Reached

Plague?
    Another memory comes to the surface, tugged by this one.
     
    I Matched another time, in Central.
     
    That’s what happened that day when I found the paper where I’d written a single word—
remember—
in my sleeve. The Society was having trouble because of the Plague; they couldn’t keep up with the people going still
.
How long did the Society use people like me to sort for the Banquets and then give us the red tablets so that we’d forget the rush, the eleventh-hour aspect of it all?
    My Official didn’t know who put Ky into the Matching pool.
    But I do know that part of it. At least, I can sort through the data and guess.
    It was me.
    I put him in without knowing what I was doing. And then someone—myself, or one of the others in the room—paired him, and Xander, with me.
    Did my Official ever find out? Could she have predicted this as the final outcome? Did she even survive the Plague and the mutation?
    Out of all the people in the Society, were Ky and Xander really the two I fit best with? Wouldn’t the Society have noticed that I had two Matches, or have some fail-safe to catch such an occurrence? Or did the Society not even have a procedure in place for something like that, believing that it would never happen, trusting in their own data and their belief that there could be only
one
perfect Match for each person?
    So many questions, and I may never have the answers.

    I don’t want to ask too much of my mother, now that she’s just come back, but she is strong. So was my father. I realize now how much courage it takes to choose the life you want, whatever it might be.
    “Grandfather,” I say. “He was a member of the Rising. He stole from the Society.”
    My mother takes the plant from me and nods. “Yes,” she says. “He took artifacts from the Restoration sites where he worked. But he didn’t steal from the Society on behalf of the Rising. That was his own personal mission.”
    “Was he an Archivist?” I ask, my heart sinking.
    “No,” my mother says, “but he did trade with them.”
    “Why?” I ask. “What did he want?”
    “Nothing for himself,” my mother says. “He traded to arrange for passage for Anomalies and Aberrations out of the Provinces.”
    No wonder Grandfather seemed so surprised when I told him about the microcard and how I’d been Matched with an Aberration. He hoped they’d all been saved.
    The irony is impossible to ignore. Grandfather was trying to help those people by getting them
out
of the Society; I sorted them
in
to the Matching pool
.
We both thought we were doing the right thing.
    The Society and the Rising used me when they needed me, dropped me when they didn’t. But Grandfather
always
knew I was strong, always believed in me. He believed I could go without the green tablet, that I could get my memories back from the red. I wonder what he’d think if he knew that I also walked through the blue.

CHAPTER 57
    KY
    W e have a lead,” the Pilot says.
    I don’t need to ask
On what?
The lead is always for the same thing—a potential location for the flower that provides the cure.
    “Where?” I ask.
    “I’m sending you the coordinates now,” the Pilot says. The printer on my control panel begins spitting out information. “It’s a small town in Sonoma.”
    That’s the Province where Indie was from. “Is it near the sea?” I ask.
    “No,” the Pilot says, “the desert. But our source was sure of the location. She remembered the name of the town.”
    “And the source of the information . . .” I say, though I think I already know.
    “Cassia’s mother,” the Pilot says. “She came back.”

    As I fly in from the east, I see a long stretch of fields, away from the city, where the earth is all turned over. It’s morning. There is dew on the dirt of the fields, so they shine a little like a sea when the sun hits just right.
    Don’t get your hopes up,
I tell myself.
We’ve thought we had curefields before, and then there were only a few flowers.
    The lines from the Thomas poem come to my mind:
     
    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
     
    This might be the last wave by, the last chance we have to cure a significant amount of people before they go too far under. These deeds—our flying, Cassia’s sorting, Xander’s curing—will either be frail or bright.
    Two ships sit near the field.
    On the outside, I don’t