If small talk gets rid of the suffocating awkwardness that’s sprung up between us since the discovery, then it’s most welcome. Anything to make this situation less uncomfortable. The confusion I’ve felt since is beyond exhausting.
“Yes . . . from Kabul. Hence the sub’s name.”
He nods. “I like the name.”
I think for a while, then continue. “Papa’s also of Afghan descent, but he was born here. Mama came here in her late teens, fell in love with Papa, and stayed.” I realize I’m smiling for the first time in what seems like forever.
His expression warms as he watches me. And I know the answer to the question he asked me yesterday: I’m not afraid of him. Even though it goes against everything—because how can I not be afraid of an Anthropoid? But I’m not afraid of Ari.
Should I be, though? Everything the Anthropoid Watch Council has ever said about them says I ought to be terrified of him.
But . . . he put himself at risk, on full display as an Anthropoid, to free the sub so we could escape the attack. Escape the Blackwatch.
What might’ve happened if he’d put himself before me? If he’d refused to enter the water so his identity could remain secret? I shudder at the thought.
He also had the chance to just swim away from it all, but he stayed. It stayed? Color floods my cheeks as my use of it to refer to Anthropoids hits me. I might not understand much else right now, but I do know Ari is very definitely not an it.
“You’re a Muslim,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. “My granddad was a Muslim; he was Mauritian.”
Mauritian. I did wonder about his skin tone. And a Muslim in his family! “Yes. Are you religious in any way?”
I know that even among religious people—and much to the
government’s disappointment—opinions regarding Anthropoids and religion are split. Many religious leaders insist that despite their evil characteristics, the Anthropoids are human beings in the eyes of God and therefore can be saved from . . . their barbaric ways.
I gulp; why am I thinking about this now, dammit.
He shrugs. “Mum and Dad are agnostic, and I . . . I guess I am too.”
“I see. Have you always lived in the Faroe Islands?”
He seems taken aback whenever I ask him something. He stares intently at me now before lowering his gaze and rubbing the back of his neck. Why? What did I say?
We are silent again for several moments. I can feel Ari’s gaze fall on me once more, but I can’t bring myself to meet it. Is there any point to all this? Will I ever see him as human?
He clears his throat and his voice is low, his words slower than usual. “My parents lived in London, years ago, before they had us, but then moved to the Faroe Islands.”
“I see. And ‘us’?”
Again, he flashes the same wary look; he’s uncomfortable talking about his life. Why?
“Me and Freya, my little sister.”
So Freya—who he called out to in his nightmare—is his sister.
“You don’t like me asking you any personal questions, do you?”
He chews slowly as he contemplates the question. “I’ve never been asked a personal question by your kind before,” he finally says.
Oh. So that’s why all the hesitance.
He tilts his head in consideration then. “The name McQueen?”
“That’s due to my great-grandpa Kasim—Papa’s American grandfather. In Papa’s family, future generations carry the paternal surname, and so we’re the McQueens.”
He nods. “Have you been to Afghanistan?”
“No. Papa said we’re going to go one day, inshallah. He’s been several times since he and Mama married. I have grandparents and cousins who I’ve never met in person. I want to see Mama’s home. Afghanistan’s rolling hills and old riverbeds are covered with kelp forest, and the mountain ranges, wow—just imagine driving through them. Now that I’ve finally left London, I want to go everywhere. One day I’ll race around all the biggest mountains in the whole world. And through the Grand Canyon in America—even though it has Old World Heritage Status, so it’s illegal to visit the site. My mate in New York’s done it twice and always taunts me. And I know I can beat his time.” Please, God, stop me talking.
There’s a tug at the corners of his mouth. “I think you could beat him, yes. You—you speak of the future.” A hint of wonder surfaces in his gaze, brightening his eyes further.
“Well, of course . . .” Don’t you?
He looks away, his brow furrowed. His jaw clenches and a hard expression breaks through. He stays quiet.
Oscar appears, straightening a flower in the pocket of his coat and breaking the sudden, awkward silence. “My lady, are we to continue on during the night, or would you prefer I establish a safe location where the Kabul may remain stationary until the morning?”
I clear my throat. “Stationary, please.”
Oscar adjusts the satin cravat around his neck. He inclines his head as he looks on us both. “Ah, who, being loved, is poor?”
Heat burns through me. I clench my jaw and stare at the Navigator. If only you could tase a hologram. He simply smiles back.
“Oscar, you misunderstand. But that’s all right.”
He raises his eyebrows and waves his hand in the air. “My dear, women are meant to be loved, not understood.”
Argh! “That will be all, thank you.”
He finally bloody disappears.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Ari. “He says the daftest things sometimes. It’s maddening.”
Ari’s lips twitch. “I like him.”
My mouth falls open. He actually likes someone!
He shifts, indicating the fried flatbreads. “So, what are these?”
“It’s called a paratha. These ones have a cheese stuffing.”
He raises his eyebrows and tries a piece, nodding in appreciation as he scarfs the food down. Thank goodness he eats normally. I’d hate to look greedy, even though I am.
“And these?” He inspects the kulche ab-e-dandaan.
“Dessert. Melt-in-your-mouth almond biscuits—utterly yummy. Try them.”
Ari takes a bite and proceeds to stuff the whole biscuit into his mouth. I realize I’m staring at him. And he’s staring right back.
He smiles hesitantly, and oh my—his whole face changes. All the sharp edges, the hardness, the fixed suspicion, it all slips away. Everything about him is soft, gentle.
Except Anthropoids are neither soft nor gentle.
I dip my head, my hair hiding my face, and continue to eat, deep in thought.
We chat as we sip cups of kahwah afterward.
He rests his gaze on me. “Are you feeling better? Your wounds, do they still hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
His face darkens.
I shrug. “The main thing is, we survived it.”
His eyes shimmer as he stares at me. I try not to stare back, but it’s impossible. Neither of us speaks. I actually do not know what to say. Or what I even want to say.
And then the muted news screen behind Ari flickers, catching my eye.
I leap up, staring at the image. It’s Camilla Maxwell, the chief
historian’s daughter. What has she done? I command the soothing music off and the volume for the news on.