Xavier shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”
“You said you’d speak to Armageddon. You must mean you’ll talk to your people. The angels.”
Xavier offers Mom a sad smile. “Yes, of course. The angels.”
My forehead creases with confusion. Mom’s way too upset to notice, but the way he answered her question was a little suspicious. What did he mean by saying that he would talk to Armageddon?
Mom rises to her feet. “I’m going with you.”
“No, I do this alone or not at all.” His fingers glide along the marble panel, looking for the mechanism to open the door. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
The scene before me freezes. The figures change from flesh and bone back into sand. Little by little, their bodies crumble onto the Gray Sea. My dream fades into a place that’s black and empty. Sadness seeps into my heart.
Mom’s voice calls to me from the darkness of my dream. I awaken.
“Myla, can you hear me?”
I open my eyes. I’m lying on a plush bed inside a small and sturdy wooden house. The room’s filled with gilded furniture and delicate sculptures. Oriental rugs cover the floor. Mom stands beside me. The low chatter of many voices echoes in from the opened windows and door.
I shake my head from side to side, my brain still muddled with sleep. “Where am I?”
“The Queen’s cottage,” says Mom. “The thrax have been camping throughout this area.”
I pull myself up to sitting. “How long have I been here?”
“Since last night. I came as soon as I learned of your injury.”
My foggy brain tries to process Mom’s words. I must have passed out after Lincoln healed my back. And I’m just waking up now? “What was wrong with me?”
“You ran a high fever fighting the infection.” Mom presses her hand to my forehead. “But it broke about an hour ago. Did you sleep alright?”
Memories of Armageddon’s attack flicker through my mind. I grip Mom’s hand. “I had a dreamscape last night.”
I might as well have set off a bomb in the Queen’s chamber. At the sound of the word ‘dreamscape,’ the lively chatter of servants falls into perfect silence. The figures milling outside my window freeze. Expectation fills the air.
My mouth droops into a frown. Nice move, Myla. I’m in the Queen’s bedroom because the High Prince put me here. Everyone must be dying to know why. Now I’m talking about dreamscapes, aka super-rare angel stuff. If I hired a carnival barker to stand outside my window and sell tickets, I couldn’t have a more interested audience.
Bending over, Mom whispers in my ear. “Can it wait until we get home?”
She doesn’t need to ask me twice. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
Mom stands up straight, her voice steady and strong. “You were very fortunate, Myla. The doctors said you could have died.” She pauses, holding up one hand, waiting for any reaction from our hidden audience.
The silence around us turns deafening. Hells Bells. I’m still the marquee act in today’s performance of ‘what does the Prince want with that girl?’
Mom lets out a frustrated puff of air. “Show’s over folks. Get back to work or I call the Queen.”
Instantly, bodies begin to move again outside my window. Low chatter resumes in the hallway. I shoot Mom a hearty thumbs-up. She’s acting more and more like her old self every day. It’s awesome.
I flip off the covers and set my bare feet on the cold floor. “So, when do we leave?”
Mom rushes to my side, guiding my body back to lay down. “The doctors say you need to stay here and rest for a few days.” She tucks the covers under my chin.
“I feel fine. Really.”
Mom sits on the edge of the bed, her voice low. “Does this have to do with that thrax boy you were telling me about? I can’t imagine you’re thrilled to finish your recovery here.”
“No, it’s not about him.” But if I’m being honest with myself, it’s totally about him. After my weird lust-filled encounter last night, I want as much distance between us as possible. “I’m ready to go home, that’s all.”
Mom fluffs a pillow under my head. “Doctor’s orders, Myla-la. I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow. Maybe you can go home then.” She rises to her feet. “Get some rest, promise?”
I snuggle under the covers and grin. “Promise.”
Once Mom is gone, I slide out of bed and stretch, catching my reflection in a mirror. I’m now wearing a white linen nightgown. When did that happen?
I shrug. I suppose it’s better than waking up in my armor. I step about the elegant space, running my fingers over the heavy wallpaper and staring at the delicate sculptures. I walk up to the opened window. Rows of cottages stretch off into the distance, followed by a much larger network of fancy tents.
A knock sounds at the door. “May I come in?” It’s Lincoln.
My breath hitches. “Sure.”