ALOUETTE’S LUNGS BURNED FROM RUNNING, and her heart was thudding like a drum in her chest. The twin towers of the Ministère were now just an eerie glow in the night sky behind her.
“Marcellus!” she shouted hoarsely into her audio patch for what felt like the hundredth time. “Marcellus, are you there?” Still no response. Cerise had evidently cut the connection when she’d seen her father coming down the hallway. But it didn’t stop Alouette from trying to make contact. Again and again and again.
She had to warn Marcellus. The general knew he was there. Their entire plan—not to mention the lives of everyone at that banquet—was in jeopardy.
She could see the darkened outline of the Grand Palais in the distance. As she ran breathlessly toward it, she tried to recall the details Marcellus had given earlier about the loopholes in the security shields. There were four, she remembered. One that was closest to the gardens. That was her best option.
As soon as she reached the Palais fence, she pulled out her borrowed TéléCom and used the light to illuminate the little fleur-de-lis ornaments on the top of each post. She walked briskly along the perimeter until she located the one that was bent at an angle, and then she scrabbled over the fence.
She hit the ground hard but was up in an instant before she was running again. The north end of the Palais was in sight. It was vast and incredibly well lit. Just ahead, she could make out a small staircase leading up to the side of the Grand Terrace. From there, she’d be able to see out over the entire banquet. She bounded toward it, her muscles crying out, her breathing ragged.
Almost there.
She pounded up the steps and charged onto the terrace just as a pair of Palais doors swung open. Alouette skidded to a halt and searched for a place to hide, but there was nothing. And there was no time.
“This fête better not last all night,” said a deep, booming voice. “I have better things to do, you know?”
“It should only take a few minutes, Monsieur,” said another voice.
When Alouette’s gaze fell upon the two men exiting through the Palais door, her whole body went completely and utterly numb. The first man—an advisor in a dark green robe—she didn’t recognize. But the other? Just the sight of him made her gut twist and her knees go weak. His thick and immaculately coiffed auburn hair glinted in the terrace lights. Of course she recognized him. There wasn’t a soul on Laterre who wouldn’t.
It was Patriarche Lyon Paresse, the leader of Laterre.
And he was staring right at her.
She wanted to run. She wanted to flee. But for some reason, she couldn’t move. There was something about the way he was looking at her—slack-jawed and spellbound, like he’d just come face-to-face with a ghost—that made Alouette feel like her feet were bolted to the ground.
And then he spoke, uttering the only two syllables in the universe that could cause Alouette’s heart to stop beating and the world to come crashing to a halt.
“Lisole?”
It was barely a whisper from the Patriarche’s lips. A murmur of shock and surprise and …
Recognition, Alouette suddenly realized.
Except it wasn’t her he recognized. He was staring at Alouette with the exact same bewilderment and disbelief as Madame Blanchard had done back in Montfer. His watery gray eyes were wide and unblinking, entranced by the sight of her.
No.
By the sight of who he thought she was.
“Monsieur Patriarche,” the advisor said, casting an uneasy glance at Alouette and her cleaner’s uniform. “I think we should proceed to the banquet. The Matrone is waiting for you.” He tried to usher the Patriarche away, across the terrace, but Lyon resisted, pushing his way back to Alouette.
“Lisole!” he said again. This time, it wasn’t a question. It was an answer. A sigh of relief. “I thought you were … They told me you were …” His voice trailed off. And that’s when Alouette saw something on his face that confounded her to the very core of her being.
Affection.
Confused and overwhelmed, Alouette started to back away, but something on the advisor’s green robe caught her attention, freezing her in place again. Her gaze fell to his front pocket, where an intricate emblem was stitched into the fabric.
And suddenly, every sound for thousands of kilomètres seemed to fade from existence, and all she could hear was an intense drone in her ears.
She felt herself leaning closer, like she was being pulled into the gravity of that small image.
Two lions standing on their hind legs, mouths open mid-roar, paws in the air.
They were the exact same lions as the ones that had been engraved into the lid of her mother’s titan box. The box had been destroyed on the voyageur, but Alouette had stared at its surface for so many hours, she’d studied its intricate carvings and designs for so long, she could have reconstructed it from memory.
And yet, for some reason, she hadn’t pieced it together.
This was the Paresse family crest.
She’d seen drawings of the majestic insignia countless times in the Chronicles. But she hadn’t associated it with the engraving on her mother’s box until now. Maybe it was because the two things seemed so unrelated. Her mother and the Paresse family were as far apart as Usonia and Sol 1.
What had her mother been doing with a titan box adorned with the Paresse family crest?
“Monsieur Patriarche,” came another voice. This one was low and clipped, and even though Alouette had never heard it before, it chilled her to the bone. “Is something wrong? We are waiting for you on the other side of the terrace. We must proceed to the banquet now.”
At first, all Alouette saw was the white jacket coming toward her, with its row of dazzling titan buttons. Then she saw the tall frame, the wide shoulders, the thick hair, the hazel eyes—almost identical to Marcellus’s—and every molecule inside of her clattered and collided like an exploding sol.
“But look, General!” the Patriarche blustered, his words garbled and his eyes glassy with confusion. Like someone just waking from a dream. “It’s her! It’s Lisole. H-h-how is this possible? You told me she was dead.”
The general’s cruel, piercing gaze settled on Alouette, and something in the clench of his jaw and the slight widening of his eyes told her he knew exactly who she was. “I agree, the resemblance is uncanny,” he said evenly. “Why don’t you join your wife and proceed to the banquet, and I will sort this out.”
Run.
The word flittered through Alouette’s mind, and she knew instantly that it was her only option. But evidently, so did the general, because before she could take a single step, his large hand wrapped around her arm, and he began to drag her back toward the side staircase.
She struggled against his grasp, trying to wrench herself free, but he was too strong. He gave her a rough yank and whispered angrily into her ear, “I know why you’re here. I know what you’re after. But I have not worked this hard and for this long to have everything stolen from me by the daughter of a worthless blood whore.”
He snapped his fingers at two officers in white uniforms who were patrolling nearby and beckoned them over. Alouette swallowed hard, feeling like her heart might beat right out of her chest.
“Officers,” he said in an impervious tone. “This servant was caught trying to steal from the Patriarche. Take her into custody and I will handle the situation after the banquet is over. Do not let her get away.”