King Furlow and Princess Celeste follow the medics up the stairs. Patrolmen escort them on all sides. As they go, they take the candlelight with them.
The clock strikes ten, drowning out the sounds they make. But I can still hear Princess Celeste’s sobs; I suspect I’ll hear them for a very long time in my dreams.
Pen and I stay huddled in the dark after the last chime.
“We won’t have long,” I whisper when I’m sure it’s safe. “Let’s try to find a way out.”
“We shouldn’t take the stairs,” Pen says. I can tell by her voice that she’s fighting for calm. I don’t know how long she was planning to attack the prince, but she’s seen it played out and she’s seen the damage she caused, and it’s ugly.
I’m the first to stand and begin walking. She clings to my shirt hem.
“Morgan?” she whispers. “You understand that I had to, don’t you?”
“Just hope he isn’t dead,” is all I say.
“She didn’t tell on us. She could have. Why didn’t she?”
“I don’t know.” My arms are out in front of me, and I’m feeling along the grimy bricks, hoping for an out. My eyes are trying to adjust to the darkness, but there’s nothing.
And then, suddenly, there is. A glimmer of moonlight breaking through a wooden door.
I fumble for the doorknob, and it turns, but the door doesn’t budge. Pen helps me undo the series of locks. It’s taking so long, I feel we’re in a dream where air has been replaced by sweetgold.
I pull the knob again, and the door opens with a creak that I’m sure will summon the patrolmen. But no, they don’t come. They’ll be busy with all that blood.
If Prince Azure is dead, will his father tell Internment it was Judas Hensley? Say it was another act of treason?
Moonlight, so familiar and beautiful when we make it outside that my chest aches at the sight of it. It’s trapped in a shimmering triangle on the ground. We’re standing before the plum court; it’s made of glass, its lines and circles waiting for players to come and follow their rules. Pen and I run across the court, which is scuffed from the prince and princess’s last game. We’re trying to get momentum though our wrists are bound, and no one is there to stop us. Pen’s plan is almost perfect. Almost.
I push through a row of shrubs, scratching my arms, legs, and face as I do. Pen winces at the sound of fabric tearing. When I look at her, I see the lace from her dress collar is now dangling in the shrub. She tries to free it, but it won’t come loose, and she has to leave it behind.
The clock tower is located in a wooded area, not far from where Sections One and Two meet. I know exactly where we are. My apartment is to the left in Section One, Basil’s to the right in Section Two. I allow myself a moment to stare at my building several paces away, partially hidden by its neighbors. Lights are still on in some of the apartments. It isn’t too late for people to be awake, but the streets are empty. Probably from fear that murderers are running rampant. The patrolmen surrounding the clock tower are occupied, but there will be plenty more in the city, and it probably won’t take long for word to spread that the prince has been attacked. We have to move quickly. We have to be invisible.
Down alleyways and through the woods, we move. It’s only when we reach the charred flower shop that Pen asks, “Why are we here?”
“It’s where the machine is kept,” I say, doing nothing to hide the bitterness in my voice. If she hadn’t hurt the prince, possibly killed him, here is where I would tell her to go home to her parents, to Thomas. But her ring catches a bit of starlight and I know she’ll never see her betrothed again. After what she’s done, she can never be safe in this city. She’d be declared irrational if she weren’t dispatched for her crime. I have to take her with me, and hope the metal bird really will fly us to the ground.
She’s quiet and contrite, because she knows it too.
I pry back the familiar board, granting a small passageway in through the window. Without full range of motion from my arms, I tumble forward, landing hard on my shoulder. The pain hardly registers. I catch Pen as she tumbles in on top of me.
Even after several days, the burnt smell lingers in this place, and memories of the day at the theater rush back to me. In my nightmares, I couldn’t have imagined that the fire would destroy as much as it did. I couldn’t have imagined this feeling I get now knowing I can never go back.
When I was little, my brother drew an image for me on the train ride home from the academy. It was a map of Internment. Only, instead of the real city, he’d drawn a castle for the clock tower. And the buildings were all different somehow. Mysterious. And right at the edge he drew a ladder that went down and disappeared into the clouds. It was the most spectacular thing I’d ever seen, and getting ready for my bath that night, I discovered that the map had fallen from a hole in my skirt pocket. I wanted to go out and look for it, but my mother told me the sweepers had already come. The paper would be collected with all the other forgotten-about things and it would be compressed and recycled into something new.
I looked for it the next day, anyway, to no avail. I couldn’t believe such a wonderful thing could be destroyed so simply. I learned that it could. Anything could be destroyed.
“There’s a machine in here?” Pen asks.
“Under here.” I’m on my hands and knees now, struggling to crawl, until I find the door that will take us underground.
This poses a new problem. There are several locks on the other side of it, and even if I manage to break through them, I’ll be faced with the pulleys and ropes of the lift; there’s no way I’ll be able to operate them while my wrists are bound.
“We have to find something to cut the twine,” I say.
“I can’t see anything,” Pen says. “There must be scissors, though.”
We begin fumbling through what’s left of drawers and cabinets. “Careful,” I remind Pen. But I say this a moment too late, because there’s a creaking sound as one of the cabinets gives way and crashes to the ground. Glass and metal fall around our feet.
“Sorry!” she says. “But there’s probably a glass shard we can use now.”
Carefully, I crouch among the debris looking for something sharp, and I hear Pen rustling about beside me for a few moments before she stops. “Listen,” she says. “Did you hear that?”
I stop fumbling and then I hear it, too. There are faint whining and creaking noises coming from beneath the floorboards. Someone is using the lift.
Hurriedly I crawl for the door, scraping my knee as I do. I see light through cracks in the floorboards, and my heart is on my tongue.
The noise stops, and next I hear the pound of shoes on the metal ladder. A voice says, “Who’s there?”
“Judas?” I say.
Latches being hastily unlocked. The door is pushed open, granting a square of candlelight to come through the floor. Judas sets the lantern on the ground before starting to hoist himself up. But Basil pushes past him—he’s heard my voice and now he can’t move fast enough—and in a beat I’m in his arms.
I want to hold on to him like he’s holding me, but I can’t, and so I bury my face in his neck and I press my lips there. I don’t belong on Internment itself anymore, but I’ll always belong with him.
“I see you’ve brought your friend.” Judas’s voice is dry.
Pen stares aside into the darkness. I know she’s thinking about what she’s done, about the boy soaked in blood in the clock tower.
“I had no choice,” I say, reluctantly drawing back when Basil notices my bound wrists. He tries to free them, but stops when I cringe.
“We were coming for you,” he says. “We tried last night, and there were too many patrolmen. We had to come up with a plan.”
“We were going to start a fire this time,” Judas says, sounding proud. “I figured it couldn’t hurt our reputation. Everyone already thinks we started this one.”
Violence is the only way to achieve freedom, it seems. I wouldn’t have thought so before all of this. My escape plan was a more peaceful one, but I know now that it wouldn’t have been successful.
Judas draws a knife from a makeshift sheath at his hip and saws through our restraints. It isn’t as much of a relief as I’d hoped for. The pain is still there, tightening around the bones like bloody phantom ropes.
“So you’re the fugitive,” Pen says, grinning.
