I hadn’t known that. “Did you have any luck? Find any Free Walkers?”
Her complexion cooled from feverish to impassive ivory. “No. We ran out of leads to follow.”
The best lies look identical to the truth, only better. It’s not about telling people what you want them to think—it’s about telling people the story they want to believe. Addie was too straightforward to be any good at it; she assumed a lie was truth’s opposite instead of its mirror. I’d had years of experience. I knew better.
Eliot did too, thanks to my terrible influence, and didn’t bother to hide his skepticism. “You didn’t find anything?”
Her eyes were a murky green instead of their usual jade. “Nothing we could pursue. The point is, you shouldn’t be working for Lattimer.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a kid. You don’t even have a license.”
I stifled the urge to remind her she was no longer in charge of me. “I will soon. Aren’t you the one who wanted me to think about my future? If I do this, I can write my own ticket.”
“Technically speaking,” Eliot put in, “we all work for the Consort. This is a specialized assignment.”
“This is Monty,” Addie snarled. “And a terrible idea.”
“What does he think Monty knows?” Laurel asked. “Even if he had been working with the Free Walkers, they would have scattered as soon as he was arrested.”
Her tone made it clear she knew the truth about the anomaly—and Simon. I glared at Addie, who nibbled a thumbnail and avoided my eyes.
“A weapon,” I said into the sudden quiet. “The Consort thinks Simon’s dad built a weapon before he was captured, something the Free Walkers would use against them. Lattimer thinks Monty has information about it.”
“I don’t care if he does or not. Find a way to get out of this,” Addie said. “Digging around in Free Walker stuff is dangerous.”
“We’re not.”
Addie arched her eyebrows. “And you’re looking at Rose’s journals because . . .”
“Homework,” Eliot said quickly. “For Shaw.”
“Leave the lying to Del,” Addie said dryly. “In fact, leave this alone completely, both of you. Before somebody gets hurt.”
“Too late,” I shot back. “Somebody already has, in case you’ve forgotten. His name was Simon. Ring a bell?”
Eliot put a hand on my arm, but I shook him off.
Addie’s shoulders sagged. “Del . . .”
“Oh!” said Laurel, overbright and obvious. “This is cute! Did you two come up with it?”
“With what?” I asked, tearing my gaze away from Addie.
“This song.” She tapped the list of frequencies and hummed lightly. “Sorry. It’s a thing I do when I’m bored at work.”
“We didn’t write a song,” Eliot said. “What kind of thing?”
“I get stuck doing a lot of data entry—coding navigation reports and cleavings paperwork and stuff. Which is okay, I guess, but they all start to look the same after a few hours, so I made up a game. Each frequency corresponds to a note, more or less. Like this one is a G-flat.” She sang it, her voice a clear, sweet soprano. “And this one’s a D. Put enough of them together and they make a song.”
“Like sight reading?” Eliot asked.
“Yeah. It’s not hard; the trick is to remember which range of frequencies correspond to each note on the scale. A generator would do the job, but it sounds nicer if you sing it.”
“Can you sing this one?” I pushed the paper toward her. My pulse was thrumming so loudly I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hear her.
She looked over at Addie, shrugged, and began to sing—just the notes, not the words—but I knew the tune immediately. Judging by the look on Addie’s face, so did she.
Nothing’s done that can’t be un-,
Nothing’s lost that—
Laurel broke off. “Where’s the rest?”
“We know the rest,” I said softly.
“Where did you get those frequencies?” Addie demanded, reaching for the last remaining journal. I snatched it away just in time.
“It’s mine,” I snapped. “Monty sang it to me, not you.”
“That is brilliant,” Eliot said. “Freakishly brilliant, but still.”
“Well, Monty’s a freak,” Addie said. “It fits.”
Laurel glanced around—me clutching a twenty-year-old book to my chest, Addie grim as death, Eliot staring at the mess of papers like he couldn’t tell if they were a bomb or a birthday present.
“Somebody should explain to the new girl,” she said.
“Rose left us a code,” I said. “She converted the frequencies to notes and made a song out of it. But she only put the first few measures in the journal.”