The Edge of Everything (The Edge of Everything #1)(25)

Zoe’s mother suggested they all write their questions down on slips of paper and put them in a metal mixing bowl she had placed on the nightstand. When he had recovered, she said, she’d see to it that he answered them all.

Now, even as he slept, X could sense the bowl beside him filling with paper. He dreaded answering the questions, and the dread crept into his dreams like a rising flood. He saw terrible images: a parade of every soul he had ever dragged to the Lowlands. He saw the fear he inspired in his victims and, sometimes, even his own hands in a ring around their throats. X was certain that the more Zoe knew about him, the more repulsed she would be. He had only done what the lords had commanded him to do—but he had done it.



X finally had the strength to sit up on Wednesday morning. Zoe and the others were curled on the floor, still murmuring low in their sleep. The Trembling should have forced X back to the Lowlands by now but, thanks to Zoe’s presence, the pain was muted. He gazed out the window, hungry for air. The frozen river glinted at the bottom of the hill like a long glowing ribbon.

He went outdoors, and the frigid wind blasted away the last remnants of sleep. The sun was not yet visible but it had sent a flood of orange and red across the sky to announce its arrival. X was grateful that the day was not yet bright. He had lived so long in a cell that his eyes were accustomed to darkness and to close quarters. He was most comfortable at this hour, when the world revealed itself slowly.

X had been trained to ignore the beauty of the Overworld. He had been taught to cast his eyes downward, or to stare straight ahead like a horse pulling a carriage. Any memories he formed here—not just of mountains and sky, but of the dogs nuzzling his face or of Zoe placing her hand against his chest—would make him suffer all the more when he returned to the Lowlands.

And he would be forced to return—he couldn’t let himself forget it. The lords would eventually haul him back home. What terrified him was that he didn’t know when or how—or what plague they would visit on Zoe’s family for giving him shelter.

X was weaving his way down the hill when he heard the door open behind him. He turned to see Zoe coming toward him. She had thrown on a coat and snowshoes, and her face wore a dark expression.

“Are you bailing on us?” she said.

“Bailing?” said X.

“Leaving. Are you leaving?”

“No, I assure you I am not.”

Zoe seemed not to believe him.

“Because enough people have left us already,” she said. “And Jonah likes you. You know who else was allowed to sleep in the ladybug? Nobody ever.”

“Zoe,” he said. “I am merely testing my lungs.” He paused. “Will you walk with me? I would be glad of your company.”

He could see, in her eyes, that she was struggling to trust him—and he could see the instant she decided to try.

“Yes, kind sir,” she said. “I, too, should like to test my lungs.”

“Do you mock me?” he said.

“Verily, I do,” she said.

They walked in silence, down toward the snow-burdened trees. Zoe did not assault him with questions about who or what he was, and he was grateful for it. He could not remember a time when he’d simply walked beside someone with no horrible destination in mind. He could not remember anyone being so calm in his company. Zoe seemed not to fear him at all. Once, as they were crossing the frozen river, she even bumped against him playfully. He felt the whole length of his body flush with heat.

They found themselves, almost without realizing it, on the path to the lake. The dead part of the forest loomed ahead of them—the trees stood stripped and charred, as if they’d been decimated in an atomic blast. X watched as Zoe took in the grim sight. He offered to turn back. She shook her head no, like it was something she knew she had to overcome. To distract herself, she began singing: “‘Row, row, row your boat Gently down the stream Verily, verily, verily, verily / Life is but a dream.’”

“Even I know that tune,” said X. “Yet I think you have misrepresented the words.”

Zoe laughed: “Have I? I don’t think so.”

Again she gave him a little bump with her hip, and again he felt heat ripple through him.

When they reached the lake, Zoe walked directly to the hole that Stan had made, as if to convince herself that she hadn’t dreamed it all. X trailed after her.

The hole had mostly frozen over. It looked like a scab that was healing.

X wanted to pull Zoe away, wanted to protect her from the memories he knew would be sinking like pins into her brain.

She spoke before he could conceive of a plan.

“So Stan really did know my father,” she said. “That disgusting reptile knew my father. I thought he was lying when he said they were friends.”

X searched for something suitable to say. He was so unused to talking that forming even the simplest sentence felt like building a wall. Every word was a stone he had to weigh in his hands.

“Stan is poison,” X said carefully. “You must not let a single syllable he uttered into your blood.”

Zoe nodded, but he could see that she was distracted and had not truly heard him.

“You’d think that once my dad died,” she said, “he couldn’t disappoint me anymore.” She stopped and kicked at the ice with the tip of a snowshoe. “There goes that theory.”