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“It’s the story of how our worlds came to be.” Kincaid spreads his hands. “You cannot expect one film to explain everything.”
TWELVE
DANTE FOLLOWS ME OUT OF THE THEATER, but Jost keeps a protective arm around my shoulder. I know I can’t avoid Dante forever, and now that I’ve seen the film, I shrug off Jost’s arm and kiss him swiftly on the cheek. He doesn’t like it, but he gives Dante a terse nod and leaves us, heading back into the main house while Dante and I tarry on the stone path. The lights have dimmed to near twilight, but I can see the outlines of the wild plants and hear the trickle of the nearest fountain.
“Have you told anyone about us?” Dante asks me.
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“I can barely believe it myself,” Dante says.
“But you suspected it. Why?”
“You said your last name was Lewys and, well, because of your mother,” he says.
“You know her?” I ask.
“Of course, she’s your mother.”
I’m having a difficult time composing sentences, and thoughts, for that matter. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not possible. “So you knew her.”
“Yes,” Dante confirms.
“But Benn Lewys was my father,” I say, trying hard to sort this in my mind.
“Benn was my brother,” Dante says.
“He didn’t have a brother,” I say.
“No, his brother left.” Dante blinks several times as if resetting himself. “I left, because the Guild was coming after me.”
It doesn’t explain anything, especially not his claims about his past—our past—or how he wound up on Earth. Still, my mother hinted at this, so I concentrate.
“But,” I say, struggling, “you aren’t old enough to be my father.”
“About that,” he says, scratching his temple.
“Yes?” I prompt.
“Things are different here.”
“Do you have time machines?” I ask sarcastically.
“We don’t need them. Time doesn’t flow rapidly on Earth like it does where we came from. Arras is a construct, so its time is not bound to the same physical laws that time on Earth is. For every month that passes on Earth, a year passes in Arras. So if you’re sixteen years old—”
“It’s only been sixteen months since you left,” I say. If he’s right, then half a year has passed on Arras since we left. It will be spring again, and Amie will graduate primary academy soon.
“I feel like I’ve barely been away, but here you are. I didn’t know,” Dante says. “I wouldn’t have left Meria if I had known she was pregnant.”
He wants me to understand. He wants forgiveness.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. My words are glass, smooth and cold, and I know he can see right through them. “You still left her.”
You left me, I add silently.
“You don’t understand. Meria refused to come with me,” Dante explains. “She didn’t want to run. I showed her the mark of Kairos so she could come if she changed her mind.”
“Why does this matter?” I ask, gesturing to the techprint—a symbol that’s lost its original meaning to me. Now it’s another secret—another lie.
