The Last Princess (6 page)

I had lost sight of the soldiers hours ago but I kept moving steadily onward, falling forward with exhaustion. I had taken off running after the trucks outside the palace, chasing them down street after street, the taillights growing dimmer as I fell ever farther behind. Now my feet were sore, my silk dancing slippers ripped to shreds.
But I had to keep going. I stayed on the road, continuing in the same direction I last saw the trucks headed. Every now and then I caught the scent of diesel and knew I was on the right track. No one had cars anymore aside from the royal family—and now, Cornelius Hollister.

I had no idea how far I walked. The Thames was my guide. Even though it reeked of brine and waste, it was oddly comforting,
its familiar presence always a dark shadow on my left. I knew from its position that I was headed southwest.

I stared around me at the desolate outskirts of the city. No people to be seen, no lights on the road. A pack of rats scurried across the street and disappeared into a gutter drain. I shivered. My peach gown was little protection against the sharp winds coming off the river. I was freezing;
I had lost Jamie’s sweater sometime in my escape.
Jamie.
My knees buckled as I thought of the look on my younger brother’s face as they took him away. But I shook my head, trying to shake the memory away. I couldn’t think about last night, not yet—because when I did, when I faced the fact that my father had died and my brother and sister had been captured—I would need to grieve. And I couldn’t
do that right now. I couldn’t stop.

The crunch of tires sounded on the road behind me. For a split second, I allowed myself to hope it was royal forces, coming to rescue me, but I knew better. There were no royal forces anymore. I jumped to the side of the road, hiding in the shadowy doorway of a boarded-up building, and hoped I wouldn’t be seen.

A truck barreled past, driving down the road
in the
direction I had just been walking. It was graffitied in black with the same message I had seen earlier.
THE NEW GUARD IS RISING
.

I started to run after it but slowed down after only a few steps. If I could follow just one of these trucks, it would take me to Cornelius Hollister’s encampment. But I would never be able to keep up on foot.

The next time, I would be ready.

A flock of pigeons
flew westward over the Thames. A gust of wind hit me with such force that I grabbed the steel pillar beneath the bridge, shielding my eyes from the blowing ash. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. The air was still again.

The wind had brought in the smell of garbage, rotting and putrid. I fought the urge to hold my nose and instead headed for the riverbank. Rubbish barges used to sail
down the Thames; the trash pile might have something wearable in it, and I knew I couldn’t show up at the camp of the New Guard in my ball gown. I shivered as I walked along the bank. Further up I spotted the red-and-black barge, marooned below the river wall, washed ashore in one of the storms. The piles of garbage sat in stinking hills, black plastic bags torn apart. Through the dim light I
saw figures
moving across the piles, picking through them. They were the Collectors: the displaced and homeless, who survived only by scavenging the pitiful remains of the time before. There was less and less salvageable rubbish each year. What would happen when there was nothing left worth saving?

I had never seen the Collectors before. They only came out after nightfall.

I waited, crouching,
watching them. I shivered uncontrollably in my damp, thin dress, the skin on my arms like ice, my fingers numb. I couldn’t stay like this. I had no choice but to join them. I kept close to the river wall, where I could escape to the roads if I needed to, making my way carefully to the barge.

Under the mist rising from the river the Collectors scavenged the piles of rubbish. They were thin, but
they seemed dangerous, as though they had been drawn with razor-sharp edges. Several of the men carried pieces of pipe, their shoulders tense, ready to strike at any moment. Pieces of garbage blew around them, and a broken plastic lawn chair tumbled in a wind gust, landing and floating in the river.

“Someone’s coming,” a girl exclaimed, and their heads all snapped around, their dark eyes boring
into me. An older woman with tired eyes lifted her piece of pipe threateningly. I couldn’t help noticing that she’d cut holes in the front of
her shoes for her toes. I supposed too-small shoes were better than none at all.

“I don’t want any trouble,” I called out, my palms up. A girl with white-blonde hair reached behind her, pulling out an iron pole that had been sharpened at the end. She aimed
it like a spear, directly at my chest.

I took a step back. “Please,” I begged. “I’m just looking for clothes. For something warm.”

The girl looked to a man with silver hair for approval; he nodded slowly. She lowered her spear. “Five minutes,” the leader said. “This is our ground, and we don’t take kindly to trespassers.” They turned as one and moved away from me.

Shivering uncontrollably,
I tried sifting through the plastic bags, which were wet and torn and covered in soot. Even in the cold the smell was sickening. I pulled out a broken bottle, drink cartons, plastic containers, juice boxes, a cracked and broken laptop seeping a brown liquid battery acid like blood from its silver frame. Everything was sodden, covered in mold, decaying. I stared at the piles of rubbish in defeat.

I wrapped my frozen arms around me for warmth. My hands were so cold I couldn’t open or close them to look any further.

“You’re shivering. Your lips are blue,” I heard a voice say.
I looked up to see the blonde girl with the spear. She held something in her arms. “Here, take these.” She dropped a bundle of clothes at my feet.

I tried to thank her, but my lips were too frozen to speak. Hurriedly
I fumbled, pulling a woolen sweater over my head and jumping into a pair of men’s trousers that fell past my feet.

“Thank you,” I said, trying to form the words through numb lips. “Please, one more thing. The trucks that go by here—with the graffiti on them. Have you seen them? Do you know where they go?”

She nodded, eyeing me thoughtfully. “They come by every few hours, on the road over that
wall. When you hear the trucks, hide. They’ll take you if they see you. And if they take you, you never come back.” She began to turn away.

“Wait!” I cried. “Please, wait.” I reached my hand up to my collarbone to feel the cool touch of my locket. I had forgotten to take it off. My mother’s picture and the inscription of my name, Elizabeth, would give me away instantly. I reached behind my neck
to unclasp it, letting it fall into the palm of my hand, opening it for one last look at the photo of my mother. One more good-bye that I was being forced to say, long before I was ready. “Please take care of it,” I said, handing it to the girl. The gold glinted in the dim light.

She looked at it in shock, as though she’d never seen anything so beautiful. Then she nodded. “Good luck.” Without
another word, she was running over the hills of garbage toward where the rest of the Collectors waited for her.

As I raised a hand in good-bye I heard the sound of a motor. I clambered up the wall and crouched there unsteadily, trying to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible. The truck was approaching on my right, full of flour and food supplies. It would be an easy landing.

I held
my breath, waiting until the truck was directly beneath me, and jumped.

9

I SAT IN THE BACK OF THE TRUCK, WEDGED BETWEEN A SACK OF
flour and a barrel of some sloshing liquid. My heart was racing. I didn’t know what kind of noise my landing had made, but the driver hadn’t pulled over or even slowed down. After a few minutes, I felt safe enough to peek up and try to determine my surroundings.

Up ahead, backlit against the dark sky, was the outline of a turreted
castle, the reflection of coal lights shining out of its windows. I recognized it instantly. Hampton Court.

I remembered it as the palace of Henry VIII and all his wives, a tourist destination before the Seventeen Days. Mary and I had visited many times when we were little, with our
governesses Rita and Nora. We would ride on the royal riverboat, sailing through the city and out along the green
banks of the countryside, waving to onlookers as we passed. It had been one of our favorite things to do in the summers. We had dressed up in white sundresses and wide-brimmed straw hats. They would close the palace to the public so we could sit in the garden for iced tea and scones.

I burrowed down under the flour sack as we passed through the front gates. Hollister’s army may have needed new
recruits, but I doubted they would take kindly to a stowaway on their supply truck.

The truck slowed to a stop. I waited for the driver’s steps to disappear toward the entrance, but instead I heard him approaching the back of the vehicle. I sucked in my breath.

“What have we here?” A man with dirty, curly hair and a crooked nose pulled aside the sacks blocking my hiding place. He grinned at
me with a mouthful of broken teeth.

“I’m here to register for the army,” I said, willing my voice to sound tougher, hard and flat.

“In the back of a food services vehicle? Looks more like thievery to me.”

“Please,” I said quickly. “It’s cold out, and I was walking all the way from London. You can check—I haven’t touched a thing.”

The guard eyed me strangely. I noticed his gaze moving from
my face, over my chest and down to my legs. I froze. Did he recognize me?

“Well, you’re in luck,” he spoke quickly. “There’s no registration on Sundays. Normally, you’d have to come back tomorrow morning. But since I’m a recruiting officer, I’ll register you myself. It’ll be our little secret.”

“Thank you,” I said, steadying my voice. He gestured around the corner, and I followed him along a
path leading past the old gatehouse, where a sign above the doors read
NEW RECRUITS
.

“Is this it?” I asked, stopping in front of the door.

“After-hours registration is up this way a bit further.” He pointed ahead, but all I could see was a deserted field. Suddenly I felt his arm around my shoulders.

“So what’s your name, huh?”

My heart began to pound. In the palace, no one would have dared
to touch me like this. But I had no idea if this was normal behavior. I smiled carefully and took a step back, slipping out from under his grasp.

“You’re rather pretty,” he went on, backing me up against the wall. I felt his hand against my chest and tried to squirm away.

“Please,” I breathed, but he leaned in closer, pressing his mouth to mine. I screamed. “Get off me!” I reached to hit him
in his torso, remembering what the Royal Master of Arms had taught us about defending yourself when stripped of your weapon, but the more I struggled, the tighter his fingers gripped my neck. I couldn’t breathe. I beat at the wall, hoping someone would hear me, but my fists barely made a sound against the thick stones.

“Shut up!” he hissed, covering my mouth with his hand. I tried to kick at
him, but he pressed his knee into my stomach, pinning me against the wall as he reached, fumbling, to rip open my shirt. The other hand gripped so tight around my throat I began to see spots against the back of my eyelids. I was going to pass out.

“Let her go. Now.” I heard a girl’s voice from what seemed like a great distance.

The hand loosened from my neck, and I gasped, taking quick, shallow
breaths. Slowly my eyes began to focus. The guard stood still, his hands raised in the air, as a girl holding a sword sprinted toward us. The soldier backed away in fear.

“Hand over your sevil,” she barked.

“Portia, I—”

“This is not tolerated.” She lunged at him and tore off his badge. “Hand over the sevil.” The guard reluctantly unhooked the weapon from his belt.

“Now leave camp or I’ll castrate
you myself.”

“But—”

“Go!” she yelled, raising her weapon as he turned away and ran off toward the woods.

“Thank you,” I said cautiously, leaning against the wall for support.

She whirled around and fixed her green eyes on me in a fierce stare. “Who are you?” she snapped.

I stammered the first name that came to mind. “P-Polly McGregor.” As the words left my lips, I said a silent prayer that
Polly was still safe in Scotland.

I tried to get a better look at my rescuer. She was tall and unusually beautiful, with high cheekbones and dark blonde hair falling down her back. Even though she only looked a year or so older than me, there was a steely confidence about her that made her seem much older. I wondered what position she held in the army. She seemed to outrank my attacker: Where
he’d been wearing a badge, a gold medallion was pinned to her uniform. Her almond-shaped eyes looked me up and down. “You know there’s no registration today.”

“Yes,” I mumbled, “that’s what he said, and then—”

“Don’t worry about him,” she snapped. “He won’t dare come back. If he does, I’ll use him for target practice.” She smiled, her teeth glinting dangerously, suggesting that she wasn’t joking.
“Now, where are you from, Polly McGregor?”

“Scotland.”

“Scotland? Funny, you don’t have a Scottish accent.”

I stood up straighter. “That’s because I grew up in London. I didn’t move to Scotland till I was ten.”

“And what are you good for exactly?” I blinked at her. “I mean,” she went on, “why should I make an exception and let you register today? What skills do you have? Or will I just have
to put you on latrine duty?”

“I can ride and shoot a pistol. I’m pretty good with swords, too,” I added. The more access I could get to weapons, the better.

She stared at me again. I held her gaze unblinkingly. “Fine,” she said finally. “You’ll be in my squadron—for now—and we’ll see how good you really are. I’m Portia, by the way,” she added, “Sergeant, Girls’ Division, Section Nine.” She turned
on her heel and I hurried to follow her.

“Oh, and Polly?” she added over her shoulder, not even bothering to look at me. “Don’t pull a stunt like this again.
You stay out of trouble or there will be consequences. I’ll see to that myself.”