"If we survive this," Penny said, "I'm going to write a book about it."
She was feeling her way along the cave walls. Her auburn hair was coming loose from her plait, curling in the humid air, and her blue dress was damp with sweat; they'd left her white cloak in the cavern. As Penny had pointed out, it would only slow them down.
Grayson raised an eyebrow. "A whole book?"
"Well," Penny said, "I can hardly write half a book about it, can I?" She took a left. "What would the readers think?"
"You could write short stories," Grayson suggested.
Her nose scrunched. "Not enough room for plot development."
"Or a ballad."
Penny shook her head. "Too much going on."
"What about an epic poem?"
She gave him a look. "Can you think of anything that rhymes with Lucia?"
Grayson thought for a moment. Fuchsia? Loofa? Yeah, fair play. "What would you call your book?"
Penny didn't hesitate. "Princess Penelope and Her Sidekick Save the World."
"Her Handsome Sidekick," Grayson corrected.
Penny sighed. "Everyone's an editor."
She took a right, her hands extended like a child playing a game of blindfolded tag. Grayson squinted. The only light came from the previous cavern, as well as something up ahead. He hoped it wasn't a pool of bioluminescent acid. You just never knew, with these sorts of things.
"I'd read it," Grayson said. "The book."
Penny paused. "You would?"
"Of course I would."
"It might not be any good," Penny said.
Grayson fiddled with the map in his pocket. Truthfully, he'd read anything Penny wrote. Shopping lists, reminders, instructions for the stable hands... it didn't matter. Still. Grayson had some dignity left, so he pushed the thought away.
"Books don't have to be good," Grayson said. "They just have to be entertaining."
They emerged into the light. They were standing in a glass atrium, Grayson realized; moonlight spilled through a tall dome, colouring the floor with rose-tinted light. A statue of a woman stood atop a fountain, her face half-obscured by a stone cloak. Saega, Grayson deduced; the goddess of riddles and tricksters.
"Okay," Penny said. "What if I opened the story like this?"
She cleared her throat. "It was a dark and stormy night. Princess Penelope drifted through the castle halls, a lantern held up in front of her. She was going to the library to do some research with her faithful sidekick, the Lord of Libertas. "We're almost there," the princess whispered quietly."
She looked at Grayson expectantly. He nodded. "Brilliant. I love what you did with the description. I really felt like I was there."
Penny looked like she was fighting a smile. "Grayson."
"What?"
"You really like me, don't you?"
He crossed his arms. "Why do you ask?"
"Because," Penny said, "that passage was really terrible. Nobody would every say whisper quietly. And that bit about the night being dark and stormy?" She was smiling. "That's such a cliché. No serious writer would ever—"
Grayson kissed her.
He hadn't planned on kissing her. Hadn't made the conscious decision to lean down, to take her face in his hands. But there were some things, Grayson thought, that felt as natural as your heartbeat; this was one of them.
Penny twined her arms around his neck. She smelled of winter air and something sweet like apples; he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. Grayson held her waist with gentle hands. Every part of him — every synapse and nerve ending — ached for more, and it was only through a surprising amount of self-control that he kept from pulling her closer. Don't scare her, he thought.
Penny pulled back. "Grayson."
Her voice was a whisper. He blinked, dazed. "What?"
"Do you hear that?"
Grayson closed his eyes. He could hear nothing but the hungry pounding of his own heart, galloping in his chest. Then he heard it: a faint rumbling sound.
"Burning hells," Grayson muttered.
"Let's go back." Penny turned for the door. "I don't like the sound of—"
The door slammed shut.
Grayson turned. There were no exits, he realized; no doors or windows except for the one that they came through. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Penny crossed to the statue, squinting up at the skylight.
"Okay," she said. "This is eerie."
Grayson stilled. "Princess?"
"Yeah?"
He held up a hand. "Look at that wall."
Golden letters appeared, glistening like wet paint. The rumbling was growing louder; it rolled overhead like thunder, a giant's hand smashing at the glass dome. Grayson moved closer to the letters.
I am realer than real, but then I am not;
I stir up memories but am often forgot;
Everyone has me, but no two are the same;
I wear many faces, but what is my name?
"This is the second test," Penny whispered. "Clever of mind."
Grayson turned away. "Do you happen to know the answer?"
"No," Penny said. "Do you?"
He blew out a breath. "Let me think."
Grayson paced the room. He'd never been good at guessing games. He could vividly recall Maribel running down to the docks in Libertas, her yellow welly boots sinking into the mud, asking sailors a million questions. Why was the jib curved? How did the boat float? Would the boat sink if you put enough weight on it?
But he'd never been interested, Grayson thought. He'd wanted to know how to steer the boat, and he didn't care about the mechanics behind it. His father once said that he'd been born impatient for answers. He didn't care about the questions.
"Did you hear that?" Penny asked.
Grayson stilled. "What?"
She moved closer to the wall. "I think I heard a rat."
"A rat wouldn't survive this far underground," Grayson said.
Penny pressed her ear to the wall. A beat passed. Two. Then she sprang back, almost tripping over her skirts. "Okay. That was definitely a rat."
Grayson shook his head. "I don't hear it."
"It's inside the walls," Penny said.
She rapped on the surface. Grayson raised an eyebrow; he was unsure how a rat would survive for years in solid stone walls with no food sources, but this hardly seemed like the time to discuss rodent adaptability strategies. He scanned the words.
"Realer than real..." Grayson rolled the words around in his mouth; they felt hard and sour as apple seeds. "But also not..."
"Grayson." Penny leaned closer to the wall. "You really can't hear that?" Her face was pale. "Something's wrong."
He squinted at the wall. "Do you think the many faces thing is metaphorical? I can't imagine that—"
"Grayson!"
Penny's voice echoed off the glass ceiling. He whirled. The walls were rumbling, grinding their teeth together. Then — to Grayson's horror — they began to shift. Penny stumbled backwards, holding out her hands as if she could stop them from moving.
"Bugger," Grayson muttered.
He seized Penny's sleeve, and the blue fabric ripped as he yanked her toward the fountain. The walls were expanding, closing in on them like advancing soldiers. "Move to the centre of the room. Now."
Penny's mouth was white. "How long do we have?"
Grayson's mind raced. "Two minutes?" The walls picked up speed. He swallowed. "Okay. Less than two minutes."
Penny's knees hit the fountain. "We should guess." She looked up. "Do you have any guesses?"
"Time?" Grayson tried.
Penny swallowed. "Love?"
The grinding noise was all-consuming. Grayson closed his eyes. He'd heard stories of sailors drowning, how the body would fight and fight for air until it convulsed. But there was a part after that, Grayson knew, that was peaceful. The body relaxed; it invited the water into the lungs. There was relief in accepting the inevitable.
Penny was trembling. "Silence? Water?"
"Penny," Grayson said softly. "Look at me."
Her green eyes were shining, the colour of dewy spring leaves. He ran a thumb over her jaw. He wished he'd made more use of their time, Grayson thought; he wished he'd started every day by doing this. Penny shook her head.
"No."
Her voice was raw. Grayson stroked her cheek. "If we don't make it out—"
"No," Penny said. "We're going to be fine."
Her whole body was shaking. Grayson wrapped his arms around her. He rested his chin on her head; her hair smelled of vanilla.
"I'm glad it's you at the end," Grayson murmured. "I wouldn't want it to be anyone else."
Her voice caught. "Grayson..."
He looked down at her. Penny's face was grimy from the caves, her mouth split open from where she'd fallen. She looked a mess, Grayson thought; a godsdamn beautiful mess. Something swelled in his chest, and he smiled. It was okay. If he was with her — if this was it — then that was okay.
The walls were a foot away. He could hear the stone fountain cracking, splintering under their feet. Penny made a noise. She burrowed her face into his chest, her nails digging into his back. I love you, Grayson thought. His whole life felt like a waking dream, a series of moments leading up to this—
A thought struck him.
"Dream," Grayson said.
Penny pulled back. "What?"
"Dreams!" Grayson looked up, his pulse rocketing. "That's the answer. It's a dream."
The walls stopped moving.
Their harsh breathing filled the silence. Penny was sandwiched between the stone wall and his chest, and Grayson could feel her heartbeat slamming through them both. Cold water sprayed his neck. He was practically in the fountain, he realized.
"Well," Penny said finally. "That was fun."
Grayson's laugh was hoarse. "Let's never do that again."
Penny shook her head. "I never want to hear a riddle again. Ever."
The floor lurched.
Penny gave a cry, Grayson scrambled for purchase. The domed ceiling was collapsing. No, Grayson realized, his heart pounding; they were rising toward it. He thrust a hand up — bracing for impact — but the dome bloomed like a flower, unfurling glass petals. They soared through the open gap.
Grayson blinked.
They were standing in a shallow cave; black sand stretched out across the floor, giving way to a glowing blue lake. Gems winked overhead like pale stars. The air felt fresher, here. Crisper. They must be close to the surface.
"Grayson," Penny whispered.
She was staring at the lake. There was an island, Grayson realized, jutting out from the water. He rubbed his forearm; his tattoo felt raw and prickly. And in the centre of the island... resting on a thick slab of rock...
Grayson's throat felt raw. "God-Slayer."