An Hour of Need Read Free

and twined my fingers nervously. I figured that I ought to tell him, no matter how painful it would be. It didn’t seem right to keep that sort of information from him.
    “After you fell unconscious,” I began tentatively, “my father arrived. He is a fae, as I mentioned before—”
    “I know that your father arrived and that he got me out of there, and the girl who woke me said he couldn’t find my sister,” Orlando cut me off.
    “Right,” I said, tense. “There, uh, was one other thing that I’m guessing she didn’t tell you. My father witnessed the IBSI forcibly turning convicts into Bloodless… He suspects that Maura was a victim.”
    Wincing internally, I raised my eyes to meet his. He just stared back at me blankly, stunned. It took almost a minute for him to ask the obvious question. “W-Why would they do that?”
    “We’re not sure yet.” I explained to him about what FOEBA stood for, and how the IBSI was apparently trying to wipe out all traces of its existence. I tried to reassure him that Maura might not be completely lost yet—that we might still discover the antidote. And I realized as I spoke that I was trying to reassure myself more than him.
    I couldn’t bring myself to tell Orlando what Corrine had discovered about me yet. I had come in here to see him in an attempt to distract myself from my own problems.
    His voice caught in his throat. Shock gave way to grief, and then anger. White-hot anger. He leapt from his bed and stalked across the room. He raised his fists and brought them down against the wall, his upper back hunched and his chest heaving.
    “Those people are the devil’s doing,” he hissed. “They all need to be lined up in a row and shot, dammit!” His voice cracked. “Before I die, I want to see them brought down, Grace. I want to bring them down.”
    I gulped.
    I hope you’ll have time.
    And I hope I will, too.

Grace
    I t took Orlando a while to sit down again. He continued pacing about the room, and I decided to stay with him a bit longer. Somehow I felt more comfortable in here with him than outside with my worrying family. Perhaps because he was also facing death.
    I was glad that my family respected my desire for space, too, and didn’t insist on hovering around me.
    Orlando cursed and seethed until he seemed to tire himself out. He sank back into bed and drew up his knees, dropping his head against them.
    I wasn’t sure how long I sat with him—time had lost all meaning to me—but when we were stirred by a knock at the door, I guessed that quite some time had passed… time during which I ought to be grateful I had not had another seizure. I hurried to the door and opened it to find my father standing before me. I immediately searched his face for signs of victory, but found none. His expression was stiff.
    “I didn’t find Atticus,” he said, cutting to the chase. My stomach dropped. At least he hadn’t delayed the pain. He took one of the seats in the corner of the room and sat down, gesturing that I sit next to him. My mother followed him into the room and stood between us, and I glimpsed the rest of my family gazing at us through the open doorway.
    “I also could not locate his laptop,” my father went on, “nor did I find any other accessible computer. I did , however, find something else that I know can help us in one of his desk drawers.”
    My father reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper. He unfolded it to reveal words in dark blue ink:
    “Suspected FOEBA Involvement:
    Georgina Conway
    Deirdre Mighton
    Roderick Gladwell
    Frans Sanderson”
    Beneath each of the names—except for Georgina’s—were listed addresses: one in Sweden, one in Spain, one in Bermuda.
    And then a final line was scrawled on the paper:
    Hotel Brundbar, Sweden—Planned demonstration center.
    I read the piece of paper over several times while Orlando peered down at it over my shoulder. I raised my eyes to my father. “So these must have been Georgina’s