Whichwood(33)

Seeing his friendly face awaiting theirs in all the dimness was a great comfort to the hearts of Alice and Oliver, who were now besieged by worry. Laylee had grown more insensible by the second, now refusing to even look at them, and heaven help them if they touched her. Laylee was a severed bundle of nerves, electric with pain she had no way of expressing. Oliver, who (like the others) could not make sense of what had happened to her, was doing all he could to stay upright. He would not allow himself to focus on the collapsing girl beside him, because if he were to dwell on the truth for even a moment, he was certain he would burst into tears. Her death had suddenly and horribly become real for him, and though Oliver did not have the words to explain why he felt any kind of responsibility toward the girl, he simply knew he couldn’t let it happen.

Alice, meanwhile, had decided to blame herself for the entirety of the situation. Oliver’s pain, Laylee’s pain—all this was happening, Alice had concluded, because she had failed. It was, after all, her responsibility to have helped Laylee (it was, in fact, her sole task), and yet, she had failed, and she didn’t know how or why or even what to do to fix it. And when she finally saw Benyamin’s kind, gentle face, she merely shook her head, silent tears slipping down her face, and said, “I don’t know what I’ve done.”

Benyamin didn’t have a chance to answer. At exactly the moment he stepped forward to ask questions and offer words of comfort, the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and the world was sapped of any lingering light.

Yalda had properly begun.

Lanterns set fire to the sky. Orange-milky light poked holes in the blackness, brightness consuming the dim spaces until all was caught in its hazy glow. People and places were smudged silhouettes, edges blurred by firelight. There was a moment of absolute silence before the ground underfoot rumbled fast and deep—a sound so tremendous it thundered through the sky, rising in pitch until the heavens themselves ripped open with a seismic crack—and the city was drenched in red.

Millions of tiny pomegranate seeds rained down from the sky, and the people—thousands upon thousands of them—stood still and solemn—cups and jars and pots and buckets raised high above their heads—as the steady drumming sound of raining rubies filled the air. It was a moment of reverence and reflection. No one spoke—not a soul moved—as the snow-covered hills and forevergreen trees were painted scarlet in the night. But the rush of so much bounty sweeping fast and hard across the land made it impossible to hear, and even more impossible to speak.

So Benyamin touched Alice’s shoulder in a quiet show of support. Alice took his hand in her left, and Oliver’s hand in her right, and the three of them stared up at the sky, silently wishing for a world where the beautiful and the terrible would stop happening at the same time.

It was then—just as the sounds of pomegranate rain had shuddered to a stop, and just as the roaring, cheering crowds had shattered into soft noise—that the world went still in an entirely new way.

Alice and Oliver and Benyamin had just turned to look at Laylee when her glazed eyes suddenly came back into focus. She drew in a sharp breath, stiffened, and said, “Please don’t let me fall.”





Oliver Newbanks caught Laylee’s body, and he would not let her go. He cradled her limp, withered limbs, her head resting against his chest, and he ran, madness and desperation telling him to keep moving or die. With each resounding footfall, Laylee’s hood fell back, and her floral scarf slipped—the knot loosening at her neck—as a few rogue locks of hair fell elegantly across her forehead.

Laylee had gone silver to her roots.

Benyamin checked for a pulse as they charged toward the train station—Alice shouting at strangers to move out of their way—and though he struggled to find it, he finally managed to locate a weak, dull beat, and with a great gasp of relief, pronounced the mordeshoor not yet dead. Oliver, who hadn’t been able to check his silent tears, felt a sudden shock reinvigorate his heart.

Benyamin was convinced that the best place for Laylee to recover was in the safety of his own home, where they might take care of her overnight. Taking her back to the castle, he reasoned, would make it impossible for them to remain with her; they’d not washed any corpses this evening, and so, could not risk having their skins harvested as they slept.*

Oliver, in a moment of clarity, asked if they shouldn’t rush her to a local doctor, but Benyamin shook his head—this was not work for a physician; Laylee needed a magician to heal her particular wounds, as she was suffering from a disease that affected mordeshoors only. But all of this was beside the point. Let us remember: No one could do what Alice had been sent to accomplish. There was no doctor, no magician, not Oliver nor Benyamin, who could do the kind of magic Alice could manufacture, and she alone would be responsible for what happened to Laylee. Laylee’s fate had been tied to Alice’s, and it was her job to save the life of this young mordeshoor. She only hoped she hadn’t waited too long.





As soon as they arrived at the train station, Benyamin rushed to the ticket window. Alice and Oliver stood by, again checking Laylee’s pulse and steadying their hearts, while Benyamin secured their passage for four. Once done, Benyamin located an empty carriage and waved them over. Alice, Oliver, and Laylee (still bundled in his arms) quickly joined him in one of the little glass prisms, where, without the bulk of Benyamin’s barrow (which, poor thing, he’d optimistically stowed in a public locker in anticipation of an evening of fun), the four of them were able to settle comfortably; there was just enough room for Oliver to lay down Laylee’s body on the velvet bench. Oliver’s arms were shaking from the strain of having carried her such a long way, but it was the look on his face, desperate and afraid, that worried Alice most.