As they stroked the petals, their face smoothed to a strained smile. “Every night was a standing ovation, and I figured if crowds would standforme and my troupe, they would standwithus.”
“They didn’t,” Nik said.
“I wouldn’t be here if they did.” Blai plucked a crimson flower. “My troupe gave the performance of their lives.”
They turned and tucked it behind Nik’s ear. “Because of me, it was their last.”
Nik thought of Elara facing the Counseil, defending the Restes. He thought of an older rebellion destroyed because of a single person. A traitor.
“I’ll admit,” Blai continued. “It’s nice while you’re shouting, but it’s the silence afterward no one talks about. People agree and sympathize, but they don’t join in.”
“You’re talking about Elara,” Nik replied.
“I’m talking about anyone foolish enough to think people will listen. But, yes. Elara needs to stay focused tomorrow. She needs to say whatever the Counseil wants to hear or they’ll destroy her.”
Nik knew that, but the thought of telling her to be anything but herself made him sick. He thought of himself and what might be perceived as his own complicit silence, but he was helping his father, who had the ideas and the power necessary to make people’s lives better. It would take time and sacrifice, but people would understand soon enough.
Except that wasn’t true anymore.
The proof was in his pocket.
And in his father’s own beliefs.
Restes filth.Nothing could explain those words away. Lafontaine had no interest in helping the Restes Quarter. No interest in accepting Nik as his own son.
Nik turned into The Market, which was so packed the crowd swallowed Blai, who walked far ahead of him.
This was the difference he felt between the past and now. People wereout, living their lives and coming together, seemingly without concern for the officers who glowered from their posts.
“Hey!” a small voice shouted above the chaos to his left.
“Shit!” A guard shuffled as the crowd made way for whatever had happened.
In the clearing, an officer was covered in paint. Bright red, it dripped from his hat down his front, slopping onto his once shiny shoes. And a child, no more than ten, stared up at him, her eyes bright with defiance, the bucket dripping at her side.
The guard swiped for her, followed by another. She dodged them expertly, using the bucket to knock them back as she ducked beneath their arms.
“Grab her!” the soiled officer snarled.
“Good luck!” she cheered as she led them in a chase down a narrow street.
The people laughed as soon as the officers fled, cheering her on. Even Nik couldn’t help but smile as her braids whipped out of sight.
His smile faded as the crowd parted for a lithe woman with black hair who climbed atop a stack of crates, fist raised in the air.
“Elara Rousseau reminded the Counseil that we exist,” she cried, “and now it’s our turn!”
Ah. The girl had been a clever distraction, and Nik had a sickening idea of what would happen next.
“For years the Counseil have made us the enemy of the city,” she continued. “But the only people who should fear us are those who oppress us. Are you tired of begging for scraps?”
At first, the people murmured, timid in their agreement.
“Tired of being crushed in the cogs of their machines?”
Then they shouted.
“Are you ready to take this neighborhood back? To remind this city who laid these very stones?”
