Sky Without Stars Page 9

  Chatine had watched the Universal Alert. She knew why people were yelling and ranting and throwing things like children having a tantrum. Canceling the Ascension was an act of war to these people. The pathetic fools were rioting because they couldn’t deal with the disappointment of losing something they already lost every single year.

  Did they even care that an innocent child was dead? Or were they too busy lamenting their lost Ascension?

  Idiots, Chatine thought as she trampled over to the floor grate, bent down, and ripped it up, no longer caring about how much noise she was making in the process. She was fuming, raging, on the brink of rioting herself. She grabbed the empty sac from the gap in the floor and started pulling objects from her various pockets and stuffing them angrily back into the bag. With each useless item she returned, she recounted the hours and hours she’d spent conning and scheming, just to end up right back where she started. Trapped.

  “Now they’re saying the Ascension might never come back,” Azelle whined, her eyes still locked on her Skin for updates. “They won’t reschedule it until Marie’s murderer is discovered. But that could take years! And what if they’re never found? What if they manage to escape to Reichenstat and are never heard from again? We’ll be doomed to live here forever.”

  “We’re already doomed to live here forever,” Chatine replied bitterly as she continued to unload her collection.

  She should have stolen that ring off Marcellus Bonnefaçon when she had the chance. She should have smacked him over the head with the leveler, searched his pockets, and taken everything he owned. The grandson of the general would certainly have enough valuables on him to buy a passage to Usonia. The titan buttons on his uniform alone were worth more than a week’s wages at the fabriques.

  If she hadn’t been so distracted by the pomp, she wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place.

  “But I was going to win this year,” Azelle went on, her voice breaking. “I know I was! I could have taken us all to Ledôme. We would have had a nice house to live in and food to eat, and Sol-light. Chatine, we haven’t seen the light of the Sols in nine years.”

  Chatine definitely didn’t need to be reminded of that. She reached down the front of her coat and pulled out the Sol pendant she’d stolen in the Marsh this morning. The one that had given her so much hope. Now, holding it, watching it dangle in front of her, she felt like a sot for hoping. A fool for believing she ever had a chance of getting off this planet. For thinking the Sol engraved on this pendant was some kind of sign. There were no signs. There was no escape.

  Once again, the Sols had failed her.

  “I hate whoever did this to us!” Azelle went on. “I hate the person who killed the Premier Enfant. This is all their fault. I hope that whenever they find them, they get sent to the deepest exploits on Bastille and never come back!”

  It might have been the first time ever that Chatine actually agreed with her sister. She, too, hoped they caught the idiot responsible for this uprising. It was undoubtedly going to make it even more difficult for her to get off this planet. If the Capitaine claimed the election of a new Usonian leader would raise the demand for transport, she couldn’t imagine what a riot on Laterre would do.

  Chatine stuffed the pendant into the bag, vowing not to put her faith in useless things like stars ever again. But, in her haste, the pendant missed the edge of the sac, and a moment later she heard a clatter as the necklace disappeared into the hole in the floor.

  “Fric.” She lowered herself to her belly so she could extend her arm under the floor. She felt around for the pendant, trying not to cringe as her fingertips brushed against all manner of disgusting dead things. When she finally managed to grasp the pendant and pull it toward her, she noticed the chain was pulling something along with it.

  Something small.

  Something smooth.

  Something . . . familiar.

  As soon as Chatine detached the little plastique doll arm from the necklace’s chain, the memory hit her like a transporteur. She was suddenly back in Montfer, at the old inn her parents used to own. Back when life was somewhat bearable and Chatine didn’t have to con and steal to get a half a loaf of chou bread. Before her parents were chased out of town for being crocs. Chased over the Secana Sea to these miserable Frets in Vallonay.

  “What’s that?” Azelle’s voice barreled into her thoughts, and Chatine looked up to see her sister staring at the plastique arm still clutched in Chatine’s hand. Azelle’s eyes suddenly widened with recognition. “Oh my Sols! Is that what I think it is?”

  “No,” Chatine replied hastily. She was about to drop the arm back into the hole in the floor, but Azelle reached out and snatched it.

  “It is,” Azelle said, turning the arm around in her hands. “This is the arm from Madeline’s doll. I didn’t know you still had it.”

  Madeline.

  Even the memory of that name made Chatine’s blood boil and her muscles clench.

  Azelle chuckled. “Remember how we used to call her ‘Ugly Madeline’?”

  Chatine nodded dazedly but didn’t speak. From the day that little girl first arrived at the inn, she had been a stain on Chatine’s entire existence. A leech who ate their food and stole their toys.

  “You were so angry about that doll,” Azelle went on, running her fingertips over the smooth plastique of the arm. “I remember the look in your eyes when that man gave it to her. It was kind of scary.”

  Chatine could still see the man so clearly in her memory. Madeline’s father. His cropped hair was as white as ice. His stature was almost as tall and as menacing as a Policier droid. His hands were so large they looked like they could strangle a man with one twist.

  And in one of those hands, the man held the most beautiful doll Chatine had ever seen. It looked like something First Estate children received at their birthday fêtes. Long, curly black hair that looked real, a silky yellow dress with titan buttons and lace. It even had leather shoes with heels and straps.

  Chatine had felt herself instinctively reaching for the doll, hands outstretched, heart beating wildly at the thought of holding such a beautiful thing. But Chatine might as well have been a ghost for the amount of attention the white-haired man paid her. Instead, the man knelt down in front of Madeline. He reached out and stroked her thick black curls. He called her “ma petite.”

  He gave her the doll.

  Madeline had immediately cradled it to her chest. And as Chatine watched her rock it back and forth, something inside of her snapped.

  With a growl, she lunged for the doll, her fingers outstretched, her lips twisted in a nasty snarl. But Madeline was too quick; she swung the doll out of reach, and all Chatine could grab onto was one of its tiny arms. She gave it a tug and it popped out immediately.

  Madeline had started to cry. The white-haired man immediately scooped her into his arms and left.

  She was gone.

  They both were.

  And all that Chatine had left was that sad little plastique arm.

  “Do you ever wonder what happened to her?” Azelle asked.

  Chatine felt the rage welling up inside of her again. She snatched the arm back from Azelle and tossed it into the hole in the floor. “No.”

  Azelle studied her for a painfully long time. “Chatine,” she said softly, a somber expression crossing her face. “She was only a little girl. She didn’t know what she was—”

  “Enough!” Chatine said, cutting her off. The last thing she wanted to do was sit around reminiscing about Madeline. Azelle might have been able to forgive the girl for what she’d done to them—to their family—but Chatine never would. Ever.

  She kicked the grate back into place and stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Azelle asked, and Chatine couldn’t help but hear the tenderness in her sister’s voice. The pity. It made Chatine pulse with anger. She would not be pitied by anyone. Especially not Azelle.

  “Out,” was all she said in response before slammi
ng the couchette door behind her again.

  - CHAPTER 11 -

  MARCELLUS

  THE VOICE WAS SOFT LIKE a breeze, sweet like a bell. Almost melodic.

  “Come on, wake up. Please, wake up.”

  Marcellus heaved his eyes open. But as soon as his vision started to focus, he knew he must still be unconscious. He must be dreaming.

  The person, the girl, who crouched in front of him was unlike anything—or anyone—he’d ever seen before.

  “Can you see?” The girl held up two fingers in front of Marcellus’s face. “How many?”

  Marcellus said nothing. His lips were frozen, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His mind was fuzzy. Disconnected words trickled into his thoughts: “Ascension,” “canceled,” “Premier Enfant,” “poisoning.”

  Where am I?

  He tried to glance around, but everything was blurring in and out of focus. He was lying on his side, his cheek pressed against a cold metal floor, and his head throbbed like the weight of a transporteur was pushing down on it. It appeared he was in the hallway of one of the Frets. But which one? And how did he get here?

  “Where am I?” he asked again. This time his mouth managed to say the words aloud.

  “You’re in Fret 7,” the girl said in that same sweet voice. Her large, dark brown eyes darted up and looked around. “In one of the hallways. You collapsed, but when I came to find you, you weren’t there. You must have stumbled out here.”

  She was beautiful. Too beautiful to be real. He had to be imagining her. Because no one looked like her. No one. Her eyes were so wide, not only could he see himself reflected in them, it seemed the whole hallway was reflected back at him too. If the girl had been outside—instead of in this dingy, foul-smelling Fret—Marcellus had no doubt that Laterre’s endless clouds would have been mirrored in those huge eyes.

  And she was so clean. Unlike anyone else in the Frets. Her skin was as unblemished as her spotless gray tunic. And her curls, dark and tightly coiled, radiated every which way.

  A chorus of shouts somewhere off in the distance wrenched him from his thoughts. Wrenched his gaze from the girl and back to the grimy hallway where he was lying.

  “The riot,” he murmured.

  He needed to get back to the Marsh. Back to Limier. He had to help calm the crowds. Do his job. Act like the commandeur he was supposed to become.

  Get up! he scolded himself. Don’t be weak. Get back out there. Do you think Commandeur Vernay would have just lain down here and given up? No.

  Marcellus let out a low, painful groan as he tried to push himself up, but the girl’s hands were suddenly on his shoulders, forcing him down.

  “Stay still,” she said. “Your head is a mess. I just need to find something clean. . . .” She trailed off as her gaze darted around, landing on his coat. “What’s this?”

  She reached under his chin and Marcellus felt her pull something out from under his raincoat, and then she was pushing it against his forehead. He winced, not just from the pain, but from the shock of her touch. A touch that was somehow both gentle and firm at the same time.

  She’s real.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, clearly feeling him flinch.

  “ ’S okay,” he managed to croak out.

  This made her smile a smile so bright and white, it seemed to illuminate the entire hallway.

  “We need to get this cleaned up,” she said, and then started to mutter to herself. “Staunch the flow. Clean to reduce risk of bacteria. Streptococcus or staphylococcus. Apply antibiotic prophylaxis.”

  Marcellus stared up at her. Who was she? Who spoke like that? Was she a médecin? But she didn’t look like a cyborg. She had no circuitry implanted in her face, at least none that he could see. And she didn’t seem removed and clinical like every other médecin he’d ever met. She seemed just the opposite: compassionate and kind.

  “You probably have a concussion,” she continued. “Do you hear ringing in your ears? Are you nauseated? Dizzy?”

  “I think I’m okay.”

  With the girl’s help, he finally managed to push himself up to sitting. She pulled her hand away from his head and rocked back on her heels, giving him another smile. Marcellus’s heart thumped just at the sight of it. There was something ethereal about that smile.

  Maybe the bump to his head had done some real damage. What was happening to him? No girl had ever looked at him like that before. But then again, Marcellus hadn’t actually spoken to many girls in his life. The First and Second Estate girls he knew had always seemed like flowers to him. Like the roses or orchids or sweet-smelling lavender in the Palais gardens. Skin gleaming and lips vibrant from their expensive youth injections and creams. They were bright and colorful, but something to be left well alone.

  “How do you feel?” she asked. “Do you think you can get up? You should go somewhere to get help. The wound needs proper cleaning and probably biosutures, so it can heal without infection. Maybe you should go to a . . .” She paused, seeming to search for the right word. “A med center?”

  He waved this away. A sense of urgency was beginning to bubble up inside him. He didn’t want to go to a med center. He didn’t want to leave here.

  He didn’t want to leave her.

  “Who are you? Where are you from? How did you find me?” The questions fired out of him, fast and furious like pulses from a rayonette.

  The girl looked away from Marcellus to the dingy hallway around them. Her eyes suddenly grew wide, as if she were just now noticing where they were.

  “How did you find me?” Marcellus repeated.

  The girl reached out and touched the nearby wall, as if testing to see if it was real. “I saw the blood,” she said, somewhat dazedly. “I followed the drops and found you here.” She finally pulled her gaze from the wall and peered down at her lap, where she was holding something. “I’m sorry, this was all I could find. I saw it tucked into your raincoat. I needed something to stop the bleeding.”

  Marcellus glanced at the object in her hand—a tattered, torn piece of cloth, now stained with his blood—and he drew in a sharp breath at the sight of it.

  His father’s shirt.

  Suddenly the memory of the morgue came barreling back into his mind. The stitching. The letters. The Forgotten Word. A message sewn right into the fabric.

  “I’m sure it’s not ruined,” the girl went on, seemingly misinterpreting the panic in his eyes. “A little baking soda and water will get that stain right out.”

  But Marcellus was barely listening to her now. All he could do was stare at the garment in her hands. The crooked, shaky letters stitched in thread felt like they were beacons calling out to all of Laterre. Look! Look what Marcellus has. If anyone saw that shirt—if anyone suspected him of receiving messages from a Vangarde prisoner—his life would be over. His grandfather would surely . . .

  “Sister Muriel says baking soda and water can get out most anything,” the girl went on. “She says—” but she stopped herself, biting down on her lip.

  Marcellus struggled to move his arms, to grab the shirt, but just then the girl pulled the cloth away from his reach, shaking it out as if she were one of the Palais maids on laundry day. She held it between pinched thumbs and forefingers, and for a moment, he could no longer see her face. The old, tattered, and now bloodied shirt formed a curtain between them.

  “Is that your name?” she asked from behind the curtain. “Marcellou?”

  In that instant, the blood in every vein and artery of Marcellus’s body seemed to halt. He no longer thought of the shirt. He no longer thought of the cryptic forbidden message stitched painstakingly with thread. He no longer even thought of his traitorous father.

  All he could hear and see and think about was that word.

  That name.

  He hadn’t heard it in seven years.

  “Marcellou! Help! Please! You must stop them!”

  Marcellus shut his eyes tight against the memory, forcing it back to the d
ark corners of his mind where it lived. He would not think of such things. He would not remember such nights.

  “Wait.” His eyes snapped open. She was no longer looking at him. “How did you know that name?”

  “It says it right here.” She lowered the shirt and pointed to the mysterious stitching in the fabric. “ ‘My dear Marcellou.’ ”

  Once again, the blood in his veins seemed to skitter and then stop. He looked in amazement from the girl to the stained cloth, then back to the girl again.

  “You can read?”

  - CHAPTER 12 -

  ALOUETTE

  FOR THE FIRST TIME IN twelve years, Alouette Taureau was above the ground instead of below it.

  No longer was she sneaking glimpses at a grainy view on an old security monitor.

  Now she was in that view.

  Beyond that view.

  She was inside the Frets. Breathing real air. Touching real walls.

  She couldn’t stop staring. At everything. The floors. The ceilings. The intricately interwoven pipes that lined the hallways. It was all so . . .

  New.

  Alouette had always known the passcode to get in and out of the Refuge. Principale Francine had made her memorize it in case of emergency. But Alouette had never used it. She’d never needed to until now.

  “How did you know that name?”

  The question snapped Alouette out of her daze and she turned to study the man in front of her. He was the first man she could ever remember seeing in person, apart from her father.

  Except the person in front of her wasn’t really a man, was he? His face looked nothing like her father’s, which was shadowed by thick gray stubble and crisscrossed by deep crevices and lines that held stories he would never tell.

  But this man—this boy—was so different. There was something fresh about his face, like it was newly formed. Unmarked and unscathed by time.