Chatine stuffed the last of the items into her pockets. She put the empty sac back into the hole in the floor and replaced the grate. After patting down the pockets of her long black coat and making sure none of her clothing looked suspiciously bulky, she headed toward the door.
“Where are you going?” In her shock, Azelle actually looked up. “The Ascension is starting at 14.30! Don’t you want to watch it with me? What if they call your name?”
“They’re not going to call my name,” Chatine replied. If there was anything on this wretched, Sol-less planet she could be sure of, it was that they would never call her name.
“But they could!” Azelle said. “Everyone is equal in the eyes of the Ascension. Anyone can be chosen. That’s the beauty of it. Your luck could change just that fast. Honest work for an honest chance.”
Chatine’s sister was parroting the party line of the Ministère word for word. It was the reason Azelle checked in at the Skin fabrique two minutes early every day. The reason she worked until her hands were raw and her feet grew blisters. Azelle was the only one in the family who played by the rules, because she was the only one who bought into the “honest work for an honest chance” philosophy that the Ministère tried to brainwash into everyone from birth. Chatine knew the truth, though. The only chances you got around here were the ones you took for yourself.
“I think I have a good shot this year,” Azelle continued, returning her attention to her Skin. “I’ve been checking in every day, watching all the Ministère broadcasts, and logging all my hours. I even put in overtime at the fabrique the last few months. I have almost twenty-five hundred points stored up.” Azelle gasped and gestured excitedly toward her arm. “Oh my Sols, look! They’re showing footage of Marcellus Bonnefaçon! I saw him in the Marsh the other day. He’s just as dreamy in person as he is on the Skin.”
Chatine glanced over at her sister’s arm and caught a glimpse at the familiar face of one of the Second Estate’s most famous members: the grandson of the powerful General Bonnefaçon, and an officer. The Ministère loved broadcasting Marcellus’s pretty face on the Skins whenever they got the chance. They’d been doing it ever since he came of age, turning him into a regular Laterre celebrity. He was almost as famous as the Patriarche and Matrone themselves.
In the clip, Marcellus was sporting that ridiculous shiny dark hair, flawless Second Estate skin, and gleaming smile.
Fric, Chatine thought. Does the boy clean his teeth with soap? Who has teeth that white?
Azelle jabbed at the screen, maxing out the volume of the implanted audio chip in her ear. “Oh,” she sighed at whatever Officer Bonnefaçon was saying in the clip. “He’s so charming!”
Chatine knew that all the girls in the Frets had a hopeless crush on Marcellus, including her sister. Another unobtainable thing for them to dream about. But Chatine honestly couldn’t understand why. He was one of the highest-ranking members of the Second Estate, which automatically meant he was stuck-up, pretentious, and despicable.
“Did you know General Bonnefaçon is grooming Marcellus to be the next commandeur of the Ministère?” Azelle asked wistfully. “That’s what everyone in the Frets is saying. They think that’s why he’s been seen around the Marsh lately. He’s been training with Inspecteur Limier.”
Chatine shuddered at the memory of her earlier encounter with the creepy cyborg inspecteur.
“He’ll probably be there today for the Ascension. Are you going back to the Marsh? Maybe you’ll bump into him!” Azelle said with sudden excitement. “Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
“Yes,” Chatine replied. And she meant it. Marcellus Bonnefaçon was extremely wealthy. The thought of the things she could cop off that boy if she ever got the chance to bump into him made her head spin.
But she would not be returning to the Marsh today. Not if she could help it. With the Ascension happening, that place would be a mess and she wanted to stay as far away as possible. Even Azelle was smart enough to watch the ceremony from home.
Her sister sat up in bed, leaning her back against the wall and tucking her legs in while she kept her gaze trained on her Skin. “Oh Sols, please pick me this time. Please pick me.”
Chatine watched her with a mixture of pity and annoyance. If Azelle spent half as much time and energy conning as she did collecting points for the Ascension, their family would probably be rich by now.
Chatine checked the messy knot of hair at the back of her head, making sure it was properly hidden behind her hood. It wouldn’t be much longer now until she could sell it all to Madame Seezau. The croc paid well, and it was a nice side income for Chatine. She just hated this in-between phase, when her hair was long enough to give her away as a girl, but not yet long enough to get the full two hundred largs.
Azelle sighed dramatically, cupping her chin in her hand as she watched more pre-Ascension footage on her Skin. “I mean, how fantastique would it be to live inside Ledôme? Where the Sols shine four hundred and eight days a year.”
“Fake Sols,” Chatine corrected.
But it was as though Azelle hadn’t even heard her. “There’s never any rain. And you get to live right next to the Grand Palais. I bet you’d even get to see the Patriarche and Matrone every once in a while. I like this one so much better than the last Patriarche. He was so serious and boring all the time. This one looks like he’d actually be fun to hang out with. And his Premier Enfant is so cute! Did you see the special they ran on her yesterday? She’s turning three next week and is finally speaking full sentences. She still can’t pronounce ‘Third Estate,’ though. She calls it the ‘Terd Estate.’ Isn’t that beyond adorable? I think she looks like the Matrone, but Noemie was saying yesterday that . . .”
Chatine rolled her eyes and left the room without bothering to hear the rest of the story. She knew it would probably be minutes before Azelle even realized she was gone.
Her parents were still arguing over the Ministère buttons on the table when Chatine re-emerged into the living room of the couchette. Her mother glanced up long enough to shoot Chatine a nasty glare and toss her the leveler.
“I’ll be checking it as soon as you get back,” her mother sneered. “So don’t even think of trying to steal from me.”
Chatine grimaced down at the device in her hands and felt a chill at the task that lay ahead of her. She told herself she’d just do it quickly. If she skipped it, her parents might grow suspicious and interfere with her plans. She’d just have to get it over with. Get in the morgue and get out. Then she could move on to her more pressing errand of the day: a visit to the Capitaine. She couldn’t wait to show him what she’d snagged in the Marsh today.
Chatine murmured something that resembled a good-bye, shuffled out of the couchette, and headed down the No Way Out hallway of Fret 7.
As soon as she was outside and alone, she patted her chest again, feeling the weight of the gold medallion hanging from her neck. Her heart raced at the thought of what it meant. What it represented.
It was her one-way ticket off this miserable planet.
It was literally her salvation.
Azelle was more than welcome to sit around all day waiting for the greedy pomps in the Second Estate to help her. But Chatine was much more inclined to help herself.
- CHAPTER 3 -
MARCELLUS
“YOUR FATHER IS DEAD.”
Marcellus Bonnefaçon heard his grandfather’s words but could not seem to process them.
Dead?
Father?
It had been years since Julien Bonnefaçon had even been mentioned inside these walls. And now the sentence came so coolly from his grandfather’s lips, it was as if the death of Marcellus’s father was just some minor detail, barely worth mentioning.
Although Marcellus knew, after what his father had done, it probably wasn’t worth mentioning.
Marcellus kept his gaze straight ahead. His grandfather’s words might have turned his blood to ice, just for a second, but he knew better than to sto
p walking. He knew better than to react.
Instead, he made sure to keep his stride in sync with his grandfather’s. Orderly and methodical. Just as he’d been taught since childhood. They walked in silence down the long corridor of the Grand Palais’s south wing. Chandeliers with thousands of handcrafted crystals dangled above them, and the polished marble floor beneath their feet winked and flashed in the morning Sol-light.
There were so many questions fighting for space in Marcellus’s mind, but he shoved them back one by one. This was all part of his training. He knew that. Command your emotions. Stabilize your breath. Keep your mind clear at all times. If there were more details about his father’s death worth giving, his grandfather would give them. But, as they entered the banquet hall, Marcellus couldn’t help but steal a quick glimpse at his grandfather. Firmness lined his features, nothing to hint that the man’s only son had died. Marcellus honestly wasn’t sure why he’d expected otherwise. In the seventeen years that he had lived with his grandfather, he’d rarely ever seen a trace of grief on the man’s face.
And his grandfather had known plenty of grief.
A moment later, the double doors on the opposite side of the banquet hall flung open and the Patriarche, dressed in his usual late-morning robes of dark silk, blustered into the room, followed by the Matrone, swathed in a purple satin gown, and their two-year-old daughter, Marie.
“Good morning, General,” the Patriarche grumbled with barely a glance at Marcellus’s grandfather.
“Good morning, Monsieur Patriarche,” his grandfather replied evenly.
“Let’s get this over with.” The Patriarche sat down in one of the plush velvet chairs and immediately started to shovel food onto his plate. As always, the banquet table was overflowing with titan dishes piled high with smoked Novayan salmon, roasted quail, and duck pâté imported straight from planet Usonia. There were baskets of freshly baked brioche, a tray holding the finest sausages from planet Reichenstat, and every imaginable fruit, picked that morning from the hothouses that stretched across the flatlands below Ledôme.
Marcellus, at eighteen years old and still growing, could usually eat his own body weight in food, especially during brunch.
But not today. Not now.
Instead, he just sat at the table and stared numbly at the brioche on the plate in front of him.
“Your father is dead.”
He couldn’t stop his grandfather’s words from cycling through his mind. Although he knew he should stop them. Immediately. They were dangerous words. Dangerous thoughts.
But his mind was a traitor.
Just like his father.
Marcellus finally picked up his brioche and spread blackberry jam over the top, fighting to keep his face neutral as he took a small bite and chewed. He knew this was a test. His grandfather would be analyzing how he handled this news. Every reaction, every seemingly innocent facial twitch—they all had meaning in the eyes of General Bonnefaçon. And rightly so. If Marcellus had any hope of being promoted to commandeur in the coming year, he couldn’t be seen as anything less than unwaveringly allegiant to the Regime.
“Production is up at the aerospace fabrique,” his grandfather was saying, his voice firm and his back straight. His gaze flitted from his TéléCom on the table to the Patriarche, to whom he was giving his weekly update.
Dead.
The word continued to flutter around in Marcellus’s brain like a flock of quails frightened by the sound of a shot from one of the Patriarche’s antique hunting guns.
Marcellus took another bite as he silently reminded himself to look focused. Interested. Like a commandeur would. Like he was sure Commandeur Vernay used to do.
“But production is down in the garment fabrique,” his grandfather continued.
The Patriarche stuffed a piece of salmon into his mouth, wiped his lips with an embroidered napkin, and set down his fork. “And why is that, General? Is there a problem?”
“The foreman claims there’s been a shortage in supply of titan from planet Usonia, holding up the production of buttons for the Ministère uniforms—” General Bonnefaçon started to explain, but was interrupted.
“That’s unacceptable,” the Patriarche grunted. “The whole reason we helped Usonia win their independence from Albion was so our access to titan would no longer be hindered by that mad queen.”
Marcellus noticed a slight pulse in his grandfather’s jaw, just under one of his neatly trimmed sideburns. It was a rare chink in his usually impenetrable armor. But Marcellus knew the Usonian War of Independence was a sore spot for the general. The only reason Marcellus was sitting in this briefing instead of the more qualified Commandeur Vernay was because of that war.
But a moment later, his grandfather resumed his usual countenance: calm but firm, cool with a hint of a polite smile. Marcellus found himself adjusting his own face, wondering if he could ever achieve that look. A look that gave nothing away.
He dreamed of being able to give nothing away.
“Are you sure that’s not just an excuse?” the Patriarche asked, picking up his fork and digging into a pile of pâté. “Maybe the workers are just being lazy again.”
“Oh dear, mon chéri,” the Matrone said, pausing to take a sip from her flute of champagne. “You must not be so harsh on the poor workers. Perhaps they’re just tired. Or maybe they’re in need of a nice little treat from us, to boost their morale and let them know that we support them.” She blew at a ringlet of dark hair, which had escaped the tower of carefully entwined curls atop her head. “We must send them a crate of this beautiful gâteau.” She dug her spoon into the giant, three-layered, pink-and-green-frosted dessert in front of her and scooped out a large piece. “Don’t you think, Marcellus?”
Surprised to be spoken to, Marcellus almost choked on his mouthful of brioche. “Very good, Madame Matrone,” he sputtered.
The Matrone leaned over and fed the spoonful of gâteau to Marie, the Premier Enfant, who was sitting on the chair next to her mother. The little girl’s dark curls, held up with silk ribbons, glinted in the Sol-light streaming through the banquet hall’s vast windows.
“Don’t be ridiculous, chérie,” the Patriarche admonished. “If you sent gâteau to one fabrique, you’d have to send gâteau to them all. Lest you want to start a riot. As my late father would say, ‘That’s just basic politics.’ ” He shared a conspiratorial look with Marcellus’s grandfather. “This is why women should never run a planet, am I right, General?”
Marcellus saw the Matrone shoot a disdainful look at her husband before downing another gulp of her drink. Her brunch—and the majority of her meals, Marcellus speculated—seemed to consist mostly of champagne.
Oblivious of his wife’s reaction, the Patriarche turned and cooed at his daughter. “Except my little darling, Marie, who is the cleverest girl on all of Laterre and who will be an excellent ruler one day.” He blew a loud, wet kiss, which the child ignored.
Marcellus had been coming to these meals for only a few months, but already he dreaded them. Not just because he had to sit here watching the Patriarche shovel food into his mouth and the Matrone drink herself into a melancholy stupor, but because he never knew quite how to behave. How to sit. What to do with his hands. This room made him feel like a fidgety child forced to sit still in a scratchy uniform. As the future (but not yet) commandeur of the Ministère, Marcellus wasn’t supposed to voice his opinion on matters. He was supposed to just sit there looking impervious and paying close attention so that, one day, he could contribute. But he always found his mind wandering. Today even more so than usual.
“Your father is dead.”
“Oh, you little imp!” The Matrone’s voice brought Marcellus back to the banquet hall. The Premier Enfant was now standing on her chair, stamping her feet. “Now, why are you standing up there? You know Maman doesn’t like you climbing. We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
The Matrone reached for her daughter, but the little girl jumped off her chair, g
rabbed two titan serving spoons from the table, and started to bang them together. The Matrone sighed a deep, loud sigh and drained the last of her champagne.
General Bonnefaçon cleared his throat and focused back on his screen. “The bread fabrique has also seen a dip in production, but it should be rectified when—”
“Oh, fabrique this, fabrique that,” the Matrone said, interrupting the general yet again. “All we seem to talk about these days are the fabriques. It is impossibly boring. Boring, boring, boring. And you”—she waved a finger at the general and then the table in front of him—“always poking and prodding at that silly TéléCom. I hate having these awful gadgets at my dining table. So disruptive. So hideous. So . . . inferior. Technology is for the weak minded. Those who cannot occupy their own thoughts turn to devices to do it for them.”
Marcellus gazed out one of the windows of the banquet hall. As the head of the Ministère and the Patriarche’s chief counsel, General Bonnefaçon, and his grandson, by extension, were awarded special privileges. Like their own dedicated south wing in the Grand Palais. Meanwhile, the rest of the Second Estate lived in smaller, less lavish manoirs throughout Ledôme.
Marcellus had grown up with this beautiful view of the Grand Palais gardens. But today, despite the artificial Sol-light streaming down from the TéléSky, the landscape seemed darker somehow.
“Ma chérie,” the Patriarche was now saying. “Leave the poor general alone. He needs the TéléCom to deliver his reports, that’s all. You know he wouldn’t bring his ugly tech into the banquet hall if he didn’t have to.”
“Madame Matrone,” Marcellus’s grandfather said in a low, gentle tone. “I must inform you that due to these delays at the fabrique there may not be enough sweet breads for the Premier Enfant’s third birthday fête next week.”
Sky Without Stars Page 3
