Chapter 28 The Physics of Friction
The air in the Academy library is heavy with the smell of old paper and the silent judgment of the portraits on the walls. I am on my hands and knees in the corner of the West Wing, supposedly organising Sloane's French lit notes, but really I am just trying to keep my head from spinning.
My ankle is a hot, throbbing mess. I can feel the phantom weight of the blood soaked sock from this morning, even though I have changed into fresh gear. Every time I move, the stitches pull. Every time I breathe, I taste the green juice I had to mop off the floor.
"You are doing it again."
I do not even have to look up to know it is him. The air just feels different when Caspian Thorne enters a room, charged, like the moment before a storm hits the Flats.
"I am doing my job, Caspian," I say, my voice tight. I do not look at him. I keep my focus on the alphabetised folders. "Go back to your wing. If a proctor sees us—"
"I do not care about the proctors," he says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He drops into the seat next to me, his presence far too large for the small corner I have tucked myself into. "Zora, I watched her make you carry her bags across the courtyard. I watched her make you wait in the rain for her car. Why are you letting her do this? This is not you."
I finally look at him. He looks perfect, the silver spoon heir in his pristine blazer, and it makes me want to scream. He does not understand that for him, a breach of contract means a stern talking-to and a temporary loss of his car. For me, it means my sister becomes a permanent resident of a state run warehouse.
"You do not know what she has," I whisper, my eyes darting toward the security camera in the ceiling.
"Then tell me. Let me handle it. My father might be a monster, but I know how to navigate the legal—"
"It is not legal, Cas. It is a video." I lean in close, the narrow space between us making my heart do a frantic dance against my ribs. I can see the golden flecks in his eyes, the ones that always look so out of place in this cold building. "She has a clip from the Pit. If that goes to your father, he does not just kick me out. He voids the medical agreement for moral turpitude. He takes the clinic spot away from Lumi. I have until Friday to get the deposit to the surgeons anonymously, or they move her."
Caspian's face goes white. His hands clench into fists on the mahogany table, the wood creaking under the pressure. "She is a snake."
"She is a Thorne in training," I counter. "And right now, she is winning."
"Not for long," he says, his voice dropping to a register that makes the hair on my arms stand up. He reaches out, his fingers brushing the back of my hand. It is a small contact, but it feels like a live wire. "I have the keys to the archival room. My father keeps the digital backups of the school's security incidents there. If Sloane uploaded that video to the school's cloud to show Sterling, I can wipe it."
"You will be caught, Caspian. Your father has you on a digital leash."
"Then we create a distraction," he says, a reckless light sparking in his eyes. This is the boy who drove the van. This is the boy who wants to burn his own kingdom down. "The midterm Fusion rehearsal is tomorrow morning. Everyone will be in the Grand Hall. Sloane is the lead, right? She will be the centre of attention."
I nod slowly. I can see where he is going.
"While she is performing, the security focus will be on the hall," Caspian continues. "If someone, someone like Jax, trips the fire alarm in the South Wing, the system will glitch for ninety seconds. That is all I need to get into the server and delete her cache."
"And what do I do?" I ask.
"You dance," he says, his thumb tracing the line of my knuckles. "You dance so well that nobody looks at the doors. You take back the centre stage, Zora. Make them look at you. Make her so jealous she forgets to check her phone."
I look at him, the weight of the five thousand dollars in my locker and the Friday deadline crashing down on me.
"Why are you doing this, Cas?" I ask softly. "You could just play the part. You could wait for your inheritance and forget I ever existed."
He leans in, his forehead almost touching mine. I can smell the mint and the cold air on him. "Because I have spent eighteen years being a statue in my father's museum, Zora. You are the first thing that ever made me feel like I was actually breathing. I am not letting them turn you into a statue too."
He stands up, the movement fluid and sharp. "Tomorrow morning. Rehearsal starts at eight. When the alarm goes, do not stop dancing. No matter what happens, do not stop."
He walks away, leaving me alone with the folders and the French notes.
I pull out my notebook, my hand shaking with a mix of fear and a sudden, violent hope. The song is changing. It is not just a lament anymore. It is a battle cry.
(The Secret Song — Verse 3)
We are playing with matches, we are dancing on wire,
Building a throne in the heart of the fire.
You think you can break what you can not even see,
But the ghost in the machine is coming for me.
Hold your breath for the glitch, wait for the flash,
Watch the whole empire turn into ash.
I close the book. My ankle still hurts. I am still Sloane's servant for the next twelve hours. But for the first time since the shipyard, I am not just surviving.
I am planning.