“Ash—”
“November,” he says, and takes my hand, the warmth of his fingers sending goose bumps up my arm. “I’ve considered the danger; I know very well what kind of risks we’re taking. But my decision remains unchanged. I’m going with you.”
THE EARLY-MORNING LIGHT seeps around the edges of the blackout curtains, and I lie awake in my canopied bed, watching the room slowly come into focus. There was a time, not long ago, when the grayness of this school and the lack of electricity unnerved me. I felt so isolated in this castle in the middle of a forest, away from everything I knew and loved. And it strikes me in this moment that I don’t know when that changed, when I changed, but I don’t feel trapped anymore. I don’t feel out of place the way I once did.
I pull my curtains open, letting in the hazy light. There is a deep chill in the room and my socks aren’t cutting it on the cold stone floor. I make my way over to my antique dresser, which holds a bowl of water and a fresh towel. I splash some water on my face and inspect myself in the mirror. The shadow under my eye where I was punched a couple of weeks ago is barely noticeable anymore, and the cuts on my arms and legs from Felix throwing me out of the tree are red but starting to heal. The bruise along my jawline is darker than it was yesterday and I’m sore, but those seem like infinitesimal worries compared to locating my dad.
I look out the window to the trees; between the branches, the first bits of snow swirl and flutter. “Snow,” I breathe, instantly homesick for Pembrook and Emily and our wintertime antics. And then it occurs to me what day it is. “December twentieth,” I say, and my chest constricts.
“Deeeecember tweeeentieth!” Emily and I shout out the back windows of my dad’s truck. There’s six inches of snow on the ground, making the trees sparkle and our town square look like an idyllic scene from a New England holiday card.
“What do you think? Should we go sledding?” Dad asks from the front seat.
“Well…” Emily gives me a mischievous look. “We were thinking we could go over to Eastbury Pond and ice-skate if you don’t mind the drive.”
“Breakfast, ice-skating, hot chocolate, sledding,” I say, seconding Emily’s enthusiasm. “Then we order a large pizza, maybe two large pizzas, and drive around to look at all the holiday decorations in the rich neighborhoods.”
Dad parks his truck in front of Lucille’s diner and turns off the engine. “This is your day, Nova. Whatever you girls want to do, I’m game.”
The winter after my sixth birthday and a couple of months after Mom died, Dad started the December Twentieth Winter Celebration Day—our own made-up holiday, which had no association or nostalgia to remind us of our loss. Emily’s been a part of it every year since. And even though it’s fun if the twentieth falls on a weekend, it’s a million times better when it falls on a school day and our parents let us take the day off.
Emily and I jump out of the truck, our boots crunching the newly fallen snow, with grins on our faces—the particular kind of enthusiasm garnered from knowing we’re doing something awesome while everyone else is in math class.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door and I wipe my face off with the towel. “Come in.”
Pippa, the young maid who attends our suite, walks in with my freshly pressed clothes draped over her arm.
“Good morning,” she says, only it sounds more like a question than a statement. She lays my black leggings and white linen shirt over the trunk at the end of my bed.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to force life into my words, but I just wind up sounding uncomfortable.
Pippa’s eyes drift to my banged-up arms peeking out from the rolled sleeves of my nightgown. Her forehead wrinkles with concern and I quickly pull my sleeves back down, but the gesture only reminds me of my dream last night. I give her what I hope looks like a reassuring smile, but my heart’s not in it. If I can’t make Pippa think I’m okay and that everything’s normal, I’ve got no chance of convincing my deception-expert classmates.
Pippa stops halfway to the door and makes eye contact with me like she wants to say something, but just then Layla walks in and Pippa excuses herself. I fight the urge to blurt out a goodbye, give her a hug, and tell her thanks for taking such good care of me while I was here. No one can know we’re leaving, I remind myself.
“I’ll tell her,” Layla says quietly as the door to the hallway closes. Despite having been locked in the dungeon herself, Layla is as poised and unruffled as always. Her long dark hair is loose and slides over her shoulder in a glossy wave. “While I may find your effusive behavior questionable, Pippa’s a nice person and I know she would appreciate a goodbye from you.” There’s no fanfare in Layla’s voice, as though she believes politeness is simply perfunctory.
I nod at her, grateful.
“Also, since you and Ash are leaving tonight, it’s time to talk about where you think your father is,” she says, and my anxiety comes back full-force. “Is your father the type to go directly after his Family in retribution for killing your aunt? Or will he hide out and gather information, opting for a subtler approach?”
“I want to say he’s not the revenge type,” I say, and bite my thumbnail. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned at this school, it’s how little I actually know about my own father.” I look up at Layla. “I can only assume that whatever he’s planned is dangerous. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent me here.”
“Okay, that’s a start,” Layla says with her usual studious expression. “If he decided to infiltrate Lion territory, that would certainly qualify as unsafe.”
I sit on the edge of my bed. “That conclusion is exactly what kept me up half the night.”
Layla tucks her hair behind her ear and sits down on the bed next to me. “If he’s going after the Lions, it likely means he’s somewhere in the UK. It’s the seat of their power, it’s where Jag resides, and it’s where their allies are the strongest.” She readjusts her position on the bed to better face me. “Our Family has contacts in the UK. Everyone’s Family does.” She pauses. “I’m just concerned that our Wolf Family contacts may not provide assistance to you and Ash. Not all of our Family dislikes the Lions as much as we do.” She looks at me like she’s just made a decision. “And you’re not going to be able to track down your father without some help.”
I stare back at her, trying to decipher the secondary meaning of her simple statement. “I agree, Lay. But what are you suggesting?”
“That you use your Bear contacts,” she says.
“But I don’t know who they are.”