She frowned, nodded, and then continued pushing the cart down the ramp.
He walked up the stairs, and then opened the exterior door and ventured into the night. His feet crackled on a thin sheet of ice. The cold rapidly penetrated his jacket, and his shoulders reflexively shrugged upwards to preserve warmth. His breath formed gaseous eddies in the night air.
He turned onto Rue du Fort, heading toward Rue du Buade, taking care to temper his speed on the treacherous terrain. The ice continued to fracture under his feet.
In the summertime, during the day, Quebec City was majestic. While only about a quarter the size of Seeville, it was so much more concentrated, with people always milling about. The buildings held much more of the old European grandeur. There was a festival here, in Place D’Armes, where the rural folk would come to dance and sing and celebrate the harvest. The dutiful bunker workers would mix with free-spirited farmers and love was in the air, sometimes too much of it.
But it wasn’t summer, nor was it daytime.
At night, in the winter, Quebec City was a dark place. All the modified Old World buildings, blocky bunkers, and overpasses with cemented-over windows loomed over Duncan, unlit and unwelcoming. Chateau Frontenac and the old Seminary still had their charm, untouched by industry, with candles and lanterns lighting the rooms. But with no festivals, so much work to do underground or in bunkers, and with the piercing cold, the outdoor areas were abandoned and neglected during the winters.
Maybe that was why Duncan liked it. Lately he preferred solitude, when the choice was available.
“Sir,” Viola had said. The Quebecois people had embraced him. They had taken to the Credo with ease. They had given him a position of authority, even. But somehow it didn’t feel right. Maybe it was because he was still a foreigner. Despite all he had accomplished. Despite suppressing many of his theological reservations so that these people could be warm, and well fed, he was with them but not part of them.
He heard a hiss as a plume of smoke came out of the huge Descartiers bunker beside him, purging the smoke and pollutants from the day’s travails. The exhaust faded rapidly into the night, one large solitary breath to add to his punchy exhalations.
On Rue du Buade, the ground was clear of ice, and he was able to make faster progress. He turned to walk past the temple and onto rue Saint-Famille, down into the main entrance to the Seminary building. Just inside the main doors, he pulled out a stack of mail and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
Only when he was inside the second set of doors did the cold no longer bite at him. He opened up his jacket to let in the warmer air and walked down the lantern-lit hallway to his apartment. It was a nondescript door, in the middle of a long corridor of nondescript doors.
Once inside, he sat at his kitchen table, dropping the letters indiscriminately on the surface. He left his jacket open but on, trying to preserve warmth. They were always preserving fuel in the old Seminary, and they rarely let the rooms be in any way comfortable.
He opened a bottle of red wine on the table, pouring it into the same dirty wine glass he’d used the day before. He took a sip, trying to savor it. It was good enough, but it had a metallic flavor that lingered in his mouth, and of course it was too cold.
It was the only wine they had.
He shuffled through the letters. One was from Merique, the pupil he had trained in the townships to the west. A number of others were from his subordinates in town. It had been easier to communicate via letter rather than find each other all day through the tunnels and cold. Another letter was a statement of account for rent due on his apartment.
The last one was more weathered. It was from Kingston, and the addresser was Carla Veroni.
He tore open Carla’s letter with this finger. Inside was a short page seemingly written in haste, enclosing another letter written in a more elegant cursive.
He read the shorter letter first.
Dear Duncan,
I received another letter from Alastair. This one sounded more important, so I am sending it on. I have more for you here from the last few years, but I don’t think they’re worth the postage.
Please stop mailing me. That goes for Alastair as well.
The icy tone stung Duncan. He’d mailed her several times in the last year to try to get her to understand, but she never responded. Perhaps she was still bitter, or perhaps she’d moved on and found someone else—someone she could be happy with. He hoped it was the latter.
Duncan’s eyes lingered on the cupboard below his desk, just across the room. In his mind’s eye, through the opaque door he could see Elizabeth’s teddy bear. It would be sitting slumped over on the shelf, where he’d left it. Still, to this day, he felt he made the right choice with Carla. He would have been a terrible parent.
He carefully opened up the letter from Alastair. He felt a pang of guilt and urgency as he realized she’d been blocking his letters for months, if not years.
Dear Duncan,
I hope you are out there, still teaching prudence, still fighting recklessness. As I have said before, I know why you left us. I know by now you have given up on me, on us. I suspect my letters have gone unanswered for that reason.
This is no ordinary letter. This is no casual recounting of events and merry tidings. I am writing to you about a matter of grave concern. I will make it brief, for I know a lack of brevity may give you pause in digesting it. If there is one letter you read, one you consider, I hope it is this one.
I helped lead a foray into Essentialist territory to find an Old World satellite that crashed in the valley. I wanted to be there first, to make sure we could contain any misuse of Old World tech. I enlisted Cecile’s help, because I trusted her. She has been a blessing on us Duncan, and I appreciate you sending her. Alas, I think I may have failed her, and you.
Two died in an Essentialist raid, and Cecile went missing for a time. The Essentialists returned her a few weeks ago. Now Cecile has been taken prisoner by the railroad. They have accused her of treason, for reasons I am not privy to. I have been unable to speak with her, and I fear for her life. It is a turn I could never have contemplated.
Please forgive me. I know Cecile was an emissary of yours, even though she said she came of her own free will. I feel responsible for what has befallen her. I feel terribly regretful for including her in an expedition that has gone horribly wrong in ways I could never have imagined.
Moreover, I am disturbed by our inability to muster an appropriate response to this test of our faith. I see complacency in the questions posed on the streets, in the disinterest at weekly sermons. This satellite has only sparked curiosity, when it should have soundly resurrected the fears. It reminds me that Adherents continue to dwindle, while the forces of industry gain in strength. In fact, Lord Bartz is now developing large structures in the stadium and at the observatory, their purpose unknown, their construction unchecked and unvetted.
I don’t know what all of this means. Perhaps it’s just progress. Perhaps I am reading too much of the Credo into circumstances that are more arbitrary than Machiavellian. I know reading into things is a weakness of mine, as you have so rightly pointed out.
Yet with liberties being challenged, with complacency increasing, it would seem to me that now more than ever is the time to rally the Adherents of Seeville. You have always been the better orator. You have always had a more strategic mind. You have always infused reason into faith better than I.