She detected it now as Nero came forward to take her crutches and lean them against the wall so she could sit down. He settled in the chair beside her.
Aelia folded her hands on top of her clean white desk, the delicate metal plates of her wrist siphon tinkling as they touched each other. Her fingernails were painted a matte rose and filed into perfect half-ovals.
Sloane had written her statement the day before and passed it along to Aelia and Nero through Cyrielle. But they had summoned her here this morning anyway, citing the need to ask her a few follow-up questions. She couldn’t imagine what more she could say about what had happened. She had already ripped herself apart for them.
“So,” Sloane said, because no one had spoken for a few seconds. “You had some questions for me?”
“How are you feeling, Sloane?” Aelia’s smile had to be forced. Sloane wasn’t someone people smiled at, and Aelia wasn’t someone who smiled.
“Peachy,” Sloane said. “Your questions?”
Aelia glanced at Nero, who cleared his throat. He leaned toward Sloane, his legs crossed at the ankle. His socks had small magic wands on them. Sloane suppressed a smile.
“We were concerned for you because we detected a certain . . . sympathy in the tone of your statement,” Nero said.
“Sympathy for the Resurrectionist, that is,” Aelia clarified.
“What?” Sloane scowled. “He had me kidnapped; of course I don’t have sympathy for him.”
“But in your statement, you said something about him seeming . . . troubled.”
“He’s just different than I expected, that’s all.”
“Different how, exactly?” Nero cocked his head, reminding Sloane of the therapist she had seen after the Dive, all furrowed brow and tilted head.
“He’s not the Dark One,” Sloane said. “I thought maybe he was the parallel version of the Dark One from our universe. I see now that’s not the case. That’s all.”
“Our concern is not without foundation,” Aelia said. “The Resurrectionist has swayed people to his cause before. He has—a particular charm.”
“Charm?” Sloane raised her eyebrows. “Where in my statement did you see a goddamn thing about him being charming?”
“Well, it doesn’t begin that way,” Nero said. “We suspect he may use some kind of persuasive working—”
“Who did he do this to before?” Sloane interrupted.
Nero and Aelia exchanged a look.
“Who she was is of no import,” Aelia said.
“She was obviously of import or you wouldn’t be warning me about it,” Sloane replied.
Nero glanced at Aelia again. “As I said, we just wanted to check in with you to ensure that—”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you, actually,” Sloane said. “Because it sounded like the Resurrectionist had dealt with someone in my position before. Another Chosen One, I mean. Did Genetrix’s Chosen One ever meet him? You know—before dying?”
“We did not oversee our Chosen One’s activities as much as we should have, perhaps because we believed everything would go according to plan, as the prophecy indicated,” Aelia said. “As you can plainly tell, we won’t be making that mistake again.”
“But I notice you’re still not volunteering to fight him yourself,” Sloane said.
“It’s not wrong to know your own limits,” Aelia retorted, her cheeks going pink.
“Isn’t it?” Sloane shrugged. “I’ve never had the luxury of knowing mine.”
“Then you are as unwise as your predecessor,” Aelia snapped. “She, too, believed the Resurrectionist was merely wounded, that an accord or some kind of reconciliation was possible. She was incorrect, and she paid the ultimate penalty for it. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
The words crashed into Sloane, one at a time. She was incorrect.
But when Aelia, standing in the rubble of the old Drain site, had told them that Genetrix’s Chosen One was dead, she had called him “he.” He was valiant and a talented worker of magic. He is dead. He was defeated.
“So the person the Resurrectionist manipulated before . . . it was your Chosen One,” Sloane said, trying to sound casual. “You could have just said.”
“Well, I didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily, particularly so soon after a traumatic event.” Aelia straightened her crisp shirt.
Sloane leaned back in her chair. She had just caught Aelia using two different pronouns for the same person. But she didn’t want to call attention to it—not yet.
“Do I seem alarmed?” Sloane said. “Or do I seem pissed that you’re trying my patience when all I want to do is kill this asshole and go home?”
Aelia pursed her lips.
“Cool,” Sloane said. “Now, if you’ll hand over my crutches, I’ll be limping back to my room.”