Elite

Patches of darkness filled Sylvie’s sight and breath escaped her. The air in the room grew so heavy that she had to steady herself against the wall. Surely she had misheard him—her imagination inventing the confession, but the raw honesty on Doc’s face chased her uncertainty away. Sylvie opened to mouth to beg an explanation, anything to help her understand the implications of what she was hearing, but hers was not the voice that filled the room.

“Doc!” Anne’s call resonated through the tiny office moments before her panicked face arrived at the door. “We need you! One of the girl’s fever is spiking and I cannot get it down. Please hurry.” Doc, without hesitation, followed Anne out of room, leaving Sylvie alone inside. She stood there staring aimlessly out the open door.

She knew she should move—follow the others to face the emergency unfolding outside—but her body was motionless. How could she go on like nothing had happened? Like her whole world had not just been turned on its head? Sylvie had spent the last five years convinced the Rebels, these Rebels, had stolen her mother away from her only to find that their leader gave his own daughter her namesake. Something did not add up. She needed answers, but when she found herself back inside the clinic she knew they would not be given today.

Anne ran from bed to bed checking temperatures and dolling out cool compresses all the while managing to stay calm despite the panic behind her eyes. Cries of weakness and pain filled the air in a deafening crescendo, each one slicing away at Sylvie like a death of 1,000 cuts. The Elite in her wanted to turn away, to concentrate on her own problems, but the person she was becoming wouldn’t let that happen.

Rolling up her sleeves, Sylvie fell in line next to Anne and together they managed the chaos with determination and grace. Before Sylvie knew it, the hours had disappeared along with the warm glow of the sun. Twilight had wrapped itself around them by the time she and Anne started to head back to their rooms. The Doc had long since retired—still fatigued from his three day trip and the rest of the little community was quiet as if recuperating from the excitement of the night before.

But Sylvie’s night was just beginning.

After grabbing something quick to eat to silence her growling stomach, Sylvie hurried to the showers to wash away the day. It was the same routine as every other night, but anticipation and excitement had lightened her step.

Clean from the showers, Sylvie worked the knots from her black mane and with practiced fingers, wove the strands into a long braid that lay over one of her delicate shoulders. Satisfied, she dressed herself. But for the time since she’d arrived, Sylvie fretted over what she had to wear. What she wouldn’t give for something that celebrated her body rather than hiding it beneath yards of shapeless fabric.

Not that it mattered; she already knew things like that didn’t matter to Jack. Her heart fluttered at the thought of him and the memory of his lips on hers. Tonight he promised to tell her everything, but little had she known at the time just how crucial that information would be. He had to know about her mother.

And soon enough, so would she.

Jules was waiting for her when Sylvie returned to the communal room. She sat on Sylvie’s bunk and looked up expectantly when she approached the door. “You’re feeling better,” Jules said, rising to her feet. She smiled enthusiastically and while Sylvie returned the expression, the girl’s sharp happiness was like a knife to her.

Guilt became the thief of her joy.

Hurting Jules was the last thing Sylvie ever wanted to do, but she had done it. And the worst part was, she knew she would do it again. “Much better,” Sylvie replied, her shame making it impossible to meet the girl’s eyes. Instead, she stepped past her and climbed quickly under the thin coverlet on her bed. “Just a little tired.”

“You should have stayed in bed today,” Jules sad, making Sylvie wince at the double meaning of her suggestion. Jules definitely would have voted for staying in bed if she had known how Sylvie had spent the morning out of it. Or if she suspected Sylvie’s plan to leave it again later that night.

“The Doc said I was fine,” Sylvie said chasing away Jules concern with at least part of the truth. “Besides, the clinic was really busy today, Anne needed all the help she could get.”

“What happened,” Jules asked, halting in her nature of making her bed before laying down in it.

“Is everyone ok?” Sylvie could see Jules knuckles turn white as she held onto her pillow waiting for an answer. It never failed. Jules always found time to worry and care for others. And it made Sylvie love and hate her at the same time. She was so like Georgina, the woman in the story Jack had given her. Perfect in every way, save a birthmark. Sylvie felt lucky that her own imperfections could not be seen.

“Everyone is fine,” she said smiling kindly at the tender girl. “We managed to break every fever and everyone was resting comfortably when we left.”

“That’s wonderful,” Jules said and fluffed her pillow free of the marks of her woe.

“Anne told me what a great help you have been to her. They are very lucky to have you,” Jules settled herself into her tidy bed, just as her words settled into Sylvie’s heart.

“Thank you,” Sylvie said trying not to choke on the lump they formed in her throat. Rolling on her side she pulled her knees into her chest and tucked her hands under her face. Sylvie pinched her eyes closed and tried to ignore Jules sweet words that played on a continuous loop in her head. But the harder she tried to block them out, the louder they grew until they became an undeniable scream.

Throwing herself onto her back, Sylvie fixed her eyes so intently on the dark ceiling and was as if what she had to do was written there for her instruction. She would meet Jack tonight but only for the information she needed. She may not be able to help the way she felt about the blue-eyed boy, but she could control what she did about it.

***

It wasn’t long before the collective hush of sleep fell over Sylvie’s room. She trained her eyes on Jules next to her and tried to make out her breathing in the darkness. Once she was satisfied that the soft ebb and flow of breath indicated sleep, Sylvie slipped soundlessly from beneath her blanket grabbing her shoes, she padded across the floor careful not to trip over anything on her way to the closed door. Sylvie held her breath as she undid the latch.

The soft click of its release sounded like a gunshot in the stillness of the room. Sylvie froze, listening for any sign of stirring and only when she was sure there no one was disturbed, did she continue outside. The moon was high and full in the sky when Sylvie slipped out onto the field. Soft hems of light cast the grounds in an almost eternal glow that felt full of promise and possibility. A familiar shadow waited for her near the rise of stars across the glassy expanse, the sight of it making her heart hammer uncontrollably in her chest. She reminded herself why she had come and ordered the butterflies in her stomach to cease in their fevered flight.

“Hello,” Jack said, greeting her as Sylvie crosses the final distance to his side.

“Hello,” she replied nervously. She ran her hand across the small crop of her bangs and down the long rope of her braid, hopeful that if she kept her hands busy she would keep them to herself. Jack, though had made no such promise, reaching out, he captured her nervous fingers in his and tugged her toward him until she was close enough for his breath to stir the soft wisps of hair around her face.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he said. And it was.

The caress of the breeze stirred the long blades of grass around them in a dance reminiscent of the one they had shared the night before. It could not have been more romantic if it had been hand picked from the heart of a poet laureate and Sylvie felt it weaken her resolve. Pulling her fingers free from where they where entwined with Jack’s, Sylvie stepped past him and slid onto the cool metal of the lowest bench. She fixed her eyes on the shadows that played across the field before her and tired not to envision him in every one.

“Is everything ok?” Jack asked, hesitating for a moment before coming to sit beside her.

“I heard something about my mother today,” Sylvie said, focusing the conversation on what was really important. “I was hoping you could tell me why Doc named his daughter after her and why no one mentioned it to me before now.”

The night was so still that Sylvie could hear Jack’s quick intake of breath at her request. It was like someone removing a bandage too quickly—too abrupt, too sharp. He had not expected her to get right to the point. But once there, there was no going back.

“We had no way of knowing what you had been told,” Jack edged. “What lie you had been forced to believe. Or how you would react to the truth.”

“The truth?” Sylvie said, her question coming out pitchy and half crazed. “What do you mean the truth?” The truth was Rebels had killed her mother. She knew it like she knew her own name. “My mother was murdered,” she said resolutely. “In a Rebel attack on New Eden.”

She could see the look on her father’s face when he told her. The solemn lines etched into his handsome face had hurt almost as much as the news he had delivered. Reidan Price had always had a smile for his daughter except for that day.

“Your mother,” Jack said, his voice threatening to crack. “Was killed during a Rebel attack but—“ He paused and Sylvie could see him ringing his hands out of the corner of her eye. “She was not killed by Rebels.”

It took a moment for what Jack was saying to sink in, but once it had, Sylvie could not believe what she was hearing. “Of course she was!” she snapped, looking at Jack for the first time that night. “If they didn’t do it, then who did?”

She glared at him—half in accusation and half in blatant defiance—daring him to contradict her truth. Jack met her stare and with a look of eternal remorse, said the two words that would change her life forever.

“Your father.”