Page 14
I stood, my knees light, and went to the back of the bathroom. Stepping onto the edge of the tub, I could just reach the small metal vent near the ceiling. I’d taken one of the screws out of the bottom of the circular grate, which now slid to the right, around and up, leaving room to reach my hand in. I pulled out the plastic bag nestled in the back of the vent. The gray T-shirt was balled up inside it, secure in its own secret pouch.
I held it in my hands, feeling the ripped hem along the bottom, the tag that hung on by a few loose stitches, the letter C inked in. This might be the last thing I had of Caleb—the only proof he’d existed at all. It seemed so small and pathetic now, so momentary. The thread was already coming apart at the seams.
That word—lose—felt heavier than it ever had before. What if, after weeks of having the baby without knowing, I’d already lost it? For the first time since I’d found out about the pregnancy I was pulled under by grief, the kind that took hold of me suddenly in the weeks after Caleb’s death. However hard it would be to have a child beyond the City walls, I wanted it—it was a part of me, of us. And within a few days, she (why did I think it was a she?) would be the only family I had.
I couldn’t lose any more. There was so little already for me to hold on to. Moss was gone. Caleb was dead. Within days it would be over, the City, Clara, and the Palace receding behind me until I was back in the wild, alone, waiting how long—months? years?—to be called back. She was all I had left.
Please, I thought, wishing for the first time in days that the sickness would come back, that I would feel something—anything—again. I didn’t want to lose her. I didn’t want to lose the possibility of what she would be, of what I could be for her. I couldn’t now. Every time I pushed the idea out of my head it returned, until I found myself sitting on the windowsill, the T-shirt in my hands. I pressed the thin fabric to my face, trying to control my breath, but each one caught somewhere inside me. I stayed there like that, in the quiet of the room, for hours, barely able to force his name past my lips: “Caleb. ”
eleven
“THE LIEUTENANT SAID THE SOLDIERS OUTNUMBER THEM three to one. ” Aunt Rose pushed her eggs around her plate, prodding them along with her fork. It was the first time I’d seen her without makeup. The skin beneath her eyes was a dull blue, her lashes barely visible.
“What matters is we’re safe here,” Charles said. “There are a hundred soldiers surrounding the Palace, maybe more. No one is getting into the tower. ” He glanced sideways at me as he said it, as if I could confirm its truth.
I stared down at the thin piece of bread on my plate and the small pile of eggs beside it. My appetite had gone, but I still felt nothing. My father had been too ill to speak with me the night before, but the Lieutenant had assured everyone the siege would be suppressed within a day or two. They were already rationing, though. No supply trucks could come in from the Outlands, so the kitchens had been locked. One of the Palace workers, an older, spindly woman with glasses, had been given the unfortunate task of answering requests.
We sat there, pushing the food around our plates, listening to the sounds of the City below. The gunshots could still be heard, even from the top of the Palace tower. Every now and then the fighting was interrupted by a quick, hollow pop that raised goose bumps on my arms.
Clara broke the silence, her voice tentative. “How is he?” She didn’t dare look at me as she said it.
Rose kept her eyes on her food, letting the fork rest for a moment on the edge of her plate. “No better, no worse,” she said. “You didn’t discuss his illness outside the Palace, did you?”
“No, Mother. ” Clara shook her head.
The blood rushed to my face, my cheeks hot. Someone passed through the hall, the sound of their footsteps getting louder as they neared. I kept my eyes on the door, waiting for Moss to enter. Where was he? He could’ve been injured in the siege, or hiding out with the rebels. He could’ve been caught. There were so many possibilities of why he wasn’t here now, in the Palace, but I tried to steer my thoughts away from the most terrifying of all: What if he had betrayed me?
I could barely breathe. The room was too hot. The sight of the food sickened me, the eggs stiff and cold. “I’m not feeling well,” I said, pushing back from the table. “I can’t . . . ”
I didn’t bother finishing the sentence. I just got up and left, the horrible, hopeless feeling following me. Maybe it was better to go now, despite the uncertainty. But how could I leave Clara here, or Charles? If what the Lieutenant said was true, if the army would be able to defeat the rebels, then they’d be safe after all. I was the only one in danger.
I started toward my room when a voice called out behind me. “Princess Genevieve,” the doctor said. “Your father would like to speak with you. ” His small, black eyes watched me from behind thick lenses. He looked tired, his shoulders stooped, his face pallid.
“I’m not feeling well. I can’t right now,” I said, turning to go. “I’m sorry. ” I started away, toward my suite, but he followed after me, reaching for my arm.
“He may only be awake for an hour or two,” he said. He gestured back to the other end of the hall. “He said it was important. ”
We walked in silence. I didn’t resist any further. I knew how strange it would seem to the doctor if I refused to speak to my father now, when he was so sick. I held one hand in the other, squeezing the blood from my fingers, trying to fight the doubt that still held me.
“The tests have been inconclusive so far,” the doctor offered, as we approached my father’s suite. Two soldiers stood outside. “We’re narrowing it down, but he’s stable for now. ”
I could smell the bleach from the hallway. Inside it was worse, undercut by the stench of sickness, which still lingered in the air. I started toward the doorway and was surprised to see my father sitting up in bed, the curtains open, the room unbearably bright.
He looked frail, his skin papery and thin. In the sunlight he seemed paler, his gray-blue eyes translucent. His lips were cracked so badly they bled. I turned to the doctor, but he’d gone. The front door of the suite fell shut, leaving the two of us alone in silence.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask him how he was or stand there pretending this hadn’t been what I wanted. Instead I just sat at the end of the bed, folding my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. It was a while before he spoke.
“You lied to me,” he said. He studied the side of my face.
The back of my throat was so dry it hurt. It was impossible to tell what he knew, or how; if I could sidestep around the facts, or if there was no way out.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, hearing how pathetic it sounded, even to me.
“I don’t believe you anymore, Genevieve. ” He fingered the tape on the back of his hand. A plastic tube snaked out of it, connecting up to a limp bag of fluid. “I stopped believing you a long time ago. As I’m sure you have me. ”
“Then why bother asking?” There was little use now in pretending. We’d sunk into silence, the resentment building these past months, more natural than anything else. Even my pregnancy couldn’t change that for long.
He let out a low rattling sigh, resting his head back on the pillow. “Tell me—is there more than one tunnel leading into the Outlands?”