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“Josephine, you’ve been summoned to dinner.”
“Heard you the first two times,” Clarke snapped at the sentry.
It’d only been a matter of hours since she’d returned to the palace, using another person's voice, reclaiming an identity she’d really rather have dispelled completely from her life.
Clarke had insisted on remaining to “monitor” Madi: “In case the tube gets backed up or something,” she’d quipped to Russell, wrinkling her nose. Once in solitude, she’d gripped her child’s hand, every instinct desperate to rip her away from that chair and run as fast as she could. Instead, it had to be this: Watching her life being sucked away, drop by drop.
Upon the sentry’s approach, she’d pressed her lips to Madi's knuckles before assuming a normal Josephine pose: Arms folded, intermittently poking at things on tables as if she’d slip them into her pockets. “Your father has missed you dearly, ma’am. I’m afraid he’s been looking forward to this. . .”
Clarke sighed, rolling her eyes for good measure. “Fine.”
The sentry cleared his throat. “. . . Er, miss—”
She blinked slowly at him: What.
“Your clothes. . .”
She finally resigned to let a couple handmaidens dress her in a silky, shimmery violet gown that resembled ink and crushed diamonds, the fabric swirling about her feet.
“Aw. Is this a daddy-daughter thing?” she asked upon entering the dining hall. Besides a few more sentries lining the space, only Russell stood at the table, also in formal attire.
He smiled warmly—though she detected a terseness behind it—and squeezed her hands. “Not quite.”
She loosed a little hum, settling into her chair. “Well, if Priya and Riker are going to be late, at least give me a cracker or something—I’m starving. Honestly, I haven’t had a proper meal in ages what with the whole—” She wriggled her figures at her temple.
While she spoke, Russell had reached into his robe and silently placed Simone’s chip where his wife normally sat. Then, to Clarke’s curiosity and disdain, set a second one down across from her.
She frowned in confusion, let a bit of her actual panic seep into her tone. “Dad?”
“I’ll explain in a minute,” he said, offering a tight smile. “We aren’t dining alone, Josie.” His eyes flicked to a guard, who filed out of the room.
“What happened?” she demanded. “Which one of them is it?”
He took her hand in both of his. Absently, she realized someone was ladling creamy red soup into her bowl—then Russell’s, then a third one.
The doors buckled open, footfalls heavy and staggering. Like with Madi, Clarke had to repress every bit of horror somewhere in the back of her mind. She couldn’t afford for even a flicker of it to manifest in her expression as a gagged Bellamy, battered and bleeding, was dragged into an empty seat. He panted while the men fastened shackles to the arms of his chair.
Clarke sighed shortly through her nose at Russell. “Again with this guy? Really?” To his credit, Bellamy was sending her a look of absolute loathing.
Sanctum's leader looked rather forlorn. “It’s necessary.”
“For dinner?” she scoffed, bored and impatient.
“Josie. Riker was murdered today.”
She blinked in shock. Bellamy stiffened too, brow furrowing. Was he also unaware of this? Which of their people had managed it? If Murphy and Gaia had been with them. . .
Clarke was genuinely asking as she ground out, “Who.”
She was taken aback that she hadn’t really seen it before—how absolutely unraveled the man in front of her was. It worried her greatly.
For good reason, she thought, as he waved another set of doors open. Echo’s expression barely shifted upon noticing Bellamy as she was hauled to her knees—though Clarke saw his face had gone blank.
“You remember Echo,” Russell said.
“Oh, that one,” she sneered without missing a beat. “The pissy one. Not a fan.”
“There is some good news,” he said, and produced a small, beautifully crafted dagger, offering it to her like a piece of candy. “See for yourself.”
Clarke’s mind raced as she let a pleasantly surprised grin bloom on her face. “This is pretty. I don’t really want to ruin my dress, but—”
“No. No killing. Just a minor incision will do.”
Her blood turned to ice as realization settled. She had figured they’d performed Abby’s method on someone. Was Echo the first? Did that mean—
She couldn’t bear to look at Bellamy as she quietly gasped, “For mom?”
Her stomach turned as he laughed gently. “Go on.”
Clarke approached Echo like a kid might a new pet pony. The warrior’s steely eyes promised violence. She grinned back sweetly. “What was that thing Clarke liked to say in that gibberish language of hers?” She let herself struggle with it before finally producing, “Wam. . .plei nou. . . laik eno-de. No clue what it means, but it sounds rude.”
Death is not the end.
If Echo understood, she was smart enough not to reveal it. “Go to hell,” she seethed.
“I’ve been. Not fun.” She reached around to slice lightly at the flesh of one of her bound wrists—pausing when Echo’s thumb flicked up. I hear you.
Her eyes closed briefly at the stream of black down Echo's arm; though her gaze turned reverent as she held the blade up to the light for Bellamy and her "father" to see, dabbing at it with her fingers. “Well damn.”
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Russell observed. “And yes—we plan to start your mother’s operation after supper.”
Bellamy’s face was drained of color as he grunted furiously, writhing against his restraints—
Suddenly, the full truth clicked, and Clarke had never been more terrified in her life. But as Josephine, she managed to act clinically impressed as she lifted her chin towards Bellamy. “Riker?”
Russell nodded triumphantly, eyes shining.
“Maybe I’ll learn to not hate their faces one day,” she said, as close to a pleased reaction as Josephine would’ve allowed; then a bit sheepishly, “Can we eat now? Actually, I’ll need a new bowl, this one’s probably gone cold—”
“Josephine.”
“I’m just saying, I really am hungry—”
“I know,” Russell began, rising, “but do you remember what I told you? About being certain before you act?”
She probably floated that memory, old man, Clarke thought in exasperation. She puffed her cheeks in contemplation. “Sorry. Some things were misplaced up there. . .”
“I’m sure they were. It is imperative, Josephine. I’ve forgotten it myself these days, with so much happening. I let my emotions get ahead of me—after all, I nearly burned these people—burned the key to our survival at the stake without a second thought!”
Clarke barely repressed the wrath that flared, merely quirking a brow in mild interest at the mention of violence. But he waved it off, placing his hands on her shoulders. She longed to shake him off. “My point is—and this is difficult, sweetheart, I hate to put you through it. But I have to account for every possibility. Especially regarding you.”
“Meaning?”
His face shuttered, hardened. His voice trembled slightly. “If all of this—if you—are some sort of trick—”
She barked an incredulous laugh. “What, as if she beat me?” He didn’t deny it, and fear struck her to her core.
“My daughter is brilliant. . . But Clarke Griffin wanted to live, desperately. And more importantly. . .” He turned them both towards Bellamy, whose nostrils flared. “He wanted her to live.”
“Yes, I was there, dad,” she panned, annoyed. “I was there when her heart stopped, and I’ve told you the rest. I used the neural mesh—”
“Kiss him.”
The words struck her dumb, and for once, Clarke imagined Josephine wouldn’t have reacted too differently. “Excuse me?”
Any warmth had vanished from his expression, leaving only grim calculation. “Is there a problem?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” she sputtered. “I can’t stand him. And if he’s gonna be Riker then it’s majorly creepy—”
“You’re hesitating,” Russell considered. Bellamy's eyes were unfocused, his skin a bit green, casting his lesions in sharp contrast.
“Oh give me a break,” Clarke hissed. “This is just so unnecessary—this overly cautious bullshit. We won, dad.”
He studied her face, his own even as he murmured, "Shall I call the guards?”
"God." She flung her arms up. “Okay, you know what?” Her heart was pounding, straining as she hitched up her dress and stormed to the other side of the table. As she shot Russell a look, she glimpsed Echo.
Even though she knew she wasn’t Josephine, her eyes were red, lined with silver. Clarke wanted to scream, aching and ragged.
But she couldn’t falter as she used the dagger to sever Bellamy’s gag, then flung the weapon callously across the floor with another pointed, furious look at Russell. “See? I can be careful.”
He didn’t respond, hands calmly folded in front of him. Waiting.
Bellamy stared up at her, his mask of mock-hatred faltering around his eyes. They too were shining, and she couldn’t let herself imagine why.
She had to be careful, here. Because if it were up to Clarke, she would make it as brief as possible—as little contact as she could manage. But just like with Madi, she was forced to do the opposite.
She knew precisely how Josephine would have done it in her irritation, her flippancy for emotion.
So that’s what she did.
In one motion, she heaved the chair out from the table and slid down onto his lap, her gown pooling over them both. She kissed him hard. Tasted the blood on his mouth from where he’d been struck; tasted his tears, fought her own all the while. She fisted at his hair and heard him hum softly, shame roiling as she realized—
He was kissing her back. He drew closer while she drew away. It was a half-second and it would stay with both of them.
The whole display was fast yet languid, and when she pushed up off of him, his gaze was glassy, lips swollen. His knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of the chair.
She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, catching her breath. Then pinned Russell with a glare that was very much her own. Behind him, Echo’s face was unreadable.
The room was silent apart from the wet thumping in her ears and the clack of her shoes as she made her way to her seat, scooting her chair forward loudly. “Someone get me some damned soup.”