IX

I could never decide whether that first week was the longest or the shortest ever in my life. But finally, Saturday was here, and I slept in until a glorious eleven.

When I did awake, it was to the sound of conversation in the apartment beyond. A lot of conversation. So far, the apartment had been peaceful. Oona and I shared a bathroom; Aletheia and Kate shared the other, and we kept to ourselves. Which I appreciated. But which now led me to beg the question: who was in my house?

Rubbing my eyes, I left my room in my loose pajama dress and walked out to the common area. Then my jaw dropped. The apartment was full to bursting with Candor-born initiates—all eight of them, actually. Which wasn’t a lot. But the apartment was small. So it was pretty full.

I’d walked right into a business casual brunch. The five boys were lounging around the TV and the three girls leaned against the bar in the kitchen. Everyone had a plate with bite-sized sandwiches and fruit cut in fun shapes. They were all smoking like they were applying for jobs as fog machines. I burst into a coughing fit.

“Oh, hey, Phoebe!” said Sherlock brightly. “Guys, it’s Phoebe.” The rest of the guys cheered. Initially, I was frozen with fear because I was only wearing pajamas, but they didn’t seem to care. I relaxed and waved sheepishly.

“What are you doing here?” Aletheia asked, like she was shocked. I raised an eyebrow.

“This is our apartment,” I said neutrally. “What are you doing here?”

“Good one,” said one of the boys.

“Brighton, shut up,” said Aletheia. Her eyes narrowed at me. “I’ll have you know that this is called brunch. It’s a social thing that people with friends do.”

“Oh, do inform me,” I said.

“After this, we’re going to go out to see a show, and then we’re going to come back and socialize. So please—stay out of our way, alright?”

“What—Allieee!” Sherlock whined. “Phoebe’s cool! Don’t be like that.”

Aletheia whirled around.

“I thought this was our day, Sher,” she pouted. “Isn’t that what we all agreed on? Just Candor-borns? You don’t want me to go back on my promise, do you?”

Sherlock visibly quailed, then took a drag from his cigarette. “Uh...I dunno? Whatever, uh, whatever you want.”

Aletheia smiled. “Thanks, sweetie.” She looked at the other boys. “Anyone else want to change the plan?”

Nobody responded to that. Aletheia’s smile grew bigger, and she turned back to me.

“See?” she said. “This is a Candor-only party. Stiffs aren’t allowed.”

“I never said I wanted to attend,” I said. If there’s anything Abnegation taught me, it was how to keep my voice completely even and my face totally deadpan, even if someone was pissing me off. I kept my gaze locked on hers as I walked by, took a mini sandwich, and turned back to my room.

“Put on a bra,” Aletheia sneered at my back.

On impulse, I lifted my hand and raised a specific finger. The living room erupted into a chorus of “OOOOHHHH” s. I slammed my bedroom door behind me.

I sat on my bed with my sandwich, trembling with adrenaline. I had never said a bad word in my life, much less given such an obscene gesture. It would be unthinkable, in Abnegation. Expressions of anger were always selfish. Insults, always selfish. Swearing, always selfish. They were meant to build the self up at the expense of others. I had to become good at feigning calm. There had been too many occasions when Caleb or my father had to yank my wrist and drag me home for losing it—though number of those times was miniscule compared to the number of times I had bowed my head, counted to ten, and bit the inside of my cheek until it filled my mouth with blood. And whether I lost my temper or held it, I always felt shame. It was welling up again. Welling up like tears in my eyes.

But only for a moment. My eyes rested on my new watch, the one with the black band and silver face. Mirrored. I saw my flaming red hair. A constant reminder I was somewhere else now, somewhere I was expected to be the opposite of how I had been raised. Not to behave according to a community’s set of standards—but to behave according to mine. My own standards. My own emotions. My own opinions. What I thought, I had the right to express. And for the first time, it clicked: it wasn’t shame I felt.

It was freedom.

I ate my sandwich, tried to study, and failed. I was too excited. Brutal honesty was addictive. I almost wanted to go out into the living room and tell Aletheia exactly what I thought of her and why—although I didn’t, because I didn’t want Sherlock and the boys to call security. When I peeked through the bathroom to Oona’s room, she was not there. It was just me and the party in the living room. I found myself sitting in the little window-seat, staring out at the Merciless Mart plaza.

It was lunchtime. All of the courtrooms were in recess. Six stories below my feet, Candor milled about the plaza, eating their lunches and enjoying the summer sun. I knew from Legal Procedure that most trials occurred during the standard Monday to Friday workweek, but often on Saturdays and Sundays, Year 3 law students—we called them 3Ls—would conduct the trials of unimportant clients. And the Integrity Offices were open seven days a week.

In many ways, Candor’s work was as thankless as the factionless’. I had begun to learn that the Candor, particularly the Integrity Offices, were as active in every branch of government as Abnegation. We were the proofreaders, the facilitators of inter-faction activity, the final line of defense. Every time two parties had a conflict, a Candor would be called in to mediate, set all the facts on the table, and help both sides come to an agreement. When Amity delivered their trains of food to the city, Candor would check the inventory to make sure the numbers were right. When Dauntless disciplined violence in the projects, Candor would ensure that the soldiers were not misusing their weapons and power. When Erudite hired teachers to the schools, Candor would comb the teacher’s background and intentions for anything that might pose a risk to the students. And when Abnegation discussed the next political project, Candor would hold any deceptive word accountable.

The last one always made me uncomfortable. I didn’t like to think that an Abnegation council member would ever try to deceive anyone. Deception was always for selfish gain. That was the one thing Candor and Abnegation could agree upon. But apparently, their opinions diverged at whether or not Abnegation could be trusted.

I bit my lip and focused on watching the Candor. I followed a woman in a huge, floppy white hat for a while. I wondered what I would do with my day other than watch lawyers snack and walk their dogs. I was still tired, and in the warm soft light through my window, I began to doze off again, my eyes trailing after a group of young Candor and a Dauntless soldier.

I snapped awake.

It was Ace, escorting a few 3L students out of the Merciless Mart. The 3Ls seemed to be in high spirits and were congratulating a girl in the center, so I could only assume she had won her trial. Whatever, though. Ace was right there, and I wasn’t tired anymore, and I had a whole day ahead of me to do whatever stupid thing was on my mind.

I dressed so quickly that I almost left with the buttons of my white button-down off by one, then bounded out of my room and through the party. Aletheia didn’t even have time to give me a snide comment. The elevators were slow. I raced down the stairs.

When I reached the lobby, I almost expected to see Ace and the 3Ls to be just returning, but I wasn’t as fast as I thought I’d been. The place was empty except a student poring over a few files at a table.

“Did you see a Dauntless guard and some 3Ls come through lately?” I asked. He looked up with bloodshot eyes.

“I’ll tell you if you get me another cup,” he muttered.

That was the other thing about Candors that I had recently learned. Yes, they always told the truth. But it rarely came without stipulations.

I did as he asked and got another “cup”—an iced double-shot espresso in a can, dispensed from a vending machine on the other side of the lobby. He cracked it open, chugged half of it in one breath, and pointed me down a hallway. I thanked him and wished him luck on whatever he was studying furiously for. Then I raced off.

It’s embarrassing how long it took me to find Ace. It’s equally embarrassing that I didn’t find her; rather, we bumped into each other.

I wandered every first-floor hall of the Institute and the only traces I found of Ace’s whereabouts were a couple of the 3Ls she had been with before, but they couldn’t say where she had gone. I went so far as to wait outside the Authorized Personnel Only door for a while, but she didn’t come out of there.

After a while I gave up, got some snacks from the vending machine, and decided to do something else. I hadn’t done much exploring of the Institute. Now I had the time and the freedom.

I wandered more. I found empty classrooms and searched for lost pens to put in my chest pocket. I found the mock courtrooms and sat in different locations, pretending to be lawyer, judge, and defendant alike. I found an abandoned dusty library and climbed all of the ladders. I took the elevator to the very top of the apartment complex, then climbed a few stairs to the roof.

I knew we weren’t allowed on the roof. That was one of the many rules in our housing contracts. But I was forming a habit of not really caring where I was allowed to be. The door to the roof had a red sign reading “NO TRESPASSING” and was locked, but I had found a few paperclips on the ground, so whatever. It helped that paperclips were infinitely easier lockpicks than scarf pins.

I got the door open easily and propped it open with a brick. Then I faced the wind. There wasn’t much up here on the roof. The apartment complex was ten stories high, dwarfed in the shadow of the Merciless Mart, but still one of the tallest buildings I had ever been to the roof of. I had never minded heights. The strong wind didn’t faze me at all; the concrete wall around the perimeter of the roof was up to my chest and I knew I couldn’t fall over.

There wasn’t much to see up here, just a few piles of rubbish and construction materials. An old bench that, if you sat on it, would give you an excellent view of that concrete wall. I stood at the wall and leaned over as far as I could, looking down again at the plaza. Someone was walking a dog. Or maybe a cat. I was too high up to tell.

“Dauntless police! Hands up; back away from the wall!”

I whirled around. There was a gun pointed at me. My hands flew up over my head—in obedience, yes, but also protection—and I scrambled back. Then I looked past the gun.

“Ace?” I said.

She lowered the gun slightly but didn’t put it away. “You,” she scowled. “What are you doing up here?”

“Breaking rules, I think,” I said. “What are you doing here?” I didn’t mean to sound so indolent. Adrenaline just made me like that.

Ace’s scowl grew deeper. “None of your business,” she said. “Now tell me why you’re really up here, or I’ll take you to Morris and have him get it out of you.”

I glanced down to her jacket pocket. The corner of a brown paper bag peeked out.

“Same reason as you,” I said. “Wanted to get away for a bit.”

Her eyes narrowed. Then she put the gun in its holster.

“Keep talking,” she said, sitting on the bench. I hesitated before sitting next to her. She pulled out her lunch, consisting of a flatbread sandwich, carrots, and some apple slices. “You’ve been looking for something for an hour. I’m assuming it’s me, because you seem satisfied.”

“It was,” I said.

“Not even gonna ask how you got up here.”

“I can pick locks.”

“What kind of Stiff family teaches their kid to pick locks?”

“The strict kind, actually.”

“Figures.”

“I need to ask you something.”

She said nothing and began to eat.

“Do you know a Candor test proctor named Irene?” I asked.

She swallowed. “No shop talk,” she said. “I’m on break.”

“Wait—what?”

“Is that not obvious? I’m off the clock, I don’t want to answer work-related questions.”

I had a feeling that Ace would be a frustrating person to get to know. “Well, what counts as a work-related question?”

“Questions that have to do with you Candor.”

“Can I ask about the Dauntless?”

She frowned. It seemed to be one of her favorite things to do. “Fine.”

“Every morning at the Upper Levels building, I saw you get off the train with the Dauntless kids,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

Now she gave me a very strange look. “Do you typically watch the Dauntless train?”

“Well, if someone lands wrong, I run down to help them and then I get to miss my first few classes.”

She laughed. “Oh, that’s rich. Are you always this funny?”

“You didn’t answer me,” I told her.

The smile vanished. “Am I on trial now, Counsel?”

“Well, I didn’t think bravery was restricted to, you know, shooting guns and jumping off things.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Ace, please, I want to know.”

She looked away. Then she sighed. “I take a morning class. Civics. I, uh, never got to take it before, and my employers thought that knowing the justice system might help me do my job.”

So she really had been factionless. I averted my eyes too, staring at the wall. A time ago, someone had scratched letters into the concrete— FML. I wondered if they were initials. Or maybe something else.

“Sometimes I wish I trained the initiates,” Ace murmured. “That’s the only part of the day I look forward to. Flying with them off that train. Everything’s so simple to Dauntless kids.”

“Why didn’t you?” I asked.

Ace didn’t respond, just rubbed her forehead. Then she said, “Because normally Dauntless initiates are the ones who like to trespass, and I don’t like being a babysitter.”

Like everything she said, it was an unfriendly answer, but I caught a mischievous gleam in her eye. I beamed at her. She scowled deeper.

“There’s nothing wrong with having to take an Upper Level course,” I shrugged. “It means you’re working to better yourself. That’s worthy of respect.”

“Sure,” she scoffed, clearly not believing it. But I wasn’t going to push it. So I let it go.

She finished her lunch, crumpled the bag, and shoved it in her pocket. “Can I ask you shop talk now?” I asked.

“No,” she said, standing.

“Why not?”

“You need to get off the roof.”

I followed her. “If I get off the roof, can you tell me how you know Irene?”

“Who said I knew her at all?” Ace turned to face me. “That’s an assumption.”

Again, I was struck by how tall she was—terribly strong, like the Amazon warriors of old myths. For a moment, I cowered, unable to speak. She was right. It was a crazy assumption. Gut instinct, mostly. I had no proof that Ace knew Irene at all except scraps of evidence that could mean nothing at all. I tried to rack my brain for something that had previously escaped me, but came up blank. Ace smirked, clearly seeing something funny in the look on my face.

“That’s what I thought,” she said.

“You never said you don’t know her,” I tried.

“This isn’t a court of law, Miss Prior, and you’re not a lawyer,” said Ace. “But in case you’re still curious—” and she bent down, resting her hands on her knees, so we were eye to eye “—I don’t know Irene.”

She knew that I was reading her face. In the first week of Investigation training, Morris had started us out with the basics of lie detection. The first principle was to familiarize yourself with the subject’s body language when you knew they were telling the truth. I felt that I had a pretty good grasp of Ace’s. Typically, she was an unusual blend of relaxed and wired at the same time, with casual posture and body language, but alertness in the eyes and an indicative tension in the hands, shoulders, and legs. I looked for a deviation from what I knew. Any sort of extra fidgeting, blinking, sweat, tension in the facial muscles, or overlong stares.

But there was nothing. It was just Ace. I had never seen her face so up close before—the scar was truly terrible, an old burn that was deepest and most severe around the perimeter, with uneven pink splotches scattered across her face. I couldn’t help but wonder what had caused it.

She stood straight. She walked back to the door, leaving me to tag along helplessly in her wake. She held the door open for me, and once I was inside, she turned and locked it.

Then she pulled a little black book out of her breast pocket and wrote something. “Install… better… locks… on… roof,” she said, then looked at me.

“For now,” she said, “nobody hears about this. But if you bug me again, you bet that Morris will know you as the lockpicking Stiff.”

“Okay,” I said quietly.

We went downstairs and stopped at the elevator. Ace pressed the button for me, I got on, and she stayed outside as if to make sure the doors closed behind me. As they did, I frowned, then smiled wryly.

“The lockpicking Stiff. Got a nice ring to it,” I said.

“That’s not the takeaway from this conversation,” Ace snapped, but it was too late. The doors closed and I was out of her reach.