Phoebe North: Starglass

“Of course,” my father agreed. He gave me a little shove forward. I took small, shuffling steps. Not because I was afraid, but because I knew it would bother my father. And he wouldn’t be able to say a word under the guard’s watchful eye.

“Terra?” she called, her voice slicing through the cooling evening. I looked up over my shoulder. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides inside her leather gloves.

“Mazel tov,” she said. I didn’t answer at first. But then my father flicked his finger against my ear.

“Say ‘thank you,’ ” he growled. I rubbed at my earlobe, trying to smother the pain.

“Thanks,” I said at last.

That night, as Pepper hungrily looped around my ankles, I sat at the galley table and watched my father pace.

“If only I could get you to do something useful with yourself,” he chided, his hands clamped tight behind his back. The harsh overhead lights reflected against his bald head. My father had lost his hair early, one of the few genetic flaws the doctors didn’t bother to breed out of us before we were conceived. It made him look much older than he was. Or maybe he had just gotten old lately, what with the hours he worked, and the wine he drank, and the number of nights he stayed up yelling at me. “They’re always looking for volunteers at the granaries.”

I scowled. I had no desire to spend my nights shucking corn just so that the Council could be impressed by what a good citizen I was. Abba leaned his hands against the table, staring down at the splayed-open pages of my sketchbook.

“Have you told anyone about this rubbish?” he demanded, paging through it. His movements were brusque. I watched the pages bend beneath the force of his fingers, nearly tearing from the spine. I wanted to dart my own hands out, to grab my book and hold it to my chest. But I knew that it would only cause me more problems.

“No,” I said, and hoped he didn’t sense my lie. In truth, it had been only a month before that I’d sat with a trio of counselors in a windowless schoolroom. They’d stared me down as I’d stammered through my rehearsed monologue. I had repeated all the things that my father said were important to people like them. About how I’d do my duty, work hard at any job, find a good husband, be a wonderful mother. I went on and on. The only sign they gave that they were even listening was the way that one woman’s mouth twitched when I finally mumbled myself into silence.

She leaned forward. “Now, Terra,” she said. “That’s all very nice. But please tell us what you’d really like to do.”

My heart thundered in my throat. I glanced down at the schoolbag that sat open by my feet. Then I bent over and pulled out my sketchbook. I held my breath as I passed it to her.

They all leaned in, their expressions blank as they leafed through the pages.

Hardly anyone knew about my drawings. My father always told me it was a waste of time. Art was a luxury. It did nothing for our lives on the ship. It wouldn’t help us once we reached Zehava. I was doing nothing for tikkun olam . And sure enough, my first efforts were terrible, the pencil all smeared, then erased, then heavily layered in again. But over time I’d gotten better. The lines were looser now, more expressive. I’d learned to block in broad shapes first before squeezing in the details. Now when I sketched out the crocuses that poked their heads up through the snowy ground, or the vines that twined through the oak trees beneath the dome, the final outcome actually looked close to what I’d intended. But the counselors didn’t seem to notice my improvement. They stared straight down at my drawings, their mouths tight.

“Thank you,” the woman had said at last, and handed the book back to me.

“No,” I said again to my father now as he stared me down. “No, I haven’t shown anyone.”

“Good,” he said, and shoved the book at me. “Keep it that way. I won’t have anyone thinking that my own daughter doesn’t know how to be a good Asherati.”

For what felt like the longest moment, I didn’t move. Part of me wanted to argue with my father. After all, art wasn’t totally useless. There was even a portrait gallery in the ship’s fore, where oil paintings of all the high-ranking families sat beneath dusty velvet curtains. But I knew it was no use. He’d already gone to the cupboard to uncork an old, cloudy bottle of wine. I grabbed my sketchbook, tucked it under my arm, and rose from the table.

At the bottom of the stairs, I stopped, turning toward him. “Will you be coming to the ceremony tomorrow?” I asked, not even sure what I wanted the answer to be. My father squared his shoulders.

“Of course,” he said. “It’s my duty.”

I trudged up the stairs.

Lately all of my dreams embarrassed me. They’d start out normal enough. I’d be in school, or walking through the atrium, or killing time while Rachel shopped in the commerce district. All of a sudden Silvan Rafferty would appear, speaking in low tones. His breath, hot and wet, fogged the cool spring air. He’d press my body to the nearest wall, slipping his tongue into my mouth. I drew him to me—the very thing my father had told me never to do. Then I woke up, my heart beating wildly. In the endless dark of my room, I was terrified that someone would somehow know what I’d been dreaming about.

Years ago, before Momma was even sick, I could count on her to wake me up in the morning. Her knock was only a little rattle of sound, knuckles on the wooden door. It was just enough to get me out of bed. Of course, I couldn’t count on my father like that. I would have bought an alarm clock, but when I asked Abba for the gelt, he scoffed.

“What, and have the shop owners think I can’t be bothered to get my own daughter to school in the morning?”

He couldn’t be bothered, but I wasn’t going to argue with him. Still, I’d hoped that the day I received my vocation would be different. Maybe he would wake me early. Maybe we would eat breakfast at the galley table and then walk to the ceremony together like a normal family might. I’d made the mistake of getting my hopes up, and so when I woke in the darkness, breathing hard as Pepper walked back and forth across my chest, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

I grimaced and swatted the cat away. Then, stumbling to my feet, I remembered what day it was.

“You should have woken me sooner!” I scolded the cat. I began to dress, shoving my feet down into the cracked leather of my boots, pulling my favorite moth-eaten sweater over my head. I ran my hands over my long, rumpled hair—as if it made a difference. But it would have to do.

Downstairs the galley was already empty. Dirty dishes were spread out across the counter, collecting flies. The jar that my father had filled up with wine the night before had dried out. The glass was dark as a jewel. I scraped some leftover meat into a dish for Pepper, then threw my sketchbook into my schoolbag and went on my way.

From the outside you wouldn’t have known the mess inside our house. Our pale curtains were drawn in the windows. The flowers, which had only just started to bloom in the early spring, were the same purple saxifrage and arctic eyebright that blossomed in every yard. Abba liked to keep up appearances, at least right up to the front door. Our home blended right in with the long row of town houses that filled our district, where specialists hung up white cotton curtains to conceal their supposedly orderly lives.

I entered the commerce district. The streets had already begun to flood with workers, and they shouted sales from the curb as they lifted their storefront shutters. But I had no gelt to buy anything, and no time, either. I ducked into the atrium, passing through the muddy fields and under the shadow of the clock tower. The bright clock face read five past nine. I wondered if my father was still up in the belfry, drinking behind his desk, or if he’d taken off for the captain’s stateroom already.