“It’s by Sovenagh—her ninetieth symphony. It’s called The Rape of Reason.”
We enter an elevator car. None of us speak as we rise to somewhere in the center of the trunk. When the doors open, Clara Diamond, Mother’s personal public relations assistant, greets us. “You found her!” Clara bleats to Emmitt with visible relief. “The Sword is threatening to have me killed if I don’t report back to her soon.” She’s not joking. The terror shows on her white-lipped face. Mother’s temper is legendary.
As we exit the lift, Clara reaches for my arm. I allow her to take it because I need her support as much as she needs to assure herself that she won’t be dying today. “We have to get you to the debriefing. We can clean you up later.”
I fall in step with her and Emmitt. The Sword soldiers trail us, rubbernecking in awe. The décor lacks the sophistication that I’m accustomed to, but the carpet is soft beneath my bare feet. Clara leads me down a long hallway that skirts the atrium.
We pass a few gangways that lead to round platforms that hang in the air above the ground many stories below. Clara pauses at the largest. Emmitt shoos me ahead, urging me over a lighted-glass gangplank with glass railings. I stop midway.
Emmitt holds the others back. “She has to go alone. You will wait here.” Hawthorne brushes him aside, but Emmitt manages to get back in front of him. “I’m only trying to save your life. This is a private conversation. You don’t have the security clearance level to attend. I don’t have the security clearance to attend.” He holds his hand on his chest to illustrate his point. “You can protect her from here. She can’t go anywhere, and Clara made sure that we’re the only ones on this entire level.”
Hawthorne gives me a reluctant nod. I turn and follow the gangway, holding its glass handrail until I make it to the rosette-shaped platform. Dangling over the atrium gives me the feeling of floating on air. About a hundred feet away, surrounding me on all sides, are tiers of balconies. As I peek over the railing, it’s as if I’m trapped inside the rib cage of a giant leviathan.
A dome of darkness forms around the suspended platform. I can no longer see the soldiers or the staff from Mother’s Palace. The floor illuminates. I’m now being viewed as a holographic image by whoever’s vetted into our meeting.
A holographic image of an elderly admiral projects before me. His white handlebar mustache is extremely outdated but well groomed. He’s attired in a highly decorated dress uniform. I straighten. He’s a firstborn Sword that I’ve met many times before. His name is Admiral Yarls Dresden. He’s a lecher and an alcoholic. The secondborn Stones of the Palace fear him.
Admiral Dresden doesn’t acknowledge me. I have to hold back a sigh of relief. Another holographic image of a slender woman in a beautiful silver ball gown made of light walks off the adjacent balcony and into the air, approaching my island platform. She wears a half-moon-shaped tiara atop her ebony hair. She stops just feet away from me. I recognize her as Clarity Toussaint Jowell, the leader of the Fate of Moons. She greets Admiral Dresden, and they engage in quiet conversation about the weather, ignoring me entirely.
Someone else winks into view—an attractive older man, maybe in his early forties, with a golden shooting-star-shaped moniker that indicates he’s firstborn Fate of Stars. His long dark hair is held back from his face with a leather tie. No gray taints the ebony of his full beard. He’s not dressed in formal attire, like the other two; rather, he wears a black woolen cloak that would be perfect for a midnight stroll in the crisp air. The Star-Fated man acknowledges the other holograms. “Admiral Dresden.” His accompanying nod is perfunctory.
“Daltrey.” Admiral Dresden spits his name like he has tasted something spoiled.
Daltrey greets the Clarity. “Clarity Jowell.”
“It’s been a trying day for you, I’m sure, Daltrey. Our thoughts are with you,” she says in a sympathetic, yet flirty, way.
“It has. I thank you for your thoughts.”
“Your house still standing?” Admiral Dresden smirks at Daltrey and twists his mustache.
“It is. Thank you for your concern,” Daltrey replies with a cutting glare.
“Pity,” Admiral Dresden drones, “that our assault against your Fate was necessary, but we must rid ourselves of these Fate traitors. The Gates of Dawn seem to like your Fate too well. Or maybe your Fate fosters their particular brand of secondborn rebel.”
“My Fate is comprised of freethinkers. One needs a special sort of mind to harness and engineer power and energy.”
“Too bad it also breeds traitors.”
“Yes. Too bad,” Daltrey agrees, but it rings insincere. I stare at him.
Mother winks in, interrupting any further conversation. She’s elegant in a ball gown of midnight blue with pinpoints of silver that mimic stars in the night sky. A delicate silver tiara is woven in her chestnut-colored hair. She doesn’t acknowledge me but greets each of the other participants with brief exchanges about their health. Her mouth pinches in agitation as she falls silent, scowling at her timekeeper.
Clarity Fabian Bowie’s firstborn son, Grisholm Wenn-Bowie, joins the circle after Mother. I recognize him without an introduction. He’s been to the Sword estate many times in his youth to beat up on Gabriel. He’s only a few years older than me. At twenty-one, he’s passingly handsome but could use a more rigorous training regimen.
Clearly this meeting interrupted some kind of celebration because I don’t think Grisholm wears his golden, halo-shaped crown over his dark, shaggy mane just to tame it. His hair must take him hours of styling, though. Not only is Grisholm’s grooming glorious, so, too, is his evening attire. The firstborn heir to the fatedoms is a contrast in black and white. Skin-hugging black trousers that don’t leave much to the imagination meet the shiniest black boots I’ve ever seen. A golden belt with a halo-shaped buckle gleams at his waist. His silken white dress shirt and an intricately tied cravat are as immaculate as his snowy-white cape.
Grisholm appears bored. He ignores everyone else and studies me with a condescending curl of his lip, taking in my attire and my hair, which probably has knots in it. I smooth a hand down the side of my Census-issued rags, adjusting the hem so that it lies flat on my hip.
“Can it be the Secondborn St. Sismode?” Grisholm smiles like he smells something delicious. “Why is it that you still resemble a little lost waif, Roselle, even when you’re all grown up?”
“Clean living, Firstborn Commander,” I reply. It elicits a chuckle. I’m thinking, I can still kick your ass, Grisholm, like I did when I was ten and you smashed Gabriel in the head with the clock from the hall table.
His eyes skim over my criminal attire and long, messy hair. “Had a brush with the authorities, have you?”
“Census was gracious enough to put me up for a few days while we sorted out my disabled moniker. I’ll have to send them a spa basket. What would you recommend, First Commander? Assorted soaps?”
“With bubble bath,” he plays along, smiling evilly. He’s just as I remember; he loves a good snubbing. “Shall I send it for you on your behalf?”
“That is a generous offer, First Commander.”
“To whom shall I address it?”
“Agent Kipson Crow.”
“Ooh.” He mock-winces.
“Ah, you know him.”
“I do. The Fate of Virtues is smaller than you may think. You never have had much luck, have you, Roselle?”
“The only thing I’ve had in abundance is loyalty, First Commander.”