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“Anything,” he says.
“That you’ll drag me out of bed if I don’t get up tomorrow,” I say, stumbling a bit over the sadness creeping into my words.
Erik sighs, but agrees. “I promise. And what are your plans after you manage that?”
“I’m going to have Dante teach me how to alter.”
“You know how to have a good time,” Erik says.
“I’m quite the party girl,” I agree.
“Can I come?” Erik asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“I wasn’t invited on their little hunting trip,” he says. “And I’m getting a bit bored around here.”
“You could swim,” I suggest. “There are about ten pools.”
“No trunks,” Erik says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I’d have to skinny-dip.”
I know my face is on fire right now, but I grin despite myself and push him out of my room. I have plenty to do today. Like cry away this ache so I can start tomorrow in a new world.
TWENTY-THREE
THERE ARE THOUSANDS OF STRANDS WEAVING IN brilliant discord through the greenhouse once I focus in on them. It’s taken me nearly a week to get to the point where I can see the strands on Earth without adrenaline pumping through me, and it’s now over two weeks since the mission left, making me feel like an empty well drained of every resource. Without the organized weave of Arras, it’s been harder to command my skill—both in manipulating the natural strands of the universe and in seeing them.
Now as I stare at them, I try to home in on one. I could grab any number of the overlarge room’s strands; the space around me is full to bursting. A low hum fills the air from the backup generator Dante has turned on to give us more light. The old halogen bulbs illuminate the room but their constant flickering seems to warn of their impending demise. Between that and the buzzing of the generator, it’s harder to feel the strands’ vibrance. The problem isn’t that I can’t see the strands, it’s that Dante wants me to find one specific thread—the time strand located within a petite orchid.
I’m trying to slip my fingers into the weave of the flower. I hold the strand at an angle, keeping a finger on the particular one Dante has asked me to find. I’m sure it’s easier for him to point one out than for me to find and grip the precise strand he’s referring to, which is exactly what he’s trying to show me. I gingerly grasp the golden thread and tug to pull it into a warp. My touch is gentle but the thread cracks through the air, splitting a petal in two. The pieces fall bruised to the ground. My eyes meet Erik’s; he’s watching from a nearby stool
. He came for moral support, but I know we’re thinking the same thing: we’re going to be here forever.
“No,” Dante says. His tone is patient, which has the strange effect of making me feel very impatient.
“It’s occurred to you that this is hopeless, right?” I ask, dropping the strand in defeat and settling back against a table full of pots and plants. It creaks under my weight. I know how it feels.
“Only if you tell yourself it is,” Dante says simply, but he cracks his left knuckles as he speaks.
Never mind. The Zen master is getting a bit tired.
“If you are in a fight, your skill has to be controlled. What would happen if you grabbed the wrong strand?” It’s not a question. We’ve both seen what happens, but I’m getting tired of him constantly bringing up the ammunition factory as an example.
“We’d get out alive. That’s what matters.”
“Is it?” he demands. “And how can you be certain you would, with such a cavalier attitude?”
“I haven’t killed any of us yet.” I stop fingering the strands around me and plant my hands on my hips.
“You nearly did at the factory. You weren’t in control,” he says. “I’d call that dangerous.”
“I’d call that lucky. It bought us time.”
Dante shrugs, rubbing the frond of a tall potted fern. “We view things with a different perspective, Adelice. Your escape from Arras was brave but too risky. When you wield your power like that, you put everyone in your path at risk.”
“No one was hurt,” I argue, but this time my argument sounds small and weak, because I know he has a point.
“Perhaps not, if that makes you feel better, but how would you feel if someone was caught in the tear? If Jost, for instance—”
