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“Cormac expects me to live with him in the Northern Sector,” I tell her as I blink back tears.
“Oh.” Amie deflates a bit in front of me and I grab her hand.
“You can stay with us as soon as this wedding nonsense is over.”
“Promise?”
“I do.” I mean it. If I go through with this, maybe I can rebuild my family a little, but still when Pryana enters the room, I look to her, hopeful she’s come to pass along a message from the Agenda. They must know of Cormac’s plans, but she shakes her head slightly as though she can read my mind. No one is coming to help me.
“Pryana!” Amie jumps up and rushes to greet her. “Adelice says I can live with her and Cormac in the Northern Sector.”
“Good for you.” Pryana’s words are forced and when our eyes meet, recrimination burns behind her irises, although she does her best to hide it. I’m taking another sister from her.
“Come with marital advice?” I ask in an attempt to keep the mood light. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
“No, I came with a gift.” Pryana hands me a small wrapped box. “Open it in private. I don’t want to embarrass your sister.”
Amie pretends to cover her ears, but I swat her hands away and fake a laugh.
“Thank you,” I say to Pryana, who gives me a tight smile.
They stay until Amie’s eyelids droop, and then Pryana forces her onto her feet. I wrap my arms around my sister, who’s as tall as me, and try to find a way to say goodbye.
In the end the words were there all along. “I love you, Ames.”
She nods through her tears, releasing me after a few minutes and stepping away, but her eyes stay locked on me as though I might vanish. She doesn’t remember what happened the night of my retrieval, but the wounds are still there.
Pryana gives me a short, awkward hug. “Open the present somewhere safe.”
I nod, wide-eyed as my pulse begins to race. I walk them to the door, torn between sadness and hope, and as soon as it locks behind them I retrieve the box. My fingers tremble as I carry it to the bathroom. I rip into it, discovering another box tucked inside the first—like a toy I had as a child. When I pull it out, the only thing inside is a crystal cube with a delicate, shimmering strand of silver frozen inside.
* * *
The next morning I find myself crammed into a tiny rebound lounge with a party of twenty security personnel and assistants. Despite the large number of people, no one speaks to me. My aesthetician for the trip is bubbly and bright, mindlessly chatting with the other girls who’ve come along to assist her. Alixandra watches from the corner of the room, aloof as usual. Not only from me, it turns out, but from everyone. The guards whisper and stay alert. Tension cuts through the room, needling everyone’s nerves. It’s only been a few days since the attack at the gala, making it feel as though there could be another attack at any time.
The Western Coventry’s rebound station is prepped for our departure and there’s not much waiting around. Half of the security team is going in advance, with the other half following behind. I’ve been briefed a dozen times on the schedule and on contingencies to the schedule and on contingencies to the contingencies.
I don’t even pretend to care. I am going to marry Cormac. I will never use my gift again. These words echo through my empty mind, threatening to destroy what little I have left. All my energy is spent on staying sane.
We wait for the first set of rebounds to finish and I sit alone, hoping to catch bits of news from careless lips. This is what I’ve become. A wisp. A nothing. Forced to latch on to gossip—as if it will ever do any good.
“Can you imagine sending any other Spinster with this entourage?” a girl says in a lowered voice. She’s not quite whispering—she clearly wants to be heard. Her words are tainted with a listen-to-me tone.
“I thought we were in a state of austerity, but I guess not if you’re the prime minister’s wife.”
“Future wife,” a girl corrects her in an almost hopeful voice.
“I heard Patton’s gone crazy,” the girl says. “I think this whole thing proves how paranoid he’s become.”
“Oh, I heard that, too! But they’re saying he’s a shoo-in for the next election.”
I want to ask who they are hearing these things from, but I keep silent.
“I think something strange is going on,” a girl says. “Patton isn’t just going crazy. It’s like he’s a different person.”
“Well, that person is going to win reelection,” chirps another.
“And I assume you are all on such familiar terms with Minister Patton that you’re comfortable sharing such factual accounts,” Alixandra says, stepping out from behind the group. Her face is blank and I want to know what she thinks about what the girls are saying. But as usual, she’s removed and professional—and utterly unreadable.
