Starglass

“Koen and I are supposed to have our bloodlines checked today. So we can marry.” Her eyes widened at that. “He’s expecting me. Can you go get him?”

Stella just clutched at the door. “I told you. No one’s home.”

“He’s not home?” My resolve wavered. But I forced my doubts down deep inside me and somehow managed to hold my head firm. “Do you know where he is?”

“I think he’s in the atrium. He always goes there after work when he’s not out with you.” She waited a beat, like this was significant. “On the lower deck.”

“The lower deck,” I repeated. “Thanks, Stella.”

I turned and started down the street again. As I did, Stella’s voice called out to me. “Terra, wait!”

I looked over my shoulder. Stella just stared, not blinking at all.

“Good luck,” she finally concluded, lamely. Then added: “With the bloodlines and all.” I nodded one more time.

“Thanks,” I replied.

17

I made my way to the lower deck, where I’d walked with my mother so many times before. It had been different then, green and bright and alive. I’d been there with Koen only once, that evening we almost kissed. Since then the few bits of autumn brown that had scattered through the landscape had disappeared completely. Everything was bone gray now, dead. Black branches craned their fingers up through to the upper levels of the dome. Vines, as brittle as white ribbon candy, grasped at the tree trunks. I hustled down the path, my breath coming out in steaming bursts as I called Koen’s name. But there was no answer—only the sound of squirrels rummaging in the hard-packed soil, and crows calling to one another in the branches above.

I don’t know what made me leave the path. I moved like I did in my dreams, as if my limbs were powered by some invisible clockwork. But in my dreams I was always happy—mindlessly, stupidly happy. Now, awake, I felt only a knot of uneasiness twisting my stomach. Just nerves, I thought as I pressed forward across a dry, ice-slick riverbed.

I heard movement in the tangled bushes ahead of me. The dumbest thought I’d ever had crossed my mind: Maybe it’s a fox! And so it was with a sort of frantic, giddy excitement that I reached out to part the branches, and stepped into a shadowed glen.

There was a rustle of movement on the forest floor. Then a moan. I pressed forward, peering between the brambles.

It was not a fox.

“Koen!” I lifted my hand to my mouth. “Van!”

They stopped, staring—two pairs of eyes, one as brown as maple syrup, the other as green as spring buds. The boys were pressed up against a tree. No, Koen was pressed up against a tree, and Van pressed up against him, his hands knotted in Koen’s hair. Their lips were bruised pink and slick with saliva. I had interrupted something—Koen had just begun to lift the librarian’s shirt, exposing the bronze skin over his hip. But they were both frozen now, save for the heavy rhythm of both their chests.

My voice broke out into an incomprehensible syllable. I wheeled back—away from the tangled heart of the forest, away from the boys and their tryst. I saw Koen untangle himself from Van. He reached down to grab his coat from the muddy ground. That’s when I turned and ran.

I didn’t know where I was going, but it didn’t matter. I knew that I could outrun him. After all, I’d done it before. The ground was soft with pine needles. It seemed to fall away as I ducked between the trees, tears streaming down my face, my coat flaring up behind me. I told myself that I would run far, far away from him, lose myself in the forest at the heart of the ship, that I would never see him ever again as long as I lived if I ran fast and far enough.

It was a stupid, stupid hope. For one thing, the Asherah was so little. There was no avoiding anyone. For another, after only a few minutes of running, I heard the approach of pounding footfalls. A pair of strong hands reached out, grabbing me by both shoulders. I was pulled to the ground.

“Get off me!” My words came out in a screech. It was Van who grappled with me, locking his muscular biceps around my arms in some sort of wrestler’s hold. I could smell the pine on his hair and the cedar on his breath. Koen’s smell. The smell of kissing Koen.

“Get off!”

“Tsssshhhh.” He let out a soft hiss of sound, giving me a firm, strong shake. It reminded me of how my father would grab Pepper by the scruff when the cat swatted at him. It wasn’t a violent gesture; it was supposed to be calming. Now I was the animal. I gritted my teeth.

“There,” Van said. “There.”

Koen came running up to us. He stumbled over a few gnarled roots, reaching out to steady himself on a branch. Then he stopped, watching me fearfully. At the sight of Koen, I felt Van’s grip loosen for just a moment. That was my chance. I squirmed out from his strong arms.

“What are you doing?” I demanded. Part of me wanted to strike out, to come at them all furious teeth and nails. I was better than that, but just barely. I struck a nearby tree trunk with both fists instead. The bark burned the heels of my hands. “What are you doing? I was going to marry you!”

Koen didn’t look at me when he answered. He didn’t dare. His voice was no more than a whisper. “We weren’t doing anything. You still can.”

I let out a howl. Collapsing on the cold ground, I drew my knees to my chest, braying, my hands pulled up over my head. Koen called my name. But then Van said: “Let her cry it out.” I heard the soft crunch of leaves as he stepped over me to get to Koen.

I don’t know how long I rocked myself on my heels, crying into my arm. It seemed to take a lifetime for my breath to slow—I kept seeing it in my mind’s eye, how their hips had been pressed together, how Van had wrenched his hungry mouth away from Koen’s only at the sight of me. Maybe I should have realized it a long time ago. The silence in the library. The odd friendship between the talmid clock keeper and the young librarian. But I hadn’t.

“Faygeleh,” I said, the word bursting breathlessly past my lips. That must have been what my father had meant all those weeks ago when he’d warned me of rumors about Van. Abba didn’t know anything about the Children of Abel—but somehow he’d known about this, about the curve of ?Van’s hip as it pressed to Koen’s.

Men didn’t love men. Sure, some boys had flings with one another. In school we called them “faygeleh,” a word that meant “little bird.” But that was something you gave up when you were grown so that you could be a good husband, a father.

It made sense. It made so much sense.

Sniffling, I lifted my head; they both watched me. Koen clutched Van’s hand in his. I remembered the cool, loose pressure of his fingers around my fingers and fought the urge to look away.

“You love him,” I said. It wasn’t a question, not really, and Koen answered more quickly than I liked.

“Yes.” He looked relieved to say it. But then he added: “I can learn to love you, too, though. Like Van loves Nina. I still want to marry you.”

Slowly, painfully, I pulled myself to my feet. When I answered him, my voice cracked.

“Why?”

I saw something pass between them—unspoken words in a language I wasn’t privileged enough to speak. Van shrugged; Koen turned to me again.

“Because it’s my duty. Because it’s a mitzvah. Because . . . because your dad asked me to. On the first day of work. He went on and on about how much he worries about you. And you know, he’s right. I think . . . I think you need someone to take care of you. And I can do that. I love Van, but I can love you, too.”

“You’ll never love me like you love him.” The words hung between us, as ugly and as undeniable as a