CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The New Recruit

HORACE RETURNED TO THE WARREN EARLY THURSDAY EVENING, exhausted from the night before, still disoriented from the falkrete. He was here to meet with the other Wardens and the mysterious new arrival, April, but he barely felt equipped. His head buzzed with the memories of the nightmare encounter with the Riven—the horrid surprise of the Auditor and the cat-and-mouse game with Dr. Jericho. He still wrestled with the awful feeling that he had saved the Mordin’s life, and what that could mean for the future. Above all, he hadn’t been able to shake those ominous words: “Sil’falo Teneves’s greatest mistake.” Not to mention thrall-blight, whatever that was. He’d slept with the Fel’Daera beneath his pillow, something he hadn’t done since he was in the Find.

And then there was Chloe. Against all odds, her mother had returned—a Tuner like his own mom, but far more menacing. Logically speaking, Horace felt it was too soon to say what Isabel’s arrival meant, but last night Chloe had made her own feelings clear: the return of her mother was nothing but bad.

Chloe met him in the front hall of the Mazzoleni Academy, wearing her green hoodie, looking frazzled. She was chewing ferociously on a mint, but her eyes were raw, as if she’d been crying. “I had my little reunion this morning,” she announced at once. “Ask me how it was.”

“Um . . . how was it?” Horace said.

“Heartwarming.”

“Really?”

“Yes, if by ‘warming’ you mean ‘stabbing.’”

The academy was all but abandoned this time of year. As they headed toward the elevator that led down to the Warren, Chloe recounted her conversation with her mother that morning. Filled with horror and sympathy, Horace heard about Chloe’s broken legs. She’d mentioned breaking bones before, but he hadn’t imagined anything quite so horrible. She told him about Isabel leaving, choosing the harp over her family. “She left us all to protect me—you know, because she’s so selfless,” Chloe spat sarcastically. “God forbid she give up her damn harp instead.”

Horace considered what it would be like to give up the Fel’Daera—to have to choose between family and instrument. But then again, Isabel wasn’t Tan’ji. And he knew without question that his own mother would have sacrificed her own harp for him. In a heartbeat.

“That’s . . . terrible, Chloe,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“You and me both.”

“At least now you know the truth.”

“Yup. The whole big truth bomb exploded.”

“And now she’s back,” Horace pointed out cautiously. “She came looking for you.”

“Did she, though?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t trust her. I can’t trust her. She says she surrendered the harp last night to be with us, but she also says maybe Mr. Meister could fix things for her, or something. She’s not willing to give up the harp—not really. I can tell.”

They passed by the academy’s great leestone, a massive raven launching itself from a branch, wings spread wide. Looking at it, Horace recalled how Isabel’s power had mowed down the Auditor and the Mordin on the riverbank. He remembered the shocking sight the Fel’Daera had provided, the moment that—by a whisker, he was sure—hadn’t come to pass. Dr. Jericho, cleaved by Isabel, dropping lifeless into the mud. There was no getting around it: a Tuner like Isabel could be perhaps the most powerful weapon they had against the Riven. But of course, Horace couldn’t just come out and say it. Not to Chloe, and maybe not at all.

“Well,” Horace said instead, “it’s still pretty crazy, huh? My mom knew your mom, back when they were kids. Before we were even born. And they don’t even know it.”

“You didn’t tell your mom?” Chloe asked.

“No. It felt like something you should do, if it gets done at all.”

“Thank you. I think.” Chloe was silent for a several seconds. “It’s definitely freaky that our moms knew each other before we even existed. But maybe it’s a sign. Maybe that’s the reason we get along so well.”

Horace bit his lips to keep from smiling. “You mean, that’s why I tolerate you so well.”

“That’s what I said,” Chloe replied primly.

When they arrived at the tiny, rickety elevator, Chloe produced her black key and slid back the gate. Horace closed his eyes and stepped inside. He heard her insert her key into the elevator panel and click once to the left, once to the right. The elevator shuddered into motion. As usual, Chloe started up a friendly chatter to keep Horace distracted.

“I heard you were pretty awesome last night,” she said. “Neptune said you were like a ninja or something. What was the breach at?”

“Four seconds,” Horace said, blushing.

“Four seconds!”

“Yeah. It was stupid.”

“Oh, definitely. Totally stupid. But it worked.”

Sort of, Horace thought. Thanks to Isabel.

The elevator shuddered to a halt at the bottom and they slipped out into the cool tunnels. They took out their jithandras, the red and blue mingling into shadowed purple, and started down the long stairway toward Vithra’s Eye. “What about you?” Horace said. “What about that Auditor? She was inside the Fel’Daera for a few seconds, trying to move the breach. It was . . . awful.”

“Don’t get me started,” Chloe growled. “She was in the Alvalaithen almost the whole time. Sometimes she would let go, and if I could have caught her when she was solid I would’ve tried to meld something inside her—hurt her, you know?” She said this casually, as if embedding solid objects in living creatures was something she did all the time. The startling idea made Horace shudder. “I couldn’t catch her, though,” Chloe continued. “She’d go up in the air with the tourminda. Plus she was wrestling Gabriel for the humour, and I was mostly blind.”

“But was she trying to hurt you?”

“Define ‘hurt,’” Chloe said, clearly meaning that having your Tan’ji invaded was injury enough. But then she considered it. “No, she didn’t try to hurt us. She tried to wear us down—demoralize us. She kept talking while she used our powers, reminding us how our Tan’ji weren’t our own, that our abilities weren’t special, that we should stop resisting.”

“And was it working?”

Chloe hesitated just a bit before answering. “Not on me.”

Horace didn’t press the issue. When the Auditor had invaded the Fel’Daera for even those few seconds, it had been like discovering that his own heart was pumping poison into his veins. He could scarcely imagine enduring that violation for several minutes. He let his thoughts settle on the Fel’Daera for a moment, toying with the breach, reassuring himself that it was his now, his and no one else’s.

They arrived at the shore of Vithra’s Eye. No one was there to greet them. To his surprise, Chloe unhooked her jithandra and let it dangle, stepping up to the water’s edge.

“What are you doing?” Horace said.

“What do you think? Crossing.”

“But we’ve never crossed on our own before.”

“Well, I’ve got two things to say about that. Thing one: no one’s bothered to teach us. Thing two: how hard can it be?”

But Horace still didn’t trust himself in the Nevren. “Nope. I’m not doing that.”

“Fine. Then follow me.” Chloe dipped her scarlet jithandra into the water. The water rushed to become solid around it, and she stepped out. When Horace didn’t follow, she said, “Unless you don’t trust me.”

Horace sighed. “I trust you.”

“Great. That makes two of us. Let’s go.”

Horace stepped up warily behind her, taking hold of her hood. Unsurprisingly, Chloe moved swiftly and surely, as if she’d done this a thousand times. The walkway that formed just in front of them was faintly red. And whatever worries Horace still clung to didn’t last long, obliterated as they entered the hollow terror of the Nevren. Somehow Chloe kept them moving through the cold, even through that stretch when Horace didn’t know who either of them was, and before long they were through. They reached the far shore with ease. But when Chloe refastened her jithandra, Horace noticed her hands were shaking.

She caught him looking, her face pale, and she shrugged. “Harder than I thought,” she admitted. “But we made it.”

They headed into the Great Burrow. They were here to formally meet with April, the girl with the pet raven and the mysterious Tan’ji. When they arrived at Mr. Meister’s doba, Mrs. Hapsteade was just leaving with Joshua, April’s strange young companion. The boy’s ankle was tightly wrapped, and he had only a faint limp now.

“Keepers,” Mrs. Hapsteade said with a nod, lingering on Chloe for an extra second. “I see you made it across Vithra’s Eye on your own.”

Chloe shrugged. “It was Horace’s idea,” she said inexplicably.

Joshua, meanwhile, seemed starstruck. He bowed so deeply he nearly fell over. “Keepers,” he intoned formally. When he straightened, his eyes flitted eagerly back and forth between Horace and Chloe, alighting on the box and the dragonfly.

“What’s your story?” Chloe asked the boy, not unkindly. “You a groupie or something?”

“What’s a groupie?”

“Like a fan. An inappropriately desperate fan.”

“I’m not desperate. I’m going to be a Keeper just like you. Isabel says so.”

Chloe grunted at Isabel’s name, her eyes narrowing. Mrs. Hapsteade laid a flat hand in front of the boy’s face, silencing him. Horace noticed that in her other hand she held a neatly folded piece of paper. He caught a glimpse of shimmering blue ink.

“That’s a promise that should never be made,” Mrs. Hapsteade said to Joshua, “even if you do have potential.”

Potential, yes. And by the looks of that ink—no doubt written with the Vora—it was the same kind of potential Horace himself had. That first day in the House of Answers, Horace had filled out the guest book with Mrs. Hapsteade’s Tan’ji and been surprised at the brilliant blue ink that flowed from it—the same ink that had later gone into his jithandra. And Horace remembered Mr. Meister’s reaction when he’d first seen the boy on the riverbank the night before. Despite himself, Horace laid a hand on the box.

Mrs. Hapsteade took Joshua’s hand firmly. “They’re waiting for you inside,” she told Horace and Chloe, and with another nod she began leading Joshua away.

“Good-bye,” the boy said solemnly.

Horace waved limply, watching him go. He felt Chloe’s eyes on him.

“What’s up?” Chloe asked. “Seems like that kid is creeping you out.”

“His ink. I think it’s blue, like mine.”

“So what about it? You afraid he’s going to take your job or something?”

“Is that a thing that happens?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Come on, forget it.” Chloe turned to Mr. Meister’s door. She sighed at the ornate red wood and golden doorknob. “I am so surly right now. I’m not sure I’m up for hanging out with Bo Peep.”

“She seems nice enough,” Horace said, and immediately regretted it.

Chloe made a ferociously sarcastic kissy face at him and then swung the door open wide.

Inside, Mr. Meister sat at his desk, looking at them with the air of someone who had been watching them approach for miles. The spitestone still stood on the shelf behind him, yellow eye gleaming, but Horace was surprised to see that Isabel’s wicker harp now lay beside it. Chloe seemed not to notice.

Meanwhile April sat on the couch, wearing another long sundress and chunky, dirty boots. She looked astonishingly lovely, and Horace turned his gaze elsewhere. Her pet raven, perched on a shelf above her head, croaked brazenly, watching Horace with unmistakably intelligent eyes.

Horace hadn’t learned much about this girl, or her powers, during those confusing moments on the riverbank; Horace and Chloe had been whisked away almost at once. Nonetheless it was clear that April’s Tan’ji—the swirling silver object tangled in her auburn hair—had something to do with the bird. She could control it, or something. Trying to be subtle, Horace studied her, wondering how she’d gotten her crooked nose and whether it actually made her look prettier, until she faintly raised an eyebrow and made him look away again.

Horace had expected that Gabriel and Neptune would be joining them, but the older Wardens weren’t present. Instead, to Horace’s surprise, Brian was here, waving gaily to get their attention.

“Let’s go, heroes,” Brian said. “Saved you a seat.” He scooted closer to April, opening an unnecessarily large chunk of room on the long, curved couch.

As soon as Horace and Chloe sat, Mr. Meister leapt into action, like a tightly wound toy. “There is much to discuss,” he said. “No time for formalities, just simple introductions.” He made a karate chop motion at each of them, rattling off their names. “Chloe Oliver, Horace Andrews, Brian Souter. Please meet our new arrival, April Simon.”

April ducked her head and muttered a couple of shy but friendly hellos. Horace waved and said, “Hey.” Brian shook her hand. Chloe grunted.

“Inspiring,” said Mr. Meister.

April looked around at them. “This might be a rude question, but can I ask what you all . . . do?” She nodded at Chloe’s dragonfly, making her meaning clear.

“You saw me last night,” Chloe said. “I can become incorporeal.”

April clearly wasn’t thrown by the fancy word. “Totally? You can move through anything?”

“Yes, anything. Wood, stone, metal. Flesh.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” said Chloe, scowling. “Well . . . not normally, no.”

“I’m really curious how you actually do that. I’ve been thinking about it all day. Do you slide between molecules, or do you shift dimensions, or what?”

Horace was impressed. He caught Brian’s eye, and Brian mouthed a single word at him, wiggling his eyebrows: Wow.

Chloe’s scowl grew deeper. “Um, that’s not how I roll. I just do it, and it happens.”

April hesitated as if she was going to press the issue, but instead she just said, “I wouldn’t want to be your enemy.”

“No,” said Chloe. “You wouldn’t.”

Clearly perplexed by Chloe’s hostility, April tried to smile and then slid her steady gaze to Horace. She raised her eyebrows politely.

“Oh right,” said Horace, fumbling for the box. “Well, this is the Fel’Daera. The Box of Promises. It . . . uh . . . opens into the future.”

April sat stunned for a moment, and then said, “No, it does not.”

“Um, yeah. Yeah, it does. I can see into the future—only as far as a day, though.”

April shook her head firmly, her hazel eyes gleaming. “No, you cannot.”

“I swear, I totally can. That’s how we knew where to find you on the river. I saw you coming.”

“I’m trying to believe you.”

Chloe scoffed. “Try harder,” she muttered under her breath. Horace frowned. What was Chloe’s deal?

“I assure you, Keeper, it’s quite true,” Mr. Meister told April.

“It’s not that I don’t believe it,” she said, watching the box warily. “After everything I’ve seen this week, I kind of have to believe it. But out of every crazy thing I’ve seen, this seems like the most—”

“Amazing,” said Brian.

“I was going to say dangerous.”

Horace caught his breath. Dangerous. Sil’falo Teneves’s greatest mistake. He glanced at Mr. Meister, but the old man didn’t reply to April’s words—neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

April searched Horace’s face. “I’m sorry. I think probably I offended you.” She looked genuinely concerned.

“It’s okay.”

“I’m not sure it is. Just . . . remember that I’m kind of overwhelmed here. Last night was insane, and this is all scary, scary new. I’m just trying not to rock any boats. I’m trying to fit in.”

Now Mr. Meister leaned forward. “You want to be one of us?”

“I’m not sure what that even means.”

“It means you would join us. You would help us in our fight against the Riven.”

“Wow, that’s sort of . . .” April began, and then groaned in frustration. “Can I be honest? I’m super glad to meet you all, and I am probably half full of questions for all of you, but right now—really—all I care about is this.” She opened her fist, revealing the black flower daktan. Her calm voice cracked as she continued. “I came all this way to find it, and now I have it . . . except I don’t. I’m still broken. So when you talk about joining you, and fighting the Riven, I know I should care but I completely don’t. I’m sorry, but all I really care about is being fixed. That’s all I can care about. So I wish you’d tell me—can you can fix me?”

The impassioned plea dove straight into Horace’s chest, but Mr. Meister simply sat there serenely. “Let us imagine that we could, hypothetically,” he said. “Would you then join us?”

Horace was surprised. Mr. Meister seemed to be bargaining with April, holding out the promise of repairing her Tan’ji in exchange for her loyalty. But then he realized—fixing April’s Tan’ji meant revealing the existence of Tunraden, perhaps the Warden’s greatest secret. Brian, meanwhile, sat stonily beside April, giving away nothing.

April, to her credit, wasn’t deterred. “When I first met you on the riverbank and I tried to reattach my missing piece, you told me, ‘Not like that. Not yet.’ That didn’t sound very hypothetical.”

Mr. Meister smiled, apparently pleased. “An excellent point. Let us say for the moment that fixing your Tan’ji is something to be discussed.”

“Why?” Chloe asked suddenly.

“I’m sorry?” said Mr. Meister.

“I’m saying fix it or don’t fix it. Why are you so eager for her to join us? We don’t even know what she can do.”

“Chloe,” Horace chided her softly, embarrassed on her behalf.

Mr. Meister, however, seemed unperturbed. “April is an empath,” he said.

“Oh, thanks, that clears it right up.”

“I can listen to animals,” April said. “I can hear what they’re thinking—some of what they’re thinking, anyway. Simple things, mostly. Moods, emotions, things like that.”

Horace tried to imagine the power she described. How could such a device actually work? And what did animals even think about? He glanced up at her raven, who was preening beneath one of his great black wings.

“But you’re right,” April continued. “I don’t have anything like the kind of power you guys do. I don’t know how much I could really help you, even if . . .” She broke off, clenching her fist around the daktan.

“Every Keeper has something to offer,” Mr. Meister said. “All the Wardens here have different and important work.”

“You can listen to any kind of animal?” Chloe asked April.

“Yes, any kind. Well, any kind but humans.”

“What about the Riven?” Chloe pressed.

“Oh, right . . . not the Riven either, now that you mention it.”

Chloe laughed. “Well then what’s the point? You can tell me what your bird thinks? We’ve already got a bird. Her name is Neptune.”

“Maybe that’s what’s wrong with your Tan’ji,” Horace offered. “Maybe if it weren’t broken, you could listen to hu—”

“No!” Mr. Meister barked, startling everyone—including himself. He straightened his vest fussily. He ran his fingers through his unruly white hair and then continued in a grave tone. “Empaths cannot hear the thoughts of other humans. It is forbidden.” He laid a hand on the chest-sized book on his desk. “When the first empathic instruments were made—instruments that allowed the user to understand the thoughts of others—the Makers quickly realized that they had stumbled on a dangerous weapon. One of the most dangerous weapons of all.”

Brian looked warily over at April. She flashed an exaggerated monster face at him, holding her fingers up like claws. Brian laughed. Chloe frowned.

But all Horace could think was: dangerous. It would have been a mistake to create such an instrument. Was the Fel’Daera a mistake too?

Mr. Meister pointed at his own wrinkled forehead and went on. “Imagine a world where the private mind was no longer private. Where your emotions, your intentions, your hopes, your fears, your histories, your allegiances—all your thoughts—were no longer yours to keep.”

Chloe hunkered down in her seat, pressing her knees against her chest, and glowered at the others as if they were trying to read her thoughts right now.

“But wouldn’t it be kind of awesome?” Brian said. “We wouldn’t have misunderstandings. People couldn’t lie. No one could keep secrets.”

“Lying is often useful,” Mr. Meister said. “And the world cannot function without secrets.” He lifted his arms, gesturing to the Great Burrow all around them. “Indeed, without secrets, what would become of us? What would become of our Tan’ji? To create a Tanu that allows us to see into the minds of others is to cross a line. A perilous line.”

Chloe eyed him. “And you’re sure that line has never been crossed. Not even by the Riven.”

“If it had,” Mr. Meister said, “we would not be here right now.”

“Here’s my question, though,” said April. “How does the vine even know the difference between humans and animals?”

The question tugged at Horace. “Yeah, we’re animals,” he said. “So where do you draw that line?” Brian frowned thoughtfully, as if even he wasn’t sure how such a thing could be accomplished.

“You underestimate yourselves,” Mr. Meister said. “We humans are far more intelligent than other animals.”

“But honestly, how are you measuring that?” said April. “By our ability to cut down the forests the animals live in, and poison the oceans they swim through?”

“Preach it, sister,” said Brian.

“I wasn’t finished,” Mr. Meister said coolly. “We are also self-aware—”

“Elephants are self-aware,” April said. “If you put a dot of paint on an elephant’s forehead and have her stand in front of a mirror, she’ll reach up with her trunk and feel her forehead to see what’s there. She knows she’s looking at herself in the mirror.”

“We practice deceit—”

“My cat practices deceit,” said Horace. April nodded at him approvingly.

“I think I know what the difference is,” Chloe said quietly. Now everyone looked at her. “Unlike the other animals, we have the ability to imagine that someone might be reading our minds in the first place. We have the ability to imagine what we might then do to such a person. And I can tell you, I am imagining some pretty terrible stuff right now.”

Brian stroked his chin, watching Chloe skeptically. “That sort of makes me want to build a mind-reading device,” he said.

“It is forbidden,” said Mr. Meister.

Chloe ignored Mr. Meister and gave Brian a savage look of warning. “If anyone ever came near me with an instrument that let them read my thoughts, they would be very, very sorry.”

“What’s the matter?” Brian teased. “Afraid we’ll discover your secret desires?”

Chloe shot up, fists at her side. “Oh, I’ve got a desire, all right. Keep talking and you’ll find out what it is.”

April’s raven let out a strange, low warble, shifting nervously. To Horace, he looked and sounded worried. But April was watching Chloe. She said cautiously, “I thought you guys were friends.”

“Maybe you thought wrong, Doctor Dolittle,” Chloe snapped. “Still want to be in the clubhouse?”

“Chloe, come on,” Horace said. “What is your problem?”

Chloe rounded on him, bristling furiously. “Are you kidding me?” she said, and then the wings of the Alvalaithen sprang to life. “You, of all people?” Without a look back at any of them, she marched from the room, passing right through Mr. Meister’s closed door.

That sat in silence for a moment. Brian wore a look of guilty shock. “Oops,” he mouthed at Horace. The raven croaked softly, his head bobbing up and down.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Meister said to April, giving her a slight bow. “Chloe is prickly under even the best of circumstances, and the current circumstances are far from the best.”

“She’s Isabel’s daughter,” April said.

“Yes,” said Mr. Meister. “Chloe has not seen her mother since she was a young child. Her life took a drastic and unforeseen turn on that riverbank last night.”

“And it’s my fault Isabel is even here.”

“Isabel took advantage of the situation, yes,” said Mr. Meister. “But you are not to blame. What matters is that you are here. You are safe.”

April nodded, then smiled ruefully. “But will I be when I leave? I have to go back home. Even if I did want to stay here and join you, I can’t just run away.”

“We do not accept runaways. And we cannot simply steal young Keepers away from their families without explanation.”

Horace could almost hear the joke Chloe would have made had she still been here: I’m sure that’s very disappointing for you. He wondered where she’d gone, what she was doing now.

“You saw the academy above the Warren,” Mr. Meister continued. “It is there for a reason.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick blue folder that said Mazzoleni Academy on the front. It was crammed with papers and pamphlets and forms. Horace listened, impressed, as the old man explained the plan to April—the offer of a scholarship, an actual education. “You would attend school right upstairs. Your family does not need to learn the whole truth, of course, but what we tell them is true enough to put a parent’s mind at ease.”

“My parents are dead,” April said flatly.

Mr. Meister folded his hands politely. Horace looked down at his shoes, unsure what to say. Just when the silence was getting uncomfortably thick, Brian said cheerily, “Problem solved, then.”

Mr. Meister’s face turned into thunderclouds. But April turned to Brian calmly, apparently untroubled. “Exactly what do you do here, by the way?” she asked. “You weren’t on the riverbank.”

Her voice was so placid—and so laced with polite interest—that it clearly threw Brian. He grinned awkwardly and jiggled his skinny legs nervously. “I make . . . bad jokes,” he said. He held out the front of his shirt as an example. It said:

MY OTHER SHIRT

MENTIONS THIS SHIRT

“I see,” April said, reading. “How many shirts do you have that say that?”

“Um . . . just this one.”

“That’s less funny. You should have two.”

Brian peered down at the shirt. “You’re right,” he said, clearly chastened.

April sat back and gazed up into the rounded dome of the office. Her raven was still directly overhead, immobile, but higher up, the little birds that lived here were flitting to and fro. She watched them thoughtfully, her eyes distant, and Horace got the distinct impression that she was listening to them with her Tan’ji.

“Anyway,” April continued, “I guess it does help solve the problem a little bit—my parents being dead. My brother and I live with our Uncle Harrison, but he’s more of a landlord than anything else. It’s my brother who would raise a fuss about me being gone. He’s the one who really looks after me. Well . . . besides myself, I mean.”

“I see,” said Mr. Meister. “And your brother—where does he think you are right now?”

“At a friend’s house for a few days. I hope. I’m supposed to be back home Friday night.” She squinted in confusion. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Mr. Meister said. “And what if—hypothetically—we were able to fix your Tan’ji before you went home? Would you return? Would you join us?”

April seemed to be holding her breath, overwhelmed by the very notion. As if on cue, her raven slipped down from his perch, his wings unfolding massively, and dropped onto the couch beside Horace. He croaked at Horace sociably and then turned in April’s direction, snapping his great thick bill. Horace had never been so close to a bird so large before. April pulled a chunk of something from her pocket—dog food?—and tossed it. Horace watched, fascinated, as the bird choked it down.

“This is Arthur,” April said to Horace. “He likes you.”

“How do you know?”

For an answer, April simply pointed to her Tan’ji. Arthur turned and cocked his head at Horace. His eyes were shining black, and his formidable beak was twice as thick as Horace’s thumb.

“Look, I don’t know if I want to join you,” April said. “I don’t really even understand who you are. Mostly I just know that every second my Tan’ji stays broken is one more second I stay broken too. So if you want to talk—fix me.”

She fell silent, her pretty, crooked face sagging forlornly. Horace felt a peculiar pain in his chest at the sight, as if he too was breaking. Meanwhile, Brian looked at Mr. Meister expectantly, clearly asking for permission. Mr. Meister took a deep breath and gave him a subtle nod.

Brian leaned into April. “I might—maybe—be able to help you,” he said quietly.

She lifted her head, her eyes wide. Horace could hear her breathing. “Explain, please.”

“I can maybe fix your Tan’ji. Maybe.” Brian gestured at the daktan. “Can I . . . may I?”

Without hesitation, April dropped the daktan into his hand. And then, shocking everyone, she pulled the Tan’ji from the tangle of her hair and thrust it at Brian. “Here. Please. Try.”

Reluctantly, Brian took the delicate instrument, handling it as if it were hot. Despite himself, Horace winced at the sight. Most Keepers were loath to allow anyone else to touch their instruments, but April seemed not to have those reservations. Mr. Meister, watching, slipped his tiny notebook from a pocket of his vest and jotted down a hasty note.

Brian bent over the Tan’ji and its missing piece. The Tan’ji was lovely and wild, and from what Horace could tell, it seemed designed to hook directly around April’s ear. He could see the broken stem clearly now, and it made him want to retch. How was April coping with such a ghastly wound? The sight, and the sickness oozing from it, brought Dr. Jericho’s words unwanted once again to the surface of Horace’s mind. “Sickness . . . thrall-blight . . . a mistake.”

“The break is clean,” said Brian, sounding professorial. “But it’s not just the structure. It’s the Medium, the flow of operation, the input and output.” With a steady hand he placed the daktan against the broken stem, holding it in place. The mere illusion of wholeness made April catch her breath. “I can reattach it physically,” Brian said. “That’s no problem. Weaving the flow again will be more difficult. The flower seems to be acting as some kind of vital sensor, or focal device. It would be like . . . reattaching a head.”

“But can you do it?” said April.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Mr. Meister, his left eye looming large through the thick, shining glass of the oraculum, was watching intently. “It can be done,” he pronounced.

“How?” April said. “Like, with what?”

Brian stood up, a reckless and uncertain grin growing on his face. “Come and see.”

Brian handed April her Tan’ji and led her out of the office. The bird rode on April’s shoulder, his massive talons digging into her flesh.

“And so the moment arrives,” Mr. Meister said, standing to follow. When he noticed Horace wasn’t moving, he stopped. “Are you coming, Keeper?”

Horace considered his words. “Yeah. Just, you know, wondering about some things. Things Dr. Jericho said last night.”

Mr. Meister leaned back against his desk, his expression sour, but he gestured for Horace to proceed.

“Dr. Jericho said when I refuse the future the box reveals—when I feel sick like that—my sickness affects the Medium itself. The Mothergates, too.”

Mr. Meister crossed his arms. “He feeds you lies.”

“He even had a name for it. Thrall-blight, he called it.”

“I have heard the term before. I do not care for it.”

“Blight is disease. And thrall—that’s like . . . being a slave.”

“Do you feel that you are a slave to the Fel’Daera?”

“Well, no, but—”

“You feel free to ignore the path indicated by the box, when the occasion warrants. Last night was a dramatic, if foolhardy, case in point. Neptune told me what you were doing.”

Horace ignored the “foolhardy” comment. He had no plans to repeat last night’s four-second stunt anytime soon. “But you’ve always told me not change the future the box shows me.”

Mr. Meister held up a finger. “Correction. I have always told you to open the box with great care. I have explained that opening the box is the first step along the path to the future the box reveals. Take that step with your usual good sense, and this sickness—this thrall-blight—can be avoided.”

“Okay, but—” Horace hardly knew how to say what came next. “It’s dangerous, isn’t it? The Fel’Daera is dangerous. I’m dangerous.”

“Yes. But danger is relative. Speeding down the highway is dangerous, for example, but perhaps acceptable if you are fleeing from some great harm.”

“In other words, the benefits of the Fel’Daera outweigh the risks—according to you.”

“Just so. According to me.”

“But meanwhile I don’t even know what the risks are.”

Mr. Meister shrugged. “That is because I do not wish you to know them,” he said simply.

Dimly Horace knew that these words should have infuriated him, but instead he felt only a ripple of irritation. And he thought he understood why.

He didn’t really want to know the risks. He wasn’t sure he cared what the risks were—or maybe he was afraid he would care. Maybe he was afraid that the risks would turn out to be horrendous, and that even then he wouldn’t stop himself from using the box.

“Okay,” he said, refusing to let his thoughts wander down that road. “Okay, fine. But maybe at least reassure me about something. Dr. Jericho also said . . . he said that Sil’falo Teneves thinks the Fel’Daera was a mistake. Her greatest mistake, actually.”

Mr. Meister didn’t reply right away. He gazed at Horace for a long time, his huge left eye watery and soft, yet heavy as a hammer. “It is true that Sil’falo has proclaimed regret for the Fel’Daera in the past. When other Keepers held its reins.”

“Oh.”

“The last time we spoke, however, her views had changed.”

“And when was that?”

Mr. Meister broke into a warm smile. He put an arm around Horace’s shoulders. “Quite recently, my friend,” he said. “Quite recently indeed.” And then he ushered a suddenly blushing Horace through the door.

Outside, Brian and April were headed for the staircase that led to Brian’s workshop. Horace, feeling a relief he wasn’t quite sure he’d earned, cast about for Chloe. He spotted her back up the slope in the opposite direction, loitering outside an abandoned doba. He turned to Mr. Meister and said, “I’ll catch up?”

Mr. Meister nodded. “She was strong last night.”

“Maybe you should tell her that.”

“I have. She disagreed—vehemently. But her stubbornness in resisting the despair sown by the Auditor allowed the others to fight back too.” He sighed. “Tell her she can join us, if she wishes. If she promises not to sneer at the sanctity of what we are about to attempt.”

“I can’t guarantee no sneering.”

“She lashes out. She feels lost. She doubts the motivations behind her mother’s return.”

“Don’t you?”

Mr. Meister pushed his thick glasses up on his nose. “I have no doubt as to Isabel’s motivations,” he said gruffly, and then he spun on his heels and followed after the others.

Horace puzzled over that response for a moment, then went to Chloe. She watched him approach like an angry cat watches a neglectful owner.

“Party downstairs, I guess,” she said. “What, am I not invited?”

“You are. Brian’s going to try to repair April’s Tan’ji.”

Chloe’s eyes lit up briefly with an unmistakable spark of interest, but then she scoffed. “Really pulling out all the stops for the new girl.”

“Look, it’s been a crazy day for you.”

Chloe gasped indignantly. “What are you saying? Are you saying I did something wrong?”

“You were just . . . you know. Rude and scary.”

“I’m always scary,” Chloe said. “Meanwhile Mr. Meister is courting Bo Peep like she’s some kind of all-star, but she’s bad news. Isabel tricked her. Isabel used April to find the Warren. And April wasn’t even smart enough to know she was being used.”

“I wouldn’t assume that. She seems plenty smart to me.”

“Why, because she saw a TV show about elephants? Because she said molecules? Lots of people can say molecules, Horace.”

“Chloe—”

“But maybe you just think she’s smart because she wears pretty dresses.”

Horace blushed. “Chloe, come on.”

“Look, anybody can read a book, Horace. That’s not the kind of smart I’m talking about. April is a dupe. It’s her fault Isabel even came back.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much exactly what April said, right after you left.”

That threw Chloe for a second. “So she knew she was being used, and she still—”

“Yes!” Horace said. “Maybe she knew, and she did it anyway. All she wanted was to find her missing piece. Who cares what your mom was after?”

Chloe took a step back, her eyes blazing with rage and confusion and hurt. “I care, Horace,” she said quietly, jabbing a finger into her own chest. “I care.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just meant I’m not sure it makes any sense to be mad at April for doing whatever she could to get the daktan. We’d both do the same, and you know it.”

Chloe sighed. She kicked a loose pebble, watched it skitter away. “Fair,” she said at last.

“Good. Thank you. So are you coming?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. You go ahead.”

Horace turned to go, wishing she’d come with but not sure there was anything left to say. After just a few steps, though, Chloe stopped him.

“Hey, Horace? If Brian really can fix April’s Tan’ji, do you think maybe he actually could . . . you know?”

“Help your mom?”

Another shrug. Another kicked pebble. Horace’s heart went out to her, so stubborn and brave and unshakably Chloe.

“We’re Keepers,” he told her. “Anything is possible.”