Page 15 of Ruling Destiny

And while I’m not about to argue with Einstein, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, getting a bit ahead of myself.

Maybe it’s not nearly as bad as I think.

Maybe Song didn’t disappear.

Maybe she made a choice to find Anjou, since no one else could be bothered.

As I rinse the soap from my body and wring the shampoo from my hair, I know that whatever happened to Song, the answers I seek are inside that book.

9

After slipping into a black turtleneck and a pair of dark denim jeans I wear tucked inside my boots, I hear a brisk crack of thunder, followed by a heavy downpour of rain, and I know the official window for not getting drenched is now permanently closed for what’s likely to be the rest of the day.

I reach for my warmest down parka—the one with the hood—and I’ve just stepped into the hall, destination Tarot Garden imprinted on my mental GPS, when my slab chimes with an incoming message.

My first thought is that it’s from Braxton. Arthur let him go early. And though I’m thrilled by the idea of spending the rest of the day together, for now I need to drum up an excuse—something that’ll deter him long enough for me to head out into a torrential downpour so I can scour every inch of theMagiciansculpture in search of the book.

In other words, I’m about to feed him yet another lie.

And though it’ll be a harmless lie, it still makes me cringe to think just how quickly these little fabrications are starting to pile up.

Still, resolved to do whatever it takes, I’m making my way down the staircase, trying to think of the perfect response, when I glance at the screen to find the message isn’t from Braxton.

It’s from Killian.

And luckily, I have no problem lying to him.

Killian:Hey—I know ur boy is off with Arthur. Does that mean you’re free to hang w/me?

Me:Unfortunately, I

Me:Unfor

Me:Un

Me:

In the end, I don’t hit send. I just choose to ignore him and delete my reply.

Not because Killian and I aren’t friendly—we are.

Actually, I’m probably the closest friend Killian has in this place. Which isn’t saying much, considering how, from what I can tell, he doesn’t seem to have any friends.

All I really know is that Killian’s been here longer than Braxton and almost as long as Elodie. But just because he was stuck in eighteenth-century France for the last four years doesn’t mean his return erased all the earlier baggage nearly everyone here associates with him.

For the last three weeks, Killian’s kept to himself. And there was one night when I felt so sad to see him eating alone that I nearly gave Braxton a stroke when I invited Killian to join us.

But Killian was quick to decline. And between Braxton’s thinly veiled hatred and Killian’s vague accusations—well, I was feeling kind of over it.

For such a small group of Blues, we are teeming with resentments. And I guess in a way I’m no better, seeing as how I’ve been nursing my own anger toward Elodie from the start. But at least I try to get along. At least I’m able to get through a meal, attend her in-room parties, and put in the effort required to actually have a good time.

But Braxton and Killian…forget it.

Or, as Braxton said later that night:Never going to happen, so don’t waste your time.Followed by:And you should seriously consider staying away from him. He’s not who you think he is.

I wish I knew what really happened between them. But those two aren’t talking, and no one else will give up any details.

All I know for sure is that the whole thing makes me feel awful, which explains why I pretty much spent the rest of that dinner sneaking glances between Killian and Mason. Each of them exiled to their own tables. Each of them pretending not to care.

---