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him, too. Maybe he’ll be back, maybe he won’t; my love won’t change what happens.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
    HarperCollins Publishers
    ..................................................................
    6
    RONAN
    Niamh is admiring herself in my bedroom mirror. She’s dressed in my father’s black mourning robe, and it should look weird, but Wendy’s taken it in so it fits, and Niamh wears it as though it were made especially for her. Usually I’d make a snarky comment, but I just watch her. “What do you think?” she asks.
    I climb out of bed, pulling on the pants I left draped on the chair next to it. “I think I’d appreciate some privacy.”
    “You should be up. I don’t know how you can sleep.” Today the ministers will pay their respects in the chamber. But that probably isn’t what Niamh means; ever since she found out our father died, she spends all night in his bedroom, sobbing into the pillows. I let her grieve—someone should.
    “You feeling better?” I ask.
    “No, Ronan,” Niamh says. “Our dad is dead. I feel like crap.”
    I stand behind her. My eyes in the mirror have dark circles beneath them. I look older than I did a week ago, which shouldn’t really surprise me.
    I pull a sweater over my head and push my hair away from my eyes. Wendy bustles into the room with a tray.
    “Morning,” she says.
    “Hey,” I say. Niamh doesn’t bother looking at her. Wendy sidesteps Niamh, balancing the tray on her hip, and as she brushes past me, I have a feeling she wants to give me a hug. Wendy brought us up after our mother died and was the closest thing I had to a parent. But my father didn’t want her trying to replace my mother, so she stopped cuddling us. Maybe my father threatened her, and I was too shy to admit that a hug now and then would have been all right.
    Wendy puts the tray on the dresser. “Toast and tea,” she tells me. “Have it while it’s hot.” On her way out, she stops in front of Niamh. “You look lovely.”
    Niamh shrugs. “I know,” she says, though Wendy is already out of the room. “And it would be nice if you made some effort too, Ronan.”
    “Give me a minute’s peace, and I will,” I say.
    “Well, we leave in ten minutes, so hurry up.” She blows me a theatrical kiss and sweeps out of the room.
    Niamh and I make our way up the marble pathway to the senate. The whole area’s been cordoned off and stewards are lining the streets to prevent anything from kicking off, though the pod’s been pretty quiet since everyone was anesthetized. No one’s interested in challenging the Ministry now—not when consciousness depends on compliance. I turn to Niamh, about to reassure her, but she has her head up and eyes fixed on the doors. She doesn’t look one bit afraid. So why am I?
    The antique wooden doors to the senate swing inward and a group of stewards bows. A dimly lit lobby ends in a broad, winding staircase. “Ms. Knavery. Mr. Knavery,” the stewards mutter, each one bending lower than the last.
    We’re led up the stairs, down a pink-tiled hallway, and into a sealed cavity between the outer door and the Chamber of Governance. Our fingerprints and faces are scanned, and we’re given swabs so we can provide saliva samples. It takes a few minutes for the screen to come to life: Niamh Jean Knavery, Ronan Giles Knavery —Authorized .
    The Chamber is a golden walled amphitheater with tiered seats set around a central platform. Down in the well of the gallery is a row of solemn officials perched in high-backed chairs. The room goes quiet as we shuffle along an empty row at the back. Anyone wearing a hat takes it off, and a few people stand. I recognize most of the ministers from dinners and parties my father dragged us to. Back then they were all smiles—not today. And the stoniest face of all is Lance Vine, the new pod minister, though why he looks so grim is hard to tell.
    Jude Caffrey is one of the ministers sitting on stage. He catches my eye