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my blessing.” Being weird was apparently her primary burden, though he wasn’t certain what was blessed about it. As they passed a shop selling many varieties of hion viewers, with actors moving across the windows in unison, she paused. “I thought yoki-hijo didn’t gawk,” he noted. “Oh, sorry,” she said softly, glancing down. “You are correct. I have shamed myself.” Painter grimaced. He’d been hoping for a more satisfying reaction. Giving someone a jibe, then having them internalize it, felt awful: the conversational equivalent of going for a comedic burp and accidentally inducing yourself to vomit. Regardless, he navigated her without incident to the foreman’s office—a small room with its own entrance at the corner of the general Painter Department headquarters. At his prompting, she entered. Foreman Sukishi didn’t care about knocking. Fortunately, he was in. The older man sat at his usual place behind the small room’s single desk, feet up, reading his paper. Behind him, the many slots where he stored the paintings turned in for the day—tagged and sorted—were mostly empty. Ready for the night’s offerings. As Yumi entered he lowered his feet and folded his paper, frowning at her. “You look familiar.” “You met me the other day,” she said softly, “at Painter’s house. Um…Nikaro, the painter? I’m his sister.” The foreman blinked, then recognition hit him and he sat back. “Sister? Of course. That makes so much more sense.” Painter winced. Why did people keep saying that? “He didn’t work last night either,” the foreman said. “Is that why you’re here?” “He’s sick,” Yumi said. “Yeah. So sick that when I saw you the other day, he wasn’t sleeping on his futon—but was out somewhere. And had to leave his sister to cover for him.” Yumi blushed, lowering her eyes. “I apologize for him, honored Foreman-nimi.” “Oh, it’s not your fault,” the foreman said, softening his tone. Which was horribly unfair. This man had always treated Painter with some shade of contempt—but Yumi, the tyrant? She got his sympathies? Then again, she did seem to be an expert at milking these kinds of situations. Today she knelt down on the ground and gave the foreman a full ritual bow. “Honored Foreman-nimi,” she said, her eyes toward the floor, “I am here to ask for information. You said my brother was out doing something the other day, but I remind you: He encountered something he called a stable nightmare. He was watching out for that. He sent me to ask if perhaps you have an update?” The foreman leaned forward, eyeing her. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Right,” he said. “Stable nightmare.” “He did send for the Dreamwatch, didn’t he?” Painter asked, feeling a spike of alarm. “Did you send for the Dreamwatch, Foreman-nimi?” Yumi asked, looking up. “Have they found the thing? Painter says that it could grow dangerous in a matter of days if not dealt with.” The foreman leaned backward in his seat, which gave a plaintive creak. “Tell me more about this thing he supposedly saw. Nikaro. Was he wounded, facing a
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stable nightmare?” “No,” Painter snapped. “I fought it off, thank you very much.” “He used his powers,” she said, “to drive it away.” The foreman squinted his eyes. “Nikaro. Used those half-rate paintings of his to drive away a stable nightmare?” “That’s what he said.” Yumi looked to Painter, who nodded firmly. The foreman studied her, then sighed. “I should have expected this…” Painter frowned. Expected? A stable nightmare? “Nikaro always likes to be so dramatic,” the foreman said softly—as if more to himself than to Yumi. “Always needs to be at the center of everything. And we know how much he likes a good lie… Doing his job never has been good enough for that one. Needs people paying attention to him, telling him how great he is.” Painter stepped back, his stomach turning over. He’d long known what the foreman thought of him, but hearing it still hurt. “Foreman-nimi?” Yumi asked. “There was a family. They saw it, and Painter wants to check on them. He promised them financial help? He gave me an address…” She stood and wrote it quickly, able to write in his language as he was able to write in hers. The foreman grunted and read the address. This finally seemed to give him pause. But then he tucked it away in his pocket and shook his head. “I’ll take care of it.” “Thank you,” she said, bowing again. “Thank you so much.” She left, holding the door long enough for Painter to slink out behind her. “There,” she said, halting at the curb. “We handled that.” “Except we didn’t,” Painter said. “He didn’t believe you.” “What? He said—” “He said what he needed to,” Painter explained, “to get you out the door. But he thinks I made up the story about the stable nightmare in order to get attention. That (lowly) man!” Yumi appeared to shrink farther into her oversized clothing. “So he’s not going to stop the creature?” “Doubt it,” Painter said. “If we’re lucky, he’ll check on the address. But it’s been three days—and I told the family to get out of town. They’ll likely have found a way, even without the money I promised them.” “He might look into it,” Yumi said. “Maybe he’ll find them and see evidence of the nightmare?” “Maybe,” Painter said, sighing. “Hopefully. Unless he decides to ‘take care’ of things by writing me up.” “Your world makes no sense,” Yumi said. “People simply…mislead one another?” “I’ll bet they do the same on your world,” Painter said. “Just not around you. People are people, Yumi. Your world is different, yes, but I doubt it’s that different.” She started toward his flat again, and he gave minimal guidance as he walked beside her, fuming. And, deeper inside, feeling utterly humiliated. Based on the foreman’s expression and attitude, the man wasn’t going to investigate at all. That nightmare had been crafty, powerful. Painter had given it a fright, so it might stay away a few days. But it would be back. “What if you’re right?” Yumi said as they walked.
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“What if the spirits sent me here to help you with this nightmare? What do we do?” “I’m thinking about it, okay?” Painter snapped. By the time they neared the apartment building though, he still didn’t have any good answers. Maybe…the nightmare would get noticed by someone else? But if it had gone this long without being captured, then it must be distinctly cunning. It would probably only draw attention once it started killing… “Hey!” a voice said. “It’s you!” Painter and Yumi stopped on the street by the apartment building as Akane came out the front door. Gorgeous as always, she was wearing street clothing again—skirt, blouse, makeup—rather than her work gear. She went out most evenings before their shift began, clubbing, or…other normal-person things? He didn’t really know, to be honest. Perhaps this was what she wore to go to the grocery store. “Yumi, was it?” Akane said, looking her up and down, lingering on the sweater-turned-skirt. “Yes,” Yumi said. “Um…I lost my trunk of clothing on the way here. I had to borrow my brother’s things.” “Good save,” Painter said. “Get rid of her. We need to get back to the flat and discuss what to do.” “I haven’t seen Nikaro around,” Akane said. “What’s up with him? He hasn’t been reporting to his shift.” “Oh!” Yumi said. “He has…um…some big project he’s been doing. Somewhere else.” “Your brother,” Akane said flatly, “invited you to the city, then left you alone. After you’d lost your luggage?” “Yes?” Yumi said, shrinking down in her—his—clothing. Painter groaned as he saw his chances with Akane fading even further. (Which proved him to be an optimist, since he assumed he’d ever had chances in the first place.) “Quick!” he said. “Let’s go.” “Thank you and excuse me,” Yumi said, with a quick bow, then slipped past Akane into the building. Akane lingered, holding the door. Before Yumi and Painter could reach the stairs, she rushed in after them and caught up to Yumi. “Hey,” Akane said, “this is probably none of my business, so tell me to go stick my head in the shroud if you want. But…are you all right, Yumi? Could you maybe use some help? Someone to take you shopping for some new clothes?” Painter sighed. Akane was always— Yumi, shockingly, burst into tears. “Yes,” she said between sobs. “Oh, yes, please.” Yumi, of course, instantly felt mortified at her breakdown. She tried to control her tears as she took Akane by the hand and bowed to her in thanks. Surprisingly, it wasn’t against the rules for a yoki-hijo to cry. Many of these rules had been instituted by older yoki-hijo themselves, after all—and so they’d made crying in front of others the thing that was against protocol. I find it telling. They all understood. For one living the life of a yoki-hijo, breakdowns were basically inevitable. You just had to hide them as best you could. Regardless, Yumi knew she shouldn’t act this way. It was just such a relief to have someone pay attention to her needs. Akane’s
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attempt to help, albeit in a small way, was physically overwhelming. This place was just so strange. That sky felt like it would swallow her, but that was somehow the least of it. She’d seen enormous vehicles—carrying tons of people—moving through the nearby streets. These buildings towered around her, stacks of stones piled so straight, glued together. They could have been mountains. And then there were those twin lines of light glowing and hovering in the air above every street, connected to every building, forming garish glowing signs. She’d been dumped into all of this without any direction. She felt lost, even when she knew where she was. She felt terrified even though she wasn’t in danger. Worst, she’d had to go out wearing…wearing this mess. Akane patted her hand as if troubled. Nearby, Painter stared at her, frowning. He seemed baffled. Well, Yumi understood both of their emotions. “Right, then,” Akane said, towing Yumi out the door. “I know a place.” Her shoes made a sharp clopping sound on the strange black-stone street. It didn’t sound like a pair of clogs, but it was comforting nonetheless. Yumi seized her emotions in a death grip and wrangled them under control. As soon as her tears stopped, however, she found she was still humiliated—not merely because of her outburst, but because of what had happened the last time she’d met this woman. “Akane,” she said. “Last time we spoke…I embarrassed myself by exposing, flagrantly, my ignorance. Please accept not just my apologies, but my sincere remunerations—anything I can do in your favor, I will extend.” “It’s not your fault your brother is a creep, Yumi.” “He’s not a creep!” Yumi said quickly. Then paused. Was that a lie? She wasn’t completely certain. “In truth, I misunderstood what he was saying. He was speaking of…of the dramas he likes to watch. Not of anyone he knows. In addition, I was overwhelmed. People in the city are…different from the way people are back home.” “I’ve heard about the smaller towns,” Akane said with a laugh. “I know things are more traditional there. We must look a sight to you!” “It’s more the city itself,” Yumi said, staring to the right as they crossed a road. “The streets seem to go on forever. So many people all in one place, building monoliths toward a dark sky. Living atop one another, piled like stones in a wall…” Akane smiled. “Did I say something wrong?” Yumi asked, lowering her eyes. “I gravely apologize for my foolishness.” “You’re not foolish,” Akane said. “Actually, I was thinking that I like the way you talk. It has a kind of…poetic feel to it.” Poetic? She was merely speaking with proper formality. Still, it would not be polite to correct Akane, so she held her tongue. Akane led her to a large structure with bigger windows and brighter lights than many. Yumi glanced over her shoulder toward Painter, who was following along behind, hands in his pockets. He didn’t seem to want to talk, but she made sure to linger at the
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door so he could follow her. Then all her attention was captured by the place inside those doors: a vast open room full of displays and statues wearing clothing. Hundreds of skirts hanging in artfully arranged racks. Shirts piled high in cubbies on the walls. Shoes in a thousand different varieties, raised up on tables to show them off. “So,” Akane said, “you’ll need at least a couple of outfits. Three, maybe? That could keep you going until you can send for something from home.” Yumi simply stared. Bright lights presented it all, of a whiter light than the lines outside. Dozens of people moved among the racks, chatting, pointing at different options. Was this…this all just here for people to take? “What do you like to wear?” Akane said gently, nudging her. “Yumi?” “I…” she whispered. “There’s so much…” “Their selection,” Akane said, “is acceptable.” She leaned in. “Shinzua Shopping Center has more cutting-edge trends, but the prices there are insane. This place is a good balance.” Prices. Right, money. Normal people needed money to buy things. Yumi panicked. “I have misled you, honored Akane! I don’t possess any money for—” “It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll cover it and charge your brother. Trust me. He’ll pay me back. I’ll make sure of it.” Oh. Well, she supposed that he owed her that much. She pointedly didn’t look toward him as she nodded. “So, three outfits?” Akane said. “One skirt, two pairs of pants, some shirts?” “No!” Yumi said, too forcefully. “Um, dresses? Full dresses? Is that acceptable?” Maybe she could find something similar to what she’d worn at home. Even though…she had yet to see a single woman wearing anything of the sort. “Sure,” Akane said. “This way.” They wove between racks of clothing, and the garments all appeared so…slight. Shirts that fit tightly on the torso, skirts so light and flowing they seemed made of air and clouds. She and Akane emerged into a section selling dresses, and Yumi’s feeling of intimidation built. How did anyone choose? She had always worn what she’d been dressed in—never voicing an opinion. Because why would she need one of those? She was about to tell Akane to find her the thickest, bulkiest dress—when she froze. Just ahead, a statue of a woman with no face stood on a pedestal, wearing something gorgeous. Flowing, but not insubstantial, the light blue dress deepened to a darker color near the floor—like it was the blossom of a flower. It did outline the form, as all of the dresses in this place did, but didn’t hug it like the skirts that Akane favored. Instead it had a fluid, rippling sense to it. To wear something like that… It would flare when she turned. It would leave her shoulders mostly bare, save for two straps, though the neckline wasn’t nearly as daring as the other dresses’. It would show more of her than she had ever exposed. But it was like the gown a queen would wear. A queen from a story. A woman, not a girl of
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commanding primal spirits. “Ah,” Akane said, stepping back to join her. “Someone has remarkably good taste. What’s your size? I’ll go get one off the racks.” “No!” Yumi said, taking her by the arm. “I can’t, honored Akane. It’s too…daring.” Akane glanced toward the dress, then back at Yumi, who blushed. (Perhaps Akane was thinking that wearing a sweater as a skirt was the actual daring maneuver.) “Look,” Akane said, patting her hand. “I won’t force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. But you’re in the city now, Yumi. There’s no better time to try out something new—be a little daring, so to speak. It might not seem so to you, but that dress is actually pretty conservative here.” Yumi refrained from eyeing Akane’s own skirt, which appeared about one yawn-and-stretch away from flipping up and turning into a belt instead. Perhaps…the other one was conservative. And the spirits hadn’t punished her for the lies she’d been forced to tell…so maybe they knew she’d have to do things differently here. To accomplish their designs? That was her excuse, at least. In truth, looking up at that dress—and realizing she could simply choose to wear it—awakened something in her. This inclination hadn’t been sleeping deeply, hadn’t been hidden far underneath the surface. It had been lurking, even back in her world. Liyun would have called it dangerous. Liyun wasn’t here. “Let’s try it,” Yumi whispered, clinging to Akane. “Great! What’s your size?” Yumi felt herself blushing. “I…don’t know. I’ve never been shopping before.” “What?” “I just always wore what was given to me.” “Siblings?” she said (lowly). “You’re the youngest then? That’s rough, always wearing hand-me-downs. I know how it feels. So this is your first time?” Yumi nodded. “No wonder you look like a moth in a light bulb factory,” Akane said. “How about this: you point out a few other mannequins with a style you like, and I’ll gather together a selection of similar things, then bring them to your changing room to try on. That way you don’t have to pick from hundreds of options, only a dozen or so.” “That sounds wonderful,” Yumi said (highly). “Thank you, Akane. You are an honor to your family, your lineage, and the spirits themselves.” “And you,” Akane said, “are an absolute charm bracelet of a person.” Akane led her to a servant who worked at the place, and there they took some very personal measurements of Yumi. Akane seemed to think this would embarrass her, but standing there and being prodded was the first thing Yumi found familiar about this entire experience. Despite not being particularly fond of doing it in front of Painter. “Don’t suppose you know your bra size?” Akane asked after that part was done. “Uh…” Would saying she didn’t know what that was make her seem too odd? She didn’t want to act too strange, lest people realize she was literally an alien. “No?” The next measurements were even more personal. But Yumi suffered it, and soon found herself deposited in a small hallway with a set
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of rooms apparently for trying on clothing. Painter sat outside as she stepped into one, though she didn’t have any clothing to try on yet—Akane was still gathering it. “What,” Yumi hissed at Painter through the open door, “is a ‘bra’?” “Undergarment,” he said. “For women.” He hesitated, then gestured toward his chest. “Oh,” she said. “Why not a bosom band?” “That…might be a better question for Akane than me.” “I suppose,” she said, “that you find all of this a frivolous distraction.” He shrugged, looking out toward where Akane passed by, now leading two different shop servants. “You need clothes, Yumi. And I don’t know anyone better to help you get them than Akane.” “She’s very pretty,” Yumi said. “Prettiest in our class at school,” he agreed. “Tell me what you like about her, other than the fact that she’s pretty.” He paused, and took an embarrassing—for him—amount of time to reply. “She has great fashion sense.” “That’s basically another way of saying she’s pretty.” “Why do you care?” he snapped. “Well, I’ve already noticed that she’s a tender and helpful person,” Yumi said. “I was simply curious if that is why you’re so infatuated with her.” “I’m not infatuated,” Painter said, and sounded serious, not defensive. “I just have a lot of time to think. Maybe too much time to think. And dream.” He shook his head as Akane passed back the other way, the two servants laden with clothing, and…was that a third hurrying along after them? Hadn’t she said she was only going to get a few outfits for Yumi to try on? “She was nice to me,” Painter finally said. “Even though I was from a small town. When we first met in class three years ago, a few of the others made fun of me. Akane instead asked what made me want to be a painter…” When he didn’t continue, Yumi asked, “You had a choice?” It sounded stupid when she said it. It seemed obvious in retrospect that he’d chosen to become a painter. Yet few people in Torio actually got to decide what they did. You generally just inherited your family’s trade. Unless you were a yoki-hijo. “It’s how we do things here,” he said. “And you became a painter of nightmares?” she said. “Why?” Before he could answer, Akane came striding back—four servants in tow, all laden with clothing. Yumi was accepting the first armload, listening to Akane’s instructions, before she realized that Painter could have simply answered her. No one could hear him but her, so why fall silent when others were near? Soon Yumi was closed in her little room, surrounded by too many options. She began by peeling off the layers she’d chosen to wear, finding her skin sweaty underneath. She hadn’t really been paying attention, but it felt nice to be out of that clothing—it had actually been too warm. Perhaps she was adjusting to this semifrozen land. The first undergarment made sense, but the bra…well, that was formidable. She could see how it was to be worn, but
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there were straps and a clip and…well, it took some work. She did pause while putting it on, marveling at the stretchiness of some of the cloth. How did they make it do that? She got the thing on finally, though she had to put it on backward to get the clip fastened, then twist it around and fit herself into it. It felt kind of constrictive, and it outlined her form instead of flattening it as was normal. She supposed that was how Akane and the others made their figures look so…prominent. Why would they want to be more conspicuous? The bra seemed a purely vain thing, and she almost took it off to go without. But then she turned, and cocked her head. Then she tried jumping. And… That felt nice. Not that it was comfortable really, but it certainly prevented discomfort. “Yumi?” Akane asked from outside. “You okay?” “This bra,” she said, jumping again, “is incredible.” “Never had one that fits right, eh?” Akane asked. “You’d be surprised the difference it makes.” It was her intention to try on the pretty dress last, but…well, her curiosity got the better of her. She pulled it on, then looked at herself in the changing mirror. It was beautiful, like clouds above a deep blue sky—like the wind itself given shape and sent to embrace her. But there was a magnetism to it beyond its overt beauty. It transformed her into someone else. Someone who could make a choice. It was the first time in her entire life that she’d made a decision just for herself. Akane had brought her a small bag of toiletries, and inside was a brush. Yumi stroked her hair with this a few times, getting rid of the frazzles, then stood and stared at the mythical being in the mirror, feeling a disconnect, trying to accept that it was her. “Well?” Akane called. “Come on! Let me see!” Yumi blushed immediately, putting her hands to her bare shoulders. The previous layers had been too hot, but this was undoubtedly too cold. “I don’t know if I can,” she called out. “My shoulders are naked!” “Ah!” Akane said. “Well, you’re lucky. Because I thought of that. Look at the first hook on your right for the matching top.” Yumi looked and saw a short buttoning top. You might call it a dress cardigan, but it was a bit fancier than that—a little more stiff (of a denim blend) and shorter, not even reaching to her navel. It reminded Yumi a little of the top part of the tobok she wore among her people, only with shorter sleeves. She removed it from its hanger and hesitantly pulled it on. It matched the dress nicely. The fit was close, and she sported a distinctly feminine silhouette. She tried not to be embarrassed about that as she opened the door. Akane beamed at her. That gave Yumi a surge of confidence, like a flower rising high into the sky. One of the attendants had stayed, and this woman nodded thoughtfully and
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seemed approving as well. Behind the two of them, Painter stood up straight, gawking at her. He probably thought she looked silly, as he knew the type of clothing she should be wearing. “That is wonderful,” Akane said. “We’re getting that one for sure. But here, try on the others! You have to see this pink one…” Akane stepped in and dug through the dresses to find a specific choice. Yumi raised her chin and met Painter’s eyes. He was still staring at her. Well, for once she didn’t care if she looked improper. The spirits had demanded a lot of her these last few days. It was blasphemous, but she had decided it was time for her to demand something in return. She wanted possessions for the first time in her life. So it was that an hour later, she trotted out of the store wearing the blue dress and clutching a package containing two other outfits of slightly different styles. Hers. Actually hers. Granted, she wouldn’t be able to bring them back to her land, where her life—once this was over—would go back to the way it always was. For now, she got to live a dream. That almost made all of this chaos worth it. And as she walked home with Akane, she noticed something else. No one was staring at her anymore. Painter had been right, she realized with amazement. No one here knew what she was. No one here cared. Now that she wasn’t dressed in such ridiculous clothing, now that she fit in, she was just…normal. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. “All right,” Akane said, stopping outside the apartment building. “I need to get ready for work. The foreman throws a fit if I go painting in a miniskirt. You have food? Upstairs?” “Um…” Yumi said. “Technically it counts as food.” “Uh-huh. Come back to the lobby in ten minutes. I’m meeting friends for lunch before shift at a noodle shop nearby. You’ll join us.” “I’m being too much of a burden,” Yumi said, lowering her head. “You? A burden?” Akane laughed. “Please, Yumi. You’re not going to deny me the chance to show off my fashion pupil to my friends, are you?” Nearby, Painter was shaking his head urgently. That, mixed with her growling stomach, was the decider. “Of course I’ll go with you,” Yumi said. “Let me go drop these things off at my brother’s room.” “What’s a noodle shop?” Yumi asked, arranging her new outfits on the floor. “Place where you can pay,” Painter explained, “and people bring you food.” He lingered in the doorway, watching her. It was surreal how a simple outfit change made her seem like she belonged. All of a sudden he could picture her here, in his life. “People bring you food,” she said. “You don’t have to make it yourself?” “No.” “Do they…feed you?” Why did she sound hopeful? “No,” he said. “You need to do that part on your own.” “Well, as long as I don’t have to make
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it,” she said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the clothing she’d laid out. “You’re just going to leave it there?” he asked. She hesitated, then glanced at him. “Is there…another place where it should go?” She looked at the heaps of clothing. “Closet,” he said, gesturing, “has hangers and a rod.” “Oh!” She walked over. “How clever! Your people think of so many interesting things.” “I…suspect your people have closets, Yumi,” he said. She cocked her head. “I guess maybe they do. I’ve never been inside another person’s home.” She began hanging the clothes. “Is there money here somewhere I can use at the noodle shop?” “In the can on the counter,” he said. “But Yumi, I don’t think you should go. So far we’ve been lucky. Akane hasn’t asked too many questions, and hasn’t noticed the oddities about you. But the longer you spend around people, the more dangerous it gets.” “Dangerous?” she said. “Getting clothing? Eating dinner?” “Someone’s bound to ask questions you can’t answer,” he said. “They might start poking around, getting suspicious. Eventually someone will find out I don’t have a sister. Then things start getting awkward.” “This is why lies are bad,” she said, shutting the closet doors. “We should have told them the truth at the start.” “Oh? And how did it go telling Liyun the truth? And telling the foreman about the nightmare? How well did that work?” “These mistakes are due to our inadequacy,” she said. “We should try again, presenting Liyun with the truth in a more convincing way.” “No,” he said. “She’ll just think we’ve decided to make her life terrible for some reason.” Yumi averted her eyes. “It could be even worse here, if you tell the truth,” he said. “They’ll demand proof you can’t provide. What if they think you’re insane? Or that you’ve killed me?” She looked at her feet. “I thought…maybe the other painters could help me. Figure out what I’m supposed to do. It sounded…nice to talk to them.” “That group?” Painter snorted. “They’re too exclusive for people like us, Yumi. You might be a novelty to them now, but they’ll drop you as soon as something more interesting comes along. Trust me.” “Akane is nice. You said she was nice to you.” “She was. At first.” He turned away, not wanting to think about those times. Yumi was quiet for a moment, then retrieved the money and brushed past him, heading toward the stairs. “I want to do it anyway.” A second later, he was yanked after her. That aspect of this was extremely unfair. How was it that he got bullied by her when he was physical, but then he ended up being pulled along like a dog on a leash when she was the one with the body? They met Akane below, now in a simpler outfit of slacks and a blouse. Not exactly what he’d call painting gear, but it was as dressed down as she got. Akane led Yumi around the corner to the Noodle Pupil, and Painter followed sullenly.
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He couldn’t have said what made him want to avoid this place. Perhaps it was the way that Akane had adopted Yumi so easily. Reminded him of how easily he’d been dropped. Not that he could, in all honesty, blame them. He felt better though when they stepped into the restaurant. The place was familiar, and even without a body he could smell the warm scents of broth and green onions. In here, the clatter of bowls and utensils felt somehow softer than it did in other restaurants. Akane hung her oversized painter’s bag on the arm of the statue in the front of the shop, the one that (in case you’ve forgotten) contained the body of an exceedingly bored storyteller. At least the eggs were gone by that point. Painter’s former friends sat at the rear, in their usual place. As he followed the two women over, he felt…annoyed. He’d wanted for so long to be invited to this table. To rejoin in this familiar laughter, as he had during school. It turned out there was an easy way to get the others to let him back in: he just had to be invisible. Akane presented Yumi with a flourish. “Behold,” she said, “Nikaro’s little sister.” There were three others in the group: two girls, one guy. That meant Tojin was outnumbered three to one in the clique—unless you went by sheer muscle mass. Painter was reasonably certain Tojin outweighed the other three combined. “No (lowly) way,” Tojin said, sitting backward on his chair as he usually did, sleeves rolled up as if they were too intimidated by his massive forearms and had shriveled out of respect. He was squeezing some kind of hand exercise device, ten reps in each hand before swapping, because of course he was. “That’s Tojin,” Akane said, gesturing to him. “Hey,” he replied, swapping hands. “Tojin,” Painter said, leaning in toward Yumi, “is exactly what he appears to be. The type of guy who would roll up his sleeves and do exercises at the dinner table to get a better chance at showing off to the women. He never misses a chance to display his body to the girls.” “This is Masaka,” Akane said, gesturing toward a girl all in black, huddled in her chair with her knees up, sketchpad in front of her. Masaka hated showing skin, and wore a scarf to hide even her neck. She peeked over the top of the sketchpad with narrowed eyes, dark beneath her bangs. Yumi stepped back in shock. Masaka had that effect on people. “Rumors in school were,” Painter whispered, “she had to become a painter as part of a plea deal with the judge after stabbing someone during her lower school years. She doesn’t talk much. Too busy plotting.” Masaka punctuated something on the page at that moment, then looked up again at Yumi—who took another unconscious step backward. “Don’t let her stern demeanor get to you,” Akane said with her usual cheerfulness. “She’s a softy inside. Besides, staring only makes her angry. And finally, here
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is Izumakamo!” A girl in trousers and a sweatshirt stood up, proffering her hand. Yumi stared at it. “You take it,” Painter explained, “and bow. It’s a kind of greeting.” Yumi hesitantly did as he said, taking Izzy’s hand and bowing as the other girl did likewise. Then Yumi glanced toward Painter, as if expecting an explanation of who this was, like he’d given for the other two. “Just watch,” Painter said instead. “Yumi…” Izzy said, thoughtful. Then she dug into a thick encyclopedia-style book, flipping pages quickly. “Starts with a Y…two syllables… Birth year and month?” “Say you’re year of the dragon,” Painter told her. “It would look strange if we’re the same age. And, let’s say, the month of rain. For fun.” “Um…” Yumi said. “Year of the dragon. Month of rain?” “Ah yes…” Izzy continued, flipping a few more pages. “Oh, here it is. Guri and Shishi’s wedding episode! The first wedding, I mean. You will have very good luck today, Yumi. Very good indeed. Great day for making promises.” Yumi regarded the young woman, baffled. Nearby, Tojin snickered, swapping hands again with his exercise device. “Don’t you laugh, Tojin,” Izzy said. “This is a totally legitimate science.” “Don’t worry about her, Yumi,” Akane said, leaning in and whispering. “She’s special.” “My talent is special!” Izzy declared. “You wait and see. Soon people are going to catch on, and everyone will be getting their dramascope. I’ll be famous for inventing it, and you all won’t be able to make fun of me any longer. You’ll have to wait in line.” “Wait in line,” Tojin said. “To make fun of you.” “No. Um…” “Presumably,” he said, flexing his hand, “because so many other people will want a chance to do so?” “That is not what I meant,” Izzy said. She then leaned toward Masaka and whispered conspiratorially, “When I’m rich and famous, want to be my bodyguard?” Masaka shrugged. “Great,” Izzy said. “Your first job will be to beat up Tojin when he tries to tell everyone he knew me before I was famous.” “I’m…confused,” Yumi said. “Not surprising,” Akane said. “It’s just a game Izzy plays.” “It’s not a game,” Izzy replied. “She thinks,” Akane said, “that she can predict people’s fortunes using episode guides for hion-line programs.” “It’s an ancient art,” Izzy said. “You made it up!” Tojin said, pointing. “I made it up a long time ago,” Izzy said. “During a previous life. So it’s ancient. Do you want to see the dramascope that explains it? Here, let me show you.” She grinned as Tojin rolled his eyes. Painter never had been able to figure out how serious she was about her crazy ideas. In moments like this—smiling as if she’d gone too far on purpose—he was left uncertain. Standing there though…listening to Tojin joke while Masaka drew and Izzy rambled on about something incredibly random…he felt a painful nostalgia. For something he’d lost, like a misplaced note you keep remembering you wrote something important on, but you can never quite recall what pocket you left it
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in. These weren’t his friends anymore. This feeling he felt? It was false. He turned to go as the food arrived, brought by one of Design’s assistants. Two bowls for Tojin—no noodles, just extra eggs and pork—and a small one for Masaka. There was nothing for Painter here. Why had he yearned so long to come back to this? He walked off. Yumi gave him a panicked look as he did, but she was the one who had wanted to come down here and talk to this crew. She could do it without him. He wanted to be as far away as he could get—well, as far away as he could get without being yanked every time Yumi shifted. He made it to the bar, where he settled on an empty stool, facing away from the group. Yumi joined him a few minutes later. “They said,” she told him softly, “I should come up here to order? Which means…tell them what food I want, right?” He nodded. “Is there a specific dish I’m supposed to have?” she asked. “You pick any you want,” he said. She drew in a breath, appearing nervous about that idea. “Get a small mild pork with salt,” he said. “No add-ons. My guess, from what I’ve been fed in your world, is that you’d like something with a more…non-complex taste.” “Thank you,” she said, then held up a sheet of paper. “Um…Masaka gave me this…” It was a picture of a rabbit drawn with deep, cavernous holes for eyes and a stare that seemed like it wanted to swallow the world. Text underneath said, “Yumi reminds me of a cute bunny.” “Oh dear,” Painter said (lowly). “What?” Yumi asked, her voice rising. “She likes you.” “Is that bad?” “Never can tell with Masaka,” he replied. Yumi settled down on the stool next to his. “You were right,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t…know how to be a person, Painter.” “Well, maybe I was wrong. Because you need practice.” “No,” she said. “I don’t need practice to become something I shouldn’t. I’m not a person, Painter.” He frowned, looking toward her. “Of course you’re a person, Yumi.” “No, I’m a concept,” she said. “A thing, owned by society. I would be better as a machine, like that box that shows stories in your room. If I didn’t think, if I didn’t feel, I’d do my job far better.” She gazed downward, concentrating on the counter. “The nibbles at freedom I had today are dangerous, Painter. They taste of things I shouldn’t want. If I let them control me, then what? I still have to go back. Take up my duties again. Do you think maybe the spirits sent me here to warn me? Or maybe…to test me?” “No,” Painter said. “I think they sent you here as a reward, Yumi. So that you could taste these things. Enjoy them, for once in your life.” She glanced at him, then smiled. And suddenly he felt ashamed for his earlier joy at her discomfort. Perhaps he
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should have seen it before, but this was a person who somehow felt more isolated than he did. He’d thought himself alone. He’d barely understood the word. Her smile faltered, and she averted her eyes. “I wish I could believe you were right. But the spirit that came to me, Painter…it was hurting. It needed something. This isn’t a reward. It might not be a punishment or a test, but it’s no reward.” “You could still enjoy it,” he said. “While you can.” She glanced back at him. And instinctively, he reached his hand toward hers. She looked like she could use something to hold. But…then he stopped, because he couldn’t touch her even if he wanted to. He blushed, feeling foolish. A bowl clattered to the floor. They both jumped, turning toward Design—who had just left the kitchen. She didn’t seem to notice the bowl of soup she’d dropped; instead she stood there slack-jawed. “Storms!” Design said, staring directly at Painter. “Nikaro? Are you dead?” It took Yumi a moment to register what had happened. This strange woman with the white hair and the outrageously full figure was looking at Painter. She’d called him by name. She could see him. Someone could see Painter. “Design!” he said, leaping to his feet. “You can see me?” “Um…” Design said, glancing to the sides at the nearby patrons, who were staring at her because of the dropped bowl. “Nope. Nope, can’t see any ghosts here. Mortals hate talk of ghosts.” She raised her eyes and spoke louder. “Just an accident with my clumsy, inefficient meat-fingers! I did not see a ghost. Everyone, enjoy the noodles!” “Design!” Painter said, pained. Design nodded toward the ground in an exaggerated way. Then she crouched to begin cleaning up the noodles. Painter rushed around the bar, and Yumi—feeling awkward—grabbed some bar cloths and did the same, kneeling down. This left the three of them all out of sight but perfectly audible—except maybe Painter. This method seemed more suspicious to Yumi. But she didn’t know how normal people acted, so maybe she wasn’t the best judge. “Painter!” Design said. “How did you die? Did you choke on an overly large noodle?” “I don’t think I’m dead,” he said, whispering for some reason. “A couple days ago, I started waking up on her world! I think it’s the star—like, I think I’m visiting it. Then when I fall asleep, I wake up back here—but I’m like a ghost, and somehow she’s here now.” Design looked at Yumi, then stuck out her hand. “Hello! Would you like to shake meat-appendages?” “Uh…” Yumi took the hand, then bowed. Strangely, Design didn’t bow back, but only waggled her hand a little. “Nice to meet you,” Design said. “You’re not a ghost.” “We haven’t been able to figure out what’s going on,” Painter said. “Or why I wear her body when I’m in her world, but she doesn’t wear mine when she’s here.” “Uh, Painter?” Design said, nodding her head toward Yumi. “Yeah, that’s totally your body.” “But…” he said. “It looks like
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her. Even to you, right?” “Yup,” Design said. “But I can see the line of Connection from you to it. I’ve got this, um, strong Cognitive aspect? Hard to explain without numbers, and mortals get cross-eyed when I use those instead. I’m not really here, like I’ve told you, so I can see Cognitive Shadows even when they don’t want to be seen. Also, your body is a girl’s body now.” “What?” Painter said. “Who are you?” Design said, ignoring Painter and looking at Yumi. “You’ve got a storming strong Spiritual aspect, highly Invested in some strange way. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to rewrite his body with your soul and warp it to match your sense of self. Shrinking and reshaping the bones, stretching and shifting the muscles… Fun stuff.” Painter’s face paled. Yumi tried to take it in stride. “I…didn’t mean to do any of these things, honored hostess. It was done by the spirits because of some kind of desperate need.” “Yeah,” Design said. “Um, that’s some seriously hard work you did. Bet you’re hungry.” “Ravenous,” Yumi admitted. “Though not so bad today as the last time I came to your world.” “Should get easier each time,” Design said. “The body will fight you less and waste less energy trying to snap back to looking like him. Still, I should feed you. It’s, like, my job. I’m employed!” She popped up from behind the bar and shooed Yumi back to a stool, though they’d barely cleaned up half the mess. Design did the rest quickly and efficiently, while Painter stood morosely nearby. “I don’t want to be a girl,” he said. “Oh hush,” Design said, quickly mopping the floor. “I’ve been pretending to be one for years now, so I’m an authority—and it’s really quite nice. Except for the sexism. But it’s hard to blame that on being a woman instead of on, you know, morons.” She paused, then smiled at Painter. “Don’t look so glum. Your body will probably snap back to your shape once she’s no longer attached to it.” “Probably?” he asked. “Definitely probably.” She handed him the mop, which slipped through his incorporeal fingers as soon as she let go of it. Which caused her to snicker. “What?” she asked at his offended expression. “Just doing some tests.” She gathered the bucket and mop and stalked into the kitchen again. Painter rounded the bar, then slumped down next to Yumi. She, in turn, glanced around the room—but no one seemed to be paying much attention to them. Akane was gazing toward Yumi as if to check on her, so Yumi gave her what was hopefully an “I’m good” gesture. “Why is no one bothered,” Yumi whispered, “by the things Design is saying and doing? Ghosts? Dropping a mop? Talking to the air?” “This place is mostly full of longtimers,” Painter explained, his voice sullen. “They’re…accustomed to Design. She acts like this even on normal days.” “I ignore social boundaries,” Design said, bustling out of the kitchen with a bowl of soup for Yumi. “It’s
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endearing.” She set the bowl down and leaned forward. People on this planet…really liked their low-cut tops, didn’t they? “Eat,” Design said, pointing. Yumi started eating. It was a stronger flavor than she was used to—in fact, it was also a stranger flavor than she was used to. Spices she’d never tasted mixed in her mouth, making it wake up from a long slumber. The first spoonful was a lot. The second was satisfying. The third…divine. “Usually,” Painter said, “you use the maipon sticks to eat the noodles.” Yumi glanced at the sticks, which she’d seen her attendants use to feed her. She’d never held any herself. So she stuck with the spoon. “I still don’t understand,” Painter said to Design, “why you can see me.” “It’s technical,” Design said. “It’s mostly because I’m not actually human, but an immortal essence of pure Investiture with an imitation human fleshy-type shell stapled on.” Yumi paused, her spoon trailing noodles halfway to her mouth. She tried to parse that sentence—which was difficult—but came to the obvious conclusion. “Are you…a spirit?” she asked. “Depends,” Design said, “on what definition of the word you’re using. What is a spirit to you, Yumi?” “They’re the soul of my world,” Yumi explained between bites. “They rise up from the ground at my summons if I—as the intercessor between the divine and the mortal—please them with my stacks of stone, arranged to their liking. In return, they will do as I ask and take shapes of power and utility, serving for a time to bless the lives of my people.” “Stacks of stone, eh?” Design said. “Arranged in patterns,” Yumi replied. “For reasons beyond the knowledge of mortals, the spirits love to see order made from chaos. There are other ways, but stacks of stones have proven among the most attractive to the spirits.” “It’s the mixing of math and art,” Design said. “Plus the human aspect—the concentration, the satisfaction, the emotion. This entire region is littered with Splinters that Virtuosity left behind. Regardless, it seems that, yay, I can answer you. Yes! I’m absolutely a spirit. Basically the same thing.” Yumi had suspected, but still she found the idea daunting. She reverently put down her spoon, and after a moment of trying to decide what to do, she started one of the prayers. “Stop that,” Design said, smacking her on the head with a spoon. “I’m not an honorspren. What’s wrong with you?” “I…” Yumi said (highly), “should show you devotion.” “I’m not one of your spirits,” Design said. “Besides, I’m on vacation. No worshipping the bits of God when they’re on vacation. It’s a rule I just made up.” Well, that was going to be difficult, but it was Yumi’s duty to do as the spirits asked, so…she hesitantly picked up her spoon and continued eating. As she did though, she shot a glare at Painter. “You had a spirit here,” she said, “and you didn’t mention it to me?” “I didn’t know she was a spirit,” Painter said. “I’ve told you,” Design said, lounging with her
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elbows on the bar. “I’ve told basically everyone. They ignore me. If I were a more vengeful bit of God, I’d be offended. Fortunately, I’m eccentric instead. It’s endearing.” “She always says strange things like that,” Painter said, still addressing Yumi. “How was I to know she was being truthful rather than crazy?” Design leaned in toward Yumi and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “I don’t think Nikaro paid much attention to what I was saying. In his defense, he was staring at my butt the whole time.” Painter blushed something fierce. “That’s in my defense?” “Sure,” Design said, turning, “it’s an honest explanation. I mean, it is a remarkably nice butt, isn’t it?” “I didn’t think you’d noticed I’d been…looking,” Painter said, wilting. “Kid, women always notice. I’ve only been one for a few years, and even I know that.” “I…” Yumi said, “don’t think I’d notice.” She continued eating the food, which was more incredible with every bite. But now that her hunger had finally begun to be satiated, she was feeling drowsy. She’d lasted far longer this excursion into Painter’s world than last time, but she wasn’t certain how much longer she could remain awake. “Can you help us, Design?” Painter was asking. “Can you find a way to fix what has happened to us?” “I don’t know,” Design said. “I’m…not terribly good at this sort of thing. The guy you want is Hoid. He’s a pain in the butt—remarkable ones and common ones alike—but he understands Realmatic Theory better than anyone I know.” (It’s nice to be appreciated.) “Great,” Painter said. “So where is he?” Design pointed. Yumi turned to see the statue by the door, posed to hold people’s coats and bags when they entered. That…was an actual person? Or perhaps another spirit? That made sense to Yumi, as the spirits she called often became stone or metal when transformed. “Oh,” Painter said. “Him. You…told me about him the other day. I didn’t believe you.” “Can we wake him up?” Yumi asked. “You’re welcome to try,” she said. “I’ve been trying forever. Granted, as I told you, I’m not the best at this sort of thing. I have, however, established a reputable restaurant with a loyal clientele and learned to make seventeen kinds of noodles. That was on my list of human experiences to try, so I have to say, the visit here has been rather successful.” (Sigh. Of all the spren I could have bonded…) “So,” Painter said (lowly), “you’re saying you’re useless?” “Painter!” Yumi hissed. “You can’t speak to a spirit that way.” “Yes he can,” Design said. “I’ve insulted him like twice today already. He’s owed a shot back.” “My apologies, honored spirit,” Yumi said (highly). “Stop that.” Design rapped her on the head again. Which was demonstrably unfair. “Painter,” Design continued, “I’ll try to think of something I can do, but this world of yours? It’s strange. The strangest I’ve visited—and I’ve been to Threnody. You have nightmares that come alive? Creeping out of a miasma of raw Investiture? That’s the kind of
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stuff you get on a planet when a god has been killed. “It’s what we came here to learn about. Well, what Hoid came here to learn about. But he turned into a statue the moment we arrived, and I was left to experiment at being a small business owner running one of the most notoriously difficult varieties of startup. Here, have a coupon.” She actually delivered one to Yumi, who naturally had no idea what to make of it. “Anyway,” Design continued, “I’ll need time to think. Maybe the shroud and the nightmares are connected to what has happened to you two? I didn’t realize the other planet was involved. That might explain some of this. Regardless, for now I have other customers. And your body, Nikaro, is about to fall asleep in its soup.” Indeed, Yumi was beginning to droop. She finished a few more bites, then went to excuse herself to Akane and the others—feeling mortified that she’d spent the entire meal apart from them after being invited. She told them that she’d been grabbed by Design and hadn’t wanted to be rude by leaving. They appeared to accept that, but Yumi could tell—as she and Painter walked out—that the group thought she was odd. “I’ve offended them,” she said softly. “They’re the popular kids,” Painter said—as if she was supposed to know what that meant. “Everything offends them.” He looked over his shoulder into the restaurant. Then he shook his head and the two of them trudged back to his flat. Yumi went into the bathroom and changed into the pajamas—which he’d been wearing this entire time in spirit form—then sat down on the ground and began arranging blankets. Painter, seeming pained, said, “We haven’t even been awake six hours yet, Yumi. Can’t you fight it off a little longer?” She yawned. “I’m at my limit. Besides, we need to return to my world and get to work.” “Do we?” he said. “I don’t fancy being yelled at by Liyun again. Here, what about this?” He went to the hion screen and tried to get it to turn on. Oddly, though he couldn’t touch other items, a little zap of light appeared at his fingertip—and the thing activated. “Ha!” he said. “That’s something. See! I’m learning.” A pair of actors appeared in the blue and magenta. A man and a woman. Holding hands. Yumi’s eyes widened. “Seasons of Regret,” Painter explained. “It’s quite good. It’s a historical, Yumi, taking place like a hundred years ago. They’re old-fashioned, like you are! You’re going to enjoy this one. Just watch.” She did so, ignoring her fatigue. It still seemed hedonistic how there were stories on this screen, all hours of the day, played out for anyone to watch. This world was so intoxicating, with its strange conveniences, wonderful flavors, and something even better than either: The dangerous allure of anonymity. Of living a normal life. “No,” she said, rising and switching the screen off. “No, I cannot have this, Painter. I am a yoki-hijo. I have a duty. And so
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long as you’re in my body, you do as well!” He sighed, sitting on the cushioned altar thing. “We are going to fix this, whatever it is,” Yumi said, doing her best to summon Liyun’s force of will and sternness. “You will travel to my world, and you will learn the art of stacking. When we’re in your world, instead of indulging in frivolity, I will learn your art.” “Painting?” he said, frowning. “Why?” “In case you are right,” she said, “and the spirits sent me here to deal with this stable nightmare you discovered.” “You’ll be no match for a nightmare. It would be foolish to even try.” “Then I’ll learn your art, so that I can go out in relative safety. There, I will then find a way to persuade others the nightmare is real—so they can deal with it. Either way, this is not a chance for us to relax. No more watching dramas. No more shopping. I am sorry for not listening to you before about going to meet those others.” “Yumi…” “Do we have an agreement?” she demanded. “We do this as quickly as possible? You will subject yourself to my training in my world, and I will do the same in yours?” His expression hardened. “Yeah, sure, fine. Not my fault if you don’t want to take even a single moment to relax.” “It’s not about what I want,” she said. “It can never be about what I want. This is what must be. You agree.” He nodded curtly. “I just want my life back.” I don’t, she thought. Then quashed that thought immediately, instead lying down in the cold bed she’d made on a floor with no heat. She’d resisted temptation. She felt sick at having to do so. Yet she knew, in this one thing, Liyun would have been proud of her. Painter stepped up to the cold spring, then turned his back toward Yumi. She, in turn, did the same to him. The attendants removed his clothing, and he entered the water, turning his back once more when he settled. They bathed in silence. He still wasn’t certain why she insisted on doing this at the same time as him. She was so shy in some situations, but then ridiculously brash in others. Why? What point is there in trying to understand her? He’d almost felt like they were connecting. She’d almost started to act like a person, instead of some kind of machine. Yet here they were, on her world again—which meant a return to orders and stern curtness. He finished the formal portion of his bathing, with its ceremonial dunk, and the attendants left him to soak while they dressed. He floated on his back, staring at the strange blue sky, with plants hovering some hundred feet or more in the air. It almost felt like that was the surface, and he’d somehow sunk far beneath it… “Liyun didn’t come speak to us in the morning,” Yumi said from where she floated somewhere nearby. He didn’t look toward her. “So she’s
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probably having trouble deciding what to say. We utterly failed at our duties yesterday. She will be humiliated. The thought of it twists my insides.” “You worry about her?” Painter said. “What about me?” “You are nothing,” Yumi said, her voice stern. “The yoki-hijo is nothing. When she arrives to speak with us—which she will inevitably do very soon—you will get down on your knees and bow to her in ritual apology.” “And if I don’t want to?” he asked. “My world,” she said, “my rules. You will do it.” He sighed as a flock of distant specks fluttered around the plants. Insects of some sort, like moths, only more colorful. “This way you act,” he said softly, “won’t get you what you want, Yumi. Not in the long run. You’ll just end up pushing people away.” “As is appropriate,” she said. “I am set apart.” He grunted, then righted himself and stalked out of the bath up onto the stones. The attendants rushed in from outside as he called to them—though they weren’t quite ready—and began gathering his clothing for the day. Then, aggravatingly, Yumi proved correct—for Liyun strode up the path a short time later. Painter felt he should have been embarrassed for his state of undress. Even if they couldn’t see him as him, it was awkward. He was growing tired of that emotion. He couldn’t summon the motivation to feel ashamed. Unfortunately, Yumi hurried over in a distracting state of half-dress herself—and that was far more difficult to ignore. “Bow!” she said. He reluctantly sank to his knees and bowed forward, putting his hands on the ground and touching his forehead to his knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he said. Oddly, Liyun knelt and bowed as well. He could see the motions even with his head lowered. She seemed just as ashamed. “What is happening, Honored One?” Liyun said. “Repeat this,” Yumi said. “I cannot explain what has happened to me. It is as if another soul has taken residence inside of me, and it has lost all ability to stack.” “Your collapse,” Liyun said softly after he repeated the words, “a few days ago. It has…left you affected.” “That may be true,” Yumi said, with Painter repeating. “I fear I must take time, Warden-nimi, to practice. Perhaps even relearn the things I have lost.” Liyun knelt in silence. Painter felt his back ache from the unnatural posture, but when he tried to straighten, Yumi hissed at him. At last, after a painful pause, Liyun spoke. “I will go to the leaders of the town we are now inhabiting. I will beg that they let us use their place of ritual for practice until you recover. They will be…shamed further by this, as they already believe their unworthiness before the spirits is the cause of your strange malady.” “I understand,” Yumi said through Painter. “I am deeply sorry.” “That is well,” Liyun said. “Perhaps your shame will lead to the spirits forgiving you.” She stood up. “I will prepare the place of ritual, as you will want to start immediately.”
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Painter finally stood, and wasn’t chastised this time. The attendants continued dressing him, their heads down, seeming humiliated by proxy. He didn’t know much about them, having barely spoken to them despite all they’d done for him. The younger of the two was probably several years his senior, with an extremely pale complexion and a round face. The other was older, maybe in her thirties, with a longer face. “You should not have gotten out of the bath until the attendants were ready for you,” Yumi said, continuing to dress. “Next time, do not be so thoughtless.” He turned toward her to object, then blushed and turned away again. “Do not speak,” she continued. “The attendants will think it odd.” He forced down his words, and found they tasted unpleasant. When the attendants finished with him, they stepped beyond the stones to continue their preparations. “Liyun does whatever you say,” he hissed at Yumi, “doesn’t she? So why don’t you tell her to let you eat for yourself and dress yourself? Everything would be so much easier.” “Why do you think what is easier has any relevance for us?” Yumi asked, having finally put on her top. “Come, it’s time for your first lesson.” The first problem was that Painter couldn’t kneel on the stone like she said he should be able to. Even with the kneepads, it was just so hot. The air got underneath his skirt and made him swelter from within. “Instead of kneeling, then,” Yumi said, walking around him in a circle, “you will squat, allowing you to move more frequently and perhaps ventilate a little more.” “The rocks are uncomfortably warm to the touch,” he said, gesturing. “I need gloves or something.” “You will adapt,” she said. “You want to wait for that and get nothing done today?” he said. “Other than me picking up rocks and dropping them?” She regarded him with something akin to contempt, then told him to request gloves of Liyun, who fetched some from the town—it was nearby, mere steps away really. This place of ritual was an exposed section of too-hot stone with a little fence built around it and rocks strewn about inside that looked like the remnants from a quarry. Liyun, fortunately, had managed to clear away most of the gawking townspeople. For his audience today he had only his attendants and a few of the town’s higher-ups, who watched and whispered with confused expressions. The men wore beards like they did in old paintings on his world, but with clothing that was unfamiliar and too colorful for the bland or black-and-white image of the past he’d formed from old photographs. The town itself was a huddle of barely under a hundred homes, with that strange water-collecting thing in the center. An orchard of hundreds of trees drifted and bumped against one another off to Painter’s left. “Why can’t we go in there to practice?” he whispered, wiping his brow at the heat. “I’d like to be in the shade. It wouldn’t be quite as sweltering that way.” “Most
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of the heat comes from the ground,” Yumi said, frowning. “It’s not that much cooler in the trees. Besides, this is the place of ritual. You’d have the people of the town move all the rocks just for your convenience? That would be a shameful act.” Of course it would be. His gloves arrived, and he pulled them on—feeling annoyed at being forced to put on more clothing. He swore it was hotter this day than it had been on the others, and the light of that sun overhead did not help. “All right,” Yumi said. “Step one is to learn to evaluate rocks. To stack properly, you must balance—and to do that, you need to be able to judge each rock. Pick up one and heft it.” He did so. It felt like a rock. “Note how,” she said, walking around him again, “it is bulbous on one end, narrower on the other. Its center of gravity, then, will be toward the bulbous side. Using that, you can create spectacular illusions of stacking where it looks like one side is hanging out impossibly in the air, while the other side is heavy enough to balance it out. Precision work using other stones can enhance this.” “Center of gravity,” he said, “and precise work. I thought you called this stacking of yours an art.” “Art is all about precision.” “No it’s not,” he said, passing the rock from hand to hand. “Art is about feelings and emotion. It’s about letting them escape, so they can be shared. It’s about capturing a truth about yourself. Like you’re ripping a hole in your chest and exposing your soul.” “Pretty words,” she said, “but meaningless. Poetry is a luxury. And we—” “—have no claim upon luxuries.” “Exactly,” she said. “This is stupid,” he said, dropping the rock. “This entire world is stupid, Yumi. You don’t need a hero. You need an accountant.” She glared at him. Silent. Intense. Until finally he picked the rock back up. “Fine,” he said. “How do I stack it?” “You don’t, not yet,” she said. “Drop it and pick up another one. Today we will focus only on weighing rocks.” “Seriously?” he said. “I’m going to spend all day just picking them up.” “Yes,” she said. “We’ll likely do that tomorrow as well. Might spend as much as a week getting a feel for the stones. In my training, we spent multiple months.” “You’re…” He stopped himself. He’d been about to say, “You’re kidding.” But of course she wasn’t. Because kidding—indeed, smiling or joking in any way—was a luxury. She wouldn’t understand such things. Too bad. Because the greatest joke he’d ever experienced was the one the cosmere was playing on him right now. Yumi was terrified. She wasn’t trained for this. Teaching another yoki-hijo? This wasn’t appropriate. It wasn’t what the spirits had chosen her to do. She was going to screw it up. She felt herself screwing it up as Painter proved to be a stubborn student. She’d been stubborn too, hadn’t she? Liyun talked about how willful
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she’d been as a young girl, always demanding explanations before doing as she was told. And yet…that tone in the spirit’s voice when it had spoken to her before beginning their swap—something was terribly wrong, or was going to go terribly wrong, and she had to stop it. Possibly through Painter. The spirits depended on her. She was terrified she was going to fail them. “Pay attention,” she said to Painter, trying to give her voice the same weight that Liyun gave hers. “Don’t daydream.” He sighed, dropping his current rock. She’d caught him staring off into space, likely pondering clever ways to aggravate her. “How,” he said to her, “am I supposed to ‘feel’ the stones and ‘know’ them if I don’t take some time to contemplate?” “You don’t need time to contemplate now,” she said. “That’s what meditation time is for.” “It doesn’t have to be that strict,” he said. “You can’t just force every part of your life into some neat little box, with no overlap.” He’d found a larger boulder to perch on, ignoring her reasonable instruction that he practice squatting or kneeling. “Life,” she said, “would be chaos without proper boundaries and guidelines.” He rolled his eyes. “You claim this is art, but there’s not the slightest allowance for an artistic inclination?” He picked up a rock. “If I really wanted to understand this stone, I’d think about where it came from, how these nicks got in the side. I’d look at the shadows created when the light falls on it, and the individual veins running through it.” “None of that is relevant,” she said. “You need to know the weight of the item and how it balances. That is your art now, Painter.” “Stupid,” he said (lowly). “So stupid…” Each minute of training felt like an hour, with Painter needing repeated correction. As the day wore on, Yumi felt nothing but frustration. They had made no progress. Even after all her work, Painter couldn’t tell her how a given stone balanced. Eventually he dusted off his gloves and removed them. She wanted to tell him to keep going, but his eyes were drooping. Considering how quickly they’d lost strength the first few days, it was remarkable how long he’d lasted: a solid eight hours. Liyun entered the place of ritual. She’d spent almost the entire day outside it, watching, her normally unflappable expression growing more and more disturbed. Now she led the way back toward their wagon. Should I, Yumi wondered, let Liyun take over instruction? The woman was certainly better at it than Yumi was. Except…well, the spirits hadn’t chosen Liyun for this duty. They’d chosen Yumi. As terrified as she was of getting it wrong, it was her responsibility. But what if Liyun did something drastic? That concern on her face had Yumi unnerved. In storytelling, we pretend you can read all kinds of things from a furrowed brow or a fleeting expression. This is shorthand for a real phenomenon, but it’s more complex than we pretend. The longer you spend with a person,
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the more you know them. But beyond the obvious details like learning their favorite foods, we internalize the way that they react. The way that they express worry. For some, it’s the archetypal furrowed brow. For others it’s the way they linger, the way they won’t meet your eyes. It’s more than eyes, more than posture, more than brow. Human beings are bundles of emotion puppeting muscles like a marionette. We emote not only with our bodies, but with our very souls. Yumi could read what Liyun was thinking as they walked together. The woman was contemplating something dangerous. There was a fate worse than going back to basics with Painter. In an emergency, a yoki-hijo could be removed entirely from duty. Yumi could see herself frantically trying yet again to explain the truth of her situation to Liyun—and the woman taking it as fancy brought on by overwork. Liyun did not like fancy. No, Painter was right in this. She would never accept some tale of a man from another planet invading Yumi’s body. Push too far, and Liyun would be forced to call her superiors and have Yumi…removed. Locked away, forced to do spirit summonings in a prison environment. Yumi wished she could be as calm and positive as Painter. He yawned as they reached the wagon. But the disappointment, even anger, on Liyun’s face as she watched him step in, exhausted after a mere eight hours awake… “Please,” Yumi said to Liyun. “Please, let me try. Don’t remove us from duty. Don’t send for the executors.” “Hmmm?” Painter said, turning in the wagon. He’d forgotten to remove his clogs. “Nothing,” Yumi said as he flopped down. The attendants hurried in to begin feeding him. They were too slow because a second later— —Yumi opened her eyes and found herself in the jumble of blankets on Painter’s floor. It was a uniquely surreal experience, as moments ago she’d been standing outside the wagon. Yet she felt groggy, as if she’d been asleep. Likely this body slumbered while they were on her world. Plus, they did lose time with every transfer, hours that were unaccounted for—probably spent with both of them unconscious. Painter ran a hand through his hair, looking scruffy and out of sorts, dressed in the fuzzy cloth material that passed for night clothing here. Each time she’d been here, he’d spent all day in the same thing. The clothing Yumi was currently dressed in. “You should try seeing if you can put on some other clothes,” she said. “The souls of them, at least.” “The souls,” he said groggily, “of the clothing?” “When I’m a spirit, I’m able to touch the soul of the clothes I’m wearing to take them off, then put them back on. You might be able to do something similar with your other outfits.” She turned and eyed the bathroom. So convenient to have a room like that, where the water flowed directly into the home. “I am going to experience another of those showers.” She strode in that direction, intent on starting off
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this day right. No more wasting time as she had the last time she’d been in his world. Painter yelped as she got far enough away that he was towed off the plush altar and to his feet. She glanced at him, but he just crossed the room and groggily waved for her to continue. She nodded, then shut the door and turned on the lights. Time for focus. Unfortunately, as soon as she stepped into the steaming water—responsive to her touch upon the knobs, turning the perfect temperature at her command—she caught herself sighing and melting into the luxury. This place was so dangerous. Reluctantly, she turned the knobs until the water was uncomfortably cold. That chill seeped into her, deep down in her soul, dousing the rebellious heat within. That would encourage her not to linger. She washed—an awkward act without an attendant—then stood shivering in the cold water and said her prayers. Finally she stepped out and wrapped herself in a towel, then stood in front of the mirror to brush her hair. Here she missed her attendants even more. Chaeyung was expert at getting out snarls without it hurting, and Hwanji would hum while they worked, which was so comforting. They weren’t her friends, as she wasn’t allowed friends. Indeed, if she grew too familiar with them, they would be changed. Regardless, she missed spending time with them. Strange, she thought, how they barely touch Painter’s hair when they get him ready. They see him as me, but instead of doing a hundred strokes, they run the brush through his hair a few times and are done. Curious. Design hadn’t been surprised that Yumi could make this body look like hers. Yumi had rewritten Painter’s shape somehow—and the method apparently had to do with her calling as a yoki-hijo. Perhaps if Painter were more skilled, he’d be able to make her body look like his? That would be a disaster of incredible magnitude, but perhaps it was what the spirits wanted? She didn’t know. But she would find out. She finished her brushing, so frigid she felt like she’d never be warm again. This was her duty. She stepped toward the door, then paused. She was wearing only a single towel. But…well, it was just Painter. She pushed out into the main room, which was even colder than the bathroom. Her skin immediately puckered with goosebumps. She still half believed this place was the land of the dead and frozen spirits. Painter stood near his heaps of clothing, and had changed. He wore stiff trousers, a simple shirt, and then a second shirt over that with long sleeves, untucked and unbuttoned. It looked…sloppy, but in a managed way? A little like him, actually. “You were right,” he said, holding his hands to the sides. “I couldn’t touch them at first, but then I…I don’t know, I cleared my mind, then thought only about a specific article of clothing. When I reached for it that way, I could grab it. A copy of it, at least.” “Its soul,” she
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said. “You meditated!” “No!” he said defensively. “I was thinking about something. What I wanted to wear.” “You cleared your mind first,” she said, pointing. “You learned something!” He shrugged indifferently, then noticed her picking through the clothing Akane had bought her, so he turned his back toward her to allow her to dress with some privacy. “Today,” she said as she strapped on the bra, “you will teach me how to paint.” “I’m not certain I want to,” he said, arms folded, facing away. “What I do is dangerous, Yumi. Especially if a stable nightmare is involved.” “We already decided this,” she said, trying to dress as quickly as she could, to get covered in something that would hopefully keep her warm. “The spirits might have sent me to stop the stable nightmare.” “We didn’t decide that,” he replied. “We discussed the possibility. You can’t face a stable nightmare, Yumi. They require the expertise of extremely talented painters—far beyond my skill level, let alone that of a neophyte.” “But we can’t let it roam. You’re the one who said that it will be out there hurting people.” “It might be,” Painter said. “Or it might not. It appeared close to becoming fully stable, but what do I know? I’ve never seen one like that before. It could take weeks to complete the process, particularly if it’s clever and careful. If that’s true, someone else is bound to discover it eventually. Then the experts will get called.” “And if it kills someone first?” she asked. He didn’t respond. “I’m r-ready,” she said. “Fine,” he said, turning around. “I’ll teach you, but only so you can defend yourself against…” He frowned, looking at her standing there in one of her dresses and tops, arms wrapped around herself. “Are your teeth chattering?” “Is th-that what you c-call it?” she asked, her jaw trembling from the cold. “I’ve never been this c-cold before.” “Never?” he asked, seeming surprised. “No,” she said, shivering. “If you get c-cold, you just l-lie down. D-depending on how h-hot the floor is.” Perhaps showering in that cold water hadn’t been the smartest idea. Her body was not dealing with it well. “Here,” he said, walking to the wall. “See this dial? Turn it up to increase the heat in the room.” “From the floor?” she asked, hopeful. “Uh, no,” he said, pointing at the top of the wall. “Vents from a small hion heater.” Pity. But she shook her head, and would have done so even if it had heated the floor. “No.” “No?” he said. “I can see you shivering, Yumi.” “I g-got used to this place after a l-little while before,” she said. “Besides, it is d-dangerous for me to get t-too comfortable in your w-world. I will instead accept w-what the spirits have g-given me.” Painter gaped at her as if she’d sprouted leaves and started flying like a tree. “You,” he said, “are so (lowly) strange.” He inspected the dial on the wall, then stuck his finger at it, fiddling. Soon after, a hum came from
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the vent. “Ha!” he said. “I made the viewer turn on last time, so I thought I might be able to do this too. I can feel the hion lines. I couldn’t move the dial, but I can tweak them somehow, make them activate…” A knock on the door interrupted further conversation. Timid, Yumi answered—worried she’d have to lie again. Fortunately, this time all she found was a large envelope taped to the door. She returned to the room and opened the envelope at Painter’s insistence. Inside was a single sheet full of words. She’d rarely read anything other than prayers, but oddly this felt as if it had some of the same tone or formality to it. “This is bad, isn’t it?” she asked after reading it to herself. “I don’t understand all the words, but…” “It’s a letter of suspension,” Painter said softly, staring at the page with an uncharacteristic solemnity. “From the foreman. Relieving me of duty for a month without pay, as punishment for lying about my work.” “It says he went to the address provided but found nothing? Just an unoccupied home?” Painter turned away, waving a hand flippantly in the air. “I’ll bet he barely gave it a cursory inspection; might have even sent someone else. He’s been waiting for a chance to reprimand me. Thinks I’ve been turning in fake paintings for some time now. Idiot.” “So he really doesn’t believe you about the stable nightmare,” Yumi said. “You were right about that.” “He’s never liked me. Feels I shouldn’t have been able to enter the job lottery out of school in the first place; hates that I drew his sector.” He put a hand to his forehead, eyes closed. “At least I won’t have to come up with some excuse for missing my rounds this next month.” “What…happens next?” “It’s my first offense,” Painter said. “To the other painters, this will be described as medical leave. At least I won’t have to suffer the embarrassment of them knowing I’ve been suspended.” He paused. “Unless this lasts longer than a month. Unless I’m unable to consistently do my job. Then I’ll get fired. Lose the apartment.” “We’ll just fix our problems before then,” Yumi said, confident. “Even if it requires me to find a way to deal with that stable nightmare.” She stared at him, defiant. She wasn’t certain if it was what he’d done with the heat, or if she was again growing accustomed to this place. But her shivering had subsided. That let her maintain some confidence as she met his eyes when he turned back toward her. “I’ll teach you,” Painter finally said, and walked over to a large trunk beside his fuzzy altar. “But you’re not going to face the stable nightmare, Yumi. I will train you to deal with an ordinary nightmare in an emergency. Then we’ll go out at night and try to find proof of the stable nightmare’s existence. Maybe we can spot it moving through the city, then lead someone else to it. If we have another
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witness, the foreman will have to accept that it’s real. That will prove I wasn’t lying to him, and he’ll be forced to revoke my suspension and send for help.” “An excellent plan,” Yumi said, nodding as she walked up beside the trunk as well. “There’s something odd about that nightmare, Yumi,” Painter said softly. “When I found it, it was almost fully formed. I know I said otherwise, but…my gut says this one should have started rampaging by now. When the nightmares destroyed Futinoro, they didn’t do it quietly. Yet this monster is subtle, sneaky. It’s been days since I spotted it, and not a single attack has been reported…” He shook his head, then gestured to the trunk. “Open it.” She did so, revealing a collection of large paintbrushes. Some were nearly as tall as a person, like a broom with a brush on the end. Most were somewhat shorter, perhaps two feet long. There were also jars of ink, all of the same dark shade, and some canvases. Painter directed her to get out one of the shorter brushes, along with a large pad of paper rather than the canvases—which he said were for painting when “on duty.” The paper was for practice. Judging by the fact that the pad was pristine, never opened, it didn’t seem that Painter did much practicing himself. After setting the things out, Yumi noticed something else at the bottom of the trunk, easy to miss in the shadows. A large black portfolio tied with a cord. She reached for it. “No!” Painter said, reaching to take her hand. The transcendent warmth chased away the chills, erasing them from her body like the wrinkles in a blanket suddenly stretched tight. She gasped, then let out a soft sigh at the way the heat warmed her to the core. Painter didn’t snatch his hand away as quickly this time as he had before. He looked down at their hands, where he’d tried in vain to take hold of hers. Instead they had merged, the heat pulsing like a heartbeat and washing away all other thoughts and sensations. Finally he withdrew his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “But you can’t touch that portfolio. Ever.” “Why not?” “Because I say so,” he snapped. “My world. My rules. You don’t touch that. Understood?” She nodded. “Right, then,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll teach you how to paint bamboo.” “Wait,” she said, frowning. “You have bamboo on your planet?” “Sure we do,” he said. “Wait, you have bamboo? It doesn’t fly…does it?” She shook her head. “It grows where the stone gives way to soil. Out beyond the searing stone, in the cold wastes. Few people live there because there’s no heat, but I’ve seen bamboo around cold springs also.” She frowned. “How do plants live here? There’s no sunlight.” “What does sunlight have to do with anything?” he asked. “It…makes plants grow.” “It does?” he said. “I guess that’s how you survive without hion lines. Our outer cities have enormous farms where little lines of hion crisscross the fields
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and sustain the plants.” She tried to imagine that. There were places here other than Kilahito? How did one reach them? It seemed like everything out there was pure darkness. Yumi put aside her questions as Painter began coaching her through painting bamboo. She still didn’t understand why painting had anything to do with nightmares. They were…scared of art? Well, she would get those explanations when Painter decided to disclose them. For now she tried to be a good student, to give him an example of how he should be. She did as he asked, kneeling beside the pad of paper to draw straight lines with the brush, and did not interrupt or ask questions. (It’s infuriating how many cultures think this is the best way to teach. They make it as convenient to the instructor as possible. As if learning were somehow a performance for their benefit alone.) “You start,” he explained, “by getting a feel for how the ink flows. Notice how it’s dark at the top, then grows lighter the longer you draw the line, finally running out at the bottom. When you paint, you’re not just creating something from your mind. You’re seeing what the ink wants to become. You…” He trailed off, and she glanced toward him. “Never mind that,” he said. “Here’s how you make bamboo.” He snatched his fingers a few times at one of the brushes and managed at last to pull out a copy of it. With some work, he procured the souls of some paper and ink as well, then knelt beside her and showed her a specific method for painting bamboo. It was actually quite clever how he used the natural way the ink filled the brush to create a darker top for the bamboo, the lighter middle, then another blotch at the bottom where he paused briefly. There was something organic about the painting style, as if he were growing the bamboo. He did it again, exactly the same way. Then again. And again. “Bamboo,” he said, “is easy. It’s great because you can simply memorize the pattern—then create something that looks good with minimal effort.” “All right,” she said, nodding. “I like how structured that feels. But…” “What?” he asked. “Nothing.” Yumi lowered her eyes. “I should not question.” “How do I know you’re learning if you don’t ask questions?” It wasn’t the proper way…but it was his world. His rules. “You said in the place of ritual,” she explained, “that art is about emotion. I disagreed, and I like this way of making bamboo you showed me. I merely find it odd to hear you speak of memorizing a pattern, then creating without effort. I guess…I expected something different.” Painter stared at the soul of the paper in front of him. And then it vanished into smoke, drawn back to the body of the paper nearby. It appeared he couldn’t keep something that way very long. Fortunately, his clothing remained in place… She covered a blush. “Never mind that,” he said to her, standing up. “Just practice what
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I’ve shown you. Draw a thousand of them until you can do it by rote.” She nodded and began, though her fledgling efforts were pathetically out of proportion. How had he made it seem so easy? Well, she could absolutely do this a thousand times. That sounded like the perfect way to learn. She took the role of a dutiful student, proud of her example. She kept going, not saying a word, until her wrist ached and her knees hurt from kneeling. She didn’t speak, didn’t ask for a break. She would wait for him to offer one. He didn’t. He sat on his altar, expression distant, the entire time. He…did know he was supposed to be supervising her, right? Finally she was interrupted by another knock on the door. Painter shook out of his trance, then looked toward her, finding that she was surrounded by dozens of papers. “Yumi,” he said (lowly), “are you still going?” “You said to do a thousand,” she said. “I am at three hundred and sixty-three.” He put a hand to his head as if befuddled. The knock came again, and he gestured toward her. She took that as permission to pause her work, so she rose to go to the door. She only cracked it open so whoever was there wouldn’t see what she’d been doing, just in case. “Hey!” Akane said. “Dinner?” “Oh,” Yumi said. Her stomach growled. But she would survive on rice cakes and dry noodles today. Painter had shown her where he kept more. “No thank you.” “Yumi,” Akane said, folding her arms and leaning forward. “Have you spent all day in here?” “Uh…” Yumi said. “You can’t come to Kilahito and hide yourself away!” Akane said. “I won’t allow it.” Painter groaned. “She does this,” he said softly from behind. “Adopts people. Um…quick, tell her that you’ve got to study.” “Study?” Yumi asked. “Oh,” Akane said. “You haven’t placed in upper school yet? How much younger than Nikaro are you?” “Say three years. But you just missed the cutoff.” “Three years,” she said, though surely she didn’t look that young, did she? “But I just missed the cutoff.” “So you have entrance tests in a few months,” Akane said. “Well, those are not as important as everyone makes them out to be.” She fidgeted. “I’ll bring you some noodles. But don’t work yourself too hard, all right?” Yumi nodded, then bowed deeply, glad as Akane finally retreated. “What lie,” Yumi said, closing the door, “did I just tell?” “When you finish lower school at age sixteen or seventeen,” Painter explained, “you take tests to place in upper school for professional training. It’s kind of a big deal around here. The last few months before the tests, people spend most hours of the day studying. It will give us a good excuse for why you aren’t letting her adopt you.” Yumi nodded, grateful at least that Akane might bring her something to eat other than rice cakes. She knelt to return to her training. “Yumi,” he said, “don’t you want a
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break or something?” “Only if you offer it, Master Teacher,” she said, touching her forehead to the ground. He snorted. “Master? Do I look like a master of anything?” “You fill the role nonetheless,” she said, still bowed. “So, wait,” he said. “You’d have simply kept going? Until what? Until you collapsed?” “If it is required for my instruction.” “And…you’d do whatever I asked?” “If it aids in my learning.” “I just remembered,” he said, “that it’s essential to the painting process that you learn to do it while standing on your head.” She glanced up and saw him settle back on his altar. “With one finger up your left nostril. We should practice that now. Go ahead.” She almost did it. Almost tried standing on her head, while wearing a skirt, to test whether he actually wanted her to waste her time flailing around and likely hurting herself. It would have served him right. But she wasn’t about to establish a precedent by playing games. She instead rose to a kneeling position and met his gaze, feeling a frustration that she should have been able to control. “You,” she said, “are not treating your position with its due respect.” “My world,” he said lightly. “My rules.” “Your world,” she said, “is (lowly) stupid. I’m taking a break.” She walked to the window, which she fiddled with and managed to open. Cold or not, she wanted some fresh air. Why did he get under her skin? She had legendary patience—Liyun had trained her to that end. Now she was snapping at a boy after he tossed a few half-witted jibes in her direction? She breathed in the outside air, cool in contrast with the room, which had now heated up considerably. There was a strange scent to the air, crisp and inviting. Like the smell of freshly washed clothing. And the street below…was wet. She looked to the sky as wind blew water into her face. Rain. Rain that lingered on the ground rather than hissing away the moment it hit. How utterly bizarre. Why didn’t the city drown in a flood of water? That scent…was that what rain smelled like when it pooled? As much as she disliked the cold, there was something intriguing to scents and sights like these. Exotic and mesmerizing. Water that covered the ground…rain you could smell…and a street lit violet and blue. She looked up and down the street, watching the people pass, carrying bright umbrellas and wearing clothing so varied it made her wonder how they ever decided upon anything. Perhaps that was why some women wore those indecent skirts that cut off mid-thigh, despite the cold air. Too many options overwhelmed the brain. It wasn’t immorality; it was decision paralysis. As she watched, her eyes were drawn to an alley across from the apartment building. She couldn’t say why. Something about the pooling darkness, though there wasn’t anything to see. Indeed, there was literally nothing to see. Just shadows. The cold of the night air assaulted her right then. The cut of the wind,
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which seemed to have found a sharpening stone. The bite of the rain, suddenly hungry. She closed the window and returned to her practice—six hundred and thirty-seven more bamboo paintings to go. If she had looked closer, or if she’d called to Painter, perhaps they would have noticed a living darkness in the alley—one that brushed the bricks with its too-real substance and left clinging wisps of smoke trailing upward in the rain, as if from a candle recently snuffed. Yumi made Painter wait a week—eleven whole days—before she let him move to the next step of his training. Eleven. Days. He spent each and every one just sitting there. Picking up rocks and trying to judge their weight, their balance. Studying them, trying to “understand” them. Ad nauseam. This was a new kind of boredom for Painter. It wasn’t the indecisive boredom of someone with a hundred things to do, none of them particularly appetizing. It was old-school, despotic boredom—the kind forced upon you by a society lacking choices. A place where “free time” was a sin and “leisure” was a word used only in conjunction with the rich. That sun made it so much worse. The heat from both above and below, Painter pressed between the two, the pancake between hot plates. There was a certain enervating effulgence to the sunlight, sapping away strength, leaving him lethargic. Perhaps, Painter thought, that was what the sun subsisted on—burning as fuel the willpower of those who lived beneath it. “You must understand the stone,” Yumi said, walking around him in a circle. Each time she passed in front of the sun, her form briefly diffused its light like a pane of stained glass. Understand. One week later, and he still didn’t grasp what she meant by this term. In fact, today—despite having promised that he could finally move to the next step—she made him do some weighing to “warm up.” Who would need any further warming up in this place? “Close your eyes,” she said, striding around him, wearing a bright green-and-blue dress, bell-shaped, with an enormous bow across the front that trailed its ends almost to her knees. It was shorter on him of course, but didn’t look bad really. He’d worn skirts as part of formal wear during celebration days, and while these colors were a little bright to be masculine among his kind, the people of Torio didn’t care. Here men commonly wore pinks and yellows. So he didn’t find the clothing humiliating. At least it was reasonably comfortable. And today for once, the heat didn’t seem…overwhelming. Was he changing, or was the weather just better today? Odd. And yes, the ground was hot, but at least those thermals constantly blowing upward were pleasant. They fanned out the bell and gave some semblance of a breeze. (I haven’t figured out how the thermals worked. My current theory is microfractures in the stones, with air being forced up through them and out. The plants also had something odd about them, to float as they did.) While Painter didn’t mind the
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clothing, Yumi’s instruction was humiliating. One week, and still she didn’t trust him to do anything without direct, condescending instruction. “Close your eyes,” she said, leaning forward to glare at him. “Now.” He sighed and complied. “Now, pick up a stone.” He selected one. Most were new today, having been replaced overnight by the townspeople. His thick gloves protected his hands from the stone’s heat. “Feel it,” she said. “Weigh it. Find the center of balance.” “You don’t need to explain each step. I—” “Hush,” she said. “You are the student. You listen, I speak. That is the way.” Well, at least he knew why the spirits had made them unable to touch one another. Because he absolutely would have strangled her at some point during this. “Do you understand the stone?” Yumi asked. “You may speak to answer me.” “Center of balance,” he said, weighing the stone on his gloved hand. “Right here, when holding it on this side. Here when holding it the other direction. Three nooks—here, here, and here—where I can catch it on another stone for stability.” “Good,” Yumi said. “Shadows cling to this dimple here,” he said, his voice softer, “and the grain goes this direction here—rougher near the top, creating tiny jagged shadows. It’s not quite oblong, but shadows pull in at the sides, like a waist—and that’s also where the single vein of quartz runs.” Yumi was silent for a moment. “How did you know that?” she asked. “I told you to close your eyes.” “I looked it over earlier, knowing you’d make me pick up a stone near me,” he said. “You want me to understand the rock? That’s how I do it.” “All of that is immaterial to stacking.” “It works for me.” He cracked an eye to look at her. “I should make you do another week of this,” she said, folding her arms. “I had to do it for months.” “Go ahead,” he said with a yawn. “Torment me out of spite. Waste our time when the spirits are waiting, perhaps in pain, for you to finish training me.” “Couldn’t the spirits,” she said (lowly), “possibly have sent me a man who wasn’t so smug? There was no one else available?” “Maybe,” he replied (highly), “you’re just such a wonderful teacher that they wanted to give you a challenge.” She glanced away, as if that barb had for some reason actually stung. He hesitated, frowning. “Yumi?” She held herself a little tighter, still looking away. “The next phase of your training,” she said, “is low stacks, focused on stability. The base of your stack needs to be the sturdiest part. Take fewer chances with the base; use it to give yourself as solid a foundation as possible, allowing for more daring choices later. Here, let’s begin.” She knelt and grabbed the soul of one of the stones, then demonstrated stacking it on another, with their flat portions touching. Painter smiled, thrilled at being able to start at last. Excitement for stacking rocks. Who would have thought? He squatted down carefully—even with
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kneepads on, he’d burned himself multiple times—and picked up a stone. He tried making a stack. The stones were unstable, so he tried again, this time aligning the centers of gravity. He eventually got it. At her prompting, he added another stone. And it stayed on. “Oh no,” he said under his breath. “What?” she asked. “This is definitely easier now,” he said, grabbing another rock and balancing it too. Then another. “A week ago, I could barely get three rocks on top of one another.” He removed his hand, letting the fifth stone balance. It was precarious, but didn’t topple. He looked toward Yumi and heaved out a long, annoyed sigh. “I can’t believe that your training actually worked.” “It did,” she said, her eyes widening. “It did.” She smiled, eager. It was an intoxicating smile, for how genuine it was. Smiles, like radiation, are made more potent by proximity. He added a sixth rock, and the whole thing collapsed. But she eagerly pointed for him to try another stack, so he did, and managed to get five again. “It worked,” she said, her voice soft. “I…actually…I actually trained you.” “I could have used a less tyrannical approach. But I guess I have to admit that you kind of know what you’re talking about.” Staring at his stack, she looked like she might burst into tears. He managed to get a sixth, very small rock balanced on top before the whole thing fell down again. “Six,” he said, folding his arms. “Not bad, eh? So when do the spirits show up?” “You’ll need thirty stones or more per stack to draw them consistently,” she said. “And one stack by itself is never enough. To be certain, you’ll need twenty or so different stacks, in a pattern, arranged artistically.” “Twenty or more stacks,” he said flatly, “of thirty or more stones.” “You can go less high with challenging stacks that look interesting,” she said. “It’s a relatively easy task to get forty stones straight up—but that should be done sparingly, as it’s the interesting balances and odd-shaped stones that truly please the spirits.” He gazed at his little stack of fallen stones. He…didn’t feel so excited anymore. “Don’t get discouraged,” Yumi said softly. “That’s what you need to consistently draw them. My first spirit came to me after only two weeks of training—but the next took another four months. It was years before I could do it every time, but we don’t need you to hit that level of skill. I keep feeling that even a single spirit could give us guidance.” He heaved out a sigh, then nodded and gave her a smile. Unfortunately, she fell back into strict proctor mode, launching him into his next phase of training: forming solid bases for stacks. It wasn’t quite as mind-numbing as the previous week’s work. Neither was it exhilarating. It reminded him of his anatomy classes, where he’d drawn the same muscles over and over again. Yet a little success brews eagerness, and the hours passed quickly. Particularly because Yumi seemed to
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catch the taste of success herself, and was somewhat less demanding. Instead of looming over him and snapping out instructions, she spent more time showing him examples. Sadly, she couldn’t manage to build anything higher than a handful of stones before what she’d stacked started disintegrating to smoke. Her incorporeal creations had a lifespan of a couple minutes. They stopped periodically for drinks of water, and remarkably Painter found as the day wore on that he was almost enjoying himself. He still didn’t understand what was artistic about piling up rocks, and the spirits were an erratic bunch if they responded to it. But…it was moderately fun. Besides, Yumi’s enthusiasm was infectious. Halfway through the day he paused to watch her make a little stack of ten stones, her lips pursed, her eyes focused, but her posture relaxed—as opposed to rigid with worry in anticipation of a collapse like he was as he stacked. She moved with a flowing suppleness—scooping the stones up instead of seizing them. Encountering them instead of seeking them. She placed many of her stones on their short edges and let pieces hang out to the sides to stack other stones on, forming little towers. Instead of making the obvious choice with each stone, she somehow accounted for its individual irregularities and fit them all together into an unexpected puzzle. Each new stone was like a key change in a symphony: Abrupt, yet immediately right. So delightful you were left surprised you had enjoyed the song before that. She was right, he thought (highly). It is an art. In her hands, at least. She was part of the art—her motions a performance to be relished, then remembered. It was…beautiful. If he’d been a spirit, he would absolutely have been drawn to this. Unfortunately, her bottom rock vanished at that moment, and the entire stack collapsed into swirling black smoke. She sat back on her heels and released a long, trailing sigh—exhaled like a eulogy. You know the sort. They’re fashioned from the corpses of dreams. Painter stared at Yumi, pained for her. That emotion, the one he saw in her face—he knew that emotion. He’d never thought he would meet another who understood it the same way he did. Her passion, he realized, is the same passion I used to feel. Realizing that recontextualized everything, and he started to wonder if there were other things she knew that he once had. That worry she displayed…was that the same worry he had always felt about getting things wrong—about not being the person everyone thought he was? Loneliness, even in a group. Shame and its stalwart companion: those whispers that say you aren’t worthy of attention or love. He understood. Without needing to touch her, he understood. She glanced at him and he fumbled, collapsing the stones he’d been stacking. “Put the heaviest on the bottom,” she suggested. “That’s not always the biggest, depending.” He nodded, hoping she hadn’t seen him staring. As he tried again, he wondered how the last week had been for her. Forced to give him
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instructions rather than doing what she loved—she could have been constructing stone towers all the while. It felt more tragic if both of them had been having such a bad time. He tried to see the stones as she did for his next few constructions, but that was less effective and he felt himself backsliding. He didn’t have her effortless ability to evaluate, to see the placement for a rock, to visualize a larger whole. So he returned to piling flat ones. She shook her head. “You’ll need to learn to judge a center of balance for the entire tower, not just individual stones. You keep perpetuating imbalances instead of correcting for them with new stones.” “I…” He hesitated as he saw townspeople gathering outside. He looked to Yumi, who frowned. Liyun was supposed to keep the people away so he could practice in peace. What was… They weren’t gathering for him. Something was happening. He could sense noise. A disturbance. “It probably doesn’t involve us,” Yumi said. She said it in a half-hearted way though. Painter heaved himself to his feet, stiff from having worked so long in basically the same posture. He crossed the place of ritual to the fence, outside of which Chaeyung and Hwanji were also distracted by the crowding people. It seemed that a wagon had arrived? Yes, another floating wagon, larger than Yumi’s, pulled by the flying devices made from spirits. Painter absently pushed out of the place of ritual, noticing that Liyun had vanished somewhere. His two attendants yelped and hurried to catch up, trying to obscure him with their fans as he walked toward the crowd. Although he was clothed, he wasn’t technically on display now, and their duty was to hide him. “We should stay at the place of ritual,” Yumi said, yanked after him. “Painter. We aren’t to leave!” But he’d seen crowds like this before. At the scene of a disturbance. A nightmare appearance. He pushed the fans away, and when they returned he pushed them more forcefully—and the attendants fell back. The crowd made way for him, speaking in hushed tones as he approached the source of their consternation. It wasn’t a scene of violence or fear, thankfully. The wagon had deposited a group of men with long mustaches, beards on their chins, and white clothing. Their most striking feature was their strange hats. Black, with tall backs and shorter fronts, like…well, kind of like little chairs. Only there were wings at the sides too. “Scholars,” Yumi said, stepping up beside him. She put a hand to her lips. “From Torio City. The university. I’ve…always wanted to see them.” “…heard of the unfortunate nature of your plight,” the lead scholar was saying, “even all the way in Torio City. So we have come to bless you.” He addressed the town’s pudgy mayor, though the words were obviously for the entire crowd. The mayor, in turn, bowed to the scholars, then bowed again as if worried the first one might not stick. “Honored scholars,” he said in the highest and most
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flowery of forms, “you are welcome to our humble town.” Painter frowned. Those were the kind of linguistic forms they used in the historical dramas to address a king. It left little ambiguity about how scholars were regarded. Behind the four scholars, a group of younger men in smaller hats—simple black caps—opened the doors on the rear of the wagon, then heaved something out. Roughly the size of a clothing dresser, it was a metal construction with a great number of long rods. Spiderlike, if said spider had grown a few dozen extra legs. “This town,” the tallest of the scholars said, “has suffered an embarrassing flaw in our system. The most (highly) appreciated yoki-hijo”—he bowed to Painter—“is of course a revered member of our tradition. However, human beings are limited in their capacity, and it is highly inefficient that we must depend on them for the needs of our society. At the Institute of Mechanical Solutions, with the blessing of Her Majesty, we have developed something to aid in this situation.” He gestured with one hand to the machine, and everything clicked for Painter. Even before the assistant scholars poured rocks on the ground around it, he knew. “What are they talking about?” Yumi asked. She’d see soon enough. The tallest scholar held his pose for an uncomfortably long time as his assistants fiddled with the contraption. Finally he glanced toward the group, and one of them rushed up to speak in his ear. Harsh whispers followed, along with animated gestures. Then the head scholar turned back to the crowd. “The demonstration,” he said, “will naturally come after we’ve had proper time to set up and relax from our arduous journey.” “But demonstration of what, honored scholars?” the mayor said, bowing again. The lead scholar smiled. “Our machine,” he said, “for stacking stones.” “It’s an abomination,” Yumi said, pacing through Painter’s room. “Worse, it’s blasphemy! A dead thing can’t summon the spirits. And if it did, it would be like lying. A deception. It… Why are you smiling?” “Oh, no reason,” Painter said, leaning back on his altar. “Please continue the rant.” “You disagree with me,” she said, stalking up to him, her eyes narrowed. She was so angry she hadn’t even changed out of the sleeping clothing, so they matched. “Out with it. Why do you disagree?” “Well,” he said, “I just find it poignant. The way you describe stacking—always focused on the idea of precision—is so mechanical. You complained every time I injected emotion into it, and once said you’d be better if you were a machine. Now…here we are.” She breathed out through her nose, then folded her arms. “I forbid you to find irony in this situation, Painter.” He raised his eyebrows. “But only in my world,” she added with a nod, “where my rules apply.” She stalked in the other direction, trying to sort through the host of emotions arrayed to assault her. A machine. To stack stones. A machine to…replace her. If it worked, would that mean no more yoki-hijo? No more girls spending their
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lives trapped by the invisible walls of expectation and responsibility? But it was an honor. Would it be so bad if no one had to bear that honor? The spirits are in pain, she thought. They want me to do something to save them. “I’ll bet,” she said, turning toward Painter, “this is why the spirits asked me for help. It’s to stop that abomination.” She gasped softly. “That’s why they sent someone useless to hold my body… I needed to fail to stack…so these scholars would come and I could see their evil plan unfold!” “I’ll ignore the wisecrack about me being useless,” Painter said. “I don’t think those scholars are evil, Yumi.” “They are creating devices to replace the honest efforts of good people!” she said, spinning on him. “What if they made machines to harvest crops? To sew clothing? Soon no one would have anything useful to do with their lives! People would wither like fruit dropped to the ground.” “Uh, Yumi,” he said, “where do you think those pajamas came from? The dresses you bought?” She looked down at the clothing. She had noticed the incredibly precise stitches. “We have the things you mention,” he said. “Machines to help with planting and harvesting crops. Machines to make clothing. That shower you love so much? Another machine. Same with the viewer. And guess what? People in my world still have useful things to do. Machines require workers to build and maintain them, along with others to cultivate and position the hion lines. Your people will be fine.” “Your machines don’t replace a holy purpose,” she said. “The spirits will be offended.” “If they are, won’t they just refuse to come to a machine’s stacks?” Well. Probably. Unless something was deeply wrong. Something that prevented them from seeking help anywhere else. Free us… “Wonder how they’re powering the thing,” Painter said, standing up and glancing toward the room’s light—which had a faint pair of twin colors leading to it, the ever-present hion. “Your people haven’t discovered hion yet, have they?” “I doubt it exists on my world,” she said. “Maybe they’ll use something more ancient. Do your people have coal engines?” She stared at him blankly. Coal? “Guess not,” he said. “We’re not primitive,” she said, waving around the room, “merely because we can’t make faces appear in boxes on the wall. You don’t know how to make buildings float.” He didn’t reply, so she moved a few stacks of painted bamboo and went about her morning routine. Once showered, combed, dressed, and the rest, she sat down with her ink and brush. “I am ready for instruction, Master Teacher,” she said, bowing deeply. “Do you call me that,” he asked, “because it annoys me?” “Yes,” she said, bowing again. “You admit it?” “Why else would I call you names you dislike?” she said. “I mean, I thought it was obvious.” He waved his hands and sat on his altar. “Isn’t annoying people against the…spiritual girl code or something?” “Your world,” she said, raising her chin, “your rules. And from
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what I’ve seen, Painter, annoying people is basically a religion to you.” She did feel mischievous saying such things to him, and it would have been proper for her to stop. But…why was he so amusing to tease? If he’d bowed his head, she would likely have felt guilty. Instead he raised his hands toward the heavens and shook his head dramatically. “I,” he said, “don’t understand you at all.” “I am your humble student,” she said, bowing once more, “in the fine art of painting.” “I suppose.” “And in the finer art of being aggravating.” This time he smiled. Which worried her. Despite her intentions, she was relaxing too much here, wasn’t she? What else could she do? She needed to enjoy this less. Focus on the work, she thought, picking up a brush. “What is my next lesson?” “Bamboo,” he said. Yumi turned to look around the room, which was stacked with sheets of painted bamboo. They’d had to go to the supply store three times during the week. She felt she should clean the quarters, as she was severely adding to the clutter. Maybe she could have Painter ask Chaeyung and Hwanji for tips next time in her world. Cleaning up after herself was novel. No. Don’t enjoy it. And it’s not right to talk to your attendants. You shouldn’t even think of that. “I have mastered bamboo,” she said. “Yesterday I taught you something new. In return, you should also teach me an advanced technique.” “There’s no reason for that,” Painter said. “You just need the basics to defend yourself in case of a nightmare encounter.” “I can defeat this stable nightmare with…bamboo?” “No,” he said. “Once again, you’re not going to face the stable nightmare. If we encounter it, we’re going to run.” She sighed but bowed, this time sincere. She needed to listen to his wisdom—well, his experience—in this matter. So she launched into more painting. Until a knock at the door drew her away. A glance at the clock told her it was late in the day—at least as this society measured it. Although Yumi and he always rose at morning in her world, Painter kept a strange schedule in his world, working when many others slept. It was dinnertime. Or breakfast, for the painters. The other painters generally met before or after shift to chat, and Yumi often had to turn down Akane’s invitations to those gatherings. She pulled open the door, prepared with another excuse for Akane. Instead the entire group was standing out there. Not only Akane—who was stylish even in the trousers and painting shirt she wore on duty. But also Tojin, with sleeves rolled up to show his muscles. Short Masaka, with a turtleneck, her glaring eyes shadowed and lined with excessive amounts of dark makeup. Finally Izzy, the long-limbed girl with the bleached yellow hair. “This,” Tojin said, “is an intervention!” “We’re here to rescue you from your books, Yumi,” Izzy said, grabbing her by the hand. “I don’t need—” Yumi began. “We’ve all been there,” Akane said, “studying
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for the tests. Yumi, trust me. If you don’t relax now and then, you’re going to stress yourself to the point that your mind rots. You need a break.” “Gotta rest the muscles between reps,” Tojin said. “Oh, great,” Painter said (lowly), stepping up behind her. “I’d almost managed to forget about the weightlifting metaphors.” “Just some food,” Akane said. “It’s Ashday. Even we get a half day off work, trading shifts with Department Three so they can take time off on another day.” “Get rid of them,” Painter said, turning back toward the room with a yawn. Yes. That was definitely what she should have done. But the thought of another day spent painting bamboo again and again and again… She looked around by reflex to see if Liyun was there to disapprove. “Very well,” Yumi said in a soft voice. “Really?” Izzy said, jumping up and down. “Wait, what?” Painter said, spinning. She told the others to wait, then closed the door and hurriedly threw on a dress instead of the oversized painting shirt and trousers she’d been wearing. “Wait,” Painter said. “I have to beg to get a water break, but you can go to a noodle party?” “You told me I don’t need advanced techniques,” she said, pulling on her short jacket, then checking herself in the mirror and tucking a stray bra strap back in place. “I have bamboo down, right? So I don’t need further training.” “I suppose…” “Then,” she said, her heart fluttering, “I’m going to eat with them.” She paused and looked at him. “Can I? … Please?” “It’s up to you,” he said. “Anytime you want to go, you may. I’m not your master, Yumi.” Her choice? She hesitated. What was she doing? She reached to begin taking off her jacket. “Go,” he said. “Don’t think about it, Yumi. Just go. It’s all right. I want to see Design anyway.” And so she did. Nervous, elated, terrified. She joined the others as they led her to the noodle shop. They mentioned going to some other restaurant, but they noticed how she panicked at that idea and quickly decided against it. In minutes she was seated with them, her money out on the table—at Painter’s suggestion, she’d offered to pay as a thank-you—a menu in her hands. She ordered a flavor of broth she’d never had before. After all, if she was going to be terrified of the experience already, she might as well add more strangeness. A short time later, Design waved for Painter to go speak with her—leaving Yumi with four people who were practically strangers. It was thrilling. They chatted about their vacations, and their wages, and the foreman. A verbal thornbush of interlocking vines and spikes in which Yumi didn’t dare interject. They seemed to understand that she was already daunted by going out, and they didn’t push her into conversation. That let her watch. Up close. People interacting. She’d never been allowed to do that. She was to remain distant. In the common way of things that are forbidden,
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that made them mysterious. She was fascinated by the ways that normal people conversed, and joked, and talked over each other, and laughed, and…and it was like a performance, each of them with memorized lines. How did they know when to speak or when to stop? When to tell a joke and when to share some fact? To try to make sense of it all, she decided to focus on one companion. As she already felt she knew Akane a little, she turned her attention to Tojin. Painter had said the man was always showing off his muscles to women. Yumi assumed it was to entice them to mate. Liyun said details of courtship would only distract her from her duty, so other than some little tidbits overheard when she was younger…she had no idea how people paired off. She’d had trouble picking a dress. How did you pick a mate? She hoped, from what Painter had said, that Tojin would illuminate her. He certainly did like exposing his muscles. Except as the noodles arrived, Tojin leaped up from his seat and rushed over to some people who had started sitting down at another table. None of them women. One was as bulky as Tojin—she wondered what beasts they fought, that they needed such muscles. “Gaino,” Tojin said to the overly large man. “You were right about the lat press. Look.” He proceeded to take off his shirt and flex. Yumi watched with eyes wide. Yes, glimpses of Painter when bathing had been one thing, but this was…illustrative. She barely remembered to chew her noodles as several other very large men at the table clapped for Tojin. “What were your reps?” Gaino asked. “Four twenties,” Tojin said. “But if you lean forward instead of back, you can really isolate.” “I’m plateauing,” another guy said, then flexed one of his arms. “Need to lose at least another percent. See here, you can barely see my outline.” “You look great,” Tojin said. Then he flexed his arm. “But maybe try some bench work with some reverse presses?” Yumi couldn’t tear her eyes away. It wasn’t that this was attractive. It was more enthralling. She didn’t even blush. Instead her jaw dropped. It was like something in her brain had gotten scrambled and her responses were mixed up. “Tojin!” Izzy called. “You’re breaking the new girl! Stop comparing sizes!” He looked back at the table, then he blushed. He scrambled to pull on his shirt again. It could have all been a display for her and the other girls, like Painter had flippantly said. Yet that didn’t feel right. He seemed more excited about talking technique with the other men. And when he sat back down, he apologized to her with what sounded like true sincerity. “I didn’t mean to make a spectacle of myself,” he said, lowering his eyes. “I…” Yumi stammered. “It…um… What kind of beasts do you fight?” “Beasts?” he asked. “Fight?” “Those muscles,” she said. “You train for…war? Battle?” Izzy laughed so much she was likely to shoot noodles from her
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nose. Tojin appeared embarrassed. He was…shy? Really? Why would a shy person make such a display of himself, if not for battle? “It’s not for anything like that,” he said. “I just like to make the best of myself that I can. See how much I can do. Reach my limits, then pass them.” “To accomplish what?” Yumi asked. “That is the accomplishment,” he said, then flexed his arm in a very specific way that made his veins distinct. It was almost grotesque, yet somehow impressive all the same. “Our bodies are the most incredible tools ever,” Tojin said. “Isn’t it odd that we’ll fine-tune an engine until it purrs, but never do the same for our bodies?” She barely knew what that meant. But she did notice Akane gazing at Tojin with fondness. And when the woman went to get some sauce for the noodles, she put a light hand on his arm and then let it trail away. Tojin gave her a goofy smile, then looked down, grinning. He actually was shy about women. Either that or Yumi was completely misunderstanding—admittedly also very plausible. But now she felt she understood the way a woman might look at a man. Liyun might have tried to keep her away from people, but Yumi still had eyes. Akane’s way of looking at Tojin wasn’t the stare of a hungry woman wanting to feast. There had been more than a few of those around the room earlier. Did he truly want muscles…just because? Was this what happened to a society that had hion lines to do all the hard work? Was that…a bad thing? “It’s so odd,” Yumi said. “When my brother was talking about you, Tojin, he…” She paused, realizing that maybe she shouldn’t say it. Indeed, all of them immediately looked straight at her, intensely curious. Talking to people was hard. “…didn’t explain that part,” Yumi finished. “With the muscles. Why you’re building them.” “I’m sure he didn’t,” Izzy said, with a smile. “Where is he, Yumi?” Tojin asked. “If you don’t mind me prying. I normally see your brother every night or two, patrolling near us. Foreman says he’s on personal leave. But it feels like we should still see him now and then.” “He, um…” Yumi’s heart started thumping. Could she go grab Painter and have him tell her an untruth? She decided on something that was close to what he’d said. “He has important work. Very important work.” “More important than his job?” Akane said, returning and handing the sauce to Tojin. “No, no,” Yumi said quickly. “It is his job.” She leaned in. “He’s hunting a stable nightmare.” She expected shock. Instead Akane rolled her eyes. Tojin paused, then shook his head, looking down. Izzy outright laughed. “You don’t believe…” Yumi said softly. Why did everyone react that way to Painter? Was he really so useless? Strangely, the thought didn’t make her angry as it had before. This time she felt sad for him. Along with…an odd sense of indignance? Surely they’re being unfair to him, she thought.
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He might not be the best, but he’s trying to learn stacking. And he picked it up quickly. Perhaps, though, she could see why he had some hard feelings for this group, if their first reaction to this news wasn’t concern, but dismissiveness. “Enough, enough,” Izzy said, holding up some paper with words written all over it. Not a book. This was loose-leaf and made at an awkwardly large size. “Have you read this?” “Please, no horoscopes,” Tojin said, emptying what seemed to be half the bottle of hot sauce into his soup. They all appeared happy to move on, without looking back, from the topic of Painter and his ways. “Horoscopes are forbidden at this table,” Izzy said. “They’re a competing product. But this isn’t even a dramascope. They’re launching the ship soon.” “They said that last week,” Akane said. “The shroud was too thick,” Izzy said. “But it’s happening for real this time.” “I bet,” Masaka said softly, “they are very. Very. Friendly.” “They?” Yumi asked, glancing around as she slurped up a noodle. “What are we talking about?” “The aliens?” Akane said. “Who live on the star?” Yumi immediately started coughing. She drank half a cup of barley tea out of embarrassment, then spoke. “The what?” “Don’t they have newspapers where you’re from?” Izzy said. “We’ve been planning a launch! Of a ship that can travel the space between worlds. It’s been building forever. But it’s finally time for it to leave.” “Friendly,” Masaka hissed, leaning forward. “Aliens are all friendly.” “You really haven’t heard, Yumi?” Izzy said. “That’s wild. I need my notebook. This is good information for refining your dramascope…” “Hush,” Akane said. “Not everyone reads the paper obsessively, Izzy.” How did Akane remain so dainty when eating? Was Yumi supposed to be that way? It seemed hard to eat noodles without slurping. She’d never actually eaten in front of anyone but her attendants before. “I’ll bet,” Izzy said, “the aliens are hot.” Yumi started choking again. “Wildly hot,” Izzy said, flopping back. “All the men dreamy. All the women sultry.” “How many dramas involve aliens these days?” Tojin said, with a smile. “Like half,” Izzy said. “And the aliens? Hot. All of them. Isn’t it natural they would be though?” “Um…why?” Tojin asked. “I’m going to date an alien or two,” Izzy said, lifting her chin. “It’s in my dramascope. I’d never date one who isn’t hot.” Yumi was glad for the others and their baffled expressions, so that she knew it wasn’t only her thinking Izzy was strange. Even Masaka stared. “Your logic, Izzy,” Akane said, “is…um…” “Terrible?” Tojin offered. “I was looking for something more politic.” “Allegedly terrible?” “You’ll see,” Izzy said. “When I have both a handsome alien hunk and a curvy alien knockout fighting over me.” “Excuse me,” Yumi said. “I need to…um…go. For a little bit. For something.” She dashed off toward the bar, where Painter was chatting with Design. When she arrived, she found Design stretching something glowing between her fingers. Like a cord made of light. Yumi momentarily forgot
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what she’d been about, instead staring at that strange sight. A glowing rope, whose ends vanished into nothing. “Your spiritweb,” Design was saying, “knows what body is yours. It remains Connected to it, you see. You form Connections like that with everyone—and to a lesser extent everything—you’ve known. Nifty, eh!” “And that cord,” Painter was saying, “is mine?” “Yup!” Design said. “This won’t cut it. Don’t worry. I’m just lengthening it, and also checking it for problems. I couldn’t think of much else to help—sorry, I’m incorrigibly useless at times. It’s in my Pattern. But at least this will give you a longer leash, so to speak.” “What is she doing?” Yumi whispered to Painter. “She’s making it so that we don’t yank each other around,” he explained, “when we get too far apart.” “Technically you will still do that,” Design said, “but the distance you can go before it happens will be much greater. I can probably get this to several blocks in length without risking any degradation to your Connection.” That sounded like a good thing, although something about it felt…regretful to Yumi. All these years, she’d been alone. Selfishly, a part of her had liked that there was someone who couldn’t leave her by herself. She shoved aside such impious emotions. “Painter,” she whispered. “Do you know about this launch the others are discussing? A ship? Sailing the sky?” “Oh, right,” he said. “Yeah, it’s more like a bus that rides hion into the sky. They’ve been discussing it for years. Off to…” He sat upright, then smacked his hand into his face. “I’m an idiot. It’s going to your planet, Yumi.” “So?” Design asked. “Nikaro. You’re not going to sneak on board, are you?” “What? No!” “Oh,” Design said, sounding disappointed. “It seems like a strange coincidence, doesn’t it?” Yumi said. “That I should come here mere days before your people send explorers to my world. It could mean something.” “Wait,” Design said. “Are you sure you’re from that other world, Yumi?” “No,” she admitted. “It’s Painter’s theory.” “I kept noticing the star,” he explained, “on the day when the swap happened. And, I mean, it makes sense. Her world, Design, has this enormous ball of fire in the sky!” “Most do, Nikaro,” Design said. “Like, practically every world but this one.” “They do?” he asked. “Yup.” “Do they all have heat?” he asked. “From the ground?” “Heat from the ground?” Design said, looking to Yumi, who nodded eagerly. “No, that’s really strange.” “Could I be from some other place on this world?” Yumi asked. “We surveyed the planet before coming here,” Design said. “I didn’t pay enough attention, so it’s possible—but I think the entire thing is covered in the shroud.” Design shrugged. “The theory that you’re from that other world—the one that orbits with this one strangely nearby—is solid. You could be from somewhere farther out, I guess, but Connection on this level rarely spans that distance. It was, for example, super hard for me to leave my homeworld, given my Connection to it.” “Did you…see
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anything about that world in the sky?” Painter asked. “Before coming here?” “Afraid we didn’t stop there,” she replied. “Heat from the ground, you say?” “Yes, and plants that fly!” Painter added. “Neat!” Design said. “Well, I might be able to confirm it to be sure. Your spiritweb’s Connection to your world will be fainter than the one sticking you two together, so I can’t see it without help. Hoid had some device somewhere in our luggage though…” She shrugged. “Give me some time. I’ll try to dig it out.” “Regardless,” Yumi said, “that group of people traveling from here to the other planet—probably my planet—might be involved in all of this. That might be why the spirits have done what they’ve done.” “I thought you were sure our swap had to do with that machine,” Painter said. “They could be related,” she said. Painter, remarkably, nodded slowly. “You agree?” she asked. “We agree on something?” “Not the first thing,” he said. “What do you mean?” He smiled. “I’ll show you. Tomorrow.” The next morning, Painter awoke eagerly and stretched. The floor was faintly warm from the wagon having been lowered to the ground for the night. He could imagine how comfortable it must be on a cold night to settle down into that heat: blanket on top, radiance beneath. Like an ember crumbling into the bed of a fire. Though he wasn’t ready to give up his soft futon yet, maybe there was something to Yumi’s way of doing things. Well, some of the things she did. As she was drowsily sitting up and arranging her sleeping gown, Painter strode over to the door. It opened on its own, Chaeyung standing outside with a table and Hwanji beside her with a small tray of food. They arrived early and waited there, listening for noise so they would know when to enter. Painter took the tray of food. “Thanks!” he said. “I’ll eat alone today.” He winked at them, then shut the door. Behind him, Yumi gasped. He walked back to his blankets and sat. Then he dug in, using the maipon sticks for the rice, though the attendants always used a spoon. Which was odd, but perhaps it was a ritual thing. He looked up at Yumi’s horrified stare. “What?” he said, wiping his mouth. “Rice on my lips? Sorry. I was hungry.” He dug back in, picking at all the little bowls of savory delights they always brought to augment the rice. That was a nice touch—made him feel like he was eating a huge feast, even though each side dish contained only a bite or two. Enormous variety, but in microcosm. “Painter!” she said. “I… What…” Evidently she was having trouble speaking. Almost hyperventilating. He paused. He’d expected her to be upset. He hadn’t anticipated…well, this. “Yumi,” he said. “Breathe. It’s all right. The world isn’t going to end because I decide to feed myself.” She gasped more frantically. As if she thought, just maybe, the world would end. He reached for her, but stopped shy of touching her.
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“Yumi,” he said. “Look at what you’ve been doing in my world. Feeding yourself, moving around freely. The spirits gave that to you. They aren’t going to care if I eat on my own.” She settled down nearby and held her head, not looking at him. That…really was a stronger reaction than he’d anticipated. Maybe…maybe he should call the attendants back. He turned to do so, but at that very moment the door swung open. Liyun stood outside, immaculate as always, today in a bell-shaped maroon gown, her white bow tied tightly, not a hair on her head out of place. Though she appeared…more haggard than usual. Bags under her eyes. Had she not been sleeping well? She stepped into the wagon, leaving her clogs outside, then knelt before Painter, studying him. “You look pale,” she said. “It seems you have not fully recovered from your…malady last week. Perhaps you should lie down, then rise again, starting this day over. After you remember who you are.” “I remember,” Painter said, then took another bite, out of spite. This woman…“Tell me, Liyun. As a yoki-hijo, is it my prerogative to choose to feed myself?” “You are blessed by the spirits,” Liyun said, enunciating each word precisely. “You are granted the wisdom to decide to follow their dictates.” “And if that wisdom leads me to eat on my own?” He took another bite. “I’m not on duty today; I’m just practicing. So if I feel that I should relax a little, what would you do?” “I follow you,” she said, “as is my responsibility. And hope that you are not becoming unfit.” Yumi’s breathing became gasps again. Painter didn’t back down. Something about Liyun simply set him off. We’ve all had that experience with one human mosquito or another—if it’s not the buzzing, then the leeching of our blood will do it. He hated how Liyun never said what she wanted, but instead left her intent to drip from cold words. Condensation of the pure essence of patronization. “Do you think I’m unfit?” he asked. “I do not decide fitness,” Liyun said, bowing her head with what felt to him to be mock humility. “I only serve.” “Great,” Painter said. “This is how you serve me today. Make sure I have peace and quiet as I eat. I want to consider the best way to recover.” “If that is what you wish,” she said slowly, “and you are certain that you do not instead wish to follow proper protocol.” “Great, thanks,” Painter said. “See you at the place of ritual. Appreciate your help.” She rose and lingered there, looming over him. He took the hint. And tossed it back in her face. “Oh,” he said, “would you get me a small paintbrush, some ink, and something to paint on? Leave it at the shrine. I feel like…painting today.” “Painting,” Liyun said flatly. “Painting. Yes. Thank you.” When he didn’t respond to her looming, she—with obvious reluctance—withdrew. When the door shut, Painter left the food and crawled over to Yumi. “Hey,” he said. “Look, it’s
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fine. She has to do what I say.” “I’m. Trying. Not. To scream. Right now,” Yumi said between gasps. “Just. Leave. Me.” Well, all right. Her world. Her rules. Or something. He finished his meal, then threw open the door and nodded to the befuddled attendants standing outside. “Let’s go.” They held up their fans and hurried along with him toward the cool spring. A moment later, Yumi was yanked out of the wagon after him. He paused. Hadn’t Design lengthened that leash? They’d tested it, and it had worked… She lengthened the leash between us on my world, he thought. That must not apply here. Unfortunate, but Yumi had told him to leave her alone, so he said nothing. He continued on, all the way to the cold spring—Yumi trailing along behind. Once there, he stopped the attendants as they started to undress. “I’ll bathe myself as well,” he said to them. “I’ll take those soaps… Thank you. Oh, and you can put my clothing on that rock right there. Thanks. I’ll call for you once I’m ready to proceed to the shrine.” They stood in place. He gave them a reassuring smile, then nodded toward the pathway out. Once they were gone, he began undressing. Yumi turned her back to him, like he did when she was changing—but with way more subtext. Hell, there was an entire encyclopedia down there. He stepped into the cool spring with the plate of soaps, which was designed to float on its own. He knew the order of the soaps, and followed it correctly. Yumi remained standing on the rim of the spring, not coming in. He was briefly tempted to yank her into the water, but resisted. “I decided,” he told her, lathering up, “that I’m going to do as you said. Embrace my place here.” She didn’t reply. “If I’m here,” he said, “it’s because your spirits decided to choose me. I’ve been thinking of myself as an imitation yoki-hijo, and that was wrong. I have been chosen just as you were. It merely happened to me a little later in life.” He went through the next soap, which was colored red and came as a powder. It scraped the skin, and he had to stand in a shallower part of the pool to reach his lower portions. As he was stepping back into the water, Yumi sighed and turned around to face him, sitting on the edge of the pool. Painter hesitated because of his state of undress, but she was staring down at her feet trailing in the water, not at him. Besides, it was only Yumi. He continued on to the next soap. “You claim,” she said, “that you have started to care about all of this. You respond by breaking the protocol?” “If I’m chosen by the spirits,” he said, “can’t I make decisions like this? Isn’t that my right?” “It is,” she said, “but you can’t.” He shook his head. “That is (lowly) hypocritical, Yumi. If I can make the decisions—if I legitimately can—then you have to
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let me do so. Liyun has to let us do so, even when she disagrees. Otherwise they’re not decisions. Otherwise, what she says about us being the ultimate decider? That is an untruth.” He glanced at Yumi. “And I know how you feel about those.” Finally, she sighed and pulled off her bulky nightgown—he had no idea how they slept in something made of such thick cloth in this overly hot world—and undergarments, then slipped into the bath. He held the plate of soap out for her, so she could make spiritual versions. She liked that, for the familiarity of it, despite it vanishing from her fingers after a few minutes. They turned to their standard ritual, bathing back-to-back in the ten-foot-wide pool, close enough for him to periodically float the soap plate her direction. “I can’t refute your words,” she said. “Because the logic makes sense. Even though I know you’re wrong.” “That’s because you’ve lived this so long,” he said. “It feels normal to you. It sometimes takes an outsider to point out how broken something is.” He heard her sink down to wash out her hair, then stand up again. He scooted her the soap as she glanced at him, then she wiped the water from her eyes and pulled her hair back. “So this is the mysterious thing you said we ‘agree on’? You made me wait a day to find out that—for some bizarre reason—your ‘revelation’ is that you should ignore propriety and piety?” “We agree,” he said, washing his own hair, “that it’s okay to relax a tad. You went to eat with the others. I decided to eat on my own.” “Opposite actions.” “Done for the same reason.” “I think it’s a stretch that we agree on this.” “Well, it felt fun to say,” he said. “This much confusion is worth a chance for you to make a little quip?” “Well, obviously.” He smiled, glancing over his shoulder at her. “I thought it was funny, at least.” “Funny? How?” He shrugged. “Just…funny?” She shook her head. “That is not what humor is like, Painter.” (She was, of course, dead wrong. Remember what the poet said: “Never let something trivial, like a sense of humor, get in the way of a good joke.” The poet was me. He said it right now.) Afterward, they both rested on their backs and floated for a time to soak, and didn’t say much. Eventually they climbed out of the bath. He held the clothing toward her so she could make a copy. This, fortunately, did not vanish once donned. They didn’t know why. (It has to do with them automatically incorporating the clothing into their vision of themselves at the time, but that’s beside the point.) The two turned back-to-back as a token nod toward modesty as they dressed. Which was amusing, since putting on clothing wasn’t exactly the immodest part of the experience. Painter found it aggravating how difficult it was to tie the bow on his outfit. He pulled it too tight, then tried it loose, and
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then looked flabbergasted at Yumi, who had tied hers into a basic knot like she often did. She shrugged. “At least,” she said to him, “I didn’t dismiss the people who could have done this correctly for me.” A valid point. A short time later, the attendants dropped them off at the orchard shrine, where trees drifted and bumped against one another like people in line for concert tickets. Painter felt bad every time they came here, as he knew for a fact they were interrupting the work of the orchard keepers. Then again, maybe the workers wanted an excuse to take a break. Liyun was nowhere to be seen—the yoki-hijo was supposed to be alone during meditation—but she had done as Painter had requested, leaving a scroll, some painting ink, and a small brush for him. Judging by the symbol on the leather sheath for the brush, she’d commandeered them from the scholars. Well, they were probably too busy trying to make their machine work to bother with writing anyway. “So why this?” Yumi asked, gesturing to it. “Well,” Painter said, “you keep telling me I need to clear my mind while meditating—” “You do.” “—which is basically impossible—” “It’s absolutely not.” “—but I considered and realized there is a time when I mostly clear my mind.” He held up his brush. “When I’m painting.” She cocked her head and watched as he rolled out the scroll, then knelt to begin painting. He started into it, expecting her to condemn him. If she’d hated it when he’d improvised earlier in the day, she would undoubtedly hate this doubly—as he was supposed to be worshipping the spirits at the moment. Or something. He still didn’t quite get the point of this part. “You’re…actually trying,” she said softly, surprising him. “You’ve given this some thought.” “A lot of it,” he admitted, doing a quick painting. Just some flourishes of the brush to create curved lines. She knelt beside him. “When I was painting those bamboo stalks, I…got into a rhythm. Time passed. Almost like I was meditating.” “So I’m right!” “It’s wrong,” she said. “You’re not supposed to do anything. But…it’s right anyway, I think.” She peered closer at what he’d done—a painting where he tried to capture a face in as few lines as possible. “Is that Hwanji?” she asked, pointing. “Yes,” he said. “It’s an artistic technique for practicing how to see shapes and lines in everything around you. You try to capture a person with only a few strokes.” “Looks easy,” she said. “Like…you don’t want to do all the work of a real painting.” “It’s more difficult than it appears,” he said. “It’s like…like poetry written using the fewest syllables possible.” She appeared skeptical. “It’s pretty, I suppose. But I do think it looks lazy. And it doesn’t seem it would be of much use against the nightmares.” “It’s not.” “Then why—” “Hey,” he said, “I’m trying to meditate here.” He gave her a wink. The stare she returned could have boiled water. So of course he did a
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quick painting of that—her lips, eyes, the shape of her teardrop face. All done with quick flourishes of the brush to evoke the correct image. An artistic shorthand that had become a form unto itself. She took this in stride. It was the kind of teasing he’d learned didn’t bother her—or, well, it bothered her in the right way. If he wanted Yumi to play along, he had to tease her, not her station or the spirits. He continued, and soon moved from faces—he preferred references for those—to his old standby. Bamboo. The more familiar the motions, the better he felt it would be for clearing his mind. Somehow, an hour passed. When Liyun arrived, he realized he’d filled the scroll with bamboo. A part of him was slightly disappointed—he’d hoped, contrary to what Yumi said, that painting would draw the attention of spirits. She said that although other arts could do it, painting wasn’t one of them as far as she knew. Yumi met his eyes, then glanced at the paintings. He could practically hear her thoughts—part of her had wondered as well. You didn’t need to be in a place of ritual for the spirits to come; that was just where the rocks were stacked, where it was easiest. If skilled painting could accomplish the task, an hour spent here should have been enough. Or perhaps his painting did not count as skilled. Regardless, it had been relaxing. He smiled, tucked away his disappointment, and turned toward Liyun. “That was perfect,” he said. “I’ll want to paint like this every day, please.” “Why?” she asked. “It is the will of the spirits,” he said. Though Yumi gave him a frown at that, he figured his words were true. The spirits wanted him here and meditating, so they would approve. Together he, Yumi, and Liyun left the shrine and crossed out of the orchard and through the town. At the edge, near the place of ritual, a large tent had been erected. He heard voices from inside—mostly sounding annoyed. “Those scholars haven’t gotten their machine working yet, I assume?” he said softly to Liyun. “No,” she said. “Their arrival was a surprise to me. It’s an affront to us—bordering on blasphemy—for them to bring one of those here. I hate the things.” “Wait,” Yumi said. “She knows about them?” “You know about these?” Painter asked. “It is nothing for you to worry about, Chosen,” Liyun said with a wave of her fingers. “The efforts of the scholars are a novelty, nothing more.” She hesitated. “Still, how dare they cart one of these to a village where we’re on duty…” She ushered Painter into the place of ritual, then roosted nearby, as if waiting for carrion. He settled down to practice, and was occasionally distracted by the arguments in the tent. “That machine is why we’re here,” Yumi said softly. “I think we are to stop it, but we need confirmation from the spirits.” She looked at him. “Well, keep practicing! No dallying. Just because you’ve decided to be insolent where protocol
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is concerned doesn’t mean I’m going to let you slacken under my tutelage!” He groaned, but went ahead and got to it, working hard on his stacks beneath the light of that strange sun. Why didn’t it burn out? What truly kept feeding it? After a solid few hours, the attendants brought him lunch. He again didn’t let Chaeyung and Hwanji feed him directly, but—feeling magnanimous—he allowed them to sit and offer him utensils and napkins. Liyun’s glare as she watched him could have boiled stone. “I still worry she’ll declare us unfit,” Yumi whispered as the attendants left with their table. “She could send us to her superiors, for…special attention. It’s what’s done with yoki-hijo who grow too old, or otherwise infirm.” “What happens to her if she does that?” he asked. “Well, she’ll have to wait in line with the other unemployed wardens,” Yumi said, “until she’s given a turn with another yoki-hijo.” “Whom she’ll have to train from childhood,” he said. “Yeah, she’s not going to take that step lightly, Yumi. I’d bet we could spend months, maybe years, practicing here before she gave up. She won’t want to completely upend her life.” “She wouldn’t want to,” Yumi agreed, “but you need to understand: Liyun will do what needs to be done. She is strict with herself, not just me.” He wanted to dispute that, but… Yumi was probably right. Liyun seemed the type who drank her own poison. If only to build up her tolerance. “I’m sorry today was hard for you,” Painter said. “Maybe I should have talked to you about my plans. I figured you were fine shaking things up in my world, so I should have the same opportunity, shouldn’t I?” “Maybe,” she said, rapping a stone to make him keep stacking. “But…it’s different. You’re wearing my body, Painter. What you do is seen as what I do. It’s not the same way in your world.” He considered that, acknowledging that what he did affected her in unique ways. But he was increasingly certain he’d made the correct choice. If only for his own sanity. He tried hard to do as she asked during training though, as a kind of…apology. He managed a stack of twelve that day—and not a strictly straight-up one either. It had quirks and some character. Still miles from Yumi’s designs, but he felt proud nonetheless. Liyun had left by that time to see to something, so the attendants walked him home. His body ached in that good way you feel after doing something difficult. Like walking a long distance. Or thinking of a really great pun. Painter thought this ache might be what Tojin always talked about after lifting weights. Too bad Tojin wasn’t here, actually. He’d have loved lifting these rocks; it didn’t take long listening to him talk incessantly about reps and muscles to realize what an enormous nerd he was. At his wagon, Painter nodded to his attendants. Chaeyung handed him his nightgown, laundered for the day. “You will…want to dress yourself, won’t you?” “Yes,” he said.
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“Leave your clothing outside, Chosen,” she said, “so we can care for it.” She bowed and walked off. Hwanji, however, lingered. Painter hesitated in his doorway. He’d hardly spoken to the attendants, and to his embarrassment, he realized he barely knew them one from another—and any differentiation he could make was due to their looks. Hwanji was the shorter, more rounded of the two. Yumi peeked around him, looking curious. “Hwanji?” Painter asked. “Do you need something?” To this, the young woman bowed herself formally to the ground—placing a small clog for her knee, using a cloth to rest her hand on the stone. The work these people had to do to not burn themselves was, as you might have noticed, legendary. “Honored One,” she said. “If Liyun asks, or…well, implies…will you make it clear that this new behavior of yours was not my fault?” “Of course I will,” Painter said. “But Hwanji, why would she even think that?” “Oh!” Hwanji said. “Chosen, before entering your service, I was an attendant of the yoki-hijo Dwookim. She was…very vocal in the reform movement.” Painter glanced at Yumi, who shook her head and shrugged. “The reform movement?” Painter asked. Hwanji glanced up sharply. “I thought…you’d heard… The way you’ve been acting…” Her eyes went wide and she scrambled to her feet, turning as if to flee. Painter seized her by the hand, stumbling and nearly falling onto the overly hot stones. “Hwanji,” he said. “I’ve been so confused lately. Please. I won’t tell Liyun, but I need to know.” The attendant looked back, reluctant. Painter dropped her hand, to let her go if she wanted. Instead she spoke in a small voice. “I thought you must have heard that…some of the other yoki-hijo…” “Eat for themselves?” Painter guessed. “Dress themselves.” “Decide for themselves,” Hwanji said, with a nod. “Live their lives, until they decide to retire? It is true.” “No,” Yumi said, stepping down to the ground without clogs—but she didn’t notice, so the heat didn’t bother her. Being a spirit is like that. “No, she’s…she’s…” “Lying?” Painter said. “Honored One?” Hwanji said in a panic. “No, I would never. It’s true. Everyone knows about the schism. Except…well, I guess, you…” “Liyun trained me,” Painter said, “and she never told me?” “She and the orthodox wardens keep it from their Chosen,” Hwanji explained. “It’s vital to Liyun that she preserve tradition. Her kind try very hard. It is a good thing to remember the past.” “How many?” Yumi said, her voice hoarse. “How many of the other yoki-hijo are…in this reform movement?” Painter asked. “Oh,” Hwanji said, looking away. “Most of them, Honored One. Of the fourteen current yoki-hijo, I think there is just one other orthodox. It…well, you wouldn’t know this, but the reform movement isn’t exactly new. It’s a couple hundred years old now. Almost everyone else feels that there’s no reason to be quite so strict with the yoki-hijo.” There were only fourteen current yoki-hijo? Painter found that tidbit interesting—Torio might be smaller than he’d imagined—but the other fact overshadowed it
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by far. A schism in the religion. A couple hundred years old. Painter nearly laughed. He would have, if not for the horrified—betrayed—expression on Yumi’s face. How could it be that nobody had ever told her? She lives her life in ritual, he thought. Who is there to tell her? Who is there to even (lowly) talk to her? His heart broke for her as she fell to her knees. “But…” she said. “But the spirits… They don’t listen to these women, do they?” As he repeated it, Hwanji spoke quickly. “No, no. Not like they listen to you. Don’t worry, Honored One. You’re the strongest yoki-hijo. Everyone knows it. Why, my old yoki-hijo, before she retired, she only averaged around ten spirits summoned per session.” Yumi wilted. “Ten. I…averaged around twelve…and most yoki-hijo draw no more than five or six, Liyun told me. So…” So the spirits did not ignore a woman simply because she decided to eat on her own. Painter should have felt vindicated. Instead he felt miserable. “The others…retire?” Yumi asked. “I was told…this wasn’t possible. That they have to work even when infirm.” “They insist on being finished at age seventy,” Hwanji said as Painter repeated Yumi’s words. “And, well, I don’t think the years until that retirement are quite as hard on them as they are for you. Since…” She winced. “They take days off. Whenever they feel they need them. Dwookim worked around half the days of the week during most of the time I served her.” “Days off,” Yumi said, Painter repeating. “To do what?” “Whatever they want,” Hwanji said, with a shrug. “I’m sorry, Honored One.” “Thank her, please,” Yumi said, bowing to Hwanji. “Thank her, Painter. For being the only person, apparently, to care if I knew the truth.” “Thank you,” Painter whispered. “Deeply, Hwanji. I will pretend I didn’t learn this from you.” She nodded and turned away, glancing all around her anxiously, as if frightened Liyun would pop out at any moment. “It seems,” Yumi whispered, looking up at him with tears in her eyes, “that you were right. Good job.” “Yumi…” he said, reaching toward her shoulder—then froze. He didn’t want to inflict those feelings upon her. It felt like the wrong time. “If you please,” Yumi said to him, “would you go in and go to sleep? I have the distinct and urgent need to be someone else for a while.” Two days later, when they awoke again in Yumi’s world, she was feeling somewhat better. She’d spent her day in Painter’s world meditating while he roamed the city, testing out the new freedom granted by Design’s change to their bond. How quickly and naturally he had returned to freedom. Did he feel constricted now that they were back in her world, where their tether was barely ten feet long? What did it say that she’d stayed in his room thinking the entire day? She walked to the window, gazing outward while listening to Painter fetch his breakfast from the attendants. She watched the rising crops creeping ever
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higher in the sky as hotspots on the ground went from warm to scalding. The plants spun like children playing in a rare spring rainfall. She watched them soar, and she envied their liberty. Even cultivated crops were granted more independence than she. As soon as she thought that, she quashed it. Crushing her longing, her wanderlust, her dreams until they were flat as paper, more easily filed away deep within her soul. Despite it all, that’s still my instinct, she thought, listening to Painter eat. I know I’ve been lied to. Yet my training holds. It’s a depressing fact. Abuse is a more effective form of captivity than a cell will ever be. A quiet banging came at the door, and Yumi turned, cocking her head. Why was someone doing that? In all her life, when people wanted her, they simply entered. Painter called for the person to enter. Liyun opened the door, dressed immaculately in white and dark blue, the long sleeves of her ceremonial tobok swallowing her hands. She bowed. “Upon your pleasure, Chosen.” Painter waved with his maipon sticks for her to enter. She left her clogs behind and knelt before him in a posture that might have looked demure for someone else. Liyun, however, appeared unable to make herself fully bow her back, her elbows were too stiff on her knees, and she lowered her head barely a few degrees. A technically apologetic pose, by the strictest definition of the word. She seemed sorry in the same way a tank commander might be apologetic after destroying your house. He might be in the wrong. But he was still in a tank. “How,” Liyun finally said to Painter, “did you find out?” He continued eating, but glanced at Yumi, letting her take the lead. She nodded to him in thanks. “Find out,” Yumi said, “about what, Liyun?” Painter repeated the words with an appropriate air of indifference. How did he manage that? She would have wilted beneath Liyun’s glare. “The reform movement,” Liyun admitted at last. Something had been straining inside of Yumi. It cracked fully when Liyun said the words. Until that moment, a part of Yumi had believed that Hwanji had been lying or confused. “I…” Yumi said. “Someone contacted me,” Painter said, fabricating the lie with such ease it concerned her. “Someone who thought I was being treated unfairly. They left me a note a few weeks ago. There was no name. Just a random activist, I suppose.” Liyun swallowed this lie easily. “You shouldn’t have taught me to read,” Yumi said, with him repeating the words. “I’d be a much better captive that way.” “You aren’t a captive,” Liyun said. “You are—” “A servant, yes,” Yumi said, with him repeating. “I know.” Liyun took a deep breath. “Is this the reason, then, for all the…strangeness these last weeks?” Painter looked to Yumi. “Yes,” she said for him to repeat. “To an extent.” The deception came easily to her as well. Frighteningly easy. Liyun stood up and nodded. “Very well then.” She turned to leave.
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“I shall meet you at the place of ritual, where I shall wait upon your needs for the day, Chosen.” “Wait,” Yumi said through Painter. “That’s it? That’s the end? All you’re going to say?” “It is not uncommon,” Liyun said as she slipped on her clogs, “for a younger person to seek to stride past their boundaries. I had hoped such a common attitude would not seize you, but we are all weak before the eyes of the spirits.” She looked at Painter. “We are still the servants of the people. Even the most reformed yoki-hijo does her duty in that regard. So we continue. Besides, I know for a fact you were trained well. You will overcome this bout of petulance.” Yumi gasped softly. Liyun hadn’t spoken to her in such a forward way since the first years of her training. The woman turned to leave. Yumi found a word bubbling out, too hot to keep in. “Liyun!” The woman glanced over her shoulder as Painter relayed the word. “Do the others live with their families?” Yumi asked. “Do they go back to them? At least visit their homes?” “It is not unheard of,” Liyun said, “for a yoki-hijo among the more…liberal persuasions to spend a few weeks each year with her birth family.” She paused briefly. “You’d hate it, Yumi. Nothing to do? Sitting each day with people you don’t know? Strangers trying to pretend they’re your parents? You would be miserable.” “Don’t you think I would have wanted to have the choice?” Yumi asked through Painter. “You have the choice,” Liyun said. “You always have. Forgive me for not pointing you toward it, as it would have destroyed you.” She left then. “I (lowly) hate that woman,” Painter muttered. “Please don’t say that,” Yumi whispered. “You defend her?” Painter said, standing. “After what she did to you?” “She’s my…” She couldn’t form the word. “She raised me. The best she knew how. And she is right; I’m still a servant of the people and the spirits. So nothing changes.” “Nothing?” he said. “Very little of importance.” “Your happiness is nothing ‘little,’ Yumi.” “You think I’m happier?” she said. “Look at me and tell me I’m happier this way, Painter.” He met her eyes, then glanced away. “Well,” he finally said, “I think you will be happier, once this difficult time passes. I think the spirits believe that too. Have you thought that maybe this is why they wrapped us up in this? So you could learn to be free?” “Have you thought that maybe they approached me instead of any other yoki-hijo,” she said, “because I was trained to be absolutely obedient to their will? Apparently that’s rarer than I thought.” She stalked out the door that Liyun had left open. He followed behind, fortunately—because otherwise she’d have been yanked right back toward him. At the cool spring, she tossed off her clothing and strode straight into the water, then dove underneath and let the soft coolness enwrap her. She turned over and floated to the surface, staring
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up into the sky filled with twirling plants, kept from drifting too far by the attentive crows and flyers. So far beyond reach that they might as well have been on another planet. Painter stepped into the water himself, but didn’t start washing. Instead he turned over and floated as well, quiet, drifting next to her. Yumi squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to let him hear her sniffling. If he did hear, he didn’t say anything. “I’m glad,” she whispered at last, “to know. Even if it hurts to realize how I’ve been lied to. Even if I’m not happier right now. I’m glad to know. So thank you. For pushing for the truth.” “I didn’t do it to find the truth,” he whispered back. “I was annoyed and reckless.” “That’s what you needed to be,” she said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the spirits wanted this for me.” She had trouble imagining that to be true. Likely thousands of yoki-hijo had lived following the traditions she had. If the spirits had disliked this style of treating their servants, then surely they’d have done something about it long ago. The shifts in how her kind were treated seemed more cultural than doctrinal. Though that raised an ugly question: Did the spirits care at all? She’d talked to them, interacted with them, petitioned them. They didn’t think like people did. Didn’t understand as people did. So why would they care whether she ate her own food or was served by someone else? Before, her trust in the system had prevented these kinds of questions. Now no such barrier remained. Could she visit Torio City? Could she know her family? Have friends? Could she have something that resembled a normal life? What even was a normal life? “What is it like?” she asked softly. “Being able to decide for yourself what to do each day?” “You’ve tasted it a little in my world. It’s like that.” “It must be overwhelming,” she whispered, “to simply…be able to do anything. To be able to make friends with whoever you want. Pick your profession. I can barely select a broth for noodles. You’re so good at all of that, Painter. How?” “It’s…not as easy for me as you think, Yumi.” She turned her head in the water and looked toward him floating there, staring at the sky. What did he think when he saw the plants up there, so high? When he watched the flocks of butterflies scatter as crows soared past, sending individual plants spinning? Did he see freedom, or something else? “Just because you can talk to anyone,” Painter said, “doesn’t mean you will know what to say.” “Is that why things are so strange between you and the other painters? You all have so many things you could say, that you don’t know what to say?” “Something like that.” “You could make other friends,” she said. “I’ve never really known how,” he said, his voice low as he drifted. “It should be easy. Everyone else makes it seem that way. But…if that’s the
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case…why didn’t it work for me?” “You didn’t try hard enough, maybe?” she said. “That’s what my parents say,” he said. “That I should just go…try. ‘Just go talk to someone!’ they’d say. So I would. I’d gather my courage, stumble over, and say the wrong things. I’d feel like an awkward fool, and people would laugh at me. After that my parents would say, ‘Well, you shouldn’t have done it that way, son.’ But what is the way?” He turned his head to look toward her. “I know it sounds ridiculous to you. I had all the opportunities. My life was easy, liberated. But…I always felt like I was standing on the other side of a large glass window. I could see the world passing beyond it, could even pretend I was part of it. But that barrier was still there. Separating me from everyone else.” He looked away. “That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?” “No…” She closed her eyes. “I understand invisible walls, Painter.” She let her hand float outward, near his. She could feel him doing the same, reaching toward her, then stopping. And she wondered. She could touch the water, float in it, because she felt she should. She could pick up clothing for a similar reason. Was there a version of this, a way of thinking, where she could touch him? She let her fingers brush his. It didn’t work—instead of feeling his fingers, she felt that shiver, that burst of warmth travel up through her arm and strike her to the core. She gasped, splashing upright at the shock of it. Then she sank down so only her head showed. He sputtered and turned toward her, water streaming across his face. “Painter,” she said, eager. “Let’s break the rules. Even Liyun agrees…I can do that! Let’s try it.” “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?” he said, wiping his face. “Let’s do something more,” she said, her eyes wide. “Let’s do something crazy. Something unexpected.” “Like what?” “I don’t know! You choose. You’re the one with free will.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “I might have it too,” she admitted, “but mine is provisional. Come on. What are we going to do?” He studied her for a moment, then blushed deeply. What was that about? Oh. “Seriously?” she said, splashing him. “That’s where your mind went?” “You’re surprised?” he said, gesturing. “Really?” He shook his head, then began soaping up to start the actual bathing part of, well, bathing. She considered, and soon felt foolish for her sudden impulse to violate rules. What would she have done if she’d been alone? Run through the town insulting people? Stare at each and every person instead of lowering her eyes? A part of her was tickled at the thought. “What if,” Painter said, “we figured out what those scholars are doing in that tent of theirs?” “What?” Yumi rose and took some soap. “By asking them?” “Um, no, Yumi.” He smiled. “We would not ask.” “What would we do, then?” “Sneak into their tent,” he said, making sneaking motions
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with his fingers. “See what we can learn about their equipment. Maybe sabotage it.” She felt her jaw drop, gritty soap powder trickling through her fingers. He noticed, pausing, and looked toward her. “What?” “Painter,” she said. “That would be illegal!” “You wanted to do something transgressive!” “Like getting dressed, then running out and hopping up and down in full sight of people in the town!” She wilted, thinking about how embarrassing that would be. “Maybe behind a fan or two.” “The spirits want us to accomplish something,” he said. “And you’re right—it’s probably not you learning how to eat by yourself. You still think our task has to do with that machine?” She nodded, dunked to rinse off soap, then rose. “I do.” “Then we need information,” he said. “So…” She stepped closer to him in the water, then found herself grinning, hands held close to her chin, elbows tight against her sides. “Let’s do it.” After all, it was probably the will of the spirits. “But how? We’ll be spotted for certain.” This would be a test. Surely if actively breaking the law didn’t anger the spirits, then…well, nothing short of outright insulting them would do so. “It’s a good thing everyone leaves us alone for several hours a day, isn’t it?” Painter glanced at her and smiled. “In a place nobody can approach, and where they’ve even helpfully cleared away the casual workers who might catch us sneaking out. Convenient, eh?” She nodded, conflicted by how eager she felt. She could barely wait the time it took to wash off—going through the ritual soaps at blinding speed—and get dressed. Painter didn’t seem nervous at all as Chaeyung and Hwanji led them down the path into the orchard, among the drifting trees, to the elevated shrine. But he ignored the painting supplies today, kneeling until Chaeyung and Hwanji were out of sight. Then he looked to Yumi, who nodded eagerly, her heart—well, she didn’t have one in this form, but she felt like she did—racing and her hands trembling. This was going to be so wrong! The first thing Painter did was pick up his clogs, take off his stockings, then wrap the cloth around the wood. “Can’t do much sneaking if I make a clop each time I step.” “Wow,” Yumi said. “You know a lot about this.” He blushed. “It happens a lot in the dramas. There, people generally remove their shoes entirely. I thought maybe I should do this instead, to avoid screaming from pain at every step.” He tried on the clogs and found them significantly muffled with the cloth around them. (If you’re trying to judge the heat of the ground in Torio, the stone in their settlements wasn’t nearly hot enough to set cloth aflame. It could burn you if you left your skin touching it for an extended period, but except at hotspots a casual brush wouldn’t do damage.) He nodded to her, then hopped down off the shrine. She hesitated. This was the moment. Was she really going to do this? After
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a lifetime of training in proper behavior? She squeezed her eyes closed and followed him, cracking one eye, then the other. Painter hadn’t noticed her worry—he’d moved over to one of the larger trees and was pushing it with his finger, making it drift around on its chain. “How do these trees float again?” he said. “On thermals.” He nudged another tree with his finger. “They’re so light. Even if they’re floating, I shouldn’t be able to move them around this easily.” He touched one, then hopped back, looking at his hand. “What?” she asked. “I felt lighter when I touched it,” he said, trying once more. Then he wrapped both arms around a trunk. “That’s so surreal. I feel like a balloon.” “A what?” “I’ll show you sometime,” he said, stepping back away from the tree. “The trees might float on thermals, Yumi, but they somehow make themselves lighter first.” (He was right. If you’ve been wondering how they work, this is a big clue. Plants on Yumi’s world don’t really defy physics so much as they sneak past while physics is distracted by a nice drama on the viewer. Probably something involving pendulums. Physics loves those things.) Feeling an increasing sense of transgressive elation, Yumi followed Painter among the lazy trees, which opened and closed pathways as they drifted on their chains. She quickly realized that she had no sense of how the village was laid out, aside from the steamwell at the center, the hills with the cold spring off to the west, and the orchard to the south. Painter, however, seemed to have a better feel for it. Perhaps that was the sort of skill you picked up when you didn’t always have someone to lead you everywhere you needed to be. He managed to avoid sections where workers were harvesting nuts from the trees. Then he led Yumi to the edge of the orchard, near the eastern side of the town—close to the place of ritual. Here he crouched beside a tree. Though he’d gotten them close, the tent the scholars had set up was still a good fifty yards away. Over hot stone, past the fence around the place of ritual. A set of three large trees had been chained to the ground near the rear of the scholars’ tent to provide shade. That would give cover once they approached—but first they had to cross fifty yards of open ground. Painter gazed down at the day’s ritual tobok. The dress was bright yellow and red. “These stand out rather a lot, don’t they?” he asked. “That’s deliberately the point,” Yumi said. He nodded. Then pulled his dress off. Yumi gasped. Not for the common reason—they did bathe together every day. In addition, there were three more layers underneath. But those were undergarments. “What are you doing?” she demanded as he shucked the second layer of skirt too. “Stop!” He grinned and gestured to the final layer of clothing: thin silken trousers you might find reminiscent of pantaloons, dyed light brown, and a loose green overshirt. Also
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silken, shimmering, and way too revealing of his figure. Underneath that was the wrap around his chest, and that was it. She silently prayed he wouldn’t go any further. “This,” he said, “is remarkably similar to what men wear around here.” “Except not,” she said. “Their outfits are completely different.” “Close enough. I think that from a distance I’ll just appear like a worker leaving the orchard.” “If someone looks closely, they’ll see me, practically naked and absolutely deranged! It’s not going to work.” He gazed out at the tent, as if he was going to go striding out anyway, but didn’t move. He glanced at her. “I’ll pull out now if you want,” he said. “This is your life I’m playing with, Yumi. If I get caught, you’ll have to live with it—assuming we swap back eventually. So…do you want me to stop? It’s your choice.” Her choice? What a terrible idea. But she felt reckless. And determined. Somehow at once. So before she could think about what she was doing, she threw off her overdress and second layer too, standing in her silks. “Go!” she said. “Why…did you strip?” he asked. “You’re invisible.” “Solidarity!” she shouted, then—taking a deep breath—started out across the stone. Once, she would have assumed that she couldn’t hide, no matter how good the disguise. She would have assumed that people would instantly know a yoki-hijo. But she had lived in Painter’s world. She’d been normal for a week and a half at this point. Well, at least during the half of each day she spent in his world. Perhaps…perhaps he was right and no one would notice. She still felt like a field mouse. Yes, a little mouse that had dropped from its nest in the rice plant and fallen to the hot stones during the day, having to scurry for high ground in full sight of all the giant hawks and crows above. Burning up with each step. She mistook every sound in the distance for a cry of alarm. She was certain every figure moving through the town was dashing to get Liyun. Everyone would soon hear that the yoki-hijo was crazy and running around in her underwear. Painter just plodded along. “Hurry!” she hissed at him. “Hurrying ruins the illusion,” he said. “Trust me. I’ve seen this at least three times in the dramas.” “Three times? That’s the extent of your experience?” She jumped, looking toward a shadow cast by several rice plants moving overhead. This was misery. Intoxicating misery. And despite his apparent calm, Painter seemed unable to stop himself from speeding up as they neared the hiding place. He practically ran the last few yards and pulled up against the trunk of one of the shade trees. The little stand of trees, as she’d hoped, provided some cover. They kept snapping their chains taut in the thermals—since this was near the place of ritual, the stones were extra hot. Painter wiped his brow, then shook his hand, the beads of sweat evaporating quickly on the ground. “How you people survive
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in this place,” he whispered, “I’ll never know. But we…” He trailed off as he saw Yumi, her heart thundering like the ritual drum, her nerves dancers contorting before the spirits, her eyes the blazing bonfires of a night festival. “You all right?” he asked her. “That was the worst thing I’ve ever done!” she said, throwing her hands into the air. “It was wonderful!” “Girl,” he said, “you really need to get out more.” “I’m trying!” she said, with an uncontrolled grin. Then she pulled her arms tight up beneath her chin, her eyes going even wider. “We could run away. Escape together. Off into the wide world, like in the stories Samjae used to tell me…” “Usually,” he said, with a dry smile, “I prefer to go on at least one date with a girl before I elope with her. Call me traditional.” “I didn’t mean it like that,” she snapped (lowly). “It’s just…this feels so liberating. And terrifying. They don’t care. The spirits don’t actually care.” “I don’t know about that,” he said. He pointed around the trunk toward the tent, hovering a few feet above the ground on its platform. “The spirits give you things like that platform, right? No cost? No price?” “No price,” she said. “They want to help, once we summon them. I think they find us intriguing and enjoy watching us.” “Sounds like they do care,” he said. “About you. If not about a lot of the things you all have made up about them.” She smiled. “Right, then. What next? How do we get into that tent without being seen?” “I figure you’ll simply walk over to it,” Painter said. “Me? Why me?” “Yumi. You are literally a ghost at the moment.” “Oh!” She looked down at herself. And despite wearing roughly the same amount of cloth she did when in Painter’s world, she blushed at her state of near undress. “I guess…that’s useful, isn’t it?” “For spying? It seems like it might be an advantage, yes.” He peeked at the tent. It was large, almost more a pavilion, and made of thick canvas. It had been set up on a wooden platform some twenty or more feet across that had floating devices underneath to keep it off the stones. “I wonder…” Painter said. “What?” “It’s just…this is what the nightmares do at home. Sneaking around, hiding, peeking in to watch people.” His frown deepened. “They can go right through walls. I don’t suppose…” He glanced at her. Yumi nodded at Painter in understanding. Then, reminding herself that no one could see her, she slipped out from behind the tree and crossed the last bit of ground to the tent. She hadn’t wrapped her clogs, so they continued to clop, wood on stone. That sound wasn’t real. She wasn’t real, not completely. When she tried to grab things, her hands passed through them unless she concentrated. So…upon reaching the tent, she bowed to the spirits underneath, then stepped up onto the edge of the hovering wooden platform. There, she determinedly stepped into the
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cloth wall. It, with equal determination, pushed right back. Yumi glared at the cloth, rubbing her nose. Maybe she wasn’t showing it enough respect. She bowed to the wall as best she could from her narrow perch. “O wall of cloth,” she said, “grant me the honor of—” “What are you doing?” Painter hissed at her from behind. “Petitioning the wall.” “What?” She spun toward him and gestured to the tent. “All things have souls, and the soul of the wall is akin to the spirits. All nonliving things are of them! That’s—” “Yumi!” he hissed. “—why they become statues when we make requests of them! And why rocks draw their attention. It’s—” “Look at your hand!” She hesitated, then glanced at her hand—which in her gesticulating she’d thrust straight through the cloth. Huh. Had her petition worked? Or… Or had she just not been paying attention? Design said they touched things they wanted to—expected to. So perhaps… She closed her eyes and stepped forward, not thinking about the cloth. Doing that, she walked straight through. When she opened her eyes, she found herself inside the tent. And wow, the scholars traveled in style. Thick rugs on the floor. Fine pillows and cushions for sitting on. A counter with various liquors, and those serving boys—likely scholars in training—to wait upon their needs. The lavish display was interrupted by the enormous metal machine at the center, its valves and bars open and gaping, like a heart cut from a beast with the arteries severed. The lead scholar had a pinched face and almost pointed head—like a blunt pencil. He paced back and forth, looking less intimidating without his hat. The bowl cut of hair didn’t help. It was the sort of style you ended up with when you assumed that because you’d studied literature and engineering, you knew your hairdresser’s job better than they did. “We should try the vacuum pumps again,” the scholar was saying as he paced. “It’s not the vacuum pumps,” said a scholar who sat on the floor beside the machine, tinkering with it. “It’s the power source, Gyundok-nimi.” “We never had a problem with the power source for the father machine,” the lead scholar snapped. “Pardon, Gyundok-nimi,” another scholar said, lounging in pillows with a half-eaten fruit, “but we absolutely have had problems with the father machine’s power.” “The Incident?” Gyundok said—and Yumi could sense the capital letter there. “Hasn’t been an issue for years.” The three other scholars shared a glance. “Fine,” Gyundok said, his hands going to his hips. “If it’s the power source, you prime it, Sunjun. This machine is small. It will be safe.” Sunjun—the scholar working on the machine—raised his hands and backed away from it. “Not a chance.” “We need a spirit,” said the man lounging in the pillows. “Is that all, Honam?” the leader said, spinning toward him. “Our machine that draws spirits needs a spirit to start, you say. What a useful observation.” “Maybe that yoki-hijo will call one,” Honam said, taking a bite of his fruit. “We could grab
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it.” “Have you seen her stacks?” said Sunjun. “The only thing she’ll be summoning in this town is an apology.” “You try starting it, Honam,” the leader said. “Once it’s primed, it will keep itself going. Should be enough energy in this town for that. As long as we don’t turn it off, we’ll be good.” “We don’t even know that it will work for the severing,” Sunjun said. “Maybe we should rethink this entire fiasco.” “If it doesn’t work,” the lead scholar said, “then we’ll try something else. But first we follow my plan.” He peeked out the parted front of the tent, toward the town. “This is dangerous, what’s happening here. Honam, prime the machine.” “No,” Honam said. “Not a chance.” “I order you—” “I’ll do it.” The fourth scholar spoke from near the wall, where he stood partially in shadows. Yumi squinted at him, making out a man with a full beard on his chin but a mustache that was failing to keep its end of the bargain. He stepped forward, causing Sunjun to scramble farther back from the machine. “It’s a small machine,” the fourth scholar said. “It will be fine. Just needs a little priming.” Yumi stepped forward, trying to get into a better position to watch as this last unnamed scholar knelt down in front of the machine and opened a panel. She had to pick her way between the others and lean in close—getting right to the edge of her tether to Painter—so she could observe as the scholar hesitated, then pressed his hand to a plate at the heart of the machine. There, she was absolutely certain, two lines of light sprang into existence. One was a vibrant magenta. The other a liquid azure. Hion lines. She gasped, then clamped her mouth shut. Then felt immediately foolish. They couldn’t hear her. So she leaned forward farther, inches from the man, to make certain she was seeing what she thought she was. Yes, those were hion lines. She couldn’t mistake the distinctive colors. They connected the scholar’s hand to the— Another pair formed from her face, leading to the plate. She yelped, jerking back. Lights went up along the machine’s sides, and the scholar who had been kneeling relaxed visibly, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his trousers. The lead scholar and the lounging one cheered in excitement. The one who had been sitting nearby though—Sunjun, the one with grease on his hands from working on the thing—ignored the achievement. He wasn’t looking at the lights or his companions. No, Sunjun was looking right at Yumi. She felt a sudden panic and scrambled away, grabbing the spirit of a blanket and holding it up in front of her. If they saw— He continued staring at where she’d been. Not at her. She was still invisible. “There’s a spirit in here,” Sunjun said, scrambling to his feet. “What?” the lead scholar said. “I saw a second set of lines,” Sunjun said, pointing to where Yumi had been standing. “A spirit.” He turned to fumble
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with some equipment, then pulled out a box with a trailing wire that he plugged into the larger machine. Yumi felt a coldness come over her. An actual physical coldness, not just a fear. The machine had stolen warmth from her. Sunjun turned the box, and the needle on a dial atop it swung toward Yumi. She scuttled away, dodging around the scholars and running for the wall of the tent. The needle followed her. “There!” Sunjun said, pointing. “It’s moving. Quick! Dig out the capture device!” Terrified of whatever that was, Yumi closed her eyes and jumped through the wall. As he waited for Yumi to finish in the tent, Painter spent his time testing his theory about the trees. Though these shade trees were modestly large, most of their bulk was in their foliage, not their height. Minimal effort got him up into the branches and among the leaves, where he felt more hidden. The chain tethering the tree was looped here around the upper trunk, fastened with a sturdy clipping mechanism. That chain was heavy, but it didn’t weigh the tree down—it just held it in place. Something was making the metal lighter, he figured, like it made his body lighter. As before, the closer he stayed to the trunk, the stronger this effect was. When he’d first climbed into the tree, his weight had caused it to sag and thump against the ground. But if he hugged it tight, his cheek to the bark—the tree was wide enough that his hands barely touched on the other side—it lifted once more. When doing this, it was as if he became part of its essence and added negligible weight to its bulk. If he moved farther out onto one of the branches, his weight returned, his own flesh noticeable on his bones, his clothing settling back onto his body. The tree, in turn, slumped downward and hit the ground again. Remarkably, these plants had adapted to this place where the ground was so hot. They had barely any roots, merely some curled vestigial ones at the bottom, like gnarled fingers. How did they manage to— Yumi burst through the wall of the tent. Running. Painter dropped to a lower branch to look down at her. “Scholars saw me somehow!” she shouted, frantic. “They’re coming after me! They mustn’t find me! Or find you! Everyone will see me like this and know that we spied on the scholars and that I’ve given up all semblance of sanity in favor of categoric hooliganism and malfeasance!” Painter wasn’t sure what shocked him more. The fact that she’d been spotted, or the fact that she’d actually used the word “hooliganism” in practical discourse. Unfortunately, her alarm wasn’t exaggerated. Shouts sounded from the tent, and one scholar popped out around it holding some kind of device—which he pointed toward the trees where Yumi was standing. “They’re going to find you up there!” she said, then began hyperventilating again. “You can’t hide. I’m dead. I’m over. It’s over. I-I-I—” “Yumi!” he hissed, a desperate plan forming.
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The obvious one really, considering the circumstances. He held out his hand to her. With his other hand he grabbed the chain holding the tree in place, then he mouthed one sentence. We go up. “Painter, that’s a very bad idea!” But the scholars were flooding out of the tent, and she didn’t have time to come up with something better. He gestured more urgently, and after the briefest moment she leaped up and grabbed the first branch. He unhooked the chain, then climbed higher—where he was better obscured by the prodigious canopy—and wrapped his arms around the trunk, his heart pounding as he imagined their dramatic escape. The tree began to drift sluggishly upward. Less dramatic. More torpid. But the scholars noticed too slowly, and by the time they started pointing toward it, the roots were barely out of reach. Painter buried his head among some branches so the scholars couldn’t make out who he was. In minutes the tree had gained forty or fifty feet, and the soft wind nudged them vaguely to the south—and the orchard—as Painter had hoped. Landing in there would make it difficult for any pursuers to gauge where to find them. Yumi hauled herself up, gasping for breath. He looked toward her, worried, but couldn’t move without jeopardizing their buoyancy. Thankfully, the tree didn’t seem to notice the weight of a ghost. “Yumi?” he whispered. She twisted around, holding tightly to her branch, and he saw she was crying, gulping in breaths. And laughing. He relaxed. “That is,” she said, “the single most delinquent thing I’ve ever done. I don’t know how to react! I’m shaking like a steamwell the moment before it erupts. Yet for some reason I feel good. Like I want to do it again. I’m broken!” “No.” He grinned. “You’re human.” “We’re still going to get caught,” she said. “They’ll watch where we land.” “Maybe.” He twisted against the trunk, stretching out to add some weight. That made their ascent slow as they continued to drift toward the orchard. They’d risen just high enough to reach the bottom layer of the sky’s plants—mostly weeds and wildflowers here. The tree peeked up through the layer of foliage like it was breaking the surface of a lake. Flowers sprouting from the center of lily pads danced with bushes that spread limbs wide to catch the thermals. Leaves and florets—similar to the white sprigs that dandelions release on Scadrial, or duluko plants release here—swirled in the air. Butterflies exploded from a bush, fluttering to surround the tree. The tree’s motion caused eddies in the air around them, carrying the various fecund flotsam in swirls and patterns. Painter breathed out, momentarily forgetting everything else. The flowers, the petals, the butterflies, the sparkling light—it was like paint thrown on a palette by a master of some incomprehensible art form. A sudden improvisational beauty against the brilliant canvas of the deep blue sky. Up here in the sky, beads of moisture condensed on fat, lush leaves. A certain wet decadence misted on his skin—like sweat but pure,
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tasting of something bright and clean. That’s why they rise, he thought. The air is humid up this high, evaporated by the hot stone below. So the plants rise to reach it… In that moment he envied this world that had light in the sky, as fragmented sunlight caught the dew and made each and every plant seem like it was wearing its wedding jewelry. The scene changed and shifted, colors mixing and parting, all afire with sunlight, resplendent. Yumi—farther out on her branch, almost joining the sights—seemed entranced. Her hair rippled around her, caught in the wind. She reached out as a butterfly landed nearby. It didn’t see her, so she could lean in close to inspect its shivering wings. She glanced toward Painter, backlit by wonder, and grinned. A plane of greenery bursting with colors expanded behind her like an infinite inviting highway. Travel with us, it said. Yet there was nowhere Painter wanted to go. Not when he had what he wanted with him right here. “You’re staring,” she said. He was a painter. Not a poet. But somehow he found the right words. “I only stare,” he said, “when I see something too beautiful for my eyes to take in at once.” She turned back out toward the landscape, apparently assuming that was what he referred to. “It’s like another world,” she whispered. “Always up here, every day. So close.” Then she leaned out and looked upward toward the daystar. Painter’s world. It caught sunlight. Shouldn’t all of that darkness have made it black? “If I’m to lose everything,” she whispered, “I’m glad I saw this first.” “You’re not going to lose anything,” he said, recovering enough of his senses to lean out farther from the trunk and send the tree wafting down toward the orchard below. “They’ll find us,” she said, turning toward him again. “They’ll see where it lands.” He shook his head. “We’ll be fine.” “How do you know?” she asked. “Because this day is too perfect to be ruined now.” Twenty minutes later, Liyun found him kneeling in the shrine, the very picture of innocence. If his tobok was askew, well, he’d only just started dressing himself—so it made sense he’d get it wrong. If he was breathing a little heavily, sweaty as if from an extended run, then he’d obviously been praying with vigor; communing with the spirits could be strenuous for the devoted. Finally, if there were twigs in his hair, well, the shrine was in an orchard. Those sorts of things fall from trees, I’m told. Liyun folded her arms, inspecting him. “Oh?” Painter said, turning. “Is it time already?” “Did you see someone suspicious skulking through here?” she said. “There has been…hooliganism afoot in the city.” Ah, he thought. That’s where she got it. Makes sense. “I have been too busy with my meditations to notice,” he said. “I’m sorry.” “It is…not your fault, Chosen. It is well that you are trying extra hard to petition the spirits, considering your failings lately.” She gestured. “Shall we go? The scholars have
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gotten their machine working at last.” “Have they?” he said. “How unfortunate.” He rose and followed Liyun, Yumi trailing along behind him as if trying to hide in his shadow. Her expression kept alternating between ashamed and elated—the result of some strange emotional short circuit where both of her blinkers turned on at once and utterly confused everyone following behind. “You’re sure,” he whispered to her, letting Liyun get ahead so the woman wouldn’t hear, “you saw hion lines?” “Absolutely,” Yumi whispered back. “What does it mean?” “Your people must be close to discovering how to harness hion,” he said. “You’re on the cusp of the industrial revolution. Things are about to change in your world, Yumi.” “Will it get dark,” she whispered, “like on your world?” “You mean the shroud? No, that existed before we discovered hion. Rather, before we learned how to harness it. Those were…difficult days. People wandering through the smoke, living only near bursts of light rising from the ground where plants could grow…” He shivered, thinking about how it must have been. Traveling through the shroud via train was bad enough. Walking through it? Living in it? True, nightmares hadn’t been as common back then, but still. “I have a history book in my school things somewhere,” he said to Yumi. “You can read it when you’re in my body. It will explain what might be coming for your people.” “What was that, Chosen One?” Liyun said. “Just a prayer,” Painter said, realizing he’d let his voice stray from a whisper. Outside the orchard, they picked up Chaeyung and Hwanji—and for once Painter crossed the town without being gawked at. Everyone was gathered at the place of ritual. As he approached, they made way for him, letting him step up near the tent. Here, the scholars had deposited their four-foot-wide machine amid a large number of stones. These were generally smaller than the ones in the place of ritual, but the mechanical thing was moving with eerily smooth motions, making four separate stacks of rocks at once. “We can beat that,” Yumi said. “Look at how pedestrian those stacks are! Straight up and down.” Painter was intimidated anyway—even as the machine accidentally knocked over one stack and had to clear it away with three arms before starting again. Yumi might have been able to beat it, but his stacks were nowhere near as good as these. Still, bolstered by her determination, he stepped into the place of ritual and set to work. He was surprised to find he welcomed the activity of stacking. A lot had happened in the last day, and this return to something normal comforted him. Which says a lot about the human ability to redefine what the word “normal” means. He soon worked up a sweat—but his stack fell at the seventh stone. The next one only made it to six. He growled and slammed his fist into the ground, barely noticing its heat. “Relax,” Yumi said. “Meditate a moment. You can’t stack if your hands are shaking.” He fought down his annoyance.
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She was right. He took a few deep breaths, then started over. Hours passed, but most of the townspeople didn’t leave. They seemed to sense something was happening here as Painter managed a stack of ten, then a stack of nine, then a stack of twelve all in a row. Leaving those three in a line, he started into a fourth one, wiping his hands on his skirt to dry them before placing rocks one after another—more bold this time. And he felt something. Didn’t he? A Connection to the land itself? It felt silly to try to express it, but something pulled on him. Tugging directly on his emotions; as he worked, he tugged back. Something peeked out of the ground nearby. It vanished as he glanced toward it, but Yumi gasped, then clasped her hands before her, grinning like a maniac. She waved for him to continue, then apparently remembered her duty as a coach and encouraged him to breathe. To be calm. That wasn’t so easy, as the crowd was beginning to get louder, people murmuring and chattering. Painter launched into his eighth stack—remarkably without any of the others having fallen. He could almost visualize this one before he placed the stones. He’d make it the tallest of them all. He had the rocks, and knew how they’d fit together. He could make his tower appear to lean, but really be sturdy because of the weight of this rock here… He felt that tugging again. It was actually working. It was all real. An ethereal ball of light seeped up from the ground near the fence, roughly halfway between him and the machine. It glowed like a large glob of liquid metal, softly shimmering with the colors of hion. Painter placed another rock, struggling to remain calm. The spirit lingered, then turned as if looking toward the clanking machine—though the spirit had no eyes. Part of it stretched in that direction, then the rest followed, like elastic snapping together. As the parts melded, it soared along the stone ground like it was swimming. It passed among the startled people who, their attention on the machine, hadn’t noticed it first appearing. It swam right up to the scholars. “No!” Yumi cried, standing. “No, they stole it from us!” Painter turned, letting his current rock slip. The tower toppled, destabilizing one of the others, which collapsed as well. Outside the fence, the townspeople cheered as one of the scholars picked up the glowing spirit, then raised it in his hands. People crowded around, cutting off Painter’s view of what happened next. “And now!” The man’s voice drifted to where Painter slouched on the ground, barely noticing the heat from below. “See how we can make this spirit transform into a useful object via the pictures we present as simple inputs. Behold! It is done!” “That took all day!” a voice shouted. Liyun? “Your machine will never replace the yoki-hijo. A competent girl can draw a half dozen spirits in a day! A master can sometimes get dozens!” “And how many yoki-hijo
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are there?” the scholar shouted back. “Sixteen at most! We currently have only fourteen. How long did the people of this town wait between visits of the yoki-hijo? Months? Years? These machines can be placed in every town and village, working all day.” Liyun didn’t reply. “You will see!” the scholar said. “We’ll remain here calling spirits until every need of every resident is filled.” Painter—exhausted, his fingers raw even inside his gloves—turned to Yumi. “You did well,” she told him. “Not well enough. Yumi, I don’t think I drew that spirit. I think the machine did.” “No,” she said, firm. Then she hesitated and spoke a little less certainly. “It was maybe both of you. Spirits always come up right next to me when I’m performing, while that one was between you and the scholars.” “So the machine works,” Painter said. “It drew the spirit.” “What you did worked as well, Painter,” she said, kneeling beside him. “It was already obvious the machine works. They wouldn’t have brought it here if it weren’t capable of attracting a spirit. But its stacks are mediocre, barely viable. You can beat it, Painter, do better than it can. Get a spirit for us to talk to, to question.” He looked around at the many rocks. “More practice?” he said with a sigh. She nodded. In response, he took a drink from the canteen Hwanji brought him, shook the stiffness out of his hands, then got back to it. Though he didn’t draw another spirit that day—and he knew it had been months between the first time Yumi had done it and her second—at least it was a nibble at success. He hoped that would sustain him for however long it took to find his next taste. A week later, Yumi watched the most shocking thing she’d ever seen. Two people kissing. In front of her. In front of everyone, on the viewer. A man made from the blue hion lines, and a woman from the magenta. Locking lips, intimate. Right there. She gasped and pulled her blankets closer, up to her chin. “Can they show that?” she asked. Painter just chuckled. She threw a pillow at him in response—it didn’t even disrupt his spirit, but it made her feel better. Then she leaned forward, eyes wide. It had become her habit, after practicing her painting for several hours, to stop and watch a drama. It felt like a frivolous waste of time, but Painter said that it was important to relax now and then—and it was his world. His rules. She was basically forced to do this. Besides, the story continued each night—and she needed to see what happened. She followed three separate dramas, but Seasons of Regret was the best. And the most scandalous. She cocked her head as the kiss continued. And continued. And… “How do they breathe?” she asked. “In a kiss like that,” he said, “you share breath. You send the air back and forth, exhaling into each other’s lungs. It can keep you going for a good fifteen minutes.”
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She believed it for the briefest moment, then saw his smirk. That earned him another pillow, this one straight through the head. On the viewer, Sir Ashinata and Lady Hinobi broke apart. This was a “historical” drama, according to Painter. Which meant they were pretending to be from another time, before things like showers. Yumi sighed at how the two stared at each other, with the viewer showing their faces up close, tiny hion lines reproducing even their eyelashes. That look. Could they really be faking? Painter must be wrong—these two actors must actually be in love. Because of that look. She had been waiting to see them look at each other like that for a week now. Sir Ashinata was some kind of wandering warrior, and their pairing was forbidden. But they had finally admitted their love. It was wonderful. “Now,” Sir Ashinata said, “I must go away. Forever.” “What?” Yumi cried. “What?” He spun and walked off, one hand on his hion blade. Lady Hinobi turned from him to hide the tears in her eyes. “No,” Yumi said, leaping to her feet. “No!” But the ending music started playing. The hour was over. He was leaving? “That’s terrible!” she said, pointing. “We waited all this time, and now he’s just going away?” “He’s ronin,” Painter said. “That is the way of his kind.” Yumi glared at him, but…well, he turned away, wiping a tear from his eye. He didn’t like it any more than she did. And Painter wasn’t to blame for what the people who made the drama had done. She collapsed into a heap of blankets and pillows on the futon. She’d discovered at last that it wasn’t an altar. Painter had chuckled for a day after she’d finally thought to ask. “But…” she said. “But why?” “Some stories end this way.” Painter stood up and stretched. “Depends on what the writer wants. It’s good that they’re all a little different. You don’t want them all to be happy.” “Yes. I. Do.” Her voice grew softer. “They could create anything. Make anything. Why would they make something sad?” “I’ve heard people find it more realistic.” “Is it?” Yumi asked, pulling her blankets tighter. “Is sadness realistic?” That felt more depressing than the ending itself. “I used to think so,” Painter said. “And Yumi, many things in life are sad. So it’s realistic at least to some experiences. It’s good that some stories are happy, some are sad. That part is realistic.” She shook her head and dried her tears in the blanket. “Sometimes,” Painter said, “the more you think about it, the better an ending like this seems. It can be right, even if it’s painful.” “There’s still hope,” Yumi said, fierce. “The program isn’t finished. Something might happen tomorrow.” “I don’t know,” Painter said. “That was the end of the arc—you can see it in the extra-long credits. Tomorrow they’ll switch to a different set of characters.” “No,” she said. “It’s not over. You’ll see…” She said it with more confidence than she felt. Ten hours awake
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in each body made for an odd schedule in some ways, but at least she could catch a drama each day. This one could turn out to be happy. Couldn’t it? Painter walked to the viewer to turn it off—he liked experimenting with what he could accomplish while a spirit. Yumi trailed over to the window to look out at the pure black sky. With its single point of light, distant as last night’s dreams. (Unfortunately, you’re not going to get an answer for why “the star” could pierce the shroud when the sun and stars could not. I don’t yet know. I have some answers about the shroud itself, and the nature of what was happening to Yumi’s and Painter’s lands. I’ll give you those when it’s appropriate. But the way that one planet could filter through the darkness and reach longing eyes in Kilahito? No idea what was going on. I’m sorry to leave you with this mystery, but think of it as—instead of a hole—a promise for future stories yet undiscovered.) “Want to get back to training?” Painter said, gesturing to the stacks of paper. “No,” she said, turning away from the window and putting aside silly thoughts about a silly drama, even if her eyes were still wet. “I think it’s time for me to go out. Hunting nightmares.” “You’re not ready.” “You’ve said this is all I need to learn,” she said, waving to the stacks of painted bamboo. “You said I mastered it a week ago, Painter. You’ve been having me do nothing more than bamboo for days and days and days now!” “Knowing how to paint,” he said, “is different from being able to do it in a stressful situation. That requires reflex and instinct. Like hitting a ball.” “A ball?” she asked, picking up the small bowl of soup she’d forgotten as the ending of the drama arrived. She frowned as she sat down on the futon. “What ball?” “You know,” he said, making a motion with his hand—as if that explained it. “Hitting a ball? With a snap-racket? You…don’t have that on your world.” “Obviously,” she said, tasting her noodles. Hey! They almost weren’t terrible. “Try this,” she said, eager, holding the bowl toward him, pinching the spoon between two fingers and proffering it. He plucked the spirit of the spoon and was able to get a taste of the soul of the soup. He looked up at her. “It’s only my second week cooking,” she said. “There is more salt in this soup than there is soup, Yumi,” he said. “It said to salt liberally,” she said. “I didn’t know what that meant.” “You could ask.” It was…difficult to remember she could ask for things. Beyond that, cooking for herself was a strange experience. “Well,” she said, holding up the bowl, “I consider this a success. It’s quite nearly edible.” She went to the sink and ceremoniously dumped it out. “But for all my weakness at cooking, Painter, I’m certainly better at painting. It’s time. We should go out tonight and look
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for that nightmare.” He walked over. “You don’t even believe this is the reason we’re linked. You think it’s that machine and the scholars.” “Yes,” she admitted. By now they’d seen that it could legitimately draw its own spirits, without help from a yoki-hijo. It merely did so very slowly, at a rate of one or so a day. “But what if I’m wrong?” He met her eyes. “I don’t understand any of this,” she said. “Painter, you said you thought that stable nightmare was the reason. So we need to pursue it. We need to try to find it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to think, his brow creasing. Unfortunately they’d nearly run through his meager savings—and his suspension would soon be over. He’d need to immediately go back to work and prove himself to his superiors so that he didn’t get into further trouble. Therefore, either she needed to start doing his job, or they needed to solve this issue, ending their bond. Did she want that? Well, of course she did. She had duties—and more importantly, the spirits had called her to a special task. She needed to see that through to help them. Then she had to return to her life. Improved, yes. But still irrevocably alone. She didn’t want to confront that. At least…at least there was that flying ship from his planet, traveling between their worlds. That meant something. For the future. “All right,” he said, standing up. “Let’s pack the painting supplies.” She nodded firmly. Today she’d dressed in sturdy work clothing. For working. Something she’d never truly done, but it felt right. Leggings under her dress, a thicker jacket than her lightweight one—short, not even down to her waist, but solid, with numerous metal clasps and buttons on it. Almost like armor. “Something’s off about this,” Painter said, strolling over as she packed the painter’s bag. “Yumi, that stable nightmare should have been spotted by now. It’s been weeks. The Dreamwatch should’ve been sent for, should be working in the city. But if they were, it would be on the news. The Dreamwatch arriving is such a big deal…” “Wait,” Yumi said, pointing at him. “Have you been stalling? Is that why you made me practice again all this week? You thought maybe someone else would catch the thing?” He shrugged. She didn’t want to think of him as cowardly, but there were moments like this when he seemed perfectly willing to let someone else do the difficult jobs. Admittedly, she’d spent her entire life doing very little for herself. To an uncomfortable extreme. So she figured maybe she shouldn’t point fingers. She shoved the last of the large canvases into the bag, then nodded. It was time, at long last, for her to try being a nightmare painter. Painter made them wait past the time when shift started, just in case. He said he wanted to minimize the chances of her being spotted by the other painters—although eventually that would very much be part of their plan. That said, it would
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probably be okay if she happened to be seen. Someone else would be patrolling his beat until his suspension was up. However, he said that the area was wide, and painters often moved between sections as they patrolled, chasing leads. As long as she didn’t encounter any painters up close who could identify her as Nikaro’s sister, they should be fine. The plan was simple. They needed to hunt for signs of the stable nightmare, see if it was still prowling these streets. If it was, they’d draw the attention of one of the groups of painters patrolling nearby. Once they’d seen it, everyone could go to the foreman and corroborate what Yumi had told him. The Dreamwatch would be sent for. It was a straightforward plan in concept, but each of the individual pieces daunted Yumi. She’d brought a device Painter said would make an emergency noise—it was a metal contraption with two round things on the sides that he said were bells. She’d seen bells though, and these weren’t those. How was something shaped like a large biscuit a bell? But she trusted it would work. Newer painters carried these to call for help. So she’d turn it on if they saw the stable nightmare. But what if no other painters were nearby? How would they get close enough to a nightmare to determine it was the right one, yet stay far enough away that it wouldn’t attack her? She voiced none of this to Painter. He was too nervous himself, evidenced by how he suggested—no fewer than three times—that she return to the apartment. She resisted, though she’d never seen the streets so empty as she did tonight. Soon she crept out past the last line of buildings—built almost like a fortification, with windowless walls in a ring. Here she finally got her first up-close look at the shroud: a shifting, seething wall of darkness. It was blacker than common night; night didn’t swallow light. And night didn’t feel like it was looking back. Her nerves failed her, and she didn’t dare walk all the way up to the shroud. Instead she hovered near the last line of buildings, staring at it. She hadn’t expected it to shift like that. Turbulent. Undulating. Yet because of the lack of color, it was impossible to distinguish details. That gave it the appearance of something much farther away. An impossible visual. “Do you ever get used to it?” she asked softly. “You grow accustomed to it,” he said. “Like a persistent noise. In the same way, you occasionally notice it anew—and suddenly it’s alien again. Terrifying again. You have to get used to it all over. It’s almost like making friends with someone who keeps changing personalities. One who stares at you in a way that makes you think they’re eventually going to try to kill you…” She ripped her gaze away from the shroud, instead looking along the buildings here. Whitewash covered the bricks of many portions—a plainly deliberate design choice, a wall of white to ward off the wall of
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darkness. And on many of those whitewashed portions were paintings. Large murals painted with the ink of a nightmare painter—monochromatic, but incredibly detailed in contrast and subtlety of shade. “What are those?” she asked. “Painters put them up when they feel like it,” he said. “One section per painter.” “Where’s yours?” He shook his head. He didn’t have one then? Perhaps no one would be impressed by another painting of bamboo. They started their patrol, walking back from the shroud through the nearer rings of the city streets. Despite what she’d said earlier, he hadn’t made her spend the last week only on bamboo. They’d talked about patrolling and about protocol for painters. So she understood what it was he did at night—how he watched for nightmare signs. He still spotted the first sign before she did. “There,” he said, pointing ahead. To the corner of a wall by the street, about five feet up in the air. A smoking black spot marked the bricks there. That high? She’d been watching the ground. They approached to find black smoke steaming off what appeared to be black tar—a piece of the shroud—covering a hand-size section of the corner. A sign that a nightmare had passed this way recently, brushing the building and leaving a trail. “How did you spot that?” she hissed. “Practice,” he said, “and luck.” The less you have of the first, the more you need the second. Though he’d taught her that the next step was to follow the trail, looking for other marks, he continued studying this one. Then he peered down the nearby alleyway. “What?” she asked. “This is a blatant mark,” he said. “Right on the street, obvious and bigger than most. Feels like another painter should have spotted this. Yet I can see the next mark on that fire escape right inside the alley. No painter.” “So no one’s noticed this yet,” she said. “We’re first. What’s the problem?” “No real problem,” he said. “It’s just that I had a horrifying thought. The foreman thinks I’m a slacker.” “A what?” “He thinks I haven’t been doing my job for months now, starting long before you arrived. That’s why he put me on suspension; me claiming I saw a stable nightmare was the final stroke in the painting he’d made of me in his head. Point is, he believes I’ve been slacking off, yet no one else ever reported any problems with this region…” He looked to Yumi, perhaps seeing her confusion. “I’m worried,” Painter explained, “that the foreman didn’t replace me on this beat after suspending me. We’ve been short-staffed, and from his perspective, this beat is a quiet one. I’m worried he assumed other painters were covering the region, or that it’s a section nightmares don’t often visit, which allowed me to supposedly goof off instead of doing my job.” “And if he didn’t assign a replacement…” “That would explain why the stable nightmare was never spotted,” Painter said. “Why it could spend weeks prowling the city and never be caught. Most nightmare painters patrol
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and watch for signs only near the rim of the city, because nightmares have to pass through there to get farther inward. If this nightmare always entered through my section of the perimeter, it could move through the entire city unchallenged.” A disturbing thought indeed. He waved her along with him into the alley, though she couldn’t see the second sign he’d spotted. As they walked, she whispered to him carefully, “Painter? Why is it that the foreman assumed you haven’t been doing your job? Why is everyone so ready to assume you were lying?” Painter glanced down. And her instinct was to reprimand him, to insist that he explain himself immediately. His reaction was an obvious sign of guilt. Yet had that ever worked on him as well as it had on her, when Liyun had treated her that way? Had it ever truly worked on her? Demands, guilt, verbal punishment? She remembered days of exhaustion when all she’d wanted was a kind word, a teardrop’s worth of empathy. Choice. She had a choice. You don’t have to be like her, Yumi thought. You really don’t. Such a novel idea, and so much harder to do than she would ever have assumed. Still, Yumi forced out the words. The ones akin to those she always wished she could have heard. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I know you’re trying. That’s what matters.” Pay attention. At times, this is what heroism looks like. Painter glanced at her, then let out a long breath. “Thanks,” he whispered. “But you’re right about me. It’s hard sometimes, you know? Keeping on doing the same thing every day, feeling like you’re getting nowhere?” He pointed at a fire escape—a metal lattice that ran up alongside a building. She squinted, and barely made out a trail of smoke coming off one of the metal corners on the second story. They started upward. “In school,” he whispered to her, “the teachers always talked about the importance of our job. They’d preach about the meaning of art, about theory. They said painting was about passion and the whims of creativity. They teach us we’re supposed to see the shape of the nightmare, and paint that. “Then you get into the real world, and find that it’s hard to be creative like that every moment. You realize they didn’t teach you important things, like how to work when you don’t feel passion, or when the whims of creativity aren’t striking you. What then? What good is theory when you need to feed yourself? “In the real world, you realize you can do your job by making the same thing again and again. Bamboo captures nightmares just fine. Whatever they say. All of those high-minded aspirations from school fade before the truth, Yumi, that sometimes…it’s just a job.” They stopped on the landing. She said nothing, though it was hard for her. Merely nodded for him to continue. “So I got into a bit of a rut,” he said. “Yeah, guess I can say it. I only did bamboo, day in
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and day out. Foreman Sukishi didn’t like that. He never liked me. I wasn’t…well regarded in school, as I told you. So he’s thought the worst of me. And he always assumed I was doing bamboo because I wasn’t actually finding nightmares.” They reached the second story of the fire escape, near the sign of the nightmare. And as he looked toward her again, Yumi realized that she understood. She’d made different choices, putting perhaps too much of herself into her work instead of backing off like he had. Still, she could legitimately see how doing as he had wasn’t laziness; it was something more personal, and far more relatable. “It’s really hard to be a great painter,” he whispered as they knelt beside the nightmare sign. “But it’s (lowly) easy to be a fine one. Regardless of what the foreman thinks though, I did my job—and I didn’t let anyone get hurt. I would never allow that. I…I might not be some warrior, like you wanted. I’m not the person anyone wanted. But I’m trying.” She nodded to him and put her hand toward his shoulder for comfort, though she didn’t dare touch him. “Get a good look,” Painter said, pointing to the smoke wafting from the corner where two small metal beams met. “The more of these you see, the easier it will be for you to pick out others when you’re patrolling.” She leaned in close to inspect the metal—and the black coating. It looked like blood, in a way. Blood that evaporated. “Why don’t they leave trails on the ground?” she said. “Like footprints?” “Once in a while you’ll see a footprint,” he said. “But not very often. We’ve never been able to figure it out.” Curious. It seemed likely the nightmare had left this sign when it had brushed the corner while walking up the steps. “Maybe it has to happen accidentally,” she whispered. “Like when I went through that wall…” Painter nodded, thoughtful. Then he pointed toward the top of the lattice, where another wisp of smoke was clinging to a bar near a window, all of it highlighted by the reflections of hion lines close above. “Painter,” she whispered, “are they actually dangerous?” “Of course they are.” “But if the stable one has been free for weeks…why hasn’t it killed anyone?” He didn’t answer, just stared upward at that window. “Maybe what you know is wrong,” she said. “I thought I understood my life, but it turns out I’ve been profoundly lied to. Is it possible the same is true for you?” “No. I’ve seen pictures of cities destroyed by these things.” “How could one creature, even a nightmare, destroy a city?” “They’re hard to stop when stable,” he said. “And they call to others. One reaches stability, and then others follow.” He paused. “We think.” “You think?” “The most recent city this happened to was decades ago, and the few survivors couldn’t explain much. Dozens of nightmares rampaging.” He looked at her. “But I promise they’re dangerous. I’ve personally seen a child bleed after
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being attacked by one of these things. Maybe I don’t have all the answers, maybe there are holes in our understanding, but I know they’re a threat.” She nodded to him, took a deep breath, and started to climb up to see what was in that window. Painter, however, waved for her to halt. “My turn to be the ghost,” he said. “Have the bell ready in case. It’s wound—all you need to do is flip the switch, and the ringing should carry far enough to reach the nearby sections.” She wanted to argue, but his point was valid. She shouldn’t risk herself if he could potentially sneak up on the nightmare unseen. He’d let her know if they’d found the stable one, or if they needed to keep searching. Painter moved silently up the last two stories, then peered in through a window at the top. Yumi waited, anxious, clutching the bell in one hand and the strap of her large canvas bag in the other—barely conscious that by pulling it tight like that, it was cutting into her shoulder. She didn’t dare think, and instead focused on her breathing, in and out. In and out. In and out. Painter returned, shaking his head. “There’s a nightmare in there, but it’s not ours. We can move on.” He started down the steps, but Yumi remained in place, looking up. “What happens,” she whispered, “if we don’t stop it?” “It could become stable,” Painter admitted, halfway to the next level. “It takes many visits.” “You’ve been off your patrol,” Yumi said, “for over two weeks now.” Twenty-seven days. “And there might not be a replacement doing your job. What good does it do for us to hunt this stable nightmare if we just allow a host of others to feed and become real, step by step, while we do nothing?” “This nightmare might stray into other regions on future nights. It will eventually get caught.” “And if it doesn’t? I could stop it now.” “Too dangerous,” he said. “How? If it’s not stable, it can’t hurt me. Right?” He stopped next to her. “They feed on people, Yumi. Our dreams, yes. Also on our thoughts, our minds. Besides, it’s possible it has some stability. You can’t always tell by its appearance.” She met his eyes, then started climbing the steps. She had trained for weeks. If not for this, then why? Painter groaned behind her, then followed her up. She crept to the window, steeled herself, then looked in. An elderly woman lay on a bed there, frail. The light shining in through the window formed a square that framed her body, the shadow at its edge falling across her face. The voluminous bed seemed to have swallowed her. The nightmare perched on the headboard. Yumi’s breath caught. She’d imagined something humanlike. A shadow of a person. This was more arachnoid, with legs made of twisting smoke that clawed down around the old woman like a cage. It was (lowly) big. Large as the largest of the great hawks that hunted the
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skies. With those leglike tendrils stretched out fully, it would easily be fifteen feet across. Yumi froze, a powerful anxiety seizing her in its grip. She wanted to bolt, to scramble down the steps, to run until her strength gave out. But she couldn’t move. Something buried deep inside her recognized that monstrous figure. And that piece of her was terrified. A primal instinct told her that you did not mess with a creature that saw humans as prey. “Right,” Painter whispered. “Carefully remove your supplies and think calm thoughts, like I told you. It will focus on its victim, assuming you don’t get too afraid.” “How do I—” “Meditate, Yumi. And get your supplies out.” You couldn’t meditate and pull out supplies. That wasn’t the way it worked, at least not for her. She remained still and tried breathing exercises. That seemed to help. “As long as you don’t make sudden motions or speak too loudly,” Painter said, “it won’t be drawn to you. With luck, you can get the painting going without it ever disengaging its victim. You can banish it quietly, and that poor woman doesn’t even need to know what happened.” Yumi didn’t move. “Yumi?” Painter said. Then a little louder, “Yumi.” The nightmare shifted, then turned what might have been a head in their direction, with a face that dripped liquid darkness toward the ground. There were no eyes… Or were those tiny white spots eyes? Like pinpricks swirling scratchily into infinity. The thing quested out with four of its many legs, stretching them across the room toward the window. It had seen them. No…it had heard Painter. “Wait,” Painter said, backing up. “Wait, it’s pointing toward me. Did it (lowly) see me?” Yumi finally found her strength. She looked down, frantic, and dug into her bag for the jar of ink. With trembling fingers, she tried to unscrew the lid—but found it fastened tight, as if bolted in place. “You can hear me?” Painter said louder, stepping forward. The nightmare paused and withdrew its legs. Then it balanced its bulky body in an impossible posture on only two of them as all the rest stretched again toward the window—slowly, carefully elongating—as if the night itself were reaching to swallow Painter. “You do see me,” Painter said. “I guess if Design can do it, it’s not so surprising that…” His voice drifted off, then he made a strained sound, prompting Yumi to look. To find him beginning to disintegrate. Painter had gone rigid, his eyes wide, as parts of him became smoky and indistinct—his form fuzzing toward the nightmare. His essence twisted, coalescing into twin vortices of smoke like miniature tornadoes. One blue. One magenta. Hion. His soul was becoming hion. And the nightmare—spreading its many legs around the window and drawing its center bulk toward Painter, pinprick white eyes facing his direction—was feeding on that energy. Yumi screamed. He’d told her not to do that. Some weaker nightmares did react to sudden sounds, but a painter’s job wasn’t merely to frighten them away—it was to deal
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with them so they didn’t assault someone else. Still, a loud noise could disorient and frighten off a nightmare, and was a last resort for a painter who was out of supplies or otherwise indisposed. Not that this was her line of thinking. Her line of thinking amounted to: “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!” There are things a classroom can’t teach. For those, you need a good scoop of field experience plopped right on your plate, glistening like grease. Everyone at least feels like screaming their first time. In this case, the nightmare drew back, its legs curling in. Then it darted away, fleeing through the opposite wall—leaving Painter to shake himself, his form snapping into place. “That,” he said (lowly), “was unexpected. It could feed on me like it does a sleeping person.” “How can you be so calm!” Yumi said, frantic. “I’m probably just numb,” he said. “Thank you for frightening it off.” “P-painter?” a voice said from within the room. The elderly woman had sat up and seemed disoriented. “Tell her you’re simply checking on her,” Painter advised. “And you got startled by something. Nobody wants to know they’ve been fed on. It…is better this way.” Feeling overwhelmed, Yumi did as he suggested. Then, blushing deeply, she grabbed at her bag. Her body was still electric, pumped full of every frenzied cocktail it could make. She felt like she should be doing something, even if it was more screaming. Fortunately, Painter was calm, as if the incident was over. He wasn’t looking in the room. What if the thing returned? Yumi’s shameful failure made her want to scrunch up and vanish. Had she really been thinking of him as a coward earlier? “That could have gone worse,” he said. “What?” she said, shocked. “Everyone has trouble their first few times,” he said, turning to her and smiling. “Don’t fret. I couldn’t sleep for days after my first field encounter—and I was shadowing two experienced painters. I think you did fine.” “I did nothing.” “Which is better than running,” he said, then frowned. “Though I suppose that is going to be a problem…” It took her a moment to realize what he was indicating. He’d moved to the railing and was pointing below. Two figures had entered the alleyway, worried, to check on the scream they’d heard. Akane and Tojin. Painter tried to calculate whether there was a way to escape without Yumi being seen—but it was too late. Tojin was already pointing, and Akane called up. Yumi, looking sheepish, stepped to the railing of the fire escape landing. Yeah, he’d worried about being seen by the wrong painters. He’d hoped that Tojin and Akane would find Yumi only after she had accomplished their goal and proven the existence of the stable nightmare. How would he explain any of this? Akane came scrambling up the steps, Tojin in tow. “Yumi?” she demanded, taking in the painter’s bag Yumi was holding. “What are you…” Akane trailed off as she saw the old woman through the window. “Sorry!” she said. “Um, merely some routine training of
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a new recruit! Please pay us no mind.” Akane seized Yumi by the arm and towed her down the steps, past a befuddled Tojin. Seriously, where did they find clothes that fit him? Did they just stitch two regular shirts together? Painter sighed, following the group. Yumi looked back at him, her eyes wide, panicked. He shrugged, as he had no idea what to say. Worse, his head was starting to pound from that encounter. Who knew that a ghost could get a headache? “What (lowly) are you doing?” Akane repeated at Yumi as they reached the street. “You haven’t been to training! You aren’t authorized to be out here!” Yumi looked at the ground. “She’s trying to cover for him,” Tojin said. “Nikaro is on ‘personal leave.’ I’ll bet he’s been goofing off, not doing his rounds. It’s like…before, Akane.” He walked over and met Yumi’s eyes, giving her an encouraging smile. “You’re trying to help out. Do your brother’s job, eh? Because you know it needs to be done, even if he’s too much a coward to do it himself?” “Oh, Yumi,” Akane said, one hand to her forehead. “That’s sweet of you to try, but girl, you can’t just go out and cover a painter’s shift. It’s not like Nikaro works at an assembly line.” “Painter’s not a coward,” Yumi said softly. She looked up. “And I’m not completely without training. He showed me a few things.” Painter stifled a groan. She probably thought that would help, but it wouldn’t. They’d think him reckless for teaching her anything. And maybe he was. Akane locked arms with Yumi and towed her away, more by force of personality than force of arm. “Tojin,” she said, “see if Ito and his team can cover for us tonight. I think we need to stage an intervention.” “Sure thing,” Tojin said, jogging off. Painter trailed behind the two of them as Akane steered Yumi—who was visibly shaken—toward the old familiar noodle house. And…Painter was surprised by how much at peace he felt with what was coming. He’d been dreading it, deep down. The truth had been burning at him like a fire that refused to go out no matter how much water he dumped on it. Yumi was going to find out what happened to him in school. And…well, the fact that it was coming was actually a relief. As they walked, Yumi choked out the story of what she’d seen. Which was good. It meant that Akane would double-check on that elderly woman—probably post a watcher from among the swing-shift painters—to make sure that when the thing inevitably returned, it would get painted out of existence. The sole loser tonight was Painter. And…well, he’d really lost months ago, if not years ago. As they reached the noodle house, he realized that any hope he’d had of impressing Akane or reconciling with the others was long dead and gone. They thought that in his laziness, he’d sent his little sister to go out untrained and potentially get herself hurt. It was over. He didn’t
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have to worry about his former friends anymore. There was a freedom in watching that door shut, entirely, forever. Sure, it hurt. Like acupuncture gone wrong, all over his body, spiking him through the nerves and into his heart. At least it was over. At least he knew. Akane got Yumi seated and ordered her some warm broth to sip. The others arrived soon after. Tojin with arms exposed. Izzy in white and Masaka in black. They settled around Yumi in their usual places, and Painter took a seat at a nearby unoccupied table, gazing at Yumi as she came out of her shell. Food, warmth, and friendship soon soothed away the nerves of her first nightmare encounter. The others knew what that felt like. It was why they’d been willing to trade shifts to come talk to her. He glanced at Design as she emerged from the kitchen, then returned to watching Yumi. She had such a reserved smile. Sure, there was something to be said for a smile that was given away freely—but he preferred Yumi’s. Revealed only when truly earned, her smile had a unique value. A currency backed by the irresistible power of her soul. Design sauntered up to him, then huffed. “I’m supposed to act jealous,” she said, “that you barely look at me anymore. Maybe these curves are faulty. The math could be off. Is that a thing that happens with mortals?” “You’re as perfect as ever, Design,” he said. “I’m just having an…unusual few weeks.” She settled in a chair beside his. “I’m not truly jealous,” she noted. “I’m kind of a god, to some people at least. Envy would be unbefitting of me. But when he gave me this form, Hoid said I was supposed to watch how humans interacted. How they paired off.” “Why give you that instruction?” Painter asked. “I have some wildly inaccurate ideas about the ways humans form bonds,” she said. “It’s endearing and amusing.” He looked at her; she grinned back. And he wondered: was she actually some bizarre inhuman thing like she claimed? He would have scoffed at the idea, except for…well, everything lately. Design nodded toward Yumi. “Why do you like her?” “I don’t. We’re forced to work together.” “Nikaro. Do you want to try that again, and make it sound persuasive or something? Because I’ve only had eyes for a few years, and even I can see straight through you.” He leaned down, crossing his arms on the table and resting his head on them. He didn’t argue. What was the point? “Can’t you feel it?” he whispered. “What?” “The heat,” he said. “It radiates from Yumi, like from the sun on her world.” Design looked closely at him, narrowing her eyes. “Are you all right? She’s not on fire. You might be hallucinating.” “It’s a metaphor, Design,” he said. “Yumi’s warm because she’s intense. She has given everything she has to become the best at what she does. Stacking rocks, an activity so bizarre it makes her more fascinating. Because there’s nobody else like her.”
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“Wait,” Design said. “Weren’t you complaining the other day, down here, about how intense she is?” “Yeah.” He smiled. “You can’t like it and hate it all at once.” “Your friend is right,” he said. “You do have some inaccurate ideas about mortals.” “It’s endearing and amusing.” He basked in that heat one last time. “I love that Yumi understands. She’s been there. She’s one of the only people I’ve met who knows how it feels to give yourself to art…” “That sounds like a terrible reason for liking someone,” Design said. “It’s the way we humans do things.” “A stupid way,” Design said. “How would you do it?” “With a formula,” she said. “Find complementary sets of attributes that fit into a proper matrix.” He shook his head, smiling. “I wish there were a formula, Design. If there were, I could fix this.” She cocked her head. “…This?” He nodded toward the table, to where Akane had put her arm around Yumi’s shoulders. “Yumi, dear,” Akane said, “we need to have a talk about your brother. And the things he’s done.” “We know you look up to him,” Tojin said. “We don’t want to interfere…” “I do,” Izzy said. “I absolutely want to interfere. You have to know. Your brother is a liar.” Painter stood up, feeling strange that the motion didn’t push back the chair—he instead simply passed through it. He gave Design a smile. It had been nice, these last few days. But he would find it liberating to be done. To know the door was closed. Not only with his old friends. But with Yumi. That’s a lie, the honest part of him thought. This is ripping you apart. No more than he deserved though. He trailed off, enjoying the extended leash Design had given him, and went wandering through the night. “I…know he sometimes tells untruths,” Yumi said to the group. “I’ve heard him speak them. I think they’re mostly just to avoid hurting people’s feelings. He’s more reliable than he seems.” The others shared glances. Yumi didn’t know what to make of their behavior. Tojin wouldn’t meet her eyes, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Akane kept her arm on Yumi’s shoulders, as if to give her support. It was Izzy who started explaining first. Yumi had mostly taken the yellow-haired woman for frivolous, but now her voice was dead serious. “Yumi,” she said, “do you know what the Dreamwatch are?” “Sure,” Yumi replied. “They deal with stable nightmares.” “They’re the elite painters,” Tojin said, hands clasped tightly before him, as if he were trying to squeeze juice from the air. “The best of the best. The finest artists; the most respected of our kind. Every painter dreams of joining them.” “They’re the actual warriors,” Akane said. “The rest of us, we’re like…the house dress you wear at home, while they’re the ball gown. Understand?” “That makes no sense,” Masaka said. “I understand,” Yumi said. “But why does this matter?” “Your brother,” Izzy said. “He wanted to be in the Dreamwatch. Badly. Too
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badly.” Yumi cocked her head. “He lied,” Izzy said. “Back in school, he told us he’d gotten in. Tryouts were a year into our two years of training. He told us he’d been selected—and he managed to convince our professors somehow, although they should have known who got in and who didn’t. Nikaro left class half the day to ‘train’ with the Dreamwatch.” “We were going to be his crew,” Tojin said softly. “Each member of the Dreamwatch gets a team, called companions. Nikaro promised us that we’d be his. It…would have changed a lot. Not just money. But…I mean, I told my family.” “We all did,” Akane said, squeezing Yumi’s shoulder. “I’m extremely confused,” Yumi confessed. “One year into our training,” Izzy said, “Painter tried out for the Dreamwatch and told us he’d been accepted. He spent the entire next year pretending to go train with them, giving us promises, making us hope. Then…at the end of the year…” “We found out,” Masaka whispered, “that he’d been lying the entire time. He hadn’t been going to special classes. He’d been going to the library and just…sitting there. Not even reading or studying. Just sitting. Staring at the wall.” “A whole year,” Tojin said, wringing his hands. “That (lowly) man,” Izzy said, punching the chair with a clenched fist. “Sitting in the library. He shouldn’t have graduated at all. Unfortunately, they needed painters, and he was capable.” “A capable liar at least,” Tojin said. “Should have sent him to the law school after an extended con like that.” Yumi felt her stomach wrench. She…thought she was following this. But it didn’t make sense. “Why would he just sit there? Maybe he made it into the Dreamwatch, but then washed out at the end?” “Nope!” Izzy said. “He didn’t get accepted at all. He lied to us for an entire year.” “Broke our hearts,” Tojin said softly. “We found him there in the library, after finally getting smart and realizing he’d never introduced us to any of the other Dreamwatch recruits. We confirmed it with the administration. He never. Got. In.” Yumi looked up and met each of their eyes in turn, except Tojin’s—he was staring at the table, seeming concurrently angry and embarrassed. “I was going to be famous,” Izzy said. “It’s not even that,” Akane said. “It’s that… Yumi, it’s hard to explain how it felt. After all that time. To find out…” “I can understand what it’s like,” Yumi said, “to uncover profound, extended deception by someone you love. I’m so sorry he caused you that agony.” “Nikaro is unreliable, Yumi,” Akane said softly. “He’s done his job this last year since graduation, but…well, you need to know. This story he tells about the stable nightmare? It’s just a way to make himself look important.” “What if it’s not, though?” Yumi asked. What if it was? She…had no proof he’d ever seen such a thing. “It’s absolutely a lie,” Izzy said. At her side, Masaka nodded firmly. “If he’d really seen a stable nightmare, it would have attacked by now.
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They don’t skulk and hide once they’ve formed. They start murdering.” “It’s proof,” Tojin said. “He said he saw one…what? Two weeks ago?” “Twenty-seven days,” Yumi whispered. “Right,” Tojin said, with a nod. “Over two weeks. It would have attacked by now.” “He goes out at night, doesn’t he?” Izzy said. “He tells you that he’s hunting it, right? He encouraged you to take his patrol because he was so busy tracking a super dangerous nightmare? Well, I promise you. He’s going to some café somewhere. Staring at the wall. Letting you dream while he just sits there.” The table fell silent. Yumi could practically feel their sense of betrayal. Their frustration, anger. Even hatred? And who could blame them? She wanted to defend him. She couldn’t find the words. They were ephemeral, like a prayer she had heard only once. “What I don’t get,” she eventually said, “is why you thought he would even make it into this Dreamwatch. You said they only take the best artists, right?” “The best of the best,” Masaka whispered. “So why would you think they’d take Nikaro?” Yumi said. “I mean, he’s capable, but…surely the Dreamwatch wants someone who can do something more than paint bamboo or the occasional face from a few quick lines.” The others frowned, and Akane pulled back, looking at Yumi with a frown. “Huh,” Izzy said. “I assumed his family would know. Something else he lied about, I guess.” “What?” Yumi said. “Yumi,” Akane replied, “Nikaro is the single most talented artist I’ve ever met. He’s amazing.” “The rest of us,” Tojin said, “we came to painter school on a whim. We showed some aptitude, took a class or two, and got selected. Nikaro? He’d dedicated his life to getting into that school—to doing this job. He showed us things he’d done as a child. He’d been painting from the day he could hold a brush.” “I believed him,” Akane said. “After seeing what he could do…I absolutely believed, and still do. He said he’d given everything, every day of his life, to learning how to paint so he could join the Dreamwatch. That’s why we believed him. When we met him, it seemed inevitable he’d get in.” “The Dreamwatch must have seen something we didn’t,” Tojin said. “Still seems strange they rejected him. But who knows. Maybe he didn’t even go to the audition? Wouldn’t be the biggest lie he’s told.” “Yeah,” Izzy said, “or maybe they can just smell a liar. The Dreamwatch are about protecting people’s dreams—not crushing them. Nikaro would eventually have wandered off and let someone get eaten by a nightmare because he found a neat wall to stare at.” Yumi took it all in, feeling overwhelmed. A stack of stones gone way too high, and teetering with every shift in the breeze. “Excuse me,” she said. “I…need some time.” She fled, and they let her. Minutes later, she tore into Painter’s apartment and rushed to the trunk at the foot of his futon. She tossed aside the supplies and pulled out the portfolio at
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the bottom. She’d promised not to open it. But what was a promise made to someone like him? She ripped it open. And found wonder inside. Gorgeous paintings of startling skill. She gasped, putting a hand to her lips. Dozens and dozens of amazing pieces, incredible in their variety. Streets that seemed to come alive. People with glittering eyes, smiling from the page. Architecture that made her feel small. Then intricately detailed pictures of flowers that made her feel she was a giant. He could somehow make the ink flow through a thousand different shades to give a feeling of color. An impression of liveliness. A semblance of motion. Frozen pieces of time, committed to the page, with even the distant people in the background conveying emotion with the slope of their posture and the shades of the light around them. Here, buried at the bottom of a trunk, were masterpieces. “I knew it would go poorly,” Painter’s voice said from behind. Yumi jumped, spinning to find him standing in the doorway. She blushed, caught right in the act, but he didn’t say anything about her violation of his privacy. He merely leaned against the frame of the open door, his eyes distant. “I was going to go walk the city tonight,” he said, “but then I realized where you’d come. So I thought it best to just get it over with, you know?” “I…” What did she say? She didn’t know how to ask someone to pass the salt. She couldn’t handle this. “I knew it would go poorly with the others,” he repeated. “That it would blow up on me, back in school? I knew. I recognized the anger they’d feel when they found out. How my lies would ruin and break everything. I knew. Over the months, I’ve wondered: Is it better? Better that I understood what I was doing? Or would it have been better if I’d somehow done it by accident?” “Why?” Yumi finally whispered. “Why didn’t you just tell them that you didn’t get accepted to the Dreamwatch?” “Why, why, why…” He slumped against the doorframe. “I’ve asked that every day. Why didn’t I just say something?” He looked away, out the window, his gaze vacant. “When we first met and they saw my art, it was the first time anyone had ever been excited by what I could do. My parents didn’t want a painter. It’s a low-class job. They hated that all I wanted was ink and a page…” He shrugged. “I met Akane first; you know how she is. I soon had a whole group of friends, adopted right in. And they gushed over what I could do. They cared about it. We spent that entire first year planning. Talking about what we’d do in the Dreamwatch—me as the central soldier, them as my companions. Everything was pinned on me getting in.” He looked at her, his eyes glistening. “Then…I didn’t make it. Not good enough. Poor style. Bad grasp of perspective. Even still, I can’t see my flaws. I can’t understand why.
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I’m so bad at art that I can’t even see why I got rejected. It crushed me, Yumi. It destroyed me. “I went to the others. I knew I needed to tell them. I knew it. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Everything would have been different if I’d simply said it. But I had just been ripped apart, and I saw the hope in their eyes, and I couldn’t crush it. I couldn’t do to them what had just been done to me. I…I couldn’t.” “So you lied to them? Making it worse?” “I know!” he said, throwing his hands into the air, standing up and stalking into the room. “I thought that I’d tell them the next day. The test happened to be on Akane’s birthday. Why ruin the party with bad news, I thought. So I let them assume I’d passed. Didn’t say it, but didn’t really say anything. “After that though, there were end-of-year tests, and I didn’t want to distract everyone. Then…it just kind of continued. I believe…something was truly wrong with me back then. I moved through a haze those first few weeks, my hopes lying around me with slit throats, my emotions a cloud as dark as the shroud. “I remember genuinely thinking that maybe I could simply keep it going. There was a desperate edge to those thoughts, a terror that I didn’t want to confront. Couldn’t confront? I wasn’t thinking straight, Yumi. It wasn’t normal, what I did. But I just had to keep it going. Watching it grow. A tumor. Not on my lungs or my throat. But on my soul.” He stepped over to her and knelt beside the portfolio. He methodically, gingerly, began taking the souls of the various pictures and packing them back in. “What about these?” she said. “You don’t paint like this anymore? Why not? You don’t need to be in the Dreamwatch to do art.” “You know,” he said softly, “they say true artists create, even if nobody is watching? They’re truly driven. I thought that was me. For years. Funny, eh? Me. I got to school and found an audience, then realized that it’s so, so much more satisfying to create for someone. “Shows how much of an artist I actually am. Akane and the others were my audience. I loved showing them the new pieces I made. I loved the joy, the delight, the…the praise too, I guess. But then I just…lost it all.” He bowed his head, pausing as one of the souls of the pictures evaporated in his fingers. “I had friends for the first time. For a little while.” He gestured at the pictures then, pleading. So, reluctantly, she put them away. “There’s no point anymore,” he said. “No point to any of it. No matter how much I pretend and tell myself I’m something important.” He smiled at her. “I was willing to do it again to you. I jumped right into the lie. Willing to let you believe I was some hero, even though you’d inevitably find out. At least it only
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took you a couple weeks!” She looked up to him, and her heart broke to see the tears on his cheeks. Phantom, ghostly tears. She reached up and hesitated right before touching him, then put a finger to the tear—wetting her finger. He glanced away. “Well,” he said, wiping his eyes, “this is who those spirits stuck you with. I wonder what got into them. Shall we… I don’t know.” He sighed, then walked toward the door. “I’ll leave you alone. I can do that right, at least.” “Painter,” she said. “Nikaro.” He stopped near the door, shoulders slumping. He…expected a rebuke, she realized. The kind that would set even the stones ablaze. He deserved one, didn’t he? She’d been warned against lies, and this was a monumental one. The biggest she’d heard of—except the one told her by the very person who had taught her to never lie. What a mess it all was. Emotions swirled in her, like quartz in a stone cut in half. Frustration at him on one side. Agony for him on the other. She’d tasted friendship in the others. And she realized in that moment that she would lose them too. When this was all over. She’d never see Akane or Tojin again. “Nikaro, look at me,” she said, standing up. He turned around, and she stepped up to him, close. Dangerously close. “Let’s go out,” she said softly. “…Out?” “Go out.” She waved her hand toward the window. “Let’s do something. Just us. Something that doesn’t involve nightmares, or spirits, or machines, or betrayals. Let’s just…just go. For one night.” “You know what I am, Yumi,” he said. “What I’ve done. We have to confront that. Deal with it.” “Do we?” she asked, her voice growing small. “Do we really have to?” “Ignoring my problems is what got me into this situation.” “What are we ignoring?” she said. “I heard what you said. I heard what they said. I know.” She met his eyes. “I know. We’ve confronted it. There. Done. Let’s go out.” “But—” “Maybe I don’t want to be responsible tonight! Maybe I don’t want to have to be the one who solves problems. Please?” He held her eyes. Then he turned away, ashamed. “We’re going,” she said anyway. She walked around him to the hallway, then held out her hand. “Come on. Tonight we’re not a painter or a yoki-hijo. Tonight we’re just people. I’ve wanted for years to visit the big city back home, and I was always denied. Will you deny me too, Nikaro? Would you break my heart like that?” Finally, wonderfully, he stepped forward. “I could never,” he said softly. “I guess…there is that carnival running to celebrate the trip to the star.” “Great. We’ll go there.” “You don’t know what a carnival is.” “Are you coming with me?” He hesitated, then nodded. “Then,” she said, “I don’t particularly care what it is.” There is something universal about a carnival. You’ll find them almost everywhere. On planets where the most advanced form of power is a hitch that
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can hold six horses. And on planets that are literally illuminated by free-flowing lines of light in the sky. Because carnivals don’t need electricity, Investiture, or other forms of power. The people are the energy of a carnival. Excitement bleeds. It flows like rivers. Ask any carnie, and they’ll agree that there is a frantic current to a carnival. Yes, it’s completely fabricated. So is the electricity that powers a light bulb. Being artificial doesn’t mean it isn’t real—it only means it has a purpose. It’s this power of excitement that carnivals tap, feed upon, exploit. And for all that people call carnivals a scam or a con, they’re nothing of the sort. We go to them to be exploited. That’s part of the charm. While you’re there—among the dizzying overload of lights, chatter, excitement, sticky ground, and thronging people—you feel that there must be more than enough energy to go around. Human exhilaration is a renewable resource. And you can generate it with cheap stuffed animals and fried foods. Painter was surprised at how busy the place was. But they’d left patrol early, and the night was young yet. People packed the carnival, heady with the knowledge that within a short time, news would come back with finality. They were not alone in the cosmere. It’s an important revelation for a society, second only to realizing that the rest of us have been visiting for quite some time now but never got around to explaining. That sort of thing tends to cause a lot of unfortunate paperwork. Sometimes also panic. It’s true that Painter’s planet isn’t among the most cosmopolitan or relevant to the cosmere’s political or economic landscape. I still recommend you visit. Trust a guy who spent a couple years there as a statue. Few can throw a party like a planet confined to an eternal night. (In his language, by the way, they obviously didn’t use the actual word “carnival.” Like with everything else, these are my words to describe their world. You might be interested to know that the word they do use roughly translates, in your language, to “place of a million lights.” Their term for the workers there? “Light keepers.”) Painter strolled alongside Yumi, trying to keep from being walked through by members of the crowd, since he found that unnerving. Yumi took in the sights, her eyes reflecting the spinning hion of rides and the twinkling rhythms of the large bulbs on the fronts of stalls—like on a runway, trying to guide a person in to land in their particular trap. Was the gaudy mess nauseating to her? “It’s wonderful,” she whispered. “It’s like someone broke the sun itself into a million pieces and threw it in the air like confetti. This has been here all along?” “Well, it usually only runs on festival and rest days,” he said. “We could have come and seen it? Why don’t you come every time it’s open?” He shrugged, enjoying her wonder. “What are all of these?” she asked, pointing to the stalls. “Games.” She cocked her
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head. “Games?” he said. “You play them?” “Like an instrument?” He stopped in place, staring at her. “Your (lowly) life was so ridiculous, Yumi. You’ve never played a game before?” She shook her head, so he waved for her to walk up to one of the stalls with a line. That way the carnie would be focused on the customers, not a random gawker. Yumi watched with fascination as people tried to knock down boxes by throwing a large ball. “So…” she said at his explanation, “it’s…a challenge? Like trying to stack a pile higher than you’ve ever done?” “Yes!” he said, pointing. “Yes, that’s it. Games are fun challenges.” “These people are having fun?” she asked, as a man at the front of the line cried out after getting all the boxes down but one. “Well…it’s fun when you win…” Painter said. Someone in the next stall walked away with a large stuffed creature. Yumi watched that with even more consternation. “So…” she said, “you knock the boxes down, and you get one of those beasts.” “Yes.” “And they’re extremely valuable?” “Um…well, no. They’re pretty cheap, actually. We could go to a store and buy a dozen of them for the price of a nice pair of shoes.” “I am so confused.” “It’s not about the prize,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him as the carnies started eyeing her. “It’s about winning. The prize is proof. A memento? To remember the day? It becomes more valuable because of the good feelings it evokes. Beyond that, people just like to have things sometimes.” “I think…that might make sense,” she said, strolling alongside him, holding to the strap of his painter’s bag over her shoulder. He’d told her to bring it because sometimes if people knew you were a painter, they treated you with deference. Might convince some carnies to look elsewhere for easy prey. “I like my clothing,” she said. “The first thing I’ve ever owned. I like having it. The dress reminds me of Akane and that day shopping.” “See?” he said. For some reason though, she was growing morose. Was she remembering the things Akane had said about him? With a sudden desperation, he wanted her thinking about anything else. But before he could speak up, she smiled, then spun around, arms extended. “Your job, Nikaro,” she declared, “is to escort the yoki-hijo on her first—and likely only—trip to a carnival! You must make it an experience!” “I thought you said,” he told her, ducking around a couple sharing fluff candy, “we weren’t painter or yoki-hijo tonight.” “Then you escort just the yoki part! The girl at a carnival for her first time! Present it to me, man from another world. Wow my primitive mind with your advanced alien technology and lights!” “Well, fortunately,” he said, stepping in front of her and gesturing to himself, “you’ve come to the right person. I’ve been visiting carnivals since I was a child, and I can eagerly introduce you to every unique aspect of the phenomenon.” “Excellent,” she said, strolling forward,
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Painter walking backward directly in front of her—occasionally passing right through people. If they thought a lone painter talking to herself was odd…well, they thought painters were odd anyway. So who cared? “Where do we start?” she asked. “With the food,” he said, dancing to her right and pointing to a stall with fried pop’ems. “It is the most incredible, delectable, amazing food you will ever eat—” “Wow!” “—for the first bite.” She looked at him, frowning. “Carnival food,” he said, “has this strange property. Each bite you take tastes increasingly artificial, oily, and overly sweet. Until you get done, and (lowly) wonder why you ate all of that. It’s truly magnificent.” “You’re exaggerating.” “Am I?” Five minutes later—her fingers sticky with the remnants of powdered sugar, an empty bag of pop’ems in her hand—she looked toward him with a nauseated expression. “That was awful,” she said. “Isn’t it?” He grinned. “I need another.” He directed her to get some cheese powder rice puffs, as they tended to last a little longer before the gross part reared its head. Once she was happily chewing on them, he led her toward the center of the festivities. “I’m modestly impressed,” she said. “But you’re going to have to do better than strange foods, Painter.” “Well, we also have rides.” She looked at him, then blushed. “I don’t know what those are either. I’m sorry.” “They’re…” Huh. How to explain. “Have you ever been in a bus—or a wagon I guess—that was out of control?” “Once. It was terrifying.” “It’s like that, but fun.” “I’m not convinced you have any idea what that word means.” He grinned. “Remember the flight on the tree?” Her eyes went wide. “You have flying trees here?” “Not exactly,” he said. “But things sort of like that. Less magical, maybe, but also safe—so you get the exciting part without the dangerous part. But you get to pretend they’re still dangerous, so you can be afraid. In a fun way!” “Wonderful food that is also gross,” she said. “Experiences that are at once terrifying and not. Are all of your modern wonders self-contradictory?” “Contradiction,” he said, “is the core of modern life.” He smiled at her. And he loved the way she smiled back. He gestured, and led her past several of the performers—a strong man lifting impossible weights. A “living statue.” (Bad imitation in my estimation.) A fire-breather. Yumi appeared to legitimately love each of these. “You have experts,” she whispered while watching a performer swallow a cane four feet long, “in the strangest things.” She tossed far too large of a tip to the man and bowed formally to him. From there, the games. She was terrible at them. But he found it fascinating how she tried each one in the row, then settled on one—the game where you knock down the boxes—and paid the carnie for ten tries. “We’re going to run out of money quickly at this rate,” he said, leaning against the counter as she concentrated and threw the ball, missing. “You should have picked the
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balloon popping game.” “That one is random,” she said. “You can’t win it except by accident.” She narrowed her eyes, throwing another ball. It bounced off the boxes. “And that is bad?” he asked. “I must be presented with a challenge of skill and not fortune, Painter.” “Well then, try the coin toss,” he said, as she threw again and the ball bounced free. “This one takes strength like Tojin has to win.” “No it doesn’t,” she said, then threw the ball and got a lucky hit, toppling all of the boxes. “Ha!” the carnie said, leaning down. “You can take the small prize…but do that four more times, and you get the largest prize!” “Yes,” Yumi said. “I read the rules.” Then she proceeded to knock over four more stacks of boxes in a row. The carnie’s jaw dropped. “Oh, (lowly) incredible,” Painter said, smacking his forehead. “It’s a balancing trick, isn’t it?” “Yes,” she said. “One of the boxes is weighted on the bottom in such a way as to make the entire thing seem less stable than it is. Getting that one is key.” She pointed at the largest of the stuffed animals—a dragon eating a bowl of noodles. (Quite fanciful. The dragons I know prefer steak.) “Advice,” Yumi said as the carnie handed her the dragon—which was nearly taller than she was. “Don’t put the weighted box in the same corner each time. It makes the pattern easy to exploit.” The carnie scratched his head, then grinned at her. “You’ve still got two throws left.” “Give them to the next child who visits,” she said, then walked off, head held high, Painter trailing. “You’re right,” she said to him. “This trophy feels…satisfying. And soft. How do they make it so soft?” “By tradition,” he said, leading her to a less populated section, “you now must give it a name.” “Hm…” “A silly name,” he added. “Why silly?” He gestured at the giant pink dragon. “Right,” she said. Then she blushed. “I…don’t do silliness very well, Painter.” “No problem. It’s one of my more impressive features. Let’s see…silliest name…” He grinned. “She shall be known as the fearsome Liyun Noodleface.” Yumi gasped. “Painter! That’s irreverent.” “Perfect,” he said. “Job done.” Then he turned, picking out one ride in particular. The highest in the carnival—the massive Jotun Line. You don’t have anything quite like it here, though on some worlds they build rides like these as wheels that slowly carry people in a lofty circle above the carnival. In Kilahito, they’d ended up designing something that was similar, but not circular. Instead the seats went straight up along a tall steel post, then paused at the top for the best view before turning and coming down the other side. It moved slowly, with a near-constant rotation of two-person pods. Painter gestured to it. “I might have located the best local equivalent of a flying tree.” She tipped the dragon to the side, having trouble seeing while carrying it. Her eyes widened as she saw the ride. Then, remarkably, she gave
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the dragon to a little girl who had been standing nearby gaping at it. “Farewell, Liyun Noodleface,” Yumi said, waving as the little girl hopped off with the giant plush over her head. At Painter’s curious look, Yumi shrugged. “I think I’m a little too new to owning things to have an enormous pink dragon.” He smiled, then led her to the ride. There was a long line, but as they approached, the ride conductor spotted her—or more specifically, her painter’s bag. “Painter,” he said, waving her forward. “Thank you for your service.” Everyone in line politely clapped as he ushered her into the next cab, letting her have the two-person seat to herself—which was convenient, as it left room for Painter to slide in beside her. She put the bag by her feet as their cab swung into position and inched slowly upward along the post as other cabs were unloaded and filled. “Is that common?” she asked him. “The way they treated me because they thought I was a painter?” “It happens now and then.” “I thought you’d said that no one cared.” “They care about being safe,” he said. “They care that someone is out there doing what I do. At the same time, we make them uncomfortable. We’re a reminder that things lurk at night, feeding on their nightmares.” The cab inched up to the next stop. “We’re not like yoki-hijo. There are only a handful of you, but it’s easy to train a nightmare painter; basically anyone who goes through the schooling can do it. You don’t have to be a master to make something that will trap a nightmare.” “But you are,” she said softly. “A master.” “I thought I was.” He paused, then looked at her. “Would it matter to you if I was?” She gave it some thought. Someone else probably would have responded immediately with assurances he was good enough. He liked that she didn’t do that, though he found himself waiting, breathless. And not just because he didn’t breathe anymore. “It matters,” she said, “that you’ve stopped painting. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t get accepted by the Dreamwatch.” “But it does,” he said. “If I’d gotten accepted, my whole life would be different.” “Would it have changed who you are?” “I suppose not,” he said. “Maybe my failure is what told me who I really am. The man who would lie to his friends. Maybe it’s better I didn’t have those when I was younger. Fewer people to betray.” He looked toward her and found her eyes glistening, teary. “I’m so bad at this,” she whispered. “What?” “I was supposed to be distracting you. Yet here we are again, having the same conversation.” “No, Yumi,” he said (highly). “It’s fine.” “It isn’t though. We did everything wrong, Painter. I wasn’t supposed to fixate on winning that prize—I was just supposed to throw and enjoy the company. I see that in the way others are acting down below. I…I don’t know how to be a person, Nikaro. You have to explain to
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me how to have fun.” “I like explaining things,” he said, causing her to look at him again. “Yumi, I’m a painter. Do you remember why I said I loved it?” “To share it,” she whispered. “To see the delight of your creations with your friends…” Painter gestured as they continued upward, high enough that the chaos of the carnival instead became a pattern. Flowing pathways, spinning rides like fanciful geometries. Lights, once garish and overwhelming, became twinkling accents to a wonderful tapestry. Her eyes widened. “Not quite as breathtaking as flying,” he said. “No,” she whispered, “but I love it. I love not feeling afraid. I love being able to linger.” She stared for a time, but then saw one of the other couples in their cab pass, coming back down the other way. Those two cuddled up close with a jacket around them. “We can’t do this right, Painter,” she said. “We—” “Yumi,” he interrupted, feeling an unfamiliar emotion. Contentment. How long had it been? Years? Even with everything else, even in their strange situation…being in that cab that night, with light dancing beneath them…was perfect. She looked at him, cocking her head. “Are you happy?” he asked softly. “Right now. Worries ignored. Problems forgotten. Are you happy?” “Yes,” she whispered. “How long has it been?” “I don’t think I can remember a time,” she said. “There are…vague memories. Of laughter. A home. A place where the floor was never too hot, and where someone held me. I might have just imagined all of that… You?” “My birthday,” he said, “first year of upper school. About a month before the test to join the Dreamwatch. The following month was awful, stressful as I tried to prepare every last moment. That day of my party though—with friends and my paintings, a place I thought I belonged… Masaka made me a hat.” “Was it black?” “More like a helmet,” he said, smiling. “With spikes. She said it was a birthday hat.” They stopped in place as the ride paused for the couple at the top of the pinnacle to have a moment. Painter felt warm, even though it was colder up this high. He felt as if he were wrapped in a blanket. With the best view in town. And he wasn’t looking at the city. “Maybe,” Yumi said, with a smile, “it’s all right if we do things the wrong way. As long as it’s the same wrong way.” She rested her hand on the bar in front of them—right near his—as the ride brought them up into the top position. He wanted so badly to be able to hold her, but had to content himself with moving his hand an inch closer to hers—until he felt the barest sense of electric warmth at their touch. It thrummed through him, like magma injected into his veins. If he’d looked closely, he would have seen two little lines—like electric sparks—connecting his skin to hers. Magenta and azure. Together they enjoyed the silent presence of one another, drinking in the moment. It’s said
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that everything you eat, even the air you breathe, becomes part of you. The axi that make up the matter you take in come to make up you instead. I, however, find that the moments we take into our souls as memories are far more important than what we eat. We need those moments as surely as the air, and they linger. Potent. Yes, a person is more than their experiences, stacked up like stones. But our best moments are the foundations we use to reach for the sky. Eventually, after what felt like a lifetime that passed too quickly, their cab reached the bottom. Yumi slipped out, settling the oversized painter’s bag against her back. Wordlessly, the two of them strolled away from the carnival. Now that they’d been to the sky, the chaos at ground level seemed distorted. Like a painting seen so close-up you could no longer make out the meaning. They trailed vaguely in the direction of Painter’s apartment. The streets grew quiet—the carnival receding into their past—as they entered sections of the city that acknowledged the late hour. Even the homes felt sleepy, the drawn drapes drooping eyelids. Only the ever-present hion lines floating above lit the way, painting cobbles and concrete. Neither of them wanted to break the moment. Until finally Yumi stopped and dug into the painter’s bag. She pulled out the smaller sketchpad and knelt, taking out a small paintbrush and a jar of ink. “Yumi?” he asked, leaning down. She held up a finger to still him, then unscrewed the ink jar—twisting it the correct way this time—and dipped her brush. Then she proceeded to paint a picture of what they’d just experienced. A view in the first person, looking out at the landscape below. In front of that, their hands on the bar of the ride’s cab. Except in this, their hands overlapped. It wasn’t a very good painting. Considering the experience of the one responsible, that won’t surprise you. But for a person who’d first picked up a brush twenty-three days earlier, it was quite remarkable—in the same way that the drawing of one eight-year-old might be better than that of another. Regardless, here’s the thing: art doesn’t need to be good to be valuable. I’ve heard it said that art is the one truly useless creation—intended for no mechanical purpose. Valued only because of the perception of the people who view it. The thing is, everything is useless, intrinsically. Nothing has value unless we grant it that value. Any object can be worth whatever we decide it to be worth. And to these two, Yumi’s painting was priceless. “I realized something earlier,” she said. “When we were talking about owning things. I realized…I don’t own anything. And never will…” “The clothing—” “Will stay behind, Nikaro,” she said softly. “When this is all over.” Right. He hadn’t considered that. Once…whatever had happened to them was through…once the spirits decided to end the Connection… Well, Yumi would wake up one day in her body. And he in his. On separate planets. She
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stood up holding the painting, letting it air-dry. Her eyes large, like pools of ink awaiting a brush. She smiled again, a different smile. Not joyful. Melancholic. “This,” she said to him, “is for you. To remember me when I am gone. What did you call it?” “A memento,” he whispered. “To remember the day.” “Valuable because of the good feelings it evokes,” she whispered, then carefully folded the dried painting and tucked it into the inside pocket of her jacket. “If we wake up tomorrow and it’s all over, you’ll have this. So you don’t forget me.” “I could never. Yumi, maybe we could…” What? Travel the space between planets? Even if the government allowed a couple of youths to do something like that—which was highly unlikely—she was still a yoki-hijo. One of only fourteen on her whole world. She couldn’t have a life like he had briefly let himself dream she could. “I want you to know,” she told him, “that I don’t think you’re a liar.” “I literally did lie though,” he said. “It’s a fact.” “Why did you do it?” “Because…I was too weak to tell the truth?” “Because,” she said pointedly, “you didn’t want to hurt the people you loved.” “I lied to you.” “Again,” she said, “because you wanted so desperately to be the thing I needed. You wanted to help me, Painter. And yes, maybe you wanted to pretend to be someone great. That’s not the action of a liar, but a dreamer.” She nodded sharply. “I was taught that a liar is someone who takes advantage of others to get gain. That’s not you. It’s never been you.” She leaned closer to him, as close as they could get without touching. “I don’t blame you, Nikaro. Maybe stop blaming yourself. You see, I’ve learned one thing from your world, more than any other.” “Which…is?” “Answers,” she said, “are not simple. They never were.” He smiled back, then closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. It was strange how much of a difference those words meant. That someone didn’t judge him. That she knew exactly what he’d done, in all its horrors, and…didn’t care? Didn’t blame? Perhaps he should have been strong enough to come to a similar conclusion on his own. Perhaps he should have been a lot of things he wasn’t. But in this case, having someone say it—someone who mattered… It was like a painting he could share. He opened his eyes… To find Yumi stumbling backward, eyes wide, lips frozen in a mask of terror. He spun to see something lurking from the alley behind them: a nightmare of jagged blackness, fully eleven feet tall, with claws that sliced the wall in large gouges. Eyes like pits of white, and a mouth with actual teeth. The nightmare. It was fully stable now. It had, inexplicably, come looking for them. It was Yumi’s second time seeing a nightmare. The other was to this one as a puppy was to a wolf. The stable nightmare reared on two lupine legs, powerful and somehow
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more real than the previous one she’d seen. Its darkness had coalesced, hardened, its skin spines, and those eyes—voids of anger. It towered over them, and when it stepped the nails on its feet tore gouges in the pavement. “Run,” Painter said. “Yumi, RUN!” His voice sliced through her terror, and she recovered enough to turn and dash away, clinging to her painter’s bag—not because it would be helpful, but because she needed something to hold on to. The nightmare gave chase. Silent save for what sounded like metal on stone. Painter ran out in front of her, looking as frantic as she felt—she thought he was leaving her, but no. He was leading her. He waved as he dashed for an alley just ahead of her. She followed him in, nearly tripping at the hard left turn. The nightmare beast, far more bulky, responded less quickly. It skidded past, then had to heave itself back after them. Yumi—against her better interests—glanced behind her as she ran, and saw it darkening the mouth of the alley. It reached in with two enormous hands, one against each wall, raking the stone and cracking a window. Then it fell to all fours and began charging again. “The bell!” Painter shouted as they burst out the other end of the alley. “Ring the bell!” They crossed a street, entering a wide open place with smooth stone ground that held sections full of wood chips and strange erections of metal and wood. The first time she’d seen one of these, she had thought it might be some kind of art installation—and had laughed when she was told it was a sports court and playground. Painter led them past some of the playground equipment, perhaps thinking it would slow the beast—but the nightmare ripped through the metal, tossing a jungle gym. Hopefully the noise would attract someone. Yumi added a belated scream to the cacophony, and almost pulled the bell free—but a chunk of metal hurled by the monster clipped her, knocking her to the ground. Her bag skidded out of her hands. A crack followed, then ink stained the bag, flowing from the opening. The beast hesitated, seeing that. “Come on,” Painter said, hovering near Yumi, waving urgently. She found her feet and turned toward the bag. “No,” he said. “Leave it.” Trusting his instincts, she ran with him across the playground. “Head this way,” he said, pointing down another alleyway. “The nightmare can see me. I’ll lead it to the south. You curve around the block, then sneak up and grab the bell. Ring it. Don’t try to confront the thing. Understand?” She nodded, too terrified to trust her voice. If she opened her mouth, she’d scream. Out in the playground, the thing had given the ink a wide berth, but now came for them again. Painter took a deep, wide-eyed breath—even though he was a ghost—then ran back out. He didn’t wave at the thing to draw its attention; he just ran. The thing turned after him, and Yumi didn’t wait to see the
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result of their chase. She did as Painter had said, running down her own alley and ducking around the rear of a building, breathing heavily. There, she stood trembling, spine pressed to the bricks, sweating and taut—every muscle like a rope trying to haul a tree from the sky. She knew she needed to keep moving. She needed to sneak back and grab the bell. She should move. Painter was running for his life. Move! Her body refused. It’s difficult for one who hasn’t experienced it to understand how powerfully the body can react to trauma like this. Seeing something so terrible come for you—knowing it intends to not merely harm you, but likely feed upon you—goes against all rational experience. You end up reaching someplace deeper than your thoughts can go, sinking to instincts hard-coded into your very essence. Overriding those is not simply a matter of willpower. It requires training and experience. So Yumi trembled there, huffing, dazed—and had to fight to keep herself from running away as fast as she could. It is to her credit, not her condemnation, that she remained frozen. The only viable alternative her body would accept involved mad, uncontrollable flight. A hand grabbed Yumi on the arm. She bolted upright, finding a large figure standing beside her that had approached completely unseen—not because it had been particularly quiet, but because she hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything other than her fear. Hysterical, she swung her fist at it—and it grunted. Then…then said her name? Her eyes focused, and she saw for the first time that it was…Tojin? Yes, the painter Tojin, sleeves rolled up, shaking her arm and saying her name. Again. Again. Finally she registered it, and emerged a tiny bit from her frenzy. “I told you it sounded like her,” Tojin said over his shoulder. Calm. Too calm. He didn’t know. Akane walked up, arms folded, painter’s bag over her shoulder. “Yumi,” she said. “You promised you wouldn’t go out anymore. We told you how dangerous this was.” Technically, Yumi hadn’t promised she wouldn’t go back out. They’d just lectured her on it, and had assumed compliance from her contrite bows. She wasn’t in any state to argue that point. “How?” she said, her voice hoarse. “How did you find me?” “We tailed you,” Tojin said, “when you left the apartment earlier. We…well, I thought you’d go back to it.” “I trusted you had more sense than that,” Akane added. “We lost you for a while there,” Tojin said. “Did you go to the carnival specifically to lose us?” “Tojin…” Akane said, squinting in the dim light. “Tojin, look at her. She’s terrified. Yumi, did you see another one?” Yumi could only nod. Tojin sighed. “This is why we said to not go out again. This is a duty for a painter.” Painter. The bell. Yumi knew, even after one experience with the nightmare, that Akane and Tojin alone wouldn’t be enough to defeat it. They needed every painter in the region—hundreds, if she could find them. And Painter, her Painter,
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was in danger. “Bring your ink!” she said, then tore out of Tojin’s grip and went scrambling back down the alleyway. She didn’t see his bemused expression, nor the roll of Akane’s eyes. Because of course they didn’t recognize the danger. They’d done this hundreds of times. A nightmare, to them, was nothing terrifying. Yumi reached the mouth of the alley and looked out at the torn-up playground—ghostly in the hion light. Still and empty. Several lights turned on around nearby buildings, then quickly shut off. This was painter business. Thank you for your service. Suddenly apprehensive, Yumi crossed the playground onto the sports court, where her bag had fallen. She searched in it and found it sliced apart by claws, the bell broken and covered in ink. As she was struggling to comprehend this, something dark emerged from within a piece of fallen playground equipment. It grew to eleven feet tall, stalking up to her from behind. Painter had eluded it. But this thing was smart. Dangerously crafty. Beyond that, there was a deeper problem. An issue Yumi and Painter couldn’t have anticipated. This thing could feel Yumi’s presence. It knew where she was. Always. This was why it hadn’t rampaged. Yumi didn’t know it yet, but this was what the creature had been doing all those weeks. It had been drawn to her. Had been watching her. Waiting for a chance to attack. She felt it before she heard it. She spun and—too frightened even to scream—gasped as it rammed a clawed paw into her chest. The claws pierced her straight through, though they fuzzed right before they struck. It would have killed almost any person, but Yumi had something this beast wanted. Power, Investiture, soul. Where it had needed to lap at others, here it could guzzle. Instead of spearing her physically, it let its blade-claws become incorporeal as they touched her—and this allowed it to draw out her essence. Yumi felt an icy cold expanding from her core, as if her heart had been frozen—like the ice in drinks Design served—and was pumping frost through her body. Her gasp wilted, and she slumped to the ground, breathing out a cold mist. She felt herself dying. Going to a place where there was no warmth, and could never be warmth. And… And… And she would not go without a fight. Her emotions—the primal nerves that had been sending her into a panic all night—backed up against the wall of death. And from within her welled, like the fierce anger of a geyser, a refusal to be taken like this. With a trembling hand—shaking like that of a woman a hundred years her senior—she reached to the side. She picked up a chunk of concrete torn up by the beast’s passing. Then she stacked it on top of the one beside it. The beast hesitated. The flow of power out of her slowed. Yumi somehow found another chunk, though she was fading now, her burst of strength giving out. It is not a light thing to have a piece of
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your soul forcibly consumed—trust me. With numb fingers, she placed the stone. The monster didn’t appear frightened, but it leaned forward, no longer feeding. It stared at the stones with bone-white pits for eyes. Something in it seemed to…remember. A second later a scream made it spin. Tojin had finally ambled out of the alleyway and—horrified by the sight of a fully stable nightmare—he fell backward to the ground. Akane screamed from behind him. Yes, they’d seen nightmares before, but never anything like this. It had an air about it, a debilitating sense of primeval danger. The nightmare ripped away from Yumi, leaving her slumped against the ground, trembling. Her vision began to darken at the edges, her body going frigid as if she’d been left for a day in a blizzard. She could only watch as the thing reached Tojin and Akane. These two it could kill. These two weren’t even worth a bite. These it would rend, destroy. It raised a claw to strike Tojin, who lay terrified on the ground. Then Painter arrived. Her Painter. He stepped over Tojin’s supine form, having rounded the street behind, looking for Yumi. He placed himself directly between the thing and Tojin and thrust his hand to the side, where a large paintbrush burst from his essence and formed as if out of silver light. He wouldn’t remember creating it, and after the fact wouldn’t have been able to tell you how he’d done it. Akane had dropped her bag, breaking the ink jar, in her haste to get away. She’d tripped and fallen in the alley, and now—remembering Tojin—was trying to crawl to him in a panic. Neither of them could see Painter. But Yumi could. Her angle was just right to look past the monster, looming on hind legs. To see the terrified Painter clutching his brush, confronting the thing. To see his shape itself begin to warp and fuzz, as it had before, crumbling like a statue whose outer layers were being scraped off by a terrible wind. That Painter. Shaking. Breaking. Overwhelmed. That Painter rammed his brush down into the ink spilled from Akane’s bag and began to paint. A long line on the concrete. Knob on both ends. A sprig of bamboo. The shape of the nightmare twisted for a second, then—eyes going wider, deeper, whiter—it surged forward at him, driving him to take a step backward. Painter, now inches from the thing, went pale. His figure crumbling. Eyes wide. But then Tojin whimpered from below, and something steeled in Painter. He rammed his brush back down, and—with a look of consummate determination—swept it out in front of him at the monster’s feet. And began to paint. No, not just paint. Create. Sweeping arcs around him and Tojin, staining the ground with phantom ink. He met the monster’s gaze, not even looking down as he drew with his brush. The nightmare stepped back. And Painter advanced. One step after another, driving the thing back with each twist of his brush, creating an artistic masterpiece that burned away behind
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him as he walked. The ink wasn’t real, Yumi thought. The brush should have vanished too, shouldn’t it? But no. At that moment, Yumi understood. The brush was an extension of Painter. It belonged to him. As natural as his own heart. Lying there—watching him drive the thing back by force of skill, art, and sheer will—Yumi realized something. She’d been right at the start of all this. The spirits had sent her a hero. The nightmare began to shrink, twisting in a horrific way, enormous claws shortening, skeleton seeming to pop as it constricted. Its face narrowed as it was forced to conform to Painter’s vision of it, the one he painted on the concrete. Not a monster at all. Something friendly, with four paws and a wagging tail. The thing recognized this vision for it and let out a howl—fully stable enough to actually speak—then turned and loped away, its terrible form restoring as it broke from Painter’s spell. Defeated, embarrassed—but not destroyed—it vanished into the night. Painter fell to his knees, overwhelmed, the paintbrush finally burning away in his fingers. Behind him, Akane reached Tojin, helping him sit up. The two of them stared out after the nightmare, baffled as to what had driven it off. Painter looked with a wan smile toward Yumi. Then at last he seemed to notice that she wasn’t moving. “Yumi!” he said, but his voice sounded distant, like she was…was deep underwater… She tried to reply, but her teeth only chattered together. Her body shivered and spasmed, and her vision was fading—darkness at the sides creeping in further. “Yumi!” Painter’s anxious face above her. “What’s wrong?” “So…cold…” she whispered, her breath puffing. He knelt above her, panicked, holding up his hands. The darkness closed in. Painter seized her in an embrace. His essence mingled with hers. His self and her self mashed into one. A shocking, intoxicating, sensual concoction. Heat detonated within Yumi, a dying fire suddenly given air. It surged through her. His heat. Their heat. She gasped with the force of a drowning woman and went rigid. Painter pulled back, his face streaked with sweat. She caught herself before falling to the ground again, then kept breathing in deep gasps, no longer frozen. Together they sat there, trembling, until Akane and Tojin arrived to help her stand. Perhaps now they would believe. An hour later they sat in the noodle shop again, Painter at his own table nearby, watching the others in their nervous huddle. They constantly asked Yumi if she was all right, as if the answer would change moment to moment. She did seem all right. At least she wasn’t dying of the cold any longer. The others had tried to take her to the hospital, but she’d insisted she wanted something warm to eat. And a warm place to sit. So they’d come here, and she was on her second bowl of broth for the night—spiced and heated to boiling. How she could eat that without burning herself baffled him, but then again, people from her planet had
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