by Hannah Ross
As Priscilla walked downstairs, she could not help but be impressed. The hall looked splendid, with sparkling lights and endless flower arrangements. Even the many chandeliers were decorated. It was all cream and peaches and pale gold. Very elegant, very subdued – just her mother's style. Her mother was there, of course, smiling and nodding as she moved among guests. She was quite in her element. Stephanie stood a little to the side, surrounded by a group of chattering friends. Once in a while someone approached her to offer their congratulations.
Priscilla took the final steps, dreading the duty of making small talk with an assortment of people she had no interest in when she heard, "Ah, there you are, Prissy!"
She turned to the familiar voice behind her and smiled at her great-aunt, who predictably took a position near the table of refreshments. She was wearing a gown of shocking pink silk that was stretched dangerously tight over her fleshy form. Her round face and cascading chins were heavily powdered.
"Well, here I am. Not exactly hard to miss, am I? You look wonderful, dear. As pretty as Stephanie, only too thin. Yes, too thin. Why don't you eat something? Of course, all this nosh here is nothing substantial. I hope Eleanor ordered a good supper for later on." She threw a tiny butter-and-caviar sandwich into her mouth and chewed with gusto. Then she grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, downed it at once, and belched.
Daphne Van Wullen was rich enough to do whatever she pleased, and because she never married, there was nobody to keep this tendency in check. Priscilla admired Aunt Daphne's candor. Of all the Van Wullens and Dahls, she was the only one to say exactly what she thought, anytime, anywhere.
Priscilla was about to reply when her mother's brisk voice and the clink-clink of her sharp, glittering heels interrupted.
"Ah, Prissy, you're right on time. Aunt Daphne, would you like to join the girls and me for a photo shoot? The press just arrived."
The fat lady snorted, waving her glass of champagne. "Me, in a photo? I'd squeeze you all out. No, you go ahead."
Priscilla and her mother stood on either side of Stephanie for a group photo of the women of the Dahl family. Stephanie, with her perfect dress and perfect hair and perfect smile, was a photographer's dream, but as Priscilla's arm pressed against her sister's, she could feel Stephanie was shivering with nerves. From an early age, they were used to posing for the press, but the focus was never before on them. It was always about Minister Dahl, at first, then President Dahl.
"Where's Dad?" Priscilla asked her mother once the photographers moved away to take individual shots of Stephanie.
"Your father should be down in a moment." Eleanor glanced at the gold watch on her slender wrist, and a tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows. "He just asked Frederick Pearson to come upstairs to the office for a few minutes. He said they had something to discuss, but it wouldn't take long."
"Pearson is here?"
"Yes. Why do you sound so surprised? He was invited, of course."
"Of course." No, it shouldn't surprise me his personal assistant was invited to this soirée. I suppose anybody of any importance is expected to attend. Still, Pearson only comes to Silver Oaks when there's something really important happening. This is dad's place for rest and fun, for family and tennis and golf and brunches and afternoons in the billiard room. Work's supposed to be left at the White Tower. Not that it ever is. Father spends far more time in his office than he does with us. But it lets me eavesdrop outside his office to hear what's going on. Like the drug thing last year that—
"It's taking longer than I thought it would," her mother said as she again looked at her watch.
"I could run upstairs and check what they're up to."
"No, I'll send Tilly. You stay here. Stephanie is about to open the dancing."
As the band broke into a waltz, and Priscilla watched her sister, glowing with joy, twirl around the dance floor with Ned Thornton, she heard her mother say, "You must dance as well."
She groaned. "Oh, Mom, no."
"Yes. I insist. We didn't spend ten years and a small fortune on dancing lessons to have you stand aside on a night like this. I see Evan over there. You can dance with him."
"I won't. Evan's my cousin, Mom. I am not dancing with him."
She ended up dancing with the son of the Minister of Finances, a rather bland young man of about twenty. He tried to be polite while casting gloomy glances in the direction of Stephanie and Ned Thornton, but talked to Priscilla as though she was twelve years old which, considering she was almost as tall as he, she found insufferable. Once the waltz ended and the most boring ten minutes in her life were over, she disappeared into the crowd and let out a sigh of relief.
She was thirsty and just started on a root beer when her sister caught up with her. Stephanie's eyes sparkled, her face glowed with delight, and she looked like she was having the time of her life.
"Isn't this absolutely wonderful, Pris?" She took hold of Priscilla's arm. "Isn't this great? Everything's so beautiful. And Ned asked me for the next two dances, too!"
Priscilla smiled. "That is great. It sure looked like you two were having fun."
"And you too. I saw you danced with Oliver Ash. He's a little shy, but he's nice, isn't he?"
"Oh, yeah," Priscilla lied. "He's a peach."
Stephanie looked around and her smile faltered a little. "Have you seen Dad?"
Priscilla shook her head. "He's still shut up in the office with Frederick Pearson."
"Pearson?" A petulant pout replaced Stephanie’s smile. "Why does it have to be now?"
Why indeed? Priscilla could not come up with a satisfactory answer.
After Ned reclaimed her sister's attention and the dancing resumed, she glanced around. Her mother was on the other side of the hall, laughing and chatting with a group of important men's wives. Nobody's watching. I'll just have a peek. It'll only take a second. Quick and quiet as a cat, she darted upstairs.
She walked past the library, down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and down another hallway until she found herself at the end of the corridor leading to her father's study. The thick carpet muffled her steps, but still she took off her shoes just in case and tiptoed to the door. Indistinct voices could be heard behind it, and at least one of them sounded agitated. Heart thumping, Priscilla bent over and pressed her ear against the keyhole.
"…and I don't want to waste my time on a false trail, Pearson," she heard her father say. "The elections are only a few months away, and I have quite enough on my plate."
"I wouldn't worry about the elections, Mr. President. All the polls show you're leading by a wide margin."
Priscilla heard her father's mirthless chuckle. "Last time around, the polls showed John McLagan would win, but that didn't prevent me from getting ahead of him. I know better than to count on polls."
Pearson cleared his throat, but ventured no reply. Ice cubes clinked against glass. Judging from the sound of it, Dahl began to pace the length of his office, making it difficult for Priscilla to hear what they said until she heard him settle again in the chair behind his desk.
"Are you absolutely certain? The formula was destroyed. We confirmed this two years ago. It was a devastating blow, yet eventually I had no choice but to come to terms with it. Continuing to search for NOAGE was futile. I had to let it go."
NOAGE. The word struck Priscilla with such force she clapped a hand to her mouth to keep herself from exclaiming. Her father had no idea how much she knew. Like many important, busy, often absent fathers, he didn't notice how his children grew up, and didn't give proper credit to their understanding.
"Yes, sir. But the team of scientists we assigned to recreate Professor Keller's work—"
"…Is nowhere near success. Not in the foreseeable future, and you know it. All their combined efforts don't come close to the work of a single great mind. It's a pity Keller lost his marbles in the end. Why he did what he did is still beyond my comprehension."
"But this young man, Miguel José Hernan
dez, seems to know what he's doing. Being in our employ is a great opportunity for him. He is brilliant, hard-working, and ambitious. Combined with the scraps of information we've been able to salvage, he might be the very man for the task, Mr. President."
There was a pause, and Priscilla knew her father was considering Pearson's words. "Have him followed around the clock. I won't take the risk of him slipping away. I want to know where he goes, what he does, exactly what he works on, and how. I want to know everything."
"Of course, Mr. President."
"If it's true…if it really is true, there is hope for us yet. We'll restore proper order where it's due. We'll improve the human race, strengthen the Boundary, and bring safety and prosperity to those who deserve it. We just have to play our cards right. But first, there are the elections. We must win. Then we'll have freedom to act as we need."
Priscilla heard the tone of finality in her father's voice, and knew the conversation would end in a minute or two. Like a shadow, she slipped away, her shoes still in her hand. She ran down the corridor, made it to her room, closed the door behind her, and turned the key in the lock.
With a rapid glance, she took it all in – the wide bed with the blue satin quilt, the neat fireplace with the marble mantel, the long velvet curtains drawn on both sides of an elegantly curved window, the soft carpet, the oil paintings on the walls, the ornate mirror, her closet, her plants, her books. The corner of her mouth curled up. I've lived in this room since I was a baby. A lot has changed since then, but the atmosphere of wealth and luxury is the same.
The Dahl daughters led a very sheltered existence. They didn't attend schools, but were educated at home by an array of private tutors. They only associated with children of those in their parents' chosen circle. They were conveyed everywhere in private vehicles, attended private parties, vacationed at private residences, and knew very little of food shortages, pollution, tiny apartments in crowded buildings, or, though their father was President, politics. But for some, the time comes when the bubble bursts and the realization one must face the real world becomes clear; when hiding is not only futile, but detestable.
For Priscilla Dahl, that moment had arrived.
She tossed her shoes aside and pulled the silver dress over her head. With a sigh of relief, she peeled off her stockings. She flung open the door of her closet and pulled out a pair of comfortable faded jeans, a t-shirt, a sweater, a pair of socks, and old sneakers. She rummaged under her bed and extracted a flatly squished backpack, which she shook out and straightened. She stuffed some clothes inside, along with a raincoat, a hair brush, and toothbrush. More important was the flat little metal box she pulled from one of her drawers. It contained all her accumulated pocket allowance for the past year, and all the money presents she received from Aunt Daphne. Her parents and aunt were generous, and she hardly ever spent anything at all, so there was a considerable sum.
She threw a last look at the familiar room, walked out, quietly closing the door behind her, and went downstairs. But instead of going back to the stuffy, crowded, noisy hall and her sister's debut ball, she walked down a long corridor, away from the warmth and light, to the back door she sometimes used when she wanted to slip out unseen.
She pressed down on the handle and the door opened without a sound into the refreshing scents and calm, still air of the night. She smelled freshly mown grass mixed with the faint odors of motor oil and gasoline from the spacious driveway packed with sleek private vehicles of high-powered guests.
Time to go.
As she stepped across the threshold, she heard, "Miss Prissy!"
Startled, she jumped and turned back.
Tilly wore her new, dark-blue uniform and a pristine white, crisply ironed apron. A silver brooch in the shape of a daisy was pinned to her collar in honor of the grand occasion. She had ample hips, thick ankles, and strong arms – perfect arms for kneading dough, sweeping and cleaning, and for hugging a sniffling little girl who scraped a knee. Her eyes, usually kind, were now narrowed with suspicion.
"Miss Prissy, where do you think you're going?"
"Um…just getting a bit of fresh air." Priscilla tried the feeble lie even though she knew it wasn't easy to fool Tilly.
Eleanor was a good mother. She took her daughters for walks and read them fairy tales when they were little, took an interest in their education, and treated them with constant, placid affection. But it was Tilly who comforted Priscilla when she had nightmares, who nursed her through ear infections and pneumonia, who offered countless hours of simple joys like kneading dough, stirring soup, and shaping cookies in the big warm kitchen downstairs.
"D'you think I just fell from the turnip truck?" There was a trace of indignation in her voice. A dark brown hand smoothed a barely visible crease in the white apron.
"Keep your voice down, Tilly," Priscilla implored.
Tilly didn't relent. "Where are you going? They're starting the dancing again. Where's your lovely dress? Your mother will start looking for you any moment."
Priscilla hesitated. Lying's no good. Not to her. I have to tell her the truth. "I must go, Tilly."
A shadow of wariness crossed the old servant's face. "Go where?"
Priscilla stepped closer to the woman and laid a slim hand on a fleshy arm in a dark-blue sleeve. "I can't stay here anymore. Looking back, I think I've known this for a while. And so do you, Tilly."
Yes, Tilly knew. Tilly knew her better than anyone else in the world. Tilly, whose life had not been easy and who scoffed at weakness and undue timidity and excess emotion, now could not keep unbidden tears out of her eyes. She blinked rapidly several times. "You can't go now, Miss Prissy."
"I have to go now. After tonight and until the elections, Mother won't let me out of her sight. I'll be the poster girl again, and it's not just that I'm sick of it, it's…Tilly…" She took hold of the maid's warm hand. "He mustn't win."
Tilly's eyes widened. "But…but Mr. Dahl…I mean, Mr. President…"
Priscilla hesitated. I'd trust her with my life. But this is different. The less she knows, the safer she'll be. Besides, if I try to explain, it'll take half the night. "This country deserves a better man up at the White Tower. You know that, Tilly, don't you?"
Tilly bit her lip. The habits of obedience and loyalty lay too deep. She would never voluntarily speak against anybody with the name of Dahl.
"They'll find you, Miss Prissy, and your parents will be so angry. And…and the elections will end the same way anyway."
"No, they won't find me. I have it all thought out. I've been planning this for a while without even being aware of it. I have my identity card and enough money to last a good while. And nobody has the faintest idea where I'm going, not even you, Tilly."
The woman's strong arms fell to her sides for a moment. Then she raised her hands to her mouth, muffling a strangled sob. Seconds later she choked out, "I'll miss you, Miss Prissy," as Priscilla found herself hugged against her ample bosom. But time was pressing and after a minute, she gently disengaged herself.
"I'm sorry, Tilly, but this can't be helped. And besides, it's not like we'll never meet again. I hope…" She was silent for a moment, searching for the right words, but they would not come. "I really must go now." She squeezed the maid's hand one last time.
As she stepped out of the door and started walking down the familiar path, she looked back for a moment. Tilly's dark silhouette stood motionless at the doorframe. Priscilla raised her arm in a final goodbye, and Tilly, still trembling, waved back. "Godspeed, Miss Prissy."
Priscilla could just make out the words in the stillness of the night.
* * *
Getting to the nearest Urban Island would be the biggest challenge, Priscilla realized. Buses didn't stop at the private little road leading to Silver Oaks, and while she was in the area, chances were high she would be caught within minutes of someone realizing she was gone. Her best chance for escape was the highway. It was not too far off, and by cutting through the groun
ds of nearby residences, in less than twenty minutes she was standing on the side of the road, where her frantic waving managed to bring a truck to a halt. The driver, a portly, balding, middle-aged man in a pair of worn jeans and a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves, eyed her suspiciously until she explained she was one of the kitchen aides hired for the big event at the mansion, and that she had been dismissed for the night early, so would he please give her a ride, as she had no idea how to get back home at this hour.
Though the man cast a doubtful glance at her large backpack, he let it slide and agreed to give her a lift. Seated by his side in the cabin of the truck, listening to the radio and speeding toward the city, Priscilla felt more and more at ease with each passing mile.
As they approached the outskirts of the city, the driver asked, "Where would you like me to drop you off? I don't mind driving you home."
"Thanks, but I live with my aunt and she told me I should never tell strangers, even kind ones, where we live. Besides, I'm getting hungry. Could you drop me off where I can get a bite to eat? Then I'll take the bus home."
A few minutes later, when she stepped down from the truck, she looked around and realized she was lost. The city's so big and crowded. Where do I go now?
Priscilla was often in the city, but always with her mother or Stephanie or Aunt Daphne, and there was always a destination. Either they were going to shop for clothes in a few well-chosen, elite locations, or to the theatre, or to some social function at which Mrs. Dahl and her daughters had to present themselves. They were always only a few steps from the spacious, comfortable interior of the family car to the spacious, comfortable interior of some house or hall or building. The ladies of the Dahl family weren't supposed to stride down sidewalks or stroll into shops like ordinary mortals. No, they were far above that. And now Priscilla felt afraid to take a step in an unfamiliar direction.
I have to go somewhere, though. She looked around and realized the district was unlike any she ever visited. It was poorly illuminated by old streetlamps, some of which were broken, and a few flashing neon signs. Groups of people passed by now and then, talking and laughing much louder and more freely than was common in Priscilla's circle. She experienced a momentary pang of envy. These people seem to belong to the city, and to each other. And they don't have to be afraid of anyone being on their tail.