Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  She thought of the world beyond Ledôme, where shimmering starlight like this was never seen. Where the clouds blanketed everything, offering only rain and dampness and never-ending gray. Where people lived in the rusting remains of old freightships. Where the stomachs of children growled and girls sold their blood for a few extra largs.

  The discrepancy, the inequality, and the injustice of this twisted and wrenched deep inside Alouette. But the feeling was quickly replaced by another. This one was stronger. More profound. Rooted into the very core of who she was.

  It was the feeling of resolve.

  She reached down, into the collar of her uniform, and pulled out her devotion beads. Her last remaining link to the sisters who’d raised her. The women who’d trained her. The rebels who’d made her who she was.

  The sudden sound of footsteps on gravel cut off her thoughts. Before Alouette could turn to see who was approaching, someone grabbed her arms and pinned them behind her back.

  Instantly her body electrified. She could feel every nerve and sinew inside her switching on. Her mind went calm like a lake and her breath stilled to almost nothing.

  Elevate the Meek, she thought, as she prepared to move into a twisting lunge.

  But the blow to her head came a moment later, spiraling her vision into darkness. She felt the ground come rushing toward her. She felt her chin knock against the stone. And just before the stars twinkled out completely, she heard a gruff voice say, “Madeline Villette. Somehow I just can’t seem to get rid of you.”

  - CHAPTER 76 - MARCELLUS

  THE WOMAN WHO STOOD BEFORE them in the small vestibule was wiry, gray-haired, and wearing a long plain tunic. With flinty eyes, she peered at Marcellus and Chatine over a pair of half-moon glasses. Marcellus guessed, from Alouette’s descriptions and stories about the sisters, that this must be Francine, the Principale of the Refuge.

  “He needs help,” Chatine blurted out. “We were told we could—”

  “Yes,” Francine said, ushering them inside. “This way. We’ll get you to the infirmerie. Sister Laurel will be back soon.”

  They followed the woman down a long, dimly lit corridor. The bedrock walls were unadorned, and the floors were plain but immaculately polished. Through a few of the open doors, Marcellus could see bedrooms containing little more than a neatly made bed and a small nightstand.

  Everything was so simple and neat.

  So silent and calm.

  A refuge from the boisterous, unraveling planet above.

  He still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that anyone was here. He’d been so certain the Vangarde were dead. And yet, here he was, being led through their secret base by one of their leaders. And that woman at the banquet had said she’d brought operatives with her.

  “Sister Laurel,” Marcellus repeated the name, remembering the way the woman had fought with the same familiar grace and relaxed ease as he’d observed Alouette do in Inspecteur Limier’s memory file. “Why was she at the banquet? Did you know what the general was planning?”

  Francine slowed her pace slightly and shook her head. “No. When the Ascension was rescheduled, and it was announced that fifty winners would be chosen, we were understandably suspicious of something. So we sent Sister Laurel and a team of operatives to investigate. We never expected …” She cleared her throat, sounding grieved. “It is awful what has transpired tonight.”

  “That was the weapon the general has been working on.” The words exploded out of Marcellus. It felt like he’d been waiting years to say them. Ever since Mabelle had first recruited him in that leaky, dilapidated cabin at the copper exploit, pleading with him to find out more about the weapon. “That’s what Denise was trying to stop. It’s a program that reverses the neuroelectricity to the Skins so the general can force the Third Estate to fight for him. And what’s worse, he still has it. He could activate the program again at any time and command his Third Estate army.”

  “No, he can’t.”

  The words came so unexpectedly, so swiftly, Marcellus was almost certain he misunderstood. He squinted at the gray-haired woman in front him. “What?”

  “The Skins have been turned off,” she said simply.

  Turned off?

  Baffled, Marcellus thought back to the balcony, when he’d stood beside his grandfather and watched the survivors stare down at the darkened screens in their arms.

  Did the Vangarde discover a way to get around the Forteresse?

  “Still, tonight was a travesty,” Principale Francine said, bowing her head solemnly. “And unfortunately, we were too late to stop it.”

  “I tried to tell you,” Marcellus insisted. “I swear I tried to make contact, but I couldn’t get through. After Bastille, I thought … We thought you were all …”

  “Dead?” Francine guessed.

  Chatine’s gaze darted curiously toward the woman.

  Marcellus nodded, trying to catch his breath. “Yes.”

  Francine stopped in front of a closed wooden door and turned around to face Marcellus. In that moment, her eyes looked kind and her face looked earnest. “Merci for everything you’ve done for the Vangarde. You have been a loyal and faithful servant. Just like your father. Mabelle was right to insist we recruit you. Given the circumstances, however, we were forced to employ a few very extreme tactics. And, unfortunately, we had to keep many of our operatives in the dark about it. I’m terribly sorry about that. But you must understand it was for the benefit and safety of everyone involved.”

  Marcellus’s brow furrowed. Extreme tactics? “You mean you weren’t communicating on purpose? You were pretending to be dead?”

  She flashed him a knowing look. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  His thoughts drifted painfully back to that night in the warden’s office. When they’d all gathered around a bank of monitors and watched Citizen Rousseau’s finger unexpectedly twitch on the screen.

  They’ve been playing dead.

  “The general has been trying to track us down for years,” Francine explained. “We had to make sure he stopped looking for us. Which is why we chose to go completely silent. We couldn’t take the risk of any of our correspondence being intercepted. And that, unfortunately, included cutting off our own internal network among the Sisterhood.”

  “The beads,” Marcellus said suddenly.

  Francine nodded. “Yes. Traditionally our devotion beads are linked together so that we can stay connected to each other. But knowing that two of our operatives were in custody, and that their belongings would surely be confiscated and analyzed, we decided to use that to our advantage. Severing the connection was a difficult choice to make, however, because it meant we were no longer able to track Alouette. But we had to trust that our teachings had prepared her for the world and that she would be able to take care of herself. And we simply couldn’t risk the Ministère hunting us down. Especially after Bastille. We needed General Bonnefaçon and the Patriarche to believe that we didn’t succeed up there. And that they had won.”

  Something dark and heavy lifted instantly from Marcellus’s chest. “You mean, you did succeed?”

  For the first time, a small smile broke through the woman’s hardened facade. And she looked almost proud. “Yes.”

  Marcellus tried to pull his thoughts into focus, but they were spinning too quickly. Round and round until all he could see was the roof of the Trésor tower and that strange little ship vanishing from the sky in a gust of smoke and fire.

  There was a small yelp beside him, and Chatine’s mouth fell open in shock. “Citizen Rousseau is alive?”

  At that, Francine turned around and opened the door in front of them. Inside, a woman lay stretched out on a narrow bed with a wooden frame. She was so still, only a slight movement of the sheet indicated that she was breathing. Her silver hair had been gently brushed and plaited into a long braid, which now lay across the crisp white pillow. The crevices and lines in her skin looked less deep, less angry, less battered here, under the so
ft glow of the infirmerie lights. But the hollows under her cheek bones were just as sunken and shadowed and beaten as Marcellus had remembered from years of staring at her on a security feed.

  Citizen Rousseau.

  The woman who had led a rebellion and failed.

  The woman who Marcellus’s father had died for.

  The woman who had inspired hope in a people who had lost theirs centuries ago.

  Could she do it again?

  Looking at her frail, brittle body now, it felt unlikely.

  “Bastille was not kind to her,” Francine said. “And the tincture we gave her to slow her heart so she would be transferred to the morgue nearly killed her. We almost lost her on the journey home. Laurel had to induce a coma to keep her stable until she recovered. But our dear sister has finally returned to us. And soon, when her vitals are stronger, we will be able to wake her and finish what we started.”

  “You mean the ship made it back?” Chatine asked, her voice was quiet, almost wary, as though she were afraid the answer might destroy her.

  “Yes,” Francine said. “The stealth mode helped complete the illusion of the Ministère’s victory. However, our pilote was injured by an explosif shortly before we took off. She managed to get us back safely to Laterre, and we did everything we could for her here. But we lost her the very next day.”

  Marcellus pressed his fingertips into his temples trying to make sense of everything. That ship he’d seen on Bastille hadn’t been blown out of the sky. It had taken off. It had made it back here.

  With Citizen Rousseau inside.

  But Marcellus could hardly process his own reaction to this news, because he was too busy trying to interpret Chatine’s. Tears were swimming in her eyes, and a sob of what could only be described as life-altering relief seemed to shudder through her.

  Chatine wiped at her wet cheeks. “If the ship made it back, then that means—”

  “Did you know the First World had only one Sol?”

  Marcellus, Chatine, and Francine all turned at once to see a boy standing in the hallway with a half-eaten apple in one hand and an open book in the other.

  When the boy’s gaze landed on Chatine, his lips curved into a wide grin. “Hey, you’re here! Isn’t this place soop? They have much better food than on Bastille, and they’re teaching me to read the Forgotten Word!”

  “Henri!” In a heartbeat, Chatine was running at supervoyage speed. She crashed into the boy and wrapped her arms so tightly around him, Marcellus honestly couldn’t tell if she meant to embrace him or suffocate him.

  The boy seemed slightly confused by her reaction. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Um, it’s nice to see you, too.” Then, after a moment, and another noisy bite of apple, his eyebrows shot up. “Wait a minute. Who’s Henri?”

  Chatine laughed and squeezed him tighter. For a long time, they just stood like that. The boy eating his apple and Chatine clutching his skinny body to hers, like she might never let go. But the sound of a heavy metal door clanging shut a moment later broke all of them from their trances.

  Marcellus peered down the low-lit hallway to see Sister Laurel moving steadily toward them. She was still dressed in her bloodied and ripped sergent’s uniform.

  He looked to her with hope brimming in his eyes. “Did you find her? Did you find Alouette?”

  She shot a brief, indecipherable glance at Francine before replying, “Not yet. But my operatives are still looking. We will—”

  Marcellus didn’t even allow her to finish. He was already on the move, already charging down the Refuge hallway, back toward that heavy PermaSteel door. He could feel Sister Laurel’s temporary médicaments wearing off and the pain and nausea creeping back in, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t just sit down here and wait while she was still out there.

  “Marcellus!” Footsteps pounded after him, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Something sharp and throbbing stabbed at his side. He doubled over as a groan clawed its way up his throat.

  Suddenly, Sister Laurel was in front of him. Her kind, dark eyes staring intensely into his. “You need help. Your ribs might be broken. You still have a lethal paralyzeur pulse in your shoulder. You need medical attention. You cannot go out there.”

  “But …” He tried to speak. Every syllable, every breath was an agonizing effort that drained him. “Alouette.”

  “I know you’re worried about her,” Sister Laurel said. “So are we. But take a breath and really think this through. Do you really think you’re in any condition to go searching for her right now?”

  Marcellus turned from her, his eyes falling on the small vestibule at the end of the hallway. The door that stood between him and the outside world.

  “We will find her,” Sister Laurel promised, her voice stern and heartbreakingly earnest. “Let my operatives do their job. And let me treat you.”

  Marcellus could feel his irrational resolve slipping. He pulled his gaze from the door and focused back on Laurel. There were two of her and she was swaying.

  “I can’t abandon her,” he said, his voice cracking like a child’s.

  “You’re not,” Laurel said. And maybe it was the tone of her voice or the honesty in her eyes or the promise of her help, but for some outlandish, indescribable reason, in that moment, he believed her.

  He took a deep breath and allowed his head to fall into a nod. He allowed himself to be guided back to the infirmerie. And, as he lay down on an empty cot next to the unconscious form of Laterre’s most infamous rebel leader, he allowed himself to believe that any minute now, Alouette would come walking through that Refuge door.

  - CHAPTER 77 - CHATINE

  EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM WAS FAMILIAR. His chin. His eyelashes. His cheeks. The way his lips moved ever so slightly while he dreamed. As she watched him sleep, curled up in a tiny ball under the blankets just like he used to do when he was a baby, Chatine felt foolish for not seeing it before. For not recognizing him the moment she first laid eyes on him.

  The resemblance seemed too obvious to miss now.

  But she, of all people, knew how the heart could play evil tricks on the mind. And that the eyes could be as devious and deceitful as a pair of crocs.

  None of that mattered now, though. All that mattered was that he was here. And she was here. And they were together. The two lost Renard children finally reunited. And she would never lose him again.

  The door to the small bedroom creaked open, and Chatine looked up to see Marcellus standing in the doorway. She straightened up in the chair next to the bed, where she’d been sitting for the past few hours, and beckoned him inside. “How are you?” she asked.

  With a wince, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. “Apparently, I’m going to live.”

  Chatine chuckled softly. “That’s good. I’d be pretty bummed if you didn’t.”

  Marcellus nodded toward Henri, still fast asleep. “How is he?”

  Chatine allowed her eyes to drift back toward her brother. Her brother. It felt so good to finally hold that word in her mind again and not be plagued with guilt and fear and crushing sadness. “He’s fine. More than fine, actually. Talked my ear off for twenty minutes about his bravery during what he’s calling the Great Bastille Escape of 505.” She snorted and adjusted the blankets under his chin, a delicate smile playing on her lips. “I used to watch him sleep when he was a baby. He slept the exact same way. I just can’t believe they brought him back to me.”

  “The Vangarde?” Marcellus asked.

  She shook her head. “The Sols.”

  Chatine could feel Marcellus’s eyes on her, warm and inquisitive. “Yes, they can certainly be mysterious like that.”

  With a contented sigh, Chatine finally pulled her gaze from Henri and glanced around the room. It was modest and bare, with uneven walls, a nightstand next to the bed, and a small closet cut into the bedrock and covered with a simple black curtain.

  “I think this is Alouette’s room,” Chatine said quietly. She wasn’t sure if s
he should mention her name. The sisters still hadn’t given any indication that she’d been located, and Chatine was starting to worry that something had gone very wrong.

  A flicker of uneasiness flashed in Marcellus’s eyes, but he quickly concealed it. “How do you know?”

  “Because I found this.” Chatine reached under her chair and pulled out an old, faded doll with long, silky hair and a tattered yellow dress. She stood it up on her lap and stared into its glassy gray eyes, feeling the same haunting sensation she’d felt when she’d first discovered it laying on the bed. It was like looking into a mirror that warped time, and the reflection staring back at her was some younger, forgotten version of herself.

  She swallowed and ran her fingers through the doll’s dark nylon curls. “For the longest time this doll represented everything I wanted to be and never could. Funny how it’s been right here, so close this whole time, and I never knew.”

  “I don’t understand,” Marcellus said, his brow furrowed. “Have you seen it before?”

  “Not only have I seen it, I took a souvenir.” She pivoted the doll on her lap so Marcellus could see the empty sleeve hanging loose from the dress. Chatine pushed it back to reveal a small hole just below the shoulder.

  Something strange and chilling passed over Marcellus’s face as he stared at the spot where the doll’s little arm used to be. Then, as though moving in slow motion, he reached into his pocket and, with an unsteady breath, withdrew his hand and extended it toward Chatine.

  She let out a tiny, uncontrolled gasp when she saw what was nestled in his palm. Like a long-lost remnant washed up at sea. A fragment of misplaced time.

  “How?” she murmured, barely a whisper. “How do you have this?”

  “I found it in your couchette.”

  Chatine’s thoughts spun dizzily through her mind. He went to my couchette? He looked through my room? And of all the things he would have found there, this is what he took?

  He let out a short laugh and shook his head. “When I think about all the times that I could have lost it, or forgotten it, or accidentally left it aboard the voyageur to be shattered into a million pieces, it almost seems impossible that I still have it.”