And the last image: Wila standing next to Troi Blue.
January Sixth was the next to arrive, but I was scanning the images of people in the crowd.
“Quinten,” I breathed. For a flash, for a moment, I saw him, standing between two large men with silver bands on their arms.
And I knew Reeves Silver had placed him there, in that exact spot, knowing I would see him.
He was on his feet—that was good. But he was pale and thin. I think if the two men hadn’t had their hands on his arms, he might not be standing.
He was alive. He was breathing. Reeves had come through with his part of the deal.
So far.
I clenched my hands into fists. I wanted to run out there, up into the stands, and take my brother away to safety. But right now, that was the worst thing I could do.
January Sixth was already gliding out onto the field.
She was the image of wealth and couture. Tall and beautiful, her white dress slicked over her perfect body like a silken glove, glittering with diamonds. Her hair fell in soft waves against her bare shoulders where white stitches laced her skin.
The crowd flashed white lights and roared even louder. They threw white feathers tied to glass jewels onto the field until the ground seemed to be covered in snow.
Her history rolled, showing stitches of brown, silver, black, and white.
January leading an army of medical staff into the walled-off city of Mumbai, January climbing bombed-out signal towers to patch communications, January digging through ancient ruins, diving for wrecks, and recovering the lost Leonardo. January smiling and posing with heads of Houses, famous stars, scientists, and children.
And, finally, January standing next to Kiana White.
Abraham was next. The crowd cheered, “Seventh, Seventh, Seventh.” The door opened.
I rocked up on my tiptoes, held my breath, and searched for him in the shadows.
The announcers paused. He should be walking through the door; Abraham should be on the field.
The screen filled with his image, a warrior leading the other galvanized across the rubble of a city, and then it froze.
“Elwa,” I said, wondering for the first time if the earpiece worked both ways. “Can you hear me? Is Abraham here? Should I do something?”
The chanting faded, the cheering faltered. Voices rose into a buzz of concern. The screen went blank and the announcers in my ear rattled on about how unusual this was, and they were certain the situation would be solved soon.
“Elwa,” I said again. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, darling,” she said. “Stay where you are.”
“Can I help?” I asked. “Should I go down there?”
No answer.
The crowd had worked itself up. The announcers continued with their soothing commentary, but even up this high, behind glass, I could feel the crowd shifting.
Someone booed; more people joined in.
“Brace yourself, Matilda,” Elwa said, sounding rattled.
A movement in the shadow behind the door caught my eye.
I must not have been the only person who saw it. The cameras zoomed in and the blank screens were filled with that door, those shadows, and the figure who walked out of them.
Abraham Seventh. He wore a long gray coat covering him from neck to boot. The only stitches visible were those edging his face, and they were dripping in blood.
