Whichwood(49)

But there was another part of him, a part of him that he would never acknowledge—would never credit with truth—that wondered (rather callously) whether Alice didn’t deserve such shaming. After all, it was true that Alice could have done better. That she should have been better.

Alice had done just about everything wrong.

“When you win a Surrender,” Father had explained to them earlier, “you’re awarded a five—the highest possible score—which means you’re considered the most capable of your year. Earning a five, as you did,” he said now only to Alice, “meant that your task would be far more complicated than the tasks of your peers.”

“I know,” said Alice in a hurry. “And it was, Father, it—”

Father shook his head. “Much more complicated, Alice. Washing dead bodies, restoring a supply of deteriorated magic”—he waved a hand—“these tasks are difficult, yes, but fairly uncomplicated. There’s no nuance in these actions, only repetition. You were expected to think more complexly, my dear.”

Alice blinked at him.

“You solved the obvious issue,” he said gently. “You chose the easy fix.”

“But, Father,” said Alice, “it wasn’t easy—we didn’t even know she was sick for some time—”

Again, Father shook his head.

“It was a test, darling.” He smiled, sadness pinching his eyes. “Would you choose the problem your hands could easily solve? Or would you recognize the illusion set before you for what it was: a distraction, nothing more.”

“But she was dying,” Alice said breathlessly, desperately. “I had to keep her from dying, didn’t I? Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to help at all!”

“My sweet girl—don’t you see?” Father took her hand. “There were always two parts to her healing process.”

Alice was silent for a long time. Finally, she whispered, “No, Father. I don’t understand.”

It was only then that Oliver, who could not take it anymore, interjected (with a measure of anger) and said, “Laylee needed color, yes, but she also needed a friend, Alice. She needed real help. Not a bandage.”

Alice turned to him, eyes now brimming with tears, and said, “I thought—I th-thought I was helping her—”

Father spoke sympathetically when he said, “What you did for Laylee took only a matter of hours; in that short time, you created a temporary solution to a much larger problem. And by ignoring the larger issue, you unwittingly set into motion the collapse of Laylee’s entire life.” Father sighed as he spoke, closing his eyes in a show of deep exhaustion. “When we send our children on a task,” he explained, “we expect them to do work that will take much longer than a few hours, Alice—we expect them to be gone for many months. We hope for their work to be truly restorative; we hope they’ll bestow an everlasting kindness upon the person or place they’ve helped. Laylee would have healed—at a much slower, but more permanent rate—had you only helped ease her burden a little more every day. With you there by her side, she might have learned to slow down, to take breaks—to stand up to the townspeople who’d taken advantage of her—and, eventually, slow the effects of the illness spreading through her body.” Father hesitated. Studied his daughter. “Don’t you see, my Alice? The Town Elders recognized in you two great talents: one was your gift with colors, yes, but the other was your heart.”

“My heart?” said Alice.

Father smiled. “Yes, my dear. Your heart. The Elders found your burgeoning, complicated friendship with Oliver—who, forgive me,” Father said, glancing at Oliver, “was once a decidedly difficult character—”

Oliver frowned.

“—to be of deep interest. You both built that relationship against the turbulent background of the twisted, complicated world of Furthermore, a world known mostly for tearing people apart. That you managed to forge something beautiful from the madness was deeply admirable. And ultimately,” Father said, “we all hoped you’d be able to do the same for Laylee. Your task was always to heal her in two ways: with your hands and with your heart. You would have earned her trust and become a friend upon whom she would one day rely, healing her from the inside out. In the end it is your gift of time—and of compassion—that’s most invaluable to a person in pain, my darling. It’s true that you left her with a healthy body,” he said finally, “but Laylee’s spirit is now more tortured than ever.”

And Alice, ashamed of herself and afraid for her future, had not ceased her weeping, not even to speak.




Alice and Oliver spent the rest of the trip home in silence. Oliver tried to drown out her keening with the roar of his own regrets—and managed nicely for a while—but it was just as he braced himself against another shuddering wave of pain that he wondered, with increasing agitation, whether he’d ever forgive himself for what they’d done.

He had to find a way to make things right.

Oliver Newbanks knew himself to be just as culpable as Alice. He knew he’d played a critical role in what transpired with Laylee, and he couldn’t shake these fears loose from his brain. It was, after all, because of them that Laylee’s spirits had gone free. If he and Alice had never shown up, Laylee would never have abandoned her ghosts—she’d never have attended Yalda. Even so, their presence could have been more of a help to her. If only they’d stayed at the castle—if only they hadn’t been so selfish and impatient—if only they’d listened to Laylee when she’d finally mustered the courage to ask for their help—