Scarecrow

The first tower went silent at the hour before dawn.

I didn’t hear it go. I was asleep. For the first time in a week I’d come down off Father’s roof before midnight and gone to bed and slept, really slept, with Luna’s cold hand on my back and Sera’s warm one on my chest and the whole of Avalon going past me like water, and I didn’t hear it.

Wren did.

She didn’t come into the room this time. She didn’t stand at the foot of the bed and say my name. She stood in the hall outside the door, and I woke because her silver had gone a way I’d never heard it go, in all the years I’d known her. Not counting.

Stopped.

I found her on the stairs. Sitting on the third step from the top with her coat on over her nightdress and her knees pulled up and her hands over her ears.

She never put her hands over her ears. She said it didn’t help. She said the counting wasn’t in her ears, it was everywhere, and covering them was like closing your eyes to stop hearing rain.

”Wren.”

”Forty-three,” she said. Without taking her hands away. ”On the ninth line. The keeper that was kneeling on forty-three.” She was very white. ”It’s gone.”

”Gone where?”

”Gone,” said Wren. ”Not moved. Not stopped kneeling. Gone.” She took her hands off her ears and looked at them. ”And the young round the tower. Three hundred and six. I counted them every night.” She swallowed. ”I can count ninety now. Huddled. Down in the cracks under the tower, where she pulled them.” She looked at her hands. ”The rest I can’t count. There’s nothing there to count.”

”The queen?”

”Still there,” said Wren. ”Just. She went down. Deep. Deeper than I’ve ever heard a queen go. With as many as she could carry.” She looked up at me. ”Her heart’s so slow I keep losing it. And then it comes back. And I keep thinking, that’s the last one.”

By the time we got to the map room it was three.

By the time Okafor got there, with her coat buttoned wrong and her slate under her arm, it was five.

Five towers on the ninth line. Five worlds where a keeper had knelt down, after the middle stopped and listened, and put its long grey hands flat on the ground and listened down for its mother. Five worlds where a keeper had been there at midnight and wasn’t there now. Five queens gone down as deep as they could go, with as many young as they could carry. And the rest of the young not carried.

Wren sat in the corner with her back to the wall and her eyes shut and said each number as it went. Flat. The way she’d said numbers in the dome when they were rations.

”Six,” she said.

The ash keeper told us what it was.

It came up from the red glass. On its own. Without the Overseer. It had never walked anywhere without the Overseer’s hand under its elbow, not since the ninth line, and it walked now up the long road from the plain in the grey before dawn, very slowly, falling twice, with the red scarf the girl from Halden had given it still closed in one long grey hand.

It came into the map room and stood in the doorway.

It didn’t look at any of us. It looked at the floor.

Correction, it said.

Nobody said anything.

The Overseer came in behind it. Very quickly, for it. With the dog. It had woken on the red glass and found the keeper gone from the heavy queen’s side and followed its tracks up the hill.

It looked at the ash keeper in the doorway. And then at me.

And I saw its face do something I’d never seen it do. Not even under the ring. Not even the first time it understood what it had been teaching.

It was frightened.

”What’s correction?” said Okafor.

The ash keeper didn’t answer. It was still looking at the floor.

The Overseer answered for it.

When a world is faulty, it said. When the grey on a world stops doing what it was grown to do. When a keeper does not keep. Its long grey hands were very still. The voice does not fix it. The voice cannot fix things. It can only tell. A pause. So the voice reports the fault. To the houses.

”What houses?”

The Sorn, said the Overseer.

I’d thought I knew who the Sorn were.

I’d thought they were the voice. The middle. The thing at the end of the ninth line that sang one note and had never heard any other. The thing that had asked who is singing and why, and come down the thread itself, slowly, with no heartbeat, and asked a keeper what mother meant. The thing that said, when Mother asked who it came out of, I do not have one.

I’d thought that was the empire. One voice. Lonely. Wrong. Something we could sing to.

I was wrong.

The voice is a made thing, said the Overseer. Like me. Like the keepers. Like the Hands. The houses made it a very long time ago, out of queens, to sing their note across every world so they would not have to. It looked down at the dog. The houses do not sing. They do not listen. They do not come down threads to ask questions. A pause. They correct.

”How?” said Okafor.

The ash keeper lifted its head.

It looked at her. With its pale eyes. With the red scarf in its hand.

Like my world, it said.

Nobody moved.

Ash. Grey from pole to pole. Flat and soft and very quiet. No wind. Nothing growing. A sky the colour of a bruise. A tower grown up out of the shape of a queen who wasn’t there.

I did not know, said the ash keeper. When I knelt. When I heard the shape. I thought she had gone away. I thought she had been taken somewhere. Its hand closed tighter on the scarf. She was taken. But not the way I thought. They came. A long time ago. Before I was sent. My world was faulty. A pause. They corrected it. Everything that lived on it. Everything but her. Its long grey fingers closed and opened on the scarf. Queens are not wasted. The houses take them. I do not know where. A pause. And then they grew the tower again on what was left. And sent me to keep it. And did not tell me what I was keeping.

It looked at the Overseer.

You did not know, it said.

No, said the Overseer. I did not ask.

I know, said the ash keeper. You said. It looked down at the floor again. I am not angry. I would like to be. I do not know how yet.

”Seven,” said Wren. From the corner.

Okafor didn’t sit down.

She stood at the great table with Garnet’s sheet under her hands. With the ninth line running across it from the edge of the page to the space in the middle where Garnet had left room. With a hundred and four keepers on it, Wren said, kneeling, listening down. Some with hearts under them. Some with shapes.

Seven of them gone.

”Where are they going next?” she said.

Wren didn’t open her eyes.

”I don’t know,” she said. ”I can’t hear them. The correctors. Whatever they are. I can’t hear them at all.” Her voice cracked. ”I can hear everything. I’ve always heard everything. I can hear the stones in the wall. And I can’t hear them. I can only hear where they’ve been. When it stops.”

”Lucas?”

I listened.

Down the ninth line. Past the towers. Past the kneeling keepers. Past the queens, the hearts and the shapes. Out toward the end. Toward the middle.

The middle was screaming.

Not a push. Not a song. Not a word. Nothing I’d ever heard it make. A sound like a held note that’s been held so long it’s started to tear. Going out along every thread at once. All nine lines. Every tower. Every world.

It wasn’t telling anyone anything.

It was just making the sound.

And under it, moving very fast down the ninth line, tower to tower, there was nothing. A gap. A place where the silver wasn’t. Moving.

”I can’t hear them either,” I said. ”But I can hear where they aren’t.”

”Can it stop them?” said Okafor. To the Overseer. ”The voice. It came down the thread. It asked. It listened. Can it tell them to stop?”

No, said the Overseer. The voice tells the grey. The grey tells the keepers. The keepers tell the young. A pause. Nothing tells the houses.

”Then what’s it doing?”

The Overseer listened. To the scream. For a long time.

I think, it said, very slowly, it is the first time it has known what happens after it reports a fault. A pause. It reported the keepers. On the ninth line. When they knelt. Because that is what it does. It has done it for longer than anyone remembers. A fault, and it tells.

It looked at the floor.

It did not know before what came after the telling, it said. It never listened before. Now it is listening. And it is hearing what it did.

”Eight,” said Wren.

Okafor sent three teams.

Not twelve. She didn’t have time for twelve. Three, to the three kneeling keepers nearest to the gap, wherever the gap was going, as best as Wren and I could guess. Mother and the General and Wynn and the deep crew, on the Pool, to the reed world. Neve Ashworth with Corwin and Marlo and two light-benders, on the Long Legs, to the wind world, where she’d brought a keeper home from, and where its twin was still kneeling over a heart.

And me. To the fire world.

Because Wren said the gap was moving toward it.

Because the middle had leaned toward the fire world for six days. Because it had come down the thread itself to the fire world and asked a keeper what mother meant. Because if the voice reported every fault on the ninth line, the fire world was the first one it had ever listened to.

And the houses would know that.

”No children,” said Okafor.

In the map room. With all of us standing. Before anyone could speak.

”No children,” she said again. ”Not one. Not on a team, not on a ship, not on a ramp. I don’t care if you can open stone or hear queens or hold the air still. If you’re not grown, you’re here.” She looked at Garnet. At Genny. At Tally and Reed in the door. ”The rule was no children fight. I let it bend. Because nobody was fighting. Because we were asking.” She put her pencil down. Very straight. ”Nobody’s asking now.”

”The reed world’s mine,” said Garnet.

Very quietly. From beside the sheet. With the dog on her feet.

”I opened it,” she said. ”A hand at a time. For two days. The queen came up like a lantern. I drew her.” Her voice was very steady and her hands weren’t. ”I know the way. I know where the grey’s thin. I know—”

”No,” said Okafor.

”She’ll be frightened. She pulls in. Like a snail. If someone she doesn’t know—”

”Garnet,” said Mother.

Garnet stopped.

Mother came round the table. And knelt down in front of her. In her dark coat. With Father’s ring. And took both of Garnet’s hands.

”Draw me the way,” said Mother. ”Where the grey’s thin. Where she pulls in. All of it. Now. Fast.” She held Garnet’s hands very tightly. ”And I’ll take the drawing. And I’ll hold it. And I’ll do it the way you did.”

Garnet looked at her for a long time.

Then she pulled her hands away and picked up her pencil and turned the sheet over and started to draw. Very fast. Without looking up.

She didn’t cry. Not then.

The fire world was burning when we came down out of the rope.

It had always been burning. Orange from horizon to horizon. Rivers of molten rock across the black crust. Mountains of fire standing up.

It wasn’t burning like that now.

The orange was going out.

I saw it from the forward window. From a long way up. Through the heat shimmer.

A great dark stain on the face of the world. Spreading. From the place in the middle where the tower had been, where the queen had come up out of the ground as fire and bent close over her son. Black. Not the black of the crust. Darker. A black that took the light out of everything it touched and didn’t give it back.

The rivers ran into it and stopped glowing.

The fire mountains at its edge leaned into it and went out.

And round the edge of the stain, very small from that high up, very many, in a long dark ring, closing, something was walking.

”Toby,” I said.

Toby was at the window beside me. With his hands out of his pockets. With his face very white.

”Hearts,” he said. ”Hundreds. The young.” He was breathing very fast. ”Going out. One at a time. Lucas, they’re going out. At the edge of the black, they’re—” He stopped. ”The queen. She’s still there. In the middle. Very fast. Very frightened.” A pause. ”The keeper’s there. Beside her. Its heart’s—” He shut his eyes. ”Its heart’s so fast.”

”The others? The walking ones?”

Toby listened. For a long time. His face changed.

”Nothing,” he said. ”No heart. Not slow. Not quiet. Nothing.” He opened his eyes. ”Like the voice, when it came down. Except the voice was listening.” He swallowed. ”These aren’t.”

We came down at the edge of the stain.

Sera first. Before the ramp was all the way down. Out over the burning crust with the heat already pouring into her arms and her face set like iron. Then Anja. Then Liam, with his hands already moving, already seeing where the air was. Then the General, in his greatcoat, with frost running out from his boots across the black.

Then me.

They were tall.

Not like the keepers. Not long and thin and grey. Tall and wide and dark, in something that wasn’t armour and wasn’t skin, black like the stain, smooth like wet stone. No faces. Where a face should be, a flat dark plate with nothing on it at all.

And on each of them, at the neck, a collar.

Not grey. Black. Thick. Grown into them so deep you couldn’t see where it stopped and they started.

And they were walking into the fire. In a ring. Toward the middle. Slowly. And everywhere they put their feet, the fire went out.

Behind them, the young.

I’m not going to write down what the young looked like.

I’ve thought about it. Genny says it should be written down. All of it. In the brood book. Because if you don’t write it down, someone will say it didn’t happen.

I’ll tell her. She can write it.

I’m not going to write it here.

”Tally would ask them,” I said.

Nobody answered.

So I did it. Because she would have. Because it was the first rule, the one we’d made before the rule about children, the one we’d made on the porch with the first grey thing that had ever come to Avalon. Ask first.

I stepped out in front of the ring.

In front of the nearest of them. Tall and dark and faceless, walking into the fire, putting it out.

And I asked.

Not with my mouth. With the silver. The way I’d asked the keeper. The way Tally asked. Down into it. What are you? What were you before? Would you like to stop?

Nothing came back.

Not nothing like a keeper’s silence. Not nothing like the voice, listening. Nothing like a wall. Like putting your hand out in the dark for a door and finding brick.

I pushed harder.

Through the collar. Through the black that wasn’t armour and wasn’t skin. Looking for anything. A heart. A thread. A piece of a queen. Anything that had ever been something else.

And I found it.

Very deep. Under the collar. A piece of silver. Very small. Curled very tight.

Dead.

Not quiet. Not sleeping. Not waiting. Dead. Burned out. Deliberately. Like a wire someone had put too much through on purpose, so it would never carry anything again.

They’d made them out of something that could hear.

And then they’d made sure it couldn’t.

The corrector walked into me.

It didn’t strike. It didn’t stop. It didn’t see me any more than it saw the fire. It walked forward, the way it had been walking, and I was in the way, and where it touched me my silver went cold.

Not still. Cold. Black. Like the fire. Going out.

I heard Sera scream my name.

I folded it.

I’ve folded towers. I’ve folded Hands. I’ve folded handlers out of rock and keepers out of grey.

I’d never folded something that was walking into me with my silver going out.

I didn’t ask it anything. I didn’t sing. I didn’t look for what it had been before.

I took it, all of it, the black and the collar and the dead piece of silver curled at the bottom, and I folded it into nothing, as small as I could, as fast as I could. And there was nothing left of it on the black crust but a mark.

It wasn’t the first thing I’d killed. On the rim, on the first dawn the Teeming came, I turned sixty-one of them to salt, and later I learned they’d been trying to warn me. I put a scarecrow in the field for that. I’d spent years since then learning every other way there was.

There wasn’t another way. Not with this.

I’d like to say I thought about that, then.

I didn’t. There were two hundred more.

The General froze them.

He stood in front of the ramp with his greatcoat open and frost pouring off him across the black, and every corrector that came near the ship he froze where it stood. Solid. White. Mid-step. And they stood there, frozen, with the black still spreading under their feet. And then, after a while, they started walking again. Through the ice. Slowly. Because the ice was only on the outside, and they didn’t feel it.

Anja broke them.

She walked out in front of the General with her arms folded, the way she stood at the top of a ramp, and when a frozen one started to move she put both hands flat on its chest and pushed. And it went over. And it broke.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t stop. She went from one to the next. Her face was very white. Her silver was like the grain in good wood, and it didn’t go cold when she touched them, and I didn’t know why. I still don’t.

Liam saw where the air was.

Inside them. Under the black. Where it went in and came out, through something that wasn’t lungs. He told Hana’s trick to the air itself, without Hana, the one that had burned his wrist. He found where it was going before it got there.

And took it away.

They fell. One after another. They didn’t choke. They didn’t struggle. They stopped walking and fell over on the black crust and didn’t move.

Liam stood there with his hands out and watched them fall.

”Don’t,” he said. Very quietly. To nobody. ”Don’t, don’t, don’t—”

And kept doing it.

Sera went for the middle.

Where the queen was.

Not round the ring. Through it. Through the correctors, through the black, through the fire that was going out. With all the heat of a burning world in her arms, white to the shoulder, white to the neck, white in her hair. Every one that walked into her path, she put her hand on, flat, the way she put her hand on my chest. And gave it all the heat she was carrying.

They didn’t go out. They went up.

I went after her.

Folding. Every one in reach. Not asking. Not looking. Not thinking. Fold, and the next, and the next. My silver was cold up to the elbow on my left side where the first one had walked into me, and it stayed cold, and I didn’t stop.

There were too many.

We were too late.

The queen was at the middle of the stain.

Where the tower had been. Where she’d come up out of the ground. She wasn’t standing up any more. She’d sunk down, low and wide, the way the heavy queen lay beside the Ground, and her fire was very dim. Orange at the edges. Barely white at the middle. The black was all round her, a few feet away, closing.

And on top of her, the keeper.

Lying across her. All its long grey body spread out over as much of her as it could cover. Its long grey arms out wide. Its face pressed down into her fire.

It was still glowing.

Faintly. Orange at the edges. The way the coals glow at the end of the night.

And the black had reached it.

It was coming up its legs.

From the feet. Where they lay on the black crust at the edge of its mother. Very slowly. Taking the glow out of it as it came. Its long grey feet were black. Its knees. Its long grey back was going dark, from the bottom, the way a wick goes dark when you pinch it.

It didn’t move.

It lay across its mother with its arms out and didn’t move at all.

Sera reached it first.

She put both hands on it. On its back. Where the black was coming up. And gave it everything she had left. All the heat of the world.

The black stopped.

For a moment. At the middle of its back. It stopped, and the keeper’s glow came up again round Sera’s hands, bright, brighter than I’d ever seen it.

And then the black came on again. Through the heat. As if the heat wasn’t there.

Sera made a sound I’d never heard her make.

I got there.

I put my hands beside hers. I listened down. Into the keeper. Past the black. Looking for anything I could hold. Anything I could fold out of the way, or ask, or put back.

The black wasn’t a thing. It wasn’t grey. It wasn’t silver. It wasn’t anything I could fold. It was the absence of something. A place where the fire had been taken out and nothing put back. Moving.

You can’t fold nothing.

You can’t ask nothing to stop.

Operator.

It was the keeper.

Not the keeper’s voice. Not through the silver. Through Dot. Dot, who was on Avalon, beside the heavy queen, a whole world away.

Operator. It says.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

It says, said Dot, you came back.

The keeper’s face was still pressed down into its mother’s fire.

It didn’t lift it. It didn’t look at me. It lay across her with the black at its shoulders now, and its arms out, and its glow going out from the bottom up.

It says, said Dot, tell the voice.

”Tell it what?”

It says the voice came down the thread. Slowly. And asked it what mother meant. And it told it some things. Six days of things. A pause. Dot’s voice was very strange. It says it knows more now. It says it’s had more days. It says tell the voice the rest.

”What’s the rest?”

Dot was quiet for a long time.

It says, said Dot, this.

And the keeper put its arms round its mother.

All the way round. As far as they’d go. Its long grey arms, black to the elbow now, round the dim fire of her. And pressed down. And held on.

And the black came up over its shoulders. And over its head.

And the glow went out.

Under it, the queen was still burning.

Barely. Orange. At the middle. Where the keeper had lain across her. Where the black had come up over its back and stopped.

Because there was nothing left to come up through.

The keeper had been in the way.

We got her out.

Sera and I. With Liam taking the air away from everything that came near, and the General freezing, and Anja breaking. We didn’t fold the black. We couldn’t. We lifted her out of it. All of her. A dim low fire, very hot, very frightened, very small now. I asked the air to hold her and it held her and Sera took the heat out of the air round her so the ship wouldn’t melt, and we carried her up the ramp of the Scarecrow with the correctors walking toward us across the black, slowly, still putting out the fire.

We didn’t get all the young.

I’m going to write down how many. Wren counted, after. From Avalon. Six hundred and twelve. On the day we freed her. When the tower went down into her and she came up out of the ground and they came to her and lay down round her in the burning, being warmed.

Four hundred and thirty came up the ramp. Behind Anja. Through the General’s frost. Some of them on Liam’s back, because they were too small to walk and too hot for anyone else to carry, and he carried them anyway and didn’t say a word about his hands.

A hundred and eighty-two didn’t.

We left the keeper.

There was nothing to bring. Where it had lain across its mother there was a shape on the black crust. Long and thin and curled round. The shape of something that had been holding something.

Like the shape the ash keeper had heard under its tower.

Like a footprint in hardened mud.

Mother came home from the reed world at midnight.

With the queen. Only just.

They’d been late too. Not as late as us. Late enough. The black was already over the reeds when they came down, and the keeper was already gone, and the great green lantern of a queen that Garnet had opened a hand at a time for two days was already very dim. Mother held her. The way Mother holds things. The way she’d held two hundred handlers in the sea. She held the queen’s light in, against the black, with everything she had, while the General’s deep crew tried to cut her out of the reeds.

It was nearly not enough.

The queen went so dim in Mother’s hands that Mother said afterward she thought she’d gone out. She hadn’t. Garnet’s drawing was in Mother’s coat pocket, and Mother had looked at it before she came down, and she knew where the grey was thin and which way the queen pulled in. So when the queen pulled in, like a snail, small, smaller, down to almost nothing, Mother let her. And held what was left. A green light no bigger than a lamp. All the way up the ramp.

She’s on the red glass now. Beside the heavy queen. Very small. Very dim. The heavy queen has curled round her like a wall.

Two hundred of her young came with her. Out of the reeds. On their own. Following the light. There had been nearly five hundred.

Two of the deep crew didn’t come home. Brannock and Sefa, from the Pool, who’d been on every crossing since the halls. A corrector walked into them while they were cutting reeds, and they went cold, the way my arm went cold, and then they went the rest of the way.

Wynn held a wave over the ramp so the rest could get up it. She was nineteen. She’d been able to do it for eleven days.

She’s in Halloway’s ward now. She won’t let go of the basin.

Neve came home at dawn.

With the keeper. The twin. The one that had a heart under it, on the wind world, and whose other half had come to Avalon and lain down against the heavy queen. They’d been in time. Just. The black was at the edge of the tower when the Long Legs came down, and Corwin had opened the grey over the queen a crack, the width of a hand, and the queen had come up through it, small and silver and made of wind, and Marlo’s light-benders had hidden the ship long enough to get her into the hold.

Not all the young.

A hundred and nine, of three hundred. Corwin went back for the last eleven himself, through a crack he opened in the tower with his bare hands, while Neve screamed at him to come back. He came back. With the eleven.

Neve walked the keeper down the ramp onto the red glass with her coat round its long grey shoulders. She didn’t say anything. She took it to the heavy queen. And its twin lifted its head from the row of keepers along the heavy queen’s side, and looked at it.

And they lay down together.

Neve stood there for a long time. Then she walked up the hill to the ward and went to work, because there was work, and didn’t come out until noon.

Eleven, Wren said.

Eleven towers on the ninth line, by the time the gap stopped moving. Ten keepers gone. And their young. Too many of them.

Three queens home. Seven hundred and thirty-nine young. One keeper.

And on the eight worlds nobody reached in time, eight queens gone down, deep, under the black, where it couldn’t follow. With as many young as each of them could carry. Wren could hear every one. Very faint. Very slow.

Alive.

The gap stopped at the twelfth world. Wren couldn’t say why. It didn’t go back toward the middle. It didn’t come toward us. It stopped. On a world with a keeper kneeling over a heart, and it sat there, a gap where the silver wasn’t, at the edge of the tower.

Waiting.

”For what?” said Okafor.

Nobody knew.

The Overseer knew.

For us, it said.

Garnet coloured the circles in black.

Eight of them. At the kitchen table. With her drawing board. Very carefully. With the side of the pencil, so the lines stayed straight underneath.

She didn’t say anything while she did it. The dog lay on her feet. Genny sat beside her with the brood book, writing down what I’d told her about the young on the fire world. All of it. In her small upright writing. I watched her hand shake and steady and shake.

Then she rubbed out a dot in the middle of each one. Very small. With the corner of the eraser. So the paper showed through, white.

”That’s her,” she said. Without looking up. ”Each one. Down under. Still there.” She blew the rubbings off the sheet. ”Okafor needs to know where to dig.”

When she got to the reed world, she stopped.

She sat there with the pencil over the circle for a long time. Not colouring it. Not drawing anything.

”She came home,” said Garnet. ”Grandma brought her.”

”Yes.”

”Three hundred of her young didn’t.” Garnet looked at the circle. ”I counted them, the first time. When I opened it. Tally wrote them down.” Her voice was very steady and her hands weren’t. ”I don’t know what colour that is. Home and not home.”

”You don’t have to colour it.”

”I do,” said Garnet. ”Okafor needs to know.” She picked up the pencil again. And coloured half of it in. Black. Very carefully. With the side of the pencil. And left the other half white.

And then she put her face in her hands.

I sat with her.

That was all. I sat beside her at the kitchen table, and Genny on the other side, and Mother came and stood behind her and put her hand on her hair, and nobody said anything, because there wasn’t anything that wouldn’t be the wrong thing.

After a long time Garnet took her hands away.

”Did you say it?” she said. ”Tonight?”

”Not yet.”

”Say it,” said Garnet. ”Now. Here.” Her face was wet and very fierce. ”Don’t you dare not say it. Don’t you dare stop because of this. That’s what they want. Isn’t it? That’s what the black is. Taking it out and not putting anything back.”

So I said it.

At the kitchen table. With my left arm still cold to the elbow, where the first one walked into me. With Sera upstairs asleep in her clothes because she’d given a whole burning world’s worth of heat to something that took it and gave nothing back, and Halloway said she’d sleep for two days and to let her. With Liam on the back step in the dark, not talking to anyone, with Anja sitting beside him not talking either, her hand on his back.

I said it to Garnet. To Genny. To Mother.

It was harder than the first time.

It was much harder.

I said it anyway.

Then I went up on Father’s roof.

And listened.

To the middle. At the end of the ninth line. Still screaming. The long torn note going out along every thread. It hadn’t stopped. Wren said it hadn’t stopped all day.

I don’t know if it can hear me. Nobody can hear my silver.

But the keeper asked me to tell it the rest.

So I sat on Father’s roof with my cold arm in my lap and told it. Out loud. Into the dark. About a keeper who lay across its mother with its arms out and held on while the black came up its back. Who didn’t move. Who was in the way.

That’s the rest, I told it. That’s what mother means.

The scream didn’t change.

But under it, very faint, so faint I thought I’d made it up, something went down the ninth line.

Toward the twelfth world. Where the gap was waiting.

Not a push. Not a song.

I don’t know what it was.

Days 2749–2751. Late.

The correctors came down the ninth line for every keeper that knelt. The voice doesn’t rule the Sorn; it’s a made thing that reports faults to the houses, and the houses don’t sing or listen. They correct. The correctors have no hearts, only a piece of silver burned dead on purpose, and asking them reaches brick. I killed on the fire world, for the first time since the Teeming, and kept killing; there was no other way. We were late. The keeper lay across its mother while the black took it, and the queen lived because it was in the way. Four hundred and thirty of six hundred and twelve young came up the ramp. Mother carried the reed queen home no bigger than a lamp; Brannock and Sefa didn’t come home. Neve brought a queen and a hundred and nine young. On the eight worlds we didn’t reach, the queens went down deep under the black, alive. Garnet rubbed a white dot in each black circle, for where to dig. The gap is waiting at the twelfth. I said it anyway.