Small hands and metal-breath, touching and breathing and in her space. Out, Cade thought. But she couldn’t be sure she was saying it. The Noise hammered so loud that when she moved her lips, she didn’t know if the words pushed past them, into the needle-cold, antiseptic air. Unmakers milled around Cade. They could see a broken doll of a girl in tattered clothes, but they couldn’t hear what had smashed her. A fresh round of coma static. Cade wanted to broadcast the bursting, crackling, mess. Get it out, out, out. The Unmakers shuffled a step back from Cade’s bedside. So she was talking. The space-black robes hovered over her for minutes or hours. When the Unmakers drained out, Cade looked over the room—not a simple task for eyes tenderly connected to a rasping brain. The fact that she’d seen a matching room in the confines of her own head made it easier to know what she was looking at. A rectangle of windowless walls. A narrow bed that barely fit the width of her hips. A sheet of mirror.
