Between Burning Worlds (System Divine #2) - Jessica Brody Page 0,82

for some fête. How on Laterre had the directeur’s daughter ended up embroiled in this mess?

“No, listen, you have me all wrong,” Cerise insisted in that familiar petulant voice that always made it sound like she was negotiating. “I swear. I’m not like them. I want to help you. I want to change things—” A dirty cloth was stuffed into her mouth, muffling her voice.

Maximilienne continued. “Our ancestors—the ancestors of the Third Estate—built this planet. They arrived here from a broken world and made Laterre a habitable place to live. They labored and suffered so that this girl could live out her days in blissful extravagance.”

The crowd roared and hurled angry assaults at Cerise. She shook her head, shouting incomprehensibly into her gag.

The speaker quieted the noise with a single raised hand. “It’s time, camarades, for the First and Second Estates to feel our pain. It’s time for them to feel the anguish of backbreaking work, unceasing hunger, needless sickness and death.”

The audience let out a low, ominous hiss.

“And so,” Maximilienne went on, her gray eyes glimmering with something that made Marcellus’s throat go dry—something dark and vengeful, “we will brand this girl the way they have branded us for centuries. We will give her the scar that we, the Third Estate, all wear. The Red Scar of oppression and subjugation and, most of all, humiliation.”

Suddenly, the speaker’s face glowed blue as a small laser hummed in her hand. Marcellus recognized it as a scalpel that the médecins used for operations in the med centers of Ledôme. How had the Red Scar gotten ahold of one?

Jolras grabbed Cerise’s slender, bound wrists and pushed them toward Maximilienne.

“We already hindered their ability to enslave us when we attacked their Skin fabrique,” she yelled, pushing the laser closer. “But it is not enough.”

Comprehension smashed into Marcellus. These people were responsible for the explosif in the TéléSkin fabrique. These “first soldiers” dressed in red had stolen the lives of twelve innocent workers, including Chatine’s sister.

“Now we are the chainmakers,” Maximilienne announced. “We are the builders of the manacles.” The blue light of the laser glowed on the inside of Cerise’s wrist. Cerise thrashed harder, screaming into her gag, until one of her captors slapped her hard across the face and she finally stopped fighting. Tears of resignation filled her eyes as she watched the speaker push the humming laser closer to her flesh.

The breath hitched in Marcellus’s chest as he realized that this was not a charade. That this woman—with her fierce, familiar gray eyes and shaven head—was actually going to brand Cerise.

Marcellus knew he had to do something. He could not let this happen. But he was a lone, unarmed man in an inn full of angry Third Estaters. What could he possibly—

Suddenly, he caught sight of something near one of the front windows. A towering stack of furniture was pushed up against the wall, obviously having been piled away to make room for all the people.

Tables and chairs and barstools. All made entirely of wood.

Adrenaline spiked through Marcellus as he reached into the bag strapped across his chest and rooted around in the pocket of his Ministère uniform.

Sols, please tell me I still have it.

His fist closed around the small, unmarked container, and his hopes soared.

Pushing his way through the crowd, Marcellus moved toward the front corner. Behind him, he heard the crowd start to chant something new. It was low and garbled at first, getting clearer with each iteration: “Skin her! Skin her! Skin her!”

Marcellus reached the stack of furniture, and with desperate, trembling hands, he yanked at the hem of Monsieur Renard’s tattered coat. The garment was so old and threadbare that a big chunk of the fabric ripped off easily. He placed the scrap at the base of the tower, positioning it carefully between two wooden legs of an old chair.

“You will feel the burn of our burden,” Maximilienne shouted from the bar. “You will feel the scar of our enslavement!”

Marcellus’s fingers fumbled to open the container in his hand. The slim piece of wood felt splintery and dangerous between his fingertips. The smallest weapon he’d ever held.

The crowd fell silent, the sizzle of the blue laser the only sound for kilomètres.

Marcellus struck the match. The small flame ignited instantly. Cerise shouted through her gag again. He held the match to the piece of fabric. Just as he intended, the threadbare material caught light straightaway. But then, a second later, Marcellus watched in shock and confusion as the entire