I looked up. There, in the shadows of the towering bookshelves, in the light that glinted down at us from the stained-glass windows, people watched. Little children grew quiet as their gazes met mine. Old men squinted up from their reading, nodding their gray heads. People touched their fingers to their chests, saluting me. As I looked, Van spoke.
“The citizens are growing restless. They’ve been waiting for something like this for a very long time. And they’ve been patient. But now, with that planet looming overhead? We know we don’t have to wait much longer. And it’s all because of you. Haven’t you seen it, the way people look at you?”
“Maybe,” I mumbled. Then I reconsidered. “I’ve been trying to ignore it. I’ve had other things on my mind.”
Van’s haughty eyes flashed, as bright as jade. “Yes. Exactly. You’ve been distracted.”
I scowled. When I didn’t reply, Van returned to his work, scanning in the returns one by one. I reached over to a nearby cart, idly running my finger over the rows of spines. Some of the books had water damage, the pages rumpled even as they sat wedged between other books. Some had crumbling covers. Most had been mended over and over again, the book cloth coated with library tape. All were very old.
“Van?” I called, my hand lingering on the top of one of the books.
“What do you want?” he asked with a scowl. I didn’t flinch, not this time.
“What’s going to happen to all these books when we land?”
Van looked down at the volume in his hands.
“We’ll bring what we can to the surface. A shuttle’s worth, maybe. The most important volumes only, of course.”
“But what about the rest? And the library itself?” I gaped up at the stained glass. Planet Earth was cerulean and emerald. Golden stars winked and twinkled behind her. Those windows had always been one of my favorite things on the ship “Do we just . . . leave it here?”
“You know, I used to worry about the same thing. Oh, Benjamin tried to teach me it was a trifle. The library was included in the original manifest only because one of the first Council members insisted on bringing his books along. Argued it would help us preserve Terran culture. Really, it was a luxury our ancestors shouldn’t have been able to afford—books.” He set the book down on the counter, tapping its surface with his index finger.
“We learned of that donor’s wisdom only after the last uprising. A hundred and seventy years ago, the Council deleted our digital archives as a punishment. Within seconds, thousands of volumes . . . gone.” He gestured expansively with his fingers how—poof!—all that information had just disappeared.
“Benjamin and I used to argue about it. I said we needed to bring every volume to the surface even if it took a thousand shuttle trips. We needed our legacy, I said. Then, when he told me about the Council’s plot to keep us in the dome, I told him I hoped the Children of Abel would fail. I told him I didn’t want to leave my home behind. Or the library. The pretty windows. And all these stupid books.”
“But not anymore?” I asked. Van’s expression was bleak.
“I was a child then,” he said. “What did I know about anything? I hadn’t even been in love.”
The frown that creased the corner of his mouth was deep. I felt a lump tighten my throat at the thought of it—of Van falling in love with Koen and then losing him because of me. But I swallowed that thought. “Now how do you feel?”
He laughed. Desperate, hollow laughter. “I don’t care about books. I don’t care about buildings. Freedom. That’s what matters. So I can love whomever I please.”
In the darkness of the airless library, Van’s gaze searched mine. He was looking for promises. Vows. My throat grew even tighter. I looked up at the light that passed, green and blue, through the stained glass Earth. Then I looked away.
28
The day arrived when we were to have our bloodlines read. This time Silvan met me at my house—or Ronen’s house, at least. There was no way I was going wandering through the dome in search of him, not after what had happened with Koen.
He arrived early, while I was still brushing the postwork snarls from my hair. Ronen appeared at my bedroom door, jiggling Alyana in his arms.
“Your intended is here,” he said. His smile surprised me. I hadn’t expected any kindness from Ronen, though things had been going better between us lately.
“Thank you.” I set my hairbrush down. Shifting Alyana from one arm to the other, Ronen’s smile grew.
“You know, Abba would be so proud of you. How you’ve risen. The captain’s wife!”
I fought the urge to grimace. I didn’t want to think about Abba or what he might have thought of my match. But Ronen didn’t mean the words to be an insult. So I kissed his cheek as I passed.
“Thanks, Ro,” I said. I hadn’t called him that in years, since we’d both been kids. My brother just grunted in embarrassment.
I headed downstairs, grabbing my coat from the hook by the door and tossing it over my shoulders. I ignored the familiar weight in the pocket—the little bottle of poison, waiting for the day it would be used. Well, it would have to wait a little longer. It wouldn’t be used today.
Silvan stood straight, grinning at me, looking beautiful. He wore a long tunic. At first glance it looked simply white. But when I came closer, I saw that it was embroidered with tiny flowers in threads of violet and gold. It matched his rank cord perfectly. It was a beautiful, fine outfit—and it must have cost a fortune. Seeing how I regarded him, he flicked his curls off his shoulder, preening.
“Do you like it?”
“You look nice,” I admitted, not really quite sure what else to say.
“I wanted to wear something special,” he said. “Since you and Abba won’t let me wear what I want on our wedding day.”
We stepped out into the cold together. It was almost suppertime. The districts were crowded as people went from the butcher, to the baker, to the greengrocer, collecting their rations. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought their voices seemed to ebb as we passed. Each citizen lifted two fingers to his or her heart. Silvan looked smug, his posture firm and straight. He thought they were saluting him. I let him think that. In a way, I would have preferred it too. It would have been simpler if we were just the rising captain and his intended, going to seal our engagement.
But of course I knew the truth. As they touched the pads of their fingers to their chests, all eyes were on me.
Every day we neared the surface brought me one step closer to executing the terrible task. To killing Silvan. He viewed the passing days eagerly: Soon we’d be on Zehava, and I’d be fat with his babies. But I didn’t have the pleasure of that fantasy. I knew the truth.
We stood in the gleaming record room as the archivist read down the list of names. She was a better liar than I was, giving no indication that she knew that soon Silvan would be dead. I stood stone-still underneath the weight of his arm. He clutched me to him, a broad grin plastered across his face.
At the end of it she gave us a pen and made us sign on a dotted line at the bottom of the page. Our signatures were our pact, our promise to each other that we would be wed. My name was writ small, in cramped letters that hardly took up any space at all. But Silvan wrote his own name in huge, loopy script.
If only he’d known what he was signing up for.
• • •
After it was all over, we gathered in Silvan’s quarters for wine. My intended had orchestrated the whole gathering especially on my behalf. His older sister and her husband stood there, bored, rolling their eyes at everything Silvan said. His mother’s mouth was tight with disapproval. Silvan didn’t pay them any mind, though, hustling about to fetch glasses and pour drinks. Only Silvan’s father looked at all pleased with the idea. When Silvan went to fill my glass, Mazdin stopped him.
“No, Son,” he said in his rumbling baritone, “your intended should drink something special tonight.”
He went and fetched a bottle from the wine rack. As he worke
d the corkscrew into it, Silvan lowered his brow.
“But, Abba,” he protested. “That bottle’s almost fifty years old. You’ve been saving it—”
“For a special occasion,” he said, sloshing my glass full. “Terra’s joining our family now. She deserves the good stuff.”
There was something in his voice that I couldn’t quite read.
“You’d better not let that go to vinegar,” his wife warned. She was scowling at me. I don’t think she’d ever warmed to the idea of my marrying her son. But Mazdin just laughed. He filled his own glass, then jammed the cork into place and returned the bottle to the rack.
“I think I can handle leftovers,” he said.
At long last Silvan grew tired of waiting. He cleared his throat, lifting his glass for his toast.
“To my new wife and the line our union will create,” he said, hoisting the goblet high. “To life and to Zehava. L’chaim!”
“L’chaim,” we all murmured, touched edges, drank.
The wine was delicious, dark and rich with a hint of fruit behind it—nothing like my father’s sour, acidic stuff. I choked it down. Silvan watched me proudly, then leaned over to kiss the crown of my head.
“I can’t wait till next week,” he said fondly. He didn’t even seem to notice how his sister and brother-in-law were already rushing to get their coats.
“Off so soon?” I called to them, eager for a distraction. If I thought too much about Silvan’s words, I was sure that the guilt would show in my face.
“Yes,” she said, then gave a rude smirk. “Other things to do.”
They were out the door, gone.
“I have things to do too,” Silvan’s mother said with a yawn. She started up the stairs, but hesitated for a moment at the bottom, looking at her son.
“Silvan,” she said, “I believe your father would like to have a word with your intended.”
“Abba?” Silvan put his arm around me again, pulling me close. “Well, whatever you want to say to Terra, you can say to me.”
Mazdin set his glass on the counter. “Please, Silvan,” he said gently, “can’t I have a word with my future daughter-in-law?”
Silvan let me go. “Fine!” he said, huffing toward the stairwell. Then he paused, giving me an amorous smile. “I’ll see you later, Terra.”
“See you, Silvan,” I said, but my gaze was fixed on Mazdin Rafferty. In my ears I heard my heart beat a wild rhythm.
Silvan and his mother made their way up the stairs together. At last I heard bedroom doors click shut. That meant I was alone with Mazdin—my mother’s killer. He watched me carefully even as a smile played on his handsome, hungry lips.
This man’s not a doctor, I thought. He’s a hunter.
“Terra,” he said, “come sit with me.”
He gestured to their sitting area, which, so far as I’d been able to tell, mostly went unused. My glass was almost empty, but I still clutched it in one hand. It gave me something to focus on as I made my way over to the leather sofa and sat down. I fought the urge to leap up, to bolt toward the front door.
Instead I sat, smoothing my trouser legs against my thighs with my palm. Then my gaze fell on a book that sat squarely on the coffee table. It wore an ancient cover, gold letters stamped into the leather.
“That’s mine!” I cried. I grabbed it, crushing Momma’s journal against my chest.
Mazdin chuckled as he sat down.
“Is it?” he asked. “A little boy by the name of Apollo brought it to Captain Wolff. He found it in his quarters, in his sister’s room. Read a few pages and it troubled him. And I can see why. Can you imagine being a child and stumbling across such treacherous words in your own home? He knew he was doing a mitzvah, bringing it to her.”
A mitzvah. Apollo, who’d called me names and vied for his mother’s attention, knew what he’d done. The boy wasn’t stupid, but he was jealous. Holding the book against my body, I saw how Mazdin’s lips—full, like his son’s—twisted angrily.
“One of the benefits of living on such a small ship,” Mazdin said, “is that petty disagreements easily run amok. And it’s always only a matter of time before one citizen betrays another.”
His words reminded me of Koen. I hadn’t meant to let the truth slip out about his love for Van, and certainly not in front of Silvan. But it had. I hadn’t meant to hurt anybody, but the boys would pay the price anyway. I closed my eyes against the pain and the fear that was boiling over inside me. Mazdin didn’t seem to notice.
“Now, Terra,” he said, “don’t feel bad. This isn’t the first time such a thing has happened, and it won’t be the last. Why, four years ago I ran into our clock keeper at a pub down in the commerce district. He looked so sad, so I bought him a drink for his troubles. And you know what he told me in return?”
Abba, I thought. Oh, Abba, what did you do?
“Told me he’d caught his wife with the librarian. Lying together, in his very own bed.”
My mind resisted his words. My mother and father had loved each other, hadn’t they? He had called her his bashert. But had she felt the same way about him? I couldn’t remember, not really. What I did remember was the expression on Benjamin’s face at Momma’s funeral and then again on the day I received my vocation. Like he’d lost something precious. Like he was searching me for some shadow of my mother. I set the book down on my knees, staring down at the cover. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the doctor.
“He didn’t mean to betray her,” he said, his voice syrupy. “He was in pain. Why not talk to a Council member about it? Of course, it was easy after that to find out what had brought the star-crossed lovers together. The Children of Abel. Your mother was one of their leaders, you know. And Jacobi their messenger. I imagine that it all seemed terribly romantic.”
There was a long pause after that. I guess I was supposed to say something, but I couldn’t make my lips move. I only stared down at Momma’s book. Mazdin reached out and snatched it from me. He glowered at it, then tossed it down onto the table.
“What do you know about this book?” he demanded.
I wanted to blurt out that I knew nothing, to beg for forgiveness, to throw myself on my knees. I wanted to save myself from the gleam in his eyes. But the gleam in Mazdin’s eyes was too much like my father’s. I was frozen in fear where I sat.
“The writer’s name was Frances Cohen,” he said. “She was the ship’s first psychologist. A specialist, like you. She even tried to start an uprising. Seems to be common in your family. Though I never did understand why her journal was considered a document of the rebellion, myself.
“Frances might discuss freedom. But in the end she gave in, as they always do. She had her babies. Obeyed the Council. Became a true Asherati. That’s how it always goes. Well, either that, or you die.”
I hadn’t moved a centimeter from where I sat, hadn’t even looked up. Without a word Mazdin rose from the sofa, leaving me there alone. But he stopped at my side as he passed me, and bent at the waist. When he spoke again, his words were whispered, hot against my ear.
“I’d hoped my son would choose better,” he said. “But Silvan’s never been bright. I have to let the spoiled child have his marriage. Still, I’m not worried. You’re just a broken little girl, aren’t you? You might have dreams of rebellion, but you’re not a threat.”
I watched him as he started up the stairs.
“You pose no danger to me or my son,” he called out behind him.
He disappeared into the darkness above. I heard a bedroom door slam. Soon silence followed. I was alone, all alone, in his living room.
My body thought for me. Trembling, I rose, taking the journal in hand. I shuffled toward the door, groping for my coat. Numbly I slung it over my shoulders. My fingers moved mechanically, fastening the buttons.
It was the weight in my breast pocket that brought me back. I reached in. My fingers found a red-gold bottle, heavy with white powder. A grin curled my lips.
My body moved
with sudden anger, my limbs propelling me across the galley and right to Mazdin Rafferty’s wine rack. My hand flashed down to the bottle he’d just uncorked. It moved with purpose. His smug words echoed in my brain.
I think I can handle leftovers.
Handle this, I thought, gripping the cork and tugging it out of the bottle’s mouth. The galley echoed with a resounding pop. I unscrewed the cap from the bottle of poison and began to pour it in.
It’s funny. I had spent so much of my life sad or scared. But my hands didn’t shake as I emptied the powder from the bottle and watched it sink into the dark liquid. I couldn’t even hear my heart in my ears. Instead I saw the moment with perfect clarity: the white of my hands in the galley light, the bloodred of the wine behind them. It was a rash, angry, terrible thing that I was doing. But I didn’t feel angry. Only strong, decisive.
Because I wasn’t acting for myself or for the Children of Abel. No, the poison I put in Mazdin Rafferty’s wine was for Momma, and my father, and even for Mar Jacobi. It was for everyone who had died, everyone I had lost.
I shoved the cork in and gave the bottle a few fierce shakes. I was strong, whole. Someday soon Mazdin would learn.
Other than a few frothy bubbles, you couldn’t even tell the bottle had been disturbed. With satisfaction I slid it into place on the wine rack. Then I turned to where I’d set the bottle of poison on the counter, and froze.
It wasn’t empty, not quite. But no more than a sprinkle remained, clinging to the amber glass. As I slipped the bottle down into my pocket, I realized that there was no way I’d be able to do what the Children of Abel had asked of me, not anymore.
I buttoned my coat up the rest of the way and left.
• • •
That night, as the clock tower bells called out across the pastures, I climbed the tower’s steps alone, only the ghost of my memories by my side. At the top I found Koen. His silhouette danced across the floorboards as he threw his weight against the ropes. The rhythm stuttered when he saw me, his face an unreadable mask. But he had to finish his work. So I waited there at the top, watching his lean body move until his shoes touched the floor again and he once again found solid ground.
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