Celeste, who is fixing her braided crown, pauses to glare at us in the mirror.
Jack Piper is a man who strives for order; that much is clear. His children do all things in order of height, which includes taking their places at the largest dinner table I’ve ever seen. He gives them a nod, and they shake open their folded napkins and lay them in their laps.
“I have to compliment you on your gold curtains,” Celeste says. “We don’t see much gold fabric back home.”
Back home. What a notion.
Riles’s snorting laugh says he think we’re the strangest things alive. “You don’t have gold fabric?” he says.
“What else don’t you have?” one of the younger girls asks.
“Don’t be brats,” Nimble tells them.
“Yes, gold is popular down here,” Jack says. “It’s a precious metal.”
I’ve never thought of any one metal as being more special than the next. They all come in handy for something or other.
“Do you have ham?” the smallest one, Annette, asks. She isn’t teasing; she really wants to know. “Because that’s what’s for dinner.”
“I don’t think so,” Celeste says. She doesn’t seem to mind speaking on behalf of us all. “What is it?”
“It’s from a pig,” Annette says. She presses her nose upward with her finger and makes a snorting sound.
“We don’t have those,” Pen says, speaking before the princess can get in another word. “And we don’t eat animals very often. Only on special occasions.”
Annette looks at her like she’s never heard such a thing.
“That’s enough inquisition,” Jack says. “Our guests have come a long way and they’ve earned an evening of relaxation. There will be plenty of time for all of us to get acquainted.”
Lex and Alice are missing from the table, as are Judas and Amy. I look through the doorway, and all I see are infinite doors, and a staircase that leads to even more of them.
A fireplace is crackling. I can feel the warmth of it from the next room. It’s an effective enough way to stay warm, but most of the buildings on Internment have been outfitted with electric heat in the past decade, thanks to the sun’s energy being harnessed by the glasslands. I’d thought the ground would be much more advanced than we are, given that we borrow so many of their ideas through our scopes, but we seem to be on par, if not a bit ahead.
One thing the ground does have is space. A house practically the size of a whole section of Internment, and as many children to a family as they please. Dozens of windows and curtains, and closets fat with clothes, no matter if anyone can be bothered to come along to wear them.
The food is brought out by a young woman in a black dress that is dripping with metal buttons. She lays each plate on the mat with precision, and uncovers all the hot dishes, which are heaping with enough food to feed twice as many people as are seated.
The smallest Piper volunteers to say grace, which means we all bow our heads as she recites some sort of poem that begins with “Thank you, God” and goes on to list all the things at the table. She adds in “please” and “bless” copious times. It ends when she says, “And bless Mother, too. And tell her to please send a telegram.”
“We don’t ask for things like that,” Riles says.
“Says you.”
“I thought it was a fine prayer,” Nimble says. He winks at his littlest sister and she grins.
Everyone wields utensils and begins helping themselves. Pen, Basil, Thomas, and I take a modest portion of everything, but we aren’t brave—or perhaps stupid—enough to try eating it.
“Your accent is lovely,” Gertrude says, forcing the words out all at once as though she’s been building the courage to speak. She’s the second oldest, with soft rosy cheeks, and hair that covers one eye as it falls over her shoulder in waves.
“Accent?” I say.
“Yes. You don’t know that word? It’s the way that you speak. Everything has an upward inflection. You all sound so inquisitive. I think it’s pretty.”
“Thank you,” Celeste says brightly. “Where we’re from, everyone speaks the same way. It hadn’t occurred to me there was any other way.”
“There are lots of ways to speak,” Nimble says. “Though King Ingram prefers to war with the one nation that speaks the same language we do.” He looks at Celeste. “You come from a political family. Does that seem smart to you?”
“That’s enough,” Jack Piper says, dabbing his lips with a cloth napkin. “Your depiction of our king is unwelcome in this home, Nimble. We’ve discussed this.”
Nimble’s gaze rolls from one side of his lenses to the other. The younger children are giggling soundlessly at their plates.
“Are you at war?” Celeste asks.
“The dinner table isn’t the place to discuss politics,” Jack Piper says. “Perhaps tomorrow, once you’ve all had a chance to rest.” He leans back so that he can see under the table. “And speaking of inappropriate, what have I told you about rolling your stockings, Gertrude?”
She blushes. “Yes, of course,” she says. “Sorry, Father.”
During the meal, Jack explains to us that this building is something called a hotel during the warm seasons. It’s winter now, he says, and so it’s closed for business. There’s something called a theme park nearby, and people will travel from all across the nation in a season he calls summer to visit it and catch a glimpse of the floating island. They have scopes here on the ground, too, though Internment’s position and altitude prevent them from seeing much besides the bottom of the city.
“It’s flattering to know you’ve taken such an interest in our humble city,” Celeste says. “I—we would all love to see this park.”
“Well, then I—we—will have to show it to you,” Nimble says, and the way he’s looking at her actually makes her blush.
After dinner, Basil and I find a moment alone in the hallway that holds my bedroom. We’re standing in something called the east wing. His room is in something called the west wing. So many words for one building.
His eyes meet mine, and at the same time we both blurt out, “Are you okay?”
He puts his hand on the wall by my head, and I feel so safe, so very safe in his shadow and in the smell of him, like home and bottled redolence and sunlight.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m okay. Are you?”
“Is that the truth?” he says.
“Can’t we just pretend that it is?” I say. “What else are we supposed to do?”
“Morgan—”
I put my finger to his lips. “Don’t. Please. I can’t be pitied right now.”
“All right,” he says.
I nod to the closed door beside us. “They’re making Pen and me share a room with the princess. Pen thinks she’ll kill us in our sleep.”
“I should sleep with you,” he says.
“You know we can’t change where they placed us,” I say. “It might insult them. They were kind enough to take us in at all.”
“You’re right,” he says. “And sooner or later they’ll come to collect on that kindness.”
“What do you suppose they want from us?” I say.
“If it’s a way up to Internment, they’ll soon be disappointed, won’t they?” He makes an effort at a smile. “I’ll see you in the morning, if the princess doesn’t kill you and Pen, and Judas doesn’t kill me.”
“We must survive if only to see what poor animal the Pipers cook for breakfast.” I rise on tiptoes to kiss him. “Good night.”
As I reach for the doorknob, he grabs my wrist. “I also think we should take an opportunity to get familiar with this kingdom,” he says. “In case we have to run.”
“Run.” I try not to laugh, but it’s so absurd. “Basil, where would we go?”
He seems worried, though. “Don’t you think it’s strange that they’ve built a theme park just so they can gaze at the ‘magical floating city’ and yet when the lot of us falls down from it, the king wants to keep us
a secret?”
“It is strange,” I say. “But everything about this world is strange so far.”
“All I mean is, what’s to stop him from killing us all if he pleases? No one would be the wiser.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I say, and I feel a chill. “Oh, Basil, do you think that could happen?”
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “But we should keep that in mind.”
I nod. “We’ll familiarize ourselves with the city. Pen could even draw up a map, I should think.” I force myself to smile. “It will work out, Basil.”
He gives me the same sort of distracted smile. “Good night,” he says.
After I’ve washed up and changed into one of the many nightgowns hanging in the closet, I look for Alice and Lex. They’ll surely be together. When I get to the door at the end of the hallway and I knock, no one answers. There’s light coming from under the door, though. “Hello?” I say, and turn the knob. “Alice?”
“Quiet,” Judas says. “Close the door behind you.”
He’s knelt on the floor beside Amy, whose skin is red. Her hair is damp, and I recognize that dead stare in her eyes.
“I came in to check on her before everyone went to dinner, and I found her in the middle of a fit,” he says. “A bad one.”
“She’s been lying on the floor like that since dinner?” I touch her forehead, and she flinches and gasps, but there’s no real awareness about her.
“I’m afraid to move her,” he says. “Daphne would always say never to move her while her eyes are still open, to wait until she looks like she’s sleeping.”
Daphne aspired to be a medic before her murder, and I’m sure she knew how to care for her sister’s fits, but it doesn’t seem right to leave a sick child on the floor like this.
“I’ll get Lex,” I say.
“No.” He grabs my arm and pulls me back down. “She needs to be kept calm. She doesn’t like when anyone sees her like this; it makes her feel weak.”
“She’s ill, Judas. Look at her. She needs a doctor, and Lex is the closest we’ve got.”
He looks at Amy. Her lips twitch like she’s talking to one of her ghosts.
“She needs a doctor,” I repeat.
“You don’t understand,” he says. “You just don’t. If you want to help, bring a cold cloth from the water room and let’s try to break her fever.”
I do as he says and drench the green towel from the water room.
“Her parents hoped she’d grow out of this,” he says, dabbing at her cheeks and behind her neck. “It’s only gotten worse as she’s gotten older. And the pills and meetings with the specialist have caused more harm than good.” He looks at me. “Want to hear something crazy?”
“What?” I say.
“She’s got me believing in apparitions with all of this. She swears they talk to her.”
“I don’t think that’s crazy,” I say. “Our history book doesn’t account for the unexplained, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
Her eyes have closed now. She’s surrendered to whatever dreams haunt that troubled mind of hers. I hope for all of this snow to be gone soon. I hope for a morning bright with sun. If she can see that the sunlight is the same whether we’re on Internment or the ground, it will surely help. It has to.
Pen catches up with me as I’m leaving the water room. “There you are,” she says. “You left me alone with Princess Fancy. It’s a wonder I didn’t kill her.” She leans closer to me. “What is it?” she says. “You look troubled.”
I tug her into the water room and close the door behind us. I tell her about Basil’s theory that Jack Piper and the king could be hiding us away in case he means to kill us.
Pen hardly seems surprised. “Yes, I’ve been thinking that as well,” she says, scrubbing her face at the sink with a cloth. “For all we know, these people have a history of killing outsiders. Or one another. Or anyone. It’s a strange thing to be in a world and not know a thing about its past.”
“So what should we do?” I ask.
“As you said, familiarize ourselves with this kingdom as best we can,” Pen says.
“Do you think you could draw a map?” I say.
“If they have a library, it likely already has a map of the kingdom. I could copy it and add my own notes,” she says.
“Jack Piper’s eldest daughter seems close to our age,” I say. “Maybe we can befriend her and gain some insight into the family.”
Pen shrugs. “We could. I doubt that she’ll be privy to her father’s politics—he seems annoyed with his children at best—but she could probably teach us a thing or two.”
She sits beside me on the edge of the tub. “I think we’d be wise to learn from her, but not to trust her,” she says. “We shouldn’t trust anyone in this world.”
3
There is sunlight come morning, but it’s not the same.
Pen stands at the curtains, parting them with her hand. Beyond the window there is nothing but white.
Celeste, still sleeping, turns away, muttering in protest at the light.
Pen nods from me to the window. “Come and see,” she whispers. “It’s like we’re inside an unfinished sketch.”
Even the water on the horizon is gray and white. It sparkles as it fades into the distance. There is no train framing this city. There is no limit. It could well go on forever, to a horizon it would take ten lifetimes to run to.
There’s a draft coming through the window frame, and my skin swells with little bumps.
“I can hardly stand to look at it,” Pen says excitedly.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. Pen looks at me, and I grin. She knows what I’m thinking. “You know we can’t,” I say. “We’ll freeze to death.”
She runs to the closet, a skip in her step, and she throws a heavy coat at me and takes one for herself. “What good is all that brave nonsense we’ve been feeding each other if we don’t act at least a little crazy?”
“What are you blathering about?” Celeste mumbles from under her blanket.
“Nothing,” Pen says. “I got lost trying to find the water room. Woman troubles.”
“Thank you for that charming announcement,” Celeste says.
We stand still until we’re sure she’s asleep, and then Pen opens the door, wincing as it creaks.
It’s still early and the hotel is silent. The soft floor helps to conceal our footfalls, but we move slowly anyway. “Would you look at these colorings?” Pen says. “The frames are taller than we are.”
I tug at the lapels of my coat, struggling to adjust to the weight on my shoulders. “Do you think they’re portraits of real people?” I say.
“Look at the colors,” Pen says. Her fingertips hover over the portrait of a woman whose shoulders are cloaked in fur, but Pen doesn’t dare to touch. “They’re so rich. If I had colors like this, I’d want a canvas this size to work with too.”
The next step creaks under my foot, startling us both, and we hurry the rest of the way to the door.
Overnight the snow has accumulated to knee height, but the cold is surprisingly bearable. Pen spreads her arms and falls forward into the white powder. When she emerges, her face is red and there are clumps of snow turning to water on her skin.
“Not as soft as you might’ve hoped,” she says, and pulls on my arm. I go toppling down beside her with a shriek.
“There’s so much of it,” I say. “When it melts, the whole world must be soggy underneath.”
“Our little clouds have been holding out on us,” Pen says. “Who knew?”
We make a game of chasing each other, bogged down by the weight around our ankles. We splash each other like it’s the water of an enchanted, glittering lake.
Pen kneels and tries to draw a floating city with her finger, but snow proves to be an unsatisfactory canvas.
I look at the sky, and all I see is more whiteness. I’ve never known the sky to be any color but blue.
And then, as thou
gh I willed it, I see a bit of blue in the sky. Moving.
“Pen!” I gasp.
“What? What is it?” It takes her a moment to see what I’m pointing to, and then she’s silent. We both stare at the thing, and turn our heads to follow as it flutters up and out of sight.
“Was that—”
“A bird.” My heart is in my throat.
“It was the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen,” Pen says.
“Do you think it will ever land?”
“Not if it has any sense.”
The moment is broken by a noise in the distance. Along the side of the building, a girl is attempting to scale a tree. We walk toward her until I can better see her wavy hair and the sharp seams in her brown gloves.
“Gertrude?” I say.
She drops from the foothold, a hand to her chest. “Goodness, you scared me half to death,” she says. She gives us a sheepish smile. “You can just call me Birdie. Everyone does.”
“Were you going to break into our bedroom?” Pen says.
Gertrude looks up. “Is that where you’re sleeping? Sorry, girls, that room has the strongest tree outside. You wouldn’t mind my traipsing through every now and again, would you? I’m kind of a night owl.”
“Well, we wouldn’t,” Pen says, “but who knows what Her Royal Stinky Highness will do from one day to the next? I wouldn’t let her catch you.”
Gertrude looks contemplatively at the window again. Her breath comes out in little clouds. She’s wearing a coat that seems too thin for this cold, though she has enough beads around her neck to constitute a scarf.
“Your princess is a wet blanket, huh?”
“That’s one way to put it,” I say.
“Once she senses a weak spot, she goes for the jugular,” Pen says. “Here’s a silly idea: Why don’t you use the door?”
“Father locks it,” she says.
“It isn’t locked now,” I say. “We’ve just opened it.”
“If you give us a heads up, we’ll make sure it’s unlocked when you want to sneak out,” Pen says. “That way you won’t have to sneak through the house or climb through our window and scare everyone senseless.”