The wind at the top of the tower nearly sent him careening to his death, which would have been unfortunate seeing how long—how very long—he had spared himself the unpleasantness of dying. Fall off his own tower? Certainly not! He started binding himself with straps to keep him in place as he gazed at the sky through his stargazer, and watched for the first glimpse of the returning Boro comet.
Four times a century it came. The Minister had seen it more times than he could count. And now he would see it pass by once again—and so close—but he still would not be able to catch it. Not yet, anyway. How many more magic children would he need until his tower was tall enough? Ten? Hundreds? Thousands? How many enhancements would he need before he could pluck the comet from the sky and carry it in his pocket forever? It sickened him, of course, this business with the children. But the sickness in his heart didn’t interfere with the surety of his will. Besides, the first act of cruelty made the thousands that followed infinitely easier.
He needed that comet. He needed it desperately. It was all he could think about.
There were large red flowers growing along the edges of the walls defining the rooftop patio—a gift from one of his magic children, right before she died. “To help you breathe,” she said kindly, before she breathed her last. Her lips were pale, her eyes were the color of milk, her hair had fallen out months before. He usually did not learn the names of his magic children—or anyone, really. People die so quickly when they are not enhanced, and only the Minister is enhanced. He has seen to that. But the magic children. They die quicker. Best not to know them.
This one, though. This one he knew. Not her name, of course, just the fact of her—that inscrutable bit of the Self that cannot be drawn or recorded or named. And after all these years, he still mourned her. A raw, painful, immediate feeling of loss.
Red flowers, his heart whispered. Red, red, red, red.
He picked a flower, breathed deeply, and felt a tightening in his throat. He inserted the flower stem into his lapel and returned his gaze to the stars.
“Soon,” he said, waiting for the first glimmer of the comet to come into view, “soon.” And he shivered, thinking of the coming magic, blessing the land. Thinking of the women with bellies about to swell with children imbued with the power to assist their Minister. Living only for him until they died.
“Soon,” he said, and he imagined himself plucking the comet from the sky as though it were a candied fruit atop a large, luminous pastry. A delight meant for him and him alone.
He fell asleep at the top of his tower, wrapped in wind, as the taste of sweetness and magic and promise lingered on his tongue.
7. Now.
The boy named Jonah makes his way to the egg woman’s house. Very few people know the way. Indeed, Marla the egg woman can count those who do on one hand. And Jonah is not one of them. She removes the small pistol she keeps in her ample brassiere and points it at the boy.
“Give me three reasons why I shouldn’t shoot you, son.” She says this casually, as though asking his opinion on whether bulbs should be planted in September or October. The gun in her hand is small and bright. She holds it perfectly still.
The boy puts up one hand. The other grips a locket around his neck. “I—”
“I can give you one why I should.” A mild smile. A narrowed eye. “Trespassing.”
“I—”
She rolls her eyes. “Really? That’s the best you can do?”
“I’m sorry, miss,” the boy says. “I truly don’t know what brought me here. I—” He shakes his head as though to dislodge sleep from his brain. “I’ve certainly never been here before.”
Marla gives a sidelong glance to her right. She shakes her head with a harrumph.
“You’re Laney Tice’s oldest boy, yes?”
He nods.
“Your mother’s a good woman. A clear mind in a sea of puddingheads. She’d miss you if you didn’t come home.” She sets the gun back in her lap. “Greet her for me, will you?”
He nods again. His face is muddled. Darting eyes in a tangled brow.
“Well,” she says firmly. “Off you go.”
“Yes,” Jonah says. “Off I go.” He is about to say something more. His voice catches and he says nothing. He turns, takes two steps away, and then freezes.
Marla groans.
He spins around. “Scorpio!” he nearly shouts.
“What’s that child?”
“Orion’s belt!”
Marla sighs and shakes her head. “Jonah Tice, what are you on about?”
“Delphinius and Draco and Cassiopeia! Polaris. The arm of the Milky Way.” He closes his eyes and presses his hands to his face. “I came here with a girl. I’ve seen her before.”
Marla feels her stomach drop and her mouth go dry. “Now,” she rasps, “that’s enough of this silliness.”
The boy’s face is glowing. He holds his hands open before him, as though wanting to catch something that might fall from the heavens. “She wore no shoes.”
“It’s cold.” The acidic bite of panic in her throat. “No one goes barefoot in this weather. You imagined it.”
“She wore a dress made of scraps and a coat that was too big and a face made out of sky.” His breath comes in quick gasps.
He loves her, Marla thinks, her skin going cold.
“Now that’s just foolishness.” She tries to scoff. It is a thin, brittle sound.
“Sparrow,” the boy whispers.
“No.”
Shut your mouth, she thinks. Her heart screams it. Shut your stupid mouth.
“Sparrow.” The boy’s face falls into itself, like a sleeper waking up.
“A trick of the light,” she says. “I mean an active imagination. I think you should go.”
“Sparrow,” he says with more insistence.
