“Oh,” said Elena, looking down, “my stepmother took offence to something I said.”
Snowdrop marched across the room and titled Elena’s face towards her. Her eyes narrowed. “If you point her out to me at the party, I’ll kill her as we make our escape.”
Elena wasn’t sure she was joking. “Um, that’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Elena squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “It’s over now,” was all she could say.
The men applied the rest of her makeup, a few more hairpins were squeezed into place, bags were flung over backs and then suddenly the door was closing with a loud clang and Elena was being pushed out into the streets with her hood drawn up, moving too quickly to be nervous.
“There’s no time to change,” she was told. “We’ll do it on the train.”
The plan had been to get her into the undergarments ahead of their journey, albeit without the hoop skirt which was folded somewhere in Buttercup’s belongings. There was no time for that now, which meant they were cutting into their turnover period later in the night.
But there was nothing for it. The train would not wait.
“Come on,” said Snowdrop. “We need to go.”
The garage door was locked and secured. Elena took a fleeting look at the street as they raced off into the night, certain she would never return.
If you get away with this, you might still have to come back here to lay low for a couple of days until you can use Pip’s ticket.
But for some reason that she could not explain, Navarra seemed further away than ever. Holding onto hope that she could use the ticket was a foolish endeavour, and she knew it.
It warmed her back pocket all the same, along with her father’s photograph, a reminder that someone, however briefly, had cared about her.
Through the narrow streets they went, past the midnight market and locals peddling their wares. A few streets away, a group of people were having some kind of party—a response to the one going on in the palace. A caterwauling of drums and discordant music stung the air. The city screamed with noises.
Wherever I go next, I hope it’s quieter.
If she lived through the night. If any of them did.
They arrived at a door in the side of a wall, blackened with age and smoke and barely discernible from the brick around it. It looked boarded up, although when Dandelion turned the handle and swung it forward, the boards came with it.
“Hurry,” Snowdrop said, pushing Elena forward.
They descended into the dark. Someone brought out a lamp. Instructions were rushed in hushed voices, bots hovering around faces or nestled on top of backpacks.
The noise above them softened to a dull thud, but other sounds thrummed around them. The flickering of lights in the distance, the whir of gears, the rumble of trains below.
“The guard station isn’t far,” Clover told her.
The tunnel soon branched out, and they arrived on an underground platform. At the end of it was a narrow set of stairs leading to a small lit-up room that jutted out over the station.
A single guardsman sat hunched over a dashboard.
“Stay here,” Snowdrop instructed Elena.
Elena did not need to be told twice. Pistols were drawn. Snowdrop went up the steps first, followed by Buttercup. She burst through the door, shoving her revolver in the guardsman’s face.
He gave a loud shriek.
“The train from Navarra,” she bellowed, “divert it to tunnel B-3, or—”
“You’re the rebellion?” he asked.
“Yes.”