“I can do this myself.” I speak to the room in general, but it’s Montes who answers.
“I didn’t ask if you could.”
They usher me over to a chair and get to work, touching my face, running their hands through my hair, brandishing sets of jewelry for me to try on.
The only things I tend to accessorize are my weapons.
Montes pulls up a chair next to me.
“Oh, staying this time are you?” I try to turn my head to him, but that earns me a firm tug on my scalp and a gentle admonishment from the hairstylist hovering over me.
I give myself fifteen minutes before the last of my patience runs out and I turn violent.
“I need to prep you on your speech.” I can hear mirth in his voice. My trigger finger itches.
“What speech? Wait, my speech?” Just when I thought all of the morning’s nasty surprises were over.
“The video of you returning to the WUN has been leaked. The world’s seen the footage of you.” The footage of me drenched with my enemy’s blood.
And my father’s.
“They also know that the Resistance captured you—albeit, briefly. The terrorist organization released video and a statement on the event, and I spoke about it shortly after you were taken.”
For a girl who’s lived underground for the last five years, there’s an awful lot of media attention on me—and most of it bad.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask. I’m legitimately curious how the king handles affairs like this.
“What would you say if you were still an emissary for the WUN?”
“I’d tell them that you were the devil.”
Above me I hear at least one woman suck in a breath.
“That’s not what I meant,” the king says.
“I know.” And I do. “You want me to debrief them on my experience?”
“You don’t actually have to worry. We have a speech already written for you. All you’re going to do is read from the teleprompter.”
“You’re seriously trusting me with a microphone and your subjects?” I badly want to look over at Montes just to read his face.
“Our subjects. You’ve been practicing for this for the better part of your life, Serenity. This isn’t just my world; it’s your world and it’s their world. Do right by it.”
DO RIGHT.
Montes’s words linger with me even as we slide into the car that will take us to the press conference.
What is right?
I don’t know anymore.
I glance over at the king, who’s flipping through a stack of papers one of his aides gave him.
He is so sure of everything, and I am sure of nothing. I can’t tell which is the worse fate—to question everything, to be paralyzed by indecision, or to question nothing and move through the world blind to any other way of existing save for your own.
My thoughts are whisked from me as we leave the palace grounds. This is the first time since the king retrieved me that I see the world outside.
I place my hand against the window. Fields of weeds and wild grass float by. Wherever we are, it’s far from any broken city. A morning mist clings to the ground, but with each passing minute it dissipates a little more.
“Where are we?”
I don’t expect Montes to answer. He didn’t last time. So I’m surprised when he does.
“We’re in what used to be known as England.”
I remember England from the history books. It was one of the first countries to fall. By the time my father and I flew to Geneva for the peace talks, the Northern Isles were one of King Montes Lazuli’s most secure regions. The Resistance didn’t have a great foothold there, which might be one of the reasons why the king and I are currently here.
It strikes me all over again how intent Montes is on keeping me safe. It’s been this way since he learned of my cancer. The thought leaves my throat dry.
I grab a water bottle nestled in the center console of the car and take a drink of it before going back to staring out the window.
Nearly an hour goes by in that car. Sometimes we pass through villages that look completely unaffected by the king’s war, and twice we pass through bigger towns that show only the barest hints of repair—scaffolding along the sides of some buildings and a temporary wall erected around a block. This might just be general maintenance. It’s been so long since I’ve seen how normal cities function that I can’t be sure.
When we reach the city, everything gleams. If there was once war here, the evidence has been painted and rebuilt away. People here stand by the side of the road, waving as we go by. They actually appear … excited to see the king’s procession of vehicles.
That’s a first.
The car slows to a stop in front of what appears to be an enormous coliseum. We’re shuffled past the waiting throngs of people, down a series of halls, and out to an outdoor stage.
“This is all you now,” the king says. He peels away from me while the organizers direct me from the wings of the stage towards the podium.
I almost stagger back when I catch a glimpse of the crowd. There are thousands of them. The seats are all full. It’s a far cry from the last speech I gave.
Covered in blood, my body shaking. My father was dead and I had to inform the WUN.
The crowd roars as they catch sight of me.
These aren’t the same people who waited for me to disembark all that time ago. These people are foreigners with entirely separate histories. This new world of mine has been theirs for far longer. What could they possibly want from me? What would I want from me?