Page 96 of Stormbreaker

I notice Journey’s chestnut hair is sporting a streak of purple, and Domino’s braid has acquired some plum-hued highlights. They’re both settling into this new way of life. “Nice hair,” I say.

Journey smiles and gives her head a little shake. “Thought we should try to fit in.”

“Yours is amazing,” Domino says. “How often do you have to get it done?”

I run a hand through my purple locks. “Thanks, and every few weeks, I guess.”

“You need to give us your stylist’s name,” Journey says. Then she leans forward in a conspiratorial hunch. “Tell me, what’s it like being the scion’s daughter?”

Her eyes sparkle with curiosity. I blink at the abrupt change in topic and decide I don’t feel like pretending today. “Sometimes it really fucking sucks,” I answer, and her expression falls.

“But you’re the main character. Everyone knows who you are!”

I grimace, but Journey doesn’t pick up on my discomfort.

“I promise that isn’t always a good thing. It’s hard to wear the weight of people’s expectations.”

Her forehead creases, and I sense she doesn’t like my answer.

“Well, I think it would be nice to be that important,” she says, picking up her fork and digging into her eggs, but then I understand. “Fame” is a strange thing. Those who have it usually want to escape it, and those who covet it can’t imagine why anyone would want anything else.

“When you’re a cog, no one thinks you’re important,” she says. “Must be nice to matter. That’s all I’m saying.”

I nod along with her because I also see her point, but this conversation is officially making me uncomfortable.

“How are you settling in?” Rook asks Domino as he turns toward her. “Your family must be very proud of you.”

His gaze flicks to mine for the briefest second, and I get the sense he changed the conversation on my behalf. But why would he? He probably thinks the same as Journey.

“They’re pretty happy,” she says with a grin. “We knew it was a long shot, but I’ve always wanted to join the Storm Guard.”

Journey gives him a quizzical look. “What about yours? Do you have a family?”

Rook’s mouth presses together, and I can’t help but lean forward, hoping for the answer. Rook is such a closed book. A mystery worthy of ancient burial sites.

Who is he? Why is he here?

“I have a family,” he says evenly. “There are six of us. I’m the oldest, with two brothers and one sister.”

“Oh,” Journey says, her eyes widening. “I’ve heard about this. Solitudes have a lot . . .” She lowers her voice. “Of babies. Like . . . a lot.”

The implication of her statement is clear—Solitudes can’t control themselves like the animals we all claim they are.

Rook’s jaw ticks, and something passes behind his eyes. With a glare, he stands up, grabs his tray, and walks off without saying a word. We watch as he all but tosses it on the collection counter, dishes and utensils rattling, and then stalks out of the room.

Journey’s eyes spread wide. “What did I say?”

I shake my head and then stand up and leave.

“I should probably go, too,” I say to Domino and Journey.

After depositing my tray with only slightly less fanfare, I beeline for the door.

I have about fifteen minutes before class, and I pull out my phone again to check for something from my parents or maybe Trinity.

Nothing.

I consider calling my mom but decide to give her a few more days. To do what? Calm down? Calm my father down? Stop hating me for everything I’ve done?