by Galaxy Craze
Sergeant Fax ordered us out of the trucks, then stormed up the path through the garden. He kicked open the cottage door, sending it slamming against the wall, and ordered his troops to march inside.
I forced my feet forward, left, right, over the threshold of the home of the two women who had raised me. The first thing that hit me was the scent of tea and toast and tapioca pudding. It reminded me of my childhood. We entered a cozy sitting room where two old women sat in front of a small fire. A gray cat looked up from where she sat nestled on the arm of one of the women’s chairs.
Even though I hadn’t seen them in years, I recognized Nora and Rita immediately. Not that they would recognize me now, wearing the uniform of the New Guard, with my haunted, hungry face. My heart thudded dully in my chest. They had once bathed me and fed me and read me bedtime stories. Now here I was, pointing a weapon at them.
Their faces were full of confusion as they looked up, books still open on their laps.
“We have come for the royal crown,” Sergeant Fax bellowed, his thick neck bulging. “We know it has been hidden here.”
My knife slipped a fraction of an inch as my mind raced. Could the royal crown really be here? And if so, who would have given the New Guard this information? The only person who might know was Mary, and she would never endanger Nora and Rita. Unless she had no other choice. I turned away, the thought of Mary and Jamie alive but being brutally tortured too much to bear.
Surprisingly, Rita smiled at Sergeant Fax, then at the soldiers circling the sitting room. She wore a matching lavender sweater set and trousers. A carved wooden cane leaned against the arm of the sofa. Framed pictures of friends and family hung on the walls. I recognized the one of Mary and me at the pond in Hyde Park, having a picnic.
I stepped back behind the line of soldiers so they would have less chance of seeing me. I cast my eyes downward and stared at the oval woven rug.
“I am very sorry, sir, but I cannot give you the Windsor crown,” Rita said calmly. “I do not have it, and even if I did, it is not mine to give away.”
“I don’t know if you heard me correctly,” the sergeant repeated, his words falling like bricks. “I said, hand it over.”
Rita smiled serenely and stood, holding her thin hands clasped in front of her. Nora glanced up at her, a worried look in her eyes.
“Quite possibly it was you who did not understand my reply. I said, I am very sorry, but I am afraid I cannot give you the crown. But I can offer you a nice cup of tea, and I just baked a batch of cheddar scones.”
A muffled snicker went through the room. I could even see Wesley, who stood by the door, trying not to smile.
A shot rang out, followed by a scream. Sergeant Fax had shot the cat perched on the arm of Nora’s chair. Blood was splattered all over Nora’s hands and face. My stomach clenched.
“Enough chattering! Give me the jewels now! Or you’ll end up like the cat.”
Nora began to shake uncontrollably. Without thinking, I pushed my way forward to help her, but Wesley grabbed my wrist to stop me.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, in his sergeant’s voice, and I took a deep breath through my mouth, calming myself.
Rita stared back at Sergeant Fax, the fireplace burning quietly behind her.
Nora looked up at her. All the color had drained from her face and tears were running down her cheeks. “Please, Rita, give them the crown,” she said softly. She seemed unable to move. She sat there in her chair, letting the cat bleed to death beside her.
Without speaking, Rita did as Nora asked. She walked as though in a trance to the bedroom, where we heard the sound of a safe being opened. A moment later, she returned carrying a carved wooden box with a silver keyhole. I almost laughed out loud. The symbol of my father’s rule had been hidden in a small wooded cottage with only two old ladies for protection. I wondered if my father had moved the jewels when he realized just how powerful Cornelius Hollister was becoming, imagining that no one would think to look for them here.
Sergeant Fax tore the box from her hand, taking the key and unlocking it. He scanned the inside compartments, pulling out the main treasure, the Windsor coronation crown, which Hollister would need to proclaim himself king.
But first he would have to end the Windsor line of succession.
Fax raised his gun, aiming it at Nora’s head. Nora closed her eyes. “Good-bye, Rita,” she whispered. The skin on her eyelids was as thin and wrinkled as tissue paper.
I pictured myself taking the knife from my belt and slitting Sergeant Fax’s thick neck. As he lay dying, I would tell him that his leader, Cornelius Hollister, would never wear the crown, that it would never belong to him.
“Stop!” a voice said firmly, and Sergeant Fax turned his head. Wesley pushed his way roughly through the crowd of soldiers. Sergeant Fax lowered his gun, looking at him.
“Let’s not waste the bullets on them, Fax. We got what we came for.”
After a long, tense pause, Sergeant Fax nodded, and the soldiers turned to file out of the house, following Wesley’s lead.
The troops marched through the cottage door, stomping along the winding pea-stone path. I marched in line, following them, when someone grabbed my shoulder.
Sergeant Fax gestured to an oil painting of lush green woods and a waterfall. “Take that painting from the wall.”
“Me?” I asked dumbly.
“Yes, you!” His crimson face was so close, I could feel his spit land on my cheek and winced in disgust.
“Yes, sir,” I said, saluting him.
I turned toward the painting. From the corner of my eye I could see Nora, still sitting in her chair. It was as though she had been petrified, turned into a marble statue.
I felt her eyes on me as I made my way across the room to the wall behind the sofa. The greens and blues came into focus and I realized it was the waterfall and the old wide trees where we would practice our dives back in Scotland. The picture seemed to come alive as I stared into it; I could feel the breeze, smell the grass, hear the rush of the water falling and our voices as we swam and dove from the cliff. “Hurry up!” Sergeant Fax shouted at me, and I grabbed the frame, taking it down from the hook as his troops ransacked other parts of the cottage, grabbing the table and chairs, dishes, anything they could carry.
I turned from the wall, facing Nora. She stared at me curiously, as though she recognized something, a part of me, but could not place it.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, glancing back to make sure Sergeant Fax wasn’t listening, then fled.
Inside the truck, the soldiers broke open bottles of liquor they had stolen. They sang the anthem of the New Guard, retelling moments of the siege and of other raids while passing around the bottles and cheering as if stealing from unarmed old ladies was some heroic feat. Refusing the scotch when it came to me, I took one last look back. The small house with the thin wisp of smoke from the chimney looked like a page from a children’s picture book.
I dug my fingernails into my palm, just to remind myself I could still feel. I had harmed the kindest women in the world, women who were like second mothers to my siblings and me after our own mother had died.
The truck rattled along the dirt and stone roads. The moon was dim in the sky, the stars faded. The miles and miles of fields stretched out like the sea. I felt hollow and empty, unable even to cry.
A noise above me yanked me out of my daze, and I looked up to see Wesley slide into the seat beside mine. “Polly,” he said, an edge to his voice.
“What do you want?” I asked angrily, turning away to hide the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes.
“I shouldn’t have had to stop you tonight. Don’t you know how dangerous it is to disobey an officer?”
I heard my breath as I inhaled and felt the night air cool and damp in my lungs. Why would I cry now? After everything that happened tonight, why now? I felt myself almost give in, but I clenched my fists and held my breath, reminding myself how much I hated everyone in the
New Guard.
“I can’t believe what they did to…” I caught myself before saying their names. “What makes Sergeant Fax think he can treat people like that, killing their cat, taking their possessions?” I was shaking with disgust.
Wesley glanced around the truck to make sure no one was listening to our conversation. He put his arms on my shoulders, steadying me. “Polly, one step out of line and it’ll be your head, don’t you see? I’m trying to help you,” he whispered as the trucks came to a halting stop.
We disembarked in front of the palace gates, where Portia, Tub, and some of the higher-ranking officers were waiting to unload the more valuable items we had taken from the cottage. Wesley nodded at them as he stepped away, heading toward his squadron to lead them to their bunks for the night. But Portia stood there, her eyes like darts as she stared straight at me. The way an owl might perch on a branch, still as a statue, eyeing its prey.
16
WHEN I WALKED INTO THE DORM I KNEW RIGHT AWAY SOMETHING was wrong. All the girls except for Vashti were gathered in a circle in the center of the room, but there were no cards in sight. The air felt thick with a strange sense of anticipation.
“I’m really beginning to wonder about you,” Portia announced, speaking slowly, as if every word were a candy she wanted to savor. “You haven’t started my fox stole yet—and I don’t even think you know how to sew. You can’t clean. Your accent switches back and forth from Scottish to posh Londoner.” She said the last in a high-pitched, nasal imitation of my voice, and everyone laughed. Then her voice dropped an octave lower. “Honestly, I don’t know what Sergeant Wesley sees in you. He’s slummed around with recruits before, but not like this.”
I stood still, without even shifting my weight or glancing away for one second. My heart hammered in my chest.
Tub came to Portia’s side. “Are you a spy from the Resistance?”
Portia rolled her eyes, then walked forward to take my chin in her hand, turning my face so I was forced to look her in the eye. “I doubt she’s smart enough to be a spy. This is just a stupid girl who can’t even follow simple orders.” Everyone laughed again. She leaned in close, grabbing my chin tighter, leaning to whisper in my ear so only I could hear her. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“I’m here to fight for the New Guard,” I said loudly.
“Are you really? Then why did you hesitate when you were face-to-face with a Resistance fighter on Death Night? Are you pro-Resistance or just a coward?”
“I’m here to fight for the New Guard,” I repeated, my face stony, impassive.
Portia dropped her hand from my chin. “Prove it, then.”
I stepped back. “What?”
“Prove it!”
Portia pushed up her right sleeve. On the pale underside of her arm was a tattoo of the crossed sevil and sword. Before I knew what was happening, Tub and June had me in their arms. June dug her knees in my back. Portia stood next to her, holding my wrists in her hand, tying them tightly with rope.
They pushed me into the toilets. The tiled floor blurred beneath my feet as Portia took out a long pair of scissors from a shelf.
She grabbed the back of my neck. I didn’t make a sound—I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. I felt the cool blade of the scissors next to my scalp and heard the clipping sound, then saw the strands of my hair falling like rain around my knees on the bathroom floor.
Portia pushed me in front of the mirror. “What do you think?”
They had sheared it close to my head, so close the skin on my scalp showed through.
Tub and June were bent over laughing, holding their stomachs, their faces bright red.
“Sergeant Wesley certainly won’t be flirting with you anymore,” June snickered.
When I looked in the mirror what struck me most wasn’t the short hair, haphazardly hacked off close to my scalp, but the desolate look in my eyes. I was a shadow of my former self.
“I love it,” I said, turning to Portia and the others. “I’ve been meaning to get a haircut.”
But my sarcasm only enraged her. Her beautiful face became contorted and red.
“I’m not finished yet,” she spat. “June, hold her down.”
June pushed me to the floor, the back of my head slamming against the marble. She pinned my shoulders down and Tub sat on my legs, her tremendous weight impossible to move. I kicked and squirmed wildly but then June pulled out her sevil, placing it above my chest so that if I moved even an inch the blade would cut through my skin. I squeezed my hands in fists at my side.
From the corner of my eye I watched Portia standing by the cauldron of water that sat over the coals. She held a wire hanger in her hand, untwisting the metal to make it straight. She placed the wire beneath the coals.
“Please let go of me,” I begged, hating the desperate sound of my voice but unable to stop. “Please get off of me.”
“Keep her down!” Portia screamed. She gazed into the red coals with a frightening intensity. The flames were reflected in the dark pupils of her eyes. She smiled at the flames, relishing the moment.
Not my eyes, I prayed. Don’t let her blind me.
She pulled the blazing red wire from the coals, holding it in front of my face.
“Keep still,” she ordered. “If I mess up I’ll have to do it again.”
Portia lowered herself to her knees beside me, holding the glowing red wire in her hand.
First I felt the heat, like putting a finger over a flame. Then I felt the searing as she pressed the burning wire against my cheek. I bolted up in pain, writhing to free myself only to have Tub slam my head back against the floor. The burning pain pierced my whole body like nothing I’d ever felt before. Somebody cried out; it must have been me. The room went red and then black. The last sound I heard was the girls’ echoing laughter.
17
IT WAS THE PAIN THAT WOKE ME.
Cringing at the feeling of hot needles stabbing into the skin below my right eye, I turned my face to press my cheek against the cold marble floor. But it was hardly a relief. I took deep, shuddering breaths to brace myself, my eyes still shut tight. Unsteadily, I pushed myself up to stand and held myself over the sink.
On my face below my right eye the skin rose up in blisters, forming a crude image of a crossed sevil and sword.
They had branded me with the symbol of the New Guard.
I touched the raw, burnt skin and bit back a cry of pain. Even alone in the bathroom I couldn’t let Portia win. I would not show her the weakness she wanted to see in me.
I steadied myself on the sink. I needed to leave, tonight. If I stayed here any longer, trying to accomplish this hopeless mission, I would be killed. I reached for the door, but it wouldn’t give. I was locked in.
Taking deep breaths to fight my rising panic, I looked around for an escape. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been unconscious, but I knew Portia would come back eventually. There was a small round window on the south-facing wall that looked out over the treetops into the still night. The window was thick glass inlaid with wire mesh. We were on the third floor. If I jumped, I would be lucky to survive the fall.
I lifted the cauldron awkwardly from the coals and smashed it against the glass, wincing and holding my breath at the heavy crash that resounded through the bathroom. When no one came running, I hit at the glass, again and again until the thick pane shattered in pieces to the floor, leaving just the mesh in place.
I began tearing out the mesh until there was a gap large enough for me to crawl through. On the window ledge I paused, gripping the stone casing with my bare, bleeding hands and staring down at the drop to the ground. The air was still, the black night spreading out through the sky like a pool of spilled ink, not a star in sight. The only light came from a row of torches bobbing underneath the window—soldiers on patrol. I leaned back, hiding in the shadows, dizzy and sick from the pain and fear.
The sound of dripping water came from my left. I looked over to see the gleam of a c
opper drainpipe beneath a heavy growth of vines. The pipes had recently been installed to collect rainwater from the roof for drinking. I doubted it would be strong enough to hold me, but it was better than nothing. I leaned out until I almost fell over. The vines were just out of reach.
I took a deep breath, trying to calculate the distance. Then all at once I released my grip on the window casing and sprang off the windowsill.
I slid down rapidly, ignoring the pain in my fingers, still studded with glass and bits of mesh, as I grabbed at the vines. My feet braced against the wall, scrambling to find footing. Finally I found purchase in the rough stones and thick vines. I clung to the vines, willing myself not to scream out in pain.
And so, inch by inch, I slid down the drainpipe like a fire pole, until I finally felt solid ground beneath me.
I pressed my back to the palace wall, glancing in both directions. The barbed-wire fence rose up out of the shadows ten feet in front of me. There was no way to climb over the rotating spikes on top without being mangled, and I couldn’t possibly dig my way under. It would have to be the woods. I retied the laces of my boots and took off in a sprint, away from the palace, toward the wall of solid darkness that was the barren trees.
I was almost across the field when a figure materialized before me, knocking me to the ground.
“Hands behind your back!” a harsh male voice cried out. My throbbing burn pressed painfully into the dirt as the soldier put his foot on my neck, holding me down. Another soldier approached with a burning torch and tied my hands behind my back. I winced at the feel of the rope on my wounded palms, but I tried to stay utterly still.
The first soldier, a sergeant, turned me roughly around to look at my face. “What’s your name?” he commanded.
“An escapee,” the young guard said as he twisted my wrists at a sharp, painful angle. I said nothing.
