is, he always makes sure I get it. Just last week I asked for a—”
“—No, not that kind of talking,” said Rowan, cutting her off. “I mean real talking. Has he ever hinted as to why you matter so much to him?”
Esme didn’t answer. Instead she lay down her cards. Nines over threes. “Rummy,” she said. “Loser shuffles.”
Rowan gathered the cards. “Scythe Goddard must have had a good reason to let you live, and to grant you immunity. Aren’t you at all curious?”
Esme shrugged, and stayed tight-lipped. It was only after Rowan dealt the next hand that she said, “Actually, Scythe Goddard didn’t grant me immunity. He can glean me any time he wants, but he doesn’t.” Then she smiled. “That makes me even more special, don’t you think?”
• • •
They played four games. One Esme won fair and square, two Rowan let her win, and one Rowan won, so it wouldn’t be as obvious that he had thrown the others. By the time they were done, dinner had broken up and the others were going about their particular evening routines. Rowan avoided everyone and tried to go straight to his room, but on his way he heard something that gave him pause. There was faint sobbing coming from Scythe Volta’s room. He listened at the door to make sure it wasn’t his imagination, then turned the knob. The door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open slightly and peered inside.
Scythe Volta was there, sitting on his bed, head in hands. His body heaved with sobs that he tried to stifle, but could not. It was a few moments before he looked up and saw Rowan.
Volta’s sorrow instantly turned to fury. “Who the hell said you could come in here? Get out!” He grabbed the nearest object—a glass paperweight—and hurled it at Rowan, just as Esme had suggested he might. It would have left a pretty nasty gash on Rowan’s head had it connected, but Rowan ducked and the thing hit the door, leaving a substantial dent in the wood instead of in Rowan’s skull. Rowan could have retreated. That probably would have been the most judicious course of action, but leaving well enough alone was not Rowan’s strong point. He was notoriously skilled at sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, preparing to dodge the next blunt object hurled his way. “You have to be quieter if you don’t want anyone to hear you,” he told Volta.
“If you tell anyone, I will make your life a living hell.”
Rowan laughed at that, because it implied his life wasn’t already that.
“You think that’s funny? I’ll show you funny.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh. I wasn’t laughing at you, if that’s what you think.”
Since Volta was no longer throwing things and wasn’t chasing him out, Rowan grabbed a chair and sat down, far enough away to give Volta some space.
“Today was hard,” Rowan said. “I don’t blame you.”
“What do you know about it?” snapped Volta.
“I know you’re not like the others,” said Rowan. “Not really.”
Volta looked up at him then, his eyes red from tears that he didn’t try to hide anymore. “There’s something wrong with me, you mean.” Volta looked down again, clenching his fists, but Rowan didn’t move because he didn’t expect to get a beating. He suspected that Volta would use his own fists against himself if he could.
“Scythe Goddard is the future,” Volta said. “I don’t want to be part of the past. Don’t you understand?”
“But you hated today, didn’t you? Even more than me, because you weren’t just watching, you were a part of it.”
“And you’ll be part of it soon, too.”
“Maybe not,” said Rowan.
“Oh, you will be. The moment you get your ring and kill that pretty little girlfriend of yours, you’ll know there’s no turning back for you, either.”
Rowan swallowed, trying to fight down what little bit of dinner he had eaten. Citra’s face bloomed in his mind, but he pushed the image away. He couldn’t let himself think about her now.
Rowan knew he was out on a limb with Volta. The only thing to do was shimmy to its precarious end. “You only pretend to like gleaning,” he said to Volta. “But you hate it more than you’ve ever hated anything. Your mentor was Scythe Nehru, right? He’s very old-school, which means he chose you for your conscience. You don’t want to take life—and you definitely don’t want to take dozens upon dozens at a