Page 45 of A Slipper in the Smoke
You cannot have it both ways.
“A riot isn’t a battle anyway,” Snowdrop continued. “It isn’t something you can win.”
“They were smashing shops. Shops that belonged to their neighbours—”
“And they’ll do a lot more—and a lot worse—before the day is out.”
Someone banged on the garage door, checking the lock. Elena flinched, but Snowdrop clicked at her bee-like bot, and it flew under the gap to attempt to stab the interloper’s foot, and they decided it wasn’t worth their while trying to break in.
“What—what will happen now?” Elena asked, hugging her arms. For some reason, she was no longer warm enough in her jacket.
Snowdrop shrugged. “Looting, breaking, shooting, killing. Reinforcements will be here soon. They’ll send every armed guard, soldier and dread doctor they have, and they’ll stamp out any flames in a matter of hours. There’s more of us than them, but it won’t matter. They’re trained, they have weapons, and they’ll kill whoever stands in their way.”
“And… what do we do?”
“Stay out of sight,” Snowdrop said. “Wait for this to blow over.” She moved to the back of the garage and found the kettle. “I won’t make it half as well as your Toulousian boy,” she announced, avoiding her gaze as she rummaged around the tin there, “but would you like some tea?”
The sound of breaking and rumbling continued for almost an hour, shrieking through the corrugated metal and the cold stone of the floor, only to be mowed down when the reinforcements arrived—guards and tanks, heavy, metal footprints, voices that ought to have been human but transformed into something else with volume and cold indifference. It was an earthquake of noise, like the ground itself was screaming.
And people screamed, too. For louder and far longer than they had that awful day at the palace.
Don’t think about that. Don’t think about that.
Elena turned to Snowdrop, nursing her third cup of weak tea. Her face was paler than milk.
“They say that rebels killed the last king of Petragrad,” Elena said quietly, fracturing the barrier of silence between them.
Snowdrop stiffened. “That’s a lie.”
“I thought so.” Another minute ticked by between them. “I was there the day he died. My father was a distant relative of his. When we first came here, we received an invitation to the ball. My father hoped the king might help us. If he hadn’t died, so much would be different…”
Snowdrop's gaze flickered darkly. “For us, maybe,” she said. “Everyone else would have died in the smoke and the dirt just the same.”
Elena hugged the cat-like bot tightly in her arms. “Us?” she said. “How did your life—”
Snowdrop stood up. “It’s quieter, now,” she reported. “I need to get back to my own place. The others will be worried—maybe wanting to mobilise.”
“And do what?”
Snowdrop paused as Elena unlocked the door. “We won’t be taking on the Queen’s army today, but we might have some new recruits.” She looked back at Elena. “Stay here,” she instructed. “It still isn’t safe.”
When Snowdrop left, Elena crawled under her workbench, tracing the lines of the star-cross. She was fourteen years old again, hiding under the table in the ballroom, the world exploding around her. This time, there was no Ivanka to keep her company, no Mariah, no father searching through the throngs to find her.
No one was coming for her, and no amount of tracing the star-cross and mumbling prayers would convince her that she wasn’t totally and completely alone.
Somethinghadhappened.Noone was telling them what, but Pip could feel it. Most of the palace guards had disappeared, and those remaining were casting furtive glances, whispering quietly whenever they passed each other in the corridors.
Lucia could see it too. The rest of the courtiers seemed to remain oblivious.
“Theories?” she asked Pip over afternoon tea, a decadent affair served outside on the lawns, with towers of china plates filled with tiny finger sandwiches, hot scones, and miniature cakes. A Toulousian specialty. He pocketed a couple for Elena later.
“I feel that it is perhaps not best to speculate,” he remarked. There was something grim about the atmosphere, like the gathering before the funeral. Whatever had happened, he felt it was something bad. Theorising felt too close to fun, and he didn’t want to enjoy himself if people were hurt.
“Hmm, perhaps not,” Lucia said, dropping a fresh strawberry on her tongue and sucking off the powdered sugar slowly.
The still, quiet fear that had been nestling inside of Pip all morning wriggled and squirmed. “What are your plans for this afternoon?”
“A walk about the gardens, a sojourn in the library, perhaps a nap?”
