Red Queen (Red Queen #1)(75)
Author: Victoria Aveyard

“That sounds like the right thing to do,” I say aloud, trying to sound uninterested.

But my act can only last so long. After one stiff bow in Cal’s direction, I hurry from the room, hiding my wild grin.

TWENTY-FOUR

I spend much of the next day exploring, though my mind is somewhere else. Whitefire is older than the Hall, its walls made of stone and carved wood rather than diamondglass. I doubt I’ll ever learn the layout of the whole thing, as it holds not just the royal residence but many administrative offices and chambers, ballrooms, a full training court, and other things I don’t understand. I guess that’s why it takes the blathering secretary nearly a half hour to find me, wandering through a gallery of statues. But I won’t have more time to explore. I have duties to fulfill.

Duties, according to the king’s chatting secretary, that apply to a whole range of evils beyond just reading the Measures. As a future princess, I must meet the people in arranged outings, making speeches and shaking hands and standing by Maven’s side. The last part doesn’t really bother me, but being put on parade like a goat at auction isn’t exactly exciting.

I join Maven in a transport, headed for the first appearance. I’m itching to tell him about the list and thank him for the bloodbase, but there are too many eyes and ears.

The majority of the day speeds by in a blur of noise and color as we tour different parts of the capital. The Bridge Market reminds me of Grand Garden, though it’s three times the size. In the single hour we spend greeting children and shopkeepers, I see the Silvers assault or aggravate dozens of Red servants, all trying to do their jobs. Security keeps them from all-out abuse, but the words they sling are almost as hurtful. Child killers, animals, devils. Maven keeps his grip tight on my hand, squeezing every time a Red is knocked to the ground. When we reach our next stop, an art gallery, I’m glad to be out of the public eye, until I see the paintings. The Silver artist uses two colors, silver and red, in a horrifying collection that makes me sick. Each painting is worse than the last, depicting Silver strength and Red weakness in every brushstroke. The last one depicts a gray-and-silver figure, quite like a ghost, and the crown on his brow bleeds crimson. It makes me want to put my head through a wall.

The plaza outside the gallery is noisy, bustling with city life. Many stop to stare, gawking at us as we head for our transport. Maven waves with a practiced smile, causing the crowd to cheer his name. He’s good at this; after all, these people are his birthright. When he stoops to speak with a few children, his smile brightens. Cal might be born to rule, but Maven was meant for it. And Maven is willing to change the world for us, for the Reds he was raised to spit on.

I surreptitiously touch the list in my pocket, thinking of the ones who can help Maven and me change the world. Are they like me, or are they as varied as the Silvers? Shade was like you. They knew about Shade and had to kill him, like they could not kill you. My heart aches for my fallen brother, for the conversations we might have had. For the future we might have forged.

But Shade is dead, and there are others who need my help.

“We need to find Farley,” I whisper in Maven’s ear, barely audible to myself. But he hears me and raises an eyebrow in silent question. “I have to give her something.”

“I have no doubt she’ll find us,” he mutters back, “if she isn’t watching already.”

“How—?”

Farley, spying on us? Inside a city that wants her torn apart? It seems impossible. But then I notice the Silver crowd pressing in, and the Red servants beyond. A few linger to watch us, their arms banded with red. Any one of them could work for Farley. They all could. Even with the Sentinels and Security all around, she’s still with us.

Now the question becomes finding the right Red, saying the right thing, finding the right place, and doing it all without anyone noticing the prince and his future princess communicating with a wanted terrorist.

This isn’t like the crowds at home, the ones I could move through so easily. Now I stand out, a future princess surrounded by guards, with a rebellion resting on her shoulders. And maybe even something more important, I think, remembering the list of names in my jacket.

When the crowd pushes in, craning to look at us, I take my chance and slip away. The Sentinels bunch around Maven, still not used to guarding me as well, and with a few quick turns, I’m out of the circle of guards and onlookers. They continue across the plaza without me, and if Maven notices I’m gone, he doesn’t stop them.

The Red servants don’t acknowledge me, their heads down as they buzz between shops. They keep to alleys and shadows, trying to stay out of sight. I’m so busy searching the Red faces that I don’t notice the one at my elbow.

“My lady, you dropped this,” the little boy says. He’s probably ten years old, with one arm banded with red. “My lady?”

Then I notice the scrap he holds out. It’s nothing, just a twisted bit of paper I don’t remember having. Still, I smile for the boy and take it from him. “Thank you very much.”

He grins at me, smiling as only a child can, before bounding away into an alley. He bounces with every step. Life has not dragged him down yet.

“This way, Lady Titanos.” A Sentinel stands over me, watching with flat eyes. So much for that plan. I let him lead me back to the transport, feeling suddenly dejected. I can’t even sneak away like I used to. I’m getting soft.

“What was that all about?” Maven wonders as I slide back into the transport.

“Nothing,” I sigh, casting a glance out the window as we pull away from the plaza. “Thought I saw someone.”

We’re around a bend in the street before I even think to look at the little paper. I unfold it in my lap, hiding the scrap in the folds of my sleeve. There are words scrawled across the slip, so small I can barely read them.

Hexaprin Theater. Afternoon play. The best seats.

It takes me a moment to realize I only understand half those words, but that doesn’t matter at all. Smiling, I press the message into Maven’s hand.

Maven’s request is all it takes to get us into the theater. It’s small but very grand, with a green domed roof crowned by a black swan. It’s a place of entertainment, showing plays or concerts or even some archive films on special occasions. A play, as Maven tells me, is when people, actors, perform a story on a stage. Back home we didn’t have time for bedtime fairy tales, let alone stages and actors and costumes.