“I agree,” I say, and that’s the truth.
“Morgan—” He hesitates, looking very uncomfortable, and I know what he’s thinking.
“She hasn’t had any tonic,” I say. “She’s only tired.”
He nods, though it doesn’t seem to put him very at ease.
By the time I’m able to steal away on the pretense of taking a nap, Pen is already wearing her coat. She can’t make it to the library fast enough. We have no money for the ferry or an elegor, so we’re forced to walk. I can’t tell one city block from the next, but Pen navigates them as though she’s lived here all her life. She has said time and again that she always needs to know where she is, and she makes it her business to be familiar with her surroundings.
“Here.” Pen hands me a folded handkerchief when she’s had enough of my sniffling. “You should really carry some on you. My nose has hardly stopped running, thanks to this cold.”
“It’s like living in a cold box,” I say. “I feel like the god of the ground is trying to preserve us like food.”
She gives me a wan smile as she opens the library door. “So you still believe in the gods, then? Or is it just a habit now?”
“I don’t know,” I confess. But then, I haven’t known that for some time. “It’s hard to believe in this one or that one when the answer is silence all the same.”
We step into the library, and Pen closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.
“Are you all right?” I say.
“Books smell the same down here,” she says.
The books are arranged around us in circular tiers accessible by ramps and ladders. The cataloging system is similar to the system in the libraries back home, and it takes Pen only moments to find what she’s looking for. Soon we’re sitting at a table before something called a world atlas and several texts about minerals, chemical substances, and fossil fuels. I can’t help being distracted by the smoothness of this paper. Perfectly white pages with bold black ink. It hasn’t been recycled and there are no ghosts of the pages’ past lives in other books. These books, filled with topics I scarcely understand, are the most beautiful things I’ve yet encountered in this world.
Pen retrieves her latest map from her coat pocket and smoothes it against the table.
“What’s it of?” I ask, as she flips through the atlas.
“This is Havalais here, and that’s Dastor, and here between them is the archipelago. Or at least, my nearest guess.” She holds the page near the open atlas, and the likeness is astoundingly similar. She points to a small land mass hovering over the ocean near Havalais. “And there’s Internment. It’s a ways off from the archipelago, but you said the archipelago’s islands are all too small and misshapen to be inhabitable, right?”
“That’s what the king said.”
“So what if this is where Internment once was, before it became a part of the sky?”
“But it’s all the way over here now, thousands and thousands of paces away.”
Pen shrugs. “Internment broke away from the ground and has spent several hundred years in the sky. Is it so hard to believe it might have drifted?”
“Maybe not,” I admit. Her eyes are bright, and it’s nice to see her interested in this world the way she was interested in Internment. It gives me hope that she’ll be able to adapt. That we both will. “What made you think of all this?”
“It’s the phosane,” Pen says, lowering her voice. “Grab one of these books. Help me scare up a picture of it.”
We both scan the glossaries and the pictures on the pages until I find what she’s looking for. “Here,” I say, laying the open book between us. There’s an image of a cavern taken at the archipelago. The image is gray and white, but the jagged clumps of phosane are clearly visible along the walls and ceiling. I had pictured a black rock, but it’s more like quartz, clear and sparkling.
Pen turns to the next page, where there is an image of a scientist who discovered a way to refine phosane for fuel. He holds a rock of phosane in his hand.
Pen’s lips move as she reads the text under the photo, and soon all her brightness fades for worry. She looks at me. “The reason I think this archipelago is left over from when Internment broke away is because it has the same sort of soil. It’s not like regular dirt. It produces this substance. Down here they call it phosane, but on Internment it’s sunstone. All it needs is heat and light to make energy.”
“We have this on Internment?” I say. “Where?”
“It can be dug up from almost anywhere,” Pen says. “But you’ve looked at it every day of your life. It’s what the glasslands are made of.”
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely. My father brings hunks of it home all the time for his work. It’s hardly a commodity before it’s refined.” She taps my betrothal band. “It’s used to make these, too. It’s nearly indestructible, far better than glass.”
“I had honestly thought our betrothal bands were made of ordinary glass.”
“Most people think that,” she says. “I suppose you’d have no reason to question it.”
She’s a genius, and here we sit, surrounded by people who have no idea what she’s found. The splendor and the horror it can unleash.
“This is why you wanted to sneak out,” I say.
“We can’t tell a soul.” She grabs my wrist, and her knuckles are white from the strain. “Morgan, no one can know about this. They’ll cause an upheaval looking for those rocks.”
I stare at Pen’s handmade map. It’s the work of a prodigy, and at the same time a homesick, wistful girl who has taken the time to draw mermaids and starfish in the water and clouds in the sky. The clouds form a protective barrier over Internment’s surface, curtaining it from what is happening below.
Pen stares at the map for a moment, and then she folds it in half and begins tearing it apart.
“Suppose we should tell the professor?” I ask, as we make the long trek back to the hotel.
Pen shakes her head, and her curls shudder in agreement. “We can’t trust him.”
“I think we can,” I say. “He’s risked so much to get away. He wouldn’t be for a plan that would get anyone back up there. He won’t even come out of his bird.”
“No one,” Pen insists. “You’re the only one I trusted enough to share my theories with. That means no Thomas, no Basil, and no professor. Don’t even inter it to your diary. I’ll draw us a proper map of the city that we can hang on to for reference.”
“It’s just . . .” I hesitate. “Pen, what if it isn’t as bad as all that? What if Internment and Havalais can help each other?” Against my better judgment I am thinking of Celeste and the dying queen.
Before I can take my next step, Pen has grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed my back against a stone fence. “Listen to me,” she says. I can feel the warmth of her breath. Her fingers are clawing into my shoulders. “You’re forever trying to help everyone, and I love you for that, truly, but no good can come of this. If this king knew he had something so powerful hovering right over his greedy head, Internment would cease to be the magical floating island and it would fast become a mining opportunity. It would be finished. My parents, Thomas’s and Basil’s families, everyone we’ve ever known would be annihilated. Do you see that? Tell me that you do.”
Her eyes are red and brimming, and I brush the first tear that falls with my thumb. “I see it,” I say.
She releases me, dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief and clears her throat. “Are you all right?” she says. “I didn’t hurt you?”
I touch her shoulder, and she flinches. “You couldn’t ever know how sorry I am that you were dragged into this because of me.”
“It’s my own fault.” She sniffs. “If I hadn’t attacked the prince, I wouldn’t have had to run away. And anyway, I wouldn’t have wanted to be left behind.”
“Oh, Pen, don’t cry.”
“I’m not.” She blows her nose. “Really.”
But the tears still com
e, and at the sight of them I can hardly hold myself together. Soon we’re both sniffling and embracing each other.
A frigid wind cuts through us, howling as though it has anything at all to say about the secret that now fills our troubled minds.
8
When we return through the bedroom window, the sun has just begun to set. Pen changes into a nightgown and returns to bed as though she never left it.
“Do you want me to bring something up for you after dinner?” I ask.
“No matter,” she sighs.
“I hate to see you like this,” I say.
She hugs the pillow and buries her face in it. “Everything’s roses,” she says, her voice muffled.
“Maybe Birdie will go out tonight,” I say. “Take us with her.”
“I’d like that,” Pen says. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone with my thoughts for a while.” To bring her point home, she sighs theatrically and flops onto her back, arms sprawled. “And do turn out the light.”
I think I hear a laugh in her voice, but I can’t be sure.
I walk toward the water room—no, bathroom. That’s what they call them down here, and I may as well get used to it. If I had any hope of returning to Internment, it’s turned into hope that I never will. I know that Pen is right. So why can’t I stop thinking of Celeste coming all this way to save her mother’s life? I can’t accept one reality or the other—a ruined Internment or an unattainable one. I can only conclude that there must be some way to make everyone happy, and once I’ve found it, I’ll tell Pen and she’ll agree. She’ll be glad for the chance to return home.
An arm grabs my waist from behind and a hand covers my mouth, and I’m about to try to scream, when Judas whispers, “Quiet.”
I wrest away. “I hate when you do that!” I whisper. “There are other ways to get my attention.”
“I didn’t want anyone to hear.” He’s got me cornered against the bathroom door. “I saw you and that contemptuous friend of yours sneaking out earlier.”
“Pen isn’t contemptuous, Judas; she’s bereft. Like the rest of us.”
“Not all of us,” he says. “And I don’t trust her.”
“I am sure she will be heartbroken to know. And why are you being so judgmental all of a sudden?”
“Because I think the two of you are up to something. Did you go to talk to the professor?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no,” I say. “We only went to the harbor to look at the mermaids.”
“You left in the opposite direction,” he says.
“So you’re writing a spy novel now? I don’t see why you should care whether we leave or where we go.”
“I am only—” He pauses like he’s swallowing something bitter. “I was only worried that she might have talked you into doing something stupid.”
I should be offended, but he’s averting his eyes and I can see that this was difficult for him to say. He adds, “The last time you snuck off in the night to meet with her, both of you were kidnapped by the prince and princess.”
“That was hardly our fault,” I say. “And I’ll remind you that on another venture, I did possess enough brain cells to push you into the lake and hide you from those patrolmen. Though you’re making me question my decision now.”
“I’ll remind you that this isn’t our world,” Judas says. I suppose he’s trying to sound firm. “What you think is safe may not be. And you can never know who may be watching.”
“We were only looking at the mermaids,” I repeat. I can see that he doesn’t believe me, but I look right into his eyes to convince him. I’ve never been much of a liar, but the promise I made to Pen overrides that.
“I once knew a girl who had your degree of curiosity. And greater still, your desire to do good, to take things on that were much, much too heavy for one girl’s shoulders,” Judas says. “She was killed for her efforts.”
He’s the first to move his eyes away, and they betray his pain for only an instant. He means Daphne. The girl he was betrothed to. The girl he was accused of murdering when she was found slashed on the train tracks. “I’m telling you to be careful,” he says, already walking away. “That’s all.”
All through dinner, I see Daphne Leander’s school image. Her sage almost-smile, her glitter cosmetics. And I remember the day the train moved backward and that small change in my routine filled me with dread. I couldn’t have known then how much my life was about to change. I couldn’t have known that Daphne’s life was already over.
Jack Piper rambles about politics despite his eldest son’s glazed expression, and I wonder at what’s in store for us while we stay here. There has been no evidence that King Ingram intends to kill us, but all this waiting has me nervous.
Basil tries to entice me with a starlit walk, but I tell him the cold air has left me congested and excuse myself to bathe and go to bed with one of Birdie’s books. True to his word, he has frequented the city on his own, familiarizing himself with the layout, but since the bombings I hate the thought of him going out there alone. Am I any better, though, sneaking out with Birdie?
I find Pen sitting on her bed, drawing something she keeps shielded from the view of the princess, who sits on her own bed, struggling to transform yarn into a garment.
Celeste huffs. “Aren’t we a cheerful bunch,” she says.
Pen erases at the page, blows away the dust and resumes. Her silence is pointed.
“Nimble says the banks should be able to recover from the bombings.” Celeste says. “It was more of a warning than a substantial attack.”
Pen slams the pencil against her drawing. “I can’t concentrate with your babbling,” she says.
“I was just trying to make conversation,” Celeste says.
Pen nods to the yarn. “Is that an activity that requires a lot of talking, then?”
I feel two pairs of eyes on me, but I don’t look away from my book. Some watery love story of a mundane girl who has caught the heart of an equally mundane boy. Still, I would like to know what happens. All the marriages on Internment are arranged at birth. Sometimes before then.
“Be that way, then,” Celeste says. “I’m going downstairs, where my company might be appreciated.”
“How? Is there a staircase that will take you to another world even lower than this one?”
“Pen,” I snap.
She looks at me, surprised. “Did you have something to add, Morgan?”
“You’re being unnecessarily harsh, is all.”
“Excuse me. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of the princess and her familiar.”
The words wound, and I’m sure there’s nothing I can say that won’t make it worse. It’s the heartbreak talking, I tell myself. I look back to the open book, but I can’t retain a word of it, I’m so hurt.
“You’re being vicious tonight, even for you,” Celeste tells Pen.
“Vicious?” Pen says. “I’ll tell you what’s vicious: a father who is responsible for the murder of a schoolgirl. Remember Daphne Leander? And that’s just to name one of your father’s victims. Vicious is kidnapping two innocent people and holding them hostage like they’re toys for you to play with. And vicious is being willing to destroy an entire city filled with people just so you can play queen and save the day. You are nothing but a selfish, selfish brat.”
“I am not”—Celeste pauses to regain herself—“playing queen. I am only trying to make things better.”
“Things were fine the way that they were,” Pen says.
“If you can say that, then you don’t know anything about Internment,” Celeste says.
“I know that it’s separate from the ground for a reason,” Pen says. “I know that the only reason we’re here is because your father drove us out. And I know that you had no business muscling your way along. You don’t belong here. You belong in that bloody clock tower, hunting your deer and playing your stupid games and knowing positively nothing about life.”
“Pen,”
I say.
“And you!” she cries. “Your parents were killed. Don’t you care that she’s to blame?”
“She isn’t to blame, Pen. The king is.”
“There’s no difference!”
“There is a difference,” Celeste says. Her voice is quiet. She’s looking at the floor as she gets out of bed. “And I won’t listen to this.” She draws a shaky breath, and I believe Pen has actually reduced her to tears. But she won’t let us see them. Yarn and needles and all, she leaves the room, her steps still maintaining all the poise of a princess, whether or not this is her kingdom.
Pen smoothes the blankets over her knees. She doesn’t look at me. “I won’t hear a lecture from you,” she warns.
“You’ve a right to be hurt,” I say. “But you never have the right to use my parents as props in your argument. I won’t say it again.”
I close my book and settle in my bed, turned away from her.
She says nothing. But there is no scratch of the pencil to paper. No sound to indicate she’s moving at all. Eventually she gets up and turns out the light.
Sleep doesn’t remove Daphne from my mind. I see her in my dreams as well.
The door creaks open, startling me awake.
“Are you awake?” Birdie whispers.
“Yes. Careful not to wake Her Oh-So-Royal Highness,” Pen answers.
My mattress dips with Pen’s weight as she crawls over me, peels the hair from my face. “Are we friends or enemies right now?”
I grunt, and she shakes me. “Come out with us. Please? Please, please, please.”
I’m still sore, but I suppose this is as much of an apology as I’ll ever get, and maybe I did deserve some of what she said.
“Get off me, then, so I can get dressed.”
There’s a chill when Birdie opens the window, and Celeste murmurs in her sleep. Pen grunts as she reaches for the strongest branch and begins her climb down. I follow, and then Birdie, who closes the window without a sound.
Burning Kingdoms Page 8
