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.
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.
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