Page 56 of Torn

Merry

It’s been one day. A whole day since that precious production on the skateboard, that crucial almost-first-kiss.

He hasn’t returned, but Merry’s not worried about that. Anger takes responsibility for his actions, once he calms down.

For her part, Merry deals with the separation by trekking through the observatory and processing. She listens to her player. She lets the neon words in her sanctuary—Tragic,Beautiful,Magic—hypnotize her. She peers into the planetarium’s telescope. She sketches her tingling lips with her fingers until she gets callouses.

Then she gets her head out of the stars and distracts herself with heroine tasks, composing lists of potential reasons why the Court attacked them, recalling everything she knows about the Peaks and the legend. She considers calling out to Wonder for emotional and tactical backup.

But Wonder is busy doing Wonder things. Plus, she’d promised to show up when she knows more, along with Envy and Sorrow.

Merry would visit a bookshop in her turf and do research, if mortals had the mythology correct to begin with. The Archive in the Peaks would yield the essentials, but that’s inaccessible to exiles. Wonder is the only one who can effectively breach that place.

Okay, there is one other person besides the elite archeress who reportedly has experience with the Archives. A foul, insane outcast from the underworld.

Merry can approach Malice on neutral ground. But hasn’t Anger already done that, as he said he would? Maybe she’ll nudge Anger to press the rage god further, since Malice hardly reveals all his cards at once.

However, that scoundrel isn’t to be trifled with. More than any other outcast, he knows how to extort information from the sky. What if he does, in some way, hear about the legend? How much else might he discover?

Would he tell Anger?

Merry experiences a belated, unforgivable epiphany. Just like that, a toxic blend of shame and trepidation cracks like a shell. The contents ooze through her, from the almighty danger, to the near love scene yesterday, to the fact that she’s lying to Anger, omitting the legend and what she intends to do about it.

She’s been as selfish as any deity in existence.

Oh, it had seemed harmless at the onset. Her feelings had been true, and every second since has been true, without masquerades or fake declarations of ardor. She’s been herself.

She’s not striving to take his choices away. In the end, either he’ll love her back, or he won’t.

So it hasn’t felt like a lie. It’s felt like a secret, which in hindsight, is stupid. Lies and secrets can mean the same thing, in the right or very wrong context. If Merry and Anger are to bond authentically, he must know everything.

She gnaws on her polished fingernails, which being to chip. A fault line ricochets up the center of her heart, liable to rupture if she doesn’t regain her honor, atone for her misguidedness. She needs to tell him and then hope he’ll forgive her.

She has a daft idea while reminiscing about what Anger had said in the hammock, what he’d said about having a dwelling of his own.

With that in mind, Merry sets to work.

Hours later, she’s finished. Having changed into overalls decorated with patches of rocket ships, layered over what mortals call a spandex sports bra, Merry wipes her brow and appraises the alcove. After beseeching the stars for supplies, the magic had filtered through her, and she’d taken it from there, assembling and situating everything herself. Now she surveys the result, too nervous to smile or congratulate herself on a job well done.

“What happened?” a discordant voice asks.

She spins while dropping the last iron shelf, which thwacks against the floor.

So much Anger fills the entrance to the alcove, his frame silhouetted by a nighttime sheen. From this angle, the planks of his shoulders and the ramps of his hips resemble the blueprint of a body rather than an actual one.

When he looks at her, she feels a monsoon approaching. He’s a zephyr, with his longish hair scattered around his face, even where it’s tied back. Strands rebel, surging over his forehead and the hedges of his brows.

When he walks, the earth is a percussion section. If this outcast god were an instrument, he’d be a drum.

Anger models industrious attire, mixing the modern with the archaic, dark jeans with a snug tunic the color of a downpour, the material worn and fitted against a slab of torso. The lack of sleeves exposes a bedrock of biceps and his fingerless gloves.

He scans the sequined kerchief strapped around her head and knotted into a bow at her hairline. He proceeds to the fishnet gloves, the baggy overalls, and the sports bra cupping her bust, leaving a ream of stomach flesh exposed. There’d been a time when he would have grimaced at the ensemble. It’s a new era, because he looks mildly distressed.

Either that, or his sour puss has to do with the alcove.

“What happened?” he repeats. “The hammock is gone.”

That’s not the only thing. Merry has replaced the hammock with a bed that she’d erected herself, which had required grunting and a series of yoga positions. The stars had been in a jesting mood, presenting her with an unassembled frame.

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