“THANK THE SOLS YOU’RE HERE!” the Patriarche said urgently before grabbing the general and Marcellus by the sleeves and pulling them through the door.
It was the first time Marcellus had ever been inside the imperial appartements. The walls were lined with velvet, and beautiful handwoven rugs covered the floors underfoot. Hundreds of tiny crystals on an intricate chandelier glimmered above, and in the center of the room, in a gigantic canopied bed, lay Veronik Paresse, fast asleep.
“This is a catastrophe!” the Patriarche ranted in a hushed voice as he paced in front of the bed. He was dressed in crumpled silk pajamas the color of apricots and a pair of fluffy wool slippers. At the crown of his head, a few strands of his thin hair tented upward like antennae on the top of the Paresse Tower. “An absolute disaster.”
“Perhaps we should take this meeting elsewhere?” the general nodded discreetly toward the sleeping Matrone. Her dark hair, usually so immaculate, resembled a nest of twisted, anxious snakes on the satin pillow. Her cheeks were sunken, her jaw taut, and two large gray shadows hung like rainclouds under her sleeping eyes.
The Patriarche scoffed and waved a dismissive hand toward his wife. “She’s so knocked out on sleeping médicaments, a droid army couldn’t wake her.”
“Madame Matrone has been through a lot,” the general said to the Patriarche in a calm, measured voice.
“Of course, she’s been through a lot,” the Patriarche snapped. “She lost her child—our only heir—to a bunch of Vangarde terrorists. And now they’re at it again.”
Marcellus started. “Again, sir?”
The Patriarche glanced anxiously around the room, as though checking for spies, and then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Citizen Rousseau has escaped.”
Marcellus peered sideways at his grandfather to gauge his reaction, but the general looked more inconvenienced than concerned.
“As we’ve discussed many times,” the general began, “Citizen Rousseau remains in solitary confinement on permanent watch. You have no reason to worry about—”
But the Patriarche didn’t allow him to finish. “No, you’re wrong. I saw it with my own eyes. I couldn’t sleep, so I logged into the security feeds and saw that her cell was empty. The Vangarde have broken her out!”
“You must be mistaken,” the general replied diplomatically. “If there was a break-in attempt on Bastille, I would have been alerted immediately. The prison is as secure and impenetrable as always.”
The Patriarche snatched a TéléCom off a nearby settee and thrust it under the general’s nose. “I’m telling you, General, she’s gone. Look.” He pointed at the TéléCom, but the screen was dark. His cheeks flamed with fury as he jabbed violently at the screen. The flimsy device slipped in his hand, and he had to fumble to catch it.
“Damn the Sols!” he spat.
Until recently, the Patriarche had never owned a TéléCom because he, his wife, and the rest of the First Estate thought such technology to be crass and inferior. But after the death of his only daughter, he’d insisted on having his own TéléCom with the same security clearance as the general’s so he could be alerted instantly of any updates and, of course, keep a vigilant watch on Citizen Rousseau’s cell.
The problem was, he still hadn’t quite mastered how to operate the device.
“It was just here!” he thundered. “Where is it now? Where did it go? This stupide contraption!”
Marcellus noticed the general’s shoulders rise and fall in what was obviously an attempt at a deep breath. It was for this very reason that the general had secretly installed guardian controls on the TéléCom before he’d delivered it to the Patriarche. They weren’t too dissimilar from the controls Second Estate parents installed on their children’s devices. They allowed the general to keep tabs on what the Patriarche was doing with his TéléCom and prohibit him from accidentally—or intentionally—starting a war with the Mad Queen of Albion.
“If I may,” the general said, easing the TéléCom from the Patriarche’s grip. He tapped proficiently on the screen a few times, eventually pulling up what Marcellus recognized as the portal for Bastille’s Central Command before tapping on the security feed of Citizen Rousseau’s cell.
Marcellus glanced away, knowing exactly what he would see next. It would be the same thing he always saw: a frail skeleton of a woman curled up on the grimy floor. He would not see the strong, charismatic woman who had led a rebellion seventeen years ago and had almost won. The woman who was feared by every Ministère officer on the planet. He would see a shell. A useless heap of flesh and bones.
He’d witnessed the ghastly sight so many times, he’d almost become desensitized to it.
Almost.
“What on Laterre—”
Marcellus heard his grandfather’s words but could not make sense of the bewilderment in his voice until a moment later, when Marcellus glanced at the Patriarche’s TéléCom, still clutched in the general’s hands. The screen displayed the usual view of a dreary, cement cell with no windows and only one PermaSteel door. But instead of revealing a withered, gaunt-faced woman huddled in a corner, Marcellus could see that the cell was, indeed, empty.
“I told you!” the Patriarche said, pointing his finger in the general’s face. “I told you she escaped!”
The general ignored him and continued to prod and poke desperately at the screen, looking not too dissimilar from the Patriarche only a few moments ago.
“It’s not possible,” the general whispered, his brow crumpled, his eyes narrowed. The sight of the general’s face made Marcellus’s stomach flip. He’d never seen his grandfather look quite so … so …
But Marcellus couldn’t even think of the right word. It didn’t exist. Not for the almighty General Bonnefaçon.
“Well, don’t just stand there like an imbecile, General,” the Patriarche roared. “FIND HER!”
The general shoved the Patriarche’s TéléCom into Marcellus’s chest before reaching into his pocket for his own. He hastily unfurled it and began punching at the screen.
“Chéri?” cried a small, fragile voice. Marcellus turned to see the Matrone now sitting bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide open. “What’s happening? Why are you shouting?”
The Patriarche turned toward his wife, looking like he was about to say something to try to appease her, but was interrupted by the general bellowing into his TéléCom.
“Warden Gallant. This is General Bonnefaçon. I am reporting a code orange. I repeat, a code orange. Prisoner 40102 has disappeared from her—”
The general halted abruptly and listened, his eyes blinking in response to the incoming information. Marcellus peered at the TéléCom to see the warden’s face staring back at the general, his thin lips moving rapidly. Marcellus could not hear what the warden was saying, but he noticed his grandfather swallow and stand up straighter, pushing his shoulders back and reasserting his usual rigid stance. It was as though he was physically preparing himself for everything that came next. For the repercussions of what he was about to hear.
For war.
“I understand,” the general said stiffly. “Yes, I am with Monsieur Patriarche right now. I will relay the information. Merci, Warden Gallant.”
The general disconnected the AirLink and turned toward the Patriarche, who met his stare with dark, furious eyes. “What is going on? Where is the wretched woman? Tell me what’s going on right this instant, or I swear to the Sols, General, I will—”
The general held up a hand, halting the Patriarche midsentence. “Monsieur Patriarche. I am delighted to be the one to deliver you this news.”
Delighted?
The Patriarche and Marcellus exchanged confused glances before turning back to the general.
“The warden has just received word from the droid stationed outside of Citizen Rousseau’s cell. Earlier tonight, scanners picked up a significant change in her vitals. By the time the droid entered her cell to perform a scan, her heart had stopped beating. Her body is presently being transferred to the Bastille morgue for disintegration.”
The Patriarche stared vacantly at the general, as though he were a droid with a faulty processing chip, unable to compute the words he was hearing.
From somewhere behind them, the Matrone let out a small sob. “Oh, thank the Sols,” she whispered into her hands. “Thank the Sols.”
But the Patriarche still didn’t seem to register the news. The general reached out and patted him congenially on the back. “Congratulations, Monsieur Patriarche. Citizen Rousseau is dead.”