Into Your Sun-Blessed Life

A young translator is forced to confront whether or not she has become an unwitting collaborator with the people who have invaded her home when she translates important religious texts, perhaps too well.

Novelette | 9,310 words

This was an almost perfect translation. I can still hear its music in my head.

Dea reread the words in green ink at the top of her paper. She studied each word individually, pausing at its, not it’s, not it is, then she reread each phrase, adding in her own breaks to make lines of poetry: This/was an almost perfect/translation. I can still/hear its music/in my head. Too ordinary, that enjambment at the end, she would rearrange it on paper later, make a new composition in her diary. She knew she was extending the moment of satisfaction, knew it would vanish and thus had to be savored. And now to savor the next thing: her own words, the words that elicited this wondrous praise.

In you I seek refuge, my darling God, in the warmth of your hand I look for shelter.

Neither rain nor sun shall touch me when I am in your presence, nor shadow, nor dark.

Only your light, the light of your regard, that which is a shield for me, an enclave, my home.

This went on for another half-page, and on the next page was the Lord’s response, then a brief descriptor of his clothes: robes of sea-foam green, sandals gilt with copper, a bronze headdress, crowning his small head with the weight of all magic and majesty. That alliterative m at the end had seemed indulgent when she turned her paper in, but now she quite liked it. Plus, she was still a bit drunk on that underline under darling, the way Master Salerno had written intriguing choice!! next to it. This almost made up for how the word desolate appeared twice on the second page, not more than two sentences apart. The repetition was unintentional and therefore ugly. It no longer seemed the right word in either case. She could do better. In the next paper, she would.

His detailed notes were on the back of the last page. She read hungrily, debating or approving with such focus that she didn’t at first register the last few lines, about the upcoming Blest Oration. How, with permission, he would recommend her for it. It was not typical for freshmen but he saw in her great promise. In any case, it would be a good experience and practice for future contests. He would provide more details once a date had been confirmed.

She fought the excitement rising in her body, heart thumping madly. The Blest Oration as a freshman? It was a compliment, but it made all her nerves ache. She needed to go home and digest this, journal it all out.

Dazed, she exited the classroom’s back door, instead of the front like she usually did. Having let her guard down, she came almost immediately face-to-face with the reason for this curated path: Karin was there, reading her own feedback. Dea could not help but notice a special note on her paper, too. Karin did not move, but her eyes slid to Dea’s face, for one brief, stinging moment. She only wanted to know who was passing before her. That it was Dea meant less than nothing. It had been that way for some time now and still it was frustrating, how it made her feel hot and icy simultaneously. Her shame was immediately countered by an injured rage: what did I ever do to you, that you should treat me like this?—trying to stall the thought that always followed: I miss you, I miss you so much even if I don’t want to, and maybe I’ll never stop.

It was too much, the bitter disregard. Worse still: she could not help caring.

Amadea Tesoro couldn’t remember when she started to care about being an honor student. She did remember second grade being the first time school felt like a struggle, and effort was the only way she could keep her As. That was the year of the Garden Riots. She had a clear memory of highlighting her history book with a new, lime-green highlighter, while the TV blared in the kitchen. In her memory she could also hear distant shouting and explosions, but that was probably made-up; they weren’t that close to the university. Mama and Papa were home early for some reason. Every once in a while Mama went, “Oh!” and after a certain point she started asking, “But where is he?”

The third time she asked this, Dea shouted down the stairs: “Where is who?”

“Your brother,” Papa said, irate. “Sorry, Dea, can you please go back to your room?”

She’d done so, offended; the news was boring anyway and she had a test the next day and they were being inconsiderate with the volume so loud. At some point Papa left. Shortly after that Baltazar finally came home. She knew because there was suddenly a lot of shouting downstairs. She was at a good resting point between chapters and now had the usual dilemma. She could spectate and be asked to take sides, feeling wretched the whole time; or she could wait and avoid the mess but not fully capture what happened, so that when grievances were later referenced, she would have no solid opinion. It was always like this with her parents and brother. They could not seem to agree on anything. It was another reason why she focused on school. It let her avoid these battles, and not make things worse.

Shortly after the shouting started, though, the tone of the exchange shifted. She crept to the stairs to listen. Mama went hoo, hoo, hoo. Baltazar was whispering, ominously, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” And when Dea looked over the railing, Mama was crying onto Taz’s shoulder, which was awkward because in those days, they were roughly the same height. That evening, instead of the bad, tense dinner Dea expected, they had a meal of soft words. Food was passed around with exceptional gentleness. Even stranger, classes were canceled the next day, such that Dea was torn between joy and annoyance that she’d need to retain all that hastily memorized history for longer.

Taz stayed in his room all day and did not come out, not even to eat. When she mentioned it, Mama said he was not feeling well.

The day after that was the first time Orphalean Guards were posted at the school gates. They stood hulking, inert as monuments. She could not read the solemn faces under those shining masks, for their eyes and mouths were obscured. The teachers did not mention anything about guards or rebels, did not even talk about the missed day. It was only at recess, squatting with the other kids in the Dead Flower Field, that she learned about the Garden Riots.

“I heard some students got their arms and legs blown off by grenades.”

“I heard that the way to beat the Guards is to take their masks off and chop their heads, but it’s super hard to take their masks off.”

“Do you know that senior, the captain of the football team? Apparently, he was at the Gardens, supporting the rebels. They caught him and now he’s in prison.”

That last one was of interest to Dea. Taz was on the football team. “Who? Gabriel?”

“The buff one with curly hair,” came the excited reply. That did sound like Gabriel. She could not quite imagine a real person in prison. Was that why Mama had cried so much? Who else had gone to prison? Were students really blown up? The general consensus seemed to be that at least several students had died, and a greater number were imprisoned, that they’d failed at whatever stand they were taking. And now the Guards were everywhere and would always be everywhere. Because of the university students, who’d been loud and reckless—no, brave and better than all of us—no, stupid and dead. The debates got hot and angry. No one felt like playing games for weeks, even if it hadn’t rained and the grass was the perfect dryness for tag or land-water-air.

Confirmation came in bits and pieces, over the next few weeks, then years. At some point, everyone knew what had happened and why they couldn’t talk about it. The Guards increased in number until the numbers held steady. For a year, secretly, Dea shuddered whenever she saw their glinting, golden masks, those punishing staffs they held at the ready. Then the fear faded, as did the feeling of hatred—she could not like the Guards, or Orphaleum, and what they represented, but the hatred had never felt like hers. She didn’t tell anyone this because the Visitation (or what some kids at recess boldly called the Invasion) was a very sensitive topic. It didn’t have a place in school. And those who rejected this rule faced Consequences in the form of additional work or awards stripped away or, in some cases, not being permitted to graduate. This didn’t seem worth it to Dea, who at that point had started minding her time carefully, because those Bs were not going to improve themselves.

Life at home underwent much the same curve. At first, Taz and her parents seemed oddly subdued, and there was a tense pause anytime something about the new regime was mentioned. TV was different too—they took away some of her favorite cartoons, the old ones about God’s childhood, and they came back years later dubbed horribly, with entire episodes gone. The news focused on things like what was going on in the Capital, who the latest appointees of the Emperor were, and what nice new buildings were being put up for this bank or that new theater. It was a few months before conversations normalized again, maybe a full year before Taz lost that hollowed-out look. Gabriel had in fact gone to prison, with some other seniors and juniors. Taz was there when it happened. It was a bloody miracle, Papa said once when he thought she wasn’t there, that Taz hadn’t gone to jail too—or been shot on the spot.

Now, six years later, Taz seemed mostly back to his old self. He’d enrolled at the University of Hessbon and seemed to be thriving. Dea suspected a girl—she’d seen him walking with her, talking animatedly, sometimes laughing. She thought the girl’s name was Marion but couldn’t be sure, because Taz never introduced her. It was nice to see her brother enjoying himself instead of getting into Political Debates or making her parents worry by staying out. Some other families had broken up or moved away, after the Riots. But hers remained intact. Papa was busy with his shipping work. Mama had a new job at the lab and got to wear a cool suit twice a week. Taz was playing guitar again and maybe had a girlfriend. And Dea studied hard and brought home good grades, said her prayers, tried to make her teachers like her. This was her contribution to peace.

“It is very fortunate that we were chosen for the Oration this year. The judging will be done by a panel of visiting guests. Two from Kedesh, two from Petra, and one from the Holy Capital itself. They will be, mostly, scholars of the divine. They understand the talent of our young students, and are eager to meet you and hear your work.”

Master Salerno stood behind his desk. It was hot today but he used the occasion to don his most prismatic robe, and it flashed lethally whenever he gestured. Dea was in a line of eight students, sweating before him. Four seniors, two juniors. Herself. And Karin.

“I say your work deliberately here. In the past when we’ve hosted the Blest Oration, our students used an existing translation from one of the great poets of recent history. But this year, they’ve asked that contestants come up with an original translation.” A gasp of surprise from one of the juniors. “Having practiced this yourselves in my curriculum, I have faith that all of you are up to the task. Also, you are native Hessbon speakers, which none of the judges are. I have here”—he gestured at a cluster of papers on his desk, neatly divided by paperclips—“the section of the epistles that you will translate. You must use these passages, though you are welcome to trim as befits your planned oration, which can be no longer than three minutes. Song is permitted, and slight gesture.”

He looked at them. When no questions surfaced, he continued. “Some of you may be familiar with the prize for first place. A semester of study on Lasea, and preferential review for your college application, when it is time. Not to mention the prestige, for yourselves and your families.” A small sound of acknowledgement. The senior beside Dea was tapping his foot in staccato, and she felt half of her attention following the melody against her will. “I know how talented you all are. I would recommend all of you to the committee. You may, of course, withdraw for any reason—but I urge you to consider what a distinction this invitation is.” He laid his hand on the stack of papers and fanned them out. “Take one and be dismissed.”

Dea took her copy reverentially. She knew it would be a stretch to win, but it seemed worth trying—the Oration didn’t happen every year, and it was a good chance to grab the attention of scholars from planets with better colleges. There was nothing wrong with Hessbon, of course—Dea loved it, and could not really imagine leaving—but she knew schools were better in the Great Cities. Besides, it seemed like the polite thing to do for Master Salerno, who’d always praised and encouraged her. On bad days, she’d wondered whether it was genuine, but what was this if not the greatest vote of confidence?

Some of the students said thank you and left. Dea paused to think of questions. Teachers liked questions; they filled dead air and made you look engaged. Of course, Karin had stayed too. She asked, in that clear and solemn voice, “Master, what are they going to do with the translations we make?”

“Why, Miss Santillo!” He tilted his head, like this was a strange thing to ask. Interpreted differently, she might sound suspicious, not curious. Then he said, serenely, like an angel had whispered the answer into his ear, “They’ll enjoy them, of course. As I will.”

Karin was never her best friend. But Karin had been her poetry friend. The one she’d exchanged handwritten journals with, the one who had an opinion on which version of The Lord of Light Weeps Soundly had the most moving lines (for the record, Dea’s vote was on Matarsa). From third grade, when the overall curriculum shifted to be more similar to the Capital’s, they’d shared every accelerated class, special project, and student competition. They had an intuition for the Orphalean common tongue, and how the Hessbon languages could be rendered in it. Most of their classes were still taught in Hessbon standard, but in the advanced literature class, they used Orphalean almost exclusively, and since sixth grade had started on sub-specializations for holy scriptures.

It was a staggering amount of extra work, and often made Dea cry in the solace of her bedroom, but it was worth it. There had been something fierce and precious about their task: putting into Orphalean the stories of their Lord that were not yet available to the rest of the galaxy. Obviously, their work was imperfect—but they were learning, and striving for something, and that in itself was hugely rewarding. Karin wanted what Dea wanted, and did not mind asserting it. In that way, she taught Dea bravery. A life of letters, music, studying and loving this work, however impractical. There was no reason, Dea knew, why she should be so fortunate as to love poetry, why poetry should find her. Yet it did. And Karin had been the only one to understand what that was like.

The loss of her friendship was the loss of that affirmation. The conspiring glance across the room when they were engaged in choir; the gift of a note, passed after a long day of class, with a couplet on it, followed by thoughts??

Maybe the worst part was that Dea did not know why they were no longer friends. She had an unwritten poem about this in her head, called “The Source of Your Disregard.” She would never use that overwrought title, and there were no statements, only glittering questions that stabbed her upon contemplation. It didn’t help that she knew Karin, what she was like, how this was a thing she could certainly do. Because—Karin was well liked. A lot of people sought her smarts and loveliness and approval. She was apart from them, often, had once confided in Dea that she felt very few people understood her, but. Since these acquaintances materialized in such great quantities, she could quietly discard those she felt no attachment to. There were no consequences for doing so. Dea had in fact witnessed this with some regularity. She just never thought she would be among them.

Karin could be the sweetest and most caring person, like when she gifted Dea that extremely rare version of Matarsa’s Epithets for Master Luc, because she had found it on holiday at Tyrus, and knew Dea would love it so. But Karin could also be withdrawn, as elusive as she was sometimes effusive. She possessed a strange, deep-sea darkness that Dea could relate to, but not get past. She had something like it herself—perhaps that accounted for their love of tragedy?—but Karin’s was more ingrained, difficult to fathom. It gave her a mysterious energy. Without her warmth, however, the effect it had on Dea was simply fatigue. Without reciprocal interest, Karin became strange to her, a shiny object with nothing at its center.

There had been an incident. Towards the end of seventh grade. They’d stayed in the library ’til closing, working on a piece of homework together. A translation, for the special honors class. They’d debated two sentences to death. Dea could not remember the conclusion she’d drawn, only the sentence she wrote in the end. It was a sentence enriched by the conversation—but her own sentence. As she recalled it. When the scores came back and she had an Excellent and Karin only had a Well Done—she didn’t even know why they’d compared—Karin pointed her finger at the line and said, But that was mine. Dea replied, No, I think it was mine. Also you’d used a different proposition. But I came up with it, Karin repeated, and her eyes had been so certain and so hard.

Dea had disagreed. Politely. She’d gone home fuming, accused—unsure. Hadn’t those been her words? And didn’t the fact that she’d done better illustrate that overall, the sentence fit with her work? Why then did she feel guilty? She’d gone to sleep feeling warped, heartsore, but rehearsing how they’d discuss it. How she’d find a way to not-apologize but still make things okay.

Only there’d been no conversation. No reconciliation. Instead there was silence, and it stretched so long that the raw wound of it calcified into a scar, bloodless, thickening with each passing day. Until, a year later, it seemed strange that they had ever meant something to each other.

If one day they’d speak again, maybe she’d welcome it. But Dea did not know why she wished for it anymore. In that very thought she felt she was putting herself down, needlessly.

Then the Lord lifted his hand, that hand strangely large for his small frame, and held it over his beloved as in a benediction. There was the barest hint of a smile on his lips as he opened his mouth and said,

Trash. Unsalvageable trash. Trash because Dea did not have the skill, the brains, the goddamn vocabulary to do this. She drew a thick, angry cross through her sixth attempt at God’s response and stood from her desk, smacking her forehead. She could see the scene, the figures posed, the moment properly arrayed. But articulation was beyond her. She knew that God felt apologetic that his follower—in this case, Samuel, the beloved (uniquely, among others, though scholars debated this point enough that there now existed four schools with wildly different philosophies re: the exact nature of their relationship)—would have to suffer simply for not leaving his side. At the same time, he could not tell him to go. It would be unbearable. And Sam—Sam who had been there from the first, God’s companion when he’d been a lonely child with a destiny too great to comprehend—understood this, and wanted to communicate that he was not afraid at all. The problem was that dialogue could only do so much. It was what existed between them, wordless, that mattered.

Which was exactly what Dea could not get onto the page. Description could provide only limited stalling. Orations selected dialogue-heavy sections of scripture because they were good presentation pieces. Tears of frustration stung her eyes; she blinked them away in disgust. Maybe some salt bread and orange juice would help. She’d been churning on this for hours and was starting to hate her past self for accepting.

Papa was in the kitchen with papers piled around him. He had an office, but it only had one small window that looked out onto the concrete yard they hung laundry in. He made a neutral sound of greeting as Dea came in and rummaged in the pantry. They had ube-flavored salt bread and a tub of chocolate spread that was only a month expired. She put two rolls in the toaster and checked the fridge for juice. All they had was Mama’s too-sweet pulpy pineapple drink. She poured a glass of water, feeling sorry for herself. She would have to abandon her planned college major. Find an alternative career. It struck her, while spreading the stiff chocolate on her bread, that she’d already been imagining a life as a scholar, a translator of the sacred. Hah! Not if she sucked this much. She crunched her snack, filled with misery.

“Homework made you hungry?” Perhaps some of her mood was wafting, because Papa smiled over at her. “Hungry mungry Dedalee?”

“It’s making me mad,” Dea said, wanting to unload but desperate to manage it.

“Why?”

“Because it’s so hard. I’m so bad at it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

This was supposed to be comforting, but it always hurt instead. It was misplaced faith. A cop-out. When she was little, she could throw a tantrum and scream no, and threaten some form of elaborate bodily harm to soothe her anger. At fourteen, she had to fake maturity and, even if she could not agree, she could shut up.

Into the silence, which she pretended was caused by her mouthful of bread, Papa got more sympathetic. He took off his glasses, which was foreboding. “You know, when I was in school, I goofed off a lot. I really only studied when I was in college. Because I realized how important it would be to get a good job, if I wanted a family.”

Dea sipped her water. It was not his fault she was so pissed about a poem. But she still winced when he patted her head.

“But you, Dea, you’ve been working hard since elementary school. It amazes me. You know? You’re smart. And you work so hard. That’s why I know you’ll do a good job. I’m not saying it just to say it. There’s no way you won’t figure it out, not when you’re putting in that much effort.”

It doesn’t always work that way, she wanted to counter, but that would be petulant. And—some part of her actually believed him. Hard work hadn’t betrayed her so far.

She finally met his eyes. “Thanks, Papa.”

He shuffled back to his seat, and she cleaned up, somewhat chastened. While drying her plate, a line came to her. There is no universe in which I don’t love you. Sam’s line. It seemed too much. She’d probably read it in a book somewhere. But if it was right, then it was right, and she could nudge it until it worked. She refilled her glass, and with it, her determination. On her way upstairs, Papa called, “Dea. You want spicy noodles tonight?”

“Yes!” That was a treat. Papa’s spicy noodles were the best. And they’d taste even better with a done draft.

God stood against the windowsill. He wore nothing on his head but the fading light.

Samuel had seen him unadorned thusly so many times,

but this time the sight of it hurt his heart spectacularly. Lord, he said warningly,

if you are thinking of goodbye—

There was a sound of war outside the window. Percussive fire.

A slow, ragged cry like someone testing how long they could hold their breath.

God said in reply: Am I allowed to hope, my friend,

that you will let me say it?

There’d been a disturbance in the night. A break-in at one of the correctional facilities. No prisoners had been freed, which was what the citizens most feared, but a number of guards were killed, some weapons filched. The rebels were in possession of a bomb, other firearms. Things Hessbon civilians shouldn’t have. A curfew was under consideration. There hadn’t been a curfew since that protest two years before, when a teenage boy had threatened to gut himself in front of the Ministry of Industry. He’d already started when he was apprehended. Reports stated he’d been shipped off to Tarsus; many thought that was a euphemism.

The class was buzzing with the usual mix of fear and excitement whenever some kind of anti-Visitation action occurred. Dea felt nervous; these moments reminded her of Mama crying onto Taz’s shoulder. That tingling, dangerous feeling.

Their teachers had no patience that day. The shouty ones got shoutier; the nice ones laughed nervously, trying to get everyone to concentrate. Master Caedus, their homeroom teacher, raised her voice and told them to please focus on the presentation for the visiting scholars in two weeks. The singers hadn’t ironed out their harmonies, and the dancers weren’t synchronized. She didn’t want to hear any talk of explosions until they’d improved at practice (“Or else her veins will explode,” Paz, the class clown, whispered). As a contestant in the Blest Oration, Dea was exempt from the overall class production, which for first-years entailed a speech-choir of the first ten verses from The Confessions of Mara, Witness and Penitent. News of her and Karin participating was met with minimal interest and greetings of Good luck!—when it came to translation, they were not unexpected choices.

All in all, it was a weird start to the week. Her work was going better, which was nice. On the other hand, the whole world seemed tense and muddled, which did not bode well for their honorable off-planet visitors. This strange mood meant she was not particularly surprised to come home to Papa and Taz fighting—loudly.

“The things she’s telling you simply aren’t true.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You—Don’t you dare look at me like that. I don’t mean you specifically. I mean all of you. I know who she is! She’s pushing too hard. She’s reckless—”

“Don’t speak of her like that—”

“—because it’s personal for her—”

“It’s not about that. You can’t say anything! You don’t know what it was like!”

She had slowed to listen on her way to the front door, then decided to circle around back. Barging in would do no good. They were both great at ignoring her when they wanted to.

Someone was squatting in the mango tree at the edge of their garden. She’d tied her hair back, but some of it had escaped the elastic; loose curls framed her sharp face. Her right knee was propped up, and she was resting an arm on it in a pose of utter ease. She and Dea made eye contact, and the trespasser smiled. She was chewing something, so the smile kept warping, but her eyes were bright with confident mischief. Dea’s brain went She’s taking drugs! but then she noticed the bright blue packet in her hand. Veggie straws, sour cream–flavored.

It was Taz’s mystery cool girl…friend. Friend-that-was-a-girl? Dea meant to frown but had already, automatically, smiled back. The weirdness intensified. The girl shouldn’t be there. But Dea could not scold someone Taz’s age.

“You want some?” The girl held out her chips.

“No thanks.”

“Your Taz’s sister, right? I’m Mina Avellano. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi. I’m Dea.”

She thought of asking whether Mina was dating Taz, but after meeting her, she somehow knew they weren’t.

Mina pointed at the house with her lips. “Your dad doesn’t like me very much, huh?”

“Oh, uh, he might be talking about someone else.”

“Nah, I know I’m trouble. But I only cause the kind of trouble that needs to happen.” She winked. Dea found this offensive, for reasons she could not explain.

“Does Taz get into trouble too?”

Mina looked thoughtful as she crunched another handful of veggie sticks. “No, he’s pretty careful. Besides, I’m not doing anything your father doesn’t already know about.”

Dea got the feeling they were talking about two different things. It was upsetting her. Mina seemed to notice and smiled again, softer this time, with a tinge of Oh, shoot to it. “Aw, no, you really don’t need to worry about this stuff. Taz says you’re like an honors student, right? Like you’re amazing at school. Hebrags about you sometimes.” This was bewildering information. “And yo—that’s great. You should stay in school.”

“But aren’t you…also in school?”

“You’re right, I am!” She laughed. It did not sound mocking, but it wasn’t clear what was so funny. “What I mean is—you should keep focusing on school.”

“Oh jeez. I wondered who you were talking to.” Taz had emerged and was squinting at them, puzzling out the situation. From his hitched shoulders Dea knew he was still mad, but trying to contain it. “Hey, Deedles. Welcome home.”

“Hey,” Dea said, and wriggled her shoulders under her heavy backpack.

Mina hopped down from the tree. “You’re not going to ask me in for a glass of juice?”

“No. We’ve only got my mom’s super sweet pineapple thing.”

“But I love that.”

He shrugged, as if to say, Sorry, not my choice. “I’ll get you one in the caf next time. Sorry you had to wait so long. It’s getting dark. Let me walk you back.”

“Ooo, how chivalrous.”

He sighed, long-suffering, as if this (extremely unromantic, in Dea’s opinion) exchange was common between them, and started for the street. “Hey Deedles, tell Papa I’ll be late for dinner. I’ll heat leftovers when I’m back.”

“Bye, Dea! Don’t worry—I’ll keep him out of trouble.” A wink, a casual flap of her hand, then Mina turned and caught up with Taz. Dea went inside, feeling off balance, and halfheartedly finished her math homework.

At dinner, no one talked much. Mama was preoccupied with a work drama that was too complicated to explain, though she tried for five minutes before quitting. Papa was rattled over his argument with Taz, and Dea knew he couldn’t properly debrief Mama because she was there. She herself was trying to make her own conclusions. A part of her didn’t really want to know, which was the problem. She did the dishes and returned to her room, and read her work aloud, crossing out lines and phrases, unable to squeeze more out of her meager concentration. Eventually she gave up and went to bed a full twenty minutes earlier than planned.

It popped into her head, in those dreary seconds before sleep. Camilla Avellano was the student leader of the Garden Riots. Then Mina’s wink. Then nothing else.

She was at the library the next day to return her stack of reference materials and withdraw some new ones—two different translations of The Valedictories of Samuel and a collection of love poems from the Monazite Era. It was only because she needed a break that she went on the search system and looked up Avellano. There were a few spare entries, barely more than what Dea had recalled on her own. Camilla had been a senior at the university. She was allegedly the mastermind of the riots. Killed on the spot. The grainy picture bore only a faint resemblance to the girl in her backyard, mostly around the cheeks. Otherwise, the dead girl looked softer, dreamier, her hair a thick froth of curls.

Dea felt that she understood now, what Mina was hinting at. She and Taz were likely part of a nationalist group in college. They’d been staging protest rallies periodically at the university. It was risky, but they really hadn’t done much besides hold up signs and chant, and they always dispersed at the appointed time. This seemed fair to Dea—justified—and she thought, maybe, when she was in university, she’d sometimes join a vigil or protest too, to pay her respects. Assuming she attended university here, of course.

At the circulation desk, she ran into Karin leaving, with her own set of books. “Hi,” Karin said, which was somehow worse than being ignored. She’d started to acknowledge Dea ever since finding out they’d be competing. Almost as if Master Salerno’s stamp of approval meant she was worth something again. Ordinarily this would have driven Dea into spirals of mingled self-doubt and self-hatred. That old exhausting loop of wanting Karin’s friendship, then wondering why even. But today Dea didn’t have the energy for that. There was too much else on her mind.

And if Karin was going to selectively acknowledge Dea’s existence, well, two could play at that game. “Hi, Karin. How’s the translation going?”

Karin shrugged. “It’s unlikely either of us will win against a senior. I just want to do a decent job in front of the judges.”

“Right,” Dea said, and thought of five more questions to ask, starting with why Karin had borrowed a book on Ezra—it sat atop her stack—when they weren’t even present in the competition passage. It made her think maybe she was missing something critical. But she was too far out of it now, and besides, she needed to have original ideas sometimes. Also, one of those questions would inevitably become the one lodged in her throat, that she’d been carrying around for too long now. There isn’t anything to it, right? There’s no reason. It’s that one day you woke up and had other things to care about, and I wasn’t among them. I know this—because I know you.

That she didn’t say more was unlike her, but since Karin had not asked her anything back, the conversation was closed, even before she said, “Well, good luck!” and walked away.

They were never very good at arguing with each other.

~~It was the product of a long friendship.~~

~~It was because they knew each other so well.~~

It had always been that way with them.

Thus God said: Even if it doesn’t matter what I say because you will still do what you always do—let me say it. Because if not now when else? Who knows what ~~dark~~ ~~sorrow~~ hurt awaits beyond this night?

There were seven of them, in the end, awaiting the verdict. One of the seniors had withdrawn. Master Salerno mentioned an illness, though he’d sounded disdainful of it. But Dea could understand. She’d felt sick the past two days, as if her body was intent on sabotage. She’d eaten very little. But—to her great surprise—she grew calm when it was her turn, filled with a floaty iciness. Her whole existence hinged on the execution of a single task. She stepped onstage—the lights were so hot, beaming down on the crown of her head. But she was a pillar of ice; it didn’t matter that she felt hot, or anything at all.

She bowed to the audience, to the five judges arrayed before her. In the dark auditorium, their faces were floating masks. They similarly seemed built for one very specific purpose: to judge her.

Now that it was over, she could not recall any of her thoughts or feelings during the oration, nothing except the heat from the lights, and how at one point she’d needed to swallow to manage the spit building up in her mouth, but that would interrupt her delivery, so she carried on, tongue gummed up with desperation. Afraid she’d drool. But she hadn’t. She’d finished somehow. Her heart had not given out as she built toward that ending: God telling Sam, Listen, you could leave me forever and I would not blame you. And finally Sam’s reply: There is no universe in which I don’t love you—not letting her voice shake too much, not losing control.

The judges had faces that liked control. One had silver spectacles that he adjusted every so often, so that the stack of rings on his fingers flashed. Another had tucked a fan over the lower half of their face for the duration of her speech. Even when they finally snapped the fan shut, their mouth remained a flat line. Then there was the one who had smiled throughout, a smile so exacting, it chilled Dea to the bone. The wearer of this smile was so extraordinarily beautiful that she was difficult to look at. Her face had the effect of a spell, a sense overwhelm that Dea trembled to remember. The lady was the one who’d said, after Dea’s declamation, “Thank you, Amadea Tesoro.” In a voice like holding a cube of ice to the bare skin of your forehead. Dea smiled, bowed, and thanked her audience, against a cold that turned to burning.

Because as awful, in some ways, as the whole experience had been—she had loved it. She wanted to do it again. And better. She wanted to spend her time doing this, perfecting this, writing those lines. She wanted them to choose her, so she could have that privilege. This was the work of their lives. Their approval, if extended to her, might—might!—also make it hers.

And…she’d been good. She’d done well. From her seat backstage, where she sat jiggling her leg uncontrollably (a habit Taz hated and always called her out on when they attended mass), she’d absorbed the others’ orations. Closed her eyes and listened, conjuring the scene in her mind. Some of them had chosen different parts of the passage, making interesting omissions or additions. She’d enjoyed their work. But her own deserved to be considered, too. This was not the kind of confidence a girl like Dea could claim in public. She would judge herself for it. Maybe in a few years’ time, it would be an acceptable thing to say—but not now, not yet. She had to earn her place. Even as a bright little seed inside her unfurled, shakily declaring: It’s not wrong that I’m here.

The judges might disagree. Certainly she would not fault them for choosing Vitalis, the frontrunner senior, who tended to be the first lector during campus ceremonies. Or Karin, who’d made Samuel’s reply especially beautiful. Leaving in that long, daring silence, that repetition of Lord. Oh, Lord. In their language. His special word for the person who’d come to mean everything to him, whom he could not abandon. A novel way of translating anguish.

Karin had returned, after her section, wiping her cheek. It was hard not to say all that and not cry. They met eyes. Dea expected, in that moment, all of her hurt to flare again, in vengeance. Instead, she felt a passionate kinship. They were together in this: the triumph of doing something you love and being recognized for it. Whatever happened, they shared this, and so—spontaneously—she approached, touched Karin’s shoulder, and said, “Well done.”

Karin grasped her arm tight, like someone finding purchase after being out to sea; her eyes were bright. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You too. You were so good, too.”

That had been moments ago. Karin had gone last. Now they sat next to each other, waiting. The room had the hushed gravity of a confessional. She resisted the urge to reach for Karin’s hand. She prayed a little to calm herself. The calm came and left in waves, and when it was not there, she felt mostly awe: that she should mind so much, what happened next. That she could want a thing so badly.

That, if Karin were to tell her Congratulations, her heart would become a flying bird.

I will follow you because it has been my life’s great meaning to.

Do you know what it would mean to me, to have you finally accept that?

Is this blasphemy, Lord? To love you this much?

For me it was never a choice. You know that as well as I.

Dinner that night was stir-fried greens and grilled fish fillets. Dea drank a whole glass of water in the first fifteen minutes. She usually didn’t drink any water until she was nearly done with her meal, but after the contest, her mouth had gone dry and seemingly could not recover. It was the excitement of her news. She was a burning candle, sitting there in the humdrum of dinnertime. How strange it was, that she had changed so much, but no one could see it.

Papa finished sharing the bit of gossip he’d heard from Uncle Gerardo, who came by every Thursday to pick up packages (and sometimes have a smoke out in their garden, where Auntie Hilda couldn’t see). Their great-uncle Kubo was sick with a mystery illness that he refused to go to the hospital for, and he was not watching his cholesterol. Also their cousin Lennie—they remember her, the one who always wore her hair in braids?—had decided to take up nursing and was moving to Petra in four months, as she’d managed to land a scholarship at the medical school there. (“That’s good,” Mama said distractedly. “She’s switched majors three times already.”)

This was an excellent opening. Papa turned to them and said, “How was school today, Taz, Dea?”

“Nothing new,” Taz said, and normally Dea said the same thing, but today, she could actually say something different. Taz popped a fillet into his mouth and looked at her, to indicate he was done.

“Actually, I was first runner-up at a contest today,” Dea said. “An oration contest.”

“Oh! How nice,” Mama said.

“That’s that thing you were working on, right? Congratulations.” Papa beamed. “I knew you could do it.”

“It was for a translation of the second argument between God and Samuel. The senior was better, but they said mine was really close. Normally they don’t give runner-up prizes, but this time, they will. For my reward I’m going to spend part of my summer at a special academy on Lasea, focused on translation, with scholars from other schools—including some universities. If you’ll let me go, of course. But don’t worry, it will be free, because they’re sponsoring me. They might even publish my work!”

A great silence followed. Dea had gone slightly breathless with excitement, which was embarrassing. The silence continued. It did not seem likely to be broken. Shock, she guessed—and maybe some wonder, at how real this was, how all her devotion amounted to something tangible. It was not merely that she was an honors student. It was that she was, very nearly, a poet.

Then she saw Taz’s face.

“Lasea is an Orphalean ship,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Somehow, her tone had gone apologetic. But why?

“You’re going to be studying on a fucking Orphalean ship? Seriously?”

“Taz,” Papa said, warningly.

“But—it’s for school,” Dea said. “It’s for my literature course. The program is very prestigious.”

“Literature—that stupid translation curriculum they’ve been pushing. It’s sick. Dea—you’re handing over our holy scripture to the enemy!”

“Baltazar!”

“No one in this family gives a shit!” He’d raised his voice beyond acceptable levels, standing in fury. His eyes were nearly popping with hate. “None of you are trying,” he continued, and it seemed like he might cry. He put his hands to his face. After a moment, he pulled them away, coldly composed. “None of you are fighting.” He said this like someone in a play, and walked off, like someone in a play. The door to the garden crashed shut behind him, its mesh wires rattling. They all heard him shout “AUGH!” at the sky. His voice cracked with rage.

Dea wanted to look at her plate, but her body did not cooperate. No. It simply wouldn’t do to bow her head. She could sense her parents trying to catch her eye, but she could not acknowledge them. If she did, she would start crying. She knew it was pride, but did she not deserve her pride? The pale blue curtains on the window over the kitchen sink, the same ones that had been there her whole life, with that bleached splotch on the lower right, swam in and out of focus. But she held on. She only had one piece of fish left. She ate it, contemplating the word enemy, and swiped the one traitor tear crawling down her cheek (traitor!). Then she carried her plate to the sink.

Papa said something about Taz not knowing what he was saying, and also, did she really mean Lasea?

“Yes,” she said. “Really.”

She washed her plate, set it on the drying rack, then walked to her room. She had an urge to lock her door, but she never did. It was a policy they had as a family, in case of emergencies. Taz did not follow this policy. But Taz was allowed, in a way she never had been, to not follow.

On her desk was the piece she’d memorized, the piece that opened up her future. In reply Samuel said to Luc, whom he had loved without question all those long years: Lord, you would abandon me like this, despite how I have adored you? How alive they were to her, those two in their anguish, more alive than she felt now, in this room. Sam and his curls. His black curls, his beautiful eyes. And Luc, who had the saddest eyebrows in the universe, even when he wasn’t in pain. Luc reached out despite all that had been said. To tell Sam he’d had it wrong, to assure him that he wouldn’t dare leave.

Had she taken all this, the clarity of what she could see and follow, of the God she loved and the people whom that God had loved in turn, so desperately, herself among them—and betrayed them—to the enemy? In finding that word for adore, in that other language, the word that was not love, not cherish, not worship. In finding the way to make it so that the syllables matched with the original.

The answer was a series of echoes that rang inside her, a cascade of feelings that seemed to have been building not only since dinner but for years and years. She wanted to rip this paper to shreds, but the words already lived in her. She’d memorized them, so well that she’d said them in front of—her enemies!—and been rewarded by them.

But what if, what if that wasn’t true?

Was Amadea Tesoro the stupidest person in the universe?

A knock on her door. Papa—the man who had sadly given life to this unbearable idiot—said, “Dea? I’m coming in.”

In he came. With his plain gray shirt and soft dark pants. Papa never had a beard, only scruff; he always looked the same to her, except now she noticed the ridged lines across his forehead. Papa wasn’t old, she knew that, not old like some other people’s parents. He was older than Master Salerno, but not by much.

He saw the paper on her desk. “Is this it?” he asked.

She nodded. He took it and scanned it. He was reading too quickly. He always did. People who did not read poetry, who did not read scripture for pleasure, often read like that. “It’s very beautiful,” he said after, which did not make her feel good. It made her feel ashamed, proud, and spiteful. Partly because he meant it. He saw the words put together and knew she had done something meaningful. “My Orphalean isn’t perfect like yours and Taz’s, but even I know how wonderfully you write in it.”

He sat at her desk. He was looking at her, but she could still only face him with eyes averted. “Your mother and I have done our best to survive, Dea. We don’t have much hate in us. Even in the very first Visitation, when we ourselves were children, we were spared. When it escalated—when you were still a child—we were again spared. They didn’t take away what was most precious to us. They still haven’t, and every day I pray in gratitude because of that. Is this peace? It often feels like it. Your brother won’t forgive me for admitting that.” She listened to every word. Her heart was looking for an answer. “I haven’t done nothing, though. Taz thinks I don’t do enough, but part of my work does help Hessbon. It means if we ever need to fight, we can. But no one can know that. I’m telling you this because I want you to know how deeply I trust you.”

If this was supposed to make her feel better, it did not. She understood what he was referring to. Shipments could be for anything. Supplies were always necessary in a conflict. Don’t tell me this, she could not say.

“Taz was at the Gardens when he shouldn’t have been. It’s why he’s like that—because he did lose something. His seniors. His innocence. All the students present that day did. As for me—I want, more than anything, for the two of you to survive. That your brother wants more, at the risk of my wish, breaks my heart.”

This was part of her answer. She and Taz were more alike than she knew. Now she would find out how much more alike.

“I want to do this,” she said, and thought of luminescent Lasea, sailing among the stars, docking at beautiful libraries where she could hear scholars elaborate on how, from their own precious languages into the common tongue, they’d illuminated the story of the Lord of Light. “If I did, would it break your heart?”

Papa looked at the rows of books stacked on her desk. All the effort of her small life. On top of them was the homework where she’d first learned of the contest. Next to all this was the family photo they’d taken, three summers past now, at Auntie Hilda’s fortieth birthday. He strode over to her and kissed her forehead, and dealt her the first great sorrow of her life.

“Yes. In some ways, it would.”

All night, she lay in bed, thinking about everything she now knew. She kept realizing different infuriatingly obvious things—clues to truths she hadn’t even been curious about. She felt ragged. Her hurt kept vacillating into anger, that they’d taken the bliss of triumph from her. It was very late when she heard the door downstairs. That Taz didn’t let it slam meant he’d at least cooled off. Against the hushed murmurs of her family, she fell asleep, curled like a shrimp.

She awoke into what felt like a very different world. She was not yet sure. But certainty would come, as it always did. In the same way that, if she thought long and hard enough, the correct words, in the correct order, always came to her: a gift from the God she knew understood her.

That morning, they acted like everything was normal. It was something they were all very practiced in: a form of cowardice necessary to letting families operate. A trembling peace. Like the kind her father wished for.

At school, she felt two selves warring inside her. There was the same old honor student, taking notes, raising her hand. Trying her best. It had never made her so tired as today. Because now there was a second self, one with too much knowledge, witnessing everyone and everything, seeing it all for what it was. They were children simply going through the motions. Her teachers were adults whose lips were stapled shut. Did God ever feel like this, in his great power? But God was neither selfish nor a traitor.

On her way to Master Salerno’s office, she inevitably saw Karin, walking slightly ahead of her. Karin turned as if poked, and did not seem surprised to see Dea there. There was an abject weariness to their meetings now. The new Dea could see how silly their argument had been, how it needed no explanation. Humans did blandly hurtful things to each other all the time. That it had hurtso much was because of her own overblown attachment to loyalty, but loyalty wasn’t valued by everyone, and not particularly useful in their field of study. None of that mattered anymore. Only what was to happen now. Karin had shared in her prize: there had been two first runners-up, never mind how unusual that was. Karin had the same betrayal to make, bigger than either of them.

The old part of Dea thought, Did I do all this, did I try so hard, because I wanted to be your friend again?

I wanted you to look at me, and now you do.

And the new part thought, What will we look out at together? Because she could see it. The lights that would shimmer underfoot when they stepped on the silver surface of Lasea, in the special boots as part of the uniform they’d wear, with the pins against their collars that would mark them out as visiting scholars from Hessbon. How they would attend the vaulted auditorium, to watch special oration records taken from the library of the Holy Capital. And when that was over, the dark curtains would lift to reveal the floor-to-ceiling paneling, the clouds underfoot, the stars overhead, framed in the ship’s bright gold and chrome.

“Have you decided?” Karin asked.

She thought of the line that had given her such trouble. For me it was never a choice, Lord. You know that as well as I.

The first time Samuel had said this, Luc laughed. They were children. The laughter was a way to kill the moment, make it less frightening.

The verse Dea presented yesterday was the second time he said this. By then they had lived through most of their brief lives, and the Lord knew he had no way to save he who mattered most to him. He had wept over this truth, and kissed his disciple’s knuckles. Then he laughed, as if he could not believe this type of love still existed for him. He laughed in disbelief.

Oh, Lord, you laugh and make fools of us all.

All this time, Dea had understood her own life as small. But it did not need to be.

She smiled for the first time that day.

“Yes.”

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