scent. After my brush with them in the Land of the Iron Winds, I’m not about to underestimate their strength.
I stumble past another experimental Shaper’s creation—the beached husk of a ship, its exposed side torn through, as if it were a great insect’s molted shell burst open. I try not to wonder why it looks like something broke free as I circle around the bow and plunge into the forests beyond. The little girl’s soul has to be close by, given our proximity in the real world, and I’m reaching the end of my tether … A stretch, like fibers fraying, and then—snap. My soul tears free from my body.
Stop running from your fears. You can surrender, find eternal rest …
My breath falters. They’ve already found me.
The Nightmare Wastes’ call threads through the trees like a delicate wind. Delicate, but insistent—my soul flutters on the breeze. They’re blowing me off course, pulling a snare around me with those velvet words.
They will never forgive you. Isn’t it better to let go? Why suffer their disappointment a moment more? Surrender now, and never feel their hatred again.
Dreamer, but it’s hard to fight. Before, the Nightmare Wastes were only a gnat buzzing around me as I sought my host—irritating but escapable. Now, I feel a great undertow gripping me, pulling me toward surrender. But I can’t, I can’t, I have to fight. Brandt needs me. The Empire of Barstadt needs me.
But they would rather it be anyone else.
Professor Hesse taught me to cleave to my purpose when the Wastes called my name, but they’ve never been so strong. I grab at a nearby branch and brace myself against it.
Surrender, foolish girl. There is nothing more you can do. Why fight?
Tears needle at my eyes. The sting of the Wastes’ cold hardens around my skin. I don’t know how much longer I can resist them.
But then I catch sight of it: the little girl’s consciousness, dangling gossamer-thin between two sapling branches—a spiderweb. It seems a fitting representation for her here, brought into Oneiros by the mothwood smoke. Her thoughts are more delicate than the adults I usually seek; I must brush against them tenderly to keep from tearing them to shreds. I take hold of the little girl’s tether and slip into her body.
Why bother, Livia? the Wastes cry out . You’ll only fail them once more—
We open our eyes.
Weak, watery shapes in cream and shadowy blue. It takes a moment to bring the world into focus. Brandt’s already donned the butler’s uniform and is busy wedging an arm into an armoire. Blearily, I recognize it as my own.
“Ah, there you are.” He shoves the armoire door shut with his back. I hope my fingers were out of the way. “Might want to figure out your name before we get any further.”
“Good point.” The girl’s voice is fluid; I can’t seem to hold it down. I lean back into her spiderweb thoughts, her fleeting dreams. “Martine.”
“All right, Martine. Ready to make a scene?” Brandt asks.
I don’t feel at all ready, but with Brandt supporting me, I’m far better off. “Let’s do.”
We charge out into the sitting room. As soon as Brandt’s checked the restraints on the unconscious butler, I run from the bedroom suite. “Mommy! Mommy!” I shriek, tearing down the hallway and onto the grand staircase. Martine’s instincts tweak at me and I correct myself. “Maman! Maman!”
Brandt and Vera, in guise, chase after me and silence me halfway down the twisting stairs. Few party revelers look up, unable to hear us over the plodding waltz, but we’ve achieved our desired effect. Lady Sindra Twyne rears up from her chair, glaring icicles at Vera and Brandt. She excuses herself from the ruby-flecked aristocrat with whom she’d been chatting and cuts a murderous path through the dance floor.
“Bring her to my rooms,” Lady Twyne hisses at Vera without turning to look at her, and keeps climbing the stairs past us, as if to deny all relations. Is this how poor Martine
I stumble past another experimental Shaper’s creation—the beached husk of a ship, its exposed side torn through, as if it were a great insect’s molted shell burst open. I try not to wonder why it looks like something broke free as I circle around the bow and plunge into the forests beyond. The little girl’s soul has to be close by, given our proximity in the real world, and I’m reaching the end of my tether … A stretch, like fibers fraying, and then—snap. My soul tears free from my body.
Stop running from your fears. You can surrender, find eternal rest …
My breath falters. They’ve already found me.
The Nightmare Wastes’ call threads through the trees like a delicate wind. Delicate, but insistent—my soul flutters on the breeze. They’re blowing me off course, pulling a snare around me with those velvet words.
They will never forgive you. Isn’t it better to let go? Why suffer their disappointment a moment more? Surrender now, and never feel their hatred again.
Dreamer, but it’s hard to fight. Before, the Nightmare Wastes were only a gnat buzzing around me as I sought my host—irritating but escapable. Now, I feel a great undertow gripping me, pulling me toward surrender. But I can’t, I can’t, I have to fight. Brandt needs me. The Empire of Barstadt needs me.
But they would rather it be anyone else.
Professor Hesse taught me to cleave to my purpose when the Wastes called my name, but they’ve never been so strong. I grab at a nearby branch and brace myself against it.
Surrender, foolish girl. There is nothing more you can do. Why fight?
Tears needle at my eyes. The sting of the Wastes’ cold hardens around my skin. I don’t know how much longer I can resist them.
But then I catch sight of it: the little girl’s consciousness, dangling gossamer-thin between two sapling branches—a spiderweb. It seems a fitting representation for her here, brought into Oneiros by the mothwood smoke. Her thoughts are more delicate than the adults I usually seek; I must brush against them tenderly to keep from tearing them to shreds. I take hold of the little girl’s tether and slip into her body.
Why bother, Livia? the Wastes cry out . You’ll only fail them once more—
We open our eyes.
Weak, watery shapes in cream and shadowy blue. It takes a moment to bring the world into focus. Brandt’s already donned the butler’s uniform and is busy wedging an arm into an armoire. Blearily, I recognize it as my own.
“Ah, there you are.” He shoves the armoire door shut with his back. I hope my fingers were out of the way. “Might want to figure out your name before we get any further.”
“Good point.” The girl’s voice is fluid; I can’t seem to hold it down. I lean back into her spiderweb thoughts, her fleeting dreams. “Martine.”
“All right, Martine. Ready to make a scene?” Brandt asks.
I don’t feel at all ready, but with Brandt supporting me, I’m far better off. “Let’s do.”
We charge out into the sitting room. As soon as Brandt’s checked the restraints on the unconscious butler, I run from the bedroom suite. “Mommy! Mommy!” I shriek, tearing down the hallway and onto the grand staircase. Martine’s instincts tweak at me and I correct myself. “Maman! Maman!”
Brandt and Vera, in guise, chase after me and silence me halfway down the twisting stairs. Few party revelers look up, unable to hear us over the plodding waltz, but we’ve achieved our desired effect. Lady Sindra Twyne rears up from her chair, glaring icicles at Vera and Brandt. She excuses herself from the ruby-flecked aristocrat with whom she’d been chatting and cuts a murderous path through the dance floor.
“Bring her to my rooms,” Lady Twyne hisses at Vera without turning to look at her, and keeps climbing the stairs past us, as if to deny all relations. Is this how poor Martine
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