Or that they picked that memory to return because they knew it was a bust . . .
“And you really have no theories for who the boy could be?” Sophie pressed.
Mr. Forkle heaved a heavy sigh. “In the interests of avoiding further questioning, I will tell you that we’ve spent many years investigating the children at Foxfire. And we’ve ruled out every single boy.”
“Could you have missed someone?” Biana asked.
“Our methods were very thorough. I’m convinced he was not there—and if I’m right, then there’s only one other place he could have been.”
Fitz figured it out before Sophie did. “Exillium.”
“And before you start plotting ways to find the campus,” Mr. Forkle told her, “keep in mind that you saw the boy eight years ago. He has long since aged out of their curriculum.”
“So where do the Exillium kids go when they graduate?” Fitz asked.
“There is no single place,” Granite said. “Some earn jobs in the Lost Cities. Others remain banished. Either way, the boy is just as untraceable as the rest of the Neverseen.”
“There has to be a way to find him,” Sophie said. “Maybe the teachers saw something suspicious, or the Exillium administration kept records, or—”
“I can assure you, Miss Foster, you will find no record saying ‘Boy X is a member of the Neverseen,’?” Mr. Forkle interrupted. “And the Coaches would be of no help. Exillium is designed for anonymity. Those who attend do not use their names. They also wear masks.”
“Sounds like the perfect place for the Neverseen to hide,” Sophie pointed out. “They could have members there right now.”
“I doubt it,” Blur said.
“Why not?” Dex asked.
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way,” Blur said, “but . . . Exillium is for kids.”
“What he means,” Mr. Forkle jumped in as they all groaned, “is that the Neverseen haven’t demonstrated a pattern of relying on children.”
“They did once,” Fitz argued. “Shouldn’t we at least look into it?”
“It’s not worth the risk,” Mr. Forkle insisted. “Finding Exillium would require breaking into an incredibly secure database.”
“I can do that, easy,” Dex said.
“Don’t get overconfident, Mr. Dizznee,” Mr. Forkle told him. “And do not attempt it. Whatever modicum of information could be gleaned by searching Exillium’s records does not match the havoc that would occur if you were caught.”
“Plus, we have far more important assignments for all of you to work on,” Granite added. He glanced at the rest of the Collective, waiting for them to nod before saying, “It’s time to rescue Prentice.”
ELEVEN
PRENTICE,” SOPHIE WHISPERED, not sure what to feel.
Relief?
Hope?
Fear?
Yeah . . . it was mostly fear.
And then of course there was the shame—mostly because of all the fear.
Prentice had allowed his mind to be broken in order to protect her. And healing him was the only way to be sure Alden’s sanity would never shatter again.
But . . . Prentice had been trapped in his madness for thirteen years, and his whole life had fallen apart during that time. His wife had died—faded away during some sort of light-leaping accident. His orphaned son, Wylie, had been adopted. And even though Sir Tiergan—Sophie’s telepathy Mentor—had surely been a good father, Wylie was now all grown up, a Prodigy in Foxfire’s elite levels, having spent most of his life never knowing his dad.
That was a lot of heartbreak for someone to wake up to. What if Prentice shattered all over again once he faced those cold realities?
“Whatever concerns are causing that crease between your brows,” Mr. Forkle told her, “we do share them. But we cannot stall Prentice’s rescue any longer. He is too important.”
“And we’re not saying that because we miss our friend,” Granite added, clearing his throat several times. “We’ve also long suspected that Prentice’s mind is hiding something crucial. It would explain why he called ‘swan song’ before he was captured.”
“Swan song” was a code the Black Swan used if they feared their life was in danger.
“Prentice used the code the day before his capture,” Mr. Forkle said. “I’ve always wondered how he knew they were coming for him.”
“As have I,” Granite agreed. “I’d been monitoring Alden’s investigations most carefully, and he’d had no suspicion toward Prentice whatsoever. Then Prentice called swan song and suddenly he was arrested.”
Della looked away, twisting and retwisting her graceful fingers.
Granite turned to Sophie, his stony eyes almost pleading. “No one is more aware of the risks that come with healing Prentice than we are. But don’t you think it’s worth it, to find out what happened, and give him a chance at happiness?”
Sophie pictured Prentice the way she’d last seen him, locked in a lonely cell, rocking back and forth, muttering to himself, drooling. . . .