Instinctively, everyone looked at the pathetic spectacle the headless Ovid made, wires protruding from its neck.
“It won’t be long now, Solon,” Esme whispered, drawing something from the pocket of her caftan. She placed a small tin on the floor. “We brought you some honey, honey. Farewell.”
The witches smirked as they arched their arms behind their heads, lifted their feet off the ground, and flew backward, up the waterfall and out of the damp, dark cave.
“Do you believe them?” Filiz asked Solon as she and the Poet laid the robot’s head next to its body. “About the girl being on her way? You knew the last Tearline girl. We have only heard the stories, but you—”
“Never mention Byblis,” Solon said, and turned away.
“Solon,” Filiz pressed, “do you believe the witches?”
“I believe nothing.” Solon set about reattaching Ovid’s head.
Filiz sighed and watched Solon pretend to forget that she existed. Then she crept upstairs to the entrance of the cave. On her way to work the sky had been a strange silvery color that reminded her of a wild foal she used to see frequently in the mountains. There had been a chill in the air that made her walk quickly, rubbing her arms. She’d felt nervous and alone.
Now, as she stepped outside the cave, a great shadow fell over her. An immense storm cloud dominated the sky, like a giant black egg about to crack. Filiz felt her hair begin to frizz, and then—
A raindrop fell onto the back of her hand. She studied it. She tasted it.
Salty.
It was true. All her life, her elders had warned her of this day. Her ancestors had lived in these mountain caves since the great floodwaters receded millennia ago. Her people possessed a murky collective memory of Atlantis—and a deep-rooted fear that another flood would one day come. Was it actually going to happen, now, before Filiz had climbed the Eiffel Tower or learned to drive a stick shift or fallen in anything resembling love?
Her shoe smashed her reflection in a puddle, and she wished she were smashing the girl who’d made this rain.
“What’s your problem, frizzball?” The middle gossipwitch’s voice was unmistakable. Her forked tongue flicked as the gossipwitches hovered in the air over Filiz.
Filiz had never understood how the wingless witches flew. The three of them were suspended in the rain, arms slack at their sides, making no visible effort to stay aloft. Filiz watched droplets of salty water settle like diamonds on Esme’s lustrous black hair.
Feliz ran her hand through her own hair, then regretted it. She didn’t want the witches to think she cared about how she looked. “This rain will kill us, won’t it? Poison our wells, destroy our crops—”
“How would we know, child?” the oldest witch asked.
“What will we drink?” Filiz asked. “Is it true what they say, that you have an infinite supply of freshwater? I have heard it called—”
“Our Glimmering is not for drinking, and it is certainly not for you,” Esme said.
“Are the girl’s tears as powerful as they are said to be?” Filiz asked. “And … what did you mean when you mentioned Atlas and his Filling?”
The witches’ beautiful bright caftans contrasted with the giant cloud above them. They looked at one another with amethyst-lined eyes.
“She thinks we know everything,” the oldest witch said. “I wonder why.…”
“Because,” Filiz said nervously, “you’re prophets.”
“It is Solon’s task to ready her,” the eldest said. “Take up your fear of mortality with him. If he can’t prepare the girl, your boss will owe us his cave, his possessions, all of those pretty little butterflies—”
“Solon will owe us his life.” Esme’s eyes darkened, and in a suddenly terrifying voice she said: “He will even owe us his death.”
The witches’ laughter echoed over the mountains as they floated backward and disappeared into the strengthening rain.
4
NEW BLOOD