“Okay, okay,” on-screen Marcellus replied. “Listen, I’ll offer you a deal.”
“I don’t do deals.”
“Something tells me you’re the kind of kid who does do deals.”
“Just give it back to me.”
Chatine cringed as she watched herself be so forward toward an upper estater. The Marcellus on screen smiled another smile. This one, Chatine immediately noticed, was not amused or intrigued. It was warm. It was frustratingly genuine. It was exactly as the general said—lacking any trace of the usual distrust she had come to expect from Second Estaters, especially Ministère officers.
“If you come with me and let me get you something to eat, I’ll give this back to you,” on-screen Marcellus said, waving the leveler. “That’s the deal.”
The general paused the video again and looked expectantly at Chatine.
“Yeah? So?” she asked. Despite her confusion about the surprising look on Marcellus’s face, she still wasn’t following.
“He trusts you.”
She snorted. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes, he does,” the general confirmed. “I know my grandson, and I can tell from this footage that he likes you.”
Chatine bowed her head and pulled her hood over her burning cheeks, cursing the blood pumping in her own veins. “Whatever. I don’t care.”
“You should care.”
Chatine glared at him. “Why? Why should I care if some stupide Second Estate pomp trusts me? That’s his problem.”
The general turned his back on Chatine and stared out the picture window behind his desk. For a moment, Chatine worried she’d been too bold. Said too much. It probably wasn’t the best idea on Laterre to outwardly insult the general’s grandson to the general himself.
But when he spoke, he didn’t sound angry or even offended. He sounded tormented. Almost tortured. “We, at the Ministère, believe that the Vangarde is planning another rebellion.”
“I have nothing to do with the Vangarde,” Chatine fired back. It was a gut reaction. She had no idea why the general was suddenly mentioning the Vangarde, but she refused to let him think—for even a second—that she was at all wrapped up in any rebellion nonsense. There were a lot of things Chatine was—crook, con artist, Fret rat—but revolutionary was not one of them.
The general turned to flash her a wry smile. “I know. And we appreciate your loyalty to Laterre.”
Chatine felt herself smirking. They both knew he was being sarcastic.
“I have certain intel that the Vangarde has contacted my grandson and may be in the process of attempting to recruit him.”
Chatine fought and failed to keep her reaction contained. “What? Why?”
The general sighed. “Because of who his father was.”
Chatine’s mind spun as she thought about the dead, withered man she saw in the morgue today. The father of Marcellus Bonnefaçon. A former prisoner of Bastille. “A criminal?”
Chatine watched the general’s shoulders drop a millimètre. “A traitor,” he corrected. “He was one of Citizen Rousseau’s most trusted operatives during the Rebellion of 488. He betrayed his planet, his family, and his Regime.”
Chatine shrank back a little in her seat. “Oh.”
The general returned to his chair and rested his hands on the desk. He was suddenly all business again. That little glimpse she’d gotten into his mind, his past, his pain, was gone. “With Citizen Rousseau still locked up on Bastille, the Vangarde need a new face for their cause. Someone who can rally the people. Marcellus is the perfect choice. He has ties to the last rebellion, through his father. He is high up in the Second Estate. He’s already a visible figure. They need him. And I need you.”
Chatine blinked in surprise. “Me?”
“I want you to befriend Marcellus. Gain his trust. Become his confidante. When the Vangarde attempts to recruit him, I want you right there with him.”
Chatine stared at him in disbelief. “You want me to spy for you? On your own grandson?”
A flicker of something passed over the general’s face but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. “The Vangarde are regrouping, preparing to rise up again. If we’re going to stop these terrorists from launching another strike against the Regime, we need to gather as much information about them as we can. I’m exhausting all resources on this matter. That’s where you come in. When the Vangarde makes contact with Marcellus, I want you to report back on everything: what is said, where the meeting takes place, who is involved.”
Chatine shook her head, confused. “But if the Vangarde is attempting to recruit Officer Bonnefaçon, why not just ask him to report back to you himself? Why do you even need me?”
The general glanced down at his hands. “Marcellus is . . . ,” he faltered, looking unsettled. “He has many commendable qualities. Several attributes that will make him a great leader one day. But he still has a lot to learn.”
Chatine suddenly remembered something Azelle had said to her earlier. “But isn’t he supposed to be promoted to commandeur soon?”
The general stared at her with a stern expression but didn’t answer.
Chatine squinted at the man, trying to decipher his cryptic gaze. “Are you saying you don’t trust him?”
“I’m saying he’s not ready to take on such a significant task.”
A shiver passed through Chatine as realization slowly dawned on her. “He hasn’t told you that the Vangarde contacted him, has he?”
The anguish that flashed in the general’s eyes was all Chatine needed to see to know she was right.
He let out a weary sigh. “I worry about him sometimes.” Chatine was surprised to hear what sounded like genuine tenderness in the general’s voice. “I worry that his father’s spirit runs too deep in his veins. But mostly, I worry for his safety. He has no idea what he’s getting himself into. The Vangarde are dangerous. They’re volatile and unpredictable and . . . desperate. He might think he has all of this under control, but he doesn’t. He’s still so naïve about so many things. I need someone who can look out for him.” The general locked eyes on Chatine, and in that moment, she felt just the slightest bit sorry for him.
“Why me?” she asked.
The general straightened in his chair, resuming his stern countenance. “Like I said, he trusts you. He’s more likely to open up to you than to anyone from the Ministère. And I’ve been studying your profile. You’re very . . .” He paused, as though searching for the right word. “Crafty.”
Chatine narrowed her eyes. She could smell a trap. “What’s in it for me?”
The general smirked. “Marcellus was right. You are the kind of kid who does deals.”
“But you already knew that,” Chatine fired back. “Or else I wouldn’t be here.”
“Clever girl.”
Chatine bristled at the word “girl.” She still didn’t like that the head of the Ministère knew her secret. It made her feel exposed and vulnerable.
The general swiveled in his chair and pointed at the scene outside the giant window behind his desk. “If you were anyone else, I would offer you all of this in exchange for your services. A manoir in Ledôme. An Ascension to the Second Estate. The kind of life someone of your status can only dream about.”
Chatine narrowed her eyes, unsure where the general was going with this.
“But you’re not anyone else,” he continued. “Given your lack of Ascension points, I would venture to guess that you have no interest in living out your life here with us in Ledôme.”
“You’re right,” Chatine replied guardedly. “I don’t.”
“And I know that threatening your family probably wouldn’t work, since you don’t seem to care about them, either.”
Chatine snorted. “Right again, monsieur.”
“Which is why I have another offer for you.”
Chatine leaned forward in her chair. She couldn’t imagine the general offering her anything that might actually interest her, but that didn’
t mean she wasn’t just a little bit curious.
The general folded his hands across his lap. “The Patriarche has a very special relationship with the newly formed government on Usonia. Let’s just say they owe us several favors.”
Chatine froze.
The general knew.
How did he know?
He smiled, clearly enjoying her reaction. “Deliver me the information I need, and I’ll deliver you a whole new life on Usonia.”
- CHAPTER 20 -
ALOUETTE
ALOUETTE’S FINGERS MOVED QUICKLY OVER the hand-sewn spines of the Chronicles.
“Three . . . four . . . five . . . ,” she whispered urgently.
Each volume bore a slick, clear jacket, which protected the clothbound cover and delicate pages inside. Alouette had dusted these histories of Laterre a thousand times. She knew them—their varying heights and thicknesses—like she knew every nook, cranny, and recess in the Refuge’s library.
“Six . . . seven . . . eight . . .”
The thick volumes were packed tightly together on the shelf, and when she finally reached the tenth volume, Alouette had to yank hard to pull it out. As soon as it was in her hands, she scurried over to a small table in the back corner of the Refuge’s library, between two bookcases. She pushed aside a pot of ink and a scattering of Principale Francine’s fountain pens, and she set down the volume.
Alouette stood in front of the table and drew in a ragged breath, inhaling the reassuring scent of the thousands of old books surrounding her. She hadn’t taken a full, proper breath since she’d returned to the Refuge just a short while ago.
When she’d climbed back down the ladder, punched in the passcode, and entered through the thick PermaSteel door, thankfully no one had been waiting for her. No one, it seemed, even knew she’d been gone. The sisters were still in Assemblée; her father was still in the kitchen preparing the evening meal.
Although she probably should have gone straight back to her chores to avoid any questions or suspicion, Alouette couldn’t help herself. She’d come straight here instead. To her favorite place in the world.
The library.
It was by far the largest and most important room in the Refuge. And for good reason. It was, after all, why the Refuge had been built in the first place. To store the thousands and thousands of books that were rescued from the Last Days. They were the Sisterhood’s most prized and sacred possessions.
The library was a cluttered maze of hand-built shelves stacked to the ceiling with these books from the First World. When Alouette was little, Sister Jacqui used to tell her incredible stories about the brave women who smuggled all the books aboard the original freightships. The written word had already been dying out on the old planet. Books were deemed unnecessary for a new life, and too heavy to transport across galaxies. But these women defied the rules and risked everything to keep the written word alive and preserve the First World knowledge.
It wasn’t until many years later, a long time after the first settlers arrived on Laterre, that all the books were gathered together again, and the Sisterhood and the Refuge were founded to protect them.
The library also stored the Chronicles. Every volume that had ever been written. One of the first residents of the Refuge, Sister Bethany, had started writing the history of Laterre in her beautiful, looping handwriting nearly 150 years ago. But today it was Principale Francine who maintained and updated the Chronicles.
“Volume Ten,” Alouette whispered as she ran her fingertips over the plastique covering of the book on the table in front of her.
Alouette’s hands still trembled from everything that had happened in the hallways of the Frets earlier. As she glanced down at them, she noticed a small stain of blood on her little finger. The boy’s blood. Marcellus’s blood.
But she couldn’t let that distract her now. She had to find what she was looking for before the sisters came out of Assemblée.
Carefully, she eased open the cover of Volume 10, her heart pounding in anticipation of the answers she so desperately sought. This had to be it. This was the volume that recounted everything there was to know about the Ministère, the Policier, and Bastille.
“Little Lark? Are you in here?”
Startled, Alouette immediately snapped the cover shut again and grabbed a book from the shelf next to her, placing it on top of the volume so the title was hidden. When she looked up to see her father appearing around the corner of the tall bookcase, she realized how silly she’d been to try to hide it from him. Hugo Taureau was the only person in the Refuge who couldn’t read. He’d never had any interest in learning the Forgotten Word.
“Yes, Papa.” Alouette’s voice was high and strained.
Her father’s vast frame just about filled this little alcove of the library. And for the first time in Alouette’s life, his height, his enormous shoulders and huge arms, seemed unfamiliar. Puzzling. Frightening, even.
Of course, it was ridiculous to be scared of her father, this man who’d never dream of hurting her. Yet Alouette found herself shrinking back into her chair.
“Dinner’s ready,” he said with a wink.
Alouette let out a sharp breath of relief. Suddenly, he was her father again. His enormous shoulders, his kind smile, it all assembled back together into something familiar. Something she knew and loved. Something that made sense.
Her father cocked his head. “Are you okay?”
She nodded quickly and smiled. “Yes, yes. I’m just . . . you know . . .” She looked down at the table, searching for words, and almost laughed when she noticed which book she’d randomly snatched from the shelf to conceal Volume 10 of the Sisterhood’s Chronicles. It was the story of the little girl who stole books during one of the big wars on the First World. She pointed to its plastique-wrapped cover. “Catching up on some reading.”
Her father beamed. “Always reading.” His warm brown eyes sparkled under the library’s light. “I remember when you were little, and you used to hide from Principale Francine back here. She would be ready to lock up the library for the night, and you would beg for just five more minutes. One more chapter.”
Alouette laughed and studied her father for a long moment. He had this wistful, faraway look on his face. The look he sometimes got when she suspected he was thinking about the past.
A past so shrouded in mystery.
“Prisoner number 48590.”
A shiver traced down Alouette’s spine as she suddenly remembered the jarring robotic voice from the Fret hallway. And the man dangling from the droid’s grasp.
Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe the metallic dots on the man’s arm were a coincidence. Besides, how could her father have been a prisoner? Hugo Taureau was a good man, an honest man, and a gentle man.
He couldn’t have ever been a prisoner.
He was nothing like that man she saw in the Frets.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” her father asked, startling her back to the present.
She nodded. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, I’ll see you in the dining room, then.”
But as her father turned to leave the library, Alouette heard herself call out, “Papa!”
“Ma petite?” He looked surprised at her sudden and frantic tone.
“I . . . ,” she began, but the words stuck in her throat. “Did you . . . ,” she tried again. “Were you always a chef? Even before you came here?” She waved around at the walls and walls of books. “Before you came to the Refuge, I mean.”
There was a flash of something on her father’s face. Alouette flinched at the sight of it. Was it anger? Or fear? Or both? She couldn’t tell. And just as quickly as the unreadable look had appeared, a frown swiftly replaced it.
“Little Lark,” he said with a sigh.
Alouette opened her mouth as more questions began to bubble up from deep within her. But she stopped herself. There was no point. Her father would never answer her questions. He never had, and he never would.
And ho
w could she really demand the truth from him, when she’d just done something she could never tell him about? She’d left the Refuge, their home for the past twelve years, and she’d gone up to the Frets to help a stranger—a boy—who was in trouble. She’d been chased by droids! She’d put herself in danger. A lot of danger.
Now, Alouette realized, they both had secrets.
“Dinner is ready, and the sisters are waiting,” her father said with an air of finality.
Alouette glanced down at the plastique-covered volume of the Chronicles peeking out from under the book on the table. Volume 10 would have to wait. She would have to wait.
Her father cleared his throat. “Are you coming?”
She grabbed the book and the volume and returned them both to their correct places on the shelves. When she turned around, her father was already on his way out of the library. The lightness he’d come in with earlier was now gone.
It made her sad.
And frustrated.
“Papa,” she called again.
He stopped in the doorway. “Yes, ma petite?”
Alouette slowly approached her father and looked up at him, letting her gaze settle on his for a moment before she reached up and wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him tightly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head and chuckled. “What on Laterre do you have to be sorry for, Little Lark?”
But Alouette didn’t respond. She pulled away, letting her hand linger on her father’s upper arm. She felt the five silver bumps rough under her palm, each dimpled with a different number of dots. She’d traced them so often when she was little, she knew each of them by heart.
Two dots, then four dots, then six dots, a smooth surface, followed by one lonely dot at the end.
Now, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, these dimpled silver bumps had become something else. They formed a very different picture of her father. Alouette now realized that the markings spelled out a sequence. A number.
His number.
2.4.6.0.1.
- CHAPTER 21 -
MARCELLUS
Sky Without Stars Page 14
