"There you are."

Alouette spins around, diverting her gaze from Evie's retreating figure. Jackson is coming towards her with Jayden in tow. Brooks and Gray are nowhere to be seen.

"I'm gonna need a full report of everything you did since you left," he continues—his voice is eerily cool once more, now. Even though there's no evidence of that burning anger from before, though, Alouette shudders. She doesn't think she'll forget it anytime soon. "You'll certainly understand a very curious thing happened tonight. It could be our strongest lead, so I'm afraid your privacy will not be accounted for on this one. If you'll follow me."

Alouette doesn't dare defy him. She follows him to his office, walking next to Jayden. When she sends him a glance, she finds him already looking at her. She glances away. She has no idea what he might want from her still. There's nothing left to say now.

They enter the office, and she sits down on the chair in front of the desk while Jackson takes the one behind it. Jayden closes the door and leans against the wall on the side, silently listening.

Jackson pulls out a piece of paper and a pen, and looks up at her. "Let's start from when you left the Palace," he announces. There's no question, but there doesn't need to be.

Alouette starts talking. She tells him of her first stop, when she went to buy hairpins to remove the tracker from the car, and then of her drive to Dacran. She tells him of the apartment, of being attacked, of fleeing to the headquarters of the Revolution. There, she hesitates.

"What next?" Jackson pushes her. "I seem to understand you received an address there? Is that correct?"

"They left it on my windshield," she forces herself to say. Suddenly, speaking of this feels weird. Wrong. She cannot tell why; it's simply a sensation—a very strong sensation that she should not be talking about this with a man so closely tied to the Palace and its President.

"Who left it?" he presses on, but she shakes her head.

"I don't know."

"Can I see it?"

"I don't have it anymore." The lie surprises her in the instant she lets it out. There was no planning, no intention of lying until a moment ago, and she doesn't know what made her do it. In her pocket, the paper with the address burns. "I discarded it before we left," she adds for good measure. From the side of the room, Jayden's gaze is heavy on her, but she doesn't look at him. She doesn't dare.

Jackson doesn't seem moved. "If you tell us where you threw it, we'll retrieve it."

"I burned it. With a lighter." She clears her throat, forcing herself to act normal—not to look at him too straight in the eyes, not to glance away too quickly. Truth is in behaviour—a good lie often sets in the middle. "We thought it'd be safer that way."

"We?" Jackson looks at Jayden, and Alouette's hands clench around the fabric of her shirt in her lap. She shouldn't have said that—it was a bad lapse in judgement. She should've been more careful—but she's so on edge, so exhausted. In the past twenty-four hours she's escaped a shooting, faced the ghosts of her past, planned an attack in the middle of the night, retrieved a friend gone missing and defended herself from ridiculous accusations. Maybe she could attribute it to all that—say that she didn't mean we, that she made that decision alone, that she's just tired, that the others didn't know she destroyed the paper because she kept it a secret.

She opens her mouth, but Jayden precedes her.

"It was sensitive material. It didn't seem wise to bring it out and about, nor to leave it there unguarded. We've all seen it anyway, and the address we got from it was correct. There was no reason to keep it around."

Alouette frowns, but Jayden catches her eyes for a moment and shakes his head near imperceptibly, telling her not to speak.

"It was my decision," he continues. "I thought it the best way to proceed without putting at risk ourselves or the Palace. We didn't know who sent it and where we were going and who we'd find there, so I made sure to tie up any loose ends. I hope it wasn't a problem."

Jackson sits back against the chair and looks at him for a long moment. "So the address was the only thing on it?" he asks for confirmation, and Jayden nods. "All right, then. I would've preferred to look at it myself, but I can't fault you for your choice. Now, let's continue."

Over the next hour, Alouette and Jayden tell him in turn about the mission, what they did, what they saw and heard. Alouette tries to be as specific as possible in her speech, to recount the smallest events because they might mean something to Jackson, they might lead to something—but then again, she keeps quiet about the second message. There's not a clear, objective reason why—it's simply a sensation. She was struck with the need to keep it a secret in the exact moment she found it—she didn't even tell Gray about it. It's her message, her secret. A secret she'll keep, for now.

"Very well," Jackson says in the end, standing up. "You can go. Bryce, tell Gray to come here. I'll cross-check the information."

Alouette pauses in the midst of leaving the room. She feels like an ice-cold water bucket was just dumped over her head. They'll tell him. Jayden nods and grabs her arm on his way out, pulling her out of the room with him.

"I'll let the others know," he whispers when they're out of earshot. She spins towards him, but he's already leaving.

Alone in the corridor, she leans against the wall. Sudden exhaustion weighs down on her bones, and she has to fight the need to sit down right there and not move ever again. She still doesn't know what's happening—Jackson hasn't told her, despite her lightly posed questions there and again during the interrogation. No word of Elijah has come yet, either. And the conversation with Jackson brought her realisations in the apartment back to her attention—her parents were in possession with a book with Harry's handwriting in it. She doesn't know what to make of it yet, but she knows it means something.

She needs to talk to Harry.

But she really doesn't want to.

Still, she pushes off the wall. Her head spins for a moment, but she catches her footing. She gets to Harry's office, but the door is locked and he isn't there. She frowns. His rooms, maybe? The thought makes something in her chest clench. She hasn't been in his rooms since they left for the Revolution. She doesn't want to see them—to be reminded of what they meant for her. Her safe haven, her home away from home, because Harry was there, and to her home was wherever he was. She remembers the nights she slept on his bed, the taste of his whiskey on her tongue, the smooth warmth of his skin when she trailed her fingers over his naked chest. It makes her want to cry, and she doesn't want to think about it. How could you be so stupid, Alouette?

Still, she makes her way towards his rooms. She's tired of not knowing—half secrets, half truths, half moments and half proofs that mean absolutely nothing to her. She knows something is there, she's always known that, but who could she ask? Her father is dead, her mother ran away. The only one still here is Harry, but how could she ever trust him? But she knows something happened with him and her father—there was an exchange of messages at the very least, and that's a fact. On this she can at least know with certainty he isn't lying, but it isn't enough—she needs to know the truth, all of it; even half of it, maybe, if it's enough to shed some light on the dark secrets of her father's past.

She crosses paths with Evie. Evie widens her eyes in surprise. "I was coming to talk to you," she says. There's a strain in her voice, and Alouette can't pinpoint its cause.

"What the hell is wrong with Harry?" she asks, and it sounds more like an accusation than genuine concern.

Evie sends a cursory glance around and, once she's sure no one's around, steps closer to Alouette. "The past few days have been... complicated," she says in a low whisper. "There was a lot going on. Besides, he was in the yard earlier, when the attack happened. That must've been a bit of a shock, too."

Alouette narrows her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Evie sighs and looks away, annoyed. "Read between the lines, won't you?" she hisses. "I'm not supposed to divulge information about him."

Alouette lets out a hard laugh. She can't believe this. "I need to speak with him," she announces, trying to move past Evie, but Evie stops her.

"Not right now."

Alouette scoffs. "And why's that—"

"Because he's drunk, that's why," Evie snaps, hard. "Talk to him in a couple of days. I'll set an appointment."

"He's what?!" Alouette exclaims, but Evie shakes her head and leaves without another word. She stands there, looking after her, for a long moment.

This is absurd. Harry's drunk? The same man that has always refused to drink more than a third of a glass of whiskey or a few glasses of wine over a meal is drunk? The same one that refused to even drink a beer in her presence when they were out of the Palace? This can't be real. The more she thinks about it, the more ridiculous it becomes.

He's lost it, she thinks. He must've completely lost it. This isn't like him. He may be many things, but he's not careless. He's built his entire universe around his persona; why would he ever do anything to spoil it?

But she didn't smell alcohol on him when she spoke with him earlier. He acted oddly, but he didn't seem drunk. She knows him. Shouldn't she have noticed right away, if that was the case? She frowns.

Is Evie lying to her?

But why would she lie to her in such an egregious way? Surely nothing she has to say could be worse than asserting Harry got drunk in the middle of the day. But what if it is a lie indeed? She knows how scared Evie is of him. She'd never dare lie to his face, and she'd certainly never dare spread lies about him—which means this specific one was likely said with his permission. Yet again—why would he accept to spread something so ridiculous about himself? He must know the damage it would issue if the wrong person got wind of it, so why risk it at all? He's way too smart to incite situations that might jeopardise his position.

Unless he's hiding something.

Something worse.

Read between the lines, won't you?

• • •

A day passes before Alouette gets to meet Harry again. Evie accompanied her to his rooms, and she finds it odd. She knocks on the door three times in a row, and then proceeds to unlock the door. Alouette finds that odd as well. She's always known Evie and Jackson have access to his code for safety and work reasons, but Evie has never used it in front of her before.

The door opens; the entrance beyond it is dark, though she can see light farther into the room. "You can go right in," Evie tells her, not stepping a foot inside. When Alouette goes in, she closes the door behind her.

Alouette's heart hammers inside her chest. She doesn't want to be here—the sight of her surroundings makes her feel sick. The counter on her right sends shivers down her spine, and the somewhat deserted, still looks of the rooms around her unsettle her more than she'd like to admit. It takes her a moment to figure out exactly what it is she finds so disturbing. The floor-to-ceiling window wall that usually brings Northfair's shine into the room is barred here as well. It's the first time she sees Harry's apartments illuminated by electrical light alone.

She steps past the counter and into the living room area. Harry is sitting on one of the black leather couches—he doesn't rise upon seeing her. A weird sensation comes over her, but she doesn't say a word. Before coming here, she promised herself she wouldn't fall for his tricks again—that, if he doesn't want to share the truth, she'll find a way to discover it on her own. So, she doesn't demand to know what's going on—she knows him too well to believe that would work. Instead, she sits down on the opposite couch and lets the situation play out.

On the coffee table between them, there are two glasses and an expensive bottle. He moves forward and picks it up. "Wine?" he asks, and she shakes her head. He fills his own glass; dark red like spilt blood. The bottle touches the table with a soft cling. He picks up his glass and settles back against the couch. He's underdressed—glaringly so. He's wearing bed clothes—expensive, black silk. A long, black robe is on top, which adds to the eeriness of the scene. Alouette can't even remember the last time she's seen him in a robe; he usually puts on a suit soon after waking up. Being dressed so unofficially in the late afternoon is unlike him.

His nails clink softly against the side of the glass as he taps on it. He's not wearing jewellery. Alouette forces herself to look up and breathes in sharply through her teeth. His stare is already on her, dark and heavy, yet with a hint of irony in it. She's familiar with that look—she's seen him countless times. She's seen it enough to know it's not genuine—it's an affectation brought upon by his persona. It's his way of looking at people when he doesn't want them to see him. And it works—because when she looks at him, she can't see anything. He's cool and detached—like usual. Over the past twenty days, she's seen countless versions of this same mood. But he wasn't like this the last time she saw him. He was aggressive, tense, enraged. It's only been a day, but there's no trace of all that now. There's no trace of anything.

He's putting on an act.

"I was told you had an eventful time away from the Palace," he says at last, after a long minute spent in silence. His voice is cool, but not frosty. Perfectly weighted to give nothing away. He's still holding his glass, but he hasn't taken a single sip.

"I went back to the apartment," Alouette replies, and then, because she can't help herself, "do you remember it? My mother's apartment?"

Harry tenses near-imperceptibly. "Of course." A shard of the ice she was so desperately looking for is back in his voice. He crosses his legs; his silk trousers catch the low light of the room's illumination.

Alouette frowns, looking him up and down. She can't figure out what could possibly be wrong with him—what he's trying to hide. There must be something, though, because he wouldn't be here otherwise, hiding in his rooms. She's tempted to ask, but she bites her tongue. Still, the look he gives her tells her he knows exactly what she was about to do. "You saw that book," she says instead. She doesn't need to specify what she's talking about—there's only one book that has haunted their conversations for the past several months.

He narrows his eyes. "That's not a question." His tone is light, but she doesn't miss the way he sat straighter against the couch at her words.

"I don't need to ask," Alouette replies. "I know you did. I saw the look on your face when you did."

The corner of his lips turns up in a half-smile. "And what look was it?" There's a taunting darkness to him. His black clothes, the deep red wine in his hand, his mussed hair, near-black in the low light. His eyes, usually green, dark and distant on a face so pale he hardly looks alive, and on top of it all, his behaviour, so mocking with its coldness and habitualness, as if there's nothing amiss, nothing for her to see.

It'd be so easy to ask, but she can't open her mouth. The distance between them could carry an entire ocean. It's taken her so much effort and pain to build it, yet it's daunting to see him do the same for once. She can't ask because he's put so much care into letting her know it isn't any of her business, and she finds relief in it, in a way—in knowing it isn't, because he isn't. She shouldn't care about what's going on with him, and she doesn't—yet, she still feels the pull of that thread between them, deep down. Maybe this was an act of mercy, after all; he's given her an excuse to pretend nothing is going on and save her own dignity. He's always known how sensitive she is when it comes to him. She's always been awful at hiding it.

"That's when you knew, isn't it?" she forces herself to ask instead. Her voice sounds odd in the silence around them. "You knew who the apartment belonged to, you knew—"

Harry tilts his head. The wine sloshes against the sides of the glass with the movement, painting them dark red. "That isn't a question either," he says. "Why are you here, Alouette?"

Why are you here?

That's a loaded question indeed. She hardly knows herself.

"Your handwriting was in my father's book. I want to know why," she says.

He tenses—for just a moment. Then, he lets out a laugh. Its sound catches oddly in the corners of the room. "Oh, dear," he lets out, leaning an elbow on the back of the couch. "You stirred up such a storm when you left just to come back and resume our conversation?"

She clenches her teeth and leans forward. She hates the tone of his voice—so sarcastic, like he's above her. Like he thinks her ridiculous and pathetic, someone to be pitied. It's so easy to come up on top and look down at the ones below you when you're the one writing the rules. "What did you do to my father?"

He laughs again, hiding his mouth with the back of his hand. "What did I do...? That's an odd choice of phrase."

She snarls. "Is it? We both know the kind of person you are."

"And what kind of person am I?" The teasing edge is back in Harry's voice, like he believes she won't dare answer when he's so taken with making fun of her.

"You're a murderer, a liar and a manipulator," she replies, hard. "You don't care about anything or anyone. You use people for your own gain and then discard them. You trample on whoever you believe gets in your way. That's the kind of person you are so no, I don't think mine was an odd word choice at all. What did you do to my father?"

"You know it all, don't you?" He lets out a short chuckle, glancing away—to the barred window. "What I did?" he repeats in a murmur. When he looks back at her, his gaze freezes her in her spot. "I was sixteen when your father came to me." His voice is low when he speaks, serious, yet soft. There's no trace of the sarcasm from before, now. "So maybe you should turn that sentence around."

She scoffs. "Do you really think I'll fall for that?" she asks. "I know exactly what you're like."

"Was your father an idiot, then?" Harry asks back. His tone still hasn't shifted. "He must've been, if he got played by a sixteen year old, as you say. Or—" He leans closer, "—he's the one that screwed me over. Which do you think is more likely?" The dare is heavy in his voice. The forty-year-old man that created the biggest underground organisation of the country, esteemed professor for half of his life and equally esteemed leader of a revolution for the other half, or the sixteen year old, barely more than a child, with hardly anything to his name?

What was Harry like at sixteen?

"My father was a honourable man," she says. She's avoided the question—Harry knows.

He puts down the still-half-full glass and leans back against the couch again. His hand flies to his side, but only for an instant. He fixes the way the black robe is falling over his body and moves the hand away. "Your father was a coward." His voice is hard, and Alouette flinches. "An arrogant coward that had no qualms about using children to do his dirty work."

"My father wasn't like that," she bites back. "He was brilliant and dignified and put it all on the line for what he believed in."

He lets out a hollow laugh. "How would you know?"

"How would I know?" she sneers at him. "He was my father. I know who he was."

Harry's reply is quick and cracks like a whip. "You know who he was to you. Certainly, he could've never used his own children for his own ends. Everyone else's were fair game, though, weren't they?" He leans forward, for just a moment. "Where were you at sixteen, Alouette? Cuddled up somewhere in the safety with the headquarters, playing games with your doomed friends?"

Alouette jolts back. "I—"

"Do you have any idea where I was?" His back hits the back of the couch again. "It was easy to live happily when your father was using someone else to pursue the ends of his Revolution, I bet. So much less responsibility."

Who was Harry at sixteen? The simple thought is foreign to her. No matter how hard she tries, she simply cannot imagine it. She can't go beyond his elegant pressed suits and perfectly rehearsed manners, but surely he can't have always been like this. He was someone else, once. Someone that maybe behaved differently, dressed differently. She's only twenty-three, yet she too knows how different she was at sixteen. Harry is twenty-six, now—it's been half a century since. What version of him did her father meet?

Could it be possible? The question is surprising when it strikes her. Could this have happened? She knows her father—she knows his kindness, his dreams. But she also knows his intelligence, the levels he'd get to to achieve those dreams. His beliefs alone sparked an entire revolution that shifted the balance of a country in less than two decades, so is this really beyond him? What if he'd found a way; an easy way, a surprising one, the kind of thing monumental enough to shatter an empire—would he have taken it, uncaring of the casualties he would've left in his path?

She shakes the thought away. She's letting Harry's words get to her, yet again. She'd promised herself she wouldn't let them, but she's always been awful at keeping her word.

She opens her mouth, though she doesn't know what to say—where to start. "Talk," is what comes out.

Harry stops fixing his shirt again at the sound of her voice and looks at her, cocking his head. "So you can call me a liar?"

"Talk," she repeats. "Then I'll decide if I want to call you a liar."

He laughs and looks away—towards the barred window on his right once more. His fingers fiddle with one of the lower buttons of the black silk shirt of his nightwear. "What do you want me to tell you, Alouette?" The light sarcasm from earlier is back in his voice, like he thinks what he says next will matter less if he pushes her away first.

Her fists clench in her lap. "How about you start from the start and don't leave anything out?" she bites back. "And afterwards I'll see if I believe a single word you say."

He lets out a chuckle. "Would you ever, I wonder?"

I hope you liked this chapter x
Miki