Chapter 1: 1: The City of Ciradyl

Ember brought her hand to her face, examining the little crescents that her nails had left on her palms.  Ahead, the line of soon-to-be academy graduates disappeared into the registration building. In their long, burgundy robes embroidered with the Wentworth crest, they were instantly recognizable as the city’s best and brightest. 

The air was hot and still, choked with smoke from Ciradyl’s factories. Ember pulled her robe away from her body, cringing at the sticky sweat. The other graduates seemed not to notice as they chattered excitedly, congratulating each other and sharing their plans for the future.  

As the line inched forward painfully slowly, Ember found herself on the outskirts of a group of five friends: one girl and four boys. She recognized their faces, but her solitary nature and the academy’s size meant that she had never had the chance—or misfortune—to talk to them. 

“Aren’t you nervous?” one of the guys asked the girl. His tone was light and flirtatious, an obvious excuse to engage her in conversation before the others could.

“Well, I-”

“Of course, she’s not nervous,” one of the other boys cut in. “No one as lovely as her could be red status.”

“I would never suggest-”

“Her bloodline is as pure as the queen’s. I know because our families are close.”

A death glare stretched between the boys. “No one has turned the serum red in years,” the girl said, trying to diffuse the situation. “Remember what the professors said. The chance that any of us are Linnaean is next to zero! Personally, I’m not sure they even exist.”

Ember found herself nodding. For once, a popular girl had sense—the test and all the pomp and circumstance surrounding graduation was an utter waste of time. At least the graduates didn’t have to wait in the same line as the other kids coming of age. 

A bird flew low overhead, a welcome distraction, and Ember’s sharp eyes followed it as it disappeared into the hulking cluster of stone buildings that was the City of Ciradyl. A line of smoke from the nearest factory stained the sky permanently gray. Tremors ran underneath Ember’s feet, the result of constant explosions from the mines in the mountains. Almost unconsciously, she folded her hands over each other and said a short prayer for her father’s safety as he worked.

The line inched forward for another two hours before it was time for Ember to finally pass through the doors of the registration building. Like the rest of Ciradyl, the building was gothic and imposing, marked on the outside with a set of wings, the church’s holy symbol. 

Ember’s boredom dissipated and gave way to reluctant nervousness as she approached. Inside the building was row after row of long wooden tables lined with chairs. Medics hurried back and forth, their arms filled with samples and paperwork. An admin directed her to sit down, and she picked an empty chair at the table furthest from the door. On the opposite side, a boy was standing up to leave, and Ember opened her mouth to ask how the test had gone, but then clamped it shut. Once he heard her accent, he’d know that she was the transfer from the podunk town up north.  

A medic appeared next to her, holding a clipboard and a box of supplies. Wordlessly, Ember handed her the wooden card that identified her as a student of Wentworth. “Ember Whitlock?” the medic asked, holding the clipboard so that just the rims of her glasses showed above the edge. The holy symbol dangled from a chain around her neck. “You’re turning eighteen in just a few days, is that right?”

Ember nodded. “Happy early birthday, and congratulations on your graduation. It’s an honor to meet the city’s new administrators. Unless you’re going to university?”

Ember offered a rare smile. “Yes, I’m going up to Oxbow in the fall.”

The nurse’s eyes widened. “That’s quite an accomplishment. You must have been at the top of your class.” Ember shrugged. “Now, is there any history of the affliction in your family?”

Ember shook her head, resisting the urge to scoff. No one with a Linnaean family member (if they did indeed exist) could live in Ciradyl. “Not that I know of. I’m not close with my mom’s side, though.”

“Don’t worry, honey. No one as sweet and talented as you could possibly be afflicted. Are you familiar with the test?”

“We learned about it at the academy,” Ember smiled, refraining from adding that it was all a load of hogwash anyway. 

“I’ll give you the brief version, then. Today, I’ll collect your blood, and afterward, I’ll mix it with the serum. An admin will check the results in three days. If the serum stays clear, you’re not afflicted. If it turns red…” she trailed off. “Well, you know what happens. Anyway, I’ll have you out of here quicker than you know it.” With deft movements, she unwrapped a clean needle, which she pushed into a vein in Ember’s forearm. Ember watched, fascinated, as her dark-red blood filled the vial. The nurse pulled the needle out, wiped the droplet of blood off Ember’s arm, and put the sample into a fresh bag.  

“You’re all done,” she said. “You can go ahead and head home now. We’ll send you a letter when your results are ready. Congratulations again!”

***

Ember leaned back on her bed, exhausted from a day spent working at the infirmary. Her father had told her not to take the job—that caring for the sick was below her new station—but she needed the money if she was going to afford room and board at Oxbow. 

It was dusk, but still uncomfortably warm inside her torch-lit room. From the front of the house came the sound of her dad banging pots and pans together as he prepared dinner. Ember smiled, thinking of how the freshly cut meat would taste when it was ready. It was her favorite dish, a celebratory meal for her graduation.

She tilted her head up, looking at the ceiling. Stuck to the stone was a wooden star, a reminder of her childhood. Her father had painted it with some chemical so that it glowed in the dark at night. They’d put it up together in the first week since moving to Ciradyl to make the ramshackle house feel more like home. Back then, Ciradyl had seemed terrible and tremendous, the factories and smithies a far cry from the farmland they knew. 

Her father was the only thing she’d miss about the city. Everything else was stark and unforgiving, like a machine that sucks you in and spits you back out in pieces.

A series of urgent bangs sounded at the door, startling Ember. The tiny house quivered, and rustling in the kitchen stopped. Ember slid out of bed, peering around the doorframe. “Dad?”

There was no answer. She stepped forward slowly, making the old floorboards creak and groan. Three silhouettes materialized behind her father’s back, and the sour taste of dread spread across her tongue. 

The men were speaking in low tones, their voices piling over her father’s. “Dad, who is it?” she interjected.

“Ember,” her father said without turning, “go to your room.”

It was the harshest he’d spoken in years. “What’s going on here?”

“Is that her?” one of the men asked, pushing past her father and stepping into the house. Ember’s eyes widened—he was dressed in the red and gray uniform of a government administrator, and the bottom half of his face was covered with a tight mask. “Miss Ember, you’re going to need to come with us.”

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“No, she’s not going anywhere,” her father snapped back, moving to stand in front of Ember despite his short stature and wiry limbs.

“She needs to receive treatment,” the official replied with poorly-concealed disgust. 

“Hold on-”

“What’s going on?” Ember demanded, aware that she was of a higher rank than her father, “why are you here?”

The lead official pulled a paper from his waistband, unfurling a several-page long document. He stood several feet away as if Ember was a victim of some contagious illness. Reluctantly, he stretched his arm over the gap between them, offering her the scroll.

Cautiously, Ember lowered her eyes to the paper.

Name: Ember Whitlock

Address: 137 Newberry Road

General condition: AFFLICTED. Treatment will be given immediately: voluntarily or by force.

The paper fluttered to the floor, landing by Ember’s boot. “This… no, this is impossible.”

“It’s a lie,” her father spit out, glaring at the officials. 

The head admin official locked eyes with her, ignoring him completely. “Your blood turned the serum red. You are afflicted. You are Linnaean.”

“How? This can’t be… I haven’t mutated. I feel completely normal.”

The guard took an almost imperceptible step back. “You will receive treatment, but you must come with us now.”

Ember’s hands shook as she retrieved the documents from the ground. Her dad stood by her side his arm around her shoulders. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to go with them,” he almost pleaded. “Even if it’s true, we will find a way to treat you here.”

“That’s not possible,” the official said, looking at her father like he had fallen out of a garbage shoot. “The medications are only available in the City of Mendel. She will die or be executed without them.”

“Then I’ll come with her.”

“No. Even we are not allowed in Mendel. It is for Linnaeans only.”

Her father’s face grew red with anger. “No! You will not take her daughter away!”

The other two officials stepped forward, one of them flicking out a long, black stick. Together, they formed an impenetrable wall. A choked noise escaped Ember’s throat. “L-let me pack a bag,” she said, stepping toward her room. For a moment, it seemed as though they would not let her go, but the head official finally nodded and held up a hand, signaling the other men to retreat back into the doorway. 

Half in a trance, Ember walked back to her room and pulled open her dresser drawer. Hot tears ran down her face as she pulled out clothes and keepsakes, throwing them into a pile on the floor. Her father came up behind her, turning her by the shoulder and pulling her into a hug. “Ember. I- I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head through the tears, gathering up the belongings in her arms and dumping them into her rucksack. “A-aren’t you afraid?” she asked, “Of me?”

Her dad took her hairbrush from the top of the dresser, wrapping it in a rag and tucking it into the bag. “Baby, I will never be afraid of you.” He turned Ember, holding her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes. “Go now, through the window. I’ll cover for you.”

“No,” Ember whispered. “I have nowhere to go.”

She gathered the bag in her arms and walked back to the officers, feeling as though she was watching herself from far away. The smell of burnt steak wafted into the living room as they escorted her out of the door and down the driveway.

Waiting in the brick road was a covered carriage, drawn by two massive black stallions and stamped with the symbol of the church. The officials waited for her to climb into the back, then slid into the first row of passenger seats. There was a cage-like divider between them. She wrinkled her nose—the seats smelled antiseptic and bitter, like the inside of the infirmary. 

“Wait,” her father said, running to catch up. He opened her fingers and pushed something into her hands. She looked down to see the little wooden star, and a fresh flurry of tears filled her eyes. 

“Goodbye, dad,” she whispered. “I- I’ll write you, okay?”

“I love you,” he replied, his voice shaking with every syllable. He reached up as if to pull her back onto the ground, but she batted his hand away. Somehow, she knew with complete certainty that they would kill him if he resisted. 

The driver cracked his whip, and Ember and her father were ripped apart. Hot tears poured down her face and onto her work clothes. As they jostled down the street, her father ran after them, his face twisted with grief. He stumbled and fell hard to his knees, but never stopped staring at the carriage as it rounded the corner.

Then, both he and the tiny house faded into oblivion. 

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