~ Caroline ~

A few days. That’s all it took—a few days that felt like hours. Everything that had once been exciting and fresh became mundane, routine. Chris had been keen for her to spend the first month or two showing her face about the growing town. Caro had spurned that idea. What was important was the man Jem. She’d leaned into her work, taken personal charge of his care.

Jem’s condition hadn’t improved. He was spending no more than the odd minute or two lucid. To begin with, Caro had furnished the nurses with instructions to seek her out immediately if ever he began to talk. Inevitably, by the time she had actually managed to get to him he’d degenerated into ramblings, or passed out. So instead the nurses were told to try and talk to him, and write down anything he told them. He’d told them nothing of substance.

“I’m sorry, Miss Caroline,” the young Janna Davis had said, contrite, when asked why her report on Jem said only that he’d awoken, “but I couldn’t think that anything he said was worth writing down.”

“Write it down anyway,” Caro had told her.

The hospital could be a lonely place. With each passing day, the Eia grew emptier, as another building was finished and filled with people. Half of the ship’s population had moved out into the town, and most of the rest stayed aboard only to sleep. That wasn’t an option for the hospital. The power demands were too great. Fyffe Peulion, the master engineer, had estimated that it would take a year or more before Essegena was capable of providing enough power to keep it running. In the meantime, they had to run off the ship’s battery.

When each shift finished, Caro made her way to the washroom at the front of the hospital, just behind the reception desk. There, she liked to run herself a hot shower and lose herself in the steam and her thoughts. Off the ship, it was a choice between hot water and running water. She couldn’t have both. So she always took her time in the washroom.

She’d worked the soap to a fine lather when she heard footsteps in the washroom. “Doctor Ballard,” came a voice, “is that you in there?”

Caro didn’t acknowledge this other, but the woman called again: “Doctor Ballard, it’s Emmeline. I wonder if I might have a word?”

She stopped the water and reached for the towel she’d hung on a rail beside. Draping it around her, she pulled the curtain of the shower back to scowl at Emmeline Maynard. Emmeline, in the time they’d spent together, had done little to endear herself to Caro. She was a corpulent woman, a bustling matron with strawberry-blonde hair and a shrill voice which she was too fond of using.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Caro asked. “I was trying to take a shower.”

“Sorry I had to interrupt you, Doctor Ballard, but there were some things I wanted to talk about before you left for the day. I was worried I mightn’t catch you.”

Caro sighed. “What’s the problem?”

“The man Jem,” said Emmeline. “It’s been nearly a month. Don’t you think it’s time we reconsidered the wisdom of keeping him alive?”

“There’s nothing to reconsider. He cannot be allowed to die.”

Emmeline shook her head. “His wounds aren’t healing. If he’s going to die sooner or later, surely we’d be better off letting him die now. The supplies we’re wasting on him could be invaluable later on.”

“Wasting? We’re not wasting a thing. We swore an oath, Doctor Maynard, every one of us. To do everything in our power to keep our patients alive and well. If you like, you can come to my office and we’ll have a read of it. There’s a copy somewhere.”

“I know the oath.” Emmeline glanced over her shoulder. “Look,” she said, her voice quietened to little more than a whisper. “I wanted to speak to you here because Staniforth won’t come in.” She had a fair point. Rupert Staniforth was a surly, self-confident doctor with a strict code of chivalry. To enter a room where women were showering would be to dishonour everything he held dear to him.

Caro frowned. “What does Staniforth have to do with anything?”

“He’s after your job,” said Emmeline. “He wants a coup. Thinks if he can find some pretext to bring you down, he’ll be able to walk into the top job and get all the glamour that goes with it. I thought you should know.”

“So why come in here kicking off about supplies? You could have just said what needed to be said.”

Emmeline shook her head. “I stand by it. Staniforth will use anything against you, and I do mean anything. We run low on supplies because of your pig-headedness, and that’s his attack written for him.”

Caro pondered that. She couldn’t speak to Staniforth’s tenacity, but if it was half of what she expected it to be he’d keep poking her with sticks until he found a crack. And then he’d turn that crack into a gaping hole.

Chris wouldn’t have her back. The realisation came suddenly, setting a sheet of ice over her heart. He’d fill her ear with sweetness, gift her expensive silks, but he’d cut her loose to save his reputation. The colony was too important to him. She’d be less than a woman. The Caroline who didn’t wear scrubs was a piece in Chris’ great plan, without a bone of individuality.

But that didn’t mean she could just let Jem die.

“It’s too soon to make any decisions,” she said. “A few days and maybe I’ll reconsider. For now, nothing is to change. And that’s an order, Emmeline.”

Emmeline smiled thinly at her. “You’re the boss.” She turned without another word and left the washroom.

Caro glanced back at the shower, and mulled going back for a second run. The water would have cooled by now, and she couldn’t really be bothered to wait for it to heat up again. And anyway, she was almost dry. She finishing towelling off and threw some clothes on quickly.

In the reception room, she found George Prendergast waiting for her. He wore, in addition to his usual doublet, a long tunic, that fell almost to the floor. He sneered, and Caro scowled at him. The Hookbill was a slimy little fellow, his waxy skin stretched over gaunt cheekbones, whose machinations had deprived Armand of a place in the colony. That was enough for Caro to despise him. When she saw he’d waited around to catch her, she nearly hit him. But Viola Watling was at the reception desk watching, and a bloke with a bleeding finger was sat at the opposite side of the waiting room.

“My dear Mistress Ballard,” the Hookbill began—making her sound like an old lady who sold scones and jam from a garden lined with foxgloves. “I’d hoped we might talk.”

She must have given him an especially frosty glare, if the way he recoiled was any indication. Not good. ‘A Heramey always smiles for her enemies’, Nana Raine had always said. Save the scowls for later solitude. “What’s the matter?” She made sure to glue a sweet smile to her face when she spoke.

“There’s somebody who you’d be well-advised to meet.”

“Is that your opinion or someone’s that matters?”

The Hookbill bristled. He parted his lips, showing his tongue as he ran it across his teeth. “I’m not here to exchange insults. I know you are a Foresleeper.”

“A lie.” Caro tried to keep her voice calm. She looked over at Viola, busy writing something in the ledger. What if she could hear? Being a Foresleeper wasn’t something to advertise. Those people who wouldn’t assume she was a malicious actor would pity her, and think her unsuitable for proper employment. Even a rumour could end her career. People of greater importance had been left dead when the word ‘Foresleeper’ was whispered too loudly around them. The purge of the augurs hadn’t even been twenty years ago. Anybody who saw things in their dreams was taken away—the Augur of Leiandrice, who spoke with the voice of all women, had been arrested; the High Commissioner himself had been toppled and killed. They’d come for Nana Raine, too. She’d sworn and spat like an old goat as they carried her away, and her heart had given out before they took her wherever it was they took the Foresleepers.

And so Caro was always on edge when the word was brought up.

It didn’t help that it was true. Sometimes, the dreams she had were more vivid than normal. They whispered secret truths to her, concealed in obscure visual metaphors. It was a gift she’d inherited from her mother, who had in turn inherited it from her mother. But she didn’t talk about it. Even Chris didn’t know. There was no way the Hookbill could have. He was guessing, that was the only explanation, and it just happened that he’d guessed right.

But it was a damaging guess.

Worse, the Hookbill knew it. “Is that so?” His voice, soft as a whisper, disarmed her for a second. Then she snapped to reality.

“I’ll be returning to my quarters now,” she said, speaking tersely. “If you have more to say, I suggest you say it while I walk.”

And that he did. She moved at a brisk pace, hoping she could walk faster than him, but his legs were longer. He’d caught up before she got across the reception room.

“First thing’s first,” she said, once they were in a corridor without other people. “Where are you getting your information? Nobody knows about me. How come you do?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it obvious?”

For the second time in a few minutes, she could have hit him. In fact, her hands had balled into tight fists without her noticing, the skin pressed pale. “If you’re going to be obtuse, if you’re going to talk in riddles, if you want to keep being a twat, then you might as well find someone else to talk to. I’m not in the mood. I’ve just finished a long night shift. Now I want to see my husband. Every second we spend talking is a second wasted, as far as I’m concerned. So consider this your last chance. Get to your point.”

“Haven’t your dreams warned you not to treat me like a child?”

“Funnily enough, you don’t feature in my dreams.”

The Hookbill cleared his throat. “Would it surprise you to learn that you aren’t the only Foresleeper on this planet? You might try to hide it, but the signs are there. Your eyes, for instance. They’re the brightest green I’ve ever seen.”

She never meant to, but she stopped moving. “I was always told there were no physical signs.”

The Hookbill’s lip twitched. “Oh, don’t worry. Most people won’t notice. It’s very subtle. But once you notice it, it’s impossible to miss—you’re a misaligned plug socket on an otherwise-symmetrical wall.”

“You’ve never been with a girl, have you?”

“Once.” The sarcasm went straight over his head. Instead, the mood turned to melancholy. And was that a tear sparkling on his eye, just for a second, before he blinked it away? “My wife is long dead. My children, too. Their graves are now beneath a school.” He snapped back to normal—the slimy version of normal that he embodied—in an instant. “Tell me, how long have you known about your... sight?”

How long was it? She remembered having bad dreams, a long time ago. Dreams of a needle in her thigh. She’d just had her shots. Father said that was a natural thing for little girls to dream about. Nana Raine asked questions—silly questions, like the colour of the needle, and what the air smelled like. When Caro had a dream about the jackdaws in their tower, Nana Raine had told her about her curse. That had been near thirty years ago now.

The Hookbill nodded when she gave him the figure. “You’ve lived with it for your whole life. Learned not to let it show. Only a select few would be able to spot you.”

“Including you?”

“I’m very skilled. There are some people for whom these dreams are a new terror.”

Caro frowned. “Is that so?”

“Her name is Bessily,” said the Hookbill. “I’ve told her you will meet her in the Tavern, this afternoon. To talk.”

“And if I don’t?”

The Hookbill shrugged. “Whether you do or don’t meet the girl is of no consequence to me,” he said. “But it would be a real pity if such a vulnerable young thing was allowed to feel abandoned, when she most needed a friend.”

He slunk away, gathering the trailing folds of his tunic in hand and disappearing somewhere into the depths of the Eia. When he was gone, Caro let out a relieved breath.

She wasn’t quite sure why she went to the plaza. Leaving the Hookbill, she’d intended to spend the afternoon in Chris’ company. That would justify not showing up to meet this Bessily. But Chris had buggered off an hour or so after she made it back, to do some urgent work that he’d apparently just thought of. It was boring on her own.

For a while she’d thumbed through a book of old folk stories that Ian Fitzhenry had given her years ago. The cover was falling apart, and she knew all the stories, but it was her go-to, whenever she wanted a distraction. Knowing how everything would end made it easier for her to just let the words wash over her, to let another’s life become hers for a little while. On all her darkest nights, she’d read from the book. The story of the boy on the log had warmed her heart the day Chris turned her down. Mallent the swan had cheered her up when Freya Warlin fell. She’d escaped from the spectre of Nana Raine’s death with the little king of Averache.

Every page of the book was imprinted with memories, and they all came flooding forward with full force when she tried to read. She set the book aside and settled for silence. When the silence became boredom, she’d set off for the Tavern.

In the end, she was glad she went. The walk from her chambers to the plaza was a long and quiet one, and it had quickly turned introspective for her. It would upset Bessily if she just didn’t appear. That wasn’t fair. She’d been let down herself in the past.

And Bessily would be scared, presumably. Those dreams were not pleasant.

She took a seat at a table far to the back of the Tavern, where she could watch the doorway. Not that she knew who to look out for. The Hookbill hadn’t described Bessily to her, nor had she ever met the girl.

Caro was recognisable though, that much she knew. It went with the territory of being married to the Governor, especially having an uncommon hair colour. She’d deliberately worn her hair loose and flowing, in the hopes that Bessily would recognise her.

A petite blonde waitress came by to give her a cup of water and a menu on vellum, which she studied thoroughly. Every meal on offer sounded like a gourmet. If only she hadn’t filled up on chunks of chocolate while she’d been reading. She made a note to come back here another time, when she had an appetite. Maybe she could even bring Chris.

Her water was nearly gone when the young woman appeared. She’d pushed open the door to the eatery slowly, walked in almost hesitantly, and quickly slunk into the nearest vacant seat. Caro had watched her all the while. Eventually, after looking sheepishly to left and right a few times, the woman stood up again, and sidled up to Caro’s table.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for Mistress Ballard.”

“You’ve found her, sweet,” said Caro. “Take a seat. Can I assume you’re Bessily?”

Bessily nodded. She had the bright shining emeralds for eyes that the Hookbill had said was the Foresleeper’s tell. They were set amidst a soft, rose-cheeked face. Her hair, black as silk, was tied crudely away, and her hands and clothes were stained with dirt. It made her incongruous amongst the Tavern’s clientele, most of whom—moreso than Caro—had dressed up in the high fashions of the Unity elite. More than a few dirty looks had headed her way.

Caro waved over to the waitress, signalling for two more cups of water. “I understand you’re having some trouble with dreams.”

“Nightmares. I think I’m losing my mind.”

It struck Caro just how young Bessily was. She must have been barely in her twenties, almost young enough to be her daughter. She put a hand on Bessily’s. “No, sweet, you’re not losing your mind. Dreams are a fickle beast. Tell me about them.”

“They don’t come every night,” said Bessily. “I mean, I do have dreams every night, but they’re normally just ordinary ones. These ones are different, they’re...” She spun a finger round in the air as she fumbled for the right word. “They feel almost—”

“Real?” Caro offered, and the girl nodded.

“More real than real, if that makes sense. I know as soon as they start, and I hate it. It feels like I’m intruding.” Bessily’s voice seemed to be piping more as she relayed her experiences. “It’s like I’m seeing things I shouldn’t be seeing, and my body knows it, so it just feels sick all over. You probably think I’m insane.”

Caro shook her head. “If I thought you were insane, I’d be referring you to a psychiatrist. There are plenty of them.”

Bessily smiled a little at that. “I wonder if perhaps a psychiatrist would do me good.”

“They have their place. It isn’t here. These dreams—what happens in them?”

“All sorts. Sometimes it’s happy things. A mother and a child, a field of flowers in spring, stuff like that.”

“Aqueous lilies?” She’d dreamt of flowers too. A happy dream, in a happy place, underscored by unhappy words.

Bessily nodded. “Hundreds of them. Thousands. Like soldiers all lined up.”

“And is there a hill behind them? An old crumbling tower, with jackdaws nesting in it?”

The girl’s eyes shot open. “Have you had the same dream?”

“It’s not impossible,” Caro agreed. In truth, she’d had it a few times. It was worse than most. The flowers were nice, sure, but there was always a dark voice coming from somewhere she could never place, saying words she could neither hear nor understand. And she always walked towards the tower. She’d never got all the way to it. The dread grew slowly, but it was undeniable.

“Once, I walked to the tower,” Bessily said. “It was like I didn’t have any choice. I was there sniffing the flowers, and then I sort of forgot them. There was only the tower—and the closer I got, the more important it seemed to be that I carried on going. Like my heart might explode if I dared to stop. The jackdaws flew away when I got too close.”

Caro had never got that close. “What was inside the tower? What did you see?” It was a struggle to keep her tone measured, and belie the pang of excitement she’d suddenly felt.

She didn’t answer.

“Two cups of water.” The waitress appeared from nowhere and set the cups down on the table. Her voice was velvet, feather-light. “And would you like anything to eat?”

“Not just yet,” said Caro. “But perhaps in a little bit.”

“Of course,” smiled the waitress. Gathering her skirts, she span around and vanished into the throng.

Bessily had a doleful look about her. Her brows were set leaden-heavy above her eyes. “How do I make these dreams stop?”

Caro wished she could give Bessily the answer she wanted. She’d asked herself the same question, many times over, staring at her reflection in the bedchamber mirror and demanding that she fix herself. If she hadn’t had a relative to help her... People had been institutionalised for less. At the height of the purge, actually being a Foresleeper was unnecessary. The High Commissioner had been impeached and arrested for daring to defend his people. Commissioner Lougherie had died in incarceration despite never having a prophetic dream in his life.

Caro had been young then, but she’d understood plain. The dreams weren’t going to go away.

She felt like a bitch for telling Bessily that, especially as bluntly as she did, but it was needful. The girl couldn’t labour under false belief.

“It doesn’t have to be a bad thing, though,” she said. “You get to see things nobody else gets to.”

“Things I don’t want to see. I’d rather they were just dreams, just stupid, meaningless dreams.” Bessily lifted her cup and tipped it back, spilling water all down her front.

Caro was conscious that Bessily’s voice was getting louder. Her attire was already drawing odd looks from some of the nearby patrons. If they felt inclined to listen in, it might turn into a witch-hunt. She gestured at Bessily to quieten a little. “Please don’t shout, sweet. We don’t want people overhearing.”

“Sorry,” said Bessily, overcorrecting and speaking with a voice so quiet Caro could barely hear her. “These dreams... do they have to come true?”

She shook her head. “Most of the time they’re only dreams. There might be a message, perhaps a feeling, but you’re not literally seeing the future. Things change, Bessily. We have free will. You’d be surprised at how well even the best laid plans get torn apart by people just doing their own thing. We’re unpredictable.”

They talked for some time after that. Bessily was full of questions; she alternated between asking them with the eager enthusiasm of a curious child, and probing softly as though she feared the answers she’d find. The girl was frustratingly vague, describing her dreams in only the broadest terms, and seldom straying to detail. On occasion, she gave some hint at her life, or her worries, before she realised what she was saying and clammed up. Pressing for information only rewarded Caro with silence.

Bessily did seem keen to learn more about the Foresleepers, not that Caro knew much to tell her. Nana Raine had told her that the Foresleeper’s dream could be prophetic, but not how, and she’d shared very little history. Caro had had to learn that for herself. It was a sad history from start to finish.

“It used to be said that the Foresleeper was a vessel of the Gods,” she said, trying to think of something that didn’t end up with the death of the Foresleeper. “In the primitive cultures, a Foresleeper was worshipped. Adem, they were called. They were the ones chosen to be kings and holy men.” Until the next dreamer came along, and the old one was cast aside. But she left that part unsaid. Even when she’d tried, she hadn’t been able to think of a truly cheerful story. She wasn’t sure if any Foresleeper had ever had a happy life.

“That doesn’t happen anymore,” said Bessily, with a grimace. “People don’t even talk to me—except the girls in my tenement, and that’s only because we’re living in the same building. I can tell that they can’t stand me.”

“What gives you that impression, sweet?”

Bessily shrugged. “Experience, I suppose. A lifetime of it.” Her voice was small. “Essegena was supposed to be my clean start.”

Caro could have wept. Instead, she leaned across the table and pulled Bessily into a tight hug. “There’s no reason it can’t be,” she said. “You seem like a sweet girl, Bessily. Of course people will want to be friends with you.”

“Not when I tell them I’m a Foresleeper.”

“Well, no. But perhaps you could not tell them that.”

She let go of Bessily, whose eyes seemed to be glinting now. “Are there others here?”

Caro shook her head. “I’ve not heard of any. It’s not something people shout about, you understand. If you need to talk to anybody, you come to me. You never know who you can trust.”

“But I can trust you?”

“Always.”

She left Bessily just as the sun was beginning its descent. A stillness had settled over the valley, cool and gentle, holding with it the scent of pine needles. Just like that lonely dream she often had—a woman calling for absent friends, and hearing only silence in return. The dream was sad, but filled with hope. There was always a light over the trees in her dream, a voice on the edge of the wind’s breath. The promise that tomorrow would come and the hard days would end. A sweet thought indeed. She smiled to think of it.