Page 40 of The Sixth Fraction

I’m not sure I like how she says Evelyn’s name, with such awe. I can’t quite forget that I saw Evelyn holding a gun outside the Choosing Ceremony right after Robert was shot. That she pointed it right at me.

“The second rule?” I say.

“ ‘Make yourself useful.’ Everyone can do something, and no one’s allowed to do nothing.”

She beckons for me to follow her up the grand staircase in the middle of the lobby. The sun is climbing, refracting through the panes of glass above us like they’re a prism.

“Third rule, and most important, is ‘no factions,’ ” Rory says. “It’s more philosophical than the others. It means, learn to let the old system go. Try to stop putting everyone you see in categories.”

I nod, but what I’m really thinking is that I’m standing in a faction headquarters—a sixth faction, hidden from the others, and the virtue it wraps itself around is “no factions.”

Rory continues: “And in the spirit of ‘no factions’ . . . I’m taking you to the Mender.”

She ushers me toward the stairs. I skim the gold inlay in the walls with my fingertips as we pass it. It’s metal, not paint, shiny in some places and dull in others.

“The Mender?” I say.

“Yeah. You can’t walk around looking like that.”

One of the rooms on the second floor is an eruption of fabric. Racks of clothes line the walls all the way up to the ceiling, their fabrics in every possible shade, not just the faction colors. There are shoes lined up neatly around the edge of the room, mostly work boots, but I spot a few impractical pairs, too—heeled, pointed, and polished.

In the center of the space is a worktable, with a foot-powered sewing machine on top of it and countless other tools used to stitch, embroider, and alter.

Standing at the worktable is a man. He’s taller than any man I’ve ever met, and thin as a rail. All of his clothes are the same shade of deep plum, his jacket sleeves and vest embroidered with muted gold flowers. There’s a gold ring on every one of his fingers.

Across from him is a little girl with a book propped up in front of her. She has the same dark hair and bright clothes as the Mender.

“Mender, this is Tris. She’s a new stray in desperate need of help.”

The Mender glances at me. “Yes, I can see that.”

Rory yawns. “Send her to me when you’re done, okay? Pretty sure an Abnegation girl knows how to stir oatmeal.”

If she only knew.

Then Rory is gone. Even though she’s basically a stranger, I still feel the absence of her like a missing handrail on a staircase.

“Your name is Tris?” the little girl at the table says. “I’m Mae. I’m his little sister.” She points at the Mender. “You look sad. Doesn’t she look sad?”

“If she is, you pointing it out is probably not helpful,” the Mender says. “Didn’t your teacher say you have to finish that book by the end of the day?”

Her teacher?

There’s a system for adoption in the city, run through Abnegation headquarters. Factionless children move through that system, housed for a few weeks with members of Abnegation and then placed elsewhere. Everyone always made it sound like all factionless children went through that process, but I guess they don’t. I guess some of them just stay factionless. And someone has to teach them.

I suddenly feel like I need to sit down. I spent last night half awake, worried that the hard ground and the cold were going to be my companions for the rest of my life. And now I’m in a glass jewel, discovering some kind of hidden city I never knew existed.

Mae sticks out her tongue at the Mender but focuses on her book again.

“Rude though it was, her point stands,” the Mender says to me. “You came from Abnegation, so I know you didn’t fail your initiation. Which means you chose this. So buck up, Tris.” He gives me a smile like a flickering light, gone and then here and then gone. “Maybe it’s just all the gray. I can help with that.”

He gestures to the clothes all around him. I look down at my gray pants, gray shirt buttoned up to the throat, gray jacket, gray slippers. Pins pinch the back of my scalp where my hair is still pulled back and tucked away.

I’m not sure why I feel such dread. I don’t like these clothes. I don’t like wearing my hair like this. But I don’t want to let them go.

“Okay,” I say. “Just . . . no yellow. Please.”

“You’re far too pale for yellow.” The Mender grins. “I’ll put together the basics for you. Your job, though”—he sets his hands on my shoulders and steers me toward the racks on the eastern wall—“is to find a jacket.”