At first, all I detected were rumblings; then Shea’s voice became strident.
“I want out of here! You can’t keep us locked up forever.”
“Locked up?” Thatcher’s voice rose ominously. “You think this is a prison? Try hard labor, Shea. Try servitude. Try paying back a debt to society.”
“A debt to society? No, you owe a debt to that government man. And I could respect you for fighting that debt. But you’re not fighting. You’re running, and you’re dragging your family down with you.”
“I will not have you speak to me like that! I have done everything to keep you safe—”
“Everything except own up to what you did.”
A long silence followed Shea’s acidic response, then I heard the cabin door open and Thatcher’s thunderous footsteps upon the floor. The door closed, telling me that his daughter had likewise come inside. I hastened to the other side of the bedroom, intent on continuing to eavesdrop, this time watching, as well, through the crack in the door.
Thatcher saw his daughter’s gun out of the corner of his eye, still lying on the chair. The fire at his back was feeble, and I could hardly see what he was doing as he strode across the room. Then he handed the silver pistol to Shea, the bullets clutched in his fist.
“You don’t need these,” he growled. “I’m letting you keep that gun because it was your grandfather’s, but don’t push me, Shea.”
“Take the bullets. Take whatever you want. That doesn’t change a thing.” Shea tore off her overcoat and flung the gun on top of it. “You’re not listening to me. I told you—I want out of here. Stop being a coward.”
Thatcher stared, openmouthed, and I tensed, thinking he might strike her.
Shea hoped he would hit her. I knew it the moment Thatcher chose to admit defeat, stumbling away from her, and her posture shrank with telltale guilt. Still caught up in her anger, she looked to be on the verge of tears, but managed to whisper an apology. Turning from her father, she strode into our room, opening the door so forcefully she nearly knocked me over, then closing it with purpose.
“Why doesn’t telling the truth feel better than this?” she demanded, gripping the handle with a white-knuckled fist, the slam of the front door in the background telling us Thatcher had left once more for the shed.
“What is the truth, Shea?” I thought I needed to know—both for my protection and for her sanity.
She bit her thumbnail, deliberating, then words poured from her mouth like a dam had broken.
“My father crossed someone in Ivanova’s pocket. It was a while ago, over two years now. When he ran, he made his family collateral—any of us can serve his sentence, seven years in the Governor’s service if we’re caught. My father sold our freedom to keep his own.”
“What did he do?” I asked, struggling to grasp the situation. What could anyone do to earn seven years of servitude? This explained why Shea had been eager to be friends with me—a family on the run had no chance to form bonds.
“It’s no secret that Ivanova is a narcissist. There are three social classes in Warckum—the Governor’s friends, the surviving, and the slowly dying. His friends sleep on feather beds and eat imported delicacies, while the lower classes waste away. We thought fortune was at last smiling on us when one of the feather beds commissioned work from my father. He was a woodworker in Tairmor, and all it takes is a smile from one of Governor Ivanova’s men to change your entire existence in that city. But then Dad objected to some part of the project and didn’t deliver. I’ve never known exactly what went wrong, but it’s obvious he didn’t make a wise decision.”
I remembered Illumina’s rants against humanity, and was filled with a new appreciation for my aunt. Ubiqua had never punished my cousin for disagreeing with her. She could have. Certainly Illumina’s words had never been welcome, and her father’s ties to the AUL had always been of concern. The Queen could have silenced my cousin’s opinions and objections, just like Thatcher More’s had been silenced.
“So your father was convicted of some offense against the government?”
“Not convicted, just sentenced,” Shea scoffed. “When we heard a warrant had been issued for his arrest, we fled to Sheness. We hoped to bribe our way onto a ship and leave the continent and the Warckum Territory for good, but the port city was handling an influx of armed forces. So we headed inland, all the way east to the Balsam Forest, where people worry more about crossing the Fae than the Governor’s laws. Here there are no patrols. But here there is also no life, at least on this side of the Road.”
She slumped to the floor on her makeshift bed, tossing one arm across her forehead.
“I can’t stay here any longer, Anya. You’re the first person I’ve seen who’s my age in over a year. You can’t imagine what that’s like. Stagnating. No friends, no community, no opportunity to grow up. I’ve been thirteen in my parents’ eyes for two years now. I feel sick here. I’d rather die than stay.”
I couldn’t blame her for resenting Thatcher. My thoughts went to my own father, the Lord of the Law in Chrior, not a man who lacked for courage. He wanted nothing more than for me to be happy, regardless of the cost to him; he’d said as much the night of Illumina’s departure. And yet I could find reasons to be bitter toward him. He’d distanced himself from me after my mother’s death. He’d supported Ubiqua in choosing me as her heir, even though he knew how I would react to it. He hadn’t been a perfect father. But he would never have forced me into isolation, into loneliness and inertia the likes of which Shea was describing.
“But exactly what punishment is your father fleeing?”
“My father’s never been open about his crime or the potential punishment, so I don’t know what they’d do to him if they managed to arrest him. But I can’t bear the thought of my sisters enduring punishment in his place.” Her voice was harsh, anger once more rising. “How can he claim he’s protecting us when his actions have made us all vulnerable to imprisonment?”
“I can’t answer that, Shea. He must think keeping the family together is the right thing to do.”
She sighed heavily. “Maybe with the right sum of money, the Governor would consider my father’s debt paid. But what do you pay a man who already has everything?”
A long screech interrupted our conversation, and we both jumped. Realizing its likely cause was a tree branch brushing across the window, we broke into laughter, as though that would prove there was nothing to fear. The diversion was welcome to me—I had no answer to Shea’s question. Could Zabriel’s grandfather really be so pitiless? Or did he just go along with whatever recommendations his advisers made?
As tiredness took hold of us, we prepared for bed, and I finally had a chance to examine my wounds. To my dismay, my back was once more crusted in blood. While Shea applied salve to the injury, I satisfied some of her queries about my life in Chrior. I described to her the way the city was constructed and told her how it felt to have an elemental connection: that the earth was your friend when you had none, that it was there to protect you and you it. I tried to bring Ubiqua, my father and Illumina to life with my words, leaving out the detail that we were royalty. The only person I didn’t mention was Davic, for I doubted I could speak of him. The ache in my heart was too great for words. All that was left of our promise bond was a curiously vacant sensation, a void in my chest that was ever growing, expanding, trying to fold me up inside it. Maybe Davic felt something, too,