“Rosemarie?” she asked.
“I don’t think she’s turned up. I’m … I’m sorry.”
“Peter?” Her voice cracked.
Gray winced and shook his head.
She wrapped her arms around herself, considering the possibility that Peter did exactly what it appeared he had. That he’d been faking his inability to spellcast. Pretending he loved her. Biding his time just so he could—no,no,that was utterlyridiculous.If he’d wanted to kill Lydia, he’d had hundreds of opportunities to do it before now. In front of crowds, even.
He didn’t do it. Of that, she was certain. It had to be the magiocracy—but how could she prove it? Who would believe her?
“I don’t think it was him,” Gray said abruptly.
She stared at him, startled.
“I mean,” he added, more quietly, “I think thatwashim on the stage, but …” He sat on the folding chair next to her cot, leaning toward her so she could hear him whisper. “I was behind the platform. I saw Miss Dane shove the omnimancer out of the way and grab—well, it looked like thin air. I think there was another wizard standing behind Blackwell—pulling his strings or something. I think that’s what happened.”
“And now they have him,” she said, her whisper harsh in its urgency. “What am I to do?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know.”
She stood up, needing to dosomething, and stared through the window again, wishing she had Rosemarie’s talent for spotting invisibility spells. Wishing far more intensely that Rosemarie were here with her arm around her.
She heard the creak of the chair and the click of dress shoes as Gray came up behind her. She expected him to tell her to sit down. But he said nothing at all.
“Why were you at the march?” she asked. When he didn’t immediately answer, she added, “You said you were done. I thought you meant it.”
“I did.” The words sounded heavy. Resigned.
She looked at him. His slicked-back hair was mussed. His tie was askew. He had blood on his dress shirt and an air of desperation that hung around him like static electricity. She almost asked the question on her lips:Are you in love with Lydia?
He pressed a hand to his eyes. “I promised my constituents good, old-fashioned values, and you’re—you’rerevolutionaries. You want to overturn everything! What about motherhood? What about the children? How is our society supposed to function if women can—if women?—”
He was looking at her as if he expected an interruption. She simply held his gaze, and he wilted.
“Whenever I hear her speak,” he murmured after a short silence, “I get the sickening feeling that she might be right.”
She swallowed a retort along the lines ofhow would you like it if I said it made me queasy to think of you exercising your rights. She was too wrung out. And anyway, for Gray, that counted as progress.
“She’s never said anything to you about women’s rights,” she pointed out.
“She didn’t have to. If you listen to her, you can’t help but think about it—about everything she’s rejecting. She’ll neverbe a proper wife and mother.Never.”
He said this as if he took it personally. She was absolutely convinced now that he did—that he lusted after her sister as so many men had before him but was repelled by everything that made LydiaLydia.
“And theworstof it is …” He looked through the window, shoulders slumping. “The worst of it is that I can’t convince myself she ought to be normal. It would be like … like putting a gown on a statue. Everyone might agree that the dress is the height of fashion and respectability, but it’s still ruining a work of art.”
She gazed at Gray, reconsidering him—just a bit. After a moment, she slipped her arm through his.
His groan seemed pulled from his very depths. “Oh, God, she can’t die. Not that.Please.”
She pressed her free hand against the door, trying to draw strength from its cool solidity.Not Lydia. Not Rosemarie. Not—she shut her eyes—Peter. Please, God, please—not any of that.
“Mrs. Blackwell?”
The voice sounded familiar. She turned, feeling as if she were underwater, the effort of moving and breathing and thinking far harder than it ought to be, and found Wizard Hillier, the doctor who’d helped Peter. He was wearing scrubs this time and she recalled with a surge of hope that he’d described himself as an “itinerant”—on call with all the Washington hospitals.
“Please tell me you’re headed in to take over,” she managed.
