Starglass

25

I told myself that Silvan knew only my body—that he didn’t know my true self, not really. I told myself that if he had, he would have known how I’d been transformed, how every part of me that had once been soft and gentle was going to concrete. I watched him press kisses into my collarbone, drawing his soft hands over me. He took my laughter and my goose bumps to mean something deep and loving and true. I told myself that the only emotion that ran beneath my pleasured skin was anger. Anger at him and the Council.

No matter how warm and urgent his fingers, I reminded myself of how he’d reaped the harvest of my mother’s death. Power, and lots of it. Silvan was complicit—wasn’t he?

Sometimes I’d gaze into his black eyes, find myself reflected back, and think: You’re so stupid. You have no idea. But deep down I knew that wasn’t fair. I’d always had secrets, and not just the poison I carried with me wherever I went. There were dreams, too, wine dark. They still came every night. When Silvan kissed me, I thought of snow and the wild perfume of summer flowers. I was always naming them in my head, even as I sprawled out by his side in his wide, luxurious bed—even as I let him whisper sweet words into my ear. I couldn’t hear them. All I heard was Magnolia virginiana, Syringa vulgaris, and the names of a thousand different species of rose.

I was never really with Silvan, never really fully myself.

So how could I blame him for his honey-sweet kisses, the way he spoke to me—syrupy, empty words? I was a creature of artifice, like the jewel-toned sundew plants that caught insects in the dome. When he tangled his big hand through my hair, cupped the crown of my head in his palm, and said to me, “My parents want you to come to supper tomorrow night. Captain Wolff will be there,” I gave a gentle smile and said, “Of course. I’d love to do that.”

Even as a white spark of fear traveled down my spine.

* * *

Supper turned my stomach. We ate lamb and potatoes and shallots all cooked in a red, tangy sauce. I wasn’t used to so much butter or fat, but I think it was the memory of my family’s own meager meals that did it. After Momma died, we no longer had her half-stale bread from the bakery to supplement our rations. Meat— always lean and tough with sinews—was a rare pleasure. But at Silvan’s house each serving was the size of what my entire family might share on a harvest day. Luckily, no one noticed how green I’d gone as I cut into my chops. They guzzled wine, sweeter than the vintages my father had once drunk. Silvan’s father drank especially deep. That was something our families had in common.

“He cares about his wine more than me,” Silvan had once told me with a sulk. And now I saw that it was true, as the doctor who’d killed my mother uncorked one bottle after another, careful, even in his drunkenness, not to spill a single drop. They were all jolly as they drank, flashing smiles, cracking jokes. But sitting at the table across from Silvan’s father and Captain Wolff, all I could think was, You killed Momma. If it hadn’t been for you, she’d still be here—and Mar Jacobi and Abba, too. I kept playing with my food, stirring it around on the plate.

“Well, Terra?”

I dropped my fork against the china with a clatter. Across the table Silvan’s mother’s mouth twisted, though I couldn’t quite be sure if it was with amusement or disapproval.

“W-what’s that?” I stuttered. Captain Wolff’s off-kilter smile was stiff. She took a long draw of wine, swallowed, then asked again.

“Do you enjoy your work with our botanist?”

“Sure,” I said. “She’s great.”

Doctor Rafferty gave a coarse laugh. Captain Wolff glowered at him.

“The woman is her teacher, Mazdin. It’s natural that she feels some fondness for her. No matter how troublesome she’s been for us.” She gave me a sidelong glance. “She doesn’t know any better.”

Anger flashed up in me. I stuffed it down. Nobody noticed. The doctor just looked down at his glass, swirling the wine at the bottom.

“Stone’s always done her job well. I’ll give you that. It’s not her work that’s ever been an issue.”

“Yes, yes,” Silvan’s mother said. “Stone is a true Asherati. She’s always been a dedicated worker. But she’s a wild card, still. Terra, you will tell us if she ever seems ready to stir up trouble, won’t you?”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. The words sounded harder than I’d intended. But Uvri Rafferty’s smile was serene. Unperturbed.

“I’m not really sure what I mean,” she said. She forced a cascade of laughter. And then she turned to her husband and inquired about the last clutch of newborns.

I slumped low in my seat.

* * *

The adults were content to make small talk long after the dessert plates had been cleared. I was crawling out of my skin, of course. But Silvan didn’t notice. He sat with his elbows propped against the polished galley table, watching the captain, waiting for his moment to jump in.

“I see you, Silvan,” the captain said, pouring herself more wine. All the adults laughed, but the corner of Silvan’s mouth ticked up in annoyance. Still, Captain Wolff waited.

“Go ahead,” she finally said.

“Well, if you insist,” he began. Though his tone was smooth, his complexion had darkened. He was blushing. I’d seen him nearly naked, but I’d never seen him blush before. “I know that you and Abba have been eager for me to come up with some ideas for the colony.”

“And finally pull your weight,” Doctor Rafferty grunted. I had no idea what kind of training Silvan had done with the captain. It couldn’t have had the intensity of my training with Mara—he spent too much time wandering around the dome for that.

“I want to pull my weight, Abba. That’s the point!” He paused just long enough to suck down a mouthful of wine. “I was thinking about how we go about selecting the guard. I know the Council picks guards only from the high-ranking families, but—”

“This ensures that we can trust them. I know my daughter won’t betray me—nor will the children of the other Council members,” Wolff cut in. I felt a shiver at her words. The Children of Abel kept their secrets well.

“Y-yes, well,” Silvan stammered, “that’s fine. But once we reach the surface, we’ll need more guards, won’t we? To protect our colony?”

I gaped at Silvan. Didn’t he know of the Council’s plans to keep us captive in the dome? How much protection could we possibly need if we were still trapped inside the Asherah?

“I thought we could institute a general draft,” he went on. “Raise an army. And I could lead it.”

Silvan’s father snorted on his wine. His mother giggled too. Even Captain Wolff’s eyes held laughter.

“You do aim high, talmid,” she said. “However, there’s a problem with your little plan. A general draft would mean inviting the general populace into the guard.”

Silvan slammed his glass down. “So? What’s wrong with commoners? If they trained under me, you can bet they’d know better than to commit treason. They’d be loyal!”

Doctor Rafferty was the one who answered. He spoke to Silvan as if he were much younger than sixteen. “Son, it’s not a matter of loyalty. The common Asherati is too temperamental to be trusted with weapons.”

The anger that had been simmering inside me flamed brightly. I gripped the stem of my wineglass, resisting the urge to throw it at Doctor Rafferty. I clutched it so tight that my knuckles went white. No one noticed.

Captain Wolff shook her head. When she spoke, it was in a patronizing tone—like she didn’t quite expect Silvan to understand. “No, don’t give him the wrong idea, Mazdin. Oh, there are dependable people among the lower classes. But we must protect them from the dangers that await us on the surface. Their safety is too precious to put in jeopardy like that. That’s why the Council rules for them, with the captain’s guard standing watch. It’s in their best interest.”