OUTSIDE THE CHALET, THE AIR had never tasted so fresh. So cleansing. So cold and delicious. Chatine gulped in huge lungfuls of it, thirsty for more and more and more. Still clutching the handmade sac, she collapsed forward and rested her hands on her knees, trying to calm herself. Her whole body was quivering. Her heart was thundering behind her rib cage. Her mind was on fire.
She couldn’t believe what she’d just done.
She couldn’t believe she’d gone to battle with her parents and actually won.
But she knew this victory wasn’t just for herself. It was for Azelle, who had dreamed of a better life and had died working for it. And it was for Henri. For Roche, who had grown up parentless and abandoned and alone, wandering the streets, begging and conning for food, hiding under marketplace stalls and in the bases of statues.
This victory was for all of them.
The three lost Renard children, who had suffered simply for being Renards.
Chatine’s breathing slowly returned to normal, and her head cleared as she reminded herself that this wasn’t over yet. She still had to somehow break into the storage chalet and steal seven blocs of zyttrium.
Guilt streamed thick and heavy through her veins at the thought. She used to steal without remorse. It used to mean nothing to her. Just another part of her miserable day. But something had changed in her since she’d left Bastille. Since she’d seen that small raindrop-shaped birthmark on the back of Roche’s shoulder. Since she’d woken up on Etienne’s strange ship. Since she’d lost her Skin.
She flipped her arm over and rubbed at the healing incision. She would always have a scar. A reminder of the life she’d led. The chains she’d worn. But it was almost as though Brigitte had taken something else from her that day when she’d lifted the Ministère-manufactured implant from her body.
She’d taken away the ties to her past.
She’d freed Chatine from the person she used to be. The person her parents and the Regime had turned her into.
She couldn’t steal from these people. She was suddenly certain of it. No matter the upside, she couldn’t deceive them or con them or hurt them. She would just have to turn her parents in to the Défecteurs and deal with the consequences. Even if it meant she lost her place here too. Even if it meant she lost their trust.
On the horizon, a slither of clouds glowed pink and blue, a warning that the Sols would soon be rising. Brigitte’s chalet, she knew, was on the other side of the camp, back near the treatment center. Chatine turned toward it and began walking. But she’d barely made it a few paces when she heard another set of footsteps.
She spun and blinked into the beam of a flashlight, her entire body tensing. She didn’t need to see beyond that bright light to know who was behind it. The situation was too familiar. And his energy was too recognizable.
She swallowed.
There was no point in trying to play stupide or pretending she was just out on a late-night stroll through the camp. They were standing right next to her parents’ chalet, and the walls weren’t soundproof.
Chatine cleared her throat, but her voice still quavered. “How much did you hear?”
Etienne didn’t reply as he took a step toward her and lowered the flashlight so that the beam landed right on her chest. Like a blade. Then, it traveled down to the sac still in her hand, and Chatine felt her blood turn to ice.
He knew. Of course he knew.
“Listen,” she began. But Etienne held up a hand and didn’t allow her to finish. Why should he? There was no use trying to explain now. He knew who she was, who her parents were. He’d heard her agree to their plan. He knew she was planning to steal zyttrium from the storage chalet.
“Come with me, please.” His words were stark and cold, like they belonged to a stranger. Like he was speaking to a stranger. Not the girl he’d rescued from the roof of Bastille. Not the girl he’d smiled at from across the fête. Not the girl she so desperately wanted to become.
The girl she had become … if even for a splinter of a second.
Gripping the bag tightly in her hand, she kept her head down and followed behind him. He walked quietly, stiffly, the flashlight beam illuminating the walkway ahead of him. She didn’t know where he was taking her, but she knew she wouldn’t run. She would face up to her crime and her punishment.
It wasn’t until they had made the final turn that Chatine recognized the path. Her gaze snapped up and she squinted at the shadowy shapes of the buildings around them, trying to confirm her suspicions.
The night’s darkness was beginning to creep away, and, in the murky predawn gloom, she was now quite certain they were nearing the storage chalets. The buildings were taller and longer than the other structures, and their sides were punctured by slits instead of windows.
“What are we doing—” Chatine began to ask, but once again she was interrupted before she could finish as Etienne placed a single finger to his lips. She watched in astonishment and complete bewilderment as Etienne approached the door of the last chalet, pulled a small piece of metal from the pocket of his coat, turned it in the lock, and beckoned her inside.
All the breath seemed to leave her body at once as she gazed around the interior of the chalet. Chatine had seen zyttrium before. She’d spent seemingly endless hours mining it on Bastille. But never like this. And never so much of it. Shelves upon shelves bordered the entire space, and on every single one, small blocs of the processed metal were stacked in orderly piles. The whole place, even Etienne’s clothes and hair, glowed blue. It was like she’d been transported into the hidden depths of a shimmering sea.
For a moment, Chatine wondered if this was some kind of trap. But then Etienne silently reached out and pried the handmade sac from her tight grip. Chatine’s throat went dirt dry as she watched him count out seven gleaming blue blocs of zyttrium and place each one carefully and reverently into the bag.
Something stirred inside of her. Something so great and overwhelming and unfamiliar, she nearly sobbed. She reached out and braced herself against one of the shelves as the strange sensation trembled through her like a rolling explosion.
Once the Renards’ sac was weighed down with the precious metal, Etienne turned to face her and finally answered her question, “I heard all of it.”
He extended the bag toward her, and—with shaking, numb fingers—Chatine took it. It felt impossibly heavy in her hands. Heavier than seven blocs of zyttrium should feel.
Then Etienne offered her the tiniest, yet most monumental of smiles. “Flying lessons start after breakfast,” he said before turning and leaving the chalet.