way, it doesn’t change a thing. This is bigger than you or me or one stupid Noor, Wen. It’s silly for us to argue about it.”
“Because I can’t do anything to stop it,” I say. And because Bo won’t do anything to stop it.
“Precisely.”
I look down at my hands, small and weak, flesh and bone, and then I look at Bo’s, powerful and merciless, steel and wire. “Maybe I should try.”
His eye goes wide. “You’re not serious.” He takes a step forward, his mechanical hands rising, and I flinch back. He winces and his machine fingers rise to his opposite shoulder, twisting and pressing in a precise sequence of steps. The metal frame surrounding his human arm slides to the ground with a clatter. His warm fingertips caress my cheek a moment later. I am shocked by the intimacy of it, and by the knowledge that Bo understood the one thing he could do to bring me closer.
He gives me a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry for everything, for all I’ve said, for the war, for the orders that have already been given. I’m sorry for what’s going to happen. I’m sorry for being cold. All of it.”
His regret is not enough to soothe me because it changes nothing. Determination is wrapping itself around my limbs, winding its way along my bones, my veins, my muscles. Maybe I should try. How can I not? How can I live with myself if I sit idly by while those machines tear through villages full of Noor whose only crime is living and dreaming and craving the same rights that I have always taken for granted? This is not about Melik, not really. This is about Sinan, Melik’s little brother, and his mother and his younger, more vulnerable self. No one was there, all those years ago, to warn them. No one was there to whisper, “Run, hide, get to safety.”
Bo cups my cheek and strokes his thumb over my skin. “Say something, Wen. Say you forgive me.”
“I forgive you,” I whisper. “I am sorry I asked you to commit treason. It was very wrong of me.”
His eye closes, dark lashes long. “You scared me.”
I am scaring myself. “I didn’t mean to.” But I am going to do it again, because my thoughts are filled with treason and betrayal. Right now I wish I were not Itanyai. I was raised to be proud of my people, of my part in this great culture, but now I am nothing but ashamed. Because I was raised to believe something else, too: that compassion is golden, that it is best to preserve life, to ease suffering, to value mercy above all else and others above myself. My father was my most diligent teacher. If Bo knew my thoughts, though, and if he told Father, the two of them would prevent me from doing what I think I must. No matter how much compassion he has, my father is still a father. He would not allow me to leave, which means he cannot know.
Above our heads there is a deep pop as the first firework goes off. It paints Bo’s metal face pink and yellow, the soft shades of a spring flower. “Stay with me for the fireworks?” he asks, his voice low.
He was wrong when he said I could not guess what he feels; I know how deeply it runs. It is the catch in his breath, the shadow in his eyes, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. I know he wants to touch me, to have my whole heart. Maybe he knows he could have, if things had been different. Maybe he even senses that he has a part of it already. And that part of me aches, knowing that tomorrow he will realize I was lying, when I murmur, “Yes. I will stay.”
I take his hand and I lace my fingers with his. It’s my final gift to him. Because I feel it too, a wish that things were simple, a wish to save a piece of Bo that he himself is trying to kill, a wish that this were enough for both of us.
I lay my head on his shoulder and smell his skin, soap and sweat and machine oil. We turn our faces to the sky and accept the deep, smoky kiss of the night air. His thumb strokes the back of my hand. As the fireworks stretch fingers of light across the sky, I set aside my wishes and