“I’m Gregory Thompson,” he says. “My father works for the Department of Subspecies Management, sorts out the Synth-O-Blood shipments to the Legion, that sort of thing. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
Natalie smiles politely. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.” I try not to laugh. Gregory's making it sound like his dad is somebody important in the ministry, when really he’s just a foreman at the Synth-O-Blood factory.
He looks disappointed. “Well, it’s an honor to have you here. I’ll happily show you around the school—”
“Day’s doing that, but thanks,” she says dismissively.
“You don’t want to be seen with her sort, she’s one of the Rise kids,” he says to Natalie. “I’ll set you up with the right type of people to know.”
Day’s cheeks burn red.
“I can make up my own mind about who the ‘right type of people’ are,” Natalie snaps. “I’m already getting a pretty good idea of who I want to avoid.”
He pushes his lank hair away from his eyes. “Of course, my apologies. By the way, may I give you my heartfelt condolences about your father’s death last year?”
“Thanks,” she mutters.
I roll my eyes, and Gregory turns on me.
“Show some respect, nipper.”
I dig my fingers into the edge of the desk, crushing the wood. “Why? All his death meant to me was one less Sentry in this world. That can only ever be a good thing.”
Natalie flinches and quickly turns her back on me, but not before I’ve seen the tears glistening in her eyes.
“Just ignore him. He’s a jerk,” Day whispers to Natalie.
Gregory smirks at me and skulks back to his desk.
Natalie wipes her eyes, and guilt crawls through me. I immediately force that emotion aside. Why should I care if she’s upset? She’s just a fragging Sentry.
“I don’t know how I’m going to get through the rest of the year with her here,” I say to Beetle through gritted teeth.
“Just avoid her, man,” Beetle says.
“I swear, we’ll be lucky to make it to the end of the term without killing each other,” I say.
I mean it as a joke, but part of me wonders if I’m right.
8
NATALIE
I HURRY OUT of the classroom with Day, eager to get away from Ash, still hurt by what he said about my father. Yet again I’m reminded why Father was wrong to defend the Darklings; they’re rude and cruel and don’t care about anyone’s feelings but their own.
Ash exits the classroom and follows us down the corridor, hatred emanating off him. Rattled, I grab Day’s arm and drag her into the girls’ restroom. Ash shoots me a loathing look as the door swings shut.
“You okay?” Day asks.
I nod, but my hands are trembling. How am I going to survive being around Ash all year, when one glance from him turns my blood to ice?
“Is Ash such a jerk to everyone?” I say.
“Pretty much,” she says. “Just avoid him. That’s what I do.”
I sigh. That sounds like a good plan. “What’s up with that short guy?”
“Gregory Thompson?”
“Yeah. Could he be more of a suck-up?”
Day laughs. “He’s a power-hungry troll. He thinks he’s so special just because he’s Head Prefect. Thanks for defending me earlier. He’s really got it in for me.”
“Why doesn’t he like you?”
“Oh, let me see,” she says, tapping her lip thoughtfully. “He hates girls, he particularly hates ones who are much smarter than he is, he hates the fact I live in the Rise, he—”
“Basically just hates everything?”
“Pretty much. So I heard you were living in Centrum this past year—is it as amazing as everyone says?” Day asks.
“It’s even better. You wouldn’t believe it, the place is huge. It must be twenty times bigger than Black City, and so cosmopolitan. Absolutely everyone wears the latest fashions, and there’s so much to do.”
“What about the buildings? Are they really as high as a mountain?”
“Not quite, but close enough.”
“And are the streets really paved with gold coins?”
I laugh. “No, but the stones they use do have a metallic sheen to them, so when it’s sunny, they sparkle and the whole city turns brilliant gold.”
“It sounds wonderful; it’s my dream to live there, but I’d never be able to afford it on a typical Workboot salary.” Day pushes her glasses up her nose. “So I’ve applied for the Fast-Track Political program to work for the Sentry government. I really hope I get on it.”
I feel a pinch of resentment at the fact I only got on the Science program.
“I’m sure you’ll get on it,” I lie. The truth is, very few Workboots ever get on the Fast-Track program. The only ones who do are the children of businessmen who’ve been able to scrape up enough money to bribe the application committee.
“Do you think it’s safe to leave yet?” I ask.
She nods, and we head to first period. I’m relieved to see Ash is nowhere in sight. The day goes by in a blur, and by the end of last period, my head is swimming with all the new names and faces I have to remember.
Day walks me to the main entrance, her arms laden with books. I was disappointed to discover we only have four lessons together: art, drama, history and advanced combined science. She’s in the advanced classes for all the other subjects, and I’m . . . well, not. I’ve always been an average student, except at science, which is the one subject I’m actually quite good at, although it’s never interested me as a career, even less so now that I know what sort of “experiments” they do.
She chats to me about all the extracurricular activities she’s doing to help her Fast-Track application, and I nod occasionally to show I’m listening while all the time keeping an eye out for Ash, making sure I don’t bump into him again.
Just when I think I’m in the clear, my heart suddenly yanks. Nearby, Ash walks down the stairs with Beetle. His mouth goes tight when he sees me. For a moment, I can’t breathe as we stare at each other.
I blink, breaking the connection.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say to Day.
Once outside, I immediately spot Sebastian at the bottom of the steps, ready to take me home, back to my prison. He’s busy checking out a group of girls as they walk by, so he hasn’t noticed me yet. I have a flash of inspiration.
“Can I come home with you and hang out for a while?” I ask Day.
She looks at me uncertainly. “I . . . I don’t think—”
“I’ll return the favor. I’ll even introduce you to my mother. She can tell you all about being an Emissary.”
I can see her mind whirring, trying to weigh her options. “You do know where I live?” she says.
I nod. The Rise is a slum and no place for an Emissary’s daughter, but I don’t want to go home. Not yet.
“You’ll really introduce me to your mother?” she asks.
“I promise.”
“All right,” she says.
“We can’t let Sebastian see us, okay?” I tuck my hair into my red school beret to hide my distinctive curls.
We do our best to blend in with the other students as we walk down the stairs, bowing our heads as we hurry past Sebastian. He scans the crowd but doesn’t see us. He’ll have a complete fit when he knows what’s happened, but I’ll worry about that later.
* * *
The walk to the Rise takes around thirty minutes, and I’m starting to regret wearing my delicate patent shoes, the ones Mother picked out for me. I stop for the umpteenth time to rub my feet, and Day huffs loudly, finally losing her patience.
“These books aren’t getting any lighte
r, Natalie,” she says to me, referring to the heavy pile of textbooks in her hands.
“Sorry,” I mumble, taking a few from her, embarrassed that I’ve let her carry them for so long without offering to help. My servants normally do things like that for me.
The constant stops have been a blessing, though. Ash is up ahead, and it’s kept us far enough back for him not to detect us. I can’t help but notice how everyone else is in groups or pairs, but he walks alone.
The Rise is even more dilapidated and impoverished than I could have ever imagined. The buildings creak and groan under their own weight, and the cobbled streets are running with black water and even blacker rats. The only thing of beauty in the whole place is a rickety old church, covered in bright green ivy that adds a pop of color in an otherwise bleak palette. As we near it, I notice the words RACE TRAITOR have been crudely painted on the door, and I soon understand why, as Ash walks up the pathway and goes inside. Day notices me looking.
“His dad’s a Minister of the Old Faith.”
I can’t hide my surprise at the knowledge that Ash is a preacher’s son.
We walk a little farther down the street, and I get a few puzzled looks when people recognize me. But then they shake their heads, thinking they must be crazy—why would the Emissary’s daughter be in their neck of the woods?
Day’s house is a small, one-story Cinderstone building with a corrugated iron roof. She unlocks the door and invites me in.
Her house isn’t anything like I expected. Sure, it’s way too small—I couldn’t possibly live in a place like this permanently—but it’s warm and inviting, with bright handmade wallpaper and patchwork curtains that are obviously cheap but pretty nonetheless. I expected it to be much dirtier and drab, but there’s actually some color here, and it’s very clean, almost as clean as our house.
We’re in a small room that seems to be serving as a kitchen–cum–dining room. The wooden furnishings are simple but functional, and on the table in the center of the room is a vase of wildflowers that smells of herbs.
A plump woman with light brown skin and a round, pretty face enters the kitchen from an adjoining room, her arms laden with clothes. She stops dead when she sees me. Her dark eyes flick from me to Day, then back to me again.
Her mouth drops open. “Oh, my—”
“This is Natalie Buchanan, the Emissary’s daughter. Nat, this is my mother, Sumrina,” Day says quickly.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say.
“Mama, can Natalie stay for dinner?” Day asks.
Sumrina nods her head slightly, still dumbstruck.
Day ushers me down a very short, tight corridor toward her room. The passageway is packed with old books from before the war. Forbidden books. I study their gorgeous covers, admiring the illustrations, the colors, reveling in the vibrancy of it. All books these days look the same, with Sentry regulation red and black covers. Fear crosses Day’s eyes.
“It’s all right. I have some contraband books myself,” I say, and she relaxes. It’s not the worst offense to be caught with forbidden books; it’s certainly not considered a “grievous crime.” All you’d get is a public flogging, but it still deters most people.
“They’re my papa’s,” Day explains. “They’ve been here for so long, I don’t even notice them anymore; they’re just part of the furniture. I totally forgot they were there.”
“So your father likes to read, then?” I say as we enter her cramped bedroom, dropping the textbooks on her desk.
“He’s a teacher,” she says.
She indicates for me to sit on the metal-framed bed, while she takes the hard wooden stool by the desk. The walls of her room are covered with photos of the Emissaries of the nine megastates that form the United Sentry States: the cosmopolitan Dominion State; the mining state of Black River, where Black City is found; the ice-capped Mountain Wolf; the wild and dangerous Barren Lands; the industrial Copper State; the tranquil waters of Golden Sands; the ancient Provinces; the farming Plantation State; and the forests of the Emerald State.
Most of the photos are of Emissary Bradshaw, a fat-cheeked, red-faced man who oversees the Dominion State, where Centrum is located. It’s the most prestigious state and the best position for any Emissary to be given. We stayed with him last year when we were evacuated from Black City. He’s one of the nicer Emissaries, as these things go. They’re not all like my mother; some of them have compassion, such as Emissary Vincent from the Copper State. She recently made it illegal for children under twelve to work in factories.
“I take it you want to be the Emissary of the Dominion State?” I tease.
Day’s cheeks turn rose red. “Well, I certainly don’t want to be Emissary of the Barren Lands.”
I laugh. That job’s a poisoned chalice. All the Emissaries who have been sent to the Barren Lands have been killed within a year, either by Wraths or the outlaws who live there. It’s a very wild place, and the citizens aren’t much nicer. Emissaries only get sent there if they’re being punished.
There’s not much else in Day’s room except a pile of books by her bed. A photo pokes out of one of the novels, and I take it out. The snapshot’s of her when she was about eight years old. She’s standing outside the church I saw earlier—Ash’s home—with her arm looped over Beetle’s shoulder.
“You were friends with Beetle?” I ask, taken aback.
“We were an item for a while. We all met at Minister Fisher’s church.”
“You’re not with him now?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I just use that old photo as a bookmark.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Ash happened,” she says bitterly, then adds, “Beetle’s parents were killed in the air raids last year. He was crushed, as you’d imagine. He went to live with his aunt, a Humans for Unity nut job, filling his mind with all their dangerous—never mind,” she says, getting back on the subject. “Beetle spent a lot more time at Minister Fisher’s church, searching for some answers, I guess. He was always on good terms with Ash, but they became best friends. There was no room for me anymore.”
“So you don’t speak to Beetle because he’s close friends with a twin-blood Darkling?”
“No, I’m not friends with Beetle anymore because Ash got him hooked on Haze, and Beetle became a stranger to me. He used to be so ambitious, so smart. We had dreams of moving to Centrum,” Day says, her eyes glistening. “But that all changed when he became an addict. He just didn’t care about anything except getting high. He skipped school, lost interest in his appearance. He even cheated on me with some Hazer skank when he was tripping.” She mutters the last bit.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quietly. “Someone I cared about cheated on me too, so I know how it feels.”
She gives me a small smile. “I was willing to forgive him if he promised never to do Haze again, but he told me to fragg off. He chose drugs over me. So that was that.”
A door slams in the other room, and a deep voice bellows out to greet everyone.
“We’re home!”
“That’s Papa,” Day says, beaming.
We go back into the kitchen, where Day’s mother, Sumrina, has already started preparing dinner over the open fire in the hearth. She’s changed out of her work uniform and has put on a pale blue, floor-length bustle dress, with intricate beadwork over the corset. The dress is clearly old, probably an heirloom, and somewhat over-the-top for a family dinner. Day’s father places a fish wrapped in greaseproof paper on the table, then kisses his wife.
“You look beautiful,” he says to her.
“Not now, Michael. We have a guest,” she says, shooing him away.
Michael looks at me with inquisitive, bespectacled eyes. He doesn’t seem particularly impressed that I’m here. He’s quite handsome for a
dad, with skin the color of the blackest Cinderstone, a broad nose and a warm smile. Sitting at the table behind him is a young boy, who looks a lot like his father, except his spine is all curved over, like an old man’s. I think of Polly when I look at him. Why didn’t Day tell me she had a brother? Then again, I haven’t mentioned my sister.
Day wraps her arms around her brother and looks challengingly at me. It’s the same expression I give people when they see Polly’s scars, daring them to say anything. I go over to him and crouch down so we’re eye height with each other. Everyone in the room goes silent.
“My name’s Natalie. What’s yours?” I ask.
He smiles. “Michael Junior Jefferson-Rajasingham.”
I hold out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He shakes my hand with surprising vigor. Day’s father, Michael Senior, laughs heartily.
“Let her go, MJ, before you take her arm off.”
MJ grins and lets me go.
Sumrina puts a pile of potatoes on the table.
“You lot peel those spuds.”
They each grab a potato. I sit where I am.
Michael Senior looks at me. “We all help prepare the meals in this house, even the guests.”
“Dada, you’re embarrassing me,” Day says through gritted teeth.
“It’s okay.” I pick up a knife and a potato, wanting to help, but quickly realize I don’t know what to do. I’ve never so much as peeled an orange in my life; anytime I’ve wanted a snack, Martha gets it for me.
Day shows me how it’s done. She occasionally chucks bits of vegetable at her brother, who sticks his tongue out at her. Everyone chats and laughs, and I sit back and watch them. So this is what a normal family feels like? It’s nice.
MJ reaches out for another potato, then groans. Michael Senior is by his side in a flash. He soothingly rubs his son’s bent back. Sumrina wrings a dishcloth between her hands.
“Did you get any painkillers at the market?” she asks.
Michael shakes his head. “I didn’t have any coins left after I bought the fish.”
“What’s wrong with your brother?” I whisper to Day.
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