“Because they’ve lied and lied and lied…”
“Whowas he?!”
Another tick.
“Silas.”
My voice echoed in the room. Suddenly every pair of eyes turned my way, and even Russ seemed perfectly focused.
I usually hated it when I had to speak to the other Hands, but I didn’t hate it this time.
This time, my hands shook as I reached for the pocket of my jacket, where I’d hidden Silas’s drawing. I moved forward, feeling awkward in my own skin, feeling like another person altogether, something I’d strangely gotten used to by now. And as I walked, I unfolded the page. The others who’d been by the bed moved to the sides to make way for me, and I put the drawing over the sheets where they could all see it.
I looked at March. He was full of suspicion, as always, but he was also curious enough to lean closer, see better. They all were.
“I believe his name was Silas,” I said.
Mimi reached out her hand but didn’t touch the page. “I…I know him."
“Where did you find this?” asked Helen, and when she leaned closer, she traced the lines on the paper that made the tips of Silas’s hair with her fingertips.
“I think I made it. I drew it,” I reluctantly said.
“So, you just made it up?” Levana demanded with a raised brow.
“I…don’t think so. I drew all of you. Wrote your names at the edge.” I pointed at Silas’s name written there in cursive. “You all look exactly like you do in real life. I think Silas looked exactly like this, too.” I knew my work. I knew when I drew from my imagination, rather than when I was trying to replicate something that already existed.
They took the drawing, analyzed it, one then the other. I moved back, watched in silence, part of mehopefulthat they would believe me, which was silly. I didn’t need them to believe anything I said because I needed to figure out what was happening here, and whathadhappened, same as them.
Why would the Red Queen show up in all our dreams? It was most definitelynota coincidence, and something told me that this was all connected to that boy in my drawing.
“I think I…I think I know him, too.”
When Cook spoke, we all turned to him, our lips sealed. He was the one holding the drawing now, his hands shaking as he analyzed it.
“He was…he lived near me at one point when I was a kid. I remember his face. His name really was Silas.” He looked at me. “I think it’shim.”
Suddenly all the others surrounded him, asking him questions, impatient for answers.
Apparently, Silas was a quiet kid; didn’t exactly hang out with others in his neighborhood or anyone at school; lived with his mother and his grandmother somewhere east in the Court of Spades, and they moved when Cook was fifteen. He never saw him again, but they did share classes in school. All Cook could say was that Silas was always the best at everything, knew all the answers, that the teachers adored him—and he could repair broken clocks faster than anyone else he’d ever seen.
That’s it.
March brought the drawing back to me with a strange look on his face. He was suspicious, but not only. He was also confused, and a lot more curious.
“You’re very talented, I’ll give you that,” he told me, and he didn’t come close to me at all, like he hadn’t been on his knees in front of me just minutes ago.
The reminder sent heat to my cheeks, and suddenly I wanted to hide somewhere—anywhere in the world but here.
“It’s just a drawing,” I muttered, folding the paper again as fast as my hands allowed.
“It’s a face we all know, and we don’t,” he said. “You put an incredible amount of detail into it, too. Much more than the other drawing you showed me—like you knew him.” He paused. Looked at me. “Intimately.”
I could have laughed.
Good thing he hadn’t seen my drawings ofhim!
“Tomorrow is the trial,” I said, trying not to drown in embarrassment. “I’m going to bed.”
