Cerise?
“Directeur, I might have found something.”
Alouette’s head snapped up to see the cyborg handing the network bridge over to Cerise’s father. The directeur scrutinized something on the screen, his expression morphing from confusion to comprehension to alarm. “Marcellus Bonnefaçon?”
The cyborg nodded. “It appears his biometrics were scanned by a guard at the security checkpoint of the Ascension banquet. Cerise passed the signal through this bridge and sent back a fake profile in response. But in her haste to cover her tracks, she evidently forgot to erase the log, and when I ran the biometric markers through the Communiqué, I got this.”
The directeur hastily shoved the device back at the cyborg and pulled out his TéléCom. “Urgent AirLink request for General Bonnefaçon.” There was a heart-stopping pause, during which Alouette was certain she was going to faint, before the directeur spoke again. “General. I’m afraid I have bad news. Your grandson is at the Ascension banquet.”
- CHAPTER 67 - ALOUETTE
ALOUETTE’S LUNGS BURNED FROM RUNNING, and her heart was thudding like a drum in her chest. The twin towers of the Ministère were now just an eerie glow in the night sky behind her.
“Marcellus!” she shouted hoarsely into her audio patch for what felt like the hundredth time. “Marcellus, are you there?” Still no response. Cerise had evidently cut the connection when she’d seen her father coming down the hallway. But it didn’t stop Alouette from trying to make contact. Again and again and again.
She had to warn Marcellus. The general knew he was there. Their entire plan—not to mention the lives of everyone at that banquet—was in jeopardy.
She could see the darkened outline of the Grand Palais in the distance. As she ran breathlessly toward it, she tried to recall the details Marcellus had given earlier about the loopholes in the security shields. There were four, she remembered. One that was closest to the gardens. That was her best option.
As soon as she reached the Palais fence, she pulled out her borrowed TéléCom and used the light to illuminate the little fleur-de-lis ornaments on the top of each post. She walked briskly along the perimeter until she located the one that was bent at an angle, and then she scrabbled over the fence.
She hit the ground hard but was up in an instant before she was running again. The north end of the Palais was in sight. It was vast and incredibly well lit. Just ahead, she could make out a small staircase leading up to the side of the Grand Terrace. From there, she’d be able to see out over the entire banquet. She bounded toward it, her muscles crying out, her breathing ragged.
Almost there.
She pounded up the steps and charged onto the terrace just as a pair of Palais doors swung open. Alouette skidded to a halt and searched for a place to hide, but there was nothing. And there was no time.
“This fête better not last all night,” said a deep, booming voice. “I have better things to do, you know?”
“It should only take a few minutes, Monsieur,” said another voice.
When Alouette’s gaze fell upon the two men exiting through the Palais door, her whole body went completely and utterly numb. The first man—an advisor in a dark green robe—she didn’t recognize. But the other? Just the sight of him made her gut twist and her knees go weak. His thick and immaculately coiffed auburn hair glinted in the terrace lights. Of course she recognized him. There wasn’t a soul on Laterre who wouldn’t.
It was Patriarche Lyon Paresse, the leader of Laterre.
And he was staring right at her.
She wanted to run. She wanted to flee. But for some reason, she couldn’t move. There was something about the way he was looking at her—slack-jawed and spellbound, like he’d just come face-to-face with a ghost—that made Alouette feel like her feet were bolted to the ground.
And then he spoke, uttering the only two syllables in the universe that could cause Alouette’s heart to stop beating and the world to come crashing to a halt.
“Lisole?”
It was barely a whisper from the Patriarche’s lips. A murmur of shock and surprise and …
Recognition, Alouette suddenly realized.
Except it wasn’t her he recognized. He was staring at Alouette with the exact same bewilderment and disbelief as Madame Blanchard had done back in Montfer. His watery gray eyes were wide and unblinking, entranced by the sight of her.
No.
By the sight of who he thought she was.
“Monsieur Patriarche,” the advisor said, casting an uneasy glance at Alouette