by Ted Sanders
“I’m losing it again. What’s happening?”
“Maintain your focus,” said Mr. Meister. “Find her.”
“I trying. I’m looking.” But the box was losing clarity, fast. Was this because of uncertainties about the Tuner again? Or maybe the box had been open for too long—over two minutes now. Unwilling to close the box and reset himself, Horace turned back to the river, hoping to see Dr. Jericho and himself one last time.
And suddenly, there she was. Horace’s future self was still holding the box, and Isabel stood right beside him, whispering in his ear. “I found her,” Horace said. “She’s with me.” He couldn’t read her lips—between the Fel’Daera’s fading clarity and the wispy gauze of the humour, he could barely see Isabel’s face at all. She and Horace were both fading, their edges smudging like a chalk drawing.
Meanwhile, across the glittering river, Dr. Jericho stood waiting, his face fixed into a snarl of anger. But he too was beginning to flutter and fade. “Dr. Jericho is still just standing there, across the river. He’s outside the humour, so he can’t see anything that happening on this side of the river, but . . . would he be able to sense the Tuner? Would he be afraid?”
“Yes and yes,” Mr. Meister said.
“I think that’s—” Suddenly Isabel fell back, shimmering. She vanished from sight and didn’t return. Horace couldn’t tell if this was a symptom of the box’s fading vision of the future, or something that would actually happen. He needed to know more, needed to see more.
And no sooner had he thought that than Dr. Jericho abruptly stood up tall, as if deeply alarmed. His steady, horrible face began to—there was no other word for it—flip-flop. From one shape to the other, like a movie flickering back and forth between two frames. And all the while, he continued to fade. What was happening?
A flicker swept across the glass. The view became clearer, and Horace knew why—the humour had been taken down. But even without that cloud of interference, the certainties of the future continued to unravel—the back of Horace’s head flashing, becoming his face; Dr. Jericho flickering between erect and crouching, his body jittering impossibly up and down the bank. Soon the box wouldn’t be able to see anything clearly anymore. “No, no, no,” he muttered. “Hang on. Just a few more seconds.” Isabel had left his side. The humour was gone. What would the Mordin do now? Horace had to see what came next—just a few seconds more.
And then his thoughts drifted over the silver sun.
Almost before he knew what he was doing, he found himself pushing, trying to widen the breach. Trying to illuminate another tiny slice of the future before it all went haywire. Horace would inch just ten seconds forward, fifteen, ever so slightly, ever so gently, the tiniest nudge. Inside the box, the action sped up, as if he were fast-forwarding through the future. He watched, fascinated. The present dropped away. He kept pushing gently—the Mordin on the opposite bank, his vicious mouth flashing; Horace himself, holding his ground but winking in and out; Dr. Jericho crouching, his mouth flashing, his long, powerful legs coiling beneath him, and now—
A sudden leap, the Mordin launching across the water.
Horace panicked. He tried to slam on the brakes but stepped on the gas instead. In his agitated state, his nudge became a shove, and the view inside the box began to flicker nonsensically. Figures darted and vanished, the canoe was ripped away, shapes fell and rose. Meanwhile the shadows around him in the present world were shuddering too, seconds becoming uncountable, and then momentum overtook him as if he were water spilling smoothly over the edge of a cliff, and everything within and without went blue.
Horace blinked. He was kneeling. The box was still open, but he knew without looking that the silver sun was full again, the breach set to twenty-four hours once more.
“Horace.”
“No,” he murmured. He peeked through the box—another midnight riverbank, deserted now, no one and nothing. He closed the box gently.
“Horace.” Chloe’s voice, close. “Are you back?”
He blinked hard and pulled her into focus. She was bent over him, worried.
“How long was I out?”
“A few minutes. What were you trying to do?”
“It was getting blurry. But I had to see. I tried to push a little forward and I . . . I lost it.”
“It doesn’t matter. You saw what you had to.”
“I can look again. I can readjust the breach. I can start over.” He stood and began to push his thoughts into the box, into the power blasting through the center of the silver sun, but he was interrupted by Mr. Meister wandering closer.
“No,” the old man said. “Chloe is right. Perhaps there is no need to witness the moment again. Perhaps it would be best to say . . . you saw what you saw.”
“Are you telling me not to do it?”
“Certainly not,” Mr. Meister said indignantly. “You could narrow the breach and revisit everything you just witnessed for a second time. But I am suggesting you consider how far you could take this particular idea, and whether it seems like a rabbit hole worth falling into.”
Horace looked down at the Fel’Daera, frustrated and boiling. Almost at once he realized that if he wanted to, he could use the breach to watch a single moment over and over again, almost endlessly. Witness a moment in the future, narrow the breach, watch the same moment again, narrow the breach, watch again . . .
A rabbit hole indeed. If only he could control the breach down to the second, picking up exactly where he’d left off. Isabel, suddenly appearing at Horace’s side and then vanishing, Dr. Jericho leaping across the river toward Horace—those suspended sights were achingly incomplete. Despite his reservations, he itched to look. He was meant to see the future. Seeing was his power, what he could offer to Chloe and the others. Why had everything gotten so blurry, so choppy? Why now?
And then it occurred to him: maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe he would see the future he had just failed to perceive. Yes—he would bear witness again, there on the riverbank in an hour’s time, just as the Fel’Daera had revealed. Sometime between now and then, he would shorten the breach as far as he could. He would open the box and watch Dr. Jericho on the far side of the river—that’s what he’d been doing in the future, standing on the riverbank with the box in hand! Looking mere minutes into the future, spying on Dr. Jericho’s actions just before they happened.
The knowledge calmed him, pieces of the puzzle settling gently into place. Gently he slipped the box into its pouch and turned to Mr. Meister. “I know what to do now,” he said.
“Good,” Mr. Meister said. “And as for our Tuner, it seems you saw nothing to indicate that she means us harm.”
“No. In fact, I almost felt like she was trying to protect me from Dr. Jericho.”
Mr. Meister smiled with satisfaction. He opened his mouth to say something else, but no words came out. Then he shut his mouth, and after a tiny bow, walked away.
Mrs. Hapsteade cleared her throat, catching Horace’s attention. “I’ve got a question for you, Keeper,” she said. “You say Mr. Meister and I were standing over here at first, correct?” She walked over to the spot Horace had indicated.
“Yes, about there.”
“And was I on his left, or his right?”
“Um . . . you were on his left.”
“Ah, good. Very good.” She sidestepped a little, then looked at him as if confused. “How far away?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Six inches? Ten? Two feet?”
“I don’t really—”
She turned to her right, posing. “And will I be facing him, like this?” Now to her left. “Or will I be like this? And should I hold my chin up or down? Hands raised or at my sides?”
Horace was blushing. He understood the point she was trying to make, but didn’t know how to reply. Mr. Meister, meanwhile, was watching silently.
Mrs. Hapsteade pressed on. “Just trying to be accurate. And maybe after you’ve given me all my instructions, you can do Gabriel.
Then Neptune.” She clapped her hands together. “Oh, I know! Perhaps we can rehearse it. Let’s make sure we all know how to play our roles, right down to the—”
“Okay,” Chloe sniped. “He gets it. We all get it.”
Horace felt like a fool. He knew very well how hard it was to navigate his own future after he’d seen it with his own eyes. Sharing those details with the others only multiplied the burden, spilling it onto his companions. And now that he considered it, he understood that this was the cause of the blurry, jittery images in the box. By narrating what he’d seen, he’d brought too much of the future back into the present, complicating everyone’s course of action. Knowledge of the future changed the future. And by sharing so much of that knowledge, he had overloaded the future with expectations, and his vision had fractured under the strain.
Horace glanced guiltily around. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Mrs. Hapsteade said. “Be cautious.” She turned and headed over to Mr. Meister.
Gabriel spoke before Horace could say anything else. “No apologies necessary, Keeper. We are all learning.”
“Some of us are,” said Neptune. “But it’s fine. Besides, I already forgot what you said I was supposed to do anyway.” Without another word, she launched herself into the air, drifting out over the river to keep watch.
Horace wandered away, feeling grim. Mrs. Hapsteade had never been a fan of the Fel’Daera. She didn’t like the way Horace used the box, didn’t like the way Mr. Meister encouraged him to witness the future. But that’s what the box was meant for, right? He took a seat at the foot of a tree far back from the water’s edge. He held the Fel’Daera, wondering if he would ever truly learn to use it properly. Loops of time, lack of knowledge, too much knowledge, the stubborn but slippery breach—everything about the box felt like a tightrope act. He understood why the Fel’Daera made Mrs. Hapsteade so uneasy. Still, her unease made him all the more eager to prove that the power of the Fel’Daera was worth the risks.
Chloe sauntered over, the scarlet light of her jithandra making shadows dance on the forest floor. She sank down beside him.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” she said, just when Horace was about to do exactly that. “I don’t need it. Besides, I’m used to you telling me what I’m going to do.”
He supposed that was true. She’d done some unimaginably brave things because he’d told her that she would. “I guess it helps that you trust me,” Horace said.
“Everyone trusts you, Horace.”
“Not Mrs. Hapsteade.”
“Maybe not totally, but that’s no surprise. I mean, come on—have you seen her hair? Anybody with a bun that tight has got to have issues.”
Horace knocked his knee softly against hers. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, well,” she said. “I guess we’ll see what happens when it happens.”
“Yeah,” Horace said. “Actually, that’s my plan.”
She studied him, glancing down at the Fel’Daera in his hands. “You’re up to something.”
“I have to be. I saw myself, standing over there by the water, looking through the box an hour from now.”
“And?”
Horace rubbed the silver sun, all its rays agleam. “Remember this morning when we tried to balance those eggs? Three minutes?”
Chloe considered him for a moment. “You’re going to shorten the breach. You’re going to watch the future just a little bit before it happens.”
Horace nodded. “I’m going to try. Might as well get ready now.” He took hold of the breach again and squeezed. One by one, the silver rays winked out, until only one was left. It always got considerably harder when he got below an hour, but he kept closing it down, straining with the effort. Twenty minutes. Ten. Four. He kept going until a nugget of pain between his eyes grew too sharp to bear, and he pinned the breach in place. He breathed deep, exhausted from the effort.
Chloe’s eyes were on the star, where just a dot of silver remained on the topmost ray. “That’s better than before,” she said.
“Two minutes and two seconds,” Horace said, not needing to look. Not as low as he wanted, but maybe better than he could have hoped for.
Chloe shook her head wonderingly. “I don’t know if Mrs. Hapsteade is going to love that, but I think it’s badass.”
Horace thought for a moment, unsure whether to say what he was about to say. “Speaking of badass . . . promise me if you go thin tonight, you’ll be careful.”
“Because of the Tuner? I thought you said she seemed friendly.”
“She didn’t seem unfriendly. But you know how it is. Seeing the future isn’t the same as totally understanding it. You have to promise.”
“I promise,” Chloe said at once, to Horace’s surprise. She picked up a twig and twiddled it between her fingers. “Hey, what does she look like?”
“The Tuner? Why?”
“I don’t know. Just wondering.” She plucked at a weed. “Like, does she look scary? Because your mom doesn’t look scary.”
“I didn’t get a good look at her face,” Horace said, remembering. “She was tall. Pale.”
“And we’re sure this is the Tuner?”
“Who else could it possibly be?”
Chloe shrugged. “I don’t know. Homeless person. Santa’s elf. Glinda the Good Witch.”
“Glinda has red hair,” Horace said. “In the books, anyway.”
Chloe glanced over at him, clearly amused. “Wow, Horace. Follow the yellow brick road much?”
“I’m just saying. Glinda’s hair is definitely red. But the Tuner’s hair is blond—way blond. Pulled back in a braid.” The Fel’Daera wasn’t very good at revealing colors, but the color of the Tuner’s hair had been unmistakably blond.
So blond it was almost white.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Contact
“DON’T TURN AROUND,” ISABEL SAID, HER VOICE A HUSH. “BUT we’re being followed.”
April nodded in the dark, continuing to paddle steadily forward. She didn’t need to turn around anyway. “I know,” she said. Behind her in the canoe, a little groan of worry squeaked out of Joshua, but he didn’t speak.
They were on the river, and had been in the canoe for nearly two hours now. The river was narrow and winding and had already passed under a number of busy bridges—it felt very much like a secret road into the city, especially in the dark. There had been no sign of the Riven. April had been worried about Arthur, but it turned out he’d been happy to follow the canoe. He even swooped down from time to time and sat on the tip—the prow—emanating a strangely arrogant sense of pride at leading the way.
They’d only gotten out of the canoe twice, each time because of a dam across the river, forcing them to portage around it. April’s nautical vocabulary was definitely increasing, but portage, it turned out, was just a fancy word for getting out of the boat and carrying it. It was a word she was happy to learn but not eager to experience too many more times.
Even sitting in the canoe was tiring, despite the fact that Isabel was doing most of the work. April’s butt was sore, and her shoulders and back ached, and her knees felt permanently bent. She kept herself distracted by listening to the clouds of fish they passed over, sleepy and sullen, and by chatting amiably with Joshua, who sat on the midthwart, a fancy word for the seat in the middle of the canoe, and most of all by trying not to think too hard about the aching-hot call of the missing piece.
But now they were being followed.
For the last few minutes, Arthur had been agitated by something—or possibly someone?—following behind them. Floating in the air, it seemed. The bird didn’t seem particularly alarmed. Mostly confused. Curious. April hadn’t mentioned it, choosing instead to concentrate quietly on whatever it was the bird was sensing. April couldn’t see it, of course, but it was clearly nothing Arthur had ever encountered before, drifting silently like a balloon. But on at least one occasion, the object—whatever it was—had startled Arthur by alighting briefly in
a tree where the raven was perched before launching after the canoe again.
Definitely not a balloon.
“What is it?” Joshua whispered.
“A spy,” Isabel said.
“It’s not Riven, though,” said April. “Is it the Wardens?”
“Doesn’t matter. We can’t have followers.” Isabel quickly pulled her oar into the boat.
“So what do we do?” Joshua asked nervously.
“Not we,” Isabel said. “Me.”
April turned back. “Are you sure you should—”
“Don’t be alarmed, now,” Isabel said, her curly red hair gleaming faintly. She grasped her harp. A moment later, there was a startled shout from behind and above—it sounded like a human voice, female—and then a loud whack of a splash in the darkness. Arthur, who’d been standing on the riverbank nearby, took wing, wanting nothing to do with the scene. “Paddle,” Isabel said. “Now.”
They paddled hard, the canoe surging ahead and leaving the sounds of splashing behind. It was minute or two before Isabel spoke again. “Okay,” she said. “Rest. I’ll steer.”
April laid her oar across her lap. Her shoulders were on fire. “You severed someone—whoever that was.”
“A tourmindala. They’re pesky little Keepers, nothing to really fret about.”
April frowned. She wasn’t fretting. Worrying, yes, but she kept her worrying on the inside. “These tourmindalas—they have Tan’ji that can let them fly?” she asked.
“Not fly. Float. They sneak and spy. A soft landing’s too good for the Riven, of course, but I don’t think that’s what we were dealing with, so I made sure there was water below her before I pinched the threads. Either way, they’ll leave us alone for now.”
Arthur dipped in and out of the darkness and landed on the prow of the boat. He chattered busily at April for a moment, still agitated by the fall and splash. “If that tourmindala was one of the Wardens, though,” April said, “I guess now they also know you’re a Tuner.”
Silence from Isabel. She was silent for so long that now April did feel little trickles of worry creeping across her skin. Isabel hadn’t thought it through. She’d given herself away. April turned around and looked at her.
