Island of Fire (The Unwanteds) (32 page)

“You look flushed,” Meghan said. “Do you have a fever?”

“Just tired. Promise.” Alex turned to Simber and put a hand on the cat’s neck. “Thank you,” he said. He looked at Florence. “Thank you,” he said to her. And then he looked at Meghan. “And thank you. I am going to bed. Simber, if you need me . . . you know how to reach me.” He shuffled blindly to the tube as sweat dripped into his eyes.

“Good night, Alex,” they said, each of them exchanging glances with the others, more than a little concerned.

He stepped into the tube, looking longingly at the steps he preferred to take, and with careful deliberation pressed the combination that would take him to his room. He leaned against the cool glass, the pain causing nausea, which prompted sweat to pour down his back. When he opened his eyes, he had reached his room.

Finally Alex could stop pretending to be the brave, strong leader of Artimé. His skin felt like it was on fire. He pushed himself upright, ripped his drenched shirt off, and staggered out of the tube as his room began to swirl around him. He dropped to his knees, clutching at the edge of the coffee table, heaving as the pain tore through his body and head. He gasped and groaned, his sweating hands slipping off the table and his arms slamming to the floor, jolting him. Every gasp for air felt like a knife to the back. He gave up trying to make it to the nearby couch, much less the bed, and melted to the floor as the world went black.

Clive stared, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. “Alex?” he said. He waited, and then he pounded his face against the blackboard, straining and pushing as hard as he could. “Alex,” he yelled, “I’m sorry! Please don’t die! Don’t die!”

But Alex didn’t move.

A
s Simber napped on his pedestal for the first time in days, he had a terrible dream about crashing into the sea and Alex calling out to him for help.

“Simber!”

The cat startled awake, immediately alert. He looked at Florence. She stood on her pedestal as usual, but her eyes were closed and she was asleep. Perhaps he was imagining things. He sampled the air and leaped down to see if there was anything amiss.

“Simber!” he heard again, and he ran toward the voice, skidding over the marble floor to the dining room, where Oscar the blackboard called out to him.

“What is it?” Simber asked.

“It’s Alex. His blackboard, Clive, says Alex is dead on the floor.”

Simber froze. And then he turned on a dime and raced to the stairs, thundering up them in three strides and waking Florence in the process. She chased after him, having no idea what was happening.

Simber skidded to a stop on the balcony. “Can you see this hallway?” he asked, pointing to the boys’ hall.

“No,” she said.

“Get Samheed from the hospital warrrd and send him up here.” He turned and ran down the boys’ hallway, stopping at Alex’s room.

“Alex,” Simber growled. He listened. “Clive, can you open this doorrr?”

“No, I’m sorry!” Clive called.

Simber growled. He looked all around, and then he backed up. “Look out,” he called. He took a running start and slammed into the door, his shoulders and wings crashing through the walls on either side. Wood framing, the door, and chunks of the wall splintered across the room.

“Helllp!” Clive yelled. “Intruder!”

“I
am
the help, you dolt,” Simber said. He found Alex sprawled out on his side and nudged him, then pushed him over onto his back as pounding footsteps approached from the hallway and then came to an abrupt stop.

“Ho-lee cats,” whispered Samheed, looking at the mass destruction. “It looks like a hurricane hit.” He rushed over to Simber. “What happened? Is he okay?” He could hear doors opening up and down the hallway as sleepy students peered out to see what had caused the crash.

“He’s alive. I need you to tell everrrybody to get back inside theirrr rooms. Clive, tell theirrr blackboarrrds to call them in too. Say it’s forrr safety. Make something up.”

Clive nodded and disappeared.

“Are you bringing him downstairs? We’ll need another bed.”

“No,” Simber said decisively. “The head mage doesn’t ask forrr anything, but he cerrrtainly doesn’t need to be on display. I say he gets a prrrivate rrroom when he’s sick.” He growled to prove his point.

“I totally agree,” Samheed said, a little nervous.

“Help Clive clearrr the hall, and then you and Florrrence
go sprrruce up Marrrcus’s aparrrtment. It’s time Alex lives wherrre he belongs.”

Samheed paled. The news of Mr. Today’s death was still so fresh.

Simber noticed his hesitation. “Errr, scrrratch that. Ask Florrrence to do that, then you monitorrr the halls. The boy needs some dignity and prrrivacy. Nobody needs to see him . . . like this.”

Samheed nodded, and in a flash he was gone.

Simber sat on his haunches and used a front paw to cradle Alex’s head and shoulders as he scooped the boy into his mouth. He waited a few minutes until Samheed returned at a full sprint.

“All clear,” he said, huffing.

Simber nodded, unable to speak, and with the utmost gentleness, he carried Alex to the head mage’s living quarters. Samheed followed him into the mostly secret hallway and stood outside the door, waiting to see if he was needed.

Florence, who had to stoop a little bit inside the apartment, looked up from smoothing the comforter. “Fresh linens, good as new.” She leaned toward Simber, picked up Alex from his mouth, and laid him down in the bed. “Carina’s back,” she said. “Isn’t she a nurse?”

“She helped out Marrrcus when he had a bad case of the flu thrrree yearrrs back,” Simber said. “She can access the hallway. You trrrack herrr down. I’ll get Octavia.”

Samheed cleared his throat.

Florence looked up. “Oh, sorry. You can go to bed, you poor thing. Thanks for helping.”

“Well, actually, what I was going to say was that with all of Alex’s yakking and stuff—”

Simber cringed. He’d heard enough hairball terminology for one day.

“I mean, the vomiting and all the sweating, he’s probably dehydrated. He hadn’t drunk anything since I’ve been with him. I’d start there.”

“Hmm.” Florence nodded. “I never thought of that.”

Simber shrugged. “Me neitherrr.”

Samheed shook his head. “Statues,” he muttered. “I’ll get some water.”

Florence nodded. “I’ll get Carina and Octavia.”

Simber stayed by Alex’s side, vowing not to leave until the young mage woke up.

S
imber remained by Alex’s side, waiting for him to wake up. Alex moaned and muttered, shouted and cried in his unconscious state. He fought battles with Quill and Warbler over and over, and he fought imaginary battles that had never happened, or perhaps that were still to come. Day after day he lost Simber to the sea, Mr. Today to the spell, Lani and Sam to the silence, and Sky to his stupidity.

In the days while Alex slept, Gunnar Haluki and Claire Morning felt well enough to leave the hospital ward. They began to get some fresh air and exercise, and Claire even took Gunnar for a ride in her boat.

Claire also began teaching again, and in the evenings she and Gunnar spent hours and hours in the Museum of Large, combing through Mr. Today’s books on healing. Whatever she could find she brought to Carina and Henry, and they shared them with the other nurses, and all of them spent many long evenings with books sprawled out over a table in the dining room. One day Ms. Morning appeared via blackboard, inviting residents with science skills who were interested in being on the healing team to join her. “It’s about time we improved our skills in this area,” she said, her face glowing again and her honey-blond hair shining on blackboards everywhere. “We never needed extensive knowledge and medical spells before. But ever since the battle with Quill, it has become obvious that Artimé is sorely lacking in this department. If you feel especially gifted in this area, please find me in the dining room most evenings from seven to nine.”

It was good for her to keep her mind busy after all she’d been through. But every now and then she thought about Liam and what life might be like if he’d chosen her over his blind allegiance to a broken government. He was on the verge of coming around; she could feel it those last days in Gunnar’s
house. Maybe Liam had a heart in there somewhere. But that he’d been willing to tie her up and keep her in a closet—that was something she’d never be able to forgive. People who care about each other don’t hurt each other or make each other feel small. Period. End of sentence. It was obvious that Liam’s problem was much bigger than just feeling like he had to obey a high priest who was doing terrible things. He wasn’t the man she’d always hoped he’d be. And that was sad.

She sighed and dove into her work, trying desperately, among other things, to find something that would help poor Alex.

Henry’s magical stitches were an extraordinary creation. Lani was soon able to hobble around and her slashed thigh was healing quickly. She moved back to her room upstairs too, leaving the hospital wing empty again, but no one knew how to make it disappear again except Alex, so it remained.

One day Ms. Octavia removed the hospital wing’s wooden doors and created new ones made of stained glass, designing a beautiful portrait of Mr. Today on the lawn in all his brightly colored glory. Below she etched a tribute:
In loving memory of the heart and soul of Artimé, Marcus Today
. By the end of the first
day, more than a hundred tokens of love had been placed in front of the portrait from all imaginable sorts of residents. Piles of acorns, potted flowers, seashells, as well as dozens of poems, stories, drawings, songs, scripts, and crafts.

Meghan stood for a long while staring at the new picture. And then she pulled from her pocket a tiny music box and set it on the floor at the mage’s feet.

In the days while Alex slept, Meghan spent extra time in the music room retraining her voice. One day she invited Sky to join her, thinking Sky had the most beautiful, husky, soulful voice she’d ever heard in someone near her own age. But while Sky appreciated the offer and agreed to sit in the room and listen to Meghan, Sky didn’t want to sing. “I’m not creative like you,” she said, her face growing warm.

Meghan turned away from her music stand to look at the girl. “Of course you are!”

“I don’t sing or draw or act or play an instrument. I can’t make things.”

Meghan tilted her head. “That’s not what ‘creative’ means, you know,” she said kindly. “Creativity is in everything. Even the people of Quill are creative, but they’d be horrified to be called that.”

“They are? But I thought they got rid of you guys because of that.”

Meghan tapped her lips with her forefinger. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about that. Mr. Today once said that Justine was afraid of people who might not follow directions blindly. And someone, somewhere along the way—Justine, probably—decided that the kind of people who
got caught
being creative were bad. The ones who hid it didn’t get sent to their deaths. And it’s so
sophomoric
,” she mused, trying out a new word she’d learned as her thoughts came together. “Because she valued the people who could write, but she didn’t want very many of them because they would be a threat to her. And when you think about the Quillitary—those people make armor and work on their vehicles and plan attacks, and that’s all creative, but it’s the kind of creative that furthers the goals of Quill.” She ended on a triumphant note, excited to have made this connection. “Like Aaron—he’s very creative. He figured out that whole Favored Farm thing—remember where we stole food from when Artimé was gone?”

Sky nodded.

“He designed that. But see, his creativity helps advance the
goals of Quill. And ours doesn’t. That’s the difference.”

“So Alex’s brother doesn’t think he’s creative?”

“He doesn’t
want
to be, because Quill turned ‘creative’ into a bad word. And it’s not a bad word.” Meghan shook her head. “What a way to mess with our minds. It’s amazing we don’t all need a psychiatrist.”

“What’s that?”

Meghan laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. There was a psychiatrist in one of Mr. Appleblossom’s plays, but we don’t have them here. He said it’s a brain doctor who asks weird questions about your mother or something.”