We turn off the main road before entering the market, weaving through half-empty side streets lined with humble Red shops and homes. The others search, knowing what we’re looking for, while I keep my attentions on Harrick. “Almost there,” I say again, hoping I’m right. In a moment or two, his strength will fail, and our illusion will fall away, revealing us all to the street. The people here are Red, but will certainly report a cart suddenly full of the country’s most wanted fugitives.
“The left,” Nix says gruffly, and Crance obliges. He eases the cart toward a clapboard house with crimson curtains. Despite the sun shining overhead, a candle burns in the window. Red as the dawn.
There’s an alleyway next to the house, bordered by the Scarlet Guard house and two empty, abandoned homes. Where their occupants are, I don’t know, but they probably fled the Measures or were executed for trying. It’s cover enough for me. “Now, Harrick,” I tell him. He responds with a massive sigh. The protection of his illusion is gone. “Well done.”
We waste no time climbing out of the cart and sidling up to the Guard house, using the overhang of the roof to hide as best we can. Farley takes the lead, and knocks three times on the side door. It opens quickly, showing nothing but darkness beyond. Farley enters without hesitation, and we follow.
My eyes adjust quickly to the dark house, and I’m struck by the similarity to my home in the Stilts. Simple, cluttered, only two rooms with knotty plank floors and grimy windows. The lightbulbs overhead are dark, either broken or missing, sold off for food.
“Captain,” a voice says. An older woman, her hair steel gray, appears by the window and snuffs out the candle. Her face is lined with age, her hands with scars. And around her wrist, a familiar tattoo. A single red band, just like the one old Will Whistle bore.
As in Harbor Bay, Farley frowns and shakes the woman’s hand. “I’m not—”
But the woman waves her off. “According to the Colonel, but not Command. They have other ideas where you’re concerned.” Command. She notes my interest and bows her head in greeting. “Miss Barrow. I’m Ellie Whistle.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Whistle?” I say. “Are you related to—”
Ellie cuts me off before I can finish. “Most likely not. Whistle’s a nickname mostly. Means I’m a smuggler. Whistles on the wind, all of us.” Indeed. Will Whistle and his old wagon were always full of smuggled or stolen goods, many of them things I brought myself. “I’m Scarlet Guard too,” she adds.
I knew that, at least. Farley’s been in contact with her people over the last few weeks, those not under the command of the Colonel, who would help us and keep our movements quiet.
“Very good,” I tell her. “We’re here for the Marcher family.” Two of them, to be precise. Tansy and Matrick Marcher, twins judging by their birthdays. “They’ll need to be removed from town, within the hour if possible.”
Ellie listens intently, all business. She shifts, and I catch a glimpse of the pistol at her hip. She glances at Farley, and when she nods her head, Ellie does the same. “That I can do.”
“Supplies as well,” Farley puts in. “We’ll take food if you got it, but winter clothes will be best.”
Another nod. “We’ll certainly try,” Ellie says. “I’ll have whatever we can give you ready as fast as possible. Might need an extra pair of hands, though.”
“I’ve got it,” Crance offers. His bulk will certainly help speed the process.
I can’t believe Ellie’s willingness and neither can Farley. We exchange loaded glances as Ellie gets to work, opening cabinets and floorboards in succession, revealing hidden compartments all over the house.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Farley says over her shoulder, quietly suspicious. As am I, watching every move Ellie makes. She’s old, but spry, and I wonder if we’re truly alone in this house.
“Like I said, I take my orders from Command. And they sent out the word. Help Captain Farley and the lightning girl, no matter the cost,” she says, not bothering to look at us.
My eyebrows rise, shocked and pleasantly surprised. “You’re going to have to fill me in on this,” I mutter to Farley. Again, I’m struck by how organized and deep-rooted the Scarlet Guard seems to be.
“Later,” she replies. “The Marcher family?”
While Ellie gives her directions, I move to stand with Harrick and Nix. Though this is Harrick’s first recruitment, Nix thinks this is old hat, and rightfully so. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s accompanied me into hostile territory, and for that I’m so grateful.
“Ready, boys?” I ask, flexing my fingers. Nix does his best to look gruff and nonchalant, a veteran of our missions, but I don’t miss the flash of fear in Harrick’s eyes. “This won’t be as hard as coming in. Less people to hide, and the officers aren’t bothering to look this time. You’ve got this.”
“Thanks, uh, Mare.” He straightens, puffing out his chest, smiling for my benefit. I smile back, even though his voice trembles when he says my name. Most of them don’t know what to call me. Mare, Miss Barrow, the lightning girl, some even say my lady. The nickname stings, but not so much as the last. No matter what I do, no matter how much I try to be one of them, they see me as something apart. Either a leader or a leper, but always an outsider. Always separated.
Out in the alley, Crance begins loading the cart, not bothering to watch us blink out of existence with the grace of a Silver shadow. But unlike them, Harrick cannot only bend light, creating brightness and darkness—he can conjure anything he wishes. A tree, a horse, another person entirely. Now that we’re on the street, he masks us as obscure Reds with dirty faces and hoods. We are unremarkable, even to each other. He tells me this is easier than making us disappear, and a better alternative in the crowd. People won’t wonder at bumping into thin air.
Farley leads, following Ellie’s directions. We have to cross the market square, past the eyes of many Security officers, but no one gives us pause. My hair blows in the slight wind, sending a curtain of white-blond across my eyes. I almost laugh. Blond hair . . . on me.
The Marcher house is small, with a hastily built second floor that looks liable to collapse on top of us. But it has a lovely back garden, overgrown with tangles of vines and bare trees. In the summer, it must look wonderful. We pick through it, doing our best to keep the dead leaves from crunching.
“We’re invisible now,” Harrick mutters. When I look in his direction, I realize he’s gone. I smile, though no one can see it.
Someone reaches the back door before me and knocks. No answer, not even a rustle inside. They could be out for the day, working. Next to me, Farley curses under her breath. “Do we wait?” she breathes. I can’t see her, but I see the puffs of breath clouding where her face should be.
“Harrick’s not a machine,” I say, speaking for him. “We wait inside.”
I head for the door, bumping her shoulder, and sink to a knee before the lock. A simple one. I could pick it in my sleep, and it takes no time now. Within seconds, I’m greeted by a familiar, satisfying click.
The door swings back on shrieking hinges and I freeze, waiting for what might be inside. Like Ellie’s house, the inside is dark and seemingly abandoned. Still, I give it another moment, listening hard. Nothing moves inside, and I feel no tremors of electricity. Either the Marchers are out of rations, or they don’t even have electricity at all. Satisfied, I beckon over my shoulder, but nothing happens. They can’t see you, idiot.
“Head in,” I whisper, and I feel Farley at my back.
Once the door is safely shut again, we burst back into sight. I smile at Harrick, again grateful for his ability and strength, but the smell stops me cold. The air is stale in here, undisturbed, and slightly sour. With a hasty swipe of my hand, I brush half an inch of dust from the kitchen table.
“Maybe they ran. Lots of people have,” Nix offers quickly.
Something draws my focus, the tiniest whisper. Not a voice, but a spark. Barely there, so soft I almost missed it. Coming from a basket by the fireplace, covered in a dirty red rag. I drift toward it, drawn by the small beacon.
“I don’t like this. We need to regroup at Ellie’s. Harrick, pull yourself together and get ready for another illusion,” Farley barks as quietly as she can.
My knees scrape the hearthstones as I kneel over the basket. The smell is stronger here. And so is the spark. I should not do this. I know I won’t like what I find. I know it, but I can’t stop myself from pulling back the rag. The fabric is sticky and I tug, revealing what lies beneath. After a numb second, I realize what I’m looking at.
I fall backward, scrambling, gasping, almost screaming. Tears fall faster than I ever thought they could. Farley is the first to my side, her arms surrounding me, holding me steady. “What is it? Mare, what—”
She stops short, choking on the words. She sees what I see. And so do the others. Nix almost vomits and I’m surprised Harrick doesn’t faint.
In the basket is a baby, no more than a few days old. Dead. And not from abandonment or neglect. The rag is dyed in its blood. The message is disgustingly clear. The Marchers are dead too.
One tiny fist, clawed with the stiffness of death, holds the tiniest device. An alarm.
“Harrick,” I hiss through my tears. “Hide us.” His mouth falls open, confused, and I grab his leg in desperation. “Hide us.”
He disappears before my eyes, and not a moment too soon.
Officers appear in the windows, bursting through each door, guns raised, all shouting. “You’re surrounded, lightning girl! Submit to arrest!” they roar in succession, as if repeating themselves makes any difference.
Quietly, I ease myself under the kitchen table. I only hope the others have the sense to do the same.
No fewer than twelve officers crowd inside, stomping back and forth. Four break off, heading upstairs, and one pair of boots halts by the baby. The officer’s free hand twitches and I know he must be staring at the tiny corpse. After a long moment, he vomits into the fireplace.
“Easy, Myros,” one of the others says, pulling him away. “Poor thing,” he adds, moving past the baby. “Anything upstairs?”
“Nothing!” another replies, coming back down. “Alarm must’ve malfunctioned.”
“You’re sure? The governor will skin us if we’re wrong.”
“Do you see anyone here, sir?”
I almost gasp when the officer drops to a crouch right in front of me. His eyes sweep back and forth beneath the table, searching. I feel a slight pressure on my leg—one of the others. I dare not respond with a nudge of my own, and hold my breath.
“No, I don’t,” the officer finally says, standing again. “False alarm. Back to your posts.”
They leave as quickly as they burst in, but I dare not breathe until their footsteps are long gone. Then I gasp, shaking, as Harrick drops the illusion, and we all blink back into sight.
“Well done.” Farley exhales, patting Harrick on the shoulder. Like me, he can barely speak, and has to be helped to his feet.
“I could’ve taken ’em,” Nix grumbles, rolling out from beneath the stairs. He crosses to the door with short strides, one hand already on the knob. “All the same, I don’t fancy being here if they come back.”
“Mare?” Farley’s touch on my arm is gentle, especially for her.
I realize I’m standing over the baby, staring. There were no babies on Julian’s list, no children below the age of three. This was not a newblood, not according to our records or any Maven might possess. The child was murdered simply because she was here. For nothing.
With determination, I remove my jacket. I will not leave her like this, with only her own blood for a blanket.
“Mare, don’t. They’ll know we were here—”
“Let them know.”
I pull it across her—and I fight, with everything I have, the urge to lie down beside her and never get back up again. My fingers brush her tiny, cold fist. There is something beneath it. A note. Quietly, quickly, I slip it into my pocket before anyone else can see.
When we finally get back to Ada and the jet, I dare to read it. It’s dated for yesterday. Yesterday. We were so close.
October 22
A crude envelope, I know. But necessary. You must know what you are doing, what you are forcing me to do to these people. Every body is a message to you, and to my brother. Surrender to me, and it will stop. Surrender, and they will live. I am a man of my word.
Until we meet again,
Maven