Shadowlark

And it was the Hellenes who first used magic to power a manmade machine, though their attempts, while aesthetically impressive, were so inefficient as to be useless.

Parker clearly loved studying these people, his gaze lighting up when he spoke of them. He had a habit of wandering from the subject, branching off onto tangents that I could barely even follow, much less apply to my own experiences.

“Many scholars think that the music of the machines theory was fundamentally flawed, as no one has been able to reconcile the concept that magic is in everything, to a lesser or greater extent, with the truth that iron repels magic. The Hellenes had no scientific explanation for this, but I believe it’s simply because we don’t understand it yet. The theory is so simple, so elegant, that to abandon it for one loophole seems ludicrous.”

I remained silent, letting him continue. Wesley had stayed true to his word and not shared my secret with anyone—and even he didn’t know that I had magicked iron, first on the lock on Oren’s cage, and then again on a huge scale, turning the Iron Wood into a living forest again.

Parker—and the Hellenes—were right. There was magic in everything, even in iron, because I’d tapped into it.

Though I was exhausted by the end of each day, I still felt the nagging, irritating desire for action. Somewhere out there, Nix needed my help. The pixie was linked to me and could find me anywhere, and the fact that it hadn’t returned yet had to mean it was in trouble. And of course there was Tansy. Being forced to sit there meditating and learning about archaic theories made me want to scream. But even if we could manage to get inside and rescue her without being caught or killed, where could we go?

There was no way out.

* * *

In the evenings, after I’d forced myself to eat dinner and dragged myself back to my tiny room, I read Basil’s journal. My brother was not skilled at writing—none of us were, really. There was no reason for us to learn to express ourselves that way, living behind the Wall. Still, I found myself dragged into the brief glimpses of his journey marked down on the pages. I combed the entire thing, searching for mentions of alternate routes to the surface, anything that might help these people, but found nothing.

I kept hoping—and dreading—to see my name somewhere, to see him write that he missed me. But he wrote nothing of his feelings, noting only observations of the world around him.

The evidence that he missed me was in the way my face peeped out of the margins every few pages. The drawings were the real window into Basil’s heart.

I paused, sitting up on my bed. Of course. It was late on the fourth day since we’d arrived at the underground city, the fourth day of training and studying. I’d been so focused on trying to find clues in Basil’s ramblings that I’d been ignoring the pictures, most of which were sketches of faces or plants, or else technical diagrams of half-imagined machines. Most— but not all.

Flipping the pages back, I found what I was looking for. To the casual observer, the page was filled with a nonsensical pattern of little lines, some slashing through others, some ending in meaningless symbols. But they weren’t meaningless—I knew what they were. The memory was distant, but not gone. Now that I knew what the rebels here needed so badly, the memory came flooding back.

When we were children, Basil would sometimes let me come with him when he snuck into the school and other architect-run buildings by navigating the long-unused sewers. He knew every turn and hatch, but I—I was little and knew nothing about it, and I didn’t know my way. Afraid of getting separated and leaving his little sister alone in the tunnels beneath the city, Basil had made me diagrams of the tunnels that I had to memorize so I could always find my way home, no matter where I was. He’d come up with a code, so that anyone who stumbled across our maps wouldn’t realize what they were and give away our escapades.

I stared down at the page in the journal, my fingers smoothing over ink and paper. This wasn’t nonsense. This was a map. It was a way out of Lethe for the Renewables—it was an escape route.

An idea began to form in my mind, and even though it was new and only half-formed, my mind tingled with excitement. But before I could approach anyone about it, I had to ask the one person on whom my plan hinged. It’d be dangerous—too dangerous, if I let myself think about it.

So don’t think, for once. Just go.

I pushed myself up off my bed and headed for the door, which I’d left open to try to let the air circulate. I plucked at my shirt, which felt damp and sticky against my skin, and wished my complexion was a bit more forgiving in this heat. I knew my face would be bright red, my hair lank, nothing like the bouncy curls Olivia sported.

I turned for Oren’s room next to mine, only to find the door ajar and the lights off. I whispered his name and pushed the door open a little further, but there was no response. He was gone. I had no idea what time it was, but I was pretty sure it had been hours since most of the rebels had gone to bed.

With a sinking feeling, I made for the corridor where Olivia’s room was located. Even though I knew the layout of this place now, at least the section that we inhabited, I still felt like an outsider after nightfall. The silent corridors echoed my footsteps back to me, broken only by the dripping water here and there and the occasional banging of a pipe.

I stopped a few paces away from Olivia’s door, which was closed. I couldn’t hear anything from this distance and refused to put my ear to the door like an eavesdropper. Just wait until tomorrow, I told myself. Are you really going to storm in there like some jealous girlfriend? I swallowed. I had rejected Oren, not the other way around. Who was I to say he couldn’t fall for someone else, someone far better suited to him?

And yet I couldn’t turn away. I told myself it was because I had to know if he’d help me, but it felt weak, even in the privacy of my own thoughts. Clenching my jaw, hating myself, I reached out and banged on the metal door with the heel of my hand.

Nothing.

I waited, my heart pounding painfully, then tried again. There was still no response, and I was about to try a third time when the door next to Olivia’s opened a crack and a sleepy, disgruntled face peeked out. I recognized Copper, a skinny, black-haired boy about my age who specialized in tinkering with machines and often helped Parker as he tried to unlock Basil’s journal’s secrets.

“The hell, Lark?” he muttered, staring blearily at me. “A little late for a romantic rendezvous, isn’t it?”

“Sorry.” Why would I show up at Olivia’s door for romance? Unless he’d just heard the clanging and mistook it for his own door. At least I could blame the heat as the reason my cheeks were red. “Do you know where Olivia is?”

“Not here!” Copper replied shortly. Then he rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. “Try the training grounds, or the roof. She doesn’t sleep a lot these days.”

I took a deep breath. “Thanks, Copper. Sorry I woke you!”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Not all of us can run on magic, might think about that next time you decide to wake up the whole hallway.” But his tone was, at least, a little bit mollified.

I headed toward the training cavern, unsure of what I meant to do when I got there. All I knew was that I couldn’t spend another day here doing nothing but waiting.

The cavern was dark except for a few lights over the sparring mats. Olivia and Oren were the only people there, and they showed no signs of fatigue. Oren was as much of a night person as Olivia was. They were circling each other, their eyes locked, every shift and movement deliberate. When Olivia feinted to the right, Oren slid smoothly sideways. When he darted forward, she twisted neatly away. They looked like dancers, graceful and strong, always moving. The pool of illumination in the dark cave was like a spotlight, setting each mote of dust ablaze to twirl after them as their movements caused eddies and currents in the air.

Neither of them spoke—the only sounds were the occasional swift gasp of breath or murmur of effort.

And then, a shift. Olivia stumbled and Oren leaped forward, ready to take advantage of her mistake. But in his eagerness he moved too far, and Olivia miraculously found her feet and ducked under his arm. Quick to capitalize on the success of her ruse, she grabbed his wrist as he passed, and twisted. With a grunt of effort and a cry of surprise from Oren, she slammed him down into the mat. He started to twist free, stopping only when she pressed her knee to his throat. For a moment the only sound was their harsh breathing as they stared at each other, expressions mirror images of fierceness and exertion. And then Oren laughed.

It was only a chuckle, barely more than a quick exhalation. But my heart stopped, and I couldn’t take my