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waist of her dress, picking at the delicate stitching. “Your father can never know,” she said.
    I imagined my father’s expression when Charles told him the truth. His mouth would tense as it always did when he was angry. There’d be that hint of something darker, then he would set himself right, rubbing his hand down his face, as if that one motion had the power to fix his features. He would kill me. I felt certain of it then, in the stillness of the room. I was useless to him now. Since Caleb’s murder there were so many questions about me, about my involvement in the building of the tunnels. Did I still have connections to the dissidents? Had I betrayed him since Caleb’s death? I was allowed to live in the Palace, kept as an asset, only because I could produce a New American royal family. I was Genevieve, the daughter from the Schools who’d married his Head of Development. When Charles revealed the truth only we knew, my father would find a way. Maybe I’d disappear after the City had gone to sleep, as some of the dissidents had. They could say anything—an intruder in the Palace, a sudden sickness. Anything.
    There wasn’t time to explain it all to Clara, to tell her the whys and hows. I knelt down and pulled the thick books from the shelf, tucking the tiny bag into the side pocket of my dress. I put the knife and the radio into my purse, then started out of the room. I needed to do what Moss had said, to go through with this, before I was discovered. I would leave the City today if I had to.
    â€œWhy do you have a knife?” Clara asked, stepping back. “What are you doing?”
    â€œI can’t explain it now,” I said quickly, as I went to the door. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when my father finds out, and I need protection.”
    â€œSo you’re bringing a knife . . . to do what?”
    â€œI don’t know what my father is capable of,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s just in case.”
    Clara nodded once before I turned out the door.
    I kept the bag tucked tightly under my arm as I went down the hall. The soldier’s footsteps were somewhere behind me, coming closer as I moved toward my father’s suite. I took a deep breath, imagining what it would have felt like if things had been different, if I had found out about the pregnancy in some other place and time. I could’ve been happy, had Caleb been alive, had we been out in the wild, at some stop on the Trail. It could have been one of those unclouded, perfect moments, a quiet realization shared between us. Instead I felt only dread. How could I raise a child by myself, especially now, in the midst of all this?
    My father emerged from his suite. “Perfect timing,” he said. He turned toward the elevators, gesturing for me to follow.
    As I approached the door to his suite, I slowed, swallowing back the sour spit that coated my tongue. I pressed my hand to my face, wiping at my skin, and took a deep breath. This was it.
    I held one palm to my mouth and gestured toward the door. “Please, I think I might be sick again.” I didn’t meet his gaze. Instead I rested my shoulder against the door, waiting for him to let me inside.
    â€œYes, of course,” he said, punching a few numbers in the keypad below the lock. “Just one moment . . .” He pushed the door open to allow me through.
    My father’s suite was three times the size of ours, with a spiral staircase that led to the upstairs sitting area. A row of windows overlooked the City below, with views stretching out beyond the curved wall, where the land was riddled with broken buildings. I turned, taking in the miniature models that sat on the credenza beside the door. There were elaborate wooden boats in glass bottles, all different colors and sizes, their canvas sails raised. I’d been in the suite only four or five times, but every time I studied