Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

       Dedication

      Chapter 1

      80 Years Later

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       Chapter 25

       Chapter 26

       Chapter 27

       Chapter 28

       Chapter 29

       Chapter 30

       Chapter 31

       Epilogue

       Acknowledgments

       Also by Kiera Cass

       About the Publisher

       1

      It’s funny what you hold on to, the things you remember when everything ends. I can still picture the paneling on the walls of our stateroom and recall precisely how plush the carpet was. I remember the saltwater smell, permeating the air and sticking to my skin, and the sound of my brothers’ laughter in the other room, like the storm was an exciting adventure instead of a nightmare.

      More than any sense of fear or worry, there was an air of irritation hanging in the room. The storm was throwing off our evening’s plans; there would be no dancing on the upper deck tonight, no chance to parade around in my new dress. These were the woes that plagued my life then, so insignificant they’re almost shameful to own up to. But that was my once upon a time, back when my reality felt like a story because it was so good.

      “If this rocking doesn’t stop soon, I won’t have time to fix my hair before dinner,” Mama complained. I peeked up at her from where I was lying on the floor, trying desperately not to throw up. Mama’s reflection looked as glamorous as a movie star, and her finger waves seemed perfect to me. But she was never satisfied. “You ought to get off the floor,” she continued, glancing down at me. “What if the help comes in?”

      I hobbled over to one of the chaise lounges, doing—as always—what I was told, though I didn’t think this position was necessarily any more ladylike. I closed my eyes, praying that the water would still. I didn’t want to be sick. Our journey up until that final day had been utterly ordinary, just a family trip from point A to point B. I can’t remember now where we were heading. What I do recall is that we were, as per usual, traveling in style. We were one of the few lucky families who had survived the Crash with our wealth intact—and Mama liked to make sure people knew it. So we were situated in a beautiful suite with decent-size windows and personal stewards at our beck and call. I was entertaining the idea of ringing for one and asking for a bucket.

      It was then, in that bleary haze of sickness, that I heard something, almost like a far-off lullaby. It made me curious and, somehow, thirsty. I lifted my dizzy head and saw Mama turn her attention to the window as well, searching for the sound. Our eyes met for a moment, both of us needing assurance that what we were hearing was real. When we knew we weren’t alone, we focused on the window again, listening. The music was intoxicatingly beautiful, like a hymn to the devout.

      Papa leaned into the room, his neck sporting a fresh bandage where he’d cut himself trying to shave during the storm. “Is that the band?” he asked. His tone was calm, but the desperation in his eyes was haunting.

      “Maybe. It sounds like it’s coming from outside, doesn’t it?” Mama was suddenly breathless and eager, one hand on her neck as she swallowed excitedly. “Let’s go see.” She hopped up and grabbed her sweater. I was shocked. She hated being in the rain.

      “But Mama, your makeup. You just said—”

      “Oh, that,”