“Em,” a voice—Ky’s voice—whispers. But not in my head. Not a memory. I actually hear it.
My eyelids snap open. Can’t breathe. One. Two. Three. I pivot on my heel. No one there. I shake it off Taylor Swift–style, turn, and round the corner. Sigh. The supply closet. I dash to it, clutch the handle like a lifeline, yank the door open. Jars upon jars of bottled goods line the shelves. Tan sacks of seeds and nuts slump on the floor alongside two cases of water in corked glass bottles. It’s so cold some of the contents are frozen. I crouch and lean forward, grab for two bottles toward the back—
“Ember.”
I jerk and hit my head on the shelf. “Bleep.” Ebony’s wannabe curse slips out and the bottles drop, crash, splash to the ground. I fall onto my rear and glance over one shoulder.
Yep, diagnosis confirmed. I’m going insane. Or maybe it’s post-traumatic stress. That’s a thing, and I’m totally experiencing it. Why else would I be hearing voices? No, not voices. Just one. Could this be some morphing of the Scrib within? Instead of remembering spoken words, I’m actually hearing them now?
Three beats later I gather a couple of unbroken, only partially frozen water bottles, scramble to my feet, and grab a jar filled with something brownish. Next I snatch a sack off a hook on the door, open it. Perfect. A flashlight and a few medical supplies rest inside. I add the water bottles and food, thread my arm through the sack’s single strap, and shuffle back toward where I left Stormy. I pass saddles. And rope. A giant copper basin. I look left. Right. My brows cinch. Is this the way I came?
“Em. Please.”
I halt, clench my arms so I don’t drop anything again. Something flashes in my peripheral vision. I whip my head left. There. In the basin’s reflection. It’s—Squint. Couldn’t be. I creep closer.
Huff. Nothing but my own disheveled reflection. I tuck loose strands of hair behind my ears and kick the basin over for good measure. I really am off my rocker. The stress of current events has me hallucinating. Unless—
What if I’m seeing through to another Reflection?
No. I wasn’t even focusing, let alone using my song. Impossible.
When I find Stormy, she’s in the exact state I left her. I offer her one of the water bottles, slipping it through the space between her bent arms. She sips and sets the bottle on the ground.
What do I say to my dearest friend? Loss isn’t foreign to me, yet I still have no idea how to react when it happens to someone else. There are no words. No non-cliché ones anyway.
I don’t want to be insensitive and rush her. We can spare a few minutes. I take a swig of my own water, lean it against the hay bale, and unscrew the jar’s lid. Sniff. Something with cinnamon. Apples? A distant memory. Joshua and peach chunks and—
“He knew. He knew, and he gave his life for mine anyway.” Stormy’s words are faint, but they’re present, hanging in the air like the after scent of burnt toast.
My appetite has vanished. I screw the lid back on the apple gunk. “What do you mean?”
“Kuna.” She wipes her nose with her sleeve. “He knew what I did. He knew . . .” One shuddered sob. “. . . about me and Gage.”
My nails dig into my palms. Jonathan Gage. Commander of the Guardians in Makai’s absence. Supposed friend and protector. Cowardly traitor. All around jerk-wad. “How did he find out?”
She traces little circles over the silky iridescent fabric draping her lap. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in a dress. “I told him. I couldn’t live with the guilt of it any longer.” Her hands form fists.
Oh. Wow. “When?” I reach over and cover one of her fists with both hands.
“After you defeated Crowe.” Her voice sounds far away. She sniffs. “It’s weird. Kuna wasn’t angry.” Two hiccups. “It was as if he knew. He knew from the beginning and he’d forgiven me before I even asked.”
“Oh . . . Stormy.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders. Dam the emotions threatening to burst free and flood my heart. Kuna was a better man than most. Of course he knew. And of course he’d forgiven. It’s who he was.
Stormy sobs into my shoulder for a long time. And I let her. How did we get here? I’ve noticed there’s this moment—an event you can pinpoint—in each relationship. A moment that defines what it will be from then on. With Joshua it was our night singing a duet on Broadway’s empty stage, which still makes me ache every time I think about it. With Ky it was when he saved me from Gage, or rather, the embrace that followed. For Stormy and me it was a late night in December—or Twelfth Month as the Second Reflectioners call it. I allow my mind to rest on the memory, reliving it as if it were here and now.
Someone shakes me.
Being awakened in the middle of the night triggers a bad memory. I lurch away, back against my headboard.
“It’s just me, El.”
I take in the playful joy in Stormy’s tone. Relax a smidge. “Just you? The last time you got me out of bed after dark, I almost ended up Isabeau’s slave.”
“How many times do I have to apologize for that?”
“A hundred more at least.” I blink sleep-infested eyes. Night shrouds my west-wing suite aside from the sliver of moonlight peeking through my not-quite-drawn curtains.
Stormy giggles and drags my covers off the bed.
I draw my knees to my chest and shiver. Close my eyes and whine.
She tries to pry my eyelids open with her fingers and I bat her away. “Stor-meeee.” I search blindly for my covers. It’s too late, too cold for this.
“Come on, El. You’re going to miss it.” Both her hands grasp my wrist as she tugs on my arm.
Yawn. Blink. Eye rub. “Fine.” I sit cross-legged on my bed. “This had better be worth it.”
She throws her head back, fists on her hips like Peter Pan doing the crow. “Oh, it is. Now come on.”
Flashlight shoved into my hand, I’m towed through the halls, down the stairs, and outside into the frozen night. As my brain wakes I notice what Stormy is wearing—pajamas. But not just any pajamas, footie pajamas. The one-piece kind with the button-drop bottom and the zipper running from toe to neck. Which of course looks ridiculous already. Add combat boots and a camo hat to the ensemble and you’ve got the funniest outfit ever.
Suddenly I don’t feel so bad I’m caught out in the open with my matching flannels. I laugh out loud and Stormy shushes me, dragging me past the hill’s wall and down into the forest. I’m freezing my behind off, but I can’t stop smiling. If nothing else tonight is worth it, seeing Stormy in footie pajamas totally is.
A deep voice caws into the night.
Stormy yanks me behind a berry bush. We crouch to the ground. We’re hysterical, though I’ve no idea what’s going on.
That’s when I see the crate shoved beneath the bushes in front of us. It’s full of— Oh my chronicles, are those water balloons?
Stormy grabs a couple and nods for me to do the same. My heart is beating so fast and I’m so cold but I don’t care. This is awesome.
“Stormy! Come out, come out wherever you are!” Kuna can’t be more than ten feet away.
Holy Verity, I am totally gonna pee my pants because I am terrified Kuna will spot us, but I can’t stop laughing.