Starglass

“You know, Abba would be so proud of you. How you’ve risen. The captain’s wife!”

I fought the urge to grimace. I didn’t want to think about Abba or what he might have thought of my match. But Ronen didn’t mean the words to be an insult. So I kissed his cheek as I passed.

“Thanks, Ro,” I said. I hadn’t called him that in years, since we’d both been kids. My brother just grunted in embarrassment.

I headed downstairs, grabbing my coat from the hook by the door and tossing it over my shoulders. I ignored the familiar weight in the pocket—the little bottle of poison, waiting for the day it would be used. Well, it would have to wait a little longer. It wouldn’t be used today.

Silvan stood straight, grinning at me, looking beautiful. He wore a long tunic. At first glance it looked simply white. But when I came closer, I saw that it was embroidered with tiny flowers in threads of violet and gold. It matched his rank cord perfectly. It was a beautiful, fine outfit—and it must have cost a fortune. Seeing how I regarded him, he flicked his curls off his shoulder, preening.

“Do you like it?”

“You look nice,” I admitted, not really quite sure what else to say.

“I wanted to wear something special,” he said. “Since you and Abba won’t let me wear what I want on our wedding day.”

We stepped out into the cold together. It was almost suppertime. The districts were crowded as people went from the butcher, to the baker, to the greengrocer, collecting their rations. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought their voices seemed to ebb as we passed. Each citizen lifted two fingers to his or her heart. Silvan looked smug, his posture firm and straight. He thought they were saluting him. I let him think that. In a way, I would have preferred it too. It would have been simpler if we were just the rising captain and his intended, going to seal our engagement.

But of course I knew the truth. As they touched the pads of their fingers to their chests, all eyes were on me.

Every day we neared the surface brought me one step closer to executing the terrible task. To killing Silvan. He viewed the passing days eagerly: Soon we’d be on Zehava, and I’d be fat with his babies. But I didn’t have the pleasure of that fantasy. I knew the truth.

We stood in the gleaming record room as the archivist read down the list of names. She was a better liar than I was, giving no indication that she knew that soon Silvan would be dead. I stood stone-still underneath the weight of his arm. He clutched me to him, a broad grin plastered across his face.

At the end of it she gave us a pen and made us sign on a dotted line at the bottom of the page. Our signatures were our pact, our promise to each other that we would be wed. My name was writ small, in cramped letters that hardly took up any space at all. But Silvan wrote his own name in huge, loopy script.

If only he’d known what he was signing up for.

* * *

After it was all over, we gathered in Silvan’s quarters for wine. My intended had orchestrated the whole gathering especially on my behalf. His older sister and her husband stood there, bored, rolling their eyes at everything Silvan said. His mother’s mouth was tight with disapproval. Silvan didn’t pay them any mind, though, hustling about to fetch glasses and pour drinks. Only Silvan’s father looked at all pleased with the idea. When Silvan went to fill my glass, Mazdin stopped him.

“No, Son,” he said in his rumbling baritone, “your intended should drink something special tonight.”

He went and fetched a bottle from the wine rack. As he worked the corkscrew into it, Silvan lowered his brow.

“But, Abba,” he protested. “That bottle’s almost fifty years old. You’ve been saving it—”

“For a special occasion,” he said, sloshing my glass full. “Terra’s joining our family now. She deserves the good stuff.”

There was something in his voice that I couldn’t quite read.

“You’d better not let that go to vinegar,” his wife warned. She was scowling at me. I don’t think she’d ever warmed to the idea of my marrying her son. But Mazdin just laughed. He filled his own glass, then jammed the cork into place and returned the bottle to the rack.

“I think I can handle leftovers,” he said.

At long last Silvan grew tired of waiting. He cleared his throat, lifting his glass for his toast.

“To my new wife and the line our union will create,” he said, hoisting the goblet high. “To life and to Zehava. L’chaim!”

“L’chaim,” we all murmured, touched edges, drank.

The wine was delicious, dark and rich with a hint of fruit behind it—nothing like my father’s sour, acidic stuff. I choked it down. Silvan watched me proudly, then leaned over to kiss the crown of my head.

“I can’t wait till next week,” he said fondly. He didn’t even seem to notice how his sister and brother-in-law were already rushing to get their coats.

“Off so soon?” I called to them, eager for a distraction. If I thought too much about Silvan’s words, I was sure that the guilt would show in my face.

“Yes,” she said, then gave a rude smirk. “Other things to do.”

They were out the door, gone.

“I have things to do too,” Silvan’s mother said with a yawn. She started up the stairs, but hesitated for a moment at the bottom, looking at her son.

“Silvan,” she said, “I believe your father would like to have a word with your intended.”

“Abba?” Silvan put his arm around me again, pulling me close. “Well, whatever you want to say to Terra, you can say to me.”

Mazdin set his glass on the counter. “Please, Silvan,” he said gently, “can’t I have a word with my future daughter-in-law?”

Silvan let me go. “Fine!” he said, huffing toward the stairwell. Then he paused, giving me an amorous smile. “I’ll see you later, Terra.”

“See you, Silvan,” I said, but my gaze was fixed on Mazdin Rafferty. In my ears I heard my heart beat a wild rhythm.

Silvan and his mother made their way up the stairs together. At last I heard bedroom doors click shut. That meant I was alone with Mazdin—my mother’s killer. He watched me carefully even as a smile played on his handsome, hungry lips.

This man’s not a doctor, I thought. He’s a hunter.

“Terra,” he said, “come sit with me.”

He gestured to their sitting area, which, so far as I’d been able to tell, mostly went unused. My glass was almost empty, but I still clutched it in one hand. It gave me something to focus on as I made my way over to the leather sofa and sat down. I fought the urge to leap up, to bolt toward the front door.

Instead I sat, smoothing my trouser legs against my thighs with my palm. Then my gaze fell on a book that sat squarely on the coffee table. It wore an ancient cover, gold letters stamped into the leather.

“That’s mine!” I cried. I grabbed it, crushing Momma’s journal against my chest.

Mazdin chuckled as he sat down.

“Is it?” he asked. “A little boy by the name of Apollo brought it to Captain Wolff. He found it in his quarters, in his sister’s room. Read a few pages and it troubled him. And I can see why. Can you imagine being a child and stumbling across such treacherous words in your own home? He knew he was doing a mitzvah, bringing it to her.”

A mitzvah. Apollo, who’d called me names and vied for his mother’s attention, knew what he’d done. The boy wasn’t stupid, but he was jealous. Holding the book against my body, I saw how Mazdin’s lips—full, like his son’s—twisted angrily.

“One of the benefits of living on such a small ship,” Mazdin said, “is that petty disagreements easily run amok. And it’s always only a matter of time before one citizen betrays another.”

His words reminded me of Koen. I hadn’t meant to let the truth slip out about his love for Van, and certainly not in front of Silvan. But it had. I hadn’t meant to hurt anybody, but the boys would pay the price anyway. I closed my eyes against the pain and the fear that was boiling over inside me. Mazdin didn’t seem to notice.

“Now, Terra,” he said, “don’t feel bad. This isn’t the first time such a thing has happened, and it won’t be