I stand up, and May slides down from my lap, her small hand finding mine. The rest of our group follows suit, rising from their chairs, the scraping of wood against stone a stark contrast to the library's oppressive silence. Arlo watches us, his expression unreadable, but his eyes are no longer dismissive. There's a new calculation there, a grudging respect warring with his deep-seated fear. Roland gives the old man a final, long look, a silent promise or a warning, it's impossible to tell which.
"Wait."
The word is barely a whisper, but it cuts through the quiet of the room. It's Arlo. He's not looking at me, or Roland, or even Lucas. His gaze is fixed on Celeste, who is still sitting, her hands clasped in her lap, her shoulders slumped.
