Orion doesn't let go of my hand. I grip it like a lifeline as the guards take us through a back door that I've never seen before. A few guards send me some questioning looks, but they don't say anything, and a few dark hallways later, we emerge into a large, round room.
Panels of wood stretch to the ceiling. Most walls are covered in shelves filled to bursting with books. A massive, ornate door is on the opposite wall, directly across from a wooden desk that is carpeted with semi-organized piles of paper.
"That was the scenic route," Orion explains, "security has been. . . extreme lately."
"Why?" I ask, still taking in the room. It's Orion's office, where he spends so much of his time. His scent is so strong here that I feel a little dazed. I breathe in the forest and chocolate smell and feel the anxiety lessen in my lungs.
Orion releases my hand and goes to a cabinet behind his desk. As he sifts though the drawers, he waves his hand in a dismissive gesture.
"My parents are too sensitive for their own good," he mutters under his breath.
I open my mouth to respond, but he suddenly stands straight.
"I thought you would want to see something."
He pulls out a Manila folder, and then another one, both filled to bursting. Then, he pulls out a picture that makes my breath quiet in my chest - it's a picture of Elia, smiling.
"This," Orion says, placing the stack down on the desk with a small thud, "is the investigation for Cordelia Dixon."
It's massive. On top of that, I see that several of the papers plastering his desk also have Elia's name written across it. Orion opens the top folder and begins looking through the pictures.
"I discovered it last night," he mutters, "they were holding it in her personal belongings, so I'd never seen it before. Here!"
He pulls out a lined paper that is crinkled and torn.
"It's addressed to you," Orion says, holding it out towards me.
"Oh," I whisper. I falter for a moment, feeling that, somehow, my fingers might make it crumble to ash. I swallow and take it from him.
It's a letter. Half of the lines are scribbled out so thickly that I can't see what they were supposed to be, but there are still some legible sentences. I try to scan over it, but before my eyes have even gotten through Dear Lee, my throat is clogging with emotion.
"It's okay," Orion murmurs, "You don't have to read through it right now. Take it with you. It's yours."
"I - I can keep this?" I croak, holding the paper to my chest.
"She obviously meant to give it to you," he whispers. And then he repeats, "It's yours."
"Orion," I begin, talking as quiet as him. I cast a look at the guards still standing at attention, nervous to say anything in front of them.
Orion understands without me having to say anything. "Braxton, Levitt," he says, using a voice different than the one he uses for me - one that is more commanding, "a moment, please."
The guards exit, leaving Orion and I alone.
"Thank you," I say, holding the letter carefully in my hands. "Thank you for this. I - I didn't know that you were doing so much work on Elia's case."
"I wanted you to know," Orion responds after a moment, "that we've been looking. We will find whoever it was that killed her. She'll have justice."
I don't cry. Especially, I don't cry in front of my mate. I blink, hard, and have to swallow before I can speak.
"What," I ask quietly, "what comes next?"
Orion takes a deep breath. He knows what I mean.
"First," he murmurs, and it sounds a little like an apology, "my parents would like to meet you."
My heart thunders in my chest. I have to focus very hard to keep myself from accidentally crumpling the paper in my hand.
"What do they know?" I ask weakly.
Orion winces.
"They know we're mates," he says, "they've known since the ball. That's why they allowed me to be so involved with your case. I've managed to keep them from bothering you, but -"
Orion trails off, but I know how it ends. But now that I've agreed to really be his mate.
"Of course I'll meet them," I say, swallowing the anxiety in my throat. "I told you, I'm all in."
I was expecting this, but when I think of my track record with parents, I cringe. My own parents - that didn't work out very well. And then, really, other than that, I've only met Elia's parents - and that didn't work out very well, either.
"You don't need to be worried," he whispers, "I mean, they can't hate you more than your parents hate me, right?"
We wince together, and I can see him thinking about how much more reassuring that sounded in his head.
"I mean," he begins again, "that it will be fine."
I fill my lungs with air. I look down at the crinkled letter on my hands, and I think about how much everything has changed.
"Alpha," A voice sounds from the other side of the door. It startles me so much that I jump.
"One moment," Orion replies, his eyes still pinned on me, concerned.
"The Alpha has asked for you," the voice continues.
Orion huffs.
"It's okay," I say quickly, "I - I'll let you get back to work."
Orion takes a breath in and holds it, like he's trying to decide something.
"Lee," Orion says, all at once, like he's afraid he'll change his mind, "have you ever been up on the roofs?"
I wasn't expecting this question. "Uh. No?"
"Your highness," the voice calls again. Orion glances at the door, exasperated, before his gaze returns to me. Haltingly, he places a hand on my upper arm.
"Tonight," he promises, "we'll talk tonight."
I nod, holding the letter like a lifeline.
-
At first, I run to my room, feeling that if I didn't read the letter right now, I would explode. But then the door clicks shut behind me, and the air stills, and I re-read the opening Dear Lee until I feel tears building in my throat. And suddenly it feels that, by reading this letter, I would be declaring Elia actually dead. These are her last words.
I carefully place the letter on the bed. It falls with peculiar weight.
My eyes shift to a small spot on the carpet, a slightly discolored patch of dirt. Tentatively, I lean down, rubbing at it. But it doesn't come out.
And then I am halfway to the cleaning cabinet downstairs, where they keep all of the supplies, and my body is so alight with anxiety that it's like my skeleton is glowing. I receive several stares from the maids and assistants rushing through the area, and double-takes from a dishwasher that worked next to my sink. My cheeks burn, but I keep my head low. I've already come this far. Quickly, I grab some cleaning supplies - anything that I can hold with my hands - and turn to go back to my room.
And then I look to my left, where the kitchen bustles just around a corner, and I feel something like guilt drop in my stomach.
I had told Joanna, back when I wasn't sure if I was even going to stay, to tell Blackwell how much I regretted lying to her. Well, now, I'm planning on staying. At least, until Orion throws me out. I place the cleaning supplies on the ground, up against the wall, and, before I can think about it more, I begin walking towards the kitchens.
It's exactly the way I remember it. Except that the typically loud, bustling environment comes to a silent standstill as people notice me. I cringe and almost just run back. I had imagined this going differently. My footsteps stutter, and I'm halfway into a retreat when I hear Blackwell's voice.
"Beta," Blackwell says.
I look up to find her bowing her head at me respectfully. Her dish gloves are haphazardly placed on the counter, still covered in bubbles. I remember the panic the impromptu visit from the Prince had given her. I internally grimace at the realization that my sudden appearance probably caused a similar panic.
"Hello, Blackwell," I begin nervously. In the silent kitchen, my voice seems to echo. I can feel about 40 eyes on me. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
I swallow.
"Don't be stopping like that, with your mouth open for flies," Blackwell says harshly, and I temporarily stroke out, thinking that she's talking to me. However, when a clinking of dishes resumes behind me, I realize she was talking to Simeon, one of the kitchen assistants. The rest of the kitchen takes this as a cue, getting back to work, and I feel much more calm now that my words are disguised by the noise.
"I know you must have been surprised," I say, my voice shaky, "to hear about my past."
"Only ashamed of how I treated you, Beta Collins," she says gruffly.
Blackwell's ideas are more old-fashioned then I had realized.
"Blackwell, I wanted to thank you."
Blackwell looks up, surprised.
"You took good care of me," I continue, my tongue feeling lame in my mouth, "and I - I know how surprising it was when you heard the truth."
A moment of silence passes, Blackwell looking at me in shock.
"And - and I heard from Lucy that she'd been down here."
At Lucy's name, Blackwell's eyes soften.
"Yes, Lucy spends her time down here. She says she likes to cook." She looks at me tentatively, like she's worried that letting Lucy cook will offend me.
"I'm happy to hear it," I say, still nervous. "I know - I know she's very shy. But you - you don't seem to mind those that don't talk so much."
Blackwell doesn't smile. I don't know how close to a smile she can come, at this point. But her voice is kinder when she says, "No, Beta, I don't mind the quiet ones."
My shoulders sag. Even though she doesn't say it, the air is clear between us. It almost lightens the anxiety in my bones. Dad is going to be executed, and I'm actually making progress on the impact he had in my life. I'm - I'm healing.
But this makes me think of the spot on my carpet, and it seems like a much bigger deal than before. I remember early-morning lye treatments on the tiles in my house. I remember the sense of relief I would get when that last tile was stripped clean. The fire of anxiety reignites.
"Well, thank you, Blackwell," I say with a tight smile. "I'll - I'll leave you to it."
That felt awkward and very strange, but I'm happy that I did it. I pick up the cleaning supplies and begin making my way back to my room.
I don't make it to the hallway before a tall figure runs into me.
"Joanne!" I say, surprised. Her hair is in a flurry and her apron is hanging crookedly, but, most startlingly, her eyes are red with tears.
"What's happened?" I ask.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Lee," Joanne says, scrubbing at her face. "I just - I just heard - " she cuts herself off, tears steaming down her cheeks.
I blink, confused and awkward. I don't even know Joanne enough to comfort her, and I definitely didn't want to pressure her to talk about it. The cleaning supplies shuffle in my arms.
"They just called me, an'," she starts again, clearing her throat, "an' Alice - Alice, she's not doing' too good." Joanne blinks, like the words confuse her. "It looks - it looks like she won't make it."
It takes me a minute to place the name.
Alice, the cleaning maid I had replaced all those weeks ago for one day. Alice, the name that had protected me from discovery. Alice, Joanne's best friend.
"Oh," I breathe.
Joanne straightens her stance, but her chin still trembles.
"Joanne, that's so awful," I say, "Is there something I can do?"
"I just," she takes a halting breath, "thank you, Lee, but I just need t' go home. I'm 'fraid I'm leavin' right now."
She nods twice and wipes at her tears.
"Of course." I step away, embarrassed.
She tries to smile, but as she turns away, running towards the door, she is covering her mouth with her hand, muffling a sob.
I am awful and self-involved. I know this because, a moment after the pity for Joanne fades, I think of Elia, her letter waiting for me upstairs. I know the sensation of a dead best friend.
Poor Joanne.
I scrub my room clean. The soap is gentler than the ones I used at home. It doesn't make my hands burn.
I almost wish it would.
I think of Orion, his hand holding mine, showing me the work he's done for Elia. I think of the way his voice hitched, just slightly, as he confided his wish for us to be friends. I think of Orion, and then I think of Dad, and his anger when he found out I was stunted, and I run to the bathroom, worried that I'm going to throw up. I don't.
I finish scrubbing every crack in every tile, and then I stand outside on the porch and try to breathe. Orion and I are going to talk tonight. And I know that I will tell him. I just don't know what will happen after.
Goddess, my hands are shaking. It makes the letter in my hand crinkle noisily. I had brought it out with me, hoping that the cold December sunlight would make it feel less monumental.
I breathe out.
Dear Lee, Elia wrote.
I don't know how to say everything. I've rewritten this a dozen times, because I keep thinking of you, and it keeps making me cry and then I lose my train of thought. Damn, it's happening again.
This is followed by a paragraph that has been scribbled out. I search it desperately. It doesn't seem fair that her words aren't perfectly preserved - they're all I have left. I can only make out letters, tangled in a mess of pen markings. My chin trembles, but I continue down the page.
I have imagined myself dropping it off under the bush in your front yard, like I used to back in the old days to pass you magazines and books. I want you to have this letter as the last piece of me, no matter what happens.
Another scribbled mess.
Sometimes it feels like I'm running out of time, Lee. You would know what to do, about so many things. I just want to talk to you, but I can't. It's -
There is so much that I am missing. Nothing in my life quite fits together right. It's all a jumble of pieces from different puzzles, and I'm afraid to see the picture they make. I look at the sky and I don't recognize the stars, any more. I don't know what to think about anything.
But I think about you. You are so much more important than you think you are. I'm not there to remind you, right now, but it's still true. Sometimes I used to think of how it might be different, if you weren't stunted. Maybe you would be happier, but I don't know if you would be as kind. And you'll be happy, someday.
Look at yourself through my eyes. There's not
And then the letter ends.