and more furious than ever.
Chatine waited. The room seemed to drop a hundred degrees in an instant, and she thought she could see puffs of her own breath hanging in the air.
Like clouds.
Dark, heavy, sinister clouds.
“Where is the pilote?” Chatine asked again.
“Do you want to try to eat something?” Brigitte’s voice was masked with a thin layer of cheerfulness that Chatine could see right through.
“No.”
“I really think you should have some food. You haven’t eaten in—”
“TELL ME NOW!” The fire and ferocity in her voice caused the stitched seams on her left arm to burn.
Brigitte turned away from her. Her shoulders sagged. Her body shuddered. When she turned back, the cheerful façade was gone, replaced with a somber expression that made Chatine feel like she was being suffocated slowly. It was as though she knew what was coming before Brigitte even spoke. It was as though her body was already preparing for the blow, and her mind was already scolding her for hoping. For thinking, for even a moment, that the Sols might have given her a second chance.
For thinking that he was ever hers to keep.
“The other ship never came back,” Brigitte said quietly.
The room spun.
“We lost contact with the pilote.”
The floor dropped out.
“We sent out a search party, but so far, they’ve found no sign of them.”
The chasm opened up beneath her.
“We believe they never made it off Bastille.”
And the planet of Laterre swallowed Chatine whole.
- CHAPTER 32 - MARCELLUS
THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT SPACE travel that made it feel like time was moving in slow motion. Or maybe it was just this space travel. Marcellus stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the flight clock tick down.
4 days. 13 hours. 9 minutes.
It seemed for every minute that passed on the hologram, a thousand hours would pass in his mind.
At this rate, he’d be an old man by the time they reached Albion. And his grandfather would rule Laterre. And they would be too late.
“I just can’t get over how endless it is.”
Marcellus startled at the sound of the voice and peered up to see Alouette standing in the doorway.
“The flight?” Marcellus asked, certain she, too, was experiencing this strange sense of time paralysis.
She shook her head. “The view.”
“Ah. Right.” Marcellus turned toward the massive domed windows and sighed. “Yes. It’s almost unfathomable.”
Alouette moved through the flight bridge and came to stand next to him. The glow from the console seemed to turn her curls a beautiful indigo blue, and her dark brown eyes twinkled like jewels in one of the Matrone’s ceremonial tiaras. Marcellus stole a quick glance at her from the corner of his eye. He still couldn’t believe she was actually here. With him. On a voyageur destined for Albion. So much had happened since he’d first seen her in the Jondrette. And now that he was finally able to breathe and think, all the questions that had been queuing up in his mind came flooding back.
“So,” he said, trying to keep his voice light, conversational. “You’ve been busy.”
She turned and flashed him a confused look. “Busy?”
He counted on his fingers. “Running away from the Vangarde, getting arrested, escaping the Policier, incapacitating Inspecteur Limier—”
“Is he dead?” The question darted out of her, fast and desperate, as though it had been plaguing her for weeks.
“Limier? No. I mean, I don’t think so.” Marcellus’s mind flashed back to the inspecteur convulsing violently on that gurney in the infirmerie. “Last I heard, the médecins were still working on him, but they didn’t know whether or not he’d fully recover.”
Alouette dropped her gaze to the ground, looking pained. “It was an accident. I was just defending myself.”
“I know. It’s okay.” Marcellus felt the sudden urge to reach out and comfort her, but he didn’t know how. It had only been a few weeks since they’d sat at that fireside together in the Forest Verdure, but somehow it felt like years ago. Like they’d been different people back then, leading different lives. And now they had to start all over again.
“He came after my father,” Alouette said, her gaze still trained on the floor, as though it were the only safe place to look.
“Jean LeGrand?”
She nodded. “Yes. But he goes by Hugo Taureau now, and as it turns out, he wasn’t my real father. That’s why I was in Montfer. I was trying to learn the truth about my past. Mostly about my mother.”
“Your mother?” Marcellus had never heard Alouette talk about her mother.
“Her name was Lisole. She died a