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“You’re acting without the King’s permission. Where is he?” my aunt asked again. She held on to the ends of her shawl, tightening her grip to steady her hands. In her face I could see the way Clara tensed when she was angry, how her skin grew splotchy and red.
“He has ordered this,” the Lieutenant yelled. He walked behind the cluster of soldiers, motioning for my aunt to step away. “Genevieve is responsible for an assassination attempt on her father. ”
My aunt Rose had never paid much attention to me within the Palace walls. She was always so preoccupied with Clara, worrying over what she wore, what she ate, fixing the stray curls that sometimes fell down around her face. I’d never seen her like this—she was practically yelling at the soldiers, each word leveled with a determined fury. I suddenly wished I’d known her better, that we’d spoken more. “You cannot do this,” she repeated, raising her voice.
“The King has asked me to step forward for him in the interim,” the Lieutenant said. “While he recovers. ”
My aunt called to someone in front of the main doors, running out to meet him. Charles was arguing with one of the other soldiers—the same one who’d guarded the holding cell for the earlier part of the day. He’d spent hours trying to convince them to put off the execution, demanding to see my father. From the concrete holding room I could hear him, marveling at how carefully he chose his words, not wanting to reveal what he knew. They never responded to his questions, always deferring instead to the Lieutenant. My aunt said something to Charles, pointing as they brought me out of the building. The scene went on around me, but I felt separate, alone. The voices in the front lobby blended together, the words indistinguishable from one another.
They’d tied the restraints so tight I could no longer feel my hands. The knife and gun had been taken from me. They’d stripped me of the uniform, leaving me in the same clothes I’d had on since I left Califia, the front of my shirt now dotted with blood. I watched Charles as I passed, offering him a quick nod, some tiny acknowledgment that he had tried. I didn’t want him doing any more than he had, afraid he’d reveal his real alliances. I was the one who came here. I’d finished what I meant to do. It wasn’t his fault.
The doors swung open, and I was outside, the sun stinging my eyes. They pushed me down the curved driveway, past the long row of narrow trees. The platform was still there, set up at the edge of the road. I scanned the great mass of people assembled in front of it, trying to see if there was any way out. There was a metal barricade, nearly four feet high, that I’d have to climb before disappearing into the crowd. The driveway curved toward the street, a good twenty yards I’d have to run. Even if I waited until we were closer, I’d likely be shot before I made it over.
My legs felt like they might give out beneath me. The soldiers spurred me on, one holding each of my arms so I didn’t fall. It was foolish, I knew somehow, but I was still making lists. Arden would have to be told if I died. I’d want her to know how much I owed her for what she did for Pip and Ruby. Beatrice needed to know that I’d forgiven her before she’d asked. I hoped Maeve, knowing why I’d come here, would allow Silas and Benny to stay in Califia indefinitely. I hoped if there was any way to return to Caleb, I could.
Charles came down the driveway, my aunt right behind him. He walked quickly, following us, his presence making me feel just a little less alone. There were black stains on my aunt’s cheeks, a heavy wash of makeup and tears. I remembered Clara’s words as we made our way north, how concerned Rose must’ve been, still not knowing where she was. I turned to them, waiting until my aunt lifted her head.
“Clara’s alive” was all I said—two words, loud enough so she could hear. I wanted to tell her more—about Califia, about how Clara would return if and when she could. But the soldier yanked my arm, turning me back toward the platform.
As they hurried me to the platform stairs, I glanced up, my gaze settling on the City watchtower. The light at the top of the needle was blinking red—a slow, constant warning. A few people in the crowd had noticed it, too, some craning their necks to see if there was anything happening along the north gate. There was a low, steady hum of voices in the distance. Up above, a man leaned out the window of his apartment, trying to decipher which direction the noise was coming from.
The soldiers ushered me up the stairs, spurred on by the shifting attention of the crowd. Something was happening in the Outlands, even if it was impossible to know what. They spun me around, and I imagined what Curtis and Jo had felt as they stood here, staring out at the crowd. The people had fallen into a strange silence. I recognized a few of my father’s circle. Amelda Wentworth, who had congratulated me on my engagement just a few months before, was standing toward the front, a thin handkerchief pressed to her face. Do something, I thought, watching them all, rigid, waiting. Why won’t you do something?
I pushed back on the soldiers, away from the coiled rope, but they dragged me forward. I struggled to stay standing, my feet barely touching the ground. I saw the Lieutenant out of the corner of my eye. He was staring off to the north gate, at the black smoke that billowed into the orange sky. An explosion went off, the loud popping sound like a backfiring car.
“Let’s finish this,” he said to the other two soldiers. He didn’t look at me as he spoke.
There were more explosions, and shouting filled the air. I realized then it couldn’t be a riot in the Outlands—it was too loud. The crowd started away from the scene, scattering down the main road, back toward their apartments. A few began running, breaking through to the south end of the road, sprinting far ahead. The Lieutenant pushed me forward, trying to get me up on the three-foot wooden box. I resisted him, letting my weight fall, my legs collapsing, trying to make myself as heavy as possible.
“Help me,” he yelled, looking to the other soldiers. They had backed away, their eyes on the smoke coming up from the northern edge of the wall. Another explosion was heard, and there was a great, collective yell. Then the light on the top of the watchtower changed from blinking to solid red, signaling that the perimeter of the wall had been compromised.
“The colonies are here,” a younger man called out as he ran south on the road. The crowd shifted suddenly, knocking over the metal barricade in front of the platform, sending people stumbling onto the sidewalk. A group of women ran toward the Palace mall, hoping to get inside. I pushed back as hard as I could, the base of my head meeting the Lieutenant’s nose. I turned and kicked him, hard, between his legs. He flinched in pain and stumbled backward. As soon as he released me, I started down the platform and into the dense crowd. I lost sight of him only a few feet away, his face appearing then disappearing as more people ran past.
I darted across the main road, keeping my head down, weaving through people as they scattered from the platform. My hands were numb, my wrists still lashed together at the base of my spine. A man in a tattered black jacket knocked into me, quickly registering who I was, then continued on. Everyone was too concerned with getting inside. The first signs of the army could be seen from the north end of the road, a wall of soldiers in faded, mud-soaked clothes. The rebels wore pieces of fabric tied around their biceps, the scraps of red visible in the distance.