The Glass Sentence

21 The Botanist

1891, June 28: 5-Hour 04

According to pages unearthed in an abandoned storeroom near the western coast, there existed at one point in time a continuous city stretching along the Pacific from the thirtieth to the fiftieth latitude. The date of the pages is unknown, and only very fragmented segments of the Pacific City, as the pages term it, remain.

—From Veressa Metl’s Cultural Geography of the Baldlands

THE CITY OF Nochtland stretched for miles along the floor of a wide valley. Protected by its high walls, it was more an island than a city, not only because it was crisscrossed by waterways, but also because its inhabitants rarely ventured outside. Traders shuttled back and forth to Veracruz, scholars traveled south to the universities in Xela, and adventurers journeyed north to the wild lands on the Pacific coast. But otherwise the people of Nochtland stayed within its walls, claiming that anything and everything they could ever want lay somewhere in its web of narrow streets and vast gardens. It was a wealthy city, where cacao, bank notes, and crown-issued silver passed hands easily. It was a cosmopolitan city, because people from many different Ages had heard of its beauty and gone to live there. And it was a generous city, to those with the Mark of the Vine.

Nochtland itself seemed to bear the Mark of the Vine. The outer walls were covered with climbing milkweed, balloon vines, morning glories, and bougainvillea. From a distance, the flowering mass appeared almost a living thing: a sleeping creature sprawled out at the end of a long road.

Princess Justa Canuto of the grass-green hair would have banned metal, that despised substance, if she could, but without it the city would cease to function. So, with special dispensation, for which the citizens laboriously applied, the carefully prescribed use of metal was permitted: nuts and bolts, harness fixtures, locks and keys, buckles, iron nails. The Nochtland attorneys grew rich shepherding such applications through the courts. Of course, the royal family had no such constraints, and some people complained bitterly that while they waited two years for a permit to own a steel-wire embroidery needle, the very gates of Nochtland, imperfectly hidden by vines, encased the city in pure wrought iron.

The travelers waited all night in the rain, and when they finally reached the gates of Nochtland Sophia was fast asleep. She had stayed awake late, staring blindly into the pouring rain, hearing Theo’s last words and feeling the slight pressure of his lips against her cheek, until her whole mind and body went numb. Finally she fell asleep against Mazapán’s shoulder. She awoke briefly in the middle of the night to a dark sky and saw that the guards at the gate—tall shapes dressed in long, hooded capes—were inspecting Mazapán’s cart. Then she drifted again into an uneasy sleep, opening her eyes only when Mazapán gently shook her shoulder. “We’re here, Sophia,” he said. “Wake up. You will want to see the city at dawn—there is no better time.”

Sophia sat up drowsily and looked around. As she surfaced from sleep, the sense of frozen numbness persisted. Calixta and Burr rode only a few feet ahead of the cart; the gates were just behind them. The thought of Theo slipped through her mind like a tiny, silvery fish through icy water: briefly there and then gone. Lifting her head, she looked around for her first view of Nochtland. She had anticipated her arrival with such excitement, but now she felt nothing.

The rain had stopped, leaving only thin, jagged clouds that turned blue with the dawn. The cobblestone streets still shone darkly. Chimes tinkled all around, as if engaged in murmuring conversation. The cart horses plodded slowly down a long, straight road lined with trees that scattered drops of rain and filled the morning air with the scent of lemon blossoms. Behind the trees, high stone walls and even taller trees beyond them spilled out from the city’s enclosed gardens. Some of the trees were so broad and full that they seemed to crowd the houses, and Sophia noticed that one of the massive trunks was encircled by a set of stairs that led upward to a gabled house set high in the branches.

She could hear water everywhere. A fountain in the wall to her right disgorged a gurgling stream from the mouth of a stone fish; spigots in the high garden walls spewed rainwater onto the cobblestones. The cart rolled over a bridge spanning a long canal; it stretched out on either side, bordered by low walls and long gardens. Sophia caught a glimpse of the innumerable red-tiled roofs of the houses along the canal as they crossed. Then the road narrowed; on either side, the stone walls were dotted with low doors and closed wooden shutters. The tree houses behind them were curtained and quiet. All Nochtland was still sleeping.

Almost all: there was a child peering out from behind a set of curtains. As their eyes met, Sophia felt a sudden pang at the sight of that surprised, rather lost-looking face. She slipped her hands into her pockets to hold her watch and the spool of thread. They calmed her: time was ticking peacefully, and the Fates had been kind. Perhaps they had taken Theo away, but they had given her Calixta and Burr and Mazapán; surely they were weaving some pattern that ensured her safe travels.

The cart turned the corner and suddenly they found themselves in a wide, tree-lined avenue. “This is the road to the palace gates,” Mazapán said.

“Is your shop near here?”

“Very near—but we are not going to my shop. I will leave you with Burton and Calixta at the palace. You can rest there.”

It took Sophia a moment to understand his words. “At the palace?” she asked, confused.

Mazapán smiled. “You are fortunate in your travel companions. Burton is good friends with the royal botanist, and you will enjoy the best accommodations Nochtland has to offer. Much better than my place,” he said, winking. “Look—on the other side of that fence are the royal gardens.”

Across from the long stone wall along the south side of the avenue was a tall, wrought-iron fence. Behind the fence was a hedge of densely planted juniper trees, and beyond that a rank of taller trees stretched to the horizon.

“It is difficult from here, but you might catch a glimpse of the palace through the trees,” Mazapán said. “It is mostly made of glass, and when the sun shines upon its surface it gleams like a thousand mirrors.”

Calixta and Burr, a few lengths ahead, had paused in the cobblestone road at an enormous fountain, a wide, low pool around a jet of water as tall as a palm tree. “We are almost at the gates,” Mazapán said, slowing the cart to a stop.

Calixta dismounted and walked up to them. “You poor thing,” she said to Sophia, “sleeping all night in those wet clothes.”

Sophia heard the pity in her voice. “I’m fine,” she replied lamely.

“I promise you,” Burr said, leading his horse toward her, “breakfast and warm blankets are only a short walk away.” He leaned into the cart. “Mazapán, my friend, we cannot thank you enough.”

“It is nothing,” he replied, gripping Burr’s hand, as Sophia got out. “Come see me when you have finished your errand.” He gave her a wink. “Come by later for some chocolate!”

“Thank you, Mazapán,” she replied, making an effort to smile. “I will.” She watched as the cart rounded the fountain, heading off down the long avenue toward the narrow streets of Nochtland.

“Why don’t you ride the last part while I hold the reins?” Burr asked Sophia.

“All right,” she agreed. He lifted her onto his horse and led it past the fountain to a row of guards who stood before a set of imposing gates. Wrought iron, they arched upward the height of five Nochtland spears laid end to end.

Like those she had seen while half-asleep at the city gates, the guards wore long, hooded capes and masks made entirely of feathers, showing nothing but their impassive eyes. Tall plumes quivered over their heads. Their bare arms, tightly bound with leather bands and painted or tattooed with dense, swirling lines, held long spears with obsidian heads. Sophia remembered Theo’s costume at the circus, and she realized that Ehrlach had been attempting, in his limited way, to re-create the image of the Nochtland guards.

Despite their terrifying appearance, Burr chatted with the guards as if they were pirates on the Swan. “Morning, lads. Here to see the royal botanist, as always.”

“Does the botanist know you are arriving?” the closest guard asked.

“He does not, on this occasion.”

“We will send someone with you, then,” the guard said, and one of the rank stepped forward. “Who is the girl?”

“Just a new recruit.”

Calixta pushed her horse a step forward. “She takes after me,” she said, smiling broadly. “Impatient.”

The guard shook his head, seemingly all too familiar with the Morrises. He opened the gate without another word and waved them on.

They stepped onto a gravel drive that wound through the gardens and up to the palace, the walkways of colored pebbles describing a continuous pattern like a tapestry all along the drive. The path led them through a tunnel of tall juniper bushes, and when they emerged from the tunnel the palace gardens suddenly sprang into view.

Sophia had never seen anything so beautiful. Immediately before her lay a long reflecting pool full of water lilies. On either side of the pool were two gardenia trees dotted with white blossoms, and beside those were lemon trees planted in half-moon beds. Graveled walkways branched off in every direction through the gardens, circling around stone fountains. At each corner of the reflecting pool and along the walkways stood statues of royal ancestors who bore the Mark of the Vine: still faces cut in pale marble, their leafy wings and branching arms white against the green of the gardens.

Beyond the long reflecting pool stood the palace. It was long and rectangular and rose into multiple domes. As Mazapán had said, it was made almost entirely of glass, which glinted in the morning sun like mother-of-pearl. Two vast botanical conservatories of pale green glass flanked it. The guard led them to one side of the reflecting pool, and Sophia glanced down into its shallow green depths, seeing bright fish between the water lilies. The scent of gardenia and lemon blossoms filled the air as birds whirled out from among the branches.

They were led not to the stone steps at front of the palace, where another line of hooded guards stood watch, but to the greenhouses on the right-hand side. The guard left them at a low door in the conservatory wall and departed with their horses. As they waited, Sophia stood quietly, listening to the fountains and the quick calls of the birds.

The door of the conservatory was finally flung open and a small, thin man burst out. “Burton! Calixta!” he shouted. He threw his arms around Burr, squeezing him tightly, and attempted to do the same with Calixta without crushing her hat. The man wore strange spectacles with many lenses, which encircled each of his eyes like petals and winked in the sunlight. Turning his grotesquely magnified eyes toward Sophia, the man asked, “And who is this?”

“Martin,” Burr said, “this is Sophia, from New Occident. Sophia, this is my good friend Martin, the royal botanist.”

Then the wiry man removed his spectacles, and Sophia found herself confronted by a much more ordinary face: narrow, wrinkled deeply from laughter, and topped by a shock of unruly white hair. His long nose, like the gnomon of a sundial, pointed sharply outward and a little to his left. He observed Sophia with his wide brown eyes and put out his hand, bowing briefly as he clasped hers. “Delighted to meet you, Sophia,” he said. “And how wonderful to see you two,” he continued, turning back to Burr and Calixta. “What a surprise. But let’s not stand here. Come in. Come in!”

The botanist led them quickly down the walkway. Sophia noticed that he had a slight limp, but it did not slow him down. Between following Martin and responding to his questions, Sophia barely took in the leaning cacao plants, the mounds of ferns, and the light, fragile faces of the orchids that lined the path. The warm air was bursting with the scent of vegetation. “Did you just come through the city gates?” Martin called over his shoulder.

“We waited in the rain all night,” Burr admitted.

“Poor children! The line must have been eternal, with the eclipse only three nights away. Have you slept at all, Sophia?”

“A little,” she said breathlessly, trying to keep up.

“Do you like eggs?” he demanded, whirling to face her.

“Yes,” Sophia replied, nearly running into him.

“Wonderful!” Martin said, continuing his race through the conservatory. “We’ll have eggs and hot chocolate and mushroom bread.” He muttered something that Sophia could not hear. “I’ll even let you sleep an hour or two,” he added, “before we get to work.”

Sophia wondered what this work could possibly consist of, but she refrained from asking, and a moment later Martin opened a door at the far end of the conservatory. “The royal botanist’s apartments,” he said, ushering them in. “Please make yourselves at home.”

22 The Soil of the Ages

1891, June 28: 6-Hour 34

Based on continuing research with samples collected from across the Baldlands, there have been no less than 3,427 discrete Ages identified within the territory. The range covered by the samples, if the method is correct, is to date no less than five million years. But this range is scattered throughout the entire region, and some areas contain fairly limited diversity. For example, the Triple Eras, as Nochtland, Veracruz, and Xela are collectively known, represent primarily three Ages, with very small samples of others.

—From Veressa Metl’s “Local Soils: Implications for Cartology”

THE ROYAL BOTANIST fulfilled such an important role for the palace—and, indeed, for the entirety of the Baldlands—that the appointment came with a private residence at the rear of the palace, connected to the conservatories. Much like Shadrack, Martin had managed to fill his rooms with all the tools of his trade. A large kitchen, a laboratory, a study, a dining room with a table fit for twenty, and four bedrooms were fairly overflowing with strange scientific equipment, books on botany and zoology and geology, and, of course, hundreds of plants. Unlike Shadrack, however, Martin kept his rooms in order, and the chaos of vegetation and equipment was carefully contained on dozens of shelves and in heavy glass cabinets that crouched in the corners of every room.

After serving them the promised eggs and mushroom bread—all the while talking without pause about the cultivation of the cacao that had gone into making their hot chocolate—Martin reluctantly allowed his visitors to rest. Burr clearly knew his way around, and he disappeared with a yawn.

“The back bedroom?” Calixta asked, already leading Sophia away.

“Yes,” he replied. “Sleep well!”

A broad, sun-filled bathroom with tiled floors and walls—and more than a dozen potted orchids—adjoined the bedroom. Sophia, knowing how particular Calixta was about the state of her clothes and hair, greatly appreciated her kindness in offering to bathe second.

Here, in the botanist’s apartments, Sophia felt almost as safe as she had in Boston. She lay in the porcelain tub and watched the sun glitter against the tiles, the water’s warmth stealing through her. She moved the soap absently over her skin and then lay still, letting her muscles relax. Finally, she stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a bathrobe, the cotton soft against her skin. As she tied the sash around her waist, she felt a long sigh building up in her chest; and then, suddenly, the icy numbness in her mind cracked and thawed. She hiccupped, choked, and found that she was crying.

She doubled over, weeping. “There, there,” said Calixta, putting her arms around Sophia and rubbing her back. The cries seemed to twist their way out in painful jerks. Sophia hardly knew where these heaving sobs came from. But she knew that the horror of Shadrack’s disappearance had been made easier, somehow, by Theo’s presence, and now he was gone. And Shadrack—

Sophia gave a sharp gasp. Shadrack might be dead, for all she knew. “That’s it, sweetheart,” Calixta whispered, as Sophia’s tears diminished, “get it all out.” After a long while, Calixta gave her a squeeze and then a reassuring smile. “Let’s get your hair untangled before you go to sleep.” Calixta dried her hair with a towel and then combed it out, humming quietly all the while. The gentle pull of the comb and the low wordless song made Sophia unbearably sleepy. She hardly remembered crawling into one of the high beds, which she had to reach by means of a little ladder. A cotton nightgown that was not hers but that fit her well was laid out on the bed. She drew it on over her head and fell asleep the moment she lay down.

When she awoke, she did not know where she was. Then she remembered and sat up.

Something had changed while she slept; Sophia felt better than she had in ages. The agonizing wait in the rain, Theo’s desertion, the long ride from Veracruz, the unending seasickness aboard the Swan, the unlucky train ride through New Occident: they were all over. She felt bruised and sore, as if her body and mind had been trampled, but at least the worst was over. An unexpected wave of relief rushed through her.

Calixta had closed the wooden shutters, and sunlight leaked in through the cracks, filling the room with a pale, amber light. She was fast asleep in the other bed. Sophia climbed down the ladder as quietly as she could and rummaged in her purse for her pocket watch. It was past ten, by New Occident time—half the day already gone.

She could not find her clothes, but someone had left a white dress embroidered with blue vines on the chair near her bed. Surprisingly, it fit; the pressed cotton smelled faintly of starch and lavender. A pair of blue slippers beside the chair were only a little large. She took her pack and slung it over her shoulder. Slipping her watch and the spool of thread into the pocket of the dress, she quietly closed the door behind her.

For a moment she stood on the cool stones of the corridor, letting the newly found sense of recovery settle through her. She could almost feel her limbs gaining strength. Then she heard Burr’s unmistakable chuckle from a nearby room, and she made her way along the corridor until she found the open door of the laboratory. Martin was studying something through his spectacles and talking animatedly to Burr, who stood next to him, beaming.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen!” Martin exclaimed. “I cannot even begin to date it, though that in itself . . . Astonishing! And you say a sailor took it from an island where?”

“Good rest?” Burr asked, seeing Sophia in the doorway.

“Sophia!” Martin smiled, blinking hugely through his spectacles. “How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you. Calixta is still in bed.”

“Let her sleep,” Martin said. He pulled her to where he had been standing at the table. “Burr tells me you are of a scientific family. You simply must see this.”

“You’ll have to explain a bit,” Burr put in. “I haven’t told Sophia anything about your work.”

“I will, I will,” Martin said impatiently, pulling a short footstool toward the table. “Up you go.” Sophia was nonplused, but climbed the footstool nonetheless. “Look into the glass!” Martin exclaimed excitedly. “Oh!” he said, suddenly removing his spectacles. “You need these.” He fastened them onto her face. Everything around her was a blur of color. “Here,” Martin said, gently tipping her head down, over the desk.

Sophia found herself looking at what appeared to be fist-sized rocks with jagged, golden stripes. She gazed at them in confusion and then took off the glasses. There on the table was a jar filled with loose, sandy soil. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“This soil,” Martin said, “was found by a sailor on a remote island—where?” he asked Burr.

“South of the Indies, close to the coast of Late Patagonia.”

“And it appears to be from an Age we know nothing about. I cannot even begin to guess what Age it comes from, but I know it is an undiscovered Age just from looking at the soil!”

“How can you tell?” Sophia asked doubtfully.

“Because this soil is manmade!”

“How is that possible?”

“It isn’t!” The botanist laughed with delight. “That is what is so extraordinary. It is utterly impossible, and yet it has been done. This soil comes from an Age that we know nothing about—I am guessing in the extremely distant future. But who knows? It might be a past Age.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“I really don’t understand,” Sophia said again.

“Come,” Martin said, pulling her peremptorily off the stool. “Follow me.” He limped rapidly toward the other end of the room.

Sophia followed as quickly as she could, and Burr joined them at a round table near the window. Pinned to it was a paper map full of penciled notations and numbers. “The earth,” Martin said excitedly, “is probably about four and a half billion years old. That is—dated from our time. Though the Baldlands contain a vast collection of Ages, a great number of them lie in the thousand-year span to which the United Indies and New Occident also belong. You might say we are roughly in the same Age-hemisphere. But other parts of the world contain Ages that are thousands—or even millions—of Ages away from ours. My research—one small part of it,” he qualified—“is to date the various Ages by dating their soil.”

Sophia examined the map more closely, but the numerical notations were still unintelligible. “So all these numbers are dates?”

“It is easiest to think of them that way, yes,” Martin said. “I believe my method is the most straightforward empirical way of eventually identifying every Age in our new world. Burr here collects soil samples for me—or, rather, his colleagues do—and, as you can see, we have managed to identify many Ages all across our hemisphere.” Martin spoke with noticeable pride. He beamed at Burr, who gave a quick smile.

“It is very impressive,” Sophia said politely. She understood the significance of Martin’s research, but the map was still a mystery to her.

“But that is not all! Let’s show her the green room!” he said eagerly to Burr.

“By all means.”

“Let’s try that new soil, shall we? Come!” He limped off toward the other end of the room, where Sophia saw a narrow, glass-paned door that she had not noticed before. It led directly into a small greenhouse—a greenhouse within the larger conservatory that they had walked through that morning. “This,” Martin said grandly, indicating the mostly empty flower pots and trays, “is where the great experiments take place!”

“What experiments?” Martin’s enthusiasm was contagious.

“The soil experiments, of course.” He leaned in until his long nose was almost touching hers. “The botanical experiments!” he whispered. “What we do,” he continued, straightening up and turning to a tray of odd-looking plants, “is combine different seeds and cuttings with soil from different Ages. The results are sometimes extraordinary.” He pulled one of the nearby pots off the shelf and held it toward Sophia. “What do you think this is?” he asked.

“It looks like a strawberry,” Sophia said doubtfully.

“Exactly!” Martin said. “But taste it.” He picked one of the berries from the plant and handed it to her.

She stared at it skeptically for a moment and then popped it in her mouth. “It’s not”—and then her mouth was flooded with an unexpected taste—“Wait, it tastes like mushrooms!”

Martin was even more delighted now. “Yes, mushroom! Remarkable, isn’t it? These are what I used for the bread. I have no idea why, but strawberries taste like mushrooms when they’re planted in this soil from the northern Baldlands. It is most curious.” He put the strawberry plant aside. “Over here we have my newest experiments with mapping vegetation,” and he gestured toward a long table with what looked like an ordinary vegetable garden. “Anise, celery, and onion, mainly.”

“Oh! I saw an onion map at the market in Veracruz,” Sophia said instantly. “How do they work?”

“Those were very simple to develop, really,” Martin said modestly. “Plants are greatly shaped by their native soil. The soil is magnetized, like a compass, and then the vegetable or root leads back to the soil in which it was planted—like a divining rod, if you will. It works better with some plants than others.” He scratched his head. “For some reason, pineapples always lead to the ocean.”

He took out an empty pot. “But what I am truly looking forward to is this manmade soil that Burr found for us. The sample?” he asked.

Burr obligingly handed over a glass container, and Martin spooned a small amount of soil into a tiny pot. “Let’s see,” he muttered, opening a long drawer and rifling through dozens of small paper envelopes. “Petunias? Oranges? Basil? We could use a clipping. But I think I would like to try—yes. Let’s use this.” He held up a brown envelope. “Morning glory!” He dipped into it and plunged the few small seeds that stuck to his fingertip into the pot of soil. Then he carefully smoothed the soil over and watered it with a ceramic pitcher. “In a few days we will see what has emerged,” he said, dusting his hands off happily. “And if I am right, it will be something remarkable.”

“What other experiments do you do?” Sophia asked, intrigued.

Martin did not have a chance to reply, because Burr suddenly gave a shout of alarm, seized Sophia’s arm, and pulled her away from the pot.

A small green tendril, lithe as a snake, was winding up out of the soil and into the air. As they watched, the green stem split in two, sprouted a delicate spade-shaped leaf, and reached farther upward. Suddenly the tiny pot exploded, and a dense web of silver roots burst out onto the counter, clinging to and spreading across it. The green shoot, dotted with leaves, had now nearly reached the low ceiling of the greenhouse. Thin shoots sprung off it like wires, spiraling into the air. Then a tight white bud appeared near one of the leaves. Another bud and then another materialized. Almost simultaneously, the white buds turned green and then faintly blue and then deep purple as they grew and elongated. And finally, in a sudden burst, the morning glory flowered like dozens of tiny parasols opening at once. But that was not the most surprising thing. What astonished the speechless observers most was the sound that came from the flowers. A dozen high, flutelike voices called out in some unknown tongue that was not quite speech and not quite song: a high, undulating call that Sophia was sure contained words of some kind, though she could not understand them. Martin was the first to step forward toward the plant.

“Take care, Martin!” Burr exclaimed.

“There is nothing to fear,” Martin said, awestruck, reaching out toward the plant. “It is resting at the moment. How remarkable,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “Its roots are made of silver. I wonder—yes. The stem is vegetable matter. Truly fantastic.” He turned to Burr and Sophia with an expression of wonder. “This morning glory is like nothing I have ever seen. It is only half plant.”

“What is the rest of it?” Burr asked tensely.

“I believe it is manmade.” Martin shook his head. “Not entirely manmade, but something in between, a hybrid. It has grown like a plant, but its substance is partly metallic. I have read about such plants in an obscure history from my daughter’s collection. But I believed it to be hypothetical, or fictional, or fantastical. I never imagined such plants could truly exist.”

“Why is it making that sound?” Sophia asked.

Martin smiled. “I have no idea. But I will find out.” He took a last look at the morning glory. “We have much to do! I will visit the library, and we will examine these flowers under a strong lens, and then perhaps we will attempt another sample.” He wiped his eyes, which were damp with emotion. “What a discovery!” Then he hurried back to his laboratory, followed by Sophia and Burr, who closed the greenhouse door firmly with a grim expression.

“Perhaps we ought to consider the matter, Martin,” he said, following the older man as he whirled around gathering supplies. “Must I remind you that the experiments on occasion have . . . unexpected consequences.”

“Nonsense,” Martin said absently.

“Nonsense?” Burr exclaimed. “What about the strangling creeper? What about the lying labyrinth of boxwood, which would have been the death of five royal attendants had you not killed it with poison? What about the blood-apple tree, which I hear is now the source of innumerable horror stories designed to keep children from wandering unattended in the park? Or the fanged potatoes? Or the walking elm? Martin!”

Martin looked up, startled. “What?”

“There is something strange about that flower. Its voice unsettles me. We have no way of knowing its true nature. We must be a little cautious. Please.”

The botanist looked at the tall nine-hour clock near the courtyard door. “Almost lunchtime,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll ask her to look it up in the library. Morning glory. No, that wouldn’t be it. Soils? Manufactured soils?” He shook his head. “There won’t be a thing.”

“Martin,” Burr repeated gravely.

The old man beamed at him. “Since when are you so serious, Burton? This is very unlike you. We must seize the opportunity! A discovery like this occurs once in an age!”

“It is you who makes me serious. Normally I throw caution and care to the wind, but I have learned that you need minding. I must be the voice of reason to you. Consider the greater circumstances. Consider . . .” He paused. “Remember the whispering oleander,” he said gently. “It too could speak.”

Martin hesitated.

“The whispering oleander?” Sophia echoed quietly.

“That was a different thing altogether,” Martin finally said. “It is an absurd comparison!”

Burr took a deep breath, clearly frustrated. “Martin, I am only asking you to proceed carefully. Silver roots—in this palace? You will be accused of treason.”

Martin rolled his eyes with exaggerated impatience. “I tell you, Burton,” he exclaimed, “there is no danger.”

“What dangers are you ignoring now?” someone asked.

Sophia turned, expecting Calixta, and saw instead a slight woman with hair piled intricately atop her head. She wore a long, close-fitting garment that swept the floor; it was covered with tiny silk flowers of a deep midnight blue. A high pearl choker encircled her neck. The dress left her arms bare, and at first Sophia thought there was a long line of sequins running from the woman’s wrists to her shoulders. Then, as she joined the group, Sophia realized that they were thorns: each no larger than a fingernail, they were pale green, slightly curved, and seemingly quite sharp. The woman smiled kindly at Sophia. She seemed young, but her expression was serious and thoughtful, as if borrowed from a much older face. Sophia suddenly understood what people meant when they called Sophia herself “wise beyond her years”—it was here, in the woman’s face. She smiled back. The woman turned to Martin, and Sophia noticed that her jet-black hair was dotted with tiny blue flowers.

“My dear, you’ve arrived just at the right moment! I need your help immediately!” he exclaimed, hurrying toward her.

“A great pleasure to see you once again,” Burton said, kissing the newcomer’s hand.

“Likewise, Burr,” she said, smiling. “How is Calixta?”

“Dearest, we have no time for this,” Martin exclaimed, seizing her hand. “You must come see the soil Burr brought me. It’s most extraordinary. You simply won’t believe—”

“Father,” she said gently. “Won’t you introduce me to your other guest?”

Martin caught himself. “Of course, of course—I’m so sorry, my dear. This is Sophia, a friend of Burr and Calixta’s. Sophia,” he said, turning to her with a little bow, “this is the royal librarian and court cartologer.

“My daughter, Veressa.”

23 The Four Maps

1891, June 28: 11-hour 22

Lock the doors, stop your ears.

The Lachrima will sense your fear.

And if it’s drawn in by your fright

You’ll surely see it in the night.

—Nochtland nursery rhyme, first verse

ONLY WHEN VERESSA murmured, “A pleasure to meet you,” did Sophia finally find her tongue.

“You are Veressa?” she exclaimed, the words spilling from her mouth too loudly. “The cartologer?”

“Yes,” Veressa replied, both surprised and amused. Sophia felt dizzy. She put her hand out toward the table, and Veressa seized it. “Are you all right?”

“You—my uncle,” Sophia said, attempting to collect herself. “My uncle sent me to you. I came from Boston all the way to find you. My uncle, Shadrack Elli. Do you know where he is?”

It was Veressa’s turn to stare, her eyes wide. “You astonish me,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “I have not heard that name in many years.”

Sophia bit her lip as disappointment rushed through her. She had been hoping that somehow, once she found her, Veressa would know what had happened to Shadrack and have a plan for his rescue. Her hand closed around the spool of thread in her pocket. Why would you lead me so easily to Veressa, she asked the Fates, if she cannot lead me to Shadrack?

“Come,” Veressa said gently. “Let’s sit and talk this over.” She put her hand on Sophia’s shoulder and guided her gently toward the kitchen.

Martin and Burr followed them and stood uncertainly by while she and Sophia sat at the long table. “Now,” she said, “tell me everything, beginning with how things were before Shadrack sent you to me.”

Sophia explained as best she could, though it was difficult without being certain how much Veressa already knew about glass maps and railroad lines and any number of other things. Veressa stopped her to ask questions: once about Mrs. Clay’s story about the Lachrima, and a second time about Montaigne. Otherwise, she listened attentively, pressing Sophia’s hand encouragingly when the story grew confusing or difficult to tell. When Sophia was through, she sat thoughtfully for several moments. “May I see Shadrack’s two messages and the map?” she finally asked.

Veressa read the notes briefly and then held the glass map to the light for a moment. She placed it on the table with a heavy sigh. “I had not thought it would happen this way,” she said, “though it was bound to happen.” She glanced up at her father. “I’m sorry, Papá, there are some things I have not told you that you will hear for the first time.” She looked down at the table. “I had good reason for not telling you.”

Martin sat down abruptly, apparently more astonished by this than by anything else that had happened all day.

Veressa touched the glass map for a moment and shuddered, as if she saw something on its surface. “I know this map,” she said quietly. “Shadrack and I came across it together, many years ago. Part of me wishes we had never found it.” She shook her head. “Let me tell you how it happened.”

—11-Hour 31: Veressa Tells of Talisman—

“IT WAS WHEN we were students, as Mrs. Clay told you, that we knew one another. She is right that we were close.” Veressa paused. “Very close. But something,” she continued quickly, “came between us. What Mrs. Clay did not know was the extent of our work in cartology. She could not know the dedication—the passion—with which we pursued it. Mapmaking with all materials—glass, clay, metal, cloth, and others besides—was naturally part of our studies. However, we learned in one of our courses that there were other materials for mapmaking that were forbidden in our school. Our teachers would not say what they were. But by and by we heard of a former teacher who had been dismissed because he persisted in experimenting with them. He was called Talisman, Talis for short—I do not know if that was his full name.

“If they had told us of Talisman’s terrible experiments, we would have been disgusted and lost all interest. But our teachers’ silence only made us more curious. I can’t remember which one of us came up with the idea of finding Talisman, but once the idea had taken hold neither Shadrack nor I could shake it. Piece by piece, we put together the story, and we discovered that he lived alone not far outside of Nochtland.

“We were wise enough to write to him beforehand. We told him we were students of cartology, and that we desired to learn something of his methods. To our surprise, he responded almost immediately. He said we would be most welcome, and that he would be happy to share his learning with us. In person, we found him just as kind and welcoming, if older and more tired, than we had expected—his face was that of someone who had lived through a time of great grief. His vast home was dilapidated, but he did his best to make us feel comfortable. He showed us the rooms where we would stay and the study where we would work. I remember that he spoke with us for only a few minutes before leaving to prepare dinner—he had no servants and seemed to live alone. Those were the only minutes we passed in relative peace.

“Shadrack and I made our way to the dining room, as Talisman had instructed us, and we waited for nearly an hour. There was no sign of him. After the hour had passed, we began to hear a strange sound from somewhere far away within the house. It was the sound of weeping.

“I was uneasy, but Shadrack reassured me, saying that we knew not what private grief Talisman suffered. We had only to wait, he insisted. Another hour passed, and then another. There was no sign of Talis. The sound of weeping grew louder, and finally became so inescapable that I felt desperate to leave. But then it would subside, and I would steel myself to wait a while longer. Then, suddenly, when it was almost nine-hour, Talisman appeared in the door of the dining room. I say it was Talisman, but he was almost unrecognizable. He waved his arms furiously and shouted at us in a language we did not understand. Shadrack and I clung to one another, terrified. But we soon saw that he meant us no harm. In fact, it was almost as though he could not see us—he appeared to look right through us. He shouted at something that stood before him, railing at the empty air. Then, just as abruptly as he had arrived, he turned on his heel and left.

“Shadrack and I fled to my room. We pushed a chair against the door and sat up the entire night. We heard the sound of weeping rising and falling through the early hours, but we did not see Talisman again.

“We had already made our plans to escape as soon as it was light, but at dawn we heard a faint knocking on the door. Shadrack cautiously removed the chair. To our astonishment, Talisman stood in the hall—contrite and disheveled—begging our forgiveness. He seemed to have no memory of what had occurred, but he suspected that all was not right. It was painful to see how he attempted to apologize while being entirely unaware of what he had done. ‘Did you find supper to your liking?’ he asked anxiously. We answered that we had not had the chance to eat. ‘I am terribly sorry,’ he said, tears filling his eyes. ‘I can’t—I don’t know how to apologize. Please, let me make it up to you with breakfast.’ It would have been cruel to deny him. We followed him to the dining room, entirely perplexed by the change in circumstances, and proceeded to have an ordinary breakfast.

“After breakfast, Talisman seemed to regain some of his energy, and without being asked he turned to the topic of cartology. ‘I am honored that you have shown an interest in my methods,’ he said. ‘And I am only too happy to share them with you. As it stands, there are no others who practice them, and I fear that when I go’—a shadow passed over his face as he said this—‘there will be none to carry on.’ We assured him that while we knew nothing of his methods, we were enthusiastic students and open to every manner of experiment. ‘Wonderful,’ he said, his face brightening. ‘Has it not struck you as remarkable that the principal method for reading memory maps is human touch? How is it that the fingertips have this ability to transmit memories to the brain? In fact,’ he went on, his enthusiasm growing, ‘it is not only the fingertips but the entire human body which responds to the stored memories on a map. Try it—your elbow, your wrist, your nose—they are all the same. It is as if human skin were a great sponge, simply waiting to absorb memories! In fact, this is exactly the case—we are sponges and we do absorb memories.’

“I heard then for the first time the theory that has since been confirmed by other scholars. At the time, I was not certain whether or not to believe Talisman. Now I do without question. He applied his knowledge to shocking ends, but there is no doubt that his observations were true. ‘The Great Disruption,’ Talis went on, ‘disrupted the world in ways we are only beginning to understand. But one thing we know—there are borders, fault lines, edges to the Ages that resulted from the Great Disruption. I have always sought to understand these borders. What did they look like? What happened along them when the Disruption took place? Perhaps we will never know entirely what it was like, but we can try. I imagine a great, blinding light that sears the earth along a jagged line.’ He laughed. ‘But perhaps I am being fanciful. What we know beyond a shadow of a doubt is what happened to those people who were on the fault line when the Disruption occurred.’

“Shadrack and I looked at him in surprise. This was unexpected. ‘Have you never contemplated it?’ he asked, equally surprised. ‘I have been obsessed with the question. And now I know. Those unlucky people fell into a great chasm of time. Every event that ever took place on the spot where they were standing passed through them, like blinding light passing through a prism. Can you imagine what such a thing would do to you? Can you begin to conceive the damage to the human frame, the human mind, of being plunged into infinite time?’ He shook his head, awed by his own question.

“‘Contrary to what you may think,’ he continued, ‘they did not die. Oh, no—much the opposite. They passed beyond time, extending their lives to unnatural length by decades, perhaps even centuries. Nevertheless, they were lost—hopelessly lost. A million memories that did not belong to them remained echoing in their brains. Consider: black is the absence of color, while white is the sum of all colors. What is the result when all of those strange memories are forced into your mind? Utter blankness, utter whiteness. Their minds were blank. And so were their faces. Just as a contented old woman wears the grooved wrinkles of every laugh, and a bitter old man wears the furrows of every frown, and an old warrior bears the scar of every battle, so their faces showed the traces of every memory of their engulfed minds. They wore the face of nothingness.’”

Sophia, absorbed as she was in Veressa’s story, let out a gasp. “Of course! That is why none exist in Boston.”

Veressa nodded. “At that moment I understood, and I could see that Shadrack did as well. ‘The Lachrima,’ he said.

“‘Yes!’ Talis exclaimed. ‘What we call the Lachrima, who weep for the surfeit of memories, among which their own are utterly lost: the Lachrima who weep even as their long lives fade, so that before expiring they are nothing more than a sound, a lament. They are truly the lost souls of this earth.’

“I then realized the meaning of what I had heard the day before. ‘Can it be,’ I asked him, ‘that we have heard a Lachrima here—in your home?’

“He rose from his chair. ‘Follow me!’ he said, hurrying from the room. ‘You have heard a Lachrima who has lived with me for nearly three years!’ We were stunned. ‘Yes!’ he said breathlessly. ‘Three years!’ He stopped suddenly and laid a clammy hand on my arm. ‘And I have attempted to save it.’ He rushed onward, through the twisting hallways, and we followed him, riveted and horrified. Finally, at the end of a long corridor, we reached a door that was heavily chained. Catching his breath, Talis took a key from his pocket and unlocked the massive lock that held the chain in place. ‘Quiet,’ he whispered, ‘it sleeps.’

“He slowly opened the door. The room was small, with high ceilings; bright light poured into the room from a barred window. Underneath the window was a narrow bed, and at first I could not identify what I saw upon it. It was a shape—a female figure only partly hidden by white sheets. There was something draped across it that I suddenly realized was the Lachrima’s arm. It was entirely covered with strangely colored designs that I took for some peculiar pattern on its clothing. Then the Lachrima turned toward us, and I saw the long, pale hair that trailed across the bed and onto the floor. And the face—oh, the face. It was horribly wounded and scarred, as if it had been repeatedly cut in long lines. ‘You see!’ Talisman whispered, gesturing with trembling pride. ‘My great cartologic invention. I have drawn the map upon its skin.’

“I understood then that the web of unintelligible markings that I had taken for clothing were lines of ink drawn upon the body of the Lachrima. Shadrack frowned. ‘But what have you done to its face?’ he asked.

“‘With careful incisions,’ Talisman exclaimed, ‘I have twice almost found its hidden features!’

“I shuddered, taking Shadrack’s arm, and a cry must have escaped my lips, for the Lachrima suddenly stirred and lifted its head. It faced us in silence, its horribly scarred countenance a mockery of a human face; and then suddenly it let out a terrible, heartrending cry. Covering its face with hands that were, like its arms, laden with inscrutable markings—it shrieked over and over, as if in agony. The shriek resolved itself into words: ‘HELP ME! HELP ME!’

“I bolted from the room, dragging Shadrack behind me, and Talis followed us hurriedly, locking the heavy door. But it did not muffle the cries of the Lachrima, and I felt that if they continued, I would lose my mind. Then I saw from Talisman’s face that he was even more affected than I. He dropped to his knees, suddenly, and looked up at us. ‘Apff?’ he said, in the high, gurgling voice of an infant.

“‘What is wrong with him?’ I cried.

“‘I don’t know,’ Shadrack replied. ‘He seems to think he is a child.’ The shrieking of the Lachrima continued, and I knew that I could bear it no longer. I turned and ran down the corridor, fleeing from the sound and from the frightening sight of Talisman on his hands and knees. Shadrack ran after me, and though we lost our way in the hallways more than once, we finally found our way back to the dining room and from there to the bedrooms to gather our belongings. We seized them and ran toward the stables, where we had left our hired horses. I was trembling from hand to foot, and I could barely manage the saddle. And yet, as we were readying the horses, the sound of the Lachrima faded and finally stopped. Still, I wanted nothing more than to leave as quickly as possible.

“Suddenly Talisman threw open the stable door and came unsteadily toward us. I felt an irrational fear surge through me. ‘Please,’ he said faintly. ‘Wait—I beg you.’ I would not have waited, but Shadrack hesitated, moved by pity. The old man looked beaten down and exhausted, and I understood then the constant expression of grief that he wore, even when he was not under the Lachrima’s spell. He carried a wrapped bundle carefully in his arms, and as he walked toward us he shifted it to one hand and held his other out toward us appealingly. ‘I beg you,’ he said again, hoarsely. ‘Wait.’

“‘We are leaving, Talisman,’ Shadrack said firmly.

“‘I know, I know,’ he said, crestfallen. ‘I know it frightens you. It frightens me as well, but I must explain to you. Someone must know. The Lachrima’s cries confuse my sense of time. I lose my way—I know not who I am nor where I am, nor when I am.’

“‘Let the Lachrima go free,’ Shadrack implored. ‘Come away with us. We will find you a doctor in Nochtland. Your mind might still be restored with care and rest.’

“Talis shook his head. ‘I cannot. It is my life’s work. I aim to restore that creature’s mind, even if it costs me my own.’

“‘But can you not see the further damage you are doing? You are restoring nothing!’

“‘I am drawing a map of its life upon its skin. Then it will remember its one, true life.’

“‘I ask you once more to show it mercy and leave with us,’ Shadrack said, taking the old man’s arm.

“Talis pulled away and handed Shadrack the bundle. ‘If you must go, take these with you. They are too valuable to be left here, where they might soon be lost with me.’ He smiled feebly. ‘Do not fear—they are maps like those you know. They hold the key to a great mystery, and it will not do for them to be buried with an old man.’

“Shadrack accepted them, at a loss for words, and Talis stepped back. He raised his arm as if bidding us farewell and slowly left the stables. Shadrack seemed to hesitate, debating what to do. Then he put the package in his saddlebag and mounted his horse. ‘Let us leave this place,’ he said to me.

“We returned to Nochtland without stopping, and we could not bring ourselves to speak of what had happened. Back at the academy, we sat listlessly at our desks, thinking only of what we had seen—of that tormented creature and how little we had done to save her. Shadrack came to my room the following day with the bundle that Talisman had given him. ‘I think we should look at these together,’ he said.

“Inside the carefully wrapped bundle we found four maps—glass, clay, metal, and cloth. Four maps that fit together and told a tragic story. Despite the horror we had felt during our visit, we recognized that the maps were, indeed, keys to a great mystery. After studying the maps we came to the same conclusion: they held a memory of how the Great Disruption had come to pass.”

Everyone at the table gasped, and Veressa looked down at the glass map. “What we could not agree on,” she continued in a subdued voice, “was what to do with the maps. The glass map, in particular, since apart from being a memory map, it was clearly also a tracing map—a lens used to identify and draw other maps. Shadrack believed we should use them for exploration, to discover where the Disruption had taken place. It was his theory that if we followed the maps we would find the carta mayor—the fabled water map that shows the living world. The idea had occurred to both of us; indeed, among cartologers, it would have occurred to anyone. But I,” Veressa paused, shaking her head, “I feared the maps would lead to ill. The carta mayor is a dangerous legend, and it has led many explorers to disappointment or death. Some say it is an ordinary water map. Some say it has much greater power: that the carta mayor does not only show all possible worlds—past, present, and future—but that it also offers the power to change them. A change in the map produces a change in the world. Who knows if such a thing is true, but it hardly matters; the rumor of such power is enough. People believe what they will. I worried about what would happen if the maps fell into the wrong hands.”

Martin reached across the table and took his daughter’s hand. “Shadrack and I could not resolve our difference of opinion,” she said sadly. “And our arguments grew increasingly bitter. I think, beneath it all, we were suffering from guilt. The Lachrima had asked us for help and we had fled. Finally, by way of compromise and out of respect for my wishes, Shadrack agreed to separate the maps as a way of minimizing their potential power. The glass map was a formidable instrument, but alone it could not tell the whole story of the Disruption. I know that he has used it with the utmost wisdom, relying on its excellent quality to draw exquisite maps of his own. He has only used the tracing glass to add knowledge to the world of cartology, and he has tried to keep its existence hidden. Nevertheless, its reputation has traveled. Even here, I heard rumors of what came to be known as the ‘Polyglot Tracing Glass.’ It was inevitable that as its reputation grew, so would covetous explorers and cartologers seek to find it. The other three maps were mere stage scenery without the glass layer. I kept them.

“Shadrack and I parted on bad terms. He wrote to me only once, to tell me that he had returned to Talisman’s home, but the man’s mind was past repair. Shadrack freed the Lachrima, who fled at once, and brought Talisman to Nochtland, where he settled him in a convent hospital. From time to time I visit. He is like a child now—lost in some private world which the rest of us cannot see. But Shadrack I never heard from again—until now.” She smiled wanly at Sophia. “And so, with you, the glass map returns to Nochtland.”

“But where are the other three, my child?” Martin demanded. “I have never seen such maps here.”

Veressa sighed. “They are in the library safe. The four maps are together in the same place once more.”

24 Into the Sand

1891, June 26: Shadrack Missing (Day 6)

Arboldevela: A term to describe the arbol de vela, or sailing tree, a vehicle powered by wind and used to navigate both on land and on water. Early models were developed for the court of Leopoldo. Stored wind-power generated by the sails is used to propel the vehicle with woven wheels that convert to paddle wheels when used in water. Common in the Triple Eras and the northern periphery.

—From Veressa Metl’s Glossary of Baldlandian Terms

SHADRACK KNEW THAT they would soon be abandoning the train, because all morning the Sandmen had been packing Blanca’s belongings. He tried to keep his mind on the task at hand. He had rapidly transferred his memories into the rectangular sheet of copper, and now the painstaking work of ordering and manifesting those memories into a map had begun. Shadrack leaned over the copper sheet with a magnifying glass, studying the pattern of oxidation he had created. His tools—a microscope, an array of small hammers and chisels, a case full of vials with colored liquids, and a brazier with cold, ashy coals—lay around him on the table. Weeping stood by, watching Shadrack’s progress with studied patience. The two had hardly exchanged another word, but Weeping had somehow communicated their lie to Blanca, and she had not returned.

Shadrack estimated that the train had almost reached the border of the Baldlands. He had no notion where Blanca would go once the rails ended. His time was running short; he would have to make his attempt to flee soon.

As he scraped gently at the metal sheet, the door suddenly opened. Blanca entered, followed by four Sandmen. “We are leaving the Bullet,” she announced. “Your niece has boarded a ship called the Swan in New Orleans, and the ship’s destination is Veracruz.” It sounded as if she was smiling. “So we are heading south. When we reach the border, we will board a boldevela and travel to Veracruz.”

Shadrack deliberately did not acknowledge her. “I give you this information as a courtesy,” Blanca added, “and so that you are assured of being soon reunited with your niece. Your map of the carta mayor’s location should be ready just in time.” Her attention turned to the copper map. “Have you completed it?”

“Not quite,” Shadrack said quickly.

“Let me see it,” she said.

“I would like to finish it before you read it.”

Blanca reached across the table and picked up the map. “A match, Weeping.”

Weeping hesitated only a moment before drawing a matchbox from his jacket pocket. He lit a match and held it before him. Blanca held the map to the flame, then set it down on the table; its entire surface swarmed with inscrutable drawings. She quickly pulled off one of her gloves and placed her fingertips on the copper surface. Shadrack was tense with anticipation.

For several seconds she stood motionless; then she pulled her hand away from the map as if burned. “This cannot be its location, because this place no longer exists. How do you know this place?” she whispered. “Tell me how you know it!” The fear and anger coursed through her words and into the room, palpable and overwhelming. Weeping winced and stumbled backward.

Shadrack felt the rush of blood in his ears as he rose abruptly from his chair. “I would ask you the same,” he shot back, trying to stay calm. The sound of her voice alone was enough to make the steadiest heart skip a beat.

“How do you know this place?” She nearly choked on her scream.

Clearly, even Weeping had never seen Blanca in such a state. The other men stared at her in terror, paralyzed. “I have been there,” Shadrack said evenly. “And so have you.”

“You lied to me,” Blanca wailed, charging around the table. “You deceived me.”

“I said I would draw you a map.”

She strode toward him, her fury spilling forth like flames from a burning house, and for a moment Shadrack believed she was going to throw herself upon him. She stopped, her veiled face inches from his; he expected any moment to feel the force of her exploding anger. Then suddenly she shrank visibly, as if the fire had been doused, and Shadrack heard nothing but ragged breaths. The veil shook before his face. “I see how you are, now,” she said, her voice trembling. “You are cruel. Impossibly cruel to remind me of that place. How could you?”

“I did not intend to be cruel,” Shadrack said. His voice was earnest but firm. “I intended to show you that I understand.” He stared into the veil. “If you would but let them see the map,” he added softly, “they would understand as well.”

Blanca turned suddenly, electrified. “Who else knew of this?”

The Sandmen shook their heads. Weeping looked at her with fire in his eyes and said nothing.

“What did he tell you he would draw?” Blanca demanded.

“He said he would explain my name. The origin of the weeping. I wish to understand the truth,” Weeping added firmly—perhaps recklessly.

She stared at him in silence. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. “You wish to understand the truth, of course,” she said quietly, almost sweetly. “How foolish I was to leave you untrained so long, Weeping. You will understand the truth, certainly.” She turned to Shadrack. “And you will understand the cost of deceiving me. You may save yourself by being indispensable, but you cannot save anyone else.” She stepped quickly around the desk and motioned to the petrified men who stood pressed against the wall. “Bring them,” she said brusquely, motioning at Weeping and Shadrack.

Weeping and Shadrack were each half carried, half dragged into the adjoining car. The wheelbarrow that Shadrack had heard so many times stood against the corner wall. In the middle of the car was an hourglass the size of a grown man. It rested on its side, suspended within a circular metal track. Each chamber of the hourglass was made of petal-shaped sheets of glass, soldered along the edges. One chamber was closed and filled with sand. The other chamber was empty and open, one of the petals opening outward like a delicate door. Shadrack realized immediately what was about to happen. “No,” he cried, trying to shake himself free. “You will gain nothing by doing this.”

“You have lost your chance to negotiate with me,” Blanca said coldly. Then she addressed the Sandmen: “The bonnet and jacket.”

“His memories are useless to you!”

Weeping had stopped struggling. He stood stoically, his gaze turned inward, as if contemplating a distant memory. His fingers rested lightly on the amulet around his neck. Two Sandmen forced him into a straitjacket that wound his arms around his body, lacing it tightly closed behind him. A helmet of canvas and wood was placed over his head, covering his eyes. Then they thrust the wooden block in his mouth and pulled the wires up and through the helmet.

“If you do this,” Shadrack said, his voice hard, “I will not lift a finger to help you.”

“I believe you will feel differently when it is your niece who wears the bonnet,” said Blanca. Shadrack froze. “I am merely giving you a demonstration here. Remember, Shadrack. It is not I who made this happen—it is you. You leave me no choice.”

The Sandmen pushed Weeping into the empty chamber. He lay awkwardly, face-up, his knees pulled in toward his chest. Shadrack could see the metal wires of the bonnet straining against his skin. The Sandmen fastened the glass door. Then they rotated the hourglass upright so that Weeping lay, crushed and helpless, in the bottom chamber. The sand began to pour down upon him. Weeping struggled to breathe. His composure left him. He began kicking uselessly at the glass, battering his head against it. But he succeeded only in cutting his cheeks, and blood mixed with the sand.

“That’s enough, pull him out!” Shadrack shouted. “You’ve made your point.” He struggled to free himself, but the other Sandman pinned his arms behind his back. He watched as Weeping writhed ever more helplessly and the sand funneled on steadily, inexorably.

“You may turn it back now,” Blanca finally said.

The two Sandmen rotated the hourglass once again, so that Weeping was carried high up over their heads and the sand that had engulfed him began to pour back into the other chamber. They all waited silently. Weeping no longer struggled. He lay inert.

“Take him out,” Blanca said, when the chamber had emptied. She watched, arms crossed, as the Sandmen rotated the hourglass to its side, opened the chamber, and caught the buckles of the straitjacket with their grappling hooks to lift Weeping. He was limp as they lowered him on the floor, loosened the straitjacket’s laces, and removed the bonnet and the wooden block. He lay with his eyes closed. Two long, bloody lines stretched from his mouth to his ears.

“How much has he lost?” Shadrack asked numbly. “Will he be like Carlton?”

The train suddenly came to a halt, and the Sandmen shifted into action. “We’ve reached the border,” Blanca said. “Unload the trunks and the contents of the study. I need twenty minutes to convert this sand. Do not disturb me until I am through.” Then she addressed Shadrack. “From Carlton I took everything. But Weeping will be like these others,” she said coolly. “Unburdened of most of their memories, but still conscious men. Still remembering dimly with some part of their minds what it means to be a Nihilismian. To mistrust the reality of the world, to believe in that which is unseen, and to pursue it blindly. My Sandmen,” she added, almost affectionately, as she looked down at Weeping. Then she turned and left the compartment.

25 The Royal Library

1891, June 28: 13-Hour 48

Vineless: A derogatory term used particularly among the inhabitants of Nochtland to describe someone who is considered pitiful, weak, or cowardly. Part of the family of words derived from the phrase “Mark of the Vine,” to designate those who are physiologically marked by botanical matter.

—From Veressa Metl’s Glossary of Baldlandian Terms

SOPHIA STILL COULD not believe that she had carried something so precious in her pack for so may days: not simply a tracing glass, but a memory map of the Great Disruption! Now she was certain that Montaigne and the Nihilismians wanted to use it to find the carta mayor, and Veressa was inclined to agree.

Veressa had offered to show them the other maps, so they had all gone to the palace library, where she retrieved them from the safe. The tracing glass could not be used because it was still day, but even reading the other three maps together was overwhelming. Each of them took a turn with the layered maps that possibly told the story of the Great Disruption, and each came away silent, lost in the past. Sophia struggled to match the three parts she had just seen with her memories of the glass map. How do they all fit together? she wondered.

Veressa returned the three maps to the library safe and led them back through the palace. The floors were stone tile, covered by thick carpets of fresh petals or leaves. As they walked along a corridor strewn with fragrant pine needles, Sophia heard a light tinkling sound, like the ringing of glassy bells, and she was surprised to see Veressa hurry to the wall and kneel. Martin followed suit, lowering himself carefully on his bad leg. “Everyone kneel by the wall,” Veressa whispered urgently. Calixta, Burr, and Sophia did as they were told, though it struck her that all of them—the pirates particularly—looked very odd. They were not the kind of people who bowed to anyone.

The tinkling sound grew louder, and then Sophia saw a slow procession round the corner. It was made up of women dressed in pale green silks that trailed to the floor, their skirts adorned with glass bells; orchids studded their elaborately dressed hair.

One woman wore her hair long and loose. It was bright green—the shade of an uncut meadow—and grew to her waist. Folded down across her back were what appeared to be two long eucalyptus leaves that grew from her shoulder blades. They were wings.

“Greetings, Royal Botanist,” Princess Justa said, “Royal Librarian.” She had the same accent as Veressa and Martin—sharp, with rolled r’s—but her tone was high and imperious, as if she spoke from a great height.

Veressa and Martin murmured their greetings without raising their eyes from the floor. Calixta and Burr, Sophia noticed, were staring straight ahead—neither at the floor nor at the royal entourage. Sophia could not help herself; she looked directly at the princess. Justa’s gaze traveled over the small group and finally rested on Sophia, who felt a chill as the princess looked her over disdainfully from head to foot—or, rather, from head to knee. “What are those?” she asked icily.

Everyone in the hallway turned to stare. The princess’s attendants seemed to gasp in unison, and an alarming tinkling of bells ensued as they scuttled to the opposite wall. “I’m sorry?” Sophia said, more meekly than she intended to.

“In your ears,” the princess demanded.

Sophia’s hand flew up to her right ear. “Oh,” she said. “My earrings.” She looked at Veressa anxiously and was alarmed to see her vexed expression.

“Silver, if I’m not mistaken,” the princess said. She was smiling, but there was no mirth in her smile.

“Yes,” Sophia admitted.

The princess looked coldly at Veressa. “We are surprised at the guests you choose to bring into the palace,” she said. “If we did not know you better, we would ask you to answer for your intentions. This royal family has been relentlessly persecuted, our own mother a victim of the iron conspiracy, and we continue to survive only by the strictest vigilance. Is it your wish to expose us to danger?”

“Do not doubt my intentions, Highness. She is only a child—and a foreigner,” Veressa said respectfully, without looking up. “She meant nothing by it.”

A long pause ensued, while the waiting women fussed and their many bells tinkled. “We will trust your judgment in this matter,” Justa said finally, “but consider this a warning. Clearly you must be reminded that the Mark of Iron are baseless creatures. The dungeons of this palace are filled with cowards who have attempted to destroy us, from without and from within. Sending a child to do their work is precisely the kind of attack they would attempt.”

Veressa murmured an apology. The princess lifted her head, took a step forward, and moved on, the glassy tinkling fading as the procession disappeared around the corner.

All five of them rose to their feet. “I’m so sorry, Veressa!” Sophia cried. “I didn’t think!”

“My dear, you’ve done nothing wrong,” Martin told her.

“Of course she hasn’t! It is absolutely absurd,” said Veressa, as she strode down the corridor. “The level of fanaticism and intolerance that has taken hold of this royal family. Imagine objecting to a pair of silver earrings.”

“Good thing we’ve kept our swords and revolvers hidden,” Calixta said cheerfully.

Veressa and Martin stopped in their tracks. “You didn’t!” Veressa asked in a whisper. Martin glanced in either direction, as if the walls might have overheard.

“We never leave them behind,” Burr said firmly. “And they are very well-hidden.”

“You would certainly be arrested if the guards discovered them! My father and I would be unable to intervene. Indeed, they might well arrest us as well, and we would all be joining those poor fools in the dungeons.”

“I’m sorry, Veressa,” Calixta put in. “But we’ve always brought them when we come to see you. Why should it be any different now?”

“I had no idea,” Veressa said, her voice tense and quiet. “You’ve been running an extraordinary risk. The palace is even more guarded than usual because of the eclipse festivities in two days and the weirwind that is moving north.”

The pirates exchanged glances. “We should leave,” Burr said. “Our apologies for having placed you in danger.”

Veressa sighed. “No, I’m sorry,” she said regretfully. “The situation is ridiculous, and I am embarrassed on behalf of the princess—embarrassed that we make ourselves so inhospitable. Please stay at least until tomorrow. For your own sakes, I won’t urge you to stay through the eclipse, but it’s much too late to leave today.”

Martin shook his head with exasperation. “They shouldn’t have to leave at all. But I agree that it will be safer if you do,” he had to admit.

Sophia silently removed her earrings as they returned to the royal botanist’s apartments. Justa’s suspiciousness worked through the five of them like a poison—they could not seem to agree on what to do next. They agreed that finding Shadrack was essential and discussed how to handle Montaigne and the Sandmen, but formulating a plan without any real knowledge of who and where they were proved impossible. They were stymied.

Sophia listened, but her mind kept drifting to the four maps. Something about them unsettled her, demanding her concentration like a riddle, worming this way and that, elusive and urgent. Their memories were so detailed and so real that she could have sworn they were her own—but, of course, that was how memory maps worked. As the others talked around and around in circles, Sophia tried to work out the riddle by drawing in her notebook. She found no solution.

Her thoughts continued through dinner—maize cakes and squash flower—and later, in bed, she searched Shadrack’s atlas for something that would help. But the more she read, the more obscure the riddle seemed, and nothing explained why the memories from the four maps seemed so strangely familiar. She finally turned to the bedroom bookshelf for distraction and saw a volume titled Lives of the Nochtland Royals.

There was little about Princess Justa’s early years. By contrast, the story Mazapán had told of the princess’s death took up several pages—especially because he had not described the terrible consequences.

THE EMPEROR DISCOVERED, BY THE vital assistance of his advisors, that a pair of brothers with the Mark of Iron had cunningly disguised their metal and risen to positions of prestige. Elad and Olin Spore would not confess, no matter how rigorous the interrogation, but it was speculated that they had placed the orchids on purpose to poison the empress and then prey upon the weakened emperor. If this was their plan, they were sorely disappointed. Far from weakening, the emperor sentenced them both to death. Then he scoured the court for any others with the Mark of Iron, and he finally sought comfort in the Religion of the Cross, though he had never before been a believer. The court was reduced to only a few close advisors, and the emperor ordered greater and greater penalties for those who wore or used metal of any kind. And yet it was never known for certain who had poisoned the empress. Some months after her death, the emperor began his prolonged and noble quest to conquer the far reaches of his territory.

Sophia sighed. It was no wonder, she reflected, that Princess Justa showed such intolerance.

—19-Hour 27—

SOPHIA AWOKE LATE in the night to find the room entirely dark. She could hear Calixta breathing from the other bed, but that had not awoken her. It was her dream, she realized. She had been dreaming about the four maps. They had all returned to the library as soon as the moon had risen, and though considering the four maps together had yielded no new answers, something about them had stayed with her and worked its way into her dreams. She bolted upright and fumbled for her pack, which was lying beside her pillow; then she thrust the atlas into it and strapped it over her shoulder before scurrying down the short ladder. She stepped into her slippers and hurried out of the bedroom, quietly opening and closing the door behind her.

As she shuffled along the dark corridor she became aware of the night noises around her: crickets in the patio; the murmuring of the garden’s fountains from beyond the walls; the quiet tinkling of the wind chimes, delicate and high-pitched or thrumming and deep. Sophia was surprised to see the door of Martin’s workroom open and light streaming out of it. Perhaps it is not as late as I think, she considered, reaching for her pocket watch. It was past nineteen-hour. Curious, she peered into the laboratory.

Plants crowded the wooden work surfaces and hung from every inch of the ceiling. Glass canisters filled with soil were clustered beside tall flasks of blue water and tiny green dropper bottles. Martin was on a stool, examining something through his enormous spectacles. Sophia was astonished to see on the table what looked like a wooden leg with Martin’s sock and shoe at the end of it. His left pant leg was entirely empty from the knee down. “Martin?” she asked tentatively.

He jumped in his seat. “Sophia!” he said. “How you startled me.” He removed his spectacles. “What are you doing up?”

“I was having a nightmare,” Sophia said, unsure herself of what the dream had contained.

“Ah well—it happens. Strange place and strange doings.” He noticed that she was staring at the leg. “Oh! You hadn’t seen my prosthesis.”

She shook her head, embarrassed that he had caught her staring but relieved that he seemed not to mind. “I didn’t—Is it made of wood?”

Martin took up the leg and looked at it critically. “Indeed, it is made of wood. Brittle, lifeless wood, I’m afraid.”

“What happened to your real leg?” Sophia asked. “Your previous leg, I mean.”

He winked at her. “I lost it adventuring. Before I was old,” he said, putting down the wooden leg, “and before I had a limp, and before I was a botanist—I was an explorer!”

“You were?” Sophia exclaimed, delighted.

“I was. Not a very good explorer, as it happens. In a remote region of the northern Baldlands, I discovered a valley full of strange animals.”

“What kind of animals?”

“Enormous beasts—some as large as the conservatory! They were clearly from another Age. Well, I foolishly believed myself to be safe among them because I observed that they ate only plants—not flesh. But,” he said, smiling ruefully, “I had failed to consider that to them I probably looked like a plant.”

“What do you mean?”

Martin lifted his right pant leg. His shin was a strange color—whitish green, like the trunk of a beech tree. “You see, my legs are more tree trunk than muscle and bone.”

“I had no idea!” Sophia thought of the “sequins” on Veressa’s arms: living thorns, just like Martin’s living trunk of a leg.

“Nor did I have any idea that I would so closely resemble a tasty sprig!” Martin laughed. “I was happily taking notes when one of the beasts suddenly reached its huge head down, toppled me over with a little nudge, and bit off my foot!”

“Oh, how horrible!” Sophia exclaimed.

“It was not picturesque,” Martin admitted. “Fortunately, I was not traveling alone, and my companions helped me to safety. When I returned home, a fine sculptor created this wooden leg for me. I still have a limp,” he said, “and I could no longer be an explorer. But in fact I am grateful to that giant beast. Were it not for him, I would never have discovered botany.”

Sophia had to smile. “I suppose that’s true.”

“I hope I haven’t given you more nightmares.”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said, turning to go. “Are you going to work all night?”

“Just a little bit longer. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

Fortunately, Sophia’s erratic inner clock did not affect her inner compass. Although the palace was very dark and she had only been to the library once, she had no difficulty finding her way. The pine needles covering the floor muffled her footsteps entirely.

Sophia checked to make sure she was alone, then slipped quietly through the double doors into the deserted, dimly lit room.

Earlier, her attention had been so focused on the four maps that she had not even thought to look around. The high bookshelves were interrupted by six tall windows that looked out over the gardens, letting in the pale, silvery moonlight; a narrow spiral staircase led to a balcony that ran the length of the shelves. Shadows clustered in the corner of the ceiling, beyond the reach of the dim table lamps.

She crossed the carpet of fern leaves to the wooden safe where Veressa kept Talisman’s maps; she had shown Sophia how it worked, the door made of intricate movable pieces, like a puzzle. Taking out the maps, she pulled up a chair and used her breath, as well as the water and matches left on the desk, to awaken the first three maps. Then she held the final map, the tracing glass, to the moonlight and rested it on top of the others.

As soon as she touched it, the memories again flooded her mind. The recollection of fleeing, full of fear, through the crowds of people was unchanged. But the other maps added a complexity that was almost transformative. The metal map, which allowed her to see the manmade structures around her, brought memories of being inside an impossibly tall pyramid. The long spiral wound its way up to the high peak. The walls around her were made of something almost transparent, like frosted glass. No, Sophia corrected herself: foggy glass, because parts are entirely clear. There were colored panes, like artwork, on the walls, but she could not see them clearly; whoever the map’s memories belonged to had rushed past them, intent on escape. When she reached the top of the pyramid, she saw the heavy object that she would soon roll off the ledge: a round stone. She took the final steps to the top, heaved against the stone, and pushed. She did not see it land, but she felt its impact as the walls around her began to shudder.

The clay map allowed her to see the landscape beyond the high tower—a vast terrain marked by high peaks and what looked like tall white buildings. And the cloth map showed strange weather unlike any she’d ever seen. Lightning flashed continually beyond the walls of the pyramid, illuminating the gray sky. A constant snow fell, ticking against the foggy panes.

But this was not what Sophia wanted to see most. She waited, and then the memory came: she burst out through the doorway onto a snowy expanse and turned to watch as the entire pyramid collapsed in an explosive burst of breaking panes and clouds of snow. Then she turned away and looked into the distance, where something almost out of sight—a black speck on the snow—moved toward her. It seemed like a person. As it drew nearer, there was a dull twinkle from something the person was holding. And then the memory faded.

Sophia was certain—certain beyond a doubt—that she knew that person. There was something about the way they ran toward her. Or perhaps it was simply the feeling—the certainty in the map’s memory—of knowing who they were. What was the glint in their hand? Something they were holding, surely—a mirror? A blade? A watch? It could be almost anything. She opened her eyes with a sigh, steeling herself to read the map once again.

“You really like libraries, don’t you?”

Sophia was on her feet in an instant, scanning the room. “Who’s there?” she whispered.

Someone moved in the shadows near the door. She heard a low chuckle, and then time came to a sudden halt as the figure stepped into the yellow light of the table lamp.

It was Theo.

26 Of Both Marks

1891, June 29: # hour

Weirwind: A weather phenomenon common in the northern Baldlands. Thought to have originated after the Great Disruption, the weirwind is the subject of numerous legends. Some maintain that the weirwinds “speak.” Scientific observers have found no evidence of this; they describe solid walls formed by continuous winds of varying strengths. The strongest weirwind on record was five miles wide and covered four hundred miles in ten days.

—Veressa Metl’s Glossary of Baldlandian Terms

SOPHIA STARED AT Theo, her heart pounding; but no matter how hard she looked at him, it was not enough. Only a day had passed, yet it seemed much longer. He still wore Shadrack’s clothes—rumpled and a bit dusty—and the scuffed boots he had taken from the shoemaker in Boston. His expression was untroubled, his smile as impudent as always. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

“Not happy to see me then?” Theo asked, sitting down comfortably in one of the chairs.

Sophia flushed. “I asked what you were doing here. And how did you get in?”

“They don’t guard the whole length of the wall—mainly just around the gates.”

Part of her wanted to step forward and touch him—to know that he was really back; part of her felt the surging sense of injury and uncertainty that seemed to well up whenever Theo was around. “I just don’t understand,” she finally said.

“I couldn’t very well abandon you to those pirates, could I?” he replied with a grin.

“I wish you were one-tenth as reliable as those pirates.” Her voice was dangerously unsteady.

“I’m reliable,” he protested. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“But you left. Why didn’t you just come in with us at the gate? Why did you have to sneak in? You could get in trouble. The people here—other than Veressa and Martin—are not friendly.”

Now it was Theo’s turn to stare. “You found Veressa?”

“Yes. This is her library,” Sophia said, dropping her voice to a whisper once more as Theo looked around. “She’s the royal librarian and court cartologer. Her father is the royal botanist. He’s known Burr and Calixta for years.”

Theo gave a low whistle. “Does she know where your uncle is?”

Sophia shook her head, unable to meet his eyes.

“Well, it’s a good thing you found her anyhow,” he said, his voice acquiring a new tone. “Are Calixta and Burr still here?”

“Didn’t you see them?”

“No. I just got over the palace walls last night. I came through this thing like a greenhouse over to the side. I saw you walking along the corridor, so I followed you.”

“Last night?”

Theo turned to the windows. “Look. It’s nearly dawn.”

Sophia scrambled for her watch. He was right; it was almost six-hour. The sense of confusion and uncertainty at seeing Theo still coursed through her, making their conversation seem odd and staged. The words she wanted to say and the questions she wanted to ask flitted, trapped and unspoken, through her mind. What scared you off? Was it me? Something else? Were you always planning to come back? Are you going to leave again?

“Where are you and the pirates staying?”

“Right by the greenhouse, with Veressa and her father—Martin.”

“Well, you have to talk to them.” His voice was unusually grave.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“That thing moving north that everyone’s talking about—it’s not a weirwind.”

“What is it?” Sophia asked, her anxiety building.

“The raiders I met up with on the road saw thousands of birds flying north, full pace. I didn’t believe them at first, but then I saw them, too. Birds don’t do that with weirwinds.”

“But then, what is it? What’s happening?”

As Theo was about to answer, they heard the heavy tread of the palace guards patrolling the halls. He swiftly rose from his chair, keeping his eye on the door. “Tell Burr and Calixta about the birds,” he whispered. “I don’t have time to explain the rest, and I can’t stay here. If you meet me outside the city gates in an hour, I’ll tell you all everything. Bring your stuff with you so we can leave.”

“Leave?” Sophia sprang to her feet and gathered up the four maps—forgetting that three of them were not hers to take—and shoved them hastily into her pack. “Why don’t you just tell me now?”

“I’ll meet you outside the gates,” Theo said, eyes still on the door. The sound of footsteps was fading.

“Tell me now. Just in case.”

Theo slowly turned and met her eyes. He wore a curious expression, one Sophia had never seen on his face before. She realized with astonishment that she had hurt his feelings. “You really don’t trust me.”

Sophia didn’t know what to say, because he was right. She wanted to believe him; she partly believed him—but how could she? Everything about him was uncertain and unpredictable. It was just as likely that he would vanish again, as he had at the gates of Nochtland. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But I never know what you’re going to do.”

He stared at her for several seconds and then gave a quick sigh. “Is there somewhere I can hide while you all get ready to leave?”

Sophia was caught off guard by his change of mind. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “We’ll be safe with Veressa and Martin.”

“All right,” he said, tipping his head toward the door. “Let’s go, then.”

They moved quickly and quietly over the fern carpet, and, after checking the corridor, into the hallway. She made sure to shut the door behind her. As they hurried back to the botanist’s residence, she kept watch ahead, and he behind. Fortunately, they met no one.

As they tiptoed along the open corridor of Martin and Veressa’s home, Sophia noticed that the lights were on in the kitchen. “Someone’s already up,” she whispered.

They found Martin preparing an elaborate breakfast at the tiled fireplace that served as both stove and oven. He looked up as Theo and Sophia walked in. “Hello! What’s this?”

“Martin, this is Theo,” Sophia said hurriedly. “He traveled to Nochtland with me from New Occident. And he has something urgent to tell us all about the weirwind moving north.”

Theo nodded. “It’s not a weirwind.”

Martin took in their words. “Best wake the others, then,” he said matter-of-factly, wiping his hands on his apron.

—1891, June 29: 6-Hour 33—

“THEO!” CALIXTA EXCLAIMED as she walked into the kitchen. “Where did you spring from?” Sophia, while quickly changing out of her robe, had encountered some difficulty in persuading Calixta to leave the bedroom without her usual lengthy toilette, but the pirate captain had risen to the occasion.

“I’ve been here all along,” Theo said, raising his eyebrows and dodging the question. “Not my fault if you didn’t notice.”

Calixta laughingly threw her arm around him and kissed his cheek. “We’re glad to have you back, even if you are such a scoundrel. You ran off without explanation and left us quite heartbroken,” she scolded, glancing at Sophia.

Sophia flushed. “Where’s Burr?”

Martin was putting the finishing touches on their breakfast when a sleepy-looking Burr walked in. “Ah, Molasses, I missed you. Where have you been, you imp? Why did you leave us?” He enfolded Theo in a hug.

“Pay wasn’t good enough,” Theo replied, hugging him back.

“I forbid you to leave us stranded again, Molly. Look at us. We’ve had to rely on our wits and see where it’s landed us—some impoverished hole in the wall where they don’t even feed us properly.” He reached for one of the round, yellow cakes that Martin was pulling from the oven.

“Well, I’ve come to save you,” Theo said, straight-faced.

“Veressa, this is Theo,” Sophia said to Veressa, as she joined them.

Theo gave a slight bow. “Theodore Constantine Thackary.”

Veressa extended her hand. “Do I understand correctly that you entered the palace in secret? Unimpeded?”

“Right over the wall.”

“I cannot believe the guards did not see you,” she said, with some alarm. “I mean, I hope they didn’t. Did they?”

“I don’t think so. But even if they’d seen me, I had to come. I’m here to tell you that you have to get out of the city.” He had remained standing as the kitchen filled with people, and now his impatience made itself even more apparent. “As soon as you can.”

“Tell us what you saw, Theo,” Sophia urged.

“I was taking the road north, see, the one that lies west of Nochtland. I met up with some raiders there yesterday morning—ones I know from home. They said they’d seen birds migrating north. Which made no sense, because it’s not the right time for that. And the birds weren’t in flocks—they were just flying, thousands of them, all kinds, together.” Martin had been serving breakfast, but one by one they put down their forks and lost all interest in their food.

“A weirwind wouldn’t cause the birds to migrate north like that,” Veressa said slowly.

“That’s right. That’s what we said. And then we heard from one of the travelers on the road about the Lachrima.”

“What about the Lachrima?” Sophia asked. Only Martin continued steadily eating his eggs.

“He said there’s an Age, far to the south. An unknown Age, populated entirely by Lachrima.” Everyone other than Martin stared at Theo. “And now they’re marching north.”

After a long silence interrupted only by the sound of Martin chewing, Sophia spoke. “That doesn’t make sense. Veressa told us yesterday, Theo,” she said, “that the Lachrima were born along the edges of the Disruption. They are made by the border itself.”

“What are you getting at, Sophia?” asked Burr.

“The thing is,” she said, thinking aloud, “it seemed strange that no one knew about the Lachrima in New Occident. Of course they would be in the Baldlands, if they were made along the borders and borders were everywhere in the Triple Eras.” She paused. “But why would all these Lachrima suddenly appear?”

“I told you,” Theo said. “They live in this southern Age and they’ve decided to march north.”

“But that doesn’t seem right. Everything I’ve heard is that the Lachrima aren’t like that. They don’t move around together; they’re solitary—aren’t they?”

“That’s true,” Veressa agreed.

“What if—” Sophia thought of Veressa’s and Mrs. Clay’s stories, Shadrack’s note, the distant memory of reading maps in the hidden room of 34 East Ending. And then two images sprang into focus—the maps of the East Indies she had read on the day that Shadrack disappeared: one with the memories of a quiet convent; the other, drawn a decade later, showing nothing but a deadly stillness. “What if an Age south of here suddenly changed, and a new border appeared?” And then she said: “That’s where the Lachrima are coming from—the new border.”

Everyone except Martin looked at her in surprise.

“I see what you mean,” Veressa exclaimed. “If we agree that the Lachrima are ordinary people transformed by the sudden appearance of a new border, the appearance of such a border would make itself apparent by the sudden emergence of Lachrima. Yes, that could be it.”

There was silence at the table. Martin put down his knife and fork, drank the last of his coffee, and energetically cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, loudly. It was the first time he had spoken since they had all gathered in the kitchen. “I believe this is where I come in.” The group turned to looked at him. “Young Theo is right. We should leave the palace—and the city. And, you, my dear,” he said to Sophia, “are also right.” He pushed his chair back and slapped the table dramatically. “And I have a piece of proof to offer each of you.” He removed two small glass containers from his pockets. They both appeared to hold soil. “I finally looked up the coordinates for the island, Burton,” he said, “and I realized why it seemed odd when you first gave me the sample. This,” he said, holding up the glass container in his right hand, “is a sample of remarkable manmade soil that Burr brought me yesterday. It was collected on a very small island some fifty miles off the eastern coast of Late Patagonia. This,” he said, holding up the other container, “is a sample of twenty-first age soil that he brought me nearly a year ago. What I did not realize until late last night is that these samples are taken from the same island.”

It took a moment for them to grasp the significance. “You mean the soil on the island changed,” Sophia said. She knew then, without any doubt, that she was right; the maps of the Indies had shown two different Ages.

Veressa gasped. “Good heavens, Father—not only are there new borders, but the borders are moving!”

The table erupted with questions. “Yes,” Martin said over the din, “we don’t know how or why or to what effect, but the borders are indeed moving. I had thought it might be an isolated incident, but what Theo says makes it appear far more likely that the shift is a continental one, and that the change is occurring across the entire length of Late Patagonia. If the circumstances were different”—again, he raised his voice to silence the exclamations—“I would not recommend leaving Nochtland. After all, our best resources for understanding this mystery are here, in my laboratory and,” he said to Veressa, “your library. But I am afraid my second bit of proof somewhat changes the possibilities.”

To Veressa’s obvious confusion, her father gave her an apologetic look and covered her hand with his own. “I am sorry, my dear.” Then, to everyone’s complete astonishment, he began to roll up his pant legs. “You see,” he said, speaking with effort as he bent over, “after my extraordinary experiment yesterday with the morning glory seeds, which Burr and Sophia were fortunate enough to witness, I found myself wondering about the potential of this curious manmade soil.” He had rolled up his right pants leg to his knee, and everyone in the kitchen could clearly see the barklike texture of his uninjured leg. “Late last night I had a sudden inspiration,” Martin went on, his voice somewhat muffled as began to roll up his left pants leg. “I thought to myself, if it has such immediate and surprising results with a seed, what would it do to a cutting? Or, in this case, a stump?” He straightened up, rather winded by his efforts.

From the knee down, his left leg was solid silver.

“Father!” Veressa exclaimed, running to him. “What have you done?”

“Unbelievable!” Burr said under his breath.

Sophia tentatively reached out, touching the cold silver of his shin.

“And yes,” Martin said ruefully, “I’m afraid it is very real and very permanent. As Sophia and Burr observed, the morning glory threw silver roots. I was not sure whether the stump would grow as a branch or a root, and here we have the answer. It seems I now have one leg with the Mark of the Vine, and one leg with the Mark of Iron.” He shook his head and stared down at them. “And I consequently doubt very much whether it is wise for me to stay in the palace.”

Veressa sprang to her feet. “No—we must leave as soon as possible.” Her voice was calm but quite firm. “You’ll stay here and pack our things, while I tell Justa that she must evacuate the city. Then, when I return, we’ll leave together.”

“We shouldn’t go by land,” Calixta put in. “The Swan will be much quicker.”

“I agree,” Burr added. “We can sail immediately—it will take us two days to return to Veracruz. All of you are entirely welcome to come with us.” He turned to look at Sophia, whose eyes were downcast. “Sophia?”

Sophia folded her hands around the straps of her pack, which at the moment felt indescribably heavy. It seemed the wrong thing to do; she had not expected to leave so soon. Her mind whirled over all that she had learned since arriving in Nochtland. These discoveries were significant, and there was something important to be done. They could not leave—not now. And yet there seemed to be no other choice. “Thank you. I’ll go back to the Swan, too.”

“Then we must prepare.” Veressa began clearing the table. But as the rest of them were hurrying out into the courtyard, they heard something unexpected: a heavy knocking on the wooden door separating the botanist’s house from the main castle.

27 With an Iron Fist

1891, June 29: 7-Hour 34

Palace Gardens, soil guidelines—

Western Rose garden: import ONLY from the Papal States

Center garden and fountain: native (central Baldlands)

Periphery, juniper bushes: Northern Baldlands, coastal

—Martin’s notes on the gardens

“WHO IS IT?” Veressa asked through the closed door that connected with the palace.

“The royal guard requires entry, Miss Metl,” a voice replied. “An intruder was seen entering the greenhouses. We need to search your apartments.” As the guard finished speaking, a chorus of barking dogs erupted.

Veressa looked at her friends and father with alarm. Martin was hurriedly rolling down his pant legs. “I’ve only just gotten out of bed. Can’t you come back later?”

“I’m sorry. We have orders to search now. If you don’t open the door, we will have to enter forcibly through the greenhouses.”

“All right, all right.” Her voice was deceptively calm. “Give me just a minute to find my robe.”

There was a pause, then a terse reply: “One minute.”

Veressa hurried into the courtyard. “All of you—there’s no time. Hide in the greenhouses and try to make your way out if you can.”

“Certainly not,” Burr said indignantly. “Calixta and I will present ourselves when you open the door.”

“I can’t allow you to put yourselves in danger. Once the dogs get near my father”—who looked away as she gave him a worried glance—“our lives will not be worth protecting.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Calixta said, taking Sophia and Theo each by the arm. “All the more reason for us to stay. I’ll hide these two, along with my sword and pistol. Burr, you’ll do the same,” she said firmly. Burr strode off to his room. “And we’ll just make sure they don’t search every room. Come with me, sweethearts.” Calixta spoke calmly but quickly. “We will answer the door while the two of you wait in this bedroom.” She threw her pistol and long sword into one of her open trunks and locked it. “I very much doubt they will want to search the entire place after we are done speaking with them, but if they do, I am sure you will have noticed that this window”—and she pointed—“leads to the gardens.”

Sophia and Theo nodded. Calixta straightened up, instinctively reaching for her gun belt before remembering why she did not have it. For a moment, the beautiful pirate looked strangely vulnerable as she let her hand fall against her skirts. She recovered herself quickly. “Back in a moment!”

As soon as she was gone, they pressed their ears to the wood, straining to listen. First they heard Veressa’s clear voice as she admitted the guards. There was conversation; Sophia heard a deep voice, but she could not tell how many guards there were. The whining and barking of dogs punctuated their speech. Then what seemed to be Martin’s voice launched into a long-winded monologue followed by a brief silence, and then, unexpectedly, a shout. Sophia could not tell whom it came from. A moment later she heard the unmistakable clang of sword on stone. The dogs burst into unrestrained snarls. Sophia and Theo looked at one another in alarm. “Your reliable pirates,” he whispered. “I guess on land the quartermaster ignores the captain’s orders.”

There was an escalating commotion, and then a shot rang out from what must have been Burr’s pistol. A moment later, someone came running down the corridor. He tried the door of the bedroom and found it locked. “Open this door!” a voice shouted.

Sophia and Theo made for the window, leaping easily over the sill onto the ground below as the pounding on the door grew more urgent. For a moment they crouched in the flowerbed, looking out into the garden. Sophia clutched her pack to her chest. Behind them, the pounding had turned to battering. “I came in that way,” Theo said, pointing. “In the corner behind the bushes, there’s a loose bar in the fence.”

Sophia noticed a long walkway bordered by bougainvillea hedges that cut diagonally through the garden. “If we go through there, they might not see us.”

As they ran, Sophia glanced over her shoulder more than once, but all she could hear was the sound of running water and the chirping of birds. In the shelter of the bougainvillea, it was as if the castle didn’t exist at all. Even the glass spires and the high juniper hedges along the garden wall were out of sight.

Guards shouted in a distant part of the garden, but as they reached the end of the path, the sound of rushing water grew louder. They emerged abruptly onto a lawn with a tall stone fountain; mermen and mermaids crowded around its wide bowl, and a great rush of water fell over them in wide arcs. Sophia saw through the mist of the fountain what she’d been hoping: the high juniper bushes at the southeast corner of the garden. They rounded the fountain and rushed toward the junipers. “Where’s the opening?” she asked nervously.

Suddenly a shrill whistle, like the distorted cry of a bird, sounded from across the garden. Sophia and Theo turned to see a guard approaching with his spear held high, his cloak fanning out behind him, the feathered mask trembling as he ran. He glided like a bird of prey descending toward its target. Theo pushed at the hedges, searching for an opening. “Here! Here it is,” he exclaimed. Taking Sophia’s hand, he pulled her through into a narrow space between the bushes and the iron fence. He scrambled at the base of the fence, trying the bars in order to find the loose one. He found it and began wriggling it free.

Sophia pressed her face into the hedge and saw with horror that the guard was only a dozen paces away, his teeth bared with exertion as he closed the distance. “Theo,” she said with panic in her voice, “he’s coming.”

“It’s out!” Holding a half-length of iron nearly six feet long, he pushed Sophia through and followed her into the street. They were not a moment too soon. The guard threw himself against the fence, trying furiously but uselessly to squeeze after them, the bird of prey suddenly caught in a cage. His feathers mashed against the iron bars and he glared from behind his mask. Then he stopped struggling—and smiled.

Sophia turned with a sense of foreboding. Another guard towered over her, his spear raised high. For an eternal moment she could not move. His fierce mask had the keen aspect of a raptor, and his bare arm strained as he thrust the spear toward her and Theo with all his might.

And then something inexplicable happened.

Theo shoved out his right hand—a useless gesture of self-defense—and met the head of the spear. The obsidian blade hit his palm and stopped, the force of the blow pushing them both toward the fence. Sophia found herself pressed up against the bars behind Theo, his hand still raised. They stood there, pinned like butterflies, while the guard’s eyes blinked in surprise and he continued to strain uselessly against Theo’s right hand. Then Theo raised the iron bar in his left and swung, hitting the guard squarely in the ribs. The man groaned, releasing the pressure only slightly, but it was enough. His captives broke free. They ran across the avenue, dodging the spear that flew after them.

They dove into the narrow streets of Nochtland, their feet clattering on the cobblestone. Neither turned to look behind them as they jostled passersby and stumbled over the uneven paving, flying past avenues and side streets. “Here!” Theo shouted at the sight of a narrow alley.

They came to an abrupt halt. Panting heavily, almost unable to hear anything over their own breathing, they strained their ears and waited for any guards who might have followed. “They’re not behind us,” Theo said, gasping. They searched the alley for a place to hide. As they neared the canal, Sophia saw a stone ledge below one of the bridges. They slid down the steep embankment and crawled with relief onto the damp shelf. Backs to the wall, well hidden from the street above, they sat recovering in the shade.

“Show me your hand,” Sophia demanded.

Theo, still catching his breath, placed his right hand palm-up on Sophia’s knee. Sophia felt her throat constrict when she saw the raw, bleeding gash. And then, as she had guessed—too late, the moment they stood pinned to the palace walls—she saw the hard metallic glint inside the wound. The iron bones of Theo’s hand had stopped the spear.

She understood now why he had tried so hard to stay out of Nochtland, and she understood what a risk he had taken by entering it. Ripping savagely at the seams, she tore off the long sleeves of her cotton shirt, dipped one of them in the canal water, and wiped the blood from the wound. With the other sleeve she bound his hand, tucking the end in over his knuckles. Theo did not complain or resist. He sat with his head against the wall of the bridge and his eyes closed. “It’ll close up quickly,” he said tiredly. “It always does.”

Sophia sat back. She felt tears on her cheeks, and she wiped them roughly away. “I’m sorry I didn’t agree to meet you outside the gates this morning,” she said, swallowing hard. “I should have trusted you.” She wanted to put her arms around him so he would know how sorry she was, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Theo smiled, his eyes still closed. “Don’t be. No reason to believe a liar.” Sophia could not tell if he was joking or not. She held his bandaged hand loosely in her own and sat silently, watching the sparkling water of the canal grow dark as it glided silently under the bridge.

—8-Hour 42: Under the Nochtland Bridge—

THE MORNING PASSED, the traffic overhead on the bridge growing louder. Once her immediate exhaustion passed, Sophia began to feel restless and uncomfortable on the stony ledge below. They could not leave the city without knowing what had happened to Veressa, Martin, and the pirates. Perhaps, Sophia thought, they could ride to Veracruz to enlist the help of the Swan’s crew, but the trip there and back would take four days. At that rate, the Lachrima might already be upon them. She checked the time; it was nearly nine by the New Occident clock.

Theo opened his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “We should get going.”

“We can’t leave without them. For all we know, they’re being tried and sentenced for treason.”

“I knew you would say that. Ordinarily, I’d argue with you. But we need them if we’re going to sail out on the Swan. And,” he added with a smile, when Sophia grimaced at his selfish logic, “I think we can actually help them.”

Sophia had to smile back. “Of course we can,” she said, though she sounded more confident than she felt. For a moment, she listened to the water chuckle quietly as it passed under the bridge. “Do you think Justa will evacuate the city?”

“No way. Even if Veressa gets the chance to tell her, Justa won’t believe her. They’ll probably think it’s all part of the great conspiracy by the Mark of Iron. Think about it. Martin’s got a silver leg. Burr pulled out his sword and pistol. And there’s nothing to prove what I told them about the Lachrima. They’re probably all sitting in a dungeon somewhere right now.”

“The city will still think it’s just a weirwind moving north.”

“Yeah, and they’ll be waiting for the wind chimes to announce it.” Theo gave a derisive snort.

“So if they don’t evacuate the city,” Sophia thought aloud, “they will still have the eclipse party tomorrow. Martin said it lasts all night. People come from everywhere to attend it.” She paused. “All kinds of people.”

Theo eyed her thoughtfully. “I see what you’re thinking. We could sneak in and they might not notice us.” He nodded. “Good idea. But we’ll need costumes.”

“And we need somewhere to stay until then. Maybe we can stay with Mazapán.” Sophia paused. “Unless the guards think to go there.”

“They will.” Theo flexed the fingers of his injured hand experimentally as he stared out onto the canal. “Do you know where his store is?”

Sophia shook his head. “He described it to me, but he didn’t say where it was. We can ask.”

They left the safety of the bridge with reluctance, climbing the embankment onto the sunny street filled with pedestrians and horse-drawn carts and boldevelas. Keeping an eye out for guards, they walked toward the city center. Theo asked an old woman selling violets if she knew the store of the chocolate vendor known as Mazapán, and she directed them without hesitation toward a narrow alley a few blocks away. When she saw it, Sophia recognized the awnings and storefront Mazapán had described.

But they were too late. The store was surrounded by guards in long capes and fierce feathered masks. Beside her, Theo drew in his breath. “They’re already here,” he whispered, surprised.

“But Mazapán didn’t do anything!”

“They must have arrested Burr and Calixta. Mazapán brought them to Nochtland. They’ll have questions for him,” Theo said grimly.

“Poor Mazapán.” She shook her head and backed into the alley. “We’ll have to go somewhere else.”

28 Sailing South

1891, June 28: Shadrack Missing (Day 8)

And when it hears your beating heart,

The Lachrima will take apart

Your very peace, your every dream

With its intolerable scream.

—Nochtland nursery rhyme, second verse

THE SMALL CABIN where Shadrack had already spent one day and one night was in many respects similar to a ship’s cabin. Two narrow bunk beds were wedged into the walls, across from a round porthole that looked out onto the road as the boldevela sailed along. But unlike a ship, the boldevela took its shape from the massive tree at its center. The cabins were built among the roots, and behind their walls lay the packed dirt that sustained the tree’s growth. The rooms smelled of earth, and the occasional root had wormed through the walls. Shadrack could see little else, as the Nihilismians had bound him hand and foot and tossed him onto the upper bunk. At certain moments, as the boldevela met with forceful winds, it took all his strength not to roll off.

The time would have passed with crushing slowness under ordinary circumstances, but for Shadrack it was made worse by his state of mind. Escape now seemed impossible. He had hoped to gain Weeping’s trust—perhaps even his assistance. Instead, he had cost Weeping his mind and lost his best possible ally. He was on his own, unable to free himself, in some corner of a ship sailing overland south at incredible speed, and utterly unable to save himself—let alone Sophia.

The Southern Snows were moving north, destroying everything in their path. He strained against the ropes in frustration. For all he knew, the snows had already reached Nochtland. The glaciers would arrive, and the city would vanish, leaving nothing but the footprint of its lakes and canals. Sophia would be gone forever. He lay still for a moment; it would only make him more useless if he assumed the worst. He had to believe there was still time, and he had to find an opportunity for escape.

They had been sailing since boarding the vessel, and Shadrack estimated that they were already well into the Baldlands. Most likely, he assumed, they would not stop until they had arrived in Veracruz. That would be his next opportunity. At whatever cost, he had to break free when they reached the coast.

Toward midday, they came to an abrupt halt. A sound like a distant storm reached him. Moments later, someone came running across the deck and the door slammed open. To his astonishment, a Sandman yanked him from the top bunk and cut his ropes in one savage movement. “Don’t just stand there; we need every hand we can get, or we’re all dead.” Without waiting to see if his prisoner would follow, he turned and ran. After a moment’s hesitation, Shadrack bolted from the cabin and hurried along the narrow corridor.

When Shadrack reached the deck, he understood at once the urgency of the situation. The boldevela had almost collided with a sinister-looking weirwind, and all of the Sandmen, their grappling hooks embedded in the hull, were straining to pull the ship back before it was sucked in and destroyed. The entire mast, including the broad green leaves that were its sails, strained toward the weirwind like a young sapling in a storm. The wind howled and groaned as if hungering for prey, drawing the ship into its destructive embrace inch by inch.

Suddenly, he realized that without the boldevela Blanca would have no way to pursue him. This is my chance, he thought, lunging toward the rope ladder at the ship’s side. The ladder carried him only so far; he dropped the last ten feet, his legs buckling beneath him.

Rolling to his feet, he stumbled and then steadied himself. He headed west, arms pumping, running parallel to the wall of wind, trying to stay far enough away so that he was not drawn toward it, but it was like fighting the tide. He would think he had opened a good distance between himself and the weirwind, but then he would look to his left and realize that he was much closer than he’d thought. As he veered north insistently, his lungs began to feel the pinch of the dry air and exertion. He whirled and ran backward to see if the ship had been destroyed yet; it was still poised as if on the edge of a precipice, hundreds of meters away.

The terrain was dry and flat, with the occasional rocky outgrowth. He did not know how long the weirwind extended or what he would do once he reached the end of it; he only knew that he had to run. Somewhere to the south, Sophia was waiting for him.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the boldevela, a dark smudge in the distance. Was it his imagination, or was it larger than it had been a moment before? He turned away, and with his failing strength, ran.

29 The Leafless Tree

1891, June 29: 13-Hour 51

Metalmind: a derogatory term used in the Baldlands, especially Nochtland, to describe a person whose mind is “made of metal.” The only portion of the human body that can be made of metal, as far as we know, is the skeleton, therefore the term is used not literally but figuratively. To be “metalminded” is to be crass, brutish, violent, or stupid.

—From Veressa Metl’s Glossary of Baldlandian Terms

SOPHIA AND THEO had walked for more than two Nochtland hours when Sophia spotted the condemned tree. Had they not been so weary of ducking and dodging every time they sighted a palace guard, they might not even have paused. But they were tired, and the city seemed ominously empty of places to take refuge.

The tree stood far from the palace and even the city center. At its base was a wooden sign post with a notice nailed to it: CONDEMNED. ROOT ROT. CITY ORDINANCE 437. SCHEDULED FOR DEMOLITION AUGUST 1. The tree had indeed rotted from the roots up, but the massive trunk still supported the broad, bare branches that reached out over the nearby buildings. A few of the wooden steps spiraling up the trunk hung loose; a few more were missing. The house among its high branches looked forlorn with its broken windows and missing shingles. It had clearly been abandoned for some time.

Sophia and Theo looked at one another. “Do you think it’s safe?” she asked.

“If we can get up there, it’s safe.” Theo put his foot tentatively on the first step. “I’ll go up first. As long as it still has a floor, we’ll be fine.”

Sophia watched anxiously as he climbed. She checked to make sure no one was watching, but fortunately they had reached a less trafficked part of the city, and the only sound came from several blocks away. She lost sight of Theo as he followed the spiraling steps on the other side of the trunk.

“Fine so far,” he called down, waving encouragingly. He climbed the final steps to the tree house and then disappeared within.

Sophia stared up nervously, losing all sense of how long he had been inside. Finally Theo leaned out through one of the gaping windows. “It’s great! Come on up.”

Holding on to the rough trunk with both hands, Sophia carefully scaled the spiral staircase. She was too anxious to appreciate the city views unfolding below her.

“Isn’t this amazing?” were Theo’s first words as she ducked in through the doorway. At first, it was hard to see why. The room was almost empty, apart from a long wooden table and a heavily dented stove with a missing stovepipe. A pair of overturned chairs stood near the staircase to the second floor. But then she saw the windows. Each was a different size and shape, from small squares to enormous diamonds; each offered a magnificent view of Nochtland.

Sophia looked around in awe. “It’s beautiful. It must have been even more beautiful before the tree rotted.”

Theo raced to the spiral staircase, and she broke off her reverie to follow him. The second floor had slanted ceilings and round windows. A cracked, floor-length mirror leaned against the wall; a lumpy cotton mattress was folded up beside it. “They even left us a place to sleep!”

He kicked open the mattress and sat down on it experimentally. Sophia sank down beside him with relief. For a moment she closed her eyes, grateful for the quiet, and breathed deeply; the air was scented with musty wood. She wanted to curl up on the lumpy mattress and forget about the strange, frightening city that lay beyond the wooden walls. She imagined the house as it must have been, with the green leaves of the living tree and bright yellow curtains fluttering in the breeze and a blue desk by the round window—a perfect place for drawing.

Then, with a sigh, she opened her eyes and looked up at the slanted ceiling. “So what do we need to get into the palace?”

“Costumes. Nice ones. Fancy costumes, and something to cover our faces.”

Sophia sat up slowly and opened her pack. “I still have New Occident money,” she said. “We could buy some things.”

“Show me how much you have.” He held out his uninjured hand for the money. “All right,” he said, after counting it. “You stay here and I’ll go buy us some things for costumes.”

“What? No—I’m going with you.”

He shook his head. “If we go together, we’ll be more recognizable. The guards will be looking for two people. And besides, you stick out. I look like I’m from the Baldlands, but you don’t.” Sophia looked at him in consternation. Theo took her hand, and when he spoke again his voice was serious. “You know I’ll come back.”

“I know,” Sophia said with frustration. “Of course I know. I just don’t want to sit here waiting. What about your hand?”

“It’s fine.”

“You can’t even carry anything with it.”

“Yes, I can. Trust me. It’ll be safer. And easier.”

She shook her head resignedly. “All right.”

He got to his feet and stuffed the money into his pocket. “I’d better get going,” he said, looking out through one of the round windows. “It’s late afternoon, and the stores will start closing.”

“How long do you think it will take?” she asked anxiously, standing up too.

“Maybe an hour. It may get dark while I’m gone. I’ll try to buy candles,” he added, looking around the bare room. Sophia followed him down the spiral staircase to the first floor and then watched him scurry down the trunk of the tree. “Back soon,” he called up quietly. She watched him go.

Then she righted the two chairs near the staircase, placing them on either side of the wooden table. Sitting down heavily, she rested her chin in her hand and looked out over the room.

It was not that she disbelieved Theo—not anymore. She knew he planned to return. But any number of things could happen to prevent him from making his way back to the house in the rotting tree. The guards might see him; someone might ask about his hand and find his answer unsatisfactory; the raider from the market might stumble across him again. She sat, and the sky darkened, the time stretching out interminably. What would happen if Theo did not return? The dusk would turn to night, and the whole city would fall asleep, and she would remain in the tree house, waiting. Then the sky would lighten and the day would arrive, and she would have to venture back into the heart of the city and find a way to get past the guards at Mazapán’s shop. The very thought of it made her stomach sink. And if she could not get through? All of her money was gone. Even if she could leave the city unseen, she would have no way to buy food, and she would have to walk all the long way to Veracruz to seek help from the crew of the Swan. If by some miracle she made it, how would she get back to New Occident? It was nearly July 4; after that, with the borders’ closure and the inevitable lines at each entry point, it would be much harder. What if she ended up outside New Occident’s borders, stranded? I’ll never make it, she thought. I might as well go turn myself in at the palace.

She checked her watch; Theo had been gone more than two hours. This is stupid, she realized. I’m not making anything better by sitting here agonizing. I need something to do.

Steeling herself, she opened her pack and took out the maps. She had left the glass map awake, and now she read the maps once, twice, and then a third time. She lingered over the strange apparition that appeared at the end of the memories: a figure holding a shining beacon in its hand as it ran toward her. Each time, it seemed to grow more familiar. I’ll read the maps again, she thought, And this time I’ll know who it is. But nothing changed beyond the unnerving sense of familiarity. Sighing, she put the maps aside. There was something about them . . . It was almost as if they were meant for her—that their meaning lay within her grasp. But something was still missing.

Then she opened her notebook, and in the dying light of sunset she drew aimlessly, letting her pencil wander. She found herself tracing the outlines of a familiar face: there was Theo, smiling slyly from the center of the page, almost about to wink. She realized with surprise that it was a fair resemblance. It did not quite capture him, but the likeness was recognizable—far more so than her first attempt after seeing him at the wharf. She flipped back in her sketchbook and compared the two. The haughty boy she had drawn then was entirely unlike the one she had come to know. Ehrlach disguised him with feathers, Sophia thought, and I disguised him with my own idea of what I wanted him to be.

“Is that me?”

Sophia turned with a start and saw Theo himself, his arms heavily laden, standing in the semi-darkness. “You’re back!” she exclaimed, flooded with relief. “You frightened me. I didn’t hear you come up.”

He laughed and dropped the bundles on the table. “I didn’t sneak up on you, honestly. The whole palace guard could have tramped up here and you wouldn’t have heard them.”

“I’m so glad you’re back.”

“I took a long time, I’m sorry,” Theo said, and it was clear he meant it. “But look at everything I got.” He rummaged through one of the packages and pulled out a bundle of white candles. He lit one, dripped wax on the wooden table, and planted the candle there.

“Did anyone see you?”

“I only saw one guard the whole time, and he didn’t notice me,” Theo said smugly. “I stayed out of the center—got everything in stores farther out. Look at this,” he said, pulling out a sage-green cloth that glimmered as if powdered with gold.

Sophia gasped. “It’s beautiful—what is it?”

“A long veil. You can just wear it over your head—I’ll show you. No one will see your face. And I got you this,” he went on, pulling out a pale green gown with slender straps made of vine. “It’s probably a little big, so you can use this to adjust it.” He showed her a small wooden box with an inlaid design and opened it to reveal a packet of bone needles, a tiny pair of scissors fashioned of obsidian and wood, and four diminutive spools of thread.

“Theo,” Sophia breathed. “These things are so beautiful. Did the money I had really buy all this?”

“I kept most of the money. We need it for food, anyway.”

It took her a moment to understand. “You stole these things,” she finally said.

Theo looked back at her, his dark eyes serious in the feeble light of the candle. “Of course I did. I had to. Why do you think I went alone? The money wouldn’t have bought us more than a couple pairs of socks. Do you want to get into the palace or not?”

“I should have known.”

“Come on. I had to steal these things. We weren’t going to get in all dirty, dressed like beggars. There was no choice.”

“You could have just said so,” she snapped. “You could have just said the money wasn’t enough and you had to go alone because you were going to steal it.”

“Well, I didn’t lie,” Theo replied heatedly. “I didn’t say the money was enough, and all the reasons I gave for going alone were true. I don’t lie to you.”

“But if you leave out the truth, it’s the same as lying!”

“It was just easier not to explain. You would have argued with me, and I needed to get these things before dark. Come on, let me show you the rest of the stuff. It’s great,” Theo said in a placating tone.

“All right,” Sophia said tightly.

“This is for me,” he said. He opened a bulky package and drew out a long black velvet cloak. “Plus some new bandages. And, as much as I hate feathers, that’s pretty much all there is for masks. I got these to match, to hide my hand.” He showed her a mask covered with brilliant blue plumage, and the gauntlets that would conceal the cotton gauze.

“It’s all perfect,” Sophia said dispiritedly. “Everything you got.”

Theo sat and looked at her across the table. “Don’t be mad.”

“I just don’t understand why you have to lie about everything.”

“It’s just—I don’t know. It’s so much easier than explaining every little thing.” He turned the mask over in his hands.

“But you lie about things that aren’t little. Like what happened to your parents.”

“Well, yeah. I don’t like being pinned down.”

“Pinned down?”

“You know what I mean. If you tell someone everything, it’s like putting yourself right in their hands. If you lie, you keep the options open—nobody ever has the whole picture of you.”

Sophia shook her head. “So you never tell the truth?”

“No, I do. I tell you the truth.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes.”

“I do,” Theo insisted. “About the important things, I do.”

“Why? What’s the difference?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know—with you I don’t mind.”

She looked at the flickering candle. “You didn’t tell me why you couldn’t go into Nochtland.”

“I should have, I know. But you could have asked me. You can ask me anything.”

“All right,” Sophia said. “Tell me about your hand. How did you find out about the Mark of Iron? You told Calixta you hurt it when your house fell apart. I’m guessing that’s not true.”

Theo turned so that he was facing the pile of clothes on the table. “Sure, I’ll tell you the truth about it,” he said, grinning. “But first, let’s eat.” He produced a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, and a basket of figs. “I actually paid for these.”

Sophia smiled. “Thanks. That makes it taste a lot better.”

He lit another candle and pushed the clothing aside. Sophia had once again forgotten how much time had passed since her last meal, and the two of them fell on the bread and figs, washing it all down with milk from the glass bottle.

Theo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as she settled in her chair. “Okay. First, you’ve got to understand that outside of the Triple Eras, especially in the northern Baldlands, it’s no big deal to have the Mark of Iron. There are raiders who even say they’ve got more iron than they actually do—that’s how proud of it they are. Course, that can get you into trouble. I knew a raider named Ballast who claimed every bone in his body was made of iron. Well, you can imagine there were one or two other raiders who were happy to prove him wrong.” He chuckled. “Dangerous to boast about something like that.

“When I was still in Sue’s gang—I couldn’t have been more than five—we stopped in a town called Mercury where almost everyone had the Mark. The town doctor had a magnet as big as a window that he used to figure out who had what made of iron. He wasn’t going to cut into someone—do surgery—before he knew what was iron and what wasn’t.”

Sophia leaned forward. “I can’t believe it’s so common there.”

Theo nodded. “Oh, yeah. Real common. But the doctor wasn’t. He was one of our customers, that’s how Sue knew about him. It was one of her books that gave him the magnet idea in the first place.”

“She had books?” Sophia had difficulty imagining books among raiders and gangs.

“That’s mostly how she supported us. See, it’s not like New Occident, where all the books are from your time or before. In the Baldlands, there’s books from every year you could think of. Every ‘era,’ like they used to say before the Disruption. Sue was a book peddler—we’d buy books in one town, then sell them in the next, buy more, move on.”

Sophia bit her lip. “There must have been wonderful books.”

“Yeah, there were. That’s how I learned to read. There’s all kinds of things you can get from books. How do you think I learned about maps?” He raised his eyebrows. “Well, the doctor bought a book from who-knows-when that talked about iron bones and magnets. He owed Sue a favor or two. I guess she’d already noticed things about my hand—she didn’t say, but maybe she’d noticed it was stronger than the other one. She paid the doctor a whole dollar to have me checked for the Mark of Iron. Just so I’d know. She took that good care of me.” He played with a crust of bread. “So he did, found my hand had the Mark.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nope. Just my hand. Sue lectured me then; told me I shouldn’t boast about having the Mark because it would get me into trouble, and I had to be careful who knew, because in some parts people thought badly of it.” Theo shook his head. “Well, it wasn’t long before I was ignoring Sue’s advice. I let it get to my head that I had the Mark, and I started using my hand for all kinds of stupid stunts. Though the first scar was for a good cause.” He showed her the edge of his hand. “One of the kids had fallen into a crevice and I kept him from falling by pulling him up by his bootlace. Cut clean through the skin, but the iron bones held.” He laughed. “After that, the reasons weren’t always as good.”

“So what you said to Calixta never happened?”

“Nah, course not. I told you—I never knew my parents. But I wasn’t going to tell her about the Mark, was I? No way to know what she’d think of it. It’s what I’m saying—best not to get pinned down by telling the truth.”

“I guess I see what you mean,” Sophia allowed. It was clear now that Theo didn’t intend any harm with his innumerable small lies. She could see how there were sometimes occasions when it was useful, but she couldn’t imagine them. And then she could. Right now, she realized with surprise, we’re going to lie to get into the palace. We’re going to lie about who we are. And I don’t care.

Sophia found herself looking across the table at her open notebook, the drawing of Theo dressed in feathers.

As if reading her thoughts, he asked, “So you never said. Is that drawing of me?”

She blushed, grateful for the darkness in the little tree house. “It is.”

“You have a good memory—that’s exactly what the costume looked like.”

“No, I drew it then. The day I saw you.”

Theo’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “You did?”

Sophia nodded. “You know when you went to my house to find Shadrack?” Now he nodded. “I wasn’t home because I’d gone to the wharf. I looked for you.”

Theo wore a strange expression. “What do you mean?”

“I’d seen you that once, in the cage. I went back to the circus to see if I could get you out. I know—it’s stupid.” Sophia laughed to hide her embarrassment. “I planned to rescue you.”

For a moment he stared at her. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “Well, thanks.”

“But I didn’t rescue you!”

Theo, still smiling, reached across for the last piece of bread. “We should put the candles out soon,” he said, “so people in the other houses don’t know we’re here.”

30 The Eclipse

1891, June 30: 16-Hour 50

Just as the variety of time-keeping methods in the Triple Eras gradually gave way to the nine-hour clock, so the variety of calendars gave way to the lunar calendar. Festivities were organized around the calendar, and today no festival is greater than that reserved for the occasional lunar or solar eclipse. These are often marked with costume balls, in which the revelers cover their faces just as the sun and moon “cover” theirs.

—From Veressa Metl’s Cultural Geography of the Baldlands

SOPHIA AND THEO spent the following day in the tree house. They descended twice to buy food but otherwise remained high in the bare branches, gazing out through the windows at the vast city and wondering what the night would bring. Perhaps it was Theo’s easy banter, or perhaps it was the sense that the time for nervousness had passed; Sophia felt a steady calm descend as the day wore on. She knew what lay ahead and she was not afraid. When dusk fell, they began donning their costumes.

Sophia had to admit, examining herself beside Theo in the cracked mirror, that they were nearly unrecognizable. The high shoes he had stolen for them added several inches to their heights. Theo’s feathered mask covered his entire face, and the dark cloak made him seem bulkier than he was. His bandaged hand was concealed by the feathery gauntlet. Sophia’s gown cascaded around her in a rush of rippling silk blanketed with fern leaves. Fortunately, the fronds were thick enough to conceal the bulky shape of her pack, which she wore under her gown, strapped at the back of her waist like a bustle. She had no mask, but the sage-green veil powdered with glitter was enough. Looking at herself in the mirror, she could see only the outline of her face.

“We look so old,” she murmured.

“That’s the idea,” Theo replied, pulling the cloak around his chest. “As long as we walk right, no one will know.” He turned to her. “Are you ready?”

“I think so.” Sophia took a deep breath and drew herself to her now considerable height. “I’ll have to put these back on when we reach the palace,” she said, pulling off the high shoes. “Good-bye, tree house,” she said quietly, looking around the condemned room before descending the stairs. “Thank you for keeping us safe—at least for a little while.”

Half an hour later, they were approaching the palace gates. The air was filled with fluting music and the chatter of the arriving guests, and Sophia could see at once that Theo had chosen their costumes well: no one gave them a second glance. Nonetheless, Sophia felt her heart flutter at the sight of the guards. Squeezing her arm, Theo pointed to a large party of extravagantly dressed guests that was making its way noisily toward the entrance, and the two of them insinuated themselves into the group.

As they slowly moved forward, one of the women turned and looked them up and down. Sophia caught her breath, preparing herself for the shout of alarm. Then the woman leaned forward and asked, “A Lorca design?”

“Yes,” Sophia said, hiding her surprise as best she could.

“I compliment you on being able to secure her services. When I tried to order my gown, she said she could no longer take orders!” The woman gestured down at her pea-green tunic, which looked a bit wrinkled.

Sophia struggled to think of a fitting reply. “One does have to order very early,” she said, in what she hoped was a lofty tone.

The woman nodded sagely. “Quite right. I will do so next time.” She turned to follow her companions, but by that time the leader of the party had spoken to the guard and all of them—including Sophia and Theo—had been waved through the gates.

Sophia let out a sharp sigh of relief. “That was easy, wasn’t it?” Theo said smugly.

As they entered the garden, she caught her breath. It had been transformed by a thousand lanterns that hung from every tree and above every fountain. The water in the lily pond shimmered, reflecting the lights. Clusters of people drifted in and out among the hedges and walkways, some of them carrying long poles with bright lanterns shaped like moons. For a moment, she forgot any danger and lost herself in the floating music and winking lights of the eclipse festival.

Theo moved single-mindedly toward the lily pond, leading Sophia by the elbow as she turned to look at the frail paper boats gliding across it. “I’ll show you the way I got in last time,” he murmured.

Sophia did not reply, consumed as she was by the sights and sounds. A little boy dressed like a bird, complete with feathery wings, fluttered past them laughing; a taller girl pursuing him held her skirt in bunched fistfuls so that she could run. Sophia watched, a smile stealing over her face, and suddenly her smile froze. She seized Theo’s arm.

“What?” he asked in surprise. “The guards won’t recognize us . . .” The words died in his throat as he saw the man standing only a few feet away, contentedly eating a tall piece of cake.

It was Montaigne. He had not noticed the young man with a feathered mask and the veiled lady. He took another bite of cake and then drifted away from the side of the lily pool and wandered into the gardens.

“I can’t believe he followed you all the way here,” Theo whispered.

“He must have followed the Swan, which means he knows about Calixta and Burr. If we stay with him we might find out where they are,” Sophia said under her breath, pulling Theo onward.

They kept their eyes on Montaigne’s retreating back and stayed well behind, following him as he made his slow way through the garden, stopping occasionally to take a bite of cake or dip his fingers in one of the fountains. He skirted a broad wooden dance floor, empty save for sawdust, that stood awaiting the dancers who later would whirl upon it under the darkened moon. Then he rounded a corner onto a lawn bordered by lemon trees, where a trio of musicians was performing. He sauntered up to the audience from behind and sat in one of the empty chairs.

Sophia and Theo watched through the screen of the lemon trees. Princess Justa sat with a dozen attendants, but the rest of the audience were strangers. Veressa and Martin were nowhere to be seen. Sophia moved forward to get a clear view of Montaigne—and then she stopped in her tracks. Beside him was a small woman, her long, fair hair pulled back, a delicate veil covering her face. Seated next to her, half-obscured and slumped over, as if sunk in melancholy, was Shadrack.

In that moment, Sophia understood what a precious gift it was to have no sense of time. What for ordinary people would have seemed like a fragment of a second seemed like hours to her. During that time out of time, she had all the time in the world to think. Montaigne had followed her, and he had brought Shadrack with him. Perhaps he had traveled with Shadrack from the start: all the way along the Western Line, to New Orleans, to Veracruz, to Nochtland. Sophia imagined that journey and all the routes it might have taken, all the difficulties Shadrack might have faced. It didn’t matter how he had gotten to Nochtland; he was here now, and so was she. And with still more time to deliberate, Sophia thought of how she might draw him away.

She found herself back in the Nochtland gardens, her plan complete. “He’s here!” she whispered urgently. “That’s Shadrack.”

“I see him,” Theo said slowly. “What do you want to do?”

“We need a distraction. The dance floor. And the lanterns.”

Theo understood at once. “You get to Shadrack. I’ll find you.” He broke cover and moved toward the empty dance floor. Sophia stayed behind, her eyes fastened on her uncle.

The fluting music rose up over the audience and through the trees, and the laughter of the revelers tinkled like glass chimes. Sophia marked time by when one song ended and another began. As the trio commenced a third piece, another sound suddenly cut through the air: a shout of alarm. Another echoed it, and a moment later frightened shrieks pierced the music and brought it to a halt. “Fire!” someone cried. “The dance floor is on fire!” The audience rose in confusion. The flames spread, and she could see the worried faces of the audience. A loud crack burst out behind her as the floorboards were engulfed, and suddenly everyone panicked. Princess Justa’s attendants seized her arms and hurried her away. The other guests rushed across the lawn, toppling chairs and bumping into one another.

“Water, get water!” Sophia heard the sharp sizzle of water against burning wood. She kept her eyes trained on Shadrack. He had remained behind while the others around him fled in panic. Even the shouts and the light and the heat of the fire did not seem to affect him.

As soon as the clearing was abandoned, Sophia stepped forward. Shadrack was sitting motionlessly at the end of the aisle. She could not see his face, but he seemed to be simply staring at the trees in front of him. What’s wrong with him? Why doesn’t he move? Sophia was suddenly terrified. What had happened to Shadrack that he did not even flee at the sight of fire?

Her heart was pounding as she hurried toward him. She placed her hand gently on his slumped shoulder. “Shadrack?” she said, her voice trembling. Hearing his name, Shadrack looked up at her abruptly, and his eyes stared blankly, uncomprehendingly, at her veiled face. Sophia lifted her veil with shaking fingers. “It’s me, Shadrack. Sophia.” She bent down and threw her arms around him.

“Is it really you, Soph?” Shadrack asked hoarsely, his arms moving slowly to embrace her.

“We have to get out of here before they notice us,” she said desperately, pulling back even though she didn’t want to. “Are you all right? Can you get up?”

He gazed at her face as if waking from a long sleep. “I thought you were lost. When we arrived, they said you were killed trying to escape the palace grounds.”

“Oh, Shadrack,” she cried. “No—no, we escaped.” She put her arms around him again and Shadrack squeezed until she felt that her ribs would break. Over his shoulder, she saw the guards still trying to douse the flames. Theo was hurrying toward them, his feathered mask still in place.

“I can’t believe you’re here. You’re alive,” Shadrack said with a deep sigh.

“I can’t believe you’re here, Shadrack,” she said, pulling away. “Shadrack, this is Theo,” she said, as he joined them. “We never imagined—we came back for Veressa and the others. Do you know what happened to them—where they are?”

Shadrack had overcome his shock, and after assessing the commotion around the fire, he rose hurriedly. “Come,” he said, taking Sophia’s hand. “I haven’t seen her, but I know where she is.” They ran toward the palace, passing the smoldering remains of the dance floor. The palace guards and guests who had extinguished the fire with water from the fountains were coughing from the acrid smoke. No one noticed their escape.

The front entrance, they could see even from a distance, was lined with guards. The doors of the conservatory were firmly shut. But they tested Martin and Veressa’s windows and found to their relief that the one Sophia and Theo had escaped through was unlocked.

For a moment they paused in the dark bedroom, listening for any sounds of pursuit in the garden or the house. There were none. Sophia kicked off the high shoes and then they left, stealing along the corridor toward the door that connected with the main palace. “They’re going to notice by now that you’re gone,” Sophia whispered, as Shadrack pulled open the door.

“I know,” he said tersely. “We have to hurry.” He seemed to have a map of the palace in his head and turned without hesitation at each corner. They whirled through the empty corridors strewn with eucalyptus leaves, the sharp smell rising as they ran, until they reached a flight of wide stone stairs leading downward. “The servants’ floor,” Shadrack said, panting. “The entrance to the dungeons should be here.”

The corridors here were narrower, and their hurried footsteps echoed on the bare stone floor. Yet these hallways were also blessedly empty; the festivities required every free hand. The bedrooms, narrow and spare as monastic cells, were all deserted. They turned a corner and suddenly found themselves at a dead end. Shadrack stopped short. “No, it’s not here,” he said to himself. “It must be . . .” he trailed off. “Wherever the guard are housed.”

After hesitating for a moment, Shadrack turned back the way they’d come, back past the stairs in the opposite direction. Soon they were racing through the long, cavernous rooms that housed the royal guard. These, too, were empty, though littered with equipment and weapons, and at the far end of the largest room was an arched, torch-lit entryway and a descending staircase.

“That’s it,” he said, glancing behind them. The shadowed stairs seemed to go down forever. At the bottom, they found themselves in a dark, dank passage whose stone walls were covered—unexpectedly—with pale vines growing in twists and turns and dense spirals. As she hurried along, Sophia ran her hand over the cool leaves.

Suddenly, the corridor opened out onto a vast, high chamber with a domed ceiling. The walls were covered by the same pale creepers. Fires in deep clay pots dotted the stone floor, and in the center of the room was what appeared to be an empty pool. As they walked toward it, breathing heavily with exertion, Sophia realized that it was actually a pit. She ran to the edge and peered in.

The pit was more than twenty feet deep, its walls covered with sharp, irregular shards of glass. At the bottom, huddled around a small fire, sat the four luckless prisoners: Veressa, Martin, Calixta, and Burr. “It’s me, Sophia,” she called down, her voice echoing throughout the chamber.

At the sight of her, the four sprang to their feet. “Sophia!” Veressa cried. “You must leave here!”

Shadrack and Theo reached the edge of the pit. “We’re not leaving without you,” Shadrack said. “There’s a ladder. We’ll lower it and you can climb out.”

“Where are the guard?” Burr demanded. “How did you get past them?”

“They’re outside,” Sophia said. “Everyone is watching the eclipse.”

Shadrack and Theo lowered the wooden ladder into the pit and held the top of it securely while Burr held the bottom and, one by one, the other three made their way up. Martin went first, climbing slowly because of his silver leg, and when he had emerged safely, he embraced Sophia. “My dear, I’m not sure it was wise of you to come here.”

“We had to, Martin,” she said, leaning against him.

Calixta reached the top of the ladder, and then Veressa emerged. Burr followed them, leaping out over the last rung. “Right. Now how do we get out of here, Veressa?” he asked.

She was on the verge of answering when there was a sudden sound. Turning as one, they saw Montaigne’s companion, the veiled woman, standing in the doorway, surrounded by more than a dozen of the Nochtland guard. She strode toward them, more of the guard pouring out of the corridor behind her, ominous as gathering vultures. They held their spears aloft, directed at the small group that stood by the open pit.

“Princess Justa was right after all,” the woman said, her sweet, sad voice filling the cavernous chamber. Her delicate veil fluttered as she spoke. “She assured me you would return for your friends. I thought you would have more sense,” she said softly, walking directly toward Sophia. “For once, I’m glad to have been proven wrong.”

Shadrack put his arm across Sophia. “Leave her, Blanca,” he said hoarsely.

Blanca shook her head and began to remove her gloves. “This is the moment we were always heading toward, Shadrack. You simply chose not to believe it.” She extended her bare hand toward Sophia. “I’ll have the bag you are carrying, please.” Sophia did not move. “You may not care for your own safety, but surely there are some here whom you would not like to see at the end of a spear?”

Sophia turned reluctantly to retrieve her pack from under her gown, and after an awkward struggle it was free. She handed it to Blanca. Their hands touched for a moment; Sophia felt the pressure of the woman’s cold fingers. “Thank you,” Blanca said. Without wasting a moment, she opened the pack and removed the four maps. She ran her trembling fingers over them lovingly and then held the glass map up like a trophy, gazing at it. Sophia stared at the cavern wall through the treasure that she had just lost. “You must understand, Sophia,” Blanca said softly, “that they belong with me. For three years I shared a home with them—they were almost mine. I might have read them a thousand times, except that I could not.”

With an easy motion she lifted her veil, and in the flickering firelight Sophia saw that the woman’s face had no features, only skin that was deathly pale. The skin was deeply scarred, as if a dozen knives had carved through it: as if a patient hand had cut across it, again and again.