No guns, no surveillance, no drugs, no debt, and greed holds no sway at all.
But was that this place? The idea seemed impossible to Kelsea, to whom even small victories had always come with a price. Even if the world before her eyes was not a dream but solid, surely there would be a downside, something to undercut everything she had seen. Surely there would be a cost?
She reached her office—“Kelsea Raleigh, Junior Librarian”—and when she opened the door she found the far wall piled floor-to-ceiling with books. Old, new, all kinds of books, and at the sight of them something in Kelsea loosened for the first time. She had seen more books today than in her entire lifetime in the Tearling, and surely a world with so many easily accessible books could not be so terrible. But still, something inside Kelsea, that dark twinge of warning, made her grab a battered volume from one of the piles and open it wide. Finding the pages covered with words, she breathed a sigh of relief. Everything she had seen around her today said that she had done it, achieved more for her small kingdom than she could ever have hoped for. Even Carlin would have been proud, if she had only known, but Kelsea did not need Carlin’s praise any longer. The Tearling was safe, and Kelsea could be content with that.
And for a while, she was.
The more Kelsea saw of the new Tearling, the better it looked to her eyes. Perhaps it was not William Tear’s unattainable dream come to life—there were still subtle gradations of wealth, and human nature made personal conflicts inevitable—but the community was extraordinarily open, with seemingly none of the corruption that had marked the Tearling or its neighbors. There was no traffic, not in drugs or people or anything else. If a man wanted to carry a weapon, there was no law against it, but Kelsea did not see so much as a single knife, except at the butcher shops, and violence appeared to be limited to the occasional fistfight brought on by too much ale.
Books were indeed everywhere, and the city boasted six different newspapers. There were no homeless; though some were wealthier than others—doctors in particular commanded a good living—everyone in the city was housed, fed, clothed, tended, and Kelsea heard none of the grumbling that had characterized the later years of the Town. This baseline of care had been the true heart of William Tear’s dream, the engine that had driven them all to board the ships, and it hummed merrily along here, unquestioned, enshrined in the community.
Nor was New London the only such city; replicas of William Tear’s prototype now stretched across the new world, loosely governed by a parliament that seldom convened. There was no Mortmesne, no Cadare. Even if Evelyn Raleigh had once existed, she could never have become the Red Queen.
In the days that followed, Kelsea visited the parliamentary building, which was seated not far from the old site of the Arvath; the University of New London—from which she herself had graduated, not so long ago; and, last and most strange, the Tear Museum, a two-room exhibit, open to the public, which was housed near the old warehouse district. There Kelsea listened to an overenthusiastic tour guide tell the story of the Crossing; of William Tear, who had led them across the ocean; of Jonathan Tear, who had been murdered by a traitorous adviser, Row Finn. This adviser had been subsequently hacked to death by Jonathan Tear’s guards, putting a quick end to his rebellion.
Kelsea was only half listening. On the wall of the first room hung a row of portraits, many of which she recognized: William Tear, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else; Lily in the field with her bow, looking backward even though the future was still ahead of her, wide open; and Jonathan Tear, his face impassive, dark eyes dim with worry. Only the last portrait was new to Kelsea, and she hung back from the group, staring at the picture for a long while, as the tour guide’s bright, merry voice poured over her.
“Caitlyn Tear, first and only Queen of the Tearling! She ruled for a very long time, until the age of seventy-seven.”
The portrait was not the same one Kelsea had seen in the Keep, not even close. This Caitlyn Tear was older, her face prematurely lined, her mouth taut. Her hair was still as long and lustrous as ever, hanging loose down her back, but she wore no crown. A forbidding woman, Kelsea thought, one who laughed very seldom, if ever.