For Darkness Shows the Stars Part 18

"Oh, my dear girl. There is so much we could talk about."

Elliot said nothing.

"I trust you. I wish you would trust me."

Elliot said nothing.

Finally, Felicia sighed. "All right. I am leaving now. But I want you to know you can speak to me whenever you want, about anything you want." She gestured to the closed door behind her. "I know what the Boatwright is to you. I know what you've lost, and what you're about to lose. I am a mother, not just a Post." She headed off down the hall, her Post-bright cloak making even the polished North floorboards look dingy and old. At the top of the stairs, she paused.

"Elliot?"

Elliot dragged her eyes up to the woman's face, half terrified Felicia would see the tears clinging to her lashes.

"You should know that you're exactly the person you think you are."

Elliot turned away as the tears escaped. That's what she was afraid of.

Twenty-nine.

ELLIOT BOATWRIGHT WAS RESTING peacefully now. His breathing was even, if shallow, and he made no noise of pain in his sleep. His dark skin seemed paper-thin, his scalp like leaves of old parchment beneath his spa.r.s.e white hair. With both sides of his face relaxed like this in repose, Elliot could almost imagine what he'd looked like before his first stroke had damaged the nerves in his face.

Had Benedict been telling the truth? Had this man forced her mother to marry her father? Elliot tried to remember a time when her mother had displayed any bitterness toward the Boatwright. From a young age, she'd known her mother wasn't happy in her marriage-known it almost from the time she'd become aware of the type of man her father was. But it was the only life she knew, so she hadn't examined it all that closely. Her mother managed the estate, smoothing over the worst of Baron North's extravagances and cruelties. Elliot had learned enough from her to try to do the same after her mother's death.

What would her life have been like had she been born a Grove? She's never known Horatio and Olivia's father, but judging from them, she imagined he was a more progressive, hardworking man. The Groves had some Post technology in their house. They were open to new ideas. They were friendly with the Fleet. Perhaps, if she'd been Olivia Grove, she could have asked Felicia to do the unthinkable. Perhaps Kai would love her now.

But if she'd been Olivia Grove, would Kai have ever known her at all?

She pressed a kiss to her grandfather's forehead and departed. Her family would expect her to come to dinner. Appearances had to be maintained, no matter what was going on upstairs . . . or inside.

By the time she arrived in the parlor, there was a lively debate occurring between Tatiana and Benedict as to who was the better rider.

"When I saw you today, on the back of that Innovation horse," Benedict was saying, "it seemed perfectly clear that you have great talent."

Tatiana blushed prettily. She seemed to have taken extra care with her clothes and hair this evening, utilizing some of the Post-style fabrics she'd purchased after the Fleet moved in. Tonight, she wore red, and the color set off her olive skin and dark hair. Elliot still hadn't changed from the trousers she'd been wearing in the dairy. Her father's eyebrows had nearly hit the ceiling when she'd entered.

"Surely you've seen better horsewomen in Channel City."

Benedict smiled indulgently. "I think you would impress everyone in Channel City. Innovation horses are spirited mounts, and you have taken to yours quite well. Besides, they are rare-it's not many that even have the opportunity to ride them."

This was precisely the kind of response Tatiana had been fis.h.i.+ng for.

Elliot folded her hands in her lap, hoping to still the nervous energy that coursed through her system. How could she bear a whole evening of this, while her grandfather lay dying above and the Posts and their secrets waited, a few kay away?

"It's a shame you haven't done very much travel, as I have," Benedict said to Tatiana. "You-and your sister-would be such an a.s.set to society in Channel City."

"Father says the city has been overrun by Posts," Elliot blurted. Three faces turned in her direction.

"I most certainly did not," her father huffed.

Elliot's jaw tightened. That was a lie. He'd been using it as an excuse not to take them for years.

"It's true," he continued, "that there are many free Posts there these days . . . but it's hardly overrun. Indeed, most of the Posts there are quite genteel and remarkably stylish-for what they are. Not unlike these Cloud Fleet Posts renting our lands."

"Of course," Benedict said quickly. "There are many very fine Posts."

"It's surprising to me to hear you say such a thing, Elliot," said Tatiana. "You always seem so generous toward our own Posts. Remember back when you were a child, you had that little Post friend. You know, the son of that mechanic . . ." she trailed off, and her mouth gaped. She stared at Elliot with an expression of astonished accusation.

Elliot forced herself not to smile. Finally, her sister had put it together. A few months too late, perhaps, and even more embarra.s.sing, given Tatiana's obsession with Kai and Olivia Grove.

Tatiana's face turned just as red as her new dress. Part of Elliot wanted to gloat over her sister's cluelessness, but the other part worried about how she'd punish her maid for not telling her, or worse, if she'd look at Kai more closely now, and compare him to the boy she remembered. It could prove dangerous.

It could prove deadly.

But Tatiana composed herself quickly and steered the subject away from Elliot and back to herself. "I would love to travel more," she admitted, "but I have had the responsibility of caring for the estate for so long. When my mother died, I was left the head of this household. I don't know how I'd manage it from so far away."

"Of course," Benedict said, though his eyes were on Elliot as he spoke.

Elliot turned away, toward the window. She'd long ago grown bored by Tatiana's complaints about the imaginary version of her life. That Benedict still found it a source of amus.e.m.e.nt was of little interest to her. Not when her grandfather lay dying upstairs. Not when Felicia and Kai and the other Posts were holding such remarkable secrets just out of reach. Not when the temptation to learn more about those secrets was making her doubt everything she'd ever been taught. How could she care about some petty, decade-old battle with her sister?

Thanks to the light from the fire, the window reflected the room rather than revealing the fields and the stars. Felicia must be back at the Boatwright house now, driven safely through the darkness thanks to the unnatural vision of her Fleet Posts. She wondered if Felicia had spoken to any of them about her conversation with Elliot. She wondered if she'd spoken to Kai.

He'd probably tell her how useless it was to discuss anything with Elliot North. The Luddite. The coward. The pa.s.sive, put-upon daughter of the laziest lord in the islands.

Elliot closed her eyes, and only opened them when Benedict spoke again.

"That won't do," he said. "You've been isolated here for long enough. And your father, with his beautiful new racetrack to enjoy, and his extraordinary new horses to race on it-you should have a house party. It can be an opportunity for some of your friends and neighbors to see the improvements."

Elliot looked at him in surprise. "Now? This isn't the time-not with my grandfather so sick, and the Boatwright house filled with the Fleet-"

"Actually," Benedict said, "it's the perfect time. I understand you have a surplus cash flow due to the rent the Fleet is paying, and should the worst come to pa.s.s for your grandfather, I know there are many who would like to come pay their respects."

"Good point, Benedict." Baron North turned to Elliot. "We would do your grandfather a great disservice if we kept him isolated to the end of his days, now that we have the means to properly entertain here."

Would her father be so concerned about her comatose grandfather's social schedule if he didn't have horses and a new racetrack to show off?

"And of course," Benedict said, "you can invite the Cloud Fleet to the festivities as well."

"Of course," Tatiana said. "It would be rude not to, although they aren't Luddites."

Benedict nodded in agreement. "No, they aren't. But they are staying on your land. And, after all, the horses are Innovation horses."

"Yes." The baron cleared his throat. "I am not concerned by all Post products, you see."

Benedict directed another sly smile at Elliot, trying again to get her to share in his jokes at her father's expense.

She didn't begrudge Benedict his right to make these little jabs, and was impressed by his ability to do so in a way that left both Baron North and Tatiana completely ignorant of his true meaning, but Benedict North had nothing to lose-he'd already lived life outside the baron's good graces and seemed to have survived it quite well. She didn't have such luxury. Her father could still hurt Elliot if he wanted to-and if she started teasing him, she was sure he'd want to very much.

The others soon fixed on a date for their proposed house party and horse race, and their plans left Elliot doing mental calculations as to how much the event would eat into their savings, and into money she was hoping to make last several years. Her father and Tatiana might be optimistic, but one couldn't expect someone to rent the Boatwright facilities every year.

"You see, Elliot," the baron said at last, "this is a much better use of the field than a few extra stalks of wheat."

Safe at the window, Elliot rolled her eyes, but if her cousin saw it, she neither knew nor cared. It had taken her years, but now, at last, she realized the truth. Her father would never stop goading her. If she responded, he could punish her, but he didn't need her reaction to press on. Her very existence was provocation, was failure, was outrage enough for him. She could remain silent forever, never build another string-box, never graft another plant, and still he could see the lie that bloomed in her heart.

AS SOON AS SHE could, as always, she slipped away to the barn. As always, her eyes went immediately to the knothole-their knothole. And as always, for the last four years, it was dark and empty.

Well, at least Kai was complying with her request not to speak to her. She ascended the stairs and drew her key, but there, at the door to her workroom, she paused. She could not go in there tonight. She could not work on her illegal wheat. She could not stand there surrounded by a hundred gliders that all said the same thing: She was not a Luddite.

She might not have asked Felicia to break the law with her grandfather, but she had wanted to. She'd made the wheat and she'd taught Ro how. And then there was Kai. She should hate him. She should fear him.

She did neither.

Elliot returned to the ground floor and swept the stalls. She fed and watered the horses, and then she gritted her teeth and curried them, even Pyrois. And when that failed to exhaust her, she turned to the machinery.

She'd been useless with her grandfather today. Perhaps she could fix something tonight to make up for it. Her recent success with the churner had galvanized her to tackle some more of the projects that remained. The estate didn't need to suffer because she wasn't a properly trained mechanic. Stupid Kai, fixing the tractor just to spite her. He'd been raised to fix machines. She'd just picked up what she could from watching him and Mal. But she wasn't completely helpless.

She turned to the thresher. It had been smoking for the latter half of the season. She changed the oil, and tightened a few bolts. She'd thought Gill had mentioned something about a worn belt, but he must have fixed it, because everything appeared in working order.

This wasn't as challenging as she'd thought. No wonder the Posts had pitied the state of the North machinery, if the repairs were so easy, after all. Finally, she turned her attention to the plow with its faulty gearbox. It needed new parts-she'd write to a craftsman in Channel City. She could afford to fix her machines now. The Fleet had been good for something.

Surely Gill would find it a relief if she managed to get that up and running again before spring. Elliot hauled it out of its corner and prepared to brush away the cobwebs . . .

Only to discover none.

And that wasn't all. There were three new hoses and two new bolts attached, and when she turned on the engine, the machine hummed happily. Elliot stared at the gearbox in bafflement. It wasn't brand new. Perhaps Gill had found an extra somewhere, fixed it, and neglected to tell her.

Except she knew there was no extra. Not on the North or Boatwright estates, and not on the Grove estate either-she'd asked Horatio a few months ago. Either Gill had fixed this plow today and hadn't had a chance to tell her because she'd been busy with her grandfather, or there was something else at work. And the idea that he'd fixed the thresher, too? Come to think of it, the oil in the thresher had looked remarkably clear.

She turned slowly in the barn, looking for once beyond the empty knothole. Each machine stood silent and still, but Elliot could see a flash of new metal here and there. Lots of things had been fixed, apparently. There was only one possibility, and it wasn't that her father had finally determined to take a more hands-on approach to his farm.

High above her, Nero the cat perched on a beam and watched her, purring. Elliot fisted her hands at her sides. She probably wouldn't have looked at these things until spring, when it was time to start the planting and the Fleet was scheduled to depart.

She never would have known.

How dare he?

SIX YEARS AGO.

Dear Kai, I waited for you in the barn tonight, but you never came. It was dark and scary in there alone. Where were you? How can you stand it in there, with all the machines and the creaking? Do you believe in ghosts?

Your friend, Elliot Dear Elliot, I want to believe in ghosts. It would be nice to think that we stay around after we die. I also like what the ancients thought about our spirits traveling up the island and into the sea. But, honestly? I don't know if I do.

When I was younger, the older Posts used to try to scare me with the old Gavin and Carlotta stories. I used to have horrible nightmares, before my dad told me that none of them are true. But that was ages ago. I'm twelve years old. I'm not scared anymore.

Your friend, Kai Dear Kai, The Gavin and Carlotta stories scare me too. Tatiana makes me play that game with her in the star-cavern sanctuary sometimes. But they don't need to be ghosts to haunt us. They were real, and what they did haunts all of us, every day, forever.

Your friend, Elliot Dear Elliot, Well, I guess it's your job to be scared of Gavin and Carlotta, right? I mean, you're a Luddite. If Luddites weren't scared of the technology, they would have done it themselves, and then everyone would be Reduced.

Though that makes me wonder. If I'm a Post, it means my genes overcame Gavin and Carlotta. Overcame the Reduction. I wonder if it means that I'm immune now? Maybe I could stand in the mirror chanting a thousand times and Gavin and Carlotta couldn't do anything to me. Maybe I could resist Reduction if I had ERV.

Your friend, Kai Dear Kai, I'm going to burn your letter. Do you have any idea how much trouble we could both get in if anyone read this?

Your friend, Elliot Dear Elliot, Then burn this one too. Sometimes I wonder about Gavin and Carlotta. What if they weren't monsters like everyone says? They didn't think they did anything wrong because it was all so natural, so simple. It didn't take surgery, or billions of stem cells or whatever the Lost used to use. The blueprint was already inside of us. They just reached in and turned it on. They made us the best versions of ourselves-more human than human.

I know what happened, and I still think I would have chosen to get ERV. But I guess that's why I'm not a Luddite. Because I just sit here wondering what kind of machine breaks just because you try to use it to its full potential?

Your friend, Kai Dear Kai, I don't pretend to know as much about machines as you, but I know the answer to that question. Machines are designed to run a certain way. If you remove their safety constraints, if you put them in permanent overdrive or run them faster or harder than intended, they will break. That's what Gavin and Carlotta's enhancements did. They tried to make humans into G.o.ds. They tried to make us work better than what G.o.d intended.

And we broke.

Your friend, Elliot Dear Elliot, I'm not broken.

Your friend, Kai.

Thirty.

THE SOFT LIGHT ILLUMINATING Ro's window was not the flicker of a candle, but the steady white glow of a sun-lamp. Even there, Elliot had been trumped. No doubt Ro could garden all night now that she had help from Kai.

Except who'd been taking care of Ro for the last four years while Kai ran off and made his fortune? They didn't need his largesse. They didn't need his pity. They most certainly didn't need him sneaking around her barn, fixing her machines behind her back. She stomped up to Ro's door and knocked. There was a quick shuffle inside.

"Ro?" Elliot knocked again. "It's okay. It's just me."

But again there was no answer.

"Ro!" Elliot pushed open the door, annoyed, but stopped dead on the threshold. Kai and Ro sat on the floor, their hands in mud up to their elbows, while an array of pots, half covered with a tarp, lay between them.

"Oh." Elliot began to back up, but Ro cried out, and she hesitated. What was he doing there so late at night? She hadn't seen his sun-cart outside. Had he walked here? Had he run on swifter-than-they-should-be enhanced feet?

Kai also seemed to be weighing the situation. He glanced down at the half-covered pots, then up at Elliot, his inhuman eyes blinking in confusion. "How is your grandfather?"

Four words. Four words after days of silence, and yet they were the ones she expected least. It wasn't about the past. It wasn't about his secrets. It wasn't even about his surrept.i.tious and unwelcome repair work. He asked about the Boatwright, like he was just anyone. Like he was a friend. She balled her fists in her skirt and didn't answer him.