Land reappeared the next day, like a mother opening the front door to her child for the holidays. The deck had settled into quiet company; the children, Sartore included, mingling and playing with each other, while the adults did analogously. Except for Maisero. He was standing on the starboard side of the ship, with his hands crossed over the wooden railing. The cold salt-tinted air he breathed n was producing a hard lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow.

He turned to the children at the sound of one of their nonsense english conversations. It was starting to give him a headache, and he found a suggestion in his mind like a letter sitting on the doorstep: kick them away, they’re driving you mad. Maisero did no such thing. He did, however, turn back to the waves when he spotted Sartore, which threatened to open up the gates and loose the black demon that was trying to emerge from his mind. It took some time for him to force the figure back down, and calm his thumping heart.

Of course he’s a spy, Maisero thought. So what if that sailor can’t see that yet. It’ll be obvious, soon.

Of course, the child had managed to fool the sailor fairly well, Maisero thought, so perhaps he really did have no escape, now that the Sacredate’s men were searching for him too.

He’d have to take care of the situation himself, and soon.

As the ship approached the shore, the shore took shape; the wooden docks, and the other ships that floated there; the miscellaneous people who idled there; the architectural majesty of the city behind it, and the green bushes and growths, the beautiful, multi-colored wildlife in-between. He had spent years studying and writing about this one shore, Maisero thought. And now that he could finally see it, the image was too bitter to enjoy.

The boat slid between two prongs of the pier, and the sailors dropped a large anchor into the water. Children had already fled to their parents, and Sartore appeared at Maisero’s side, looked up at him with a quick smile, then looked back ahead.

“Stand at my side, child, and we shall be out momentarily.” The words were rough and brittle, Maisero thought. Sartore had adopted the anxious, expressionless look of anxiety. The sailors dropped a wooden ramp to the docks, and the crowd on deck quickly formed a ball at the ramp’s mouth and trickled out slowly. Sartore and Maisero were last out.

That sailor was waiting for them at the bottom.

“Have a good trip?” the sailor said. His voice had two different cadences, it seemed: one for Sartore, who smiled and nodded; and another one entirely for Maisero.

“There’s plenty of other people who can look after the kid,” the sailor continued. “If you want out, you’re free to go. The Sacredate’s men will certainly be after you, so you’re welcome to stay as well. Up to you.”

Finally. Freedom.

“I’ll stay,” Maisero said, and patted Sartore’s head. Sartore looked up and smiled. The sailor nodded hesitantly.

“I’m going to take you to the local library. The people I trust should be there. Follow me.” Maisero and Sartore did as commanded.

As they left the docks, Maisero finally saw the fruits of his labor stretched out before him. Here was the vegetation he’d written his volumes about: the flowers poking out of the bushes as they might be held in the ear of a woman, white and blue and red. It was more beautiful than anything he’d ever captured on the page, through his words and diagrams; it all seemed useless and empty when faced with the real thing.

Then there was the architecture that grew like a garden a field of stone, tall, elegant and commanding, the way the buildings closer to him seemed to pass by faster than the larger ones behind forging the illusion of a massive cityscape the likes of which had yet to exist.

Sartore had slowed down to gaze at the works. This made Maisero angry.

“Hurry, child, or we’ll lose sight of the sailor. Stop dilly-dallying.” With a tug from Maisero, the child was freed from his curse, and the two walked onward.

Where the maze of the city ended, there sat the library. It might’ve been one of the tallest buildings in the entire city, the beige-colored walls towering above everything else. There was only one entrance open, at the center of the building, and it seemed to welcome them.

And the library defied all of Maisero’s imagination. They initially entered a hall that was like a spoke in a wheel, whose center was down ahead. Replacing walls were bookshelves, all brimming with pages and volumes, some crammed, others leaning over in uneven ways from the multiple books awkwardly removed from the space. Glass from above gave form to the world below, and when Maisero looked up, he saw multiple floors moving about in a similar fashion, with the end nearest him protected only by a short metal fence. He could see other men walking around, and them and Maisero seemed to share a likeness, and a manner; but they had not fallen down to some rung of decrepitude.

Why have I never been here before? Maisero thought.

“I’m guessing she’s down the hall,” the sailor said, and again the three began to march forward. Maisero only realized the scale of the library when he reached the center, and saw the total extent of the library: four floors, eight spokes, and books everywhere he looked. There were more here now than he had ever seen in his life.

The hall opposite them connected to another building: a large, quiet room of stone, where people sat, read, and studied. The sailor paused for a moment at the entrance, then walked forward towards a woman sitting towards the back corner, who had lifted her head and seemed to recognize him.

The sailor bumped into a chair, drawing glares to the unlikely trio. None of them seemed to care. Maisero was almost happy to disturb the academics’ studies.

“What do you want from me, Balto?”

Despite the sailor’s (Balto was a funny name) confidence, he was suddenly at a loss for words. It was the only time Maisero would ever see the sailor off guard. He took a moment to raise to his face a crooked smile, then spoke.

“I have a gift for you.”

The woman gave Sartore a passing glance and Maisero a passing expression of disgust, which Maisero in vain attempted to return.

“This is a stupid gift.”

The sailor laughed, then sat across from her, and she turned to him. When he knew he had her attention, he leaned forward, as though for a kiss.

“The Sacredate is looking for the boy,” the sailor whispered. The woman took a few seconds to register the words. Her eyes began to widen, and she looked back at the boy as though she’d missed him entirely the first time.

“How do you know that?”

The sailor shifted, uncomfortably, it seemed, in his chair. “Two days ago a ship of the Sacredate’s men attacked us. The captain told his men to kill the kid when he saw him. We sunk their ship, but I’m sure the captain lived.”

She was staring at the sailor now, a hand held up to her forehead.

“And what’s with the old man?”

“I—”

“Just the kid’s caretaker, I think. Not related or anything. But he knows a few things about the kid, here and there. You should take them.”

The woman thought it over for a moment, then rose.

“You should all follow me,” she said, and she began walking out of the library.