Only once we’re on the other side, safely within the boundaries of the Sanctuary, do I finally relax.
A little.
I glance back, the way I always do, at the crowd gathered just beyond the invisible barrier that protects our camp. Some days I just stand here and study their faces, searching for something. Anything. A threat still unknown, unnamed.
“Hey—awesome,” Winston says, his unexpected voice shaking me out of my reverie.
I turn to look at him, discovering him sweaty and out of breath.
“So glad you guys are back,” he says. “Do any of you happen to know anything about fixing pipes? We’ve got a kind of sewage problem in one of the tents, and it’s all hands on deck.”
Our return to reality is swift.
And humbling.
But Ella steps forward, already reaching for the—dear God, is it wet?—wrench in Winston’s hand, and I almost can’t believe it. I wrap an arm around her waist, tugging her back. “Please, love. Not today. Any other day, maybe. But not today.”
“What?” She glances back. “Why not? I’m really good with a wrench. Hey, by the way,” she says, turning to the others, “did you know that Ian is secretly good at woodworking?”
Winston laughs.
“It’s only been a secret to you, princess,” Kenji says.
She frowns. “Well, we were fixing one of the more savable buildings the other day, and he taught me how to use everything in his toolbox. I helped him build a wall,” she says, beaming.
“That’s a strange justification for spending the hours before your wedding digging feces out of a toilet.” Kent again. He’s laughing.
My brother.
So strange.
He saunters up to us, a happier, healthier version of him than I’ve ever seen before. He took a week to recover after we got him back here, but when he regained consciousness and we told him what happened—and assured him that James was safe—he fainted.
And didn’t wake up for another two days.
He’s become an entirely different person in the days since. Practically jubilant. Happy for everyone. A darkness still clings to all of us—will probably cling to all of us forever—
But Adam seems undeniably changed.
“Just a heads-up,” he says, “that we’re doing a new thing now. Nouria wants me to go out there and do a general deactivation before anyone enters or exits the grounds. Just as a precaution.” He looks at Ella. “Juliette, is that okay with you?”
Juliette.
So many things changed when we came home, and this was one of them. She took back her name. Reclaimed it. She said that by erasing Juliette from her life she feared she was giving the ghost of my father too much power over her. She realized she didn’t want to forget her years as Juliette—or to diminish the young woman she was, fighting against all odds to survive. Juliette Ferrars is who she was when she was made known to the world, and she wants it to remain that way.
I’m the only one allowed to call her Ella now.
It’s just for us. A tether to our shared history, a nod to our past, to the love I’ve always felt for her, no matter her name.
I watch her as she laughs with her friends, as she pulls a hammer free from Winston’s tool belt and pretends to hit Kenji with it—no doubt for something he deserves. Lily and Nazeera come out of nowhere, Lily carrying a small bundle of a dog she and Ian saved from an abandoned building nearby. Ella drops the hammer with a sudden cry and Adam jumps back in alarm. She takes the filthy beast into her arms, smothering it with kisses even as it barks at her with a wild ferocity. And then she turns to look at me, the animal still yipping in her ear, and I realize there are tears in her eyes. She is crying over a dog.
Juliette Ferrars, one of the most feared, most lauded heroes of our known world, is crying over a dog. Perhaps no one else would understand, but I know that this is the first time she’s ever held one. Without hesitation, without fear, without danger of causing an innocent creature any harm. For her, this is true joy.
To the world, she is formidable.
To me?
She is the world. So when she dumps the creature into my reluctant arms, I hold it steady, uncomplaining when the beast licks my face with the same tongue it used, no doubt, to clean its hindquarters. I remain steady, betraying nothing even when warm drool drips down my neck. I hold still as its grimy feet dig into my coat, nails catching at the wool. I am so still, in fact, that eventually the creature quiets, its anxious limbs settling against my chest. It whines as it stares at me, whines until I finally lift a hand, drag it over its head.