Maybe to her, they were.
Alouette took a breath and sat up straighter. “It’s because of my father. He doesn’t like me going up—” She seemed to cut herself off. “He doesn’t like me going outside. He forbids it. So I guess I am sort of like a ghost.”
Marcellus startled at the honesty in her voice. She was answering his questions. She was letting him in. “Never?”
Alouette shook her head, and her eyes darted back to the fire. “Never.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“He’s . . .” She seemed to struggle for the right word. “Protective. And . . .”
“Strict,” Marcellus finished for her.
Alouette looked surprised. “Yes. How did you—”
“My grandfather is the same way.”
“Strict?” Alouette confirmed.
Marcellus nodded. “It’s only because he wants so badly for me to succeed. I mean, I do too. But it’s hard. He’s very . . . private. He never talks about anything.”
Alouette chuckled. “Neither does my father.”
“I feel sorry for him sometimes. He’s been through so much. Especially this year. He lost a very dear friend in the fourth month. Actually, she might have been more than a friend, but I’ll never know because there’s no way he would ever tell me that.”
Alouette tilted her head, watching him with that studious expression of hers. Like she was trying to memorize every word he said. “Do you ever try to ask him about it?”
Marcellus scoffed. “I’ve tried. But he shuts down whenever I mention her name. It’s hard for him to talk about that kind of stuff. He’s lost a lot of people in his life. My father—his son. My mother. And now her.”
“It sounds like you’ve lost a lot of people too. I’m sorry.”
Marcellus swallowed. “Thanks.”
“How did she die? Your grandfather’s friend.”
Marcellus stared down at his hands, kneading them mercilessly. It felt good to have someone to finally talk to about Commandeur Vernay—about all of this—yet he still felt oddly guilty. Like he was betraying his grandfather’s trust. “The Patriarche sent her on a dangerous mission, which my grandfather thought was a bad idea from the start. She never made it back.” Marcellus flinched a little at this understatement. The commandeur had been captured and executed by firing squad along with her entire unit, when they were caught trying to assassinate the Albion queen.
“Wait, who is your grandfather?”
Marcellus’s gaze shot up. It took him a few seconds to decipher the alarm in her dark brown eyes.
She doesn’t know.
All his life, he’d assumed everyone knew who he was. The First Estate. The Second Estate. Even the Third Estate. Sometimes it felt like the whole of Laterre had their eyes trained on him, waiting to see how he would turn out. Would he become like his grandfather, a great leader? Or would he become like his father, a traitor?
But this girl. Somehow she didn’t know.
And that made her more intriguing than ever.
Suddenly, Marcellus understood why she was here with him. Why she had agreed to come with him. Why she didn’t seem afraid of him. If she found out he was related to the man responsible for rounding up Défecteurs on Laterre, he’d surely never see her again.
“Uh . . . um,” he stammered, trying desperately to undo the panic on her face. “He’s . . . no one important.”
Her eyes narrowed, as though trying to decide whether or not to believe him. He quickly maneuvered the conversation back to where it had begun. “Anyway, yeah, he can be a little hard to live with sometimes. But he raised me.” He paused. “Actually, he didn’t. I mean, technically he’s my guardian, but he’s a very busy man. I was raised by a governess.” His voice fell. “Her name was Mabelle.”
“Mabelle,” Alouette repeated. “From the message on the shirt?”
Marcellus felt his fists clench at the memory of seeing Mabelle in the boglands. “Yes.”
“Did you go to her in Montfer?” she asked. “Like the message said?”
“I . . . ,” he began, flustered. He still wasn’t sure what to make of that trip. It had all been so confusing. Mabelle’s words whispered in his ear. The song she hummed to him. The look of betrayal on Théo’s face when Marcellus had told him that the Regime was fine the way it was. “I did,” he finished, “but it turned out to be nothing.”
One of Alouette’s eyebrows rose, and she studied him for a few moments, as though she could see right through him. Read his thoughts. Just like the ghost she claimed to be. When she spoke again, he was certain she would call him on the lie, but instead she said, “Your governess. Isn’t that what that woman was today? The one who was executed? A governess?”
Marcellus felt a stab in his chest at the memory. He’d miraculously been able to chase it away for the past hour, but now it came roaring back to him like a dying flame come back to life.
“Yes. Nadette. She was the Premier Enfant’s governess.”
“I just don’t understand why they killed her,” Alouette went on. The heat was beginning to build in her eyes again. The fury he’d seen back in the Marsh. “They’ve never executed anyone before.”
“They had to make an example of her. They can’t punish the murderer of the Paresse heir the same way they’d punish a petty thief. New crimes call for new forms of punishment.” The words charged out of him so quickly, he didn’t realize they were his grandfather’s words, not his own, until it was too late. He felt sick to his stomach at the realization. He sounded like a programmed droid.
“Stop parroting every little thing your grandfather ever told you!”
The memory of Mabelle’s words made him shudder.
“But killing her is murder too, isn’t it?” Alouette countered, her voice hoarse but firm. “It’s no different from what she did. Or what they claim she did.”
“You don’t believe she did it?” The question shot out of Marcellus like a pulse from a rayonette, desperately seeking a target.
His urgency seemed to startle Alouette. “I don’t know. Do you think she did?”
And there it was. The question he hadn’t been able to answer. At least not to himself. And definitely not to his grandfather. But to her? To this strange, mysterious ghost-girl who talked like she was from another time? Another planet? Who didn’t know who he was?
He somehow felt like he could say it to her.
“No.” The word was barely a whisper, as quiet as a thought. “I don’t.”
Their eyes locked for another long moment. And then it was as though she’d ripped open a door. The words began to whoosh out of him, like air that had been trapped in a dark, solitary cell on Bastille.
“I don’t know what to think anymore. About anything. They took Mabelle away when I was eleven. They told me she was a traitor. And she was. She admits it! But before that, she was . . . I don’t know, she was like a mother to me. She really seemed to care about me.”
“Maybe she did,” Alouette said tenderly.
“Maybe.” Marcellus caught Alouette’s eye as he said the word, and they shared a smile. “We used to play all sorts of games. Like hide-and-seek in the gardens. One time, she hid in the fountain. Right in the middle!” Marcellus couldn’t help smiling at the memory. “My grandfather was so angry when we trooped home, both of us soaking wet.”
Alouette smiled back at him. “She sounds fun.”
“She was. She taught me the Forgotten Word, too.”
Her eyebrow shot up again. “You know the Forgotten Word? Why couldn’t you read the message in the shirt then?”
Marcellus sheepishly dropped his eyes back to the glowing fire. “After she was taken away, I guess I just sort of . . . forgot it all.”
“I’m sure you remember some of it.”
Marcellus shook his head somberly. “No. It just looks like gibberish to me now.”
“That’s nonsense. I bet you can still read it if you try.” Alouette glanced around, as though searchin
g for something. She tipped her head down to the collar of her tunic. “Here!” she said, pulling out a long string of metallic beads hanging from her neck. Fastened to the end was a shiny silver tag. “Read this.”
She beckoned him closer, and Marcellus scooted a centimètre to his left so that he could lean in and see the letters engraved into the metal.
“What is this?” he asked, gesturing to the beads.
Alouette’s face closed down again, as though he’d said the wrong thing. Why was he always saying the wrong thing?
“It’s . . . ,” she began. “They’re . . .” But she shook her head, like she was having an internal argument with herself. “Just read it.”
He peered at the engraving again. The letters looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t make sense of them. Their meaning was clouded by time.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” She scooted closer to him. So close Marcellus could feel her breath on his skin, warm and sweet like a hint of the honeysuckle he sometimes smelled in the gardens in the early evening. “Just try.”
He looked back down at the tag. He could tell there were two words. He remembered that much. But the letters just hung together, a blur and a jumble of tiny lines.
“The first word is tougher,” Alouette said. “Maybe try the second.”
He stared hard, really hard, squinting at the letters. Why was he so stupide? Why couldn’t he just remember?
“Just sound it out,” Alouette encouraged him. “One letter at a time.”
He could hear Mabelle saying the same thing to him.
“Sound it out, Marcellou. You can do it.”
And then, like fog evaporating in front of him, the first letter began to take shape in his mind. His tongue instinctively pressed against the roof of his mouth, forming a sound.
“L . . . ,” he said aloud, surprising himself nearly as much as Alouette.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, getting just as excited as Mabelle used to. “That’s it! Keep going.”
He stared harder. The fog was still heavy. He tried to hold Mabelle’s face in his mind. Not the worn, weathered face he’d seen yesterday in Montfer, but the young, jubilant face of his governess all those years ago. The one who danced with him in fountains and hid with him under tents made of sateen sheets. As she slowly came back to him, so did the letters.
“A . . . R . . .” He looked over at Alouette and she grinned, nodding.
“Yes. You’re almost there.”
“L . . . AR . . . LAR.” He strung the sounds together. When he reached the last letter, he paused. It was a straight line with two smaller lines jutting out from it at opposite angles. As he stared at it, a strange clucking noise suddenly sprang from his tongue, as if it had been hiding there, just waiting for him to find it all these years later.
“L . . . A . . . R . . . K!” he shouted, grinning wildly. “It spells ‘lark’!”
“Yes, that’s what it says!”
Then they were grinning at each other, looking into each other’s eyes.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
“It’s my nickname. Little Lark. See, there’s the word ‘little.’ ” She pointed at the first word on her tag. “That’s what they—” She stopped, seemingly catching herself again. “That’s what my father calls me.”
He smoothed over the tag with his thumb. “I like it. It’s a bird, right? The lark. A bird from the First World?”
She nodded. “A bird that sings early in the morning. Apparently, when I was little, I would sing every morning, as soon as I woke up.”
Their eyes met again, and Marcellus realized the loneliness that had clenched in his chest earlier was gone. It had been replaced with a fluttering. Like a million tiny wings. He felt the sudden urge to pull her toward him, wrap his arms around her, press his lips to hers. . . .
But then she spoke again, and it was like ice-cold water splashing over his head.
“Marcellou. That’s your nickname, right? I remember it from the message.”
Marcellus let the silver tag slip from his hands. “Yes,” he murmured.
She didn’t move away. She stayed close, her head cocked to one side. She was studying him again. Those observant eyes penetrating his. “Is that what your grandfather calls you?”
Marcellus scoffed at the question. “Are you kidding? General Bonnefaçon is way too busy and important for silly nicknames.”
It was out of his mouth before he even realized what he’d said.
The reaction was immediate. It was as though she’d been bitten. Alouette jerked back from him so fast, Marcellus flinched. “What did you just say?”
He tried to cover. “I—I said my grandfather is too busy and important for nicknames.”
But she was too shrewd. Too clever. She’d heard what he’d said. “But you called him something. Something else.” Her voice was shaky, guarded. “Your grandfather is General Bonnefaçon?”
“Yes, but don’t worry, I—”
It was too late, though. Marcellus could see it in her eyes. The light flickering off. The sparkle extinguishing. Her face closed down again. It was as if every layer he’d worked so hard to peel away over the past hour had flipped back into place.
“So you’re Marcellus Bonnefaçon?” she confirmed.
He swallowed, suddenly wishing he could take back what he’d said. Anything to bring back the sparkle that had been there just a moment ago.
But it was gone.
Like the dying embers of the fire.
Alouette shivered fiercely.
“You’re still freezing. Here, take this.” Marcellus leapt up and began to unbutton his raincoat. But before he could even get the garment off his shoulders, Alouette was on her feet, backing hurriedly away from him.
“I need to go. My father. He’ll be looking for me.” Her voice was rushed and breathless. She would no longer meet his eye. “Can you take me back to the Marsh now?”
Resigned, he buttoned up his coat again. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
And, as they walked back to his moto, Marcellus knew. He felt it in his gut, like a kick.
He’d lost her again.
- CHAPTER 46 -
ALOUETTE
MARCELLUS BONNEFAçON.
As the moto swerved through the trees and the wind battered against her helmet, all Alouette could hear was his name looping and cycling in her mind.
Marcellus Bonnefaçon.
How could it be true? The boy she’d tended to in the hallway. The boy with the deep laugh and the kind smile who’d built a fire and sat beside her just a short while ago. The boy whom she was now holding on to as they raced back through the forest.
He was the grandson of General Bonnefaçon.
Alouette knew all about the general from the Chronicles and her lessons. She knew he was the leader of the Ministère and the head advisor to current Patriarche Lyon, as well as his late father, Patriarche Claude. The general was one of the most powerful men on the planet. And here Alouette was, the daughter of a convict—an escaped convict!—riding on the back of a moto with his grandson.
But Marcellus wasn’t just the general’s grandson.
When he’d offered Alouette his raincoat, she’d seen the shiny epaulets of his uniform. The crisp white jacket. The row of sparkling titan buttons. She knew exactly what they were.
And more important, what they meant.
Officer Bonnefaçon.
It’s why he’d been in the Frets the other day. And in the Marsh today for the execution. He wasn’t just a member of the Second Estate. He was an officer of the Ministère!
She’d been a sister for barely a full day, and she’d already messed up. She’d put the Refuge and the library in danger. If the Ministère was somehow able to find the Refuge now and destroy all the books the sisters had worked so hard to protect for nearly 150 years, it would be all her fault.
As they swerved and rumbled through trees, Alouette tried to remember what she’d told Marcellus b
ack at the fire. How much had she revealed? She hadn’t said anything about the Refuge or the First World books that were hidden there. She was sure of that. Which meant she hadn’t broken the vow of secrecy. But still, had she told him enough for the Ministère to track them down?
It was as though Alouette had forgotten everything the sisters had ever taught her. “Be an observer,” Sister Jacqui always said. “Be present and awake to your world.”
But Alouette hadn’t been present or awake. And she certainly hadn’t been observant. She’d let the warm fire and the deep hazel eyes of Marcellus lull her straight to sleep.
“Imbécile,” she muttered aloud.
“What was that?” Marcellus’s voice reverberated through her headset.
Startled, Alouette looked up and realized they were out of the trees. The forest was now behind them, and they were passing by the sprawling fermes on the outskirts of Vallonay.
“Nothing,” she replied.
The moto sped onward until the Frets rose up in front of them and Marcellus finally pulled the vehicle to a stop at the edge of the Marsh. Alouette immediately scrabbled off the bike.
“Thanks for the ride,” she muttered, avoiding Marcellus’s gaze. “I should get going now.” She yanked at the strap on her helmet, but she couldn’t manage to unfasten it. Her fingers were shaking too much.
“Wait,” Marcellus said, hurrying over to her. “Let me help you.”
With ease, he unlatched the strap and slipped the helmet from her head. But his fingers caught in her hair, and he let out an awkward chuckle. For a moment, their gazes locked and Alouette could feel a shiver work its way down her spine.
He’s the general’s grandson, she reminded herself. Officer Bonnefaçon.
Her cheeks started to burn with anger. But she wasn’t sure whom she was angry with. Herself for not having realized it sooner? Or him for not telling her?
“I have to go,” she said hastily, breaking the strange current streaming between them.
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