The words hovered in the air, like a strange silvery bubble. I reached out to touch them, but they faded out of sight as quickly as they had appeared.
I looked at my mom. “Did you see that?”
My mom nodded. “Casts are different in this world.”
“Why isn’t it working?”
“Try it in the original Latin. Here. Read it for yourself.” She held the paper closer to the torch, and I leaned toward the light.
My voice shook as I said the words.
“Mortuus, iace.
Vivus, fle.
Ducite me domum
ut meminissem
ut in memoria tenear.”
I closed my eyes, but all I could think about was how far I was from Lena. How her curling black hair twisted in the Caster breeze. How the green and the gold flecks lit her eyes, as bright and dark as she was.
How I’d probably never see her again.
“Oh, come on, EW.”
I opened my eyes. “It’s no use.”
“Concentrate.”
“I’m concentrating.”
“You’re not,” she said. “Don’t think about where you are now. Don’t think about what you’ve lost—not the water tower or anything that came after it. Keep your head in the game.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if you were, you wouldn’t be standing here. You would be halfway home, with one foot back in Gatlin.”
Would I? It was hard to imagine.
“Close your eyes.”
I closed them obediently.
“Repeat what I say,” she whispered.
In the silence, I heard her words inside my mind, like she was speaking aloud to me.
We were Kelting, my mother and I. In death, from the grave, in a faraway world. It seemed familiar between us, something from long ago, something we had lost.
Carry me home.
Carry me home, I said.