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that I knew his schedule better than she did. Clara and Charles were the only two teenagers who’d been raised in the Palace, and she’d always harbored feelings for him. She’d made me promise to tell her if he ever spoke of her. “He hasn’t said anything yet,” I offered, trying to comfort her. “You know, most of the time when we’re talking we’re fighting. We’re not exactly close.” I covered her hand with my own and she smiled, a small, pinpoint dimple appearing in her cheek.
    “I must seem so foolish to you,” she said with a laugh. “I’m carrying on a relationship in my head.”
    “Not at all.”
    How many times had I stopped in Califia, imagining Caleb was there beside me while I sat on the rocks, watching the waves lap at the shore? How many times had I let myself believe that he was still here, inside the City, that he’d appear one day, waiting for me by the Palace gardens? I still spoke to him, in the quiet of the suite, still told him I wished to go back to everything before. There were times I had to remind myself that he was gone, that the death report had been filed, that what had happened could never be reversed. Those facts were my only tether to reality.
    Before I could say anything more, the door opened, the King pushing into the room without so much as a knock. He did this sometimes, as if to remind me that he owned every part of the Palace. “I heard what happened,” he said, turning to me. I sat up straight, as the doctor came in behind him.
    “It was nothing,” I said, even though I wasn’t yet sure. Moss had taken the remnants of breakfast to the Outlands, trying to get answers about what it contained.
    “You threw up twice,” he said. “You’re dehydrated. You could have passed out.”
    The doctor, a thin, bald man, didn’t wear a white coat as the ones at School did. Instead he was dressed in a plain blue shirt and gray slacks, like any other office worker in the City center. I’d been told it was safer this way. Even sixteen years after the plague there were feelings of resentment toward surviving doctors, questions of what they knew and when.
    “Your father was concerned. He’d asked if it could be a reemergence of the virus,” the doctor said, cupping his hands together. “I assure you it’s not.”
    “This has become such an event ,” I said, my gaze darting between them. “I feel all right, really.”
    “It’ll happen again, though,” the doctor said. I stared at him, confused. “Nausea gravidarum,” he said, as if that explained something. “Most people call it morning sickness.”
    My father was smiling, his eyes giving off a look of quiet amusement. He came toward me, pulling me to stand as he squeezed my hands. “You’re pregnant.”
    He hugged me, the sick, heavy scent of his cologne stinging my lungs. I didn’t have time to process it. I had to smile, to blush, to feign whatever joy I knew I was supposed to feel. Of course this was what my father wanted. In his eyes, Charles and I had finally given him an heir.
    “This is happy news. We must go see Charles in the Outlands,” my father went on. “Once you’re properly dressed, come meet me by the elevators.” Clara didn’t say anything. I didn’t dare look at her; instead I listened to her slow, uneven breaths. It sounded like she was choking.
    “You’ll have to come in to the office this afternoon,” the doctor continued. “Run some tests to make sure everything is normal. In the meantime I’ve had the kitchen stock up on some ginger tea, some crackers—little things to settle your stomach. You may feel a bit nauseous, but skipping meals will only make it worse. And as you probably already know, you may find it wears off over the course of the day.” He put out his hand for me to shake. I hoped he didn’t notice my cold palms or my stiff, unchanging smile. It wasn’t until he was gone, my father following behind him, that Clara finally spoke.
    “I thought you didn’t love