Page 21 of The Ordeals
I swallow my mouthful and crane my neck, finding the young man who checked my name on the door peering down at me. ‘Yes?’
‘There’s a message for you, from the gatehouse.’ He narrows his eyes with sudden intensity, a scrap of paper held between thumb and forefinger. ‘A package for you to collect. Compliments of …’ he checks the slip once more ‘… the Collector.’
My heart stutters. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Written right here,’ the young man says, frowning at the piece of paper. ‘Can’t remember who handed it to me though. A friend of yours?’
I place my spoon back in the bowl, appetite ruined, replacedby a swirl of fear and bitter rage. He can’t get to me here, I have to remind myself. There’s no way in past those gates.
‘No,’ I say, pushing back my chair. ‘He’s no friend of mine.’
It must have been Banks. Who else would have told him where I was, or delivered a package so quickly? Banks, with his torn heart, with his loyalty and steadfastness … has ratted me out within aday. The Collector will have seen me on his map at the train station; he’s usually in his office by dawn. It wouldn’t have taken much to insist that Banks tell him where I was travelling to, outside the boundaries of his map. I sigh heavily, making my way across the dark courtyard to the gatehouse beyond. George is behind the desk, ear so close to his portable wireless, I imagine all he can hear is that. He jumps when he sees me, pressing his hand into his chest.
‘Thought you were Parnell, bloody gods …’ He gulps, blinking at me. ‘Are you DeWinter?’
‘There’s a package here for me?’ I ask lightly.
‘A trunk.’ He points to the far corner. ‘And don’t let Parnell catch you getting things sent here. Hopefuls don’t have pidgies for a reason. You might not be around for the whole semester even.’
‘Pidgies?’
‘Pigeonholes!’ He waves his hand behind him and sighs. ‘Bloody hopefuls … now shush, I’m missing Greta Graham.’
I turn to the corner as a woman’s voice croons in tinny waves from the wireless, reminding me of Pewter’s taste in music and the Pickled Gargoyle, and spot the trunk. It’s one I recognise, one that’s usually sitting on the shop floor of the antique store. It’s what I used to keep my toys in when I would play with Dolly, teddy bears and dolls and a tea set I would set out in a circle. The memory of Dollysitting on the floorboards with me, pretending to sip tea from a tiny porcelain cup, hollows me out. I stand there, staring at the trunk for a moment, trying to remember where I am. Why I’m here.
‘You know I can’t help you with that,’ George calls over impatiently. ‘If—’
‘Yes, yes, I get it.’ I sigh, running a hand across my face. ‘If Parnell catches you, you’ll lose your wireless.’
‘You’re learning, DeWinter,’ he says, wagging a finger at me. ‘You’re learning.’
I heave the damn thing back through the courtyard, down all those steps in the dark to Hope Hall. Then I drag it up the stairs, cursing anyone I ever laid eyes on, using language that would have made Dolly giggle. When I’m a few steps from the half-landing on five, Alden opens the door, watching me.
‘Not going to be chivalrous and offer to help?’ I bite out, blowing a stray strand of hair from my face.
‘Do you want my help?’
‘Absolutely … not!’ I huff, pulling it up the final steps. He steps back as I push it to my own bedroom door with a flourish, dusting my hands on my trousers.
He shrugs. ‘I’m a patient man, DeWinter. You’ll seek my help at some point. In training, or in the Ordeals themselves, you’ll need me. In the meantime, I just love listening to all those foul words spill from that beautiful mouth of yours.’ Before I can release a torrent of more choice words, he closes his door, chuckling, and leaves me to face the trunk alone.
I shove it inside my bedroom and kneel down on the floor in front of it. It hasn’t occurred to me until this point that if the Collector, the man who I believed was my uncle, has sent this, it might not contain anything good. Hesitantly, I open the latch, trying to control the tremor in my fingers. It pops open and I throw myselfbackward. When nothing jumps out, no terrifying thing happens, I take a deep breath and pull myself together.
Then I scramble forward, push back the lid and find … clothes. Books. Makeup. Notebooks and keepsakes and the teddy I used to keep in this very trunk. I run my fingers over the plush velvet lining the bottom, fingertips lingering on the smooth gold initials – E.D. – that I know are stamped there, worn slightly at the edges from the times I have brushed my fingers over them. I gasp softly, fingertips slipping over a well-thumbed deck of cards, and I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. The deck we used to play with: me, Dolly and Banks. This trunk contains my most cherished possessions.
Sifting through the items, I find an envelope with my name written on it. The spidery lines of ink are chillingly familiar. This is from the Collector. I press my lips together, tearing it open without bothering to reach for the letter opener on the desk. Inside is a single piece of paper, again written in his own hand:
In time you will understand.
I will be waiting.
In time I will …understand? How he made me sign a contract, robbing me of my childhood and my free will? How he terrified me with the punishment of the vault, how he forced me on assignments, placed me in immediate danger countless times that left me hollowed out with fear until Ihadto be stronger? I completed the Crucible; I made it here. I didn’t die, in fact the worst part of the past few days was the assignmenthesent me on. And Dolly … my Dolly … I hiss, closing my hand around the note.
I tear it in half, then half again, ripping his words up until they are nothing but squares of singular smudged letters.
AndI will be waiting? I draw my hand into a fist, shaking. Nothing that happens now, nothing I discover will change the fact that Dolly is dead.
Nothing.
