Once: An Eve Novel

by Anna Carey

  Then he was up, closing the space between us. As the woman started singing again, he reached me, pressing his face into my neck. He wrapped his arms tightly around my shoulders, pulling me so close my feet lifted off the ground. We stayed there as the music swelled around us. Our bodies fitted together perfectly, as though we were never meant to be apart.

  eighteen

  “I WAS GETTING WORRIED,” HE SAID, WHEN HE FINALLY SET ME down. He gently pulled strands of hair away from my wet lips. “I thought I’d been stupid to give you that note, to tell you to come.” He held my face between his hands, tilting my chin up so he could see beneath my cap. “You should know better than to keep a boy waiting,” he laughed. “It was torture.”

  “I’m here now.” I held onto his wrists and pressed down, feeling the bones just beneath the surface of his skin. He smiled, his eyes wet. “I’m really here.”

  He buried his face into my neck, his lips against my skin. “I missed you so much.” His arms tightened around me. I stroked the back of his head. There was something about the way he held me—clinging to my sides, squeezing the breath from my body—that startled me.

  “I’m okay,” I said softly, trying to reassure him. His breathing slowed. “We’re here, together. We’re okay,” I repeated.

  He looked at me, running his finger over my cheekbones and down the bridge of my nose. Then he pressed his lips to mine, letting them rest there for a moment. I savored the familiar scent of his skin, his stubble against my cheek, his hands in my hair. I clutched his sides, wishing we could stay like this always, the moon forever in the sky, the earth paused on its axis.

  After a long while we slid into the booth where Caleb had been waiting. The woman in the sequined dress was still singing, the melody slow and sweet as she described a midnight train to Georgia. A few men studied us from the bar as they swigged tiny glasses of black liquid. The candlelight danced on our faces. Caleb kept hold of my hand. “Where are we?” I asked, adjusting my cap so it hid my eyes.

  “It’s a speakeasy,” Caleb said. “They serve their own alcohol. People come here to drink, smoke, go out after curfew—all the things the King has outlawed in the City.”

  I brought my hand to my face, afraid someone would recognize me from the parade. “Is it safe? Do they know who you are?”

  “Everyone here is guilty of something.” He lowered his voice, pointing to a man in the far corner playing cards. A gold watch was set on the table in front of him, along with some silver rings. “Gambling, alcohol consumption, smoking, exchanging goods ‘off record,’ they call it. Goods that aren’t bought with the government-issued credit cards are supposed to be traded through the newspaper. You could be sent to jail just for coming in here.” He picked up the napkin he’d been playing with. It was twisted into a small white rose. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t get arrested, Genevieve.” He smiled, tucking it behind my ear.

  I put my hand on his right leg, where he had been stabbed. I could feel the scar through his thin pants, the line that slanted inward, toward his opposite knee. “What happened to you?” I finally asked. “All that time before you came here. I thought of you every day. I shouldn’t have let you leave. I was so scared …”

  “You did the right thing—we both did.” Caleb inched closer and wrapped his arm around me, massaging the aches from my neck. “It’s strange, but I always knew you’d come back to me. The how and when of it wasn’t clear, but I knew.”

  “I hoped,” I said, keeping my hand on his leg.

  Caleb shook his head and smiled. “Could any day have been more perfect than today?” He kissed me once, then twice, his lips settling by the hollow of my ear. “I woke up and the City was talking about the new Princess, the King’s daughter who’d returned from the Schools. I ran all the way from the Outlands to the City center like a complete idiot. Everyone thought I was just another one of your fans. I kept thinking, she’s come back to me.”

  I pulled myself closer to him. “Tell me what happened when you left Califia. I need to know everything.”

  Caleb squeezed my hand. “I stayed in San Francisco, in a house just over the bridge. It was hard for me to walk, even with the wound stitched up. For a while I lived off figs and berries from the local park. But then a day passed, and another, and I was too weak to walk anymore. I was trapped.

  “At some point, when I was really desperate, I tried to go just a block to find food. I collapsed on the sidewalk. I’m not sure how long I was there—one day, maybe a few. I just remember a horse coming toward me. I tried to crawl into a storefront, to hide myself, but it was too late. A man was hauling me onto the horse, and then I passed out. I woke up hours later. He was giving me water. Then he finally mentioned Moss.”

  “Moss?” I asked, remembering the name. “The one who organized the Trail?”

  “He’s operating from inside the City now,” Caleb said, his voice barely audible. He looked quickly around the room before speaking. Just one couple was dancing, the woman’s hand resting on the man’s heart. “He was working on the inside when the report came in about the troops killed at the base of the mountain. That soldier said where he’d last seen me, how I’d been stabbed, who I was with. Moss knew I must’ve been taking you to Califia. He came and found me. He forged my paperwork to make it look like I was just another Stray seeking refuge in the City. He’s been organizing people inside the walls, the dissidents.”

  “The dissidents?” I kept my voice low, thankful when the trumpet blasted a few loud notes. Everyone around us was absorbed in their own conversations, clinking their glasses together in cheers.

  “There’s opposition to the regime. Moss brought me here to lead a build—we’re constructing tunnels under the wall to bring in more people to help fight. Eventually we’ll smuggle weapons in from the outside. There are three tunnels in all. Moss is talking about a revolution, but without guns we’re helpless against the soldiers.”

  Caleb kept his lips close to my ear as he told me about the Outlands, the vast, barren blocks beyond the City’s main street, where old motels were being used as housing for the lower class. Some lived in warehouses, others in run-down buildings without hot water or even plumbing. The regime had designated housing based on the assets individuals were able to contribute after the plague. Jobs were assigned by the government. Most Outlanders worked cleaning the luxury apartments and office buildings in the City center, staffing the shops in the Palace mall or running the new amusements that were opening up throughout the City. The King had established endless rules: no drinking, no smoking, no weapons, no trading without his consent. No one was to be out after ten o’clock. And the City was enter-only—no one could leave.

  “All of the workers here are trapped. The regime decides their weekly allowance, what jobs they have. They keep telling everyone that the conditions will improve, that the Outlands will be restored just like the rest of the City, but it’s been years. Now there’s talk of expansion, of conquering the colonies in the east, of restoring and rebuilding there.”

  “The colonies?”

  “Three large settlements to the east that the King has visited. Hundreds of thousands of survivors are there. He considers them part of The New America already, but until the colonies are walled in, until troops are stationed inside, they’re technically separate.”

  “They’re looking for you. Stark, that scared kid—” I stumbled over the word. “He told them you were the one who killed the soldiers. What if they find you here?”

  “Without a shirt on I’m just another one of the workers.” Caleb pressed his hand to his shoulder, where his tattoo was. I’d noticed it the first day I met him, the circle with the New American crest in it. Every boy from the labor camps had one, like a stamp, marking them as property of the King. “They’re looking for me in the wild, not working in the Outlands like every other slave.”

  “And Moss? Where is he?” I asked.

  “It’s better if you don’t know.” Caleb pulled the brim of his cap down
to hide his eyes. “A dissident got caught a few months before I arrived here. They think he was tortured. He gave up names. Suddenly people were disappearing, being taken away to prison.”

  “Was the man killed?” I asked, my throat tight.

  “One of our contacts is working as a janitor inside the prison, but he couldn’t get to him in time. It was a real blow. The dissidents consider one another family—if one person is in trouble, everyone is. They would’ve done anything to help him.”

  I squeezed Caleb’s hand as I told him about the last three months: my time in Califia, Arden’s arrival, our escape and capture, my days in the Palace with the man who called himself my father. When I was done the crowd had thinned out. Half the booths were empty, strewn with glasses and smoldering ashtrays.

  Caleb tucked a few stray hairs back under my cap, so gently it nearly made me cry. Then he pulled a folded paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table, revealing a map of the City with routes outlined in different colors. He explained how the troops had their routines, specific streets they patrolled in ninety-minute blocks. The dissidents had learned their patterns and used them to avoid being caught. He copied one route down on a napkin, marking the path back to the City center, how to reenter the Palace and which staircase to take. Then he copied another for me to use in two nights’ time.

  “Let’s meet here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the second map. “There’s another dissident who works that building at night who will point you in the right direction.” He studied my face and smiled. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” He laughed.

  I stared at the place he’d marked; it was right on the main road, diagonally across from the Palace fountains. “But you could get caught.”

  “I won’t get caught,” Caleb said. He smoothed down the corners of the paper with his palm. “I promise. Just be there.”

  “How long will it be before the tunnels are completed? Can’t we hide out until then?” He said the other dissidents were concerned about his meeting me, that it might compromise them, but he’d assured them I could be trusted.

  Caleb shook his head sadly. “We don’t know. The one that’s furthest along is at a standstill. We need blueprints to continue. And if you turn up missing … they’ll know you’re somewhere inside the walls. They’ll come looking.” He put his hand to my cheek. “It’s a good sign that you made it here tonight, though. We’ll just have to meet like this until things are more certain.”

  We sat there for a while, my face nestled against his chest, until the singer sang her last song. The band packed up their instruments. Glasses clinked together. Slowly, we made our way out.

  Caleb’s hand rested on the small of my back as we climbed the stairs, feeling our way in the dark. The Outlands were quiet. Figures moved behind a curtain in the window of an old motel. We passed a parking lot lined with rusted cars, a dried-out pool, a long strip of empty houses. “I can walk you to the corner,” he said, clutching my hand. He nodded to the street just one block away.

  I felt the map in my pocket, each step bringing us closer to good-bye. I would see him again soon. Still, I cringed at the thought of lying alone in that bed, between the cold, crisp sheets. “It’s just two days,” I said aloud, unsure who I was trying to comfort.

  “Right,” Caleb agreed. He kept his eyes on the road as we approached it. “It’s not that long, really,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

  We were almost to the corner. He would turn right, further into the Outlands, and I’d turn left, back toward the Palace. When we were just a few yards away, Caleb pulled me into a doorway set off the narrow street, the two-foot threshold just deep enough for us both to press inside. He held my face in his hands, his expression barely visible in the darkness. “I guess this is good-bye,” whispered.

  “I guess so,” I said softly.

  He kissed me, his fingers hard against my chin. My arms gripped his back as I pulled myself closer. His hands were in my hair. My heart sped up as his finger dipped inside the neck of my sweater, tracing lines over my collarbone. He leaned down and I kissed his closed eyelids, that tiny scar on his cheek.

  Somewhere in the distance a Jeep backfired, the boom! startling me from my waking dream.

  “I have to go—we have to go,” I breathed.

  I pulled away first, knowing that if I didn’t leave then I never would. I turned to go, giving his hand one final squeeze.

  nineteen

  CLARA DROPPED HER PLATE BESIDE MINE, SPATTERING TINY droplets of tomato sauce on the white tablecloth. “You look tired,” she said coolly, her eyes searching mine. “Late night?” Her short blue dress was too tight, the silk puckering along the seams.

  “Not at all.” I straightened up. At most, Clara had seen my back as I darted inside the stairwell door. She couldn’t have known for certain that it was me.

  Charles and the King had just cut the red-and-blue ribbon of the new marketplace, a giant outdoor restaurant built around the Palace’s expansive pools. People ate at tables set up on the stone patio or strolled past various stands. Columns towered over us, holding up verdant topiaries and hanging purple flowers. Statues of winged lions and bucking horses perched above. The fabric stalls—called “cabanas”—had all been converted to storefronts where vendors sold Moroccan olives, Polish sausages, and fresh crepes with strawberries and whipped cream.

  Rose sat across the table, looking as though her face might melt off. Pink blush had settled in her wrinkles, and there were faint dark circles under her eyes. She stared down at Clara’s half-eaten plate of pasta. “Know when to say when,” she whispered, resting her hand on Clara’s fork. “You’re too beautiful to let yourself go.” Clara looked away, her cheeks going a deep red.

  “We’re thrilled with the final product,” the King said loudly as he strolled toward us, Charles by his side. He addressed Reginald, the Head of Press, who was clutching a notebook. “When we restored Paris, New York, and Venice we wanted them to be tributes to the great cities of yesterday’s world. This marketplace is an extension of that, a place people can experience all the delicacies we enjoyed before. You can’t just hop on a plane and be in Europe, South America, or India anymore.” He gestured to a corner of the wide marketplace. Tents were filled with steaming carts of dumplings, meats, and tiny rolls of sticky rice and fish. “My favorite is Asia. Did you ever think you would have sashimi again?” the King asked.

  I watched him, noticing how easily he slipped into his public persona. His voice was louder, his shoulders back. It seemed as though every word had been rehearsed beforehand, every slight nod and gesture carefully designed to inspire confidence. “Our Head of Agriculture is working on ways to produce seaweed. The trout is all farmed from Lake Mead. It’s not an ideal substitute, but it will suffice until we get the fishing fleets back on the oceans.”

  They sat down beside me, Reginald still scribbling in his notebook. Charles’s eyes followed me. He kept staring until I met his gaze. “Don’t say hello or anything,” he said, playfully raising one eyebrow. “You know, I’m starting to take it personally.”

  “I think your ego can handle it,” I offered, as I cut into the yellowish dumplings I’d found at the Polish storefront.

  The King reached over, squeezing my hand so hard it hurt. “Genevieve is kidding.” He laughed. He offered Reginald a subtle wave, as if to say, Don’t write that down.

  He cleared his throat and continued. “This is only the beginning. The City has proven a workable model for others in The New America. There are three separate colonies in the east. Every day people in those colonies worry about where their next meal will come from, if they’ll be attacked by their neighbors. There’s no electricity, no hot water—people are just surviving. In the City of Sand we aren’t surviving—we’re thriving. This is what living is.”

  He pointed at the blinding white marble and the clear blu
e pools. “There’s so much land for the taking, and Charles and his father have proved we can develop quickly and efficiently. In six months we’ll start walling in the first colony—a settlement in what was formerly Texas.”

  “I can’t wait to see what you’ll do with it.” Clara slid her chair closer to Charles. “I’ve been listening to people talk about the global marketplace for the last few months, and I never imagined it would be as incredible as this.”

  “A lot of this we owe to McCallister,” Charles said, waving to the Head of Agriculture, a man with glasses who stood by a giant mural of the old world, each country painted a different color. “If it wasn’t for the factories he built in the Outlands, or the new methods of farming he developed, we wouldn’t have any of this.”

  “You’re being modest. This was your vision,” Clara cooed. She pointed at Reginald. “I hope you’re writing that down. Charles has been imagining this since before the Palace was even completed, before most of the buildings were restored. You’ve been going on about it since as long as I can remember, how you wanted to bring the diversity of the world inside the City walls.”

  I could barely look at her. Teacher Agnes’s voice was in my head, her warnings about men and the deceitful nature of flirtation. Charm is a verb, she’d said, something men do to control you. But I wished she could see this now: Clara leaning in, resting her fingers on Charles’s arm, tucking her blond hair behind her ears. It was the first time I’d seen a woman flirt so blatantly. I covered my mouth to stop myself from laughing, but it was too late. A slight chuckle escaped my lips. I turned away, trying to pass it off as a cough.