Broken Truce (Broken City, #2)

It feels strange to see her like this, to know that soon she will be a mother. She is, after all, my little sister: I held her as a newborn, taught her to tie her shoelaces, read to her, comforted her and looked after her. Despite the fact that I have often seen her as the wisest of us three sisters, she is still the baby of the family. To think of her as a wife and mother is taking some getting used to.

I often find myself wondering over the changes that have occurred to us in these last months, just a year ago we had no idea that Tom was Andak. Our lives were contained in the Clark compound: sheltered, reclusive, ignorant of so much that was happening in the City.  Is it wrong of me to nurse a secret wish that in some ways it was still like that?

Maybe it is wrong, perhaps even selfish.

It’s just that before I had a hazy knowledge of the dangers, but now I know those dangers well. More importantly, I know that Tom faces them almost every day, and that scares me so badly I can’t even put my dread into words.

Tom laughs when I tell him my worries; he pats my cheek, and smiles at my fears as though they are groundless.

 But they aren’t groundless, and we both know it.

I settle into a chair up at the island in the middle of the kitchen, and watch as Jan examines the contents of the fridge. One hand is on her hip, pulling the fabric of her pajama top into the curve of her waist. Her other hand taps out a thoughtful rhythm on the door.

I don’t really know why she’s hesitating. I already know that she’ll have eggs: fried, scrambled, poached or made into an omelet. She’s had an insatiable craving for them ever since she became pregnant. She bends forward and, sure enough, emerges from the fridge with two eggs.

“Do you want some, Deet?”

I feel my stomach heave; I can never manage to force food down when Tom is ‘out’.

“I’m fine thanks.”

Jan shakes her head.

“You didn’t eat any dinner.”

“Yes I did!”

Jan raises an eyebrow sardonically, an infuriating habit she’s picked up from her husband.

“Pushing food around your plate for half an hour does not count, Deet.”

“Don’t you dare practice your mummy voice on me, Jan.”

“I was born with a mummy voice, Deeta, I don’t need to practice!”

I laugh, shaking my head. Folding my arms on the work surface, I watch as she puts butter into a pan and cracks the two eggs. For a while neither of us speaks, but watch silently as the egg white bubbles and starts to crisp.

“He’ll be okay Deet.” Jan’s voice is soft.

How many times has she said those words to me?

A hundred?

A thousand times?

I want to believe it, I want to let the fear go, to believe that I will never kiss him goodbye and have him disappear from my life forever.

Yet it won’t go away; I carry this horrible weight of terror that haunts me, giving me no peace when Tom is not by my side.

This isn’t how I expected being married would be.

In a way its better, the joy of being with Tom is beyond anything I’d ever imagined. The thrill of just being together is so new and strange to me. Tom and I have known each other for so long, he has been an integral part of my day to day life from my earliest memories, and yet this is different: sweeter, warmer and so wonderfully safe.