll talk in code if we have to—but he refuses to be our courier.
This is my last letter.
I’ll be fishing with Charlie where the catch is good the week of the holidays. You know the place: our favorite spot southwest of the Gulf. Meet us, won’t you? You can come west for good. We’ll give up fishing and head for Expat protection. I know you’ve never liked my brother, but this was all Charlie’s idea: getting you out, having you join us. We can even sink your seiner, make it look like