Текст книги "Rook"
Автор книги: Sharon Cameron
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
Sophia climbed out of the water-lift shaft, shaking her arms, wondering why they had to live on the twelfth floor. She’d been up the water-lift shaft three times since the Hasards got the flat back. She pulled off her black cap and jacket, but not before she had retrieved a cloth bag from her vest and set it aside on the table. The rope in the water lift was jiggling, and by the time she had washed the grime from her hands and was back in her embroidered yellow skirts, René was swinging his legs through the opening.
“Hello,” she said.
His boots hit the floor and he grinned. “Have you looked yet?”
She shook her head, the brown curls grown longer but no less wild. “I waited for you. No, let me. You’re still dirty.” She pulled a little hinged box from the cloth bag and opened it.
“Ah,” said René. “It is in excellent condition.”
They stared at a small plastic man, his colors of red and blue still unnaturally bright, strange, plastic clothes tight to show a body oddly bulged and top-heavy with muscles. Was this the way Ancient men had wanted to look, she wondered? Because surely they hadn’t. But that wasn’t even the part that amazed her. The man sat in a vehicle, something like a landover, only longer, elaborate, no horse attached, and with no visible way to hitch one.
René ran a finger along a yellow wheel. “Sanchia told me tonight that she thinks this little man should be destroyed because he is an Ancient idol. Do you think he is a god?”
“Sanchia thinks that she is a god,” said Sophia, closing the box.
“Sanchia is half-afraid you are,” René teased. “Are you aware that the Red Rook actually flew to the top of the scaffold, my love?”
“That’s a new one. Where did you hear that?”
“From Sanchia. She was showing me her new tattoo.”
“Was she?” Those who had fought against the revolution and in support of the Red Rook had taken to tattooing a red and black feather on their forearms. And so had some who had not fought. Like Sanchia, Sophia suspected.
René sighed. “Ah, well. She has opened the chapels and the Lower City, so we will extend her some forgiveness, even if her council is corrupt.” His smile became devilish. “I wonder how soon she will miss her artifact.”
“What did she think of your suggestion for a representative parliament?”
“She seems to prefer five council members to five hundred. I would have talked with her more had you not slapped me so soon.” René tugged off his black trousers to show blue satin breeches underneath. “Is it necessary? To hit so hard?”
“You shouldn’t have flirted so hard with Commandant Napoléon’s wife. And you know those breeches are vile?”
“Of course I know my breeches are vile. And if I had not flirted so hard, you would have had no reason to hit me. It is only your enthusiasm I question.”
She smiled sweetly. “But your maman recommends it.” She waited a beat, and then they both laughed.
“Maman needs to come back to the city,” René said. “Tom manages the glass factory too well and it makes her testy. She has no one to fight with.”
And when Madame returned to the flat, Sophia thought, that would be just about the right time to take René back to Bellamy House. It was practically a village now, like it had been when she was a girl, only with both Parisian and Commonwealth to be heard on the lane. No ports in sight. And she would be arranging Tom and Jennifer’s Banns in the autumn. The glass factory was doing well enough to pay the marriage fee, which the Bonnards would immediately give back so Tom could prove for his inheritance. The thought made her smile as she tucked the flowers into her hair. She was thinking of taking René to Finland after that, where he could be himself for a while.
“Did you hear what Napoléon was saying to me?” René was saying, buttoning his jacket. “That the premier plans to build a lattice tower, all of metal, right in the center of the Lower City? It will be taller than the cliffs.”
She looked over her shoulder. “Whatever for?”
“I do not know. But Sanchia should watch Napoléon closely, I think …”
Sophia frowned as she finished arranging her hair. It was from Napoléon’s residence that they had stolen the last three tubes of Bellamy fire, part of what Cartier had put in place for panicking the mob and never lit, there being quite enough panic as it was. The tubes had been left behind in the melee, and Sophia had often wondered how they had fallen into the commandant’s hands. Mr. Halflife was no longer a member of Parliament, but she’d not forgotten his talk of war. The barrels in the sanctuary had been rolled into the sea, Tom’s recipes and her father’s research locked in the secret compartment of her desk in Bellamy House. But it would not be long, Sophia thought, before he, or Sanchia, or someone, discovered what her father had. The tubes they had stolen from Napoléon’s safe had been opened, their contents examined.
There was a light knock and Benoit stuck his head in the door. “Is your lovers’ tiff over? Because the singers are almost done.” He checked the small clock strapped to his wrist. Everyone in the city was allowed to have clocks now, but the sight never failed to give Sophia a start. And they still worked terribly.
René said, “Tell Émile we have it, and that he can leave tonight for Canterbury.”
“Very good.” But instead of going, Benoit came inside, took out a handkerchief, and wiped a smudge of dirt from Sophia’s cheek. “You might have taken care of that,” he chided René, winking once before he left.
René turned to her. “Do you need taking care of, my love?”
Sophia looked up in alarm. “Oh, no,” she said. “The singers are nearly done …” But he already had his arms around her, and she was already done protesting.
“Let’s go back to the party,” René whispered into her neck, “and behave so badly that everyone will go home early.”
“René,” she said. He pulled back just far enough to see her, but she didn’t speak right away. He was beautiful, even in the gaudy jacket, which also brought out the fire of his eyes. Nothing was certain, she knew that, and the world ever circled. But she couldn’t help but wonder what she would risk to keep her future exactly the same as her present.
She tilted up her chin, and knew the answer even before he kissed her. It was everything.
Polar shift really is an interesting way to end the world. The idea of what could happen if the magnetic poles of the earth reversed, as they have at least twice in geological history, is a chilling thought. Not only because of the wholesale death that would follow, but because it’s a completely natural process. Humans can do nothing to cause it, nothing to stop it. But since writing about uninhabited wastelands is not particularly appealing, I decided to play with the idea of wandering magnetic poles, a slight shift rather than a complete reversal. Instead of destroying our magnetosphere, this would turn it into something like Swiss cheese, exposing large swaths of humanity to deadly solar radiation while sparing others, and at the same time wiping clean the digital and electronic world on which we have become so dependent. Could a shift of the poles really happen? Maybe. Or at least, no one yet has proven that it can’t.
But even more interesting to me than the science of such an event is the sociology. As an amateur anthropologist and card-carrying Anglophile, I have long been fascinated by the massive cultural upheaval that the archaeological record shows took place in post-Roman Britain. Literacy, law, clean water, and heated floors gave way to the disease and anarchy of the so-called Dark Ages. This is an oversimplification of a complicated process, but the central question is: How could so much knowledge be forgotten so quickly? And would the survivors of a polar shift forget the former world? I think they would. We always have before. And if so, what would we make of the thirty-five thousand pieces of space junk that could theoretically rain from our skies for hundreds of years? How soon could we learn to survive without technology? How would we go about reforging our world? The same way we did in the Dark Ages, I concluded. And, being humans, probably by making most of the same mistakes we did the first time around.
Thinking of how far a society can regress naturally brings another personally fascinating time to my mind: the French Revolution. I find the writings of Robespierre, with their logical, well-reasoned justifications for the beheading of thousands, positively Hitler-esque. Not to mention the revolution’s attempt to replace all religions with the disturbing Goddess of Reason, a cult more interested in persecution, “wild and licentious” festivals, and defacing churches and synagogues than any brand of spirituality. Robespierre guillotined the leaders of this cult and replaced it with his own Cult of the Supreme Being, with himself as high priest. He held a grand, public mass for the worship of this new cult, setting fire to effigies representing the enemies of France. Six weeks later, Robespierre had been arrested and guillotined himself.
But no matter what odd and creepy facts tickle my imagination, for me, what writing a book really comes down to is story, like the Baroness Emma Orczy’s The Scarlet Pimpernel. I’ve always loved this book, the quintessential tale of love, spies, and derring-do while cheating the French guillotine of its victims. Being swept away by story can be powerful, sometimes life-changing, and I think the adventure and heroism of books like The Scarlet Pimpernel are the essence of what story is. But I’ve also always wanted to reimagine that story. To replace some of the Edwardian syrup with a savory dose of Georgian-era spice. So the novel that became Rook is not as much a retelling as it is an homage, conveniently coupled with all those strange and disparate ideas that I find so intriguing. Rook is a tribute to story, and especially to the classic drama and characters first created by the Baroness Orczy more than a century before me.
Which makes sense. History always does seem to be repeating.
Thanking everyone who needs to be thanked is always an impossible task, but since my life is full of impossibilities, I’m giving this one a go.
Undying love and gratitude to my critique group, who have read every word of every story I’ve ever put to paper. Amy Eytchison, Howard Shirley, Angelika Stegmann, and Ruta Sepetys. You taught me to write. You read my pages again. You told me I could be a writer and then I was.
Jessica Young, Courtney Stevens, Genetta Adair, Kristin Tubb, Rae Ann Parker, and Susan Eaddy. I don’t think a day in the past 365 has gone by when one of you has failed to encourage me.
SCBWI Midsouth. You know who you are. Need I say more?
Ruta, your cabin contains magic.
Love and thanks to my beautiful, patient, kind, and oh so wise editor, Lisa Sandell. You make everything I do so much better. This is also magic.
David Levithan and my team at Scholastic: Sheila Marie Everett, Elizabeth Starr Baer, Jennifer Ung, Sharismar Rodriguez, and all those beautiful faces from Marketing, School and Library, Book Clubs, Book Fairs, and Foreign Rights. Not sure what I did to deserve you.
My intrepid agent and friend, Kelly Sonnack. I would be lost without you. Therefore I forgive your shocking lack of affinity for gingers.
Hannah Courtney, intern/blogger/writer extraordinaire. Keep those big ideas coming. You know I’ll say yes.
And mostly, all of my love to Philip, Chris, Stephen, and Elizabeth. Everything is for you.
SHARON CAMERON was awarded the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators’ Sue Alexander Award for Most Promising New Work for her debut novel, The Dark Unwinding, which was also awarded the SCBWI Crystal Kite Award and named an ALA Best Fiction for Young Adults selection. She is also the author of A Spark Unseen. Sharon lives with her family in Nashville, Tennessee, and you can visit her online at sharoncameronbooks.com.
Copyright © 2015 by Sharon Cameron
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cameron, Sharon, author.
Rook / Sharon Cameron.—First edition.
pages cm
Summary: In the Sunken City that was once Paris the guillotine rules again, while Sophia Bellamy from the Commonwealth across the Channel Sea tries to rescue as many of the revolution’s victims as she can smuggle out, and some prisoners disappear from their cells, with a red-tipped rook feather left in their place—but who is the mysterious Red Rook and where does Sophia’s wealthy fiance, Rene Hasard, fit in?
ISBN 978-0-545-67599-4 (jacketed hardcover) 1. Adventure stories. 2. Rescues—Juvenile fiction. 3. Secrecy—Juvenile fiction. 4. Paris (France)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Rescues—Fiction. 3. Secrets—Fiction. 4. Paris (France)—Fiction. 5. France—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C1438Ro 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2014038853
First edition, May 2015
Cover art © 2015 by Michael Heath
Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez
e-ISBN 978-0-545-67600-7
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
