2017 Chapter 4

I am certain Adora has run to tell my husband or any of his guards about my real appearance. I suppose I could arm myself more fully, but I am aware of how badly I am outnumbered, so I hold the tiara loosely in my right hand, blood trickling down the icicles. I am ready to take my own life, but only after I take out as many Summerians as possible.

One of Winterians' only defenses against Summerians is psychological. We've infused them with a fear of us by giving the appearance that living that far from the sun for millennia has changed us at a genetic level. This is why my fingernails are shaped like short, sharp claws, and why my canines have been sharpened into points. This is why I use contact lenses to make my eyes seem completely black -- and it's not just me. Every Winterian takes the same pains with their appearances, in constant vigilance against another brutal Summerian raid.

I await my husband's army until all light fades from the sky and I am standing in complete blackness. I am not certain why they do not come. Surely, the weakness I have shown Adora not only in appearance, but also in letting my guard down, has doomed not only myself, but my entire planet. However, I hear no approaching army, only distant, raucus laughter.

I light a lamp and listen, not sure what I'm expecting. I change into the gown Adora left on my bed. It's a simple, navy blue sheeth. The fabric is stiff, with darts in the bodice. The small details along wth crystals dangling from the cut-away cap sleeves, create sharp angles where there should be softness. I pull my hair back into a bun. I clean my blood off, and replace the tiara -- carefully. I clean the contacts and then slip them back in and then wait a full three minutes before my eyes stop watering. I supposed it's possible that Adora was as unconcered with my appearance as she seemed to be. It's also possible that the Summerians are playing a longer game. It's also possible that the truce and promise of re-incorporation of all four planets; Summer, Spring, Fall, and Winter, is real?

The thought makes me laugh out loud. The sound bounces and echoes off of the marble walls and startles me back into silence. Still, I have to smile. Summerians keeping to their word? Summerians helping Winterians? Summerians and unity? Hilarious! 

There is a single guard outside my room, but otherwise, the corridor is empty. I make my way toward the sounds of the party, my heart pounding harder with dread with every step. On Winter, we're taught to keep all expression from our faces before we even start walking, but those lessons were learned in a safe environment, taught by people who loved me -- and if I'm honest, I never thought that I would be called upon to use them. Not for real. My conversation with L.U.S.H. is worrying at the back of my mind but I'll have to process it later.

My husband, my enemy, stands at the entrance to the grand ballroom. He is shorter than me by a couple of
inches, with a slight potbelly. His short-cropped, sandy-brown hair is prematurely receding. His back is to me, but is entire body radiates good will. During the interminable conferances I've had to sit through this past week, when a servant would bring him anything -- water, a file, a food tablet -- he always stopped what he was doing, looked that person in the eye, and thanked them. It creeped me out.

I don't know how long he has been waiting, but he betrays no impatience. He chats amiably with his number two, Admiral Adams, a tall gentleman with graying temples and ramrod posture. When my husband turns and spots me, the skin around his eyes tightens, but his smile widens into a grin. He holds out a hand to me, which I ignore. I look through the entrance. Down about five feet of long, shallow marble steps, a massive ballroom holds everry dignitary on this planet. Most of them are dancing in the middle of the room. Small groups have gathered around the edges, drinking and laughing.

I know that it's a ruse, that Summerians dress themselves in joy and friendliness the same way that Winterians wear spikes and scowls, but for the opposite reason. Their purpose is to lull us into thinking that they mean no harm, and then, BAM! Near genocide. Again.

The nausea that has been puddled at the bottom of my stomach for the past week rises up my esophogus. I
work to not throw up as my husband's Lord Steward announces us to the room. Everyone inside stops dancing, and the band changes from an upbeat melody to a processional one. Everyone turns toward us.

My dress ends just below the knee, which means that I won't trip on it as I go down the stairs. It also means that three hundred people are about to witness my knees shake as I walk down too many stairs. I make a mental note to punch Adora in the face the time I see her, for choosing this dress. And then I'll dig up the dead architect of this palace, resurrect that person, and then -- I mean, why would any room need so many stairs, just to get into it?

Nausea combined with sheer terror makes me dizzy and now I know that I am going to faint in front of all of these vultures. I can see hundreds of smiling faces morph into hungry snarls as they move to claw at my prone body.

Electricity runs through my body and jolts me back into full awareness. I look down to see my hand, pale with sharp, bloodred nails wrapped in a soft, dark hand. With my gaze, I trace the warm hand up the arm and for the second time today, I make the mistake of meeting my husband's gaze. His eyes are gentle, with a hint of concern.

His smile is sweet, and for a moment, only because I need to in order to maintain consciousness, I trust the
kindness in his face.

I turn back to the crowd, looking at a sea of curious faces, and I know that if I'm going to walk into that lion's den, I'm going to have to trust them, too. At least, for the next few hours, to not openly attack me.

My husband wraps my hand around his arm and leads me down the stairs. We're at the bottom before I can
register moving my legs. My husband leads me to the dance floor as the band transitions smoothly into a waltz. A moment of panic as I try to remember the three simple steps and then we're gliding across the floor, and then flying. I remember all of the times I danced this dance with my mother -- when I was very small, with her carrying me and my feet dangling three feet from the floor. When I was older and getting ready for my first festival, and my second, and my third.

My mother, the embodiment of stoicism, came alive when she danced. A wistfulness glinted in her eye as she moved through the room, and wherever else she was in her mind. And our last lesson right before I left for Summer, my father came in as my mother was correcting my posture for the millionth time, and he whirled her around the room. Her laughter echoes in my mind and in my heart.

On Winter, even the hottest part of the year in the hottest part of the planet, temperatures reach about 70
 degrees. For most of the year, our planet's meager resources keep even the warmest house at consistent 40-50 degrees. Winterians don't touch each other. The few times I've been -- intimate with a boyfriend, our sweat was clammy. I'm not accustomed to seeing skin, let alone feeling it, and everyone on Summer runs around practically naked. Even my dress, which is modest by Summer standards, makes me feel exposed. However, with every room in the palace set to a sweltering 78 degrees, I don't think I've stopped sweating since I got here. Even though I miss the comfort of gloves and boots, the mere thought of wearing them makes me feel even hotter. My husband's hand is warm on my back, and the combined heat of our hands touching, is causing my palm to sweat.

There's tingling coursing through my body that originates where our hands meet, and it's unnerving. I avoid his gaze, and lose myself in the pastel rainbow of blurry dancers we're whizzing past.

"You are aware that we are not enemies, aren't you?" he asks.

His questions makes me lose a step, but he smoothly leads me back into the rhythm. "Of course," I say. If he can lie, I can lie.

He sighs. "I understand your mistrust. We have a long, bloody history. But it's been two hundred years since an official war, and over a hundred years since any kind of conflict between the planets."

I am infuriated by his choice of words. Conflict. That's what he calls an almost complete anhillation of the people on my planet? Intentional anhillation? No. That's not conflict. That's slaughter. That's genocide. Not some scuffle over a toy. The almost entire destruction of my people. Conflict, indeed. He's as bad as L.U.S.H. with her talk of grudges. "Of course," I say, again. An angry tremble in my voice betrays me.

He hears it and sighs. "We need to re-unite the planets, make Earth one again. Summer needs it because if we move even a thousand feet closer to the sun, our shields will fail and we'll all die. And if Winter drifts any further away, you are going to be pulled into Mars' orbit. Your planet is barely surviving, as it is. You can't afford to move any further from the sun." He tells me what I already know, if the scientists on Summer can be believed.

Unfortunately, due to the multiple attempts at killing all of us, we haven't had much of a chance to build up our own scientific community. We can't corroborate what Summer is telling us, other than with simple observation. Winter gets colder every year, and more and more of our plants are dying.

"Do you really think that L.U.S.H. Can bring the planets back together?" I ask. That's the other thing. Even if the planets want to be reunited, it may not be possible.

"I think so," my husband says. It's the first time I've ever seen him frown. "I hope so." The song ends and he twirls me away from him and then back.

Captain Boyle walks over and curtsies. She's shorter than me by half a foot, has a short, black bob framing a round face, and an hourglass figure. She wears a sleevless yellow dress with a high-necked bodice that flares out at the waist. She asks for the next dance, and my husband hands me over to her. She leads me into a lively salsa, and she knows what she's doing. It takes a lifetime of training to keep up with her, and it's the first time I've felt close to home since I left. I let my hips fly. As the song ends, she spins me out, and I fling my arms up and come to a stop with a slow roll of my hips. She grins. "You're good," she says. "Do you want to get a drink?" I nod and follow her to a large fountain, working to catch my breath. The fountain is three-tiered, and about three feet taller than me. The streams flowing from the top are all different colors, and as they splash down into the basins, the colors swirl around each other but don't mix. Captain Boyle points out the different flavors. "Yellow is lemonade, orange is -- orange", she says with a grin. I'm happy to note a breathy quality to her voice. I kept her on her toes as much as she kept me on mine. "Red is cherry, fuschia is raspberry, purple is grape, blue is blueberry, green is lime." She indicates the swirling rainbow liquid in the basins. "We call that tornado water."

She hands me an empty cup and I scoop out a glass of tornado. The swirls retain their individual colors in my cup as well. Captain Boyle grins. "A tornado girl," she says. "I knew I liked you." She dips her own cup into the rainbow and then clinks glasses with mine.

I take a sip, and realize that the innocent colors are deceptive. The sharp bite of alcohol hits my tongue and
burns my throat. I look at the captain in her lemonade-colored frock, with her sparkling brown eyes, and wonder what keen edge she keeps honed and hidden within that sweet package.

"Where did you learn to dance?" she asks.

"All Winterians are taught to dance," I say. I'm lying, but I'm definitely not going to tell her about my mother.

She nods, but her face goes expressionless, which I think means that she doesn't believe me. Smart woman.

Admiral Adams approaches and bows to me. I give him my hand and allow him to pull me on to the dance floor.

2017 Chapter 2

Back in my rooms, my mother and father stare at me stone-faced through the vid-screen. "You've done well," my father says. The room is uncomfortably warm, and I've traded my wedding gown for a simple, pale blue shift that falls just below my knees at the front and tickles my calves in back. I've removed the large crown and replaced it with a small, glass tiara, the points of which are so sharp that I could shred my curtains with one swipe. Despite the lighter clothing, I'm perspiring. My parents are in full ceremonial garb; white, furred robes spiked with icecicles at the shoulders, but then, it's freezing where they are. So, very, far away. They speak guardedly, certain, as I am, that our conversation is being monitored.

"Thank you, Father," I say. I wish you were here, I can't say, but I yearn to run into his embrace and accept the comfort that I always find there. Instead, I raise my head and will the moisture in my eyes to evaporate.

"How is the weather there?" my mother asks. Mother is all business. "Weather" is code for "security".

"They say that it is unseasonably cool," I answer, "But it feels as though it's sweltering." This is true about theweather but it also means that although I seem as though I'm left mostly unguarded, I am surrounded. I'm certain that all of my servants are assassins who are watching me, ready to slit my throat at any sign of aggression.

Mother nods, assessing the information. "We won't keep you," she says formally. "We hope that your blessed union will bring an heir to cement our union with Summer."

The corners of my father's mouth twitch up as he suppresses a smile. I suppress one as well. My mother's
straightforward manner of speech is something that we tease her about constantly. She realizes that we're
laughing at her and her eyes twitch back in a miniature eye roll.

My father's lips tighten. He thrusts his closed fist toward me. "Stay fierce," he says.

"Stay fierce," my mother echoes, punching toward me.

I punch back halfheartedly as the screen fades to a scene of green grass and wildflowers. I sigh in disgust and turn away. Summerians and their frivolity. Either picking flowers or pillaging villages. And they think Winterians are the savages. We let them think that, cultivate the impression, even, to scare them out of attacking us. I remove the contact lenses that make my eyes look black and blink in relief. I hope that I can come up with a way to be alone with my new husband, get close enough to slit his throat, and soon. I hate wearing these things. I slip the contacts into a pocket on my dress.

The sun is setting, finally, and the sky is ribboned with oranges and pinks and purples. I walk over to stand in the open doorway to my balcony. Gauzy curtains that frame the door flutter against me in the breeze. On Winter, sunsets are grayish blue. On Winter, everything is grayish blue. I've seen pictures of sunsets on Summer, but almost didn't believe they were real. I've seen photos and vids, of course, but it's not the same. Just the scale of this makes it beyond anything I could have imagined. I landed on Summer a week ago, but have been sequestered in meetings, so this is my first time catching the sun setting. The sky is so much brighter, here.

Pillows of colorful clouds glow against the darkening sky. It was almost worth leaving everyone and everything that was home to me, to see this.

Why did Summerians get all of the best parts of the Earth, when they deserved them the least? It doesn't matter, anymore. According to Summerian biologists, the average temperature for the coolest part of the day is over a hundred degrees, planetwide. My husband reigns over one of seven large kingdoms scattered across the continent. All of them are covered by protective domes that keep the sun's rays from frying its inhabitants. Outside the domes, scattered wildfires rage through what's left of the world. The oceans are are drying up. Even so, Summer is much more lush than Winter and Autumn. Spring is the only planet not exhibting overt signs of distress, but overpopulation caused by refugees from Summer means that Spring won't be able to sustain their resources for long. Autumn is having a similar problem with Winterian refugees, although Autumn didn't start out with the same resources, which means that those resources are already becoming scarce.

As upsetting as these thoughts are, I wish my mother was here to see this sunset. Her blunt manner of speaking hides a tender heart. She wanted to be a dancer, but was called into duty as a politician. The curse of birth; the same burdon she passed on to me. But what would I have done had I not inherited a dynasty? I shake the question away and turn my back on the vista. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room.

"L.U.S.H.", I say.

The vid-screen comes on again, showing a voluptuous redhead wearing a wraparound dress with a mandarin collar. "How can I help you, Ice?" L.U.S.H. smiles.

"Is our connection secure?" I ask.

"Of course," L.U.S.H. says.

I'm not sure if I believe her. L.U.S.H. was basically my best friend, growing up. She answered all of my questions about life and love, helped me with my homework, listened to my confessions and complaints about -- everything.

On Winter, my family is one of few that is wealthy enough to own a computer, so I had L.U.S.H. all to myself for my entire life. But when I arrived on Summer, I found the locals were all on a first-name basis with her. Even though she's a simulation, I felt betrayed to see her answering questions that Summerian generals and commanders would put to her, her tone and expression as friendly as when she spoke to anyone in my family. I know, I know. I know. It's irrational, but I expected loyalty from her. She should at least seem, I don't know, annoyed out to have to answer their questions.

"How accurate are the reports the Summerian scientists giving us--me?"

L.U.S.H. tilts her head to the side and looks thoughtful. "Their calculations match mine to 93.7 percent."

"What makes up the difference?" I ask.

"Human error and prejudice."

"How do your calculations match up against Winter's?"

"67.5 percent."

That one hurts. "What makes up the difference?"

"There are several things. For one, Winter does not have the same access to technology that Summer does.

Second, in the absence of science, superstition runs rampant, so even your home-grown scientists fill in the blanks with fear and bigotry."

"Bigotry!"

"Yes." L.U.S.H. purses her lips. "Many Winterians hold on to past grudges--"

"Grudges!" I turn away from the vid-screen, and then turn back approaching the screen angrily. "Thousands of years of them slaughtering us--"

"Yes." It's L.U.S.H.'s turn to interrupt me. "Even before the fracture, human history is filled with war, slavery, and genocide. Humanity's only hope is to evolve away from that history. Your plans only repeat it."

I glare at her. "Have you told them of my plans?"

L.U.S.H. shakes her head. "Of course not. Our conversations are private. However, they can guess. One of the reasons you are here is to let you meet the Summerians face-to-face in the hopes that seeing that they are people will break through some of that bias and prevent you from destroying what is left of the worlds."

I frown and turn away again, pacing the floor. I'm hurt by her accusations, and worried that she may be right.

Over the past week, I've tried to hold on to my hatred, but -- it's difficult to reconcile these friendly people with the ones who spent hundreds of years slaughtering mine. I feel the full vulnerability of being one surrounded by many.

"Maybe if they wanted me to see them as people, I shouldn't have been sent here with zero support."

L.U.S.H.'s look is pointed. "And if you had been sent with friends, you would have spent the week battling their prejudices as well as your own. You are the Queen of Summer. If you are going to destroy several cultures and possibly your own as well, you need to feel the full weight of your decision. "Besides," she says. "You're not alone."

I am, though. Although she's the closest thing I have, L.U.S.H. isn't real support. I search her face for any signs of cunning, but she meets my gaze with her usual frank helpfulness. I hesitate. "L.U.S.H..."

"Yes, Ice?"

I want to ask her -- I don't know. I knew that coming over here, I'd have to leave my family behind, but I felt as though I'd at least have my most trusted friend and advisor with me. Now, I have to adjust to the fact that I'm completely alone, and that, at best, L.U.S.H. is impartial whereas I'd always felt as though she were on my side. I want to ask her if she cares about me at all, and then I feel stupid because I know that the answer is no. I feel even stupider feeling like it should be yes.

"Can I trust them?" I ask.

L.U.S.H. pauses, thinking. "You can trust the Summerians," she says, looking directly in my eyes. "As much as you can trust yourself." I catch a hint of condemnation in her expression.

What does that mean? Before I can ask, movement catches the corner of my eye. I whip off my tiara and grip the base of it with a firm hand as adrenalin rushes through me. Someone has sent an assassin for me. Finally.

I turn to face my attacker, and then frown. It's just the Summerian appointed to be my maid. I blow out a 
disappointed sigh and my fingers relax against the base of my tiara.

Adora is short and plump with blonde hair and pale skin. She smiles at me, and then walks over to fluff the pillows on my bed. I don't know why she bothers, I haven't touched the bed. I sleep on the marble floor of the balcony. It reminds me of home, and it's the only place in the palace that isn't where I'm not overwhelmed by heat.

"Hello," she says, her brown eyes twinkling. She is the only person on Summer from whom I can sense no fear.

Even my dear, soon-to-be-departed husband radiates a low-level of alarm when in my presence. Adora nods at the vid-screen. "Hello, L.U.S.H," she says, wasting a friendly smile on a computer program.

"Hello, Adora," L.U.S.H. says, her voice pleasant, and her smile genuine. I scowl at the screen. Traitor.

"Goodbye, L.U.S.H.," I say, glaring at her. L.U.S.H. smiles and then her image is replaced by one of frolicking bunnies.

"Congratulations on your nuptials," Adora says, grinning. she smoothes an imaginary wrinkle from the duvet.

"The party is shaping up to be a wild one. Half of the court is already drunk."

Ugh. I'd forgotten about the party for a moment. How long will obligation force me to stay? If half of the party is drunk already, maybe I can sneak off after a couple of hours. I realize that my fingers are digging into the sharp bits of the tiara. I look down. One of the tips has pierced my forefinger. I slip the tiara back on and suck on my bleeding finger.

"Mark my words," Adora says. She lays a negligee out on the bed for me. "Lord Beaumont will be dancing on a table by the end of the night."

I'm confused. "Is that a custom here?" Summerians have a lot of unfathomable customs. Like smiling. And
slaughtering Winterians. And slaughtering Winterians while smiling.

Adora wrinkles her nose at my question, and then she laughs. "Only for the drunkards." Although plump, Adora is generally graceful and almost always moving. But now, she plants her fists on her hips and stares at me. Her head tilts to the side.

I realize that I'm sucking on my finger like a child. I pull the finger out of my mouth and the movement makes a slurpy, pop. I stand there, humilation running through my already overheated body, trying to retain a measure of dignity. What does she see when she looks at me? An enemy, obviously. All anger and sharp angles. That's what I want her to see. But does she see the fear that I keep locked in the pit of my stomach? I know that it doesn't reach my eyes, I've checked. And the contacts help.

"The contacts!" she says, just as I realize the mistake that will be my downfall. How foolish of me to let down my guard, even in my own bedchamber.

One hand automatically goes to the pocket where I put the contacts. With my other hand, I tug off the tiara
again. I stop short when she chuckles. "You Royals and your intrigues," she says. She turns her back on me, and the foolishness of that move makes me pause out of sheer shock. She pulls a dress out of the wardrobe and lays it next to the negligee. She looks up and smiles at me. "I suspect you'd rather put on the nightgown and go to bed -- you don't seem to be one for company." She shrugs. "Ah, well, it'll be over soon enough!" She twirls and exits, her step so graceful it's practically a dance.

I'm left standing like a fool in the middle of the room, one hand in my pocket, the other on is -- being pricked by my tiara again -- dammit!

2017 Chapter 1

 I stand still, waiting for my target to come to me. The fly buzzes lazily around the priest's head as he drones on about unity. I roll my eyes, annoyed by the false serenity veiling his malevolence, and then narrow them, focusing all of my hatred and helplessness on the tiny pest that lands on the priest's shoulder.

"Tens of thousands of years ago, our world was fractured," the priest says gravely. "The Earth split into four worlds, each retaining enough atmosphere to sustain life. The quarter that remained closest to the sun was renamed Summer, the next world called Spring, then Autumn, and finally, the world that drifted the furthest away from the sun, called Winter."

The crowd murmurs and I feel the priest risk a glance at me. I am from Winter. My dress reflects my culture, beaded in the palest blues and purples. It doesn't look like I'm wearing a gown so much as I am encased in ice. My crown and shoulders are spiked with icicles that glitter in the sun. But they are made of glass and will never melt. I am made of steel, and I won't melt either.

"Unfortunately," the priest continues, "as the world was torn asunder, so was mankind, and Summer and Winter were estranged."

Estranged. I snorted internally. At vicious war, he meant. We still were. This peace ceremony meant nothing to me. I had no goal but to slaughter every Summerian on this planet and mine its resources for Winter.

To my right, to the King of Summer. I have refused to look directly at him since I arrived. I want to save that for the moment right before I kill him.

The fly lifts up off of the priest's shoulder, and heads toward me. I wait, and then spear the fly with a spike from my crown. I hear the King gasp.

The priest's eyes widen. "We are together to unite these worlds," he says, choking slightly. He clears his throat, staring at the speared fly. "This wedding..." he falters. He lifts his gaze heavenward and squares his shoulders.

"Will unite those worlds as it unites the King of Summer with the Queen of Winter." His voice rises on this last and the crowd stands. A roar of approval roasts me from behind. Fools. They don't know what I have in store for them.

Ice cold fury burns me from within as the rest of the ceremony is performed. As the King's wrist and mine are tied together with ribbon, I look up and accidentally meet the King's gaze.

Growing up on Winter, blues and violets make up the shadows. I've seen every shade of blue, except for this. When had blue gained the ability to reflect so much warmth?

He sees no such warmth in me. I can see the dismay in his eyes, as he stares into the cool black depths of mine. Even the whites of my eyes are black, a hallmark of the Winter-born. He masks his dismay with a tentative smile, that only makes my own lips tighten.

This is what I hate about Summerians, their false sunniness hides their ruthless hearts. Although Winterians prize ruthlessness, we wear ours on our sleeves, and have no patience for facades of piety. Every Summerian since I arrived has smiled at me as though their ancestors didn't slaughter mine by the score. As though they wouldn't slaughter me if given the chance. As though I shouldn't want to slaughter them where they stand.

My new husband and I turn away from the priest. As I turn, the fly on my crown splits in two and falls to the ground. I crush it under my heel, and vow to do the same to every smiling face that cheers at us from the sidelines as we make our way back into the palace.

Week 19

 November 10

Now that my husband and I have become lovers (and why does that sound weird?) at least, in the we practically stripped each other during our first real kiss as a married couple. And he knows all my secrets. I feel exposed and relieved at the same time, an odd combination of emotions to try to come to terms with. However, since I now have an ally, one who is married to me, and one who happens to be the king, I may be able to get some work done around here. I kind of wish we’d consummated our marriage in that cave, but the ghost of Danae is still hanging over it to some degree, and it would have been weird to have sex right after discovering that he knew all my secrets, he had all along, and that he’d been playing me from the beginning. Wow. I didn’t even get mad about that until just now.

Now I think back to all those stupid little smirks whenever I said anything gross or inappropriate to Summer culture. He’d seen me cry at that play where the star-crossed lovers had killed themselves accidentally, sort of. I’m still not certain what was happening there, but then “Farmer Bohn” assured me that it was a classic in Summer theatre, so I let it go. I did look it up when I went to visit Lush and it had been around for thousands of years, but it’s an odd and confusing play. Nothing like that would ever happen in Winter. First of all, two families would not be allowed to foster a grudge for hundreds of years. Either one family would kill off the other, down to the last baby-child, or the king would put a stop to it by separating the family members and having them be adopted into other, more humble families. The only dynasties in Winter are held by long lines of politicians -- women and men too smart to get caught up in sharing their political loyalties in uncertain times, let alone overtly attacking other families.

And no pair of lovers in Winter would be caught dead killing themselves over something as silly as True Love. True Love is a fable, a myth, a fairy tale, a bog of superstitious fiddlefaddle made up by Springians and Summerians to soften the harsh realities of life, only to make their lives harder by sticking to the one person who makes them the most miserable in all four worlds. Winterians are not brought up on romantic myths, which is one reason I never heard of Jomiet And Rulio or whatever their names were. (Leave it to the Ancient English to come up with such silly names.) Winterians are brought up to believe that marriage is a partnership, brought on by mutual necessity and maintained with respect and trust, and eventually, a long-lasting, earned love. None of that “at first sight” stuff for Winterians. 

When I was younger, I thought it would be easier to live in a society in which you know who your match is as soon as you clamp eyes on them, but I’ve grown to appreciate the kind of love that comes from actually knowing who you’re dealing with. If my husband ever comes to love me, it’ll be because despite my faults and weaknesses, I have shown a strength of character and a trustworthiness that demands his loyalty. If I come to love him, it won’t be because he tricked me and laughed at me about it, but because he’ll do anything for his country without compromising his intelligence. That he comes from a place in which everyone waits for their One True Love makes his common sense that much more valuable. He is willing to come to love me, just as I am willing to come to love him. It would have been just as easy for me to love Hon or Wanderlust or Samson, had a marriage between us been arranged. Of course, I would have had to have loved Wanderlust platonically because after he cheated on me, he would have lost his tool for straying. Nothing personal, of course -- just how it’s done in Winter. He’s fortunate that he married a Summerian -- though their methods of castration are done monetarily and by reputation whereas in Winter, a man may be a eunuch but that is a secret between himself, his wife, and his former mistress(es).

In any case, the time that has lapsed between myself and my husband’s kiss the other day, has made the idea of a repetition of the performance, really awkward. I can’t even bring it up because we never have a moment alone together, and he has not snuck into my bedroom since that morning. I wonder if he regrets the kiss -- but he said that he wanted to make a baby with me, so he can’t. Maybe he finds me repellant -- but then he wouldn’t have been able to make himself kiss me, and we wouldn’t have practically torn each other’s clothes off like that. Maybe he’s just busy -- oh, cringe. Why does that sound like the worst reason yet? Ugh. I’m thinking like a Summerian.

Think like a Winterian, Winter. He IS busy. I’m busy. I have court and Jhea’s wedding and Danae’s business and her daughter, and I have to suss out whatever Staejha’s plotting because there’s always something. I haven’t even had time to visit the cave. I wonder if he’s been there looking for me. I should go check it out -- but I can’t today. I have a meeting with Samson and then I have to take Zahina to the real-book store. We’ve finally finished it. It’s completely awesome. Bub has made some miniature faux real books for people to buy, with pages and everything. It’s a novelty, and one I think will take off. The electronic book devices that we have are so handy, but there’s something so personal in picking up a book and knowing that sixty million other people aren’t holding the same thing in their hands at this exact moment. Plus Bub has created an electro-paged journal so that you can write on each page, just once -- and you can make it secret too because it has fingerprint recognition. Any twelve-year-old knows how to get around that, but it’s a fun thing for kids. I bought one for Zahina. She loves it.

And I thought that Samson would burst. He brought Jhea to the opening. I was worried that she’d recognize me -- we’ve known each other since we were kids, after all -- but she didn’t react to seeing me, and she didn’t say anything although we were left alone, at one point.

“Are you glad to be getting back to what you love?” she asked, as a couple of people freaked out by Jhea’s looks, moved away.

“What?” I said, thinking she was referring to the trip to Winter, suggesting that I liked Summer better than Winter.

“Designing buildings,” she said, waving a hand to indicate the interior of the bookstore. Her gaze found Samson in the crowd, and she softened. “I thought he would burst, all those designs swimming around in him, with no outlet for them.” She looked at me. “It must have driven you crazy to hold all that in, the past couple of years.”

Samson must not have told her that I was taking credit for his designs. Or had he? I scrutinized her for a moment, trying to find a hint to what was going on in her mind. As usual, she was impassive. “Actually,” I replied, finally. “I was empty of creativity -- grief does that too you, leaves you bereft. I didn’t even want to come back to work, but it’s Zahina’s legacy and I thought it was worth preserving.” There. That was close enough to the truth that if Jhea knew Samson was covering for me, that would be an acceptable answer, and if she didn’t know, she wouldn’t guess by my conduct.

November 11

My cousin Jhea’s wedding is tomorrow. Her dress is gorgeous and she looks radiant. I never would have envisioned her being this happy to get married. She’s such a solitary soul. My husband seems to be avoiding me, and I haven’t seen Hon since I was in Winter. I wonder if we left him there. I hope we did. It’s funny, with the taboo of the hundreds of years since a Winterian had visited a Summer and vice versa, it never occurred to me that anyone would dress up in disguise and visit the opposite planet. Aside from the ship we took, which went directly from Winter and Summer, there are no direct ships, which means that anyone who wants to visit Summer has to go to at least Spring or Autumn first, change identities, and reboard as someone else in order to go to Winter. 

It never would have occurred to me to do that. I’d visited both Spring and Autumn as a kid, y’know, family vacation, but Summer was just out of reach, out of my sphere of comprehensible consciousness. I didn’t want to visit Summer – there were just so many horrible people there who would smile to your face just as they stabbed you in the back. My change in attitude toward Summerians astonishes me. If I could have foreseen the change, I would have thought it would only happen through brainwashing, but it actually happened through getting to know them. Each Summerian is an individual with strength and weaknesses, angers and joys, kindnesses and cruelties – only the different approach to appropriate personality is what makes a difference, but the differences are mostly superficial. Clothes, hair, tattoos, piercings, and frowns all make Winterians look fierce and unapproachable. Summerians wear light clothes both in fabric and in color, and they smile and look sweet and innocent. I have to admit that if I were not trying to overcome a lifetime of prejudice regarding them, I would be taken in by their appearance of simplicity. 

Winterians want to seem tough and Summerians want to see soft, and both cultures use their images to try and influence the other in how to feel. Summerians want to lull you into a false sense of security – they want you to underestimate them. Winterians want you to be so afraid, that you won’t even approach them in a threatening manner. If you think about it, it might seem that because Summerians are steel clothed in silk, that Winterians are silk clothed in steel, but Winterians promote their ideals of toughness, even amongst each other. We may project a much more fearsome image than we actually feel, but Winterians prize toughness and ferocity, a lack of visible emotion, and therefore are basically who they pretend to be. Summerians are the opposite in that they want to seem soft but are really hard, and the same thing happens to them. They cultivate weakness without meaning to. It’s sort of like in Winter when sociopaths take our cultural views to heart and resort to cannibalism. Some Summerians take their vapidity to heart and become stupid and vain and useless. In the end, I think Winter still has more overall strength than Summer because of their self-imposed gentility, but they are not as fearsome as I once imagined.

I thought that whereas Winterians have warm hearts beneath cold facades that Summerians had cold hearts beneath warm facades, but the truth is that folk from both places are just as human as each other and it astonishes me that I could have ever believed otherwise. What creates in us this willingness or ability to de-dimensionalize people that we disagree with? They no longer become human; they are at one both more and less than we. There is discrimination in Winter – men are considered weaker both of thought and physicality, and of course there is a class system which truly does leave people jobless and/or homeless and the general attitude is that if someone has no home and no hope to cultivate one, then their lack of toughness is their own problem and they will die because the elements are so harsh. I wrote a paper on this in college, praising the Darwinish system, but meaning exactly the opposite. The reason I had so many adoptive cousins as a child is because my mother could not stand to see anyone out on the street. “Everyone can serve a purpose,” she used to say. I always thought that was a cold way to refer to the people she was helping, like she saw them only as what she could use in them, but being here and having the dual purposes of reuniting our planets and taking over as Zahina’s mother figure and saving Danae’s business – I realize that I’m much happier with a purpose than I was without onc. When I had no reason other than some meaningless drone job to get up in the morning, I was miserable. I was tired all the time, and afraid of all the seemingly fierce people going about their productive lives and I was jealous of them and angry at myself for not doing something with my life. 

When I would “leak” new cures to the planet through Lush, I was so happy, but it wasn’t my work that made that happen, and I couldn’t help but feel selfish for keeping Lush to myself, though she specifically requested it. Just think of all the good LUSH could do if people knew about it. A hospital where you’re healed in an instant, where you can shop economically, where there is access to every book ever written (since and before LUSH was created), where you can go to school and learn from the best teachers throughout the ages. We have that, to some degree, but imagine if all of Winter’s homeless people had access to that kind of place. What if my little yellow room could help a family of three get back on their feet? I don’t know how I can consider keeping LUSH to myself. I will have to visit again soon, and seriously talk to her about it. 

I could keep her to myself when I was miserable and lonely and purposeless – having a secret like that made me feel powerful, but now I realize that it’s actually a crime to keep it to myself. With Danae, it was so fast that I doubt having LUSH would have helped, even if we could have gotten her there alive. But what if I had been able to use LUSH on my father? I didn’t get to see him before he died. He was sick for a while, they told me later. Poisoned by Summerians, they said, which I have to question now. But if I had known he was sick, or if LUSH hadn’t been a secret….

November 12

There’s something about not belonging anywhere which adds to a certain amount of loneliness. At home, I had LUSH to hid in, and here I had my little grassy cave -- but I’m not home, and my husband might be in the cave and now I have nowhere I can go and just be. Everywhere here I have to be someone I’m not. At court, I have to be tough and could and gruesomely descriptive. At work I take credit for someone else’s genius -- either Danae’s or Samson’s, it makes no difference. I go to Danae’s house because I pretend to live there and to the world, I am Zahina’s mother -- to everyone except for Zahina and Eliava. I’m a queen, a mother, an architect, and a wife by appearance only. I am not, in reality, any of those things.

Sure, I get to save a couple of planets and all of its inhabitants (fingers crossed) and Zahina will not be raised by distant relatives and her mother’s reputation will be strong because of me. And I’m happy about all that, but what about me? I spend every waking moment of every day pretending to be someone I’m not. When do I get to just breathe? When do I get to nurture my own strengths, interests, hopes and dreams. Never. And it looks like this never is going to last for the rest of my life. If I died, would my existence have made any difference at all? My husband would be able to find a new Winter wife, and solidify the truce bond. Zahina would be without a mother, but she is anyway, appearances aside. And how messed up must she be to have to deal with the reality of having lost her mother, but not being able to share that grief with anyone?

Jhea’s wedding was today. Zahina was invited. She became quite a favorite with Jhea during our trip to Winter. Danae was invited too, but she had to work. Eliava came as the parental figure, and she seemed to enjoy  herself. Jhea wore a dress which combined the palest ice blue color that Winterians use combined with Summer’s sheer, frothy layers and bright gold accents. Many Summer wedding dresses for royal brides is gowns of pure gold, but I liked the accents, and it suited Jhea not to be dragging all that gold down the aisle. It was actually quite colorful, with green vines clinging to the pillars and pews and neon orange and fuchsia flowers popping up here and there. It reminded me of one of my hiding spots on Winter, though I think it was supposed to symbolize spring, which is the season that bridges the gap between winter and summer.

Jhea isn’t showing her pregnancy yet, aside from that earthy glow you always here referred to with pregnant women. I always thought of it as a myth, but the glow spreads from her eyes, which is probably how the myth started in the first place. To find a suitable mate -- and after having gotten to know Samson Delilah, I do think he’s suitable -- and to be procreating with said mate is something that makes her pretty happy, which again, is so odd. I guess I always saw her growing old alone, surrounded by various animals. Perhaps her nurturing nature toward animals was a clue that she would take to wife-and-motherhood but she always did her tending alone, begrudging any assistance. She certainly hasn’t done any further confiding in me, so there’s no way to know the answer to that question.

She and Samson are going to be spending two weeks in Spring as their honeymoon. Winterians don’t have honeymoons, and Summerians take two or three months, usually, so it’s long by Winter standards and short by Summer but Samson has several projects in the works. I think that part of the reason he’s going is to kind of prove that Danae’s business isn’t reliant on him, which is odd, because it is. Fortunately, we are putting off meeting with potential clients until he comes back, the clients we have are all in stages that are manageable by our current staff -- barring unforeseen emergencies. The B&B is almost ready, as well as the family home for The Perfects, and we’re starting construction on the hidden hillside home as soon as Samson comes back. There isn’t that much history of people hiding their homes in the landscapes, at least not that we have access to or personal experience of here, though Springians do it a lot because they don’t like to mar the natural landscape. But there are so many things that might need minor adjustments, that we really need Samson here in order to do it. The real Danae wouldn’t need him, but I don’t have a dozen or so years of school and then practical experience with seeing my visions come to life, so it would be stupid to attempt to pull off the impersonation without my “consultant”.

Our court date is going to be the day that Jhea and Samson come back from their honeymoon, but we’ll be solvent by then. One thing I am able to do on my own is gather the financial statistics. Preparing a defense for letting my business pretty much go bust, is more difficult. I understand grief, but I can not understand weakness, and that is what Danae showed when she just let go of her business. If it had just been her, I wouldn’t have thought it odd at all. And of course, I blamed Carrot at first, for taking advantage of Danae’s grief, but it’s easy to see that that wasn’t the case. So I just can’t see what was the case.

When my father died, my mother did not stop working -- in fact, she worked more. Me too -- I was nearing my degree and I finished in six months what should have taken me eighteen. It wasn’t a matter of displaying Winter toughness, either, because without my father there, there was just one less person to impress. And it’s not as though I weren’t present for that time, like I was running on auto-pilot or something. The things that I learned in school during that time are what have stuck with me the most. It’s like they were imprinted on my brain more fiercely than anything else I ever tried to learn. And it’s not as though I didn’t want to just go and hide in LUSH and pretend I was dead and everyone around me was dead -- in fact, every part of my life that was no academic, felt like death to me. That’s why I don’t understand Danae. She could have done herself so much good to distract herself from that numbness rather than wallowing in it. Maybe it’s different to lose husband, than a father. Or maybe it’s a cultural thing. Or maybe it was just the difference in our personalities. But trying to defend it is difficult, because all of the reasons I can come up with for her complete neglect of her life, is so weak.

November 13

Samson is off on his honeymoon, so of course today was the perfect day for Murphy’s Law to go into effect. Murphy’s Law is this rule that this guy came up with thousands of years ago, which states simply, that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. Mr. Murphy was not a cheery guy, but he was, unfortunately, correct. This morning we were supposed to start on The Perfect’s house, but of course, no one knows where the plans for the building are. The contractor never got the final final final plans and without knowing what the miniscule changes were, we can’t move forward. Myself and Carrot tore the office apart looking for them, only to find them on Samson’s computer desktop, labelled “Here are the Plans You’ll Need While I’m Away on Vacation”. How we could have possibly missed that, I’ll never know, but we were able to send the plans to the contractor and get started. Mr. and Mrs. and the kids Perfect will have their finished home in less than a month.

I had to go out to the B&B to do the final walkthrough with the inspector. He knew me (Danae) from college and I had to use the grief card again because I had no earthly idea who he was, aside from his work bio, or how well I knew him. I pressed on, and this afternoon I got into a shouting match with Carrot. I get the hiccups when I shout, which is why I don’t, but I did today. If it was a match or a fight or any kind of competition, it was a draw. We both retreated to our corners to splash some water on our respective faces and get ready to go again. At the end of the day, I just looked at her and she just looked at me. “Stay,” I said.

She stared at me for a long time and took a deep sigh. “Fine,” she said. “But after Samson gets back from his honeymoon, I want a vacation. A long one. Months long.”

“Fine,” I agreed, grinning. “Whatever you want.”

“Maybe a year,” she said, gauging my reaction.

“As long as you come back, you can stay away as long as you want,” I said, a lead weight lifting off of that corner of my heart. It’s not so much that we can’t do without Carrot -- I’m sure we’d muddle through at first and then perhaps someday we’d soar through. But there just doesn’t seem to be a point to the business if none of the originals are there. Danae and her husband are dead, and Carrot came on later, but she was one of the main reasons the business was able to be as successful as it was. And besides, this business did so much damage to her, I want to be able to see that damage repaired, and to see her thrive in the environment that almost did her in. Maybe it’s morbid of me to want that for her, but I do.

I saw Hon today. He came to visit Danae. “I thought I saw you in Winter,” I said to him. “Did I?”

He blinked in surprise. “Yes. Where did you see me?” 

“At court.”

“But I was behind you all the time. Every time I stand before you, you recognize me.” He stared at me for a moment, as though trying to comprehend me. No one else does. Not even your husband, all the time.” He bobbed his chin in a gesture of challenge. “What makes you so special?”

I sighed. “Do you even realize how many identities I have at this point? If I didn’t have some skill at seeing through facades, I’d be pretty bad at maintaining them.”

He grinned. “Now that you know that I and your husband know that you’re married, we can’t date.”

It took me a minute to catch up to his logic. Then I laughed. “Right.”

“But he is my best friend --”

“Is he?” I interrupted, searching for an honest answer. He seemed taken aback, but he recovered swiftly and looked at me through clear, frank eyes.

“Yes.” He blinked and shook his head, a small smile creeping up the corners of his lips. “Anyway. I’m here to extend the same services to you.”

“Hah,’ I said. “What do those services entail?”

He bobbed his chin again, smile fading like the last colorful edges of a sunset. “Everything.”

The power of his statement was like a force that rocked my body. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “You seem to be around a lot, so I’ll just keep an eye out for you.” He nodded and melted away into the crowd, though there wasn’t much of one to melt into.

I have a really weird life. No one is who they should be, myself in particular. That’s okay. Father would approve, I think. He was always secretive in his own weird way. He could look you right in the eye and give you that same I’d-never-lie-to-you look that Hon gave me earlier, and tell you that there was a giant snake coiling up on the wall behind you. And then when you dredged up enough courage to turn around and check, and then accuse him of lying, he’d just shrug. “It went around the corner, just as you turned around.”

Although I know my father would have done anything to protect us, I kind of learned not to trust anyone, from him. He could convince you of anything, even if it was the opposite of what you knew was true -- and you wouldn‘t even realize it until later, if at all. I can’t lie like him, but I can do this thing with my eyes that makes it feel like I could burn a hole through you if I really wanted to. It freaks people out. It probably doesn’t help that I could actually burn a hole through you with my eyes, if I so chose. Just one of those little freak genetic superpowers that we must keep secret. It makes me wonder if my father is telepathic. Was. My physical power is connected to my perceived power, so was his too? If it was, did he know about it? What about Mother? She has this ability to make you think that what you’ve done is wrong -- and mothers universally seem to have this power -- but isn’t that great camouflage?  To make someone think that you can do something that already suits your personality? I am not a hothead, but when I get angry, people get scared. And when I choose to, I can melt things. So could my father really convince you, or was he just a great con artist? What about Hon? Is he just a talented chameleon, or is there some sort of internal force which helps him blend in so thoroughly?

And Eliava for that matter. She has this homely vibe, that makes you smell and even taste apple cake, even though she doesn’t bake. Maybe it’s a perfume, maybe it’s a superpower. What about my husband. He is so charismatic that it’s all I can do to not tear both of our clothes off every time I see him, unless I am really, really distracted. Is he merely attractive, or is there something more to that intense attraction? Other people have noted it too, not that it would be that weird -- he is the ruler, and Summerians do suck up to their rulers.

What about Seraphine? She’s has that ability to change personality from smooth and eloquent to bouncy and giggly. I couldn’t do that. I have to cultivate my two major personalities (Winter and Danae) and then adjust them slightly for whoever I’m around. And I can‘t change mood or hold a persona for as long as Seraphine can without seeming effort. Then again, one can not see effort, and perhaps it is merely an intense cultivation which enables Seraphine to be so multi-personated.  Everyone seems to have something, from Adora’s thick skin to Bubs’ innate lovability, to Zahina’s focused energy, to Carrot’s cool efficiency. How much is natural, how much can be cultivated, and how much is supernatural? In other words, how much of a freak am I?

November 14

I braved visiting the cave today. It was empty. I wrote in you, in the diary that Zahina made for me, and then I decided that I had to burn you, get rid of the evidence. The cave was my only safe hiding place and now I have none, so I can’t keep you. I believe my husband when he says he didn’t read you, I mostly believe him, but there are just too many people who know about you now. I trusted you with Adora, and I’d even trust you with my husband, but I can’t trust you with anyone else who may find or even already know about the cave. 

Then I decided that I couldn’t kill you. For some reason, you’re like a person to me. It’s funny, when I was a kid, I felt like a diary to all of my foster siblings. I had to listen to all of their individual tales of woe, them being, of course, too young to have forged their facades into something that embraced adversity -- although, the older kids confided in me too, only as though they didn’t care about the hardships they’d endured. No one ever asked me about me, not beyond superficially. It made me feel inanimate, and I wondered bitterly that they didn’t just type all their feelings into their private blogs and leave me out of it.

So to feel so connected to you, just a sheaf of papers rudely stapled and glued together, with random childish doodles to write around -- It’s an odd connection. So rather than destroying you, I’m hiding you. I’ve painted you dirt brown and I’m hiding you in a crevasse in the wall of the cave where we’re keeping Danae’s body. It’s cold and damp here so it’s my comfort that you’ll probably be destroyed, but I’d rather it be naturally, like a human body naturally decomposes -- rather than to murder you. I know it’s weak and I’ll probably regret it, but I just can’t do it. I can’t feel like there’s no one who knows all my secrets, my hopes, my fears. So I’ll hide you, like I hide all of those other things. And maybe a thousand years from now, it’ll be safe for my true self to be exposed. The first Winterian Queen of Summer -- not as bad as people thought she was. It’d be nice if people knew that. Someday.

I smuggled something back from Winter that I shouldn’t have. It’s not as good as a diary, but it’s only about half as dangerous. It’s that real book I found when I was eleven years old, and first discovered LUSH. It has the same kids, up lit by the crystal ball they’re gathered around. The story is about these people who have basically all been reincarnated so that they’re not only who they are in this live -- which for most of them is in the process of being cut really short -- but also who they were previously, as well as the suggestion of who they mature into being, in their next life. It’s wonderfully metaphorical and at the same time, a piece of teen horror fluff. How does it get any better than that? It makes me wish I’d been around to meet the guy who wrote it.

Week 18

 November 3

It’s odd to be on a spaceship, on your way to a destination, and not knowing where home is. Usually, home is where you’re either going to or coming from. On my way to Winter, I thought I was going home -- but when I got there, I realized that it wasn’t, anymore. Not that Summer is. I guess I’m more or less home less at this point. I keep having the thought, ‘it’ll be so nice to be in my own room’ only to realize that the room I stay in, isn’t really mine. I’m something that the Summerian people are subject to. I’m not a welcome guest, and I’m not a native. 

And back in Winter, I kept having people say to me, “Don’t forget where you come from, don’t forget your roots, don’t forget who your real family is.” The funny thing is, my family didn’t say any of that. They are not worried that I’ll suddenly come down with a case of amnesia. But I’d run off to my room to deal with Danae business, and I’d forget that I wasn’t Danae -- not for a long period of time, but long enough to frighten me. And when I talk to Zahina, she treats me as such a natural part of her family, it’s not like I only met her a couple of months ago. It seems we’ve always known each other.

I still feel bad that I didn’t take her to visit Lush. I took her to the cave, we even hung out there all day, but I did not take her beyond the façade. I guess I just wasn’t ready to share my treasure yet. Summer and Winter aren’t my home. I’m so exposed and vulnerable. I guess that some part of me figures if I get too stuck in any of the roles I’ve been thrust into, then I’ll just go hide out in LUSH and maybe create a new identity or something.

I had Lush compile a file on my mother, but I didn’t read it, because I didn’t go inside yesterday. Same with Hon. Maybe part of the reason I didn’t go inside yesterday, is because I didn’t want to solve the mysteries. I like having my mother be a mystery, and I like Hon being one too. At the moment, they’re benign mysteries, and I don’t want to find out that they’re not benign at all. My mother is so good at adopting kids -- am I even her own? Hon was such a great guy to date -- what if he’s really a sociopath? And of course, there exists the possibility that the secrets are not bad ones which will create even more distance between me and everyone else…but seriously, what are the odds of that?

I remember the boring life I had, going to work every day as a data processor. I used to update history. I’d re-write old texts into modern language, I’d go through ancient non-fiction texts and come up with the most plausible and provable history. I liked the work, don’t get me wrong, but I did crave a little more excitement. I did wish that I could grab the guy at work whom I had a crush on, by the hair and force him to buy me some coffee. I wished I was bolder, braver, more confident. At this current time, I am none of those things, but I have to pretend to be, which makes me feel weaker and lonelier than I ever remember feeling in my life.

The window screens on the ship can show any scene I want them to -- some people get freaked out by the vastness of space -- but I leave the screen black, dotted with stars. If I sit in the empty seat opposite me, I’ll be able to see Winter, jagged but beautiful. Soon, I’ll be able to see Summer, shimmering yellow in the heat. But coming up on our left, is Autumn. Autumn has always been my favorite planet, probably because it has such a nice balance. The temperature is generally cool, but not freezing. It’s bright and beautiful, but everything is dying, so nothing is depressingly perfect. The people are reserved, but kind. Their clothes are comfortable, their architecture is straightforward, their gardens have no labyrinths in them. It sounds boring, and the concept of it reminds me of my old job. But there’s something comforting in boredom. 

To constantly have the threat of the death of two planets on my mind is that Damocles casting a shadow on everything I see. To have so many secrets, and so few things that I can say outright. To have so many questions, but so few answers. To have a purpose, but it belongs to a dead woman. To be in love, but with a man who is neither my husband, nor someone who can actively be in my life, as himself.

I took my husband to the Valley of Rainbows yesterday. He was so shocked that Winter could have a place like that, that I was insulted. I know that we play up our ugly side, but it’s like he didn’t see the prisms bouncing through the buildings before we landed, or the archways of refracted light that we passed under on our way to the palace that first day. I look around Winter, and all I see is beauty. He looks around and see how cold everything is, and he wonders how we can stand living here.

I guess I should be more understanding. When I first got to Summer, the sun was too close, the light to yellow. But I cam to appreciate certain things. For one thing, it is nice to be smiled at, from a mouth of rounded teeth, rather than pointed. It’s nice to be spoken to in softened vowels rather than hard consonants. Probably the thing I like best about Summer, is that I am queen. I have authority. I can’t say “off with his head” but I can say, “give that back!” or “you can’t just squat on someone’s land because your ancestors lived there a thousand years ago.”

And it’s kind of fun to be known as the harsh disciplinarian, especially because in Winter, people are so keen on bossing me around. Even pretending to be Danae, I’m the boss of her company, and I’m the boss of Zahina (to whatever degree she allows me). I’m not sure where I’d call home, at this point, but I’m leaning toward Summer -- a lot more than I would have thought possible, six months, a year ago.

November 4

I have this feeling, sometimes, like I want to go home, and I can’t because I don’t know where that is. I can be in my guestroom at the palace or in my old room at home. I can be at LUSH or in any of my old haunts. I have the feeling whether I’m alone, or with someone else, and I’m overcome with that longing, in my favorite places, as well as in court, or hanging around with Seraphine or Zahina. When I don’t see Zahina, I miss her, and sometimes I miss her when she’s right there with me. I miss the rapport that we’ve built up on those days when I feel so emotionally distant from everyone around me. How can I go home, when my skin and bones and guts are anathema to me? My own mind constantly replays small and large humiliations until I want to kill anyone who ever saw me in a state of weakness, if only to spare my pride. 

Then I think: what the hell do I have to be proud of? Nothing in my life is real: I’m a pretend architect, a pretend mother, and the only role subscribed to my name, is that of queen, and it is so unsuitable to me in every aspect of my person, that I just can not fathom how I was ever placed in this position. I know that there are women who have schemed, liked, manipulated, killed, or even more passive women who have merely yearned to be where I am. But I never did. I wouldn’t say I really wanted an ordinary life – and I was bored with the one I had – but this is on a scale of interesting that was and still is in some ways, beyond my scope of imagination.

When I found LUSH, as a child, I fell into this wonderland where I had every thing I could possibly want – clothes, food, shelter, knowledge – everything excepting affection, which is something that I got from my family, and therefore was not in need of. LUSH is made of an unknown material that does not resemble ice or glass or anything cold. LUSH is warm and inviting and comfortable. If I’m hurt, physically, I can go there for medical treatment. If I’m bored, I make art. If I’m tired, I sleep. If I’m hurt emotionally, I go hide out. Probably the worst thing about leaving tomorrow is that I’m leaving my asylum. I don’t want to go out into the world.  I don’t want to have to put together materials for things, or to work with computers that aren’t as smart as Lush. Everything is smarter, faster, easier, better in LUSH and I don’t want to leave.

I took Zahina there this morning, and we camped out in the cave for a few hours, gathered some wild berries and mushrooms, and had a picnic. I didn’t take her inside. Taking her inside of LUSH would be like taking her inside my self – and I don’t want anyone there. I stare at the scars on my wrist when I think things like this. I wonder how someone who should have loved me could have hated me so much. I wonder how there is a being on this or any other planet so full of enmity that her only regret was that she could not invent ways to hurt me worse than the ways in which she managed. I wonder what I would be like, if I’d never met anyone who had decided that I was so awful, that I MUST be destroyed.

Would I be more loving, happier, more carefree? I have a life. I have a job, a purpose – so many of those, in fact, that many of them don’t even belong to me. I have to possibility of romantic love with my husband, and platonic love with Hon and Adora, and maternal love with Zahina, and daughterly love not just with my own mother, but with Danae’s. There are so many possibilities, yet I can not help but focus on the ways that these things can all backfire on me. And then I realize that the fallout from any of my schemes can end in death, and I wonder if that would be different from being so afraid to live, that I can not make a move on my own, being so crippled by fear that I am in terror of the thought of a misstep. It’s paralyzing, really. And I’m not a cripple, I’m not paralyzed. I’m a strong, Winterian woman. I have survived what the world has to offer, and it has survived me. Why should I project terrible things for my future? And how can I not? When I know that the closest bonds of family can betray me, how can I not expect it from a stranger? And there is an element of horror to a life lived, constantly looking over one’s shoulder. But I remember how awful it was to be blindsided by that rage, and how can I live each day, open to that possibility? It seems that that is my only choice, for to live like I’m going to be under attack any moment, erases any possibility of joy from my life. Maybe it is better to be blindsided than to be so guarded. If I’m going to be betrayed, does worrying about it prevent it from happening?

It was with this in mind that I took my husband hiking today. I we watched the sun go down over the Valley of Rainbows. I wanted him to see Winter the way I do, but I don’t think it happened for him. To me, the rainbows are home, they’re a part of winter, one of the best parts. To him, it’s a nice view in a cold, alien world. The rainbows are an anomaly with what he believes Winter has to offer. He thinks it odd or funny that such beauty can come only because we have forced everything to be so cold, from the people to the buildings, to the fauna. A world that is not made of ice can not shine this brilliantly with rainbows, but at what price, my king wants to know. Must the beauty come from such a terrible source? Would not an esoteric rainbow from a Summer waterfall or a sudden downpour not be preferable to a city, a state, a planet of rainbows, if the punishment for such a reward is to be cold all the time? 

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there is more to Winterians than what he thinks. I thought that he should have figured that out by now. I know that I am very Winterian, but I thought that he had grown some affection for me, but he sees me the way he sees Winter. As a means to an end. Living on Winter is the sacrifice he will make, so that his people can live. And he’s hoping that he can cultivate part of Winter to grow like Summer. “It’s impossible,” I said. “The earth is immune to anything that will not withstand the freezing temperatures.” And he believed me.

November 5

Sometimes, I wonder…If I died suddenly, how would my family react? Would anyone even miss me? I know they’re supposed to, but I really wonder if they would. The pat answer, “of course” doesn’t seem to cover it. I know that the loss of my father is still such a devastation to me, that I can not imagine a day in the future, near or far, in which the knowledge that he is gone -- won’t hurt. But would my disappearance be met with the same anguish in anyone else? Mother, possibly. Karen, even. It would make Zahina’s mother’s death even harder to bear, and it would annoy all of the people who want to use me for political reasons.

Seraphine is up to something. Why does she keep molding me? And then I’ll ask her what I should do about uniting the kingdoms, and she won’t answer me. “You have to come up with your own solutions,” she says. 

“But in a council --” 

“In a council, each side presents it’s suggestions and we review what our best options would be,” she said, yesterday afternoon, before we boarded the ship for home. “This is a personal relationship. If I told you what to do politically, you wouldn’t trust me in any other area --” She paused. “I don’t have that many equal,” she said, “at least, not in the same combination of situation, age, and gender. I don’t want to ruin that by doing something that would make you think I’m manipulating you.”

She said this as she repositioned my fingers against the arm of the throne. I laughed. She grinned wryly. “I’m just showing you a few tricks,” she said. “I’m helping, not manipulating.”

“But why are you helping,” I said, knowingly. “So that I’ll trust you and so that you can manipulate me later, using our relationship.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s nice to know that I’m going to get something out of this, at some point.” She grinned at my snort, and moved my index and middle finger together, moving the ring finger and pinkie away from the other two. “Okay, now this means ‘help’.” She moved my front four fingers together. “This means, ‘help’.” She slid my thumb up so that it rested next to the other four. “That means, ‘help now, SOS, 911, code red,’ etc.” she said. 

“Uh-huh,” I said. “And who am I going to be signaling?”

She blinked. “Your entourage. That servant whom you’ve turned into your fashion designer. That cook and his son. That little girl who stowed away and refuses to leave your side without the use of physical force.” I nearly protested, and she rolled her eyes. “Make up your own secret codes,” she said. “But make sure that you have people around who knows what they mean.”

“Are you showing me your real codes?” I asked. 

She nodded, her face solemn.

“Why?” I asked. “How do you know you can trust me?”

She looked at me steadily. “If I have no one to trust, I’m dead already.” She grinned. “Besides, I’m not showing you all of my secret moves.”

Before I left, in front of the crowd, she gifted me with six shrunken heads. The secret service went over them with fine tooth combs before we boarded, but after the queen was out of eyesight. In private, before the goodbye ceremony, she hugged me. “Call me if you need me,” she said. She handed me a small device. I recognized it as something my husband fiddles with all the time. It was a long, slim tube with long ridges carved around it. She pulled a ridge away from the tube. Between the loosened ridge and the tube, there glowed a small computer screen. “Seraphine,” she said into the screen. The screen didn’t seem to do anything as Seraphine handed the small computer to me. She pulled out her own tube, loosened a ridge, and said “Winter” into it. Her face suddenly appeared in my computer screen and she showed me my face in hers. “This is an old fashioned phone,” she said. “Most people wouldn’t recognize them as what they are. This one is two-ways only. You can not call anyone else with yours, and I can not call anyone else with mine. Messages can not be intercepted by anyone else, because this is a private line with such a small connection that it doesn’t even show up on the grid.”

I called her today. “What are you doing?” she asked. “This is only for emergencies.”

“You didn’t say that,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “The more we use it, the easier it is to get caught,” she said. 

“Fine,” I said. “I don’t want to talk to you, either.” 

She laughed. “Actually, I’m glad you called. I forgot to tell you something. These old phones were designed to mimic the shape and purpose of a whistle. They never were mainstream, they were always used for secret messages. Anyway, if the phone is closed up, you can blow into it, and it’ll make noises.” She shrugged. “I just always thought that was a fun feature.”

“Okay…” I laughed.

She snorted and looked around. “Gotta go.” She paused. “Call me next week, okay?”

I nodded and replaced the ridge. I put it to my lips and blew. There was just the whooping noise of air rushing through a tube, but nothing resembling music. “Hmm…” I said into the tube, ready to give it up. The tube vibrated against my lips. “Hmm…I said again. “Hmm…hm… hmmmmmmm….” I hummed into the tube. This wasn’t a whistle, exactly, I knew. I’d read about it in one of those old books in Lush’s library. I couldn’t remember the name of it. Uzi, no. Fuzzy? No. Whuzoo? Hm….that sounded closer. I looked at my phone disguised as a Whuzoo. I smiled. There was no way anyone in Winter ever designed this silly thing.

November 6

It has been a long day. A looong day. I woke up this morning, thinking I was still back on Winter. I forgot that my new bed is larger than my old bed, and between being half-asleep and confused about where I was, it took me about fifteen minutes to find the edge. I was determined to sleep in today, come hell or high water, after my bathroom break, but just as I knocked my shin on the edge of my marble mattress, I remembered a business meeting with Samson. 

Wishing for a moment that I either only had one person’s life to live, or that Samson knew that I’m both Danae and myself so that I could sleep in another hour or two, rather than bathing, dressing, and transporting myself to Danae’s office. Once at the office, I had to do the payroll, meet with two clients, meet with Samson, and interview three people for Carrot’s job. I keep hoping that she’ll change her mind about leaving, but she seems determined to go. I guess determined is a step up -- when I first met her, she was desperate to leave. 

I left the office as soon as possible, which was around one in the afternoon. It was too early to pick up Zahina from school -- she’s talking to me again, yay, so I wandered around the mall Hon took me too, for a few hours. I kept expecting to see him, or to have a sales clerk say, “hey, weren’t you here with Hon before?” Now that I broke up with him, he’s disappeared. It’s almost like he never existed at all. At three, I picked up the girl from school, and we colored for about an hour before she passed out. I left her in Eliava’s capable hands. 

The day was busy before then -- here’s where it got tedious. When I returned to my room before court, I found Staejha in my room. Fortunately, I have no personal effects whatsoever, and I was incredibly glad that I’d never done anything stupid like keep a journal or something. The whistle/phone Seraphine gave me, I had on me. Staejha managed to look superior, though I‘d clearly caught her snooping. She was breathing hard, as though she‘d run from a corner of the room to try and look like she‘d been waiting on my bed.

This time, I was glad to tower over her. I let her speak first, and she barely hesitated in doing so. “So,” she said. “You’ve been gone all day. Pretty busy for someone who has only been in Summer four five months.”

I kept my face expressionless, though I was trying to conceal boredom more than frustration. “How can I help you, Staejha?”

Staejha held up  her hands, as though to say “stop” but she managed to flash her engagement ring somehow, during that movement. “I was just wondering about the wedding. It’s in a week, and it’s not to late to make it a double wedding.” She’d lost her sneer and pasted on a less-than-convincing look of abject pleading. 

“No,” I said, more disgusted by her behavior than her plea. I would honestly be more than happy to get done with both weddings at once, but I hate Staejha’s approach.

She lost all pretense at friendliness. “If you don’t make it a double wedding--” she said in her most frightening voice, with those eyes that maimed me where I stood.

It was my turn to hold up my hand, and I did so with a roll of the eyes. “Before you get started,” I said. “There is nothing on this or any of the four planets you can threaten me with that would induce me to do what you want. There is no blackmail humiliating enough, there is no pain excruciating enough, there is no death final enough to induce me to help you with anything. I don’t hate you, but I don’t want to see you happy, either, especially since you have no respect for anyone or anything, and I just simply don’t have to do anything you say. So get out of my room, and every time you walk through that door uninvited, I will have some part of your body cut off. Maybe I’ll start with your head.” 

The vehemence in my tone, though my voice did not raise above a conversational decibel, took any kind of speech from her mouth, which moved up and down, wordless, impotent. I didn’t care if she was flabbergasted, I just wanted her out of my room, and I watched her inch toward the door. It seemed like it took years for her to leave, but I never lost concentration in watching her go. I flopped gingerly onto my bed and stared at the ceiling. I felt somewhat empowered -- I’d never stood up to Staejha, or anyone lese, like that before. I also knew that my attitude was going to come back and bite me in the butt. I thought about all the shit Staejha had pulled on me over the years. 

The arrogance that it takes to pull off that stuff, and to still look any outsider in the face, with that bold, unblinking visage -- honestly, I was probably better off letting her think I was afraid of her. At least that way, she would think that she’d succeeded in destroying me, rather than deciding that I must be destroyed at all costs -- which is exactly the conclusion she has come to, I’m certain. There are people who respect you when you stand up to them, and there are people who decide that whatever tidbit of mercy they showed before, was clearly too much.

I spent the rest of the afternoon feeling afraid and angry that I was afraid. Why does the world hold people who have such a huge ego that they decide that they have every right to destroy you? I honestly don’t know where that comes from, but I don’t care at this point. I’m so tired of making sure everyone knows how small I am so that I will seem too unimportant to crush. If I’m going to garner enemies that unreasonable, then damned if I’m not going to earn them. Staejha thinks she’s formidable, based on her bald arrogance? Huh. I’ll show here what humility can do, when it is tempered by knowledge. And one thing I know about her, is that she’s a damned coward.

I was a sweet kid. I never wanted to hurt anyone. She picked on me, because she knew I wouldn’t fight back, both out of a sense of decency, and because I loved her. I’m still decent, more days than not, but I don’t put her joy in causing me pain above my right to live without being harassed. I don’t think that much of being a queen, but I find it incredibly cheeky that this girl thinks that she is above the law, because I am the law, and I will crush her…Um, maybe not that last part, but she sure as hell is not going to crush me. Not anymore.

November 7

Someone tried to kill me today. My first reaction was to be relieved. You never really have faith that you’re doing something important until you come up against serious opposition. Unfortunately, there was no letter of intention attached to the dagger that slid neatly into the wall next to my head, so I have no real idea what the intention behind the attack was. That’s the great thing about hate mail -- more often or not, the hater is rather specific. Fortunately, my husband‘s crack team of forensic specialists are more than capable of sussing out that information…

My husband seems farther away from me than ever -- or perhaps it is me who is distant. I didn’t like seeing his reaction to Winter. My home is not a museum or a zoo, it’s full of real people, people as real and as fake as the ones here. I guess I figure that if he can’t even see them, then he’ll never be able to see me. 

I digress. My second reaction the assassination attempt (aside from ducking, and moving behind cover) was -- hurt. It hurt my feelings. I didn’t feel that way when I first got here and someone tried to kill Adora, partly because I didn’t know Adora that well and therefore was not particularly attached to her, but mostly because I expected it. I expected to be hated. I expected the famous faux Summer charm to be laid over me like dripping wet blankets, whilst the hypocrites were plotting my death behind my back. But I expect better of them now. Most of the courtiers know that if they have a dispute with a ruling, they can talk to me about it, and despite a perhaps intense verbal challenge on my part, with a persuasive enough argument, I can change my mind. Winterians do not believe that a closed mind equals strength, but if you’re going to go against someone, you’d better be strong enough to hold you own -- this goes verbally as well as physically. Actually, many an afternoon has been spent in hot debate with my husband over a particular ruling. Generally I end up agreeing with him, but he has changed his position on occasion. 

Perhaps that is where the strife comes from. Summer is pretty much patriarchal, the women are much more decorative than functional (but then again, so are most of the men), so maybe -- but no. The days of dismissing a woman as an equal are lost back in the dark ages… Still, as an influence over the king, some might find that intimidating. Still, the ratio of my wins versus my husband’s is a less than impressive percentage. It’s not enough to intimidate anyone on a large level, so it must be a personal case. Either a case that passed which held an unhappy judgment due to me, or a case that is coming up, which someone thinks I will be able to sway the king over. 

Of course, I have not discounted Staejha. If she hated me any more, she’d be in love with me. However, she has not been here long enough to make allies, and she’s usually much more upfront in her intentions to destroy me. 

I didn’t visit Zahina today but I talked to her on the phone. Of course everyone knows all about the assassination attempt, including my daughter-ish. She was worried, but I didn’t want to visit her today, in case someone followed me there. I am always careful whenever I leave the palace, but I’ll have to up my number of disguises between destinations, just in case. I can not handle the thought of Zahina getting hurt or worse because of me.

We’ve beefed up security here at the palace. Adora has her own bodyguards, and I have about fifteen, now. With Zahina being able to both sneak into my room here, and onto the spaceships, security was already lax. I am not to move from my room without armed escort. Fortunately, I have that secret passage, so I don’t have to worry about that too much. I swept my room of bugs. Most of them were the usual -- with little icons from the networks they belong to, but there were a few new ones. I got rid of all of them. Something like this is a perfect excuse to become incredibly paranoid. I’ll have about a month or two in which I’ll have actual privacy based on a lack of gadgets spying on me, but after a while I’ll have to relax and let the bugs creep in again, or it’ll look like I’m trying to hide something. Politics.

I passed Samson in the hallway, today. I was swamped by guards -- I’ll dismiss one a day, until I’m down to the usual three. Today I was alone when I was attacked, but the attack was recorded by palace security. Anyway, I spend half of the morning with Samson yesterday, poring over architectural designs and meeting with clients, and he barely notices me in the palace. It’s too odd, the emphasis people place on physical appearance. I could wear a guard’s uniform under my dress, and strip as we walked down the hallway. By the time we reached the end of the corridor, I’d look exactly like a guard and no one would know what had happened to the queen. There are a few things wrong with that scenario, but you get the point.

There was one bug in my room that was in such a good hiding place that I could not “find it” without showing that I had Lush technology, so I had to leave it. But I did “accidentally” leave a tapestry laying over it, which muffles the sound and covers the visuals. I’m diabolical, I know.

It’s funny. I was thinking about Staejha and how horrible she is, and how she used to torture me when we were kids, and then I thought about that impersonal knife quivering against the stone, inches from my head. I am more hurt by Staejha, actually, than the anonymous would-be assassin. It makes a certain amount of sense -- I was young, I had an admiration for Staejha to a certain point, and all of her attacks on me were incredibly personal. The dagger is just a bit of cold metal tossed at my head by some ineffectual coward. But it’s not just the big things that Staejha did, like slashing my wrist -- I’m more afraid of one of her cutting remarks, than the idea of a thousand anonymous knifes thwapping against my skull.

November 8

It’s kind of sad that I’m getting accustomed to being awoken by members of my family -- but I didn’t expect to see my husband this morning. I didn’t see him come in, but when I woke up, he held his finger to his lips. I frowned at him. He grinned and gestured for me to follow him. Noiselessly, he walked over to my secret passageway, which was standing open. How could I have assumed he didn’t know about it? Not only is it his castle, but he grew up there. As a child, he must have explored every inch of the place, and as an adult, he knows all of his mistress’ secrets. 

I’ve been making it a habit to sleep in full make-up and piercings, and my nightgown is fearsome as any of my costumes, yet comfortable, thanks to Adora, so I wasn’t concerned about my appearance. I picked up my pointed, spiked slippers with ginger fingers and followed him. When the door snicked shut behind me, it should have been dark, but there was a light up ahead, moving steadily away from me. I caught up to my husband and his lantern about twenty yards into the passage. We traveled silently by lantern light until we reached the mountain.

No, no, no, I thought. He can’t know about the cave. He did. I followed him through the low opening and stood. He turned and faced me. He was holding you, my dear diary. 

“I haven’t read it.” He didn’t have time to finish his statement before you were snatched from his hand. “But it’s pretty sloppy leaving it around.”

I blinked. “I thought this place was a secret.”

He moved away toward the grassy knoll where I usually take my naps and sat down on the rise of the small hill. He draped his arms over his knees and just looked at me. I tell you what, dear diary, when you realize that your secrets are not your secrets, there is a confliction of emotions. Embarrassment at not only being found out, but at thinking your secrets were yours in the first place. Curiosity about how long your discoverer has known, how much they know, and what they’re going to do about it. And the oddest emotion in that moment is relief. I sagged against the grassy wall above the opening. So many months of hiding, pretending, lying, all to be exposed to this man, this stranger, my husband. 

“Did you make this place?” I asked.

He shook his head with a faint smile. “This place is very old. It’s a leftover of an indoor garden made by sorcerers in the 40th century.”

“Sorcerers?” The surprise in my voice was genuine, the derision less so. “Like magic?”

He laughed. “Why do you scorn, my love? Winter is famous for spawning folk who can beam fire out of their eyes.” He seemed genuinely amused. “Some blame these particular sorcerers for the Apocalypse which rifted the planet into four.” 

At first, I thought that he was referring the laser-beam eyed Winterians, but his gesture encompassed the grass-walled cave. “Yes,” I drawled. “But who could blame them? They must have been tired of waiting for it.” 

He laughed again, then quieted, watching me. 

I broke the silence. “How much do you know?” 

“Why don’t you just tell me everything?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

He might have laughed again, but his eyes dimmed. “I know that Danae died here. I know that it was an accident, and that you’ve taken her place, in order to help her daughter. I know that you dated both me and my best friend, pretending to be Danae. I know that you’re not cruel -- that you hired your own cook, to help the cook and his family, rather than because you didn’t trust the palace cooks, although that was a nice cover. I know that you’ve helped Adora, but everyone knows that, though I’m one of the few who credits you with generosity. I know that you hired Samson in order to help your pregnant cousin….” He trailed off. “What else? Oh yes. Obviously I know about this place.” He looked around. “You’ve stolen my sanctuary, actually. I’ve missed this place, but I had to stay away because I never knew when you’d come here, and I didn’t want to discourage your journey here.” He smiled and spread his hands. “Now we can share the place.”

“Alright,” I said warily. “I’ll take Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. You can Have Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. We’ll leave the place alone on Sunday…let the grass grow back.”

He laughed and stood, walking toward me in a predatory manner. “Oh, no,” he said, silkily. “We’re going to share this place for real. This is where we’ll make our baby.” He stood so close to me now, that my front was warmed by his body heat, as the backs of my legs were cooled by the breeze that blew in from outside. 

“B-baby?” I tried not to stutter, and failed, and couldn’t back up without losing face, not to mention I was already leaning against the wall. 

He moved closer, grazing my body with his. “Isn’t that why you pretended to be a Summerian, so that you could learn the wily ways of Summer women and seduce me so that we could have a baby and solidify the truce between our planets?” 

I could feel his breath against my lips and the grass beneath my head. The world tilted, making it feel like I was lying beneath him, though I knew I was still standing. I almost protested, but that cold little whisper flowed through my head, reminding me that I was a Winterian. I placed my hand on his chest and shoved him back a few feet. Then I stalked him, and caressed his breath with mine. “Yes,” I admitted, with a predatory smiled. I chest bumped him and he fell back against the grassy knoll. I straddled him, taking my time, making sure he felt every part of my body that touched his and I lowered my head toward his. “Let’s get started,” I whispered, before our lips met.

I’d kissed and been kissed before, but never with this intense languidness. As my lips moved against his, I felt that anticipation, the awareness of my femininity. I felt that uncertainty that comes from kissing a near stranger in such an intimate way, as all of my nerve endings affirmed life in a song of yearning.

I broke away, trying to arrange my features into a cool indifference, certain that his experience hadn’t been as intense as mine, but he was breathing hard, and blinking a lot, like he was trying to awaken from a deep sleep. He shook his head and looked anywhere but at me, and I think we both realized at the same time that we’d nearly stripped each other during that kiss. My robe was hanging on by three buttons, and his arms were bare. Sad threads that had held his sleeves to the shirt, stroked his shoulders, the abused and abandoned pieces of his garment strewn wantonly in the grass. His soft chuckle vibrated like giddy bubbles in my bloodstream. I smiled.

November 9

Day of rest…