“I saw,” Dara said. “You’ve been in the newspapers.”
“Not that. That’s propaganda for Lehrer—I’m supposed to position myself opposite Holloway.”
“I did think your whole argument sounded uncharacteristically flaccid.”
“That’s a terrible choice of word.”
“Soft, then. Not the Noam Álvaro we all know and loathe.”
“Well, as you so astutely pointed out just a few minutes ago, I can’t let shit go.” Noam tapped one finger against the table. “So I’ve been meeting up with community leaders in secret. Not encouraging riots per se, but ...”
“You never quit, do you?”
“Never,” Noam said with a self-satisfied grin. “The second Lehrer’s finished, Atlantians are taking our country back.”
Dara smiled back. “Good for you,” he said sincerely. “But ... so much for anarchy, hmm?”
“Well, letting Atlantia get absorbed into Carolinia isn’t really congruent with anarchist values either, you know. Baby steps.”
Dara kicked his ankle under the table and immediately wished he hadn’t. The lines of Noam’s expression softened further, and Dara knew, heknewNoam was ...
Noam was still in love with him. And Dara had no idea what to do about it.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
NOAM
Second Wednesdays of the month were for sparring.
The days leading up tumbled into each other like a fallen house of cards, Sunday into Monday, Monday into Tuesday—until it was Wednesday morning and Noam had to leave the barracks and go down to the empty room they’d been using these past months, water bottle clutched in one sweaty hand and his magic sizzling like static in his bones. He sensed Lehrer’s own magic from a floor away, like some kind of primitive self-preservation instinct.
Noam paused in the stairwell and pressed his face against the brick wall, holding that cold water bottle to the nape of his neck.
If this was anything like last time ...
If this was like last time, and Lehrer was weakened, Noam couldn’t hesitate. He couldn’t make that same mistake.
He had to follow through.
His stomach clenched and flexed, a feeling not unlike motion sickness. Noam swallowed against it, but his throat convulsed around his own spit; his short nails scraped at the mortar between the bricks.
Calm down. You have to be calm.
Lehrer would sense Noam’s heart beating too fast, the electrical signals in his ventricles flickering like bad lights. He had to relax.
He couldn’t relax.
He’d tell Lehrer he went for a run beforehand, Noam decided as he pushed off the wall and made himself go down the last flight of stairs. That’s why he was late, and sweaty, and anxious.
But when Noam pushed open the door to the sparring room, Lehrer’s gaze didn’t so much as glance down at his chest.
“I heard the most interesting rumor today,” Lehrer said, shucking off his tie and tossing it into a folding chair.
The razor edge to his voice wasn’t reassuring. That sickness in Noam’s gut pitched higher, his tongue suddenly sandy in his mouth.
Lehrer was waiting. For Noam to say something, clearly.
“What rumor?” Noam managed.
