And those are just the badges I recognize.
Chancellor Bren is a well-decorated man. It’s why many continue re-electing him, although the elections themselves are hardly representative of what the city as a whole truly wants, since TierThrees aren’tpermitted to vote. It doesn’t matter that he over-promises and under-delivers on most of his campaign objectives. As long as he continues delivering on his primary focus of lowering crime, increasing birth rates, and upholding tradition, his loyal purists will keep voting him in while overlooking the rest.
“It’s good to see you again, Chancellor.” I rise from the stool to dip into a bow, hoping to distract from my too-high voice.
The chancellor smiles softly, heeled boots clacking against the floor as he stalks forward to sit halfway on the ledge of the vanity, gesturing for me to retake my seat. “Come now, Orelle. I was hoping we could be honest with each other. Would it be all right with you if I went first?”
Lowering back on the stool, I nod, though the question’s rhetorical. Chancellor Bren doesn’t require my permission, or anyone else’s. “Of course, sir.”
“Seeing your hair like this takes me back.” His eyes crinkle at the sides. “They even wove in a black ribbon.”
I raise a hand to touch the braided bun, eyelids fluttering as my fingertips brush against a sliver of silken fabric I hadn’t noticed before. “They did.”
“You look years younger.”
“Thank you,” I say, dipping my chin as if the backhanded compliment has made me bashful. “Is this what you wanted to have an honest conversation about? My hair?”
“Oh, sweet shadows, no.” The chancellor chuckles before his smile sobers. “No, dear. I came to ask what you know about the woman who was spotted in the western transport tunnel during the daylight hours prior to the selection ceremony.”
My legs spasm with the ache to run, like cornered prey.
I stave it off. Not only would I not make it far, I need to stay andglean how much he knows. The chancellor mentioned thatawoman was spotted, not two. It’s possible he doesn’t know Gem was with me. If there’s a way I can protect her from being implicated as an accomplice, I’ll find it.
Contrary to my escalating pulse, my brows arch in vague interest. “A deserter?”
He leans further back on the vanity’s top. “Perhaps. My shadows described her as well endowed, with graying untamed hair and a limping gait. One of our elderly, they presumed.”
The assumption almost makes me laugh. Though the limp was unintentional, I can admit in hindsight that it paired nicely with my soot-drenched curls, casting the illusion of a much older woman.
Chancellor Bren continues, “It would be odd, though, for a woman of advanced age to travel alone while the city slumbers. Odder still for a senior female to fear the Hunt enough to desert, since the oldest eligible this year was in her mid-thirties. I couldn’t make sense of it... until my men found this among the rubble.”
The chancellor’s hand disappears behind the navy lapel of his suit, procuring a small object from a hidden pocket. His palm unfolds, revealing a miniature sand clock.
Recognition hits me in the chest. My heart beats like a frantic bird pining to escape its cage, escalating the pressure behind my right eye.
“One more truth, my dear. Do you recognize this?”
Pocket-sized sand clocks aren’t uncommon. In fact, almost every working adult carries one to track the time for their shifts. Most are a simple design—frameless curved glass with black sand and a small plug in the bottom. This hourglass, however, has an aged bronze frame and grains the deep color of plum. And if the chancellor flips it over, I suspect we’ll see the compass my father etched into the bronze base along with the words,In case you lose your Way. A cheeky weddingpresent for his bride, Mrs. Way, turned heirloom on their daughter’s wedding day—mywedding day.
Chancellor Bren places the hourglass upside down on the vanity, confirming my suspicion. “Tell me, why does this bear your maiden surname?”
I remember noting the sand clock’s absence from our belongings organized on the table, but hunger had distracted me from looking further into it. Gem must’ve dropped it in the tunnel when she was pummeled by the falling debris.
The chancellor rotates the hourglass and points at a smudge of crimson streaking down the side. “Is this your blood? Curious that I see no injuries marking your flesh. Your friend, however?—”
“Yes,” I rush to say, “it’s mine. I tried to leave for Deor before the Hunt. When the earthquake hit, I fell onto some glass and sliced my backside. I must’ve dripped blood on my sand clock after dropping my satchel.”
The chancellor lifts a single gray brow. “That was almost believable, dear.”
“It’s the truth.”
His lips tug downward. “Unfortunately, you have no evidence to support your claims.”
Blood rushes to my face as I realize what I must do. If it’ll absolve his implied suspicion of Gem, I’ll show him proof.
“I do have evidence,” I say, standing to undo the buttoned flap between my legs that allows for necessary bodily functions.
Chancellor Bren’s silvery blue eyes widen, but he makes no effort to move or stop me.
