The Keepers (37 page)

Horace jolted awake to darkness and a sharp
tak-tak-tak!
His hand squeezed around the reassuring presence of the
box. His clock read 11:07. The sound came again, knocking. His window.

Horace rolled groggily out of bed. A flicker of movement outside the window, and the glass rattled again.

Outside the window—his
second-floor
window—was a girl, brown haired and calm. She wore a black turtleneck, which made her face look like it was hovering there, disembodied. But that face was familiar—thin and long, with wide brown eyes. The girl he'd seen with Mrs. Hapsteade the night of the fire. The girl knocked again and impatiently gestured for him to open the window. Her hands flashed in the dark.

Horace slid the window open. The girl spoke, her face blankly innocent but her voice full of mirth. “Oh, I'm so sorry—did I wake you?”

“I'
M KIDDING
,
OF COURSE
,”
THE GIRL SAID WHEN
H
ORACE
didn't respond. The fact that the girl was floating outside his window rendered him speechless. “I know I woke you. I ought to know; I've been out here forever trying.”

“I'm . . . sorry?”

“Is that a question?” Her eyes flickered to the Fel'Daera. “Anyway, Keeper, you need to come with me.”

“Come where?”

“The Warren, of course. Mr. Meister sent me. Beck is waiting.”

Horace pressed his forehead against the screen. “You're flying,” he said stupidly.

“That's a common misconception. Let's go. The cab is out front, down the block.” She sank soundlessly from sight.

Horace got his shoes on in darkness, wondering even as
he did so whether he was being careless. Maybe he couldn't trust this girl. He'd seen her talking to Mrs. Hapsteade, yes, but so much was unknown. Before he left, he scribbled a quick note for his parents:

If I'm missing, go to the Mazolini Academy (sp?), downtown. Ask for Mr. Meister or Mrs. Hapstead. Tell them I went with the flying girl, Friday 11:10 p.m.

Probably there was no reason to leave a note, but the box afforded him a unique opportunity, just in case: he could send the note one day forward. Very likely he'd be back long before his parents even knew he was gone, and he could retrieve and destroy the note himself when it came through. But just in case anything went wrong, the note would be found eventually.

Outside, the cab idled smoothly, several houses down. Horace found the not-flying girl waiting for him in the backseat. Now he noticed that she wore a long cape, thick and black. Her legs were curled beneath her. Horace climbed in, and the cab pulled away.

“You're very trusting,” the girl said. “I thought it would be harder to get you out of the house.”

“I left a note, just in case.”

“A note. That's quaint. For future reference, you'll generally want to see a token of some kind.” She pulled at a chain beneath her collar and drew out a long crystal that Horace
recognized immediately, set in a curling silver flower. This one was darkly purple.

“Hey, it's a . . .”

“Jithandra.”

“Jithandra. Are you one of the Wardens, then?”

“What else would I be?”

“I guess I don't know. I don't know how all this works. You're the first Warden I've met beside Mr. Meister and Mrs. Hapsteade. And Gabriel, I guess.”

“Don't get too excited. I don't sign autographs.”

“I don't want an autograph, I just meant—”

“That was a joke,” the girl said. “I do sign autographs.”

“Oh . . . okay.” Horace nodded uncertainly and fixed his eyes on the back of Beck's seat.

“That was another joke. I'm Neptune, by the way.”

“Neptune. Like the planet?”

“Planet? What planet?” When Horace didn't respond, she said, “A joke again. You're not very good at this. I'm familiar with Neptune—the planet, I mean. And the person, too—that's me, of course.” She said all this in the same lilting voice, but not a trace of humor showed on her face. She went on staring unblinkingly at Horace with her great, guileless eyes.

“Oh,” said Horace.

The girl cleared her throat. She shifted and folded her hands into her lap, taking on a faint air of formality. “Well, I at least won't pretend I'm not curious. I wonder, Keeper, may I see it?”

“See what?”

“The Fel'Daera, of course. Here's mine. It's not much to look at, but I think it's lovely.” She held out her hand. In her palm was a pyramid-shaped jet-black stone, almost like a spike or tooth. Three sides of it were flat, but the smallest side—the base—was slightly curved.

“It's a spherical triangle,” Horace said, recognizing the shape. The single curved face was a section of a sphere. The whole thing was like a wedge taken out of a perfectly round ball.

Neptune made a happy noise of surprise. “That's right. Mr. Meister said you were a science guy.”

“I guess I am,” Horace said, strangely pleased that the old man had been talking about him. “So your Tan'ji . . . what is it?”

“It's called a tourminda. Not unique—not like the Fel'Daera—but rare enough. It's been in my family for a long time.”

“And it lets you . . . what? Not fly, you said.”

“Well, not like Superman, of course. That would be silly. It lets me alter my gravity. I can make myself entirely weightless, if I want to.”

“So you can float, but you can't move forward in the air. No propulsion.”

“Right again. I can't make myself go forward in the air, unless I push off of something solid. So I can leap really far, but I can't just stop in midair and change directions. And I
can hover, of course—you saw that. Also I'm extremely sensitive to gravity in general—everything has it, you know. Cars. Buildings. People. Situations.”

“Right,” said Horace, feeling more awake now and suddenly interested in this blank-faced girl. “So could you, like, jump into outer space?”

“That would kill me,” she trilled, one eyebrow twitching.

“I know, but I mean . . . theoretically.”

“Theoretically, no. The atmosphere slows me down.”

“Right, right—too much air resistance. So how far can you jump?”

“If I get a good wind behind me, pretty far.”

“How far is pretty far?”

“Once I jumped to Saugatuck.”

“Saugatuck? Where's that?”

“Michigan.”

Horace thought his eyes would fall out of his head. “You jumped across the lake? You jumped . . . across Lake Michigan?”

“It's not completely honest to call it jumping. Winds blew me most of the way. I could have gone farther, but after all that water, I had to come down when I got back over land. There were a few minutes, out over the water, where I just stalled. The winds died and I just hung there. Of course I was frightened,” she said, her eyes getting even wider for a moment. “I never tried it again. Nothing against Michigan.”

Horace looked to Beck. “Is this for real?” he said, half to
the driver and half to Neptune. Beck just glanced at the mirror, giving away nothing.

“What a funny thing for the Keeper of the Fel'Daera to ask, of all people,” Neptune said. “Of course gravity's very weak, all things considered.”

“I know that. Even a tiny magnet is stronger than gravity.”

“Exactly. But time, on the other hand—time's everything, isn't it?”

Horace had no answer for that. He pressed the box against his hip.

“May I see it, Keeper? Of course I'm not a fangirl or anything, but I am curious, like anyone. And I won't touch.”

Horace hesitated, then pulled the box from the pouch. She leaned over it, letting off a series of long, expressive hums. After several seconds, she straightened and bowed her head slightly. “Thank you for showing, Keeper.”

Awkwardly Horace returned the bow and tucked the box away again.

“It's funny, you know,” Neptune said after a few minutes. “The Fel'Daera—it's not as big as I thought it would be.”

Horace scowled. “What are you talking about? It's just right.”

“I only meant it's rather exquisitely small, don't you think? But of course you do.”

They drove on. Horace simmered about the box for a bit, but his curiosity would not let him remain silent for long. He began asking Neptune more about what she'd done with the
tourminda. It quickly became clear that she hadn't done much that Horace would have done. Top of the Willis Tower? No. Ferris wheel? No. The Diamond Building? No.

Neptune shook her head at him. “Our Tan'ji don't make us superheroes, you know. We're not supposed to flit around the city being awesome.” Her lecturing tone grated on Horace. Or was she kidding again?

“But you're wearing a
cape
.”

“It's a cloak. And it's purely for practical reasons.”

Up ahead, Horace could see the Hancock Center looming larger as they approached downtown, the top floor glowing like a crown, the great antenna masts towering above. How could you not want to go up there, if you could? He spent a few dreamy moments imagining it. “Anyway,” he said, “I don't flit around the city.”

“Your friend does, though. The dragonfly girl—Chloe.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I've seen her. That's my job. And I met her yesterday . . . but I don't think she likes me very much.” Horace was sure that was true; Neptune wasn't really Chloe's style. “Do you think it's because I'm so much taller? Probably she's intimidated.”

Horace scoffed. “Yeah, right. That'll be the day.”

“You really aren't very good at taking jokes,” Neptune remarked, looking sad.

“Oh,” Horace said. “Sorry.” He didn't bother telling her that maybe she was just bad at telling them. They rode the
rest of the way in silence. When they pulled up at the Mazzoleni Academy, Neptune slid out wordlessly. “See you, Beck,” Horace said. Beck squinted into the mirror and flashed him a chubby thumbs-up.

Neptune went up the steep staircase three steps at a time. Horace suspected she might be using the tourminda to make the climb easier. The moment they got to the top, Mrs. Hapsteade swept briskly out to greet them, holding open the front door and bowing her head. “Keepers.”

Inside, Chloe waited for them. A warm wave of relief overtook Horace. She was wearing a brand-new hoodie—red—and a pair of jeans a bit too big for her. But of course her clothes had been lost in the fire. There was something else different about her, and with the hood up around her face it took Horace a moment to realize: her long hair was gone.

Chloe narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, Horace, I had to cut my hair.” She threw her hood back and spun sarcastically. Her black hair was shorter than Horace's, exposing her slender neck. Her ears—kind of big, as it turned out—stuck out like mouse ears. Horace couldn't decide if it was adorable or ridiculous. “Happy?” Chloe said, and yanked her hood back up.

“I think it looks good.”

“Oh my god. Don't be creepy.”

“What? I'm trying to be nice.”

“It's not nice to lie. I've been mutilated.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Something true. Something helpful. You're usually so helpful.”

“Okay, well . . . it'll grow back. And in the meantime, you can keep your hood up.”

She spread her arms and smiled. “See? That's all you had to say.”

They stood there grinning at each other. The dragonfly flickered into motion for just an instant, and she jabbed a fingertip at him. He nodded.

“This is touching,” Neptune sang sarcastically. “It's touching me. It's touching me in the face.” She began poking herself in the cheek, the forehead, the eye.

Mrs. Hapsteade sighed and began herding them down the hall. “Come, Mr. Meister is waiting to see you. Though I can't for the life of me imagine why he would want to.”

The tiny elevator felt even more crowded with Neptune present. Chloe kept up a steady stream of surly chatter all the way down. Apparently it was Aunt Lou who had cut her hair. “She told me she always wanted to see what I looked like with short hair. I said, ‘Yeah, me too, that's why I set myself on fire.'”

They crossed the Nevren in Vithra's Eye with both Mrs. Hapsteade and Neptune in the lead, dangling their crystals side by side. Horace followed behind, with Chloe once again clinging to his shirt. Horace couldn't say he was getting used to the Nevren, not exactly, but entering the emptiness was easier knowing that it had ended before, and would end again.

Mrs. Hapsteade led them through the Great Burrow and right on past Mr. Meister's doba. At the very back of the Burrow, two final dobas stood like sentries beside a towering gap in the wall. A cool breeze spilled over them. They passed through, into a yawning shaft that stretched out of sight above and below. Mr. Meister stood at the edge, talking to two others: Gabriel and the boy in glasses Horace had glimpsed once before—Brian, that was his name. As Horace's group approached, the three looked up and Brian slipped away, over the edge of the precipice. When Horace came close, he saw a zigzagging flight of stairs cut from a sheer wall of bedrock, leading downward. The boy was just disappearing around a bend below. Horace peeked over the edge, grateful that he was claustrophobic and not afraid of heights. Apparently the Warren was even bigger than Horace had realized.