The Keepers (18 page)

Chloe had been downplaying the thin man's visit. When Horace told her about the warnings Mrs. Hapsteade and Mr. Meister had given him, she'd said, “Yeah, but they're like really old, right?” Nonetheless, at least she was here.

“So,” she said now, looking at the round sign. “I don't remember this sign, but I guess we state our name and we name our state. That's easy.” She gave the door a little bow. “I'm Chloe Oliver. Slightly skeptical.”

“Oh—and I'm Horace Andrews,” said Horace, marveling at how Chloe made him feel like he was the newcomer here. “I'm, uh . . . expecting.”

Chloe doubled over, laughing. “You mean expectant?” she said.

“Oh, right. Expectant,” he said, blushing hard. “Expectant.”

“That's good, because otherwise you would have a lot of explaining to do.”

Chloe tugged the door open and stepped confidently into the tunnel, leading the way. She ambled down the narrow passage as though she were on a tour, trailing her fingers along the walls and looking around. Tiny as she was, her shape blocked the path, making the space seem even more confined. Horace tried to will his feet to move in after her.

Several steps in, she stopped and turned. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Of course.” He stepped into the gloom. The door closed behind him. With Chloe blocking the passageway in front, all his nerves began to jangle, his flight instinct kicking in as though he were being pushed beneath waves. He froze, pressing his hands against the walls. Chloe cocked her head at him.

“You're claustrophobic,” she said, her voice echoing and slow.

“Small spaces make me nervous, that's all. And you're in the way.” His own voice sounded too sharp, too fast.

Chloe pressed herself against the wall, motioning him through. As he squeezed by, she said, “Lots of people are claustrophobic, you know. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I'm not ashamed,” Horace said, climbing down the steps toward the tunnel of birds.

“Everybody's afraid of something.”

“You're not.”

“Of course I am. You just haven't witnessed it yet.”

Ahead, the birds' song seemed fuller, louder, as thick and buoyant as a river, carrying them forward into the House of Answers. Chloe spun almost giddily as they walked.

“They remember me,” Chloe said. “I remember you,” she told the birds, giggling. Spinning and giggling was about the last thing he expected from her, but he said nothing. He too was glad to see the birds again. Once through, Horace came to a sudden halt beside the podium. Chloe stopped chattering and went still just behind him.

The place was nearly empty.

The swirling sparkling columns of amber light glowed as steadily as ever, but the tables beneath—once overflowing with loaded bins—were bare. The shelves along the walls had been stripped as well, with just a few tipped-over bins here and there. The inventory was being moved out.

Before Horace had even finished looking around, a shadow detached itself from the darkness along the wall and swooped toward them, swift and rustling. Horace drew back and Chloe gave an angry huff of alarm, but then he saw.

“Mrs. Hapsteade,” he breathed.

Mrs. Hapsteade swept up and gave them each the tiniest nod. “Horace Andrews,” she said. “Chloe Burke.”

“Oliver,” Chloe murmured, clearly unsettled.

Mrs. Hapsteade seemed not to hear. She gestured back to the nearest table, where bowls had been set out beside a steaming metal pot. “We'll eat soup now. A hungry mind is a dull mind, especially for Keepers like us.” And then she
whisked to the table and stood there silently, her back to the children.

Horace and Chloe exchanged looks. Chloe's face was thick with doubt.

“That's Mrs. Hapsteade,” Horace whispered. “She's okay.”

Mrs. Hapsteade called back to them. “We've met, Horace Andrews, thank you. Come now—soup.”

Horace and Chloe approached the table. Mrs. Hapsteade took a seat on one side and directed them impatiently around to the other, where two rickety chairs had been set up. They took their seats as Mrs. Hapsteade ladled thick golden soup from the pot. A planty, earthy smell rose from the soup, but there were no spoons.

Horace asked, “What kind of soup—”

“Ginkgo soup. Made from the leaves, not the nuts.”

Horace frowned at the soup, tried to change the subject. “You were waiting for us.”

“I don't wait. I prepare.”

Chloe scoffed at that, but said nothing.

“Why is the warehouse empty?” Horace asked. “Where are you taking everything?”

“It was time. No warehouse lasts forever. Eat, and then we'll talk.” Mrs. Hapsteade ladled a bowl of soup for herself. She solved the mystery of the missing spoons by lifting the bowl to her mouth and sipping carefully. After a moment Horace did the same, Chloe watching his progress from the
corner of her eye. The soup was delicious—not at all the way it smelled or looked, but sweet and light and almost crisp. Horace finished his bowl quickly, to his slight embarrassment, and Mrs. Hapsteade filled it up again.

“Don't worry, it's not Turkish delight,” Mrs. Hapsteade said to Chloe, a comment that was lost on Horace but evidently meant something to Chloe. Chloe hummed doubtfully but took a sip. Although she looked determined not to like it, it was clear she found it as delicious as Horace did. Horace pretended not to notice as Chloe set into the soup with barely disguised gusto.

Horace wiped his mouth and looked at Mrs. Hapsteade. “A minute ago you said ‘Keepers like us.' And the first time I was in here, you told me you were the Keeper of something.”

“Yes, I am the Keeper of the Vora.”

“But what does that mean? What is the Vora?”

“Funny that you ask, since you've used it. The both of you.”

“Both of us? How is that possible?”

“The Vora belongs to me the same way the box belongs to you, Horace, and the dragonfly belongs to Chloe.”

Chloe set down her bowl and spoke for the first time. “You're saying this Vora is a magic thing? Like ours?”

Mrs. Hapsteade snorted. “Magic? Magic is a word used by the ignorant to explain things they don't understand.” She glared at them, then lifted a sturdy finger, pointing from one to the other. “Don't you be forgetting. If you go around
believing in magic, you'll be searching for excuses even when there are none.”

Horace wasn't about to believe in magic. But he had a thousand questions, each one leading to a thousand more. “So if these things—”

“Instruments.”

“If these
instruments
aren't magic, then what are they?”

“They are devices, like any other. They obey the laws of the universe, even when they seem not to.”

“And what are they called?” Horace asked.

“There are many names, depending on the item and the circumstances. Collectively—from the dragonfly to a raven's eye and everything in between—such devices are called Tanu. The box, the sign on our front door, the lights that illuminate this very warehouse—all Tanu. Some of these Tanu will work for anyone—they do not take the bond, and they do not have a Keeper. These devices are known as Tan'kindi.”

“Like leestones?” Horace offered.

“Yes. Tan'kindi are fairly common, and you don't have to have any special talent to use them. But there are certain rare Tanu that can only be used by those who possess the proper talents. When such a Tanu takes a Keeper, it becomes Tan'ji.” She gestured to each of them in turn. “The box, the dragonfly, the Vora. These are Tan'ji.
We
are Tan'ji.”

“Tan'ji,” Horace said. He pronounced the word carefully, rhyming it with “on
me
,” stressing the second syllable. “What does that mean?”

Mrs. Hapsteade's eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “From the biggest of questions to the smallest,” she murmured. “There are no precise words of translation. You might say it means ‘the opened gift.' Or ‘the taken route.' Or maybe more to the spirit of it, though less accurate wordwise, ‘the ridden horse.' Tan'ji is not just the object; it's also the act, the state. It's the entwining of the power and the self. But as I've said, the language doesn't always suit itself to translation.”

Chloe was leaning far forward in her chair, listening intently, and as Mrs. Hapsteade spoke she made a little noise of understanding, as though the old woman were speaking aloud something Chloe had long suspected herself.

“And what language is that?” Horace asked.

Mrs. Hapsteade dropped her chin. She plucked briefly at the cuffs of her dress. “A dying one.” Her voice was so sad that even Chloe lowered her eyes.

The three of them sat in silence, letting the birdsong rise around them. After a while, Mrs. Hapsteade said, “You came through the Find more quickly than we thought you would, Horace.” Chloe looked up curiously.

“Really?” Horace said. “It seemed to take forever.”

“I'm sure it did, but it was relatively swift, all things considered. I was a year in the Find myself.”

“A year!” Horace could hardly imagine a worse torture.

“What's the Find?” Chloe asked.

“The Find,” Mrs. Hapsteade explained, “is what we call the time right after we first encounter our Tan'ji, when we are
left to discover our new instrument's powers on our own.”

“Yeah, about that,” Horace said. “Why—?”

“Too much knowledge spoils the process,” Mrs. Hapsteade said briskly. “The bond has to form through discovery rather than instruction. Curiosity rather than expectations. Think of it this way: if you want to know the forest well, don't walk the trail; instead, wander lost until you know your way.”

Mrs. Hapsteade glanced at Chloe, then picked up her bowl and drained it in a single long gulp. She nodded approvingly and stood up, gesturing for them to follow. “Come. You'll be interested in what I have to show you.”

She strode to the podium where the guest book lay open. She turned and gestured over the podium, her stern face almost aglow. “Here is my Tan'ji—the Vora.”

Horace gaped. “The book? That guest book is the Vora?”

“The book? No, no, no.” She lifted the book and tossed it aside. It hit the floor with a
whack
. “That's just a book.” Mrs. Hapsteade gestured again at the podium. “The Vora.”

Horace came closer, Chloe just behind. “The quill,” he said. The tall white feather lay atop the podium. He remembered dropping the quill that first day, and how Mrs. Hapsteade had picked it up with such care. “It's the quill—that's the Vora.”

Mrs. Hapsteade raised a finger. “One part. The quill is the tongue.” She pulled the stopper from the bottle of ink. “The inkwell is the breath. Together, the Vora.”

Horace looked at the long white quill with new eyes.
And for the first time, he examined the jar that held the ink: square and dark green, covered with small inscriptions and tiny, almost hieroglyphic images. “I don't understand—the breath and the tongue. They speak to you?”

“The Vora speaks for others. It speaks for the wielder.”

“The person writing, you mean?” Chloe asked.

Mrs. Hapsteade dropped her heavy, unflinching gaze onto Chloe. “Of course. The Vora speaks truths even the writer might not know about herself.”

“But how can that be?” Horace objected. “When I wrote in the book, I wrote just what I meant to. The quill didn't write anything different, and it didn't make me—”

“You want proof. A demonstration?” Horace thought he detected the faintest twinkle in Mrs. Hapsteade's eye.

“I'm not saying I don't believe you, I just don't understand.”

“I don't either,” Chloe said.

Mrs. Hapsteade opened a wide drawer on the front of the podium and pulled out another guest book—there looked to be an entire stack in there. She spread it open and plucked up the great white quill. “Who's first?”

Neither Chloe nor Horace reached for the quill. Because Horace had no idea what to expect, he wasn't sure he wanted to go first—and judging by the look on Chloe's face, she wasn't sure she wanted to go at all.

“Worried?” Mrs. Hapsteade said, looking from one to the other. “Fearful? You've both used it before. Think it will bite you now?”

Chloe shifted uneasily. “You keep saying that, but I don't remember—”

“‘Name: Chloe Burke,'” Mrs. Hapsteade said, as though reciting. “‘Address: Chicago. Age: five. Reason for visit: none given. Question: Who is asking?'”

“Chloe was here when she was
five
?” Horace asked, incredulous.

Chloe looked just as stunned, staring at Mrs. Hapsteade. “You're saying I wrote that? When I was here?”

“You are Chloe Burke, correct?” said Mrs. Hapsteade.

“My name's not Burke anymore. That was my mom's name.”

“Nonetheless, plainly I refer to you. You needed some help—you were too short to reach the podium, and you didn't understand how the Vora worked, at first. I assisted. But you wrote. You did very well, for such a small child. And your response to ‘Question' . . . ‘Who is asking?' Very funny. I was amused.” Mrs. Hapsteade looked anything but amused.

Horace turned to Chloe. “Wait, so you've had the dragonfly for
seven years
?”

Chloe had her hand at her throat, worrying her pendant. “I guess so, Horace. I told you it was a while.”

Horace reeled this new information in. When she'd told him about her clothes falling off the first time she used the dragonfly, he'd envisioned a Chloe just like the Chloe of today. But she'd been just
five
. A sudden warmth flooded through him, pooling toward Chloe as if she had gravity. He thought about her rundown house and her boarded-up windows, and
he pictured her bedroom, spare and gray and dark with sheets for curtains. For a long, dizzy moment, he fought off an urge to reach out and take Chloe's hand.