( James Vellaroux's POV )
Tristan's hand was up.
I know that signal.
Hand up, wait.
Hand down, go.
I grabbed the pen.
My hand was shaking so bad the first letter came out as a scratch.
Had to press twice to make it into anything.
No time to think about words.
Didn't want to think.
Just wrote.
Don't seal. Help them.
Four.
Didn't count.
Didn't need to.
I shoved it through the slot so hard I took the skin off two knuckles.
Up on the board, Vanguard's number moved.
Zero.
Minus thirty.
I knew it would.
Still hit me in the gut like a boot.
Down in the square the light was all the way up.
A pillar of it, pale, the colour of early morning, standing straight up out of the old stones. The three classes around it had gone quiet. Like people in a temple.
And Tristan's hand came down.
I stopped breathing.
Too soon.
The card couldn't have got there yet. And that wasn't how his hand comes down when he means go.
When he means go it snaps down.
