Secrets of the Crown Assassins

56

PHOENIX

I was sitting in the Golden Palace's infirmary for the second time in the past eight hours.

As soon as we got back from Chicago, all four of us were ushered into the infirmary, each of us being looked after in separate rooms though we were still forced to give verbal reports and complete breakdowns of what happened. And then, after at least an hour of sitting in a pale room which smelled a lot like cleaning supplies and soap, I was ordered to rest. They even sent a guard to walk me to my room to make sure I didn't attempt to go anywhere else. And, of course, another doctor woke me up this morning to usher me back to the same damn room to check up on my wounds. And she was not satisfied with the fact that I had torn off most of my bandages—which she most likely poorly wrapped—in my sleep.

Usually people are supposed to get parades for undergoing such hardship, not an annoying gnat that judges your every move.

The doctor turned from her desk where she was typing furiously into her Tab.

"That's all for now," she said.

"Thank the crown," I mumbled, though I knew she could hear it. She frowned and turned away as I stood from the bed and walked out the door. From the corner of my eye, I noticed her drooping her head against the desk in exhaustion.

Okay, maybe I felt a little bad for her.

Just a little.

I let the door fall shut behind me and stood in the hall for a moment, listening to the sounds around me. There were loud, muffled conversations and dire warnings whispered in hushed tones. It was the loudest area of the Grand Palace at the moment. The Crowns had kicked out any assassins who remained from the funeral ever since we returned from Chicago. The others were also confined to the infirmary for the most part. Everyone was tired and trying to heal from the injuries sustained by the Ravens.

Xavier seemed to have it the worst though, thanks to the gaping stab wound that went untreated and was then exposed to heat and gunpowder. Still, he wasn't in terrible shape. He would be out of bed in a day and back to normal in at least a week. Unfortunately.

I sighed and turned down the hall, walking deeper into the infirmary out of boredom. There was nothing else to do. I might as well go exploring before taking another nap. Or trying to rob Arielle. Probably both.

I turned the corner only to stop dead in my tracks. Standing just down the hall was Edsel Fortier.

Father.

No. Not father.

He stood before a doorway that was heavily guarded, his arms crossed, body still as he stared through the window. I looked around, scanning the doors beside me, realizing that I had reached the more intensive part of the infirmary. Which meant there was only one person that could be in that room.

Gladys.

My legs were moving before I could register the movement. And then, before I could even consider turning back around, the guards turned, raising their guns, barrels trained at my forehead. I halted in my tracks.

Edsel cast a sidelong glance before looking back at the room and waving a hand lazily through the air. The guards stepped back, the guns returning to their sides, completely still, backs ramrod straight. It was as if they hadn't moved at all.

They were definitely very nervous with Edsel around.

I took slow steps towards Edsel until I was standing by his side. I expected him to mention something about my lack of a bow, but he said nothing. He must've been deep in thought. I hadn't seen him deep in thought in years. I only ever saw him on screen ever since I ran, saw the strong-willed man he wanted to be shown, and then his anger and recklessness when he spoke to Arielle in the training hall. But this—this felt foreign. Strange. I placed my hands behind my back to stop myself from fidgeting.

I turned, looking through the window. Inside, she was in a long blue bed, lying still, eyes closed, ventilators and machines all around her. Most of her face was covered in bandages, where the burn marks must've been. She looked frail.

"How is the Fortier Queen?" I asked, protruding the resounding silence.

"She's still in a coma," he said. "She's still fighting a little, but the doctors are the ones still keeping her alive."

He shook his head. "She wasn't even near the center of the blast. She had endured far worse before and yet..."

"That's understandable," I said softly. "Age often affects how well you heal."

"But it's not just age, is it?" he whispered, voice shaking. "It's her. She's grown tired, has lost hope. She just—she just gave up."

He was silent for a long moment, as if trying to find the words, before he continued. "Ever since we lost our daughter, she gave up. She lost a piece of herself—we both did. Our family was torn apart."

He shook his head again, before adding, "We would do anything to have her back. Anything, consequences be damned."

I swallowed, fighting the way my throat seemed to compress. I needed to get out of this conversation.

"You mean your youngest daughter, right? Daria?"

He tore his eyes away from his wife and looked at me, the fog seeming to clear as if he finally remembered what he was doing, who he was talking to.

"Yes, of course. Daria."

He stepped away and cleared his throat. He intoned, "We loved her very much."

And then he turned on his heel, disappearing around the corner. I watched as he left, watched his brisk movements and brisk steps.

We would do anything to have her back.

If he loved me so much why didn't he recognize me? Why couldn't he tell that it was his long-lost daughter peering back into his eyes? The girl he raised for years, the one he held, the one he taught how to laugh and love? Why did he think I was someone else, someone he never cared about?

Because you are.

I hadn't been that little girl for years, had I? Perhaps I had never even been that little girl. Perhaps the girl they were looking for never existed. She was just an image they created in their minds, a perfect painting used to merely provide an excuse for why they had become so miserable, so empty. They hoped that the little girl would come save them from their misery, would make up for their terrible actions, would give them meaning and happiness. They wanted her to give them life, guide them away from an impending death. But she would never come back. She would never save them.

They had to save themselves.

I looked back through the window, at the frail woman, the one waiting for a daughter that would never come. And I knew one thing with absolute certainty.

She was already dead. They all were.

I turned away from the door and walked back down the hall. I was finally certain that I had the correct answer, that I knew what to do.

I had one task. And I will complete it.

Next chapter comes out tomorrow, October 19th!