Alex seethed. “Fine. You need us more than we need you, anyway.”
“Ha! Tell that to all the Unwanteds and Necessaries you starved. They’re all here in Quill!”
Alex worked his jaw. “When you come to regret this, remember that you sealed your own fate—literally. If you wall off all access, it will be for forever if I have anything to say about it.” He pulled himself up to his full height. “You want to cut all ties? That’s completely fine with me. I don’t need you in my life—you’re just a cowardly, annoying fly buzzing about, being worthless.” He went on, growing more stubborn and reckless by the minute. “But make no mistake. If you do it, Artimé will never, ever help you again. Never.”
“As if I need help from a bunch of Unwanted losers.”
Alex glared at his brother. He glanced at the drawing on Aaron’s desk and shook his head, disgusted. “You could have been one of us.”
“Death would’ve been a better option.”
Alex clenched and unclenched his fists. And just before he turned to leave, he did something he knew was completely, utterly wrong. He wound up and punched Aaron smack in the jaw.
Aaron reeled, off balance, and flipped over his desk, landing hard on his back on the floor. He grunted, the wind knocked out of him.
“That’s for the day in the rain when we were ten,” Alex said. He shook his hand out, adjusted his robe around his neck, and set off, out of the palace.
Paying Respects
Instead of heading straight to Haluki’s house to take the tube back to Artimé, after he released the spells he’d put on the guards at the gate, Alex found himself wandering through the sectors of Quill. He ignored the glances from Quillens and walked, stone-faced, in one particular direction, as though propelled there by a mystical force.
Soon he found himself in the Ancients Sector, standing in front of the burial grounds.
Alex hadn’t been here in years—not since he was a little boy, spending the day helping his father dig graves. How grotesque, Alex thought now, about this job that could really be very meaningful. But here in Quill it was ordinary and emotionless when you knew no one cared about the dead. There was no mourning. As he thought about the grave he sought, he began to worry that Aaron had turned it into some sort of mockery, a reason to rejoice. Alex imagined a sign celebrating the death of the Death Farmer himself . . . the Death Farmer who had tricked all of Quill for dozens of years. Who had defeated Quill once already, to the High Priest Aaron’s great shame. Alex wished he’d demanded to bury Mr. Today’s body himself back when Aaron had delivered the mage’s robe to him. But by then it had been too late. He picked up his pace, dreading what he might find.
He walked over to the small building and began to read the names of the recent dead. He scanned the list, recognizing a few surnames—Quillens who had died in the skirmish that broke out after Artimé disappeared. And then he saw it.
Marcus Today—89–25
“Eighty-nine dash twenty-five,” Alex whispered. He dodged a Necessary worker and hurried over to the burial area, searching for row eighty-nine. When he found it, he swept his eyes down the row, expecting to see some sort of display taunting the death of the great mage of Artimé.
Nothing stood out. Alex made his way down the row, counting out the mounds of dirt until he came to number twenty-five. It looked like all the others—completely forgotten. He was a distant memory here, just like everyone else.
Alex knelt down, placing his hand on top of the hot dirt. He felt like he should say something, but there was nothing adequate coming from the void inside him, so he remained quiet and stared at the dirt as a bead of sweat dripped from his temple to the tip of his nose and landed on the grave.
After a time Alex rose. Heavyhearted, he turned back toward the road, but on his first step he kicked something in the dirt alongside Mr. Today’s grave. He bent over and picked it up, shaking off the dust. It was a dried flower. Sort of, anyway—it wasn’t like any flower in Artimé. But Alex felt like he’d seen a flower like this before somewhere.
“In Quill?” he muttered. He knew there were no flowers here. “Oh,” he said after a moment. “The Favored Farm.” He’d been there on a few secret excursions, stealing food when all was lost in Artimé. This flower was a blossom from a pumpkin vine.
He gave it a quizzical look, then set it on top of Mr. Today’s grave. “Someone brought a flower for you,” he murmured. “How strange. I wonder who it was.”
After a moment, Alex rose once more and walked back toward the road, keeping his eyes low whenever he passed a Necessary at work. He knew that with his colorful robe, he couldn’t help but stand out. But he didn’t want to talk to anybody. Artimé, with its injured and its new inhabitants, called out to him—he had to get back.
As Alex turned out of row eighty-nine, a familiar, stooped figure caught his eye. Alex’s stomach clenched and he took in a sharp breath.
The man looked up at the noise. His tired eyes widened and then flitted to Alex’s robe, and a sense of recognition spread across the man’s face.
“Hello, Father,” Alex said.
The realization on Mr. Stowe’s face turned quickly to fear. He looked around wildly, this way and that, as if he were being watched, and then darted up the steps to the burial building and disappeared inside.
Alex stood for a moment, trying to figure out what had just happened. Trying to determine what he was supposed to do now. Go after him? Not a chance. Alex had been just fine with not seeing his parents ever again. Although, he had to admit he was curious about his new siblings. Had his mother had the babies yet? She must have, by now.