“The perks of being a Medium,” Sofia says, petting one of the velvety chairs. “Half my job is based here in The Midst; this is like my office.” Sloane’s look of awe as she takes in the theater strikes up an unexpected pride in Sofia. She’s never been able to share this part of her with family before.
“It’s perfect for you, Sofia.” Sloane smiles. Sofia knows her style’s always been too gaudy for Sloane, but she’s never felt judged.
Erim steps forward. “I’ve been helping Sloane understand more about The Midst, and I thought you could help explain your side of things.”
Sofia leans in close to him. “I thought we were going to do the thing.”
He winces. “Sorry, the opportunity presented itself. I couldn’t resist.”
“Oh, you ass, you did it without me!” Sofia smacks him in the arm, gasping at his treachery.
“Of course, that stupid vampire joke was your idea.” Sloane rolls her eyes. “You’re such a Twilight junkie.”
Sofia glares at Erim. “Which is why it would’ve been funnier with me, Grim.” He gives her an unimpressed stare at the nickname. Of course, she knows it bothers him; she wouldn’t use it otherwise. She pulls Sloane to sit in the front row.
“I thought we might begin with evictions,” Erim says, taking a seat across the aisle from them.
Sofia seats herself on the edge of the stage, smoothing down her purple paisley skirt. “What you did for Ches, that’s an eviction.”
Erim gives her a moment to elaborate and then takes over when he realizes she thinks the explanation is sufficient. “You sent his soul back to his Earthly body. The few souls who can do this are called Arcs.” He says it like he’s reading a definition from a dictionary, using his stiffer official voice. Sofia remembers it from the time they first met, but he hasn’t used it with her in years. But the tone is certainly enough to make Sloane focus intently on what they’re saying.
“You think I’m one of those?” Sloane looks to Sofia, who nods.
“You are,” Erim says. Sofia’s unsurprised at how Sloane takes the news. She’s always processed quietly, taken her own internal council before turning to others.
“On Earth, Mediums like me are rooted in life and can connect to death,” Sofia says, “Here, Arcs like you are rooted in death and can connect to life. We’re the bridge, the only ones who go between the two worlds.”
“Other spirits can’t conduct?” Sloane’s brows pull together. “But Erim and I went to the funeral together.”
“It may have seemed that way,” Erim speaks up, “but only Arcs and Mediums can actually conduct their energy back and forth. All other souls can only observe the world of the living but will remain tethered within The Midst. I simply anchored my observation onto Sofia to watch the funeral.” Sofia takes a bow from her waist. Sloane looks puzzled by the distinction. “For example, you sat on that chair, pet your dog. You can have actual contact with that world,” Erim explains. “If I tried, I would simply pass right through.”
Sloane’s confusion clears. “That’s why you wouldn’t sit at the funeral.” Erim nods. “So souls can observe Earth, but not the next place?” she asks.
Sofia reclines onto the wooden planks, letting out a sound of boredom. “Golden gates, pink clouds, harp playing in the background, why bother? Sounds dirt boring.” She snorts. “I’ve got enough fat babies with wings on my toilet paper packaging.” She swings up with a thought. “Now, if there were a Hellish equivalent for the murderers and pineapple pizza eaters, that’s where I’d be. Sounds like fun.”
“Down, girl.” Sloane smirks with her parent eyes.
“No one knows what lies Onward,” Erim responds to Sloane’s question. “Not even Head Soul Keeper Sisiro, who oversees all the terrarums.”
“And the disords,” Sofia adds, ignoring Erim’s pointed look. Clearly, he hadn’t planned on covering that topic yet.
Sloane’s brow crinkles. “The what?”
“The disordered souls,” Erim clarifies. “Sometimes, things happen in people’s lives that are so dark it can disorder their very souls. Sisiro and his aequalis Stephyn help these souls in Obscuri.”
Sloane’s face reflects the morbidity of it, a fate that Sofia has long suspected might have been her own in The Midst. “Too bad they weren’t hiring,” she whispers at Sloane.
“All souls are entitled to go Onward,” Erim says. “But the disordered souls are kept separate in The Midst so they can get any help they need, at no risk to others.”
“How I get past that supernatural cuckoo-detector every day is a wonder,” Sofia cuts in. The door opens behind them all, and Albert walks through, giving Sofia a quick wave. Albert’s wife found Sofia’s Shoppe just after he died and has been a loyal customer for years. She lacks enough confidence in her own judgment to come to Sofia with nearly every major life decision for Albert’s opinion. “Well, that’s about all the hand-holding I have time for right now.” Sofia flicks her hands at Sloane and Erim to relinquish their seats. “Unless you guys are suddenly paying customers, time to go.” She walks them towards the doors, passing Albert in the aisle. “Your son started another fight in class, and Helen wants to know what you think about military school,” she mentions.
“A little military school never hurt anyone, Albert,” Erim advises, patting him on the shoulder. When Erim swings one of the theater doors open, a flurry of blue eyes and lavender hair whirls around the corner as Ben leaps in front of him.
“Found ya!” Ben giggles. She notices Sloane, and her posture melts, feminizing her red shorts and black suspenders combo. Sofia’s always thought the hair color suits her; it matches her sly dark smile, the only one Ben has. She looks only a couple years younger than Sloane, but she’s much shorter, accentuating her youth.
“Uh, Ben, this is Sloane,” Erim says, stepping back from Ben, who steps toward him like a predatory animal.
“Hi.” Sloane reflexively offers her hand to be shaken. Sofia winces as Ben grins and takes her hand. Looks like she’s picked Sloane as her next curiosity. Sloane doesn’t know what she’s in for.
“So nice to finally meet the person taking up all of my Erim’s time,” Ben says. Sloane’s astonished gaze darts to Erim. “Oh, she’s cute,” Ben murmurs to him. “Is she going to stay long?” Erim is caught speechless, something Sofia’s rarely seen.
“I think so,” Sloane pipes up. “I’m an Arc.”
Ben’s eyes widen with mock delight as she wraps her arm around Erim’s waist. Sofia rolls her eyes. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me we had an Arc in our Midst?” Ben asks Erim with doe eyes. Sofia can practically see the knot in Sloane’s throat.
Erim laughs nervously, tugging to detach Ben’s arm from around him. “Ben, let’s not do this.”
His warning tone warps her face with confusion. “Do what, Love Bear?” She leans in towards him.
As much as Sofia loves watching a slow train wreck, it doesn’t outweigh the instinct to spare Sloane. “That’s enough from you, Miss Mischief,” Sofia tells Ben.
Sloane steps back. “I think I’m going to head out.”
“I’ll walk you back,” Erim says. A smile stretches across Ben’s face.
“No, it’s okay.” Sloane puts up a hand firmly. “I have some stuff to do, but thanks for… my shoes.” She nods at Sofia. “See you later, Sof.”
“It was so nice to meet you, Sloane!” Ben calls after her.
Sofia swings the theater doors shut, hitting Ben in the backside.
Later that evening, when Sofia goes into Lyn’s kitchen to fill a kettle, she realizes just how much seeing Sloane gave her the respite she needed from real life. She and her dad have been staying with Lyn, so she isn’t alone, but the house still feels too quiet.
Also, Sofia’s grown to resent the pristine kitchen. There are no dirty dishes in the sink or even the drying rack. The worn green tea towel is hung over the stove handle rather than thrown haphazardly on the counter. Lyn scrubbed the appliances and cleaned the crumb
s out of the toaster. It’s eerily sterile for this house. Sofia looks up at the ceiling, which is now missing the pale orange stain from a spaghetti concoction that exploded two years ago. She considers making more of a mess just so it looks more familiar. Lyn always talked about redoing the kitchen, but it was always just a dream. Sloane always made fun of her for being all talk and no action. Since the accident, Lyn’s been buried in home improvement and design magazines, determined to obliterate the kitchen.
The kettle screeches like Sofia wants to. She combs back her hair with her fingers and moves the kettle off the burner. She swings open the cupboard and laughs hopelessly. Even standing on her tiptoes, the lowest shelf is barely within reach. She’s used to Sloane getting the mugs down for her. Sofia slides her knee onto the counter to hook three handles off the middle shelf. She fills them with steaming water and plops in some tea bags. With a final breath, Sofia leaves all her rage in the kitchen—it’s getting gutted, anyway.
She turns the corner into the living room, where Lyn is sitting on the couch hunched over a home magazine. Spitzer is all cuddled up with her, snoozing in her lap quietly. Sofia puts one mug on the table in front of her dad and settles down next to her aunt.
“Here you go.” She hands Lyn her tea and picks up a magazine, leafing through it. “So, what are we thinking?” She plants excitement in her voice. “Farmhouse sink?”
“Sofia.”
“The kitchen’s a little small for an island, but we could do a bar table in the corner.”
“Sofia.” Lyn gently closes the magazine in Sofia’s hands. Sofia looks up at her weary, verdant eyes. “Is my baby girl okay?” Her face is relaxed like she’s prepared herself for any answer.
Sofia’s gaze flickers to her dad, who looks up from his book. She swallows and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her lifetime of interactions has trained her to operate under the assumption that no one believes in what she does. While Lyn was always accepting of her, Sofia never thought she differed from anyone else in that regard. That’s why she wouldn’t tell Lyn about Sloane in the hospital. Piling on the shock of the afterlife while someone’s grieving is a recipe for turmoil and agitation. Maybe Sloane’s death made Lyn reconsider Sofia’s legitimacy. Grief has a funny way of making believers out of skeptics.
“Yeah, she’s okay,” Sofia says finally.
Lyn sucks in a shaky breath, her neutrality cracking. Her chin trembles. “Is she here now?” Tears roll down her face. Sofia shakes her head. Lyn nods quickly. “I don’t want her to see me like this.”
Sofia takes her hand. “She’s smart, your girl. She landed on her feet, in a great place where she’s making friends and having fun.” Sofia nods. “And she’s got a job finally!” Lyn smiles a little. Sofia knows she always wanted Sloane to work hard. “She helps people connect with their loved ones, like me.” Sofia gives her a tissue from the little pack she carries in her purse. “I’m not just guessing or hoping that she’s alright. I know it. I’ve seen it.”
“And you can, you can… contact her?” Lyn wipes under her eyes.
“She’s closer to you than you think,” Sofia promises. “And I’m not talking about the ‘they’ll always be with you’ crap.” Lyn laughs through tears, making Sofia grin. “I mean, any time you want her, she’ll be right here, in the room with you.” Lyn pulls her into a hug as her crying slows. Sofia locks eyes with her dad. His eyes are red, but his cheeks are round with pride.
TREDECIM
A little wet tongue streaks across Sloane’s face. She jolts up, awakened by the odd sensation. A small brown rat materializes in front of her. It blinks once, twice, and then just stares, twitching its little nose. Though Sloane’s never been particularly afraid of rats, it’s still unsettling to be woken by one’s tongue.
“Preeda!” The stern whisper makes her and the rat jump. “Leave her.” Sloane follows the sound to a young boy standing before her. He has tanned skin, a shaved head, and an orange toga with a sash of red around his middle. A monk and a rat. Sloane groans and lowers her head back down to the couch. If only they had a rabbi, priest, and bar to walk into, this could be the beginning of a terrible joke.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep; she just wanted to avoid seeing Ben or Erim and found herself more bored in her room than she realized. The boy offers his hand, and Sloane almost takes it before realizing that it was meant as a ramp for the rat to scurry up. It perches on his shoulder. Sloane drags herself to a sitting position to face the mini monk intruder. He becomes much smaller from her new angle. She can see him better now, in his startling youth. His perfectly round head has barely a shadow of hair, accenting his small ears and a jaw not yet hardened by adolescence. He couldn’t be older than eleven.
Sloane can’t decide what to say to this odd young boy, who seems so calm in the presence of his breaking-and-entering victim. She settles for a simple, “That your rat?” Bravo.
“She is not a rat,” he exclaims. “Preeda is a tree shrew, but I can understand your confusion. The two are similar in appearance.” He reminds Sloane of Ches a little, using language beyond his years. He slides his small hand under the belly of the rat—no, shrew, and lifts her from his shoulder. “The telling difference is in the structure of their tails.” He flips Preeda so she faces his chest, and runs his hand along the length of her fluffy squirrel tail.
“Of course, how silly of me,” Sloane says.
He realizes she’s staring at him, and his face shifts apologetically. “Forgive my intrusion. The door was ajar, but I did knock.”
Sloane waves away his contrition. “I’m told I sleep like the dead.”
He smiles absently, clearly having missed the joke. “We have not formally met.” He straightens, connects his heels silently, and presses the palms of his hands together in a praying position. He touches his index fingertips to his forehead and takes a deep bow. Preeda has clearly been through this before and adapts to his changing form flawlessly. She scurries onto his back as he bows, pauses, and returns to his shoulder as he uncurls. “I am Somboon Metharom, Arc of Herbas, surrogate Arc to Aquae.”
Sloane introduces herself plainly, confident that a bow would appear silly. “It is my honor to meet you, Sloane Rory,” he says, with a quick glance down to her swollen hands. The second he looks away, she collects her hands behind her, hiding the evidence of her meltdown. “Word of a new Arc travels rapidly. The terrarums are very eager about you and your unexpected arrival.”
Nerves heat within Sloane’s chest. “I think they’re getting ahead of themselves. I’m not really anything yet.”
Somboon studies her face for a moment. “Would you like to be?”
Sloane clears her throat with a chuckle. Sofia and Erim’s flood of information hadn’t left her with much time to consider an answer to that question. “I didn’t know I had a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Somboon says. Sloane’s brain rewinds to the night before when Erim said those exact words. “Even Soul Keepers choose their fates, though they are too young to remember.”
“I thought The Midst decided everything around here.”
“The Midst can only do so much. The tools may be provided, but it is we who must decide to build.”
“And you can help me do that?”
Somboon nods. “When the student is ready, the teacher will arrive.”
Sloane pauses for a moment. If Ches’s eviction was any indication, the path won’t be easy. But this new world revolves around the truest plan, and that plan made her an Arc. Though the pressure of everyone’s expectations is daunting, Sloane feels that this is her inescapable role. “Alright then.” She stands. “Where do we start?”
“Arborum.” Somboon smiles. “There’s an eviction we can observe there.” He holds the door open for her, and they begin along a path straight into the thicket. Preeda entertains herself by jumping nimbly from Somboon’s shoulder to the trees and then back again. She’s obviously not called a tree shrew for nothing.
&
nbsp; “How many other Arcs are there?” Sloane asks.
“Five of us.”
“Only five?”
“The Mediums handle about half the communications, so that eases our workload. And evictions are not required relatively often.” Somboon looks up at her. “Arcs are extremely rare to begin with. You are the first new Arc that we have had in many years. Each of us is Arc to our own terrarum and surrogate Arc to another. Except for Ilir, the oldest Arc, he only serves Obscuri.”
“The terrarum for the disordered souls?”
“Yes. It’s much larger than the other terrarums, and the difficult dispositions of its souls make Ilir’s work very taxing. You may not meet him for some time. He rarely leaves Obscuri.”
They come to an area where the trees clear in a perfect circle around a small pond. A grand weeping willow is rooted on a little island of green in the middle of the pond. “This is the cor of your terrarum; its heart.” Somboon points to the water. “Its frame represents the element of the terrarum.” Sloane follows him across the thin strip of grass that bridges to the island. He pulls back the veil of leaves for her. Some brush her as she passes under, soft as velvet. “And this is the cor’s sanctum. It provides our remedium leaves for healing.” The warped tree trunk wraps around itself and twists up into a firework of leaves. A natural hollow splits the tree from its base, the opening big enough to fit one person. Somboon walks up to the tree and strokes its withered bark. He beckons to the hollow. “This is the path Onward, and the link to the other terrarums.”
Somboon plucks a leaf from where they hang low and offers it to Sloane. It is small and silky in her palm. He reaches for another. “For inter-terrarular travel, you need only tell the cor where you wish to go.” He brings his cupped hand to his mouth. “Just like this.” He nods for Sloane to try it, reminding her of their destination.
She brings the leaf to her lips and whispers, “Arborum.”
Nothing happens. Sloane thinks she must have done something wrong as she looks around. Same tree, same hollow, same—no, the pond is gone. The frame is now a mass of knotted tree roots. Although they seem tangled, they’re woven together precisely, forming solid crests and troughs like frozen rolling waves.
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