by Logan Keys
The foggy mirror spares me from having to look myself in the eye as I dry off with pristine, ornate towels.
My steps slow upon entering the bedroom again. As if by magic, dresses have appeared on the bed. Both of them ballroom gowns and prettier than anything I’ve ever worn in my life.
One is red, the other white.
They nauseate me further.
They do because they are so absolutely gorgeous. And because they mean such terrible things.
Maybe they’ll poison us at dinner.
Anything’s better than these empty gestures of goodwill.
A guard follows me silently to the dining room, where the Cromwells have left me a seat at the end of the table. Jeremy’s there, staring at his plate, suit pressed and hair slicked back.
He’s so different now. Already they’ve sucked the life out of him, and it’s barely been a week since I’ve last seen him.
My seat is next to a girl whom I can only assume is his sister. Not quite as “worked on” yet as the mother, but certainly some upgrades. Hard not to notice the large chest that keeps her from sitting too close to the hors d’oeuvres.
Karma comes to life in that jerky, animated way, mouth appearing to move a fraction behind her words. “Liza, aren’t you darling in Carolina’s dress.”
Carolina claps, and things jiggle unseemly before she leans forward, reaching out a pale hand to touch mine. My obvious grimace and recoil as though she were a snake makes her straighten in indignation.
“Oh,” she says prettily.
Some would say “I’m sorry” out of pure manners, but anger wires my jaw shut. These people are evil. They can try to hide it under whatever mechanics they choose to invest in, but I’m no fool.
The truly vile is never outwardly repulsive; it’s usually wrapped up in gorgeous ribbons or implanted with Technicolor eyes, like Jeremy’s sister, Carolina.
Or tucked neatly into a white dress of pure majesty that’s tight around the bust, and swishes silk softly against my legs.
Disgust curls my lip.
Then, my heart falls a little. So Jeremy had been a part of this world all along?
Karma looks at her husband, then freezes in that unsettling way while she waits . . . as if she doesn’t have a heartbeat, which is fitting. The sheen of her black hair is as unnatural as a rainbow in the thick of the worst storm.
The Mouse King takes in the exchange with obvious pleasure. Reginald sips something as red as blood, and though it’s no doubt simply wine, my imagination fills in the rest of his deviousness.
Our meal is still covered by sterling silver, and I’m half-expecting a sacrificed innocent or something more ominous beneath the reflection of my face in the shiny surface. My expression is one of complete revulsion.
By Reginald’s scrutiny of the white dress I’ve chosen, I suspect he believes it’s an omen.
“A toast,” he says, and lifts his glass. His family—all but Jeremy—lifts theirs quickly in kind.
Jeremy sighs in resignation and lifts his by the stem in a mock salute, then sets it down without drinking.
A servant wheels in a tray, removes a screen from it, and places it onto our table . . . right in front of me.
Reginald watches carefully, mustache twitching.
He’s still waiting for me to toast. So, I lift my glass and, holding it over to the side, I say, “Cheers.” With a twist of my wrist, I pour the entirety onto their pale carpet.
The two women gasp, but Reginald takes another sip in answer.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is light. “But I thought it best we tell you what our demands are. Now.”
He smiles, teeth stained and darker than his family’s. “I thought you might be a little rough around the edges, having lived in that rebellious commune for so long.”
Reginald nods at the servant, who reaches across me to touch the screen.
An image comes up, and the blood leaves my face. It’s a live feed from a line of prisoners the Authority’s guards are marching in. The camera zooms in on familiar faces—the twins, and then Nate.
Reginald purses his lips. “If I were you, Liza, I’d be polite.”
It’s strange, but after the meal, none of which Jeremy nor I had eaten, they let us meet outside in a courtyard, alone. Proof of how little a threat they view us.
I speak quietly to him, wondering if they have us surveyed. Of course they do. “We’re dressed pretty nice for an execution.”
Guards stand stoically at the back doors to the mansion. We’re prisoners, no matter what the setting.
“They won’t kill us,” Jeremy says, giving me an apologetic glance. “My father hopes to make us puppets. A new treaty with the rebellion. And us? Their icons.”
“I won’t do it.”
Jeremy laughs. “I think they realize that. The carpet has a permanent reminder, in case they forget.”
“I won’t.” But my friends’ faces flash in my mind, and my resolve wobbles. Doubt tries to creep in.
A sad purple gaze follows me without judgment, but holds a “that’s what we all say” expression.
We sit down next to a giant pond with a small waterfall. Some fish swim closer to the surface, hoping to be fed. The Cromwells live in paradise.
My lily-white dress is bright in reflection, and my curls spring away from their roots to catch the light of the rising sun after the washing I’d given them with good shampoo. It’s hard not to stare in fascination at the changes in my appearance. I haven’t had dresses or hot showers since childhood. But this person in the pond . . . she’s a woman now.
It occurs to me. “So, your eyes . . .”
“Augmented.” Jeremy shrugs. “I was once exactly like they are. You can hate me now.”
“What changed?” I ask, and he leans back as if he won’t answer. Suddenly, my palm itches to slap him. “I need to know, Jeremy. I need you to tell me why you lied. I asked you if you were a spy, and I was warned not to trust you, but I chose to anyway. Now, I see you in there with your father—you’re not even you!”’
His mouth doesn’t fully commit to a smile, though it tries. “You’re angry. Good. You should be angry. I did lie. ”
“That’s not an answer, Jeremy. They carted us away to the Island, millions of children, and then let them die in captivity like animals. I need to know who’s side you’re on, because I’m not going to fall for this. I don’t want a single thing from your family; they must pay.”
“Shh . . .”
“Don’t shoosh me! I don’t care who hears. Are you with me or not?”
“I—”
“Answer the question! Are you with me?”
“Yes, Liza. Yes. It’s not as easy as it sounds, but yes. Of course I’m with you.”
My voice wavers only a tiny bit this time. “Till the end?” I ask.
“Till the end.”
“For justice.” My smile is cautious.
“For freedom,” he replies, returning to his old self.
The comforter in my room feels like a sin, but I’m asleep straight through until the next night, even before I’ve finished promising myself I’d sleep on the floor. It’s been three days since I’ve last slept. Foolishly content, maybe, but contentment is in such short supply. I’ll be a revolutionary tomorrow . . . after sleep.
— 66 —
When they let me down from my room in the evening, Jeremy’s sitting next to the pond again, this time with a pen and paper. “My father’s asked that we make our demands,” he says.
I hurry over to him, grinning.
“Oh yes, Liza. You’ve made quite the impression. But don’t get too excited. He can’t be trusted.”
I lift a stack of pages he’s already written. “You’ve been busy. So, are you going to tell me now what happened to make you go against your own family?”
Jeremy runs a hand through his hair, tousling the thick coffee color. “It feels so strange to actually talk about her. She’s younger than Carolina; little. And when I was just turning sixteen, she was diagnosed with cancer.
“Of course, my mother was beside herself. But instead of telling anyone, they covered it up as best they could, secretly had every doctor try to help, but—” He swallows. “It wasn’t long after I’d gotten my eyes altered when it all came crashing down. Word got out that my father had a sick child and that he’d let her stay. Our family fought constantly. My parents had justified it to us, to the world; they had to make a decision.”
“They sent her.”
“Yes.”
At once, the countless faces from Camp Bodega appear in my mind. “What . . . was her name?” I ask, and he smiles.
“Melissa,” he tells me, while the fond memories visibly wash over him. He loves her. “But we all called her Mimi.”
My hand grabs his sleeve to hold me up.
“I’m not even sure if she’s still alive . . .” His voice falters.
I’m not here anymore. I’m there: Bodega, and the alarms are blaring. She’d said her mother was a politician . . . and the small voice from alongside my bunk strikes me in the gut.
“What, Liza? What is it?”
When I try to tell him, second thoughts arise. It feels like more of a wound to give Jeremy false hope. What if saying I’d seen Mimi makes him think that she still lives, but . . .
A choked sound helps me begin. “We have to get her home, Jeremy. All of them.”
He can’t know—not now. Not yet.
Jeremy nods and, staring at me strangely, lifts his pages. “Read these. Tell me what you think.”
Jeremy curses and shakes his pen hand some time later. He’s been writing for hours and must have a terrible cramp.
“You should take a break,” I say.
He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and tosses the notebook aside.
“I should,” he replies with the reluctance of a returned zealot. Then, he repeats, “I should,” with the voice of a man who’s come back to the real world from wherever he goes to write his pamphlets.
Jeremy regards me for a moment, then joins my spot by the pond. His strange eyes rest on my hair. I hold some pride in my appearance again. Not having the assets of a girl my age is hard to accept, but my hair had always been beautiful. Neither of my parents had given me this springy silver-blonde; rather, my aunt had ringlets so white-gold and so heavy, they’d given her neck aches. I’m curious if mine will be just as full when regrown. Already it feels so thick that my head’s hot at the root, and the strands take larger and larger curls the longer it gets.
“I’m sorry, Liza. Here I am writing instead of spending time with you. Our time could be short.”
“I get like that with my music, where I lose myself. Plus this . . . it isn’t about us. I’ve seen what you’ve put together so far, and it’s brilliant. No more purging. No more islands. What if they say yes? I mean, with Kiniva’s help . . . The fight’s still going. I just wish I could help you more, is all.”
Something distracts Jeremy, and I nudge him with my shoulder. “What is it?”
He blinks wide purple eyes slowly before grinning.
Even here, even on the brink of it all, he steals my breath away.
All this talk of borrowed time makes me drink him in: his hands are large, but with long, graceful fingers; his lean frame still borders on teenaged, yet hovers closer to a man, with promise of stature.
Something blossoms in my chest but I’m quick to stuff it down.
My father always said love is a reaction. My mother disagreed. Behind his back, she told me she’d chosen quite willfully to love my father, and it had grown from there. She said it was in rebellion against her English-born family to be with my father, an American of Russian descent—he was just the kind of man to set her own very uptight British father on his head. In one rare moment of mother-daughter giggling at the vanity, she said her father was so uptight, it was a wonder he’d loosened up enough to have children. My mother had told her own mother that she’d counted at least two times her father had “loosened up,” since she and her sister were around. My grandmother had quipped back over a glass of sherry, “One and half, Minuette. And not a moment longer.” My mother further proclaimed, in her fading accent, that she’d only had a kernel of love for my father to begin with. After he wrote his first song and offered it to her so sweetly, so demurely, and without boast, her heart had been moved; what had once been a mere seedling sprouted into a great oak that withstood even the worst of her sickness. She said from then on she’d lived as a shield for my father.
Yet she’d not been so fully enthralled with me, her own daughter. I hadn’t seen it as clearly back then, but in hindsight, with my own emerging affections for Jeremy, my mother’s dedication to my father echoes hauntingly.
My father, on the other hand, had been no one’s shield, but he’d been my very heart.
Either version of falling in love—immediate, or willful rebellion; at “first sight,” or the kernel that springs eternal—it all ends the same way.
Falling is hard. Scary.
Here with Jeremy Writer in the moonlight—I’m not calling him by any other name—I realize I’m going to be that shield for him. No good reason to feel this way other than what it is.
He’d been so fearful of his parents finding me. It makes sense now, all of it. His reluctance to be with me.
Our only distance before was misunderstanding, and with that vanished . . .
He laughs. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“You, either.”
Jeremy’s eyebrows rise in admission. “Touché.”
With this boy, it’s a reaction-type love. Like a knee jerked; something that happens in a snap when he watches me.
We could be the strong roots for one another forever if only fate would allow.
But here in our new world of Ash, oaks burn like tinder.
“Are you an Aries?” Jeremy asks some time later.
“Huh?” I look up. My eyes are sore and tired from reading in the dark.
“Your sign, Liza. What is it?”
“Not sure. My birthday’s in October. The fifteenth.”
He nods and, with a mischievous smile, leans back against the grass at the edge of the pond. “Ah, that makes sense. A Libra, then. You seem to weigh things.”
“What does it mean?”
Jeremy shrugs. “You’re the judges. Might be why we first met.”
“Oh. Hm. And you?”
“Gemini.”
He laughs at my blank stare. “You’ve not been warned, then. The twins; two people. We change moods.”
I nod, wizened, though I bite back a comment that he’s more than just two. “That makes a lot of sense.”
Then, we laugh until Jeremy’s more serious expression brings us back.
“What’re you thinking?” he asks, now on his elbows, plucking grass. Mystery plays with his lips.
“Did you have someone,” I blurt out, “a girl before this? . . . I mean, before the flood, I should say.”
He chuckles. “I’m not that old. There have been a couple after. But I wouldn’t say they were anything, really; mostly missed connections. I’ve always been a busy person, I guess. A lot of faces have caught my eye, I won’t lie about that. But I’ve always had the Authority to fight, and even before Mimi, I knew something had to change. As soon as I understood what they were to us, I focused on that: what freedoms we were losing, what my parents have created . . .”
It nicely sums up our lives. “So many ‘might have beens,’” I mutte
r bitterly.
Jeremy closes his eyes. “For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been.’”
“Is that yours?”
He chokes back a laugh. “God, no. John Greenleaf Whittier, circa 1856.”
My mouth forms an “O” at the thought of so much time having passed.
“Tell me more,” I say, folding my arms around my knees.
A blush starts from my stomach and travels up my chest, working its way to my face, and I’m feeling the glow as Jeremy tries to recall poetry for me. He, the boy who speaks for an entire rebellion, sits by the pond and recites for me alone.
He starts quietly, as if embarrassed:
“Maud Muller, on a summer’s day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast—
A wish that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed,
Through the meadow across the road.
She stopped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down,
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
