Chapter 227: New Plan

The black lines on Daisy’s wrists were thicker now, not just at the join, but up the tendon, arcing toward the inside of her elbow. In the reflected blue of the projection, she watched them, tracking their reach like a gardener checking for rot. When she flexed her hand, the lines flexed too, blooming into fans before settling back into a tight, hungry cord.

Delia measured this new spread every hour—clinical, honest, never looking away. Each check lasted a bit longer. Each log was neater than the one before. The last time, Delia pressed her fingers to the crook of Daisy’s elbow and counted to fifteen. Then she said, “It’s moving faster.” She wrote it down and told Daisy flatly, “Direct contact uses more energy. Next time, we dial it back to ten minutes.”

Daisy nodded. She already knew, but hearing it from Delia gave the knowledge a weight she couldn’t ignore.

Outside, the city was quiet. Above it, however, the sky refused to rest. Daisy caught the new pattern at noon: a row of merchant houses three blocks east, flickering between two different versions of themselves, as if the world couldn’t decide which history to keep. The first time, she blinked and looked again; she wrote it in the margin of the log. The second time, she just watched until the buildings settled, the sick feeling in her gut a little sharper for knowing what it meant.

She told Oliver, and he said, “It’s a countdown. Like the city’s waiting for something to give.” He marked the time on his own sheet, then started a new column for flickers, drawing a neat little hash every time the world shivered.

By midafternoon, Daisy’s hands shook if she tried to hold them still. She didn’t hide it. Stretching for the mug on the workbench, she missed by a full handspan. She stopped, set her hand on the table, and watched the tremor move down each finger. Daisy said nothing, but Oliver saw it, and so did Delia. Cornelius—still recovering but up and watching from the cot—caught it, too.

She said, “That wasn’t me,” her voice raw. She let the words land, each one heavy. “It felt like a slide, like I was watching my own hand from the wrong side of the glass.”

Delia wrote it down, then pressed her palm over Daisy’s, anchoring the tremor until it stilled.

Oliver asked, “How long did it last?”

Daisy shrugged. “A second. Less.”

He made a note, then said, “If it happens again, call it out. Don’t try to cover.”

Daisy grinned, lopsided. “You think I could?”

Oliver smiled back, but it was the tight kind, the kind that knew exactly what kind of day it was.

It happened twice more before sunset. The second time, Daisy tried to say something—a joke, maybe, or a warning—but the words that came out were wrong, twisted into an old phrase from Maribel that she hadn’t spoken since she was six. For an instant, a surge of panic gripped her, accompanied by a profound sense of disorientation and vulnerability. She caught herself, stopped talking, and closed her eyes until her world reset, the silence pulsing with fear.

The third time, she stood at the window, hands braced on the stone, her breath fogging the glass. She didn’t remember crossing the room. For a count of five, she stared at her own reflection, then turned and walked back to the table.

Oliver tracked each incident, writing them in the same column as the flickers outside.

Delia logged the symptoms, then handed Daisy a fresh strip of ironwort. “Chew it,” she said. “Don’t swallow.”

Daisy obeyed. The taste was awful, sharp and bitter, and she nearly gagged, but it wrestled her thoughts into focus. She felt the grip in her chest loosen by a notch, relief and exhaustion mingling inside her.

As the sun dropped, Cornelius made his way to the table, moving slowly but steadily. He didn’t sit—just leaned against the wall and watched. He pointed at the map, then at the row of houses Daisy had seen flicker.

“Not a random patch,” he said. “That’s the palace perimeter. If it goes, everything inside gets hit at once.”

Daisy compared the map to her own notes, then nodded. “That’s where they’ll be waiting. That’s where Varian wants to be.”

Cornelius grunted. “He wants to finish it. Wants to see if he can win, this time.”

Daisy looked at her hand, at the way the black veins traced every bone, then looked at the others. Frustration and fear curled hot in her belly. “We do it tonight,” she said, voice trembling. “If we wait, he’ll start taking more than just my hands.”

Delia didn’t argue. She started assembling the poultices, one for each hour, then repacked her kit and set it by the door. Oliver checked his knife, then the projection, then Daisy.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked, voice low.

Daisy almost laughed. “You ever know me to be ready for anything?”

He shook his head. “You’ll get there.”

The world outside was changing faster now. Though the merchant houses had stabilized, the warehouse across the street was halfway between two forms. Its roofline flickered; the sign over the door changed language twice, then blinked out entirely. Daisy watched the change, then wrote it down.

She finished her notes, closed the log, and looked at Delia. “You want the last word?”

Delia shook her head, but there was a twist of pride in her voice. “You’re the one who’s going to do it. Just make it count.”

Daisy nodded, then looked at Oliver and Cornelius, at the projection, then at the four crystal containers on the table. She touched each in turn, feeling the cold through her skin. She remembered what Varian had said: the chain only works if it’s offered.

She had a plan, and a team, and a city whose fate depended on her decision.

She flexed her hands, watched the black lines ripple, and let herself hope—aching and desperate—that there was enough of her left to make the right choice when it mattered.

By then, the city outside was almost unrecognizable. Inside, however, the room was exactly as it should be: four people, a plan, and one last night to see if the world could be mended.

Daisy set her hands on the table, pressed her finger to the page, and read.