Taken (Erin Bowman)

concealing the lake from view, Emma grabs my arm and pulls me to a standstill.
    “This way,” she says, motioning to our right.
    “But it’s straight ahead. On the other side of this brush.”
    “I know, but the view’s better if you climb the hill.”
    “View? There’s no view.”
    “Trust, Gray. Have trust.” And then without waiting to see if I follow, she starts cutting through the trees and brush, no path to guide her. She holds her dress up about her knees, and I stare at her legs as she steps over fallen logs and rocks in our path. We move slowly and up a steady incline. Maybe there will be a view after all.
    When we break loose from the trees, I’m nearly speechless. We are standing on a hill that overlooks the water. From this angle it appears rather small and narrow, its thinness stretching out of view beyond another crest in the land. Surrounding us are the bellflowers, tall, thick stems that grow higher than my waist. Delicate purple petals hang from each, grouped together and dancing in the soft breeze. The southernmost portion of the Wall is barely visible in the distance.
    Emma leads us into the field and toward a lone rock that sits on the hillside. The purple flowers nearly reach her shoulders, but she climbs out of their grasp.
    “I used to come here with my uncle,” she tells me as we get comfortable on the stone. “Almost daily. At least until . . . you know. I was nine when he was lost. I haven’t been back in years.”
    “It’s beautiful from up here,” I say. “And, to be fair, it seems much smaller from this angle. I can almost understand why you called it a pond.”
    “See?”
    “Yeah, well, it’s still a lake. I’m just trying to be nice.”
    She sighs. “Ah, yes. That must be difficult for you.”
    “You know, despite what you might think, I’m not a mean person.”
    “What you did to Chalice wasn’t mean?”
    “That’s different.”
    “It was still mean.”
    “Okay, fine. I’m not inherently a mean person.”
    “I’ll give you that for now.” She plucks a clump of grass and sprinkles it into the breeze.
    “So why’d you do it?” she asks, looking at me. “Why were you honest about the matchup?”
    I’m not quite sure how to answer the question. There are explanations on many levels. I don’t want to be a father. I hate the formality of slatings. I want her, but not if it’s forced.
    “You were being honest, right?” she asks. “You’re not going to try to attack me later or something are you? I’m stronger than I look. Everyone always thinks I’m this kind, caring thing, because of my healing hands, but I can be forceful if I need to.”
    “So I’ve heard.” I chuckle. “And, yes, I was being honest.”
    She gives me that look again, the same one from the Clinic.
    I still can’t read it.
    “I hate the slatings,” she says.
    “Me, too.”
    “How many have you gone through with?”
    “You don’t want to know.” I can count them on two hands and even though it’s been a long time since I’ve slept with anyone, the number is still more than I want to admit to her. “You?”
    “Just one.” So the rumors are wrong. “You remember Craw Phoenix?” she asks.
    I nod. He was lost to the Heist about a year and a half ago.
    “I liked him,” she continues. “And I mean really liked him. It was so nice for that month, and for some reason I thought it would last and we’d have something. I don’t know what. It was stupid, really. I wanted to continue slatings with him, but I guess the feeling wasn’t mutual. Two weeks later he was seeing Sasha Quarters, and then he was gone completely.”
    “We’re all gone eventually,” I say. “That’s half the reason I hate it, too. I don’t see the point of the scheduling and the moving around. I only have ’til I’m eighteen. I’d rather find something good, something comfortable, and stay in it.”
    She gives me a half smile. “You mean be with one person? Like, beyond the duration of the slating?”
    “Forget the slating. Pretend there’s no slating and there’s no rules and there’s no Claysoot and then, yes, one person. Forever. Is that weird?”
    It’s quiet for a moment. I know it’s an odd question, completely hypothetical and outlandish, and for a second I think she’s going to laugh at me.
    “You know, some hawks mate for life.” She bites her lip and looks back out over the water. It’s a ripple of icy silver in the earth, the valley bleeding blue into its