Somebody says something, but he does not hear the words. Aris does. She steps forward, and his arm falls. She walks toward the bonfire.
She comes to stand in front of the flames twice her height. For one moment, he is afraid. What if the logs tumble down and set her ablaze? What if she decides to jump in?
Her clear voice punctures the cold night. “I lost my friend. My best friend. He was the most vibrant human being I’ve ever met. Fearless. Honest. Open. And I miss him.”
She pauses to wipe her eyes.
“He killed himself. He did it because he couldn’t stand the pain. The pain of not being able to dream. He lost his dreams. They were stolen from him by the Interpreter Center. They erased his dreams with a machine called the Dreamcatcher.”
Metis’s heart begins to thump uncontrollably. Aris should not be saying this. There could be repercussions.
He scans the crowd from face to face. Some exchange questioning looks with each other. But most are listening to her with the innocent expression of someone who is dreaming and expecting to wake up. He slowly walks toward her, weaving through bodies that stand as still as gravestones. His steps are cautious. He does not want to disturb their trance.
“Before he died, he made me a thousand origami cranes,” Aris continues, “He called them ‘blue birds of happiness.’ But since he’s been gone, I haven’t been able to feel happy. Maybe that’s because it’s trapped inside this crane.”
“Burn it!” someone shouts. The person’s voice is matched by another.
The crowd chants in unison, “Burn it! Burn it! Burn it!”
He watches as Aris takes one last long look at the crane in her hand. She tosses it into the flame just as he reaches her. When she sees him, she gives him a smile so sweet it breaks his heart.
Her eyes are filled to the brim with liquid threatening to fall. He grabs her hand and pulls her to his chest. She falls easily into it. Her thin body shakes to the rhythm of her sob. He wraps his arms around her, flooded by the desire to take her away from this place—this surreal life. He slowly guides her way. The spot where she stood is now occupied by another woman with something else in her hand.
They walk in silence until the light of the bonfire is behind them. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can see the shapes of twisted bushes and squat boulders. A mountain range lies silhouetted at the horizon. The nippy wind blows through the gaps in his jacket.
She stops suddenly, forcing him to do the same. She tilts her head up. He follows her gaze, and his breath catches in his throat. The image above stuns him. The deep indigo sky is carpeted with billions of bright stars. The twinkling white dots, like the pulsing of heartbeats, make the sky seem like a single organism. Alive.
For each point of brilliant light, he knows there are many more that are invisible to the naked eye. Living in the city, where evidence of other planets and stars is obscured by manmade lights, he had forgotten how insignificant his life really is. The faint band of the Milky Way paints the sky like a trail of spilled milk. Somewhere in the center of it is a massive black hole that one day will pull this earth in.
“Doesn’t it make you feel small in a good way?” Aris says.
He clears his throat. “Yeah, it does.”
After a long pause she says, “The Milky Way is not as bright in the winter as in the summer.”
“Why is that?”
“In the summer we look inward, toward the center of the galaxy where there are more stars. But now we’re looking outward, away from the center of the galaxy toward the fringe where there are fewer stars.”
He searches for Vega in the northwestern quadrant as Aris had told him to do in the park. He cannot see it.
“If you’re looking for Vega, it’s there.” She points toward the bright blue light of his favorite star.
“Ah. Thank you.”
“You know, it’s funny how a simple act of burning something can feel so freeing,” Aris says.
“It helped?”
“I feel lighter. It may be too soon to say that I feel better. But yeah, it helped. I think.”
The lavender scent emanating from her skin is intoxicating. She smells just as she does in his dreams. He is drawn to her. Powerless against his own desire. He leans in and kisses her. It is a kiss that carries the weight of their years apart. It is a question that demands an answer.
Do you remember?
She pulls away.
“Metis?”
“Hmm?”
“Take me to your home?” she whispers.
Standing in front of her is an elegant Victorian house the color of a robin’s egg. The home sits among the other Painted Ladies on a hill in a posh section of Lysithea. The wood scales covering it make it look like a fish. Weighty carved moldings, floral flourishes in deep magenta, and white gingerbread details adorn the Queen Anne structure like jewelry on an alluring lady, making it almost too overwhelming for the senses.
The whole ride to Lysithea was a blur. The uncertainty of the unknown vibrates beneath her skin like water tremoring in an earthquake. But the intoxicating high coursing through her veins is carrying her forward. Her stomach tightens in a knot.
They step onto the wide wraparound porch. It hugs the house like a protective lover. From here, Aris sees an unobstructed view of the city lights twinkling below. Somewhere out there is her city. And Elara. Where she scattered ashes of the dead. Where she burned a part of herself in the flame.
“I’m home,” Metis says, and the door opens.
She steps gingerly into the warm orange glow of the foyer. A large floral arrangement in a vase sits atop a heavy oak table. The flowers are a kind she has never seen before. She walks toward them. The green flowers are long tapered spikes with small buds that hang like bells. They look like a cross between foxgloves and foxtail lilies.
Under her feet is a round Persian rug with saturated shades of reds, cinnamon, and ochre. Above her is an ornate chandelier made of blown glass. It is a stately home, the kind that would have been occupied by an affluent family in the Old World before the Last War.
A landscape painting of oak trees and rolling golden hills on a wall catches her eye, and she goes to it. Something about it calms her. She begins to feel the coil inside her unraveling.
“Beautiful house,” she says as she studies the impression the artist left on the canvas while trying to capture light and shadow.
His voice comes from somewhere in the next room, “I think at one point a couple lived here before me. They were poets, I believe. I keep finding pieces of paper with half-written poems all over the house. Some were love notes. Quite sweet.”
She hears the heavy sound of a cabinet door opening, then the tinkling of glass. She wonders what one pianist does in this enormous space.
As if Metis can read her mind he says, “It’s too big for one person, I know. The Dwelling Council has a theory that creativity expands and contracts with space. Who am I to argue?”
Aris looks away from the painting and turns toward the direction of his voice. Through the wide doorway she sees Metis. His tall and slim figure stands in the middle of a room paneled in dark wood. Something about seeing him like that strikes an eerily familiar feeling.
The shakiness returns. She ambles toward him in the parlor with the caution of a feral cat.
“Do you want a drink? I only have Scotch. I hope that’s okay,” he says.
“Yes,” her voice unstable. She clears her throat.
He hands her a highball glass with amber liquid filling an inch of its bottom. She takes it. On his handsome face is a small smile. He moves closer, his face coming toward hers. She steps back.
“Are you okay?” he asks, hesitancy in his eyes.
“Yeah,” she says, “I’m just tired, I guess. It’s been a long day.”
“Aris,” he says her name in a slow, easy wa
y. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” she says and drains the glass. She really does not know. Emotions roll her over like a tidal wave, making her feel as if she is drowning. The irrational feelings surging inside her are frightening.
Am I going insane?
He takes her hand and leads her toward the couch in the middle of the room.
“Let’s just slow down and sit. You’ve been through a lot. You lost your friend,” he says. “Right now, there’s nothing you need to worry about.”
The gentleness of his voice makes her want to cry. She feels fragile, like she is going to break into pieces with one touch. She leans back against the soft cushion and closes her eyes.
The sound of piano music begins. It comes from somewhere in the house. It is her favorite song, Luce. She lets it carry her off on its wings.
Chapter Eighteen
Palm trees. A beach of sand and pebbles. Blue sky. Everything looks brighter, more vivid than usual. Aris blames the two white suns above.
Sea-foam tickles the tops of her feet. The sound of sand crunches underneath. A shell catches her eye, and she picks it up. It glitters like starlight—a constellation in her hands.
There is a man walking ahead. She quickens her steps. She catches up to him and taps his shoulder. He turns around, and she jumps into his embrace.
“Benja! It’s so good to see you.”
“Hi, sweetie. It’s so good to see you too. I’ve missed you.”
“So, what’s it like?”
“It’s . . .” Benja struggles to find a word, “boring.”
“Boring?”
“There’s nothing to do here. Am I supposed to just relax all day, every day?”
She laughs.
“Better than the other way around,” she says.
“You mean with a stick up your ass as the devil barbecues you?”
“Something like that.”
“Yeah, I was kind of wondering if that’s where I was heading.” He shrugs. “Either hell doesn’t exist, or I wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
“I didn’t know you believed in that.”
“I didn’t either. But all the old books I read must have seeped in somehow.”
“Let me take a good look at you,” she says. Benja is as she remembers, before the obsession and the dreamlessness.
“Still beautiful,” she says.
He smiles. “I’m glad they let me keep it.”
She wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him tight.
“Oh, I miss you so much,” she says.
“I really miss you,” he says and holds her.
She looks up at him. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” he says and kisses her head. “But there really is no point. How about we call it even?”
She laughs. “If you say so.”
They hold each other for a long moment until Benja stirs.
“The birds are here for me now,” he says.
Aris looks up and sees a flock of blue cranes flying from one of the suns. They are heading in their direction. She remembers something. She turns back to thank Benja for the one thousand cranes, but he is no longer there.
“Be happy,” she whispers.
“What did you say?” a man’s voice asks.
Aris feels a weight on her ribs. The hardness of an arm against her skin. She opens her eyes and is blinded by the brightness. She blinks to adjust.
Everything is white. The walls of painted wood. The cotton sheet on her body. The pillow under her cheek. There is so much white she feels like she is floating in a sea of milk. Threads of light shine from the direction of her head, illuminating patches on the floors and walls, lighting the dust in the air like sparkling diamond particles.
She feels hot, like she is sleeping next to a furnace. She turns her body toward the source. All she sees is skin—hills and valleys of warm gold. Her eyes travel up the landscape. A neck. Stubble decorates the edges of his face. His lips.
Metis.
She reaches up and kisses him.
“Nothing,” she answers and lays her head on his smooth chest, feeling it move up and down to the rhythm of his breathing.
The heat of his body radiates through her, making her skin tingle. But she does not want to move. A quick breeze enters through the window, billowing the white curtains and giving her temporary relief. It brings with it the salty scent of the sea. She hears the tinkling of wind chimes outside. Beyond that, the constant lolling of tides over sand.
“Happy anniversary.” He pulls her closer, wrapping her tight in his embrace. The length of his body hard against hers.
“A very hot one,” he says. “You’re all sweaty. Did you sleep all right?”
She nods.
“Do you still think it’ll be worth living like hermits the rest of the cycle?” she asks.
“Yes.” He kisses her forehead.
“You won’t miss the restaurants, the plays, the concerts?” she asks.
He runs his fingers through her hair, separating the damp strands from each other. “You worry too much about what’s to come. Besides, there are plenty of fun things to do inside.”
He demonstrates it by tracing his finger along her spine to its base. It lingers there, drawing circles on the small of her back. Goosebumps rise on her skin.
“And don’t forget you’re sleeping with the best pianist of this century,” he says, “A private concert in our living room. Best seat in town.”
“Of the century, huh? I’m not sure I can afford the seat.”
“It’s not much. Just a kiss or two.”
He leans down and presses his soft lips on hers. They travel to her jawline and down her neck. She feels the sharpness of his stubble raking her skin. He bites the thin flesh on her collarbone, and she shudders.
“A nibble here and there,” he says.
He continues to move down the curves of her body, inhaling her scent.
“I love your smell.”
She catches his face before it disappears under the covers.
“Oh, that’s all?” she says, giggling.
“And whatever else you wish to give.” He smiles mischievously.
She pivots her hips and rolls him over. It is her turn to be on top. He does not resist.
“Will a deposit be required?” she asks.
By the feel of him against her leg, she knows the answer.
“Yes, it’s very, very necessary,” he says.
He runs his hands along her sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. They come to rest at the smallest part of her waist. His thick palms feel hot on her skin even in the warm air.
She gazes down at his contented face. A soft smile dots the corners of his lips. Seeing it brings a smile to hers. She brushes loose, dark waves off his forehead and runs her index finger on the line between his eyebrows.
“It’s like someone took a blade and cut you here,” she says, “trying to release your third eye.”
He chuckles. “Time is a vicious murderer of youth.”
He traces the contours of her waist and up the curves of her breast. He presses. A sound, barely audible, escapes her lips.
“But for the lucky few,” he says.
An errant thought slips through, and sadness washes over her.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Only a year left.”
He sits up and looks at her with serious eyes. He pulls her to him and wraps his arms around her. His long-fingered hands press firmly on her back, cradling her. She hears his heart beating, constant like a metronome.
In one quick movement, he twists and pins her to the mattress, surprising her. The feel of his strong thigh muscles prominent on her hips. As if remembering his own strength and weight, he shifts off her protruding bones, relievi
ng her. He gently brushes a stray hair off her face and strokes her cheek.
“Three hundred and sixty-five days,” he says. His eyes burrow into hers. “And we will make every minute count.”
He kisses her deeply. When they part, she is left with the scent of the ocean and his skin. And the wanting.
She lets him in. An indecipherable sound chokes his throat. Their bodies mimic the rhythm of the tides outside. Slow and insistent, like water against rocks. He laces his hands in hers, and she clings to him like the last ray of the sun the moment before it sets, afraid she would disappear into the other side of the world.
She feels her arms being raised toward the headboard. He untangles his fingers from hers and gathers both her wrists in one hand. The other moves like the wind over the dunes of her body, changing its shape as it passes. She feels like an offering, a sacrifice to calm the thirst of the sea monsters.
His grip tightens. Their movement hastens. Fast. So fast she feels like glass spinning under pressure, readying to explode into a million grains of sand, to be blown east with the wind.
Chapter Nineteen
A familiar music draws her out of slumber. But there is something different about it.
What time is it? She looks at her watch. February 15, 9:17 a.m.
“Lucy, coffee please,” she says. No answer.
She smells lavender. It’s in the sheets and pillows, surrounding her. She opens her eyes. A crystal chandelier. Warm green walls. Dark cherrywood sleigh bed. This is not her sleek and modern bedroom.
Where am I?
Then she remembers. Metis’s Victorian house. She bolts upright.
Metis!
The dream that has been haunting her this cycle is of him. He is her “man in the white hat!”
She wonders what to do. Should she tell him? Not tell him? She feels as if she’s about to combust with the knowledge. She decides she wants to tell him. But how can she do it without sounding like a lunatic? Would he think she had lost her mind? She can use grief as an excuse. Maybe. Can grief turn a person insane?
Finally she understands Benja. If he were here, she knows what he would say. But he is gone—flown away with the blue cranes of happiness. Instead of the drowning sadness that has been haunting her since his death, she feels lighter. She knows her friend is happier, wherever he is.
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