“It used to be a greenhouse,” he said, “and my parents just put up a curtain and called it good.”
All the walls of Jove’s room were glass. He walked the perimeter when they entered, drawing navy blue curtains across each wall. There was a bed wedged in one corner, but dominating the space was a desk with musical instruments arranged around it. Some of them were traditional ones, like the dadsh Otho’s uncle had, and some were unfamiliar, like a waterfall of iridescent discs that, when touched, sounded like rain.
“Pithar,” Jove said. “I found it at a resale place in the Shabby District. It was a little busted, but turns out replacing the discs isn’t that hard if you’re determined and possess very small pliers.”
“You make music,” Otho said. A moment later, he felt stupid, because could you have made a more obvious observation?
“Want to hear?” Jove said a little tentatively.
“Yes, I do,” Otho said.
Jove grinned. “You’re very direct.”
Otho wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“That was a compliment,” Jove said, squeezing both eyes shut. He opened one, just a crack. “Sorry. Please, sit. I’ll queue it up.”
Otho sat in the chair, and Jove leaned in to tap on the screen set up on his desk. His head was right over Otho’s shoulder, and Otho made the mistake of turning to look at patchy stubble on his jaw and clear brown skin.
Jove picked up the earspeaks on the desktop and slipped one into Otho’s right ear, keeping the left one for himself. A moment later sound spilled into Otho’s head in the form of a buzzing beat. Layered over it was low keening, like a voice, but too reedy to be a person. The pace picked up, and new instruments filled all the spaces in Otho’s mind, whispering tones and rapid, upbeat notes with rich underpinnings.
It was different from listening to Auly tinker with the dadsh, though Otho had liked that well enough. This music reached deep inside Otho and yanked something loose. The hair on his arms stood on end, and he blinked, hard, to get rid of tears before Jove noticed them. It wasn’t normal to react this way to music, he knew—so either Jove was remarkable, or there was something wrong with Otho, or maybe both.
“You like it?” Jove asked after a moment.
Otho swallowed, hard, and nodded. Jove turned off the music, and Otho felt the absence of it. Silence swelled between them, suddenly taking up all the space.
“We didn’t listen to music,” he said.
“Never?”
Otho shook his head.
“I guess I should have realized. Ascetics, and all,” Jove said, and then, softly, he asked, “Did you . . . like it? Growing up a T?”
“I . . . no,” Otho said. Everything in their house had been practical. No wood carvings intended just to be beautiful. No music. No laughter coming from the kitchen. He shivered a little. “I don’t think I want to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay,” Jove said. He straightened, and said, “We’d better head back to the kitchen, or Dasha’s going to become insufferable.”
“Dash, I’m only asking for thirty minutes of your time, really.” Kiiva plucked the book out of Dasha’s hands and set it on the counter. “Make it quality, please.”
They were sitting at the kitchen table, which Otho had helped Jove set with red and white dishes. They were eating auride, a dish made of chunks of root vegetables covered in a tart vinegar sauce, eaten with bread. Otho took care to sit up straight and take small bites, so he didn’t make a mess. He wondered how aware Jove’s mother was that he had come from ACYR, and hadn’t used a knife in an entire season.
Dasha sighed dramatically, robbed of her book, and turned her attention to her plate.
“Tell me about your class today,” Kiiva said to Dasha.
“The music,” Dash said, rolling her eyes, “was terrible. This weird plinky-plunky stuff from Thuvhe.”
As it turned out, Dasha was a dancer—not just the Zoldan traditional dance that Jove had told Otho about earlier, but a variety of styles, and every day of the week brought another class or practice or performance.
As she spoke about her class, she gestured, and transformed, somehow—her too-long, too-thin limbs becoming graceful and purposeful. Dasha was more herself when in motion.
Kiiva, meanwhile, was the opposite. She went still when other people spoke, and focused in, forgetting her food and tilting her head toward Dasha. Otho’s mother had been focused, too, but not on listening, and so the effect of the expression was different. Otho wondered what it was like, to be listened to like that all the time. He wondered if Jove knew that his experience was singular.
Otho cleaned his plate, finishing long before anyone else did, and listened as Jove asked about specific people in Dasha’s class—“Is she still mad at you for the toe-stomping incident?” “No, once her toenail grew back she was fine”—and watched Kiiva change the tilt of her head, the set of her eyebrows.
But soon enough, Kiiva’s unrivaled focus was on him.
“How is your brother, Otho?” she asked. “Now that you’ve moved, I don’t see him as often.”
There were a dozen answers that would have done the job. He’s fine, he seems to be all right, he’s working, we don’t talk much. But Kiiva’s stare was intent and her question careful, and Otho forgot to guard himself with silence.
“He hates me,” Otho said softly.
Kiiva’s mouth tugged down at the corners.
“I don’t blame him,” Otho said. He couldn’t look away. “But now I’m alone.”
“I’m sorry,” Kiiva said to him. She stretched out a hand and rested it on top of his, gently. “I can’t imagine where you’ve been.”
Otho tried not to think about the season he had spent at ACYR, or the months before it, ramping up to his final test. And that moment, the worst moment, the sudden flaring of his currentgift as it focused on his mother with unimaginable strength.
Otho pushed back from the table with a shudder.
“Thank you for dinner,” Otho said. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Are you all right, dear?” Kiiva asked, frowning. Jove was on his feet, reaching; Otho brushed past him and walked out of the house and into the snow—
But there was no snow, it was almost summer, and the air was thick with humidity. Still Otho shivered, and went out to the street, turning right instead of left, to make the climb to the top of the hill, where the calamitas bred and burrowed and matured.
His feet had been numb when he walked this path that winter, and he had fallen every few feet on the packed snow, catching himself on hands tucked into sleeves. He had not known that his currentgift had summoned her from their little house, not even giving her the option of grabbing her coat, so she went out into the snow in just a dress and slippers.
He could still hear the footsteps behind him.
Otho reached the top of the hill, where the land spread out flat before him, before abruptly ending at the edge of the cliff. Shining above were Zold’s two swollen moons, one lower than the other and to its right, like a child holding a mother’s hand.
He walked closer to the edge, and heard a voice on the wind.
“Otho!” It was Jove.
He turned. Jove was pulling his jacket tight across his chest, his wild black hair tossed up by the wind.
“Your family . . .” Otho laughed a little. “Your house . . . your life, it’s . . .” He shook his head, the words leaving him. “I didn’t know life could be like that.”
Jove had come close enough that he didn’t have to shout. He stood at Otho’s shoulder, close enough to touch but not touching, so they were both staring at the cliff’s edge.
Otho’s lips felt numb. “It happened here, you know.”
The snow had come up past her bony ankles and soaked through her slippers.
“My currentgift made her follow me up here,” he said. “I didn’t know I could do that. It made her want to . . . want to come out into the cold, where I was.” He tilted his head. “Why did
n’t it make her want to let me in the house, instead?”
“I don’t know,” Jove said softly.
Otho’s whole body was shivering now. His teeth chattered before he spoke again. “She came out of its trance when she reached the edge, and then she started yelling at me. Calling me . . . whatever. Nothing new, the same old insults I’d heard a thousand times.”
Weak, and useless, and soft, and dull.
“And then—I wanted to be rid of her, I wanted to be free. I watched her go over the edge, and that was the last I saw of her.” Otho closed his eyes and tilted his head back, so the twin moons would shine on his face. “I didn’t want her to die, I swear, I—”
“I know,” Jove said.
They stood in silence for a while, and then Jove spoke again.
“I saw her follow you up. I assumed she was going to bring you home, make things right. Because that’s what parents do. That’s what family does.”
Otho looked at Jove instead of the cliff. At the faint indent where a dimple would appear, in his cheek, if he smiled. At the dark fringe of eyelashes that blended into his eyebrows when his eyes were wide open.
“It wasn’t right, what she did to you,” Jove said. “None of it—the name-calling, the cruel tests, none of it.”
Otho still wasn’t sure he believed that. Maybe he was too far gone, too calamita to understand softness anymore, not calamita enough to fly. But she had told him that a person couldn’t refuse to change, and he was sure of that, sure that it was time for him to change.
“Is that why you testified?” Otho asked. The wind died down, making everything sound muffled to him. “Because . . . you thought it was right?”
“No,” Jove said. He laughed, and that was when Otho noticed the tears in his eyes. “I like you, Otho. All the odds were against you becoming this person, but here you are, kind, right to the core of you. And you don’t deserve to be shut away.”
Jove leaned a little closer, so their arms were up against each other.
“You asked me if I liked growing up as one of them,” Otho said then. “I didn’t. But I thought it would make me strong.”
She had told him to endure, that enduring would make him a calamita—hard as rock, sharp as a knife, fierce as a storm. But it hadn’t. It hadn’t.
“I tried not to want anything, because wanting more than you had, more than it took to survive, was weakness, and I couldn’t be weak.” The grass tickled at his ankles, at the gap of skin between socks and pants. “Even now, I’m scared that if I want anything, I’ll want everything, and I won’t be able to stop.”
Jove slid his hand into Otho’s, and squeezed.
“You will,” he said, and it was hushed, a promise and a revelation in his mouth. “You’ll want everything. You’ll ache for things you can’t have, and will never have. Impossible things, and improbable things, and stupid things, and evil things—you’ll want them all.” Jove smiled a little, his cheek dimpling. “But you’ll also get things. Things you want. And . . . they’ll make your life full, and they’ll make it so you can keep going, and . . .” He shrugged. “They’ll keep you warm.”
Otho wanted so badly to be warm again.
He touched Jove’s cheek, turning the other boy’s head toward his. He leaned in slowly, as if asking for permission, and Jove closed the gap, his lips pressing to Otho’s.
The wind rushed around them, biting into Otho’s skin, but Jove just turned toward him, a warm, strong barrier against the cold.
That night, Otho heard Auly’s music the moment the elevator doors opened.
He took his shoes off by the door, and set them next to his uncle’s. Catho’s still weren’t there, and Otho hadn’t expected them to be.
He unlocked the door, and Auly nodded a greeting at him. Otho hung up his jacket and stood in the living room, listening to the song.
“You’re home late. Did you have a good night?” Auly asked him, his hands still moving across the instrument. Otho nodded.
“Will you call Tyzo tomorrow?” Otho said.
Auly lifted his hands.
“Okay,” he said. “What should I tell him?”
“Tell him I’ll testify,” Otho said.
Auly smiled, and played on.
Otho let his uncle’s smile, and the music that floated away from the dadsh, and the memory of Jove huddled against him, fill him and keep him warm.
Acknowledgments
THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU to:
Katherine Tegen, my editor, and Joanna Volpe, my agent, who both encourage me to invent new worlds, explore new ideas, and dream big. You guys keep me afloat. <3
At HarperCollins, Sara Schonfeld in editorial; Aubrey Churchward and Cindy Hamilton in publicity; Bess Braswell, Audrey Diestelkamp, and Nellie Kurtzman in marketing; Andrea Pappenheimer, Kathy Faber, Kerry Moynagh, Kirsten Bowers, Heather Doss, Susan Yaeger, Jessica Abel, Fran Olson, Jennifer Wygand, Deborah Murphy, Jennifer Sheridan, Jessica Malone, and Jessie Elliott in sales; Brenna Franzitta and Christine Corcoran Cox, my copyeditor and proofreader, respectively; Alexandra Rakaczki, Josh Weiss, and Gwen Morton in managing editorial; Nicole Moulaison and Vanessa Nuttry in production; Barbara Fitzsimmons and Amy Ryan in design; and of course Jean McGinley, Suzanne Murphy, and Brian Murray, who keep the whole train on its tracks. Thank you all for your incredibly hard work.
Erin Fitzsimmons, for designing this beautiful book—you’ve truly outdone yourself. Ashley Mackenzie, the artist who made these pages so amazing—it’s been a thrill to see your work take shape.
At New Leaf Literary, Abbie Donoghue, Devin Ross, Jordan Hill, Mia Roman, Veronica Grijalva, Pouya Shahbazian, Hilary Pecheone, Cassandra Baim, Meredith Barnes, Joe Volpe, and Madhuri Venkata—you have all contributed to this book and to my career in different ways, but together you’re a goddamn powerhouse of a team. I am so lucky to work alongside you all.
The writers who buoy me personally and professionally behind the scenes, particularly Margaret Stohl, Sarah Enni, Maurene Goo, Kara Thomas, Kate Hart, Laurie Devore, Kaitlin Ward, Amy Lukavics, and Michelle Krys—you ladies routinely inspire me with your talent and make me laugh until I weep. Courtney Summers and Somaiya Daud, who read early versions of these stories—you are the smartest, kindest, dearest, and most ferocious of women, and I think the world of both of you. Alex Bracken, Marie Lu, and Neal Shusterman, all writers I admire deeply, for your early reads of this book—I am so honored. All my YALL and YALL-adjacent people, you are a constant delight.
My parents, Barb and Frank, for being every bit as loving as my characters’ parents are not. My family: Ingrid, Karl, Frankie, Dave, Candice, Beth, Roger, Tyler, Rachel, Trevor, Tera, Darby, Andrew, Billie, and Fred, for all the support you give without asking for anything in return. My friends who aren’t writers, who get me out of my own head. God bless you.
Nelson, husband and fiercest friend—sometimes I dream about worlds where I didn’t find you. They are even worse nightmares than the ones I have about bugs.
About the Author
Photo credit Nelson Fitch
VERONICA ROTH is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Divergent, Insurgent, Allegiant, Four: A Divergent Collection, Carve the Mark, and The Fates Divide. Ms. Roth and her husband live in Chicago. You can visit her online at www.veronicarothbooks.com.
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Books by Veronica Roth
Divergent • Divergent Collector’s Edition
Insurgent • Insurgent Collector’s Edition
Allegiant • Allegiant Collector’s Edition
The Divergent Series Complete Collection
Free Four
Four: The Transfer: A Divergent Story
Four: The Initiate: A Divergent Story
Four: The Son: A Divergent Story
Four: The Traitor: A Divergent Story
Four: A Divergent Collection
The Divergent Series Ultimate Four-Book Collection
“We Ca
n Be Mended”
Carve the Mark
The Fates Divide
The End and Other Beginnings
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Copyright
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
“Inertia” was previously published in Summer Days and Summer Nights in 2017 by St. Martin’s Griffin
“Hearken” was previously published in Shards and Ashes in 2013 by HarperCollins Publishers
“Vim and Vigor” was previously published in Three Sides of a Heart in 2017 by HarperCollins Publishers
THE END AND OTHER BEGINNINGS: STORIES FROM THE FUTURE. Copyright © 2019 by Veronica Roth. Interior illustrations by Ashley Mackenzie. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text 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 HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover art TM & © 2019 by Veronica Roth
Cover art by Ashley Mackenzie and Erin Fitzsimmons
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019939502
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-279654-7
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-279652-3
The End and Other Beginnings Page 18
