The Invasion of the Tearling

The candle flame flickered sharply, and Lily looked up at the walls, where the shadows of her familiar nursery furniture had turned grotesque in the thin candlelight. The house was supposed to be airtight, to protect against a chemical attack, but she felt a draft from somewhere, chilling her toes. The cold had not woken Dorian, though; she slept on peacefully, her head lolling sideways on the pillow. For a moment she looked so much like Maddy that Lily could almost believe this woman was her sister … but then the shadows shifted again, and the illusion was broken.

That Maddy would be politically active was almost a foregone conclusion. Their childhood was not a good time for anyone to be political, but Lily had only realized this years later, when she learned about the Frewell administration. One of Lily’s English teachers, Mr. Hawthorne, had disappeared when she was halfway through eighth grade, and Lily had not questioned the school’s announcement that Mr. Hawthorne had moved to California. Only in college did she remember that Mr. Hawthorne had been prone to sweeping pronouncements about the impact of religion on society, that he often assigned books with this theme. Back then, federal editing of individual works of literature was still new, and Mr. Hawthorne had always managed to secure the original versions for their readers. But one day he was simply gone, replaced with a substitute who used the approved editions. Mr. Hawthorne vanished perhaps two months before Maddy did, and Lily, who had barely cared at the time, often wondered now—again, in those moments before sleep, when everything took on an exaggerated importance and even fever dreams seemed reasonable—how he had gotten caught. A student, probably … a student as thoughtless as Lily, talking because she loved to talk, meaning no harm.

She was being watched.

Lily knew it suddenly, in every nerve ending. Someone was standing just inside the door to the patio, looking down at her. Greg, back early, here to check on her, to see what his doll was up to. Greg didn’t come into the nursery, but that wouldn’t be the only line crossed tonight, would it? Lily would look up and see his grinning face, his bully’s cheerfulness, and she would have nothing left.

She made herself look up, and relief nearly choked her; it wasn’t Greg. The man had entered the room without making a sound, and now he leaned against the closed door, watching her. He was perhaps forty, a tall man with a military bearing that showed clearly despite his relaxed posture. He wore all black. His blond hair was cropped almost brutally short, but it suited the face beneath: a severe, clean-shaven face, all angles and hard curves.

“How is she?”

Lily blinked at his accent, which wasn’t American. “She’s fine. She’s got a fever, but the doctor said that might happen. I’ll stay with her until it breaks.”

The man inspected her closely, studying her face. “You’re Mrs. Mayhew.”

Lily nodded slowly, identifying the accent: English. She hadn’t heard an English voice in a long time. It had been more than ten years since Security had closed the border to the UK and expelled all of the Brits; what was he still doing here?

“Have you ever seen me before?” he asked.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” She was sure. She would have remembered this man; he exerted pull, a magnetism that Lily could feel all the way across the room. He lifted a black canvas bag, smaller than the doctor’s but still clearly medical; Lily heard the light ring of metal instruments inside when he set it on the table.

“I don’t know why you helped her, but thank you. Unexpected help is the best kind.”

“Why is it unexpected? Because I’m rich?”

“That, and your husband.”

For a moment, Lily could only think of the scene in the living room. Then she realized that he must be talking about Greg’s job. Greg didn’t work for the government, not exactly, but by now, Security practically was the government; in the eyes of the Blue Horizon, Greg was just as bad as any politician. The man’s eyes were beginning to hypnotize her; with an effort, Lily turned back to Dorian. “Why did she blow up the naval base? It seems so pointless.”

“Nothing we do is pointless. You only judge because you can’t see the whole picture.”

“I don’t judge.”

“Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you? This is a lofty perch you sit on.”

Lily flushed, and she suddenly found herself wanting to contradict him, to explain about Greg, to tell this man how the perch wasn’t so lofty at all. But she couldn’t say any of that to a stranger. She couldn’t even say it to her friends.

“Boss?” Dorian asked from the couch.

“There you are, love.”

Dorian smiled, a sleepy smile that turned her face into that of a child. “Knew you’d come. Did it work?”

“Beautifully. Months before they can fly again. You did a good job.”

Dorian’s eyes brightened.

“Sleep, Dori. Heal up.”

Dorian closed her eyes. Lily didn’t know what to make of this exchange. Clear affection between the two of them, yes, but what man sent the woman he loved to plant explosives, to be shot?

“I have to get her out of here,” the man murmured, his eyes troubled.

“She can stay as long as she needs to.”

“Until you tire of the novelty and turn her in.”

“I won’t!” Lily snapped back, stung. “I would never do that.”