But I did.
“Belle!” one fan said, only to be met with a deafening silence I remembered too clearly.
The same chill that I used to admire in Belle now spurred something rebellious in me. I started rolling down the window.
“What are you doing?” the driver barked as he watched me through his rearview mirror.
“Maia!” The poor girl was being crushed against my car door. “Maia!”
“Please get back.” I hadn’t rolled it too far down, but the girl seized the opportunity. Quickly lowering her banner, she reached inside her pocket and shoved a pink envelope through the sliver of space. As it fell into my hand, I wanted to say something to her. Whatever words I’d wished Belle had said to me: Keep your head up, kid. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re good just the way you are. You’re strong.
Words I still wish she’d say.
But before I could speak, the girl had already disappeared back into the rabble.
We finally got through the gates, only to be swarmed again as they closed behind us.
“Reporters.” Belle’s narrowed eyes reflected in the window.
Paparazzi would often find ways to ambush us in expected places. I’d already read about someone digging through the trash outside my New York apartment. But they weren’t supposed to be inside the gates.
As our van came to a stop, I clutched the letter in my hand. “What do we do?”
With one swift movement, Belle was out of the car. The vultures descended.
“Well,” the driver said, “you don’t exactly have a choice, do you?”
Lake had already been reapplying her lipstick. After fixing her black hair, twisted into a bun at the crown of her head, she tapped me on the shoulder. “Make sure to look above it all, but still kind of relatable, you know?”
After reaching into her tote bag and slipping on one of the three pairs of shades she always carried, she opened the door and fed herself to the ravenous crowd. With a heavy sigh, I slipped the girl’s letter into the front pocket of my hoodie and followed the others.
“Maia!”
“Maia Finley, do you have a minute?”
Sibyl would never allow reporters on the premises, and there was way too much security for them to just sneak in. Clearly they hadn’t. Now that the gates were closed against the fans outside, the security officers were just standing around watching us get utterly devoured by disorienting camera flashes.
“Maia, do you have anything to say about—” started one reporter.
“Do you know anything about—” said another.
“Can you give us some room?” I cried over the din, wincing when someone tried to grab my arm, pinching the skin. “Back off, seriously!”
Only when I heard the words “secret mission” did my feet halt against the pavement.
“What did you say?” I blinked, guarding my eyes against the flashes. “What’s going on?”
“Everyone, please calm down.” A deep, baritone British voice rang out over the din. “Our Effigies have only just returned from the mission. Please be so courteous to allow them room to breathe.”
Because of the commotion, I hadn’t even noticed the double doors of the London facility’s main building spit out a tall, well-built man. He was dressed well too, his long, black jacket heavy atop his maroon vest. His penny loafers clicked against the pavement as he walked toward us. But then Bartholom?us Blackwell was never one to shy away from extravagance.
He looked all too comfortable with the media attention, despite the fact that as the representative of the Sect’s governing Council, he wasn’t required to interact with the public much at all. Each division had a director, like Sibyl, who was the director of the European Division, or Director Chafik, who ran the African Division. They coordinated with the facilities in their jurisdiction, major and minor, as well as sharing information among one another. Then there was the Council, the shadowy presence that oversaw the Sect’s operations in its entirety.
Blackwell was a diplomat, offering himself to foreign leaders of countries as the voice of the Council, the members of which stayed hidden in secrecy. When he wasn’t doing that, he was off somewhere watching symphonies or hanging out in that huge mansion of his in the countryside, endlessly delighting in being a rich asshole.
Now, as he approached us, he reveled in the spotlight, the camera flashes blanching his already pale skin, his lips stretched into a self-satisfied smirk.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said, and when he was close enough, I could see the diamond cuff links glittering on his sleeves. “Although I should apologize. I know some might consider it impolite to be late to your own press conference.”
I should have known he was the one who’d called it. It wasn’t the first time, either.
His thick black brows arched the moment his eyes found us, the Effigies, peppered through the crowd of journalists.
“Ah good, they’ve arrived. Girls!” He motioned us forward. “Join me. And, everyone, please give them space. I promise you, your questions will be answered.”
The reporters finally backed off. The breathing room was appreciated, but I wasn’t about to move at his command. It wasn’t until I saw Belle turn to the three of us and nod that I reluctantly dragged my feet forward. At the end of the day, Blackwell was still a high official within the Sect. We couldn’t appear to be “disobeying” him, not in front of all these cameras.
And he likely knew that.
“Don’t be shy.” He “welcomed” us with outstretched arms, though none of us came anywhere near them. We followed Belle’s cue instead, lining up by his side like little pageant princesses on display for the consumption of greedy eyes.
My skin crawled as I stared into the crowd of men and women who grasped their recording devices tightly, eager for a sound bite. I could tell by the stiffness in the other girls’ expressions that I wasn’t the only one. Even Lake, who draped media attention around herself like a security blanket, went rigid as she stared up at Blackwell with her shades lifted, waiting for his next words with the slightest hint of dread in her eyes.
“Well, we should start. Don’t worry, I’ll keep this as brief as possible.” He adjusted his white panama-style hat over his long, black curling hair. “I know the world has been anxious about the lack of information concerning the Sect’s ongoing security issues. I’ve decided to call you here to stem any worries. The Sect, as it has and always will be, is functioning at peak efficiency. Thanks to the hard work of our courageous young Effigies”—he flashed us an empty grin—“and our Sect officials, especially the efforts put in by Director Langley, who has been leading the charge on this front, I can confidently relay to you new developments that have come up through the recently conducted mission.”