Rise

three

"THESE ARE THE OLD ENCYCLOPEDIAS YOU ASKED FOR," MOSS said, placing the stack of hardcovers in my arms, "and one novel I thought you'd enjoy." There were three volumes total, each two inches thick. "The ones that were missing from your collection. W and J. I hope you'll find them useful, for looking up werewolves and the like." He tapped his finger on the top of the first cover, signaling for me to open it.

I lifted it gently, taking in the small packet of white powder nestled inside. A few of the pages had been cut out, creating a shallow recess. "Would you mind giving us a few moments alone?" I asked, looking to the corner of the parlor. Alina, the maid who'd replaced Beatrice, was arranging delicate cups on a tray, clearing the morning tea. She was short, with curly brown hair and small, wide-set eyes. She nodded before starting toward the door.

I knew this was one of our final meetings, that things were coming to fruition, the power slowly, secretly shifting to the rebels. It was difficult to be hopeful, though; a heaviness had settled in after seeing Maxine. I worried about my friends, wondering where they were-if they could survive. Ruby and Pip were nearly five months along, maybe more. Why hadn't Arden sent word through the Trail?

When the door was shut tightly behind Alina, I unstacked the books, peering into each one. Inside the J encyclopedia was a folded map and a crank radio similar to the ones used on the Trail. "Funny," I said, opening the thick novel set on top, its title unfamiliar. A knife sat inside, the metal glinting in the light. "War and Peace. I get it."

Moss smiled as he sat down in front of me. "I couldn't help myself," he whispered. "It felt appropriate. I'm working on getting you a gun. But with the siege close, supplies aren't as easy to come by. People aren't eager to part with the weapons they have."

Moss was happier than I'd ever seen him. I couldn't help but be jealous. My nervousness had grown. Most mornings I was weighed down by exhaustion. My hands shook, and there was a constant twisting pain in my stomach, like it had been wrung dry.

"The end is near," Moss whispered. Then he rapped his fingers on the books. "And you will be ushering it in."

"I should be able to get inside." I'd thought about the circumstances under which I could get into my father's suite, how I'd ask to speak with him, make up some sort of reason to talk. "But once I'm there?"

He smoothed his hand over the cover of the book, working at the worn gold embossing. "You'll have to get into the drawers beside his bathroom sink. Your father has a bottle of blood pressure medicine that he takes. Each pill should come apart in two and have white powder inside."

"Then I'll replace it," I said, glancing at the book.

Moss nodded. "Exactly. In as many as you can-at least six or seven pills. You have to be careful, though. Make sure you don't breathe it in or have any residue left on your hands. There was trouble procuring the ricin-this is dried oleander extract. It's not ideal, but it will suffice. Leave the pills at the top, where they'll be taken sooner. It should take only a few doses."

"Then we just wait?"

Moss rested his finger on his brow. "Once your father shows signs of illness, you'll have to leave the City, at least for a month or two, until the fighting stops. With the troops from the colonies, we have a better chance at ending the conflict swiftly. When I'm settled as the interim leader, and we set up elections, you can return. It'll be too dangerous for you here in the meantime. I know where your loyalties lie, but it's not something I can or will share with the majority of the rebels-not initially. It would be too dangerous."

I thought of the remaining tunnels beneath the wall. Only one of the three had been discovered when Caleb was shot. Moss had often described the locations of the other two, reminding me where they were in case our connection was ever discovered. "That's what the radio and the map are for, then," I said. "The knife. I'll leave the City as soon as he gets sick." Anyone who lived inside the walls would recognize me. I was the King's heir, the girl on the front page of the newspaper, on the electric screens that hovered on the sides of the luxury buildings. In the wild, I would be safer, less known.

"There'll be some provisions waiting for you when you leave. Make sure to use the south tunnel." Moss glanced down at the table, staring at the crumbs from the blueberry scones. I'd picked them apart, repulsed by the dry, floury smell. He flicked one onto the floor with his finger. "A few days' worth, enough to get you away from the City without having to hunt. And please-stay away from the hospital and the girls, at least for now."

"Who told you I was there?"

"One of the rebels. Seema-an older
soldier, red streak in her hair." He stared at me, but I couldn't remember seeing the woman the previous night. "Your being there raises questions. Let's keep with this plan."

I slid the chair back from the table. "While everyone is here, moving in for the siege, I'm supposed to just flee? Won't that confirm everyone's suspicions?"

"Once the fighting has settled and I establish some control internally, you'll come back. A month or two-that's all."

"If I come back," I said. "How can we predict what'll happen after the siege?" Moss seemed confident that once the fighting stopped and the King was killed, the City would naturally move toward democracy; that as each citizen learned about the conditions at the labor camps and Schools, even the soldiers would turn toward the rebels.

Moss covered my hand with his. "There's lodging throughout Death Valley-the rebels have hidden supplies at a point called Stovepipe Wells. They've used it as a stopping point on their way to the City. The radio codes I passed along a few weeks ago will be the same. We can discuss it more once your father is sick, but it will work. Trust me."

I nearly laughed. Could there be a place more ominous sounding than Death Valley? "What about Clara? And Rose? What will happen to Charles once the rebels take power?"

Moss pressed his lips together. "I can try to offer them protection, but they're associated with your father. They've lived in the Palace for years-they're easily recognizable. Charles has been working for the King."

"I can take them with me," I said. "They'll return when I can."

"The last time someone in the Palace was told about the tunnels, two of our men were killed," Moss said. He didn't look at me as he spoke. Was there a slight accusation in his tone, or had I imagined it?

"When?" I asked, the room closing in on me. "How long before we see the effects of the poison?"

Moss glanced up at the locked door. The parlor was quiet. Sun streamed through the window, lighting up the tiny dust particles in the air. "As soon as thirty-six hours, as late as seventy-two. It depends on how many pills he ingests and how much of the extract you're able to get inside the capsules. It'll start with nausea and vomiting, some abdominal pain. Within twenty-four hours there'd be dehydration, hallucination, seizures-" He stopped, studying my face. "What is it? You don't look well."

I stood, drawing back from the table. The floor beneath my feet felt less certain. Even the slowest, fullest breath couldn't calm the tensing of my stomach. A strange, all-consuming sickness was somewhere behind my eyes and nose, the queasiness moving through me. "Something's wrong," I managed to say.

Moss rose, his eyes scanning the room, searching the half-eaten plates of food, the tea, the glass of water. "What are you feeling?" He went to the silver tray Alina had been assembling and studied the food, turning over the scone in his hands. "Did you eat this? Who brought it to you?"

I couldn't answer. My skin was hot and damp. The vents blew scorching air down on me. I took off the shawl, but it was no use; I couldn't escape the sick, spinning feeling. I ran to the door, fiddling with the handle until it gave. I didn't get more than two steps before I hunched over. The sour spit came from my mouth and hit the floor, covering it with a watery brown spatter. My insides tensed again.

"Eve?" I heard Clara's voice from somewhere down the hall. Then she was coming toward me. "Help! Someone call the doctor!"

four

WHEN I AWOKE, CLARA WAS SITTING ON THE CHAISE IN THE corner, the City paper folded over her lap. She was asleep, leaning up against the pillows Charles always used, her head tilted to one side. I looked down at my arm. A wad of cotton was taped over the inside of my elbow, and a small red dot bloomed in its center. It couldn't have been more than an hour or two since the doctor had taken blood, recorded my pulse, inspected my throat and eyes with the same conical light they'd had at School. I'd insisted I was fine, and I was. The nausea had dissipated. The feeling in my hands had returned. The only remaining symptoms were the empty tensing of my stomach and the faint sour taste on my tongue.