I was never ready for her to die.
I always thought that it would be me to go first. But it is me who lived instead. How am I meant to move forward? Grief presses on my chest, threatening to swallow me whole, and the lack of air in my lungs makes it a simple choice. Blood seeps from the wounds on my back and my attempts to soak it with a cloth fail. One of Hatchman's assistants risks her life by sneaking me a jar of salt. The only thing I say is the shallow promise to free her one day. I whimper and gasp as I sink into the bathtub of warm, salty water. Biting back the cries, I submerge the wounds on my back. I lean my head into the back of the bathtub and close my eyes. I have not seen Ruben in a couple of days. Since the Tranqs arrested us, they have locked me in this room. It isn't so bad; I guess. An assistant brings me two meals each day. There's a bed and this bathroom. It's hard to dwell on anything material when my sister is dead.
By the time I pull myself out of the bathtub, I have tinted the water red. I pat myself dry and collapse into bed. The pain on my back, and the agony in my heart drags me to sleep. When the grey light of morning wake me up, I lift my head from the pillow. My heart throbs. I know, as I force my feet to hit the ground, that from this moment on, just like it was when they banished my parents and when I touched the River, everything about my life will never be the same.
I drag myself into the bathroom and peel the gown off my body. Dressing into my black pants and singlet, I do not allow myself to dwell on the wounds etching my back. The salt bathes have helped speed up the healing, and I am grateful. My hair falls down my back in knotted waves. I rake my fingers through the mess, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Someone knocks on the door, and Sir Fulton waltzes into the room. He blows out his chest and grins. "Good morning, Elizabeth," he coos as if he is not about to take me to the ceremony.
I want to scream at him, swear, tell him exactly what I think about him. Instead, I stare at him like a deer just as it realises it is about to be shot by a hunting arrow.
Fulton grabs my wrists, ties them together and shoves towards the door. He leads me through the hallways of the research and quarantine wing of the palace before we emerge up a flight of steps and cross the ballroom into the foyer. My boots squeal as they skid on the tiles from digging my heels into the floor in defiance, yet he drives me forward. I at once know the fate that awaits me on the other side of the door. Yet one thought consumes my mind: they have imprisoned Aston for the last few days, and the thought of him being tortured sends my stomach churning. Anger burns through me.
The door swings open. Fulton directs me through the threshold and up the steps of the stage. As expected, the stage is like it was the first time I was in a ceremony. They cram the vast courtyard with the Concaves. They are each dressed in their expensive finery, jewels of unnameable kinds of drape over the necks of the women. Gold encrusts the suits of many men, their hair gelled back. The loud rumble of the crowd dissipates as Fulton and I cross the stage. Lord Sneya sits on a brilliant marble and velvet seat. His penetrating eyes meet mine and a smile pulls at his lips. He nods approvingly to Fulton, who at last releases my arms and gives me a purposeful shove to the middle of the stage.
To the far end of the stage, a body sways back and forth in the wind. A noose on their neck and a black sack covering their head. The tell-tale dust purple frock tells me enough.
My knees buckle, and a scream builds in the back of my throat.
Not Madam Sallow. Her kindness, the colour yellow blinds my vision. A guttural cry escapes my lips and I slump to my knees.
Lord Sneya rises from his throne and strides to the front of the stage. He opens his mouth, his voice booming as it echoes across the courtyard. "Citizens of the Floodgates, both Concave and Convex, I order you to pay attention."
He does not wait for a beat before continuing. The Concave people are silent as death. A thousand pairs of eyes set on him and I.
"It was only several days ago that we last met. Several days since I declared Elizabeth Fallon an immune to the virus that claimed so many of our ancestors in the former world. It has been several days since I gave her type a nickname, Red Leaf. Although, at first glance, immunity seems fortunate. But Miss Fallon has committed a fatal crime, one that, as you may already see, has resulted in punishment. None other than the talented and genuine, Doctor Cedric Hatchman saw to her discipline."
Sneya gestures behind him to where Hatchman stands among the row of many other accomplices. He bows fictitiously, eyes meeting mine with a sneering glint.
"Two weeks ago, Elizabeth Fallon made that fatal crime. From the Convex Sector, she touched the River that divides our city, purposefully exposing herself to the virus that is dormant in the water until contact with a human. We have yet to find out why she felt the need to do this: maybe she was trying to spread it on to other citizens? Or maybe it was simply an act of defiance? Whatever the reason, it is a crime and felony to me, who works hard to keep all citizens from ever contracting such a disease. I have discussed with Doctor Cedric Hatchman and he has allowed me to use his techniques at punishing criminals. Today, you all shall see what will happen if you think of replicating Miss Fallon's crime."
Sneya then steps up to me, his icy hands grasping my wrists. He yanks me over to two handcuffs, chained to a metal stub, rising knee-high. Sneya unties the rope binding my wrists together, and I barely have time to stretch them out before he locks each cuff around them.
He pauses for a moment, soulless eyes meeting my own. "I have been looking forward to this for days, Red Leaf."
Then he spins around and addresses Hatchman. "Cedric, please fetch our other prisoner. The punishments may begin."
Hatchman strides over to the door at the back corner of the stand, the one that leads to the underground. He opens the door and briefly disappears, and to my utter horror, returns with Aston.
"No," I choke on my breath.
Aston is shirtless, his torso seemingly unscathed. He is in silent defiance as Hatchman directs him to a thick wooden pole erected only several feet from where I am bound. Hatchman shoves him bodily, and he falls to his knees in front of the pole. He unties the rope around his wrists, before securing him to the pole. Hatchman then crosses the stand to my side.
Aston's eyes meet mine, a knowing dread hidden amongst the impassive face and I would do anything to see him where he belongs behind his stall in the Trades, grinning widely at me and passers-by.
Oh God, I am helpless. I am so helpless and my heart screams at me to do something.
Lord Sneya strides over to his throne where a Tranq stands beside it, who gently passes him a brilliant gleaming sword, the handle and blade recently polished to a standard fit for a king.
Although it belongs to no king. It belongs to me, to my father.
His face struggles to suppress the smirk as he approaches me, although he only acknowledges Hatchman, placing the sword in his gloved hands. With what seems like a swift, yet awkward manoeuvre, Hatchman swings the blade so that it is at my throat and the crowd erupts into cheers. "Remember, Elizabeth," he says, cold eyes scrutinizing me. "You are getting what you deserve."
Lord Sneya has crossed the stand and is now facing me, feet planted behind Aston's form, a smug grin on his face as he regards me. A Tranq marches up to Sneya and to my horror, hands him a whip. Sneya makes a show of letting it uncoil and the whip whirs to life as it hangs idly by his side, like a cobra expecting the strike.
Sneya turns back to the crowd and grins even wider. "Let these criminals be an example of what will happen if you defy me. These two Convex-born are nothing but insects and today, I will squash them."
My eyes dart from Sneya to Aston, hunched up against the pole. He clenches his jaw, eyes bleak.
"Aston Sallow is a Convex criminal. Today, for his treason of assisting Elizabeth Fallon, he will receive twelve floggings as a discipline." Then, with no further warning, Lord Sneya raises the whip high above his head and strikes Aston across the back.
I want to cry. I want to scream. But it robs all sound from me as the icy blade of my sword brushes my throat. I can almost feel the fire of the rope attacking my skin, and I bite down hard on the inside of the cheek to stop myself from yelling for him. At first, Aston does not cry out either. Instead, the faintest of grimaces crosses his features before returning to his hard, defiant stare. But even he cannot contain it. He cries out with each strike and he convulses in agony.
Time stretches on for eternity, each strike more vicious than the last. Tears race down my cheeks and I bite my cheek, waiting for it to end. At long last, after thirteen strikes instead of twelve, Lord Sneya recoils the whip and steps back. His eyes snap back up to mine and he smirks as if he has something to be proud of.
Sneya turns to face the cheering crowd and throws his hands up in the air, lifting his chin as he grins victoriously. I barely pay him any attention. My gaze casts back to Aston whose eyes are closed and for a terrifying moment, I think he is unconscious. But then he eases them open, and they meet mine, laced with pain.
Finally, Hatchman takes the sword from my neck and paces over to Aston tied to the pole. With two awkward movements, he slashes at the ropes and Aston collapses to the ground.
"Aston!" I lunge forward, only to be yanked back by the handcuffs.
Two Tranqs march from the corner of the stand and uplift his body from the ground. He doesn't have the strength to protest as they spin him around so that I can see the wounds on his back. They drag him to the door of the underground.
Aston's back looks like a bloody piece of meat. Crimson blood trails behind him on the stage as the Tranqs carry his limp figure down the steps. The triumphant chanting of the Concave people drowns out my heavy, erratic breathing.
Lord Sneya's voice drones on. "Siding with the Red Leaf, Elizabeth Fallon is a crime that will cause severe punishment. My loyal Tranquillity patrolmen will catch you. They are watching you, and so am I."
Sir Fulton then materialises again. He unlocks the cuffs from my wrists and reties the surrounding rope. He shoves me and I fall into step as he directs back off the stand the way we came, and into the foyer of the palace, with the chants of the Concaves following me.
---
I spend the rest of the day curled into a ball on that same narrow bed in that same small room. The weight of Aston's punishment bares down on me on top of Isabelle and Madam Sallow's unjust death, yet I do not cry. I believe I have run out of tears.
Instead, I am numb.
Chasing a phantom cure. What good did that do?
Isabelle is dead. Now they've ripped open Aston's back.
I failed them both. The two people that mattered most.
Now, I am left to pick up the infinite pieces and try to sew them together. But sometimes suffering is just suffering. It does not build character or strengthen you or make you brave.
It only hurts.