A gentle breeze stirs my hair. I open my eyes to the darkness of my hospital room. The windows that look out into the hallway have been shuttered so that very little light comes through them. I don’t remember doing that. Pushing up on my elbow, I notice the window on the other side of the room is open. The building across from me is mostly dark except for the light emanating from the explosions in the ad campaign. It paints my walls with orange, yellow, and red, dancing over everything, even me. A dark silhouette moves by the foot of my bed—an extremely well-built man stands there facing me. His outline is unmistakable, even dressed in an all-black jumpsuit with a black-knitted mask to hide his face.
“Hawthorne,” I whisper. He moves quickly, going to the open window. “Hawthorne! Wait!” He looks back at me. Silent. “Don’t go!” I plead. “I need you.”
He turns away and leaps out the window. He’s near the ground by the time I can get out of bed and make it to the window ledge. My hair tangles around me. Wisps of it slip from my bun as I lean outside, trying to get a better look at him. His gravity-resistant jumpsuit slows him down when he gets close to the sidewalk. Landing on his feet, he’s gone from sight in a matter of moments. I don’t know how long I stand there at the open window, but when I finally move, the sun is just coming up and shining between the buildings.
Chapter 22
Rose-Colored Crown
Clifton arrives midmorning and arranges for my release. Emmitt shows up carrying a highly stylized version of a Strato-ranked uniform that few real soldiers would be caught dead in. I hide the star-shaped device inside the calf of my boot. Clifton hands Emmitt an address. “Meet us here tomorrow afternoon. You can help Roselle get ready for her medal ceremony and accompany us to the Sword Palace.”
Emmitt looks like he just tasted the most delicious morsel of his life. “I will be there by noon!” he squeals. “Everything will be ready! Trust me!”
We leave the hospital amid a circus of reporters, drone cameras, and—to my utter shock—fans. People are lined up outside to see me, shouting my name the moment I leave the relative safety of the lobby. Clifton’s black bullet-shaped Recovener, the most ridiculously priced aircraft in production, is parked at ground level. His security team is ready, shoving the crush of people away from us.
Once we’re inside the aircraft, he shifts into flight mode and veers off in the direction of the sea. “There.” Clifton points as we near a gorgeous building that stands out from the others lining the beachfront. The shape of a silver-bladed broadsword rises from the sand, similar to the Heritage Building except that this sword stands on its hilt, pointed to the sky. The sword itself resembles an ancient blade, thick and heavy, with a steely sheen of metal and glass. A rose-colored crown rings the blade near the top. It’s the physical representation of my moniker. We circle it a few times before Clifton lands the Recovener on the airship pad beside the crown-shaped penthouse.
“This,” he says, “is your apartment.” I stare at it a moment, speechless. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.” We walk hand in hand through a rooftop garden. “The plans for it were made a few years after you were born, but it wasn’t constructed until nearly five years ago.”
“Who else knows about it?”
“Up until now, not many people, but I gave this address to your mother’s assistant yesterday. I’m sure Gabriel, Admiral Dresden, the Clarity of Virtues, and his son—the First Commander—know about it now as well. They can all track your moniker, anyway, so secrecy is not going to win the day.”
“What will they do?” I ask.
“I have my theories. Othala has only herself to blame if she doesn’t like it. She took no part in your Transition. Your life was left in the hands of secondborn commanders. She probably thought they’d find a way to kill you quickly so she could walk away with a clear conscience. Maybe she envisioned that you’d go out like her brother—killed as revenge against The Sword. Although I believe Bazzle was killed by your grandfather’s order so that his firstborn, your mother, remained protected.”
“There wasn’t a Secondborn Bazzle Society?”
“No one shed a tear for him, poor creature. But the public didn’t grow up watching Bazzle like they did you. Othala didn’t anticipate that when she was masterminding her family’s legacy. And you’re not the kind of person to lie down and die. She probably never realized the impact Dune was having on your future.”
“She said she gave me the tools to survive.”
“You barely survived one day of active duty because of her. What she couldn’t have foreseen was that you’d create a completely honorable military job for yourself, let alone make her and Clarity Bowie quite a bit of currency. Othala may want to get rid of you to protect Gabriel, but Clarity Bowie is just warming up to all your possibilities. You haven’t gone unnoticed by the First Commander either.”
“Grisholm?” I snort and turn away from the rose-colored windows. “He finds me repulsive.”
“I wish that were the case, Roselle.” Clifton taps his moniker, showing me a holographic image of Grisholm at a Secondborn Pre-Trial event. He looks perfectly at ease in his private box in the exhibition arena.
“Notice his sword, Roselle?”
I peer at the small hologram, which plays in a seven-second loop. “It’s an X16. That means nothing. He probably likes the dual-blade design.”
“You’re the face of the design. They all buy it because you use it.”
“He knows a lot more than you give him credit for, Clifton.”
We walk together around the pool and up a short staircase to the veranda. The glass doors slide open to reveal an open floor plan with a 360-degree view. An elegant seating area with a bar looks over the skyline of Forge. Standing at the thick windows, I can just make out the Salloway Munitions headquarters and the hilt of the other sword—Gabriel and the Heritage Council’s fortress. Putting me up here feels like a declaration of war, or at least a shot fired across his bow. Gabriel could see it as an implied threat.
We take the spiral staircase up to the next level. An extravagant master bedroom makes up the tip of the sword. The silver-tinted windows peak in a dagger point at the rooftop high above my head where a magnificent chandelier hangs, its crystals crafted in the shape of swords ringed by crowns.
“My room?” I ask, running my hand over the bright white blankets of an extremely large bed.
He nods. “Your room. You’ll have a lot of security personnel around. They’ll stay in the apartments below the penthouse, so you’ll have privacy. I had clothing made up for you. You’ll find the wardrobes and closets there.” He points to an empty space.
“Where?” I ask. He laughs and touches the air of a holographic console near the door. Wardrobes rise from the floor, unmasking rows of clothes in every beautiful fabric imaginable.
“Oh,” I say breathlessly when I near a wardrobe and find clothing that Othala would envy. I can’t resist the impulse to run my hand over the luscious fabrics. “These are breathtaking.”
“I’m tired of seeing you in rags, and you need clothing that reflects your station as a Salloway spokesperson.”
“So this is all for me?”
“All for you, Roselle.”
“Where will you stay?” I ask over my shoulder, trying to keep the note of suspicion from my voice.
“I’ll be at my apartment at Salloway headquarters.” He points in the direction of his office building. “It’s imperative now that we maintain the utmost impression of propriety. We cannot give anyone any reason to call your conduct into question.”
“Thank you, Clifton.”
“You’re welcome.” He glances down at his moniker’s timekeeper. “I’ll let you settle in. I have an important meeting in an hour.”