The image of Gravaldor flickered and vanished in an instant, transporting Barclay back to the field. All around him, the park was in disarray. Picnic blankets had been blown into the trees, food carts and lawn chairs knocked over, onlookers deliriously stumbling to their feet.
“Klara Hagen was blown out-of-bounds,” Erhart called, his clothes disheveled and covered in mud. Beside him, Soren frowned and swatted a brown leaf out of his hair. “The match goes to Barclay Thorne.”
At the edge of the field, Klara huffed and stood up. Her Beast lay beside her. It was small, wrinkly, and hairless, with a wide body and stubby legs.
Viola, Ethel, and Abel ran out onto the field to congratulate him.
“That wind wasincredible!” Abel told him. “You blew Erhart right over.”
Barclay was still shaken—trembling even—and it took him several moments to collect himself. Then he managed, “I thought you were stuck as a reflection, Abel. How did you escape?”
“Oh, I found a mirror in a bathroom nearby and jumped out of it. Scared Mandeep half to death. He almost fell in the toilet—”
“I want to know more about the match!” Viola interrupted. “We didn’t know what was going on. You were stumbling around, looking all strange.”
“I saw… I saw Gravaldor.” The memory of it sent another shudder through him. He needed to lie down.
“Her Hocus’s illusion Lore is amazing,” Ethel cooed. “And look at it! It’s so cute!”
“It looks like a turnip,” said Abel flatly.
Other students began to crowd Barclay as well, bursting with questions about his wind Lore and his Lufthund. Ethel had been right—none of them teased him for being an Elsie, not anymore. And unlike Dullshire, no one treated him like a rulebreaker or a burden. They treated him like hebelonged.
Barclay hadn’t felt that way in a very, very long time.
You were never meant to stay here,Master Pilzmann had told Barclay the day he’d fled town. Barclay was starting to understand what he had meant, that there was something wild and adventurous inside of him that would only be squashed in Dullshire.
But that only made his heart hurt all the worse. Barclay had finally found the place where he belonged, but he couldn’t stay. It wasn’t right, after the way his parents had died.
There was no way around it. He would win this Exhibition. He would say goodbye to Root. And then he would go back to the place that no longer seemed like home.
TWENTY
With only two days of the third exam remaining, the audience had grown to an all-time high. Many of these travelers, Barclay learned, had also journeyed to Sycomore from all over the Woods to celebrate the Midwinter holiday, and the town’s festivities put Dullshire’s to shame. What had begun as a few pear cider stalls had grown into rows of feasting tables piled high with spicy bratwurst, syrupy pastries, and great goblets that drinkers actually set aflame. Paper snowflakes and Beast treats on strings decorated all the trees. There was caroling, dancing, and no matter where you roamed in Sycomore, it always smelled of bonfire.
While Ethel and Abel hurried through the makeshift markets before the lines grew long, Barclay caught Viola frowning at the decorations.
“What’s the matter?” he asked her. “You don’t like Midwinter?”
“It’s not that,” Viola answered, sighing. “It’s that Midwinter is one of the only times Gravaldor wakes without being summoned. Since I couldn’t trap him, Midwinter is my last chance…”
“If you want to bond with him,” Barclay finished for her.
“If I don’t leave tonight, I’ll never make it to the center of the Woods in time. And so I have to… I need to…” She fiddled with her leather bookmark inA Traveler’s Log, and Barclay recognized the look of someone torn. “But I want to see the rest of the Exhibition. And yesterday, when you saw Gravaldor from Klara’s illusion Lore, you looked so frightened. And I’m scared that all along I’ve been making a mistake.”
Barclay had always thought Viola’s plan to bond with Gravaldor was a mistake, but he didn’t think it nice to say that. So instead, he told her, “I hope you stay.”
And that was all he got to say. Because a moment later, Erhart had fished two slips of paper out of Soren’s basket.
“?‘Ethel Zader,’?” Erhart read. Ethel stiffened beside them. “?‘Barclay Thorne.’?”
Barclay avoided Ethel’s gaze as they met at the edge of the field. Barclay had hoped, more than anything, to avoid fighting Ethel, who wanted to win nearly as much as he did.
Before Barclay could take a nervous step toward the proctors, Ethel grabbed him by his scarf and yanked him aside.
“Look, Barclay. I know how much first place means to you,” Ethel told him fiercely. “But it means something to me, too. And so I’m not going to let you win.”
“I never expected you to,” he said.
