appointment, he turned onto Gibraltar road and the engine lugged. He downshifted into second, and the surge made him dizzy.
Thirteen minutes until his appointment, his tires squealed around the turnoff for the Chamber of Halves. Somewhere on the other side of the mountain there was another entrance, he would enter this one.
The driveway followed the top of a ridge between two lines of palm trees and then ducked through a stone arch into paradise. A miniature valley unfolded before him, blindingly green. A brook twinkled in the sunlight. Orchids blossomed in its sandy banks, and upstream, a waterfall sprayed off moss-covered rocks. The sparkling vapor rose like powdered crystals. Everywhere, clusters of cherry trees frosted the grass with pink petals.
A mile from the Chamber, Aaron started passing cars. Cadillacs and Mercedes. Their black bodies glinted in the sun.
Then, without warning, the Chamber of Halves was upon him. A towering castle of bleached adobe, nesting in the high cliffs above the valley—parting a great sea of silver mist.
Six minutes until his appointment, he pulled up to the entrance, double-parked a blue Corvette, and killed the engine. Silence closed around him.
As soon as he stepped out of his Mazda, a crosswind sliced through his tuxedo, making his knees wobble. The Chamber of Halves loomed in front of him, immense and impenetrable.
There were thirty-six steps up to the oak doors. But it felt like three hundred.
A man waited at the top. He wore the red vest and black slacks of a bellhop or valet.
“Welcome to the Tularosa Chamber of Halves, Mr. Harper.” The man bowed and hauled open the giant oak doors. “We have you in a special office today. We’ll let you know when it’s time.”
On March 30th, three minutes until his appointment, Aaron stepped inside the Chamber of Halves, into the dry and decadent aroma of royalty—alone.
***
The lobby was huge. Tapestries hung from a sixty-foot ceiling, from timbers carved of whole trees. Curving majestically up to the second floor, a staircase draped in purple carpet spanned the entire space. Velvet couches lined the walls, dwarfed under a mosaic of framed photos that reached the ceiling.
Photos of Chambers from around the world.
Their founding dates, most within five years of the discovery, were engraved alongside on plaques.
Aaron slung his jacket over his shoulder and strolled into the lobby. He leaned against the receptionist’s mahogany desk, which looked to be proportioned for a giant.
He closed his eyes, and the thought of Amber sent shivers down his spine.
She was all his, forever. They were halves.
And in two minutes, they would be whole.
Then again, his sense of time could have been off by two minutes.
Aaron felt the eleven o’clock gong before he heard it, and his eyelids sprang open as the walls began to thunder. The roar of the Chamber’s bell tower vibrated his bones, deafeningly close. In his ears, blood rippled and throbbed against his skull.
A searing pain shot through the back of his head, making him wince, and at that moment, he knew everything was wrong. He couldn’t catch his breath, the air was sluggish, burdened by the bell’s lingering vibrations—the clairvoyance of things to come.
He glanced around, then started toward the stairs. It was all wrong, they had gotten everything wrong. Before he even made it halfway across the lobby, the elevator chimed, and its doors opened. Half a dozen photographers filed out, carrying flash units and tripods. They waddled to the foot of the stairs.
Aaron slowed and watched them. Then he heard footsteps, hundreds of them, marching down the stairs into the lobby. A camera flashed, followed by another. Soon the bursts came like fireworks, flooding the stairs with blinding light.
It was a formal wedding party, and Aaron caught a glimpse of the two people they were photographing at the front of the procession—and it felt like an eighty-pound dumbbell landing in his stomach.
The closer one was Clive Selavio. He wore a white tuxedo. And walking to his right, her arm linked with his—was Amber Lilian.
***
She had straightened her hair and put some of it up. Her lips sparkled, so did her long white gown, trailing on the steps behind her. She glittered with every flash from the cameras.
She stared straight ahead, her expression blank, detached.
Her father walked behind her, next to her mother, whom Aaron had never met. The woman’s golden hair had silver streaks from age. She looked stoic, like a mannequin. Yet her eyes gleamed with pride.
Towering over the others, Casler Selavio walked in step behind Clive and next