“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t try to stop me as I hurry down the hall.
When I get to the lobby, I find Pen curled on the couch, that heavy black book from the nightstand open across her knees. The people of the ground call it The Text.
“Are you all right?” she says. “You’re all red.”
“Just a little warm,” I say. “I’m about to go out for air. How’s your book?”
“It starts off reasonably enough,” she says. “Their god creates light, and the earth and things. I was beginning to see it as a prequel to our history book.” She flips back and forth through the pages, gesturing. “And then this god of theirs creates the first man and woman, and a page or two later their children are throwing stones and murdering each other. It doesn’t bode well for the dawn of humanity, does it?”
“Maybe it will get better,” I say.
“I’m only on the first chapter, and already there’s talk of flooding the world and drowning everyone. It can’t possibly get worse, I should think.”
From the kitchen, Nimble laughs pointedly.
“Fantastic,” Pen grumbles. She shoots me a bitter smile. “Lovely place we’ve fallen to, Morgan. I can’t thank you enough for forcing me along.”
I stare at my shoes. I can’t meet her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” she says.
The words hurt, but not as much as it hurts seeing what this place is doing to her.
“No matter,” I say. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Careful,” Pen says, studying the open book. “There are spying divinities and floods out there.”
Celeste is nowhere to be found in the hotel, and since the weather has turned more agreeable, she’s taken to spending her days outside.
It doesn’t take me long to find her. She’s on a bench in the manicured garden between the hotel and the theme park. The shrubbery here is quite strange, fashioned into the shapes of animals and spires.
Celeste could still be a princess, the way she sits among them. Her posture is exact, her hair long and full of daylight. And though the passage of time here has begun to darken her spirits, there’s still a glimmer to her eyes—hope she was born with.
I stand several paces away for a long time, watching her, trying to convince myself that it isn’t too late to change my mind about telling her. I could turn around before she sees me. I could run. But run where? For all its space, the ground holds no solutions. Bravery is still the thing that sets change in motion.
Be brave, I tell myself.
I step forward.
Celeste leans forward to pluck a skeletal flower from the grass. She looks at me for a moment, then she blows on the flower, causing its white starlike plumes to float apart from the seed head. “Skeletal flowers,” she says. “They call them dandelion puffs down here. Did you know that? Nim told me.”
“Why?” I say.
She shrugs. “Colloquialisms.” She pats the space beside her on the bench, inviting me to sit. “I hope Pen is feeling better. I’ve thought it best to stay out of her way until she’s feeling more herself.”
At the mention of her name, I feel the weight of Internment on my chest again. I am about to betray my best friend, and the words are caught in my throat. I have something to tell you. I have something to tell you. My knees are shaking; I wrap my skirt around my thighs to keep them still.
“I have something to tell you,” I say. “I’d intended to keep it from you, but it isn’t my decision to make.”
“You’re speaking in riddles,” she says.
“I’m sorry.” I close my eyes for a long moment. “I wasn’t prepared for how difficult this is.”
She raises an eyebrow at me.
“I know Pen hurt your brother,” I say. “But before I say a word of what I’ve come to tell you, I need you to promise me that she’d be safe. And Judas. All of us. If we were to return to the sky, I need you to promise that everyone would be safe.”
Now she is the one who looks shaken. “Do you know a way back?”
“I need your word.”
“You have it, then.” She shows a row of perfect white teeth, a smile she can’t hold back. Her face is alight.
“The first time you were to meet with King Ingram, you asked Pen and me about the glasslands,” I say. “They’re powered by a substance called sunstone. It’s fairly common on Internment; the soil produces it. Pen and I did a little research. She thinks Internment may have once been a part of the archipelago King Ingram and King Erasmus are fighting for, and that the sunstone that powers the glasslands is phosane.”
The princess is tearing the dandelion stem to ribbons.
“Actually, she’s quite sure of it,” I go on. “Her father brings home bits of sunstone now and then, and she recognized it immediately when we looked up phosane at the library. And if King Ingram knows about it, perhaps he’d be more eager to ally with your father.”
“Which would mean we get to go home,” Celeste says. But her smile falters. “But we can’t prove it. King Ingram might think we’re just making this up to speed things along. I don’t suppose Pen has an image of the glasslands to present.”
“There’s something better,” I say.
She realizes I’m staring at her betrothal band, and she stares at it too. Confusion turns to realization, and then there are tears in her eyes. “These are made of . . .”
I nod.
She hugs me.
I’ve never hated myself more.
14
Amy sits at the top of the stairs and watches me through the railing posts. I can’t read her expression, but she’s watching Celeste button her coat, and I am sure that she knows what I’ve done.
Pen looks up from her reading. “I should like to meet this king you’re forever running off to see.”
Celeste hooks her elbow through mine. “You will,” she says. “Just not today. Private conference.”
Pen mimics her under her breath and makes a face at her book.
“I am so glad to see you well again,” Celeste says, and her sincerity startles Pen, who looks quizzically at me.
“We’ll be back before dinner,” Celeste says.
“Can I come?” Annette asks, bouncing at our feet.
Nimble puts his hand on her forehead. “Nope.”
Celeste opens the door. She can’t get moving fast enough. “Are you coming, Morgan?”
“No,” I say. I know that I should, but I’ve used up all my courage telling her about the phosane, and I have none left to see what will happen next.
“But you have to,” she insists.
“I thought this kingdom practiced free will,” Pen says.
“We do,” Annette says. “Stay, Morgan. We’ll make brownies.”
Celeste stares me down until I look at her. “You’re sure?” she says.
I nod.
Once they’re gone, I go to the harbor. The water is especially clear today, and I pretend the sea is the sky, and that the clouds are as close as their reflections.
“You belong to the sky,” a voice says. I didn’t hear Judas approach, but now he’s beside me. “There isn’t any fighting it.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I feel it, too,” he says. “I miss a city that blames me for my betrothed’s murder; how backward is that?”
“ ‘Would the people of the ground think Internment is a paradise, or a punishment?’ ” I say, quoting Daphne’s essay.
Judas gives a rare smile. “You read it, then?”
“All of it,” I say. “Lines of it appear in my head sometimes. Lines I didn’t realize I’d memorized. They’re strangely relevant much of the time.”
“She was filled with things like that,” he says. “She’ll haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“I’m sorry she couldn’t be here,” I say. I truly mean it. “Judas,” I say. “If she were here, what would she have to say about returning to Internment?”
“If she were here, th
ings wouldn’t be what they are,” he says.
That’s true. If she were alive, I would still be up there, fretting over my silly fascination with the ground, all the while knowing I’d never see it. The train wouldn’t have gone backward that day; it would have taken me straight home.
“But I think she’d be for it,” he says. “She was curious and she’d have wanted to see this, but she was loyal, too.”
“What about you?” I say. “You miss it, but do you want to go back?”
“I can’t,” he says. He looks back at the hotel. “I’m surprised your betrothed isn’t running out here to make sure I don’t try to kill you.”
“He’s just protective,” I say. “It isn’t anything personal.”
“Yes it is,” Judas says. “Even here, I can’t escape that stigma.”
“Don’t worry about what Basil thinks, then,” I say. “You know the truth, and it just so happens I believe you.”
“You’re a little bit of a rebel,” he says.
“No one’s ever called me that, I’m sure,” I say.
“There are worse things to be called.”
“Yes.” I stare into the sea, past the broken reflection of the sky, until I can see nothing but murky darkness. I see no trace of Pen’s ring; the most precious thing she owns, and it’s as though it never existed now that it’s fallen here. Something that’s always been there, just gone.
“Never thought I’d be so afraid of the water,” I say. “I thought at least water would be the same thing on the ground as it is in the sky, but everything here is so much more daunting. Everything. I fear that if I took a step down, I’d fall into a chasm.”
“That’s apt,” he says. “And everything costs money. Even hospital stays. I heard Jack Piper talking about the professor’s bill. Once this war is over, I think we’re all going to have to get jobs if we ever expect to be in charge of our own lives here.”
“Were we in charge of our own lives back home?” I say. “Instead of money, maybe we were paying with our freedom. What would happen if we didn’t want to marry our betrotheds, or we wanted to talk about the ground, or we wanted—I don’t know—more?”
In unison, we say the answer: “Declared irrational.”
On Internment you could be questioned for so little as having messy hair too many days in a row, or for wearing too much cosmetic, or for having a dress that is hemmed too short, a shirt that is too wrinkled. It always made sense to me back home—a messy appearance implies a troubled home life, a troubled mind—but here the king has more important things to worry about. It isn’t so strict. The individual isn’t as important as the masses. I’m still not sure which I prefer.
“So we are better off here,” Judas says.
“I took offense when you told me to be careful,” I say. “But you were right.”
“I shouldn’t have talked down to you,” he says. “I have trust issues, you could say.”
“Understandable,” I say.
“It’s just that you seemed the sort that always follows rules. You look like you’ve never done a thing wrong in your life, and people like that lack common sense.”
“Is this part of your apology for offending me?” I say.
“Yes.”
“Anyway, I’ve done plenty of things wrong. When Pen and I were kids, we stole her mother’s tonic and we had to replace it by pouring a little from each bottle and filling them up the rest of the way with water. We were sick for days.”
“The two of you are as close as betrotheds, aren’t you?” he says.
“Closer, probably,” I say. “Because nobody told us we belonged together. We just always knew somehow that we were meant to be friends.”
“Everyone needs someone they care for like that,” he says. “Life’s too lonely if you’re only living it for yourself.”
“I have Basil, too,” I say, though whether I’m reminding him or me, I’m not sure.
“Basil looks out for you,” he says. “Pen sounds like a terrible influence.”
“She’s still a genius,” I say.
“There are different sorts of geniuses,” he says. “You’re one too. I’ve never met a person with your ability to make peace. Everyone in that hotel is at odds with someone, but not you. It’s a little bit charming.”
“That may be the nicest thing anyone has said to me since we landed.”
“I said ‘a little bit charming.’ That’s all.”
“It’s a nice thought, but isn’t true,” I say.
“I may be a fugitive,” he says, “but I always tell the truth. Mostly.”
I steal a glance at him, but look away before he notices. I hope I haven’t just ruined his chance to have a life here, and that he won’t hate me when he finds out what I’ve done.
We both stare at the horizon, as though it will open for us, as though there is a world between the sea and the sky, and it will be perfect there.
Judas is the first to look away. “I’m going back,” he says. “Are you coming?”
“In a bit,” I say. I’d like to stand here and enjoy the notion that nobody in that hotel is at odds with me. If it’s true, it surely won’t be for much longer.
The sun sets the sky on fire as it goes down. I lie in a giant metal teacup, my legs draped over its brim. Annette says they spin when the ride is turned on. Spin until some people laugh and others throw up. When she told me about them, I was appalled. Something like this would never be permitted back home. But now I think I understand; people want a thrill simply because they’re allowed. They want to go as far as they dare.
“Morgan!” a voice is singing. The princess could have a promising career in theater, the way she projects.
My evening of solitude is coming to an end now. I don’t answer, but I can hear her footsteps running, and I know she’s found me. She rattles the gate as she tries to open it. “It’s locked,” she says. “How did you get in?”
“Climbed over,” I say. I look over my shoulder at her. The fashions of the ground are much simpler than the billowing skirts, laces, and bell sleeves that were her trademark back home, but she still manages to look like royalty in brown gingham and a cloche hat. She places one foot on the base of the gate, gives a halfhearted leap, and huffs.
“There are spikes at the top,” she calls. “What if I impale myself?”
“You shall have to be careful,” I say.
“You didn’t ruin your skirt?”
I run my hands over the fabric, inspecting. “I may have snagged it a bit.”
I should do the decent thing and help her, but I’m finding her attempts greatly amusing, and I’m in need of cheering up.
“Didn’t you say that you and your brother were experts at sneaking out?” I ask.
“There weren’t spikes involved,” she says.
“You left your kingdom and glided thirty-five thousand feet to the ground,” I say. “You can conquer the fence.”
“Conquer it.” She shakes the hat from her hair, lets it fall. “Right.” With renewed fervor, she tries again. She wedges herself between the spikes atop the gate’s bars, takes a breath, and drops to her feet.
I clap. She curtsies and then dusts herself off. “What are you doing out here?”
“Trying to stop time,” I say. A flock of birds cuts through the sky, spread apart like eyelashes.
She climbs beside me into the teacup. She fiddles curiously with the small round table in the center. The cup groans and rotates clockwise.
“Well?” she says.
“Well?” I look at her.
“Aren’t you going to ask how it went? What the king had to say?”
I look at the sky. “I can see the moon while there’s still daylight,” I say. “The long season is starting. But they call it spring here.”
Celeste pats my hand. She knows this isn’t easy for me. “Come on,” she says gently. “Ask me.”
“What did the king have to say? Morbid curiosity begs to know.”
“I used
to think there was only one sort of plane,” she says. “But there are just so many, Morgan, did you know that? Biplanes and passenger planes and all sorts that are built for specific purposes.” She twists the table again. The gears are stiff, but she puts muscle into it, and the cup spins very slowly. “None of them are capable of flying above the troposphere. And even if they could, they would be no match for Internment’s wind barrier.”
I know all of this already, but I let her explain it again because I’m dreading whatever point she’s getting to.
“But the king’s engineers are working on a new plane that isn’t really a plane at all,” she says. “A jet.”
It’s a sharp word. Jet.
“It sounds like something that could slice the sky open,” I say.
“Precisely,” she says. The teacup goes still. “I wanted to say thank you,” she says. “I really do think this will speed things along, and that we’ll be returning to the sky soon. King Ingram says that if my ring proves to contain real phosane, his engineers and mechanics may be able to use it for fuel.”
I sit up straight, look at her hands folded on the table. “You gave him your betrothal band? So he can ruin it?”
“Not ruin it,” she says. “Use it. It wasn’t doing any good on my hand.”
“But it’s your ring,” I say. “Doesn’t it mean something to you?”
She laughs. “I don’t think my ring means to me what yours means to you. What everyone else’s means to them. I hardly even know the boy; I can count on one hand the times we’ve spoken.”
Every generation has its prince and princess, and they are traditionally sheltered. Everyone knows this. But still, I thought they must know their betrotheds. “How are you expected to be in love if you rarely see each other?”
“Love doesn’t have anything to do with it,” she says. “Not for my brother and me, anyway. It’s all business. But I believe I have quite a talent for it. Papa will be pleased with how I’ve handled King Ingram. I’ve set the foundation for a good relationship between Havalais and Internment, one that will last for generations.”
I don’t know whether she’s boasting or dreaming.
“That’s a nice thought,” I say.