Page 134 of Stormbreaker

silver: poet, girl. are you ok

hazel: I heard the Solitude rescued you??

silver: that’s not all he’s been doing . . . give us the scoop poe! did you really kiss him?

I sigh, wondering what took them so long to ask.

me: I’m fine, just a sprained wrist.

And that’s all I say, ignoring the question about Rook. It’s petty, but not knowing will eat them alive. I click off my phone and toss it on the nightstand while I lie back and stare at the ceiling.

I’m wide awake now. Frustrated and angry. I stand up and start pacing back and forth.

The door opens, and I’m so lost in my thoughts that I jump.

It’s Rook carrying an armful of my clothing. He stops when he sees me standing in the middle of the room.

“Miss me?” he asks, and I nod and catch myself before shaking my head as he smirks. Maybe I did miss him a little bit.

I step aside as he enters and dumps the entire lot onto one of the empty beds. He’s wearing my backpack over his shoulders, and he slides it off and sets it on the ground.

“It’s not everything, but it’s all I could carry in one trip. I can get the rest tomorrow, if that works?”

“Of course,” I say, suddenly intensely grateful. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do all this. I really appreciate your help. I really don’t have anyone, and . . .”

“I get it,” he says and heads for his corner of the room.

“Sorry. Yeah. I guess you do.”

I pick through the pile of clothing and start hanging a few things in the closet. I feel Rook glancing over as he kicks off his boots and lies back on the bed. I gasp in surprise when I see that he’s now holding . . . a book.

A real book, made from paper with a glossy cover, though it’s marred with numerous scratches and dents.

He notices where my attention has gone. “We have a few books out in the Wastes. I brought a couple of my favorites with me.”

I drop my face in my hands, feeling like a complete and total asshole.

“And I thought you couldn’t read,” I say, which earns me a genuine smile. It spreads across his face, a dimple forming in his cheek that does something funny and not wholly unwelcome to my insides.

“Here,” he says, holding it out.

I walk over and accept the book with the reverence it’s due. I flip through the softened pages as they tickle my fingertips. The cover reveals the title of a fantasy book from the Warming Age that was once very popular. It’s the same one the architect modeled Amery Academy after.

“You believe in elves?” I ask, scanning the page I’ve landed on. “Trees that talk?”

“I think we proved the supernatural doesn’t really exist,” he says, almost mournfully. “But I think it’s still fun to dream.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I agree.”

I close the book and hand it back, but he waves me off. “You should read it.”

Something hopeful lingers in his expression. Like he really wants me to say yes.

“You’d let me borrow it?” I ask, holding his gaze. “Are you sure? This is so precious.”

“Why not?” he says. “They once believed books were meant to be shared, and it’s a great story. I think you’ll like it.”

“Thank you,” I say, bringing it to my nose and inhaling deeply. I imagine I can taste its words and thoughts between the pages. “I know I keep saying it, but you have no idea how grateful I am for everything.”