The White Rose (11 page)

The crest of the House of the Lake.

Panic grips me so completely it’s hard to breathe.

“Ash,” I gasp, nodding to the coach. “It’s her.”

“It’s probably a house coach,” Ash says. “Every royal house has them, for their foremen and factory inspectors. She’d never come here herself.”

But he doesn’t sound so sure and we both pick up our pace.

By the time the Thief turns down a smaller street, I’m sweating despite the cold air. We make a right, then a left, then another right. The streets turn from cobblestone to rough concrete. As we move farther away from the factories, houses begin to sprout up around us. They line the streets in rows, bunched together or leaning against each other like they’re afraid of being separated from the pack. It looks like Lily’s area in the Bank, but these houses aren’t painted in reds or yellows or blues. They are completely uniform, gray shingled roofs and slanted chimneys and smudged windows. Each one has a small porch jutting out from its front door. Most of them sag, their paint chipped and peeling. A young woman is hanging laundry from a line stretched between two porch posts while a baby plays with a wooden rattle at her feet. A few houses down, a grizzled old man with a rounded back sits in a wicker chair, smoking a pipe. I feel his eyes on me and drop my gaze to the cracks in the cement sidewalk.

We round a corner and Ash stops short. He grabs my wrist and pulls me back, crouching behind a porch. Raven and the Thief follow suit.

“What is it?” I whisper.

“We’re not supposed to stop here,” the Thief says.

Ash leans his head against the weathered wood and closes his eyes.

“I don’t believe it,” he mutters.

“Ash, what?”

He opens his eyes. “Did you see it? The house?”

I peek around the corner. The row of houses look the same—small, shabby, uniform—until about halfway down the street. A three-story building looms up against the slate-colored sky. It looks as though it was once the same size as the other houses, but has since devoured those on either side of it, giving it a lumpy, swollen appearance. It has been painted a garish shade of green with blue shutters, a stunning contrast among so much gray. An electric stagecoach sits outside it, and two Regimentals guard the door.

“What a horrible color,” Raven says.

“Who lives there?” I ask.

“I did,” Ash says.

“Oh,” I say. “It doesn’t look quite like I remember from the photograph.”

“It screams money,” he says through gritted teeth.

I peek around the corner again as two men emerge from the house. One is a young boy with brilliant orange hair, the other an old man in a woolen coat wearing a bowler hat. Red and Mr. Billings. They get into the electric stagecoach and it pulls away from the house, leaving the Regimentals standing guard.

“They’re gone,” I say. “Those people from the companion house.”

Ash turns to me, his eyes pleading. “Can’t I . . . can’t I look in the window? I don’t have to talk to her. I only want to see her. Before she’s gone forever.”

I hold his gaze, knowing that it is absolutely foolish to attempt something like this.

“There are Regimentals outside,” I say. “You wouldn’t get two blocks before they arrested you.”

“I can distract them,” the Thief volunteers.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” I say. “You don’t need to risk your life for this.”

“Risk my life?” The Thief chuckles. “Not only can I outrun those two, I can disappear like you wouldn’t believe. I told you, it’s my quarter. I know all the hiding spots. And I’m not afraid of Regimentals.” He looks at Ash. “I understand. You have to say good-bye,” he says, echoing Raven’s words from earlier.

Ash’s face is pale under all the soot.

I squeeze his hand. Cinder is so close. And he has asked so little of me.

“I’m coming with you,” I say.

“No, Violet, you—”

“I wasn’t asking for permission.” We all have things we need to do, no matter how reckless or foolish. I helped Raven instead of taking the serum myself. I know what it is to risk your life for someone you love. I can’t deny him this last chance. If it was Hazel dying and I was feet from where she was, I would do the exact same thing. But I won’t let him face this alone. We’ve come too far for that.

There’s a space under the porch stairs that should provide a good hiding place. I turn to Raven. “Stay here. And
you,” I add, looking at the Thief, “take care of her. No matter what else happens, you make sure she is safe.”

“Don’t do that,” Raven says. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. My mind may be twisted and turned against me but I am Raven Stirling. I can make my own decisions.”

I have to smile. She’s coming back. My Raven is coming back. The Countess couldn’t destroy her completely.

“I know,” I say. “But I can’t bear for you to be in danger again. Please, Raven. For me. Stay safe.”

She narrows her eyes a fraction. “You always did know how to lay on the guilt.”

I laugh. “I’m glad I haven’t lost my touch.” I reach back to my bun and carefully extract the arcana. “Here. Keep this, just in case.”

Raven’s fingers wrap around the delicate silver tuning fork. “You’re coming back,” she says.

I nod. “Just in case,” I say again. At least Lucien or Garnet or someone can find Raven if something happens to me and Ash. I’m not leaving her entirely alone.

“Ready?” the Thief asks. “You’ll only have a few minutes.”

Ash nods.

“Don’t get caught,” the Thief says with a grin. “That’s my motto.” He runs out onto the street.

“I saw him!” he shouts to the Regimentals. “That companion. He was out by Joinder’s. This way!”

He jogs in the opposite direction of our hiding place. The Regimentals look momentarily stunned until one of them says, “After him!” They rush off, leaving the house unattended.

“Come on,” I say. “We don’t have much time.”

Raven slips under the stairs as Ash and I hurry down the street. A lopsided porch encircles his house—the first floor boasts three large windows. We climb the steps as quietly as we can and crouch by the first window as the front door opens.

A woman walks out of the house, wearing a heavy coat and carrying a purse. I am struck by how much she looks like Ash. She’s several years older than in the photograph I saw, but there is no doubt that Ash is her son. She frowns when she sees us.

“Excuse me, what are—oh!” Her hand flies to her mouth.

“Mother?” Ash says, rising to his feet.

They stare at each other for a moment. I remember my Reckoning Day, the day the caretakers at Southgate allowed us back home for one last visit with our families before we were sold. Ash never got that. He told me he hasn’t seen his family in four years.

The moment breaks as Mrs. Lockwood rushes forward.

“Oh, Ash,” she says, pulling him into her arms. “Oh, my boy . . . look at you, you’re . . . you’re all grown up. But . . . why are you here? Why would you come? They’re looking for you, they—”

She glances around and sees that the Regimentals are gone. She also sees me.

“Who—?”

“I need to see Cinder,” Ash says. “I don’t have much time.”

I have to give Ash’s mother credit—she grasps the severity of the situation extremely fast.

“Of course,” she says, opening the door and stepping inside. “But keep your voice down. Your father and brothers are out back.”

The inside of the house looks similar to the outside, as if it were once a much smaller space that has been added to over time. There is a staircase to my right, and a large living area spreads out in front of me. The furniture is mismatched, some of it looking quite expensive while other pieces are clearly homemade. A chaise lounge sits against a wall beside a rough wooden stool. An ornately carved table dominates the center of the room, a tea tray with chipped cups resting on it. And in an armchair by the windows, a small figure in a white nightgown sits with a book propped up in her hands.

“Cinder?” Ash whispers.

The book falls to the floor. “Ash?” Cinder wheezes, before dissolving into a fit of coughing.

She is a ghost of the girl I saw in the photograph. All bones, her skin clings to her cheeks and arms, and there are large dark circles under her eyes. Her once-curly hair hangs lank around her shoulders. A blood-speckled handkerchief is clutched in one hand.

Ash collapses on his knees in front of her. “Hey, little turnip,” he says.

“Why are you here?” she says. “They’re looking for you.”

“I wanted to see you.”

Cinder’s sigh turns into a cough. Her eyes droop. “Father will kill you.”

“I wasn’t supposed to get this far.” Ash takes her hand gently. “I’m so sorry,” he says. His head falls forward and his shoulders tremble.

It seems to take all of Cinder’s energy to lean in and kiss his hair. Tears stream down Mrs. Lockwood’s cheeks as she watches.

“This isn’t your fault,” Cinder says.

“I tried.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Ash whispers.

Cinder struggles to lift her hand enough to put it on his cheek. “It was,” she says. “I know you think I don’t know all the things you’ve done for me. But I do.” Her hand falls limp into her lap. “Remember how we’d race to school? And you always let me win?”

“I didn’t
let
you.”

She wheezes out a laugh. “Right. And the year all the girls were getting porcelain dolls for the Longest Night and we couldn’t afford one so you made me a doll out of straw and burlap and Mother’s old dresses?”

The lump of sadness in my throat is so big, I can’t swallow. Ash looks like he can’t either.

“I think it was the ugliest doll in the whole city,” he says with a heartbreaking attempt at humor.

“It was perfect. They all made fun of me, but I didn’t care.” Cinder leans back, like this conversation has exhausted her. “I’m sorry, Ash. I’m sorry I got sick and you had to go away. I’m sorry Father hit you and made you feel bad all the time. I’m sorry Rip and Panel, and those other boys at school were mean. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to keep you here with me.”

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything.” A tear tumbles down Ash’s cheek. “I don’t want to leave you again.”

Cinder’s whole face goes from relaxed to alert. “You have to get out of here before Father finds you. Please. For me.”

It takes an eternity for Ash to answer.

“Please,” she says again. “He’ll turn you in. I can’t bear the thought of you dying, too.”

The fact that she knows, that she understands exactly what is happening to her, and can speak of it so bravely, seems to break Ash in two. I have never seen him look so defeated.

“All right,” he whispers.

She smiles at him. One of her front teeth is crooked. “I’m so glad I got to see you,” she says.

Ash kisses her cheek.

“I love you, little turnip.”

“. . . shouldn’t have taken the wretched job in the first place.” A male voice carries from somewhere in the farther recesses of the house, and a door slams. “Should have stayed at Joinder’s, with the House of the Stone. That damned boy ruined any chance for us. You think the Duchess is going to let me work anywhere except maybe cleaning furnaces for half a diamante a month? How are we supposed to survive on that?”

Mrs. Lockwood looks terrified. “Go,” she hisses at her son.

“I wish Ash would come home, like the idiot he is,” a second, younger male voice says. “And then this wouldn’t be our problem anymore.”

Before we can even move, three people enter the room and I recognize them immediately.

Ash’s father is a large man with dark curly hair and heavily muscled arms and shoulders. His mouth twists down, giving him a perpetually mean expression. A brown glass bottle is clutched in one hand. Right behind Mr. Lockwood are two identical boys, who could be exact replicas of their father except they are shorter and their noses are snubbed, turning up at the ends. Rip and Panel. I don’t know which one is which.

They stop short at the sight of Ash, who has risen to his feet and is staring his father down, eyes like green fire.

“Hello, Father,” Ash says.

“You—how did you get in here, boy?” Mr. Lockwood turns on his wife. “This was
you
, wasn’t it? Always spoiling him, never giving him a chance to become a real man. He belongs in jail!”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Ash snaps.

“You’re not part of this family anymore, Ash,” one of the twins says. “Are you dumb enough to believe we’d protect you? When that Bank man came to see us, all certain that you’d come back here, I wanted to laugh in his face. But I guess you’re as stupid as they think you are.”

The other twin sniggers.

“I’m not twelve years old anymore, Panel,” Ash says. “Your threats don’t mean anything to me.”

“They should,” Panel retorts. “We turn you in and you’re dead.”

“And we get a fat pile of money,” the other twin, Rip, adds.

“Boys, stop it, please,” Mrs. Lockwood says.

“Then do it,” Ash says. “Go ahead. Be the cowards I always knew you were.”

“Oh, we’re the cowards?” Rip says. “Who was always getting picked on at school? Who would always come running to Mother when things didn’t go his way?”

“This isn’t about us, you morons,” Ash snarls. “This isn’t about who’s stronger or who can run faster or who Father likes best.” He turns on his father. “You were supposed to be
saving
Cinder. What was the point, Father, of me going away? It wasn’t so you could buy up the neighborhood and live like some Pauper Royal. You aren’t royalty and you never will be. That money was for her!”

“That money was
mine
!” Mr. Lockwood shouts. “I raised you, you ungrateful bastard. I put food in your belly and clothes on your back. I had to live with all your weaknesses, all your failures. I’m your
father
—I earned that money, and I spent it how I saw fit.”

“
I
EARNED THAT MONEY!” Ash is screaming now. His face is red and blotchy. “It was
my
body they took,
my
dignity! They used me and made me pretend to like it, they stole my life and you think
you
earned
anything
?”

“You got to prance around with royal daughters and you’re actually
complaining
?” Mr. Lockwood says incredulously. “You got a gift, boy! And you squandered it, ruined it like you always do, and we’re left to deal with the mess.” He turns to his sons. “Go get the Regimentals and bring them back here. I don’t know how he got rid of the ones outside but there must be a few close by.”