That grin. I rolled my eyes as slowly as I could. “No.” I turned around, pushed the door open and stepped inside. I’d had enough of fighting my own impossible thoughts and emotions for the day. It was morning already, anyway. I was exhausted.
“And I’m guessing youdidn’tfigure out how the Labyrinth works?” he asked. Today, he wore a brighter red on his sweater, and I tried not to notice how good it looked on him, but then the lights from my bedroom fell on him, and I failed.
“Goodnight, Heartling.” For my own sake, I slammed the door closed. Released a long breath. Turned to get to bed and close my eyes and juststop thinking.
But I’d only taken a step when the knock on the door came.
Covering my face with my hands, I resisted the urge to scream. I resisted the urge to open it.
I failed again—but only on the latter.
“What?!” I said with as much bite as I could when I pulled the door open again, and of course, he was still there. Still grinning. Still looking like Time’sbettergift to our realm than the Great Clock.
“You didn’t answer the important question.”
I was going to murder him.“What question?!”
“What’s your favorite color?”
So many emotions ran inside me, chasing each other, smashing into each other, creating monstrous hybrid versions of themselves. Anger and excitement. Giddiness and arousal. Pure joy and panic.
Red,I thought.
“Black,” said my lips for whatever reason—and then this overwhelming urge came over me to say,what’s your favorite number?
Such a silly urge; an even sillier question, and I had no idea where it came from. Which was why I pushed the door closed the next second, just in case I accidentallyasked.
March didn’t knock again.
I fell on the bed on my face just to stop myself from opening the door again to see if he was still there.
He wasn’t—and even if he was, it wouldn’t matter.
I groaned into the pillow, and then full out screamed, hoping the feathers under the silk would absorb all the sound. It felt better than I expected.
I stayed put for a good while, but in the end, curiosity won as it always did. That’s why I found myself right back at the door, and I pressed my ear to it, held my breath. When I heard nothing, I cursed myself in my head and pulled the door open just a little.
The hallway outside was empty.
I stared into it like it had shape and substance, trying to figure out where this strange sense of disappointment was coming from, and what kind of a disease I could have been developing since I woke up at that table—until I heard the sound of footsteps about to turn the corner.
I closed the door as fast as I could without making a sound, and I went back to bed, a stranger to myself.
I didn’t know who I was.
I only knew who I had been.
I only knew that the panic simmering under the surface was coming, and when it did, it was going to rip right out of my chest. Maybe that’s why I was hugging the extra pillow as tightly as I was.
Not that it helped.
I realized Jinx’s picture and my sketchbook were still in my backpack, which was in my wardrobe. Lida, or whoever made sure my room was spotless every time I came back had probably put it there. I went and grabbed it and put the frame on my nightstand again, thinking it would help, but it didn’t. Staring at Jinx’s face somehow made it worse.
She was so positive. So happy. She used to joke and say that when she was made, all the happiness meant for our parents’ children was used up on her so that when it was my turn to be born, I was given only the leftovers.
Maybe she was right.
I searched the room with my eyes, wondering how something could seem so familiar and so foreign at the same time. Wondering what to want. Wondering what to do next.
