Once (23 page)

“There are more, love,” Beatrice said. She unzipped it and pulled another from its box. It was a puffy thing with a giant tail that followed behind me for nearly ten feet. I walked past the mirror, hating how it exposed the pale skin of my shoulders.

“What does it matter?” I said sadly, as Beatrice packed it away. “Any will do.” Still, another was taken out. Another was put on. My thoughts drifted away from the room, from the Palace and the dresses and the incessant sound of zippers going up and down. Caleb must've reached a stop on the Trail by now. He would be back in communication with Moss soon. It wouldn't be long before he would be able to tell people inside the walls what had happened.

Beatrice buttoned up another dress. It was tight, the top of it squeezing my chest, suffocating me. “I'm sorry, Beatrice,” I whispered. “Can I please take a break?”

“Don't apologize.” Beatrice sighed, undoing the back of the dress. “Of course you can.” She unbuttoned it halfway and released me, handing me the simple jumper I'd worn downstairs. I slunk toward the table, collapsing in Clara's vacant seat. “I'll ask the kitchen for some ice water,” she said, disappearing out the door.

The morning sun streamed through the window, hot on my skin. I imagined myself in the wedding procession, the shiny car that would wind through the City streets, the cheering crowd reaching beyond the metal barricades, banging against the glass overpass. In one week I would be Charles Harris's wife. I would move out of my suite and into his. I would lie beside him every night, his hands reaching out for me in the darkness, his lips searching for mine.

I was staring at the newspaper, half in the room, half somewhere else, when the boldface type came into focus—
PRINCESS TEA
. The same words Curtis had uttered were now right in front of me, printed on one of the paper's back pages.

The advertisement section was the one place where citizens could post messages to one another. There they offered to trade or sell items that they'd made, brought to, or acquired in the City, under the consent of the King. I ran my fingers over the bold font, knowing immediately what it was. The Trail often used coded messages to communicate. I remembered what Caleb had said at the prison, when he had leaned in and whispered in my ear.
You're not the only one in the paper
. I thought of Curtis's face in the dining room. His eyes had darted sideways as he spoke to me, his voice tense. It was strange that he'd said only those two words and nothing more. Now it all made sense.

I looked at the small type that described the tea—four boxes had been recovered from an old warehouse in the Outlands. The ad listed the year, the date on which they had been acquired, the brand and city they were from, and a desired price.
Perfect to celebrate the royal wedding
, the last lines read.
Enjoy with friends after watching the procession
. I kept staring at it, studying the way the letters lined up on top of each other, trying to figure out the code, if it ran vertically or horizontally.

Beatrice returned with two glasses of water, setting them down in front of me. “Do you have a pen?” I asked, counting every second letter, then every third, trying to find a pattern.

She pulled one from her vest and sat down beside me, watching as I counted every fifth, then every sixth character, copying them down next to one another to see if they spelled anything. Line after line was complete nonsense. I finally found the code running straight down the second to last column.
C, 1, N, P, R, $, N
, I copied into the paper's margins.
K, L, 1, 3, D
.

“Caleb's in prison,” I repeated, ripping the advertisement out of the paper. “The King lied.”

“Who's Caleb?” a voice asked.

I turned around. Clara was standing in the hall, her hand resting on the doorframe. Before I could think she rushed toward me, reaching for the ad. In one swift motion she yanked it from my grasp. I jumped up, trying to pry it from her hands, but I couldn't get a good hold on her. Then it was too late. She darted down the hall and into her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

I STOOD OUTSIDE, KNOCKING UNTIL MY KNUCKLES HURT
. “Open the door, Clara,” I yelled. “This isn't a joke.” I glanced down the hallway. A soldier stationed by the parlor was watching me. Beatrice stood beside him, whispering something, trying to explain away the fight. I finally gave up, letting my forehead rest against the wood door. I could hear her pacing the length of her room, the muffled smacking of her bare feet against the floors.

She paused on the other side of the door. There was the familiar electric sound of the keypad. She opened it a few inches, revealing a sliver of her face. She no longer had the scribbled note in her hands. “Wow, Princess,” she said, barely able to get the words out without laughing. “I never would've pegged you for a subversive.”

I gave the door one big push, shoving my way inside. She rubbed her arm where the door had bumped her. “Where did you put that slip of paper?” I opened the top drawer of her desk, thumbing through a stack of thin notebooks. Beside them was a creased picture of a little boy and girl sitting in a wooden porch swing, a kitten curled up in the boy's lap. It took me a moment to realize that the girl was Clara. The boy looked just a few years younger, with thick black hair and ivory skin.

“Have you completely lost your mind?” she asked. She slammed the drawer shut, nearly closing my fingers inside. “Get out of my room.”

“Not until you give that back to me,” I said, scanning the night tables beside the bed. The fluffy pink comforter was covered with pillows of all sizes. Some were lace, others embroidered with delicate white lilies. There was nothing on the top of her dressers. Nothing in the trashcan beside the desk. She'd probably hidden it away somewhere, waiting until she had the perfect opportunity to expose me.

“What does it matter? I already read it.” Clara crossed her arms over her chest. “It's that boy, isn't it? The one you were seeing at night?”

I shook my head. “Just leave it alone, Clara.”

“I wonder what Charles would think about this. You sending messages through the paper.” Her cheeks were red and blotchy, her fingers still rubbing the tender spot on her arm. “At least this time you can't call me a liar. Now I have proof.”

I let out a long, rattling breath, unable to contain myself anymore. “Do you think I chose this? If it were up to me I never would've come to the City in the first place. I never wanted to be here.”

Clara's thin brows were knitted together. “Then why are you marrying him? I was standing right there when he asked you. No one made you say yes.”

I stared at my shadow on the floor, debating what to tell her. She already had enough to turn me in. The truth couldn't make things any worse. “Because they were going to kill him—Caleb. Agreeing to marry Charles was the only way I could stop it.”

Clara walked toward me, her head cocked slightly to the side. “So help me understand this. You would leave the Palace right now if you could?”

“Of course,” I said softly. “But I can't even leave my room. Everywhere I go someone is watching me. When I step into the hallway, Beatrice will be waiting there with the soldier by the parlor. Charles escorts me to every meal.” I glanced at her window, which was open just a crack, the curtains billowing in the breeze. “Haven't you noticed I'm never alone?”

We stood there in the quiet room, facing each other. She looked more hopeful than she had in days. I straightened up, realizing I did have something to offer her, after all. “So if you want to tell Charles,” I went on, “or the King, or your mother about that message, then fine. I'll marry Charles in a week and that will be it. But if you want me gone, those codes are my only chance.”

I could see her considering it, weighing what she had to gain by outing me against what would happen if I escaped. She pursed her lips. “You don't love Charles?” she asked. Her eyes were clear when they met mine, the resentment in them diminished.

“No,” I said. “I don't.”

She walked over to a porcelain piggy bank on her nightstand. Its paint was chipped in places and one eye was nearly rubbed off. She held it up, a faint smile crossing her lips. “I've had this since I was three.” She shrugged. “I wouldn't move to the City without him.” She flipped it over, pulling a broken piece of cork out of the bottom. The ripped newspaper was inside, my writing scribbled in the margins. She handed it back to me. “You have my promise, then. I won't tell anyone.”

I ripped the square into the tiniest pieces I could, tucking them away in the pocket of my jumper. She'd given it back. She'd said she wouldn't tell. And she had no reason to—it would guarantee that I could never leave the Palace. She opened the door for me, and I started down the hall, turning over the scraps in my pocket, finally able to breathe.

THAT NIGHT I COULDN'T EAT. I SAT AT THE DINNER TABLE
, thinking of Caleb in prison. I saw the gash on his forehead, a soldier landing another blow on his back, twisting his arm so it met his shoulder blade. They would want names. I knew they would. It was only a matter of time before they gave up, realizing he would never give them the information they needed. How much time did I have before they killed him?

“What's the matter, dear?” the King asked, glancing at my plate. “Did you want something else? We could have the chef prepare whatever you like.” He reached out and put his hand on my arm. My entire body tensed at his touch.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my voice. “I'm not hungry,” I said. The roast chicken on my plate repulsed me.

The table was full. Clara and Rose sat next to the Head of Finance. Clara chatted happily with him now, her eyes meeting mine as she peppered him with questions about a new business venture. Charles was sitting beside me, talking to Reginald, the Head of Press, about an upcoming opening in the City.

“I'm glad that you two are getting along so well.” The King offered a slight nod in Charles's direction. “I always thought you would.” He squeezed my arm, then turned back to his plate.

I had the sudden urge to pick up my glass of water and throw it in his face. To plunge my fork into the soft flesh of his hand. He had lied. He thought I would never know, that I would walk through the wedding procession with a lightness in my step, content to imagine Caleb alive somewhere in the wild.

The King pushed away from the table and stood, signaling that he was ready to leave. I felt the piece of paper in the pocket of my cardigan, running my fingers over its blunt corners to comfort myself. After my conversation with Clara, I had gone back to the parlor and picked out a wedding dress. I chose the next one I tried on, not bothering to look in the mirror to see how it fit. I followed Beatrice back to the suite, stopping in the upstairs parlor to throw the ripped newspaper into the fire, watching as the advertisement and the message it contained twisted in the flames. Then I sat down at my desk and wrote.

I was careful with each word I chose, puzzling out the sequence so that the code could be applied backward, from the end of the text to the beginning, using every ninth character. It took me two hours of rearranging, moving words and phrases around, until I managed something. The piece was a formal address to the people of The New America, a missive about the great honor it was to be serving as their Princess. I spoke of the upcoming wedding, my great excitement about the nuptials, and how I had first come to meet Charles in the Palace weeks before. I reread it, lingering over the word
love
. A sickness settled in my stomach. I kept thinking of Caleb, alone in some cold prison, his skin crusted with blood.

KIN WE METE
? the message spelled.
NO TYM TO DLAY
. I wished I had more to offer—a plan, a promise that I could secure Caleb's freedom. But if I confronted the King about the lies he would know I had a connection on the outside, telling me of Caleb's whereabouts. Everything I did would become suspect again, and all the work I had done in the past weeks to secure his confidence would be for nothing.

“Would you like to go down to the marketplace for dessert?” Charles asked as he helped me up from my chair. He'd been quieter in the past few days, seeming embarrassed by our conversation. Clara took off with the Head of Finance, glancing back over her shoulder at me.

I pulled the folded paper from my pocket. “Actually, I'd like to speak with Reginald.” He turned when he heard his name.

“What for?” the King asked. He and Charles gathered around me, the room smaller in their presence. The Head of Education lingered by the door to eavesdrop.

I let out a deep breath. “I'd like to address the people of The New America for the first time. I'm here for good, as their Princess. I'd like them to at least know who I am.” I didn't look at the King. I didn't acknowledge Charles. Instead, I kept my eyes on Reginald as I handed him the piece of paper.

“I suppose that's all right,” the King said, his voice a little uncertain. “As long as there's nothing objectionable in it, Reginald.”

Reginald pinched the sheet between his fingers, his eyes moving down the paper. His brows furrowed at some lines and relaxed at others. I swallowed hard, my chest seizing in panic.
He couldn't know
, I told myself,
he wouldn't be able to tell
. And yet the memory of that night at Marjorie and Otis's house returned. I saw Marjorie's trembling hands holding the radio, her questions, so urgent, as Otis threw the extra plates beneath the sink.
Which code did you use?
I heard her ask, then the sound of that first fatal shot.