Page 44 of The Enemy's Daughter

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“No,” I say. “No, this is a bad idea, and you know it. Besides, Tristan obviously doesn’t want me there or he would have asked—”

“He wants you there.” I squint with doubt, but she presses on. “He does, but I can’t prove it to you because he left an hour ago.”

How convenient.

Enola’s fingers twist as her face grows serious. “Things are going downhill. Farron’s murder has sparked a fire that I’m not sure we can put out if anyone but Tristan becomes mayor in this election. The call for violence, for eradication of the clans, is growing.”

Eradication.

“Farron was always an advocate for mercy, and believe it or not, that policy has served us well. But with Farron gone, a bitterness has taken root, and a war could be coming unlike anything we’ve seen. It will be an unleashing of all that we have, for the first time. By sheer numbers alone, we are three times the size of all five clans combined. But even still, it will be devastating for both sides.”

“And you want to stop it?”

“I’ve already lived through the worst of humanity. Twice. First with the bombing of our beautiful republic, and then surviving the selfish people who thought killing each other was how they’d stay alive. I don’t want to return to violence. What I want is for my husband to live. For Tristan—and others I love—to live. We’ve had enough loss. And it’s not our way. Something must be done to deal with the clans and their constant violence, but it’s not war.”

I disagree with her interpretation of our history, but she has my attention. “Tristan told me that he wants justice. He also said these types of things are a council decision.”

“They are. But the leader will guide the council, and if you heard what the other candidates for mayor have planned, you’d do whatever it took to get Tristan elected.”

A sharp blade of fear scrapes down my neck. “Then I should leave.” I heave the blankets off my legs. “Annette said Tristan would never win with me by his side. Take me through the fence, and I’ll go. I’ll leave right now.”

“You know that’s not an option—but if it was and you left, I fear Tristan would leave too. He doesn’t want to be mayor. He never has. For years, it was all his father could do to keep him here.”

“Where would he go?” Even if he became a trader, between the violent vagabonds he’d face and the badlands still poisoned from the bombs, it’d be a dangerous life. But more importantly—“Why would me leaving make him leave too?”

An expression passes over her face that I can’t quite read. “Those are good questions, Isadora. You should ask him.”

I dig my palms into my eyes and rub. “I’d rather not.”

“He needs an anchor,” Enola says, drawing close. “Especially now that his father is gone. He needs someone to remind him why an all-out war isn’t the answer. But you’re right. The other side of the coin is that the people here don’t trust you. They’re afraid of what you represent, and convincing them that your relationship with Tristan is real is going to be an uphill battle.”

“Our relationshipisn’treal.”

Enola sighs. “Then make it real. You’re here to stay, and the sooner everyone around here accepts that—including you—the better. There is no greater way to show your support for your husband than to attend his father’s funeral. Show them that you’re now an ally.”

I’m not an ally.

The thought sits lopsided in my chest.

“Don’t underestimate the power you hold. If anyone has a right to be angry, it’s Tristan. And when the people see he’s risen above that—because of you—then they will rise above their anger too. The simple act of attending Farron’s funeral could change everything.”

My lungs deflate, and any rebuttal I might have had goes with them. I’m not entirely convinced this isn’t still a plot to have me killed, but surely there are more efficient ways.

Enola claps her hands and breaks into a brilliant smile. “I picked the most beautiful dress for you. I’ll go and get it.”

“I haven’t said yes,” I call after her.

She turns back in the doorway. “You also haven’t said no.”

I’m pretty sure I did. But she is making sense; if somehow my presence at Farron’s funeral stops or slows the massacre of my people, then I have to go. Until I can escape, maybe there’s wisdom in playing both sides.

A soft breeze floats through the windows, blowing the wisps of hair falling from my bun around my face. But it’s not enough to cool the air inside this... vehicle. Maybe if we were going faster it would help. To distract myself from the sweltering heat, I fluff the hem of my flowered dress—it’s in such a brilliant shade of burgundy and I don’t think it’s ever been worn—then run my fingers over the seam in the leather seats. I can do a good stitch, but this is perfection. And the comfort of the seats is unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

Enola smiles and taps the wheel she’s holding to steer. “First time inside a motor vehicle?”

I prop my elbow out the open window, amazed there used to be glass in there. “First time inside anything with wheels. Why are you guiding it, though? Isn’t Vador leading us?” My gaze returns to the hindquarters of the spotted horses, ambling just feet in front of us, pulling the “motor vehicle”along at a walking pace.

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