Suddenly, everywhere he looked, Mabelle was there. Objects and locations around the Palais that had been safe for years—that Marcellus had worked so hard to make safe—became minefields again.
She was tapping her fingernail against the screen of her Skin, reminding him it was time to go to bed. She was bounding up the imperial staircase, chasing him while his five-year-old self ran and shrieked with glee. She was scooping him off the ground, lifting up the bottom of his shirt so she could blow bubbles on his bare stomach while he laughed so hard it hurt.
Had that all been a lie?
An eleven-year deception?
Had it all been an act so she could gather intel on the Regime?
Thankfully the Palais was quiet as Marcellus climbed the imperial staircase and headed into the south wing that he shared with his grandfather. It was late. The moon hung low in the TéléSky outside the vast Palais windows. Everyone had retired. He was grateful for the calm.
The last few days had been such a whirlwind with the assassination of the Premier Enfant, the cancellation of the Ascension, the riots breaking out in the Frets, his father’s death, Mabelle summoning him to Montfer, telling him that the Vangarde’s numbers were rising every day.
It’s happening, isn’t it? Marcellus thought as he walked the long corridor to his rooms. Everything my grandfather and the Patriarche have feared for years is coming to pass. The Vangarde is resurfacing. A new rebellion is beginning.
The thought made him shiver. Marcellus had listened to people in the Ministère talk about the failed Rebellion of 488 for his entire life. He’d heard so many horror stories about the death toll—on both sides: the innocent lives lost, the gruesome scene of mangled, torn-apart bodies lining the streets. He used to have nightmares about that rebellion. He’d been less than a year old when it had happened, and it still haunted his dreams.
Now just the thought of it starting all over again—of Marcellus having to witness it, fight it—made him sick to his stomach.
But, of course, he would fight. He would stand up for the Regime. He would protect his planet as he’d been raised and trained to do. He didn’t care how many people the Vangarde were able to recruit, the Ministère was still stronger. The Ministère would always be stronger. They would find these terrorists. They would root them out before they had a chance to do any more harm.
“The Vangarde doesn’t endorse acts of unnecessary violence and murder.”
Marcellus felt his hands clench at his sides as he walked the long corridor to his rooms.
Lies, he reminded himself. That’s what Mabelle did. She lied. She had done it his whole life.
“I have proof that your father is innocent. I hid it for you in my room at the Palais before I was arrested. . . .”
Marcellus shook his head, trying to rattle the memory loose. He’d spent too many years of his life believing what that woman had to say; he was not going to start again now.
And yet, as Marcellus continued down the hallway, he found himself walking straight past his door, clear out of the south wing, all the way back down to the servants’ wing. His breath was labored, his muscles were tight and coiled, as though they were already preparing themselves for the rebellion.
He halted in front of the door of Nadette’s room.
The room that once belonged to his own governess too.
The doorway had been blockaded with orange lasers, forbidding anyone from entering while the Ministère finished collecting evidence relating to Marie’s murder. But Marcellus was able to poke his head into the room and glance around. It had been scrubbed clean by Ministère forensics specialists. The linens had been stripped from the mattress. The drawers had all been opened and emptied. Even the carpet had been ripped up from the floor, revealing cold, sterile concrete underneath. The only thing still left in the room was the framed artwork, but even that had been taken down and set to lean against the bed so that the walls could be checked for secret compartments.
Marcellus had to laugh. The Ministère had done his job for him. If anything had been hiding in this room, they would have found it by now. He would have gotten an alert on his TéléCom.
Which only confirmed exactly what Marcellus had suspected.
Mabelle was still lying.
Marcellus released a breath and turned to leave, suddenly becoming aware of a presence standing behind him. He jumped at the sight of his grandfather’s piercing eyes, staring at him from the dim light of the hallway.
Marcellus clutched a hand to his chest. “Grand-père,” he said. “You scared me.”
His grandfather stepped into a small shaft of light, illuminating his face.
“Is everything all right?” Marcellus asked, blanching at his grandfather’s stony expression. Had the Vangarde already attacked? Had the rebellion started? Was someone else dead?
“I heard you went to Montfer today,” the general said, ignoring Marcellus’s question.
For a moment, a bolt of panic shot through Marcellus. How does he know? What does he know? But then he remembered that he’d told Inspecteur Limier about it, and Limier had wanted him to take Sergent Chacal with him. Was that what this was about? That he’d left without backup?
Marcellus stood up straighter. “Yes. I went to follow up on a Vangarde lead. I’m sorry for leaving Chacal behind. The lead was hot and I couldn’t wait.”
“A lead?” the general said with an edge of curiosity that made Marcellus’s gut twist with guilt. He rarely ever lied to his grandfather, and now he knew why. He was miserable at it.
“Yes, sir.”
“Find anything?”
Marcellus’s heart thudded loudly in his chest. He knew this was his moment to come clean. He’d failed to tell his grandfather about the shirt, about the message, about Mabelle’s summoning; and now he had a second chance to right the situation. To tell him everything that he now knew about Mabelle. His grandfather could have a fleet of Policier patroleurs dispatched in the next hour. They’d find her. They’d put her back on Bastille where she belonged.
He could still hear Mabelle’s voice in his mind.
“I don’t believe you’re going to tell the general about this.”
This was his chance to prove himself. To prove he had what it took to replace the irreplaceable Commandeur Vernay. To prove his loyalty to the Regime and the Bonnefaçon name. This was his chance to be the man his father could never be.
“My only hope was that you would grow up to think differently. Think for yourself.”
I am thinking for myself! Marcellus silently shouted back at the memory.
His head was starting to pound like it might actually explode. And his grandfather was still watching him, waiting for a response, waiting for the truth.
When Marcellus finally spoke, he didn’t feel like he was even in his own body. He could hear his own voice, but it was as though he were no longer standing in this hallway.
“No, I found nothing,” Marcellus heard himself say. “It was a dead end.”
Something inscrutable flashed over the general’s face, and Marcellus felt his throat go dry. After a long moment, his grandfather finally said, “That’s a shame.”
Marcellus felt his whole body relax. But he was still anxious to get away. “Yes, it is. Well, I’d better get to bed.”
He pushed past the general and started down the hallway, feeling his grandfather’s eyes on his back the whole time.
“Of course. Big day tomorrow.”
Marcellus froze and slowly turned around. “What?”
“Have you not checked your AirLink messages?”
Panic returned to Marcellus’s gut as he realized he hadn’t yet turned his TéléCom back on. “Not yet. I’ve been . . . busy.”
“Yes, you have,” the general said, and before Marcellus could figure out what on Laterre he meant by that, he added, “Nadette is being executed in the Marsh tomorrow morning.”
“WHAT?” Marcellus spat before he could stop himself. Upon seeing the look of conf
usion on his grandfather’s face, he attempted to flatten his expression. “I mean, why isn’t she being sent to Bastille like all the others we’ve rounded up?”
“The others didn’t kill the Premier Enfant.” The general took a step toward Marcellus. His frame seemed to fill the entire width of the hallway. “The Patriarche is demanding retribution.”
Marcellus fought the urge to argue that the Patriarche didn’t have a reputation for making rational decisions. Especially in times of duress. The last time he’d demanded something, the general had lost his best commandeur.
But Marcellus knew this was not the time to bring up Vernay. His grandfather would surely only shut him down again.
“Do you disagree with the choice of punishment?” General Bonnefaçon asked.
“N-n-no,” Marcellus stammered, berating himself for such a foolish reaction. “We’ve just never had a public execution before. In the entire history of Laterre.”
Something that resembled irritation passed over the general’s face. Marcellus knew he was treading on unstable ground. “We’ve also never had a direct attack against the First Estate before. Do you suggest we treat the murderer of the Paresse heir the same way we treat a petty thief?”
“No,” Marcellus managed to utter, casting his gaze to the floor.
“We must make an example of her.”
Marcellus nodded. He could hear in his grandfather’s voice that he was rapidly nearing a precipice. If he crossed over, there would be no turning back. His only option was to defuse. “Yes, sir.”
“New crimes call for new forms of punishment.”
“New forms of punishment?”
“We’ve commissioned a device for the occasion. The government of Reichenstat has been using it for years. But of course, we’ve improved upon it. Made it more efficient. I’ve heard stories of people on that backward planet being hacked to pieces before they died. It’s inhumane, really. Nadette’s death will be fast and relatively painless.”
Device?
Efficient?
Relatively painless?
Marcellus instinctively felt bile rise up in his throat. With some effort, he managed to swallow it back down. He knew he might regret what he was about to ask, but he had to ask it anyway. If he didn’t, he might wonder for the rest of his life.
“But, sir. What if she’s innocent?”
It was a question that seemed to echo deep within him, through all eighteen years of his life. It was a doubt that had been planted as a seed years ago, abandoned, neglected, forgotten. But now, after the events of the past two days, it had slowly begun to grow. Break ground. Blossom.
His grandfather took another step toward him, his eyes narrowing. Marcellus fought the urge to turn and run down this hallway, climb into his bed, and hide under the covers until Mabelle came to comfort him. The same way he used to do when he was a child and his grandfather would scold him.
But he was no longer a child now.
“Marcellus,” his grandfather’s voice was clear yet full of warning. “If you’re going to be commandeur one day, you cannot let your emotions and ties to the past skew your judgments of the present. Nadette is as guilty as your father. And she, too, must pay the price for her treason.”
- CHAPTER 40 -
CHATINE
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Chatine rolled over in her bed and swatted at the surface of her Skin, trying to stop the intrusive noise. She had no doubt it was a reminder to go to the Med Center for her monthly Vitamin D injection. But she was way too tired for Ministère reminders.
Chatine had barely slept at all last night. Her conversation with the Délabré had been replaying in her mind.
Three days. She had three days to get off this planet. Or figure out a way to steal more stuff from Officer Bonnefaçon to pay off Claque and her father. Otherwise she’d wind up hobbled, selling her blood and her soul in the bordels so that the First and Second Estates could have their precious face creams and youth injections.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Chatine dragged her eyes open. The familiar emblem of the Ministère—two crossed rayonettes guarding the planet of Laterre—flashed on her Skin, informing her of an incoming Universal Alert. She glanced to the other side of the bed, but it was empty. Azelle had obviously already left for work.
Chatine sank back against her pillow as the face of General Bonnefaçon filled the screen on her arm. She nearly shrieked aloud at the sight of it.
Feeling stupide, she took a deep breath, reminding herself that this message was going out to all of Laterre. Not just her. But between her cowardly reaction to the sight of the general and her behavior in the cruiseur yesterday, Chatine did not like the person she was turning into.
“Bonjour, fellow Laterrians,” the general began. “I bring you promising news this morning. We have apprehended the person responsible for the murder of Marie Paresse, the Premier Enfant of Laterre. Her name is Nadette Epernay. She was the child’s former governess, and we have no doubt that she was affiliated with the terrorist organization known as the Vangarde.”
Chatine stared wide-eyed at the screen. The Vangarde were responsible for killing the Premier Enfant? No wonder the general was so desperate to find their base.
“Mademoiselle Epernay must pay for her brutality against the Regime,” the general continued. “She must pay for this murder. Which is why, this morning, as a punishment for her crimes, she will be executed in the Vallonay public marketplace.”
Executed?
Chatine felt a shiver run down her spine.
In all her life, she had never heard of a convict being executed. Convicts were too valuable. They were needed to mine zyttrium on Bastille. According to Azelle, the supply in the TéléSkin fabrique was dwindling by the day. If anything, they needed more prisoners.
“Once this punishment has been carried out,” the general went on, “life on Laterre will continue as normal. Barring any other interruptions, the Ascension will soon be rescheduled. Thank you for your attention this morning. Vive Laterre.”
As the Ministère emblem filled the screen once more, Chatine let out a heavy sigh. Her plan this morning was to tail Marcellus, in hopes that he would lead her to more information about the Vangarde. But she knew this development was going to make that task much more difficult.
• • •
Thirty minutes later, the Marsh was in a state of anarchy. It was so crammed full of people, waiting to watch some poor girl meet her grisly end, they were practically on top of one another.
Chatine sat in the center of the rainy marketplace, watching the crowd from one of her favorite surveillance spots—on top of the head of Patriarche Thibault Paresse. Not his real head, of course, but a half-mètre version of it that stood atop a giant bronze body. Thibault Paresse had been the very first Patriarche of the Regime and the founder of Laterre. His statue had been erected in the Marsh years ago, long before Chatine was born, as a reminder to the Third Estate of how this “great man” had shepherded their ancestors away from the collapse of the First World.
Now the statue sat crooked in the middle of the marketplace, like it might topple over at any second. The bronze had worn off in several places, leaving Thibault with what looked like a very unfortunate skin condition.
All of the stall owners seemed to be taking full advantage of the execution today. Chatine could hear vendors calling out prices for carrots, potatoes, and chou bread that were nearly double the normal price. Fresh barrelfuls of seaweed had been carted in for the occasion. Cheap sustenance for the poor. It was rough going down, but it could keep you from starving to death. And Chatine could smell the unmistakable scent of roast chicken wafting from the direction of Madame Dufour’s stall. The old croc always roasted a chicken when the Marsh was crowded. It was how she seduced customers to her stall.
As Chatine scanned the sea of people milling around below, waiting for something to happen, her gaze zeroed in on a girl standing at the south entrance of the marketplace, wearin
g a long gray robe-like garment with billowing sleeves.
Chatine’s stomach lurched.
It was the girl. The girl Marcellus had been all moony-eyed over in the cruiseur yesterday. The one he’d made Chatine play in that stupide game of his.
Alouette.
Chatine narrowed her eyes, studying the girl. She remembered Marcellus’s desperate questions about her, pleading for Chatine to find out more about her.
There was one thing for certain—that girl did not live in the Frets. Her pristine gray shoes were enough to tell Chatine that. Nothing stayed that clean in the Frets.
She had to be a Défecteur.
But Chatine had always assumed Défecteurs were dirty too. Didn’t they live in the woods, in mud huts? That girl didn’t look like she’d ever even seen mud before.
She was completely out of her element. And it was starting to attract attention.
Chatine noticed Old Man Gonesse sizing her up from a few mètres away, clearly getting ready to swoop in and make his play for whatever she was carrying in her pockets. Chatine turned away, perfectly content to just ignore the whole thing. Let the stupide girl get picked apart by Marsh vultures. What did it matter to her?
But then, a moment later, Chatine spotted that unmistakable silver raincoat, immaculate wavy hair, and clean face. Marcellus. He was making his way through the crowd, heading right toward the girl. Chatine’s mind whirled. If the officer located Alouette, Chatine probably wouldn’t see him for the rest of the day. He’d whisk her off somewhere, with an obnoxious smile on his face, and attempt to get all those desperate questions of his answered.
In short, the girl would only distract him.
And Chatine didn’t have time for distractions. She needed Marcellus to stay on task. Her task.
How was he going to lead her to the Vangarde base if he was off being lovesick with some brainless Défecteur?
And on top of all that, Chatine simply didn’t trust the girl. Every time she laid eyes on her, something clanged in Chatine’s chest. Like a warning bell. The girl was bad news.
Which meant that Chatine had no choice but to intervene.
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