Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [147]
I think about Amadé, about all the things he told me—how he saw his parents die, how he left his home and changed his name. How he can’t write music anymore.
I think about Alex. About her last diary entry. Scrawled. Unfinished. Stained with her blood. Shoved into her guitar case just before the guards came. Or before she bled to death.
I hear Orléans’ voice in my head, ancient and arrogant, telling her that nothing changes, that the world goes on, stupid and brutal.
And then I hear her voice, quiet and clear: Once you were brave. Once you were kind. You could be so again.
I make my way to Amadé’s bed, reach under it, and pull out a bundle wrapped in linen—Fauvel’s bundle. I carry it back to the table; then, one by one, I carefully pack the rockets into my empty guitar case. Then I close the case, take a pack of matches from my bag, and quietly let myself out into the night.
77
The night sky is filled with clouds. I can’t see the stars.
“This is why, isn’t it, Alex? This is why I’m here,” I whisper to the darkness. “To finish it.”
She can’t answer me, though. She’s dead.
Where do the shafts go? I wonder, staring at a rocket. Is this waxy stuff the fuse? What happens if I fall off this roof? I guess it would be a quick way down. Quicker than the six flights of stairs I just walked up.
I stick the shaft in the bottom of the rocket and hope for the best. Then I stretch forward out of my perch, near the peak of a roof, in the crook of a chimney, on top of a house in the Rue Charlot, and stick the shaft between two roof tiles. I light a match and hold the flame to the fuse. It catches and burns. The rocket starts sparking. But nothing happens. It just sits there.
It’s not going anywhere. It’s farting sparks but it’s not moving. And it’s crammed with gunpowder. Gunpowder. It’s going to catch fire any second and explode like a bomb and blow the roof off this house. And me with it.
But then there’s a whoosh of air, and it’s gone. Gone! I can see its bright comet’s tail rising into the darkness. Up it goes. Higher and higher. And then suddenly there’s a terrifying boom and then up above me, like a miracle, a million tiny twinkling lights are hanging in the sky.
“Ha!” I yell out loud.
And then I high-five the air and lose my balance and fall forward onto the downslope of the roof. A tile cracks under my hand, slides down, and falls. I hear it shatter on the street below. I dig in with the heels of my hands and push myself back up.
I’m shaking so hard I can barely light the next match, but I do it. I light the next rocket, too. As fast as I can. I know I have to be done and gone before the guards get here.
There’s another thundering boom. And then another. The rockets are exploding. They are breaking the night apart, cracking open the darkness.
He can hear it. I know he can. Even the Temple’s thick stone walls cannot keep out the sound. And he can see it. Oh, I hope he can see it. Because if he sees it, he will know that someone remembers. That he is not alone. That a hundred million stars are sparkling in the darkness. For him.
I held Truman’s hand at the end. I knelt down in the street. In the blood. I pushed the cops aside and grabbed his hand. And I saw it. Before it went out forever. I saw the light in his eyes. One last time.
Turn away. From the darkness, the madness, the pain.
Open your eyes and look at the light.
78
Benôit, the kitchen boy at the Foy, is a total weasel, just like Alex said he was. I need him, though. Orléans’ apartments are locked and sealed. There’s a way in through a basement passage, though, and he guards it.
“I haven’t seen you for days. Thought you’d left for good. Or got yourself killed. Why are you back here?”
He thinks I’m Alex, too. Like Fauvel did. I must look like her.
“I left something behind. I need to get it,” I tell him.
“Pay me first,” he says.
“No, get me into Orléans’ rooms first.”
“Pay me first.”
“Look, I haven’t got any money. Let me in and I’ll get you some.”