welcome you to your new life in Ledôme, please welcome to the stage, the honorable, the distinguished, the unrivaled Patriarche Lyon Paresse!”
Marcellus startled and his hand momentarily slipped from his rayonette.
What?
The Patriarche was going to give the toast? He never spoke at Ascension banquets. It was always the master of cérémonies who did all the talking. The Patriarche and Matrone just descended the steps, waved at the crowd, took a ceremonial sip of champagne, and left. That had always been the way of things.
The cheers in the Grand Palais gardens built to a frenzy as a troop of officers in pristine white uniforms parted the crowd, clearing a walkway from the stone steps to the stage. The Patriarche smiled and waved as he made his way across the lawn.
Marcellus didn’t like this. It felt slippery and suspicious. Like a trap.
No, like another one of his grandfather’s strategic plays.
His gaze darted back to the general, who was watching the proceedings with cool, relaxed interest, his hands clasped casually behind his back. Marcellus tracked the Patriarche’s path to the stage, perfectly positioned right in the center of the crowd. The Patriarche ascended the steps and turned in a slow circle, waving at the hundreds of people packed into this garden.
He was completely surrounded.
Nowhere to run.
A trapped Monarch.
“Welcome! Welcome!” the Patriarche boomed out, his voice as artificial and bright as the stars twinkling above their heads. “Laterre and its glorious Regime is the envy of the System Divine. Through honest work for an honest chance, the good people of our planet can rise up and Ascend to a better life. A life led in this beautiful Ledôme.”
Cheers and shouts went off like fireworks around him. Marcellus startled at the sound, his nerves now frayed beyond recognition. He darted another glance at his grandfather, who was reaching into his pocket to withdraw his TéléCom.
“Today, you are those people,” the Patriarche continued, his face beaming. “You have worked hard, with honesty and integrity. You have won the Ascension, and now you will live out the rest of your days under this beautiful and magical TéléSky!”
Someone handed the Patriarche a flute of champagne, and he raised it high in the air, as though he were toasting the stars. “So, now please raise your glass!”
In front of Marcellus, hundreds of hands raised into the air. Hundreds of glasses filled with sparkling golden liquid launched toward the sky. Heart racing, Marcellus reached for his rayonette again, his fingers gripping the handle.
Come on, he silently urged the crowd. Drink. Just drink it!
“Tonight, we drink to your health, your happiness, and your prosperity. Tonight, we drink to your Ascension!” The Patriarche slowly lowered his glass to his lips. The crowd did the same. “Congratul—”
“Arrête!”
The Patriarche jolted to a halt, as someone suddenly charged up the steps of the stage. But it was not a banquet guest, as Marcellus feared. It was Pascal Chaumont, the Patriarche’s advisor. His dark green robes billowed behind him as he hurried toward Lyon Paresse and knocked the champagne flute from his hands. The glass crashed to the floor of the stage and shattered on impact. “Don’t drink!” he shouted into the crowd. “Don’t drink it!”
Murmurs of confusion percolated across the Imperial Lawn. Marcellus’s eyes darted every which way until he found Chatine again. She was staring back at him with an expression that mirrored his own: part puzzlement and part dread.
Chaumont struggled to catch his breath. “I’ve just been informed that we have reason to believe the champagne tonight has been poisoned.”
All the color seemed to drain from the Patriarche’s face in an instant. Someone screamed. And Marcellus felt his limbs go numb as, all around him, he heard a cacophony of glass shattering.
When he peered back toward the stone steps on the far side of the lawn, General Bonnefaçon’s eyes were already staring back at him. Watching. Waiting. As though he’d known exactly where to look this whole time.
As their gazes locked, the general’s eyebrow cocked ever so slightly, and his lips curled into a ghost of a smile. As if to say, Nice try, Marcellus.
Marcellus faded farther back into the hedges, his throat burning with the bitter taste of defeat.
How did the general know? Had he witnessed Chatine pouring the inhibitor into the champagne? Or had someone else seen it? Someone who had been flitting around the crowd like a phantom?
And just as the memory of his face slipped into Marcellus’s mind, he felt the cold barrel of a rayonette press against his