But Imogene was waiting. Myrra took another breath, shook some energy into her body, and headed up. Her hand slid along the polished wood of the banister. Before coming to the Carlyle house, Myrra had never encountered real wood, but here it was all over. This had been poached from an English estate in the old world. Other woodwork on other floors was made from a darker wood, almost black, and full of labyrinth-like geometric knots that made Myrra’s eyes cross. Marcus had told her once that these came from Morocco. England. Morocco. New York. Art Deco. Bozart. These names never meant anything to Myrra, but she usually just let him talk, trying to absorb what she could. Knowledge was useful, even if it was snippets of antiquarian trivia. Marcus was apt to brag about origins and provenances given the slightest provocation.
As she passed by a row of bedrooms between staircases, she lightened her step and slowed down just a touch, avoiding any creak in the floorboards. Lately Imogene and Marcus had been sleeping in separate bedrooms, with Marcus taking up residence on the second floor. Myrra wasn’t sure if this was a cause of all the tension she’d felt between them or just another symptom of it. The whole thing filled Myrra with worry, though she couldn’t pinpoint any real reason for it. Why should she care if Marcus and Imogene had marital problems? They’d never been a happy couple, exactly. This latest separation meant nothing. Myrra didn’t see a light on behind any of the bedroom doors, but that didn’t mean Marcus was sleeping. Marcus was an insomniac at the best of times. Over this period he’d barely slept at all.
Marcus’s behavior had become increasingly erratic and mercurial, with him breaking into frantic bouts of chittering laughter in silent rooms, then suddenly throwing objects against the ornately papered walls in a screaming rage. More than once in the past month, he’d reached out to Myrra in an abrupt motion while she was cleaning or setting down a plate, gripping her wrist or arm a little too tight, jerking her closer to his face. Then he would come back to himself and let her go, usually with an offhand comment: she hadn’t dusted something right, or the meal was undercooked. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, their focus imprecise.
Marcus had never been all that intimidating to Myrra before. Despite his insistence on stairs, he had never developed much in the way of muscle mass. Neither fat nor thin, Marcus had skin with the pale, yeasty quality of raw dough and babyish fine hair that pasted itself to his head. But lately he’d lost weight, and his body was becoming what could best be described as wiry—not just for his sudden thinness, but because now Marcus seemed constantly, electrically tense and poised to spark at any moment.
Over this time, Myrra had frequently looked to Imogene to see if she noticed the change, but Imogene never commented. Mostly she stared off into space, lost in her own thoughts. Thank God Myrra had Charlotte to pay attention to. The rest of the family belonged in a madhouse.
Just at the top of the third-floor staircase was Marcus’s study. There was an amber light emanating from the crack under the door. She could smell his cigar smoke. Myrra could feel the pressure of Imogene waiting for her, but she eased her pace further, keeping her footfalls as slow and dull as drips in a sink. She imagined him in there, poring over parliamentary strategy, or perhaps already spinning it for the morning broadcast. From observing Marcus, Myrra had learned that news from the government never came in blunt, clear bursts; there were stairsteps to the truth.
From behind the door, she could hear him pacing. Myrra held her breath.
When she’d gone in there yesterday with Marcus’s afternoon tea (“It’s still important to observe English customs,” he often said), his desk had been riddled with stacks of tablets, some depicting charts with plummeting downward curves, others with tightly regimented words darkly marching across each screen. Myrra secretly practiced her reading while pouring him tea; there were lots of good complex phrases to untangle, like Yearly Decline Tracking and Integrity and Stability Projections. Marcus was standing over them, huffing, with sweat stains murking out from the creases in his arms. Myrra had gambled on his patience and asked about the charts. Sometimes Marcus liked to play paternal and explain things to her.
“Oh, it’s just our downfall,” he said with a thin giggle, but then his eyes began to well up, even as he was still forcing out laughter. His hand twitched and he spilled tea all over the tablets. Without reacting, he walked out of the room in a trance, leaving Myrra to clean up the mess. Myrra hadn’t known how to react, but it had left her uneasy.
Once she was out of earshot of the study, Myrra rushed the rest of the way to the master bedroom. When there was no one to entertain, Imogene would often spend days in here, avoiding the endless stairs by having things brought to her in bed. Now the bed was empty, as was Charlotte’s bassinet. Maybe Charlotte needed feeding after all. Myrra couldn’t understand why Imogene would behave so strangely about it. Nobody in this house was sleeping, apparently.
The terrace was adjacent to the master suite of the penthouse. She looked around at the chairs, chaises, and tables. It was large enough for Imogene to throw the occasional rooftop party. The floor was laid out in stunning patterned tiles that retained heat when the sun shone on it, but now, in the dark, they were cold enough that Myrra felt it through her slippers. The damp of early morning seeped in through her robe, through her skin, into her bones.
Myrra didn’t see Imogene at first. She raised her head to look at the city skyline, and that was when she spotted her. The terrace was bordered by a cement wall a little over a meter high that acted as a railing to keep people safe from the drop below. Imogene was standing on top of that wall, with Charlotte in her arms.
Adrenaline flooded Myrra’s system, lasered her thoughts into focus. Charlotte. What was she doing holding Charlotte up there? Charlotte looked cold—Imogene didn’t seem cold at all. Imogene didn’t seem to care much about where she was standing. She hadn’t seen Myrra yet. Myrra hung back and tried to think what to do.
Imogene paced with bare feet along the top of the wall. It was wide enough for her to walk comfortably, wide enough that people frequently set their plates down on it during rooftop parties. Imogene seemed in control of her body, aware of her surroundings. But Myrra wished she would stop moving around, wished she would sit, give herself a lower center of gravity. The wind picked up at this high an altitude.
Imogene should have been shivering. All she had on was a filmy nightgown and her favorite velvet shawl. Though she hadn’t really dressed, not properly, she was fully done up. Dark-red lipstick. Hair curled and pinned in a wave. Myrra was momentarily impressed that Imogene had managed to do her hair at all without assistance. She really was very beautiful, Myrra thought. Sour, but beautiful. The whole situation felt staged, more like a movie scene than the real thing. But then, that figured. Marcus had met Imogene when she was working as an actress, and doing quite well, to hear Imogene talk of it. But that was all before they’d purchased Myrra’s maid contract. She had been Imogene’s honeymoon present. Myrra wondered why Marcus bothered chasing other women at all. They’d been together for so many years before the baby, and Imogene was still radiant. Myrra wondered if money bought beauty.
Imogene leaned outward to look down at the street below. It threw her body into an impossible angle. Myrra gasped. Imogene turned at the sound and noticed her. She was wearing the smile that she dusted off whenever Marcus brought over his Parliament friends.
“Good morning,” Imogene said.
“Good morning,” Myrra croaked out.
It was hard to breathe. She calculated her odds of being able to run forward and grab Charlotte if Imogene tried to jump. Was she going to jump? Or was this just another strange mood?
Imogene bounced the baby absentmindedly. A high-altitude breeze caught the edges of her skirt, and it danced buoyantly up and down. Myrra stared at Charlotte, asleep and unaware; she took a slow, fluid step toward them. If she could just get close enough—
“Do you think this is real wind, or do you think they manufacture it?” Imogene tossed off. She watched the fabric bob up
and down against her body.
“I don’t know, ma’am. How does real wind work?” Myrra asked. This wasn’t what they were supposed to be talking about right now. Imogene’s voice didn’t sound like she was sleepwalking, but could she be sleepwalking?
“I don’t know, actually.” Strange, to hear Imogene say, “I don’t know.”
“Something to do with changes in air pressure,” she continued. “Maybe the world is big enough to create wind on its own.” She let out a single short laugh. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? We all call this a world. It’s a ship.”
“There’s lots of ways to make a world. This is a world,” Myrra replied. Don’t contradict her, she thought. No telling what might set her off. Just get Charlotte.
Imogene rolled her eyes skyward. “Fine, it’s a world. You know it was Marcus’s firm that came up with the terminology, back when our ancestors boarded? There was a whole PR campaign. As per usual, it was the workforce that really took the bait.”
Bitch. Myrra couldn’t help the word popping into her head. Imogene tossed out small insulting barbs to Myrra out of habit, but now was not the time.
“I would have liked to feel real earth under my feet,” Imogene said.
“We will.”
“No, we won’t.”
Myrra didn’t know what that meant or why Imogene would insinuate such a thing. At the mention of it, Myrra felt a different kind of fear, something larger and vaguer than the fear she had for Charlotte. Maybe Imogene was trying to belittle her again. She just wanted to frighten her. Only Imogene would have the balls to talk like this while also threatening to throw herself off a building. If that was what she was doing. Myrra was usually able to navigate tense situations, but here she was at a loss.
“I hate to involve you in this at all, really, but… well, I know I’m making the right decision here, I really do. I feel at peace with the whole thing.” With one hand, Imogene briefly touched the side of her head to check that her hair was in place. Her calm was slipping; her eyes kept darting between Myrra, Charlotte, and the drop. She might actually jump, Myrra realized. Imogene was afraid. Myrra dared a few more steps forward.
“But when I came up here, I—well, it’s the baby… I can’t do this with the baby. It’s stupid, really, but I don’t think I have the stomach for it.”
“Not stupid,” Myrra said. She inched closer to Imogene, close enough to brush her skirt. “Can I… can I hold Charlotte for you?”
She stretched her arms up. Imogene pulled Charlotte away reflexively, and Myrra flinched at how close she was to the edge. She froze, kept her arms aloft, and prayed that Imogene would meet her halfway. Imogene let out a small sigh, and her shoulders slumped.
“Yes, yes, you see, that’s why I called you up here. I need someone to take the baby. I’m so glad you took my meaning—I know it’s hard for you sometimes.” Myrra clenched her teeth, resisted the urge to snap something at her. She was about to throw herself off a building, for God’s sake.
Uncharacteristically, one of Imogene’s manicured hands flew to her mouth, and her eyes widened with guilt. She stood silent for a second. Myrra could tell she was choosing her next words with care.
“I apologize,” Imogene said. Unheard of, to hear Imogene say, “I apologize.” Myrra fought the urge to empathize with Imogene. She’d been burned by that feeling before.
“Will you please take Charlotte for me? I can’t jump if I’m holding her, and I don’t want to leave her out here in the cold—” Imogene crouched on the balls of her feet, lowering Charlotte. Without another word Myrra closed the gap between them, and gathered the baby in her arms. Imogene let out a small animal-like cry upon releasing her.
A wave of relief engulfed Myrra. Charlotte was safe, still sleeping, nuzzling her head against Myrra’s chest, completely unaware of the peril she’d been in. Myrra turned her energy back to Imogene. Now to get Charlotte’s mother down, if she could.
“Ma’am,” Myrra ventured, “maybe if you came down and talked about it, we could figure something out—”
“Stop playing therapist, Myrra, you’re not at all subtle,” Imogene snapped, then looked guilty again. Myrra wasn’t used to Imogene looking so regretful.
“Look, Myrra—I’m sorry. I know I’ve put you in a terrible position. I just—I don’t know how to handle this,” Imogene continued, changing her tone. “You’re probably smarter than I give you credit for. You must know—you must have sensed that something is going wrong.”
“I know you and Mr. Carlyle have been having some trouble—”
Imogene cut her off. “It’s nothing to do with that. My God, the idea that Marcus would ever drive me to—” Imogene let out a short laugh, then her face crumpled. She was crying. It was hard to track her ping-ponging emotions. “Honestly, if I were less of a coward, I’d take Charlotte with me. It’s cruel, leaving her to suffer.”
Myrra didn’t know what to say to her. She felt small and insignificant and confused. Something was happening here that she wasn’t grasping. She clutched Charlotte tighter, as though she would anchor Myrra in some way.
“Please come down,” Myrra said, her voice sounding higher than she wanted it to. A cold wind streamed up Myrra’s robe, flowing between her legs and around her belly.
“I can’t,” Imogene said through tears. She was still crouched, her eyes drilling into Myrra’s. “I don’t have it in me, to see what comes next. If we’re going to die, I want to go out on my own terms.”
Myrra stared back at her, uncomprehending. These are ravings, she thought; she’s snapped, we need to get Imogene to a hospital. And then, one horrible, insidious idea: What if something terrible was coming? What if Imogene was talking sense?
“Surely you must have noticed something’s wrong,” Imogene repeated. Her voice sounded distant.
A slideshow flitted through Myrra’s unwilling brain: the past twelve months, men from Parliament rushing in and out late at night. Every time they’d handed their coats and hats into Myrra’s waiting arms, she could smell the flop sweat and fear on them. She’d talked herself into thinking that it was all to do with the next election, but now that she thought about it again, that didn’t make much sense. They’d never looked that scared before.
“What’s wrong?” Myrra asked, almost to herself.
Meetings at all hours, shouting through the wall, then whispers so soft that Myrra couldn’t make out a syllable even with her head flush against the crack in the door. Scientists and physicists over for tea, with red puffy eyes and wheezing breaths behind loosened ties. Marcus’s desperate clutching, the violent downward-sloping charts littering his desk. What Myrra read when she practiced her reading: “Surface Stability.” “Hull Integrity Patterns.” “Oxygen Depletion Reports.”
There had been another earthquake last week. Myrra had panicked at the time, not over the shaking but because she had been cleaning crystal stemware; she’d desperately dashed around the table, arms and fingers splaying out in all directions like a juggler’s, trying to catch each piece before it fell and shattered. It was the third earthquake in a month. The seismic reports said that they were only supposed to happen when the world passed certain gas pockets in space or came too close to a star. Something had changed.
The wind’s icy fingers slid across her skin again. She started shaking. It was so cold. She wanted to believe that she was scared because of Imogene standing on the wall, scared because she’d almost taken Charlotte with her, but there was another reason to be scared.
Something was wrong with the world. The ship. The world.
Myrra wanted to stop thinking. She wanted Imogene to climb down from the wall. I am not standing here on the roof, she thought. I am sleeping in my bare little room, condensed in a cocoon of blankets. Tomorrow is laundry day. I am hiding books under my pillow. I am growing ever smaller.
“Oh, here—” Imogene noticed her shivering, slid the shawl off her shoulders, and wrapped it around Myrra. “I don’t need it anyway. I’
m hot all over.”
Myrra let her finger trace the curled patterns embossed on the velvet of the shawl. It was blue, a blue so deep you could dive in and swim. She glanced down at her pilled knit slippers. Her toes were going numb. How was Imogene so warm?
“What’s wrong with the ship?”
“There’s a crack in the hull,” Imogene said. “It’s growing. There is no way to fix it.”
2
THE SHIP
There is a ship gliding through the endless black of space, the bottomless topless boundless void of space. It drifts past galaxies, past planets, past novae and asteroids and red dwarfs and black holes, past moons and minerals, fire and ice. But mostly it drifts past nothingness. It defies the natural order and exists, a minuscule speck of something in a wide swath of nothing.
Size is a relative concept. In the vastness of space, the ship is small, a sliver of a quark in the mass of the expanding universe. But to the people inside it, it is the whole world. If one were to estimate its size based on comparison, we could say it is roughly the size of what once was Switzerland.
When it launched off the planet generations ago, its destination was so far away that the distance was measured in years rather than in miles or kilometers. It would take roughly two centuries for it to get where it was going.
Parents told their children where they came from, and most children did what was normal and only half listened to the story. When the time came to explain to their children how the world worked, the next generation provided them a diluted version of their origins, and as the decades marched on, people began to take their surroundings for granted. The world is a relative concept.
There are manuals and books publicly available delineating how the ship runs, who commissioned it, who built it, who financed it, who pilots it, and so on, but not many people bother to look up those books. Inside the ship (the world) there is a sky, there are cities and landscapes immaculately designed. Nobody remembers that someone once designed them.
The World Gives Way: A Novel Page 2
