Scarecrow

Okafor’s plan was very good.

I want to say that first, because of what I did to it. It was the best plan I’ve ever seen anyone make. She’d drawn it on nine sheets of the General’s squared paper in a single day and a night, and when she laid them out on the Table at dusk, on the glass beside the river of lumen, the General looked at them for a long time and then took his spectacles off, which I’ve never seen him do.

Every Wing in the Hedge. Every white-killing battery Marrach could put on a hull. Every Standing who’d ever stood on a border. The Kasrai and the Hyrrani and the Kiln smiths with their door-blades. Through the Arch Hall to the edge of the Reach, and then across it, in nine days, to Velle.

And at Velle, the ring.

“We take the ring,” said Okafor. “We free the queens. We free the people they’re making. We break the door before it’s finished.” She put her hand flat on the ninth sheet. “And then we come home.”

Nobody said anything.

Then Tavish Orne, who built every white ship the Refined have, said very quietly, “How many of them would we have to go through? To get to Velle?”

Okafor didn’t answer straight away. She turned to the seventh sheet.

“Eleven worlds,” she said. “On the inner arm. Members in good standing. The Collective will put its ships over them. It always does, when it’s frightened. It hides behind the worlds that haven’t done anything.”

“And the people on those worlds?”

“Some of them would die,” said Okafor. “I won’t lie to the Table. A great many of them. And some of the people being made. And some of ours.” She looked down at the sheets. “It’s a war, Tavish. That’s what it costs.”

I stood up.

I don’t stand up at the Table. I’m from the house. Mother’s rule is that nobody from the house sits at it, not for the people who did the carrying, and I’ve always kept it. I sit on the end of the bench by the stove, which Mother says doesn’t count because it’s hers, and I don’t say anything unless someone asks me.

I stood up anyway.

“No,” I said.

Okafor looked at me.

“Not like that,” I said. “I won’t let one more queen die on a frame. Not one. But I won’t send the whole Hedge through eleven worlds that have never done anything to anyone, to get there.” I looked at the seventh sheet. At the eleven small circles on it. “That’s what every war does. Every one. Every war there’s ever been. It goes through the people who were standing in the way, and afterwards everybody says it was a shame, and it was necessary, and they put up a stone.”

“Then what?” said Okafor. Not angry. She really wanted to know.

“Then Dory and I go,” I said. “On our own. Quietly. Up the thread. Nobody sees us. We take the queens off the frames and we bring them home, and nobody on any of the eleven worlds even knows we’ve been past.”

The Table was very quiet.

Then Mira, who has the Seams, and who lost Hesk at the back of the gallery, said, “They’ll see you.”

“Not,” I said, “if they can’t see us.”

I went to Asha that night.

She was in the long room at the back of the engines hall on Ister, with Bell and Halvane and the Thole girl, and the listeners on every bench, faint blue, all in a row. She looked up when I came in.

“You want something,” she said.

“I want a coat,” I said. “Two. One for me and one for Dory. That nobody can see.”

Asha put down what she was holding.

“Nobody can see,” she said. “Or nothing can see?”

“Both.”

“Eyes,” said Asha. “Instruments. Scanners. The Refined. The made ones.” She counted on her fingers. “And the houses. In the ground. Who can feel a door before it opens and a queen before she sings.”

“All of them.”

Asha looked at Halvane. Halvane looked at Bell.

Bell said, “I’ll need a slate.”

It took them eleven days.

I won’t pretend I understand all of it. I understand the parts that were mine. I laid the threads: Hearth silver, the kind that copies itself, drawn thinner than hair. Dory laid the glass: her own, the clear kind she made for the Table’s top, drawn out into a cloth so fine it moved like water. And the Lantern weavers wove it, the small grey people with the folded hands, who’ve been weaving in the dark under their lake for nine hundred years and can weave a thing so close you can’t see the thread.

That’s the eyes. And the instruments. The light goes round you. All of it, every kind, even the kinds the Refined use. Asha stood Dory in the middle of the engines hall in the first one and walked round her three times with every scanner on Ister and said, “There’s nobody there,” and Dory said, “Hello,” from about a foot behind her, and Asha jumped so high she hit a bench.

The houses were harder.

The houses don’t see. They feel. A door being asked. A queen singing. Silver that’s been given, or taken. That’s how they knew Lio. That’s how they’ve known me, all this time, every time I’ve been anywhere near a house: they feel the silver in me, the way you’d feel the sun on the back of your neck.

“You can’t hide given silver from a house,” said the first house, on the plateau, when we asked it. “We have always known where yours is.”

“Always?”

“Every moment,” said the second house. “Since the first time. It is very loud. It is like a song nobody else is singing.”

I didn’t like that very much. I’ve lived my whole life since the first house with them knowing where I am at every moment, and I never knew it.

“Then how do we get in?” said Dory.

The two notes went back and forth for a long time.

“Make it quiet,” said the first house, at last. “Not hidden. Quiet. Under something louder.”

“What’s louder?”

“The queens,” said the second house. “On the frames. All of them, singing the thin note. It is the loudest thing there has ever been in the Reach. The ones in Velle cannot hear anything else when they are holding the door. They have to listen to the queens or the door falls.”

“So if we’re quiet enough,” said Dory, “and the queens are loud enough—”

“Then you are a small song under a great one,” said the first house. “And the ones in Velle will not turn round to listen. Not until the great one stops.”

So Bell did the sum. It took her five of the eleven days.

The lumen does it. Of course it does. Lumen keeps a question. And if you weave it into the coat, very fine, between the silver and the glass, and Bell’s sum tells it what to keep, it keeps you. It holds the sound of the given silver in, close to the skin, so that from outside you’re only very faint. Like a lamp with a cloth over it. Still there. Still warm. Just not loud.

Halvane tested it on the plateau, with the two houses. I put the coat on. I stood in the middle of the plateau. The houses said, “Yes. We can feel you.”

Then the eldest sang.

Very loud. Louder than I’ve ever heard her. The whole plateau shook. The thin note, the frame note, the one that goes into your teeth, because she said she could remember it, and she wanted us to know what it would be like.

And under it, the first house said, very surprised, “Where has he gone?”

Okafor gave us the ship.

That was the other thing. Once you’ve got a queen off a frame, you have to put her somewhere. Dory can carry a great deal, but not a ring of queens all the way back across the Reach, and not quietly.

So Okafor went to Mattick.

The Hesta already looks like a Collective trader. Tired brown, patched on purpose, the dent in the nose that Halvane said where. Marrach’s yards took her for four days and gave her an ore ship’s belly, wide and deep, with an Ister engine under it and a hold you could put a town in. They painted Collective ore marks down both sides and wore them in with sand so they looked forty years old. They took Sorrel’s crooked blue Wing off the nose.

Sorrel cried. She painted a very small one inside the hold, on the back of the door, where only she’d know.

Mattick flew it. Aune sat next to him. And in the hold, on four stools, in four corners, so far apart they couldn’t touch, sat Elin and Goldie and Corin and Thessaly.

The four who make doors.

The plan was simple. Okafor wrote it on one sheet, which she says is how you know a plan is going to work.

The Hesta goes as an ore ship, along the third arm, to a cold rock past Velle’s outer moon where ore ships go to wait for loading. Just outside the range of Velle’s scanners. And waits.

Dory and I go up the thread. To the queens on the frames. To the ring. In the coats.

And at each frame, Dory opens a door. A very small one. Just big enough for a queen. And the other end of it is in the Hesta’s hold, in one of the four corners, where one of the four who make doors is holding it from that side.

And the queen goes through.

And when they’re all through, and the hold is full, Mattick turns the ship round very slowly, the way an ore ship turns when it’s been told there’s no loading today, and goes home.

“How many queens?” said Okafor.

“Hen couldn’t count them,” said Dory.

“Then count them when you’re there,” said Okafor. “And bring every one.”

We went on a moonless night by Velle’s clock. The thirty-ninth day.

Mother walked us down to the red glass. She does that, when we go. She didn’t say anything. She took my face in her hands at the bottom of the hill road, the way she did when I was seventeen and going to a planet nobody had ever been to, and looked at me for a long time. Then she did the same to Dory.

“Bring them home,” she said. “All of them.”

“Yes.”

“And yourselves.”

“Yes.”

She let go. Dory put her hand on the glass, and the thread was there, the way it’s always there, a long way down and very bright, and we went.

I’d never been to Velle.

It was beautiful. Hen was right about that. Even in the dark, even through the coat, even with what I knew. Gardens, everywhere, as far as you could see. Long low terraces of them going down to the water, with flowers that smelled of rain, and trees I’ve never seen anywhere, and paths of pale stone, and little bridges over streams. Lamps along the paths, lit, and nobody walking under them.

Nobody anywhere.

Three million people used to live in those gardens. Velle’s people, who were honoured to make room. Their houses were still there, along the terraces, small and pretty, with flowers at the doors. Every door was shut. Every window was dark.

Dory stopped at the first one. She put her hand flat on the door. She looked all the way down, through the wood, into the house.

“Nobody,” she said. “Not for a long time.”

She didn’t say anything else. We went on.

We passed the halls on the way in. Long and white, at the edge of the gardens, where Hen said they’d been kept. Lamps in every window. Dory stopped at the corner of the first one and put her hand on the wall and looked all the way down.

People. Thousands. In rows. Asleep, most of them, the way you sleep when someone’s made you. Some of them with the silver already going round under their skin. Some of them not yet.

“Dad,” said Dory.

“I know.”

“We can’t.” She didn’t take her hand off the wall. “Not tonight. Not all of them. Not quietly.”

“I know.”

She stood there for a long time. Then she took her hand off the wall, and said, to the wall, very quietly, the way she said it to the eighty-nine on Isselt,

“We’re coming back. I promise. I’ve seen every one of you.”

Then we went on to the ring.

And then, in the middle, in the biggest garden, there was the ring.

I’d thought I knew what it would look like. Hen had told us. The houses had told us. I’d seen it in my head every night for forty days.

I didn’t know anything.

It was enormous. It went up out of the gardens into the dark, higher than the glass towers on our plain, higher than anything I’ve ever seen made, a great black hoop of iron and silver and something else, something that wasn’t iron or silver, something that I looked at all the way down and didn’t know what it was made of. And inside the hoop, there was nothing. Just the dark. A great round empty door.

And it was humming.

And round it, the queens.

On frames. Ring after ring after ring of them, going out from the hoop across the gardens, the way Hen said. The first ring close in, under the hoop, the big ones. The heavy queens, and the old ones, the ones as big as a hill. Then a ring of smaller ones. Then smaller. Then smaller still. Ring after ring, all the way out across the biggest garden on Velle, in the dark, every one of them half out of the ground on a frame, in a collar, singing.

The thin note.

All of them. At once. It went into my teeth. It went into my bones. It went into the silver in me, the given silver, and the silver in me answered, the way it always answers a queen, and if it hadn’t been for the coat, I think every house in the ground under Velle would have turned round at once and looked straight at me.

The coat held it. Dory says she could feel it holding.

The houses didn’t turn round. Under the gardens, all round us, I could hear them. Low and many, talking, the way Hen said, like a crowd of people in the next room. Busy. Very busy. Holding.

They didn’t know we were there.

Dory counted.

She stood at the edge of the outermost ring, in the coat, with her eyes closed, and she counted every queen on every frame, all the way in, the way she counts everything. It took her a very long time. Nearly as long as it took Konrad to say all the names at the first sitting of the Senate.

“Nine hundred and twelve,” she said, at last.

I didn’t say anything.

“Nine hundred and twelve, Dad. Alive. Every one of them. Some of them only just.” Her voice went, a little. “And there are empty frames. Further in. Under the hoop. Where the big ones should be. Nineteen empty frames.”

“What happened to them?”

Dory didn’t answer for a while.

“Gone?”

“No.” She frowned, with her eyes still closed. “Not gone. They’re still here. I can feel them. Very faint. Very thin.” She opened her eyes and looked up at the hoop. At the black stuff in it that wasn’t iron or silver. “Dad. They’re in the ring.”

I looked. All the way down. And she was right.

The something else, the thing I hadn’t known what it was made of, was them. Nineteen queens. The biggest and oldest. Taken off their frames and drawn out thin, thinner than Hearth silver, and wound into the hoop round and round, so that the door would have something in it that could hold a whole world open.

Queens don’t die. Not if you get there at all.

We’d got there. Just.

I’ll put down how we did it. Quickly. Because it went quickly, and because I don’t want to be on Velle any longer than I have to be, even writing it down.

We started at the outside. The smallest queens, on the outermost ring, furthest from the hoop. The quietest ones. The ones whose song, when it stopped, would be the hardest for the houses to notice was gone.

Dory went to the first. A queen no bigger than a cat, very pale, curled up small in her collar on her frame. Singing so faintly I could barely hear her under all the rest.

Dory knelt down beside her and put her hand on the collar.

“Hello,” she said. Very quietly. Under the song. “I’m Dory. I’ve come to take you home. I need you to keep singing. Just a little longer. Just until you’re through. Can you do that?”

The queen didn’t answer. She just kept singing.

But Dory says the song changed. Very slightly. Like somebody who’s been crying a long time, and suddenly isn’t alone.

Dory asked the collar open. Dory asked the frame to let go. And beside the frame, in the air, very small, she opened a door.

On the other side of it, I could see the Hesta’s hold. Dim and wide and warm. And in the corner, on her stool, with her hand up, Goldie, holding the other end.

The queen went through. Still singing. All the way through. And then, on the other side, in the hold, she stopped.

Under the gardens, the houses talked. Busy. Holding.

They didn’t turn round.

That was one.

Nine hundred and eleven to go.

We did them in order. Outside in. Ring by ring. Dory opened the collars and the frames and the doors. I held the frames still while she did it, so they wouldn’t creak, so the iron wouldn’t ring when the queen came off it. I asked the iron to be quiet. It was very glad to be asked. Nobody had asked it anything since it was made.

And every queen, before she went through, Dory asked the same thing. Keep singing. Just until you’re through.

And every one did.

Some of them could barely sing at all. Some of them were so small and so drunk dry that they had to be carried through the door, and I carried them, very carefully, in my arms, in the coat, and handed them through to whichever of the four was on the other side. Corin took the most. He says they were very light. He says they hummed at him when he took them, the way Holdfast hums.

The four took turns. A door in each corner of the hold. Elin and Goldie and Corin and Thessaly, holding, while Dory opened at our end, and as the hold filled up behind them, Aune walked up and down between the queens with a cup, the way Mother does, and poured.

It took nine hours.

By the sixth, we were at the inner rings. The big ones. The heavy queens, under the hoop. They were too big for the small doors. Dory had to open bigger ones. And bigger doors are louder. And the inner rings were the ones the houses were listening to most.

By the eighth hour, there were only forty left, all in the first ring, right under the hoop, the oldest and biggest and heaviest. Holding the door up. Singing louder than all the others put together.

And the houses were starting to notice.

I could hear it. Under the gardens. The talking was changing. Slower. Like a crowd of people in the next room who’ve just realised the music’s stopped and are looking at each other to see who’ll go and check.

“Dory,” I said.

“I know.”

“They’re going to turn round.”

“I know.” She was kneeling by a queen as big as the kitchen. Very old. Very tired. Nearly dry. “Forty, Dad. I’m not leaving forty.”

“Then be quick.”

She opened a door. The biggest she’d ever opened at our end. Thessaly was on the other side, in the fourth corner, with both hands up, shaking. The old queen went through.

Thirty-nine.

The houses turned round on the eleventh.

I felt it. Every one of them. Under every garden on Velle. All at once. Like a whole crowd turning to look at the door of the room.

The thin note had gone almost completely. Nine hundred and one queens were in the Hesta’s hold, and the eleven left under the hoop were the only ones singing, and eleven queens singing is a very small sound, even if they’re the biggest queens in the Reach.

And under that small sound, the houses could hear the given silver. Even through the coat. Even quietened.

“Where is he,” said a voice. Not the voice. Not the old one. A house, very close, under the gardens, under my feet. “He is here. He is here. He is HERE.”

“Eleven,” said Dory.

She didn’t look round. She didn’t stop. She went to the next queen, and the next, and the next, and opened door after door, and I stood with my back to the hoop and my face to the gardens and held.

I don’t know what I held. Everything. The ground. The air. The houses, coming up through the ground under the gardens, very fast, the way they came up through the plateau on Root on the second day, when everyone stood up. I asked the ground under Velle to hold them. I asked it very politely and very hard.

It said yes.

It was Velle’s ground. It had been under Velle’s people for longer than the Collective had a name. Its queen was in the first ring, on a frame, under the hoop. It had been waiting a very long time for somebody to ask.

It held.

“Last one,” said Dory.

She was kneeling by Velle’s own queen. In the first ring, right under the hoop. The one whose rock the houses had been living in all this time. The one they’d been seeing through, to open holes on every world.

She was the biggest of all of them. And the driest. And she was still singing.

“Hello,” said Dory. “I’m Dory. I’ve come to take you home.”

And Velle’s queen stopped singing, and said, very clearly, in a voice that went all the way down through the ground under every garden on Velle:

Not home. I am home. Take me away from here.

And then: Take them too. In the ring. They are my sisters. They have been in it for a year.

Dory opened the collar. She opened the frame. And she opened a door, the biggest of all of them, beside the hoop, and on the other side all four of them were holding it together, Elin and Goldie and Corin and Thessaly, every hand up, shaking.

Velle’s queen went through.

Then I turned round to the hoop.

I didn’t ask it anything. It wasn’t the hoop I needed to ask. I looked all the way down into it, into the black stuff wound round and round, and I found the first of the nineteen, drawn out thinner than a hair, and I asked her, very quietly, if she would like to come out.

She said yes. She came out of the ring like a thread coming out of a coat, round and round, very fast, and gathered herself on the grass under the hoop, very small, smaller than a cat, and Dory opened a door, and Corin took her.

Then the second. Then the third. Nineteen. Dory says it took four minutes. With the houses coming up through the ground all round us, and Velle’s ground holding them, and every one of the nineteen coming out of the ring like thread, and the ring getting thinner and thinner as they came.

When the last one was out, there wasn’t any black stuff left in it at all. Just iron and silver. Just a hoop.

And the thin note stopped.

The hoop went quiet.

All of it. All at once. The humming stopped. The great black ring stood up into the dark over the gardens, empty, the way it had always been empty, and for the first time since it was built, there was nothing holding it.

And it started to come down.

Not fast. Very slowly. The way a tree comes down, when you’ve cut all the way through and it hasn’t noticed yet. It leaned. It creaked. The iron made a sound like a very long breath going out.

“Dad,” said Dory. “Now.”

We went.

I don’t remember the thread. Dory says I held onto her hand so hard she had a mark for a week. I remember the dark, and the thread very bright under it, and then the Hesta’s hold, warm and dim and full, absolutely full, nine hundred and thirty-one queens from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, curled and lying and leaning on each other, not singing.

Quiet.

Mattick, at the front, turned the ship round very slowly. The way an ore ship turns when it’s been told there’s no loading today.

And behind us, past Velle’s outer moon, through the Hesta’s back window, Aune watched the ring come down across the gardens. All the way. Into the dark. She says it took nearly an hour. She says it didn’t make a sound you could hear, out there. She says she watched every minute of it.

Nobody followed us.

Nobody knew which ship to follow.

We went to Root.

Of course we went to Root. Where the eldest is. Where the queens went once before, on the day the body came, and ringed the plateau, big ones at the front.

They were waiting.

All of them. Every queen who’s ever come off a frame and lived. Ysse and Arreth, from Ister, and the Lantern queen, and Thole’s, through the arch. Sallow’s, from under the widest river, carried by Orra in her boat through the Arch Hall, which Orra says is the strangest thing she’s ever rowed through. The Scarecrow queen from her mountains. Isselt’s, through Isselt’s post arch, with Hen walking beside her. Hundreds of them. On the plains below the plateau, in the dawn, in a great ring, waiting for the Hesta to come down.

And the eldest. Under all of it. Singing.

Not the thin note. Her own. The long one. The one that’s older than anything.

The Hesta came down on the plain, and Mattick opened the hold, and the nine hundred and thirty-one came out into the light, very slowly, one at a time, the small ones carried, the big ones leaning on each other, and every queen on the plain went to them.

Halloway was there. She’d been there for three days. With every one of her people from every ward on every world, and every Aldri healer and Tirr nurse and Lantern hand-folder in the Hedge, and every doctor anyone could find.

And my children.

All of them. Every one. Mother had brought them. She’d stood in the Arch Hall the morning after we left and said to everyone in the house, very quietly, Root, and they’d all gone. Even the small ones.

Abena breathed for the queens who’d forgotten how. Kwame asked Root’s water to come up wherever a queen was lying, very slowly, very cold, so they could drink. Ash asked every collar Dory had opened to come apart completely, so no one could ever put it back together. Trevor turned the frames to glass, so you could see right through them, so they’d never look like anything again. Kesh made it rain. Soft. Warm. For days.

Efua sat with the smallest queens, the ones no bigger than a cat, and didn’t shout at anything at all, for the first time in her life. She just sat.

Luka went from queen to queen with his hands out, and everything he touched went warm.

And Queenie walked among them, among the biggest and the smallest, with her black eyes open all the way, and when she found one who was frightened, she stopped, and looked at it, all the way down, and then just at the top, very softly, and said, “Leaf.”

And the queen would stop being frightened.

Halloway says she doesn’t know how. She says she’s put it on the chart. She says she’s put it on the chart under Queenie and there’s nothing else on that page.

It took nine days.

At the end of them, nine hundred and thirty-one queens were singing. The nineteen from the ring last, very thin and very quiet at first, and then not. Not the thin note. Their own. Every one of them different. The eldest sang with all of them at once, and the whole of Root hummed, and Holdfast, on Andraste’s back, hummed two notes and then a third that nobody’s ever heard it hum before.

Velle’s queen sang last. And loudest.

When she’d finished, she said one thing, through Dory, to the eldest.

They are still there. In my rock. The ones who hurt me. I can still feel them. They have nothing to hold now. They are very angry.

And then:

Thank you for asking.

The Prime was furious.

Dory heard him. She was on Root, at the edge of the plateau, with her hand flat, and she heard him all the way from the great house on Carrow. She says it wasn’t the quiet kind, this time. Not the kind that’s decided. He was shouting. At the Assize. At the Refined. At the walls.

At the houses.

And he couldn’t say a word. Not on any band. Not one.

Because to say someone has taken the queens from Velle, he’d have to say there were queens on Velle. Nine hundred and thirty-one of them. On frames. Round a door he’d asked for, to open on my mother’s kitchen. And everyone in the Reach had already heard Senna read the Sallow letter. And everyone in the Reach was already sitting down.

So the Assize said nothing. And the bands said nothing.

Corvan’s line came a week later, tied to the bottom of a crate of rabbits.

Something happened on Velle. He won’t say what. He went there and came back and hasn’t spoken since. The ring is down. They say a storm. There was no storm. I know it was you. I’m not going to ask. C.

And under it, smaller:

He keeps saying nine hundred and thirty-one. Over and over. I don’t know what it means.

I do. So does Dory. He’s counting the ones he lost.

The eldest did one more thing before the queens went home.

On the last night, on the plateau, with every queen on Root in the great ring round her and the nine hundred and thirty-one among them, she reached out.

Not to us. Not through Dory. Further. Past Root. Past the Hedge. Past the Watch.

To every queen near Collective space. Every one she could feel. Under every member world in good standing, and every edge world and grain world and ore world, and every world in the middle of the Reach, a long way in, closer to Carrow than to the Watch. Every queen who’s never been framed. Every queen who doesn’t know she might be.

She sang to all of them. One song, that went out along every thread at once.

Dory heard it. She says it said:

You are not alone. If anything happens to you, call. Call me. Call her. Call anyone. Someone will come.

And then, very quietly, the way Mother says it at the end of every name:

We are still here.

The stars said Not yet this morning. Four hundred and fifty-two. Fifteen more worlds since Senna read. Wren says every one of them said it the way you’d say it after you’d been sitting down for a very long time and had just decided to stand up.

At the top of the slate, the way she does, Wren wrote the count.

And under it:

Velle: 931 home. 0 not.

The ring: down.

Morning: 82.

Days 10942–10995. Quiet Coats.

Okafor’s plan was the best I’ve ever seen: every Wing and battery and Standing to Velle in nine days, through eleven inner-arm worlds the Collective would hide behind; a great many would die. I stood up at the Table, which I never do: no; not one more queen on a frame, and not the whole Hedge through eleven worlds that never hurt anyone, because that’s what every war does. Asha asked: nobody can see, or nothing? Both. Eleven days: my Hearth silver thinner than hair, Dory’s glass drawn into cloth, the Lantern weavers; the light goes round you (Dory said hello behind Asha and Asha hit a bench). The houses always know where given silver is, a song nobody else sings, so Bell’s sum put lumen in the weave to keep us quiet, a small song under a great one, under the queens’ thin note; on the plateau the eldest sang it and the first house asked, where has he gone? The Hesta got an ore ship’s belly, forty-year-old ore marks worn in with sand, Sorrel’s Wing moved inside the hold door; Mattick flew, Aune beside him, the four who make doors on stools in the four corners. Mother took our faces in her hands: bring them home, and yourselves. Velle’s gardens were lit and empty; three million gone; nobody behind the doors for a long time. We passed the long white halls of the made, thousands asleep in rows; not tonight, not quietly; Dory to the wall: we’re coming back, I’ve seen every one of you. The ring went up past our towers, an empty door, humming, and round it ring after ring of queens on frames singing the thin note; the coat held. Dory counted nine hundred and twelve on the frames, and nineteen empty frames under the hoop: the nineteen were in the ring, the oldest and biggest drawn out thinner than hair and wound into it to hold a world open; we’d got there, just. Outside in: keep singing, just until you’re through; Dory opened collars, frames and small doors; I asked the iron to be quiet; Goldie took the first, Corin carried the most; Aune poured in the hold. Nine hours. At the eleventh the houses turned round: he is HERE. I asked Velle’s ground to hold them, and it was glad to be asked. Velle’s own queen, last: not home, I am home; take me away from here; take my sisters in the ring too. I asked the nineteen out one by one, like thread out of a coat, in four minutes, and with nothing left in it but iron the thin note stopped and the ring came down across the gardens for an hour; nobody knew which ship to follow. At Root every queen who ever came off a frame was waiting, and Halloway and every healer, and all my children: Abena’s breath, Kwame’s cold springs, Ash undoing the collars for ever, Trevor’s glass frames, Kesh’s warm rain, Efua silent for once, Luka’s warm hands, and Queenie’s leaf, on a page of the chart with nothing else on it. Nine days; nine hundred and thirty-one singing their own songs, the nineteen last; Holdfast hummed a third note. Velle’s queen: they’re still in my rock, with nothing to hold, very angry; thank you for asking. The Prime shouted at the walls and couldn’t say a word on any band. Corvan: they say a storm; there was no storm; he keeps saying nine hundred and thirty-one. The eldest sang to every queen near Collective space: you are not alone; call; someone will come; we are still here. Four hundred and fifty-two. Velle: 931 home, 0 not. The ring: down. Morning: 82.