he said, but there was an underlying melancholy to his words.
Simon glanced out the giant porthole, and I followed suit. The dock was in sight, a contingent of Consort guards waiting for us. “Almost done.”
We couldn’t cross back directly to the Key World—the Consort would almost certainly have guards waiting there. Instead, we ducked through a pivot near a stairwell, ending in a flat, stable world. The massive Ferris wheel still rotated slowly, and the line of tourists wrapped around the redbrick building, even in the cold, but there were no guards to be seen.
We pushed our way through the crowd, down the gangway, Monty and me leaning on Simon as we made our way to the fleet of taxis waiting in the parking lot. Minutes later we were speeding out of the city.
“Here,” Simon told the cab driver as we crossed over the border to Evanston. He paid the driver and handed me out the cab, then tugged Monty out. “Last one,” he promised, and I blinked at him. “Key World, Del.”
My arm felt heavy, as if it had fallen asleep. I reached into the pivot with a trembling hand, whispering, “Please.”
The string leaped under my fingers, bringing an instant of clarity along with the familiar frequency. Heart soaring, limbs buoyant, I met the Key World with arms outstretched and breath locked in my lungs.
There were no Consort guards here, just apartment buildings and a mishmash of boutiques and offices and restaurants. Overwhelmed—exhausted and sick and heartsick—I sat down on the nearest stoop. Monty leaned into the building and muttered to himself.
“Our contact will be here any minute.” Simon said. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
He tried to haul me up, but my legs wouldn’t hold me, and I crumpled back to the curb. “Del, come on. Stay with me.”
He grabbed another bottle of glucose and tried to pour it down my throat, but I turned away, the smell making me gag.
Over his shoulder, the air glimmered and twisted like a candle flame. My vision narrowed, the world slipping away, Simon slipping away, my muscles cold and rigid and the blackness taking over like a starless night. I’d scattered my stars across the multiverse, as if they were endless. But nothing is endless, not the sky or the stars or worlds, not even love, because I was going to die here and never tell my Simon that I loved him, singularly and endlessly. Wasteful, really, not to say what is etched on your heart. Words only carry weight once they’re heard. I’d been freer with my stars than my words, and now both were fading.
I closed my eyes.
Someone cursed, and I felt a stinging at the nape of my neck. I heard the sound of my pendant striking metal. The clear, sweet sound of the Key World rang out, like the sparks of a campfire floating into the night sky.
And then everything—sparks, sound, sensation—faded.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Days until Tacet: 8
WESTLEY AND BUTTERCUP GOT IT wrong: Life is not pain. Life is rare and glorious and precious. But coming back to life is a hell of a lot of pain—the price extracted for cheating death, for regaining the precious thing you wasted.
Frequency poisoning made everything hurt, even the parts that couldn’t feel, like eyelashes and toenails. It was like thawing out from frostbite, every single cell readjusting and finding its proper pitch, its own little world coming into tune. Finally the pain subsided enough that I could move my fingers. My fingers, no more, a faint scrabble against cheaply woven cotton.
Sound filtered back in: muffled footsteps, a drip like a leaky faucet, two voices murmuring nearby, their conversation drifting over me in tatters and bursts.
“. . . worse before she gets better . . .”
“. . . you promised . . .”
“I don’t . . . the safety of the entire . . . risk . . .”
“. . . might die, and you’re okay . . .”
“. . . very little in this situation . . .”
All five fingers worked now, and I gathered the blanket in my fist. The conversation broke off. A door opened and shut again with a decisive click. A familiar hand took mine, gently tugging the fabric away.
“How are you feeling?” Simon’s voice.
“Cold,” I said, wondering if the word would come out as gibberish. There was the snap and rustle of a second blanket being shaken out, and a soft, welcome weight from my neck to my toes. I sighed in relief.
“Better?”
My mouth felt dry as