The Last Princess Read online

  I tried to thank her, but my lips were too frozen to speak. Hurriedly I fumbled, pulling a woolen sweater over my head and jumping into a pair of men’s trousers that fell past my feet.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to form the words through numb lips. “Please, one more thing. The trucks that go by here—with the graffiti on them. Have you seen them? Do you know where they go?”

  She nodded, eyeing me thoughtfully. “They come by every few hours, on the road over that wall. When you hear the trucks, hide. They’ll take you if they see you. And if they take you, you never come back.” She began to turn away.

  “Wait!” I cried. “Please, wait.” I reached my hand up to my collarbone to feel the cool touch of my locket. I had forgotten to take it off. My mother’s picture and the inscription of my name, Elizabeth, would give me away instantly. I reached behind my neck to unclasp it, letting it fall into the palm of my hand, opening it for one last look at the photo of my mother. One more good-bye that I was being forced to say, long before I was ready. “Please take care of it,” I said, handing it to the girl. The gold glinted in the dim light.

  She looked at it in shock, as though she’d never seen anything so beautiful. Then she nodded. “Good luck.” Without another word, she was running over the hills of garbage toward where the rest of the Collectors waited for her.

  As I raised a hand in good-bye I heard the sound of a motor. I clambered up the wall and crouched there unsteadily, trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible. The truck was approaching on my right, full of flour and food supplies. It would be an easy landing.

  I held my breath, waiting until the truck was directly beneath me, and jumped.

  9

  I SAT IN THE BACK OF THE TRUCK, WEDGED BETWEEN A SACK OF flour and a barrel of some sloshing liquid. My heart was racing. I didn’t know what kind of noise my landing had made, but the driver hadn’t pulled over or even slowed down. After a few minutes, I felt safe enough to peek up and try to determine my surroundings.

  Up ahead, backlit against the dark sky, was the outline of a turreted castle, the reflection of coal lights shining out of its windows. I recognized it instantly. Hampton Court.

  I remembered it as the palace of Henry VIII and all his wives, a tourist destination before the Seventeen Days. Mary and I had visited many times when we were little, with our governesses Rita and Nora. We would ride on the royal riverboat, sailing through the city and out along the green banks of the countryside, waving to onlookers as we passed. It had been one of our favorite things to do in the summers. We had dressed up in white sundresses and wide-brimmed straw hats. They would close the palace to the public so we could sit in the garden for iced tea and scones.

  I burrowed down under the flour sack as we passed through the front gates. Hollister’s army may have needed new recruits, but I doubted they would take kindly to a stowaway on their supply truck.

  The truck slowed to a stop. I waited for the driver’s steps to disappear toward the entrance, but instead I heard him approaching the back of the vehicle. I sucked in my breath.

  “What have we here?” A man with dirty, curly hair and a crooked nose pulled aside the sacks blocking my hiding place. He grinned at me with a mouthful of broken teeth.

  “I’m here to register for the army,” I said, willing my voice to sound tougher, hard and flat.

  “In the back of a food services vehicle? Looks more like thievery to me.”

  “Please,” I said quickly. “It’s cold out, and I was walking all the way from London. You can check—I haven’t touched a thing.”

  The guard eyed me strangely. I noticed his gaze moving from my face, over my chest and down to my legs. I froze. Did he recognize me?

  “Well, you’re in luck,” he spoke quickly. “There’s no registration on Sundays. Normally, you’d have to come back tomorrow morning. But since I’m a recruiting officer, I’ll register you myself. It’ll be our little secret.”

  “Thank you,” I said, steadying my voice. He gestured around the corner, and I followed him along a path leading past the old gatehouse, where a sign above the doors read NEW RECRUITS.

  “Is this it?” I asked, stopping in front of the door.

  “After-hours registration is up this way a bit further.” He pointed ahead, but all I could see was a deserted field. Suddenly I felt his arm around my shoulders.

  “So what’s your name, huh?”

  My heart began to pound. In the palace, no one would have dared to touch me like this. But I had no idea if this was normal behavior. I smiled carefully and took a step back, slipping out from under his grasp.

  “You’re rather pretty,” he went on, backing me up against the wall. I felt his hand against my chest and tried to squirm away.

  “Please,” I breathed, but he leaned in closer, pressing his mouth to mine. I screamed. “Get off me!” I reached to hit him in his torso, remembering what the Royal Master of Arms had taught us about defending yourself when stripped of your weapon, but the more I struggled, the tighter his fingers gripped my neck. I couldn’t breathe. I beat at the wall, hoping someone would hear me, but my fists barely made a sound against the thick stones.

  “Shut up!” he hissed, covering my mouth with his hand. I tried to kick at him, but he pressed his knee into my stomach, pinning me against the wall as he reached, fumbling, to rip open my shirt. The other hand gripped so tight around my throat I began to see spots against the back of my eyelids. I was going to pass out.

  “Let her go. Now.” I heard a girl’s voice from what seemed like a great distance.

  The hand loosened from my neck, and I gasped, taking quick, shallow breaths. Slowly my eyes began to focus. The guard stood still, his hands raised in the air, as a girl holding a sword sprinted toward us. The soldier backed away in fear.

  “Hand over your sevil,” she barked.

  “Portia, I—”

  “This is not tolerated.” She lunged at him and tore off his badge. “Hand over the sevil.” The guard reluctantly unhooked the weapon from his belt.

  “Now leave camp or I’ll castrate you myself.”

  “But—”

  “Go!” she yelled, raising her weapon as he turned away and ran off toward the woods.

  “Thank you,” I said cautiously, leaning against the wall for support.

  She whirled around and fixed her green eyes on me in a fierce stare. “Who are you?” she snapped.

  I stammered the first name that came to mind. “P-Polly McGregor.” As the words left my lips, I said a silent prayer that Polly was still safe in Scotland.

  I tried to get a better look at my rescuer. She was tall and unusually beautiful, with high cheekbones and dark blonde hair falling down her back. Even though she only looked a year or so older than me, there was a steely confidence about her that made her seem much older. I wondered what position she held in the army. She seemed to outrank my attacker: Where he’d been wearing a badge, a gold medallion was pinned to her uniform. Her almond-shaped eyes looked me up and down. “You know there’s no registration today.”

  “Yes,” I mumbled, “that’s what he said, and then—”

  “Don’t worry about him,” she snapped. “He won’t dare come back. If he does, I’ll use him for target practice.” She smiled, her teeth glinting dangerously, suggesting that she wasn’t joking. “Now, where are you from, Polly McGregor?”

  “Scotland.”

  “Scotland? Funny, you don’t have a Scottish accent.”

  I stood up straighter. “That’s because I grew up in London. I didn’t move to Scotland till I was ten.”

  “And what are you good for exactly?” I blinked at her. “I mean,” she went on, “why should I make an exception and let you register today? What skills do you have? Or will I just have to put you on latrine duty?”

  “I can ride and shoot a pistol. I’m pretty good with swords, too,” I added. The more access I could get to weapons, the better.

  She stared at me again. I he
ld her gaze unblinkingly. “Fine,” she said finally. “You’ll be in my squadron—for now—and we’ll see how good you really are. I’m Portia, by the way,” she added, “Sergeant, Girls’ Division, Section Nine.” She turned on her heel and I hurried to follow her.

  “Oh, and Polly?” she added over her shoulder, not even bothering to look at me. “Don’t pull a stunt like this again. You stay out of trouble or there will be consequences. I’ll see to that myself.”

  I nodded, not daring to speak.

  “Welcome to the New Guard.”

  10

  GIRLS’ BUNK SECTION WAS ON THE THIRD FLOOR, IN A LONG room with a row of tall windows overlooking the courtyard. Hampton Court’s antique floors were scratched, its portraits graffitied and torn. I glanced out the window—even the gardens were destroyed, the birdbaths broken.

  “This is Polly,” Portia announced to the twenty or so girls in the dorm. I waited for her to make introductions, but she didn’t offer. “You can have that bed,” she told me, pointing to the corner. “And take this.” She tossed a bulky beige laundry bag at me.

  I quickly looked through the bag. It contained a uniform, brown woolen socks, and a pair of boots. No weapon. In fact, I realized, Portia seemed to be the only one with a weapon.

  I settled on my narrow metal cot and looked around the room. Most of the girls were gathered in a circle on the floor, playing a game of cards. In the pot: one silver hoop earring, a razor with a bright pink plastic handle, a bullet, a red cap with fuzzy earflaps.

  On the bunk next to me sat a small Indian girl, tracing an imaginary pattern with her finger on the pea-green woolen blanket.

  “I’m Polly,” I said.

  She looked up at me, startled. “Vashti.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “Not too long,” she replied shyly.

  Her face was delicate with big brown eyes, and her hands and fingers were so thin. “How? I mean, why did you come here?”

  Her brown eyes swelled with tears and I immediately regretted asking.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, placing my hand on hers.

  I looked over at the girls playing cards, worried they might overhear us. “Vashti,” I went on quietly. “Do you know which part of the palace Cornelius Hollister lives in?”

  She shook her head quickly.

  “Do you know any way I can find out?”

  She stared at me with her wide eyes and leaned forward to whisper in my ear. “If you don’t want trouble, don’t ask questions.”

  She turned to look at the girls, engrossed in their game, then back at me. She lifted her hair from where it fell around her neck, revealing a vicious scar. Running from her neck down her back were four bloodied, blackened lines.

  I gasped. “Who did that to you?”

  She lifted her chin lightly, gesturing to the girls sitting in a circle on the floor. “They did it with a fork.”

  I stared at the girls, imagining them pinning her to the ground, stabbing her neck with a fork and raking it through her skin. “Who are they?” I whispered.

  “The ones you really need to watch out for—aside from Portia, of course—are June”—she gestured to a tall, pale girl wearing severe circles of dark eyeliner and swallowed nervously before continuing—“and there’s Tub. She’s second-in-command.”

  Next to Portia, at the head of the circle, sat an angry-looking brunette. Her huge, muscular arms were covered in swirls of tattoos that looked like she had carved them herself with a knife. She glared around the circle with hard, dark eyes. Just then there was a knocking on the bunk door.

  “Sergeant?” an older girl asked. She wore the same gold medallion as Portia but was clearly intimidated by her. “Lights out in ten minutes. And don’t forget to put out all fires,” she added timidly, eyeing the candle that flickered in the center of the card game.

  “Thanks, Sarah.” Portia smirked. Sarah ducked out of the doorway, and Portia clapped her hands. “You heard her, girls. Bedtime!” She swept the pile of goods toward her with a giggle, watching as everyone climbed into bed.

  Once everyone was settled she walked to the doorway. “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” she said in a singsong, then blew out the candle and stepped into the hallway. The room went dark. The only dim light came from the moon, glowing weakly behind the gray clouds. The wind rattled against the tall glass windowpanes.

  “Vashti,” I said under my breath. “Portia doesn’t sleep with us?”

  “Portia? In here?” she whispered with a shudder, as though the thought alone terrified her. “No, she bunks with the other commanding officers on the top floor.”

  I rolled over to face the window, hoping to sleep, but there was a sound coming from outside. I listened harder. Underneath the gusts of wind and rattling glass, under the hushed snatches of conversation, I heard the sound of human cries.

  I sat up in the dark, startled. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” the girl named Tub asked.

  “The screams.”

  “Oh, it’s just the prisoners in the Death Camps,” Tub said. “You’ll get used to it soon enough. Now, no more talking, or I’ll report you.”

  I stared up at the ceiling, my heart pounding in my chest as I thought of the scars down Vashti’s back. Stay calm. Don’t ask questions. Be patient. I recited the words over and over in my head, like a mantra.

  I could feel the metal springs in the mattress and smelled mildew on the blanket. I turned onto my side, covering my ear with my hand. The agonizing cries echoed in my head, becoming the horrible soundtrack to the images replaying in my mind: Jamie and Mary captured by Hollister’s soldiers. My father’s chest soaked in blood as he lay dying on the ballroom floor. My mother hunched over, gasping, as the poisoned peach fell from her hand. The haunted, hollow faces of the Collectors by the river and the horrible yellow teeth of the soldier who had attacked me behind the gatehouse.

  I gritted my teeth, burying my face in the pillow so no one would hear me cry.

  When my sobs finally subsided and my breathing calmed down, I felt oddly separated from myself, like a wall of steel was coming down, protecting the real me from the one that would now face the world.

  As I felt myself drifting off to sleep, only one word echoed in my head. Revenge.

  11

  THEY WOKE US IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. OUTSIDE THE TALL rectangles of windows the sky was inky black. I bolted upright in bed, panicked and sweating. Alarms sounded through the palace walls and the heavy rhythm of soldiers’ footsteps resounded through the hallways and down the stairs, echoing against the thick stone walls. Still dazed with sleep, my eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. I could make out the figures of the girls in the barrack dressing quickly in their uniforms.

  “Hurry, get dressed,” Vashti told me.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s the Death Night.” Vashti pulled the laces on her boots tight. As she tied them in bows her hands trembled.

  “Death Night?” My voice choked on the words.

  She sat down beside me. “They take the prisoners they captured in the night raids and pair them up with the soldiers of the New Guard. Then we fight to the death. It’s practice for battle.”

  In the dark, I tried to look into Vashti’s brown eyes, absorbing her words. Then I heard Portia’s voice calling from the doorway. “Meet outside the courtyard in ten minutes for Rank Testing.”

  “Hurry,” Vashti said again, touching my shoulder. “You have to put your uniform on.”

  The night was cold and dark. I stayed close to Vashti, following the long lines of soldiers from the palace to the outside grounds. In the distance the flames of torches lit up the walled courtyard, casting flickering shadows and smoke. The flames leapt wildly in the wind, pieces of fire breaking free and dying in the air.

  “To Base Court,” a soldier called out, marching the lines of troops through the remains of what had once been the fountains and manicured boxwood lawns.
In the light of the fiery torches, I looked up at the keep, at the guards patrolling the turret walks and the watchtower overlooking the courtyards. Under the haze of the coal lamps, guards paced up and down the grounds, patrolling.

  The crowds of soldiers gathered in the courtyard, watching with excited anticipation. A diesel truck hummed at the far end, the glare of the truck’s headlights casting a spotlight on the paved stone ground. The words painted in black on the truck read A NEW GUARD FOR A NEW TIME, splayed across its side like a giant banner.

  A hushed silence fell over the crowd as a soldier made his way to the back of the truck. The guards parted as he pulled a masked prisoner from the back, shoving him roughly into the glare of the truck’s lights.

  The prisoner’s hands were chained behind his back, his feet shackled, his head covered in a black cloth bag with small ovals cut out for eyes. A burly, short, red-faced guard pushed the prisoner to the center of the courtyard with the barrel of his gun.

  Vashti turned to me, whispering in my ear. “That’s Sergeant Fax. He’s one of the cruelest guards.”

  “New recruits will be called at random to fight the prisoners,” Portia called as she walked past the girls’ division. She stood tall, stony faced, her green eyes catching the light, her sculptured, beautiful face a stark contrast to that of the terrified prisoner shivering in the courtyard. Portia’s long hair was pulled back tightly in a low ponytail. A sword hung in a scabbard at her side.

  “Soldier Thomas Cutter,” she called out into the crowd, reading off a piece of paper.

  A boy stepped forward. He looked about fifteen. His dark hair was cropped short against his scalp, the crossed sword and sevil, the symbol of the New Guard, shaved into his hairline. His brown eyes caught the light of the truck as a wide smile erupted on his face. He looked eager to fight. Portia smiled back at him and selected a weapon from a pile.