The pounding sound of blood fills her ears. She leaps up and races out the door of the hall, sensing stares on her like pointed knives. She feels that if she doesn’t run, she will be caught. And there would be consequences. She does not look back.
Metis stares at his trembling hands as if they belong on another person.
“What was that about?” Argus asks. The stage manager’s voice is high with anxiety.
Metis ignores him. He’s more concerned with not collapsing onto the floor. He leans against a wall for support. Am I dreaming? he wonders. He wipes his face with his quivering, foreign hand. Her face, the face he has seen countless times in the warm embrace of his slumber, is unmistakable. Her chestnut hair is longer and lighter. Her honey skin is a touch browner, kissed by the sun. But it is her.
He curses his luck. He had spent years searching for her, only to find her now with less than six months left.
Is this real?
He looks up. The backstage room stands in contrast to the brilliance and splendor of the front. It is a small room. A utilitarian room. In one corner is the command center that controls the lighting and sound for the stage. In another corner is a line of storage lockers. The only thing resembling the opulence of the theater is a set of dark-gray velvet curtains used as partitions. Everything looks too real to be a dream.
Argus’s face appears in front of him. It is filled with concern. “Why did you just leave the stage like that? Are you sick?”
“I—uh—I’m not sure.”
“Do you need to lie down?”
“No!” The last thing Metis wants is to fall asleep. “I mean, I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
He looks down at the rings on his fingers. The light from above shines on the silver bands, giving them a soft sheen. The shaking in his hands begins to subside.
“Please go back out there, Metis. The crowd is restless. They’re freaking out. You have no idea how many entertainment points those seats cost. They’re going to riot if you don’t,” Argus pleads.
Metis snaps his head up. This is real. She is out there. He needs to see her again. He nods and walks back on stage—the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.
The crowd notices him and settles back in their seats. Metis searches the sea of eager faces. His eyes come to rest on the spot he saw her last. The chair is empty. She is gone.
He sucks in a breath, feeling the dry wind blowing through the holes in his heart. He composes his face into a mask and continues his walk toward the piano. Under him the seat feels hard. Like his soul. He lays his fingers on the keys.
Luce begins.
Aris changes into a light cotton dress. The memory of the pianist surfaces, and a shudder sweeps through her. She wraps a warm shawl around her shoulders, warding off the intensity of the previous hours.
She hears a knock on the door. It’s Benja. He leans against the doorframe with desperation in his eyes. He’s breathing hard, and his face is red. She is reminded of the color of Mars.
“I need your help,” Benja says.
“Hey stranger,” Aris says and moves aside to let him in.
She has not spoken to him since the library. She left him a few messages, but he did not reply. He moves in to kiss her on the cheek but stops in his tracks.
“You look like you just had sex.” He scans around, searching for evidence. “Is he still here?”
She pushes the door closed. It bangs against the frame. “There’s no one here.”
“Really? But you’re glowing. You seem nervous. And you look . . . guilty.”
“Well, you’re wrong. I came from a concert.”
“Huh. Okay,” he says, “Can I get a quick drink of water? I ran here.”
She walks to the kitchen, and Benja follows. She brings out two glasses from the cupboard and fills them with water from the faucet.
“Here.” She hands him a glass and drains hers.
It’s ice cold with a slight saline aftertaste. A drop drips from the side of her mouth. The taste reminds her of her dream. She dismisses the thought and wipes the droplet with the back of her hand.
“What happened to you?” she says.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You didn’t return my reaches. I was worried about you.”
“I’m here now.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re fine?”
“Yes. Look at me.”
She studies him. His face is flushed. His eyes twinkle with glee. She feels his restless energy through the air.
“So, what do you need my help with?” she asks.
“I think there’s a hidden message,” he says.
“Where?”
“In the crane!”
“You’re still on that?”
“That’s what I’ve been working on, trying to figure it out.” He pulls out the blue piece of paper.
“There’s nothing on it,” she says. “Have you considered it may not even be from the Dreamers? Maybe it was just someone trying to be funny.”
“I don’t think so. Last night, when I was holding it in bed, I noticed the paper has this odd sour smell. It took me a long time to figure out what it reminds me of.”
He holds the paper in front of her nose. “Sushi rice. See?”
She scrunches up her face.
“Sushi rice is cooked with vinegar,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Why would a piece of paper smell like vinegar?” he asks.
A thought strikes her. “In the Old World, during war, spies would send messages using invisible ink made of lemon juice.”
“You think—?” His voice buzzes with excitement.
“Lucy,” Aris says, “what reveals invisible writing written in vinegar?”
“Vinegar contains acetic acid,” the AI’s voice speaks, “Acid breaks down cellulose in paper and turns it into sugar. Heat caramelizes sugar.”
“Fire. Try fire!” Aris says.
“Burn it?” He gives her
