The letterbox, my one means to communicate with Dad, was in shards on the hardwood floor.
* * *
Dad had finally gotten around to replying to my letter about — of all things — calzones, but what he’d said, I’ll never know. The piece of notebook paper he’d written on was as ripped-up as the letterbox was. Copper slices were strewn everywhere like broken bits of glass. Some pieces were as thick and jagged as shivs, while others were as small as beads and scattered as far as the kitchen.
The more I looked at the mess, the more my stomach churned like I was going to be sick. How had this happened? Did I bump the letterbox without realizing it? Was it because I’d left the door open, letting in the wind?
With heavy limbs, and shivering as sweat dried on my skin, I swept the pieces into a pile by the window. I couldn’t go through with sweeping them into the dustpan. I fell into an empty state, slumped on the floor by the window, not quite processing that the only way I knew how to write home was gone. I stayed there, picking microscopic beads out of cracks in the floorboards and quietly adding them to the mounting pile of shards.
I did that until he knocked.
I knew Leland’s knock — three light taps with one knuckle — so I dragged myself to the door, if only to hear what he’d learned about Trist being gone.
Outside, Leland was as close as he could get without crossing wards, practically shoving the newspaper in my face, his fingers tense and pressing into my picture. “This is you staying out of trouble?” he demanded. “At the Allwitch temple?”
In a white button-down and tan dress pants, he appeared to have come directly from the palace, carrying the same black backpack he’d had in the human realm. At my frown, he casuallytossed aside the paper.
“I thought I was,” I said tiredly. Earlier in the day, I might’ve bothered to explain why I went to the temple. Now I just held on to the door, deflated. I needed a bath, quiet, to change out of my running clothes and try to go to bed. “It was a mistake. I screwed up.”
“The Echelons think you’re trying to undermine them. They think you’re stirring up the Allwitches for war.” He wasn’t yelling, but he was irritable. It was clear he didn’t consider I might’ve had a good reason for what I did. That I went to the temple because I was trying to figure out what Jaxan wanted. And that was irritating.
“Did you tell them I was?” I asked, my voice rising. “When you told them I was the last witch to see Trist? When you implied I helped her disappear?”
“I can’t lie,” he lied. “I told you that.”
My brows knitted. I’d had enough of him saying this.
“There were witnesses,” he explained. “When I got Trist from the infirmary that morning, people saw. She was sending messages on her transmitter the whole way over, possibly about where she was going. It would’ve gotten out no matter what I said. And it would have been bad. I need the Echelons to trust me. If they don’t, I can’t help you.”
“Don’t, then. I never asked you to.”
“I’m aware,” he replied, an almost snap, but he’d bridled it.
His thin grip on restraining himself had my guilt returning again. It wasn’t like he had a choice. This was his job, sealed by the Dark Deal he’d made with Jaxan.
“Will you just go?” I said. “You clearly hate me. You hate being here. So if you don’t have news about Trist, please just go.” I didn’t want to shut the door in his face. But I was done.
“You think I hate you?” he asked.
“Dislike. Whatever. It’s fine. Goodbye, Leland.”
He caught the door in his hand to stop me from shutting it. With his muscles tense beneath his thin shirt, I knew I wouldn’t win. I would’ve walked away, satisfied he couldn’t come in through the wards, but he raised his voice, not done speaking.
“It’s not fine,” he said. “I don’t hate you. And it’s not fine that you think that.”
“You told me you did,” I reminded him. “ ‘I had no idea — at the age of five — how much I would hate babysitting you.’ ” The words weren’t exactly right but close enough.
“Hatebabysittingyou,” he replied. “And you want to know why?”
“Not really.”
“You won’t take my hand when I offer it. You moved in with no clothes — no food — and didn’t say anything. It’s a constant game of figuring out what’s wrong and how to fix it before you tell me to leave you alone.” His knuckles faded from white to pink as he relaxed his grip on the door. “I amtired, Ember. I know what I’m doing is invasive, but I don’t get a choice in it.Thatis why I hate being here. And yeah, the story in the paper today pissed me off. That’s because Iwantyou here, and you’re not being careful. What I reallyhate?You looking at me like you’re afraid of me, but that’s me. That’s not on you.”
I was tired. Needed food. But the way he was looking at me made the dull ache I’d felt since finding the broken letterbox sharpen to a sting. I’d misjudged him. I thought — because Leland could be cold and direct and combative on a switch — I’d thought he was in control of it, that it was all posturing. Only, standing before me, he looked as down as I was, standing in a place he didn’t want to be, stuck with a girl who made him feel like she wanted nothing to do with him. And all that did was make his job harder, worse.
Stars twinkled in the dark-violet sky, but since I didn’t feel like looking at them, I sighed down at my shoes. “I’m sorry,”I whispered, and had to swallow around the ache in my throat to continue. “It’s not you. I’m not good at asking for help from anyone. It just . . . it makes me feel like I’m bringing people down. I know this is your job. It was neveryouI had a problem with. Not really. Not once I got over you stabbing me.”
“You don’t bring me down.” Leland sighed, releasing his grip on the door to slip his hands in his pockets.
