Erica O'Rourke - Dissonance

“I object!” shouted Monty. My mom took his arm, but he shook her off, stomping past me toward the table. Crane and Bolton exchanged knowing looks, while a mottled red crept up Lattimer’s neck.

“Overruled,” Crane said calmly. “This is not a courtroom, Montrose. Surely you haven’t forgotten that much.”

“She’s got more talent in her little finger than any of you. I trained her myself.”

“Did you?” said Lattimer. He studied me with fresh curiosity, like a frog in biology class, right before dissection. “Quite the student she’s turned out to be.”

“We gave this matter considerable thought. We took into account her age and her abilities, your family’s service, and your . . .” Crane trailed off, searching for the right word. “. . . sacrifice. It is our hope she will use this time to grow into her talents. But we have made our decision, and now she must make hers.”

She shifted her gaze back to me. “Delancey?”

Sometimes, in the instant an Original makes a choice, you can feel the pivot forming. The air snaps and shifts, as if the world is breaking open to make room for the other reality taking shape. It doesn’t happen for Walkers. Our pivots are too weak to last, and once our choice is made, we can only imagine what might have been.

So I said yes, and listened to the silence.

WELL, THAT COULD have gone worse,” My father said after we filed out, trying to sound upbeat and missing by miles. He put his arm around my shoulder, but I yanked away.

“They kicked me out,” I snapped. “I’m going to fail the exam. How could that have gone worse?”

Monty patted my hand.

“They could have sent you to an oubliette,” my mother said sharply. Addie stood next to her, shoulders curling inward. “You should be—” Behind them, the chamber door swung open again.

“Winfield, Foster,” said Councilwoman Crane, leaning on an ivory-handled stick. “We have another matter to discuss.”

My parents exchanged glances. “Wait here,” Mom said. “And behave yourselves. That includes you, Dad.”

“Foolishness,” Monty mumbled when they’d left, crushing his hat in his hands. “Hidebound foolishness.”

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Addie asked, ignoring him.

“Probably what a bitch you are,” I said. “You got off scot-free, didn’t you? That’s why you were so eager to turn me in. You wanted to cut a deal?”

“There was no deal,” she said, flushing pink. “They asked me what happened. I told the truth.”

“ Your truth.” Not the same thing. Truth is as fluid as water, as faceted as diamonds, as flawed as memory , Monty used to say. People saw what they needed to believe in the moment. Not untrue, he’d remind me. Just not the entirety. And Addie needed to believe I was the villain. “I’m suspended, thanks to you.”

“Thanks is right, you little brat,” she shot back. “Lattimer was convinced you did it on purpose. Unsanctioned cleavings can be tried as treason, Del. Same with lying to the Consort. So, yeah. I told them what an idiot you were, and they went easy on you.”

“Treason?” I said, ice filling my veins.

“You’re welcome,” she said grimly as Lattimer stepped into the corridor, immaculate and unsettling.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Montrose. Goodness, it’s almost like old times.” He said the words with relish. “All we’re missing is Rose.”

Monty jerked, and he leaned in like he was telling me a secret. His voice, however, carried through the empty hallway. “Rose never liked him.”

A vein in Lattimer’s temple pulsed, but he took in Monty’s threadbare cardigan and disheveled hair, the unsteady hands and stooped shoulders, and smirked. “Her judgment wasn’t exactly sound, was it? Otherwise she’d still be with us.”

To my surprise, Monty didn’t protest that my grandmother was coming back. He sagged visibly, murmuring, “Like old times.”

“Is he often like this?” Lattimer asked Addie.

“Some days are better than others,” she hedged. “He’s tired.”

“Of course,” he replied. “He was quite talented, you know. It’s a shame, what his searching has done to him.”

“What you’ve done,” Monty growled.

There was an awkward pause before Addie stepped in. “I’m so sorry, Councilman. He gets confused.”

“I see,” Lattimer said, sounding sympathetic. He patted Monty’s shoulder, ignoring the way he twitched. “I merely wanted to check up on you, old friend. I’d best return to my colleagues. Duty calls, you know.”

He reached for the doorknob and my jaw unclenched.

Lattimer paused and turned back. “We appreciated your forthrightness this afternoon, Addison. One year left in your apprenticeship, I believe?”

She bobbed her head. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. If you continue to impress us as you have, you’ll have quite a bright career ahead of you.”

“Thank you, sir,” she mumbled.

“As for you, Delancey,” he said, keeping his eyes on Monty. “You’d do well to pick your role models more carefully, if you hope to have a career of any sort.”

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

“I really get the sense he’s rooting for me,” I said.

“He’s bearing a grudge,” Monty said, back to his old self. “And you’ve been caught up in it.”

“What kind of grudge?” Addie asked.

“An old one,” Monty said. “Ancient history.”

I didn’t believe that any more than the helpless, muddled routine he’d put on for Lattimer’s benefit. Both ignited my curiosity.

He jammed the battered hat on his head. “Let’s go. The sooner we’re away, the better.”

“Mom said to wait,” Addie protested.

“Stay if you like,” he told her, then directed his words to me. “There’s nothing here for either of us now. Are you coming, Del?”

Monty had never steered me wrong before, so I went.

When visiting an Echo world, interaction with its inhabitants should be limited to frequency analysis. Do not engage with Echoes in a frivolous manner or for personal gain.

—Chapter Three, “Echo Properties and Protocols,”

Principles and Practices of Cleaving, Year Five

DINNER,” MOM SAID when we arrived home. “Del, set the table.”

I threw my coat on the couch. “I’m not hungry.”

“Dinner,” she repeated.

My mother had a thing about the whole family eating dinner together. Even when we were little and my dad was out cleaving, he made a point to be home for the evening meal. Sometimes we ate at four in the afternoon, sometimes nine at night, but it was always the five of us, clustered around the big pine table. A constant.

No one except Monty ate much. Finally I asked, “Which one of you is going to tutor me?”

I was hoping for my dad. A First Chair, he led teams of Cleavers into the most dissonant worlds, managing their unraveling. There was nothing he liked better than a lost cause, everyone joked.

Suddenly it didn’t seem so funny.

Still, it was better than working with my mom. A navigator, she analyzed pivots branching off our part of the Key World, determining which Echoes needed cleaving. If she was in charge, I’d be stuck in her office for the next six months, charting frequencies and crunching numbers.

She rearranged her silverware, took a sip of water. Stalling. I knew the move, because I was an expert at it. “Your father and I are working on a project that will require a lot of our attention.”

Addie straightened, like a hunting dog who’d scented a rabbit. “Is that why the Consort wanted to talk to you?”