“Poison?” My mouth goes dry.
“Cleverly done. But not clever enough.”
The car pulls through the gates at IVI, and he falls silent as I hug the cloak closer around my trembling shoulders.
5
Ivy
He removes my blindfold the moment we are inside but then draws my hood back on. My cloak is scarlet red.
I look up at him as my eyes adjust to the dim lights, but all I see beneath his hood is the hard surface of a black mask.
He studies me for a long moment, then turns to walk ahead of me up the wide, winding staircase, his every step echoing off the stone.
Someone clears their throat, and I glance behind me to see two men standing there. He’s not taking a chance that I’ll run. Not that I’d know where to go or get far if I did.
I turn back to watch his form round the corner, then take a deep breath and follow.
We’re not in any part of the compound that I’ve been in before. This place is darker. Colder. Lonelier. From the window on the first landing, I pause to glance outside at the small courtyard below. The single platform there. The post.
Panic takes hold of me, and I fall back a step only to bump into the rock-hard chest of one of the men behind me.
“I…” I shake my head, backing away from him. He doesn’t touch me, and I feel like a pariah. All of them avoid touching me. He doesn’t come after me but waits as I steady myself. I glance once more through the barred window at that platform, and my mind wanders back to my history lessons. How the condemned man or woman would watch as the scaffold was built outside their window and see the place where he or she would be executed.
Obviously, they don’t carry out executions here, I tell myself. Surely, that’s a step too far. But there are other things. Other medieval punishments.
The man behind me clears his throat, and I continue up the stairs, not letting myself look out the window on the next three landings. When I reach the last one, my captor is waiting for me outside of two hulking doors, dark wood carved with the insignia IVI.
“Come,” he says when I stop moving.
My bare feet are silent on the cold stone as I approach and stand before him. He unclasps the cloak and pushes it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. I see his gaze drop to the strange garment, and I remember how vulnerable I am. How naked beneath this sheath.
They think I poisoned Santiago. Has he died? Is that why I’m here now?
The question of what they’ll do to me is second to the echoing of has he died circling round and round in my head.
A sound like a gavel comes from inside, and my heart jumps as I face the doors when they are opened. My mouth goes dry as the large circular room comes into view. Raised high in the center is the dais upon which three men—The Councilors, my judges—sit behind a large desk made of the same wood and decorated with carvings as intricate as the doors.
On either side and set at a lower level is a large banister, stone like the walls and ground, with empty chairs behind it. And in the center, I’m walked to a wooden stand where a man opens the small gate, and I step up into it before he closes it again.
Ceremony. The Society loves it.
My stomach turns, and I try to swallow the dryness in my mouth. Just as the doors close, I hear a sound from behind and above me. I shift my gaze back and up to the gallery, where I see a single witness. Because that is what she is. A witness to my trial.
Mercedes.
And even from this distance, I see how red her eyes are and how pale her face is. I feel a tear slide down my cheek, and I think it’s true. He’s gone. Santiago is gone.
The gavel strikes, and I startle, turning to face The Councilors.
6
Santiago
"Take a slow sip."
The voice resonating above me is familiar, but he is little more than a blurry shape. A rhythmic, steady drone of beeping is a pattern I am intimately acquainted with, and the smell is one I'll never forget. Disinfectant. Cold metal. Dying flowers undoubtedly perched on the ledge of a sill somewhere in the distance.
I'm in a hospital room. That much, I understand.
Someone adjusts my bed, forcing me further into an upright position as I try to speak. A straw bumps against my lips, and that familiar voice offers encouragement.
"It will take some time to get your senses back. For now, you can relax and try to take a drink. We've already moved you to the most secure wing of the hospital. Armed guards are stationed outside, and you've been under the care of Dr. Rousseau. You're in excellent hands, Santiago."