Across the room, my father has found Alice. Lex isnt with her. I understand; he has known enough awful things for a lifetime. I still think of how he used to be, attentive and intense, his face magnified by the beaker hed hold up to the light. He used to be one of the top pharmacy students, honored with tasks most others cant take on until graduation. But after his incident, he burned all of his notes and abandoned the trade entirely. He earns money by sewing quilts nowhis work is erratic but deft, and the quilts always fetch a higher price than the others, his skill and precision cause for envy among the other makers.
Pen presses close to me and says, Look.
A patrolman is jostling the screen, twisting its knobs and trying to make the static subside. The screen is more than a hundred years old, its bronze facing chipped down to oblivion; the wires are frayed, and a little burst of sparks makes someone in the crowd gasp.
But the image comes through, distorted at first, King Furlow trembling, warped, and green, before the patrolman hits the screen, knocking the image into reasonable clarity in time for us to see the king remove his red bowler hat and hold it to his pudgy stomach.
King Furlows lineage traces back to the dawn of Internment itself. His oldest ancestor is in the history book as the only man chosen to hear from the god in the sky. No one knows for certain how the god in the sky speaks with the king, but its Internments longest standing tradition, passed down from generation to royal generation. Ive never envied him; its surely a terrible burden to be the voice of an entire city.
The rest of us speak to the god in the sky when were frightened or grateful, and we dont expect to be answered.
Standing at either side of the king are his children: Princess Celeste, and her older brother, Prince Azure, both of whom may be trying to appear somber but instead seem bored. Though the screen is sepia and the image a bit out of focus, they both look like their mother, and their mothers mother, and so on as far as records trace. Blond hair and clear sparkling eyes, a bit of plumpness to the face. Theyre sixteen and seventeen, making them closer in age than any other siblings on Internment. The kings children are traditionally born outside the queue. When the queen announces her pregnancies, she and the king go through the list of hopeful parents in the queue, and they hand-select the applicants they see fit to bear their childrens betrotheds. Of course the hopeful parents can refuse, but no one in Internments history has ever passed up the chance to have a child without the long wait.
At four-oh-five this evening, the king begins, the coroner made his official statement that the death of a sixteen-year-old young lady was the result of murder. I warn those of you watching at home that many of the details about to be shared are graphic, and young children should not be present.
The other tenants are huddling together. Pen and I have our arms around each other; my view of the screen is partially obstructed by the people ahead of me, but I dont crane my neck for a better look.
Across the room, Alice chews her thumbnail and nods at something that my father has just said to her.
Theres an assortment of gasps and Oh no and mutterings as the murdered girls class image is shown. Shes got a coy smile and her eyelids are dusted with glitter. My first thought is that shes radiant. Through the sepia, I can imagine her face alive with color.
Oh, Pen whispers into my ear. I know her. We were in a romantic-literature course together.
Daphne Leander, the king goes on, a tenth-year student and aspiring medic, is estimated to have died this morning. Her parents informed our patrolmen that they last saw her boarding the shuttle for the academy.
The details turn dark after that. She received absences from all of her instructors. No report from other morning passengers that she ever boarded the train. She was found early in the evening. Throat and wrists slashed. Everything indicates that she bled to death. As to how her body came to be on the train tracks during daylight hoursthats still under investigation.
Patrolmen will be stationed in every train car, at every platform, and outside the doors of every building of Internment until the criminal responsible for this vicious act is found.
Pens mother stands a few paces away with her arm out, waving her daughter to come over and allow herself to be embraced, but Pen resists.
Its important for you to all go about your lives normally, the king says. Daphnes image is replaced with the sketched map of Internment. The theater and the businesses in the shopping sections will keep their usual hours. There will be patrolmen in sight at all times; report any suspicious activity, no matter how minor it may seem at the time.
The panic reaches through me like vines curling up from my toes to my stomach, twisting and knotting and tightening around my organs. Internment looks so small on the screen. It would take a train less than two hours to circle it entirely. Within that circuit is everyone Ive ever loved and every place I will ever go. But it has been sullied, ugliness spreading out like the color from a steeping tea bag, until everything is covered by it. Theres someone out there capable of slashing open a young girls skin and leaving her to be found.
I feel sick, I say.
Me too, Pen says.
When the broadcast is over, the screen goes to static.
Margaret, Pens father calls impatiently. She grunts. Hes the only one who uses her real name; even her instructors call her Pen, despite what her forms and her student identification card say.
Numbly I watch her return to her parents, but she squeezed my hand before she went. The crowd is dwindling, but I dont go to my father and Alice; I go to the stairwell, and once the door is closed behind me and Im alone, I run up the four flights of stairs to my brothers apartment. The door is locked; its never locked. I fight the doorknob and then I pound frantically on the door. I can hear shuffling inside and I know hes coming to let me in, but there are footfalls in the stairwell and there could be anything around the corner, where a bulb has gone out and shadows spread into the light.
The door opens and I spill inside, pushing it shut behind me.
Morgan? he says. Even without his sight, Lex always knows my presence. His dark hair is bunched on one side; he pulls at it when hes writing.
I try to speak, but my lip is quivering and my heart is in my throat and Im out of breath from the climb.
You watched the broadcast, didnt you? he says. Its all right. Breathe. Sit down. He pulls out a kitchen chair for each of us.
Pen knew her, I blurt. She wanted to be a medic. She was my age. And she was pretty. I dont even know what Im saying. Words are blurring like the city through the train window. My lungs are aching.
Morgan. My brother reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine. Every generation has its horror stories. It was only a matter of time before something awful happened in front of you. Its an awful thing to be alive sometimes.
Dont say that. It isnt awful at all.
Theres so much beauty out there that Daphne Leander will never see again.
Lex has such a piteous look on his face, as though Im the one to feel sorry for.
Why do you say things like that? I ask.
Because I saved lives when I was a pharmacy student, he says. And you cant be the reason someone is alive without giving thought to what being alive means.
I pull my hand away from his. Remind me to never implore your aid if Im dying.
Dont be angry, he says. Im sorry. Morgan, Im sorry. I wish it hadnt happened. I wish you never had to know such things.
But you write about it, I say. Dont you? People dying and getting sucked up into the swallows and things.
Sometimes, he admits. Youve read dark stories, havent you? People die in them?
But I know they arent real, I say. I put the book down and I go on with my life.
He frowns. Things are changing, Little Sister, and not for the better. I have a feeling about that. But I would dock Internment to the ground and take you someplace brilliant if I could.
Internment is brilliant, I say. Its more than enough.
More than enough. I repeat the words over and over in my head, forcing them to be true.
4
Virtuousnesshow is it defined? We are taught not to approach the edge, and certainly not to jump. But is bravery not a virtue?
Intangible Gods, Daphne Leander, Year Ten
THE TRAIN RIDE TO THE ACADEMY IS SO quiet that I can hear the wheels squeaking on the tracks, and the hum of the electricity. The students, like the families in my building during the broadcast, huddle together, talking softly if at all.
Even Basil and Thomas arent speaking.
Pen watches the clouds blurring past us, and in the windows reflection I think shes watching the patrolman standing at the head of our car. As promised, there was no lack of them this morning, holding open doors for us, nodding, saying, Good morning as though to reassure us that our little world is safe. They cast suspicious glances at the men in particular. I dont know that I like this. The vigilance of the patrolmen is supposed to make me feel safe, but all it does is further the knowledge that something has changed.
There are patrolmen watching us step off the train; Pen stays close to me, huffing indignantly as she tugs her skirt pleats down past her knees. Are all these eyes really necessary? she says.
Theyre only looking out for our safety, Basil says. Try to ignore them.
She looks over her shoulder after the patrolman who opened the academy door for us; she crinkles her nose but says nothing more.
Normally wed have at least ten minutes of free time in the lobby, but today were supposed to report to our first classes immediately. Ill see you at lunch, I say to Basil.
He reaches for my hand, hesitates, and drops his arm back at his side. See you at lunch. I watch him disappear into a group of his morning classmates.
What was that about? Pen says after weve rounded the corner.
I think hes going to kiss me soon, I say, suddenly feeling very awkward about what to do with my own hands. It seemed like he wanted to yesterday when he walked me home.
At last, my little girl is growing up, she says.
Im three days older than you, I say.
She bumps me with her shoulder. But I know all the things youre too sweet to know.