Jaxon begins a series of stretches, declaring he’s off for a run around the island before he starts writing. “Clear the mind, clear the way,” he adds. It has an air of recitation, though if itisa saying, it’s not one Sienna’s ever heard.
He reminds her of Malcolm. Not the fitness-obsessed health nut, but the restlessness, the inability to put butt in chair and do the work, the kind of person who wants to be an Author, capital A, more than they want to sit andwrite.
Kenzo brews two more cups and hands one to Sienna, sipping his own with a happy sigh.
“How many of those have you had?” demands Jaxon.
“Two.” Kenzo runs a hand lovingly down the side of the machine. “Soon to be three.”
“Nah, man,” says Jaxon, waving a bottle of water in his face, “you’re poisoning the temple!”
“You worship at your altar and let me worship at mine.” Kenzo drains the cup. “Just imagine it’s rock juice.”
Sienna has never heard of rock juice, but Jaxon, who has the water bottle to his lips, promptly chokes. His face does a weird thing, caught somewhere between horror, surprise, and delight. She’s trying to figure out the best word to describe it as Jaxon lowers the bottle.
“Did you just referenceThe Galactic Trials?”
Kenzo stares at him, as if bemused. “What?”
“Holy shit, have you actuallyreadmy books?” Jaxon is now bouncing on his heels like a manic puppy.
But Kenzo only shrugs. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Jaxon looks suddenly uncertain. He glances at Sienna, who shrugs. “Don’t ask me.”
“But like—you heard him say it, right? You heard him say rock juice? As in the most popular beverage on theTourmaline?”
Sienna crinkles her nose. “Like the stone?”
“No, like the ship!”
Kenzo and Sienna share a blank look, and Jaxon scowls, like a kid who suspects he’s being teased, but can’t prove it.
“Whatever,” he mutters, jogging out of the room.
“Did you really read his book?” she asks Kenzo when they’re alone.
“Who cares?” says Kenzo. “That ego doesn’t need the boost.”
“Oh my god, you did.”
Kenzo gives another lopsided shrug. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”
Sienna lifts the espresso to her lips, no longer burning but pleasantly hot, and for a moment she forgets about Jaxon, and Malcolm, about the scream in the night, about Fletch’s death and the whole competition. Her world reduces itself to the welcome heat against her palms, the small, perfect pool of darkened water. She drinks, and feels the floor steady beneath her. She didn’t realize how badly she needed this. Not the caffeine, but the ritual, the tiny dose of daily normal amid all this weird.
“Good?” asks Kenzo.
“Good.” Sienna sighs.
“Great,” he says. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
* * *
SHE FOLLOWS HIM OUT OF THE KITCHENand down the hall, toward the drawing room, where they first gathered. But before they get there, Kenzo turns right, leading Sienna into a room she’s only glimpsed in passing: the library.
Sienna’s never been in a house with its own library before. Islibraryeven the right word? “Shrine” might be more appropriate. The walls are lined with books in different sizes and colors and languages, but they all have the same name on the spine.Arthur Fletch.
There are first editions, special editions, foreign editions—some in languages Sienna can’t even begin to identify; multiple copies of each and every book Fletch published in his thirty-year career, twenty-odd books multiplied into hundreds,thousands, enough to fill each and every shelf.
