by C. L. Polk
I ignored him and joined Grace. “Thank you for coming.”
“We had gone to the closest station to find you,” Grace said. “Are you all right? Do you want to wash—”
“Apparently the water is out. I’m eager to leave.”
“Good.”
Grace led me outside and into her sled. “Don’t talk to the police,” she said. “Don’t say a word to them besides ‘I want my advocate.’ Don’t even give them the correct time.”
That was the advice we gave our people. I hadn’t followed it. I hadn’t thought I had to. The sled rumbled underneath our seats, gliding across hard-packed snow. “They told me I was a witness.”
“A popular lie,” Grace said. “They wanted to stitch you up after the end of that speech—what happened up there? When you stood up there and finished Jacob’s speech, my hair stood on end.”
“I don’t really understand it. I didn’t know the speech, but I did. I knew every word. It was a triumph, and I felt like a fool. I looked at Winnie and I felt so much love for her. And then it faded off and I’m alone in my head.”
“So he’s with you.”
“I don’t know if he is, still.” I tried not to touch the sled blanket. Dried blood cracked and flaked off my neck. “I’m a suspect in Jacob’s murder. How does that make sense?”
“Listen to me,” Grace said. “I’m not in criminal law, of course. But I know that in big public cases like this, the police don’t like to look like fools. They want an arrest, and they want it fast.”
The sled jostled over some ruts. We turned right, and the moon, not quite full, glowed soft silver in the night-black sky. “But how could I have arranged this?”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re only using the facts that fit,” Grace said. “No more talking to police without an advocate.”
“Will they try to find another suspect?”
Grace glanced at me. “You have to prepare for the possibility that they won’t.”
They could. They could just bother me and never look for the real killer. Jacob would never get justice, then.
“So I need an advocate,” I said. “Orlena might not be cut out for this.”
“I know a good one,” Grace said. “I’ll get her for you. And I should have said this before: I am so very sorry for your loss.”
I had been talking about it for hours, but Grace’s sympathy made me feel it. Jacob was gone. Our leader was gone. My friend—how could I walk through the rest of my days without Jacob to argue with? “Thank you. But it’s your loss too.”
“Jacob was a good colleague. He was your friend, and he died in your arms.”
“I couldn’t save him,” I said. “I should have. Miles could have.”
“Miles—” Grace sighed. “He reacted badly to the moment, and now he feels awful.”
“The war?”
“The war,” Grace said. “That blasted war. I hate everything about it.”
“I don’t know if we could have saved him,” I said. “He was drowning in his own blood. It would have been a miracle.”
“Miles wouldn’t forgive himself for not providing that miracle,” Grace said. “We’re here.”
The sled stopped in front of the clan house. Every window glowed with light, and the front door swung open. But instead of one of the children, Aunt Glory came out to stand in the chilly air and wait for me.
“Do you want to come in?”
“I should go home,” Grace said. “When will the funeral be?”
“Two days,” I said. “Someone’s probably doing the death examination now. They’ll release him to the funeral home in the morning.”
“All right. I’ll be there.”
I climbed out of the sled and set myself for the porch, but I stopped, turned around, and let my breath out in a great heaving sigh.
“It was the wind.”
Grace looked at me. “What do you mean?”
“There was a breeze during the speech. Jacob stilled it, made the sun come out from behind the clouds to shine on him. Pure drama. But it meant the killer had ideal conditions for the shot.”
“He couldn’t have known,” Grace said. “And a breeze wouldn’t have stopped this from happening. If he blames himself, tell him to stop.”
Did you hear that? I wondered. But nothing stirred in response.
TEN
Free Democracy
They had to drug Winnie just so she could make it through the receiving line. Duke stuck by her, speaking the words Winnie would have said if she hadn’t been so overcome. She could only nod at whoever paused in front of her bearing a widow’s casserole and a promise to come by to get the dish another day.
Hundreds of people had come to walk down the central aisle, carrying single flowers, evergreen fronds, sprigs of herbs—every one of them a tribute to Jacob, who rested in a lightweight canoe just large enough to hold a paddle, a fishing net, and gold for his travels through the Solace. Jacob had already been buried, there were so many offerings piled on him.
Aelander mourners wore white and enameled butterfly jewelry. Samindans wore blue, with motifs of white-capped waves—born to the sea and returned to it. But the Amaranthines—
For not just Tristan attended the funeral of Jacob Clarke. Grand Duchess Aife wore pewter gray silk, all the layers of it floating from her shoulders. At her side was her taller, dark-skinned secretary, clad head to toe in unrelieved black. He reached into one of his sleeves and produced a bundle neatly wrapped in waxed hemp fabric.
“For you,” Ysonde said, and the black dove on his shoulder cooed.
“It’s apple bread,” Aife said. “I made it.”
She was the Daughter of the Gates. The living embodiment of our myths and legends. One day, she would be the Queen of the Solace. She had rolled up her sleeves and kneaded sympathy and cinnamon into bread dough, baking it to bring to the widow.
Winnie wrapped gentle hands around the package. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“I like your husband very much. He’s a fighter. I admire people with vision like his.”
“He had so many plans. He wasn’t finished,” Winnie said. “He wasn’t done.”
The Grand Duchess touched Winnie’s cheek. “He’s not lost to you forever.”
Winnie handed the apple bread to Duke, who set it on the table with the rest. “But I miss him now.”
“Yes,” Aife said. “I miss him too. If I remember right, I’m supposed to call on you to retrieve the bread wrap later. We can talk more then.”
They clasped hands, and then Aife took her secretary’s arm. They joined the line of visitors come to pay their last respects, leaving the reception room astonished.
“She came to the funeral,” someone said.
“She bakes apple bread,” came Carlotta’s reply.
“Don’t you dare ask her for the recipe.”
“But don’t you want to know?”
“Carlotta.”
“They walk the streets of Kingston, you know,” Carlotta’s voice went on. “They wear ordinary clothes, but they’re all so tall, and if you’re kind to them, they’re kind back. One of them gave a gold coin to a housemaid who helped them chase a loose hat.”
“You can’t expect me to believe that.”
Knowing a few Amaranthines, the stories could be true. I glanced at Zelind, and Zelind shared kher smile with me. But that smile melted as khe spotted someone over my shoulder.
I didn’t really have to guess. “Jarom?”
“Yes.”
“Escape plan?”
“Yes.”
We turned to duck into the sanctuary, where talking was not permitted, when someone in deep indigo blue waved, just at the corner of my eye.
“Robin.” Gaby caught my arm. “There you are. Come on, we need you.”
“We were just about to go in the sanctuary.”
“No time for that. Emergency meeting. Preston’s getting impatient.”
“But—”
“Go,”
Zelind said. “I’ll be there.”
I huffed out a sigh and let Gaby drag me along to a room mounted with paintings of floral still lifes. I stopped just inside the doorway, staring at those assembled.
The committee of Solidarity sat in a horseshoe of uncomfortable wooden chairs. There was one left, the seat facing the assembly. Preston gestured for me to sit in it.
I remained standing. “What’s this about?”
“We have questions concerning the events around Jacob’s assassination,” Preston said. “Particularly around your actions.”
“I couldn’t save him,” I said. “There was too much bleeding. He would have died on the way to the hospital even if the medics had been on site.”
“Never mind that.” Judita Linton stretched her crossed ankles out in front of her, leaning back in her seat in the casual way that probably made her congregation feel comfortable. “Did you know Jacob’s speech before he gave it?”
“No.”
She looked around at the others. “You see.”
“I don’t know what happened,” I said. “I had to finish the speech. I couldn’t help myself. But if you’re thinking I have contact with Jacob because of the soulstar, I don’t. It was only for a few minutes, and then he was gone.”
Tupper Bell, the headmaster of Riverside Public, nodded as if this was exactly what he expected. “It’s probably within your skill to speak with him, Miss Robin. If you applied yourself to the task of making that contact—”
“Jacob didn’t bind with Robin to make her his mouthpiece.” Gaby shook her head, and the beaded tips of her locks shifted along her shoulders. “She’s the only clear choice, and you know it.”
“Choice for what?”
“I don’t know if you understand what people believe about what they saw at the rally.” Preston tilted the head of his cane toward me. “The sight of Jacob’s magic wrapping you up and then condensing into a soulstar, then when you stood up and told the people they were stronger than steel—it’s had a profound effect.”
“People want me to, to channel him? Like some mountebank with a spirit guide? Like some sideshow fortune-teller? I can’t,” I said, and a long needle of hot pain poked at my throat. I’d never speak to Jacob again. “It was only long enough to tell Winnie he loves her. Then it was over. He hasn’t made a peep. And even if I could, even if Jacob were sitting in my head judging your mourning outfits and commenting on the covered dishes, I wouldn’t do it.”
“That’s not what he meant,” Gaby said.
Preston shrugged. “Though it would make the choice easier if you did have contact.”
“The choice for what?”
“Solidarity needs a new leader,” Preston said. “We need someone who can stand at the head of the Free Democracy Party, to run for Jacob’s seat in South Kingston–Riverside Central.”
“And you wanted Jacob’s blessing,” I said. “I’m sorry I can’t give it to you, but you are our best choice—”
But Preston lifted his hand, and I fell silent.
“We want you to do it.”
What.
Words careened against each other in their frenzy to escape. I grabbed the back of the chair I had never managed to sit in, and I stared at every single member of the committee, studying their expressions for suppressed smiles or laughter in the eyes, because this wasn’t funny.
But that was just my disbelief grasping at straws. This was serious. They wanted me to lead Solidarity. They wanted me to run for Parliament. But they would have felt better about it if Jacob had still been chattering in my ear, and I could just be a relay for his wishes and opinions.
I was the poetic choice, not the rational one. If they’d had the chance to discuss it, my name wouldn’t have come up. But we had left them with no choice—struck by the drama of it all, the people wanted me, not the committee, to lead them.
And they were right. I couldn’t refuse. And part of me, the part that pouted every time someone else got the praise for the results of my efforts, seized the silence and spoke into it.
“No,” I said. “You don’t want me to do it. You want Jacob back, and you were hoping he was sharing flat space in my head.”
“You are who the people want. You were anointed the moment you picked up that bellower and finished Jacob’s speech.” Preston stared me down, but the set of his shoulders, the walking stick planted between me and him—he wasn’t the picture of joy at this situation. “They will clamor and demand you if we offer up anyone else.”
“But you would have chosen someone different.”
“There really isn’t another candidate,” Gaby said. “It isn’t just your contact with Jacob. You’re the one who carries water around here. You know how to organize and manage people. You operate from a whole-picture view, but you never forget the details. Your plans are sound and solid—”
“But I’m not a visionary,” I said. “I’m not a figure of fire and dreams. I’m not the spellbinder who can make people believe that anything is possible. I’m a planner.”
“We’ll help you with that,” Preston said. “Headmaster Bell will write your speeches—”
“No.”
The committee leaned back, their faces sour and affronted at my interruption. But I had to take control. If I couldn’t convince them here, every one of them would waste time trying to make me their mouthpiece. If I was going to do this, then we were doing things my way.
I stood up straighter. I looked at Preston, because he was the one most likely to manipulate me with his help. “I’m telling you who I am. I’m telling you what kind of a leader you’re getting,” I said. “Now listen.”
They went silent. I nodded once and continued.
“I’m the one who sees the whole project. I see the whole beautiful, interlocking mess underneath all that shiny dream-stuff. I see the pieces and how they fit. I’m the person who writes the list of goals and breaks them down into jobs for people to do so the work gets done. That’s what you’re going to get.”
The committee stayed quiet. They listened. Preston’s sour doubt wavered in the corners of his mouth. Gaby folded her hands in her lap and nodded along. Headmaster Bell, Miss Agnes Gable, Reverend Judita, Dr. Theresa Smith—they all listened.
“Jacob had the dreams. You’re not going to get vision from me. You’re going to know your part in building the vision. You’re going to know that you’re part of a bigger whole, and every one of you is needed if we’re going to build Jacob’s dream. I don’t get dreams. I see the work. That’s what you’re going to get.”
“Practicality,” Miss Gable said. “You’re the one, Robin. Please accept my approval.”
“I’ve seen you organize at the clinic for years,” Dr. Smith said. “Please accept my approval.”
“You’re the reason we got anything done in the first place,” Gaby said. “Please accept my approval.”
“I have no objection,” Judita said. “I will trust the committee on this one.”
“I believe that if Jacob were here, he’d tell us that you were a natural successor to his legacy,” Preston said. “You have a level head. That’s going to matter. Please accept my approval.”
“I do,” I said. “I’ll be your leader. I’ll run for Parliament. I will put Jacob’s dream to work.”
They all smiled now, every one of them pleased. I stilled deep inside, listening for a nod from Jacob, a shrug, a whisper of any feeling at all.
The inside of my mind was quiet and alone.
* * *
Flowers and offerings spilled off Jacob’s funeral boat as they carried it out of the memorial hall to doleful music and Winnie’s heartbreak. She walked behind it, following the bearers to the enameled hearse sled that would bring Jacob to the unfrozen shore of the Ayers Inlet. Once there, they would take Jacob out to sea and set him on his voyage to the Solace. We spilled out to the sidewalk, all the smokers gathering downwind before sharing matches and sighing in relief when the first draw hit their lungs. Miles and I ga
thered in the opposite direction, staring a little too longingly at those still indulging.
“You quit too. That means I have to really quit,” Miles said. “You were my supply.”
“Zelind doesn’t like the habit, and there are better ways to get outdoors.”
Khe hadn’t mentioned the smell on my coats and gloves, but I’d emptied my tobacco pouch and put it away. I still reached for it, before I remembered that I had quit the habit and counted the cost a bargain.
But I wanted one now. I wanted the calming ceremony of rolling tobacco into paper, of cupping the match to protect it from the wind, of that first inhale that rushed straight to my head. But I didn’t smoke anymore, and so I breathed in the river breeze carrying the sap from cut spruce boughs, the mingling of warm wool and perfume from the mourners. “Now we revel in fresh air.”
“It’ll be better for us both,” Miles promised. “We should make Grace follow suit. Look at her over there, with that dapper gentleman.”
We smiled, for that dapper gentleman was Avia Jessup in a breast binder and a net mustache. Grace couldn’t stop smiling as they chatted with each other.
“We should stop staring,” Miles said, and we turned around, as subtle as a stampede of cattle.
“Is this better?” I asked.
Miles’s lips twitched. “It’s really not.”
“There you are,” Tristan said. “I was waylaid by a little girl who had a hundred and nine questions, and I could only answer three. Why aren’t you smoking?”
“Robin quit. I can’t borrow from her anymore.”
“Poor dear—wait.”
Tristan turned his sharp gaze to a mailbox, of all things, that someone had gently tagged with a bright yellow bow. But Tristan walked right up to the mailbox, examining all sides of it before returning to us.
“Take me somewhere private,” Tristan said. “I have to tell you something.”
“About the mailbox?”
“Shh.”
Well, all right then. I led them back inside the funeral home and into the main chamber, now empty save a few floral arrangements. I put us in the center of the room, and we each faced an entry, so no one would catch us talking.