by Kiera Cass
Celeste returned to her seat, and I trembled when I stood. For a brief second I considered pretending to pass out. But I wanted this to happen. I just didn’t want to face what would come after.
I placed my poster—a diagram of the castes—on the easel, and set my books in order on the desk. I took a deep breath and gripped my cards, surprised to find that when I started, I didn’t even need them.
“Good evening, Illéa. Tonight I come to you not as one of the Elite, not as a Three or a Five, but as a citizen, an equal. Based on your caste, your experience of our country is shaded a very specific way. I can say that for certain myself. But it wasn’t until recently that I understood how deep my love for Illéa went.
“Despite growing up sometimes without food or electricity, despite watching people I love forced into the stations we are assigned at birth with little hope for change, despite seeing the gaps between myself and others because of this number even though we aren’t very different”—I looked over to the girls—“I find myself in love with our country.”
I switched the card automatically, knowing the break. “What I propose wouldn’t be simple. It might even be painful, but I genuinely believe it would benefit our entire kingdom.” I inhaled. “I think we should eliminate the castes.”
I heard more than one gasp. I chose to ignore them.
“I know there was a time, when our country was new, when the assignment of these numbers helped organize something that was on the brink of not existing. But we are no longer that country. We are so much more now. To allow the talentless to have exalted privileges and suppress what could be the greatest minds in the world for the sake of an archaic organization system is cruel, and it only stops us from becoming the best we can be.”
I noted a poll from one of Celeste’s discarded magazines after we talked about having a volunteer army, and sixty-five percent of the people thought it was a good idea. Why eliminate that career path completely for people? I also cited an old report we had studied about the standardized testing in the public schools. The article was slanted, stating that only three percent of Sixes and Sevens tested to elevated levels of intelligence; and since it was so low, it was clear they were intended to stay where they were. My argument was that we ought to be ashamed that those people are stuck digging ditches when they could be performing heart surgeries.
Finally the daunting task was nearly over. “Perhaps our country is flawed, but we cannot deny its strength. My fear is that, without change, that strength will become stagnate. And I love our country too much to let that happen. I hope too much to let that happen.”
I swallowed, grateful that at least it was over now. “Thank you for your time,” I said, and turned slightly toward the royal family.
It was bad. Maxon’s face was stony again, like the way he’d looked when Marlee was caned. The queen averted her eyes, looking disappointed. The king, however, stared me down.
Without so much as a blink, he focused in on me. “And how do you suggest we eliminate the castes?” he challenged. “Just suddenly take them all away?”
“Oh … I don’t know.”
“And you don’t think that would cause riots? Complete mayhem? Allow for rebels to take advantage of public confusion?”
I hadn’t thought this part through. All I could process was how unfair it all was.
“I think the creation caused a decent amount of confusion, and we managed that. In fact”—I reached to my pile of books—“I have a description here.”
I started looking for the right page in Gregory’s diary.
“Are we off?” he bellowed.
“Yes, Majesty,” someone called.
I looked up and saw that all the lights that usually indicated that the cameras were on had gone dim. In some gesture I’d missed, the king had shut down the Report.
The king stood. “Point them to the ground.” Each camera was aimed to the floor.
He stormed over to me and ripped the diary from my hands.
“Where did you get this?” he yelled.
“Father, stop!” Maxon jogged up nervously.
“Where did she get this? Answer me!”
Maxon confessed. “From me. We were looking up what Halloween was. He wrote about it in the diaries, and I thought she’d like to read more.”
“You idiot,” the king spat. “I knew I should have made you read these sooner. You’re completely lost. You have no clue of the duty you have!”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
“She leaves tonight,” King Clarkson ordered. “I’ve had enough of her.”
I tried to shrink down, distance myself from the king as much as I could without being obvious. I tried not to even breathe too loudly. I turned my head toward the girls, for some reason focusing on Celeste. I’d expected her to be smiling, but she was nervous. The king had never been like this.
“You can’t send her home. That’s my choice, and I say she stays,” Maxon responded calmly.
“Maxon Calix Schreave, I am the king of Illéa, and I say—”
“Could you stop being the king for five minutes and just be my father?” Maxon yelled. “This is my choice. You got to make yours, and I want to make mine. No one else is leaving without my say so!”
I saw Natalie lean in to Elise. They both looked like they were shaking.
“Amberly, take this back to where it belongs,” he said, shoving the book in her hand. She stood there, nodding her head but not moving. “Maxon, I need to see you in my office.”
I watched Maxon; and maybe I only imagined it, but it looked like panic flickered briefly behind his eyes.
“Or,” the king offered, “I could simply talk to her.” He gestured over to me.
“No,” Maxon said quickly, holding up a hand in protest. “That won’t be necessary. Ladies,” he added, turning to us, “why don’t you all head upstairs? We’ll have dinner sent to you tonight.” He paused. “America, maybe you should go ahead and collect your things. Just in case.”
The king smiled, an eerie action after his recent explosion. “Excellent idea. After you, son.”
I looked at Maxon, who seemed defeated. I felt ashamed. Maxon opened his mouth to say something, but in the end he shook his head and walked away.
Kriss was wringing her hands, looking after Maxon. I couldn’t blame her. Something about all of this seemed menacing.
“Clarkson?” Queen Amberly said quietly. “What about the other matter?”
“What?” he asked in irritation.
“The news?” she reminded him.
“Oh, yes.” He walked back toward us. I was close enough that I decided to retreat into my chair, afraid of being out there alone again. King Clarkson’s voice was steady and calm. “Natalie, we didn’t want to tell you before the Report, but we’ve received some bad news.”
“Bad news?” she asked, fiddling with her necklace, already too anxious.
The king came closer. “Yes. I’m very sorry for your loss, but it appears the rebels took your sister this morning.”
“What?” she whispered.
“Her remains were found this afternoon. We’re sorry.” To his credit, there was something close to sympathy in his voice, though it sounded more like training than genuine emotion.
He quickly returned to Maxon, escorting him forcefully out the door as Natalie broke into an ear-shattering scream. The queen rushed over to her, smoothing her hair and trying to calm her down. Celeste, never too sisterly, quietly left the room, with an overwhelmed Elise close behind. Kriss stayed and tried to comfort Natalie, but once it was clear that she couldn’t do much, she left as well. The queen told Natalie there would be guards with her parents for good measure and that she would be able to leave for the funeral if she wanted to, holding on to her the whole time.
Everything had gotten so dark so quickly, I found myself frozen in my seat.
When the hand appeared in front of my face, I was so startled, I shied away.
“I won’t hurt you,” Gavril s
aid. “Just want to help you up.” His lapel pin shimmered, reflecting the light.
I gave him my hand, surprised by how shaky my legs were.
“He must love you very much,” Gavril said once I had my footing.
I couldn’t look at him. “What makes you say that?”
Gavril sighed. “I’ve known Maxon since he was a child. He’s never stood up to his father like that.”
Gavril walked away then, talking to the crew about keeping all that they had heard tonight quiet.
I went to Natalie. It wasn’t like I knew everything about her, but I was sure she loved her sister the way I loved May; and I couldn’t imagine the ache she must be feeling.
“Natalie, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. She nodded. That was the most she could manage.
The queen looked up at me sympathetically, not sure how to convey all her sadness. “And … I’m sorry to you, too. I wasn’t trying to … I just …”
“I know, dear.”
With how Natalie was doing, asking for more of a good-bye was too selfish, so I gave the queen a final, deep curtsy and slowly left the room, wallowing in the disaster I’d created.
CHAPTER 28
THE LAST THING I WAS expecting when I walked in my doorway was the smattering of applause from my maids.
I stood there for a moment, genuinely moved by their support and comforted by the shining pride in their faces. Once they were done making me blush, Anne took me by the hands.
“Well said, miss.” She gave a gentle squeeze, and I saw in her eyes so much joy over my words, for a second I didn’t feel so awful.
“I can’t believe you did that! No one ever stands up for us!” Mary added.
“Maxon has to pick you,” Lucy cried. “You’re the only one who gives me hope.”
Hope.
I needed to think, and the one place I could really do that was the gardens. Though my maids were insistent that I stay, I left, taking the long way, down a back stairwell on the other end of the hall. Besides the occasional guard, the first floor was empty and quiet. It felt like the palace should be bustling with activity, given how much had happened in the last half hour or so.
As I passed the hospital wing, the door flew open and I ran right into Maxon, who dropped a sealed metal box. He groaned after we collided, even though it really wasn’t that hard.
“What are you doing out of your room?” he asked, slowly bending to pick up the box. I noticed it had his name on the side. I wondered what he was storing in the hospital wing.
“I was going to the gardens. I’m trying to figure out if I did something stupid or not.”
Maxon appeared to be having a difficult time standing. “Oh, I can assure you it was stupid.”
“Do you need help?”
“No,” he answered quickly, avoiding my eyes. “Just heading to my room. And I suggest you do the same.”
“Maxon.” The quiet plea in my voice made him look at me. “I’m so sorry. I was mad, and I wanted to … I don’t even know anymore. And you were the one who said there were perks to being a One, that you could change things.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re not a One.” There was a silence between us. “Even if you were, did you not pay attention at all to the way I’m doing things? It’s quiet and small. That’s how it has to be for now. You can’t go on television complaining about the way things are run and expect to have my father’s, or anyone’s, support.”
“I’m sorry!” I cried. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He paused for a moment. “I’m not sure that—”
We heard the shouting at the same time. Maxon turned and started walking, and I followed, trying to make sense of the sound. Was someone fighting? As we got closer to the intersection of the main hallway and the doors to the gardens, we saw guards come flooding toward the area.
“Sound the alarm!” someone called. “They’re through the gates!”
“Guns at the ready!” another guard yelled over the shouts.
“Alert the king!”
And then, like bees intent on landing, small, quick things buzzed into the hall. A guard was struck and fell back, his head hitting the marble with a disturbing crack. The blood pouring from his chest made me scream.
Maxon instinctively pulled me away, but not very quickly. Perhaps he was in shock as well.
“Your Majesty!” a guard called, racing over to us. “You have to get downstairs now!”
He gruffly turned Maxon around and shoved him away. Maxon cried out and dropped the metal box again. I looked over at the guard’s hand on Maxon, expecting to see that he’d driven a knife into his back based on the sound Maxon had made. All I saw was a thick, pewter ring around his thumb. I picked up the box by the handle on the side, hoping that didn’t mess up anything inside, and ran in the direction the guard was trying to move us.
“I won’t make it,” Maxon said.
I turned back to him and saw that he was sweating. Something was really wrong with him.
“Yes, sir,” the guard said grimly. “This way.”
He pulled Maxon around a corner to what appeared to be a dead end. I wondered if he was going to leave us there when he hit some invisible trigger on the wall and another one of the palace’s mysterious doors opened. It was so dark inside, I couldn’t see where it went; but Maxon walked in, hunched over, without a second thought.
“Tell my mother that America and I are safe. Do that before anything else,” he said.
“Absolutely, sir. I’ll come back for you myself when this is over.”
The siren sounded. I hoped that was fast enough to save everyone.
Maxon nodded and the door closed, leaving us in complete darkness. The seal was so secure, I couldn’t even make out the sound of the alarm. I heard Maxon’s hand rubbing against the wall, and he eventually came upon a switch that dimly lit the room. I looked around and surveyed the space.
There were some shelves that held a bunch of dark, plastic packages and a different shelf that held a few thin blankets. In the middle of the tiny space was one wooden bench big enough to seat maybe four people, and in the opposite corner was a small sink and what looked like a very crude toilet. Hooks lined one wall, but there was nothing on them; and the whole room smelled like the metal that appeared to make up the walls.
“At least this is one of the good ones,” Maxon said, and hobbled over to the bench to sit.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said quietly, and propped up his head on his arms.
I sat beside him, placing the metal box on the bench and looking around the room again.
“I’m guessing those were Southern rebels?”
Maxon nodded. I tried to slow my breathing and erase what I’d just seen from my mind. Would that guard survive? Could anyone survive something like that?
I wondered how far the rebels had gotten in the time it took us to hide. Was the alarm fast enough?
“Are we safe here?”
“Yes. This is one of the places for servants. If they happen to be down in the kitchen and storage area, they’re pretty safe as it is. But the ones running about doing chores might not be able to get there quickly enough. It’s not quite as safe as the big room for the royal family, and we have supplies to survive down there for quite some time; but these work in a pinch.”
“Do the rebels know?”
“They might,” he said, wincing as he sat up a bit straighter. “But they can’t get in once the rooms are in use. There are only three ways out. Someone with a key has to activate it from the outside, someone with a key can activate it from the inside”—Maxon patted his pocket, implying that he could get us out if he had to—“or you have to wait for two days. After forty-eight hours, the doors automatically open. The guards check every safe room once the danger has passed, but there’s always a chance they could miss one; and without the delayed-unlocking mechanism, someone could be stuck in here forever.”
It took him awhile to get all this out. He was clea
rly in pain, but it seemed that he was trying to distract himself with the words. He leaned forward and then hissed when the action added to whatever was hurting him.
“Maxon?”
“I can’t … I can’t take it anymore. America, help with my coat?”
He held out his arm, and I jumped up to help him slide his coat down his back. He let it drop behind him and moved to his buttons. I started helping him, but he stopped me, holding my hands in his.
“Your record for keeping secrets isn’t that impressive right now. But this is one that goes to your grave. And mine. Do you understand?”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what he meant. Maxon released my hands, and I slowly unbuttoned his shirt. I wondered if he’d ever imagined me doing this. I could admit that I had. Halloween night, I had lain in bed and dreamed of this very second in our future. I thought it would be much different. Still, a thrill went through me.
I had been raised a musician, but I was surrounded by artists. I’d once seen a sculpture that was hundreds of years old of an athlete throwing a disk. I’d thought to myself at the time that only an artist could do that, make someone’s body look so beautiful. Maxon’s chest was as sculpted as any piece of art I’d ever seen.
But everything changed as I went to slide the shirt down his back. It stuck to him, making a slippery, sticky sound as I tried to get it to move.
“Slowly,” he said. I nodded and went behind him to try from there.
The back of Maxon’s shirt was soaked with blood.
I gasped, immobile for a moment. But then, sensing that my staring made things worse, I kept working. Once I got the shirt off, I threw it on one of the hooks, giving myself a moment to gain my composure.
I turned around and got a good look at Maxon’s back. A bleeding gash on his shoulder tore down to his waist and crossed over another one that was also dripping blood, which crossed over another one that had been healed for a while, which crossed over yet another one that was puckered from age. It looked like there were maybe six fresh slashes across Maxon’s back piled on top of too many more to count.
