Stardawn by Phoebe North Read Free Book Online Page A

ship this small, inbreeding is likely. I close my eyes and picture our children. Once, I imagined them to have dark, curling hair like yours. The boy would have your crooked smile. The girl would have the dimple in your chin. Now all I can see are the problems that would result. The boy might be covered in a fine coat of fur. The girl might have seizures from water on the brain. It would be awful, and it would be all our fault.
    Because we were selfish. Because we dared to love.
    And yet . . . and yet . . .
    And yet I can’t stop thinking of how you looked before. Before we knew all this, when we walked into the record’s office with our palms stuck together, sweaty from nerves. Your head was held high; your shoulders were squared. You wore a shirt in dark linen, a pair of freshly pressed pants. Your old leather boots were polished to a shine. You didn’t look rich, but you looked fine —handsome and proud. Your eyes gleamed as you looked toward the future, our future, together.
    I wanted you. Even with both of our families crowded around us. My brother gazed at me, smirking, as if he knew what was in my heart. Your sister wore a grin that stretched from ear to ear. My mother and father stood, their arms locked together, united in their love for us, even if they never loved each other. And still, I wanted you. Wanted to kiss your stubble-strewn cheeks. Wanted to bruise my lips against yours. Wanted our lives and our love to begin in earnest. My desire was a bright white line cutting through me. My desire was a spark in the darkness. Electricity. Heat.
    It’s not wrong. It can’t be wrong—what I feel for you, and what I know you feel for me. It was a mistake. It has to be. It must be. Tell me it doesn’t matter. Tell me you’ll still be mine! I’m crying so much as I write this. Do you see my tears? Know they’re for you, for us, for our future. Lost.
    Yours,
    Alyana

100th Day of Spring, 22 Years Till Landing
    Benny,
    I suppose by now you’ve heard the news.
    I have asked Arran Fineberg for his hand. He said yes. Assuming that all goes well with the reading of our bloodlines, we will be wed in two weeks.
    It was your mother’s idea. She came to me after work, after eight days spent soggy with tears, drew me to her, and rocked me in her arms. Then, as I dried my cheeks, she said to me, in a dulcet tone: “Find a good husband, Alya. A Council-loyal man. Before they make your match for you, or worse. Find a way to live on.”
    When I hesitated, giving my head an uncertain shake, she hooked a finger beneath my chin.
    “Yes. Do it. Find a way to live on. When your mother—”
    And then it was Miriam’s turn to hesitate. She drew away from me, and busied herself with wiping down the flour-strewn counters. I could see, from her high, tight shoulders, that this was a painful story to tell.
    “When your mother and I ended our affair, I lost myself to grief. One of my coworkers reported it to the old captain. He showed up one day, right at our shop door, the bell jingling above him like it was nothing. Like it was normal. ‘Come, walk with me, Citizen Jacobi,’ he said. And I did. To the hospital. There was a—a ward I’d never heard of. For the elderly and infirm and those who are of no use to the Council. He told me of their treatments. They send electricity through your veins. They cut out parts of your brain. They make you happy, and if they can’t, they lock you up. You must be useful to them. You have to resist the darkness or—”
    She broke off again, her breath withering out into a whimper. I went to her, put a hand on her shoulder.
    “And you say you’re not a rebel?” I asked. She looked at me in surprise. I only smiled.
    I didn’t want her to be right. I don’t, still. But she is. What is there in this life for us besides compliance? The Council always wins in the end. Momme married Tateh. Your mother pulled herself up and acted like a good citizen, not a woman whose heart had been smashed