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Twenty-nine
IT WAS OVER. THIS WAS WHAT I HAD WANTED, WASN’T IT? NEWS of his death would spread through the Trail. The army from the colonies would eventually arrive. The City would transition to new power. It was supposed to be better now.
I kept hold of his hand, noticing the coolness that spread in his fingers. The way the blood ran, dripping off his jacket and onto the floor, where it sunk into the thick carpet. He was slouched against the front of the desk, his shoulders curled inward, his chin pressed to his neck. I didn’t feel any relief now that he was gone. Instead I thought only of that photo, the one he’d held in his hand the day we’d met, the paper wrinkled under his touch. It had disappeared from my room the first week I was in the Palace. Beatrice had spent hours searching for it. He had seemed so amused in it, his eyes lingering on my mother, studying the way her dark bangs fell into her eyes. He’d seemed happy.
I opened the front button of his jacket, for the first time noticing the holster looped around his arm, the leather pouch where he’d kept the gun hidden. I didn’t want to look but I had to. My fingers felt for the inside pocket. The thick square pressed against the silk. It was still there. He had carried it with him, the photograph sitting in the left side of his jacket, right over his heart.
I sucked in air, the heavy, choked feeling coming on so fast I couldn’t anticipate it. There they were, my parents, the year before the plague. They were together, held forever in time. I tucked it into my shirt, pressing it down into my tank top where it wouldn’t come loose. He was telling the truth, I thought, willing myself not to cry. He loved her. He hadn’t lied about that.
The City outside was silent and still. I knew I had to leave, but I couldn’t move. My hand kept reaching for his, squeezing his fingers in mine. It wasn’t until the knock sounded that I startled, remembering where I was and what I’d done.
The doorknob turned, the lock clicking shut. There was a pause, then a man’s voice calling from the hall.
“Sir?”
I scrambled to my feet, taking in the massive wood desk behind me, the curtains that framed the long windows, the closets on the far wall, looking for somewhere to hide. The soldier punched the keypad beside the door, then the knob turned again. I had just enough time to dart behind the desk, curling up beneath it, before the door swung open.
The soldier didn’t move. I could hear each of his breaths. He stood there so long I began counting them, trying to keep calm. “Jones!” he finally yelled down the hall. “Come here!” Then I heard the padding of feet on carpet and a low whisper as he leaned down, just inches from the other side of the desk. “Sir? Can you hear me?”
“What is it?” another voice called from down the hall.
“Alert the Lieutenant,” the man said. “The King’s been shot. ”
I kept my hand on the gun at my waist. There was an inch between the bottom of the wood desk and the carpet. I could see the soldier’s shadow as he moved around the side of the desk. His legs passed in front of me, his feet just inches from mine. There was a scuff on the right toe of his boot, and the cuff of his pant was caught on the black laces. He tapped his foot nervously as he shuffled through some papers above. I froze in place, the breath throbbing in my lungs as I held it there, trying not to make a sound. Then he circled back around to the window.
I had only a few minutes before I was trapped here. As soon as the Lieutenant came, the room would be sealed off and searched. I had to go now.
I peered around the edge of the desk. The door was propped open. The other soldier was at the end of the hall, speaking quickly into the radio in his hand. He paced the short width of the corridor several times before turning left and disappearing from view. I crawled out from under the desk, pressing my body against the side, trying not to make any noise. The other soldier was still hovering by the windows. I could hear the occasional crackle of the radio at his belt.
The pounding in my chest subsided. My limbs felt light as I sprung up, darting through the open door. It took a moment for the soldier to process what had happened. I kept running, pumping my arms as fast as I could, sprinting toward the end of the hall. He reached the door just as I turned, shooting two bullets into the wall behind me.
I raced to the nearest stairwell, punching the numbers into the keypad as fast as I could. By the time he reached the end of the hall, I’d slipped inside, descending the steps three at a time. I kept going, spiraling down the open shaft, grabbing the cold railing to help me along. I was four flights down when I heard the metallic beeping of the lock, then a door opening somewhere above me. The first shot sounded, taking a chunk of concrete from the edge of the stairs. I didn’t stop, just pressed myself tightly to the wall, away from the open shaft, trying to stay out of sight.
I didn’t get more than two flights farther when a door below me opened. I could just make out glimpses of the uniform as the person ran up the stairs. I tried to turn back, but the nearest floor was another flight above, and the other soldier was coming down, blocking my exit. As the ascending man turned, he raised his gun. We both stood there, frozen, but I saw the recognition in his face, the slow softening of his features as he realized who I was. The Lieutenant came up so quickly, I barely had time to turn. Within seconds he was there, his gun at my back.
I held my arms up as the other soldier came down the stairs, trapping me. The Lieutenant grabbed one wrist and twisted it back, tying it to the other with a thick plastic restraint.
“He’s dead,” the soldier said. He kept his gun aimed at me, but the Lieutenant motioned for him to bring it down.
“Go back to the office and guard the body,” he said. “I’ll be up within the hour. You’re not to tell anyone else about this. If anyone asks, it was a false alarm. You were mistaken. ” As he spoke, he yanked my arm, pulling me behind him. I struggled to catch my balance as we started down the stairs.
“Where are you taking her?” the soldier asked.
I strained against the plastic tie, the blood throbbing in my hands. “To the holding cell off the first floor,” the Lieutenant said. “Let the others know there’ll be another execution this evening, before sunset. All citizens should assemble outside the Palace. ”
The soldier’s expression changed. His eyes fell to my midsection. “But I thought . . . ”
“The Princess has betrayed her father,” the Lieutenant said. Then he yanked my wrists, pulling me backward into the dim hall.
Thirty
MY AUNT ROSE WALKED BESIDE THE SOLDIERS, TRYING TO STAY in front of us, where she had a better view of me. “Don’t do this,” she said. They didn’t turn to look at her as she spoke. “Where is her father? Let me speak with him. He wouldn’t want this, no matter what happened between them. ”
The gun was at the small of my back, prodding me along through the main lobby. I processed it in quick, passing glimpses—the ornate pattern in the carpet, the shrouded gaming machines, the two soldiers who stood on either side of the gold elevators. Palace workers were crying, some huddled behind the desk, watching as I passed the great fountain in the center of the entranceway. My face was swollen from where the Lieutenant had struck me, my cheekbone throbbing. After eight hours of interrogation, they’d given up. They wouldn’t stop asking me about the rebels, about where the tunnel was under the wall, about the location of the girls in the wild. I refused to speak, letting the Lieutenant hit me until one of the soldiers stopped him.