Skin Game (The Dresden Files, #15)(30)

“You’re pretty good at this,” I said, noting the detail on his leaves. “Does that come from being here so long?”

“Nah, I used to paint as a hobby before coming here. I hate this still-life crap, though.” He paused to stare at his fern. “I’d kill just to free paint something abstract. I’d love to paint the sky. Who am I kidding? I’d love to see the sky. I never painted many outdoor scenes when I was assigned in Manhattan. Thought I was too good for it and would save myself for some Arizona sunset.”

“Manhattan? Wow. That’s pretty intense.”

“Intense,” he agreed. “And busy and loud and noisy. I hated it … and now I’d do anything to be back there. That’s where you and your broody boyfriend should end up.”

“We always talked about going somewhere like Rome,” I said.

Duncan scoffed. “Rome. Why deal with the language barrier when you can get everything you want stateside? You guys can get some sketchy apartment that you work two jobs to afford while you take classes on anything imaginable and he hangs out with his unemployed artist friends in Bushwick. Come home at night to eat Korean food with your kooky neighbors, then make love on your shabby mattress on the floor. The next day, start all over again.” He resumed painting. “Not a bad way of life.”

“Not bad at all,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. I could feel that smile fade as a pain lurched in my heart at the thought of any future with Adrian. What Duncan had described was as good as any of the “escape plans” Adrian and I used to concoct … and, at this moment, just as impossible. “Duncan … what did you mean when you said you’d do anything to be back there?”

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Don’t what?”

“You know what. I was just using an expression.”

“Yeah,” I began, “but if there was a way you could get out of here and—”

“There’s not,” he said bluntly. “You’re not the first to suggest it. You won’t be the last. And if I can help it, you won’t be thrown back into solitary for doing something stupid. I’ve told you, there’s no way out.”

I thought very carefully how to proceed. In the last year, he probably had seen others attempt to get out of here and, judging from his reaction, had watched them all fail. I’d asked him about exits a number of times, and like me, he’d never discovered where they were. I needed to find a different approach and gather other information that might lead to our freedom.

“Will you answer just two things for me?” I asked at last. “Not about exits?”

“If I can,” he said warily, still not making eye contact.

“Do you know where we are?”

“No,” he said promptly. “No one does, which is part of their plan. The only thing I’m sure of is that every level we ever go on is underground. That’s why there are no windows or obvious exits out.”

“Do you know how they get the gas in here? Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean,” I added, seeing him start to scowl. “You had to notice it when you were in solitary confinement. And they’re using it now to knock us out at night and keep us agitated and paranoid when we’re awake.”

“They don’t need any drugs for that,” he remarked. “Groupthink does a fine job of spreading that paranoia on its own.”

“Don’t dodge. Do you or do you not know where the gas comes from?”

“Come on, just because a fern’s a vascular plant doesn’t mean it’s producing carbon dioxide any differently,” he interrupted. I was taken aback, both by the weird subject change and the slight raising of his voice. “All the chemical reactions in basic photosynthesis are still there. It’s just a question of using spores instead of seeds.”

I was too lost to respond right away, and then I saw what he already had: Emma was standing near us, searching a drawer for colored pencils. And it was clear she was listening.

I swallowed and tried to string some semblance of words together. “I wasn’t arguing that. I was just pointing out what the fossil record says about megaphylls and microphylls. You’re the one who started getting bogged down with photosynthesis.”

Emma found what she needed and walked away, causing my knees to nearly give out from under me. “Oh my God,” I said, once she was out of earshot.

“That,” said Duncan, “is why you need to be more careful.”

Class ended, and I spent the rest of the day nervously waiting for Emma to report me to some authority, who’d haul me off for purging or, worse, back to the darkness. Of all the people to overhear us! The other detainees might not be social with me yet, but I’d already been able to observe who were better or worse candidates for allies. And Emma? She was the worst. Some of the others would occasionally slip up, much like Hope had that first day, making a wayward comment that got them in trouble. But my too-good roommate never, ever deviated from perfect Alchemist rhetoric. In fact, she went out of her way to bust others who didn’t fall in line. I honestly couldn’t figure out why she was still here.

But no one came for me. Emma didn’t so much as glance my way, and I dared hope that the only thing she’d heard was Duncan’s hasty photosynthesis excuse.