My father rests a palm along my mother’s spine in solidarity. “Let’s plan on having an early dinner together after the ceremony. You can come back to our cabin once you’re released.”
“I’d like that,” I say while ignoring the voice inside my head telling me it’s pointless to make plans I can’t keep. But my parents still see things through the delusional lens of their Tier One perspective. Why shouldn’t they? They’ve gotten everything they’ve ever wished for, with the one exception being grandchildren. I don’t see the harm in enabling their ignorant optimism a while longer.
I take a deep inhale, savoring the potent blend of floral perfume and musky patchouli cologne, despite the way it provokes my throbbing temples. Then, with a forced smile, I say, “Time for me to go.”
Both my parents walk with me as I fetch my sandals and tug open the front door.
My mother’s polished nails dig into my father’s arms as they send me off. “We’ll see you in a few hours.”
I nod, not letting the smile fall until my back is to them.
A family of five passes me by at the end of the hall, heading in the opposite direction. The husband eyes my tattered clothes and brimming basket, but doesn’t comment.
When I turn into the main stairwell, I drape the edge of my shawl atop the groceries to conceal them from further scrutiny.
“Are you hiding something?”
The question comes from a young woman approaching from behind. Given the plump youthfulness of her face and heightened tone, she can’t be more than twenty. Yet two babies rest soundlessly in her wrap—a fresh newborn on her front, and an almost-toddler on her back. She points at my basket with her left hand, proudlybrandishing her marriage mark.
“No,” I say. “Just trying to keep my produce from falling out.”
The woman ascends the steps between us, then swipes the shawl off my basket. “Where did you get this much food?”
I tilt my chin up, mustering the scraps of my dignity. “My mother.”
She shakes her head, waving over a patrolman who’s descending the stairwell. “Sir, I think she stole from one of the Tier One cabins.”
I grind my teeth. “My mother gifted me some of her groceries. If you want to check with her, she’s on R5 in the first cabin on the right.”
The man’s bushy brows tug together as he aims a flashlight at my basket, then at my eyes. “Is that so? Why doncha take me there yourself?”
My shoulders roll forward, and I prepare to do precisely that.
“That won’t be necessary,” calls a voice from above, a voice that sounds too close to the one I’ve spent ten years trying to forget. An impeccably dressed man with perfectly coiffed silver hair, four personal guardsmen, and a plethora of badges pinned to a navy suit materializes around the stairwell’s bend. The violet glow of the sconces reflects off eyes so light, they’re practically void of color. Those icy irises lock on mine. “I vouch for the lady myself.”
The young whistleblower and patrolman both bow. “Yes, Chancellor Bren.”
I follow suit, dipping as far forward as I can without toppling over.
“Come, Orelle,” the chancellor says, inviting me forward with an outstretched hand. “Allow me to escort you back to your cabin.”
I nod, though it’s not like I have a choice in the matter. If the chancellor asks you to follow, you follow. If he asks you to kiss his pristine leather boots, you drop to the floor. Not even his son is exempt from the precedent of obedience.
I place my fingers in his open palm, fighting back a wince at thechilled touch of his skin. Thankfully, he relocates my hand to his arm, relieving me from the hair-raising contact.
Musings about his mercy and generosity bounce off the limestone walls of the stairwell from the young mother who trails behind.
The chancellor pauses to give a whispered order to the nearest guardsman. He retreats back several steps, then pulls the woman aside. Her cheeks redden as she nods and turns around.
“I thought you might enjoy some privacy.”
Since when does this man care about what I might enjoy? Hazy memories tell me there must’ve been a time. Flashes of a younger version of him, before he’d been sworn in as Chancellor of Caligo and his auburn hair had yet to turn silver, appear in my mind. Back then, my mother kept my curls tamed in tightly braided buns. And every so often, Mr. Bren showed up at our door with a gleaming smile and a small gift bag filled with hair ribbons to weave through the braid. By my eighteenth birthday, I had a whole chest’s worth in every color and fabric. After his son and I married, the visits gradually diminished, as did his gifts, until one day he’d shown up with divorce papers in place of a shiny new ribbon, any prior warmth long gone from that crystal gaze. But he did save me from the humiliating fate of returning to my parents’ door with a presumptuous patrolman, so perhaps I was wrong to dismiss my father’s hope that a certain fondness may linger.
Regardless of his motive, I dip my head in thanks, willing to play along. “Thank you, sir.”
We continue our ascent towards R1.
Minutes pass before Chancellor Bren speaks again. “As you know, there are certain rules in place that keep our great city at peace. Although no laws were broken, it creates the potential for dissent if enough witnesses were to see you carrying items above your tier.Your peers may question what other loopholes may exist. They may stoop to bribing or even threatening superiors for gifts, depriving our precious youth of resources and stoking friction between tiers.”
