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The baron’s arms were folded across his splendid red doublet. His expression was still cold. But something else glimmered in his eyes. “You will not meet it quite yet,” he said. “Take the rope from the girl’s neck.”
The crowd let out a collective gasp. And with barely repressed fury, the giant man moved to do as he was bid.
“No,” I said.
“No?” repeated the baron in surprise.
“If you spare me, you must spare my friends. And if you won’t, then let your man have what he wants. Let him see me twirl on the end of his rope.”
Though I’d just dared the baron to have me killed, my heart was strangely calm. I didn’t care whether I lived or died. But if there was a chance to save Maraulf, Merrick, and Vazi, then I had to take it.
The baron turned and began to walk away, back toward the tower. Right before he vanished from view, he looked back and his eyes met mine.
“Done,” he said.
CHAPTER 28
The Columbia dorm lounge is quiet as Jordan passes through on his way to his shift at Belman. The girl who always studies physics at the table by the window is—surprise—studying physics at the table by the window, a giant cup of Starbucks steaming by her arm.
She looks up as Jordan walks by, and his breath catches. For a split second, she looks just like Hannah.
Of course, her hair isn’t messy and her clothes aren’t ill-fitting hand-me-downs, but there is something in her eyes that seems familiar. A mix of wariness and piercing intelligence.
“Morning,” he mutters, but she’s already looking down at her book again.
On the bus to Queens, he stares out the rain-streaked window, wondering if Hannah will be awake and lucid today. If she is, will she try to convince him again that she’s perfectly sane? That she’s a time traveler rather than a schizophrenic?
You’re not supposed to call someone that. You say “someone living with schizophrenia.” Because language and labels matter.
But what if he thinks of Hannah as having altered perception disorder, or disconnectivity syndrome, or any of the other newnames for schizophrenia that he’s heard proposed—does it make a difference? Does it put her any closer to being better?
“No, no, no!” a voice calls out.
Jordan looks up. A few rows in front of him on the bus, an old woman in a violet wig is waving her arms and carrying on a heated conversation with someone who isn’t there. “No,” she’s saying, “I don’t want to do that.”
Jordan wonders if working at a psychiatric hospital has made him start seeing mental illness everywhere, or if the city is just full of garden-variety misfits. But the woman is getting more and more agitated, so when the bus comes to the next stop, he goes up and sits down across the aisle from her. He’s ready to help.
“Ma’am?” he says quietly. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve told you,” she says. “I’m not interested in the parrot!”
“Ma’am?”
Finally she turns to him. Her wig’s on sideways and she doesn’t have any teeth. She looks ancient and terrifying. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation?” she demands.
And suddenly, he can. Because there are Bluetooth earbuds in her ears and a phone in her hand.
Jordan goes red from neck to crown. “So sorry,” he says. “Have a nice day.”
And then he gets off the bus three stops early.
CHAPTER 29
“Dude, your favorite psycho’s finally awake,” Mitch says, elbowing Jordan in the ribs as he heads out on the floor to do 10 a.m. safety checks. “You can take her to her new room if she’s ready. Number 5A.”
“Don’t call her—” Jordan begins. But Mitch is halfway down the hall already, laughing.
“I’m just kidding,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t be such a snowflake.”
