Mattias lived just off the fifth pass, one of the smaller pathways that led off the Mainway. Thea nearly stumbled at the turn when a younger skater abruptly slowed in front of her, but she regained her stride easily and sped down the pass to where Mattias was standing just outside his chambers with his mother, Sela. Mattias and Sela were family: Sela was first cousin to Lana, and to Thea's mother, Mai, who died when Thea was still a baby.
“Thea!” Sela said. “It's been a full fortnight since I've laid eyes on you. Losh! Look at you! You are beautiful today, Thea, truly.”
Thea gave her a playful bow of thanks. Sela didn't say that Thea looked just like her mother, but Thea knew that it was true. Whoever her sire might be—and you weren't supposed to guess—he hadn't contributed muchto her appearance. Thea had a portrait of her mother, drawn by Sela's talented hand, and she had grown her wavy black hair long, just the way her mother had worn hers. Although she would never acknowledge that she spent time thinking about such a thing, she hoped it looked well against the white fur she wore.
Sela caught one of Thea's arms and tugged at her sleeve, trying to pull it down. “This is a bit small.” She frowned. “I might be able to put my hands on one or two that would suit you.”
There was a shortage of furs, as there was a shortage of nearly everything. There had been for as long as Thea could remember.
“Loose furs make it difficult to skate,” Thea said quickly. “This one is fine.”
The door behind Sela opened a crack, and Mattias's little brother, Ezra, peeked out holding a half-eaten riceflat. “Thea!”
“Good morning, Ezra.”
“Tomorrow's my birthday.”
Thea smiled. “I remember.”
“I'm going to be five.”
“We know!” Mattias said. “You've been telling us for a month!” He leaned over and tickled the boy until Ezra squealed and ran back inside. “Come on, Thea. I've been standing out here for an age—I'm nearly ice.”
They set off amid a torrent of good wishes from Sela.Thea and Mattias had learned to skate together when they were two, stumbling along the backways while Lana and Sela hovered over them. They moved together now almost as one person, arms and legs swinging side by side in perfect time.
They passed most of the trip to the council chamber without talking, Thea silently rehearsing her address to the council—she had copied it out on her lightslate so many times that she could almost see the glowing words in front of her. As they neared the eighth pass, she felt rather than saw that Mattias was edging slightly to the left.
“No, Mattias,” Thea said quickly. “No time.”
“There is time.”
Just off the pass, a daughter of the fourth line named Gia made risen sweetrolls early on the morning of every council day and traded them straight from the fire through her Mainway door. No one knew how she managed to collect enough rations to bake so many rolls, but no one was asking either. Gia's rolls were special, each one an airy handful that was layer upon layer of warm pastry topped with a delicate crust that was just sweet enough. A great number of council members stopped at Gia's before their regular meeting at the end of each month. Such treats were rare.
“I'll make it up to you,” Thea said. “I promise. I'll get you two on the way home.”
“The rolls are hot now.” Slowing on his skates, Mattias looked at her pointedly.
It was true. Once cooled, the sweetrolls were hardly worth the barter. Poor Mattias, he had probably been looking forward to them for days. Thea shook her head and offered him her best look of apology. She knew he found it hard to resist.
“Two and double it next time, then,” he said grudgingly as he picked up speed again.
Minutes later, the council's high double doors came into view. Mattias's smile was warm enough as he wished Thea luck and then mounted the steps to the balcony's common seats. Thea flipped up her skate blades and wove through the crowd of council members to the empty side seats reserved for citizens addressing the council. She settled into one and looked around.
The round council chamber had been carved out of the ice as part of the original settlement. Aside from the lake, it was the biggest open space Thea had ever encountered. The ceiling was thirty feet high, and it had been dyed light blue, which was supposed to be the color of the sky.
High above the heads of the council members, sculpted walls showed life-size portraits of the Settlers, marching endlessly around the chamber, flanked by the Chikchu dogs that became their companions in the cold world above. The frozen Settlers wore “determined looks ofoptimism,” or so said Meriwether, Thea's tutor. Thea always thought the Settlers just looked weary, as if they wanted nothing more than a place to spread their tarpaulins and sleep out of the wind for a few hours. The wind, she had been taught, had been a great torment to the Settlers in the cold world.
Out of habit, Thea looked up to where her foremother, Grace, strode purposefully at the head of the pack, one hand buried in the fur of the Chikchu dog that walked beside her. In truth, Grace never even met a Chikchu: She never saw the cold world at all. But it had been Grace's idea to escape the hunters once and forever, and it was her genius that made any of it possible.
Grace had prepared for the migration for decades: She discovered how to seal ice so that it became as permanent as stone, she invented the oxygen lamps that gave them light, and she devised the waterwheel that provided their power and drew their air down from the earth's surface. It was only fitting to have her up on the wall along with those who actually made it.
Grace's granddaughter, Sarah, just twelve years old, did survive the voyage to the cold world. Later, after the Settlers had carved their new home in the ice, she bore the settlement's first child, becoming the mother of the first bloodline. Thea looked grimly down at the seven bracelets tightly clasped to her forearm. Each of them stood for a generation of daughters descended fromSarah. The seventh bracelet stood for Thea alone: She was the last bearing daughter of the first bloodline. If she had no daughters to carry it forward, Grace's line would die with her.
It was said that the bracelets were Grace's design. They were beautiful: Lana said that their winding intricacy reminded her of something that grew from the earth, young tendrils reaching toward light and warmth. But on Thea's arm they were a burden.
The council members were settling themselves. Thea noticed a pile of boxes and red banners on a table off to one side—decorations for the Launch celebration that was just a fortnight away. She took up her silent rehearsal again. She couldn't afford to make any mistakes. Especially given her subject.
The meeting was called to order by Rowen, Thea's grandmother, who was Chief of Council. Then the Council Secretary stood to begin the recitation of the minutes of the last meeting. Although Thea kept her head directed politely toward the speaker, she quickly stopped hearing his words. She was so nervous; there was a faint roaring in her ears. She longed briefly for the waxy lump of ambergris she had left beside her bed. She liked to knead it with her fingers. Her empty right hand squeezed itself shut.
She chanced a look at Mattias, who had found a seat in the first row of the observers' balcony. Muscled his waydown there, no doubt, to be sure that she could see him if she needed to. His chin was cupped in one hand, and now he wiggled his fingers ever so slightly to her.
She couldn't wave back without looking silly, but, encouraged, Thea took a deep breath. Be calm.
Rowen was gesturing for her to rise.
Thea gave an automatic smile, and then wished she hadn't. She wasn't accepting an award. And the council was no doubt scrutinizing her every movement. She schooled her face and approached the podium.
The members wore their full furs, as it was difficult to heat the enormous space. Rowen saw the cold chamber as a symbol that the council members would be no more comfortable than any citizen of Gracehope, though Thea often reflected that she didn't see her grandmother depriving herself in many other ways. She knew that Rowen took two steaming baths eac
h day, one at first light and one just before supper, and that she drank her tea, every morning, at full concentration, while others had to choose between diluting their monthly rations or running out altogether after a fortnight. Thea's aunt Lana drank hot ricewater instead, and saved her tea for guests.
Thea scanned the chamber for a friendly face, settling on Erick, a young historian of the twelfth line. She drew a slow breath and began.
“The people who gather in this chamber each monthare among the most thoughtful and learned in our good land.” A few heads nodded pleasantly at Thea.
“And this chamber itself has a great deal to teach,” Thea motioned to the frozen images of the Settlers above. “It reminds us how many years ago our people elected to follow Grace to a life of peace and community.”
More nods.
“And it reminds us of the hardships our ancestors bore, of the dangerous risks they took, to build this world.” She pointed to the red banners that symbolized the Settlers' bloody escape from the old world.
“Now it is our turn. From the forty who lived to settle Gracehope, our people have grown to number near six hundred. The Settlers celebrated every birth. But now third births are forbidden. We need larger gardens and cropgrowth grounds. We need more chambers, where we might build a second infirmary, and craft chambers, all warmed and lighted. Imagine a Gracehope where every child is welcome, whether firstborn or fourth. That is the world the Settlers imagined for us. And that world is waiting for us, on the other side of the lake.”
But the other side of the lake was far away. And there was only one way to get there.
“We know that we cannot reach the far side of the lake from Gracehope.” Thea paused. Her mother had died discovering that. “But we can reach it from the surface.”
Thea saw several members' eyes dart to Rowen on thepodium behind her. She pressed on. “The Settlers braved staggering hardship so that we might thrive in peace. Now it is our turn to take a risk. Let us enlarge our world, rather than diminish our people. Let us—”
“My dear Thea.” She was interrupted by her grandmother's rich and resonant voice. “Please understand that, despite your youth, you have the respect of every council member here.”
Rowen was looking down from her high platform directly behind Thea. Her face was close enough for Thea to realize that she was mightily displeased. But when Rowen spoke, her voice rang out with warmth. She sounded almost encouraging. “However, you must also understand that what you propose is rather grand, particularly in light of your age and station. You are, I believe, ten and four. And not yet finished with your primary studies, if I am not mistaken.”
Thea pressed her lips together. Her grandmother knew full well that Thea was still in her primary studies.
“Grandmother, I do not suggest any immediate action. I propose only that the council create a committee for research, so that we may educate ourselves about the possibility of surfacing in order to extend our land.” Mattias had helped her substitute the words “committee for research” for the words “team of explorers.” Who could object to research?
“I have created a proposal,” she continued, “which I would like to—”
“I'm afraid, Thea,” Rowen interrupted, shaking her head slowly in a way that was supposed to look friendly, “that this proposal of yours is misguided. It is also quite badly timed. There is much real work to do. The physical challenge of surfacing alone would divert enormous resources.” Her voice took on a harder edge. “Or have you ascertained a convenient method of tunneling to the surface? Do you suggest that each of us abandon our workposts and start digging? Have you found us a safe place to start?”
Thea drew in a quick breath at her grandmother's anger.
Rowen continued. “You seem to forget that our ancestors were driven nearly to extinction on the surface. Or perhaps you have not yet reached that point in your study of our people's history.”
“Of course I know our history,” Thea snapped. “Our ancestors were hunted like animals in the old world, and they followed Grace here, to settle this land. She died trying to lead her people here so that her great-grandchildren might live, and their great-grandchildren. And I urge exploration of the surface for the same reason!”
Rowen shook her head slowly, gazing down at Thea with what might have looked like sympathy. Then Rowenlooked out at the council members. “Is she not like her mother? Why, she is Mai's very image.” She looked back down at Thea. “I do not mean to offend, Thea. I understand why you are drawn to your mother's passion. But you have much to learn, just as she did.”
Thea flushed. Her voice began to rise. “Yes, my mother believed in the expansion of Gracehope! But she is not the reason I am here today!”
This was untrue, and Thea knew it. But she didn't slow down. “Our people are preoccupied with ration-sharing, and our growers huddle together over puzzles of food production.” Thea took a deep breath to calm herself, but the words just got louder. “This is not the life that Grace pursued, and we must not cling to it out of fear and ignorance!”
Thea realized too late that the words “cling” and “ignorance” were too strong. And she had turned her back to the council members—a symbol of deep disrespect—to shout up at Rowen behind her.
“Thea.” Rowen spoke in a low and frighteningly even voice. “You fail to appreciate that to address the council is a privilege. I would have thought you sensible enough not to abuse the honor by bellowing at its members as if we were willful children rather than devoted citizens of our lines. Your address is concluded. We will proceed with our agenda after the formality of a vote on your motion to form a committee.”
No! Thea tried desperately to think of a way to stop her. She had put so much work into her proposal. If only the council could hear what she had to say, they would see the sense in it. “Wait …”
“Hands?” Rowen called out. She sounded entirely bored.
Not a single hand went up. Some of the members glared at her. Erick was studying his boots. Thea couldn't bear to look at Mattias.
“Motion denied,” Rowen barked. “Committee reports. We will begin with old-quarter resources.”
Thea's face burned as if she had been slapped. She gave the brief bow with which the council members concluded their addresses, and stepped down to her seat, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Despite the droning succession of reports that followed, her heart galloped furiously through the remainder of the meeting, powered by both shame and anger.
When the interminable meeting was finally adjourned, Thea was the first one out of the council chamber's great double doors. Mattias was already in the courtyard waiting for her. He gave Thea's arm a quick squeeze. They skated back toward the old quarter in charged silence. It was midmorning: The flat ceiling not far above their heads was set at its brightest and the Mainway was almost empty now, with most people already at their apprenticeships or workposts. Hard skating always didThea good when she was upset, and she could tell that Mattias had to push himself to keep up with her.
Thea's thoughts were moving quickly, too, and the more she thought, the angrier she became. Rowen had deliberately unbalanced her. Now the members of the council would surely look at her as nothing more than a spoiled child of the first line. Rowen had meant for this to happen, and Thea had allowed it.
Mattias reached out and squeezed her arm before he pushed away at the third pass, toward the waterwheel, where he was apprenticed to the chief engineer.
“Will I see you after supper?” he called over his shoulder.
She shook her head. “I'm to work tonight.”
He nodded and sped away. The waterwheel supplied Gracehope's warmth and air, and few worked harder than the engineering apprentices. Mattias often had to borrow Thea's lecture notes because Chief Berling didn't consider his apprentices' primary studies any excuse for absence. Thea knew that Mattias had taken a lot of grief for missing a morning's work to attend the council meeting. She had let him down, too.<
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Thea had planned to go to the lake in the afternoon. She loved to sit on one of the worn benches beneath the trees and lose herself in all of that water, listening to the fishing boats bump up against the docks, and letting her eyes reach out to the invisible shore on the lake's farside. It was where she did her best imagining about the surface, where she got closest to what the sun might feel like, or the wind. It was also where she felt closest to her mother, Mai, who had lost her life in that water.
Thea put her head down and skated home in one long sprint.
Lana was at her post in the gardens, and the chambers were empty. Thea went straight to her bedchamber, where she stripped off her fur and threw it down in a heap. She kept the lightglobe dimmed and lay down on the floor in the thin tunic and leggings she wore under her fur. She wanted to cry, but her body felt hard and brittle, as if there were no water in it anywhere.
She did some breathing exercises, concentrating on the stars her aunt had etched into the ceiling when Thea was a little girl. Tinted with a dye Lana had made herself, the patterns glowed silver in the low light. She picked out a few of the constellations that Lana had copied faithfully from the star charts. Thea always had a lot of trouble at her star-pattern drills—the arrangements seemed so random to her. What was the use of knowing them at all?
Mattias, of course, knew them at a glance. He'd spent hours with Thea on this floor, trying to help her make sense of the dots over their heads. He'd also spent a lot of time explaining other things to her. “But where exactly is the horizon?” she'd ask. “First you tell me that it's where the earth meets the sky, and then in the nextbreath you confess that in truth they don't meet at all!” Of course, Mattias hadn't seen a real horizon any more than she had, but he absorbed that sort of knowledge without effort. Lana would probably say it was because he didn't waste a lot of energy asking why he had to learn it in the first place.
When she felt more composed, Thea sat up and reached for her trunk. Opening it, she felt among the folded robes and furs for her box. It was made of rare hardwood rather than sealed ice, and was ornately carved with an image of an oak tree, the symbol of the first line. Just looking at it gave her a feeling of peace. The box had been passed down through every generation of first-line daughters. Lana had presented it to Thea on her twelfth birthday.
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