“Poppy, I trust you,” he said. “You will be vicereine.”
Relief rushed through her, so intense it was nearly painful. She wrapped her arms around her father again. “Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you.”
“You’re my daughter,” he said. “I know how I raised you.”
“Touching.” Click. “Step away from each other. Slowly.”
A chill ran down Poppy’s spine as she turned to face the barrel of Richard Montrose’s pistol.
“Young man,” her father said, “put that gun away.” He released Poppy gently, taking a single step away.
“I don’t think so,” Richard said. “I’m calling the shots now.” He smirked. “Get it? Shots?”
“You’re a monster,” Poppy spat at him.
“I’m the only reasonable person in this room!” Richard said. “I gave you so many outs, Poppy, but you kept pushing. I’ll give you one last chance: Renounce the office, and I won’t have to kill you.”
“You wouldn’t,” she said loudly, trying to persuade not only herself but him as well. “Even if you kill me, the office won’t pass to you automatically. It will go to a vote.”
“Oh, I would. Don’t underestimate how far I’m willing to go to make sure the office isn’t sullied by an uncivilized rat like you,” he snapped. “One last chance. Give up.”
“Over my dead body!”
He smiled. “So be it.”
“No!” her father shouted, the end of his cry cut off by the explosive bang of Richard’s bullet bursting free of its chamber. He moved with impossible speed and urgency, leaping in front of Poppy. She howled as Richard’s bullet caught her father full in the chest, his body snapping back, thrown off its trajectory by the force of the shot. He collapsed, the smell of copper and gunpowder filling the air.
She fell to her knees, pressing her hands over her father’s wound, trying to stem the bleeding with her bare hands. Blood seeped through her fingers, coating her hands and settling along her cuticles. “Father,” she gasped. Her voice cracked as she cried, “Help! Help!”
Richard, who had been staring at the duke in disbelief, stirred at the sound of her cries. He lifted the gun and pointed it at her.
“Run,” Clarence gurgled.
Though she was loath to do so, she released her father and scrambled back, just in time to avoid Richard’s second shot by inches. He stepped over Clarence, pushing Poppy back toward the corner. He took aim once more. Just when Poppy thought her luck was truly over, servants burst into the room, rushing Richard and wrestling his gun from him. He tried to resist, but they had him outnumbered.
“You did this,” Richard said, drinking in her pain even as they dragged him away. “This is your fault, Poppy. You chose power for yourself over his life.”
He was right, she thought. He had pulled the trigger, but it wasshewho had courted the monster.
“No,” Poppy said, choking on tears, salt burning down her throat. She blinked them back furiously, making sure her gaze was clear as she stared Richard down. “It was you, all along. I’ll never forgive you for this. I’ll kill you myself.”
Her father coughed, blood staining his lips. “Poppy...”
She whipped her head back around. “Father,” she said, rushing back to his side. “Stay with me. Help is on the way.”
“My girl,” he said with a weak smile. “My time has come. Don’t cry. I will die doing what every father was born to do: protect his child.”
She wiped at her tears, staining her own face with his blood. “You can’t die. I’ve only just come home. There’s so much we haven’t discussed.”
“I regret that we have not had more time, but I have no regrets about you.” Her father smiled feebly. “You are strong, Poppy. You are proof that the Founder was right, that all nations can be made civilized. I am so proud of your transformation.”
“I have so many questions,” she said. Not just about leadership, but about their relationship. Some were questions that not even her father could answer but, rather, would be answered by time itself: Could her father change his values? Could he see the error of his racist ways? She would never have answers. She had been robbed of things she would never know.
To herself, she confessed, “I’m not ready for this.” She cradled his cheek, smearing his face with blood.
His eyes fluttered, and he inhaled raggedly. Poppy kneeled on the bullet wound, the same way Zeyar had taught her to do for Hasan. The hot scarlet on his shirt spread by the second, staining Poppy’s skin a color that she would see in her nightmares for years to come.
“No one is ready,” he wheezed. His voice was strained, but he kept going. “But you are closer than most.” He took another rattling breath. “My time comes. Take care of your mother. I should have...” He gasped. His voice was softer than a dove’s wings. “I should have believed you. Forgive me.”
