The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

be dangerous for?”

“Me,” said Dalton. “Among others.”

“And yet you lack quite a bit of self-preservation, don’t you?”

“Most likely.”

“Is that why he wanted to kill you?”

She’d meant it as a joke, pushing him to see what might come to light even if she aimed blindly, but he seemed to regard her with new severity.

“I want to try something,” he said. “Meet me tonight.”

“Where?”

“My room. I want to see how good you are.”

“We’ve already tried that,” she said drily, “and I believe we both rose admirably to the occasion.”

“Not that,” he said, though he was obviously not opposed. “I only meant I’m going to spend the day burying something. A thought.”

“An answer?”

“Yes.”

A little thrill coursed through her.

“I thought you wouldn’t play games with me?”

“This isn’t a game. It’s a test.”

“What do I get if I pass?”

“An answer.”

“The answer?”

“Yes, fine.” A pause. “It will drain you.”

“Good,” she said invitingly.

“I already know what you can do without trying. I want to see what happens when you try.”

She shivered with anticipation. She had missed the sensation of operating in her element.

“Alright,” she said, flexing her fingers. “Then I’ll try.”

By the time she reached his private chambers, slipping in quietly when the others had gone to bed, Dalton was already sleeping. There was an hourglass beside the bed, with the implication clear enough: there was a time limit to this test. She flipped it, closing her eyes, and lay on her back beside Dalton, finding the rhythm of his pulse. It would be a matter of sinking into her own consciousness to locate the edges of his, then the effort of seeking out the most difficult doors to open.

When she opened her eyes, it was to a tangle of thorns.

“How very cliché,” she sighed, spotting the labyrinth that led to the castle. “I have an hour to reach the princess in the tower, is that it?”

An hour of his experience, that is, and all indications suggested he was particularly brilliant. She turned to the side, glimpsing a handful of non-native fungi sprouting along the path of thorns.

“Subtle,” she said drily, and plucked one, letting it turn to sand in her palm.

Mental chronometry. She was playing with his concept of time, collecting it for her use. She conjured, for purposes of allusion, a fashionable set of thin-plated armor, tucking the grains of excess time away.