Jamie set a glass of water on the desk. “Start whenever you’re ready.” He backed away. Two other metallic-haired Abernathys, a woman and a man, watched me closely.
My heart raced. I wished I had a pen or something to fiddle with, but writing was literally a thing of the past. I forced myself to take a few deep breaths and read the first question.
Who are the Architect’s allies?
I was suddenly sitting between Ezra and Xan as they taught me about the families.
Warmth pooled low, a needy zing zapping my clit. My blush scorched. Was PTAD, Post-Traumatic Arousal Disorder, a thing?
Worse, I was having these thoughts while everyone watched. For a brief second, I thought I would actually catch fire. I chugged down the water, started making a list, then stopped.
Shit. If I listed every ally Xan and Ezra had taught me, did that prove free will, or prove Xan controlled me because I knew what he knew? I reread the question, looking for any hidden tricks. But there weren’t any. It was just that simple.
I side-eyed Jamie, Ezra’s information officer. Answering honestly would hand Xan’s intel to everyone. Would that prove my free will? Maybe, but if Jamie, Xan’s information officer, had written the test, he would have known that. So, what did he want me to write?
A headache pulsed to life.
I had no idea what to do. What proved I was in control of my mind?
Too much looked guilty. Too little looked worse. No time limit. Every second dragged. Yeah. No. I had to answer.
An idea uncurled, easing the headache before it rooted. I was overthinking. Surprise. All I needed was to be me… just like I had with my Intentions.
Who are the Architect’s allies?
It depends on who you ask, and where the wind of popular opinion’s blowing.
I made the scrawl before I could think about it too hard and dropped it onto the gold sheet, where it absorbed my answer. Colors bloomed above me. The sound of talking voices rose. Jamie took the first question from me, and a new gold scrawl landed on my desk.
Who are the Architect’s enemies?
This one came faster, and a little less judgmental.
The Architect doesn’t believe in slavery. The easy answer: body snatchers and anyone who uses slaves. But life isn’t black-and-white. Allies and enemies live on a sliding scale.
I made my scrawl and added it to the page. Voices murmured. I heard someone say: ‘The wee thing doesn’t have a brain cell of her own.’ Followed by a more distant voice: ‘That’s what critical thinking looks like. No one’s controlling that mind.’
A new question landed on my desk.
What family was the Architect born into?
I hesitated. Xan never told me; Erick did. Most facts I knew about Xan came from other people. Did Jamie know that? I answered before I could lose my nerve:
The Silvers.
The questions kept coming, straightforward on the surface, traps underneath. Some repeated with tiny tweaks, trying to catch me. I couldn’t always match my first wording, but I answered from the heart, with enough snark to keep them thinking.
My head ached, and my mind spun. By the end, so many split opinions drifted down about my free will that I wasn’t sure I wanted to think for myself anymore. I honestly had no idea if I’d passed or not.
Ezra slipped from the shadows to walk beside me, close but not touching. “You did well.”
I threw up my hands. “Did I?”
My brain felt like sludge; anxiety hit in waves. If I messed this up, I could lose everything. Worse, Xan could lose everything. I couldn’t let that happen.
The next day, I woke wrapped in Ezra’s arms and snuggled into his chest. I guess my nerves must have cut through Silas’s rules. Morning light filtered through the thick material of my little tent. It wasn’t as lovely as my castle dorm, but Ezra was here, and Erick wasn’t snoring or humping a stranger. So I loved it.
I threw a leg over his hip and bumped his morning wood.
