CHAPTER FIVE

Traveling Companions

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” APRIL ASKED AGAIN, HER VOICE GOING—OR not going—out into the void. Red. Green. She was so cold. It was so cold without the vine. So cold and numb she couldn’t even remember what the vine was, or why she cared.

Something moved. Red hair. Isabel. That was a name. The name had done something—stolen something and left her alone—but why?

And then abruptly, warmth poured through her. As quickly as it had disappeared, the vine returned. She was April again. Arthur’s alert curiosity and the hum of the forest blossomed again in her mind. April took a deep breath and unclenched her fists.

Isabel was watching her, her face half angry and half apologetic. “You’re okay,” she said flatly.

“What did you do?” April asked for the third time, or maybe the first time. The wicker sphere—Miradel, that was its name—was small and dark again.

Isabel crossed her arms. “I told you to stop.”

“You cut me off,” said April.

“I warned you.”

“Yes, and I tried to stop. But I didn’t know you would do that. I didn’t know it was possible to do that.”

“Now you know,” Isabel said, wrapping her hand around Miradel.

April collected herself. She had to stay calm. She had to keep still. “I’m wondering what Miradel actually is,” she said quietly. “And if I’m an empath, what are you?”

“I’m—” Isabel began, and then started over. “Miradel is my harp. With it, I can protect you. But you have to listen to me.”

“And if I don’t, will you punish me by cutting me off again?”

“Severing isn’t a punishment. I told you—I’m trying to protect you, not hurt you.”

Except that it had hurt. Even the sound of the word itself was cruel—severing. April stood there in silence, letting her sour face speak for her.

Isabel shifted uncomfortably. “Look. I’m not going to apologize for severing you. I’m not even going to tell you it won’t happen again. And if that scares you, fine. Now you understand why the Riven fear me too.”

Comprehension dawned over April. “The Riven weren’t running from Arthur. They were running from you.”

Isabel shrugged. “The Riven enjoy being severed even less than you do.”

“But if they can be severed, that means they’re Keepers like us.”

“Not like us. They don’t call themselves Keepers. But yes, they are Tan’ji. And because they are Tan’ji, they fear me. Now you’ve got proof that I can help protect you while we’re together.”

“And if we’re not together?”

“The only way to be truly safe is to retrieve your missing piece. The sooner the better.” She turned to leave.

April clambered to her feet. She really did need Isabel’s help to find the missing piece, that much was becoming clear. But she also needed answers. “Truly safe, you say. I would like to know how, please. Specifically.”

Isabel hesitated, heaving a long sigh. Then she bustled back to April so fast that April almost recoiled. But instead of scolding her again, Isabel began to explain, her voice low and swift.

“The Riven that are hunting you now aren’t ordinary Riven. They’re Mordin—taller, fiercer, more cunning. They can see in the dark, can disguise themselves. Most importantly, they have instruments that make them especially good at sensing and tracking down Tan’ji. But you’re lucky. You’re an empath, and empaths aren’t easy to detect. Empaths are passive—receivers instead of transmitters—and ordinarily, even a Mordin might not sense one from more than a hundred feet away.” Her eyes flitted over the vine almost apologetically. “Ordinarily,” she repeated.

April soaked this in as Arthur rummaged through the underbrush. Trying not to sound sullen, she said, “So while I’m broken, I can’t use the vine at all, or the Mordin will hear me.”

“You can’t completely hide a broken Tan’ji from the Mordin,” Isabel replied. “Even if you never use the vine, your amputation is going to leave a faint trail. That’s not all bad—it means that taking little sips from the vine won’t make the situation much worse. But don’t get greedy. The harder you push your broken instrument, the louder you get. The more you struggle to bring an animal mind fully into your own, the more danger you’re in. And if you go so far that you lose yourself . . .”

“My whiteouts,” April murmured.

“Yes. Our instruments are like . . . filters for the Medium. Valves, I guess. The veins of the Medium enter and get put to use. Energy turns into function. But your instrument is missing an important valve, some crucial function—”

“I wish you could tell me what,” April said.

“I can’t. But when you pull too hard, you’re taking more of the unfiltered, uncontrolled Medium into yourself than one person could possibly handle. It’s dangerous, and your body rejects it. And when that happens, every Mordin within a dozen miles can feel it. That’s how I first heard you.”

“But once I find the missing piece—”

“Yes. We have to find the missing piece. We need to go now.”

“And until we find it, I can still use the vine. Sparingly.”

Isabel nodded, then held up a finger, her eyes flashing. “But when I say stop . . .”

“Stop,” April agreed. Off in the distance, in the direction of the city, the missing piece seemed to burn ever more brightly now, promising her everything. To be safe. To be whole. To be back home again—even though she’d only just left!

“One last question,” April said. “What would the Mordin do if they caught me?”

“They’ll try to get you to join them. If you refuse, they’ll take your Tan’ji from you and try to find one of their own who can bond with it, who can use its power.”

April gritted her teeth, flushed with rage. “Is that possible?”

“Possible, but unlikely, even among the Riven. They’ll try to convince you to join them before they . . .” She trailed off.

“That’s not okay with me,” April said grimly. “To say the least.”

“Nor with me,” said Isabel.

April felt a tug on her shoelace. Arthur had untied it in a single yank and was now gazing proudly up at her, snapping his thick beak. April squatted and retied it, double knotting it, noting how carefully Arthur watched her. She sipped cautiously at the vine, wary of Isabel but trying to calm herself by focusing on Arthur’s fascinating mind. He was hungry and expectant, perhaps smelling the dog food in her pocket—though from what she could tell, having a sense of smell didn’t seem like a major part of being a bird. More likely he was simply remembering all the treats she’d brought him in the past.

Isabel watched with scowling interest, but said nothing about using the vine. Apparently April was doing it right—or maybe Isabel was waiting for April to slip up again. “Tell me about the bird,” Isabel said suddenly. “Arthur, you called him. Is he a pet?”

“No, he’s . . .” April struggled to find the right word, but couldn’t. “A bird,” she finished lamely. She felt strangely disappointed that it had been Isabel, not Arthur, who’d scared off the Mordin.

“Birds are a good omen, you know,” Isabel said.

“I don’t believe in omens.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Then how about this—birds hate the Riven, and vice versa. Ravens especially. He probably did want to protect you.” She studied the bird a moment longer, and then said just about the last thing April could have expected. “Bring him with us.”

“What? But . . . he’s wild.” Arthur tugged at her laces stubbornly again, then gave her his cutest coo when he failed to untie them.

“He doesn’t look very wild,” Isabel said dubiously.

April explained the circumstances briefly and confessed to the dog food in her pockets. “But I can’t just bring him.”

Isabel, listening with obvious interest, frowned. “Why not?”

“Wyenot?” Arthur wailed. “Wyenot?”

Isabel laughed, clearly pleased, but of course Arthur had no idea what he was saying. He was only doing the tricks April liked, anticipating a treat.

“I can’t take care of a wild bird,” she protested, remembering every lecture Doc had given her on the subject of wild animals. “And anyway, it’s bad. He has to learn to take care of himself.”

“Suit yourself,” Isabel said with a shrug. “All I’m saying is, a bird might be useful. Besides, it’s easy between the two of you. Quiet.” She wove a wiggling hand through the air from April to Arthur. April realized she must mean the Medium.

“Really?”

“Yes. But whether he comes or not, we need to go. Now.” She turned and started down the trail.

April stood there for a moment, unsettled by Isabel’s impatience. Why was she in such a hurry? At her feet, Arthur preened himself fussily. April made a quick decision, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a fistful of kibble and dropped a chunk onto the ground. Arthur snatched it up at once, tossing it back into his gullet, and then opened his beak for more. “You’re supposed to be wild now, but you’re acting pretty tame,” she told him. She began walking slowly backward, following Isabel. She dropped another chunk of dog food on the path, and Arthur waddled after her to grab it. “I guess I’m the opposite—supposed to be tame but acting wild. Maybe we can balance each other out?”

Arthur warbled at her sweetly, then shocked her—and thrilled her—by flying up and attempting to perch on her shoulder. He was small for a raven, but still a big bird, and as he landed, his wing boxed her in the ear, hard. Then his talons sank painfully into the flesh of her shoulder. She cringed, trying to bear the pain—thankfully her backpack straps took the brunt of it—but in the same moment, Arthur took off again, releasing her.

April could sense that the raven was almost as surprised by what he’d done as she was. He flew away and landed in a nearby tree, croaking uncertainly in a way that seemed to ask for her reply. His mood was curious and wary, but warm. Companionable.

“It’s okay,” April said, feeling her shoulder. He’d put a couple of small holes through her shirt and torn a gash in the strap of her backpack, but she wasn’t bleeding. Arthur continued to croak. “It’s okay. You just want to be friends. So do I.” She tossed a chunk of dog food in his direction. This time he just eyed it where it landed.

She sighed, unsure what to do. “I’ll tell you what,” she said at last. Arthur fell silent, listening hard. “I’m going to keep walking. I’m going to occasionally drop some food. If that idea interests you at all, maybe you can follow. If not, I guess . . .” She felt herself choking up a bit, but shook it off. “If not, then I guess it’s been nice knowing you. Sound okay?”

Arthur cocked his head and ruffled his wings.

“Okay,” April said. She hurried down the trail after Isabel. Arthur didn’t move, but she could still feel his attention on her. She knew she’d lose him after fifty feet or so, but just as she was about to pull out of range, she felt him swoop down from the tree and swallow the kibble she’d thrown. Smiling to herself, she waited until she was sure his attention was on her. He watched keenly as she dropped another piece of food. “I’m sorry, Doc,” she said into the air. “But I could use a friend right now.”

Isabel, far ahead along the path, stopped and turned around, waiting impatiently for April to catch up. Miradel was a round cloud against her chest, full of dark shapes and shadows. April clung thoughtfully to the presence of the vine, to the power it gave her, to Arthur still following behind, to the lost and distant missing piece—remembering how Isabel had used her own power to take that all away from her, and how the woman refused to promise that it wouldn’t happen again. Protection, yes, but at what cost? April muttered softly to herself, “I could really, really use a friend.”

SHORTLY BEFORE SEVEN, April and Isabel arrived at the abandoned barn. Out here in the meadow, free of the trees, the sun still shone brightly, lifting April’s spirits even though she was generally a fan of cloudier days. The barn, which had once been white and tall, sagged into the high grass around it like some great animal squatting low. Derek was always warning April that the barn was unstable, that she shouldn’t go inside, but she’d been ignoring him for years. To her, the barn looked like an aching old beast that had at last found a comfortable position that might suit it forever, a final seat from which it was unlikely to ever stir.

Isabel seemed equally unconcerned about the possibility of the barn collapsing. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and then ducked through the canted opening into the dark interior. A soft flurry of manic, merry thoughts sprouted in April’s brain, and a moment later two swallows darted out of the barn. April watched and listened for a moment, marveling, as the birds began to flit acrobatically after unseen bugs in the evening air, all grace and precision. She longed to open up wider, to revel in their flight, but she kept herself quiet and passive. Very still. The swallows scattered when Arthur glided in and landed on the ragged edge of the barn roof. He watched April expectantly.

“Man, you sure do love dog food,” April said. But then she realized the bird was full. His anticipation wasn’t hunger; he had other ideas on his mind. And he held something in his beak—something shiny and round.

“What’s that?” April said, pointing.

Right on cue, Arthur flicked his head, tossing the object onto the ground at April’s feet. She bent and picked it up—a bottle cap, rusty and flattened. As she examined it, Arthur squawked at her. His bright black eyes shone as she felt his anticipation grow. He was eager. Hopeful. All at once she understood—this was a present.

April choked up a little. “Thank you,” she said, holding up the bottle cap. She touched it to her upper lip and then slipped it into her pocket. “Thank you.”

Arthur bobbed his head, gurgling happily. “Henkyoo,” he crooned. “Henkyoo.” And then he strutted up the roof, feeling very pleased with himself.

Fingering the bottlecap in her pocket, April wandered around to the back of the barn. Years earlier she’d discovered a strange semicircle of stones here, half buried in the ground. Each one was about the size of a watermelon, each one a different chunky shape—this one like a face, this one like a tilting house, this one a sleeping bear. She stepped onto the first stone and took a long stride onto the next, following the crescent. Off to the left, inside the arc of the crescent, a flat stone lay exposed in a patch of dirt, different from the others. Broken in half and weatherworn, it was shaped and colored like a blue jay, badly faded. When she was little, April had liked to imagine that this spot was once the site of a bird kingdom, and that these were the remains of some bird king’s palace. But now those thoughts seemed simple and far away.

April stepped from stone to stone, pinwheeling her long arms to keep her balance, wondering what was taking Isabel so long. Arthur, now at the peak of the barn, watched her in confusion. When she reached the last stone, she leapt out and landed with both feet on the cracked stone jay. Arthur complained softly, annoyed at her antics for some reason. “Sorry,” she said. “Was this guy a friend of yours or something?”

“What are you doing?”

April startled. Isabel stood in the shadow of the barn, watching. A small figure trailed behind her—a boy, eight or nine years old. He had dark, curly hair, and was dressed in a strangely overformal way, a button-down shirt tucked into long pants. Isabel’s son? Or no, maybe not. The boy had deep olive skin, whereas Isabel’s skin was fair and freckly.

“Just waiting,” April said, stepping off the stone. “I used to play out here when I was little.”

Isabel came nearer, the boy cautiously following. A large patchwork bag was hoisted over her shoulder. Isabel saw the stone jay and looked sharply around for a moment, but didn’t comment. “Joshua, this is April,” she said. “April, meet Joshua. He’ll be coming with us.”

“Hey,” April said, trying not to sound surprised. She gave the boy a little wave that she hoped seemed friendly. She liked kids okay, but didn’t have a lot of experience around them. And of course—in this place, in this company—she had to assume Joshua was probably not what you would consider a normal kid.

Joshua walked up to her, eyes cast downward, and held out a hand. It took April a moment to realize he wanted to shake. When she offered her hand, he pumped it once, dropped it, and then said stiffly, “I have shyness issues.”

“Oh,” April said. “Well, you don’t seem very shy. You shook my hand.”

“You’re supposed to do that. When you meet somebody new. And if you’re shy, you should make an effort.”

“I guess that’s true. Are you . . . ?” She started to ask him if he was Tan’ji, but maybe that was a rude question. “How old are you?” she asked instead.

“Eight and a half.”

“Oh. I just turned thirteen.”

“I saw your house.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I like to know where things are.”

“Oh.”

Isabel waved a hand through the air as if to clear away the awkward chitchat. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the road,” she said. “April, any change from your missing piece?”

“It’s stronger. It’s been getting stronger all day—”

“No. You’re just getting better at hearing it.” April barely had time to absorb that notion before Isabel crossed her arms and demanded, “Point to it.”

“There,” April said, raising her arm without hesitation, pointing out across the meadow.

Isabel looked intently at Joshua and said, “Tell me where we’re going.”

“Southeast.” Joshua turned so he was facing in the direction April pointed. “Southeast by south, actually.”

Confused by the question—and the answer—April didn’t comment. She wasn’t sure southeast by south was even a thing.

“And what’s out there?” Isabel prompted the boy.

Joshua shrugged. “Lots of stuff. If you went in a straight line, you’d be in downtown Chicago in thirty-seven miles.”

April dropped her arm. “That’s pretty smart,” she said. “You’re good with maps, huh?”

“Just wait,” Isabel told her. “Keep pointing, straight at it. Go ahead, Joshua—tell us what’s out there. Be specific. Be precise.”

April raised her arm again, and Joshua moved so that he was directly under it. He looked up at her pointing hand, gauging it, then shut his eyes. “Goose Island. The confluence of the Chicago River branches. Downtown Chicago.”

April felt her eyebrows lift.

Isabel, meanwhile, clapped her hands together softly. “Where downtown? Remember to be specific.” Her voice was eager, her eyes lit with an almost hungry glow.

“Um . . . the Loop. The Art Institute. Grant Park. The Aquarium.” He opened his eyes and turned, his face all innocence and hope. “Are we going to the Aquarium?”

But Isabel ignored the question. “This is good. This is very good. We’re headed in the right direction for sure.”

April was still staring at Joshua. “You’re Tan’ji.”

“No. I don’t have an instrument. But Isabel says I have potential.” He pronounced the word carefully, like it was a password to get into a secret chamber.

“But if you’re not Tan’ji, how did you do that?” April asked.

It was Isabel who answered her. “You might as well ask the same of yourself. How did you learn to be good with animals? Everyone who becomes a Keeper has some kind of natural talent or interest to begin with. It’s a sign, a hint as to the kind of Tan’ji you’ll eventually—hopefully—discover.”

April considered this. “So you think Joshua will become a Keeper.”

“No reason not to think it. I can see more than just the talent on the surface.”

“And will his Tan’ji have something to do with . . . maps?”

“Yes, yes, probably,” Isabel said, hefting her bag once again and turning away. She sounded as if she didn’t want to discuss it.

“I would think, though,” April said, “that there are a lot of people who have talents who never manage to find their Tan’ji. Or don’t have one to find. Not all people with talents are meant to be Keepers, are they?” As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Joshua’s face grew long and sad, and he looked questioningly up at Isabel.

Isabel said, “Not everybody has me. Joshua’s lucky to have me.” She looked over her shoulder at April. “And I’m lucky to have you. Now let’s get going.”

They started off across the meadow, passing through the long shadow of the barn. Insects droned and sprang and soared through the tall grass all around. Arthur kept pace with them, leapfrogging ahead along the tree line and then falling behind again. His continued presence was a comfort to April, especially since everything else was feeling so . . . foreign. So odd. Isabel was keeping secrets, that much was clear.

The missing piece, apparently, lay somewhere in the heart of Chicago, and it seemed Isabel had been expecting this. And then there was Joshua, walking silently at April’s side. He seemed decent and harmless, and she worried for him. All this talk of potential, and becoming Tan’ji. April wondered whether Isabel was just humoring the boy. Whatever else April knew or didn’t know, she didn’t think Keepers and their Tan’ji were a dime a dozen.

She cleared her throat and looked down at Joshua. “I’m sure you’ll find it.”

“Thank you,” he said, and they fell back into silence. But now the boy began to sneak curious looks over at April, and after a minute or two he said, “Do you think about it a lot? Your Tan’ji?”

“Um . . . pretty much. I’m not very good at ignoring it.” The question got April thinking about the vine, about how present it was in her mind. She put her hand on it now, comforted by its presence. It had only been two weeks, but she felt like she could not remember a time when the vine hadn’t been with her. She listened to Arthur, directly above, gliding along with them. The bird pulled ahead and climbed higher, rising out of the range of the vine, then circled lazily back again, alert to April’s presence—a strange sensation that she couldn’t quite name but was learning to recognize. Joshua, noticing, looked up with her.

“Isabel said you talk to animals,” he said.

“That’s not exactly true. I can’t talk to them.”

“Then why is that crow following you?”

“He’s not a crow. He’s a raven. His name is Arthur. And I don’t actually talk to him—I only listen to his thoughts.”

“Oh,” Joshua said. April couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or not. They watched as Arthur landed in a tree off to their right and began to complain noisily. “So what does Arthur think about?”

April laughed. “Food, mostly. Flying. Shiny things. Grooming himself. But mostly food. That’s why he’s following me—I have food he likes.”

“But he likes you too. I bet he thinks about you.”

April considered it, thinking about how Arthur had tried to land on her shoulder. “He likes me fine. Mostly he thinks of me as a snack-delivery system.” But then she recalled the powerful surge of gratitude and affection she’d felt just after she’d freed the bird.

Joshua whacked at the weeds with his stick. “I think he’s nicer than that. I think he’s your friend.”

“I hope so.”

Joshua shot her a nervous look. “Can I . . . see it? I promise I won’t touch.”

April understood immediately—her Tan’ji. Strangely, she found she wanted to show it to him. “Sure, okay.” She pulled back her hair. Joshua leaned in close to examine the vine, his hands behind his back. He let out a long, breathy sound of admiration.

“How did you find it?” he said, clearly awed.

Now Isabel did glance back at them, obviously interested in the question herself. April was reluctant to tell the story, but she didn’t want to leave this strange, sweet boy hanging. “I found it at a flea market, believe it or not,” she said. When Joshua looked confused, she explained. “It’s like a really big yard sale, where lots of people come and sell their stuff. Mostly junk.”

Isabel stopped and turned. “You bought your instrument?” she asked dubiously, as if that were bad. And for some reason, her disapproving tone encouraged April to confess the whole story.

“Actually, no. I would have, but I didn’t have any money left.”

“They gave it to you?” Joshua asked.

“Not . . . exactly,” April admitted.

Isabel broke into girlish laughter, leaning back and clapping her hands together. “You stole it!” she cried. “You stole your own Tan’ji!”

April blushed furiously, and her shame only deepened as Joshua’s eyes grew wide. “It just sort of happened,” she explained. “I was browsing through this tray of old junky jewelry marked a dollar. I don’t know why. I don’t even like jewelry. But then I saw the vine and I just—” She shrugged.

“You had to have it,” said Isabel, an eager light stretched across her face.

But no. That wasn’t right. Those words weren’t big enough for the sensation—the pure, certain knowledge that had rushed through April when she first set eyes on the vine. She shook her head. “More than that,” she said meaningfully. “It already belonged to me. I saw it, and I just . . . I knew absolutely that it was mine. It was mine before I even saw it.”

Isabel wasn’t laughing anymore. She was staring at April with a furious intensity, nodding. She clutched the wicker ball. “You knew it. I knew it too. It was just like that for me.”

“And so I . . . took the vine.” April swallowed and gave them both an apologetic look. “In fact, to tell the truth, I did have the money. I had like three dollars. But I just couldn’t make myself pay for something that already belonged to me.”

“Damn right,” Isabel said. “And you shouldn’t.”

Joshua was still looking at April with skeptical wonder, like she was something halfway between a criminal and a unicorn. “Stealing’s bad,” she told him. She found herself pointing a finger at him like a lecturing adult. “Don’t get me wrong. I never stole anything before this, and I never will again.” Then she stopped, remembering. “Well . . . that’s not totally true. Once when I was four I stole a roll of Scotch tape from the Farm and Fleet. But my mom caught me playing with it in the car, and she turned around and drove me back to the store, and made me go in and confess to the cashier, who was probably only sixteen or something. I remember I was crying, and my mom was crying, and then this poor cashier girl started crying, and it was actually pretty terrible. I was traumatized. I never stole anything again after that.” She looked up at them, shocked that the story had popped out of her like that. She hardly ever talked about her mom and dad, even with Derek. “Well, I never stole anything else until now, I mean,” she finished awkwardly.

Isabel was still nodding. “We’re getting to know each other,” she said flatly. “This is good.” She turned and began walking again, April and Joshua following close behind.

After a minute or two, Joshua poked April solemnly in the shoulder. “I would steal mine,” he said quietly. “If I had to.”

“Your Tan’ji?”

“Yes.”

“You really think it’s out there somewhere?”

“Yes. Someplace secret. Someplace safe. Like in a tower, or deep underground.”

April recalled what Isabel had said about a secret place in the city. A fortress filled with people like them. Keepers?

“Deep underground, huh?” April said to Joshua, playing along but feeling uncomfortable about it. “Sounds scary.”

“I’m not scared,” Joshua said confidently. “I would go wherever I had to go. I would steal it if I had to.”

April nodded, the boy’s words echoing her own undeniable need, the constant ache of the missing piece.

Suddenly Isabel spoke, her voice solemn and sure. “It’ll be underground.”

“How do you know?” asked Joshua.

The woman shrugged and kept walking. “Because,” she said. “That’s where these things are.”

“Mine wasn’t,” April pointed out.

“His will be,” Isabel said flatly, then turned away.