Once: An Eve Novel Part 12

"No," I said. "I don't."

She walked over to a porcelain piggy bank on her nightstand. Its paint was chipped in places and one eye was nearly rubbed off. She held it up, a faint smile crossing her lips. "I've had this since I was three." She shrugged. "I wouldn't move to the City without him." She flipped it over, pulling a broken piece of cork out of the bottom. The ripped newspaper was inside, my writing scribbled in the margins. She handed it back to me. "You have my promise, then. I won't tell anyone."

I ripped the square into the tiniest pieces I could, tucking them away in the pocket of my jumper. She'd given it back. She'd said she wouldn't tell. And she had no reason to-it would guarantee that I could never leave the Palace. She opened the door for me, and I started down the hall, turning over the sc.r.a.ps in my pocket, finally able to breathe.

thirty-five.

THAT NIGHT I COULDN'T EAT. I SAT AT THE DINNER TABLE, thinking of Caleb in prison. I saw the gash on his forehead, a soldier landing another blow on his back, twisting his arm so it met his shoulder blade. They would want names. I knew they would. It was only a matter of time before they gave up, realizing he would never give them the information they needed. How much time did I have before they killed him?

"What's the matter, dear?" the King asked, glancing at my plate. "Did you want something else? We could have the chef prepare whatever you like." He reached out and put his hand on my arm. My entire body tensed at his touch.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my voice. "I'm not hungry," I said. The roast chicken on my plate repulsed me.

The table was full. Clara and Rose sat next to the Head of Finance. Clara chatted happily with him now, her eyes meeting mine as she peppered him with questions about a new business venture. Charles was sitting beside me, talking to Reginald, the Head of Press, about an upcoming opening in the City.

"I'm glad that you two are getting along so well." The King offered a slight nod in Charles's direction. "I always thought you would." He squeezed my arm, then turned back to his plate.

I had the sudden urge to pick up my gla.s.s of water and throw it in his face. To plunge my fork into the soft flesh of his hand. He had lied. He thought I would never know, that I would walk through the wedding procession with a lightness in my step, content to imagine Caleb alive somewhere in the wild.

The King pushed away from the table and stood, signaling that he was ready to leave. I felt the piece of paper in the pocket of my cardigan, running my fingers over its blunt corners to comfort myself. After my conversation with Clara, I had gone back to the parlor and picked out a wedding dress. I chose the next one I tried on, not bothering to look in the mirror to see how it fit. I followed Beatrice back to the suite, stopping in the upstairs parlor to throw the ripped newspaper into the fire, watching as the advertis.e.m.e.nt and the message it contained twisted in the flames. Then I sat down at my desk and wrote.

I was careful with each word I chose, puzzling out the sequence so that the code could be applied backward, from the end of the text to the beginning, using every ninth character. It took me two hours of rearranging, moving words and phrases around, until I managed something. The piece was a formal address to the people of The New America, a missive about the great honor it was to be serving as their Princess. I spoke of the upcoming wedding, my great excitement about the nuptials, and how I had first come to meet Charles in the Palace weeks before. I reread it, lingering over the word love. A sickness settled in my stomach. I kept thinking of Caleb, alone in some cold prison, his skin crusted with blood.

KIN WE METE? the message spelled. NO TYM TO DLAY. I wished I had more to offer-a plan, a promise that I could secure Caleb's freedom. But if I confronted the King about the lies he would know I had a connection on the outside, telling me of Caleb's whereabouts. Everything I did would become suspect again, and all the work I had done in the past weeks to secure his confidence would be for nothing.

"Would you like to go down to the marketplace for dessert?" Charles asked as he helped me up from my chair. He'd been quieter in the past few days, seeming embarra.s.sed by our conversation. Clara took off with the Head of Finance, glancing back over her shoulder at me.

I pulled the folded paper from my pocket. "Actually, I'd like to speak with Reginald." He turned when he heard his name.

"What for?" the King asked. He and Charles gathered around me, the room smaller in their presence. The Head of Education lingered by the door to eavesdrop.

I let out a deep breath. "I'd like to address the people of The New America for the first time. I'm here for good, as their Princess. I'd like them to at least know who I am." I didn't look at the King. I didn't acknowledge Charles. Instead, I kept my eyes on Reginald as I handed him the piece of paper.

"I suppose that's all right," the King said, his voice a little uncertain. "As long as there's nothing objectionable in it, Reginald."

Reginald pinched the sheet between his fingers, his eyes moving down the paper. His brows furrowed at some lines and relaxed at others. I swallowed hard, my chest seizing in panic. He couldn't know, I told myself, he wouldn't be able to tell. And yet the memory of that night at Marjorie and Otis's house returned. I saw Marjorie's trembling hands holding the radio, her questions, so urgent, as Otis threw the extra plates beneath the sink. Which code did you use? I heard her ask, then the sound of that first fatal shot.

Reginald pressed his lips together in thought. "Are you sure you want to print this?" His dark eyes met mine. The King circled around us, looking over his shoulder to review the content.

I breathed out, trying to slow the pounding in my chest. "I am," I said finally.

Reginald smiled and pa.s.sed the paper to the King. "It's lovely," he declared. He bowed slightly to show his respect. "The people will be delighted to read this in tomorrow's paper."

thirty-six.

THE GOLDEN GENERATION WAS BEING HELD IN A COMPOUND northeast of the main road, a closed-in section of the City that had once been called a country club. Its great lawns had been converted to gardens and the large ponds were used as reservoirs. Ma.s.sive stone buildings now housed the children's bedrooms, dining hall, and school. We pulled up the long, curved driveway. Soldiers stood along the perimeter, their rifles in hand.

"Princess Genevieve!" A voice called out behind me as I started toward the gla.s.s doors. "Princess, over here please!" Reginald's photographer got out of the car behind us, a camera in her hand. She clicked it incessantly, catching me as I ascended each step, the King trailing just a few feet behind.

I couldn't manage a smile. Instead I stared into the lens, thinking of Pip and Ruby and Arden. This visit had been my suggestion. I wanted to see where the children stayed, to meet them, to know the conditions of their everyday life. A big piece would run in the following day's paper about the former student turned Princess-the girl who understood the volunteers more than anyone else. I had planned to give Reginald another quote, another message for the dissidents. And yet now that the day was here and the stone building was right before me, it was difficult to take even one step.

"I think you'll be pleased," the King said to me when we reached the doors. Reginald followed behind us, along with three armed soldiers. "The sacrifices made by those girls have not gone in vain. The children are being raised properly."

I tried to smile, but a queasy, unsettled feeling rocked my insides. It had been three days since my address ran in the paper. People had written in praising my words and expressing enthusiasm about my upcoming union with Charles. As each letter was delivered to the Palace, the King softened a bit more. His laugh was heard more throughout the halls. His words were kinder, more enthused, as he relaxed into his lie. Caleb was still in custody. I was going to marry Charles. All was right in his world.

"We've been expecting you, Princess," a woman in a white shift dress said. She was only a few years younger than the Teachers at School, her thin skin like crepe paper. A tiny New American crest was pinned to her collar. "I'm Margaret, the head of the center."

"Thank you for having us," I said. "I spent my whole life at one of those Schools. I needed to come here to see this for myself." I stepped inside the marble hall, its walls echoing with the sounds of small children. In the foyer, a three-foot-high bouquet sat on a giant round table, its blooms exploding out in all directions, filling the air with the scent of lilies.

She pressed her palms together as she walked me to a door on the back wall. "We've worked hard these last years to ensure the children are well taken care of, provided with the best doctors. We make sure they receive proper exercise and eat a balanced diet."

The King and Reginald hovered behind me as I looked into the wide hall. Reginald withdrew his notebook from his suit pocket and jotted something down. Small children were huddled together on the floor, pushing around plastic cars and stacking blocks in short towers. In the corner a woman Margaret's age sat with a little girl whose face was swollen and tear-streaked, rubbing her back while she cried.

"This is our largest playroom," Margaret said. "It used to be one of the reception rooms. We keep the children here during the day in the hopes that citizens will come by and have a look. With a little luck many of these children will be adopted in the coming months." A girl with golden pigtails waddled over, her bottom thick from her diaper. She peered up at us with big sea-green eyes.

"This is Maya," Margaret offered. "She's two and a half."

I looked into her face, at her small, sweet nose and her flushed chubby cheeks. I touched her hand, and her tiny fingers curled around mine, her smile revealing two front teeth. "She's precious, isn't she?" Margaret asked. Behind us I heard the click of the camera.

As I stared into her eyes I could think only of Sophia in that awful room, her gaze meeting mine as I peered through the dirt-caked window. I thought of the girl who had cried out, her wrists straining against the leather, until the doctor had silenced her with a needle. Every one of these children had come from a girl just like my friends. Maybe Maya's mother had sat beside me in the School dining hall. She might have been one of the girls Pip and I had admired, taller than the rest, her glossy ponytail swinging back and forth as she strode by, a tray in her hands.

"We're hopeful that even those who aren't adopted will grow up happy and healthy, feeling as though they were always loved," Margaret continued. She strode over to a side door and unlocked it.

We started down a stone path, winding through a field of corn being farmed by a group of workers, to a building beyond the reservoir. "These children will become responsible citizens of The New America. They'll love this country and know the place they had in ensuring its future," the King added. "With every child born we grow in numbers. We become less vulnerable. We're closer to being the powerful nation we once were."

We climbed the stone steps and Margaret unlocked a second door, emptying us into another large room. Nurses wound through dozens of plastic beds. The babies were swaddled in tight blankets. Only their round, pink faces were visible. "These are our most recent arrivals," Margaret added. A staff member walked up and down the rows, cradling an infant in a dark blue blanket. "Would you like to hold one, Princess?"

"Yes," Reginald answered for me. "It would be nice to have a shot for the paper."

Margaret pushed into the room and maneuvered through the beds, choosing a sleeping baby bundled in a red blanket. She scooped her up and delivered her into my arms. My throat tightened just looking at the tiny creature, who had undoubtedly been shipped in on some truck, traveling for miles to this cold room, to wait for someone to want her.

It was true that the building was much different than I'd imagined. Cleaner, brighter, happier. Each floor was filled with staff members who spoke to the children in whispered words, who gently patted their bottoms to keep them from crying. But I couldn't look at any of it-at the beds and plastic pacifiers and the knit blankets-without thinking of my friends.

"Over here, Princess," Reginald's photographer called out. "Smile."

I looked into the lens and remembered the message, a quiet comfort. The dissidents had sent word in the paper the day after they'd run my piece, writing a reply under the familiar name Mona Mash. It was a long, flowery letter, a gushing account of the parade through one woman's eyes. She spoke of her excitement for the royal wedding, speculating on the best places to stand for the procession. It had taken me an entire day to figure out its meaning. Carefully recopying the letters nearly fifty different ways, I'd finally discovered the encrypted message: We have a contact in the prison. A plan is in place that should secure his release. One tunnel complete.

"Look how lovely you are," the King cooed as I held the baby in my arms. The photographer kept snapping photos, catching the morning light that streamed through the blinds. The little girl's face was calm. She cracked open her gray eyes, her lips puckering slightly. I didn't feel the stirrings of motherhood or some warm gushiness inside my chest. I could only think of the future before me, what would happen in the next week. It was only a matter of time, I kept telling myself. An end was coming.

Margaret took the baby from my arms and set her back down on the bed. "I'd love to show you one more thing," she said, starting out the door.

We followed her up the stairs, the King resting his hand on my shoulder. "These children will have real lives inside the City. Even the ones who aren't adopted fare better than any child could beyond the wall. They're raised here, given a proper education," he said softly. "They're taken care of. Their mothers' sacrifices have been honored."

"I can see that now," I lied, the words catching in my throat. "It all makes so much sense." Margaret strode out into the second floor. Reginald, his camerawoman, and the two soldiers followed behind her. For a moment the King and I were alone in the doorway.

He turned to me and rested his hand on my shoulder. "I know this hasn't been easy for you," he said, lowering his head to meet my eyes. "But I appreciate the effort you're making. I think you'll really enjoy life here, with Charles. Adjusting will just take time."

"It's getting easier," I said, not looking him in the eye. It was the first thing I had said that contained some bit of truth. Since discovering the message in the paper, things felt lighter. I could see an exit from this world and I was moving toward it, steadily, day by day. I had one more message to post in the paper, a response to my visit to the center, which would contain the seedling of a plan. If Harper and Curtis could help release Caleb, I'd meet him the morning of the wedding. With the City in such upheaval, we'd have the best chances of escape.

Beatrice had given me her word that she'd help. She would leave the bridal suite for an extended period of time, unlocking the door to the east stairwell to allow me access. I'd spent days watching Clara, waiting for her to divulge my secrets to Charles or the King. After seeing no signs of betrayal, I'd solicited her help. She would divert the soldier stationed outside my room so I could escape undetected. I tried not to be offended by how elated she was that I would be leaving the City forever.

The King kept his hand on my shoulder as we walked down the hall. "These are our adoption offices," Margaret said. She knocked on one of the doors and a middle-aged woman in a navy suit answered. They exchanged a few words and the woman stepped back, letting us inside. A couple sat in front of a desk. They were a little older than Beatrice, their hair showing the first signs of gray. They both stood when they saw the King and me, the man bowing, the woman curtsying.

"This is Mr. and Mrs. Sherman," Margaret said, gesturing to the couple. "They're starting a family."

"Congratulations," I said, looking into their faces. The woman's eyes were pink and watery. The man clutched a cap in his hand, curling the thin cotton brim.

"They're adopting two children," Margaret went on. "We've been in the process for a month now, and today is the day they're bringing them home."

"Two little girls-twins." Mrs. Sherman smiled, but her face looked pained, her forehead wrinkled in worry. "It's really a dream for us." Her husband wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed.

"I was envisioning couples like you when I started the program," the King said. "People who wanted a second chance at life after the plague. This program was designed to grow The New America while allowing people to again experience the joy of having a family. We wish you luck."

"That means a lot," the man said softly, before kissing his wife on the forehead. He didn't wear a uniform, which made me think he was a member of the middle cla.s.s. Some worked in the offices in the Venetian, others ran businesses in the Palace mall or the apartment buildings on the main strip. His clothes were gently worn, the hems repaired, a tiny hole visible in the elbow of his shirt.

Margaret stepped aside, leading us back into the hall, the door clicking shut. When we were a few steps away, she turned.

"It's hard," she said, her voice low. "Mrs. Sherman lost her entire family in the plague-a husband and two children, one only sixteen months old. Mr. Sherman lost his wife. Now that time has pa.s.sed and they're established in the City, remarried, they want to start a family. But it opens old wounds, you know."

The King was quiet. "Of course," he said after a long pause. "We can all understand that."

We descended the stairs in silence, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the cold walls. When we returned to the main foyer we said good-bye to Margaret, the camera clicking as I shook her hand. We left Reginald at the front entrance, scribbling in his notebook. I thought of that baby, her sweet face, the way she had opened her eyes and looked at me for a brief moment. After I left the City there'd be no going back. The King would be after me, and Caleb and I would be forever on the run. I couldn't return to the Schools. I would never find my way back to Pip or Arden. They'd be trapped in that building, their children shipped off to this sterile center. I saw Ruby's face again, eyes gla.s.sy as she leaned on the fence.

I had to get word to them now, before I left.

I started down the steps, enveloped by the day's heat. The sun burned my eyes, seeming brighter, harsher even, as it reflected off the sandstone building. "Father," I said, conscious of the t.i.tle that I had avoided for so long. The King raised his head. The cars pulled up the circular driveway. Soldiers lined up to escort us out. "I'd like to visit my old School, if just to see the younger girls there. I want to go back one last time."

Reginald and his team loaded themselves into the second car while the soldiers stood in the street, waiting for us. "I don't know if that's practical. You have the wedding to prepare for, and it might bring up-"

"Please," I tried. "I want to see it just one last time. I spent twelve years of my life there. It's important to me. Besides, I could speak to the students as the Princess of The New America." I tried to keep my voice even. The soldiers were all looking up, waiting for us to descend the stairs. A few people on the street had stopped to see the spectacle: the King and his daughter out and about in the City.

He started toward me, his arm around my shoulder. "I suppose it's not a bad idea," he said. "I've heard reports that the girls were very confused by your sudden disappearance." We slid into the cool car, his hand heavy on mine. "I suppose so, yes," he said. "But we'll have to send soldiers with you. And you'll take Beatrice."

I smiled, the first genuine smile of the day. "Thank you," I said, as the car started back toward the Palace. "Thank you, Father. Thank you."

thirty-seven.

RAIN STREAMED DOWN THE JEEP'S WINDOWS IN NARROW, twisting rivers. Beatrice sat beside me, her hand on mine, as the dark wilderness spread out before us. I took it all in: the houses overgrown with ivy, the broken road that wound for miles, dotted with orange traffic cones. Old cars sat abandoned on the side of the highway, their gas tanks left open by travelers who'd tried to siphon fuel. Every part of it felt familiar, more like home than anything else-even the Palace, my suite, School.

"I haven't seen this in nearly a decade," Beatrice said. "It's worse than I remembered."

Two female soldiers sat in the front seat. The driver, a young blond girl with an oval birthmark on her cheek, scanned the horizon, looking for any signs of gangs. "I love it," I said breathlessly, staring at the purple wildflowers that sprouted up in the cracks of an old parking lot. A giant factory stood in the distance, HOME DEPOT written on its side in faded print.

We'd been traveling for hours, but the time slipped away easily. Trees snaked around one another, winding up toward the sky. Bicycle wheels were tangled with flowers and the rain acc.u.mulated in potholes, forming shallow, murky puddles. The other Jeep was right behind us, pitching over the same mounds of pavement that we had, slowing as we slowed, watching us from the back.

We would be in the woods again. The abandoned shacks and stores would provide cover as Caleb and I moved east, away from the City, the Schools, and the camps. The plan had been set in motion. The morning of my wedding, as I weaved through the congested City streets, blending in with the crowds, the dissidents would work with their contact inside the prison to secure Caleb's release.

Then we'd move through the tunnel, leave the City, and wait. We'd live in the eastern edge of the country, where the land was not visited as much by soldiers. We'd keep in contact with the Trail until the dissidents had mobilized, until the next steps were planned. For the first time in weeks I felt a sense of purpose, of control. The future was not just a string of dinners and c.o.c.ktails and public addresses, of lies uttered with a tight, false smile.

"That's it up there," the soldier in the pa.s.senger seat said, pointing to the high stone wall. She was shorter than the other soldier, her machine gun resting across her muscular legs. The King had sent the few female troops he had along with us, knowing that Headmistress Burns would never permit men inside the compound.

Beatrice squeezed my hand. "They were juvenile detention centers before the plague." She pointed at the sharp, coiled wire that sat on the top of the building. "Holding cells for children who had committed crimes."

Rain battered the car. When we reached the wall, the soldiers exchanged paperwork with the female guards out front, their uniforms soaked through. After a few minutes we were let in. The Jeep pulled alongside the stone building where I'd eaten my meals for twelve years.

Now that we were inside, the excitement of the journey was gone. I stared across the lake at the windowless building, the place where Pip, Ruby, and Arden were all being held. The dinner churned in my stomach. I looked at the bushes beside the dining hall, the ones with the slight ditch underneath them. It was the exact spot I'd found Arden the night she escaped. When she revealed the truth about the Graduates.

My past rose up around me-the School, the lawn, the lake, all of it reminding me of my life before. Through the rain I could make out the library window on the fourth floor where Pip and I had sat reading, stopping sometimes to watch the sparrows outside. The apple tree was still there, across the compound. We would lie under it in the summer months enjoying the shade. The metal spoke jutted out of the ground where we used to play horseshoes. I'd tripped over it once, the top of it splitting my shin.

"I have a feeling ...," Beatrice began, peering out the rain-beaded window. The soldiers stepped out of the Jeeps to speak with the School guards. "... that just maybe ... Who knows, right?" She didn't have to go on. She had asked me that morning, the question posed in half sentences, about whether her daughter could be at the School. It was possible, but improbable. I doubted that the King would've allowed her to come if her daughter was here, and I didn't remember any girl named Sarah. I had told her as much, but I could see now that she'd thought only of this as she stared out the window for all those miles, her fingers nervously twisting a strand of hair.

"There's always the chance," I said, squeezing her hand. "We can hope."

I looked out the side window, through the wall of rain, at the figure coming toward us. She stood under a giant black umbrella, her gray rain slicker falling past her knees. Even from twenty feet away I recognized her, her slow uneven steps, her square jaw, the hair that was always roped back into a tight bun.

Headmistress Burns.

She approached the side of the Jeep, staring at me through the rain. A soldier opened the door and helped me down the high step. "Princess Genevieve," Headmistress said, her voice slow and deliberate, lingering over my new t.i.tle. "How delightful of you to grace us with your presence." She took another umbrella from her side and wrapped her hand around its neck, slowly expanding its cloth dome.

"h.e.l.lo, Headmistress," I said, as the guard helped Beatrice out behind me. "It's delightful to be here." I kept my chin up, my shoulders back, careful not to reveal the terror I felt. I hated that she had this effect on me, even now, when I was no longer under her supervision.

Beatrice took the umbrella and held it above us. Her presence by my side comforted me. "This is Beatrice," I said as we started toward the dining building. "She'll be staying the night with me."

"So I've been told," Headmistress Burns said, looking straight ahead. "They've cleared out an upstairs bedroom for you two, as well as one for your armed escorts. It's nothing fancy, just the same beds you slept in when you were here. I hope you're not terribly offended by them now." Each word was tinged with malice. There was no way for me to respond.