Broken Crowns (14 page)

The seamstress comes
sometime in the evening to adjust our clothes, but they are a perfect fit. Basil in pinstripes, me in a simple blue dress that laces up the back. It is the color of the sky on a clear day, and the roughness of the familiar sheep-shaving fabric tells me that I have grown too used to the satin linings and softer fabrics they make on the ground.

“Better the evil king you know, right?” I say to Basil when our seamstress has left.

“Morgan, that's treason,” he whispers fiercely. “Be careful.”

He's right. I hate it, but he's right. We're not safe to speak freely anywhere.

A patrolman arrives to take us to whatever horrible affair King Furlow has prepared for us, and Basil takes my arm. I find comfort in the strength of his hold, him ever sturdy at my side.

Our footsteps echo throughout the old stairwell, which smells faintly of mold. What a juxtaposition: two kings from two different nations, one living so modestly while the other is perched on a sparkling throne, each of them menacing in their way.

Basil and I walk in silence, afraid to speak before these guards.

When we reach the lobby, through the windows I can see that the sun has begun to melt at Internment's edge. I begin to think of Alice, coaxing my brother to take a break from his fretting and have some tea, maybe eat something. And Pen, in Thomas's charge, fighting for sobriety. And Judas, who kissed me once in the endless grass, who loses every girl he dares to care for.

Without them, and without a home to return to, Internment feels like another foreign city on that round planet below us. It isn't home anymore.

I wonder in silence about Celeste, who has yet to reveal herself to us. And her dying mother, whom Celeste flew to the ground to save. I wonder if either of them is still alive.

By the time we reach the bottom step, I can hear the people talking just outside the clock tower. I can smell—almost taste—the warm air. I hear songstresses still chirping; the insects hold no grudge about having their land torn up. Or maybe it's just that they don't have a choice.

When we step outside, the chatter stops. Glass lanterns hang on wires between tree branches, flickering and alight with flames. The crowd turns to watch us step out into the night air, and I recognize so many of their faces. People from my building, students from the academy. All of them watching us now with hope on their tired faces, as though we can save them with some great answer.

“There they are!” King Furlow cries, arms outstretched for us as he moves through the crowd. Panting from the effort, he stands beside us just outside the doorway. “Morgan Stockhour and Basil Cowl. The ones who have been to the ground.”

The applause is nervous and contrived, conducted by the king's exuberant gesturing.

Around the perimeter of the crowd, I see patrolmen, and also soldiers in gray—King Ingram's men. As long as they're here, King Furlow will of course have to play along. So will Basil and I.

The party is a dull and dreary affair. King Furlow parades us about, forcing us to tell stories about the things we've seen on the ground—the mermaids, the elegors, the rain.

It's clear that this is just a political move King Furlow is playing with King Ingram's guards. Nothing of substance is being said, and the workers and students in the crowd all seem exhausted and afraid. Basil and I try to find his parents, but they aren't here.

An hour into the affair, King Furlow leaves us to mingle.

Basil and I hang back against the clock tower's outer wall, away from the crowd, to catch our breaths. One of the guards in gray grabs my arm, startling me.

“Ms. Stockhour,” he says. Before he's even gotten the words out, Basil has stepped between us. The guard is unfazed. “Both of you, come with me,” he says.

“Where are we going?” Basil says.

“There is someone who requested a private audience with you.”

“Who is it?” I ask. Why would one of King Ingram's men be working for anyone on Internment?

But he doesn't answer, only starts walking behind the clock tower. Basil and I exchange glances, and then I make the decision to go ahead. Whatever it is, it can't be worse than this party and what King Furlow has planned for us next.

We're led through a small garden, and then the plum court, which I recognize from the night Pen and I escaped our makeshift dungeon prison.

I hear something rustling in the shrubs that frame the perimeter of the court, and then a voice says, “Morgan?” and my heart skips a beat. There at a distance, hidden up to her shoulders by greenery, is Princess Celeste.

I'm too stunned to speak for a moment, and then all I can get out is, “You're alive.” She looks well. Unharmed. And she's smiling.

“I knew you'd return,” she says. She nods to the guard in gray. “Thank you, Curtis.” She looks back to me. “He's a friend of Nim's. A lot of the guards are. From what I hear, there's a lot of unrest on the ground.”

I walk over to her, all the while battling a suspicion that something isn't right. Why is she hiding here? Why hasn't her father mentioned her, much less forced her to make an appearance at his party?

She stays on her own side of the shrub. “Things on the ground are a mess,” I say quietly. “King Ingram has no idea how to use the phosane, and the people are upset. The king has set up a factory, and all it's good for are the fumes.”

“What about the Pipers?” she says. “Nim?”

“They're doing fine,” I say. “And Nim sent this along to give to you.” I reach into my dress for the folded envelope. I didn't want to leave it up in my room, where anyone could come in and find it.

I hand the envelope to Celeste, and she presses it between both hands, as though she can feel Nim's words throbbing like a pulse. “Thank you,” she says, and her eyes begin to water. She dabs at them with her lacy sleeve. “It's been difficult spending all these months apart. He must be so worried about me. I know he must be wondering how I am, but my father has made it impossible for me to get word to him about what's happening up here.”

“Is your father using you for some political strategy? Because there has been no word about you on the ground for months. The jet comes and goes with more soil, but none of us have known whether you've been alive or dead.”

“My father is trying to protect me,” Celeste says. “He has always treated me as a sort of . . . well, a pet. Azure is the one who will inherit the throne, and I'm just a spare of sorts. So when I returned from the ground with talk of uniting Internment with Havalais, he didn't want to take me seriously. I told him that King Ingram wasn't to be trusted, but that I had a plan. Nim and I had a plan to unite our kingdoms, in a way that couldn't be disputed or overturned.”

“A plan?” I say. “Nimble hasn't told us anything.”

“I was rushed back home in such a hurry, we couldn't be sure that it would take. And it's too dangerous for me to send word with one of the guards. If the wrong person knows about it, I'll be killed and it will all be for nothing. All I can hope for now is that my brother will find a way to tell Nim for me. He deserves to know.”

“I'm confused,” I say. “What is this plan? What does Nim deserve to know?”

Celeste looks to the guard in gray, who does a sweeping glance of the perimeter. Then he nods at her.

Daintily, Celeste walks the length of the brush until she has found a clearing. She meets my eyes and for once she seems uncertain, nervous.

And then she steps out into the plum court, and I see her pregnant stomach.

My breath catches in my throat, and for an instant I think it's some sort of trick—a costume. But her worried stare as she gnaws on her lip tells me that this is quite real. I must sway a bit on my feet, because Basil puts his hand against my back to steady me.

“You and Nimble planned this?” I get out.

Her eyes brighten. “Don't you see? Whether it's a secret in his world or not, Nim is a prince. The king is his grandfather. And I'm a princess. Our child is going to be born of two worlds. The first ever! Just think of it.”

“I . . .” There are so many questions, I scarcely know where to begin. “What does your betrothed have to say about all this?”

She waves her hand. “I told you, he doesn't care about me. My only worth to him is all for political gain. He came by to see me once, when I first returned, and I suspect my father arranged the entire thing for show, just so the kingdom would believe he was worried about me. But he doesn't know about this.”

I'm trying not to stare. It's just that I've never seen anyone pregnant as young as she is. And out of the queue, at that. “But your father didn't arrange for you to have a termination procedure?” The words are sour on my tongue. That's what would have happened to anyone else.

“I have a good understanding of how these things go,” Celeste says, seeming quite proud of herself. “I kept it a secret for as long as I could. Months. By the time he caught on, it was too late to do anything about it. Around the fourth month or so, there are too many risks. He was livid, of course, but he doesn't want me to be killed. Oh, Morgan, you look so pensive.”

“I'm surprised,” I amend. Though, really, should I be? This is exactly the sort of reckless plan she would come up with. I'm only shocked that Nim—cool, practical, levelheaded Nim—would agree to it.

She reaches forward and grabs my hand. She's still holding Nim's envelope, and something about it seems to have energized her anew. “There will be more. You should go back to the party before anyone knows you're missing, but I'll visit you as soon as I can—tonight if I can manage it. I'm so glad you're the one King Ingram sent back.”

She's gone before I can think of anything else to say to her.

The guard in gray brings us back to the party. He leans between Basil and me. “There are those of us who are on your side,” he says. And then he's gone.

I wish Pen were here.
Undoubtedly she would say the wrong thing about Celeste's situation. The unkind thing. She would fill this silence with words, easily. That's just one of her many talents.

But she isn't here, and I'm left to face my own thoughts about it, and they frighten me. My anger frightens me.

The party is over and the door has been closed behind us. Basil lights the oil lamp and sits on the edge of the window and watches me.

I pace.

“Are you all right?” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “No.”

“Tell me,” he says.

If Pen were here, she'd speak for me. I wouldn't have to say it. “I have no right to be angry,” I confess. “It isn't my decision. Maybe she's got a coherent plan this time.”

“But you are angry,” Basil says.

I drop onto the edge of the bed. “Alice didn't get to keep her baby,” I say, and I keep my voice low in case anyone might overhear. We've surely got guards keeping watch over us somewhere. “I saw what that did to her, and to Lex. It ruined their lives, and the king knew it would, but he didn't care. But Celeste can do as she pleases because she's a princess?”

My hands are shaking. I lock my fingers together and press them into my lap.

“Would you feel better if the king had forced her to terminate it?” Basil asks, and he knows me well enough to already know my answer. He just wants me to admit it.

“No, that isn't it. I just think it's unfair is all.” I think back on what Celeste told me about the attraction camps, how scared she was that her brother might end up there if the king found out. I thought that being prince and princess didn't immunize them to our world's rules. But Celeste, cleverly and foolishly, slipped through somehow. Just this one time. I hate the unfairness of it, and I hate that, in spite of everything, it gives me hope. “I don't want her to terminate it,” I say. “But I didn't want Alice to have to, either. And she's hardly the only one. My brother told me that there were lots of procedures when he was a medical student. Lots of people who didn't want to.”

Basil is quiet for a long while, and then he gets up and he makes his way over to the bed. He sits beside me, stares down at my hands that are so tightly clinging to each other that my knuckles are white.

“Lots of people would find it unfair that she's having a baby out of queue,” he says. “Some might be as angry as you are, but others might be less understanding. Don't you think there are even some out there who might want to terminate it themselves?”

I wince. I know he's right. “The whole point of the queue is to keep things fair,” I say, repeating something I've heard countless times in class. “To abate jealousy. I do think there are people who would want to kill it—kill her if they had to. And with things being what they are, people are more likely to snap.”

“Which is why the king is hiding her from the city,” Basil says.