Page 61 of The Quiet
“Let’s go inside,” he said, and she was relieved, blinking rapidly as she felt additional moisture in her eyes. She nodded in agreement, and Peter turned with her back into the Bleeding Grin. They found the main path to the entrance. The large black doors of the Grin opened for Peter as he placed his hand on the door and walked Baker in with his other hand on her back.
Each room and hallway in The Bleeding Grin changed with the preferences of the day, and today it was like a mountain cabin with heavy wooden furniture and thick, auburn rugs in the hallways. Now, no matter the design, it all felt dark to her.
The surge of emotion did not subside, even though Baker was not in front of the crowd of civilians. She wiped tears hurriedly from her face as she walked beside Peter through the great, long hallways to his study.
He put her in her favorite chair which was a dark purple armchair next to his desk. He sat before the desk, the light from the nearby window illuminating his face. She avoided his eyes, focused absentmindedly on a white table in the center of the study, with two white chairs on either side.
She didn’t like these feelings. None of the Strike had sudden surges of feeling. Peter offered her a hot cup of tea, spun from the air into his hand.
He always gave her tea when she felt bad—as if her emotional state were some kind of illness. She would usually drink it, but this time, she did not.
Instead, she only stared at the cup as Peter set it at the edge of the desk. He rubbed his fingers, a neatly folded tissue appearing between them, which he set beside the tea. Peter did not push her, Baker keeping her chin tucked to her chest to hide her tears.
Peter removed a light blue shell from a box on his desk along with a small, sharp tool. By the light of the window, he used the tool to shape carvings into the shell.
Knowing his attention was occupied with it, Baker eventually felt comfortable looking up at the shell, but not at him.
“It’s a question,” Peter whispered after a while as he worked on the shell. “That feeling deep inside, it’s a question you’ve been too afraid to ask. You’re ready now. That’s why it’s come.”
Baker looked over at Peter after a while, comfortable now with him seeing the question, but he continued to stay focused on carving the shell.
“You need to learn to use your words,” Peter said. “You’re learning to speak with the body in your combat training. With me, you must practice speaking with the tongue. Find the right words. The Strike’s ability to see your truth is a gift, but you must learn to communicate your truth—push it out into the world or you’ll cave in and disappear.”
Baker’s eyes drifted to the shell now as she watched him carve it, “I,” she started but hated the sound of her voice, “don’t know.”
Peter didn’t reply, as if he wouldn’t accept the answer.
He tapped his carving tool on the desk before he set it down, leaning back in his chair as he looked at her. His elbows restedon the chair arms as he steepled his fingers in front of him pensively.
She took the teacup now only to hold something warm.
“Of all my fears,” Peter said, “the worst is that I would fail them. Your struggles, your questions, Baker, have provided me with a path to understanding how to quell the plight of their suffering. My ask is that one day you ask your questions for both our sakes.”
Them. He spoke of the people wandering out in the city, one of the only cities left. He spoke of them often, as one might discuss a single person, like the collective herd were one organism. To him, they were the most perplexing creatures, when to Baker they were more simple than animals.
Baker didn’t understand what he wanted to do for them. She hated them. Empty husks who’d sold out to the Strike for a life of ease and pleasure. She’d rather die than live that way.
She thought of Marnie’s face in the crowd and the teacup trembled in her hand.
She hated them and resisted all questions.
Silence remained for the rest of the afternoon.
CHAPTER 17
THE LAMB SPEAKS
“IS HE TALKING to you right now?” Jackson said, and Ella looked back at the couch.
Lambspeak sat there, waiting for her to engage with him, perhaps like he had multiple times in the days before. Ella focused on him, but still had no words as her mind tried to piece it together. She’d tried briefly to interact with him. She hadn’t realized how well it had worked.
Every daydream, every wandering thought, every reflection into her past or future had been an open gateway for him to walk through.
“You need to stay focused on the present. Tune him out.”
She blinked as Jackson’s voice interrupted her focus, annoyed to find him standing near her. Her confusion evolved into anger and she glared as she stood back up.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?” She approached him, driving him close to the exit. “I thought it was you. All afternoon! And yesterday!”
