Noir (30 page)

Fi
fty-Four

Urlick

“What happened to you? Where have you been? Are you all right?” I drop down from the stage, collecting Eyelet up in my arms.

“I will be, as soon as we get that vial back,” she whispers, breathless.

“I promise you, that vial will be ours—”

“Urlick!” Parthena calls, struggling to hold on to a squirming Penelope on the stage. “I hate to interrupt but . . . don’t you think we should settle this?” She glances at the crowd.

I turn to them and then back to Eyelet. “Go,” she says. “I’ll explain later.”

“Are you sure?” I stroke a lock of soggy hair back from her face. Her eyes are glassy. Her brow is glistening with sweat. “What’s going on?” I touch her head. “You’re on fire.”

“It can wait.” The crowd stirs. “They can’t.”

“But—”

Eyelet places a shaking finger over my mouth. “What power do we have if you’re not officially sworn in? Think about it.” She cups my cheeks and stares deeply into my eyes. “We need this to happen.
You
need this to happen. Before you can save me.” Her eyes plead with me to return to the stage. “Now go,
please.
Take what is rightfully yours—
ours
. Take over your rightful throne.”

I hesitate, my gaze darting all over her face. Her lips are trembling, her skin perspiring. I’ve no idea what’s the matter, but I sense the matter’s urgent. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can help her. “All right,” I say, pulling her into the deepest, most ravishing kiss I can effect—hoping she can feel all the love that emanates from my body to hers.

“Nothing means more to me in the world than you, Eyelet,” I whisper to the back of her hair, then turn and catapult onto the stage, racing across to where Penelope stands.

“Now, where were we, before we were so rudely interrupted?” I spin her around to face the crowd. “I believe you were about to tell them the truth about me.”

Penelope snivels and cries out.

“Go on!” I shake her. “Spit it out!”

She tries hard to assume her former Ruler stance, clears her throat, then begins. “It has recently come to my attention—”

“Louder, so everyone can hear.”

“That there has been a grievous oversight”—she drops her head—“regarding the proper heir to the throne . . .”

The impatient crowd mumbles. They shift on their feet.

“Keep going.” I nudge her.

“I am!”
she snaps.

“It appears that a rightful heir to the throne of Brethren is, in fact, not me.” Penelope nervously laughs. “Who knew?” she adds, tossing her brows up, her voice squeaking up to an ear-piercingly shrill octave.

No one in the crowd is amused.

Penelope swallows nervously. “It appears there was an heir no one knew anything about.” I knee her from behind. “Well, they didn’t.”

I pinch her.

“All right, maybe some of us knew,” she mumbles. “But no one knew where to find him . . .”

Matriarch Burgess climbs the stairs to our left, guided by Livinea. She narrows her useless eyes and taps her cane, nodding in Penelope’s direction. Then she clasps her withered hands tight over the hook of the cane.

Penelope’s knees knock. I feel the vibration through the floorboards.

“All right, all right, so we did.” She lowers her head.

“Go on . . .”

“At any rate, now that the
legitimate
successor to the throne of the Commonwealth has been located”—she trips on her words—“it behooves me to rescind my rights to the throne.” She gulps. “Thus, without further ado, it is my duty to introduce to you the rightful Ruler of the Commonwealth of Brethren . . . your new leader . . .” She stops to wince before announcing my name. “Urlick Winston Willam Harland Babbit.”
Pause.
“Winslow.” She drops her head.

The crowd erupts at the sound of the Ruler’s official family name. Their heads twist this way and that. Confusion etches deep into their brows.

“Yuh mean ’im?” one angry patron shouts, pointing at me.

“Yes, him,” Penelope confirms.

“Is this some sorta joke?” An old man’s eyes wrinkle in the crowd.

“I can assure you, I am as shocked by this revelation as you are,” Penelope shouts.

The crowd falls back on their heels, aghast.

Hot nerves ball up in my stomach.

“How do we know you’re not lying again?”

“How do we know he’s who he says he is?”

“Yeah, how do we know who to believe!”

All eyes stare up at me.

The hairs on the back of my neck lift. I have the urge to run, but I force myself to stick.

“It’s all right here, in the birth certificate.” Parthena jumps in. “Here, Penelope. Read it.” She sticks the certificate in her sister’s face.

Penelope jerks a filthy look at her sister. I tighten my grip on her arm. She clears her throat and begins, staring hard at the paper, never once lifting her eyes to the crowd.
“The child in question, born heir to the throne, is distinguishable by the following list of unusual markings,”
she mumbles.

“Louder!” someone yells.

“
A raised purple port-wine stain takes up most of the right side of his face . . . and the markings of a purple hand wring his throat and neck
!”

The crowd inhales sharply.

“There are drawings included, if you’d like to compare them,” Parthena shouts over their noise.

Penelope’s eyes roll.

“Go on,” I prod her, scowling.

“Must I?” Her pleading brows lift.

“
Finish.”
I shake her.

Penelope lets out a whimper then starts to read again, but not first without pausing to bite her lip. “
The child in question can also be recognized by the distinctly white cast to his skin and the unusual pink pigment of his eyes. And finally
. . .” She stalls again. Her mouth trembles. Sweat breaks out on her brow. She sucks in a heavy, quivery breath, cowardice swimming in her eyes.

“Say it.” I pinch her and she squawks like a bird. Then in a timid, crackling voice, she continues, “
The rightful child bears the mark of the Commonwealth branded on his skin at birth—”

“What?” I snatch the paper away from her.

“—above the hairline at the nape of his neck
.”

I read it then look up at the crowd, astonished, certificate shaking in my hands. I held this very paper less than an hour ago, at the castle, where Eyelet and Parthena delivered it to me. But I never thought to read it. There wasn’t time. After all, saving Iris was the priority.

Parthena rushes over, parts my hair, and flings me around for the crowd to see. “It’s there!” she declares, stabbing at the spot at the base of my skull. “Right there. There it is! You see?”

A shocked gasp pulses throughout the park.

I stare at the words on the paper, reading them over and over again in my mind.

All this time . . . all this
bloody
time I’ve borne the mark of royalty without even knowing it. A mark that could have assured my freedom. All our freedoms . . .

A mark that could have saved us all.

The crowd coos in disbelief.

I look up into their bewildered faces—more than a little bewildered myself.

“Go on,
declare it
!” Parthena shouts at her sister, whirling her about.

“All right, all right,” Penelope sneers. “Don’t rush me.” She huffs the hair from her face, and at last addresses the crowd. “By the powers vested in me as Ruler”—she takes a breath—“I hereby denounce my right to the Commonwealth throne in favour of its rightful successor.” She stops and swallows, as if downing something vile. “Urlick Winston William Babbi—I mean,
Winslow
.” She drops her head. “Long. May. He. Rule.”

The crowd falls to their knees. They bow their heads and clasp their hands in prayer.

“What are they doing?” I whisper to Parthena.

“Worshipping you.” She pats my shoulder, softly.

One by one, the people lift their heads, each peering deep into my eyes. Their faces slowly break into warm, welcoming smiles. A hot swell of happiness blooms in my heart. Cheers rise up like fanciful kites twisting through the cloud cover, dipping and swirling, enchanting my ears. I stand basking in the glory of it, my gaze coming to rest on Eyelet in the front row.
My Eyelet.
She smiles up at me, and my heart swells even more.

This moment could not be any more perfect.

I nod my head to the people, and their voices rise again like a celebration of firecrackers in a dark night. Their chants and cheers reverberate through me, singing in my heart and bouncing off my ribs. Tears of joy press at the backs of my eyes.

I can’t believe this is real.

“What do yuh want us to do wif ’er?” Masheck jerks his head toward Penelope, sniveling at the right of the stage.

I turn, placing a hand on Masheck’s shoulder. “As much fun as it would be to let you have a go at her, I think that honour lies with her sister, don’t you? What do you say, Parthena?” I turn her way. “Can you think of a place we could put your sister? Where she’ll no longer be any trouble?”

Parthena drags an all-knowing look over her sister’s trembling carcass. “I think I know just the place.” She grins.

“No!” Penelope digs in her heels. I signal for the Brigsmen to haul her away. “No!” Penelope kicks and screams. “
No
, Parthena . . . no,
pleeeeease
!”

A strangled cough rings out in the crowd. All heads turn.

I swing around to see Eyelet bent at the waist. Her back is horrendously heaving. “Eyelet?” I lunge to the edge of the stage. “Eyelet, what is it? What’s happening?”

She looks up. A small dab of blood rolls from her lips. Her complexion is strangely grey.

“Eyelet?
” I leap from the stage and charge through the crowd toward her. “
EEEEEEEEEYELET!
”

She collapses to the ground.

Acknowledgments

Aaahhh
, where to begin, well, let’s see . . . with Rosemary Danielis, of course, who is always there for me, waiting at the end of the phone/Skype line to help me conquer all the daily/hourly obstacles of writing, no matter how big or small. HUG. To Kimberley Griffiths Little, who offers keen writing advice and a sharp critical eye . . . thanks, as always. To Donna Walker, without whom, I’m convinced, I could not survive this. Thank you for always being there for me. To Lorin Oberweger, who helps mold and shape my wild ideas into even wilder ones . . .
no, actually
. . . into sensible, intriguing, and even more exciting ones. There aren’t enough words. And, of course, to Veronica Rossi for her continued encouragement and support. And to my other writing friends in my network too vast to name here—you know who you are. I LOVE YOU ALL. I would also like to acknowledge my husband, who is always there to support me through all of my writing endeavors, my first reader, my last reader, my biggest fan. More love than imaginable to you, Sean. And to Seth, who puts up with me at my computer for endless hours . . . I will always break for bowling.

And now to some very special readers who have helped me shape this particular book into a rich and personal read. Special thanks go out to Helen Kubiw, Kimberly Mayberry, Ali Goff, Cody Smith-Candelaria, Carole Milner, and to Victoria Blackman, for helping name Livinea. Also to Natalie Trantham for providing Livinea with her middle name, Mae. I couldn’t do any of this without
you
, my treasured readers. Unlimited love and thanks to you ALL!

J
acqueline

About the Author

Jacqueline Garlick loves strong heroines, despises whiny sidekicks, and adores good stories about triumphant underdogs. A teacher in her former life, she’s now an author of the very books she loves to read: young adult and women’s fiction.
Lumière
, the first novel in her Illumination Paradox series, won the prestigious 2013 LYRA award for Best Young Adult Novel and an Indie B.R.A.G. Medallion. The book also received the title of B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree. Jacqueline lives in a house with a purple wall or two, and dreams of one day having a hidden passageway that leads to a secret room. Visit her website at
www.jacquelinegarlick.com
.