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“Tell me about Daddy.”

Mommy was sitting on the end of Zuri’s bed, in the dark. She didn’t like to talk about him; it made her sad. She always said the same thing. “Daddy was very special. He was different.” She stroked Zuri’s braids. “I know he wanted to meet you so bad. He would have liked you very much.” She bonked her forehead gently into Zuri’s, the way she did when they especially loved each other. “Is your tooth safe under your pillow?”

I hate my months in the shelter. I know it’s safe, but I can’t stand being shut in. The closest I get to the outside world is pressing my face up to the barred windows during the short daylight hours, ignoring the electrical hum at my cheek, staring out at a tree and a slice of sky through the gaps. Other people at the shelter laugh at me (“Bit early for spring, David.” “Keeping an eye out for Rezzies?”) but at least they do it to my face, and gently. They have too much respect for what I do to treat me badly.

Sometimes we hid under our desks. Today our teacher took us fifth graders out into the hall and lined us up. We had to sit with our backs against the wall. I’d figured out how to fit in beside the others the best I could. I was good at fitting in because I’d been doing it all my life, ever since I had polio when I was a little baby. I released the springs on my leg braces, dropped to my knees, and fell sideways onto my hip while making sure my crutches didn’t flip out and hit the kid next to me and made sure my dress didn’t flip up and show my panties. That had happened when we first started practicing for the bomb. The snickering had traveled up and down the rows until the teacher told everyone to stop being lookie-loos.

The scarves around Cyra’s neck fluttered in a violent gust of air. Barely ten paces away, red clouds rose straight into the sky, towering over her like a wall. A raging, howling storm encircled the settlement, and with it all she had ever known. All she had ever wanted to escape.

She would step into the storm and leave everything behind. Maybe not the way she’d imagined it, she surely hadn’t seen herself as a prisoner, but she would leave. That was what she’d been working towards for months. Why then, wouldn’t her legs stop trembling?

— I. The Invaders —

When Lyra was young, she’d loved the royal nursemaids’ tales of how the ancients had built an empire that spanned the stars and had sent colonists to worlds through Gates—Gates that only those of royal blood could control. Troublemakers and convicts had been exiled, leaving nothing but peace and prosperity for those who remained behind. She pictured diamond dust whirling in the obsidian walls of the Gate temples, sparkling with the stars’ own light, though all had stood in ruin for some two thousand years.

I start my day by falling down the goddamn stairs. Never let it be said I don’t know how to make an entrance. I should be worried about injuries; it’s not like in the old days when there were doctors and antibiotics. But my reflex is to check my pocket and make sure it’s still there. I feel the cold, hardness that reminds me so much of her. This bullet she made, for a gun she holds. I breathe a sigh of relief. Only then do I check for injuries, but it seems the only thing wounded is my pride.

I was twelve the first time I passed through; old enough to think that I knew everything, and young enough to not know a damn thing.

One moment I was at home, and in the next I was in a literal magical forest three worlds away. I met a prince, befriended a dragon, found a secret gem of power, the Moon’s Silver Eye, and used it to dethrone a queen.

It is a hard voyage, at the worst time of year. Unlucky as speaking the true name of the Sharp-Toothed God. We wake cold, work cold, piss cold. Sleep cold—maybe. That depends. Second night on the water, I catch the pretty young man smiling at me, his cheeks pink, whisky untouched.

There are two passengers. Pretty young man and harsh grey woman. They bought every berth on the ship. No other fares, no cargo. They paid to sail fast, like a bird winging up the coast and into the polar seas. No sea-sickness, either of them. They’re on deck every day, stamping in bright wool coats and stiff new boots.

The Second Year - 2021