I roll my eyes, already exasperated. “How about you just say what you mean?”
“Probably because he doesn’t know,” replies a familiar voice.
Farley leans in the shadow of one of the columns, arms crossed high over her chest. I gape, jaw dropping open. Because she is hugely, hilariously pregnant. Her belly strains against an altered uniform of a tied shift dress and baggy pants. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave birth in the next thirty seconds.
“Ah” is all I can think to say.
She looks almost amused. “Do the math, Barrow.”
Nine months. Shade. Her reaction on the cargo jet when I told her what Jon said. The answer to your question is yes.
I didn’t know what it meant, but she did. She had her suspicions. And she learned she was pregnant with my brother’s child less than an hour after he was murdered. Each revelation is a kick in the gut. Equal parts joy and sorrow. Shade has a child—one he’ll never get to see.
“Can’t believe no one thought to tell you,” Farley continues, throwing pointed glares at Cal, who shuffles awkwardly. “Certainly had the time.”
In my shock, all I can do is agree. Not just Cal, but my mother, the rest of the family. “Everyone knew about this?”
“Well, no use arguing about it now,” Farley pushes on, heaving herself off the column. Even in the Stilts, most women take to bed at this stage of pregnancy, but not her. She keeps a gun at her hip, holstered in open warning. A pregnant Farley is still a dangerous Farley. Probably more so. “I have a feeling you want to get this over as quickly as possible.”
When she turns her back, leading us in, I hit Cal in the ribs. Twice for good measure.
He grits his teeth, breathing through the blow. “Sorry,” he grumbles.
The interior of what must be the base command building seems more like a mansion. Staircases spiral on either side of the entrance hall, connecting to a gallery above lined by windows. Crown molding lines the ceiling, which is painted to look like the wisteria outside. The floor is parquet wood, alternating planks of mahogany, cherry, and oak in intricate designs. But like in the row houses, anything that can’t be bolted down is gone. Blank spaces line the walls, while alcoves meant for sculptures or busts hold guards instead. Montfort guards.
Up close, their uniforms are better made than anything the Scarlet Guard or the Colonel’s Lakelanders wear. More like the uniforms of Silver officers. They’re mass-produced—sturdy—with badges, insignia, and the white triangle emblazoned on their arms.
Cal observes as closely as I do. He nudges me, nodding up the stairs. In the gallery, no fewer than six Montfort officers watch us go. They are gray-haired, battle-worn, with enough medals to sink a ship. Generals.
“Cameras too,” I whisper to him. In my head I pick them out, noting each electric signature while we pass through the entrance hall.
Despite the empty walls and sparse decorations, the fine passages make my skin crawl. I keep telling myself the person next to me isn’t one of the Arvens. This isn’t Whitefire. My ability is proof of that. No one is keeping me prisoner. I wish I could drop my guard. It’s second nature at this point.
The meeting room reminds me of Maven’s council chamber. It has a long, polished table and finely upholstered chairs, and it’s illuminated by a bank of windows looking out over another garden. Again the walls are empty, except for a seal painted directly on the wall. Yellow and white stripes, with a purple star in the center. Piedmont.
We’re the first to arrive. I expect the Colonel to take a seat at the head of the table, but he doesn’t, electing for the chair on its right instead. The rest of us file in next to him, facing the empty side we leave open for the Montfort officers and Command.
The Colonel looks on, perplexed. He watches as Farley sits, his good eye cold and steely. “Captain, you don’t have clearance for this.”
Cal and I exchange glances, eyebrows raised. Farley and the Colonel clash often. At least that hasn’t changed.
“Oh, were you not informed?” she replies, pulling a folded strip of paper from her pocket. “So sad how that happens.” With a flick of her hand, she slides the paper over to the Colonel.
He unfolds it greedily, eyes scanning a page of harsh-typed letters. It isn’t long, but he stares at it for a while, not believing the words. Finally he smooths the message against the table. “This can’t be right.”
“Command wants a representative at the table.” Farley grins. She splays her hands wide. “Here I am.”