I felt a geyser of frustration threatening to erupt in my throat, but tried to keep my face calm. I had a lot of experience hiding my emotions, but Jamie could read me better than most.
“Madeline,” he said, “why are you so preoccupied with this? Cara would never lie to the police, and the police would never go after an innocent person.”
“Cara lies to her own parents constantly! And if you think our constables are so noble, then how do you explain the random arrests and releases without any charges? The beatings? The confiscation of rations?”
Jamie shook his head again, looking tired. “Those are in other cities, in the South,” he replied. “I have more trust in the authorities here. Everything will work out.”
“You sound like my father.”
He gave me a short bow. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Madeline.”
I swallowed all the angry words and accusations that came to mind. Jamie was not the criminal or the liar; this was not his fault. And I couldn’t deny that Cara deserved the oblivion unconsciousness would bring. But still, the frustration of being made to wait—of being forced to watch as these events unfolded in all the wrong ways—dug fiercely at me.
“Good night, Jamie,” I said with a curtsy, but inside I was screaming.
5
I could hear my father’s voice echoing from his study, two doors down from the library. It had been three days since Cara’s attack, but all I knew for sure was that she’d told the constables that it was a Rootless who’d attacked her. My father refused to tell me anything else about the case, even though I knew he’d been talking constantly to the other gentry and to the justices of the peace. Although the gentry had the privilege of governing minor disputes on their property, something as rare and barbaric as the attack of a gentry woman would have to involve the courts. But the outcome would most likely be the same. The judges and lawyers were merely gentry not fortunate enough to have been born heirs.
They would hardly be unbiased.
I closed another book—a biography of Jacob Landry—and put it on one of the several reading desks, not wanting to climb the ladder to shelve it again. The room was two stories tall, with ladders and spiral staircases leading to the upper floor where the least-used books were kept. Having such a large library was unnecessary when most people used their tablets to get information, but books—old and new—were expensive, and we Landrys had always loved showing off how we could afford expensive things. Of course, even our extensive collection was carefully curated; each book had been hand-chosen by Father or his ancestors, and there was nothing antithetical to gentry beliefs in any of the leather- or canvas-bound volumes. Even the data available for download on my tablet was limited, and I knew for a fact that Father kept tabs on what I read. It was something I had never thought to question, at least, not until a few days ago.
I followed the sound of Father’s voice to the door of his study, but stayed well out of view. The wide marble floors of the ground-level hallway made for exceptional acoustics, so I could hear every variation in his pitch. He sounded uncharacteristically agitated.
“There has been an incident,” he told somebody.
“Where?” The voice was male and digital sounding; Father was talking to his wall screen.
“An estate outside of Lake Chicago. A landowner was found dead. Strangled.”
“And you believe it was the Rootless?”
“I do,” Father replied with confidence.
“Just as you believe it was the Rootless who assaulted Cara Westoff earlier this week.”
“I do.”
“You know your father was equally eager to point a finger at the underclass.”
I blinked at this. I’d heard before that my grandfather had been known for his sternness, but I’d never heard that he had been eager to go after the Rootless. Was that why Father was so intent on blaming the Rootless for Cara’s attack?
“Lewis Landry wanted a secure life for his people. That’s all I want.”
I risked a look inside. Father’s hands clenched and un-clenched around his pen, always a sign of danger. As if aware that he was giving too much away, he set the pen down and casually rested his hands on a set of three books, thin leather volumes that were stained and battered.
“I am not suggesting that he was wrong or that you are now. It is simply interesting to see the Landry zeal once again.”
“My father was nothing if not zealous,” Father said, and his voice was impossible to read.
The man sighed, a heavy, theatrical sound meant to carry over the wall screen. “The Rootless have not tried to revolt once in two hundred years. What makes you think they’re planning to do it now?”
“They’re restless. The rash of trouble that started in the South is creeping closer to Kansas City. You know that Landry Park is the symbol of the gentry: Jacob Landry is buried here, and the Uprisen gather here to advise the government. Even the president makes an annual speech from my study. If they wanted to pick one place to start unraveling the gentry, they’ll pick Landry Park.”
I bit my lip at the mention of the Uprisen. After the Last War, America had retained vestiges of her governmental system—the Congress, the Supreme Court, and a President—but the real power lay in the hands of the gentry, and even more so in the shadowy circle of the Uprisen. Numbering only fifteen or twenty, they were the descendants of Jacob Landry’s most loyal supporters during the Last War, and were now a quorum of powerful gentry families that influenced everything in America, from the military to Congress.
“Of course, the Landrys have always led the Uprisen and so the choice to assemble them is yours,” the old man said. “If you are right, this is trouble like none we’ve ever seen.”
Father considered this for a moment before answering. “I will wait for now, but I expect you and the others to be in touch. In the meantime, I intend to suppress any resistance in my city.”
After the man signed off the screen, Father sat silently in his study. I remained near the door, pondering the idea of summoning the Uprisen from all corners of the country. I thought about the spate of rebellions cropping up in the South, of my father’s fear that the Rootless were restless and losing their respect for the established order of things.
If Father was thinking about summoning the Uprisen, he must be worried indeed.
I tried to quell the wave of nervousness this realization created. I wanted to trust Father. People like Father kept our world elegant and ordered. But the cost of elegance and order shouldn’t be punishing someone for a crime they didn’t commit.
And with that thought came the disorienting feeling of being unmoored, cut loose and cast off from the things and people I’d always thought of as certainties. Doubt was fractal, and no matter how many times I tried to stop it, uncertainty threaded through me in recursive loops, permeating everything.
The creak of Father’s chair coupled with the rustling of paper reminded me that I needed to leave before I was discovered. I gathered the hem of my dress and crept away, hoping the soft padding of my flats would go unnoticed. I made it to the foyer and breathed a sigh of relief, ready to escape to my room and think over all I’d just heard.
But as I mounted the stairs, a large brass plaque caught my eye. Set into the wall next to a bust of Jacob Landry, it displayed a snippet of his most famous speech, delivered a few weeks after the end of the Last War. I leaned forward to read the words of the Nobel-winning scientist, even though its inscription was as familiar to me as a nightly prayer.
WE WILL CREATE ORDER, ELEGANCE, AND PROSPERITY IN OUR WORLD. HOWEVER, THERE IS ONE CLASS OF PEOPLE WE DENY THIS NEW ORDERED LIFE. THOSE WHO FOUGHT THE MOST VICIOUSLY AGAINST US, WHO KILLED OUR WOMEN AND CHILDREN, AND WHO DIDN’T SURRENDER AT THE END. THEY SHALL NEVER OWN LAND OR A HOUSE, THEY SHALL NOT BENEFIT FROM OUR SCHOOLS OR OUR DOCTORS. THEY WILL BE LIKE BUGS ON THE GROUND, WITHOUT A FUTURE AND FOREVER ROOTLESS… .