Closing the door, he hurried through the known part of the librarium, asking it to take him straight to Rosa. Four connecting rooms later, he arrived at the threshold of Mr. Henry’s study.
Rosa was there, kneeling beside Mr. Henry’s chair. The curator himself was sitting in the chair, with his head lolling forward onto his chest.
“Rosa?” David said. She glanced up as he stepped in.
She was weeping, and looked as if she had been for a while. Only now did David see that she was clutching one of Mr. Henry’s hands. His other hand was hanging limply. “He’s dead,” she sobbed. “He aged as well. I found him like this. He’s gone, David.”
“I’m so sorry,” said a voice from the door.
David whipped around. “Dad?”
Harlan Merriman stepped into the light. “I came here immediately, to make sure you were safe.” He placed a hand on his son’s face, running his thumb along the perfect cheekbone. “Oh, David. What have I done to you …?”
“You know about the time quake?” David asked.
Harlan looked bleakly at Mr. Henry. “I caused it,” he said. “A failed experiment.”
“Can it be reversed?” Rosa said tearfully.
Harlan shook his head.
“There must be something you can do?” she begged.
“There is,” said Harlan, his expression fixed. “I can give myself up to the Higher.”
4.
No, this can’t be happening,” Rosa said. She sat back against the swivel chair, burying her face.
Harlan looked at David and said, “You need to leave here. Now. And take Rosa with you. It won’t be long before Mr. Henry’s death is noticed. Any diminution in the universal auma triggers the inception of the Re:movers — programmed constructs who deal with death and bodies and criminals. They don’t ask questions, David.”
“I’m not leaving,” Rosa said.
Harlan bit his lip. “The Aunts will come as well.”
“Aunts?” David queried. He, of course, had no experience of them.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Harlan, gripping his son’s arm and drawing him a step or two away from Rosa. “There isn’t much time. And I must speak to you — privately.”
“What happened?” Rosa growled. “What did you do?”
“David?” Harlan said quietly to him.
David looked into his father’s eyes. “I’m staying with Rosa. This is where we belong. Anything you say, you say to both of us, Dad.”
Harlan ran his gaze around the study walls. “Very well.” He sighed, rubbing his hand across his mouth. “You’ve both been affected by the time shift. It’s only right that you should both know why.” He walked across to Rosa and touched her shoulder. “I really am genuinely sorry.”
Shuddering, she drew her knees up to her chin. And though she couldn’t bring herself to look at Harlan’s face, she nodded gently to acknowledge his remorse.
“I was running an experiment in my lab,” he said, “trying to recreate a peculiar rift in the fabric of space that had been observed during your dreams.”
“My dreams?” said David.
Rosa put her hair behind her ears and listened closely.
Perching on the corner of Mr. Henry’s desk, Harlan went on, “It showed up on a film Counselor Strømberg made of you sleeping. You were never able to recall what you’d dreamed about, remember? Rifts like that are not supposed to happen, not in a carefully controlled world like Co:pern:ica. So you were confined here by Strømberg while we tried to work out whether you were the cause of it. You suffer from a condition called ‘ec:centricity,’ David. It means that you can imagineer outside the limits of the Grand Design, even though you may not be aware of it. The librarium is considered a neutral environment. The plan was to keep you here to calm you down, so you wouldn’t draw unnecessary attention to yourself while we carried out our investigations.”
“And what did you find?” Rosa asked bitterly. “It had better be important ‘cause it’s just killed Mr. Henry.”
Harlan nodded. “The rift came from another dimension.”
“What?” said David.
“I was looking for the source of it,” Harlan said, “because I wanted to protect you — and, who knows, the rest of Co:pern:ica, too. Unfortunately, we generated a temporal distortion and this is the result: Everyone connected to the project has aged. Fascinating for you, myself, and Rosa. Tragic for poor Mr. Henry.”
“Taxicar,” David said, glancing through the window. Four men in black suits had just stepped out of it.
Rosa scrambled to her feet and looked out. “We could hide,” she said. “We know lots of places. And we can get into the upper floors.”
“I can’t hide,” said Harlan. “I have to take responsibility for what happened here.”
“What will they do to you?” David asked.
“I’ll be banished — to the Dead Lands. They’ll send me somewhere I can’t be found.”
“But that will mean …”
“That this will be the last time we’ll see each other, yes.”
“They’re coming in,” reported Rosa.
“Dad, let us hide you.”
“No,” said Harlan. “That would make you culpable — both of you. They’ll track me down eventually, wherever I go.”
“What about the rift? Tell me what else you found.”
“I hear footsteps,” said Rosa. She went and stood by Mr. Henry, and turned to face the door.
“Dad, the rift,” David said, with more urgency now. “What else did you discover? If I didn’t cause it, what did?”
Harlan stepped forward and pressed a micro:pen into David’s palm. “Something stronger than you,” he whispered. And he threw his arms around his son and hugged him tightly, just as the first of the suits walked in.
“Stand away,” said the man. “You will separate. Now.”
David parted from his father and stood beside Rosa. The knuckles of her free hand brushed against his. He gripped her hand lightly, never taking his eyes off the four Re:movers. They had the same kind of auma readings as machines — low, with no emotional oscillation. They were also perfect clones of one another, right down to the level of the hair on their foreheads. The only way they could be told apart was by the patterns on their ties. Crosshatched. Pinstriped. Plain black. And spotted.
Spotted (the Re:mover who had spoken) walked across to Mr. Henry. He passed a handheld scanner over the body. It responded with a terminal-sounding beep. “Death, by natural causes,” he said.
“Not quite,” said a new and more cynical voice.
To Rosa’s horror, Aunt Gwyneth sailed into the room.
The Re:movers, David noticed, immediately stood aside, apparently awaiting orders from this woman. “Who are you?” he said coldly.
Aunt Gwyneth saw Rosa’s hand in his. “Oh, I’m sure your charming … companion will bring you up to speed eventually, David. For now, you will be silent while I do my work. This room is overcrowded,” she snapped at the Re:movers. “Take the body to the taxicar.”
In one fluid movement, Spotted Tie lifted Mr. Henry from his chair, threw the curator over his shoulder, and carried him out of the room.
Rosa covered her mouth.
“As for this one.” Aunt Gwyneth turned to Harlan. “He has been keeping secrets from us.” She put a jet-black fingernail on Harlan’s cheek, drawing it down his neck as she circled behind him. “Where is Thorren Strømberg, Professor?”
“I don’t know,” he said, trying not to gulp.
“We have the tech:nician Brotherton,” she said, dragging the fingernail oh so slowly, pressing it into the soft pit of flesh behind Harlan’s right ear. (David saw his father wince.) “Please, don’t make this difficult. I don’t want to humiliate you in front of your son. I ask you again, where is Strømberg?”
“I don’t know,” Harlan repeated quietly.
Aunt Gwyneth stepped away from him and set her spine straight. “Check the boy’s palms.”
&n
bsp; “What?” said Rosa. Why the sudden interest in David?
The pinstriped Re:mover stepped in front of him. “You will show me your hands.”
“He’s innocent,” snapped Harlan. “Leave him alone.”
“Do it,” Aunt Gwyneth said, rounding on David. “Your father passed you something before I came in. It’s written all over his neural pathways.”
The Re:mover raised his scanner in a threatening gesture.
David had no choice but to open his hands. In the palm where his father had placed a micro:pen was a golden ring. “My father knew his fate,” David said to the Aunt. “So he wanted me to have this … ongoing symbol of love for my mother.” He saw his father give the faintest of nods.
“Please, Aunt Gwyneth, don’t take it,” Harlan pleaded. “Let Eliza have something to remember me by.”
Aunt Gwyneth breathed in sharply. “Arrest him,” she said, sweeping a hand toward Harlan.
David closed his hand around the ring once more.
Plain Tie stepped forward. He scanned Harlan’s eyes. “You are identified as Harlan Arthur Merriman. Arrested on the authority of an Aunt. Have you anything to say?”
Harlan stared deep into the old woman’s eyes. She was somewhat older than the last time they’d met. And that troubled him deeply. Whatever the outcome of this, she was going to be somewhere at the heart of it. Why, he wished, thinking of Mr. Henry, could this dreadful woman not have died instead?
“Have you anything to say?” the Re:mover repeated.
Aunt Gwyneth put her mouth within spitting distance of Harlan’s ear. “What a pity,” she whispered, with cruel intent written through her auma, “that you will never have a chance to see your daughter.”
“My …? How? What have you done?” Harlan floundered.
“Take him,” Aunt Gwyneth commanded.
“Dad? What’s the matter? What did she say to you?” David stepped forward, only for Crosshatched and Pinstriped to move to intercept. With a shock of pain, David fell back as Pinstriped placed a hand on his chest to restrain him.
In an instant, David imagineered the Re:mover across the far side of the room. The man-machine flew across Mr. Henry’s desk, knocking over a globe and a small com:screen before crashing into the shelving behind it. Crosshatched was about to go the same way when Aunt Gwyneth cried, “Enough!” and turned her powerful eyes on David. He sank to his knees in agony. The throbbing inside his head was horrendous, as if she had put a fork into his brain and twisted it twice before pinning him down. “Very impressive,” she growled. “Use your fain like that once more and I will have you de:constructed, cell by cell.” She scowled at Pinstriped, who was getting to his feet (readjusting his tie). “You will be committed for reprogramming. Now, take this criminal away.”
And with that, Harlan Merriman was hauled from the room.
As though to add insult to injury, Aunt Gwyneth cracked her knuckles (a quite hideous sound), then came around the study desk and sat in the curator’s green swivel chair. She rocked it back and forth with very little relish. One by one, she opened the drawers of the desk and closed them without disturbing the contents. She picked up a book of something called “crosswords” and dropped it into the trash can in disgust. At last, she spoke. “Rosanna — so much more elegant than Rosa, don’t you think? You don’t mind me using it, do you?”
It was a question intended to be answered, but Rosa preferred to keep her silence.
“I thought not,” said the Aunt. “Rosanna it is. Listen closely, my dear. There are going to be some changes in the running of this building, now that your beloved curator has gone.” She clicked her fingers. Two identical Aunts walked into the room. Both were dressed in the manner of Aunt Gwyneth: gray two-piece suits, plain black shoes. Like the Re:movers, they both wore ties. Maroon bow ties against white collared blouses. The tie of the woman on the right was at a slightly crooked angle. She kept adjusting it, as though it were a constant embarrassment. It was the only way to tell the two of them apart.
“Who are you people?” David said. He was recovered again now and on his feet.
Aunt Gwyneth said, rather haughtily, “We are what brought you into being, David. And we will decide your fate. Rosanna, meet Aunts Primrose and Petunia. They are not clones. They are that rare commodity, twins. They will be your keepers during the period of re:assessment.”
“Keepers?” Rosa’s eyes darted over the women.
“You do want company, don’t you?”
“I’ve got company, thanks.”
Aunt Gwyneth swung her chair. “If you’re referring to David, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. His time here is done. He is going home.” She raised a finger to shut Rosa up. “At his mother’s request, I might add. Tell me, David, what good-hearted boy could possibly refuse? Especially now that you have a sister as well.”
“Sister?” he said.
“Penelope. Quite a sparky creation. Artificially aged to eight and a half by your father’s dangerous, unauthorized experiment. She is eager to meet her unkempt, if really rather handsome, brother. I took the trouble to order you a taxicar. It’s right outside. Don’t keep it waiting.”
“David?” Rosa said. She ran across the room and plunged into his arms.
He stared at Aunt Gwyneth over Rosa’s shoulder. “What do you mean by ‘re:assessment’? What’s going to happen to the building if I go?”
“The Aunts will survey it and make a report. A new curator will then be appointed. That is the law, David.”
For a moment, he thought about it. “All right, but I’m taking Rosa with me.”
Rosa stepped back a little, gripping his forearms. “No. Our place is here, taking care of the books. It’s what Mr. Henry would have wanted.”
“How touching,” Aunt Gwyneth said, without any hint of warmth or sincerity. “David, let me see if I can make your decision easier.” She sat back, steepling her fingers. “Oh, yes. Rosanna can’t leave here. She was committed by her parents and they must give permission for her re:moval. That is also the law. The trouble is, her parents are dead.”
“What?” said Rosa.
“Well …” Aunt Gwyneth twirled a hand. “They voluntarily left for the Dead Lands. That’s as good as dead. Which means you are officially an orphan, my dear. That puts you under my jurisdiction. And as I can’t afford to have you trailing around after me or interfering with my work, I’ve decided that this building will house you — for life. So there’s your predicament, David. Rosanna stays here. You must choose between her or your mother.”
David took a shuddering breath.
“Don’t leave me,” said Rosa. “Please, don’t go.”
“I’ll come back,” he said, pulling her hands off his arms.
“No,” she begged him. “The building needs us. You can’t just leave behind everything we’ve done.” The Aunt called Petunia stepped forward and held her.
“I promise, I’ll come back,” he said to Rosa again. And with one last glance at her beautiful eyes, he moved toward the door. He was right on the threshold when she cried out bitterly: “If you go, I won’t want you back!”
David paused as if a cold spear had passed through his heart. He closed his hand tight around the golden ring, and reimagineered it to its proper shape. Clutching his father’s micro:pen, he walked out without another word.
“I do believe it’s going to rain,” said Aunt Gwyneth.
And she swung her chair toward the window and smiled.
5.
Meanwhile, upstairs on Floor One Hundred and Eight, a very different kind of meeting was taking place. In the time it had taken David Merriman to hurry downstairs and learn of the death of Mr. Henry, the red firebird, Azkiar, had flown with great haste to Aurielle’s room, to inform her, first and foremost, that he’d encountered humans on Floor Forty-Three and … Well, he was out of breath before he could deliver the next part of his story and by then Aurielle was flapping her wings in a dire panic and immediately suggesting they sound the alar
m and wake the flock. Azkiar sighed. He hopped from foot to foot and fluffed his feathers. Why did Aurielle never listen to him all the way through? And she called him impatient? He fluttered to her book perch and raised his eyes to the Tapestry of Isenfier. Looking at it now made his heart skip a beat. With a snort, he turned his gaze back to the table where Aurielle was still hopping about. There was no need for defensive action, he assured her, because he’d seen the man leave and close the door behind him (he’d tracked back, silently, just to be sure). Man? Aurielle’s ear tufts widened. Once again Azkiar started to explain and once again the cream bird interrupted him. The curator? she asked, paddling her feet. The curator has discovered the code? At that point Azkiar almost wished he’d just gone to his nest and slept for a spin. It was the boy that Rosa calls David, he said. Except he isn’t a boy anymore. He’s grown.
Now, although this information was undoubtedly of great magnitude, it was not the principal ingredient of Azkiar’s report. But before he could get to the vital disclosure, Aurielle had turned aside yet again and started doing her pacing thing. She tottered toward the center of the table, feeling the creaks in the joints of her knees. They had not been so good since the onset of the jolt, which supported her belief that she’d aged because of it. She had spotted signs of aging in Azkiar, too. The slightly graying fringes at the tips of his ear tufts. The general lack of shine in his normally glossy feathers. If what he was saying about David was accurate, there was no doubt that a time shift had occurred. But what had caused it? And what did it mean? She paused by the candlesticks, now righted again. Between them, in the traditional nest of sticks where a firebird would place a hatching egg, was the egg that Aurielle had found in the Dead Lands. Since the jolt, it had grown to three times its size and was clearly going to open before long. The tear she had picked up among the daisies had disappeared during the confusion, but Aurielle was certain it had merged with the egg. What else could explain the changes in the clay? The egg had grown a shell, like a firebird egg, the only anatomical difference being that instead of bright colors pulsing around the skin there was a plain white glow coming off the surface. Whatever was inside, it wasn’t a firebird. But for now, Aurielle was saying nothing about that.
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