~ CAROLINE ~

Caroline wandered the living area of the Governors’ Suite, a sturdy broom in her hand. It had been liberated from the hospital, from a room filled to bursting with surplus supplies still in their wrappings. Nobody would miss a broom. She hummed a tune as she swept, something she remembered from when she was a little girl.

She’d not been back up to her hill of reflection for the last two nights, and she doubted she’d find time tonight. Instead, she’d busied herself with preparations. This was the end, she’d decided. Tomorrow, all things well, Captain Kenton and his Rovers would be there on the hill—and she intended to go with them. Chris would be disappointed that he no longer had a pliable little wife he could use to shape Essegena to his will, but he’d get over it. Somewhere deep inside of him, maybe he’d even find some of the youth he’d once had, and be sad for the loss of Caroline.

That was his problem.

With a bit of luck, Captain Kenton would be able to treat with Chris, and unite the old colony and the new. How long ago was it that the Balkett colony had come here? Two hundred years? Long enough to get past the teething problems of society. The Eia colony could learn from them. Ease past the difficult bits.

All the same, she hadn’t found time to tell Chris about her encounter. Not yet. He didn’t deserve to know ahead of time. If he thought her stupid enough to not be told that Essegena’s weren’t virgin moors, that was on him. She was going to prove him wrong. And she was going to do it all by herself.

Just one more day to wait.

Yesterday had been her final day at the hospital. She’d drop a letter off at some point, to explain to Tema Caerlin and Isla Fleming and the others that she wasn’t running away because of anything they’d done. For now, she’d said nothing. Somebody might talk, and Chris might stop her. She’d taken a pair of scissors to her favourite green dress, the one she’d worn on the day she arrived, and cut a ribbon for Lily Day’s collection. It was her way of saying goodbye.

She swept a pile of debris into the pan, then moved into the bedchamber. The brush glided along the smooth floor as she pushed it, gathering up more dirt than she’d imagined could have got there. It hadn’t looked dirty. Nothing in the suite had, really, save for perhaps a few grotty stains in the toilet.

Foolishly she’d put on a blue cotton smock that morning, before she went for a sunrise stroll. It came to just above the knees. Those selfsame knees were red now from a day spent knelt, cleaning. Her hands too were raw, and the smell of carbolic was etched into her nostrils. But if Caroline didn’t tidy up, nobody would. As she was returning from her walk, she’d caught Chris on his way out—“for an important meeting”. He didn’t think he’d be back until just before the Wracks arrived.

Oh, yes—the Wracks. “Oliver Wrack is coming to dinner,” Chris had said. “He’s bringing his wife.”

“When is this?” Caro had still been in a sweet mood at that point in the day.

“Tonight.”

She’d called after him as he walked down the hallway. “Why haven’t we hired a maid? You call me a queen, but a queen doesn’t dust her own palace.” Caro thought she could stomach the heavy weight of a queen’s crown if it meant an end to tedious housework. She wondered how Chris would fare, once she was gone.

Chris had replied without turning around. “This isn’t a palace.” Trust him to come out with an ill-timed quip. Sometimes his wit made her laugh in spite of herself. She always tried to remember the failed jokes, to keep balance. This was one of them, and it had sent her into a fit of angry polishing. When the arse of the Lady Eia statue by the bedroom door was shiny enough to be a mirror, she decided to stop for a rest.

After an idle lunch at Peseltane, chatting with Tema Caerlin, she’d gone back to the grind. It might have served Chris right to leave the chores undone. Walking home to the pit of filth he’d left might make Chris see that she had value as more than a potential tool. But today wasn’t the time. Today they had company.

She didn’t know the Wracks all that well. Sure, she knew Oliver by sight from the few Council meetings she’d attended, but that was the extent of it. Chris had found him somewhere, adopted him as a friend, treated him like one of the Borrowood group. He’d probably never been near Borrowood, backwater as it was on the galactic scale, but that was the kind of technicality that Chris never worried about when it came to classifying his friends.

Oliver’s wife she knew even less about. Her name was Natasha, though she only answered to Tasha and was likely to throw the odd fist at anybody who used her full name. She’d been enrolled in Raconesta for a time, before meeting her husband and dropping out to “fuck him on five colonies”. And though she could be a judgemental cow, when it came to it she was soft of heart. All of this she’d learned through Tema Caerlin, Natasha Wrack’s sister. Oh, and the part about the soft heart wasn’t true, but Tema felt obliged to say something nice about Tasha.

It hadn’t been easy convincing Tema to talk. The pair were estranged, had been for as long as Tema had been true to herself, and that seemed to still rankle with the young doctor. “But as long as you haven’t changed gender since last time she met you, she’s a darling,” Tema said, a note of bitterness on her tongue.

Caroline hated new people. Chris would have to guide the conversation, or she’d be useless. She didn’t have any difficulty talking to her friends, to people she already knew, and when she was at work a hidden Doctor Ballard persona seemed to take over. But when it came to strangers she never knew what to say. When she was a young girl, she’d followed her brother, clutched tight to Armand’s leg while she watched his friends. It took her six months of this to get to know any of them, and in time they became her friends too. Without Armand, she might never have had a friend.

As she idly wandered the bedroom looking for egregious collections of dust to wipe away, she picked out a green gown which Chris always said brought out the colour of her eyes. No sooner had she settled on wearing it later than she changed her mind. It was hemmed in sequin, and the ancient marque of Heramey was embroidered on the colour. A regal dress, designed to show off the stature of her family. It would make her look up herself.

Her next choice, a tan-and-white piece, lasted a full five minutes before she decided it looked frumpy. The Wracks would think she was a dull, pious type. Impressions were everything. Chris hadn’t elaborated on why he’d invited them, but there was a purpose. In all these months, he’d not invited a soul to the Governor’s Suite. If he’d started now, he stood to gain something from the meeting. He would be expecting his wife to look the part. But she couldn’t make up her mind. No matter how perfect these dresses looked hanging up in her wardrobe, the tungsten glow of the bedroom light always revealed some fatal flaw. So what if the flaws were mainly imagined. The right costume wouldn’t even have an imagined flaw.

When Chris got back, she was lying on the floor, down to her underwear, surrounded by mountains of discarded clothes. “That’s a bold look,” he said, with a whistle. “Oliver will appreciate it, at least.”

“They’re going to hate whatever I wear. It’ll ruin the night, and they’ll think less of you.”

Chris lay down beside her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I hate to see you anxious,” he said. “Caroline, you look beautiful no matter what you wear. Nothing you could possibly do would ruin the night. Here.” He dug around in a trunk beneath the bed. It was his family’s oldest treasure, she knew, handed down from generation to generation. The first to own it had fought in the Wars of Veneration, when he’d made the family name. He was a Chris as well, if she recalled her husband’s stories. Her Chris pulled a small bottle of greenish liquid and gave it to her. “Drink this. It’ll calm your nerves.”

She unscrewed the cap and gave it a sniff. Phew. It was pungent. From the smell, it was either a tonic or a strong spirit. Either way, it would serve to take the edge off. She drank it all down in one gulp, and grimaced at the aftertaste. There was a hint of aniseed in there, and something else—a stronger flavour, but not one she could pinpoint. Bitter, clammy almost.

“Molochanise. A gift from Charlie,” Chris explained. “He’s been getting really into all the weird stuff they drink on Kelsiern. I think he’s going native.” Charlie Ballard was Chris’ youngest, and only, brother. He’d never really been part of the Borrowood gang, being that much younger than the rest—he was barely eight when they started to go their separate ways. Caro liked him nonetheless. Four years ago he’d packed up with his wife for the barren desert that was Kelsiern, in the vain hope of treasure. All he’d found was a drinking problem.

Charlie probably thought nothing of the green drink. His body was undoubtedly so numbed to the effects of alcohol that it went down smooth as water. But Caro was not Charlie, and it wasn’t sitting easy in her stomach. A sudden wave of nausea brought her to her knees. She opened her mouth to vomit and burped instead. It brought relief from the nausea—it was just gas.

Still, she thought it best to sit still until whatever Chris had given her had run its course. It was difficult to tell whether she was drunk or just imagining it. When a sharp knock at the door brought her to her senses, and she realised she’d been sat at the foot of her bed counting the two fingers she held in front of her for a solid hour, that she became convinced that she was indeed drunk.

Perhaps it was the molochanise on her brain, but Chris had been nice to her this afternoon. His words had been loving enough even if they were hollow. She’d play the part of the happy wife tonight, she decided. Why spoil her last evening with her husband?

She stood unevenly, swaying slightly as she did, and threw on the first dress her hands grabbed. It was yellow and frilly, and her sister liked to tell her it made her look like a decorative lemon, but it was comfortable, and she wasn’t sober enough to care.

The Wracks were waiting for her when she emerged from her bedchamber, sat on two of the carved wooden chairs Chris insisted on bringing with him everywhere. Tasha, for some unearthly reason, had painted her face in that horrible yellow powder which all the rich women seemed to love, the stuff that made it look like her face was badly bruised. Caro was guilty of the look on occasion, but not in the company of normal people. “You must be Tasha Wrack,” she said, kissing the shoulders of the other woman. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Tasha Wrack raised both of her eyebrows. “Is that something all the rich ladies say to set up their put-downs, or can I actually trust you?”

Her husband jabbed her in the ribs, so hard she actually gasped. “Now, Tash, there’s no call to be rude. The Ballards aren’t at all like the people you’ve met.”

Tasha smiled, with all the teeth showing. “Forgive me. I’ve had bad experiences with the wealthy.”

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“I know what you mean.” Caro remembered her first hobnob with the pinnacle of Unity society. She was studious and diligent and did everything a noble lady was expected to do. She wore the most in fashion, and acquainted herself with all of the vogue slang, and then she’d stumbled on an uneven floor tile in High Commissioner Coningsby’s ballroom, and that was apparently proof that she didn’t belong with the top drawer—she couldn’t even walk like a proper lady. “Society snobs can be the worst. They also have a short memory. If you tough it out for a few weeks, they’ll forget you aren’t just like them.”

A warm, delectable smell wafted through. Caro looked to see Chris emerging from the kitchen—if all that was needed to make a room a kitchen was the most basic of facilities—in the company of a woman Caro had never met before. This woman was plump and walked at a waddle. Her top lip was hairy, and the sleeves of her pinafore dress rolled back to the elbows. She was carrying a tray of golden cakes. Caro felt suddenly hungry.

“Caroline. You’re awake!” Chris beamed.

“You should have hurried me up,” she said, but she didn’t feel like pursuing an argument today.

“This is Stini Argent. The Wracks’ cook. She’s very kindly offered to prepare tonight’s dinner.” Stini smiled, and held out her tray for Caro to take a cake. It crunched as she bit into it, but beneath the crust it was light and fluffy. Soft wonder filled every corner of her mouth.

“This is very good,” she said, through a mouthful of crumbs. “Oliver, I’ll have to borrow your cook every now and then.” If she were staying here, she definitely would. Presumably she’d have no need of Stini Argent when she was with Captain Kenton’s crew.

Tasha Wrack’s lip twitched. “It’s not Oliver you’d be borrowing from.” Her husband squeezed her shoulder. Caro glanced sideways at Chris, who had a blank expression.

Stini Argent ducked away from Chris. “Pardon me, Governor,” she said. “I should get to the cooking.” She set the tray down on the table in front of Caro and returned to the kitchen. How she could make a proper meal in there was a mystery. The person who had designed the Eia’s crew staterooms was clearly of the bachelor persuasion, someone whose idea of cookery was ‘let somebody else do it, ideally in a restaurant, and just reheat it if it gets too cold’.

“I shouldn’t have been short,” said Tasha. “People assume that Oliver is in charge of everything in the household, and that’s not true. The domestic staff are my responsibility. Take another cake.”

“I probably shouldn’t,” said Caro, as she helped herself to two. They were phenomenal.

Chris took his perch next to Caro. He took a cake for himself, which he nibbled mistrustfully at. Half of it he discarded into Caro’s hand. She didn’t mind. She could always find an appetite for food if it was going.

“Thank you for inviting us to dine with you tonight,” said Oliver Wrack. “It’s an honour, Governor.”

“I look after my friends,” said Chris.

“But he can only marry one, and he picked me.” Caro positioned her hand to show off her ring. The Wracks looked at one another and shrugged. Chris chuckled politely.

“What my wife means,” he said, “is that I’m an excellent judge of character. At least, that’s what I assume. Either that or she doesn’t think herself worthy.”

Caro reddened.

“While we’re on the subject of worthy, I understand that the Lady Tasha is with child.” Chris didn’t notice or didn’t care about his wife’s embarrassment. When his jokes didn’t land, which was often, she acted as if he’d never said anything. He’d only turn the joke on her. Which was unfair.

“I’m about six months in,” Tash said. “Very excited.”

“So you should be. Bringing a child into this life is what makes a woman.” Caro tried to glare at Chris without either of the Wracks noticing. The resulting half-scowl probably made her look constipated.

The topic of Tasha Wrack’s baby dominated conversation for some time. Caro tried to listen, to join in, but it was a struggle. She was happy for Tasha—in the abstract way that she’d be happy for any strange woman—but she couldn’t help but feel a pang for her own wasted time. Her clock was ticking. Much as she had tried to convince herself that she didn’t want children of her own, that they would be difficult, and she’d struggle, and anyway she didn’t need to have children to prove her worth as a woman, she couldn’t escape her brooding instincts.

If only she was the one sat on the other side of the table...

Chris always tried to tell her that it was okay if she couldn’t have children. He wouldn’t be cross with her. Well, so what? Why did it make a difference if Chris was cross? She was the one who’d be carrying that baby around inside her, so she was the one who got to decide whether she wanted that or not. And when it came down to it, she did. It wasn’t a kingdom she wanted. She wasn’t interested in peons or praise. She just wanted to be a mother, a good mother, and have a body that didn’t let her down.

The Gods had denied her a life with little Alianor. They’d denied her a second opportunity. Immortal deities or not, they’d have a lot to answer for when they decided to take her.

She put on a brave face while Tasha Wrack gushed. She said the things she was expected to say, at the times she was expected to say them. When the conversation drifted to other, happier topics, she jumped on that. She fought to keep these avenues of conversation open for as long as she possibly could. Inevitably, focus returned to Tasha’s baby.

“I’d like to put to you a proposal,” said Chris, shifting in his seat. “Soft power for hard. In the old times, they used to say that nothing brought people together like the birth of a baby. A royal baby, I stress.”

Tasha laughed. “Jem isn’t a royal baby.”

“There haven’t been royals for nigh on a thousand years,” Oliver added. “The last royal baby’s decayed to dry bone by now.”

“So there would be nobody to complain if a new royal line came into being,” said Chris. Caro rolled her eyes. Royalty was his bugbear. When they were all idealistic teens, his determination to be a kingmaker was endearing—attractive, even. By now it was old. Old and unrealistic, and yet still he seemed to think he could pull it off.

“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, Chris,” she said. “This is the modern day. Leave the kings and queens in the storybooks, where they belong.”

“Your wife is wise, Governor,” said Oliver. “People don’t want to be chattel. Nobody will agree to be subjugated.”

They were interrupted then by the appearance of Stini Argent, laden with steaming plates of stew. “Let me help you with those,” said Chris, dashing to his feet. He slipped into the kitchen and returned with two more plates, which he set in front of his own place and Caro’s.

Her tummy rumbled at the sight. She grabbed the plate as soon as it was set down and began to wolf it down at once, before her guests could have a sniff—politeness be damned. She was supposed to eat first, right? They had provided the chef after all.

Neither of the Wracks seemed to mind. Oliver impaled a chunk of meat on his fork, but held it in the air for so long before he thought to put it in his mouth that all the gravy had dripped back onto the plate. Tasha hadn’t even looked at her own meal. They were busy talking to Chris.

“People don’t seem to mind having a Governor,” Chris was saying. “What’s a monarch but another name for the same thing?”

Governors are elected, Caro thought. If you piss the people off too much they can boot you out. She kept silent. There was nothing to be gained by undercutting Chris at every opportunity.

He took a mouthful of stew. “Anyway, what I’m suggesting is just the trappings of a monarchy,” he said, spraying flakes of meat and drips of gravy onto the table. Caro reached across and dabbed at them with her sleeve. “No real power, just the bells and whistles. Wheel them out for special occasions, or when things aren’t going great. People love a figurehead.”

“If you want me to agree to signing my Jem away, you can forget it,” Tasha said. “Monarchs die when people get upset.”

Caro tuned out the conversation. The stew was far more interesting than anything that was being said.

It was healthy with tender meat, heady gravy, a smorgasbord of fresh vegetables. Carrots, onions, celery and potatoes were there in abundance. Caro picked one of each item out to try them individually. She’d had the habit since she was young, and no amount of being told to eat like a normal person had shaken it. Understanding the constituent parts helped her to appreciate the overall meal.

Each of the vegetables had been cooked to perfection. The carrots seemed to melt into an explosion of flavour at the moment of contact with her teeth, the onions were finely balanced on the precipice of caramelisation. The potato was fluffy.

The celery was bitter.

It had been cooked fine. It had crisped perfectly, and it wasn’t an unexpected colour. But the flavour was entirely absent. She grimaced. With a bit of effort the celery went down, but it took with it all of the moisture in her mouth. What remained was dryness. She coughed, and her throat burned.

“Caro? Are you alright?” Chris, noticing her for the first time. He clasped her hand.

She nodded. “Went down the wrong way. That’s all.” She stood to get some water, and stumbled. How long had she been seeing double for? That drink was stronger than she’d realised. “I’m sorry,” she said, to the Wracks, “don’t think I’m being rude. I think I’m going down with something. We’ll do this again some time.” She didn’t force a smile, because it hurt too much. If she really focused on where she was going, one step at a time, she could just about keep her balance. Her hands were shaking. Her head was beginning to throb.

She collapsed gratefully onto the bed and screwed her eyes tight. It only took a second for her to fall asleep, dreamlessly.

The room was in darkness when Caro opened her eyes. What time was it? She reached for the lamp beside the bed, hoping to turn it on and illuminate the fresco on the far wall, but her arms were all floppy. She couldn’t tell whether she was getting close to it or not. All over, she ached. Every limb was agony. Through blurry eyes she could see a number of red blotches on her arms. How many more were there beneath her clothes? The coarse itching of skin beneath her dress made her painfully aware of at least a dozen she couldn’t see.

She could hear faint voices coming from the living area. Chris’ voice was distinct; even if she couldn’t hear the words he was saying, couldn’t concentrate on listening without her head throbbing angrily, she could recognise his voice. The day she didn’t recognise it was the day she was dead to the world, she decided. A woman was talking, too. Tasha Wrack, probably. The Wracks must still be here. How long had she been out? And Chris had just carried on...

The need for some water was urgent now. Taking a second to gather her breath, she tried to stand.

Bad idea.

At the very instant she put weight on her legs, they gave way beneath her. She tumbled to the floor with a tremendous crash, and howled at the ignominy. As she pounded furious fists on the floor, feeling only the fuzz of pins and needles, the room was suddenly bathed in light.

“Caro?” Chris had finally woken up to her condition. She didn’t answer him. She wasn’t sure she could. She lay where she’d fallen, hands vibrating, tears dampening her eyes. What’s happening?

He was there. She could feel his hands. “Caro, are you hurt?”

She tried to rasp. Her voice had vacated her.

“Stay there,” said Chris. “I’ll get the hospital.” She felt his breath on her neck, then his kiss on her cheek. He hadn’t kissed her like that in years. “You’re going to be okay,” he said.

She needed water. Her throat was scratching, clawing at her. For a wild instant she wanted to grab at it, rip it to shreds just to make it shut up with the constant pain.

“Stay there, I’ll get the hospital.” Chris was repeating himself. She coughed. Something red landed on the floor. Blood. That’ll stain, she thought. “You’re going to be okay,” Chris told her, for the second time.

It didn’t make it more believable.

She tried idly to dab at the blood she’d coughed. Her hand was too unsteady. She smeared it everywhere. Damn it, she sobbed. She pressed her head down on top of her hands. Colours danced in her vision. Everything doubled and tripled, and all sense of reality abandoned her.

Another cough seized her. She tried to swallow it down, but it exploded out all the same. Pain. Agony. More blood, black. She shouldn’t be coughing black blood.

Help me. She directed the silent prayer at anybody who would care to hear. Mother, father, Nana Raine. The Gods in those distant heavens, indifferent as they were. If Fréreves had any hope to spare, she could really use it about now. Good Matilda, if you’re so good, why don’t you help me?

None answered the prayer. None even heard it.

She felt another cough settling in the base of her throat, ready to force its way to the fore. A fresh wave of pain was baying. She scratched viciously at a sore on her leg, and when she brought her hand before her face her fingers were red with blood.

No more did parts of her body hurt. There was only her, Caroline as a whole, and she hurt. Everywhere.

She closed her eyes to shut out the horrors of this next cough, and let out a feeble whine at the pain. How typical that her last words were to be a sad whimpering.

Blackness took her.