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MIDDLEGAME

SEANAN MCGUIRE

A TOM DOHF. RTY ASSOCIATES ROOK

For Shawn, who always knew that one day I would lead him to

the Impossible City.

Thank you for trusting me to find the way.

BOOK VII

The End

They say there is divinity in odd numbers,

Either in nativity, chance, or death.

-WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

It doesn’t matter how beautiful your theory is, it doesn’t matter how smart you are. If it doesn’t agree with experiment, it’s wrong.

-RICHARD FEYNMAN

FAILURE

The Beginning

GENESIS

The Second Stage

ONE HUNDRED YEARS LATER

THE IMPROBABLE ROAD

THE IMPOSSIBLE CITY

THE ASTROLABE

The Doctrine Matures

INTRODUCTION

ADDITION

PURPLE STARS

ISOLATION

TELEPHONE WIRE

REFUSE ME

CHECKMATE

DEED

Reset

CHECKMATE

CALIBRATION

BREAKDOWN

PERFECTION

RESCUE

Graduate

FAMILIAL VISITATION

ENROLLMENT

REUNION

EXPERIMENTATION

REPORT

BUCOLIC

HOME AGAIN

Complicate

PHLEGMATIC

VARIATION

BIOLOGY

CONSEQUENCES

BLAME

REPORT

COST

Aftershocks

WE ARE

FLIGHT RISK

GALILEO

LONG DISTANCE

ORBITS

GLORY

WAR

SCIENCE

Up-and-Under

COAL DUST

UP ALL NIGHT

HAM AND EGGS

WATER

FIRE

CONCRETE

SHOWDOWN

OUTCOME

SPINDRIFT

COST AND CONSEQUENCE

GHOSTS

BIRTHRIGHT

PANTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Also by Seanan McGuire

Table of Contents

FAILURE

Timeline: five minutes too late, thirty seconds from the end of the

world.

There is so much blood.

Roger didn’t know there was this much blood in the human body. It seems impossible, ridiculous, a profligate waste of something that should be precious and rare—and most importantly, contained. This blood belongs inside the body where it began, and yet here it is, and here he is, and everything is going so wrong.

Dodger isn’t dead yet, despite the blood, despite everything. Her chest rises and falls in tiny hitches, barely visible to the eye. Each breath is a clear struggle, but she keeps fighting for the next one. She’s still breathing. She’s still bleeding.

She’s not going to bleed for long. She doesn’t, no pun intended, have it in her.

And when she stops breathing, so does he.

If Dodger were awake, she’d happily tell him exactly how much of her blood is on the floor. She’d look at the mess around them. She’d calculate the surface area and volume of the liquid as easily as taking a breath, and she’d turn it into a concrete number, something accurate to the quarter ounce. She’d think she was being comforting, even if the number she came up with meant “I’m leaving you. ” Even if it meant “there is no coming back from this. ”

Even if it meant goodbye.

Maybe it would be comforting, to her. The math would be true, and that’s all she’s ever asked from the world. He knows the words that apply to this situation—exsanguination, hypovolemia, hemorrhage— but they don’t reassure him the way the numbers reassure her. They never have. Numbers are simple, obedient things, as long as you understand the rules they live by. Words are trickier. They twist and bite and require too much attention. He has to think to change the world. His sister just does it.