Now I know to think simple thoughts. I need to focus on one thing at a time. Otherwise everything that’s happened will crash back down and crush me.
So: wash my hair once, twice, three times, scrubbing the short strands with a vengeance. Get out and return in a bathrobe to my room to assess the damage. Strip the sheets off the bed and cram them into the laundry basket. Take the book of poems Brekken gave me and shove it deep into the back of my closet, in the secret compartment I found years ago behind a loose wall panel, where I won’t have to look at it. Still, I can’t help but be gentle with the book, brushing the floor clear of dust before laying it down.
That done, I pick yesterday’s outfit off the floor and lay it out, my favorite velvet riding pants and the beautiful Byrnisian jacket with scale sleeves. They’re ruined now. Not because of the wine, dirt, and bloodstains—even though those are extensive—but because I’ll never be able to put them on again without remembering too many things. The way Brekken’s eyes lit up when he saw me across the ballroom last night. The way he ran his hands carefully up the sleeves. I was so sure it was want I saw in his eyes. But want for what?
How is it only twelve hours ago I was walking down the stairs to the celebration, grinning for the joy just of being in Havenfall?
I shake my head hard, as if that will break the chain of impossible thoughts quickly spooling out. I have to figure out something to ward off any questions from the laundry team. Looking around the room, I zero in on my desk, the pens scattered on top. I grab a Bic, hold it over the pile of clothes, and snap the pen in two. Black ink flies over the sheets, the clothes, my hands. Carefully, I stick the broken pieces into the jacket breast pocket and then go to wash my hands. Hopefully, the pen’s presence will explain away the dark stains of Solarian blood. I pull on leggings and a hoodie and go down to the Innkeeper’s suite, feeling like a zombie.
Most people are still asleep, will be till breakfast, but I run into a few guests out and about. I hurry past them, head down. I’m pretty useless before coffee on my best days. But on the last flight of stairs, someone grabs my shoulder. Nessa, the Fiorden noblewoman I spoke to last night, dressed for a day of peacemaking in a sharp-cut silk suit.
“Madeline,” she says, eyes drilling into mine. “What was that commotion last night?”
I tug out of her grip, the worry in her voice bringing back the fear, the screams. “We’ll explain everything at breakfast,” I say, stalling, hoping that’ll put her off, and escape down the stairs before she can ask anything else.
When I knock on the door to Marcus’s suite, Willow is the one who answers. She’s more composed than she was last night, in a crisp blue blouse, her hair tied up with gold pins. But she still looks pale and drawn, with shadows under her eyes. She smiles when she sees me, but it’s small and lacks her usual warmth. She ushers me into the living room and closes the door.
The smell of coffee and fresh-baked bread hits my nose right away, settling deep in my chest and making me feel a little less like a zombie as hunger asserts itself. Graylin sits on the sofa, a tray of food on the coffee table before him. But he looks exhausted and worried, and the hope that poked its head out of the ground when I came in slithers back down. I go over and sit next to him, dread gathering in my chest. Willow draws up a chair across from us.
“He’s still the same,” Graylin tells me, his voice hoarse and scratchy. “He’ll take water, but nothing else.” Graylin looks down, shakes his head. “It’s strange. Not normal unconsciousness. It’s almost like Marcus is in stasis.”
“Is that usual, with …” My voice cracks; I take a breath and try again. “With Solarian attacks?”
“I’ve been reading up on it,” Willow offers. “I can’t find any instance of someone surviving a soul-stealing. So I’m not sure.”
She and Graylin exchange glances. It occurs to me that I’m the only person in the room who has direct experience with Solarian attacks. For a second I’m back in Mom’s bloodied kitchen; I flinch. Is this what happened to Nate?
Stop. I can’t think about that.
“Can I see him?” I ask.
“Of course.” Graylin walks me to the door of their bedroom, and hangs back at the threshold while I go in.
Marcus looks the same as he did last night. It’s eerie—his chest is moving, he’s breathing, but he’s too still and uniform to be sleeping. I touch his hand—it’s cool, with his pulse fluttering faintly under his skin.
“Hey,” I murmur softly. “Try to wake up soon, okay? We all need you here.”
Of course, nothing happens. All at once it’s too much. It’s like talking to Mom through the prison glass, useless words falling on dead air. I feel tears and panic rushing up. I stand and back toward the door, unable to take a breath until I return to the living room.
“Did Brekken say anything to you?” Graylin asks. “He’s still missing, and Sal didn’t find anything of interest in his room. All his things are still there.” He picks up Marcus’s phone from the coffee table, enters the passcode, and scrolls through it, brow furrowed in concentration.
“No,” I say, my voice small. “No, he didn’t. And I’m afraid I need a new set of keys. Mine have gone missing …” I trail off, not wanting to fill the air with even more suspicions of Brekken. The instinct to protect him is still strong, some slow-on-the-uptake part of my heart wanting to pay him back for all the times he took the fall for a vase I’d broken, or hot chocolate I’d spilled, or a delegate’s toe I’d stomped on.
Willow looks at me with sadness as I return to the couch. “It could be something innocent. A misunderstanding.”
But I can tell she doesn’t really believe that. She hands me her set of keys and scoots a plate full of pastries and bacon in my direction. But I can’t eat even though I’m starving. The idea of eating makes my stomach turn over.
“We’ll have to tell something to the delegates,” Graylin says.
“Their meetings.” My heart starts beating fast as worst-case scenarios run through my head. During the summit, Marcus is everything to everyone, as he always says. Any agreement struck during the summit needs his signature. He smooths over any conflict and ensures that everyone is friends again by evening, when everyone gathers in the ballroom.
“Just take it one event at a time,” Graylin says cautiously, coming to join us.
My eyes meet his. He looks as tired as I feel, dark shadows beneath his eyes. I wonder if he, too, only thought ahead as far as the dawn. If anything beyond that was too horrible to consider.
Lead Havenfall. It’s what I wanted, what I’ve worked for. But I thought I’d have ten years, twenty, before it was my turn. Decades to live here and learn from Marcus all the history, the etiquette, the intricacies of interaction between Fiordenkill and Byrn that ensure that our summers see balls and not battles. I thought I’d always have Marcus.
But what’s the alternative? That the peace summit ends? A strangled feeling descends on me as I imagine everyone filing back through the doorways. It would be bad enough to end the summit early, but it’s no longer the solstice. Letting more than a handful of people through the doors at once could upend the balance, cause earthquakes or worse on the mountain. No. That’s not an option.