The Drowned Vault by N. D. Wilson

will eat.”
    Cyrus groaned. Through some strange magic, Antigone managed to sit up.
    “This is about teamwork and controlling panic,” Arachne said. She laughed a little. “And obviously strength and concentration and disorientation and blind balance.”
    “What is it?” Antigone asked.
    Arachne’s eyebrows climbed. “You’re going to do handstands with your backs together and your heads over buckets of water.” She seemed apologetic. “Rupert didn’t think you’d even be able to try until the end of the day tomorrow. But you’ve gotten through everything else on the list.”
    Cyrus managed to sit up. He looked at the big plastic buckets next to him. “Back to back?” He looked at Antigone. “We can do it.”
    “How long?” Antigone asked.
    “For ten minutes,” Arachne said. “If one of you falls, the clock starts again.”
    “Ten minutes in a handstand?” Cyrus shook his head.
    “Or a
head
stand,” said Arachne. “But your heads goin the buckets. And you’ll need to move in unison or you’ll fall.”
    Antigone laughed in disbelief.
    Cyrus climbed to one knee, then both knees; one foot, then both feet. He reached down for his sister’s hands, but when she pulled on him to stand up, he nearly fell onto her.
    Cyrus wiped his forearm across his head. “Let’s do it, Tigs.”
    At first, it seemed like getting into the back-to-back handstands would be the hard part. They fell sideways. And sideways. And sideways. Then Antigone fell on Cyrus, and Cyrus fell on Antigone. Finally, they were up, but they’d missed the buckets.
    “Um, help?” Cyrus said. Blood was already pounding in his head. This couldn’t be healthy.
    Arachne slid the buckets under their heads and stepped back. The bucket’s lip pressed against Cyrus’s forehead, and he could feel the water tickling his scalp. Antigone’s hair had to be all the way in the water.
    “So …,” Antigone said. She was already wobbling against Cyrus’s back. “Should we hook feet or something?”
    Cyrus answered with his feet. They hooked bare ankle against bare ankle, and he suddenly felt a little more solid. Less than three minutes later, their arms were shaking.
    “Cy?” Antigone said.
    “Right,” said Cyrus. “Try to hold your breath for two minutes, but I’ll come up if you do. Ready? And … down …”
    Cyrus felt the water flow into his ears and down his nostrils, flooding his sinuses. Wobbling slightly, he let his head rest on the bottom of the bucket, and he began to count. A sharp plastic bump on the bottom dug into his scalp, but he ignored it. He tried to pretend he was somewhere else, somewhere that wasn’t dark and tight and wobbly and upside down, someplace where he had decided to hold his breath and count slowly to one hundred and twenty just because he wanted to.
    The darkness made him dizzy. The blood in his head made his pulse thunder. He was counting too slowly for some reason. He had to be.
Twenty
should have been a long time ago. He should be at
forty
.
    He felt himself drifting away, but his sister’s legs tugged him back.
Thirty-four … thirty-five …
    Antigone wobbled; she was tipping away from him. Cyrus adjusted his hands on the floor and leaned against her, pulling her legs with his.
    Bubbles leaked out of his nostrils as he strained, but his pulling worked. They were vertical again.
    His pulse had quickened. The pain in the top of his head was intense. He released the last of his air and knew, as the bubbles skidded up out of his nostrils, that thathad been a mistake. He should have nursed that air, his lungs were empty now, and he’d completely lost count. How long did he have to last?
    He started over, counting from one. His lungs wanted air—even old air. They wanted something, anything, maybe even water. They needed to expand, and because Cyrus wouldn’t let them, they lit themselves on fire.
    When his blood ran out of oxygen, then his brain would run out of oxygen and he would pass out. Then