"Maxon?" America whimpered, leaning over in bed, looking for her husband. It was well after midnight, and pitch-black in Maxon's bedroom, but America squinted and managed to make out that Maxon was fast asleep, sprawled on his stomach, mouth hanging wide open, with the most adorable little snores coming out of his nose. "Maxon…" she sniffled again.
This time he awoke. "What is it?" he whispered, consciousness returning to him slowly. He blinked a few times and then found her face next to his. "What's wrong? Is it another headache?"
"No." a tear fell down America's cheek. Maxon sat up and turned on the lamp by his bed, then turned back to his wife. He was alarmed but not surprised to find her in tears.
"What's the matter, Ames? Talk to me."
"I want… I want a… I want a gr-grilled cheese." She sobbed.
Maxon did his best not to smile too big at her misery. "That's all?"
"Lots of cheese, I need a lot of cheese, all different kinds, Maxon." America ran a shaky hand through her hair and sat up with a bit of a struggle.
"And butter on the toast?" he asked.
"Yeah." she sniffed and he handed her a tissue from the box on his bedside table. She blew loudly into it.
"Anything else?"
"Milk." she cried.
"Sweetheart, why are you crying about this?"
"I don't know!" she snapped, defensively. "I just am!"
"Okay." Maxon said, sympathetically. "You're not feeling so good right now are you?"
"I'm fine!" she insisted through a fresh sob.
This time Maxon did chuckle. "Want to come with me and watch me make your sandwich? You can sip on some milk while you wait."
America considered that the very thought of Maxon leaving her side right now made her want to howl with more tears, and she didn't want to alarm Officer Avery, who had the post outside of their door that night. "Okay."
The guards, night maids, and overnight kitchen staff were well-used to seeing their sovereigns up at all hours and in search of food by now. For a while they'd protested, at least amongst themselves, but after seeing America and Maxon's interview on the Report and learning about why the King had to be the one to bring the Queen her cravings, most of the staff seemed to find it all incredibly sweet and romantic and would smile softly as Maxon passed by. This time, the smiles were directed at both the King and the Queen as the monarchs walked down, hand-in-hand.
The main kitchen in the Palace was an enormous, open space, with massive stovetops and metallic countertops, meticulously cleaned and organized so that pots and pans hung in attractive, but practical orientations and knives sat in their wooden blocks, well-sharpened and ready to go. Maxon turned on an overhead light, then another, and they both blinked on with a hum.
There was no refrigeration in the main kitchen. The chef would send kitchen boys to fetch what needed fetching from several rooms over, where the cold and frozen items were kept in a chilled, walk-in chamber. Because of this, Maxon had to go and fetch the cheese and milk.
"Sit here." Maxon said, lifting America up by the hips and setting her down on the cool, metallic countertop next to a large stovetop containing a dozen burners, "And tell me what kind of cheese you want." he left his hands on her hips, and brushed the joints with his thumbs soothingly.
America hiccoughed, her crying subsided now so that she was mostly just red-eyes and tearstained cheeks. "All kinds." she said, softly.
"Every kind of cheese?"
"All of them." she nodded, the corners of her lips twitching but stopping short of smiling.
"That might be a little much for your sandwich. The bread would cave under that kind of pressure. How about you let me pick?" America nodded and sniffled and Maxon smiled at her. They were at perfect eye-level with each other since she was up on the countertop, so he leant in and kissed her with ease, then leant down to rest his head on her stomach. "Don't worry, little baby." Maxon cooed. "Your sandwich is coming." Then he pressed his lips to the lump and left for the refrigerated chamber.
When America first started sending Maxon to the kitchens, he was at a loss for everything. He didn't know one pantry from the other, where to find any kind of utensil, or even how to turn on the oven. Now, he was a pro. It took him less than a minute to return with an arm full of three blocks of assorted cheeses and a frosty glass jug of milk.
"The milk is already freezing cold, so I didn't bring any ice." Maxon announced, dropping off the cheese on the countertop next to America and then crossing over to fetch a glass from the cabinets where the royal dishware was kept.
"That's okay." America said, watching him go. They'd both put on robes before leaving Maxon's bedroom, but there was a 'v' of bare chest still visible despite Maxon's robe that caught America's attention and kept it as he poured two glasses of pearly white milk and brought them over to her.
"Cheers." he said, clinking the glasses together once he'd handed hers to her, and they each took a long drink. "Feeling better?"
"Mhmm." she nodded, thoughtfully.
"Good."
Maxon knew exactly where the cheese graters were kept from all of the other cheese sandwiches he'd made her, usually including sliced pickles, tomatoes, or cucumbers. This time, however, America was just having a good, old-fashioned calcium craving.
While he heated up a skillet with a thick dollop of butter melting on it, he sliced a loaf of rich brown bread he found in the bread box. He coated each slice with more of the soft, creamy butter and then piled one of them high with the mound of white and orange cheeses he'd just shredded, before capping it off with the other slice of bread. While that sandwich sat on the hot skillet, he piled the dishes he'd dirtied up in the sink. One time he'd tried to wash them himself and nearly started a kitchen revolt at the thought of the King washing dishes, so from then on the staff made him swear that he'd leave the washing up to them.
When the sandwich was ready, he dropped it onto a plate and handed it to America. He watched her carefully as she took a bite.
"Is it like the one in your dream?" he asked.
"My dream?"
"The dream that woke you up?" he knew her well. She'd been woken up from a deep sleep by this cheese craving, dreaming of a grilled cheese sandwich and waking to find herself hungry, empty, and cheese-less.
"It's better." America said, holding the sandwich out to him so he could take a bite.
He did, and mmm'd as he wiped the crumbs from his lips and chewed. "I missed my calling as a master chef." Maxon said.
"It's not too late." America suggested, and he laughed. While she kept munching, he returned the blocks of cheese and jug of milk, and when he got back, he positioned himself between her knees and studied her face.
"Why do they make you cry, Ames?" he asked.
"The cravings?"
"Yes."
She chewed her latest bite as she considered it. "I don't know. They don't always make me cry. Usually only when they wake me up."
"Is it just hormones?"
America shrugged. "Probably." she took two more bites in silence, and then held it up for him to take the last bite. He shook his head, so she finished it off. While she chewed, she stared at her glass of milk rather than Maxon's penetrating brown eyes, and once she'd swallowed, she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned forward onto his shoulder to avoid his gaze. She was already exhausted again and ready to return to bed. She yawned.
Maxon would have kissed her lips, but her hair was all that he could get to, so he settled. "Want to take your milk with us?"
"Okay." she sighed. She sat up and let him place her plate in the sink and finish his glass of milk before it, too was added to the rest of the dishes. She watched him the whole time, wringing her hands in her lap, and finally she said, bravely, "I only cry when I wake up hungry."
Maxon blinked and turned back to her. "Right." he studied her closely.
"I think, for that moment between sleeping and waking…I forget that I'm here."
"Here?"
"I forget that I'm in the Palace and that I'm the Queen. For a second, I'm still a Five in Carolina and…" she didn't want to finish. She'd mentioned hunger to him once and he'd started a revolutionary governmental initiative to combat it. She'd told him she'd been hungry and he didn't just feed her, he fed the world.
She didn't finish her thought, but Maxon did. "You forget that there's food for you. Is that it?" he asked, his face carefully guarded. "In between sleeping and waking you think that you and the baby are going to spend a long day hungry?"
America nodded. "I think so. When I wake up hungry and craving something, I also wake up anxious and fearful and shaky. I think that's why I start crying, even though by the time I'm fully-awake, I know better. And, well… the hormones don't help." she shrugged.
Maxon nodded, frowning. He crossed back over to her and offered her a hand down as she slid off of the countertop. He did not release her hand, and she looked up at him to find a maelstrom in his brown eyes. When he noticed her peeking up at him, all he said was, "My father let that happen to you. And to millions of others like you."
"It's all different now." America reminded him, squeezing his hand softly. "You've changed everything."
He handed her the half-finished glass of milk and they began walking back upstairs. "I'm going to have a word with Dr. Ashlar tomorrow. Find out which foods to arrange for you to have as a bedtime snack."
America blinked, taking that in. "So I won't wake up hungry anymore?"
"Exactly. The cravings might wake you, but you won't wake hungry. Hopefully that will make a difference."
America stopped and tugged his arm to stop him, too, before pulling him down into a long kiss. The kind of kiss that took the edge off of his worry about her. The moment they made it back to bed, they fell asleep tucked away in each other's arms.
America had Esther bring her breakfast that morning. Maxon was long gone when she woke up, off to a domestic issues briefing with Stavros and a few other key junior advisers. If she'd been feeling social, she'd have gone down and had breakfast in the dining room with whichever of her family members was awake and hungry, but she was relishing the silence this morning.
She stayed in her night dress and ate, sitting on Maxon's couch, her feet tucked up under her, reading through a stack of magazines to see what the upper castes were concerning themselves with at the moment. If these magazines were to be trusted, it was 1. a new line of dresses by a famous designer, 2. how adorable the one-year-old prince of England was, 3. How everyone is feeling about pink this season. For or against? and 4. The King and Queen's outing to the learning center last weekend.
At least it was widely considered a success, America supposed tossing aside the third magazine of the morning and taking a few bites of sweet oatmeal. She felt another headache coming on, quickly. Determined not to let it get the best of her, she stood and called for Esther, who was dusting in America's room.
"Your Majesty?" Esther asked, appearing in Maxon's doorway.
"I need you to go to Gavril Fadaye's office and bring me the latest issue of Rolph Lemex's newspaper. He's going to splutter and act like he doesn't have it, but he definitely does, and I want to read it."
"Yes, your Majesty." Esther curtsied.
While she waited, America finished her breakfast and massaged her temples, taking careful breaths, trying to dispel the oncoming headache. It helped a little.
Esther returned with the rectangular mass of papers, all folded in on themselves once so as to be a manageable size to carry around. "Thank you." America said, taking the papers covered in small, grey print from Esther's hands. Esther curtsied and went back to America's room.
EMBATTLED MAGISTRATE FROM KENT SET TO RESIGN IN SCANDAL
Enormous print was splashed across the front page, along with a grainy, low-quality version of a photograph of the magistrate in question. America checked the price on the top right corner of the paper. 2.50. Not nothing, but nothing compared to the 15.00 that the magazines America had been flipping through cost.
Below the story of the magistrate, there was a piece on the destruction wrought on Paloma by a particularly nasty summer storm. Apparently, many residences had been destroyed, as well as basic infrastructure, and of course, the lower-castes were suffering most in the devastation. America frowned, headache worsening. She felt like she was learning more from this paper than she did attending Maxon's adviser meetings, though now she had no doubt what her husband's domestic issues briefing had been about.
At the bottom of the page was a large, bold title: STORIES FROM THE SOUTH
followed by a quick editorial explanation that this was another in a series that the paper's founder, Rolph Lemex, was writing based on his findings in Honduragua, where he was staying in honor of Maxon's heritage through Amberly.
Thanks to King Maxon's Southern Cleanup initiative, we have all now learned of the plight of the southern provinces. Countless Illéan citizens suffered horrendously at the policies imposed upon them by the Illéas and perpetuated by the Schreaves until Lady Amberly wed Prince Clarkson and brought Maxon, our half-northern and half-southern King, into the world. King Maxon's initiative takes great leaps in progressing the cause of the south, but for many, it is generations too late.
Last week, I profiled a young family ripped apart by illness, poverty, and oppression. The south is rife with such stories, all I had to do was point at a derelict farm house visible in the distance from the home of the family who is sheltering me, and I was told the heartbreaking tale of the former owners. A father stricken ill, dead before the age of thirty. A mother gravely injured working the fields after they were no longer able to pay the Sixes in their employ. A ten-year-old girl left orphaned upon that mother's death, sent off to live with her distant, un-met cousin in the province of Angeles because it was a kinder fate than allowing her to become an Eight, as most orphans were at the time. This was ten years ago, according the family hosting me. King Maxon's policies have changed things for the orphans of Illéa.
This week, I would like to profile a different tragedy. When children outlive their parents, it is a sorrow. But when parents outlive their children, it is an unspeakable horror, a crime against nature and reason.
Jefferson Kervin Potter is something of a legend here in Honduragua, Everyone down here has lost someone but few have suffered on the grand and nearly operatic scale of Jefferson Potter.
I was able to do a little digging and find a couple who knew the Potters almost two decades ago, though they asked to remain anonymous in this article. The man, Mr. X, was a patron and friend of Mr. Potter, who was a sculptor by trade. Mr. Potter's wife was a singer, and together they had two children. A thirteen year old daughter and a ten year old son. Mr. Potter and his wife were eagerly expecting their third child, but Mrs. Potter took ill. It was a long pregnancy that resulted both in a stillborn baby and the death of Mrs. Potter. Although tragic, this was not uncommon at the time. We now know that the toxins in the water, and in the soil which feeds all of Illéa's southern citizens, has a tendency to build up in bloodstreams, especially plaguing the elderly, the very young, or expectant mothers. King Maxon has made medication easily available to combat such atrocious symptoms now.
The loss of Jefferson Potter's wife and baby would have been considered standard, but more than enough tragedy to keep him occupied for the rest of his life. Unfortunately for Mr. Potter, this was where his story transcended into the realm of legend. Three years after the untimely death of his wife, Mr. Potter was returning home from an errand in town. His sixteen year old daughter and thirteen year old son were home alone, working on their respective art forms.
This is where the story enters the realm of hearsay. Though Mr. and Mrs. X claim to be witnesses to the events, there is no hard evidence to support their claims, and they might have mis-seen, misunderstood, or misremembered what occurred.
When Mr. Potter returned to his home, he found three men that Mr. and Mrs. X both agree were soldiers in the Illéan army, standing outside with a sheet of paper and a demand to search his property. There is no way to be certain if these men were, in fact, soldiers, or if there was any such paper.
Mr. Potter, according to Mr. and Mrs. X, refused to show the soldiers inside until the search warrant was endorsed with the proper seal of a Magistrate of Honduragua. The soldiers, according to Mrs. X, seemed slightly drunk.
They had Mr. Potter bring his children out into the front yard, and they proceeded to burn Mr. Potter's house to the ground, one of the men even allegedly urinating into the flames, loudly proclaiming that the 'rebel documents' would all be destroyed now, anyway.
Mr. Potter then tried to summon local authorities, but none responded to his call.
It is unclear what happened next, not all of it was visible from where the X's were hiding in their house, looking on in horror. What is definite is that the 13 year old boy and 16 year old girl were both killed, their bodies tossed onto the flames of their burning home for disposal, and Jefferson Potter was left alive to tell the tale, as a warning to other rebels.
Jefferson Potter's story is now considered to be largely a cautionary legend, the kind of myth that keeps children from misbehaving. Mr. Potter left Honduragua after the incident, devastated and far too haunted by the memories to remain living in the same place where he'd carefully built his life and then watched as it all burned down.
Even if the tale of Jefferson Potter is an elaboration, it underscores the mentality of the citizens of the south. Even if the men who burned the Potter's house down, leaving nothing but a slab of scorched foundation I was able to visit whilst interviewing the X's, were not truly the Illéan soldiers of the legend, there are plenty of verified accounts of Illéan soldiers from far off provinces taking ruthless advantage of their position and authority to pillage and plunder as they see fit in the south. There is a distinct lack of trust within the southern provinces for the north, and that is going to require much more than a clean-air initiative to rectify.
I'll be back next week with another installment, another glimpse at life within our own country, but so different from anything we've been told before.
America blinked, numbness in her chest and aching pain in her head. She was about to call for Esther to summon Maxon, but Maxon appeared of his own accord, a spring in his step. He was always in a good mood when his meetings adjourned early.
Before he could greet her or tell her she looked lovely, she handed him the article and said, "Read this."
She ate an orange and studied him closely, watching his face reflect all of the horror she felt as he read the article. Finally, he got to the horrific end and looked up at her, "Rolph Lemex wrote this?" he asked.
"Yes. Did you know about…" What was she trying to ask? "Did you know that was happening? Burning people's houses down and murdering children?"
"I know it did happen. Father was very lax when it came to the way his soldiers dealt with alleged rebels."
"Alleged, though, Maxon. This Potter man might not have been a rebel at all."
Maxon shrugged, "I've never heard this particular story before, I don't know what really happened."
"I had no idea it was so bad, Maxon. I didn't realize the rebels had…"
"Had what?" he asked, eyes narrowing.
"Legitimate grievances. The kind we can't erase by planting trees and shipping a few crates of bottled water to the south."
"It is going to take time to heal these wounds." Maxon sighed, furrowing his brow. "I… I'm doing everything I can, but I've only been King for three years, Ames."
"I know that." she frowned. "I just…" she shook her head. "I didn't realize it was that bad, that's all."
Maxon nodded. "I'm aware of the problem. The policy is already changed. We have a different way of dealing with rebels now, August was a big part of that."
America nodded and then pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing deeply. "We should talk to Rolph Lemex when he gets back from Honduragua. I'd like to hear these stories directly from him. Maybe he'll have some ideas for how to make things better."
Maxon nodded, but he was peering at her closely. "Another headache, Ames?" he was audibly worried.
"Yeah. It's bad this time." she sighed. He knelt down and massaged her temples for a minute, which she greatly appreciated, and her moans of pleasure made that clear to him.
"Let's go see Dr. Ashlar." Maxon suggested. "He's in the hospital wing for the day, we won't even have to wake him up this time. I need to make sure you and the baby are alright."
America agreed, not because she was worried about the baby, but because Dr. Ashlar might have a medication or trick to making these headaches finally stop. They'd been creeping up on her for a few weeks now, but they'd only gotten really bad in the last few days.
Mary was the one who answered America's call, and Maxon followed them silently into America's room, watchful as his wife dressed for the day. When Mary slipped America's navy blue maternity dress over her head, a funny little smile quieted the maid's face.
"What?" America asked, tugging on the dress where it was snug around her middle.
"You're bigger than you were last week, your Majesty." Mary said, happily. "Noticeably."
America peered at her reflection in the mirror of her vanity, eyebrows raising in surprise. Somewhere along the way, her little belly had ceased to be a little belly, and had grown into a full-blown pregnant belly. She still had a little more than four months to go, but her stomach was definitely not the sleek, compact baby bump it had been for weeks now. America's eyes flew to Maxon's to see if he saw it, too. He wore a massive smile on his face, studying her profile.
"None of your dresses will fit you correctly until we have time to let them out." Mary smirked. "We didn't think you'd grow so fast." There was teasing in that last sentence.
"Calm down." America laughed. "I probably just had another 'pop' night. I won't grow this much every week, I'm not having triplets."
"We'll see, ma'am. For today, let's dress you in your maternity pants and one of your looser blouses." Mary said, returning to America's closet. "Also, I took it upon myself to write to Lucy."
"Really?" America asked. "Why?"
There was some rustling in the closet and then Mary reappeared. "I wanted to ask her about a band of fabric she'd mentioned to me, a support band she wore when she was pregnant with Meri. Those painful spasms you've been focused on preventing-"
"With some success." America said. "They've been much better lately."
"According to the books, this band will help support that ligament which will help with the pains."
"Oh." America said, surprised that Mary was being so proactive, not that she should have been. Mary, Lucy, and Anne were always like that.
"Lucy sent me one of her bands and I've got an order in on the fabric to replicate it. I'll have a few ready by the week's end, and you should start wearing them daily now that you're growing so quickly, ma'am."
"Of course, Mary, thank you. You... Well, I've told you a million times, but you're amazing."
"I never tire of hearing it." Mary winked, removing the dress and handing America's new outfit to her.
Maxon sighed contentedly from where he sat on the edge of her bed, eyeing her re-exposed stomach. "That's a good-looking belly, Ames." He admired.
"Thanks, couldn't have done it without you." America joked.
Dr. Ashlar listened with kind concern and asked a few pertinent questions as America described the frequent headaches she'd been suffering with. He'd treated Amberly's headaches for years, and seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
Maxon was grim-faced and expecting the doctor to hand his wife a bottle of the same pills his mother had taken for all of his life, but when it came time for Dr. Ashlar to hand down a prescription, Dr. Ashlar instead smiled kindly and told America to drink plenty of water, focus on breathing properly now that deep breaths were becoming impossible, and then he handed her a pair of reading glasses.
"Glasses?" America asked, blinking her blue eyes up at the doctor. "I've never needed glasses."
"Give them a try for me. Wear them only when you read, but every time you read. Give it a week and if you're not feeling better, let me know and we'll run some tests."
Maxon took the glasses from America's hands and then perched them on her nose, amused. "What do you think, Ames?"
"I think that I don't need them." America announced.
Dr. Ashlar nodded understandingly, "When women come to me at this stage of pregnancy with headaches, I associate it with subtle changes in vision caused by hormonal shifts." he explained. "And I'm nearly always right."
"…The baby made my vision change?" America blinked, stunned.
"There is no part of your body that the baby has not altered, your Majesty." Dr. Ashlar gave her sympathetic pat on the back.
She shook her head, overwhelmed by that thought. "Is it possible to feel stir-crazy in your own skin?"
"Very, particularly during pregnancy. Just remember to drink plenty of water and focus on proper breathing." Dr. Ashlar smiled. "You've still got seventeen weeks to go."
It was Maxon's turn to react. "Seventeen Monday morning security briefings from now, I'll be a father?"
"Give or take." Dr. Ashlar nodded. This pleased Maxon to no end.
It took some getting used to, but America was diligent about wearing the glasses when she was reading, and the headaches all but ceased, immediately.
"How did you put up with this?" America asked Marlee that Friday evening, as they wrapped up a meeting and America glared at the spectacles in her hand.
"I didn't, my vision was fine." Marlee shrugged.
"Really?" America asked, scandalized.
"Yeah. Kile was a very easy pregnancy, but a rowdy baby once he was born. I swear he didn't sleep for a month." she looked weary just thinking about it.
America sighed, "Well, hopefully this baby will be the easiest kid in the world, after the pregnancy I've had to put up with."
"The second half flies by." Marlee promised her, patting her arm sympathetically. "The first half is all joy and telling everyone and getting used to the idea, like a slow build-up of excitement, but the second half is a mad dash to the finish line, full of preparations. The nursery, birthing classes, stockpiling diapers and bottles and baby clothes… You'll look up in no time to find that your water is broken and the contractions have started, I promise."
America sighed and nodded. "Let's call it a night."
"Sounds good." Marlee stood and then offered America both of her hands to help her stand, too. "I think we're going to see Carter's family this weekend."
"That'll be nice." America said.
"Yeah, it really will be." Marlee smiled. "They adore Kile, it's always hands-free parenting when we go visit them, because they happily take over. Carter and I get a lot of time to ourselves."
America smiled at the thought, wrapping an arm around Marlee's as they headed down the hall. "Is it strange that I have five different tiaras and three different crowns, but I just got a little jealous of you?"
"No." Marlee giggled. "You and Maxon won't ever get to take your baby to his parent's house and spend the weekend wrapped up in each other's arms, watching them dote on your little one."
"For reasons not the first of which being, I would never let Clarkson within ten feet of this baby." America nodded.
"But that doesn't mean you and Maxon shouldn't take weekends for yourselves every now and then." Marlee said in a stern tone, giving America a pointed look. "The two of you aren't very good at relaxing."
"I know."
"I'm serious. I don't want to have to raise your baby for you because you both dropped dead of stress-induced heart attacks at the age of thirty. You should take a vacation before the baby comes. It would do Maxon a lot of good to get out of this cage and see that K isn't in all places at all times."
"We've talked about it." America shrugged. "We'll see. I'll bring it up again at dinner tonight."
"Special plans?" Marlee asked, grinning as they paused. They were at the stairs she'd be going down to join her family in their rooms.
"Just dinner out in the gardens. Enjoying the warm evenings before the fall officially starts."
"Sounds nice. Have fun."
"See you Monday." America hugged her, and they headed off in different directions. It was moments like these that really highlighted for America that, if she'd chosen Aspen, she'd be headed down those stairs with Marlee right now. They'd be neighbors, both married to prominent palace guards. Marlee's was the life America could have chosen to have. But then where would Maxon be? And with whom?
Maxon was waiting for her in the gardens when she walked out into the warm summer breeze. There was a table set up in front of their bench with dinner all ready for them, lit by three candles casting a beautiful glow on the whole thing. But Maxon was pacing back and forth, worrying over a piece of paper in his hands, shattering the calm illusion cast by the candles.
She studied him for a moment, watching his posture and getting a feel for his mood. Everything about him radiated that he had bad news to share.
She was going to Atlin.
It was the only explanation. He'd brought her here, not to spend a free evening with her out under the stars, but to put her in a good mood before he wrecked the next four months of their lives. She'd promised that she'd go if that was the decision he made, but it didn't make this moment any easier. Maybe she could still change his mind?
"Maxon?" she tried to keep her voice steady, but she heard a little tremor in it. Maybe she was standing too far away for him to have noticed?
He stopped in his tracks and looked up at her, pasting a smile on his face in a forced expression. The stopping, looking up, and smiling was probably supposed to have all happened at once, but he was so distracted and worried, it had manifested in steps.
"You look beautiful." he said, his eyes raking over her. This was it. He was memorizing the way she looked because he wasn't going to be seeing her until she came back to Angeles to give birth to his heir.
"Thank you." she choked out. "...What's in your hand?" she asked, motioning half-heartedly to the paper he was clutching. Maybe it was a rebel update, maybe they were getting close to Angeles again and he didn't want her around if they attacked. Maybe it was just his official order to send her off. The one he'd have to file with Stavros, for the record.
"We... you need to eat, America." he said, tucking the paper into his inside breast pocket, out of sight.
"You won't tell me what's going on?"
"I will. Over dinner. I need to explain and you need to eat."
Ah. He was going to go through his reasoning for sending her away in great detail. Maybe it would help. Probably not. He pulled out a chair for her and she walked slowly over, then sank into it numbly. What would she pack? She couldn't take Mary, Mary was in charge of all of the maids in the Palace. Who would make her clothes when she got so big that none of hers fit anymore? Who would dry her tears and make grilled cheese sandwiches for her in the middle of the night?
She took a mechanical bite of the chicken breast on her plate. It was slightly yellow, with green sprinkled atop it. Some kind of lemon chicken, probably with rosemary. She couldn't taste it. She could see the juices oozing out where she'd cut the tender meat with her fork, but it was like paper in her mouth.
Maxon took a bite of his own food, swallowed heavily and then took a long drink of water from his cloudy glass. There was condensation below the water line. His glass was crying.
"Do you remember the morning of my birthday?"
His birthday. The attack that led to her first hearing that hated word 'Atlin'. "Yes." she said, her voice came out sounding hollow.
"We were lying in my bed before the day even started... we talked about going to Carolina." he said, his eyes distant, his mind retreating to that simpler time before. Before K's second note. Before Atlin was a factor in their relationship.
America sipped the water in her glass to soothe her cotton-dry mouth. She felt an ache in her chest and a solid thump in her stomach.
Maxon continued, "I know we talked about going there before the baby is born... To Carolina, I mean."
But they couldn't. Because he was sending her to Atlin.
Thump
"We didn't talk about it again, we've been taking care of other... other business... not business, but-" Maxon stammered.
Thump
America blinked, realizing what was happening. "Maxon?" her voice was raspy, her throat tense.
"Listen, Ames, I know you're under a lot of pressure right now, and I don't want to make it worse-"
Thump
"Maxon-"
"Hold on, I just want-"
"Maxon, the baby is kicking." America gasped out.
Maxon's fork hit the plate with a loud clanking sound. "It is?" his chocolate brown eyes widened in surprise.
"Come here." she waved him over and, in a heartbeat, he fell to his knees before her. She grabbed his hand and placed it on the spot she'd last felt a thump and they waited. It took a moment, Maxon muttering coaxing words under his breath to the baby. Finally, it responded to him and rewarded him with a solid thump. He laughed in surprise, and America laughed, too, in spite of herself.
She kept one hand over the one he had planted on her belly and brushed his cheek with her other. "Maxon, please don't send me to Atlin." She whispered. She'd tried to speak it clearly, but all that came out was a whisper.
When his eyes lifted from her stomach to meet hers, the wonder and joy had been replaced with confusion and joy. "What? Atlin? What are you talking about?"
"Isn't that what you're worried about? How to tell me that you've decided to send me to Atlin?"
"No! God, Ames... I mean... No. I'm not sending you to Atlin right now. If things get worse... well, it's always an option we'll have. But this isn't about Atlin, and I'd never make the final decision without talking it through with you again."
America almost didn't believe him. "Then what... Why... What's going on?"
Thump
Maxon gazed down at her stomach lovingly, momentarily distracted. Slowly, though, reality returned to him and a frown burdened his face. When the baby fell still he got up off his knees and dusted the grass away. He retook his seat and stared over at America, frowning. They were still and silent for a long minute. Then he said, "I wrote to Kota."
"You did what?" America hissed.
"You and I talked about possibly going to Carolina, seeing the house-"
"I remember."
"The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I had some things to say to him. Man to man. Brother to brother."
Though it thrilled America that Maxon thought of her brothers as his brothers, no 'in-law' about it, now was not the moment to rejoice. "What did you say to him?"
"For starters, I told him what I thought of his abandoning his family twice."
"You're an idiot, Maxon Schreave." she stabbed her chicken with a vengeance.
"What? Why?" he whined.
"Because you're the King of Illéa and he's beneath you. It demeans you to waste your time on an insect like Kota Singer. It lessens your greatness that you even spare him a thought, and in exchange you raise him up. You make him more than he is by favoring him with your precious time. He is nothing. You're an idiot." she seethed, a hot hate burning in her chest.
Maxon just looked at her, at a total loss for how to respond. He hadn't been expecting that kind of vitriol. Maybe he should have been expecting it, with the hormones and all. "Ames... he wrote back." he finally said. "He must have written back right away, otherwise we wouldn't have gotten the letter so soon."
"What did he say to you?"
"Nothing. He wrote to you."
"Burn it." America said, gesturing to one of the candles in the middle of the table.
"You should read it, Ames."
"Did you?"
"I did."
"Why?" she wasn't mad at him for reading her mail. She certainly had no use for a letter from Kota. Someone might as well find something to do with it.
"Because I knew it was my fault he was breaking the silence. You should read it, Ames. He... he's invited us out to Carolina. All of us. James, Kenna, Astra... everyone. Aspen, Lucy, and Meri too."
"I don't want to see him." she said, forcefully.
"But he'd let us stay at the house!"
"I wouldn't go if he'd let us stay on the moon! He's a snake, Maxon."
"He's contrite."
"I'll bet he is. I'll bet his conscience plagues him all day and all night, but I don't care about that. I'm not going to absolve him."
"Why not?" Maxon asked, shocked at her.
"Because he was going to get me killed. He was going to tell the world about my history with Aspen and let you and your father find out about it that way. You wouldn't have been able to show the leniency you showed Marlee twice in the same Selection. Not to mention, think of how it would have made you look, to have two different Selected running around with guards—"
"I did have two different Selected running around with guards—"
"The point is, your father would have had Aspen and me publicly executed, and you wouldn't have been able to do anything but stand by and watch, not that you'd have really wanted to stop it—"
"Ames—"
"You think I haven't thought about this?"
"Ames, I—"
"The things you said to me before the shooting, the way you looked at me. That's the last thing I'd have seen or heard before being executed. Because of Kota. And he didn't care." When had she started crying?
"Come here." Maxon said, standing up and pulling her into his arms. After a moment, he coaxed her into standing, too. She followed his lead as he guided her over to their bench and they both sat down. "That's not what would have happened."
"Of course it is, your father was just looking for a reason—"
"What happened to Marlee and Carter happened because they got caught by a video camera. By the time Gavril got wind of it, it was too late to destroy the tapes. There was no proof of anything between you and Aspen. Kota would have been easy to discredit, and Father would sooner have discredited him than you."
"Why?"
"Precisely because of what you said. How would it make this monarchy look, that not one but two Selected were carrying on with Palace guards? His need to protect his legacy outweighed his hatred, even of you."
"What would you have done, if you'd heard about it that way?"
Maxon paused, thinking it through carefully, worrying his bottom lip as he ran through all of the simulations in his mind. "I'd have confronted you. In your room, or maybe in front of others, but I'd have sent them away after a moment. You'd have likely had a fair chance to explain, unlike when I saw you and Aspen in the hallway and—"
America shook her head, "Let's not relive that."
"Once was more than enough." he agreed. Then he sighed heavily and kissed her temple, "Kota wouldn't have gotten you killed. He'd have destroyed his own career by ruining his good name. Nothing more."
America blinked twice. For years she'd been certain that her brother had once been a threat to her very survival. Now she wasn't so sure. "Oh." she said, softly.
"Let me read you the letter?" Maxon offered.
America closed her eyes and nestled her head on Maxon's shoulder, allowing him to pull her close. Then, with his free hand, he retrieved the paper she'd seen him agonizing over earlier and he began to read,
"America,
I have received a letter from your husband. I will admit, I had not thought to hear from him. I'd assumed that I was pretty well 'out of the family' by now. By the way he addressed me, as 'brother', I take it that my assumption was incorrect.
I don't know what this will mean to you, but I am sorry for the way that I treated you whilst you were home for Father's funeral. It was wrong of me. Father and I did not leave things well, we had strains on our relationship you could not possibly know about. Fundamental differences that always clouded our interactions, though we tried to conceal that from the rest of you. Therefore, I was not at my best when he died, leaving things unresolved. Not that that excuses my behavior, merely accounts for it in some way.
I would not truly have blackmailed you as I threatened to do, I hope you've reasoned that out by now. It would not have been in my best interest, not matter how jealous I was at your chance to become a One. What good would it have done my career to have a duplicitous whore for a sister, instead an Elite or the Princess? None at all. I was purely bluffing, though I am sorry now.
Likewise, I regret barring you from our family home. I do not reside there, I live in a much nicer part of town now (The estates at Broadbank? Do you remember them?) I lease the house out and collect some small money from the lessees every month to add to my savings. Currently, the house is unoccupied, though the Queen's childhood home never stays that way for long. If you and my brother Maxon would like to visit, you are more than welcome. Please feel free to bring the others as well. I should like the chance to visit and to see my niece. I've also heard through the Report that you are a godmother now. The child and its parents are more than welcome to squeeze in. I'll send all utilities bills to the Palace at the end of your stay to recoup my costs, otherwise your stay will be rent-free.
I doubt this will matter to you at all, but I am still so proud of you, Sister. Though I am fundamentally opposed to the removal of the caste system, and am deeply distressed about the implications that will have on our society, that does not change my feelings for you as a person. I was proud of you on the day you left Carolina for the Selection, and I am proud of you today.
Kota"
America and Maxon sat there, under the stars, leant against each other for a long, silent moment. The baby kicked again and America absentmindedly moved Maxon's hand to press on the spot. A few more kicks and the baby was tired out and fell still.
"Tell me what you're thinking." Maxon said.
America sighed. "I think that's the closest to a proper apology Kota's ever come in his life, but I don't know if that means I want to expose myself to him again.
"Hm."
"He's going to send us the utilities bill. For staying at our family home!"
Maxon chuckled at that, "Rent-free, though."
"Oh, yes, that was big of him." America rolled her eyes. "I don't know if I want Astra around him. He doesn't deserve Astra's goodness."
"That sounds like Kenna's and James' decision to me."
"…I should tell them that we have this offer?"
"They all deserve to know." Maxon nodded.
America sighed heavily. "I wish we could just go to Carolina and not have to see him at all."
"He's my baby's uncle, like it or not, and I need to at least meet the man." Maxon said. "Besides, I'm kind of excited at the prospect. I have plans of tearing down that damned treehouse and using it for kindling."
"Maxon Calix Schreave!"
Maxon laughed, "Good riddance."
"No, Maxon, bad riddance." she reminded him. "If it wasn't for Aspen, Mom never could have manipulated me into entering the Selection in the first place. That treehouse is where it all started. That treehouse is also where Aspen broke up with me, which led to my being available for you to sweep me off my feet."
"I bet it would make a big flame." Maxon grinned.
"No, Maxon." she laughed.
"Fine. You're no fun." he kissed her temple.
America shook her head, but she really did appreciate her goofball husband. Now, thanks to him, she could associate smiles with agreeing to this trip, instead of just anger. "What was it Kota called me? A 'duplicitous whore'?"
"Yes, but you're my duplicitous whore." Maxon smiled affectionately.
"That's not funny." America said, wrenching her head up off his shoulder to glare at him.
"I'm sorry—"
"You dated thirty-five women at the same time before you settled on me, and I had to choose between you and one other man, and I'm the whore?"
Maxon sighed, "Ames—"
"How many of them did you kiss, Maxon? Because I've only kissed two men in my entire life, you and Aspen, and right now, I'm wishing I'd never kissed one of you, and it's not the Palace guard!"
"Ames!" Maxon laughed, his shoulders shaking.
Now that she'd gotten that out of her system, she felt better enough to crack a smile, too.
"I was trying to make a joke at your brother's expense. Those were his words, and I was trying to make light of them." Maxon explained, not that he needed to.
"Yeah, okay."
"You should tell Kota all of that when we go see him in Carolina. Minus the part about wishing you'd never kissed me."
"I'm glad I kissed you, Maxon. I'm glad you kissed me and kept trying until you got it just right." America smiled.
"Would you be glad if I kissed you now?"
"I would be very glad." and she sounded just weary enough that Maxon did all the leaning in.