We went stumbling out of the building, almost blinded by tears and terror. I did not see the mirrored hall or the doorman. I could not see anything but the still, white face of Ethan’s father until we burst out into the streets and found them alive with light.
It seemed an optical illusion at first, born of our dazed and dazzled brains. Then we realized what was happening—the setting sun was aligned with the pattern of our city’s streets, turning each one into a comet’s tail. The air above the sun was illuminated, golden crowns on the tops of every tower. Each street became a different glittering ray. Points of light hit window glass and turned into tiny sunbursts themselves, and the whole bustling human city transformed into something glorious.
It seemed as if we could walk up a shining path to the very heart of the sun and be wrapped in warmth so intense, we would forget what it was like to feel the cold of knives or dead hands, and have our eyes so filled with light that we would never see anything dark again.
Manhattanhenge happened twice a year, once before and once after the summer solstice, the streets aligning perfectly with the rays of the setting sun. It had come even in the old days of our city.
Now that light meant so much to us, an unclouded Manhattanhenge sunset was almost sacred. I saw people wandering out into the orange-painted streets under a honey-bright sky, their rings ablaze and their faces radiant. I wanted to run, to escape by any means necessary, but there was nowhere to run to. Death waited in both the light and the dark.
We stood in the street for a long time. The light drained slowly out of our city and the night came, and with it Mark Stryker and his guards, attracting attention to us at last. Then came the snapping lights and snapped questions of the press, the throng of people who were curious and surprised and whose murmurs seemed vaguely threatening. I thought I saw a group of people who were armed, but I did not know if the weapons were for attack or defense. The crowd hung back on the other side of the street in a purposeless way that seemed as if it might explode into purposeful violence at any moment, and yet never did. I saw a few people looking from me to Ethan, and their looks were not friendly.
“Maybe we should go to my place,” I whispered to Ethan.
Ethan had seen the glances too. His face was white, but his lips were set in a determined line. “I can’t go. This is all my fault. I have to see them—bring him out. I have to see. You should go, Lucie. I don’t want you involved in this.”
“When will you get it?” I whispered. “If you’re in, I’m in.”
He looked even more distressed by that. I felt as if nothing I could do would comfort him.
A commotion broke out in the back of the crowd: people pushing against guards in a way they would never have done before the cages fell. I saw the Light guards’ flashing swords, and I saw ordinary knives as well. I did not hear the commotion long—the Light guards crushed it efficiently. I wondered how many more people in the crowd might rise up. I wondered how many people were going to die tonight.
I still could not leave Ethan.
We all waited, strangers and family, and at last we saw Ethan’s father brought out. The black car that carried Charles Stryker’s body away drove off with a furious rattle, as if it were charging at an enemy.
There was nobody left alive on earth who loved Ethan but me.
I knew who had reason to hate the Strykers. I knew who could have walked past the doorman without a soul questioning him because he wore Ethan’s face and no collar.
I knew Carwyn had done this, and I was the one who had let him loose.
We were allowed back into the Strykers’ apartment, though Charles Stryker’s room was sealed off. I did not leave Ethan through all that long, dark night. I was with him when the light returned and Mark Stryker with it. The morning dawned pale and sickly. All the faces around me looked the same, worn down by sleeplessness and the camera flashes that felt like tiny strikes of lightning.
Jim had come in and gone to sleep on the sofa beside us, while Ethan had sat pale and tense all night, his eyes wide but blank, seeing nothing. The only sign of awareness of the outside world that he gave was the tight grip he kept on my hand.
Ethan grieved, Jim slept, and I waited.
When Mark came in, I was reminded that Charles’s face had looked like a mask, because I saw Mark’s mask slip away. Mark looked tired but noble, grieving but patient, and then the door of his home shut behind him.
The mask dropped. His face fell into a different expression, closed off and betraying nothing but impatience. I did not think there was much else to betray. There were small, straight lines bracketing his mouth, nose, and eyes that told the story of his character to me, that gave an air of cruelty to his stern, handsome face already. But it would be years, I thought, before the lines became so pronounced that nobody would be able to look on his face and find it possible to trust him.