THE VAST TÉLÉSKY OF LEDÔME arced above the transporteur, glowing and blue and dazzling with the three Sols hanging in the center in all their sparkle and grandeur. Marcellus had been gone less than two weeks, but the whole thing seemed so much brighter and more vivid than he remembered. Now, having seen real blue sky and the real Sols setting over the Albion horizon, the charade of all this was more obvious to him than ever. Almost like these artificial Sols, hanging in their artificial sky, were trying too hard.
“I never thought I’d find myself back here,” Marcellus muttered under his breath as he gazed out the window.
Chatine barked out a laugh. “Me neither.”
The guards hadn’t even checked the cargo hold of the transporteur when Grantaire stopped at Ledôme’s west gate, scanned his biometrics in, and explained that he was making a special delivery for his mother, the Policier inspecteur of Montfer. They’d simply waved him through. Now Marcellus, Chatine, Cerise, and Alouette were seated in the front compartment of the vehicle, watching the bright and colorful sights pass by through the windows.
With every turn and tiny jolt of the transporteur, Marcellus felt like his heart might thump right out of his chest. Their plan had been cycling through his mind on a never-ending loop since they’d left the Terrain Perdu. On some level, it seemed so easy. Simple. As though nothing could possibly go wrong. And yet, at the same time, it also felt close to impossible. As though they were fools for even trying.
But fools or not, Marcellus knew they had to try.
“So,” Grantaire said, nudging Marcellus with his elbow as the transporteur turned off the main avenue and into a quiet neighborhood. “I can’t help but notice that we’re here. We made it. I got you safely into Ledôme.”
Confused, Marcellus glanced uneasily at Grantaire, unsure what he was getting at. “Yes. Merci. We really appreciate it.”
Grantaire held up his hands. “Okay, I get it. I get it. Officer Bonnefaçon still doesn’t trust me.”
“W-w-what?” Marcellus stammered, taken back. “That’s not true.”
“It is true,” Grantaire deadpanned, and upon seeing Marcellus’s baffled expression added, “You can’t be the son of a celebrated Policier inspecteur without picking up some of her skills. But I don’t need cyborg circuitry to sense when someone doesn’t like me.”
Marcellus faltered, searching for an excuse, but nothing came.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Grantaire said. “I have to earn your trust. I respect that. I’ll work on it.” Grantaire winked at him. “I like a challenge.”
Marcellus fell quiet and returned his gaze to the window. Outside, nestled behind towering oak and chestnut trees, the manoirs of the Second Estate looked like over-frosted gâteaus. Gaudy painted reliefs covered their walls and pediments. Ornate golden tiles decorated the roofs, and tall, striped columns guarded the front doors.
The transporteur pitched to the left and glided into a long circular driveway before coming to a stop beside a gushing fountain. This manoir was just as grand and opulent as the rest, with a myriad of windows that dazzled in the artificial Sol-light.
Cerise gave Grantaire a hug before hopping out of the vehicle and calling back, “You’re the best!”
Grantaire waved and called back, “If only my maman felt that way!”
“I owe you one!” Cerise said before blowing him a kiss.
Alouette and Chatine both thanked Grantaire and stepped out onto the driveway, so that Marcellus was the only one left.
“Look,” he began, feeling awkward. “It’s not that … I just …”
Grantaire smirked at him, like he was enjoying this.
Marcellus wrung his hands together and huffed out a breath. “Just get out of Ledôme, okay?”
The smirk evaporated instantly from Grantaire’s face. “What? Why? What’s going on?” His eyes narrowed. “Does this have something to do with the Ascension banquet? Fifty winners is—”
“Just go. Turn around and get back to Montfer.”
Then, before Grantaire could ask him any more questions, Marcellus climbed out of the transporteur and hurried up the driveway.
“Well, here we are,” Cerise said, gazing up at the manor. “Home sweet home.”
Marcellus couldn’t help but remark on the sadness in her voice. It was as though this was the last place Cerise ever thought she’d end up. Marcellus felt the same way. When he’d left Ledôme and the Grand Palais behind, he’d been certain he would never come back.
And yet, here they were. About to infiltrate an Ascension banquet.
But first, they needed supplies.
“You live here?” Chatine said, doing very little to hide her disbelief and what sounded like a hint of disgust.
“Unfortunately,” Cerise muttered.
She guided them all through the front doors and into a large foyer. Polished marble floors stretched out under their feet, and above their heads, a vast chandelier bloomed with a thousand tiny crystals. They passed gilt-framed paintings, opulent handcrafted sculptures, and a sprawling, intricately woven rug that led to the base of a sweeping staircase.
In her arms, Alouette held tightly to Dr. Collins’s canister like it was a lifeline. And it was. It was crucial to their plan. Tonight, that one remaining vial of inhibitor would mean the difference between life and death for a lot of people.
“Are you sure your parents aren’t going to come home?” Chatine asked, still gawking at the interior of the house as though the walls were crafted out of pure titan.
Cerise snorted at this. “Come home? Right. Now that would be a surprise.”
“Your parents don’t come home?” Chatine clarified. “Ever?”
“Well, not like ever. I mean, Maman does need a place to unpack and repack her suitcase. But mostly never. Papa practically lives at the Ministère headquarters, and Maman prefers Samsara this time of year.”
“You mean,” Alouette began cautiously, peering into a vast salon with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a sparkling blue-water pool and sprawling green lawns, “you live here alone?”
“Pretty much.” Cerise beckoned for them to follow her up to the second floor, and as Marcellus climbed the steps and glanced back over the railing at the magnificent marble foyer below, he suddenly noted the emptiness of it. The coldness of it. Their feet on the stairs echoed across the great manoir like there was nothing around for kilomètres to stop the sound.
They reached a large set of double doors at the end of the hallway, which Cerise opened with a flourish. Stepping inside, she threw out her arms. “And this is my room,” she announced.
The bed chamber was large and filled with light from its ribbon of high-arched windows. A vast canopy bed covered with a mountain of colorful silk pillows stood like a regal centerpiece in the middle of the room. Paintings lined every wall, and a deep-pile rug sprawled across the polished floors.
“It’s … nice,” Chatine muttered. She looked extremely uncomfortable inside the room. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her gray-and-white Défecteur pants and her elbows were pinned to her sides, like she was afraid of knocking into things.
“But the piece de résistance is in here.” Cerise led them through a door, and their jaws all immediately dropped open at the sight in front of them. Technically, the room could be described as a closet. But it was unlike any closet Marcellus had ever seen before. There were racks and racks of shoes of all shapes, styles, and colors. Pristine leather handbags were displayed behind illuminated plastique panels. Every centimètre of hanging space was filled to the brim with blouses, skirts, and dresses in every shade and fabric Marcellus could imagine. And, on the far back wall, were floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with more gadgets than he’d ever seen outside of the Cyborg and Technology Labs.
“Holy fric,” said Chatine. Her eyes were as wide as moons. She turned to Cerise with what could only be described as admiration. “You’re like a Second Estate croc.”
Cerise grinned. “Merci.” She spun around and plucked a gadget from one of the bins on the back shelf before placing it atop a chest of drawers in the center of the room. A moment later, the device glowed to life, and a large-scale hologram map of Ledôme fanned out across the closet.
“Okay,” Marcellus said, stepping forward to take command of the map. He zoomed in on the Grand Palais. “The Ascension banquet starts in two hours. Here. On the Imperial Lawn.” He pinched his fingers, directing the hologram to a large swatch of bright green grass that stretched out behind the Palais. “Chatine and I are going in as guests. We will enter here, at the main security checkpoint in the administration wing.” He zoomed in farther to reveal a courtyard at the far end of the Imperial Lawn, opposite the Palais’s main building.
“That’s where your biometrics will be scanned,” Cerise added, “and cross-referenced with the guest list.”
“Are you sure you can pull this off?” Marcellus’s heart raced at just the idea of getting anywhere near a Ministère scan.
Cerise flashed him an annoyed look. “Haven’t we been over this? Expert hacker, right here.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if we just scaled a wall or something?” Chatine asked, looking anxiously at the map.
Cerise huffed. “Trust me. I got this.”
“All right,” Marcellus said, trying to capture air in his rapidly constricting lungs. He turned to Chatine. “If anything goes wrong and you need to escape, use one of the loopholes in the security shield around the Palais.” He reached back toward the hologram and zoomed out until the perimeter fence was in view. “Mabelle engineered them years ago, and as far as I know, all four are still intact. She marked their locations by bending the fleur-de-lis ornament at a slight angle.” He pointed to three spots around the perimeter of the fence before dragging his finger to a fourth point near one of the numerous gardens. “This one is closest to the banquet, so it’s our best escape route.”
“Why aren’t we just using those to sneak into the banquet?” Chatine asked.
“Too risky.” Marcellus shook his head. “There are always extra guards on patrol during Ascension banquets. We’re far better off entering as guests.”
Chatine nodded, but still didn’t look convinced.
“Which means you’re going to have to blend in with the other guests.” Cerise turned to riffle through the rows of hangers behind her. “Marcellus, you can borrow one of Papa’s tuxedos, and for Chatine …” She paused and plucked a hanger from the rack. A plume of pale green fabric seemed to spill out into the closet like a gushing fountain. It was long and billowy with a never-ending train of silk and ruffles. “This color will be wonderful with your complexion.”
Marcellus had never seen a more horrified expression than the one that had just descended over Chatine’s face.
Chatine barked out a dark laugh. “You’re joking, right?”
Cerise looked down at the dress, confused. “I don’t joke about ball gowns.”
“I’m not wearing that.” Chatine was eyeing the explosion of a dress like it was made of jagged shards of glass, not what appeared to be layers of fine Samsarian silk.
“But you have to. It’s the Ascension banquet. Everyone will be dressed up. Even the Third Estaters.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of long silk gloves. “And these will cover the scar from your Skin.”
Chatine crossed her arms over her chest. “I haven’t worn a dress since I was eight years old, and I’m certainly not going to start again now.”
“Well, what did you expect to do? Waltz into the gardens wearing that?”
Chatine glanced down at her Défecteur clothes and a shadow of doubt flickered over her face. “I … ,” she began, but her voice trailed off.
“This is the Grand Palais. You have to blend in. And if you don’t blend in, you die!”
Everyone startled at Cerise’s drastic change of tone. Her mood seemed to have gone from confident to morbid in an instant. Clearly, the stress of this endeavor was taking its toll on all of them.
“Or maybe you want to break into the Ministère headquarters and hack the guest list and I’ll go to the banquet.” Cerise went on, her voice still strained.
Chatine’s arms fell back to her sides, and without another word, she reached out and took the dress from Cerise.
“Merci,” Cerise said tightly. “Oh, and one more thing.” She disappeared around a corner of the closet and returned a moment later holding what looked like a clump of human hair.
“A wig?” Chatine asked in disbelief.
“As much as I love this look.” Cerise gestured to Chatine’s short crop of newly grown hair. “Very razor chic. I do worry it might make you look like you just escaped from Bastille.”
“I did just escape from Bastille.”
“Right.” Cerise extended out the wig.
As Chatine took it and ran her fingers through the long, dark brown locks, a disturbed, almost haunted expression passed over her face. “This looks a lot like the hair I sold two years ago.”
Cerise flashed a hurried smile. “Good, then it’ll look natural. And you.” She reeled on Marcellus and squinted at his face like he was out of focus. “Hmm. The stubble definitely helps. And we’ll get you a hat. But it won’t be enough.” She rummaged around in another drawer before pulling out a pair of dark Sol-glasses and handing them over.
Marcellus slid the glasses over his eyes and watched the closet tint a reddish gold. It made him think of Albion sunsets and death. He slid the glasses off before refocusing on the hologram.
“Alouette and Cerise, you will be here.” He maneuvered the map away from the Palais and pushed in on the dark structure that sat like a giant festering wound amidst the vibrant colors of the rest of Ledôme. The two black towers of the Ministère headquarters soared out of the hologram like a pair of ominous sentinels, and the rows and rows of windows, black and glassy, shone like a battalion of unblinking eyes.
“The service entrance in the back is your best option,” Marcellus continued, fighting off a shudder at the sight of that building. “Most of the employees who use that entrance leave at 19.00. You can sneak in through the door as someone is leaving.”
“Right.” Cerise opened a drawer, pulled out two bundles of fabric, and handed one to Alouette. “This will be our cover.”
Alouette unfurled the material to find a simple black pair of pants and a short-sleeved blue shirt with a crisp black collar, simple black buttons, and two deep pockets sewn at the waist.
“Cleaner’s uniform,” explained Cerise. Then, upon Alouette’s questioning look, she added, “Let’s just say this is not the first time I’ve had to sneak into the Ministère.”
“Have you figured out how to get into the server room yet?” Marcellus asked Cerise.
“I can disable the security feeds, because they’re on an accessible network, but I can’t hack a biometric lock. At least not without raising a lot of alarms.” She turned expectantly to Alouette, as though they’d already come to a decision.
“I’m going to disable the lock on the server room door,” Alouette said.
Chatine and Marcellus both stared at her with wide, unblinking eyes. “You can do that?” Marcellus asked.
Alouette nodded. “Sister Denise taught me how to disassemble my first Ministère lock when I was eight. Now I know why.”
Once all the disguises had been distributed, Cerise directed them to private bathrooms to shower and change clothes. The steaming hot water raining down on Marcellus, washing away the dirt and ash and lingering chill of the Terrain Perdu, felt so good. For a moment, he nearly forgot what they had all gathered here to do. But then, as he reached to shut off the faucet, Marcellus’s gaze snagged on a window set high in the bathroom wall where, slicing through the darkening TéléSky outside, he could make out a soaring, glinting antenna.
Even from way out here, among the manoirs of Ledôme, the Paresse Tower was visible. Marcellus still couldn’t believe what Brigitte had told them. A kill switch for the Skins? Hidden right in front of him—in front of everyone—this whole time? Looking up at it now, Marcellus felt like the tower was taunting him. Reminding him of everything that was at stake tonight.
He stood naked and shivering, running through the plan in his mind, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong. There were no real Sols to pray to inside Ledôme, and he wasn’t about to trust the fake ones. Which meant he had no choice but to rely on himself and the people he now called his friends.
Hastily, he grabbed for a towel and dried himself off before pulling on his borrowed tuxedo. It wasn’t as scratchy and stiff as his officer uniform, but the touch of the fabric still made him cringe.
He was just knotting the tie when his TéléCom lit up on the bathroom counter.
“Incoming AirLink request pending from Jolras Epernay,” a voice said in his audio patch.
Marcellus froze as his gaze traveled down to the screen and the now all-too-familiar face of Maximilienne’s brother. He was AirLinking Marcellus again? What could that Red Scar monster possibly want with him?
There was a rap at the door and Cerise called out, “Almost ready?”
Marcellus blinked down at the screen again, where Jolras’s face was still waiting.
“Yes!” he shouted back through the door as he hastily swiped at the screen, declining the request. Tonight, he only had the time and energy to think about one threat to Laterre. And that was his grandfather.
When he emerged from the bathroom, he found Cerise was the only one waiting for him.
“Where is everyone else?” he asked.
“Still getting ready,” she said, and Marcellus noticed a dark shadow descend over her face. “I thought we could do this last part alone.”
Marcellus nodded grimly and followed behind her as they walked in silence down the long hallway of the second floor. With each step, Marcellus felt his breath grow shallower and his heart grow heavier. He thought back to that early morning when he’d darted around the abandoned copper exploit, looking for Mabelle and feeling like a traitor. At that moment, he’d wanted nothing more than to join the Vangarde, avenge his father’s wrongful incarceration and death, and stop General Bonnefaçon from destroying a planet.
Little did he know, those fateful steps that morning would lead to these ones.
Would lead him here.
Cerise entered a large wood-paneled study and stopped in front of a framed painting of a peaceful First World landscape. She pushed the frame aside to reveal a thick PermaSteel vault embedded into the wall.
“Last chance to back out,” Cerise said. “Are you sure about this?”
Marcellus nodded, feeling the significance of such a simple gesture crash down around him. “The general must be stopped. It’s the only way.”
Cerise sighed and pressed her palm to the glowing panel beside the door. The vault clicked open, and Marcellus sucked in a sharp breath when his eyes fell upon dozens of silver rayonettes hanging from a wooden rack in neat, shimmering rows.
“Papa’s been stealing weapons from the Ministère ever since the last rebellion,” Cerise explained, and for a moment her eyes went glassy. “The truth is, I don’t think he’s one hundred percent convinced we won’t see another one.”
Marcellus reached inside the vault and delicately plucked a rayonette from the rack. Every nerve in his body caught fire as his fingers closed around the glittering handle. He’d held weapons almost his entire life. His grandfather had placed his first rayonette in his hands when he was only eight years old. But he’d never felt its true weight and power and responsibility until right now.
In his mind, he could still hear his grandfather’s words from that day ten years ago.
“Hold it steady, Marcellus. In the face of your enemy, a wavering hand can cost you your life.”
“Don’t hesitate. As soon as you have your best shot, you take it. Never give your opponent the chance to shoot first.”
“See this switch? This activates the lethal mode. Only use it in the most dire of circumstances.”
Marcellus rolled his thumb back and forth over the toggle. He couldn’t think of more dire circumstances than the ones they now faced. And when the time came, he would not hesitate. His hands would not waver. He would not give his grandfather the chance to shoot first.
The thought brought him a rush of terror, then sickness, and then finally, a rush of conviction.
Marcellus had waited a long time for this moment. Longer than he’d even realized. He had suffered, lost, grieved, raged, fought, froze, and traveled across the stars and back for this one chance to stop the general. A chance to make things right.
With a snap that reverberated throughout the room, Marcellus flicked the switch on the rayonette and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. “Your father is wrong,” he said gravely to Cerise. “Laterre won’t see another rebellion.”
Cerise blinked up at him with questioning eyes.
“Because no matter what happens tonight,” Marcellus said, “there’s going to be a revolution.”