A Local Habitation

“How can that even work?” Now Quentin looked perplexed. From his expression, Connor got it, but was willing to let me be the one to explain.

“The King is the land, Quentin. That’s all. That’s how it’s always worked in Faerie.” The door to Jan’s office was standing ajar. Someone inside was crying. I pulled my hand out of Connor’s, signaling him and Quentin to stay where they were. When the sound didn’t change, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The office lights were off and the shades were drawn, casting the room into an artificial twilight. I squinted. “Hello? Jan?” The sobbing continued, bitter and brokenhearted. “Jan?”

“That’s not her,” said Quentin, as he and Connor stepped into the room.

I paused, listening. He was right. The voice was too high to be Jan’s. “No,” I said, and started toward the desk, stepping carefully. Heaps of paper had fallen to cover the walkway, creating minor avalanches that would probably never be cleaned up. That hurt. The difference between clutter and chaos is control, and Jan’s control had been broken.

Her notes on Barbara’s connection to Dreamer’s Glass were stacked on the desk chair. I knelt, pushing it aside to reveal April, compacted into a ball with her hands over her face, weeping.

“April?” I put my hand on her shoulder, or tried to; it passed through and hit the back of the desk. It was like reaching into a fogbank. I withdrew my hand. “Can you hear me?”

She shuddered, sobs fading as she chanted, “She’s gone she’s gone she’s gone . . .”

“Who’s gone? April, where’s Jan?” I kept my tone calm. The last thing I wanted to do was upset her more.

“Mommy’s off-line. No more reboots.” She raised her head. Tears were falling in straight lines down her cheeks, like they’d been drawn on. It would have been unnerving under normal circumstances, but her distress made it even worse. “She’s not supposed to go off-line. She’s supposed to take care of me.”

I blanched. I knew what “off-line” meant to April. Carefully, I asked, “Where’s your mother, April?”

“Like the others now. Gone.” She shuddered and began rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around her knees. “Off-line. Out of service. Yanked from the router.”

“Gone,” confirmed a voice. I looked up. Alex was in the doorway next to Connor, hands limp by his sides. It was the first time I’d seen him so still. “Gordan found her. She’s gone.”

“Where’s the body?” I asked, suddenly, crushingly weary. How could I have lost her? How could I have been stupid enough to believe that we had time?

What was Sylvester going to say when he found out I’d failed him again?

“She’s in one of the server rooms. It looks like she went to check on a glitch in router four, and whoever it was . . .” He stopped, looking away. “Maybe you’d better come see for yourself.”

“You’re right. We should. April . . .” I reached for her and she whimpered, disappearing in a crackle of static. I stood. I could find her later; for the moment, her mother needed me more. Oberon help us all.

None of us spoke as Alex led us through the empty halls. He didn’t need to say anything; his posture was accusation enough, and in the face of that accusation, the rest of us had nothing to say. Connor took my hand, and clung, both of us trying to take strength from the contact. We failed. After everything we did or tried to do, we couldn’t keep Jan safe. What was the point, if we couldn’t save the people we were trying to defend?

Alex stopped at an unmarked door. “She’s inside.”

Either his glamour was more voluntary than he wanted to admit, or I was too sick with failure to be affected. “So we go in.”

He didn’t say another word. He just opened the door.

The server room lights were on, and I was suddenly glad I hadn’t had any breakfast. Quentin made a muffled choking sound, clapping his hands over his mouth. Connor went pale. My own nausea was easier to swallow, replaced by a crushing sense of loss.