bracelet around my wrist and send my mind out. Nothing. I swallow, take a deep breath, and try again. Still nothing. No no no. Come on, there has to be something. But there isn’t. “I . . . I’m not sensing anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t sense her. I’m getting nothing.”
I can see the panic in Ryn’s eyes. “So what does that mean? Is she asleep?”
“No. I can still sense people when they’re sleeping.”
“So?” He grabs my shoulders. “What, Violet? Tell me.”
“Um . . . I think it might mean . . .” I can’t say it. I can’t tell Ryn that I think his sister is dead. I don’t even know how to get the words out.
I don’t have to though, because he figures it out. “No.” He shakes his head. “They wouldn’t kill her. They wouldn’t. It makes no sense.” He steps away from me. “Try it again.”
I try, but it’s still no use. I can’t feel her at all. It’s just like when I lost Nate in the labyrinth. Except . . . it turned out Nate was still alive. “Perhaps she isn’t dead,” I say. “Perhaps she’s being magically concealed or something.”
“Magically concealed? Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“She isn’t dead. She can’t be.” He turns on his heel and heads down the corridor.
“Where are you going?”
“To find that room you saw her in.”
“Wait, Ryn, you don’t even know which way to go.” I hurry after him, trying not to trip over my skirt.
He stops. “Do you? Can you find the room even if she isn’t in it anymore?”
“I—I think so. I’ve searched for Calla so many times today that I could probably find that room just by the memory of what it feels like.”
“Okay, so do it.”
I lift the bottom of my skirt and start walking. It’s a strange thing, following the scent of a thought. A memory. A feeling. It’s like a pull. Like gravity, in a way. You can close your eyes and spin yourself every which way you please, but when you stop you can still feel which way is up and which is down.
We travel along passageways, up staircases, through rooms, and into more passageways. We have to hide twice. First behind a wall hanging, and then behind a couch in a small library. Ryn doesn’t say a word, but I can tell he’s close to desperate. He’s holding a knife that must have been hidden on his body somewhere, and I know he won’t hesitate to use it on anyone who tries to stop him.
“I think it’s down here,” I say as we enter a wider corridor. “Um . . . this one. No—” I move to the next door “—this one.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, it’s definitely this one.”
Ryn tries the handle; the door opens easily. Not a good sign. Slowly, he pushes the door all the way back to reveal the room. There is no light other than the gleam of the moon through the window, so I smell it before I see it. Blood. A pool of it on the wooden floor, smeared by tiny handprints. And on the bed, a small, rumpled jersey.
There’s no Calla.
Ryn’s hands start to shake. He makes a strangled noise that sounds like ‘no’. His knife clatters onto the floor, and his hands tug at his hair.
My brain takes in the evidence and searches desperately for a different conclusion. Perhaps it isn’t her blood. Or if it is, perhaps she’s wounded and not dead. But that’s a whole lot more blood than a small child can afford to lose, and coupled with the fact that I can no longer sense her . . . Well, I’m struggling to come to any conclusion other than the one Ryn has clearly arrived at. He picks up the jersey from the bed and presses it to his face. His shoulders begin to shake.
I saw my father cry once, after we received the news that Reed had died. There was something terrifying about his tears. I had only ever known him as strong and fearless, and it scared me to realize that some things existed that could break him.
That’s what it’s like to see Ryn cry. It’s wrong. He’s supposed to be
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t sense her. I’m getting nothing.”
I can see the panic in Ryn’s eyes. “So what does that mean? Is she asleep?”
“No. I can still sense people when they’re sleeping.”
“So?” He grabs my shoulders. “What, Violet? Tell me.”
“Um . . . I think it might mean . . .” I can’t say it. I can’t tell Ryn that I think his sister is dead. I don’t even know how to get the words out.
I don’t have to though, because he figures it out. “No.” He shakes his head. “They wouldn’t kill her. They wouldn’t. It makes no sense.” He steps away from me. “Try it again.”
I try, but it’s still no use. I can’t feel her at all. It’s just like when I lost Nate in the labyrinth. Except . . . it turned out Nate was still alive. “Perhaps she isn’t dead,” I say. “Perhaps she’s being magically concealed or something.”
“Magically concealed? Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“She isn’t dead. She can’t be.” He turns on his heel and heads down the corridor.
“Where are you going?”
“To find that room you saw her in.”
“Wait, Ryn, you don’t even know which way to go.” I hurry after him, trying not to trip over my skirt.
He stops. “Do you? Can you find the room even if she isn’t in it anymore?”
“I—I think so. I’ve searched for Calla so many times today that I could probably find that room just by the memory of what it feels like.”
“Okay, so do it.”
I lift the bottom of my skirt and start walking. It’s a strange thing, following the scent of a thought. A memory. A feeling. It’s like a pull. Like gravity, in a way. You can close your eyes and spin yourself every which way you please, but when you stop you can still feel which way is up and which is down.
We travel along passageways, up staircases, through rooms, and into more passageways. We have to hide twice. First behind a wall hanging, and then behind a couch in a small library. Ryn doesn’t say a word, but I can tell he’s close to desperate. He’s holding a knife that must have been hidden on his body somewhere, and I know he won’t hesitate to use it on anyone who tries to stop him.
“I think it’s down here,” I say as we enter a wider corridor. “Um . . . this one. No—” I move to the next door “—this one.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, it’s definitely this one.”
Ryn tries the handle; the door opens easily. Not a good sign. Slowly, he pushes the door all the way back to reveal the room. There is no light other than the gleam of the moon through the window, so I smell it before I see it. Blood. A pool of it on the wooden floor, smeared by tiny handprints. And on the bed, a small, rumpled jersey.
There’s no Calla.
Ryn’s hands start to shake. He makes a strangled noise that sounds like ‘no’. His knife clatters onto the floor, and his hands tug at his hair.
My brain takes in the evidence and searches desperately for a different conclusion. Perhaps it isn’t her blood. Or if it is, perhaps she’s wounded and not dead. But that’s a whole lot more blood than a small child can afford to lose, and coupled with the fact that I can no longer sense her . . . Well, I’m struggling to come to any conclusion other than the one Ryn has clearly arrived at. He picks up the jersey from the bed and presses it to his face. His shoulders begin to shake.
I saw my father cry once, after we received the news that Reed had died. There was something terrifying about his tears. I had only ever known him as strong and fearless, and it scared me to realize that some things existed that could break him.
That’s what it’s like to see Ryn cry. It’s wrong. He’s supposed to be
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