LITMIR.BIZ

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of guilt that had crawled up from her stomach.

      “Where was that light coming from?” Van said.

      “What light?” Legacy said.

      “The light you’re using to see the ball,” Van said.

      Legacy looked around, then shrugged. “The sun’s rising,” she said. Though now that she’d stopped playing, it did seem darker than it had before.

      “I can’t see a thing,” Van said. “And you’re getting every shot! It must be some kind of grana.”

      “Or it’s getting light out,” Legacy said.

      “I’m telling you, bud,” Van said, “you have all the grana you need. All you need now is a better racket and a little serious training—which is why this is such incredible news!”

      Now he was waving his copy of the Nova Times over his head. His glasses had gone crooked again. No matter how many times Legacy tried to fix them, they never quite balanced on the bridge of his nose.

      “What are you talking about?” Legacy said, peering at the newspaper.

      “I’m talking about change,” Van said. “I’m talking about progress!”

      “What are you actually talking about,” Legacy said, rolling her eyes.

      “The Queen,” Van said, “has announced that she’s holding a free trial for children from the provinces.”

      Legacy peered over his shoulder. High Consul Silla—otherwise known as the Queen, since her younger days on the tennis court, when she dominated her opponents so thoroughly she seemed to wear an invisible crown on her head—must have announced a new provincial outreach program.

      “Winner gets a free ride to the academy,” Van said. “And a slot in the qualifiers for the national championships!”

      For a moment, Legacy’s heart seemed to have sprouted wings. Now they were flapping wildly against the cage of her chest. How many nights had she gone to sleep dreaming of training at Silla’s academy? How many times had she closed her eyes and seen herself playing the national championships?

      She’d even imagined winning them, beating Gia, the best player in the republic, and kneeling to pledge her loyalty to High Consul Silla, who would stand before her with that regal composure that was the source of her nickname and that made her so beloved by the people of Nova.

      Legacy had dreamed of that moment while teaching the littles to read. She’d dreamed of it while preparing their bottles. Hanging their wet pajamas up on the line in the garden, she’d closed her eyes and heard the applause of all the citizens who had come to watch her play in the finals. She’d felt the grass of the academy courts giving under her feet. She’d imagined herself changing the weather like the other top players. Like Villy Sal, who could cause snow to swirl down on his opponents. Or Sondra Domenicu, who could make the ground of the court start to shudder and crack. Legacy had imagined beating them all.

      But now, hearing Van say it out loud, Legacy shook her head as if to clear out all the fantasies. It was one thing to have daydreams while washing the littles’ pajamas. But it was another thing entirely to let herself believe they were real.

      Even if she did win the trials, she couldn’t run off to train at the academy. She had responsibilities here. How would her father manage without her? Ever since her mother left, it had been the two of them. As soon as she was old enough, she’d tried to do whatever she could to help him run the orphanage. But she’d seen how the responsibility had worn him down. She’d watched the lines in his face grow deeper. She’d watched the white crawl into his close-cropped hair.

      And anyway: he’d already been abandoned once. Legacy wouldn’t let it happen again. Especially not so that she could follow some silly dream about tennis.

      But Van was still at it. “Are you listening?” he said, following close behind while Legacy moved around the garden, beating clumps of weeds with her racket, looking for the lost ball. If her father found it in the garden, he’d know she’d been playing tennis. Then she’d get another one of his lectures.

      “You’ll win those trials, I know it!” Van said. “And then you’ll go to the academy. And once you’ve gotten some quality coaching, you’ll win the nationals, too. And with the money you make there, you can fix all the problems at the orphanage.”

      Legacy found the ball under a broken flowerpot. She trapped it against the side of her sneaker, balanced it on her racket, and headed toward the kitchen stairs.

      Behind her, Van was still yammering on. “It’s perfect timing. It’s meant to be. The trials are tomorrow. And today’s your birthday, so you’ll finally get that Tempest. Then you’ll have more power, and you’ll be able to express grana. You can use it when you’re playing the trials!”

      On the stairs, Legacy picked up her pace. She hoped Van couldn’t see her face flush. For months, he’d been after her about asking for a Tempest for her twelfth birthday. It was all part of his master plan to make her into the greatest champion in the republic. Never mind the fact that she’d never even had a coach. Never mind that players like Gia had been training at the academy since they could walk, learning how to express grana that Legacy couldn’t so much as dream of. Never mind that a single day at the academy cost more than the orphanage budget for a whole month.

      None of that made any difference to Van. He was sure that Legacy could win the nationals and save the orphanage. Then maybe he could go to the School of Economics and become a historian, and later a politician, or even a senator who could aid Silla in her reform of the republic.

      Legacy didn’t interrupt him while he rambled on. She knew that his schemes distracted him from his hunger and from the occasional pains in his bad leg. They prevented him from thinking about what he’d do when he was too old to keep his bed at the orphanage and there wasn’t money to send him to college.

      Usually, Van’s hopeful chatter made Legacy happy. But now, listening while Van rattled off stats about how much a Tempest would help the accuracy of her serve, Legacy felt her face growing redder.

      She wasn’t going to get that Tempest.

      She hadn’t even asked for it.

      She’d considered it, but in the end it seemed selfish. How could she justify asking for a new racket when the littles didn’t even have enough milk for their bottles? Instead, she’d asked for a book of Cora stories for Ink. She’d been excited to see Ink turn them into plays. But she hadn’t considered how disappointed Van would be when she didn’t get that Tempest.

      Legacy paused at the kitchen door. Beyond the garden wall, the sun was actually rising now. For the most part, the slopes and valleys of Agricio had recovered since the Great Fire that was still raging through them three years ago. Since Silla put it out, money had been set aside by the senate for new olive trees to replace the ones that had burned. Stripes of silver-green saplings trained to their stakes stretched off down into the valley, where blue clouds had nestled in for the night and still hadn’t risen with the morning.

      On the other side of the garden, however, the Forest of Cora was ravaged. The first waves of recovery money hadn’t been sent there. And now that the recovery had racked up staggering debts, Legacy couldn’t imagine funds would be sent anytime soon.

      The skeletons of the burnt drammus trees stood black against the rosy sky. They seemed to be wagging their skinny, leafless fingers at her, reminding her that it was absurd to dream of winning those trials. Her only responsible option, those trees seemed to say, was to remain at the orphanage.

      Sighing in resignation, Legacy headed inside. Her father must have started the kitchen fire without her. And in the great room, the littles were already assembled at the long wooden table.

      “Happy birthday!” they all cried in unison when Legacy stepped into the room.

      Legacy smiled. They must have all chipped

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