Mutt

by Evan Fuller

  12

  Colors

  His sleep was dreamless and deep. Drifting gradually back into consciousness, Emery peered through one eye around his bedroom: by the darkness around the edges of the window drapes, he judged that the sun had set. He attempted to rise to a sitting position, but almost immediately the nausea surfaced again. Emery whispered a prayer of thanks that he'd thought to set a basin beside the bed. After that, he surrendered himself to unconsciousness again. When the sun's rays slithered through the tiny gaps between the windows and drapes, he was feeling no better. He managed to rise this time and stumbled down the stairs. When he found Lydia, he learned that the others were bedbound as well, their lesions festering with infection. Leaving them in her care, Emery found the telephone and pulled four of the little numbered levels in sequence. He was greeted by the voice of Alan, Juliet's father. Emery asked him to inform his daughter that he'd taken ill and would have to cancel their engagement. Alan promised to pass the message along. Emery wished him a good day, then crawled back up the stairs to his room.

  The next few days blurred together, an endless procession of the same recurring hour. The sunlight made Emery's splitting headaches worse, so he kept the curtains closed, but then day and night were almost the same thing. By Sunday evening he could keep food down, and then Monday morning arrived and he forced himself to rise and attend his classes. It was all he could do to stay awake through the lectures; on the other hand, he was growing restless spending so much time at rest. Every day he waited fretfully for some change in the amulet around his neck, hoping he'd find his strength before it was time. Slowly he started feeling better, and Lydia reported that Timothy and Miren were both improving as well, doubtless thanks to their steady diet of medicine from the low hospital.

  A full week after his visit to Dr. Hanssen, Emery woke in the evening with a ravenous appetite. He hadn't been able to eat much even once he could eat. But now, though he was still weak, he thought the illness must be behind him. He lazily donned the first shirt he could find, hiking up the sleeves and not bothering to do the buttons. Foraging through the kitchen refrigerator, he was delighted to find that someone had prepared some peppers and steak over rice and stored the uneaten portion in a lidded glass bowl. He was debating whether to put it on the stove when a voice behind him said, “You want some help eating that?”

  Emery turned, startled: the kitchen had been dark when he'd entered, so he'd assumed he was alone. Miren was sitting at the glass table with a glass of wine, the bottle half-empty beside her. “We can trade,” she continued, motioning to a second, empty glass.

  It took Emery a moment to recover from the surprise. “You're not supposed—”

  “You made Timothy tell me all the rules, remember?” She gave a little shrug. “I'm not breaking any of them. Besides, Oliver says being seventeen makes me an adult in Rittenhouse.”

  Emery sighed; apparently, he was going to need to make some new rules. For now, he sat down at the table and filled the other glass. “Where'd you even find this?”

  “In one of the rooms downstairs,” Miren replied. “The one next to the weapons closet.” At Emery's nervous glance she added, “don't worry, Oliver wouldn't let me take anything from there if I tried.”

  Emery couldn't argue with that. “Are you feeling much better?”

  “Yeah. The medicine is helping, and everyone here has been nice. Lydia's putting the little girl to bed now.” The sores on Miren's arms were bandaged now. She gazed out the kitchen window for a long moment. “Today's the equinox,” she said. “They'll be celebrating outside Rittenhouse.”

  Emery took a sip of the wine, then decided he was more hungry than thirsty. “Some people inside Rittenhouse celebrate it too,” he replied. “I can't believe autumn is just now officially beginning; the leaves turned weeks ago. I think the winters are getting longer every year.” He tried to follow her gaze, but the kitchen light blinded him to whatever lay beyond the window. Maybe that was why she'd been sitting in darkness. “How do they celebrate it back home?”

  In the moment it took her to respond, Emery could see that his question touched upon more than Miren was willing to reveal. “Um,” she said, glancing downward. “Well, back home we—”

  “Listen,” he interrupted. “Back before the sewers, when I said I couldn't put up with lying here, I meant it. If there's something you're not ready to talk about, that's perfectly okay. I'd much rather you say so than make something up.”

  Emery half-expected Miren to take offense. Instead, she smiled, looking relieved, and reached for the food. “Okay. Besides,” she teased, “you wouldn't want to hear about it anyway. We're into all that witchcraft stuff you can't stand.”

  Emery laughed despite himself. “I'm sure my ears would melt off just to hear of it.”

  Miren raised her glass and took a long swallow of wine, draining half its contents. “Here's what I don't get,” she said. “You say you don't like magic, but you're wearing those charms.”

  Emery poked at the little stone amulet Green had made him. “This is so the king can get in touch with us the moment he's found a way to Three Dogs. Trust me, I put up a fight before taking it, but unfortunately there was no other way, and we can't afford to miss the opportunity.”

  Miren nodded. “And what about the other one?”

  Emery shot a confused glance downward to where the open shirt revealed his chest. “Oh,” he said. “That's no charm. It's called a Unity necklace. Unity is the government that the different races in Rittenhouse share. Everyone in Rittenhouse wears one of these from the time they turn seventeen and swear their allegiance to Unity. The four rings symbolize the four races, or 'circles,' that make up the city.”

  “Four?” Miren asked. She glanced at her wine glass suspiciously, as if wondering whether its influence was deceiving her. “I only count three.” She leaned across the table and tapped each of the three silver rings that hung in a chain from the band around Emery's neck. “One, two, three.”

  “Four,” Emery said, touching the band itself. “The neck band symbolizes the wearer's own circle, the allegiance that binds him or her to Unity. My circle, the Roccetti, have silver necklaces; Lydia and the other Farsi wear bronze.”

  “So it's not magic,” Miren concluded, downing the rest of her wine and reaching for the bottle.

  Emery gave his own glass a little swirl; he wasn't too fond of reds. He took another bite of the cold steak and rice. “If it is,” he answered with a smile, “no one's told me yet.”

  Miren nodded sleepily. With an arm on the table to prop up her chin, she returned her sapphire gaze to the night. “Emery,” she murmured, “what do you think our chances are?”

  For a long time Emery regarded her, wondering what to say. He realized for the first time that beneath the features of her disease she was very pretty; he remembered the strange attraction he had felt upon their first meeting. It had left a bitter taste in his mouth; he felt as though his senses had betrayed him, a feeling that always made him uneasy. Even now, he couldn't help but wonder what she might look like when she returned to health. If she returned to health. If their next foray into the wastes ended in success instead of disaster.

  “Everything has come together so far,” he answered slowly, glancing into his glass for an answer he did not find. “Let's just pray it keeps going this well.”

  When he made his way back upstairs and into the master bathroom, the visage that peered back at him through the mirror was a fatigued one. Though he was sure he'd spent almost as much time bathing as he had sleeping in the past week, he couldn't shake the feeling that after the excursion through the sewers, no number of showers could be deemed too great. He felt as though the sewage had sunk into his skin and was still sloshing around beneath its surface. He turned the temperature up and sighed relief as the stream of water seared his back.

  When he reemerged into the bedroom, he found Lydia sitting on his bed. Caught off guard, Emery nearly tripped over himself bac
king into the bathroom. “Um, I'm not exactly decent.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Lydia seemed not to mind, but she took this as a cue to divert her eyes. Rather than leaving the room, she simply turned and faced the far wall as Emery nervously dressed. He donned the only pair of pants he could find without approaching the bed and fumbled for a shirt before deciding it was a moot gesture at this point. He sat down next to Lydia on the bed. “What time is it?”

  “After eleven. Everyone else has gone to bed.” She examined his shoulders, still red from the shower. “What did you do to your back?”

  “I was hoping to melt that first layer of skin off, just in case there was still any sewage on me,” Emery said, grinning. “I wish I could burn the ache out of my muscles.”

  “Do you want a massage?” Lydia asked. The question was probably innocent, but Emery knew better than to take the first step down that road. “I'm alright,” he said, “I think I just need more sleep.”

  “Okay.” There was a palpable shift in the room as they both remembered the boundaries between them. “Oh,” Lydia said after a moment of silence, “Maestra Petrou called while you were resting. You're meeting with her tomorrow.”

  Emery wondered what he had done to incense his linguistics instructor. “Alright. What time?”

  “Noon,” Lydia said.

  “Perfect. I should be out of bed by then.” Emery stretched his arms and wondered if that would be the case. “Juliet is coming over to work with me for a while after she's done her classes. Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

  Lydia shook her head. “I'll be here. I like watching you two work, and if the others need anything, I'll be able to take care of it so you can focus.”

  “Bless you,” Emery said. “I want you to know, though, that you're free to take a day off if you'd like. It's been a few weeks since you've done that.” He swallowed and forced out the next sentence as convincingly as he could: “Why don't you and Mikul do something?”

  Lydia cleared her throat. “He's busy all this week,” she said quickly.

  “Mhmm.” Emery tried and promptly failed to stop himself from asking, “How are you two doing?”

  “Fine,” Lydia lied feebly. “I mean, we can talk about it later, but you're tired…”

  For once, Emery didn't press. “Yeah, you can tell me about that tomorrow.” He yawned. “I think I really do need to go back to sleep now.” Rather than standing to leave as he expected, Lydia edged closer. He felt her hand on his forearm. “Would you like me to stay here tonight? You've had a rough day.”

  The tide of mixed feelings swelled. “I…” The heat of her gaze penetrated deeper than the jets of shower water, melting the cold that Emery still felt. He almost agreed, but after a crucial moment of hesitation, nervousness and guilt suppressed his longing. “This isn't what we decided,” he said weakly. “You're with someone else.”

  She didn't meet his eyes. “I know. It's just that you had me worried. And when you were out there and I was worrying, I felt like an idiot…” Lydia let the sentence hang. “I'll see you tomorrow, Emery.”

  “Yeah. Be safe getting home.” They embraced awkwardly, and Lydia made a quick retreat from the room, shutting the door behind her. This time, it was forever before Emery could find his way back to sleep.

  The others were all glad to see him up and about when he awoke late the next morning, but Emery's appointment with M. Petrou compelled him to hurry out the door. “It's just a meeting,” he said as Geneva pouted. “I'll be back in before you know I'm gone.”

  “You keep going away,” the young girl replied. “I don't like it when you're gone.”

  “I don't like it when I'm gone either,” Emery said, “which is why I won't be gone long this time. I'll see you in about an hour, okay?” He hugged her quickly and made for the door.

  A cold front had blown in sometime in the last week; though the calendar claimed autumn had only just begun, winter was creeping into the air. Emery paid the difference for a ticket in one of the train's enclosed cars: these cost three rai, while a ride on the flatcars at the rear of the train only cost one. The three-rai ticket bought a warmer ride but required its riders to stand; yet more expensive cars toward the front of the train included seats and other amenities. Emery always bought the three-rai ticket in the colder months to avoid freezing, and he felt terrible for those passengers who could afford nothing but the open cars at the back of the train.

  For once, Emery arrived at the collegio with time to spare, likely thanks to the energy granted him by a week of sleep. His back was still sore from the previous day's exertions, but he no longer felt ready to collapse. Emery entered the faculty offices to find M. Petrou's door ajar, so he ducked tentatively into the room. The maestra's suite was simple but appealing; the entire wall on one side was glass, offering a stunning view of the forest outside Rittenhouse. It all looked so serene from inside. “Maestra,” Emery said, “I was told you requested to see me.”

  “Come in, Emery.” Emery stepped the rest of the way into the office. M. Petrou's face was concealed by long hair, rich black interrupted by a single bold streak of silver, as she examined a square stone tablet containing a student's writing. On the desk beside her were stacked a dozen identical tiles of the dark stone. “These tablets,” she said distastefully. “I can hardly imagine a less convenient medium for writing. It would be much easier to do everything on paper, but that's far too expensive with our current means of producing it.” She looked up, and sage, clear gray eyes met Emery's. “What do you think?”

  “Well,” Emery said, “I think we've recovered enough books to show us that pre-extinction society had developed paper production to the point where they could do it inexpensively. If we focus a recovery effort on that technology specifically and work to refine our own methods in the process, sooner or later we'll see a breakthrough.” The maestra nodded.

  “But I think that would be a half-measure,” Emery quickly added. “In M. Oburumu's class the other day, we were talking about old-world technologies and the decline of books in the decades leading up to extinction. Maybe there's another explanation for that, but my guess is that paper was replaced by some better technology, one we haven't found yet. We can try to streamline what we're already doing, but if we really want to solve the paper problem, we should be working to uncover that tech, whatever it is.”

  “That's an astute answer,” M. Petrou told him. “You're becoming known for astute answers around here. Has anyone ever told you that your academic performance is above average?”

  Emery shrugged, unsure of how to answer the question without sounding arrogant. He felt almost as uncomfortable receiving such direct praise from M. Petrou as he did Dr. Hanssen's insults: at least his own peers had given him some experience in dealing with the latter. “Yeah. A few times.”

  There was something written on the maestra's attractive features that Emery could not read. “We live in a pragmatic world,” she said. “We teach linguistics at the collegio because understanding language aids us in translation, which in turn contributes greatly to the vital process of recovery. But in the old world, the study of language was of interest for much broader reasons. The skill of writing, of using words to create, was regarded as an art as elevated as painting.”

  It was well known at the collegio that Emery was an avid painter: the pieces he displayed in the school gallery were always praised—though, much to his frustration, always less so than his academic work. The idea of writing as art did appeal to him, but with painting, he had at least some hope of actually being recognized for his efforts. In Rittenhouse, writing was, as the instructor had said, studied first and foremost for its archeological significance.

  “I mention this,” M. Petrou continued, “because you have a gift for writing. I see it in the responses you've written in class. It's something I think you should work to develop.”

  Emery's discomfort at this statement was different than the mere shyness at being praised. To be told he had a g
ift carried a strange connotation, some vague responsibility that he didn't want. “I'm glad you like my writing,” he said awkwardly. The irony wasn't lost on Emery: in M. Petrou's presence, his language became more pedestrian. His apprehension made him shirk the very gift for which he was being commended.

  “The reason I wanted to talk to you today,” the maestra said, “is that several of the faculty have noticed that you've been struggling here. The quality of your work is excellent, but you've been coming to school late, missing assignments, and even falling asleep in class. I supposed this was due to disinterest with the pace of your courses, a need for more engaging work. And if that's the case, we can make arrangements to give you assignments you'll find more interesting. But M. Oburumu insisted it was something else.”

  Emery was unsure what to say, so he waited silently until M. Petrou asked, “Was he right?”

  Emery nodded. “It's something else,” he said. I've been hiding refugees from outside in my basement and bribing the hospital for illegal medication…

  “Is it about what happened when you first came here?” M. Petrou asked gently. Everyone in Rittenhouse knew about it, of course; even those who didn't recognize Emery knew the story of the boy who had been abducted while traveling from Ambler. It was the reason all transit between the cities now involved heavily armed convoys rather rather than individual cars. A single vehicle could too easily be immobilized, its driver killed and its lone passenger kidnapped to hold for ransom or sell in pieces to the Washington Circle natives for their rituals. To everyone else, Emery's abduction was a horror story. To Emery, the month after the initial trauma and injury had been eye-opening: the gateman Manuel had rescued him and taken him to the king, and the course of Emery's life from that moment on had been changed irrevocably. Of course, that part of the story had been dismissed by the residents of Rittenhouse when he had finally appeared at the city's gates weeks later: they remembered only the tale of one of their own children snatched by the barbarians outside. Contrary to his own desires, Emery's story had sparked a new wave of fury for the people of the wastes.

  Emery was prepared to lie outright to M. Petrou, but he thought he had finally decoded her expression. It was concern, and he felt he could trust her, if not with the knowledge of what he was doing, than at the very least with the feelings behind his actions. “What happened back then is part of it, I guess.” Emery shifted his weight in the chair where he sat. “I don't know. There was a lot of ugly stuff at home too, before I even left Ambler. When I was younger, my cousin was killed by an outsider who broke into the city. I don't know if that story made it here.” The maestra nodded; apparently it had.

  “Yeah. Well, I was there when that happened. I…I saw it.” Emery shivered and quickly forced the memory back down into his gut. “And what happened to me outside…that story got retold a lot differently than I told it. I saw a lot of things, and not all of them were bad things. It was the good things, the good people there, that made me second-guess the way we do things in here, that made me question the significance of sitting in a classroom, no matter how much I appreciate the opportunity.”

  He stopped there, feeling that he had already said too much: another word, and he might betray himself. M. Petrou was quiet for a long time. Emery felt that he had crossed some invisible line, had said things a student was not permitted to say to his instructor. But no, he was sure it was deeper than that. The concern, still present on her face, met another sensation—Emery wanted to think it was empathy—and then resolved in decision. “I can't tell you what you saw,” M. Petrou said, “and neither can anyone else. But what you're talking about is precisely the type of aim for which a strong basis in linguistics is so useful. If you want to change people's minds, especially on something as deep-seated as what they think of people outside Rittenhouse, you can't merely speak. You need to wield your ideas with a full awareness of how best to convey them to your audience and how to overpower an opposing argument. You need to use the art form as a weapon. That's why I'm going to ensure that you have every opportunity to succeed here. You can use what we're teaching in ways that most of our students wouldn't care to if they could.”

  “Thanks,” Emery said. Her response was fastidiously noncommittal with regard to what Emery had told her, but she did seem genuinely interested in his well-being. He wouldn't argue with that.

  “I'm recommending you to a counselor,” M. Petrou continued. “I think you've experienced a lot of things that are causing you difficulty right now, and they're going to start impacting your life as well as your studies if you don't address them.”

  Emery cringed, suddenly feeling much less grateful. “Will I have to go to the hospital?” he croaked.

  “The counselor comes to the school for meetings with individual students, so everyone will assume it's a tutoring session unless you tell them otherwise. Give me your schedule and I'll find a good time.”

  Emery wanted to say there probably wasn't a single student at the school who would think he was receiving tutoring rather than therapy; he was known for being academically gifted and eccentric in equal measure. Then he wanted to scream that it was illegal activity, not past trauma, that was causing his poor performance in school. He bit his tongue and wrote his schedule for the maestra on a spare tablet. “I don't think this is really necessary,” he said.

  “Go for a few weeks,” M. Petrou said, “and if you're not getting anything out of it, you're free to discontinue the meetings. I think you'll find it beneficial in ways you can't imagine right now.” She smiled and added, “Just like a linguistics degree.”

  “Alright.” Emery stood to leave. “I'll see you next week, then.”

  The maestra nodded. “Have a good weekend.”

  Emery reached the door, then stopped himself and turned around. “And M. Petrou? Umm, thanks. Really.”

  “Don't mention it. And even though you'll be seeing a counselor, if you ever need someone else with whom to talk, feel free to visit me.” She waved. “Take care, Emery.”

  “Thank you.” Emery excused himself from the office, and when he reached the staircase, he took the stairs three at a time. On the first floor he found Juliet, who was just getting out of class, and the two boarded the train toward Emery's home.

  “You look a lot better,” Juliet said as they took their seats in the three-rai car.

  Emery grinned. “Considering how I looked last week, I suppose that's not saying much.”

  “So.” Juliet leaned in, lowering her voice. “Tell me everything.”

  “Not a word till we're inside my house,” Emery said. “You won't believe half of this.”

  On the ride back, Juliet filled Emery in on the week he'd lost to sickness. Juliet had been painting tirelessly, which was nothing new, but she'd also been trying her hand at music with a new friend. Sander was a Vorteil student a year older than Emery and Juliet. Emery knew him only in passing; he had an unusually kind disposition and an affinity for the violin. “He's Carla Engal's brother,” Juliet said, “but he's still pretty cool.”

  As soon as they had reached the estate, he told Juliet the story, beginning with Timothy's arrival: Dr. Hanssen's demand, the leap from the train to Fairmount, Green's arrival in the midst of what had nearly been a deadly confrontation, Emery's audience with the king, and at last, Miren. “She's sicker than Timothy,” he said, “and the gateman had to give her an elixir to get her on her feet for the trip back here. We were coming up through the sewers—it was my first time coming in that way; I can't tell you how bad it is—and the elixir wore off and she collapsed. Timothy and I had to carry her the rest of the way; we nearly drowned getting back here.”

  “Damn,” Juliet said, “I'm glad you didn't. So now I guess you need medicine for two people.”

  Emery nodded. “But I have that worked out. I dropped by the hospital last week to pick up the package, and I told him my price had doubled. He looked like he was ready to break my jaw, but he agreed.”

  “Be careful
with him,” Juliet cautioned. “I've only met him a couple times, but anyone who gets into his position is a powerful person.”

  “I think I have him cornered,” Emery said, but the words tasted false in his mouth. He shivered, telling himself it was only the cold air from which they had just escaped. They took the stairs to the basement studio where they were did all their work, and Emery was unsurprised to see the rest of the household gathered there.

  “Emery's back!” Geneva leapt from her seat on the couch and enclosed his waist in a crushing hug: Emery had long since stopped being surprised to feel such force in her thin arms. Lydia looked ready to do the same, but instead she waved and said, “Hi, Juliet.” Emery's friend returned the greeting.

  “I made some lunch,” Lydia said, walking towards the kitchenette to retrieve beef-and-cheese sandwiches. Oliver and Geneva had been engaged in a board game before Emery and Juliet's arrival, and after Geneva unlatched herself from Emery's torso and Oliver greeted their guest, the two returned to their play. “You can't move that piece there,” Oliver explained to the girl, drumming his fingers in impatient triplets.

  “Timothy, Miren,” Emery said. The two were sitting together on the couch; Emery wondered if Timothy had left the new girl's side all day. “This is my friend Juliet. She's the only other person in Rittenhouse who knows what I do here. Juliet, these are the new arrivals I told you about.”

  “It's nice to meet you,” Timothy said, rising to extend an earnest hand.

  Juliet nodded as they shook. “Good to meet you too.” She extended her hand to Miren, who took it reluctantly. “Hey,” Miren replied simply, with a nervousness thinly disguised as disregard.

  “I see a future for Miren in the market,” Emery said. “She's so personable, I think she'd do brilliantly in sales.” With a thought to avoid damaging the fragile bond he'd established with her, he added, “But really, we're glad to have her with us.”

  Emery and Juliet gratefully ate the food Lydia had prepared; the others had already partaken. “What do you want to work on today?” Juliet asked.

  Emery shrugged. “I've been kind of distracted with everything, honestly. Do you have any ideas?”

  “I've been thinking about this color spectrum piece, actually,” Juliet said. “We each compose one half of a diptych, one with cold colors and one with hots.”

  “Sounds good.” Emery stood and began pacing. “Any ideas for subject matter?”

  Juliet shook her head. “I think this could end up being a pretty involved project,” she said. “Let's just do some smaller, abstract ones today and see what comes to mind, and then we can begin plotting out the finals.” She made vague, airy motions with her hands as she spoke.

  “Alright,” Emery said. “Color preference?”

  “I dunno, I could go either way.”

  “Okay, then, I'll take the hots. After the past few days, I'm feeling the urge to set fire to something anyway.”

  Juliet laughed, and they made their way to the center of the room to set up. Two stools, easels, palates, a handful of brushes, and some scraps of recycled canvas later, they sat back to back, each focusing inward. Emery was struggling to tame his scattered thoughts and emotions; he began with a single stroke, violent red, across his canvas' center. He followed it with several more bold, choppy marks, until the entire canvas was stricken through with scarlet. He painted quickly, recklessly, and found that his choice had been correct: he was much more suited today to the haphazard voices of the reds and yellows and oranges than the subdued tones Juliet wielded. They worked in silence, with no contact except the sense of the other's presence; Lydia and the others came to watch without breaking the perfect calm. Emery felt the ever-present tension in his body condense and run from his hand into the oil: it was here, on this plane, that he could loose the dread and hurt and longing that bubbled inside him, the fierce sensations he worked so hard to restrain. Every unspoken word for Hanssen, every touch Lydia would never feel, all smeared glistening and bright like entrails on the canvas' coarse surface. When his hand stopped moving, they would all be silent, never eradicated, but sinking back beneath the veil of control.

  Juliet still continued long after Emery had ceased. It was the difference between them, the chief agent in the slowly-growing divide in their skill: both were talented, but Juliet possessed a bottomless reserve of patience, a dedication Emery could not match. Emery searched for something to improve on his on canvas but knew that any alteration at this point would only undermine what he had done. He turned and watched as Juliet slowly drew brilliance from her pool of deep blues and greens. Though they were both of Roccetti blood, Emery's pale skin stood in contrast to Juliet's olive complexion. Inexplicably, her arm was dabbed with paint almost to the elbow, her long slender fingers covered almost entirely. Hand and wrist moved unceasingly, as if of their own accord. “Hell,” Emery said after a while, “I thought we were just sketching today.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah,” Juliet murmured, still lost in the motion of the brush. “I'm really starting to like this one, actually.”

  “Any ideas for what we should do when we come back to this concept?” Emery asked, feeling just the faintest hint of envy.

  “No clue,” Juliet said. “Maybe…” she trailed off.

  The piece was indeed stunning, especially considering that only perhaps an hour had passed since the two had begun. The painting was abstract, so one couldn't say it was of anything, but the impression was that of a long tunnel. The gentle curves were overlaid with a texture that was almost tangible: it was another thing at which Juliet excelled. Emery was skilled at capturing the form and volume of an object, but when it came to texture and detail, he was at a loss. He looked back and forth between Juliet's subtle piece and the jagged lines that comprised his own. “You're right,” he said, “these really do complement each other well. Maybe we could just—”

  Emery stopped in mid-sentence and looked up at Timothy, who was already returning his gaze. “What is it?” asked Lydia, concerned by their sudden solemnity.

  “It's warm,” Emery said, touching the pendant that hung against his chest. “This must be the signal; we should get ready to leave immediately.” He turned to Juliet. “I'm sorry, but we had to wear these damn things so we'd know when the king's men found a way to get us to Three Dogs. We can't afford to miss our opportunity, so we're going to have to go now. Sorry to cut our session short.”

  Juliet shrugged. “It's cool. I can't really get mad at you for ditching me to go get life-saving medicine for the sick kids.” She laughed. “I might just keep working on this after you leave.”

  “You let magic in the house?” Oliver asked incredulously. “I'm going to remember this next time you're riding my ass about it.”

  The remark won Miren's attention, and Emery saw at once that Oliver was to gain a new ally in dissent. “It was kind a special situation,” he replied impatiently, “and I think I'm entitled to break my own rules. When we're all living in your house, feel free to play the hypocrite all you want.”

  “You jus' went away for a long time,” Geneva weighed in, lower lip protruding. “You said you were gonna stay.”

  “I did come back, but I have to go away again. Come here.” Geneva approached and Emery put his hand on her shoulders, wondering briefly when it was that he had become a father among his myriad roles. “Timothy and Miren are both very sick. I have to go away again to get them medicine. When I come back, I promise I won't leave town again for a long, long time. How's that sound?”

  Geneva weighed this for a moment. “Okay,” she said sternly, “but you hafta play with me when you come back.”

  “I might need a shower and a nap first,” Emery said, “but after that, playing with you will be the first item on my agenda.” Geneva seemed satisfied with the reply.

  Thankfully, Lydia had spent this time gathering the things Emery would need for the trip. “The package from Dr. Hanssen is in here,” she said. “The backpack still smells like sewer w
ater. I washed it twice.”

  “I'm sure it'll be the least of my concerns once I get out there,” Emery said. “Thanks for washing it, though; I can't imagine how bad it would be if you hadn't.” He turned back to Oliver. “Miren is new here, and it remains to be seen how she'll handle the rules of the house. I need you to get your act together and be a good example while we're gone.”

  “The best,” Oliver answered emphatically. His grin was pure mischief.

  “I can stick around if you need me to,” Juliet offered. Oliver slumped; the boy idolized Juliet, but he had doubtless been looking forward to a weekend of lax supervision.

  “Lydia should have things under control,” Emery replied, “but if you have some free time, I'm sure she'd love the extra help.”

  Timothy returned, wearing the coat Emery had lent him. “I'll find you something besides that ugly coat you came back in,” Lydia said to Emery.

  “I'll just wear that one,” Emery said. “Better than to ruin another coat, and it won't make me stand out.”

  “How are we getting out this time?” Timothy asked.

  Emery sighed. “You're not going to like my answer.”

  “No.” Timothy swallowed. “My infection from last time has barely cleared up. And you said last time that if we went out through the sewers, we'd probably freeze to death in a matter of hours.”

  “Here's hoping I was wrong,” Emery offered feebly. “We almost got shot jumping from the train last time, and that was at night. We can't afford to wait for sunset, and we simply wouldn't survive a stunt like that in daylight.”

  Emery was thankful he wasn't taking Miren or Oliver; Timothy accepted this unfortunate reality without argument. But despite the boy's agreeable disposition, Emery could see that Timothy dreaded the prospect of traveling through the sewers again. It was hard to blame him; Timothy had nearly drowned twice now in the past week. “Look,” Emery offered, “all we have to do is get this package to Three Dogs. You've been through a lot recently, and I know you're ill. I can make the trip alone.”

  Emery half-expected Timothy to take him up on the offer, and that half of him was pleasantly surprised. “That's a bad idea,” Timothy said, “for three reasons. First, you don't know your way around New Providence as well as I do. Second, you got into this for me, and the least I can do is come with you try to help. And most importantly—” Timothy lowered his voice, jerking his head in Miren's direction— “this isn't just about me anymore.”

  Emery smiled. “You're going to grow up to be a good man, Timothy, if we survive this little errand.”

  “With that attitude,” Oliver interjected, “you're invincible.”

  Emery rolled his eyes. “Add your faith in us to that equation,” he replied.

  “But Emery, seriously…” apparently overcome by the spirit of the moment, Oliver was for once at a loss for words. “Try not to get torn apart by those dogs, okay? Three Dogs included.”

  “I'll do my best not to get torn apart by anything,” Emery promised. He wondered how the boy might respond if he were harmed in the endeavor: Emery suspected that Oliver had stronger feelings than he ever cared to show.

  Lydia had no such reservations. “This is happening too often,” she said, throat hoarse. “If anything happens to you—”

  “Lydia.” Emery took a step closer to her, wondering how close was too close. “I'll be fine.” He lifted her chin with a gentle hand, smiling. “I mean, we did alright last time. Except for almost getting kidnapped by those outsiders and almost drowning—”

  “Stop it,” she interrupted, eyes welling with tears. Emery's attempt to lighten the mood having thoroughly failed, he simply said, “I promise I'll be as safe as I can.”

  “Okay.” Lydia took his free hand between hers and stared into his eyes for a long moment. He didn't want to tear himself away, but suddenly Emery was aware that every other eye in the room was on the two of them.

  He stepped back, touching his neck. “This amulet is really starting to hurt,” he said. It was true: what had begun as a mild warmth had slowly increased to an acute burn. “I suppose we can take them off, now that they've served their purpose.” He took a step back from Lydia and reached for the string around his neck, but in that moment, a shock of nausea assailed him and he fell to the floor.

  “Emery!” Lydia was at his side, one hand lifting his head from the floor. Emery was vaguely aware that Timothy had collapsed too; Miren was mirroring Lydia's motions, scooping the boy up. Emery met Lydia's gaze and saw panic there. “What happened?”

  Feeling worse by the moment, Emery searched feebly for words. “I feel…” He tried to say what it was he felt, but then his body broke into a million pieces and drifted into the air.