Once An Eve Novel

thirty-five



THAT NIGHT I COULDN’T EAT. I SAT AT THE DINNER TABLE, thinking of Caleb in prison. I saw the gash on his forehead, a soldier landing another blow on his back, twisting his arm so it met his shoulder blade. They would want names. I knew they would. It was only a matter of time before they gave up, realizing he would never give them the information they needed. How much time did I have before they killed him?

“What’s the matter, dear?” the King asked, glancing at my plate. “Did you want something else? We could have the chef prepare whatever you like.” He reached out and put his hand on my arm. My entire body tensed at his touch.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my voice. “I’m not hungry,” I said. The roast chicken on my plate repulsed me.

The table was full. Clara and Rose sat next to the Head of Finance. Clara chatted happily with him now, her eyes meeting mine as she peppered him with questions about a new business venture. Charles was sitting beside me, talking to Reginald, the Head of Press, about an upcoming opening in the City.

“I’m glad that you two are getting along so well.” The King offered a slight nod in Charles’s direction. “I always thought you would.” He squeezed my arm, then turned back to his plate.

I had the sudden urge to pick up my glass of water and throw it in his face. To plunge my fork into the soft flesh of his hand. He had lied. He thought I would never know, that I would walk through the wedding procession with a lightness in my step, content to imagine Caleb alive somewhere in the wild.

The King pushed away from the table and stood, signaling that he was ready to leave. I felt the piece of paper in the pocket of my cardigan, running my fingers over its blunt corners to comfort myself. After my conversation with Clara, I had gone back to the parlor and picked out a wedding dress. I chose the next one I tried on, not bothering to look in the mirror to see how it fit. I followed Beatrice back to the suite, stopping in the upstairs parlor to throw the ripped newspaper into the fire, watching as the advertisement and the message it contained twisted in the flames. Then I sat down at my desk and wrote.

I was careful with each word I chose, puzzling out the sequence so that the code could be applied backward, from the end of the text to the beginning, using every ninth character. It took me two hours of rearranging, moving words and phrases around, until I managed something. The piece was a formal address to the people of The New America, a missive about the great honor it was to be serving as their Princess. I spoke of the upcoming wedding, my great excitement about the nuptials, and how I had first come to meet Charles in the Palace weeks before. I reread it, lingering over the word love. A sickness settled in my stomach. I kept thinking of Caleb, alone in some cold prison, his skin crusted with blood.

KIN WE METE? the message spelled. NO TYM TO DLAY. I wished I had more to offer—a plan, a promise that I could secure Caleb’s freedom. But if I confronted the King about the lies he would know I had a connection on the outside, telling me of Caleb’s whereabouts. Everything I did would become suspect again, and all the work I had done in the past weeks to secure his confidence would be for nothing.

“Would you like to go down to the marketplace for dessert?” Charles asked as he helped me up from my chair. He’d been quieter in the past few days, seeming embarrassed by our conversation. Clara took off with the Head of Finance, glancing back over her shoulder at me.

I pulled the folded paper from my pocket. “Actually, I’d like to speak with Reginald.” He turned when he heard his name.

“What for?” the King asked. He and Charles gathered around me, the room smaller in their presence. The Head of Education lingered by the door to eavesdrop.

I let out a deep breath. “I’d like to address the people of The New America for the first time. I’m here for good, as their Princess. I’d like them to at least know who I am.” I didn’t look at the King. I didn’t acknowledge Charles. Instead, I kept my eyes on Reginald as I handed him the piece of paper.

“I suppose that’s all right,” the King said, his voice a little uncertain. “As long as there’s nothing objectionable in it, Reginald.”

Reginald pinched the sheet between his fingers, his eyes moving down the paper. His brows furrowed at some lines and relaxed at others. I swallowed hard, my chest seizing in panic. He couldn’t know, I told myself, he wouldn’t be able to tell. And yet the memory of that night at Marjorie and Otis’s house returned. I saw Marjorie’s trembling hands holding the radio, her questions, so urgent, as Otis threw the extra plates beneath the sink. Which code did you use? I heard her ask, then the sound of that first fatal shot.

Reginald pressed his lips together in thought. “Are you sure you want to print this?” His dark eyes met mine. The King circled around us, looking over his shoulder to review the content.

I breathed out, trying to slow the pounding in my chest. “I am,” I said finally.

Reginald smiled and passed the paper to the King. “It’s lovely,” he declared. He bowed slightly to show his respect. “The people will be delighted to read this in tomorrow’s paper.”