“What about sending Ash out of the city? She could go into exile, somewhere it wouldn’t matter if her magic was exposed. We could go with her. We could take care of her.”

“According to Queen Carmen, there’s nowhere on Earth that’s safe from her enemies.”

“Do me a favor? Ask around. Somebody in the Palace might have some intel on this ultramarine graffiti, and whatever anti-othersider activity is happening. Cass thinks—” But I didn’t know what Cass thought. Just that she was scared, and she was never scared.

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

“Do you remember?” I asked. “What happened to her?”

Niv shook his head. “That whole week was so crazy, it’s a total blur.”

“Crazy how?”

He laughed. “You don’t remember? It was right around the same time as the Night of Red Diamonds!”

I looked at Ash. Something about that coincidence felt wrong. My spine shivered.

I took out the pie, cut us each a slice. Niv got plates, forks. Then he said: “Look!”

Ash’s eyes were on my camera. She turned her head and then leaned forward.

“I haven’t seen her respond to something like that in months,” Niv said, rubbing his hands together. I loved him for how much he clearly loved her. It still didn’t mean I trusted him.

Ash reached out to touch the camera, and smiled. Then, very slowly, she took a forkful of pie and ate it.

“That’s amazing!” Niv said, and even old Ed’s face softened, like maybe there was a halfway decent human in there somewhere. “She’s fighting hard. I told you she was a warrior.”

We ate pie together. Ash chewed slowly. And then she looked right at me, like somewhere deep inside her a door had been unlocked, and very definitely smiled.

“It’s okay,” I said. “We’re okay.”

Her smile faltered. Went away. Came back—but sadder, now, like she knew it wasn’t true, but appreciated the fact that I’d lie to her, to try to make her feel better.

Nine

Ash

I watched them for a while. Five football players in the morning hallway, clearly up to no good. Standing around looking suspicious.

“What are y’all whispering about?” I asked, after sneaking up on them.

No one said a word. Then Sheffield spoke up. “Someone vandalized Marcy Brockelmeyer’s house,” he said, and held up his phone. The screen was cracked. Marcy’s white house was covered in black splatters.

They all looked at him, waiting for what would come next. Here’s the weird thing about Sheffield. He’s popular in a way only jocks are, normally. But he’s not on any sports team. Used to be a football player, but now he’s not. The whole team loves him, though. He’s at every practice. Every game. He’s their ringleader, even from outside the ring.