Isaac took one look at Raimes Kingfisher’s pressed, weary frown and said, “Caasi.”

Raimes rubbed his forehead with his palm. His scowl didn’t change. “Correct.”

“What happened this time?”

“Walk with me. I’ll catch you up.”

Isaac stepped out of his room and locked the door behind him. An odd sense of calm overtook him. Without even realizing it, he’d been waiting for this exact thing.

“He reappeared in the library less than an hour ago,” Raimes said, leading Isaac down the canal. “No subtlety this time. Just popped in, grabbed a book, and disappeared on the spot. There were three witnesses.”

“He knows we know,” Isaac muttered. “He doesn’t have to pretend otherwise.”

Raimes shrugged. “There is some good news. He brought the other books back.”

“Really?” They were climbing the stairwell leading up to the library. Lanterns on chains hung suspended over their heads. The distant clack of stone against stone echoed down the steps. “Did he turn them in at the book drop?”

Raimes snorted. “No. He dumped them and ran.”

As it turned out, Caasi had left all seven books on the carpet. They were still lying in a heap when Isaac arrived.

The whole library was eerily empty. Only a few security guards lurked near the entrance. The smell of coffee and burnt toast still hung in the air, though the central cafe was closed.

“We don’t know if it’s a trap,” Raimes said, “so I told everybody to leave them be.”

“I don’t think they’re dangerous.” Isaac sat on his heels next to the pile of books. They looked normal—slightly worn, but otherwise fine. “We thought he stole them, but this is a library. Maybe he was just borrowing them.”

“Awful polite of him to return them.”

“Which one did he take this time?” Isaac asked, rising to his feet.

“All That the Desert Promises, by Alistair Cornish. I checked with one of the librarians. Luckily, they have another copy in the back.”

Isaac stared down at the mismatched book covers spilling over the floor. They’d been so quickly discarded. For some reason, Caasi didn’t need them anymore.

“He might have been looking for one specific book this whole time,” Isaac said quietly, half to himself. “Where’s the second copy?”

“Miriam’s reading it.”

“You gave it to Miriam?”

Raimes coughed. “She was already here. And she does have plenty of doppelganger experience.”

“But Caasi’s my doppelganger,” Isaac said. “I’m going to catch him.”

Or, he amended silently, if anyone can catch him, it’s going to be me.

***

Isaac found Miriam Oleander in one of the reading nooks on the mezzanine. Her eyes were tired, but she grinned as he approached, stretching her arms over her head. “Took you long enough. I was wondering if you’d ever show up.”

“Can I take a look at that?”

She handed the book over. It was a thin, worn paperback with yellowing pages. “Be gentle with it. It’s older than you are.”

“Did you finish it?”

“Nearly. I can tell you the important bits. I know you’re too busy studying chess to do much reading.” Now her smile was full of teeth.

Isaac closed his eyes. He hadn’t returned to the chess club since his hopeless lesson with Temur. Only a few days stood between him and his upcoming match against Miriam.

He still had no chance of winning. And yet telling her that he’d changed his mind seemed impossible; even now, when she was practically daring him to bring it up. He’d already agreed to lose.

Isaac pushed that aside, like all imaginary, unpleasant futures, with a short exhale and a shake of his head. “Why did Caasi want this book?”

“Wish I could tell you.” Miriam settled back in her armchair.

“What’s it even about?”

“Mu, of course. Just like all the others.”

Isaac bit his knuckle. “How is it different from the others?”

“It’s a history book,” Miriam said slowly. “More or less. It’s about the ruins outside Mu, and the expeditions which tried to find them. Some went better than others. Quite a few vanished into the sands.”

Isaac nodded. He’d found the time for some basic research; he knew Mu was built in the middle of a desert, and enjoyed a few centuries of prosperity before crumbling into oblivion. “What were they searching for?”

“Some of them were more practical than others.” She tilted her head, her eyes becoming unfocused. “Some treasure hunters. Some aspiring archaeologists. They found records of a temple built way out in the desert, a few thousand years ago. Some people went hunting for that. A few others were searching for the fountain of youth.”

“The fountain of youth?” Isaac frowned. “Come on. That’s a legend.”

“Not according to Cornish.”

“Does he claim that it’s real?”

“He claims there’s some evidence for an unusual fountain hidden somewhere near the city ruins,” Miriam said. “Whether or not it bestows immortality, well, that’s another question entirely.”

“Did he write about anything useful?”

“Depends on your definition of useful. Near the end, there are a couple theories about the fall of Mu.” She shrugged. “All speculation, but it’s decent speculation. With a few millennia between them and us, it’s hard to tell hoax from legend from fact.”

“They all died off, didn’t they?” Isaac stared at the blue glow of the fish-shaped lamp next to Miriam. Its face was stuck in permanent, open-mouthed surprise. He could sympathize.

“There might have been one or two survivors. But most of the city died, certainly.”

“Why would Caasi care about that?”

Isaac didn’t expect Miriam to know; he was just thinking out loud. Raimes strode into the room before she could respond.

“We just checked the books your doppelganger returned,” Raimes said, nodding toward Isaac. “Found sand in a few of them.”

“Sand?”

“A handful of grains. I sent them to one of the labs to be analyzed.”

Isaac met Miriam’s eyes. “So he’s been to the desert already.”

“At least once,” Miriam said. “Doing some hands-on research, perhaps.”

Raimes scratched his chin. “Why? What does he want?”

They both looked at Isaac, and Isaac looked at the book.

“He wants to find something,” he said, hazarding a guess. “Or he already has.” It was too vague to be useful, but at least it was true.

***

Isaac returned to Hamlet with grim resignation.

Part of him wanted to see the ghost again, to prove it was real, in his own head if nowhere else. Part of him hoped the ghost would not trouble him again.

All of him knew that regardless of visions and apparitions, he was not giving up on this role; they could cast another Hamlet over his cold dead body. He arrived at the Catacomb Theater half an hour early, and did not once look at the ceiling.

The place was nearly empty. A handful of actors clustered in the wings, chattering and killing time before Victor showed up. Isaac followed the sound of their voices into a dim corner with a few scattered black ladderback chairs.

Claudius spotted him first first. He was perched on one of the chairs, with a crown sitting lopsided on his dark hair. His mask dangled from one hand. “Surely my eyes deceive me. Is that Hamlet?”

The other three—Horatio, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern—spun in their chairs. Isaac held up a hand to greet them, or perhaps to shield himself from an imaginary blow. “Correct.”

“I’m surprised you would bother coming back after your last performance,” Claudius said.

Isaac sucked in a breath through his teeth, but it was Horatio who said, “Lay off. No one cares.” He looked around. “Right?”

“Absolutely,” Rosencrantz said.

“Unequivocally,” Guildenstern said.

Claudius scoffed.

Isaac could tolerate that, though the pressure of things unsaid kept expanding in his chest. Perhaps one day he would burst, and all the secrets would sprout from him like trees.

Ophelia arrived shortly thereafter, wearing a neon pink dress. She was loud and bright and cheerful enough to soak up all the attention like a sponge, and Isaac was glad for the distraction. She smiled at him and said, “Did you have a nice vacation?”

“It was just what I needed,” Isaac said.

“At least you came back. I mean, this is already better than the last time I was in Hamlet.”

She launched into describing her previous stint as Ophelia, and the air grew quiet and heavy with the cast’s collective horror. As she told it, the actor playing Hamlet had been a drunkard who argued with the director and delivered his monologues in a terribly fake Russian accent; Gertrude had invited a few of her friends onto the stage when she spotted them in the second row; and Polonius deserted them halfway through opening night.

“It was awful,” Ophelia said with relish. “We had to refund so many tickets. This really isn’t so bad in comparison.” Her small audience murmured and nodded.

Then again, Isaac thought, they had only just started rehearsals. There were plenty of opportunities for things to go wrong. And then he cursed himself for thinking it, as if his thoughts alone were unlucky.

As more actors filtered into the wings, the air filled with conversation and general complaints. Isaac felt a tug on his sleeve. When he turned, Horatio was leaning over the arm of his chair, his face drawn with concern and curiosity mingled.

“Why did you really leave?” he whispered. “You don’t have to explain it, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it. It’s just, I saw your face, right before you ran. You looked … scared.”

The words lined up before Isaac could stop them. “Let’s say I have my own ghosts to worry about.”

Horatio sank back, frowning. He had the good sense to think before he spoke, and he considered Isaac’s statement for a while. On the main stage, Polonius began singing a folk song and was swiftly shouted down, while Laertes and Fortinbras sparred with two rolls of cardboard.

“Hamlet’s ghost is terrifying,” Horatio said at last. “It’s meant to be terrifying. The dead aren’t supposed to come back.”

“Assuming it’s even a ghost,” Isaac said, “and not just a shared hallucination or a demon or something—something sinister. It could be anything, really.”

“But it’s not evil. It’s only trying to give Hamlet the truth.”

“The truth gets Hamlet killed,” Isaac said, “along with every other character in the play.”

“But that’s not the fault of the ghost,” Horatio insisted. “He’s a slave to circumstance, same as everyone else. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s Claudius for murdering him in the first place. The ghost only wanted justice.”

Isaac thought this was a pretty good point. Unfortunately, it was all irrelevant, because Hamlet was a fictional play written centuries ago.

Isaac’s own ghost was real, and he had no idea what it wanted.

His worries were interrupted by the voice of Victor Belka, rising above the cast in a distinctive drawl. “Let’s not waste any time today. We’re starting with act one, scene two. Masks on, please.”

“I think that’s my cue,” Isaac said. He slipped on his mask and then stood, hesitating at the edge of the curtain, reluctant to leave the shadows of the wings.

Horatio gave him a solemn nod, as if he were charging into battle and not venturing into their second rehearsal. “Break a leg.”

It was disorienting to pass under the bright, winking spotlights into a sea of half-concealed faces. Victor sat in the audience, directing them into small groups, frowning and pointing and reworking their blocking until everyone had a place in the light.

While Claudius stood forth and delivered his opening speech, Isaac lurked near the back, keeping an eye out for anything unusual. Everyone seemed to be alive; that was a good start.

He was lulled by the steady lines and elaborate caricatures; somewhere along the way, he quit looking for apparitions and started watching the play.

When Claudius finally turned toward him, with veiled bitterness in his eyes, and said, “But now, my cousin Hamlet and my son—”

“A little more than kin,” Isaac hastily replied, turning toward the audience to seek sympathy from the empty chairs, “and less than kind.”

At that moment he spotted the ghost.

It was sitting in one of the aisle seats. Its face was tilted toward him, masked and motionless. Its whole silhouette flickered with the dark fuzziness of an afterimage, but it refused to vanish.

Isaac stared. The faintest taste of the sea brushed past him. He could feel the weight of his feet pressing against the floor, and the heat of the lights overhead, and cold sweat running down his spine.

If he believed his senses, these were all equally real: the ghost, the stage, and Isaac himself. This was not a good thing, Isaac thought, but at least it was true.

Through the drumming of his pulse he could faintly hear Claudius ask, “How is it that the clouds still hang on you?”

The ghost’s eyes were a reflective, glossy black. It stood up and began to walk, dragging its long, long chains over the floor.

Isaac cast his eyes about, as if he might find the ghost’s real target standing right behind him. No such luck. It was coming for him; he could face it or run.

“Not so, my lord,” he said automatically. His voice was limp as a dead thing, but he didn’t have time to worry about line delivery. It took all his concentration to avoid fleeing the stage in horror for the second time this week. “I am too much in the sun.”

The ghost stopped at the lip of the stage and extended a single gray hand. Resting in its palm was an enormous, shining pearl.

Isaac’s fear was cut short by curiosity. He peered down into it, looking for some kind of truth, but all he could see was his own distorted face reflected back.

As soon as Gertrude called out, “Good Hamlet—” the ghost dissolved into white sand. In moments it blew away on the impossible sea breeze, bright motes vanishing into the dark of the auditorium. Isaac released a long-held breath.

“Cast thy nighted color off,” Gertrude implored him, and he looked down at his black tunic. It was dotted with tiny flecks of sand.

The rest of rehearsal was a blur. As soon as his scene ended, Isaac crept offstage to the darkest corner he could find and brushed the grit off his chest.

The tiny grains stuck to his palm, flecks of mica glinting like tiny stars. They looked just as real as everything else.

Isaac cornered Horatio as the actors filtered out of the auditorium. He must have looked deranged, holding out one hand and hissing through his teeth, “Can you see it? The sand?”

Horatio, to his credit, merely nodded and said, “They really ought to clean the place better.”

***

Isaac didn’t know.

Sand upon sand; first Caasi, and then the ghost. The city of Mu, half-buried in sand. The pearl. He suspected—in that stomach-sinking, dead-certain way—that there were no coincidences here. All of them were bound together, if only he could figure out how.

But it all started with Caasi, and Caasi was chasing Mu. Isaac merely had to follow the facts until he discovered what his doppelganger wanted from the deserted city.

The ghost had pointed him there, after all. And it was real—at least as real as the sand Isaac held in one hand. He wasn’t crazy. He just didn’t understand how any of this worked.

After rehearsal, he went straight to the library. The “borrowed” books seemed like a good place to start. Perhaps there was a detail—an overlooked page, a footnote, an annotation in the margins—that would point him in the right direction.

He spent an hour searching the stacks, but couldn’t find any of the titles; in fact, there didn’t seem to be a single book about Mu left on the shelves.

At last he went to the front desk. The librarian, a bespectacled man with tiny eyes, blinked a few times and repeated, “Mu? Like, the city?”

“Yes,” Isaac said. “I can’t find anything on it.”

“Yeah, we took all the books off the shelves.” The librarian scratched his neck. “On account of the recent thefts and everything.”

“What? When?”

“Earlier today.”

Isaac swore under his breath. He’d only just been here this morning. “Well, where are they now?”

“They got moved to the director’s private collection.”

“Can I visit the private collection?”

The man shrugged. “That’s up to the director.”

Isaac turned away frowning. He’d just missed his chance to talk to Victor during rehearsal. He had no idea how to find the director now, short of banging on his office door and hoping he was inside.

So he did the next best thing and called Yaz Toma. She didn’t pick up the first time, or the second. Isaac dialed again and wandered down toward the water, twirling his hair around one finger, scowling at nothing in particular.

Finally, Yaz answered the phone. “Can this wait? I’m busy.” There was a strange metallic clanking in the background.

“I need to get into Victor’s private library,” Isaac said quickly.

“His library?” She sounded fuzzy, like a poorly-tuned radio. “I don’t know if I can help. He’s pretty selective about giving out access.”

“Please.” Isaac kicked a pebble into the canal. His mouth tasted sour. “I’m chasing a lead on Caasi. It’s important.”

There was a stretch of crackly silence. Eventually, Yaz sighed. “Fine. It’s at the top of the Spire. There’s a spare key on top of the door frame. Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Thank you,” Isaac said. “Really.”

She hung up.

***

On the top floor of the Spire, the bells were nearly deafening. Isaac had just emerged from the stairwell when they started to ring. He covered his ears, but his hands barely muted the noise; it was loud enough to shake the floor under his feet.

At least it was only four o’clock. As the last echoes reverberated through his skull, he looked up at the smooth marble ceiling and wondered how anyone could reach the bell tower. There had to be another stairway somewhere in the building.

Ahead of him, the white wall was interrupted by a single door. A small brass plaque labeled it The Private Collection of Victor Belka.

Isaac stood on tip-toes and reached for the top of the door frame. His fingers scraped over the grit and dust, searching for a key.

It wasn’t there. He scrabbled around for a few more seconds, but there was nothing to find. End of the line.

He withdrew his filthy hands and wiped them on his pants, trying to figure out if he was angry or disappointed or simply exhausted.

Out of sheer desperation, he tried the handle. The door swung open.

He stared. Through the narrow arch, he could see rows of shelves. Sunbeams slotted through gaps in the books, dotting the carpet with pools of bright light. On the far wall, a dozen windows looked down over the atrium lake.

Isaac ventured into the room, shutting the door behind him. There was a flicker of movement in the next aisle.

“Hello?” he said. It came out quieter than he expected.

The air was full of the sudden, panicked silence of someone trying not to be heard. Isaac frowned, turned the corner, and peered down the aisle.

To his surprise, Jesse Chey stood frozen between two bookshelves, holding a few large, loose papers. He hadn’t seen her since their chess match. Her wide eyes and guilty expression gave everything away. “Oh. Isaac.”

“What are you doing here?” Isaac asked.

“I, ah. Yeah.” Her mouth opened and closed again. “Research. You know.” She started rolling up the papers in her hands. Over the rustling and crinkling, she stammered, “I needed some blueprints. That’s all. But I was just leaving, actually.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Isaac said mildly.

“I’m not lying,” she insisted. “I really was looking for blueprints.”

“But you’re not supposed to be in here. Right?”

She hemmed and hawed and looked at the floor. “Are you going to tell anyone?”

“I don’t know.” Isaac crossed his arms. “What are the blueprints for?”

“They’re just ships. Look.” She unrolled one of the papers again, revealing an illustrated cross-section of an interspace-ship. “All the schematics are locked away up here. Only senior engineers have access. They told me I needed more experience before I could get my own key.” Her tone turned bitter. “But I can’t repair a ship when I don’t even know how they work. What am I supposed to do?”

Isaac believed her. Mostly. He stepped into a patch of sunlight, and felt the warmth climbing up his skin. “Don’t worry. I won’t mention it. Maybe you can help me out with this, though.” He fished around in his wallet and withdrew his slightly battered New Frog Chess Club card, passing it to Jesse. “Since you’re a member and all.”

“Break the first rule, huh?” Jesse’s voice was a little too casual to be convincing. “Very mysterious.”

As she handed the card back, Isaac noticed a green tattoo of a stegosaurus on her left wrist. It was no larger than a dime, wearing a goofy cartoon grin.

He felt the same odd impulse to trust her. She seemed like such a normal person, compared to SEIDR’s other employees. But she clearly was hiding things, just like all the rest—Isaac included.

“Harley gave me that,” he said. “Does it mean anything to you?”

“Maybe.” She glanced at him twice, and then sighed. “I shouldn’t say it. The whole point is that you’re supposed to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

“The rules.” Her eyes darted around the room. “Look, I’ll give you a hint. Member meetings are on—”

“Saturdays,” Isaac said. “People keep saying that. It hasn’t helped much.”

“Try the clubhouse basement. Next Saturday. See if you’d like to join.”

“I didn’t even know there was a basement.” Isaac shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll be there. How did you find out about all this?”

Jesse shrugged. “I was just following Gray after she disappeared. I didn’t realize there was so much, uh, under the surface. Never expected to wind up joining a chess club. I kind of hate chess, honestly.”

“Me too,” Isaac sighed. All at once, he remembered his upcoming game with Miriam. It was enough to instantly erase his good mood. He rubbed his nose. “I’m supposed to play an important match this Sunday, but I already know I’m going to lose. It’s completely pointless. Might as well resign as soon as I get there.”

“Why are you even going?” Jesse asked. “You could just not show up.”

“It’s complicated.” His entire future as a wizard hung in the balance, but he didn’t want to get into that. “I’d rather not think about it.”

Jesse tilted her head. “Sure. This place has a way of unraveling your plans, doesn’t it?”

“Glad I’m not the only one who noticed,” Isaac said grimly. “Half the time I’m too busy finishing things I shouldn’t have started to start the things I ought to finish.”

She laughed outright, and then covered her mouth. “That’s exactly it,” she said. “There’s just so much happening, all the time. It’s easy to get involved, and hard to remember why you’re really here.”

“Why are you really here?” Isaac asked. He didn’t think it was a terribly personal question, but Jesse frowned and her eyes darted to one side. As she opened her mouth, Isaac said, “You don’t have to lie. If you’d rather not tell me.”

She nodded, and chose her words carefully. “It’s … also complicated. I guess you could say I’m here because of Oshun.”

“Have you been there a lot?”

“Oh, no. I haven’t even seen it yet.”

“What?” Isaac had to spend a few seconds grappling with that idea before it made sense to him. “But Oshun is the whole point. That’s why SEIDR is here. It’s the only thing that could justify their existence in the first place.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Jesse groaned. “I would hop on the first ship with an open space, if they let me. I’ve been waiting to sail since I got here. I can’t even imagine what it’ll be like.”

“Whatever you’re expecting,” he said, “it’s better than that.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, and Isaac could almost hear an echo of an echo of the star. “You’re the one who fell through the rift under the Catacomb, right?”

“I am,” Isaac said.

“What was it like, being stuck there?”

“I never felt like I was stuck until I left.”