The waiting room door opened and they turned toward it. Lydia’s demeanor changed abruptly.
“Jamie!”
Barrett sized him up in a heartbeat. Privileged. Superficial. Jamie benefited from a social position similar to what Dalton had grown up accustomed to, but he was flaunting it with unbridled arrogance.
“This is my chaperon, uh, Bar…Barry.” She stumbled over the introduction, startled at how similar Jamie’s clothes were to Barrett’s.
Barrett suppressed the habit to offer his left elbow. Instead he stretched his right hand out for a warm handshake, Blue-style. Only Reds tapped elbows. He could have blown it.
“Nice to meet you, Barry. Your presence is required when we go in to dine, but, if you don’t mind, I’d like to show Lydia around the place first. You’re welcome to go in and sample the hors d'oeuvres in the reception room and wait there for us.”
Barrett gave Lydia a questioning look and she quickly spoke up, “That’ll be fine. Right, Barry?” She smiled when he nodded. “How long will we be, Jamie?”
“Mm, an hour, more or less.” He took her hand and turned her toward the door, dismissing Barrett without another word.
Barrett walked out behind them and crossed over to the reception room. His nonchalance was well-practiced and he knew he could fit in. He had memorized a diagram of the building that Dalton made for him. Though he had been in and out of certain areas of the capitol he had never gone higher than the second floor. With the diagram, his exceptional gemfry abilities, and Lydia’s distracting beauty, he was confident he could pull this off.
There were no soldiers in the room, only kitchen help, and a handful of pseudo-important people, secretaries probably, who lingered over the hot hors d’oeuvres. They ignored him. He filled a plate with one of everything and sauntered back out to the hallway. A quick listen and he determined exactly where Lydia and Jamie were. He headed to the stairwell.
* * *
Lydia kept a smile on her face and a tight grip on Jamie’s hand as they went up the stairs. She had to lift the hem of the dress to keep from tripping on it. When they reached the first landing Jamie recited a list of important people who worked and lived on that floor. Lydia nodded and smiled, masking her real reaction. The names were not unfamiliar to her; she had no benevolent feelings for any of these Blues.
“And they help your father make policy? I’d love to see the Sessions Room.” She dropped his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Really? Great minds think alike. That’s exactly where I had them set up our appetizers.”
“Oh, we’re not eating in the dining room with … with my chaperon?” She pointed back down the stairs.
Jamie’s cockeyed grin and shy eyes gave Lydia a funny feeling. Strange, she might have liked him if they were both Blues, or both Reds.
“I thought we could have some time to talk privately. I, uh, I’ve never met anyone as beautiful as you.”
It was a phrase she heard often and usually ignored. Tonight she matched the compliment with a lie. “And I’ve never met anyone as handsome who lived in the capitol.” On impulse she asked, “Did you know Dalton Battista when he was here?”
“Sure. Can you keep a secret?” He took her hand again and led her up the next flight. As she nodded her head he continued, “Dalton was … well, I looked up to him when he was here. We had classes together. Nobody knew he was really a Red. In fact, my stepmother still insists he’s Blue.”
“But the prophecies–”
“I know, anyway, keep this to yourself: my father is deathly afraid of Ronel. His Krona keep giving him psychic warnings. That’s the reason Dalton is out of prison and still alive.”
“Why doesn’t your dad just let the Reds go have their silly festival?”
They reached the Sessions Room floor and Jamie held the door for her.
“For a lot of reasons. First of which is he’s just plain stubborn. But, really, do you think they’d come back if they ever got free of their workload? The taxes?”
“Probably not,” she agreed, more truth on her tongue than he knew.
* * *
A soldier passed Barrett, gave him the once over, and walked on. If he only knew, Barrett thought. He recognized the soldier, one who had chased him with a whip more than once when he used to climb over the fence and slip into the kitchen. He could still smell the soldier. He chuckled to himself. Here he was, disguised, sauntering up the forbidden halls and stairs, munching on food that was far too good for Reds. He held a stuffed chili up to his nose and filled his nostrils with the spicy scent before biting off half. He reached the first landing and finished the chili. There was a stronger scent here, pleasant, familiar.
* * *
A tray of appetizers sat on the table. There were twelve thickly padded chairs around the table, more comfortable-looking than any Lydia had ever seen. She almost made a comment to that effect then remembered that for tonight she was a Blue who would expect a little luxury, though she had Blue neighbors as poor as she was. Being Blue was a privilege, a mind-set, an attitude. She gave her hair a toss and settled into the chair Jamie pulled out for her. She wondered if Bear could be sneaking into the Archives now.
“Try the stuffed tomato first.” Jamie sat next to her and angled his chair. He waited until she put a couple on her plate then he helped himself to several. “Good, huh?”
“Delicious.”
They munched and smiled and exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes until Jamie took her hand and cleared his throat. Lydia thought she knew what he was going to say. She interrupted his first word, squeezed his hand and said, “I heard that you were an expert in Red prophecy. Aren’t there any Blue prophecies?” It was a total spur of the moment invention, but Jamie grinned.
“Funny you should ask. My father put me in charge of the archives when he was elected. You know what a library is, right? Books?”
Lydia furrowed her brow but nodded.
“You sure?”
“Well …”
“Don’t be embarrassed. Only the elite of the elite even have access to books anymore. Since the Suppression, you know. Hey, you want to see the archives?”
Lydia tensed. If she said yes and they caught Barrett in there searching they’d be found out, imprisoned. But if she said no she’d appear rude. She gave a little nod. “Sure,” she said, neither too eager nor too reluctant.
“We’ll take these with us,” Jamie said, lifting the tray.
As they stepped into the hall Lydia hoped Barrett’s exceptional hearing could pick out her voice from wherever he was. “So, we’re heading to the archives. Is it in this wing?”
“It is. Along with my father’s office.”
“And it’s all right for you to take me into the archives?”
“Absolutely. It’s pretty much my domain.”
“Is your father working in his office? Should I meet him?”
Jamie gave a hollow laugh. “You’re amazing. Most girls tremble at the idea of coming face to face with him. You wouldn’t be afraid?”
“Well, no, I thought that was the point of the dinner tonight. Because you told me to bring a chaperon.” Lydia gave a sigh, tried to look shy, prim even.
“Actually he’s away or this hallway would be crawling with security. It’s my stepmother who’s handling this dinner.”
“Oh.” Lydia took the tray from him as Jamie fished in his belt sack for something. He drew out a key and wiggled it.
“We don’t make keys like this anymore. I was lucky enough to find it when I began re-organizing this room. Now nobody comes in here except me.” He unlocked the door and took back the tray as Lydia stepped in.
Dalton had told them to expect a dark and dusty room in disarray, but Jamie flicked on overhead lights that showed a neatly structured display of various collections.
Jamie set the tray down and swung his arm from shelf to shelf. “SCR’s, videos, audio boxes, CD’s, BD’s, Ereaders, old ledgers, and, as I told you, bo
oks. Real, physical books.”
Lydia walked to the shelf across from the ledgers and looked at the spines of the old books. Her heart rate accelerated as she tried to think of something to do or say that would give her an opportunity to check the ledgers surreptitiously.
“And the prophecies? Are they recorded in these books? You were about to tell me if there were any Blue prophecies or not.”
Jamie took her by the shoulders and pivoted her around to face the ledgers. “Right here,” he said. “But I don’t know about prophecies. I’ve skimmed these. They sound more like poetry or songs or something.” He took the top one off the shelf. “And look,” he said, “this one has its first few pages torn out. I think my father did that. He’s had me searching for these for three years, but I keep telling him I haven’t found them yet. That way I can keep working here instead of, you know, going into the service.”
“Can I see?” Lydia held her hand out, concentrating on keeping it steady. She gave the first couple of pages the briefest of glances and made the same pronouncement. “Yeah, you’re right. Just songs or nonsense.” She set the notebook back on top of the other three. They were small. She could easily hide them in the belt sack that hung from this fancy dress, but how could she do that with Jamie standing right there?
“Check this out.” Jamie led her over to a wall of bins where he opened one and drew out an odd machine. “It took me six months to fix this but I finally figured it out. He waved his hand over the top and a three dimensional image of a man appeared above it. The man was vigorously making gestures. His mouth was moving and he looked like he was giving serious instructions to someone.
“I’m pretty sure this is the last president before the Eurasian Nuclear War. I’m still working on getting the sound.”
A chill went up Lydia’s arms. “And you think this is a Blue prophecy?”
“That’s what I’m hoping. Something to help us against Dalton and Ronel.”
Lydia stared at the spirited figure.
“My father’s afraid of them. One of his Krona has warned him not to harm a single hair on Dalton’s head.” Jamie puffed his chest out and bragged, “But I’d take him out in a heartbeat.”
* * *
Barrett heard her first in the Sessions Room. He heard everything. The rustle of her dress, the clink of the tray, Jamie’s faster breaths. He heard her hide a warning to him in her innocent conversation, knew where they were going, and waited around the corner as Jamie unlocked the archive door. Lucky there, he thought. He carried lock picks in his backpack, but he hadn’t brought them. Dalton had told them the door lock didn’t work. Things change in three years. He would’ve had to kick the door down. But not now. Now he had to sneak in, hide, wait, steal, escape.
He put his fingers on the edge of the door and eased it open an inch. He listened. Waited. Crept in.
Lydia and Jamie had their backs to him. They were looking at some kind of stringless puppet and talking about Blue prophecies. Bear looked for a hiding place. Something close. The desk. He crouched down and hid. Staying silent was easy.
* * *
After introductions the next words out of Jamie’s stepmother’s mouth were, “Where’s her chaperon? We can’t go through the formalities without her chaperon.”
“I’ll check the restroom. Wait, here he comes.” Jamie waved Barrett over.
“We want to do these things properly,” Mrs. Truslow said. “Lovely dress, dear.”
“Thank you.”
Jamie put his arm around Lydia’s shoulder and squeezed her close. In her ear he whispered, “I meant to ask upstairs–you will marry me, won’t you?”
Lydia eyed Barrett, caught the slight nod and knew he had the ledgers. An easy lie now would make for a smoother exit later. “Of course,” she said. Jamie planted a quick kiss on her temple.
Mrs. Truslow beamed. “I need to make some arrangements with your chaperon. We’ll have the wedding in three days. The Executive President returns tomorrow.” She added with a girlish giggle, “He’s promised to bring me some rare black alabaster carvings.” She seemed particularly pleased with herself. She looked Lydia over again. “We insist that you stay here meanwhile. Both of you. We have everything prepared.”
Lydia blinked slowly. Barrett nodded. Cool and calm. There was no reason to panic yet. He held out his arm to escort Mrs. Truslow in to the dining room.
They knew they were playing with fire when they came up with this plan, but they did not expect it to go this far. An arranged marriage.
Chapter 14 The Last Plague
From the sixth page of the first ledger:
On that day he will deal differently with the land of Exodia. He will make a distinction between Reds and Blues.
And promises will be kept.
And promises will be broken.
An arranged marriage will mark the day they leave.
I STAND OUTSIDE the old school-turned-residence and stare at the stars. If only I could read them like Raul Luna. I shiver as I think of a certain priest turned father-in-law. I’m almost twenty years old and I’m no longer bound to a wife who never loved me.
Yet guilt and grief take turns tormenting my soul. Did I ever love her?
I pace in the quiet darkness and allow myself to think of my mistakes. I’ve murdered. I’ve divorced. I’ve abandoned my son. I’ve failed Ronel. These aren’t simple forgivable mistakes–mistake is too small a word–these are transgressions. Unholy transgressions. And I can’t think of any way to make things right again.
It’s after midnight. Barrett and Lydia haven’t come by yet with the stolen treasure. I’ll give them another hour before I wake my brother or go to Korzon.
I put my hand on the antiquated metal flagpole. I quell my worries and instead wonder how long it’s been since a real flag has hung here. There are women among the Reds who secretly weave flags and banners to carry with us when we leave. There’s still hope for escape. It would be a huge exodus and, no doubt, a bloody one. Flags and banners will find other purposes on that day.
Pounding footsteps alert me. I expect Bear and Lydia to return in a car, but if there was trouble at the capitol they’d climb the fence and run. I concentrate on the cadence. One set of fast and agile feet. Barrett. Alone.
He slows when he spots me and jogs the last darkening yards, pulling something from his belt sack as he nears.
“Got them,” he says, thrusting four small books at me.
“And Lydia?”
I can tell he has bad news. A few raindrops splatter on my head and then the clouds that so suddenly hid the stars release torrents of water that bite and stab. We race for the doors. I hunch over the treasure, these ledgers, trying to protect them. They are old and the moisture could ruin the pages.
We stand in the lobby where an oil lamp on the floor has been left burning to illuminate the hallway. Again I ask about Lydia. The low light catches Barrett’s face. The angles are all wrong and for a moment he seems nightmarish. I panic for an instant–he looks tortured.
“She’s still at the capitol. There’s a problem. They gave her a room to stay in.” He rubs at his face, leaving blotchy pale spots. “I need some water,” he says, “to wash off this disguise.”
“Why would they give her a room?”
“Well, that’s the problem.”
I ball up my fist. I trusted him. Are they using Lydia as a hostage? My lips are stuck together; no words come out even though my head is hurtling thousands of words over my tongue.
Barrett notices my agitation. “Relax,” he says. “We’ll figure something out. Besides they can’t make the announcement without me there.”
I might explode. I know what type of announcement he’s referring to. My heart wants to pound its way out of my chest.
And it will break if Lydia has to marry Jamie.
I need to go to the capitol, but Barrett pushes me down the hall. He says something about finding better light to read the ledgers by. His words sound as if they’re coming from
underwater, muted somehow. Muffled and garbled.
We reach my apartment and he says, “Maybe there’s a prophecy about this. Maybe it’s a sign. And we need to look in the ledgers for something with a ring around it. A prophecy that’s circled. Remember Ronel’s message? We wait for a rare ringed anagram and then we rise up.”
I don’t need to open the door, find a light, or wake my brother and sister to study the ledgers. I don’t need to. I’ve already figured it out.
A rare ringed anagram.
An arranged marriage.
* * *
The plan is in place by first light. Harmon retrieves “Mateo” and carries the rod in sections under a new robe. We all wear robes. Harmon, Mira, Barrett, Korzon, Teague, recently released from lock-up, and every Red who dares to risk joining us in another attempt to persuade the Executive President to release our people. Under our robes are multiple belt sacks that could have been filled with weapons, but are instead empty by Teague’s order. He’s brought a better weapon–one of the cases that Ronel entrusted to Harmon and which Teague’s men had hidden for us. We silently assemble at the capitol gate, turn our backs to the building and wait for Truslow’s arrival.
Bear and I detect the far off rumblings first. We encourage everyone to chant. We stomp our feet in rhythm. The early morning commotion is not well received by the guards, but some of them are Reds and they add to the din by firing off rounds over our heads.
A canon-like boom splits the air above us and three armored vehicles break open a path through our ranks. I recognize the second vehicle and see Truslow through a side window. The chanting stops as the vehicle nears the gate. I hear three faint syllables–my name, my other name–and I look back over my shoulder at the capitol and spot Lydia at a dining room window, her hand upon the glass. Her lips move and I cherish the four words that bolster me and make me relax. The only other person able to hear them tenses up beside me. Barrett is in his disguise; his robe and hood conceal his identity. He’s ready to sneak back in as Lydia’s chaperon if he needs to.
Exodia Page 17
