Page 80 of The Whispering Night
She resumes her march through the halls, getting back on track in mere seconds. At one point, a person requires her to stop and “tie” her shoe while they stride past. “Morning,” they say.
Winnie only grunts in return. A second person sends her retreating deep, deep into her hoodie. But they’re so focused on their phone, they don’t look up. And a third person almost does corner Winnie when she hurries into the stairwell to Hangar D. They’re coming downstairs dressed in full scorpion gear with their helmet hiding all features. “Hey, Asteria. Aren’t you supposed to be suited up?”
Winnie coughs. Then, still coughing as if she choked on her own spit, ekes out: “Yep”—cough, cough—“I’m about to.” She explodes up the stairs, passing the suited scorpion before they can wonder,Wait a second, was that really Asteria?
The two flights blur past, and then there it is: a long stretch of room that sings ofAlmost Freedom. Light cuts down at strange angles, carried in from the hangar above and shaped by vehicles parked over inspection pits. Noise simmers in, following the same odd lines. Everything smells like grease and oil, but actual grease or oil—or gasoline or tools or even a single forgotten screw—are nowhere to be seen. The Tuesdays would never allowmessinside one of their facilities.
Stairs lead out of each inspection pit, and shelves line the walls with tool boxes, tires, and countless bottles of various liquids.
A voice shouts behind Winnie. It is not anicevoice, and if she had to guess, it’s the scorpion now realizing it wasn’t Asteria they met and that a prisoner has gone missing from her cell.
Winnie pitches herself into a sprint. Zero to sixty miles per hour in less than 0.4 seconds. Her combat boots squeak on the spotless floor. Her weak eyes scour for the quickest path to an exit. She just needs to get out of here. She just needs to lose herself in the crowds above.
Except when she is halfway across the space, rounding a shelf of barrels, she hears another shout—this one from ahead. And there’s a staticky, clicking sound too, as if radios are turning on. Turning off. As if scorpions are being sent after an escaping Wednesday in a grease pit.
Winnie is not going to make it to the exit.
But that’s not the only way out of here.
She changes course, leaping onto the nearest set of stairs out of an inspection pit. There is a vehicle in the way. A Hummer, by the looks of it, but Winnie puts her odds of freedom at 50 percent going this way… and 0 percent if she keeps running down below.
She slithers her body sideways, spins twice like a crocodile on a riverbank, and then she’s out. She’s no longerunderthe vehicle (yes, a Hummer) but instead beside it and scrabbling to her feet. Two middle-aged Luminaries and a child ogle her, clearly wondering if Winnie is part of the exhibit or a visitor who ignored theNo Touchingsigns slammed everywhere.
“All good here,” Winnie declares as she slings herself over an exhibit guardrail. “I got the check engine light turned off, and you won’t need another oil change till next year. If you feel so inclined there’s a tip jar on the other side.”
She smiles at the kid, who wears her hair in what are honestly thecutestpigtails. Then Winnie pulls her hood low,low,hunches her shoulders, and grapevines into the crowd.
The Tuesday estate is more army base than fancy mansion. As a clan who prioritizes strength above all else, they have approximately zero interest in flowery grounds or elegant miniature palaces. In fact, there’s not muchaboveground worth seeing. Just the big hangars, and a long brick building that looks like it could be a high school, a prison, or a warehouse.
This means that converting the estate into a huge sporting event, complete with fields and tracks and bleachers, is easily done every year. And always, always, on the south side of the field, a long, brightly lit, lushly appointed VIP section stands—which is where Winnie now aims.
Because the great thing about Marcia Thursday is that she is predictable. It’s why Erica always had such an easy time playing games and manipulating her mom. The Marcian theorem, Winnie liked to call it, because if you inputx,then you will always gety.
Which means that—despite the fact Erica was nearly killed at a party last night—Marcia will still expect her daughter to attend the Tuesday Olympics. Andthatmeans, if Winnie wants to find Erica, she just has to go where her own blue-papered schedule had directed her: the VIP section.
Somehow, it is early evening when Winnie exits Hangar D. The sun didn’t rise today, so much as carve the sky in half like a magician with a new trick blade.
T minus fourteen hours until the Crow makes good on her threats.
The light burns low enough on the horizon to confuse Winnie’s cones and rods. Every face she passes is an unrecognizable, backlit smear.
And there areso manyunrecognizable, backlit smears. She can’t believe it. Surely,surelythe news must be out about what happened the night before. There were so many people at that party; many weren’t locals.
Of course, the longer Winnie dives and weaves through the crowds, the more she realizes the wolfistruly out of the bag—although perhaps not the actual wolf part. Everywhere she sidles, she hears the excited tales from someone who knew someone who knew someone who had a cousin at the party. Or someone simply discussing the hotspot they heard about from Johnny Saturday on the news.
Darkness, darkness, light,Winnie thinks as she tries to row her dinghy ever closer to the VIP area of the sports field. There is no greater display of that Luminaries juxtaposition than right now: many of the society’s youths almost died, so let’s savor the fact that they didn’t by sprinting for trophies.
And now that Winnie is really honed in, there’s no missing theoverbrightness of it all that isn’t simply caused by a brutal sunset. People are dressed in their clan colors, laughing and clapping and cheering and shoveling in hot dogs or funnel cakes like they might never eat again. Because… well, here in the Luminaries’ world, they might not.
Winnie thinks of photons.
She thinks of the bathypelagic zone.
She also thinks of scorpions, since there are several, fully armored, floating through the crowds in search of Winnie. Given that she stands out almost as much as they do, she makes it her first order of business to sneak into the 10K All-Terrain Race registration tent—now closed, of course, since the run finished hours ago—and steal a new shirt. She then uses a rubber band holding bibs together to pull her hair into a tight, borderline painful bun over which she places a stolen All-Terrain Race baseball cap. Lastly, she finds a tub of red body paint (scorpion pride!) and slathers it all over her face and hands.
For almost thirty seconds, once her new disguise is in place, she stands there pinned down by indecision.Keep the hoodie and jacket? Or leave them? Keep or leave? Keep or leave?
She decides to leave—although it causes her actual pain to do so. She has had that hoodie for six years, and the leather jacket is one of the most special birthday gifts she has ever received. But Winnie can’t be stupid. She can’t let sentimentality get in her way. So she shoves the clothes under a table, sets her jaw, and once more braves the Olympics.
