The Book of Ivy, p.1part #1 of The Book of Ivy Series
What would you kill for?
After a brutal nuclear war, the United States was left decimated. A small group of survivors eventually banded together, but only after more conflict over which family would govern the new nation. The Westfalls lost. Fifty years later, peace and control are maintained by marrying the daughters of the losing side to the sons of the winning group in a yearly ritual.
This year, it is my turn.
My name is Ivy Westfall, and my mission is simple: to kill the president’s son—my soon-to-be husband—and return the Westfall family to power.
But Bishop Lattimer is either a very skilled actor or he’s not the cruel, heartless boy my family warned me to expect. He might even be the one person in this world who truly understands me. But there is no escape from my fate. I am the only one who can restore the Westfall legacy.
Because Bishop must die. And I must be the one to kill him…
The Book of Ivy
“Thought-provoking, poignant, and sexy! Readers will burn the midnight oil to finish The Book of Ivy and fall asleep with the name Bishop Lattimer on their lips.”
—Regina at Mel, Erin, and Regina Read-A-Lot
“The Book of Ivy has every ingredient you look for in an epic novel: from the spine-tingling plot and exhilarating characters, to every entrancing word penned by Amy Engel.”
—Kris at Insightful Minds Reviews
“I enjoyed this novel so much that I polished it off in two sittings. There is no insta-love! There is no love triangle! Best of all, the protagonist actually has common sense, and she uses it! The slow-to-develop relationship is believable, and both Ivy and Bishop are easy to relate to. Waiting anxiously for Book 2!”
—Julie at Magna Maniac Café
“With her debut, Amy Engel has pulled off one of the best dystopian romances that I have ever read. It was impossible to put down.”
—Kayla at Bibliophilia, Please
Table of Contents
Don’t miss the stunning sequel to The Book of Ivy: The Revolution of Ivy
About the Author
Don’t miss the emotional and romantic debut from Shannon Lee Alexander, Love and Other Unknown Variables
Check out more of Entangled Teen’s hottest reads... Fragile Line
Whatever Life Throws at You
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Amy Engel. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Edited by Alycia Tornetta and Stacy Abrams
Cover design by Alexandra Shostak
Interior design by Jeremy Howland
Paperback ISBN 978-1-62266-465-8
Ebook ISBN 978-1-62266-466-5
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition November 2014
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my father, who always believed
o one wears white wedding dresses anymore. White cloth is too hard to come by, and the expense and trouble of securing enough to make several dozen dresses, or more, is too high. Not even on a day like today, when it is our leader’s son who will be one of the bridegrooms. Not even he is special enough to be allowed to marry a girl dressed in white.
“Stand still,” my sister says from behind me. Her knuckles are icy cold against my spine as she tries to force up the zipper on the back of the pale blue dress. It was made for the wedding day she never had and it doesn’t fit quite right on my taller frame. “There.” She gives the zipper one last yank. “Turn around.”
I turn slowly, smoothing my hands down the soft material. I’m not used to dresses. I don’t like how naked I feel underneath, already longing for pants and a breath not hemmed in by a too-tight bodice. As if reading my thoughts, Callie’s eyes roam downward. “You’re bigger in the bust than I am,” she says with a smirk. “But I doubt he’ll complain.”
“Shut up,” I say, but there’s no force behind my words. I didn’t think I would be this nervous. It’s not as if this day is a surprise. I’ve known my whole life that it was coming, spent every minute of the last two years preparing. But now that it’s here, I can’t stop the tremor in my fingers or the sick fall of my stomach. I don’t know if I can do this, but I also know I have no choice.
Callie reaches up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ll be fine,” she says, her voice firm and even. “Right? You know what to do.”
“Yes,” I say, pulling my head back. Her words make me feel stronger; I don’t need to be babied.
She looks at me for a long moment, her mouth a tight line. Is she angry that I’m taking the spot that should have rightfully been hers, or is she glad to give it up, to be rid of the burden of being the daughter who holds so much hope on her shoulders?
“Girls.” My father’s voice floats up the stairs. “It’s time.”
“You go,” I tell Callie. “I’ll be right down.” I need one last minute of quiet, one last chance to look around this room that will never be mine again. Callie leaves the door ajar when she goes, and I can hear my father’s impatient voice from downstairs, Callie murmuring something reassuring to him.
On my bed is a well-worn suitcase, the wheels broken off long ago, forcing me to carry it. I heave it off the mattress, turn in a slow circle, knowing I will never sleep in this narrow bed again, never brush my hair in front of the mirror above my dresser, never listen to the sound of rain tapping against my windowpane as I drift to sleep. I close my eyes against a sudden press of tears and take a deep breath. When I open my eyes, they are dry. I walk out of my room and I don’t look back.
he weddings are performed on the second Saturday in May. Some years there is rain and with it the faint, acrid scent of burning, even after so many years. But today dawned clear, the sky a bright, hectic blue, wispy clouds floating on a mild breeze. It is a beautiful day to become a bride, but all I can concentrate on is the heavy thump of my heart and the line of sweat forming between my shoulder blades as we walk toward City Hall.
My father and Callie flank me, almost as if they are penning me in to keep me from bolting. I don’t bother telling them I’m not going anywhere. My father’s swinging hand brushes mine, and he clasps my fingers in his own. He hasn’t held my hand since I was a little girl, and the gesture shocks me so much that I stumble over my own feet, the pressure of his hand balancing me at the last moment. I’m grateful for his touch, even though touching is not something he does often or easily. He
“We’re proud of you,” he says. He squeezes my hand once, hard, almost to the point of pain, and lets go. “You can do this.”
“I know,” I tell him, my eyes straight ahead. The limestone facade of City Hall is less than a block away now. There are several other girls climbing the steps with their parents. They must be nervous, anxious to find out if they will end today as someone’s wife or if they will go home and slide between their own sheets again. My anxiety is different. I know where I will be sleeping tonight, and it won’t be in my own bed.
As we reach the sidewalk in front of City Hall, people begin to turn, grinning at my father, reaching out to shake his hand, clap him on the back. A few women give me reassuring smiles as they tell me how pretty I look.
“Smile,” Callie whispers near my ear. “Stop scowling at everyone.”
“If it’s so easy, why don’t you try it?” I hiss back, but I do as she says and plaster a smile onto my face.
“I would have, remember?” she says. “But I didn’t get the chance. Now you need to do it for me.”
So she is jealous after all, angry at having her birthright stolen. I expect her eyes to be cold, but when I turn my head, she is looking at me with a softness I have rarely seen. She is the female version of our father, with his chocolate eyes and dark chestnut hair. I always longed to look like the two of them, instead of being the odd one out with my not-quite-blond, not-quite-brown hair and gray eyes, both gifts from my long-dead mother. But as little as we resemble each other, looking at Callie has always been like staring at a fiercer, more disciplined version of myself. Looking at her reminds me of who I am expected to become.
We follow the long line of brides into City Hall. All around me are girls in pale dresses, some with hands clutching small bouquets, others, like mine, empty. We are ushered into the main rotunda where a stage has been set up at one end. There is a dark curtain across the back, and I know that, even now, the boys are gathering behind it, lining up before they are revealed to find out who they are destined to marry.
The potential brides sit in the first few rows of chairs, the families of both brides and grooms seated behind them. President Lattimer and his wife, however, are seated on the stage, as they are every year. Even with a son behind the curtain, their status does not change. My father gives my hand a final squeeze before moving away. Callie brushes a quick, dry kiss against my cheek. “Good luck,” she says. If my mother were still alive, maybe she would hug me, give me final words of advice that I could actually use instead of a worn-out platitude.
I slide into an empty seat in the front row, avoiding eye contact with President Lattimer and the girls on either side of me. I keep my gaze straight ahead, focusing on a slight tear in the stage’s dark curtain until the girl next to me presses something into my hand. “Here,” she says. “Take one and pass it on.”
I do as she says, sliding the stack of programs to the girl on my left. It is the same program they give out every year. Only the color of the paper and the names inside change. It hardly seems worth the effort; I’m sure we all have it memorized by now. This year the program is a washed out pink, the words Wedding Ceremony across the front in curly, slightly smudged script. The first two pages are a history of our “nation.” Personally, I think it’s ridiculous to refer to a town of fewer than ten thousand people as a nation, but no one’s ever asked for my opinion.
The history includes talk of the war that ended the world, the floods and droughts that followed, the diseases that almost finished us off. But we, of course, rose from the ashes, ragged, war-weary survivors who managed to find one another across a vast, barren landscape and carved out a spot to begin anew. Blah, blah, blah. Our rebirth, though, was not without conflict and more deaths as two sides fought to determine how our tiny nation would go forward. The winning side, the side led by President Lattimer’s father, prevailed. But the loser, my grandfather Samuel Westfall, and his followers were welcomed into the fold, promised forgiveness, and granted absolution for their sins.
I have to resist the urge to make gagging noises as I read.
And that is why we have the wedding day. Those who came from the losing side offer up their sixteen-year-old daughters to the sons of the winners. There is a second wedding day in November, when the sons of the losing side marry the daughters of the winning side. But that wedding day is more somber, the nation’s most prized daughters forced to marry subpar boys under a bleak winter sky.
The theory behind the practice of the arranged marriages is twofold. There is a practical purpose: people don’t live as long as they used to, before the war. And having healthy offspring is a much dicier proposition than in the past. It’s important that we procreate, the earlier the better. The second is even more pragmatic. President Lattimer’s father was smart enough to know that peace only lasts when the unhappy side still has something left to lose. By marrying our daughters to his side, he ensured we would think twice about rising up. It’s one thing to slay your enemy; it’s another thing entirely when that enemy wears your daughter’s face, when the man you cut down is your own grandson. The strategy has worked thus far; we have remained at peace for two generations.
It is hot in the rotunda, even with the doors open and the cool limestone walls. A small bead of sweat slides down the back of my neck and I wipe it away, pushing my hair up again as I do. Callie did her best to twist it into submission, but my hair is thick and unruly and I don’t think it cooperated as she would have liked. The girl to my right gives me a smile. “It looks good,” she says. “Pretty.”
“Thank you,” I say. She has a crown of sad yellow roses in her red hair, the petals already withering in the heat.
“It’s my second year,” the girl whispers. “My last chance.”
If you aren’t matched with anyone your sixteenth year, you are put back into the pool for the next year. This also happens on years when there aren’t enough girls to match with all the available boys, or visa versa, to give everyone the best chance of finding a match. If after two tries you aren’t matched, then you are free to marry someone of your own choice who has similarly never been chosen. Or, if you’re a woman, you can apply for a job as a nurse or teacher. Men, married and unmarried alike, work. Once women are married, they are expected to stay home and have babies, so traditional “female” jobs are filled with the ranks of the unmatched.
“Good luck,” I tell the girl, although personally I don’t think not finding a match would be such a terrible fate. But I know it will not be mine. My name has been in an envelope ever since Callie’s was removed. There is no suspense for me. The other girls here today have the benefit of personality tests and endless interviews so that there is at least the possibility of compatibility with their new husbands. With me, all that matters is my last name.
“Thanks,” the girl says. “I know who you are. My dad’s pointed your dad out to me before.”
I don’t respond. I turn my eyes back to the stage, where the curtain is beginning to rustle. I take a deep breath in through my nose, let it out slowly through my mouth.
A man approaches the podium at the side of the stage. He looks nervous, glancing from the audience to President Lattimer and back again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he calls. His voice breaks on the last syllable and there is a smattering of laughter from the room. He clears his throat and tries again. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today to celebrate the marriages of the eligible young men from Eastglen and the lovely ladies from Westside. Their unions represent the best our small nation has to offer and symbolize the peace we have fought for and achieved together.” It’s not always this same man, but it’s always this same speech, so sad and ridiculous I am torn between laughter and tears.
The redheaded girl next to me clasps her hands together so tightly her k
They’ve put the one who will be mine right in the middle, so much taller than the other boys that they seem to flow out from him like water from a rock. He doesn’t even look like a boy compared to them, which makes sense given his age. At eighteen, he’s two years older than everyone else, but it’s more than just his years. I’m not convinced he’s ever been boyish. There is a gravity about him that none of the others possess. He does not fidget. I cannot imagine him giggling. His gaze is fixed—cool, impassive, and faintly amused—on some spot in the distance. He does not so much as glance at me.
He should have stood here two years ago. He was meant for Callie all along. But the day before the ceremony, we were notified that he was not attending, would not marry until he turned eighteen, and that it would be me standing next to him on that day, not my sister. Such whims are indulged, I suppose, when you’re the president’s son. As a consolation prize, Callie was given the option of having her name removed as a potential bride in the marriage ceremony. An option she took and one I wish were mine.
“Oh my God,” the redhead breathes, glancing at me. “You are so lucky!”
I know she means well and I try to smile at her, but my lips don’t want to cooperate. The man at the podium turns things over to the president’s wife, Mrs. Erin Lattimer. She is auburn-haired and full-figured in the way that makes men’s eyes follow her wherever she goes. But her voice is tart, cold even. It reminds me of the first bite of a sour green apple.
“As you all know,” she says, “I will read the name of a boy, who will step forward. I will then open the envelope and read the name of the girl who will be his wife.” She looks down at us. “Please come onto the stage when your name is called. If, at the end, your name is not called, it simply means the committee determined you weren’t a good match for any of the boys this year.” She gives us a brisk smile. “There’s no shame in that,” she says, “of course.” But it is shameful not to be chosen; everyone knows that. No one ever says it out loud, but it’s always the girl’s fault if she’s not matched to anyone. Always something in her that was found lacking, never the other way around.