Page 3 of The Sixth Fraction

Last week, a report issued by this office brought to light a concerning pattern of Dauntless wall guards suffering memory lapses. In each incident, these lapses were preceded by a visit to the Abnegation Memory Vault. For several years, members of each faction have been called upon to store memories in the vault as part of an initiative by Abnegation leadership “to improve city recordkeeping,” as Council Member Andrew Prior claimed at the time of proposing it. But when asked about the connection between the concerning cognitive symptoms experienced by Dauntless officers and the visits to the Memory Vault, Council Leader Marcus Eaton—notably the only person in the city with full access to the Memory Vault’s systems—dismissed the allegations as “nonsense,” declaring that the report was “a flagrant attempt by Erudite leader Jeanine Matthews to deteriorate the public’s confidence in their leadership.”

Marcus’s face is, as ever, unreadable.

“Ludicrous,” my father says, shaking his head. He looks at my mother. “The way they phrase everything—I ‘claim’ my proposal was to improve city recordkeeping, like it can’t possibly be the truth. And you, Marcus—‘dismissing’ and ‘declaring’ things like some kind of tyrant—”

“They’re doubling down,” Mrs. Black cuts in, her voice quiet. The candlelight flickers over her cheekbones. “They’re determined to erode our reputation—”

“Reputation is an egocentric concept,” Marcus says, a mild chastisement. “My concern is who they’re getting their information from.”

And then words are bubbling out of me like boiling water teeming over: “So their information is right?”

Everyone at the table turns to look at me at once.

“Beatrice,” my mother says. A warning.

I curse myself silently. I didn’t mean to say anything, but now it’s too late.

“Are you questioning our faction’s integrity?” Marcus asks me. He sounds surprisingly mild, despite how pointed the question is.

I swallow hard. “No, of course not—I just . . . I thought Erudite was making up all these things.” They’re all staring at me, uncomprehending. I just want them to understand. “If they’re making them up, why would they need a source?”

“Beatrice.” That’s my father this time, but I’m already speaking.

“And if they’re not making all of it up, then—”

My mother doesn’t raise her voice. She just says, “Penalty of Silence until morning.”

My mouth closes with a snap. The Penalty of Silence deprives me of my right to speak until the penalty period is over. If I break it, the consequences are dire: detainment in Abnegation headquarters for at least a day, if not more. And the shame of that, the communal disappointment, is harder to quantify.

I feel it now, as I stand up to gather the bowls. Across the table from me, Robert and Caleb do the same, avoiding my eyes. The back of my neck is hot; my eyes burn. I try not to slam the bowls together as I stack them—I can’t afford to get into any more trouble. So I hurry through the task and seek refuge in the kitchen, at the sink.

My father comes to stand beside me, picking up a dishrag to dry the dishes after I wash them. He bumps his shoulder into mine, and I look over to see that he’s smiling a little.

“You get it from me,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows at him to ask the question, I get what?

“The direct line between brain and mouth,” he clarifies. “We have a version of the Penalty of Silence in council meetings if someone is ‘contributing to a contentious environment.’ ”

I get the sense he would roll his eyes at that statement if he let himself.

“Guess who’s penalized with it most often?”

I stare at him. I guess I know my father isn’t perfect—he loses his patience more than most Abnegation I know. But I never thought about what he was like around other Abnegation members. The cold knot of tension in my chest loosens a little.

“It’s good to challenge people. That’s how our faction maintains its high standards,” he adds. “You just have to learn to pick the right moments, that’s all.”

He squeezes my shoulder, then takes the wet bowl from my hands to dry it. I return to scrubbing.

That night, after all the cleaning is done, and Marcus Eaton goes home, and I’ve spent an hour doing my homework in the living room with Robert, Susan, and Caleb—silently—and seething at my mother—also silently—I finally go to bed. I lie on top of the blankets for the better part of an hour, my nightgown sticking to my chest. It’s warmer than it should be at this time of year, a false summer that won’t last more than a few days.

My room is just big enough for a bed and a cabinet for my clothes. I stick out a leg to open the cabinet door with my heel and stare at the stacks of gray fabric, my spare boots. I don’t own anything else, at least nothing else that I could call only mine. The brush I use for my hair is for both me and my mother; the books I use for school are borrowed; even the embroidery I’m working on is on loan from the Abnegation supply house, and I’ll have to give it away when I’m done.

Everything is shared, and that’s a good thing. Here in Abnegation, we always make sure there’s enough to go around. So why does it bother me so much?

Maybe that’s why I end up sticking my feet into my boots and tying the laces, even though there’s nowhere to go. Maybe that’s why I stick one leg out my window, and then the other, to duck under the railing of the fire escape. It rattles a little; the fire escapes on Abnegation buildings are always old and worn, since nobody uses them. I climb the ladder to the next level up, and then the next.

I look down and discover I’m at least ten stories off the ground now, and the warm wind is getting cooler and stronger. It blows my nightgown away from my body and dries the sweat on my stomach. I get to the top of the next ladder and hoist myself onto the roof.