The Memory Theater

27

Augusta walked to the enclosure in the middle of the burnt plain. Her eyes still stung from the wind that had whipped at her as she passed from the hillside into this eerie landscape. The sky had taken on a sickly shade; in its center shone a dark disc surrounded by a bright halo. So this was the crossroads.

She looked at her hands. They were still Nils Nilsson’s hands, an old man’s hands, coarse from work. She could feel this body weigh on her, an ill-fitting suit made of flesh. You will be Nils Nilsson forever or until one of your own recognizes and names you. Thistle knew, but he was beneath her. He wasn’t one of her own.

The creatures swaddled in lengths of ashen fabric looked very busy at their tables. She tapped the nearest one on the shoulder. It looked up from the orb it was fiddling with.

“You,” she said. “I need to go to the Gardens.”

The creature tilted its head and regarded her with enormous eyes that didn’t have proper pupils. It seemed completely hairless, its skin shiny and artificial-looking. A clucking sound came out through its little slit of a mouth.

“The Gardens,” Augusta repeated. “Show me to the Gardens. Now.”

The creature rubbed its fingers together and closed its eyes. Then it opened them again and pointed to Augusta’s right, across the plain.

“There’s nothing there,” Augusta said.

It snapped its fingers and pointed again. It said something in that clucking voice.

“Right,” Augusta said. “I’ll walk.”

The ground changed first. Blades of grass shot up in the cracks between the mud plates, then grew into saplings. Shadows wavered in front of Augusta, and she stepped in among them, and they coalesced into tall beech trees. She was walking in a forest. Patches of daylight danced across the path before her. In the distance, the buzz of voices. Something felt off. The trees weren’t birches, and the daylight wasn’t supposed to be there, and there was no dancing rhythm. Still, Augusta walked on.

The trees gave way to a clearing, a hollow in the landscape. A tall, spindly tower rose up against a cerulean sky; around it milled shapes dressed in identical hooded cloaks. Augusta couldn’t see their faces. The buzz of voices was louder.

When Augusta approached, the crowd parted before her but didn’t otherwise acknowledge her presence. The hoods on their cloaks obscured their features entirely. She couldn’t hear anyone speak, but the faraway voices didn’t recede. It was as if people were talking around her but not close to her. She reached out at random and grabbed a shoulder. The figure whirled around.

“You,” Augusta said. “Where am I?”

The figure stood very still. Augusta tried to peek inside its hood, but the figure was shorter than her and the hood hung very low.

“Show your face,” she said.

The figure remained impassive. Augusta lifted the edge of its hood. The buzz became louder.

Where there should have been a face was a blank surface across which little points of light danced in shapes too quick to follow. A mumble emanated from that surface. Augusta leaned closer to listen.

“Three, nine, seven, one, five,” a woman’s voice intoned. “Three, nine, seven, one, five.”

The voice was replaced by a loud, artificial-sounding tune. Augusta flinched and dropped the edge of the hood she had been holding.

“Three, nine, seven, one, five,” the figure said.

Augusta let go and took a step backward. She bumped into something. She turned around and was met by another figure, so tall that she was staring right up into its hood. There was that same blank space of a face. It emitted a cheerful, plinking tune.

Augusta shied away from the figure only to crash into someone else, and someone else again. She pushed through the crowd, past bleeping noises and recited numbers, and reached the trees. The beings didn’t seem to have taken any notice whatsoever. The tall spire gleamed.

She must have been sent to the wrong place. Augusta took a deep breath and sang the song.

The crossroads looked exactly the same. Augusta approached the nearest creature she could find. Perhaps it was the same one who had pointed her to that place with the tower; perhaps not.

“The Gardens,” Augusta said. “I was supposed to go to the Gardens, but you pointed me in the wrong direction.”

It did that head-tilting motion, then pointed, very decisively, to Augusta’s left.

“Fine,” Augusta said, and headed that way.

Augusta arrived at a labyrinthine garden the size of a city and went back to the crossroads. She was pointed to a garden of taxidermied animals. Then a garden with sculptures carved from ice. She came to a garden of living trees and ate screaming fruit that tasted of spices and flesh. She did not sleep there, although the ground was soft and inviting. None of these were her Gardens. Rage grew in her chest.

The eighth time she came back to the crossroads, she marched up to a booth and stared down at the creature seated there.

“You know where I need to go,” she said between her teeth. “You just won’t take me there.”

It looked up at her and clucked its tongue. It raised a hand to vaguely point at a spot behind her.

“No,” Augusta said. “No more.”

She gripped the miserable thing by its throat and squeezed. Its neck was frail, the skin dry and scratchy. She could feel the rest of them crowding around her, chattering, tearing at her clothes, but they were not nearly as strong as her. She snapped the creature’s neck. The others let go of her and fell silent. Augusta turned around.

“Do as I tell you!” she roared.

Later, Augusta sat down with her back to the enclosure just to rest for a little while. Behind her, tables were overturned and little bodies littered the ground. No one had been helpful. They had paid for it.

“There you are,” a familiar voice said.

Augusta looked up. A tall shape wrapped in shadowy silks loomed over her.

“Ghorbi,” Augusta said.

Ghorbi said nothing, just looked at her. Augusta got to her feet and took a step backward. She still had to crane her neck to meet Ghorbi’s eyes.

Ghorbi looked her up and down. “I know who you are, Augusta.”

Augusta brightened. “You know me!”

She waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Of course. Ghorbi was not one of her own.

She sighed. “I’m stuck in some old man’s body.”

“Indeed,” Ghorbi replied, then paused. “I came here on business. This is not what I expected to see.”

“They refused to help me,” Augusta muttered.

“Do you know what you have done, Augusta?” Ghorbi said.

Augusta shrugged. “Punished them.”

Ghorbi let out something between a guffaw and a growl, then bent over Augusta. “This place is a hub in the multiverse. And only these folk know the directions. You have just made travel between worlds impossible to almost everyone, you idiot.”

Ghorbi stepped around Augusta, who made to follow her. Ghorbi held up a hand. Her voice was tense with suppressed wrath.

“You will stay where you are.”

Ghorbi walked around between the bodies, checking each one for signs of life.

“Ah,” she mumbled, and helped one of them into a sitting position.

Augusta closed her eyes and heard Ghorbi whisper to the creature in its own language. All this action had depleted her, and her knuckles hurt.

After a while, she heard footsteps approach again and looked up. Ghorbi loomed over her.

“One of them is still alive,” she said. “Fortunately. The crossroads is still functional.”

“I just want to go home,” Augusta said. “I’m tired.”

“I don’t kill,” Ghorbi said. “I made a vow long ago to follow a god that will not allow it. But I will take you back to your Gardens. You will do less damage there.”

Ghorbi started walking in a direction that was ever so slightly different from the one Augusta had taken last. She stopped and motioned ahead of her.

“Go on,” Ghorbi said. “Go. Before I change my mind about my vow.”

28

Dora and Albin traveled south between the mountains. They rested under trees or in the occasional empty barn along the way, getting up at dawn to move on south while the short day lasted. Dora relished the deep silence of the snowy mountains, the exhilaration of going downhill into a valley, even the slog of putting on ski skins and climbing up the other side. Her body seemed built for it. Albin was doing all right, too; he had turned rosy, and his beard had thickened. He smiled more often than not. He was the one who got up first in the mornings, eager to move on. He spoke about his family along the way: his affable father who made furniture and took Albin on fishing trips; his quiet mother who sewed dresses for fancy ladies and made him help her in the kitchen. He couldn’t wait to see them. They would be older now, but not terribly old. Perhaps there would be younger siblings.

One day they crested a hill and came into a valley where the snow had been broken up by rain. They left their skis in an unused sheep shelter and continued on foot.

“We’re getting closer,” Albin said. “I can feel it. What if they don’t recognize me?”

His smile had vanished. Dora put an arm around him.

“I’m here,” she said. “I’m with you.”

Albin looked up at her. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

He tugged his cap down around his ears and continued into the valley, where tall pines swallowed the daylight. Mossy boulders lay strewn about on the ground.

Albin pointed at a particularly large rock. “My mother said they were thrown here by giants,” he said, and smiled.

Patches of snow lingered in the hollows at their base.

“This is so familiar,” Albin said. “I think I used to hide here.”

He walked ahead of Dora, at first hesitant, then more confident. An aspen tree broke the monotony of pine. Then another. As pine gradually gave way to deciduous forest, the air grew damp. An overcast sky became visible through the branches. The ground was soggy with melting snow.

In the evening they came to a wall made of piled-up stones. On the other side ran a trail. Albin climbed over the stones and started walking down it. In not too long, they saw a cluster of small wooden houses with white corners that almost shone in the murk.

“There were two apple trees in the yard,” Albin said to himself.

They walked down the trail, past houses with empty windows, with buckling porches and ruined front steps. Debris lay here and there in the yards, humps with sharp edges.

“Where is everyone?” Dora wondered.

“Maybe they’re all in the fields or at church,” Albin said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

He suddenly stopped.

“There,” he said. “There it is.”

The two-story house was slightly larger than the others. It had a small sagging porch, on which stood a bench and a bucket. The two enormous apple trees that flanked the path up to the house were gnarled and unkempt. From one of them hung two tattered ropes.

“My father put that swing up for me,” Albin whispered.

“Are you going to knock?” Dora said.

Albin remained where he was. “It looks different,” he said. “And like no one’s home.” His lower lip trembled. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“I’ll go,” Dora said.

She went up the path and stepped onto the porch, which complained under her weight. Nothing moved inside. Dora knocked on the door. When no one came to open it, she tried the handle. The door was locked. Dora looked over her shoulder. Albin hadn’t moved: he stood in a puddle on the path, his face wan in the weakening light. Dora pulled at the handle, hard. The door came off its hinges. She caught it and propped it up against the wall.

The hall beyond was empty and smelled of mildew and dust. Dora heard Albin’s footsteps behind her, then his gasp. He went past her and walked into a room on the right.

“Mamma?” he called from in there. “Pappa?”

His footsteps moved away, up a set of stairs. His voice called out, over and over. Then silence.

Dora followed. Nothing stirred inside the house. The little corpses of flies and spiders rested on the windowsills. She found Albin in a room on the second floor. He was sitting in a small alcove, head in his hands.

“They’re gone,” he said. “They left without me.”

Dora said nothing, just sat down next to him and held him as he cried. Eventually, he fell asleep. Then she laid him down and went downstairs. The chill had deepened outside; the puddles on the ground were icing over. Dora’s breath came out in great clouds. The cloud cover broke, and a few stars came out. Dora stood there, listening to the noise of puddles freezing and birds rustling in the forest, until the crows woke up and lights came on in the house farthest down the road.

Albin came outside. He looked shivery in the open air. Dora wrapped her arms around him from behind to warm him up.

“Look,” she said. “Someone’s there.” She pointed to the little house where the lights were turned on.

The man who opened the door was very old. He looked at Dora and Albin in surprise.

“Who might you be, then?” he said.

“My name is Albin,” Albin said. “I used to live here. I’m looking for my parents.”

“Very well,” the man said. “My name is Börje. Come in, won’t you?” he added, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Börje showed them into his kitchen and boiled a brew of ground seeds and water at the stove. Dora and Albin sat in silence while he poured them each a cup.

“Now, then,” he said. “Tell me what you’re doing out here.”

“My parents,” Albin said. “Edvin and Amanda. They’re not here. Where are they?”

“Edvin and Amanda Jönsson?” the old man asked.

Albin nodded. “I came back to look for them. They’re not there. The house…” His breath caught. “The house is empty.”

Börje was quiet for a long moment. He looked at Albin, then at Dora, and seemed to make a decision.

“There was a boy,” he said. “The Jönsson boy. He disappeared. The whole village looked for him. His mamma swore that he had been taken by the fair folk. Of course, no one believed her. They all said that he must have gotten lost in the forest or drowned somewhere, or wolves took him.” He peered at Albin. “You’re that boy, aren’t you.”

Albin nodded. He sat on the edge of his chair, eyes brimming.

The old man sucked at his front teeth and sipped from his cup. “So it’s true then.”

“Where are they?” Albin asked.

“This all happened when I was little,” Börje replied. “My mamma and pappa told me about it. They never let me go into the forest on my own.”

“Where are my parents?” Albin repeated.

Börje put his hand on Albin’s. “They’re gone. They died many years ago. I’m sorry.”

Albin stared at his cup.

“How many years?” he said eventually. “Since I left.”

“Oh,” the man said. “I’m eighty-five. I’m the last one here in the village. Everyone moved to the city when the foundry closed down. Maybe they’ll come back if the war comes here. But for now, it’s just me.”

“The war?” Dora asked.

“Yes. There’s a war on. There’s an evil man who wants to conquer the world. He has occupied our brother nations to the west and south. But he’s not here yet.”

“But what if he does come?” Dora said.

“Then we do what we can to survive,” he replied. “Most people are good at heart. We will help each other. And if people come here to hide, well, I will help them.”

“I don’t care about the war!” Albin shouted. “I want my mamma and pappa.”

“I’m so sorry, Albin,” Börje said, and his voice was soft. “They never forgot about you.”

Börje walked them down to an old church not far from the village. It seemed disused, its doors barred. The graves in the yard outside were ordered in neat rows. No flowers adorned the graves; the grass that stuck up through the rotten snow had grown wild.

“Here we are,” Börje said. “Now let’s find your parents.”

The gravestone was tucked in a corner beneath a birch. edvin jönsson 1825–1898, it said, and his wife amanda 1828–1902. their son albin, missed and loved. Lichen dotted the stone and crept up its sides. Albin crouched down in front of the stone. He said nothing, just cried. Dora waited and listened to the magpies arguing with each other in the tree. Börje stood next to her, hands clasped behind his back.

Finally, Albin stood up and turned to face them. His eyes were swollen and his jaw was set.

“There is nothing for me here,” he said.

“What will you do?” Börje asked.

“Go elsewhere,” Albin replied. “We have something to do.”

“Very well,” Börje said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Albin shook his head. “No. You have already helped.”

Börje nodded. “I suppose I will leave you to it. Be well, Albin Jönsson.”

He shook hands with Dora and Albin, and then wandered back up the slope toward the village.

When he was out of sight, Dora asked, “What exactly is it we have to do?”

“Find Augusta again,” Albin said. “And kill her.”

“It didn’t go so well last time,” Dora said.

“I wasn’t who I am now,” Albin replied. “I can do it. I don’t have to fight her. I just need the Memory Theater to help us. I have a plan.”

“What’s the plan?”

“They tell memories. Maybe they’ll tell a new memory.”

Albin began to sing.

29

Slender birch trees sprung up around Augusta as she walked. There was a familiar scent in the air: apples. The sky changed into the familiar hue of a summer night. The grass was thick under her feet. Augusta looked at her hands: still worn and square. Not her own. But these woods were familiar. Here and there, things hung on the lower tree branches: a glass prism on a string, a strip of silk, a bird skull in a silver net. They formed a path deeper in between the trees.

The splash of water made Augusta turn her head. Not too far away, a pond she recognized.

“Hello,” a voice said.

A heart-shaped face framed by blond locks peered at Augusta from under a small overhang. The face smiled, and its teeth were pointed.

Porla tilted her head. “Who is this gentleman?”

Augusta blinked. “Porla?”

Porla let out a tinkling laugh. “The gentleman knows! I am honored. Welcome to my home. Would my lord like to see it? I have a friend I could introduce. Who are you? Are you lost?” She squinted at Augusta, then said, “I know you. Don’t I?”

Augusta’s eyes prickled. Something that had been clenched in her chest let go in a sobbing sigh. Porla came out from under the overhang and reached for Augusta’s ankle. Her skin was flecked like a frog’s, her touch icy.

“You know me,” Augusta whispered. “By what name do you know me?”

Porla pawed at Augusta’s leg and stared up into her eyes. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.” Then she paused, and her eyes drifted down to the water.

Then she looked up again. “I can introduce you to my friend.”

“Do you recognize me? Say my name,” Augusta said.

Porla smiled with her needle teeth and shook her head. “The tip of my tongue,” she said.

Augusta felt her heart sink.

“Let me show you my friend,” Porla said. “That will make you happy.”

Augusta shook her leg free of Porla’s hand. “I’m not interested in your friend, Porla.”

Porla’s lower lip quivered. “No one ever is,” she said.

“Good,” Augusta said.

She looked back as she walked away. Porla was under the overhang again, arms around what looked like a bloated body. Porla whispered to it intently and glared at Augusta. Then she dived under the surface and dragged the corpse down with her.

There was a drumbeat, uneven and heavy. Little lanterns were strung from the branches. In the distance, the flash of colorful silks moving in time to the music. Augusta peeked from behind a tree. They were dancing in slow graceful movements, their powdered faces shining in the dusk. Augusta swayed to the rhythm. She could burst onto the marble floor now, join them in the dance. But would they know her in this guise? Would they say, “Ah, Augusta, we see you”? Porla didn’t. Would they murder her as an invader?

The music ended. The lady Mnemosyne’s voice filled the air.

“A game,” she called. “We shall have a game.”

A cheer went up, and the dancers formed a line. Mnemosyne led the way out of the statuary grove and toward the game lawn. Augusta followed them at a distance.

“Stop right there,” a voice said.

Augusta turned around to see Walpurgis a few steps behind her. He was poised like a statue in his elaborate dress, corkscrew locks in a perfect frame around his exquisite visage. He held a hand up in a forbidding gesture.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.

“Do you not know me?” Augusta said.

She had to make Walpurgis name her.

“You do not look like anyone I know,” Walpurgis replied. He took a step closer. “But I will concede that there is something familiar about you.”

“I am trapped in someone else’s flesh,” Augusta said. “It follows me around wherever I go.”

“Interesting,” Walpurgis said.

He closed in and inspected her with heavy-lidded eyes. His breath was thick with wine.

“Do I know you?” he said. “Do I?”

“Please, Walpurgis,” Augusta said. “You know me. We have danced together in the Gardens, so many times, so many nights.”

“There is only tonight,” Walpurgis said, and cocked his head.

“I know,” Augusta said. “Again and again. And during all those agains, we have danced. My hair is curled mahogany; my eyes are dove gray; I wear a coat the shade of the sky. But I am stuck in this other body. I need you to let me out. Say my name.”

“Your name?” Walpurgis repeated. “There is a lord… isn’t there?”

“Not a lord,” Augusta replied. “Me.”

She grabbed Walpurgis by the collar. “Look at me.”

Walpurgis frowned, then sniffed at her. “What’s that scent?” he mumbled. “Lily of the valley.”

Augusta let out a sob. “Yes. Lily of the valley. Who smells like that?”

Walpurgis looked into her eyes. “Only the lady Augusta smells like that.”

“That’s right,” Augusta said.

Walpurgis looked confused. “Augusta?”

Augusta’s stomach clenched. She nodded and let go of his collar. Walpurgis remained where he was, so close that she could see the veins in his eyes.

“We like to play croquet,” Walpurgis said. “On the lawn.”

Augusta reached out and squeezed his hand. “Say it again. Say my name.”

Walpurgis bent his head to sniff at her neck. “Augusta Prima,” he said. “Augusta Prima is your name.”

As Walpurgis spoke, a shiver went through Augusta. The flesh sheath that held her seemed to loosen its grip a little. She let go of Walpurgis’s hand and held her own up to her face. The skin looked translucent somehow, saggy. She could feel her own body underneath, pushing and straining against its prison. She flung her hands back and tore at the fabric between her shoulder blades. The fabric tore, and the shirt underneath, and the skin underneath.

It was not quite as easy as taking off a suit. Walpurgis watched in silence as Augusta struggled her way out of Nils Nilsson’s body. Eventually, she stood naked on the forest floor, the other body at her feet.

Augusta looked down at herself. She was herself again, a woman in her prime, albeit bloody and naked as a newborn baby. The relief made her burst into laughter.

“Thank you, Walpurgis,” she said. “Do you see me now?”

“I see you,” Walpurgis said. “Augusta.”

“Good,” Augusta replied. “Take me to the others.”

Walpurgis bowed and walked ahead of her to the game lawn.

Here they were: Euterpe naked among the bushes, Virgilia and Cymbeline embracing a servant, Tempestis and the other courtiers dancing with their croquet clubs, swinging in time to the ever-present beat. They were all here.

“I’m here!” Augusta said to no one in particular.

Euterpe came running with a wide smile.

“Sister,” she said. “You’re naked! And extravagantly soiled!”

Augusta laughed. “So I am.”

“How delightful,” Euterpe said.

Augusta embraced her sister. Her eyes watered a little. She caressed Euterpe’s face, and got a frown in response.

“What’s that, crying? We can’t have that. Let’s find you something to wear.”

“And a bath,” Augusta said. “I need a bath.”

Euterpe had a servant fetch a bucket of water, and everyone gathered around Augusta to watch as she cleaned herself of the blood. When Augusta was done and had dried herself off, Euterpe pointed to a servant at the edge of the lawn. He gave her a frightened look and started to back away.

“You. Undress,” Augusta told him. “Give your clothes to me.”

The servant’s trousers and vest fit Augusta unexpectedly well. She borrowed Euterpe’s discarded silk jacket, and lo: she was once again dressed for a party.

Augusta made a twirl, and there was Mnemosyne on her throne. She had been watching the whole time. Augusta walked up to the dais and bowed.

“My lady,” she said, “I am here.”

“So you are,” Mnemosyne said, face unreadable under her laurel wreath. Her eyes were clouded. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Then she said, “I cast you out.”

Augusta swallowed. “Did you, my lady?”

“I…” Mnemosyne faltered. “Did I not?”

“Not me,” Augusta said. “Never me. See? I am beautiful and young. I live only to please you. I can do a little dance? Sing a little song? Would that please my lady?”

“There is something,” Mnemosyne mumbled. “I forget.”

“There is nothing,” Augusta said. She could feel a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades. “Nothing at all.”

“You seem troubled,” Mnemosyne said, and raised her glass. “Here. Drink and be happy.”

The wine was acidic on Augusta’s tongue, but she emptied the glass.

“Good,” Mnemosyne said. “Go play.”

She sagged back in her throne, and for a moment she looked very old. Augusta left the dais and held out a hand. A servant appeared with a glass of wine. It tasted sweeter. The third glass was exquisite. Out on the lawn, the others danced in a circle. The circle dispersed, and the lords and ladies picked up their croquet clubs. Things began to soften at the edges.

30

“Something’s wrong,” Albin said as they approached the enclosure at the crossroads. “It’s too quiet.”

He was right. There was no distant noise of commerce or murmur of voices. The halo in the sky cast an eerie light on the landscape.

“Maybe they’re asleep,” Dora said.

It was only when they came through the gap in the low wall that they saw the corpses. They were laid out in a neat line between the tables, their faces covered by cloth. Stains spread across the front of some of them; limbs stuck out at odd angles, as if broken.

Next to Dora, Albin let out a little shriek. Dora instinctively put an arm around him and held him close.

“I’m going to have a look,” Dora said. “Stay here.”

Albin gave a quick nod.

Dora edged her way around the bodies. There was no smell, even though the air was still. She could hear a rustling sound nearby and approached it.

On the far side of the enclosure, Ghorbi was digging a shallow ditch. She had rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and gripped a shovel that looked too small for the job. When Dora came closer, she straightened. Her eyes burned with suppressed rage.

“Hello again,” she said. “Sorry about the mess.”

“What happened?” Dora asked.

Ghorbi dropped the shovel and gestured at the scene. “Augusta happened.”

“Oh,” Dora said.

“Augusta?” Albin said behind her. He had followed her without her noticing.

Ghorbi pointed at a creature sitting with its back against the wall. “Happily, she left one alive. The crossroads will recover, eventually.”

“Where is she?” Albin asked. “Augusta.”

“I pointed her to the Gardens,” Ghorbi replied. “She was wreaking havoc.”

Albin took Dora’s hand. “We have to go. Ghorbi, where is the Memory Theater?”

Ghorbi looked at the ditch. “I have places to be, too. But this has to be done. I can’t leave them like this.”

“I’m good at digging pits,” Dora offered. “Let me.”

“We don’t have time!” Albin said.

“If she managed to get back in, she isn’t going anywhere,” Ghorbi replied. “Show some respect for the dead.”

Dora took off her jacket and shawl, hiked up her skirt around her waist, and dug a long pit that would fit the eleven bodies on the ground. The soil listened to her and parted for her. Ghorbi spoke to the survivor in hushed tones; Albin sat down next to them, looking slightly ill. When Dora was done, she carried each of the bodies to the pit and gently laid them down. Then she asked the soil for help to cover them, and it did.

“There,” she said. “It’s done.”

Ghorbi helped the remaining traffic controller onto its feet. It ambled into the enclosure, where it began to pick things up off the ground and put them back on their tables.

“Well done,” Ghorbi told Dora. “That was an act of kindness.”

Albin took one of Dora’s grimy hands. Ghorbi looked them up and down, as if seeing them properly for the first time.

“You have come a long way since last I saw you,” she said.

“And I have my name,” Albin said. “And I found my parents.”

“And?”

“I had been gone too long,” Albin said, and his eyes were glassy. “They died while I was away.”

“I see,” Ghorbi said. “I’m sorry.”

“We have to get back to the Memory Theater,” Dora said. “Albin has a plan.”

Albin was tense next to her. “Please tell us where they are.”

“I don’t know,” Ghorbi said. “But I’ll ask the traffic controller if it does.”

She went over to the traffic controller and bent down to speak to it. It nodded and walked past Dora and Albin onto the plain, leaning on Ghorbi’s arm.

About fifty paces from the enclosure, the creature pointed at the ground.

“Is that how we get there?” Albin said.

The creature bowed its head and walked back to whence it came.

“I must leave you,” Ghorbi said.

“Will we see you again?” Albin asked.

“Perhaps,” Ghorbi replied. “I have interfered as much as I can. I want you to find Augusta. I want you to be well. But there are rules I must follow.”

She walked off in a different direction, robes billowing behind her, and was quickly out of sight.

Dora dug into the ground with her hands until she was standing knee-deep in a pit about two paces across.

“Dora,” Albin said, “we have to tell them about Apprentice.”

Dora looked up at him. “I buried her on the mountain.”

“So you told me. We have to tell them.”

“Will they be angry?”

“Probably. Are you afraid?”

Dora shook her head. “No.”

“I am.” Albin gnawed on his left thumb. “I don’t know if they’re people at all.”

“Of course they are,” Dora said. “Just not people like us.”

“Journeyman fell in love with you.”

Dora considered this, then nodded.

“Did you fall in love with him?”

“I feel things about him,” Dora said. “I like feeling them.”

“So are you nervous about seeing him again?” Albin asked.

“Why?”

“He might be angry.”

“Because I buried Apprentice?”

Albin made a frustrated noise. “No, because we have to tell them Apprentice is dead. They might think it’s our fault. And they might hurt us. They can do magic. Like the lords and ladies.”

“That makes no sense,” Dora said. “It’s not our fault.”

“They might not see it that way.”

Dora shrugged. “I can’t do anything about that. They’ll be angry, or they won’t be,” she said. “But until you know, there’s no use being afraid. And if they’re really powerful, then there’s nothing we can do. And then there’s no use being afraid either. I promise I’ll be afraid later if we need to.”

Albin chortled, then burst into laughter. Dora smiled back at him. Then Albin hopped down into the pit. The ground gave way under their feet.

31

Dancing. Drinking. Eating. Hunting. The Gardens, a place of eternal youth and beauty. Augusta feasted, slept, dressed herself, feasted, slept. It was not so difficult to forget about mountains, cities, a multitude of other worlds. To forget about wearing someone else’s skin, peeling it off like an old glove. Augusta was home. She would never leave.

On the croquet lawn, Mnemosyne clapped her hands three times.

Euterpe walked up to Augusta and handed her a club.

“It’s Augusta’s turn,” she called out.

A polished croquet ball sat in the middle of the lawn. Augusta walked out to it and swung her club. The ball landed on the arm of a page, who doubled over. Everyone else clapped their hands and cheered. The game was afoot.

Augusta watched as the others played. She held out her hand for more wine. Her head felt blurry. Her vision swam. Perhaps she should have a canapé.

She was startled by a loud crack. Cymbeline and Virgilia had hit Augusta’s ball with theirs so hard that it shot into the bushes. The others jeered at Augusta.

“You’re out!” Cymbeline called.

Augusta sneered at her and dropped the empty wineglass on the ground.

The others continued the game as Augusta wandered in among the trees to find her ball. Her face was numb with drink. It was difficult to see details in the shrubbery. Augusta pushed her way out of a dog-rose bush, and there it was: the ball, sitting next to the corpse of an old man.

Augusta crept closer. The man was old and hoary, his hands large and callused, his face contorted in a silent scream. He looked familiar somehow, but Augusta couldn’t quite place him. Why would he be so familiar? And what had brought him here? Only children ever ventured into the woods by mistake. A gold chain trailed from one of his pockets. Augusta bent forward, grasped the chain, and gave it a tug. A shiny locket emerged on the end of the chain, engraved with flowers. Augusta swung the locket up in the air and let it land in her palm. The touch sent a little chill along her arm, and for a moment she felt faint. She wrapped the locket in a handkerchief she found in the sleeve on her shirt, put it in a pocket, and returned to the croquet lawn. Never mind the corpse. She had to win the game.

There was a rustle in the undergrowth as she made her way back to the lawn. Augusta turned around; a shadow receded behind a tree. Had she seen a pair of yellow eyes? She shook her head. No. Silly. There were only the lords and ladies in this place.

Augusta lay on her side in her bed, the little locket resting in her hand. It popped open when she pressed a button on the side, and closed with a sweet little click. She wanted to lick it and eat it and crush it at the same time. There was something wonderful about it and something very bad. She wasn’t sure what. But pages knew these things. They had seen the world outside. She called for her page.

A bell rang by her door and her page stepped inside. He stood in the middle of the room, with the audacity to stare directly at Augusta. She slapped him with the back of her hand. He shrunk back and looked down at the floor. He walked over to the bed and started to remove his clothes.

“No, not now,” Augusta said.

The boy froze halfway out of his coat. Augusta showed him the locket.

“You will tell me what this is,” she said.

“Mistress doesn’t know?” he replied.

Augusta slapped him again. This time her nails left marks. His eyes watered.

“You will tell me what this is,” she repeated.

He sniffled. “It’s a watch.”

“And a watch measures time,” Augusta said to herself.

“It does,” the boy affirmed.

“Tell me more,” Augusta said.

She pulled the boy down on the bed next to her and put her arm around his shoulders. He pointed at the different parts of the watch, explaining their functions. The rods were called hands, and chased around the clockface in step with time. The clockface indicated where in time one was located. It made Augusta shudder violently. Time was an abhorrent thing, a human thing. It didn’t belong here. It was that power which made flesh rot and dreams wither.

“Does it measure time?” Augusta said. “Or does it just move forward and call that time?”

The page blinked. “Time is time,” he said.

“Time is time,” Augusta echoed. “If it goes, it goes forward.”

“That’s what I was about to say,” said the page.

“I know,” Augusta replied. “This has happened before.”

Augusta twisted the little knob on the side of the clock, and the longest hand started to move. A faint ticking sound filled the bower. The air trembled.

“This has happened before,” Augusta said again.

She let go of the boy’s shoulders, and he stood up. His shape was blurred somehow.

“I can’t let you leave,” Augusta said. “Not again.”

“What do you mean, mistress?” said the boy.

“What are you called?” Augusta asked.

“Yarrow, mistress,” the boy said.

Augusta blinked. “Not Thistle?”

“There is no Thistle here,” Yarrow replied.

Augusta picked up a long knife that lay on her vanity. She grabbed Yarrow’s jaw and quickly slit his throat. He gurgled as blood gushed down his shirt.

32

It wasn’t a pit that they fell into, but a tunnel that twisted back and forth. Then, bright light. The impact came fast: rubble and gravel, sliding away under Dora’s feet. She tumbled down a slope and came to a rest on her side, the satchel digging into her shoulder. Behind her, Albin yelled in terror on the way down. She grabbed his arm as he came by.

They sat halfway down an enormous mound of gravel. Below them stood the ruins of a town: heavy stone buildings with their roofs blown off and huge holes through which the overcast sky showed; here and there, the burnt skeletons of wooden houses. The streets were strewn with debris.

The company’s house-carriage stood on its six wheels in a cleared square of street, walls unfolded to make a stage. As Albin and Dora crawled down the pile and came closer, Dora saw that the interior was decorated to look like a run-down room in the city: overturned chairs, a shattered mirror on the wall, a small dining table on which stood the remains of an abandoned meal. In the middle of the room, Nestor was dressed in a gray uniform adorned with silver. He was clean-shaven, a distinguished man approaching old age. Journeyman stood next to him, dressed in the same style. He was wearing a black helmet and held something that looked like a branch but must have been a weapon.

In front of them stood Director, in a torn dress and headscarf. Her face was riddled with scars. She held her hands out in supplication.

“Have mercy, sir,” she said in a broken alto. “There’s nothing left of me. You promised to leave me alone, and yet you invaded my lands. You murdered my children. You burned my forests and razed my cities. Now everything is yours and nothing mine. Please leave us in peace. Let us live.”

Nestor’s voice boomed through the ruins. “You forced my hand!” He swept his hand to indicate the destruction. “Such a promising land it was, its people beautiful and pure. But you harbored a plague, and that plague must be cured.”

“We have suffered enough,” Director said.

“Then bow,” said Nestor, “and give the rest of your children to me.”

“Never,” Director replied.

“This might work,” Albin whispered to Dora where they sat in the rubble.

“What?” Dora asked, but Albin hushed her.

Onstage, Nestor smiled and pointed at Director. Journeyman lifted the black branch in his hands. A crack echoed through the city. Director slumped into a heap. Nestor turned outward.

“I am a just lord, with a just cause. My only wish is to better this world, to purify it of its ills. And so I have, once more.” He stepped back into the shadows.

Journeyman stepped to the front of the stage and faltered. He drew a small square of paper from his breast pocket and looked at it. Then he said, “The Child of the Motherland is supposed to show up now and convince me to rise up against the General.”

Director sat up and threw her hands out. “Well. We don’t have an actor to do that.”

Albin grabbed Dora’s hand and squeezed it so hard it almost hurt.

“But if we end the play here, then…” Journeyman trailed off.

“Then it will be a tragedy and not a story of hope in the face of destruction,” Director filled in. “Yes. But what’s our alternative? Nestor can’t play a child. We need an Apprentice.”

Journeyman raised his hands and let them drop again. “All right,” he said, and cleared his throat.

Albin’s hand left Dora’s, and before she could react she saw him careening down the slope.

Journeyman began: “Here ends the tale of—”

“No!” Albin shouted, halfway down the slope. “Wait!”

Journeyman and Director stared at him, incredulous.

Albin reached the ground and stumbled, skinning his knees. He got up so quickly that he almost fell over again, and ran to the stage. “I’ll be your Apprentice! I’ll do it,” he panted. “I’ll do it.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“You,” Director eventually said.

“Please,” Albin said. “I can’t stand to watch this.”

As Albin and Director stared at each other, Dora made her way down, and Journeyman spotted her. He hopped down from the stage and ran over to wrap his arms around her. He smelled of himself and acrid dust and sweat. Dora raised a hand and put it on his back. She could feel his heart hammering at his ribs.

“You came back,” he said.

Director clapped her hands. “No time to waste,” she said. “Explanations later. We have to finish this play. Now. Journeyman, give the boy the manuscript.”

Journeyman let go of Dora and held out the square of paper to Albin. Albin looked it over and nodded.

“I can do this.”

“What are you doing out there?” Nestor said from the back of the stage. He walked outside, still in his uniform. He took a look at Dora and Albin, raised his eyebrows, and let out a short “Ah.”

“I made an executive decision,” Director said. “This is the Child of the Motherland.”

“Very well,” Nestor said. “Shall I do the last line again?”

“Please do,” Director said, and lay down on the stage.

Journeyman climbed back up and held out a hand for Albin to join him.

Dora watched from the ground as Albin put on the role of the Child of the Motherland, effortlessly convincing the Soldier to rise up against the General. The Soldier shot the General, and confetti fell from the rafters as he cast his weapon down and held hands with the Child. By the time they were done, the entire troupe was crying. So was Albin. But they were smiling, too. Dora clapped her hands enthusiastically.

“Well,” Nestor said when they were done. “We will need an explanation.”

The troupe turned their heads toward Albin, who stood between Journeyman and Director.

“Apprentice died in a rockslide,” Dora said from the ground. “I buried her on the mountain. That’s all.”

The troupe turned to Dora as one.

“How exactly did she die?” Nestor asked.

“She played her flute, and stones fell on her,” Dora replied.

“Stupid girl,” Director mumbled.

“We felt it, you see,” Nestor said. “We just couldn’t see what had happened. It never appeared in the playbook.”

Director raised her eyes and gave Albin a stare that made him shrink back. “You lured her with you,” Director said. “You must have convinced her. Made promises.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Journeyman said. “Apprentice wanted to go ever since she came to us!” He pointed at Dora, then Albin. “And when these two showed up, of course she wanted to run off with them. She wanted to be with people who weren’t us. Do you pay attention to anything that goes on here?”

Nestor and Director looked at each other.

“I don’t…” Director said.

“She wanted to leave,” Journeyman said. “She was bored. This wasn’t the life she wanted.”

“She should have said so.”

“And get out how, exactly?” Journeyman retorted. “You know how often new actors show up.”

Nestor sat down on the stage. He took his cap off and tossed it into the rubble. He rubbed at his chin, studying Albin.

“It’s not our fault, and not theirs either,” Journeyman said. “Apprentice wasn’t cut out for this. She just didn’t know it when she signed on.”

Nestor cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, there is an empty spot that needs to be filled.” He gave Albin and Dora a kindly smile. “You see, children, we can’t put on our plays without an Apprentice. Everything goes wrong. The play you just saw? In the end, the Child of the Motherland comes to sow the Seed of Hope. Life would have sprung up again. That was one of Apprentice’s tasks: hope. Without Apprentice, the world isn’t saved. Yet we must keep putting on our plays. And little by little, the universe slides out of joint. Until now.”

“I will stay,” Albin said.

The others fell silent. Director, Nestor, and Journeyman stared at him. He looked each of them in the eyes.

“I will be Apprentice until you find a new one,” he continued.

“You would?” Director said. “Why?”

Albin wiped at his face. It was still wet. “I found my parents. They’re dead and gone. But this… I could do this. I saved a world. I want to do it again.”

Nestor stroked his chin. “He does have the spark.”

“But this is not a decision to be made lightly,” Director said.

“I’m not making it lightly,” Albin said.

“What about Dora?” Journeyman asked.

Dora looked at Albin, who gave her a stare. I have a plan, he had said. Dora had to trust him.

“I go where Albin goes,” she said.

“Albin?” Director blinked. “Ah. Your name.”

Nestor nodded. “Good name.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem, would it,” Journeyman said, and moved to stand beside Dora. He looked up at her with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “Them coming with us.”

Nestor chuckled and shook his head. “It would certainly be a perk for some of us.”

Director twirled the shawl between her fingers. “It’s not a bad plan,” she mused.

“So we are in agreement?” Nestor asked.

Director and Journeyman nodded.

“I see no reason to wait,” Director said. “Nestor, will you do the honors?”

The troupe closed in around Dora and Albin. Journeyman embraced Dora and Albin from behind. Director slid her hand around Albin’s shoulders. Nestor took Albin’s face in his hands. Up close, Dora could see how the creases by Nestor’s eyes were slightly paler than the rest of his face. The inside rims of his eyes were turning outward with age, but the irises were a clear and shifting brown, like leaves at the bottom of a winter puddle. He smelled of old teeth and face paint.

“What is your name?” he asked Albin.

“Albin Jönsson,” Albin replied.

“Then say after me, ‘I, Albin Jönsson, swear to serve as Apprentice until a new Apprentice is found.’ ”

Albin repeated Nestor’s words. Nestor kissed his forehead. Then he took a step back.

“Welcome, my dears, to the Memory Theater,” Director said. “We are going to put on an excellent show.”

Albin slid into his role as Apprentice like hand into silken glove. He brought finesse and emotional presence to his characters. Director said he was a natural. They put on play after play, all fetched from Director’s playbook. Dora watched and applauded.

There were things Albin could not do yet. Sometimes, the plays the company put on were about people who weren’t human-shaped. There were stories about people with hive minds and spindly legs; stories about undulating beings that made Dora’s eyes hurt; stories about people made of sound. Albin bravely put on costumes and imitated the others’ movements and voices. Director said that he would eventually learn other forms, if he stayed.

In his spare time, Albin wrote. He wouldn’t show anyone what it was; he had asked for paper and pen, and said it was a diary. Nestor had patted him on the shoulder and said it was therapeutic. Not even Dora was allowed to know.

This meant she had plenty of time to think. She dreamed about the mountains often: the great silence, the vast spaces, the calm of massive stone. She thought about seeing Grandmother and Grandfather again, about hearing the saajvoe sing.

Journeyman kept close, but not too close; he was waiting for something. Dora thought she knew what it was, but she didn’t want to give it to him, and told him as much. Not ever? Journeyman had asked. Not ever, Dora had replied.

In the mountains, no one would look at her and hope for things. Dora found herself slowing down. Noise and movement became more stressful. She slept longer and longer. Albin said he worried about her. Nestor said that perhaps she was coming into her true nature, whatever that was. What is the word for when you think of where you came from and become sad? she asked Journeyman once. Homesick, he had answered. You’re homesick.

One day, Albin came over to her as they were preparing for the sixteenth play, The Great Tragedy of Ossa-Fara. He was dressed in the dun robes of the Penitent Brother, face painted in a white mask.

“I need you to do something,” he said.

“Yes,” Dora said without hesitation.

“I said I had a plan,” Albin continued. “It’s time to make that plan happen.”

He reached into the folds of his robe and drew out a bundle of papers. “Dora,” he said, “I need you to put this in Director’s book while we’re putting on the play. They mustn’t notice.”

“Why?” Dora asked.

“Just trust me, please. Will you do this for me?”

“I will,” Dora replied.

When all the actors were onstage and Director was holding a passionate speech as the great queen Ossa-Fara, stricken by madness and about to obliterate her own lands, Dora snuck behind the curtain and found Director’s playbook where it lay on her dressing table. She lifted the cover, and it was empty. Dora stuck Albin’s bundle of papers in there and went back to her couch in front of the stage.

The great queen Ossa-Fara was assassinated by the Penitent Brother, and the Crone sang her lilting song, and it was over.

“A middling performance,” Nestor muttered as he took off the Crone’s wig.

“You can’t hit all the notes every single time,” Journeyman said. “I thought it was great.”

“Everyone!” Director shouted from behind the stage.

“What?” Nestor shouted back.

Director lifted the curtain and came out, brandishing the playbook. “There’s a new play,” she said.

“So soon?” Nestor said. “Must be urgent.”

“It might be,” Director said. “Just look at the title. I think we need to do it right away.”

“What is it?” Albin asked.

“It seems to have your old enemy in it,” Director said, and grinned.

33 The Fall of the Gardens

CHORUS:

A lawn, with small chairs and tables to the side. Two Revelers are playing croquet with a lump of meat. The Lady Mnemosyne watches from a divan. Augusta Prima enters from stage left.

AUGUSTA:

Augusta takes another step, revealing herself.

AUGUSTA:

MNEMOSYNE:

REVELER 1:

REVELER 2:

REVELER 1:

The Revelers take Augusta’s hands. They dance across the stage. Augusta laughs and dances along.

REVELERS:

AUGUSTA:

Augusta continues to sing and dance, but from her hands, a miasma begins to ooze like black smoke. She walks across the stage, caressing trees, flowers, and the Revelers. The trees droop, the flowers wilt, and the Revelers’ clothes begin to fray where she has touched them. Augusta dances past Mnemosyne and lightly touches her hand.

Reveler 1 stops and clutches his chest.

REVELER 1:

REVELER 2:

AUGUSTA:

Reveler 1 shudders and slumps to the ground. Reveler 2 coughs up a stream of blood. Mnemosyne holds up her hands and looks at them. As she does so, her gown falls from her shoulders to reveal a skeletal rib cage.

MNEMOSYNE:

Reveler 2 sinks to his knees. Mnemosyne stands up and points at Augusta.

MNEMOSYNE:

AUGUSTA:

MNEMOSYNE:

Mnemosyne falls to the ground and lets out one last breath. Augusta tears at her own shirt; beneath, her flesh is falling apart.

AUGUSTA:

Vines climb up Augusta’s arms and cover her face. She slumps to the ground and lies still.

CHORUS:

34

Augusta stood on the grass, reeling. On the dais before her, Mnemosyne’s corpse was sinking into the throne, which had sprouted vines and crushed her in its embrace. Walpurgis lay in front of her, one hand around Mnemosyne’s foot. His face had collapsed in on itself; tiny shoots stretched into the air from the top of his head. Cymbeline and Virgilia embraced each other in a heap in the middle of the lawn. And there was Euterpe, naked in the rhododendron, overtaken by growth; ferns shot up like spears through her chest, unfurling in the sunlight. Everything was quiet save for the rustle of growing things. The air smelled of dew and grass and rot. It was dawn.

The servants still stood here and there on the lawn. Augusta saw now how emaciated they were, how their dresses and livery hung moldy and moth-eaten on their thin frames. They were all staring at her.

Augusta looked down at herself. Nothing had happened to her. She was as she had been before: the borrowed breeches and coat, her body within. She alone was untouched. She kneeled by Euterpe’s body and shook it gently.

“Sister,” she said. “Wake up.”

Euterpe fell apart like a rotten log. The inside teemed with life: beetles, maggots, sprouting seeds.

Augusta’s cheeks felt hot and wet. It was hard to breathe.

“Remarkable,” a voice said.

Augusta turned around. Ghorbi.

“You,” Augusta said. “Did you do this?”

“Of course not,” Ghorbi replied. “I merely watched.”

“But all this.” Augusta gestured at the mayhem. “It’s you. It must be you.”

“I think not,” Ghorbi said. “But I have my suspicions. It looked a lot like a play. You were talking in blank verse.”

“I’m not dead.”

“No, you’re not.” Ghorbi paused. “You probably should be. But you’re not.”

Augusta shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s be clear,” Ghorbi said. “You had this coming. Albin survived, did you know? I’m sure he had plans for you.”

“Albin,” Augusta said. “Albin.”

A boy, a page. Insolent. She had killed him. He and Ghorbi must have conspired. She looked at what was left of poor Euterpe, who had only just now danced across the lawn.

“This is all your fault,” Augusta growled. “Yours and Albin’s.”

She threw herself at Ghorbi, who slid out of her way.

“I see you haven’t learned a thing,” Ghorbi said.

Augusta punched at her, but her fist met empty air. She cried out in frustration, and Ghorbi chuckled.

“You’ll see,” Augusta said. “I’ll be like you. I’ll travel the worlds. I’ll be a celebrated guest in every court. And I’ll have my vengeance.”

Ghorbi’s expression grew serious.

“Not like me,” Ghorbi said. “Never like me. You don’t know how to be a guest. You only know how to intrude, to subjugate. You wouldn’t be a guest; you’d be a terrifying invader. In any case…” Ghorbi looked over Augusta’s shoulder. “You’d best hurry.”

Footsteps came through the grass. Augusta turned her head and saw a half-circle of servants closing in on her. Her chest seized with something like fear.

“Help me,” she begged Ghorbi. “For friendship’s sake.”

Ghorbi shook her head. “You are no one’s friend, Augusta.” She took a few steps back.

The servants surrounded Augusta now. They were not at all the cowed children that had once attended the courtiers.

Augusta pointed at the biggest one, a sturdy-looking youth.

“You,” she said, in her lady voice. “Pack me a bag for traveling.”

The servant stared at her, right in the eyes. Then he charged.

Augusta turned around and ran into the forest. Twigs tore at her as she pushed her way through underbrush. Her lungs hurt. Behind her, the ululating cries of the hunt.

35

The house-carriage sat in the middle of a lawn that had burst into wild growth. In front of it stood a pavilion with the overgrown remains of a divan. Here and there, bone gleamed in wet grass. The sun shone down; clouds were scudding away over the treetops.

“Here we are,” Director said, “frontstage and all, for once.”

“Thank you,” Albin said.

“I can’t see her anywhere,” Albin said. He was pacing the lawn, still wearing Reveler One’s ruined coat. Nearby, Journeyman stepped out of Mnemosyne’s dress and folded it.

Director took her wig off. “Augusta should have perished here with the rest of the Gardens,” she said.

“She’s not here!” Albin replied.

He pointed at the green-clad corpse on the throne, still crowned in laurel. “That’s Mnemosyne. And that’s Euterpe over there, and Walpurgis, and Virgilia… but I don’t see Augusta. Where is she?” His voice rose to a shout.

“Walpurgis,” Dora said.

She picked her way across the lawn to the corpse whose garb was being overrun by tiny flowers. Walpurgis was almost reduced to bones, but the ringlets of his hair were still perfect. Dora bent down and touched them. They came loose from the skull and fell into her hands. It occurred to her that maybe she should grieve for him. But all she felt was tired. Walpurgis had not deserved to be a father.

“Goodbye,” she said to Walpurgis where he lay.

“Why isn’t she here?” Albin said again. “She’s supposed to be! That was the whole idea!”

“What idea, Albin?” Director said in a low voice.

Dora straightened. “Albin wrote the play.”

“You did what?” Nestor said incredulously.

Albin shot Dora an angry glance. “You promised you wouldn’t tell.”

“But you just did,” Dora replied.

“I want to hear it from you, Albin,” Director said slowly, and walked over to where he stood.

Albin swallowed. “I wrote the play. I wrote the play and made Dora put it in your book.”

Nestor rubbed his chin, smearing his Reveler Two makeup. His eyes were hard. “I take it you didn’t join us for the reasons you gave.”

“I didn’t lie,” Albin replied. “Everything I said was true. I have nowhere to go. And I love being an actor.”

“You lied by omission,” Nestor stated.

Journeyman looked at Dora helplessly. “Were you in on this?”

“I promised not to tell,” Dora said.

Director had made it all the way over to Albin now and was staring down at him. Her voice was cold. “Albin,” she said.

Albin looked up at her, hands balled into fists.

“Do you understand what you have done?” Director continued. “Do you understand what it means to write something that did not happen?”

“We are not gods,” Nestor said. “We are a function. We are memory. And memory is not a power to be abused.”

“You used us,” Journeyman said, still looking at Dora. “You used us to alter the fabric of the multiverse.”

“This place is evil!” Albin shouted into Director’s face. “Everything about it is evil! Augusta is a murderer! I did the right thing! And now she isn’t here!” His voice broke. “She isn’t here.”

Director’s expression softened. “I think it’s time you let this go, Albin. Move on with your life. Or this will eat you alive.”

Albin covered his eyes. Dora could see his lips trembling. She walked over to comfort him, but he turned away. She heard him cry with small noises. It made her chest hurt.

“That was the show of a lifetime,” said a voice.

Ghorbi stood at the edge of the lawn, wrapped in her shadowy robes. The sunlight didn’t seem to touch her.

Nestor’s expression turned sour. “You were watching all along?”

“I was,” Ghorbi said. “Hello again, keeper of plays.”

“So that’s Ghorbi,” Journeyman said. “I’ve always wondered.”

Director smiled. “That’s her indeed.”

“Did you come here to congratulate yourself on a game well played?” Nestor said.

Ghorbi looked down at him. “I don’t play games. I just know when I can help and when I can’t. Thank you for returning the favor.”

Nestor sneered. “I’ll bet you were waiting for something really big. These children have had us running back and forth across all the worlds.”

Ghorbi gave him a sad smile. “I did you a favor, a long time ago. I called it in. That is the way of things. You want something that I cannot give. That is why you are angry.”

Unexpectedly, Nestor’s eyes filled with tears. “I just wish you would have loved me back,” he said in a small voice.

“I know,” Ghorbi said. “But I didn’t.”

She turned to the others. “I have business to attend to. I just didn’t want to miss the climax.” She raised an eyebrow at Dora. “I have not forgotten our deal. But your life will be long, and I’m not in a hurry. Be well.”

“Wait,” Albin said. “What became of Augusta?”

“Last I saw, your fellow servants were hunting her,” Ghorbi said. “A beautiful case of poetic justice.”

“So she is dead.”

“I can’t say,” Ghorbi replied. “But I have trouble believing she could outrun that sort of fury.”

Albin looked at his feet.

“Can you be content with that?” Ghorbi asked.

He looked up, and his eyes were hollow. “I’m tired.”

Ghorbi nodded. “Perhaps it is time to begin your own life.”

Then she was gone.

The carriage swayed as it traveled along a stream between worlds. Muted light flickered through the stained-glass windows and danced over the company’s faces. Nestor and Director were staring at the map, speaking in low voices. Director had her playbook out and was pointing to it and then to the map. Journeyman was fussing with pots and pans in the kitchen. Whatever he was making smelled of spices. Albin sat in one of the armchairs, feet dangling over an armrest. Dora sat on the floor next to him. Albin reached down to stroke Dora’s hair.

“It’s grown back,” he said.

“It has,” Dora agreed. “Are you still sad?”

“I am,” Albin replied. “And angry. And heartsick.”

“Will you always be?”

Albin scratched her scalp a little. “I don’t think so. But I have to be for a while. You can’t fix it. Just let me be like that.”

Dora patted his hand. “I will.”

Director and Nestor came over. Director sat down in the chair across from Albin, and Nestor stood next to her with a hand on the backrest. Behind them, Journeyman looked up from the stove.

“We need to talk,” Director said, and her face was set.

Albin’s hand left Dora’s head, and he sat up straight.

Director pointed at Albin. “You did something very stupid,” she said. “You abused our power.”

“What are you going to do?” Albin asked in a small voice. “Are you going to punish me?”

Director shook her head. “No.”

“What you did was idiotic,” Nestor said. “But you have a talent for drama.”

“We would like to offer you a permanent position,” Director continued. “You won’t be writing any more plays, though.”

“I’m going to die soon,” Nestor said conversationally. “Then Director will become Grande Dame, and Journeyman will be Director, and you will be Journeyman. And someone else will be Apprentice.”

“You will make a wonderful Director eventually,” Director said. “I know it.”

Albin sat very still in his chair.

Director rose. “We’ll let you mull it over.”

She and Nestor returned to the map. Journeyman turned his attention back to the cooking pot.

“I don’t know what to do,” Albin said.

“I do,” Dora replied. “You should stay here. This is a good place for you.”

“What do you mean, ‘You should stay’?”

Dora shifted so she could look straight at Albin. What is the word for when you think of where you came from and become sad? Homesick.

“I have followed you all this time,” Dora said, “when you were looking for your name and then looking for Augusta. You protected me in the Gardens, so I protected you outside. But now you’re safe. You’re grown up. You don’t need my protection anymore. And so it’s my turn. I want to go home.”

Albin looked at her, and his eyes glittered. “I know you have to go.”

Dora rose up on her knees and cradled his face in her hands. He was almost a man now, but she could feel his delicate jaw under the beard.

“You can come visit me on the mountain,” she said. “You know where it is.”

“But not frontstage,” Albin replied. “I’ll always be backstage. Watching you.”

“Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Albin shrugged helplessly. “Maybe.”

Dora put her arms around him.

“I can hear your heart,” he mumbled into her chest. “It’s so slow.”

“Tell me a story,” Dora said.