The Memory Theater

6

Augusta woke up with a stiff neck. She had fallen asleep sitting down, her head resting on a pile of scribbled notes. When she straightened, she found herself at her old drafting table, but it stood beneath a window in a small room with wooden walls. A narrow bed with tattered sheets filled the rest of the space. On the other side of the window stood a forest, bathed in light.

A golden chain hung from her waistcoat pocket. She swung the locket into her hand. It was ticking in a steady rhythm, not haltingly like in the Gardens. Forward, ever forward.

The sheets of paper that littered the desk were filled with inky blotches and random words in indigo and sepia. Augusta could not make sense of them. What was it Ghorbi had told her? It was difficult to think.

Next to the desk was a door with a curled handle. Augusta got up from the chair and opened it. Unbearable light rushed over her. She backed inside and slammed the door. The sun. She was not in the Gardens anymore.

Augusta crawled in under the covers on the bed. The blanket couldn’t quite block out the light, but at least Augusta’s eyes didn’t hurt. She lay there, listening to the ticking of the watch, until she lost count.

Eventually, the light faded and that awful orb sank behind the treetops. Augusta waited until the darkness was almost complete. She stepped outside again and looked at the tiny cottage behind her. Where was she? The air was different here, cold and crisp. The warble of blackbirds had died down, and bright pinpricks filled the sky. Stars, where the sky ought to have been smooth and empty. And there, floating above the trees, a swollen moon. Bile rose in Augusta’s throat. Just like the sun, that thing was an aberration.

A little track led into the depths of the forest. This was not so different from the forest that surrounded the Gardens. Perhaps she was close after all.

She lost the trail almost immediately, stumbling over rocks and tree roots. The smell of the night forest filled her nose: pine needles, decomposing leaves, damp earth. Somewhere, an animal let out a barking noise. Nearby, something else hooted.

“Euterpe!” she called. “Mnemosyne! Walpurgis!”

At first it seemed that the light was just right, a familiar blue that erased all shadows, soft on the eye. Augusta thought that she could see the conservatory’s great dome just beyond the trees, and her heart lifted.

“Euterpe!” she shouted. “I’m here!”

She ran through the forest, her chest burning with every breath. Twigs whipped at her sides, and once she stumbled and scraped her knee. She got back up and forced herself to run faster, away from the world, toward safety.

But then birds began to sing, and as the light grew, the tree trunks all around took on a hard silhouette. Then the trees abruptly ended. Before her, a great plain spread out, rolling fields that smelled of manure and dewy growth. Ahead, what she thought had been the conservatory’s dome. It was the top of a tower. On a hill in the middle of the plain sat a great castle, peachy pink in the morning light. Beyond the castle, the two tall spires of a cathedral soared into the sky. A city sprawled beneath them. It all tugged at something in Augusta’s mind. She had seen a city like this before, and she had loathed it.

Augusta looked over her shoulder at the forest, backlit now by the rising sun. Mnemosyne had truly cast her out. How dare she?

There must be a way back into the Gardens. Perhaps this place would have some answers. At least there would be food and drink. Augusta would return to the Gardens, and return in triumph. Nil desperandum. She began to walk.

Augusta walked past fields and farms along a gravel road that eventually became a cobbled street. She continued in among one- and two-story stone houses that were occasionally interrupted by wooden cottages. Save for an odd roar in the distance, the street was quiet. A woman emerged from one of the houses and crossed the road in front of Augusta; she was wearing a knee-length coat of an odd, formless cut and a drab little hat. Her calves were scandalously bare. Even so, her posture and colors made Augusta think of wood lice. The woman glanced over her shoulder at Augusta and stumbled over her own feet. Augusta chuckled but was interrupted when she saw a man rolling down the street astride a wheeled contraption. A woman followed him on another thing just like it. Augusta stared at them in fascination. Then the aroma of baking bread hit her like a wave.

The shop sat on a corner. On the other side of the window, a man kneaded an enormous lump of dough while a girl took out tray after tray of cakes from a large oven. Augusta tried the door. It was locked. She banged on the glass pane. The girl took off her oven mittens and came to open it. She looked up at Augusta with large, mottled eyes in a slim face.

“We’re closed,” she said.

“You will open for me,” Augusta told her in her lady voice, as when addressing a servant, and watched with satisfaction as the girl’s mouth slackened and her eyes became glassy.

“Of course,” the girl said after a moment. “Come inside.”

In the little space, there was a counter and a glass cabinet filled to the brim with cakes. The smells in here made Augusta’s mouth water: bread, baking fruits, spices.

“I want one of everything, and water,” she told the girl.

The girl obediently took out a small box and filled it, then filled a glass bottle with water and set them both on the counter.

“Good girl,” Augusta said.

Augusta left with the box and the bottle in her arms. The houses rose higher, stately with elaborate facades. Twice, foul-smelling carriages roared past her, seemingly without anything to pull them. More and more people emerged into the street. They were doughy and mundane little things, most of them with skin like sand, fair or auburn hair sticking out from under the brim of lumpy hats or headscarves. The women walked around in more of those scandalously short dresses that displayed their legs, which would have been interesting if said dresses were not in such excruciatingly dull shades; the men wore ill-fitting short jackets and long trousers. They stared at Augusta. Augusta stared back. She sat down on a bench under a tree to drink the water and eat the pastries. They were delicate and crumbly, some of them filled with berries, others twisted into elaborate shapes. The sun blazed overhead, but Augusta was slowly getting used to it. She let it warm her shoulders as she watched the people passing by. When she was finished, she left the bottle and box on the bench.

This place was familiar, and yet not. She had hated a place like this and could not say exactly why, but she had her suspicions. It was noisy and smelly and crowded. There were parks, but the trees were stunted and manicured. The paved streets were disturbed by horses and carts, rattling vehicles, and above all, people. The river that flowed through the city looked muddy and cold. And yet, Augusta found herself intrigued. All around her, people scurried like mice, like insects, giving her a wide berth. She wandered the streets until the light softened and her feet hurt.

There was a side street of rose-trellised wooden houses, away from the hustle and bustle. One of the houses had a door embossed with flowers, and two little porcelain dogs sat in the window. Augusta climbed the steps to the door and pushed down the handle. It was unlocked.

She stepped into a room. An old woman in a dress and an apron was stirring a pot on a stove. A younger woman sat at a table by the window, darning socks. They both looked up as Augusta entered.

“Who are you?” said the older woman. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to live here now,” Augusta said. “What are your names?”

The younger woman was meek. “My name is Elsa,” she said.

The crone frowned and walked over to where Augusta was standing.

“You won’t have my name,” she said. “Get out. You’re not welcome here.”

Augusta drew herself up and stared at the woman. “Do as I say.”

“I…” the crone said, and faltered.

“You’re going to be trouble,” Augusta said.

She put her hands around the old woman’s throat and squeezed. When her victim had stopped struggling, she turned to the girl.

“Elsa. You are my maid now.”

Elsa dragged her mother’s corpse into a chamber next to the kitchen. She sobbed all the while, but she did not resist Augusta. She showed Augusta to a small room with a bathtub, which she filled with warm water that miraculously came out of the wall.

“How marvelous,” Augusta said. “How does that work?”

“It’s just water,” Elsa mumbled. “I don’t know.”

While Augusta washed herself, she made Elsa answer questions. The city was called Uppsala, and someone named Gustaf the Fifth was king. A country called Germany was making war, invading its neighbors. The Germans might come here or they might not. Times were hard.

When Augusta had dried off, Elsa showed her into a larger bedchamber and opened an armoire. Augusta waved away the flimsy dresses Elsa presented her with. Finally, Elsa opened another door and took out a black suit of the same strange cut Augusta had seen the men wear in the street.

“This was Father’s Sunday best,” Elsa said, and her eyes watered a little.

“It will do,” Augusta said, and put it on.

She looked at herself in the mirror on the armoire’s door. It showed a woman completely devoid of interesting details and scents. Her hair was still wet and hung almost straight down. And her face, her face. Pages had always adorned it with artful designs, to suit a noble of good taste. Without them, her face seemed empty: the round eyes had no edges, the broad cheekbones that invited swirls lay bare; her mouth was like a half-healed wound. No lord or lady even in their most extravagant stupors had ever gone with a naked face.

“Where are your paints?” Augusta demanded.

“I have this,” Elsa said, and held up a stick of fuchsia-colored wax.

“It will do,” Augusta said, and rubbed some onto strategic spots. Much better.

“Now feed me,” she told Elsa. “Then tell me where to find learned men and women.”

7

They found themselves on a cracked plain that stretched out in all directions. The sand had disappeared, and Dora was standing on mud that had dried and split. The sky above them was wide like a fishpond. Something like an inverted sun hung up there, an empty disc surrounded by a blinding corona. Thistle had sat down on the ground, panting heavily, elbows resting on his knees. He gave Dora a strained smile as she crouched next to him.

“What happens now?” Thistle said from the ground.

“I couldn’t let them have you,” Ghorbi said. “And I can’t just leave you here. This is a crossroads between worlds.”

Thistle stood up. He was almost breathing normally now. “You can take us to where Augusta is.”

“I suppose I could, theoretically,” Ghorbi said. “Except I don’t know where she went. Possibly to Earth, from whence you all came. Possibly to one of the other realms. But there are many, so many. She may have ended up anywhere.” She tapped her chin with a long fingernail. “I could direct you to someone who might help you.”

“Do it,” Dora said. “Please.”

Ghorbi was quiet for a moment. “I don’t hand out favors left and right. I have already helped Thistle twice, out of the goodness of my heart. But everything comes with a price.”

“We have nothing,” Thistle said.

Ghorbi looked down at him, and her eyes flickered. “Will you repay me later?”

Thistle nodded. “Yes. Anything.”

“Anything,” Ghorbi said. “I will keep this in mind.”

Ghorbi strode off toward a structure in the distance. Dora and Thistle followed. She could see the silhouettes of people.

“Is that where Augusta is?” Thistle asked.

“No. This is where you come to go somewhere else.”

Inside a chest-high stone enclosure, wooden stalls were lined up in two neat rows. At each table, a strange-looking person was busy pressing buttons on a box or writing on paper and tablets. The people were bald, with skin that reminded Dora of ashes; their eyes were huge and their limbs long. They were swaddled in lengths of gauzy, colorless fabric. Very long toes peeked out from under the hem of their robes.

When Dora and Thistle caught up with Ghorbi, she was waiting in front of one of the tables. On it sat a sphere as big as Dora’s head, out of which keys stuck out at odd angles. The person behind the desk was busy with the sphere, muttering to itself.

“Who are they?” Dora asked.

“Traffic controllers,” Ghorbi said. “They direct whoever comes here to where they need to go.” She smiled. “They have always been here. Perhaps they are little gods. Benign ones, mind you.”

The traffic controller finished whatever it was doing, then looked up at Ghorbi and nodded. It spoke a long stream of crisp syllables in a hoarse voice. Ghorbi replied in the same language. The other pointed at Dora and Thistle. Ghorbi said something else, the tone of her voice rising at the end of the sentence. She got a single vowel in reply.

Thistle sat down on the ground again.

Dora sank down next to him and put her arm around his shoulders. “Are you tired?”

“I feel like I haven’t slept for days. And I’m hungry and thirsty.”

Thistle rested his head against her shoulder. Dora closed her eyes and let the sounds wash over her: talk, clicks, quills rasping on paper.

She came to with a start when Ghorbi touched her shoulder.

“It’s time to go,” Ghorbi said.

Thistle rubbed his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“I asked them if they’ve seen Augusta, but she hasn’t been through here. I couldn’t find out where she is now, but I know of some people who might be able to locate her. I’ll show you to the realm where you might find them.”

Ghorbi helped Dora and Thistle to their feet.

“We’re hungry,” Dora said.

Ghorbi paused. “Ah.” She went over to one of the stalls and conferred with one of the traffic controllers, then came back.

“They are willing to sell you food,” she said. “For a price. It’s steep. Direction is free, but food isn’t.”

“We don’t have anything to pay them with,” Thistle said.

Ghorbi nodded at Dora. “They want your hair.”

“Oh,” Dora said.

“Are you very attached to it?”

Dora shrugged.

“Dora, no,” Thistle said.

“I’m hungry,” Dora replied. “So are you.”

“Come,” Ghorbi said.

Dora followed her. At the stall, the traffic controller babbled excitedly and took out a very sharp-looking knife. Up close, the creature smelled like smoke. It grabbed hold of Dora’s hair and deftly cut it off, strand after white strand, close to her scalp. When it was done, a neatly ordered heap of hair lay on the table. Dora touched her head. It felt light, free. Next to her, Thistle looked devastated.

“You’re bald,” he said.

Dora laughed. “I like this,” she said. “It feels good.”

The traffic controller nodded and gathered Dora’s hair into a small box, then bent down and rummaged under the table. It placed an opaque bottle and an object wrapped in waxy paper in front of Dora. It bowed and said something.

“This is from its private stores,” Ghorbi said. “It offers the food to you with many thanks.”

Dora opened the package. It contained what looked like a cake. She broke off a piece and put it in her mouth. It was chewy and tasted vaguely like dried fruit. She handed another piece to Thistle.

“It’s all right,” she said.

Thistle hesitated, then crammed the cake into his mouth.

The liquid in the bottle was water with a metallic taste. Dora drank half of it and gave the rest to Thistle. She felt better. Thistle looked better, too.

“Now, then,” Ghorbi said. “Let’s go.”

They walked to another opening in the wall, and through it onto the baked-mud plain.

“It looks just the same,” Dora said.

“Does it?”

Ghorbi pointed at the ground. A single blade of yellow grass stuck up, waving in a faint breeze.

“This is as far as I go. Just keep walking in that direction, straight ahead, until you see tall trees and statues guarding a city made of stone. You are looking for a theater troupe. They come there often.”

Thistle frowned. “But why aren’t you coming with us?”

Ghorbi shook her head. “The people you are about to see won’t welcome me.”

“Why?” Thistle asked.

“It’s a long story.” Ghorbi smiled wistfully. “Once upon a time, I saved one of them. He fell in love with me and wanted me to stay. But I am a traveler, and so I left, and it broke his heart. He has been angry ever since.”

“I’m sorry,” Thistle said.

Ghorbi chuckled. “Don’t be sorry for me. He’s the one who couldn’t let go. That’s why I don’t hand out favors anymore. It creates bonds that are hard to break.”

She kissed each of them on the forehead. “You’ll do just fine. If ever there is an emergency, sing the song I sang, and it will bring you here. Do you remember it?”

Thistle nodded.

“Good,” Ghorbi said. “Now go.”

8

Augusta found her way to the university, which Elsa had said was populated by scholars. She wandered the grounds, cornering students and professors, until three officious-looking men told her to leave. Too much attention might not be good. These people were no use anyway; no one knew of the Gardens, and no one was an adept of the mystical arts.

Instead, she took to the streets at night, when the air smelled of damp stone and dewy flowers. She walked through the cemetery, where mausoleums and proud obelisks spoke of poets and philosophers. She climbed the stairs to the castle and waited for the rising sun to tint its towers rose. Then she went back to her house with the flowery door and slept.

It went on like this for a few days and nights: days spent sleeping, nights spent walking. Until, as she sat for the sunrise by the castle, the bench shifted under the weight of another person.

“You look lost, madam.”

The voice was a mellow tenor or an alto, neither particularly male nor female. It belonged to a slender figure impeccably dressed in a three-piece tweed suit and a hat with a rounded crown. The stranger’s skin was smooth and lustrous in the morning light, like a well-thumbed leather book cover, and lay in deep folds between nose and mouth. Despite the fact that they had addressed her formally, there was something eerily frank about how they looked at her.

“Perhaps,” Augusta replied.

The stranger nodded. “For how long?”

Augusta shrugged.

“Not sure?” the stranger said. “I have seen you walking around town,” they continued. “Wandering, always wandering. I followed you here. You look out of place. Where are you from?”

Augusta scoffed. “What would you know? Go away.”

She had used her lady voice, and yet the stranger didn’t move.

“That kind of magic will not work on me,” they said calmly. “Now, where are you from?”

The stranger’s gaze was much too direct. Augusta had an impulse to poke their eyes out. The stranger’s hand on her own made her aware that she had actually almost done so.

“I am a lady of the Gardens,” Augusta said. “Unhand me.”

The stranger’s hand squeezed hers a little, enough that she could feel that it was much stronger than her own, then let go. “You are not the first to pass through,” they said.

Augusta shrunk back, cradling her hand. “That’s not nice,” she muttered.

The stranger merely smiled. “You will have to control yourself better. One can’t assault people if one doesn’t like what they’re doing here. Not me, nor anyone else.”

Augusta blinked. “Why?”

“It can get you in trouble. Now, for introductions.” The stranger tipped their hat. “You may call me Pinax.”

“I see,” Augusta said.

Pinax looked at her expectantly.

“You may call me the Most Honorable Augusta Prima,” Augusta said. “And you may address me as ‘your ladyship.’ ”

“I would prefer not to, but fair enough.”

Augusta snorted. Pinax seemed to be waiting for her to speak. She forced herself to sit still on the bench, that thing which was called waiting. Stay and do nothing while time passed. All this time that ran off and disappeared. She could feel her body rotting from the inside out.

“You say I am not the first,” she said eventually, mostly because she couldn’t bear the silence anymore.

Pinax nodded. “That’s right, your ladyship.”

“I know nothing of anyone leaving.”

“That’s the nature of your people, though, isn’t it? To not remember. To live the same evening over and over again.”

Augusta drew herself up. “I remember.”

“How much?”

“I found a thing under the dog-rose bush…” She hesitated.

Pinax waited, quietly.

“A thing under the dog-rose bush,” Augusta repeated, lamely. “I found a corpse. It had a watch.”

“And then?”

“I showed the watch to my page, and he told me about time. And I wanted to see if time really passed in the Gardens.”

“And did it?”

“The watch moved,” Augusta said. “Here and there. And then the lady Mnemosyne found me in my bower. And then I was here. She banished me.” The enormity of it.

“I see. And do you remember the beginning of the Gardens?” said Pinax.

A jumble of parties. Drinking, dancing. Beyond that, a void. The before. Augusta crossed her arms and stared up at the castle.

“This is familiar,” she said. “A city, much like this. But also very different.”

They sat in silence.

“He called himself Phantasos,” Pinax said eventually. “I found him right here, under the lilac. He said he was the lord of the Gardens.”

Augusta scoffed. “There is no lord of the Gardens. Mnemosyne is our lady.”

“Ah. Mnemosyne. Yes. He was her consort.”

“Where is this Phantasos?”

“He left.”

“Where is he? I need to find him. If he left of his own free will, he could take me back.”

“He has another life now,” Pinax said.

The moment was still. Augusta tried to move, but it was still the same. It sat on her like a stone, making it hard to breathe.

“It’s difficult, isn’t it,” Pinax said. “Being outside.”

“Yes,” she managed.

Pinax took her hand. “Come.”

Augusta didn’t have the energy to pull away.

Pinax led her down the hill from the castle. The city was waking up again. Eventually they turned onto a street where linden trees rose up beside granite buildings, and the noise of traffic died down. Pinax stopped outside a two-story stone house nestled between two taller buildings.

“This is where I live,” Pinax said, and unlocked the heavy door.

Augusta stepped into darkness. Her feet echoed on marble. Pinax flicked a switch on the wall, and the space flooded with yellow light. They stood in a long, narrow corridor lined with doors on either side. Pinax walked ahead to the end of the hallway and opened a door.

“Here,” they said, and motioned Augusta inside.

The room was entirely lined with books. Augusta had never seen so many: fat volumes, slender notebooks, tiny books, and huge folios, all ordered in neat rows. On an ornate carpet stood two leather armchairs and a small table. The plush chaise longue under the room’s single window was covered in rolled-up manuscripts.

“Please, have a seat,” Pinax said. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Augusta sank down in a chair as Pinax left. She could hear them walk back down the hallway and then into another room, where they made tea-making noises: a whistling kettle, the pouring of hot water into a pot, cups and saucers bumping together. After not too long, they returned with a tray with a teapot and two cups, and a plate of plain bread and cheese. Augusta picked up a slice of bread and bit into it. It was bland and slid down her gullet only reluctantly. She dropped the rest on the floor.

Pinax frowned. “That’s not acceptable in my house. Please don’t do that again.”

“Bring me something else,” Augusta said.

“I am not your servant,” Pinax said. “Please pick up the bread.”

“You do it,” Augusta said.

“You are a guest,” Pinax said. “You have stepped over my threshold and eaten my food. You’ll have to abide by my rules.”

Augusta felt the blood drain from her face. She had eaten the bread without thinking.

Pinax leaned back in their chair. “This is my domain.”

Augusta found herself bending down and picking up the piece of bread. “Who are you?”

Pinax gave her a level look. “Perhaps when I feel so inclined, I might tell you a story. For now, my patience has run out. You may leave.”

Augusta got out of the chair. Pinax nodded at her. She left the house without daring to look back.

9

The sky clouded over until it lay over the plain like a flat lid. Thick yellow grass reached to Dora’s knees. The terrain wasn’t quite level anymore but had bumps and hollows in which water gathered.

Thistle kneeled by the closest hollow and scooped some water into his cupped hands. Dora crouched down next to him. The water was tasteless and clear. It was as if someone had poured it there just now.

Thistle washed his face, smoothed back his locks, and buttoned his coat with shivering hands. His makeup had smeared everywhere. He produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dipped it in the water, then rubbed it over Dora’s face.

“You’ve got crumbs and sand all over.”

Dora took the handkerchief from him. “You’ve got paint all over,” she said.

She scrubbed his face until it was pink and raw but clean. He looked like a new person.

“You have freckles,” Dora observed. “And stubble.”

Thistle felt his jaw. “I do.”

He caught her hand and held it against his face for a moment. His skin felt like rough velvet.

Thistle sighed into her hand and turned his eyes to the plain. “How far do we have to walk?”

“Straight ahead, like she said.”

“But what if we get turned around? What then?”

“We ask someone.”

“How do we even know there are people out there we can ask, Dora?”

“I don’t know.”

“But what if we…”

“Stop.” Dora let her hand fall. “We don’t know. It’s all right.”

“You don’t seem worried at all,” Thistle said.

“I’m good at not knowing,” Dora replied.

There was a line on the horizon. They walked toward it.

Eventually, they came to a lake with a stone beach. It was so big that Dora couldn’t see the other side. In the distance on their left, a tower stuck out of the waterline. As they came closer, it became clear that it was a ruin, built out of something that looked like crumbly stone. There was a ground floor and a second floor, but the roof was gone. Rods stuck out of the top at crooked angles. A half-submerged opening faced the lake. Dora picked up her skirts and waded into the water. It was cool against her legs, the shingle under her feet smooth and slippery.

“It’s too cold,” Thistle said from the waterline.

Dora looked over her shoulder. “Not for me.”

“Be careful!” he called after her.

The room inside was empty. Snatches of pictures were stuck to the walls here and there: a sun, the profile of a woman cradling a child, a row of clenched fists. At the back of the room was a doorway, corked with debris from where the ceiling had collapsed. Next to it, a set of stairs led up.

On the next floor, two corridor stumps stretched out like a V under the bare sky. The left one had fallen in on itself to cover the door below. Dora turned right. The floor ended after just a few steps. In the room below, heaps of debris stuck out of the clear water. There was no sign of life: no moss, no lichen, no fish swimming in the ruin. Dora picked up a lump of rock and dropped it into the water. It made a loud splash that echoed against the walls.

“Anything?” Thistle called as she waded back outside.

Dora shook her head and made her way back to the shore. Thistle knelt and wrung out her skirts. She had forgotten to hike them up on the way back.

“I don’t understand how you’re not freezing.” He shook the water off his hands and stuck them in his armpits.

“Are you cold?”

Thistle nodded.

Dora wiggled one of his hands free, then turned her back to him and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Come on,” she said, and squatted. “Get up.”

“I’m not that little anymore.”

“Get up,” Dora repeated.

Thistle sighed and climbed onto her back. She hooked her arms under his knees and walked up into the grass, then set off along the shore, the lake on her right-hand side.

In the distance, a black thread lay stretched across the plain. One end disappeared into the water, the other continued as far as Dora could see. When they came closer, it became clear that it was some sort of pipe, big enough that Dora could have crawled inside. Inland, on the horizon, stood what looked like domes lit from within. Thistle hopped down from Dora’s back and walked beside her toward the buildings.

Closer up, the domes looked like puffy beetles; beyond them stood squat buildings with tiny windows. In the center rose a tall tower, like the one by the lake but bigger and whole. People moved between the structures. They were dressed for work, in flat earthy shades, walking with their faces turned downward. One of them glanced up as Dora and Thistle approached, and let out a thin scream. Others looked up, too, and stared at them with wide eyes. They all retreated.

Thistle halted. “They don’t want us here,” he said.

“Could this be the help Ghorbi talked about?” Dora took a few more steps.

“I don’t know if…” Thistle said, and then grabbed Dora’s arm. “Look.”

A small group came walking out between the domes: four men and women, armed with poles and shovels. They stopped a little distance away, close enough that Dora could see their angry faces.

“Who are you?” a short woman shouted.

“I’m Dora,” said Dora loudly.

Thistle poked at her arm. “Dora, don’t.”

One of the men leaned over and mumbled something in the short woman’s ear. She shook her head and stepped closer. Her face was furrowed; her eyes were sharp.

“You don’t belong here,” she said, “do you.” Her accent was nasal and choppy.

“We mean no harm,” Thistle said. “We’re just looking for someone.”

The woman looked over her shoulder at the others, who shook their heads and made waving motions with their hands.

“You won’t find anything here,” the woman said.

“We’re looking for some people,” Dora said. “A theater troupe. They’re supposed to help us.”

“No one here but us,” the woman replied. “You’re not here either. You don’t belong. You’re not real.”

“Please,” Thistle said, and took a step toward the woman.

The woman raised her pole as if to hit him. Dora stepped between them. She tore the pole from the woman’s hands and snapped it in two. The woman gasped and retreated.

Dora looked down at her. “You won’t touch him.”

The woman broke into a run. Dora and Thistle watched as the three others raced after her.

“How did you do that?” Thistle asked. “You’re so strong.”

“I am,” Dora agreed. “I couldn’t protect you properly against the lords and ladies. I will protect you here.”

“We won’t find out if Augusta is there,” Thistle said.

“They said she wasn’t.”

“They could be lying.”

The short woman was coming back. She had more people with her this time. Dora planted her feet on the ground, ready to defend herself and Thistle.

“They’re too many,” Thistle said. “Let’s go.”

The crowd didn’t follow. Dora and Thistle continued walking along the waterline until they reached a tongue of land. The stones were bigger there, and a pile of them formed a sort of wind shelter. Dora sat down to inspect her feet. They seemed all right, if a little sore. Thistle leaned back against the rock and hugged his knees. They sat in silence for a while, until the water changed.

It happened in time with the approaching twilight. With a crackling noise, tendrils spread across the water like a web, until they became so many that they covered the surface completely. Then the surface suddenly cleared. In the ebbing light, it looked absolutely black.

Dora tried the ice with her foot. It made a dull noise as she banged her heel against it. It was cold, but not terribly so. She thought she could see a shimmer in the distance. It looked almost like a string of starry sky.

“We could walk on this,” Dora said.

So they did.

They came to the end of the cloud cover, and a sudden spray of stars glimmered in the heavens. A huge striped sphere hung up there, bigger than Dora’s fist.

“I have a memory,” Thistle suddenly said. “It was cold, and I was on a frozen lake. There was a little round hole in the ice. I think we were fishing.”

“Who are ‘we’?” Dora asked.

“I don’t know,” Thistle replied. “My parents, maybe.”

He sniffled abruptly. “I want to go home.”

“That’s where we’re going,” Dora said. “We’ll get you home.”

She took his hand. It was cold.

“I’m going to pick you up again,” she said. “You’re freezing.”

Thistle didn’t protest.

As they walked across the ice, the sky changed color and a light rose up around the horizon, as if someone had lit an enormous lamp under the earth. Ahead of them lay a shore where the yellow grass grew all the way down to the water. As the light flowed into the sky and the striped giant faded to a shadow, thunder split the air. A long crack ran through the ice in front of them.

“Put me down,” Thistle said, and struggled out of Dora’s grasp.

As he landed, a network of cracks spread around his feet.

“Oh no,” he said.

The ice shivered, and Dora lost her balance. She landed on her back so hard that the air whooshed out of her lungs. Thistle yanked at her arm.

“We have to go!” he shouted. “Now!”

Dora fought for breath and managed to get up. Ahead of her, Thistle slid like a dancer across ice that cracked and groaned. She followed him at a slower pace; what had been rough and easy to walk on had now become wet and slick.

They had made it almost all the way to dry land when Dora’s foot broke through. She slipped and fell forward, catching herself with her hands, but her legs slid down into the cold water until she was up to her chest. She could feel the stony bottom with her feet. Dora hammered on the ice in front of her, breaking it into pieces so she could wade forward. Thistle managed to skip across the last ice sheets and landed on the shore, where he collapsed. Dora hauled herself out of the water. Thistle touched her leg apologetically. Dora shrugged and blew at her palms. They sat on the grass, panting, watching the ice melt.

Thistle stood up and peered out across the plain that stretched out ahead of them, then up at the sky.

“Day and night,” he said. “I remember day and night from when I was little. There should be a sun. Or a moon. I don’t know what that is.” He pointed at the sphere that loomed above them.

“I know,” Dora said. “When Ghorbi came to get me. It was morning, and we walked until night fell. I saw the sun and the moon.”

“We need to move on,” Thistle said. “We need something to eat.”

He was shivering.

“You’re not all right,” Dora observed.

Thistle let out a small laugh. “I’m really not,” he agreed. “I’m hungry and I think I’m freezing to death.”

“But it’s warmer here,” Dora said.

“Is it? I can’t tell.”

Dora hauled him onto her back. “Up you come.”

She felt the hunger, too, but it was just one of those physical things, like her cold feet and Thistle’s weight. She could keep going for a long time yet.

10

Elsa was asleep when Augusta came back. Augusta kicked her awake so she could have some tea. The girl was slow, too slow. Insolent. Augusta strangled her, just like she had her mother, and dragged her into the small chamber. She realized belatedly that finding another servant might be a trial. But her encounter with Pinax had left her in a foul temper.

She slept for a while, tossing and turning in the daylight that filtered through the curtains. When night fell, she did not go outside. She sat by the window, watching the quiet street and toying with one of the porcelain dogs. Pinax knew things. And they spoke to her like an equal, which was eerie and infuriating but an interesting change. Perhaps she should go back and play by their rules and see where that took her. They might tell her where Phantasos had gone. And if she could find Phantasos, she might find a way home. But everything had a price. An exchange would have to be made. A gift might put Pinax in better spirits.

When dawn broke, Augusta went to the bakery and ordered the shopgirl to fill a box with the cakes that had the most beautiful names. Then she found her way back to Pinax’s house. They opened the door after a long moment. They were dressed in a paisley dressing gown.

“It’s very early,” they said.

Augusta held the box out. “I brought you a gift.”

Pinax tilted their head. “So you did.”

“May I come in?”

They looked Augusta up and down, then nodded. “You may.”

Pinax showed her to the same room they had been in previously. “Wait here,” they said.

Augusta walked along the bookshelves, peering at the volumes, while Pinax once again clinked porcelain in the distance. The books had titles that spoke of poetry, philosophy, and mythology. Some of them looked ancient, the leather covers cracked and the titles unreadable.

“It is a nice gesture,” Pinax said behind her. “I take it manners do not come easily to you.”

They stood behind her with a tray. They had dressed themself in the same suit as yesterday.

“You like books,” Augusta said.

Pinax smiled. “I am a librarian, after all.” They set the tray down on the table between the armchairs. “You wanted to know who I am. Since you came with a gift, I will tell you a story. Please sit.”

Once upon a time there was a library. This wasn’t just any library, but the library of a capital, older than the current royal dynasty, older than memory. It was built out of burnt brick, ancient but unmarked by the passage of time. Inside was a warren of rooms full of bookcases and shelves stacked with clay tablets, scrolls, codices, planks of wood, sticks, pieces of bone, and turtle shell. There were wax rolls on which were recorded oral histories and chants that could not be written down, because the notes and overtones also affected the language and changed its meaning in a way that couldn’t be described in writing. There were librarians who served as living books, reciting stories that could be told only in gestures or dance. New material arrived with couriers each day. It was the greatest repository of literature in the known world.

The queen of this country was the last of a great dynasty. She came from a tradition of taking good care of literature. Her father had revered the library, and so had his mother before him. The queen sent out messengers and merchants to find new books; to collect all the literature mankind had produced. And she succeeded.

The library was an ecosystem of sorts; the sheer mass of the place couldn’t help but produce life. Out of the collected knowledge, of the love with which the librarians and visitors treated the books, of the fossilized voices of a hundred thousand scribes and storytellers, little guardian spirits took form.

These keepers were ferociously protective of their respective territories, but helpful toward those who treated the literature and librarians well. They helped new scribes navigate the stacks, alerted the librarians to any works that were in need of repair, and punished those who didn’t behave. They took on the characteristics of their territory, of course. The keeper of mathematics had skin made of etched clay and spoke in statements. The keeper of plays liked to wear masks and use props. The keeper of philosophy wore a mirror face. They did have a sense of humor.

But the country was invaded and many cities burned. The capital was set aflame, too, and so was its library. All except for one small part.

Pinax fell quiet.

“Except for which part?” Augusta asked.

“I do love these,” Pinax mumbled, and picked up a crumbly yellow cake from the tray.

“What does any of this have to do with anything?” Augusta said.

“It’s my story,” Pinax said. “I am the keeper of the registry. And my story is important to yours.”

“So explain it to me,” Augusta said.

Pinax smiled at her. “Perhaps if we were friends, I might. But so far I don’t know that I trust you.”

“But we are friends.” Augusta gestured at the table. “I brought you cake, you made tea, we are having it together.”

“You’re only interested in what I can do for you,” Pinax said.

“Yes,” Augusta replied. “That’s why you’re my friend, because you can do something for me. You can help me find Phantasos, so I can go home.”

Pinax raised an eyebrow. “That is not how friendship works.”

“Then how does it work?” said Augusta in exasperation.

“Friendship,” Pinax said, “is not an exchange of gifts. Friendship is built on trust. I don’t know if you are trustworthy, Augusta. I don’t know that I can trust you with the information you seek. You are uncultured and rude. But I see potential in you. And that potential person might be a friend of mine.”

Augusta scoffed. “I am not uncultured and rude. I am a lady.”

“Perhaps in your world and your time. But I need to see that you have some sort of conscience,” Pinax said. “That you will use the information I have wisely.”

“But I am wise,” Augusta said. “I’m clever.”

Pinax sighed. “Let’s call it a mentorship for now. I will teach you things.”

“If I learn things, will you tell me where to find Phantasos?”

“Perhaps. Come back tomorrow and we will talk more.”

Augusta returned home only to realize that she had no maid. She wandered down the street until she spotted a young man who looked appropriate. He followed without protest, although he kept asking questions. Who was Augusta? Where were they going? What was he supposed to do? He became more pliable after a beating. Augusta settled in her room to wait. She would have to have patience until Pinax gave her the information she needed.

11

“Trees!” Thistle said weakly, and pointed at the horizon, where shapes rose like slender fingers against the sky.

He was beginning to weigh on Dora’s back now. Her feet were heavy, and her arms were tired from holding on to Thistle’s legs. Still, she would not put him down. He was more tired than she was.

The tall grass gave way to dusty gravel. Ahead lay a stone city, its border guarded by enormous, forbidding statues. A naked woman with wings and bird feet held a sharp-looking hook in her hand. A cloaked figure rested its bony hand on a scythe. A man with a canine head held a staff and a looped cross. A twisted old woman in robes brandished a long knife. As Dora walked in among them, the statues seemed to stare at her, although not in a hostile way; it was more as if she were being studied and measured.

A road flanked by those tall trees led through the metropolis. The stone buildings on either side were in a jumble of wildly different styles: pyramids, columned temples, ornate tents, simple slabs leaned against one another. Eventually, they came to an open space, a square intersected by a wide canal with an arched bridge. Thistle climbed down from Dora’s back.

On the other side of the canal stood a house unlike the others. It was made of wood, with a pointed metal-tiled roof and stained-glass windows, and it sat on three pairs of large spoked wheels. It looked like a carriage of some sort, if a carriage could also be a house. Dora could hear the drone of voices and snatches of music. She walked across the bridge. Thistle followed in her wake.

Thistle peeked in through the nearest arched window, which sat just low enough that he could reach it. The light from the inside cast his face in jewel tones. Dora looked over his shoulder. The room was unfurnished; the floor planks were naked. The light came from a huge chandelier that hung from the ceiling, set with scores of candles. Nothing moved in there, but still the noise from something like a party bled outside. A multitude of voices, the clink of glass, a melody played on strings. Dora circled the structure. The long wall on the other side was set with wide stairs that almost, but not quite, touched the ground. It did not, however, have a door. Just more windows. Dora climbed the stairs and looked inside. The room looked empty, just like it had from the other side. She heard Thistle rapping on the glass. The noise remained unchanged.

“No door?” Thistle said as he came around the corner.

“No door,” Dora replied.

“Should we break in?” Thistle asked.

The sound of shrill pipes in the distance interrupted Dora before she could reply.

A small procession came walking up the road to the square and stopped on the middle of the bridge. Two people draped in white carried a bier, on which rested a human form under a sheet. The tan young man who carried the back end had curly brown hair and a square face; the girl at the front was rosy and wiry, her dark blond hair in a simple twist slung across her shoulder. At the head of the procession walked an older woman, stout and powerful but bent in sorrow. She wore layers of white linen, brilliant against her brown skin. A crown of twigs sat atop her braided black hair. She was playing a double-piped flute, an insistent and weeping melody that harmonized with itself in chords that made Dora clap her hands over her ears.

The pallbearers set the bier down on the ground. The older woman lowered her flute. Then they all stared at Dora and Thistle as one. When the older woman spoke, her voice was deep and sonorous.

“Who disturbs our rites?”

“Hello,” Dora said.

Thistle bowed. “Madam, I am called Thistle, and my companion Dora.”

Dora didn’t bow. “Who are you? Who is the dead person?” she said.

The girl peeled the sheet back. The man on the bier was dressed in an oilcloth jacket over a gray knitted sweater. He wore a cap that obscured his eyes, but his cheeks were coarse and weather-beaten.

Dora pointed. “Who is that?”

Thistle pinched her arm.

“He was a fisherman,” the crowned woman intoned. “A simple man, a god-fearing man.”

“He was Knut Olesen of Lillesand,” the young man filled in. “The first victim of a great invasion.”

“He had made the best catch in a decade when they killed him,” said the girl. “He was forty-three years old.”

The older woman gestured at the canal. “We come to lay him to rest.”

She raised her hands to the sky, as did the young man and the girl.

“Gods of death, hear me,” she said. “We consign this man to you.”

The young man bent down and picked up the back of the bier. The corpse slid into the water without leaving so much as a ripple.

“So ends Knut Olesen’s story,” the woman said.

“So ends the story,” the others said in unison.

They stood with their heads bowed for a moment. Then, improbably, the girl broke into a grin. The older woman nodded and smiled.

“Well done,” she said to the others.

There was a splash from the canal.

“Well, that was wet,” a voice said.

An old man rose out of the water and climbed onto the cobblestones. He looked nothing like Knut Olesen the fisherman, but he was wearing the same clothes, now soaked. His face was alive and draped in kindly folds. He walked onto the bridge and joined hands with the tall woman. The pallbearers joined them on either side. They bowed as one.

“You have seen The First Victim!” the crowned woman said. “I present to you, in order of appearance: our beloved Nestor, as Knut Olesen!”

The old man stepped forward, flinging his arms out like a dancer.

“Journeyman, as Pallbearer One!”

The young man bowed solemnly.

“Apprentice, as Pallbearer Two!”

The girl bobbed a quick curtsy.

“And finally”—the woman herself stepped up—“the High Priestess, played by yours truly. I am Director, and I hope you have enjoyed our show, whoever you are and wherever you may be.”

Dora had a sudden urge to clap her hands. She did. The people on the bridge looked down at them.

“It’s an actual audience,” Apprentice said.

“Yes, it is,” Director said. “Who are you?”

“We already told you,” Dora replied.

“You told the Priestess and her aides. You didn’t tell us.”

“I’m Dora. He’s Thistle.”

“I apologize, madam,” Thistle said. “She is very direct.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” Director shrugged. “We’re not exactly people with manners.”

She looked Thistle up and down, and then Dora. “How did you get here?”

“We walked,” Dora replied.

“I see. From where?”

“The other side of the lake. And the crossroads.”

Director nodded. “And your purpose?”

“We’re looking for someone,” Dora said.

“Who?”

“A theater troupe. Ghorbi said we’d know them when we saw them,” Thistle said.

“Ghorbi,” Nestor muttered.

Director arched an eyebrow. “I see. Then allow me to really introduce us.” She threw her arms out. “We are the Memory Theater.”

Behind her, the others bowed again.

“We play stories so that they may be remembered,” Director continued. “We play true stories. We write them into the book of the universe, if you will, or weave them into the tapestry, if that sounds better. When we do that, the event will live on. It is recorded and will always have happened. Like here: Knut Olesen’s death, recorded.”

“But we usually don’t have an audience,” Journeyman said.

“A visible audience,” said Nestor, and scowled at him. “The universe is watching.”

“So this is quite an occasion,” Director finished.

There was a short moment of silence in which the troupe and the siblings looked at each other. Dora’s stomach rumbled.

“I’m hungry,” Dora said. “Do you have food?”

Director broke into a smile. “Of course we do! To the wagon.”

The troupe marched over to the mysterious house on wheels. They walked up the stairs, and Journeyman fiddled with the center window. Somehow he unhooked it, then pushed. The whole wall to the right of the window folded and slid aside on rails. Director grabbed the left section and pushed it the other way. What had from the outside looked like an empty space was now a cluttered dressing room, with vanity tables, several stuffed armchairs, and a tiny kitchen with an iron stove next to the open wall. The four actors climbed inside and walked over to the four armoires that covered the back wall, where they unceremoniously stripped naked and changed into blue coveralls. Journeyman was done first and opened a cupboard next to the stove, where he started getting out pots and pans.

“Complimentary dinner for our guests!” Director shouted from where she was buttoning her coveralls.

12

Pinax was always at home when Augusta came to call. They would always let her in.

Pinax’s home was meticulously ordered but mutable. They were constantly rearranging the books according to different systems: binding, author, category, first sentence in alphabetical order, last sentence in alphabetical order, longest beginning sentence, authors who knew each other. Augusta watched and ate cakes.

Pinax spoke of cities they had lived in, libraries they had visited, and creatures they had encountered: ulda, jinns, strigoi, bacchantes, wordless creatures at the edge of civilization like Pyret and Mörksuggan. These were fascinating stories, but Pinax still wouldn’t talk about Augusta’s request to help her find Phantasos. They turned to stories about the current age: kings, queens, countries at war. That the streets were dark at night because flying machines might come to drop bombs. These were all important things Pinax apparently thought Augusta should know.

They lent Augusta a book on etiquette, and she read it with some difficulty. These were the codes that humans here lived by, and that Pinax for some reason found important. Most of them were random and pointless, with the exception of how to address superiors, of which Augusta approved. The purpose of etiquette was clear: it was about how to flatter people, which in turn would make them well disposed toward you, which meant you could make them do things for you. It was about wheedling. Well, Augusta could wheedle. She tried some of the suggested techniques on Pinax: she complimented them on their immaculate shoes and manicured nails, and asked how their day was. Pinax brightened visibly, which was encouraging. Augusta tried the same on some of the wood-lice people in the street, but they scurried away without reply. Perhaps they were too intimidated; despite her simple attire, Augusta still radiated magnificence.

She stopped asking Pinax to tell the rest of the library story. Instead, she listened to even more stories, lectures on how to engage with people, even how to cook. Augusta engaged with people. She found a building from which, an elderly gentleman told her, trains transported people to faraway places. You bought a slip of paper to travel on them. Augusta didn’t have any money. She didn’t need it: she enthralled shopkeepers to hand her new clothes. She could have whatever she wanted from the stores. Fashion—except for suits—was horrible, and food everywhere was dull because of this “rationing.” Technology was interesting, however: engines, bicycles, cars, electric lights. Augusta especially liked trains, although she had yet to figure out where she would go. Perhaps she would take a train to Phantasos.

At night she went back to her little house, where her servant was waiting by the stove. Augusta asked him about the things she had seen during the day, but the boy was next to useless except when it came to cooking. His face had been printed on a newspaper that the man on the corner sold. He could not be let out of the house again. Augusta killed him and found another.

Pinax smiled more often, made jokes, and explained them when Augusta missed the fine points. It seemed to Augusta that perhaps this was friendship, even though Pinax had yet to give her what she needed.

The weather grew cooler, and the rosehips along Augusta’s street ripened into little orange fruits. When Augusta woke one afternoon and beautified herself with the little wax stick, she realized that something was happening to her face. Faint lines radiated from her eyes and spread across her forehead, and shallow grooves ran from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth. She was aging.

She brought Pinax a box of arrak rolls.

“I have waited and waited,” Augusta said. “Something is wrong with my face now.”

“Yes, you have waited for a month,” Pinax replied. “You have been very patient. Come inside.”

“Would you like to see it?” they asked as they drank their tea.

“Would I like to see what?” Augusta replied.

“The library.”

“We’re in it.”

“Not this library,” Pinax said. “The library from the story.”

Pinax led her into the study next to the sitting room, where they opened a door. Inside, a set of stairs wound down into a dimly lit passage that smelled of smoke. The air was noticeably warmer here. Augusta followed Pinax for what could have been fifty steps or a hundred until they reached a pair of wooden double doors. They swung open on well-oiled hinges, and the heat hit Augusta’s face like a wall.

The room might have been ten meters across. Shelves lined the stone walls from top to bottom, crammed with all kinds of writing. There were rolls, codices of bamboo, vellum, and wood, stacks and rows of clay tablets, inscribed bone plates. The air was dry and stank of burning paper. A roar filled the room, the sound of fire raging on the other side of the walls. Augusta heard muffled shouts in some unfamiliar language. She walked along the shelves, trailing her fingers over books and rolls and stacks.

“This is it,” Pinax said. “What do you think?”

Augusta plucked a scroll from a pile and examined it. The outside was covered in odd symbols. Pinax pried it out of her hands before she could unroll it, and put it back on the shelf.

“I’m missing something, aren’t I,” Augusta said.

Pinax made a small sound that Augusta couldn’t interpret. Perhaps frustration.

“Let’s go back upstairs,” they said, “and I will tell you the rest of the story.”

The queen had nightmares about fire.

In her dreams, fire ate its way through the library shelf by shelf, section by section. Night after night, she woke up screaming and rushed down to her books only to discover them unharmed, and the little guardians confused that she was in such a state. Her soothsayer interpreted her dreams as merely symbolic. The queen pretended to agree with him but still ordered a new section built into the library: a registry that also held copies of the greatest works in each section. The official purpose was to present the essence of the library. Not long after the new registry was completed, a runner came to inform her that a foreign army had crossed the border to their country.

The nation was old and had not been at war for a long time. It had relied on negotiation and good relations for centuries; its armies were trimmed down to a bare minimum.

We had seen wars before, but never had anyone tried to burn the library. Invaders had understood the value of knowledge. These new enemies had no respect for literature. To them, destroying thousands of years’ worth of knowledge was a strategic act. They rushed across the country, leaving burning temples and ruined monuments in their wake.

The queen was inside the library when they came. The soldiers forced the doors open and poured inside. They drenched the shelves in oil and set their torches to them. Fire devoured dry wood and vellum and paper. Keepers screamed in terror as they perished with their works. The queen donned her helmet and spoke to me.

“If anything can be saved, Keeper,” she told me, “let it be the knowledge of what was once here. Protect our memory.”

Pinax poured themself some more tea. Augusta sat very still.

“Some keepers escaped,” they said. “The keeper of plays, for example. They live on. And then there’s me.”

“You,” Augusta said.

“Yes. I was the keeper of the registry. That’s what my name means. I took what remained of the library and made a little world to keep it safe. But it is so much work to maintain. What happened to the rest of the library is catching up. So, slowly but surely, the room is getting hotter. The fire outside, the fire in the burning library a long time ago, is trying to get in.”

Pinax sipped from their cup. “I don’t know if I myself will survive. I am a genius loci; my life is tied to a place. And that place is burning down. I have built new homes in various places over the years and brought the little pocket universe with me. I thought perhaps time and distance would make it easier, that it would somehow weaken the bond between my stolen room and the rest of the library. And so I ended up here, in this cold country.”

“You created a world within a world,” Augusta said.

Pinax nodded. “I did. It just took words, and will. As the Keeper, I knew every book in the library. I knew the spells and incantations to build and protect such a place.” They pointed at her with the cup. “Just like you did, once upon a time.”

“I did?”

“Your society did. Phantasos and Mnemosyne sought me out. I lived in Paris in those days, but I was not unknown among those with mystical knowledge. Your colleagues traveled all the way from this town to ask me how to create a world. I taught them.”

“Ah,” Augusta said.

“You created the Gardens through a mutual agreement that it be separate from Earth,” Pinax continued. “It would be perfect, innocent, unravaged by the passage of time, like the Arcadia of myth. When you started asking questions about time, Augusta, you risked the existence of that place. That is why Mnemosyne cast you out.”

Augusta felt like her chest was shrinking.

“And it was for the best,” Pinax said. “You created a world of your own, and you lost yourselves in it. Phantasos described it to me. He said that you grew senile, then mad. That you forgot who you were and why you had chosen to create the Gardens. He said he was sick of ruling a nation of idiots.”

“Where is he?” Augusta asked. “Tell me. Help me find him.”

“Phantasos?” Pinax looked at her. “Are you ready for that?”

“Look at me,” Augusta said. “It has been a month, and I’m growing old.” She drew a finger from her right nostril to the corner of her mouth. “Here. See?”

Pinax’s mouth was a line. “There are answers in the library, but you are not ready.”

“You promised,” Augusta said. “I have done everything you said.”

“I promised nothing,” Pinax replied. “It has only been a month.”

“I’ll die of old age before you tell me anything!” Augusta shouted.

There was nothing for it. She stormed out.

That night in a dream, Augusta stood with others in a circle around three divans. They were in the conservatory; moonlight shone down on them through crystal panes. She recognized Euterpe, Walpurgis, Tempestis, Cymbeline, Virgilia, the rest. Their clothes were less elaborate than they should be. Their unpainted faces looked smooth and very young. Augusta’s heart swelled to see them. She loved them. It was love.

On the three divans sat the Aunts, hands resting on their thighs. Behind them stood Mnemosyne and a man Augusta didn’t recognize. He was slight, with fair hair falling in perfect ringlets around a pointed face. He looked around the circle, and for a moment his eyes bored into Augusta’s.

Mnemosyne and the man joined hands, and the lords and ladies in the circle began to chant, long words with soft consonants and open vowels. This is our land, the words meant. Our pure and innocent land. Time is no more. Only this blessed night, in Arcadia, forever.

The chant ended. The Aunts lay down as one. A shudder went through the air.

“Time,” Mnemosyne said into the silence, “has stopped. We are free. Let us cast off our old lives. Let us forget the old world and be innocent.”

Then they were in the statuary grove, dancing to a slow and uneven rhythm. Mnemosyne and the man sat on a dais before them, watching.

Augusta sat in her bower. A servant put makeup on her face. They smiled at each other. The brush was cold against her lips. She was bored. The servant’s skin was smooth. Why should not the servants be adorned? Let us paint the servants. Flowers for their names.

They danced in the statuary grove, but it was like moving through muddy water. The wine tasted sour.

A croquet game on the grand lawn. Someone fell. Breaking glass. Blood spilled down a servant’s shirt. The arterial red cut through the dullness like a shout. Such a pretty shade. Why should not the servants bleed? Flowers for their names.

They danced in the statuary grove. The man stood up and left the dais.

They danced in the statuary grove.

They danced in the statuary grove.

They danced in the statuary grove.

13

“So,” Nestor said, “it’s time you explain why you searched us out.”

Thistle and Dora sat with Director and Nestor on the stairs to the house on wheels. Apprentice was clearing the dirty dishes away, and Journeyman was organizing costumes in the armoires. Director and Nestor shared a hookah, making watery burbles and puffs of cherry-scented smoke. They had all been noisy for a long time now. They were talking back and forth, quick and chittering like birds. The babble closed over Dora’s head like water, pressed at her from all sides. It was getting very hard to keep up, but Thistle did the talking and replied to Nestor’s question.

“We’re looking for someone called Augusta Prima,” he said.

“And from where does this Augusta Prima hail?” Director asked.

“The Gardens,” Thistle said.

“Which gardens?”

“That’s what they’re called,” Thistle said. “The Gardens.”

Dora made an effort to jump in. “There’s an orchard and a conservatory and a statue forest and a croquet lawn,” she said. “But no time.”

The others looked up when she spoke.

Nestor raised an eyebrow and blew a smoke ring. “No time, eh. I recognize that.”

“We’ve played it,” Director said. “The Creation of Arcadia.”

“That’s right.” Nestor nodded. “I believe Apprentice was new at the time.”

“I know it!” Apprentice came over and sat down. “I played… I can’t recall who I played. I was so nervous. What happened after they made the place?”

“Bad things,” Thistle said.

“They went insane, didn’t they,” Director said. “It was such an audacious idea.”

“What else do you know?” Thistle asked.

Nestor shook his head. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s what we know.”

Director held up a book that had been resting on the step next to her. The cover was marbled and had an ornate spine.

“This is the playbook,” she said. “That’s where we find the manuscripts. A new one appears, and we’re off. We don’t know anything else but what it says on the page.”

“Like this time it was about that fisherman,” Apprentice said. “Knut. He was fishing when the army came. But that’s all we know.”

“We do know that it took place on Earth,” Nestor said. “But not much else. We came here to the city of the dead to enact his burial.”

“The city of the dead,” Dora said.

Director nodded. “We come here quite often. Births and deaths are popular with the book.”

“Ghorbi said so,” Thistle said.

Again, Nestor muttered something to himself. Then he said, “Now, what is your quest?”

“Augusta has my name. I need it back, so I can find my way home to my parents.”

“And you, Dora?”

Dora reached down and put an arm around Thistle, who leaned back against her. “I go where he goes,” she said.

Director hummed.

Journeyman watched them from a stool, where he sat mending a robe. Every time Dora looked at him, he was watching her. Apprentice had cleared away the dishes and came over to sit with them.

“Ghorbi sent you?” Apprentice asked.

“She helped us,” Thistle said. “And said you could help us find Augusta.”

Nestor made a sour face. “Calling in her favor. Couldn’t even come by herself.”

“You know her?” Dora asked.

Nestor glared at the hookah. Director patted him on the shoulder.

“Ghorbi and Nestor have history,” she said. “She saved him from a great library when it burned. It was long ago, before the rest of us came along. Of course she wouldn’t come personally, Nestor. You would have made a scene.”

The talk became a cloud again. It pressed in on Dora’s head from all directions. Everything was too loud, too sharp.

“Thistle,” she whispered. “It’s too much.”

Thistle looked up at her. “I’m sorry, Dora. I should have noticed that you were tired.”

He stood up and took Dora’s hand. “Dora needs to rest. Is there somewhere quiet she can go?”

“Was it something we said?” Nestor asked.

“She just needs to be alone,” Thistle said.

“The trapdoor?” Journeyman said from his stool.

He beckoned Thistle and Dora over to the back of the wagon and lifted a hatch in the floor. A ladder led down into a small space where Dora could glimpse pillows and blankets.

“There’s a mattress and everything. I go there for naps.”

Dora climbed down the steps and made a nest.

“Will you be all right?” Thistle asked from above.

“Close the door,” Dora said.

She could hear and see nothing. She could breathe again in this quiet place.

Dora woke to swaying movement. Thistle was next to her, drawing quiet sleep-breaths. The air was stuffy. Dora climbed up the ladder and opened the hatch.

The wall of the house was back up. Faint light shone in through the windows, moving, as if they were traveling through a forest or under water. The troupe members were sitting in armchairs around something on the floor. They were dressed in bathrobes, talking in rapid voices. As Dora came closer, she saw that the thing on the floor was a map, except it wasn’t. The sheet of paper on the floor had coastlines and places marked out, but over it sat something that looked like a canopy made of thick metal wire. From the canopy hung paper silhouettes and glass spheres at different heights, all of them connected to one another and the map with thread.

Apprentice spotted Dora and waved at her. “Breakfast?”

Dora nodded. Apprentice guided her to an armchair and handed her a deep bowl filled with some sort of stew.

“Sorry,” she said. “We’re between worlds. No exciting food.”

The stew was lukewarm and tasted like nothing much, which was nice. “Thank you,” Dora said.

Nestor smiled at her. “You’ve been down there for a while. I hope you feel better.”

Dora pointed at the canopy on the floor. “What’s that?”

“It’s a map,” Apprentice said behind her.

“A very imperfect one,” Nestor added. “You see, it only describes four dimensions, and badly at that.”

He pointed at a miniature carriage suspended on a silver thread in the middle of the structure. It was moving on a very slow downward trajectory. “Right now we are somewhere around here, in transit between worlds.” Then he pointed at a place on the paper map on the floor. “But ‘there,’ for example, is relative. These places are not stationary. They are like floating islands.”

“You could consider the universe an ocean,” Director said, “and us a ship.”

“Can you go everywhere?” Dora asked.

“In theory,” Director replied. “We go wherever the playbook leads us. Most of the time it’s about reenacting an important scene that needs remembering. Sometimes we pay tribute to important people. Sometimes to ordinary people, like Knut Olesen the fisherman. We stay backstage, though. We see and experience, but we don’t touch.”

“I’ve never been frontstage,” Apprentice said bitterly.

“That’s not your job,” Director said, and it seemed that they had had this conversation many times before.

The whole thing made Dora’s head hurt. “It’s too much,” she said.

“Thistle tells us you’re different,” Nestor said, “and we should try not to jabber too much at you.”

“What are you?” Apprentice asked. “You’re not human.”

“I don’t know,” Dora said. “Ghorbi says I was grown like a root.”

Nestor drew the corners of his mouth down. “Yes. Thistle told us she… traded you, like cattle. How could you trust her after what she did to you?”

“She said she was sorry. She took us out of there.”

Nestor rolled his eyes and turned to Director. “Did you hear that? Ghorbi says she’s sorry.”

“Oh, come,” Director said. “She has a profession like the rest of us. She broke your heart, we know.”

“Well, I’m not the forgiving type,” Nestor replied.

“There’s nothing to forgive. You’re being unreasonable. And she did do you a favor.”

Nestor scowled. “You wouldn’t understand. You’ve never been in love.”

“I have too,” Director snapped. “But I have never demanded that anyone love me back.”

Dora looked down at her bowl. She had emptied it without noticing.

“Dora,” Journeyman said next to her. “Would you like more?”

Dora nodded, and Journeyman filled her bowl again. The others returned to the map, but Nestor kept his frown.

Dora finished the stew. When next she looked up, the doors were pushed aside and light streamed in. The troupe was gathered in a little clearing: Apprentice lay on the ground with her legs in the air, Journeyman resting on the soles of Apprentice’s feet, their hands linked to keep balance. Director and Nestor juggled little balls back and forth, calling out words Dora didn’t understand. Thistle sat with his back against a tree next to the carriage. He was dressed in a pair of the company’s coveralls; they were a little too big for him. He looked relaxed, but his sleeves were rolled down and fastened tightly around his wrists. His face was all stubbly now, and his russet hair curled in a halo around his head. He smiled at Dora as she sat down next to him, and brushed at her skirts with his hand.

“You could use some clean clothes, Dora,” he said. “And a bath.”

Dora considered this for a moment. “Yes.”

There was a little pond among the trees, its water coppery but clear. Dora dived in and swam along the bottom, where crayfish crawled in under rocks and perch darted away from her. Something bigger lurked in the forest of water lily stalks but retreated as she came closer. The sun shot rays of liquid light through the water. Down here there was only the sound of the pulse in her ears and the small noises of water life. Dora only came up because her lungs were burning. Thistle was standing on the shore, a towel in his hand.

“I’m not done,” Dora told him.

Thistle smiled and put the towel down on a rock.

Dora dived back down under the surface. She counted crayfish and stalked the huge thing among the water lilies, caught a little perch and petted it, chased water striders, and tasted the sedge that grew on the shore. She got out of the water only when the sun sank so low it was difficult to see.

She came back to the camp dressed in a pair of coveralls that someone had left at the water’s edge. The legs and sleeves were too short. There had been a pair of boots, too, and she carried them under her arm. The others had made a fire in front of the carriage and moved the armchairs and sofa onto the grass. A big trumpet flower made of metal was playing tinny-sounding music. The smell of baking bread and some other food hung in the air. Thistle sat in one of the armchairs, leaning back, arms and legs relaxed. When he saw Dora, he smiled. The circle of people opened and let her in.

“Excellent,” Director said as Dora sat down on the grass next to Thistle. “Sorry about the sizing. They were the biggest coveralls we could find.” She pointed at Dora’s feet. “What about the boots?”

Dora shook her head. “I don’t like shoes.”

“Fair enough.” Director held out a bowl. “Soup?”

They ate and talked and the music played. It was easier to be in the crowd after playing in the quiet water. The troupe told stories about worlds they had visited, plays they had staged. Thistle spoke quietly about things in the Gardens. The last light in the sky died, and Journeyman and Apprentice cleared the dishes away.

Nestor stood and stretched. “I believe it’s time.”

“Time for what?” Dora said.

Director grinned and held up the red playbook. “Your play appeared!”

14

Instead of ringing the bell by Pinax’s door, Augusta fed roses into the mailbox, one by one. They crunched and tore as she pushed them in, releasing the heavy scent of late summer. The door abruptly opened.

“You can stop doing that.”

Pinax stood over her. Their eyebrows were knotted. They looked decidedly unhappy.

“It is a gift,” Augusta said. “I thought you might like roses.”

“You had best come in,” Pinax said.

Someone else was already sitting in one of the armchairs in the library: a very tall woman in dark robes, a scarf like shadow draped over her hair. Her long features were familiar, her yellow eyes. As Augusta entered the room, the woman rose from her chair, and it seemed she almost touched the ceiling.

“Augusta,” she said, and her voice was low and sweet. “Fancy that.”

“I believe you and Ghorbi have met,” Pinax said behind her.

“You,” Augusta blurted. “You!”

Ghorbi smiled. Her teeth looked uncomfortably sharp. Augusta’s face felt numb and cold, then suddenly became hot as rage overtook her.

“You had me cast out!” she screamed. “It’s all your fault! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”

“You asked me a question,” Ghorbi said. “I gave you the knowledge for free.

“I was just about to leave,” she continued, and turned to Pinax. “I hope you’re happy with the package, librarian.”

“Extremely,” Pinax replied. “Thank you, my friend.”

“You can’t go,” Augusta said. “I won’t let you. You’re going to get me back in. You owe me.”

Ghorbi took a step toward Augusta and stared down at her. “Owe you?” she said, in that same soft voice. “I did you a favor. You will pay it back, in time. Although perhaps not to me.”

Augusta took a step backward and collided with a bookshelf.

Ghorbi straightened. “Goodbye, Augusta Prima. Goodbye, my dear Pinax.”

She swept out of the room. A moment later, the front door closed with a click.

“Don’t go!” Augusta shouted, and rushed down the hallway. The door had locked itself. When she managed to get it open, the street was empty.

“Come back!” she yelled, and the echo of her voice bounced against the buildings.

“Ghorbi is an old friend.” Pinax stood behind her in the hallway with that same expression they had worn when they first let her in.

“She told me all of it,” they continued. “It’s worse than I could ever have imagined. I don’t know how you could do those things.”

“Things?” Augusta repeated.

“You never told me there were children. Phantasos never told me.” Pinax’s voice trembled. “The things you did to them. You lured them into your world, abused them, stole their whole lives. As if they weren’t people.”

“They aren’t people,” Augusta retorted. When she saw Pinax’s face, she realized that this was entirely the wrong thing to say.

“I let you into my house,” Pinax said. “I thought, Here is a lost soul I might save. I thought I could rehabilitate you. But I see now that you are a lost cause. You are a monster.”

“I am not! I can be good.”

“When?” Pinax asked. “When were you good? When were you kind?”

Their expression was unreadable. Augusta felt a pit open in her stomach. “You hate me,” she said.

Pinax pointed at the door. “Leave. You are not welcome in my house anymore.”

When she got home, Augusta’s current servant was huddled next to the stove. Augusta strangled him. She didn’t bother to drag him into the chamber; it was full. The house had begun to smell. Standing over the boy’s corpse, Augusta considered what to do. There was nothing for her here except the information Pinax guarded.

Pinax would not welcome her. They had called her a monster. It was nonsense. She only did what was necessary. And now she would have to do it again. Pinax had rejected her—rejected her!—but she could take the information she wanted. It was only a matter of waiting until nightfall.

Augusta walked through the streets one last time. The night was absolute; everyone had covered their windows, waiting for the enemy to rain fire on the city.

The stone house was a hard shape against the streak of stars. Nothing moved in the street. Augusta stood back and considered the windows on the bottom floor. There, to the far right, should be the room where she and Pinax had taken their tea. Next to it, the kitchen. The mullioned window sat just about low enough that she could climb inside. Augusta picked up one of the rocks that edged the flower bed in front of the house. The bottom right pane shattered with a brittle noise, and Augusta paused. The street was still quiet. No sound came from inside the house. Augusta carefully reached in and undid the latch on the inside. She scratched her hand on the shards that remained in the frame, but not too badly. The window swung outward, and Augusta lifted the blackout curtain to crawl inside.

She fumbled her way along the wall. Across from the kitchen, the closed door to what must be Pinax’s bedroom; she shuffled along and found the second door to the left that led to the study. She put her ear to the door. It was quiet. She scratched on the wood with her fingers. When there was no reply, she pushed down the handle and peeked inside. Nothing. She felt the wall next to the door and found the light switch. The study was very orderly, just like everything else in this house: bookshelves, a large desk, a chair, and a lamp. At the back of the room, the door that led to the hidden library. She tried the handle. It was unlocked.

A wave of heat hit Augusta’s face as she descended the spiral staircase, and she could hear the distant roar of flames. The double doors were ajar.

The room was illuminated by some light source that Augusta couldn’t make out; shadows danced across the books and scrolls on the shelves. Pinax sat cross-legged on the floor with their back turned. They didn’t move as Augusta took the last few steps inside and stepped around them.

Pinax’s eyes were closed; they were seemingly lost in meditation or sleep.

“Pinax,” Augusta whispered, but the librarian didn’t react.

Augusta turned her attention to the shelves.

At the very edge of a shelf, almost hidden beneath a scroll, she saw a flat lacquered box, unmarked. It was the only thing in here that was not ancient. Augusta tucked the box under her arm and backed out of the room. Pinax remained where they were.

Back in the study, Augusta closed the door behind her and opened the box. It was full of envelopes, all with Pinax’s name on the back, some of them with addresses: Vienna, Cairo, Paris. She opened some of them. They were in all kinds of languages, most of which she could not read. Then, there was a cream-colored envelope in thick paper addressed in Latin: To my dear friend Pinax. Augusta opened it.

The letter was short.

There was a northbound train in the morning. Augusta watched people climb aboard. Then she herself mounted the steps and claimed a compartment. The train conductor didn’t trouble her after she had spoken to him firmly. The train chugged northward, and the landscape gradually changed from farmland to snow-flecked blunt mountains.

15

“Our play?” Thistle said.

“The two of you have told us your stories, so we must play them,” Director said.

The company turned the sofa to face the carriage, folded back the wall of the house, and climbed inside. Dora and Thistle sat down on the sofa. Thistle took Dora’s hand. A velvet curtain unfurled from the ceiling and covered the house’s interior.

A gong rang, and the curtain rose. The armoires, the kitchen, the mess had disappeared; instead there was a luscious grove with marble statues peeking out from behind leafy trees. The backdrop was the turquoise of just after sunset. Little lanterns hung in the branches of the trees.

Nestor stood at the far edge of the stage, dressed in a doublet and puffy knee pants.

“Welcome, all, to the mystic Gardens,” he intoned, “a timeless place of magic and debauchery, ruled by mad and fickle lords and ladies. Here is a boy, lured away from his parents. Little does he know what fate will befall him.”

Apprentice wandered onstage as a boy. He was dressed in simple trousers and a shirt with a rounded collar, his hair smoothed back into a queue. He looked around the grove with wide eyes.

“I thought I saw a light,” he said. “I thought I heard a song. It was so beautiful, I had to follow. Now all is quiet. Where did it go?”

“Oh, it is all here,” said a voice from the other side of the stage.

Director emerged from the right, dressed in a brocade coat and a shirt with lace ruffles. Thistle gasped. Director looked thinner, her features sharper, and her kohl-rimmed eyes had a predator’s unblinking stare. She stalked across the stage like a wild beast. She looked very much like Augusta.

“Who have we here?” she said to the boy, who stared at her in awe. “All alone in the woods.”

“What is this marvelous place?” the boy asked.

Augusta made a sweeping gesture. “These are the Gardens, where youth and beauty celebrate a bright summer night. Will you join us in the revels?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the boy said. “But I am awfully hungry.”

Augusta waved her left hand and seemed to conjure an apple out of thin air. “Here, my dear. Taste this.”

The boy took the apple.

Thistle tensed up on the sofa. “Don’t eat it,” he mumbled.

Dora put a hand on his knee. “It’s only pretend,” she said.

Thistle let out a groan as the boy bit into the apple, chewed, and swallowed.

“I have never tasted anything sweeter,” the boy said.

“Nor will you ever again,” Augusta replied, “for the fruit of the Gardens is legendary. Now tell me your name.”

The boy stood on his toes and whispered something into Augusta’s ear.

“Very good, my darling,” Augusta said, and took his hand.

The boy smiled up at her.

“I have your name, and you have eaten of our fruit,” Augusta said. “I name you Thistle, and a thistle you shall become.”

The curtain fell. On the sofa, Thistle curled up against Dora.

“Scene two!” Nestor announced.

The curtain rose again, and the backdrop had changed: a vast horizon of undulating mountains, their tops scraped soft and covered in snow. In the middle of the stage lay a pile of dirt.

Director swept in from stage right. Somehow she had managed to change into another costume in a matter of seconds: she was wrapped in black silk that fluttered around her as she moved. Her eyes shone a startling yellow.

“How do they do that?” Thistle whispered.

Director shaded her eyes and spied across the stage.

“Where is the seed that I sowed? Deep did I plant it, in the heart of this ancient mountain range. Long have I waited for it to take root. I, Ghorbi, am patient, but my patience has limits.”

The pile of dirt moved.

“Aha!” Ghorbi cried, and hurried over.

A hand reached out of the pile and waved in the air. Ghorbi took it. Journeyman, dressed in a grubby shift, emerged from the mound and stood up.

“There she is,” Ghorbi announced. “The daughter of the mountain, big and strong.”

It did look very much like Dora, wearing what must have been a wig, although so well made that it looked like real hair. Journeyman-as-Dora’s form was rounded and powerful, and she stood with both feet firmly planted on the ground. She gazed out at the audience, not seeming to notice them. Then she looked at Ghorbi.

“What is my name?” Dora asked on the stage, her voice soft but strong.

“Your name is your own,” Ghorbi said. “But I will lend you one, if you like: Dora.”

“Scene three!” Nestor announced. “Thistle and Dora.”

Onstage, Dora sat in the shade of a tree whose branches drooped with apples. Her eyes were vacant, and she was covered in dirt. She was humming tunelessly to herself. Then, from the left, Thistle walked in. His shirt and hands were spattered scarlet. Behind him, Director was Augusta again, pushing him ahead of her into the orchard.

“There,” she announced. “Here is your charge. When you are not with me, you will mind the giant and make sure she makes no trouble. If she does, you will be sorry.” She took a step backward and disappeared.

Dora looked up at Thistle and got to her feet.

“You are hurt,” she said.

“I am indeed,” Thistle said, but stood up straight.

“Who are you?” Dora asked. “Why are you bleeding?”

“They call me Thistle, and this is what they do to all us servants. What do they call you?”

“Dora. I know not where I am, and my father won’t speak to me.”

Thistle nodded and took Dora’s hand. “I have been sent to teach you the ways of the Gardens. I will teach you how to speak, and where to hide from our masters.”

Dora looked down at him. “Will you be my brother, then?”

“I will,” Thistle answered.

“Then I will protect you,” Dora said, “as well as I can.”

They embraced, and the curtain fell.

When the curtain rose again, Journeyman-Dora and Apprentice-Thistle stood center stage, holding hands. They didn’t look much like Dora or Thistle anymore, just actors dressed in costumes. On either side, Director and Nestor threw kisses at Dora and Thistle. Journeyman’s face was expressionless; Apprentice’s eyes were brimming.

The company bowed and thanked their visible and invisible audience. They cleaned up the stage and themselves, then crowded around the sofa in front of the stage. They looked worn out.

Journeyman walked over to where Dora sat. His eyes were damp. “Can I have a hug?”

Dora let go of Thistle and stood up. Journeyman wrapped his arms around her. He smelled of greasepaint and musk and fresh sweat. He sniffled and drew a shuddering breath against her shoulder. Dora gently patted his back.

Journeyman eventually let go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and dried his eyes on his sleeves. “I get emotional. Playing you was… you seem so calm, but your feelings are… these huge, slow waves. I was too small for them. You’re magnificent.”

He gave her another quick hug and a smile, and sat down in a chair. Dora stood where she was, stunned.

“We call it ‘bleed,’ ” Director said. “A strong character—or a strong story—can bleed into your own emotions. This isn’t acting, love. We become the characters. We become the story. Journeyman was you. And apparently that was quite a ride.”

Apprentice was standing behind the sofa, uncharacteristically quiet, hands on Thistle’s shoulders. Her eyebrows were knotted, her jaws working.

“And it looks like Apprentice is bleeding a little as well,” Director said, “no pun intended. They’re young. It gets easier when you’ve done this for a while.”

“Thank you for letting us play your past,” Nestor said. “It was a nice change from all the epic stories that we usually have to stage.”

“Indeed,” Director said. “You are a part of the tapestry now.”

16

Thistle fell asleep on the sofa. Dora went back down to the pond. Little creatures rustled in the grass. She crouched on the beach, stirring her fingers in the water. The sound of footsteps made her turn around. She recognized Journeyman’s scent. He crouched down next to her.

“Before I played you, I thought you were just slow.”

Dora waited.

Journeyman dipped a hand in the water. “I didn’t understand that with slowness comes clarity. That you see everything more clearly, feel more keenly than any of us. When I sat there under the tree… I have never felt peace like that. And when the others came onstage, it was like an explosion. I wanted to scream, I’m not done! Let me be! I don’t know how you can stand it.”

Dora looked at her fingers in the water.

“And now I did it to you,” Journeyman said. “Talked your head off. I’m sorry.”

Dora looked up. Two glowing orbs hung in the sky. Journeyman had changed position.

“I learned,” Dora said. “How to move fast. I just need to slow down sometimes.”

Journeyman’s hand was on her left forearm. His fingers ran up and down her skin in a way that made something shift in her belly.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

His scent had changed.

“Is Journeyman your own name?” she asked him.

“I gave mine up,” he replied.

Dora took his hand and raised it to her face. Little hairs on his wrist tickled her nose. She felt the thin skin on the inside with her lips. He gasped. She ran her hand in under the sleeve on his shirt and touched the crook of his arm, brushed her fingers over a little mole there. His smell, the sound of his uneven breaths, the skin under her hand. It seemed to flicker somehow, as if he wasn’t set in his form.

“Is this your own shape?” she asked.

“It was, to begin with.” Journeyman let out a long breath.

His face became a blur, like a picture overlaying another, and another, and another: thin shapes, thick shapes, rugged, soft, masculine, feminine, androgynous, altogether alien. The only firm points were his irises, deep brown and constant. When he spoke, it was with a choir of voices.

“I am more shapes than you can imagine.”

He solidified into the youth he had been before.

“Do you like it? This self?” he said with the clear baritone he had used before.

Dora nodded.

Journeyman slipped a hand around her waist.

Dora removed his hand. “No. I need to be alone now.”

Journeyman drew back. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

When his steps had receded, Dora lay on her back by the pool and stared up at the stars. She walked through the memory of him moment by moment—sight, touch, smell, sound—until she could rest in them. He had no form, yet a form: warm, musky. He had wants. And he wanted her but demanded nothing. Dora could rest in that, too.

17

The station consisted of a short platform and a tiny wooden station building with a sign that read frostviken. It lay in a shallow bowl, a bog surrounded by mountains. Augusta had been on the train for a long time; dawn lit the sky from below. The cold air carried a smell of herbs and wet grass. Augusta was the only one to disembark. A sharp whistle blew, and the train trundled off into the distance.

A dirt road ran from the station building and out onto the bog. Augusta walked down the road. Before long, it ended in front of an abandoned house whose roof had fallen in. There was nothing for it but to go out into the wilderness. So, she was here. Phantasos had come here. She would find him and learn his secrets.

“Phantasos!” she yelled into the air. “I have come for you.”

She walked across the bog calling his name, shivering in the damp cold.

The sun rose and drowned the world in golden light. The bog was vast, dotted by twisted birch trees. White-tipped grass edged the pools. Here and there, little plants bore flame-colored berries that tasted spicy and sour-sweet. Augusta’s shoes were soaked through from slipping into the wet hollows that opened up where the ground had seemed solid. She could no longer feel her toes. As the morning passed, stinging insects woke up: little gnats, larger flying things, and a huge fly that stuck itself to her hand and which she had to scrape off. It was maddening. Augusta trudged on toward the nearest mountain, but it didn’t seem to come any closer. It must be enormous.

“Phantasos!” Augusta cried out again and again. “Lord of the Gardens! I call you by your name. Show yourself.”

It was midday, and still chilly, when Augusta spotted the old man. He was dressed in rubber boots and trousers and a warm-looking brown sweater, and carried a bucket. He leisurely made his way across the bog, avoiding the larger pools. He halted when he saw her and tilted his head. Then he headed her way, stopping here and there to pick something from the ground. Only when he came close did he straighten and look at Augusta. He was wiry, his blue eyes cold in a face sunburned many times over.

“Greetings, old man,” Augusta said.

The man studied her for a long moment.

“I thought I heard a voice,” he said. Then he looked her over. “What are you doing out here? Are you lost?”

“Perhaps,” Augusta said, then used her lady voice. “Say, old man, that’s a nice pair of boots and sweater. You should give them to me.”

He shook his head. “No.”

Resistance. Odd. “Give them to me,” Augusta repeated. “I’m cold.”

“No wonder. You’re wet and that suit of yours isn’t any good here.”

Augusta decided to try etiquette. “Help me, then,” she said.

The old man studied her for a long moment. “Who are you?”

“I’m a traveler,” Augusta said. “Just a traveler. From very far away.”

He sucked air in through his teeth. “Very far away,” he repeated. “Very well. You may call me Nils Nilsson.”

“Nils Nilsson,” Augusta said. “Please give me your sweater.”

“I need my sweater,” Nils said, “but if you follow me, I can find another one for you.”

Without another word, he set off along a small path Augusta hadn’t seen until now. Augusta walked after him, mystified by his resilience. There was something about this man. But she was cold, and she could deal with him when they arrived wherever he was going.

The farm consisted of a small main building, an outhouse, and a barn, all old but well kept. Augusta was exhausted. They had been walking all morning and Nils had kept veering off into the bog to fill his bucket with orange berries.

“Here we are,” Nils said. “Welcome.”

The kitchen was small, with a stove and a table with some chairs and a wood-framed bench. Everything was worn but clean.

“Do you live here alone?” Augusta asked.

Nils nodded. “I do now,” he said. “My wife has passed, and my sons are watching for Germans at the Norwegian border.”

“The war,” Augusta said.

“Yes, the war,” Nils replied. “Now I’m going to fetch you a sweater and some socks. Take those shoes off or you’ll ruin your feet.”

Augusta sat down on the bench and fiddled with the curtain in the window. It was embroidered with flower stems. Outside, an animal made a lowing noise, and she craned her neck to look for it.

“The cows,” Nils said from the door to the hallway. “Never mind them.”

He put a thick knitted sweater and a pair of socks on the table.

“Here,” he said. “Put these on.”

Nils walked over to the stove, where he filled a pot from a bucket.

“We need coffee, I think,” he said. “And you can tell me what you’re doing here.”

“I’m looking for someone,” Augusta said warily.

“And who might that be?”

“A man,” she replied, “who might help me.”

“I see,” Nils said, and poured something like seeds into a small grinder.

Nils ground the seeds in silence. When the water came to a boil, he poured the grounds into the pot and stirred it. After a moment, he took the pot off the heat. Eventually he poured the mixture into two cups and brought them to the table.

“It’s not real coffee, of course,” he said. “It’s barley. But it’ll do.”

The mixture tasted earthy and bland, but it was hot, and Augusta drank it.

“Now,” Nils said. “Who are you looking for?”

“Phantasos,” Augusta said. “His name is Phantasos.”

Nils leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. There was a glint of something in his eyes. “Phantasos. And who might that be?”

“He was a lord who left my home. He ran away.”

Nils unfolded his arms and brought the cup of barley brew to his lips. He took a sip, then said, “And do you think he wants to be found? Considering that he ran away.”

“I don’t care,” Augusta said. “Do you know where he is?”

Nils’s gaze was sharp. “What do you want with him?”

“I am… lost,” Augusta said. “He can show me the way home.”

“And if he won’t?” Nils asked.

“He has to. It’s all I have.”

“I had a dream,” Nils said. “Someone was calling my name. I woke up, and I was restless. So I walked out onto the bog. And there you were.”

Augusta sat motionless.

“You called my name,” said the man who looked nothing like a lord, who was old and wrinkled and whose teeth were rotting in his skull.

“Your—?” Augusta managed.

Nils nodded. “Long ago. And your name?”

Augusta hesitated. “If you are who you say you are, you would know me.”

“I’d rather hear you say it, architect,” Nils said.

“Architect?” Augusta said.

Nils smiled. “Yes. You have no memory of building the conservatory?”

Augusta stared at him.

“Of course you don’t,” Nils said. “Because you fell. Like the rest of them.”

“You’re Phantasos,” Augusta said numbly.

“Not anymore,” Nils replied. “I’m just Nils Nilsson now. And I would like you to finish your coffee and be on your way.”

Augusta rose from the bench. “You have to get me back into the Gardens,” she said. “You know how to get in.”

Nils looked up at her, still in his chair. “Why did you leave?”

“Not by choice,” Augusta said. “I learned about time. Mnemosyne cast me out.”

“Then you can’t go back,” Nils said. “We built that place and agreed to lose time. You broke that pact. Mnemosyne won’t let you back in.”

“I want to go back,” Augusta repeated. “Mnemosyne will forgive me.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why would you want to go back?” Nils said. “That place is hell. It was good at first. We were timeless, ageless; we devoted ourselves to art and magic. But none of you could handle living the same day over and over. You became bored, because you forgot your purpose. Then you became cruel, because you were bored. That’s why I left. I couldn’t stand what you had become. I wanted to live a just life again.

“You were an inventor,” he continued. “You created marvelous things out of wood and bone and glass. Now look at you.”

“Please,” Augusta said. “I want to go home.”

“I can’t help you,” Nils replied. “I live here now. I became Nils Nilsson, and I got myself a family, and I grew old. I’ll die here. There’s no going back from exile.”

Augusta gave him a backhanded slap, and he stood up. He looked at her with something like fear.

“You will take me back,” she said.

“I can’t,” he said.

Augusta gripped him by the throat. Nils’s right hand shot out and clawed at her face. Augusta screamed as a finger dug into her eye. She kicked out and crushed his kneecap under her heel, then hooked her ankle behind his leg. Nils let go of Augusta’s face and fell down on his back. She landed on his chest and dug her knees into his arms. He was strong, but not as strong as she.

“Take me back!” she shouted.

“Can’t,” Nils panted.

“I’ll kill you,” Augusta told him. “I’ll kill you now if you don’t.”

Nils shook his head. “If you take my life, you’ll have to live it. You will be Nils Nilsson forever or until one of your own recognizes and names you. And they never will.”

Augusta drove her fist into his face.

“I curse you,” Nils said between broken teeth.

Augusta hit him again. Again, and again, and again, until his face was a ruin.

When Nils had stopped struggling, Augusta rolled over on her back and breathed for a while. She looked up at the underside of the kitchen table, where insects had bored holes into the wood. She closed her eyes. She just needed to rest for a little bit.

Nils woke up alone in the kitchen. His whole body ached. The chairs were overturned, the two cups shattered on the floor. Why were there two cups? There had been a woman, but she was gone. Had she really been here? He held up his hand to his face. Blood had crusted under its thick fingernails. It felt wrong to have such a hand. It was too big, too worn. He got up from the floor with some effort, and pain shot through his lower back. His body felt unfamiliar somehow, like a new and slightly too big suit. Then Svana and Rosa lowed outside, and he realized that they needed milking.