Gryff runs his fingers along the large glass window separating us from Lyria. “Without her, everything is worthless.” He lowers his head. “I always thought I had more time.”
I swallow a lump as I think about my sister’s words: Tomorrow isn’t promised.
“She’s not dead, Gryff.” I glance at Lyria, sitting in a wheelchair, hands in her lap, eyes empty, facing that stupid frozen lake. My chest hurts. Everyone’s right; she might as well be dead. I chew on my lower lip. Without Lyria, life seems bleak, but Paltro’s words hold my tears. I can’t grieve now. Grimm mindtrapped Lyria because she was too close to the truth. I can’t give in. She wouldn’t want us to wallow; she would want us to find him… and she would want me to apologize to Viola.
“Sy.” Beau pulls me aside. Mages have dwindled in number, a few still hovering around Lyria, setting books and cakes on her dresser. I don’t know why they keep bringing her gifts. She cannot read, cannot speak, cannot eat other than what comes through these Arkani-made tubes in her arms.
“Viola wouldn’t miss Lyria’s first visiting day.” Beau leans forward, looking past the crowd that just walked down the steps. Their presence makes the air stuffier. I know they come in support, but I wish they would leave and act like a five-century-old murderous mage is about to turn our world upside down.
“I told her not to come,” I mutter.
“You… what?” Beau jerks away from me. “You barred her from visiting our sister? Our sister who lost her mind while trying to save her?”
I was wrong, but instead of admitting that, I lash out. “Rhea Corvi started this whole thing; if she hadn’t killed Mom to find Viola because of her obsession with her untainted line, Willow wouldn’t have released Grimm by trying to resurrect her. Rhea wouldn’t have had to fragment Willow’s soul into six relics, damning six families to Delaney’s revenge. And Rhea wouldn’t have had to murder the Deathbringer for Viola because she was the cuff’s sole heir and needed to be hidden away. Your parents would still be alive… and so would everyone else.”
Gryff’s head snaps toward us, and Beau’s eyes twitch; I shouldn’t have told him in this way, but he deserves to know who caused his parents’ deaths. Briar uncoils from around his forearm and rests her head on the back of his palm. Her eyes narrow at me, then lower to Scar, but the aspier looks away.
“Viola…” Beau takes in a sharp breath, his eyes drilling into me, his fists curling at his sides. “Thank Haal Lyria cannot watch your prejudice blind you yet again. You’re blaming Viola for something entirely out of her control.”
“That’s not it.” I exhale, releasing yesterday’s frustrations. “When I told her to give me the cuff, she refused. Maybe you’re blinded because she brought you back from the dead, but Mortemagi are all the same in the end; it’s their magic over everyone else.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Beau huffs out, stepping away from me. “You’ve no idea what she’s prepared to give up for us.”
What is he talking about? She made it clear. She chose her vicious grandmother overme. She chose her cuff overme… Haal, Beau is right. Iaman idiot. It was never about her murderous lineage; I’m angry because I thought she’d trust me enough to believe me.
Sylas.
A soft breeze grazes against my skin, raising the hairs on my neck. We’re inside St. Fabian’s, and there are no open windows or doors around us. Dread coils in the pit of my stomach. I look around, but no one seems to have called my name. Haal… something is wrong.
Sylas, please. We don’t have much time.
Ysenia’s grave tone fills me with guilt when I should be moving. Beau and Gryff frown at me in question, and I gulp, my lungs drowning from the realization that Viola is in danger.
“Sy.” Gryff hesitates. “Is everything—” I don’t hear him over the deafeningsound of my own heart.Where is she, I want to ask, but my lips don’t move.
Hurry, Sylas. Delaney is holding her in the Eastern Greenhouse.
I don’t wait for her to speak again—I bolt.
As I speed down the stairs, through the reception area, and out the door to my car, I pray to all six Gods that I make it in time. Because I’ll never forgive myself for this. I let my prejudice consume me, and I may lose Viola because of it.
The rivers are quiet, the birds absent, and the snow slushed into low piles under the trees. The orange hues of the afternoon sun give way to the mesmerizing silver of the moon, not quite her time but still announcing her presence. My boots slosh in the melted snow, drawing the attention of a white owl, a rarity in Gorhail Woods. Maybe it’s a sign that I’m getting closer to the Eastern Greenhouse.
“Scar, please find her.” She drops to the ground, slithering ahead. A moment later, she stops, her golden eyes fixed on a narrow muddy path. She hisses once, twice, then starts moving at lightning speed. I follow her across two ponds, through an abandoned courtyard, past a thick stone pathway, through a small gazebo, and along paths I never knew existed before. I run past a wild doe, and she freezes. This part of Gorhail isn’t even on our maps; no wonder my presence is confusing the wild animals.
Scar leads me farther east into the woods, closer to the border between Gorhail and Albion, to a cottage with a small greenhouse attached to the side. The low waterfall of Albion creek masks the sound of my footsteps. Scar pauses, hissing at Raiku and Railesza.
My aspiers listen. Then the three of them disperse toward the cottage, moving silently through fallen leaves and piles of snow.
Right in front of the main door, two poachers stand, lost in quiet conversation with each other. I squint, trying to make out their class of magic. One of them shifts, her pendant catching the porch light. An Arkani; this shouldn’t be a hard kill, but the other one is still out of sight. If they have poachers guarding the door, there must be more around the perimeter and even inside.
I look around, and there are no trees to shroud me, nothing to hide behind. If I want to get close, I’ll have to crawl to the back door, preferably somewhere the poachers don’t notice me.
A deep sense of unease stirs through me. It tells me to turn around and run for help. But I’m already flat on the ground; I’m not leaving Viola alone again.
Crawling through the wet grass is colder than I anticipated. The poachers should’ve noticed me by now, but they’re too busy talking about whether they’ll be assigned positions when Grimm takes over. From their obnoxiously loud conversation, I gather one of them is a reader and the other a dustmaker. It makes no sense to have the two noncombative Arkani classes as guards.
I crouch onto the flaky wooden side steps of the cottage, right below a broken window, wiping grass and mud from my shirt and waiting for one of my aspiers to signal me to move forward. The poachers are now debating why Viola is still alive.