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  And then he was revving the bike into gear, gripping the handlebars, and steering them away from the Frets.

  “I’ll take you away from here.”

  As she watched them disappear over the horizon, Chatine suddenly felt like she was the one on that platform, lying under that blade. But it wasn’t her head the beam was aimed at.

  With a growl, she kicked at the dirt and turned back to the Frets, clutching a hand to her chest, right over her heart, as though making sure there wasn’t a giant, bleeding wound there.

  - CHAPTER 44 -

  ALOUETTE

  LOW BRANCHES SLAPPED AND CRACKED at Alouette’s visor as the hovering vehicle weaved in and out of the trees.

  Moto, she thought to herself, recalling the entry in the Chronicles about transportation. A one- to two-person doorless vehicle—similar to a First World motorbike—that travels at speeds up to 200 kilomètres per hour.

  Her fingers and arms ached from holding so tightly to Marcellus, but she didn’t dare loosen her grip around his sleek raincoat. The moto was moving too fast, skimming through the trees with the ease of a deer bounding and dancing through the forests of the First World. That is, before all the First World forests were cut down or burned up by the dirty air.

  But these trees were so alive and vibrant. Brilliant green with thick tangles of even greener undergrowth that stretched out like a vast rug beneath them. It all felt like a dream, except her dreams were never like this. So colorful and vivid and fast. It was like someone had sped up the world and thrown pails of paint on everything.

  Marcellus barely spoke to her during the ride. Just a few words, here and there, asking if she was okay. His voice was clearly being broadcast through some special technology in their helmets. But to Alouette, it seemed like he was speaking right inside her head.

  Alouette could barely form a reply, though. She was still in shock. She couldn’t believe what she’d just done. She’d left the Marsh with a stranger.

  But she couldn’t think about that now. She had to focus on what she’d come for: answers about her father and the truth about her past.

  The glowing red dot on the hologram.

  That was the only reason she’d said yes to the boy. Because she had to know. She had to find out what was hiding here in the Forest Verdure.

  After weaving along the bank of the stream that snaked through the trees, Marcellus entered a clearing and slowed the moto to a halt. Alouette glanced around, recognizing the circle of small shelters. It was just like the clearing she’d sketched on her map.

  How does he know about this place? Alouette wondered as she stepped off the bike and felt the spongy forest floor beneath her thin soles.

  She pulled off her helmet and stared at her surroundings. Everything was magical. The small shelters were crudely made from mud and branches, but they were beautiful with their low-slung doors and thick mossy roofs. The huts were snugly encircled by tall trees, shooting straight up into the dappled gray and white clouds above.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” Marcellus asked, studying her. “The place on your map?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  “Did you . . .” Marcellus swallowed. “Did your family live here?”

  Alouette almost laughed at the question but caught herself just in time. He was serious, wasn’t he? He really did think she might have once lived out here.

  Why on Laterre would he . . . ?

  But then it hit her. What if he was right? What if she and her father had lived here before they had come to the Refuge? What if this was where they’d been hiding?

  “How do you know this place?” she asked guardedly.

  Marcellus seemed saddened by the question. “I come out here to . . .” He paused. “I don’t know, to get away from everything. It’s peaceful. And quiet.”

  “Does everyone know about this place?”

  Marcellus shook his head. “No. No one comes out here anymore. Ever since the Ministère found it and—” He stopped talking and looked to the ground, as though he were worried about saying the wrong thing. “Anyway, no one comes out here now but me.”

  Alouette’s mind scrambled to put pieces together. The Ministère found this place, and then what? They kicked everyone out? They sent them to Bastille? Everyone except her and her father? Perhaps that was when they’d run away and escaped to the Refuge.

  But where was her mother during all of this? Was she already dead?

  “So, you don’t recognize it then?” Marcellus was looking at her again, waiting for an answer.

  Alouette shivered and rubbed her arms, trying to warm them in the cold, damp air. She wasn’t sure how to answer that. She was wary about saying too much to this stranger. She still knew so little about him.

  “Maybe,” she said, avoiding his gaze. But she could still feel his eyes on her, studying her. The way he looked at her—like she was a secret to be uncovered—unsettled her. But there was something else, too. When his eyes were on her, a strange tingling started at the nape of Alouette’s neck and traveled down her spine.

  She couldn’t explain it.

  She wanted it to go away.

  But then again, she wanted it to stay, too.

  She prayed he wouldn’t ask any more questions. Her mind was too crammed full of her own questions. And the truth was, she was desperate to get away from him. Not because she didn’t enjoy being with him—she did. More than she should. But she needed to explore this place on her own.

  The hologram had shown her a smaller, nearby clearing: the one with a strange scattering of dark shapes on the ground. The red dot was positioned right over it. She knew it was significant somehow, but she didn’t know why.

  She shivered again.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” But her teeth chattered.

  “I’ll get some wood and make a fire.”

  “You can do that?” Alouette’s eyebrows shot up. “Build a fire, I mean?”

  Marcellus looked surprised. “Can’t you?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Another strange look flashed over his face before he finally turned and headed toward the trees. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Alouette watched him go, and as soon as he was out of sight, she pulled the map from her pocket. She peered down at her own sketch, trying to make out which direction she should go. She scanned her surroundings, looking at the trees and the sky above. Back on the First World, people would guide their way using the Sol and the stars. But Laterre’s clouds, as always, hung like a blanket over the forest. According to Sister Jacqui, the Sols hadn’t been visible on Laterre in over nine years.

  The sky held no answers.

  She would simply have to circle the camp until she found the clearing. She hitched up her tunic so it wouldn’t snag on the uneven ground and headed into the trees in the opposite direction of Marcellus.

  But it was difficult to walk in the forest. The undergrowth was thick and tangled, and when her canvas shoes did find the ground, they sank into the dark soil, which was matted with dead leaves and rotting vines. She moved slowly through the damp vegetation. Minutes passed, branches creaked, and fat raindrops dripped from the trees above. Yet still she found nothing. No clearing. None of the strange shadowy shapes she’d seen on the hologram. Only more trees and more twisting undergrowth.

  “Where is it?” she murmured to herself.

  Alouette looked at her map again and tried to study it as she walked. But her foot snagged on the uneven ground and she tumbled, thrusting out her hand to break her fall. Something sharp scraped against her palm.

  “Ow!” she cried.

  Wincing with pain, Alouette looked down to see a pile of large rounded stones scattered around her, hidden beneath the knee-high grass and shrubs.

  Are these . . . ?

  She urgently pushed the grass aside until she could see that the stones were arranged in the shape of a crescent moon.

  She scrabbled a fe
w mètres to her left, her fingers scraping at the damp ground until she came across another collection of stones, this time placed in the form of . . .

  “A star!” Alouette cried aloud as she leapt to her feet and stared down.

  Just as she expected, from this angle the stones disappeared, hidden beneath the undergrowth. But not completely. The grass and weeds weren’t able to grow on top of the stones, which meant, every few mètres, there was a shadowy gap in the forest floor.

  An outline left by the stones beneath.

  A shape.

  She sucked in an elated breath.

  This is it!

  This was the smaller clearing she’d seen on the hologram map.

  But a moment later, her hopes fell again as she realized she still had no idea what she was looking for. The place felt no more familiar than the camp. She spun around and around, and then weaved in and out of the stone formations, searching for clues. Any clues.

  But nothing jumped out at her. What was this place? What were these stones? Their arrangement was definitely purposeful, but she had no idea what it could mean. And, most important, why were they marked on her father’s map with a blinking red dot?

  Alouette didn’t really know what she’d expected to find here. But she had expected to find something. Something clear and obvious. An answer to all her questions. But now all she had were these stones, clusters and clusters of them, buried in the grass, surrounded by trees. Endless trees under an endless gray, unfathomable sky.

  “Amazing, right?”

  The voice made her jump.

  It was Marcellus. He was standing on the edge of the clearing, his arms full of sticks. He began walking toward her. “It took me forever to figure out what these stones meant. I assumed it must be some sort of ritual or something. You know, for the Défec—” He cleared his throat. “The people who lived here.” He cocked his head and looked straight at her.

  She leaned forward, waiting for him to continue. “And?” she prompted. “Did you figure it out?”

  He frowned, like he was expecting a different reaction. “Yes, it’s a graveyard. At least that’s my best guess. They buried their dead here. Like they used to do in the First World.”

  Alouette blinked. This was not what she’d expected him to say.

  “Buried their dead.”

  Marcellus’s words rang in her ears as she spun in another slow circle, peering down at the curious shadows and stones in the grass.

  A graveyard?

  Suddenly, Alouette’s heart violently skipped behind her ribs.

  Maman?

  Is she buried here?

  Alouette closed her eyes and tried to conjure up something. Anything. A face. A burial. Tears. People crying. Digging. A hole in the ground. But nothing appeared. Before the Refuge, there was only darkness.

  Darkness, and now that one hazy memory.

  “Hush, ma petite. Hush.”

  Alouette shuddered.

  “You’re freezing,” Marcellus said tenderly. “Come back to the camp. I’ll show you my fire-building skills.”

  He picked out a small stick from his bundle and waved it playfully, grinning.

  For a moment, Alouette saw him as a little boy, eager and adventurous. It made her smile too.

  She followed behind him as he walked out of the clearing, back toward the camp.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” Marcellus asked, and, even though his voice was light and conversational, Alouette could hear the desperation in his words. He wanted to know more about her. He wanted answers. Answers she couldn’t give. Not even to herself.

  She glanced back at the clearing. The mysterious stones had already disappeared among the tall grass and wild shrubs, like memories lost and overgrown with time.

  “I did,” Alouette said. She turned back, praying that Marcellus couldn’t tell what a terrible liar she was.

  - CHAPTER 45 -

  MARCELLUS

  THE GIRL WAS LYING.

  That, Marcellus could be sure of. It was written all over her face. She was hiding something. She’d always been hiding something. But what? That was the big mystery.

  What had she come out here to find?

  Why was she acting like she didn’t even recognize this place? When he’d told her about the graves, she’d looked astonished. Like the ritual of burying the dead was completely foreign to her. An unfathomable thing.

  They arrived back at the camp, and Marcellus dropped the sticks he’d found into the fire pit. He then sat down and started to arrange the wood. Alouette sat beside him, watching him carefully. She had a studious way about her. Like someone who always drank in the world with her big eyes. He liked that about her. As he struck the match and lit the flame, he couldn’t help stealing glances at her. The fire clearly delighted her. Almost as much as it had delighted him the first time he’d made one.

  And then she spoke. Quiet and contemplative, almost as though speaking to herself. “Prometheus.”

  “Prometheus?” Marcellus repeated, the word sounding clumsy and foreign in his mouth. “What’s that?”

  She stared at the flames. “He stole fire from the gods and gave it to the humans. Although, some say he was stealing it back. The human race already had fire, and Zeus had just hidden it as a punishment.”

  Marcellus turned and stared at Alouette. It was as though she were speaking another language. Zeus? Gods? Stealing fire? He wondered if this was one of those nonsense Défecteur fables his grandfather had told him about.

  “A punishment for what?” Marcellus asked, suddenly finding himself desperate to know.

  She smiled at him and his chest squeezed. “Oh, it’s a long story. I was just thinking how you’re kind of like Prometheus.”

  Marcellus wondered if that was a compliment or not. “How so?”

  “Man had fire back on the First World. Then we came here, and the fire was taken away because it was thought to be too dangerous and destructive. And now you’ve brought it back.”

  Marcellus hesitated, unsure how to continue. “But I didn’t—I mean, I just found this place. The fire was here.”

  Has she never seen fire before?

  Marcellus thought all the Défecteurs used fire in their camps. But maybe not. Maybe she was from one of the other camps across Laterre that had been shut down over the years. Or maybe the rumors were true. Maybe some Défecteur tribes really had managed to evade his grandfather’s roundups.

  “Why don’t you have a Skin?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. He knew he had to be careful. He didn’t want to sound like he was interrogating her, for fear of scaring her away. If she really was a Défecteur, then he, an officer of the Ministère, would be considered her enemy. Yet, for some reason, she didn’t seem to be afraid of him.

  Alouette looked up suddenly, like he’d woken her from a dream. Marcellus noticed how the flames of the fire reflected and danced in her eyes. It made him momentarily forget what he had just asked her. But it didn’t matter. It was clear she wasn’t going to answer him anyway. Her gaze quickly returned to the fire.

  He tried to reel the conversation back in. “I’m sorry. I’m just curious about you. You’re so . . .”

  She turned toward him again and their gazes latched like a pair of magnets, making Marcellus’s face flush with heat. She seemed so intrigued by what he was about to say. And Marcellus suddenly felt as if his entire future with this girl hinged on his next word.

  “So, what?” she asked.

  A thousand responses fluttered through his mind, each seeming more ridiculous and inappropriate than the last.

  Strange.

  Beautiful.

  Entrancing.

  “Mysterious,” he finally said.

  “Mysterious.” She echoed the word back to him, like she was saying it for the first time, trying it out. Then she laughed. “I’ve never thought of myself as mysterious before.”

  “Oh, but you are.”

  She bit her lip, which made her look
both thoughtful and vulnerable at the same time. “What makes me mysterious?”

  “Well, let’s see.” He began counting on his fingers, keeping his voice light and playful. “You can read the Forgotten Word. You don’t have a Skin. You acted like you’ve never seen a droid before. You wanted me to take you out into the Forest Verdure but then acted like you’ve never been here. And you seem to appear and disappear into thin air.” He watched her carefully for a reaction, wondering if he’d let himself go too far. But all he could read on her face was amusement. “Maybe,” he went on, with a sudden stroke of inspiration, “you’re a ghost.”

  She laughed, and in that moment, with that perfect sound bouncing between them, Marcellus felt as though he could fly.

  “Maybe I am a ghost,” she admitted with a small smile.

  He felt himself smiling too, something he definitely didn’t do enough these days. “A ghost who lives in the Frets?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You use that word a lot,” he pointed out.

  She shrugged. “It’s a good word.”

  “It’s a mysterious word.” He pointed to another finger, adding this to his growing list.

  “Maybe,” she repeated with an even bigger grin.

  Marcellus laughed and shook his head. He looked back into the fire and watched the flames lick and curl around one another. There was something so tender and intriguing, gentle yet strong, about this girl. It both fascinated him and maddened him. The longer he sat with her, the more he felt as though he were being pulled into her. But at the same time, she was still a blank slate to him. A paradox in a strange gray tunic with eyes that seemed full of both wisdom and innocence at the same time.

  And then, just as quickly as the laughter had come, the sadness followed. Marcellus squeezed his hands together, as if he were wringing out the loneliness that was welling, suddenly and unexpectedly, inside his chest. “I’ve just never met anyone like you.”

  When Alouette looked over at him, the smile had vanished from her face too. Now her eyes were wide with concern. It was as though she’d sensed the sadness in his voice and felt the inexplicable shift in the air around him. Were his emotions that obvious?