Nightingale (The Sensitives) Part 18

The air is balmy, almost spring-like. Another reminder that my birthday is rapidly approaching and with it, whatever my fate will be.

After the second block, we pick up a following of three newscaster cameras. Someone must be monitoring the City's street cameras and tipped of the gossip feeds.

"I could get rid of them if you'd like, Miss Lark," Dawson says. "No one would be able to tell."

As tempting as the offer is, I can't allow him to use magic in public. At least not for something as silly as gossip feed cameras. "Thanks, Dawson, but it's fine. Besides, if my taking a walk is in any way scandalous, I'm doing something wrong."

We climb the short hill to Washington Street and are treated to the lovely view of the City in spring. Shortly after Caitlin came to power, the City planted thousands of cherry trees to replace the ones that had died, and every year since, they bloom in a riot of pink and white.

"Can you help me pick a few of these?" I ask my guards and point up to the blossoms over my head. "Enough for a bouquet, please?"

Oliver reaches over his head, cuts away several small branches with the pocketknife he keeps with him at all times, and hands them to me. I bury my face in the blossoms and inhale deeply. Eloise will love them.

As we cross through a small park, children swarm around us, some playing chasing games, others throwing b.a.l.l.s. So many of my afternoons were spent in parks like this. My housemates and I played while Bethina visited with the other houseparents.

A little girl with auburn hair sprints past me. She stops and twirls around, before collapsing on the ground in a giggling heap.

How innocent she is. And full of life.

I can't help but wonder if she's a Dark witch? Is she-and are all the children like her-who Mother is protecting by keeping the real Sensitives hidden?

Only a few healers loiter near the hospital entrance when we arrive. Their heads jerk up like well-trained pets as I glide past them. Not one asks me to stop or where I'm headed.

We take the mover to the third floor. The light fixtures I destroyed the other day have been replaced and a sliver of remorse creeps into my mind. As much as I don't want to admit it, Mother was right. I was throwing a tantrum.

Eloise's door is slightly ajar. There's no need for Dawson to scan it since I know what I'll find.

"How is she?" I clutch the small bouquet of blossoms in my hand and peer inside. My guards stand behind me.

"The same," Henry says, barely lifting his head.

From leafing through Mother's reports, I know Henry hasn't left Eloise's side. He also hasn't showered or changed out of his ruined clothes, and an air of damage clings to him. Sitting in this room all day long isn't helping.

I step into the frigid room. "Wait outside, please," I say to Dawson and Oliver. Neither protests which means they find Henry unthreatening. Or Mother told them to let me visit as I want. Either way, I'm thankful for the privacy.

Eloise's copper hair spills over the edge of the pillow and hangs off the side of the bed. My eyes focus on the white bandage swaddling her torso, hiding the deep, angry gash across her chest. The healer was able to stabilize Eloise, but she hasn't woken up since arriving. I refuse to ask how long she can stay like this because I don't want to know. I am, however, thankful Mother is providing everything she can to keep Eloise comfortable.

A plate of cold, uneaten food sits on the side table. "Henry," I say, picking it up. "You need to eat."

He sighs. "I'm afraid I don't have much of an appet.i.te right now."

"Then at least let me pour you some tea?" I touch the teapot sitting near his food. It's ice cold. I fold my hands around it and direct my magic at the pot. To my delight, the water begins to boil. I pour two cups. "It's chrysanthemum," I say holding out one to Henry.

"Thank you." He takes it from me and I place a few small sandwiches on a plate for him. After I set it on the side table, I walk over and pull back the curtains, letting the late afternoon sunlight filter in. The room immediately feels less like a death watch.

I settle into the chair opposite Henry and wait. I want to bombard him with questions, but he seems too fragile right now.

"Why don't you go to Mother's tonight? Get some rest. I'll stay with Eloise."

Henry runs his tongue over his teeth. "Malin may have forgiven my transgressions, but trust me, she doesn't want me sleeping under her roof. It wouldn't look good. Besides, I want to stay close. In case Eloise needs me."

"Have you been working for Mother for a long time?" It's a guess, but one I think is true.

Henry rubs at his elbow and hangs his head. "Only a few months."

Well, that explains why Mother wouldn't let me mention Henry when I first arrived from Summer Hill. She didn't want anyone to know Henry was there. "Why are you doing it?"

"I owe her. For what I did to your father." His olive eyes meet mine. "And because I think we can fix this feud if we can get both sides to work together."

"You really think that's possible? With Eamon running around and my mother determined to remain in power at all costs?"

"Yes."

"I wish I had your optimism." I take a long sip of my tea and study my uncle as he fidgets with the b.u.t.tons on his shirt and keeps his eyes fixed on Eloise. The way he observes her, with such tenderness, causes my breath to hitch.

Perhaps it's unwise for him to care about her. After all, Eloise went on dates with other witches at Summer Hill and laughed when I mentioned Henry. Is this what being allowed to choose your own mate is? Unrequited feelings?

I sigh. It can't be worse than being paired with someone your whole life and then finding out you can't be with them after all.

"Henry?"

His olive eyes stay trained on Eloise. "Yes?"

Surely he isn't so mad with worry that he can't answer a few simple questions. I drum my finger against the side of my teacup. "What's Northwoods?"

That catches his attention. His body becomes rigid and he swings his head toward me. "Why do you ask?"

I'm acutely aware of my wristlet and the ears listening on the other end. I tap the green piece of smart metal. "Mother mentioned it."

"No. I'm sure she didn't."

d.a.m.n it.

"Care to try again?" he says.

Heat rushes into my cheeks and I stare at the ground. "I found a picture of you, Bethina, and Mother as children. Northwoods was written in the inscription."

"I see." He takes a sip of his tea. "And where did you find it? In one of Malin's journals?"

I shake my head. "No. I summoned it from the archive."

Henry chuckles. "Clever. What did Malin tell you? I a.s.sume you asked."

I nod. "Only that she and Bethina were once close."

He rolls his tongue over the front of his teeth and sets his cup down. "Northwoods was our family estate outside Vancouver."

I wrinkle my forehead. In all the years I spent having history drilled into me, I've never heard of Northwoods. And certainly not in conjunction with my family. "What happened to it?"

"Malin blew it up."

My mouth drops open. "Why?"

Henry opens his mouth, but snaps it shut again. He struggles, trying to spit the words out. It reminds me of when Beck couldn't talk to me at Summer Hill.

I gasp. "Are you tongue tied?"

"Yes." Fantastic. Mother is preventing Henry from telling me her secrets. No wonder she's okay with me being here.

Henry runs his hand through his hair. "If you want to know about Malin, stop looking in the archives. She's deleted everything, or at least she tried to, long ago. Find her journals."

I scrunch up my face and toss my hands in the air. "But if she's destroyed everything, how will I find those?"

"She kept them the old way, on paper. Malin once told me the possibility of having her inner thoughts broadcast terrified her. I bet she still keeps them like that."

Another wild chase. At least it will give me something to obsess about other than Beck and my upcoming birthday.

"Is there anything else?" Henry asks.

"Where do you think he is?" I don't need to say Beck's name because I know Henry will understand.

Henry shrugs. "I have no idea. But I'm sure Malin will find him. Her people are the best."

"So I hear." I slide forward in my chair and rest my hands on Eloise's cold, lifeless arm. It's hard to believe this is the same woman whose laugh infected everyone. Not too long ago, I marveled as she spun the energy of the moon around her.

Now, there's no sign of that vibrancy. She looks dead already.

"Be well, Eloise. Be well." The prayer tumbles from my lips and disappears into the air. Unheard.

I shouldn't be surprised when she doesn't stir. No matter how strong I am, I am Dark. And Dark witches aren't healers.

18.

Growing up, my housemates and I always ate dinner at precisely six in the evening. Bethina would line up plates of food in the middle of the two tables, and we'd serve ourselves as much or as little as we wanted. We would laugh and trade stories about our days, and make plans for the rest of the evening.

It was relaxed and happy and everything a dinner should be.

But this...dinner with my family...it's h.e.l.l.

Mother sits at the head of the table with Callum and me on one side, and Annalise and Ryker across from us. There is no laughing. No smiles or secret plans. Staff places each course before us in unison and clears our empty plates while Mother guides our discussion.

"Did you have a nice visit with Henry?" Mother asks. "Talk about anything interesting?"

Thanks to my wristlet, she must know about the journal conversations. Not that it will deter me. Since arriving home, I've made a list of every place Mother could hide books of old paper. If she's been keeping them since childhood, they must take up considerable s.p.a.ce. The need to find the journals and read Mother's secrets consumes me.

"There's no improvement in Eloise's condition. And Henry seemed..." I fish for the right word. "Tight-lipped."

My brother snorts and mutters something under his breath.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mother says. She turns her gaze to Callum. "What are you working on these days?"

"The same as usual, Mother. Nothing of importance."

Annalise frowns into her beet soup and swirls the spoon through the deep red liquid.

"What?" Callum snaps. "Did I say something to upset you?"

"No." Annalise keeps stirring her soup.

Callum's pinched face is full of hatred. "Look what you make me put up with, Mother. A b.i.t.c.h of a wife who can't even hold a proper dinner conversation."

The only sound is the clank of Annalise's spoon against the china. She keeps her head down, and her jaw clenches. Before coming home, I believed my brother and sister-in-law were deeply committed to one another, but now I know better. In public, they act happy, but when the cameras aren't watching, Annalise rarely speaks to Callum, and when she does, he scowls and swears at her.

It almost makes me feel bad for her.

But not quite.

"Do you not like beet soup?" I ask Ryker. He's barely touched his dinner. I'm trying to be pleasant, but in the back of my head, I see him run toward Eamon. I see him motion me back. But above all, I remember he's a State a.s.sa.s.sin trained to kill Light witches, humans, and the Splinter group.

And Beck. He will kill Beck if given the chance.

"I'm not feeling well." He folds his napkin and places it next to his bowl. "I'm sorry, Malin. I'd like to be excused if you don't mind."

The corners of Mother's eyes crinkle and she looks genuinely concerned. "Shall I call a healer?"

Ryker shakes his head. "No. A good night's sleep is probably all I need."

"By all means, go. We'll see you tomorrow."

Because it's bad manners to transport while people are eating, Ryker walks out of the room. When he's gone, Callum turns on Mother.

"You said I would be working closer with you this year, but it hasn't happened. And yet you have Lark doing what, exactly? Learning about the uprisings? Teaching her to step into your shoes?"

"Callum!" Annalise drops her spoon on the white tablecloth and blood red soup splatters everywhere. "Mind your manners."

"Stay out of this, you conniving b.i.t.c.h."

Annalise lifts out of her seat, but Mother holds up her hands and Annalise wilts back into her chair. She keeps her sky blue eyes cast down.

"Perhaps if you showed the same abilities Lark does, you wouldn't be stuck doing menial tasks," Mother says.

My brother slams his fist on the table and beet soup sloshes over the edge of his bowl. Between his and Annalise's actions, the table looks like a murder scene. "You can't compare my magic to hers."