Rising Tide (38 page)

Three more of the infected people died in the last day—the carpenter and two of the boffins. The rest of Miranda's people have shifted their focus fully to Enigma.

I managed to convince Lewis to let Miranda work from the house, so that she can continue her research, and so that she can be more comfortable. As a result, it's now covered in microscopes and papers and samples, and a steady stream of boffins and messengers are in and out of it all day.

I sit on my chair, and Miranda sits propped up in her bed. I'm proud of the bed. They burned what Sergei had slept on, so I bartered, rather aggressively I might add, for a mattress. Right now it's coming in handy, since it's where Miranda spends most of her time.

She looks paler than she's ever been. Even more than when we had fallen from the
Cherub
into the ocean, cold water pooling in the bottom of our raft. Tired, too. Dark circles ring her eyes, which are bloodshot. Her face looks hollow. I try to get her to eat, but it's hard. We've mostly been sticking to a simple broth that she can manage to get down.

She's fighting on two fronts, really. One with her mind, trying to find a way to cure this disease, and the other with her body. One of them seems to be a losing battle. I'm pinning all my hopes on the other.

And yet I'm just sitting here, doing nothing, and it's driving me crazy.

Miranda's eyes flick up to me and she smiles. “How's the book?” she asks.

I look down at the worn paperback in my hands. I conjure up a smile to flash back at her. “Not bad,” I say. It's something of a lie. What I have read is pretty decent—it's a thriller—but I've been rereading the same few pages for most of the last hour, unable to get my brain to focus on it.

What the fuck am I going to do?

Stay with her
, the voice in my head says.
Try to make her smile. Be her strength when hers falters.

I nod my head. I didn't stay with my father when he Faded. I couldn't. I ran. But I'm not going to run from Miranda. No more running. No more flying.

This last thought would normally have stopped me cold. Chilled me. Made me want to fight or do anything to get back into the sky. But while I brace myself for that feeling, it doesn't come. For the moment, at least, I'm content to be right here. On the ground. In fact, there's no place I'd rather be.

“A lot going on in there,” Miranda says, tapping her head.

“There's a lot going on everywhere, Miranda.”

“I suppose.” She wraps her arms around herself and shivers.

“You cold?” I ask.

She nods, her face all weariness. I get up, move the book aside, and gently lower myself onto the bed. I take her in my arms. “Is this better?” I ask.

“Much,” she says.

We lay there like that for a while. Silent. Warm. Connected.

After Miranda drifts off to sleep (she sleeps much more these days), I get up to stretch my legs, taking care not to disturb her. I'm hot from shared body heat and the air in the small place feels close, so I go outside, inhaling the fresh air and the scent of the sea.

Tamoanchan feels quiet. Dead. People stay indoors these days, fearing the disease despite Miranda's vaccine. Fearing the unknown. The next threat.

Waiting for the sky to fall.

I may have made up my mind to stay with Miranda, but the truth is I feel useless.

It was almost better when I had Hector to worry about. He was alive. Tangible. Something in the real world that I could focus on. Put my efforts toward. This thing? I can't touch.

I excuse myself during one Miranda's conferences with the other boffins and go for a walk.

After wandering for a while, I end up at the rabbi's place. I'm about to sink onto a bench when he comes up to me and puts an arm around me. “I am sorry, Ben,” he says. “I heard about your friend. Sergei, was it?”

“Yes,” I nod. Something heavy and thick is stuck in my throat, and my limbs feel leaden.

The rabbi scrutinizes me. “Ben?”

My breath comes fast and shallow. “It's Miranda,” I say. “She's sick.”

“Oh, no,” Rabbi Cohen says. “Ben. I am so very sorry.”

“She's fighting it, of course. Because that's Miranda, but . . .”

I squeeze my hands into fists, and I feel like I want to punch something.

“I'm scared,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “Of course you are. You love her, don't you?”

“Yes,” I gasp. And of course now I can say it. When she might be taken away from me.

“Have you told her?” he asks.

I look at him. “No,” I say. “I haven't been able to.”

“Maybe now is a good time,” he says. “I can't make any promises—and what happens will be what happens—but love can sometimes accomplish small miracles.”

“You're right.” I nod to myself. He's right. “I should go. Now.”

“I will pray for you both,” the rabbi says. “And, Ben. I'm always here if you need me. Even if I'm not.”

“Thanks, Rabbi.”

I hurry back to the house, and to Miranda.

She's talking to two boffins when I walk in. She looks up at me for a moment, a small smile on her face, then returns to them.

“Can we have a moment?” I ask.

“Ben,” Miranda says. “We're in the middle of something.”

“It's important,” I say.

“Okay.” She looks at the boffins. “Give us a minute?”

After they leave, I sit down on the bed next to her. “I need to talk to you, Miranda.”

She smiles. “I got that impression.”

“I know you're dealing with a lot right now, and I don't want to add to that, but I've been thinking. About, well, lots of things. The future. The past.”

Pull it together, Ben.

“I've been thinking about what I want. About what I can do. I was worried that maybe I couldn't be happy on the ground. Or in one place.”

“I know,” she says. She pats my hand.

This isn't going the way I thought.

“I just think . . . things have changed. I'm here now. You're here. This can work.”

“Ben . . .”

“Hang on. I . . . it's just that when I picture it all in my head, or when I used to, it was just me, alone, here. But I've come to realize that I'm not alone.”

“No, Ben, you're not.”

“I know that now. And I also know that it makes all the difference. I think that this is what I want. Being here. Now.”

“I'm glad, Ben.”

My heart is hammering in my chest. My mouth is incredibly dry. “Miranda—”

“I need to say something,” she says, interrupting me. “Because I don't know how much time we have left and, well, I need to say it.”

“Okay . . .”

“You've probably sensed that I was a little distant. Hesitant.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was having a hard time reconciling things.”

“What things?” I ask, confused.

“Your past. What happened with Malik.”

“Oh.” I slip my hand away.

“I guess I just had this image of you, who you are now, and I didn't like being reminded of who you were back then.”

I feel my stomach turning.

“But it's only because . . . because I'm really proud of who you are now. And I like the man you are. With me.”

“Miranda—”

“And I understand, now, having to make hard decisions. I can't judge you for those things. I wasn't there.” She grabs my hand again. “I'm sorry,” she says.

“It's okay,” I say. “I want to tell you something. I need to—”

I'm interrupted by the sound of an explosion somewhere outside. Miranda looks at me in alarm, and I shake my head. Then another explosion, followed by the sounds of gunfire.

“Wait here,” I say.

I run to the door. The two boffins are waiting outside. Looking up.

In the sky, coming off the coast, is a formation of enemy airships, guns blazing.

Tamoanchan is being invaded.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“A
n attack?” Miranda asks. Her voice sounds high and thin.

I nod wearily. “They failed at quiet, so now they're trying loud.”

“How many?” she asks.

“Enough,” I say.

She shakes her head.

“I think we should think about getting you out of here,” I say.

“You want to run?”

“No. I don't want to run. But I'm not going to risk your life in this attack. We've come too far for that.”

“Ben,” she says, her voice small, something wet in the back of her throat. She beckons me closer. I move to her, and she grabs my hands. Hers are cracked and dry, one fingernail bloody where she bit it down too far.

“Ben.” A pause. “I'm no closer to cracking this thing than I was a week ago.”

“That's why I want to get you out of here. Give you time to do more research.”

She squeezes my hands. She feels so weak.

“I don't think I have much time left.”

It takes a moment for the meaning to sink in. And by her tone, I know she's being honest. She's always straight with the science. She probably has calculated the likelihood of, well, everything. She's run the odds, and they aren't in her favor.

I instinctively lean back, trying to pull away from what she's saying. I feel numb. My whole body feels numb. The woman I love just told me she's going to die soon—I should be sad or I should cry or I should curl into a ball at the news, and yet I just feel . . . nothing. Hollow inside. Ice.

“Are you sure?” is what I manage to say.

She nods. A tear spills from one eye.

Still, the ice.

“I'm not going to abandon my people. My work. Not now. Just to die somewhere far away. Not while people are out there risking their lives for me.”

I nod.

“So I'm staying,” she says.

“Then so am I,” I say.

“You should really be up there,” she says. “Maybe not shooting at them, but . . . you could fly circles around them.”

“I want to be here,” I say. “With you. Besides, neither the
Dumah
nor the
Pasteur
would be any good in a fight.”

She shrugs. “Then I guess that's good for both of us.”

I lie down again with my arms around her. I can't fly, and I can't fight, and it's possible that some kind of bomb or gunfire will catch us here, together, as we wait to find out what's going to happen. But I can be there for Miranda. I can spend however long she has left with her. And that's what I'm going to do.

The screams rouse me from the light slumber I fell into. My head jerks up, and I slide out of bed, reaching for my coat, my right hand finding the handle of the revolver.

Miranda looks up, her eyes glazed from sleep.

“Stay here,” I say. I reach into one of the coat's pockets and pull out the automatic I had once lent to Maya, pass it to Miranda. “Keep this close.”

She nods.