Page 33 of Because I Killed Him
For a moment, I brace for fallout. Jack should lose civil credits for switching carriages and speaking informally to a Copper. But when sunlight floods the carriage again, blinding and sudden, the Copper has taken off his helmet and is staring at Jack with a slack jaw.
“Forgive me, Mr. Carroway. I did not—”
“I’m gonna need that back,” Jack says, nodding toward the green leather glove still crushed in the Copper’s fist.
“I—yes, of course.” The Copper hands it over, then bows. “As I was saying, Mr. Carroway, I did not realize—”
“Now you do.”
I crane my neck to glimpse Jack’s Blood Ring, but he pulls his glove on too fast. Charlotte stares at him, stunned, as if he’s grown a second head.
It doesn’t make sense. Jack is a Green with no title or job-based authority. His rank should be well below the Copper’s. Even if he’s part of Edmund’s entourage, that provides protection, not power.
The Copper unties the dogs. He doesn’t protest when Jack tells us to grab our things, nor when Charlotte and I get up and head toward the blue first-year carriage. Still, I feel the heat of the Copper’s stare burning into my back as I walk away. Whatever he’s feeling, I don’t want to imagine it. I just hope Jack’s arrival knocked the legs out from under his plan.
Because now I have another move to make. If I want to save Jane, Edmund needs to invite her to his salon.
And I’m the one who has to convince him to do it.
Blues are not slaves to nature. Nature is a slave tous.
—RICHARD PREW, BLUE REPRESENTATIVE
CHAPTER 7
Harrison doesn’t seem like such a sell-out anymore. Not when I’ve been a Public Person for less than two hours, and I’m already climbing into the getaway car of a Blue. I made the choice, survival over pride, but my pride still lingers, like a pointed finger in the back of my mind, cold and accusatory.
Quitter.I hear the word in Hillaire’s flat voice.
The blue first-year carriage makes ours look like a matchbox. A spiral staircase twists up to the second deck, its wrought-iron railing adorned with motifs of fans and hummingbirds. Security cameras blink from the ceiling, and armed Coppers stand guard at every corner. The air smells of fresh breakfast mingled with the fragrant aroma of cigar smoke. Rather than open seats, there are shuttered cabins with gold-trimmed windows, drawn closed for privacy. The soundproof walls absorb all noise, wrapping the carriage in eerie silence. Through the cabins’ stained-glass doors, I catch glimpses of Blue silhouettes, massive and blurred like giants in a dream.
“We’re up on the second deck,” Jack says.
He drinks from his flask as we climb the stairs, his bulky body swaying off-kilter. All I can think about is how he’s getting away with breaking the law in plain sight. In all my years of studying, I never encountered a loophole that explains how someone like Jack can outrank a Copper or walk around so casually in public.
Even Jack’s green shawl-lapel suit is a violation; the flannel looks wrinkled and damp, and his leather derbies are speckled with mud, as if he rode a hoverbike to the Roaring Rails Station. But despite his intoxication,he doesn’t seem like the type to throw away civil credits. Charlotte likes wild men, not stupid ones.
At the top of the stairs, Jack shoulders open a cabin marked with a bronze plaque that reads, SALON THIRTEEN. MAXIMUM CAPACITY: FIVE PERSONS.
As I approach the door, a sense of danger wells in my gut, as if I’m stepping into a hand that could close around me at any moment. My parents’ advice about the Prews returns to the forefront of my mind. Dad and Mom knew Edmund’s parents once, when they were classmates at Grandmaster. I don’t know exactly what happened between his parents and mine—Dad and Mom always change the subject when I ask for details—but they give me plenty of dark-eyed looks, each with the same warning:Stay away from the Prew family and their influence.
That includes Edmund.
Getting close to him will cost me, maybe not now, but eventually. Still, if I have to choose between dying on my first day as a Public Person and sharing a short train ride with him, I choose the latter.
I walk in.
The shift from shadowy to bright stings my eyes. Light floods the room from a chandelier blooming from the coffered ceiling like a ripe, golden apple, its chain swaying gently with the train’s motion. The salon is flamboyant and spacious. There’s a fireplace and pale marble statues of nude women holding trumpets, posed as if announcing our arrival. A deeply recessed window frames the view beside five plush seats: low-armed, thickly piped, all arranged around an oiled parquet table piled high with breakfast platters, a monogrammed cigarette case, two half-empty whiskey bottles, and a scattered deck of cards.
As I look around, my first thought is that the plaque on the door stating a maximum capacity of five is bullshit. This salon could easily seat twenty people, including Jane.
Jack drops into a chair and props his feet on the edge of the table. There’s no sign of Edmund except for a navy-blue greatcoat hanging from a brass coat tree.
“Go ahead, darlings,” Jack says, pouring himself a shot of whiskey. “Take a seat.”
Charlotte, standing behind me, closes the sliding door and then whirls on him with pinched eyebrows. “Not until you show it to me.”
“Show you what?”
