Page 143 of Fortress of Ambrose
“No.”
I wait for him to say more. For him to explain why he will tolerate brieftouches confidently. Why he promises I will understand soon. But I tuck my need to know away.
“We shouldn’t delay.” He pulls the diadem with the Sphere’s magic out of his pocket. “A replica.” He twists it, its gems gleaming. “Can I see the real one again?”
We enter my grandmother’s bedroom—where we have stowed away the real diadem with the Sphere’s magic. I unlock the door to the smaller room off her bedroom, where she once kept me. He goes inside, and I follow, connected to him, trying to find the right words. He grabs the real diadem and holds it beside the fake.
“They’re imperceptibly different.”
“The real one has a nick.” He shows me a spot on the edge of the headband before locking the real one back away. Back in the living room, he sets the fake on the coffee table inside a half-opened metal box. We release hands so I can arrange the room in a bit of disarray to make it look like I left in a rush.
“You think it will work?” he asks.
The plan is to leave my quarters unlocked with the diadem’s metal box in plain sight. The Dragunhead wants the Sphere’s magic, and we’re serving up half of it on a silver platter. We made the ball mandatory, after all, to pull this off. We will watch the dance for who slips away. We’ll follow them to catch them red-handed. “It will work.”
I pull the desk drawer open where I’ve hid the article, wrestling with withholding such urgent news. So much is riding on this diadem trap succeeding.After.I’ll tell him after the ball.Getting rid of the rat will feel like a win.
“What is that?” He peers over my shoulder.
I shove the drawer closed. But he pulls it back open and finds the folded newspaper, so small the headline is hardly readable. I snatch it away. Jordan stares at me quizzically.
“Quell?”
“I wanted to tell you later.”
“What’s happened?”
“Jordan, sit.”
He does. I sit beside him and take his hand again. He lets me, but his grip is rigid, and his palm is sweaty. I can’t think of a way to say it that sounds good. So I just spill.
“The Dragunhead has burned down the home where you grew up.” I cup his hand with both of mine. “And your father was inside at the time. He is dead.”
Jordan rips his hands from mine. The green in his eyes dulls as he glares at the folded paper in my hands.
“Did it say anything about my mother?”
“They are still looking. Jordan, I’m so sorry.” I give him another moment to say something, to ask questions, but he doesn’t move. And it only rattles my pulse more. The weight in his chest grows so heavy I feel it, andIcan hardly breathe. “Would you like to read the article?” I offer it to him.
With a vacant stare, he takes it from my hands and tosses it in the fire. Then he offers me his arm. “We’re going to be late.”
The ballroom isbeautifully decorated in lush dark fabrics. Black silks billow from the ceilings, and roses from the garden fill elegant vases on the tables. Dexler asked for my creative vision, and I told her to design it around my diadem. I hoped it would feel more welcoming, like a powerful House with a refreshing makeover.
“Dexler really remixed things,” I say to Jordan, who is stiff on my arm, a hollowed shell. Every time I say something to him, I get a short reply.
“She did.”
Now is no different. The tables are decked out with tall centerpieces ornamented with crystal, which shimmers against the rich black fabric everywhere. Everyone is dressed in dapper suits in all styles and radiant gowns in gorgeous patterns and colors. Sweet music floats in the air, coming from an Audior who has to be one of Zecky’s. A few dance.But despite the atmosphere of festivity, most linger on the perimeter of the ballroom, shuffling their feet, side-eyeing the food reception line and scarcely filled chairs.
The reality is, until an hour ago, they’d been locked in their rooms for twenty-four straight hours other than the handful of people escorted to do work in the extraction lab.
“Is everyone here?” Jordan asks. There are two sets of grand doors to the ballroom: the main entrance, which feeds into the reception line, and a pair of smaller carved doors on the north side of the ballroom, where two servers enter and exit. Both doors are closed as the servers set out the last trays of hot food. I count each head in the room.
“Yes, every single body on the grounds is in this room.”
Willam sits at a table, picking over a biscuit on a tiny glass plate. Knox is beside him. They don’t speak. I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to check in with them. Dimara is beside Knox, ripping a piece of chicken off a bone and shoving it into her mouth. The twins and Kedd also sit at their table, staring into space, resigned.
“They are miserable, Jordan.”
