by Anna Carey
Now, the rest of my life presented itself to me, an endless succession of days in the Palace, of nights alone in my own bed. The only thing that had carried me through in Califia was the possibility of finding Caleb, of being together again, in some future time and place. “You can’t kill him,” I said, my hands clammy and cold.
The King started toward the door. “I can’t discuss this anymore,” he said. He reached for the keypad beside it.
I raced in front of him, my hands on the doorframe. “Don’t do this.” I kept picturing Caleb in some awful room, a soldier striking him with a metal baton. They wouldn’t stop until his face—the face I loved so much—was swollen and bloody. Until his body went horribly still. “You said we were family. That’s what you said. If you care about me at all you won’t do this.”
The King pried my fingers from the doorframe and held them in his own. “He’ll be tried tomorrow. With the Lieutenant’s testimony it will all be over in three days. I will let you know when it’s done.” He leaned down to meet my gaze. His voice was soft, his hands squeezing mine, as if this small, pathetic offer were some sort of consolation.
The door opened. He stepped into the quiet hall and said something to the soldier stationed outside. The words seemed far away, somewhere beyond me. I was trapped in my own head, the memories of the morning returning to me. The darkness of the plane, Caleb’s back as we walked through the City. The wind kicking up dust and sand, coating everything with a thin layer of grime.
It’s over, I thought, the smell of his skin still clinging to my clothes. In three days, Caleb would be dead.
twenty-nine
THE STILLNESS OF THE SUITE WAS INTOLERABLE. LATE THAT night, I sat on the edge of the bed, the minutes passing slowly. The moonlight cast strange shapes on the floor, menacing black shadows that hovered around me, my only company. There was no more pretending. A soldier stood outside my door now. Caleb was somewhere beyond the City center, sitting in some cell, both of us waiting, each hour bringing us closer to the end.
Footsteps echoed in the hall. The knock on the door raised the fine hairs on my arms. The King came in, flicking the lights on, the brightness stinging my eyes. “They said you wanted to talk, Genevieve.” He sat down in the armchair in the corner, his hands folded together, his chin resting on his knuckles as he watched me. “Did you think about what I said? It’s a matter of safety—yours and mine.”
“I did,” I replied. Outside, the sky was flecked with stars. The sun had disappeared hours before, slipping behind the mountains. I picked at the thin skin around my fingernails, wondering if I could actually say it out loud. If I had the courage to make it real. “I can’t let you punish Caleb for something he didn’t do. I did it. I told you—I was the one who shot those soldiers.”
The King shook his head. “I’m not having this conversation again. I won’t—”
“You said I’m supposed to be with someone like Charles, that there are expectations for me as the Princess. But I can’t spend another day here knowing Caleb is dead. That he was punished for something I did.” My voice cracked as I said it. The soldiers were everywhere now, some wandering the hallways, others stationed beside my door. There was no way out. I took a deep breath, thinking of what would happen to Caleb after the Lieutenant testified, if he’d be tortured, how he’d be killed. “I’ll marry Charles if that’s what you want—if that’s what you think I’m supposed to do. But you have to let Caleb go.”
The King stared at me. “It’s not just what I want—it’s what the City wants. It’s what makes sense. You would be happy with him. I know you would.”
“So you’ll agree to it?”
The King let out a long, rattling breath. “I know you can’t see it now, but this will be the best for everyone. Charles is a good man, has been so loyal and—”
“Tell me you won’t hurt him.” My throat was tight. I couldn’t listen to any more about Charles, as if marrying him would suddenly open up something inside me, a riptide of feeling, threatening everything I’d ever known. As if love were a choice.
The King stood and came toward me. He rested his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll have the soldiers release him beyond the walls. But from now on, there will be no more talk of this boy. You’ll pursue a future with Charles.”
I nodded, knowing that tomorrow it would all feel much heavier. But right now, sitting in my suite, it was bearable. Caleb would go free. There was possibility in that—hope, even. So long as Caleb was alive, there was always hope. “I want to say good-bye,” I said. “Just one last time. Will you take me to him?”
The King stared out the window, beyond the City. I closed my eyes, listening to the air coming through the vents, waiting for him to respond. All I could see was Caleb’s face. Last night we lay awake, his head resting against my heart. The plane was silent. I almost have it, he’d said, his eyes half-closed. One more time. I slipped my hand beneath the blanket, pressing my finger into his back and dragging it along his skin, spelling the letters out one by one, slower than before. When I was finished he looked up, his nose practically touching mine, a smile curling on his lips. I know, he’d said, burying his face into my neck. I love you, too.
When I opened my eyes, the King was still standing there. He turned away from the window. Without saying a word he opened the door, his hand up, gesturing for us to go.
THE PRISON, A MASSIVE COMPLEX SURROUNDED BY A BRICK wall, was a ten-minute drive from the City center. Two of the seven watchtowers were in use, the guards stationed high above the ground, their rifles at the ready. They’d shown me into a concrete room with a table and chairs bolted to the floor. The King stood outside with a guard, both of them watching me. I sat there, my fingers rapping nervously on the metal.
A minute passed. Maybe two. Memories piled on top of one another—moments between us—the feel of the horse beneath us as we hurdled over the ravine, the dank, earthy smell of the dugout on our skin. He’d grabbed my hand that night as we walked through the cool corridor, the warmth of it sending a fiery charge up my arm. It spread out in my chest, shot down my legs, awakening feeling in every inch of me, electrifying even my toes. Until then I’d been half-alive, his touch the only thing that could wake me from that sleep.
A guard led Caleb inside. They’d ruined his face. A bloody gash stretched from his right brow to his hairline, splitting his skin. His cheek was pink and swollen. He was hunched over, still in the same wrinkled shirt he’d put on that morning, buttoned all wrong, blood dried black around the collar.
“Who did this?” I asked, barely able to get the words out. I pulled him close, hating that they hadn’t untied his hands, that he couldn’t touch my face or thread his fingers through my hair.
“All of them,” he said, his words slow. He rested his chin on my shoulder. I ran my hand along his back, wincing as I felt the welts where the baton had landed. I touched each one, wishing we could go back to the night before, wishing we could undo everything that had happened since we awoke.
“They told me they’re releasing me outside the walls,” he continued. “That I can’t come within five hundred miles of the City again. What did you say to them?”
The King was just outside the door, his profile visible in the tiny window. I looked down at the concrete. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “It was the only way I could get them to let you go.”
Caleb lowered his head. “Eve—tell me. What did you say?” he asked, his face screwed up with worry.
I leaned in, my arms wrapped around his sides. “I said I would marry Charles Harris,” I whispered. “That if they let you go I would …” I trailed off, my throat tight. Standing by the fountain that day, Charles had appeared harmless, sweet even. The moment had been a welcome respite from the Palace. But now every word he’d spoken seemed steeped in ulterior motives. I wondered how many conversations he’d had with the King—if he always knew we were both speeding inevitably toward this, a future that bound us together.
Caleb shook his head no. “You can’t
, Eve,” he said. “You can’t.”
“We don’t have any other options,” I said. The guard’s eyes were on me, his stare boring into my skin.
Caleb leaned down, trying to meet my gaze. “We can find some way. Once you marry him there is no more you and me—there’s no more us. You can’t.”
“I don’t want this either,” I said, my voice threatening to break. “But what other choice do we have?”
“I just need more time.” His voice was pleading, desperate. “There has to be a way.”
The King rapped twice on the door. “Time’s up,” the guard called. He stepped forward, glancing outside at my father. I leaned in, trying to pull Caleb to me one last time, holding the back of his head to bring his chin to my shoulder. I kissed his cheek, felt the tender skin around the gash, let my fingers stroke his temple.
“You have to stay away from here. Promise me you will,” I said, my eyes watering. I knew that if he had any chance he’d use the tunnels to come find me. “We can’t do this again.”
The guard approached him, yanking his arm. Caleb leaned in, his lips right against my ear. He spoke so low I could barely make out what he said. “You’re not the only one in the paper, Eve.”
I looked at him, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words, but the guard was already taking him away. As he dragged him by the arm, Caleb shuffled backward, trying to keep his balance, his eyes searching my face for understanding.
thirty
CHARLES RESTED HIS HAND ON MY BACK. I COULD FEEL HIS fingers trembling through my thin satin dress. “Do you mind?” he asked, his voice tentative. He’d been like that for days, wanting to know if he could sit beside me, if I’d like to walk with him through the new Parisian storefronts or tour the upper floors of the Palace mall. It made me dislike him even more, his constantly asking permission, as if we were pursuing a real relationship. All of it would be tolerable if we didn’t bother pretending to one another, if we could just say the truth out loud: I’d never be with him by choice.
“If you have to,” I whispered, turning to the small crowd who’d gathered around us. The restaurant was in the Eiffel Tower, a nearly five-hundred-foot replica of the Paris original, with lush red carpets and one wall of glass windows that overlooked the main road. A select few sat at tables covered in white linens, cutting into tender pink steaks. A few men sucked on cigars. The white smoke hung around us, making it seem as if I were seeing everything through a heavy veil.
Charles took my hand. He had the ring in his palm, the diamond catching the light. I hadn’t eaten all day. My stomach seized thinking of the endlessness of it, the weeks that would drag on as the previous one had, the obligatory exchange of polite conversation passed back and forth between us. It wasn’t his fault—part of me knew that—but I hated Charles for going along with it. He’d sat with me every evening at dinner, offering stories about life before the plague, how he’d spent summers on the beach by his parents’ house, letting the waves carry him to shore. He told me of his latest project in the City. He never mentioned Caleb or our impending engagement, as if ignoring it would undo the facts. No matter what was said, no matter how much he tried, we were just two strangers sitting across from each other, on an awful collision course.
It had been eight days. The King took me back to the prison to show me Caleb’s empty cell. He’d pointed to the exact spot on the map where Caleb had been let go, an abandoned town just north of Califia called Ashland. I’d pored over the pictures they’d taken of the release—the only proof I had that it had been done. Caleb was already halfway into the woods, a knapsack on his back, his face turned in profile. He wore the same blue shirt he’d had on the last time I’d seen him. I recognized the stains on the collar.
His words still haunted me. I had looked at the paper every day, waiting to hear that something had happened outside the City’s walls, that Caleb had been spotted somewhere, despite the public “report” of his execution. But every day it was the same inane nonsense. They speculated about my growing relationship with Charles, if a proposal was imminent. People wrote in, saying where we’d been seen inside the City. I spent nights alone in my room, staring up at the ceiling, tears rolling down and pooling. In little more than a week my life had been drained of everything real.
The King rapped his fork against his glass, the clinking splitting the air. Clara stood across the room with Rose, her face ashen. She’d avoided me since Charles and I had been announced as a couple. I only saw her at the obligatory social events—dinners and cocktail receptions in the City. Her eyes seemed permanently bloodshot. She spoke softly and always excused herself early. I’d heard that her mother was now pushing her toward the Head of Finance, a man in his forties who constantly spit into his handkerchief. Whenever I was certain there couldn’t be anyone in the Palace as miserable as I was, I thought of Clara.
Charles reached for my hand, waiting until I rested my palm in his. Then he cleared his throat, the sound filling the quiet room. “Some of you may have noticed that things have been different for me lately. That I’ve been happier since Genevieve arrived in the Palace. Now that we’ve been spending more time together I can’t imagine being without her.” He kneeled down in front of me, his eyes focused on mine. “I know we’ll be happy together—I’m certain of it.” As he spoke, the rest of the crowd disappeared. He was only talking to me, saying all the things unsaid between us. I’m sorry it had to happen like this. He squeezed my hand, his lips still moving as he went on about when he saw me for the first time, about the afternoon by the fountain, how he had loved the sound of my laugh, the way I’d just stood there, not caring that the water soaked my gown. But I’m still glad it happened.
“All I really need now is for her to say yes.” He let out an awkward laugh and held the ring up for people to see. I saw Clara out of the corner of my eye. She was hurrying toward the exit, squeezing through the crowd, trying to hide her face with her hand. “Will you marry me?”
The room was silent, waiting for my reply. “Yes,” I said quietly, barely able to hear my own words. “I will, yes.”
The King clapped. The others joined in. Then everyone surrounded us, their hands patting me on the back and grabbing at my fingers, asking to see the ring. “I’m so proud of you,” the King said. I tried not to wince as his thin lips pressed against my forehead. “This is a happy day,” he announced, as though saying it would make it true.
“Can we take a picture?” Reginald, the Head of Press, strode over. His photographer, a short woman with wiry red hair, was right behind him.
“I suppose that’s all right,” Charles offered. He rested his hand on my back. I tried to smile but my face felt stiff. The camera kept flashing, stinging my eyes.
Reginald flipped open his notebook, scribbling in the margin until his pen worked. “You must be thrilled, Genevieve,” he said, half question, half answer. The King was right beside me. I spun the ring around my finger, not stopping until it burned.
“It is a joy,” I said.
Reginald’s features softened, as if my reply pleased him. “I’ve gotten tremendous feedback on the pieces I’ve run about you two. Forget the engagement—people are already asking when the wedding will be.”
“We’d like to have it as soon as possible,” the King replied. “The staff has already been talking about the procession through the City. It’ll be spectacular. You can assure the people of that.”
“I have no doubt,” Reginald said. He pressed his thumb on the back of the pen, clicking it closed. “I look forward to running this piece tomorrow morning. Everyone will be thrilled.”
The smoke circled my head. Here I was, standing beside Charles Harris as his fiancée, made up in a dress and heels, doing what I’d said I’d never do. I recounted that moment in the prison so many times, Caleb’s bruised face, the raised knots along his back. They were going to kill him, I kept reminding myself. I’d stopped it the only way I could.
And yet now I was part of the regime, a t
raitor, no doubt, in the dissidents’ eyes. I imagined Curtis reading about my engagement in the factory, holding it up to the others as proof that he’d been right about me all along. Even when the tunnels were completed, they would never help me escape now.
The Head of Finance signaled Reginald from across the room. He was in a cluster of men, his blond hair gelled back into a hard helmet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have something I need to attend to.” Reginald raised his glass once more. Then he strode off, maneuvering past a woman in a fur stole.
The restaurant was too hot. The smoke snaked through the air and flattened out across the ceiling. I covered my mouth, unable to breathe. “I have to go back to my room,” I said, taking Charles’s hand off me.
The King dropped his glass on a waiter’s tray. “You can’t just run off,” he said. “All of these people are here for you, Genevieve. What am I supposed to tell them?” He gestured around the room. Some of the crowd had settled in their seats, others huddled together, speculating on whether Charles’s mother would be well enough to attend the wedding.
Charles nodded to the King. “I can take her,” he whispered. He reached for my hand, squeezing it so gently it startled me. “I think everyone will understand if we head out early. It’s been a long night. Most of the guests will be leaving soon anyway.”
The King glanced around the room, at the few people standing beside us, making sure they hadn’t overheard our conversation. “I suppose if you leave together it’ll be better. Just say a few good-byes, will you?” He shook Charles’s hand and offered me a hug. My face pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around my neck, suffocating me. Then he started through the crowd. Rose was waving him over, an extra glass in her hand.
Charles and I headed toward the door. We offered quick explanations to the guests we passed—all the excitement had been too much for one day. When we were finally outside in the open mall, away from the crowd, Charles still hadn’t let go of my hand. His face was close, his fingers wrapped around mine. “What is it?” I asked.