BLUEMANTLE by Karen Langston (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📕

forced himself to picture Ursel as Wella had seen her: battered but not broken. Bruised but not defeated. He looked up at his sister. “I will help you,” he said.

Wella stared at him, mouth open.

“I’ll need to disguise myself somehow,” he added, quick to block any objection. “Just to get me to the workshop. Then I’ll help you put Bluemantle together. A hundred thousand copies is a lot. I can help with the printing, folding, packing them up. Even with the drops, if we think the disguise is good enough.”

“Chase—”

“Please. I’ve been holed up here, unable to do a damn thing. Alright, the walkout was my idea, but it’s action we need. I’ve so much to atone for. The story was for Ursel. This is for the Scene, for all the wrongs I’ve done to bring it down.”

“Look, I’ve already decided I’ll do it. I can manage on my own. You don’t need to get involved. You’re in enough trouble with the A as it is.”

“I want to help. And whilst I know you can handle it without me, we can get it done faster together. Once the bottles of water start appearing, we’ve probably only a couple of days before people have enough of the drug in their system to take effect.”

Wella studied Chase’s expression, then slowly nodded. “Alright. Quince has a stash of wigs and clothes for disguise. You’re not the first to have had to leave the hide before it’s safe. The workshop is in Old Wydeye Town. We’ll take the Elevated to Standings Cross and walk from there. Get yourself ready. We leave in ten.”

–

Chase and Wella rode the railmotor in the silence of prey.

Sweat poured down the side of Chase’s face. Beneath the wig, his head throbbed from the heat and itched unbearably. He couldn’t see through the prescription glasses. The padded shirt clung to his body, raising his core temperature in the already sweltering heat.

Wella had adopted a more modest disguise – a precaution in case Surveillance tracked friends and relatives as a route to their target. She stared through the trailer windows, her eyes fixed on snatches of street between the arches of the Elevated.

The railmotor pulled into Standings Cross. They got off and descended to street level, following the underpass until it terminated at the crumbling limestone walls of Old Wydeye Town. Once lost in the maze of narrow streets, they felt able to speak for the first time since leaving the hide.

“Did you see them?” said Wella.

“I can’t see a damn thing in these.”

“Trucks. They’re delivering the water. It won’t be long before they start handing it out.”

They weaved through cobbled streets between low limestone buildings, ducking to avoid sagging awnings and suspended wares. Chase held on to Wella’s arm as she led the way.

“I know I can’t see where we’re going, but haven’t we just walked in a circle?” he said after a while.

“Correct.”

“Don’t tell me you’re lost—”

“Relax. Evasion tactic.”

Eventually they reached their destination. Wella held them back on the opposite side of the street.

“What is it?” said Chase.

“One of the unknowns in the plan. The workshop is guarded by an old man. Some say he’s Cole’s father. Ursel told me the code so he’ll let us pass. But that’s assuming he’s still there. Cole’s quarters were raided eleven days ago. It’s possible the old man destroyed the workshop as a precaution. But hope leaves a light on. Ursel isn’t sure but believes the old guy would’ve waited.”

“What if he hasn’t? What if he’s wrecked the whole operation?”

“Game over.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“What difference would it have made?”

Chase sighed and shook his head.

They approached the ramshackle house, its shutters closed. Wella knocked on the door three times, paused, then knocked twice more. They held their breaths, straining to hear sounds in the foreboding silence. Eventually the door creaked open by a finger’s width. Wella leant forward and whispered through the crack. “The crow flies low over Glade Park.”

Nothing.

Chase squinted at Wella, who shrugged, palms up. Then the door slowly gave way and a frail hand ushered them in.

The room was dark. Splinters of light bled through cracks in the shutters, forming a faint constellation where they touched the dusty floor. The old man stood in the centre of the room, leaning on his crooked cane. His face was gaunt, his expression grave. “Eleven days gone,” he said.

Chase recalled the last time he’d seen Cole. Recalled his own sickening betrayal. He heard the grief in the old man’s voice and could not bear to look him in the eye.

“We have a plan,” said Wella. “One that could lead to the release of prisoners. Crow willing, we’ll reach Cole in time.”

The old man shook his head slowly. “He’s gone. They didn’t take him. But he’s gone.”

“Then we’ll find him. Or he’ll come back. Once the dust has settled. He’ll return.”

“No. He’s gone to the Deep. He won’t be coming back.” He looked at her with eyes that knew. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m sorry. You’ve endured a wasted journey.”

Wella met the old man’s gaze, trying to make sense of his words. Failing, she fell back on the urgency that had propelled her to his home. “You can help us. We’ve come to finish what he started. We have the Troubadours’ consent. Please. If you are right, then let this be his legacy.”

The old man studied the stars at his feet.

Chase fidgeted, sick to the stomach and desperate to leave.

Wella stood her ground, willing the guardian to agree.

Eventually, the old man raised his cane and pointed it towards the wooden cupboard at the far end of the room. “That way,” he said.

Once inside the basement, Chase tore off his wig and rubbed his sweat-soaked hair, scratching his scalp with relief. Wella pulled from her tunic a piece of paper, covered in handwritten script.

“What’s that?” asked Chase.

“The text. Ursel wrote it. We need to set it out in the fanzine format. Make the content clear. Then we start printing. Our