light, then it’s gone. Sybil smiles at me, knowing what I’ve seen. Then she goes to fetch a towel. When her back is turned, I pick up the apple seed lying on the plate and wedge it into the hem of my dress for safekeeping.
Sybil dries my feet with the towel and takes away the dirty water. I notice that the cuts and bruises have healed and all the pain is gone. It must be strong medicine she carries in that flask of hers.
I stare at the charred remains of my book, now just a pile of ash on the hearth. “Why did Minotaur try to steal it?” I ask.
Sybil smiles gently. “That is a mystery you have to unravel on your own. But I can offer these words of advice—keep them in mind during your journey with Minotaur: Never trust a machine. It is an agent of somebody else’s dream.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, feeling a twinge of annoyance at Sybil’s mysterious, preachy tone. “What dream?” Sybil extends her hand and helps me out of the chair. I stand up reluctantly.
“Minotaur was built to carry out his master’s plan. That’s really all I can tell you,” she says. Although Sybil glows like a good witch, I hate her riddles.
“Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on and what it has to do with me?”
“Cora,” Sybil says, smiling, “it is all to do with you. You are the only the second living person ever to enter the land of the dead. You are the only one who can help Minotaur and his creator.”
“Help him ?” I echo, now completely annoyed. Sybil’s cheerful but indecipherable advice is frustrating, and things seem to be getting more complicated by the minute.
“I don’t have time to explain,” Sybil continues. “They will be coming for us soon. You must return to the river and follow Minotaur. You can’t trust him, but he’s the only one who can help you get through the City.”
“ Who is coming for us?” I ask. But Sybil ignores the question. She is at her desk, collecting all the pens. She holds them like a bouquet of golden branches and squeezes with both hands until they merge into a single pen again, which she hands me.
I hesitate, then take it. “What am I supposed to do with it?” I say.
“Try it,” she says.
I remember seeing Sybil moisten the tip in her mouth to make the nib emerge, so I try that. As soon as I put the twig between my lips, it shrinks and slips inside my mouth, wrapping itself around one of my teeth like a gold cap. I try to pull it off, but it won’t budge.
“Good thinking,” Sybil says, laughing. “Minotaur will never look there.”
I’m not sure whether she’s talking to the pen or me. “Why do I have to hide it?” I ask.
“Minotaur will kill you for it,” she answers matter-of-factly.
“Oh. Thanks for giving me something that could get me killed ,” I say, sarcastically. What I don’t tell Sybil is that I’ve fallen instantly in love with this weird pen. I can feel it vibrating in my mouth, and when I look up, I understand the threads of light even better. They move toward me, like tentacles seeking me out; they surround my head and try to enter my mouth to connect to the pen.
“What’s happening?” I say, marveling at the light that surrounds me.
“I don’t mean to be mysterious, but I can’t tell you very much about this,” Sybil answers. “You are at the center of a very long story, my dear. I have been writing it, but now that your book is destroyed, that task has become yours.”
“What do you mean?” I say, trying to control a wave of panic. “I’m not a writer. I can’t do any of this”—I gesture toward the stacks and to the manuscripts spread out on Sybil’s desk. I reach into my mouth and try to pull the golden pen out, my terror of writing overwhelming my love for it. Unfortunately, no amount of prying can detach it from the molar it wrapped itself around.
“Don’t worry,” Sybil reassures me. “You will write your story by living it. The pen will help you. It’s important that you
Sybil dries my feet with the towel and takes away the dirty water. I notice that the cuts and bruises have healed and all the pain is gone. It must be strong medicine she carries in that flask of hers.
I stare at the charred remains of my book, now just a pile of ash on the hearth. “Why did Minotaur try to steal it?” I ask.
Sybil smiles gently. “That is a mystery you have to unravel on your own. But I can offer these words of advice—keep them in mind during your journey with Minotaur: Never trust a machine. It is an agent of somebody else’s dream.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, feeling a twinge of annoyance at Sybil’s mysterious, preachy tone. “What dream?” Sybil extends her hand and helps me out of the chair. I stand up reluctantly.
“Minotaur was built to carry out his master’s plan. That’s really all I can tell you,” she says. Although Sybil glows like a good witch, I hate her riddles.
“Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on and what it has to do with me?”
“Cora,” Sybil says, smiling, “it is all to do with you. You are the only the second living person ever to enter the land of the dead. You are the only one who can help Minotaur and his creator.”
“Help him ?” I echo, now completely annoyed. Sybil’s cheerful but indecipherable advice is frustrating, and things seem to be getting more complicated by the minute.
“I don’t have time to explain,” Sybil continues. “They will be coming for us soon. You must return to the river and follow Minotaur. You can’t trust him, but he’s the only one who can help you get through the City.”
“ Who is coming for us?” I ask. But Sybil ignores the question. She is at her desk, collecting all the pens. She holds them like a bouquet of golden branches and squeezes with both hands until they merge into a single pen again, which she hands me.
I hesitate, then take it. “What am I supposed to do with it?” I say.
“Try it,” she says.
I remember seeing Sybil moisten the tip in her mouth to make the nib emerge, so I try that. As soon as I put the twig between my lips, it shrinks and slips inside my mouth, wrapping itself around one of my teeth like a gold cap. I try to pull it off, but it won’t budge.
“Good thinking,” Sybil says, laughing. “Minotaur will never look there.”
I’m not sure whether she’s talking to the pen or me. “Why do I have to hide it?” I ask.
“Minotaur will kill you for it,” she answers matter-of-factly.
“Oh. Thanks for giving me something that could get me killed ,” I say, sarcastically. What I don’t tell Sybil is that I’ve fallen instantly in love with this weird pen. I can feel it vibrating in my mouth, and when I look up, I understand the threads of light even better. They move toward me, like tentacles seeking me out; they surround my head and try to enter my mouth to connect to the pen.
“What’s happening?” I say, marveling at the light that surrounds me.
“I don’t mean to be mysterious, but I can’t tell you very much about this,” Sybil answers. “You are at the center of a very long story, my dear. I have been writing it, but now that your book is destroyed, that task has become yours.”
“What do you mean?” I say, trying to control a wave of panic. “I’m not a writer. I can’t do any of this”—I gesture toward the stacks and to the manuscripts spread out on Sybil’s desk. I reach into my mouth and try to pull the golden pen out, my terror of writing overwhelming my love for it. Unfortunately, no amount of prying can detach it from the molar it wrapped itself around.
“Don’t worry,” Sybil reassures me. “You will write your story by living it. The pen will help you. It’s important that you
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