I can’t even roll my eyes at the fakery because the throne room is empty, and there’s no sign of Prince Kevon or Garrett or his father. A fist of anxiety clutches at my heart. I rest against a worktable, forcing deep breaths in and out of my lungs.
“Zea?” Georgette places a hand on my shoulder.
“They’ll kill him,” I say through gasping breaths.
“He abdicated,” she replies.
I turn to meet her grave features, remembering Queen Damascena emerging from Prince Kevon’s hospital room, grinning wider than a rattlesnake. Prince Kevon gave up his throne to save my life, and his mother became the regent.
“Does that mean he’s safe?” I ask.
Georgette’s face tightens into the same expression the Thymel twins made when they brought up the subject of Dad’s death. She pauses, as though selecting the best words to impart bad news. “Montana explained what it meant. The abdication removes him from the line of succession, pushing him down from a Royal to a tier one Noble.”
“What level is Master Thymel?” I stare down at the unconscious man.
“He isn’t even a tier three.” Her voice catches.
I bow my head, wondering if the Red Runners are trying to wipe out an entire Echelon or only those bestowed with health monitors.
Myatt, the watchmaker, turns Master Thymel to his side, exposing an unblinking cuff on his right ear. The young man flips open his case, revealing an array of ear and wrist cuffs. He extracts a tool that looks part screwdriver and part hypodermic needle and slips a monocle over his eye.
I hold my breath, wondering if the removal of an ear cuff will be more complicated than removing a wrist cuff.
Ambassador Pascale had taken mine off in the stadium, just before Prunella Broadleaf had been dragged from the cell next to mine to meet Scorpio.
Scorpio.
I place a hand on my chest, squeeze my eyes shut, and force back the emotion trying to rise to the surface. Someone places a bottle of CALM in my line of sight, but I wave it off. I need to work through this, come out stronger, fearless, determined.
I need to rescue my prince.
The only people remaining on this stretch of floor are the unconscious Master Thymel, the twins, the watchmaker, Georgette, and me.
Myatt turns Master Thymel onto his other side, revealing the Amstraadi device. I rub my palms up and down my thighs, forcing myself to calm down and concentrate. When I reach Prince Kevon, he’ll need me to remove the cuff from his ear.
It’s a silver-colored alloy that hugs the earlobe and wraps up the cartilage to where the shell meets the skull. All the lights on the cuff shine a continuous red light, where they used to blink on and off with different colors.
I scoot forward on my knees to get a better look. Up close, thin strings of white metal slip into the ear canal. It reminds me of the first threads of a spider web.
Myatt explains that this is the part of the ear cuff he could never replicate because it requires knowledge of nanorobotics. He pulls Master Thymel’s ear forward, revealing more of those strings burrowed beneath his skin.
“Will you cut him free?” asks Chiffon.
“We used to think these cuffs monitored the nervous system. Now, we know they can control it,” Myatt replies. “There’s no telling how the cuff will react if it’s under attack.”
I sit on my heels and rest my fists on my thighs, hoping Myatt can revive Master Thymel. On the edge of my vision, images of the Oasis play on the wall screen. It looks like every member of the thousand Red Runners has invaded Phangloria’s capital.
A crowd of guards and Nobles storm the palace’s front steps, but Harvesters in armored trucks cut them down in a spray of bullets.
My heart feels like a boulder, its weight crushing my lungs. I haven’t begun to work through the onslaught of feelings coursing through my soul, and my throat is thick with emotion. Ignoring the tears rolling down my cheeks, ignoring the mass slaughter on the wall screen, I focus on Myatt’s fingers.
He exposes the underside of the ear cuff and slips the needle-like instrument into a deep notch. A high-pitched squeal rings from the device. Myatt flinches back, and Master Thymel convulses.
The twins scream, and Georgette shouts at Myatt to fix it.
I rear back and clutch at my chest. “What’s happening?”
“I must have triggered some kind of trap,” he shouts, his voice rising with panic.
My eyes dart around the room. The employees form a tight huddle on the far side of the workshop by the drinks machines, staring between the screen and us with frightened eyes. I spot a roll of white silk on the cutting table, remembering that Master Thymel said it could block electromagnetic signals.
Without a word, I scramble to my feet, dash across the room, and snatch a piece of cut fabric. As I return, froth gathers around the corners of Master Thymel’s mouth. I drop to my knees, place the silk over his face, and tuck it beneath his head.
The designer’s body shudders and goes still.
“What did you do?” Chiffon asks, her voice hoarse with tears.
“Amstraadi monitors are communication devices like remote controls?” I ask.
She and Charmeuse offer me identical nods.
“Maybe whoever made everyone unconscious is also punishing them if someone tampers with the cuffs.” Prickly heat crawls over my face. I don’t know anything about Netface or networks or neural devices. I’m a weed-picker who hasn’t even completed an apprenticeship.
Silence stretches out for what feels like an eternity, only broken by the sound of gunfire coming from the screen. The lady with the first aid kit steps out from the wall and holds a scanner to Master Thymel’s chest.
“He’s stable,” she says. “His vital signs are changing. It looks like he might awaken.”
Myatt turns to me, his blue eyes shining with hope. “You blocked the signal by encasing his head with faraday silk. Did you know this would happen?”
“Not really,” I reply with a grimace.
“Alright.” Myatt rubs his hands together. “We can’t have poor Tussah lying there with a piece of cloth over his head. Everyone, make an enclosure from that silk so he can breathe.”
The employees burst into a flurry of action. Some of them grab polymer boning used in corset-making, others unroll and measure the silk. Myatt wants to make a tent from the fabric and remove the cuff in a network-free environment.
Georgette wraps an arm around my shoulders. “While we were all flapping about like baby ducklings, you thought of a way to save my cousin.” She presses a kiss on my cheek. “Thank you.”
My insides cringe. I don’t deserve any praise or thanks. I haven’t saved anyone. I ask, “Could I take some of that fabric for Prince Kevon?”
Chiffon raises her gaze from Master Thymel’s cocooned head and frowns. “You can’t go into the Oasis with all those maniacs.”
I place a hand over my convulsing throat. How can I tell her that the confession I made to Prince Kevon had been based on the truth? “I know a way into the palace that avoids the fighting, and the Red Runners wouldn’t hurt another Harvester.”
“I warn you,” says Carolina from the wall screen. “When our comrades come to collect the oppressors, you must step aside or endure a harsh and summary judgment.”
My head snaps up. “What?”