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I’m twisting around in my chair, scrambling at the seatbelt with no other thought than that I need to get away from this crazy monster thing. It takes me a couple seconds to realize that Eilian is practically cackling now and that Dylan, through his own fair share of laughter, is trying hard to calm me down.

“It’s just a golem, Sophie,” he’s saying, his hand all warm and steady on my arm, and it’s weird to hear him address me by that name. “They wash the windows while we’re stopped. It’s stupid and unnecessary, but people find it charming to mimic the Particle-Blind world in these little ways.”

I notice the metal bucket on one of the thing’s arms now, and the yellow rags in its other hands. Dylan waves the thing off, and it turns away and ambles back to the side of the road, its six arms hanging loose like some sort of homemade insect costume, its movements real creepily smooth.

My heart’s still beating twice as fast as it should be, but I can feel my breath starting to slow down a little. Eilian scoots forward and flops across the shoulder of my seat, and there’s still laughter in her voice when she says, “You’ve really never heard of steel faces?”

“If that’s what that thing is called, then no. I have definitely never heard of those.”

The light turns green and Dylan starts the emvee moving forward again, saying, “They’re basically service golems, performing whatever tasks they’ve been programmed for. They’re used all over Daxa, as well as most other cities in the Republic.”

“They give them the metal faces so they don’t make people uncomfortable,” Eilian offers as if this makes a whole lot of sense.

“That face is supposed to not make people uncomfortable?”

They both laugh.

“It’s supposed to make them less humanoid,” Dylan explains.

“Right. Well they definitely hit that nail on the head.”

As we keep moving I start to notice all sorts of those things around. Tall ones and small ones with any number of arms and legs, moving up and down the sidewalks right alongside the real people. They all have those shining steel faces, and it gives me the jeebies every time they so much as glance in our direction.

The shopping mall where Dylan takes us is shaped like a ten-storied crescent moon and inside it’s not so much that the shops have gardens in them as that the gardens have got shops. I mean, it’s just flowers and trees everywhere, and it’s all real pretty. The ceilings are vaulted with crown molding running along the edges, and the outer walls are made entirely of this rainbow-tinted glass.

Eilian dives into the stores as if shopping is some sort of an olympic sport or something, pulling items off shelves and hangers one after the other and tossing them at me to catch. She wants me to try on practically everything she gets her hands on and, if Dylan wasn’t there, she’d probably make sure I bought it all too.

Still, the number of clothes we do come away with—all paid for from some mysterious bank account Dylan keeps referring to as mine—would probably make my mom have a hernia or something. I can hear her voice in my head saying, “Who in the world would ever need so many things?”

There are pants and shoes and sweaters and little jackets and long coats and hats and gloves and earrings and tiaras and basically anything you could ever imagine a person putting on their body. Even, of all things, an honest-to-goodness ball gown that I’m supposed to wear to something called the Welcome Ball that Mawihl Academy hosts at the end of the first week.

At one point Eilian informs me, all nonchalant like it’s no big deal at all, that in addition to the Welcome Ball, Aunt Nia and Uncle Wyn are going to throw me an introduction party, which is apparently a thing people do to welcome friends to Daxa for the first time.

“At least a hundred people have already confirmed they’ll be coming,” Eilian says like this is somehow a good thing.

I glance over at Dylan, probably looking exactly as horrified as I feel, and from the expression on his face I’m guessing this introduction party is as much a surprise to him as it is to me.

“Mum already bought you a dress,” Eilian says as she leans over an assortment of slipper-like shoes and scrutinizes them with a professional eye. “And jewelry. Aunt Nia’s got it all hanging up in her room as inspiration for the party design.”

I give Dylan another look, which he returns with a heavy dose of apology. As we’re leaving the store he comes up beside me and under his breath he says, “I suppose it will help establish Sophie’s identity in Daxan society,” as if this is supposed to make everything okay.

I just groan a little and make a face. If Melodie were in my place she’d probably be dying of happiness right now—if she were here with me, maybe I would be happy about it all too—but mostly I just feel overwhelmed.

Our last stop is to get me something that Dylan and Eilian call a handyphone. It’s basically a cell phone that you wear as a ring on your finger, and it is mind-bendingly cool to me.

First of all, by some sort of Painter voodoo magic that Dylan still insists is science, even though the ring part of the phone stays snug on your finger during a call, you can hear the other person’s voice in your ear as clear as if they were actually in your head. Text messages show up in blue light on your palm when you’ve got your hand faced toward you, and if you press your thumb against the back of the ring a piece of it will detach and expand until you’re holding a full-sized, touch-screen phone.

There’s a “mind reading” sensor on the ring itself and on the front of the cell phone that responds to your brain synapses when you’ve got your thumb pressed over it, so you can control your phone by painting. Another button expands the cell phone into a tablet and, if you happen to set the cell phone or tablet down and walk away, as long as you’re within a few feet of it you can just press your thumb to the ring and the detached part will come flying back into your hand.

The whole time the shop attendant’s explaining this stuff to me, I feel pretty much like James Bond getting the rundown from Q. I mean, I just keep wondering when she’s going to show me some secret compartment in the ring that shoots out poisonous darts or something.

What it does have, it turns out, is the ability to produce something called “light matter,” which is this blue, holographic-looking ball of light that you can touch and manipulate by painting. Dylan says it’ll come in handy when I’m practicing for school, that eventually I’ll find all sorts of other uses for it.

The shop walls are covered in little floating handyphone displays. There are metal ones, jeweled ones, wooden ones—pretty much any style a person could want. Dylan’s is a simple band, made out of a dark black stone that seems to glow from somewhere inside when you look real close, and Eilian’s is a white gold ring shaped into a graceful sort of Celtic-looking tree on her finger.

I think it’s going to be hard to pick out the one I want, but I find it in about five seconds. A delicate little dragonfly, all sparkling blues and greens. Real uncannily like the dragonfly that formed out of my dad’s photograph back in Flemingsburg. I know it’s the one as soon as I see it, and there’s a hint of something in Dylan’s expression that tells me he can probably guess why.


That afternoon Dylan goes to work for a couple hours, saying he’s got a lot to catch up on. Then, in the evening when he’s back and we’re all lounging around together in the family study, he texts me on my new handyphone and says he needs to speak with me alone. He arranges this by having me announce that I’m tired and I want to go to bed. Before I leave, he offers to walk me to my room so that I don’t get lost in their huge and rambling house, but as soon as we’re out of earshot of the others he says we’re going to his room instead.

It’s on the fifth floor, and to get to it we’ve got to pass through this gym that has a real tall, domed ceiling and these weird pegs and ledges all over the walls. The gym is pretty big—at least as large as the one in Logan’s church building back in Flemingsburg—but after everything else I’ve seen in Daxa today I’m not all that surprised the Lucases have got a space like that in the middle of their home.

Dylan’s bedroom, other than the size of it, is about as different from mine as a room could be. It’s all modern and sleek and pretty spotlessly clean, and from the ceiling right down to the threading in the quilt on his bed, everything’s a bright, crisp white with just a few pops of color here and there.

The only thing about the place that seems at all cluttered or disorderly is the built-in bookcases lining one wall. There are so many books in there that it looks like some kind of literary explosion. Books are squeezed in at every angle, double- and triple-parked on the shelves, and they’re nearly all real well-worn like they’ve been lovingly and frequently handled.

Dylan leads me over to a tidily arranged set of chairs surrounding a white coffee table in the far corner of the room. I flop down into the seat he indicates and curl my legs up under me. Then, on second thought, I carefully unfold my legs again and place my feet nice and neat back on the floor because it occurs to me that maybe having people rub their shoes all over his pristine furniture isn’t exactly Dylan’s favorite thing.

He doesn’t seem to notice any of this, though. Just slides down into the chair across from me, leaning all relaxed against the back of it and folding his arms behind his head like he’s very much in his own territory.

“I got hold of your mum,” he says, real nonchalant like it’s not all that big a deal, but as soon as I hear those words I’m practically out of my chair.

“You talked to her?” I ask, and he’d have to try real hard not to hear the million-and-one follow-up questions that hang ready in my voice.

He smiles a little bit.

“First thing she asked was if she could talk to you,” he says, but when he sees the reaction on my face he’s quick to add, “which we can’t allow yet, though. There’s more I need to set in place before I’d advise any contact between the two of you.”

I sit back in my chair again and try not to act too disappointed.

“Is she safe, then?” I ask, and Dylan nods, reassuring.

“She said it’s nice to be with her brother again, and to get to know his family.”

I don’t say it, but for some reason this just makes me feel a little worse, picturing Mom out there all happy without me, reestablishing ties to some family I’ve never known.

“I’m still working on tightening up any loose ends with her situation,” Dylan says, sitting up and pulling out a thin drawer in the coffee table. “I’m setting her up in protective custody. She’ll have security watching her at all times, but if they do their jobs right she won’t be able to tell they’re there. And they won’t know who she is or why she’s in the program. I’ll be the only one who knows that. Most of those arrangements should be finished by tomorrow afternoon.”

He slides some file folders out of the open drawer and drops them on the table in front of me.

“Your identity, on the other hand, is already nearly complete.” He pulls a couple maps and some photographs out of the folders and pushes them across the table toward me. “This is Gilford, Wyoming. Sophie Warren’s home sweet home.”

It’s small. Smaller than Flemingsburg even. I’m guessing probably way less than a hundred people live there, including kids. There’s only one real road that goes through the town, and a couple little side streets that look so beat and broken that they might as well’ve never been paved. Dylan shows me pictures of the shops and the houses that skirt the main street, and they’re not exactly anything to get excited about. Mostly they’re dirty and kind of rundown. Still, there are some things about the place that feel comforting and familiar. One house in particular, with a real well-kept garden and an old wrap-around porch, reminds me of Sara’s house back home.

On one of the maps, Dylan shows me the Warren farm—my supposed home. It sits at the end of a narrow dirt road that stretches away from the town and winds partway up the nearest mountain. The farm itself is a bit smaller than mine and Mom’s farm, but it’s charming and clean, and I’m betting it wouldn’t be hard to fall in love with the place if I ever did have to live there.

Dylan’s got pictures of practically every Gilford resident and their dog (and there are a lot of dogs), and he explains to me who they are, what they do, how I supposedly know them.

“This is Roger Sheridan” he says. “He’s the town handy man. His son Boyd has been a friend of yours since you were children. This is Margaret Tulley. She owns the general store just like her family has done for generations. She calls you ‘Soph’ instead of Sophie and when you were about 6 years old she caught you and Boyd Sheridan trying to carve your initials into the wall of her shop. She still calls you a ‘little scamp’ to this day.”

It’s like he’s written a whole novel or something. Seems like every person in the town has some story that connects to me, and I’m wondering how in the world he’s arranged all this in a matter of just a few hours.

“Are these actual people in an actual place?” I ask, kind of impressed but also a little skeptical. “What are they going to do if some taker comes walking into town and says, ‘Hey, do you know Sophie Warren?’”

“They’ll say, ‘Why, yes we do. That’s the little scamp I found carving her initials into the wall of my general store.’”

I just stare at him for a second and he gets that little look on his face like he knows he’s being pretty impressive.

“Most of this is Mary Warren’s doing,” he concedes, indicating all the photos and maps with his hand. “She really is an old friend of my mother’s, and when Mum approached her a week or so ago with the vague idea that Mary might be willing to pose as your mum, Mary said she rather thought she could offer up most of the town, and that’s what she has done. Told them all she’s working with the US government. That her job is to provide a false backstory for a sweet young girl who’s real parents got themselves mixed up in something awful. Told them this girl is now hiding out with a new identity until she can testify in court, and that Mary needs all her friends to act as if she’s always had a daughter and as if that daughter’s gone away to university now.”

“All those people were willing to do that?” I ask, and Dylan nods.

“Mary says her only problem has been keeping everyone to the same narrative. They all want to make up their own stories about you, and those stories can get fairly elaborate.”

To be honest I guess I’m not all that surprised. Logan would probably lose his mind if he had the chance to be part of some complicated scheme like this. Sara and Melodie—any number of other people in Flemingsburg too. Especially if they thought they were helping out a neighbor, and a friend.

Dylan pushes another photo across the table to me.

“This is Mary Warren,” he says, tapping his finger next to the person’s face. “This is your new mum.”

It’s a picture of a tall, dark-haired woman standing at the edge of a dirt road. She’s leaning against a rough, handmade log fence and looking at the camera all unsmiling like someone straight out of some Great Depression movie.

I don’t mean to, but I can’t help feeling just a little bit disappointed. I mean, yeah, my real mom’s spent most her life working on our farm too, but there’s just always been something so soft about her still. Sophisticated. This woman is all sturdy and earthy and physical.

“To make it believable for anyone who might be paying attention, you’re going to have to call Mary sometimes,” Dylan says, watching me real steady, and I’m guessing he’s noticed the disappointment in my face. “Treat her as if she’s your real mum who’s waiting back at home for you and whom you miss. Do you think that’s something you can do with her?”

I look back down at her picture, trying to imagine talking to her like she means anything to me at all.

“She doesn’t know you’re the Way Reader,” Dylan says, still watching me real close. Waiting. “She believes she’s simply helping out one of Mum’s friends who’s found herself in a tight spot.”

The more I’m staring at this Mary Warren woman, the more I’m thinking she’s not so severe after all. If you look close enough you can see the hint of a smile there, mostly in the wrinkles around her eyes.

“I can treat her like she’s Sophie’s mom, I think,” I say finally, and this appreciative smile flashes across Dylan’s face.

“Good,” he says, standing up and stepping around the coffee table to grab my hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask, kind of taken off guard by the sudden flare of essentual energy that sparks between our fingers and reverberates up my arm.

“Calling Mary,” he says, pushing his thumb down on the back of my dragonfly ring to expand it into handyphone mode.

He pauses for a second, this look on his face like he’s listening to something that I can’t hear. Then he lets go of me and steps back a little, expanding his own phone and bringing it up to his ear.

S’mae, Mum,” he says, almost cheerful. “You’re up early.”

Sort of smiling down at me, he holds his finger up to tell me it’s going to be a minute. Something about the way he does this—like he’s comfortable with me, like we’re just two friends hanging out—makes me feel kind of warm and snugly inside, and I relax back into my chair and settle in to wait for him.

“How’s nain and taid?” he’s asking. “Hm. Ie. Oes, she’s here with me now.”

Then he’s holding his phone out to me and saying, “Mum wants a word,” and any sense of snugness I was feeling is gone in a snap.

 I take the phone from him, but not because I want to. My insides feel suddenly like something’s in there that’s alive. I mean, what is he thinking springing a conversation with his mom on me like this? You’ve got to give a person a minute to prepare.

But turns out his mom’s got the same knack as Aunt Nia for making you feel all charming and interesting and worthwhile. Although, her accent is a bit more pronounced than Nia’s, dipping up and down in these real unexpected ways. And she doesn’t talk to me like she thinks of me as a kid. She tells me to call her Gweneth and treats me as if I’m just like any other friend.

“I’m sure Dylan will do his best to make you feel comfortable in our home,” she tells me. “Cadfan’s sister Nia, and Wyn as well. But if you find you’re in need of anything that they can’t provide, do feel free to contact me. I’ve asked Dylan to put my number into your phone, and hopefully someday soon I’ll have the privilege of meeting you in person.”

We don’t talk for very long. She says it’s morning in Wales and she’s got to get breakfast made for her parents.

“Maybe someday you can stop off at our little home here in Caergybi. From everything Dylan’s said, I think my mam and tad would really like to know you.”

When we say our goodbyes I hand Dylan’s phone back to him, and he goes grabbing for my other hand again, taking my own phone from me and saying that it’s time to call Mary.

“Best to jump right into these sort of things. Besides, she’s a few hours ahead of us so it’s growing late for her.”

He sits down on the armrest of my chair and props one foot on the coffee table, entering Mary’s number into my phone and hitting send. Then he hands it back to me and I see that the screen says it’s calling “Mom.”

The nervousness I feel as I take the phone now is entirely different than what I felt when Dylan’s mom called. With his mom I didn’t have to play act. Even though she talked to me as if I really was the daughter of her long lost friend, I was fully aware that she knew who I really was and all I had to do with her was be myself. With this Mary Warren person, I’ve got to pretend that I’ve known and loved her my whole life, and I’ve got to do it without letting her in on my real identity.

Staring up at Dylan as if he’s going to somehow save me from this, I bring the phone up all tentative to my ear and within seconds I’m hearing the voice of a stranger. It’s deep for a woman’s, and strong. With this gentle ripple to it like it’s being played over some old phonograph or something.

I barely have time to babble something about it being me, Sophie, before she jumps right in, asking me if I’m well, if the trip was pleasant, how I’m liking the Lucases and their home. Her questions come so quick that I just answer back on instinct, responding as honest as I can to every subject that she poses. Until, totally out of the blue, she asks point blank if I think Dylan’s kind of good looking, and at that point all I can manage is an awkward sort of stutter.

“His mother was stunning so I wouldn’t be surprised,” she says with this laugh that reminds me of well-worn quilts and cozy log fires. I glance kind of wary up at Dylan where he’s still perched on the arm of my chair, but if he can hear what Mary’s saying he doesn’t show any sign of it.

Then, just as unexpected as everything else about tonight, Mary’s already wrapping up our conversation, making me promise to enjoy myself in Daxa, to learn a lot.

“Good night. I love you,” she says as easy as if she’s said it to me every day of my life, and after an uncomfortable pause I repeat it back to her. Then just like that, the call is done.

Dylan’s kind of laughing as I’m shrinking the phone back into my ring. This pleasant, real quiet sort of laugh that I’d probably hardly notice if he weren’t sitting so close to me.

Looking down with a wry little smile he says, “You’ll have to learn to tell her you love her without rumpling up your face like that. It’s a dead give away.”

He slides off my chair and walks back around to the other side of the coffee table, starting to gather up all the photographs and maps of Gilford and putting them back into their folders.

“I’ve kept all of these files offline for now so that no one can hack into it,” he says, dropping the folders back into their drawer and then standing straight and looking down at me again.

“We need to start training you in painting and particle reading—as much as I can teach you before Agni comes back—so we should meet here every day, probably after dinner. You can go over all of the Gilford details as well, and once you’ve got them down I’ll get rid of all these files. You’ll need to seal it all into your mind as solidly as actual memories.”

   I’m pretty sure his standing there like that means tonight’s secret meeting has come to a close, so I stand up too, realizing suddenly how real tired I am. Dylan starts walking toward the door, and I trail after him.

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” he says as he waits for me to step out into the gym. “Until you get more familiar with the house, we don’t want to send you out on your own to go and get lost in it.”


In the morning Dylan goes back to work again, and he asks Eilian to take me on a tour of the house while he’s gone. She’s happy enough to do it, but to call what she gives me a tour would be really stretching the meaning of the word. It’s more like a game of hide and seek, the way she’s already disappearing around corners or into another room every time I so much as pause to get a better look at something.

The hallways are like a maze, and most of the rooms aren’t too much better. Every space seems to be filled with family heirlooms and ancient Painter artifacts. Eilian says that each floor of the house was built by a different Lucas generation, carved out of the inside of the tree as it grew big enough to allow for it.

In addition to an army’s worth of bedrooms, the place has loads of spaces that no normal person would have in their house. Like, on the ground floor there are two entertainment rooms that Eilian calls the blue and red salons as if she’s stepped straight out of some old romance novel or something, and on the fourth floor there’s an honest to goodness ballroom just dripping with chandeliers and golden sconces. Not too far down the hall from that there’s a huge arboretum where Aunt Nia grows a whole jungle of plants and herbs and things.

One wing on the third floor seems a little mustier than the others, a little less commonly used, with all sorts of extra weird artifacts and things stashed away in the rooms there. Things like a huge old Asian-style gong or an antique Particle-Blind printing press. They’ve gathered some dust and cobwebs, and they send strange shadows crawling along the floors and walls.

Eilian has even less time to give to this part of the house, as if she thinks whatever might be here isn’t worth our attention, but to me this all seems like exactly the kind of place where some ominous, ghostly figure’d be roaming the halls. Makes my hair sort of stand on end in that way that’s kind of exciting because you know there’s really not anything to be scared about, but maybe I am already a little bit primed and ready for a haunting by the time we pass by the little nook at the end of one of the corridors.

It’s not an inherently creepy nook. There’s a comfortable-looking little cushioned bench seat and a shelf with a few books on it, a vase of kind of quaintly dried flowers. What makes it creepy is the snarling brass dog’s head that’s hanging on the wall right smack above the bench. There’s no light on in the nook and the dim light from the hallway falls across the dog’s features at just the right angle to make it look pretty downright terrifying.

“What is this?” I ask, kind of laughing and stopping in the nook’s arched entryway in fascinated disbelief. But, as usual, Eilian just shrugs and keeps walking, barely looking over her shoulder to say that it probably belonged to one of her long dead ancestors.

I can’t turn away from the thing, though. I mean, it’s so alarming that I’ve just got to keep staring. And despite the fact it’s made out of brass, it’s real mesmerizingly life-like. I wouldn’t be surprised if any second now it turned it’s metal eyes down on me and made a quick lunge for my jugular.

So that’s where I am—rooted in that dim hallway, staring up at the dog while I listen to the sounds of Eilian’s footsteps disappearing around the corner again—when I feel suddenly sure that there’s someone else in the hall behind me. Someone standing real still and real close.

Previous: Chapter 10

Next: Chapter 12


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Up ahead, Agni spins back around toward us, the look on his face making it obvious that he’s sensed something too and he knows he’s not going to get back to us in time.

Dylan gives a sharp wave to show he’s got the situation in hand, and then he’s moving. Hauling me over to the nearest tree and pushing me up against the trunk of it, more concerned about speed than comfort. He steps up right against the front of me, places his arms on either side of the trunk.

Then with the softness of a whisper the bark starts creeping outward around us. I can see it in the corner of my eye and sense the multiplying of its particles at the same time. There’s something real pretty about it as it rolls forward, surrounds us in this pillar of fresh smelling wood that tapers as it bends upward to leave just this tiny circle of purple sky peeping through the top. It feels like a totally incongruous thing, to be noticing the beauty in all of this at the same time that I’m real aware of the darkness in whatever’s coming.

It’s two shimmering, clamoring pinpoints of hate, approaching so fast I barely have time to breathe before they’re stopping just feet away from us. Then comes the muted sounds of people moving all cautious and meticulous through the snow. In my mind’s eye I can sense their essences, can sense the darkness inside them where it’s writhing around as if it itself is a living thing. It leaves my whole body feeling cold and thin and terrified.

Low voices come real thick through the living wood of our hiding place. Their owners so close that if it weren’t for the bark surrounding us, I bet we could reach out and touch them.

“I thought I saw something,” a woman’s voice says.

“Doesn’t seem to be anything now.”

I wonder if they can sense us like I can sense them. If they listened close enough they could probably hear the sound of our breathing, and for a second I think they have heard us. Their footsteps pause right beside our tree. Dylan’s still pressed up against me, so tight I can feel his warmth even through our coats, feel the heat of his chin against my cheek. Can even feel the beat of his heart all heavy and fast like mine.

Then the takers—somehow I’m sure they’re takers—are moving off again, launching into a particle sail and speeding away, but Dylan and I just keep standing there as fixed as if we’re frozen, searching our senses for any sign that danger might still be there.

He begins to shift just as I feel someone else approaching. I grab his coat real fast, pulling at it to keep him still, but then, again, I somehow know that it’s Agni. Can sense his essence all pure and familiar and bright.

“It’s me,” he whispers into our hiding spot. “It’s safe to come out.”

As if on cue, Dylan and I sort of relax against each other, and then Dylan’s straightening up again, letting the bark recede back into the tree and opening us up to the chilly night air.

Agni’s face shows relief when he sees us. A relief still tinged with the remains of his alarm.

“I got too far ahead,” he says all soft and apologetic. “They could’ve sailed right into you, coming from the side like that. How did you know—?”

“Zanny sensed them,” Dylan says, and Agni’s eyes shift real quick to mine.

“You’re already at that stage?”

I don’t know what that stage might be.

“It’s more dangerous than ever to stay still now,” Dylan says. “We’ve got to press on.”

This time we walk real close together, moving with the caution of the blind or something as Agni concentrates on scoping for signs of human life. I don’t know how long we’re going like that. Feels like hours and hours though it’s probably closer to just one, but it’s real excruciating to move so slow, afraid that every sound you hear signals danger or that every sound you make is going to give you away.

The moon’s out in its full strength, splashing light over us like a spotlight. We’re the only moving figures in a world that’s totally still.

Then Agni stops without warning. He turns to face us, and something about his expression tells me that now’s the time for another goodbye.

“The two of you must be on your way,” he says, smiling this gentle little smile as he steps over to give me ramu in farewell.

“Zanny,” he says, looking at me with his warm brown eyes. “When next we meet we must pretend to be strangers. Until the time is right to begin your reader training, remember that my thoughts are with you and my mind aware. For now, I must leave you to Dylan’s expert care.”

He exchanges ramu with Dylan, and in the moonlight with their heads together like that they look like brothers, the difference in their ages just melting away.

It’s a scene I remember from the first sighting I had, that rush of images that came to me back in Flemingsburg when I had my hand clamped around Dylan’s wrist, before I even knew about sightings. Recognizing this moment should comfort me. Should make me feel like this is all supposed to be happening right now, but I’m a little beyond being comforted. After what I saw inside those takers—after everything that’s happened in the last few days—the world has just become too big and scary a place.

Agni steps away from Dylan and turns toward me again. With this forced, comical little smile, he waves goodbye and goes sailing off into the snow and the trees and the darkness.

“This next bit’s going to be tricky,” Dylan says, eying me kind of careful. “It’ll be steep and rocky. Are you ready?”

He holds his hand out to me, and I take it, his grip strong and bracing through my thick glove. We head up the side of the mountain at a diagonal for a while until we come to this sort of fissure in the snow. It’s tall and narrow, as if some giant just came along and pinched the mountain together there, leaving a deep and dangerous-looking crag.

You wouldn’t think a person could fit in it, but Dylan pulls me right inside and suddenly its abrupt walls are towering above our heads, blocking everything else from view and giving me the sensation that I’m being swallowed alive.

These tired-looking evergreens are hanging all haphazard off the upper edges of the embankment and great big puffs of snow twirl down through their spare branches to disappear against the white of our coats and the ground. I can feel the flakes falling on my face, cold little kisses that send shivers of crystalline patterns through my mind.

Somehow everything’s quieter in here. Even the sounds of us struggling up the snow-coverd, rocky bottom of the ravine are muffled and ghostly. My breath gusts out in front of me, then brushes back, both hot and cold on my face.

It’s all so strange and dreamlike that I almost don’t realize it when we’ve come out at the top, don’t register at first that I’m staring straight down the gaping edge of a sheer cliff. When I do realize it though, my instincts kick in and I clench tight on Dylan’s hand and take a sort of jumping step backward.

He just laughs and says, “Don’t worry. There’s nothing to fear.” Then he lets go of me and steps right off the cliff into nothing.

He doesn’t fall. He’s just plain not there anymore, and my heart goes leapfrogging inside my chest and I drop down on my knees to look over the edge, calling out his name as loud as I dare.

“Don’t worry,” I hear him say again, his voice coming real strange and muted from somewhere right in front of me.

I look around, trying to place him in all the darkness out there, but I still can’t see anything. Then he steps all sudden back onto the ledge again, materializing as if he’s walking out of a waterfall or something, leaning down and kind of laughing and offering a hand to help me back to my feet.

“It’s an illusion barrier,” he says, his smile playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “To get through, you’ll have to come with me. Your DNA’s not in the system yet.”

My heart’s still hammering from the shock he gave me, and just at the moment I kind of wouldn’t mind giving him a good, hard punch, but he’s already grabbing my hand again and, before I can even say anything, he pulls me straight off the ledge along with him.

I shout out a little as I feel the tingle of the barrier pass over me, and then, with a thud, my foot hits solid ground and the world around us has changed completely. The sheer drop-off has been replaced by a gentle snowy slope, and beyond that there’s an ocean of lights spreading across a gigantic valley. One vast city just sparkling away in the night where before it was total darkness.

Dylan looks over at me and bursts out laughing, and it’s such a nice sound that I can’t even be mad.

“You like it?” He gives a little nod toward the city.

“Is it real?” I ask in response, and I’m only part joking. “That’s all Painters that live down there?”

“It is.”

“And there are more cities like this all around the world?”

“Most of them smaller, but yes.”

I’m not even sure how to describe how I feel. “It’s real pretty,” is all I manage, and it comes out kind of hushed like some sort of a prayer.

The trip down into the city takes a couple of seconds, maybe less. With my hand still in his, he takes us particle sailing down the mountain to the city’s edge and into this dark, damp avenue.

It’s illegal to particle sail within city limits, he tells me, so we have to go at our regular pace, inching along through black alley after black alley until here and there we start to see some lights in windows above us and I can get a sense, at least, of the shapes of the buildings that seem to stretch off each other like piles of giant pick-up-sticks.

After traveling most the day and not eating a real dinner, I’m pretty tired and I’m not exactly paying attention to where we’re going anymore. We’ve been walking for over an hour probably when Dylan comes up short and flings his arm out to hold me back, so unexpected that I about jump out of my skin.

Then, from around the corner I hear the footsteps, all slow and shuffling like something out of a horror film. Dylan backs me up against the closest wall, keeps me in the shadows with the pressure of his arm. Not like I’m about to budge at this moment anyway. Not with whatever it is that’s coming our way.

Real slow this figure moves into view, all bowed and curled in on himself. Walking like someone who’s forgotten they’ve got feet at all. His ragged clothes hang off him real limp and dirty and he’s murmuring wild to himself in this eerie hum. Then he breaks off into a sing-song laugh that sends shudders down the alley and straight up my spine.

We’re probably only feet away from him, but he doesn’t notice us. Just shuffles out of sight, all lost and aimless and kind of distressing.

Calon tân,” Dylan breathes out. “He must’ve been out here for weeks, by the look of him.”

He drops his arm from in front of me and slumps back against the wall himself, staring after the man like he’s trying to work out some puzzle.

“I’ll have to send the medics out here once we’re home safe,” he says to himself still, then lifts his eyes up to mine. “We don’t get many people with troubled minds here in the Painter world. It’s strange he’d have gone unnoticed for so long.”

He pushes himself up from against the wall and starts walking again, real slow now. Our silence after that is not a pleasant one. It’s hard for me to get that man out of my mind, and I’m guessing Dylan isn’t doing much better.

After about another hour of walking, Dylan stops in front of a long wall that looks exactly like any of the other dozens of walls we’ve passed. He presses his hand against the stones there until this doorway opens where there was definitely not a door before. Then he’s stepping through it and holds the door open for me to follow.

On the other side it’s a tunnel of evergreens so thick that I can only get brief glimpses of what might be beyond them. They arch up over us and bend against each other with their tips twined together at the top.

When we reach the end of the tunnel several minutes later, we step out into a well-manicured and enormous garden. The moon’s all swallowed up in clouds now and it’s snowing hard enough that I can’t see much further than a few feet in front of us, but I can make out the shapes of winding sculptured hedges and many dozens of trees all covered in white.

We’re right up against the side of some sort of huge building. I think there’s a window or two off to my left, but they’re just darker shapes against the flatness of an already dark wall. Dylan presses his hand against the building, and pretty soon another invisible door melts into being there and swings open real, real soundless and slow.

There’s something kind of creepy about it in the middle of this already weird night and, when we step into the pitch black hallway, I try to stay as close to Dylan as I can without being creepy myself. Another door opens onto more pitch black, then Dylan hits a switch or something and the place explodes with light so sudden that I kind of wince.

We’re in this curving, seemingly endless corridor—and it is definitely a corridor, not a hallway, if you know what I mean—and Dylan’s already moving down it. I hurry to keep up with him, staring around me as we go.

The walls are a warm and polished sort of wood that’s all marbled with a dark graining that is too precise to be natural. It winds around itself in these pretty vine-like patterns, and every once in a while it erupts into a flurry of delicately-lined flocks of sparrows in flight.

At the end of the corridor, we step into an elevator that is unlike anything I have ever seen. From the outside it’s just this big trunk of a tree growing right inside the wall, like the tree itself must be stretching up into the floors above us.

Dylan waves his hand in front of the bark and two hulking panels slide away from each other to reveal a glowing interior that’s plastered all over with some sort of gold chipping. There’s a sliding knob on one wall with intricately carved numbers running vertical alongside it. Dylan pushes the knob up to the number 2, and the walls around us sort of rumble into motion.

“It’s the first elevator that was put into the house, one of the first in Daxa,” Dylan speaks up for the first time since we arrived.

It’s weird enough to me that he’s got an elevator right in the middle of his house—and an elevator like this to boot—but what’s even crazier to me is the number of levels showing on the elevator wall.

Six floors, I’m thinking. Who lives in a house with six floors?

When we get out, the corridors are the same warm-colored wood, this time with graining winding around in the shape of elaborate, graceful peacocks. I touch my fingers to the wall as we pass, dipping down into the particle patterns there. I note how the patterns in the graining are different from the patterns in the wall itself, how both are a little more fluid than the patterns I’ve seen in the snow and the rocks outside.

We pass several thick, old doors all covered in engravings of flowers and animals and trees. Then, before I know it, we’ve stopped in front of one of these doors, and Dylan’s opening it and switching on a light inside and gesturing for me to walk in.

It’s clearly meant to be a bedroom in there—I mean, it’s hard to miss the jumbo canopy bed squatting right smack in the middle—but the size of the room…well, I’ve never seen a room like that in anyone’s house before. It’s the sort of place where I imagine princesses probably slept back in the olden days, with all these lush drapings over the windows and walls and bed, and real elegant wardrobes and dressers and tables scattered all around the room as if somebody wanted to make it real obvious that they had a lot of things.

Dylan steps over to the nearest wall and opens a door onto an ensuite bathroom that is just about as big as my bedroom back at home. There’s a tub in there that I could probably swim in and thick violet rugs that look as soft as downy fur.

“Once you’ve got the hang of your painting, you can control everything with these sensors on the walls, but it also works like a Particle-Blind bathroom, so you should be comfortable here,” Dylan says, as if these weren’t the most extravagant surroundings I’ve ever encountered in my life.

He steps back into the bedroom and asks for my drivers license, saying he needs it to finish creating the Sophie Warren identity.

“Tomorrow we’ll have to destroy anything you’ve got that could tie you too easily back to Zanny Monroe. Your wallet, your clothes, etcetera, will all have to go. Breakfast is at eight. I’ll come and get you a little before then, take you down to meet everyone. Remember that the only person in my family who knows who you really are is my mum, so be careful not to give yourself away to the others. It’s for their safety as much as yours.”

He’s walking to the door now like he’s going to just leave me here, and I have this little moment of panic. Like, the more steps he takes, the stranger and smaller I feel in that huge room with the huge bed and the army of wardrobes.

But once he’s got his hand on the doorknob he turns back to me, studies my face for a minute while I try real hard to hide the fact that I’m totally freaking out.

“You going to be alright in here all alone?” he asks, and for some reason I just about lose all my cool, and this weird little laugh comes out of me. A sound I would definitely rather not have made.

“Truth is I am kind of anxious,” I admit, while at the same time I’m trying to sort of wave my words away with my hand.

He smiles a little. “You get ready for bed. I’ll be back in a few, and I’ll stay with you ’til you fall asleep.”

The relief is almost more embarrassing than the fear, but I hurry to get ready like he said. I get in the shower, and I don’t know whether to cry or laugh it feels so good to have that hot water rolling down my body.

Putting on my pajamas for the first time since leaving home it suddenly strikes me how real childish they look with these big cartoon cows all over, grinning these stupid grins. Mom always gets these sort of things a couple sizes too big too, because it “keeps you warmer,” she says. They hang real loose off me, which makes me look even more like a kid. So, when Dylan knocks on the door again, I jump quick into bed before telling him to come on in.

He’s clean shaven and washed, and with that dumb beard gone he’s even more handsome than before. He’s wearing these kind of jersey pants and a short-sleeved T-shirt that hangs off him real nice, and for the first time I get a sense of how he’s actually shaped. My pulse sets off pounding and I get that stupid tingle in my neck and all over, and I suddenly feel real shy about him being here at all.

He doesn’t seem to think it’s weird, though. Just sprawls out next to me on top of the covers with his hands behind his head and looks over at me out of the corner of his eye.

With a sympathetic little smile he asks, “You ready to become someone new tomorrow?” and the anxiety kind of leaps up in my chest.

“Honestly, maybe not?”

He laughs a little.

“You’re ready,” he says. “Ready enough. I’ll help you, and it’ll be easy with the others. Just be yourself. Though, not entirely yourself.”

He kind of laughs again, and I can’t help smiling back at him. I try to picture tomorrow, picture meeting his family for the first time.

“What’s your sister like?”

Another involuntary smile springs up on his face.

“Eilian is…ionic.”

“What’s that?”

“Unpredictable. Energetic. A bit loony?”

I kind of raise my eyebrows. “Good loony?”

“Wait and see. I expect you’ll find she’s the best sort of friend.”

Saying good night, he props himself up on some pillows against the headboard of the bed, opening a book he’s brought with him and settling in. I slide all the way under the covers and lie watching him read for a while, my pulse gradually slowing until all I’m thinking is how nice it is not to be alone.

I fall asleep like that, the blankets pulled up to my nose and my mostly lidded eyes turned on him, and, just for that little while, I don’t feel so impossibly scared.

Previous: Chapter 8

Next: Chapter 10


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Dylan’s moving instantly, scooping up the arrows and the bow that were still lying bent and broken at the edge of the lean-to, his silhouette against the moon turning into some prickling monster thing.

“Which way?”

I point in the direction we came from and he doesn’t ask how I know.

“You get behind those trees,” he tells me.

One by one he’s repairing each arrow with a touch of his hands, his motions real quick and instinctive, and I’m scrambling to hide like he’s told me to when something else burns into my chest like a fact.

“It’s Agni.”

Dylan’s hands freeze and he stares at me like he’s not sure he can breathe, and I wonder if he was as scared as I was.

My eyes flick to some movement in the trees behind Dylan, and he twists around to see where I’m looking. It’s as if Agni’s just melting into existence there the way he comes sailing through the dark shapes of the trees and glides real graceful to a stop in the middle of our little clearing. His wiry frame is practically overflowing with the two backpacks, and his mustache and beard are hanging all limp from his face. He looks half dead, but at the sight of the two of us still tense and paralyzed he smiles his wide, grandfatherly smile and starts to laugh like he’s probably as relieved to see us as we are to see him.

Striding forward he grips Dylan at the back of the neck, pulls his head against his own and touches foreheads in greeting. Then, before I know what’s happening, he’s coming toward me and touching his forehead against mine too, his hand clapped to the back of my neck and this real warm energy passing from his palm into my essensus and then through the rest of my body. It feels like friendship, and like everything’s going to be alright.

“You’re okay?” I ask, searching his tired face as he steps away from me.

He just grins wider, almost giddy or something. “At the moment, could barely be better. Hungry.”

Dylan’s already set to work concocting something in the handmade pot he used to make dinner, and the smell of it makes our little clearing feel just a bit more homey.

“It’ll be ready in a minute. Sit down and rest,” he commands, and Agni laughs again.

“I will.”

The way he slides onto the blankets, it’s almost involuntary, like he’s only been staying upright by sheer will power or something. I sit down next to him, keeping my eyes on his face, a part of me kind of disbelieving that he’s here and in one piece.

“What happened?” I ask. “Did you run into anyone else?”

“Almost,” he nods. “Two other Painters came near soon after you left, but they did not see me. I believe they were companions of the other two. We will need to be more careful going forward.”

His giddy energy seems to be fading away now. He slips the packs off his shoulders and leans back against them like a back rest, closing his eyes and letting out this huge breath that flutters the stray hairs at the edges of his mustache in a way that’d probably make me laugh if it weren’t for the solemn set to the muscles of his face.

With his eyes still closed he says in this real quiet voice, mostly to Dylan, “I helped the takers pass over and returned their bodies to the earth.”

Dylan pauses in his work and glances up at Agni, his lips pulling tight in a way that shows he knows exactly what Agni’s talking about.

“We’ll perform the remembrance ceremony after you’ve eaten.”

Agni nods and leans further against the packs, his head falling back a little with his mustache draping down across his folded arms and onto his stomach. Sitting there so still and quiet, he looks even more like a wizard than ever. A wise, tired old wizard. It’s a little unsettling, seeing him so used up like that, and after a second I’ve got to look away.

When the food is ready Agni eats it real quick and efficient then hands the bowl back to Dylan.

“It’s time,” Agni says, digging for something in his pocket. “Circle in.”

As I move to comply, I feel a little like someone who’s stumbled into the wrong gathering, and I’m watching Dylan out of the corner of my eye to figure out what it is I’m supposed to do. He sits himself down crossed-legged opposite Agni and me, back straight and face real pensive. Agni sets two identification cards onto the ground in front of us. Drivers licenses, maybe. In the moonlight it’s hard to make out the details on the cards, but I recognize the faces there. Probably, I’ll never forget them.

“Brock Schwartz and Lydia Banks,” Agni says in this prayer-like sort of chant. “These names we will carry with us. Though we do not know what life you led, we know what passing you met. One day, should we meet your families, we will offer them this news of you, for it is their right to know.”

He holds his right palm over the ID cards, crumbling them to dust. Then he gives this gentle little wave of his hand and this soft breeze comes licking along the ground, lifting each little speck of what used to be the drivers licenses and skipping them away from us.

It doesn’t seem like this moment should effect me so much—I mean, it was just a couple pieces of plastic belonging to two people that were definitely no friends of mine—but, maybe because I haven’t had a whole lot of ceremony in my life or maybe because I’m still trying to figure out just how to process the things I’ve seen today, I can’t help feeling a little bit of awe. There was a sort of poetry to the ritual. A sort of respect and, especially from Agni, compassion.

It’s a few minutes before Dylan breaks our silence, and when he does there’s a hush to his voice, this church-worthy quiet.

“We’re about a day away from Daxa,” he says to Agni.


“We have things to prepare.”

Agni turns to look at me, his eyes kind of smiling even though his mouth isn’t. “He means you, you know. We have to turn you into Ms. Sophie Warren.”

“We need to teach you some things about Painter culture, and change your appearance.”

Something occurs to me that I hadn’t thought of before and it kind of makes my heart drop. “Like—like my face?”

Dylan’s mouth twitches out kind of screwy and I think maybe he’s about to laugh, but then he just gives me this nice, lopsided little smile.

“Couldn’t do that even if we wanted to,” he says. “As long as the shadow and essence are in tact we can’t use painting to make permanent changes to the human body without inflicting actual damage. No, as far as we’re aware no one in Daxa knows what you look like well enough to recognize you so there’s no need for extreme measures, but to be safe we’ll dye your hair, change your clothes. Nothing big. Still, it’ll take some energy.”

“Energy neither of us has right now,” Agni says with this yawn so big it’s impossible for Dylan and me not to copy him.

Too worn out to make any other arrangements, the three of us just pile together between the two wool blankets. This time with the warmth of both of them on either side of me and my head full of Dylan’s scent that never seems to go sour, I fall asleep pretty easy, the whispers of new shapes and pigments—my own little particle world parade—dancing at the back of my mind and reminding me that my life has changed forever. I’ve changed forever.


In the morning Dylan asks me if I’ve got a preference about how my hair looks, and I just kind of stare at him for a second because yeah, I’ve got a preference. I mean, I’m pretty sure most people would. I, at least, have been wanting a particular hair-do for literally months now, ever since I saw it on a character in one of Sara’s graphic novels.

Mom said it was weird, though, and too high maintenance and she wasn’t about to spend money on something so frivolous, so I’m not expecting Dylan to be all that excited about it either.

“What if,” I say, trying not to sound too much like I’m bracing for Dylan to reject the idea outright, “we straightened it, and did a long a-line sort of bob that starts back here and comes forward just below my shoulders with, like, bangs that kind of sweep across like this.”

I motion with my hand, and keep on talking as if I definitely believe that what I’m about to say is totally and completely reasonable.

“And maybe we could do it in, say, a dark purple-y blue with, maybe, some lighter blue tones that sort of, I don’t know, shimmer when the light hits it?”

As I’m talking Dylan’s lips pull into this real poorly suppressed smile.

“Thought about it much?” he asks, and right at that moment he looks pretty adorable and, even though all those extra hormones from becoming don’t seem to be there anymore, my heart still kind of skips a beat.

I give a little shrug and say, “Maybe a little,” totally failing to repress my own stupid grin.

He studies my face for a second, and I think for sure he’s trying to find a nice way to turn down my idea, but then he says, “I think it could work,” as if he really does think so and as if it wasn’t a totally bizarre request in the first place. Looking at Agni, he asks, “Do you suppose it’d do the trick?”

“Oh yes. Brilliant colors are quite the thing in Daxa these days.”

“Though they’re uncommon enough to leave a strong first impression.”

“While still being sufficiently playful to suit her well.”

Dylan considers me for a minute more. “Yeah, I think you could pull it off.”

He doesn’t say this like it’s a compliment or like it’s supposed to be anything more than an objective observation, but I feel kind of flattered anyway because, I mean, well, it’s Dylan saying it, and also because this hair-do is maybe the coolest thing I have ever wanted for myself.

He finds this loose log for me to sit on—all barkless and bare, but a lot more comfortable a seat than you’d think from its appearance—and then he stands behind me and places his hands on my head.

The particle world is fully with me now, and as he begins to work on the color of my hair I can sense the changes he’s making like little tickles at the back of my mind. It’s all swirling shapes and soft lights. Real pretty. Not like the pink and fleshy sort of pictures of cells and stuff you see in text books.

I can’t imagine what it would be like growing up knowing that someday this whole extra vision of the world was going to be available to you. Knowing that pretty much everyone around you could already see it, could change it. What kind of a life would that be, when this sort of thing is just a part of your every day?

“What’s it like in Daxa?” I ask out loud, and Agni, who’s crouched a few feet away from us absently decomposing all our bedding into some unappealing looking sort of mulch, glances up with a smile.

“Now, that is a difficult question to answer. For me the city is home. It’s where my family is, my wife Ona. But what the city is to me may prove quite different for you once you encounter it.”

“The city of the sun,” Dylan offers from behind me. “The light in the mountains.”

“Yes, yes,” Agni’s nodding. “That is what we call it. Some people say it is because of the way the buildings downtown reflect the sun’s rays, but the city went by these names long before those modern structures were built. Since the time that the original occupants—a group of the Kwakwaka’wakw people—first welcomed other Painters in. There are many theories as to how the title ‘light in the mountains’ might have been born. It is a phrase steeped in Christian mythology, but if you look at the meaning of the word Daxa—to have one’s eyes open—it is not difficult to imagine that the place has always been associated with light. A special place.”

“If it isn’t growing obvious to you yet,” Dylan says with a smile in his voice, his hands dropping lightly from my head as he steps around beside me, “in addition to being a highly skilled reader, Agni is a rather formidable historian.”

Agni smiles at this, shrugging a little. “I like to have a sense of where I fall in time and space.”

Dylan leans down and starts working on the cut of my hair now. As pieces of it scatter in feathery tufts I can feel his fingertips brushing against the back of my neck here and there, real quick and soft and obviously unintentional. Still, the electricity in my essensus sparks a little every time, as if it’s trying to jump out of my skin to reach him. And when he starts talking again, his voice is almost right in my ear, his breath distractingly warm against my neck.

“Daxa is a city with a rich history,” he says. “The oldest real Painter city that’s still in use. To me, it’s like a tapestry of the story of the birth and growth of the Republic. Or really, the story of all Painters as a whole.”

You can hear the pride in his words, this unexpected freedom of emotion that makes me want to turn and look at his face.

Agni’s voice has that same pride when he says, “It is a city of many stories, of many people.” He stands up and uses one of the pots from breakfast to scoop up the mulch he’s been making. “Particle-Blinds might call it eclectic, but I prefer to think of it as complete.”

Dylan steps in front of me to work on my bangs, leaning down for a better angle, his face suddenly real close and his eyes so focused on the line of hair right above my eyebrows that it’s hard not to feel like he’s actually staring into my eyes themselves.

I try not to act too awkward about it, but that’s kind of hard because the whole atmosphere in the clearing feels pretty intimate right now. I mean, the way he and Agni talk about Daxa, it’s like the way you’d describe the love of your life or something, all raw and reverent. Makes me feel a sort of affection for the place too even though I haven’t ever seen it, and at the same time it makes me real homesick. I mean, I don’t suppose too many other people’d wax all poetic like that about Flemingsburg or anything, but that’s kind of how I’ve always felt about the place.

“What’s going to happen when we get to Daxa?” I ask, looking over Dylan’s shoulder to where Agni’s spreading his mulch all over the base of the nearest trees.

“Well,” he glances back at me. “As we have said, I will have to leave you before you reach the city itself.”

“And after that?”

“Dylan will lead you to his home, introduce you to his family, get you ready for your life as Sophie Warren. There will be quite a lot to prepare, since you will start at Mawihl Academy on Monday. That’s just three days away. It will be something of a baptism by fire for you, I’m afraid.”

Three days doesn’t mean much to me right now. It could be years away or just a matter of moments. The time that’s passed since Dylan and Agni found me in Flemingsburg seems real hazy and unquantifiable, and when I try to look at my life going forward it feels about the same.

“We’re done,” Dylan says suddenly, taking a step back and looking down at me like he’s pretty pleased with his handiwork.

“Already?” I tug at the front ends of my hair to try and get a better look at the color.

“Use this,” Agni says, painting out a rectangular sheet of mirror and stepping over to wave it at me. His eyes travel over my hair and face and he gives me this big grin, all appreciative and pleased.

As I take the mirror from him, I’m real aware of this kind of excited, jittery feeling in my chest, but when I see the new me for the first time I just sort of go still.

Play it cool, I’m telling myself, suddenly feeling kind of weird about having an audience for this moment. Don’t act like a freak.

But honestly, I don’t think I’d care too much even if I did do something totally stupid right now because, well, I look amazing. I mean, Dylan got it exactly right. Better than I’d even imagined. The color’s all rich and sleek, and everywhere the sun hits it my hair shines so blue it’s practically sparkling. The way it frames my face I do almost look like a different person, and this girl—this girl might actually be able to save the world.

“I look…awesome.” I breathe out as I grin all giddy up at Dylan and Agni, totally ruining whatever coolness I might have been faking before. But Dylan’s grinning too, real big, and trying his best not to look too proud of himself.

“In Daxa they’d call you alpha,” he says.

“As in a dog?” I raise my eyebrows, and he and Agni kind of laugh.

“As in the first. An original. A trendsetter.”

I’ve never thought of myself as an original before. Of course, I don’t think I’ve ever known enough people to have that be a thing anyway.

“We do still need to do something about your clothes.”

I look down at my white polyester T-shirt and blue hiking pants that I just changed into this morning. First time in days I’ve been able to wear something clean.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“In our current circumstances, mostly it’s the fabrics. Once we’re in Daxa we’ll set you up with a wardrobe that’s more fitting for Painter fashions, but for now we’ll just have to do something about the way your clothes are made.”

“They’re too obviously Particle-Blind fabrics,” Agni chimes in from where he’s now disintegrating all the cookware. “If anyone stumbles onto you before you reach Dylan’s house it could make them unnecessarily curious.”

I look closer at the clothes that the two of them are wearing and I really can’t tell the difference between theirs and mine, but when Dylan takes the cuff of my shirt in his hands and starts to change the particle patterns of the fabric, I start to see what he means.

I may not understand much about the particle world yet, but even I can tell the new patterns probably make for a better fabric. Stronger and more flexible, even prettier as far as the particle patterns go. It’s all smooth and soft on my skin, and real breathable and sturdy. Like if you created the ultimate fabric for every situation, this would be it.

“When people meet you for the first time we want to solidify your new identity in their minds as quickly as possible,” Dylan says, crouching down to pinch at the hem of my pants and start the changes there. “We don’t want them wondering much about who you were before Daxa, about there being a difference between you then and now. The hair will help with that. It will dominate their impressions of you, make it hard to imagine you as anything else. Having the right clothes will help too.”

He’s started changing the color of my pants to white now, and, like he can feel my question before I’ve even asked it, he looks up at me out of the corner of his eye and explains, “We’ll be moving slowly enough now that we’ll be more easily visible to others. We’re heading into a territory that’s sufficiently populated to make particle sailing too risky, so it’s worth expending the energy to help us blend into the scenery a bit. Don’t want anyone to notice us if we can help it.”

He finishes transforming my pants and then moves to my boots, his long fingers all slender and tan against the grey leather. It’s started snowing again, thick white fluffs drifting down out of the blue sky and melting against the heat of the insulation barrier Dylan set up over our camp last night, giving this weirdly damp smell to the air.

There’s an odd sort of hush to the world around us too, as if all the sound is being swallowed up by the snow. And Agni, who’s just finished whitening his own clothes, looks even more like some strange Father Christmas as he strides across our little campsite to start working white into the packs.

Once my shoes are done, Dylan straightens up and glances around as if he’s looking for something. I stand up too, twisting my head back and forth a little to feel the brush of my hair against my shoulders. Dylan steps over to grab my hat off the ground where I left it this morning, and as he’s bringing it back over to me he turns it white as he walks.

“It’s a pity, but we’ll have to cover your hair for now,” he says, and then, as if it’s just some sort of instinct for him or something, he’s sliding the beanie onto my head himself and starting to tuck my hair inside of it.

It’s such a personal thing to do, getting all up in my space like that without any warning, and the surprise of it makes me look right into his eyes.

His hands pause for just a second, and then he’s pulling them away from me again and saying real smooth and casual like nothing’s at all unusual, “You can take over from here. I’ll go change the color of your other things.”

He strides off to where Agni is, and I’m left standing there with my heart still going a few beats too fast and my essensus kind of buzzing. It’s going to take me a long time to get used to having that little energy generator back there, always so ready to send its tingling down the back of my neck.

Not sure what else to do I just hang out in the middle of the clearing for a while, trying to act real nonchalant about it, until Dylan and Agni move away from our packs to take down the lean-to. Then I trudge over to my now white bag and sling it over my shoulders and watch from a safe distance while the two of them finish erasing all signs of our having been here.

When everything’s ready to go I have to climb onto Dylan’s back again, and as I wrap my arms around his neck it’s about all I can do not to think about his hands on the side of my face and his eyes looking right into mine.

We particle sail a ways away from the camp, just far enough to make it hard for anyone who might be trying to follow our trail. Then Agni and Dylan make these little wooden snowshoes for us and we head off on foot. After days of almost 100 mile-per-hour travel, it feels pretty painfully slow.

Agni fills the time by expounding on the customs of Daxa and Painter life there, monologuing along about all sorts of obscure little details that I’m betting Dylan didn’t even know and that, in practical terms, probably aren’t going to mean a whole lot to me day-to-day.

Stuff like, that the proper pronunciation for Daxa is actually something more like Dasha. A fact that he offers up real cheerful as I struggle to get me and my snowshoes over a waist-high ridge in the snow and end up having to get a boost up from Dylan instead.

However,” Agni adds, clearing the ridge himself as easy as if he were just stepping over a curb or something. “Voicing the ‘x’ has become so common throughout the Republic that even the younger Kwakwaka’wakw people do it now.”

He throws out the name of the native Daxans like it’s as simple a word as “dog” or “cat” or something and I kind of get the impression he takes a lot of pride in knowing how to say it, in knowing all the little things he seems to know.

The truth is that I like listening to him go on and on about this stuff. It’s like Melodie talking about her horse-riding competitions or Logan with his conspiracy theories. You end up loving it a little yourself because of the way they do.

Agni goes in depth into Painter greetings, saying that people don’t normally shake hands except with Particle-Blinds. Instead they do something called pono—a Maori word meaning “honest”—where they place their hands together, fingers against fingers and palms against palms.

He has me take off my glove and exchange pono with him, our hands sort of bumping against each other with the swaying of our snowshoed steps, little swells of electricity jumping between us each time we make contact.

“Some of the most sensitive essentual nerves are in our fingers and palms,” he says. “When you touch another Painter’s palm like this, you can feel the connection, can’t you? It is a sign of respect and politeness to allow this connection. It is like saying, ‘I will share myself with you.’ Or in other words, it is a promise of sincerity.”

When he starts talking about ramu, that greeting that involves touching the back of the neck, I can’t help glancing kind of guilty up at Dylan, but if he’s remembering how I accidentally touched him there last night he doesn’t give any sign. Doesn’t so much as look in my direction actually, which, to be honest, is just a little disappointing.

“The word ramu,” Agni explains, “means ‘to love,’ and it is derived from the ancient language Akkadian.” Glancing over at me with an eyebrow cocked and a confessional kind of smile, he adds, “Of course, that is a fact that even most Painters don’t know.”

I have to smile at that, and on the other side of Agni I can see that Dylan’s got a hint of a smile on his face as well.

“To greet someone with ramu and a touch of foreheads is to count them a very dear friend indeed, someone for whom you have great affection and care. Lovers, however, exchange ramu with a kiss, and when you have the chance to experience this you will see that it is one of the best feelings in the world. Which,” Agni waggles a finger at me all playful, “is a good reason not to do it with just anybody.”

My face flashes all hot and probably red, but at least I manage not to look at Dylan this time.

“That is one way by which I knew I had come to love my wife Ona. Ramu with her felt different than with anyone else. It was exciting and peaceful at the same time. Like a promise of what our future could be.”

The sun is bright in the sky now, setting the unbroken snow around us alive with dancing, reflected light. We’re keeping mostly to the trees, but the forest is thin enough here that the sun washes over us every few steps or so, bathing us in this real gentle, wintery warmth.

Not too long before we stop for lunch, we catch sight of a huge male elk. He’s just standing there all mighty and majestic, watching us from the top of a nearby ridge, and, as if on cue, we all stop in our tracks and stare back at him. It’s kind of funny to me that when Agni and Dylan’s lives are so full of things that seem pretty much unbelievable, they can still get just as awed and reverent as I do over something as normal as an animal in the wild.

About mid-afternoon we start having to duck out of sight of other travelers. First, it’s somebody that goes particle-sailing by so fast that I don’t really register them with my eyes so much as with my particle sight. We barely have enough time to find cover before the person’s already come and gone. Then, only half an hour later, a couple middle-aged women in strange flowing dresses and colorful pants come from another direction.

Every time Agni senses someone coming, he freezes mid-stride with this real arrested look on his face and he snaps out a warning in a sharp whisper that starts my heart racing and fills my mind with images of those two takers—Brock Schwarz and Lydia Banks—in the moments just before they died.

The third time Agni gives his warning, the three of us dive down behind a large drift of snow that’s run up against some trees, and we wait in tense silence to see who’s coming. The adrenaline’s biting through my veins and my pulse is pounding and, just like the two times before, I’m bracing myself for something dangerous and terrible, but then it’s just a family with three young kids that comes into view.

The parents are particle sailing pretty slow and pulling their kids behind them in this charming little wooden sleigh. The children are leaning out the sides of it, riding their hands along the wind like you would out a car window, and the whole family’s belting out this boisterous sort of carol or something in a language I don’t understand.

With them all bundled up in festive colors, their cheeks rosy with the cold, it’s like a scene straight off some Hallmark greeting card. It’s so innocent a thing to see when I keep expecting the worst that I almost feel like laughing. When I glance over at Dylan and Agni, though, the expressions on their faces don’t mirror mine at all. Their eyes are fixed on the family and, Dylan especially, just looks totally lost, like his mind’s clocked in somewhere else and like that place is just short of awful.

I glance back over the snow drift at the family and try to figure out whatever it is that’s made Dylan and Agni so suddenly sad, but once again I just end up feeling like the weird kid at the party. The only one that doesn’t know what’s going on. The family disappears into the forest, laughing at something one of the kids just shouted over the noise of their song, and then the three of us are just sitting there in silence again and I’m watching Dylan and Agni and wondering when they’re going to come out of their trance.

I poke with my mind at the particle patterns of the clothes I’m wearing, and, beyond that, at the delicate geometric patterns in the particles of the snow. With the trees blocking us from the sun, I can feel the chill of the air on my cheeks, but whatever it is Dylan did to my clothes, they manage to keep the cold pretty well away from the rest of me. If it weren’t for the strain in my legs I could probably crouch here forever without getting too uncomfortable and, looking at Dylan and Agni’s still stoney faces, I’m wondering if that’s exactly what we’re going to do.

Then Agni breaks, letting out this little sigh of a sound and glancing over at Dylan and me. His eyes pause on Dylan’s face, his lips pulling back into a gentle sort of smile that’s sad enough it might as well just be a frown. Clearly, he knows whatever it is that Dylan’s so broken up about.

He rests his hand all soft on Dylan’s shoulder as he stands up, saying, “If we’re close enough to the city to encounter day-trippers we’ll have to be more cautious going forward.”

He stares off into the trees in the direction we’ve been going.

“I’d better move up ahead of you so I can sense them coming from further away. It’ll only give you a few extra seconds to hide, but every second counts.”

Dylan and I stand up too, me watching both their faces for any signs of what this is all about. But Dylan’s real careful not to look either Agni or me in the eye and, for once, Agni’s expression is pretty unreadable too.

“I’ll keep my mind open for anyone approaching from behind,” Dylan says as he’s brushing the snow off his knees with a level of concentration that is way beyond what the task requires.

After studying him for a moment, Agni moves to slide the backpack off Dylan’s shoulders and Dylan doesn’t protest.

“We’ll reach the pass by midnight, I’m thinking.” Agni says, hoisting the pack onto his own back and adjusting the straps.

Dylan just gives this little nod, in this way that seems to say a lot more to Agni than it does to me.

When we head out again, Dylan and I walk side by side in a silence that is practically pulsing with whatever’s on Dylan’s mind, the absence of Agni’s cheerful stream of trivia making our own quiet all that much more obvious. I watch Agni up ahead of us, moving in and out of the trees, his head angling up every once in a while as if he’s listening for something.

“How do you and Agni know when someone is coming?” I ask after a while, as interested in shutting off the silence as I am in getting the actual answer. “How’d I know it was Agni coming last night?”

It kind of works. Dylan glances over at me and presses his lips together a little as if he’s considering my question. From this angle he’s framed almost perfectly against the sun, his face thrown into a sort of sepia-toned shadow.

“It’s possible to sense another person’s essence from quite a ways off. Not many people can do it. You’ve got to train yourself for it. That is,” he glances at me again, “most of us have to. The current theory for how this works is that our essentual energy is drawn to other essentual energy in much the same way a magnet works, but that you’ve got to open your mind up to the pull of it in order to recognize it’s there. Agni’s much better than I am, but recognizing an essence as belonging to a particular individual like you did—well, as far as I know that sensibility is strictly Way Reader territory.”

“Like, Spidey senses or something?”

I could swear Dylan nearly smiles then, cocking one eyebrow at me in a sort of a question.

“As in Spiderman, the super hero?” I offer, and he gives me this look that is exactly one step away from rolling his eyes.

“I do know what Spidey senses are,” he says. “I simply wouldn’t have thought to compare the two.”

“What other Way Reader senses am I going to have? X-ray vision? A lasso of truth?”

Now the smile flashes through despite himself, and I like the feeling that I’m the one that made that smile happen.

“Couldn’t tell you. It’s different for every Way Reader. Agni can give you a long list of possibilities if you like.”

Then we fall into silence again, and if it’s not quite so heavy as it was a few minutes ago it’s still not as comfortable as I’d like.

After a while of that silence going on and on, I blink myself into my imaginary world, to a magical land ruled by ice trolls. I’ve stolen the seven-league boots from the ice troll prince and escaped from their frozen castle where they were going to roast me and eat me for dinner. Every step I take rushes me away from them, dozens of miles at a time.

My heart’s not in the daydream, though. Not with Dylan glooming along beside me. He’s walking real fast now too. Focused. I think that maybe he’s in a hurry to be home, like maybe being this close to Daxa makes ignoring his own homesickness harder.

“Tell me more about your family,” I say to him, skipping forward a bit so I can see up into his face.

He just gives me this sidelong glance with his eyebrows all raised up in this expression like he’s wondering exactly what I’m expecting him to do with that request.

“Like, how about your cousin. You said he lives with you?”

“Mm,” Dylan slides his hands into his pockets and turns his face up to the sky. “Gwilim’s lived with us since we were both about four years old, he and I. Since his mum died. All of us kids were close, but Gwilim—well, it’s always been the two of us. Like twins almost.”

The way he says it, it’s like he’s talking about something that’s not the case anymore, and I squint up at him, trying to get a sense of his expression.

“What changed?”

It’s a few seconds before he answers and I’m thinking maybe my question crossed some sort of line or something, but then he says, all tired-like, “I’m not sure what happened. Gwilim’s always been…moody, I suppose.”

I almost laugh at this. I mean, I guess moody’s not usually the word I’d use to describe Dylan himself, but at the moment at least, it’s pretty close.

“When Gwilim’s mum died, he came to live with us. His da—well, his da is president now, but even then he was an ambitious politician and I suppose he thought he didn’t have time to raise a kid. Gwilim’s careful not to show it, but he feels things strongly, and his da’s letting him go like that has always bothered him, I think. The idea that he could be sluffed off so readily, that people you care about can just disappear—”

Dylan stops talking suddenly, his jaw clamping shut real tight and that same lost look from before washing over him.

I’m still trying to figure out if he really just said that his uncle is president—as in the president, of the whole Painter Republic—so it takes me a second to register that something’s changed.

When he starts talking again, it’s like every word holds a special little pain for him. A pain that’s got to be handled with care. Like, if he doesn’t maintain absolute control of his emotions right now, one of these words might just break him.

“Last year,” his voice hangs in the air all sour and spare, “my older brother died. Then came Da’s imprisonment, and then Mum left for Wales. Gwilim’s not been the same since. None of us have.”

Calling Dylan moody a few minutes ago—well, that seems real inappropriate now. I’m thinking back to that look in his eyes in the car outside Flemingsburg, when I was trying to decide if I would go with him and Agni. To that moment when I was sure Dylan understood just exactly what I was feeling, and how that made everything just a little bit easier for me.

I’m not real sure I can do the same for him right now—not sure that any understanding I’ve got could even come close to what he’s actually feeling—but after having stood in my ruined kitchen wondering if my mom was dead, there’s at least a little that I think I might understand.

“Is it hard?” I ask, glancing up kind of tentative into his face. “Having so many people that you care about?”

The look he gives me then—out of the corner of his eyes and real sharp, as if he’d never properly seen me before—makes my heart take this little leap and my breath just sort of pause. It’s unnerving, that feeling that for a second there he could see right inside me, to some part of me that I’m pretty sure I don’t even know that well myself.

“You care about people too,” he says finally, looking away again, his profile etched all precise and pretty against the sun.

I kind of nod and shrug, feeling a little extra out of my element for some reason.

“Yeah,” I say, kind of lame, “but other than my mom I don’t think I’ve ever felt all that responsible for anyone else.”

Until now, of course. Until, apparently, the whole world’s supposed to be my responsibility. We’re quiet again for a few minutes, the rhythm of our snowshoes in the snow keeping time as the seconds tick awkwardly away.

Then Dylan, with his voice low and kind of disarmingly gentle, says, “Your da—programming the locket and his photograph like he did—that’s some powerful painting. He must’ve been an incredible man.”

I’ve got no idea what to say to this. On the one hand, it feels somehow like a thing I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear. On the other hand, for some reason knowing that Dylan lost a brother that he knew and loved, it’s hard to feel like I’ve got any claim on a man I’ve never even met.

“Thank you,” I say, kind of quiet, because even if I’m not sure I’ve got much of a right to feel it, Dylan’s words have made me real proud.

The sun is low on the horizon now, stretching all the shadows longer and darker, making it harder to pick Agni out of the mosaic of snow drifts and trees ahead of us.

It occurs to me that this is how it’s going to be for the rest of the afternoon—Agni up there and Dylan and me back here—right up until it’s time to say goodbye. I know I’m going to see Agni again, but I still feel kind of scared somehow. Kind of somber and overwhelmed.

“What do we actually know about these takers?” I ask Dylan, trying not to sound as petrified by the idea of them as I actually am.

He’s clearly been lost in his own thoughts, somewhere far away from this moment and this place. It takes him a minute to answer.

“Not a great deal that’s useful,” he says finally, with this strange, sour little laugh. “We know they’ve infiltrated the Republic government, but not to what level or to what purpose. We know they have a network of hideouts in Daxa and, probably, across the world, but we don’t know where any of the important ones are located. We’ve entrenched agents in their organization, but the leaders are smart about how they’re running things, and they’ve set up so many safeties against infiltration that the information we’ve gained is sadly piecemeal.”

He stares up into the dimming light of the sky for a few seconds, his footsteps falling kind of fierce and heavy on the snow.

“For instance, several of their hideouts are essentially quarantined, where the members stationed there are disallowed from interacting with anyone from other locations, forbidden to speak about the work they’ve been assigned. It makes it practically impossible for us to put together any sort of big picture.”

Bringing his hand up to his head, he starts rubbing along the top of his hat as if even thinking about all this is making his head hurt.

“What makes it worse is that they believe themselves to be guided by some supposed higher moral purpose, that history has taught humans false mercy—taught us to be weak and soft—and that they, the Sons of Morning, have a duty to make us strong again. That the whole human race will die out without them. It’s utter rubbish, of course, but it’s hard to fight against a strong belief like that. Especially when their leaders know how to make good use of it.”

“Who are their leaders?”

“The main one goes by the name Beelzebub, but we don’t know his real identity, or even what he looks like. There’s rumored to be another leader—an even more powerful one—going by the title The Angel, but it’s probably just a ruse. A mysterious figure set up as a sort of savior for the Sons of Morning to rally behind.”

“So, they think,” I start, and I know I sound totally incredulous, “that killing loads of people and gobbling up their energy is somehow part of them saving the world?”

Dylan gives me a rueful smile.

“A means to an end, they say. They need the essentual energy to do whatever it is they’re trying to do. And they say that their victims deserve it. It’s one of their recruiting strategies, offering to help dispense justice against the people that have wronged you, sort of thing.”

“That’s crazy. They’ve got to know that’s crazy, right?”

“You’d be surprised what you can get people to do when you give them a sense of purpose.”

I’m feeling kind of sick to my stomach now. I mean, I knew these takers were bad news, but more and more I’m having to face the fact that I’m not going to be dealing with villains from some campfire story. These people are real. And they’re totally insane.

The mountains here are a lot taller than before. Savage and severe and stunning, with these long peaks as harsh as icicles. The sun’s falling behind them now, transforming their silhouettes into razor-sharp, angry teeth, and covering everything in this blue-hazed duskiness that turns the world around us real unearthly.

The crunch of our shoes in the snow sends dull echoes out against the towering mountain walls, bounces answers back like weird, distant laughter. We don’t talk anymore. I’m guessing neither of us is in the mood for it. Up ahead, even Agni seems to be moving with more caution, and the forest is so quiet here that I can hear Dylan’s breath going in and out, in and out, slightly out of time with his footsteps.

I find myself searching the dark shadows between the trees around us, my skin crawling with this feeling like someone’s watching me, like they’re just out of sight themselves.

Just as the sun gets swallowed completely behind the mountains, a blast of particle sight comes slamming forward in my brain, rushing images in with such a shock of warning that for a second I lose all sense of where I am. I go stumbling forward, feel the world dip all topsy-turvy around me. Then Dylan’s got my elbows and he’s pulling me upright before I can hit the ground.

“What is it?” he’s asking, his eyes fierce on mine, locking me back into the tangible world.   

“Something’s coming.” I think my fingers are digging too tight into his arms. “Something bad.”

Previous: Chapter 7

Next: Chapter 9


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