I knocked on the door to Analiese's room. Once I heard her say 'enter', I twisted the knob and slid inside.

She sat on a padded seat, facing the mirror. Her brown face was white from the creamy, facial serum. Her eyes met my reflection in the glass.

"What do you want?"

"I need a favor."

Her eyebrows arched. "And you came to me?" She grabbed a damp washcloth and lifted it to her face. Swipe by swipe, the serum cleared, and my sister was revealed to me. Even draped in the silk lines of her night clothes with her long hair braided and shoved underneath a silk bonnet, she looked very poised and refined.

My eyes drifted, taking in her chilled room of polished cream and artistic space. It was much different from the light blue walls and frilly dresses I remembered. But, I reminded myself, it had been ten years since I'd entered this room.

"Celeste, what do you want?"

"I need 8000 citz."

"What are you doing with 8000 citz, Celeste?"

"Analiese, I know you have the money. Can you just loan it to me? I'll pay you back."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're sneaking out again tonight. Where are you going?"

"Nowhere you need to know, but your money will be safe, I promise."

She was silent for a moment before saying, "You're engaged now, Celeste. Things cannot continue the way they have been. What would father say?"

He already knew. It surprised me that he did, that he knew about Jack and what I thought were our secret rendezvous. My hand crept to the pocket where I knew my journal was sheathed. I no longer trusted it to stay hidden in my room. He knew about Jack and our meetings outside the wall, but I didn't want him to know about this, the journal.

"He doesn't care. Now, will you give me the 8000, or not?" She reached for her drawer, and her hands sifted through combs and gels and pins. Finally, she extracted a thick wad of crisp banknotes. She counted 8000—sixteen 500 citz bills—and waved them in the air.

"I want to do this for you," she said, "but I'm afraid this will lead to far greater consequences."

I shook my head. "That 8000 citz you give me will help me end what I've started. After tonight, it will be done. The engagement will be formalized, and I will be married," I finished.

I didn't hear the bitterness in my voice until she spoke. "What did you expect, Celeste? That you could live free with your books and Cookie forever?"

"I never expected that, but it would've been nice to have been consulted."

She looked at me; her eyes clouded in bewilderment. "Why can't you just be content?"

"I don't know, Analiese. I can't change who I am. It's not as easy as you make it seem."

"Then try harder," she warned. "I know you don't like this life, but this is the privilege you were granted from birth. You are not free to live your own life and make your own decisions."

"I know this, Analiese. I will take my place when I am expected to. But for now, I am free, so let me live."

She nodded once, and then handed me the cash. "I won't charge interest."

Hours later, I was outside the wall.

I had debated whether or not to see him. I'd almost chosen not to. After Father's admission, it would have been the smart thing, but I was never that smart, and the pull of temptation had been too strong. Besides, Father was no longer home; he'd been called away on business. So I thought, why not?

He already knew. Analiese already suspected, and Mother never really cared.

A part of me wanted to punish Father, too, by toeing the line of unacceptability without ever really crossing it. I resented how he came, bringing with him changes to my world, the world he never had time to understand. I resented his demands and impositions into my life. I resented him for treating me more like a Citizen and less like a daughter. But for now, he was gone, and I was left here alone with my bottled anger and raging heart, resenting how much it hurt to be reminded of how easily he turned his back and left.

I blew my three-tone whistle, and a figure appeared. Jack ambled through the trees' parted path. The sliver of moonlight shed light onto his face. He took a stance in the snow and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You stole my journal." Memories flooded my mind of last week's parting kiss, and how I switched the journal for the money.

I was quick to say, "In exchange for 2000 citz." 

"I asked for ten."

I slipped my hand inside my fur coat and withdrew the 8000 citz. "And now, you have it."

He snatched the banknotes from my hand, wrinkling the crisp paper within his tight grasp. Thumbing through the cash, he counted until his eyes met the last banknote.

I bit my lips. The end was near. I felt the same way I had when the painters had left; except this time, there was no way to make Jack stay.

He shifted on his feet. "For the record, I don't do drugs."

"I never thought you did."

He threw me a disbelieving look, and I grimaced.

"Fine, I did, but only for a moment." I hesitated. "I'm sorry for that."

He nodded.

"You never returned the glass animals you stole," I said.

Grinning, he asked, "Were they missed?"

"Would you have cared either way?"

He spread out his arms. "I am nothing if not a slave to the arts."

I stepped forward with a smile. "I'll miss you Jack."

He sauntered toward me with that familiar conceit. When he reached me, he wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug.

"You're not too bad yourself, Celeste."

My trek back to the wall was slower and more sluggish than last week's. My eyes surveyed my surroundings, absorbing the white slopes of pure snow and the barren trees with their feckless leaves. My feet felt weighted by the eerie finality of the final jaunt.

Soon, I encountered the fork. Two paths diverged from a single road. The left promised the predictability and safety of the city. The right...the right was the undetermined. I wavered at that branch. My feet danced between left and right. Which would I choose? I cast my eyes far off into the distance, imagining the quiet buildings, the neat paths, and the looming wall of my city. I imagined my sister's restraint, my mother's anger, and my father's disinterest.

My feet propelled me toward my destiny—toward the right— and as I met my fate, I started to run, jump, and laugh. I began to breathe. My resentment shed off in waves. I saw a bright future ahead of me, alight with hopeful dreams and new beginnings.

And then, I remembered Cookie. She was my friend, my mother...my everything. I stopped short. How could I leave her? My hands ruffled my bangs. The truth was that I couldn't.

I retraced a step, and then another. I turned around and began to run in earnest when I heard a voice.

"You're a dirty liar." Deviating from my course, I infiltrated the deep thicket of the woods where a small crowd of people stood. "Did you really think I wouldn't discover you?"

Seven figures filtered in my view, but it was the sight of Cookie with her long, swinging braid that made my heart skip a beat. "Don't do this, Roscoe. You're embarrassing yourself."

Roscoe bore down on Cookie. Her greying hair frizzled around her head like a halo. The deep grooves bracketing her mouth and eyes deepened as she said, "I'll do whatever I want to, Cookie, and you better remember that. I found you twenty-five years ago. I was the one who fed you, cared for you, and protected you. I was your salvation, so, Cookie, you have no right to tell me what I can and can't do."

Cookie's eyes narrowed. "You found me, yes, Roscoe, but that is the only thing you can claim you did for me. I fed myself. I cared for myself. I protected myself. You tried to control me, telling me what I could and could not do, but you can't. I am my own person."

"But you worked for me!"

"And I did my job. Everything else I've done was for me."

"Using my resources, stealing my workers."

"Taking advantage of my opportunities."

"Double-crossing me!"

"You don't own me, Roscoe. You never have and you never will. What I do in my off time is a personal investment."

"But I do own you, little girl. I own your soul. I made you. Without me, you would never have been."

Cookie's lips firmed in stern lines. "I refuse to serve you, Roscoe."

"There is no other option, Cookie."

Cookie lifted her chin. "I quit."

Roscoe smiled. "You can't." She extracted a switchblade knife from her thick overcoat and cradled the hilt in her hands.

"Roscoe," Cookie said, "what are you doing?"

"You should've stayed in the kitchens, little girl." Roscoe flipped the knife open; the metal blade gleamed.

Cookie stepped back. "You will not touch me, Roscoe." The other woman smiled.

"Roscoe," Cookie said, "don't do this to yourself." As Cookie retreated deeper within the foliage, Roscoe shadowed her movements. Something bright and metallic glinted in Cookie's hands. "Roscoe," was Cookie's final plea, "don't make me do this..."

The gunshot echoed in the sky, bouncing off the snowy surface and peeling bark as though it could not be contained.

Roscoe jerked forward, her hands clutching the gaping wound at her chest. Blood gushed from the open hole like a crimson waterfall.

I tried to scream as Roscoe crumpled to the ground, but it was never heard. I was silenced by the gloved hands muffling my mouth. The figure pushed me down, rubbing my face in the snow.

"Be quiet," a harsh voice warned.

I didn't hear him. The gunshot was still ringing in my ear. I fought him, but he held me firm. Lifting my head, I saw the four others scatter at their leader's demise.

"Get off of me!" My voice was muffled. Shaking my head violently, I dislodged his hand from my mouth and bit his fingers.

Whispering a curse, he said, "It's your funeral." He disappeared.

Pushing myself up, I saw Cookie. She looked as she did when she peeled potatoes or salted meat. Her sleeves were rolled high, showing her firm forearms, and her stance was strong. But her hands held a foreign object, something that stole life, rather than sustained it. The silver pistol trembled as her hand shook, and my heart began to tear. All my life, Cookie had been my constant, but now she was as foreign to me as that gun.

I heard Cookie's last whisper. "Align or die," was all she said before turning into the forest and vanishing into the stars.

I cast one last look at the woman who should've been my mother.