The professor finished searching Briar’s bag and then mine, without finding anything. Annoyed that we’d made him into a spectacle for the whole class, he rounded on Briar and shouted, “Miss Balzac, shut up and sit down! Both of you.”
I glance at my wristwatch and see that it’s twenty minutes past eleven. I still have just over two miles to walk. I’m going to be late to the meeting. Mum wanted to celebrate the three-month anniversary of King Anson’s coronation and dinner went on and on.
A mile to the southwest, the wide streets give way to narrow roads pitted with potholes. The houses become smaller and dilapidated, until I pass over a train line and find myself among huge, silent warehouses. I have to be careful not to trip on pieces of broken curb or step in puddles of murky water.
This isn’t far from Barbican Manufacturing, the company that Galen Levanter owns, Archduke Levanter’s youngest and only surviving brother. Archduchess Levanter has talked about him, saying she wishes he would come to Court because he’s a lovely man and easy to talk to. He’s nothing like Archduchess Levanter’s husband, then. The Archduke is one hundred percent old Paravel to his core.
My feet pound the road a little harder at the memory of my encounter with Mr. Rasmussen at Court two days ago. It was stupid of me to reveal my thoughts to him so completely, but the arrests of Briar and the others got to me. Last week Briar was holding signs and shouting outside the palace gates with other activists.
Freedom of speech in the constitution.
Sign the international conventions on human rights.
A new Paravel for a new generation.
Under Varga, people were arrested and held in prison without charge all the time. In King Anson’s coronation speech, he promised that things would change, but nothing’s changed. Briar’s all alone and with no idea what’s going to happen to her.
I slip down a dirty alleyway, around rusted engine parts and trailing blackberry bushes. I stop at a rusty, half-open door and give it a kick.
“Password?” whispers a husky voice from within.
I freeze, searching my memory for a word that I’ve forgotten, and then scowl at the unseen person. “There is no password.”
The hidden person laughs softly. “Just screwing with you.”
Louis. I remember him from classes at the polytechnic. He was Briar’s friend, and though he was chatty with her, he never seemed to like me. His pointed face looms out of the darkness as he stands aside to let me pass. I still have to squeeze past him, and his foxlike eyes never leave my face.
I run up the metal steps to the third floor and squeeze through a broken door. A dozen people are sitting in a circle on the dusty floor of the warehouse strewn with dead leaves and broken cardboard boxes. The meeting’s already begun, and I hurry over to join them.
“…more important than ever that we fight for what we believe in while Paravel is still finding its footing.”
Another man I remember from the polytechnic is addressing everyone. Tieman doesn’t acknowledge me as I sit down on the cold concrete floor and cross my legs. His eyes are shining in the dim light as he tells everyone about the arrests of our friends, and how we’re not going to tolerate this abuse of power.
Louis comes sauntering in, catches the eye of someone in the circle and jerks his head at the door. Reluctantly, she stands up and heads out to take Louis’ spot as lookout.
He sits down next to me, his knee over mine. I shift angrily aside.
Before Tieman can tell us what he wants to do about those in jail, Louis calls to him, “I have a question. Why’s she here?”
Everyone at the meeting is suddenly staring at me.
“This group is for people who want Paravel to change,” Louis sneers. “Not for people who spend their days changing clothes.”
Hot embarrassment and anger flare in my cheeks. “My cousin Briar is locked up in jail and no one in my family cares. You think I’m happy with a country that can do this to her just because I live in a big house now?”
I gaze around at the group. Some of their expressions are doubtful. I know I’m not one of them, but this isn’t about them or me. It’s about Briar and Paravel and what this country is becoming. “I understand what it’s like to live in fear, probably more than any of you,” I tell them. “Everyone hated me and my family under Varga. I don’t want anyone to feel that way in Paravel anymore.”
I recross my legs on the cold concrete floor and hug my knees to my chest. A dead leaf is clinging to the hem of my coat, and I brush it away.
“Nice coat,” Louis mutters under his breath.