“What is your church called?”
“It has no name,” Father Tyler—she could not think of him as Brother—replied. “Parishioners come whenever they want. I give sermons on Sundays. Sometimes we go out and do good works.”
“Bully for you,” Kelsea muttered uncharitably. She would have given her entire world to see Father Tyler, but all she was left with was Brother Tyler, a smiling man of God who didn’t know her from Adam.
“Who do you grieve for?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.” He sat down beside her, wrapping his arms around his knees. Kelsea would have wagered house and lot that he no longer suffered from his terrible arthritis, and wondered how that miracle had been achieved. But of course, the Tearling was now full of doctors. Central New London even had a hospital.
“Have you lost a loved one?”
Kelsea hiccupped laughter, for it was somehow worse than loss. Everyone around her continued, oblivious, happy in this new world. She had not been left alone so much as left behind, and she could not imagine a loneliness more vast.
“Tell me, Father,” she asked, “have you ever met someone who lost their entire life?”
“Yes, but never someone so young as you. And that makes it a tragedy.”
“What do you mean?”
“How old are you, child? Eighteen, nineteen?”
“Nineteen.”
“Well, there it is. You’re a healthy young woman—you are healthy, aren’t you?”
Kelsea nodded.
“You’re a healthy young woman, with your whole life ahead of you, and yet you sit here weeping for the past.”
I’ve already lived my life. But Kelsea did not say it. She had not burdened Pen or Mace with the past they could not know; she would not burden Father Tyler either.
“The past colors everything,” she told him. “Surely a man of God and history knows that.”
“How do you know I’m a man of history?”
“A guess,” Kelsea replied wearily. She was in no mood for this, for tiptoeing around a man she had once known well, pretending not to know him at all. She lifted her bag onto her shoulder.
“I have to go, Father.”
“A moment more, child.” His keen gaze swept over her. “You’ve lost everything, you say.”
“Yes.”
“Then look around you.” He swept an arm before him. “All these people. Surely you should be able to find something new to care about.”
Kelsea blinked, alarmed at the optimism in his words. How could anyone possibly be that resilient?
“Your advice is good, Father,” she finally replied. “But it’s advice for someone else. I thank you for the place to rest.”
“Of course, child.” He waved toward the building behind him. “You are welcome at any time, to come back and talk.”
“Thank you.”
But Kelsea knew she wouldn’t return, and she didn’t look back as she descended the church steps. She still felt slightly dizzy, as though the ground had been yanked from under her.
All of these things that are gone now . . . where did they go? Are they still out there somewhere?
She wished she had not come to the police station. Only pain had awaited her there, just as she had known it would. Even Mace was lost to her now.
Surely you must be able to find something new to care about.
But what could that be? She had already achieved her life’s great work. She had saved the Tearling, and now she was no longer a queen, only an ordinary young woman. There were no more heroics to be done. What could she possibly do as Kelsea Raleigh? She liked her job at the library; she loved her little flat. Was that everything? How could it not be an empty life, after watching kingdoms rise and fall?
There are upsides, too, her mind remarked, in a flat, dry voice that Kelsea recognized as Andalie’s. No one wants to murder you now, do they? You haven’t killed anyone yourself. You’ve been cruel to no one.
True. The Queen of Spades, the shadow of vengeance that had fallen over Kelsea almost from the moment she had taken her throne . . . she was gone, buried in the distant past. Kelsea could feel her absence, like a splinter that had been withdrawn, and she felt certain—as certain as she could be of anything in this new world—that the Queen of Spades would never trouble her again. There was gain there, great gain, perhaps . . . but Kelsea did not trust herself to see it clearly. The past stood in the way.
At the junction of the Great Boulevard—now called Queen Caitlyn’s Road—Kelsea climbed down from the wagon and began the slow walk back to work. Checking her watch, she was relieved to see that she had plenty of time. She had not been late again since that first morning, and Carlin had stopped checking her watch when Kelsea walked in the door, which was a relief. Carlin had not changed in the slightest; Kelsea wanted her approval badly, but Carlin was going to make her earn every inch. Just like old times. Kelsea felt tears threatening again, and walked faster. But beneath the tears, Father Tyler’s words beat against her brain.