“You know I’m right,” Noam said eventually, tacking onto a neutral subject. He met Dara’s eyes again. His expression was steady. Would be unreadable, if not for the muscle tic at his jaw.
“Why should anyone trust you?” Dara said, carefully noncommittal. “You’re with Lehrer.”
“And you were Lehrer’s son,” Noam said. He leaned on that last word, perhaps just to see Dara tense up—but if Noam was pleased to hit his mark, it didn’t show. “I should think, of everyone, the two of us know very well what Lehrer is capable of.”
Dara was too conscious of his own breath, how his shoulders rose and fell with each shallow gulp of air. He pressed down against the hiss of anticipation seething in his chest.
“So that’s your plan,” Dara said softly. “You’ll stay with him. You’ll play along with his games—don’t think I don’t know how you’re here, Noam; I know you told him you were coming.”
Because when Dara had thought about it, it was the only real explanation. The only gambit with any hope of paying off. Noam’s reaction—a sharp breath and an upward tilt of his chin—told Dara he was right on target.
Dara smiled, the expression grim and forced. “It won’t work. Not even for four weeks. Do you really think you can outsmart Lehrer?”
This time Noam’s cheeks flushed red, and it was anger that glinted in his eyes as he glared back at Dara. Noam took a half step forward—Dara’s pulse leaped into his throat—and Dara knew he’d gone too far. He’d pushed too viciously at a wound that still chafed.
He held up a hand to stop Noam before Noam could open his mouth and say whatever cruel retort was on the tip of his tongue.
“I mean it. Not because I think you’re stupid but because I knowhim. No matter how good your hand, his is better. And no matter how well you plan your play, Lehrer willalwaysbe two steps ahead.”
He grabbed his jacket from the other barstool and fixed Noam with one last look. Then he headed past him, stepping sharply abreast to stay out of Noam’s reach, leaving without looking back.
10 DOWNING STREET
London SW1AA 2AA
The Prime Minister
24 August 2123
Dear Chancellor Lehrer,
On behalf of the British government, congratulations on your recent election as chancellor of Carolinia.
The United Kingdom has great respect both for the nation of Carolinia and for yourself as its former monarch and once-again leader. We are confident that Carolinia will flourish under your leadership and hope this election signifies the beginning of a renewed peace between our countries.
Despite our great pleasure at hearing news of your election, I must also freshly inquire as to the matters we discussed on the 30th of July regarding the swift and unfortunate demise of Carolinia’s former governmental administration. I feel as if we left that conversation on the wrong foot, as it were, and I would very much like to revisit the subject. I hope you did not take our distaste for the junta’s methods as reflecting the United Kingdom’s general opinions of Carolinia or of yourself.
One hundred years ago, you met with British leaders to discuss the possibility of a peace treaty. I am not so bold as to expect you to offer me, now, what you would not agree to offer my predecessors. But I hope you will at least consent to meet for tea. London is lovely this time of year.
Sincerely,
James Mehta
Prime Minister of the United Kingdom
CHAPTERELEVEN
NOAM
The morning after the first resistance meeting, Noam woke to an empty bed. For a moment he just lay there, stretching a hand out over the sheets and feeling for body heat—but there was none. Lehrer had been up for a while.
Noam could hear him out in the apartment, the creak of floorboards under Lehrer’s step, a faucet turning on and then off. Felt him too. Weight pressing down on the nails in Lehrer’s handmade leather shoes. Cuff links. The shimmer of Lehrer’s magic.
He exhaled and tried to convince himself to stay there, in bed, until Lehrer left. But now that he was awake, he couldn’t stay still. Tension prickled beneath the surface of his skin, Noam’s toes curling, legs stretching out long under the covers. At last he threw the sheets back and got up.
When he padded out into the apartment, still in pajamas, he found Lehrer sitting in his usual armchair by the window with a book perched in hand.
“What time is it?” Noam asked, even though he could have looked at the clock, could havefeltit, even, the ticks of the second hand and the inevitable turning cogs.
