The Revolution of Ivy

by Amy Engel

  “Who is it?” Bishop calls, putting one hand out to scoot me behind him.

  “Stuart,” a man yells. “Stuart Murphy. I need to talk to Caleb.”

  “It’s okay,” Caleb says. “Let him in. I know Stuart.”

  Bishop opens the door and a man stumbles inside, bringing a swirl of snow and icy wind with him. “Caleb,” Stuart says. “Three strangers showed up at Elizabeth Granger’s house. Two men, one woman.”

  “Where are they now?” Caleb asks, already shrugging into his coat.

  “We took them to the meetinghouse in the town square. They claim to be from Westfall but say they weren’t put out.” He glances at me and Bishop. “They say they left voluntarily.”

  “That’s a lie,” Caleb says. “No one would leave this time of year, face a winter out here alone.” His face is grim. “The question is, why would they lie? And what else are they lying about?”

  “That’s why I came for you,” Stuart says. “Figured you could talk to them before we decide what to do.”

  “We’re coming, too,” Bishop says. “If they are from Westfall, we may know them. Maybe we can help figure out why they’re here.”

  Caleb nods.

  “I’m coming, too,” Ash says, and we all wait while she gets into her outdoor gear.

  I have to agree with Caleb that there’s no way these people are telling the truth. I can’t imagine any reason why they would leave the relative safety of Westfall at the beginning of what’s promising to be a horrible winter. It would be close to suicide to make such a decision.

  The five of us trudge out into the fading daylight. The sky is smoky gray, flat and low. It’s no longer snowing, but the wind whips tiny tornadoes of snow at our feet. Above us, a ragged vee of geese crosses the sky, honking to one another as they fly. Even bundled up, the air hits me like a slap in the face, rockets down into my lungs where it spreads frozen fingers under my ribs.

  “God, it’s cold,” Ash breathes, her words turning to steam as she speaks.

  Caleb rolls his eyes. “You have a real knack for stating the obvious.”

  No one laughs, and Ash doesn’t respond. We are all too tense, worried about what we’re going to find when we reach the town square, to be in the mood for joking. We walk as fast as we can through the snow, and even with the subfreezing temperature, it only takes a few minutes for me to warm up, sweat beading along my hairline under my hat.

  The meetinghouse is located in the remains of the old restaurant in the town square. As we get close, I can see lantern light spilling out through the one intact front window. Around me, the rest of the group continues moving forward, but I slow until I’ve fallen behind. Somewhere deep inside me, a warning bell is ringing, loud and clear, telling me I don’t want to take those final steps. I try to tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t shake the feeling that walking into that building will set something in motion that I will be powerless to stop.

  “Ivy?” Bishop has stopped ahead of me. “Are you okay?”

  No, I want to say. Don’t go in. But it’s already too late. Caleb has pushed the door open, the ancient bell that hangs above it giving a shrill peal that quiets the voices inside. I push my fears down, the same way I did on the day I married Bishop, the same way I did when I was put out beyond the fence, and follow Bishop into the house.

  The small space is crammed with people, the smell of wet wool, firewood, and sweat barreling into my nose as soon as I’m through the door. I pull off my hat and mittens and stuff them into my coat pockets. Already I’m thinking of the clean, frigid air outside with fondness.

  “Where are they?” Caleb asks the crowd.

  A few people point to the far end of the room, and a path opens up in the crowd, allowing us to snake through toward the fireplace and the three ragged strangers crouched around its warmth. At first it’s hard to tell which one is the woman. They are all curled over mugs of stew, their hair thick with dirt and grease, worn blankets thrown over their shoulders.

  They look up at us as we approach. The woman and one of the men appear to be in their midtwenties, the other man older by a good twenty years. Caleb stares at them, and then glances at Bishop and me. “Do you know them?” he asks.

  Bishop shakes his head. “No.”

  I look at the woman and the younger man. Their faces are unfamiliar to me. But my eyes return to the older man. To his gaze, which never leaves mine. To his one useless arm, curled up against his chest. I remember taking raspberry jam from his good hand. I remember the feel of the note from Callie, buzzing against my palm. He is waiting for me to speak, waiting to see if I will save him.

  “Yes,” I say, finally. “I know him.”

  It turns out the woman is the jam man’s daughter and the other man is her husband. They’ve been out on their own for a few weeks now, this storm the thing that would have killed them all if they hadn’t seen the glow of a lantern from Elizabeth Granger’s window and followed the beacon up to her porch, where they’d collapsed against her door.

  Bishop has pulled a chair up next to them by the fire, but I am still standing, arms crossed and hands tucked protectively over my elbows. “I don’t understand why you’re out here,” Bishop says. “If you weren’t put out.”

  “We left,” the woman says.

  “But why?” Bishop asks. I want to tell him to stop. I already know I don’t want to hear the reason, can tell from the way the jam man—whose name I’ve learned is Tom—watches me, his gaze a mix of pity and fear.

  “Things have gotten bad in Westfall,” Tom’s son-in-law says. “It’s…it’s all falling apart.”

  Bishop finds my eyes and we stare at each other, remembering all the people we left behind. I think of my father’s need for vengeance, Callie’s thirst for power, and wonder what havoc they’re wreaking now. Or maybe it’s President Lattimer this time. Maybe he’s making sure no one has any ideas about hurting his family ever again.

  “Ivy,” Tom says, and my body jerks, my eyes skipping to his. “Your sister.”

  Everything inside me freezes, like I left my body out in the cold and the ice is settling in my bones. “What about her?” I manage.

  “She got caught, trying to break into the gun safe in the courthouse.”

  Caught because of me, because I gave her the wrong code. I can actually picture the moment in my mind, Callie’s face furious and desperate, the thud of guards’ footsteps rounding the corner. Callie left with nowhere to run. I don’t realize I’m digging my fingers into my skin until I feel the stinging press of pain and force myself to loosen my grip. “What did they do to her? Are they putting her out?”

  Tom looks down into his empty mug. A log slides forward in the fire, a hiss of smoldering bark, an explosion of sparks. “No. They’re going to execute her.”

  I see the air leave Bishop’s lungs, his head dropping down, but it’s all very far away, like a bad dream, something that’s not really happening. Something that maybe I can wake up from if I concentrate hard enough. “When?” I ask. Visions of Callie swinging from a rope, body riddled with bullets, blood staining the street, streak across my vision.

  “The end of the month,” Tom says. “They’re waiting until things calm down. If they ever do. And I think President Lattimer would like to find your father first.”

  “My father?” I ask, my voice high and thin.

  Tom nods. “He’s missing. But I’m pretty sure he’s still in Westfall. Hiding out in the woods, probably. There have been riots. Someone set fire to President Lattimer’s house.” Bishop’s head whips up at that, but Tom’s daughter jumps into the conversation before he can ask the question. “They got out in time,” she tells him. “They’re all right,” and Bishop’s body relaxes.

  “But everyone’s turning on everyone else,” Tom’s son-in-law says. “Selling out their neighbor in hopes of getting in the good graces of one side or the other. The police are all carrying guns now, arresting people right and left, sometimes just based on rumors.”


  “Sooner or later someone was going to find out what I did for you,” Tom says. “For you and your family. We couldn’t take the risk. We had to leave.”

  “Wait, what?” Bishop says. “What did you do for her?”

  I would do anything to not have to answer his question, to not bring a reminder of all the ways I betrayed him back into our lives. But I’ve made a promise to myself that I won’t lie anymore, especially not to Bishop. “He gave me messages from Callie. While we were married,” I say, forcing myself to hold his eyes, to accept the quick flash of anger and pain as my due. It is a burden I’ve earned, so I will have to learn how to carry it.

  But Bishop’s voice is gentle when he speaks. “It’s all right, Ivy.”

  I try to smile at him because I don’t want to cry in front of all these people. But I can feel the weight of sadness pressing down on me. My secret interactions with Tom, the way I came so close to risking Bishop’s life, the fact that this man and his family were forced to flee because of me, they all feel like bricks being stacked on my shoulders one by one, burying me under the weight of my own bad decisions.

  Behind me the crowd shifts and Caleb moves closer to the fire. “We’ve found a place for you to stay. At least for now.”

  “Thank you,” Tom says. He looks at me. “Thank you, Ivy.”

  “Don’t thank me,” I say, voice harsh. “I’m the reason you’re out here at all.”

  The four of us eat a quick dinner after we return from the town square, and then Caleb and Ash decide to head back to the restaurant. Caleb wants to talk in more detail to the rest of the group about what’s happening in Westfall. He is worried that if Westfall completely collapses, then these three strangers will be the first of many who will find their way here this winter. There needs to be some kind of plan to deal with a possible influx of new faces, especially during the lean months. After Caleb and Ash are gone, I leave Bishop to clean the dishes and climb the stairs to our bedroom.

  My mind is spinning, random thoughts bouncing off the edges of my brain, making it hard for me to concentrate. It takes twice as long as it normally would for me to start a fire in our bedroom fireplace, my fingers numb and clumsy. When I finally have it going, heat beginning to radiate out into the icy corners of the room, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. Unlike Caleb, whose only concern is how Westfall’s potential collapse might affect those of us outside the fence, I can’t help but worry about the people still inside.

  “Hey,” Bishop says from the doorway. “Can I come in?”

  I glance at him over my shoulder. “Of course.”

  He squats in front of me, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. He must have taken lessons from Caleb. My hands are hanging limp between my knees, and he takes them in both of his, presses a soft kiss to the back of my knuckles, first one hand and then the other.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks. “What do you want to do?”

  That’s the question I’ve been asking myself in a nonstop loop for the last few hours. Balancing all the various options in my mind, thinking about my father and Callie. How they betrayed me. How I can’t stop caring about what happens to them even though I wish I could. What leaving them to their fates will do to me. And I think about President and Mrs. Lattimer, too. I love Bishop, which means I owe something to his family; I have an obligation to the people he loves, even if I don’t love them myself.

  I look at Bishop, his clear green eyes, his beautiful face, his good heart that shines out of him like a beacon. Am I willing to risk hurting him again? Losing him? “I want to stay here,” I tell him. “I don’t want anything to change.” I tighten my fingers on his. “But I need to go back.”

  “Why?” As always, not demanding, just asking, wanting to know exactly what I’m thinking.

  “I hate her,” I tell him. “So much of me hates her. For what she did, for what she tried to make me do. And I’m not stupid. I know she wouldn’t risk anything for me. But even if I want it to be, my hate isn’t big enough to sit back and let her be killed in the town square. Not without at least trying to stop it.” I take a deep breath, brain flooded with images of Callie. “She’s the first person I ever loved, Bishop. She’s my sister.” I don’t know if he will understand, never having had a sibling, but for me, that’s reason enough.

  “What about your father?” Bishop asks.

  “I want to try to find him, too,” I say, “if we can. Maybe I can convince him to leave Westfall and start over again out here.” Beyond the fence there is room for my father’s dreams, a place where some of his best ideas could be implemented. Maybe, after everything, there’s still a way to save my family.

  “Do you think we can really help them?” Bishop asks.

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. And it’s probably crazy to try. But it feels like I have to make the attempt. And what about your parents? Aren’t you worried about them, if it’s as bad in Westfall as they made it sound?”

  “Of course I am. But my parents aren’t helpless. We all have to take care of what’s most important to us.” Bishop squeezes my hands. “And for me, that’s you.”

  “I know,” I whisper. “It is for me, too.”

  “But?”

  I look down at our joined fingers, his still faintly golden from the summer sun. Sun that seems a lifetime ago, and not just because now it is winter. “I wish it didn’t, but this feels like what I’m supposed to do. What I have to do. My family…Westfall…they feel like unfinished business. Before today, something bad happening in Westfall, something bad happening to our families, was only a theory. But now we know for sure.” I pause, searching for a way to explain something I don’t even really understand myself. I raise my eyes to his. “You told me you weren’t like my father or Callie. That you couldn’t just let me go. I’m not like them, either. I can’t stay here and let her die. I can’t move on without at least trying to help my father.”

  “If they catch you, Ivy, they’ll kill you.” Bishop’s face pales as he speaks; his throat muscles work. “And I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop them.”

  I already know the risks. Bishop can go back to Westfall. I cannot. Not without putting my own head on the chopping block. “Then I guess I better not get caught,” I say, with a pathetic attempt at a smile.

  He stares at me. I wonder what he sees? I hope it’s something good. I hope it’s someone he can still love. I’m being so selfish, asking him to be all right with me putting my life on the line for the very people who planned his death. If the situation were reversed, I don’t know if I could let him go. I don’t know if I could forgive him for asking it of me. “Okay,” he says finally. “Then we go back.”

  I’m already shaking my head before he’s done speaking. “No, you don’t have—”

  “Yes, I do, Ivy,” he says, his voice harder, his gaze sharper. “Where you go, I go. We’re together. And if this is what you need to do, then it’s what I need to do, too. That’s the only way this is happening.” There it is again, that wall of strength in Bishop, that core of steel. The one I know no amount of pushing will crack. His thumb slides over the back of my hand; his fingertips find the rapid pulse of my wrist. “All right?”

  “All right,” I say. Sometimes I still forget that we are a team now. We have each other’s backs, no matter what. I’ve never had that before, the security of knowing someone will love me even if he doesn’t always agree with me. Bishop’s love for me isn’t dependent on conditions. He doesn’t love me because of what I can do for him or what I represent. He loves me. Full stop.

  I slide off the edge of the bed and pull him to standing, wrap my arms around his neck, and hold on tight. When he kisses me, it lights me up, just like always. But this time there’s something fizzing in my blood, hot and anxious and not eased at all by the feel of his mouth on mine, his hands touching me through layers of clothes. The edge of this hunger is sharp and desperate, and it demands more than I’ve given it so far.

  I pull away
from Bishop just enough to yank my sweater and shirt over my head and toss them aside. I unclasp my bra and let it slide down my arms. The chill air plays over my bare skin, and I shiver.

  “Ivy…” Bishop says, a question in his voice. I silence him by reaching out and grabbing the bottom of his shirt. He doesn’t say anything more, keeps his eyes on mine as he lifts his arms, lets me pull off his shirt and drop it next to my own on the floor.

  “Remember back in Westfall?” I say, breathless. “When I said I wasn’t ready to have sex?”

  “Yes,” Bishop says, voice low.

  “I’m ready now.” I take a step closer to him and put my hand on his warm chest. His heart pulses against my palm. “Are you?” I ask, because I’m not the only one with a voice in this conversation. This isn’t a decision that’s mine alone.

  Bishop’s mouth curls up a little as he looks at me; his eyes flare. “Yes,” he says again. “I’m only human, Ivy, and you’re…you.” He runs both hands up my arms, traces the jutting bones of my collar with his fingers. My head falls back a little, my whole body melting, like my skin is filled with liquid instead of bone and organs. But when I move up against him, he stops me, slides his hands to my waist. I can feel the imprint of each individual finger against my skin. “But why now? Is it because we’re going back?”

  “Yes,” I say, thinking about how if the worst happens, I don’t want to die without knowing what it’s like to love Bishop in every way I can. “No,” I say, so aware that my desire for him, my longing, has nothing to do with a fear of the future. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “It matters,” he says. “I don’t want you doing this because you’re scared.”

  “I am scared,” I tell him. “I’m going to be scared, probably for a while. But that’s not why I’m doing this. I’m doing it because I love you. I’m doing it because I want to.” I put my other hand next to my first on his chest, run them both up to his neck, push myself forward until our torsos meet, everything between us swirling and sparking like a fresh branch thrown on the fire. Cold seems like a distant memory. “I want to see you naked. I want to touch you. I want you to touch me. I just…want.” And maybe my words should shame or embarrass me, along with the shake in my voice, my breathing high and fast, the sheer need in my tone. But this is Bishop. And he’s already stripped me bare in ways that have nothing to do with taking off my clothes.