Sophie had almost forgotten that Mr. Forkle was there. He hadn’t said a word, and his skin had a sweaty sheen.

“If you think he looks bad,” Physic said, “wait till you see Tiergan. I can’t get him to let go of Wylie’s hand. Even when Linh started with the water stuff, he stood there and got soaked. It might be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. But somehow the sweetest, too. You guys ready?”

Sophie didn’t trust her voice not to crack. So she nodded, letting Fitz take her hand as they followed Physic down the hall to her old room.

“Remember, he’s on some crazy pain medicine and a sedative,” Physic warned. “So if you can’t make sense of his thoughts, don’t be afraid that it means anything’s permanently wrong. He’s just drugged up.”

Fitz tightened his grip on Sophie’s hand as Physic pulled open the door and the three of them made their way into the bedroom. Sophie inhaled the calming scent of Calla’s reveriebells as she studied her surroundings, avoiding the figure on the bed as long as she could.

Tiergan stood with his back to them—though parts of him were still Granitized, like he’d been standing so long at Wylie’s side that his indurite powder was slowly wearing off. His left shoulder was jagged and rocky, and his neck was white-gray instead of its usual olive tone. Even his pale blond hair had bits of dust and gravel tangled in it.

On the other side of the bed, Linh leaned against the edge with her eyes closed, lips parted as she whispered softly to herself. Her hands were raised over the bed, and Sophie forced herself to look down, and . . .

. . . gagged.

Fitz choked too, and they clung to each other.

Sophie had thought she was prepared—thought the water Linh had swirling around him would muffle the gore. But the giant welts and blisters marring Wylie’s arms and legs were too huge and red and violent to be ignored.

And they were shaped like hands.

I’m so sorry they did this to you, Sophie transmitted, digging her fist under her ribs to keep control of her emotions. I wish I knew how to stop them. I wish I knew what they want.

Let’s find out, Fitz transmitted back, and their thumb rings snapped together as the mental energy rushed between them.

They moved closer to the bed and Sophie put her hand on Tiergan’s rocky shoulder. “You can take a break. We’re here to help now.”

Tiergan didn’t seem to hear her.

“You need to let go,” she whispered. “Let me try for a minute.”

Eight endless seconds passed. Then Tiergan blinked and turned her way.

“He won’t talk to me,” he whispered. “His mind only gives me cold darkness.”

“Should we wait, then?” Sophie asked. “I don’t want to force Wylie if he’s not ready.”

“I . . .” Tiergan spun back to the bed and pressed the fingers of his free hand against Wylie’s temples.

“Is everything okay?” Fitz asked.

“I don’t know.” Tiergan’s expression was the strangest mix of relief, disappointment, and fear as he turned to Sophie and told her, “He’s asking to talk to you.”

THIRTY-THREE

I’M ON MY WAY, Sophie transmitted to Wylie as she pressed two fingers against his right temple. Fitz did the same on his left, and Linh’s water shell splashed their hands as they pressed their consciousness into Wylie’s mind.

The blackness felt almost solid—like it had hardened into a wall. But when Sophie transmitted It’s me, the barrier liquefied, letting them drop down deep into the shadows.

Wylie’s mind grew colder as they fell, his thoughts an icy blur, until they landed in a pool of warm light hovering in the nothing. A form emerged from the shadows, growing arms and legs and features and slowly morphing into a boy.

“Hello,” he said, offering a shy wave.

His twitching hands fiddled with the pin clasped through his light blue cape—a jeweled sun with rays in yellow and orange and red. His face was rounder than Wylie’s, his dark hair longer, crowning his head in a neat Afro. But she could recognize him through the features.

How old are you right now? Sophie transmitted.

Wylie scratched his chin. “Six.”

Why is he talking to us as his six-year-old self? Fitz transmitted to Sophie.

I think it’s a defense mechanism. I’m pretty sure he was seven or eight when his dad’s mind broke, so I bet he’s reverting to a safer, happier time.

“I knew you’d understand,” six-year-old Wylie told her. “You know how it feels to have a before. And an after.”

He shuddered with the words, and the tremors triggered a growth spurt, stretching his body taller and broadening his shoulders as his chin squared and his hair shrank to a short crop.

He looked like a surly teenager—but his eyes looked far older. This was the Wylie who’d lost his father and his mother.

I doubt I’ll ever understand everything you’ve been through, Sophie told him. But I’m here to help.

“Can you help?” he asked.

I’ll try. Will you tell me what happened?

Wylie’s hands shook so hard, his pin ripped off his cape, vanishing into the darkness.

If you’re not ready, we can—

“No,” he interrupted. “It’s never going to be easier.”

He buried his face in his hands, and Sophie noticed red blotches forming.

What are you thinking about? Fitz asked him.

“All the things I shouldn’t.” Wylie scratched at his arms until they streamed with red.

I think we’re going too fast, Sophie said as he morphed into the present-day Wylie she’d seen lying unconscious on her old bed—bloody and blistered and thrashing with the agony of his wounds. Is there a way to bring back the six-year-old-you?

Wylie took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, humming a song that sounded like a lullaby as his wounds closed, his body shrank, and his face rounded out.

“Is this better?” six-year-old Wylie asked.

You tell me, Sophie said. Does it hurt right now?

“It feels funny. But not, like, ‘ha-ha’ funny. More like an itchy tingle. I think I can live with that.”

I know this is hard to believe, Sophie told him as he stared at his arms. But the pain only exists in your memories. When you wake up, everything will be healed, and you’ll look exactly the same as before.