“Nothing’s in my power—that’s the problem.”
Mr. Forkle squeezed Keefe’s shoulder tighter. “You are very important to our organization. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. I mean it”—he added when Keefe rolled his eyes—“You will play a crucial role when we rescue Prentice. And that is the mission that must remain our focus.”
“Whatever.” Keefe stood and stalked toward the boys’ house.
Sophie rose to follow, but Mr. Forkle stopped her. “Best to give him space. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”
Keefe didn’t come down to dinner. At breakfast the next morning he picked at his food and didn’t say much of anything. By the third day of one-word answers, Sophie was ready to stage an intervention.
But Fitz and Biana reminded her of how badly they’d handled themselves when Alden’s mind had broken.
“We were awful,” Biana mumbled. “Especially to you. And there was nothing anyone could say to make us act better. Alvar tried. Keefe even tried.”
“I’m still figuring out how to make it up to you,” Fitz added.
“No need,” Sophie promised.
Her heart made an extra leap when Fitz smiled and said, “I’ll keep trying anyway.”
“Ugh, Keefe needs to get better,” Dex mumbled. “I need someone to barf with me over Fitzphie.”
“My point,” Biana said as Dex made gagging sounds, “is that as long as Keefe knows we’re here, that’s really all we can do.”
Sophie knew Biana was right. That didn’t make waiting any easier. She found herself checking her window every night before bed, wishing she’d find Keefe standing at his.
On the fifth night, his curtains were at least open a crack, unleashing a shred of light. She decided to take the tiny opening.
She didn’t have any rocks to throw, so she settled for her shoes, picking the wobbliest, most uncomfortable-looking heels.
Nothing happened from the first THUNK! But the second THUNK! did its job.
“Are you throwing shoes at me?” Keefe asked, sliding open the window.
“Seemed like a good idea. Now I don’t have to wear them.”
He gave her a half smile, but it faded as he waved the air away from his face. “Wow, that is a lot of worry you’re hurling at me.”
“You kind of deserve it.”
Keefe mussed his still-unstyled hair.
“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it?” she asked.
“Not really.”
She dragged out her sigh. “Is there anything I can do?”
He started to shake his head, then stopped. “Actually . . . yeah.”
“What?” Sophie asked, leaning out her window.
She didn’t hear him the first time, and had to make him repeat.
“Promise me you won’t hate me,” he whispered.
“Why would I hate you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’ll decide I wasn’t worth sacrificing your shoes.”
“Now, that’s never going to happen.” She’d hoped that might earn her a smile, but Keefe wouldn’t look at her. “I would never hate you, Keefe. Why would you even think that?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just feel like I don’t belong here anymore.”
“You do. But . . . I know how it feels to be the outsider. The one with the past. The one with the shaky future. But you know what I’ve realized—or what I’m trying to realize, at least?”
“Is this the part where you give me some speech about how it’s our choices that show us who we truly are?”
“Nah, that sounds like something an old guy would say.”
Finally, he gave her a real smile!
“What I’m trying to realize is that it’s okay to be different. If everyone were the same, we’d all make the same mistakes. Instead we all face our own things, and that’s not so bad because we have people who care about us to help us through. You have that, Keefe. We’re all here for you. No matter what. Okay?”
Several seconds crawled by before he nodded.
“You should go to bed,” Keefe said as a gust of wind made Sophie shiver in her furry pajamas.
The suggestion was tempting—Alluveterre was so much colder than Havenfield. But she was afraid the glints of progress she’d made would be snuffed out when she left Keefe alone.
“I’ve got a better idea,” she said, racing to her bed and grabbing Ella, her pillow, and the thickest quilt. She coiled the blanket around her and waddled back to the window like a fluffy burrito. “See? Window slumber party!”
Keefe laughed—laughed—and, after a slight hesitation, disappeared and returned with his own blanket and pillow.
The floor felt hard and cold. The problems ahead of them unimaginable.
But they weren’t alone.
And that made all the difference.
EIGHTEEN
SOPHIE WOKE WITH the sunrise and found Keefe still asleep by his window, his cheek smashed against the glass.
She smiled at how peaceful he looked—no signs of any nightmares.
She smiled even wider when she noticed the tiny trail of drool near his lip.
“You slept on the floor?” Calla asked from the doorway.