Harmonic

To Danny and the girls,

for teaching me to believe in happy endings

CHAPTER ON
E

S
ome days, I don't want to fix things.

This is heresy, I know. Walkers fix things. It's our
raison d'être,
our calling, our privilege, and our pleasure.

But on days like this one, when Del won't leave her room and my parents are having another silent argument in the kitchen, I am tired of fixing things. People, reputations, futures, worlds. I'm tired of returning them to their rightful places. I want someone else to restore order to chaos while I actually live my own life.

It's not going to happen today.

I pound on Del's door for the third time. My sister's room is in the attic, and I'm sick of climbing the narrow stairs. “If you're not up in ten seconds, I'm coming in. Eliot's waiting.”

Silence.

I could pick the lock, but I'd rather not resort to one of Monty's tricks. It's my grandfather's fault Del is like this. Every single thing that's gone wrong lately can be traced back to Monty, as unstable and faulty as any world I've Walked to. There's no fixing him, though. Monty's gone, locked in an oubliette until the Consort decides his fate. I wish I could forget him as easily as the name of his prison suggests, but even in his absence, he manages to upend every aspect of my life.

“Five seconds,” I shout, and try the doorknob. Locked. Damn it.

I pull out the case with my picks, but just as I choose the right one, the door swings open.

Del looks terrible. Her eyes are ringed with purple shadows, the only color on her too-white face. Even her freckles look wan.

I lower my voice. “Did you sleep at all?”

She pulls her hair into a disheveled ponytail as she steps into the hallway. “I tried. Someone kept pounding on my door.”

After the Consort took Monty into custody, they gave us the rest of the day to recuperate. While Del sat in a state of shock, Eliot and I worked out a cover story—one that would shift the blame to Monty. The next morning, we were called in to give our statements, which is a polite way of saying we spent sixteen hours answering questions from various high-level Walkers. Even my parents had to sit through round after round of interrogations. Standard procedure, they assured us. No need to worry that we were under suspicion, as long as our stories held up.

So far, they have.

Since then, Del hasn't left her room. I'm not sure how long we can pass it off as grief over Monty's betrayal. For everyone's sake, Del needs to rejoin the living.

“We should have left ten minutes ago,” I say, more sternly than I feel. “Get dressed.”

She points to her worn flannel pants and moth-eaten sweater.

“You can't wear pajamas to school.”

“Not going,” she says.

“You have to. People are going to think it's weird if you and Simon both vanish.”

She flinches, but recovers. “Like I care what they think?”

“The school will hound his mom,” I say. “They might even ask Mom and Dad. The fewer connections between you two, the better for Amelia, especially while the Consort's investigating.”

It's the one thing I know will get her moving: the promise she made to take care of Amelia Lane, Simon's mother.

Wordlessly, she reaches for her backpack. My heart cracks at the anguish on her face when she remembers it's gone.

Like Simon.

Not for the first time, I think Del left some part of herself in that Echo before it unraveled, so I don't say anything else about her pajamas. Fixing her clothing isn't going to fix her, and her grief doesn't change the fact that we're late.

“Del . . .” My mom's voice trails off as we enter the kitchen. “Honey, you can't . . . what will people say when you show up wearing rags?”

Del takes the coffee that Eliot hands her. “Ask them.”

“They'll say you're late,” I point out, and Eliot nods.

“No breakfast?” Mom asks, the lines in her forehead deeper than they were two months ago.

“We'll eat on the way,” I say with a glance at my watch. Handing Del an apple, I prod her out the door.

Inside the Volvo, our breath hangs in brittle clouds. I burrow my nose into my scarf as I pray for the ignition to start. Del curls up in the backseat and Eliot sits next to her. In the rearview mirror, I see him reach for her hand and at the last minute stop himself.

His eyes meet mine and he looks away, suddenly fascinated with the upholstery. I want to explain that he needs, for once in his life, to be bold. That he won't win Del over by waiting. That wanting someone means risking yourself, and if he's not willing to take the chance, he doesn't deserve her.

It's cold logic, the kind we apply on our Walks every day. But I won't say the words, because who wants advice from a hypocrite?

Knees to her chest, forehead against the glass, Del doesn't speak on the brief drive to school. Eliot breaks the silence, saying, “Thanks for the ride.”

“It's no problem. I'm on my way in to work.” I bite back a comment about being late. The Consort said they'd reward me for my help with Del, but I can't afford to get sloppy.

Apprenticeships are even more competitive than regular training. When Del and Eliot graduate, they'll become apprentices, preparing for a specialized job within the Walkers. The positions are assigned based on their class rank, for the most part. If Del graduates at the top—which doesn't seem likely, considering how little effort she puts in—she'll have first pick of her placement and a fresh start.

But once you're an apprentice, you're locked in for life. Everything goes on your permanent record, and your performance is really a years-long audition. There's a shortage of Walkers, but the best assignments—the most prestigious, the ones with the most room for advancement—are handed out to a select few. Everyone else gets the leftovers.

I pull into the student lot and turn to face Del, trying to sound cheerful. “Ready?”

She doesn't respond.

“Hey.” Eliot jogs her elbow. “We're here.”

She blinks at him.

“Come on.” I get out and open her door. Her gaze flits to me, then the windshield, as if she's orienting herself. “You're late.”

Eliot circles the car and helps her out, then reaches for her violin. “Orchestra,” he says gently. “You can handle orchestra, right?”

“Not today,” she says, and takes a step backward, out of reach.

“It'll be better once you're inside,” I tell her, but I have spent the past sixteen years of my life watching Del skip out of chores and homework and anything else she doesn't want to do. The signs are there in the set of her jaw and the way she hugs herself, as if she might otherwise fly apart. Nothing short of a cattle prod will get her into that building. Nothing I can do will fix Del: I can't bring Simon back, can't reweave a world unraveled, can't turn back time. I can't even fix myself.

Since the anomaly—the Consort's official name for the instability that nearly destroyed the Key World—I'd felt unsteady. Like the foundation I'd built my life on wasn't level, and my plans for the future had gone askew.

I believe in the calling of the Walkers, in our mission to protect the Key World, in our code: obedience, diligence, and sacrifice. Our leaders and our own past don't seem as noble now that I know the truth—the lengths they've gone to in order to crush a rebellion, the ease with which they manipulate us—but it's hard to reconcile such ugly knowledge with the people and work I've devoted my life to.

Del's not the only one who has lost something, but she's the only one wallowing. I don't know if it's jealousy or fear that snaps my patience like a bowstring. “Suit yourself.”

There's a murmured back-and-forth between Del and Eliot—his voice is low but urgent, hers is weary and stubborn.

“Maybe tomorrow,” she finally says to me.

“Sure.” I try to sound as if I believe her.

Before I can say more, she trudges away, head down, in the opposite direction of the school. I turn to Eliot.

“She's not coming tomorrow.”

“Probably not,” he admits. “It's only been a couple of days. She needs time.”

“She needs a project,” I snap, taking out my frustration on poor Eliot. “Something to focus on.”

“She's plenty focused,” he says. “On Simon.”

“Then let's give her something else to think about. A distraction might help.”

Eliot bends to retrieve his messenger bag from the car, and when he straightens, it hits me that he's not a little kid anymore. He's a full head taller than I am and his shoulders are broad, though slumped. He meets my eyes and says softly, “Keeping busy won't make it hurt less. You should know.”

I gape at him. “I notice things,” he says with a shrug. “And I haven't noticed it working so great for you.”

Before I can reply, he heads into school, and I'm left alone.

CHAPTER TWO

U
nlike Del, I
don't have a classroom to return to. Officially, I work at Consort Change Management, a “financial services” company. In truth, CCM is a front for Consort operations, with branches around the world. Like any low-level corporate drone, I have a desk—not an office, not a cube—a desk. With a scarred laminate top and drawers that are constantly falling off their runners, so they screech every time I look for a pencil. It's not even mine, not completely. I share it with two other apprentice Cleavers—one who works the night shift and one who works weekends. I outrank my desk mates in both seniority and skill, so the coveted day shift is mine.

For as long as I can hold on to it, at least.

I have less than a year left. After that, I'll become a Third Chair—the youngest member of a cleaving team. If I can keep my ranking, I can pick my future like an apple from a tree. Move anywhere in the world, join any Consort.

All I have to do is maintain perfection for another year. Perfection amid wreckage, and then I can finally breathe again.

A year isn't that long, when you think about it. Even if I am holding my breath.

•    •    •

The office is nearly deserted when I arrive. I'm late, but even so, I'm surprised by how quiet the floor is.

The few Cleavers who haven't left for the day watch my progress. The distance from the elevator to my desk feels incredibly long. Football field–long. Mississippi River–long. Great Wall of China–long. Chin up, shoulders back, footsteps precise. I count them as I walk, and it's the same as always: fifty-seven. The distance hasn't changed, just the atmosphere.

My own team is gone already—the multiverse waits for no one, especially not an apprentice—so I sit at my desk and think about what's next. The night-shift Cleaver, Bryn, hasn't bothered to clean up her papers, and I'm struck by a sudden desire to sweep the whole messy pile into the recycling bin.

The silence has given way to a murmur, questions and rumors swirling at my sudden appearance. The Consort hasn't released any official findings; Monty has yet to be sentenced. But nobody said I
couldn't
show up, so I have. For once, I agree it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. Maybe Del's rubbing off on me.

I skim Bryn's leftover papers, only half paying attention. My ears are attuned to the whispers, my skin prickles from the looks. Casually, I glance at the whiteboard hanging near the door, and my spine eases. My first-place ranking stands intact. Councilman Lattimer, the Cleavers' representative on the Consort, has kept his word.

I log in to my computer. It's tempting to bury myself in the familiar language of cleavings and analysis, to disappear for a little while. But I'm here to make a good impression, to show I have nothing to hide, and cowering behind my monitor isn't going to do the job.

I always do the job.

I
am
the job. That's how my parents raised me, and I do them proud every day.

Pushing away from my desk, I seek out the First Chair on duty, Lockport. He nods warily. His close-cropped hair is prematurely gray, matching his eyes.

“Addison. Didn't know you were coming in today.”

“Why wouldn't I?” I ask, careful to keep the edge from my voice. He doesn't respond, so I ask, “My team's already out?”

He taps his foot restlessly. Lockport has the wiry build and tightly wound energy of a serious cyclist. “Full Repertoire.”

The Repertoire is the list of the day's cleavings, approved each morning by the Consort and divided among the teams. A full Repertoire means my group won't be back until the end of the day. Tardiness has cost me an entire shift of work.

“Something I can do to help in the meantime?” I ask.

He looks behind me, like there's something truly fascinating—an inversion, or a brand-new pivot—a few feet past my shoulder. Finally his gaze darts back to me, then to the floor. “I'll have to check.”

He doesn't have to check. There's no shortage of work, only Walkers. I wonder if he doesn't trust me. If there's a black mark on my record, no matter what the Consort has said to my face.

“I can pick up where I left off last week,” I say, and pat my tote bag. “I've got the reports right here.”

“You can't cleave without your team,” he says like I'm a first-year trainee. Cleavers work in threes, to manage the reweaving efficiently.

They send three Cleavers so no one knows who cut the last string. Keeps 'em from feeling guilty,
Monty's voice whispers at the back of my brain. I shake my head to clear it and refocus on Lockport.

“I can prep for tomorrow's Repertoire,” I say. “I'm happy to pitch in.”

I'm not entirely sure what the problem is. As far as the Walkers know, Monty acted alone when he tried to destabilize the Key World. Del, Eliot, and I stopped him. Simon, in our version of the story, never existed at all. The only person who could contradict us is Monty himself. He's locked up, so nobody can hear him, and insane, so nobody would believe him. Lockport should be looking at me as if I'm a hero, not a criminal.

This must be how Del feels on a regular basis. Sympathy flashes through me until I remember that Del, at least, earned her notoriety through years of antics and acting out. In seven years of training, I've earned only accolades.

Lockport finally makes up his mind. “Data run,” he says, and hands me a list of numbers in phone-book-size print.

“Data run?” I can't keep the dismay from my voice. These days, all our records are digital, but the backlog of maps and reports is too massive to put online. Anything more than twenty-five years old is kept as a hard copy in the Archives. Usually, both Cleavers and navigators can call up the information we need on our computers; if we need something more complicated, or an old report, a quick trip will suffice. But a data run—going into the Archives to find the necessary maps for a big series of cleavings—is grunt work, the sort of thing a first-year apprentice would be stuck with, a full morning of digging through stacks with the help of an archivist.

Assuming the archivist on duty will speak to you.

“Thought you wanted to help,” Lockport says, folding his arms.

“I do,” I say. “But isn't there something a little more hands-on?”

He shrugs. “The fifth years are starting their cleavings soon. You want to make sure the training looms are strung and tightened?”

Handling the strings of the multiverse, the threads that make up the fabric of reality, is a delicate business. You can accidentally unravel a world, destabilize entire branches, trap yourself on the wrong side and never make it home. In the worst-case scenario, you could damage the Key World.

To prepare, unlicensed Walkers like Del and Eliot work on looms, learning how to separate and manipulate the individual filaments. They start with yarn and gradually swap it out for finer, more delicate threads. Someone has to do the prep work and the swapping, but it wasn't going to be me. My reputation might have taken a hit, but my pride was still intact.

I pluck the paper from Lockport's fingers and leave without another word.

•    •    •

The Archives smell like the very best kind of library—leather and old paper and pleasant dust. The stacks take up three floors, but like any library, there's a central area—big wooden tables with paperweights and magnifying glasses, computers to access the more recent records, card catalogs and massive ledgers to find the older ones. And the archivists' desks.

Proportionately, there aren't a lot of archivists. We have approximately one hundred and fifty Cleavers working at any one time, but there's usually only three archivists, plus an apprentice on duty. It's not a surprise that the room looks deserted when I arrive. My shoulders relax, my pulse slows, and I tell myself that the weird feeling in the pit of my stomach is relief, not disappointment.

The list of frequencies Lockport gave me is absurdly long, and none of them is new enough to be computerized. For an instant I wonder if this is payback—if people hold me responsible for Monty, for my failure to see him or stop him until it was nearly too late.

They wouldn't be wrong, either.

Regardless, I have to do this the old-fashioned way. I head to the card catalog and start flipping through the rectangles of paper, looking for the coordinates of each frequency and jotting them down.

It's nearly an hour before I'm done looking up call numbers. As I close the drawer, a gentle voice says, “Can I help you find something?”

I spin around, heart in my throat, palms damp. But it's only the Senior Archivist, a woman named Green, her Boston accent still pronounced. Her hair is carefully set and frosted, her face soft like rising bread dough.

It takes a minute for my voice to come back. “Thanks, but I can find them,” I say. “Where is everyone?”

She gestures to my paper. “We have lists of our own, I'm afraid. Addison, isn't it?”

I nod.

“We haven't seen you in a while.”

“No, ma'am.” I flush. “We've been busy.”

“It seems so.” She peers at the list of call numbers. “Wouldn't that go faster with some help? We can ask—”

“No, thank you,” I say quickly. “It's no trouble.”

“If you're sure,” she says, with a small frown. She looks grandmotherly, or what I assume grandmothers should look like. I barely remember mine, which is for the best. Rose Armstrong was a Free Walker, and if she hadn't abandoned her family seventeen years ago, she'd be in an oubliette along with her husband right now.

“Absolutely sure.”

Surety, I've discovered, is the only way to survive.

I take my list and a map carrier back into the cramped stacks. Each aisle is flanked by bookshelves atop long, flat filing cabinets. The reports—formal write-ups of a Walk—are crammed into the bookshelves. The maps for the corresponding worlds are stored underneath, lying flat. You find the map, roll it into a tube, slide it into the carrier, and pull the report. Take the whole pile back to the cleaving team that requested it. As Del would say, data runs suck.

Juggling the oversize report folders is harder than the maps, but I work as fast as I can, rolling the maps haphazardly and stuffing them into the cylindrical case slung over my shoulder like an archer's quiver. Voices float from the central part of the room, but they're not distinct enough to recognize who's speaking. Rather than find out, I pick up the pace. A few times, I hear footsteps in nearby rows, but I keep my eyes glued to the spines in front of me.

Like an ostrich, I'm hoping if I don't see her, she won't see me.

In case you weren't aware: Ostriches are remarkably stupid birds.

My arms ache from the weight of the reports, but I keep going, trying to finish as quickly as possible. I swing around the corner into the next row, and she's there.

Laurel.

Laurel, curvy and dark-skinned and clear black-brown eyes, like the bottom of a creek bed with water rushing past. Laurel, with hair that corkscrews in every direction and hands that move like birds in flight. Laurel, who smells like summer and stories, even in the dead of winter. Laurel, with her wide smile and dimples, merry or sly depending on her mood, who doesn't look even a little bit happy to see me.

The books hit the floor in an earsplitting crash. I yelp, and she winces, her eyebrows drawing down in a scowl as she eyes the wreckage between us.

“Sorry!” I kneel and gather up the books. “I didn't see you.”

“No kidding,” she says dryly.

She watches me scrabble about on the floor, then sighs. “Here,” she says, and bends down to help me, her hand brushing against mine as she reaches for a report, smoothing the creased papers. Her nails are electric blue, so glossy they reflect the light. My own are bitten-down and unpolished, dull in comparison.

The scent of strawberries and warm skin is too bittersweet a reminder, and I jerk back. “I've got this.”

She freezes in place, then draws her hand away with exaggerated care. “Of course you do.”

She stands up, brushing at her knees, and waits while I finish stacking the books. I can't find the right words, so I work in silence, feeling the weight of her gaze with every movement. “Since when do you do data runs?” she asks.

I can't tell if the words are a challenge or a question.

“I was late.” I stand, the books stacked awkwardly in my arms. “I was supposed to drive my sister to school.”

“Supposed to?”

She flaked out.
I press my lips together, forcing the words back. We can't all go spilling our secrets, the way Del did. She told Simon about the Walkers and look how that turned out. Laurel knows me too well as it is, even now, after everything. After doors were slammed shut so hard they couldn't possibly open again. “She wasn't up to it. By the time I got in, my team had left for the day.”

“So you decided to visit the Archives?” She's skeptical, and for good reason. It's been six months since I came up here.

“Only because Lockport sent me,” I say, so defensive it sounds like an excuse.

Which it is.

She draws back as if stung. “Better get back to it, then. Don't want to keep Lockport waiting.”

She heads to her desk without another word, and I can do nothing but watch her go.

There are two sides to every story; two worlds from every choice. But the past is a singular thing. A clear path from what was to what is. What Laurel and I were . . . isn't anymore.

Laurel's interpretation is probably different than mine, but the result is the same—a dead end.

She came here from Baltimore two years ago for her apprenticeship. I did plenty of data runs my first year, but once we met, they didn't feel like a chore. Apprentices have no time to themselves, especially Cleavers, because there's no end to entropy. Still, we found time, stealing away from the rest of the world whenever we could. I had my work, and we had each other, and we were happy.