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“Those others, those were just pretenders. Poseurs,” said the teenager. “They aren’t the true believers.”
The bearded man suggested, “We’ll apply to have their heads chopped off, Maiden, assuming that’s what you’d wish.”
Someone shushed him, saying loudly, “The Maiden clearly said there were to be no more decapitations.” The speaker turned to Prue for confirmation. “Right?”
“Right,” said
Prue, walking unsteadily down the stairs. She was still a little shaken by the near riot she’d escaped. “No more of that.”
“But what should we do with the people who oppose you?” asked a young man with short, dark hair wearing riding pants.
“Let them believe whatever they want,” said Prue. “Who cares? That’s the beauty of things, right? People should be able to believe what they want to, follow who they want to.”
The crowd seemed to be impressed by this pearl of wisdom, and they all said, “Ahhhh” simultaneously.
“Where to now?” asked the badger.
Prue chewed on her lip, thinking. She took a deep breath, her heart still beating fast. “Okay. Everyone,” she said as she climbed down the stairs. “Fan out. Talk to people. Spread the word about Alexei. Tell them the Council Tree wants him brought back to life and in order to do that, we need his two makers. We need to find out what happened to Carol Grod. Tell them the other maker has been found. Follow any leads you can. Find his family, find his friends. He was exiled somewhere; we need to find out where.”
The small crowd murmured their understanding and made for the doors, their steps energized with a kind of newfound bounce. Before the man with the beard could depart, however, she called out to him, “Wait!”
The man turned around. He was perhaps in his twenties, and he wore a pair of bib overalls with a sprocket brooch pinned to the right suspender. “Me?” he asked.
“I need someone to keep me protected,” she said.
The man smiled widely. “I can do that, ma’am,” he said. He walked back toward the center of the foyer.
“I’ll just wait by the rickshaw, then,” said the badger, making his way to the front doors.
“Actually,” said Prue, “stick with me. A third pair of hands couldn’t hurt.”
When she arrived at the checkerboard parquet of the foyer floor, she extended her hand out to the lumbering, bearded man, saying, “I’m Prue. What’s your name?”
“Charlie,” said the man. He was blushing; the skin above the hair of his brown beard was flushed red. “Very nice to meet the Bicycle Maiden, in person.”
“You can just call me Prue,” she said.
“I’ll do my best,” said the man. “But you’re still the Bicycle Maiden to me.”
“I’ll need you guys to stick by me,” she said. “There was an attempt on my life, not so long ago. Someone sent an assassin. Still don’t know who. I thought by coming here, I’d be safe. But I see I’m not quite as loved as I thought I’d be.”
The man, Charlie, frowned. “Oh, you’re still very loved. Anyone who don’t can expect to be missing their head, quick snap.”
“No more of that,” said Prue quickly.
“Sorry,” said the man.
“Unless they actually attack us. Then . . .” She paused in speaking. “Then, do whatever you want.”
“With pleasure, Bicycle Maiden,” said Charlie.
“Prue.”
“Prue, sorry.”
She’d noticed, ever since she’d left the safety of the Interim Governor-Regent-elect’s office, that a kind of fog of anxiety had come over her. She felt like the supporting foundation of her plan, the plan she’d devised with Curtis and with Esben, had eroded: She didn’t necessarily feel safe in the wide open now. She should’ve foreseen it, the crowd’s displeasure with her ultimate goal, but now it was too late. She still had these few supporters, and perhaps that would be enough to save her life. In any case, she decided, the quicker she found this mysterious blind Carol Grod, the better.
“We’re going to the archives,” said Prue. “Follow me.”
