Secondborn

  The amassing correspondents ambush me with hundreds of questions all at once. Clifton shields my face, walking me to the private entrance of his empire in the sky. “Roselle has had a trying day,” he calls to them. “All of your questions will be answered in due course.”

  The entire top floor of the headquarters is Clifton’s personal domain. I haven’t been to his secluded suite before. When I consult on weapons, it’s usually in a manufacturing facility, in a laboratory, or in the field. I wander around, studying the prototype weapons behind thick security glass. Clifton contacts his personal Atom-Fated physician, demanding to know his estimated arrival time. When he’s done, he asks me, “Can I get you a drink, Roselle?”

  “Water, please.”

  He turns on the visual screen. Commentators are already narrating the thirty seconds of “Roselle” footage they received only a few minutes ago. My fusionmag ad campaign and the campaign I did for the newest version of our dual-bladed sword are spliced into the footage, along with old news items. The strike against the Fate of Swords on my failed Transition Day is among them.

  I don’t want to relive that, so I walk to the window overlooking the balcony. It faces the sword-shaped Heritage Building. The windows of Clifton’s office are mirrored on the outside, so no one can see me. I take in the view. What I find is telling. Every day, Clifton looks down on the hilt of the Heritage Building from these windows. The Heritage Council is the sole occupant of the spherical penthouse just a few floors beneath me.

  I’m about to turn from the window when one of the sword-shaped doors of the Heritage Building opens below. A tall man with sandy-blond hair in an Exo uniform emerges. He takes a few steps onto the penthouse’s grassy balcony, scanning the buildings around him until he finds ours. His face tilts upward. Hawthorne.

  My hand presses against the glass. Then Gabriel joins Hawthorne at the railing. The shock of seeing them together brings a rush of blood to my head. My hand slides down the window as I crumble onto the floor.

  Chapter 21

  White Rose

  I awake in a sterile bed. Medical monitoring machines blink and beep. The walls of a hospital room take shape. Across from me, a life-size visual screen plays newsreel taken outside the Salloway Munitions Conglomerate’s headquarters, drone footage of me being transported on a hoverstretcher. I have no memory of it. I gaze around for a way to turn down the volume, and my eyes fall on a black-coated man sitting in the chair near my bed, his blond hair slicked back. He’s riveted by what he’s watching.

  “Agent Crow,” I growl. I find a switch on the bedside railing and press it. My bed slowly tilts up.

  “Roselle.” He says my name as if it’s his favorite word. “Did I wake you?” He turns down the volume so that it’s barely discernible over the pounding of my heart. “They’re calling you a heroine”—he indicates the visual wall with a flick of his wrist—“for repelling the Gates of Dawn soldiers when your airship drifted off course and crashed in rebel territory. It’s amazing that you made it out with your life.”

  “It’s not that amazing,” I reply. “I got my head beaten in.”

  “Yes, a severe concussion. Someone wasn’t fooling around.” He flashes me a steel-toothed grin.

  “It was more of a mob than a someone.”

  “How ever did you escape?” he asks, leaning closer.

  “That’s kind of fuzzy. I can’t remember—head injuries are tricky.”

  “Did you leave Edgerton and Hammon behind to fend for themselves?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I reply.

  “The friends you took with you. Did you leave them in the Fate of Stars?” He twirls his fingers as if unraveling a plot.

  “I was alone.”

  “Think harder, Roselle,” he growls. “You weren’t alone. You hid your pregnant friend and her lover in your airship and smuggled them out of the Fate of Swords.”

  “If she’s gone, then someone took her, like a Census agent. Your lawlessness is legendary. You think you can disappear anyone for any reason. As a matter of fact, I saw her talking to you before I left. It would be interesting to find out just how many secondborns go missing after they speak to you, Agent Crow.”

  His face darkens. “You think you’re powerful now that you’re with Clifton Salloway?”

  “I think you’re afraid of just how powerful I could become, with or without him.”

  “I’m never going to call off the search for them, Roselle. I promise you I will find them, and when I do, I’ll be back for you.”

  I rub my aching temples. “I’m going to call off the search for your soul, Agent Crow. I’m tired of looking for it. It’s plain to me that you just don’t have one.”

  He chuckles and walks to the doorway. “The physicians did an outstanding job on your face. You may be even lovelier now. I cannot wait for my turn to work on it.” He leaves the room, and I have to fight the urge to vomit brought on by the sheer terror I feel at his parting words.

  I make my way to the small closet on the other side of the room. Inside, I find Mags’s ugly cloak. The hat that Reykin gave me is still shoved in the pocket. I tug it out and locate the thin, golden, star-shaped device in the brim. Taking the star to the bathroom, I set it down on the sink.

  I hide the golden star inside the nest I create out of my hair, securing it in a bun with an elastic band I find in the cabinet. Then I evaluate my face for the first time. I tilt my head at different angles, eye my new thinner, straighter nose and smooth complexion. I look just slightly different than before—more sophisticated somehow. I’m not sure what they did to me, but I’m not going to object. I’m no longer in much pain. With the exception of a headache and some stiffness, I am as I ever was.

  “Roselle!”

  I peek around the door to see Emmitt standing next to Clara Diamond. He places his hand on his chest, dropping his chin and saying to Clara under his breath, “This place is horrendous. We have to get her out of here before any drone cameras get in. She will look horrible in this light.”

  “Emmitt?” I emerge from the bathroom.

  “Roselle! My dear girl! It’s so wonderful to see you!” He gives me air kisses on both cheeks. “Your nose is perfection! I always thought it was too big. Didn’t I always say that, Clara?”

  Clara nods. “He did say that a lot.”

  “Er . . . thanks,” I murmur. “Why are you here?”

  He draws his hands in front of him in loose fists. “No one has told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “You are to be the guest of honor at the Sword Palace this weekend, in celebration of your triumphant return from behind enemy lines.” He looks over at me with an expectant air.

  “Oh,” I reply. “That sounds . . . fun.” I touch the bun of my hair, making sure none of the star points protrude. I don’t know how I feel about returning home.

  “It will be fun! And you’ll have to bring along your delicious man, Clifton Salloway. He’ll want to see you receive your medal. Maybe you can wear it for him, you know, after the ceremony, when the two of you are—”

  “What medal?”

  “The medal for bravery that your mother will present to you for your actions in defense of the Fates.”

  “I don’t want a medal.”

  Emmitt gazes at Clara. “She doesn’t want a medal. Couldn’t you just eat her alive? She’s so adorable. Of course you want a medal, Roselle. Everyone wants a medal. I want a medal—and I should get one, too,” he adds as an aside, elbowing my newly healed ribs, “for having to deal with your mother.”

  “But I wasn’t a heroine. My airship malfunctioned.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing. I’m planning your ensemble for you. Where are you staying? And please don’t tell me that it’s in some Tree Base,” he says, wrinkling his nose, “because I really cannot go there and—”

  Clifton breezes into the room with his coat slung over his arm, looking handsome and well groomed. “Why are you out of bed?” he asks,
frowning at me in my flimsy smock.

  “Did you get the invitation we sent out for Roselle’s celebration dinner this weekend?” Emmitt asks. He practically breathes Clifton in.

  “I did,” Clifton replies. He gently takes my arm and leads me back to my bed. “I will have my assistant respond today. Roselle and I are honored to attend.” He covers me with the blanket.

  Emmitt almost preens with satisfaction. “I just need her address so that I can take care of all the arrangements.”

  “She’s moving to a new apartment. I’ll send you the address.” Clifton crooks his finger at Emmitt, leading him into the hallway.

  Clara comes closer to the bed. She glances over her shoulder at Emmitt and Clifton. From under her lavender-colored coat, she uncovers a white rose she’s been holding. “This is for you, from a friend,” she whispers, handing it to me. “You can get your messages to him through me. Emmitt doesn’t know.”

  She backs away before I can ask her what she means and goes to join the two men in the hallway. I put the rose to my nose and inhale. Emmitt pops his head in from the hallway. “Aw, did Clara bring you a rose? That was thoughtful—consider half of it from me. I’m leaving to get started on your gown,” he says. “I’ll send you some mock-ups later.” He grins and scurries away, taking Clara.

  Clifton comes back alone. “Darling,” he says, brushing his lips to my cheek, “you had me so worried. I thought for a few hours there that I might lose you.” He seems tired. He sits beside me on the bed and takes my hand. “You had a cracked skull, Roselle. They had to go in through your nose and repair it. Why did you downplay how bad you were hurting when I found you?”

  “I didn’t want you to be mad at me,” I reply.

  “I’ll only be mad at you if you ever keep something like this from me again,” he says sincerely. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost you.”

  “It’s a relief to know you didn’t just think my nose was too big and you had to fix it,” I tease. I’m not sure how to handle this Clifton. He’s not acting aloof and entitled.

  He laughs, an unreserved snicker. “I didn’t tell them to make it smaller, if that’s what you mean. How are you feeling? The physician tells me that your recovery is assured. They foresee no complications.”

  “I feel much better. Thank you for taking care of me.”

  My attention drifts to the window. On the side of the building across from the hospital, there’s a moving image of me. It’s a Salloway ad. In it, I’m dressed in a tight black leather outfit doing a choreographed sword maneuver in a faked combat scene. Simulated artillery explodes around me. I battle with the Dual-Blade X16 that Jakes designed. I frown.

  Clifton flashes me his model’s smile when I glance at him. He tips his head toward the ad. “The X16 is a bestseller, Roselle. Burton is hating life right now.”

  Clifton stays with me for the rest of the day, ordering us food and bossing the hospital staff around. He reads me some of the crazier things that the press has written about us. Some make me howl with laughter, like a story about his “undying love for his creative Muse, Roselle St. Sismode, the woman he tries so desperately to impress with state-of-the-art weaponry.”

  “How come you’re not like them?” I ask.

  “Like who? Like firstborns?”

  “Yes. I mean, you’re super arrogant, but you’re also hardworking.”

  “I’m hardworking because my little brother died of a heart disorder when he was seven. I was nine. He didn’t live to his Transition Day.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he says softly. “It has made me who I am. My mother was not able to have another child to take Aston’s place—they wouldn’t approve her for a thirdborn. We suspect it was political. We lost our place in the aristocracy. We had to earn our own way. Being an Exo-ranked officer doesn’t pay what you’d think it should. Fortunately, I come from a family that knows how to earn a living—we excel at it. It makes us undesirable to the current aristocracy, which receives large sums of money for no other reason than their names. They’re quick to do favors for me, though, if there’s currency to back it up. It’s how I was able to buy my title back, reclaim my family home, and become part of the aristocracy once more. The Fates Republic is paying less and less these days. This war is sapping their resources.”

  “And building yours,” I reply.

  “Ours,” he corrects me. “Don’t forget that I set aside currency for you in a secret account. I don’t just hand all of it over to your greedy aristocratic family. Your dinner this weekend at the Sword Palace will be celebrated with money you earned from me.”

  My mother, father, and older brother are entitled to most of my earnings as a secondborn. The rest is supposed to go to the Fates Republic to support people like Fabian Bowie and Grisholm. It’s a completely corrupt system. I’m only entitled to a capsule in an air-barracks and three meals a day, and even that is subject to my commanding officer’s whims.

  “Let’s not talk about money. It makes me grumpy,” I reply.

  “What would you like to talk about?” He runs his knuckles lightly over my arm. I shiver at the exquisite feel of it.

  “Agent Crow was here when I woke up.”

  Clifton tries to look mean, but he’s too gorgeous to look threatening. “I will murder my security personnel!” he says angrily. “They were supposed to be guarding this entire place! What did he say to you?”

  I tell him about our conversation word for word.

  “I have to take care of this tonight,” Clifton grumbles, rising to his feet. “Don’t worry about Agent Crow. He’s not going to threaten you again.” Reaching out, he brushes my cheek with his fingers. “Please get some rest. I want to be able to take you home soon. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. We can have breakfast together.”

  “Okay.” I nod.

  When he leaves, I realize just how tired I really am. Snuggling into the blanket, I lift the white rose to my nose, sniffing it. One of the interior petals has a small black mark on it. I pluck it out, turn it over, and discover a message:

  Hoping your head feels better.

  —R.W.

  Reykin Winterstrom. Clara has ties to the Gates of Dawn! Jumping out of bed, I hurry to the bathroom and flush the white rose petal. Returning to my bed, I search through the rose, but there are no other messages.

  A gentle breeze stirs my hair. I open my eyes to the darkness of my hospital room. The windows that look out into the hallway have been shuttered so that very little light comes through them. I don’t remember doing that. Pushing up on my elbow, I notice the window on the other side of the room is open. The building across from me is mostly dark except for the light emanating from the explosions in the ad campaign. It paints my walls with orange, yellow, and red, dancing over everything, even me. A dark silhouette moves by the foot of my bed—an extremely well-built man stands there facing me. His outline is unmistakable, even dressed in an all-black jumpsuit with a black-knitted mask to hide his face.

  “Hawthorne,” I whisper. He moves quickly, going to the open window. “Hawthorne! Wait!” He looks back at me. Silent. “Don’t go!” I plead. “I need you.”

  He turns away and leaps out the window. He’s near the ground by the time I can get out of bed and make it to the window ledge. My hair tangles around me. Wisps of it slip from my bun as I lean outside, trying to get a better look at him. His gravity-resistant jumpsuit slows him down when he gets close to the sidewalk. Landing on his feet, he’s gone from sight in a matter of moments. I don’t know how long I stand there at the open window, but when I finally move, the sun is just coming up and shining between the buildings.

  Chapter 22

  Rose-Colored Crown

  Clifton arrives midmorning and arranges for my release. Emmitt shows up carrying a highly stylized version of a Strato-ranked uniform that few real soldiers would be caught dead in. I hide the star-shaped device inside the calf of my boot. Clifton hands Emmitt an address. “Meet us
here tomorrow afternoon. You can help Roselle get ready for her medal ceremony and accompany us to the Sword Palace.”

  Emmitt looks like he just tasted the most delicious morsel of his life. “I will be there by noon!” he squeals. “Everything will be ready! Trust me!”

  We leave the hospital amid a circus of reporters, drone cameras, and—to my utter shock—fans. People are lined up outside to see me, shouting my name the moment I leave the relative safety of the lobby. Clifton’s black bullet-shaped Recovener, the most ridiculously priced aircraft in production, is parked at ground level. His security team is ready, shoving the crush of people away from us.

  Once we’re inside the aircraft, he shifts into flight mode and veers off in the direction of the sea. “There.” Clifton points as we near a gorgeous building that stands out from the others lining the beachfront. The shape of a silver-bladed broadsword rises from the sand, similar to the Heritage Building except that this sword stands on its hilt, pointed to the sky. The sword itself resembles an ancient blade, thick and heavy, with a steely sheen of metal and glass. A rose-colored crown rings the blade near the top. It’s the physical representation of my moniker. We circle it a few times before Clifton lands the Recovener on the airship pad beside the crown-shaped penthouse.

  “This,” he says, “is your apartment.” I stare at it a moment, speechless. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.” We walk hand in hand through a rooftop garden. “The plans for it were made a few years after you were born, but it wasn’t constructed until nearly five years ago.”

  “Who else knows about it?”

  “Up until now, not many people, but I gave this address to your mother’s assistant yesterday. I’m sure Gabriel, Admiral Dresden, the Clarity of Virtues, and his son—the First Commander—know about it now as well. They can all track your moniker, anyway, so secrecy is not going to win the day.”