Kelsea stood for a long time, staring at Pen’s house. She had never felt so alone in her life, not even in the cottage with Barty and Carlin. Barty, at least, had loved her. Perhaps Carlin had too, in her own way. But Pen did not know her. He had never known her. And now a truly horrible thought struck her: what if all of her Guard were this way? What if all the people who had loved her, fought with her, taken care of her, would think of her as a stranger now? She had always told Mace that she would be willing to sacrifice anything for her kingdom, but here was a price she had never considered: being alone.
Eventually, she turned her steps from Pen’s cottage and forced herself to walk away, back toward home. She had been busy lately, preparing to move out of her mother’s house and into a tiny flat closer to the library. It would be the first home she had ever had to herself, and the idea had thrilled her . . . but now all of her bright pleasure in having a place of her own seemed as ersatz and meaningless as a rainbow. For a rogue moment, she wished she had died in the Keep; at least then she would have had all of them around her. They would have been together.
Twice more she went back to the Tear museum, to stare at the glittering sapphires in their case. Even through glass, Kelsea’s fingers itched to lay hold of them, to take the jewels and reset everything, even wreck the kingdom, if it came to that, if only she could have her life back again, her family around her—
She had not returned to the museum for a fourth visit, but it didn’t matter. The damage was already done.
Over the next few weeks, without even meaning to, Kelsea began to ask her colleagues at work if they had ever met a man named Christian. She had thought it would be a common enough name, but it turned out not to be; there were few churches in New London, and at any rate the name seemed to have fallen out of favor, even among the devout. Kelsea didn’t know why she was looking for Mace; even if she found him, it could only mean a repeat of the same terrible scene she’d had with Pen. But she felt that she had to know. Some of her Guard had never been born, perhaps, but some of them might still be out there, and knowing that, Kelsea could not leave it alone.
It turned out that even in this New London, Mace cut a recognizable figure. It took Kelsea only a few inquiries to discover that a man named Christian McAvoy was the head of the city constabulary. This Christian McAvoy was a big man, well over six feet tall, and he was generally considered an excellent police officer, hard but fair. You didn’t want to lie to the man, for he would always know.
For two weeks, Kelsea dithered. She wanted to see him, but did not want see him. She was drawn to the idea, yet terrified. But in the end she went.
She went on her lunch break from the library, taking a taxi wagon across town. She would not bother Mace, she told herself; she only wanted to see him. It would do her good to see him, to know that he truly existed, that he, like Pen, was happy in this new place. That Kelsea had done him some good. She did not want to disrupt his life. She only wanted to see him.
But when the time finally came, when the tall man with Mace’s face emerged from the police station and looked straight through Kelsea, as though she didn’t exist, she knew that she had made a terrible mistake. All of the strength left her limbs. She was standing just across the street, on the stairs of the building opposite the station, and as Mace hurried down the street, she collapsed onto the stairs, burying her head in her hands.
I remember them all. I remember them all, but they don’t remember me. They never will.
The idea was so hopeless that Kelsea began to weep. She had bargained for this, she told herself; she had done a great thing, an important thing, more important than any one life. Her kingdom was now a thriving economy, with open trade and a free flow of information. The Tearling had laws, codified laws, and a judiciary to enforce them. Church had been cleaved from state. The kingdom was dotted not only with bookstores but with schools and universities. Every worker earned a living wage. People raised their children without fear of violence. It was good, this country, and all Kelsea had been forced to trade for it was everything. She suddenly remembered yelling at the Fetch, telling him that he had deserved his fate: to watch all of those he knew and loved die around him. She hadn’t known, hadn’t understood. She sobbed harder, so lost that at first, she didn’t feel the gentle hand on her back.
“Are you all right, my child?”
Kelsea wiped her eyes, looked up, and saw Father Tyler.
“It’s all right for you to be here,” he assured her, mistaking her look of alarm. “God’s house is open to all, especially the grieving.”
“God’s house,” Kelsea murmured. She hadn’t even noticed the tiny cross on the roof of the building behind her. Father Tyler’s face was pale, but not the thin, starved pallor that Kelsea remembered; she would wager that this Father Tyler was no longer an ascetic. He bore little resemblance to the timid, frightened creature of the Arvath.
“Would you like to come inside?” he asked. “Even for a few minutes, to get out of the sun?”
Kelsea did want to, but she knew that she could not. Father Tyler treating her as a stranger as well . . . it would be more than she could bear.
“God’s house is not for me, Father,” she said heavily. “I am not a believer.”
“And I’m not a Father,” he replied, smiling. “I’m just a Brother. Brother Tyler. This is my church.”