Chapter 75 The Paper Heart
"When you love someone, you are willing to burn the world to keep them warm; but what do you do when the person you love is becoming the very fuel for the fire?"
The sound of Cass’s voice was becoming thinner, like the rustle of wind through dry grass. Evan stood on the deck of the Hesperus, his silver eyes fixed on her hands. The parchment-like texture had reached her elbows now. Underneath the translucent surface of her skin, tiny lines of black ink were moving like restless insects, writing words he couldn't yet read.
"Does it feel cold?" Evan asked. He stayed three feet away, his heart aching with the need to pull her into his arms, to rub the warmth back into her skin. But he knew that if he crossed that gap, the violet-black sparks would only hasten the "Conversion."
"It feels like... nothing," Cass whispered. She lifted her arm, and it was so light it seemed to float on the breeze. "I can see the wood of the deck through my palm, Evan. I’m becoming a ghost made of paper."
"You’re not a ghost," Evan said, his voice cracking. "You’re Cassia Marlowe. You’re the girl who stole the Rose key. You’re the one who told me that a heart is more than a pump. I won't let you turn into a book, Cass. I’ll rip every page out of the sky before I let that happen."
"Lila!" Evan shouted, turning toward the helm. "How much further to the Asylum?"
Lila didn't look back. She was staring into the thick, grey soup of the Mists. "We’re in the shallows of the Crag now. The Asylum doesn't want to be found, Evan. It’s built on the 'Rejected Drafts' of the King’s history. If we don't find the rhythm of the waves, we’ll just circle this fog until we turn into ink ourselves."
While the Hesperus fought the fog, Willow Lane was having a grand old time with the latest developments.
In the sun-drenched and slightly muddy village square, Mrs. Higgins was holding court near the fishmonger’s stall. She had recovered her sharp tongue, and she was using it like a whetstone.
"I’m telling you, it’s a judgment!" Mrs. Higgins declared, waving a leek for emphasis. "I saw it in the tea leaves this morning. That Cassia girl has turned into a seagull. That’s why she hasn't come back. She’s probably sitting on a buoy somewhere, laughing at us."
"A seagull?" the baker’s wife scoffed, wiping flour from her apron. "Don't be ridiculous, Agatha. My cousin in the capital says the Navy took them. She says Evan Cole is being kept in a cage of gold because his eyes are made of melted jewelry. She says he can turn water into wine, but he won't do it for anyone but the King."
"I heard he turned the girl into a map," the cobbler added, leaning over his workbench. "A map that shows where all the buried gold is. That’s why the Navy wants them. It’s not about ghosts or lighthouses; it’s about the riches!"
"Riches?" Jon, the old fisherman, spat into the dirt. "The only thing those two have is a heap of trouble and a love that’s too big for this village. You lot should be ashamed. They saved your memories, and all you can do is wonder if their eyes are made of silver-plate or solid coin."
"Well, it wouldn't hurt if they shared a bit of it!" Mrs. Higgins snapped. "My roof is leaking, and I’m sure a bit of that 'Rose light' could dry it out in a heartbeat."
The humor of the village was a shield against the fear, but for Evan and Cass, the fear was the only thing that felt real.
Back on the ship, Ben was trying to draw a picture for Cass to cheer her up. But as he handed the charcoal sketch to her, his hand passed right through hers and the paper fell to the deck.
Cass stared at the floor. The charcoal drawing was a simple sketch of the three of them, Evan, Cass, and Ben standing in front of a house with a garden.
"I can't even hold a drawing," Cass said, her voice was a hollow rasp.
Evan stepped closer, the air between them beginning to hiss and crackle with the forbidden energy. "Cass, look at me. I don't care if you’re made of paper or stone or starlight. You are the soul of this ship. We are going to find your mother, and she is going to tell us how to stop this."
"What if she doesn't want to be found?" Cass asked. "Lila said she’s a prisoner. What if the Asylum is where people go when they’ve seen too much of the truth?"
Lila suddenly slammed the wheel to the left. "Brace yourselves!"
The mist parted with a sound like tearing silk. Looming out of the grey was a structure that looked less like a building and more like a twisted ribcage of iron and bone. It sat on a jagged rock that seemed to be bleeding black ink into the sea. This was the Asylum of the Mists.
There were no windows, only iron bars. And from within, a sound echoed out across the water, a chorus of a thousand voices, all humming the same, haunting melody that Evan had heard coming from the hull of the ship.
"The Ninth Sister’s song," Lila whispered. "They’re all singing her into existence."
A small boat began to lower from the Asylum’s iron gate. It was manned by figures in grey hoods, their faces hidden. They didn't use oars; the boat moved because the water beneath it was churning with shadows.
"They’re coming for the 'New Addition,'" Lila warned, her hand going to her cutlass. "They think Cass is the next page in their collection."
"They can have me," Cass said, stepping toward the railing. Her translucent skin was glowing with a faint, ghostly light.
"No!" Evan shouted.
"Evan, look at the gate," Cass said, pointing.
At the very top of the iron ribcage, a woman was standing. Her hair was a wild halo of white, and she was holding a lantern that burned with a steady, silver flame. She wasn't singing. She was watching Evan.
"Your grandmother," Evan breathed.
The woman raised the lantern, and for a second, the silver in Evan’s eyes matched the flame in her hand. A bridge of light formed between the ship and the rock.
"Only the one who is written can cross," the woman’s voice echoed in Evan’s mind. "The Gardener must stay with the roots. The Compass must find the center."
"I'm not letting her go alone!" Evan cried, reaching for the bridge of light.
The spark that hit him was unlike any before. It wasn't just a sting; it was a memory of every time he had ever felt alone. He was thrown back across the deck, his silver eyes dimming as he hit the wood.
"Evan!" Cass called out. She stepped onto the bridge of light. Her paper-thin feet didn't sink; she felt more solid on the light than she did on the wooden deck. "I have to go. She’s the only one who can stop the writing."
"Cass, if you go in there, I can't protect you!" Evan struggled to rise, but the resonance of the Asylum was pinning him down.
"You’ve been protecting me since the day we met," Cass said, a beautiful, tragic smile lighting up her fading face. "It’s my turn to navigate the dark."
She walked toward the iron ribcage, her form becoming more and more like a silhouette of text against the silver light. Just before she reached the gate, she turned back.
"Evan! If I don't come out... look in the garden. The real garden. Not the one you built, but the one my father planted in the cellar!"
The iron gate slammed shut with a sound that shook the very foundations of the sea. The bridge of light vanished.
Evan sat on the deck, the silence of the Mists swallowing him whole. He looked at his hands, they were still silver, still powerful, but they were empty.
"Lila," Evan said, his voice cold and sharp as a razor. "Tell me how to break into an asylum built of bone."
"You don't break in, Evan," Lila said, her eyes fixed on the gate. "You have to be 'admitted.' And there’s only one way to get a Gardener into a prison for pilots."
"How?"
Lila looked at him with a look of profound regret. "You have to lose your mind, Evan. You have to let the silver take everything until there’s nothing left of you but the light."
The choice is a nightmare: To save Cass, Evan must surrender his own sanity and become the very thing the Board wants. But what did Cass mean about the 'real garden' in the cellar, and what secret is Cass's grandmother hiding behind her silver lantern?