The crowd tenses, a thousand intakes of breath making a seething, wave-dragged sound. I halt, pain lodged in my breastbone.Ī boom sounds through the air, and the gates shudder with the force of a blow. “Trina?” I say, but the moment I step toward her, the crowd seems to shift without moving at all, and she’s gone. Every face-including a blonde girl, her features sharp, her form muscular and lean. Every face in the crowd is turned toward them. Taller than ten men, and not wrought iron but solid stone, carved with a pattern of waves. They no more belong to one era or country than the buildings they’re the sum of a hundred imaginations, not quite real, not quite in agreement. The men wear tunics belted over leggings. The women wear long skirts in colors to match the coral, and jeweled pins adorn the hair piled in lush arrangements on their heads. And it’s clearer still when we turn a corner and find them. We don’t check inside to be certain, but they have a loneliness to them, a hollow way of watching us, that makes it clear. Her fingers slide from my arm without resistance, and a moment later I hear the others’ footsteps behind me.Īnything wooden has rotted through, but stone still stands. I move toward it, pulling free of Mel’s hands.
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