Once (10 page)

The King kept speaking of my return, how proud he was to bring me here, to this City that had been established on the first of January over a decade before. “The Princess was lucky. On her journey to the City of Sand she was escorted by this nation's brave soldiers, among them the fierce and loyal Sergeant Stark. It was Sergeant Stark who found her, who put his own life at risk to bring her back to us.” Stark rose to receive a medal. The King went on about his service and commitment, detailing his accomplishments as he promoted him to lieutenant.

I closed my eyes, retreating into myself. The shouts, the cheers, that booming voice I'd heard on the radio so many times before, all of it disappeared. I remembered lying beside Caleb that night on the mountain, the thick, musty sweaters we wore an unwelcome wall between us. He had pulled me to him, my body resting against his to keep warm. We'd stayed like that all night, my head on his chest, listening to the quiet drumming of his heart.

“And now to conclude,” the King said cheerfully. “I'd like to introduce you once again to the Golden Generation, the bright young children who came directly from the birthing initiatives. Every day, women are volunteering their service to support The New America and help restore this country to its fullest potential. Every day our nation becomes stronger, less vulnerable to war and disease. As we grow in numbers we come closer to returning to our rich past, to becoming the people we once were—the nation that invented electricity, air travel, and the telephone. The nation that put a man on the moon.”

At this, people broke out into wild applause. A chant started somewhere in the back of the crowd and rippled forward, a great ocean of feeling. “We will rise again! We will rise again!” they repeated, their voices blending together into one.

The crowd in front of him looked vulnerable and desperate. Their faces were thin, their shoulders stooped. Some were badly scarred, others had leathery, sunburned skin, deep creases in their foreheads. A man standing on top of a hotel awning was missing an arm. The Teachers had often spoken of the chaos in the years after the plague. No one went to hospitals for fear of the disease. Broken arms were splinted with the leg of a chair, the handle of a broom. Wounds were stitched up with sewing thread, and infected limbs were amputated with handsaws. People looted stores. Survivors were attacked on the way home from supermarkets. Their cars were raided, their houses burglarized. People died fighting over a single bottle of water.
The worst was what they did to the women
, Teacher Agnes had said, staring out the window, its frame pitted and broken from where the bars had been removed.
Rapes, kidnappings, and abuse. My neighbor was shot when she refused to give her daughter to a gang
.

The King cleared his throat, pausing before resuming the speech. “Becoming your leader has been the greatest honor of my life. We have embarked on a long road, and I
will
see you through to its end.” His voice cracked. “I will not fail you.”

The King took his seat beside me. He grabbed my hand, squeezing it in his own. Looking out at the crowd, it was easy to believe he was right—that he
had
saved the people inside the City walls. They seemed calm, happy even, in his presence. I wondered if I was the only one who thought now of the boys in the labor camps, or the girls who were still trapped inside the Schools.

There were children assembled behind us on risers. They were all about five—the same age as Benny and Silas—but much smaller. The boys were dressed in crisp white shirts and pants, the girls in the same jumpers we'd worn at School, gray dresses with the New American crest pasted over the front. “
Amazing Grace
,” a girl with a long auburn braid sang into the microphone. “
How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found …
”

The chorus joined in, swaying back and forth as they sang, their voices cutting clear across the City. Their mothers might've been the girls who had graduated five years before me. Pip and I had watched them from our upstairs window. We loved how they walked, how they tousled their hair, how they seemed so womanly and beautiful striding across the lawn.
I want to be just like them
, Pip had said, leaning her head over the stone ledge.
They're so … cool
.

The crowd was overcome. Some wrapped their arms around friends, others stood with their eyes closed. A woman lowered her head to cry, blotting her face with the sleeve of her shirt. I almost looked away, but something behind her caught my eye. A man was standing just a yard away from the metal barricade. Everyone else was engrossed in the music. He was in the center of them all. He didn't move. He wasn't paying attention to the children behind me, to Lieutenant Stark, or to the King. He was looking only at me.

Then he smiled. It was barely noticeable—just a tiny curl of the lips, a brightness in his pale green eyes. His head had been shaved. He was thinner, yes, clad in a dark brown suit. But my whole body knew him, the tears coming fast as we stared at each other, letting the truth of it sink in.

Caleb had found me.

He was in the City of Sand.

THE SONG ENDED. I KEPT STARING AT HIS FACE, AT HIS HIGH
cheekbones, the mouth I'd kissed so many times before. I had to force myself to look away. Caleb was alive, he was here, we would be together. The thoughts came at me all at once. Then I stared at the King's hand covering my own. Stark's presence, just two seats away, made my stomach seize. The troops were after him. Everyone wanted him dead.

The King stood, reaching for my arm. I let him take it, my legs trembling, uncertain, as we turned toward the Palace. It was a moment before I realized he was leading us back inside, up to the highest floors, far above the City. Away from Caleb.

I couldn't stop myself. “Wait—I'd like to greet the crowd.”

He paused next to the fountain, studying my face as though my features had rearranged themselves. I hoped he hadn't seen the desperation in my eyes, the way my gaze was drawn back to where Caleb was standing, a cap now hiding his face. “That is a fine idea.” He brought my hand to his mouth, kissing it, a gesture that stiffened my spine. Then he motioned for the Lieutenant and the Head of Education to continue inside.

Soldiers surrounded us. As we started down the stairs, I peered into the crowd. Caleb was there, just a few yards in, sneaking glimpses of me as he pressed forward, moving closer to the barricade to shake my hand.

The palms above us offered no relief from the heat. I glanced back. The Lieutenant disappeared into the Palace, swallowed by the sea of small children, their Teachers ushering them toward the Palace mall with promises of ice cream.

“Princess Genevieve!” a woman with crooked glasses called, nearly tipping over the metal barricade. “Welcome to the City of Sand!” She was in her thirties, clad in a faded flowered dress. Her skin was pink and damp from the midday sun.

I reached out, taking her hand in my own. “I'm happy to be here,” I said, the words suddenly feeling true. The King stood beside me, patting a twelve-year-old boy on the head. He was no more than a foot away from me, occasionally smiling, sometimes resting his hand on the small of my back. I kept scanning the crowd, tensing as Caleb shifted in its depths, his hat inching toward me. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Caleb was only two yards away now, the gap between us closing with every passing minute. A man asked me to sign a scrap of paper for him; another asked how I found the City, if I'd been to the top of the Eiffel Tower yet, the miniature version that was just across the street. I answered in half sentences, silently wondering if the King knew what Caleb looked like. It wasn't too late. I could still turn around before he came any closer.

But I didn't. Instead I stole glimpses of him through the mass of people, taking in the angular chin I had once held, now clean of all stubble. His skin wasn't the deep reddish brown it had been in the wild. He seemed thinner, but healthy, his lips fixed in a subtle smile.

A soldier paced in front of the barricade. He dragged his baton down the metal rungs, letting out a horrible
bap-bap-bap-bap
sound. I followed his gaze, taking in the scene as he did, wondering if he noticed the young man in the dark cap. But he settled his sights on a woman in a tight white dress, her breasts spilling over the neckline.

Caleb inched closer as I moved down the row, shaking hand after hand. I kissed a baby boy on the head, smelling the powder on his skin, enjoying how his soft hair grazed my neck. I reached out for a woman deeper in the crowd, feeling Caleb's eyes on me as he approached. Her doughy hand gave under my touch, the bright midday light revealing the faint freckles on her pale skin. The King was still beside me. His voice was clear as he thanked a man for his support.

I took an older woman's hand in my own, stepping away from my father. Caleb was right over her shoulder, not two feet back. “Pleased to meet you, Princess,” he said, stretching his hand for me to hold.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, offering a slight nod. We stayed like that for just a moment. I wanted to thread my fingers through his, to pull him close to me, so close that his chin was on my shoulder, his face nestled into my neck. I wanted his arms around me, pressing our bodies together so we were one again.

But the soldier turned back toward the crowd. He left the woman with the white dress and circled me, yelling at a man who was standing on a trash can to get a better view. The King stepped away from the metal barricade and signaled for us to return to the Palace. A young blond boy reached out, over Caleb's arm, begging to say hello.

Caleb released me to them.

I stood there, strangers' voices in my ears, my hand still warm from his touch. It took me a second to process the tiny piece of paper tucked between my fingers, folded so many times it was smaller than a penny. I clutched my chest, pushing it into the neck of my gown.

“Welcome, Princess,” the teenage boy said as he gripped my hand. “We're so happy you're here.”

I stayed there, frozen in my father's stare, as Caleb backed away. Then, as suddenly as he'd appeared, he pulled down his cap and was gone.

AN HOUR LATER, THE CONSERVATORY WAS FILLED WITH PEOPLE
. Women in ball gowns strolled through the indoor garden, admiring the peach-colored roses and blooming hydrangeas. Giant balloon sculptures drifted over the crowd. After the parade ended, many of the Outlanders, as the King had called them, had disappeared into the far reaches of the City, where the land was barren except for a few houses and motels. Others had taken the elevated trains back to their apartment buildings. Only a small group—members of the Elite—had been invited to the parade reception. Some waited on lines to ride the giant balloons. A few climbed up into the baskets beneath them and lifted up to the glass ceiling.

I stood there watching it all, unable to stop smiling. Caleb was alive. He was inside the City's walls. I pressed my fingers to the neck of my dress, feeling for the tiny slip of paper, just to be certain it was real.

“Isn't it incredible?” A young man strode up beside me. He had a thick mop of black hair and a strong, angular face. A cluster of women turned when he approached. “It's become one of my favorite spots in the Palace mall. In the morning it's quiet, nearly empty. You can actually hear the birds in the trees.” He pointed to some sparrows on a branch above a small fountain.

“It's impressive,” I replied, only half paying attention. I stared straight ahead as the King greeted the Head of Finance and the Head of Agriculture, two men in dark suits who always seemed to be whispering to one another. I didn't mind them now. I didn't hate the crowd congratulating the Lieutenant. Everything seemed more certain now, the whole City a more manageable place. I'd slipped into the bathroom after the parade, savoring a few solitary moments in the cold space. Caleb had drawn a map on one side of the paper. The line snaked out of the Palace and across the overpass, where the land was less developed. An
X
was scrawled on a dead-end street. I'd run my fingers along the message, reading it again and again.
Meet me at 1
AM
, he'd written at the bottom of the page.
Take only the marked route
.

The man was still looking at me, his lips twisted in quiet amusement. I turned to him, for the first time noticing his clear blue eyes, his flawless, creamy complexion, the way he stood with one hand in his pocket, so self-assured. “I think
you're
impressive,” he whispered.

The heat rose in my cheeks. “Is that right?” I knew it now, the playful tone in his voice, the way he leaned forward as he spoke: He was flirting.

“I read about your adventure in the paper, how you were lost in the wild all those days. How you survived after being kidnapped by that Stray.”

I shook my head, careful not to reveal too much. “So you've read one article and now you think you know me?”

I stared out into the conservatory gardens, at Reginald, the King's Head of Press—the very man who'd written the story. He was tall, with chestnut skin and cropped graying hair. The King had briefly introduced us the day after I arrived at the Palace. Reginald never bothered to ask about the pink marks on my wrists or the stitches on my arm. He didn't ask me much at all. Instead he'd completely fabricated a story about how I'd escaped the School to find my father, who I didn't even know was the King. How I'd traveled through the wild until I was kidnapped by some vicious Stray. The article ended with a quote from Stark detailing how I'd been “saved.”