Silence follows.
“Metis?”
“Hmm?”
“Should we talk about what happened tonight?”
She feels his grip tighten around her.
“Are you still upset?” he asks.
“It was the worst thing I have ever seen. But I can kind of understand them. The desire to take back control. To make choices. To make their lives their own. To love who they want. To be with who they want.”
“Choice is everything. But control is an illusion.”
“Yes. Logically you understand. But some of us are too human to embrace it.”
“I suppose.”
“And you? Are you still upset?” she asks.
“I was. Then I realized there was nothing I could have done to change it. Now, I’m just happy to be here with you. But I suspect I will be upset about it again. I just don’t know when.”
“I wish I could be that way.”
“I’ve spent most of my life trying to explain everything in logical terms,” Metis says. “But I realized it was just my way of putting things at arm’s length. It was getting in the way of really feeling, really living. Being present.”
He runs his hands along her sides. “At this moment, the feel of your skin is all I want to focus on.”
Be present.
She wants to be. She closes her eyes and centers her attention on the feel of Metis’s touch against her skin. The warmth of his hands. The smoothness of his long fingers. The way they send electric currents through her body.
In the present, time has no meaning. There is no past. No future. Only this moment exists in the middle of the universe.
She feels the warmth of him in all the crevices of her body. Slowly she opens like a flower. A sigh escapes her lips. She is experiencing it again, that feeling of falling yet filled to the brim. She lets it consume her in its fire.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Aris and Metis arrive in Lysithea before dawn. A shroud of fog descends onto its dark streets, painting it gray. Droplets cling to her hair and jacket like a desperate lover.
She feels as if she is sleepwalking. The only thing that seems real is the warmth of Metis’s hand on hers. She lets herself get lost in the gray pavement and the repetitive rhythm of their steps.
“We’re here,” Metis says.
She looks up from her feet and gasps at the view of the twinkling city lights below. They had at some point passed the section covered by the low-lying fog. Now they are standing on a hill where the sky is clear and the fog is but an earthly trouble they have left behind.
“Where are we?” she asks.
He turns her body, and she sees the robin’s-egg-blue Victorian house. A smile spreads across her face. The chilly air nips at her ears, and Aris wants more than anything to fall into a warm and peaceful sleep in her lover’s arms.
“Can I sleep till tomorrow?” she asks.
“Sure. I just have an errand to run tonight, but I won’t wake you.”
The door opens, and what both she and Metis see makes them stop cold at the threshold. The large vase at the oak table is empty. The arrangement of green flowers has vanished. One corner of the round Persian rug is kicked up into a bunch.
Metis grabs her arm and directs her behind him, shielding her with his body. The forcefulness of his action alerts her to the severity of the situation. He navigates his house as if it is a battle scene. They walk slowly on the spines of the floorboards to keep the creaking to a minimum. His head whips around like a panther searching for prey. Aris follows him like a shadow. She is afraid to breathe, lest the intruder hear her and attack. Her heart is beating to the rhythm of fear.
They enter the parlor. No other soul is here, but someone was. Pulled-out drawers and scattered books lie on the floor. Metis makes his way to the cabinet. He slides open the hidden door inside it.
“It’s gone,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Absinthe.”
“What! Why would you keep it?”
“It was the last batch I made. I was supposed to deliver it to the new Sandman tonight.”
“Who would have taken it?”
The spot between his eyebrows scrunches together. He looks as if he has stopped breathing. The color drains from his face.
“We need to go,” he whispers.
He looks at her as if he has realized something.
“Aris, take off your bracelet!”
She hears him, but she does not understand the connection.
Why?
He picks up her wrist.
“I don’t know how, but the Interpreter Center found me. We can’t be tracked. Take it off and let’s go!” Metis says, his voice rising at the end.
“What? But—” She touches her bracelet. Its smooth hardness was the first thing she remembered after waking up from the hospital after Tabula Rasa. It connects her to the system. To Lucy. The first voice she heard after the Waking. The one constant in her life.
“Only you can do it. Please, we don’t have time. We must go,” Metis pleads.
She stares at the silver bracelet. Then she looks up at Metis. The spot between his eyebrows folds like the ridges of mountains. His jawline is taut with tension. His panic-stricken eyes have a kind of terror Aris has not seen before. Not even after he witnessed the mass suicide at Bodie’s house.
“We’re in danger. We can’t be tracked,” he repeats.
She runs her index finger across the watch’s face. The silver bangle unbuckles. She takes it off her wrist and places it on the side table. Her wrist feels lighter. An empty feeling fills her stomach.
Bye, Lucy.
Aris will miss her.
She turns to Metis. “Where are we going?”
“The only place we can.”
Metis takes her hand and pulls her toward the quiet streets. The city is still asleep.
Thane watches as the Professor’s hand rubs along the smooth surface of the glass bottle containing the green liquid—the drug the Interpreter Center has been hunting for. He doesn’t know why, but the gesture provokes a feeling of disgust in him. Having recently witnessed mass death leaves him on edge. He feels like drowning himself in drink until the image is rinsed from his brain.
“You did well, Thane,” Professor Jacob says. “I’m very proud of you.”
Thane wishes he could revel in this compliment from the man he admires. But all he wants to do is go home and sleep for the next three days. After leaving the Elara Police Station, he had debated whether to go home instead of to Metis’ house, but he could not stop his responsible brain from nagging him to follow through.
He and the Professor are alone in the Interpreter’s office. Apollina is somewhere in the building, doing something she prefers to keep secret from them both. Thane can see the darkness of the world through the large paned window. Shadows of bare trees surrounding the Interpreter Center stand like lines of ink drawings against the vast lawn. He longs for the warmth of spring, when life begins.
He wonders where Aris is. He half expected to see her at Metis’s house in Lysithea. When he found it empty of its owner, the Interpreter ordered him to ransack it. His gut feeling unearthed the bottle of green liquid. But it was Apollina who told him to take the flowers.
The Interpreter comes back into the room.
“The analysis is done,” she says, “The green liquid matches the compound found in both Bodie and Benja. The flowers have the same chemical make-up as the drug. Metis is the supplier.”
What does this make Aris? It’s not possible she conspired with him. She must not know all his secrets.
“Our drone captured images of him with a woman. I wonder if she’s the same one at the crime scene. Did she look familiar to you, Thane?” Apollina asks.
Aris doesn’t need to be a part of this.
“No.”
“Well, find them. We need to bring them in,” she says. “Please.”
Thane hates the way she adds “please” to the end of every order she gives him to make it sound less like a command. A few more weeks and he will be rid of her. The thought brings him comfort.
“What were they doing at the house in Elara?” Professor Jacob asks.
Thane shakes his head. “I only saw them go in. They must have used a different exit. I don’t know when they left, so it’s hard to say whether they had anything to do with the deaths.”
“Did you tell the police about them?” the Interpreter says.
“No. I didn’t want to complicate matters.”
“Good. What else did you tell the police?” Apollina asks.
“Nothing really. Just that I was lost.”
The small A-frame cottage gives off the mysterious air of something wild and abandoned. It is hidden in the middle of the park in Callisto behind multiple No Entrance signs.
It’s covered almost entirely by ivy and roses. Underneath the intertwining leaves is wood siding, but Aris can’t discern the original color. The paint has peeled in strips to reveal the raw wood underneath.
One side of the front facade is sagging under the burden of climbing bramble. Beneath the eaves are empty birds’ nests—deserted for the winter, to be filled again in the impending spring. The glass on the windows is opaque from age and neglect. The house gives the feel of being haunted.
A sign reading “Do not enter, under strict order of the Dwelling Council” hangs on the crooked picket fence. Metis opens the creaky gate and enters. Aris looks over her shoulder. The light of the sun is a sliver on the horizon, and she’s glad they still have the cloak of gray dawn. She follows him.
The heavy front door sits tilted on its frame. From the specks of paint around the grooves, it may have once been red. Metis pushes it. It lets out a loud creak in protest but gives in.
The inside of the cottage is in even worse shape. The house has suffered the consequences of being open to the elements. The windows are covered gray by years of accumulated dirt. There are random holes in the roof. Aris treads carefully, feeling the bounciness of the worn wood floors. With each step, the roof quivers as if it might collapse under its own weight. Dust stirs as they make their way to the back of the one-room house.
“The Crone lives here?” Aris asks. “It doesn’t look like anyone can live here.”
In the back of the house, she sees a ladder leading up toward the ceiling.
“We have to go up the stairs,” he says and climbs.
She thinks calling the structure stairs is generous. The rickety ladder is precariously attached to the loft above them.
“Are you coming?” he says from the loft. His head looks as if it is floating in midair.
It’s harder than she thought to lift herself up with only the strength of her two arms. A layer of dust coats her hands like frosting on a cake.
She reaches the loft and wipes her dirty hands on her pants. She scans around the room. The tiny space is lined on all sides with shelves filled with books. They smell of mildew and memories.
“The first time I was here I felt like Jack climbing the beanstalk. But instead of the goose and the golden eggs, I found this,” Metis says.
In his hand is an old book with a cover so tattered she can barely see the words. Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez.
He opens the book and reads a passage. Suddenly, bright light shines up from the book, bathing the room white, like the inside of a hospital. She staggers backward. Her hip hits the corner of a bookshelf, tilting her off balance.
“Don’t be afraid. The Crone will show up soon.”
Aris walks to him. He wraps an arm around her shoulders.
“It’s okay,” he whispers in her ear. “It’s a hologram.”
She’s reminded of the same technology at the Natural History Museum and relaxes.
An ancient woman materializes before them. Her conjured image appears as if veiled by fog. She is a vision in white. Skin as pale as the moon. Hair the color of chalk. Her silvery gown blows behind her as if she is standing in a breeze.
“Hello, Metis,” the ethereal voice says. “How many days?”
The Crone sounds to Aris like someone talking in a dream.
“It’s February twentieth. Twenty-eight days before Tabula Rasa,” Metis says.
She looks at Aris. “Hello.”
“This is Aris. My wife,” Metis says.
Aris’s hand goes to the ring on her finger. The Crone’s face softens.
“Metis has been waiting for you a long time.”
“Hello,” Aris says.
“We’re being hunted by the Interpreter Center. They stole Absinthe and hypnos from my house. They know my connection to it,” Metis says.
The room brightens. Aris can feel the old lady’s anger burning the air, sucking out oxygen. The Crone’s aura slowly dims.
“So here we are again,” the Crone says.
“You’ve been in this situation before?” Aris asks.
“The Interpreter Center has been trying to destroy Absinthe since its genesis. It has come close many times. And for as long as it exists, they will continue to search with the intent to get rid of it, just as they do dreams they find harmful to the Four Cities.”
“We can’t let that happen,” Aris says.
“No, child, we can’t. But that’s what they do. They erase everything they think would threaten the Four Cities. They’ll want to erase your memories next. Now that you know of my existence.”
Aris shudders at her words. “Can we hide here with you?”
“No more than a day or so. We’re still in the middle of a city. Soon, we’ll be found. We can’t attract attention to this cottage,” Metis says.
“There’s a place. A cave on the edge of the desert. It’s a sanctuary for the Sandmen,” the Crone says.
Aris’s heart leaps. There, she and Metis can wait out Tabula Rasa.
“You’ve never told me this before,” Metis says. His voice sounds hurt.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you,” the old woman says.
She looks at Aris. “Stay here for the day. Traveling at night will be safer.
The Crone walks to the window. “Rest, and I’ll keep watch.”
Metis places his backpack on the floor and sits down. Aris lowers herself next to him. The silence is palpable. The danger they face weighs heavily on him. She knows he feels responsible.
Aris looks at the Crone and wonders what life for Metis would have been like had he not found her and Absinthe. Would he have eventually remembered her on his own? Would he have moved on to another lover?
Metis looks exhausted. They have not slept for many hours. She reaches over and touches his haggard face.
“Sleep, love,” she says.
“I miss you calling me that.”
He leans over and kisses her. He takes his jacket off and makes a ball for a pillow. He lays down and closes his eyes. She is glad. He has been through so much. His slow breathing tells her he has fallen asleep at once.
The Crone gazes at him with gentleness. The affection the old woman has for her Sandman is evident. Aris has so many questions for her. She picks one from the pile in her mind.
“Have there been many Sandmen before Metis?” Aris asks.
“Yes. Not every cycle. But many.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ve been around since the beginning of the Four Cities.”
“How old are the Four Cities?”
The old woman smiles but does not answer.
Aris picks another question. “What are you?”
“I was once alive like you. I’m what you can call ‘consciousness.’ I am what I was
. Just without a body in the traditional sense. What you see as me is my last memory of my physical self. What I am, what I say, is still me.”
“What happened to your body?”
“Gone with the wind. Just like all who have died.”
Aris thinks of Benja and the Ceremony of the Dead and feels pain in the middle of her chest. “When did you die?”
“A very long time ago.” The Crone pauses. “I see you are curious about time. One thing you must realize is that time is the least relevant aspect of your existence.”
Aris’s hand goes to her wrist and feels the absence of her watch. For someone accustomed to tracking her life through time, it feels unnatural to deny its importance. But she decides on another question. “How did you come to be in this form?”
“I don’t know for sure. When I woke up, I was in this form. It took me a while to realize I was still alive. Well, not alive. My heart no longer beats. My lungs no longer breathe oxygen. Conscious is a more fitting word. Only now my mind lives in a different vessel.”
She eyes the book next to Metis. “And in a different delivery method.”
The old woman turns her gaze back outside. “But there’s only one person who could have made it happen, who was powerful enough, and who would have wanted to.”
“The Planner?” Aris says, “But why?”
“Sentimental reasons, I suspect,” the Crone says.
Aris detects sadness in her voice.
“You knew him?” she asks.
“Before he was the Planner, he was Eli. My Eli. You know him from living in his vision. The paradise he created because of the Last War.”
The Crone lays her wispy fingers on the dirty pane. Her eyes are on a spot outside the window.
“We watched the world burn from above. There’s nothing to prepare you for it. The certainty of knowing that your home as you know it is no more. Black clouds enveloped the earth, and land fell into the ocean, changing its face. The people you loved, the ones you could not save, dissipated with the dust.”
Aris has the sudden urge to wrap her arms around the old woman, except she is just an image.
The Crone continues, “And what we were also not prepared for was the feeling of gut-wrenching guilt. We had survived, while many good people died. The depression accompanying the loss and the guilt was too much to bear.
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