In an instant I’m surrounded. Guardians rush past. Preacher scoops Stormy into his arms, cradles her against his chest. No doubt Preacher was the one who fired the arrow. Gone during the coronation, his quiver has returned to his back, right where it belongs. Two burly Guardians I recognize but don’t know by name hoist Gage by his arms and legs, carrying him away. And of course it’s Joshua, limping as if his knee were shot, who kneels by my side.
Anger chisels his jaw, pleats the space between his dark brows. But something else is shadowing his demeanor. Fear. His right hand trembles as he lifts it to my cheek and brushes a loose lock away. “Sorry it took so long. I’m here now.”
I shake my head, press my frozen face into his palm. I want to say we were fine. To explain I was handling the situation on my own, without him. But Joshua has this need for me to need him. As if this somehow proves the connection between us is real, stronger, deeper than our childhood bond.
He draws his hand away and I spy the cut that has not healed. The cut I didn’t feel him receive. His Ever blood should’ve healed him, but somehow that’s the least of my worries. Because this cut is the ultimate proof I didn’t give him a Kiss of Infinity. I didn’t connect my soul to his in the way he linked his to mine.
Joshua catches me staring and curls his fingers into a fist, as if we can somehow ignore the truth. He draws me into his arms, lifts me, and says, “Everything’s going to be fine now. We’re together. The threat has subsided. We’re all going to be fine.”
I nod despite the war inside. I want to scream at him. Because we’re not all going to be fine. Kuna is dead. Something weird is going on with the Callings. Even the Verity within couldn’t empower me. According to Gage, Isabeau is involved, which means Mom isn’t safe. No, we are all far from fine.
“The beginning of the end.” Gage’s words. As Joshua hobbles toward the passage with me in his arms, I can’t ignore the dread circling my navel. Because Gage was about to divulge something important, and I can’t help but feel it’s no coincidence he was muted just in time.
We can’t turn back time to this morning when all was well, can’t make the clock reverse to a moment when life was good. This isn’t a movie, some carefully constructed act in a play. This is real life. There are no coincidences. Gage was silenced, which makes me wonder . . .
What was he about to say about a kiss that Joshua doesn’t want me to know?
SEVEN
Joshua
Would you care to explain why my father—a man of mere traditional medicine—was the only Physic able to help the injured at the coronation? Why the other Physics could not heal with a single touch? Why Kuna is, in a word, dead? Even if the Physics could do nothing, your blood should have worked. Does it have something to do with our new queen?” Wren Song stares at me from across my study desk. She may be grown now, but this woman is no different from the fiery girl I came to know in my youth, before I traveled to the Third Reflection and the course of my life was altered forever.
A creak sounds from beyond my study door, so I lean to the side of my chair and focus my attention there. The cut on my hand is healing but still causes discomfort. The pain in my knee from El’s gunshot wound continues to throb. I ignore both and will myself to focus on any sound outside this room. My pulse is a hammer to nails. I cannot divulge my theory to Wren here and risk another soul hearing about it. I must rectify this predicament before anyone else attempts to take the matter upon themselves.
“I am looking into the issue.” I exhale, shove away from my desk, and rise. My wingback chair slides with ease against the cherrywood floor. My sport coat is draped over the chair’s back, but I let it be. Turning away from Wren, I gaze out the bay window behind my desk where a faint reflection stares at me. My top two shirt buttons are undone and my face needs a shave. I scratch my cheek, noticing the filmy taste in my mouth. When did I last eat?
Five days have passed since Kuna’s death, but I have not gained a moment’s solace. Complaint after complaint has arrived at my doorstep. The people want answers. Those with Callings in particular have lashed out, and rightly so. The loss of their Callings, after all, could ensue. Nothing such as this has ever occurred, and they expect me to act. I may no longer be king, but they continue to seek my guidance and counsel. I was groomed for this role. How can I turn my back on them simply because I do not bear the crown?
“It’s that girl.” Wren drums her fingers on the desk. “The Verity sources the Callings and she contains the Verity. There are rumors she gave a Kiss of Infinity to Rhyen. Something is . . . wrong with her.”
Irritation flares, but I clear my throat and force calm into my voice. “Need I remind you how you helped rescue that girl? How she saved our entire Reflection? She defeated Crowe and extinguished the species known as Soulless.” I face her. My words border on harshness, but this must sink in.
Wren bristles as she steps away from my desk, spewing no retort, as one does not exist.
“Even so.” Zipping her green Guardian jacket, she moves toward the door. “I find it highly suspicious the Callings were just fine before the Verity transferred to her. Now Physic and Ever are useless. What next? The people expect answers, and they expect them soon.”
I offer a nod before she slips out the door and into the hall. She does not bid me good-bye or offer so much as a bow. No, I am not king, but I would think I have earned a measure of respect, at the very least from an old friend like Wren. I should call her back and demand some semblance of veneration, but I cannot bring myself to do it. How can I order respect from her while I am losing respect for myself?
I should be able to fix this. Indeed, I will.
I circumvent my desk and pace before the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the east wall. I have scoured the volumes of The Reflection Chronicles cluttering these shelves. Pages upon pages of histories, but not a jot regarding the subject of faulty Callings.
There are holes in the collection, of course, not every volume accounted for. El has a volume of her mother’s, but I doubt it contains the information I seek. No, what I need is something much older.
I need to speak with Nathaniel Archer.
EIGHT
Bring Back
I stared out the bay window in Stormy’s suite for five days. I should be lamenting my shot knee. Wade fixed me up better than any Third Reflection surgeon could, but that means I have to heal the old-fashioned way. Thankfully the bullet only grazed me—though it felt much worse at the time—and I came away with my knee fully functional. Illusoden helps, and I’ve gotten the uneven walk down to a science. Still, my bum knee is the least of my concerns. My head swims and my throat aches. The eyelids in my reflection droop and the tip of my nose shines bright red. I sniff and swallow, wince against the pain it causes.
It’s just a cold. My voice will be fine. What happened with Gage was a fluke. And Ky. I heard him. Felt him. Could it have been real?
I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my crochet-lace blouse. Why does my world feel as if it’s unraveling? Thread by thread, seam by seam, worry tears at my heart. I unfold the note Reggie gave me upon my return to the castle the night of the attack. Rub my thumb over Mom’s rushed and out-of-character scrawl. I’ve read this dozens of times, but the words hit me fresh with each pass. Contradicting emotions consume me. Relief because Mom and the baby are safe. Anxiety because she’s not here—with me.