EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM WAS FAMILIAR. His chin. His eyelashes. His cheeks. The way his lips moved ever so slightly while he dreamed. As she watched him sleep, curled up in a tiny ball under the blankets just like he used to do when he was a baby, Chatine felt foolish for not seeing it before. For not recognizing him the moment she first laid eyes on him.
The resemblance seemed too obvious to miss now.
But she, of all people, knew how the heart could play evil tricks on the mind. And that the eyes could be as devious and deceitful as a pair of crocs.
None of that mattered now, though. All that mattered was that he was here. And she was here. And they were together. The two lost Renard children finally reunited. And she would never lose him again.
The door to the small bedroom creaked open, and Chatine looked up to see Marcellus standing in the doorway. She straightened up in the chair next to the bed, where she’d been sitting for the past few hours, and beckoned him inside. “How are you?” she asked.
With a wince, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. “Apparently, I’m going to live.”
Chatine chuckled softly. “That’s good. I’d be pretty bummed if you didn’t.”
Marcellus nodded toward Henri, still fast asleep. “How is he?”
Chatine allowed her eyes to drift back toward her brother. Her brother. It felt so good to finally hold that word in her mind again and not be plagued with guilt and fear and crushing sadness. “He’s fine. More than fine, actually. Talked my ear off for twenty minutes about his bravery during what he’s calling the Great Bastille Escape of 505.” She snorted and adjusted the blankets under his chin, a delicate smile playing on her lips. “I used to watch him sleep when he was a baby. He slept the exact same way. I just can’t believe they brought him back to me.”
“The Vangarde?” Marcellus asked.
She shook her head. “The Sols.”
Chatine could feel Marcellus’s eyes on her, warm and inquisitive. “Yes, they can certainly be mysterious like that.”
With a contented sigh, Chatine finally pulled her gaze from Henri and glanced around the room. It was modest and bare, with uneven walls, a nightstand next to the bed, and a small closet cut into the bedrock and covered with a simple black curtain.
“I think this is Alouette’s room,” Chatine said quietly. She wasn’t sure if she should mention her name. The sisters still hadn’t given any indication that she’d been located, and Chatine was starting to worry that something had gone very wrong.
A flicker of uneasiness flashed in Marcellus’s eyes, but he quickly concealed it. “How do you know?”
“Because I found this.” Chatine reached under her chair and pulled out an old, faded doll with long, silky hair and a tattered yellow dress. She stood it up on her lap and stared into its glassy gray eyes, feeling the same haunting sensation she’d felt when she’d first discovered it laying on the bed. It was like looking into a mirror that warped time, and the reflection staring back at her was some younger, forgotten version of herself.
She swallowed and ran her fingers through the doll’s dark nylon curls. “For the longest time this doll represented everything I wanted to be and never could. Funny how it’s been right here, so close this whole time, and I never knew.”
“I don’t understand,” Marcellus said, his brow furrowed. “Have you seen it before?”
“Not only have I seen it, I took a souvenir.” She pivoted the doll on her lap so Marcellus could see the empty sleeve hanging loose from the dress. Chatine pushed it back to reveal a small hole just below the shoulder.
Something strange and chilling passed over Marcellus’s face as he stared at the spot where the doll’s little arm used to be. Then, as though moving in slow motion, he reached into his pocket and, with an unsteady breath, withdrew his hand and extended it toward Chatine.
She let out a tiny, uncontrolled gasp when she saw what was nestled in his palm. Like a long-lost remnant washed up at sea. A fragment of misplaced time.
“How?” she murmured, barely a whisper. “How do you have this?”
“I found it in your couchette.”
Chatine’s thoughts spun dizzily through her mind. He went to my couchette? He looked through my room? And of all the things he would have found there, this is what he took?
He let out a short laugh and shook his head. “When I think about all the times that I could have lost it, or forgotten it, or accidentally left it aboard the voyageur to be shattered into a million pieces, it almost seems impossible that I still have it.”
“B-b-but … ,” she stammered, still confused. “Why did you keep it?”
Silent and still, Marcellus stared down at the lonely little doll arm still resting in his palm. “I guess … ,” he began, the answer seeming to come to him in a rush of certainty. He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “For the same reason you kept my mother’s ring.”
Warmth instantly flooded the small room, cocooning Chatine the way she imagined these Refuge walls were designed to do. She didn’t speak as she delicately picked up the little piece of plastique from Marcellus’s hand and guided it into the empty slot just below the doll’s left shoulder. It made a quiet clicking sound as it slipped into place. And Chatine could swear she heard it echo for kilomètres. For years into the past. Back to when she was torn apart just like this doll, forced to face the world with a missing limb and a hole that seemed impossible to fill.
Until, one day, someone miraculously showed up and proved her wrong.
For a long time, she just sat there, staring into the doll’s tiny gray eyes, sharing silent stories and promises. She might even have stayed like that all night. They both might have. If it weren’t for Marcellus’s TéléCom.
He startled as something evidently pinged in his ear, prompting him to remove the device from his pocket and glance down at the screen. The blood drained instantly from his face.
“What is it?” Chatine asked, peering over his shoulder. She recognized the alert as an AirLink request, but the face flashing on the screen—a man with intense pale eyes, curly hair, and a high, pronounced brow—was unfamiliar to her.
Marcellus hastily reached to dismiss the request but Chatine placed a hand on his, stopping him. “Wait. Who is that?”
“He’s …” He breathed out an uneasy sigh as his gaze flickered anxiously to her. “His name is Jolras Epernay. And he’s part of the group responsible for your sister’s death.”
Chatine felt a sudden stab at the reminder of Azelle and the horrible way she died, but she swallowed and forced herself to ask, “Why is he AirLinking you?”
Marcellus shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s been doing it for days now. But I refuse to answer.”
He glanced down at the screen, where the face of this man—this Jolras—still flashed persistently.
“Maybe you should answer,” Chatine said quietly.
Marcellus flinched, clearly not expecting to hear that. “Why? This group is incredibly dangerous. They call themselves the Red Scar. Their leader is a mad woman who is unpredictable and disturbingly violent.”
“Isn’t that exactly why you should answer?”
Marcellus seemed to consider Chatine’s logic. After everything that had transpired tonight, it just might have been the only logic that made sense anymore.
He bit his lip and stared down at the TéléCom. The light from the flashing screen reflected ominously in his hazel eyes. Then, after sucking in a breath, Marcellus swiped on the screen and accepted the request.