Secondborn

Chapter 25

A Rose Gardener

Hawthorne guides me to a stop beside a rather expensive-looking Fairweather. I try to catch my breath while he breaks into the luxury airship. Once inside, it doesn’t take him long to manually start the engine.

We lift off the hoverpad and fly in the direction of the sea. Neither of us says a word about the maginot. The fact that we’re both still alive is enough. Hawthorne finds my hand and threads our fingers together. About a mile from my apartment, I realize he’s taking me home.

“How do you know where I live, Hawthorne? I only just moved in.”

“I stalk you, Roselle.” He sounds unapologetic.

“And yet all that time you never contacted me.”

His lips form a grim line. “I couldn’t. They’d have known, and they’d have killed you for it.”

“It doesn’t matter now. They plan to kill me anyway.”

“And I plan to stop them.”

We near my apartment, circling once. The terrace is alive with Salloway bodyguards. Instead of landing, Hawthorne flies to the channel a block from the building. He sets us down facing the sea, letting the engine idle. “I’ve been following you and Salloway. I’ve known about this place for a while now. It didn’t take me a second, once I saw this building, to recognize your moniker. They can try to pass off its shape as that of a secondborn weapon, but I know the crown at the top is you. I know every curve of your body. Every contour. Every shape you take. This place was built for you.”

“They have plans for me.” I shiver and rub my arms. “Do you know about Hammon and Edgerton?”

“Agent Crow came to me, looking for them. I know you had something to do with their disappearance. I’m not sure how you pulled it all off—getting them out of Swords. But I know you paid for it. A beating like that means someone meant to kill you. What happened? Where are they?”

“I can’t tell you,” I reply, “for your own safety.”

“You don’t trust me.” He sounds hurt, but not surprised.

“You’re right,” I agree, “but I also don’t want you to be in danger because of me.”

“I can accept that. Did the Star soldiers hurt you worse than the beating that I saw?” he asks through gritted teeth, his gray eyes bleak.

“I know what you’re asking. They didn’t rape me.” Reykin wouldn’t let them, I think to myself. I don’t want him to see me cry, so I open my door, get out, and walk toward the beach. Hawthorne catches up and takes my hand. “I was afraid—I am afraid,” I admit as we wander through the sand. “The kind of fear that makes me think if I had to do it again, I might not be able to. I might just let them die and that . . . that makes me feel”—my voice cracks—“angry and guilty. I’m afraid to go to sleep tonight. I’m afraid to dream that I’m in the middle of it all again, and there’s no way out . . .”

His arms engulf me, tugging me to his chest. I breathe hard until I get my emotions under control. A tear escapes from the corner of one eye anyway. I growl and wipe it away with a trembling hand. “Hammon is pregnant,” I murmur. “You’re going to be an uncle.”

Hawthorne swears softly. “I’m going to kill Edge! So thoughtless!”

“Believe me, he’d have welcomed it after the beating he took.”

“Is he okay?” Hawthorne asks. “Is the baby okay—and Hammon?”

“Like I said, they’re as okay as I can make them.”

The tide is high. We don’t have far to go until our toes sink into the wet sand and surf. It’s the first time I’ve actually touched seawater. The sound of the waves is melodic.

“We have to scrub the CR-40 off your hand so you can go up to your apartment.” Hawthorne takes a handful of wet sand and gently rubs it over my moniker. The glowing silver sword sputters to life, illuminating our faces with its shine. I reach down and take a handful of wet sand from the shoreline and rub it over Hawthorne’s skin. His holographic sword shines golden next to mine. We rinse our hands together in the surf. “It was simpler when they were both silver,” Hawthorne says.

“When you were mine,” I add softly. Was he ever mine?

“I’m still yours.” He bends and kisses me. It’s excruciatingly tender, filled with promises that I’m afraid to let myself believe.

“I’ll walk you up. I’ll make sure you’re safe—that none of Gabriel’s men are waiting for you. Then I’ll go.”

I tug back on his hand as he starts to walk toward my apartment. He turns back and looks at me. “The other maginots watched you escape the Sword Palace with me. By morning, when their logs are uploaded into the Palace’s main systems, my brother will know that you betrayed him.”

“He probably already knows.”

“Gabriel cannot publicly accuse you of treason. Ordering you to kill me is something he needs to keep quiet, but don’t underestimate him or my mother. You must stay with me. I’ll protect you.”

“You can’t be associated with me, Roselle. We have to give the appearance that we never had a relationship of any kind once I was Transitioned to firstborn.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the only way to keep you safe in the future.”

“Because you still intend to kill my brother?”

“I intend to do whatever’s necessary to keep you alive.”

“Hawthorne, to you this is strategy. To me, this is my brother’s life. He no more asked to be firstborn than I asked to be secondborn. He’s just as much a pawn in this as I am.”

“Pawn he may be, but he has options that you do not. He has power where you have none.”

When we reach my building, I scan my moniker. We enter together. A Salloway security unit is mobilizing in the well-designed lobby. Weapons are being distributed—the kind that aren’t even available to the military yet. Clifton keeps the best weapons for himself.

The commotion grinds to a halt the moment Hawthorne and I appear. My bare feet make dark, sandy smudges on the white marble floor. I pretend I don’t look like I’ve just been through a battle and casually ask, “Excuse me, but where might I catch a lift to the penthouse?”

The manic intensity of their stares is amusing, but I can’t smile.

“Your lift is over there,” a silver-monikered Sword says, pointing to the elevator in the center of the complex. It’s made of glass and resembles the petals of a blooming rose.

“Thank you. Please, carry on,” I murmur, taking Hawthorne’s arm. The silence throbs. We enter the lift and the glass doors slide closed. Emerging from the hilt of the building, we step into the blade. A panoramic view opens: a seascape on one side and a cityscape on the other.

“Your cult has spared no expense,” Hawthorne mutters.

When the doors open, we walk out into the magnificent foyer of the crown-shaped apartment. Grand chandeliers light the room. No fewer than ten Salloway security personnel are waiting for me. Clifton pays the government for the soldiers who protect him, and he secretly pays the soldiers as well, lowering the chance that one of them might be bought by someone else and turn on him.

Clifton’s bodyguard approaches me. The fact that he is here is startling because he’s usually the point man protecting Clifton in public. “Roselle,” Crucius says, “are you hurt?”

“I’m just cold and wet. So is my friend. Do you think you can find him some dry clothes?” I’m not in the habit of asking for things from any of Clifton’s security detail, but I’m going to have to get used to my new life.

“Anything you need,” Crucius replies, surprising me again.

“And can you tell Clifton I’m here?”

“He knows. He’s leaving headquarters now. You should know he’s bringing someone with him.”

“Who?”

“The Virtue.”

“Clarity Bowie?” Suddenly, I wish I were still hidden inside Tyburn Fountain.

A team of uniformed soldiers patrols the rooftop. They’re not Clifton’s security, but the Iono soldiers who protect the Clarity of Virtues. A Verringer hovers near the rooftop, a halo-shaped crest of the Clarity of the Fate of Virtues on its side. I glance at Hawthorne. He’s nervous.

The Verringer anchors to the railing alongside the building, blocking the view of the sea. A railed gangway ramp extends to the rooftop terrace, and Clifton emerges from the open doorway, followed by Fabian Bowie. They walk together toward the poolside entrance.

I only have a moment or two to panic before an Iono soldier opens the door. Clarity Bowie and Clifton walk up the stairs and into the apartment. I try not to fidget. Clarity Bowie has seen me looking worse, in my Census criminal attire. At least this time I’m in a dress, even if it’s filthy.

“Roselle.” Clifton says my name with a mixture of relief and concern. “Did they hurt you?”

“No one hurt me. I left the Sword Palace because Hawthorne told me what my family was planning for me this evening. He helped me get back here.”

“Firstborn Trugrave,” Clifton says with a curl of his lip, clearly not sure whether Hawthorne is truly friend or foe. “Thank you for returning our soldier to us. She means a great deal to my organization and to the war effort. I am in your debt.”

Clarity Bowie strikes me as being even more powerful in person. He’s dressed in a crisp uniform denoting his status as the leader of the Fates of the Republic, with a white cape styled much like an Exo uniform. “Clarity Bowie,” I say with a deep nod, and then a smile. “I would offer you a seat, but I remember from my youth that you prefer to stand.”

“I remember you as well. You beat my son’s head in with a clock.”

“He should’ve been quicker on his feet.”

The roguish smile that passes over his lips fills me with relief. “Grisholm could use someone like you,” he says, “someone who’s willing to bash him in the head when he steps out of line. I think everyone else is afraid to stand up to him. He’ll be the Clarity someday, and he’ll need a strong Clarity of Swords.”

“I’m sure that Gabriel will be able to assist him in that regard.”

“Walk with me.” Clarity Bowie extends his hand. I move forward and take it. He tucks my arm in his and we stroll toward the rooftop outside. We take the stairs down and wander past the pool surrounded by armed guards.

When we’re out of earshot, he continues. “I look at you, Roselle, and I see your struggle tonight written in the cuts on your feet, the scratches on your face, the rends in your gown, the weariness in your smile. And yet, you still have a rigid command of everything and everyone around you. You handle a crisis as if it’s an everyday occurrence.”

“Forgive me, but in my world, crisis is an everyday occurrence.”

“I intend to change that for you.”

“How can you do that?” I ask.

“By offering you my protection. By taking you away from the Fate of Swords and allowing you a place in my household for a time.”

“I have a position here. I am a weapons consultant for—”

“Yes, and Clifton is adamant about not giving you up. You’ll still be allowed to work with him. He’ll come and visit you in my household when he requires your consultation.”

We approach the ramp leading into the Verringer. I glance over my shoulder at my penthouse. Neither Clifton nor Hawthorne has followed us, but they’re both watching us through the glass. “I’m going with you tonight, aren’t I?”

“Right now, as a matter of fact,” he admits, ushering me onto the ramp.

“Can I say good-bye?”

“You can see them both soon. They’ll be invited to the Opening Celebrations of the Secondborn Trials—to our private party, Roselle. You will be, after all, our celebrity guest of honor at the event.” We enter the Verringer. The door behind us closes. Clarity Bowie offers me a seat by a window. “You can rest after your trying evening. We’ll be in Virtues in no time. Your room is waiting for you, and someone there is very excited to greet you.”

I gaze out the window at Clifton’s and Hawthorne’s grim visages. The Verringer purrs softly and rises into the air. “Who is waiting for me?” I ask absently.

“Your mentor. Dune.”

I gape at him. Then I notice a shiny pin on his lapel. “Are you a gardener, Clarity Bowie?” I gesture to the pin.

“I’ve become very interested in the flower’s beauty and incomparable essence.”

“Roses come with sharp thorns,” I reply.

“I’m counting on them.”