Once: An Eve Novel Part 11

"I can't live like this," I said. My lungs were tight at the thought of it, day piled on top of day, each one more stifling than the one before. I kept waiting for something to change, for the paper to reveal news of Caleb. But nothing happened. Now there would be plans for the wedding, ceaseless, senseless talk of bouquets and rings and which foods they would bring in from where. Did I want beige linens or white? Roses or calla lilies?

Beatrice pressed her palms together, her face strained with worry. "You will live like this," she said, "as we all have. With the memories of life before the plague. With the hope that it will one day be better."

"But how?" I asked. "How will it be better?"

She didn't answer. I put my face in my hands. I couldn't reach out to the Trail anymore. No one would trust me. I was under constant surveillance now. Caleb was gone, somewhere beyond the City's walls, with no promise of coming back. Even if the tunnels were built, how would I get to them? And if I managed to escape, how would I survive in the wild alone, with no weapons or food, the King's troops following just hours behind me?

Beatrice sat down next to me, working at the thin skin on her hand. "Since you've arrived I've wondered ... if it's possible for anyone to be truly happy here. You have to hold on to certain delusions, I suppose. Maybe hoping is foolish," she said, staring at a spot on the floor. "There have been rumors going around the Palace. The workers have been talking. Is it true, what you did for that boy?"

I offered a slight nod, knowing I could never truly answer that question.

"It was a brave thing," Beatrice said, resting her hand on my back.

I wiped my nose, the memory of Caleb's broken face coming back to me, the tender pink slice that ran across his forehead, the welt on his cheek. "It doesn't feel that way," I said. "I might never see him again."

Beatrice let out a deep breath. Her fingers wandered over the bedspread, digging into its soft gold fabric. The smell of cigar smoke still clung to my skin. "You do anything for the person you love," she said finally. "And then when you don't think you can give any more of yourself, you do. You keep going. Because it would kill you not to." She turned to me, her gray eyes wobbly. The room filled with the rush of the air-conditioning vents. "I've bargained with the King, too." A strand of gray hair fell in her face, shielding her eyes.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"When they were doing the census you had to answer questions. Did you want to live inside the City? Did you want to live outside the City? What skills did you have to offer? What resources could you contribute? Some people had companies, warehouses full of goods. I had cleaned houses before the plague struck. I didn't have much money, and my daughter and I didn't have anything they wanted. We were put in the lowest category, with the most basic jobs and housing. We would've been living in the Outlands with all the others. After the chaos following the plague, people weren't sure what that would mean, if it would be more of the same-people fighting for food and clean water, more violent robberies.

"But I was told I was lucky. I was selected out of thousands. They said my application had been flagged, and I was offered a job in the Palace. But my daughter couldn't come with me. She would go to the Schools. We wouldn't be able to keep in contact, but she'd return to the City after she graduated, if that's the life she chose. Now I realize they probably just wanted more children for the Schools and the labor camps, as many as they could get. The Schools ..." Beatrice let out a short, sad laugh. She rubbed her cheek. "They were supposed to be these places of great learning, where girls could get a top-rate education. They told me they would give her much more than a life in the City could. When I heard about the Golden Generation, everyone a.s.sured me it wasn't mandatory, that the members of the birthing initiative had volunteered. They said girls were given a choice. But then you came here ..."

"How old is she?" I asked. "Do you know which one she's in?"

Beatrice shook her head. "I don't. I was pregnant when the plague began. Sarah just turned fifteen last month." She looked at me with pink, watery eyes, her lips twitching as she tried not to cry. "Do you know anyone there still? Anyone you could talk to for me?"

I reached for her hand, my fingers shaking. I thought of Headmistress Burns, her sagging, miserable face, how she'd been aware of the Graduates' fate all along, how she'd kept her hand on my back as I took those vitamins, how she'd taken me to the doctor each month. I didn't know what had become of Teacher Florence, if they'd discovered she'd helped me escape. "I don't know," I said. "I can try."

Beatrice squeezed my fingers so hard her knuckles were white. "That would be good," she said, her voice breaking.

I enveloped her in a hug, feeling how small she was, her shoulders stooped, her hands clasped tight behind my back. "Yes" was all I could manage as we sat there in the stillness of the room. "I will try."

thirty-two.

"WELL, LOOK AT YOU, CHARLES HARRIS!" MRS. WENTWORTH cried, poking Charles playfully in the chest. "You're looking more handsome than ever. It must be the glow of looooove," she drawled, swaying her big hips back and forth. I'd been told Amelda Wentworth was a prominent widow in the City, one of the original founders who had given the King access to her dead husband's a.s.sets, including his trucking company. She'd been like an aunt to Charles, watching him since he was a teenager, when he had first arrived in the City.

"And you, Your Royal Highness," she added, curtsying. "What a thrill this must be for you. One day you are living in the Schools and the next you're here, inside the City walls. Princess Genevieve." She was standing beside us, turning every few moments to glance around the crowded party.

We were in the penthouse of Gregor Sparks, one of the men who'd donated resources after the plague. The three-story apartment at the top of the Cosmopolitan building had a waterfall in the center of the room and recovered Matisse paintings on the walls. It was yet another engagement party, this one with delicate crackers dabbed with cheese and a full roast pig laid out on a silver platter. It was larger than the ones we had at School ceremonies, its haunches spread wide as a worker cut into its tender flesh.

"It's been a dream," I said, my smile tight as I took in her curls, stiff with spray, and the lipstick crusted in the corners of her mouth.

Some guests reclined on Gregor's long, S-shaped couch, their happy chatter filling the air. The women all wore gowns and silk shawls, while the men donned starched shirts, ties, and b.u.t.toned vests. It was a different world than the one beyond the wall, and at times like these, surrounded by the smells of mulled cider and lamb, the wild felt far away, another planet in some far-off galaxy.

"Baby lamb chop?" a waiter asked, presenting me with a silver tray.

I picked up a piece of the pink meat by the bone and brought it to my mouth, the sharp smell of mint stinging my nostrils. As I held it between my forefinger and thumb, a memory rose up: Pip and I on the School lawn, hovering over the gray mound we'd discovered in the bushes. A mound of fur, its tail hiding the rest of its body. Pip crept toward it, determined to pick it up, to figure out if it was sick or dead. She reached down and pinched its foot, then pulled, and the rotted flesh came loose. We started screaming, darting out of the bushes, but she had held it just one second-the thin, b.l.o.o.d.y bone.

Bile rose in the back of my throat. I could still hear Pip's scream. I dropped the lamb chop on the platter and stepped away.

"What is it?" Charles asked, his hand still on the small of my back.

"I'm feeling sick," I said, ducking away from him. I pressed a napkin to my forehead and lips, trying to calm myself. I had dreamed of her last night. Pip in those metal beds, Ruby beside her, then Arden. Another girl had appeared, a younger girl, her features faint in the haze of the dream. When are you coming back? Pip had asked, her stomach protruding nearly two feet, b.r.e.a.s.t.s swollen and red hair sticking to her forehead. You've forgotten about us.

"Would you like a drink?" Charles asked. "Water maybe?" He signaled to a server in the corner.

"Just s.p.a.ce," I said, stepping away. "Give me one minute." I held up a finger. Then I ducked out of the crowded room, not stopping until I was down the hall, beyond the kitchen, my back resting against the wall.

I stayed there until my breath slowed. I had promised Beatrice. I'd promised her that I would help her find her daughter, and yet in the days that had pa.s.sed I'd stood stupidly by Charles's side as he opened the zoo in the old Grand hotel. I'd attended parties and galas and hosted a brunch for the wives of the Elite.

"Are you all right, Princess?" Mrs. Lemoyne asked as she pa.s.sed on the way to the bathroom. "You look ill." She was a mousy woman with rigid manners, always reprimanding someone for making some perceived misstep.

I patted my forehead with my napkin. "Yes, Grace, thank you. Just needed a breath."

"You should go by the window then," she urged. "Over there." She directed me into the formal dining room, where a server was hunched over the table, getting ready to serve the evening tea. Another was kneeling by a china cabinet, pulling cups and saucers from a shelf. Thankfully, the window was open, the cool night air rippling the curtains.

I stepped into the room, the murmurs of the party still audible down the hall. "I hope you don't mind," I said as I pa.s.sed the man at the table. "I'll only be a minute."

A moment pa.s.sed. He didn't answer. I turned around and he was staring at me. He wasn't wearing his gla.s.ses. His black hair was smoothed down and his body was rigid, his shoulders back, looking so different from the last time I'd seen him. I covered my mouth to stop myself from saying his name aloud.

Curtis balanced the tray on his hand. I glanced at the server kneeling just a few feet away, humming slightly as he arranged the cups on a silver tray. One of the chefs strode down the hallway with an empty platter. Mrs. Lemoyne returned from the ladies' room, smiling at me as she pa.s.sed.

I looked into Curtis's stone-gray eyes, trying to decipher the meaning behind his silence. I wanted to ask if they'd heard anything more about Caleb's release. I wanted to know how far along the tunnels were, if they'd resumed work on the first one, if the plans had been correct. If they could reach me in the Palace I had a chance still-I could escape.

But he just leveled his gaze at me, his expression cold. "Tea, Princess?" he asked, holding out the tray. I reached down, my fingers trembling as I took a cup. He tilted the pot, letting the boiling water fall, the steam clouding the air between us.

In seconds he was gone, striding back down the long corridor, the china rattling against the silver tray. He never looked back. I stood there, the drink hot in my hands, until I heard the King calling from the next room.

"Genevieve!" he said, his voice cheerful and light. "Come now. It's time for the celebratory toast."

thirty-three.

I STARED OUT THE WINDOW, FAR ACROSS THE CITY, TO THE point where the Outlands met the wall. From fifty stories up it seemed so small, an innocuous thing you could skip a stone over. All night I had been replaying that moment. Curtis's expression was the same as it had been the day we'd met in the hangar. I'd imagined him going back to the others and telling them I'd paraded around the apartment, chatting happily with Gregor Sparks, or how I'd stood there smiling stupidly as the King went on about the new royal couple.

I hated what he thought of me-what they all must've thought. That with Caleb gone, I'd returned to the Palace and set my sights on marrying Charles. There was no way to explain. Whatever I'd done to prove my loyalty didn't matter now. I was a traitor in their eyes. I accepted that a little more each day, and a sadness settled in-making every breakfast, every gala, every toast that much lonelier.

"Your Royal Highness," Beatrice said, curtsying as she entered the suite. "I've had the dresses delivered to the downstairs parlor. They're waiting for you."

I studied my reflection in the gla.s.s, wondering how anyone could believe I was happy. The skin under my eyes was swollen. My cheeks had the same hollow look they did those first days after I arrived. I blinked a few times, willing back tears. "You don't have to do that," I said finally.

"Would you prefer them in the upstairs sitting room?" she asked.

"No-the *Royal Highness' nonsense," I said, turning to her. "It's unnecessary here."

Beatrice sighed. "Well, I can't go around the Palace calling you Genevieve. The King won't have that."

I picked at the hem of my blue dress, feeling satisfied when a loose thread gave, puckering the silk. I knew she was right. Still, I was desperate to hear my real name spoken out loud-not Princess Genevieve, not Princess or Your Royal Highness, just Eve. "I've been thinking about your daughter," I said. "I just need some time. I need to find out what School she's in, who the Headmistress is. Maybe after I'm married," I stumbled over that word, "I'll have a better chance at negotiating her release. Thankfully we have time before ..."

Beatrice started toward me. "Yes, I know ...," she said, her voice a whisper. We stood there in silence, and then I took her hand, cradling it in my own. I squeezed, trying to stop the trembling in her fingers and the tears that pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill onto her cheeks. "We should go," she finally said, turning to the door.

The hallway was quiet. Charles and the King were in the City, visiting one of the new factory farms near the wall. The faint sounds of vacuuming came from another room.

The elevator opened up on the floor below, where giant white boxes were stacked in one corner. Rose and Clara sat in another, eating blueberry m.u.f.fins and sipping coffee, a drink I'd yet to try. Rose was still in her silk pajamas, her blond hair pinned on top of her head, the day's paper in hand. Neither of them looked up when we walked in.

"So, these are the dresses," Beatrice said, walking over to the stack. "They're all from before the plague, but they were treated and preserved, so the fabric is still bright. You'll see all the lace is intact. It's quite remarkable." She pulled the lid off a long box on the floor, revealing a white dress stuffed with paper. Its bodice was covered with tiny beads. I was supposed to be excited, I knew, but as my fingers touched the neckline, winding over the hard, puffy sleeves, I felt nothing but dread.

"Do you have to do this now?" Rose said, setting down her paper. "We're having breakfast." She swished her coffee around before taking another sip.

Beatrice let out a sigh. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but it's the King's orders. This must be done this morning, and I don't suppose we can move these boxes now."

Clara rolled her eyes. She pushed her plate away from the edge of the table and stood, leveling her gaze at me before heading out the door. Her mother followed behind her. Even after they turned down the hall I could hear their angry whispers, Clara muttering something about my nerve.

Beatrice pulled the first dress from the box. "That girl has wanted to be with Charles for years. Her maid says she's not handling this well, carrying on and whatnot."

As Beatrice closed the heavy wooden doors I stripped down to my underwear, the air-conditioning raising goose b.u.mps on my skin. I climbed into the dress and Beatrice zipped it up, spinning me around to face the mirror on the far wall. It plunged in a deep V in the front, sheer fabric with white beading clinging to my arms and chest. I pulled at the collar, nearly ripping it. "I can't breathe," I murmured.

"There are more, love," Beatrice said. She unzipped it and pulled another from its box. It was a puffy thing with a giant tail that followed behind me for nearly ten feet. I walked past the mirror, hating how it exposed the pale skin of my shoulders.

"What does it matter?" I said sadly, as Beatrice packed it away. "Any will do." Still, another was taken out. Another was put on. My thoughts drifted away from the room, from the Palace and the dresses and the incessant sound of zippers going up and down. Caleb must've reached a stop on the Trail by now. He would be back in communication with Moss soon. It wouldn't be long before he would be able to tell people inside the walls what had happened.

Beatrice b.u.t.toned up another dress. It was tight, the top of it squeezing my chest, suffocating me. "I'm sorry, Beatrice," I whispered. "Can I please take a break?"

"Don't apologize." Beatrice sighed, undoing the back of the dress. "Of course you can." She unb.u.t.toned it halfway and released me, handing me the simple jumper I'd worn downstairs. I slunk toward the table, collapsing in Clara's vacant seat. "I'll ask the kitchen for some ice water," she said, disappearing out the door.

The morning sun streamed through the window, hot on my skin. I imagined myself in the wedding procession, the shiny car that would wind through the City streets, the cheering crowd reaching beyond the metal barricades, banging against the gla.s.s overpa.s.s. In one week I would be Charles Harris's wife. I would move out of my suite and into his. I would lie beside him every night, his hands reaching out for me in the darkness, his lips searching for mine.

I was staring at the newspaper, half in the room, half somewhere else, when the boldface type came into focus-PRINCESS TEA. The same words Curtis had uttered were now right in front of me, printed on one of the paper's back pages.

The advertis.e.m.e.nt section was the one place where citizens could post messages to one another. There they offered to trade or sell items that they'd made, brought to, or acquired in the City, under the consent of the King. I ran my fingers over the bold font, knowing immediately what it was. The Trail often used coded messages to communicate. I remembered what Caleb had said at the prison, when he had leaned in and whispered in my ear. You're not the only one in the paper. I thought of Curtis's face in the dining room. His eyes had darted sideways as he spoke to me, his voice tense. It was strange that he'd said only those two words and nothing more. Now it all made sense.

I looked at the small type that described the tea-four boxes had been recovered from an old warehouse in the Outlands. The ad listed the year, the date on which they had been acquired, the brand and city they were from, and a desired price. Perfect to celebrate the royal wedding, the last lines read. Enjoy with friends after watching the procession. I kept staring at it, studying the way the letters lined up on top of each other, trying to figure out the code, if it ran vertically or horizontally.

Beatrice returned with two gla.s.ses of water, setting them down in front of me. "Do you have a pen?" I asked, counting every second letter, then every third, trying to find a pattern.

She pulled one from her vest and sat down beside me, watching as I counted every fifth, then every sixth character, copying them down next to one another to see if they spelled anything. Line after line was complete nonsense. I finally found the code running straight down the second to last column. C, 1, N, P, R, $, N, I copied into the paper's margins. K, L, 1, 3, D.

"Caleb's in prison," I repeated, ripping the advertis.e.m.e.nt out of the paper. "The King lied."

"Who's Caleb?" a voice asked.

I turned around. Clara was standing in the hall, her hand resting on the doorframe. Before I could think she rushed toward me, reaching for the ad. In one swift motion she yanked it from my grasp. I jumped up, trying to pry it from her hands, but I couldn't get a good hold on her. Then it was too late. She darted down the hall and into her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

thirty-four.

I STOOD OUTSIDE, KNOCKING UNTIL MY KNUCKLES HURT. "Open the door, Clara," I yelled. "This isn't a joke." I glanced down the hallway. A soldier stationed by the parlor was watching me. Beatrice stood beside him, whispering something, trying to explain away the fight. I finally gave up, letting my forehead rest against the wood door. I could hear her pacing the length of her room, the m.u.f.fled smacking of her bare feet against the floors.

She paused on the other side of the door. There was the familiar electric sound of the keypad. She opened it a few inches, revealing a sliver of her face. She no longer had the scribbled note in her hands. "Wow, Princess," she said, barely able to get the words out without laughing. "I never would've pegged you for a subversive."

I gave the door one big push, shoving my way inside. She rubbed her arm where the door had b.u.mped her. "Where did you put that slip of paper?" I opened the top drawer of her desk, thumbing through a stack of thin notebooks. Beside them was a creased picture of a little boy and girl sitting in a wooden porch swing, a kitten curled up in the boy's lap. It took me a moment to realize that the girl was Clara. The boy looked just a few years younger, with thick black hair and ivory skin.

"Have you completely lost your mind?" she asked. She slammed the drawer shut, nearly closing my fingers inside. "Get out of my room."

"Not until you give that back to me," I said, scanning the night tables beside the bed. The fluffy pink comforter was covered with pillows of all sizes. Some were lace, others embroidered with delicate white lilies. There was nothing on the top of her dressers. Nothing in the trashcan beside the desk. She'd probably hidden it away somewhere, waiting until she had the perfect opportunity to expose me.

"What does it matter? I already read it." Clara crossed her arms over her chest. "It's that boy, isn't it? The one you were seeing at night?"

I shook my head. "Just leave it alone, Clara."

"I wonder what Charles would think about this. You sending messages through the paper." Her cheeks were red and blotchy, her fingers still rubbing the tender spot on her arm. "At least this time you can't call me a liar. Now I have proof."

I let out a long, rattling breath, unable to contain myself anymore. "Do you think I chose this? If it were up to me I never would've come to the City in the first place. I never wanted to be here."

Clara's thin brows were knitted together. "Then why are you marrying him? I was standing right there when he asked you. No one made you say yes."

I stared at my shadow on the floor, debating what to tell her. She already had enough to turn me in. The truth couldn't make things any worse. "Because they were going to kill him-Caleb. Agreeing to marry Charles was the only way I could stop it."

Clara walked toward me, her head c.o.c.ked slightly to the side. "So help me understand this. You would leave the Palace right now if you could?"

"Of course," I said softly. "But I can't even leave my room. Everywhere I go someone is watching me. When I step into the hallway, Beatrice will be waiting there with the soldier by the parlor. Charles escorts me to every meal." I glanced at her window, which was open just a crack, the curtains billowing in the breeze. "Haven't you noticed I'm never alone?"

We stood there in the quiet room, facing each other. She looked more hopeful than she had in days. I straightened up, realizing I did have something to offer her, after all. "So if you want to tell Charles," I went on, "or the King, or your mother about that message, then fine. I'll marry Charles in a week and that will be it. But if you want me gone, those codes are my only chance."

I could see her considering it, weighing what she had to gain by outing me against what would happen if I escaped. She pursed her lips. "You don't love Charles?" she asked. Her eyes were clear when they met mine, the resentment in them diminished.