Dissonance (24 page)

“I have plans tomorrow. For school.” No way was I blowing off Simon a second time.

“We'll be back by lunch. You can study then.” She went upstairs, and I headed back to the kitchen. Monty was sitting at the table, working his way through a bowl of ice cream the size of a softball, doused with chocolate syrup and caramel sauce.

“Well? What did he want?”

“He's checking in on my training. And buttering up Addie.”
He's spying on you,
I wanted to say, but Addie's warning was fresh in my mind.

He poked the spoon at me. “He's after something. Thinks you're the key to it.”

“Then he's an idiot,” I said hotly. “I can handle Lattimer.”

“Smart girl.” He patted my hand, his fingers sticky. “But even fools are dangerous if they want something.”

Inversions occur when a vibrato fractum replaces the corresponding area of a nearby branch. They must be stabilized before a cleaving occurs, or else the exchange between branches becomes permanent, allowing the damage to spread.

—Chapter Five, “Physics,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

W
E HEADED OUT
early the next morning. Mom had fixed a real breakfast—French toast, eggs, and bacon—given me a hug, and retreated to her office, as if a dose of proper nutrition erased yesterday's fight. My dad had already left.

The sky was the pale blue of a glacier, the sun giving the illusion of warmth. We crossed through a pivot near the football stadium and wove our way through the residential neighborhood. Between houses I caught a glimpse of the graveyard, and wondered if Simon's mom was alive in this Echo.

“The terminal Echo from yesterday,” I said. “Does he exist in other worlds?”

“Some, but they'll unravel eventually. They're not real.”

The Simon I'd met yesterday seemed real enough. So did
his suffering and his sympathy. “Echoes can die before their Originals, right?”

“Sure. It happens all the time.”

Maybe Original Simon's mom was healthy, and I'd worried for nothing.

Monty trailed us by a half block, and I lowered my voice. “What about Grandma? Would the branches she'd Walked through react if she died?”

“No. She doesn't have Echoes, so her impressions would fade away.”

I shuddered. If I died, the Simons I'd met wouldn't care. Or would they? Doughnut World Simon remembered me. If I died, he'd wonder why I never came back.

Monty caught up to us. “What are you two looking so serious about?”

“Going over notations,” Addie said smoothly. I was impressed—usually she was a terrible liar. Now she eyed him. “Do you know what Mom and Dad are working on, Grandpa?”

“Consort business,” he said with a nonchalant wave. “Hush-hush.”

“You don't have any idea?” she pressed.

“Plenty of ideas. Mostly about lunch.” He stuck out his chin. “Not my fight anymore.”

Addie sighed, then turned to me. “Fine. We're here, Del. Are you ready?”

“For what?” I expected to catch the hum of a pivot, but heard
nothing unusual. We'd stopped in front of a tiny white cottage with black shutters and a red door, window boxes filled with gourds. Clusters of hydrangeas and mums pressed against the picket fence, a stone frog guarding the gate.

“Watch,” she said, and tilted her head at the polished brass mailbox hanging from the fence.

“Very quaint. What's wrong with it?”

“You tell me.”

The frequency pulsed in a strange cycle, and I peeked inside, spotting a few slim letters and a magazine. As I reached in, they disappeared. I craned my head for a closer look and they came back. I went for them again, and they vanished.

“What the hell?”

Addie was trying not to snicker. “It's an inversion.”

“You're kidding.” Another reality, swapping places with this one. Exactly the sort of thing Walkers were supposed to prevent. “Why isn't there a team here to take care of it?”

“There is. Us.”

The mailbox shifted from polished brass to rusting white metal and back again. “I can't hear a pivot.”

“Pivots come from choices. An inversion is a really bad break. But we can use it like a pivot. If a frequency can make it through, so can we. Right, Grandpa? You're an expert at inversions.”

“I've dealt with my fair share.” He ambled over and poked at the mailbox. “This is apprentice-level work.”

She forced a smile. “The Consort felt Del was ready.”

His expression darkened. “You mean Lattimer. I won't be a part of whatever scheme he's cooked up.” He picked up a newspaper lying on the driveway and settled himself on the curb. “I'll be here when you get back.”

“Grandpa, we can't leave you behind. Mom would kill us.”

He rattled the paper. “Then you've got a choice. Disobey your mother or disobey Lattimer. But I'm not crossing that inversion.”

We were silent for a moment, Addie struggling to keep her temper, Monty scowling at the op-ed page. “We'll be back soon. Don't move from this spot.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he said airily.

•  •  •

Walking through faint pivots was like threading the world's smallest needle. You needed steady hands, sharp senses, and total concentration.

Crossing an inversion was like trying to thread the needle while treading water. I kept reaching through space, feeling for the vibration that corresponded with the mailbox. A few times I could have sworn it brushed against my fingertips, only to drift away. Even Addie was getting frustrated, her movements jerky as she tried to guide me.

“We're never going to get through if you keep swinging your arms around like a windmill,” I said when she'd bumped my hand one too many times. “Let me try alone.”

On the curb Monty coughed noisily. Addie turned her back on him. “It's more dangerous than a pivot, Del. I need to stay with you.”

“Once I've got it started, you hold on to me, and we'll cross together. Eliot and I do it all the time.”

“Please spare me the details of what you and Eliot do together.”

I smacked her arm. “Ew. We're not like that.”

“Much to poor Eliot's chagrin.”

“Stop,” I said. “Can we please get to work? I think it's getting worse.”

Addie folded her arms across her chest. “If you leave me here I will tell Mom. And the Consort.”

“Relax,” I said, but it was more for my sake than hers. I shook out the tension in my arms, blew out the breath I'd been holding, and closed my eyes, listening to the wind rustling through the leaves, children playing in a nearby yard, my own heartbeat, and the pitch of this world. A quick burst of dissonance flashed and fell silent.

There was a meter to it, I realized after a few flashes. Irregular, but present, and I started to count, readying myself.

My hand shot out and the sound retreated, but not before I bent my fingers, barely snagging the thread I needed. Carefully, my movements as fluid as possible, I reached for Addie and brought us through.

“Whoa,” I said, opening my eyes and staggering. The slightly off frequency I'd heard was amplified, and my arms broke into goose bumps. “I was not expecting this.”

Addie wasn't either, judging from the lines creasing her forehead. “I don't understand. Inversions always sound worse, but it wasn't supposed to be this bad.”

“It's like Park World.” I could have kicked myself for not checking Eliot's map before we crossed. This was exactly what he'd worried about. “Remember? The pitch was worse than Mom told us.”

“No.” Addie's voice shook on the word, but quickly strengthened. “We're not going to cleave this world. I'm going to stabilize the inversion, you're going to watch, and we'll leave.”

“What if we can't?” I fought the urge to clap my hands over my ears.

The cottage, like the world itself, was in bad shape—instead of window boxes filled with bright mums and miniature pumpkins, the windows were framed with peeling shutters and rotting wood. The lawn was full of crabgrass and patchy spots, and the fence was more gaps than boards.

“We will,” said Addie. She pushed on the gate, and a cat shot out from underneath a bedraggled shrub. “Stabilizing inversions is the last step before a cleaving. The threads of this mailbox are swapping places with the other one. We need to fix them in place again.”

“They're going to cleave this world.” The knowledge unsettled me more than the pitch.

“Probably. The inversion's only affecting Echoes, not the Key World. And the rest of this place seems stable, so they might not get around to it for a while. But it's definitely a candidate.”

The cat hurtled past us a second time, orange fur flashing, its yowls adding to the clamor. Addie said, “What is wrong with that—dog!”

“Cat,” I corrected, and then heard it. A deep, joyful barking. “Oh, hell. Run, kitty!”

The cat didn't need our advice—it streaked up a tree, hissing and spitting. Another, larger form hurtled past and took up residence at the base of the trunk.

“Iggy?” I ran a hand over his silky brown fur. “You're messing with me, aren't you, pup?”

He barked twice and returned his attention to the tree.

“Iggy, you psycho,” called Simon, exasperation ringing through his words. “Leave Mr. Biscuits alone.”

“Mr. Biscuits?” I snorted.

Simon turned to me, recognition lighting his eyes. His hair was practically a buzz cut, and he wore a down vest over his sweatshirt instead of a coat, but otherwise he seemed pretty similar to Original Simon. “I didn't name him. He's not my cat.”

Addie made a strangled sound, and I elbowed her.

Above our heads Mr. Biscuits gave an outraged, warbling cry, and Iggy quivered with excitement.

“He's not going to eat the cat, is he?” I asked.

“Not unless the cat's stupid enough to come back down. He likes to taunt Iggy and run home, but the gate's usually locked.” He looked at the gate, then us. “Were you looking for Mrs. Higgins?”

Addie whispered, “Get rid of him.”

Before I could respond, Simon called, “C'mon, boy. Lunchtime!”

Iggy romped at the base of the tree, pointedly ignoring him.

“Iggy,” I singsonged. “Go see Simon.”

The dog whuffed and padded toward him, head drooping.

Simon grabbed the red nylon collar. “Good to see he listens to someone. See you around.”

I waved weakly.

“Why did he know you?” Addie demanded.

“He doesn't,” I lied, searching for an answer that would convince both of us. “I touched his dog. Same as touching another person, and it made me visible.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You'd better hope that's it.”

It wasn't. From Doughnut Simon's memories to the way Cemetery Simon had known my name, something was off. Even if Monty was right, and the threads of our lives were somehow interwoven, Simon's Echoes weren't following the rules of our world, and I knew firsthand how the Consort felt about rule breakers. Confiding in Addie was not an option—she'd left Monty sitting on a sidewalk rather than cross Lattimer. She'd turn Simon over to the Consort without batting an eyelash.

Around us the dissonance increased, the mailbox flickering more rapidly. I reached past her to tap it, asking, “Should I be worried?”

She shifted into lecture mode, exactly as I'd hoped. “Inversions are strong, and the longer they exist, the stronger they get. We have to stabilize the threads directly.”

“A tuning? Isn't that what you did at the game?”

“It's similar, I suppose. Tunings aren't usually worth the effort, because you're only dealing with a few threads. Inversions are a lot
more work, and they're riskier.” She smiled. “Watch and learn.”

She closed her eyes and slipped her fingers through the air, wiggling them slightly. “The first step is to isolate the threads, same as with a regular break.”

But she wasn't acting like this was a regular break. Her skin was chalky white, her shoulders hunched. After what seemed like ages, she flinched. “There. Put your hand over mine.”

I did, cautiously, pushing aside my memories of Duck Pond World. These threads—a solid handful of them instead of the one or two I was used to feeling—felt knotted and kinked, their instability giving me vertigo. No wonder the effect was visible. “What next?”

“Mimic the frequency you're looking for, and sort of . . . coax the thread.” She ran her hand over the bad strings, gently but firmly, humming under her breath the whole time. Gradually they smoothed out, taking on the same frequency as the rest of the world.

“Done,” she said, and I eased my hand away, feeling dizzy.

Carefully she withdrew her hand, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes were shining, and bright spots of color stood high on her cheeks. “Awesome, right?”

“Sure. Lattimer will send in Cleavers now?” I asked, trying to match her enthusiasm. The whole world sounded better; the Simon we'd seen had been stable. Cleaving him seemed unfair. Cruel. And I'd played a part in it.

“Don't worry,” she said, mistaking the source of my unhappiness. “You'll be cleaving soon enough.”

Choices requiring significant effort on the part of the subject create stronger Echoes than those maintaining the status quo.

—Chapter One, “Structure and Formation,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

I
T MUST BE
a universal law that no matter how absentee your parents have been, the one time you would like them to stay away is the exact time they'll decide to take an interest in your life.

“Del?” my mom said, coming out of her office, coffee cup clutched in one hand, a stack of maps in the other. She folded them in half, hiding their contents. “Who's this?”