The elevator doors shut and they began to descend. And descend. Cinder felt like she was being taken to her tomb.
When the doors opened again, she was prodded forward with a jab in her back. She was taken through a dim corridor, with rough walls and the smell of stale air and urine and bodies. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
“I hope you’ll find your accommodations acceptable for such a distinguished guest as yourself,” Aimery continued, as if the scent didn’t bother him. “I understand you’re already accustomed to prison cells.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Cinder. “The last one could only hold me for a day.”
“This one will be much more suited to you, I’m sure.”
This prison of rocks and caves was nothing like the modern structure in New Beijing. This was dreary and suffocating, and worst of all, Cinder had no blueprint for it. She had no accurate map, no plan, no means of judging her location in relation to … well, anything.
They paused and there was the jangling of keys and the creak of ancient metal hinges. An old-fashioned padlock. How quaint.
If she could reach it from within the cell, she could have that picked in under thirty seconds.
The thought offered a twitch of hope, at least.
As the door opened, the smell intensified. Her lungs tried to expel the air as soon as they took it in.
“You will remain here until Her Majesty the Queen has time to see to your trial and execution,” said Aimery.
“Can’t wait,” Cinder muttered.
“Of course, you’ll want to use the time to get reacquainted.”
“Reacquainted?”
A guard cut away the bindings on her wrists and shoved her forward. Her shoulder hit the edge of the iron door as she stumbled into the cell, catching herself on a rough wall.
Someone whimpered and she froze. She wasn’t alone.
“Do enjoy your stay … Princess.”
The door slammed shut, the noise of it vibrating through Cinder’s bones. The cell was small with a high, barred window in the iron door that allowed just enough light from the hallway that she could make out a bucket on the floor. The source of the rank smell.
Two people were huddled together in the far corner.
Cinder gaped at them, willing her eyes to adjust. She turned on the built-in flashlight in her hand. The two figures shuddered and cowered behind their arms.
Recognition hit her like a right hook and she fell against the wall.
Adri.
Pearl.
“You can’t be serious.”
Her stepmother and stepsister were quaking with fear and staring up at her with wide eyes. Cinder couldn’t begin to imagine why they were here—what Levana wanted with them.
Then it hit her.
She would be stuck here, with them, until her execution.
She dragged a hand down her face, hating Levana so very, very much.
Forty-Three
In Winter’s dream, she was standing in the kitchen of a little farmhouse on Earth, or what her imagination thought a farmhouse on Earth must be like. She knew it was Scarlet’s home, though she’d never been there. She stood at a sink overflowing with dirty dishes. It was vital that she get them all clean before everyone came home, but every time she lifted a plate from the suds it shattered in her hands. Her fingers were bleeding from all the shards, turning the bubbles red.
When the seventh plate cracked in her hands, she stepped back from the sink with an overwhelming sense of failure. Why could she never do anything right? Even this simple task turned to disaster at her touch.
She fell to her knees and began to weep. The blood and soap puddled in her lap.
A shadow fell across her and she looked up. Her stepmother stood in the doorway, acres of fields and Earth’s blue, blue sky laid out behind her. She was holding a bejeweled comb in her hand, and though she was beautiful, her smile was cruel.
“They love you,” said Levana, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation. She came into the kitchen. The hem of her regal gown trailed through the soapy water on the floor. “They protect you. And what have you ever done to deserve that?”
“They love me,” Winter agreed, though she wasn’t sure who they were talking about. The people of Luna? Cinder and her allies? Jacin?
“And they will all pay the price for their adoration.” Coming around behind her, Levana began brushing the comb through Winter’s curls. The touch was gentle. Motherly, even. Winter wanted to weep with longing—how she had yearned for a mother’s touch—but there was fear in her too. Levana had never been so kind. “They will come to know all your weaknesses. They will learn how flawed you truly are. Then they will see how you never deserved any of this.”
A sharp pain stitched into her skull as one of the comb’s tines dug into Winter’s scalp. She gasped. Her head started to throb.
A growl drew her attention back to the door. Ryu was standing with his paws spread in defense, his teeth bared.
Levana stopped brushing. “And what do you care? She betrayed you too. She allowed that guard to sacrifice your life for hers. You cannot ignore her selfishness.”
Ryu prowled closer. His yellow eyes flashed.
Levana dropped the comb and stepped back. “You are an animal. A killer. A predator. What do you know of loyalty or love?”
Ryu hushed and lowered his head as if chastised. Winter’s heart opened to him. She could tell he missed her. He wanted to play fetch, not be berated by the queen’s cruel words.
Winter raised her hand to her stinging scalp. Her hair was damp. She looked down at the fallen comb and saw that the pool of dishwater had become thick with blood.
“You are wrong,” she said, turning her face up to the queen. “You are the killer. You are the predator. You know nothing of loyalty or love.” She held her hand out to Ryu, who sniffed it, before settling his warm head down on her knee. “We may be animals, but we will never again live in your cage.”
* * *
When she opened her eyes, the farmhouse was gone, replaced with shabby walls and furniture and window curtains covered in regolith dust. Her eyelids flickered as she tried to ward off the heavy drowsiness and a throbbing headache. She could still smell the pool of blood, and her scalp still ached from where the comb had punctured it.
No, from where she had hit the corner of the table.
Someone had laid her out on the sofa. Her feet dangled off the edge.
“Hey, crazy.”
Winter pushed her hair out of her face and found a towel wrapped around her head. She looked up at Scarlet, who had brought a dining chair into the front room and was sitting on it backward with her arms settled on its back. She was wearing her hooded sweatshirt again. Most of the stains were gone but it still looked worn and ragged. So did she, actually. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her face blotchy and flushed. Her usual ferocity had dulled to bitter exhaustion.
“Iko told us what happened,” she said, her voice withered and cracked. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, but I’m glad she was.”
Winter sat up. Iko sat cross-legged on the floor, picking at a thread of skin fiber that had been torn open in her chest. Thorne was standing with his back against the main door. He was wearing the partial uniform of a Lunar guard and she had to look twice to be sure it was him. She listened, but the house was otherwise silent.