Page 138 of Winterveil

“Nice to see a little fight in you,” he said. “But save the rest of it for the mission. As soon as the others return, you’re going into the Dreamscape, and you’re not coming out until Satow is dead.”

Nadiya, recovering in a hospital bed in New York. Klaudia, somewhere Giselle had not been given the privilege to know. And Julian. Bitterness filled her. If he hadn’t turned on them, they would be far away by now—fugitives, not soldiers. Not murderers.

“Get away from me,” she bit out.

Professor Blanchard straightened and adjusted his glasses. “Very well,” he said. “Then enjoy your solitude.”

He turned and stepped through the door, white coat billowing after him. With a blast of steam the door shut again, and Giselle was alone.

Alone. Trembling but determined, she circled the lab, examining the machines. She tried to pull the wires from the pods, but they held fast. She opened a filing cabinet and flipped through the folders, then scattered them all onto the floor.

Her heart was pounding. Giselle opened the top drawer of Professor Blanchard’s desk. She rummaged through pens and pads of paper, empty vials and sets of nodes in their plastic casing. Then she uncovered a pair of scissors, silver and gleaming sharp.

She took the scissors and approached the screen, which was still dark. The spasming blackness threw her own face back at her.

Even tear-streaked and pale with exhaustion, it was still the face of a pageant queen. Pretty and delicate. Flimsy, breakable. Years seemed to pile on her at that moment, memory after memory, crushing her under their weight. Her father’s retreating back, her mother’s quiet weeping, Meemaw standing in the door of the trailer that night. Glitter and stage lights, sequins and cheap crowns. Bonnie turning away from her. Sutton’s face smirking at her through the bars.

All that had happened to another girl. Giselle lifted the scissors and dug them into her tangled mass of hair. One rough cut, then another. Locks of auburn fluttered to the ground. With each cut, her tears ebbed. When she looked up at the screen again, her eyes were dry, and her jaw was set.

Forty-Four

Spring 2037

On the jet to Boston, Julian’s father was silent. As soon as they reached cruising altitude, his father took out his phone and stared down at it with an expression that Julian recognized as business. The expression defied anyone to interrupt him.

For want of something to do, Julian retrieved a bottle of champagne from the galley and poured himself a glass.

At that, his father looked up and arched a brow. Julian shrank in his seat. He pushed the glass away.

His father returned to his phone and several minutes went by, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the plane’s slight jostling.

“Did Fikret tell you?” The words escaped Julian’s mouth before he could stop them.

“I let Fikret go a month ago.”

“Oh.”

A month ago—as soon as Julian had enrolled at Valeran. Which meant Fikret was no longer being paid to look after him. He had agreed to come of his own volition. Out of genuine concern.

Julian turned and stared out the window. The view was black as they flew over forests and farmland. His stomach felt hollow and he wished he hadn’t pushed away his glass.

“What’s going to happen to her?”

“Who?”

“Klaudia.”

His father looked up again. “She’ll be taken back to Valeran, I imagine. She’s still a student there, under Dr. Iver’s supervision.”

Back at Valeran. Julian swallowed. There was an odd tenor of familiarity in his father’s voice when he spoke of Dr. Iver. He considered it for a moment.

“You’ve been in contact with him,” Julian said. “For how long?”

His father put his phone down and gave a slight sigh. “For as long as you’ve been there. I made a generous donation. Dr. Iver has kept me informed of your progress.”

Julian’s heart skipped a beat. His father hadn’t left him to the wolves. He may have been an embarrassment and a disappointment, but he was still a Joyce-Young. And his father’s only living son.

“Thanks, Dad,” he whispered.