It’s distressing, and I see Jackson hold his hand to his head. I doubt he’s ever witnessed a branding in his life.
Then Judge Crevan shouts at me some more, accuses me of being Flawed to my very backbone. He orders the sixth branding and Jackson sits up, turns to Sanchez in shock, then back to the screen again. He can’t believe what he’s seeing.
I hear sounds from outside. The crowd. Restless.
I stand up and make my way to the window that overlooks the courtyard. Neither Sanchez nor Jackson stops me; they seem frozen by what is happening on the screen.
Outside, the thousands of Flawed who gathered earlier are now gone, but the courtyard has been opened up again to members of the public, who are always invited to come to the courtyard to watch as accused Flawed are taken from their holding cells in one building, across the courtyard to the courtroom on the other side.
Many of the people outside are dressed in red, but they aren’t Flawed. They are members of the public, they are protesting against the Guild. I see them wearing T-shirts just like the ones Mom, Juniper, Ewan, and the students were wearing, reading ABOLISH THE GUILD. The courtyard is mixed with protestors and regular people, and they are letting out shouts of disgust. Boos.
And then I realize why.
They are all watching the footage of my brandings on the large screen people watch trials on. Somebody has switched the station from Flawed TV to this. More and more people flood through the gates of the castle to watch, to see what all the fuss is about. I see them hold their hands to their mouths in shock as they witness Crevan in action.
Bark refuses to brand my spine. He says that there is no anesthetic.
I hear the people gasp, I see them grab the arms of the people next to them. They are starting to realize what they are about to see. These are not just protestors: There are other members of the public there, too, who came to witness a Flawed being brought to court. I sense them changing sides.
Crevan takes the searing hot rod in his hands. The guards are emotional and crying, trying to murmur words of support in my ears, trying to hold me still. Crevan brands my spine and my scream echoes and rebounds off the Highland Castle walls in the courtyard and out over the city.
The crowd howls in disgust. My body is trembling.
“No.” Sanchez stands. She is visibly shaking, her red robe quaking around her body.
“What is this?” Jackson asks. “Is this real?” He looks to Sanchez and then to me. “Dear God.”
After the harrowing footage, Enya Sleepwell returns. “I apologize for having to show you that. I apologize to Celestine North for what happened to her. We cannot let this happen to the innocent people of our great country. It is because of this that the Vital Party is one hundred percent behind abolishing the Guild. If the Guild itself is Flawed, how can it continue? We need to address it now. No more baby steps, it’s time to take leaps and bounds, and bring this country forward.
“Vote the Vital Party, for fairness and justice, for strong leadership, bringing this country forward with compassion and logic.”
There’s silence in the room.
SEVENTY-THREE
GUARDS RUSH INTO the turret room.
“Rioting outside. We need to move you to safety.”
Jackson stands up so quickly the chair topples backward and he doesn’t bother picking it up. He looks at me, his face filled with utter shock, fear, and disgust.
“Dear girl,” he whispers, apology all over his face. He struggles to find words. He looks at Judge Sanchez; his contempt for her is clear.
“Judge Jackson, you should come with me quickly,” the Whistleblower interrupts Judge Jackson’s thoughts. His red robe billows behind him as he exits to save himself.
“I guess the deal is off,” I say to Sanchez.
She turns to me then and I almost think I see a look of admiration: I successfully managed to pull the wool over her eyes. But then she coldly turns and hurries out of the cell without a word, under guard.
I’m left alone, in the round room, without a word of explanation as to what will happen to me. I wonder about Carrick, Raphael, and Granddad, if they’re still passed out. I pace the cell, heart hammering. I look outside and see the Whistleblowers back in their riot gear. More members of the public are streaming through the gates, and it’s not to cheer on the Whistleblowers. They are punching their fists in the air, demanding answers, demanding change. I want to be down there, not trapped up here.
The door bursts open.
It’s Art.
“I heard there was a damsel in distress in the tower,” he says. “Princess, I’m here to rescue you,” he adds dramatically, with an awkward laugh.
I roll my eyes; now is not the time for one of Art’s jokes.
But before I say anything he adds, “I’m rescuing all of you.”
“They’re out cold,” I tell him as I move as quickly as I can to the door, trying to ignore the pain in my stomach. “How will we get them out?”
“I have a van ready at a side exit—we just need to get them to it,” he says, starting to run down the spiral staircase. On every level I can see staff members using the emergency exits to escape.
“The lawyer should be easy enough to lift. I’ll take him, you get your Granddad,” he says, and I shake my head at another of Art’s jokes, his coping mechanism in times of stress.
As everybody floods out of the building, we head in the opposite direction, going down, down, down to the basement.
I stop running. “Come on, Art, stop, let’s think. Seriously, how can we do this? We can’t carry them on our own.”
He stops rushing down the stairs and looks back up at me. “Maybe they’ll be awake by now.”
“Art, focus. Last time I was drugged, I was out for most of the day, and when I woke up I was paralyzed from the waist down.”
“The last time you were what?”
“But that was an injection; this could be something else. Maybe they’re just sleeping pills. We need to think of something else. We need more help. We need people from outside to help us.”
He thinks it through. “The Flawed are rioting. Members of the public are charging the gates in protest. Some fool accidentally pressed a button to air the Vital Party’s announcement around the courtyard. They want my dad’s head on a plate.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
“It was me who did it,” he says.
I look at him, stunned.
“Okay, so maybe the people outside can help. We should go out there and talk to them. Only…” He looks down at his uniform.
“It’s not safe outside for you, Art. You stay here, make sure they’re safe, unlock their cells. I’ll get help from outside.”
The role reversal is ironic.
“I can open their doors from here.” Art enters a private staff-only room, filled with CCTV cameras showing the cells downstairs. I go inside with him and urgently scan the screens for signs of Granddad, Raphael, and Carrick. They’re all still where they were when I left them, no sign of movement at all.