Once (21 page)

It had been eight days. The King took me back to the prison to show me Caleb's empty cell. He'd pointed to the exact spot on the map where Caleb had been let go, an abandoned town just north of Califia called Ashland. I'd pored over the pictures they'd taken of the release—the only proof I had that it had been done. Caleb was already halfway into the woods, a knapsack on his back, his face turned in profile. He wore the same blue shirt he'd had on the last time I'd seen him. I recognized the stains on the collar.

His words still haunted me. I had looked at the paper every day, waiting to hear that something had happened outside the City's walls, that Caleb had been spotted somewhere, despite the public “report” of his execution. But every day it was the same inane nonsense. They speculated about my growing relationship with Charles, if a proposal was imminent. People wrote in, saying where we'd been seen inside the City. I spent nights alone in my room, staring up at the ceiling, tears rolling down and pooling. In little more than a week my life had been drained of everything real.

The King rapped his fork against his glass, the clinking splitting the air. Clara stood across the room with Rose, her face ashen. She'd avoided me since Charles and I had been announced as a couple. I only saw her at the obligatory social events—dinners and cocktail receptions in the City. Her eyes seemed permanently bloodshot. She spoke softly and always excused herself early. I'd heard that her mother was now pushing her toward the Head of Finance, a man in his forties who constantly spit into his handkerchief. Whenever I was certain there couldn't be anyone in the Palace as miserable as I was, I thought of Clara.

Charles reached for my hand, waiting until I rested my palm in his. Then he cleared his throat, the sound filling the quiet room. “Some of you may have noticed that things have been different for me lately. That I've been happier since Genevieve arrived in the Palace. Now that we've been spending more time together I can't imagine being without her.” He kneeled down in front of me, his eyes focused on mine. “I know we'll be happy together—I'm certain of it.” As he spoke, the rest of the crowd disappeared. He was only talking to me, saying all the things unsaid between us.
I'm sorry it had to happen like this
. He squeezed my hand, his lips still moving as he went on about when he saw me for the first time, about the afternoon by the fountain, how he had loved the sound of my laugh, the way I'd just stood there, not caring that the water soaked my gown.
But I'm still glad it happened
.

“All I really need now is for her to say yes.” He let out an awkward laugh and held the ring up for people to see. I saw Clara out of the corner of my eye. She was hurrying toward the exit, squeezing through the crowd, trying to hide her face with her hand. “Will you marry me?”

The room was silent, waiting for my reply. “Yes,” I said quietly, barely able to hear my own words. “I will, yes.”

The King clapped. The others joined in. Then everyone surrounded us, their hands patting me on the back and grabbing at my fingers, asking to see the ring. “I'm so proud of you,” the King said. I tried not to wince as his thin lips pressed against my forehead. “This is a happy day,” he announced, as though saying it would make it true.

“Can we take a picture?” Reginald, the Head of Press, strode over. His photographer, a short woman with wiry red hair, was right behind him.

“I suppose that's all right,” Charles offered. He rested his hand on my back. I tried to smile but my face felt stiff. The camera kept flashing, stinging my eyes.

Reginald flipped open his notebook, scribbling in the margin until his pen worked. “You must be thrilled, Genevieve,” he said, half question, half answer. The King was right beside me. I spun the ring around my finger, not stopping until it burned.

“It is a joy,” I said.

Reginald's features softened, as if my reply pleased him. “I've gotten tremendous feedback on the pieces I've run about you two. Forget the engagement—people are already asking when the wedding will be.”

“We'd like to have it as soon as possible,” the King replied. “The staff has already been talking about the procession through the City. It'll be spectacular. You can assure the people of that.”

“I have no doubt,” Reginald said. He pressed his thumb on the back of the pen, clicking it closed. “I look forward to running this piece tomorrow morning. Everyone will be thrilled.”

The smoke circled my head. Here I was, standing beside Charles Harris as his fiancée, made up in a dress and heels, doing what I'd said I'd never do. I recounted that moment in the prison so many times, Caleb's bruised face, the raised knots along his back. They were going to kill him, I kept reminding myself. I'd stopped it the only way I could.

And yet now I was part of the regime, a traitor, no doubt, in the dissidents' eyes. I imagined Curtis reading about my engagement in the factory, holding it up to the others as proof that he'd been right about me all along. Even when the tunnels were completed, they would never help me escape now.

The Head of Finance signaled Reginald from across the room. He was in a cluster of men, his blond hair gelled back into a hard helmet. “If you'll excuse me, I have something I need to attend to.” Reginald raised his glass once more. Then he strode off, maneuvering past a woman in a fur stole.

The restaurant was too hot. The smoke snaked through the air and flattened out across the ceiling. I covered my mouth, unable to breathe. “I have to go back to my room,” I said, taking Charles's hand off me.

The King dropped his glass on a waiter's tray. “You can't just run off,” he said. “All of these people are here for you, Genevieve. What am I supposed to tell them?” He gestured around the room. Some of the crowd had settled in their seats, others huddled together, speculating on whether Charles's mother would be well enough to attend the wedding.

Charles nodded to the King. “I can take her,” he whispered. He reached for my hand, squeezing it so gently it startled me. “I think everyone will understand if we head out early. It's been a long night. Most of the guests will be leaving soon anyway.”

The King glanced around the room, at the few people standing beside us, making sure they hadn't overheard our conversation. “I suppose if you leave together it'll be better. Just say a few good-byes, will you?” He shook Charles's hand and offered me a hug. My face pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around my neck, suffocating me. Then he started through the crowd. Rose was waving him over, an extra glass in her hand.

Charles and I headed toward the door. We offered quick explanations to the guests we passed—all the excitement had been too much for one day. When we were finally outside in the open mall, away from the crowd, Charles still hadn't let go of my hand. His face was close, his fingers wrapped around mine. “What is it?” I asked.

“I keep waiting for something to change with us,” he whispered, his blue eyes meeting mine. I glanced over our shoulder at the two soldiers trailing behind us. They were ten yards back, strolling past the closed home goods store, the windows displaying copper pots and pans. “I know this isn't ideal—”

“
Ideal?
” I said. The word made me laugh. “That's one way to put it.”

He refused to look away. “I just think that we need more time. To really know each other. They told me you had feelings for him, but that doesn't mean this can't be more than it is. That it can't grow into …
something
.” I was thankful he didn't say the word we both knew he was thinking:
love
.

I slipped my hand out from under his. It looked so strange with the glittering ring on it, like some picture from a book. “It won't,” I whispered, walking ahead. I closed my eyes, and for a second I could almost feel Caleb beside me, hear his low laugh, smell the sweet sweat on his skin. We were back in the plane, his ear to my heart, clinging to each other in the dark. “I don't think that can happen more than once.”

Charles followed me. “I don't believe that,” he said. He stared at the marble floor. “I can't.”

“Why not?” I asked, raising my voice. It sounded so foreign in the wide, empty corridor. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that someone wouldn't want to be with you?”

We descended the escalators. Charles stood on the step above me, his hand raking his hair. “You make me sound so awful,” he muttered. “It's not like that. Ever since I can remember, people have talked about how I'll marry Clara, as though it were a given. I was sixteen and everyone had my whole life planned out for me.” The soldiers followed behind us. He lowered his voice, making certain they didn't hear. “And then you came to the Palace. You were different. You haven't spent the last ten years inside the City, doing the same thing every day, seeing the same people. I'm sorry if I like that about you. I didn't realize I wasn't allowed to have feelings about this whole thing.”

“Have all the feelings you want,” I said, an edge to my voice. “But that doesn't mean I can pretend that this is what I always dreamed of—not to you.”

As we crossed the street toward the Palace, his gaze wandered to the fountains, the statues of the Greek goddesses that stood fifteen feet tall, carved from bone-white marble. All traces of the man I'd met in the conservatory were gone—he seemed so unsure of himself now. He spoke slowly, as if he were taking great care with each word he chose. “This is what I want. You are what I want,” he said finally. “I have to believe that you'll want it, too—maybe not right now. But someday. Probably sooner than you think.”

We took the elevator up the tower in silence. Two soldiers joined us, slipping in casually, as though they weren't watching my every move. I despised Charles then. I could only think about the conversations that must have passed between him and the King, wondering if this was something that had been discussed all along.

When we reached his floor, Charles leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. I turned away, not caring if the soldiers saw. He stepped back, his face pained. I just pressed the button in the car, over and over again, not stopping until the doors shut behind him, locking him out.

BEATRICE MET ME AT THE ELEVATOR. SHE WALKED ME TO MY
suite and helped me from the dress, all the while asking me about the party. It was a relief to be out of those skintight clothes. My face was wiped clean, my reflection finally recognizable without all the makeup caked on it. We sat down beside each other on the bed. I slid off the ring and set it on the nightstand, a faint pink mark on my finger the last reminder of what had happened that night.

“I never would've managed this long without you,” I said, pulling at the collar of my nightgown. “A ‘thank you' doesn't seem like enough.”

“Oh, child,” she said, waving me off with her hand. “I've done what I can. I only wish I could help more.”

“I can't live like this,” I said. My lungs were tight at the thought of it, day piled on top of day, each one more stifling than the one before. I kept waiting for something to change, for the paper to reveal news of Caleb. But nothing happened. Now there would be plans for the wedding, ceaseless, senseless talk of bouquets and rings and which foods they would bring in from where. Did I want beige linens or white? Roses or calla lilies?

Beatrice pressed her palms together, her face strained with worry. “You
will
live like this,” she said, “as we all have. With the memories of life before the plague. With the hope that it will one day be better.”

“But how?” I asked. “How will it be better?”

She didn't answer. I put my face in my hands. I couldn't reach out to the Trail anymore. No one would trust me. I was under constant surveillance now. Caleb was gone, somewhere beyond the City's walls, with no promise of coming back. Even if the tunnels were built, how would I get to them? And if I managed to escape, how would I survive in the wild alone, with no weapons or food, the King's troops following just hours behind me?

Beatrice sat down next to me, working at the thin skin on her hand. “Since you've arrived I've wondered … if it's possible for anyone to be truly happy here. You have to hold on to certain delusions, I suppose. Maybe hoping is foolish,” she said, staring at a spot on the floor. “There have been rumors going around the Palace. The workers have been talking. Is it true, what you did for that boy?”

I offered a slight nod, knowing I could never truly answer that question.

“It was a brave thing,” Beatrice said, resting her hand on my back.

I wiped my nose, the memory of Caleb's broken face coming back to me, the tender pink slice that ran across his forehead, the welt on his cheek. “It doesn't feel that way,” I said. “I might never see him again.”

Beatrice let out a deep breath. Her fingers wandered over the bedspread, digging into its soft gold fabric. The smell of cigar smoke still clung to my skin. “You do anything for the person you love,” she said finally. “And then when you don't think you can give any more of yourself, you do. You keep going. Because it would kill you not to.” She turned to me, her gray eyes wobbly. The room filled with the rush of the air-conditioning vents. “I've bargained with the King, too.” A strand of gray hair fell in her face, shielding her eyes.