Phoebe North: Starglass

The dry leaves rustled all around me, smothering every trace of noise beyond. There was no shouting. No sound of footfalls or glass shattering behind me. There was only my own breath and the papery-dry swishing of the stalks as I slipped through them.

And then, a voice. Captain Wolff’s voice. I’d heard it lift up over the gathered crowds a hundred times before. Now it was low, grave. I slowed to a stop.

“You can’t do this. Put the knife down, Alex.”

My chest still heaving from my sudden sprint, I turned toward the sound of their struggle. There was a rustle, and then I heard something heavy strike the frost-hard ground. I parted the leaves, peering forward. Aleksandra had wrapped her mother’s braid around her gloved fingers, forcing the captain down onto her knees. Captain Wolff lifted her scarred face to watch her daughter.

“They won’t follow you,” Captain Wolff said. “Not after they’ve discovered that you killed your own mother.”

“Good thing they won’t find out,” Aleksandra said. I saw her free hand flash down to her hip.

Move. Move , I told myself. I pushed forward through the corn, cupping my hands around my mouth, letting out a scream.

“No! Stop!”

But the sound of my voice was buried beneath Captain Wolff’s last gargled breath. Like a doll whose strings had been cut, she collapsed in the dirt. The last time this had happened, I’d taken off running. Now I just stood, frozen, staring down at her body. Her silver rope of hair lay twisted in an expanding pool of red.

Aleksandra didn’t see me, not at first. She was too busy wiping off the edge of her knife against her mother’s coat. I watched as she slid the blade down into her sheath. It fit neatly, as if it had never been disturbed at all.

Then she stood again, and her black eyes lifted. Once I’d thought that she was a younger, more beautiful version of her mother. But though her skin was indeed smooth and clear and without blemish, I now knew the truth.

“Oh, look,” she said, her hand moving toward her knife again. “A little bird. Better catch her before she sings.”

She took one step forward. Now I ran.

I ran harder and faster than I’d ever run before. My bare feet pounded against the cold soil; my breath came out in white bursts against the air. I could hear Aleksandra behind me, rattling the cornstalks as she passed. But I didn’t stop to think about that. I ran, and I ran, and I ran.

Soon I’d spilled out of the pastures. The cobblestones felt like ice against the soles of my feet. The path had grown crowded. I decided to use that to my advantage. I dodged between the bustling workers, who had lifted up their voices in a thudding chant. Hundreds of fists pumped the empty air—

“Stop the Council! Free Zehava! Stop the Council! Free Zehava!”

—but this time my own fingers remained firmly at my sides. I pushed through the crowd, stumbling out again only when I squeezed through the slats of the pasture fence.

Past the lambs, across the dewy soil, I ran. It wasn’t until I was halfway to the clock tower that I realized I had no place to go. The districts ahead were empty now. The people had taken to the fields, and they now followed Aleksandra, who would surely come for me soon. And I couldn’t very well return to Silvan, not after what I’d done to his father. I stumbled to a stop, searching the dome for an escape. But there was nowhere to go. I realized, for the first time, that the glass above might as well have been bars. And then my eyes reached up past the glass, and beyond.

Zehava. It sparkled under its triple moonlight like a whole new field of stars. Each point of light was a home, safe from the frantic bustle of the crowds around me. I stared up at Zehava, my mouth open. I hardly noticed the gaggle of teenagers who had spilled by me or how they wielded wrist-thick branches like clubs. My mind was on the people I’d seen on the screen up in that dusty command room. Not Hannah and the shuttle crew—the other ones, the strange ones. Tall and slender, their bodies had bent like reeds in the wind.

I knew a body like that one.

This dome held nothing but danger for me now. I’d forever be at the mercy of Aleksandra Wolff, the Children of Abel, their knives and clubs and fists. But I’d be safe on the surface below. I’d be safe on Zehava—safe in his arms.

I took off running again. Not toward the captain’s stateroom, where Silvan still waited for me, nor toward the clock tower, where Koen and Rachel had surely joined their hands already and said their vows. No, this time I plunged myself past it, through the trampled pasture and toward the districts beyond. There I’d take the rear lift down. The shuttles shone in the darkness. They offered my only escape.

“Wait for me,” I breathed into the cold air. “I’m coming.”

The following individuals get gold stars, love, and a thousand hugs:

Phyllis Ray Fineberg, my mother, who lent me her name for Terra’s. Without her passion for science fiction—Sundays watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 , John Carter movie dates—or her help with my bad Yiddish, this book would not be here. Or it might, but it would not be very much fun.

My sister, Emily North, who shares a birthday and a star sign and also shared a childhood with me. You’re my favorite Capricorn. Thank you for being there.

My mother-in-law, Elayne Rudbart, my first and most fervent fan.

All the writers and early readers of this manuscript who offered both critiques and support: Patrick Artazu and Tarah Dunn; the Interrobangs—T. S. Tate, Jaimie Teekell, and Shannon Riffe; the ladies of YA Highway—Leila Austin, Lee Bross, Sumayyah Daud, Sarah Enni, Kristin Halbrook, Amanda Hannah, Kate Hart, Kody Keplinger, Steph Kuehn, Kristin Otts, Amy Lukavics, Emilia Plater, Veronica Roth, and Kaitlin Ward; and my dear, dear Bruisers—Douglas Beagley, Nicole Feldl, Wayne Helge, and Fran Wilde. Thanks for keeping me from going nuts, guys!

Special thanks to Kirsten Hubbard, who mentored me, helping me learn the ropes of this crazy YA book world; Rachel Hartman, brilliant belly dancer and book lover; and Sean Wills, who is just the best. Go make a thing, Sean. I’ll get coffee.

Kelly Lagor, who fixed my science, made it deeper, better, and more interesting. Every sci-fi writer should have their very own plant biologist.

My amazing agent, Michelle Andelman. From the moment you stumbled across that raw paragraph of this book, you’ve been its greatest advocate and defender. Thank you for loving Starglass before it was even done.

Rob Shields, for so perfectly capturing Terra’s sense of longing (and her sartorial choices). She—and Starglass —are so well-dressed thanks to your work.

My stellar team at Simon & Schuster: Lucy Ruth Cummins, Jenica Nasworthy, Karen Taschek, and Angela Zurlo. And especially Navah Wolfe, fellow geek, lover of Indian cuisine, and editor extraordinaire. Thank you for your tireless belief in this book and in my ability to make it better .

And finally, my husband, Jordan. Thank you for all your love and support, for all those elephants, and owls, and television nights, and movies, and books shared, and pages folded over. Thank you, Pookie. Thank you, thank you, thank you.