"I need to ask you a question," Blue said.

"And it’s a question that sounds better next to a trash can? Hold this." Calla wrestled one of her bags off her arm and onto Blue’s. She smelled of jasmine and chili peppers, which meant she’d had a bad day at work. Blue wasn’t entirely certain what Calla did for a living, but she knew it had something to do with Aglionby, paperwork, and cursing at students, often on weekends. Whatever her job description was, it involved rewarding herself with burritos on bad days.

Calla began to stomp up the walk toward the front door.

Blue trailed helplessly after her, lugging the bag. It felt like it had books or bodies in it. "The house is full."

Only one of Calla’s eyebrows was paying any attention. "It’s always full."

They were nearly at the front door. Inside, every room was occupied with aunts and cousins and mothers. The sound of Persephone’s angry PhD music was already audible. The only chance for privacy was outside.

Blue said, "I want to know why Neeve’s here."

Calla stopped. She looked at Blue over her shoulder.

"Well, excuse you," she replied, not very pleasantly. "I’d like to know the cause of climate change, too, but no one’s telling me that."

Clutching Calla’s bag like a hostage, Blue insisted, "I’m not six anymore. Maybe everyone else can see what they need to see in a pack of cards, but I’m tired of being left in the dark."

Now she had both of Calla’s eyebrows’ interest.

"Damn straight," Calla agreed. "I wondered when you were going to go all rebellious on us. Why aren’t you asking your mother?"

"Because I’m angry at her for telling me what to do."

Calla shifted her weight. "Take another bag. What is it you propose?"

Blue accepted another bag; this one was dark brown, and managed to have corners. There seemed to be a box in it. "That you just tell me?"

Using one of her newly freed hands, Calla tapped a finger on her lip. Both her lips and the nail she used to tap were deeply indigo, the color of octopus ink, the color of the deepest shadows in the rocky front yard. "The only thing is, I’m not sure that what we’ve been told is the truth."

Blue felt a little lurch at that. The idea of lying to Calla or Maura or Persephone seemed ludicrous. Even if they didn’t know the truth, they’d hear a lie. But there did seem to be something secretive about Neeve, about her scrying after hours, where she thought it likely no one would see her.

Calla said, "She was supposed to be here looking for someone."

"My father," Blue guessed.

Calla didn’t say yes but she didn’t say no, either. Instead, she replied, "But I think it’s become something else for her, now that she’s been here in Henrietta for a while."

They regarded each other for a moment, co-conspirators.

"My proposition is different, then," Blue said, finally. She tried to arch her eyebrow to match Calla’s, but it felt a bit lacking. "We go through Neeve’s stuff. You hold it, and I’ll stand next to you."

Calla’s mouth became very small. Her psychometric reflections were often vague, but with Blue beside her, making her gift stronger? It had certainly been dramatic when she’d touched Ronan’s tattoo. If she handled Neeve’s things, they might get some concrete answers.

"Take this bag," Calla said, handing Blue the last of them. This one was the smallest of all, made of blood-red leather. It was impossibly heavy. While Blue worked out how to hold it with the others, Calla crossed her arms and tapped her indigo-nailed fingers on her upper arms.

"She’d have to be out of her room for at least an hour," Calla said. "And Maura would have to be otherwise occupied."

Calla had once observed that Maura had no pets because her principles took too much time to take care of. Maura was a big believer in many things, one of them personal privacy.

"But you will do it?"

"I’ll find out more today," Calla said. "About their schedules. What’s this?" Her attention had shifted to a car pulling up at the end of the walk. Both Calla and Blue tilted their heads to read the magnetic sign on the passenger door: FLOWERS BY ANDI! The driver rummaged in the backseat of her car for a full two minutes before heading up the walk with the world’s smallest flower arrangement. Her fluffed bangs were larger than the flowers.

"It’s hard to find this place!" the woman said.

Calla pursed her lips. She had a pure and fiery hatred for anything that could be classified as small talk.

"What’s all this?" Calla asked. She made it sound as if the flowers were an unwanted kitten.

"This is for …" The woman fumbled for a card.

"Orla?" guessed Blue.

Orla was always getting sent flowers by various lovelorn men from Henrietta and beyond. It wasn’t just flowers they sent. Some sent spa packages. Others sent fruit baskets. One, memorably, sent an oil portrait of Orla. He’d painted her in profile, so that the viewer could fully see Orla’s long, elegant neck; her classic cheekbones; her romantic, heavy-lidded eyes; and her massive nose — her least favorite feature. Orla had broken up with him immediately.

"Blue?" the woman asked. "Blue Sargent?"

At first, Blue didn’t understand that she meant that the flowers were for her. The woman had to thrust them toward her, and then Calla had to take back one of her bags in order for Blue to be able to accept them. As the woman headed back to her car, Blue turned the arrangement in her hand. It was just a spray of baby’s breath around a white carnation; they smelled prettier than they looked.

Calla commented, "The delivery must’ve cost more than the flowers."

Feeling around the wiry stems, Blue found a little card. Inside, a woman’s scrawl had transcribed a message:

I hope you still want me to call. — Adam

Now the tiny bunch of flowers made sense. They matched Adam’s frayed sweater.

"And you’re blushing," Calla said disapprovingly. She held a hand out for them, which Blue smacked. With sarcasm, Calla added, "Whoever it is went all out, did they?"

Blue touched the edge of the white carnation to her chin. It was so light that it didn’t feel like she was touching anything at all. It was no portrait or fruit basket, but she couldn’t imagine Adam sending anything more dramatic. These little flowers were quiet and sparse, just like him. "I think they’re pretty."

She had to bite her lip to keep a foolish smile inside. What she wanted to do was hug the flowers and then dance, but both seemed insensible.

"Who is he?" asked Calla.

"I’m being secretive. Take your bags back." Blue stretched out her arm so that Calla’s brown bag and canvas bag slid down to Calla’s open hands.

Calla shook her head, but she didn’t look displeased. Deep down, Blue suspected she was a romantic.

"Calla?" Blue asked. "Do you think I should tell the boys where the corpse road is?"

Calla gazed at Blue for as long as a Neeve gaze. Then she said, "What makes you think I can answer that question?"

"Because you’re an adult," Blue replied. "And you’re supposed to have learned things on your way to old age."

"What I think," Calla said, "is that you’ve already made up your mind."

Blue dropped her eyes to the ground. It was true that she was kept awake at night by Gansey’s journal and by the suggestion of something more to the world. It was also true that she was dogged by the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was a sleeping king and she would be able to lay her hand on his sleeping cheek and feel a centuries-old pulse beneath his skin.

But more important than either of those was her face on that page of cups card, a boy’s rain-spattered shoulders in the churchyard, and a voice saying, Gansey. That’s all there is.

Once she’d seen his death laid out for him, and seen that he was real, and found out that she was meant to have a part in it, there had never been a chance she would just stand by and let it happen.

"Don’t tell Mom," Blue said.

With a noncommittal grunt, Calla wrenched open the door, leaving Blue and her flowers on the step. The blossoms weighed nothing at all, but to Blue, they felt like change.

Today, Blue thought, is the day I stop listening to the future and start living it instead.

"Blue, if you get to know him —" Calla started. She was standing half-in, half-out of the doorway. "You’d better guard your heart. Don’t forget that he’s going to die."

Chapter 20

At the same time that his flowers were being delivered to 300 Fox Way, Adam arrived at Monmouth Manufacturing on his somewhat pathetic bicycle. Ronan and Noah were already out in the overgrown lot, building wooden ramps for some unholy purpose.

He tried twice to persuade his rusted kickstand to hold his bike up before laying it down on its side. Crabgrass poked up through the spokes. He asked, "When do you think Gansey will get here?"

Ronan didn’t immediately answer him. He was lying as far beneath the BMW as he could, measuring the width of the tires with a yellow hardware-store ruler. "Ten inches, Noah."

Noah, standing next to a pile of plywood and four-by-fours, asked, "Is that all? That doesn’t seem like very much."

"Would I lie to you? Ten. Inches." Ronan shoved himself from beneath the car and stared up at Adam. He’d let his five o’clock shadow become a multiday shadow, probably to spite Gansey’s inability to grow facial hair. Now he looked like the sort of person women would hide their purses and babies from. "Who knows. When did he say?"

"Three."

Ronan climbed to his feet and they both turned to watch Noah working with the plywood for the ramps. Working with really meant staring at. Noah had his fingers held ten inches apart and he looked through the space between them to the wood below, perplexed. There were no tools in sight.

"What is your plan with these things anyway?" Adam asked.

Ronan smiled his lizard smile. "Ramp. BMW. The goddamn moon."

This was so like Ronan. His room inside Monmouth was filled with expensive toys, but, like a spoiled child, he ended up playing outside with sticks.

"The trajectory you’re building doesn’t suggest the moon," Adam replied. "It suggests the end of your suspension."

"I don’t need your back talk, science guy."

He probably didn’t. Ronan didn’t need physics. He could intimidate even a piece of plywood into doing what he wanted. Crouching by his bike, Adam messed over the kickstand again, trying to see if he could pry it free without breaking it entirely.

"What’s your malfunction, anyway?" Ronan asked.

"I’m trying to decide when I should call Blue." Saying it out loud was inviting ridicule from Ronan, but it was one of those facts that needed to be acknowledged.

Noah said, "He sent her flowers."

"How did you know?" Adam demanded, more mortified than curious.