by Claire Vale
“Thank you.” I shrug, not particularly comfortable with her reading my history out to me as if I needed telling.
“Were there any failed attempts at conceiving?”
Now I’m really not comfortable. This feels less like an interview, more like an interrogation. I sit straighter, unfold my arms to allow my hands to fall onto my lap where I can wring them. “I’ve never been with a boy,” I answer bluntly. “I’m still a virgin.”
“Sorry, I should have been clearer,” she says. “We’re still speaking about your mother.”
My mother? I blink, rapidly re-processing. Failed attempts at conceiving? “Oh, if you mean like a miscarriage, well, not that I’m aware of.”
“Actually, I’m wondering if she ever actively tried to conceive again after you.”
Heat stains my cheeks. “You’ll have to ask my father.”
The woman leans back in her chair, tapping an ink pen to her lower lip, studying me a whole handful of moments too long. “Okay, let’s get back to you. Do you exercise regularly?”
“Not really… Well, I do cycle almost every day, sometimes it’s just a mile or two, unless I go into town, then it’s about an hour on the round trip. And if we go to the south beaches, usually on the weekends in summer, that’s a fifteen minute cycle each way.”
She’s bent forward again, pen poised, not writing. “So you’d describe yourself as relatively fit?”
“Um, yeah, I guess.”
She scribbles. “Any health concerns? Shortness of breath when you exercise? Allergies?”
She glances up, waits for me to shake my head. “What about growing up? Any bouts of illness? The summer cough? Broken bones? Twisted ankles?”
I stab a pointed look at the open file. “Isn’t this all in there?”
“I’m asking you,” she says.
“Then no, no and no,” I say flippantly.
She looks me square in the eye, the kind of look that challenges me to carefully rethink my answers, that makes me want to shrink my shoulders and slink lower in my chair. It takes considerable effort to meet her stare without flinching, without searching my memories for some small health flaw that might satisfy the woman. I guess I could mention the occasional sniffy nose and scraped knee, but I’m feeling stubborn about the intrusive questions and the intrusive look.
Finally she accepts I’ve said all I’m going to say and lowers her gaze to write what I hope is her conclusion notes in my file.
Apparently it is.
She dismisses me and I can’t get out of there fast enough.
I wish I could say that went well, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t.
7
INSTEAD OF RETURNING TO the dorm, I decide to wait in the cafeteria for the next group of arrivals on the off-chance Gabe is amongst them. The cafeteria is a pleasant surprise, bright and breezy with white walls and a bank of windows looking out over the grass quad. Sounds of bustling activity filter in from a doorway behind the serving counter. I’m threading my way around the various table arrangements when a man comes through the doorway. Spotting the telltale black uniform beneath his apron, I pause, uncertain if I’m allowed to be here.
“Lunch won’t be served for another hour,” he calls out, flourishing a hand toward a refrigerated display. “But the sandwiches are fresh.”
He ducks behind the counter, then pops up again and disappears into the back.
With nothing better to do, I go over to investigate. There are two large jugs of juice, apple and peach. The trays of sandwiches are covered with opaque glass domes.
I lift a glass lid to find rows of egg-filled sandwiches cut into neat, bite-sized triangles and dribbled with dandelions. The chef is clearly a perfectionist, or maybe he just has a lot of time on his hands.
I replace the lid and move on. “And under dome number two we have…” Cucumber and tomato on a bed of shredded lettuce. It all looks very appetizing, but I’m not the least bit hungry.
“Do you mind—”
The timbered voice at my back spins me about, the heavy lid whacking into the guy who’d crept up on me.
“I’m so…” My voice trails off as my eyes take in Kane Marques. Tall, dark haired and unimpressed.
“What on earth are you doing here?” I blurt out without thinking. “I mean… Sorry… I didn’t know you’re in the guard.”
He rubs his right shoulder, backing up a step. “I’m not.”
Of course he isn’t. He’s wearing jeans and an untucked cotton shirt.
“Do we know each other?” He studies me, an arrogant tilt to his head. “I would remember if we’d met before.”
“No, not really.” I don’t point out we were at school together. He was three years above me, plus the three years since I finished school. To be honest, even if it were yesterday instead of six years, he probably wouldn’t know me.
But everyone knows Kane, and not only because he’s the mayor’s son. He’s one of those guys you just notice.
I realize I’m still wielding the lid like a shield between us and lower my arm. I should shut up, skulk away and hope he forgets what a fool I’ve already made of myself, but curiosity wins.
He shouldn’t be here.
Kane Marques’ Tithe was three years ago.
“Is the mayor’s office involved in the Tithe?”
“Not that I’m aware,” he says with a trace of amusement, his gaze washing over me with an interest that makes me feel self-conscious. “I may have inherited my father’s nose, but I didn’t inherit his duties.”
Heat rises to my cheeks.
My eyes drift on their own accord, to the slight hook in his nose that should be harsh but somehow fits his swarthy, windswept look. There’s always been something untamed about him, like he belongs in the wild, striding over stormy moors in knee-high leather boots and a billowing cloak. Even his eyes are dramatic gray.
He clears his throat, drawing me out of my stare. “I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m late for a meeting and still need to grab that sandwich.”
“Oh.” I move out of his way.
He grabs a napkin and piles some sandwiches into it. When he’s done, he casts a lasting look on me, a wry grin slowly sliding into his jaw, before he turns and walk off.
I stand there for a long moment after he’s gone, watching the door swing to and fro, before I realize what I’m doing…watching a door swing to and fro.
But seriously.
What on earth is Kane Marques doing at our Tithe?
I pour myself a glass of apple juice and settle in at a table close to the door so I can listen for new arrivals. As my mind turns to Kane’s presence here, another thought slips in. His wife died shortly after their Tithe. It was talked about for months, so tragic, she was so beautiful and young and so healthy—seemingly healthy. Apparently the cancer had been eating away at her for some time. Three years late, but I should have said something to Kane, acknowledged his loss, offered my condolences.
Or maybe not. I’ve been in that position. Platitudes from a practical stranger are not exactly helpful.
I plant an elbow on the table, my fingers automatically fumbling for the cross at my throat. My thumb strokes the Celtic pattern, a constant, reassuring rhythm that takes my thoughts.
I’ve never placed much worth on material possessions, now I have two that are more precious to me than any amount of velvet or silver. The thought and planning, the love and remembering, that Dad put into having that luxurious cloak made for my birthday. The words Gabe gave me with the cross, the four pendant chains, for his mother, for the twins, for me. I’ve always been included in his family, but now I am his family.
My eyes shoot to the door as it swings open. It’s only June, palms scrubbing her thighs with a nervous edge. Her blond curls are an unruly mess, as if they’ve received a recent scrubbing too. I don’t know her well, but I can relate to the harrowed look on her face.
I flash her a smile. “Let me guess, you just had your medical interview?”
“Tell me about it.” I roll my eyes. “She actually asked me whether my parents were actively trying to conceive again after me. As if I’d be keeping track of their sex life.”
“That’s gross!” June gasps. “What did you say?”
I laugh. “I told her she’d have to ask my dad.”
June leans back, pushing a hand through her hair. Then she squints at me. “You’re an only child, right?”
I shrug. “Yeah?”
“And you don’t find that strange?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, maybe, she was trying to determine if you’re an only child by choice or if, you know, there’s a problem in your family line. Oh my God,” she whispers breathlessly. “I thought I was being paranoid when she asked about my asthma.”
“You’re asthmatic?”
“No!” June says quickly, then sinks lower in her chair. “I don’t know. Yes?” She looks at me and I don’t say anything, not sure what she’s getting at. “Remember all those excuses I came up with to skip P.E. at school?”
“I thought you were just lazy.” I think of Bobby Gillard, a younger boy who was always wheezing, and sucking on that pump. “You don’t use an inhaler.”
“They’re not really effective, my mom reckons.” June draws in a deep breath, dips her gaze. “I spent a lot of time in the clinic when I was small, but that stopped and then Mom was telling people I’d had baby asthma, that I’d outgrown it.”
“Okay,” I say, still unsure what she’s trying to tell me. “So you’re fine now?”
June looks up, shaking her head. “Mom figured out certain foods made it worse and cut them from my diet. She practiced breathing exercises with me, made sure I never over-exerted myself, but she’s also always pretending there’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just unfit, not built for exercise. I used to get so mad at her…”
She leans forward, quietens her voice. “What if she was trying to hide it because of this? That woman kept pushing me, like she suspected I hadn’t outgrown it and wanted me to admit the truth. Why does she care so much? Unless…”
I push forward, elbows on the table. “Unless what?”
“It factors into the selection process,” June says, her voice dead serious. “What if they use the Tithe to cull people with genetic flaws?”
I gasp out a laugh. “That’s crazy speak.”
June doesn’t see the humor. “If they have to Tithe ten of us, why not the weakest?”
“Because that’s cruel. It would mean our fate is sealed at birth, through no fault of our own, and there’s nothing we can do about it,” I say with certainty. “The Alders wouldn’t do that. They’ve always tried to handle the Tithe with sensitivity and fairness, and besides…” With Kane fresh in my mind, a natural example pops into my head. “What about Kane Marques’ wife, Ellie? She died within months of her Tithe. They must have known she had cancer, that it was probably incurable.”
June isn’t convinced. “But look who she paired with. They’d never Tithe the mayor’s son, his only child, and you know they don’t like to break pairs. Anyway, I’m not saying it’s a foregone conclusion, but I think it is a factor,” she says flatly, a statement I can’t argue with.
We fall into silence, mulling over our interviews and the potential consequences.
The woman had pushed me as well, asked all kinds of questions about my fitness, shortness of breath, allergies…symptoms of asthma, too, and she was completely off the mark. I didn’t like the probing, but it doesn’t feel particularly sinister to me.
There’s nothing wrong with trying to ascertain if we’re healthy or may require medical attention while we’re here. June must be paranoid because she’s got something to hide, or because she’s making excuses for her mom’s behavior. Pretending your child hasn’t really got asthma doesn’t seem like good parenting to me.
When Jessie comes in next, looking for us after her session, she’s all smiles and laughter, driving out the last of my concerns.
“I’m starving,” she declares, and trots off, returning with an entire tray of sandwiches—the ham, cheese and lettuce tray.
While we eat, I tell June and Jessie about my run-in with Kane. When I conclude he’s probably just here for that meeting he mentioned he was late for, Jessie grumbles, “You’re no fun. The thought of being stuck here with Kane Marques for two weeks was the highlight of my day.”
June shudders. “He scares me a little.”
Jessie and I share a wicked look and laugh. The dangerous energy and brooding mood was a big part of our schoolgirl crush on Kane Marques.
8
THE AUDITORUIM IS smaller than I was expecting, six rows of seats stepping down to a lectern with a central aisle running through the middle. Still, even with all thirty-three of us packed in, the front rows sit empty.
I’m right at the back with Gabe and Jessie and Harry. June, Olly, Daniel and Chris bagged the back row across the aisle from us. Gabe finally arrived in the last jeep and, except for the brief interlude with his medical interview, we spent the afternoon orientating ourselves. There’s not an awful lot to see within the fenced zone, which we’re not supposed to leave.
Gabe’s hand slips onto my lap to grasp mine. I lean into him, loving how comfortable we are together, how smoothly we’ve transitioned from friends into a couple. There’s still butterflies when I think about our next kiss, but they’re not fluttering around like crazy things, they’re a nest of tingling warmth.
Alderman Harken enters through a door at the bottom of the room, commanding an instant hush. He’s a handsome man, somewhere in his mid-thirties, not nearly as formidable as the other three Alders who haven’t put in an appearance. He crosses to stand alone behind the lectern, stands there for a long moment surveying the room of silent faces.
“Welcome to the 122nd Tithe.” His charismatic voice carries naturally in the chamber. “Before the Tithe, Ironcross was continually at the mercy of the beasts out there. We lost good men on the wall. We lost our women and children whenever the wall was breached. None of us would be here if not for the wisdom and foresight of our Forefathers. The Treaty of the Tithe saved Ironcross and we honor it with our hearts, our souls and our blood.”
A warm shiver courses through me as he continues to speak of duty and selflessness and survival. The speech reveals nothing new—it’s stamped into us at school year after year after year—but this is the first time I’ve heard Alderman Harken deliver it. I’ve never dismissed the importance of the Tithe. And I’m not about to become an Evangelistic enthusiast now. Still, there’s a shift inside me, a deeper appreciation of what it means to be part of our community and my role in its survival.
“I look at each and every one of you,” he’s saying, “and I see strength. I see conviction. As past generations have given so we may thrive, you are not afraid to give. I see responsibility. I see love.”
I swear his eyes linger on me and Gabe for just a moment as he says that.
“I see the parents of our next generation. Family is the foundation of Ironcross, the stem of our survival. I see unity. Whether you go or stay, we feel the loss as one.”
There’s a meaningful pause, his gaze sweeping across us. “Over the next two weeks, you will be expected to lodge your pair, graduate from your apprenticeship and accept your formal role in society. We—the Alders—will be expected to choose the ten who do not. Our choice will reflect the changing needs of Ironcross. Our decisions are carried on a tide that none can predict, not even us. That is the reason we forbid discussion and personal interpretation of what happens here during your Tithe.
“Whatever you have heard, whatever you think you know, discard it now. False expectations and invalid fact will do you more harm than good. There is only one right way through the Tithe, and that is to stay true to yourself.”
On that note, he wishes us
a good Tithe and steps away from the lectern.
It’s a good note to end on. It leaves me inspired to serve as Ironcross sees fit. I am no better or worse than those who came before.
As we file out of the auditorium, I make a solemn, silent promise. Whatever challenges are thrown at us, I will stay true to myself. I will not be swayed by uninformed opinion and second-guessing ways to improve my chances.
If the worst comes to pass, if I am Tithed, then I will have that.
I will have remained true.
9
A SIREN WAILS INTO the crack of dawn, just like Mac warned us it would. I’m no stranger to rising early, but this is downright rude.
The wailing fades out and the thumps and grunts of my three bunkmates rising take over. They put Rose and Georga in here as well, no one I’d willingly choose to camp down with although I suppose June is growing on me. I’ve always been wary of Rose. She’s sweet so long as everything’s going her way, then the claws come out. Georga was kind of cool at school, not afraid to speak her mind and she never put up with anyone’s crap. But a lot can change in three years, so I’m reserving judgement for now.
I hang over the bed to check what June’s up to on the bottom bunk. The pillow’s pulled over her head.
“Rise and shine,” I sing loudly, as if she’s one of my hens.
She flaps a hand at me. “Go away.”
“Okay, but don’t move, I’m coming down,” I say, using her bed as a stepping stone to the ground.
Georga slides over the edge of her upper bunk and lands gracefully on two feet. Her ash-blonde hair is cut shorter than any boy I know, a brave style choice but her face can carry it.
"Morning,” I say with a smile.
“Are you always this chipper at first light?” she mutters, giving me a droll look on her way to the narrow wardrobe units that take up the wall by the door.
Just being polite! I bite my tongue and head out to the shower room. Half the girls are already there in various states of consciousness. I spot Jessie waiting to use one of the toilet stalls and join her.
