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Authors: Lauren DeStefano
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Celeste says, her condescending cheer undeterred by Pen’s tone. “Today I have an audience with the king, and I only thought, if either of you possessed knowledge His Majesty might find useful, I could invite you along. I’m a little too nervous, I admit, to go alone.”
Pen sits up. Her hair is an electrocuted blond animal atop her head. “The king? How did you manage that?”
Celeste emerges from behind the screen and reaches for the brush on her night table. “Despite your opinion of me, Pen”—she says her name pointedly—“I am the daughter of a king. And this is a war. I’m the only one to negotiate on my father’s behalf.”
Pen is all at once very sober. She throws back her blankets and stands. “You can’t really be saying you mean to involve Internment in this mess down here. You can’t think that’s what your father would want.”
Celeste laughs at the mirror. “I think I know my father much better than you. And I intend to convey his support to King Ingram. My brother, the prince, would back me up.” Her eyes linger on Pen. “But he isn’t here.”
Pen is clutching her collar, twisting the fabric in her fist. “This is not Internment’s war,” she says. “Thank goodness the people of the ground can’t reach Internment, or they’d destroy it.”
Celeste smiles. It is a daydreaming, hopeful smile. “Oh, but soon they will,” she says. “They have mechanical birds—planes, they call them—that can go nearly as high as Internment. And they’re learning more and building upon them every day. It’s only a matter of time.”
Pen looks as though she’ll be sick. She’s right. Internment would be very easy to destroy; it’s no match for the ground’s warfare.
What has my blood going cold is the thought that Celeste is right, too.
“So, Pen is clearly not interested,” Celeste says, turning to face me. “What about you, Morgan? I could use a fellow citizen from the magical floating island.” She can’t help giggling at the name they’ve given us. “And as the daughter of a patrolman, surely you know more than you give yourself credit for.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’d like to go. Thank you.”
Pen opens her mouth to speak, but then she closes it and stumbles from the room at a run. I wince at the sound of the water room’s door closing.
Celeste sets her hairbrush down. “See you at breakfast,” she says cheerily.
I find Pen sitting on the edge of the tub, red-faced and watery-eyed. I can smell that she’s just been sick. It isn’t just the tonic—she can hold that quite well—but the thought of losing her home for a second time.
“They can’t,” she whispers. “Tell me they can’t reach Internment.”
“I’ll find out all that I can,” I say, running a cloth under the cold water and then handing it to her. “Let’s not panic until I’ve seen the king.”
She stares at me, horror in her eyes.
“Pen? I’m going to find you something to wear, and we’re going to have breakfast, and we aren’t going to panic.”
She nods dazedly.
“Say it.”
“We aren’t going to panic,” she repeats.
After a deep breath, she’s ready to face the morning.
We find Basil and Thomas at the bottom of the stairs. “Morning,” I say, perhaps too brightly. I kiss Basil’s cheek.
I nudge Pen, which prompts her to give Thomas a flat, if troubled, stare. “Good morning,” she says. It puts her under his immediate scrutiny. I can see as much in his eyes.
Basil is looking at me the same way.
“Oh, all right,” I say. “Birdie showed us where the tonic was last night and we were up late in her room talking and sharing a bottle.”
I’m startled by how easily the lie comes. I’ve never lied to Basil. But while the people of the ground find magic in the floating island, they are perhaps too blind to see the magic that hides in this city, in silver screens and brass clubs and the beautiful thieves that live in the ocean, who carry stolen trinkets from the
Pen sits up. Her hair is an electrocuted blond animal atop her head. “The king? How did you manage that?”
Celeste emerges from behind the screen and reaches for the brush on her night table. “Despite your opinion of me, Pen”—she says her name pointedly—“I am the daughter of a king. And this is a war. I’m the only one to negotiate on my father’s behalf.”
Pen is all at once very sober. She throws back her blankets and stands. “You can’t really be saying you mean to involve Internment in this mess down here. You can’t think that’s what your father would want.”
Celeste laughs at the mirror. “I think I know my father much better than you. And I intend to convey his support to King Ingram. My brother, the prince, would back me up.” Her eyes linger on Pen. “But he isn’t here.”
Pen is clutching her collar, twisting the fabric in her fist. “This is not Internment’s war,” she says. “Thank goodness the people of the ground can’t reach Internment, or they’d destroy it.”
Celeste smiles. It is a daydreaming, hopeful smile. “Oh, but soon they will,” she says. “They have mechanical birds—planes, they call them—that can go nearly as high as Internment. And they’re learning more and building upon them every day. It’s only a matter of time.”
Pen looks as though she’ll be sick. She’s right. Internment would be very easy to destroy; it’s no match for the ground’s warfare.
What has my blood going cold is the thought that Celeste is right, too.
“So, Pen is clearly not interested,” Celeste says, turning to face me. “What about you, Morgan? I could use a fellow citizen from the magical floating island.” She can’t help giggling at the name they’ve given us. “And as the daughter of a patrolman, surely you know more than you give yourself credit for.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’d like to go. Thank you.”
Pen opens her mouth to speak, but then she closes it and stumbles from the room at a run. I wince at the sound of the water room’s door closing.
Celeste sets her hairbrush down. “See you at breakfast,” she says cheerily.
I find Pen sitting on the edge of the tub, red-faced and watery-eyed. I can smell that she’s just been sick. It isn’t just the tonic—she can hold that quite well—but the thought of losing her home for a second time.
“They can’t,” she whispers. “Tell me they can’t reach Internment.”
“I’ll find out all that I can,” I say, running a cloth under the cold water and then handing it to her. “Let’s not panic until I’ve seen the king.”
She stares at me, horror in her eyes.
“Pen? I’m going to find you something to wear, and we’re going to have breakfast, and we aren’t going to panic.”
She nods dazedly.
“Say it.”
“We aren’t going to panic,” she repeats.
After a deep breath, she’s ready to face the morning.
We find Basil and Thomas at the bottom of the stairs. “Morning,” I say, perhaps too brightly. I kiss Basil’s cheek.
I nudge Pen, which prompts her to give Thomas a flat, if troubled, stare. “Good morning,” she says. It puts her under his immediate scrutiny. I can see as much in his eyes.
Basil is looking at me the same way.
“Oh, all right,” I say. “Birdie showed us where the tonic was last night and we were up late in her room talking and sharing a bottle.”
I’m startled by how easily the lie comes. I’ve never lied to Basil. But while the people of the ground find magic in the floating island, they are perhaps too blind to see the magic that hides in this city, in silver screens and brass clubs and the beautiful thieves that live in the ocean, who carry stolen trinkets from the
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