Do I dare? Is it worth the risk? I look at the sketch and pick up my pace again, making my choice. The lines on the drawing are undeniably Silas’s. Twenty, I’d know it from the ink alone. He always had a fascinating mixture of pigment he’d use just for sketching.
Running through the halls, I make it to the library in no time. Of course, it’s completely empty. Students and faculty all go home for the longest break in the academic year. Even still, I listen and look for signs of anyone else and stick to the shadows.
If I had a different face, I wouldn’t need to worry.The thought is hard. Grim in its truth. I banish it, focusing on the here and now as I arrive at the twenty-third section of the library, fourth bookshelf in, fifth shelf. Fingertip dragging across the ink that has long since seeped into the spines, I search for the book numbered 10081.
10079…10080…
10082.
My hand falls to my side, and I skim the shelves around where the book should be. All the others appear to be in order. I pull the letter from my pocket again, studying it.
“What do you want me to see?” I whisper, as if his ghost might hear me and answer. There must be something I missed.
Then, as I move my thumb to fold up the letter, I see it.
A streak of black in the bottom left corner. One that almost looks as if his pen slipped and he struggled to catch it. Something easily disregarded.
Except…
Holding out my right hand, I grasp an invisible pen, hovering its tip over the page, which I brace with my left. I scribble over the numbers. I pretend to drop the pen four different times, in four different ways.
The only way for the pen to make that mark on accident would be if Silas was left-handed. And I know he wasn’t.
This mark was intentional. But what does it mean? I flip over the page, nothing on the back. Then I rotate it.
10081 becomes 18001.
I skim the shelves, searching. The book is in a completely different section. My hands quiver as I reach for it. Its title is faded, gilding completely flaked off. I flip through the pages, and one falls out.
There, written in the margins in a familiar script, is the message.
Go to my first prison.
“Silas.” I choke out his name with a disbelieving laugh. When did he leave this for me? It must’ve been during the Feast of Cups. Did he know that I’d use the card he gave me? He probably did.
Pressing my eyes closed, I fight a rush of guilt. I was so predictable. He knew I’d damn him…and he gave me that card anyway.
I’m running again, back through the depths of the academy. This time, two letters are tucked into my pocket alongside his drawings. I leave through the tunnel inside the bridge.
Down Silver Street, not far from Ravin’s manor, is a decrepit, tucked-away building. The windows are a mix of boarded up, cracked, and grime-coated. I let myself in through a familiar back door and head upstairs. The entire time, I have my magic focused on my cards, ready to summon any at the first sign of trouble. But all that greets me are the faded outlines of our boots in the dust, heading down the stairs, from when we teleported here—none are heading up.
The bedroom is exactly as I remember, from the threadbare sheets to the dusty aroma. It’s getting late, so I waste no time scouring the room from top to bottom. At first, I move slowly and methodically, searching for any signs of Silas’s presence. When I find none, I begin to search more vigorously. Still nothing. After what feels like an hour of turning the room upside down, I stop and rake my fingers through my still-damp hair.
“Where is it?” I say with a groan.
Crossing to the window, I scan the sky. There’s the faintest blush of dawn kissing the stars. I’ll need to be back soon. I wouldn’t dare move around Eclipse City right now in broad daylight.At least, not with my current face…
Sighing, I spin in place and lean on the windowsill, about to consider my options.
Except the sill moves ever so slightly under my weight. Jumping away instantly and assessing it, I give it a gentle tug. It shifts again.
The last time I was here, I came to this very window, I rested my hand on this very sill, and it did not move. With a determined yank, I pull it right off. The wall inside has been hollowed out, mostly by termites, but also from what looks like clumsy knife work gouging at the remaining wood. There’s a gap just wide enough for a familiar journal.
It’s worn, leather-bound. The edges are covered in dust and ink splotches. I run my fingertips over its front, very nearly unable to bring myself to open it.
Every time we ventured out, he never left without it. Tears roll off my cheeks, darkening the leather. It wasn’t there when I was throwing things from his desk into a bag as we were running.
“Did you know that you were going to die?”
