by RF Hurteau
Molly had walked forward to take the projector from her. “Here, let me,” she said. Willow followed her to the door, so that they could speak without being overheard.
She looked back over her shoulder and saw that the students were already bent over their papers, busily writing down problems and working them out. “Hey, I hate to bother you, but would you mind terribly if I left right away after school today? I…have somewhere to go.”
Molly smiled warmly. “Not at all! I’ll just tidy up a bit for you after they leave. Is it another appointment, then?”
Willow bit her lip. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that.”
“Well, you do what you need to do, love. I’ll take care of things here.”
“Thank you, Molly.”
Molly’s eyes flickered over the students and back to Willow. Her smile faded. “They’re only children,” she said, softly. “It’s terrible that they are made to carry the burdens of these troubled times.” She shook her head and, without further explanation, disappeared with the projector into her own classroom. Molly taught the older students, and Willow didn’t envy her. Despite having been kicked out of Sigil’s school system, the Halfsies were not exempt from the law requiring every resident to register for the workforce by the age of eighteen. Many Halfsies voluntarily registered earlier, foregoing the end of their education in favor of bringing more money into their generally impoverished homes. Molly had a tender heart, and each time a student simply stopped showing up for school, Willow knew that she wept silent tears for the loss.
When the last student had finished packing away their books and scurried out the front door, Willow made her way to the Tube. She stood, lost in thought, as she waited for it to arrive. Her stomach roiled and her heart was full of dread at the thought of approaching her father. She knew what his reaction would be. She had not even bothered to try and fool herself into believing he would be happy or concerned for her. She had grown up with the man, and she knew the only thing she could count on him for was consistency. He never changed.
Willow knew she was supposed to check in when she entered Sigil. But the woman at the desk looked busy, and Willow knew if she waited, she would lose her nerve. She brushed past the counter, her pace brisk as she made her way to the lifts at the far end of the spacious lobby. How many times had her father brought her here as a girl, grooming her for a future that would never be realized? How many nights had he lain awake, fury eating away at him, as he contemplated ways to bring her back into the fold? Or had he written her off completely? No, she decided. She was his only child. He would hold out hope that she would come back to beg forgiveness for the rest of his long, miserable life. He would nurture his hatred for Felix, for all Halfsies, and he would wait for her to see the error of her ways.
As Willow reached the door to her father’s office, she froze. The thought of the confrontation terrified her. Yet, she had to try. She owed it to Felix, to her children, to at least try. Pushing the door open, she stepped inside, dropping her gaze respectfully and nodding politely. “Hello, father,” Willow offered, softly.
Nero eyed her suspiciously, saying nothing. The silence was deafening, and she found herself wishing he would speak, even shout, if only the unbearable silence would end.
“Sit,” he said, at last, and she did so. “Why are you here?”
“I…wanted to talk to you,” she said, uncertain how to begin. She had practiced the whole way here, thinking of ways to tell him, but in her mind, all of them ended the same way.
“It hardly seems necessary to talk,” he said, his bitterness evident in every word. “Unless it is to tell me that you are ready to repent, and come home.”
She willed the tears back, knowing her father would only see weakness. He did not empathize; he did not sympathize. Compassion was beyond his realm of understanding. She didn’t want him to know how much he hurt her. That would be like letting him win. Oh, how she wished Felix were with her now. Felix had given her the courage to stand up to her father. If he had been here, she wouldn’t be so afraid. She drew a deep breath. Felix had always been strong for her. Now it was her turn to be strong, for him.
“I came to ask for your help,” she said. When he didn’t respond, she went on. “I would like you to intercede for me with the Council…to ask…to ask special permission.”
His next words were slow, accusing. “How dare you. How dare you have the nerve to ask favors of me, when you’ve made your choice clear. You chose him. Over your own family, you chose him.” It was as if he couldn’t even bring himself to speak Felix’s name, as if it were too vile.
“Please, father, just listen to me—”
Nero stood up quickly, taking Willow by surprise. He came around the desk and stood over her, cloaking her in his shadow. “I know why you’ve come,” he growled. “Do you think you can do anything without my knowing about it? I knew about the abomination in your belly before you had even left the doctor’s office.” Willow’s hands moved over her stomach in a protective motion, and she flinched back from Nero. “I have spent each day since thinking of ways to kill your filthy mutt of a husband. Slow ways. Painful ways.” He stepped back from her, a look of disgust on his face, as if she might contaminate him. “Did you really believe that I would help you? That I would open my arms and help bring not one, but two of his spawn into the world?”
She stood then, looking him in the eye, quivering with anger. “His name is Felix. And they aren’t an abomination. They’re your grandchildren!”
Nero’s face was incredulous. “You come in here, to my office, and have the nerve to associate me with…with the likes of…” His breath was coming in small, angry huffs, as though he were having trouble getting enough air. “You broke our hearts, your mother and I. You are already dead to her. Yet here I am, willing to accept you back, if only you would just…no. No, I don’t want to hear anymore. Get out.”
“Father, please—”
“Get out! I hope you lose them both!” Willow turned and ran to the door, pushing it open as she sobbed, barely hearing his words as he continued to shout. “How could you possibly expect me to accept some disgusting, squalling, half-breed whelps—”
Willow slammed the door behind her, shutting out his vitriol. She’d never really known. She knew he hated Halfsies, hated Felix. But to extend that hatred to his own grandchildren? His own flesh and blood?
She looked up to see a man standing in the hall before her, looking surprised. “Excuse me,” she said, before rushing past him. She just wanted to be alone.
* * *
Willow found her way home by instinct, completely unaware of how she’d managed to get there. She could barely breathe, barely think. She longed to speak to Felix, to feel the comfort of his arms. He would know what to say to make her feel better.
But Felix wasn’t here. She walked around the tiny apartment, as if he might be hiding somewhere, but she was alone. Curled up under the blankets, squeezing Felix’s pillow tightly, she fell into a fitful sleep.
In the morning, she rose early. She spotted a note on the table and wondered how she had missed it the night before. She sat down, unfolding it.
My dearest Willow,
I promise you that everything is going to be all right.
We have a plan. I am not sure how long it will take.
Don’t leave. Don’t go to the celebrations. I will come
for you—be ready. I love you, always.
Felix.
Be ready? Be ready for what? She looked around again, wondering what she should do. Her heart felt lighter. The note had left her with many questions, but she felt almost at peace. If Felix and Ripley had a plan, any plan, there was hope. Felix had never broken a promise to her, and Ripley was as close as family. Closer, really, considering her actual family. Not knowing what else to do, she got up, went to the table, and dumped out the contents of the satchel she used for carrying her school supplies. Then she began filling it with anything she thought could be useful.
>
Willow didn’t know where they were going, or what they would need, but she wanted to be prepared. She grabbed a few ration packs, some fresh vegetables, and a loaf of bread. She wrapped it all in a cloth and placed it in the satchel. She added some bandages and ointment, fuel cells, and a flashlight. There was still room, and she looked around, wishing she knew more about what she was preparing for. She settled on packing a few pairs of extra socks, a needle, and thread. Looking down at her little emergency kit with a sense of satisfaction, she looked expectantly toward the door, as if Felix might appear at any moment, now that she was ready. When nothing happened, she sat down on the bed, keeping her shoes on, just in case. Long moments passed, and when staring at the door became agonizing, she looked around for something to distract her.
She picked up the book she had been reading a few days ago, before all of this began. Molly had lent it to her. A book of poems entitled The Weaver’s Tale, one of the few artistic works to ever have been produced in Sanctuary. Many books had been preserved here from before the Sequencing, but life in the domes left precious little time for artistic pursuits. The leisure time that people did have was spent in ways they felt were more important than creating works of art. Still, some people managed to make the time to add a little beauty to the world, in whatever way they could.
Willow remembered moving things around soon after they were married. This had been Felix’s family home, but his father had insisted on moving out, into a home with a friend who had recently lost his wife and now lived alone. He wanted Willow and Felix to have a space of their own. She had pulled a desk away from the wall to reveal a tiny figurine carved from stone. Felix had said only that his dad used to make them, and he had placed it on a small shelf by the bed. Looking at it now, she reached out, putting it in her pocket. She didn’t have a lot of sentimental items. But if they were leaving this, the only home they’d ever had together, it seemed right to take this one, small thing.
Willow flipped open the book to the place where she’d left off and began to read. She found herself reading the same line over and over again until, at last, she gave up. Although she had been rather enjoying the sorrowful, impassioned musings of the author, she just wasn’t capable of reading poetry right now. She needed something else to keep her mind off the slow passage of time. She felt a sudden pang of guilt. What would become of her students if she left? Would Molly and Adeline be able to take all of them on? Would someone else step up? Would they feel abandoned by her? They were used to abandonment. The whole city had abandoned and shunned them. But they wouldn’t expect it from her, not from Miss Willow, who had done her best to make them feel safe, and loved. That, she knew, would be a true betrayal.
Willow steeled herself. Right now, she needed to focus on her own family, her own children. She hated herself for it, but those children at least had their parents, and they had Molly and Adeline. Her own children, they could depend on no one else. No one was going to save them if she and Felix did not prove up to the task.
Maybe she just needed to do something with her hands, like fixing dinner. Distract herself. If Felix came home, perhaps they’d have time for a hot meal together. If not, at least she wouldn’t be heading off on an empty stomach.
A short while later, she was sitting down to a piping hot bowl of vegetable pottage. It smelled good, and her stomach rumbled its approval. But no sooner had she lifted the first spoonful to her lips than there came a knock at the door.
Dropping the spoon, she grabbed her satchel and slung it over her shoulder, then ran to the door, heart pounding. “I’m ready!” she said, hands trembling with excitement as she opened it wide, beaming.
But the figure who loomed in the hall was not Felix.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, coldly.
seven
Out of the Loop
Edwin glanced at his watch again, groaning inwardly. He’d been running a little behind to begin with, and bumping into Sylvia had thrown off his schedule even more so. Nero would not be pleased.
Just entering Nero’s office made Edwin feel dirty. Head of the Elder Council, Nero embodied everything that Edwin hated about Elves. He was arrogant, condescending, and completely lacking in anything that could be remotely construed as compassion. It was the same every time. Edwin would sit down across from Nero, who would talk at him for about an hour about all the things that were wrong in Sanctuary and all the reasons why all of those things were Edwin’s fault. Edwin would smile, a look of concern plastered on his face, inwardly glowering at Nero’s hate-filled ranting. Nero, on the other hand, glowered outwardly, going so far as to insult other members of the Council, some of whom had the audacity to actually treat Humans with a modicum of respect.
This, he suspected, was the very reason that Nero never spoke publicly, even though he was the head of the Council. Despite having been in charge from the very founding of Sanctuary, Nero had never mastered the political skill of diplomacy. He had no filter, and no desire to develop one. Edwin, as the Human liaison, had no choice but to interact with Nero on a regular basis, an intermediary between the rulers and peasants. But, in the end, he’d been able to find a way to use his position to his advantage.
When Edwin was growing up, his father had been very fond of drinking. And when his father was drinking, he talked. A lot. One of his favorite subjects had been Tapestry. A secret organization of Humans who preserved and taught the “true history” of Sanctuary. Edwin had dismissed these stories as the wistful imaginings of a people unhappy with their lot in life. He’d never given them much credence, not even when his father had simply not come home one night, nor any of the nights to follow. He’d watched his mother struggle to provide for the two of them. He’d grown up vowing to make Sanctuary a better place, and with that vow as his guide, he’d succeeded in becoming the highest-ranking Human member in Sigil. He’d achieved his title at the age of thirty-nine…his mother had died four days before the announcement.
To his dismay, he’d found that the highest rung on the political ladder had not been high enough to make any difference. He was just a figurehead, a symbol, something for others to aspire to with no real power of his own.
That was before he met the Weaver. It had been late, and Edwin had been on his way home from a meeting with Councilor Mendon that had gone long. A hooded figure had called out to him from a dark alley near Sigil Station. This, perhaps, should have made Edwin wary, but it was the fact that the man knew his name that gave him pause. That first meeting had been brief, little more than a request to meet again the next night. Intrigued, Edwin had agreed. Over several more meetings, the mysterious figure, always cloaked in shadows, had proven to know a great deal about Edwin, and about his ideals. Perhaps it was because the man appealed to his inner desires, or perhaps it was the thought that his father had been right, after all, but Edwin had not needed much convincing to latch onto the idea of becoming a part of Tapestry. He’d been welcomed into the fold, introduced to key members from several cells. He’d been taught things about Sanctuary, about the Therans, that they’d never learnt in school. In fact, many of the things the Weaver told him directly contradicted what he’d been taught. Somehow, though, Edwin had instinctively sensed the truth in the man’s words. And that truth had been the missing rung on the ladder to change. Now, at last, he could make a difference. Tapestry had big plans, and Edwin was perfectly positioned to be of real use to them. Once Edwin was comfortable in his position, the Weaver’s visits grew more infrequent.
Edwin recalled the one time he had been angry with the Weaver. Edwin had been struggling to coordinate a particularly tricky operation, and as if sensing his need, the Weaver had come to him that night. “I don’t understand why you can’t just tell me your name. You know I’m loyal, haven’t I proven that to you yet? That way, I could come to you when I needed your help, instead of being left to hope that you’ll appear.”
The Weaver had shaken his head slowly. “I am no one of consequence,” he’d said. �
��I wish to remain anonymous for many reasons. Perhaps you would inadvertently lead my enemies to my doorstep. Perhaps the members of Tapestry would see me and be disappointed, or worse, put me on a pedestal as some idol. I have no name, Edwin. I am not a person. I am an idea. I have no desire to be anything more than that.”
In the months and years that followed, Edwin had been instrumental in uniting many of Sanctuary’s malcontents under Tapestry’s banner. Whereas the Weaver worked from the shadows, Edwin was able to move freely throughout Sigil, working right under the enemy’s nose. Throughout the city, a dozen cells operated, each home to a variety of carefully recruited members from all of Sigil’s departments, and beyond. Up until now, they had managed to organize quite a few small but successful ventures. Tapestry had enough people in Agriculture, for instance, to divert some of the crops. They’d been able to help feed dozens of families on the brink of starvation. They had used resources within the hospital to smuggle out several patients destined for an untimely end. The members of Tapestry all had their own reasons for being there, of course. Some were motivated purely by the desire to do the most good possible. Some, incensed by the Theran lies they’d been told, simply wanted to spread truth. But a growing number of members fancied themselves revolutionaries. They wanted to overthrow the Elder Council and seize control of the city. Edwin’s job had increasingly begun to feel less like coordination, and more like negotiating with a room full of toddlers. Constant bickering required most of his attention. The only thing holding the group together was their shared dream. A dream of a future where Earth once again belonged to mankind, instead of the Theran invaders.
He had nearly reached Nero’s office when the door flew open, and a young Elven woman came flying out.
“—expect me to accept some disgusting, squalling, half-breed whelps—” Edwin could hear Nero shouting as she pushed the door shut with her whole body, leaning heavily against it, muffling his tirade. She turned, and Edwin could see that she’d been crying. He recognized her at once as Nero’s estranged daughter.
