CHAPTER 39 #2
Edmund sighs, his eyes creasing as if he’s still caught within himself, forcing his resistance down. Then he moves closer and takes my face in his hand, his thumb brushing against my cheek. “How many civil credits do you have?”
“More than I need.”
“If you run low, you’ll tell me?”
“Yes,” I promise, though my voice quivers.
He leans in and presses a kiss to my throat, as if to steady it. “Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as it could be. And even if it were, I’d be worse.” His other hand lifts to join the first, framing my face. “Trust me to look after you.”
I do. And it reminds me of something Dickie said once, long before I ever looked at Edmund as anything other than a Blue: If Ed got struck by lightning, the only thing that would happen is that his cigar would light.
I laughed then, thought Dickie was ridiculous, but I see it now.
Edmund is the tallest, strongest tree in the forest, with roots so firm and immovable that trying to tear them out would only drive them deeper, all the way to the other side of the world.
People like him can lose, but they can never be defeated.
“It’s more than that, Edmund,” I say. “I believe in you.”
His throat tightens, and for a moment, his face shows the torn expression of someone watching a path split, as if my belief conflicts with the kind others place in him.
It’s a firm reminder that trees don’t grow alone, especially where the earth runs blue.
I can almost hear the voices around him, loud and insistent, pulling, demanding, shouting for which way he should turn.
And yet, when I speak, no matter how quietly, his head always tilts upward, as if he hears my voice above all the rest.
“Stay with me,” I whisper.
“You never have to ask me that.”
Edmund pulls me toward him with one arm, his mouth already tracing a soft, burning path down my neck as he closes the curtains with his other hand.
We don’t leave the foyer until we have to.
By the time Saturday arrives—the day I’ve planned to tell Dad about Edmund—I’ve chewed my fingernails down to the quick.
I’m curled up on the sofa in the suite, my head drooping as I leave my half-eaten breakfast on the table.
I’m too tired and distracted to eat a full meal.
I haven’t slept well in days. All around, the air is almost oppressively sweet with the scent of daffodils.
William and Vincent have been leaving a fresh vase of them outside my door every morning without fail.
I haven’t asked the brothers to stop, and they probably won’t until the year ends.
But I hardly see the flowers. The only daffodil I see is the wire one Edmund made for me, glistening in my open palm.
I wish life could stay like this, the way it’s been over the past weeks: Edmund kissing my open, laughing mouth, and me safe in his arms. I want to hold onto a version of our world where happiness feels possible, and peace doesn’t have to be earned with blood.
Unlike Dad, I’m not eager to be brave. I’m not burning with the desire to stand against injustice. I’m afraid. And the climb, the endless fight against people whose power dwarfs my own, feels futile. I want the easy way out, even though I understand now…
It’s never been about what I want.
When the clock chimes ten, I kiss the daffodil gently and slip it into my pocket. Dad said he’d call today, but he never mentioned a time. I’d rather not sit waiting, gnawing at what’s left of my fingernails.
So I call him.
Dad picks up on the third ring, his tone pleased yet surprised, as if he hadn’t expected me to call so soon.
The camera shakes as he walks, holding his phone at an angle that suggests he’s trying to hide his location.
But I recognize the willow trees swaying behind him, their long branches trailing like fingers across the stone paths.
There are six of them in the back garden of Waldsten Mansion, planted in a row near the rear wall.
But Dad only ever visits the one on the far-right side, because it’s the tree that shades her grave. His younger sister. Daisy.
I never knew Daisy because she died shortly after Vivian was born. But from photographs and videos, it’s clear I look like her. So similar that sometimes, when I walk into a room, Dad glances at me wistfully, as if, for only an instant, he thinks his little sister has come back to him.
Neither he nor Mom talks much about Daisy, but Vivian once pried a story out of one of our Pinkies.
The robot told her that the last time it saw Daisy, she’d been with Mom in her office behind a locked door.
When Daisy finally came out, she looked sad and shaken, almost as if she were saying goodbye.
Six months later, my parents received a call saying Daisy had died of a Bliss overdose.
The news broke Dad. Mom says he was already driven before that, already angry and working to change things.
But Daisy’s overdose was the moment that focused his fire.
After she died, he dedicated himself to destroying Bliss.
Every speech, every policy, every battle he fought centered on that one goal.
He went up against high-citizens who had the kind of invisible power that could erase a man like him if they wanted to.
But he never backed down.
At the edge of the garden, Dad sits alone on a bench beside a red-brick wall. “How are you doing, honey?” he asks, loosening his tie. “You look a little tired.”
Now that the camera has stopped moving, I can see he does, too, though not in the same way.
Mine comes from a few sleepless nights and too much anxiety.
His tiredness looks older, like it lives beneath his skin, buried deep in the joints of his calloused hands, quietly aging him from the inside out.
It makes me wonder how many times Dad has wanted to stop politics.
Not quit, exactly, but slow down and live a quieter life, one that doesn’t demand so much from him.
Maybe he’s imagined waking up late beside Mom, letting the world turn without him, watching Vivian, Hillaire, and me grow up without the weight of fixing a broken system pressing on his shoulders.
I know he’s thought about it. He’s not a machine. He’s as human as I am.
Still, he’s never walked away. Neither has Mom. They’ve never said they’ve done enough or given enough, or that it’s time for someone else to take over.
They stay. They fight. And they carry each other along the way.
“So do you,” I say.
Dad gives a soft laugh. “Yeah, well, old men like me always look tired.” He crosses his arms and looks out over the garden, as if tracking the sway of the willows.
“Listen, Loredana. The real reason I called is that six weeks ago, the Green Party held an internal vote in our Civic Assembly, and I—” He pauses, clearing his throat.
“I won by a thirteen-vote majority. They’ve asked me to run for Governor of the Rainbow District. ”
He sets the phone on the table beside the bench and glances into the camera. Even though his face is half-shaded by the garden trees, I can see how restless he is, as if bracing for the blow that might put out whatever’s left of his fire.
“I already know,” I say.
“You do?” His eyebrows knit sharply. “Who told you?”
I avoid the question, knowing better than to rat out Hillaire. Still, she’s going to hate me after this call. So is Vivian. But it’s either their anger at me or mine at myself. And I know which one I can live with.
“I get why you waited to tell me,” I say. “But you don’t have to worry. If you want to run, I’ll support you.”
Dad’s head tilts, and for a long moment, he stares, expressionless, as if his mind is still catching up to my words. “Really, Loredana?”
My throat is too tight to answer, so I nod.
He nods back, slower. Then a soft, stunned smile begins to form, brightened by a flicker of light in the tired depths of his eyes.
His shoulders loosen, the strain in his face eases, and for the first time in weeks, he looks less like a man fighting to stay upright and more like someone who still remembers how to hope.
I don’t know what I ever did to deserve mattering this much to him.
Dad runs a hand through his hair, still smiling, as if caught in the afterglow of relief. But slowly, the expression fades.
“You should know, honey. If I go through with this, things might get rocky, like they were before. Some moments more than others, like when I make the announcement or near the end of the campaign.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I say, realizing this is my cue. My chance to finally tell Dad the truth, or some version of it. “I’ll be safe.”
He studies me. “You’ve made some good friends?”
“Yeah. Four, actually. And… one’s a Blue.”
Dad sits up straighter, his hand closing on the edge of the bench. “A Blue? Friends? What do you mean by that?”
My stomach hardens, roiling in a way that makes me thankful I ate a light breakfast. But I force out the words, keeping to broad strokes and leaving out the thornier details that might catch and bleed.
Dad’s face stiffens when I explain how I joined a Blue’s entourage because it was either that or die at the Speakeasy.
But he eases slightly when I admit that the Blue and I became friends after we started to trust each other, and even more, when I say I don’t have to do service work and that the Blue treats me well.
When I finish, Dad leans back on the bench and goes quiet. The silence lasts only a few moments, though it feels long enough to turn my hair gray. I brace against the sofa, heart pounding, waiting for the same storm he’d been prepared for when he told me his news.
But when he finally speaks, all he says is,
“Guess it makes sense why you’ve been holding up so well.”
The breath I’ve been holding escapes in a rush. “You’re not mad?”