Perfect Ruin (Internment Chronicles, Book 1)

by DeStefano, Lauren

  “I believe you,” she says.

  Of course she does. She’s out of her mind, the only girl left in the academy who’d still want to have anything to do with me. We’re the same sort. We always have been.

  As I’m rising to a stand, there’s a stab of pain in the side of my neck, and I can’t move a muscle. The dart that’s just hit Pen’s shoulder is the only explanation. We’ve just been attacked. Something moves in the trees, and I’m falling back into someone’s waiting arms.

  23

  My grandmother succumbed to the sun disease long before her dispatch date. Before she was to be given to the tributary, my sister and I were brought in to see her. I had seen death in my medical texts before, but never up close. Her body was silent and screaming at once, the same question over and over: Is this it?

  —“Intangible Gods,” Daphne Leander, Year Ten

  YOU’RE A LOUSY SHOT,” THE GIRL HUFFS. “You almost completely missed her neck. Papa would have never let you hear the end of that.”

  “I am doing our father a favor, might I remind you,” the boy says, grunting as he hoists Pen over his shoulder. “We’ve just done more work in five seconds than his incompetent staff has done since that girl’s murder. Honestly. Letting fugitives run about this city like it’s a giant floating tea party.”

  “I’ve always loved your analogies, Brother,” the girl says as she drags me from under the arms. I recognize her long hair, half of it braided around her head like a crown. The girls in my class have all tried to imitate that braid, with little success. It can be worn this perfectly by only one girl—the king’s only daughter, Princess Celeste.

  The boy holding Pen can only be Prince Azure, then. Not that I can move to look at him. With some effort I’m just able to blink.

  “He’d thank us if he knew,” the prince says.

  The princess smells like cinnamon and something else, something I’d find pleasant if it were wafting out of a teahouse or spilling from one of the many bottles on Alice’s dresser. Now it just nauseates me.

  Blackness is clouding my vision, and I fight it. I’ve already been poisoned once; I refuse to succumb so easily again.

  I cling to the words the prince and princess are saying. They provide no answers, but they’re keeping me conscious.

  “Mine is heavy,” he complains.

  “Weakling,” she says. “It’ll be a wonder to me when you inherit this city.”

  “I don’t see you carrying yours over your shoulder,” he says.

  “About that, you should be more careful,” the princess says. “Maybe she’s our prisoner, but that’s no reason to destroy such a lovely dress.”

  Despite the circumstances, all the girls of Internment would hate Pen if they knew that her dress had caught the attention of the princess. It was among the many presents from Pen’s mother. “Compensation for inebriation,” Pen calls them.

  “I don’t know why we need both of them, anyway,” the prince says. “The patrolman’s daughter is the one we need.”

  “Can’t leave witnesses,” the princess says. “So I’ll thank you to quit moaning about it.”

  Can’t leave witnesses. I hope they’ve overlooked Judas, but there’s no indication that he’s nearby. With horror I wonder if he returned to the flower shop to give Pen and me a chance to say our good-byes. He might have no idea what just happened.

  My heart should be pounding—I’m frightened enough—but my body won’t work. Perhaps the dart was meant to render me unconscious and I’m fighting it somehow. Or perhaps they want me to have my awareness when they torture me.

  I have plenty of time to worry and speculate. The prince and princess trudge through the woods for what feels like forever, arguing the whole way.

  “Would you be quiet now?” the princess says. There’s a heavy thud, and then the prince is flinging me into a wagon beside Pen. Just as he’s about to cover us with a large cloth, he stoops forward and brings his face close to mine. His breath is cinnamon, too. His eyes are clear, reflecting two perfect little skies full of stars.

  “I think your dart killed her,” he says. “Her eyes are open.”

  I will myself not to blink.

  The princess brings herself close, her white rabbit fur cuffs sweeping across my forehead as she clears the hair from my face. Only the king’s family wears white fur, because they spend most all their time indoors, and it’s supposed to symbolize their purity of spirit. The rest of us would never be able to keep it clean.

  The princess’s hand hovers over my mouth for a few seconds. “No, she’s definitely breathing.”

  “It’s creepy,” the prince says. “It’s like she’s staring at me.”

  I feel the fur cuff against my face again as the princess brushes my eyelids closed. “There. Happy?”

  “Yes. Lovely.”

  There’s darkness, the weight of the cloth covering me completely.

  We’re taken a bit farther, and then a voice says, “Your mother has asked that you not hunt in your best clothes.”

  “We’re sorry,” the prince says. “We’ve caught a deer this time, though. We’ll send it to the food factory once Celeste has sawed the antlers for her jewelry collection.”

  Meat is a rare delicacy, mostly reserved for the festival of stars, and hunting is restricted to those who work in the food factories, but apparently those rules don’t apply to the king’s family.

  There are the sounds of doors closing. I can feel Pen’s limp body jostling against mine as the wagon is steered through a series of turns, and then I think we’re being hoisted down a flight of stairs. I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids are heavy. The prince and princess are whispering now, and their words are lost to the throb of blood in my ears. I’m still fighting for consciousness when the wagon goes still. There’s the smell much like the one underground when Judas led me outside from the metal bird.

  “Do you think it would be too mean of me to steal that dress?” the princess says. “It’s so lovely.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” the prince says. “You can’t leave her naked.”

  “You should be thanking me for the opportunity,” she says.

  He says something in return, but it’s as though they’re talking underwater. The words make no sense. The blackness takes over.

  It’s the chime that wakes me, so close that the sound is caught between my teeth. Internment feels as though it’s shaking.

  Another chime. Another.

  “It’s three o’clock,” Pen says.

  I open my eyes to the light of a single candle flickering in a sconce on the stone wall. Pen is slumped under it, arms behind her back, staring where the light doesn’t reach.

  “We’re in the clock tower,” she adds. “In case you haven’t guessed.”

  She doesn’t sound angry or frightened, just exhausted.

  I realize my hands are tied behind my back with twine, but I manage to push myself up against the wall.

  “Can you reach against my hip?” I say. “There’s a knife. I don’t know if it’ll be enough to cut through the twine, but it’s something.”

  “Oh, good,” Pen says, attempting to reach it. “If Princess Whatsit unbuttons a single button of this dress, I’ll cut her face.”

  “You heard them talking as they dragged us in here, too?” I ask.

  “Yes, but I couldn’t move.” She manages to dislodge the knife from my waistband. There’s a clatter as it hits the floor when it falls from the cloth. “Hold still.”

  “I’m sorry about all this,” I say.

  “We’re both having a bad night,” she says. “And now the king’s freak children are probably going to try to murder us and hang our heads on their walls. What else could we expect from a girl who collects deer antlers?”

  I think of Basil, warm and asleep in the metal bird. It seems an act of insanity that I left him. I’d give anything to crawl back under that blanket.

  Footsteps echo somewhere in the blackness. Pen drops the knife, and sh
e isn’t able to hide it before there’s the creaking of a door.

  “I knew we should have checked for weapons,” the princess whispers angrily. “See that? They’ve got a knife.”

  “How was I supposed to know schoolgirls walk around with hidden knives?” the prince says.

  “No matter,” the princess says, swishing her hair behind her shoulders. She strides over to us, stomps her glittering white slipper onto the knife, and slides the knife toward her. “I’ll be keeping this,” she says to us. “Can’t have you trying to kill us.”

  “You wouldn’t have to worry,” Pen snaps, “if you hadn’t kidnapped us and tied us up like wild animals.”

  “You aren’t fooling me,” the princess says, walking backward toward her brother. She gestures to me with the knife. “You threatened to kill our father.”

  “We heard you,” the prince says. “You said you’d cut his throat.”

  They’re both nodding importantly.

  “Your father killed my parents,” I say, unaware until I’ve spoken them that I have the bravery for words. I always thought that if I ever spoke to the famous duo, I’d be nervous. They seemed so unattainable on the broadcasts and in their images. But up close, they’re only people. Dressed in frilly pajamas with lace at the cuffs and collars, but people nonetheless. I can’t remember why I thought there was anything to fuss over.

  “Your family committed treason,” the prince says.

  “How would you know?” I say. “How would you know anything that happens on Internment? You never come down from your clock tower. Do you know what treason even is?”

  “Of course they don’t,” Pen says, trying to soothe me. “They’re idiotic, Morgan; you can’t expect them to understand what they’ve done.”

  “Fancy words,” the princess says, “considering we’ve got weapons and you’ve got your hands behind your backs. We were going to bring you something to eat, but forget it now.”

  “Just kill us if that’s what you’re going to do,” Pen says.

  The princess seems to be considering it. But she lowers the knife and smoothes her nightgown against her hips. “We’re still deciding whether or not to tell our father we’ve captured you, Morgan Stockhour. He’s got patrolmen out looking for you, you know, and they’ve been ordered to bring you to him. Alive or dead.” She sings those last three words, twirling her long hair around the knife.

  “And it never occurred to you that that’s insane?” Pen says. “The king giving orders to kill a harmless girl your own age? Killing her family and then chasing after her—that’s good leadership to you?”

  The princess is looking at my eyes, and maybe Pen’s words have reached her, but then she blinks them away and covers her mouth with her hair as she murmurs something to her brother. He stares at us. Despite his round face, there’s fierceness in his eyes that are framed by brows a shade too dark for his hair.

  It’s too much, that stare. I feel everything crashing down, as though Internment has fallen from the sky and broken into pieces on top of me.

  I’ll never see my parents again. I’ll never go home again. Instead I’m staring at the eyes of this heartless boy. He is a symbol of the city that has betrayed me.

  Pen sees the change in me. She brings her mouth close to my ear. “Don’t do it,” she whispers. “Don’t you cry in front of them. Dig your nails into your palm. Hold your breath.”

  I do what she says, and it helps.

  The prince covers his mouth and says something to his sister. I focus on the pain in my palms.

  “We’ve decided to let you live,” the princess says. “For now. If we killed you tonight, it would be an awful lot of blood; we’d be up until dawn with the cleaning, and we have lessons in the morning.”

  “But we aren’t going to untie you,” the prince says. “It’s in your interest to be quiet.”

  “You don’t want someone else to find you,” the princess says.

  “They won’t be as generous as us,” the prince says.

  It makes my mind spin, the way they together seem to be speaking one long sentence.

  They back into the darkness until I can’t see them, and then there’s the sound of a door closing and latches being latched.

  I unclench my fists.

  “You were very brave,” Pen says, allowing me to drop my head in her lap. I’m free at last to cry, but the tears won’t come.

  “What a mess I’ve made of things,” I say. “For both of us.”

  “I’ve spent the entire day thinking you were dead,” she says. “If the price of having you alive is being locked in the clock tower, I cheerfully accept. I didn’t have anything better to do with my night.”

  And despite that, I can smell no trace of tonic. She endured the news of my supposed death while sober. I’m proud of her for that.

  “Maybe they’ll let you go when they realize you have nothing to do with all of this,” I say.

  “You don’t have anything to do with this either,” Pen says. “They’re warped. You don’t deserve this any more than I do.”

  I close my eyes.

  “Was that true?” she asks. “What you said about the king killing your parents?”

  “He had a hand in it,” I say. “My parents and Lex—they knew things they weren’t supposed to know. They were planning something he didn’t like.”

  “Whatever it was, it can’t have been worth murdering them over,” Pen says.

  Struggling without the use of my hands, I sit up and look at her. “They were planning to leave Internment. I don’t mean jumping over the edge, but actually flying away properly.”

  She stares at me, trying to decide what to make of this, and then she laughs with uncertainty. “And the king believed them? Lots of people fantasize about that.”

  “They built a machine,” I say. “It’s hidden where the king can’t find it, so he’s tried to stop the plans they laid out. Those deaths today weren’t because of tainted pharmaceuticals.”

  I wasn’t going to tell her all of this, but now that she’s trapped here with me, she deserves to know what for.

  “It’s like Micah and the boat of stars,” she says, speaking of a chapter in The History of Internment. “When he saw a constellation in the shape of a boat, he thought the sky god was speaking to him, so he built one just like it.”

  Pen knows all of the chapters. She can make them a parable for any situation, she’s so adamant about her faith.

  “You remember how that story ended,” she says.

  I do. Micah took his boat to the edge of Internment, and when he tried to sail into the sky, the boat splintered apart, impaling him. He became the first jumper. “I don’t think this is like that,” I say.

  “Nobody can leave,” Pen says. “The sky god won’t allow it. The king knows that. I don’t understand why he would kill anyone for trying when they’ll only see for themselves.”

  “Maybe that’s wrong,” I say. “Maybe there is a way off Internment, and we’re right on the verge of discovering it, and it frightens him.”

  She looks sympathetic. “I know how much you want to believe that, especially now, but—”

  “I wanted to believe it before,” I say. “Now I have no choice. My parents died for this, and I have to see it through. Even if it ends like Micah and the boat of stars.”

  If I ever get out of here, that is.

  We don’t speak after that.

  The walls shake as the clock chimes the fourth hour.

  24

  So many of the things I’ve always wanted are the things I’ve been taught to fear.

  —“Intangible Gods,” Daphne Leander, Year Ten

  THE MAIN FLOOR OF THE CLOCK TOWER holds the affairs office, where neighbor disputes are settled, weekly wages are collected, and couples apply for marriage certificates and enter the birth queue—things of that nature. And in the main hallway, right by the entrance, there’s a machine on the wall where patrolmen enter their ID numbers at the start and end of their shifts.


  There’s also a room full of courthouse paperwork, some of which would be used in Judas’s trial if they knew where to find him.

  At the end of the seventh chime, I’m thinking of all the patrolmen reporting for duty, my father not among them.

  When I was little, my father would bring Lex and me along to collect his and my mother’s wages sometimes. He would talk to the woman who sat at the lockboxes, and Lex would let me stand on his shoes so I could peer over the counter. I liked being there. I liked when my father told the woman our last name and she would search for our envelopes in the box marked S. S for “Stockhour,” because that name meant we all belonged together.

  I never would have imagined that the clock tower could be such a miserable place, underneath all that.

  The candle over our heads is nearly extinguished. Pen is eyeing it.

  “A shame stones don’t catch fire,” Pen says, gnawing at the twine binding her wrists. After much struggling, she was able to curl herself into a ball and maneuver her arms in front of her. “I’d burn this whole place down.”

  Wearily, I try to imagine Internment without the clock tower, and find I’m having trouble picturing the city at all. All I can see is the metal bird.

  Basil must be worried sick. And Alice, too. Lex will be angry; I’m always screwing things up—that’s what he says.

  He can be as angry as he pleases. I’m angry with him, too. And my parents, for that matter, for never saying a word to me about the metal bird or the things happening in the city. They were trying to protect me, I know that, but every good memory feels like a lie now.

  Pen’s hands are shaking. She bites angrily at the twine, but if it has any effect, it’s minimal. She growls. “I’m going to need a water room soon,” she says.

  I’ve needed one since the chimes marked the sixth hour, but I don’t say that. I have no right to complain when I’m the one who caused this.