Page 41

“If his affections were that fickle, I’m not sure I would care what he said.” Francis sighs. “Your passion is inspiring. The Order leadership hasn’t had that fire in some time.” He stops walking and looks around the room, patting his pockets. “If you’ll excuse me just a minute.” He exits through the wall.

After all the years he’s given to the Order, the years his parents and theirs gave to magic, he would dishonor all of it with a single decision. Someone with his expertise would shirk the blatant call to duty. If I have any say, he is going to help. Magic is on the line.

“I don’t like this,” Charlie says.

Yani doesn’t say anything, looking at me with unease.

We wait for some time, but Francis still doesn’t return.

“Grab some of that stuff he’s drinking. I want to test it and some of these crushed plants around his bed. Both of you, wait here.” I approach the wall, and it shimmers translucent, when Yani grabs my wrist. Then she eyes her hold on me before snatching it away. “Sorry.”

“Stay here.” I step through the wall, round the house, and find Francis’s body face down in the dirt, bleeding from a singed gash in his back. And ice cold.

Twelve

Quell

Adola is silent as she escorts me from Beaulah’s private quarters. We pass a series of paintings, a few with an artistic take on a starry night sky over a sandy beach. The nights when my mom and I were in bed at the same time, we’d whisper about living close enough to the ocean to hear it and feel its salty, cool air on our skin. Did she remember that, too, when she walked this hall? The familiar ache pulses with an acute new pain. It’s one thing to imagine where she was. It’s another to walk the places she did, see what she saw, breathe the air she did, and know that she stood here and thought of me, too. I speed up to keep with Adola. We stop at a bedroom inside the main house.

“I want to stay in the guesthouse your aunt mentioned.” Where my mom stayed. That’s the first place I want to look around.

“Mother said to find an available room in the family’s private wing.” She dangles a brass key. Beaulah wants to keep me close. I swallow.

“Well, tomorrow I need you to show me where the guesthouse is.”

“Whatever you’re up to, keep me out of it.” She shoves the key in the door.

I’d hoped to be done twisting her arm.

“I wasn’t asking.” Part of me crumbles at the way her nostrils flare. She doesn’t want to get in trouble; I remember feeling like that. Wanting to please my Headmistress. But I saw the fear of death in her eyes when we crashed Beaulah’s party.

“Whatever your real reasons are for being here,” she says, “Mother is very perceptive. You won’t fool her for long. And I can’t afford to be caught up in any schemes.”

I feel sorry for Adola, but if she won’t cooperate, I’ll bury the knife deeper. “I saw how nervous you were when your aunt told you to perform in front of everyone.”

She hesitates.

I knew it. Either she can’t do dark magic or she can’t do it well. And her aunt has no idea. I turn to walk back toward the party.

“Wait! Quell, please. Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d tell Beaulah how we met tonight. And maybe mention that you might not be the heir she thinks you are.” It says a lot that Beaulah hasn’t already figured it out. Adola’s skilled at wearing masks. So was I, at Chateau Soleil. It’s exhausting to constantly look over your shoulder. Guilt cinches my stomach. Adola could probably use a friend who knows what that pressure feels like. But I bury the feeling with thoughts of my mother.

She balls her fists. “Please just come inside the room. I’ll get you a map of the grounds and show you to the guesthouse tomorrow.”

Adola’s very helpful under duress. But as I follow her back to my room, her sullenness bites at me. She closes us inside.

“Mother will probably send you attendants in the morning.” She won’t meet my eyes, and I’m reminded of a girl desperate to hide a black diadem. Returning guilt nicks me in the ribs. And this time I can’t ignore it. I sigh.

“Adola, I don’t have to be your enemy. Is it that you don’t know how to draw toushana to yourself or that you aren’t good at it? Whatever it is, I can probably help you.”

“No.” She puts more distance between us, but I can see her hands start to shake.

I whisper, “How bad is it? Do you not have magic at all?”

“Of course I have proper magic,” she spits. She raises her chin, her diadem gleaming.

“But you’re not good at drawing the dark kind?”