Page 59 of Shadows of Perl

I sit on Jordan’s bed. He endured these Trials. He has all six pins. His deft command of his magic, the confident way he draws on toushana, his saturated mind of Order history, even his perfect etiquette—Beaulah carved, designed, and carefully sculpted every part of him.

No wonder he is so rigid. There were moments when he would let me peek behind the mask just enough to deceive me into thinking that the Dragun in him is breakable. He isn’t. Beaulah made him that way. That will be Georgie in a few years.

I don’t love her methods. But there is something disgustingly admirable about that woman’s ability to breed resilience.

There is a letter with Abby’s handwriting on the nightstand waiting for me. I rip it open.

Here’s everything I have. I hope you’re okay!

She’s written a long list of locations, from Chicago to New Orleans, where my mom has supposedly been spotted. There are annotations underneath the locations explaining where she obtained the intel. In some cases it’s secondhand through word of mouth. Other times it is someone she trusts or, in the case of Chicago, video evidence that my mother was in fact there at some point. But Chicago was Yagrin impersonating her. I sit back, wondering which sightings were her and which could have been him. Abby’s list includes two balls: one in National Harbor and another in Manhattan.

An idea strikes me. I grab the invitations from between my mattresses and skim them again, looking for any similarities. On Abby’s list is:

October 17—Minneapolis

When Season was in, there was a ball in Minneapolis. I flip through the invites until I spot one in Minneapolis: the Foshay. The date on the invite is also in October. The dates! I hadn’t looked at the dates on any of these because they’re all so worn and old.

September 3

May 12

These are all dates when Season was in; I was at my grandmother’s. These invites aren’t random. The truth knocks the wind out of me. My mother collected them because she thought I’d be there. She’s looking for me. I keep flipping. January 23: a save-the-date for a spring tea next Season. And—my heart hiccups.

Veil of Mums Ball

November 20

That’s in three days. My heart races as I review them all again and find one other that hasn’t happened yet, but it’s months from now.

This is my chance. My mother will be at the Veil of Mums Ball, hoping to find me, in a matter of days. I grab a note to write Abby.

Meet at the coffee shop across from a library in Fairfield

(off Old Post) November 20 at 6 pm

Dress formal. I’ll explain when I see you.

Eighteen

Jordan

Liam’s face lights up, and the sight tugs at my lips. He spins the guitar I just gave him, smoothing his hands along its glossed surface. I check my watch. The Dragunhead is away, finally investigating Francis’s death: ruled a murder, but expecting me in his office with an update on my progress in two hours. In that time, I need my brother’s guard down so he can open up.

“I thought you forgot me in that cell,” he says, resting against a bench on the rooftop of Wexton MidCenter Hotel.

“Uh, hardly.” I had sent Yagrin extra meals and an actual bed while I caught up on the stack of work at my desk and avoided the Dragunhead’s persistent questions about how Sphere tracking is going. I busied myself with papers while he spoke to me, unable to look him in the eye. He stressed that I shouldn’t be worried about Quell. I told him I haven’t been. Partly true. There are no signs of that girl anywhere. I have no leads to worry about.

But Yagrin is going to help me in more ways than one today. I need him to start teaching me how to sun track and tell me more about his time with Quell. My jaw clenches. How far did their friendship go?

“I wasn’t sure,” he goes on, and I put thoughts of him and Quell to rest. I need his help. “Especially after you lied about me helping—”

“Hush.” I cut a cautious glance around. A Dragun is inside, guarding each entrance to ensure we’re not interrupted.

“It was more wishful thinking, I’d say.” I watch for an eye roll or shoulder shrug, but my brother only strolls, stroking the guitar’s strings. I follow at a distance, careful not to push too hard.

“It’s impressive how you’ve mastered holding your Anatomer magic so well. I avoid it. Hate the way it feels.”

He doesn’t respond.

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