63

Stunned by what had happened to Eduard and feeling completely helpless, Teresa went to the one place that had offered her consistent comfort in the past. In despair, she made her way to the Falling Leaves.

In one brief and tragic morning, the foundations of her world had been torn from her. After such a long search, she had discovered that her original body no longer existed. Worse, because she had asked for Daragon’s help in her quest, she had unwittingly led him to Eduard. She had tried to defend her friend, but she had ultimately failed. The Beetles had swallowed him up. Daragon had turned against her, and now Eduard was lost.

“Your priorities are all screwed up, don’t you think?” she said to herself.

Not anymore. She would acquire a clearer focus. She had to.

So she walked along the streets, unable to take pleasure in her rangy body. Her new skin was dark, her eyesight sharp, her senses tingling. How had everything gotten so mixed up? She staggered ahead, finding her way. Teresa had always had trouble finding her own way.

The monastery’s massive wooden door stood shut in front of her, ornately carved and impenetrable. Her loud knock reverberated through the remodeled brewery. Each pounding knock released warm childhood memories and nostalgic times. Teresa longed for those days. But everything was different now.

Finally, the heavy door opened to reveal an unfamiliar young face. “I’m Teresa Swan. I used to live here,” she said. “I need to see the administrator. Can you take me to Chocolate, do you think?”

Inside the archway, she noticed black streamers and crepe hung from the lintel. She reached up to touch the dark fabric, running her fingertips along the weave. The streamers signified mourning.

The young man’s eyes widened. “You’d better follow me. Come this way.” He turned his back and hurried down the corridor. She remembered the courtyard garden, the sleeping quarters, and the marvelous library filled with artwork, books, and COM terminals.

Inside, additional black banners hung from alcoves. Many of the beeswax candles had gone out; the floors looked as if they hadn’t been scrubbed in days. Soft Stone would never have allowed anything like that to happen. . . .

She found the administrator’s office empty, the COM screen switched off, papers and notes in disarray. Chocolate’s desk and chair looked as if they hadn’t been used in days. “Wait here,” the young man said. “I need to fetch him from the garden. Your name is Teresa, you said?”

She nodded and continued to stare into the office, a feeling of dread taking hold of her. “Can you tell me what’s wrong? Why are you grieving? Where are all the Splinters?”

The young monk looked at her, his expression lost. “They’re all at the funeral preparations for Chocolate. We’ve got . . . we’ve got plenty to do that we weren’t expecting.” Preoccupied, he fled back down the hall in tears.

Teresa put a hand to her mouth. “Chocolate is dead?” Her voice was husky with disbelief.

Finally, the young man returned with stern Hickory in his wake. Seeing the familiar, if unwelcoming, face, Teresa took a step toward him. Hickory assessed her new, athletic form with an expression of clear disapproval—but then, he disapproved of almost everything. “You’re Teresa?” His pinched face loosened into an expression that, though not an outright smile, was at least less stern. “Not many people come back, but frankly I’m surprised it took you so long.”

Teresa still couldn’t get used to the surprising news about the roly-poly administrator. “Did Chocolate upload himself into COM? Like Soft Stone did?” She didn’t understand the black banners, the dark crepe of mourning. “Why is everyone so sad?”

Hickory scowled. “No, Chocolate died in his sleep, before he could schedule his upload ceremony. We didn’t expect that, and now he’s gone.” Hickory crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at her for a moment. Then his expression fell. Tears sparkled in his eyes. “His soul is lost. He’ll never be able to sail the data streams with his brothers and sisters. He . . . we waited too long.”

Teresa took the news like a physical blow.

Her life had been such a long journey without a map, full of blind turns and dead ends. She had always expected to find clear-cut solutions, black-and-white answers, if only she kept asking. Maybe there were no answers to be had. Teresa had to find her own solutions, not just ask somebody else.

Standing by herself, she finally managed to put the pieces together: A person determined her worth by what she did and how she lived her life, not by which body she had, which form she held, which skin she inhabited.

Finally it clicked what old Arthur had been trying to tell her—the soul and the body were together but separate. Changing bodies did not change a person. Altering her appearance didn’t alter who she was. Teresa’s free will, her actions and her thoughts, were the things that made her an individual.

All along she had been obsessed with irrelevant worries, the wrong problems. . . .

Later, she returned bearing baskets of fresh-cut flowers for the funeral. Standing among the Splinters who were now all strangers to her, she remained long enough to say her farewells to the roly-poly, good-natured man. Chocolate was gone. Like Soft Stone. Like Arthur.

Like Eduard would be very soon.

Willingly this time, knowing the world was waiting for her, Teresa left the monastery. Many of the Splinters came to bid her farewell, but she walked away down the street, knowing in her heart that this was the last time she would ever return to the Falling Leaves.