Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(28)

“You mean, not be a secondborn Sword?”

“Yes.”

“If there were a choice, what Fate would you pick?” he asks.

I chew on my bottom lip, thinking. “I don’t know. They all have drawbacks because I’m secondborn. I have no voice in any Fate.”

“That’s never gonna change. You have to make peace with it or it’ll destroy you.” He reaches for the strap of his gun. Fishing through a compartment on it, he extracts a white stamp wrapped in cellophane. “I have a chet. I was savin’ it for something really bad. Here,” he says as he extends it out to me. “You can have it. It’ll relax you.”

“No, you keep it.” I rise to my feet, not taking his offer. “I have to be sharp for the press conference.” Edgerton nods and puts it back.

“She’s too strong for that, Edge,” Hawthorne says from the archway. He has his arms crossed, his back against the wall.

“How long have you been there?” I ask. My face burns with embarrassment.

“We all have night terrors,” Hawthorne replies sympathetically.

“Hammon has bad ones.” Edgerton sits up and reaches for his shirt, dragging it on. “Sometimes I have to hold her all night, which ain’t as easy as it sounds cuz neither of us is allowed in the other’s capsule.”

“You and Hammon are . . .”

“She’s my girl.”

“But that’s . . .”

“I know. That’s why we hide it. I’m telling you cuz you’ll find out anyway. You see erething. Are you gonna keep my secret?”

I nod. “You wouldn’t have told me if you thought I wouldn’t.”

“You’re right. You strike me as someone who has secrets of her own that are a lot bigger than mine. You’re no turner.”

“I thought Hammon and Gilad—”

“They’re best friends,” Edgerton interrupts, “but she and me has always been together.”

“Ham and Edge,” Hawthorne acknowledges.

A door opens down the hall, and a blurry-eyed Clara Diamond shuffles into the drawing room, almost running into Hawthorne. “Ugh, why are you people up when you don’t have to be?” she asks, combing a hand through her hair. She trudges to the bar and inputs a selection for coffee. It arrives piping hot in the instant-carousel unit. She takes a sip from the mug and looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Ah, good, you’re awake. We have to get started on your look. Follow me.” She walks toward my bedroom.

“You have to get started on your look,” Edgerton teases me softly. I reach for the pillow on the chair and toss it at him. He catches it, his laughter following me as I trail Clara.

I admire Clara’s lavender-colored hair as she spends the next couple of hours styling mine by hand, not leaving it to the bathroom unit’s automated groomer. She arranges it in long, loose curls, then applies cosmetics to my face, sighing over every scrape that she finds.

Emmitt breezes into the bathroom in a whirlwind with clothing draped over his arm. “I had seamstresses up all night creating this masterpiece for you, Roselle, even though I know you won’t appreciate it.”

He carefully unwraps a Tropo uniform unlike any I’ve ever seen. The top is made of two different fabrics, suede and silk. The suede corset squeezes me at the waist and fits so tightly, it makes it hard to breathe. I shrug into it, and Clara fastens the line of golden hooks and eyes along my spine. The beautiful beige suede creates an hourglass effect.

A beige silk panel, sewn into the bodice of the suede just above my breasts, creates the neckline and the sleeves. It’s so fine as to be transparent, showing off my collarbone and shoulders. The neckline at midthroat has a thicker panel of silk like a choker. Trousers of the same supple suede fit me like a second skin. Knee-high, matte-black leather boots finish the outfit.

The black bruise over my heart is a dark shadow. I touch it, and my fingers press into the beige silk. It still hurts, but not as badly as when I’d first awakened in Census. “What about this?” I ask. “You can see this bruise.”

“I have a solution for that.” Emmitt holds up a long leather jacket. “This should hide it.” I attempt to put my arms in the sleeves, but he stops me. “Uhht, uhht,” he says, pulling the black leather jacket back, “let me just drape it on your shoulders and see the effect.” We both gaze into the full-length mirror in front of us as he sets it on me. It marries the look of a cape and a coat. The jacket resembles Agent Crow’s coat, clearly a knockoff of Census uniforms, except that this one has a row of golden sword-shaped buttons on either side of its lapels.

Emmitt smiles. “The way you’re wearing this denotes a certain negligence, as if you’re unconcerned with the attack. Rebels don’t scare you.”

“It looks like a Census coat.”

“It does, but it’s different enough that people will automatically feel you have authority, though they won’t know why.”

I now see how brilliant he is. He lifts a kohl stick from among the cosmetics and pulls a thick line across my bottom lashes at a catlike angle. If Agent Crow were here, he’d probably accuse me of stealing his look. Emmitt reads my mind as he stares at my reflection. “You’ll be responsible for more kills than any agent can ever hope for. Here.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, and then slips a sharp-pointed ring onto three fingers of my left hand, like brass knuckles in the shape of jutting talons, but in gold.