She was going to leave the Refuge.
She was going to leave the Frets.
She’d been working on the plan all afternoon and evening. Grateful Silence had been easy during tonight’s supper. Alouette’s mind had been so preoccupied with thoughts of logistics and distances and what to bring, she’d barely made a peep through the whole meal. In fact, at one point, she got so lost in her own thoughts, she’d completely forgotten about her potato stew and Principale Francine had to nudge her to hurry up.
That had certainly never happened before.
The plan was to leave straight after breakfast tomorrow. The timing was perfect. The sisters would be locked away in Assemblée all morning for Quiet Contemplation while Alouette was supposed to be studying in the library. She would have plenty of time to leave the Refuge and be back for lunch without anyone knowing she’d gone.
Or so she hoped.
Alouette didn’t have any tokens or a Skin, so she couldn’t hire a cruiseur. Which meant she’d have to walk.
After studying the maps of Vallonay and Laterre in the Chronicles and locating the winding stream that led into the Forest Verdure, Alouette had calculated that it would take a little more than two hours to walk there and back. Which meant, if she wanted to return before lunch, she’d have less than an hour to locate the clearing where she’d seen the shadowy patterns on the hologram and find where the little red dot had been blinking.
Alouette walked back to the table in the library and studied the map she’d drawn on a small piece of paper. She hadn’t dared go back into her father’s room to get the candlestick, for fear of being caught. Instead, she’d copied down a sketch of Vallonay and the Forest Verdure from the Chronicle maps, making sure to include any distinguishing landmarks that might help guide her. It was rough, but it would have to do.
She closed the ink pot, folded up the piece of paper, and placed it in the pocket of her tunic, trying to chase away the guilt that seemed to be following her everywhere she went. She would have to lie to the sisters. She knew this. Tomorrow evening when they asked about her day, she wouldn’t be able to tell them the truth.
Just this once, she reminded herself. It was what she’d been telling herself all night.
Just this once.
Just this one thing.
This one secret.
She would leave the Refuge in the morning. She would solve the mystery of the glowing red dot. Then, when she returned, she would go back to being a good and devoted member of the Refuge who one day—hopefully, one day soon—would become a real sister.
With this last thought, Alouette tiptoed out of the library and closed the door very quietly behind her. The sisters and her father were all asleep. Everyone went to bed early in the Refuge.
Pulling a screwdriver from her pocket, Alouette crouched down so she was eye level with the handle of the library door and shimmied the small metal cover off the security panel. Principale Francine always locked the library and engaged the alarm for extra security at night. Alouette had never needed to enter the library after hours before. And she’d certainly never thought of hacking the alarm.
Not until tonight.
But her plan to leave tomorrow morning had depended upon her getting into the library, to get the information and maps she needed to find her way to the Forest Verdure. Now she just needed to reset the alarm, so no one would know what she’d done.
The two red wires that she’d pulled from their terminals slipped easily back into the ports. A small red light on the panel flashed twice, indicating the security system was engaged.
After snapping the cover back into place and sliding her screwdriver back into her pocket, Alouette crept down the corridor to her bedroom, where she quietly twisted the handle, slipped through the door, and closed it silently behind her.
She nearly let out a shriek when she turned around to find Principale Francine sitting on her bed, waiting for her.
“Good evening, Alouette,” the sister said evenly.
Alouette’s heart kicked in her chest and her cheeks grew instantly hot. Why was the director of the Refuge in her room?
“Everything all right?” Principale Francine peered up at Alouette over her half-moon glasses.
“Yes, yes,” Alouette blurted out, while hurriedly searching Francine’s face for signs of suspicion. But the sister just looked back at her with a steadfast, unreadable gaze. “I . . . I couldn’t sleep,” Alouette babbled on. “So I went to the kitchen for some water.” She glanced down at her empty hands and quickly added, “Which I drank.”
It was already happening.
She was already lying.
And she was dreadful at it.
Principale Francine looked at Alouette for a few long, interminable seconds, and Alouette’s heart knocked even faster behind her ribs. The sister could see right through her. Alouette had no doubt about that.
“I was hoping to have a word with you.” The sister motioned to a spot on the bed next to her. “Will you sit?”
Alouette swallowed hard.
“Of course,” she said, and sat down.
But as soon as she did, Principale Francine was on her feet. Alouette watched, terrified, as the sister began to pace the small room with her hands clasped, viselike, behind her back. Even though it was late, the sister’s steel-gray hair was still scraped back into an impeccable, unforgiving bun.
Does she know?
Of course she knew. She knew everything. She was Principale Francine! She knew about the Frets. The boy with his bleeding head. The snooping around in her father’s room. She knew about the old valise. The candlestick. Alouette hacking the lock and sneaking into the library to draw the map. She knew it all, didn’t she?
And now she’d come here to punish Alouette.
What would the sentencing be?
The last time Alouette had ever been punished by Francine was when she was six years old, two years after she and her father had come to live in the Refuge. Alouette had been playing with her father’s small cooking pot, banging it on the door of the Assemblée room. The sisters were deep in prayer, but Alouette was so excited to test out an old First World code that Sister Denise had taught her, she couldn’t help herself.
H-E-L-L-O, she’d rapped on the door, using a series of different taps for each letter. The wooden door sounded like a deep, booming drum under the pot. She was just playing, having fun. Except Principale Francine hadn’t seen it that way. She’d given Alouette double chores for a whole day and extra handwriting assignments for a week.
And that was just for banging a pot.
She couldn’t even imagine what might be in store for her now.
“Alouette,” Principale Francine said. “The sisters and I convened earlier today”—she stopped pacing and stared down at Alouette—“to talk about you.”
Alouette’s stomach dropped. This was it, wasn’t it? All the sisters knew, and now this was the end. The end of all her plans. She was never going to be able to leave the Refuge tomorrow, was she? They would keep a constant watch on her, making sure she didn’t escape or snoop or hack ever again.
She’d never get to the Frets or the forest.
“You have been working very hard, Alouette. Very hard indeed . . .”
She’d never find out the secret of the candlestick and the blinking red dot.
“You have been diligent with your lessons and industrious with your chores. You dust and tend to the books in the library with care and attention. . . .”
She’d never find out the truth about her father.
“Your Tranquil Forme is shaky at times, but you work hard to perfect your sequences. You are a devoted daughter and an asset to our community. . . .”
Wait. What?
Finally, Alouette tuned in to what Principale Francine was saying. Instead of stern words and a list of punishments, Francine was praising her. Alouette wasn’t sure she’d ever been praised by the Principale.
“You are making us all very proud.”
>
Alouette’s jaw almost dropped. “I am?”
Principale Francine cocked an eyebrow like she did in her lessons when Alouette wasn’t grasping a concept. “Of course you are, Little Lark.”
“Oh, I—I—” Alouette stuttered. “Thank you.”
She didn’t know what else to say. She was too stunned.
Then the sister reached into the pocket of her tunic and pulled out a long string of metallic beads.
“Your devotion beads,” Alouette said.
Why was Principale Francine showing Alouette her devotion beads? She’d seen them a million times before.
“No, these are your devotion beads.”
Alouette looked from the beads to Francine. “What?” Her voice was shaky.
“They’re yours,” the sister repeated.
“B-but . . . how? And why?”
Principale Francine gave a quick, efficient nod. “Because you are one of us now. Well, you will be soon, when you take your final vows, which as you know, takes some time to prepare for. But I wanted you to have these now.”
Alouette felt numb with shock as the sister leaned down and ceremoniously strung the beads around her neck. The weight of the necklace was heavy and significant. Heavier than Alouette had imagined it would be. It was as though she could feel the responsibility that these beads represented.
Alouette’s hands shook as she reached up and took hold of the metal tag hanging from the center of the necklace. It looked the same as the one that hung from all of the sisters’ devotion beads. But as Alouette flipped it over, she could see that instead of saying “Jacqui” or “Francine” or “Muriel,” her tag read:
LITTLE LARK.
The breath hitched in Alouette’s chest as she ran her fingers over the engraved letters. She had to make sure this was real. That these beads were real. That this wasn’t just the same dream she’d had for years. Ever since she and her father had arrived at the Refuge and Alouette had learned about the ways and the sacred tasks of the Sisterhood, she’d fantasized about this moment.
And now it was actually happening.
Alouette expected to feel a joyful burst of pride. She’d succeeded. She was a sister. She’d become an official member of the Sisterhood. She should feel elated. Proud. Accomplished. She should be commending herself on all her hard work over the past twelve years.
But Alouette couldn’t bring herself to think about the past twelve years. All she could think about was the past twelve hours. How she’d broken the rules. Betrayed the sisters. And her father. Left the Refuge without telling a single soul.
And how, tomorrow, she planned to do it all over again.
Clearly oblivious to the storm of emotions brewing inside her, Principale Francine gave another quick nod and a rare hint of a smile. “Welcome, Sister Alouette.”
Alouette pulled her face into a smile too and managed to utter an enthusiastic “Thank you.”
But in that moment, she felt less like a real sister than ever.
- CHAPTER 37 -
CHATINE
AS SOON AS THE SHADOWS of the Frets enveloped her, Chatine yanked back her hood and fell to her knees, trying desperately to suck in air. That entire cruiseur ride home, she’d felt like she couldn’t breathe. The walls of that blasted vehicle had been closing in on her, a millimètre every second, until she felt like she was being squeezed to death.
She unzipped the front of her coat and let the cold air rush in. For once in her life, she was too warm and the biting wind of Laterre’s night was unusually refreshing.
She should never have agreed to play that stupide game of his. Everything had been going great until then. She’d succeeded. She’d gotten the exact intel that the general had asked for.
“Pretend to be a girl,” she whispered, mocking Marcellus in a disdainful tone. “You be Alouette.” She spat on the ground. “I would rather die than be that wide-eyed Défecteur bimbo.”
Chatine wasn’t sure why, but there was something about that girl that she didn’t trust. Even though she’d only seen her for a few seconds in the hallway of Fret 7 as she was running away, she could feel it in her gut. And Chatine’s gut was rarely ever wrong.
When the cold air had finally calmed her down, Chatine stood and zipped up her coat. As soon as she pulled the hood back over her head, she started to feel like herself again. Not the blushing, bumbling idiot whom she’d barely recognized back in that cruiseur.
She pushed back her left sleeve, tapped her Skin, and accessed the log she’d captured in the Tourbay. She pushed play and listened carefully, waiting for the conversation between Marcellus and Mabelle to begin. But all she could hear in her audio chip was static. She glanced down at the screen of her Skin, which showed nothing more than a dizzying scramble of colored pixels.
Sols. They must have blocked the signal somehow. To make sure neither of us could log it.
Chatine groaned and dismissed the useless file.
She’d just have to remember everything that was said.
She tapped at the screen to send an AirLink request to General Bonnefaçon. She didn’t expect him to actually connect. It was already late at night and Chatine was planning to just send a message to relay her good news, but after a few seconds, his face appeared on the screen.
“Good evening, Renard,” the general said in that same pretentious accent. Why did the Second Estate have to talk like that? All clipped and haughty.
“Good evening.” Chatine tried to emulate the inflection, but she just came off sounding like an idiot.
“I hope that you being outside after curfew means you have been busy acquiring information for me.”
Chatine straightened her spine, as though her confident posture would translate across the AirLink. “It does, actually.”
The general’s lips twitched into a smile. “Excellent, do tell.”
Chatine swallowed and prepared herself to tell the general everything that had happened in the Tourbay—every word that was said, every twinkle in Mabelle’s eyes, every falter in Marcellus’s speech—but it was suddenly as though her voice were caught in her throat. As she thought about Marcellus’s tormented expression in the cruiseur on the ride back to Vallonay, she felt a strange wave of sickness pass over her. It was a sensation she’d never remembered experiencing before. She cleared her throat and swallowed again, trying to dispel the acid feeling in her stomach. But it wouldn’t go away. For some reason, the idea of reporting Marcellus’s actions to the general was making her physically ill.
No, she commanded herself. Now is not the time to go soft. Not when you’re this close.
“Yes?” the general prompted.
He’s nothing but an arrogant Second Estate pomp. He means nothing to you. And you certainly don’t mean anything to him.
Chatine opened her mouth, which was bone dry. “I—we—”
The general sighed. “I’m a very busy man, Renard. Do you have information for me or not?”
Chatine glanced up at the dark sky, thinking about Usonia. Sol-light. Freedom.
Then she forced herself to think back to the cruiseur. To that suffocating space. To Marcellus leaning close to her, grabbing her hand.
“You be Alouette . . . pretend to be a girl.”
“He was summoned to Montfer.” The words spilled out of her like water out of a busted pipe. “He got a message from his former governess, asking him to meet her there.”
The general’s eyes narrowed with realization. “Mabelle Dubois.”
“Yes. We went to Montfer and met her in the Tourbay. Those are the bog—”
“I know what the Tourbay is,” the general interjected.
“Oh, sorry. Anyway, she was surrounded by bodyguards. Vangarde operatives, I assume. I counted eight. Which means there might have been a cell nearby.”
Chatine shivered as she said the words, the weight of her actions finally starting to sink in.
What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?
She was ratting out a Vanga
rde cell. This was the very thing she didn’t want to get involved in. Regime politics. Revolutions. Wars.
You’re doing what you have to do, she reminded herself. But for the first time in as long as she could remember, her usual excuse didn’t comfort her.
“And Mabelle tried to recruit him?” the general confirmed, pulling Chatine’s thoughts back to her Skin.
She glanced uneasily around. The Frets were quiet. Deserted. It was well past curfew. “Yes, but he turned her down. Obviously. He’s very loyal to the Regime.”
Something inscrutable flickered across the general’s face. “What else?”
Chatine thought back to the misty boglands. To the tune that Mabelle had hummed to Marcellus. She was almost certain the song was some kind of code. Something only Marcellus would know. “I don’t think the Vangarde is finished with Marce—with Officer Bonnefaçon. I believe they will make contact again. Soon.”
“Is that all?”
“I’m sorry,” Chatine rushed to say. “I tried to log the conversation, but they’d jammed the signal somehow. The file on my Skin was nothing but static.”
“Hmm,” the general said cryptically, and Chatine was starting to feel uneasy.
She waited for him to speak again, to tell her she had done her job well. Her task was complete. Her voyageur to Usonia would be prepped immediately. But he remained so silent and still that, for a moment, she wondered if the AirLink connection had been lost.
“So,” she prompted. “My reward?”
“Your reward?” the general echoed, as though the words were unfamiliar to him.
“You promised me passage to Usonia if I tailed Marcellus when the Vangarde made contact and reported back to you.”
The general stared at her through the screen, pensive and foreboding. “That’s not exactly what I said.”
Chatine felt panic rise up inside her. She tried to keep her voice calm and steady, but it was a losing battle. “Yes, you did. You said if I delivered the information you needed, then you would—”
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