Gilded Cage (Dark Gifts #1)(85)

‘We have a mutual acquaintance,’ Rix continued as Luke lifted the tray higher, ready to make his exit. ‘A certain doctor.’

Luke stopped in an instant, and stared at the man.

This distinguished old parliamentarian was Jackson’s contact.

Not Gavar Jardine. Thank goodness he hadn’t said anything to the heir – or anything incriminating, at any rate. This was the man who saw the shadows in the House of Light. Who’d told the Doc about the Proposal.

Luke’s heart soared. He hadn’t been forgotten. Nor would he have to make the trek back to Millmoor, all unknowing of the reception he’d get when he arrived there. This was what he’d been waiting for.

‘You’ve got a message for me?’ he said, barely breathing. ‘Something for me to do? I’m ready.’

Rix sipped his champagne, the epitome of patrician amusement.

‘Is that so?’ he said, lowering his glass. ‘Well, I’m delighted to hear it.’

Then the Equal’s attention was caught by something over by the entrance and Luke reflexively followed his gaze.

And nearly dropped the tray.

His whole body trembled. It was like someone had kicked him in the back of both knees, hard, and it took everything he had not to collapse to the ground right there.

Her white-blonde hair was pinned up, strands falling on either side of her face, just as they’d escaped from under her beanie hat. She’d swapped her black fatigues for a sequinned gown that glittered in the light from the chandeliers. She didn’t need sequins to dazzle, though.

And he stood at her side, impeccable in black tie. He’d had a haircut since Luke had last seen him, but the neat beard was the same as ever.

Jackson and Angel.

Luke was wrong. They hadn’t left it all to their contact. They’d come for him, too.

Had tricked their way here, into the very centre of everything they were fighting against.

They stood side by side at the top of the stairs. Luke watched, his heart throwing itself against his ribs like a wild thing maddened in a cage.

Please let them not be found out.

Please.

Abi held out the clipboard to Pimples. Pointed. Again with that showreel voice.

‘Heir Meilyr of Highwithel, and Miss Bodina Matravers.’

And Angel and Jackson descended the steps and were swallowed up in the throng. The chatter in the room grew louder around them as they were greeted, enfolded, absorbed.

What did it mean? What disguise could be that successful? Luke’s pulse thrummed at what was surely twice the normal human rate. He could feel it staccato in his fingertips against the smooth underside of the tray.

‘You hadn’t guessed?’

The old aristo hadn’t moved away. He was studying Luke curiously.

‘Well, well,’ Lord Rix said. ‘Now you see that some of us also fight. Also wish to end this abomination of slavery – by any means necessary.’

Realization hit Luke like a bottle to the back of the head.

Angel was an Equal.

Jackson was an Equal.

The evidence was right there in front of him, where it had been all along.

The Doc’s hands on him that first day, Skillfully healing what Luke had known were appalling injuries from Kessler, using the useless cream as a cover. Reviving Oz in the cell not with an adrenaline shot, but Skill. No heads turning as they walked Oz through a prison full of Security. Guards swallowing flimsy suggestions and fake instructions. The gunshot and Jackson’s agonized cry, with no sign of any wound a few days later.

The tingle of Angel’s touch on his face. Her escape with Oz through checkpoint after checkpoint.

‘How do you think we got round the Quiet?’ Rix asked, watching Luke as everything swung into place, the facts heavy and irresistible. ‘Meilyr was in Millmoor the day of the Proposal, when Zelston laid the Quiet on us. But because parliamentarians were able to talk to other parliamentarians about it, I could tell him. And once that knowledge was with someone not bound by the Quiet, there was no limit to where we could spread it.’

The shock of the truth made Luke want to double over and retch. To heave up everything he’d ever felt for the pair of them – the respect, the admiration, the longing, the belonging – and purge it out in a great stinking puddle at his feet till he was empty.

They weren’t brave. They were Skilled. Rich young Equals who’d had fun playing at being revolutionaries, knowing they were never really in any danger – unlike Luke and the rest of the club. Unlike poor Oz, beaten to a pulp. Unlike the man and woman shot dead in the MADhouse square, and whoever else had been hurt that day before Gavar Jardine twirled the pain dial up to eleven.

Luke felt the old guy put a hand on his shoulder, and twisted his whole body to shake it off. The bottles on the tray rattled.

‘They share your cause,’ the Equal said.

Was Rix some kind of idiot? Was he as deluded as Lord and Lady Liar, aka Jackson and Angel?

‘How can any of you share our cause when you’re the enemy?’ he said, hearing the edge in his own voice and hating it. ‘You had your chance in the vote yesterday and you blew it. This isn’t your fight; it’s ours.’

Luke could feel scalding tears spill from his eyes and course down his cheeks. Had no idea whether they were shed in fury or grief.

‘Is that so?’ said Rix, looking at him. The kindliness in his voice had entirely drained away. ‘Well, seeing as it’s your fight, I’m sure you won’t mind doing one last thing before we say goodbye. Once we found out where your family was, I knew this would be the perfect opportunity. And when that cretin Gavar Jardine actually brought you here, it’s like it was meant to be.’