The White Rose

by Amy Ewing

  “I’m not telling you what to do,” I say. “But even if you were to make it to your house, see your sister . . . it’s suicide, Ash. Would Cinder want you to die, too?”

  “Don’t,” he says fiercely. “Don’t talk to me about what she would want. Not right now, when she’s so close.” He looks out the window of the train. “The last time I was here, they were taking me to the Bank. I remember thinking this train was the cleanest thing I’d ever seen. It practically sparkled. Nothing in the Smoke ever sparkles, except maybe the coal dust in winter.”

  Ash’s face contorts, and for a moment I think he’s going to cry. But then the Thief is back.

  “All right—” He stops when he sees Ash’s face. “Everything . . . okay?”

  “His sister lives here,” Raven says. “She’s dying.”

  “Oh,” the Thief says with a sympathetic look. “Black lung?”

  Ash nods.

  “My best friend died of black lung last year. He wasn’t even working in the factories yet. Got it from breathing the air around here. And the royalty sure aren’t gonna dole out medicine for an orphan kid. It isn’t fair, you know? They keep us penned in like animals. You’re born a street urchin in the Smoke and that’s how you’ll stay, no questions asked.”

  “Not always,” Ash says.

  “Did they ask you if you wanted to be a companion?” the Thief says.

  Ash’s mouth twitches. “No.”

  “Yeah. They just take and take.”

  “What did they take from you?”

  The Thief shrugs. “My parents.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ash says.

  “I don’t remember them. Anyway, we’ve got to get going. Put this on your faces,” he says, holding out his hands. Cupped in them is a mound of black soot.

  The soot is soft like powder, but as I rub it on my cheeks my nose wrinkles in reaction to the smell—like creosote and asphalt mixed together, harsh and sharp.

  “Do you two have hats?” he asks me and Raven. We both produce woolen caps, taken from Ash’s room at Madame Curio’s. “Good. Hide your hair.”

  “How did the Black Key find you anyway?” I ask as I shove my bun with the arcana inside up under the hat.

  “I’m the best pickpocket in this quarter of the Smoke,” the Thief says with pride. “I stole something he wanted. He was pretty impressed.”

  “Have you met him?” I ask. It seems awfully risky for Lucien to reveal himself to so many people.

  “Oh no,” the Thief says. “No one’s met the Black Key. He always communicates through letters or codes or other people. The Seamstress recruited me. She gives me food sometimes, too. There’s never enough at the orphanage.” He looks us up and down. “All right, let’s go.”

  “I like him,” Raven mutters to me as we leave the train.

  “Keep your heads down and your shoulders hunched,” Ash says. “We should fit right in.”

  I train my eyes on the worn wooden planks beneath me. Then stairs, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight . . . The air is dense, like I could chew on it. It’s also slightly acrid, tinged with the same flavor and smell as the soot on our faces and clothes. I can see what the Thief meant about contracting black lung simply from breathing the air. We hit the pavement and I can’t help looking up, because we’re swarmed with bodies—scuffed boots and frayed pants and sunken faces. Some of the faces have a black sheen to them, like ours, with tired eyes; others are cleaner, fresher, their workday just starting. It makes me think of my father, the late nights he worked in the Smoke, coming home in the early hours of the morning.

  I remember this circle from my train ride to the Auction—the chimneys belching smoke in various shades of gray-greens, dull reds, murky purples, the dimness of the light, the streets teeming with people. But it was a passing moment, one small part of an immense journey. Being down here, among the people instead of on an elevated train track, is entirely different. I can smell the grease, hear the muttered conversations. People bump into me constantly, and it’s a fight to keep close to Ash and Raven, or to keep the Thief in sight. He’s particularly deft at navigating the crowds, weaving through them so easily that sometimes I lose track of him altogether.

  The street we’re on is very wide, made of chunky cobblestones, with a rail track set in its center. It’s lined with factories, tall buildings with barred windows and chimneys rising up into the cloudy sky. We seem to be moving with the flow of traffic—every now and then workers peel off and head inside one of the iron behemoths, often with a lot of pushing and shoving.

  There’s a loud clanging and half the crowd halts, Ash and the Thief included. I bump into Ash as Raven runs into me. There is a wooden signpost with the number 27 painted on it in red. And under the sign is a poster with Ash’s face on it.

  WANTED. FUGITIVE.

  I glance around nervously but no one is looking at us. We’re covered in soot anyway.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  A trolley comes rolling up the tracks toward us.

  “East Quarter woodworks and ironworks!” a conductor shouts.

  The trolley is by far the cleanest thing in the Smoke. It’s painted a cheerful red that contrasts sharply with its occupants. The conductor wears a smart uniform and a black cap. Over the front of the trolley, a sign written in bold letters proclaims, TROLLEY NO. 27. And underneath that, in elegant script, A MARSHALING SERVICE FOR THE WORKERS OF THE SMOKE.

  The Thief leads the way as Raven, Ash, and I clamber on board, holding on to the rungs that hang from the ceiling. The trolley car is packed, every seat filled, bodies pressing all around us. I doubt I’d even need to hold on to the rungs to stay standing. One woman keeps coughing into her handkerchief—I can see spots of red on the white fabric where blood has seeped through. No one gives us a second glance. No one looks at us, period. There is an overwhelming air of defeat in this car. I can smell it, thick and sour.

  Is this how Ash grew up? Is this future so much worse than his life as a companion? Then I think about the Marsh, about the vile stink when it rains, the emaciated children, the filth in the streets. If Ash saw that, maybe he’d think I was better off in the Duchess’s palace. But it’s not the outside of these circles that count. They have hidden hearts, all of them.

  Except maybe the Jewel.

  The trolley clangs its way down the cobblestone street until the factories take on a distinctly different look. A series of squat, brick buildings with short chimneys belching thick black smoke line the road. I can barely make out the sign painted over the door of the one closest to us—PADMORE’S IRONWORKS. And underneath in smaller lettering: A SUBSIDIARY OF THE HOUSE OF THE FLAME.

  “Padmore’s, Rankworth’s, Jetting’s!” the conductor calls as the trolley slows. Workers begin to push their way off the trolley while more wait outside to board.

  About ten minutes later, we stop again. The air is a little clearer here, the buildings made of light gray stone, taller than the ironwork factories, and with less smoke swirling through the air—or maybe the smoke is of a lighter hue. A sign hanging over one entrance reads: JOINDER’S WOODWORKS. A HOUSE OF THE STONE COMPANY.

  “This is us,” the Thief mutters, as the conductor shouts out, “Joinder’s, Plane’s, Shelding’s!”

  He hops off the trolley as the rest of us shuffle off with other workers, following a group heading to Joinder’s. Instead of filing into the factory, though, the Thief veers off to the side, down a narrow alley that empties out onto a broad thoroughfare. A pair of Regimentals strolls down the opposite sidewalk, occasionally harassing some of the workers. Ash pops up the collar of his coat to better hide his face.

  “We should go back,” he says. “Take the alleys behind the factories. They’ll take us right by the main terminal.”

  The Thief snorts. “You haven’t lived here in a while. Those alleys have been boarded up. We have to take the Boulevard of the Stone to the Gray streets.”

  Raven tenses beside me. Ash opens his mouth to protest, but
the Thief interrupts him.

  “This is my quarter,” he says confidently. “I know every inch of it. You’re going to have to trust me.”

  Ash closes his mouth and nods.

  The Boulevard of the Stone sends my heart hammering in my throat. Wanted posters are everywhere. On every street sign, on every door and lamppost. The street is bustling with a mix of electric stagecoaches and horse-pulled wagons and buggies. Trees are planted at various intervals, giving it a cleaner, more affluent feel than the other parts of the Smoke I’ve seen. The buildings are spaced apart from one another—we pass a branch of the Royal Bank, two statues of lions guarding its entrance, and a post office with about twenty thin stone steps leading up to a huge set of copper doors. A magistrate’s office dominates a large portion of the street, its columned facade hung with a giant flag boasting the Exetor’s crest, a crowned flame crossed with two spears. Ash’s face is in every window. There is an electric stagecoach parked outside of it. Painted on its doors is a blue circle crossed with two silver tridents.

  The crest of the House of the Lake.

  Panic grips me so completely it’s hard to breathe.

  “Ash,” I gasp, nodding to the coach. “It’s her.”

  “It’s probably a House coach,” Ash says. “Every royal House has them, for their foremen and factory inspectors. She’d never come here herself.”

  But he doesn’t sound so sure and we both pick up our pace.

  By the time the Thief turns down a smaller street, I’m sweating despite the cold air. We make a right, then a left, then another right. The streets turn from cobblestone to rough concrete. As we move farther away from the factories, houses begin to sprout up around us. They line the streets in rows, bunched together or leaning against one another like they’re afraid of being separated from the pack. It looks like Lily’s area in the Bank, but these houses aren’t painted in reds or yellows or blues. They are completely uniform, gray shingled roofs and slanted chimneys and smudged windows. Each one has a small porch jutting out from its front door. Most of them sag, their paint chipped and peeling. A young woman is hanging laundry from a line stretched between two porch posts while a baby plays with a wooden rattle at her feet. A few houses down, a grizzled old man with a rounded back sits in a wicker chair, smoking a pipe. I feel his eyes on me and drop my gaze to the cracks in the cement sidewalk.

  We round a corner and Ash stops short. He grabs my wrist and pulls me back, crouching behind a porch. Raven and the Thief follow suit.

  “What is it?” I whisper.

  “We’re not supposed to stop here,” the Thief says.

  Ash leans his head against the weathered wood and closes his eyes.

  “I don’t believe it,” he mutters.

  “Ash, what?”

  He opens his eyes. “Did you see it? The house?”

  I peek around the corner. The row of houses look the same—small, shabby, uniform—until about halfway down the street. A three-story building looms up against the slate-colored sky. It looks as though it was once the same size as the other houses, but has since devoured those on either side of it, giving it a lumpy, swollen appearance. It has been painted a garish shade of green with blue shutters, a stunning contrast among so much gray. An electric stagecoach sits outside it, and two Regimentals guard the door.

  “What a horrible color,” Raven says.

  “Who lives there?” I ask.

  “I did,” Ash says.

  “Oh,” I say. “It doesn’t look quite like I remember from the photograph.”

  “It screams money,” he says through gritted teeth.

  I peek around the corner again as two men emerge from the house. One is a young boy with brilliant orange hair, the other an old man in a woolen coat wearing a bowler hat. Red and Mr. Billings. They get into the electric stagecoach and it pulls away from the house, leaving the Regimentals standing guard.

  “They’re gone,” I say. “Those people from the companion house.”

  Ash turns to me, his eyes pleading. “Can’t I . . . can’t I look in the window? I don’t have to talk to her. I only want to see her. Before she’s gone forever.”

  I hold his gaze, knowing that it is absolutely foolish to attempt something like this.

  “There are Regimentals outside,” I say. “You wouldn’t get two blocks before they arrested you.”

  “I can distract them,” the Thief volunteers.

  “I don’t think that’s the best idea,” I say. “You don’t need to risk your life for this.”

  “Risk my life?” The Thief chuckles. “Not only can I outrun those two, I can disappear like you wouldn’t believe. I told you, it’s my quarter. I know all the hiding spots. And I’m not afraid of Regimentals.” He looks at Ash. “I understand. You have to say good-bye,” he says, echoing Raven’s words from earlier.

  Ash’s face is pale under all the soot.

  I squeeze his hand. Cinder is so close. And he has asked so little of me.

  “I’m coming with you,” I say.

  “No, Violet, you—”

  “I wasn’t asking for permission.” We all have things we need to do, no matter how reckless or foolish. I helped Raven instead of taking the serum myself. I know what it is to risk your life for someone you love. I can’t deny him this last chance. If it was Hazel dying and I was feet from where she was, I would do the exact same thing. But I won’t let him face this alone. We’ve come too far for that.

  There’s a space under the porch stairs that should provide a good hiding place. I turn to Raven. “Stay here. And you,” I add, looking at the Thief, “take care of her. No matter what else happens, you make sure she is safe.”

  “Don’t do that,” Raven says. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. My mind may be twisted and turned against me but I am Raven Stirling. I can make my own decisions.”

  I have to smile. She’s coming back. My Raven is coming back. The Countess couldn’t destroy her completely.

  “I know,” I say. “But I can’t bear for you to be in danger again. Please, Raven. For me. Stay safe.”

  She narrows her eyes a fraction. “You always did know how to lay on the guilt.”

  I laugh. “I’m glad I haven’t lost my touch.” I reach back to my bun and carefully extract the arcana. “Here. Keep this, just in case.”

  Raven’s fingers wrap around the delicate silver tuning fork. “You’re coming back,” she says.

  I nod. “Just in case,” I say again. At least Lucien or Garnet or someone can find Raven if something happens to me and Ash. I’m not leaving her entirely alone.

  “Ready?” the Thief asks. “You’ll only have a few minutes.”

  Ash nods.

  “Don’t get caught,” the Thief says with a grin. “That’s my motto.” He runs out onto the street.

  “I saw him!” he shouts to the Regimentals. “That companion. He was out by Joinder’s. This way!”

  He jogs in the opposite direction of our hiding place. The Regimentals look momentarily stunned until one of them says, “After him!” They rush off, leaving the house unattended.

  “Come on,” I say. “We don’t have much time.”

  Raven slips under the stairs as Ash and I hurry down the street. A lopsided porch encircles his house—the first floor boasts three large windows. We climb the steps as quietly as we can and crouch by the first window as the front door opens.

  A woman walks out of the house, wearing a heavy coat and carrying a purse. I am struck by how much she looks like Ash. She’s several years older than in the photograph I saw, but there is no doubt that Ash is her son. She frowns when she sees us.

  “Excuse me, what are—oh!” Her hand flies to her mouth.

  “Mother?” Ash says, rising to his feet.

  They stare at each other for a moment. I remember my Reckoning Day, the day the caretakers at Southgate allowed us back home for one last visit with our families before we were sold. Ash never got that. He told me he hasn’t seen his family in fo
ur years.

  The moment breaks as Mrs. Lockwood rushes forward.

  “Oh, Ash,” she says, pulling him into her arms. “Oh, my boy . . . look at you, you’re . . . you’re all grown up. But . . . why are you here? Why would you come? They’re looking for you, they—”

  She glances around and sees that the Regimentals are gone. She also sees me.

  “Who—?”

  “I need to see Cinder,” Ash says. “I don’t have much time.”

  I have to give Ash’s mother credit—she grasps the severity of the situation extremely fast.

  “Of course,” she says, opening the door and stepping inside. “But keep your voice down. Your father and brothers are out back.”

  The inside of the house looks similar to the outside, as if it were once a much smaller space that has been added to over time. There is a staircase to my right, and a large living area spreads out in front of me. The furniture is mismatched, some of it looking quite expensive while other pieces are clearly homemade. A chaise lounge sits against a wall beside a rough wooden stool. An ornately carved table dominates the center of the room, a tea tray with chipped cups resting on it. And in an armchair by the windows, a small figure in a white nightgown sits with a book propped up in her hands.

  “Cinder?” Ash whispers.

  The book falls to the floor. “Ash?” Cinder wheezes, before dissolving into a fit of coughing.

  She is a ghost of the girl I saw in the photograph. All bones, her skin clings to her cheeks and arms, and there are large dark circles under her eyes. Her once-curly hair hangs lank around her shoulders. A blood-speckled handkerchief is clutched in one hand.

  Ash collapses on his knees in front of her. “Hey, little turnip,” he says.

  “Why are you here?” she says. “They’re looking for you.”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  Cinder’s sigh turns into a cough. Her eyes droop. “Father will kill you.”

  “I wasn’t supposed to get this far.” Ash takes her hand gently. “I’m so sorry,” he says. His head falls forward and his shoulders tremble.