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.