The Veil
Authors: Cory Putman Oakes
VEIL
VEIL
Cory Putman Oakes
Copyright
©
2011
All rights reserved. With the exception of quoting brief passages for the purposes of review, no part of this publication may be reproduced without prior written permission from the publisher.
ISBN-10: 0-9829131-6-8
ISBN-13: 978-0-9829131-6-1
Printed in the United States of America
Table of ContentsThe Veil
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
7. “A Tender Grief That Is Not Woe”
11. The Last Will and Testament of Mrs. Harriet J. Goodrich
For Mark:
My husband, my love, and my partner in all things
“H
OW WILL IT HAPPEN?
” I asked. “I mean, if they decide to—”
“They won’t,” Luc said flatly.
“But if they do,” I persisted. “How do they do it, exactly?”
Luc took my hands and squeezed them between his; for a moment, his deep green eyes were fiercer than I had ever seen them before. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Addy. That’s a promise. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Okay. But
theoretically,
how would it happen?”
Luc gave me an exasperated look, but I took my hands back and crossed my arms over my chest. I was absolutely determined not to let this go. I needed to know—I
deserved
to know—what the worst possible outcome of my situation was.
As I watched him, frowning to himself and inwardly debating whether or not to answer me, I made myself a promise: I was not going to panic. No matter what he said, no matter how bad it was, I was going to remain calm. If only to prove to him that I could.
He sighed. “Burning,” he said finally.
“
Burning
!” I very nearly shrieked, totally forgetting my promise of approximately two seconds ago. “You mean, as in
at the stake
?”
“Yes,” he said.
I couldn’t believe it.
“Do you mean,” I began, certain I must have heard him wrong, “when the Annorasi decide to execute someone they
burn them at the stake
? Like in medieval Europe, or some horror film?”
Luc closed for his eyes for a moment, and I could tell that he was already deeply regretting having answered my question.
“You have to understand,” he said slowly. “The Annorasi very rarely execute anyone. Most of us don’t believe in the taking of life, human or otherwise. In our world, death is an extremely rare punishment.”
“I would hope so,” I mumbled. I was trying very hard to keep my thudding heart from bursting right through the front of my chest. “But
burning
?”
Luc shrugged. “Historically, in your world and in mine, execution has always been just as much about making a statement to others as it is about punishing the guilty party. You have to admit, burning someone at the stake makes quite a statement. But execution is only imposed for the most extreme crimes. Things like mass murder, genocide, or the higher forms of treason.”
Or, in my case, just being born.
Luc took my hands again and forced me to look at him. “If I really thought it was something you needed to worry about, I wouldn’t have told you,” he said. “You believe me, don’t you, Addy? Promise me you are not going to worry about this.”
I nodded, numbly.
“Out loud,” he insisted. “Say you promise—”
“I promise,” I said quickly. My voice sounded oddly flat, not like my own at all.
That was the first time I ever lied to Luc.
——
I
T
’
S HARD TO KNOW EXACTLY
where to begin a story like mine. I could do as David Copperfield did and begin with my birth (who can argue with Dickens?), but there’s a lot of boring stuff between then and now I doubt you’d be interested in.
I could start with the day my parents died, or the day not long after that when Gran and I left England and moved to Novato, a small town just outside San Francisco in northern California. But I was only six years old when all of that happened, and I’m still a bit fuzzy on the details.
I could tell you all about my primary school years, my middle school years, and my first two years at Marin County High School, but to tell you the truth, nothing particularly exciting happened during those years of my life either—certainly nothing you’d want to waste your time reading about. I was a pretty normal kid; I was rather depressingly uninteresting, actually.
So I think I’ll start on the day things started to
get
interesting for me: my seventeenth birthday. The day I got my first glimpse of the Annorasi world.
The day Lucas Stratton spoke to me for the very first time.
But more about him, later . . .
——
My seventeenth birthday started out like any other day. I woke up to the static blare of my alarm clock, which, as usual, seemed to be between stations, despite the fact that I set the dial carefully the night before.
I showered quickly so the bathroom wouldn’t have a chance to fog up. I spent a little bit more time than usual blow-drying my shoulder-length, strawberry blonde hair, which was more strawberry than blonde now that the bleaching summer sun was a distant memory. When my hair was reasonably straight and my face properly moisturized, I threw on my usual jeans and, after a moment of thought, my new white sweater. I’d bought it over a month ago with the rest of my back-to-school things, but I had yet to wear it for some reason. I wasn’t saving it for anything in particular, and since it
was
my birthday, it seemed as good a day as any to try it out.
When I opened my bedroom door, I was immediately stared down by eleven pairs of impatient, hungry eyes—the same eyes that greeted me every morning.
Gran’s eleven cats followed me, like a long, furry cape, downstairs and to the back of the house where their food and water bowls were lined up neatly against the laundry room wall. I dutifully scooped food into each bowl, then made my way back down the line with a bottle of tap water, stepping carefully to avoid the tails and paws of the breakfasting cats, and gave them each a bit of fresh water.
Only Rialto, the oldest of the cats and Gran’s favorite, paused to thrust his enormous, black and white head underneath my hand in thanks for the meal.
I didn’t bother with breakfast for myself. I stuck my head in the fridge only to grab the bag lunch Gran left for me every morning.
This particular morning, there was a perfect red rose taped to the side of the bag, along with a note:
Happy birthday, Addy! Dinner and cake tonight.
Love G
That’s my name, by the way—Addy. Addy Russell. And yes, before you even ask, Addy is my
full
first name. It’s not a nickname, and it’s not short for anything. At least, it wasn’t back then. Addy has always been my name, even back before my last name was Russell.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I tucked my lunch, rose and all, carefully into my black messenger bag, then grabbed my coat from where I had left it on the couch in the living room and headed out the front door of the house.
You know that house on your block, the dark, spooky one with the big iron fence around it and the overgrown front yard? The one little kids dare each other to approach on Halloween, and where the strange noises come from? I live in that house.
I use the word
house
loosely here. It’s actually more like a mansion, although all of the rooms in the east wing have been boarded off for as long as I can remember. The only rooms we actually use are the ones in the west wing, but that’s plenty of space for the thirteen of us (me, Gran, and the cats). It’s exactly the sort of house you’d expect someone with eleven cats to live in.
Because of the enormous house, a lot of people assumed Gran was rich. I couldn’t have said for sure, not back then, but what I did know was that there always seemed to be more than enough money for all of the things she and I (and the cats) needed. She probably could have afforded to hire someone to spruce up the front yard and give the house a fresh coat of paint, but those kinds of things never occurred to her. Money and appearances didn’t matter to Gran.
Gran’s car—actually, I thought of it as
my
car because I was the only one who ever drove it—was perfectly in keeping with the general theme of things in Gran’s world; it was an ancient Oldsmobile that was once powder blue before the rust stains obscured most of the paint job. She’d had the car for the entire
time we’d lived together, and I couldn’t recall her ever taking it in for a service, or even a wash. But even though it
looked
like a car you might see abandoned on the side of the freeway, I’d never had the slightest bit of trouble with it. Thank goodness, because I wouldn’t have had any idea what to do if anything ever did go wrong. I’ve never been into cars.
It was a short drive from Gran’s house to Grant Avenue, where I lucked into a parking spot directly in front of Sully’s Bakery & Cafe.
Sully’s was bustling, as it always was at this time of the morning. I could see Nate rushing around frantically behind the espresso bar, his untidy head of brown hair bobbing up and down as steam hissed, metal clanged, and acoustic guitar music floated in the background. The crowd of people gathered impatiently around the coffee pick-up area reminded me of the cats lurking outside my door in the morning. I breathed in the scent of coffee and waited patiently for a lull so I could catch Nate’s eye.
Nathan Whitting was my best friend since the first day of first grade, right after I moved here from England. Our friendship sprung, at least initially, from the simple fact that Nate was the only kid in the class who didn’t seem to find my accent tease-worthy. In fact, it was Nate who taught me how to speak American English like a true, apple pie–loving Pilgrim. Sometimes, even now, when I pronounce certain words, I can hear a bit of his voice in mine.