Extracted

EIGHT

EMBER

People talk about the time stream like it’s an actual river, but it’s not. It’s more like a wind tunnel where everything blasts past you so quickly it’s impossible to see anything but the streaks. It looks even more daunting now, as I stand outside it alone for the first time. It is beautiful. Terrible. Breathtaking.

The edges of the stream are a sort of thin membrane. It’s easy to imagine, as Mortimer says, that the time stream is a living creature. Most of the time I’m just sort of thrown in when I rift. This is the first time I’ve ever taken the time to really see it, but now that I do, I can see the subtle pink and blue plasma all around me. I can feel the thrumming harmonies weaving through each gust of wind, whispering to me like lullabies.

Moving purely out of instinct, I step through the outer membrane and into the stream. I’m suspended there as time rushes past me. It’s almost like flying.

Thinking only of where and when I want to go, I feel myself being pulled back against the tide whipping past me. The force pulls at my skin. It’s tugging my hair away from my head with such power I think every strand will be ripped from my scalp. The air is like a million little pinpricks eating away at me. I can’t breathe from the pressure coiling around my chest. If one were able to stand in the middle of a tornado, I imagine it would feel something like this.

“Location verified,” Tesla speaks in my ear, and I can barely hear him over the rush of the stream.

I reach out, feeling the wind with my fingers. I’ve never felt so connected—so complete—as I do inside the stream, as if I walk around the rest of my life only half-born. I was created for this, my mind confirms. The stream is a piece of me and I of it. The Tether feels heavy on my arm, an anchor dragging me down. For a moment I wish I could strip free of it and merge with the stream completely—just give myself over to its siren call.

Yes, my mind whispers, this is the place. With a regretful heave, I force myself out of the stream, landing on my hands and knees in the soft grass of Central Park. No one seems to notice my abrupt appearance, thank goodness. I’ve landed off the main path behind a tall oak tree. I stand up, dusting myself off.

Tapping my earpiece I whisper, “Tesla? Time and date verification.”

The voice responds, “Verified. September sixteenth, nineteen ninety-six.”

Trying to look nonchalant, I walk around the tree, scanning the park. A few people jog the path cut through the trees, some just walk, and two children play Frisbee with a yellow dog. Then, a flash of light catches my eye. Flynn is sitting casually on a green bench not far from me, his glasses glinting in the bright sunlight. He holds two paper cups in a cardboard container, smiling brightly with one arm draped over the back of the bench. He brings his empty hand up, touches his ear, and mumbles something I can’t make out.

I’m so excited to see him that I run to his side, feeling like I want to fly. Sitting beside him, I cross my legs and lean back, unable to hide my wide smile. I’ve done it. I’ve as good as passed my final test. He hands me a cup without a word. I take a sip. It’s dark, thick, and bitter.

“What’s this?” I ask, gagging down the hot liquid.

“Coffee.”

“Tesla doesn’t let us drink coffee.”

He shrugs. “It’s very popular out here in the real world.”

I look down at the cup and make a face. “I can’t imagine why.”

He chuckles as I sniff the beverage. It smells better than it tastes, that’s for sure.

“It’s an acquired taste,” he assures me, taking a drink.

“So, just out of curiosity, where am I in your time line?” I hold the cup with both hands and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.

“You’ve been in the Institute for a few weeks, recovering mostly. Doc says you are healing amazingly well. As a matter of fact, I get to show you to your room when I get back.” Flynn crosses his legs at the ankle and smiles. “It’s actually really good to know you make it this far.”

“So you haven’t given me my first key yet,” I mutter more to myself than to him.

Why did I need to bring it with me? I take another sip of the horrible liquid.

“What key?” he asks, looking at me from over the top of his glasses. I flush, pulling the key out of my vest.

“This key. You gave it to me the day Doc released me.”

“Really?” He plucks it from my fingers, examining it in the light. “Hmmm. Interesting.”

“What?”

“I’ve never seen anything like this, Ember. And I was just about to rift back to the Institute when I got word to wait for you here.”

“What does that mean?”

He looks at me. “Do you know what a Fixed Point is?”

“A point in time that cannot be changed or altered,” I recite from one of our lessons, proud to know it stuck.

“Do you know how to create a Fixed Point?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t know you could create one. I thought they occurred naturally?”

“Some do. But they can also be created.” He holds up the key. “To lock—for want of a better term—a point in time, you have to create a loop. For example, by giving me this key, you have created a loop in time. This key now only exists from the moment I give it to you until the moment you give it back to me.” He slips it into the pocket of his long jacket. “Thus the loop is closed; everything that happens inside that loop is fixed. The timeline between us is permanent. Unchangeable.”

“That sounds intense.”

He takes a long drink, looking off to the horizon before turning back to me.

“Time protects itself like any other living thing. It’s very rare for a Rifter to be able to create a Fixed Point. It’s not something that should be done lightly. However, if I don’t take this key now, then I don’t ever give it to you. I’ve altered our history. Perhaps not for the better. Do you understand now why we don’t deliberately try to create Fixed Points? How dangerous they could be?”

I nod, but I don’t know why I needed this to happen. This isn’t something Rifters tend to do, especially not on purpose. But my mind flashes back to the cafeteria and I realize at some point I will do it on purpose, despite Flynn’s warning.

I’m not sure whether to be impressed with my future self for figuring out how to pull it off or ticked at myself for doing something so obviously dangerous. If I’d refused and not brought the key, what would’ve happened? I wouldn’t have learned the method for creating a Fixed Point, and Flynn never would have given me the key. How would that have changed my timeline? Would it have, somehow, changed our friendship? My brain is reeling so hard I have to clamp it down before I explode.

“So, does this mean I’m a full-fledged Rifter now?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. So many things are weighing on me like bricks in my belly—not the least of which is my bizarre future behavior.

His smile falters. “Not quite. There’s still something you need to do here. You didn’t really think it’d be that easy, did you?”

Yeah. I sort of did. I make a mental note to kick Ethan later.

“What is it?” I ask, my own smile falling around the edges.

I hear a burst of static crackling through his Earwig, but there’s nothing in mine. Tesla is talking to him, from his own time.

Flynn frowns as he listens but says, “Confirmed.”

He motions to the tall building across the street. It’s a lovely old hotel, the kind that almost looks like a castle. “In that hotel, there’s a wedding today. Lauren Cartwright is marrying Lord Brandon Hunter. But today, something goes terribly wrong. Today, the bride and her groom die, the maid of honor goes missing, and the best man has a nervous breakdown.”

I try not to let him see the shiver that rolls up my back. “What am I supposed to do?”

He looks at me flatly. “Save whomever you can.”

I blink. That means changing history, something we are never, ever supposed to do. “Are you sure?” I ask, not wanting to question him, but not quite sure I heard him right.

He nods. “Better do it fast, too. That wedding begins in an hour.”

I drop my coffee and run, cutting through the park and across the street. The inside of the hotel is even more amazing than the outside. The walls are polished marble, and a large crystal chandelier dangles above my head like a glass snowflake. Everywhere the scent of freesia floats in the air from tufts of the delicate flowers scattered all over the lobby. From the corner of my eye, I spy the concierge.

“Excuse me,” I say, trying to look impatient. “Can you please direct me to the bridal suite?”

He blinks, his clean-shaven face making him look no older than ten. Then his expression sours. “And who, may I ask, is inquiring?”

I look affronted. “Look, you call up that idiot wedding planner and tell her that she better have a very good reason for dragging me out of a meeting to rush down here and let out a wedding dress because she couldn’t keep the bride away from the petit fours at the rehearsal dinner. This is completely not my problem and you can either direct me up there right now, or you can tell her to kiss my—”

I don’t have to finish before he’s looking like he just swallowed a lime. “Of course. She’s in room seven-fifteen.”

I murmur thanks and spin on my heel so hard my hair flips behind me.

“Just a second,” he yells, chasing after me. I tense, sure I’m busted. When I turn again, he holds out a small plastic card. “You’ll need this to get the elevator to stop on the bridal floor. We secured it to keep out the media.”

I take the key and wave my hand. “Of course. Thank you.”

Trying not to break out into a sprint, I head for the elevator, stick the card in the slot, and make my way up to the seventh floor.

As soon as the doors slide open, I know I’m in trouble. The floor is teeming with ladies in expensive dresses. Some are in matching pale-pink taffeta dresses that make them look a bit like ballerinas, and others are in an array of designer duds. My brown leather pants and waist cincher are making me stand out like a sore thumb. People are pointing and whispering. I swear under my breath. I need to find a way to blend in or I’ll be kicked out of this group before I can even make contact with the bridal party.

To my left a door opens and a maid steps out, her arms full of sheets. I catch the door behind her before it closes and step inside.

“Housekeeping,” I call out. No response.

Though the room has been recently cleaned, it’s still a disaster. Makeup and jewelry are scattered across every available surface, clothes are draped over chairs, and a few things are even hanging from the curtain rod. The room is a small suite, so not the bride’s, at least. I walk in a little farther. Beside the lounge is a rack of dresses. I walk over, looking at the tags. Designer, for sure, but not anyone I’ve ever heard of. And from the looks of them, a full two sizes too small. Who in the hell wears a size two anyway?

I comb through the rack until I find a short silver number that ties up the back like a corset. It might be my best bet. Grabbing it, I head for the bathroom and make a quick change, stuffing my clothes in an empty trashcan and tying up the bag. Thank heavens I have small feet. I slip on a pair of flat black shoes from the closet. They are a little big, but they’ll have to do. I take a second to wind my hair up into a bun and secure it with a few clips, pulling a few pieces out around my face as some of the ballerina bridesmaids had done. Then I apply a little lipstick, just for good measure. The whole process takes less than five minutes.

I slip back into the hallway and toss my bag of clothes into the garbage chute. If I have time, I can dumpster dive for it later. If not, well, at least no one will find it.

Following a set of ballerinas, I make my way down the hall. The wallpaper has an antique floral pattern that almost gives the illusion of being outside in a spring garden. Between that and the freesia, I feel like I just stepped into a Martin Johnson Heade painting.

As soon as the thought crosses my mind I almost laugh out loud, remembering the day we learned about the artist and how Ethan had remarked that we’d never, ever need to know any of that. I make a mental note to tell him.

Following the pink girls into room seven-fifteen, I have to struggle not to look as awestruck as I feel. The room is massive—lots of open spaces and Oriental decor, large antique room dividers and comfy-looking sofas. A few ladies are sharing a bottle of champagne in the main seating area. A man dressed all in white is softly playing the large grand piano in the corner of the room, and a few of the ballerinas are munching on a platter of crudités and chatting. From the back bedroom another ballerina approaches, only this one is in a warm golden-yellow rather than pink. She glances over, seeing me, and stalks over.

“I have a dress like that,” she says. “Freddy Ford, Fall Collection?”

I nod.

She shifts her weight onto one foot and puts her hands on her hips. It’s a pose that reminds me a lot of Kara.

“I was told it was one of a kind.” She’s glaring now, her stare drilling into me.

My mouth twitches. “It’s a knockoff,” I whisper.

She tilts her head, accepting my answer but not looking happy about it. “It’s a good one. Who are you, anyway?”

I hold out my hand. “I’m April. I’m here with the wedding planner.”

She looks at my hand but doesn’t take it. “Uh-huh.”

“Have you seen her?” I ask, not having to fake looking nervous.

She turns to the pink girls. “Have any of you seen Diane?”

They shake their heads.

One of the ladies on the lounge speaks up and I can tell from the slur in her voice it isn’t her first glass of the bubbly liquid. “They are doing the bride’s pictures down in the rose garden.”

The golden ballerina turns back to me. “Shouldn’t you know that? I mean, you have one of those headsets.” She points at my Earwig. I reach up and touch it gently.

“Yeah, it isn’t working. That’s why I’m looking for her. To let her know.”

She gives me an unimpressed look and walks over to the other bridesmaids. As I turn to leave, I hear one of them chuckle and say, “Izzy, you are such a brat.”

The rose garden is actually on the roof, two floors above the bridal floor. After slipping back into the elevator, I hit the button for the roof. The elevator stops on the eighth floor and a handful of groomsmen pile in. I’m immediately gagging on the heavy smell of cologne and stale beer. They are oblivious to me as they talk.

“This is going to be the best wedding prank ever,” the tallest one of the group says with a cocky grin.

“I know. Dude, they will never see it coming.”

“Your sister is gonna kill you, man,” another jokes.

The tall boy shrugs and tugs at his bowtie. “It’s really a gift for Brandon. He’s so uptight.”

“Well, your gift should loosen up his girdle a little.”

They all laugh and the doors slide open.

“Come on, Doug,” one of the boys says, motioning to the tall one.

“Doug Cartwright?” I must have said the name out loud because one of the groomsmen shoots me a duh look.

Before I can follow the groomsmen and ask about this prank, I’m accosted by a short man in a grey tux. He’s portly and, judging by the way he’s walking and his cute little blue-framed glasses, probably not part of the wedding party.

“Excuse me, who are you? This is a closed floor.”

I hold out my hand, which he stares at. What is it with these people and handshakes?

“I’m Heather. I’m with the caterer?” He looks blank, so I sigh. “There’s an issue with the cake. Something about too much humidity in the kitchen. The icing is starting to melt.”

His little hands actually fly to his face and flutter in front of his mouth. He looks like he’s going to cry.

“They told me to get Diane and have her go talk to the kitchen manager about bringing the temperature down a few notches,” I finish quickly. His face has gone beet red and I’m almost feeling bad.

“Oh, yes. Of course. I’ll take care of it right away. Tell Rodrigo that Diane is on it,” he blurts before scurrying over to a stern-looking woman in a long powder-blue dress.

I catch a glance of the groomsmen talking as they wait for the bride to finish the photos with her parents. Doug Cartwright makes an exploding gesture with his hands and a deep ball of dread forms in my gut. An exploding gift. A prank gone wrong. That’s what is going to kill the bride and groom. I turn, stepping back into the elevator and pressing the button. The gifts should be in the reception hall. I just need to find the one that’s a ticking bomb.

When I get down to the reception hall, I find the gift table, and a little bit of panic stutters through my heart. It’s stacked high with presents. I take a step forward, determined to search every single one if I have to, but a hand closes around my arm, tugging me backward.

“That is my dress. And Diane doesn’t have an assistant named April. So who are you, really?”

I turn, ready to make up whatever lie I have to, but behind her I see the clock ticking slowly. I’ve wasted half an hour already. Any minute now, the bride and groom will be saying their vows and then they’ll be here.

“Look,” I say, pulling my arm free, “there’s a bomb in one of these boxes. And I need to find it.”

She looks at me, her blue eyes cold as ice. “Security!”

I grab her by the neck and push her up against the wall. “Look, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m here to help the bride and groom. Now, Doug Cartwright has rigged one of those boxes to explode as a prank, but something is going to go really, really wrong with that. You can help me find the gift it’s hidden in, or I can knock you out and shove you in a closet. Your choice.”

She can’t talk, so she just nods vigorously.

I let go and she gasps for a second. “That sounds like something Doug would do. Idiot.”

I head over to the massive stack and start rummaging. “It has to have his name on it, right?”

She looks at me as I toss boxes aside. “And you are sure there’s a problem with it, that it’ll hurt someone?”

“I am.”

“It’s not in there. They had bomb dogs in here earlier, sniffing for explosives. He was going to bring it down after the ceremony. It’s in his room.”

I stare at her. Her face has gone pale, making her look even more waif-thin somehow.

She shrugs. “I heard them talking about it. It sounded funny.”

I put the gift in my hands back on the table. “Can you take me to his room?”

She nods and motions for me to follow her.

The groom’s floor is completely trashed. Tables and chairs are overturned in the hallway, room service trays all over the floor. Toilet paper hangs from every possible surface like garland. She leads me to a door and opens her tiny clutch purse, pulling out a key card. I can’t help raising my eyebrow at her.

“What?” she says defensively. “It’s a wedding. Besides, he just needed someone to talk to. He just lost his offer from FSU and he doesn’t think anyone else is going to pick him up after blowing the playoff game like he did.”

I look her over. “How old are you? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen.”

“And he’s what now, eighteen?”

“So what?”

I look at her but say nothing. Two years doesn’t seem like that big a difference, but something inside me feels almost protective of her. Silly, really. She isn’t that much younger than me. Maybe it’s because she looks so frail and wispy. I really want to give this chick a sandwich.

I shrug. “Whatever.”

She unlocks the door and we go in. This room makes the hallway look downright spotless. What is it about rich kids destroying hotel rooms?

“He completely rock-starred this room. What’s your name, anyway?” I ask, feeling stupid as she wades through the mess behind me.

“Isabelle Dumont. Izzy for short.”

“So, where do you think this thing is hidden?” I ask, rummaging through the closet.

She jerks her head toward the bathroom. “Tub, I think.”

I step forward and the door to the room bursts open. Doug, all six-foot-three, two hundred twenty pounds of him, is suddenly face to face with me.

“What are you doing in my room?” he demands. Then, seeing my partner in crime, his expression softens just a little. “Izzy? What the hell?”

I snap my fingers in his face. “The exploding gift, where is it?”

His face hardens. “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

I cut him off with a knee to the groin. He doubles over in pain. “Don’t make me ask again, Doug. The gift. Give it to me, now.”

I should expect what happens next, but I don’t. His head still down, Doug runs at me, knocking me off my feet and taking me to the ground. Behind me, I hear Izzy scream.

I manage to get my leg up and between us and I kick him off me into the wall. The framed painting on the wall falls and crashes into his head.

“Doug, how do I disarm the device?” I grab his face in my hand. There’s a cut on his forehead; it’s small but bleeding like a river. “Doug, tell me.”

He cusses and smacks my hand away. Behind me, Izzy is holding the box, her eyes full of tears. “Please,” she begs.

He mumbles something rude. I grab his face harder, until he’s looking me right in the eye. “Doug Cartwright, you think your career is over now, but I’m here to tell you that, in six weeks, you are going to get picked up by UCLA and in four years you are going to go as the number-one draft pick to one of the greatest football franchises of all time.” How many times did I have to listen to Ethan go on and on about this kid either botching or single-handedly saving a game? Too many to count. But now, I’m glad I’d half-paid attention. “You will be one of the greatest quarterbacks in the history of the game. Do not screw that up by being a tool today, do you hear me? I’m opening this box right now and you can either help me do it without hurting anyone, or I swear to you, I will blow us all sky high, get it?”

He closes one eye, smiles, and flips me off. Sighing, I drop him and he passes out. Taking the box from Izzy, I head for the bathroom. Setting it in the tub, I carefully pull off the bow and slowly lift the lid.

The lid blows off the box and a flash of light blinds me. My ears are ringing. For a second I can’t breathe. Then my vision slowly returns. There’s still a ringing in my ears, but I can hear Izzy behind me.

“Are you okay?”

I nod. It was just a flash bang. Not fun, but not lethal either.

I shake my head, using the sink to get to my feet. “That wasn’t it. They are still in trouble.”

I race down the hall and into the elevator with Izzy at my heels. The world is still muffled, the spots barely clearing my vision when the doors slide open.

The reception is outside. We make it to the hallway just before the final pink ballerina walks through the doors into the garden area, where grey clouds have all but blotted out the sunshine.

“Izzy! There you are. I was so worried! Where were you?” the bride demands, her relief quickly replaced by irritation as Izzy scoots out from behind me and takes her place in the lineup. And where is Doug? That useless idiot…”

I lean in close. “Izzy, something is still going to happen here. They aren’t safe. I didn’t stop anything.”

She ignores me and marches forward on cue. I reach out, but she’s gone. A large security guard grabs me from behind, holding me back as the music changes and the bride steps out. As soon as she’s gone, Diane pulls the headset out of her ear and turns her bitter glare at me.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” she demands.

What can I say? I struggle, but it’s no use. A flash of light and a clap of thunder split the air. The guard drops me and I fall to my feet for only a second before rushing out the door. The bride is lying on the ground, her white dress singed black and smoking. The groom has fallen next to her. His eyes are open, lifeless. His short hair has burned to his scalp; his face is red and blistering. Some of the guests are cowering, others are screaming and running. Many are groping blindly and crying. On the ground, a few feet from the bride, Izzy has been blown back against the wall. Her dress is scorched, her eyes closed. I move over to her and reach down, feeling for a pulse. Then I catch it, slow and uneven under my fingers.

The maid of honor goes missing, Flynn had said.

Scooping her up, I back through the doors into the main lobby, where people are panicking. No one tries to stop me as I walk her across the street to the park where Flynn waits.

He carefully takes her from me and sets her in the grass at my feet, checking her vitals.

“Is she okay?” I manage, still coughing out the words.

“She’ll be fine. You did it, Ember. Well done.”

I want to be happy, but all I feel is guilty. Dirty. “You didn’t tell me they were struck by lightning! How exactly was I supposed to prevent that?”

He doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “You weren’t.”

“But you told me to—”

“I told you to save who you could. And you did. You saved her.”

“But the others…” I want to cry. It isn’t fair. A wedding is supposed to be the best day of people’s lives, not the last.

Flynn looks up and takes my hand. Pushing up my sleeve, he exposes my scars. “We can’t save everyone, Ember. Even when we want to. Even when we try to. You understand this?”

“What about her?”

Flynn looks down. “She’s coming with me. She’s going to be one of us.”

“But I thought she…” I stop myself before the words are even fully formed in my mouth. Of course she goes missing. She’s one of us.

He must see the realization worm its way into my brain because he drops my arm.

“She’ll have scars, too. Like mine,” I say quietly, looking at the angry red burns up her bare arm. “Will I know her, back at the Institute?”

He shakes his head. “She won’t remember you, Ember. Or any of this. Her life as it was ends here, and her new life will begin on the other side. You can’t ever tell her the truth about what happened here today.”

That doesn’t really answer my question. I wrack my brain, but I can’t remember ever seeing her in the Institute.

He stands up, pulling her limp body into his arms. “You still have to make the return trip, Ember. And it’s not like when we rift as a group, it’s harder.

“Harder how?”

“That is something you will have to discover for yourself, I’m afraid. But I can say this—no matter what you see or hear, keep focused on the Tether. Just try to block everything else out.”

I think about the lure I felt inside the stream. And I’m so tired. Maybe too tired to make it. But I take as deep a breath as I can manage and pull away, standing on my own.

“You should go back to the exact spot you entered from,” he advises, readjusting the girl so she’s over his shoulder.

“How will I find it?” I glance back to the general area I’d come from.

“You’ll find it.” He winks at me, and I can’t help feeling like I’ve done something terrible. I could have gotten them all out, I’m sure of it. I could have saved them all.

“Thanks.” I try to force a smile, but it’s raw around the edges.

He reaches over and touches my cheek with just the tips of his fingers. It is like five little points of electricity tingling in my skin. “Ember, you are a very special girl. A princess among commoners. I doubt there’s anything you can’t do when you put your mind to it. I wish you believed in yourself half as much as I believe in you.”

Not sure what to say to that I just nod, trying to keep a brave face when inside I’m completely frazzled.

I take two steps toward the tree where I’d arrived beside before I see it—a thin, nearly invisible ripple suspended in midair. As I get closer, I can feel the Tether tugging on my arm like a magnet being pulled to steel. I inhale sharply and look over my shoulder to the bench where Flynn had been sitting. It’s empty. I am on my own.

Reaching out, I touch the ripple and my hand slips through. It isn’t a ripple at all. It is a small tear in time, the point I’d come through. It will mostly heal when I go back, but it will leave a weak spot, a scar.

I step through the tear and find myself thrown back into the stream, only this time something’s wrong.

It’s a smell, something like sour milk, only it’s all over me, coating my skin. I fight back the vomit forcing its way into my mouth. The Tether pulls at my arm like a fishing line trying to reel me in. I struggle to relax, to allow it to pull me, when every instinct in my body is thrashing with the need to escape. Only the pull of the tech and my sheer will prevent me from bailing out of the stream. It isn’t the peaceful flow I felt on my first trip. No, the stream is murky now; like a wound left open and untreated, it’s festered. Is that my fault? I can’t help but wonder. I gasp for breath. The air is being squeezed from my lungs and I can’t breathe except in painful huffs. A familiar feeling beside me makes me force my eyes open. I blink past the water spilling over my lashes and focus over my shoulder. Then I slam to a stop.

It feels like I’ve hit a brick wall. The shock is sudden and makes every muscle in my body tense painfully. I want to cry out, but manage to muffle my scream by biting into my bottom lip instead. When I can open my eyes again, I see I’m back in the rift chamber, lying facedown on the floor. I press my head to the floor, enjoying the cool hardness of it. I actually have the urge to kiss the ground. Carefully, I wedge my arms underneath me and push up, my muscles screaming in protest as I manage to get to my knees. I want to stand, if only because I know that everyone is watching me from above, judging me, trying to tell if I’ve been permanently damaged by my time in the stream. I only wish I wasn’t so shaky, that I wasn’t kneeling on the floor like an idiot.

“Ember, how do you feel?” Mistress Catherine’s voice cracks through the ancient speakers.

There’s only one way I can think to salvage this. What would Ethan say?

I look up at the glass where I know they are all watching me, waiting to see if my brain has turned to jelly. I squint, cock my head to the side and smile, mustering all the false bravado I can access.

“Can I do that again?”