“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said airily.
Walking through faint pivots was like threading the world’s smallest needle. You needed steady hands, sharp senses, and total concentration.
Crossing an inversion was like trying to thread the needle while treading water. I kept reaching through space, feeling for the vibration that corresponded with the mailbox. A few times I could have sworn it brushed against my fingertips, only to drift away. Even Addie was getting frustrated, her movements jerky as she tried to guide me.
“We’re never going to get through if you keep swinging your arms around like a windmill,” I said when she’d bumped my hand one too many times. “Let me try alone.”
On the curb Monty coughed noisily. Addie turned her back on him. “It’s more dangerous than a pivot, Del. I need to stay with you.”
“Once I’ve got it started, you hold on to me, and we’ll cross together. Eliot and I do it all the time.”
“Please spare me the details of what you and Eliot do together.”
I smacked her arm. “Ew. We’re not like that.”
“Much to poor Eliot’s chagrin.”
“Stop,” I said. “Can we please get to work? I think it’s getting worse.”
Addie folded her arms across her chest. “If you leave me here I will tell Mom. And the Consort.”
“Relax,” I said, but it was more for my sake than hers. I shook out the tension in my arms, blew out the breath I’d been holding, and closed my eyes, listening to the wind rustling through the leaves, children playing in a nearby yard, my own heartbeat, and the pitch of this world. A quick burst of dissonance flashed and fell silent.
There was a meter to it, I realized after a few flashes. Irregular, but present, and I started to count, readying myself.
My hand shot out and the sound retreated, but not before I bent my fingers, barely snagging the thread I needed. Carefully, my movements as fluid as possible, I reached for Addie and brought us through.
“Whoa,” I said, opening my eyes and staggering. The slightly off frequency I’d heard was amplified, and my arms broke into goose bumps. “I was not expecting this.”
Addie wasn’t either, judging from the lines creasing her forehead. “I don’t understand. Inversions always sound worse, but it wasn’t supposed to be this bad.”
“It’s like Park World.” I could have kicked myself for not checking Eliot’s map before we crossed. This was exactly what he’d worried about. “Remember? The pitch was worse than Mom told us.”
“No.” Addie’s voice shook on the word, but quickly strengthened. “We’re not going to cleave this world. I’m going to stabilize the inversion, you’re going to watch, and we’ll leave.”
“What if we can’t?” I fought the urge to clap my hands over my ears.
The cottage, like the world itself, was in bad shape—instead of window boxes filled with bright mums and miniature pumpkins, the windows were framed with peeling shutters and rotting wood. The lawn was full of crabgrass and patchy spots, and the fence was more gaps than boards.
“We will,” said Addie. She pushed on the gate, and a cat shot out from underneath a bedraggled shrub. “Stabilizing inversions is the last step before a cleaving. The threads of this mailbox are swapping places with the other one. We need to fix them in place again.”
“They’re going to cleave this world.” The knowledge unsettled me more than the pitch.
“Probably. The inversion’s only affecting Echoes, not the Key World. And the rest of this place seems stable, so they might not get around to it for a while. But it’s definitely a candidate.”
The cat hurtled past us a second time, orange fur flashing, its yowls adding to the clamor. Addie said, “What is wrong with that—dog!”
“Cat,” I corrected, and then heard it. A deep, joyful barking. “Oh, hell. Run, kitty!”
The cat didn’t need our advice—it streaked up a tree, hissing and spitting. Another, larger form hurtled past and took up residence at the base of the trunk.
“Iggy?” I ran a hand over his silky brown fur. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you, pup?”
He barked twice and returned his attention to the tree.
“Iggy, you psycho,” called Simon, exasperation ringing through his words. “Leave Mr. Biscuits alone.”
“Mr. Biscuits?” I snorted.
Simon turned to me, recognition lighting his eyes. His hair was practically a buzz cut, and he wore a down vest over his sweatshirt instead of a coat, but otherwise he seemed pretty similar to Original Simon. “I didn’t name him. He’s not my cat.”
Addie made a strangled sound, and I elbowed her.
Above our heads Mr. Biscuits gave an outraged, warbling cry, and Iggy quivered with excitement.
“He’s not going to eat the cat, is he?” I asked.
“Not unless the cat’s stupid enough to come back down. He likes to taunt Iggy and run home, but the gate’s usually locked.” He looked at the gate, then us. “Were you looking for Mrs. Higgins?”
Addie whispered, “Get rid of him.”
Before I could respond, Simon called, “C’mon, boy. Lunchtime!”
Iggy romped at the base of the tree, pointedly ignoring him.
“Iggy,” I singsonged. “Go see Simon.”
The dog whuffed and padded toward him, head drooping.
Simon grabbed the red nylon collar. “Good to see he listens to someone. See you around.”
I waved weakly.
“Why did he know you?” Addie demanded.
“He doesn’t,” I lied, searching for an answer that would convince both of us. “I touched his dog. Same as touching another person, and it made me visible.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’d better hope that’s it.”
It wasn’t. From Doughnut Simon’s memories to the way Cemetery Simon had known my name, something was off. Even if Monty was right, and the threads of our lives were somehow interwoven, Simon’s Echoes weren’t following the rules of our world, and I knew firsthand how the Consort felt about rule breakers. Confiding in Addie was not an option—she’d left Monty sitting on a sidewalk rather than cross Lattimer. She’d turn Simon over to the Consort without batting an eyelash.
Around us the dissonance increased, the mailbox flickering more rapidly. I reached past her to tap it, asking, “Should I be worried?”
She shifted into lecture mode, exactly as I’d hoped. “Inversions are strong, and the longer they exist, the stronger they get. We have to stabilize the threads directly.”
“A tuning? Isn’t that what you did at the game?”
“It’s similar, I suppose. Tunings aren’t usually worth the effort, because you’re only dealing with a few threads. Inversions are a lot more work, and they’re riskier.” She smiled. “Watch and learn.”
She closed her eyes and slipped her fingers through the air, wiggling them slightly. “The first step is to isolate the threads, same as with a regular break.”
But she wasn’t acting like this was a regular break. Her skin was chalky white, her shoulders hunched. After what seemed like ages, she flinched. “There. Put your hand over mine.”
I did, cautiously, pushing aside my memories of Duck Pond World. These threads—a solid handful of them instead of the one or two I was used to feeling—felt knotted and kinked, their instability giving me vertigo. No wonder the effect was visible. “What next?”
“Mimic the frequency you’re looking for, and sort of . . . coax the thread.” She ran her hand over the bad strings, gently but firmly, humming under her breath the whole time. Gradually they smoothed out, taking on the same frequency as the rest of the world.
“Done,” she said, and I eased my hand away, feeling dizzy.
Carefully she withdrew her hand, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes were shining, and bright spots of color stood high on her cheeks. “Awesome, right?”