Blues are not slaves to nature. Nature is a slave to us.

  —RICHARD PREW, BLUE REPRESENTATIVE

  CHAPTER 8

  Harrison doesn’t seem like such a sell-out anymore. Not when I’ve been a Public Person for less than two hours, and I’m already climbing into the getaway car of a Blue. I made the choice, survival over pride, but my pride still lingers, like a pointed finger in the back of my mind, cold and accusatory.

  Quitter. I hear the word in Hillaire’s flat voice.

  The blue first-year carriage makes ours look like a matchbox. A spiral staircase twists up to the second deck, its wrought-iron railing adorned with motifs of fans and hummingbirds. Security cameras blink from the ceiling, and armed Coppers stand guard at every corner. The air smells of fresh breakfast mingled with the fragrant aroma of cigar smoke. Rather than open seats, there are shuttered cabins with gold-trimmed windows, drawn closed for privacy. The soundproof walls absorb all noise, wrapping the carriage in eerie silence. Through the cabins’ stained-glass doors, I catch glimpses of Blue silhouettes, massive and blurred like giants in a dream.

  “We’re up on the second deck,” Jack says.

  He drinks from his flask as we climb the stairs, his bulky body swaying off-kilter. All I can think about is how he’s getting away with breaking the law in plain sight. In all my years of studying, I never encountered a loophole that explains how someone like Jack can outrank a Copper or walk around so casually in public.

  Even Jack’s green shawl-lapel suit is a violation; the flannel looks wrinkled and damp, and his leather derbies are speckled with mud, as if he rode a hoverbike to the Roaring Rails Station. But despite his intoxication, he doesn’t seem like the type to throw away civil credits. Charlotte likes wild men, not stupid ones.

  At the top of the stairs, Jack shoulders open a cabin marked with a bronze plaque that reads, SALON THIRTEEN. MAXIMUM CAPACITY: FIVE PERSONS.

  As I approach the door, a sense of danger wells in my gut, as if I’m stepping into a hand that could close around me at any moment. My parents’ advice about the Prews returns to the forefront of my mind. Dad and Mom knew Edmund’s parents once, when they were classmates at Grandmaster. I don’t know exactly what happened between his parents and mine—Dad and Mom always change the subject when I ask for details—but they give me plenty of dark-eyed looks, each with the same warning: Stay away from the Prew family and their influence.

  That includes Edmund.

  Getting close to him will cost me, maybe not now, but eventually. Still, if I have to choose between dying on my first day as a Public Person and sharing a short train ride with him, I choose the latter.

  I walk in.

  The shift from shadowy to bright stings my eyes. Light floods the room from a chandelier blooming from the coffered ceiling like a ripe, golden apple, its chain swaying gently with the train’s motion. The salon is flamboyant and spacious. There’s a fireplace and pale marble statues of nude women holding trumpets, posed as if announcing our arrival. A deeply recessed window frames the view beside five plush seats: low-armed, thickly piped, all arranged around an oiled parquet table piled high with breakfast platters, a monogrammed cigarette case, two half-empty whiskey bottles, and a scattered deck of cards.

  As I look around, my first thought is that the plaque on the door stating a maximum capacity of five is bullshit. This salon could easily seat twenty people, including Jane.

  Jack drops into a chair and props his feet on the edge of the table. There’s no sign of Edmund except for a navy-blue greatcoat hanging from a brass coat tree.

  “Go ahead, darlings,” Jack says, pouring himself a shot of whiskey. “Take a seat.”

  Charlotte, standing behind me, closes the sliding door and then whirls on him with pinched eyebrows. “Not until you show it to me.”

  “Show you what?”

  “Your Blood Ring.”

  Jack raps his knuckles on the table. “No.”

  “Take off the glove.” She sets her head in a hard-jawed, downward tilt. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

  “You’d have a better chance of taking off my pants.”

  “If the Copper back there had stared at your ass the way he did your Blood Ring, maybe I would.”

  “Maybe you should be grateful instead.”

  “I am grateful, but—”

  A toilet flushes in the lavatory. Charlotte and I swivel toward the door. Behind the frosted glass, someone washes and dries their hands with a towel. I stand still, trying to look composed, waiting for Edmund to emerge.

  Then I notice something strange. The silhouette barely reaches the doorknob’s height, too small to belong to a Blue.

  The boy who steps out has an upturned nose and a shock of carrot-colored hair that looks as if a gust of wind blew it back. Freckles pepper his cheeks, and his pudgy chin makes him look much too young to be a student. There’s a food stain on the lapel of his burnt-orange suit.

  “Charlotte, you old broad,” the boy says, tugging on a pair of gloves as he strolls over. “Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. How have you b—” He cuts himself off, squints at her, and plants a hand on his hip. “You trying to get Jack back or something?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s with all the slicing and dicing?”

  Charlotte touches her nose, probably her most cosmetically enhanced feature. “Uh, I—”

  “And why do you smell like a fart?”

  “Oh, shove off, Dickie.” She swats his hand away. “It’s not me who smells. It’s Lore.”

  The boy brushes past her and circles me like a dog. He sniffs the air once, twice, curious but silent, until Charlotte jumps in to introduce us.

  She begins by stating my name, age, and academic major in a formal tone, and mentions that my dad is a Green Representative. Then she moves on to her ex, Mr. Jack Carroway, a twenty-one-year-old Green first-year majoring in energy shield defense. Finally, she introduces the freckled boy as Mr. Dickie Langley, an Orange first-year. At just fifteen, he’s only the eighteenth person ever granted special permission to become a Public Person and attend Grandmaster University as a minor.

  “It’s because I’m good with computers… a prodigy, if you will,” Dickie brags after we log evidence of our introductions into our Blood Rings. He pulls me into a clammy handshake, sniffs me like a dog again, and says, “Yep—you definitely dealt it.”

  “I didn’t deal anything.” I yank out of Dickie’s grip. “The smell is from my seat. Whoever sat there before me spilled something.”

  “The carriages are cleaned between stops, so it shouldn’t smell anymore.” He turns to Charlotte, full of purpose. “What about your seat? Did it—”

  “Enough swatting at flies, Dickie,” Charlotte cuts in. “We already know the Copper was setting up a hit. The question isn’t how he planned to kill Lore. It’s whether he’s got enough backing to try again.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that, darling?” Jack spins his empty shot glass on the table with two fingers.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “You’re not accusing Blues of being behind this, are you?” Dickie demands.

  “No, I—of course not, I just…” Charlotte gives me a pointed look, jerking her head as if I’m supposed to take over.

  I nod. “Where’s Edmund?”

  “In salon six,” Jack says. “With his girl.”

  “With Rebecca?” Charlotte drops her cigarette case. “I thought they broke up?”

  “They did. You don’t know Ed’s new girl.”

  “I still wanna know her name.”

  “Irene.”

  Charlotte bends down to grab the case, frowning as if she’s mentally searching through every Irene she’s ever met. “How long have they been dating?”

  “Almost a year.” Dickie slides into the seat beside me. “But Ed’s not dating Irene, broad. He’s engaged to her.”

  “What? No fucking way. I have so many questions.”

  A buzz from my Bond pulls me out of the conversation. I glance at the caller ID, feeling a rush of relief when I see it's Dad.

  Before answering, I wave to Dickie. “When’s Edmund coming back?”

  “As a betting man, I’d wager any minute,” Dickie says as he accepts a slice of chocolate mousse cake from a passing Pinkie. “Edmund never shacks up with his broad for long.”

  That means there’s a good chance Edmund will walk in during the call. Dad will see where I am, and worse, he’ll know who I’m with.

  I let the call ring out. As soon as it goes to voicemail, Dad texts me.

  “Where are you, Loredana? Are you safe?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “Just can’t take a call right now.”

  “Are you still on Harrison’s jet?”

  “No. On the train to Grandmaster. I wanted to fly home, but as soon as we landed in the Rainbow District, I had to become a Public Person. Illegal entry otherwise.”

  Dad doesn’t reply for a long minute. Either he’s been interrupted or he doesn’t know what to say.

  “I’m sorry, Loredana,” he finally writes, “for risking so much over this vote, and for putting you and your sisters in danger. I knew most Blues were against the Bliss ban, but I didn’t predict this kind of blowback. None of us did.”

  Now it’s my turn to hesitate. He probably thinks I’ll wave it off, maybe even tell him it’s not his fault.

  But it is his fault.

  “I’d rather talk in person,” I text. “You still at the Capitol Estate?”

  “Yeah,” Dad replies. “Coppers can’t secure a ground exit, so we’re getting airlifted. What about you? Any protests on the train?”

  “Not exactly. But I could use a bodyguard.”

  “Don’t worry. President Reeve ordered full protection for targeted reps and their families. A team’s waiting for you at the university.”

  “Are they Coppers?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  I twist my Blood Ring nervously. Dad should know what happened, but I can’t explain it all now, especially with Edmund likely to walk in any second.

  “Coppers are just as hooked on Bliss as everyone else,” I text. “Better to use Pinkies or drones, ones that’ve been checked for tampering.”

  “Fine. I’ll have your Coppers swapped out for Pinkies.”

  “Thanks.” I glance out the window into the storm, where rain lashes the exterior shell of the train, and the wind howls like it’s trying to rip off the roof. Still, it’s preferable to the shitstorm I’m in.

  “How long’s this going to last?” I text.

  “I won’t lie, Loredana,” Dad replies. “Bliss is a kick in the balls. The withdrawal symptoms should ease up in a week or two, but until then, we have to prepare for the worst.”

  Two weeks. I’m not even sure I can survive two hours.

  “I don’t get it, Dad. You’ve passed controversial laws in the past. Stuff people hated. No one reacted like this. Why now?”

  “This time, it’s not about the law.”

  “What’s it about, then?”

  “Before the vote, the Blues tried to sway us. Me. The other low-citizen reps. They promised us kickbacks if we killed the bill. I thought it was just standard corruption. Happens all the time. But now I realize… it wasn’t bribery. They were counting heads, seeing who’d sell out for access.”

  I clench my hands at my sides, suddenly feeling as exposed as a nerve. If Dad is right, the violence won’t end with the withdrawals.

  “They’re going to kill all of us, aren’t they?”

  “No,” Dad assures. “I won’t let that happen. I promise. But until Reeve reins in the shit-stirrers, you need to lay low. Stay in your dorm unless you have to go to class. No introductions. No visibility.”

  A moment passes before he adds:

  “And Loredana—whatever happens, stay the hell away from Blues.”

  ***

  Logs crackle cheerfully in the fireplace as I glance at the stained-glass door of Edmund’s salon. My reflection looks ghostly in the glass, wide-eyed and terrified. I know I should heed Dad’s warning to avoid Blues, but for the first time in my life I’m caught in a double bind: damned if I return to the green carriage, damned if I stay in the blue. Now that it’s confirmed the Blues want revenge on the representatives who voted against them, along with their families, Edmund’s invitation makes no sense… unless, of course, he’s planning an ambush. But if that’s the case, why isn’t he here? Nearly twenty minutes have passed with no sign of him. If he were here, I could handle it. This uncertainty is much worse.

  Charlotte seems to feel the pressure, too. Despite Jack telling us to make ourselves comfortable, she hasn’t sat down once. She’s pacing the salon, silent yet restless, chain-smoking cigarettes faster than pencils slide through a sharpener.

  Then Dickie, perched on the arm of a chair, asks Charlotte why she’s so twitchy. That’s all it takes. She launches into a dramatic retelling of the train platform incident, her voice high-pitched and her gestures wild. I know it’s not only for Dickie’s benefit; she needs the distraction.

  So do I.

  Jack lounges back with a deck of cards, strip-shuffling lazily while Charlotte talks. His eyes track her movements, distant and unfocused, as if he’s only half-listening. Probably because he’s so drunk that if I punched him in the face, he’d bleed whiskey.

  Apart from his heavy drinking, Jack is definitely Charlotte’s type. I can’t help but wonder why they broke up, especially since she claimed he’s the one. If it’s because of his alcoholism, I don’t understand why she won’t say so.

  “And that’s when I knew,” Charlotte says, stubbing out her cigarette on a plate of smoked salmon, “Mr. Lee was going to challenge Lore to a death duel. So, with no time to lose, I told Harrison—”

  “Harrison?” Dickie interrupts from his chair, where a Pinkie is polishing his two-tone shoes. “Why didn’t you tell Waldsten first?”

  Charlotte narrows her eyes, clearly annoyed. “Because it was more important to warn Harrison, so I could stop him from—”

  “You still should’ve told Waldsten first. If it were me, I’d be mad.”

  “Well, it wasn’t you, Dickie. And thank fuck for that.”

  “Someone else warned me about the death duel,” I say.

  “Who?” Jack pauses mid-shuffle.

  “I don’t know. One of the low-citizens in the crowd whistled the beginning of The Last Walk.”

  Jack laughs, then resumes shuffling. “It wasn’t a low-citizen, darling.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “Um, hello?” Dickie says, checking the shine on his shoes. “Because it’s illegal. You’re not allowed to play The Last Walk in public unless it’s during an execution or a sanctioned duel.”

  “You’d lose at least a hundred civil credits,” Jack adds. “And no low-citizen has that much spare change lying around.”

  “Well, you’re a low-citizen, and you sure seem to have a lot of spare change,” I say.

  “That’s different.”

  Charlotte’s eyes flick to Jack’s hand, her chin tilting stubbornly. I know she wants to tear off his glove to see his Blood Ring as much as I do. Instead, she clears her throat loudly to get everyone’s attention, then dives back into her story.

  I fall quiet, turning Jack’s words over in my mind. Blues are tribal, often loyal to a fault. They don’t break ranks unless there’s something big to gain or something even bigger to lose. If the whistle came from a high-citizen, it’d be rare. Nearly unheard of.

  “No, I’m not exaggerating. At least a hundred people were mobbing us,” Charlotte says as she finishes her story. “How the hell did you guys not see anything?”

  Jack raps his knuckles against the window. “Because only the salons on the right side of the train had a view of the platform. Ours is on the left.”

  “I’d wager Ed saw it,” Dickie says, reaching for another piece of chocolate cake. “His broad’s salon is on the right.”

  “Wait a minute.” I feel a low swoop in my gut. “You’re saying Edmund’s been with his fiancée since before we left the station?”

  “Yeah.” Dickie scratches his nose. “So?”

  “So how exactly did Charlotte and I get invited to his salon?”

  Silence.

  “Jack…” Charlotte clutches the sides of her face, her voice stretched with dread. “Please tell me you called Edmund.”

  “Of course, I did.” Jack tosses the cards onto the table. “But he didn’t pick up.”

  “Oh, hell.” Her voice jumps an octave. “Oh, hell. Oh, hell.”

  “Relax, broad.” Dickie pats Charlotte on the back. “Jack and I are allowed to have guests.”

  “Not these guests,” she snaps, jabbing a finger at herself, then at me.

  Jack looks me over. “Ed doesn’t use Bliss.”

  “But his bloodsucking tick of a twin does,” Charlotte fires back. “How the hell could you do this to us?”

  “I would’ve waited for a call-back, darling, but when you told me you were dying, I took it as urgent.”

  “Not as urgent as it’s about to be.” Charlotte grabs her handbag like a weapon. “Lore, we need to go.”

  But I’m already halfway to the door. I knew it. I knew the second we entered Edmund’s salon that this couldn’t be a free pass. Whether he uses Bliss or not doesn’t matter. If he finds us here without an invitation, he might report us for trespassing or, worse, offer us a choice to stay in exchange for something I can’t afford to give.

  I reach the door and try to turn the handle, but it won’t budge. At first, I think the handle is jammed, until I feel resistance and realize someone else on the other side is trying to open the door, too. I step back as a silhouette shifts behind the stained glass, and the door slides open with a bang that rattles the panes.

  “Well…” says a deep, lilting voice. “Isn’t that a daisy?”