Marcellus’s legs gave out from under him. He sank to his knees in front of his former governess, feeling every emotion that he’d blocked out for the past seven years suddenly wash over him at once. Anger, frustration, betrayal, regret, guilt, longing.
It was the longing more than anything. Mabelle had been marked as a traitor to the Regime. An enemy spy. He was forbidden from missing her. From thinking of her in any way but resentment. But, Sols, how he’d missed her.
There was so much to say. And yet all he could utter as he knelt by her feet was, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
What was he apologizing for? For treating her like a criminal when he’d come face-to-face with her three weeks ago in Montfer? For believing his grandfather’s lies about her? Even when they scratched against his heart in the most uncomfortable of ways? For not saving her that day seven years ago when the droids dragged her away?
But he knew the answer.
All of it.
He was sorry for all of it.
Suddenly, he felt Mabelle’s gentle yet reassuring hand on his head. “It’s okay, Marcellou. It’s okay.” And for the briefest of moments, every last drop of his anger melted right off him. He felt safe. He felt protected. The decrepit and wind-beaten hut he’d entered had turned into a warm place, a familiar place, a place of love and light. Suddenly, he was a little boy again, playing with his little plastique transporteurs at Mabelle’s feet while she read aloud from one of the books she’d smuggled into the Palais.
“Does anyone know you’re here?” Mabelle asked, her voice suddenly taking on a grave tone. “Were you followed?”
Marcellus momentarily thought of the footsteps he’d heard earlier. The ones he was now certain he’d imagined. “No.”
“Are you sure?” Mabelle asked. “The general has spies working for him all over the planet.”
And just like that, the bubble burst. Marcellus was thrust back into the present moment. Everything flooded into focus: the leaking, rundown hut; the cold, uneven floor under his knees; Mabelle’s drawn, weather-beaten skin; and the splintered bench where she sat. The anger came flooding back too, seeping into his bones, returning his vision to red.
“I know all about his spies,” he muttered, thinking once again of Chatine. “I took precautions.” He pushed himself back to his feet. “I left my TéléCom back at the Palais. I exited the grounds through the gaps in the perimeter you showed me when I was little. I parked my moto far away from the exploit.”
Mabelle exhaled audibly. “Good. Good boy.”
Marcellus’s lips quirked involuntarily at the praise. She might have aged a lifetime on Bastille, but she was still the same woman who had raised him for eleven years.
She patted the bench next to her, and Marcellus sat down.
“I must say,” Mabelle said as the cruel wind beat at the walls and the rain oozed through the cracks in the roof, “I wasn’t entirely sure you’d come.”
“I almost didn’t,” he said, and when Mabelle cocked an eyebrow, he smiled bashfully and explained. “It took me a while to read the message.”
When he’d first discovered the piece of paper that had been slipped into his pocket during one of his patrols in the Frets, the letters felt impossible to decipher. It had been over seven years since he’d practiced reading and writing them. He’d spent hours tracing the curves and loops with his fingertips, until slowly, the memories of learning those letters came back to him, like lost lyrics. Once you start humming the first verse, the entire song suddenly reappears in your mind.
Perhaps the Forgotten Word was not so easily forgotten to him.
“Well, you’re here. That’s what matters,” Mabelle said, taking his hand in hers. Her hand, which once swallowed his own, now felt impossibly small. But it was warm. The only warm thing in this whole miserable place.
Marcellus nodded, trying to pull comfort from Mabelle’s words. The truth was, he wished he’d gotten that message sooner, decoded it faster. They’d already lost so much time. General Bonnefaçon had already caused so much unrest and upheaval and … death. The Premier Enfant—little Marie Paresse—on a one-way trip to Sol 2. Nadette Epernay, who was framed—and executed—for Marie’s murder. Who was next? How many more lives would the general sacrifice in his quest for power?
“I watched the footage,” Marcellus said, feeling the now-familiar rage well up inside of him. “The proof that my father was innocent in the bombing of this exploit seventeen years ago. I found the microcam in the painting in your old room at the Grand Palais, just where you said it would be. I know Julien Bonnefaçon was framed and that my grandfather and the former Patriarche were the ones behind the attack.”
Mabelle nodded. “I’m glad you’ve finally seen the truth.”
“We have to stop him,” Marcellus said urgently. “Not just stop him. Destroy him. He betrayed me. He betrayed my father. He betrayed everyone on this planet. He must be brought down.”
He took a deep breath and then finally said the words that had been running through his mind for the past two weeks. Maybe even for his entire life. Maybe they’d always been there. Buried deep inside his DNA. Calling out to him from his very veins. Just waiting for him to wake up and hear them. “I want to join the Vangarde.”
A flicker of pride passed over Mabelle’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a grave, warning look. “Marcellus, this is a very important decision that you should not take lightly. Joining us is a dangerous choice. It will put everything you know and love in danger. Your home. Your job. Your family.”
“I don’t have a family,” Marcellus snapped. “My father died trying to fight for the right side. And my mother died mourning him. You are my only family. And as for my home and my job? I don’t care about any of it anymore. The Regime, the Ministère, my promotion to commandeur, that cursed officer uniform. I’m done with all of it. I’m done being the general’s dutiful, doting protégé. I’m done following in his footsteps. It’s time I follow in the right footsteps. The ones I should have followed all along.”
Mabelle looked at him with deep, pitying eyes. “Marcellus, joining the Vangarde won’t bring your father back.”
Marcellus stood up, his hands clenched by his sides. “I’m not doing this to bring my father back. I’m doing this to honor his memory.” He nodded toward the rickety door that led to what was left of the copper exploit. “To honor all of their memories. I’m doing this to defeat the general. I want to pick up where my father left off. I’m ready now. I’ll fight. I’ll run messages. I’ll recruit. I’ll travel across the System Divine. Usonia, Kaishi, Reichenstat, wherever the Vangarde wants to send me. I’ll leave the Palais tomorrow. I’ll—”
“Marcellou.” Mabelle held up a hand to stop him, looking slightly pained. “You don’t understand. We don’t want you to do any of that.”
Marcellus squinted, confused. And just a little bit panicked. It had never even occurred to him that the Vangarde might turn him down. “But you said in Montfer … You said when I’ve seen the truth that I should come to you. That I could join you.”