It was strange: she didn’t hear a single footstep before Honey Mitchell appeared—she seemed to just materialize out of stray, sparkling atoms in the apartment’s doorway. Honey just stood there for a second, taking in everything in front of her, resting her unimpressed gaze on the sofa, the stick lamp, the matted, faded rug. Somewhere in her survey—between the counters and the busted intercom, hanging off the wall near the door—she glanced at Marlow, with no more or no less interest than she had shown for any other thing using space in the room.
Finally, Honey cleared her throat. “Let’s not be in here too long,” she said briskly. “All this grime makes me nervous.”
As if she had spoken a command it recognized, Mateo slid its own jacket off, draping it over the seat of a bar stool. Honey climbed up carefully. Marlow watched her, watched everything that wasn’t her face. That part, she was putting off. Honey wore a crisp white blouse tucked into white riding pants and a white cashmere shawl wrapped several times around her shoulders. There was a white hat, vaguely Western with its white braided cord, cocked above the fat blond bun at the back of her head. On her hands, she wore white leather gloves; on her feet, white leather cowboy boots, perfectly unblemished. Even Marlow, who had been in New York for less than a day, understood what sort of privilege spotless shoes meant here. Above the backs of her sneakers, Marlow’s Achilles tendons were gray from the who-knew-what rising out of these streets.
Finally, she confronted the scar. It seemed, in the room, almost pretty—a shining spot, designed to catch the light. But she knew that might be temporary. Marlow, once, in a fit of regret-tinged interest, had asked her device endless questions about scarring. She had learned that the color of scars could change, could rise and fade with the hour, could vary with emotion. That some never lost their angry hue completely. Perhaps Honey’s was only white right now because she was—and she did seem—very calm.
“How did you know about this place?” Marlow said. She was still standing, frozen, just a few steps in front of the couch, unsure of what else to do, whether to sit. Her intruders seemed more comfortable than she did. “How did you know I was here?”
Honey frowned at the gray spots on the fingers of her gloves marking where she had gripped the bar stool. “I knew you were in New York because everyone knows, now,” she said, sweeping one hand toward the street below. “Then I heard about your near miss being hunted at the Archive, so I had them go back through the footage to see what you were doing. They’ll do that for me, you know. I’ve been very generous.” Honey smiled at Mateo, but the bot missed the gesture. It stared politely into the distance. “I saw you in our search room, writing down this address,” Honey said. “The cameras could just make it out.”
Marlow felt herself reddening. With all the people walking hunched and chewing ugly in New York, she had figured the city was light on surveillance. But their nonchalance, she realized now, only signified that no one cared to watch what they were doing. That didn’t mean they weren’t being filmed.
“That’s invasive,” Marlow snapped.
Honey laughed, a glittering cackle that filled the apartment, making it feel, just for a moment, like a place people might have once lived. Then her face turned thoughtful. She studied Marlow now, as if Marlow had just come alive, had finally become more interesting than all the dust-coated furniture. “I’m glad you think so,” she said. Then she stood and clapped her hands together. “Let’s get going, then,” she said. “I’m sure someone in Archive security has sold a tip on you being here by now.”
Marlow had never felt so angry with herself. She had to write this address down? She couldn’t have memorized it? (No, she knew instinctively. Since the day she’d strapped on her device, she’d never had to memorize anything, and now she couldn’t. That part of her brain was out of shape.) Her instincts had been right: no good came of paper. She picked up the cursive letter from where it still sat on the couch, folded it awkwardly, and jammed it into her jeans pocket. “The last time I went somewhere with you,” she said to Honey, “it basically ruined my life.”