For Darkness Shows the Stars (4 page)

E
LLIOT WALKED BESIDE THE
litter that carried her grandfather back to the great house. Behind them, two Reduced pulled a cart holding all of the Boatwright’s personal belongings. He’d attempted to argue with anyone who’d listen during the whole four-kay trip, but the Reduced were trained merely to nod, and Elliot pretended she couldn’t understand his mumbled complaints. It signified nothing, at any rate; her grandfather must be moved from his house, and the Posts must be installed there, for the good of both estates. He might be ornery, but she knew he understood that.

As they reached the great house, Elliot quickened her pace. There were two horses on the lawn, giant, chestnut-colored things with glossy black manes and powerfully muscled legs. So these were the Innovation horses Elliot had negotiated for on top of the rent money in order to sweeten the deal for her father. Each horse was tethered to a strange, three-wheeled contraption the likes of which Elliot had never seen except in drawings. They must be the famous sun-carts, for each sported a pane of shiny, golden mirrors on the back. The Post housekeeper, Mags, was waiting on the porch, wringing her hands as the horses trampled the grass.

“Miss, they came early. They’re already in the parlor.”

“Thank you, Mags,” said Elliot, bounding up the steps two at a time. “Take care of Mr. Boatwright, please. I have to go in to my guests—”

“Miss Elliot,” said Mags, laying a hand on her arm as she passed. “Perhaps you’d like to go change first? Put on a nice dress?”

Elliot stopped and looked at the Post in confusion. Were these Cloud Fleet people so very fine? Were they out exploring the wilderness in lace?

“It’s just that—” Mags looked pained. “In the parlor—”

But time had run out, for a man appeared in the doorway and filled the air with his booming voice. “Did you say Elliot? Is this Miss Elliot North?” He stepped into the light and Elliot resisted the urge to step back. Every bit as giant as his horses, the admiral was red all over, from his thinning, combed-over ginger hair to his ruddy complexion to his deep scarlet coat. Elliot had never seen such a color on a piece of fabric. It looked like the flowers in Ro’s garden.

“I have been looking forward to meeting you, my dear girl. Nicodemus Innovation, at your service.” He inclined his head in a move that was almost, but not quite, a bow.

“Admiral Innovation,” she said, collecting herself. It wouldn’t do for a North Luddite to be rendered speechless by a Post’s jacket, no matter how red it was. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. I’ve been making the final preparations to your lodgings—”

He waved his hand. “Don’t worry a bit. The sun-carts make great time when the weather’s as clear as today’s. Even my horses could hardly keep up. We haven’t seen a flicker of your father yet, but your sister Tatiana’s been, ah, entertaining us while we waited for you.”

Elliot could only imagine. Well water perhaps, from tin cups? She wouldn’t put it past her sister.

“Come in and meet the Fleet,” he said, bustling her into her own house.

“The whole Cloud Fleet is in my parlor?” Elliot asked with a smile. “Very impressive, sir.” In the hall, she could smell freshly baked cream biscuits and peach and chamomile tea. If this was Tatiana’s doing, it was also very impressive. Perhaps she owed her sister an apology.

“Nah, not all of them,” said the admiral. “Just the ones I like best, you know.” He laughed and pushed open the door. “My wife, here—Felicia.” The woman was as tiny as her husband was giant, with black and silver hair that curled around her freckled face. She nodded to Elliot and opened her mouth as if to speak, but the admiral was already steering her away. “And over there you’ve got the Phoenixes—captains both.”

He gestured vaguely to two blond young people who were sitting near Tatiana with cups of tea in their hands. They looked over at her, and Elliot found her steps faltering under the intensity of the girl’s gaze. The female Phoenix—Andromeda, the admiral was telling her—looked to be about Tatiana’s age and had the most unusual eyes she’d ever seen, a light, glistening blue, like sunlight on seawater, and so clear it was as if Elliot could make out each speck in her iris despite the shade in the room. The male Phoenix—Donovan, according to the admiral—had eyes that matched, but he was younger, perhaps only in his mid-teens. Elliot was surprised that the famed “captains” of the Fleet could be so young. She was expecting grown-ups, not teenagers. The Phoenixes must be siblings, with their corresponding eyes and last name? Elliot wondered if they were born with the name, or if they’d grown up on an estate and adopted it later, as the Innovations had done. It had become fashionable these last few years for free Posts to change their names when they left their estates—to adopt new first names in the long, ornate style of Luddites and surnames of their own creation.

“And then—but we’re missing someone.” The admiral’s heavy brows knit together. “I thought I brought three of you.”

“You did,” said Andromeda Phoenix. “Wentforth is out seeing to the horses.”

“The horses?” Now the admiral appeared even more confused. “Wentforth?”

Andromeda gave Elliot a small, inscrutable smile. “Yes, very curious.”

“Donovan,” said the admiral with a sigh, “go drag him from his sudden fascination for animal husbandry and bring him in to meet Miss Elliot. I’m sure the horses will be very well looked after in the baron’s stables without Wentforth’s help.” He turned to Elliot as Donovan snapped to do his admiral’s bidding. “No introduction would be complete without my star pilot.”

Andromeda helped herself to more tea and sat back in her chair, that same small smile playing about her lips. She was dressed in a most peculiar fashion, as were all the Posts. Fabrics like Elliot had never seen, soft and almost fuzzy, shimmered in the light from the window in dark, rich colors that stood out in the room like Ro’s flowers hidden in a bed of fading autumn leaves. Andromeda and her brother were dressed like the admiral, in trousers, tall boots, and long, full jackets in purple and teal. Though Felicia Innovation looked slightly more traditional in a deep green dress, it featured none of the lace or embroidery on Tatiana’s pink creation. Its only decoration was a pair of golden shoulder epaulets accented with braided tassels. The coats of the other Posts were similarly ornamented.

Elliot tugged the edge of her dirt-brown sweater down over the waist of her slate-gray trousers. Perhaps she should have taken the housekeeper’s advice and changed, even if it was only into a dress. Luddites tended to wear only the faded, drab colors that could be derived from natural dyes. It had been their tradition long before the Reduction, and of course it had been necessary in the days of scarcity. Elliot supposed these new colors were common in the free Post enclaves.

Tatiana turned to Felicia. “Are you much involved in the operations of your common-law’s business?” she asked mildly.

Felicia paused with her teacup halfway to her lips. “Nicodemus is my husband, Miss North. We are free Posts and do not subscribe to the restrictions the Luddites place on their servants.” But she said this all without a hint of malice or defensiveness, and it took a moment for Tatiana to collect herself enough to look offended.

And Felicia did not allow the feeling to take root. “I am not involved in the operation of the Cloud Fleet, no,” she said. “I am not much of an explorer of the beyond, I’m afraid. Not when there are still so many mysteries to solve here at home.”

“Mysteries?” Tatiana asked with a raise of her eyebrows. Elliot marveled at the woman’s behavior. Were all free Posts so open with heretical talk like this? Luddites held that nature’s mysteries were meant to remain unsolved. Attempts to improve upon nature had led to the Reduction.

“Mrs. Innovation is a physician,” Andromeda broke in. “She trained as a healer on the estate where she grew up and has been studying in the field for decades.”

“My wife is brilliant,” said the admiral. “She’s saved dozens of lives.”

“Really,” said Tatiana. “Perhaps during your stay you can visit our COR healers and teach them a thing or two. We’ve been at very loose ends since our doctor passed away.” Which he’d done before Elliot’s birth, Elliot thought wryly.

“And maybe you would be so kind as to look in on my grandfather,” Elliot said.

“The Boatwright?” asked the admiral, sitting up in his chair. “I was wondering, given the . . .”

Given the fact that Baron North controlled the shipyard.

“What is the nature of his infirmity?” Felicia asked quickly.

“A series of strokes, starting from when I was a very young girl,” Elliot replied. “No one has been able to do much for him.”

Felicia nodded gravely, and an uneasy silence hovered in the room. Once, much had been done for stroke victims, but the Reduction had changed all that. The mind of man was not meant to be rebuilt, even if broken.

“Oh, that would be lovely if you could find a way to help the old man,” said Tatiana. “Provided you remain within the protocols, of course.”

“Of course,” said Felicia, exchanging a small glance with Andromeda, who merely sipped her tea.

Brazen, these Posts, with their flippant little glances. Elliot had never seen anything like it, even in the North Posts’ most unguarded moments. The protocols had defined the Luddite way of life since the Reduction. It was simple: genetic enhancements had destroyed humanity. Advanced technology in the ensuing wars had nearly destroyed the world. The Luddites restricted both, and rebuilt. Elliot had long wondered if the Luddites’ strict rules had managed to atone for humanity’s sins all these years later. Was the rise of the Posts the result of their adherence to the protocols?

And if so, what had she done by experimenting with the wheat?

Tatiana’s words had been a test, and Felicia’s response neither as emphatic nor as automatic as Tatiana was used to seeing. It must come of the fact that these people owed nothing to the Luddite lords and therefore had nothing to fear from them, either. This behavior from one of their own servants would have sent Tatiana through the roof several minutes ago. But no, her sister seemed preoccupied with the weave of the tassels on Felicia’s shoulder epaulets.

“Ah, here he is,” said the admiral, bounding from his chair to the window. Two figures in free Post dress were coming up the steps of the porch. “Miss Elliot, I’m excited to introduce you to the pilot of the ship we’ll be building here, to the captain of the
Argos
—”

But Elliot saw him clearly through the window. She needed no introduction.

No midnight blue jacket, no new, longer haircut, no strange, noble bearing—nothing would serve to disguise him to her eyes. She had only a moment to compose herself and then he walked into the room. Into her house, for the first time in years.

“Miss Elliot,” said the admiral, as she staggered to her feet. Out shot her hand, reluctantly, mechanically, obeying a courtesy so ingrained as to be unconscious. He was taller now. Taller than her. And though he turned in her direction, his hand did not rise to meet hers, and his eyes remained fixed on the mantel beyond her head. “May I present Captain Malakai Wentforth.”

“Hello.” His voice was the same. It rang through Elliot’s body like a thunderclap announcing a storm.

“Hello,” said Elliot, for parroting him was all she could trust herself to say, there in her old, worn clothes, with her braids all mussed; there, in the same room with the same furniture and the same fire and her hand floating in the air between them, curling out into space like a misguided vine, yearning desperately for him to reach across the distance and touch her again.

Hello, Kai.

Dear Kai,

The sun is probably streaming in through the big barn windows now, which means you’re awake. And if you’re awake, it means you’re wondering where I went.

I haven’t run away from you, I promise. But I knew that today of all days, they’d need me in the house. Tatiana may be the head of our household now, but she’s not the one the staff will look to in my mother’s absence. And there is so much to do to prepare for the funeral. Also, I have to go tell my grandfather what has happened to his daughter. I don’t want him to hear of her death from anyone but me.

Thank you for last night. I wish I could say I don’t know why you are the one I ran to—you, Kai, not Tatiana or my father or even my grandfather. But I know why. And I have a confession to make.

After you let me cry, after you let me sob and shout and choke on all that pain—after you did all that, and didn’t say a word—I didn’t fall asleep like you thought. Not right away. I lay there, wadded up into a ball, and you curved your body behind mine. You were barely touching me—your thigh against the edge of my hip, your arm draped lightly across my waist, your fingers entwined with mine. How many times have our hands touched, when we were passing each other tools or helping each other in and out of machines? Hundreds of times. Thousands. But last night, it felt different. You cradled my hand in yours, palms up, our fingers curled in like a pair of fallen leaves. Fallen, maybe, but not dead. My hand never felt so alive. Every place you touched me sparked with energy. I couldn’t sleep. Not like that.

And so I bent my head, just the slightest bit, until my mouth reached our hands. I smelled the oil you never quite get off your fingers. I breathed in the scent of your skin. And then, as if that was all I was doing, just breathing, I let my bottom lip brush against your knuckle.

Time stopped. I was sure you’d see through my ruse and pull away. I was sure you’d know that I was not asleep, that I was not just breathing. But you didn’t move, so I did it again. And again. And on the third time, I let my top lip join my bottom.

I kissed your hand, Kai. I didn’t do it to thank you for letting me cry. For letting me sleep in your arms. I thought you should know.

Yours,

Elliot

Dear Elliot,

I know. When will I see you again?

Yours,

Kai