I start backing away slowly. I’m taking Zoe back down through the door closest to the Library Tower, because it’s near to the infirmary and I don’t think Jasper will stop me, whereas Wade is blocking the path to the orange grove stairs, arms folded over his chest. Wade looks almost as irritated as Rocco, his handsome face sulky and spoiling for a fight.
The space between us feels like a fragile pane of ice.
The slightest tap will shatter it.
I keep backing up, step by step.
Rocco stays exactly where he is.
He’s not trying to stop me. But I can tell from the look on his face that he’s very, very angry.
The infirmary is a long, low building close to the library. Dr. Cross has his apartment at one end, and then there’s an open area with several beds, an industrial sink, and glass-fronted cabinets full of medical supplies.
Right now the only other patient is a skinny Sophomore who apparently sprained his wrist in Combat class. Dr. Cross has just finished wrapping up the wrist. When he spots me carrying Zoe through the door, he unceremoniously tells the kid to get back to class.
“Can’t I rest a while?” the kid says, looking none too eager to leave the peace and quiet of the spotless infirmary.
“Rest in your dorm,” Dr. Cross croaks at him. “This isn’t a lounge.”
“Can I get some kind of a doctor’s note?” the kid says. “How am I supposed to write papers? I’m left-handed.”
He holds up his bandaged left arm awkwardly, as if it’s been turned to wood.
“It’s quite possible to become ambidextrous with practice,” Dr. Cross says unsympathetically. “Now get out.”
The kid scoots off the bed, scowling.
“What’s going on here?” Dr. Cross frowns, peering at Zoe with her bloodied face and torn shirt.
I took off my sweater vest and covered her up as best I could, but it’s still obvious that the blouse beneath has been slashed to ribbons.
“She fell on the ramparts,” I tell him. “I think she hit her head.”
I’m not about to tell Dr. Cross what really happened. It’s up to Zoe if she wants to make a formal complaint to the Chancellor.
In response to the rigid rules of Kingmakers, the students keep a code of silence. We don’t rat each other out except in the most extreme circumstances.
Dr. Cross glares at me suspiciously. Doubtless he’s heard a thousand excuses from injured students. Mine is especially weak.
“Lay her down here,” he says, pointing to a fresh bed. “You can leave her with me.”
That’s what I’d planned to do. I was going to drop her off and get back to the library. But as I carefully set Zoe down on the narrow mattress and lay her head on the pillow, I find myself not wanting to abandon her so quickly.
“I don’t think she should be alone,” I say.
“She’s not alone,” Dr. Cross regards me from under shaggy gray brows as thick as caterpillars.
“No offense, Doc,” I say, giving him a wink, “But would you want to wake up to yourself? I think she should see a friendly face.”
Dr. Cross snorts.
“Keep out of the way, and you can stay,” he says, re-washing his gnarled hands at the sink.
With surprising gentleness, he washes the blood off Zoe’s face and examines the cut next to her eye.
“Puncture wound,” he mutters, as if to himself. “Clean, at least.”
Apparently deciding it doesn’t require stitches, he disinfects the cut, then covers it with surgical tape.
He carefully feels her skull all over, as if he’s a phrenologist. Finding a lump above her right ear, he checks her pupils for signs of concussion.
By this point, Zoe is coming around. She still looks dazed, but she doesn’t cry or try to speak. She lays quiet until Dr. Cross is satisfied.
“Here,” he says, taking a bottle of apple juice out of the fridge, and handing it to me along with a straw. “Give her this if she wants it.” Then to Zoe he says, “Is this delinquent a friend of yours?”
Zoe turns her gaze on me, still hazy and unfocused. After a long moment, she nods.
“You can stay for ten minutes,” Dr. Cross says to me. “Then get out of here so she can take a nap.”
He shuffles back to his apartment, closing the door behind him.
I sit next to Zoe’s bed, feeling awkward and out of place. We’ve never been alone together under normal circumstances, let alone in a moment like this.
I’m not even sure why I stayed. To check in with her? To comfort her? Both ideas seem ridiculous.
Zoe watches me silently. The sharpness has come back to her stare. She has green eyes, unusual for someone with such black hair. She has a lot of unusual features. Eyebrows and lashes so dark that they looked painted in ink. A straight, imperious nose, like an empress. A wide, full mouth. There’s an elegance to her face that makes her look older than her age, but also timeless and eternal.
“You don’t have to stay,” she says.
Her voice is clear and steady. No quivering, no sobs.
“I don’t know about that,” I reply.
She frowns slightly, a single vertical line appearing between her dark brows.
“What does that mean?”
“I saw you jump,” I tell her. “I guess I’m worried you might do something like that again.”
Those green eyes go cloudy once more, this time with anger instead of confusion.
“It’s none of your business whether I do or don’t,” she says coldly.
“Maybe not.” I shrug. “Still, I feel invested.”
“Ah,” she says, mockingly. “I know how much your investments mean to you. But I’m afraid this one won’t pay off.”
She surprised me with that one. I laugh a little. “What do you know about my investments?”
“That’s why you’re always passing little packets back and forth all over campus, isn’t it,” Zoe says, steady and unblinking. “You don’t work for the hell of it—I’ve seen your grades. You must be saving for something.”
I don’t know if I’ve ever been speechless before.
“Zoe . . .” I say, a smile tugging at my lips. “Are you stalking me?”
Now she can’t help smiling back just a little, though she doesn’t want to.
“You’re the one that followed me up on the wall,” she says. “What were you doing up there?”
“Just passing by,” I say.
“I’m not going to thank you,” she informs me.
“I wouldn’t really deserve it—it was Jasper who caught you.”
Her upper lip draws up in a snarl, showing sharp white teeth. She gives an impatient shake of her head.
“I won’t be thanking him either,” she says.
There’s an uncomfortable silence while the unspoken weight of Rocco Prince hangs over us.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
It’s simultaneously a pathetic, meaningless statement, but also the only thing I can say to her. The only way to express my sympathy for her tragic situation.
“Don’t pity me,” she says.
Again I see that fire in her eyes. That spark of rebellion that drove her to leap off a cliff rather than let Rocco put his hands on her.