AFTER TELLING SAM everything that happened in the temple, I didn’t have the energy to attempt translating the books, though I’d hoped to try.
Instead, I started crying again, and Sam grew somber and distant as he led me downstairs. Dusk had fallen long ago, leaving only lamps and reflections off polished wood to illuminate the parlor. I wrapped myself in blankets on the sofa, listening to his footfalls in the kitchen. Cabinet doors opened and closed, boiling water hissed, and a spoon clanked on ceramic as he stirred honey into my tea.
He left the mug on an end table for me, then went to work on the piano, adjusting strings beneath the gleaming maple lid, then testing pitches. Every so often, he’d stop working to play, always making sure to ask if I had any requests, but most of the time I was content to watch and listen.
Nocturnes and preludes lulled me into dozing, and I awakened to find morning had arrived, covered in a film of snow. Sam and I dressed warmly and headed to the Councilhouse for my very late monthly progress report.
Predictably, the Council quizzed me mercilessly on my supposed sickness and symptoms, expressing false sympathy. Well, Sine’s concern might have been real. She worked hard to steer the conversation back to my progress report, but the general suspicion was clear: the Council thought I was up to something.
And wasn’t I? I’d discovered Menehem’s poison-making machine, Janan’s terrible hunger, and their fellow Councilor alive inside the temple. I possessed the only unaltered memory, books from the temple, and—until recently—the key to the temple. Sylph sang for me.
It wouldn’t matter that Janan had even more sinister plans for Soul Night. The Council couldn’t trust someone like me.
Fortunately, Sam had foreseen the Council’s questions about my illness and prepared me, so I described sleeping through a fever that involved lots of snot and throwing up.
“I died from that once,” Sam added as we descended the Councilhouse stairs. An icy breeze scoured the market field, though it didn’t deter devoted gossips and workers.
“Um.” I hunched beneath my coat hood, conscious of glares in my direction. Merton was out again, reminding people about the sylph incident at the lake, and how disgusting it was that Sam was in a romantic relationship with me. The Council’s advice on this was the same as it had been: ignore it. “If you died from the illness,” I asked, “is it a miracle I’m alive?”
He slipped his hand around mine and squeezed. “Well, yes. But that was several lifetimes ago. Medicine has come a long way since then. Don’t worry. The medic who supposedly treated you is a good friend. She won’t say anything if they ask.”
“Oh, good.”
We stopped at Armande’s pastry stall, sipping coffee and eating muffins until he was satisfied I wasn’t starving to death. Sam kept checking his SED, but otherwise held a long conversation with Armande about what they each planned to have for lunch. It seemed suspicious to me, but we sat a good distance away from the temple and Merton’s gathering, and Armande continued giving me snacks. I didn’t complain, but I couldn’t ignore the voices from the Councilhouse steps.
“Newsouls are a plague,” a woman shouted. “Punishment for our lack of devotion to Janan.”
Her theory and the truth were as far apart as the sea and the stars, but it was a popular sentiment.
“They have no skills,” said a man. “Why should we feel obligated to care for anyone who can’t offer anything to the community? We don’t have resources to shelter and feed them. What happens if there are more and more? There are—were—a million of us. And only a million. We used to think we were the only souls in existence, but that’s been”—the man’s voice thinned, like he didn’t believe what he was about to say—“proven false. Now whatever limit was set has been broken. What happens when they outnumber us?”
I glanced at Sam and Armande just in time to see them cringe.
It was a good question. I didn’t know, either. Of course, this man was leaping to conclusions. For all anyone knew, newsouls might be limited, too. Eventually, by counting how many newsouls were born, they’d be able to tell how many oldsouls had truly been lost during Templedark. At least seventy-two. Probably more. But it seemed to me, once we reached that number, that would be it.
Then we’d either be reincarnated or we wouldn’t.
At noon, Sam wished Armande a good day, and we headed back to the southwestern residential quarter. Snow flurries pushed through the streets, and the day was just cold enough to allow a layer of white on the ground.
When we got home, tracks in the snow led to the front door and away, scuffed enough that I couldn’t tell anything about them except the intruder had been through a lot. Light seeped from the parlor windows. Perhaps the Council had finally made good on their threat to have my room searched. If they took my books and research, and Deborl had the key—