Free Rise by Anna Carey Page B

you?”
    â€œNo, Mother.” Clara shook her head.
    The blood rushed to my face, my cheeks hot. Someone passed through the hall, the sound of their footsteps getting louder as they neared. I kept my eyes on the door, waiting for Moss to enter. Where was he? He could’ve been injured in the siege, or hiding out with the rebels. He could’ve been caught. There were so many possibilities of why he wasn’t here now, in the Palace, but I tried to steer my thoughts away from the most terrifying of all: What if he had betrayed me?
    I could barely breathe. The room was too hot. The sight of the food sickened me, the eggs stiff and cold. “I’m not feeling well,” I said, pushing back from the table. “I can’t . . .”
    I didn’t bother finishing the sentence. I just got up and left, the horrible, hopeless feeling following me. Maybe it was better to go now, despite the uncertainty. But how could I leave Clara here, or Charles? If what the Lieutenant said was true, if the army would be able to defeat the rebels, then they’d be safe after all. I was the only one in danger.
    I started toward my room when a voice called out behind me. “Princess Genevieve,” the doctor said. “Your father would like to speak with you.” His small, black eyes watched me from behind thick lenses. He looked tired, his shoulders stooped, his face pallid.
    â€œI’m not feeling well. I can’t right now,” I said, turning to go. “I’m sorry.” I started away, toward my suite, but he followed after me, reaching for my arm.
    â€œHe may only be awake for an hour or two,” he said. He gestured back to the other end of the hall. “He said it was important.”
    We walked in silence. I didn’t resist any further. I knew how strange it would seem to the doctor if I refused to speak to my father now, when he was so sick. I held one hand in the other, squeezing the blood from my fingers, trying to fight the doubt that still held me.
    â€œThe tests have been inconclusive so far,” the doctor offered, as we approached my father’s suite. Two soldiers stood outside. “We’re narrowing it down, but he’s stable for now.”
    I could smell the bleach from the hallway. Inside it was worse, undercut by the stench of sickness, which still lingered in the air. I started toward the doorway and was surprised to see my father sitting up in bed, the curtains open, the room unbearably bright.
    He looked frail, his skin papery and thin. In the sunlight he seemed paler, his gray-blue eyes translucent. His lips were cracked so badly they bled. I turned to the doctor, but he’d gone. The front door of the suite fell shut, leaving the two of us alone in silence.
    I couldn’t bring myself to ask him how he was or stand there pretending this hadn’t been what I wanted. Instead I just sat at the end of the bed, folding my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. It was a while before he spoke.
    â€œYou lied to me,” he said. He studied the side of my face.
    The back of my throat was so dry it hurt. It was impossible to tell what he knew, or how; if I could sidestep around the facts, or if there was no way out.
    â€œI don’t know what you mean,” I said, hearing how pathetic it sounded, even to me.
    â€œI don’t believe you anymore, Genevieve.” He fingered the tape on the back of his hand. A plastic tube snaked out of it, connecting up to a limp bag of fluid. “I stopped believing you a long time ago. As I’m sure you have me.”
    â€œThen why bother asking?” There was little use now in pretending. We’d sunk into silence, the resentment building these past months, more natural than anything else. Even my pregnancy couldn’t change that for long.
    He let out a low rattling sigh, resting his head back on the pillow. “Tell me—is there more than one tunnel leading into the