Island of Dragons (Unwanteds #7)(75)

When he returned to the mansion, he went straight to his room, completely exhausted. And with the absence of the adrenaline came the growth of the aching from his multitude of wounds. He hadn’t died. But he hurt so badly he almost wished he could. At this moment he was especially glad not to be the head mage, with all the responsibilities that went with it. He poured himself a bath.

Alex’s first duty once quiet had descended on the island was to extend the hospital ward to a size it had never been before, adding fifty more beds so those injured who’d been deposited in the entryway for lack of space would finally have one. Even with the extra beds, the ward was nearly filled, and all non-injured and visitors were sent out of the crowded ward so the overworked nurses could do their best to handle everyone who needed help.

Carina came into the mansion, dropped her sword and shield, cleaned up, and started a shift in the hospital ward with hardly a blink of an eye. She knew the hospital workers were in trouble without Henry there, and she dove in to help.

Samheed, having been banished by the nurses from sitting at Mr. Appleblossom’s side, retreated to the grand marble staircase. Lani sat with him.

Alex, unable to retire to his disastrous private quarters, and frankly not wanting to be there without Clive, got cleaned up in his old room in the boys’ hallway and then joined his friends on the stairs.

Before long Sky came in search of them and sat down too. Weary, all four eventually stretched out and fell asleep on the stairs. Sky slept on the stair below Alex, Lani on the one above, and Samheed on the stair above Lani. Simber watched over them, pacing through the rubble, going from window to window to watch for movement and checking in with Florence, who patrolled outside.

During the night, Carina, finishing her shift and heading for bed, stopped at Alex’s side. She watched the sleeping mage for a moment, then slipped a folded piece of paper into his hand. She shook her head sadly and continued up the stairs.

The feeling of the paper in Alex’s hand woke him a while later. He sat up, forgetting for a brief, blissful moment about all the tragedy that had struck Artimé. But his stiff, aching body soon reminded him.

Alex held the folded note up and studied it, bleary eyed, until the words on it came into focus.

Dear Alex,

I am so horribly sorry to tell you this . . . Mr. Appleblossom has died. He left the enclosed for Samheed. Stay strong, my friend.

Love, Carina

Alex couldn’t comprehend it. He read the words again. It couldn’t be true. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. Mr. Appleblossom was gone. The genteel, sensitive, passionate, iambic pentameter poet and instructor. The writer of many plays and musicals, like Perseus! Perseus! and And Then Everyone Dies, The End. Now he was dead. Alex couldn’t process it.

After a minute, Alex looked up at Simber, a question in his eyes.

Simber bowed his head. It was true.

Alex stood and moved up to where Samheed was sleeping. “Sam,” he said, nudging his friend.

Samheed groaned. “What?”

“Wake up. I have some bad news.”

Samheed’s eyes fluttered open, and a moment later he was shoving himself upright, wide awake. “What happened?”

“It’s Mr. Appleblossom,” Alex said, his voice cracking. “Here.” He handed Samheed the note, unable to find the words to tell him that his beloved theater instructor was dead.

Samheed stared at the folded paper for a minute, unmoving, barely breathing. And then he shook his head. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster he shook it, and began whispering. “No,” he said. “No. No, no, no, no, no!” He sank back against the marble stairs and covered his face with his hands.

Alex wiped the moisture from his eyes and sat there, not sure how to help Samheed. Not sure it was even possible to do so. Like Mr. Today had been for Alex, Mr. Appleblossom had been a substitute father for Samheed when he needed it most. There was no comforting that loss.

After a while, Samheed sat up and looked at the paper again. The note was folded into fourths. He took in a steadying breath and unfolded it. Inside was another piece of paper, which had a barely noticeable pencil sketch of Mr. Today imprinted on it. “This is from Mr. Appleblossom’s notebook,” Samheed said. He looked at the words.

For Samheed, it read.

Below it, a few lines written in a shaky hand.

Good night, my son, and dream of victory. A man of greatest honor, you are he. Rise up and lead, and take these reins from me. A master of the theater you will be.

Samheed read the words. At “my son,” the tears came and began to drip on the paper. Hastily he dried it so the ink wouldn’t smear.

Alex, doing the only thing he could think of, reached into his nearly empty vest pocket and pulled out one of the few components he’d had no use for that day—a preserve spell.

“Shall I use this?” Alex asked quietly, showing Samheed the tiny ball of rubber.

Samheed stared numbly, then nodded.

“Preserve,” said Alex, casting the component onto the note. It melted and spread, covering the paper in a nearly indestructible film, preserving the words forever.

“I wish there was a preserve spell for people,” Samheed said after a while.

“Me too,” said Alex.

Eventually their grief was overtaken by exhaustion, and they lay down on their steps and slept again.