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To Rowan

And to my editors, Joelle Hobeika and Cindy Eagan

Prologue

THE DAY BEGAN AS A BEAUTIFUL AND VIVID DREAM. IT WAS ONE of those rare days when the sun was out, and the light was soft and warm, Easter yellow. We were in the garden, just my mother and me; Mary had gone out with our father, but my mother was eight months pregnant and tired, so I had stayed to keep her company.

“Oh.” Mother rested her hands on her pregnant belly. We had packed a picnic, with bamboo mats and a lime-green gingham tablecloth and a few pillows to lie on. “I think your brother wants to join us.”

I was reaching for her belly to feel my brother moving when we heard our butler, Rupert, calling to us. There was a delivery.

Standing at the doorway was a handsome man with golden-blond curls. In his arms he held a basket of fresh, perfectly ripe fruit: peaches and plums, apricots and apples, deep red strawberries. I hadn’t tasted fruit since the Seventeen Days.

“Who is it from?” my mother asked, unable to take her eyes from the gift.

The man smiled as he handed over the basket, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth. I remember staring at his teeth, thinking they looked plastic.

“Long live the queen,” he said, and she smiled as he backed out the door. My mother had always been embarrassed by the expression.

We carried the basket outside to the blanket and sat down in the emerald grass.

Mother reached into the basket and plucked out a perfect-looking peach. She brought it to her nose, closing her eyes as she breathed in its scent.

“Look, there’s a card inside.” I plucked a small white note from the pile of strawberries, and read it aloud.

To the royal family and the new baby. Enjoy.

—C.H.

“Who is C.H.?” Mother asked.

I ignored her, distracted by the fruit, wondering what to try first: a plum? A strawberry?

My mother opened her mouth, biting into the peach. A drop of juice rolled down her chin.

“Oh, it’s delicious. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.” As she took another bite, her serene smile turned to a look of concern. She plucked something off her tongue and placed it on her palm. “But peaches don’t have seeds,” she said.

I leaned forward, looking at her hand; in it lay a tiny metal star.

My mother’s face drained of color as she fell back onto the blanket, her hands clawing at the grass, her fingernails digging into the earth. In the breeze, I heard a rasping sound.

It was my mother’s last breath.

1

CAREFULLY, I UNCLASPED THE LOCKET FROM MY NECK, LETTING the weight of the Welsh gold fall into the palm of my hand. It was the end of August, but it was cool inside the castle’s thick stone walls. Even in summer, a draft wafted through its rooms like a lonely ghost.

I opened the locket and stared at the miniature portrait of my mother, then at my reflection in the window’s leaded glass, then back again, until my eyes blurred. We had the same dark hair and light blue eyes. Would I grow up to look like her? I closed my eyes, trying to feel her arms around me, hear the low murmur of her voice, smell the rose oil she dabbed on the inside of her wrists every morning. But the memories weren’t coming back as clearly today. I snapped the locket shut and wiped away my tears.

I could stare at my reflection all day, but I would never recognize myself. I would never be the girl I was before the Seventeen Days, before my mother was killed. My family had grown hollow inside, like an old tree dead at the roots but still standing. Our hearts were broken.

They never caught Cornelius Hollister, the man who had killed my mother. He haunted my dreams. His blond hair, his intense blue eyes, his gleaming white teeth followed me down darkened streets while I slept. Sometimes I dreamed I was killing him, stabbing him in the heart over and over again, until I woke up drenched in sweat, my hands clenched in fists. Then I would curl up and weep for what I had lost, and what I had found in myself during those dreams.

Outside Balmoral Castle, a gray veil of rain fell over the barren landscape. The color of the rain had changed since the Seventeen Days. It was no longer clear and soft like teardrops. This rain was gray, sometimes dark as soot. And it was bitter cold.

I watched the soldiers circling the courtyard, rain beading off their heavy black rain gear. Round, half-empty ammunition belts hung around their necks, carefully protected from the weather. No cartridge could be wasted with ammunition so low. Like the bags of flour in the pantry, the jars of oats, the salted snakes and pigeons hanging in the larder—nothing could be wasted. Everything, scarce.

A thick dust swirled through the air, marking the sky like a bruise. Six years ago, everything had changed. For seventeen straight days, the world was battered by earth-splitting quakes, torrential hurricanes, tornadoes, and tsunamis. Volcanoes erupted, filling the sky with fiery smoke that blocked out the sun and covered the fields with strange purple ash that suffocated crops.

Scientists called it a catastrophic coincidence. Zealots said it was the act of a vengeful God, punishing us for polluting His universe. But I just remembered it as one of the last times I had my mother with me. We spent those seventeen days in the bomb shelter below Buckingham Palace, along with government aides and palace staff, holding each other tight as the world shattered around us. Only my mother kept calm. She was in constant motion, passing out blankets and canned soup, her soft voice reassuring everyone that it would be okay.

When we finally came to the surface, everything had changed.

I missed the light the most. The watery early-morning sunshine, the hot blaze of a summer afternoon, the sparkle of Christmas tree lights, even the soft glow of a naked lightbulb. We emerged from the dark into smoke and ashes, into a world lit by fire.

I felt something cold on my hand and looked down to see my dog, Bella, staring up at me with her large, dark eyes. I had found her with Polly, the groundskeeper’s daughter and my best friend, shivering under the garden shed when she was just a tiny puppy. We had fed her milk from a doll’s bottle and nursed her back to health.

“Let me guess—you want to go for a walk. Even in this soaking rain?” My voice sounded quiet in the high-ceilinged bedroom.

Bella wagged her tail in excitement, looking up hopefully.

“Okay, in a minute. But I have to finish packing first, or Mary will nag me to death.”

Bella barked again, as though she understood. My suitcase lay open on the four-poster bed, under the shade of a white eyelet canopy. This was our last day in Scotland. We were taking the train to London this afternoon to make it home in time for the Roses Ball tomorrow. The annual Roses Ball marked the traditional opening of Government Offices and Parliament after the summer recess, and my father always made a speech. Even though I hated leaving Scotland, I was ready to see him again. This was the first summer he hadn’t spent at least part of the holiday with us. He kept sending notes with the Carriers, saying that he was busy with the rebuilding projects and would visit as soon as he could, but he never did.

After our mother was killed, my father had retreated from the world. Once, right after it happened, I found him alone in his office in the middle of the night. Without turning to look at me, he said, “I wish I had eaten the peach. It should have been me. That poison was meant for me.”

I grabbed my hairbrush, my toothbrush, my pajamas, and my book, quickly throwing them into the suitcase. It wasn’t exactly neat, but it would do.

Bella barked impatiently by the door. “I’m hurrying.” I grabbed my raincoat from the hook on the wall, slipped my feet into a pair of bright yellow Wellingtons, and ran into the hallway.

I knocked softly on Jamie’s door but didn’t wait for a response before opening it. Inside, the curtains were drawn; only a hazy line of light crept in to illuminate the dark room. The astringent smell of Jamie’s medicine hung in the stifling air. A small cup of the deceivingly cheerful cherry-red syrup sat untouched on his bedside table, next to a bowl of oatmeal and a cold chamomile tea. It was already midday and he hadn’t taken his medicine yet?

My younger brother had barely made it into the world. After our mother was poisoned, the doctors had to force his birth surgically. He survived, but his blood had been tainted by the mysterious poison. It would be with him, slowly killing him from the inside, for the rest of his life.

Our sister, Mary, had made Jamie stay in his room most of the summer, bundled up against the constant drafty dampness so he wouldn’t risk catching a cold. She had the best intentions, but I knew how depressed he felt, trapped inside. Today was his last chance to be outside in the fresh air before returning to the smog-filled London streets.

I walked over to where Jamie lay sleeping under the covers. I hated to wake him, especially from what seemed to be a peaceful sleep. The medicine kept him alive but also stole his energy and fogged his thoughts. Worst of all, it gave him terrible nightmares.

I gently turned back the pale blue comforter with pictures of the planets on it. “Jamie?” I whispered. But the bed was empty.

I was about to turn away when I spotted the corner of his writing pad hidden beneath the pillow. The book where he drew intricate drawings of what he imagined the world looked like before the Seventeen Days. The animals were far too big, the cars looked like spaceships, and the colors were all off, but Mary and I never had the heart to tell him. So what if he imagined the world from before as a wonderful, impossible place? It wasn’t as though he would ever get to see it.

I turned the page of the notebook to his most recent entry, and my heart started to beat faster.

31 August

Last night I heard two of the housekeepers talking in the kitchen. They said my name and I stopped to listen. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop. They said how worried my father and sister are about me. How difficult it is to get my medicine now and how expensive and hard to find it is. They could do so much good for the people with the petrol and ammunition they have to trade for it. They said I’m a burden to my family.

I’m sick and useless. The doctors say I won’t live much longer anyway. I can’t stay here. I don’t want to be a burden anymore.

2

I RACED DOWN THE LONG HALLWAY TO THE BACK STAIRCASE, Bella following close at my heels. I jumped down the stone steps three, four at a time, keeping one hand on the banister for balance.

My Wellingtons squelched in the mud as I ran down the winding trail to the stables. Only three horses were out to pasture, and Jamie’s mare, Luna, was missing. Hurrying, I unlatched the wooden gate to the field.

“Jasper! Quick, quick!” I called to my horse. There was no time to bother with a saddle or reins, but I’d been riding bareback on Jasper since I could walk. I clambered up onto his back and turned toward the woods. We were almost out the gate when I saw a pale green cardigan looped over the post. It was Jamie’s. He must have left it when the rain stopped. I felt an immediate pang of relief. He hadn’t been gone long, and on gentle old Luna, he couldn’t have gotten far.

If he was in the woods, I’d need a weapon. The Roamers could be out there. I grabbed the only thing I could find, an old knife with a broken leather-bound handle. I could throw it or, if I had to, fight with it. After the Seventeen Days, without phones or computers or television, Mary and I amused ourselves play-fighting with the Royal Swords. The Master of Arms gave us lessons, teaching us to slash, stab, and parry. Mary and I would fence against each other, betting on the little luxuries that were still left over from before: a square of Cadbury chocolate, a piece of spearmint gum. Later, when the government food rations were gone, we would take spears and throwing knives to the woods around Balmoral, hunting the snakes and pigeons and few other creatures that remained. I was surprised to find that I had quite good aim, unlike Mary, who never could get the hang of throwing a knife.

“Bella, come!” I held out the sweater for her to sniff. Bella could catch almost any scent you gave her. Polly and I had trained her one summer, hiding things in the woods—a toy, a shirt, an old shoe—rewarding her with a treat when she found them. Bella sniffed the sweater up and down. “Track,” I said firmly.

She placed her nose to the ground. After a few seconds, she took off running toward the fields.

The brown earth blurred beneath me as Jasper galloped behind Bella. I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around his neck, closing my eyes. I hated seeing my woods like this. The Seventeen Days had transformed the sun-drenched forest of my childhood into a dark, tangled place. Most woodland animals had died in the destruction, or were later hunted to extinction by the Roamers. Only the worms, leeches, and snakes were left. The ground was covered with gnarled, rotting tree roots, spreading out in every direction like giant hands.

I pulled Jasper to a stop at the top of the hill, scanning the woods for signs of the Roamers—smoke, fire pits, grave markers. Or worse, the hearts of their prey, human and animal, mounted on sticks. The Roamers had banded together after the Seventeen Days, when electric security in the prisons failed and the inmates were able to escape. They gathered in the woods, eating anything they could kill. Since most wild animals were dead, they hunted humans. You could tell a Roamer camp by the sickly sweet smell of roasting human flesh.

I felt something brush against my forehead and looked up. It was a frayed rope, hung from a high branch. The base was knotted to the tree, a piece of webbing left hooked on a branch. A trap. I fingered the edge of the rope, looking for footprints. They were there, clear outlines in the mud.

“Go!” I shouted to Jasper, trying not to think of Jamie caught in a web of rope. Bella raced up the logging trail along the side of the hill. Finally, I spotted Jamie’s small figure in the distance, hunched over on Luna, riding deeper into the woods.

“Jamie!” I yelled, even though I knew the Roamers might hear us. “Jamie, stop!” He paused but didn’t turn around. The small backpack on his shoulders was filled to bursting, and I wondered what he had packed for the outside world. A pillow? A flashlight? I spurred Jasper on, and quickly reached Jamie and Luna.

I slid off Jasper and ventured closer. “Jamie,” I said softly. “Please come home.”

He turned to look at me. Dark circles like bruises spread below his blue eyes, which were sunk into the hollows of his face. His skin was white as rice paper, and in the dim light of the forest, he seemed almost translucent.

“I don’t want to be a burden anymore,” he said simply, his voice so weak it was nearly lost.

I took a step closer. “You can’t just leave us.” My words sounded awkward and slight, even to me. “You can’t just give up.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said. “You’ll never understand.”

“You’re right, I can’t possibly understand.” I choked back a sob. I had no idea what he suffered every day. “But think of all the pain you’ll cause everyone by leaving us. Think of Father, think of Mary. Please stay… for me?” I held out my hand.

Jamie slid down from his horse and took a step toward me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a wisp of smoke rising above the trees in the distance. I stiffened, pressing my fingers to my lips so that he would know to be quiet.

I heard the deep rumbling of men’s voices. A strange whirring. The sound of a motor starting. Jamie stared up at me, his eyes wide. “What is it?” he whispered.

I shook my head and took his hand. He didn’t know about the Roamers; Mary and I had tried to protect him from the world’s worst horrors. We ran for the granite rock at the edge of the clearing and crawled underneath. I held Bella in my lap, grabbing her snout with both hands so she wouldn’t bark. One sound and we would be caught. Jasper’s ears pricked up as if he sensed the danger. He and Luna trotted into the woods and vanished from sight just in time.

A band of men entered the clearing just a few yards away. They were dressed in tattered gray prison uniforms, the words “MaxSec” tattooed in coarse black letters on their foreheads. A few had guns. Most carried makeshift weapons: hooks, chains, gardening shears, bludgeons, old pipes filed down and sharpened to points, and what appeared to be a hedge trimmer that had been stripped of its casing so that the blade rotated menacingly. Two of the men carried a thick branch between them. A sack, soaked red with blood, hung from it heavily.

I tried to cover Jamie’s eyes with my hands, but I knew he had seen. He had seen the worst of humanity. Don’t look over here, don’t look over here, I thought desperately. If the Roamers gave the rock a second glance, they would notice the shadowy area underneath and come looking for us. We would be as good as dead.

I tried to hold Bella close, but in a burst of strength she wriggled away from me and sprinted toward the men, barking aggressively. I wanted to call her back, but I bit my lips until I tasted blood.

The two men carrying the bloodied bundle stopped and laid the branch down on the ground. One of them stepped forward, aiming his pistol into the darkness of the surrounding forest.

“Who’s there?” he called.

I pressed closer to the rock, holding my breath.

“Stop jumping at nothing,” the second man told him. “It’s just a wild dog. A dirty old mutt.”

The man with the gun turned toward Bella. He was missing one eye, a metal plate covering the empty socket.

“Come on, the others are ahead of us,” the second man complained. “Can’t waste the bullet on a stringy, skinny dog. We’ve got other food needs eating.” The first man lowered his gun with a sigh. They lifted the branch and its bloodied cargo onto their shoulders and started walking into the distance.

Jamie and I waited under the rock, holding each other and shaking. When I finally smelled the sickly sweet burning smell, I knew we could make our escape.