“We had a fight,” she admitted. “One of those silent ones that are way worse than the yelling kind. I guess I’ve been avoiding her.”
“What about Carl and Andrew?”
“They’re sort of a package. Or they used to be, at any rate. Andrew’s more of a variable now. Without Shelby, they don’t really have a reason to spend time with us.”
He frowned. “They’re not a single organism. They do have lives apart from her.”
“It’s hard to explain. Grad students tend to cluster. They were her friends before they were mine. Now I’m on the outside. But I put myself there.”
“There’s more to it than that.”
She pretended to concentrate on the bird feeder. “What do you mean?”
“Andrew stopped coming over a few months ago, but that didn’t stop Carl and Shelby from setting up camp in our living room. The last time the two of them came over, they were both acting strangely. Did something happen?”
“It’s just friendship politics. I barely understand it myself.”
He physically turned her chair around, as if he were talking to Neil. “That’s not going to fly. What happened?”
He always saw more than he let on. She’d known that one day, concealing all of this from him would prove impossible. She’d prepared dozens of counterstories, but he was too close now. Only a touch of honesty could defuse him.
“Andrew”—she hesitated—“was going through some things. He was seeing a psychiatrist, but I don’t think he was happy about it. That put some strain on the group. Carl has his own stuff, which is no less dark. I know I’m not much older than them, but our lives are so different. I think it’s their instinct to stick together.”
The reality was that Andrew had changed. Quiet before, he was like a ghost now. She wanted to talk to him sometimes, but they’d never really been close. She remembered him standing before the basilissa, stretching out his arm. He’d switched sides for them. Unless he’d always been intending to turn.
Paul nodded. “Fine. That doesn’t explain the fight, though.”
Neil ran into the kitchen. Now he was completely dressed. He’d chosen sweatpants instead of the neatly pressed shorts, but Ingrid couldn’t complain. She’d let him wear a cape if it meant getting him out of the house. And for once, his timing was perfect.
“You look very presentable.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Put your shoes on.”
He made a face. “My feet will be awfully hot!”
“Sandals, then.”
“No! They bite mine toes!”
“Gum boots,” Paul said.
Neil brightened. Then he went to the door and slipped on his boots.
Really? Ingrid mouthed.
Paul shrugged. “The heart wants what it wants.”
His expression said that their conversation wasn’t over, but for now, he was satisfied with what she’d told him. It was better than comps. She made a mental note to discard that excuse, which had outgrown its usefulness. Had she finally reached the end of her rope? Maybe it was time to tell the entire truth. She imagined how it might sound. We discovered a park that leads us to another world. Andrew died, and now he’s different. Not in a good way. I used to guard a brothel, but now I spend most of my time hunting dragons, which is something that my son would actually understand quite well.
She could test the explanation out on Neil. He’d be all too happy to accept a world in which his mother had access to edged weapons. Currently, he was dancing in his gum boots. She looked at the painted rock, which he’d left on the table.
“I should go to campus,” Ingrid said. “I’ll try to be back early. But you can have the house to yourself while I’m gone.”
“Uh-huh,” Paul replied.
• • •
The fifth floor of the Wilson Library was reserved for print journals, though much of it had given ground to computers. The library’s digital collections were far more expansive than its fading repository of bound journals. Over the years, the periodicals floor had become a kind of attic for superannuated electronics. All of the oldest copiers and desktop units found their way here, plastic covers yellowed by smoke and age. There were giant mechanized staplers, hole punches that could only manage to inflict two puncture wounds, and microfiche readers, propped against the wall like cars abandoned by the side of the road. The furniture was mismatched, and some of the couches looked like they belonged in a museum. There was also something called an Integrated Reading Room, which appeared to be a kind of media cave with leather chairs. It was empty. Outside, clouds had begun to gather. She could hear the wind howling through the ducts, but it seemed far away.
Ingrid walked among the stacks. She lightly touched the neglected journals, the copies of Yale Review from the fifties, typewritten and bound between uniform covers. Everything that she published—if she ever published anything—would someday end up here, housed on vertical shelves. A graduate student would spin the crank, like Fortuna’s wheel, that moved the shelves apart. She would run her thumb along the bindings until she found that obscure article, written by a student from another time. Everything about it would be quaint, from the typesetting to the cheesy graphic on the cover. But perhaps, like Ingrid, she would open the journal and smell the pages, enchanted by the subtle reek of binding glue. She would test the journal’s heft in her hand and feel somehow comforted by this object, demanding to take up space in an otherwise weightless environment.
She found Shelby looking at the Renaissance periodicals. No doubt, they’d both arrived at the same time, only to be drawn in by the siren shelves. Ingrid’s original blueprint for a library was the one that she’d gone to as a child, with plush blue couches and nooks where she could lose herself in The Tombs of Atuan or The Weirdstone of Brisingamen. When the community library had a book sale, it was like every holiday rolled into one. She could scarcely believe the worlds that her allowance would afford. She wondered if Shelby had been the same. The six years between them were just enough to create a gulf. Shelby liked to text, while Ingrid preferred the burn of the phone against her cheek. As Ingrid watched her, scanning the table of contents, she seemed to be nothing but possibilities. An ideal candidate for anything that life might offer. She could do a postdoc in Vienna, or take over a research center at one of those universities that was always bathed in sun. Eventually, this place wouldn’t be enough for her. And what could pull her back? Reading bedtime stories must pale in comparison to teaching graduate seminars in Santa Barbara.
Ingrid could do with some sun herself. And Neil would fall in love with the ocean. She realized that life wasn’t an episode of House Hunters International. Ordinary people didn’t move to San Juan because they wanted “something different.” It couldn’t be that simple. Then again, nothing about her life was ordinary.
Shelby saw her and put down the journal. “Thanks for coming.”
“I was going to anyway, even if you hadn’t texted.” Ingrid felt as if a ruthless editor were combing through all of her responses, crossing out every second line. “I thought that we should talk. Not in a scary way. Just—you know—after what happened.”
“You mean the part where I lied to you, and then subjected you to painful small talk with the matriarchs of my family?”
Ingrid smiled. “It wasn’t painful. I really liked your grandmother. She’s lived a dozen lives, it seems. And your mother was nice.”
“Don’t ever call her that to her face. She thinks mother is a weak noun.”
“I’ll try to be stoic when I’m around her.”
Shelby drew closer. “My grandmother liked you. I could tell. She didn’t kick me under the table or fake an attack of angina to get away. That means she had a good time.”
“And your mother?”
“Don’t even try to solve that puzzle.”
“Have you—” Ingrid ran through a dozen ways to phrase
the question, but none of them made it any less leading. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve brought girls home before. And boys. Maybe even at the same time. I’m not judging.”
Shelby cracked a smile. “Clearly you are. A little bit.”
“I’m no gold star lesbian myself.”
“You have a son—I kind of assumed that.”
She reddened slightly. “Right. Well, that’s a story.”
“No adjective?”
“What do you mean?”
“Normally, people say that it’s a long story, or a weird one. Not that sleeping with a guy is weird. I mean, they smell different, but not weird. Kind of like cookies.”
Ingrid laughed helplessly. “I lost you there.”
“My high school boyfriend never washed his jeans, and they always smelled like cookies. I have no idea why.” Shelby took a breath. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sure the story has a lot of adjectives, but you don’t have to tell me. It’s not like I’ve been completely honest with you. I took a road trip to Egressus without telling you.”
Ingrid nearly said Parking, but she knew that the fifth floor was empty. Instead, she sat down by the window. The clouds were darkening. She could almost feel them rattling the glass, trying to get in. Shelby sat down next to her. Ingrid could smell her conditioner. The proximity was making her consider a number of adjectives. We could kiss right here, in the stacks. It would be the most action they’d seen in years.
She was on a roll, though, as far as honesty was concerned. Better to keep moving forward than risk getting mired in secrets. They weren’t helping anymore. The lie had too many moving parts. But for the first time, she could see the dim outlines of an exit, glowing in the dark. All she had to do was step through. Shelby put a hand on her knee. The contact made her a little dizzy. She was embarrassed to realize that the library was acting as an aphrodisiac. It thrilled her a thousand times more than a hotel room. A part of her had always wanted this, long before she could articulate what it might be. Shelby’s thumb on her spine. The unbreakable silence of this place, which had felt like home when home was something else.
“When I first came to Anfractus,” she said, “I was naked and terrified. I didn’t know what had happened. Everything was so bright and sharp. But I also wanted it. The first time I held a sword, it was like swimming”—she smiled—“or climbing a tree to the very top, and seeing butterflies. It wasn’t just a weapon. It reminded me of everything good, everything that made sense. And I didn’t want to lose that. So I kept coming back.”
“It doesn’t mean that you’re a violent person,” Shelby said gently.
“But I am.” Ingrid looked at her. “I was made for it. The dance. The blood arc. The sound a body makes when it unravels. It was everything. And I was good at it. That’s how I became a miles.” Shelby’s hand was still there, but her expression had changed. Ingrid swallowed and kept going. “The night that I killed for the first time—the night that I won my die—I walked the streets in a haze. I ended up at the black basia. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I didn’t even have a token. I walked past the revelers, and down a long hallway, with beautiful murals on the wall. I came to an unexpected room. And he was there. Without his mask. I saw his face in the lamplight.”
Shelby looked confused for a moment. Then she paled. Her hand pulled away, squeezed into a small fist. “You’re not talking about—”
“—Felix.” Ingrid nodded. “Neil’s father.”
Shelby stood. “Oh? So he’s not your ‘supervisor,’ then? Man, you had all of us fooled with that brilliant lie.”
“Shelby—”
She shook her head. “What an idiot I’ve been. When he came to your doorstep, calling himself Oliver, I knew that there was something between you. I could feel it. And later, in the tabularium, the way he looked at you—” Her body seemed to be closing in on itself. “How could you keep this from us? From Neil? Christ, Ingrid, you’ve got Paul running around like super-dad, trying to keep all the plates spinning, while Neil’s actual father is”—she began to laugh helplessly—“a whore. In a mask. Wow. This is some messed-up, Game of Parks bullshit, and we’re right in the middle of it.”
Ingrid wasn’t sure if the laughter meant that Shelby was still on her side, or if she should be running out of the library. She took another breath. “He had his reasons for leaving. And I have mine for not telling Neil. At least not this second.”
“I thought my lies were tangled. But what you’re doing is in a totally different class. I’m actually a little in awe.”
“I have a son to protect.” Ingrid’s voice was close to a growl. “Do you know how scared I was—the day that Oliver came knocking at my door? Of course we concocted a story. It was the only thing that made sense at the time. If Neil ever—” She looked away. “Sometimes I want him to see Anfractus. But most of the time, I pray that he never does, even if he was born there. Because I can’t protect him from what’s beyond the park.”
Shelby’s face softened. She took out her phone. “Here. This is why I asked you to meet in the first place. Read this text from Carl.”
Ingrid took the phone from her. The text was short and simple:
Went on a dig. If not back tomorrow, don’t look for me.
She frowned. “Is he on some kind of archaeological trip? It seems like a pretty weird time to leave town.”
“Of course he’s not on a trip. Carl never works on his thesis.”
“You think it’s a code.”
“I think he’s done something stupid. And by that, I mean stupid even for him. But he’s left us this clue.”
“Went on a dig. What could that mean, if not the obvious?”
“If I’m right, it means that we’re up to our neck in badness. With both of them gone, there’s only two of us. We’re barely half a company.”
“We’ve got Sam,” she said, after a moment. “That’s three.”
“Sam doesn’t deserve to get involved in this. She may not be an innocent bystander, but she’s not an accomplice, either.”
“Maybe we should stop underestimating her. If she wanted out, we’ve given her all kinds of chances. But she still returns our calls.”
“Texts.” Shelby smiled a little. “Nobody calls anymore.” She checked the messages on her phone as she spoke. Her expression was difficult to read.
“Did Carl send another text?” Ingrid sighed. “Of course he didn’t. He’s probably on the other side of the park, and that was a stupid question.”
“Not Carl.” Shelby looked up. “I invited someone else to this meeting. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but—well—not feeling too bad about that, all of a sudden.”
“You invited someone to our”—she couldn’t quite say date—“archive?”
“We need help. And more than just Sam. I made an executive decision to expand our company. After all, we need a fourth.”
“A fourth what, exactly?”
The elevator chimed. Ingrid heard footsteps, and then a tall man with red hair stepped into the reading room. It took her a moment to recognize him.
“Narses,” she said. “Don’t you own a club, on this side?”
He was Latona’s former chamberlain, a spado. Ingrid hadn’t really thought about him since that night at the club, when he’d threatened to tell her brother everything. The park did something to you. It replaced your family with its ancient roots. Whoever he really was—eunuch or entrepreneur—he wouldn’t hesitate to destroy their lives.
She imagined becoming a spado. Had he endured the cut? Or did it happen in the dark interval between the park and the city beyond? Maybe it was like losing a rib in your sleep. It was possible, she saw, to give up one sort of power for another. To leave a piece of yourself behind, in exchange for a weapon on the other side.
He inclined his head. “Actually, my name is Glen.”
Ingrid tried not to smile. “It’s quite fitting.”
Shelby turned to him. “Glen’s going to help us breach the Arx of Violets.”
Ingrid was no longer amused. “Why would we do that?”
“Because that’s where she’s keeping him.”
“If you’re right,” Glen said, “she won’t kill him. Not yet. First, she’ll try to extract as much as she possibly can—while he’s still able to talk.”
Shelby rubbed her shoulders. “I’ve been in that dungeon. I know what goes on.”
“I still have connections with the palace spadones. I can get you in. But this is not what Pulcheria had in mind.”
“She’s calling the shots now?”
Glen stiffened slightly. “She’s a nobler patroness than Latona. Less unhinged. You’d do well to follow her instructions.”
“But we won’t,” Shelby said. “And neither will you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re a general. At least, you used to be. You thrive in battle.” She gave Ingrid an odd look. “And we’re about to give you one. Deep down, I don’t think you can resist the opportunity to make things messy. Am I right?”
Glen looked at her. “You’ve changed since last we spoke.”
“There’s a lot of that going around. Are you in?”
“If this is to work, we’ll need a larger company than four.”
Shelby scanned through the contacts on her phone. “Way ahead of you.”
Ingrid felt a bit sick to her stomach. But also strangely hopeful.
She’d been waiting for a fight like this.
2
The campus was a ghost town. Ingrid could hear the climate control whirring, and the sound of a vending machine dispensing something high in calories. Athena’s Pub was open, but most of the tables were empty. Students tended to scatter on the weekends. The ones who stayed were usually living on campus, and they would go on occasional quests for food, trying to keep their energy up as they studied for the next test.
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