by Vicky Savage
Only a few more yards, and I can disappear into the park. Quickly checking over my shoulder, I glimpse the child’s mother sprinting from the house, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. She rushes into the road and catches sight of me. Then, amazingly, she and the girl jog after me, the puppy nipping at their heels. “Princess Jaden, Princess Jaden,” the woman calls, waving her towel.
In no time, the surrounding neighbors dribble out their front doors to see what the commotion is about. “It’s Princess Jaden!” they cry out to each other. Near the park entrance, I steal another glance behind me. A small knot of villagers hurries toward me, waving and calling my name. Crap! I’m done. I don’t have the heart to ignore them, and besides they’re blocking my escape route.
I pull up on Lochlyn’s reins, and turn her around. I don’t know what to expect, but I suck in my breath, and urge her slowly in the direction of the burgeoning crowd. She snorts and shies as the throng presses in on us. I’m a little freaked myself, but they seem to want nothing more than to touch me or wish me well. “Long live Princess Jaden,” they shout. Or “She’s alive, she’s alive!” Or “Welcome home!” Even a few “Blessed be the Chosen’s”—the slogan of The Church of the Chosen—ring out.
I’m shocked by all the attention. The citizens of the Enclave aren’t subject to my mother’s rule, and have always been proud of their independence, but I guess someone just back from the dead is big news everywhere. This was a monumentally stupid idea.
Lochlyn and I carefully pick our way through the undulating mass of humanity. People offer up flowers, lace hankies, and even small cakes, as we pass. These gestures touch me, but I can’t hold everything in my arms. Squishing it all together, I shove it inside the pouch attached to my saddle. Relief floods through me when we finally reach the end of the street. Steering Lochlyn toward Father’s house, I turn and wave farewell to the crowd. To my chagrin, though, instead of dispersing, they continue to follow us, calling to passersby to join the procession.
By the time we reach the manor house lane, a veritable parade of townspeople tag along behind us. My father steps out onto the veranda, surveying the spectacle swarming up his drive. He stations himself at the top of the steps, hands on his hips. At first his expression is not discernible, but as we draw nearer, I glimpse amusement in his eyes and a twitch of a smile around his lips. When we reach the house, I bound off my horse and up the steps to Father.
“What’s all this?” he asks grinning.
My face flames hot crimson. “I don’t know. I just went for a ride and picked up a few friends. I’m so sorry.”
The villagers gather at the foot of the stairs cheering and chanting my name. Father wraps an arm around my shoulder, and holds up a commanding hand. The noise dies down enough for him to speak. “Thank you all for this heart-warming ‘welcome home’ for Princess Jaden. We are thankful beyond words that she has returned safely to us. As some of you may already know, she has been through quite an ordeal this past year, and she is anxious to be reunited with her mother, Queen Eleanor. We hope you will excuse us for now, as we must make preparations for our journey in the morning. I promise you will be seeing much more of Princess Jaden in the coming months.”
An appreciative cheer goes up from the gathering. Father waves one last time and steers me into the house. “Well, that was rather exciting,” he says kissing my forehead. “Perhaps you should not go out unescorted for a time. Where’s Ryder? Will he be dining with us tonight?”
At the mention of Ryder’s name, a lead weight drops in my heart. “No. He has some things to take care of. He’ll join us at Warrington in a few days.”
Father’s brow creases slightly. “Very well. Are you all right?” His eyes probe mine.
“Yes. That whole scene out there just threw me a little. I think I’ll go up to my room and rest awhile.”
“Of course, sweetheart. I need to make arrangements for tomorrow. We’re taking some wagons with us to Warrington. Mrs. Hornsby has lunch prepared for you. I’ll be home before dinner.” He kisses my forehead again.
“Thanks Father.”
There’s no way I want to see Mrs. Hornsby right now. Once Father is gone, I make a bee-line for my room. Pulling off my boots, I sit on the edge of the bed and do the one thing I’ve needed to do since seeing Erica—drop my face into my hands and bawl.
Sorrow takes many forms. Loss. Regret. Despair. I’ve tasted them all. But this is a new kind of grief for me—jealousy, betrayal, and self-doubt, shaken together in one noxious cocktail of misery.
How could I have been so clueless? Of course women would throw themselves at Ryder. What reason would he have to turn them down? I was dead, right? I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, trying desperately not to think about anything, attempting to achieve a blissful catatonic state. My mind is a blank slate. My mind is a blank slate. My mind is a blank slate.
“Jade?” Ralston softly calls from outside my door.
I don’t respond. My mind is a blank slate.
The door opens slightly, and he peers inside. “May I come in? I’ve brought you some lunch.”
I continue to stare at the ceiling. My mind is a blank slate.
“I heard that Ryder departed hastily this morning. Obviously something is terribly wrong between the two of you. Since I’m responsible for bringing you here, I would very much like to speak with you about it.”
So much for catatonia. I scoot off the bed and pull open the door for him. “Come on in Rals.”
He sets the lunch tray on my coffee table, and we sit in the Queen Anne chairs facing the fake fireplace. I recount the ugly essentials for Ralston—the reunion with Ryder, Erica’s unexpected appearance, my sending Ryder away. But I leave out the most embarrassing part about me standing there like some freakin’ idiot with my sweater off.
He presses his lips together tightly. “Oh my. That was surely terrible for you, my dear. I must apologize. I assure you I had no idea they had begun a relationship. Agent Chelmsford did not inform me. Either he was unaware, which is inexcusable, or he felt it not worth mentioning, which suggests unforgivably poor judgment.” His eyes are troubled behind his glasses. “Why, you might never have agreed to return had you known. I feel IUGA has brought you here under false pretenses. You have every right to return home immediately, if that is your desire.”
I shake my head. “I can’t leave right now. I need to see my mom first, and I have to sort through my feelings about this. It’s still too fresh for me to know what I really want. Maybe after a few days it’ll become clearer.”
“Very well,” he says. “Is there anything I can do for you right now?”
“Yes. Help me find a way to get my mind off of this.”
His brow furrows momentarily. Then he raises his index finger. “Ah, I believe I have just the thing. Are you familiar with skittles?”
“You mean like the fruit candy?”
“No, I mean like the bowling game. I believe there is an alley near here. I could teach you.”
This captures my interest, but then I remember. “I can’t really go out in public. I almost got mobbed this morning. Word’s out all over town that Princess Jaden is back from the dead.”
He studies me, rubbing his chin. “I think we might be able to arrange a slight disguise. You could tuck your hair beneath one of my hats. I have a shirt and vest that should fit you. If we keep to ourselves, no one will be the wiser.”
“Okay. It’s worth a try.”
The disguise works. Nobody gives us a second look as we enter the skittles alley, which doubles as a pub. Ralston pays for our games and a couple of mugs of ginger ale. He says the history of skittles dates back to medieval England. We spend a few minutes going over the rules. It’s a lot like bowling except, instead of using a ball, you toss a big round heavy cheese, real cheese, at wooden pins. Kind of wacky, and a bit unsanitary, but it’s a blast, and I’m disappointed when, after a few hours of lighthearted competition, Ralston says it’s time to start back to the
manor house.
“I’m not looking forward to dinner,” I confess. “Erica’s mother must know the whole sordid tale by now. She must hate me. She’ll probably sprinkle cyanide on my green beans or something.”
“I’m certain she doesn’t hate you, Jaden. None of this is your fault.”
“Maybe not, but her daughter’s heart is broken tonight because of me. They both probably wish I’d never come back.” I silently hope this doesn’t signal a trend.
EIGHT
Dinner doesn’t suck. Father’s chef prepared a special menu for my homecoming. It’s over-the-top delicious. Mrs. Hornsby is the epitome of graciousness and shows not the slightest hint that she knows her daughter and I are arch rivals for the affections of the desirable Ryder Blackthorn.
Sleep eludes me, though. My room at Father’s house is large but cozy, and the bed is gloriously soft and comfortable. Each time I close my eyes visions of Ryder and Erica together play on an endless loop in my head. I push away the disturbing images by replaying old episodes of 30 Rock in my mind. It works for a while, but I doze off and have a weird dream that Ryder and Tina Fey get married in a secret ceremony in the Caymans, and I find out about it from TMZ.
At daybreak I drag my weary bones out of bed and splash some water on my face. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I realize I look beyond wrecked. I don’t care. It’s a day for comfortable riding clothes and no make-up. These people are lucky I’m even brushing my teeth.
Downstairs, Father sips coffee in the dining room. “Good morning, Jade,” he says as I stumble in.
Breakfast is laid out buffet-style on the sideboard, and I grab a glass of ruby-red pommera juice. I’d never heard of a pommera until I came to Domerica. It’s a succulent, dark-pink fruit with juicy red insides, and I’m kind of addicted.
“I’m glad you’re up,” Father says. “We should get an early start if we wish to reach the palace by nightfall. I know your mother is anxious to see you. Would you care to ride in one of the wagons with Ralston, or do you prefer a horse?”
“A horse,” I say. “That little mare, Lochlyn, would be great.”
“Very well.” He rises from his chair. “Have your breakfast, and meet me at the stables when you’re ready. I’ll ask Peter to prepare the mare for you.”
I eat a muffin and finish my juice, stashing a few extra pommeras in my pocket for the road. Taking the long way around the house to the stables, I avoid seeing anyone else. Ralston’s already seated in a wagon, but I’m surprised to see two additional wagons and several members of the Enclave army waiting to accompany us. I mount up and draw my horse next to Father’s. “Are we expecting trouble?” I ask, cutting my eyes to the men.
“Not at all,” he says. “I’m just being cautious. Instances of highway robbery have increased over the last several months, and we’re carrying valuable cargo.” He tips his head toward the wagons.
“What’s in there?”
“Firearms.”
“Guns? But they’re outlawed in Domerica.”
“They were, but Prince Harold has determined that there is a need for them now, so he’s managed to have the law changed. When the Unicoi settled in Domerica, your mother had their firearms confiscated. I offered to store them in my armory for safekeeping. Prince Harold has ordered them transferred to the palace.”
“I’m shocked Mother agreed to it. She’s always been so dead-set against guns in Domerica.”
“Frankly Jade, she may not even be aware of it. She has given your uncle enormous autonomy in his position as Lord High Steward, and he has made the most of it. Of course it is not my place to inform her of this development.” He pins me with a significant look.
“All right. I get it,” I say. “I’ll make sure she knows about it.”
Father and I ride to the mouth of the drive. He signals the men to follow, and we’re off for Warrington Palace. My spirit feels a little lighter when we reach the open road, and I know that soon I’ll see my mother again. It’s unclear how much time she actually has left, but I vow to cherish every moment.
We haven’t ridden far when evidence of last year’s fire begins to appear. At first, it’s only a small patch of burned ground here and there, but soon the landscape changes dramatically. Charred remains of trees and bushes litter the flattened forest. Some small shoots of grass and tender young saplings have managed to push through the rubble, but as we ride it’s apparent that the fire took an enormous toll on this once-lavish countryside. Where flowering trees, lush vegetation, and plentiful wildlife once flourished, now lie acres of blackened earth, withered boxwoods, and piles of burned debris. An acrid stench of smoke lingers on the air. The term “scorched earth” comes to mind.
Father pulls his horse up next to mine. “I still can’t get used to it,” he says soberly. “Such a tragic waste.”
Fire of any kind is strictly prohibited in Domerica because of the potential for quick and immediate destruction of everything living inside the dome. This fire was started when the band of Prince Damien’s thugs sabotaged the Dome Operations Center and started a lightning storm inside the dome.
“How far does it go on like this?” I crane my neck in all directions.
“Around fifteen kilometers. Your mother was forced to cut back on the land granted for Unicoi Village. And, of course, there has been a shortage of lumber. Not all Unicoi have received homes yet. Many families have been forced to double-up, and many others are still in tents. The settlement is dreadfully overcrowded.”
“Living in tents? For more than a year? That’s got to be rough. Will we pass by the settlement on our way?”
“Yes. You’ll be able to see some of it, but your Uncle Harold decreed that, for security reasons, the outer borders of Unicoi Village must be at least five kilometers away from the main highway.”
“How does that make Unicoi Village more secure?” I ask.
“I don’t believe it’s the village he’s concerned about.”
“You mean he thinks the Unicoi are a threat to Domericans?”
“Honestly, Jade, I don’t know what he’s thinking. Perhaps you should query him on that issue yourself. He is rather orthodox COC.”
What Father is referring to is that some members of the Church of the Chosen, or COC, think only people who originally populated the domes, and their progeny, are among the ones “chosen” by God to survive the Great Disaster. The Unicoi don’t fit that definition. When the comet hit the earth in 1758, a community of people living on the edge of the Appalachian mountain range survived by moving into a series of caves. They were made up mostly of Cherokee along with British, Spanish, and Irish settlers.
Eventually they became a thriving society, building cities deep within the mountain, discovering an inexhaustible natural source of energy, and developing superior farming methods. They’ve even acquired some advanced forms of technology, like motorized vehicles and devices similar to cell phones. When I first met Ryder, the Unicoi population was slowly dying off from the effects of radiation and radon gas poisoning due to decaying uranium present in the mountain. Relocating them was the only way to save them, but not all Domericans were thrilled with that decision.
The remainder of our journey along the path of fire-destroyed terrain is long, tedious, and downright depressing. Thoughts of Ryder only make things worse. It’s a relief when a swath of vibrant greenery and clusters of lively wildflowers come into view once again. Father, who has been riding abreast with me for the last several miles, mentions to me that we’re nearing Unicoi Village. He points out an area on our left where numerous rectangle buildings rise from the earth. They appear to be much taller than any other buildings in Domerica, but it’s hard to make them out clearly from this distance.
“I’d like to visit the village soon,” I say. “I’m interested to see how the transition is going. I hope the uranium-related illnesses have subsided now that the people are out of that mountain.”
“We’re still dealing with those who were stricken p
rior to the migration, but things are greatly improved from a medical perspective. I recommend you see the village soon, as many issues will require your attention in the near future. No doubt Ryder will give you a tour whenever you are ready.”
Glancing at him obliquely, I say, “I was hoping you’d take me, Father.”
He brings his horse to an abrupt halt, causing the wagons and our guards to pull up short. “Let’s take a brief rest,” he calls to the group. Climbing from his horse, he motions for me to do the same.
The men dismount and shake out their legs. A few of them disappear into the bushes for a “pit stop.” Father takes my elbow, steering me to a nearby tree heavily laden with yellow blossoms. The air is thick with their perfume. Once out of earshot of the others, he turns to me. “Jaden, please tell me what is amiss between you and Ryder.”
“What do you mean?” I say, sounding stupid even to me.