Chapter 149

The horizons stretch and shatter, and in the moment before they rebuild themselves, there are clots of stars hemorrhaging through, screaming, and the shrieking blare of them makes Dallin wonder if his ears are bleeding. Everything shifts again, and then again--they're standing on the nothing of Wil's threads and Dallin's stars, then there is grass beneath their feet, the solid ground of Lind sliding out from beneath them and shifting to brittle malachite, then the stone floor of the constabulary, the oily flicker of the lamps skidding behind Dallin's eyes and into his nose, then places he's never been, things he's never seen. The vertigo is nauseating.