The unvarnished wooden table has been worn smooth over the years, its raw edges buffed into submission by the calloused hands of rebels and revolutionaries. I run my fingers along the natural grooves, the faded age lines of a long-dead tree. The soft tick of a hanging clock signals what I already know to be true: that I have been here too long, and that every passing second costs me more of my sanity.
“Warner—”
“Absolutely not,” I say quietly.
“We’ve hardly even discussed it. Don’t dismiss the idea outright,” Nouria says, her flat tone doing little to hide her true frustration, simmering too close to the surface. But then, Nouria is seldom able to hide how much she dislikes me.
I shove away from the table, my chair scraping against wood. It should probably concern me how easily my mind turns to murder for a solution to my problems, but I cannot now dissect these thoughts.
They separated me from Ella for this.
“You already know my position on the matter,” I say, staring at the exit. “And it’s not changing.”
“I understand that. I know you’re worried about her safety—we’re all worried about her safety—but we need help around here. We have to be able to bend the rules a little.”
I meet Nouria’s eyes then, my own bright with anger. The room shifts out of focus around her and still I see it: dark walls, old maps, a feeble bookshelf stocked with a collection of chipped coffee mugs. The air smells stale. It’s depressing in here, shafts of sunlight slicing us all in half.
Things have been far from easy since we took power.
Those who lived well under the reign of The Reestablishment continue to cause us trouble—disobeying missives, refusing to leave their posts,
continuing to rule their fiefdoms as if The Reestablishment were still at large. We don’t have enough resources quite yet to track all of them down
—most of whom know they will be promptly arrested and prosecuted for their crimes—and while some are bold enough to remain at their posts, others have been smart enough to go into hiding, from where they’ve been hiring mercenaries to carry out all manner of espionage—and inevitably, assassinations. These ex-officials are convening, recruiting ex-supreme soldiers to their side, and attempting to infiltrate our ranks in order to break us from within. They are perhaps the greatest threat to all that we are struggling to become.
I am deeply concerned.
I say little about this to Ella, as she’s only just come back to herself in recent days, but our grasp on the world is tenuous at best. History has taught us that revolutions often fail—even after they’ve won—for fighters and rebels are often unequipped to handle the crushing weight of all they’ve fought for, and worse: they make for terrible politicians. This is the problem I’ve always had with Castle, and now with Nouria and Sam.
Revolutionaries are naive.
They don’t seem to understand how the world really works, or how difficult it is to sate the whims and wishes of so many. It’s a struggle every day to hold on to our lead, and I lose a great deal of sleep thinking about the havoc our enemies will inevitably wreak, the fear and anger they will foment against us.
Still, my own allies refuse to trust me.
“I know we need help,” I say coldly. “I’m not blind. But bending the rules means putting Juliette’s life at risk. We cannot afford to start bringing in civilians—”
“You won’t even let us bring in soldiers!”
“That is patently untrue,” I say, bristling. “I never objected to you bringing in extra soldiers to secure the grounds.”
“To secure the exterior, yes, but you refused to let us bring them inside the Sanctuary—”
“I didn’t refuse anything. I’m not the one telling you what to do, Nouria.
Lest you forget, those orders came from Juliette—”
“With all due respect, Mr. Warner,” Castle interjects, clearing his throat. “We’re all aware how much Ms. Ferrars values your opinion. We’re hoping you might be able to convince her to change her mind.”
I pivot to face him, taking in his graying locs, his weathered brown skin. Castle has aged several years in a short time; these past months have taken their toll on all of us. “You would have me convince her to put her own life at risk? Have you lost your mind?”
“Hey,” Nouria barks at me. “Watch your tone.”
I feel myself stiffen in response; old impulses dare me to reach for my gun. It is a miracle that I am able to speak at all when I say: “Your first offense was separating me from my fiancée on my wedding day. That you would then ask me to allow unvetted persons to enter the only safe space she is allowed in the entire known world—”
“They wouldn’t be unvetted!” Nouria cries, getting to her feet as she loses her temper. She glows a bit when she’s mad, I’ve noticed, the preternatural light making her dark skin luminous.
“You would be there to vet them,” she says, gesturing at me from across the table. “You could tell us whether they’re safe. That’s the whole point of this conversation—to get your cooperation.”
“You expect me to follow these people around, then? Twenty-four hours a day? Or did you think it was as simple as making a single deduction and being done with it?”
“It wouldn’t be twenty-four hours,” she says. “They wouldn’t live here
—we’d have teams come inside to complete projects, during the day—”
“We’ve only been in power a matter of weeks. You really think it wise to start bringing strangers into our inner sanctum? My powers are not infallible. People can hide their true feelings from me,” I point out, my voice hardening, “and have done so in the past. I am, therefore, entirely capable of making mistakes, which means you cannot depend on me to be a foolproof defense against unknown entities, which means your plan is faulty.”
Nouria sighs. “I will acknowledge that there is a very, very small chance that you might miss something, but I really feel that it might be wor—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Mr. Warner.” Castle, this time. Softer. “We know this is a lot to ask. We’re not trying to put undue pressure on you. Your position here, among us, is critical. None of us know the intricacies of The Reestablishment as well as you do—none of us is as equipped to dismantle, from the inside, the North American system better than you are. We value what you bring to our
team, son. We value your opinions. But you have to see that we’re running out of options. The situation is dire, and we need your support.”
“And this was your plan?” I ask, almost tempted to laugh. “You really thought you could sway me with a bit of good cop, bad cop?” I look at Nouria. “And I take it you’re the bad cop?”
“We have more to do than ever before,” Nouria says angrily. “We can hardly get our own cabins rebuilt. People need privacy, and proper places to sleep. We need to get the schools running again for the children. We need to stop living off generators and automat dinners.” She gesticulates wildly with her arm, accidentally knocking a stack of papers to the floor. “We’re struggling to take care of our own people—how can we be expected to take care of the people of 241, or the sectors beyond that?”
She drops her emotional armor for only a second, but I feel it: the weight of her grief is profound.
“We’re drowning,” she says quietly, running a hand down her face. “We need help. We lost too many of our own in the battle. The Sanctuary is falling apart, and we don’t have time to rebuild slowly. The whole world is watching us now. We need more hands on deck, more crews to come in and help us do the work. If we don’t, we’re going to fail before we’ve even had a chance to start.”
For a moment, I’m silent.
Nouria’s not wrong; the Sanctuary is a disaster. So, too, is the planet. I’ve already sent Haider and Stephan and Lena and the twins back to their respective continents; we needed capable proxies on the ground assessing the current situation abroad—neutralizing chaos wherever possible—and no one was better suited. Nazeera is the only one who stayed behind, claiming that Haider would be fine on his own, that she wanted to stick around for my wedding. I might’ve been flattered by this nonsense if I didn’t know she was lying.
She wanted to stay here to be with Kenji.
Still, I’ve been grateful for her presence. Nazeera is smart and resourceful and has been an immense help these last couple of weeks. The Sanctuary had enough to do when it was trying only to keep its own people alive; now the entire world is looking to us for direction.
Looking to Ella for direction.
What they don’t know, of course, is that she’s been conscious for only four days. When she finally woke up there was so much for her to do—the
world had been waiting for proof that Juliette Ferrars had survived—and despite my many, many protests, she agreed to make limited appearances, to issue statements, to begin discussing what the future might look like for the people. She insisted that we get started right away, that we put together a committee responsible for designing the world’s largest public works project—rebuilding towns, schools, hospitals. Investing in infrastructure. Creating jobs, remapping cities.
On a global scale.
Even so, there’s hardly been time to think about these things. I spent most of the last two weeks doing what I could to keep Ella alive while trying to put out as many fires as possible. In a moment of honesty I might even be willing to admit that Kenji’s mistake—knocking down the wrong building—was almost inevitable. There is an infinite number of things to do and never enough people to do it, or to oversee the details.
Which means we’re often making mistakes.
On a micro level, we’re also required to pitch in, rebuild our cabins. Cut the grass. Cook the food. Wash the dishes. Ella dragged me into the kitchen as soon as she was able, slapping a pair of questionable rubber gloves against my chest before tugging on a grimy pair of her own, all the while grinning at the gluey bottom of an oatmeal-encrusted cauldron like it was a gift. If Ella were a house, she would be a grand home, one with many rooms and doors, all of which were easily unlocked, flung open.
If I were a house, I would be haunted.
“And I would remind you,” Nouria says, her brittle voice returning me to the present, “that you are not the only person on earth ever to have been married. I’m sorry you can’t bear to be separated from your fiancée long enough to have a single vital discussion about our failing world, but the rest of us must continue to move, Warner, even if it means deprioritizing your personal happiness.”
Her words strike a raw nerve.
“Too true,” I say quietly. “There are few, indeed, who’ve ever prioritized my personal happiness. I wouldn’t expect you to be the exception.”
I regret the words the moment they’ve left my mouth.
I steel myself as Nouria reels, processing my uncomfortable moment of honesty. She looks away, guilt flickering, fighting with irritation. Her anger
ultimately wins the battle, but when she meets my eyes again, there’s a note of regret there, in her gaze, and I realize only then that I have been tricked.
There is more.
I take an imperceptible breath; the true purpose of this meeting is only now about to be revealed to me.
“While we’re on the subject,” Nouria says, sparing her father an anxious glance. “I—well. I’m really sorry, Warner, but we’re going to have to postpone the wedding.”
I stare at her.
My body goes slowly solid, a dull panic working its way through my nervous system. I feel multiple things at once—anger, grief, confusion. A strange sort of resignation rises up above them all, crowning a familiar pain, a familiar fear: that joy, like dew, evaporates from my life the moment I begin to trust the sun.
This is it, then. Par for the course.
“Postpone the wedding,” I say, hollow.
“Today is just turning out to be a bad day for everyone,” she says, rushing to get the words out. “There’s too much going on. There’s a major sewage problem we need to get under control, which is using up most of our manpower at the moment, and everyone else is knee-deep in other projects. We don’t have enough hands to set up or break things down—and we tried, we really tried to make it work, but we just can’t spare the generator tonight. Our electricity has been touch and go, and the temperatures are supposed to be brutal tonight; we can’t let the kids freeze in their beds.”
“I don’t understand. I spoke with Brendan, he offered—”
“Brendan is drained. We’ve been relying on him too much lately. Winston has already threatened to kill me if we don’t let him sleep tonight.” “I see.” I stare at the table, then my hands. I have turned to stone, even
as my heart races in my chest. “We’d need the generator for only an hour.” “An hour?” Nouria laughs, but she seems unnerved. “Have you ever
been to a wedding? Outside? At night? You’d need lights and heat and music. Not to mention all that we’d have to do to get the kitchen going that late, and distributing food— We never got around to making a cake—”
“I don’t need a wedding,” I say, cutting her off. I sound strange even to myself, nervous. “I just need an officiant. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
“I think it might be a big deal to Juliette.”
I look up at that.
I have no worthy response; I can’t speak for Ella. I’d never deny her a real wedding if it’s what she wants.
The whole thing feels suddenly doomed. The day after I proposed to Ella, she was attacked by her sister, after which she fell into a coma and came home to me nearly dead. We were supposed to have been married this morning, except that her dress was destroyed, and now—
“Postpone until when?”
“I’m not sure, if I’m being honest.” Nouria’s nerves and apprehension are growing louder now. I try to meet her eyes, but she keeps glancing at Castle, who only shakes his head. “I was hoping maybe we could look at the calendar,” she says to me, “think about planning something when things are less crazy around here—”
“You can’t be serious.” “Of course I’m serious.”
“You know as well as I do,” I say angrily, “that there is no guarantee things will ever calm down around here, or that we’ll ever be able to get this situation under control—”
“Well, right now is a bad time, okay?” She crosses her arms. “It’s just a bad time.”
I look away. My heart seems to be racing in my head now, pounding against my skull. I feel myself dissociating—detaching from the moment— and struggle to remain present.
“Is this some kind of perverse revenge?” I ask. “Are you trying to prevent my wedding because I won’t let you bring in civilians? Because I refuse to put Juliette’s life in jeopardy?”
Nouria is quiet for so long I’m forced to look up, to return my mind to itself. She’s staring at me with the strangest look in her eyes, something like guilt—or regret—washing her out completely.
“Warner,” she says quietly. “It was Juliette’s idea.”
