“We can try,” he says, taking me by the hand and twining his fingers with mine to stop the futility of my thoughts.
We inch along the narrow ledge with the river rushing beneath us, until we reach a point where another tunnel breaks off and leads back and away from the water. We move faster then, and soon we make it to the place in the fortress where the different tunnels come together. From the sound of the noises echoing in the distance, we’re too late. The attack has already begun.
By the time we make it to the Great Hall, the entire space is bathed in an eerie silence. The floor is littered with fallen boys. I don’t know if they are Pan’s or Rowan’s, but it doesn’t matter anymore. None of them move. Each of their small bodies is mottled with dark lines, like cracked porcelain, and wherever they’ve landed, parts of them have broken away, shattered.
I take a shuddering breath as I comprehend the destruction and the loss. Above, the door near the ceiling stands open, but no light shines from within it. I don’t think Olivia would be up there, alone in the dark, anyway. She’d be with Pan. I can only hope Fiona and the Queen haven’t already found them.
“We should split up. I need to find Olivia, and you need find any of your crew who might be left.” He starts to interrupt, but I keep going. “We can’t do all of that together, not if we have any hope of getting out of here. After that . . .” Well, I can’t think that far ahead.
Rowan frowns. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, lass.”
I pull my hand out of his. “I’m not helpless, Rowan. I can bring the whole damn place down if I have to. I’m going to check the gardens,” I tell him before he can argue. It’s where I found Olivia last time, and it’s the only other place I know she might be.
“And then what?” he asks, his jaw clenching in frustration.
“I don’t know.” His expression is tight, and I know he feels the same fear, the same pull toward hopelessness that I do. “But I’m not just going to stand here and wait for the Queen to find us. Are you?”
He runs his metal hand through his hair in clear frustration, but then his shoulders slump in surrender. “No.” To my relief, amusement tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Do what you must, but don’t be long. I’ll meet you back at where the tunnels split off.” His fingers brush against my cheek. “If I don’t arrive, don’t be waiting for me. Follow the second from the right, until it reaches the river. From there you should be able to find your way well enough out of this place.”
I give him a sure nod and turn to go, but he snags my hand and pulls me back.
“Try not to die, aye?” And then his mouth is on mine, fierce and demanding and so full of wanting that my knees go weak.
He pulls away before I’ve had nearly enough, and with a roguish grin, he’s off.
I hesitate only a second to gather my wits before I run as well, taking off through the passage to the far right—the one that leads to the gardens and, I hope, to Olivia. I make my way quickly, my breath coming hard as I run for the enormous cavern where I last left her, hoping with each step that she will be there. Hoping that I find her before Fiona or the Queen does.
When the tunnel opens itself into the gardens, I stop short. All around me, the once-blooming maze of flowers and trees are unbearably alive. If I thought they were beautiful before, it was nothing compared to what I’m seeing now. Their leaves are more lush, their colors more riotous. And they seem so much more menacing than they did before.
But I hear singing. The soft notes of a familiar voice carry to me over the silence of the space, and I won’t be stopped.
“Olivia,” I whisper, relief flooding through me.
I pick my way slowly through the overgrown brambles. The vines make way when they can, lumbering aside with unsteady progress, but mostly I have to climb over or through them. When I finally reach the center of the gardens, I’m scratched and bleeding in more than one place.
Olivia is sitting on a pile of fur near a small stream of water, alone in the center of a small clearing. She’s seemingly unaware of the danger she’s in. Her fingertips are stained dark from the blood drawn by the thorns of the dangerous-looking blooms she’s still weaving into garlands.
“Olivia?”
She looks up at the sound of my voice, but when she finds me standing at the edge of the clearing, her expression doesn’t change.
“Come on, Olivia. We have to go.” I approach her slowly, because I don’t want to startle her, my hand out, beckoning.
Her brows draw together, but she doesn’t move.
At least she doesn’t run.
“Olivia? It’s me, remember?” I coax softly. “Gwen. Your friend?” I take another step into the clearing and then another.