The backyard is a modest rectangle of scorched land, the sparse and parched grass nicely obscured by a selection of time-worn wooden folding chairs, the arrangement parted down the middle by an artificial aisle, all of which face a hand-wrought wedding arch. Two thick, ten-foot cylindrical wooden stakes have been hammered into the ground, the five feet of empty space between them bridged at the top by a raw, severed tree limb, the joints bound together by rope. This crudely constructed bower is decorated with a robust selection of colorful wildflowers; leaves and petals flutter in the gentle breeze, infusing the early-morning air with their combined fragrance.
The scene is at once simple and breathtaking, and I am immobilized by the sight of it.
I am in a perfectly tailored, dark green, three-piece suit with a white shirt and black tie. My original suit was black, by request; Winston told me he decided to go with this deep shade of green because he thought it would suit my eyes and offset my gold hair. I wanted to argue with him except that I was genuinely impressed with the quality of his work, and did not protest when he handed me a pair of black, patent leather shoes to match. Absently, I touch the gardenia affixed to my lapel, feeling the always-present weight of the velvet box against my thigh.
There are folding tables arranged along the opposite end of the yard still waiting for their tablecloths, and I have been assigned the task of dressing them. I have also been ordered to see to the tables and chairs that need to be arranged inside the as-yet-unfurnished living and dining rooms, where the reception is meant to take place later this evening after a break post- ceremony, during which our guests will change work shifts, see to things back at the base, and Ella and I will have a chance to take pictures.
This all sounds so perfectly human as to render me ill.
I have, as a result, done none of things requested of me. I’ve been unable to move from this spot, staring at the wedding arch where I will soon be expected to stand and wait.
I clutch the back of a chair, holding on for dear life as the weight of the day’s revelations inhale me, drowning me in their depths. Kenji is right; I don’t enjoy surprises. This is fundamentally true, and yet—I would like to be the kind of person who enjoys surprises. I want to live a life like this, to be able to withstand unexpected moments of kindness delivered by the person I love most in the world. It’s only that I don’t know what to do with these experiences; my body doesn’t know how to accept or digest them.
I am so happy it’s physically uncomfortable; I am so full of hope it seems to depress my chest, forcing the air from my lungs.
I draw in a sharp breath against this feeling, forcing myself to be calm while doing, over and over, the mental gymnastics necessary to remind myself that my fears are irrational, when I feel the approach of a familiar nervous energy.
I turn around carefully to meet her, surprised she’s sought me out at all. “Hey,” Sam says, trying to smile. She’s dressed up; she even appears to
have attempted something like makeup, her eyelids shimmering in the soft light of the morning. “Big day.”
“Yes.”
“Listen, I’m sorry.” She sighs. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you like that last night. Really, I didn’t.”
I nod, then look away, staring into the distance. This yard is separated from its neighbor’s by only a short, shabby wooden fence. Kenji will no doubt spend the rest of our lives tormenting me from over top of it.
Sam sighs again, louder this time. “I know you and I don’t always see eye to eye,” she says, “but I’m hoping maybe—if we get to know each other better—that’ll change.”
I look up at that, analyzing Sam now.
She is being sincere, but I find her suggestion unlikely. I notice Nouria in my periphery then, huddled up with her father and three others, and shift my gaze in her direction. She’s wearing a simple sheath dress in a shade of chartreuse that compliments her dark skin. She appears to be happy at the moment—smiling—which even I realize is rare for Nouria these days.
Sam follows my line of sight, seeming to understand where my thoughts have gone. “I know she’s a little hard on you sometimes, but she’s been
under crazy amounts of pressure lately. She’s never had to oversee so many people, or so many details, and The Reestablishment has been a lot harder to deconstruct than we’d thought—you can’t even imagine—”
“Can’t I?” I almost smile, even as my jaw tenses. “You think me incapable of understanding the weight of the burden we shoulder now?”
Sam looks away. “I didn’t say that. That’s not what I meant.”
“Our position is worse than precarious,” I say to her. “And whatever you think of me—whatever you think you understand about me—I am only trying to help.”
For the third time, Sam sighs.
Now, more than ever, those of us at the Sanctuary should be allied, but Sam and Nouria have grown to detest me over the last couple of weeks because I challenge them at every turn, refusing to agree with their tactics or ideology when I find it lacking—and unwilling to acquiesce merely to get along.
They find this fundamentally infuriating, and I don’t care.
I refuse to do anything that would put Ella’s life in jeopardy, and letting our movement fail would be doing exactly that.
“I want us to try again,” Sam says, steely now as she meets my eyes. “I want us to start over. We’ve been fighting a lot lately, and I think you would agree with me that it’s not sustainable. We should be united right now.”
“United? Nouria deliberately made me think I couldn’t get married. She willfully manipulated the truth to make the situation seem dire, simply to wound me. How can such petty machinations form any foundation for unity?”
“She wasn’t trying to wound you. She was trying to protect you.” “In what alternate reality could that possibly be true?”
Sam’s anger flares. “You know what your problem is?” “Yes. The list is long.”
“Oh my God,” she says, her irritation building. “This, this is exactly your problem. You think you know everything. You’re uncooperative, you’re uncompromising, and you’ve already decided you’ve figured everything out. You don’t know how to be part of a team—”
“You and Nouria don’t know how to take constructive criticism.”
“Constructive criticism?” Sam gapes at me. “You call your criticism
constructive?”
“You’re free to call it whatever you like,” I say unkindly. “But I refuse to remain silent when I believe you and Nouria are making the wrong choices. You regularly forget that I was raised within The Reestablishment, from its infancy, and that there is a great deal I understand about the mechanics of our enemies’ minds—more than you are even willing to consider—”
“All okay over here?” Castle asks, striding toward us. His smile is uncertain. “We’re not talking about work right now, are we?”
“Oh, everything is fine,” Sam says too brightly. “I was just reminding Warner here how much Nouria has done to keep him and Juliette safe on their wedding day. An event I think we all agree would render them both most vulnerable to an outside threat.”
I go suddenly still.
“Well—yes,” Castle says, confused. “Of course. You already know that, though, don’t you, Mr. Warner? News of your impending nuptials was beginning to spread, and we feared the possible repercussions for both you and Ms. Ferrars on such a joyous day.”
I’m still staring at Sam when I say quietly: “That’s why you all lied to me yesterday?”
“Nouria thought it was imperative that we convince you,” Sam says stiffly, “more than anyone else, that you wouldn’t be getting married today. The supreme kids knew about the wedding before they left, and Nouria worried that even a whiff of an exchange on the subject yesterday might be intercepted in your daily communications, which we wanted to make certain you carried out as normal. The notifications Juliette sent out last night were done in code.”
“I see,” I say, glancing again at Nouria, who’s now deep in conversation with the girls—Sonya and Sara—both of whom are holding what appear to be small black suitcases.
I should be touched by this gesture of protection, but the fact that they felt I couldn’t be trusted with such a plan does little to improve my mood.
“You do realize you could’ve simply asked me to say nothing, don’t you? I’m perfectly capable of discretion—”
“What is going on between you two?” Castle frowns. “This is not the energy I expected from either of you on—”
“Sir?” Ian is standing at the sliding screen door—the only access point into the house from the backyard—and motioning Castle forward with an
agitated wave. “Can you come here, please? Now?”
Castle frowns, then glances between myself and Sam. “There will be plenty of time to discuss unpleasant matters later, do you understand? Today is a day of celebration. For all of us.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Sam says to Castle. “Everything will be fine—right, Warner?”
“Perhaps,” I say, holding her gaze.
Sam and I say nothing else, and Castle shakes his head before stalking off, leaving the two of us alone to enjoy an uncomfortable moment of silence.
Sam takes a sudden deep breath.
“Anyway,” she says loudly, looking around now for an exit. “Exciting day. Best wishes and everything.”
My jaw clenches. I’m saved the need to respond to this limp performance of civility by the abrupt, sharp bark of a dog, accompanied by the timid admonishment of a human.
Sam and I both spin around toward the sounds.
An animal I hardly recognize is scratching wildly at the screen door, yapping—at me, specifically—from several feet away. Its once mangy, matted fur is now a healthy brown, with an unexpected smattering of white; this accomplishment is undermined by its bright red collar and ridiculous, matching headband, the undignified accessory crowned with a large crimson bow, which sits atop the animal’s head. The perpetrator of this crime is standing just beyond the dog, a tall, redheaded young woman desperately begging the pup to be calm.
Kenji had said her name was Yara.
She struggles in vain; the creature pays her no mind as he barks over and over, all the while pawing anxiously at the screen door—my screen door—which he will no doubt destroy if he does not soon desist.
“Let him out,” I say to her, my voice carrying.
The young woman startles at that, quickly fumbling now to unlatch the screen door. When she finally manages to slide the panel open, the animal all but lunges through the doorway, yanking her along with him.
Beside me, Sam makes a poorly muffled sound of disgust.
“I didn’t realize you hated animals,” I say without looking at her.
“Oh, I love animals. Animals are better at being human than people are.”
“I don’t disagree.” “Shocking.”
I turn to face her, surprised. “Why are you so angry?”
Sam sighs and nods discreetly at Yara, who waves enthusiastically even as she’s dragged along in our direction.
I raise my eyebrows at Sam.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she says, irritated. “You have no idea what Nouria and I have had to deal with since you arrived. It got a hundred times worse after everyone decided you were some kind of a hero. It was a really low moment for us, realizing that so many people we respected were shockingly shallow.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” I say, taking a breath as I lift a hand in Yara’s direction, “I don’t like it, either.”
“Bullshit,” Sam says automatically, but I sense her flicker of uncertainty.
I lower my voice as Yara closes in on us. “Would you enjoy being reduced to nothing but your physical footprint, forced all the while to absorb the weight of strangers’ indecent emotions as they assess and undress you?”
Sam stiffens beside me. She turns to look at me, her feelings scattered and confused. I feel her reexamining me.
“Hi!” Yara says, coming to a stop in front of us.
She is an objectively kind young woman; I recognize this even as I fight back a wave of revulsion. Yara has done the animal—and me, by extension
—a great courtesy, which she needn’t have done for a stranger on such short notice. Still, her feelings are both generous and disconcerting, some of them loud enough to make me physically uncomfortable.
The dog is wise enough to halt at my feet.
He lifts a tentative paw as if to touch me, and I give him a sharp look, after which the paw retreats. In the intervening silence, the dog stares up at me with big, dark eyes, his tail wagging furiously.
“It was kind of you to wash the animal,” I say to Yara, still staring at the dog. “He looks much better now.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure,” she says, hesitating before adding: “You look
—you look really, really nice today.” My smile is tight.
I don’t want to feel what she’s feeling right now. I don’t want to know these things—not ever—but especially not on my wedding day.
I bend down to look the dog in the eye and draw a gentle hand over his head, into which he eagerly leans. He sniffs me, nosing the palm of my hand, and I pull away before the beast decides to lick me. I decide instead to check his collar; there is a single metal coin hanging from the red strap, and I pinch it between two fingers, the better to examine it.
It reads: DOG.
“That’s what you said you wanted to call him, right?” Yara is still smiling. “Dog?”
I look up at her then, meeting the young woman’s eyes against my better judgment, and her smile trembles.
Sam stifles a laugh.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I suppose I did say something like that.”
Yara beams. “Well, he’s all yours now. Happy wedding and everything.” I stand up sharply. “What?”
“Oh, and it looks like he’s already been neutered, so I think he’s had a family before. You made a great choice. I’m not sure what kind of dog he is
—he’s definitely some kind of mixed breed—but he’s not totally wild, and I think he’ll be a good—
“I’m afraid you’ve gravely misunderstood the situation. I don’t want a dog. I merely wanted you to wash the animal, and maybe feed it—”
Sam is laughing openly now, and I pivot to face her.
“You think this is funny? What am I supposed to do with a dog?”
“Um, I don’t know”—she shoots me an incredulous look—“give it a loving home?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m—I’m so sorry,” Yara says, her eyes widening now with panic. “I thought he was your dog—I didn’t think he was— I mean he doesn’t obey anyone else, and he seems really attached to you—”
“Don’t worry, Yara,” Sam says gently. “You did great. Warner just wasn’t expecting you to be so generous, and he’s kind of, um, overwhelmed with gratitude right now. Isn’t that right, Warner?” She turns to me. “Yara was so kind to get . . . Dog here all washed and ready for your wedding day. Wasn’t she?”
“Very kind,” I say, my jaw tensing.
Yara looks nervously in my direction. “Really?”
Briefly, I meet her eyes. “Really.” She flushes.
“Yara, why don’t you hold on to”—she fights back a smile—“Dog until the end of the ceremony? Maybe make sure he gets something to eat.”
“Oh, sure.” Yara shoots me one last furtive look before tugging gently on the animal’s leash. The dog whines at that, then barks as she coaxes him, one foot at a time, back toward the house.
I turn my eyes skyward. “This is unforgivable.”
“Why?” I can hear practically hear Sam smile. “I bet Juliette would love to have a dog.”
I look at Sam. “Did you know, I once watched a dog vomit—and then proceed to eat its own vomit.”
“Okay, but—”
“And then vomit. Again.”
Sam crosses her arms. “That was one dog.”
“Another dog once defecated right in front of me while I was patrolling a compound.”
“That’s perfectly norm—”
“After which it promptly ate its own feces.”
Sam crosses her arms. “All right. Well. That’s still better than the awful things I’ve seen humans do.”
I’m prevented from responding by a sudden swell of commotion. People are starting to rush around, pushing past us to scatter wildflowers in the grassy aisle. Sonya and Sara, clad in identical green gowns, take positions adjacent to the wedding arch, their black suitcases gone. In their hands they hold matching violins and bows, the sight of which paralyzes me anew. I feel that familiar pain in my chest, something like fear.
It’s beginning.
“You’re right, though,” I say quietly to Sam, wondering, for the hundredth time, what Ella might be doing inside the house. “She’d love to have a dog.”
“Wait— I’m sorry, did you just say I was right about something?” I release a sharp breath. It sounds almost like a laugh.
“You know,” Sam says thoughtfully. “I think this might be the most pleasant conversation you and I have ever had.”
“Your standards are very low, then.”
“When it comes to you, Warner, my standards have to be low.”
I manage to smile at that, but I’m still distracted. Castle is walking toward the arch now, a small leather-bound notebook in his hand, a sprig of lavender pinned to his lapel. He nods at me as he goes, and I can only stare, feeling suddenly like I can’t breathe.
“I’ve seen her, by the way,” Sam says softly. I turn to face her.
“Juliette.” Sam smiles. “She looks beautiful.”
I’m struggling to formulate a response to this when I sense the approach of a familiar presence; his hand lands on my arm, and for the first time, I don’t flinch.
“Hey, man,” Kenji says, materializing at my side in a surprisingly sharp suit. “You ready? There’s not much of a wedding party, so we’re not doing a processional, which means J will be walking down the aisle pretty soon. Nazeera just gave us the ten-minute . . .”
Kenji trails off, distracted as if on cue, by Nazeera herself. She saunters toward the wedding arch, tall and steady in a gauzy, blush-colored gown. She grins at Castle, who acknowledges her with a smile of his own; Nazeera takes a position just off to the side of the arch, adjusting her skirts as she settles in place.
It becomes terrifyingly clear to me then exactly where Ella is expected to soon stand. Where I am expected to soon stand.
“But I haven’t finished with the tablecloths,” I say, “or the seating inside
—”
“Yeah. I noticed.” Kenji takes a sharp breath, tearing his gaze away
from Nazeera to look me in the eye. “Anyway, don’t worry. We took care of it. You seemed really busy standing still for half an hour, staring at nothing. We didn’t want to interrupt.”
“All right, I think I should get going,” Sam says, offering me a real, genuine smile. “Nouria is saving me a seat. Good luck out there.”
I nod at her as she goes, surprised to discover that, despite the long road ahead, there might be hope of a truce between us after all.
“Okay.” Kenji claps his hands together. “First things first: do you need to go to the bathroom or anything before we start? Personally, I think you should go even if you don’t think you have to, because it would be really awkward if you suddenly had t—”
“Stop.”
“Oh—right!” Kenji says, slapping his hand to his forehead. “My bad, bro, I forgot—you never have to use the bathroom, do you?”
“No.”
“No, of course not. Because that would be human, and we both know you’re secretly a robot.”
I sigh, resisting the urge to run my hands through my hair.
“Seriously, though—anything you need to do before you go up there?
You’ve got the ring, right?”
“No.” My heart is pounding furiously in my chest now. “And yes.” “Okay, then.” Kenji nods toward the wedding arch. “Go ahead and get
into position under that flower thing. Castle will show you exactly where to stand—”
I turn sharply to face him. “You’re not coming with me?”
Kenji goes stock-still at that, his mouth slightly agape. I realize, a moment too late, exactly what I’ve just suggested—and still I can’t bring myself to retract the question, and I can’t explain why.
Right now, it doesn’t seem to matter. Right now, I can’t quite feel my legs.
Kenji, to his credit, does not laugh in my face. Instead, his expression relaxes by micrometers, his dark eyes assessing me in that careful way I detest.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Of course I’m coming with you.”
