Steeling herself, she checked that the chip was still tucked in her dress before she picked up the gun. The antennae had fallen off again and she left them in the bottom of the cabinet.
Her stomach was in ropes, her heart in tatters, but she managed to backtrack to the corridor Thorne had mentioned. She paused at the corner, peeked her head around, and drew back, her heart pummeling her rib cage.
A guard was there.
She should have expected it. Would all of the elevators be under guard now? The stairwells too?
Hopelessness seeped into her already-delirious thoughts. They were looking for her, and she was vulnerable without Thorne, and she had no plan.
This wouldn’t work. She couldn’t do it alone. She was going to be caught and imprisoned and killed, and Thorne would be killed, and Cinder would fail, and they would all—
She balled her fists into her eyes, pressing them there until she felt the panic subside.
Be heroic, Thorne had said.
She had to be heroic.
Hardly daring to breathe for fear of drawing attention, she strained to think of another way to get to the fourth floor.
Footsteps approached. She scrambled behind a statue with a missing arm and curled into a ball.
Be heroic.
She had to focus. She had to think.
The coronation would begin soon. She had to be in the control center before it was over.
When the guard had gone, and she was relatively sure she wasn’t going to hyperventilate, Cress lifted her head and peeked around the statue. The hall wasn’t wide but it was crammed full of stuff, from cabinets and framed paintings to rolled area rugs and cleaning buckets.
An idea forming, she used the wall for support as she stood and took a few steps away from the statue. She braced herself, then ran at the statue and shoved her shoulder into it as hard as she could.
Her foot slipped from the force and she landed hard on one knee, clenching her teeth against a grunt. The statue tilted on its base. Back. Forth. Back—
Cress covered her head as the statue toppled toward her, hitting her on the hip before shattering on the floor. She pressed a silent scream into her knuckles, but forced herself to hobble back toward the elevator bank, crawling behind a stack of rolled-up area rugs.
It wasn’t long before the guard came running, darting past Cress’s hiding space.
She shoved down the pain in her bruised knee and hip and scurried out from behind the rugs. She ran as hard as she could toward the abandoned elevators. A yell of surprise echoed behind her. She collided into the wall and jabbed her finger into the call button. The doors slid open.
She stumbled inside. “Door, close!”
The doors drew shut.
A gun fired. Cress screamed as one bullet buried itself in the wall behind her. Another pinged off the closing doors before they clamped shut.
She fell against the wall and groaned, pressing her hand against her injured hip. She could already tell it was going to leave one enormous bruise.
The elevator started to rise and she realized after a moment that she hadn’t selected a floor. No doubt, the guard below would be monitoring it to see which floor she arrived at, anyway.
She had to be strategic. She had to think like a criminal mastermind.
Cress tried to prepare herself for whatever she would be faced with when the doors opened again. More guards. More guns. More endless corridors and desperate hiding places.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she struggled to picture the palace map she’d studied back at the mansion. She could envision the throne room easily, situated in the center of the palace, its balcony overhanging the lake below. The rest started to fill in as she focused. The private quarters for the thaumaturges and the court. A banquet hall. Drawing rooms and offices. A music room. A library.
And the queen’s system control center, including the broadcasting suite where the crown recorded their propaganda in comfort and security.
The elevator stopped at the third floor. Trembling, Cress hid the gun in the frilly folds of her skirt. The doors opened.
A crowd of strangers stood before her. Cress squeaked. Her feet itched to run, her brain screamed at her to hide—but there was no space to disappear into as the men and women eyed her with contempt and suspicion. Those closest to the elevator hesitated, like they were considering waiting for another. But then one person grumbled something and filed in, and the others followed.
Cress pressed her back against the far wall, but the crush of bodies didn’t come. Despite how crowded the elevator was, everyone was being careful not to get too close to her.
Her anxiety began to shrivel up. These people weren’t Lunar. These were the Earthen guests and, judging from their formal attire, they were heading down to the coronation.
The last thing she wanted was to be caught in a crowd of people heading to the coronation.
As the doors started to close, Cress cleared her throat. “Pardon me, but I’d like to get out here.”
She squeezed through, her crinkled skirt catching against the fine suits and gowns. Though there were many frowns cast in her direction, they gladly parted for her.
Because they thought she was Lunar. A real Lunar, with the ability to manipulate them, not just a shell.
“Thank you,” Cress muttered to the person who had stopped the doors from closing. She slipped into the elevator bank, pulse thumping.
Another beautiful hall. More striking views. A dozen pedestals showcasing statues and painted vases.
Cress found herself yearning for the rugged interior of the Rampion.
She tucked herself against a wall and waited until she was sure the elevator had gone before calling for a new one. She needed to go up one more floor. She had to find some stairs, or escape back into the servants’ halls. She felt too out in the open here. Too exposed.
A chime announced the arrival of a new elevator, and Cress spooked, darting out of sight. When the doors opened, they were filled with laughter and giggles, and Cress held her breath until the doors had closed again.
At the sound of voices coming from her left, Cress turned and headed right. She passed a series of black doors, their darkness sharply contrasted against the white walls. Each one was marked with a name and affiliation in gold script letters. REPRESENTATIVE MOLINA, ARGENTINA, AMERICAN REPUBLIC. PRESIDENT VARGAS, AMERICAN REPUBLIC. PRIME MINISTER BROMSTAD, EUROPEAN FEDERATION. REPRESENTATIVE ÖZBEK, SOUTH RUSSIA PROVINCE, EUROPEAN FEDERATION.
A door swung open and a woman with gray-blonde hair and a floor-length navy gown stepped out—Robyn Gliebe, Australia’s speaker of the house. When Cress had worked for Levana, she’d spent hours listening to Gliebe’s speeches regarding trade agreements and labor disputes. They had not been exciting hours.
Gliebe paused, startled to see Cress standing there. Cress hid the gun behind her back.
“Can I help you?” she said, asserting herself with narrowed, scolding eyes.
Of course, Cress would have to run into the only Earthen diplomat who wasn’t intimidated by a dodgy Lunar girl sneaking around her wing.
“No,” said Cress, ducking her head in apology. “You startled me, that’s all.” She moved past the woman, eyes lowered.
“Are you supposed to be up here?”
Hesitating, Cress glanced back. “I’m sorry?”
“Her Majesty guaranteed we would not be pestered during our stay. I think you should leave.”
“Oh. I’m … I have a message to deliver. I’ll just be a minute. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”