Once (11 page)

“I've never understood Strays.” The man shook his head. “Who would choose that life when they could have this?” He gestured around the room.

My thoughts drifted to Marjorie and Otis at their kitchen table, content to live by themselves, free from the King's rules. “A lot of people.”

The man narrowed his eyes at me, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard me correctly. I was about to excuse myself when the King started toward us.

“Genevieve!” he called out, his face breaking into a genuine smile. “I see you've met Charles Harris. He's the one I was telling you about.” He gestured at the domed ceiling, the planted gardens and marble floor. “His family has overseen nearly every building and restoration project inside the City walls. The City of Sand wouldn't be what it is without him.”

So this was the Head of Development. He seemed surprisingly normal with his crisp buttoned shirt and huge blue eyes. Every inch of him seemed to imply he was decent, nice even—a person to be trusted. I wondered if he was the one who worked the boys in the labor camps, or if he made someone else do it.

“I was just telling Genevieve how incredible it is that she arrived here safely. A testament to her strength, I'm sure.”

“I'm happy she's home.” The King held a glass in his hand. “Charles here has been in the City since it was founded. His family was one of the lucky ones—both his parents survived the plague. They donated assets to help fund the new capital. His father was the Head of Development until he passed away last year.” I studied Charles, his shiny, clean-shaven face and mop of thick black hair. He couldn't have been more than five years older than me. So little separated him from the boys in the dugout—their parents had died, and his hadn't.

“It's been an honor to take over my father's legacy,” he said matter-of-factly.

The King gestured at the domed ceiling above us. “This was Charles's first project. He spent a good six months studying the recovered plans for the conservatory, looking at pictures from before the plague to get it all just right. With a few improvements, of course.”

Charles pointed to the far end of the dome. “A small plane had crashed into that side of the conservatory, leaving a giant hole in the ceiling.”

The string quartet in the corner struck up a song, and a few couples ventured into the center of the room to dance. People clinked their glasses together, toasting. The King raised his hand, waving two women over. The younger one seemed about my age, with straw-colored hair and thin, glossy lips. The other woman looked similar but older, her eyelashes clumped together with thick mascara. Her hair was styled in a stiff gold bob. “Perfect timing,” the King started, resting his hand on the older woman's back. “Genevieve, I'd like you to meet my sister-in-law, Rose, and my niece, Clara. Rose was married to my late brother.”

The King had mentioned them the day before—my aunt and cousin. I offered my hand to the girl but she looked away as if she didn't notice. Rose quickly took it in hers instead. “We're happy you're here, Princess,” she said slowly, as if it took great effort to get each word out.

Clara's eyes darted from Charles to me, then back to Charles again. She sidled up next to him, resting her hand on his arm. “Let's go on the balloon ride, Charles,” she said softly. She turned to me, surveying the satin gown Beatrice had helped me into, the shoes with the gold clasps on their sides, the low bun my hair had been twisted into. I'd been in her presence for less than five minutes, but I could tell, with complete certainty, that she hated me.

Charles stepped forward. “I was just about to ask Genevieve,” he said. “She hasn't been yet, and it's a novelty every new citizen should experience. I promise I'll take you later.” He offered me his arm. Clara glared at me, her cheeks flushed.

“I actually wanted to look at the greenhouse,” I said, pointing to the enclosed glass room on the other side of the conservatory, the lush flowers filling every inch of it.

“Charles can go with you,” the King said, urging me toward him.

“I'd prefer to go alone,” I said, nodding to Charles in apology. His arm was still outstretched, waiting for me to take it.

It took him a moment to recover, a low laugh escaping his lips. “Of course,” he looked at the group as he spoke. “You must be exhausted from the parade. Another time.” He studied me as though I were some exotic animal he'd never come in contact with before.

The King opened his mouth to speak, but I turned and took off through the conservatory into the greenhouse, relieved when I was finally alone again. Outside the glass ceiling, the sky was already orange, the sun dipping behind the mountains. The reception would end soon. In a few short hours I'd be on my way to see Caleb, all of this—the Palace, the King, Clara, and Charles—receding behind me.

Caleb is alive
, I repeated to myself. That was all that mattered. I reached my hand to the top of my gown. The tiny square was still inside my dress, pressed against my heart.

WHEN I RETURNED TO THE SUITE, I GOT TO WORK, SEARCHING
the closet for something discreet to wear. The hangers were heavy with silk dresses, fur jackets, and petal-pink nightgowns. I dug through the drawers below, settling on a black sweater and the one pair of jeans I'd been allowed, even though Beatrice had warned me not to wear them outside of my room. I stepped out of the gown, finally able to breathe.

I unfolded the tiny paper map, one side printed with directions, the other with the note from Caleb. He said he had a contact in the Palace, someone who'd left a bag for me on the seventh floor staircase. If I could get out, I'd travel ten minutes off the main strip, to the building he'd marked with an
X
.

If
I could get out.

It was a foolish idea. I knew that. I buttoned my jeans, slipped on my socks and shoes, and fastened my hair back. I arranged the pillows and duvet to look as though it contained a sleeping body. It was foolish to think I could get out of the Palace unnoticed, that I could find my way through the City. Because of the strict curfew—the streets were clear from ten at night until six in the morning, a rule the King had established to keep order—I'd be one of the only people on the sidewalks. If anyone followed me, I'd lead them right to Caleb.

But as I crept toward the door, listening for any sound in the hall, I couldn't think of doing anything else. He was here. Only a few streets separated us. I had let him go once, and I wouldn't do it again.

I lifted the metal cover of the keypad on the wall. The code started with 1-1, I knew that much. Those were the easiest numbers to catch. I'd thought I'd seen a 3 and another 1 at the end, but it was hard to know for sure; Beatrice's fingers always moved so quickly whenever she was coming and going. I pressed my ear to the door. I couldn't hear anything. She was probably down the hall now, dropping empty glasses in the sink as she spoke to Tessa, the cook. Still, my hands shook as I entered the 1, then another 1, a 2, an 8, and finally the 3 and 1 at the end.

It beeped twice. I tried the door but it was locked. I rested my forehead on the wall, desperately trying to remember. It could've been a 7, not an 8, that I'd seen. It could've been a 2, not a 3. It could've been anything.

Numbers, combinations, codes ran through my head. Then I had a sudden flash of the King at the podium, before Stark had received his medal.
We've made tremendous progress
, he'd said,
Since the day the first citizens arrived here, January first, two thousand and thirty-one
.

Before I could second-guess myself, I punched in those six numbers: 1-1-2-0-3-1. Nothing happened. The lock didn't beep. The metal lid fell shut. I turned the knob and for the first time it gave. The door swung open, releasing me into the quiet hall.

It felt good to be free of the suite, with its sealed windows and cold, tiled bathroom, the couch that was so stiff it was like sitting on a cement block. Outside, the lights in the corridor were dimmed. I heard a clanking noise from the kitchen, where the staff was cleaning up for the night. I looked right, then left, moving along the wall, nerves knotting my stomach as I inched closer to the east staircase.

I peered through the small rectangular window in the door. The stairwell was empty. Another keypad was on the wall. I typed the same code, moving slowly, careful not to make any sound. The lock opened and I ran through the door, trying to ignore what lay beyond the narrow railing—an open shaft that dropped fifty stories to the ground. I took the stairs two at a time as I began the long descent.

When I was four flights down a door opened somewhere above me. “Where are you going?” a voice called. I froze, pressing myself against the wall, out of sight. Everything echoed in the concrete staircase. Even my breaths betrayed me. “I can hear you!” That voice, her tone—I knew in an instant it was Clara. Then I heard the
clack
of her shoes against the cement floor as she came after me.

I took off. I flew down the stairs, not stopping until I had cleared another ten flights. The footsteps quieted. I inched away from the wall and gazed up. I could just make out Clara's hands gripping the railing, her fingernails painted bloodred. “I know you're there!” she yelled again. I kept going, leaving her there, in the top of the tower, calling out my name.

When I reached the seventh floor a bag sat waiting for me, as Caleb had promised. Inside was a Palace uniform. I changed quickly, pulling the cap over my eyes, and continued down the staircase. The flight opened into a wide hallway, metal doors on either side. From one of the small windows I could see into the Palace mall. The ceilings were painted blue, white spongy clouds stretching out across them. The shops were all closed, one reading
TIME & AGAIN JEWELRY
in fat letters, another
GUCCI RESTORED
. A soldier paced the length of the stores, his back to me. Two others stood watch at the revolving doors.

I moved down the wide hallway to the
EXIT
sign. Caleb's contact had lodged a ball of paper into the doorjamb, making it impossible to lock. The knob gave easily. Outside, the air was cooler, the wind covering everything with a fine layer of sand. The route Caleb had marked was just in front of me. Troops were stationed at the Palace's front entrance and along its back. I could see them through the narrow trees, five soldiers huddled together, only occasionally glancing behind them. I took off, ducking behind the fountain, half covered by the high wall of shrubs.

I turned back every now and then to make sure the troops weren't following me. A knot lodged in the back of my throat. Clara had seen me. At this very moment, she could be waking the Palace from the top down, alerting the soldiers stationed on each floor. I kept my head low, calmed by each steady step. I was out, moving through the City, already on my way to Caleb. What was done was done.

The streets were dark, the high buildings casting an eerie glow on the pavement. I heard the Jeeps patrolling the other end of the City center. High above me, windows sparkled with light. I crossed the overpass as the map showed, keeping close to the buildings on the other side. Dried-out palm trees lined the narrow street. A few of the buildings still hadn't been restored. A restaurant sat abandoned, tables and chairs gray with dust.

Every time I heard a Jeep on the street beside me, the map would show a turn, and I would head in the opposite direction, the noise of the engine fading into the background. The building Caleb had marked was nearly a mile east of the monorail, the entrance in an alleyway behind a theater. As I neared it my steps were lighter, my body floating along, alive with nerves.

The alley was dark, the air thick with the smell of rotting garbage. I entered through the door marked on the map. Inside it was pitch black. I felt my way along the wall and down a narrow set of stairs, into the building's underbelly. Smoke lingered in the air. Somewhere, someone was singing. The murmurs of faraway voices swirled around me. I crept along, stumbling over the last few steps, until I was at the bottom of the staircase, in front of another door.

A woman was on stage, clad in a silver-sequined gown, a three-person band behind her. She sang into a microphone like the one the King had used at the parade. A sad, slow song drifted to the back of the room. A man on a saxophone leaned forward, adding a few low notes. Couples spun around on a cramped dance floor, a woman nuzzling her face into a man's neck as he shifted his weight back and forth, his hips swaying with the beat. Others huddled in cozy booths, laughing over half-empty glasses. Lit cigarettes sat in plastic trays, the smoke spiraling up to the ceiling.

The walls were covered with painted canvases. One showed the City's buildings dotted with bloodred lights, making each skyscraper look sinister. A massive painting hung behind the bar. Rows of children were shown in crisp white shirts and blue shorts just like the ones the Golden Generation wore, but their faces were flat and featureless, each one interchangeable with the next. I scanned every person in the room, looking for Caleb at the bar, or in the pack of men huddled by the door. In the back, to the right of the stage, a figure sat alone in a booth. His face was hidden under the brim of his cap. He was twisting something between his fingers, lost in quiet concentration.

The song ended. The woman in the sequined dress introduced some of the band members and made a joke. A few people behind me laughed. I stood rooted in place, watching him play with the paper napkin, how he bit down hard on his bottom lip. Suddenly, as if sensing me there, he looked up, his gaze meeting mine. He stared at me for a moment, his face brightening in a smile.