Red Queen
Page 64
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Too late.
SIXTEEN
After a week of staring at my clock, waiting for midnight, I begin to despair. Of course Farley can’t reach us here. Even she is not so talented. But tonight, when the clock ticks, I feel nothing for the first time since Queenstrial. No cameras, no electricity, nothing. The power is completely out. I’ve been in blackouts before, too many to count, but this is different. This isn’t an accident. This is for me.
Moving quickly, I slip into my boots, now broken in by weeks of wear, and head for the door. I’m barely out in the hallway before I hear Walsh in my ear, speaking softly and quickly as she pulls me through the forced darkness.
“We don’t have much time,” she murmurs, hustling me into a service stairwell. It’s pitch-black, but she knows where we’re going and I trust her to get me there. “They’ll have the power back on in fifteen minutes if we’re lucky.”
“And if we aren’t?” I breathe in the darkness.
She hustles me down the stairs and shoulders open a door. “Then I hope you’re not too attached to your head.”
The smell of earth and dirt and water hits me first, churning up all my memories of life in the woods. But even though it looks like a forest, with gnarled old trees and hundreds of plants painted blue and black by the moon, a glass roof rises overhead. The conservatory. Twisting shadows sprawl across the ground, each one worse than the next. I see Security and Sentinels in every dark corner, waiting to capture and kill us like they did my brother. But instead of their horrific black or flame uniforms, there’s nothing but flowers blooming beneath the glass ceiling of stars.
“Excuse me if I don’t curtsy,” a voice says, emerging from a grove of white-spangled magnolia trees. Her blue eyes reflect the moon, glowing in the dark with cold fire. Farley has a real talent for theatrics.
Like in her broadcast, she wears a red scarf across her face, hiding her features. But it doesn’t hide a ruinous scar that marches down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. It looks new, barely beginning to heal. She’s been busy since I last saw her. But then, so have I.
“Farley,” I say, tipping my head in greeting.
She doesn’t nod back, but then, I didn’t expect her to. All business. “And the other one?” she murmurs. Other one?
“Holland’s bringing him. Any second now.” Walsh sounds breathless, excited even, about whoever we’re waiting for. Even Farley’s eyes shine.
“What is it? Who else joined up?” They don’t answer me, exchanging glances instead. A few names run through my head, servants and kitchen boys who would support the cause.
But the person who joins us is no servant. He’s not even Red.
“Maven.”
I don’t know whether to scream or run when I see my betrothed appear from the shadows. He’s a prince, he’s Silver, he’s the enemy, and yet, here he is, standing with one of the leaders of the Scarlet Guard. His companion Holland, an aging Red servant with years of service behind him, seems to swell with pride.
“I told you, you’re not alone, Mare,” Maven says, but he doesn’t smile. A hand twitches at his side—he’s all nerves. Farley scares him.
And I can see why. She steps toward us, gun in hand, but she’s just as nervous as he is. Still, her voice does not shake. “I want to hear it from your lips, little prince. Tell me what you told him,” she says, tipping her head toward Holland.
Maven sneers at “little prince,” his lips curving in distaste, but he doesn’t snap at her. “I want to join the Guard,” he says, his voice full of conviction.
She moves quickly, cocking the pistol and taking aim in the same motion. My heart seems to stop when she presses the barrel to his forehead, but Maven doesn’t flinch. “Why?” she hisses.
“Because this world is wrong. What my father has done, what my brother will do, is wrong.” Even with a gun to his head, he manages to speak calmly, but a bead of sweat trickles down his neck. Farley doesn’t pull away, waiting for a better answer, and I find myself doing the same.
His eyes shift, moving to mine, and he swallows hard. “When I was twelve, my father sent me to the war front, to toughen me up, to make me more like my brother. Cal is perfect, you see, so why couldn’t I be the same?”
I can’t help but flinch at his words, recognizing the pain in them. I lived in Gisa’s shadow, and he lived in Cal’s. I know what that life is like.
Farley sniffs, almost laughing at him. “I have no use for jealous little boys.”
SIXTEEN
After a week of staring at my clock, waiting for midnight, I begin to despair. Of course Farley can’t reach us here. Even she is not so talented. But tonight, when the clock ticks, I feel nothing for the first time since Queenstrial. No cameras, no electricity, nothing. The power is completely out. I’ve been in blackouts before, too many to count, but this is different. This isn’t an accident. This is for me.
Moving quickly, I slip into my boots, now broken in by weeks of wear, and head for the door. I’m barely out in the hallway before I hear Walsh in my ear, speaking softly and quickly as she pulls me through the forced darkness.
“We don’t have much time,” she murmurs, hustling me into a service stairwell. It’s pitch-black, but she knows where we’re going and I trust her to get me there. “They’ll have the power back on in fifteen minutes if we’re lucky.”
“And if we aren’t?” I breathe in the darkness.
She hustles me down the stairs and shoulders open a door. “Then I hope you’re not too attached to your head.”
The smell of earth and dirt and water hits me first, churning up all my memories of life in the woods. But even though it looks like a forest, with gnarled old trees and hundreds of plants painted blue and black by the moon, a glass roof rises overhead. The conservatory. Twisting shadows sprawl across the ground, each one worse than the next. I see Security and Sentinels in every dark corner, waiting to capture and kill us like they did my brother. But instead of their horrific black or flame uniforms, there’s nothing but flowers blooming beneath the glass ceiling of stars.
“Excuse me if I don’t curtsy,” a voice says, emerging from a grove of white-spangled magnolia trees. Her blue eyes reflect the moon, glowing in the dark with cold fire. Farley has a real talent for theatrics.
Like in her broadcast, she wears a red scarf across her face, hiding her features. But it doesn’t hide a ruinous scar that marches down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. It looks new, barely beginning to heal. She’s been busy since I last saw her. But then, so have I.
“Farley,” I say, tipping my head in greeting.
She doesn’t nod back, but then, I didn’t expect her to. All business. “And the other one?” she murmurs. Other one?
“Holland’s bringing him. Any second now.” Walsh sounds breathless, excited even, about whoever we’re waiting for. Even Farley’s eyes shine.
“What is it? Who else joined up?” They don’t answer me, exchanging glances instead. A few names run through my head, servants and kitchen boys who would support the cause.
But the person who joins us is no servant. He’s not even Red.
“Maven.”
I don’t know whether to scream or run when I see my betrothed appear from the shadows. He’s a prince, he’s Silver, he’s the enemy, and yet, here he is, standing with one of the leaders of the Scarlet Guard. His companion Holland, an aging Red servant with years of service behind him, seems to swell with pride.
“I told you, you’re not alone, Mare,” Maven says, but he doesn’t smile. A hand twitches at his side—he’s all nerves. Farley scares him.
And I can see why. She steps toward us, gun in hand, but she’s just as nervous as he is. Still, her voice does not shake. “I want to hear it from your lips, little prince. Tell me what you told him,” she says, tipping her head toward Holland.
Maven sneers at “little prince,” his lips curving in distaste, but he doesn’t snap at her. “I want to join the Guard,” he says, his voice full of conviction.
She moves quickly, cocking the pistol and taking aim in the same motion. My heart seems to stop when she presses the barrel to his forehead, but Maven doesn’t flinch. “Why?” she hisses.
“Because this world is wrong. What my father has done, what my brother will do, is wrong.” Even with a gun to his head, he manages to speak calmly, but a bead of sweat trickles down his neck. Farley doesn’t pull away, waiting for a better answer, and I find myself doing the same.
His eyes shift, moving to mine, and he swallows hard. “When I was twelve, my father sent me to the war front, to toughen me up, to make me more like my brother. Cal is perfect, you see, so why couldn’t I be the same?”
I can’t help but flinch at his words, recognizing the pain in them. I lived in Gisa’s shadow, and he lived in Cal’s. I know what that life is like.
Farley sniffs, almost laughing at him. “I have no use for jealous little boys.”
