“Atticus,” Dorian says, gently pushing aside the hair from his forehead. It’s stuck to his skin with sweat. He looks pale, almost sick, but he groans and his eyes open.
Dorian’s face splits into a smile, and I throw myself into Atticus’s arms. I hold him tightly, squeezing so hard I might break his bones. I kiss him, on the mouth, on the cheeks, on the forehead, relief making me shiver all over. He tastes like sweat and dirt, but his skin is warm, and he’s alive.
Atticus pulls away, rubbing his forehead with an open hand.
“Where am I?” he asks.
“Under Arches. We have to get you out of here.”
Atticus casts his dark eyes around the room, looking confused. Dorian helps him to his feet, but he can barely stand.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
“I think so,” he says, voice trembling.
I move to the cell door, but Atticus doesn’t follow.
“Can I have those?” he asks, looking at the book and the wand in my hand.
There’s something in his eyes, a flatness, that makes me hesitate. I pull back slightly.
Dorian doesn’t seem to notice. “Come on, Finch, let’s get out of here,” he says, trying to lead him forward. But he doesn’t move.
Atticus blinks slowly. He just stares at the room, at the book in my arms, at Professor White on the floor nearby. A befuddled expression covers his face, and he looks like he’s waking up from a dream.
“Atticus,” Dorian says, more forcefully.
“What?” he asks.
“Let’s go.”
“Dorian,” I say, not taking my eyes off Atticus. “Wait.”
Dorian stares at me, and then at Atticus, and it dawns on him. Something is wrong. He looks like Atticus, of course. He has the same dark hair, same dark eyes, same full lips. But something is off. I don’t know what, but I just feel it.
His eyes are empty.
“You’re not Atticus,” I say.
37
Dorian
The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!
—Emily Brontë,Wuthering Heights
Not-Atticus smiles atus, and my whole world shatters. I don’t believe what I’m seeing. It’s Atticus, he’s here, but—he’s not. Not really. Same face, same clothes, same hair, but it’s all wrong. It’s like looking at a portrait and seeing a forgery. There’s some element, some stroke, some touch that’s missing. Invisible to an untrained observer. Invisible to someone who doesn’t know him like we do.
“Adelina…” says Raven, standing in the doorway to the cell. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
Adelina steps toward us, wearing Atticus like a costume. She’s stolen his face and his body. I don’t know why I didn’t see it. Maybe I just didn’t want to acknowledge the strangeness of what was happening. Maybe I was too relieved to see Atticus alive. But now, as the ghost of Adelina Ward approaches, it’s unmistakable.
“I know what I did wrong last time,” Adelina says. “I know how I failed. And I know how to do it right. I’ve had a long time to think about it.”
“Let him go,” I say. Angry tears burn my eyes. “If you hurt Atticus—”
Adelina giggles. “Atticus isn’t here right now.”
