With the burden her words carried and the sorrow weighing her tone, I knew her cries the night at the Village didn’t stem from guilt alone. Part of her cared for Gage. As much as it hurt her to keep her promise to him, I think it also caused her pain to see him go.
It makes no sense, and yet it does. Which is why I have to talk to Joshua again. As clear as he’s made his feelings and as much as it hurts to be near him, I can’t leave things this way. We have too much history to end on sour terms. My birthday is just over a week away. Once Makai returns with Mom—and he will return with her—we’ll be free to go the moment I leave childhood behind. I may never see Joshua again. If I’m going to move on, I need a proper good-bye, not one hanging on the end of an argument.
Robyn helped me hitch a ride to Joshua’s trome while I avoided her dozens of questions about the Verity’s vessel.
“Do you feel anything? Does the king’s soul call to you? Do you think you’ll find him soon?”
How could I tell her all these years her savior’s been hidden, refusing to come forward because of me?
Joshua hasn’t spoken a word to me since we arrived at the Haven’s border this morning. Scratch that. He hasn’t spoken to me at all since we left the Village, relaying messages through Ky as if I’ve suddenly gained my uncle’s invisibility.
Ky, on the other hand, has hardly left my side. By day he’s been the perfect Guardian. Alert. Professional. But by night, shadows and moonlight performing their close-knit tango around us, he’s become more than my protector. He’s sweet and kind. My friend. I urged him to get some rest. He’s exhausted, hardly allowing himself an ounce of sleep since we left the Village.
“We’re safe inside the Haven now,” I insisted. “What could possibly happen?”
He eyed me but finally relented, agreeing to get a few hours’ sleep as long as I promised not to go far.
Now I ride along the gravel-paved road in the bed of a horse-drawn cart, leaving the Haven’s “inner city” and entering what Robyn calls the Fringes. The late-afternoon sun blinks at me between the branches. The Haven is grander than it appeared on my first encounter. From above, the Second Reflection skyline looked so much like home. But the more I explore this strange land, the more I realize how truly different it is. In the Third, New York is merely a city, a dot on the map. In the Second, it’s as if Mom’s painting is the entire world. Haven Island could be its own state. A Rhode Island or a Maryland, but a state just the same.
Hopefully Ky won’t consider a visit to the Fringes “far.”
I pull out Mom’s journal to pass the time. Find the dog-eared page where I left off last night.
Twenty-Eighth Day, Eleventh Month, Third Year of Jasyn’s Reign
I suck in a breath. If the Second’s months match up with the Third’s, this entry was penned in November. The day after my birthday. Nine months after Mom turned sixteen.
My sweet baby girl sleeps between my bent knees. It has become impossible to stop staring at her. This love is beyond anything I have experienced. It hurts and brings joy in the same breath. It’s all-consuming. For the first time, I am at a loss for words.
My throat closes. Eyes water. I trace her cursive with the tip of my finger. I love you, Mom.
Tiernan’s
A list of names embellishes the bottom of the page, along with a tiny sketch of a baby’s face. My face, birthmark free. Which means the king hadn’t kissed me yet. When did Mom meet him, and where?
I add the questions to my mental save-for-later list and peruse the names. Almost every one is crossed out. Some are circled and then scribbled over. The only name without an X is mine. I smile. Thank goodness she decided against Peartree. I never would have lived that down in school.
I stash the journal just as the cart drops me at the brink of a long row of colorful dwellings. Cottages, tromes, cabins, huts. Each unique. The perfect subject for one of Mom’s paintings. Her life was orderly, structured, everything in its labeled drawer. But not her artwork. On canvas she showed who she wanted to be. Free and fun. Living in splashes of color and freehand lines.
I shoulder my pack and meander down the peaceful dirt lane. The quiet fits Joshua, really. I love the city, the lights, the noise. Joshua was never into it. He took every opportunity to escape the crowds. Now I see why. He’s a country boy in the truest sense.
I pause at the trome with a faded blue door at the path’s end. It’s just as Robyn described it. If this were Manhattan, Joshua’s trome would be an East Side high-rise.
I take a breath, stalling. Unsure. No reason to be nervous. This is Joshua. He was my next-door neighbor for three years. I will not let him intimidate me.
Rap, rap.
Movement inside. Shuffle. Creak.
The door swings inward. Really? He couldn’t have taken two seconds to put his shirt on before answering? I’ve never seen him this way. Not even when we took a mini road trip to the Jersey shore last summer. I didn’t question it. I’m not the bikini-wearing type, and I just assumed a preference for modesty was something we had in common. Now I know. He was hiding the sword and arrow Guardian tattoo. Just another of the many secrets he’s withheld. I can’t see his back, but I’m betting he has a mark there, too, one it’s more important he keep concealed. What is an Ever’s symbol? Ky never said.
The line between his eyebrows gullies deep. He removes the black shirt slung over one shoulder, shakes it out, and slips it on. “What are you doing here?”
I step inside without waiting for an invitation. “Hello to you too.”
He shuts the door, and I crane my neck, looking up into the hollowed-out, windowless tree. Rather than separate floors as in other tromes I’ve visited, Joshua’s houses a single spiral staircase, coiling to an opening in the fifty-foot ceiling. Did he build this himself? Was his love for architecture real? I grasp the thread of truth. Maybe he’s not completely lost to me.
He clears his throat. “El, you aren’t supposed to be here. Where’s Kyaphus?”
I brush my fingers along the slick, varnished stair rail. “Resting.” I cross my arms. Force myself to look at him, to act normal. “Have you heard anything from Lark?”
“If I had you would’ve been the first to know.”
Apparently Lark is a rebel hiding out in neutral territory. It’s why she attacked Gage. Joshua says she’s the eyes and ears—and wings—connecting the Haven to the goings-on in the castle. She even had proof, revealing a wispy violet tendril curling at the nape of her neck. Turns out a blue or purple strand of hair marks those who remain loyal to the Verity. What about Grizz or the rest of the Village? Are they on our side too?
When we left, Lark offered to fly to the castle and see if she could spot Mom and Makai on their way. It helped ease my growing concern, but not much. “What’s taking so long?”
Joshua closes his eyes, opens them. “This isn’t a video game, El. I can’t just skip a level, hop through the secret door, defeat the bad guy, and rescue your mom. This is the real world.”
A half laugh, half cry spurts from my lips. “Ha. The real world? Trolls and sea monsters? Castles and kings? This place is nothing but a figment of some Grimm brother’s imagination.”