Reached

a river, and we didn’t know if it would poison us or deliver us to where we wanted to go. We took a dangerous, black-water risk; even now, I think I can feel the spray as we went down, the swell as we were swept under.
    It was worth it then.
    I remember again the Cavern in the Carving. It and the Archives mingle together in my mind—those muddy fossiled bones and clean little tubes, these empty shelves and vacant rooms. And I realize that I can never stay in these hollowed-out places in the earth for long before I have to come up for air.
    This passage to Camas,
I tell myself,
is a risk I am willing to run.
You cannot change your journey if you are unwilling to move at all.

    I hide in alleys, behind trees. When I wrap my hand around the bark of a small willow in a greenspace, I feel fresh letters carved into it, and they don’t spell my name. The tree is sticky with its own blood. It makes me sad. Ky never cut deeply like this when he carved on something living. I wipe my hand on my black plainclothes and wish there were a way to leave a mark without taking.
    I’m not even halfway to the lake when I hear and see the air ships.
    They soar in overhead, carrying pieces of the barricade back toward the City.
    No,
I think,
not the Gallery.
    I run through the streets, darting away from lights and people, trying not to count how many times the ships come overhead. Someone calls out to me but I don’t recognize the voice, so I keep going. It’s too dangerous to stop. There’s a reason we are supposed to stay inside—people are angry, and afraid, and the Rising is finding it increasingly difficult to cure and keep peace.
    I run out into the dark of the marsh. Rising officers in black climb up to secure cables to the barricade walls while the ships hover over, their blades chopping through the air. I can just make out what’s happening from the lights of the ships above and from the steadier beacons of those that have landed in the marsh.
    The Gallery is still there, ahead of me, if I can just reach it in time.
    I press up against a wall, breathing hard. I’m getting closer. The lake smell of water hits me.
    One of the Gallery walls lifts into the sky and I stifle a cry. So much will be lost if the Gallery is gone. All those papers, everything we made, and how will I ever find the person who was supposed to take me to Camas if the meeting place no longer exists?
    I am running, running, as hard as I ran into the Carving to find Ky.
    They lift the second piece of the Gallery from the ground.
    No. No. No.
    Within moments I’m standing there, staring down at the deep grooves in the earth, where papers float in puddles, like sails without boats. Paintings, poems, stories, all drowned. The people who used to meet here—who still have words and songs inside—what will happen to them? And how will I get to Camas
now
?
    “Cassia,” someone says. “You were almost too late.”
    I know her instantly, even though I haven’t heard her speak in months; I could never forget the voice of the person who piloted me down the river.
“Indie,”
I say, and there she is, wearing black and standing up from her hiding spot among the marsh plants and bracken.
    “They sent
you
to bring me to Camas,” I say, and I laugh, because now I know I will get there, whatever else happens. Indie and I ran to the Carving, we came down the river, and now—
    “We’re going to fly,” Indie tells me. “But we have to
go
.”
    I follow her, running, to her ship on the ground.
    “You don’t have to worry about any other Rising being on the ship,” she says over her shoulder. “I’m the only one who flies alone. But we can’t talk on board. The other ships might be listening in. And you have to ride in the hold.”
    “All right,” I say, breathless. I’m glad I have no case to hinder me; it’s enough to keep up with Indie as it is, carrying nothing but the lightness of paper.
    We reach the ship and Indie scrambles up. I follow, and stand for just a moment in surprise at all the lights in the cockpit that Indie must manage. Our eyes meet and we both smile. Then I hurry and climb down into the hold. Indie shuts the door and I’m alone.
    The ship is smaller and lighter than the ones we flew in to the camps. A few tiny lights line the floor, but the hold is largely dark and there are no windows. I am so tired of flying blind.
    I run my hands along the walls of the ship, trying to distract myself by discovering all that I can about my