For Darkness Shows the Stars

by Diana Peterfreund

  Felicia gave a little shake of her head. “Your grandfather is very old, Elliot. He’s had many strokes. The damage to his brain—”

  Elliot sighed in sudden relief. Felicia wasn’t even going to try, then. Good. She nodded brusquely. “I understand. Thank you for coming to see him.”

  Felicia appeared taken aback, and gave her a curious look. “You take disappointment too much in stride for someone so young, Elliot.”

  Elliot wasn’t sure how to respond. Was she expecting an argument? A confrontation? “I— didn’t have much hope. He’s been sick my whole life. I barely remember what it was like before. I didn’t think there was much you could do. Not with the protocols in place.”

  It was bait worthy of Tatiana, and Felicia blinked—a move that on any other woman would have been a flinch. “You should hope for more,” she replied at last.

  As she put on her coat, Elliot noticed that she didn’t move like the others. And earlier, she’d seen the admiral’s cataracts. So they, at least, had not been enhanced. And yet the young Posts had. Why was that? Were the enhancements too dangerous for Felicia to be willing to attempt on herself or her husband? Kai had mentioned something about second-generation Posts, like himself and Sophia. But the Phoenixes weren’t second-generation. Not if they had a Reduced mother and a Luddite father. She longed to ask, and was ashamed by it.

  “You live in a wonderful time, Elliot—though perhaps you haven’t been taught to think of it as wonderful.”

  “I have not. But neither am I blind.”

  Now Felicia did flinch, and too late, Elliot remembered Sophia and her blindness. Her two halves warred within her. The Luddite she’d been raised to be wanted to hate this Post and the things she’d done to Kai and the others.

  But the girl with the cross-bred wheat and the sick grandfather wanted only to understand. Felicia must have been just as desperate as Elliot. She shouldn’t be condemned for that.

  But what if she’d killed them? What if she’d killed Kai with her experiments? What if they were dead already, their cells mutated with Reduction?

  “I mean,” Elliot said, “that I’m aware that things are changing. Maybe too fast.”

  Felicia gave a tiny laugh. “You are the only person your age I know who would say that. Most think it’s happening too slowly.”

  Most people Felicia knew were not Luddites.

  “I should go see my grandfather,” Elliot said quickly, but Felicia stepped in front of the door.

  “You should let him rest.” She regarded Elliot carefully. “You know, dear, he is an old man. He’s lived a long life. Most men would not choose to go on forever, even if they could. It is not in our nature.”

  “‘If they could,’” Elliot repeated coldly. Once they could, and did, and almost destroyed the world. “Where do you draw the line?”

  “I don’t,” said Felicia, and there was an edge of devil-may-care in her tone. Would she speak so freely in front of Tatiana? Was she trying to learn if Elliot planned to keep her promise to Kai? “Every person must draw his own line. How can I decide for another person what risks he’s willing to take? How can I be the one to decide if he should live or die?”

  “The Lost decided for their children,” Elliot said. “They made decisions that condemned their offspring to Reduction.”

  “They didn’t know. Don’t you think they would never have done it if they’d known?”

  “Is that how you would work?” The words burst from Elliot’s lips. “Would you always know exactly what effect your therapies will have on the people you treat? What effect it will have on their descendants for hundreds of years? Would you be sure they knew the risks before they signed their children and their children’s children’s children up?”

  Felicia stared at her for a long moment and Elliot was afraid she’d gone too far.

  “If we are speaking in hypotheticals, I will say that it’s a wonder the protocols are not relaxed for those past childbearing age, like your grandfather. There is no risk to anyone, then.”

  If Felicia believed that, why didn’t she perform ERV on herself or her husband?

  “I would say—but not to everyone, Elliot—that many Posts believe they’re born with the power to overcome Reduction. Their genes manifested a workaround from birth, and so the protocols don’t apply to them. They are safe.”

  “Safe!” Elliot scoffed.

  “But we are not speaking in hypotheticals, are we?”

  Elliot North stood straight as a rod and faced Felicia, her mouth a thin line. She would not speak. She couldn’t, even now. And maybe that’s why Felicia didn’t seem to be afraid. If Elliot had planned to betray her secret, surely she’d accuse her of it out loud, right? Instead, the youngest of the Norths simply stood in her ancestral home and made cowardly insinuations, because what she wanted to say was too unbearable to form into words.

  Yes. The protocols should be relaxed. They should be broken for my grandfather.

  Felicia looked at her sadly. “My husband would have me be circumspect. He’s not as radical as I am. And neither of us are as radical as the younger generation. Your generation.”

  “You mean your Fleet Posts,” said Elliot. “I don’t think my sister is a radical.”

  “And what about you?”

  Elliot said nothing.

  “Oh, my dear girl. There is so much we could talk about.”

  Elliot said nothing.

  “I trust you. I wish you would trust me.”

  Elliot said nothing.

  Finally, Felicia sighed. “All right. I am leaving now. But I want you to know you can speak to me whenever you want, about anything you want.” She gestured to the closed door behind her. “I know what the Boatwright is to you. I know what you’ve lost, and what you’re about to lose. I am a mother, not just a Post.” She headed off down the hall, her Post-bright cloak making even the polished North floorboards look dingy and old. At the top of the stairs, she paused.

  “Elliot?”

  Elliot dragged her eyes up to the woman’s face, half terrified Felicia would see the tears clinging to her lashes.

  “You should know that you’re exactly the person you think you are.”

  Elliot turned away as the tears escaped. That’s what she was afraid of.

  Twenty-nine

  ELLIOT BOATWRIGHT WAS RESTING peacefully now. His breathing was even, if shallow, and he made no noise of pain in his sleep. His dark skin seemed paper-thin, his scalp like leaves of old parchment beneath his sparse white hair. With both sides of his face relaxed like this in repose, Elliot could almost imagine what he’d looked like before his first stroke had damaged the nerves in his face.

  Had Benedict been telling the truth? Had this man forced her mother to marry her father? Elliot tried to remember a time when her mother had displayed any bitterness toward the Boatwright. From a young age, she’d known her mother wasn’t happy in her marriage—known it almost from the time she’d become aware of the type of man her father was. But it was the only life she knew, so she hadn’t examined it all that closely. Her mother managed the estate, smoothing over the worst of Baron North’s extravagances and cruelties. Elliot had learned enough from her to try to do the same after her mother’s death.

  What would her life have been like had she been born a Grove? She’s never known Horatio and Olivia’s father, but judging from them, she imagined he was a more progressive, hardworking man. The Groves had some Post technology in their house. They were open to new ideas. They were friendly with the Fleet. Perhaps, if she’d been Olivia Grove, she could have asked Felicia to do the unthinkable. Perhaps Kai would love her now.

  But if she’d been Olivia Grove, would Kai have ever known her at all?

  She pressed a kiss to her grandfather’s forehead and departed. Her family would expect her to come to dinner. Appearances had to be maintained, no matter what was going on upstairs . . . or inside.

  By the time she arrived in the parlor, there was a lively debate occurring bet
ween Tatiana and Benedict as to who was the better rider.

  “When I saw you today, on the back of that Innovation horse,” Benedict was saying, “it seemed perfectly clear that you have great talent.”

  Tatiana blushed prettily. She seemed to have taken extra care with her clothes and hair this evening, utilizing some of the Post-style fabrics she’d purchased after the Fleet moved in. Tonight, she wore red, and the color set off her olive skin and dark hair. Elliot still hadn’t changed from the trousers she’d been wearing in the dairy. Her father’s eyebrows had nearly hit the ceiling when she’d entered.

  “Surely you’ve seen better horsewomen in Channel City.”

  Benedict smiled indulgently. “I think you would impress everyone in Channel City. Innovation horses are spirited mounts, and you have taken to yours quite well. Besides, they are rare—it’s not many that even have the opportunity to ride them.”

  This was precisely the kind of response Tatiana had been fishing for.

  Elliot folded her hands in her lap, hoping to still the nervous energy that coursed through her system. How could she bear a whole evening of this, while her grandfather lay dying above and the Posts and their secrets waited, a few kay away?

  “It’s a shame you haven’t done very much travel, as I have,” Benedict said to Tatiana. “You—and your sister—would be such an asset to society in Channel City.”

  “Father says the city has been overrun by Posts,” Elliot blurted. Three faces turned in her direction.

  “I most certainly did not,” her father huffed.

  Elliot’s jaw tightened. That was a lie. He’d been using it as an excuse not to take them for years.

  “It’s true,” he continued, “that there are many free Posts there these days . . . but it’s hardly overrun. Indeed, most of the Posts there are quite genteel and remarkably stylish—for what they are. Not unlike these Cloud Fleet Posts renting our lands.”

  “Of course,” Benedict said quickly. “There are many very fine Posts.”

  “It’s surprising to me to hear you say such a thing, Elliot,” said Tatiana. “You always seem so generous toward our own Posts. Remember back when you were a child, you had that little Post friend. You know, the son of that mechanic . . .” she trailed off, and her mouth gaped. She stared at Elliot with an expression of astonished accusation.

  Elliot forced herself not to smile. Finally, her sister had put it together. A few months too late, perhaps, and even more embarrassing, given Tatiana’s obsession with Kai and Olivia Grove.

  Tatiana’s face turned just as red as her new dress. Part of Elliot wanted to gloat over her sister’s cluelessness, but the other part worried about how she’d punish her maid for not telling her, or worse, if she’d look at Kai more closely now, and compare him to the boy she remembered. It could prove dangerous.

  It could prove deadly.

  But Tatiana composed herself quickly and steered the subject away from Elliot and back to herself. “I would love to travel more,” she admitted, “but I have had the responsibility of caring for the estate for so long. When my mother died, I was left the head of this household. I don’t know how I’d manage it from so far away.”

  “Of course,” Benedict said, though his eyes were on Elliot as he spoke.

  Elliot turned away, toward the window. She’d long ago grown bored by Tatiana’s complaints about the imaginary version of her life. That Benedict still found it a source of amusement was of little interest to her. Not when her grandfather lay dying upstairs. Not when Felicia and Kai and the other Posts were holding such remarkable secrets just out of reach. Not when the temptation to learn more about those secrets was making her doubt everything she’d ever been taught. How could she care about some petty, decade-old battle with her sister?

  Thanks to the light from the fire, the window reflected the room rather than revealing the fields and the stars. Felicia must be back at the Boatwright house now, driven safely through the darkness thanks to the unnatural vision of her Fleet Posts. She wondered if Felicia had spoken to any of them about her conversation with Elliot. She wondered if she’d spoken to Kai.

  He’d probably tell her how useless it was to discuss anything with Elliot North. The Luddite. The coward. The passive, put-upon daughter of the laziest lord in the islands.

  Elliot closed her eyes, and only opened them when Benedict spoke again.

  “That won’t do,” he said. “You’ve been isolated here for long enough. And your father, with his beautiful new racetrack to enjoy, and his extraordinary new horses to race on it—you should have a house party. It can be an opportunity for some of your friends and neighbors to see the improvements.”

  Elliot looked at him in surprise. “Now? This isn’t the time—not with my grandfather so sick, and the Boatwright house filled with the Fleet—”

  “Actually,” Benedict said, “it’s the perfect time. I understand you have a surplus cash flow due to the rent the Fleet is paying, and should the worst come to pass for your grandfather, I know there are many who would like to come pay their respects.”

  “Good point, Benedict.” Baron North turned to Elliot. “We would do your grandfather a great disservice if we kept him isolated to the end of his days, now that we have the means to properly entertain here.”

  Would her father be so concerned about her comatose grandfather’s social schedule if he didn’t have horses and a new racetrack to show off?

  “And of course,” Benedict said, “you can invite the Cloud Fleet to the festivities as well.”

  “Of course,” Tatiana said. “It would be rude not to, although they aren’t Luddites.”

  Benedict nodded in agreement. “No, they aren’t. But they are staying on your land. And, after all, the horses are Innovation horses.”

  “Yes.” The baron cleared his throat. “I am not concerned by all Post products, you see.”

  Benedict directed another sly smile at Elliot, trying again to get her to share in his jokes at her father’s expense.

  She didn’t begrudge Benedict his right to make these little jabs, and was impressed by his ability to do so in a way that left both Baron North and Tatiana completely ignorant of his true meaning, but Benedict North had nothing to lose—he’d already lived life outside the baron’s good graces and seemed to have survived it quite well. She didn’t have such luxury. Her father could still hurt Elliot if he wanted to—and if she started teasing him, she was sure he’d want to very much.

  The others soon fixed on a date for their proposed house party and horse race, and their plans left Elliot doing mental calculations as to how much the event would eat into their savings, and into money she was hoping to make last several years. Her father and Tatiana might be optimistic, but one couldn’t expect someone to rent the Boatwright facilities every year.

  “You see, Elliot,” the baron said at last, “this is a much better use of the field than a few extra stalks of wheat.”

  Safe at the window, Elliot rolled her eyes, but if her cousin saw it, she neither knew nor cared. It had taken her years, but now, at last, she realized the truth. Her father would never stop goading her. If she responded, he could punish her, but he didn’t need her reaction to press on. Her very existence was provocation, was failure, was outrage enough for him. She could remain silent forever, never build another string-box, never graft another plant, and still he could see the lie that bloomed in her heart.

  AS SOON AS SHE could, as always, she slipped away to the barn. As always, her eyes went immediately to the knothole—their knothole. And as always, for the last four years, it was dark and empty.

  Well, at least Kai was complying with her request not to speak to her. She ascended the stairs and drew her key, but there, at the door to her workroom, she paused. She could not go in there tonight. She could not work on her illegal wheat. She could not stand there surrounded by a hundred gliders that all said the same thing:

  She was not a Luddite.

  She might not have asked Felicia
to break the law with her grandfather, but she had wanted to. She’d made the wheat and she’d taught Ro how. And then there was Kai. She should hate him. She should fear him.

  She did neither.

  Elliot returned to the ground floor and swept the stalls. She fed and watered the horses, and then she gritted her teeth and curried them, even Pyrois. And when that failed to exhaust her, she turned to the machinery.

  She’d been useless with her grandfather today. Perhaps she could fix something tonight to make up for it. Her recent success with the churner had galvanized her to tackle some more of the projects that remained. The estate didn’t need to suffer because she wasn’t a properly trained mechanic. Stupid Kai, fixing the tractor just to spite her. He’d been raised to fix machines. She’d just picked up what she could from watching him and Mal. But she wasn’t completely helpless.

  She turned to the thresher. It had been smoking for the latter half of the season. She changed the oil, and tightened a few bolts. She’d thought Gill had mentioned something about a worn belt, but he must have fixed it, because everything appeared in working order.

  This wasn’t as challenging as she’d thought. No wonder the Posts had pitied the state of the North machinery, if the repairs were so easy, after all. Finally, she turned her attention to the plow with its faulty gearbox. It needed new parts—she’d write to a craftsman in Channel City. She could afford to fix her machines now. The Fleet had been good for something.

  Surely Gill would find it a relief if she managed to get that up and running again before spring. Elliot hauled it out of its corner and prepared to brush away the cobwebs . . .

  Only to discover none.

  And that wasn’t all. There were three new hoses and two new bolts attached, and when she turned on the engine, the machine hummed happily. Elliot stared at the gearbox in bafflement. It wasn’t brand new. Perhaps Gill had found an extra somewhere, fixed it, and neglected to tell her.

  Except she knew there was no extra. Not on the North or Boatwright estates, and not on the Grove estate either—she’d asked Horatio a few months ago. Either Gill had fixed this plow today and hadn’t had a chance to tell her because she’d been busy with her grandfather, or there was something else at work. And the idea that he’d fixed the thresher, too? Come to think of it, the oil in the thresher had looked remarkably clear.