Ruins (Pathfinder 2)

But Loaf was there. For now. So far.

Param had not intended to separate from the others, back outside the city. She simply got anxious, and by long habit, anxiety made her withdraw, becoming invisible to them and, best of all, ceasing to hear anything they said. They could look toward her, but she knew they didn’t see her. It was her perfect instantaneous escape.

Had she meant to escape? She hadn’t thought so; what would she be escaping from? It was inconvenient. This was not Flacommo’s house, where food would be waiting for her in Mother’s room whenever she chose to arrive there. She needed to stay with the others.

But look—they were already moving away. Leaving her behind. They didn’t care.

She knew this was unfair. To them, it would seem they had waited a long time for her to reappear. Nor did they look angry; merely surprised for a moment. She could imagine that Rigg had assumed she wanted to disappear, and he was leaving her to do so freely.

Yet it still felt to her as if they had decided she didn’t matter enough to wait for.

Of course, if she had disappeared deliberately, she might have remained invisible for a long time. She was prone to doing that, as both Rigg and Olivenko would know. So waiting would make no sense. They were behaving perfectly rationally. All she had to do was come back to the normal timeflow and call out, “Wait for me.”

But then they would ask for an explanation, and she didn’t have one, except for the embarrassing admission that the slightest anxiety could make her vanish. Such weakness!

Or they wouldn’t ask for an explanation, which might be worse, for that would mean they were being understanding, choosing not to mention her little indiscretion, like a drunk’s crude remark or an old lady’s fart.

So she hesitated longer, not knowing what to do, decided that she must decide right now, and then realized that her hesitation was her decision.

As usual, she had let fear control her.

She felt the usual wave of self-contempt, made only worse because just yesterday—if “yesterday” meant anything anymore—she had quite bravely leapt from the high rock with Umbo. But that was different; the boy was going to die if she didn’t do something. She was responsible for him. It was so much easier to be brave when you were saving someone else. But when you were the one at risk, then courage was selfish, false, dangerous, pointless. Better to hide.

Better to be left behind? Better to be hungry, unable to find food? Better to be seen as a coward, unable to cope with the slightest stress? She would never earn the respect of these people, least of all her brother. Not that she needed their respect—she was Sissaminka, wasn’t she?

Not anymore. She was nothing now. It did her no good to regard these people as lower than her station. And yet they were—every bit of her upbringing told her so. Umbo, the boy whose hand she had held, whose life she had saved and who had saved her life in turn, he was barely educated, he was the son of an artisan. Now he thought they were friends. Impossible. Yet if she was ever to have a friend, why not him?

Param saw that the others were out of sight. She did not want to lose track of where they were. She slipped back into realtime and followed softly. Her shoes clacked on the floor of the museum, so she slipped them off. Now the floor was slippery, so she dared not run. She turned a corner. There they were.

She would have to speak, to be seen, they would look at her.

She slipped back into slow time and cursed herself again for the habitual coward she was.

In a moment, Rigg and Loaf were gone with Vadesh, and Umbo followed them down the stairs almost at once.

Olivenko was alone.

Olivenko, her father’s student. A mere guard now, yes, but still an educated man, familiar with the courtesies, softspoken, kind.

She slipped back into realtime and put her shoes back on. Only a few steps and he heard her.

He said nothing, though. He merely waited, eyes averted, as she approached. He pretended to be examining one of the large machines, but she knew he was waiting for her. So sensitive, so aware of what she needed.

“Thank you for waiting,” she said softly.

“I’m glad you returned to us,” said Olivenko. “I was worried about you.”

“I was worried about myself,” said Param. It was not a thing she expected herself to say; normally, embarrassed as she was, she would say nothing. But to Olivenko, in this moment, she felt the need to tell the truth. “I’m ashamed of myself for running away,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disappear like that. Hiding is a habit.”

“A habit that kept you alive during very difficult times.”

She felt a rush of gratitude. He did not condemn her. “But it’s inconvenient now,” she said. “If I hesitate while I’m . . . like that, then things move on without me. I’m always falling behind.”

“It keeps you young,” said Olivenko.

She did not know what he meant.

“Literally,” said Olivenko. “You’re slicing time, you’re moving forward without living through the intervening moments. So for each hour that passes, you live much less than an hour. You don’t age as quickly. The more you’ve lived in hiding like that, the less time has passed for you, and the younger you are.”