Three #2
Mumbling, Sutton slouched away in retreat. He slipped through the threshold after his father, the door closing behind them
with stark finality.
In an instant Giselle almost missed him. Better the devil she knew than a stranger with a gun—especially one who was surely
too young to have a concealed carry license in West Virginia.
The question Who are you? danced on her lips, but before she could speak, the white-haired man stepped forward and, in one fluid motion, unlocked her
cell. The door creaked open.
Her mind buzzed. The only words she could manage were “Thank you.”
The man nodded and repocketed the key. “This is hardly a place for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Yes,” the man said. “Someone of your singular talents.”
Giselle almost laughed. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “There’s nothing special about me.” Unless you counted the dozen or so pageant trophies piled in her closet. But she had a feeling these strangers were not here to congratulate her on Miss Carolina Charm.
“I have to disagree,” said the man. “And so does the law. You would not have found yourself in this situation otherwise.”
He made it sound like some sort of accident, a mishap of fate. She had ended up here, not fulsomely and enthusiastically committed crimes. Feeling slightly encouraged, Giselle said, “I didn’t mean to hurt
anyone.”
Which was the truth. Whether that counted for anything remained to be seen.
“The eyes of the law can be myopic sometimes.” The man reached for something in his pocket, and Giselle tensed. But he only
withdrew a slip of paper, which fit easily into the palm of his hand. At first she thought he was handing her a business card,
and the situation struck her with an absurd sort of humor.
The only thing on the card was a series of numbers—four rows, six columns, all printed in a font so small she had to squint
to make it out. The man held the card up for no more than a second. And then he snatched it away again.
Giselle gazed at him in bewildered incredulity.
The man’s face remained emotionless. “Tell me what it said.”
More out of instinct than anything, she shook her head. “You’re tricking me.”
“Tell me,” the man repeated, “what you read on the card.”
It was not a request; it was an order. The tenor of his voice slipped from placid to searing. It was more frightening than
the glimpse of the girl’s gun. Giselle found it impossible to refuse.
“Seventeen,” she began uneasily, “forty-five, one, sixty-eight . . .”
She went on. All twenty-four numbers. Like everything else she had ever laid eyes on, they had become instantly engraved in her mind. Every shudder of motion, every flash of color.
When she finished, the man exhaled. “Incredible.”
“Not really.” Giselle’s shoulders rose around her ears. “What’s it good for, besides getting As on tests? Besides getting
me thrown in here?”
The man ignored her, turning to his companion instead. “Its existence has never been proven before. Half my colleagues don’t
believe it’s anything but a myth. A debunked, spurious fairy tale.”
The girl glanced at Giselle. Though her gaze didn’t linger, it was intense. Probing. But not, Giselle noted, entirely unpleasant.
“I hope we didn’t come all this way for a fairy tale,” the girl said, turning away.
“So do I, Nadiya. So do I.” The man stepped forward to the very entrance of the cell and held out his hand. “Ms. Buckley.
I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Dr. Cornelius Iver. I’m the headmaster of Valeran Academy.”
What came out was a short laugh of disbelief. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“I should think not. That’s very much by design. At this stage of the war, there are compelling reasons for a place like the
academy to remain clandestine. As I’m sure you can imagine.”
Dr. Iver was overestimating her. Because really, what did the Cold War have to do with a place like Belle, West Virginia?
The Soviets could bomb it off the map and no one would even notice. What did it have to do with someone like her?
“I don’t understand.” Giselle’s throat was beginning to tighten. “I can’t help you. I’m just . . .”
Just what? A disgraced pageant queen? A petty thief? A sinner, as Sutton had intimated?
“Not just,” said Dr. Iver. “Never just. You have a talent with the potential to change the world.”
Giselle felt a pricking at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t want to change the world. She just wanted her old life back, as ordinary and filled with petty indignities as it had been.
“No,” she said quietly. “You have the wrong person. It’s not me. It can’t be.”
Dr. Iver folded his hands across his chest and didn’t reply. Several moments of silence passed, cold and excruciating. And
then it was the girl—Nadiya—who spoke.
“Don’t you want more than this?” she asked, her voice unexpectedly soft.
Giselle shook her head. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“I think it does,” said Nadiya. “I think you already are more than this.”
As much as it all still seemed like an elaborate trick, Nadiya’s tone held no subterfuge. Her dark eyes were gleaming, both
lovely, Giselle realized, and untouchable. It made her feel as awed as it did inadequate. It didn’t help that she had on the
same ripped jeans that she’d been wearing since her grandmother had turned her out, that she was shivering in a too-small
tank top, and that her strawberry-blond hair fell to her waist in a wild tangle. They were a study in opposites: Nadiya sleek
and capable, Giselle a flustered and tearstained mess.