“He has already been discharged.”
“Is he—?”
“Uninjured,” says the helper medic.
“Besides a few scrapes,” Illiviamona corrects, “which we tended on the medicraft.”
“He is lucky his injuries were not worse,” the helper medic bemoans.
Illiviamona gives a sympathetic nod. “There is always next time.”
I blink back up at the ceiling. Lament is uninjured. There’s a part of me that wants to be irritated by this information, especially with Illiviamona standing over me brandishing a needle the size of a saber, but what I mostlyfeel is relief… mingling with that reedy, unwanted pinch of abandonment. Lament is unhurt, and that’s good, but shouldn’t he want to stay, at least until he knows I’m all right? Or… at least until the surgery is over? Illiviamona said it wouldn’t take long. A few minutes. I know we aren’t partners, he doesn’t want to be partners, but… couldn’t he spare at least a few minutes?
I grind my teeth and tell myself to get it together. Why would Lament stay? Why would I even want that? He’s been nothing but awful to me since the moment I arrived. He hates me on principle, because I’m here to replace someone he lost. Someone he clearly loved. Which, yes, if the roles were reversed, I’d feel similarly reluctant to open up to my new partner, but at least I’d beprofessionalabout it. Lament isn’t professional. He’s—he’s—
Complicated. And grappling with grief. And… unexpectedly caring, sometimes? Like in a really begrudging way.
One of the medics cuts my shirt away from my body, hesitating briefly when she sees my lifestone. It’s not glowing anymore, but I’m used to this—how it tends to draw the eye. I clench the stone with my free hand and look away, tracing the ceiling panels with my gaze. I try not to watch the medics as they bustle around. I try not to think about anything, not sand creatures or surgeries or men with blue-green eyes. My heart is starting to race again. I remember, belatedly, that I hate needles.
“There will be a pinch,” Illiviamona says.
She slides the needle in. There’s a hot rush of pain, and everything goes black.
I dream. A distant part of me understands this isn’t normal. You’re not supposed to dream when you’ve fainted. I think maybe the dream has something to do with the first medicine Illiviamona gave me, the one to clear my head. Then again, it’s not really a dream, is it? It’s a memory.
I’m standing in the entryway of Master Ira’s School for Children. TheMaster himself is there, looking patiently bemused. His skin is leathery, weatherworn from the years he spent earning his title on Mount Kilmon. Like many Masters, he keeps his head shaved except for a small ring of hair at the crown, which is looped into a bun. Once, one of the older kids hatched a prank to cut off the bun while the Master slept, but the other children rose up against the idea with such ferociousness that the boy ended up assigninghimselflavatory duty for the rest of the month. That was the power of the Master. Or the power of a bunch of ten-year-olds. Maybe both.
Master Ira peers down at me. “What have you got there,apata?”
I hoist a glass jar filled with fireflies.
“Did you capture those yourself?”
I nod. “They’re a gift.”
“For whom?”
“For you.” I scuff my toe against the stripped wooden floor. “You can keep them in your room. They’ll be your night-light.”
“That’s thoughtful.” He taps the top of the jar. “I do wonder, though, how the fireflies will breathe. This canister is sealed tight.”
“I’ll poke holes in the lid.”
“And what if they want space to fly?”
“They can fly around your room.”
Master Ira’s eyes look bright, even in the low light. His voice is as close to chastisement as it ever gets. “How do you think my room compares to the vastness of the wide open?”
My face heats. I’m ten years old and easily shamed, no matter how gently he tries to guide me. “Not well, I guess.”
“Life is the universe’s greatest marvel. It should be cherished and respected. If we keep the fireflies inside, they will be beautiful, but won’t they be more beautiful against the sky?”
We walk through the school’s open front doors. The horizon is built high with clouds; Mount Kilmon sits silently in the distance. I unscrew the jar and set the fireflies free. Together, the Master and I watch them twirl away.
“This is an eruption year,” Master Ira says.
I nod. Mount Kilmon erupts every nine years, without fail. Though the eruptions cause enormous devastation to the surrounding land, igniting fires and blanketing the region in a plume of smoke and ash, the heat associated with the volcano is harnessed to produce the energy needed to charge the Grid and power our cities. The citizens of Planet Venthros worship and fear the volcano in equal measures. When Mount Kilmon erupts, some people die, but if it didn’t erupt, everyone would.
