“Told me what?”
“You are to be the guest of honor at the Sword Palace this weekend, in celebration of your triumphant return from behind enemy lines.” He looks over at me with an expectant air.
“Oh,” I reply. “That sounds . . . fun.” I touch the bun of my hair, making sure none of the star points protrude. I don’t know how I feel about returning home.
“It will be fun! And you’ll have to bring along your delicious man, Clifton Salloway. He’ll want to see you receive your medal. Maybe you can wear it for him, you know, after the ceremony, when the two of you are—”
“What medal?”
“The medal for bravery that your mother will present to you for your actions in defense of the Fates.”
“I don’t want a medal.”
Emmitt gazes at Clara. “She doesn’t want a medal. Couldn’t you just eat her alive? She’s so adorable. Of course you want a medal, Roselle. Everyone wants a medal. I want a medal—and I should get one, too,” he adds as an aside, elbowing my newly healed ribs, “for having to deal with your mother.”
“But I wasn’t a heroine. My airship malfunctioned.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. I’m planning your ensemble for you. Where are you staying? And please don’t tell me that it’s in some Tree Base,” he says, wrinkling his nose, “because I really cannot go there and—”
Clifton breezes into the room with his coat slung over his arm, looking handsome and well groomed. “Why are you out of bed?” he asks, frowning at me in my flimsy smock.
“Did you get the invitation we sent out for Roselle’s celebration dinner this weekend?” Emmitt asks. He practically breathes Clifton in.
“I did,” Clifton replies. He gently takes my arm and leads me back to my bed. “I will have my assistant respond today. Roselle and I are honored to attend.” He covers me with the blanket.
Emmitt almost preens with satisfaction. “I just need her address so that I can take care of all the arrangements.”
“She’s moving to a new apartment. I’ll send you the address.” Clifton crooks his finger at Emmitt, leading him into the hallway.
Clara comes closer to the bed. She glances over her shoulder at Emmitt and Clifton. From under her lavender-colored coat, she uncovers a white rose she’s been holding. “This is for you, from a friend,” she whispers, handing it to me. “You can get your messages to him through me. Emmitt doesn’t know.”
She backs away before I can ask her what she means and goes to join the two men in the hallway. I put the rose to my nose and inhale. Emmitt pops his head in from the hallway. “Aw, did Clara bring you a rose? That was thoughtful—consider half of it from me. I’m leaving to get started on your gown,” he says. “I’ll send you some mock-ups later.” He grins and scurries away, taking Clara.
Clifton comes back alone. “Darling,” he says, brushing his lips to my cheek, “you had me so worried. I thought for a few hours there that I might lose you.” He seems tired. He sits beside me on the bed and takes my hand. “You had a cracked skull, Roselle. They had to go in through your nose and repair it. Why did you downplay how bad you were hurting when I found you?”
“I didn’t want you to be mad at me,” I reply.
“I’ll only be mad at you if you ever keep something like this from me again,” he says sincerely. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost you.”
“It’s a relief to know you didn’t just think my nose was too big and you had to fix it,” I tease. I’m not sure how to handle this Clifton. He’s not acting aloof and entitled.
He laughs, an unreserved snicker. “I didn’t tell them to make it smaller, if that’s what you mean. How are you feeling? The physician tells me that your recovery is assured. They foresee no complications.”
“I feel much better. Thank you for taking care of me.”
My attention drifts to the window. On the side of the building across from the hospital, there’s a moving image of me. It’s a Salloway ad. In it, I’m dressed in a tight black leather outfit doing a choreographed sword maneuver in a faked combat scene. Simulated artillery explodes around me. I battle with the Dual-Blade X16 that Jakes designed. I frown.
Clifton flashes me his model’s smile when I glance at him. He tips his head toward the ad. “The X16 is a bestseller, Roselle. Burton is hating life right now.”
Clifton stays with me for the rest of the day, ordering us food and bossing the hospital staff around. He reads me some of the crazier things that the press has written about us. Some make me howl with laughter, like a story about his “undying love for his creative Muse, Roselle St. Sismode, the woman he tries so desperately to impress with state-of-the-art weaponry.”
“How come you’re not like them?” I ask.
“Like who? Like firstborns?”
“Yes. I mean, you’re super arrogant, but you’re also hardworking.”
“I’m hardworking because my little brother died of a heart disorder when he was seven. I was nine. He didn’t live to his Transition Day.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says softly. “It has made me who I am. My mother was not able to have another child to take Aston’s place—they wouldn’t approve her for a thirdborn. We suspect it was political. We lost our place in the aristocracy. We had to earn our own way. Being an Exo-ranked officer doesn’t pay what you’d think it should. Fortunately, I come from a family that knows how to earn a living—we excel at it. It makes us undesirable to the current aristocracy, which receives large sums of money for no other reason than their names. They’re quick to do favors for me, though, if there’s currency to back it up. It’s how I was able to buy my title back, reclaim my family home, and become part of the aristocracy once more. The Fates Republic is paying less and less these days. This war is sapping their resources.”
“And building yours,” I reply.
“Ours,” he corrects me. “Don’t forget that I set aside currency for you in a secret account. I don’t just hand all of it over to your greedy aristocratic family. Your dinner this weekend at the Sword Palace will be celebrated with money you earned from me.”
My mother, father, and older brother are entitled to most of my earnings as a secondborn. The rest is supposed to go to the Fates Republic to support people like Fabian Bowie and Grisholm. It’s a completely corrupt system. I’m only entitled to a capsule in an air-barracks and three meals a day, and even that is subject to my commanding officer’s whims.
“Let’s not talk about money. It makes me grumpy,” I reply.
“What would you like to talk about?” He runs his knuckles lightly over my arm. I shiver at the exquisite feel of it.
“Agent Crow was here when I woke up.”
Clifton tries to look mean, but he’s too gorgeous to look threatening. “I will murder my security personnel!” he says angrily. “They were supposed to be guarding this entire place! What did he say to you?”
I tell him about our conversation word for word.
“I have to take care of this tonight,” Clifton grumbles, rising to his feet. “Don’t worry about Agent Crow. He’s not going to threaten you again.” Reaching out, he brushes my cheek with his fingers. “Please get some rest. I want to be able to take you home soon. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. We can have breakfast together.”
“Okay.” I nod.
When he leaves, I realize just how tired I really am. Snuggling into the blanket, I lift the white rose to my nose, sniffing it. One of the interior petals has a small black mark on it. I pluck it out, turn it over, and discover a message:
Hoping your head feels better.
—R.W.
Reykin Winterstrom. Clara has ties to the Gates of Dawn! Jumping out of bed, I hurry to the bathroom and flush the white rose petal. Returning to my bed, I search through the rose, but there are no other messages.