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“Come on, Romeo,” Evie said, tugging on Sam’s sleeve. “Let’s ankle while we can.”
“I don’t think Isaiah should go,” Memphis said, and Isaiah started in with his protests.
“You never let me do anything!”
“I’m the one who has to look out for you,” Memphis said.
“I’ll stay here with him,” Theta said. “I wanna be here for when Henry comes back. He won’t know where we are.”
“Don’t wanna stay here with her,” Isaiah said.
“Isaiah!” Memphis pointed a finger at his brother. “Apologize.”
Isaiah pressed his lips tightly together and stared at the braided rug.
“Isaiah…” Memphis warned.
“It’s jake,” Theta said, even though it had hurt her feelings. “Go on and talk to Luther.”
Memphis narrowed his eyes at Isaiah. “We’re gonna talk about this later.”
“There’s a lot of ground to cover. Luther’s ward is all the way in the back,” Sam said, looking toward Ling. “You can stay here if you want.”
Ling bristled. There had been a lot of walking already. A throbbing ache burned along Ling’s muscles and burrowed deep into her spine, but she was afraid of being left behind, afraid of being seen as less than, or not seen at all.
“I’m fine,” she said, hoisting herself up on her crutches.
And the four of them set off through the asylum’s zigzagging wards toward its farthermost, forgotten realm and Luther Clayton.
Luther was resting in his room.
“Hello, Luther,” Evie said. “Remember me? Evie O’Neill?” She took a breath. “James’s sister?”
Luther stirred. He inclined his head toward Evie. “You sh-shouldn’t have c-c-come. It’s n-not s-safe.”
“I had to see you again.”
“They never should’ve d-done it.”
“I think he’s on some kind of medicine,” Memphis said. “It might make the reading harder. Maybe I’d better stay close?”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry for this, Luther. But I have to know what happened to you, and to my brother.” Evie closed her hand around the watch at his wrist. The whispers started.
And then she was falling deeply into Luther’s memory.
WITNESS
There was snow on the ground. A sugary, fairy-tale frost that glittered in the sun. On the frozen lawn of the great house, a dozen soldiers gathered around one of their own as he stood in front of a fat, round searchlight, eyes tightly closed, one hand stretched toward its bulk as if he could grab hold of its incandescence.
“Concentrate,” Rotke Wasserman encouraged. She was a slim woman with a heart-shaped face and kind, dark eyes made watery by the cold.
“Yes, Miss.” The young soldier recommitted, grimacing with the effort, and in the next second, the bulbs of the searchlight hummed, rising in pitch to a scream before exploding in sparks of light.
“That’s extraordinary!” Jake Marlowe cried, clapping the young man on the back. “Extraordinary!”
“Thank you, sir.” The soldier looked happy but exhausted. His nose bled. Someone else handed him a handkerchief.
