Strife loomed over the Kongo. War, fever, and the New Seed. Many would die. I sighed. Many had already died. I thought of the slain and allowed myself a single tear. It traveled down my chin to my desk, where I wiped it away.

I reined in my emotions. Robin was gone, and I hadn’t said goodbye. Never again would I wait to make amends, as I had with her. When I saw William next, I would apologize, first thing. He would welcome me and, with a single word—Papa—I would bind every wound between us. Then, in my first act as Senator, I would issue him a formal invitation to Hasting. For my second act, I would arrange for myself to record his story.

I opened the leather journal, and wrote For William on the front cover. I stared at it a long while then added, the Whittler. It seemed right somehow that this journal, my gift from the Party, should be given to him. More, it was right that I, his daughter, should be the one to record his story in it. I hugged the book to my chest. What wisdom he gained in his life with my mother was my birthright, and I would claim it tomorrow.

Back to the Pit

BACK TO THE PIT

I slept deeply that night, more than I had in years. When I woke, I found the kitchen maid had disappeared. Two packages had been delivered. The first, I knew instinctually, was from William. Somehow, he’d snuck into my room and left my pack from the oasis. Inside were the parchment rolls of stories I’d collected, as well as my spare pair of leggings, my Helix and the wooden boomerang he’d made me. I picked up the Helix. It warmed immediately and composed itself into its basic form. I tossed it up into the air, testing its weight in my hand. It was as cumbersome as ever. I replaced its sheath and returned it to my bag.

As promised, the second package was from Jones. I opened the folder, slipped beneath my door in the night, to find an essay written in stylized calligraphy. We’d been trained to produce the uniform script since primary school. So the handwriting in this essay would be indistinguishable from any other student’s. Without reading it, I put the essay in a small sack along with quills and ink.

Instead of a skirt and blouse, I slipped on my leggings and vest. I draped my aura over them both. I folded the bambi in pleats and wrapped it around my hips and shoulders, before securing it with a broad belt around my waist. I looked in the mirror with some satisfaction. The tight binding still hobbled my knees but, beneath all the material, my britches were undetectable. And, beneath my britches, my ruby knife warmed my leg.