by Rosiee Thor
“That’s called friendship, Nathaniel. That’s what friends do for each other.”
Nathaniel’s smile widened. Friends.
“Now …” Anna said matter-of-factly, steering him back toward the manor. Eliza, who’d waited for them at the edge of the clearing, linked her arm through Anna’s as they made their way across the garden. “In Mechan we like to honor the dead by eating a lot of pie and telling stories about them.”
Nathaniel frowned. “Really?”
Anna wrinkled her nose. “Yes—well, no. Not the part about pie. I’m just hungry.”
Eliza gasped, feigning shock. “That’s a terribly rude lie, Anna.”
Anna pursed her lips, clearly fighting a smile. “But we do tell stories. It helps, I promise. If we remember the ones we love, it’s like they’re never truly gone.” She tightened her grip on Nathaniel’s arm, but her eyes drifted toward a darkening sky.
Nathaniel followed her gaze, unsure if he hoped to find some comfort among the stars, not invisible, and not yet bright. They shone feebly, like half-lidded eyes watching through the purple sunset. Perhaps his mother saw him, too, cloaked in that secret place between night and day where stars hid from the world.
They paused at the edge of the manor to watch stars fall from the sky, silver slingshots carrying the nobles of the Tower. Soon the eastern fields would be speckled with Bullets, and the Settlement would welcome the Tower’s elite. They would leave their titles with their ships; the Settlement had no use for lords.
Nathaniel, too, would start fresh, leaving his grief in the garden behind him.
He had no stories to tell about his mother. He couldn’t even remember her. But he would make sure no one forgot her.
“Isla,” he whispered. “That’s what we’ll call it.”
“Call what?” Eliza asked.
“The Settlement.” Nathaniel crossed his arms, standing straighter. “I’ve been trying to think of a new name for it—it sounds so militant, so like my father. The Settlement.” He spoke the words through tight lips, doing his best impression of his father. “Besides, we’re a fully planetary society now. Everything is a settlement. It’s time to give ours a name.”
“Isla,” Anna repeated thoughtfully. “I like it.”
“Really?” Nathaniel asked, turning on her, eyebrow raised. “You don’t think naming an island city Isla is a little, well, like naming a cat Cat or a piece of tech Tech?”
“Oh, it definitely is.” Anna nodded.
“The Commissioner would hate it,” Eliza added, grinning.
“You’re going to have to find something else to call him.” Nathaniel grinned back. “I’m the Commissioner now.”
Six months later …
Anna didn’t like the color red. It was the blood on her clothes and her hands that took her minutes to wash off, but hours to feel clean, and it was the clock tower that chimed loud bells through her thoughts with the same consistent rhythm of her heart. But most of all, it was the color of the uniform spread out across her bed.
Nathaniel had updated the military uniform so as to start anew. The old maroon and gray symbolized fear for many of the citizens of Mechan, as well as the Settlement—newly renamed Isla—and Nathaniel was determined to put his father’s reign behind him. The new uniform was a striking red and black, well designed and liked by most.
But Anna couldn’t seem to put it on. She’d agreed a few months back to join Nathaniel’s militia as a tech expert, but with each day that brought her closer to her induction, she regretted that decision. To go from the Technician, Isla’s most wanted, to a uniform-wearing officer felt wrong.
Besides, red clashed terribly with her hair.
That was how Anna found herself dressed in one of Eliza’s gowns again—far too elegant and several inches too short. It didn’t suit her in the slightest, and the rich fabric swishing against her legs made her self-conscious; someone would notice she didn’t belong. But really, she didn’t mind so much with Eliza’s hand in hers.
“Where’s Thatcher?” Anna asked. “He should be here, too.”
Eliza searched as well, but it was no use. Anna was taller by six inches at least, and even from her vantage point she found nothing.
As the room fell silent, Anna’s gaze snapped to the dais where Nathaniel stepped, looking like a massive ladybug in his red and black—a regal ladybug.
“By order of Commissioner Nathaniel Fremont,” he said, his voice cracking ever so slightly over the name. “In the year 2893, human-augmentation technology will no longer be prohibited.”
It was over in seconds. The councilor handed him the paper, and he signed it. The crowd roared with approval and then dispersed.
Anna knew it was only the beginning. It would be an uphill battle to undo the years of legislation put in place by Nathaniel’s father.
This was only the first step—a good step.
“Well then. Time to celebrate!” Eliza wrapped her arm around Anna’s waist and squeezed.
Anna returned the gesture, locking them in a walking embrace. “Do we really have to go? I don’t fancy rubbing elbows with Nathaniel’s advisors over wine I’m not allowed to drink. Besides, no one will miss us.”
“Nathaniel will miss us.” Eliza nodded up toward the dais. “He’s been working hard—it’s not all speeches and signing documents, being Commissioner. He deserves a break.”
Anna sighed, letting her free hand tangle with Eliza’s curls. “We deserve a break, too.” But Eliza was right. It was Nathaniel’s day, and it was a day worth celebrating, even if Anna’s definition of celebration involved fewer strangers and more comfortable clothing.
“In good time. I promise.” Eliza stood on her toes to plant a kiss on Anna’s temple. “Perhaps we’ll finally get a chance at that dance you’ve been promising me.”
Anna groaned. Eliza might have spent hours watching Anna deftly piece gears together with her nimble fingers, but if she saw how disconnected her feet were, whatever fantasy of fluttering gowns and swooping music Eliza had concocted would truly be shattered once and for all.
“Fine,” Anna grumbled. “But only if you promise not to laugh.”
“How about a promise to make you laugh along with me?” Eliza’s eyes glittered, and she stole a kiss.
As they exited the hall, a gentle pinging sound filled the air. Anna had, after much convincing, obtained the Commissioner’s old holocom and replicated the device, giving one to Thatcher and keeping one for herself. It was to facilitate easier communication between Mechan and the Settlement—or, rather, Isla.
Withdrawing the holocom from her dress pocket, Anna answered the call.
“Anna,” Thatcher wheezed. He wore grubby trousers and a soiled apron—not at all appropriate attire for attending the Commissioner’s party
“Where are you?” Anna asked. “The ceremony’s over.”
“Mechan. Ruby’s gone into labor. You won’t want to miss this.”
Anna let go of Eliza’s hand. “Give Nathaniel my regrets?”
Eliza nodded and squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll understand. Go be with Ruby.”
And without a moment more, Anna hitched up her skirts and broke into a run.
When she reached Mechan, Anna entered Thatcher’s home—barely lived in since Thatcher had started working on Nathaniel’s council. Anna, too, had spent increasingly more time away to see Nathaniel and Eliza as much as she could.
Inside, Ruby lay on the bed in the patient room, screaming bloody murder.
Anna slipped inside and stood in the corner, watching from as far away as she could. Though she’d observed countless surgeries, they all paled in comparison to the violence of birth. Anna hoped she would go all her life and never witness another.
When the baby’s first cries hit the air and Ruby fell back against the pillows, Thatcher waved Anna over. She held her breath, afraid to hope for a healthy child.
Handing her a stethoscope, Thatcher smiled and said, “Listen.”
And Anna listened.
There was nothing quite like the first beat of a new heart.
We say words matter, and never have words mattered to me more than when it comes to identity. I was given the gift of vocabulary—the words asexual and aromantic—by the brave authors who came before me, putting words to a feeling or lack thereof; you made this book possible. Thank you to everyone who pushed me to write my truth and to be myself. Your permission has been a blessing, and I cherish each and every one of you who helped make this book a reality.
Thank you to Saba Sulaiman, my fearless agent, who never ceases to be my hero, as well as the whole Talcott Notch team. I am forever grateful to have found such a genuine, savvy, and delightful advocate. You make this industry a joy even when it’s The Worst.
To my editor, Orlando Dos Reis, without whom Tarnished Are the Stars would have a lot less Eliza. Thank you for truly understanding this book in ways I could never have anticipated and for always pushing me to make it better. Your guidance and faith in this story mean the world to me. To the entire Scholastic team as well, thank you for your hard work to make this book happen: Josh Berlowitz, Yaffa Jaskoll, Annika Voss, Shannon Pender, Jackie Hornberger, Elisabeth Ferrari, and Debra Latour.
Linsey Miller, who believed in this book before I did—thank you for being right All The Time. I’m so glad you made me rewrite this book and then rewrite it again—I am a better writer for it. You are the best mentor I could have asked for, my writerly Uncle Iroh. Thank you to Pitch Wars for bringing us together and K. Kazul Wolf for pushing me to enter in the first place (and for the puns!). To my fellow 2016 pitch warriors as well, without whom publishing would be a much lonelier place. Ian Barnes and Jen DeLuca, y’all make me laugh way too much!
Infinite thanks to Elizabeth Fletcher, who suffered through the worst drafts of this book more times than I can count and still told me to keep going. Also to Wordsmith Workshops for bringing Elizabeth and me together, and for your wisdom, advice, and snacks. Thank you to Beth Revis for your support and for breaking my brain over and over, to Cristin Terrill for your advice and guidance with navigating the publishing industry, and to Lynn Moor for the best-timed cup of tea in the history of the world.
Al Graziadei and Marisa Kanter, thank you for being on this journey with me for (by the time this is published) ten whole years! I can’t believe we made it this far, and I’m so glad to be going through all this with you two by my side. And thanks to Alexa Donne, Emily Duncan, Rory Power, Christine Lynn Herman, Kevin van Whye, June Tan, Deeba Zargarpur, and Emma Theriault for the knife-reacts and for putting up with my bad puns.
I am so grateful to my early readers who helped shape this book from the beginning: Anna Bright for your insight back when this book was a complete disaster; Carly Heath for your support and camaraderie; Rachel Griffin and Jenny Howe for encouraging me when I feel lost, even when I’m actually not; Sasha Nanua for your help with my pacemaker research; Taylor Brooke for our daily screaming sessions; Bea Conti for loving this book and yelling along with me; Kim Smejkal for your thoughtful feedback and encouragement; Rachel Lynn Solomon for all your publishing wisdom; Alexa Donne for your realness and advice; and Sarah Harrington for being the second goat in my boat.
Thank you Claire Murphy and Faye Jones for sticking with me through the ups and downs of life and being the best of friends. Thanks for never laughing at me when I got Serious and Writerly when we were youths. Thanks also to Mandy Vincent, April Wong, Stephen “Phteven” Weltz, Lance Armstrong, Dante Quazzo, and Daniel Merritt for supporting me along the way; to Sabreen Lakhani for taking my picture in the snow and also your invaluable coffee knowledge; to Andrew Sunada, for your incredible friendship and dedication to bettering yourself—you inspire me to do the same; to Colleen Crook, thank you for putting up with my messy-deadline-self and for listening to pub gossip about people you don’t know—so glad to run through life holding left hands with you; and to the rest of my IRL writing group: Sarah Burton, Emily Toohey-Andrews, and J. S. Fields.
I would not be where I am without the support of my family. Mom, thank you for encouraging me to be creative and for giving every fairy on my posters a backstory. Dad, thank you for getting a master’s degree and then deciding to build harps instead. Your commitment to your craft is inspirational, and I never would have believed I could be successful doing what I love without your example. Sorry I didn’t turn out to be a harpist, but hopefully this will do instead.
Lastly, hugs and cookies to Tess, the love of my life and doggo extraordinaire, who patiently bore my endless deadlines and only whined about her lack of walkies a little bit.
Rosiee Thor began her career as a storyteller by demanding that her mother listen as Rosiee told bedtime stories instead of the other way around. She lives in Oregon with a dog, two cats, and four complete sets of Harry Potter, which she loves so much, she once moved her mattress into the closet and slept there until she came out as queer. Follow her online at rosieethor.com and on Twitter at @rosieethor.
Copyright © 2019 by Rosiee Thor
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First edition, October 2019
Jacket art © 2019 by Vault 49
Jacket design by Yaffa Jaskoll
e-ISBN 978-1-338-31228-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.