Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,35

sleeping Matrone. Her dark hair, usually so immaculate, resembled a nest of twisted, anxious snakes on the satin pillow. Her cheeks were sunken, her jaw taut, and two large gray shadows hung like rainclouds under her sleeping eyes.

The Patriarche scoffed and waved a dismissive hand toward his wife. “She’s so knocked out on sleeping médicaments, a droid army couldn’t wake her.”

“Madame Matrone has been through a lot,” the general said to the Patriarche in a calm, measured voice.

“Of course, she’s been through a lot,” the Patriarche snapped. “She lost her child—our only heir—to a bunch of Vangarde terrorists. And now they’re at it again.”

Marcellus started. “Again, sir?”

The Patriarche glanced anxiously around the room, as though checking for spies, and then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Citizen Rousseau has escaped.”

Marcellus peered sideways at his grandfather to gauge his reaction, but the general looked more inconvenienced than concerned.

“As we’ve discussed many times,” the general began, “Citizen Rousseau remains in solitary confinement on permanent watch. You have no reason to worry about—”

But the Patriarche didn’t allow him to finish. “No, you’re wrong. I saw it with my own eyes. I couldn’t sleep, so I logged into the security feeds and saw that her cell was empty. The Vangarde have broken her out!”

“You must be mistaken,” the general replied diplomatically. “If there was a break-in attempt on Bastille, I would have been alerted immediately. The prison is as secure and impenetrable as always.”

The Patriarche snatched a TéléCom off a nearby settee and thrust it under the general’s nose. “I’m telling you, General, she’s gone. Look.” He pointed at the TéléCom, but the screen was dark. His cheeks flamed with fury as he jabbed violently at the screen. The flimsy device slipped in his hand, and he had to fumble to catch it.

“Damn the Sols!” he spat.

Until recently, the Patriarche had never owned a TéléCom because he, his wife, and the rest of the First Estate thought such technology to be crass and inferior. But after the death of his only daughter, he’d insisted on having his own TéléCom with the same security clearance as the general’s so he could be alerted instantly of any updates and, of course, keep a vigilant watch on Citizen Rousseau’s cell.

The problem was, he still hadn’t quite mastered how to operate the device.

“It was just here!” he thundered. “Where is it now? Where did it go? This stupide contraption!”

Marcellus noticed the general’s shoulders rise and fall in what was obviously an attempt at a deep breath. It was for this very reason that the general had secretly installed guardian controls on the TéléCom before he’d delivered it to the Patriarche. They weren’t too dissimilar from the controls Second Estate parents installed on their children’s devices. They allowed the general to keep tabs on what the Patriarche was doing with his TéléCom and prohibit him from accidentally—or intentionally—starting a war with the Mad Queen of Albion.

“If I may,” the general said, easing the TéléCom from the Patriarche’s grip. He tapped proficiently on the screen a few times, eventually pulling up what Marcellus recognized as the portal for Bastille’s Central Command before tapping on the security feed of Citizen Rousseau’s cell.

Marcellus glanced away, knowing exactly what he would see next. It would be the same thing he always saw: a frail skeleton of a woman curled up on the grimy floor. He would not see the strong, charismatic woman who had led a rebellion seventeen years ago and had almost won. The woman who was feared by every Ministère officer on the planet. He would see a shell. A useless heap of flesh and bones.

He’d witnessed the ghastly sight so many times, he’d almost become desensitized to it.

Almost.

“What on Laterre—”

Marcellus heard his grandfather’s words but could not make sense of the bewilderment in his voice until a moment later, when Marcellus glanced at the Patriarche’s TéléCom, still clutched in the general’s hands. The screen displayed the usual view of a dreary, cement cell with no windows and only one PermaSteel door. But instead of revealing a withered, gaunt-faced woman huddled in a corner, Marcellus could see that the cell was, indeed, empty.

“I told you!” the Patriarche said, pointing his finger in the general’s face. “I told you she escaped!”

The general ignored him and continued to prod and poke desperately at the screen, looking not too dissimilar from the Patriarche only a few moments ago.

“It’s not possible,” the general whispered, his brow crumpled, his eyes narrowed. The sight of the