“You told me that when your sister was executed, they didn’t even return her ashes to you.”
I can feel Flynn stiffen beside me, his grief still real, still present. I swallow, suddenly unsure. But it’s too late now to go back, so I push through.
“This is it. This is where her ashes were scattered. This hill.”
I risk a glance at him and see him gazing out across the lightening landscape, his lips parted, brows furrowed. I can’t read him in this half-light, can’t tell what’s going on behind those artistic features.
“I—I wish I could have given you something real, something you could hold or see, but it’s not policy for us to keep the remains. I researched it to make sure, and this is where—”
“No.” Flynn’s voice is hoarse, his eyes distant. “No, this is beautiful. Thank you.”
I feel the bands of nervous tension easing a little. I step closer to him, reaching for his arm so I can slide my fingers through his. “We had no right to keep her from you.” I press my lips to the fabric of his jacket, over his shoulder. “I know it’s not much, but at least you know now.”
“It’s everything.” He turns and wraps his arms around me, head dropping, cheek warm alongside mine. “Thank you, Jubilee.”
We stand that way for a time, unmoving in the chill, letting the dawn gather itself to sweep across the landscape. Finally, Flynn pulls away enough to run a hand down my arm and take my hand again.
“So tell me about that dream you had.” He gives my hand a gentle tug, summoning me down to sit on the grass beside him so we can watch the sunrise paint the clouds.
I lean back on my elbows. “Did you ever want to be an explorer when you were little?”
I go on to tell him my other dreams; small dreams and big dreams, realistic and nonsensical dreams. Snatches of Avon, of Verona, of different times and places. Of my parents, my fellow soldiers, of my November ghost, the shining light that I now know was the whisper.
I tell him how in every dream, he was there. He kisses my temple, and laughs softly when he hears my breath catch, and tells me he always will be there.
We talk about ten years of dreams stolen by that lonely creature, forgotten, coming back to me now a little each night. Flynn’s laughter rings through the hills, carried on the night air, mingling with my own. Flynn told me once he thought his sister would have liked me; I like to think she’d be happy, hearing him laugh. Watching a former soldier and a former rebel sit together in the gathering dawn.
Our voices rise, and fall, and fall again. The silences are comfortable, warm despite the chill in the air. We gaze upward, and for a long moment, neither of us realizes what we’re seeing: an odd spark of light, high above where the clouds are still indigo, like landing lights or my will-o’-the-wisp in the sky. Except this light’s not moving.
Then the light vanishes with a swirl of cloud, and I gasp. “Flynn, did you see that?”
“I saw it,” he says, puzzled, “but I don’t—”
“It was a star,” I whisper.
Flynn’s reaction is electric, for all he only moves an inch, straightening, gaze fixed on the sky overhead. Though his eyes are on the clouds, I can’t help but watch his silhouette in the darkness. The way his mouth is set, the hope and determination there—the strength in his shoulders, the energy in the way he gazes skyward. The breeze stirs his hair, and I find myself transfixed.
I think of my answer when the tortured soul in that prison underground asked me if I was in love with Flynn. I didn’t know, then, but more than anything I wanted the chance to find out. A chance without wars and blood feuds and madness everywhere on this shattered world—a chance where we could just be us. This chance.
“What does it mean?” Flynn turns to gaze at me, eyes finally meeting mine.
I find myself smiling, because I know exactly what it means. “It means the clouds are clearing on Avon.”
THE JOURNEY FROM THESE BROKEN STARS to This Shattered World has been wonderful, and we’re so grateful to the many people who supported us as we brought Avon to life.
We owe a debt of gratitude to the experts who gave up their time to help us get the details right. Thank you to Ben Ellis for checking our physics and making sure things only went wrong in the ways they’re supposed to. To Yulin Zhang, for generously sharing his Chinese upbringing and his culture—your thoughtful comments were invaluable. To Eamon Kenny, for guidance on radio transmissions and the blocking thereof. To Steve Tuck, for helping destroy things. To Josie Spooner, for early advice on ecosystems and the creation thereof. To Dr. Kate Irving, for medical advice, critique, and twenty years of the deepest friendship—here’s to twenty more.
Many thanks to Niall O’Leary and Will O’Shea for getting us started with our Irish, and go raibh maith agat Pól Ruiséal, Stiúrthóir, Ionad na Gaeilge Labhartha, Coláiste na hOllscoile Corcaigh (many thanks to Pól Ruiséal, Director of the Centre for Spoken Irish, University College Cork) for very generous help with the Irish in this book. In relation to all the wonderful advice we received, any errors are, of course, our own.
Josh and Tracey, and all the Adams Literary Team—we couldn’t do you justice with pages and pages. We couldn’t do this crazy thing without you, and we wouldn’t want to. You are our rocks. Thank you.
To the many wonderful people at Hyperion we’ve had the chance to meet, as well as those we haven’t, who work so hard in every department, our heartfelt thanks. Emily Meehan and Laura Schreiber, thank you for all the time and effort you’ve put into making This Shattered World the best it can be. Jamie Baker, thank you for going above and beyond! To Kate Hurley, our copy editor, thank you for putting up with our irrational love of em-dashes and commas. Whitney Manger, thank you for another incredible cover.
To the wonderful Allen & Unwin team, as if one home wasn’t enough, you gave us a second. Thank you so much for welcoming us into the family! We brought cake.
To the wonderful readers, booksellers, librarians, reviewers, and bloggers we’ve met since the launch of These Broken Stars, thank you for your support. It’s been a privilege to meet and correspond with so many of you.
To our friends, who are always patient, always supportive, and often slightly amused—lots of love. To our wonderful support networks: the Chocolate Lounge girls, the Roti Boti ladies, the FOS crew, the Plot Bunnies, the Pub(lishing) Crawl gang, the League, the Luckies, the TJ/NoVA crew—we couldn’t get by without you.
As much love as ever to Michelle Dennis, for reading, and reading again, and always being there. To Kim Nguyen, thank you for all your design magic, as well as your treasured friendship. Thank you to dear friends Kat Zhang, Olivia Davis, Marie Lu, Beth Revis, Marion Cole, and Jay Kristoff for critique, support, and too much awesome to be confined to one page.
As always, our families are at the heart of it all. Thank you for your love and support, which mean the world to us (and for telling everyone you know to read our books). Our storytelling began with the books you gave us, the stories you told us, and the games we played with you.
Brendan, whether you’re reading one more time, listening to one more slightly disturbing video call about death and destruction, or doing any one of the thousand things you handle with such grace, calm, and good cheer—thank you doesn’t cover it. You are the reason this book is out in the world.