“I hope you know how to put it back together,” says Aris.
“Do you know that the Japanese believed if one folded a thousand origami cranes, one’s wish would come true?”
“I just want the one back,” she says, “Do you know how insane this is? Getting a message in a folded bird from a mysterious group?”
“You have no idea. I’ve been looking for them forever.”
He continues to unfold the crane. His hands tremble as he reveals each fold as if undressing a new lover.
“There. I think that’s it.” Benja lowers the blue paper so Aris can see.
The inside is blank.
Benja’s crestfallen face stops Aris from saying anything more.
Chapter Seven
Aris enters the stately auditorium of Carnegie Hall. Her gaze travels up to the impossibly high ceiling. The ivory walls. The gilded carved details on the columns. It comes to rest on the shiny black grand piano sitting in the middle of the stage.
Most of the audience is already seated. It’s a full house. She pulls up the end of her long black dress—slinky with a bow that ties around her neck. The buttery material against her skin makes her feel like she is wearing nothing but a layer of lotion. Lucy chose this for her. The proclivity tests do not fail.
Her red stilettos step on the matching carpet that lines the magnificent space. She admires the builders of this concert hall. The red velvet seats, the Italian Renaissance–inspired proscenium arch, the carved balcony facade—all replicas of the real Carnegie Hall that perished when Manhattan was obliterated.
Aris squeezes past people sitting in the second row to her seat in the middle. When she bought it a week and a half ago, it was the only seat available. Metis is more popular than she thought. She wonders how many entertainment points she has left. She imagines a life of scrimping on leisure over the next few months and blames a weak moment of impulsiveness.
The lights dim around her. The stage blazes in blinding luminescence. A man walks rigid-backed to the piano and bows. His black hair reminds Aris of anthracite. It contrasts against his skin. It’s pale—not the paleness of a sickly person, but like ivory yellowed with age. The dazzling lights from above illuminate him, making him appear to glow.
A knot of concentration etches between his brows. His face shows focused intensity. He sits. Silence. Aris hears her breathing in her ears.
The first note hits. The pianist’s hands fly along the keys like a practiced eagle swooping in for a kill. Fast. So fast that the movement of his fingers seems a blur. The sound reverberates in her chest. She wants to lift off her seat and grips the armrests to root herself.
So, this is why.
A different song. And another. One transitions to the next seamlessly like the continuum of the horizon. Song after song, he pounds away at the keys. They follow his command like soldiers their general. A single drop of sweat touches his temple. He plays tirelessly. Ceaselessly. His hands glide along the keys, completely able to exist separate from each other.
His music incites a terrifying image inside her—one inspired by the wreckage of the Last War she shares with the children. Orange sky. Broken-down bridges. Mangled cars, their metal melted as if made of butter. Black columns of smoke rise into the air like charred trees. She smells the indescribable odor of hair burning. It’s choking her.
Her breath comes up short. The rhythm pulses in her veins. His music pulls her like gravity and winds her so tightly she feels like a spring readying to leap. Beads of sweat travel down her spine. They gather at the small of her back. She feels like she’s drowning.
She wants to get up and run, but she cannot. She is held down by his powerful hands. Mesmerized. Tranquilized. Her eyes lock onto his face as it contorts in a manic trance.
A word comes to her. Madness. This is what psychologists mean when they say there is a fine line between madness and genius.
The notes transition. A familiar tune. The one she asked Lucy to wake her with each morning since she first heard it.
Luce.
She sighs and leans back in her seat. The spring inside her unwinds. The rhythm of the song slows down her pulse. She closes her eyes.
Bright lights filter in through thin curtains. The sounds of waves in the background. Sweat drips down her back. A warm hand runs along her side. If only she could sleep here forever.
Successive, piercing beeps puncture the serenity of the concert hall, bouncing off the walls and startling her. Her watch! Aris fumbles for it, cursing herself for forgetting to mute it.
“I NEED YOU,” says the message.
She looks up and meets the eyes of the pianist. She mouths an apology. It hangs in the air like a speck of dust. There is no forgiveness in his face—only the shocked expression of someone who has witnessed an unspeakable crime. He stares at her, making her feel as if she has committed the greatest of sins. His pale face turns a shade paler, then it floods pink. She feels blood rushing into her own face and sinks into the chair.
Geez. I said sorry.
Abruptly the music stops, leaving the song unfinished. The last note hangs in the air and tapers into a deafening silence that fills the great hall. Without ceremony or explanation, the pianist gets up and walks off stage.
The hall erupts in confused chatter. The noise reminds Aris of the buzzing of bees, making her feel like she is sitting in the middle of an angry hive. Eyes of those around her glare with accusation. Shame fills her. She wants to crawl under her chair and disappear.
The pounding sound of blood fills her ears. She leaps up and races out the door of the hall, sensing stares on her like pointed knives. She feels that if she doesn’t run, she will be caught. And there would be consequences. She does not look back.
Metis stares at his trembling hands as if they belong on another person.
“What was that about?” Argus asks. The stage manager’s voice is high with anxiety.
Metis ignores him. He’s more concerned with not collapsing onto the floor. He leans against a wall for support. Am I dreaming? he wonders. He wipes his face with his quivering, foreign hand. Her face, the face he has seen countless times in the warm embrace of his slumber, is unmistakable. Her chestnut hair is longer and lighter. Her honey skin is a touch browner, kissed by the sun. But it is her.
He curses his luck. He had spent years searching for her, only to find her now with less than six months left.
Is this real?
He looks up. The backstage room stands in contrast to the brilliance and splendor of the front. It is a small room. A utilitarian room. In one corner is the command center that controls the lighting and sound for the stage. In another corner is a line of storage lockers. The only thing resembling the opulence of the theater is a set of dark-gray velvet curtains used as partitions. Everything looks too real to be a dream.
Argus’s face appears in front of him. It is filled with concern. “Why did you just leave the stage like that? Are you sick?”
“I—uh—I’m not sure.”
“Do you need to lie down?”
“No!” The last thing Metis wants is to fall asleep. “I mean, I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
He looks down at the rings on his fingers. The light from above shines on the silver bands, giving them a soft sheen. The shaking in his hands begins to subside.
“Please go back out there, Metis. The crowd is restless. They’re freaking out. You have no idea how many entertainment points those seats cost. They’re going to riot if you don’t,” Argus pleads.
Metis snaps his head up. This is real. She is out there. He needs to see her again. He nods and walks back on stage—the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.
The crowd notices him and settles back in their seats. Metis searches the sea of eager faces. His eyes come to rest on the spot he saw her last. The chair is empty. She is gone.
He
sucks in a breath, feeling the dry wind blowing through the holes in his heart. He composes his face into a mask and continues his walk toward the piano. Under him the seat feels hard. Like his soul. He lays his fingers on the keys.
Luce begins.
Aris changes into a light cotton dress. The memory of the pianist surfaces, and a shudder sweeps through her. She wraps a warm shawl around her shoulders, warding off the intensity of the previous hours.
She hears a knock on the door. It’s Benja. He leans against the doorframe with desperation in his eyes. He’s breathing hard, and his face is red. She is reminded of the color of Mars.
“I need your help,” Benja says.
“Hey stranger,” Aris says and moves aside to let him in.
She has not spoken to him since the library. She left him a few messages, but he did not reply. He moves in to kiss her on the cheek but stops in his tracks.
“You look like you just had sex.” He scans around, searching for evidence. “Is he still here?”
She pushes the door closed. It bangs against the frame. “There’s no one here.”
“Really? But you’re glowing. You seem nervous. And you look . . . guilty.”
“Well, you’re wrong. I came from a concert.”
“Huh. Okay,” he says, “Can I get a quick drink of water? I ran here.”
She walks to the kitchen, and Benja follows. She brings out two glasses from the cupboard and fills them with water from the faucet.
“Here.” She hands him a glass and drains hers.
It’s ice cold with a slight saline aftertaste. A drop drips from the side of her mouth. The taste reminds her of her dream. She dismisses the thought and wipes the droplet with the back of her hand.
“What happened to you?” she says.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You didn’t return my reaches. I was worried about you.”
“I’m here now.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re fine?”
“Yes. Look at me.”
She studies him. His face is flushed. His eyes twinkle with glee. She feels his restless energy through the air.
“So, what do you need my help with?” she asks.
“I think there’s a hidden message,” he says.
“Where?”
“In the crane!”
“You’re still on that?”
“That’s what I’ve been working on, trying to figure it out.” He pulls out the blue piece of paper.
“There’s nothing on it,” she says. “Have you considered it may not even be from the Dreamers? Maybe it was just someone trying to be funny.”
“I don’t think so. Last night, when I was holding it in bed, I noticed the paper has this odd sour smell. It took me a long time to figure out what it reminds me of.”
He holds the paper in front of her nose. “Sushi rice. See?”
She scrunches up her face.
“Sushi rice is cooked with vinegar,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Why would a piece of paper smell like vinegar?” he asks.
A thought strikes her. “In the Old World, during war, spies would send messages using invisible ink made of lemon juice.”
“You think—?” His voice buzzes with excitement.
“Lucy,” Aris says, “what reveals invisible writing written in vinegar?”
“Vinegar contains acetic acid,” the AI’s voice speaks, “Acid breaks down cellulose in paper and turns it into sugar. Heat caramelizes sugar.”
“Fire. Try fire!” Aris says.
“Burn it?” He gives her an incredulous look.
“You can read messages written in vinegar because they burn faster than the paper they are written on,” Lucy says. “You have to be very careful to heat the paper only just enough to reveal the message but not burn it.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Benja says, messing his hair with his hand.
“I don’t know. Just try,” Aris says.
“So if I fail, my crane will be ash?” he asks.
“First of all, I found the crane, so technically it’s mine. You’d be burning my crane, yeah. Just be careful.”
Benja looks at Aris with frustration in his eyes. “All right, give me fire.”
She goes to the restroom and brings out a candle she uses during baths. Benja is at her side at once. She places it on the table and lights it, sending the calming scent of lavender into the air.
Benja stares at the flame in dead silence as if seeing a vision in it.
“I can’t do it,” he says finally and thrusts the paper into her hand. “You do it.”
She has never seen him like this. He is usually fearless. She takes the piece of blue paper and holds it over the flame. Benja sucks in a breath. His eyes stare unblinking.
A corner of the paper curls and a burning smell rises. She raises the paper. She needs to find that perfect place between answer and ash. Brown lines slowly appear, one by one, until words form.
Spring flower.
Her breathing stumbles. She almost drops the paper. Benja reaches over with trembling hand and takes it from between her fingers. His face is alight with ecstasy.
“What does it mean?” he says, staring at the words as if they hold the meaning of life.
As Aris looks at him, apprehension rears its head from the pit of her stomach. Her friend’s fanciful fixation is crossing over to something much more intoxicating. Enticing. Real. She feels its strong pull.
“I found her!” Metis says. He can barely contain the excitement in his voice. It took him two weeks to trace her, but he finally did.
The Crone says nothing back. He looks at her, trying to read between the lines on her ancient face. Her ghostly image is the only source of light in the dim cottage—an ethereal being surrounded by dusty shelves and broken chairs. Her eyes are focused on the floor below. He follows her gaze. From this loft, it looks like a pit of darkness. Frustration builds inside him. He wants a reaction or an answer. Something.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” he asks.
Her wispy figure glides to him. Her face betrays no feelings.
“We will need a new Sandman.”
“Why can’t it still be me?” he says.
“Where the past and the present converge, there is pain.”
“You said that but there’s no proof. Why can’t I make it work?”
The Crone studies his face, the same way she does whenever she knows there is more he has left unsaid. “She doesn’t remember, and you want her to take Absinthe, is that right?”
Her aura brightens. He knows he is treading on dangerous ground.
“Just as the Interpreter Center has no right to take away someone’s memory against their will, we have no right to make someone remember,” she says. “If you want her, you must go to her as Metis, the pianist, and leave the rest of you behind. Convince her to fall in love with you, just as you are. It is you who must give up. The past, Absinthe, being the Sandman.”
Metis doesn’t know what to say. He has not even spoken to his wife—her name only recently ceased to be a mystery. Would she—could she—love him without her memories of their life together? He is nothing to her.
The Crone closes the gap between them. “You’re not the first Sandman to be in this predicament. I’ve seen it all before and I know what’s coming. You have to make a choice. The past or the present. You cannot have both or you will risk exposing us all. You know the rule.”
He knows what choice he would make. It would always be Aris—or whatever other identity she will have in the future. Even if there is no guarantee that she would choose him too.
He nods. It is a gesture so slight it could easily be missed. But the Crone knows her Sandman has made his decision.
Chapter Eigh
t
Fall has painted the trees in shades of red, yellow, gold, and brown. Leaves litter the walking path, making it look like an impressionist painting. Aris sits on a bench next to Thane in the park. Across the street from them is the museum, gray like a typical October sky.
“I forgot to ask how your date at Griselda went,” she says. Unless asked, Thane doesn’t share his personal life with her. She wonders if he has friends he talks freely with.
“It was—Let’s just say we weren’t compatible,” Thane says.
“How? The app never fails me.”
“I didn’t use the app,” he says.
“Why not?”
“It just feels so unnatural.”
“It’s a time saver,” she says.
The app makes calculations based on personality and proclivity results from all the tests a person has taken during their lifespan. It matches each person across the entire database of all citizens in all the cities. Then it provides options to pick from, ranking by percentage of compatibility and availability. Easy.
“It just never really worked for me,” Thane says.
“What? Explain.”
“It always wants to match me up with some old scientist/mathematician type.”
“What’s wrong with the scientist/mathematician type?” Aris asks, offended.
“Well, let’s just say you’re an exception.”
“There are plenty of attractive scientists.”
“You’re going to have to introduce me to them then because, obviously, we’re not frequenting the same places.”
“Was she an artist?” Aris asks. Thane had let it slip once that, like her, he has an affinity for the creative type. Perhaps it’s their way of adding unpredictability to their lives.
“A sculptor.”
“Intense?”
He nods.
“We talked about her work for the first half hour,” he says. “Then she refused to discuss the possibility that Rodin’s Thinker was inspired by Michelangelo’s Il Penseroso. I mean, it was the foundry workers who named it The Thinker, based on its similarity to Michelangelo’s.”
Reset Page 7