by G. P. Ching
His lips brush mine. Soft. Warm. Wanting. Zaps of electricity travel from my mouth to low within me. Pressing against me, his kiss grows harder. Hotter. His fingers thread into the hair at the base of my skull. Ahh. Yes. I part my lips, welcoming his tongue as it darts between my teeth. Hot. Deep. I drink in the burning tingle. Lightning courses down my throat and it is ecstasy. I trail my hand up his chest and around his neck, pulling him to me, but we can’t get any closer.
It’s my first kiss and it is electric. Korwin crushes me against him. All I want is for him to press harder, to be closer. I feel my way from the base of his neck to his shoulder, under his arm, up his back. Something is building inside of me: heat and energy. Longing. An ache I don’t have a name for but know without a doubt he can cure.
I want more. I need more. His lips part from mine, and I’m afraid he might stop. But no, he trails them from my ear to my neck, his fingers stroking my long hair down the length of my back and lower. My heart pounds, fast as hummingbird wings.
Suddenly, there is nothing but blue light.
We are thrown apart in a shower of glass, dirt, and wood. The square lights and the trees that line the periphery lay in tattered and burnt remnants around us. Pandora looms over me, safe on her marble perch, her jar providing the only light.
“Wow,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Are you hurt?”
Eyeing the destruction around us, I run my hands over my arms and inspect myself. My shirt is shredded but my skin is intact. No blood. Like before, the energy has protected me. “I’m fine.”
A voice comes from the other side of the charred evergreens. “Well, that’s a relief.” Jeremiah steps into the wreckage around the fountain. His expression matches the destruction around us. “I’d hate to think you’d been hurt. There’s too much hurt in the world as it is.”
The way he says it, I’m sure he’s seen us. The sting of betrayal is all over his face.
“Jeremiah, I—”
“Don’t say it. Just don’t say anything.” He turns on his heel and walks away. I scramble to follow him.
Korwin grabs my wrist. “Lydia, trust me. If it were me, I’d want to be alone.”
I hang my head.
“What is it between you two, anyway? How bad should I feel about kissing you?”
I try to put it into words. What is between Jeremiah and me? “We’ve been best friends since we were children. I guess lately it’s been more. In Hemlock Hollow, everyone thought we’d end up together. You know, married.”
“So, you guys have, um.” He makes a gesture with his hands that is easy to understand.
A hot blush creeps across my face. “Ah, no. We wait for that until marriage.”
“But you’ve, like, kissed and stuff.”
“No. Not yet. I mean, we’ve come close.”
Korwin sits down on the rim of the fountain, rubbing his chin. “Is kissing something you usually wait until marriage for, too?”
I think about that. Kissing is something you do in private in Hemlock Hollow, but plenty of girls my age have been kissed, courting or not. “No. Girls and boys kiss, mostly when they’re courting.”
“Courting… That’s like dating, right?” he asks.
“Yes. Stronger though. For us, very few people court who don’t get married.”
Korwin runs a hand through his hair, flexing the muscles in his arms and chest in the process. I become hyperaware that he’s not wearing a shirt. “And you and Jeremiah were courting?”
“No. We weren’t yet.”
A puff of air escapes his lips. “So, what you’re telling me is, I came between you and an almost kiss and a someday, maybe, courting?”
I fold my arms across my chest and turn my head in the direction of Jeremiah’s exit. “Yes. I guess that would be accurate.”
“Good. I’m done feeling bad about this. And I hope you are, too. If he wanted you, really wanted you, he should have staked his claim a long time ago.”
Truth can be a hard thing to hear, a jackhammer across my heart. He’s right. Jeremiah had multiple opportunities to court me, and to kiss me. True, he’s made his intentions known, but what did that really mean? It certainly wasn’t a vow of exclusivity.
I reposition my arms to cover the more provocative rips in my shirt. “Sometimes the unsaid in the Amish world is as important as what’s said. I know Jeremiah would have courted me eventually. I regret hurting him. But the truth is that I am still free to do as I please. I enjoyed kissing you, Korwin. You were my first.” I turn in a tight circle. “And I can safely say that if I ever kiss anyone else, I’m sure it will be… different.”
Korwin chuckles, low and breathy. “You were my first, too.”
I gape in his direction. I don’t believe it. How could a boy who looks like Korwin, living in the English world, not have been kissed?
“I’ve had opportunities. There are some girls who come to the house regularly, daughters of the Liberty Party founders. But they’ve never… we’ve never… connected.”
“Oh.” In many ways, Korwin’s childhood sounds more cut off than mine. I grew up behind a wall but Korwin’s walls are just as real and follow him everywhere.
“But I agree, Lydia.” He meets my eyes. “If I ever kiss another girl, it could never be the same.” He hugs himself like he’s trying not to touch me. “I think we’d better call it a night.”
“I agree. I’m not sure…” I hold my hands out toward the destruction.
“Yeah. I think we should take it slow until we have more control.”
I nod.
“I’m going to go find Jeremiah and show him to his own room. He’s gonna need some space,” Korwin says. When I shake my head, he holds up a hand. “Don’t worry. If he’s angry or if I think he might lash out, I’ll get Jameson to do it.”
“He won’t lash out. That’s not Jeremiah. But it might be embarrassing to him to have to face you.”
“Jameson, then. Goodnight, Lydia.” He flashes me a conspiratorial smile and steps over the rubble to exit the garden. I follow, but not until I tip my chin toward the ceiling and thank God for freeing me from CGEF and introducing me to Korwin. Then I follow it up with a prayer that somehow all of this will work out and I’ll make it home again.
But as I enter the hall, a small thought takes root in my brain and sprouts questions that go unanswered. If I go home again, will I have to give up my power? My freedom? Korwin?
19
I dream of thunderstorms that night. Lightning rips across a silver sky. It flattens everything in its path. I’m in the dream but I can’t tell if I’m the sky, the lightning, or the scorched earth. In the morning, I’m covered in sweat.
After a long shower, I dally in my closet, unable to make the simplest decision of what to wear. Eventually I decide on a stretchy pair of jeans, a sleeveless blouse, and a long orange blazer that reaches the back of my knees and is covered in buckles and straps. Orange, blessed orange. I relish my chance to wear the color we don’t have in Hemlock Hollow. I slide my feet into a pair of strappy orange sandals with three-inch heels. I’ve never worn heels before and take a few practice strides across the room before ascending to the main part of the house.
With how late it is, I hope I’ve missed breakfast and with it, the need to face Jeremiah after what happened last night. I’ll ask Jameson for a small bowl of cereal and eat it alone in the kitchen. But when I walk toward the dining room, voices drift across the house: Korwin, Jeremiah, and Maxwell in heated conversation. I can’t make out everything they’re saying, only the sharp edge of Jeremiah’s words. They stop talking when the click-clack of my shoes on the hardwood gives me away.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Maxwell says.
Jeremiah shoots him a defiant look.
Jameson pulls out a chair for me. Without asking if I want it, he brings me a cup of coffee and a yogurt parfait.
I glare across the table at Maxwell. “I heard you fighting. What wer
e you talking about?”
Jeremiah folds his hands, knuckles whitening. “I was suggesting to Mr. Stuart and Korwin that they help us visit your father.” His blue eyes drill into mine.
I stiffen. “I thought we’d settled this yesterday.” I take a deep breath and blow it out in a huff. “When we are done here, Mr. Stuart will return us to Hemlock Hollow.”
“But you have to visit him, Lydia. It’s why we came.”
Maxwell leans back in his chair and shakes his head. “It’s out of the question. If anyone sees you, it would be disastrous. I’m sorry, the risks are too great.”
“Right,” I say. “Like we talked about yesterday, it’s too risky. I wouldn’t want to put him in danger.” Guilt squeezes my heart like a vise.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m willing to take the risk,” Jeremiah says. “He’s ill. He needs us.” The pointed look he gives me tells me everything I need to know. After last night, Jeremiah can’t stand to be here any longer.
“No, Jeremiah. What if you’re like me? You need to stay until we’re sure.”
Maxwell clears his throat. “His blood is normal.”
The news doesn’t surprise me. He didn’t react to the lamp like I did, and I haven’t felt the connection with him I have with Korwin. I mourn the loss of the leverage to make him stay.
“You can’t go. The risk isn’t your own,” Maxwell says, glancing between Jeremiah and me. “If you’re captured, they’ll torture you. They’ll kill you, Jeremiah, and drain Lydia like they did Korwin. And they’ll take her father, too. They’ll use him to manipulate you, if they don’t kill him first.”
I drop my fork. It clanks against the glass and flips berries across the table. Red splatters the white tablecloth. I bury my face in my hands and can’t stop the tears from coming. My sobs are the only sound in a room full of suddenly silent men.
An arm slips around my shoulders. I know it is Korwin’s by the way the tiny hairs on my neck react to his touch.
“We’ll figure something out.” Korwin’s voice coaxes me from behind my hands.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, son,” Maxwell says.
A sharp look passes between father and son.
Jeremiah glares at Maxwell through narrowed eyes. “Are you saying we’re prisoners here? Are you saying she doesn’t have a choice to leave if she wants to?”
Maxwell shakes his head. “No. You’re not prisoners. Any of you can leave whenever you wish. I’m just asking you to please think about the consequences. The entire rebellion hinges on Korwin and Lydia. Decades of planning and posturing. If you throw yourself to the wolves, please don’t take us all down with you.”
“Of course we won’t,” I say. I turn toward Jeremiah, balling my hand into a fist on the table. “I miss my father. You know I do.” My voice sounds high and tight. “But I have to consider the big picture. CGEF thinks I’m Lydia Lane. I can’t let them know who my father is. You didn’t see what they did to me—I never told you what happened. They’re evil.”
With a curt nod, he stands from the table. “As long as that’s the only reason.” He bumps into Korwin’s shoulder as he leaves the room. Accidental? Maybe. But he doesn’t apologize.
“Jeremiah, come back! We need to talk,” I call after him.
“Later,” he barks. He doesn’t even look back.
I can’t help it. The tears come in great sobs and I bury my face in my hands again. Should I go after him? Maybe he wants to be alone. Am I doing enough to protect my father? He must be so worried but what choice do I have but to stay away? I’m so confused. Oh, how I miss Hemlock Hollow, where there are clear expectations and common rules.
Korwin pours me a glass of water from a pitcher on the table. I wipe my face and take a shaky sip, pulling myself together by force of will.
Maxwell watches me, his jaw tight. The wrinkles in his forehead are more pronounced than usual. I can’t tell if he’s worried about me trying to leave or unhappy with Jeremiah’s outburst. “Now that that’s settled, I need you to know I’ve invited the leaders of the Liberty Party here tonight to meet Lydia,” he says. “I’ll need both of you to be prepared.”
“What about her father?” Korwin asks. “What can be done? Can we bring him here?”
Maxwell’s gravely serious eyes search my face. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Stuart,” I say, clasping my hands in front of my chest.
“Now eat, Lydia,” he says. “You’ll need your strength.”
“For you, Lydia,” Jameson says, handing me the swath of gauzy blue fabric through the door to my room. He’s strictly formal, and I can almost forget our awkward confrontation on the balcony. I would prefer to forget.
“What is this?”
“Your dress for the party tonight. A full length is appropriate.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t understand. I thought this was a political meeting, boardroom-type stuff.”
“Mr. Stuart prefers gatherings of the Liberty Party to be jovial occasions. You will be the main event. It’s important you fit the part.”
I pull the rest of the dress from his hands and the fabric rustles in my grip. It’s shiny and layered and long. I can barely tell which end is up. “Okay.” I wonder for a moment if it will fit and then remember that clothes here adjust to the wearer. Nanofibers.
“Good. Be in the great room in one hour. Mr. Stuart will want you in the reception line as guests arrive.” Jameson drops a large paper bag lined with tissue paper just inside the door.
I nod and he slips from the room.
When he’s gone, I strip out of my clothes and don the dress. Dark blue silk stretches across my bust, held in place only by pressure and the boning that is secured around my waist. The dress is sleeveless and strapless. My shoulders are completely bare, as far from plain as a dress can get. From the waist down, layers of glistening fabric and netting trail to the floor. In fact, they heap on the floor until I open the bag and find a pair of silver heels to give me some height. I also find a necklace and bracelet of sapphires. There are no earrings but my ears aren’t pierced anyway. Jameson must have noticed. I look at myself in the mirror, my honey brown tresses sweeping down from my brow to my waist and think there is something missing. Something doesn’t fit.
Carefully, I walk to the nightstand, pick up the thin plastic telephone, and dial zero.
“Jameson,” he answers.
“I need your help.”
I’m late. On unsteady feet, I climb the stairs to the great room, all my focus on staying upright on the strappy silver heels I’m wearing. At the top, I notice Korwin first. My eyes snap to him like an invisible string has tugged me in his direction. He’s in a sharp gray suit that wraps around his waist and buttons down the side. A silky blue scarf that matches my dress twists around his neck and is pinned in place.
“Lydia,” Korwin says. The word is charged and breathy. Without even thinking, I ball my gloved hands in the skirt of my dress and clip-clop across the wood floor toward him. It’s where I’m supposed to be.
“You cut your hair,” Jeremiah says, sharp and accusing. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t notice him at first, waiting near the windows. With his hands coupled behind his back, he joins us near the top of the stairs.
“Yes.” My honey brown hair is now layered, falling only to my shoulders and parted to the side. The hairdresser Jameson found for me has brushed it to a shine and curled it. The waves are pinned up with pearl clips. I think it’s beautiful and very English.
Jeremiah scowls.
I consider blaming my circumstances. We have to blend in. My hair was one of the few traits that still set me apart. But then I narrow in on his disapproving expression. Who is he to suggest I can’t? He chooses when to cut his hair, even in Hemlock Hollow. I feel unfairly judged and so I look him in the eye and repeat what he said to me in the buggy on the way to the wall, “When in the English world, always act English.”
He balks as his o
wn words slam into the space between us. I stare at him, challenging him to respond to me. And then I notice he is dressed in a garishly fuchsia suit with a braided gold sash. His appearance disturbs me, as I have never seen him wear fuchsia, nor does he appear to like it. Undoubtedly, Maxwell provided his clothes, which means Korwin and I match intentionally. This bothers me, partly because it makes me feel like a show pony, a doll Maxwell dresses up to serve his purposes. Mostly though, I think it’s cruel. Jeremiah is being forced to watch Korwin and me thrust together by the forces here. A stiff dose of guilt makes me want to eat my words. I am the reason he’s here. I am the reason both of us are here.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
We both turn as Maxwell descends the stairs from the second floor, clapping his hands slowly. “You all look amazing.” He grabs me by the shoulders and ushers me next to Korwin. “Places, everyone. Our first guests have arrived.”
Places, like we are actors in a play. I glance at Korwin, but he is intent on Jameson opening the door. A flood of people enter, dressed in suits and gowns. Old women with fur stoles, men with flashy gold rings, and families with children who look too young to wear the stiff clothes they have on. They form a line and I shake their hands one after the other.
I have no idea who I’m meeting. Jameson calls out each of their names as they enter the house, but by the time they’ve waited in line to reach me, I forget who they are. I feel rude and overwhelmed. I am a child in dress-up clothes pretending to be an adult.
“You must be Lydia,” the man shaking my hand says. He’s gray haired and dark skinned, darker than Maxwell, with large, warm eyes and an expensive-looking wristwatch that flashes with each pump of my hand.
“Yes, I am. It’s nice to meet you.” I smile sweetly to cover my ignorance of his name.
“Jonas Kirkland,” he says.
“Come on, Daddy,” a lanky and sophisticated woman with a bridge of freckles across her nose says to Jonas. “There are people waiting.” She places a hand on his shoulder and guides him down the line. “It was nice to meet you, Lydia. Welcome to the Liberty Party.”