The barn was sweet and quiet, filled not with animals but with hay. Light filtered between the boards, marionettes of dust dancing in the beams.
But for all that visiting, it was lonely, and he couldn’t sleep all the time. Mama would come, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She alone came inside. Knowing she’d soon be along to wake him made it easier for him to sleep.
At night, the corn whispered. It surrounded him, stretching for him, dried and dead and hissing his name as the cool autumn moon passed by.
The only good thing about his prison in the barn was that he didn’t have to walk all the way to the outhouse. He had his own pot. During the day, Mama carried it to him and took it away to be emptied. Julian didn’t want to use it alone, not at night, not with the cornstalks pressing in from all sides. Mama would check on him eventually, but on the fourth night, he couldn’t wait.
Rolling from bed, he collapsed. The bright green sting of hay dust hazed around him. His skin prickled; he wheezed breathing it in. Cool earth spread out beneath him, and if it hadn’t been for the itching, it would have been nice. No more aching, no more burning—just pounded dirt, chilly at night and steady.
Still, it felt wrong to lie there. Pushing up slowly, Julian found that his arms held him, but his legs simply would not. They were soft as dough, and nearly as biddable. Collapsing again, Julian peered at the door. It was open the slightest bit—if he could drag himself there, perhaps Mama would hear him call?
So inch by inch, he dug his fingers into the dirt and scraped across it on his belly. A chill broke out on his skin, and sickness drove a new spike in the back of his head. Though it felt like he had dragged himself for hours, it was only minutes, and barely half a foot. Wasted, his cheek pressed against the ground, he gazed through the open door.
Everything looked wrong. Too blue, turned the wrong way. Then he saw a scarecrow carrying his mama through the yard. The field’s terrible rasp wavered, filling the night and washing over him. Julian opened his mouth and shaped the words
Mama, help! Papa, please!
But no sound would come out.
Pain thundered through his head and, exhausted, Julian stilled. He lay his cheek against the floor and exhaled. A dead beetle spun, its husk rattling in the quiet. Blinking slowly, Julian blew on it again and watched as its spindly legs flickered. Righting itself, the beetle skittered into the shadows, leaving Julian entirely alone.
His chest quieted, no heartbeat and no breath. The corn quit whispering; his skin stopped aching. Everything went black.
But then, like a lantern starts with a spark and slowly glows, an ocean crept in. Sound came first, the rush of water chasing earth. Salt spread over Julian’s tongue, thin and liquid as waves stretched to fill the dark.
He’d never seen the sea, but he recognized a beach all the same. Rocky outcroppings framed the water with sharp edges. Mist cooled his skin, and he made out a silhouette, barely discernible in the night.
Dark hair spilled from a cap, one silver lock fingered by the wind. A thread of fire traced the horizon, revealing a curve of hips, a hint of a smile. The sweet scent of honeysuckle swept around her.
Holding out her hands, she waited. She was tall and pretty and very grown-up, Julian thought, so he didn’t understand why she was waiting for him. Her lips moved, but his father’s voice spilled out.
“Wake up, Julian, wake up.”
And then it burned. Everything—the girl, the ocean —peeled away in flecks of char and ash, and when Julian sucked in his next breath, he sputtered. Lungs searing, and pain thundering back through his limbs, he cried when Papa shook him.
Tucked back in his bed, Julian pressed his face against his father’s rough shirt and shivered the rest of the night through. He was safe from the corn, from the dark, from the ocean—and he dozed as a black beetle rustled through the hay beneath his head.
That was the first time Julian Birch died. But it would not be the last.
At five years old, Kate Witherspoon had no concept of time.
Gliding down the Nile in a flat-bottomed boat had taken forever—at
least
forever. Surrounded by silt-dark water, she watched for snakes (she saw a few) and alligators (she saw none, though claimed at least four) and waited.
Her parents bickered fondly over the heat, whether they should drink wine or water, about mummy dust and herons’ wings. It got especially silly when Daddy pointed out it was rather late in the year for the river to still be so high.
“It doesn’t seem especially flooded to me,” Mimi replied.
Daddy slowly turned to look at her. “Have you been down the Nile very often?”
“As often as you.”
With a lovely, low murmur, Daddy said, “You’ll argue about anything.”
“I will not!”
Pointing at the sky, Daddy demanded, “What color is it, Amelia?”
Mimi lifted her chin. “Orange stripes, obviously!”
That made them both laugh, and Kate sighed. The boat ride was supposed to be exciting.
Egypt
was supposed to be exciting. This was just sitting and mosquitoes and nobody paying attention to her for forty million years. At
least.
The boat slowed. Then it bumped and thumped, still tugged by the current until the captain tossed a thick rope to a man on shore. Quick as could be, they tied the boat off, and Mimi tugged Kate’s ear as she stood. “We’re here; isn’t it wonderful?”
Surrounded by green fields and blue sky, Kate didn’t see anything wonderful. It was more nowhere.
Porters carried their luggage as they stepped from the boat. Palms pointed the way, a path worn through the cotton and papyrus fields. Climbing onto a waiting camel, Daddy took Kate in his arms. She was his tiny queen, a miniature of his beloved in pinafores and ruffles, so he sat her in front to give her the best view.
“What do you think?” he asked.
The novelty of riding camelback had worn off when they’d gone to see the pyramids and the sphinx. To Kate, this place looked no different from the rest of Egypt. It was lushly green near the river, and tawny sand everywhere else. Obviously, Daddy saw something special here, so Kate did her best.
“It’s quiet,” she said. “Will I have to be quiet?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Also, I think there are snakes.”
“Do you?” Daddy smiled. “I wouldn’t play with them, if I were you.”
With a sigh, Kate leaned against him. “I should like to play with a monkey.”
Mimi caught up, slipping a lacquered chopstick into her hair to keep it off her neck. She didn’t bother to hold on to the saddle at all. She rolled with the camel’s long gait as if she’d been riding them her whole life. “We already discussed this. No monkeys unless you catch one with a ribbon.”
“What if it follows me?”
“Following, no.” Mimi glanced back. “Capturing, yes. Those are the rules.”
Daddy waited until Mimi was out of earshot, then said, “Rub a bit of banana on the ribbon. That’ll help.”
Their camel lumbered on, hot and pungent beneath them. The march to camp was a parade of old, broken things. Daddy seemed fascinated, pointing at rubble and ruins in delight. Later, Kate would remember none of it, but she did like having all of her father’s attention for the too-short ride.
Suddenly, he shifted behind her and pointed past her shoulder. “Look, pet.”
Silk pennants snapped against golden mountains and lapis sky. Someone had built a pavilion between two massive statues; a polished wood floor rested between the colossi. Hooks ground into ancient stone held an awning high, and lanterns hung beneath it, waiting to chase away darkness once it crept in.
It was luxury in the midst of a desert, rich furnishings against the canvas of a long-dead empire. Exactly the kind of thing Daddy and Mimi enjoyed: worldly and otherworldly, entirely inspirational.
Daddy handed Kate down, then dismounted with a hop. “Go play, pet.”
“Stay close,” Mimi said. She was already busy unpacking: Kate’s worn pillow, Daddy’s cologne bottle, her own favorite shawl. Because they didn’t have a house, she’d once explained, everywhere was home as long as they had their special things.
The air was dry and bright, a kind of startling hot that burned shimmering waves into the distance. Hopping off the pavilion, Kate wandered to the base of the nearest statue.
If she tipped her head all the way back, she could make out the shape of a sandstone king at rest. He soared against the sky, sixty feet up and barely recognizable. His head and knees and elbows were left, but his face was lost to time. Daddy said one of the statues used to sing, but this one simply sat, staring blindly into the east.
Fitting her fingers into cracks, Kate scaled the pedestal. Grit stung her palms, and little black flies circled her head. It was much higher than she expected. Flopping on her belly, she inhaled dust until she caught her breath. From this height, she saw the path that led back to the river, all the colors of the fields, and more ruins. Everywhere, ruins!
Standing again, Kate walked past the king’s toes. Then she measured herself against the lady statue that stood beside his thigh. She was much taller than Kate, and captivating because her breasts were bare.
Of course, Kate had seen real flesh bodies; sometimes models came to pose when they were in Paris. Mimi and Daddy both painted, canvases full of watery nude Aphrodites, long-thighed Ceridwens, Eves entwined with snakes.
But this was a bit different—a lot different! The statue was immense, her body half-polished, and most importantly, no one was looking. After weeks of being warned not to touch anything, Kate couldn’t help herself. Straining, she squeezed little grunts from her throat, but she was too short.
Up on her toes didn’t work. Stepping onto the sculpture’s broken feet brought her closer. Mimi’s laughter floated in the wind, and Kate froze. She turned, listening, waiting to hear it again. Palms whispered; the flies hummed, but no one called out to her. No one would stop her.
Steadying herself, Kate jumped. Sandstone, warm as flesh, slipped beneath her hand. She’d done it! Even as the wind tugged her curls and pulled at her hems, she celebrated. Feeling giant, she jumped again.
This time, stone crumbled beneath her. A slash of wet heat crossed her brow, and then she was on her back. Faerie lights danced in her eyes, motes that turned from silver to pink to red. When she opened her mouth, no breath came out and none would come in, but she wasn’t scared.
Everything was odd. Above her, stone birds hopped on carved lines; etched flowers waved in the wind. Two men brandished tennis racquets and looked very proud. There were hands and cups, and even whole arms, suddenly washed in crimson. Mimi said they were hieroglyphics, a secret Egyptian language. But those fingers wriggled and reached for her. They were terrifying.
Kate was sure they’d grab her, snatch her right up, drag her into tombs full of dog-headed men and bird-bodied women. Because she’d dared to touch a stone queen’s bosom, they’d keep her—forever and ever buried in the sand.
“No,” Kate croaked. “Stop!”
And it did.
Everything did. No more wind; no more flies buzzing. The palms held their perfect fingers to the sky, none curling or quirking or swaying. All the voices stopped, camels fell silent, birds hushed. Shadows stopped crawling the throne; they became painted-on and immovable. Kate looked to the pavilion, where her parents should have been. They were gone. She was too stunned to cry.
Sinking down, Kate closed her eyes. Her head throbbed, and it wasn’t just a feeling. It was a shade of dark that pulsed in her mind. It was almost like the dark when Daddy carried her on the wind. But there were no glimmering waves in it. It tasted of salt and sunset; it felt like velvet on her skin—and then there was a boy.
In one pulse, Kate saw him, pale hair and dark eyes. He reached for her, and in the next pulse, he was gone. Her eyes snapped open, and shadows jumped into place. The world flickered once, then began again. Sound and light crashed into her; rocks cut into her back.
Kate took a searing breath, and the first sound she made was a sob. More came, wrenching through her until she felt sick. Blood stung her eye; it smeared her hand when she reached up to touch it. As voices rang out, Kate struggled to sit.
With the faintest snap in the air, her daddy appeared and scooped her off the ground. He held her so tight, she couldn’t breathe again. But that felt like safety; it smelled like his cologne. He swore against her hair that it was all right, she would be all right.
Mimi ran toward them, ashen and shocked. “Oh, God, Nate, she was only gone a minute!”
Which wasn’t entirely true. She’d been gone for eight minutes, then lived another thirty seconds alone while time stood still in the pavilion. Kate had no concept of time, but the silvering of a single strand of hair proved that her body did.
Every second counted.
Julian groaned when his mother nudged him with a peck basket of green beans.
They came fresh from the garden, newly plucked from the vines. Each one would have to be broken in thirds and its string stripped. Next to washing dishes, snapping beans was Julian’s least favorite chore.
Before he could complain, Zora said, “It’s for your party. You can help.”
“It’s my birthday,” he countered. “Can’t Sam do it?”
“He could,” Zora said. A smile touched the corner of her lips. “But I thought you’d want to be on the porch when Elise came by.”
Grabbing his crutches, Julian hauled himself up. “Will you carry those for me, please?”
Zora only laughed, following him as he hurried to the back door. Elise Kidwell lived on the next farm over. Her family traded milk and meat for the Birches’ fruits and vegetables. Today, it would be quarts of cream for the ice cream crank.
On account of the war, most families were going without meat three days a week, and eating gritty victory bread on all seven. Since the Birches grew no wheat, they made do with cereal bread, but they bartered for meat, and butter, and luxuries like cream.