Once An Eve Novel

seventeen



WHEN I RETURNED TO THE SUITE, I GOT TO WORK, SEARCHING the closet for something discreet to wear. The hangers were heavy with silk dresses, fur jackets, and petal-pink nightgowns. I dug through the drawers below, settling on a black sweater and the one pair of jeans I’d been allowed, even though Beatrice had warned me not to wear them outside of my room. I stepped out of the gown, finally able to breathe.

I unfolded the tiny paper map, one side printed with directions, the other with the note from Caleb. He said he had a contact in the Palace, someone who’d left a bag for me on the seventh floor staircase. If I could get out, I’d travel ten minutes off the main strip, to the building he’d marked with an X.

If I could get out.

It was a foolish idea. I knew that. I buttoned my jeans, slipped on my socks and shoes, and fastened my hair back. I arranged the pillows and duvet to look as though it contained a sleeping body. It was foolish to think I could get out of the Palace unnoticed, that I could find my way through the City. Because of the strict curfew—the streets were clear from ten at night until six in the morning, a rule the King had established to keep order—I’d be one of the only people on the sidewalks. If anyone followed me, I’d lead them right to Caleb.

But as I crept toward the door, listening for any sound in the hall, I couldn’t think of doing anything else. He was here. Only a few streets separated us. I had let him go once, and I wouldn’t do it again.

I lifted the metal cover of the keypad on the wall. The code started with 1-1, I knew that much. Those were the easiest numbers to catch. I’d thought I’d seen a 3 and another 1 at the end, but it was hard to know for sure; Beatrice’s fingers always moved so quickly whenever she was coming and going. I pressed my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear anything. She was probably down the hall now, dropping empty glasses in the sink as she spoke to Tessa, the cook. Still, my hands shook as I entered the 1, then another 1, a 2, an 8, and finally the 3 and 1 at the end.

It beeped twice. I tried the door but it was locked. I rested my forehead on the wall, desperately trying to remember. It could’ve been a 7, not an 8, that I’d seen. It could’ve been a 2, not a 3. It could’ve been anything.

Numbers, combinations, codes ran through my head. Then I had a sudden flash of the King at the podium, before Stark had received his medal. We’ve made tremendous progress, he’d said, Since the day the first citizens arrived here, January first, two thousand and thirty-one.

Before I could second-guess myself, I punched in those six numbers: 1-1-2-0-3-1. Nothing happened. The lock didn’t beep. The metal lid fell shut. I turned the knob and for the first time it gave. The door swung open, releasing me into the quiet hall.

It felt good to be free of the suite, with its sealed windows and cold, tiled bathroom, the couch that was so stiff it was like sitting on a cement block. Outside, the lights in the corridor were dimmed. I heard a clanking noise from the kitchen, where the staff was cleaning up for the night. I looked right, then left, moving along the wall, nerves knotting my stomach as I inched closer to the east staircase.

I peered through the small rectangular window in the door. The stairwell was empty. Another keypad was on the wall. I typed the same code, moving slowly, careful not to make any sound. The lock opened and I ran through the door, trying to ignore what lay beyond the narrow railing—an open shaft that dropped fifty stories to the ground. I took the stairs two at a time as I began the long descent.

When I was four flights down a door opened somewhere above me. “Where are you going?” a voice called. I froze, pressing myself against the wall, out of sight. Everything echoed in the concrete staircase. Even my breaths betrayed me. “I can hear you!” That voice, her tone—I knew in an instant it was Clara. Then I heard the clack of her shoes against the cement floor as she came after me.

I took off. I flew down the stairs, not stopping until I had cleared another ten flights. The footsteps quieted. I inched away from the wall and gazed up. I could just make out Clara’s hands gripping the railing, her fingernails painted bloodred. “I know you’re there!” she yelled again. I kept going, leaving her there, in the top of the tower, calling out my name.

When I reached the seventh floor a bag sat waiting for me, as Caleb had promised. Inside was a Palace uniform. I changed quickly, pulling the cap over my eyes, and continued down the staircase. The flight opened into a wide hallway, metal doors on either side. From one of the small windows I could see into the Palace mall. The ceilings were painted blue, white spongy clouds stretching out across them. The shops were all closed, one reading TIME & AGAIN JEWELRY in fat letters, another GUCCI RESTORED. A soldier paced the length of the stores, his back to me. Two others stood watch at the revolving doors.

I moved down the wide hallway to the EXIT sign. Caleb’s contact had lodged a ball of paper into the doorjamb, making it impossible to lock. The knob gave easily. Outside, the air was cooler, the wind covering everything with a fine layer of sand. The route Caleb had marked was just in front of me. Troops were stationed at the Palace’s front entrance and along its back. I could see them through the narrow trees, five soldiers huddled together, only occasionally glancing behind them. I took off, ducking behind the fountain, half covered by the high wall of shrubs.

I turned back every now and then to make sure the troops weren’t following me. A knot lodged in the back of my throat. Clara had seen me. At this very moment, she could be waking the Palace from the top down, alerting the soldiers stationed on each floor. I kept my head low, calmed by each steady step. I was out, moving through the City, already on my way to Caleb. What was done was done.

The streets were dark, the high buildings casting an eerie glow on the pavement. I heard the Jeeps patrolling the other end of the City center. High above me, windows sparkled with light. I crossed the overpass as the map showed, keeping close to the buildings on the other side. Dried-out palm trees lined the narrow street. A few of the buildings still hadn’t been restored. A restaurant sat abandoned, tables and chairs gray with dust.

Every time I heard a Jeep on the street beside me, the map would show a turn, and I would head in the opposite direction, the noise of the engine fading into the background. The building Caleb had marked was nearly a mile east of the monorail, the entrance in an alleyway behind a theater. As I neared it my steps were lighter, my body floating along, alive with nerves.

The alley was dark, the air thick with the smell of rotting garbage. I entered through the door marked on the map. Inside it was pitch black. I felt my way along the wall and down a narrow set of stairs, into the building’s underbelly. Smoke lingered in the air. Somewhere, someone was singing. The murmurs of faraway voices swirled around me. I crept along, stumbling over the last few steps, until I was at the bottom of the staircase, in front of another door.

A woman was on stage, clad in a silver-sequined gown, a three-person band behind her. She sang into a microphone like the one the King had used at the parade. A sad, slow song drifted to the back of the room. A man on a saxophone leaned forward, adding a few low notes. Couples spun around on a cramped dance floor, a woman nuzzling her face into a man’s neck as he shifted his weight back and forth, his hips swaying with the beat. Others huddled in cozy booths, laughing over half-empty glasses. Lit cigarettes sat in plastic trays, the smoke spiraling up to the ceiling.

The walls were covered with painted canvases. One showed the City’s buildings dotted with bloodred lights, making each skyscraper look sinister. A massive painting hung behind the bar. Rows of children were shown in crisp white shirts and blue shorts just like the ones the Golden Generation wore, but their faces were flat and featureless, each one interchangeable with the next. I scanned every person in the room, looking for Caleb at the bar, or in the pack of men huddled by the door. In the back, to the right of the stage, a figure sat alone in a booth. His face was hidden under the brim of his cap. He was twisting something between his fingers, lost in quiet concentration.

The song ended. The woman in the sequined dress introduced some of the band members and made a joke. A few people behind me laughed. I stood rooted in place, watching him play with the paper napkin, how he bit down hard on his bottom lip. Suddenly, as if sensing me there, he looked up, his gaze meeting mine. He stared at me for a moment, his face brightening in a smile.

Then he was up, closing the space between us. As the woman started singing again, he reached me, pressing his face into my neck. He wrapped his arms tightly around my shoulders, pulling me so close my feet lifted off the ground. We stayed there as the music swelled around us. Our bodies fitted together perfectly, as though we were never meant to be apart.