Chapter 189: Carl’s Worry

—PRESENT—

"Shana?"

Carl’s voice reached her before the rest of Ashmoor did. The smell of blood receded beneath hot oil, sweet bread, and the sharp mineral scent drifting a nearby transit station. When Misha looked down, his fingers were hooked around the edge of her sleeve.

The man was still standing in front of them. His eager grin had weakened while she was somewhere else, and he now wore the uncomfortable expression of someone beginning to suspect his compliment had gone wrong.

"Sorry," he said. "Did I say something?"

Misha drew a breath through her nose. The mask pressed against her cheeks, solid and familiar, and she let the pressure keep her attention where it belonged.

"You mentioned Floor Seventeen."

"Yes." His smile returned cautiously. "The way you found the infected. Everyone was arguing, and you actually did something."

Carl’s fingers tightened once before he released her sleeve. Misha noticed, but she kept her gaze on the stranger. Around them, pedestrians continued flowing through the concourse, their footsteps overlapping with announcements from the transit platform above.

"We’ll take our leave now," she said.

"Of course. I didn’t mean to hold you up." He stepped aside, then hesitated before they could move. "I just wanted to say thank you."

That made her pause. Carl glanced between them, his hands returning to his jacket pockets.

"For what?" She raised a brow.

"My younger brother’s climbing." The man rubbed the back of his neck, losing some of the confidence that had carried him across the street. "He watches the projections whenever he can. He talks about equipment, abilities, all the obvious things. Seeing someone pay attention to the people around them seemed good for him."

Misha’s eyes narrowed slightly behind the mask. She could imagine several deeply unhelpful lessons a person might take from watching her.

"Your brother should find someone more sensible to study."

"He said you’d probably say that."

"Then he’s already making progress."

A startled laugh escaped the man. He stopped it quickly when she failed to join him, though the warmth stayed in his face.

Carl shifted beside her. His elbow brushed her cloak as a pair of pedestrians passed too close, and Misha moved half a step without thinking. The man noticed. His gaze dipped toward the boy before returning to her masked face.

"I really am sorry about recognizing him."

Carl pulled his shoulders back. "I’m standing here."

"Yes. Right." The man grimaced. "Sorry. I keep making this worse."

"You’re doing remarkably well at it," Misha said.

Carl’s mouth twitched. He looked away before the stranger could mistake it for encouragement.

A chime sounded overhead, and the projection behind the man brightened. White letters assembled across a new stretch of unfamiliar terrain, drawing several passing faces upward. Misha resisted the impulse to look. She had already given it enough of her afternoon.

Carl glanced toward the avenue they needed. The illuminated crossing markers had begun changing color, and his attention followed them with the patience of someone who had already endured several unnecessary stops.

"We’ll miss the crossing."

"There will be another."

"You’ll stop to watch before then."

Misha turned her head toward him. "I’m being accused in public."

"You keep doing it in public."

The stranger made a small, poorly concealed sound of amusement. Misha looked back at him, and he immediately found something fascinating near his boots.

"Why are you still here? Is there anything else?" she asked.

For a second, he looked ready to say no. Then his hand went to the small of his book tucked beneath his arm, and his hopeful expression returned with enough caution to be almost painful.

"Would you sign this?"

Misha stared at the book, while Carl stared at her.

The man hurried to open it. "Only if you don’t mind."

"I mind several things at the moment."

"...That’s fair."

It was a cheap-looking notebook, its corners softened by use. The pages he turned past contained handwriting, rough weapon sketches, and lists of Floor numbers with notes squeezed into the margins. Misha caught a glimpse of a diagram that looked vaguely like Starfall while the man was turning the pages. Here, it had become a drawing somebody could examine over lunch.

The man stopped at a black page. He held the notebook out without pushing it closer when she failed to take it.

"Um..." he hesitated.

Misha looked from the paper to his face. He seemed embarrassed enough now that refusing would probably send him home to spend the next week reconsidering every word of their conversation. She understood that particular hobby better than she cared to.

"Give me a pen."

His whole face brightened.

Misha took the notebook and wrote the name ’Gravekeeper’. The signature looked more ordinary than either of them seemed to expect, which pleased her in a petty, inexplicable way.

"There."

"Thank you!"

She returned the pen with the notebook. "Don’t sell it."

"No way! I wouldn’t dare!"

"And don’t follow us."

He hugged the notebook to his chest. "I wasn’t going to."

"Good. Saves us an awkward second conversation."

He nodded in understanding. This time, when he stepped aside, he stayed there.

Carl started walking before Misha could become trapped in another exchange. She followed, and the crowd folded between them and the stranger within a dozen steps. For a while, neither of them spoke. The concourse narrowed into an avenue lined with glass-fronted shops, and the enormous projections disappeared behind the buildings.

They reached the crossing just as the markers turned red. The next transit carriage passed above the avenue, its underside scattering pale light across the pavement. Carl followed its progress until it vanished between two towers.

The markers changed. Carl stepped forward, and Misha crossed beside him, keeping her pace easy enough to his.

Beyond the intersection, the avenue bent toward a quieter district. The shop signs became smaller, the buildings stood farther apart, and narrow strips of greenery interrupted the stone beneath their feet.

"Do you think others saw me jump?" Carl couldn’t help but ask.

Misha glanced at him. "On Seventeen?"

Carl nodded. His thumb moved against something inside the pocket, tracing its edge without taking it out.

"Hm... probably."

"I didn’t know anyone was watching... Father would’ve hated that."

Misha let the silence stand for several steps. Carl rarely offered memories of his parents without immediately retreating from them, and she had learned that questions could close the opening faster than indifference.

Eventually, he continued on his own. "He didn’t like people asking how his ability worked. They always wanted him to move things for them."

"Sounds exhausting."

"Sometimes, they wanted him to move them."

"Even worse."

Carl gave a small laugh. He kicked a loose pebble off the path, then watched it disappear beneath the hedge.

"He said knowing where you were going mattered more than getting there quickly."

Misha looked ahead at the next intersection. The route marker for the Faust residence pointed to the right.

"Do you think they’ll ask me about it?"

"Who?"

"The people watching... they saw me jump."

Misha considered it for a moment. If Carl inherited a teleportation ability, that was the sort of thing that could attract far more attention than either of them wanted. Fortunately, most of the people who watched had been too focused on her fight to notice what he had done, so for once, being small enough to be overlooked had worked in Carl’s favor.

"They might."

Carl’s lips pressed together. Misha disliked giving him that answer, but inventing a comfortable one would only leave him less prepared when the next stranger approached.

"You don’t owe them any explanations," she added.

"What if they keep asking?"

"Find me."

"What if you’re not there?"

"Tell them no, then leave."

He considered this with unnecessary seriousness. She could almost see him searching for the hidden condition that made refusing an adult acceptable.

Misha stopped walking. Carl took another step before noticing and turning back.

"You’re allowed to do that," she said softly.

His eyes lifted to hers. Behind him, a shopkeeper was struggling to fold an awning while a breeze repeatedly dragged the fabric out of his hands.

"Even if they’re being nice?"

"Especially if being nice makes you feel like you owe them something."

Carl glanced toward the concourse they had left. The buildings blocked the view, but Misha understood what he was thinking.

"He wasn’t bad."

"Yes, and I still wanted to leave."

The boy nodded slowly. When they started walking again, he stayed beside her instead of wanting to move ahead to lead.

By the time the residential avenue came into view, despite remembering the hall on Seventeen, she no longer smelled it. The Faust residence stood beyond a broad stretch of pale paving. Its outer wall interrupted the line of neighboring properties, with dark metal gates set between stone pillars and the family crest worked into the center.

A guard beside the entrance straightened when he saw them. His gaze passed over Carl, and settled on Misha. Then, he opened the gate without asking for their identification.

They entered the grounds together. The path curved past clipped shrubs and a shallow pool, its surface disturbed by the steady fall of water from a stone channel.

The front door opened before they reached the steps. Sebastian stood beneath the entrance, one hand resting on the door, his gaze moving from their faces to the bread bag.

"We were expecting you to be early, Miss Misha."

"I had a tragic encounter with fame."

"Someone recognized you?" He stepped aside, allowing them through the doorway.

The cool interior air settled against Misha’s face after she pushed back her hood and unfastened her mask. She turned the mask over in her hands. The altered design had done exactly what Elyes said it would, which somehow made the failure more irritating.

"Well, the mask changed what people saw, but the rest of me remained attached. Aside from that, he recognized Carl."

Carl had already moved toward the nearest table, carefully checking that there was nothing on it before putting down the bag of bread. He took out a roll, holding it by the paper wrapped around its base. He took a bite and immediately stopped. His eyes had watered as he let out a few breaths since it was hot.

"Did the man cause trouble?"

"No." She glanced toward the boy, who was pretending to examine bread while listening to every word. "He was polite."

"We can find you something plain to temporarily replace your cloak."

"And a replacement child?"

Carl turned to them sharply. "I can wear a mask too."