“All the more reason to strengthen the locks.” His stare is heavy on me before he turns to go. At the last moment, he tosses me the book of fables tucked under his arm. “Consider it homework. We’ll start tomorrow. Come to my office at nine. I trust you’ll have sufficient time to read it before then. Don’t be late, Mr. Sommers.”
The thin storybook with its illustrated cover and oversize print is hot in my hands as I watch him go. I want to dump it on the nearest shelf. Drop it in a damn waste bin. Instead, I tuck it into the front pocket of my sweatshirt along with Noelle’s key card as the heavy doors to the Hall of Records slam closed.
I turn the card over in my hand, thinking about all the doors it could open. About what Lyon said about locks and their purpose.
...there are things on the other side... they don’t want their children to touch.
My body goes rigid.
Touch.
Could that be it? They don’t want us totouch.
I flinch at the memory of Fleur’s hand on my skin, the electric shock that pulsed through me and stole my strength while our transmitters were on. Yet that same touch had preserved my life when our transmitters wereoff.
My thoughts race backward, to the batteries in Chill’s drone. One positive end, one negative. Positive and negative charges attract each other, the same way lightning is attracted to the ground, the same way a rising Season’s magic is drawn to a waning one’s—it’s how we find each other, as if we’re pulled together by some natural force.
What if we only have to be different to work?
It explains so much... why two Winters can touch without hurting each other. Why Noelle and I could kiss and notfeelanything. But me and Fleur... Together, we react.
Suddenly, it makes sense why Gaia and Chronos keep us apart. Why we’re punished for getting close to other Seasons. For not following the rules. Why they segregate our dorms. So we won’t figure out what we’re capable of together. So we won’t figure out what will happen if we touch.
8
Proofs and Theories
JACK
Fleur had held me while our transmitters were off. I was untethered, off the grid, unable to connect to the circuit of ley lines. Yet somehow, I had survived long enough for Chill to find me, loop me in, and route me home. I’m not sure exactly how, but I have a theory. And it’s killing me that I’ll have to wait another nine months before I’m in a position to test it out.
I press against the wall of the elevator, offering up a silent prayer that the Crux is empty when it opens on my floor. I peer into it, taking a few cautious steps into the circular hall. The port to the Spring wing is shrouded in green leaves and dripping condensation. Fleur sleeps somewhere on the other side, and Noelle’s key card is burning a hole in my pocket. I’d give anything to see Fleur. To touch her just to see if I’m right. But even if I could get into her room without Poppy catching me, it’s too soon to open her stasis chamber and try.
Don’t do anything stupid.
I should find Noelle. Return the card before I’m caught.
Hunched under my hood, I circle the Crux toward the Winter port. A quick glance through the barrier into the Autumn wing reveals a layout identical to my own—a familiar long wide central hall, branching off into intersecting corridors at the same regular intervals. I shouldn’t be surprised. Gaia designed this place. Nature leans toward symmetry. Tilts toward balance. The Observatory is laid out beneath Greenwich Park like a giant compass rose, each of the four wings pointing in a different cardinal direction, the exits from the tip of each wing to the surrounding neighborhoods above forming a perfect diamond on a map.
The realization that it wouldn’t be hard to find my way around—to find Amber Chase somewhere in those halls and test my theory—feels too much like a sign. It’s ten o’clock. Peak training time. And if I know Amber, the training center is exactly where she’ll be.
I wait for the camera to rotate the opposite direction before waving Noelle’s access card over the scanner. My pulse quickens when the Autumn port glides open and the warm, dry air inside rushes into the Crux. It smells dangerous, like tinder and hot coals, but before the gate slides shut, I dash through it, and then it’s too late to change my mind.
All I’d have to do is find Amber and convince her not to kill me or report me. And the only way to convince Amber to do anything is to appeal to her sense of pride. She’s smart, lethal, and capable, and she knows it. In all the years I’ve hunted her, she’s never backed down from a challenge.
I move quickly, my hood pulled low, to keep the cameras from capturing a clear shot of my face. Muscle memory guides my turns. Left, then right, then left again, the sharp smell of pool chemicals and the metallic tang of iron telling me I’ve landed exactly where I hoped I would.
I snag a wet pool towel from a bin inside the locker room and drape it over my head, masking myself in the scent of bleach and chlorine. As soon as I’m beyond range of the cameras, I lean against the wall to catch my breath, the stasis sickness slowly catching up to me. The hall to the training area smells foul, like moldy leaves and sweat. In the windows of the sparring rooms, every training mat is full of Autumns coming into their Season, prepping for the hunt.
A twinge of panic grips me.
I’m here alone, without Chill, completely outnumbered. Frost melts down my back, soaking through my sweatshirt. I reek of Winter and nervous sweat. My scent might as well be a flashing beacon, as glaring as Christmas lights on Halloween, but the voice that nudged me through that gate is screaming at me to keep going.
Drawing the towel tighter around me, I cast a quick glance into the window of each sparring room for a glimpse of auburn hair. A few of the fighters pause, their spines stiffening when I pass. I move quickly to the next. This was a stupid idea. I’m about ready to give up my search when I catch a flash of red in the last room.
I hug the wall, peering around the window frame as Amber delivers a roundhouse kick to her opponent’s head. Physically, he doesn’t look much older than she does—maybe nineteen. He’s lean and muscled, with the posture and buzzed haircut of a soldier. Still, I’m hardly surprised when he stumbles, slow to recover. Even less surprised when she slams her fist into his jaw before he gets a chance. He hits the mat and taps out.
She eases off him, adjusting the black belt cinched around her waist. Sweat trails down her temple. She swipes her brow with the back of her hand, the wraps protecting her knuckles absorbing the perspirationthat clings to the wisps of her hair. The rest is pulled back in two tight French braids that sharpen her cheekbones, making her angular jaw and crooked grin look all the more severe.
