Dedication
Epigraph
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1
I WAIT. They keep us in the dark for so
2
FOR MALES twenty-five is the fatal age. For women its
3
ITS NOT GABRIEL who wakes me in the morning, but
4
ITS MY TURN to keep watch. Weve locked the doors
5
WHEN THE EVENING is at last through, I languish on
6
I WANT TO PLAY a game, Cecily says.
7
I HOLD MY BREATH as they pass. Eternity is the
8
THE ATTENDANTS arrive in abundance. All of them rushing into
9
LINDEN is so delighted about the pregnancy, and the mood
10
IT SEEMS THAT leaves are always bursting with new colors.
11
THE HOUSE doesnt blow away. Aside from a few broken
12
THE AIR IS STILL. Its quiet. I can breathe without
13
LINDEN SEEMS to have no idea that I sustained these
14
ALL NIGHT I dream of rivers, and beneath the water,
15
WHEN CECILY finishes playing her song, and the illusion shrinks
16
I DONT SEE GABRIEL the next day. My breakfast is
17
IM SICK for the rest of the afternoon. Jenna holds
18
LINDEN SAYS, You and Jenna get along well, dont you?
19
I WORRY for the rest of the evening. Deirdre tries
20
WE WAIT, and we wait. I want to look away,
21
ON THE MORNING of the winter solstice, Jenna manages to
22
THE BABY will not stop crying. His face is bright
23
JENNA WAS RIGHT. She leaves before I do. We lose
24
WE RETURN from the New Years party in the early
25
IN THE MONTH before my escape, I spend all of
26
I TAKE the elevator to the ground floor and cross
27
WE RUN for what feels like all night. It feels
Fever
The First Bride
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
we lose sense of our eyelids. We sleep huddled together like rats, staring out, and dream of our bodies swaying.
I know when one of the girls reaches a wall. She begins to pound and screamtheres metal in the soundbut none of us help her. Weve gone too long without speaking, and all we do is bury ourselves more into the dark.
The doors open.
The light is frightening. Its the light of the world through the birth canal, and at once the blinding tunnel that comes with death. I recoil into the blankets with the other girls in horror, not wanting to begin or end.
We stumble when they let us out; weve forgotten how to use our legs. How long has it beendays? Hours? The big open sky waits in its usual place.
I stand in line with the other girls, and men in gray coats study us.
Ive heard of this happening. Where I come from, girls have been disappearing for a long time. They disappear from their beds or from the side of the road. It happened to a girl in my neighborhood. Her whole family disappeared after that, moved away, either to find her or because they knew she would never be returned.
Now its my turn. I know girls disappear, but any number of things could come after that. Will I become a murdered reject? Sold into prostitution? These things have happened. Theres only one other option. I could become a bride. Ive seen them on television, reluctant yet beautiful teenage brides, on the arm of a wealthy man who is approaching the lethal age of twenty-five.
The other girls never make it to the television screen. Girls who dont pass their inspection are shipped to a brothel in the scarlet districts. Some we have found murdered on the sides of roads, rotting, staring into the searing sun because the Gatherers couldnt be bothered to deal with them. Some girls disappear forever, and all their families can do is wonder.
The girls are taken as young as thirteen, when their bodies are mature enough to bear children, and the virus claims every female of our generation by twenty.
Our hips are measured to determine strength, our lips pried apart so the men can judge our health by our teeth. One of the girls vomits. She may be the girl who screamed. She wipes her mouth, trembling, terrified. I stand firm, determined to be anonymous, unhelpful.
I feel too alive in this row of moribund girls with their eyes half open. I sense that their hearts are barely beating, while mine pounds in my chest. After so much time spent riding in the darkness of the truck, we have all fused together. We are one nameless thing sharing this strange hell. I do not want to stand out. I do not want to stand out.
But it doesnt matter. Someone has noticed me. A man paces before the line of us. He allows us to be prodded by the men in gray coats who examine us. He seems thoughtful and pleased.
His eyes, green, like two exclamation marks, meet mine. He smiles. Theres a flash of gold in his teeth, indicating wealth. This is unusual, because hes too young to be losing his teeth. He keeps walking, and I stare at my shoes. Stupid! I should never have looked up. The strange color of my eyes is the first thing anyone ever notices.
He says something to the men in gray coats. They look at all of us, and then they seem to be in agreement. The man with gold teeth smiles in my direction again, and then hes taken to another car that shoots up bits of gravel as it backs onto the road and drives away.
The vomit girl is taken back to the truck, and a dozen other girls with her; a man in a gray coat follows them in. There are three of us left, the gap of the other girls still between us. The men speak to one another again, and then to us. Go, they say, and we oblige. Theres nowhere to go but the back of an open limousine parked on the gravel. Were off the road somewhere, not far from the highway. I can hear the faraway sounds of traffic. I can see the evening city lights beginning to appear in the distant purple haze. Its nowhere I recognize; a road this desolate is far from the crowded streets back home.
Go. The two other chosen girls move before me, and Im the last to get into the limousine. Theres a tinted glass window that separates us from the driver. Just before someone shuts the door, I hear something inside the van where the remaining girls were herded.
Its the first of what I know will be a dozen more gunshots.
I awake in a satin bed, nauseous and pulsating with sweat. My first conscious movement is to push myself to the edge of the mattress, where I lean over and vomit onto the lush red carpet. Im still spitting and gagging when someone begins cleaning up the mess with a dishrag.
Everyone handles the sleep gas differently, he says softly.
Sleep gas? I splutter, and before I can wipe my mouth on my lacy white sleeve, he hands me a cloth napkinalso lush red.
It comes out through the vents in the limo, he says. Its so you wont know where youre going.
I remember the glass window separating us from the front of the car. Airtight, I assume. Vaguely I remember the whooshing of air coming through vents in the walls.
One of the other girls, the boy says as he sprays white foam onto the spot where I vomited, she almost threw herself out the bedroom window, she was so disoriented. The windows locked, of course. Shatterproof. Despite the awful things hes saying, his voice is low, possibly even sympathetic.
I look over my shoulder at the window. Closed tight. The world is bright green and blue beyond it, brighter than my home, where theres only dirt and the remnants of my mothers garden that Ive failed to revive.
Somewhere down the hall a woman screams. The boy tenses for a moment. Then he resumes scrubbing away the foam.
I can help, I offer. A moment ago I didnt feel guilty about ruining anything in this place; I know Im here against my will. But I also know this boy isnt to blame. He cant be one of the Gatherers in gray who brought me here. Maybe he was also brought here against his will. I havent heard of teenage boys disappearing, but up until fifty years ago, when the virus was discovered, girls were also safe. Everyone was safe.
No need. Its all done, he says. And when he moves the rag away, theres not so much as a stain. He pulls a handle out of the wall, and a chute opens; he tosses the rags into it, lets go, and the chute clamps shut. He tucks the can of white foam into his apron pocket and returns to what he was doing. He picks up a silver tray from where hed placed it on the floor, and brings it to my night table. If youre feeling better, theres some lunch for you. Nothing that will make you fall asleep again, I promise. He looks like he might smile. Just almost. But he maintains a concentrated gaze as he lifts a metal lid off a bowl of soup and another off a small plate of steaming vegetables and mashed potatoes cradling a lake of gravy. Ive been stolen, drugged, locked away in this place, yet Im being served a gourmet meal. The sentiment is so vile I could almost throw up again.
That other girlthe one who tried to throw herself out the windowwhat happened to her? I ask. I dont dare ask about the woman screaming down the hall. I dont want to know about her.
Shes calmed down some.
And the other girl?
She woke up this morning. I think the House Governor took her to tour the gardens.
House Governor. I remember my despair and crash against the pillows. House Governors own mansions. They purchase brides from Gatherers, who patrol the streets looking for ideal candidates to kidnap. The merciful ones will sell the rejects into prostitution, but the ones I encountered herded them into the van and shot them all. I heard that first gunshot over and over in my medicated dreams.
How long have I been here? I say.
Two days, the boy says. He hands me a steaming cup, and Im about to refuse it when I see the tea bag string dangling over the side, smell the spices. Tea. My brother, Rowan, and I had it with our breakfast each morning, and with dinner each night. The smell is like home. My mother would hum as she waited by the stove for the water to boil.
Blearily I sit up and take the tea. I hold it near my face and breathe the steam in through my nose. Its all I can do not to burst into tears. The boy must sense that the full impact of what has happened is reaching me. He must sense that Im on the verge of doing something dramatic like crying or trying to fling myself out the window like that other girl, because hes already moving for the door. Quietly, without looking back, he leaves me to my grief. But instead of tears, when I press my face against the pillow, a horrible, primal scream comes out of me. Its unlike anything I thought myself capable of. Rage, unlike anything Ive ever known.
women its twenty. We are all dropping like flies.
Seventy years ago science perfected the art of children. There were complete cures for an epidemic known as cancer, a disease that could affect any part of the body and that used to claim millions of lives. Immune system boosts given to the new-generation children eradicated allergies and seasonal ailments, and even protected against sexually contracted viruses. Flawed natural children ceased to be conceived in favor of this new technology. A generation of perfectly engineered embryos assured a healthy, successful population. Most of that generation is still alive, approaching old age gracefully. They are the fearless first generation, practically immortal.
No one could ever have anticipated the horrible aftermath of such a sturdy generation of children. While the first generation did, and still does, thrive, something went wrong with their children, and their childrens children. We, the new generations, are born healthy and strong, perhaps healthier than our parents, but our life span stops at twenty-five for males and twenty for females. For fifty years the world has been in a panic as its children die. The wealthier households refuse to accept defeat. Gatherers make a living collecting potential brides and selling them off to breed new children. The children born into these marriages are experiments. At least thats what my brother says, and always with disgust in his voice. There was a time when he wanted to learn more about the virus thats killing us; he would pester our parents with questions nobody could answer. But our parents death broke his sense of wonder. My left-brained brother, who once had dreams of saving the world, now laughs at anyone who tries.
But neither of us ever knew for certain what happens after the initial gathering.
Now, it seems, I will find out.
For hours I pace the bedroom in this lacy nightgown. The room is fully furnished, as though its been waiting for my arrival. Theres a walk-in closet full of clothes, but Im only in there long enough to check for an attic door, like my parents closet has, though there isnt one. The dark, polished wood of the dresser matches the dressing table and ottoman; on the wall are generic paintingsa sunset, a beachside picnic. The wallpaper is made up of vertical vines budding roses, and they remind me of the bars of a prison cell. I avoid my reflection in the dressing table mirror, afraid Ill lose my mind if I see myself in this place.
I try opening the window, but when that proves futile, I take in the view. The sun is just beginning to set in yellows and pinks, and theres a myriad of flowers in the garden. There are trickling fountains. The grass is mowed into strips of green and deeper green. Closer to the house a hedge sections off an area with an inground pool, unnaturally cerulean. This, I think, is the botanical heaven my mother imagined when she planted lilies in the yard. They would grow healthy and vibrant, thriving despite the wasteland of dirt and dust. The only time flowers bloomed in our neighborhood was when she was alive. Other than my mothers flowers, there are those wilting carnations that shopkeepers sell in the city, dyed pink and red for Valentines Day, along with red roses that always look rubbery or parched in the windows. They, like humanity, are chemical replicas of what they should be.