The Last Princess Page 4

  On a door up ahead, a string of rainbow-colored blocks spelled out JAMIE’S ROOM. I tore the sign from the door, the thread breaking in my hand, the blocks tumbling to the ground. I had helped Jamie make the sign when he was four years old. I remembered sitting together in front of the fire, drinking hot chocolate with honey as we strung the blocks together. Even though it was after the Seventeen Days, that memory suddenly felt like it was from a different time—so long ago that it was impossible to reach.

  Mary swept past me and pushed open the door. The room was quiet, the pale blue curtains fluttering in the wind. In the dim light, Mary and I rushed over to Jamie’s bed. The covers were pushed back, the bed empty. All that remained was his beloved Paddington Bear.

  “They’ve taken him.” Mary’s voice shook with panic. I stared in disbelief at the empty bed. Mary reached for the bear with the missing eye.

  I willed myself to feel something. Even crying would have been a relief.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Through the waves of my sorrow, I must have imagined my brother’s voice. I lifted my head. In the hazy light I saw Jamie standing in front of me, wearing his blue-and-white-striped pajamas, his hair messy from sleep.

  “Jamie?” My voice broke as I said his name. “Is that you?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “Jamie!” Mary exclaimed, tears running down her cheeks. “Where have you been? You weren’t in your bed. We thought…” She sounded as though she were scolding him, and Jamie stepped back in fear.

  “I fell asleep on the window seat,” he started to explain.

  “Oh, Jamie, something terrible has happened.” Mary reached out to him, and he ran forward to hug us both. He smelled of children’s shampoo and cough medicine.

  The sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

  “What’s happening?” Jamie looked fearfully from Mary to me.

  “Shush.” Mary put her fingers to her lips. Shadows moved across the strip of light under the bedroom door.

  “They’re right outside,” I whispered. I took Jamie’s chair from beneath his desk and wedged it firmly under the door handle. I knew it wouldn’t be enough to stop them, but at least it would slow them down.

  “Mary?” Jamie looked at our sister, his eyes flashing with fear.

  “We’ll explain everything later,” I answered, surprised at how calm I sounded. “Right now we have to find a way out.” I made a quick mental survey of the room. Fierce red flames danced outside the window, curling inward like hands trying to grab at us. I tried to see through the blaze to the courtyard below, where the real royal guards were fighting the impostors. Bullets and spears flew through the air. The bodies of dead soldiers littered the cobblestones.

  Without warning, an axe blade smashed at the door. The chair I had placed below the handle broke into tiny pieces that fell to the floor like toothpicks.

  Mary screamed, wrapping Jamie in her arms as another axe splintered the wood. The steel blades glinted in the dim light.

  “The war hutch,” I whispered urgently. How had I not thought of it before?

  Jamie’s eyes lit up. “It leads to the underground tunnels. We can escape that way!” The ancient passage hadn’t been used since the Second World War.

  Mary grabbed the bedspread and an armful of Jamie’s sweaters. We ducked into Jamie’s closet and moved toward the back wall, moving our hands over the wood in the darkness, searching for the hidden latch.

  “I found it!” Jamie cried out excitedly. Even through my fear, I felt a swell of pride.

  The hidden door slid open to reveal a small pulley elevator, a dumbwaiter designed to lower us to the safety of the tunnels below. The three of us barely fit in the compartment, sitting with our knees pressed to our chests. I reached to turn the pulley.

  “My medicine,” Jamie said suddenly.

  My hand tightened on the ropes. Jamie wouldn’t survive long without it. Mary slid open the latch and slipped out into the bedroom. I peered through the crack in the doors.

  “They’re not inside yet,” I said, my heart racing.

  Jamie hurried out after her before I could stop him. “I’ll get it. I know where it is.”

  “Hurry. Please hurry,” I whispered after them.

  Just as Jamie stepped into the dark room, an enormous crash sounded. The soldiers had broken down the door. I hurried from the dumbwaiter, peering through the opening in the closet doors.

  Mary held Jamie’s hand and pulled him protectively behind her back. The large oak door had fallen in, knocking the lamps to the floor with a crash. Four guards marched in and grabbed them both.

  Mary kicked and hit, fighting off the guards with every ounce of her strength. But then another one grabbed Jamie, shoving him to the ground and pressing a sword to his throat. Mary stopped resisting. She risked a single, meaningful glance over her shoulder, as though willing me to understand, before turning carefully back to the guards.

  I knew what she meant—she wanted me to escape. I looked at the dumbwaiter. If I stayed, I would be taken captive with them. But how could I leave?

  “Where’s the other one?” the guard who seemed to be in charge yelled at Mary. She stood there silently, biting her lip. “Answer me!” When she still said nothing, he raised his fist, hitting her across the face. Blood splattered from her mouth.

  “Search the room,” the captain ordered, directing his gaze at a guard who stood in the doorway. The younger guard began looking through Jamie’s things, overturning blankets and peering under the bed. “Start with the closets,” the older guard directed gruffly.

  I stepped backward through the hanging clothes, crouching down in the corner. There was no time to slip back into the dumbwaiter. I scrambled around silently for something to use as a weapon, but all I could come up with was a shoe.

  The younger guard opened the door and pushed aside the rows of coats and clothes, the metal hangers chiming together, the fabric swaying. Then he saw me.

  He stopped, gun in hand, as we stared at each other. His dirty blond hair fell across his forehead in messy curls, and his green eyes gleamed. I sucked in my breath.

  He lowered his gun and stepped backward, disappearing behind the clothes.

  “It’s empty,” I heard him call out to the other guards. He closed the closet door, leaving me surrounded by blackness once more. “Check the back staircase.”

  I heard the sound of the guards hurrying from the room, their footsteps heavy in the hallways.

  I sat frozen. Had he seen me or not?

  I stumbled out of the closet in confusion. Jamie’s bedroom was rapidly filling with black smoke. The curtains had erupted in a massive blaze. Tongues of flame shot inward on the breeze, starting small fires in the bedroom.

  “Mary! Jamie!” I cried, moving through the smoke-filled room. I was still clutching one of Jamie’s sweaters and held it over my mouth to protect my lungs. In just a few seconds, the flames had spread to Jamie’s bed, to the carpet, to the plush cushions on the floor. Flames teased at my hair. I smothered them with a sweater, but the ends of my hair were singed.

  “Mary! Jamie!” I cried again, but the only sound was the flames crackling as they engulfed the room.

  They were gone, and I had no choice but to leave too.

  I raced back into the closet. The air was clearer here, and I took a deep, shuddering breath as I climbed inside the dumbwaiter and pulled the lever.

  When I reached the bottom, I clambered out awkwardly and set off racing down the tunnel, my feet splashing in puddles of water. It was so dark that more than once I almost ran into a wall before skidding to a frantic stop. Cobwebs broke across my face and bats fluttered around me. I smelled smoke and began to panic. The tunnels hadn’t been used in more than a hundred years.

  Then a tiny pinprick of light appeared in the distance, growing bigger and bigger until I realized it was a small metal rectangle. The escape hatch.

  I ran to the latch and reached up, pressing my
hand against the metal surface. But it was stuck, rusted shut from decades of disuse. I took a few steps backward, summoning my strength with a running start, and threw all my weight against it. The hatch broke open and I climbed out into the night.

  I gasped for fresh air, but there was none. Everything was choked with smoke. I turned to look up at the palace, flames crawling like vines up its stone facade. Hollister’s soldiers were swarming over the grounds, destroying everything in sight, shooting at people as they tried to flee.

  I scanned the garden, looking for a way to escape. My eyes fell on the rose beds I had planted with my mother, which had been empty and barren since the Seventeen Days. A sound blasted the air like a gunshot. All glass in the palace windows was exploding outward. I ducked and covered my head with my hands as clear shards fell around me like razor-sharp hail. Then I stumbled on something and fell forward. Lying across the walkway was a small, warm pile of fur.

  “Bella!” I cried, touching her chest. Her throat had been cut and her breathing was shallow and slow.

  Bella looked up at me. She tried to nuzzle my hand as I stared down into her wide, brown eyes. “I’m sorry,” I told her helplessly. I lay my head down on the damp ground, wrapping my arms around her. The puddle of blood spread on the stones. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.” I felt Bella’s last labored breaths and looked up at the muted stars, the smudge of moon.

  I heard the heavy footsteps and harsh voices of guards searching the palace garden.

  Let them catch me, I thought, let them kill me here. My mother was dead. My father was murdered. My brother and sister were as good as dead. They had even taken my dog from me. The weight of my sorrow fell on me heavy as a lead blanket. I closed my eyes as I lay with Bella, waiting for them to find me and kill me too.

  But instead of the cold barrel of a gun or the sharp blade of a sword, I felt a sudden softness, a wing brushing against my cheek. I touched my hand to my face, thinking I must have already died, that I was with my mother again. Then I heard a soft whistling and opened my eyes. Perched on the charred remains of the rosebush sat a small bird.

  “Blue?” I whispered, still half-thinking I was imagining it.

  He whistled back and then flew away into the smoke-clogged night sky.

  Blue was a baby blue jay who, against all odds, had survived the Seventeen Days. Mary and I had heard his chirping and found him still alive, surrounded by the dead bodies of the other chicks, the body of their mother spread out protectively over the nest. I had picked him up, warming him in my hands—he had been so frightened, his heart beating so fast in his tiny body.

  I had made a nest of straw and dug worms from the soil, crushing them and feeding them to him every few hours. I kept him safe in a box until he grew stronger. Then one day, while I was holding him, he opened his wings and flew out of the palm of my hand. He seemed so happy, almost surprised that he had wings and could fly.

  I thought of Blue’s joy at discovering he could fly, and something inside me made me stumble to my feet. I got up and numbly moved into the hollow of one of the last trees in the garden.

  A group of soldiers rushed through the garden, passing the spot where I had been mere moments before, trampling Bella’s tiny body. They carried torches, their steel-spiked boots shining in the light of the flames. At the palace entrance, another soldier opened fire on a woman running for her life, and she fell to the ground with a shuddering moan. It was Margaret, one of our maids. I screamed silently, closing my hands in fists so tight that my fingernails drew blood.

  I wanted to close my eyes but refused to let myself look away. Soldiers were still looting the palace, taking weapons, food, whatever they could carry. They had even found the last remaining tanks of oil. The palace servants, the guests, everyone who hadn’t been killed was being tied up and blindfolded, then loaded into the backs of canvas-covered trucks. The terrorized screams of the prisoners rose up in the night air. The soldiers ignored them and filled the tanks of the trucks with the oil they’d discovered. The words scrawled on their sides shone in the light of the dancing flames: THE NEW RULER HAS RISEN.

  The trucks pulled out of the gates, the soldiers on horseback following close behind. Then I saw him—his golden hair shining, his hand raised in victory as he rode away from the charred remains of my home.

  I was alive. My life had been spared, and it could only be for one reason.

  I had to kill Cornelius Hollister.

  8

  MY LUNGS ACHED AS I WALKED ALONG THE DESERTED HIGHWAY.

  I had lost sight of the soldiers hours ago but I kept moving steadily onward, falling forward with exhaustion. I had taken off running after the trucks outside the palace, chasing them down street after street, the taillights growing dimmer as I fell ever farther behind. Now my feet were sore, my silk dancing slippers ripped to shreds. But I had to keep going. I stayed on the road, continuing in the same direction I last saw the trucks headed. Every now and then I caught the scent of diesel and knew I was on the right track. No one had cars anymore aside from the royal family—and now, Cornelius Hollister.

  I had no idea how far I walked. The Thames was my guide. Even though it reeked of brine and waste, it was oddly comforting, its familiar presence always a dark shadow on my left. I knew from its position that I was headed southwest.

  I stared around me at the desolate outskirts of the city. No people to be seen, no lights on the road. A pack of rats scurried across the street and disappeared into a gutter drain. I shivered. My peach gown was little protection against the sharp winds coming off the river. I was freezing; I had lost Jamie’s sweater sometime in my escape. Jamie. My knees buckled as I thought of the look on my younger brother’s face as they took him away. But I shook my head, trying to shake the memory away. I couldn’t think about last night, not yet—because when I did, when I faced the fact that my father had died and my brother and sister had been captured—I would need to grieve. And I couldn’t do that right now. I couldn’t stop.

  The crunch of tires sounded on the road behind me. For a split second, I allowed myself to hope it was royal forces, coming to rescue me, but I knew better. There were no royal forces anymore. I jumped to the side of the road, hiding in the shadowy doorway of a boarded-up building, and hoped I wouldn’t be seen.

  A truck barreled past, driving down the road in the direction I had just been walking. It was graffitied in black with the same message I had seen earlier. THE NEW GUARD IS RISING.

  I started to run after it but slowed down after only a few steps. If I could follow just one of these trucks, it would take me to Cornelius Hollister’s encampment. But I would never be able to keep up on foot.

  The next time, I would be ready.

  A flock of pigeons flew westward over the Thames. A gust of wind hit me with such force that I grabbed the steel pillar beneath the bridge, shielding my eyes from the blowing ash. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. The air was still again.

  The wind had brought in the smell of garbage, rotting and putrid. I fought the urge to hold my nose and instead headed for the riverbank. Rubbish barges used to sail down the Thames; the trash pile might have something wearable in it, and I knew I couldn’t show up at the camp of the New Guard in my ball gown. I shivered as I walked along the bank. Further up I spotted the red-and-black barge, marooned below the river wall, washed ashore in one of the storms. The piles of garbage sat in stinking hills, black plastic bags torn apart. Through the dim light I saw figures moving across the piles, picking through them. They were the Collectors: the displaced and homeless, who survived only by scavenging the pitiful remains of the time before. There was less and less salvageable rubbish each year. What would happen when there was nothing left worth saving?

  I had never seen the Collectors before. They only came out after nightfall.

  I waited, crouching, watching them. I shivered uncontrollably in my damp, thin dress, the skin on my arms like ice, my fingers numb. I couldn’t stay like this. I had no c
hoice but to join them. I kept close to the river wall, where I could escape to the roads if I needed to, making my way carefully to the barge.

  Under the mist rising from the river the Collectors scavenged the piles of rubbish. They were thin, but they seemed dangerous, as though they had been drawn with razor-sharp edges. Several of the men carried pieces of pipe, their shoulders tense, ready to strike at any moment. Pieces of garbage blew around them, and a broken plastic lawn chair tumbled in a wind gust, landing and floating in the river.

  “Someone’s coming,” a girl exclaimed, and their heads all snapped around, their dark eyes boring into me. An older woman with tired eyes lifted her piece of pipe threateningly. I couldn’t help noticing that she’d cut holes in the front of her shoes for her toes. I supposed too-small shoes were better than none at all.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” I called out, my palms up. A girl with white-blonde hair reached behind her, pulling out an iron pole that had been sharpened at the end. She aimed it like a spear, directly at my chest.

  I took a step back. “Please,” I begged. “I’m just looking for clothes. For something warm.”

  The girl looked to a man with silver hair for approval; he nodded slowly. She lowered her spear. “Five minutes,” the leader said. “This is our ground, and we don’t take kindly to trespassers.” They turned as one and moved away from me.

  Shivering uncontrollably, I tried sifting through the plastic bags, which were wet and torn and covered in soot. Even in the cold the smell was sickening. I pulled out a broken bottle, drink cartons, plastic containers, juice boxes, a cracked and broken laptop seeping a brown liquid battery acid like blood from its silver frame. Everything was sodden, covered in mold, decaying. I stared at the piles of rubbish in defeat.

  I wrapped my frozen arms around me for warmth. My hands were so cold I couldn’t open or close them to look any further.

  “You’re shivering. Your lips are blue,” I heard a voice say. I looked up to see the blonde girl with the spear. She held something in her arms. “Here, take these.” She dropped a bundle of clothes at my feet.