Prodigy

betrayal—I’m distracted, consumed with the conflict of needing to make things right with Day, but hating to leave the Republic at the mercy of the Patriots.
    A shudder runs through me.
They’re just images. Just memories.
I remain silent until my heartbeat steadies. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and then open them again. “Yes,” I say. “I am loyal to the Republic.”
    I wait for the lie detector to flare red, to beep, to reveal that I’m lying. But the machine is quiet. Dr. Sadhwani keeps her head down and types in her notepad.
    “She’s telling the truth,” Dr. Sadhwani finally says.
    I’ve passed. I can’t believe it. The machine says I’m telling the truth. But it’s only a machine.
    * * *
    Later that night, I sit on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands. Shackles still hang from my wrists, but otherwise I’m free to move around. I can still hear the sounds of occasional muffled conversation outside my room, though.
Those
guards are still there.
    I’m so exhausted. I shouldn’t be, technically, since I haven’t done anything physically straining since I was first arrested. But Dr. Sadhwani’s questions whirl in my mind and combine with the things Thomas had said to me, haunting me until I have to clutch my head in an attempt to ward off the headache. Somewhere out there, the government is debating whether or not they should pardon me. I’m shivering a little, even though I know the room is warm.
    Classic signs of an oncoming illness,
I think darkly.
Maybe it’s the plague.
The irony of that sends a hint of sadness—and fear—through me.
But I’m vaccinated.
It’s probably just a cold—after all, Metias had always said I was a little sensitive to changes in weather.
    Metias. Now that I’m alone, I let myself worry. My last answer during the lie detector test should have thrown a red flag. But it didn’t. Does that mean I
am
still loyal to the Republic, without even being aware of it? Somewhere, deep down, the machine could sense my doubts about carrying out the assassination.
    But if I decide not to play out my role, what will happen to Day? I’ll need a way to contact him without Razor finding out.
And then what?
Day’s certainly not going to see the Elector the way I see him. And besides, I have no backup plan.
Think, June.
I have to come up with an alternative that will keep us all alive.
    If you want to rebel,
Metias had told me,
rebel from
inside
the system.
I keep dwelling on this memory, although my shivering makes it hard to concentrate.
    Suddenly I hear a commotion outside the door. There’s the sound of heels clicking smartly together, the telltale sign of an official coming to see me. I wait quietly. The doorknob finally turns. Anden steps in.
    “Elector, sir, are you sure you don’t want a few guards with you—”
    Anden just shakes his head and waves a hand at the soldiers outside the door. “Please, don’t trouble yourselves,” he says. “I’d like a private word with Ms. Iparis. It’ll only take a minute.” His words remind me of the ones I spoke when I’d visited Day in his cell at Batalla Hall.
    The soldier gives Anden a quick salute and closes the door, leaving the two of us alone. I look up from where I’m sitting on the edge of my bed. The shackles that bind my hands clink in the silence. The Elector isn’t in his usual formal garb; instead he wears a full-length black coat with a red stripe that runs down the front, and the rest of his clothes are elegantly simple (black collar shirt, a dark waistcoat with six shining buttons, black trousers, black pilot boots). His hair is glossy and neatly combed. A lone gun hangs at his waist, but he wouldn’t be able to draw it fast enough to shoot me if I decided to attack him. He’s genuinely trying to show his faith in me.
    Razor had told me that if I was to find a moment when I could assassinate Anden on my own, I should do it. Take the opportunity. But now here he is, unexpectedly vulnerable before me, and I don’t make a single gesture. Besides, if I try to kill him here, there’s zero chance I’ll see Day again—or survive.
    Anden sits down beside me, careful to leave some distance between us. Suddenly I’m embarrassed by my appearance—slouched and weary, with undone hair and nightclothes, seated next to the Republic’s handsome prince. But I still straighten and tilt my head up as gracefully as I can.
I am June Iparis,
I remind myself. I’m not going to let him see the chaos