CHAPTER 2 #3
“The Blues.” Dad throws his napkin onto the table. “We agreed to vote on the Bliss Prohibition Act next week so all the representatives could consult their constituents, but now they’re rug-pulling us. We have to do it tonight.”
“You think you’ll finally get enough votes to ban Bliss?” I ask.
“At this point, yes.”
“Dad, you can’t ban Bliss.” Vivian shoots up from the table. “Almost everyone I know uses it, even Harry’s mom. If you ban it, everyone will hate you. Everyone will hate us.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck through a rolling donut if I’m hated,” Dad says. “We’ve had this conversation enough times for you to understand why this ban is necessary. Over a thousand Greens died from Bliss overdoses last month. It’s time to cut the cord.”
“Fifty-two percent of the public supports keeping Bliss legal,” Hillaire points out. “If you do this, you’ll be labeled an enemy of democracy.”
“And from there, you’ll become a target,” I add.
“No, I won’t,” Dad insists.
“How are you so sure?”
His hesitation is so brief it’s almost imperceptible. “Because as rotten as our system is, we’ve still got the rule of law.”
Mom, silent until now, moves behind him and whispers in his ear.
Her dark eyebrows furrow sharply, forming the same focused expression she wears when she offers him advice.
As his public relations manager, she controls his political image.
It’s not an easy job because Dad struggles to control his temper even more than I do, but so far she’s managed to keep his reputation intact.
Dad squeezes Mom’s hand and nods as if her words reassure him, then downs the rest of his scotch in one gulp.
“As long as you’re feeling undemocratic, you should ban tobacco and alcohol while you’re at it,” Hillaire suggests, her thin lips curling.
He grunts. “I’m trying to ban what’s dangerous, Hillaire, not what’s fun.”
“When do you leave?” Vivian cuts in.
“I need to be airborne in the next twenty minutes.”
“But I’m supposed to use your plane tonight,” I protest.
“Harry’s flying to Roaring Rails Station, too,” Vivian says. “I’m sure he won’t mind if Lore joins.”
“Good. Arrange it,” Dad orders.
He kisses Mom goodbye, then leaves the dining hall and gestures for me to follow. We walk through the house in silence, a heavy tension still hanging between us. When we step onto the portico, I shiver at the deepening chill in the air.
A Pinkie hands Dad his leather briefcase. He opens it and pulls out a wooden box with green trim.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“A goodbye gift. Go ahead and open it.”
The box unlocks with a tiny golden key. Inside, nestled against dark velvet, is a sparkling bronze brooch shaped like my favorite flower: a daffodil.
“I made it myself.” Dad lifts his chin proudly. “There’s even a camera inside.”
At first, I think he’s joking. Dad knows nothing about casting or forging; the idea of him making jewelry is like a bulldog learning to sew. Then I notice the inscription etched along the stem—To Bruce Waldsten, with highest honors—and my breath catches.
“Really, Dad? You made it with your Grandmaster graduation medal?”
He shrugs. “It was just a hunk of bronze.”
“Not to me, it wasn’t.”
“I know. Why do you think I’m giving it to you?”
He takes the brooch and pins it beneath the collar of my dress.
For a moment, his large, rough hands, still scarred and calloused, feel like the protective ones that once shielded me from a world I was too young to understand.
Now I realize I’ll miss them more than anyone else’s.
“I love it,” I whisper, my voice thickening. “Thank you.”
Dad pulls me close, holding me so tightly I wonder if he thinks this might be the last time. The wind blows around us, but in his arms, the cold feels distant.
“I know the odds are stacked against us, Loredana,” he says, his voice a soft rumble against my ear. “I know life as a Public Person, especially at Grandmaster, won’t always be cut-and-dry. But will you promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone about your weapons restriction.”
I pull away with a frown. “Why not?”
“Because if you do, they’ll ask questions. It might even lead them to the court—”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say, suddenly understanding.
The court records, sealed because I was a minor, contain video evidence of me killing the Blue.
If that footage ever comes out, my claim of self-defense won’t matter.
My life at Grandmaster will be over before it even begins.
No one will care that it was kill or be killed. They’ll only see blue blood.
“I don’t plan to cause any trouble, Dad,” I say. “I promise I’ll keep my head down, even after I get the restriction overturned.”
“Good.” He pulls on his coat and hat. “I have to go now, honey. I’ll call you after the vote.”
He kisses my cheek, his breath warm against the cold rain that’s beginning to fall.
Then he climbs into the back of the hovercar parked at the base of the steps.
The rain pounds louder on the portico roof, dripping through the leafy branches of the trees as the vehicle glides down the cobblestone drive, passing the pool house and tennis courts, the fruit orchard and stables, the private shooting range, and finally the four-story compound where I trained for public life from the moment I could walk.
So much wealth, and yet come tomorrow, none of it will matter.
“We’re well off, Loredana, but most people are,” Dad once told me. “Never forget: the only meaningful power comes from blood. No matter how much money you have, it can’t buy freedom, and it sure as hell can’t buy time. Guillotines made of gold still cut off heads.”
By the time I get back to the dining hall, dessert is already being served.
Vivian smokes a cigarette between bites of cake, avoiding eye contact with Hillaire, who’s scowling at the smell, which she calls the perfume of lowlifes.
With a grunt, Hillaire pulls a small, transparent mask from her pocket and puts it on.
The mask glows faintly with each breath, filtering out the smoke.
Across from them, Mom pours herself a glass of wine with perfect posture.
She watches the clock on the mantle as she drinks, her expression impenetrable.
I try to imagine what she’s thinking, but I’ve never been good at reading her.
The only person who sees beyond her cold, quiet glamour is Vivian.
They share the same shrewdness, the same flair for elegance, and the same double-edged ability to turn heads with a single step.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Mom took a job as Dad’s public relations manager, working tirelessly to avoid the spotlight.
She always hated the way men looked at her for her beauty until she met Dad, who she says was the first to see beyond it.
Near the end of dessert, a luxury hovercar coasts into the driveway, its ornamental grille and gullwing doors gleaming in the downpour. The vehicle adjusts its hoverfield, then powers down near the portico.
“Harry.” Vivian springs from her chair, leaving her napkin crumpled on her plate.
“May I be excused?” Hillaire glares at the window, as if she can see Harrison standing outside.
“No,” Mom says. “You will greet Harrison with Loredana and me in the foyer.”
Hillaire clenches her dessert fork until her knuckles whiten. “Yes, mother.”
When we reach the foyer, Vivian and Harrison are stepping out of the rain, breathless and laughing. His arm rests on the curve of her waist. She walks on the balls of her feet, whispering into his ear.
“Wait until you see it first,” he says with a teasing smile. “Then we’ll see if you still want to thank me.”
Harrison’s charm, like cologne, hits you before he speaks.
He’s tall and wears a peak-lapel suit that’s tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His hair, short and always well-styled, is fiery red, but it’s his eyes that draw you in: poison green, bright enough to strike a punch.
I know he’s proud of them, mainly because Vivian gushes over them all the time.
Harrison flashes a ready smile at Mom before greeting Hillaire and me. When he leans in to hug Hillaire, she shoots him a scowl that stops his arms midair. He pulls back, grinning, and playfully taps her chin with his knuckles instead. She wipes the spot he touched, as if the contact left a stain.
“Thanks for letting me fly with you, Harry,” I say. “It’s just you and me, right?”
He exchanges an uncomfortable glance with Vivian. “Actually, there’s one other passenger.”
“Who?”
“It’s… Miss Deering.”
“Charlotte?” The name comes out like a curse.
He nods. “I know you’d rather not see her, but—”
“Why can’t she use her dad’s plane?”
“The interior is being renovated. If you’d rather not see her, Lore, I can tell her to fly with someone else.”
Every part of me wants to let her scramble for another ride, or better yet, leave her stranded. After the way she ditched me, she deserves to feel at least a fraction of what I felt.
“It’s fine,” I say, even though everyone knows it’s not.
The wall clock strikes 9:00 p.m., and I feel every eye in the room turn toward me. Mom grips my hand, panic flashing in her eyes. Vivian lets out a soft, startled gasp.
For a moment, no one speaks. The silence, cold and suffocating, presses down on my chest like a stone. Years I spent training for public life, preparing for every rule and scenario, except one: saying goodbye.
It happens quickly, a haze of voices, arms, and tears I can barely process. My mind starts to drift, as if I’m watching the scene through a foggy window. Vivian sniffles as she kisses Harrison on the lips and me on the cheek. Mom wraps me in her arms, her eyes shining as she whispers, “I love you.”
Hillaire lingers stiffly in the corner. She lifts her hand in a wave, the same one she gave me from the walnut tree during the execution, and this time, I wave back.
A blurry moment later, Harrison and I climb into his hovercar.
The cabin smells of leather and rain, and its soft brown seats are accented with shiny brass fittings.
As the vehicle lifts off the ground, Vivian calls from the portico, her voice drowned out by the roar of the power core.
I catch fragments of her words, something about Harrison and me taking care of each other.
Then we’re off, gliding down the cobblestone drive, lampposts rushing past as rain splatters against the windshield.
It suddenly strikes me that this is the first time I’ve ever left home on my own.
Until now, all my teachers were Pinkies, and every exam was taken online.
That’s how it is for all Private Persons, kept separate to limit our time in public.
But tomorrow, I’ll be at Grandmaster, far from the safety of home, subject to all the laws of public life, with no way to turn back.
The thought burns in my mind until a jagged bolt of lightning splits the sky, snapping me out of it.
“You’re sure we can fly through this?” I ask Harrison.
He nods, scrolling through the weather forecast on the holographic dashboard.
“Yeah, my dad’s got a Bulletwing 890. Its anti-grav system generates a force field that’s designed for storms like this.
We’ll have to fly lower, and the trip will take twice as long, but don’t worry—” He winks. “You won’t even spill your drink.”
Reassured, I turn on the radio and tune into Big Band Beats.
Bold jazz fills the cabin, easing the pressure in my chest. We merge onto the freeway and head east toward the coast, the hovercar speeding above the rain-slick road.
The night is starless, with the sky layered in storm clouds as thick as curtains drawn too tight.
But as we approach the coastline, a soft glow begins to spread along the horizon.
It grows brighter and brighter until a shimmering wall comes into view, emerging from the ocean like the spine of a giant and vanishing into the storm above.
The energy shield.
Ten miles high and three thousand miles wide, the radiant dome of electromagnetic energy encircles the entire Civilized World.
Its surface features a lattice-like pattern that flickers periodically, as if alive, designed to admit only what we need—sunlight, rain, natural wind flow—while blocking everything else.
Always active, the shield defends us against attacks from land, air, and sea.
Harrison observes the shield with a proud smile, while I can hardly look at it. The Blues call it an unbreachable front line, locking out threats, but sometimes I wonder if it’s the opposite.
I wonder if the shield is locking us in.