The silence grew tighter and tighter. It was possible to imagine the sound of hoofbeats.
Sidney spoke again, and it was like something breaking. “World War One is exactly the kind of stupid-ass war that would never happen today.” His voice, which normally is like peaches in syrup, was high and tight. “I mean, what if Czar, um—”
“Nicholas,” I supplied. “Nicholas the Second, Nicholas Romanov.”
“What if his kids had been held hostage somewhere? Is he really gonna go off and defend Italy—”
“France,” I said.
“Is he really going to go off and fight for a meaningless alliance if someone is going to shoot his kids in the head?”
We did not actually know what the Swan Riders did to us. When wars were declared, the hostage children of the warring parties went with the Rider to the grey room. They did not come back. A bullet to the brain was a reasonable and popular guess.
Shoot his kids . . . The idea hung there, shuddering in the air, like the after-ring of a great bell.
“I—” said Sidney. “I. Sorry. That’s what my dad would call a fucking unfortunate image.”
Brother Delta made a chiding tock. “I really don’t think, Mr. Carlow, that there is any cause for such profanity.” The old machine paused. “Though I realize this is a stressful situation.”
A laugh tore out of Sidney—and from outside the window came a flash.
The Rider was upon us. The sun struck off the mirrored parts of her wings.
Sidney grabbed my hand. I felt a surge of hot and cold, as if Sidney were electric, as if he had wired himself straight into my nerves.
It surely could not be that he had never touched me before. We had been sitting side by side for years. I knew the hollow at the nape of his neck; I knew the habitual curl of his hands. But it felt like a first touch.
I could feel my heartbeat pounding in the tips of my fingers.
The Rider came out of the apple orchard and into the vegetable gardens. She swung down from her horse and led it toward us, picking her way, careful of the lettuce. I counted breaths to calm myself. My fingers wove through Sidney’s, and his through mine, and we held on tight.
At the goat pen the Swan Rider looped the reins around the horse’s neck and pumped some water into the trough. The horse dipped its head and slopped at it. The Rider gave the horse a little pat, and for a moment paused, her head bowed. The sunlight rippled from the aluminum and the glossy feathers of her wings, as if she were shaking.
Then she straightened, turned, and walked toward the main doors of the hall, out of our view.
Our room hung in silence. Filled with a certain unfortunate image.
I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. I could do this. The Swan Rider would call my name, and I would go with her. I would walk out well.
Maybe—I found a scrap of doubt, not quite a wish—it wouldn’t be Sidney and me. There were other conflicts in the world. There was always Grego. The ethnic disputes in the Baltic were always close to boiling over, and Grego had spent a lifetime afraid. There was Grego, and there were littler children in the other classrooms, children from all over the world. It would be a terrible thing to hope for that, but—
We heard footsteps.
Sidney was crushing my knuckles. My hand throbbed, but I did not pull away.
The door slid open.
For a moment I could cling to my doubts, because it was only our Abbot, shuffling into the doorway. “Children,” he said, in his gentle, dusty voice. “I’m afraid there is bad news. It’s an intra-American conflict. The Mississippi Delta Confederacy has declared war on Tennessee and Kentucky.”
“What?” said Sidney. His hand ripped out of mine.
My heart leapt. I felt dizzy, blind, sick with joy. I was not going to die; only Sidney was. I was not going to die. Only Sidney.
He was on his feet. “What? Are you sure?”
“If I were not sure, Mr. Carlow, I would not bring you such news,” said the Abbot. He eased himself aside. Behind him stood the Swan Rider.
“But my father,” said Sidney.
It would have been his father who’d made the decision to declare war—and made it knowing that it would send a Swan Rider here.
“But,” said Sidney. “But he’s my dad—”
The Rider took a step forward, and one of her wings bumped against the doorframe. They tipped sideways. She grabbed at the harness strap. Dust puffed out from wings and coat. “Children of Peace,” she said, and her voice cracked. Anger flashed through me. How dare she be clumsy, how dare she be tongue-tied? How dare she be anything less than perfect? She was supposed to be an angel, the immaculate hand of Talis, but she was just a girl, a white girl with a chickadee cap of black hair and sorrow-soft blue eyes. She swallowed before trying again. “Children of Peace, a war has been declared. By order of the United Nations, by the will of Talis, the lives of the children of the warring parties are declared forfeit.” And then: “Sidney James Carlow, come with me.”