I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I stood there, blushing. “Sure,” I said. “But still—standing up to the Children of Abel.”
Koen only shrugged.
We stood there for a moment under a glass sky splattered with stars. At last Koen stepped away.
“I should go. Work tomorrow. And all.”
He didn’t kiss me good-bye. He didn’t even wait for my answer. Koen turned and hustled off, leaving me alone in the shadow of the huge, dark library.
16
I no longer dreamed about the atrium. Now, as the ship drew closer to Zehava, my dreams had changed, become stranger.
I’d be walking through a forest, but the shapes of the trees were all wrong. The bark seemed smooth, fleshy—and branches fanned out gently from the trunks. Indigo leaves stirred and moved overhead in what I assumed was wind. The Asherah’s air circulated in only one direction, from starboard to port, over and over again. This wind was different—lively, capricious—and sometimes, for whole moments, it was still, too.
I was never alone.
At first I was sure that the boy who walked beside me was Koen. I wanted him to be. His strides matched my strides perfectly; sometimes he even laced his fingers in mine. I only ever saw him out of the corner of my eye, a shadow. But night after night I cobbled together a fuzzy image from those stolen side glances. Whoever he was, he was taller than Koen, much taller. And darker, too. Even in my dreams I could tell that he smelled different. Sweet, like flowers. And somehow green. His body beside mine had none of the animal musk of Koen’s body.
Sometimes we stopped on the path. Around us the ground was soggy and dotted with white stuff. Snow. But there were still flowers on the branches. They turned toward us, watching. And I would hear a voice in my mind: Who are you? I don’t know you. You’re not who I thought you would be.
And then I would answer: Bashert. I am your bashert. Your destiny. I know it. You must too.
He fell silent at that.
In my dreams our bodies moved together in a way that felt completely natural, like it was what my body was made for. Like every moment I’d ever felt awkward or out of place or wrong didn’t exist and never had. Sometimes the snow would be so cold against my skin that it nearly burned it. But then he would touch those pinpoints where my flesh had started to pink, and every sensation that wasn’t right and good and wonderful would melt away. Soon the vines that masked the trees crawled down to cover us. They tangled round our limbs, binding us together. Our bodies were covered with flowers. Everything was a flurry of color and feeling and light.
In my dreams I was very, very happy.
I’d wake up with a lump in my throat, like I’d just been crying, or wanted to. Sometimes I turned to my pillow and did cry, hugging Pepper to my chest. I lost something in waking. I always did.
I just didn’t know what.
• • •
One night Koen and I sat on a stone bridge that loomed above a river on the second deck of the dome. Our legs dangled above the burbling water. From above, it looked silver over the rocks. You almost couldn’t see the artificial bottom that waited below, or the jets that pushed the stream fore to aft, circulating the water toward the districts in an infinite loop. I shouldn’t have felt unsettled by the sight of it. This was what creeks looked like on the Asherah. But for some reason my belly clenched as I watched the salmon move through the stream. I wondered if rivers were different someplace else.
“Koen?” I asked. “Do you ever dream about Zehava?”
“Sure,” he said, his hair whipped by the wind. “All the time. I can’t wait to see what life will be like once we live there. You know, once we get rid of the Council.” He turned his gaze down the river, watching as a pair of kids untangled their fishing line at the shore. It seemed cold to me for fishing—their bare ears were pink, their hands all wrapped up in their heavy mittens. But, determined, they spiked their bait on their hooks and cast the lines out into the water.
“No,” I said. “I don’t mean ‘Do you think about Zehava?’ Of course you do. We all do. I mean, do you dream about it?”
Koen stared at me, thinning his lips. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I have these dreams,” I said, looking down at my dangling boots, at the untied laces that reached toward the current. “They’re kind of weird. I’m always on Zehava in them. Every single night. It’s always Zehava.”
“What’s it like there?”
I gave a shrug. “Wild. Weird. Hot.”
Koen let out a snort. He fixed his hands against the railing, pulling himself to his feet. Then he stuck his hands into his pockets. “I’ve had dreams like that.”
“You have?” I asked. The wind tangled our hair.
“Yeah. But I’ve never told anyone. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
I let out a sigh, relieved to share the burden. “I know.”
“Terra,” Koen began. A frown creased his eyebrows. “You know it doesn’t mean anything, right? Whatever it is you dream about—it doesn’t mean you can’t be a good citizen, a good wife.”
“Of course not, Koen,” I said, frowning too. “Why would it?”
He smiled faintly. Then he offered me his hand. I took it gratefully, pulling myself to my feet. But as we walked beside each other, we both stared out ahead, our expressions as dark as the shadowed branches that twisted above.
• • •
We’d reached a comfortable stalemate, Koen and I. On some nights we’d lounge around my bedroom and whisper about the rebellion. I loved those nights, when his hands would make passionate gestures through the air. Sometimes I teased him, and he blushed, and we laughed together. Sweet, hopeful laughter, laughter that rippled like river water over stones. I felt real and whole and present, like a better version of myself. I wondered if this was what love might feel like.
Other nights didn’t go so smoothly. We walked side by side in the dome, neither of us sure what to say to the other. I let my hair fall in front of my face, hoping it would shield me from his distant, empty stare. When he left me on my doorstep, he leaned forward—and only pressed a dry kiss to my cheek. I’d head inside our dark quarters with my stomach all twisted into knots.
I think we might have always stayed like that if it hadn’t been for Abba. He was the one who always pushed us together, pressuring us to make good on our promise to each other. The first true step toward marriage was the reading of the bloodlines. Once it was confirmed that we shared no ancestors, then we would be able to set a wedding date and seal our match. One morning over breakfast Abba looked up from his coffee and over to me and told me that he’d made the appointment with the genealogist for us.
“That’s supposed to be the bride’s job,” I protested. My father shrugged and pressed a napkin to his lips.
“I want to see to it that your marriage is secured, Terra. I want to make sure you’re firmly promised to the boy.”
“Koen,” I said. “His name is Koen. I don’t know why you’re so worried about it.” And I didn’t. My father had never fretted over me before, not like this.
But he didn’t answer. He only stared at me for a long time, his jaw clenched.
“Your appointment is tomorrow after work,” he said at last.
• • •
The next morning, on the day when Koen and I were scheduled to have our bloodlines read, I woke up feeling jittery, ill rested. It was like I hadn’t slept at all. As I dressed I paused to give Pepper a scratch behind the ear. It wasn’t until a half-formed thought drifted through my head—I wonder if Abba will mind if I take Pepper with me to my new quarters—that I realized that it was actually happening, that I was really going to marry Koen.
With a pounding heart I made my way down the stairwell.
But I stopped halfway when the smell of charred oatmeal reached me. My eyes swept over our first floor, quickly appraising the situation: The sink was on, water streaming over a towering pile of dirty plates. There was a pot burning on the stove. All of t
he cupboards had been thrown open, revealing our banged-up pans and chipped dishes. And my father sat at the table, frozen, his head in his hands.
I hustled down, turned off the burners, the sink. I tried not to think of the wasted water. “Every cup of wasted gray water,” my father had always lectured, “is another hour that some poor worker has to stay late at the plants. Think about your fellow citizen. About your duty!” I was never sure whether it was true or not, but he’d sounded serious about it at the time.
Now he let the water rush out of the faucet, let our rations burn to the bottom of the pot, all the while sitting with his hands covering his face.
“Are you okay?” I asked, standing, motionless, in front of the sink. When he didn’t answer, I cleared my throat. Nothing. Then he stumbled to his feet, not even meeting my eyes when his shoulder slammed mine. Crouching low, he rummaged through one of the cupboards.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice hardly more than a whisper. There was a clatter of pans. My father sat back on his heels.
“I wanted it to be a nice morning for us.” His voice sounded mechanical, rusty at the edges. “I was going to make you breakfast. I was going to give you your momma’s book.”
Her book! My mind flashed upstairs to where the journal slept wedged between my mattress and bed. Good thing I kept my door locked.
“What are you talking about, Abba?” I asked. My words were the words of a little girl. They sounded so afraid that I was sure he would be able to hear the lie in them. But it didn’t really matter—he was hardly paying any attention to me. Instead he just stared into the darkness of the cupboard, like it was our dented metal mixing bowls that had spoken.
“The book. She told me to give you the book. The one her mother gave her on the day we had our bloodlines read.” He let his eyelids slide closed. “I’ve looked everywhere for it. She told me about it on our wedding night. Told me she wanted our daughter to have it. I’ve looked everywhere.”
His head swiveled sharply around.
“No one else has been in our home. I know you must have it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen any book.” Lies fell easily from my lips. I had touched the book’s leather cover every night before bed, cracked open the spine and breezed my fingertip down the list of names written there. The flyleaf bore the name of every woman in my family, ending with Momma’s.
But I wouldn’t tell my father. No friend of Abel, that’s what Van had said. I knew that my father could never, ever be trusted. He wasn’t one of us.
He stalked toward me across the narrow kitchen. I leaned my spine away as he reached out his big hands and gripped me by either shoulder. I braced myself, waiting for him to give me a hard shake. He’d done it plenty of times before. But he didn’t. He held me at arm’s length.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, nearly whispering. Abba didn’t even blink—just stared intently down at me. “So much like your mother, Terra. She was my heart’s twin. Did you know that? Remember that she was my bashert. No matter what anyone tells you, I want you to remember that.”
And with that he bent down and planted a kiss on my forehead. I stayed very still, waiting for it to be over. But for a long time my father didn’t move. Like he didn’t want to let me go.
“Sure,” I said at last, prying my body away. My arms shook as nervous words poured out of my mouth. I hoped he didn’t notice. “Your destiny. Sure. I should go. Mara will kill me if I’m late.” I took a few steps through the messy galley. When I stopped to look at him, he was watching me, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Good luck today,” he said. “At the reading of the bloodlines.”
“Won’t you be there?” I asked. “It’s a mitzvah, after all.”
“No, Terra,” he said. His lips fell gently open. “No. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” For a second I just stood there, pawing at the doorknob. Finally I cracked a weak smile. “Have to work late?”
One corner of my father’s mouth lifted. He nodded.
“Okay,” I said. I grabbed my lab coat from the hook by the door. “See you later, then.” I threw the door open, stepping into the cold air. I almost didn’t hear my father’s voice past the rush of the constant winter wind.
“Good-bye,” he said.
• • •
There was no use stopping home after work. I wouldn’t find my father there, with his wavering smile and intense gaze. There would be only darkness to share between myself and the cat. So when Mara dismissed me for the evening, I just threw my overcoat on over my uniform, brushed my lank hair up under my hat, and marched off toward Koen’s quarters. As I crossed through the commerce district, I greeted no one, my hands stuffed down into my pockets to keep the cold air from biting at them. If Koen was going to marry me, I decided, he’d have to take me as I was. Rough. Grubby. Hair unkempt. Because part of me wanted to be like the botanist, as much as I couldn’t stand her sometimes. I wanted to be excellent. Unapologetic. Hard. If he was going to love me, he’d have to love that part of me too.
Standing outside the front door to the Maxwells’ quarters, I sucked in a deep breath of frozen air. Then I gritted my teeth and knocked three times.
Only Ratty answered me, his shrill yelps penetrating the wooden door. When it didn’t open, I knocked again, louder. This time it cracked open, revealing a sliver of dim light. Stella’s brown eyes gazed out at me.
“I’m not supposed to answer the door when no one is home.”
“Stella.” I sighed. “It’s me, Terra. You know me.” I smiled helpfully—hopefully. The girl stared at me.
“Terra. You were here on Orbit Day. With your dad.”
“Yes,” I said. “You remember.”
She finally opened the door.
Stella was hardly anything more than a round-faced girl. But I could see in the way that she stood, her small chin held high, that she didn’t think of herself as a child. She thought she was grown-up—important. When I spoke, I was careful to make it clear to her that I considered her grown-up too.
“Koen and I are supposed to have our bloodlines checked today. So we can marry.” Her eyes widened at that. “He’s expecting me. Can you go get him?”
Stella just clutched at the door. “I told you. No one’s home.”
“He’s not home?” My resolve wavered. But I forced my doubts down deep inside me and somehow managed to hold my head firm. “Do you know where he is?”
“I think he’s in the atrium. He always goes there after work when he’s not out with you.” She waited a beat, like this was significant. “On the lower deck.”
“The lower deck,” I repeated. “Thanks, Stella.”
I turned and started down the street again. As I did, Stella’s voice called out to me. “Terra, wait!”
I looked over my shoulder. Stella just stared, not blinking at all.
“Good luck,” she finally concluded, lamely. Then added: “With the bloodlines and all.” I nodded one more time.
“Thanks,” I replied.
17
I made my way to the lower deck, where I’d walked with my mother so many times before. It had been different then, green and bright and alive. I’d been there with Koen only once, that evening we almost kissed. Since then the few bits of autumn brown that had scattered through the landscape had disappeared completely. Everything was bone gray now, dead. Black branches craned their fingers up through to the upper levels of the dome. Vines, as brittle as white ribbon candy, grasped at the tree trunks. I hustled down the path, my breath coming out in steaming bursts as I called Koen’s name. But there was no answer—only the sound of squirrels rummaging in the hard-packed soil, and crows calling to one another in the branches above.
I don’t know what made me leave the path. I moved like I did in my dreams, as if my limbs were powered by some invisible clockwork. But in my dreams I was always happy—mindlessly, stupidly happy. Now, awake, I felt only a knot of uneasiness twisting my stomach. J
ust nerves, I thought as I pressed forward across a dry, ice-slick riverbed.
I heard movement in the tangled bushes ahead of me. The dumbest thought I’d ever had crossed my mind: Maybe it’s a fox! And so it was with a sort of frantic, giddy excitement that I reached out to part the branches, and stepped into a shadowed glen.
There was a rustle of movement on the forest floor. Then a moan. I pressed forward, peering between the brambles.
It was not a fox.
“Koen!” I lifted my hand to my mouth. “Van!”
They stopped, staring—two pairs of eyes, one as brown as maple syrup, the other as green as spring buds. The boys were pressed up against a tree. No, Koen was pressed up against a tree, and Van pressed up against him, his hands knotted in Koen’s hair. Their lips were bruised pink and slick with saliva. I had interrupted something—Koen had just begun to lift the librarian’s shirt, exposing the bronze skin over his hip. But they were both frozen now, save for the heavy rhythm of both their chests.
My voice broke out into an incomprehensible syllable. I wheeled back—away from the tangled heart of the forest, away from the boys and their tryst. I saw Koen untangle himself from Van. He reached down to grab his coat from the muddy ground. That’s when I turned and ran.
I didn’t know where I was going, but it didn’t matter. I knew that I could outrun him. After all, I’d done it before. The ground was soft with pine needles. It seemed to fall away as I ducked between the trees, tears streaming down my face, my coat flaring up behind me. I told myself that I would run far, far away from him, lose myself in the forest at the heart of the ship, that I would never see him ever again as long as I lived if I ran fast and far enough.
It was a stupid, stupid hope. For one thing, the Asherah was so little. There was no avoiding anyone. For another, after only a few minutes of running, I heard the approach of pounding footfalls. A pair of strong hands reached out, grabbing me by both shoulders. I was pulled to the ground.
“Get off me!” My words came out in a screech. It was Van who grappled with me, locking his muscular biceps around my arms in some sort of wrestler’s hold. I could smell the pine on his hair and the cedar on his breath. Koen’s smell. The smell of kissing Koen.
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