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Lila knew one thing her mother would accept. She’d take the bag filled with hard drives and gadgets, the one sitting in Dixon’s room for safekeeping. If she could find someone to crack the encryption, she’d find a way to make money off her daughter’s programs.
The truck rounded the corner onto Leclerc Street. A crowd of protestors marched before Bullstow’s gate, their signs held high above their heads, already chanting at half past eight in the morning. They’d likely been shouting for weeks, and their throats held the proof of it. No More Highborn Games had been written on several signs, as well as Mother Justice Mocks the Workborn on others. Some Lila couldn’t read because the bearers kept thrusting them up and down too quickly in time with their shouts.
Their worn, drab clothes marked them as poor workborn. They peered into the Cruz truck as Dixon pulled past, checking for the same. Those eyes softened at the lack of color inside, and they quickly grew bored and shuffled back to the gate. Signs bounced into the air once more, and the group continued their chants, no doubt expecting Elizabeth Victoria Lemaire-Randolph to show up in a flash of crimson and an Adessi roadster, flanked by a dozen blackcoats in oversized trucks.
The protesters weren’t the only ones who had gathered and expected such finery. Photographers and bored paparazzi leaned upon their vehicles nearby, cameras and telephoto lenses resting on the hoods, breakfast tacos in hand. They munched, expelling clouds of fog between slurps of coffee and tea. Though the press knew it was illegal to run a picture of her—for she had never officially taken up her position as an heir and had not yet been found guilty of any crime—nothing stopped them from taking a few pictures and setting them aside for later.
But none of them paused in their taco eating this morning. They didn’t lift their cameras, not even the scattered few who might have recognized her without her silver carpet makeup.
No one had suspected that she’d arrive in a workborn truck.
Brakes squeaking at the gate, Dixon handed the militiaman his fake ID and preemptively opened his mouth to show he couldn’t answer the man’s questions.
The blackcoat barely glanced at Dixon’s tongue and notepad. Instead, his gaze instantly shifted to Lila.
“Name and purpose?” he asked, squinting at her coat.
“My name is Elizabeth Victoria Lemaire-Randolph.” She handed him her ID. “I’m to appear in court today.”
Recognition dawned on his face. She’d seen him working the gate a few times, but without her militia uniform and roadster, he hadn’t recognized her.
“Of course, chief…madam,” he replied, keeping his voice low. The man had no idea what title to apply to her. Perhaps Chief Sutton had not yet officially taken over as the Randolph chief, or perhaps Lila’s mother played a new game.
The man typed her information into his palm, then returned her ID. “If you’re innocent of the charges, I wish you well. If you really did what they say, I hope you hang for it.”
“Aren’t you cheerful?”
“I’d be more cheerful if I didn’t have to listen to those protestors caterwauling at the gate at all hours of the day and night. If the press hadn’t caught wind of this business, we could have spaced out your trials. We could have taken care of this matter privately among the families. Same result, very different reaction. Instead, we get this.”
Dixon snatched his ID from the guard’s hand and rolled up the window.
“Do you ever get pissed off about that?” Lila asked as he pulled into the compound, driving through the marble buildings, dodging the Bullstow men who had risen early, either for a jog or to start their day. The runners donned track pants; the men on errands or walks wore trousers and sweaters. A worrying amount still wore their usual attire, though—confining breeches, suit coats, and impeccably tied cravats, all colored and trimmed for the cities they’d served in during their last legislative session, a session that had ended the month before.
Lila had a sinking feeling that she knew why they’d dressed so formally for the day.
“How often do people not bother to talk to you? As though reading a few scribbles on a notepad is too much effort. You have very nice penmanship when you’re not excited or pissed or sleepy. Or drunk.”
Dixon pulled into a parking spot outside the senate building and dug out his pencil. There are perks. I’m not expected to make small talk, and it weeds out the assholes.
He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Lucky you.” She hopped out of the truck, her eyes straying to Bullstow’s great ballroom, the place she’d met La Roux only a month before. Dancing couples in breeches and intricate dresses had been carved into the marble, twirling as though they all pranced to the same music. She’d left in a happy mood the night of the Closing Ball, certain that La Roux was the Baron. She’d intended to hack into his palm that evening, to gather more information for her case against him, to pull the curtain back and expose him for what he was.
That hadn’t backfired completely.
The pair entered the senate building, shuffling toward the east wing, which belonged to the New Bristol High House. A particularly large number of senators loitered in the hallways. A month ago, they might have gathered to talk Lila into a season or at least a date. Now they stared, just as curious as the protesters outside the walls.
And twice as angry.
She’d been right to guess why she’d seen so many dressed in their usual garb. Gossipers, spies, and the curious, all looking for a show. She ignored them until she came to one figure waiting for her in the rotunda, the smooth marble floor surrounded by paintings of Saxon governors, the delicate dome rising above them like the tip of an ornate scepter. Long blonde hair fell around the man’s face in waves, and he wore the Burgundy coat and black breeches of the New Bristol senate.
“Senator Dubois.” Lila’s boots echoed upon the marble.
He did not bow. “I never thought I’d see the day that you’d end up on trial. Did you really do what they claim in the papers?”
“I’m not going to answer that, Louis. I suspect my lawyer would—”
“Screw your lawyer. First Jewel and now you?”
