Page 155 of Fortress of Ambrose
Erla furrows her brow but nods.
“Quell, I have to see to this, now. I’m sorry.”
“Jordan, she’s atraitor!” I shout, but he and Erla are already down the hall. Frustrated doesn’t begin to describe the emotions rushing through me. The events of the last several hours are like a slow drip in the same spot in my skull. We are so close to doing the extraction, to freeing magic, and yet we are still so far.
Jordan went to see Abby, but doesn’t know how Dexler is? I hope she’s okay. When she wakes, she can probably help us piece together more of what happened and be sure no one else is involved. I have to be sure. It’s not just my life on the line anymore.
I make a beeline for the Healer office and find Abby writing furiously in some kind of folder. She startles, shuffles the papers on her desk, and hops up.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“I came to see Maezre.”
She jabs a thumb backward to a room with a small bed, where Dexler is still unconscious. My heart sinks. “How is it looking?”
“Not good. Usually we’d see signs that she’s going to wake up within the first few hours, with the elixir I used. But I’m going to keep trying everything I can.”
I hug her. “Thank you for all you’re doing.” We hold the embrace. “Jordan said he came by.”
“Oh, yeah.”
I glimpse the papers she tried to cover. Jordan’s name is all over them. I skim numbers that don’t make sense, hastily written annotated equations all over the page, in the margins, sideways. There is a lot crossed out and underlined in red. My head throbs, trying to make sense of it. Abby breaks the long embrace. I grab the papers from her desk. At the bottom of the page are words that are crystal clear:probability of survival: none.
“Oh my goodness.” The words fall out of my mouth, and I clamp a palm over my face to catch them.He’s going to die.
“Quell, I’m so sorry. His wound never truly healed. I told him to tellyou.” Abby apologizes again, but I don’t have words yet for my frustration with her for not warning me. All this time, I’ve been trying to get magic out of him to save him. When that procedure is most likely to kill him! I turn to go.
“Quell, please,” Abby says to my back.
That night, Jordandoesn’t come to my room. I stay in my room, reliving every conversation Jordan and I had. Each time it only riles up my frustration. I dig through my grandmother’s library of books, reading up on any- and everything that could be remotely useful. And when I find nothing, I burn through pieces of furniture just to feel good. When I collapse into an armchair, I finally exhale. Daylight outside fades to darkness, and it feels like fading hope that somehow this will all be okay. That the future I want is still possible. That I have to fight for it more before it slips through my hands.
I gather up all the evidence I have on Yani from her room and sort through it again, when a card is slipped under my door.
Dinner.
I want to apologize.
—J
I fold the note. I have to confront him. Tell him everything I know about Ube, Abby, and the procedure. But most importantly, I have to take the diadem with the Sphere’s magic away from him and remove him from power before he hurts anyone else.
Includinghimself.
Sixty-One
Quell
A thousand candles are lit all over the dining room. The sweetest melody greets me, along with an aroma of the most deliciously savory meal. A path of black rose petals on the floor leads me to the opposite end of the grand room, where Jordan sits at a glistening piano, working furiously over the keys. The tune is one I remember from the first time we danced. Memories flood me. I stop and breathe it in.It was all so new then.An attraction we couldn’t fully understand.
I realize now it was our kindred thirst for freedom.
Then the world fell apart, shattered by our hands. The only thing left to cling to was one another. The hope for what we’d never seen in the world, an understanding of what should be, and a stubborn determination to see it through.
I set down the stack of evidence against Yani on the table and run my fingers along the beading of my gown, trying to remember to breathe. Servants pass, filling the fluted glasses on the table and layering out lavish platters of fruits and cheeses. Jordan plays harder, his long fingers dancing over the keys. I rehearse what I want to say in my head, how firm I will need to be and what will happen if he doesn’t listen.
Passing a gilded mirror on the silk-lined walls, I spot my diadem, which shimmers in the dim light, perfectly matching the sparkly studs at my ears, which are a stunning complement to the plunging neck of my black satin gown. I clench my fists at the girl in the mirror.
Not her mother’s daughter. Not an heir. Not a runaway. Not someone’s puppet.
