Page 15

Morning sunlight blinds me as Enola pulls back the curtains.

She pauses in the middle of the room, lips pressed into a thin line. “I need you to put on a dress and come with me . . . to Farron’s funeral.”

I blink. “What? Why?”

“Because . . .”

She hands me a cup of tea. “It’s the right thing to do.”

That’s debatable. “I can’t. I—I’m still not well, not to mention the people there will likely stone me to death before I reach the front step.”

My brows furrow. I’ve only been here days, but it wouldn’t matter if it had been years. The Kingsland people here will never accept me. “I thought we were good. This seems like a trap.”

Enola smiles like I made a joke.

I very much did not.

“Oh, hush. I’ll do the heavy lifting of getting you ready; all you’ll have to do is sit. And there isn’t a person in this town who would hurt you on my watch.”

“But we both agree they would hurt me if they could.”

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“No,”

I say. “No, this is a bad idea, and you know it. Besides, Tristan obviously doesn’t want me there or he would have asked—”

“He wants you there.”

I squint with doubt, but she presses on. “He does, but I can’t prove it to you because he left an hour ago.”

How convenient.

Enola’s fingers twist as her face grows serious. “Things are going downhill. Farron’s murder has sparked a fire that I’m not sure we can put out if anyone but Tristan becomes mayor in this election. The call for violence, for eradication of the clans, is growing.”

Eradication.

“Farron was always an advocate for mercy, and believe it or not, that policy has served us well. But with Farron gone, a bitterness has taken root, and a war could be coming unlike anything we’ve seen. It will be an unleashing of all that we have, for the first time. By sheer numbers alone, we are three times the size of all five clans combined. But even still, it will be devastating for both sides.”

“And you want to stop it?”

“I’ve already lived through the worst of humanity. Twice. First with the bombing of our beautiful republic, and then surviving the selfish people who thought killing each other was how they’d stay alive. I don’t want to return to violence. What I want is for my husband to live. For Tristan—and others I love—to live. We’ve had enough loss. And it’s not our way. Something must be done to deal with the clans and their constant violence, but it’s not war.”

I disagree with her interpretation of our history, but she has my attention. “Tristan told me that he wants justice. He also said these types of things are a council decision.”

“They are. But the leader will guide the council, and if you heard what the other candidates for mayor have planned, you’d do whatever it took to get Tristan elected.”

A sharp blade of fear scrapes down my neck. “Then I should leave.”

I heave the blankets off my legs. “Annette said Tristan would never win with me by his side. Take me through the fence, and I’ll go. I’ll leave right now.”

“You know that’s not an option—but if it was and you left, I fear Tristan would leave too. He doesn’t want to be mayor. He never has. For years, it was all his father could do to keep him here.”

“Where would he go?”

Even if he became a trader, between the violent vagabonds he’d face and the badlands still poisoned from the bombs, it’d be a dangerous life. But more importantly—“Why would me leaving make him leave too?”

An expression passes over her face that I can’t quite read. “Those are good questions, Isadora. You should ask him.”

I dig my palms into my eyes and rub. “I’d rather not.”

“He needs an anchor,”

Enola says, drawing close. “Especially now that his father is gone. He needs someone to remind him why an all-out war isn’t the answer. But you’re right. The other side of the coin is that the people here don’t trust you. They’re afraid of what you represent, and convincing them that your relationship with Tristan is real is going to be an uphill battle.”

“Our relationship isn’t real.”

Enola sighs. “Then make it real. You’re here to stay, and the sooner everyone around here accepts that—including you—the better. There is no greater way to show your support for your husband than to attend his father’s funeral. Show them that you’re now an ally.”

I’m not an ally.

The thought sits lopsided in my chest.

“Don’t underestimate the power you hold. If anyone has a right to be angry, it’s Tristan. And when the people see he’s risen above that—because of you—then they will rise above their anger too. The simple act of attending Farron’s funeral could change everything.”

My lungs deflate, and any rebuttal I might have had goes with them. I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t still a plot to have me killed, but surely there are more efficient ways.

Enola claps her hands and breaks into a brilliant smile. “I picked the most beautiful dress for you. I’ll go and get it.”

“I haven’t said yes,”

I call after her.

She turns back in the doorway. “You also haven’t said no.”

I’m pretty sure I did. But she is making sense; if somehow my presence at Farron’s funeral stops or slows the massacre of my people, then I have to go. Until I can escape, maybe there’s wisdom in playing both sides.

A soft breeze floats through the windows, blowing the wisps of hair falling from my bun around my face. But it’s not enough to cool the air inside this . . . vehicle. Maybe if we were going faster it would help. To distract myself from the sweltering heat, I fluff the hem of my flowered dress—it’s in such a brilliant shade of burgundy and I don’t think it’s ever been worn—then run my fingers over the seam in the leather seats. I can do a good stitch, but this is perfection. And the comfort of the seats is unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

Enola smiles and taps the wheel she’s holding to steer. “First time inside a motor vehicle?”

I prop my elbow out the open window, amazed there used to be glass in there. “First time inside anything with wheels. Why are you guiding it, though? Isn’t Vador leading us?”

My gaze returns to the hindquarters of the spotted horses, ambling just feet in front of us, pulling the “motor vehicle”

along at a walking pace.

Enola winks. “I’m not doing much other than keeping the wheels straight. But trust me, if old Caine or Wenda get spooked, you’ll want me to be able to slow us down.”

I nod and a drop of sweat runs down my temple. “Do you travel in old motor vehicles often?”

“Me? No. I prefer the back of my horse. But some of the families with little ones do, and I thought with you being weak and all you’d like this. You know, when Vador and I first met, we had a Grot Fleetway. A bit of a relic for a motor vehicle, but that engine could purr. Maybe one day we’ll find some fuel and I can show you what it’s really like to drive. Or if we found a working accumulator, I could take you for a ride in an electric one. But they all stopped holding a charge a decade ago. Too bad. They were fun because they drove by themselves.”

“It sounds like make-believe.”

Mum never talks about this stuff, since she was only seven when the bombs fell and doesn’t remember much from the old world, including her parents. Father was much older when it happened but prefers not to look back. He says it’s too painful. “Do you miss it?”

She tips her head. “I don’t often let myself think about it because I do miss it. I miss the good parts. Even though there was a lot of corruption with our leaders, and division among the people. Also, there was a growing war on the other side of the world.”

So she agrees the old world had serious problems.

“But our towns weren’t blocked in with fences,”

she says. “Traveling outside of them wasn’t a deadly affair—usually. It was by no means perfect. We had our problems with unlawfulness and poverty, as all places did. But we had many years of a more peaceful time. You could make a good life.”

She turns to look at me. “That’s why the founding families have tried so hard to replicate the best parts as much as we can here in Kingsland.”

She makes their current way of life sound so admirable. Innocent. But does she really think I don’t know that it comes at a price? One that they skin off the backs of the five clans? The people of Kingsland might be less barbarian than I expected in that they haven’t physically tortured me, and they have at least a few women who aren’t enslaved, but they only know safety because they’ve taken ours away. They’ve destabilized the clans on every level, so they can have the best parts that Enola talks about and not have to share.

I turn back to watch the road, and more houses come into view. Pieces of the old world. These homes are smaller and similar in size to what we have in Hanook, only the building materials continue to be colored and unique, not made of stripped logs. Horses graze on the small fenced-off fields in front.

After another turn, we near a barn-like building. Judging by the number of horses and vehicles stationed outside, this must be our destination.

Is it too late to run?

Vador swings off his mount and offers his hand to Enola as she exits the motor vehicle. It takes me significantly longer to find the latch to do the same. From the second my feet touch the ground, I feel people’s eyes on me. Their outrage carries to me like the putrid spray of a threatened skunk and only multiplies as we walk into the crowded entryway of the building. Enola offers me a pleasant smile as I grip her forearm tightly. Every fiber of my being tells me to flee.

The crowd parts as we walk straight ahead through the double doors, varying levels of surprise and concern on their faces. It’s fair to say I won’t be blending in, and my breathing escalates as if my body is preparing to fight. It’s self-preservation.

The hall is deceptively large inside but filled to the brim. People crowd together on benches and stand shoulder to shoulder around the perimeter. There’s no room for us—good. Maybe we can leave.

“Valerie,”

Enola says to the gray-and-blond-haired lady glaring in my direction. She’s one of many glaring, actually. “It’s so nice—”

“Get out of here,”

Valerie snarls at me. She jerks forward and spits on me. Wetness sprays my face and bare arms. “You’re not wanted here!”

My limbs fill with lead. I can only blink as my heart thrashes like a caged animal.

“Go on! Get!”

Her voice echoes through the hall, causing the low murmur of the crowd to die a slow and painful death. Heads turn in our direction to see what the commotion is.

My eyes sting. Heat scorches my cheeks. Her spit is acid on my skin, prickling and burning.

Valerie shifts her venomous glare to Enola. “Why would you bring that filth in here? How dare you!”

Enola’s face is painted in shock, but she unfreezes before I can. Her soft hand takes mine. “Isadora, may I introduce you to Valerie Pallantine. Six months ago, her son died defending our border fence. As you can see, she’s still grieving.”

My heart plummets. “Oh, I’m . . . sor—”

“Don’t you share my business with her,”

she snaps at Enola. Despite her vehemence, her eyes fill with tears. Her thin lips tremble.

“Oh, come now, Valerie.”

Enola’s voice is calm. “You just spat your grief all over her. You made it her business.”

The shake in Valerie’s lips spreads to her whole body. “I will never be her business. Never!”

She pushes past me.

The shock of what just happened lingers, and it takes a long time after she leaves for my body to unlock. When it does, I wipe my wet forehead.

“Yes, everyone,”

Enola says, raising her voice to the near-silent crowd. “This is Isadora, Tristan’s wife.”

Mortified, my posture sags, and one of the sleeves of my dress slides to the edge of my shoulder.

“There is no greater love than to lay down your life for someone, which both Tristan and Isadora have done for each other. We would be having two funerals today if not for her. And it’s not anyone’s place to question their relationship, either. Isadora has risked her life to forsake her clan. She’s done more to prove herself worthy than nearly everyone in this room.”

Blood drains from my face at her lie.

Enola’s gaze focuses on a particular woman in the crowd—Annette. She’s seated near the front in the center row, wearing a black dress and a frown. Her hair is down and holds a soft curl around her shoulders.

“Remember,”

Enola carries on, “there is much to be gained from this union.”

Like my secrets. Irritation spreads over my skin like hives at the reminder that that’s the real reason Tristan is keeping me here.

Enola nudges me back toward the doors, and I go with her, thankful she’s not suggesting we stay. Voices kick up behind us in our wake.

“She’ll betray us.”

“How dare she come . . .”

Vador waits for us in an empty side hallway, leaning against the wall. “All done?”

he asks Enola.

“Yes.”

She walks right past him.

Vador turns to follow her, a look of unruffled calm on his face. I slow to a stop. “Did you . . . did you know it would be like that? That Valerie would . . .”

I pause as a chill moves up my arms.

Enola turns around and takes her time meeting my eyes. Despite her confidence in the hall, she now looks a little battle worn. “I didn’t know who would lead the charge, but I think you and I both knew a confrontation was likely to take place.”

“Which was why I didn’t want to come. You said you would protect me. And what was that speech? It sounded prepared.”

“Did it?”

She grins sadly. “I suppose it was. But believe it or not, Valerie did you a favor. Because she confronted you, I was able to say my piece, and everyone in that hall was a captive audience to hear it. You also showed that you’re not the monster they have pictured in their heads. You’re a beautiful, strong young woman of character. We just turned every preconceived notion they had about you on its head.”

My gaze slides to Vador, whose mouth holds the hint of a proud smile. Blazing skies. I may have underestimated this woman. Vador and Enola lead the way down an empty hallway, then open a door on the right. I follow them, wallowing in regret for ever coming to this funeral, but halt in the doorway of the small room. There’s a round table and a few chairs taken up by Tristan, Ryland, and Samuel.

“What is she doing here?”

Samuel demands.

Tristan glances up, his shock registering both on his face and somewhere deep in my chest. “Isadora.”

He stands.

Ryland does the same, but more cautiously. “Is she going to faint again?”

Do I look that bad?

Enola tugs my arm, drawing me into the room. There’s another door across the way, and by the sound of it, it leads directly into the hall full of people. “Why don’t one of you three strapping stallions get her a chair?”

“No. Everyone out,”

Tristan says. “I need to speak with my wife.”

A field of goose bumps erupts over my skin. Wife.

But then Tristan’s agitation showers me, landing like sparks that sear my skin. I fidget with the skirt of my dress as he brushes past me to close the door behind the others. I should have known he wouldn’t have wanted me here.

He faces me and pushes a chair in my direction, but all I can do is stare. His hair, the color of dark, rich honey, is parted on the side, and his jaw, which I’ve become used to seeing with days’-old scruff, is freshly shaven. With black pants and a matching formal-looking jacket, he’s more handsome than I’ve ever seen him. Especially with one of his white-collared shirts underneath.

“What happened?”

he asks. “Tell me.”

My gaze catches on the cords of tight muscle that frame his throat.

“You were upset,”

he prompts. “I felt it when you came in.”

He felt that? Wait. Is that why he’s upset?

He gestures again for me to take the chair. “Tell me. Or if it’s easier”—he holds out a hand—“you could always show me.”

Could I? “How does it work? I just have to touch you? Open myself up again?”

I imagine falling into his arms and pressing my face into the crook of his strong neck. Breathing him in and refreshing my memory of his scent—infinite forests and stupidly extravagant soap. Wouldn’t that be easier than explaining every horrible thing Valerie said and did?

It’s tempting. More than it should be.

Also, it’s exactly what he wants.

“I’m not sure what it would take to share memories successfully; I’ve never done it,”

he says. “But the connection does seem to reflect our . . . connectedness. Most founding family members enter into marriage trusting each other completely, so they never encounter these barriers to begin with.”

Well, if trust is the key, then it looks like we won’t be unlocking any further capabilities.

As if he can read my mind, he moves on. “Tell me why you’re upset.”

I swallow hard as my gaze lingers on the floor. “Enola encouraged me to come, and let’s just say I wasn’t . . . well received.”

“Ah.”

He sounds disappointed.

“Shocking, right? Why would anyone be upset that the White Rabbit crashed their beloved leader’s funeral?”

He doesn’t laugh or speak at all, and shame quickly heats my cheeks. It was callous to use sarcasm in reference to his father. “I just . . .”

I search for some semblance of the truth. “I was naive in thinking I could come and show support for you and leave unscathed.”

I feel his surprise at my admission, and the resulting pleasure it brings him causes my stomach to swoop.

“The people aren’t ready for you yet,”

he says. “And—Enola. I love her, but there’s a reason she wasn’t my first choice to help you while you were sick. She’s got her own ideas of—”

“No, she’s . . . lovely. She cares about you. And—”

Enola’s words from earlier come back to me, giving me pause.

If you heard what the other candidates for mayor have planned, you’d do whatever it took to get Tristan elected.

“She also really wants us to work.”

Biting my lip, I force myself to meet his eyes. Instantly, energy builds between us, and the connection intensifies, smudging the line between him and me. It makes me nervous. He makes me nervous.

I swear the air starts to shimmer.

“Do you?” he asks.

My throat makes an incoherent sound. How do I answer that? If I say yes to appease him, he’s going to spend more time with me. Submerge me in more of his disturbingly enjoyable emotions.

Touch me.

All things that could wear down my defenses, gaining access to skies know what in my head.

If I answer no, how do I keep him from destroying the clans?

But for some inexplicable reason his question lingers, as if probing for something deeper.

What do I want?

Or rather, would I choose him if we lived in a different time and place? One not driven by duty and decades of hate?

At this, an image of Liam springs into my mind and overwhelming guilt quickly follows. What am I doing? It doesn’t matter what I want. A place without duty doesn’t exist.

“I’ll talk to her.”

He rubs his face. “The people here, too. It’s going to take them a while to understand, though.”

He falls back in his chair, his posture tired. His sorrow over his father’s death and the weight of his responsibilities in its wake are all mounting up. Then there’s the added complication of me.

I lean forward in my chair. “Is it possible for us to share your grief the same way we shared the poison?”

He exhales slowly, then nods. “All wounds and pain can be shared. But I don’t expect you to do that.”

And yet if anyone should, it’s me. Not only is my family the reason there’s a funeral today, but I played a crucial part by being the prize for Farron’s murder. “I would help you. I’d take your grief in a heartbeat, if I could do it without . . .”

“Connecting to me,”

he finishes, eyes locking with mine. “You still think we’re enemies.”

It’s not bitter. He’s simply stating a fact.

I don’t think it; I know we are. He has his own duty to fulfill. For Kingsland, he needs to figure out what I know.

Although his actions remind me that he’s not evil. Not when he risked his life to save me from a poisoned arrow. Or stood up for me with Annette, and just now, promised protection from his angry people. Not all of those things feel like they’re rooted in his hope to manipulate me. Or is that naive of me to think?

“I don’t want to be enemies.”

Tristan’s eyes track over me, like a finger trailing across my skin. “Then let’s not be.”

His whispered words are cocooned in an earnest invitation that if I didn’t know any better I might accept.

“My point,”

I say, “is that if I could help you without betraying the clans, I would. I’d probably do it for anyone. For years I’ve studied to become a healer because it’s not in my nature to let anyone suffer.”

I think of his father and all I risked in trying to save him.

Tristan licks his lips, looking thoughtful. “You’d connect with just anyone?”

Before I can speak, he presses a memory against my mind. Our eyes meet, and his smirk tells me it wasn’t an accident. However, just like every other memory we’ve passed like this, it’s useless. Nothing more than a tease, an unopened present that floats around in my mind.

“What did you send me?” I ask.

“Just my memory of what connecting with you was like.”

His memory. Curiosity burns a hole through my common sense, and I flip through my own recollections of what we had to do to connect. Is he talking about lying with me on the bed? For a moment, I relive the jolt it sent to my senses when his fingers wound with mine. Or is he thinking of after that, when he—

Like a strike of lightning on a dark night, illuminating what can’t be seen, my own face flashes in my mind. But it’s not my memory. I’m looking down at myself through Tristan’s eyes. Wisps of blond hair splay around my head as I lie on my back, bracing to retake the poison from him. His concern for me pulses through him.

She needs a distraction.

The scene cuts out, showing me another heartbeat in time. I don’t see much except for the curve of my neck as his lips press against my skin. His thoughts are a million, his emotions too many to pick out. But in that quick moment, I know two things: he’s memorizing the feel of me.

And he desperately wants to drag his lips to my mouth.

A flush of warmth surges through my body.

Tristan stares. “Did you see something?”

It’s difficult to form a coherent thought. A fine layer of sweat has broken out on my skin at having seen—felt—everything through his eyes.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

His mouth splits into a blinding smile.

I can’t confirm what he’s asking. I can barely breathe. This boy is so very dangerous.

But I’ve also learned something important: seeing his memories is how I’ll get the most sensitive information about Kingsland.

So somehow, before I leave with Annette, I’ll need to make that happen again.