Calla swallowed hard and reached for the chain of Sophie’s allergy remedy, which still held the moonlark pin.
“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” Calla whispered, then pulled away. “I need some air.”
She disappeared upstairs, and others started to follow.
“Can I . . . talk to you for a second?” Wylie mumbled as Sophie passed him.
“Uh, sure,” Sophie said, even though her stomach felt like a nest of fire ants had taken over. She wasn’t sure she could handle another fight.
“Let’s give them some space,” Tiergan said, herding Dex, Keefe, and Biana away.
Once they were alone, Sophie studied the patchwork quilt and the crystal lamp—anything to spare her from having to look at Wylie.
He cleared his throat. “You know I blame you for what happened to my dad—and I can’t promise I’m ever going to stop. But . . . I think I finally get why he sacrificed himself for you. What you just did there—sending that message around the world. And the way everyone was looking to you . . . they all believe in you.”
“Thank you?” Sophie said, not sure if it was the right reaction.
He nodded, and she thought maybe the awkwardness was over. But he stepped closer, his voice deep and intense.
“Just make it worth it, okay? Everything he did. Make. It. Worth. It.”
Sophie wanted to tell him she would. But she didn’t want to lie. “I promise I’ll try as hard as I can.”
Wylie nodded.
He turned to leave, but before he disappeared up the stairs she told him, “Don’t give up on your dad yet, Wylie.”
He reached up, wiping tears from his cheeks. “I won’t if you won’t.”
She held his gaze. “I won’t.”
THIRTY-NINE
THE NEXT MORNING Fitz drank the last cup of vile tea and was instantly back to normal, just as Physic had promised.
He spent the day working through Cognate exercises with Sophie, but their progress didn’t feel like enough. Neither did Dex’s attempts to improve the Twiggler. And Biana and Keefe found nothing new in the Exillium records Dex had stolen.
“We need a plan,” Sophie said, pacing around the girls’ common room. Della was visiting Prentice again, so they had time to scheme. “Exillium is our chance to finally get some answers. We need to find out who the Psionipath is and figure out how to find him, and what he was doing with that tree. We’ll also be in the Neutral Territories, so we need to learn anything we can about the plague. We need proof that the ogres are behind this—if they’re behind it—and we need to figure out if the drakostomes are involved.”
“That is quite a large to-do list,” Mr. Forkle said.
He stood in the doorway, holding a large gray trunk. Granite lurked behind him, carrying the same.
“Lur and Mitya saved my life,” Dex said as the two members of the Collective shuffled into the room and set their trunks in the center of the floor. “Now they need our help.”
“I understand the stakes,” Mr. Forkle told him. “But that doesn’t mean you can put aside caution. One of the hardest parts of our role is not letting things become personal.”
“But it is personal,” Keefe argued.
“It is and it isn’t,” Mr. Forkle said. “The problems our world is facing go beyond protecting the people we know and care about. Believe me—I understand the struggle. Do you think we were never tempted to break Prentice out of Exile before now? We knew where he was. We knew the nightmare he was trapped in. But we couldn’t risk that kind of exposure until Sophie was ready. And now”—his voice cracked—“it’s possible we were too late. But that doesn’t mean we were wrong to focus on Sophie’s safety.”
“We’re not saying you can’t investigate,” Granite added quickly. “We’re saying to manage your risks wisely. Enduring Exillium will be your greatest challenge yet, in many ways. Do not let your goals distract you from surviving.”
“Surviving?” Sophie repeated. “Enduring” didn’t sound very awesome either.
“Exillium is not so much a school as it is an institution,” Mr. Forkle warned. “It exists for the Unworthy—the hopeless cases that must be kept in line. Expect rules—lots of rules—which absolutely must be followed, regardless of how unfair or bizarre they may seem. Names are forbidden. Friendship is forbidden. Talking or interaction of any kind is forbidden. Refusing an order or an assignment is—”
“Let me guess,” Keefe jumped in. “Forbidden?”
“Yes, Mr. Sencen,” Mr. Forkle said. “And as our resident rule breaker I cannot emphasize enough how important it will be for you to submit to authority this time. Exillium is beyond the protection of the Lost Cities, which means there are no restrictions for how the Coaches punish disobedience. Also, the less you draw attention to yourselves, the safer you’ll be. You need to blend in at Exillium. Embrace your anonymity.”
“Will we really be wearing masks?” Biana asked.
“You will.” Granite opened the chests, which Sophie noticed had been painted with a black X across the top and the letter E embossed where the lines intersected. “Your uniforms are the same for boys and girls, and they are designed to hide your identities.”
He handed them each a thick stack of gray and black clothes, along with a pair of heavy black boots, and a silver-studded black half mask.
“I’ll try it on,” Biana said, heading toward her bedroom.
She clomped back a few minutes later in the steel-toed boots, which laced up over the fitted black pants. The long-sleeved shirt was also black, and worn tucked under a gray vest with silver buckles and chains across the front. The back half of the vest draped low and flared like a trench coat. Sewn under the collar of the vest was a hood with a deep cowl that cast Biana’s face in deep shadow. Paired with the mask, it was impossible to tell what Biana looked like, and the full effect was incredibly intimidating.
“I never thought I’d say this,” Sophie mumbled, “but I miss the dorky Foxfire capes.”
“I dunno,” Fitz said. “I think it’s kinda cool.”
“See, and I’m not on board with the hood,” Keefe said. “It totally kills the Hair.”
“The mask smells funny,” Biana added. “And this heavy fabric is making me sweaty.”
“Is the campus somewhere cold?” Dex asked.
“It changes every day, as part of their security,” Mr. Forkle said. “But it’s always in the Neutral Territories. You’ll find the campus tomorrow at dawn using these.” He reached into one of the trunks and pulled out a small black pouch, which contained five long black cords strung with a single bead.
The bead was blue and dotted with a flake of crystal no bigger than a speck of glitter.
“The crystal only works for a single leap,” Granite explained. “After that, you’ll have until sunset to prove that you deserve another bead to return the next day.”
“What happens if we don’t get one?” Dex asked.
“Do not find out,” Mr. Forkle warned. “I have no doubt that all of you are capable of handling their curriculum. Exillium focuses on skills, not abilities. Tasks like night vision, slowing your breath, regulating body temperature, suppressing hunger, levitating, blinking in and out of perception, telekinesis, on and on. It will be exhausting, and physically demanding, but could prove useful in the future. We know you’ll also be trying to gather information—and we’ll be grateful for anything you learn. But do not do so at the expense of your safety.”
Keefe fiddled with his necklace, coiling the cord so tightly around his finger it turned his fingertip red.
“You okay?” Sophie asked him.
He shrugged. “You know what gets me? My dad always said I’d end up in Exillium.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Biana and I will be the first Vackers ever sent there,” Fitz said. “Pretty sure that means we’re officially the disgrace of our family.”
“No, you’re not,” Della said, appearing in the doorway. Her eyes looked shadowed as she st
udied the uniform Biana was modeling. “You’re sure sending them to Exillium is a good idea?”
“We’re going,” Biana said before Mr. Forkle could answer. “And we’ll be fine.”
She adjusted the collar of her vest and her fingers grazed a button-style pin. It had a cloudy sky as the background with a black outline of half of a standing figure. Squiggly lines in all the colors of the spectrum had replaced the other half of the figure.
“Is this because I’m a Vanisher?” she asked.
Granite nodded. “You each have pins to reflect your abilities.”
“So Sophie’s going to have four?” Fitz asked. “Won’t that kind of ruin her anonymity?”
“We raised that question with the Magistrate,” Mr. Forkle said, “and were told the ability pins are mandatory.”
“But I thought Exillium was about skills over abilities,” Sophie argued.
“It is,” Granite agreed. “And that’s why you have to wear them. The Coaches need to see what you’re naturally able to do, in order to ensure you’re not using your abilities to cheat.”
“It’s also a safety measure,” Mr. Forkle added. “To warn what strengths the other Waywards have. The Coaches keep careful records of what everyone can do.”
“Speaking of which,” Granite said, reaching into one of the trunks and pulling out a stack of thick gray envelopes with the same X symbol. “We need you to verify that we filled out these forms correctly so we can return them to the Magistrate.”
“Should we really give them this much personal information?” Della asked, reading over Biana’s shoulder.
“We have to,” Mr. Forkle said. “The records must exist in case you are ever granted a return to Foxfire.”
Sophie snorted. “Like that’s ever going to happen.”
“You never know,” Granite told her. “Timkin Heks managed it, and he’d been caught up in quite the scandal.”
Sophie frowned, remembering some gossip she’d once heard. “I didn’t know he went back to Foxfire after he was expelled.”
“Only for his final weeks, so he could graduate with his class,” Granite said. “It was a rather strange case. Perhaps someday Timkin will share the story with you.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll have me over for lushberry juice and mallowmelt,” Sophie mumbled. “Right after he tells me to call him Uncle Timkin.”
The Heks family included most of Sophie’s least favorite people in the Lost Cities. Their daughter Stina was one of the biggest brats at Foxfire, and both her parents had spread more slander about Sophie than anyone.
“You might be surprised,” Granite insisted. “Timkin has a challenging personality, no doubt about that. But you both see problems with the Council’s current methods. And perhaps you may understand him further after your time in Exillium.”
Sophie seriously doubted that.
She also didn’t want to think about what the Hekses must be saying about her. Stina had predicted she’d end up in Exillium, and now here she was, with “Sophie Elizabeth Foster” printed across an Exillium registration form, along with her height, weight, hair color, eye color, and all kinds of other personal information.
“Why does it say my address is the Crooked Forest?” Keefe asked.
“They all say that,” Mr. Forkle explained. “They needed to know where you’d be going after you left campus. We could hardly mention Alluveterre, so Calla will meet you in the Crooked Forest every day and escort you home.”
“That’s not in the Neutral Territories, right?” Sophie asked, worried about the plague.
“No, it’s actually in the Forbidden Cities,” Mr. Forkle said. “It’s one of those ‘unsolved mysteries’ humans are always spinning out wild theories for. Calla requested it specifically.”
He passed them each a leaping pendant with an oval crystal cut with only a single facet. Sophie tied it around her neck along with her Exillium bead. She was getting quite the necklace collection.
“How come Foster’s form says ‘et cetera’ on the line for special abilities?” Keefe asked, making Sophie wonder when he’d grabbed her pages. “On mine it says ‘Empath.’ But on hers it lists the four and then has an ‘et cetera.’ That means she has more hidden abilities, doesn’t it?”
“You cannot read too much into a simple ‘etcetera.’ ” Mr. Forkle told him.
“Psh, with you guys we can,” Keefe insisted as Sophie snatched her forms back. “And please tell me she’s not a Beguiler—that would get way too complicated.”
Keefe kept listing talents he hoped Sophie did or didn’t have and Sophie knew she should probably be listening. But her eyes had found a much more life-changing line on her form.
Written in clear block letters, on the line designated for the names of her family.
MR. ERROL L. FORKLE.
FORTY
SOPHIE SCOOTED BACK her chair, needing room to breathe.
There’d been a time when she’d wondered if Mr. Forkle could be her real father, but somewhere along the way she’d shoved the thought out of her mind. She couldn’t imagine her real father would experiment on her, or abandon her as many times as he had—not to mention looking her in the eye every time he saw her and never saying anything.
“You?” she asked Mr. Forkle. “All this time it was you?”
A pucker pressed between his brows. Then understanding dawned. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Who does she think he is?” Biana asked as Fitz snatched Sophie’s forms.
His jaw fell. “He’s . . . her father.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then why would you list yourself as family?” Fitz asked.
“Because I am family. My name is the one on her Inception Certificate. Someone had to vouch for her existence. And since her genetic parents couldn’t reveal themselves, I took the responsibility. Though of course I had to use an assumed identity. But Mr. Forkle is still me.”
“Why the secrecy?” Della asked. “Can’t she know her family?”
Granite and Mr. Forkle shared a look.
“Someday you may understand,” Mr. Forkle told Sophie. “But for now I can at least assure you—as I did with your concerns about Jolie—that I am not your genetic father.”
Keefe grabbed Mr. Forkle’s wrist. “He’s telling the truth. And . . . he actually feels kinda bad about it.”
“Of course I do! Project Moonlark may have been unconventional. But I am your family. And you are mine.”
His voice cracked as he said the last sentence, and he turned away, wiping his eyes.
Was he . . . crying?
I’m aware of the offenses you hold against me, he transmitted. And I won’t claim I don’t deserve them. But I need you to know that I do care about you, Sophie—as much as I can allow myself to. And you may not want to believe this, but your genetic parents care too. They have incredibly important reasons for remaining anonymous—but that does not mean they don’t wish they could be a part of your life.
Have I ever met them? Sophie transmitted back.
I can’t tell you that—and I’m begging you to stop guessing. Should you finally settle on the correct answer, you will trigger a chain reaction that could topple our world.
How would me knowing who they are “topple” anything? Unless . . .
A new idea emerged—one far more heartbreaking than any of her other theories.
Mr. Forkle sighed. I can tell you’re still pondering possibilities. So I will add that your genetic parents had no connection to each other. There was no unrequited love. They weren’t even friends. I did that purposely, because I couldn’t allow them to know who each other were.
But they do know I’m their daughter? Sophie asked.
Yes. And that truly is the last I can say.
His voice went silent in her mind, but her head was still reeling with her new theory. What he’d told her ruled out half of it—but not the most heartbreaking part.
Her father still could be . . .
; She couldn’t bear to think the name.
But he was a Telepath. And he’d always been incredibly kind to her. And it would explain why he’d given her his cache . . .
“Okay, you guys are doing that staring into each other’s eyes thing,” Keefe said, “and it’s a lot creepier when it’s Sophorkle.”
Mr. Forkle looked away, drying his eyes. “So . . . are we good?”
Sophie nodded. “I guess everyone has a few crazy family members they’d don’t know what to do with. You’ll be mine.”
Granite cracked up at that.
Fitz handed her back her Exillium papers, and Sophie studied Mr. Forkle’s name.
“Errol?” she asked.
“It’s a good strong name,” he agreed.
“You do realize your initials spell ELF, right?” Keefe asked.
“Of course. I couldn’t resist, once I knew my surname would start with an F.”
“How did you choose ‘Forkle’?” Della asked.
“Somewhat randomly. I was looking for a word that was memorable, but not too complicated, and I wanted the meaning to bear some sort of logic. Forkle is close to the word for ‘disguise’ in Norwegian, a part of the human world I’ve always been partial to, so it seemed the best fit—though strangely, I believe it also means ‘apron.’ Ah, the quirks of human languages.”
“What does the L stand for?” Dex asked.
Mr. Forkle looked slightly flushed as he mumbled, “Loki.”
“Loki,” Sophie repeated, tempted to roll her eyes. “You named yourself after the Nordic trickster god?”
“Actually, he was inspired by me. Do not credit me for the insane stories humans made up—especially that one about the stallion. But as I said, I’ve always been partial to that part of the world, and in my younger days I may have had a bit too much fun there. It was so easy to take on disguises and cause a little chaos. And over time my escapades morphed into the stories of a shape-shifting trickster god. So I thought it only fitting, as I assumed yet another disguise, that I accept the title officially as part of my new identity.”
“Guys, I think the Forkster just became my hero,” Keefe said. “And is anyone else wondering about the stallion?”
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