“Princess? How do you feel?”
She slumped against Jacin’s arm. “Hungry.”
“Right. We’ll get you some food.” It was strange to see him showing so much concern. Usually his emotions were written in a code she couldn’t break. But now he looked past her and asked, “What does it say?”
Following the look, Winter saw an old man wearing a face mask and holding a portscreen. “Her vitals are returning to normal, but it’s too early to tell if this is a result of being awoken from stasis or because of the antidote.”
It occurred to her, like a muddled puzzle fitting together, that they were outside and surrounded by people. Winter listed her head and a curl of damp hair slithered across her shoulder. There was vivacious Scarlet and there were the wolf soldiers that had failed to eat them and there were many, many strangers, all curious and worried and hopeful.
And there was her cousin, her metal hand gleaming.
“Hello, friends,” she whispered, to no one in particular.
It was Scarlet who smiled first. “Welcome back, crazy.”
“How long before we know for sure if it worked?” asked Jacin.
The doctor glided the portscreen back and forth above Winter’s arm. She followed the device, noting how it seemed to be scanning the rash of bumps and blisters on her skin. “It shouldn’t be long now.”
Running her tongue around her parched mouth, Winter lifted her hand toward the false daylight. False now—but not for long. Sun rays could be seen brightening the horizon. Sunrise was upon them.
The rash was thick on her skin, rings of raised flesh piled on top of one another, some ready to burst. It was horrifying and grotesque.
If her lungs had been functioning, she might have laughed.
For the first time in her life, no one could say she was beautiful.
Her attention caught on a particularly large spot, as wide as her thumb was long, situated between her wrist and the base of her palm. It was wiggling. As she stared, it grew little legs and crawled up her arm, dodging its brethren like an obstacle course, skittering over the tender skin of her inner elbow. A fat spider scurrying up her flesh.
“Winter.”
She jumped. Scarlet had moved closer and was standing at the foot of the tank, arms akimbo. She, too, had dark spots, and though there were not as many of them as Winter had, they stood out more on her pale skin.
“The doctor asked you a question.”
“Don’t snap at her,” said Jacin.
“Don’t coddle her,” snapped Scarlet.
Winter glanced down to check that the rogue spot had returned to her wrist before looking up at the masked doctor.
“I apologize, Your Highness. May I take a sample of your blood?”
She nodded, and watched with interest as he inserted a needle into her arm and drew out a sample. Her manufacturing plant had been busy while she slept.
He put the sample into a specialized plug on the side of the portscreen. “Oh, and drink this,” he said, as an afterthought, gesturing to a paper cup with an orange liquid in it. “It should help with your throat.”
Jacin tried to hold the cup for her, but she took it from him. “I’m getting stronger,” she whispered.
He did not look comforted.
“Yes. Excellent,” said the doctor. “The pathogens appear to be neutralized. Your immune system is rebounding at an impressive rate.” He grinned. “I believe it’s safe to say the antidote worked. You should be feeling much better within … oh, an hour or two, I think, will make a notable difference, though it may take a few days to feel entirely yourself again.”
“Oh, do not worry,” Winter said, her voice faint even in her own head. “I never feel entirely myself.” She held up her arm. “Will I forever be a leopard?”
“The spots will fade with time.”
“Will they leave scars?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“It’s all right, Winter,” said Scarlet. “The important thing is that you’re alive.”
“I am not sad about it.” She traced a finger over the raised flesh. How alien it felt. How imperfect. She could get used to imperfection.
“That’s proof then,” said Cinder, appearing at Jacin’s side. “The antidote works. I need two volunteers to assist with the rest of the distribution. Anyone who’s showing symptoms can form a line over there—if anyone has blue fingers, they move to the front of the line. No running, and help people who are too weak to help themselves. Let’s move.” She clapped her hands and the people hurried to obey.
Jacin pulled some of the gunk out of Winter’s hair, his gaze absent like he wasn’t aware he was doing it. In response, Winter reached up and tugged at a clump of his own blond hair.
“Are you real?” she asked.
He smiled, but only a little. “Do I seem real?”
She shook her head. “Never.” Her attention darted to the crowd. “Has Selene had her revolution?”
“Not yet. The coronation is this evening. But we’re…” He paused. “Things are happening.”
She chewed her lip, fighting off the disappointment. This was not over. They had not yet won.
“Is there somewhere we can go to get this stuff off her?” Jacin asked.
“There are two washrooms inside the clinic, one down each hallway,” said the doctor.
Scooping Winter into his arms, Jacin carried her inside the clinic. She tucked her head beneath his chin, even though she was leaving slimy goop all over him. It felt good to be together, for a moment at least.
He found the washroom, which contained a toilet and a large utilitarian sink and a shallow bathtub. Jacin paused in the doorway, surveying his options with an unhappy look.
“Your face is bruised.” She brushed a knuckle against the wound. “Were you in a brawl?”
“Thorne hit me.” His lips twitched. “But I guess I deserved it.”
“It makes you look very tough. No one would ever suspect you’re just a gentle goose on the inside.”
He snorted and held her gaze. Suddenly she was feeling his heartbeat, but she didn’t know if it was beating harder, or if she’d just become attuned to it in that moment. She started to feel shy.
The last time she’d seen Jacin, she’d kissed him. She’d confessed her love for him.
She flushed. Losing her courage, she looked away first. “You can put me in the bathtub. I’m strong enough to wash myself.”
He reluctantly settled her on the edge of the metal tub and began fidgeting with the water controls. The water had a sulfuric smell. When the temperature was right, he searched through a cabinet and found a bottle of liquid soap. He set it within reaching distance.
Winter pulled at her hair, gathering a handful of chemical-scented grime in her palm. “You don’t see the disease when you look at me.”
Dipping his fingers into the tub, Jacin adjusted the waterspout again. He helped steady Winter with one hand as she spun on the tub’s edge and dunked her feet into the water.
“Have I ever seen the disease when I looked at you?”
She knew he was talking about Lunar sickness, not some engineered plague. The disease in her head came with its own scars.
Scars, scars. She was coming to have so many. She wondered if it was wrong to be proud of them.
“How does it feel?” Jacin asked, and it took her a moment to realize he was asking about the water.
She inspected the pocked, darkened base of the tub and the cloudy water. “Am I to bathe fully dressed?”
“Yes, you are. I’m not leaving you alone.”
“Because you can’t stand to be parted from me?” She fluttered her lashes at him, but the teasing suggestion was quickly replaced with a realization. “Oh. Because you think I’ll have a vision and drown.”
“It can’t be both? Come on, slide in.”
She held his neck while he lowered her into the water, just a few degrees above lukewarm and stinging against her raw skin. An oily film rose to
the water’s surface.
“I’ll get a wash—”
Jacin paused, stuck in place when her arms didn’t unwind from his neck. He was kneeling on the other side of the tub, his arms elbow deep in water.
“Jacin. I’m sorry that I’m not sort of pretty anymore.”
One eyebrow lifted and he looked like he might laugh.
“I mean it.” Her stomach tightened with sadness. “And I’m sorry you have to worry about me all the time.”
His almost-smile faded. “I like worrying about you. It gives me something to think about during those long, boring shifts in the palace.” Tilting her chin down, Jacin pressed a kiss on top of Winter’s head. Her arms fell away from him.
He stood, giving her an illusion of privacy while he scrounged for more towels.
“Will you stay a royal guard after Selene becomes the queen?”
“I don’t know,” he said, tossing a washcloth at her. “But I’m pretty sure that as long as you’re a princess in need of protecting, you’re going to be stuck with me.”
Seventy-Five
It had grown hot inside the cabinet and Cress’s left leg was tingling from too little blood flow when she finally forced herself to move. She didn’t want to. Uncomfortable as the cabinet was, it felt safe, and she was convinced that the moment she moved someone would shoot her.
But she couldn’t stay there forever, and time was not going to move any slower to accommodate her failing courage. Wiping her nose with the faux butterfly wing, she forced herself to nudge open the door.
The hallway light blinded her and Cress shrank back, hiding behind her arm. She was drained of emotions as she crawled out of the cabinet, peering each way down the servants’ hall.
Her eye caught on a smear of blood not far from the cupboard. Thorne. She flinched away and tried to erase the sight from her memory before it paralyzed her.
Cress pounded life back into her leg and slowly stood. She listened, but heard nothing but distant machines and the hum of whatever heating and water systems were working in these walls.
Steeling herself, she checked that the chip was still tucked in her dress before she picked up the gun. The antennae had fallen off again and she left them in the bottom of the cabinet.
Her stomach was in ropes, her heart in tatters, but she managed to backtrack to the corridor Thorne had mentioned. She paused at the corner, peeked her head around, and drew back, her heart pummeling her rib cage.
A guard was there.
She should have expected it. Would all of the elevators be under guard now? The stairwells too?
Hopelessness seeped into her already-delirious thoughts. They were looking for her, and she was vulnerable without Thorne, and she had no plan.
This wouldn’t work. She couldn’t do it alone. She was going to be caught and imprisoned and killed, and Thorne would be killed, and Cinder would fail, and they would all—
She balled her fists into her eyes, pressing them there until she felt the panic subside.
Be heroic, Thorne had said.
She had to be heroic.
Hardly daring to breathe for fear of drawing attention, she strained to think of another way to get to the fourth floor.
Footsteps approached. She scrambled behind a statue with a missing arm and curled into a ball.
Be heroic.
She had to focus. She had to think.
The coronation would begin soon. She had to be in the control center before it was over.
When the guard had gone, and she was relatively sure she wasn’t going to hyperventilate, Cress lifted her head and peeked around the statue. The hall wasn’t wide but it was crammed full of stuff, from cabinets and framed paintings to rolled area rugs and cleaning buckets.
An idea forming, she used the wall for support as she stood and took a few steps away from the statue. She braced herself, then ran at the statue and shoved her shoulder into it as hard as she could.
Her foot slipped from the force and she landed hard on one knee, clenching her teeth against a grunt. The statue tilted on its base. Back. Forth. Back—
Cress covered her head as the statue toppled toward her, hitting her on the hip before shattering on the floor. She pressed a silent scream into her knuckles, but forced herself to hobble back toward the elevator bank, crawling behind a stack of rolled-up area rugs.
It wasn’t long before the guard came running, darting past Cress’s hiding space.
She shoved down the pain in her bruised knee and hip and scurried out from behind the rugs. She ran as hard as she could toward the abandoned elevators. A yell of surprise echoed behind her. She collided into the wall and jabbed her finger into the call button. The doors slid open.
She stumbled inside. “Door, close!”
The doors drew shut.
A gun fired. Cress screamed as one bullet buried itself in the wall behind her. Another pinged off the closing doors before they clamped shut.
She fell against the wall and groaned, pressing her hand against her injured hip. She could already tell it was going to leave one enormous bruise.
The elevator started to rise and she realized after a moment that she hadn’t selected a floor. No doubt, the guard below would be monitoring it to see which floor she arrived at, anyway.
She had to be strategic. She had to think like a criminal mastermind.
Cress tried to prepare herself for whatever she would be faced with when the doors opened again. More guards. More guns. More endless corridors and desperate hiding places.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she struggled to picture the palace map she’d studied back at the mansion. She could envision the throne room easily, situated in the center of the palace, its balcony overhanging the lake below. The rest started to fill in as she focused. The private quarters for the thaumaturges and the court. A banquet hall. Drawing rooms and offices. A music room. A library.
And the queen’s system control center, including the broadcasting suite where the crown recorded their propaganda in comfort and security.
The elevator stopped at the third floor. Trembling, Cress hid the gun in the frilly folds of her skirt. The doors opened.
A crowd of strangers stood before her. Cress squeaked. Her feet itched to run, her brain screamed at her to hide—but there was no space to disappear into as the men and women eyed her with contempt and suspicion. Those closest to the elevator hesitated, like they were considering waiting for another. But then one person grumbled something and filed in, and the others followed.
Cress pressed her back against the far wall, but the crush of bodies didn’t come. Despite how crowded the elevator was, everyone was being careful not to get too close to her.
Her anxiety began to shrivel up. These people weren’t Lunar. These were the Earthen guests and, judging from their formal attire, they were heading down to the coronation.
The last thing she wanted was to be caught in a crowd of people heading to the coronation.
As the doors started to close, Cress cleared her throat. “Pardon me, but I’d like to get out here.”
She squeezed through, her crinkled skirt catching against the fine suits and gowns. Though there were many frowns cast in her direction, they gladly parted for her.
Because they thought she was Lunar. A real Lunar, with the ability to manipulate them, not just a shell.
“Thank you,” Cress muttered to the person who had stopped the doors from closing. She slipped into the elevator bank, pulse thumping.
Another beautiful hall. More striking views. A dozen pedestals showcasing statues and painted vases.
Cress found herself yearning for the rugged interior of the Rampion.
She tucked herself against a wall and waited until she was sure the elevator had gone before calling for a new one. She needed to go up one more floor. She had to find some stairs, or escape back into the servants’ halls. She felt too out in the open here. Too exposed.
A chime announced the arrival of a new elevator, and Cress spooked,
darting out of sight. When the doors opened, they were filled with laughter and giggles, and Cress held her breath until the doors had closed again.
At the sound of voices coming from her left, Cress turned and headed right. She passed a series of black doors, their darkness sharply contrasted against the white walls. Each one was marked with a name and affiliation in gold script letters. REPRESENTATIVE MOLINA, ARGENTINA, AMERICAN REPUBLIC. PRESIDENT VARGAS, AMERICAN REPUBLIC. PRIME MINISTER BROMSTAD, EUROPEAN FEDERATION. REPRESENTATIVE ÖZBEK, SOUTH RUSSIA PROVINCE, EUROPEAN FEDERATION.
A door swung open and a woman with gray-blonde hair and a floor-length navy gown stepped out—Robyn Gliebe, Australia’s speaker of the house. When Cress had worked for Levana, she’d spent hours listening to Gliebe’s speeches regarding trade agreements and labor disputes. They had not been exciting hours.
Gliebe paused, startled to see Cress standing there. Cress hid the gun behind her back.
“Can I help you?” she said, asserting herself with narrowed, scolding eyes.
Of course, Cress would have to run into the only Earthen diplomat who wasn’t intimidated by a dodgy Lunar girl sneaking around her wing.
“No,” said Cress, ducking her head in apology. “You startled me, that’s all.” She moved past the woman, eyes lowered.
“Are you supposed to be up here?”
Hesitating, Cress glanced back. “I’m sorry?”
“Her Majesty guaranteed we would not be pestered during our stay. I think you should leave.”
“Oh. I’m … I have a message to deliver. I’ll just be a minute. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
Cress scooted backward, but the woman persisted, pulling her penciled eyebrows into a tight frown. Stepping forward, she held out her hand. “Who is your message for? I will see that he or she receives it.”
Cress stared down at the open palm, soft and wrinkled. “It’s … confidential.”
The woman pursed her lips. “Well, I’m afraid if you don’t leave immediately, I will have to call a guard to confirm your story. We were promised our privacy and I don’t—”
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