The Continent (The Continent #1)(5)
CHAPTER 2
THE SPIRE IS A COLORFUL PLACE, AND NO CITY IS more representative of this than Astor—the Spirian capital. Here, citizens of all colors, shapes, and sizes, bedecked in the finery of their home countries, come to take positions in the Chancellery: the beating heart of our nation’s government. Astor, which is but five miles from the place I call home, is nestled firmly within the borders of the East, though its residents maintain their original citizenship, designated, as always, by the nation of one’s birth. It is here in the Chancellery that elections are held in which officials are chosen by the people, new laws are considered and voted upon by the Heads of State, and the Astor Library houses the combined literary and scientific knowledge of the North, West, East, and South. It is also the site of the Eastern heliport—the place from which all air travel to and from the East is conducted.
Most citizens travel by train, in one of the sleek magnetic monorails that glide above and below every city in the Spire, but my father has arranged a car for today—a special privilege indeed. It is a black limousine, its electric motor nearly silent, with plush velvet seats the color of burnished bronze. As our driver maneuvers the car to the curb in front of the Chancellery proper, my fingers begin to tremble. Today, I shall see the Continent. I will see with my own eyes the place I have imagined for so long. My mother sets a hand on my knee for what must be the tenth time since leaving the estate.
“Stop jiggling your leg, dear,” she says again. “It doesn’t suit.”
I relax my muscles, but nothing can quell the restless anticipation I feel inside. The car rolls to a stop and a prim-looking valet hurries forward, snapping his fingers at a couple of porters waiting by the entrance. The two men rush into action, chattering at one another in a familiar sort of way as they bundle our luggage out of the trunk and pile it atop shiny wheeled carts.
The valet comes round to my door and extends a hand; I smile as I step out onto the curb. The rain has stopped, and a hint of blue sky is visible beyond stern gray clouds. An important-looking man with a National Affairs badge hurries by, an important-looking frown on his face. From beyond the building, a heli-plane rises into the sky, the four-pointed yellow star of the Spire painted boldly along its side.
This is happening. We’re going to the Continent!
The porters have made quick work of the luggage; it’s now stacked neatly on the brass carts and secured with sturdy straps. The valet leads us into the building and we follow him through a series of short corridors, while the porters follow behind with the trolleys.
At last, we come to an immense set of double doors leading into a private hangar. As the doors open, I see our own heli-plane inside, the front half lit by sunshine, its white face gleaming. The plane is larger than I thought it would be, and very beautiful in its way. The nose curves gracefully, the slender white wings stretching out like proud arms extended in triumph, each inset with a large and powerful propeller.
The Shaws are standing near the plane with a steward who waves us over at once.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sun, Miss Sun,” he calls as we approach. “What a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mr. Harris; I will be your steward throughout the expedition. If there is anything you need, please let me know and I shall do my utmost to accommodate you. Now if you’ll just wait a few moments, we’ll stow the luggage and you can board the plane directly.”
“Excellent,” says my father. “We can enjoy a bit of sunshine before we head into the frozen north.”
The Shaws cross over to greet us, and I see that Mrs. Shaw’s hat is even larger and grander than the one she wore to dinner the other night; clearly, she is not to be outdone, even by herself.
“Doesn’t it just rub one the wrong way that the sun should come out the moment we’re set to leave?” she says, looking insulted. “I’m fit to be tied.”
“Perhaps it’s a sign that we shall have a safe and pleasant journey,” my mother says. “A harbinger of good fortune?”
Aaden smiles, his blue eyes lit by the sun. “Whatever it means, it’s delightful. I could stand here all day.”
“I shouldn’t like to wait too long,” says Mrs. Shaw. “If we arrive in the dark, we’ll miss the Continent as we fly over on our way to the island.”
“Ah, yes, the island,” my father says. “It’s a good job we don’t have to shack up on the Continent itself, now isn’t it?”
“Thank the heavens,” Mrs. Shaw says, and shudders. “I’ve heard the facilities at Ivanel are top of the line. My dearest friend—Mrs. Calista Jayne, you remember her, darling?—stayed earlier this year, and she says the staff will deliver eight kinds of coffee right to your suite. Eight kinds of coffee, on a tiny island like that!” She laughs. “Whatever will they think of next?”
Aaden takes my elbow and leads me farther into the sunlight, then leans over to whisper in my ear. “Can you imagine anything more incredible than eight kinds of coffee?”
I laugh. “Please, your mother is very sweet.”
“Ha! She’s an angel. For months, she’s been rubbing this trip in the noses of all the society women who are still wait-listed.”
“Well…it is exciting, isn’t it?”
He tilts his head. “Miss Vaela Sun—have you been bragging about this tour to your schoolmates?”