Flicker to Fire: Crimson Sash, #3

By Amanda Marin

Beyond the broken wall, a fire has begun to burn …

 

Outside the refugee center in Kébec Village, the border wall separating the New Republic from the Nation continues to crumble. On one side, Neve Hall and Micah Ward are Sans Murs operatives, documenting cases of the Nation's human rights violations as escapees arrive. On the other, Isla Pryce has begun a ruthless mission to purge the Nation of Sufferers who, like Micah, have been unfaithful to their vows.

 

Then she arrives: Blythe Thatcher, a mysterious young woman on the run from Isla's vicious Inquisition Board. In Blythe, Neve sees a way to help Sans Murs further its cause—and rid the Nation of its callous Suffering system once and for all. But when the Nation uncovers their plan, the struggle that started as a flicker quickly turns to fire, and only Neve and Micah can extinguish the flame.

 

The Crimson Sash series is best enjoyed in the following reading order:

North to Nara (Crimson Sash, Book 1)

Sky to Sea (Crimson Sash, Book 2

Flicker to Fire (Crimson Sash, Book 3)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkspell Publishing
• Release date: Aug 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781949931891

Book preview

Flicker to Fire

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Crimson Sash, Book 3

Amanda Marin

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.

IF YOU PURCHASE THIS book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as unsold and destroyed to the publisher. In such case the author has not received any payment for this stripped book.

FLICKER TO FIRE: Crimson Sash, Book 3

Copyright © 2020 Amanda Marin

All rights reserved.

ISBN: (EBOOK) 978-1-949931-89-1

Inkspell Publishing

207 Moonglow Circle #101

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

EDITED BY YEZANIRA Venecia

Cover Art By Najla Qamber

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DEDICATION

For my dad, André,

who taught me the importance of family

One

Awoman is the first to show up today. She’s young—in her early twenties, maybe, though she could easily be twice that. Refugees from the Nation almost always are older than they look, after all. She has an infant with her, too. A small, pink-cheeked girl who makes the softest, sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard. Despite the mud smeared across the blanket she’s wrapped in, the baby is happy, completely oblivious to the risks her mother has taken to get her across the border.

Neve will help you from here, Darcy tells the woman as I settle in behind the desk. Your case is more or less her area of expertise.

I’m not sure what Darcy means. We’ve been staying in Kébec Village since the attack on the wall a few weeks ago, and working at the refugee center here is too new for me to have found my specialty yet. But the moment she leaves me alone in her office and I look at the half-completed admittance questionnaire, I understand immediately. The form tells me what Darcy didn’t: this woman is no ordinary refugee—and neither is her child. They are a portrait of what may have happened to me if Micah and I hadn’t managed to escape the Nation when we did.

You’re the baby’s mother? I ask the woman gently, staring from her tear-streaked, hope-filled face to the information on the mini floatscreen and back again. Her clothing is just as disheveled as the infant’s quilt and the chestnut-colored braid wrapped around the top of her head is loose, each stray wisp a sign of the struggles she must have endured.

Yes, she tells me. Her name is Hanna. I have her birth certificate, if you need it.

Even though I haven’t asked for the document, she rustles through a wrinkled stack of papers on the desk between us and slides one toward me. Technically, I don’t need to see it, but I can’t help myself and glance at the first few lines of print on the page anyway. Name: Hanna Thatcher. Mother: Blythe Thatcher. Father: Unknown.

And the father is listed as unknown because he’s a Sufferer? I say.

Nodding, she blinks away another set of tears. I couldn’t name him. They’d mark us as traitors and take Hanna away.

I cringe, the story sounding all too familiar.

We didn’t plan to have a baby, she says softly, rubbing the curve of her daughter’s cheek affectionately as she looks down at her. My Sanger Shot failed, the medic told me. I knew right away that I wanted to keep her, though. She already reminds me so much of Silas—that’s her father.

Does he know about Hanna?

Again, the woman nods, and she looks up at me. It was his idea we run away to the New Republic. He insisted—he didn’t want us to be taken during the inquisition.

My mouth goes dry, and my heartbeat slows inside my chest. What inquisition?

Blythe’s bottom lip trembles. The Suffering Inquisition—the one the Assembly of Governors agreed to after what happened in Bristol.

The birth certificate I’m holding suddenly feels unnaturally heavy. My grip on it loosens until it sags in my hands, partially resting on the desk. I’m sorry. What? I choke.

The woman moves to the edge of her seat, clutching her infant closer to her chest. She leans forward, and when she talks, it’s in a whisper—as if she’s telling me a secret. There was a young Sufferer in Bristol who broke his contract last summer—

A flash of heat pulses through my veins. I know what happened in Bristol, I tell her quickly. I need no reminder of those painful weeks between the time Micah and I were arrested for breaking the rule of anonymity and when I finally found him at the work camp in Galloway. I meant the part about the Suffering Inquisition. What is it? When did it start?

Blythe takes a deep but shaky breath. It was signed into law last week. There’s this Inquisition Board led by the woman who reported what happened in Bristol. Isla Pryce, I think her name is. They’re conducting random audits of Sufferers from Centers for Compassion in all our major cities, starting in the northeast, then working south and west. They’re trying to catch anyone else who’s broken his or her civil service contract ... It’s automatic expulsion for those found guilty.

Gasping, I bring my hand to cover my mouth. This is too much. It’s harassment, a witch-hunt. The Sufferers give up everything to serve the Nation; they deserve respect, not persecution. And it’s my fault, Micah’s and mine. More Sufferers—people just like any other, people who only long to love like everyone else—risk punishment now because of what we did. Because we broke Micah’s contract and got away with it. Because we challenged the law and humiliated the Nation in the process. Because we’re free.

I’m so sorry, I whisper, hanging my head. I wonder what Blythe would say if she knew who I am. That I’m the girl responsible for tearing her apart from the man she loves, the father of the child in her arms. What about Silas? Where is he now?

He was in Champlain, where we’re from. He’s been selected for the audit, though. He may be in Bristol already by now—that’s where they’re sending everyone. She sniffles, and her face turns very pale as she looks back down at Hanna. I don’t think those audits are as random as they’re telling us. I think they knew about us somehow. We tried so hard to be careful, but they must’ve known ...

Darcy keeps a whole drawer of the desk filled with boxes of tissues. They’re intended for moments like these—when the refugee she’s admitting to the shelter tells a story so sad it’s too much to bear. I offer an entire container to the woman in front of me. Her story is much more than a single-tissue kind of tale.

Silas only signed a five-year civil service contract, Blythe murmurs, dabbing at her eyes. We thought if we could just get through the next year and a half until his term expired, we could be together—get married, be a family. He’d formally adopt Hanna and no one would know she was his all along. That was our plan. Everything’s ruined now.

My heart swells with pity for her. I reach across the desk and take her hand. You’re safe here—so is Hanna. And with you away from the Nation, maybe they won’t be able to prove Silas is guilty of breaking his contract. You have reason to hope.

Her head bobs in agreement. I’m trying. Silas is a good man—so caring and kind.

I’m sure he is. All Sufferers are, I say softly, squeezing her hand and thinking of Micah.

And what, pray tell, is a Sanger Shot—or don’t I want to know? Darcy asks, gruff as usual, when I tell her more about Blythe Thatcher later. She hands me a pile of plates to set on the kitchen table at the farmhouse.

I sigh, already knowing that when I tell her what it is, she’ll roll her eyes and scoff with disapproval. It’s her usual reaction any time she learns something new about the Nation from Micah, Lyse, Auden, or me.

It’s a medicine that prevents pregnancy, I tell her as I set down the dishes. All girls have to get it once a year after they reach maturity.

Darcy snorts as she slices through a baguette. What happens when they grow up and want to have families?

Silverware is next. I pull spoons from the drawer by the sink to pile by the plates. As long as they’re married, they can apply to the Governor’s Office for permission to come off the Sanger Shot the following year. Then they can have a baby.

The knife clatters to the floor beside the counter where Darcy stands. "You have to apply to have a child in the Nation?"

Her voice is shrill, judgment as sharp as the blade she was just holding in her hand. I shudder, even though I knew this kind of reaction was coming.

Sort of, I say, hesitating not just because I’m bracing myself for her wrath but also because I’ve never really thought of it this way before. Yes. I guess we do.

Darcy’s hands fly to her hips, and her lips curl over her oddly sharp teeth. It used to outright frighten me when she’d get like this, but I know her better now. I know it’s only that she has a powerful sense of justice flowing through her veins—that her blood runs hot with anger when she sees someone being hurt. She’s not all that different from the Sufferers, in some ways, even if she fights with words and weapons instead of by grace and example.

"You guess? How can you be unsure? Your Nation either does or does not control your natural right to have a child when you choose. There is none of this ‘sort of.’"

I shrug. It’s not that simple. Before the Nation was re-founded, a lot of people were so poor they couldn’t afford to care for their children. Sanger Shots were instituted to help prevent that. People have to prove they’re financially secure and responsible enough to be a parent now, that’s all. There’s been a huge drop in unplanned pregnancies since the Sanger Shots were instituted. The medicine isn’t perfect—look at Blythe and Hanna—and Isla Pryce’s mother was probably on it, too. It helps, though.

It’s disgusting is what it is, Darcy snaps, slamming her palm against the counter. Forced birth control. You, of all women, should be offended by this, Neve. I thought it was bad enough the Nation told you who you couldn’t love—now I find it tells you when and where you may have a child, too.

As I reach for a stack of cloth napkins, my shoulders droop. She’s right; I should be furious. I’m not, though. Instead, I feel naïve and ashamed—just as I always do when she points out the truth so simply.

Why is it that Nationals are so complacent? Darcy fumes as she scoops up the fallen bread knife, rinses it, and resumes slicing the bread. You must fight for your liberties. No one will do it for you.

The back door by the kitchen swings open then. There’s a slow creak. A series of dull thumps as the newcomers stamp their feet to shake the snow from their boots. And talking, muffled by scarves and high collars. One voice stands out over the others to me—just as it always has, since the day I first heard him speak. Deep and soothing, equal parts confident and calm. I look up quickly to see him standing in the threshold, and I immediately forget about napkins, Darcy’s lecture, and the Suffering Inquisition.

Micah!

I put my arms around him, not caring that his cheek is cold against mine or that the snowflakes on his shoulder melt into my hair. All that matters is that he’s here. Other than the time he spent at the work camp, this is the longest we’ve been away from each other since we met—five days. Even though I knew he was only a couple hours away in Ville Marie—and even though we talked each night on a mini floatscreen—it’s felt more like five weeks.

I missed you so much, Micah murmurs, holding me tight to his chest.

You’d think they were never going to see each other again, Darcy says with a snort. She throws her hands in the air like she’s annoyed, but there’s laughter hidden deep beneath her tone.

Well, with their track record, can you blame them? says Chloé, hanging up her coat in the closet, then helping Lyse and Auden with theirs. When I glance at her, she winks. Every time one walks into the room, the other deserves to celebrate. They fought hard for their right to love. You were not so unlike them once.

Yeah, Darcy. Give the kids a break.

Behind them, Remy crowds into the space. As he unwinds his scarf from around his neck, he gives Darcy a peck on the cheek, using the distraction as a chance to snatch away a piece of the baguette. Catching him mid-grab, Darcy raises an eyebrow and pokes him in the chest.

Wait until the others get here, she scolds.

I hope they show up soon, he says. We have lots to discuss.

Darcy’s eyes meet mine. We do, too. A most interesting refugee turned up today at the shelter with news from beyond the border. Neve can give the full report.

I can? I echo, uncertain. I’ve never given a briefing to Sans Murs before. My stomach flips nervously at the idea of it—of all eyes looking at me, of the questions they may ask, of how little time I have to prepare.

You can, and you will, Darcy confirms, pointing the bread knife at me. The gesture comes across as far more threatening than I’m sure she intended. You tell them everything just like you told me, and it’ll be fine. Remember what I said—no one understands this like you do.

Micah looks down at me, his brown eyes wide and worried. What happened? he whispers.

Before I can say even a syllable in reply, the kitchen door swings open again. The others have arrived.

Two

There are far more people here tonight than we expected—more than any week prior, too. Sans Murs’ attack on the border wall has set off a chain reaction. The border is compromised, making it easier than ever for refugees to escape. The more refugees make it across the border, the more sad stories they share. And the more peace talks between the Ministry and the Nation flounder, the larger our numbers grow. Chloé says it’s the same everywhere, not just in Kébec Village but across the entire province—and in neighboring Acadie, too. She would know; she’s in touch every few days with the leaders of Sans Murs chapters from across the New American Republic of the Atlantic. The Ministry won’t be able to convince the Nation we’re a fringe group much longer.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

For now, we crowd around the kitchen, overflowing into the living room beyond. We don’t have enough seats at the table—or enough soup. Most of the other guests have brought food, though, so no one goes hungry.

Neve, get another baguette from the pantry! Darcy calls out to me across the room as she ladles broth into bowls.

I can barely hear her over the chatter—the mix of French and English, laughter and gossip—as everyone catches up, sharing their own news with friends before Chloé gives her chairperson’s update. Nodding, I start wading through the sea of people toward the pantry.

Has she been barking orders at you like this all week? Micah asks, catching my hand as I pass by him, standing with Moose and Remy.

She’s been all right, actually, I assure him as I open the pantry and step inside the small space. He follows me, turning on the light and closing the door behind us.

Finally, a moment alone—of relative peace, with the voices and clanking of silverware muffled. I spot the baguette Darcy asked for on a shelf, but before I can reach for it, Micah starts wrapping his arms around my waist.

I never want to be away from you that long again, he murmurs, brushing his lips against mine.

I’ve spent the last few nights dreaming of these lips, their softness and heat against my mouth. The eagerness with which they’ve learned all the nooks and patches along my skin that make me feverish. The way they always seem to go exactly where I want them to, even before I know those places myself.

Just like they’re doing right now.

Me neither, I agree, running my hands through Micah’s hair and kissing him back in turn. Did Remy behave?

Vaguely, he nods. It’s barely been two months since Remy kidnapped and held us hostage, but Micah’s very forgiving, and Remy—like Darcy—has been much kinder since Chloé explained the mix-up in her instructions. We’re all almost friends now. Almost.

Dr. Petit says hello, he tells me, focusing his attention on my neck and collar.

Did you see Indira and Gita? I ask, a little breathless.

There wasn’t time. The hearings ran over each day—the Commission for Justice had so many follow-up questions. Keeping my appointment with Dr. Petit was all I could manage.

I slip my hand under his sweater, resting my palm on his paper-smooth abs. There’s a small hitch in his exhale at my touch, and I can’t help grinning. But you don’t have to go back anymore now, right? I ask.

Micah pauses abruptly and brings his hands to my face. Cupping my jaw in his palms, he smiles and shakes his head as he looks at me. No, it’s over—all that is over. None of us have to think about the Deep Prison again.

That’s what I was hoping he’d say. The Nation is truly behind us now. I burst with excited laughter, thinking about everything that lies ahead—all the plans we’ve made. We can move back to Ville Marie soon and use the money we’ve saved for a deposit on a flat. I can finish my application to study at the University of Nara this fall, and after I graduate, we’ll get married, and then ...

Neve! The baguette!

Darcy’s pounding on the pantry wall pulls me out of my daze. Micah quickly reaches for the loaf and opens the door to her rolling eyes. I expect her to lash out at us for wasting time like this when the farmhouse is so busy. She only sighs when she sees us, though. Giving us a break for once. Just like Remy asked.

Chloé’s about to start, she says, snatching up the bread. You’ll want to sit near the front for when you’re called to report, Neve.

And then I frown, remembering Blythe Thatcher and the Suffering Inquisition once more.

The Ministry continues to be grateful for the intelligence we have brought them, even if they have been slower to take action against the Nation than we would like, Chloé tells us.

She stands at the head of the living room. The furniture has been rearranged into an arc so all can see her, and although the space is packed—with people sitting on the floor and standing in the back—everyone is speechless and serious, listening to her speak as if they’re the first words they’ve heard after a lifetime of silence.

As many of you know, I have just returned from Ville Marie, where I—along with Micah, Lyse, and Auden Ward—testified before the Ministry’s Commission for Justice regarding the appalling conditions of the Columbian Democratic Nation’s Deep Prisons. The Wards and I have each spent time in this system, and our experiences were startlingly similar. Malnutrition. Filth. Abuse from the other prisoners, which Enforcer guards did little to prevent—and, on occasion, even encouraged.

In Chloé’s pause, a few people hiss to vocalize their disapproval.

I told the commission how I was denied food for days as punishment for asking to speak to the Republic’s ambassador. I listened as Lyse described how she was tortured by guards for information about her son’s whereabouts. And I heard how Auden was denied medical treatment for a stab wound in his leg until it had become infected and he could no longer walk. So much pain, so much suffering—and that was just the beginning. Our stories have corroborated those of the many refugees who have fled here since the wall was bombed.

When are they going to finally do something? calls a man sitting at the back of the room.

"They are doing something—we are all doing something, Serge, Chloé tells him. The Nation has been so tightly guarded for so long, with few refugees escaping—and even fewer willing to speak out. No one has been able to validate the extent and depths of its people’s suffering before now."

Her gaze drifts over to Micah and me—subtly but meaningfully, and with a hint of pride—as if to say that we did this. We weren’t the first refugees from the Nation, but we were the first to capture the world’s attention. We did it with Micah’s drawings, with our love and determination.

Every one of these stories arms the commission with the information they need to approach the World Union, Chloé continues. Together, we will peacefully bring an end to the Nation’s long list of human rights violations—

But Serge isn’t satisfied with patience and peaceful protest. We need action, not more words.

Calmly, Chloé raises her hands and nods. The commission has assured me they will have a draft report outlining these incidences—and all the others we have shared with them since we took over operations of the refugee center—by the end of the month.

That’s not fast enough, Serge barks. More refugees are crossing the border every day. It’s our duty to help them as much as possible. That means addressing the source of their troubles—the Nation.

Sparks of discontent—murmurs, shaking heads, gasps—begin to travel through the crowd then. I glance up at Micah anxiously, and he entwines his fingers with mine. Chloé’s doing all that she can; we both know she is. We see it every day in how she worries and works, spending long hours at the refugee center and conferring late into the night with the leaders of other Sans Murs chapters. She isn’t Prime Minister Lafayette, though; there’s only so much influence she can exert.

Please believe me when I assure you that the Ministry is doing everything possible. For our concerns to be taken seriously, though, it is imperative that we first exhaust diplomatic solutions before escalating to more drastic ones, Chloé tells the group. The World Union has been waiting for credible information such as we have for decades. Once the Commission for Justice sends its report to them, they will intervene, then the Nation will face sanctions—

Sanctions? someone else snorts. So what if WorldU bans tea or fabric from being sent to the Nation? That’s not going to change anything.

I agree, adds another. We need to do more—tear down the wall ourselves, if we have to.

Chloé bristles. "I wish to remind you all that Sans Murs believe in peace just as much as we do in justice. Our new agreement with the Ministry also forbids us from resorting to violence again. Anyone who disapproves of our methods is free to leave."

A startled silence fills the room as Chloé pauses and glances toward the front door. For a moment, no one moves. In all the weeks that Micah, his parents, and I have been staying at the farmhouse, we’ve never seen dissent like this among Sans Murs. I can tell by the way most people shift uncomfortably that they haven’t either.

Then it happens. A man at the back—tough-looking, dressed in a black leather jacket, with salt-and-pepper scruff on his chin—stands up. This must be Serge. As I crane my neck to finally see him, my grip on Micah’s hand tightens. We know him, I realize. He was one of the guards at the border on Deer Mountain when we escaped the Nation. He brought bandages for Micah’s wound while we waited for transport. He was kind to us.

Now, Serge’s face is crimped in a scowl. He pushes through the crowd around him, stepping over the bent knees of those sitting on the floor and weaving around those standing along the edge of the room. The entire time, his glare is fixed on Chloé. Fiery, accusatory, challenging. And then he’s gone.

Clearing her throat, Chloé turns back to the room. Now that we are once again among those of like mind, Neve Hall will share a special report from the refugee center here in Kébec.

Every bone in my body freezes. I don’t want to do this—not after what just happened, knowing so many people are upset. Telling them about Blythe Thatcher and the Suffering Inquisition will only make the tension worse. My throat goes dry, and I shake my head at Chloé even as Darcy, who sits with Micah and me, nudges my side.

Go, she tells me.

This isn’t a good idea, I whisper back.

They deserve to know the truth, she insists, standing up and tugging me along with her. This isn’t the Nation—we don’t censor information here.

As I stand between Darcy and Chloé, looking out at the other members of Sans Murs, it feels like the temperature in the room has dropped ten degrees. The warmth and friendliness that I felt just a few minutes ago in the kitchen have been replaced by cold stares, clenched jaws, and crossed arms. My hands shake, and I swallow hard. I’ve never loved public speaking. I even used to get nervous sometimes giving tours at the National Museum—and that was far easier than this, with everything scripted and an agreeable audience.

But then I find Micah’s eyes, so calm and encouraging, and I remember how the Nation abused him—and how they’re mistreating Silas and all the other Sufferers. I have