“‘Hope is the thing with feathers,’” she says. “See you tomorrow.”
As soon as I replace the receiver, there’s a knock on the front door.
Genevieve’s steps pause. “Who is it?” she asks.
There’s a muffled answer, the sound of the door opening. “Aila?” Genevieve calls. “Someone’s here for you.”
I look with hesitance at the phone, where I’ve just finished speaking with both George and Beas. Then I rise and peer around the library door. Eliza stands in the foyer, wearing awkwardness as though she’s never experienced it before, shifting under the weight of a large satchel.
My stomach knots.
When I slip out of the library, she says, “Hello,” as if the word tastes odd in her mouth.
“Hi. I can . . . go get Will?”
“No,” she says quickly. “I’m here for you.”
I close the library door behind me, remembering our encounter on the road. Bracing myself for whatever she’s come to say.
“I’m . . . sorry to hear about what happened.” Eliza steps forward to offer me the oversize bag hanging heavily from her shoulder. “These are for you.”
I take it and glance inside warily. The clasp is practically popping open to reveal stacks of plump purple velvet sacks tied with gold ribbon.
It’s layers and layers of Tempests.
“These are the last ones,” Eliza says. “On the road, when I saw you . . . You said you needed them.”
I gape at her, remembering what else I said on that road. “These must have cost a fortune,” I finally say.
Eliza shrugs. “I traded for them. My mother sent me some earrings to make up for her missing the tournament and everything.” She picks at her fingernails. “They were huge and hideous, and I never would have worn them anyway.”
I close my gaping mouth. “Why . . .” I start. Why would you do this for me, after everything I did to you, and we did to each other? I close the clasp of the bag, heavy with Tempests, and stop myself from throwing my arms around Eliza: this girl who is the most unsolvable riddle of all. “Thank you,” I say instead, hoping it sounds as genuine as I feel.
She turns to leave without another word, and I hesitate. “Do you want to come back tomorrow?” I blurt. “George and Beas will be here at nine. We’ll need all the help we can get.”
“You know, it really doesn’t come easily, wanting to help you,” she says. She looks up at the chandelier, and the light falls in diamonds across her small nose, her perfect skin. “But I want to help Sterling, and I want to help William. And I think, right now, you might all be tied together.”
“So is that a yes?” I say.
She smiles and pulls the door shut behind her.
When dawn breaks the next morning, I wake to a strange, unsettling sense of cold air seeping into my room and a sharp rap on the front door. The kind of sound that conveys urgency and the weight of bad news.
I’m instantly awake, and I leap out of bed to crack open my door. Poke my head out into the hallway and strain to hear the hushed exchange between the police chief and Dr. Cliffton.
“Stefen—” I hear.
“I’m sorry, Malcolm, we don’t know how he did it,” the police chief says.
“What do you mean, gone?” Will’s voice. Furious.
“Somehow he managed to slip every lock we have.”
I close the door to lean my weight against it and then turn, slowly, as I become faintly aware of a new sound. A sound coming from my window, which was closed when I finally fell asleep last night.
And now is not.
I hadn’t imagined the stream of air I’d felt on my face when I woke. My mouth goes as dry as bones. There’s folded paper stashed into the open gap of the sill, fluttering with each gust of wind.
