Behind them, Diana was showing Mark a training stance. Emma blinked-Julian had been there, a moment ago. She was sure of it.
"He went to check on your uncle," Cristina said. "Something about him not liking storms."
"No, it's Tavvy who doesn't like . . ." Emma's voice trailed off. Tavvy was sitting in the corner of the training room, reading a book. She remembered all the times Julian had disappeared during storms, claiming Tavvy was frightened of them.
She slid Cortana into its sheath. "I'll be back."
Cristina watched her go with troubled eyes. No one else seemed to notice as she slipped out the training room door and down the hallway. The massive windows spaced along the corridor let in a peculiar gray light, hazed with pinpoints of silver.
She reached the door to the attic and ran up the stairs; though she didn't bother to conceal the sound of her footfalls, neither Arthur nor Julian seemed to have noticed her when she entered the main attic room.
The windows were tightly closed and sealed with paper, all except one, over the desk at which Arthur sat. The paper had been torn away from it, showing clouds racing across the sky, colliding and untangling like thick rounds of gray and black yarn.
Trays of uneaten food were scattered on Arthur's several desks. The room smelled like rot and mildew. Emma swallowed, wondering if she'd made a mistake in coming.
Arthur was slumped in his desk chair, lank hair falling over his eyes. "I want them to go," he was saying. "I don't like having them here."
"I know." Julian spoke with a gentleness that surprised Emma. How could he not be angry? She was angry-angry about everything that had conspired to force Julian to grow up years too fast. That had deprived him of a childhood. How could he look at Arthur and not think of that? "I want them to go too, but there's nothing I can do to send them away. We have to be patient."
"I need my medicine," Arthur whispered. "Where is Malcolm?"
Emma winced at the look on Julian's face-and Arthur seemed suddenly to notice her. He raised his eyes, their gaze fixing on her-no, not on her. On her sword.
"Cortana," he said. "Made by Wayland the Smith, the legendary forger of Excalibur and Durendal. Said to choose its bearer. When Ogier raised it to slay the son of Charlemagne on the field, an angel came and broke the sword and said to him, 'Mercy is better than revenge.' "
Emma looked at Julian. It was shadowy in the attic, but she could see his hands clenched at his sides. Was he angry at her for following him?
"But Cortana has never been broken," she said.
"It's only a story," Julian said.
"There is truth in stories," said Arthur. "There is truth in one of your paintings, boy, or in a sunset or a couplet from Homer. Fiction is truth, even if it is not fact. If you believe only in facts and forget stories, your brain will live, but your heart will die."
"I understand, Uncle." Julian sounded tired. "I'll be back later. Please eat something. All right?"
Arthur lowered his face into his hands, shaking his head. Julian began to move across the room to the stairs; halfway there, he caught Emma's wrist, drawing her after him.
He exerted no real force, but she followed him anyway, shocked into compliance simply by the physical sensation of his hand on her wrist. He only touched her to apply runes these days-she missed those friendly touches she was used to from the years of their friendship: a hand brushing her arm, a tap on her shoulder. Their secret way of communicating: fingers drawings words and letters on each other's skin, silent and invisible to everyone else.
It seemed like forever. And now sparks were racing up her arm from that one point of contact, making her body feel hot, stinging, and confused. His fingers looped her wrist as they went out the front door.
When it closed behind them, he let go, turning to face her. The air felt heavy and dense, pressing against Emma's skin. Mist obscured the highway. She could see the heaving surfaces of gray waves slapping against the shore; from here, each looked as big as a humpbacked whale. She could see the moon, struggling to show itself between clouds.
Julian was breathing hard, as if he'd been running flat out for miles. The dampness of the air stuck his shirt to his chest as he leaned back against the wall of the Institute. "Why did you come to the attic?" he said.
"I'm sorry." She spoke stiffly. She hated being stiff around Jules. They'd rarely had a fight that didn't end in a casual apology or joking. I had this feeling, that you needed me, and I couldn't not come. "I understand if you're angry-"