by Ted Sanders
April stood up. “I’m not walking anywhere except home.”
“Home?” Isabel said incredulously. “No, no, you can’t go home.”
“Yes. I never should have come in the first place. But I did, and whoever had my missing piece knew it, and they destroyed it. It’s gone.” She keep her voice even, but her insides were burning wreckage, a world on fire.
“It’s not destroyed—if it was destroyed, you’d have felt it.” Isabel clutched at April’s shoulder, almost pleading. “I’d have felt it.”
“Ethel said it was destroyed.”
“I told you—don’t listen to her.”
“She also said you’re not Tan’ji. I don’t understand why she would say that, unless it’s true. And if you’re not, you can’t help me. Or Joshua. Can you?”
“She lies. People lie.”
April thought quietly for a moment, struggling to keep her head above the smoke. She was not much of a liar herself—not because she was so opposed to lying, necessarily, but because she was terrible at it. And because she was terrible at it, she often had trouble telling when other people were lying. But the more time she spent with Isabel—the more the woman kept hidden, the more she let slip, the more severing she did with that wicker sphere of hers—the harder it was to trust her.
“I think you lie,” April said firmly.
April half expected Isabel to sever her then and there, given what she’d seen of the woman’s temper so far. Instead, though, Isabel seemed to sag. Her face filled with sorrow. “This is no place to talk. Let’s find someplace quiet, someplace private. Let me explain.”
“I’m trying to imagine what you could possibly explain that would keep me out here—miles from home, without permission—when the missing piece is . . .”
“It’s not destroyed, April. I’m almost sure of it.”
“But it’s nowhere. If it’s not destroyed, what is it?”
“Severed.”
April hesitated. She found herself wanting to cling to the idea. She probed at that numb corner of her mind—not so much a corner as a kind of blind spot, shifting and swallowing her thoughts whenever she reached out for the missing piece. “Is that even possible? To sever just the missing piece?”
“There are ways it could be done, yes.”
“Could you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Then could you undo it?”
Isabel shook her head. “Not from here. From the other end . . . maybe. It depends what’s happening there. But the severing won’t last. If we just keep moving, the call will return, I promise—”
“You lied about being Tan’ji, didn’t you?” April interrupted.
Isabel glanced at Joshua. He was pulling up tufts of grass and tossing them into the air while Arthur watched, but it was clear the boy was listening to every word.
April said, “You’re asking for so much trust from us. You’ve already lied to us. We need to know the truth now, or we’re leaving. I’ll take Joshua with me.”
A pack of loud, rumbling motorcycles passed by on the highway above, filling the air with jackhammers and rattling April’s chest. Isabel let them pass, sputtering into the distance, before answering.
“I told you I’m a Tuner. What I didn’t tell you is that being a Tuner is . . . not a very respected profession. Tuners use Tanu called harps to clean and tune other people’s instruments. They get treated like maids, like garbage men. They are expendable. Even their harps are borrowed instead of owned.” She held up the wicker sphere, gritting her teeth. “But my harp is different. Miradel is more powerful than other harps, and I’m more powerful than other Tuners. With Miradel, I am . . . I am like Tan’ji. I have the bond. Just like you.” She let Miradel dangle again and twisted her wooden ring restlessly, clearly waiting for April to respond.
“I don’t understand how you can be like Tan’ji,” said April.
“Miradel only works for me,” Isabel insisted. “I’m the only one who can use her—the only one who can control her.”
April nodded, choosing her words carefully. “But do you have the same bond with Miradel that I do with the vine? Like, for example . . . can you be severed?”
Isabel turned away, which was all the answer April needed. “No one else can do what I can,” Isabel said stubbornly.
“But you’re not Tan’ji.”
“Not . . . completely. No.” She briefly made fists, then unclenched them. “I never had the chance.”
Joshua stood up. He walked stiffly over to April and put his arms around her, hugging her tight. Surprised, April patted his back awkwardly. Still holding her tight, Joshua looked over at Isabel and said, “You lied to me.”
“It’s not that simple, Joshua.”
“Yes it is,” he said.
“I can still help you,” said Isabel. “I can still take you to your Tan’ji.”
Joshua shook his head. “Maybe there is no Tan’ji.”
A cop car sped by on the highway above. As it passed, April thought she saw the brake lights flare. “We should go,” she said.
Isabel nodded. “Yes. Someplace quiet to spend the night. Someplace we can all rest and talk. Somewhere I can explain.”
April glanced down at Joshua and frowned. Would they be safe on their own? Could she keep him safe? April shook her head then looked up at Isabel.
“Okay, but what about the Riven?”
“We’ve left them far behind,” said Isabel. “Plus, the leestone’s effects will linger with us for a while. As long as you don’t push the vine too hard, it’ll be hours before they even have a hope of tracking us down—maybe a full day.”
That was a relief. “So where should we go?” April looked down the road, where a hotel sign rose high into the sky. But she was pretty sure Isabel didn’t do hotels.
“I know a place,” Joshua said, peering up at April. “It’s not far.”
Holding April’s hand, Joshua led them a half mile down the frontage road to a highway that crossed back under the interstate. On the far side of the expressway, a large patch of darkness lay before them, stretching for what looked like a mile in either direction, with just the one road cutting through.
“What is this place?” April asked, startled to see such wilderness this close to the city.
“Lagoons,” Joshua said. “The Skokie Lagoons. Lots of trees. Islands. Places we can spend the night.”
He led them on into the darkness, searching, then seemed to get his bearings when he found a paved bike path that led along the edge of the woods. But instead of following the path, he cut straight through the trees. Before long, April could hear the sound of falling water. They emerged onto the shoreline of a murky-looking lake. Water rushed over a low dam, really more of a spillway—only about a couple of feet high. As they stood looking at it, Arthur alighted in a tree just overhead. April could feel how happy the woods made him, how at home he felt.
Joshua pointed at the tiny dam. “If we cross here, we can get to that island on the other side before it gets totally dark. No one will find us there.”
The dam was less than a foot wide and probably a hundred feet long. Water ran smoothly over the top of it.
To April’s surprise, Isabel was already slipping off her shoes. “Perfect,” the woman said. “Thank you, Joshua.” And then she stepped out onto the spillway.
April watched in astonishment as Isabel easily navigated the slippery stone path, the water parting around her feet with each step. She never once lost her balance. When she reached the far side, dim in the wooded twilight, she waved her hands and shouted, “Come on across! If an old lady can do it, so can you.”
April and Joshua went next, Joshua in front. The water was shockingly cool. Joshua moved slowly, as if he were on a tightrope across Niagara Falls. He stopped several times, hesitating, but each time April said calmly, “All you’ll get is wet,” and then he started up again. April herself almost stumbled once, when she caught a whiff of a turtle drifting in the water nearby and thought o
f Morla. But this turtle was wild and alive and undeniably himself. April regained her balance and eventually—after what seemed like an eternity—she and Joshua made it to the far side. Seconds later, despite his confusion, Arthur joined them.
The island itself was overgrown and as wild as anything around April’s house. There were footpaths, unmarked and clearly little used. They found a clearing and set up camp there. Unsurprisingly, the mosquitoes were terrible, and everyone wanted to use April’s bug spray. April was slightly conflicted about the bug spray, since she could feel it every time the hungry drone of a mosquito turned to poisonous revulsion. But not only was it better than getting eaten, the bug spray also kept Isabel from swatting the mosquitoes to death against against her flesh. Bugs might be small, their minds meager, but for April, feeling even a tiny life snuff out inside her brain was like a miniature implosion of pain and blindness.
April broke out the beef jerky, which Joshua and Arthur both loved. As for April, she ate one apple and twenty-two potato chips, determined to ration things in a sensible way. Isabel, meanwhile, ate nothing.
They spoke little, until at last they settled into their blankets, staring up at the darkening sky overhead. Arthur, who had been daringly social all evening—even with Isabel—retreated into the shadows just above. April tuned herself to him until she felt him drift toward his version of sleep, a strange sensation she’d picked up before—half his brain faded into oblivion, while the other remained semi-alert. She envied it, and wished she could embrace it fully. But she couldn’t even try, not with the vine the way it was. Isabel had said she was not completely Tan’ji, a notion that seemed ridiculous. But as she lay there rubbing her thumb across the broken stem of the vine, April had to wonder if she herself wasn’t completely Tan’ji either.
Joshua stirred sleepily. “April?”
“Yeah?”
“How does Arthur sleep? In a tree, right?”
“Yes. He’s right above us.”
“Did he make a nest?”
“No. Nests are just for eggs, really. Arthur roosts on a branch.”
“Really? But how—” Joshua paused and yawned prodigiously. “How does he stay on? How come he doesn’t fall off when he goes to sleep?”
April laughed, glad for the distraction. She’d asked Doc Durbin this same question the first night Arthur was in the pen. “Ravens are what’s called passerine. Most birds are passerines—especially songbirds, or really any bird you’d see at a birdfeeder. Passerines have special feet. They have three toes pointing forward, and one toe pointing back.” She looked down at her own feet, almost feeling the illusion of Arthur’s feet inside them even now—his feet, when relaxed, naturally curled shut. He had to consciously flex them to open them.
“Passerine feet are very good for gripping branches. So good, in fact, that their feet stay gripped to the branch even while they’re asleep.”
“Ohhh,” Joshua said, but April could tell he was already mostly asleep himself. A moment later he began to gently snore.
“Passerine, eh?” Isabel remarked, watching April keenly. “You know a lot about animals.”
April shrugged. “I like animals, that’s all.”
“Like I said, all Keepers have a natural talent to begin with. And now here you are, an empath.”
April watched Joshua sleep. “And what about Joshua? Do you really think he’s going to become Tan’ji?”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“You say a lot of things. But what would his Tan’ji be?”
“I wouldn’t want to guess,” Isabel said quickly. “That’s why he’s been traveling with me. I thought maybe he’d be drawn to what he’s looking for if he got close enough. We were headed into the city to see how we fared, but then I sensed you bleeding. We were lucky to find you. Very lucky.”
That seemed like a curious thing to say. April sat up and studied the woman. “We’re looking for the Wardens, right?” she asked. “The ones Ethel was talking about? I’d like to know who they are.”
Isabel sighed. “They’re Keepers, like us,” she said, and then winced. She clutched at Miradel. “The Wardens collect Tanu of all shapes and sizes—everything they can get their hands on. They have huge hoards of Tan’ji.”
“That’s why you think they had my missing piece.”
“Have,” Isabel corrected. “I think they have your missing piece, yes.”
April couldn’t even respond to that. “And you think they have Joshua’s Tan’ji, too?”
“I think there’s no better place to look. That’s all I’ll say.”
“You were one of them once, weren’t you? Ethel said they kicked you out.”
Isabel scowled. “Ethel lies. She doesn’t know. She wasn’t there.”
April couldn’t help but feel that even though Isabel might be telling the truth now, she was leaving plenty of space for lies. April sat very still, trying to piece together everything Isabel had said that morning, everything Ethel had hinted at in the van. Abruptly, comprehension dawned over her. “Oh my god,” she said, and then said it again. “Oh my god—you’re just using us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“No, please don’t do that,” April said, still thinking it through. “Don’t pretend. You’re trying to find the Wardens, but because you don’t know where they are, you need us. First Joshua, hoping you’d get him close enough to his Tan’ji that he’d feel it, leading you to the Wardens. Sort of a desperate plan, I think. But then you came across me. With the missing piece I’m like . . . your guided missile. A homing device.”
Isabel squirmed, and April knew she wasn’t wrong. “I’m not using you,” Isabel protested. “We’re helping each other. All of us.”
“But why do you even need our help finding the Wardens? If you were one of them—”
“I worked with them,” Isabel interjected. “I was never one of them.”
“Either way, why don’t you know where they are now?”
April could hear Isabel grinding her teeth. “When the Wardens don’t want to be found, they can’t be found,” she said.
April leaned forward. “And why are you so desperate to find them?”
Isabel was silent for a long time. As April watched, the wicker ball swelled slightly and then shrank again. Over and over it grew and shrank slowly, like a beating heart. Isabel didn’t even seem to be aware it was happening. Watching her face, April became sure that the woman was going to evade April’s question now—or at least, that she was going to twist the truth. April promised herself that her decision about whether to stay with Isabel or not would hinge on whatever the woman said next.
At last the wicker ball stopped pulsing.
“I need to get back,” Isabel said slowly. “Something happened that I . . . that I’m not proud of. I want things to be set right.” Her eyes were faraway and cloudy, and April was sure that those words—whatever they meant—were the truth. But then Isabel shook herself and glared at April. “It doesn’t matter. I’m helping you get where you want to go. I’ve saved you twice already.”
“You’ve severed me twice, too.”
Isabel stared back, unflinching. “It could be worse.”
“I’m sure it could. And I could walk away. Good luck finding the Wardens then.”
“Good luck becoming whole. Good luck with the Riven.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. April kept her fear shoved down deep. If Isabel wouldn’t flinch, neither would she. She would be brave. But the truth was, Isabel was the best chance she had at finding the missing piece, if it still existed. And as for the Riven . . .
“I’m going to sleep now,” April announced. “In the morning, I’ll decide whether to go back home or not.”
“You can’t go home, and you know it.” Before April could protest, Isabel pointed to the vine against April’s skin. “You don’t have a choice. Tan’ji don’t have a choice. You’ll keep searching for the missing piece forever.” She lay back on her blanket
and rolled onto her side, her back to April.
April sat there, watching the woman breathe, trying to convince herself that Isabel was wrong. But of course, she wasn’t wrong. Somewhere far off, an owl’s call sounded, first loud and then soft. The change in volume was an illusion to fool prey, April knew. The owl was only pretending to move away. The thought made her remember Isabel’s words: “When the Wardens don’t want to be found, they can’t be found.”
April had asked her why she wanted to find the Wardens so badly. But maybe she should have asked a different question.
Why didn’t the Wardens want Isabel to find them?
April couldn’t quite make herself ask it out loud. Instead she said quietly, “What did the Wardens do to you?”
Isabel shrugged. She wrapped her arms around herself. The owl called again, softer still. “They made me who I am,” Isabel said simply. “That’s what they do.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Closer
“I’M TELLING YOU,” CHLOE SAID, FOR LIKE THE SEVENTH TIME, “that was brilliant.”
Horace forced a smile. They stood in his driveway, where Beck had dropped them off after leaving the Warren. It was 9:30, long past dinnertime, but food could not have been further from Horace’s mind. A part of him swelled proudly with the notion that sending the daktan through the box had been clever. Inspired, even. The Keeper of the Tan’ji from which the little black flower had been taken could not possibly track the daktan down now. Not while it was traveling. The Keeper would be utterly lost, and—for the time being, at least—the Wardens were safe. And it was all thanks to Horace.
Or was it?
“Brilliant,” Horace repeated. “Right.” Without Mr. Meister’s trickery and Brian’s gossip, would he even have stumbled across the mystery of the silver sun? Would he have thought to send the daktan? For all he knew, sending the daktan was precisely what Mr. Meister had hoped he would do. “My Tan’ji has a power I know nothing about. That’s how brilliant I am.”
