by Tessa Elwood
“Wait.” I reach for Eagle’s jacket, check the pocket where he’d slipped Wren’s digislate. It’s still there. “I got the schematics, they’re in the top level folder. Don’t let him tell Dad about Emmie.”
He doesn’t quite smile and disappears after his dad. I wait until the door closes, then stand before mine.
“I’ll go,” I say.
Dad’s head snaps up.
“Galton can’t have more kids. Genevieve said there was an accident or something. It’s not about the treaty. I don’t think they care. So I’m going to go.” The words come easy. No fight to get them out. “And no matter what Emmie says, you have to bring Wren here. The treatments are different and Wren deserves the chance. Eagle will look after her. He’s sorting out Lord Westlet now, so we’ll have the food. So you just need to bring Wren. And let Mekenna yell at you, because that’s your fault and you can’t pretend it isn’t. And—” Now the words do want to fight. “And you can’t tell Eagle I’m going, because—just because.”
Because he’ll hate me. He won’t forgive me.
Dad doesn’t move, hasn’t since I started.
“So you have to be there for Wren and Mekenna. And Eagle, if he needs you. And I know you’ll watch over Emmie.”
He looks at me. Just looks. I don’t brace my feet and square my shoulders, or do anything much except look back.
Dad lifts his arm, pushes his sleeve off his communicator watch and taps the screen. As if any incoming missive or issued order is more important than this.
My wrist throbs and so do I. “Our tech won’t work here, Dad. The feed protocols are different.”
He doesn’t even look up. “What did I do to Mekenna?”
“You trapped her husband in lockdown and now he’s remarried with a kid.”
The taps hesitate. “Ah. And where is she?”
“In the lab.”
“I’ll speak with her.” He shakes out his sleeve and moves to the office door.
“And Wren?” I ask before he steps through. “You have to look after Wren and Eagle. I won’t be here, so it has to be you. I have your word?”
Dad meets my eyes, his face a map of every line already crossed.
“You don’t have to worry, Asa,” he says and closes the door.
FANE
THE LACERATED SEAMS ON EAGLE’S SHOULDER don’t match up. Like his lacerated grunts when he tried to take his shirt off himself before letting me help. Dad is at the main complex, but Eagle wouldn’t let me check his sealant anywhere but our tower, so we left.
Eagle sits sideways in the kitchen chair, right hand laced through its slatted back. Most of the kitchen is brushed steel, and the reflective table gleams under the scattered mess of gauze and sealant. I scoured our whole tower for medikits, from our bathrooms on the floor above to the docking bay below, and found three.
As if anything can fix the angry mess I made of Eagle’s skin.
I rip a sealant packet, willing my right hand not to shake and my left fingers to work. The stupid acclimation process is taking forever, and now my whole left side doesn’t want to function.
“You need meds,” I say. “Real meds and stitches.”
Soon. Tomorrow. So someone else will know to check him when I’m gone.
“I’m fine,” he says, achy and exhausted.
“It’ll scar.”
“Whatever.”
“Stop it, just—” The packet slips from my hand and skids across the tile. I’d kick it, but Eagle needs it so I can’t.
Besides, it’s under the table.
I bend, but my knees wobble and I crash to all fours.
“Asa?”
“Okay, I’m okay. Just dropping things.” I crawl under the table.
The elevator pings and the opening doors swish in Lady Westlet’s voice.
“The man is a marvel. If you’re serious about transferring your daughter here, his medicenter is by far the best in the . . . Eagle?”
I scramble clear of the table as Eagle shoots from the chair, turning so his back faces away from the elevator, the Lady, and—
Dad.
“Mother,” says a conversational Eagle, as if his bare chest isn’t glinting in the overheads.
She matches his calm, adds disinterest. “What happened to your shoulder?”
“Nothing.”
“Fascinating.” The Lady’s smile nearly blinds. “Because that looked like something.”
“He needs stitches.” I push myself up and tilt into Eagle’s vacated chair. Catch myself before I fall.
Eagle’s at my side, hand on my arm.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“No, you’re not.”
“Stitches.”
“No, explanation,” says the Lady with House-leveling patience.
Dad pales and marches toward Eagle. “When?”
“When what?” the Lady asks but Dad’s here, one step away from Eagle and singeing the air.
“When did you chip her?” Dad asks.
“She’s not chipped.” Eagle doesn’t budge.
Neither does Dad.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“If your body doesn’t acclimate, it will shut down. Wren was on three sets of medications for a month. Have you had any?” He switches to Eagle. “Did you even give her the initiation pill, or did you just press inject?”
Now Eagle wobbles.
“I’m fine,” I say.
And if I’m not, I’ll be in Galton, so it won’t matter.
“When?” Dad asks.
“About seven hours before the transport picked us up,” Eagle answers, hoarse.
“Eagle!” I say.
Dad swears loud enough my teeth rattle. “If she dies from this, boy, I swear to God—”
“No, you won’t.” I push Dad back. “Your word, remember? Your word.”
“Of course Asa isn’t chipped. We have the scan.” Lady Westlet steps into our ever-tightening circle, long skirt bunching against the chair. “Can we please discuss something relevant? Like, say, my son’s shoulder?”
“That is exactly what we are discussing, my Lady,” Dad says.
“Oh, yes? Then please, enlighten me.”
“Because they dug his out. Where else would they get one?”
She draws herself up. “If you think I’d let Mekenna put any of her highly experimental tech into my sons, you are much—”
“They chipped me in the meteor storm,” says Eagle. “That’s why I survived.”
Her expression keeps its steel, but her hand clamps onto the chair. “You’re chipped?”
“Was.”
“Was. Yes. Explain. Why—?”
“To subvert the damn test, why else?” Dad lays both hands on the table, as if he wants to throw them up. “She needs the med regimen. Can you get that?”
The steel slips. “You mean, she’s really—?”
He rounds on her. “Asa is Fane. And seeing as she saved your precious blood bond, might you at least find her the damn meds?”
“IT MIGHT NOT SCAR.” MY HAND HOVERS OVER HIS shoulder, air-traces the Lady’s even, perfect stitches. She found me pills—a whole handful, plus two injections—and a pain-numbing agent for Eagle. He slumps now, instead of being coiled tight. The cuts seem smoother, less angry, but that could just be the way the gold light bounces. We’re in the living room now. “Everything matches up.”
“Feel better?”
I stick out my tongue. Not that he sees. “Yes.”
“But do you?” He leans back into the couch. “Feel better?”
“I think so.” Some of the numb bits tingle.
“You sure?” Eagle takes my left hand and spreads fingers, scanning each like they’ll fall apart. His thumb finds the center of my palm. “Do you feel this?”
A little. Sort of. My soul does.
“Can you close your hand?”
I try. The fingers curl some. Not enough apparently, because his eyebrows bunch over his nose. I slide my hand away to open h
is waxy palm instead.
“You know, I was thinking, without your medichip, you can get a new hand. Some are really amazing. There’s this one that has thirty-six thousand contact points you can dial up or down—so if you want to feel the difference between tepid and lukewarm, or hold an active blastshard, you can.”
“An active blastshard.”
I shrug. “You never know. We could go look, you could try it.”
And if he likes it, he could order one or have it custom built. Maybe this time the medics would get the color right. Maybe I’d get the chance to see it.
He straightens. “Asa?”
“Yeah?”
His fingers slide up to my needle-chewed wrist, and I can’t tell if he’s checking the bandage or sifting through the thoughts in his head. “You said you’d take it back.”
“What?”
“On Urnath, you said you’d take it back.”
Oh.
I try to sink away, but he holds fast. “I wouldn’t. Take it back. Or let Galton take you. I won’t. I love you.”
He searches my face, thirty-six thousand contact points between his eyes and my heart, rooting me inside and out.
It’s not real. I swear I started with the truth, but now it’s stuck in incandescence and the perfect lines of his perfect mouth. The sunshine glows when the world ends and there’s nothing left to do but whatever you can.
Which I do. Have. Will.
I break apart.
“Asa?” His hands rise to my neck and cheeks and I can feel them, every brush. “God, Asa, I’m sorry. You don’t have to—”
“I love you.” Ragged and teary. “I love you like everything.”
Confusion catches in his hesitant smile. “And that’s bad?”
“No! Never.” I wipe my face, smear tears all over my crinkled sleeves. “I mean, do you want to go look at those hands tomorrow? We could go to the city, just us. Buy some icelees and puffcakes and—”
“Galton won’t invade.” Eagle cups my face. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I know.”
“We will.”
“I know.”
But I’m not convincing enough, and he leans in until our eyes level. “Asa—”
I kiss him. Taste my name on his tongue, or maybe my heart. Cover his hands with mine and offer every truth in me, broken and mended, so he won’t need convincing, he’ll know.
“I love you,” I say, more shape then sound. “Don’t forget.”
I HOLD WREN’S HAND AS WE WALK THROUGH HER new ward. I walk. She floats on her meditransport hoverbed. Dad strides ahead with Medic Harwick, the lead specialist assigned to her care. He’s short and plump with rapid fire answers to every question—even ones we didn’t ask. He seems fascinated by Wren’s case, or rather, Suzanna’s case.
We said she is a distant family cousin—which should give her priority care without making her a target if someone has a vendetta against Dad.
I didn’t think he would fly her here so fast. It’s nice. I can finish the story we were reading.
Westlet medicenters don’t do themes, but they do have windows. The whole outer wall is a spotless pane through which the trees glow sunset gold. The sun catches Wren, too. Smooths the starburst of her scalp.
“Here we are.” Medic Harwick stops outside an open door at the end of the corridor, wide enough to accommodate a hoverbed and a half. “If you don’t mind, m’lady, I’ll take over from here. Give us a couple hours to run some tests, and we’ll have her ready and waiting.”
I nod and he smiles, takes my place at Wren’s side. Guides her through into a blur of green-coated medics and paisley walls, and closes the door.
“This is nice,” I say. “She’ll like it.”
Dad considers the checkered ceiling, the cheery bustle, me. “This is a long shot. You know that.”
“I know.”
And I do.
Dad nods, gestures down the hall. “Shall we?”
We retrace our steps back to the alcoved waiting room—a glass box stitched into the building, with blue rugs and puffed white chairs that seems to float over tree-lined streets.
We sit side by side. Watch the hanging newsfeed screen in the corner, where Finch and Dravers mouth silent arguments transcribed by scrolling white text. Nothing about my blood test or Galton. Eagle says with me proven as Fane, it’s in the Electorate’s best interest to pretend it never happened. Mekenna erased the inconclusive result, and no one seems to know.
But then, it’s only been a day and a half.
The hall fills with footsteps and laughter, and I crane to see where it comes from.
Eagle should be here soon. He is at the loading dock making sure Lord Westlet follows through with the promised shipments so Dad can help me with Wren.
More footsteps. Harried medics, a few visitors, but no one in a hood.
“It’ll take him another half hour at least,” Dad says.
“Right.” I face front, hands in my lap.
Dad watches the screen. “You two get on, then? Off camera?”
“He’s pretty wonderful.”
“And have I him to thank for the food, or you?”
I shrug. “Both?”
He nods. “Are the meds working?”
“I think so.” I wiggle my left fingers. They’re slow and sluggish, but better. Like my back and side. “I should be ready for—I’ll be ready.”
Another nod. People pass. Dravers punctuates points with long nails.
“Eagle’s hand glitches,” I say. “I’m afraid he won’t get a new one unless someone bugs him about it.”
Dad doesn’t say anything.
“And Emmie. I’d like to see her. Before I go.”
He brushes off his slacks and stands. “Coffee?”
I rub my sore wrist. “Okay.”
Heads turn as he strides through the windowed corridor. Maybe they know him, but more likely they just sense him. When he rounds the corner, there’s nothing to watch but trees and Finch’s bushy eyebrows. They crease and bounce, dance a jig and—flatline. His whole face flatlines. So does Dravers. It might be a glitch in the feeds, except Dravers raises a jerky hand to her mouth and smears her lipstick.
They know. About the second test. They know.
I brace both arms on my seat.
Finch flattens his hands on the table, takes forever to look up. The captions kick in.
Forgive us, we’ve just received word. It appears Lord Jaered of Galton died last night, due to a heart attack. We have no further information as yet, but should know more within the hour.
Dead?
Galton can’t be dead, he was fine. More than fine. He faced Dad down and won.
And after Dad lost, when it was just him and me, Dad said something.
The caption scrolls with speed, full of speculation and commentary. Lord Jaered has no direct Heir. The House will be in stasis while they scramble back generations to find one. No decisions will be made or permanent orders issued. Galton is in an effective political lockdown.
Which means every distant branch of the Galton House family has a shot at the Lordship, assuming they can produce a viable Heir. Even if Genevieve still claimed me as Jaered’s, no one would back her without proof—and probably not even then. Why give me the House when it could be theirs? Genevieve isn’t blood, her title depended on Jaered’s.
And after Jaered left, when it was just me and Dad, Dad said something he has never said to me before. Not once. Not even in quarantine, because Dad doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.
Heavy tread. Gleaming black shoes and gray slacks. Dad stands at my shoulder, two green mugs in his work-worn hands.
He holds out a cup. I take it automatically, with fingers that somehow work. He reclaims his seat, glances at the screen then looks at me.
You don’t have to worry, Asa.
“Drink your coffee,” Dad says.
I hold the mug in my lap. He stares out the window. I slip one hand onto the armrest nearest
him. Open, palm up.
His inches, hovers, covers mine. His palm is bigger, knuckles wider and fingers shorter, but not enough to notice.
He still has Wren’s hands.
And mine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Mom, who defines heart.
Victoria Marini, who breathes magic.
Lisa Cheng, who voices depth.
Janet Johnson, who paints perfection in exclamation points.
Lisha Cauthen, who brightens the world in gifs.
Seabrooke Leckie, who helped save the title.
Sarah Belliston, who totally got gypped on kisses.
Sofia Embid, who sorted through the confusion.
Louise Hawes, who inspires our best.
Jessica Spotswood, who saw Asa’s strength.
Kathleen Duey, who asked the perfect question.
The Mainely Writing crew, who weave mornings in quiet.
The Tuesday group, who knit evenings in laughter.
And to everyone who read my work and helped me grow—
You are in my thoughts and heart.
