He didn't do it on purpose, but Locke was holding his breath.

I hated when he did that.

Children weren't allowed in the village council. Anyone suspecting his age could ask to see the marriage tattoo on the palm of his hand. When they didn't find one, we'd get thrown out, probably roughly as an example to other delinquents.

"Relax," I said. "Breathe."

Air filled his lungs, and the music of his breathing began again, ringing as it swept in, echoing as it flowed out.

"You're old enough," I said. "Calm down and no one will ask."

"But I don't feel like an adult," he whispered. Locke inhaled then sighed. "That makes it hard to act like one."

He'd entered the passage years, making him eligible to marry, but by law he was still a boy until he did. Or until seven more years had passed.

"Well you're too young for it anyway." And so was Tryse. "Elphes never married this young in the histories."

We'd made it through the doors of the King's Stade, where a gatekeeper stood on either side. Inside we were at greater risk of being recognized, so Locke avoided eye contact with the mob of mostly green eyes.

The King's Stade rested on the ground, another mark in his controversial legacy. "The Kyrie belong in the air," Locke's father had said. "On the ground, the people worship the demigods of hypocrisy." Though as far as we knew, they still worshipped the same four demigods as everyone else. The building strayed far from Kyrie traditions—a circular room, so massive that rumors said the architects must have been Tenarie. The stage was low, near the center. The audience sat in large circular rows all around, filling all but one slice cut out for the King and the village leaders.

Inside the dark room, a volume of sound exploded continuously into the air. People shouted, looking for seats, arguing over seats, or sitting in and defending seats. Their sylphes carried an equal temperament, stirring up the air enough for Locke to feel it against his lips and cheeks. Many sylphes ignored their kynde, like Locke's father and his sylphe—a truth I hated.

Locke scanned through faces, wary of anyone who might know him, anyone from the fifth river in particular. But I sensed something more.

"Are you looking for the Angel?" I asked.

Locke silently shook his head. Of course he wasn't. Shaye wasn't married, so she wasn't an adult yet either. It was Tryse, the Nymphe, causing the anxiety. The girl who haunted his waking dreams. I sensed a strange mixture of both desire and dread at the thought that she might appear somewhere amongst the crowd.

"Locke, she's in the past," I said. "Let her go."

A man shouted, interrupting my comfort. His eyes bulged as spit flew from his mouth: "The cisterns! We have cisterns! Which makes us targets. The other Kyrie governors might attack us. The Tenarie will for sure." I tried to ignore the man. He was right, but he was also disgusting.

We heard another group arguing about the delay of springflood planting, and how there would be no harvest and our people would starve.

"None of that matters," an old woman said. "The wraiths are coming. This is the end of the world—the prophecy was true."

"We're doomed," came the reply, and no one refuted it.

As Locke searched for the Nymphe, I found our real reason for being here: "There's the Seer," I said, "third row," and I pointed by zipping from Locke's eyes toward the stage. The Seer, with bald head and white beard, exuded a mysterious tranquility, which we saw on his face and in the countenance of his sylphe. Locke placed his hand on the scroll tucked in his shirt—an older dirtier shirt he'd put on after soaking his first in blood. "But I doubt we could approach the stage right now. Even if we could, so many people would see us."

Locke nodded, ready to wait it out, and we searched for a seat.

Wooden pillars stood in two circles evenly spaced throughout the room, holding the roof aloft and blocking the view of some onlookers. Unfortunately, those seats seemed like our best chance. Locke made his way toward one and sat down. Above us a brazier was fastened to the pillar, illuminating the room, its fire dancing back and forth. It was odd to have lamps at a midday meeting, but with the darkness outside, even large windows provided little light.

"Locke," I whispered, "do you notice something, I don't know, sinister about that lamp?"

"Like what?" he said quietly, barely moving his lips.

"I don't know. As if it twists the natural light?" Almost like it had a salaminde in it. But that was impossible: Only elphes were in this room, so who would the salaminde belong to?

Locke put a hand over his mouth to mask his speaking—so no one would think him rude or crazy. "I'm not sure I see anything strange."

His attention wandered back to his mortal plane as quickly as it had come to mine. Sometimes he could be as flighty as me, especially when there were girls around. He found Shaye's father next to a column on the opposite side of the room. But no Shaye.

"So are you sad or relieved the Angel isn't here?"

He pretended to be absent-mindedly rubbing his cheek. "I don't know. Both. Why do you keep asking me about her?"

The preoccupied strangers all around us didn't take notice.

"For some reason I think it'll help you make up your mind."

"It isn't helping."

"I know."

The noise of the crowd continually increased, and now it was almost too loud to breathe. As I was about to panic, the King slammed his scepter into the stone floor, making a cracking sound that tapped against Locke's spine and knocked the clamor to pieces.

Right then I saw the Nymphe, sitting with her new husband.

I looked away, hoping Locke wouldn't sense what I'd seen. But he did, and he couldn't help but look. Then he didn't look away, even though he wanted to. Something about her countenance pulled at him, radiating from her golden hair into his bruised heart.

"Locke," I said, hoping to pull him out of the trance.

He spoke in a low tone, hand over his mouth, his thumb pressing into his cheek almost as if he were speaking into the harmony. "She wasn't perfect, but she was close." Finally, with a sigh, he pulled his eyes away, toward the many moccasins on the floor. And he wanted, and the longing for that indescribable something gnawed at him.

"Locke..." I began. But I wouldn't breathe lies to comfort him, so I said no more.

"No one compares with the Nymphe. Not even the Angel."

"You don't really know the Angel yet. Maybe she does."

He nodded, more as a show of defeat than agreement.

Luckily the King's address was just beginning, and all eyes turned toward the stage.

Even Locke's, though reluctantly.