Azaleen jutted up her chin. “You do.”
Sabine laughed and shook her head. “What did you think of Lark Sutter’s daring hairstyle? I saw you gawking at her.”
“I was not! Just taken aback a bit was all. It’s …” She tried to think of the right word. Spunky, outrageous, alluring, sexy—no, not sexy. “Different.”
With a smirk, Sabine turned back to letter writing. “Whatever you say. Sheiscute.”
Heat rushed through Azaleen, fear wrapped in embarrassment tightening her throat. She couldn’t waste her time and energy fantasizing about a younger woman, a non-noble, uneducated girl from the coast who had, in no uncertain terms, declared how much she hated her. Yet, if she thought about it, when she looked at Lark today, that searing fire was gone from her eyes. She acted … humble.What was that about?
“Stop trying to fix me up with people,” Azaleen snapped, sharper than she’d intended. “I have to go home now, see if Caelen’s broken something, if Eldrin’s dragged in another animal, if Mama remembers my name.”
“I’m sorry, Azaleen.” Sabine looked up at her from her desk with an apologetic expression. “I only wanted to—”
“It’s OK.” Azaleen waved it away. “I know, and I appreciate you. I just can’t. I’m queen. There isn’t room for anything else.”
Sadness pressed heavy on her heart as Azaleen straightened, pivoted, and set out for home.
Nathan was exhausted when he lay down on Henry Dawson’s living room couch, made up with floral cotton sheets and a worn quilt, handmade by Mrs. Dawson’s mother. It was too warm for the quilt, but he loved the faded stitching and the faint scent of lavender that clung to it. This was the first time in five nights he’d felt safe.
The more he’d thought about marrying a stranger—no doubt as brainwashed into the cult as his mother was—the more determined he was to run. He had sent a note to Soren to meet him at the docks outside of Clover Hollow, nothing else, in case it got intercepted. He didn’t show.
Maybe he never got the message,Nathan thought, head sinking into the down pillow.Or maybe he was too afraid. But after the spectacle in Unity Park …Nathan sighed, staring at candlelight dancing around the ceiling.
He’d set out with the necessities—a shotgun and some shells, a bag of food, canteens of water, and a change of clothes. Knowing the currency would be different, he’d packed a few trinkets he hoped would be valuable enough to trade. Fabled Southern hospitality had carried him thus far, but tomorrow would be the real test—meeting Queen Frost.
Nathan had crossed mountains, forests, and rivers, sneaked past Appalachian border patrols, and kept to paved roads whenever he could. The borderlands had been the worst. He shot a radiated boar that charged him, hid from a traveling gang of raucous wildlings, and almost sank in a bog where the mud clutched at his boots. Covered in scratches and bug bites, he finally found an inhabited farm. The owner offered him a meal, a bed, and a ride to Clearwater, where he was taking hogs to market. The trip to the city took most of the next day as his mule-drawn cart moseyed along, and Nathan helped his sons drive the hogs.
Thinking back on his journey, Nathan longed to share it with Soren.If only he knew how wrong the Oracle was.He dug a folded piece of paper and a pencil stub from his pocket and sat up towrite.
Soren, why didn’t you come? You should be here—you wouldn’t believe it! Everyone’s been so nice. I’m in a town called Clearwater where every house and building looks different. Brick, wood, metal, stone, pre-war antiques, new builds, and there’s color everywhere—music too. Even the people are all different colors. A bunch of guys at a barbershop exchanged stories about the Clemson Tigers and how fierce they were. I didn’t even know there were tigers in Ashland. Lord and Lady Whitfield asked me to their mansion for tea. We talked and talked. Then Mr. Dawson, the editor of The Tiger Tribune, came over, and he wants to write an article about me.Tomorrow I’m going to see the queen. But it’s all only half as bright without you. Please change your mind. I’ll come back for you. The Ministry lied, Soren. The people here don’t treat me like an enemy at all. I miss you. I love you.
Nathan reread his letter, fighting back tears. Part of him was exhilarated by his first taste of freedom. But a hollow ache gnawed at him for leaving Soren behind. The flame flickered across the paper, the scent of beeswax on his nose. Nathan folded the letter, slid it back into his pocket. How would it even get to Soren? Appalachia had closed its borders to trade, adhering to a strict isolationist policy. Nobody from here would travel there to deliver it.
He blew out the light, reclining on the sofa once more. “Why didn’t you come?” he whispered to the night. The family cat slunk across the top of the couch, settling down to stare at the stranger, ready to pounce if he made a wrong move. Nathan closed his eyes, visions of color, uniqueness, and Clemson Tigers—whatever they were.
Nathan awoke to the smell of cornbread and bacon. The cat had abandoned its post, now poised in the open doorway to the cooking porch, awaiting scraps to fall.
“Good, you’re awake,” greeted Henry, a studious-looking man with close-cropped hair and glasses. His toothy smile gleamed in contrast to his dark skin. He straightened a wide red cravat loosely tied over a cream short-sleeved shirt. His tan pants were cut off at his knees. Nathan tried not to stare.This is what a city dweller wears to work?Considering how hot he had been driving the pigs to market yesterday, he had to admit it was sensible.
“Do you need me to do something?” he asked, springing off the sofa. “I can chop wood, haul water, carry something heavy. I want to repay you for letting me stay here.”
“Nonsense!” Henry held up a palm. “My pastor says God loves a cheerful giver, and we should always treat our guests with kindness, ‘cause you never know when you might entertain an angel in disguise. Why don’t you wash up for breakfast and then catch a trolley downtown with me?”
“Thank you,” Nathan said, interested to hear more about these people’s religion.
At the breakfast table, Viola blessed the food, and Henry passed around the serving platter.
“I’m curious,” Nathan began. “I saw many churches in town yesterday, and they all looked different. Where I come from, they’re all the same.”
“Oh, Lord, have mercy!” Viola declared with a laugh. She was a buxom woman with a round face, a shade lighter than her husband’s. Both appeared to be about ten years older than him. “There’re as many churches around here as ticks on a hound, and every one of ‘em is different. You’ve got the Old Religion, the New Religion, the hybrid churches, a Jewish synagogue, the Logical Minds fellowship, the Reign of Fire folks, and even an agnostics meeting house where they sit around and discuss what might or might not be true.”
Nathan’s mouth watered as he sampled Viola’s delightful cooking, the buttery cornbread and smoky bacon with eggs, a warm sense of wonder filling him from the inside out. “Back home, there’s only one church, and everyone is required to attend. The buildings all look the same, they sing the same songs, and the shepherds deliver the same messages. It was …” he thought for a moment, his hosts waiting for him to finish. “Stifling.”
“Uh, uh, uh,” Viola vocalized, lips pressed thin, head shaking. “Here in Verdancia, we support everyone’s right to believe whatever they want to—even if they’re wrong,” she added with a sly wink. “But really, if the Old Religion was good enough for my parents and grandparents before the war, it’s good enough for us, isn’t that right, Henry?”
“Sho nuff, Vi.”
“Mr. Dawson, are you allowed to answer a question honestly?” Nathan rested his fork, noticing his plate was empty.
