Chapter 3
Lila woke beside a softly snoring Dixon, the stubble on his neck ticking her forehead, one heavy arm flopped around her hip. He twitched as her eyelashes fluttered against his bare chest, then stretched like a purring cat under the blankets. The mattress creaked. His muscles tightened and shook as he arched his back and yawned. The little nub of his tongue flattened against the bottom of his mouth.
Morning, he mouthed, smacking his lips.
Morning, she mouthed back, rubbing at her eyes. Everything came back to her in a rush: her impending trial, the fact that she might very well be tossed into slavery in a few hours, her ex-lover’s new girlfriend—Katia, the young, pretty, pleasant blonde.
Out of habit, Lila snapped up her palm on the bedside table.
No messages blinked back at her.
As chief of her family’s compounds and an heir, she’d always had dozens of messages waiting for her attention when she woke, penned by her militia subordinates or her spies. She had pressing matters to attend to the very second she rolled out of bed. But she no longer controlled her militia, and her spies had stopped contacting her when she could no longer pay their salaries. The chairwomen and primes on the High Council of Judges had also stopped messaging her, just like the senators of Bullstow. Back at the cottage, it had felt like a vacation. Now that she’d returned to New Bristol, it made her feel…
Lonely.
The feeling had grown since the day before.
Dixon lurched beside her. Papers rustled, and she heard the scratching of a pencil. He nudged her shoulder and held up his notepad.
Nervous? he’d scrawled.
“Yes.” Lila was glad she hadn’t succumbed to tears the night before. It wouldn’t do any good to show up before the disciplinary committee with swollen eyes, looking like an upset child who had dropped her ice cream on the street.
I’m coming with you.
Lila’s eyes bugged out. “You can’t come. If anyone sees your neck, they’ll—”
I’m a grown-ass man who can do what he pleases, and you’re one of my best friends. I’ll do what I want.
Lila reread the word best, not wanting to argue, knowing it made her selfish not to try. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to Dixon, but his was the only smiling face she’d seen in nearly a month.
Besides, it had been a while since she’d had a best friend.
Gods, she hoped he wasn’t just saying it to make her feel better on her last day of freedom. Perhaps he was lying; perhaps he just wanted something from her, just like the oracle. She needed to stop trusting her instincts.
She sat up and settled her feet on the cold wooden floor. “I don’t think you should go, Dixon. It might be dangerous. The Holguín family might come to gloat.”
The Holguíns don’t want to remind the protestors that they exist. The workborn might burn down another property. Trust me. The Holguíns will stay far away from Bullstow.
Lila slipped out of bed at last, wincing at her wrinkled t-shirt and trousers. She’d gotten a bit sweaty under so many layers, pressed against Dixon’s volcanic heat. But it was a nice change from the frigid cabin she’d stayed in for nearly a month.
Dixon hadn’t seemed to mind.
Rummaging through her bag, she picked out some clothes and toiletries and headed for the shower. For a moment, she was reminded of her vacation, those two brief weeks she’d spent in the apartment before her mother had decreed she was to become prime. She’d spent her days combing over data, trying to find La Roux, not that she’d even known who the Baron was at that point. At night, she’d climbed happily into bed with Tristan. In the mornings, she’d padded into the bathroom, snatching up her shampoo bottle that lived beside Tristan’s.
Now a new shampoo bottle lived in its place. A different brand for a different woman. A younger woman. One who probably didn’t challenge him so often, one who likely didn’t argue so much, one who could take him home to meet her mother.
Lila took off her clothes in the cold room, stepping past the chipped counter and the cracked sink. After a quick shower, she donned black trousers and a cream-colored top. Even if she wanted to wear the crimson colors of the Randolphs, she couldn’t. She hadn’t brought any of her old clothes with her when she moved out of the family compound.
Leaving her hair to air dry, she returned her things to her bag and ventured out of the bathroom. Dixon stood at the stove, spatula scraping against metal as he stirred something vaguely yellow and red. A cutting board filled with tomato ends, green onion tips, and cracked eggshells littered its surface.
The scrambled eggs might not have looked as pretty as Chef’s, but they certainly smelled delicious. She sat on the barstool while Dixon pulled the pan from the stovetop and spooned two portions onto waiting plates. The toaster clicked, ejecting a few pieces of toast. He added them to the mix, taking out a pad of butter from the refrigerator.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
Dixon waggled his eyebrows and sat beside her at the counter.
Lila’s legs swung back and forth as they ate. She stole several long looks at the closed door to Tristan’s room. He hadn’t even bothered to come out and see her off.
Her hunger waned.
Before Lila could finish her breakfast, Dixon ate his last bite, set his plate in the sink, and strode to the bathroom. Water rushed through the pipes as he showered. Moments after the water stopped, a razor smacked against the edge of the sink. When the door opened again, the smell of aftershave filled the room.
Dixon was strangely absent, though. A wizard had transformed him into someone new. He’d put color aside for once, donning black trousers and a gray sweater. A light black scarf hung around his neck. He’d traded his dark red boots for black ones. Only his green shamrock bracelet revealed his character, but even that disappeared as he tucked it into the pocket of his workborn clothes.
It felt as if Dixon had lost something.
He approached the counter and shoved her plate closer, motioning for her to eat a few more bites.
“I can’t. It’s very good, but I…”
Dixon patted her cheek. He picked up her plate, covered it with plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator. While the pair cleaned the kitchen, Lila cast her eyes toward Tristan’s door, giving it longer and longer looks, wondering if Tristan would come out at all.
Dixon caught her at it, and she looked away. “I suppose he’s very tired.”
Dixon stared as well. Brow furrowed, he stalked toward the door, shaking off Lila’s halfhearted attempt to hold him back. She swallowed hard as he opened it, not sure whether to be happy or frustrated or nervous.
But Dixon didn’t move. He just scratched his head.
Not able to bear it, Lila trudged to his side and peeked over his shoulder.
Tristan hadn’t even come home.
It really was over between them. Their relationship, their friendship, everything. She might be sentenced to death in a few hours, and he couldn’t be bothered to see her off, much less offer a few words of encouragement.
So much for love.
Lila donned her mesh hood before Dixon could turn back around. She threw on her gray leather coat, snatched up her bag of clothes, and jutted her chin toward the still-running computer. “Don’t forget to check when you get back. It won’t be finished, but you keep your eye on it. Once it’s done, take it to the oracle. She and Connell can go through the photos. I suspect that what’s in those files will give you all some answers.”
Us. It will give us answers. He scrawled the words over an entire page, then smacked her in the shoulder with the notepad. Shoving it into his pocket, he offered her a smile she couldn’t return.
The pair jogged downstairs into the empty garage. Shirley hadn’t emerged for her cup of coffee yet, nor had her assistants turned up to start the day. Dixon unhooked a set of keys from a peg near the woman’s workbench, the metal rattling as he hopped into a Cruz truck. The lock popped dully, and Lila climbed inside.
She slipped off her hood a block away from the shop.
They drove to Bullstow in silence. Dixon couldn’t write while he drove, and Lila couldn’t speak even if she wanted to. Her throat had been glued shut, and her fists tightened like a newborn babe’s.
She shook them out, unwilling to wallow or give in to nerves. Snatching up her brush, she swept her hair into a bun and fixed it with a few pins. Her back popped as she craned her neck and slipped the brush back into her bag.
She wouldn’t need it or its contents in a few hours.
Where would her property go? Would it be turned over to her matron? Would Beatrice Randolph even accept her daughter’s things?
Lila knew one thing her mother would accept. She’d take the bag filled with hard drives and gadgets, the one sitting in Dixon’s room for safekeeping. If she could find someone to crack the encryption, she’d find a way to make money off her daughter’s programs.
The truck rounded the corner onto Leclerc Street. A crowd of protestors marched before Bullstow’s gate, their signs held high above their heads, already chanting at half past eight in the morning. They’d likely been shouting for weeks, and their throats held the proof of it. No More Highborn Games had been written on several signs, as well as Mother Justice Mocks the Workborn on others. Some Lila couldn’t read because the bearers kept thrusting them up and down too quickly in time with their shouts.
Their worn, drab clothes marked them as poor workborn. They peered into the Cruz truck as Dixon pulled past, checking for the same. Those eyes softened at the lack of color inside, and they quickly grew bored and shuffled back to the gate. Signs bounced into the air once more, and the group continued their chants, no doubt expecting Elizabeth Victoria Lemaire-Randolph to show up in a flash of crimson and an Adessi roadster, flanked by a dozen blackcoats in oversized trucks.
The protesters weren’t the only ones who had gathered and expected such finery. Photographers and bored paparazzi leaned upon their vehicles nearby, cameras and telephoto lenses resting on the hoods, breakfast tacos in hand. They munched, expelling clouds of fog between slurps of coffee and tea. Though the press knew it was illegal to run a picture of her—for she had never officially taken up her position as an heir and had not yet been found guilty of any crime—nothing stopped them from taking a few pictures and setting them aside for later.
But none of them paused in their taco eating this morning. They didn’t lift their cameras, not even the scattered few who might have recognized her without her silver carpet makeup.
No one had suspected that she’d arrive in a workborn truck.
Brakes squeaking at the gate, Dixon handed the militiaman his fake ID and preemptively opened his mouth to show he couldn’t answer the man’s questions.
The blackcoat barely glanced at Dixon’s tongue and notepad. Instead, his gaze instantly shifted to Lila.
“Name and purpose?” he asked, squinting at her coat.
“My name is Elizabeth Victoria Lemaire-Randolph.” She handed him her ID. “I’m to appear in court today.”
Recognition dawned on his face. She’d seen him working the gate a few times, but without her militia uniform and roadster, he hadn’t recognized her.
“Of course, chief…madam,” he replied, keeping his voice low. The man had no idea what title to apply to her. Perhaps Chief Sutton had not yet officially taken over as the Randolph chief, or perhaps Lila’s mother played a new game.
The man typed her information into his palm, then returned her ID. “If you’re innocent of the charges, I wish you well. If you really did what they say, I hope you hang for it.”
“Aren’t you cheerful?”
“I’d be more cheerful if I didn’t have to listen to those protestors caterwauling at the gate at all hours of the day and night. If the press hadn’t caught wind of this business, we could have spaced out your trials. We could have taken care of this matter privately among the families. Same result, very different reaction. Instead, we get this.”
Dixon snatched his ID from the guard’s hand and rolled up the window.
“Do you ever get pissed off about that?” Lila asked as he pulled into the compound, driving through the marble buildings, dodging the Bullstow men who had risen early, either for a jog or to start their day. The runners donned track pants; the men on errands or walks wore trousers and sweaters. A worrying amount still wore their usual attire, though—confining breeches, suit coats, and impeccably tied cravats, all colored and trimmed for the cities they’d served in during their last legislative session, a session that had ended the month before.
Lila had a sinking feeling that she knew why they’d dressed so formally for the day.
“How often do people not bother to talk to you? As though reading a few scribbles on a notepad is too much effort. You have very nice penmanship when you’re not excited or pissed or sleepy. Or drunk.”
Dixon pulled into a parking spot outside the senate building and dug out his pencil. There are perks. I’m not expected to make small talk, and it weeds out the assholes.
He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Lucky you.” She hopped out of the truck, her eyes straying to Bullstow’s great ballroom, the place she’d met La Roux only a month before. Dancing couples in breeches and intricate dresses had been carved into the marble, twirling as though they all pranced to the same music. She’d left in a happy mood the night of the Closing Ball, certain that La Roux was the Baron. She’d intended to hack into his palm that evening, to gather more information for her case against him, to pull the curtain back and expose him for what he was.
That hadn’t backfired completely.
The pair entered the senate building, shuffling toward the east wing, which belonged to the New Bristol High House. A particularly large number of senators loitered in the hallways. A month ago, they might have gathered to talk Lila into a season or at least a date. Now they stared, just as curious as the protesters outside the walls.
And twice as angry.
She’d been right to guess why she’d seen so many dressed in their usual garb. Gossipers, spies, and the curious, all looking for a show. She ignored them until she came to one figure waiting for her in the rotunda, the smooth marble floor surrounded by paintings of Saxon governors, the delicate dome rising above them like the tip of an ornate scepter. Long blonde hair fell around the man’s face in waves, and he wore the Burgundy coat and black breeches of the New Bristol senate.
“Senator Dubois.” Lila’s boots echoed upon the marble.
He did not bow. “I never thought I’d see the day that you’d end up on trial. Did you really do what they claim in the papers?”
“I’m not going to answer that, Louis. I suspect my lawyer would—”
“Screw your lawyer. First Jewel and now you?”
The venom in his tone answered the question she hadn’t wanted to ask.
“Good. You haven’t gone back to her.”
“No, I haven’t. Fuck you, madam. Fuck you and your whole rotten family.” Spinning on his heel, he darted off into the crowd. The nearest gasped that a senator had lost his temper.
Dixon gave Dubois the finger.
Lila grasped his hand and pushed it down. “Not in the capitol,” she whispered, “and pull up your scarf before someone gets curious.”
He did as she bid, cupping the back of her neck as they walked, giving it a light squeeze while they slipped through the crowd. The mob finally petered out before a door, all too well mannered to approach. Or perhaps the militia stationed outside it kept everyone away. Their ankle-length blackcoats, black uniforms, and tranq guns called for respect and a wide berth.
Lila stopped before a blackcoat. “This guest attends with my permission.”
The man patted them both down, his hands squeezing her arms and legs as though she might have brought a tranq gun. She’d left it in the truck, along with her boot knife. She hoped Dixon had done the same.
“You’re clear, madam.” His tone curled unpleasantly on the last word.
Lila and Dixon slipped inside the room. The disciplinary committee had been holding the trials in a smaller courtroom, likely to limit the number of spectators. Six benches with hard wooden backs sat in two columns, facing a long table with nine leather chairs. Between the table and the spectators sat a desk and two seats. A man occupied one, wearing a scowl of self-importance as well as the golden breeches and white coat of a Bullstow public defender. He pursed his lips as Lila entered, and did not get up to greet her.
Lila barely knew anyone else in the room. Just a few blackcoats she’d worked with in the government militia and Chief Sutton, still dressed as a commander in the front row. Her gray hair had been pulled into an elegant bun, and she had dressed in her formal officer’s jacket, a flash of blood red beneath her blackcoat. She followed Lila’s steps, her expression blank.
If they’d been alone, Sutton likely would have begun with a tongue lashing. Or perhaps Lila’s mentor wouldn’t have said anything at all. She looked away as their gazes crossed, as though she didn’t want to be there.
Lila’s mother hadn’t shown—not that she’d expected it. Her father hadn’t come, either. Chief Shaw had. He sat in the back, a telltale piece of lint on his collar. An audio bug, if she had to guess.
Her father listened in, then. Her mother too, judging from the little bump on Chief Sutton’s sleeve. Her matron had likely ordered her to attend.
That meant Lila’s mother and father weren’t on speaking terms; otherwise, they wouldn’t have needed two bugs for the same room.
Lila wondered how many more had been slipped inside.
Dixon headed to the back of the room and sat on a bench a few seats away from Chief Shaw. He studied each spectator as Lila sat beside her lawyer. The man had tucked his long white hair into a smooth ponytail at the nape of his neck.
“I’m Arron Marquez, a friend of your father’s,” he whispered. “Before you ask, no, I wasn’t able to get you a deal. No one accused has gotten one so far. I strongly recommend that you affirm the original plea of not guilty. I entered it on your father’s request. Take your chances with a trial this morning and the evidence against you. I’ll try to have the evidence thrown out as prejudiced, try to force them to start their investigation from scratch, but no one has had any success with that approach so far.”
He leaned in closer, his expression matching Chief Sutton’s. “The good news is that the evidence against you appears to be somewhat circumstantial. My technical consultants have assured me that the press received no hard evidence tying you to anything but a fake ID under the name of”—he peeked at his notes—“Prolix. Of course, no one can reproduce that evidence. It’s as if the ID just vanished. The rumor is that Bullstow can’t find it in their logs, and certainly not on the night this anonymous source claims you were inside BullNet.”
Lila breathed a sigh of relief. La Roux hadn’t known everything she’d done when he set up the dead man’s switch, thank the gods. He’d never hacked into Shaw’s private records either, for Shaw kept the proof of her and her father’s investigations off BullNet, hopefully far away from prying eyes.
Luckily, cleaning up her ID had served her well.
“The other piece of good luck is that you’re an heir, at least unofficially. It also helps that the press has turned you into a somewhat sympathetic figure of late.”
He tossed his notes back on the desk. “The bad news is that Bullstow discovered a few anomalies in the BIRD database while searching for this Prolix account. Those anomalies, whatever they are, do lend some credence to the stories in the press. I have a few arguments against them, prepared by my technical consults, but the evidence for and against you is weak. To make matters worse, Bullstow issued a court order for your matron’s security tapes. They show you leaving the Randolph estate a few hours before the break-in last month. The committee’s verdict could go either way at this point. They might try to delay the trial, hoping they’ll have time to turn up more evidence of your actions inside BullNet, but what’s more likely is that they’ll force you to submit to the truth serum to clear up this entire mess, citing national security concerns. If that happens, there might not be anything I can do to stop it. Their rationale is shaky and would never fly normally, but what with so many other accused…”
He didn’t even have to finish.
Bullstow had resolved to clean up New Bristol. The senators before her would play on the strength of their performance, ambitiously campaigning for inclusion in the state senate next session. After all, these trials were being followed by the protestors outside, by the other senators, and perhaps by the country. If the committee could bend and stretch a rule to get a verdict, it would do so.
Lila worried the hem of her sweater. If the committee demanded she submit to the truth serum, she might keep talking after they asked their questions. She’d tell them everything she’d ever done in BullNet and implicate those who had hired her. Her father and Chief Shaw would sit in her place an hour later, and they’d be scheduled to hang. Tristan and Dixon would soon follow if they didn’t leave New Bristol, for she’d volunteer the things she had done on their behalf. The oracle might be called as well—not that the senate would have any authority over her.
“What if I change my plea to guilty?”
The lawyer’s face fell as the last senator trundled in. “Don’t even joke about that. They won’t give you any special consideration just because you admit to your wrongdoing. The trial will just go faster. You’ll be sentenced to hang and left to rot in a holding cell until your execution date. They’re executing everyone at the same time, if you can believe it. For the effect.”
Lila shifted in her seat while the row of senators glared down upon her, five burgundy jackets and pairs of breeches, the New Bristol city medallion on silver chains at their necks. Four other senators had joined them from Low House, their lowborn coats and breeches all cut in different colors. If not for the previous trials, she wouldn’t know much about them. The disciplinary committee had just been elected before the closing ceremony.
Usually Bullstow postponed all trials until after the season ended.
Senator Masson, the committee’s chair, banged his gavel upon the sounding block and snatched up a paper outlining the charges against her. He read out each accusation in a smooth, rich baritone, his dark hair brushed perfectly, his face shaved close to his face, his jacket a tad too roomy at the shoulders. He must have been too busy to visit the gym lately.
They had all been too busy, judging by their clothes.
True to the lawyer’s suspicions, Senator Masson did not have much to read out that wasn’t circumstantial, and Lila heard nothing that hadn’t come from La Roux’s file. She’d been charged with one count of misusing a government database and one count of misusing a computer, even though they didn’t specify which computer she’d used to steal the data. They’d added one count of theft of proprietary information and another for breaking and entering, though they didn’t explain how she’d slipped inside Bullstow.
Masson finally stopped at the last charge and peered over the top of his paper. “Not only has the entire BIRD database been copied, but the code for the application was copied as well. All of it. That’s not only theft, madam. That’s treason.”
Lila ensured her face was blank, a skill she’d learned after dealing with her mother. She ran a few scenarios in her mind, calculating she had only one chance to dodge the noose and keep her father and Chief Shaw from the gallows. Perhaps the oracle and her people, too.
Senator Masson turned back to his report. “Elizabeth Victoria Lemaire-Randolph, given the evidence against you, Bullstow hereby charges you with treason, in addition to the other charges I have read out. Do you understand what that charge means and what that sentence holds?”
Mr. Marquez nudged Lila’s shoulder.
Her chair creaked as she stood up. “Yes, I do.”
“How do you plead?”
“To accessing the BIRD? Guilty,” she replied.