Something’s broken in his voice. “There’s no room for emotion on the political stage,” I reply, putting my wineglass down. I’m not sure if I’m helping, but the words come out anyway. I don’t even know if I believe them. “When emotion fails, logic will save you. You might envy Day, but you’ll never be him and he’ll never be you. He isn’t the Republic’s Elector. He’s a boy protecting his brother. You are a politician. You have to make decisions that break your heart, that hurt and deceive, that no one else will understand. It’s your duty.” Even as I say this, though, I feel the doubt in the back of my mind, the seeds that Day has planted.
Without emotion, what’s the point of being human?
Anden’s eyes are heavy with sadness. He slouches, and for a moment I can see him as he really is, a young ruler standing alone against a tide of opposition and attempting to bear the burden of his country on his own shoulders, with a Senate cooperating only out of fear. “I miss my father sometimes,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t admit that, but it’s true. I know the rest of the world sees him as a monster.” He puts his wineglass down on the side table, then buries his head in his hands and rubs his face once.
My heart aches for him. At least I can grieve for my brother without fear of others’ hatred. What must it be like to know that the parent you once loved was responsible for such evil acts?
“Don’t feel guilty for your grief,” I say softly. “He was still your father.”
His gaze comes to rest on me, and as if pulled by some invisible hand, he leans forward. He wavers there, hovering precariously between desire and reason. He is so close now, close enough that if I were to move even a little, our lips might brush against each other. I feel his breath faintly against my skin, the warmth of his nearness, the quiet gentleness of his love. In this moment, I feel myself drawn to him.
“June . . . ,” he whispers. His eyes dance across my face.
Then he touches my chin with one hand, coaxes me forward, and kisses me.
I close my eyes. I should stop him, but I don’t want to. There is something electrifying about the bare passion in the young Elector of the Republic, the way he leans into me, his desire exposed even beneath his unfailing politeness. How he opens his heart for no one but me. How in spite of everything working against him, he still has the strength to step out every day with his chin up and his back straight. How he soldiers on, for the sake of his country. As do we all. I let myself succumb. He breaks away from my lips to kiss my cheek. Then the soft line of my jaw, right under my ear. Then my neck, just the softest whisper of a touch. A shiver sweeps through me. I can feel him holding back, and I know that what he really wants to do is to lace his fingers through my hair and drown himself in me.
But he doesn’t. He knows, as much as I do, that this isn’t real.
I have to stop. And with a pained effort, I pull away. I struggle to catch my breath. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I can’t.”
Anden looks down, embarrassed. But not surprised. His cheeks flush a faint pink in the dim light of the room, and he runs a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs. We fall silent for a few uncomfortable seconds, until Anden sighs and leans all the way back. I slouch a little, both disappointed and relieved. “I . . . know you care deeply for Day. I know I can’t hope to compete with that.” He grimaces. “That was inappropriate of me. My apologies, June.”
I have a fleeting urge to kiss him again, to tell him that I do care, and to erase the pain and shame on his face that tugs at my heart. But I also know I don’t love him, and I can’t lead him on like this. I know the real reason we went so far is that I couldn’t bear to turn him away in his darkest moment. That I wished, deep down . . . he were someone else. The truth fills me with guilt. “I should go,” I say sadly.
Anden moves farther from me. He seems more alone than ever. Still, he composes himself and bows his head respectfully. His moment of weakness has passed, and his usual politeness takes over. As always, he hides his pain well. Then he stands up and holds a hand out to me. “I’ll walk you back to your room. Get some rest—we’ll leave in the early morning.”
I stand too, but I don’t take his hand. “It’s fine. I can find my own way back.” I avoid meeting his eyes; I don’t want to see how everything I say only hurts him more. Then I turn toward the door and leave him behind.
Ollie greets me with a wagging tail when I return to my room. After a petting session, I decide to try out the Internet portal in my room while he curls up nearby and falls promptly asleep. I run a search on Anden, as well as on his father. My room’s portal is a simplified version of the portals I used earlier, without interactive textures and immersive sounds attached, but it’s still miles beyond anything I’ve seen in the Republic. I sift quietly through the search results. Most are staged photos and propaganda videos that I recognize—Anden having his portrait done as a young boy, the former Elector standing in front of Anden at official press events and meetings. Even the international community seems to have little information on the relationship between father and son. But the deeper I dig, the more I stumble across moments of something surprisingly genuine. I see a video of Anden as a four-year-old, holding his salute with a solemn young face while his father patiently shows him how. I find a photo of the late Elector holding a crying, frightened Anden in his arms and whispering something into his ear, oblivious to the crowd that surrounds them. I see a clip of him angrily shoving the international press away from his small son, of him clutching Anden’s hand so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. I stumble across a rare interview between him and a reporter from Africa, who asks him what he cares about the most in the Republic.