A quiet rumble came from the front of the house, drawing me to my feet. “What’s that?” I grabbed my things from the nightstand and wandered into the hall, to a front-facing window.
“A plow.” Sam followed. “It’s like the drones we saw on the way back to Heart. There it is.” He held a curtain aside, revealing a vehicle with a large scoop on the front. It heaved up to the steps—shoving a pile of snow to block the door—and turned to clear the other half of the walkway.
“Okay, so it works here, but what about people like Cris who have about three places you’re allowed to step?”
“The price of filling your walkway is the plows don’t clear it for you. And they’re not very good about the doors. It’s going to be tough to escape. I might need your help.”
Because I was so strong. Right. But I caught the way he tried to stop his smile, and I rolled my eyes. “I’m worried about him and Stef.” I could see slivers of her house from this window. Or maybe that was just more snow.
Sam released the curtain and leaned on the wall, something I still couldn’t make myself do. “Me too.”
I checked my SED, but she hadn’t replied to my messages. I sent another, and one to Cris, asking again if they were okay. I hated that neither were home during a storm. “Where could they be?”
“Wish I knew.” The thinking line deepened between his eyes. “After the explosions and what happened downstairs, their absence is especially worrisome.”
“I think it was Deborl. Merton. Their other friends.”
Sam frowned. “He’s a Councilor.”
“So was Meuric, and he tried to lock me in the temple. He got Li and Merton to attack us after the masquerade. Being a Councilor didn’t stop him, and it wouldn’t stop Deborl.”
Sam gazed at nothing down the hallway. “You think he’d set explosives to kill people who might be pregnant with newsouls? Or break into our house and destroy”—his voice hitched—“my instruments?”
“I have no doubt.”
Sam reached for my hand, squeezed my fingers. “All right, so what do we do? If he’s attacking newsouls, we need proof.”
“Sine is having someone watch them.”
Sam nodded. “That’s a start. Who knows? Maybe he’ll get himself caught.”
I rather doubted that, but since I’d definitely get caught and thrown in prison—or worse—if I tried to sneak into Deborl’s house and see if he had my things, Sine’s people would have to do. “You know what still bothers me?”
“I can’t even count that high.”
I stood on my toes and messed up his hair, then started down the hall. Just being close to the exterior wall made me squirmy. “If the explosions were coincidence—not a response to the meeting—all right. But how did they know about the books and Menehem’s research?”
Sam shook his head. “Did you talk to anyone else about it?”
“No.” I leaned on the balcony rail. “Well, Cris told me he had some ideas about my symbols, but no one else was with us. Sarit, Lidea, and Wend had just walked away.”
“Cris wouldn’t have done any of these things.”
No, he wouldn’t have. “So now they have the key, the books, and the research. They have everything and we don’t have anything.” I slouched, despair building inside me. How could I protect newsouls if I couldn’t even protect a few inanimate objects?
Sam put his arm around my shoulders. “They don’t have everything.”
I shivered deeper into his embrace. I wanted to say something nice to him, anything to let him know how much I appreciated him and how glad I was we weren’t fighting anymore. But I didn’t want to sound stupid. There was one way to show him.
I pressed my palms on the balcony railing, overlooking the ruined parlor. “I’m ready to share something with you.”
He waited.
I refused to hesitate. “My notebook isn’t a diary.” I pulled it out and flipped it open to the first page to reveal hand-drawn bars of music, scribbled words in the margins, and doodles everywhere. “Maybe it sort of is, I guess. Just not like the ones everyone else keeps.” I gave Sam the notebook. “I don’t think I’m very good at being like everyone else.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be.” He sat on the top stair and turned pages, reading the words and music; they were both his language.
I sat next to him, elbows braced on my knees while I fidgeted and felt naked. Paper fluttered as he turned another page, and another. When he hummed a couple of measures, I cringed, but he kept reading without comment. Then he closed the notebook.
“It’s not finished,” he said, giving it back.
“Not yet.” Maybe not ever, but I hadn’t been writing it to finish something. I’d been writing emotions, because I didn’t always have words for what I wanted. But there was always music, and sometimes it seemed like the most powerful thing in the world.
“Have you played any of it?”
I held the notebook to my chest, pressing the music against my heart so hard it might leave permanent impressions. “I’ve been too afraid of what it might actually sound like outside my head.”
Sam stood and offered his hand. “It may be time to find out.”
Maybe he was right.