“It’s not that easy,” the Poet said. “You know his home is protected.”
The gossipwitches had no interest in the Celans, so most in Filiz’s community had never personally encountered the strange, orchid-clad women, but they had heard the buzzing bees and felt the presence of magic in the nearby rocks. Once Pergamon had found a gossipwitch honeycomb, though he never told anyone where. Most Celans wouldn’t admit it, but Filiz knew they were afraid of all they did not know about the gossipwitches.
“We will bring you more food tomorrow,” the Poet promised.
“No. You will get us inside that cave,” Filiz’s grandmother said. “And we will see what is so special about this Tearline girl.”
13
EYE OF THE STORM
“Enjoying the view?”
Eureka jumped at Solon’s voice behind her the next morning. She thought she’d been alone on the Bitter Cloud’s roof.
She’d climbed the stairs to the veranda at sunrise, curious about the view Ander had seen the night before when he came looking for her. Everything was silver in the morning cloud-light. The Tearline pond had risen, and Eureka didn’t think Brooks’s rock was still above the surface. She relived dropping that gun into the water, kissing Ander in the canoe, confronting the monster she was supposed to fear. She did fear him, and hate him, and love him.
He was—they were both—out there somewhere, hidden along the banks. She could feel them, the way she could still feel the nightmare from which she’d just awoken.
She’d dreamt she was scaling a mountain in the rain. Near the summit, the earth shifted beneath her. She grabbed hold of something slick and spongy, but it disintegrated in her fingers. Then the whole mountain crumbled, a dangerous rockslide under her feet. As Eureka succumbed to the avalanche, she realized she had not been climbing a mountain, but a vast heap of rotting arms and moldy legs and decomposing heads.
She had been climbing the wasted dead.
“I must admit”—Solon gazed at the pond—“your tears have improved this vista. It’s like how sunsets are more beautiful in polluted air.”
Eureka could no longer feel the rain. Droplets gathered twenty feet above her but never reached the white stone veranda. Solon must have pitched a cordon over them, though he’d said he rarely used his Zephyr anymore. He coughed and wheezed and lit a clove cigarette with a silver lighter.
“Sleep well?” He eyed her as if he’d asked a more personal question.
“Not really.” She felt Atlas spying on their conversation, observing every nuance of her body language. Goose bumps rose on her skin.
Solon would want to know about Eureka’s encounter last night, but she could never tell him here, with Atlas possibly within earshot. She could never tell him anywhere if she planned on seeing Brooks again. It had to stay her secret.
“The gang rises,” Solon said as the twins bounded onto the veranda.
“What’s for breakfast?” William swung from the barren branch of a tree in the center of the veranda.
“There was supposed to be coffee,” Solon said, “but apparently my employees have quit.”
“I had the craziest dream.” Cat appeared at the top of the stairs. “My brother and I were driving my dad’s old Trans-Am across the ocean through all these giant schools of fish.” She rested her head on Eureka’s shoulder with un-Cat-like lethargy. She still hadn’t reached her family.
A moment later, Dad mounted the stairs, his weight steadied by Ander. Eureka touched the bandage around his shoulder. It was clean and tight.
“Better today,” he said before she could ask. The bruise spreading from his temple was green.
“You should be resting,” she said.
“He was worried about you,” Ander said. “We didn’t know where you were.”
“I’m fine—”
“Claire!” Dad shouted. “Get down!”
Claire had climbed atop the veranda’s stone rail. She leaned for a branch of pink bougainvillea, its petals bordered with brown.