Rise

eight

THE DAY WAS FADING. THE SKY SPREAD OUT ABOVE US, A PALE orange awning with only a faint, passing cloud. I fingered a china teacup, pressing the thin handle between my fingers. It was Clara who'd wanted to come here. After I'd avoided her all day, she'd found me in the Palace gallery and insisted we go for a walk down the main road. I couldn't bring myself to say anything, not as we passed the old Venetian gardens or the latest hotel that had been converted to apartments. She waited, her steps in time with mine, but it wasn't until we reached the rooftop restaurant at the end of the road that either of us found the courage to speak.

"Just tell me," Clara whispered. She set her hand on top of mine and left it there. "Did you have anything to do with what happened to your father? They say he's getting worse."

I studied her bloodred polish, the thumbnail that was chipped in the corner. The tables surrounding us were empty, but nearly fifty people were still on the roof, lingering after lunch. An older man with frizzy gray hair sat a few yards away, occasionally glancing at us, then back to his newspaper. "I was upset yesterday." I shrugged. "You shouldn't have seen what you did."

She sat forward, both elbows on the table, and rested her face in her hands. "I don't know what else I need to do for you to trust me. I've kept every one of your secrets."

I watched the two soldiers behind her. They'd followed us here and were now sitting at a table in the corner of the restaurant, eating the tiny triangular sandwiches in one bite. "It's not that," I said quietly. "I just can't."

The waitress, an older woman with scratched glasses, paused to refill our cups. We were quiet while she stood there, hovering over us. Every so often people turned from their plates to see what we were doing. We looked comically overdressed for late-afternoon tea, Clara in a gown that spread out at the waist, her ornate ruby earrings nearly touching her shoulders. On Alina's insistence my hair was done in curls, a bundle of them pinned at the nape of my neck. My navy gown was sheer at the top, the mesh sleeves tight around my arms, providing little relief from the growing cold. Clara didn't look at me, instead waiting until the woman started back across the roof.

She turned away from the rest of the tables, staring out over the City, careful so no one would see her face. "You're going to leave, aren't you." She said it as a statement, not a question, her expression unsteady.

"I can't do this now . . ." I started, but my voice trailed off as I watched her. She bit down hard on one of her nails, turning it sideways, as if she'd rip it off.

"I'm so afraid." She said it so low I could barely hear her.

Something inside of me broke. They would all be killed here if I left them. Moss would be the only one inside the Palace who could stop it, and even then, I wondered if he would. I couldn't do this again, the constant looking back, imagining the things I could have done to save them. I lowered my head, resting my fingers on my brow to shield my face. "We shouldn't talk here," I said.

It was so much easier to leave, wasn't it? I saw my father in me, that quiet, cowardly side of him that hadn't answered my mother's letters, that had left us in that house, trapped behind barricades, waiting to die. The thought filled me with dread. He would be with me, a part of me always, whether he lived or died.

"I might not be able to take you," I muttered. "But I'll be certain you're safe." I wouldn't leave until Moss promised them protection-Charles, Clara, and her mother.

Clara dropped her head back, letting her hair fall away from her face. Her eyes were glassy. "So it is happening. All the rumors are true."

"I promise I won't let anything happen to you," I said, unable to confirm it.