Ignited (8 page)

Although he looked skeptical, Arnold nodded slowly. “All right. Fine.” He turned to Ruth and grabbed her shoulders. He stared straight into her eyes. She hoped he couldn’t read anything in them. “Will you be okay here by yourself? Do you think your dad will mind?”

She knew the right answer, but she shook her head no anyway. “There are a lot of people here. I’m sure he wouldn’t care.”

He nodded and then took a step back. He kept his gaze on her as he walked out of the room.

As soon as he disappeared, Briar snorted. “Thank goodness. Why on earth did you bring
him
?”

“Did you just …?” Ruth gaped at Briar.

Briar had tricked Arnold into going away—and for what reason? She felt trapped, suddenly. She hadn’t wanted to spend the evening with Arnold, not really, but he was familiar and normal and expected. Now she was surrounded by people who were spending their time trying to fix a mess caused by people like
her
—and how was she supposed to keep a straight face while volunteering here? What if she talked to someone she shouldn’t, or what if she ….

Why was it so
hot
in here?

Ruth could feel her blood running in her veins, could feel her face heating up. Her chest tightened until it was difficult to breathe. She reached up and pressed her hand to her face, gasping, and tried to push her hair back behind her ears.

The strand sizzled and came away in her hand.

For a brief moment, Ruth didn’t understand. The confusion acted like a cold cloth and dampened the fire in her bones. How could she have done this to her own hair?

It hit her all at once. At one end, the hair was burned. Singed.

Ruth’s head snapped up and her heart sank. Briar was gaping at her.

“Come on,” Briar hissed, reaching out to grab Ruth’s sleeve and drag her out of the room. She led Ruth down a series of twisting corridors, never hesitating to glance behind them. Their footsteps echoed against the stone of the empty hallways.

Briar stopped abruptly in front of one of the doors, turning the handle. She breathed a sigh of relief when it swung open and then pulled Ruth inside behind her. When she hit the light switch, Ruth could see child-like recreations of Jesus, the twelve disciples, and Bible verses written out in uneven script.

Why had Briar brought her to the Sunday school room?

“Patrice makes me volunteer here twice a month. It’s a good excuse to roam the building when I’m supposed to be polishing pews,” Briar said, dropping her grip on Ruth’s cardigan. She walked to a chest in the corner and fell to her knees, pawing through it.

“What are you doing?” Ruth whispered urgently.

“Craft supplies used to be right—a ha!”

When she looked back at Ruth, she was brandishing a pair of scissors.

Ruth took a step away. “What are
those
for?”

“You singed off too much hair for you to hide until it grows out again. You’re better off if we even everything up, make it one length. I know these,” she snapped the scissors open and closed, “aren’t ideal, but it’ll hide everything until you can go home and neaten yourself up.”

At the word “singed,” Ruth’s breath caught. Briar had seen everything, Briar
knew
—

What if she told?

Ruth reached up to touch her hair before remembering that was how she’d gotten into this mess in the first place. She put her hand back at her side and chewed her lip, thinking.

“I don’t know what you think you saw—”

“Ruth.” Briar got to her feet and walked forward, calm and measured. When she was close enough, she caught Ruth’s eyes and held them. She didn’t look disgusted or angry. She looked … sympathetic. “I already know the truth.” 

Her father had never taught her that just anyone could have compassion. He’d always insisted that only the faithful had it—and when he said “faithful,” he meant
his
followers. But it clearly wasn’t true because here was Briar Steele, helping her in a crisis.

What did it mean that he was so wrong?

“I saw what happened, and I’m just—I’m trying to help.” She held out the scissors, the bright red handle garish against her pale skin. “You can do it yourself, if you want, though it’ll be neater if I help.”

“I need to see it. My hair, I mean. The damage I did,” Ruth stuttered.

Briar nodded toward the hallway. “The restroom’s next door. We can cut your hair in there and wash it down the drain. No one who didn’t notice you when you got here will ever know.”

Arnold would definitely notice. As Ruth followed Briar out into the hallway and into the bathroom next door, she thought of his reaction. He would tell her father—not that the man wouldn’t see the evidence of any haircut for himself. But he’d see the cut as an act of rebellion, and it would be
years
before Ruth was allowed out again, and—

—and she
wanted
to go out again. She wanted to see June without the guilt, and to attend fundraisers without worrying about Arnold’s behavior, and she wanted all of it
and
to feel at peace with God, as well.

Was it even possible? Her powers were proof that it wasn’t ….

Weren’t they?

Ruth caught her reflection in the mirror. A large hank of her hair was missing just below her shoulder, right at the front of her head. It was obvious and ugly, since the rest of her hair fell to her waist. The ends were burned black and felt crumbly when she touched them. There was no hiding it. It was too short to pull back, too close to the front to blend in behind her ear.

Briar was right. It would be better just to trim it in total, even things out, and make up an excuse.

Briar was still holding the scissors in her hands, watching Ruth carefully. Ruth studied the girl’s reflection in the mirror. Her father had been wrong about her. She was kind. Maybe not truthful all the time, but who was?

Mistaking her silence for hesitance, Briar insisted, “It’ll still be plenty long. It’ll go to your shoulders.”

Ruth nodded. “Okay.”

She rolled back her shoulders, standing as tall as she could. She was still inches shorter than Briar, who leaned forward and made the first
snip.
A lock of hair fluttered downward into the sink, standing out dark against the porcelain.

Ruth felt a spasm of guilt, but it passed quickly.

The scissors closed again and again around Ruth’s head, and she closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch the damage happen. It was silly, maybe, but she’d always been taught there was godliness in having long hair. It hurt to let that part of herself go.

She needed to distract herself.

“Briar,” she said, interrupting the silence. “I wanted to thank you for the fabric you gave me. I appreciate it, I really do, but I just can’t keep it. It wouldn’t be right.”

There was a snort behind her. “I didn’t buy that for you.”

“What?” Ruth opened her eyes, tried to turn, but Briar frowned and put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her still. A glimpse showed her hair was two different lengths, the shorter half with jagged edges, and she shuttered her eyes again, unable to take it. “You had to have done it. There was no one else—”

“I really didn’t. Dr. Porter did.”

Ruth froze. That couldn’t possibly be true.

All of a sudden, her fantasy came flooding back to her. The strong arms around her as she washed the dishes, his voice deep in her ear, the feel of him pressed close to her, all of his front to all of her back.

She shuddered, pulled herself out of the daydream. She couldn’t think about that, not
now
.

Despite the fact that she hadn’t said anything, Briar seemed to sense her disbelief. “No, really. He did. I helped him pick out the colors, but that’s about it. He felt responsible, since your father reacted the way he did after he saw the two of you talking.” 

“But …,” Ruth’s voice trailed off. She thought of the bruise on her arm, that had only completely faded the day before. Hadn’t that been because she asked for new fabric?

Had it been because of Dr. Porter? Had her father seen something …?

Before she could process it any more, Briar said, “Hold still, I’m nearly finished.”

The scissors snipped furiously in Ruth’s ear and then abruptly stopped.

“There.”

Ruth opened her eyes, blinking.

Her hair was curlier, now that the length was no longer weighing it down. It framed her face, rather than hiding it. She looked mature, more like a woman than a girl. The ends needed to be evened up a bit—they’d been shorn off using craft scissors, after all—but the curl hid most of the unevenness.

Briar grinned at Ruth. “Well?”

Ruth looked up at Briar. Even though she suspected she already knew the answer, she felt compelled to ask. “You’re not going to tell, are you?”

“Even if I did,” Briar said, a faintly bitter smile twisting the corner of her mouth. “Who would believe me?”

The words were not comforting, and that must have shown on Ruth’s face, because Briar continued, “I wouldn’t do that to you, Ruth. You have just as much a right to privacy as anyone else. Now,” she motioned toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

The girl in the reflection barely resembled Ruth at all. It was hard to remember why that was a bad thing. 

“It looks wonderful,” she said, smiling at Briar. “Thank you.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Henry

Henry walked toward the large church in the center of town, hands shoved in his pockets. During his lunch break earlier in the day, Patrice had cornered him and refused to let him leave the kitchen until she’d extracted a promise that he would volunteer at that evening’s fundraiser. “You ought to spend some time out of that clinic with someone other than your mother or grandfather,” she’d told him, laying the guilt on thick.

It wasn’t that he minded volunteering—Henry liked helping people, or he wouldn’t have become a doctor. But it had already been a long week, and the weekend was still a day away. He felt liable to drop at any time. Since Monday, he’d spent every spare moment—including some not spare ones, which had cost him a lot of sleep—pouring over the medical files for every person on record in the filing cabinet. So far, the only thing he was certain of was that this BBC thing was definitely only affecting those who had fallen the most ill after the fog.

Nothing made sense. If his grandfather had discovered this abnormality in the blood, if he was
testing
for it—then it had to mean something. It was likely linked to the powers. Even if Henry had not been allowed to do any of the follow-ups, he had been there to help treat patients, all those weeks ago. He could help do
something
, at least!

Why was he being kept outside of this?

His head was so cluttered with thoughts that he barely heard the shouts and jeers behind him.

He turned to see Lucy Roberts stalking down the road, going the opposite direction. Her powers had only just revealed themselves the other day, or so he’d heard Patrice and Mrs. McClure gossiping. He couldn’t remember what they were supposed to be.

Lucy’s arms tucked tightly around herself, her head down. She had always seemed like a nice girl. Henry didn’t know her well, but the few times they had spoken, she’d been polite and sweet. She was girly, forever devoted to her saddle shoes and poodle skirts, and her hair was in a neat ponytail with a single curl. He’d heard something about her breaking off an engagement a few months earlier, which had surprised him. She had a reputation for being on the lookout for a husband. Still, she had never been anything but kind to him.

A few steps behind her was a group of local boys. They were teens, a bit too young for Henry to know them by name, although he recognized their faces.

“Hey, freak!” One of the boys yelled, kicking a rock so that it hit the back of Lucy’s calf. She winced but kept walking. “Come back here, I’m talking to you!”

Lucy stomped onward. She didn’t seem to have noticed Henry yet.

“Aw, don’t be like that, sweetheart. We just wanna see you do your little tricks!” Another one called out. “I bet you know how to do all sorts of things, don’t you?”

That was too far. Henry rushed over and moved between Lucy and the boys, who seemed surprised to see him. They banded closer together, took a collective step back.

“That’s enough,” Henry said. He sounded stiff and cold, even to his own ears. “If I ever catch you boys bothering Lucy again, I’m going to get the police.”

The tallest boy scowled. He had an ugly expression on his face—Henry tried to place him, but the only thing he could think was that this young man was the second coming of Butch Murphy.

“We weren’t doing nothing to her,” he protested. “She’s a freak, anyway.”

“You’re harassing her.” Henry glared at them. “There’s nothing wrong with the young people in this town who have developed powers, but I can’t say as much for you.”

The boys backed away, and as Henry turned, he was positive they were flipping him the bird behind his back. He didn’t care, so long as Lucy was safe.

“Are you okay?” he asked, taking a few steps closer.

Lucy was still standing with her arms wrapped around herself like armor, but she nodded tentatively. “You didn’t have to do that,” she told him, scuffing one of her saddles shoes on the ground. “They wouldn’t have done anything.”

“They were doing something wrong simply by hassling you.” He reached out to touch her elbow and winced when she stepped back. “Would you like me to walk you home?” It was in the opposite direction from the church, but he’d worry less if he knew she got home safe.

There was a long pause, and then Lucy nodded tentatively. “If it isn’t too much trouble. They followed me all the way from the general store, and I—” She shuddered. “I don’t understand. I don’t even
use
my powers.”

Henry joined her, and they walked down the road toward Aspenwood. “I only just heard you had them.”

Lucy shrugged. “I don’t advertise it much. I don’t see the point, really. It’s not like being able to move stuff with my mind has anything to do with what I have planned for my life.”