Split the Sun

by Tessa Elwood

“No.” Mom reappears and leans forward, elbows on knees. “That idea came with Lord Galton’s death.” She hesitates. “No, it came to me the moment you marched into my office, demanding treatment for Ricky’s mother. You looked so much like my grandfather—the determination, the power. The willingness to accept any consequence. You were meant to rule, Kit. You understand cost.”

  “No,” I say, or maybe mouth since she doesn’t stop.

  “But it wasn’t until after Yonni’s death, when you kept your bargain and didn’t blow my cover or make more demands, that I knew you could be trusted. And it wasn’t until the Lord’s death that I saw the way to make it happen—bring the story full circle. I’ve never believed in fate, but this?” She reaches out, hand brushing my cheek as if she knows where I am. “This has me converted. You were always meant to rule, Kit.” Her fingers drop to the heart at her neck. “I left an override script in the blackout virus. You can stop it now or let it run as you so choose. Rebuild your House from a dark wasteland, or reclaim the grids before the virus completes and there’s no getting them back. Not ideal, I know, but you’re a bloodling now. When you say rise, the House stands as one.”

  “No.” I jump up and away from her, back slamming into the cockpit door. “You can’t—no. Stop. End transmission.” I kick the air-freshener sticks over, grab Yonni’s heart from her neck. “I won’t be your devastation, I won’t be you.”

  She pops out like a bubble, taking the light with her.

  I’m alone in the dark.

  I reinstate the lights and pace the flightwing’s tiny hall. Up, down, up, down, my head shaking until my brain rattles like a ball.

  The data structure blown, grids House-wide forever busted, me the Heir to make up for it—how is this a legacy? How is this something I’d want?

  I stop and slam my fist into the wall. It hurts, so I do it again.

  Everyone, everyone, has a plan.

  Mom will “give me the world” on a blood-strewn plate. The Prime will map me, Niles will stop him at the expense of himself, and the Brinkers will kill off everyone with my blood—my lesser-than-thou nonroyal blood—that they can get their hands on just to prove a point. Like Mom’s trying to prove a point, and Niles, and hell, even the Prime.

  Do this or die. Do this or they’ll die.

  Do this, or I’ll get myself killed for you.

  You were always meant to rule, Kit.

  “Really? Then maybe you should have stuck around for the last ten years teaching me how!”

  I kick the wall. It doesn’t care.

  I have more bruises than the wing at this point. Serves me right. None of this is the flightwing’s fault.

  I drop to the floor and stare at Yonni’s heart. It beats in its box, quiet and innocent. No one would suspect. No one would even dream.

  Think, Kit.

  The Prime thought he could reinstate power soon, that it wouldn’t be difficult. He doesn’t know Mom. With or without power, he’ll probably try to take over the House.

  What had Niles said? Even if your mom blew ten Archives, she couldn’t touch my dad.

  Lady Galton okayed the gutting of the Brinkers’ home planet, so as far as integrity goes, she’s on level with the Prime. The bloodling Heir is lost to the abyss, since the records point to me.

  There has to be another out.

  I breathe deep, switch on the fresheners, and wait for Mom to show.

  She does. Soft mouth, soft eyes. “There you are.”

  “Tell me about the virus override,” I say. “And how you’re controlling the feeds.”

  Mom said I have to be in range of the central grid. So I stand on the southern end of the Gilken Tower, bare toes curled over the roof edge, hair bound tight so it doesn’t blow. It’s breezy up here. Dark below, dark above. The cloudsuites with backup generators thrive in glow-dotted harmony, while the rest of the city looks on in shadow. Traffic whirs, private flightwings, and panic. Not here, though. This street is as dead as the tower under my feet.

  The flightwing fills the rooftop at my back. I don’t know how the hell Pali landed it in the space, but she managed. Definitely worth her weight in hardware. It’s probably not the safest or most secure vantage, but I know this roof—where it is in proximity to the blown Archive and the city’s power grid.

  More than that, I know the view.

  I switch on the three freshener sticks sticking out of my side pants pocket. Metallic Seafin. Burnt Ash.

  Energized Renewal.

  I had to be very precise indeed to get the name of the last one.

  I rub Yonni’s heart. It beats with the blood in my ears as the scents trigger the implanted receptor, then transmit the override signal to the grid. It burns, hot and hotter, glows bright between my fingers.

  I balance on the pads of my feet and focus on the skytower cluster near Low South’s Market, with the giant ad-screens that can probably be seen from space.

  “Transmit override code K581M,” I say. “Project me as Millie Oen and restart the grid.”

  The city blazes. A thousand windows and streetlights rocketing to life.

  I let go of the heart. “Begin projection.”

  Mom’s face appears everywhere—in shop windows and digitized street signs, on the massive ad-screens half a district away.

  I tip my head and so does she, in tandem.

  Right, let’s do this.

  “Do I have your attention?” I say and she echoes in an all-encompassing boom. “Excellent.”

  She smiles and so do I.

  “I was hired by the Prime to eradicate the true bloodling line. I was supposed to destroy all physical DNA records, which meant destroying the Archive. This, I did. Those deaths are on my head.”

  I won’t pass that responsibility off, not even on the Prime.

  “It was wrong. I should never have taken the job, listened to the Prime. I should have had the courage to stand against him. It may be too little too late, but I’m standing now. The only DNA you’ll find in the official bloodling records is mine. So unless you want me as your next Heir and House Lady, I suggest you rework your governmental structure and sort out your shit.”

  I lean back and fold my arms, which has Mom glaring on-screen. “Also, as soon as this message wraps up, I’m reinstating the blackout everywhere except the Outer Brink. This whole House runs on stolen energy bought with blood. Lord Galton harvested the independents with their populations still on-planet, and we all just stood by and watched. And his wife? Lady Galton? She plans to do the same thing to our own people, to the planets on the Brink—which is why they get to keep their energy, and you don’t.”

  Softer, under my breath, I add, “Project indie loop.”

  Mom’s face evaporates under the weight of two dueling images—the destruction of Casendellyn, and the flight stations lining up around the Brinker’s planet.

  “The left feed is thirty years old; meet the last independent we gutted for fuel. The feed on the right was shot last week; it’s the Outer Brink planet Lady Galton wants to gut. You might want to pay attention, it’ll play nonstop for everyone running backup generators until someone learns to give a shit.”

  Everyone without generators won’t be powering anything.

  I close my eyes. Soak in space and city, energy and heat.

  I should stop here. If I had any brain at all, I’d stop here.

  “And—” I swallow twice and try again. “And for everyone who maybe isn’t a complete asshole—assuming they could go anywhere and be anything—there might be a sticky roll somewhere in Our Divinity. Come eat your weight in sugar.”

  I fist my hand around Yonni’s heart and hold it close to mine.

  “Kill the grid,” I say and the city blacks out.

  He doesn’t come.

  It’s cold in the House of Westlet, or at least in their capital. Their
streets are green and, well, green. Trees grow everywhere. Along thoroughfares, between towers, sometimes inside towers—surrounded by flowers on the other side of multilevel windows, and walkways of fitted stones with swirls etched along the edge in endless detail.

  Total waste of someone’s time and effort.

  But pretty though.

  The shopfronts mirror the walkways, clean and ornate. There are four shops this side of Old Town’s skytower. Three boutiques and a bakery. I know. I’ve been by them every day for two weeks.

  The old woman with the jewelry shop waves when she sees me. I huddle into my new Westlet hoodie—green, of course—and wave back. Another few steps, and the painted sign of Our Divinity Bakery swings overhead. My feet falter, like always, but I’ve had some practice now.

  Speed is everything.

  I grab the door handle and swing it open between one breath and the next. Scan the room before my heart can rise too high.

  It skyrockets anyway.

  The shop isn’t empty.

  But everyone is fair. No mop-y black hair swishes over dark eyes and lanky limbs. There are no males, period. Only a high glass bakery case with every sweet thing under the sun, shelves of tea and spices left and right, and two women at the counter.

  No one else.

  I step inside. Soft painted florals wind over the walls and down to the floor, tracing my steps. Someone must have done them by hand, and here I am walking all over them.

  The woman behind the counter, Hannah—who has a daughter about my age and a dog named Mitts—retrieves a sticky roll from the case and a plate from a low shelf.

  The girl on this side looks like she’s been through hell and not long ago, either, judging by her skinned head and impressive scar—a starburst of multilayered rivets that take up half her skull. She digs through her pockets as Hannah lays the plate on the counter. Each one comes up empty.

  Hannah waits, patient, but it’s obvious and the silence gets long. Finally, Rivets gives up and stands to attention, like a soldier called to task.

  “Forgive me,” she says. “It seems I—”

  “I’ve got it,” I say.

  Rivets spins, which is apparently a bad idea. It almost upends her. She weaves, blinking.

  I slide up to the counter and link my arm through hers. “Sorry, I’m late. Hey, Hannah. Any pinenuts today?”

  All of Hannah’s sticky rolls are worth jumping Houses for, but the pinenuts shame the rest.

  Hannah lights up like I’ve just given her the moon and leans across the counter. “So is this who you’ve been waiting for?”

  My smile freezes. Paste on my skin, glue in my heart. “Absolutely, who else? Can I have that sticky roll?”

  Hannah gently pats my hand, because I am 100 percent convincing, then retrieves another plate and roll and pushes them across the counter. “On the house.”

  “You’re going to go belly up if you keep handing me free things,” I say.

  “Well, that’s my choice now, isn’t it?” She peers down her nose, which would work better without the accompanying wink.

  People are . . . weird in Westlet.

  “Thanks.” I grab the plates and turn to Rivets. “Inside or out?”

  She watches like I’m the weird one. “Out.”

  We unlink and she moves ahead to open the door. The shopside garden is green, treed, and empty. Three small tables fill the patio, with woven metal legs and chairs. It’s too cold to be outside. The breeze too brisk, the air too clean.

  I sit here most days.

  Rivets has some trouble with her chair, but not too much. I don’t pretend not to notice, but I don’t comment.

  She smiles. “Am I going to mess with your date?”

  I wish people wouldn’t ask. I hate it when they ask. I hate that they somehow even know to ask.

  “He’s not going to show,” I say. “So no, you won’t.”

  If he was coming, he’d have shown by now.

  Niles doesn’t play games. Not those kind. Not the ones that jack with a person’s soul just because.

  I shake my head.

  Like I would know. He lied the entire time we were together—which, how long was that exactly?

  Yonni would have a fit.

  She’d be right.

  I rip into my sticky roll.

  “You should dump him,” says Rivets.

  “I’d have to get the chance first.”

  “Want me to track him down?” She lays a forearm on the table and leans in, wags blonde eyebrows. “I’ve got connections.”

  “I’d rather kill him myself.”

  “Just saying, if you ever need a fighter convoy, I’ll bring a House-worth of wings to bear.”

  My eyebrows rise. “Well, I have a magical amulet that can power down a whole House on a whim, so I think I’m covered.”

  “In that case, you should join my unit. I could use a good amulet bearer.” Her grin upends her face, light and happy and very young. Infectious and almost catching.

  But I remain deadpan, bowing over my plate. “Say the word, and I will clutch my heart and call down curses from afar.”

  “So it was the heart. I wondered,” says a soft voice at my elbow. My head snaps round.

  Niles.

  Dressed for the weather in a long gray jacket that hits his thighs and a pale white scarf. Hair flustered, hands in pockets, dark eyes as upended as Rivets’s smile.

  “Makes for a pretty potent amulet,” he says.

  “Niles,” I say. It hangs, suspended.

  I’m suspended. The world breathless in an eye of calm.

  “Kit.” The perfect balance of K and T.

  Somewhere, hurricanes wail.

  “Seems like I need another coffee.” Rivets’s chair scrapes back and she stands, careful. Takes her plate. “Yell if you need a convoy.”

  “All right,” I half whisper. Maybe it’s just in my head.

  Niles holds out his hand as she rounds the table. “I’m Niles, by the way.”

  Her face warms, letters tripping off her tongue. “W—Suzanna.”

  A quick shake, then she disappears through the walkway gate.

  It’s just Niles.

  And me.

  “You came,” I say.

  “I thought that was the idea.”

  “Took you long enough.”

  He moves, hand grasping my chair back as he bends to glare from two inches away. “The sticky roll of our divinity? Could you be any more obscure? You know how many divinity shops are in this damn city? And what the hell is up with all these trees?”

  His breath warms the chill air, the frosted edges of my mouth. I don’t know how he sees through all those bangs.

  “Is Niles even your name?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “Now.”

  “And it’s just that easy?”

  His teeth catch the edge of his lip. I could totally do that for him.

  “No,” he says. “The House is a wreck, there’s no power except on the Brink, and Dad figured out what I’d done—which could have gone very badly, if the city hadn’t gone mad and swarmed our complex to claim his head.”

  “You all right?” I ask.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he says.

  “That’s good,” I say.

  The silences bends, tightens. Neither of us move.

  His eyes squeeze close. “Do you want me here, Kit? Did I read that wrong?”

  “Depends,” I say.

  His eyes snap open, intent with possibility, a wave I won’t survive.

  I don’t know that I want to.

  “Is this a game” I ask. “Or will it mean something this time?”

  “Are you crazy?” He cups my face in his palms. “I just burned every bridge I had for you. It meant something
every time,” he says, and kisses me.

  Words can’t express the dead space between isolation and having one ally. Four may be

  twice two, but two is not twice one. Two is

  two thousand times one.

  —Scholar Gilken

  Author’s Note

  Author’s Note

  In another universe—where Pluto is happily still a planet—Scholar Gilken was born Gilbert Keith Chesterton and lived from 1874 to 1936. He wrote everything from mysteries to poetry to theological works. Gilken’s history exists only in Kit’s world, but his quotes are founded in Chesterton’s. When I was nine, I found the audio version of The Innocence of Father Brown and fell down the rabbit hole. If you are interested in learning more of the man and his work, that’s where I’d begin.

  Acknowledgments

  Acknowledgments

  Mom, who remembers.

  Victoria Marini, who never gives up.

  Andrea Cascardi, who follows through.

  Janet Johnson, who gives wholeheartedly.

  Heidi Sennett, who weaves wisdom with hope.