Rise An Eve Novel

could think I reached for one, yanking the cloth down so he was exposed. “You’re all cowards,” I yelled. “I want to know who did this. Show me who you are.” The boy, no older than seventeen, quickly covered himself back up, glancing at the stunned crowd behind me, wondering who had seen.
    Two soldiers drew their guns, aiming at me, before Charles came forward, jumping the barricade. “It’s the Princess,” he yelled. “She didn’t mean it; she’s in shock.”
    “I did mean it,” I said. “You can’t do this, you—”
    “Get her out of here,” one of the older soldiers yelled. He was still watching me from down the end of his rifle. “ Now. ”
    Charles’s hands came down on my arm, and he yanked me toward the Palace. “Have you completely lost your mind?” he said, when we were finally away from them. “You’re lucky they didn’t shoot you. What the hell were you thinking?”
    We started up the long driveway, Charles’s fingers wrapped tightly around my biceps. He didn’t let go of my arm as we pushed through the glass doors and started across the lobby, the swell of the crowd trailing in behind us. “You have to speak to your father about this,” he said.
    “Who do you think ordered it?” I wiped at my eyes, trying not to think about Jo’s face swelling, her skin turning the color of bruises. Her eyes were still open, the whites covered with blood. How had they found them? And if Moss wasn’t with them, then where was he?
    Charles pressed the elevator button. I could feel his uncertainty as he held my arm, his hand shaking slightly. I could think only of the knife and the radio nestled in the bookshelf. I had to go now, today, with or without Moss’s word.
    “Oh my god,” Charles said, as we stepped into the elevator. The door closed, shutting us in the cold steel cell. “You knew them, didn’t you?”
    He leaned down, trying to look into my face, but I couldn’t speak. I kept picturing Curtis that night in the motel, his relaxed expression, his lips curling into an almost-smile as he studied the blueprints for the flood tunnels. It was the happiest I’d ever known him.
    “I can’t talk about this,” I said finally, studying my reflection in the small, curved mirror in the upper corner of the elevator. “I just can’t.” I pushed my hands down into my pockets, trying to steady them.
    “You’re not alone in this. I can help you.” He leaned down to meet my gaze. He put his hand out and I rested mine in his, letting him press it flat, the heat slowly returning to my fingers. “Whatever you need, Genevieve.”
    I wanted to believe him, I wanted to trust him, but there was that name again. Genevieve. The reason I was alone, one of many reasons he couldn’t understand. He still called me that sometimes, slipping into the same phrasing my father used, the same formal, stilted attempts at intimacy. Now that the siege had failed, now that the City was again under my father’s control, he couldn’t help me. He didn’t even know who I was.
    For a second I wanted to tell him, to see his face as I revealed that I had tried to kill my father. That the missing blueprints that he’d wondered about one afternoon, as he went through his file drawers, were actually stolen and given to the rebels. That Reginald, the King’s Head of Press, had been my only true confidant inside the Palace walls, that there were codes in the paper daily, one of which he’d read out loud to me the other morning, without even realizing. What would he really say, what would he really do, if I told him I was leaving now, alone, possibly forever?
    As the doors opened, I started down the hall, pulling my hand free. “If you want to help me,” I said, “let me be. Just for the morning. Just for now.” He stood there, holding the door open, watching me go.
    I PUSHED INTO THE SUITE, GRABBING ONE OF CHARLES’S leather bags and emptying his papers into a bottom desk drawer. I moved quickly, pulling a few sweaters and socks from the chest, opting for the thick wool ones he wore with his loafers. I tucked the radio into the bag and the knife into the side of my belt, where it would be easier to reach. I took the bundle of letters from the nightstand, fumbling one last time through each drawer, trying to locate the picture of my mother. It had disappeared after those first weeks in the Palace, but I never stopped hoping I’d find it, hidden beneath some papers or in the recess behind the drawers. It