He bursts through two bamboo double doors and into a brightly lit bedroom, the beautiful beach from before visible through the room’s sprawling windows. This room is as wrecked as the rest of the house. The bed is flipped over completely, bookshelves are toppled and their contents scattered and even the floorboards themselves are uneven. It’s like someone had a telekinetic tantrum in here.

Gazing out the window is the auburn-haired woman who many years ago danced away the night on the beach. Celwe. Hugging herself, she doesn’t turn around when the man enters the room.

“I met him right out there,” Celwe says, motioning at the beach. “He was so shy at first. Always in his own head. Sometimes I’m still surprised he got up the nerve to marry me.”

“What happened here?” he asks as he slowly approaches.

“We had an argument, Pittacus.”

“You and Setrákus?”

Celwe snorts and spins to face him. My grandfather’s childhood friend, the man who must have become the next Pittacus Lore. Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying but she seems unharmed otherwise. “Oh, don’t call him that. That title has brought nothing but trouble.”

“It’s who he is now,” Pittacus replies earnestly. “It’s a great honor.”

Her eyes narrow. “It was hard enough being married to a Garde. We used to talk about having children, you know. Now, after that trip to Mogadore, after becoming an Elder . . . I hardly see him. When I do, all he talks about is that project, his obsession.”

Pittacus tilts his head. “What project?”

Celwe swallows, maybe realizing that she’s said too much. She walks away from the window and goes to the bed. She begins to push the wooden frame away from the mattress so that she can flip the thing right side up but thinks better of it, instead looking to Pittacus.

“Help me out, would you?”

Pittacus uses his telekinesis to turn the bed over, straightening the covers at the same time. His eyes never leave Celwe.

“So easy for you,” she mutters as she sits down on the newly made bed.

Pittacus sits down next to her. “What is Setrákus working on?”

She takes a deep breath. “It’s a dig. Out in the mountains. I shouldn’t—I don’t know how exactly to explain it. What he does out there . . . he says he does it for me, Pittacus. Like it’s a gift.” Celwe’s voice catches. There are tears in her eyes. “But I don’t want it.”

“I don’t understand,” Pittacus replies.

“You should see it for yourself,” she says. “Don’t . . . don’t tell him I told you.”

“Are you scared of him?” Pittacus asks, his voice low. “Has he hurt you?”