The center line had been redrawn since Astra’s class.
I saw her feet there anyway: crossing it badly, then better, then badly again because fear and anger both taught the body to lie about balance.
I looked at the line until I stopped seeing the door to Ashford’s rooms.
It didn’t really work.
Three minutes later, Marsh appeared in the doorway empty-handed and unsmiling.
“You felt it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Is it done?”
“No.”
Relief crossed his face first.
He hated that I saw it.
“Good,” he said.
I glanced at him and watched his mouth tighten.
“I know,” he said. “I know. I’m an ass.”
“She chose him.”
“That’s why I’m an ass.”
“She chose him, and he didn’t force the rest of us out. At least not yet.”
Kieran looked away.
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“Not really.”
“Excellent. It doesn’t.”
The Pull shifted again.
Kieran’s hand jerked toward his right shoulder.
He stopped it halfway.
Too late.
Silver-green light bled through his shirt, high on the right side.
I had seen Marks answer before.
I had not seen one answer like a wound.
It didn’t spread like an answering Mark should. It stayed caught there, bright and wrong, as if his shoulder had trapped it.
“Marsh?”
