Wonderment

The moon is swollen and brighter than usual. Her pale, quivering light creates elongated shadows between the crevices of the buildings below. A boy stops and looks up. He can’t see me – he is wearing his mask – but I hold my breath all the same. Stepping back from the window frame, my sleeve catches on a shard of old paint. It tugs briefly then snaps free. The sensation sends a shiver through down my spine.

When I look back at the street, the boy has gone.

In my entire life, I have seen just twenty-three males. I watch for them. At night, I stand at my window and wait. Most nights, I am unlucky. Some nights, however, when the moon is strong, one will break cover. He will step out of the shadows and turn his face to the sky as if he is imagining the sun. And I will study him.

For as long as I can remember, men have fascinated me. The angles of their bodies, the lines of their faces. For as long as I can remember, I have wondered what it would be like to look one in the eyes. But this is a task reserved for the Keepers.

As a girl, I listened carefully to the stories my mother told me. At school, I read the texts I was required to read and I learned the lessons I was required to learn. I understood how things came to be the way they are. No matter how many tales I am told, however, I cannot quiet the voice that asks: Does it have to be so?

Often, I look at my sisters and wonder if they have the same thoughts. Of course, there is no way to know; to speak such things is blasphemy and I am not curious enough to be banished for my wonderings.

I am returning to my bed when I hear tap-tap-tap on my door. My heart twitches. The boy? Surely, not the boy? Tap-tap-tap.

“Althea? I need to speak with you.”

My muscles relax. It is Margaret’s voice.

Downstairs, I brace for the cold that will enter the house when I pull back the door. I am not nervous, but perhaps I should be.

“Sister?” My voice is soft and so is my smile. I tuck my cropped silvery-blonde hair behind my ear. “It is late. Are you well?”

Margaret does not smile. Her lips are pursed. She looks into my hallway. “You should dress. We are needed in court.”

“Court?” I catch myself frowning and try to correct my face.

“Please. Come now.”

***

As we approach the citadel my breath catches in my throat. It is resplendent in the moonlight, its windows illuminated by the dance of a thousand candles.

Pulling my purple robes closer around my waist, I follow Margaret over the bridge. Side by side, we wait for the doors to open. When they do, we stride through them into the corridors we have traversed since we were girls.

The court room is harshly lit. Dark wood against white walls. Margaret and I stand by the door; a hearing is in session.

“Sarah Montrose, the court finds you guilty of Wonderment in the first degree. You are sentenced to life beyond the city walls. A Guardian will escort you to the gates.”

The judge is called Tanner. With dark hair and ice-blue eyes, she stares unwaveringly at the teenager in the dock. It is nearly always teenagers.

As the sentence is passed, the girl stands firm. Her stoic expression perplexes me; rarely are the banished so calm.

“Althea, Margaret will wait with you until sunrise. When the Keepers send word that the tunnels are secure, you will escort Miss Montrose to the gates.” Tanner is looking at the papers in front of her instead of at me. Her pen scratches loudly as she writes.

I wait patiently for the guards to bring Sarah Montrose down to me. When they hand her over, Margaret and I loop our arms through hers. She doesn’t struggle; what would be the point?

In a room above the court, we wait for sunrise. Sarah sits on the wooden chair in the corner of the room. Margaret stands by the window. I am next to her, my fingers knitted together behind my back.

“Why must we wait?” Sarah meets my gaze and holds it.

Margaret answers before I have the chance. “We wait until the tunnels are secure.”

“In case my lover comes to rescue me?” Sarah pushes out her chin and narrows her eyes as if she’s expecting Margaret to blush. She doesn’t.

“Precisely,” she says.

Finally, not long after the sun has begun its lazy ascent into the morning sky, a guard informs us it is safe to leave. On the bridge, I tell Margaret I will see her soon.

“Not too soon, I hope,” she answers.

“Indeed. Perhaps one day we can meet for coffee instead of court?” I smile too, and Margaret laughs.

“We’ve known each other for twenty years, Althea. I don’t think we have ever drunk coffee together.”

“Then that is something we should rectify,” I say before glancing at the horizon and slotting my arm through Sarah’s.

“Be well.” Margaret nods at me.

“Be well.” I nod back.

At my side, Sarah says nothing.

***

“Would you prefer to travel along Main Street or take the path by the river?” I have always allowed my detainees to choose their route to the gates. A small gesture but one I hope is appreciated.

Sarah isn’t the first to refuse me an answer. Tight lipped, she stares ahead as if I’m not even there.

“If you have no preference, we’ll take Main Street.”

Still, Sarah offers no response. She’s tough. She might just survive out there.

As we walk, she pushes her shoulders back and her chest out. Her shoulder blades are visible through the thin fabric of her dress. If I imagined hard enough, the protrusions could be a pair of wings. Wings about to blossom from her body and carry her to freedom.

“We will inform your mother,” I say gently as we pass under the Grand Arch. “We could inform him too. If you tell me his name.”

Sarah stops and slowly turns her body toward mine. We are in the centre of the cobbled road that cuts an unwavering line through the centre of the city. Despite the early hour, stores are opening their shutters. A fellow Guardian is drinking tea outside the cafe with the wisteria-covered walls. She is not wearing her robes but I know her. I can feel her. She raises her eyes from her newspaper. She glances at Sarah and begins to stand but I twitch my fingers at her: Wait. Not yet.

For a long moment, Sarah and I stare at each other. She has sucked in her cheeks. Her charcoal eyes graze my face as she examines my features.

“I will never speak his name. Not to you. Not to anyone.” She moves closer. Our arms are still intertwined. As she presses hers to her side, it pinches my elbow. Her strength surprises me.

I tilt my head. “Be careful, child. My job is to take you safely to the gate. Help me to make that happen…” I nod toward the Guardian by the wisteria. She is on the cusp of the pavement, ready. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Sarah swallows hard. A vein on the side of her neck twitches. Tendrils of long brown hair fall over her face as she shakes her head and sucks in a long breath.

“Are you ready to continue?”

She releases the tension in her arm and the pressure on my elbow dissipates. “Yes,” she whispers.

“Very well.”

As we walk past the cafe, I smile at my sister. “Be well.”

She returns the gesture. “Be well, sister.”

***

Sarah offers no further resistance. After an hour’s walk, we arrive at the wall. It towers above us, bright white, glistening in the sun. We are standing in front of the gate when Sarah begin to tremble.

“What’s out there?” She looks at me as if she genuinely expects me to answer.

“Your fate,” I reply.

“How will I survive?”

“By the grace of the gods.”

At that, Sarah lets out a low, guttural growl. “Don’t you people have any thoughts? Real thoughts? Thoughts of your own?” She pulls her arm away and steps back. I reach for my knife then stop; she isn’t running.

As a rule, I don’t converse with the banished. Something about this girl, however, intrigues me. My stomach twists in a way I haven’t experienced before. Thoughts of my own? I have plenty.

When I remain silent, Sarah’s shoulders drop. As she exhales, her body softens.

“Just open the gate,” she says, turning away from me. “Let me go.”

I do as she says. I put my key into the lock and twist until it clicks. When I push the gate, sand swirls in through the crack and settles on our toes. Sarah lingers as if she is preparing to jump over a cliff.

She does not look back at me as she lifts her right foot off the ground.

“Wait—” The urgency in my voice is unfamiliar. It scratches my throat.

Sarah doesn’t move.

“What are they like? His eyes?” I am standing at her shoulder. I have never asked this question before but, somehow, I know she will answer me.

Sarah’s back rises and falls as she breathes. “If I tell you, will you do something for me?”

My heartbeat quickens. My silence tells her to continue.

When she turns, she is holding something. I do not look at it but, as she places it in my palm, my fingers curl around it. “Leave this at the foot of the fountain. Tonight.”

I dip my head.

When Sarah finally speaks, her voice is like mist. “Wonderful,” she whispers. “His eyes are... wonderful.”

***

It is a cloudless night but the moon is dimmed. In the shadows, I wait. The cold air seeps into me. I am shivering. The hours roll on, inching toward dawn, and still no one comes. Then just as I am about to turn away, something moves. A silhouette steps out of the darkness and approaches the fountain. I have seen twenty-three males in my life but I have never seen one so close. He is mesmerising, caught between boyhood and adulthood, shrouded in loose clothing with only his face and hands exposed to the night.

He raises his lithe fingers and in one swift movement, his mask is gone. My legs start to shake. If it so easy, why do more of them not free themselves?

He is staring at the fountain but I still cannot see his eyes.

I cannot see them.

He sways on the spot, then freezes. He was looking for Sarah but he has found a piece of her instead. Her locket, a small silver heart, lying on the ground where I promised I would leave it. He stoops and lifts it to him. He does not stand. He rocks on his heels, clasping the locket to his chest as if by doing so he might feel her heart beating against his. As the weight of her fate punches the breath from his lungs, he gasps. He looks up and stares into the gloom.

Now, I see them. I see his eyes.

As they fill with tears and his face crumples at its edges, I step out of the shadows. He is looking at me. His mask is on the ground and the locket is in his hand.

I want to trace my fingers over his face. I want to wipe away his tears. My skin is ice cold and yet it burns.

Is this what Wonderment feels like?