Sybil’s footsteps retreated, but Scarlet’s hand remained stretched against the block, the hatchet still hovering in the air.
“My guard was an accomplished pilot, and he was quite alive when we abandoned the ship. Assume that Linh Cinder brainwashed him into piloting the ship for her.” Sybil came to stand where Scarlet could see her again. “Where, then, would she have had him go?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you should ask him.”
A slow, pleased smile climbed over the thaumaturge’s face. “We’ll start with the smallest finger, then.”
Scarlet’s arm reared back, and she flinched, turning her face away as if not looking would keep it from happening. Her knees gave out and she collapsed beside the block of wood, but her arms stayed strong, inflexible. The only parts of her that weren’t trembling.
Her grip on the hatchet tightened, prepared to swing.
“My Queen?”
The entire room seemed to inhale at the words, so softly spoken that Scarlet wasn’t sure she’d really heard them.
After a long, long moment, the queen snapped, “What?”
“May I have her?” The words were faint and slow, as if the question were a maze that needed to be traversed carefully. “She would make a lovely pet.”
Pulse thundering in her ears, Scarlet dared to open her eyes. The hatchet glinted in the corner of her vision.
“You may have her when we are done with her,” said the queen, sounding not at all pleased at the interruption.
“But then she’ll be broken. They’re never any fun when you give them to me broken.”
The room began to titter mockingly.
A bead of sweat fell into Scarlet’s eyes, stinging.
“If she were my pet,” continued the lilting voice, “I could practice on her. She must be easy to control. Maybe I would start to get better if I had such a pretty Earthen to play with.”
The tittering stopped.
The frail voice became even quieter, barely a murmur, that still carried like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room.
“Father would have given her to me.”
Scarlet tried to blink the salt from her eyes. Her breaths were ragged from the strain of trying to take back control of her arms and failing.
“I said that you may have her, and you may,” said the queen, speaking harshly, as if to an annoying child. “But what you don’t seem to understand is that when a queen threatens repercussions against someone who has wronged her, she must follow through on those threats. If she does not, she is inviting anarchy to her doorstep. Do you want anarchy, Princess?”
Dizzy with fear, with nausea, with hunger, Scarlet managed to raise her head. The queen was looking at someone seated beside her, but the world was blurring and Scarlet couldn’t see who it was.
She heard her, though. The lovely voice, cutting through her.
“No, My Queen.”
“Precisely.”
Levana turned back to Sybil and nodded.
Scarlet didn’t have a moment to prepare herself before the hatchet dropped.
BOOK Four
“When Rapunzel saw the prince, she fell over him and began to weep, and her tears dropped into his eyes.”
Forty-Three
Cress stood to the side of the lab table, clutching a portscreen as Dr. Erland held a strange tool beside Thorne’s face, sending a thin beam of light into his pupils.
The doctor grunted, and bobbed his head in comprehension. “Mm-hmmm,” he drawled, changing the tool’s setting so that a green light clicked on near the bottom. “Mm-hm,” he said again, switching to the other eye. Cress leaned closer, but she couldn’t see anything that would warrant such thoughtful humming.
The tool in the doctor’s hand made a few clicking sounds and he took the portscreen out of Cress’s hand. He nodded at it before handing it back to her. She looked down at the screen, where the strange tool was transferring a jumble of incomprehensible diagnoses.
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Would you stop mm-hming and tell me what’s wrong with them?” said Thorne.
“Patience,” said the doctor. “The optic system is delicate, and an incorrect diagnosis could be catastrophic.”
Thorne crossed his arms.
The doctor changed the settings on his tool again and completed another scan of Thorne’s eyes. “Indeed,” he said. “Severe optic nerve damage, likely as a result of traumatic head injury. My hypothesis is that when you hit your head during the fall, internal bleeding in your skull caused a sudden pressure buildup against the optic nerve and—”
Thorne waved, bumping the doctor’s tool away from him. “Can you fix them?”
Dr. Erland huffed and set the tool down on the counter that ran the length of the Rampion’s medbay. “Of course I can,” he said, sounding insulted. “The first step will be to collect some bone marrow from the iliac crest portion of your pelvic bone. From that, I can harvest your hematopoietic stem cells, which we can use to create a solution that can be externally applied to your optic system. Over time, the stem cells will replace your damaged retinal ganglion cells and provide cellular bridges among the disconnected—”
“A-la-la-la-la, fine, I get it,” said Thorne, covering his ears. “Please, never say that word again.”
Dr. Erland raised an eyebrow. “Cellular? Hematopoietic? Ganglion?”
“That last one.” Thorne grimaced. “Bleh.”
The doctor scowled. “Are you squeamish, Mr. Thorne?”
“Eye stuff weirds me out. As does any surgery regarding the pelvic bone. You can knock me out for that part, right?” He lay back on the exam table. “Do it fast.”
“A localized numbing agent will suffice,” said Dr. Erland. “I even happen to have something that should work in my kit. However, while we can harvest the bone marrow today, I don’t have the instruments necessary to separate the stem cells or create the injection solution.”
Thorne slowly sat up again. “So … you can’t fix me?”
“Not without a proper lab.”
Thorne scratched his jaw. “All right. What if we skipped the whole stem cells, injection solution thing, and just swapped my eyeballs out for some cyborg prostheses instead? I’ve been thinking how handy X-ray vision could be, and I have to admit, the idea has kind of grown on me.”
“Hmm. You’re right,” said Dr. Erland, eyeing Thorne over the frames of his glasses. “That would be much simpler.”
“Really?”
“No.”
Thorne’s mouth twisted into a frown.
“At least now we know what’s wrong,” said Cress, “and that it can be fixed. We’ll figure something out.”
The doctor glanced at her, then turned away and set about organizing the medbay cabinets with the equipment they’d taken from his hotel. He seemed to be making an attempt to hide any emotions aside from professional curiosity, but Cress got the impression that he didn’t care much for Thorne.
His feelings toward her, on the other hand, were a mystery. She didn’t think he’d met her eye once since they’d left the hotel, and she suspected he was ashamed about the whole purchasing-Lunar-shells-for-their-blood thing. Which he had every reason to be ashamed of. Although they were on the same side now, she hadn’t yet forgiven him for how he’d treated her, and countless others. Like cattle at an auction.
Not that she’d ever seen a cattle auction.
If she were honest with herself, she had uncertain opinions about most of the crew of the Rampion. After seeing Wolf snap in the hotel, Cress had done her best to steer clear of him when she could. His temper, and the knowledge of what his kind were capable of, made the hair prickle on her neck every time his vivid green eyes met hers.
It didn’t help that Wolf hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Africa. While they’d all discussed the danger of staying in orbit before Cress could reinstate her systems for keeping them unobserved, Wolf had crouched solitary in a corner of the cockpit, staring empty-eyed at the pilot’s seat.
When Cinder had suggested they go somewhere that was in reach of New Beijing while they figured out the next phase of their plan, Wolf had paced back and forth in the galley, cradling a can of tomatoes.
When they had finally descended into the desolate wasteland of the Commonwealth’s northern Siberian regions, Wolf had lain on his side on the lower bunk bed of one of the crew quarters, his face buried in a pillow. Cress had assumed it was his bed, until Thorne informed her it had been Scarlet’s.