“Dad,” Eureka tried to explain, “Solon can’t inhale artemisia without dying from it, without killing Ander, too.”
“There are other homeopathic remedies,” Dad said, pacing, excited. “If we could get our hands on some Venus flytrap extract, I could make a tea.”
“There’s a health-food store about a mile underwater,” Solon said.
“You’ve always had your quirk,” Eureka said to Dad. “That’s why you try to heal us all with food. You can see what’s wrong inside us.”
“And you want us to get better,” William said.
“Your mother always said I could see the best in people,” Dad said.
“Which one?” Eureka asked. “Rhoda or Diana?”
“Both.”
“Now it’s Eureka’s turn,” Claire said.
“I think my quirk is my sadness,” Eureka said. “And I’ve already used it enough.”
Solon frowned. “Your mind is much narrower than Diana’s.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is a wider spectrum of emotions than just sorrow and desolation. Have you ever considered what might transpire if you allowed yourself to feel”—Solon’s eyes widened—“joy?”
Eureka looked at William and Claire, who were waiting for her response. She recalled a quote she’d once seen tattooed on a boy’s neck as he fought with another kid at Wade’s Hole:
A LEADER IS A DEALER IN HOPE.
At some point, Eureka had become Cat, Dad, and the twins’ leader. She wanted to give them hope. But how?
She thought of a popular phrase in the chat rooms she had trolled after Diana died: “It gets better.” Eureka knew it was originally offered as encouragement to gay kids, but if there was one thing she’d learned since Diana’s death, it was that emotions didn’t travel in a straight line. Sometimes it would get better, sometimes it would get worse. Sure, Eureka had known joy—in the tops of live oak trees, in dilapidated boats cruising the bayou, on long runs through shady groves, and in peals of laughter with Brooks and Cat—but the sensation was usually so fleeting, a commercial in the drama of her life, that she’d never put much stock in it.
“How would joy help me defeat Atlas?” Eureka wondered aloud.
“Solon!” a voice called from behind them. The Poet appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked terrified. “I tried to stop them … but beggars must be choosers.”
“What are you talking about?” Solon asked.
From behind the Poet an enraged voice shouted something Eureka didn’t understand. A young man with a stubbly beard joined the Poet on the stairs. Every muscle in his body was tensed, as if he were in shock. His chest heaved and his eyes were wild. He pointed a trembling finger at Eureka.
“Yes,” the Poet said with heavy regret. “She is the one the dead speak of in our dreams.”
14
STORMING A STORM
“Stay there!” Solon shouted at Eureka. His silk robe trailed behind him as he rushed past the Poet and down the stairs. Without the protection of his cordon, rain returned to the veranda.
“What’s going on?” Cat asked the Poet.
The other boy moved quickly across the veranda, splashing through puddles, trampling on swirls of cherry blossoms, heading for Eureka.
A silver flash caught her eye as the orichalcum chain of Ander’s anchor tightly encircled the boy’s bony rib cage. He grunted, struggling to breathe.
Ander held the shank of the anchor over his shoulder, the chain coiled around his wrist. He shoved the bearded boy and the Poet against the veranda’s rail. He pressed their necks over the overlook. A sheet of mist spread toward them and the boys slipped in and out of foggy, white obscurity.
“Who’s down there?” Ander’s grip tightened on both boys’ necks. “How many?”
“Don’t hurt him!” Cat said.
“Let go, please,” the Poet grunted. “We come in pieces.”
“Liar,” Ander said. Lightning split the sky, illuminating his shoulder muscles through his T-shirt. “They want her.”
“They want food.” The Poet gasped and struggled to break free.