Visions of our early childhood wash over me like an unexpected storm on a clear day. Dozens of stinging raindrops, each carrying a memory, invade my thoughts. Nights of sneaking from my bed and into hers to tell her stories of fairies, pirates, and mermaids. Pinkie-sworn promises to never grow up. Promises I couldn’t keep.
“That was then, this is now.” My voice is too loud, I warn myself, but I cannot contain the frustration bubbling inside me like an unattended pot of water over an open fire. “Do you think I like this any better than you do? Do you think I enjoy being the responsible one taking care of you and Mikey? I would give anything, anything at all, to have my life back, to have just one more day being a child and not your guardian. Look!” I point toward the city’s blackened remains, a boneyard landscape of fragmented buildings. “London is gone! And by the fact that no one has come to England’s aid, I think it’s safe to assume the aftermath of the invasion has extended beyond the country’s borders. It’s time to face reality: There are no more private schools or fancy parties.” My words spill too quick and harsh from my lips, but I can’t stop them. “No more ballet or equestrian lessons. Our parents are gone. We are trying to survive, and this is not a childhood game or make-believe. This is real life. It’s time to grow up.”
An injured expression replaces the scowl on Joanna’s face. My stomach groans with hunger, but the ache is nothing compared with the immediate pang of guilt that fills me. I wish I could take back what I said. “Look,” I whisper. “Joanna, I …”
“You were a much better sister than you are a mother,” she says softly, tracing pictures in the layer of dust on the floor with her big toe.
A stab of pain pierces my heart like the tip of a sharpened sword. A mother? I had never intended to be her mother, but the stern tone in my voice echoes like a parent chiding her children. I am about to correct her, to convince her I am still her sister, only a child like her, when Mikey, our six-year-old brother, appears, rubbing his eyes. Dirt dusts his blond hair, making it look brown. I can’t remember the last time I bathed him. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I bathed myself.
“What’s going on? Why are you guys fighting?” he asks through a yawn.
“Never mind, go back to bed,” I say too sharply.
“I can’t sleep. Bad dreams.” He takes Joanna’s bandaged hand. She winces but doesn’t complain. The blisters on her fingers have worsened over the weeks and seem excruciatingly painful. Bloody and infected, the sores haven’t responded to any treatment: warm baths, tubes of salve, bandages, or an expired bottle of antibiotics I scavenged. I’ve tried to convince myself that it’s nothing to worry about. That her wounds will heal with time. Refusing to believe that she has contracted what has ravaged the adult population and left many of the children untouched. But even through the denial, the truth still haunts me with every corpse I stumble upon.
“Come on, I’ll lie down with you. Have I told you the stories about the mermaids in the city?” Joanna says, leading Mikey by the hand.
“Are they real mermaids?” Mikey asks with curious, wide eyes.
“Joanna,” I say, gently touching her shoulder. I want to apologize, to convince her that I am just looking out for her well-being, but the words stick in my throat, filtered by uncertainty. Instead I hear myself saying, “Don’t keep him up too late with those silly fairy tales. And no pirate stories, he’ll be awake all night. It’s late. Blow that candle out. We’re leaving when I return.”
She looks away. “I wish you’d never grown up,” she mumbles. I shudder, her words twisting a sharp blade in my chest. Joanna leads Mikey to our filthy mattresses and tattered blankets. They settle into the lumpy beds, whispering under the dancing flicker of dim candlelight. Mikey giggles as Joanna waves her hands around as if she were in an imaginary sword fight.
Shaking my head, I turn back to the open window and take one final glance at England’s structural ruins. A gray haze hovers over the city like a cloak of death and disease. The blackened remains of the once-bustling town of London provide mute evidence of the carnage and destruction caused by the Marauders, the pirate soldiers sent by Queen Katherina of Germany.
Years ago, Queen Katherina ascended the German throne after the unexpected death of her husband. But it soon became clear that ruling just one country would not be enough for her. England tried to stop her, working to have the International Peace Accords signed by the world’s nations. It was meant to unify and create a utopic society for all time. It was a hollow gesture at best. Queen Katherina quickly defied the treaty, leaving the countries surrounding her kingdom in a bloodbath, earning her the nickname the Bloodred Queen.
So we are not her first invasion and certainly not her last.