Fiddlehead

The courthouse was evacuated, and we finished the ceremony in the Capitol, on the steps of Congress. The taps lit up around the globe.

The world was watching.

“Good night, dear.”

“Good night,” Grant replied, turning his cheek for her to kiss on her way to bed. “I’ll be up before long.”

“Do you promise?”

“One drink, and no more.”

“And one pipe,” she chided.

“And one pipe,” he confessed. “I’m restless, that’s all.”

She nodded, and kissed the top of his head. “The new routines have been difficult for everyone.”

“You’ve adjusted easily enough.”

“You know me—I’ve always been able to sleep through anything.”

“Must be nice,” he mumbled, reaching for his glass, then rising to fill it. “Some of us are not so lucky. Still, I’ll join you soon.”

She retired upstairs.

He was as good as his word. He put the bottle away when he’d finished pouring, and once his pipe was stuffed and lit, he put the tobacco pouch away as well.

One more drink. One more smoke.

The tobacco comforted him in a way the drinks did not, anymore. Once he had been delighted for the blurry feeling of brandy, or the wobbly pleasantness of whiskey. Now he needed his faculties too much to dull them, much as the temptation remained. His memoirs were nearly finished, and that was a relief—one project accomplished before he reached the end.

As for the rest …

He walked to the window and looked out over the stretch of grass behind his house, bright with floodlights that would blind him if he gazed straight into them. They were electric, designed by Bardsley and installed with haste at the same time as the fence—which was also electric. A powerful current ran its length, created by the noisy diesel generator that ran day and night. Anyone who touched the fence would surely fry, and notices to that effect were posted round its length. The host of warnings declared: FENCE IS ELECTRIFIED FOR THE OCCUPANTS’ SAFETY. DO NOT TOUCH. These warnings were underscored by the Secret Service agents who patrolled in full body armor, night and day. Grant was getting used to them. He was even begi

At the fence’s far left corner, a bright burst of sparks a

He closed the curtains and finished his pipe.

Then he left the remainder of his drink on the sideboard, and joined his wife in bed.

Tor Books by Cherie Priest

THE EDEN MOORE BOOKS

Four and Twenty Blackbirds

Wings to the Kingdom

Not Flesh Nor Feathers

Fathom

THE CLOCKWORK CENTURY NOVELS

Boneshaker

Dreadnought

Ganymede

The Inexplicables

Fiddlehead

About the Author

CHERIE PRIEST is the author of several books, including Boneshaker, the first Clockwork Century book, which won the Locus Award for Best Science Fiction Novel and was nominated for the Hugo and Nebula awards. She lives in Chattanooga, Te