Page 57 of The Last Love Story

The sun streaks across the sky as Callum and I walk the upper deck, and he listens while I tell him aboutThe Lord of the Rings. Just as the hobbits are reaching Rivendell, I stop and look up, feeling eyes on me.

Hux sits in a crow’s nest, one arm slung over a knee as he stares down at me.

I glare up as I link my arm in Callum’s, and we keep walking.

“So, they think Frodo is beyond saving, because the poison is seeping toward his heart—”

“She’s coming over!” someone cries, the press spilling outside in their excitement.

I tighten my grip on Callum’s arm.

“Marcy?” I ask sadly. Part of me expects to see a person in a suit, marching along to orders from an earpiece. I don’t want to have the illusion shattered. Right now, I can choose to believe.

“We don’t have to go look,” Callum says, but I shake my head.

“I want to. I have to,” I answer.

Callum and I slowly head to the starboard side, where reporters, guards, and crew all lean against the railing.

Just beyond, not even one hundred feet out, sits Marcy. And she’s definitely not some guy in a suit.

She’s on an iceberg no bigger than a car, her feet tucked under her as she rests, mouth open, panting. The massive ship sends a wake slamming into the iceberg, and she tries to steady herself. Bright crimson, so red it can’t be real, stains her flank.

I don’t need the binoculars to see how skinny she is. Her stunning white fur is matted in some places, the white faded to a dull yellow. Tears bite at the back of my throat, and I shake my head.

Callum puts a hand around my shoulders.

She sits up, and it’s a struggle. I can’t imagine how weak she is.

No one speaks as she tilts her head up toward us.

Her eyes are tired and milky. If she’s scared of us, she’s too exhausted to do anything about it.

Finally, she lowers herself and slips into the water, diving into the waves and out of sight.

Around us, the crowd disperses, voices already muttering about what filters they’ll use; one even asks Alba aloud to swap out Marcy for a stock photo they had prepared. Already, the truth is being rewritten. Callum keeps his arm around me, and I am faintly aware of the camera flashes behind us. Along the waves, a small dinghy returns to the ship, packed with soldiers in white camo. They all hold long nightsticks. The end of one is tinged with blood.

It’s no mystery why Marcy positioned herself for a photo op.

One of the guards appears at Callum’s side. “Copter is ten minutes out,” he says, and Callum nods.

We saw what we came to see, I guess.

Callum and I both look at the water where Marcy dove. I was naïve to think there was hope. Marcy is, really and truly, alone.

Callum’s voice breaks the silence. “A week. That’s how much longer we have to... lie for him.”

“What happens in a week?” I ask as my pulse kicks up. Does Callum finally have a plan? I fight the urge to seek out Hux in the crow’s nest. I wonder if he’s listening to us right now. Of course he is.

“The Union Conference.”

“Where he’s supposed to endorse a successor?”

“Yes. Because he’s not going to.” His voice is quiet, gaze set dead ahead.

I’m probably imagining it, but the sky seems to have gotten a little darker. It was one thing to hear Becka guess at it. But Callum knows. Still I have to say it: “He’s seeking a third term.”

He looks out at the water with me. “No,” he answers. “He’s extending his current term.”