Betrayals

The paving-stone paths looked very hard from up here.

It was a long way to fall. I swallowed, hard. Wish I had a rope. Jeez.

But if Christophe had done this, I could too. The worst that could happen was a broken leg and a bunch of questions, right?

I’d never broken a bone before. And those questions had teeth. Everything here had teeth.

This is a stupid idea, Dru.

But I was going to do it anyway. With someone watching my door, I had to. I couldn’t take the chance of anyone, friendly or otherwise, following me. And I had to know if it was possible to escape the Schola during the day.

I grabbed the window frame and put my foot up, made sure it was secure, and hauled myself carefully up to stand on the sill. Told myself not to look down, instead studying the stone wall and the roof overhang. It looked like slate tile and the angle would make it tricky. No gutter, either. That was both good, gutters could tear away from the roof, and bad, because I wouldn’t have anything to curl my fingers around but the roof’s edge.

I turned my back on the dead garden, bracing myself on the sill. Reached up and back with one hand.

This is a bad idea. Figure something else out.

The trouble was, there was nothing else. And Christophe had done this. I’d be damned if I didn’t at least try. Not to mention that if I pulled this off, I would have an escape route already scoped. And it would be the last path anyone would expect me to take.

Less speed, less strength, less stamina since I hadn’t “bloomed.” But I’d bet I was outweighing everyone around me in the brain category. It was all I had.

Then why are you going to do something this stupid?

I told that voice of reason to take a hike and wrapped my fingers around the edge of the overhang.

The angle wasn’t really bad, just kind of bad. I shut my eyes and breathed in, out, slate gritty and cold under my hands. The red crisscross slashes on Christophe’s hands suddenly made sense now, as I’d known they would.

My other hand found the roof edge too. I played the action over and over in my head, the way Dad taught me to practice rifle shots. Half of it’s in getting it clear inside your noggin, Dru girl, and the body will know what to do when the time comes. See it behind your eyes, feel yourself doing it.

I’d only have one shot at it. My arms tensed, relaxed, practicing. I stilled the movement of myself inside my skin, focusing inward. Listening.

My heartbeat thudded, a comforting rhythm. My breathing evened out, soft and deep. The wet braid touched my back, moving as my body balanced itself on the sill, weight forward on the ball of my right foot. Heels hung out in space, the cool morning breeze pushing past me into the room.

Breathe in, breathe out. Feeling the tingle along my skin. Little tiny muscle movements that make up balance, you never stand completely still. If you did, you’d fall over. Stillness is a constant adjustment, a series of tiny little corrections, like steering a car.

Dad taught me that.

The thought stung, whipped through me, and every muscle fiber tensed. I heard wingbeats, feathers brushing air and whispering against my face. I didn’t have to lean back too far; it was almost like pulling myself out of a swimming pool.

The slate edges bit deep into the meat of my hands. I let out a sharp breath, got a knee up. Good thing I was wearing jeans. I found myself scrabbling up the slope of the roof, hunched over and thanking God I’d worn sneakers instead of boots. The soles gripped, and my fingernails splintered on the slate as I drove them in hard.

Oh crap. The slope was incredibly sharp, and I made it to the crest and straddled the ridgeline.

The big muscles in my legs were shaking. My arms, including the deep bruises on my shoulder, throbbed heavily. I was a song of pain, and the healing capability of the baths wasn’t helping as much as I wished it would. My hands cried out, palms full of hot wetness and fingertips scraped raw.

But I got myself arranged so I wouldn’t fall off, and I raised my head. The wind hit my face, full of the peculiar smell of being high up, and I saw.

Today there was no fog.

The countryside folded away on all sides, trees choking-close except where two-lane blacktop ribboned in from what I knew from my trip here was a county highway. This was the highest point for a ways around. There was a blue smudge far, far to the south that I thought might be the Alleghenies, but could have been just a fog or cloud.

Down the hill a stream came meandering past, glittering dull silver in the overcast. Clouds were shredding away, and we’d have some full sun before long when they burned off. I saw the boathouse, a run-down shack that didn’t look sturdy enough to hold up in a sharp breeze. The Schola turned a cold shoulder to it, its wings raked back like a bird of prey. A gray one with a sharp beak, settled and dozing in its nest.

I couldn’t quite see the big circular driveway, but I saw the vine-draped pedestals at the end of it and blinked, rubbing my eyes. I could’ve sworn there had been stone lions there—

No, the voice of instinct whispered. They were there, but they’re not now. For whatever reason.

I had a sudden, vivid mental image, playing itself inside my head the way a song will get stuck between the ear and the brain.

Concrete-gray lion padding softly through forest-dappled sunlight, hard muscles under worn- smooth skin. The lion turned its heavy neck and lifted its head, blind stone eyes searching, and its mouth opened. Needle-sharp, slivered teeth packed close, and it exhaled, ruffling leaves on the forest floor. It senses eyes upon it, and confusion plucks inside its cold, massive head. The eyes are of a Ruler, but far away, and the stone mane curls upon its shoulders with a sound like wet clay sliding against itself….

The image faded. I shook my head to clear it. I had to stay sharp, because the roof was steeply pitched all around me, and the slate was damp in places. I could slip and tumble for a long way before falling off the edge, and that wouldn’t be any fun for anyone.

I clutched my bleeding hands to my chest and wished I’d thought of gloves. But then I’d lose out on traction. Sometimes you just have to suck up the damage.

I was doing a lot of that lately.

The wind whistled across peaks and valleys of slate tiling. Some tiles were missing, and some sagged, but all in all, the roof looked pretty solid. My hand twitched, and I kept my fingers away from the locket with an effort. I let out another sharp breath, this time in wonder. My heart banged once, twice, settled into a high, hard galloping run. It took a moment of thought before I realized I wasn’t scared.

No, the feeling was actually happiness. It swelled behind my pulse and pushed my arms out, fingers spread as a huge disbelieving grin wrinkled up my face. I’m sure I looked like a moron, balancing on a ridgepole and holding my arms out like a circus performer. But here, with the wind keening past me and the trees choking up on the Schola’s gray bulk, I felt… well, I felt free. For the first time in a long time.

Up here, there was nothing but me and the wind. And a tingling in my teeth, as a feeling I was sure was the aspect blurred through me. This time it was a warm, comforting glow, banishing the pain.

My hands stopped bleeding, and when I looked down at them, the ladderlike cuts had scabbed over.

The flat-copper smell of my own blood washed away on fresh rainy air, but I thought I caught a thread of warm perfume. When I fisted my hands, lightly, they didn’t hurt much and the scabs didn’t tear.

Wow. I wondered why it didn’t work for the bruises and aches inside me. But they were muted now too. The aspect tingled through me, retreated with a sound like owl wings.

Is this what blooming feels like? I wished I could ask someone. Gran had told me about The Facts of Life pretty early, and Dad had told me in his gruff way what he thought I should know, which boiled down to don’t be stupid and don’t buy cheap tampons; we’ve got money.

This “blooming” thing was like having puberty questions all over again and having nowhere to go to do some, you know, research. Maybe the library had something for curious girl djamphir. I laughed, a short disbelieving sound, and felt more like myself than I had for weeks.

After a little while standing there like an idiot, it occurred to me that I’d better start looking for a way down. I