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She gives me the bird It’s tiny, sculpted out of hted and earthy in reen silk, only cover the wings

"It’s beautiful," I say "The feathers--are they--"

"From the square of silk the Society sent o," she says "I didn’t think I needed it anyreen, too

"Don’t hold the bird too tightly," she says, "it ht cut you," and then she pulls me out from under the tree’s shadow, and the parts of the bird that aren’t feathered turn starry They glitter in the sun

"I had to break the glass to get the silk out," she says, "so I thought I ht as well use it I crushed it, and then, when I’d made the bird, I rolled it in the pieces They were almost as s siave Ky the piece of my dress I remember clearly the clean snap when I broke the scrap free

The bird shilass, feathers of silk

It looks so close to living that I have a e to toss it to the sky, to see if it will take wing But I knoill hear only the thud of clay and see the scatter of green when it hits the ground, the shape thatdestroyed So I hold it carefully and let this knowledge rise within

I a

The Society took so much from us, but we still hear rumors of music, hints of poetry; we still see intimations of art in the world around us They never did keep us fro, and many still ache for a way to let it out

I realize all over again that we don’t need to trade our art--we could give, or share So Even if we took nothing aould all havetrue

The breeze dances the bird’s green feathers "It’s too beautiful," I say, "to keep to myself"

"That’s how I felt about your poeerly "I wanted to show it to everyone"

"What if we had a way to do that?" I ask "What if we could gather together, and everyone could bring what they’d made?"

Where?

The Museum is the first place that comes to mind, and I turn and look at its boarded-up doors If we could find a way inside, the Museuhts They are broken, but perhaps we could repair the open a door to one of the cases and pinningback to look

A little shiver goes through me No That’s not the place

I turn back and the girl watches"I’m Dalton Fuller," she says

We’re not supposed to give our na "My name is Cassia Reyes," I tell her

"I know," Dalton says "You signed it on the poem you wrote" She pauses "I think I have a place that ork"

"No one comes here," she tells et better"

We stand at the edge of the h away that we can only see the shore, not what ht be washed up on it

I’ve wondered about those dead fish buainst the dock, my shins, my hands--was it a last-ditch effort on the Society’s part to poison more water, the way they did in the Outer Provinces and in Ene like that to their own lake?

As the Rising has cured the Plague, they’vethe pieces of the barricade back up into the sky, pulling the other pieces in s that were once within the barricade are now back outside of it

The Rising brings the unused pieces of the barricade out to this vacant ground near the lake Taken apart, the white pieces of the wall look like art in the and enors and then turned to round and then turned to stone They are a canyon shattered, with spaces to walk between

"I’ve seen this from up on the air-train stops," I say, "but I didn’t knohat it looked like up close"

In one place they’ve dropped two pieces closer together than the others The pieces for toward each other, but notat the top I walk inside and the space underneath is cool and a little bit dark, with a neat line of blue sky streaainst a piece of the barricade and look up

"Rain will still get in," Dalton says "But it’s sheltered enough that I think it would work"

"We could put the pictures and poems on the walls," I say, and she nods "And build sos like your bird"

And if so, they could coiningthe walls and out over the ruined, lonely lake

I know I need to keep trading to get to , but this also feels like so I have to do I think Grandfather would understand

PART THREE