EIGHTEEN

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THE SKY REMAINED CLEAR and the Model Twelve, though built much like the Girl, did not dip into the pull of the wind as readily as she had, so Kilter's first night of flying was not too difficult. Aletsavar, his father, had been right – the Model Twelve was an excellent design.

Kilter's mind ran over and over through what Catrío had read aloud to him from the notebook about his parents. Staring at the starry sky around him and the flickering form of the Phoenix as it glided along just above him, he imagined they were flying with him. The thought comforted him, but not for long.

As he hung in the cold grip of the wind, the moon-cast shadow of the Model Twelve pointy and flickering on the snow far below, the Phoenix swung down to fly ahead of him with such steady wingbeats that he wondered if it already knew the way to Istravol. Did it know why they were going there?

Your parents would do the same thing you are, he told himself.

And even if they wouldn't, you can't let Dmal die.

He watched streams of pink light slide along the Phoenix's, slick as if its feathers were metal, and swallowed hard.

What about Shev, then?

If the wind hadn't been caught so well under the Model Twelve's wings, it's likely Kilter would have just hovered there above the mountains, going neither onward to Istravol or turning back. If the Phoenix had appeared only a few months earlier, he wouldn't have waited a moment upon learning he could have the desire he wanted most. He'd have asked to understand the notebook and to get out of Istravol. Now, there were so many things he wanted and, to his surprise, he found himself longing for the days he spent hunched over his worktable in the clock tower, lonely and confusing as they were. He'd had no idea how much having choices hurt.

No wonder the people in Istravol obey the Chancellor, he realized bitterly. They don't have to think about the terrible things that happened with the Phoenix. He does the hard deciding, and because he did it for them, saving them the pain, they go along with what he chose.

Aletsavar, Vilsha... my father, my mother... you were so brave to make up your own mind.

It is so hard.

Kilter could fly for only a few hours before he had to land on a mountainside, exhausted. He curled up in the deep snow, the Model Twelve's closed wings covering him like a roof. The Model Twelve's closed wings covering him like a roof, he curled up in the deep snow with the Phoenix to keep him warm, perched on his chest. He did not sleep well. The night flashed with his memories of explosions and fire in the absence of the flickering pink and green light in the sky. He was sore all over and his eyes heavy, the next morning. Winding up the clock springs in the Model Twelve's wings took more of his strength than it ever had before. But he was in the air and headed towards the large peak with the dark line of the river at its base before the sun was fully up.

Everything was pale with the newness of the light, and the sky, stone-grey with clouds, seemed more solid than the land below. The snow-covered trees looked as delicate as spider webs and the wide expanses of snow glittered like stars. The Phoenix was brighter now in the slanting light, and Kilter couldn't look straight at it as it flew ahead of him. By the time they were over the large mountain, the river thundering faintly below them, it was shining all colors at once like the middle of the glass-like fragments Nátala wore on her fingers.

Near midday, Kilter noticed smoke rise above the mountainous treeline as if someone had drawn an ink line across the sky and carelessly smeared it. A short while later the dark chimneys, smokestacks, towers, and walls of Istravol came into view amid the snow and rough stone. Almost at once the clock tower's bells echoed out into the air, the sound unsettlingly small as it carried across the ring of mountains. The Phoenix had been sighted.

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