by Anna Carey
“Is something funny, Genevieve?” the King asked.
Clara narrowed her eyes at me. A subtle smile crossed her lips as she looked around the table. Everyone had gone quiet, their attention fixed on me. “So what were you doing out last night?” she asked loudly, tilting her head as though it were the most innocent of questions.
“You left your suite?” The King turned to me. I slipped my hands under the table, clutching the skirt of my dress to steady them. I’d studied his face at breakfast that morning, wondering if he’d returned to my suite at night, if he’d discovered the mound of pillows beneath the covers. But he seemed so calm, his voice even as he spoke of the day’s events.
“No.” I shook my head. “I didn’t.” I turned back to my food, plunging the fork into the dumplings, but Clara continued on.
“I saw you in the east stairwell.” She planted her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You were going downstairs. You were wearing a black sweater. You stopped when I called your name.”
The King turned to me. “Is that true?”
“No,” I insisted, trying to steady my voice. My throat was suddenly dry, the heat of the day too much, my hair sticking to my face and neck. “It wasn’t me. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Oh,” Clara said, her voice singsong. “I think you do …”
Everyone’s eyes were on me. The sun beat down on me, the air stifling and still. The King was studying my face, his expression dark. It had been worth it, even for a few hours with Caleb, but I suddenly wished I hadn’t paused in the stairwell, that I had ignored Clara’s calls. I offered a slight shrug and turned back to my plate, the words lodged in the back of my throat.
The King leaned over, his hand heavy on my arm. “You are not to be going out,” he whispered. “It’s for your own safety. I thought that was clear.”
“Perfectly,” I managed. “I didn’t.”
The table was silent. Clara opened her mouth to continue, but Charles interrupted her. “Have you seen the fountain outside the conservatory?” he asked, giving me a small smile. “I’ve been meaning to take you there. If we leave now we can make it for the next show.” He glanced across the table at the King. “Do you mind if I steal your daughter for a little while?”
At the suggestion, the King’s face relaxed. “No—you two go. Enjoy yourselves.”
As they watched us walk away, Reginald turned to Clara, his notepad still in his hand. “Perhaps you saw one of the Palace workers?” he asked.
“I know what I saw,” Clara hissed. She looked at Rose, who shook her head slightly, signaling for her to let it go.
I followed Charles through the marketplace, around the wide, sparkling pools, thankful when we were far from the table. He led me across the Palace’s marble lobby, where the old gaming machines still stood, shrouded in gray cloths. All the while two soldiers trailed behind us, their steps keeping time with ours, their rifles swinging on their backs. “I’m sorry about that,” he said as we stepped into the sun. We crossed a narrow bridge to where a massive fountain spread out toward the sidewalk.
“What are you sorry about?” I asked.
“I have a feeling I had something to do with that.” A tuft of thick black hair fell across his forehead. He smiled, combing it back with his fingers.
“Not everything has to do with you,” I snapped. A cluster of people on the street turned, studying us, the soldiers gesturing for them to stay back.
“I think what you mean is, Thank you, Charles, for rescuing me from that inquisition.” He threw his hands up in defense. “I’m just saying. I think maybe—just maybe—Clara has a little bit of a crush on me. At least that’s how it’s seemed since … always.”
I looked at him. Charles’s face was so sincere, his pale cheeks flushed. I couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe you’re right,” I admitted. Even if Clara had seen me leave last night, I doubted she cared what I did with my free time. She seemed to take more issue with Charles sitting beside me at meals, or the way he leaned forward when he spoke to me, so there were no more than a few inches between us.
“We grew up together in the City,” he added. “The last ten years we’ve been the youngest people living in the Palace. Clara is incredibly smart. She’s talked about studying at the teaching hospital to be a doctor. Her mother is steering her in a different direction, though.” He raised his eyebrows, as if to say, Toward me.
“I see.” I nodded, thinking of the cold, calculating look Clara had given me when we first met.
People gathered along the rim of the great fountain. I stared at our reflection in the water, two shadows rippling with the wind. Charles didn’t take his eyes off me. “So how have you found the City? You don’t seem in love with it the way everyone else is.”
I thought of Caleb’s arm around me last night, how music and smoke had filled the room. Our bodies pressed together in the doorway. I smiled, the heat rising in my cheeks. “It has its advantages.”
Charles inched closer to me, his shoulder pressing against mine. “Can you keep a secret?” He studied my face. “My father would have chosen nearly any city over this one. Despite what he told the King, he wasn’t convinced until a few years into the restoration that Las Vegas would work. It was my mother who knew this was the right place. Most of the hotels were empty at the time of the plague. The buildings were easily stripped of advertisements. It’s so separate from everything else—a haven. She always knew.”
“Women’s intuition?” I asked, remembering a phrase I’d heard at School.
“Must’ve been,” he said. He stared out over the fountain. A little boy with a plaid cap was kneeling on the stone ledge, peering into the water. “She’s been having a hard time without him. She keeps to herself a lot. As bad as this sounds, part of me wants to know what it’s like to love someone that much.”
I stared at the tiny stones piled up in the bottom of the fountain. I’d thought of saying it to Caleb before, of saying those three specific words—the ones the Teachers had warned us about. I’d decided in the stillness of Maeve’s house, the quiet night surrounding me, that I meant those words for Caleb. Nothing was as persistent, as relentless, working its way through me, pulling at every thought.
When I turned, Charles was still looking at me. “Sometimes it’s terrifying, though. The idea of being so close to someone.” He searched my expression. “Do you know what I mean? Am I making any sense?”
The question hovered in the air between us. I remembered my first days in Califia, how I’d watched the shadowy city over the bridge, imagining what Caleb was doing there, if he’d gotten in contact with the Trail. The nightmares came soon after: Caleb standing by the water, blood running down his leg, turning the entire bay a rancid purple. “I do,” I said. “So many things can go wrong.”
Charles stared into the water. “See all of those?” he asked, pointing at the pebbles. “They made this into a memorial of sorts. People would bring stones here and throw them into the fountain, one for every loved one they lost in the plague.”
He walked over to the shrubs that lined the conservatory building and plucked several tiny rocks from the ground beneath, rubbing the dirt off with his fingers. “Do you want a few?” he asked, offering them to me.
“Just one.” I took the smooth brown stone in my hand. It was shaped like an almond—one side slightly wider than the other. I ran my fingers over it, wondering what my mother would’ve thought if she knew I was standing here, inside the new capital, imprisoned by the man she’d fallen in love with so many years before. I could nearly see her face, smell the mint balm she always smeared on her lips, leaving slippery smudges on my cheeks when she kissed me. I let the pebble slip through my fingers into the water below. It settled at the bottom, disappearing among the others, the surface still rippling in its wake.
We stood in silence for a minute. The wind whipped around us, a fleeting relief from the heat. Two older women approached the edge of the fountain, clutching worn photos
in their hands. They watched as others lined up along the stone ledge. “What exactly is everyone waiting for?” I asked.
“You’ll see …,” Charles said. He checked his watch. “In three … two … one …” Music sounded on the main road. Everyone stepped back. Water burst through the surface of the pool and rocketed toward the sky. It rose and rose and rose, nearly twenty feet in the air. The little boy stood up on the stone ledge and clapped. Charles’s face was lit up like a child’s. He hooted loudly, throwing his fist in the air, a sight that made even the soldiers laugh.
The wind shifted, blowing the spray at us and soaking the front of my dress. The cold water felt good on my skin. I closed my eyes, the claps and cheers swelling around me, and enjoyed those last few moments away from the Palace.
twenty
CLARA AND I STARTED UP THE LONG SPIRAL ESCALATORS TO the gallery on the second-floor mezzanine. I still hadn’t gotten used to the moving metal stairs; I never knew whether to climb them or just stand there, holding the rail and gliding along. Light streamed in from the atrium above us. I took in the ceiling murals and the giant statues of robed women, the towering marble pillars, the horse statue below, leaping in midair, the fountains that shot up from still, turquoise pools. In some horrible way, the Palace was just as Pip had always imagined it—a gleaming model of perfection.
I kept my eyes on the scenery, trying to pretend I was alone. This morning, the King had suggested Clara take me on a tour of the art gallery. He said it would be nice for us to spend time together so I could get to know my cousin. I knew neither statement was true but I obliged, hoping it would make me seem happy with my place in the Palace. Like a girl with no secrets.
“How was your date with Charles?” Clara asked after a long while. The soldier always trailing just a few steps behind us stepped off the escalator.
“It wasn’t a date,” I said, an edge to my voice. I remembered that term from School; the Teachers had referred to it as part of the courtship period. They told us men sometimes acted like gentleman before revealing their true intentions.
We strode past the low railing. Below us shoppers wandered through the atrium, occasionally glancing up to see where we were headed. Above the gallery’s entrance was a massive screen that changed every few seconds. First was an advertisement for the new global marketplace, OPENING THIS WEEK! Then it switched to a picture from yesterday’s paper, of me in the back of a car with the caption: PRINCESS GENEVIEVE’S BMW CONVERTIBLE RESTORED BY GERRARD’S MOTORS: PROVIDING CUSTOM RESTORATION AND DISPLAY OF AUTOMOBILES SINCE 2035.
“You know, you go around acting all annoyed, when you’re the Princess of The New America,” Clara muttered. “Anyone would kill to be in your position.” The way she said it—the emphasis on kill—unnerved me.
“When was the last time you were outside these walls?” I asked. “Ten years ago?”
Clara’s straw-colored hair was in a braid, which snaked around her head and curled up at the nape of her neck. “What’s your point?” She narrowed her gray eyes at me.
“You can’t speak to it, to whether or not I have a right to be angry or annoyed. You don’t know what the world is like outside your bubble.” With that I turned and started through the gallery’s main entrance.
Inside, the room was cool, and empty except for a few schoolchildren clustered in the corner, their gray uniforms similar to the ones I’d grown up wearing. For a brief moment, the soldier and Clara were behind me, and I had the grand feeling of being alone. The open space comforted me. The wood floors were solid beneath my feet, the walls covered with familiar friends. I walked over to the Van Gogh painting I’d seen in my art books so many times before, the blue flowers that stretched across the canvas, growing toward the sun. IRISES, VINCENT VAN GOGH, a plaque beside it read. RECOVERED FROM THE GETTY MUSEUM, LOS ANGELES.
More paintings hung in a row, Manet and Titian and Cézanne, one after another. I walked beside them, remembering all the time I’d spent on the School lawn, the lake in front of me, dragging brush across canvas to replicate its glassy surface. I was examining the gash in the bottom of a Renoir, its canvas taped together, when Clara came up beside me.
“There are things I do know,” she said, her voice tinged with anger. I could tell she had been preparing this speech for the last few minutes. Each word quivered with delight as she spoke. “I know how unsavory it is for a woman to be a man’s mistress.” She stared at the two figures in the painting. A man was helping a woman up a grassy incline.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
“You weren’t your father’s firstborn,” she said. “You were his last. I had three cousins before you, and an aunt, all of them lost in the plague.” Then she turned, glaring at me. “I don’t know what kind of woman would do that—have sex with a married man.”
I smiled, trying to ignore the lump that had crept up the back of my throat. “You’re mistaken,” I managed. Clara just shrugged before she strode past me, toward a still life on the far wall.
My feet were rooted to the ground. I stared at the man in the painting, the hat that cast darkness on his face, the pink bulb of his nose, the way his eyes were painted with two black lines. He seemed to be sneering at me now.
She was his mistress, I thought to myself, my vision blurred by sudden tears. My mother, who had sung to me in the bath, wiping the suds from my eyes. I was five again, kneeling on the floor. She was sick. I saw the broken light underneath the bedroom door, her shadow moving as she rapped her knuckles against the wood, tapping out her kisses, because she couldn’t risk pressing her lips to my skin. I had held my palm to the other side, keeping it there even after she went back to bed, her coughs breaking the night’s silence.
I turned toward the door, the tears threatening to overtake me. I kept walking, past the irises and Manet’s bullfight, the animal spearing the horse with its great and terrible horns.
“Your Royal Highness?” I heard the soldier ask, his footsteps behind me. “Would you like to be escorted upstairs now?”
I kept ahead of him, barely listening as he ushered Clara out after me, toward the elevator. No matter what Clara said, I knew it wasn’t my mother’s fault, it couldn’t have been, the woman who loved me so sweetly, who’d squeezed my toes one by one as she counted them, singing a silly song in my ear. Blowing on my soup to cool it before I even took one spoonful. He was the one who had had the other family.
I stepped inside the elevator. Clara came after me, making the car feel smaller and claustrophobic, the air stale and hot.
“Is everything all right, Princess?” the soldier asked as he pressed the button. I clasped my hands together, trying to steady them. I could only think of the King, that story he’d told me, the photo he’d held in his hands. He’d never said anything about his family. He’d taken so long to come for me, left me alone in that house. I spent so many days listening to her choked coughs, terrified when the room was silent for too long. She’d never felt further away than she did now, my only connection to her broken. “Princess?” The soldier repeated. He rested his hand on my shoulder, startling me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, pressing the button for the bottom floor again. “I just need to speak with the King.”
twenty-one
THE KING WAS AT A CONSTRUCTION SITE, WORKING ON A building at the edge of the City center. When he couldn’t be reached, I demanded to be taken to him.
The car zipped down the empty street, past the massive City buildings. The fountains beside the Palace rocketed up into the air, spraying passersby with a fine mist. The view didn’t hold any wonder for me now. I thought only of the smug smile on Clara’s face as she told me about the affair. All those days at School, even the loneliest ones when I’d just arrived, I’d always had those memories of my mother. They’d stayed with me on the road, in the dugout, in the back of Fletcher’s truck, even after the chaos of the cellar. But now everything was corrupted by Clara’s words.
We turned right up a long driveway, toward a giant green building with a gold lion in front. The soldiers escorted me out of the car. Above the entrance was another giant billboard, like the one in the mall, flashing different announcements. A picture of two lions came up, the words THE GRAND ZOO: OPENING NEXT MONTH! beneath it. “This way,” one of the soldiers said, leading me inside.
Three soldiers stood at the entrance to the main lobby. The giant room was sweltering, the air smelling of sweat and smoke. Spotlights illuminated different sections of the dark corridor. A few yards ahead, a boy was kneeling over a bucket. He was a year or two younger than me, his bare back dripping with sweat as he worked, smoothing wet plaster over the wall. He looked up, his face thin and sad. “He should be over here,” the other soldier said, picking up his pace, his hand coming down around my arm as he ushered me quickly toward another hall.
I turned back, noticing two boys my age who were stapling down carpet. An older worker, maybe twenty, walked slowly down the corridor, carrying a giant wooden crate. When he passed one of the spotlights I made out his face, gaunt and sickly, his eyes sunk back into his skull. His shoulder bore the same tattoo as Caleb’s. Somewhere above us a terrible drilling sound split the air.
“Where is he?” I said, my voice flat. I walked faster, with purpose, thinking of all the boys in the dugout.
The soldiers strode in front of me, toward a glowing blue light. They glanced at one another, their faces uncertain, unsure if they should’ve brought me here or not. “Genevieve,” a voice called out. Two figures appeared at the end of the hallway, silhouetted by the light. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to speak with you,” I said. The King was standing with Charles, who looked momentarily happy, his smile disappearing when he saw my face. I pushed past them, into the wide room. An eerie light filled the space. The walls were all glass, forming several enclosures with plants and giant, fake rocks.