“Am I hot? Cold?” he asked once the man was out of earshot. “Should I ask for directions?”
“No! Sorry, I misplaced my notes. You’re heading for the southeast corner. Last row. Fourth shelf up. Fourth cubby from the left.”
Far twisted through these instructions, all the way to the final row. Its fourth shelf was well above head height. He’d have to use the ladder to reach the manuscripts. This sat at the end of the row, and despite its rudimentary set of wheels, Far was panting by the time it was in place. The air was too thick—he couldn’t fit it in his throat without choking.
“You okay, Farway? Try not to breathe too much.”
Yeah, I’ll just switch that basic function off now. Far didn’t say this aloud, if only to conserve oxygen. He held his breath as he climbed the ladder to the predetermined cubby. It held dozens of scrolls, far more than he was capable of carrying.
“Which ones?” he asked Imogen.
“Eliot says the top six.”
“Six?” These scrolls weren’t small; they held the history of the world, after all. Far wasn’t sure how he was supposed to get them down the ladder, much less haul the bunch back to the Invictus.
He’d figure it out. He had to. Far plucked the scrolls out one by one and dropped them to the floor below. Battered loot was better than none.
“Ow! Eek! Ah! Oof!” His cousin winced with each manuscript’s impact. “Careful!”
Far leaped off the ladder with the sixth scroll under his arm and set to collecting the others. He was even more thankful for the Romans’ love of undergarments as he scrambled on his hands and knees, trying to roll the books back into place.
“Hic tu non sis.”
You shouldn’t be here.
Far froze. It wasn’t the words—spoken in Latin, no translation tech needed—that caught him, but the voice that gave them form. Everywhere the air was filmy and the library had turned opaque as a dream. The woman at the end of the shelves seemed the only solid thing. Her Greek chiton shone white, and Far knew he wasn’t sleeping, but maybe the smoke had seeped into his head, because he’d imagined this moment for so many years, sought it, and this was the wrong time, the wrong place, but here she was in front of him.
His mother.
27
AN EXPLOSION OF RUBIK’S CUBES
TURNS OUT VIGILANCE WAS CODE WORD for “boring.”
Gram sat at his station, reading through the numbers of their landing for the umpteenth time. All was well with math and universal order. He wasn’t sure why he kept checking them or what he feared to find. Nothing had changed since the landing he’d had trouble solving. Or so he thought… Fallible memory was something Gram’s brain was struggling to calibrate.
He was regretting his promise to keep Tetris on pause. No games meant just sitting. Just sitting meant his mind started wandering, analyzing things that were better off left alone.
1.2191 meters: the space between his chair and Imogen’s. He’d never measured it before. He’d had no reason to. Imogen was his friend. She’d always been his friend, from the very first day Far had introduced them. Four Central time months ago—one biological year past—Gram had been invited to the McCarthys’ flat to celebrate Far’s seventeenth unbirthday. Her hair had been highlighter yellow that evening, but it was her laugh that really struck him. The ease and flow of it, how often she let it out… Everything about Imogen felt bright.
It was impossible not to like her.
But did he like her?
It’d be a lie to say that Gram hadn’t thought of her in an amorous way with increasing frequency. In such close quarters, it was hard not to form attachments. 1.2191 meters was comfortable. They shared so much: jokes, near-Far-death experiences, celebratory high-score gelato. Even though Imogen’s hair color changed every twenty-four hours, the change itself was a constant clockwork rainbow. A cycle he could count on.
For all his love of patterns and predictable steps, Gram was rubbish at dancing. He could manage a formulaic waltz. He might even be able to eke out a fox-trot if the situation were dire. Not that there were many emergencies involving ballroom dancing. Club dancing was a special brand of torture—no rules, go with the flow. He’d only ventured into the fray at Caesars Palace because Imogen had called him out. Five flailing songs and two stiletto-smashed toes later, Gram had slipped back toward the cabana, certain that Imogen wouldn’t notice. She had, though. A tug on his vest and he’d turned to find her much closer than 1.2191 meters. Shiny eyes made shinier by a combination of alcohol and nuclear-green hair.
Don’t go, she’d told him. You’re the only one I want to dance with.
He’d stayed. Not for the dance, but for her.
Gram tried not to read too much into the statement. People said all sorts of shazm when they were inebriated: unfiltered truth, brazen lies, things to be regretted in the morning. Imogen certainly seemed to regret it. She’d avoided him all day, sliding out of whatever room he entered, averting her gaze. Had his dancing been that heinous?
Things had started to feel comfortable again in the wardrobe. Too comfortable…
He’d almost said something to regret of his own.
He didn’t want to upset their balance, but it was off anyway. All the weight was on Imogen’s side of the room, her presence gravitational. Gram had to fight to keep from staring at her. He studied his Rubik’s Cubes instead. Again, there were no answers there, just a mug of tea beside the green one. The drink was cold when Gram picked it up; milk had formed a skin over the top. It’d been there awhile.
“I’m starting to second-guess the toga choice.” Even Imogen’s frown was vibrant as she guided her cousin through the library. Her screen’s glow was all-encompassing, making the blues in her hair bluer. Saffron curled tight in her lap.
Gram took a sip of the tea. It was still good. Maybe even better for age. He scanned his own screens again. The numbers were steady. All systems sound.
This was fine. This was normal. This was working.
Everything was where it needed to be.
Best to let sleeping feelings lie.
“To the right.” Imogen looked up from the screen during her instructions, eyes drifting toward Gram’s chair. The glance didn’t feel intentional—it had the automatic slowness of a habit. This time, when their gazes locked, hers didn’t skitter away. She didn’t seem to realize she was looking. He hadn’t, either.
See? Gravity.
“Hold on….” The moment caught up with them. Imogen tore her stare from his, back to the screen. A chasm opened up between their chairs. “No! Sorry, I misplaced my notes….”
1.2191 meters. Exactly what it was before.
Completely different now.
Gram’s palms tightened around the mug. He looked back at his frozen Tetris game, his color-coded cubes. Not too long ago everything had fit. If Eliot hadn’t brought up how pretty Imogen was by the blackjack tables, he might not even be dwelling on this… this… imbalance. Then again, maybe he would. Gram still wasn’t sure if the newcomer was the cause or the effect. The problem or the solution.