by Amy Ewing
It seems to take all of Cinder’s energy to lean in and kiss his hair. Tears stream down Mrs. Lockwood’s cheeks as she watches.
“This isn’t your fault,” Cinder says.
“I tried.”
“I know.”
“It wasn’t enough,” Ash whispers.
Cinder struggles to lift her hand enough to put it on his cheek. “It was,” she says. “I know you think I don’t know all the things you’ve done for me. But I do.” Her hand falls limp into her lap. “Remember how we’d race to school? And you always let me win?”
“I didn’t let you.”
She wheezes out a laugh. “Right. And the year all the girls were getting porcelain dolls for the Longest Night and we couldn’t afford one so you made me a doll out of straw and burlap and Mother’s old dresses?”
The lump of sadness in my throat is so big, I can’t swallow. Ash looks like he can’t either.
“I think it was the ugliest doll in the whole city,” he says with a heartbreaking attempt at humor.
“It was perfect. They all made fun of me, but I didn’t care.” Cinder leans back, like this conversation has exhausted her. “I’m sorry, Ash. I’m sorry I got sick and you had to go away. I’m sorry Father hit you and made you feel bad all the time. I’m sorry Rip and Panel and those other boys at school were mean. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to keep you here with me.”
“You don’t have to be sorry for anything.” A tear tumbles down Ash’s cheek. “I don’t want to leave you again.”
Cinder’s whole face goes from relaxed to alert. “You have to get out of here before Father finds you. Please. For me.”
It takes an eternity for Ash to answer.
“Please,” she says again. “He’ll turn you in. I can’t bear the thought of you dying, too.”
The fact that she knows, that she understands exactly what is happening to her, and can speak of it so bravely, seems to break Ash in two. I have never seen him look so defeated.
“All right,” he whispers.
She smiles at him. One of her front teeth is crooked. “I’m so glad I got to see you,” she says.
Ash kisses her cheek.
“I love you, little turnip.”
“. . . shouldn’t have taken the wretched job in the first place.” A male voice carries from somewhere in the farther recesses of the house, and a door slams. “Should have stayed at Joinder’s, with the House of the Stone. That damned boy ruined any chance for us. You think the Duchess is going to let me work anywhere except maybe cleaning furnaces for half a diamante a month? How are we supposed to survive on that?”
Mrs. Lockwood looks terrified. “Go,” she hisses at her son.
“I wish Ash would come home, like the idiot he is,” a second, younger male voice says. “And then this wouldn’t be our problem anymore.”
Before we can even move, three people enter the room and I recognize them immediately.
Ash’s father is a large man with dark curly hair and heavily muscled arms and shoulders. His mouth twists down, giving him a perpetually mean expression. A brown glass bottle is clutched in one hand. Right behind Mr. Lockwood are two identical boys, who could be exact replicas of their father except they are shorter and their noses are snubbed, turning up at the ends. Rip and Panel. I don’t know which one is which.
They stop short at the sight of Ash, who has risen to his feet and is staring his father down, eyes like green fire.
“Hello, Father,” Ash says.
“You—how did you get in here, boy?” Mr. Lockwood turns on his wife. “This was you, wasn’t it? Always spoiling him, never giving him a chance to become a real man. He belongs in jail!”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Ash snaps.
“You’re not part of this family anymore, Ash,” one of the twins says. “Are you dumb enough to believe we’d protect you? When that Bank man came to see us, all certain that you’d come back here, I wanted to laugh in his face. But I guess you’re as stupid as they think you are.”
The other twin sniggers.
“I’m not twelve years old anymore, Panel,” Ash says. “Your threats don’t mean anything to me.”
“They should,” Panel retorts. “We turn you in and you’re dead.”
“And we get a fat pile of money,” the other twin, Rip, adds.
“Boys, stop it, please,” Mrs. Lockwood says.
“Then do it,” Ash says. “Go ahead. Be the cowards I always knew you were.”
“Oh, we’re the cowards?” Rip says. “Who was always getting picked on at school? Who would always come running to Mother when things didn’t go his way?”
“This isn’t about us, you morons,” Ash snarls. “This isn’t about who’s stronger or who can run faster or who Father likes best.” He turns on his father. “You were supposed to be saving Cinder. What was the point, Father, of me going away? It wasn’t so you could buy up the neighborhood and live like some Pauper Royal. You aren’t royalty and you never will be. That money was for her!”
“That money was mine!” Mr. Lockwood shouts. “I raised you, you ungrateful bastard. I put food in your belly and clothes on your back. I had to live with all your weaknesses, all your failures. I’m your father—I earned that money, and I spent it how I saw fit.”
“I EARNED THAT MONEY!” Ash is screaming now. His face is red and blotchy. “It was my body they took, my dignity! They used me and made me pretend to like it, they stole my life and you think you earned anything?”
“You got to prance around with royal daughters and you’re actually complaining?” Mr. Lockwood says incredulously. “You got a gift, boy! And you squandered it, ruined it like you always do, and we’re left to deal with the mess.” He turns to his sons. “Go get the Regimentals and bring them back here. I don’t know how he got rid of the ones outside but there must be a few close by.”
At that moment, the door flies open as a Regimental storms into the room.
I gasp. Ash and his mother turn, as Cinder is seized by a coughing fit.
This is the end. The Smoke is as far as we’re going to get.
Ash and I are caught.
Thirteen
“ARREST HIM!” MR. LOCKWOOD CRIES, POINTING AT HIS son.
“Come on,” the Regimental shouts at me.
Garnet.
Ash and I don’t hesitate for a moment. We are out the door and running before Mr. Lockwood has a chance to realize what’s happening. There is a horse-drawn wagon parked in front of the house. Perched in the driver’s seat is the Thief, smiling at us like he’s won first prize at the local fair. A large piece of burlap covers the back of the wagon. Garnet throws it up, revealing Raven, curled in the fetal position, eyes wide.
“Quick,” he hisses, and we crawl onto the bed of the wagon beside her. The burlap is thrown down over us and the wagon lurches forward, leaving Garnet behind.
“Are you all right?” I whisper to Raven.
“I’m fine,” she says. “The arcana started buzzing after you left—I guess Garnet was worried about us. I told him where you were. He must have been close, because he got here just as we heard shouting from inside the house. And then the boy showed up with this wagon, which I think he probably stole, and they showed each other those keys and then they told me to hide so I hid.” She looks at Ash. “Did you see her?”
Ash is clenching his jaw so hard I think he might break his teeth.
“I should’ve hit him,” he growls.
“I don’t think that would have helped,” I say.
“He’s killing her and he doesn’t even care.” Ash slams a fist against the bottom of the wagon. “As if he earned anything. As if he has any right . . .”
“You got to say good-bye to her,” I remind him.
He turns his face away from me. “Yes,” he says. “But I wish I didn’t have to leave her there.”
Raven and I exchange a glance but say nothing.
The road is bumpy and the Thief drives fast, so the three of
us are jostled around until I begin to get dizzy. After what feels like an hour, the wagon finally comes to a stop and the burlap is thrown back.
A young woman, in her mid-twenties I’d guess, stands before us. She wears a simple gray coat, and her dark eyes find mine.
“197?” she says. I don’t bother correcting her because this doesn’t seem to be the time.
“Show me your key,” I say.
She turns around and lifts up the bun at the base of her neck, revealing a small black skeleton key tattooed on her skin.
“The Seamstress will take care of you from here,” the Thief says. “But you’d better get going. This quarter is going to be swarming with Regimentals in a few hours.”
“Thank you,” I say to him as I scramble down off the wagon.
“Sure thing. Maybe one day I can see that power the Black Key was talking about.”
I smile, and out of the corner of my eye I see a tiny weed poking up from between the cobblestones. I bend down and yank it out of the ground.
Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.
I feel the life inside the weed, pulling on the delicate strands, and my fingers grow hot as a dandelion shoots up from their grasp. The invisible needles boring into my brain are overshadowed by the adrenaline pounding through my body, as the bright yellow flower unfolds in my hand. I hold the dandelion out to the Thief, smirking a bit at the surprised look on his face.
He takes the weed slowly. “Wow,” he breathes, holding it as though it were a precious gem.
“Come,” the Seamstress says. “We need to hurry.” She seems completely unfazed by the Augury as she leads us to another wagon, this one bigger, with two horses drawing it, and loaded with wooden barrels and crates. The Seamstress climbs up and begins prying the tops off them. “Get in,” she says, holding out a hand to help Raven up. Ash climbs in beside her, and I bring up the rear.
One barrel contains rolls of fabric and balls of yarn. “Raven,” I say. “You get in this one.” It seems like it would be a little more comfortable. We push aside the fabric and make a hole big enough for Raven to sit. The Seamstress motions to a crate containing sheets of glass and packing hay.
“I’ll get in this one,” Ash says. “You take that one.”
He points to a barrel half filled with brilliantly colored beads. I nod.
“This is it,” I say, taking his hand. “No more running after this.”
He only half smiles and I know he is thinking of his family.
“Get in,” the Seamstress urges. Ash shudders as he climbs into the crate and lies down on the glass.
The Seamstress has already closed the lid over Raven’s barrel and she moves to do the same with Ash’s crate. I stick one foot in the barrel of beads—they naturally move around my leg until I reach the bottom. It’s a bizarre sensation as I lower the rest of my body down, like sitting in a sack of dried peas. I look up and see the Seamstress standing over me.
“This wagon is marked for delivery to the Farm,” she says. “You should be on a train in a few hours.” I don’t like her use of the word should. “I do not know who will be waiting for you or where they might take you. I have done what I can.”
She looks disappointed in herself. I wish I could stand up and face her instead of being curled up in a barrel of beads.
“Thank you,” I say.
“This city has rotted for too long,” she says. “They can’t keep us from being who we are anymore. They can no longer be allowed to dictate our lives. Our hopes are with you and the Black Key.”
I swallow hard, but don’t get a chance to say anything before the cover slides over the top of my barrel and darkness engulfs me.
I don’t know how long we sit on the wagon, waiting. The beads dig and pinch at my skin, and my head and back ache with fear and exhaustion.
Oh, Lucien, I think. I hope this is worth it.
I hate myself for thinking it. Of course this is worth it. Would I rather be back in the palace of the Lake, strapped to a medical bed until I give birth and die? I think about all the injustice I have suffered—losing my family to Southgate, losing my freedom to the Duchess. Annabelle’s death, her blood on my hands. Lily, pregnant and sentenced to die in the Bank. I think about the Cobbler’s son, taken to be a Regimental, the Thief’s parents killed who knows how by the royalty. I don’t even know these last two people but if I can do anything to make a single life even a little better, isn’t that worth it?
I remember the utter hopelessness of the workers in the Smoke, how defeat hung as heavy as the clouds of soot in the air. I think about the sharp contrast of the Exetor’s Ball, the unending bottles of champagne, the glittering dresses, the dancing, the music . . . They might as well be two different universes, not simply different parts of the same city. The royalty take and take and it never seems to be enough for them. They steal girls to make their babies, boys to protect them, or seduce them, or serve them. But we are not objects. We are not the latest fashion or the most expensive prize. We are people.
And I’m going to help make them see that.
FINALLY, THE WAGON PITCHES FORWARD. THE GROUND rumbles underneath me and I’m immediately on alert.
I can hear voices shouting all around, the grunts of men lifting heavy things, the crunch of gravel, and then the earsplitting whistle of a train.
“Where to?” an official-sounding voice asks.
“The Farm. South Quarter. Bartlett Station.” I don’t recognize the voice of whoever is driving the wagon. I wonder whether they are in the Society, too. Or whether they simply don’t know they are aiding fugitives.
“Papers?” There is a faint shuffling. I’m terrified to move, afraid that I might disturb the beads and give us away. “Very well, this all appears to be in order. Move along.”
The wagon rolls forward. I can hear the hissing of steam engines, and more shouting, and I nearly let out a loud yelp as the barrel I’m in is lifted up. I clap one hand over my mouth and keep the other firmly pressed against the side of the barrel to steady myself. Thankfully, whoever is loading these barrels doesn’t roll them. I bob around in the air, a rather disorienting sensation, until with a thump, the barrel is back on solid ground. I feel myself sliding backward until I hit something solid and finally come to rest.
There are more thumps and scrapings as the other barrels are loaded onto what I imagine is a cargo train.
There is another shrill whistle and the train begins to move.
My heart lifts. We are on our way to the Farm.
It’s impossible to get comfortable in this barrel. Beads dig at me everywhere, and I long to stretch my legs. My stomach twists with hunger. When was the last time I ate? It must have been at Lily’s. That feels like months ago. I begin to dream about the food I used to have in the Jewel. Soft-boiled eggs in little cups with toast. Smoked salmon and cream cheese on crackers. Lamb with mint jelly. Duck and figs over a salad of frisée.
The chugging of the train and the hum of the engine lulls me to sleep. I wake with a start to the clang of a door sliding open.
“Bartlett Station,” a voice calls in the distance.
“Which ones, sir?” a young man, close by, says.
“Those three.” Lucien’s voice brings tears to my eyes. “Careful,” he says, as my barrel slides across the train and I’m once again lifted into the air, landing with an unpleasant bump.
“That’s the last one,” the unfamiliar voice says.
“Very good. Here you are, that’s for you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I hear the clinking of metal on metal, then the crack of a whip and whatever mode of transportation I’m in starts to move. After a few minutes, I hear Garnet’s voice.
“Should we let them out?”
“Not yet,” Lucien replies. “Let’s get to the woods first.”
The road we’re traveling on is bumpy and rutted, and I bounce around in my barrel, bruising my elbows, beads rattling arou
nd me. I hope these woods aren’t too far away. All the fear from the past few days is slowly leaking out of me, replaced by the tiny hum of excitement. I’m in the Farm. Lucien is here. And Ash and Raven.
“You did very well,” Lucien says after a while.
“I want to see this place, wherever it is,” Garnet says.
“Yes, I believe you have earned that right.” There is a pause. “Of course, Sil won’t like it.”
“I’m not afraid of her.”
Lucien chuckles. “You should be.”
We turn onto a smoother road, then onto another one that is rougher than the first. I’m just thinking that surely it must be safe enough now, that maybe I could risk calling out to Lucien and reminding him that we’ve been stuck in these barrels for who knows how long, when we finally come to a stop.
My heart kicks into a sprint as the top of my barrel is pried open and Garnet’s face pops into the space above me.
“Hi, Violet,” he says.
“Get me out of this thing,” I say, reaching my hands up so he can pull me out.
As I step onto solid ground, my legs shake so badly they can’t support my weight and I fall into him.
“Okay,” Garnet says. “Let’s get you down.”
He practically carries me to the edge of the cart and helps me off it to where Lucien stands, a thick fur cloak wrapped around him.
I can’t help it. I start to cry. Big, embarrassing sobs tear through my chest and escape my throat in ragged gasps, my stomach heaving.
“Oh, honey,” he says as I fall into his arms. “I’m so proud of you.” I want to argue with him, insist I didn’t do anything except possibly make this whole thing more difficult, but I don’t have the energy. I hear Garnet opening the other barrel and the crate.
Ash climbs down off the cart and I throw my arms around him.
“That was certainly not my favorite way to travel,” he murmurs and I laugh.
Garnet helps Raven down. She looks around with a rapt expression on her face.
“The air here,” she says. “It’s so clean.”
I hadn’t noticed but now that she’s mentioned it, I take a deep breath and look around.
It’s nighttime—two lanterns hang from the driver’s seat of the cart, giving a golden glow to the trees that surround us. That’s all I can see. Trees. I turn slowly on the spot, my mouth gaping. Big trees and small trees, skinny trees with delicate branches, trunks as thick as the old oaks I’d seen in the Jewel, in the forest we had to drive through to get to the Royal Palace. I remember it being orderly and well manicured before it gave way to a garden of topiaries. But there is something even more beautiful about this forest and it takes me a moment to pinpoint what it is.