Felix Marchetti’s dearest wish was to show up for class one day and find the room completely empty. He would have gladly lectured to a silent auditorium for two hours, but the students ruined everything.

They were always staring at him, raising their hands, interrupting his perfect nine-step lesson plan by asking him to repeat step two. Even worse, they would giggle. It grated against his ears like metal on metal.

In his Monday class, he tried to be boring, to lull them into disinterest and apathy. Sometimes the tired ones in the back rows would fall asleep on the spot. This was a pretty good outcome, in Felix’s opinion. Sleeping students were much quieter. They never interrupted him or tried to argue about definitions.

But in his Friday class, there were equal parts engineers and weavers, and the engineers were always a pain in the ass. They wanted to know everything.

No matter what he did—let the class out early, set up videos so he could duck out of the room, bring in guest lecturers to spout nonsense—it still wasn’t enough. Whenever an engineer raised their hand, the odds were high that Felix would have to explain something.

Felix hated explaining himself. He knew his lectures were elegant, eloquent, and concise, and yet someone always got confused.

Teaching was sheer drudgery. Every time he repeated himself, he grew a little more sick of it. And so he toiled, week after week, waiting for the moment he could flee from his classroom and get back to the lab.

On Friday afternoon, he wrapped up the first chapter of Hendrick’s History of the Prismatic Loom and shooed his students out the door. He was bubbling with the new delight of being done, finished, free. The whole weekend was freshly minted, to spend as he pleased, before he had to come back on Monday and start the whole thing over again.

While the long line of students shuffled out the door, Felix cleaned the blackboards with a wet towel. It was his favorite thing about teaching. He found it inexplicably satisfying to wipe away the pink and white dust until the whole board was blank and glossy. It felt like a new start.

When he turned to grab his coat, he was unpleasantly surprised to see a student hovering in front of his desk. He waved her forward. “What?”

“I had a question about makeshift looms,” the student said. She had short, lime green hair and wore a black hoodie. As she spoke, she shifted from one foot to the other, as if she’d prefer to be somewhere else. Felix could sympathize with that.

“We’ll cover them in chapter eight,” he said. “Check the syllabus.”

“I did. And I read the chapter. But they’re barely mentioned, it’s only two paragraphs at the end that talk about how dangerous they are.”

Felix put on his coat. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Rest assured, you’ll never need to weave with a makeshift loom. They won’t even be on the final.”

“Oh, I’m not a weaver,” she said. “I’m an engineer. I was curious about how you might build one.”

“Figures.” Felix coughed and checked his watch. “Look, I really have to get going.”

“I just thought I’d ask because you were supposed to be the expert. Hendrick even has a footnote about it.”

“I am the expert. But it’s a complicated subject.”

“Did you really make a loom from three small sticks, a bit of rope and a mouse skull?”

Felix hesitated, tapping his foot against the ground. “Well. Yes.”

“That’s incredible.”

He straightened his collar in mock humility. “It was certainly a challenge, but I made it work.”

“Has anyone else pulled off something like that?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” He hesitated. “If you’re really interested, I wrote an essay on the subject.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’d love to read it.”

Felix rummaged through his desk drawers and dredged up a battered few pages barely clinging to a staple. “Here.”

She took it with a beaming smile. “Thanks.” Before he could say anything, she was out of the room. The door banged shut behind her.

“Goddamn engineers,” Felix muttered.

***

Felix's laboratory was hidden in a lofty corner of the Reality Weaving Academy, perched fifty feet over the canal water. He reached it by doubling back and forth over a series of narrow rope bridges, each one bringing him a little higher.

The canyon’s sheer walls were riddled with holes—doorways, windows, open corridors—and connected by thin rock pathways chiseled along the cliffs. A haphazard collection of trails and bridges led him to the top of the Academy. From there, he followed a stone balcony to his own little slice of SEIDR.

Felix ducked in through the low doorway and gazed out over his kingdom, where the light was red and the floor was clean and a dozen cameras surrounded a prismatic loom in the far corner.

“Rufus,” he called. “Where are you?”

Felix’s taciturn assistant emerged from the storage closet in the back.

“Here,” he said. He was a round man with an untrimmed beard and a wild, wary look about his close-set eyes. “We’re running low on film.”

“I put an order in yesterday. It should be here by next week.” Felix took off his coat and put on his red glasses and gloves. “Have you started recording yet?”

“No. I was waiting for you.”

Felix sat down at the loom. There was already a thread of fabric stretching across it, a line of blue that was too sharp and crisp to be true.

He cracked his knuckles. “Go ahead.”

Rufus trotted between the cameras, turning them on one by one. They were all pointed at the thread.

Sometimes Felix imagined the fabric was a physical object, a textured cloth he could almost feel through the skin of his leather gloves. Sometimes it was more like the bright gap of light under a door. He stood in the shadowed hallway, only dreaming of what might lie on the other side.

As his hands begin to move, the line spun forward, and the prismatic loom groaned and crackled and pulled the patchwork material of reality into a single distilled stream. It poured past his hands, disappearing back into the universe in a matter of seconds. Its wispy trail sparked with points of gold.

Normally his mind would grow quiet, synchronizing with the motion of his hands and the mesmerizing seam of blue-on-red. But the knife kept getting in the way.

For the first time, he pictured the fabric splitting in half. The thought was irresistibly world-breaking. His fingers slipped and he cursed as the line spun out.

“I think we got enough,” Rufus said.

“My hands were getting tired anyway.” Felix shut the loom, and the fabric of reality disappeared. He flicked on the fluorescent overhead lights, which mingled with the red into a strange, unearthly orange.

Rufus emptied the film out of each camera while Felix retrieved his graphbook. He felt lost, scattered, like a bag of marbles emptied onto the floor. Everything caught his attention and nothing could hold his focus.

Nothing but the knife.

Rufus diligently took the rolls of film and pinned them down across the work table. The image began to take shape as he pieced them together. When all twelve were laid out flat, he turned on the magnifier and projected the tabletop against a blank wall.

Felix’s world snapped back into focus.

On the rectangle of light that hung shivering against the wall was a shape of indescribable beauty.

He loved the intricacy of its twists and turns and curlicues. There was no trace of the loom or the fabric; the cameras had recorded nothing of the concrete world. Instead, an absurdly complex shape of repetitive, circular geometry spun across the frame in stark black and white.

Felix’s desk was right in front of the projection wall. He could see every whorl of the intangible shape overlaying the plaster.

He flipped through the graphbook, comparing various pages with the image on the wall. It was not quite an E4 fractal, despite some obvious similarities in the upper left corner. B4 didn’t fit either.

“Looks like part of a C5,” Rufus said.

Felix turned his graphbook and squinted, taking off his red glasses. “Hmm,” he said noncommittally. Rufus was absolutely right. There was a whole new edge, off to the left, but the rest of it was solid C5.

Felix began to fill in the gaps with a mechanical pencil, glancing between his graphbook and the projection. It was precise, tedious work and he adored it.

As he matched the wall to the paper, he found the shapes took on a life of their own. Merely copying them seemed to invigorate them, showing Felix all the tiny details he’d missed on his first glimpse of it. At last, he could shake off his distraction and focus completely on this.

Of course, he was interrupted at that very moment.

“There’s my favorite weaver!”

Felix jumped, his pencil skittering across the paper. He cursed again and turned.

Spelder was standing in the doorway, wearing an oversized tricorn hat with a green feather. His missing nose had been replaced by a wooden replica strapped to the middle of his face. “Doing well?”

“Not anymore,” Felix said, closing his graphbook. “What do you want?”

“Aw, don’t be like that.” Spelder’s voice was cheerful and nasal. “I’m just popping in for a visit. Ralphie, how’s it going?”

“It’s Rufus,” Rufus said stiffly.

“Of course. Rufus.” Spelder smacked himself in the forehead. “How could I forget?”

Felix gritted his teeth. “Does this visit have a point, Spelder?”

“Several.” Spelder held up two fingers. “Number one, seeing how you’ve been. Number two, we’ve got a voyage in six hours. Get your shit ready.”

Felix stood up. He was a good few inches taller than Spelder, and glared down with the righteous fury he’d been bottling up all day. “You can’t give me six hours to prepare. That’s absurd.”

“Would you rather have four?”

“A day, at least, would be common courtesy. Not that I’d expect you to know anything about that.”

“You gotta calm down. It’s just a short trip. Nothing you haven’t done before.” Spelder clapped him on the shoulder.

“Does Harley know?”

“Of course. I already told her, don’t you worry about that.”

“You told her first?”

“I came here right after, okay? You’re touchy today. Something bothering you?”

“Yes. You.”

“Then I’ll get out of your hair. See you in the shipyard.” Spelder strolled to the door. “Six hours. Don’t be late!”

With that, he was gone. Felix groaned. Spelder had a remarkable ability to show up at the worst possible time.

“What an asshole,” Rufus said.

“He is uniquely unpleasant.” Felix handed the graphbook to Rufus. “Record the rest of the fractal in here. Don’t rush. If you finish, you can start another one, but bring in a trained weaver to work the loom.”

“Sure.”

“You know how to transfer them onto the graph, right?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t distort the shapes. If they don’t fit on an existing page, start a new one.” Felix grabbed his coat. “If you fill that graphbook up—”

“I’ll put it through the algorithm,” Rufus finished.

“Good. Don’t fuck it up.”

Felix left in a hurry. He had plenty of doubts about Rufus’s capabilities, but he couldn’t afford to stand around and quiz his assistant all day. He only had six hours to prepare himself for yet another pointless voyage.

He had absolutely no desire to return to Oshun at any point in his life, much less today. The whole idea put an awful taste in his mouth. He would have preferred to stay locked in his lab for the rest of the month.

But he was the best weaver, and that came with a price. These trips were the cost of his research, his relative freedom, and his accolades.

And so he set off, grimacing and bitterly resigned. The bright, lingering image of the fractal pulled him through the dark spaces.

***

Isaac could not shake the crocodile from his head. To his dismay, it stalked him all the way to the cast meeting of Hamlet.

In the backstage studio of the Catacomb Theater, a handful of players met under Victor Belka’s watchful eye. It was an informal affair. Victor handed out the truncated script, noting that he’d cut a few extraneous scenes and parts, but for the most part it was unchanged.

“Exactly as the Bard would’ve wanted it,” he said with a gleaming smile. “Rehearsals start next week, but for now, feel free to mingle and talk amongst yourselves. Or leave, of course.”

Isaac picked up a handful of names, met Horatio and Ophelia and Rosencrantz, and grabbed a slice of pizza from a white plastic table in the center of the room.

He fit in perfectly, with the gentle, easy relief of sinking into a hot bath. If there had been any structure in his life in the seven years since he returned to Earth, it came from theater. Even having the script in his hand was a comforting thing. He flipped through it, though most of Hamlet’s lines were stuck in his head already.

As he lingered at the outskirts of the room, unwilling to burst into anyone’s conversation and not quite ready to leave, he overheard the word crocodile.

It was quite distinct, and it drifted over the crowd and vanished just as quickly. The back of Isaac’s neck prickled. He peered around, but he could not tell who had spoken, nor entirely remember what the voice sounded like.

He was certain he hadn’t imagined it. But then, he was certain he hadn’t imagined the crocodile either—but the black jacket he wore, even now, suggested otherwise.

Isaac paced around the outskirts of the room and found himself at the front, where Victor sat on a stool and chatted with Claudius.

“But soft, here comes Hamlet,” Victor said, turning toward Isaac. “Have you met the king yet?”

Isaac shook hands with Claudius, an actor with drooping eyes and a five o’clock shadow over a square, chiseled jaw.

“Victor tells me you’ve had the role before,” the man said.

“A few times.”

“Lucky. I always wanted to play Hamlet.”

“Well, I guess that makes you perfect for Claudius,” Isaac said.

After a moment, Claudius threw his head back and laughed. “I suppose it does! The envy is fitting.” He patted Isaac on the back. “Methinks I see Gertrude. I’ll catch you later.”

He crossed the room to speak with a blond woman draped in a blue dress. Isaac was left standing, mute, in a wave of sudden panic. He inhaled, and the greasy smell of pizza brought him back to his senses.

“Anything I can do for you, Isaac?” Victor asked.

He said, “I had a question.”

“I’d be glad to hear it.”

If anyone would know, he told himself, it had to be Victor. And he needed a real answer. “Are there any crocodiles in SEIDR?”

He feared the director would laugh, but Victor’s face remained serious. He considered Isaac with a careful, measured look, tipping his head to one side. “Why do you ask?”

“I think I saw one.” Isaac met Victor’s eyes, and he felt like flinching. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Did you really?”

“I’m not sure.”

Now Victor smiled lazily. “I won’t say that you’re imagining things, but I’ve heard no tales of a crocodile in all my years here. It’s unlikely, to say the least. But I would never call it impossible. All kinds of things come from the water.”

Somehow that was worse than no answer at all.

Isaac left in a hurry, and the crocodile followed.

***

Miriam met Isaac in the lobby of the Catacomb Theater. She took him to a little staircase, tucked behind the control room, which led to the roof.

Isaac had sorely missed fresh air and clear skies and the vast sprinkling of stars. The night was just warm enough to be comfortable, and the wind smelled like dust and sage. He felt like he could breathe again.

They sat on the tiles and Miriam began to explain, in a roundabout way, how to be a wizard.

“Wizard training isn’t a checklist,” Miriam said. “It’s an incomplete art. It all boils down to fearing and hearing, but that doesn’t make it simple.”

The warmth of the leftover sun on the roof tiles lulled him into a half-trance. Isaac closed his eyes and let the words sink straight into his skin.

“I’ll try to fill in the gaps you might have, see what you lack and what you’ve already figured out. But if you can be brave enough and listen carefully, you’ll do just fine.”

“I can do that,” Isaac said.

“Well. At least you’ve got confidence. But don’t confuse that for courage.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One’s the absence of terror. One’s the embracing of it.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Give it time. There’s plenty to be scared of out there, but that’s a good thing. It’s hard to be fearless without something to fear.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Who said anything about making sense? This ain’t engineering. It’s wizardry. Are you listening?”

“Yes.” He was mostly listening, though his thoughts were hunted by a dark, reptilian shape that stalked and scattered them without warning.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Drowning,” Isaac said instantly.

“Huh. Anything else?”

Several answers swam to mind, but he brushed them away. He would not bring up the crocodile with Miriam again. His knees curled up to his chest as he considered what else haunted him.

“Time, I guess,” he said slowly.

“Very philosophical.”

“Not, like, as a concept.” Isaac frowned. “Just when I have to choose something and I don’t have enough time to choose well. When I have to make a decision or time will make a decision for me.”

“Interesting.”

“Does this have a point?”

Miriam gave him a dry chuckle. “What, you think I’m quizzing you for the fun of it? You think it’s not important?”

“I’m just asking.”

“Of course it has a point, dear. I’m not trying to prod you, but I have to know. It’s part of the job.”

“Why?”

Isaac thought he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it.

Instead Miriam stood up, walking toward the edge of the roof. She spread her arms against the backdrop of sky. Her hair fell in a bushy tangle around her shoulders. “You must have some idea. You were over there for four years. Don’t tell me you never ran into one of the sharks.”

“Oh,” Isaac said. The world seemed to darken, as if the stars hid behind a shadow crossing the sky. “I did.”

“We call them skelfing.” Her tone was light. “It means terror.”

“I saw them,” Isaac said in a small voice. “Two. From a distance. What are they?”

“I haven’t the words for it. I doubt anybody does. I hope you never have to see one up close, but odds are you’ll be minding your own business one day and find one creeping up on you too fast to do anything but pray.” She turned around, her mouth twisted into a smile. “Everyone else on that ship, they get to be scared. That’s fine. But you’re their wizard, and you’re all they got. You have to face down the nightmare alone. As long as you’re fearless, you’ll be alright.”

“What if I’m not?” Isaac whispered.

“Bad things.” She shrugged. “Don’t worry yourself too much. You’re my apprentice. I won’t let you out there unprepared. But that’s why I have to know what frightens you. That’s what they’ll be sniffing out.”

“How many have you seen?”

“I can’t count that high.” At Isaac’s horrified look, she said, “You get used to it. SEIDR doesn’t hire many sane wizards, I can tell you that. You’ve got to be cracked for this job. There’s no way around it.”

Isaac lay back. The breeze was getting colder, and he wrapped his arms tight around his chest, thinking that maybe losing his mind wasn’t such a terrible thing.

“How do you bear it?” he asked.

“What?”

“The difference.” He struggled for words. “Between here and there.”

“Wish I could tell you. Let me know if you ever figure it out.”

Those words tripped a lever of recognition, and Isaac sat up like a puppet pulled by a string.

“It was you!” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“On the phone! You—” He tripped over his tongue in the accusation. “You were the one who told me to call about Laurel Gray. Right after she disappeared.”

Miriam blinked, her guilt quickly masked by a faux confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t deny it. I knew your voice sounded familiar. You left me the note about how she escaped. It had to be you.”

She glanced around, as if they might be overheard on the desolate roof. “What is it that you want?”

“A confession would be nice.”

“Fine. I admit, I might have left you a note about it. We had a brief phone call. Are you satisfied?”

“But why?”

“I’d rather not get into it.”

“I don’t understand,” Isaac said. “Why won’t you talk about Gray?”

“Why are you so worried about it? You never even met her.”

“But I saw her take the ship. I saw her face. She was desperate.” Isaac began speaking faster and faster. “And SEIDR tried to say she died, but there’s no way they can be sure, right? She got away, so she might still be alive. But Yaz threatened to fire me for asking about her, and whenever I bring it up, people change the subject or pretend they don’t know anything.”

“Ever think there might be a good reason for that?”

“I just want to know what’s going on. Why won’t you tell me?”

“It’s no grand conspiracy. She was delirious.”

“I know. But that doesn’t explain—”

“It does.” Miriam sighed deeply. “Look, the ship theft was unusual, I’ll grant you that. That’s why I wanted to know about it. Everything else is just weaver madness. It happens all the time. It’s not a popular topic of conversation because there’s nothing to say except God, what an awful tragedy.”

Isaac stared off into the distant, gray-brown hills. Their shadows made dark crescents against the ground. “What is weaver madness?”

“If only we knew. It eats minds. That’s just about all I can tell you.”

“Is it fatal?”

“Within a few months. If Gray isn’t dead yet, she’s heading that way.”

“Oh.”

Isaac wanted to apologize for bringing it up—he almost regretted mentioning the phone call in the first place—but he still had questions, and he could not leave them be. “I talked to a scientist who told me Gray had disappeared. Before she took the ship, I mean.”

“Most mad weavers disappear, sooner or later. SEIDR thinks it’s better to take care of them in private than let them drop dead in the cafeteria.”

“Where do they take them?”

“I don’t know. You don’t have to worry about it. You’re not going to get anywhere by chasing someone who’s already gone, alright? Save your concern. It’s wasted on her.”

It took him a long time to find the phrases that matched how he felt. He was starting to shiver, and the sky was swept over by a wash of storm clouds, blotting out the stars. “If that happened to me,” he said finally, “if I disappeared and then escaped by the skin of my teeth, I would hope someone might care enough to find out why.”

“You’re not going to disappear,” Miriam said. “I’ll make sure of that. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut about Laurel Gray.”

Only then did Isaac realize that Miriam was afraid. He kept his mouth shut, and grew a little wiser and a little more scared.