Page 51 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

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“You okay?” Braxton reaches for my hand. The unexpected warmth jolts me away from my thoughts.

“Fine. I’m…fine.” I free my hand from his and rest it on my lap, where he can’t get to it.

“You don’t seem fine. Here—” He slides my water glass closer, as though rehydrating will work to solve anything.

Still, I take a slow, measured sip, if for no other reason than it buys me enough time to get a grip on myself.

“Tasha,” he says. “There are things I’m not supposed to discuss yet—”

He’s on the verge of a major reveal. I can tell by the way he fidgets with his jeweled cuff links, the gold ring on his finger. But before he can start, a waiter appears with two tiny dishes he announces as tonight’s amuse-bouche. By the time he’s moved on, Braxton has settled back into his seat, and the moment has passed.

“What I meant is”—Braxton reaches for his fork—“all of us have failed here at some point. But no one is eversent homefor failing. That’s not what matters at Gray Wolf.”

“Then what does matter?” My breath stalls. The pieces of the puzzle are coming together, but I’ve got a terrible feeling about the image they’re forming.

All around the edges of our table, brilliant dots of three-dimensional white light suddenly appear, forming into an opaque wintry shield that blocks us from the rest of the room. I look between the snow wall and Braxton, wondering if the sudden onset of chills that prickle my skin is caused by the suggestion of snow, or my suspicions that Braxton is somehow responsible for putting it there—that he’s intentionally shielding us from everyone here.

When I meet his gaze, he regards me with a face so conflicted, I know right away that whatever he’s going to tell me, the real answer resides in the part he holds silent.

“Did something happen?” He leans toward me, his fingers now resting on my side of the table, the black silk lapels of his jacket against the midnight blue fabric reminding me of the night sky back home—streaked with smog and full of airplanes that stand in for stars. “At your lunch with Arthur?”

I’m on the verge of telling him what Arthur said—about how he’s counting on me to fulfill his greatest ambition. But just as I’m ready to put a voice to it, I realize how completely ridiculous it would sound to actually say those words out loud.

I mean, no matter what Song said, Arthur probably gives a version of that same pep talk to every fresh recruit in a bid to help us feel special, chosen, so highly exceptional we were hand-picked by the maestro himself. When really, it’s just an attempt to soothe some first day, fish out of water, new kid at the academy jitters.

I steal another glance at Braxton, wondering if he was foolish enough to fall for Arthur’s bullshit speech, too.

“What?” Braxton says, catching me looking at him.

In an instant, my cheeks fill with heat, and I nervously reach for the butter knife, angle it before me, and check my reflection, only to regret the silly display of vanity and put it right back. I need to get a grip on myself, get my imagination in check. And, failing that, I need to just calm the hell down.

But knowing a thing and actually doing a thing are two different skill sets. And before I can stop myself, I’m saying, “There’s something very strange going on in this place.” My gaze cuts between the blizzard and Braxton. Desperate to know the truth but terrified of having my suspicions confirmed.

“Tasha, what’s this really about?” He leans so close, he’s practically halfway across the table. And just like that, I’ve lost the upper hand. In his eyes, I’m reduced to a scared little girl in need of his comfort.

And I just can’t tolerate that.

“It’s nothing.” I force a bit of cheer into my voice. “Lunch was fine. And after, I had a nice chat with Einstein. Turns out, he really is a genius. All in all, a good day.”

Just after I say it, I realize that, despite all the troubling moments, it’s true. Or at least it was better than most days back home.

Which makes me wonder if maybe I shouldn’t be in such a big hurry to make an escape.

Maybe I should at least try to give Gray Wolf a chance.

I look up to see Braxton’s lips part, about to reply, when Elodie slips through our curtain of snow.