War Storm

I’m crying, I realize with a sick jolt.

Fat tears land on the paper, one by one. The ink bleeds, blue and wet.

“Evangeline, I don’t know how much longer I can live like this.” The admission is small, matter-of-fact. Her face crumples and I have to turn away. Slowly, I rise from the bed and walk past her. Red hair flashes at the edge of my vision. She doesn’t follow me into the bathroom, leaving me to think.

Hands shaking, tears endless, I do as I told my mother I would. I draw myself a bath and sink the note in the water. Letting the words, the offer, and our future drown.

As I lie back into the warmth, I feel sick with myself, with my cowardice, with everything in my rotted life. I dip my head back and submerge myself, letting the bathwater replace any tears still fresh on my cheeks. Underwater, I open my eyes to the strange, rippling world beneath the surface. I exhale slowly, watching the bubbles drift and burst. I decide I can do one thing, and one thing alone, about all of this.

I can keep my mouth shut.

And let Julian and Anabel play their games.

My hair is still wet at dinner, coiled into a neat spiral at the base of my neck. My face is bare too. No makeup, no war paint. No use for any of my usual trappings among family, though Mother doesn’t seem to realize that. She’s dressed for a state dinner, even though it’s just the five of us dining in the grand salon of my father’s chambers. Mother glitters as always, poured into a long-sleeved and high-necked gown of black material that glistens purple and green like oil. Her crown is still there too, woven into her braided hair. Father has no use for a crown of his own right now. He’s intimidating no matter what he does or doesn’t wear. Like Ptolemus, he is simple in unadorned clothing, our silver and black. Elane looks serene next to him, her eyes dry and empty.

I pick at my food, silent as I have been through the last two courses. My parents speak enough for all of us, though Ptolemus edges words in now and then. As before, I still feel sick, my belly roiling with unease. Because of my parents and what they want from me, because of how much I’m hurting Elane, and because of what I’ve done as well. I could be dooming my own father with my silence. His kingdom too. But I just can’t say the words aloud.

“I think Ocean Hill’s kitchens are taking the brunt of the young king’s new proclamations,” Mother observes, pushing the food around on her plate. Usually delicious courses have been replaced with bland, simple fare. Plain chicken, lightly seasoned, with greens, boiled potatoes, and some kind of watery sauce. An easy meal for anyone to prepare. Even me. I suppose the Red cooks of the palace have taken their leave.

Father slices a piece of chicken in two, the motion vicious and cutthroat. “It won’t last” is all he says, the words carefully chosen.

“What makes you think that?” Tolly, the treasured heir, gets the rare privilege of questioning Father without any threat of consequence.

That doesn’t mean Father will answer. He says nothing, continuing to chew the tasteless meat with a grimace.

I respond instead, trying to make my brother see what I do. “He’ll force Cal however he can.” I gesture at our father. “Prove that the country needs Red labor somehow.”

Dear Tolly furrows his brow, thoughtful. “It will still have Red labor. Reds need to eat too. With fair wages—”

“And who pays those wages?” Mother snaps, looking at Tolly like he’s some kind of imbecile. Odd for her. She dotes on him most of the time, more than she does on me. “Certainly not us.” She goes on and on, spearing her dinner with tight, jerking motions. The twitchy speed of a rabbit, maybe. “It isn’t right. It isn’t natural.”

I run the meager proclamations over in my head. Announced and effective immediately. Fair wages, freedom of movement, equal punishment and protection under Silver law, and— “What about conscription?” I ask aloud.

Our mother slaps her hand on the table. “Another folly. Conscription is a good incentive. Work or serve. Without the latter, why would anyone choose the former?”

It’s a circular conversation, and I breathe heavily through my nose. Across the table, Elane shoots me a warning glance. Obviously I don’t care for our lack of servants either, and the new world Cal wants to build will result in great upheaval, mostly for Silvers accustomed to our traditional place. It won’t last. It can’t last. Silvers won’t allow it. But they do in Montfort. Just like Davidson said. Their country was built from one like ours.

I remember something else he said, only to me, back in the mountains. He stood too close, whispered too quickly. But the shock of his words hit home. You are denied what you want because of what you are. A choice you never made, a piece of yourself you cannot change—and do not want to change.

I’ve never thought myself akin to Reds in any way. I’m a Silver-born lady, a princess made by the accomplishments of a powerful father. I was meant to be a queen. And but for the longing in my heart, the odd changes to my nature I’ve only begun to understand, I would be one. Davidson was right in Montfort. Like Reds, I am different from what my world demands I be. And I am not worse for it.

Under the table, Ptolemus grabs my hand, his touch kind but fleeting. I feel a burst of love for my brother, as well as another burst of shame.

One last chance, then.

“I assume Elane will come with us to Archeon,” I say aloud, looking between my parents. They exchange a pointed glance, one I know well and do not like. Elane drops her gaze, staring at her hands beneath the table. “She’ll have to stand with the rest of her house, pledge loyalty with Haven,” I explain coolly, my reasoning sound enough.

But not for Mother, apparently. She puts down her fork with a clang of metal on porcelain. “Princess Elane is your brother’s wife,” she says, emphasizing the words. They sound like nails on glass. She speaks like Elane isn’t even here. It sets my teeth on edge. “And your brother, as well as our family, has already proven himself loyal to King Tiberias. There’s no need for her to make the journey. She will return home to Ridge House.”

A flush colors the tops of Elane’s cheeks. Still, she bites her tongue, knowing better than to fight this battle herself.

I push out an exasperated breath. Long journey. What a load of—

“Well, as a princess of the Rift, she should be at the coronation. To show the kingdom who we are. The pictures and recordings will go out all over the Rift as well as Norta. Our kingdom should know its future queen, shouldn’t they?” My argument is shaky at best, and it sounds as desperate as I feel. I hate reminding anyone, most of all myself, of Elane’s title, because it comes from my brother. Not from me.

“It is not your decision.”

Father’s glare used to shut me up, stop me cold, when I was a child. Sometimes I would run from him, but that landed me worse punishments. So I learned to stare back, in spite of my own fear. To meet what terrifies me head-on.

“She doesn’t belong to him, or to you,” I hear myself growl, sounding like one of my mother’s great cats.

I don’t know how much longer I can live like this, she said before.

And neither do I.

Her jaw works furiously as she grinds her teeth together, unable to speak.

Tolly leans forward, as if he can defend me from our parents. “Eve . . . ,” he murmurs, if only to end this before things take an even worse turn.