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Isla snatched the embroidered blue House fabric from Nore’s shoulders. She worked her hands together, the Cultivator ring on her finger glowing, until the robe shifted into a heap of threads that fell to the floor.

Her mother turned to her brother. “Ellery, we’re finally getting that case of Sun Dust from the Dragunhead that you’ve been working on. Be there to receive it at seven, bring it to the Hall of Discovery, and send for me immediately.” She reached up to his broad shoulders and a crack broke her thin mouth. “And Elena Hargrove is in the receiving room for tea. Exciting.”

Her mother stepped over the mound of threads on the ground. “Welcome home, Nore,” she said, then strode away. It shouldn’t matter to Nore at all. She didn’t even want to wear the heir robe. But if there was a little girl dying an excruciating death inside her, her mother just ripped apart whatever piece of her there was left.

Sixteen

Quell

A stack of books waits for me at the foot of Jordan’s bed. I grab one and cold writhes in my bones.

Darkbearers—A Misunderstood History

Darkbearers. Toushana-bound magic users known for pillaging, stealing, and killing. I’ve never called on my magic to purposely hurt anyone. Yagrin. A lump rises in my throat and panic flares in my chest. I shove the book away, scooting back in my bed. But black seeps from my fingers, connecting with the leather cover. The book crumbles into a bed of ash. I slow my breath and hook my shaky hands together until they are warm. Beaulah has me all wrong. They all have me wrong if that’s what they see in me.

When my heart slows, I peel myself out of the covers. I could hardly sleep, haunted by the way Georgie and the others had looked coming out of that forest. Maybe the reason Adola has been so on edge is because her own Trials are this week. There’s no way she’s prepared. I can help her draw on toushana. And she can cover for me to get back to that guesthouse. There’s no reason we should be at odds. I need to talk to her.

When light breaks, I throw on clothes and skirt past Della, who’s waiting outside my door with an armful of fresh linens.

“Didn’t want to wake you.” She tugs at my arm, trying to lead me back inside. “Can I run a bath?”

“I’m on my way out.” I pull away.

“To?”

Beaulah intends to have me watched every second of every day. “To take a stroll around the water gardens.”

“Please take a few attendants with you! In case—”

But I dash off before Della can finish. I stop by the House manager’s office with a letter for Abby tight in my fist, discreetly letting her know that I’m no longer at the safe house and we can’t meet up until I find a new spot. But in the meantime, she should send me anything and everything she’s heard about my mom. No matter how seemingly small. The outbox is on a desk filled with papers and packages; I drop in the note with Abby’s full name on the front. It vanishes.

The halls of Hartsboro are crowded. I skip over to the Instruction Wing and casually stroll past a series of open doors, where lessons are in progress. But there’s no sign of Adola. The dining atrium is filled with people eating. Charlie is there, talking with his hands in a passionate debate with Mrs. Kinsley over something. I hurry along, about to detour to Adola’s room and wait there, when I spot a gleaming red diadem and long jet-black hair.

“Adola!”

She walks faster before cutting a sharp left back toward the Instruction Wing and disappearing into one of the classrooms. How is she going to survive being buried alive if she doesn’t let me help her? I have to make her understand; I know what it’s like to be in a place like this, hiding what you really feel and think.

I smooth my clothes and grab the knob. Scorch marks mar the stone walls. A stale odor hangs in the air. Débutants in dark robes work by candlelight in various groups around the room, so focused that not a single head turns my way. Adola maneuvers around a maezre with a giant green-stoned ring on her knuckle, and I follow her.

“Can’t you take a hint?” she snaps at me.

“I can help you.” I pull up a chair and sit.

“I don’t care.” She retreats to the cabinetry at the back of the room, where she finds a wooden box. A set of thick rings with various colored gems are inside, and I recognize them immediately: Cultivator rings. Dexler taught me how each holds a type of magic. Green for Audior magic, purple for Shifting, and so on, enabling the Cultivator to channel each type of proper magic. But Adola doesn’t seem to realize I can help her in ways these rings can’t.

“Can we talk?”

The metal ring Adola slides on is dull, well used. Another in the box has the stone missing completely. She studies its empty gold prongs, which fold over each other like a bird’s nest, and I wonder how long she’s been going at this, trying and failing to get her magic to work the way she wants it to. I could hardly do it for the time I was at my grandmother’s. But everything about Adola’s desperate ambition suggests she wants to be here. For a time I fought to be in a prison, too.

Her nostrils flare. “No.”

“Now, Majorie!” the maezre shouts at a girl behind us, and the whole room tightens around them.

I move my seat beside Adola to whisper, “I need to get back to the guesthouse.”

She’s about to respond when the maezre shouts, “Transform it!” The room fills with hamster squeaks that rip into throaty screams, followed by a loud bang. “Off we go, straight to the Healer. Everybody out.”

Adola snatches off her ring and repacks her bag.