Page 128 of The Last Hope
I shoot them a scowl. “Do I look like I care about your nail gun?” Court’s pulse hammers harder inmyveins, but I continue, “I’m not into pain. I’m intopleasure. Like my friend said, we’re headed to the Lulencrest—”
“Only chumps would use the tunnels to get to Lulencrest,” the bald boy tells me. “Everyone knows that it’s only accessible by boat.”
Court grinds his teeth into a grimace.
The pink-haired boy snickers louder. “Freddie must’ve given you the wrong directions. He does that sometimes.”
The bald one spins his pole and retraces his steps. Blocking us in again on the other side. “He knows we have a tally to reach before we die.”
I cringe.
“We’re at one hundred and thirteen,” the pink-haired boy adds. “You two will make it one hundred and fifteen.”
“We can count,” Court says flatly. “What do you want?”
He lifts his nail gun. “Pay the toll for walking through our tunnels. One in the hand for each of you.”
My stomach somersaults.
“And if we refuse?” Court asks.
“It’s called a toll for a reason.” He laughs. “You can’t refuse.”
THIRTY-ONE
Mykal
The Gandwich Orphanage is a four-masted sailing ship. Enormous. Dozens of thick ropes tie the vessel to a rickety dock, and it sways gently in the crammed harbor. Boats brushing up against more boats. Two glass towers flanking the wharf.
I don’t know where to rest my eyes. Up above, wooden bridges crisscross dizzily from one building to the next and swing in the breeze. Cheap and free. Unlike the glass railways and elevators that cost bills.
I’ve gone from the stark emptiness of snow and ice.
To the quick hustle of stone-and-brick Saltare-3 cities. Where people kept warm inside.
To the rowdy and crowded water world. Where everyone and their damned friend leisurely yammers away in the sun. Like they have nothing else to do.
Stork at my side, we’ve come out from the stuffy bottom of the ship. Standing on the front grimy deck, nails stick up from uneven planks of wood and green mold grows on the ropes.
The country has taken no care to tidy up this ship. Streamers and seaweed garlands—decorations for the weeklong holiday—hang off rusted rigging and torn sails.
Little boys and ladies pay no notice. Climbing up the mast, they play a game where one chases and the rest flee.
Stork and I just spent a hot hour down where the orphanssleep. A lady flipped through a registry of the newborns. According to the fairy-taleMythbook, the baby should’ve arrived in Montbay by now.
But the Gandwich Orphanage hasn’t had a newborn in a whole month. Which means theMythbaby has to be in one of the other four orphanages.
I haven’t lost hope. We’ll be finding this baby. When Court puts his mind to something, he makes anything possible. And he’s as determined as ever.
Stork has been largely ignoring me. He watches the orphans play. Partly lost in thought, he unconsciously pinches the skin at his temple.
The corner of my mouth rises. “Our pa used to do that.”
His head jerks to me. “What—?”
“Heya, mister.” A bony boy of five years tugs on my frayed shorts, his curly, sun-bleached hair matted at his shoulders. “I like your hair.” Tips of my blond locks are dyed fire-red. “How’d you get all those scars? Why is your nose crooked? Can I touch your muscles?” He pokes my thigh.
“Leave me be, or I’ll be throwing you overboard.”
