seemed to crawl beneath my hands. There was no doubt in my mind that the tracker who’d nearly killed us had touched the desk himself when he was my age.
A mage’s trace couldn’t stay on a desk that long. I knew that.
Didn’t make my Mage Academy desk feel any more comfortable, though.
It was ridiculous that I even had to sit in those classes. I’d already learned everything about tracking on my own, at the bakery, back when we had nothing to do but study. But none of the teachers believed me—or would admit to believing me, anyway.
I felt my lip curl as I climbed. After thirteen years of living as a fugitive, I was just supposed to pretend to be a regular mage girl now. Like I hadn’t spent a full year preparing to face life in the city on my own. Like I hadn’t been kidnapped by terrorist mages and used to blackmail my mother. Like none of it had ever happened.
Stay relaxed, Dad had said. Right.
I reached the top of the wall and stopped, my shoulders and forearms straining as I gripped the highest holds. After a deep breath, I let my legs drop, holding on with only my arms, letting the skin on my fingers burn as I dangled to see how long I could last. How was that for relaxed?
I squeezed the handholds, raising from a dead hang until my head was above my hands. At least my body was strong. How many Sentinels could climb from the floor to the ceiling in the space of a few breaths, as I could? Could Mom even do what I’d just done?
I was already strong enough to resist my True Name, just like Mom. She’d taught us in a rushed, whispered meeting shortly after we’d been rescued from the Crimson Blight. It had only taken me a minute or two to master the skill, while Alba had struggled for three times as long.
My sister would still be at the lowest handholds if she were here, whimpering and complaining like always.
Incident. What incident? And what magic? Mom had never mentioned any incident to me. Maybe she’d told Alba. Or Ella. They’d always been closer to each other than to me.
Maybe I was the only one in the family who didn’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d left me out of something important.
I imagined the family together—Dad, Mom, Alba, and Ella—huddling around the kitchen table, worrying about the mysterious incident at the gate, making plans, and keeping secrets while I did hours of unnecessary schoolwork upstairs in my room.
The darkness in my stomach grew heavier, too heavy to hang from the rock wall any longer.
I dropped to the ground, this time wobbling as I landed, my crouch not quite as stable as after my first drop.
Again. I approached a third section of the wall. Faster this time, and smoother. Again, and again, until every time was perfect.
I walked home in the dark.
Dad didn’t come back, not that I thought he would.
Not that I needed him to come.
Chapter 3
Waiting made my skin itch.
Every sound seemed too loud. The distant clang of the final evening bell seemed to reverberate in my head long after it ended, ruthlessly driving its message home. Another day had passed without our parents. Was that fourteen days now? Or fifteen?
The familiar scent of honey wafting through the villa did nothing to soothe my jumpy nerves. I scratched the back of my neck and tried to focus on my cards.
“Did you hear that?” Alba held her cards still, as though any movement would drown out the sound from outside. Her cheeks were red from the warm kitchen, her black hair untidy but glossy as always.
“Someone’s fomecoach. Down the street, not out front.” I shifted on the wooden kitchen chair, wishing the sick roiling in my stomach would quiet down. But I’d been feeling nervous ever since Mom and Dad left to hunt for the Masters in the Badlands, and it didn’t look like the churning would stop any time soon. I dropped my worst card on the pile and took a new one. “Your turn.”
“The honeybread is ready!” Ella set a plate, overflowing with steaming, golden slices of bread, on the table beside our card pile, her smile overly bright. Stains covered her worn, violet apron like she’d sloshed half the ingredients while making our evening treat. Maybe she was as anxious about their mission as I was. “Who’s hungry?”