“There is no human language—honestly, what is that school teaching you? Humans insist on dividing themselves into different groups, which I’ve always found strange. If they united, they’d likely have progressed much further as a species—but I suppose it’s better for us that they haven’t. And to answer your question: My letter isn’t written in the Enlightened Language. So it would be pointless for you to open it.”
“Then tell me what it says,” Keefe demanded. “Or deliver it yourself.”
She grabbed his shoulder. “Did I give you the impression that this was optional?”
The memory shifted speed then, skipping through what looked like a vicious argument and not slowing until Keefe wrenched his arm free and stalked away.
But the door he’d been heading for banged shut in his face, as if his mom had closed it with her telekinesis.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “That crystal leaps to a city called London, near a house with a green door. The person who lives there might be useful—we’ll see. That’s why I need you to slide this letter through the metal slot on the door and then leave without being seen. You should be gone less than five minutes—but I’ll give you ten, since you might have to slip down an alley before you can leap home. Don’t speak to anyone, and if anyone tries to speak to you, just look confused. It shouldn’t be hard since you won’t understand a word they’re saying. Understood?”
His reply was lost to a crackle of static. Then the scene blurred again, jumping to when Lady Gisela removed his cape and examined the rest of his outfit: a black tunic and gray pants, which weren’t human-style by any means, but were at least boring enough to blend in.
“You’re running . . . time,” she told him. “I need . . . back before . . . father . . . errand.”
The memory sharpened as Young Keefe held the crystal up to the light. But he just stood there staring at the deep blue beam.
“I didn’t want to play this card,” his mom snapped. “But let’s not forget that your father was ready to send you to Exillium after that stunt you pulled last week. I talked him out of it. And I can change his mind again.”
“You’re threatening me?” he asked.
“Not if you cooperate.” Her smile was cold. Calculated. Leaving no doubt that she would make good on that threat.
Young Keefe must’ve decided the same thing, because he closed his eyes and stepped into the light—and Sophie held her breath as the warm rush tickled his skin and the light whisked him away and . . .
The memory ended.
“COME ON!” Keefe shouted, smacking the palm of his hand against his forehead, as if he could knock the rest of the scene loose.
“What’s wrong?” Tiergan asked.
Keefe reeled toward Sophie and Fitz. “Whatever you did before—do it again!”
They both nodded, and Fitz twisted his fingers even tighter with Sophie’s.
Warmth surged between them, building and building and building, and they blasted it from their minds with another transmission. But the blade of energy vanished into the shadows of Keefe’s mind.
“Try again,” Keefe said.
“Absolutely not,” Tiergan jumped in. “You promised to pause between revelations.”
“This wasn’t a revelation!” Keefe argued. “It was half a revelation. Not even half, if you consider how many parts were damaged.”
“Damaged?” Tiergan repeated.
“Some parts were missing or distorted,” Sophie explained.
“Can I take a look?” Tiergan asked, reaching for Keefe’s temples.
Keefe nodded and Tiergan closed his eyes, and the creases on his forehead grew deeper and deeper until he murmured, “A recovered memory shouldn’t look like that. Once a memory triggers, it should be every bit as clear as it was before it was washed—especially for someone with a photographic memory.”
“But my other memories are like that too,” Keefe argued.
“Only one of them,” Sophie reminded him. “The memory of your mom taking you to Nightfall was flawless.”
“Okay,” Keefe agreed. “So why are two damaged and one’s fine?”
“Because the damaged memories weren’t washed,” Tiergan said quietly. “They were shattered.”
TWENTY-THREE
WHEN YOU SAY ‘SHATTERED,’ ” FITZ said, “do you mean what happened to my dad’s memories when his mind broke?”
“Yes and no,” Tiergan told him. “In your father’s case—and Prentice’s as well—it was their sanity that shattered, and the mental breakdown caused everything else to fracture. But in Keefe’s case, the damage is limited to targeted memories. Whoever did this is incredibly talented.”
“Gethen told me his washing skills were the reason the Neverseen recruited him,” Sophie said quietly. “I’m assuming this is what he meant. But why were some memories shattered and some washed?”
“I can only speculate, of course,” Tiergan told her. “But I’m assuming there are certain moments that will eventually need to be triggered in order for Keefe to understand the full scope of his alleged legacy. Those memories would’ve been washed. But then there could’ve been other instances where Keefe discovered something they hadn’t meant for him to learn, and those were shattered to prevent him from remembering.”
“That makes sense,” Fitz agreed. “Wasn’t the first damaged memory something you saw by accident?” he asked Keefe. “And your mom seemed kind of desperate in this new one, so maybe she had to involve you in something she didn’t want you to know about.”
“But she didn’t tell me anything!” Keefe argued. “So unless you want to search the entire city of London for a house with a green door . . .”
“We saw the seal on the envelope,” Sophie reminded him. “Maybe it’s important—like how the Lodestar symbol was a map.”
“Anyone else really hoping that’s not true?” Keefe asked. “I mean, I know I wasn’t around when you guys figured out what all the dashes and circles meant, but that process had to be worse than back-to-back history lectures.”
“It kind of was,” Sophie admitted. “But this symbol’s much simpler, so it should be easier to figure out.”
Then again, maybe it was too simple. A single star surrounded by two crescent moons wasn’t much to go on.
“I bet the important stuff’s in the part of the memory we’re still missing,” Fitz said quietly. “Keefe probably talked to every single person he saw, or found a way to read the letter—or both.”
“Sounds like me,” Keefe agreed. “So how do we find the missing piece?”
“We may not be able to,” Tiergan warned. “Think of it like smashing a piece of glass. Gethen would’ve aimed his blow at the most critical spot, and that section would shatter far more than the outlying area. So there’s a very good chance that this is all that remains—at least beyond fragments too small and scattered to piece together.”
“Okay, but we have Foster, remember?” Keefe said. “Can’t she just heal the memory, the same way she healed Alden and Prentice?”
“Sophie healed their sanity,” Tiergan corrected, “and our sanity is a much more tangible thing. Memories are nothing more than wisps of thought. That’s why Prentice is currently living a normal, happy life, but still recalls almost nothing from the days before his sanity shattered.”
“But my dad got his memories back,” Fitz reminded them.
“Yes, because his sanity was only fractured for a few weeks,” Tiergan countered. “The damage had far less opportunity to spread. And honestly? I’m sure your father has lost some of his memories. You saw what he was like after the breakdown. Do you really think that level of trauma wouldn’t cause at least some permanent damage?”
Fitz frowned. “But . . . he seems normal.”
“No, he seems like himself—because he is himself. Just like all of you remain true to yourselves despite the traumas you’ve endured. It’s a coping mechanism we all have, a way of recentering and regrouping as we recover. But it doesn�
��t mean we aren’t also altered. Sometimes the changes are noticeable. Sometimes they’re hidden. Either way, I promise you, no one fractures the way your father did and escapes unscathed. Let’s not forget that there’s now a Wanderling that bears the name Alden Vacker and grows with his DNA. He’s done a brilliant job of returning to life as though nothing happened—but that will never change the fact that something did happen. I would tell you to ask him about it, but your father’s a proud elf, and I know in many ways he feels like he failed you when he let himself fracture. I doubt he’s eager to admit the incident has had any lasting effects.”
Sophie wanted to argue with what Tiergan was saying—wanted to keep believing she’d fixed Alden 100 percent. But . . . as someone who also had a Wanderling bearing her name and was still haunted by the nightmares that came with it, she probably should’ve realized that Alden would be waging his own battles.
You okay? she asked Fitz when she noticed him rubbing his chest. Your echo—
It’s fine! he transmitted, closing his eyes and taking a long breath.
Then another.
And another.
You’re worrying me, Sophie admitted.
I know. I’m sorry. I never realized my dad might be dealing with that.
Just try to remember—he’s still acting like himself. So whatever he lost can’t be important.
Somehow I doubt that. My dad’s been an Emissary for decades. Do you have any idea how many secrets he’s protecting?
I’m sure he kept records.
Fitz shook his head. Maybe for the stuff he did officially. But he had tons of unofficial projects too—like when he was trying to find you. I know he wouldn’t have left any evidence of that stuff, in case the Council ever investigated him. So if those memories are gone, they’re GONE.
Well . . . if that’s true, the good news is the memories have been gone for months and it hasn’t been a problem, Sophie reminded him.
Yet, Fitz added, sucking in another long breath as the word just sort of hung there taunting them.
Keefe cleared his throat, jolting them back to the present. “If you guys are talking about me—”
“We’re not,” Sophie promised. “We were talking about Alden.”
“Is that why Fitz looks so pale?” Tiergan wondered.
“I’m fine,” Fitz assured him.
But Elwin had already rushed in from his office and flashed an orb of layered light around his chest. “Your ribs still look okay . . . but the murkiness looks thicker, so I’m guessing that means the echo stirred.”
“A little,” Fitz admitted. “But I know how to breathe through it.”
“I’m glad,” Elwin told him. “But I still want you to rest now. You too, Sophie.”
“That’s fine,” Tiergan agreed. “Keefe needs to let the revelation settle too.”
“I told you: That wasn’t a revelation,” Keefe argued as he made his way over to the shelves of medicine. “Do you have any fathomlethes around here?”
“I hope you’re not talking about the weird river-pearl thing you took in Alluveterre that made you cover your walls in scraps of paper like a serial killer,” Sophie told him.
“Oh I am—and I know you’re not going to like it, Foster. But I remembered a ton of stuff last time. So how about I promise to let you help me sort through the notes again? Remember that? Such a classic Keephie moment!”
“Keephie?” Tiergan asked. “Never mind. Best if I don’t know. And I hate to break it to you, Keefe, but fathomlethes are overwhelming at best and unreliable at worst—and an incredibly poor substitute for proper telepathic exercises. They’re what some rely on when they don’t have access to the tremendous resources that you have.”
“And they are an adorable resource, aren’t they?” Keefe asked, smirking at Sophie and Fitz. “But they need to rest—and I am so not ready to sleep, so . . .” He crouched to study the lowest shelf.
“You won’t find any,” Elwin told him. “I keep them locked up.”
“Fine, then I’ll swing by Slurps and Burps and pick some up on my way home.”
“Don’t let him,” Sophie begged Ro. “Not unless you want him pacing around the room all night, covering every surface with scribbled questions.”
Ro shrugged. “Pretty sure he’s going to be up freaking out anyway. It’ll be way more entertaining if he’s all loopy.”
“Best bodyguard ever!” Keefe said, pulling a pathfinder out of his cape pocket.
Tiergan placed a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, counteroffer: Why don’t you stay with me tonight? Tam and Linh’s suites have an extra bed, and I can walk you through a couple of mental exercises before you go to sleep that might help your subconscious target the shattered memories as you dream.”
“Might help,” Keefe repeated, tilting his head to study him. “Is this that thing adults do where they make you think they’re giving you what you want but really they’re just wasting your time?”
“No, Keefe,” Tiergan said. “I don’t have time I can afford to waste. Mind you, I can’t guarantee that the mental exercises will help. But they’ll still be far more useful than fathomlethes.”
Keefe glanced at Sophie and let out a sigh. “Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. I guess it’s worth a try if it’ll get rid of that crinkle between Foster’s eyebrows. And who knows? Maybe I can talk Bangs Boy into doing the shadowvapor-veil-lifting thing while I’m there, see if it brightens up some of the darker spots in the memory.”
“Hang on—you’re volunteering to let Tam send shadows into your head?” Fitz verified.
“Sadly, yes—and I’m sure I’m going to want to punch him in the bangs after about thirty seconds,” Keefe told him. “But . . . if it helps me figure out how much damage I did when I was playing Mommy’s Little Messenger—”
“You didn’t do any damage,” Sophie assured him.
“Uh, whatever was in that letter I delivered couldn’t have been good news,” he argued.
“You might not have delivered it,” Sophie reminded him. “And even if you did, you aren’t responsible for things your mom made you do. We all saw her threaten you—”
“Relax, I don’t need another Foster pep talk.”
“Yes, you do,” Sophie insisted. “And you need to promise me you won’t do anything reckless.”
Keefe smirked. “Now, what makes you think I’d do that?”
She shook her head. “I mean it, Keefe. Work with Tiergan or Tam as much as you want. But promise me you won’t do anything else without me, okay?”
“It’s going to be fine,” he told her. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sophie didn’t realize until after he’d left that he never made her that promise.
TWENTY-FOUR
WHO’S READY TO GET OUT of those cots?” Elwin asked as he strode into the room, carrying their morning trays of medicine.
“I am!” Sophie and Fitz both shouted, already throwing back their blankets.
“Hmm, I guess I should’ve phrased that differently,” Elwin realized. “What I meant is, who wants to be out of those cots by this evening? You still need one more treatment, but if all goes according to plan, you should be back on your feet—or in Fitz’s case, on crutches—by the end of the day and taking a late-night stroll through Foxfire. You guys up for it?”
“Are you kidding?” Sophie and Fitz asked, once again in perfect unison.
Elwin chuckled. “I’m sure if Keefe were here, he’d have a lot to say about how in sync you two are getting.”
“Just more proof that Fitzphie’s the best,” Fitz told him, with a wink that shouldn’t have made Sophie’s heart flutter. But hearts could be foolish things.
“Have you heard from Keefe?” she asked as Elwin handed over her tray of elixirs.
Elwin shook his head. “No, but it’s early, and I’m betting he was up half the night working through whatever exercises Tiergan taught him.”
“I’m betting he was up the whole night,” Fitz corrected, taking his tray
from Elwin.
“Probably,” Elwin admitted, helping Sophie remove the lids from her vials. “But don’t worry, Tiergan will keep him in line. So why don’t you two tackle your medicine while I prepare your mineral baths? We’re getting you out of those beds!”
He ducked back into his office, and Sophie was too excited to care how thick and chunky the medicines were, or how many times they made her gag—though her brain was a bit stuck on the word “baths.”
Fortunately, when Elwin returned he was carrying two silver basins that definitely weren’t big enough to take the Healing Center to a whole new realm of awkward.
Unfortunately, they were filled with some sort of noxious yellow-green slime that made the room smell like rotting onions.
“You’re going to love this,” Elwin promised as he set one basin on each of their cots.
Sophie doubted “love” would be the word she’d use, but as long as the stinky slime got her out of the Healing Center, she could handle it.
“I’m guessing we don’t want to know what this is?” Fitz asked, dipping a finger tentatively into the slime.
Elwin nodded. “Same goes for your activating serums.”
He held up a small bottle filled with some sort of thick, milky liquid, shaking it a few times before pouring it into Sophie’s basin and making the slime fizzle and froth.
“Time to soak some strength into those bones,” he told her, unwrapping her gauzy bandages and wiping her arm clean of any remaining poultice before gently lowering it into the surprisingly warm goo, and . . .
“Wow,” she whispered, letting out what was probably an embarrassing moan. “That’s . . . wow.”
“What does it feel like?” Fitz asked.
Sophie shook her head, unable to find words to properly describe it. The closest she could come up with was, “It’s like . . . soaking in sunshine.”
“Told you you’d love it!” Elwin said smugly. “All the treatments I’ve put you through were to get you to this point—and it only gets better from here. Can you make a fist for me, Sophie?”
Her fingers easily obeyed, curling into her palm as her thumb wrapped around them.
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