by Claire Vale
My velvet cloak stays, I decide, running my fingers over the luxurious material. It’s too hot to wear and I don’t want it tainted by the experience.
Tainted?
I slam the wardrobe shut and start to pace. What is wrong with me? I’ve known this was coming all my life and I’ve done an excellent job of self-proofing myself against it. Stay pragmatic. Don’t obsess. Accept the concept. Don’t dwell on the detail. There’s no way up or down or around the Tithe. We’re all in it together, even if we don’t all come out of it together.
Two weeks.
I just have to make it through the next two weeks, then my life with Gabe begins. That’s what I need to focus on.
I pull the wardrobe open again for the mirror on the inside of the door and look myself in the eye. Sunlight glints lower down and my hand goes to the Celtic cross chained at my throat. I’ve massaged it between my fingers a hundred times today, but this is the first time I examine it properly in the light of day.
It looks even more delicate than it feels. It has a much softer shine than the metallic jewelry I’m more familiar with. It almost reminds me of the silver blended earrings Jessie’s mom always wears.
Except my cross is even softer on the eye and the heart. Warmer. Purer.
My breath hitches and it’s not all joy. I’m confused. Silver and gold are precious rarities, since our mines only produce iron ore which is refined into various metal alloys. But the more I look at it, the more I’m convinced. I really think my cross is pure silver. Where on earth did Gabe get the silver? And why would he waste such a fortune on a piece of jewelry?
I’m still frowning over my questions when Dad pops his head around the door. “Did I just see someone leave?”
His eyes land on the suitcase, and I guess that answers that.
“I don’t have to do this now.” I shake off the mystery of Gabe’s gift and shove the suitcase under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind. We both know painfully how untrue that stupid saying is.
Dad looks at me as if he has something to say, then leaves without a word.
I sink onto the edge of my bed with a sigh. My foot bounces on the floorboards, as if it has somewhere to go. It’s times like these when I could really do with some fatherly advice. Or even just some cold hard truth.
The last time I asked Dad about his Tithe was years ago, and he gave me his standard response. We’re not allowed to talk about it. But don’t worry your head, you’ll be fine. I thought that was just Dad being Dad, but Gabe didn’t get much more out of his folks.
The little information that’s dribbled through over time is conflicting and not much help.
Some accounts indicate the Tithe is just one big social event, throwing us together so we can mix and find our perfect pair.
Other accounts hint at something more organized, tasks and activities aimed out weeding out the less worthy.
The only consistent rhetoric is that we’ll be secluded at the GHO compound, in an area usually reserved for inducting new recruits. We won’t have contact with anyone else except the Alders and some guards.
It’s so damn secretive and frustrating.
The restless energy from last night has finally followed me into today. I can’t sit here in my room, alone with my thoughts. I jump up, run through the house and outside to grab my bike.
The route to Gabe is off-road, a bumpy footpath that starts just past the chicken coop and takes me onto the Setter farm. I peddle lazily, winding through the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms and some late flowering plum trees.
Past the fruit trees, I dismount so I can push my bike through the overgrown swathe of Cacao trees to reach the shortcut that takes me around the hot houses and into the downward stretch to the Winter’s baked-stone farmhouse.
The front door is standing wide open. Not unusual. I prop my bike against the porch, skim a light knuckle-rap on the door as I walk inside, calling out a “Hello” to announce myself as I follow the sounds to the kitchen.
Mrs. Winter is stirring a pot over the stove. She greets me with a warm smile. “You’re just in time for supper.”
“Thanks, but not tonight.” I take a peek in the pot and almost change my mind. I’m not really a fan of rabbit meat but her stew is to die for. She’s had loads of practice. There’s an abundance of wild rabbits in the surrounding wood and Gabe’s favorite pastime is hunting them. “Is Gabe here?”
She points me out the back where I find Gabe with his sister Maddie. I think. It could be Josie because her hair’s scraped into a ponytail and the only way to tell the fourteen-year-old twins apart is about three inches of strawberry blond. They’re all the way across the yard where a lonely pumpkin squats on a fence post. Gabe steps in behind her to check the arrow primed in the bow and guide her aim.
A smile lifts my mood as I watch. He tried to teach me to shoot on and off over the years but I’m hopeless. He always insisted I practice to hit apples on that very fence post and wasn’t interested in my protests about starting out with something bigger.
Anyone can hit any target if it’s big enough. You need to learn to steady your aim, to control your grip and release.
Gabe spots me sitting on the step outside the kitchen door, says something to Maddie and comes on over. Maddie looks, gives me a quick wave and goes back to concentrating.
“You gave her a pumpkin,” I grumble as he sits himself down beside me on the step.
He laughs. “I’ve learnt from my mistakes.”
“Ah, so now I’m a mistake.”
“You’re my little mistake.” He hangs his head my way with a grin that carves his jaw and softens his eyes and he looks and looks, as if he’ll never get enough. His voice drops a deep octave, “And I wouldn’t trade you for a world of perfect.”
My heart turns to instant mush. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I just needed to get out of the house.”
“Actually, I’m glad you came,” he says. “I was going to come around to you, but this council idiot stopped by.”
Maddie lets an arrow fly. It misses the pumpkin by a breath.
“That’s it,” Gabe calls out encouragingly, then lowers his voice to me, “The girls were doing okay, now Maddie’s all upset again.”
I pick at a thread on my jeans, wishing I had the words to make this better. I don’t.
“The 24th can’t come soon enough,” I say instead. “I just want it to be over.”
His hand falls over mine, cupping my knee. “Whatever happens, we’re in it together.”
“I know.” My fingers go to my throat, thumbing the cross as I smile into his eyes. “Thank you for this. It’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful for beautiful.”
“It’s too much, Gabe. I’m…I’m not sure I should keep it.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he says with his own smile. “I had it specially made for you.”
“It’ silver,” I say bluntly.
“Yes, it’s silver,” he laughs. “And it’s not a big deal. When I turned eighteen, Dad gave me this heavy silver chain, a family heirloom that’s passed down to the firstborn son. I’ve never seen him wear it and I sure as hell wasn’t ever going to, so I changed the tradition. I had the silver melted down and recrafted.”
“It should stay in your family.”
“You are my family.” He lifts my hand in his, presses it to his heart. “And there was enough silver for four pendant chokers. Mom has one, too, and we’re keeping the other two for the twins’ sixteenth birthday.”
The breath whooshes out of me as I blink back swelling emotion. “You can’t just say things like that without warning. I think I’m going to cry.”
“I’m not done yet.” He stands, pulls me up by the hand to walk with him around the side of the house. “There’s something I want to ask you, before the Tithe madness begins.”
He presses a hand to the wall above my head, snakes another around my waist, dips his head to sink his gaze into mine. “Senna Rhys, will you marry me?”
Not what I was expecting.
Well, not today.
Yes, yes and YES.
I don’t blurt that out, though. I’m trapped in the way he’s looking at me, like I’m the most beautiful, precious thing in his world. There’s the smile hitching one corner of his mouth, softening his face and opening his soul to me, and I never thought a smile could be so dead serious.
My heart slows until I’m not sure it’s beating at all.
I want this moment to drag on forever and forever.
“Are you sure?” I murmur dreamily, staring into his blue, blue eyes. “After only one kiss?”
“Now that you mention it…” His head dips lower, bringing his mouth closer, pausing just short of a kiss. “We should make absolutely sure.”
The kiss starts gentle, brushing strokes that tease my senses. I wrap my arms around him, dip my roaming hands up inside his t-shirt, and his groan sends a warm shiver down my spine.
Our lips part as the kiss deepens, our tongues stroke, I lose myself in his taste and the way his muscles ripple beneath my caress. His hands explore beneath the hem of my shirt, his thumb strumming the small hollow at the base of my spine. Heat flushes my skin, my veins, my limbs, my bones.
I’m melting.
I’m not ready for it when he exhales a ragged breath and drags space between us.
I fall back against the wall, breathless and flustered and even though I wasn’t ready to end the kiss, I don’t feel empty. I feel filled with delicious want and longing.
Gabe doesn’t say anything for a moment. He still has that hand pressed to the wall above my head and he’s leaning in to me, looking into my eyes, breathing his warm, ragged breathes against my cheek.
A smile creeps over my face. “So what’s the verdict? Are you withdrawing your offer?”
“Never.” He reaches up to thumb some strays hairs from my forehead, and his brow draws into a sober line. “This isn’t random and it’s not based on any kisses. I love you.”
My pulse glitches. “That’s a strong word.”
“It’s a strong emotion,” he says. “I’ve been in love with you since we were fifteen.”
Not sure I believe that. “What happened when we were fifteen?”
“Um, I don’t know,” he hedges. “One day you were just my best friend, the next you were this hot babe and the things I wanted to do with you were no longer all that platonic.”
I prick a finger to his chest. “That’s the year my curves finally filled in.”
I was a late bloomer.
“What can I say? Fifteen-year-old boys are shallow.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Okay, so if you were so in love all this time, why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“There was the friend thing to consider.”
“There was the Kimberly Washington thing to consider,” I say, referring to a girl he dated around about then.
Gabe grimaces. “The worst two weeks of my life.”
I’m not done. “And then there was the Amelia Carlie thing to consider.” She came about a year later and lasted considerably longer.
“Amelia is sweet,” he says. “Unfortunately she dumped me.”
“That’s not the way I heard it. She dumped you because apparently you couldn’t keep your eyes off some other girl.”
His thumb brushes down my cheek to the line of my jaw, stirring warmth in my breast. “You should know, though, the other girl was you.”
“I did not know that,” I say doubtfully. “Amelia never said.”
“It’s true...but not the full truth.” His hand falls away as he takes a step back. “I didn’t want to feel the way I did about you. It was confusing and way too intense and I hated it. You and me, it was too real. I knew I’d mess up…I wanted to mess up, Senna, but not with you. The casual relationships were safe. With you, there’d be damage we couldn’t come back from. You are the one, I’ve known that for years, and I guess, maybe, that’s why I wanted to save you for last.”
I’m left speechless. Was that all slightly complimentary or a brutal insult?
“And having said that all out loud, I’ve just heard how bad it sounds.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “Does this change us?”
I wish I could say no with certainty, but I realize what’s bothering me. Gabe basically put me on a backburner for years so he could have some non-accountable fun. I like that he saved us for the serious stuff. I hate the deterministic approach. It doesn’t exactly scream raw, unbridled passion.
Then again, my story isn’t all that different.
My feelings for Gabe have been deepening for a while, and I never did anything about it. Only yesterday I decided there wasn’t any rush.
Maybe this is just the way things go when friendship turns to love. It’s not like we can dive in headfirst and damn the consequences. We’re forced to take a calmer, more rational approach, make sure we’ve got it right, because there’s so much more to lose if it doesn’t work out.
The doubts flow out of me.
“No, it doesn’t change us,” I say as I bunch my fingers into Gabe’s shirt, pulling him to me.
5
DAD DROPS ME OFF at the Greenbriar parking on the Ring just after eight on the morning of the 24th. No point in lingering at home those extra four hours, worrying about the unknown I’m about to step into. I meant what I told Gabe the other day—I just want to get this over with.
We hop down from the buggy and I take a minute to stroke Arizona’s white and black speckled rump. Then it’s me and Dad and I’m not sure what to say. Goodbye sounds too final. See you soon sounds too dismissive, and might be tempting fate.
I throw my arms around him. “I love you.”
He hugs me tightly, whispers hoarsely in my hair, “Love you, too, honey. Take care of yourself.”
We stand in that embrace for a long while, neither ready to let go. My heart already aches for Dad. Without me, there’s just him. Grandpa Ed died when I was eight. My other grandparents died before I was born. Mom was an only child and Dad’s older sister was Tithed.
Dad loosens the hug first, turns to haul the suitcase off the buggy. “Come on, I’ll walk you.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I say with a wobbly smile. “I think it’s best if I just go.”
His gaze roots on me for a lasting heartbeat, then he nods and hands the suitcase over.
“It’s only two weeks,” he says, which feels like a good compromise to goodbye.
“Two weeks,” I repeat, my smile a little firmer as I turn from him.
The wheels on the suitcase aren’t just rickety, they’re freakishly small and it’s a battle to roll the thing through the lumpy grass of the parking lot. When I reach the paved walkway on the other side of the Ring, I look back to give Dad one last wave.
He’s busy stepping up onto the buggy and I decide to not wait for him turn, to not make this a bigger deal than it is. To hell with tempting fate, two short weeks and then I’ll be home again.
There’s an access road from the Ring to the rear entrance of Town Hall, but it’s gated and I can’t remember if a footpath runs alongside. In no mood to tangle with my suitcase and the lumpy field, I continue along the walkway that joins a main pedestrian thoroughfare into town.
I cut through an alleyway that stinks of fish guts and burst out into the hodgepodge design of town living. Small homes with even smaller patches of front garden squashed between brick-faced terrace housing. An abrupt row of storefronts stacked with two levels of apartments and then a stone cottage covered in rambling vine and then some more terraces. Side streets shoot off as and when needed and they’re all busy at this time of the morning.
My pace slows to a crawl as I dodge pedestrians and cyclists, then jams to a dead halt at some commotion up ahead.
I bend myself into a recessed doorway to get around a man in factory overalls and catch a glimpse of two guards escorting a gray-haired woman down the adjacent alleyway.
The sight stalls me as much as the crowd I was trying to press through.
What is she guilty of?
Crime is almost unheard of in Ironcross…almost. Failure to present yourself at the Tithe is treason and punishable by execution, but it’s not yet noon and that woman is too old. It could also be anything from citing public unrest to willfully breaking one of the many rules that maintain order.
Ironcross is practically a totalitarian regime under the leadership of the Alders and their Council, which isn’t really as bad as it sounds. We’re not mindless subordinates brainwashed into obedience. We know what’s at stake. In such a confined community, it only takes a spark to burn the whole thing down. And you’re free to leave if you don’t like living under Alder law. Well, not free exactly, messing around on the wall is a serious infraction and going over is no doubt treason, but the guards aren’t stupid enough to chase after you out there in the wilds.
The guards turn a corner and the crowd starts to break up. The people hanging out of windows withdraw to their morning routine. Being dragged of by the Guard is an uncommon event, enough so to cause the spectacle it did, but it’s over now.
I press forward, although my head stays back there with that woman, what she’s accused of, what pushed her into it. But then I think of me and Gabe on the wall the other night and it hits me, how that could have been us if a guard had come upon us, how little we considered the consequences while we were gazing outward and locking lips.
A shiver ripples down my spine at the sheer idiocy, especially in our Tithe year. Such an act could (would) be labeled rebellious, and I’m pretty sure that’d factor into the Alders decision making.
No more mistakes, I tell myself. My low risk status means nothing if I’m seen to be a troublemaker.
I reach the square and the crush of colorful market stalls, wind my way through the hive of activity and chatter and smells (not all good). My passage garners guarded stares and whispered conversation. There’s no hiding what I am, where I’m going, with the bullet suitcase bobbing along behind me. Some people embrace the Tithe with evangelistic fervor. Some hate it with the passion of a thousand suns. Everyone knows to keep your personal opinion deeply buried with a blank face and a bitten tongue.