It is the longest practice print test so far.
Landon gets a fresh trolley to share with his opponent, and they have thirty minutes to make a fast-acting burn salve. No instructions are provided, they are just to go off instinct, and the room falls into a lulled quiet as it goes on.
My attention drifts back to Courtney, one section over from me. I lean forward on the pew and look around Teddy to find her.
Her scraped and torn hands are gripped tight on her lap, fingers twisted and wringing together. But that’s nothing compared to the attack on her bottom lip—she chews and chews and chews it raw.
Courtney has made it clear we aren’t friends anymore, maybe that we never really were, but there’s a bud of sadness in me for her.
The mark on the clipboard was so obviously a cross. She failed her practice test.
And it is just a practice round—but they are run for a reason. To highlight the progress made or the progress that still needs to be made.
Courtney is behind.
Piper failed, too, sure, but for Courtney it’s different.
She’s a made one.
Her twin has a complex print, a great gift, and compared to him, she’s rust.
I wonder something terrible.
If James didn’t have the print he does, would he and Courtney have been approached to join the Videralli?
Her print isn’t exceptional, and so many others with artificery magic are vastly better at it than she is, so really, would she be worth the bother?
The cost alone for the schooling of the made ones takes a lot of fundraising among the aristos throughout Europe—and that’s not even considering the cost of their lives at The Home for the Misplaced.
Made ones are an investment for the Videralli.
Courtney is a failed investment.
At least, she obviously feels that way.
I read it all over her, from the glisten in her eyes, tears that she stops from touching her scratched cheeks, the violent wringing of her hands, the tension in her bones as she sits like a metal sculpture on the wooden bench.
Every time I glance at her, she’s still looking down.
Prints pass the podium, they come and go, moving through the list of the day, and still, Courtney is slumped over.
She doesn’t even look up when it’s finally her brother’s turn.
Everyone else does.
The call of James’s name shifts the energy in the room.
And it’s only his name called.
No partner.
No opponent.
He walks alone to the stage.
Oliver blinks awake and sits upright.
His fatigue drapes over him like a cloak, but the bloodshot weariness of his eyes stays open for this one.
