I sit at an empty desk, drum my fingers for a few minutes, then can’t stand it anymore. I’m going to join them.
In Hesse’s vast array of potions and substances, only two are crucial for dreamstriding—mothwood smoke, to send a sleeping soul into Oneiros, and dreamwort brew to send an awake one down. The Dreamer’s most devout priests can enter Oneiros without any alchemical assistance; Hesse was the first to find the dreamwort shortcut, and its existence is still something of a state secret. Oneiros is only for the Dreamer’s chosen, the High Priest says, not a playground for the masses. Well, a priest I’m not, but even the High Priest grudgingly tolerates my work in service to Barstadt. I only wish I could feel more certain the Dreamer blesses what I do in his name.
The dreamwort brew burns down my throat; I barely make it to an empty cot before Oneiros pulls me in.
I awake in a field of wildflowers, their pink and purple blooms waist high and bursting with wonderful scents. I’m wearing comfortable trousers and a loose blouse; no trim, tailored dresses hampering my movement. Behind me, Hesse is lecturing his students, every word bright and eager as the afternoon sunlight around us. How nice it is to stay tethered to my body inside Oneiros for once—to not have to hunt for my target, or to fear the prowling Wastes. I gather a fistful of wildflowers and bask in the dreamworld. In the distance, I can see some of the Shapers’ homes. In addition to weaving dreams, the Shapers can alter the landscape of Oneiros and remake it however they please. Here they’ve used their gift to fill Oneiros with their hearts’ desires: homes and sculptures and other creations that let them claim a corner of eternity for themselves.
“Tomorrow, we’ll conduct a few more Shaping experiments, but good work for today, gentlemen.” Hesse waves to me from across the field. “Go ahead and explore until the chime rings in the waking world,” he tells his students, then he starts wading through the flowers toward me.
“Afternoon, Professor.” I wrap my arms around him for a tight embrace. “It’s been too long.”
“The Ministry’s keeping you busy?” he asks. Dreamworld Hesse looks a few decades younger than the actual one, but they’re more or less the same—trimmed beard, a face etched by age, and hands as thick as bear paws. A gentle giant, most of the time, but a lively debate about the Dreamer always stokes the fire in his veins.
“Busy enough.” My smile fades. “I was actually hoping to get your opinion on something. I’ve been having some … difficulty.”
Something always shifts in Hesse’s face when I mention any trouble with dreamstriding—like a gas lamp’s been turned down. He’d never say as much, but he must regret that I’m not the perfect instrument for the Dreamer that he’d imagined in his lab. “Of course. What seems to be the matter?”
Everything, I think, my heart twisting. I glance toward his students, but they’re absorbed in the favorite pastime of any dreamer—trying to fly. “On my last mission, when I was trying to get back to my body … the Wastes.” A chill courses through me. “They felt stronger. Much stronger—I’m sure of it.”
Hesse’s face screws shut like the lid of a jar. “My dear Livia, that’s not possible. Nightmare is dead. The Wastes can’t become any more powerful than they already are. The Dreamer wouldn’t permit it. You believe that, don’t you?”
Of course I believe in the Dreamer—wasn’t my ability to dreamstride proof enough of that? And yet all his priests and most devout followers speak of a presence that fills them, a voice that speaks to them, guiding them with more than mere dreams. The Dreamer never speaks to me, never shows himself to me with anything other than my half-formed gift.
Hesse touches his fingertips to his sternum. “The Dreamer speaks to us of truth, and realizing our dreams. But Nightmare—” Hesse taps his temple. “Nightmare is the doubt and fear and surrender that keep us from making our dreams come true.”
“But the Wastes are getting stronger. I’m sure of it.” I hold up one hand. “And please, don’t tell me I imagined it, or that I just have to try harder to fend them off. This wasn’t like the usual challenge they pose. I know what I felt and heard. It was real.” My voice shatters on that last. “They were real, in here.”
Distantly, I hear a chime; not in Oneiros, but in the real world. The timepiece Professor Hesse sets to keep his students from missing their next class. Time to return to the real world. The echo of the bell rings though my flesh while the dreamworld crumbles away.
I lurch out of the cot in Hesse’s laboratory as Hesse and his two students do the same. While Hesse bids them farewell, I hang in the back of the room; they stagger around as if drunk, readjusting to their weighty real bodies after their adventures soaring through Oneiros. Hesse’s toothy smile is broad as ever while he speaks to them, but as soon as he closes and latches the laboratory door behind them, he turns to me with a weary frown. He looks older—so much older now than his dreamworld self. More than just age has put those deep furrows in his face and that anxious tension in his mouth. It twists at my heart to see him this way.
Hesse rubs at his eyes. “The Wastes are only a shadow of Nightmare’s former self. The lingering darkness that couldn’t be cleansed away. If they were growing stronger, then…”
I wrap my arms tightly around me. “Then it would mean Nightmare isn’t completely dead.”
Hesse’s head shakes back and forth, as if he’s trying to convince himself. “But he can’t be. No. It would mean—No, Livia, you must be mistaken.”
I want so badly to believe him. All the priests say Nightmare is long dead; that the Dreamer slew him to save Barstadt. But I remember the tug of the Wastes, the whispers as soft as silk against my skin, so convincing and cold. I remember, too, how Hesse didn’t tell me the full truth about the Wastes until I’d successfully entered his assistant’s body for the first time—that he’d told me if I heard any strange voices, just to ignore them, and focus on getting into my target’s body or my own as quickly as possible. Only after did I learn what danger I’d been in. Hesse has deceived me about the Wastes with half-truths before, but I have no one else to ask for help.
I turn away from Hesse and busy myself with tidying up his lab tools—flasks and vials and a dirty mortar and pestle. There’s comfort in such labor, I suppose; I doubt I’ll ever lose the compulsion for it. “Are you still searching for another dreamstrider?” I ask, refusing to look at him as I do so.
“Livia.” His footsteps draw closer. “I’m—I’m pausing my experiments to reevaluate my efforts. Readjust my criteria.” His hand shakes as he reaches for his glasses, perched on a shelf. “I’ve made some errors, misjudged some factors—”
My fist clenches around the neck of a glass bottle. “You’re ‘reevaluating’? Does the Minister know that?” I want to feel relieved, but only a cold hollow aches in me. “He must be awfully disappointed there are no new prospects in the works. The Ministry would love to be rid of me once and for all.”
“And what if I did find another?” Hesse asks. “What would become of you?” He lifts one eyebrow. “Have you even earned your citizenship papers yet? At least this way, your position is secure.”
In the tunnels, I could never let myself cry—tears are a weakness, luring predators as surely as lost souls in Oneiros lure the Wastes. I force myself to think on other things until they subside, and nothing forces the tears away like hardening myself against their source. The Ministry can take my papers away, but I refuse to go back to the tunnels, to be a slave to the gangs and their will.
I could flee Barstadt. For the first time, that possibility nestles in my heart like a warm ember. Seek out work in Barstadt’s colonies, perhaps. If Brandt leaves the Ministry, if Hesse gives up his work, then there’s little left for me here. If the Dreamer never answers my call, why should I continue to serve him?
“I’d be all right. I’d find something, I’m sure.” I step back from the laboratory table—everything in proper order. “Thank you for hearing me out, Professor.” I drop into a curtsey without meeting his
gaze. “I’d best return to the barracks.”
“Livia, please. Listen, I—I need you to do something for me,” Hesse says.
I’ve spent my life doing favors for Hesse—earning him endless accolades and funding for his search for more Dreamstriders while I struggle and fail. But I’m done for now. I’m already out the door.
Scholars and students flap about the Banhopf campus in their velvet robes; across the city, at the Strassbourg Manor, Brandt is dining with Lady Alizard, probably discussing politics or the latest opera. The Ministry’s spies and Barstadt’s countless crime lords spin their dangerous stratagems while the tunnelers clean up behind them. And glistening in the moonlight, Nightmare’s bones watch over it all.
At last, I think I grasp the message of last night’s dream. I belong to none of Barstadt’s worlds, and I’ll never inhabit any of them as fully as I want. Even in my own body, I’m an impostor.
Chapter Six
“This mission should be fairly straightforward.” Brandt tugs at the collar of his velvet coat, trying to get it to lay properly. “Far less dangerous than our last one.”
I bat his hands away from the collar and refold it for him so it lies flush. He smiles at me through the mirror, but the tension in his shoulders remains. He’s resplendent in the coppery velvet suit, shimmering either brown or fiery red depending which way the light strikes it; paired with the fox mask on his dresser, he’ll fit right in with the crowd at House Twyne’s Summer’s Retreat masquerade ball we’re infiltrating tonight.
“Isn’t Lady Twyne the Emperor’s cousin?” I ask. “Do you really think she’s capable of treason? Of plotting with the Commandant?”
Brandt brushes back his bangs from his forehead, but they fall right back into place. “Of all the Houses with silver and sapphire colors, House Twyne certainly fits the profile. Her arguments with the Emperor are infamous, and she’s always got her claws in one shady deal or another. Including with the Stargazers, if you believe One-Eyed Freddy. I want to find her records and see what we can learn from them.” He gives his reflection one quick nod, then extends an arm to me. “Shall we?”
We look ridiculous side by side—him in his elegant costume and me in my servant’s garb. He’s attending the masquerade as a minor aristocrat, but I need to fade into the background. My best disguises are as someone whose disappearance for an hour or two won’t be noticed. But for a few more minutes, at least, we’re still Brandt and Livia. I take his arm and he ushers me toward the Ministry stables. “How will we know what to look for in her records?”
“I’ll chat up Lady Twyne’s good friends, needle them for juicy tidbits. Indications that some of her dealings aren’t above board. I’d like to use you to pry Lady Twyne in person, in the guise of someone she trusts.”
“Pry her?” I ask. “I can try, but luring someone to admit to treason isn’t easy. Especially without knowing what my dreamstriding host may hold over her.”
“I know it makes you nervous, Liv, but our other teammate should be able to help you—”
That draws me up short. “Someone else is coming with us?”
Brandt releases my arm. “Well … yes, Edina and the minister thought…”
“Nightmare’s teeth, could you two be any slower?” Vera charges toward us, in a billowing cloud of deep orange silk. Terror pins me in place. Instinctively, I find my gaze drawn to her right arm, but she’s covered it in a velvet glove that reaches all the way to the middle of her bicep; a tuft of tulle conceals the rest of her right shoulder. Her deep brown curls spring around her face as she glowers right at me. “The ball’s going to be half over by the time we get there.”
I haven’t worked with Vera since the Incident, and for good reason. Her hand shoots out—I cringe recalling the sight of the puckered, mottled skin beneath that glove—and she snatches me by the wrist and yanks me toward the carriage.
“One false move on this mission,” Vera whispers in my ear, voice sweet as syrup, “and I’ll have your intestines for my corset lacings.” Her lips stretch from ear to ear in an unnatural smile as she pats me on the shoulder. “Let’s have a pleasant time tonight, shall we?”
Twyne Manor rears up from the hills of northeast Barstadt City like a glowing fortress. Even in the Cloister of Roses, where most of the older Houses keep estates, it manages to outdo its peers. The whole house is built from strange alabaster stones shipped over from the Northern Realms that soak up sunlight during the day, then leak it throughout the night in a subtle shimmer that could be a trick of the moonlight if you didn’t know to look for it.
The doorman announces the masked Vera and Brandt using some pompous fake names dredged up by the Ministry. Sweeping string music washes over us as we plunge into the great hall, fighting our way through dreamsilk gowns plump as cream puffs. The women buried inside them all wear masks—some don cat’s ears, or bird plumage, or more elaborate headwear, but it all manages to reveal a hint of kohl-smudged eyelids, sparkling facial gems, or perfectly stained lips. The men wear masks picked to flatter their stiff-cut suits (some much tighter than they ought to be). Brandt strides away to join the ranks of younger unmarried men his age at the other side of the room. In the center of the dance floor, younger couples place their palms together for slow polonaises.
I keep waiting for Vera to clue me in on her plan, but the deeper we wade into the swirling mass of dancers, the more I suspect she’s intentionally keeping me in the dark. “What should I be doing?” I hiss at her after fighting my way around yet another masked reveler.
“Shutting up and letting me do my job,” she snaps back. “Like a good little servant girl.”
Vera plucks a handful of cheese cubes from a server’s tray and shoves her way into the nearest gaggle of gossipers. I cling to her backside, always in the shadows.
“Can you believe the gall of Lord Alizard, challenging the Writ? I was certain it would pass,” one girl says, soft brown coif toddling with each syllable.
“Nonsense, it’s only the work of overemotional busybodies. Our very society is founded on order; we can’t go upsetting it…”
“Besides, my head butler tells me a bunch of violent vigilantes—calling themselves the Destroyers, something vulgar like that—tried organizing the tunnels, fighting for rights from their gang lords and such, but it was short-lived. In the end, the gang lords themselves ran them off.”
Jorn. I clench my teeth until the pain throbs in my jaw.
“I hear the tunnelers have to eat their own children for want of any food!”
“Well then, that’s all the proof I need that they’re savages deserving of their plight. Why emancipate them? Leave them where they’re most useful.”
Vera opens her mouth while still chewing on her chunk of cheese. “What’s Lady Twyne’s opinion on the Writ?”
The girls closest to Vera lean away and wrinkle their noses. “All the shady deals she makes? Of course she’s a fan of keeping the tunnelers where they belong. You won’t find her pitying the lower classes like House Yorgen does.”
“Oh, really?” Vera stuffs another cheese cube into her mouth. “What kind of shady deals?”
Vera manages to drive off the rest of the girls but for the pair of sisters (House Tidwell, they later introduce themselves) whose love for gossip outweighs their demand for decorum. Vera sends me to fetch a flute of champagne for her while she needles them for further juicy gossip about Lady Twyne.
At the serving table, I pause to search for Brandt’s coppery fox mask, but it’s too crowded. The ladies’ coifs tower over me. The false starlights dangling from the ceiling of the vast ballroom are too sharp. The tart, too-sweet scent of pastries and sausage and sugary bread is making me dizzy. Everyone’s chattering all around me. I’ve no talent for navigating crowds like this; I do much better somewhere quiet, dark, cramped like a tunnel nook. Somewhere I can curl up and sift through the sounds around me for an approaching threat …
I feel wooden paneling against my back. I’ve backed myself
into the corner of the grand staircase, just as I used to wedge myself into the tunnel crannies. From here, I have a clear view of the mezzanine, where Lady Twyne hovers over the whole proceedings, like some bird of prey. She’s nearing forty, only a few years younger than her cousin, the Emperor, but the faint web of lines across her face only adds to her royal beauty. Dark curls are piled atop her head, and her angular brows assess with diamond-tipped precision everything in her gaze. An elaborate network of sapphires and silver nodules set into her face and throat add the final ornamentation to her, dazzling like the night sky.
Could she really betray her country? Her cousin? I can’t fathom a good reason for any of it, but I’ve met enough aristocrats like her to know they operate under different constraints than the rest of us. Is there a greater wealth she hopes to gain by working with the Commandant, even more power that she craves? I can’t feign camaraderie, not the way Brandt can; he feeds their outrageous beliefs back to them, even if it appalls him on the inside, in order to win their trust.
I step toward the edge of the dance floor and search for Brandt. A band of hired tumblers shoves past me, festooned as various woodland creatures, complete with velvety masks. I dart out of their way, but the wolf glances back at me, head cocked, before continuing to the dance floor with his companions. I quickly duck my head and let a stray wisp of hair shield my face.
“I say there, girl, my drink has been dry for far too long. Fetch me a fresh one, won’t you?”
I whirl around, but it’s only Brandt, grinning at me from behind his fox face. “Of course, my lord.” I bow low.
As I stand back up, he lurches toward me, staggering as if drunk, and grips me by the shoulder. A thrill strums down my spine as he leans in close to my ear. “The Farthing woman is here. Kriza? She’s dressed like a phoenix. Probably best if she doesn’t see you.”
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