Marked (25 page)

It should be raining right now. It shouldn't be this perfect, cool, cloudless day. Days like this aren't made for good-byes. They're not made for letting go, and it will probably be a long, long time before we're all together again.

But it's time, and James and Miyu have already spent an extra week with the rest of us in the Strand. And already Grace is impatient to see them. Since the mission, she's hardly left Miyu alone. All those flex chats and plans and special arrangements to meet up in Manjor . . . seems Grace cares a lot more about her daughter than either of them realized.

I'm glad for her. And, I suspect, she is too. It's not something we've talked about, but you can read it in the way she's started spitting out the word
Mom
instead of
Grace
.

Now we stand in the launch yard, and trade embraces.

“I'll miss you,” I say.

“Likewise,” she replies.

Oh, how I've come to love that half smile.

“Better take care of yourself,” I add.

She nods. “I will. But only if you promise to stay out of trouble for a while. I mean it. And don't be getting any crazy ideas about skybrids. I swear, if I hear from Cash that you've fixed up some old Lucky Star and are flying around in it, I will come back here and kick you in the teeth.” She pauses. “Or maybe not in the teeth, but somewhere.”

We laugh, and before I can get in the last word, she ambles up the ramp and disappears into her vac. I'm left standing with James. We turn at the same time. Face-to-face, both of us uncertain and awkward and unprepared for this.

“You're sure you don't want to . . .” he says. He takes off his glasses and tucks them in his pocket. He squints into the sun. “I wish you and Joanna were coming with me, or that I was staying, or . . . I don't know what I wish.”

I don't finish for him, but I'm pretty sure I know what's really on his mind. For the first time, I'm stepping out on my own. I'll be splitting my time between Castra and this world, at least for a while. For now, I've decided I'm not cut out to handle billions of credits. I've asked him to manage
the family fortune, and I think, in different ways, it both satisfies and disappoints him. But, I suppose, James walked away from his old life too. I've abandoned my street-racing ways and he's let go of his corporate goals. We've both found a middle ground between rebel and Sixer. I will work alongside Cash, and James will start up the galaxy's most powerful nonprofit. Rebuilding Castra for all . . . that will be the Anderssen legacy.

I tell my uncle I am proud of that. I am proud of him, and what is to come.

As for me, for the next three months, I'll be traveling with Cash. In Bisera, we'll take stock and address the damage to his kingdom. And with Larken's help, we'll begin to repair the Strand. The Hill of Kings will stand sacred again; we will see to that.

And then there's home. I have a few loose ends to tie up on Castra too. We're breaking ground on a new project, right in Capitoline. Hal will oversee it for James and me—a new hospital for recovering addicts and post-traumatic stress survivors, built in Mary's name, on Mercer Steet. For her sake, I am proud of this too.

I look up at my uncle, who's waiting to board Miyu's vac. We'll be apart most of the time, but we'll still be on the same crew. I like to think of it that way, at least. It makes it easier to let go.

“I know what I wish,” I tell him at last. “I wish you well.”

He smiles, his gray eyes brightening up like morning light after a storm. “Wherever the route takes you.”

I nod. One last hug, and he walks away.

Most of the time, my mother doesn't remember my name. If it's a bad day, she doesn't even remember my father. On a good day, she calls me Phoebe and can tell me stories about the great Tommy Van Zant. About the time they first met, or the time he flipped a rig at Sand Ridge. But thankfully, not about the last time they said good-bye. The stories come in tiny gulps. They make her smile, and ease her pain.

The stim treatments seem to help a little, but Hal frets that it's not enough. After eighteen years of addiction, the black sap's taken too much from her. She's so far gone. There's no telling how long we've got before she slips under for good. Maybe we've just got right now.

Today is a good day, and I'm glad.

Hal, Hank, and I sit beside her cot under the pavilion. A little makeshift celebration before I leave for Castra with Hal. A reclining chair for my mother. Another for Hank, who's getting his late-afternoon snooze. He's perking up a little more each day and almost walking now, so I suspect his napping days are numbered. I smile. Blankets under
our feet, and a modest spread of cool drink and good food. Above, the white tarps stretched over us.

We lounge on the eastern crest of our little valley, and I drink in the warm breeze. After months of whirlwind traveling, from the Gap to Belaram to Manjor, I've got one more night in the Pearl Strand, and I'm going to enjoy it. For the past few days, we've been hard at it. Sunup to sundown, we've worked. In a way, it's been a little like sewing up an old wound. Even Larken and Fahra get along now. Together, they've welcomed a thousand civilian volunteers—some Biseran, some Castran, some Cyanese—to clear out debris, turn the soil, and renew the poppy fields.

Right now, this particular field is still its own brand of graveyard—an endless stretch of charred, shriveled petals and ash-covered ground. Not for long. This morning, I spent a few hours driving one of the tillers, while the crew ahead of me cleared out the most stubborn stalks.

Cash is out there now, just beyond the next rise. I can hear him—or rather the tiller—churning the soil. At dawn, he promised he wouldn't rest until he'd prepared me the best patch of land up here. As soon as he's done, we'll get the drill and replant. Not just poppies, though. Not for this sun-kissed bit of earth. Fahra's getting me a special mix of seeds for this ground.

And here he comes, motoring in a ridiculous little
flatbed rig, with a miniscule seat and an open top. At the moment, our captain's four wheels of funny-looking, but I don't dare laugh, even though he's way too big for the thing. He parks beside our pavilion and heaves himself off his tiny perch. I finish giving my mother another sip of watered-down nectar before getting up to greet him.

“Have a look,” he says. “I trust it will be enough?”

I nose through the various buckets of seed on the bed of the rig. “What'd you find?”

“Slipwood,” he says. “Some ice-leaf, some bleufleur, and a few buckets of beryl-bud. A good balance of ground cover and climbers and creeping vines. Is that satisfactory,
Beharu
?”

I nod. I guess at least Fahra's stopped calling me a
gan-gan
. But this
Beharu
business . . . I really need to drag it out of someone what it means. If I knew exactly how to spell it, I could look it up myself. I make a mental note to flex Miyu and ask her.

I hear another engine rolling up. I look out and see Cash's tiller chugging along to meet us. He's sitting high in the cab, and after catching his eye, I cover my ears, then put a finger to my lips. Quickly, he eases on the brake, then shuts the rig down. He understands.

Noises sometimes startle my mother. I glance back at her, but thankfully, she's still resting, and Hank gives a
reassuring wave. She's all right for now. It's still a good day.

I turn back to the tiller. Cash jumps out of the cab and lands on the black-mulch ground. But he takes his sweet time getting to me. Impatient, I put a little hustle in my step. We meet between the tiller and the tent.

I start to ask him how it went, but he tackles me, silencing me with a long, sweaty kiss. He's breathless and rank, but I don't care. I let him melt into me. No shame, don't care who's looking, even when we're a tangled knot of thirsty lips and sunburned limbs.

Finally, Cash pulls away. “The field,” he says. “It's ready. Fahra came through with the seed?”

I nod.

Cash waves at Fahra, who's blushing and averting his eyes. Most of the time, Cash can't keep his hands off me, and I think it embarrasses the poor captain.

But when you've been through what Cash has endured—months of torture and half as many days of stim therapy to ease the nerve damage—it leaves you hollowed out and hungry for better times. Cash seems eager to erase the memory of the white room and its marionette wires. He wants to
feel,
to drink everything in too hard, too fast, too soon, even when it costs him. Some days, Fahra's the only one who can fuss enough and force him to stop and rest.

But I don't begrudge Cash. I understand. It's the way
he's wired. My Evening Star . . . like me, he's all spark and energy, made to burn. I know what he needs.

I take pity on Fahra and pull away from His Majesty. Just a little breathing room, for the captain's sake.

“
Ay-khan
,” Fahra says. “If it pleases you, I could send for a team and a second drill.”

Cash shakes his head. “Please, Captain. Go and enjoy the rest of the afternoon. Phee and I can take it from here.”

“
Ay-khan . . .”

I raise an eyebrow at Cash.

Cash relents. “Thank you, Captain. Please send for the drill.”

“Yes,
Ay-khan.
” Fahra bows and backs away.

After he's out of earshot, I tease Cash, rolling my eyes.

Cash crosses his arms. “What is it?”

I face him, and drape my arms around his neck. “
Ay-khan
, this.
Ay-khan
, that. Someday, I swear, you'll turn into a royal monster. It's all going to go to your head, and you'll be completely insufferable.”

He laughs. “Wait. You're not jealous, are you?” He tries to kiss me, but playfully, I turn aside. “Is it
Ay-khan
that bothers you so much? Or
Your Majesty
?”

“I am not calling you
Your Majesty,
Your Majesty.”

“You've got your own special name, you know.”

“Yeah, and you won't even tell me what it means.”

He sighs, leaning in. “That's because it's complicated.”

“How is it so complicated? Just tell me.”

“
Be
haru means little flame, but . . .”

“But . . . ?”

“Be
har
u means beloved, and finally . . .”

I raise an eyebrow. “There's more?”

“One more,” he says. “Behar
u
means deliverer.”

I wrestle with the different pronunciations, and Cash laughs even harder. “See?” he says, capturing me. He laces his fingers at the small of my back. “That's why I just call you Phee. Because I don't need a special name for you. If I had to list all the things you are to me, I would need a hundred names. And then every time I looked at you, I would have to choose one, and honestly, that is time much better spent kissing you. For example, right now, I could be kissing you.”

He grins, and I surrender. “You're right,” I say. “Let's just stick with Phee.”

We finish at dusk. The field's planted, and after turning everyone else loose, Cash and I lope to the pavilion. It's late, and they've already driven my mother back to camp. I sigh. Good thing they left some of the food. I'm starving, and we've already worked past dinner.

Cash and I collapse onto the blanket and rest on our
elbows. I break a loaf of bread and pass Cash the larger half. There's a little cheese left, and I peel a sweet, sticky-hearted frangi, and we share that too.

We stuff ourselves. Then we lie on our backs, under the greater pavilion of the night sky. It's early, and just waking up. The land's rimmed with red and gold light, but way up there, the twilight's turning out its pockets, scattering stars above the horizon.

I settle in the crook of Cash's arm. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but the almond-sweet haze of the poppies is gone. I miss it. Every day, I wake up and expect it. I forget it's no longer here, and then I long for the new buds to push their way up. Especially here, in this field.