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THIRTY-EIGHT

THE WARDEN’S HOUSE LIES BEYOND THE PRISON—far enough to be both convenient to it and secluded from it. Its stone façade sweeps into elegant lines and a tiled roof. Light glows from several of the oversized windows as we make our way to the door. The boys keep their guns raised, and I catch Dante looking back over his shoulder.

We congregate on a worn porch, and I rap on the door. Then we wait, barely breathing, for an answer.

When the door swings open, I can’t stifle my surprise. I know the scientist. He’s the man from the news clipping in the Old Curiosity Shop and from the propaganda film I watched at Kincaid’s estate. Kairos. He’s no older now than he was then. He has the same aging skin and shock of unkempt white hair. His eyes are ancient and tired.

“Company,” he says. His tone is friendly but his voice peaks strangely on the word, highlighting the vowels and making them sound exotic on his tongue. He ignores the guns leveled at his head. “I was making tea. I’ll have to put more water on.”

“Hold it right there,” Dante says.

“My boy,” the scientist says, and I hear the slight shift in his tone—not to anger but rather annoyance—“I’m a man of science, not violence. Keep your guns if you must, but I promise I’m not going to attack you with boiling water.”

I bite against the smile tugging at my lips. No one makes a move to go inside, so I step forward, following him as he shuffles off. Erik is at my side in an instant. He’s lowered his gun, but it’s still in his hand.

“Your friend does not trust me,” the scientist notes.

I blush a little, oddly embarrassed to feel we’ve insulted him with our wariness. It’s a strange reaction given that I know I’m in the presence of the man who’s responsible for creating the first looms and Arras itself.

“He’s a little protective,” I say apologetically.

“Ah, a beau then?” the old man asks with a wink, and I flush more.

“I won’t let them shoot you,” I say.

The man’s head falls back and he laughs, deep and bellowing, ignoring the kettle he’s filling. “I like you. I will pretend that was a joke and that we are friends. Yes?”

“Yes,” I confirm with a smile.

“What are your names?” he asks, setting the kettle to heat on the stove. He ambles to the cupboard and riffles through its contents. Next to me Erik cracks his knuckles until I push his hands apart.

“I’m Adelice Lewys,” I say.

“And you are here to destroy the Guild of Twelve Nations?” He says the last words with mock ferocity, but I hear it in his voice: he’s not mocking our desire, he’s dismissing it. He must have seen his fair share of failed attempts to destroy the Guild over the years.

“I suppose,” I say. “I want to separate the worlds. Not destroy them per se.”

“A worthy ambition,” he notes. “If a foolish one.”

I blink against his honesty. He offers me a mug with a tea bag perched and waiting inside. “You bear my mark.”

I look at my outstretched hand, at my techprint, and nod. “Kairos. Your name.”

“Not my name, but I’m flattered. They called me Dr. Albert Einstein before they called me a traitor and stuck me in here,” he says.

“Dr. Einstein, I’m Adelice,” I say, this time offering my right hand to shake his. It feels awkward given my own preference for the left hand, but we manage it.

“Albert,” he says firmly. “Call me Albert. I have not been called Dr. Einstein in so long it feels I have lost the privilege.”

“We have a lot of questions,” Erik says. He’s juggling the gun and a chipped teacup and it makes me laugh.

“I think you can put that away,” I say, motioning to his weapon.

Erik takes a long look at Albert and then looks back at me. I nod encouragingly and he slips the gun into his waistband.

“Yes, but it will not do to answer them here,” Albert says as the teakettle shrieks its readiness on the stove. “And the tea is ready.”

Albert carefully pours the boiling water into the waiting cups, trying not to spill and apologizing repeatedly for the few drops that splash onto our hands. He’s no threat, but that might mean he’s no help either. I help him with the mugs and we take them into the other room and disburse them to Jost, Dante, and Valery. The three linger, uncomfortably, in the sitting room and Albert gestures for them to sit down while he goes to shut the front door.

When he returns he introduces himself and waits patiently while the others give their names. He repeats each as if consigning it to memory.

“We have a lot of questions, Albert,” Dante says. “Not the least of which is why you’re living here.”

“Instead of the cold prison?” Albert guesses. “A concession for good behavior. The Guild of Twelve Nations views me as a threat intellectually not physically. As long as people are kept away from me, I’m not a risk.”

“And your guard and his family?” Jost asks.

“Lucas and his family are simple people. Lovely supper guests, but not terribly interested in physics and my scientific mumbo jumbo.” Albert pauses, his cup hovering near his lips. His whiskers tickling its rim. “I do hope you have not hurt them.”

“We sent them away,” I assure him. “We’re not here to hurt anyone.”

“A curious method of revolution.”

“We’re not here to hurt anyone who is innocent,” Dante corrects.

“But what is innocence?” Albert muses. “Ignorance?”

“Maybe,” Dante says, shifting in his chair.

“Or good intentions?” Albert adds.

I look across the room at my companions. Only Erik seems at ease, blowing steam off his tea and taking shallow sips. The rest roost with their shoulders hunched, hanging on Albert’s every word.

“Maybe a gut reaction,” I offer. “Lucas was acting on orders. Something we can all forgive.”

“You have acted under orders then?” he asks.

I remember the thick, coarse strand I removed from the loom under Loricel’s watchful eye. I had acted under orders with good intentions, but under Albert’s piercing gaze, I don’t feel absolved.

“I have,” I admit, “but not anymore.”

“And that is how you became a rebel,” he says. “Did you flee from Arras or were you born of Earth?”

“We’re refugees,” I tell him.

“So many of you and so young. How did you discover the truth?”

“I was taken into service,” I begin.

“A renegade Spinster? Delightful.”

“Adelice was set to be the new Creweler, and she can alter.” Erik jumps in. I flash him a look for interrupting me, but it’s clear he thought I should cut to the chase.

“Then you are the one I’ve waited for.” Albert’s words are so soft that I’m not sure anyone else heard them, as though they were meant only for me. “Do you each bear the mark of Kairos?”

“No,” Dante says. “Only Adelice and I do. The true rebellion died out years ago, but we are rebuilding. Although another man pretends to have the same agenda as our predecessors.”

“There is a false rebellion now?” Albert asks questions with the interest of a man awoken from a long sleep. He has no idea what’s happened in the outside world since he was left here.

“A man named Kincaid wants to find the Whorl,” I tell him.

“I know Kincaid,” Albert says darkly. “If he’s fallen from the Guild’s favor, he’s no one to trifle with.”

“Unfortunately we learned that the hard way,” I say.

“So this is it?” Albert asks. “The final withering offspring of rebellion.”

“No, there are more of us, but not enough to stand up to the Guild.” Dante has told me of the expectations he had when he came to Earth, of the stories his mother—my grandmother—whispered to him of a powerful legion of men who could free Arras. But they were only stories, and the rebellion was once a fledgling barely able to stand on its own legs.

“When they locked me away, armies were mounting,” Albert says, slipping into nostalgia. “They weren’t my armies though. No matter what they claimed.”

“Why not?” I ask, surprised.

“Because I wasn’t interested in starting another war. I didn’t believe it was my place to end the Guild or their politics. I merely wanted to stop their destruction of those that remained on this planet. The best way to do this was to separate the worlds and end Arras’s dependence on Earth.” His tea sloshes dangerously as he waves his arms.

“But you must have known what the Guild was capable of,” I say.

“The Guild is not so different from the governments of Earth. Civil war, world war, these are the inventions of men,” he says. “Terrible inventions, but part of the span of human history. Perhaps someday we may as a species evolve past violence.”

“And you think the Guild is capable of that kind of growth?” Jost asks in a mocking tone full of resentment. “I’ve seen what the Guild can do. There’s been no evolution.”

“Evolution is dependent on change. The change of generations. Children learn from the mistakes of their parents. Even small shifts can create a ripple effect, moving people forward, bringing progress. But how can such change occur if the generations are stymied?” he asks, letting the question linger in the air above us.

“You’re referring to the race of immortals running this party,” Dante says, leaning forward. His tea is abandoned on the table next to him. “Immortals you created.”

“A most regrettable side effect,” Albert admits. “We were working on a tight deadline against our enemies. The weapon the Axis powers were perfecting could have destroyed everyone. It was a bomb unlike anything the Earth had ever seen. I warned the Allied powers, and when they presented an alternate solution meant to preserve life—”

“The Cypress Project?” I guess.

Albert nods. “I was the one who introduced the idea of splicing strands into threads. It was meant to prevent illness and strengthen the population. We could not foresee the effect this new world would have on the immune system, but our technology could circumvent unexpected diseases. Renewal patching was meant to safeguard the fledgling population.”

“But the Guild abused the technology you created.”

“It is every scientist’s dream to better the human condition. But, as you surmised, the officials realized they could use the technology to prevent aging. It allowed them to stay in power.”

“It gave them absolute power,” I say.

“A very dangerous thing,” Albert says with a sigh. “In retrospect I should have anticipated this issue, but the government didn’t give us time to think outside of creating the looms and starting the project. I didn’t stop to consider how the looms could be misused. I was merely concerned with making Arras functional and safe for the population. I have often regretted my participation, but I do accept my role in what was done.”

Shame falls over his face, but I see the value behind his motives. Unlike Cormac, who tried to sell me on the good of the many, Albert actually acted in such parameters. He had done what seemed best, only to realize too late the dreadful repercussions his actions would cause.

“Why not bomb Arras? Take them down?” Erik asks, and I frown at his callous suggestion.

Albert’s answer mirrors my thoughts. “I wanted to save lives, not destroy them.”

“How did that work out for you?” Dante challenges.

“Intentions again. I accept my role, and if you could do the same, we could move on,” Albert replies.

The reprimand settles over the room. Everyone reacts differently. Dante sits up straighter. Jost and Erik look at each other. Valery slouches, turning her attention to the window.

“You said you didn’t anticipate the Guild misusing the looms,” I say, prompting him to return to more fruitful topics.

“I did not,” he admits. “I should have. You must understand, the government pushed forward with the project, but they weren’t the ones who would form the Twelve Nations. Not as you understand them today.”

“If the Guild isn’t comprised of the governments of the nations, who are these men? Who is Cormac Patton?” I ask.

“Ah, Patton, nasty piece of work but a very rich man. They all were. War had stretched America’s funds to the brink. Families were living on rations and going without. Everyone was doing their bit to help, and many of the other nations in the Cypress Project were doing the same.”

“Funny that they never bothered to get rid of those provisions once Arras was a reality,” Jost mutters.

“There is security in knowing your people are totally dependent on you to survive,” Albert says. “That was one of the first indications that something had rotted at the core of the Cypress Project. I’d had qualms about allowing the financial backers of the project to take positions of authority, but I was merely a scientist. No one would listen to me.”

“No one listens to the man who creates the solution,” Erik says with an empty laugh. “No wonder things didn’t work out.”

Albert raises his cup to this as if toasting the lunacy of the predicament. “The officials were heavily involved with the project. These were powerful men—men of immense wealth—and they seemed obsessed with a positive outcome as long as it guaranteed a world where their own standing would not be diminished.”

“Warning sign number two,” I say.

“Indeed. But they were invested in how the science of the looms could benefit their businesses. They sold us on their concern about the world, the people, their customers. I recognized the greed in them.”

“But you missed their ambition to use the looms as a fountain of youth,” Dante points out.

“Having never been obsessed with such a ludicrous notion, I did. I fancied myself a man of science, not a man looking for glory and immortality. It never occurred to me,” Albert says.

“But how did they do it then? If you didn’t help?” I ask.

“Not every one of the scientists shared my ideals, but many of them shared my intelligence. Men like Cormac and Kincaid hung around asking questions—not to explore how the looms could be used to their advantage, but to ascertain who among the scientists could help them achieve these possible benefits.”

“So one of your men turned on you.” It’s Valery who points this out.

“Yes, my lady. The officials established who would help them in their grand plans and set it in motion in secret laboratories in Arras.”

“And they made themselves immortal,” I say.

“That is not entirely correct.” Albert stops me. “To truly be immortal, you would have to be nearly untouchable. They are still vulnerable to disease and injury.”

“But they have those who can alter and patch them into health.”

“Yes, but their so-called immortality skirts a fine line. It can be taken in an instant.”

“So Cormac can be killed,” I say.

“He can,” Albert confirms. “Do you feel it necessary?”

“How else can we liberate the people? Separate Earth from Arras?” Dante cries, the words a fervent verdict of Cormac’s fate. “The Guild’s time is up.”

Albert holds my gaze. He’s not asking us a practical question, he’s asking me an ethical one. He’s asking me to look inside myself and see how far I’m willing to go.

“If we separated the worlds, Arras would have to learn to depend on its own resources. There would be upheaval. Change,” I say softly.

“The course of evolution would begin again,” Albert replies.

“Does anyone have any clue what we’re talking about?” Erik asks, but Dante tells him to shut up. If the others are having trouble following, they aren’t about to interrupt.

“Where do we begin?” I ask.

“I can guide you,” Albert says, a sad smile peeking from beneath his mustache, “but it will be difficult. Arras is a parasitic universe syphoning Earth’s time and resources, but if the edges of Arras were bound and released, the composition of Earth would achieve critical mass, creating a rift in space-time that Arras could occupy, separate from Earth. It could heal. The looms would be useless then, but Arras would be self-sustaining.”

“And the Whorl can do this?” I ask in a breathless voice, trying to wrap my head around what Albert is telling us. If Arras was separated from Earth, both could survive. I wouldn’t have to choose which world to save, and I could prevent the growing threat of all-out war between them.

“The Whorl can tie the edges of Arras together, separating them from the looms and knitting Arras’s time into an infinite weave.” Albert knits his fingers together into a circle and holds it to his eyes. “Time will flow from beginning to end in a ceaseless circle of life.”

“That’s why we need you. We need the Whorl,” Dante says.

“Ah, dear boy, I do not have the Whorl.”

“Then where is it?” Jost demands. He’s risen from his seat and he grips the mantel. His desperation to get back to Arras and save Sebrina is written in anguished lines over his face.

“The Whorl is not a thing. It is a person,” Albert says.

“You’re the Whorl,” Dante guesses.

“No,” Albert says with a shake of his head. “She is.”

His finger points directly at me.