11

Once Roman had left, I took a leisurely shower and brewed myself another coffee before setting off to explore. I switched off the portable heater, but kept it plugged into the socket so it could recharge as per his parting instructions. He'd given me the apartment keys to lock the door behind me, and I had the strange black, plastic card in my coat pocket.

I twisted the ring on my finger as I clomped down the stairs, the feel of the cold metal as foreign—but not unwelcome—as the unknown that I was about to step into. The old world symbolism wasn't lost on me. We'd replaced wedding rings with tattoos. Roman's citizen number was branded on my skin. It was for life. This ring on my finger rubbed loosely as I played with it.

I slipped the ring off, and on again.

It was a promise of commitment that could be broken on a whim, and yet it carried a weight that was difficult to define. Knowing I had the ability to remove it gave me the power to keep wearing it. If this was marriage back then, before the fertility plague and the Eastern Coalition, then it wasn't less, as the Puritans preached. It felt a lot heavier, a whole lot more, even if it could be messy and end broken in hate.

I stepped outside the building onto a busy street. The ghostly quietness of last night had been replaced with a flurry of people moving in all directions.

Pressed with my back to the wall, I stood there a long minute, watching, waiting…? But no one stopped and stared. No one pointed me out with a finger or shouted imposter.

Some hurried with purpose, others strolled, some wore tailored coats over their suits or dresses, others were more casual in jeans and puffy jackets and woolen caps pulled down over their ears. Some walked together, others marched with their heads down.

Some should never have existed, not here in The Smoke.

My jaw tightened as my gaze skimmed the crowds, searching, hunting down each child attached to a mother's hand, each baby pushed in a pram, each child in their pre or early teens walking alone or in small packs.

I don't know why I was surprised. If the Eastern Coalition traded eggs to the Outerlanders, why not offer them to the people here?

Maybe it wasn't surprise that tensed my jaw and racked my shoulders until an ache pulled at my neck. Maybe it was just anger dulled with confusion and acceptance.

Another myth busted.

Another lie outed.

But why?

How did any of this make sense?

Why were we separated in Capra, singled out as special with special treatment and restrictions, and special lies?

For what?

I curled a hand around my neck, massaging the ache, watching the men and women and children mingle. Slowly and surely, ubiquitous awareness spread through me, an innate feeling of rightness about this scene.

These people here weren't the problem.

I was the problem. Or rather, Capra was the problem.

The breath trapped in my lungs released.

The tension unwound from my shoulders and neck.

I stepped away from the wall and into the melee, joining the flow of foot traffic.

The noise wasn't loud, but it was incessant, coming at me from all directions. A low hum that hung over the place. A dull, rhythmic banging from somewhere to my left. The chatter of voices, the rustle of people brushing passed each other, the thud of hundreds of footfalls on concrete.

The shadows I'd seen last night were mostly brick, very little plaster, and built in blocks around the series of squares I walked through. Each square had a small patch of shrubs or a small tree, some appeared to be perennial while others were turned to brown stalks with the onset of winter. Desperate, pathetic attempts to bring nature into this brick and concrete world.

I was in The Smoke.

It was crazy.

A few short weeks ago, I'd never been beyond Capra's walls. I'd never been close to Capra's walls. The stretch of land between the town and the walls was off limits and guarded. If you were seen straying into that area, you were clearly up to no good. And I'd always been good. A model Capra citizen. That was the disguise I'd worn for eighteen years.

But not today.

I wasn't snooping through my husband's study or hiding in the lockbox on his truck to find the answers I'd always craved. I wasn't sparking a fantasy rebellion in my head with all the things I wanted to change one day in the distant future. I wasn't dreaming of what life could be beyond the walls, or having nightmares about what it most likely was.

I was right here, right now, walking in the open.

I'd thrown my shackles off.

Freedom swept through my blood like a river in surge, wild and turbulent and totally unpredictable. I didn't know what I'd do with it. I didn't know where it would take me. I didn't know if it would chew me up and spit me out.

There was a dry, gritty taste coating my mouth, but that wasn't the freedom. The air was different this morning. I glanced skyward to the endless pale blue without any traces of cloud. I couldn't see the black plumes that sometimes billowed up from The Smoke, but it felt like I may be swallowing it.

I narrowly avoided a collision as a door burst open onto the sidewalk and a woman charged out. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, wearing a glamorous suede coat the color of dark chocolate and stiletto boots that disappeared beneath the faux fur trimming. Her hair was sleeked back into a bun and her makeup was artistic, eyelids brushed with silver glitter and black lines swirling from the corners of her eyes.

She noted me staring and frowned.

I smiled and blinked away, picking up my pace as I crossed the square. I'd walked too far down, and needed to start making my way toward the gate entrance. In one of the narrow alleys, I got caught behind a couple, a man and woman holding hands and not in any apparent hurry. Another door opened up ahead and a woman shuffled out.

She greeted the couple with a nod and, "Nasty north easterner today."

"It's due to blow out by lunchtime," the man said.

"That's what they always say," she muttered. "I'm keeping my mother indoors today."

They walked on together and I hugged their heels, not intentionally eavesdropping, but it would be rude to push passed them. The conversation wasn't particularly interesting. I couldn't decide if they knew each other or were just strangers passing the time of day, until the woman mentioned her ailing mother again and said, "I'll stop by the center and refill her prescription, just in case."

That grabbed my attention. The Center? As in the Processing Center? Was it some kind of medical institution?

At the end of the alley, they separated and I tagged a couple of steps behind the woman. Sure enough, she led me to a brick building spread out adjacent to one of the parking lots by the gate. The path leading to the front door was signposted in blue with white writing: Eastern Coalition Processing Center.

My gaze followed her all the way through the door, but I didn't dare walk up that path. I felt invisible in The Smoke, but that didn't mean I was. It would only take one official to notice something was off about me. Besides, I doubted I could just walk up to a desk and demand information on Jenna's whereabouts.

I looked around, and saw the start of rows of identical buildings a little farther down the road. They were brick, as seemed to be a popular choice in The Smoke, and… I counted ten stories high as I ambled in that direction.

I'd once imagined Jenna's life here and all I'd come up with was boarding houses with nauseating colored passages and claustrophobic rooms. Cubicle prisons for Capra's discarded miscreants.

I reserved my judgement for now, but these buildings weren't exactly charming. And this was definitely Hostel City. A signpost staked in the pavement pointed toward the depressing apartment blocks with their endless rows of windows squashed together and sooty around the framework. As I got closer, I saw the brick frontage was blackened with grime. A couple of park benches were bolted down to a dismal concrete plaza at the head of hostel city, as if that were the best view in the area.

I chose a bench and hunkered down against the bitter morning chill, pulling my collar up and tucking my hands into my pockets. It was exceptionally optimistic to expect Jenna would just come strolling out of one of those buildings, to hope she even still boarded here. She'd been removed from society months ago.

Then again, I had no idea what ‘processing' entailed or how long it could potentially last.

Roman seemed to think it was a possibility, that Jenna might still be here, and he rarely lied about such things. Scrap that. He never lied about anything. He just stonewalled, or redirected, or simply evaded.

He hadn't lied about the life here in The Smoke. And by that I meant the actual life being created here just like in Capra—babies, children—but he hadn't told me. He hadn't kept me locked up in the apartment, either. He must have known I'd see it all with my own eyes the moment I stepped out onto the street.

The man was more of a mystery to me now than the day I married him.

His views and motivations were an enigma.

His actions contradicted who he was and what he said.

His past was a closed book. Rose had alluded to a tainted history. When I'd gone looking, all I'd found was an artist he'd once loved and potential blackmail material to buy his way to an ambitious future.

While I sat there, people came and went from the hostels. All women, mostly around my age, although there were a handful that looked to be in their twenties or maybe even older.

I approached each and every one of them as they passed. "Hello, excuse me, do you know anyone called Jenna? Jenna Simmons?" and sometimes I changed it up for, "Hi, sorry, I'm looking for Jenna Simmons?"

I got curious stares, shaking heads and blatant ignores, and some apologetic grimaces.

I'd been on the bench about two hours, worried I was calling too much attention to myself, when a spark of recognition finally lit a woman's eyes.

"Yes, I know Jenna." She studied me, chewing on her bottom lip. "What do you want with her?"

She sounded defensive, as if she wasn't about to hand Jenna over to just anyone. I kind of appreciated her surly attitude.

"She's an…" I almost said ‘old friend' but caught myself. Jenna was new to The Smoke. "I haven't seen her in a while, but we occasionally hung out at the market. I swear she said she was staying here."

The vague explanation appeased the woman. "She was, but she was assigned to The Break last month. I haven't heard from her since."

My expression fell. "Oh, well, thanks."

She started to walk away, then paused to turn a thoughtful look on me. "You know where Jenna's from?"

Was this a test? And which answer was the right one?

I went with my gut, stepping closer to the woman so I could lower my voice. "Yes, she told me a little about Capra."

That turned the woman on like a faucet. "I never believed they actually removed any of their princesses from town. I mean, they're all so sparkly and precious, right?" She laughed, indicating the opposite. "Jenna was actually quite nice, though, very down to earth."

She'd lost me with the precious princesses, but I went along with her anyway, nodding vigorously. "Jenna is certainly different."

I was pretty sure that was as true here as it had been in Capra.

The woman snorted. "There's different, and then there's Jenna. You know what? She was quite friendly with Lydia. Their stay here overlapped in the first few weeks. They might still be in contact."

I glanced over to the endless rows of hostels. No wonder they called this a city. "Do you have Lydia's address?"

"She lives next door to me," the woman said, then qualified that with, "in The Break. I'm Paula, by the way," she added, and went on to give me directions.

I didn't return the favor by giving her my name. I did thank her profusely, and wished her all the best.

She rubbed her stomach and giggled. "Thanks."

Okay. Weird. I couldn't afford to raise any suspicions, though, so I didn't ask.