Papa?
Alouette squinted down the hallway at the girl who had just appeared through the door with a wide grin on her face. And suddenly Alouette understood. This man in the tuxedo who was glaring at Cerise with a deep scowl cut into his face—this was the infamous Directeur Chevalier.
“I’ve missed you so, so much, Papa!” Cerise said, leaning in to pull the directeur into an embrace.
He grabbed her by the arms and brusquely pushed her back before snapping his fingers at the cyborg and pointing toward the server room. “Rolland, find out what she’s been up to in there.”
Alouette felt her legs go wobbly as she watched the woman in the lab coat stride into the room. But Cerise didn’t look concerned. She gave a playful little snort. “Up to? Papa I wasn’t up to anything. I got lost looking for you. I thought you might be in this—” she glanced back into the server room and crumpled her forehead in confusion—“room with all the flashy lights.”
“Save it, Cerise,” the directeur snapped. “I’m not falling for it. Not this time. You’ve been gone over a week. Vanished without a trace. Your maman has been out of her mind with worry on Samsara. I had people searching all over Ledôme for you. Fortunately, a neighbor saw you coming home earlier today with some friends and AirLinked me to let me know. Where have you been?”
For just a split second, Cerise seemed to falter, as though she wasn’t sure how to respond to that. But when she spoke again, her voice was as breezy as ever. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, Papa. I was kidnapped by this violent rebel group and then I got caught up in this wild space adventure where Albion warships were chasing us and the aerodrones were firing at us. Oh, and then we crash-landed in the Terrain Perdu and I thought we were going to die.” She let out an exaggerated sigh. “It was exhausting. I would have AirLinked, but I’m pretty sure we were being tracked by the Mad Queen so—”
“Stop.” Directeur Chevalier pressed his fingertips into his temples. “Just stop. No more lies, Cerise. No more stories. You are not getting out of this. I know the games you’ve been trying to play with me. And they won’t work.”
“But Papa, I swear I’m not—”
“No,” the directeur interrupted again. “You can’t keep running away from your future, Cerise. I’ve rescheduled your operation for tomorrow morning. And until then, you’ll be under constant surveillance. It’s done.”
Operation.
Alouette’s heart clutched in her chest. Her throat burned. She could not let this happen to Cerise. She could not let them take her and turn her into a cyborg. She readied herself to burst down this hallway. To fight. To cry. To scream. Until she remembered her promise to Cerise only moments ago.
“Get out of the Ministère. Now. And whatever you do, don’t try to rescue me.”
Cerise must have seen her father coming on the security feeds. She knew what was about to happen. She knew she was about to get caught. Why hadn’t she run? Why hadn’t she saved herself?
The cyborg reappeared through the doorway of the server room with Cerise’s network bridge in her hand. “I located this. Without further analysis, I can’t be precisely sure what she was using it for. She covered her tracks pretty well. Any traces of network tampering seem to have been erased.”
Then, like a series of stars colliding into one another, it all became suddenly clear to Alouette.
Cerise hadn’t saved herself because she’d chosen to save them. Instead of running, she’d tried to erase the evidence. Even though she knew that if she got caught, it would end like this. Her brain would be cut open. Cybernetics would be implanted behind her skull. Fiberoptics would be laced through her neurons. A web of flashing circuitry would be artfully embedded into her skin. And one of her twinkling dark eyes would glow an eerie, probing orange.
And still, she chose to save them.
“Take her to the surgical ward and lock her in a room.” Directeur Chevalier motioned toward the two guards, who grabbed Cerise by either arm and began to lead her down the hallway. Cerise struggled in their clutches, bucking and twisting, but they were too strong.
“Papa!” she shouted down the hallway. “Please, just listen to me! I swear I can explain everything!”
Alouette kneaded her hands together in quiet desperation. Could she really just stand there and let them take her? Could she really keep her promise to Cerise?
“Directeur, I might have found something.”
Alouette’s head snapped up to see the cyborg handing the network bridge over to Cerise’s father. The directeur scrutinized something on the screen, his expression morphing from confusion to comprehension to alarm. “Marcellus Bonnefaçon?”
The cyborg nodded. “It appears his biometrics were scanned by a guard at the security checkpoint of the Ascension banquet. Cerise passed the signal through this bridge and sent back a fake profile in response. But in her haste to cover her tracks, she evidently forgot to erase the log, and when I ran the biometric markers through the Communiqué, I got this.”
The directeur hastily shoved the device back at the cyborg and pulled out his TéléCom. “Urgent AirLink request for General Bonnefaçon.” There was a heart-stopping pause, during which Alouette was certain she was going to faint, before the directeur spoke again. “General. I’m afraid I have bad news. Your grandson is at the Ascension banquet.”
- CHAPTER 67 - ALOUETTE
ALOUETTE’S LUNGS BURNED FROM RUNNING, and her heart was thudding like a drum in her chest. The twin towers of the Ministère were now just an eerie glow in the night sky behind her.
“Marcellus!” she shouted hoarsely into her audio patch for what felt like the hundredth time. “Marcellus, are you there?” Still no response. Cerise had evidently cut the connection when she’d seen her father coming down the hallway. But it didn’t stop Alouette from trying to make contact. Again and again and again.
She had to warn Marcellus. The general knew he was there. Their entire plan—not to mention the lives of everyone at that banquet—was in jeopardy.
She could see the darkened outline of the Grand Palais in the distance. As she ran breathlessly toward it, she tried to recall the details Marcellus had given earlier about the loopholes in the security shields. There were four, she remembered. One that was closest to the gardens. That was her best option.
As soon as she reached the Palais fence, she pulled out her borrowed TéléCom and used the light to illuminate the little fleur-de-lis ornaments on the top of each post. She walked briskly along the perimeter until she located the one that was bent at an angle, and then she scrabbled over the fence.
She hit the ground hard but was up in an instant before she was running again. The north end of the Palais was in sight. It was vast and incredibly well lit. Just ahead, she could make out a small staircase leading up to the side of the Grand Terrace. From there, she’d be able to see out over the entire banquet. She bounded toward it, her muscles crying out, her breathing ragged.
Almost there.
She pounded up the steps and charged onto the terrace just as a pair of Palais doors swung open. Alouette skidded to a halt and searched for a place to hide, but there was nothing. And there was no time.
“This fête better not last all night,” said a deep, booming voice. “I have better things to do, you know?”
“It should only take a few minutes, Monsieur,” said another voice.
When Alouette’s gaze fell upon the two men exiting through the Palais door, her whole body went completely and utterly numb. The first man—an advisor in a dark green robe—she didn’t recognize. But the other? Just the sight of him made her gut twist and her knees go weak. His thick and immaculately coiffed auburn hair glinted in the terrace lights. Of course she recognized him. There wasn’t a soul on Laterre who wouldn’t.
It was Patriarche Lyon Paresse, the leader of Laterre.
And he was staring right at her.
She wanted to run. She wanted to flee. But for some reason, she couldn’t move. There was something ab
out the way he was looking at her—slack-jawed and spellbound, like he’d just come face-to-face with a ghost—that made Alouette feel like her feet were bolted to the ground.
And then he spoke, uttering the only two syllables in the universe that could cause Alouette’s heart to stop beating and the world to come crashing to a halt.
“Lisole?”
It was barely a whisper from the Patriarche’s lips. A murmur of shock and surprise and …
Recognition, Alouette suddenly realized.
Except it wasn’t her he recognized. He was staring at Alouette with the exact same bewilderment and disbelief as Madame Blanchard had done back in Montfer. His watery gray eyes were wide and unblinking, entranced by the sight of her.
No.
By the sight of who he thought she was.
“Monsieur Patriarche,” the advisor said, casting an uneasy glance at Alouette and her cleaner’s uniform. “I think we should proceed to the banquet. The Matrone is waiting for you.” He tried to usher the Patriarche away, across the terrace, but Lyon resisted, pushing his way back to Alouette.
“Lisole!” he said again. This time, it wasn’t a question. It was an answer. A sigh of relief. “I thought you were … They told me you were …” His voice trailed off. And that’s when Alouette saw something on his face that confounded her to the very core of her being.
Affection.
Confused and overwhelmed, Alouette started to back away, but something on the advisor’s green robe caught her attention, freezing her in place again. Her gaze fell to his front pocket, where an intricate emblem was stitched into the fabric.
And suddenly, every sound for thousands of kilomètres seemed to fade from existence, and all she could hear was an intense drone in her ears.
She felt herself leaning closer, like she was being pulled into the gravity of that small image.
Two lions standing on their hind legs, mouths open mid-roar, paws in the air.
They were the exact same lions as the ones that had been engraved into the lid of her mother’s titan box. The box had been destroyed on the voyageur, but Alouette had stared at its surface for so many hours, she’d studied its intricate carvings and designs for so long, she could have reconstructed it from memory.
And yet, for some reason, she hadn’t pieced it together.
This was the Paresse family crest.
She’d seen drawings of the majestic insignia countless times in the Chronicles. But she hadn’t associated it with the engraving on her mother’s box until now. Maybe it was because the two things seemed so unrelated. Her mother and the Paresse family were as far apart as Usonia and Sol 1.
What had her mother been doing with a titan box adorned with the Paresse family crest?
“Monsieur Patriarche,” came another voice. This one was low and clipped, and even though Alouette had never heard it before, it chilled her to the bone. “Is something wrong? We are waiting for you on the other side of the terrace. We must proceed to the banquet now.”
At first, all Alouette saw was the white jacket coming toward her, with its row of dazzling titan buttons. Then she saw the tall frame, the wide shoulders, the thick hair, the hazel eyes—almost identical to Marcellus’s—and every molecule inside of her clattered and collided like an exploding sol.
“But look, General!” the Patriarche blustered, his words garbled and his eyes glassy with confusion. Like someone just waking from a dream. “It’s her! It’s Lisole. H-h-how is this possible? You told me she was dead.”
The general’s cruel, piercing gaze settled on Alouette, and something in the clench of his jaw and the slight widening of his eyes told her he knew exactly who she was. “I agree, the resemblance is uncanny,” he said evenly. “Why don’t you join your wife and proceed to the banquet, and I will sort this out.”
Run.
The word flittered through Alouette’s mind, and she knew instantly that it was her only option. But evidently, so did the general, because before she could take a single step, his large hand wrapped around her arm, and he began to drag her back toward the side staircase.
She struggled against his grasp, trying to wrench herself free, but he was too strong. He gave her a rough yank and whispered angrily into her ear, “I know why you’re here. I know what you’re after. But I have not worked this hard and for this long to have everything stolen from me by the daughter of a worthless blood whore.”
He snapped his fingers at two officers in white uniforms who were patrolling nearby and beckoned them over. Alouette swallowed hard, feeling like her heart might beat right out of her chest.
“Officers,” he said in an impervious tone. “This servant was caught trying to steal from the Patriarche. Take her into custody and I will handle the situation after the banquet is over. Do not let her get away.”
- CHAPTER 68 - MARCELLUS
“PLEASE WELCOME YOUR ILLUSTRIOUS HOSTS for this evening, Patriarche Lyon Paresse and his beautiful wife, Matrone Veronik Paresse!”
The entrance was a grand one. The Patriarche was dressed in a forest-green jacket with a plush silk cravat tied around his neck. The Matrone was wearing a billowing dress that was almost as wide as she was tall, and her dark curls were wound up into a towering structure that was held together by a dazzling tiara encrusted with a rainbow of multicolored gems. They were flanked by advisors in deep green robes and handmaids who swarmed like fluttering butterflies in lacy, brightly colored gowns. As the entourage slowly descended the curving stone steps from the Palais’s vast terrace, a chorus of trumpets and cheers erupted from the Imperial Lawn below.
Marcellus watched the procession from his hiding spot in the hedges, his heart whirring into a tempest. He had attended Ascension banquets all his life, but he’d never seen anything quite like this. The sheer number of people packed into this garden was staggering. Normally, when one winner was chosen, the guest list consisted of the lucky Ascendant, their immediate family, and a host of important Second Estate members. But predictably, with fifty winners, the Third Estate far outnumbered the Second Estate. Which was exactly how his grandfather had intended it.
“Don’t they look fantastique, everyone?” Georges Bissette exclaimed from the stage in the center of the lawn. But no one was looking at the well-coiffed man in the bright blue tailcoat anymore. All the Third Estate eyes were trained on the Patriarche. On the great leader of Laterre. The very person they had unknowingly been brought here to kill.
Marcellus darted his gaze to the champagne fountain, where a flock of waiters dressed in velvet, high-collared jackets was already beginning to arrange crystal flutes to fill for the toast. His eyes tracked outward until he spotted a flash of color. A green gem glittering amongst a sea of shimmering silks. Chatine was almost to the fountain, her long dress billowing behind her like smoke.
“Absolutely radiant!” said Georges Bissett as the trumpets gave way to a rousing anthem played by a string quartet and the Patriarche and Matrone continued their long procession down the stairs. Marcellus couldn’t help but remark that the Patriarche looked somewhat unsettled, as though something was troubling him.
Across the Imperial Lawn, the crowd’s cheers had lulled to a swarm of awed whispers.
“They look so different in person.”
“She’s much thinner than I imagined.”
“Well, she did just lose her precious bébé. I’m sure she hasn’t eaten in weeks.”
Marcellus kept his gaze locked on Chatine, still weaving through the crowd. She was now only a few mètres from the fountain. Nearly there, he told himself, trying to calm his frazzled nerves.
So far, everything had gone according to plan. Cerise and Alouette had broken into the Ministère server room. Chatine and Marcellus had infiltrated the banquet. Marcellus was in prime position with a perfect view of the terrace steps, which his grandfather would be descending at any moment. Now all they had to do was get that inhibitor into the champagne before the official toast.
“The Matrone’s ceremonia
l tiara is made of one hundred percent titan and is encrusted with over two thousand First World jewels,” Georges Bissett explained, causing the crowd to gasp and sigh.
The Patriarche and Matrone had almost reached the bottom of the steps. Marcellus scanned their parade of advisors and escorts. There was still no sign of his grandfather.
He turned back to Chatine and the fountain, but something flickered in the periphery of his vision, snagging his attention. It was a figure dressed in a dark uniform prowling through the crowd, only a few mètres behind Chatine. As Marcellus focused on the complex network of circuitry implanted in the man’s face, dread immediately began to ripple through him.
Inspecteur Chacal.
What was he doing here? Had he spotted Chatine? Had he recognized her?
“And tonight, the Patriarche is wearing a stunning satin cravat imported straight from Samsara,” Georges announced as the Patriarche and Matrone reached the base of the stone steps and waved cordially out into the crowd.
“Chatine,” Marcellus whispered urgently into his audio patch. “We might be in trouble. Chacal is right behind you.”
He watched Chatine continue to move toward the fountain. She didn’t even so much as flinch at his words.
“Chatine?” he said again. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
“Cerise? Alouette? Is anyone there?”
The silence brought Marcellus’s galloping heart to a lurching stop. He hastily pulled out his TéléCom and checked the connection. It was dead.
Fear prickled his skin and blurred the corners of his vision. Why had the AirLink been severed? But he didn’t have time to dwell on the answer. If Chatine couldn’t get the inhibitor into the champagne and neutralize the weapon, the rest of the plan would fail.
Marcellus edged out from his hiding place and darted toward the fountain, concealing himself behind one of the many elaborate ice sculptures punctuating the garden. Chatine was steps away from the champagne now. But Chacal was strangely nowhere to be found. Marcellus scanned the lawn, craning his neck to see over the crowd, but it was as if the inspecteur had suddenly vanished.
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