When I wake up, I don't open my eyes. Faint light filters through my lids, and I pretend it's the Errelian street lamps reaching full brightness, announcing the new day. The boring beige walls that my mother never let me paint stare at me, willing me to wake up and go to university. The desk in the corner holds the two textbooks I'll need today—The Study of Class Aehrixi and The Physiology of Wings in Nature. Any minute now, my mother will yell from downstairs, "Eleaviara Riveirre, if you don't get yourself out this door in the next five minutes, the professor's going to lock you out!"—though I've never been tardy to a class in my life. Then the door will slam as she hurries out, always on the brink of running late herself. Dad will have already left for his lab, slipping out early to avoid my mother. If I'm lucky, though, he might have left me some hotcakes in the oven—

Maroon flower print greets my opening eyes and marks the death of my fantasy. I push up, throwing off the covers and dragging my bag onto the bed. I rifle through it, digging out my brush. "Skies, Leavi." The bristles tug my hair, yanking at the knots. "What, did you think you were going to wish your way back home? Get your head out of the clouds."

The hairbrush battles another knot, and this time, it loses, getting stuck in the tangles. Fed up, I extract the brush and toss it back in the bag. My involuntary soaking yesterday is the closest I've come to a chance to wash in at least a week. And wash might be an exaggeration considering I haven't seen soap since Karsix. I'm disgusting; I feel like my hair and skin are covered with an invisible layer of grime that paltry damp cloths and rain showers can't wash away. I need a wash, a proper wash. Steaming shower, real soap, warm towel. I want to scrub the last two months from my skin.

Grabbing my least dirty change of clothes, I head into the hallway. Past mine and Sean's rooms are two more pairs of parallel doors, with one more capping the hall. Guessing the others are more dormitories, I open the door to the last room.

The faint smell of urine mixes with the floral scent of wilting primroses in the vase atop a wooden stand. Neatly folded towels nestle in the stand's shelves. Beside it, a half-full basin rests on a narrow plinth, a wet washcloth draped over its side, a mirror hanging above. To the back of the room is a lime green, tin bathtub, an alternating ring of cats and flowers crudely painted along its side. A metal bucket with a lid sits in the corner.

That's it. No toilet. No sink. No faucets. It's more like a powder room sporting a confused tub than a bathroom. How in the world do they get water in here? I start to go to find someone to ask, but my reflection moves in the mirror and steals my attention.

I expect to see normal me. Me with the paper-white skin from a life spent underground. Me with the clean face and clean hands, pristine hair, pressed clothes. Me with the slightly rounded-out cheeks, the arched eyebrows, the clear brown eyes, the smooth, pink lips shining from a touch of gloss.

Instead, I'm greeted by a travel-worn stranger. Her skin's mostly the same tone, but faded streaks spot her once polished complexion. Her cheeks are thinned out, bones sharper. There's something darker in her eyes: a quiet sadness, tiredness maybe. Or perhaps the new angles of her face simply make them seem like that.

My fingers brush the silvered glass, my reflection reaching to match. The image echoes in me, the hollow repetition of a sound, like when bats call to each other in a cave but only the edges of noise are audible. This girl is not Mastera Eleaviara Riveirre. This is a ghost, a simple outline of what once was.

Or maybe the haughty mastera is the empty one, and the girl staring in the mirror is, in fact, more complete.

"You okay there?"

I whirl around. Jacin leans against the doorway, a sideways smile splayed across his face.

An embarrassed half-laugh escapes my lips. "Yes." Just playing with my reflection like some kind of mental. I wonder how long he's been standing there.

"Do you need help with something? You look a little lost."

I glance around, trying not to meet his eyes. My gaze lands on the bathtub. "Where is the water?"

He tilts his head at me. "Come on. I'll show you." He pushes off the wall, smile encouraging me to follow.

I hesitate, confused why they would keep the water someplace other than the bathroom. It seems counterintuitive, but Jacin's halfway down the hallway. I catch up.

He pads downstairs and moves through the house to go out the backdoor. I follow him into the crisp morning air. The sun hangs low, the dew still wet on the grass as it slides against my feet. A mossy stone structure stands alone in the clearing, sides open, roof pointing to the sky like some prehistoric temple. In the middle of the tiny building, a wooden bucket dangles crookedly from a rope.

An incredulous smile finds my lips. A well? Even the tiny topside town my field-group visited briefly at least had a pump. This thing is right out of a fairy tale. Part of me expects some sort of magical creature to spring out and make us solve a riddle before we can drink from it.

But Jacin lowers the rope and no mystical being challenges him. I rest my arms on the cool lip of the well, watching the bucket descend. Mother always said reading those novels would do funny things to my head.

He heaves the bucket back up and dumps the water into a large container at the base of the well. As he lowers it again, I take my time to form my question. Once I'm sure my words are right, I ask carefully, "You have to do this each time you want to wash?"

He glances at me, a teasing smile dimpling his cheek. "What else would you do? Will it to appear?"

"No, I—" Blushing, I turn to stare at the treeline. How am I supposed to answer him? Well, in a normal society, water is filtered and piped to all the buildings. The only people that use wells are wax figures in history museums.

"You know, Leavi, if it wasn't for your pretty pale skin, I'd think you were one of those snooty Morineause."

Not entirely sure what he said, I can't quite tell if it was an insult or a joke. I turn back and catch his wide grin. Joke, then.

I smile back, and he finishes pulling up and dumping out the bucket. As he resets it, he says, "Did you know Marcí was originally from Morineaux? Not the Draón border that tells itself it's Morineaux either, but actual, proper Morineaux. Or at least that's what she claims. Not sure why they'd come so far up north if that's the case, but other than that, it makes a lot of sense."

I don't know what these places he's mentioning are, but considering the way he's talking about them, I get the feeling if I asked, he'd look at me like I was crazy. Instead, I say, "Why?"

"It'd account for her better-than-thou attitude." He winks.

I have the uncanny sensation that there's a joke there somewhere and I'm missing it. I smile like I know what he's talking about.

"You know, she actually told us once that when she was a kid, water would magically appear in the bathroom and kitchen when you needed it. Wish they'd share that kind of magic with the rest of the world, right?" He laughs. Pouring his latest haul into the receptacle, he wipes his brow and leaves the bucket hanging. "Come on. This should fill the tub about halfway. That'll be enough for you, right?"

I nod but set a hand on his shoulder as he moves to grab the receptacle. He stops.

"You say 'the rest of the world'?"

Confusion seeps across his face. "Yeah?"

I pull my hand back. I'm still worried he's going to think I'm crazy, but I have to know. "How—how many people are..." I search for the right word, ending with an uncertain, "Here?"

"In the village?"

"In the world."

He whistles. "I think you'd have to ask one of those Morineause scholars for that. And even then, I doubt they'd actually know."

My mind whirs, translating and trying to sift meaning from his words. "There is... many, then?" How could a 'mythical' Outerlands hold so many people that they can't even be counted?

"Well, Leavi," he chuckles, "there's five countries. I'm no mathematician, but I'd say that's 'many.'"

"Countries?" My tongue tests the Common word, unfamiliar with it.

"A group of lots and lots of villages." His face screws up. "That was a terrible explanation. What language do you speak? Maybe I know enough to translate."

"Errelian?"

He shakes his head, and my heart falls. Of course he doesn't know, the reasonable part of me reminds. If we've never heard of his people, he can't have heard of ours.

"What part of Draó are you from, exactly, Leavi?"

"Draó?"

He laughs. "Surely they haven't renamed it in your language. Avadelian might not be your native tongue, but usually the country names translate."

"This... language. You call it 'Avadelian'?" I pronounce the word carefully.

He nods. "Your Errelian have a different name for it?"

"Common."

He shrugs. "Suppose that's as good a name as any considering the Morineause are about the only ones who might turn up their nose at learning it. You can get just about anywhere in Draó with a good grasp on Avadelian, and I figure most places in the rest of Avadel too. But I get the feeling you haven't traveled much, have you?"

I shake my head.

"That's alright. I hadn't left my village until a couple of years ago myself. Been traveling ever since. You'll catch on." He winks. "Now, let's get this upstairs for you." He grabs one end of the receptacle, and we carry the container to empty it into the tub. Jacin dries his hands on his pants. "There you go. Now to go fill up another for Marcí's kitchen."

"Oh. I did not mean to bother—"

He waves it away. "Don't worry about it. Gotta earn my keep somehow, right?" He smiles. "See you around, Leavi." He picks up the container and leaves, closing the door for me.

I drag Marcí's clothes off me, dropping them into a pile on the floor. As I sink into the tub, the cold makes my skin prickle, but I refuse to flinch. For the first time in months, I'm in clean, pure water, and I'm going to savor every second of it. I dunk my head below the surface, scrubbing at my hair, running my fingers through the wet tangles. The freezing water is refreshing, and I welcome its bite as it rolls over my skin.

My lungs call for oxygen, and I sit, water streaming from my hair. Using a washcloth, I rub at my skin, washing away the long marches, the trails and the dust, the Traders and their lies. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, I shed the dirt and the dead skin. As I lean back, the tips of my hair float around my shoulders while foreign words float around my head.

Morineaux. Draó. Avadel. And the topside Common. They call it Avadelian.

How could so many people be in this supposedly empty, supposedly fake land?

The Outerlands—or Avadel, as they seem to say—is a world unto itself. A world we never knew existed. Until now.

My mind works to piece it all together. Five countries in Avadel, two important enough to bring up in casual conversation. Draó, which he implied is built of a cosmopolitan, wandering sort of people. That either means they have safe roads and great opportunities, like the High Valley caves, or they're penniless nomads, like the Traders. Based on the charming well outside, I'm going with the latter. And then there's Morineaux, where Jacin seems to think all the people are entitled jerks. That's the same way the topsiders think of people from Erreliah.

Which means Morineaux must be Avadel's hub of intellect.

I rise and, water dripping down my skin, quickly dry off and step out. I reach for my clothes but hesitate. My things rest on the towel shelf, grime encrusted on the fabric. I grimace. There's no way I'm putting those back on.

I quickly wash them in the tub, then wring the articles out as much as possible. They'll be damp, but at least it won't feel like I'm wearing caked dirt.

I leave the bathroom and wander downstairs. The house is quiet as I move through, and the sound of Sean's presswrite echoes down the hall. I turn into the kitchen. At a wooden island, Sean sits munching on an apple with one hand and typing with the other.

He glances at me, fingers still in motion. "You're wet."

I spread my arms out, examining myself. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

Shaking his head, he returns his attention to his work. A glance over my shoulder reveals the house is quiet and still. I push onto the counter beside Sean's presswrite.

"You're blocking my light," he says, eyes down.

"To record your nonexistent data? We're not in a laboratory, Sean."

"My bad. I didn't realize you stopped being a scientist when you stepped out of the lab." A sarcastic brow rises.

"Of course not, but—" His fingers continue, and I resist the urge to drag a hand down my face. "We might have more important things going on here."

"Few things are more important than the advancement of one's self."

A sigh bursts from my lips. "You're impossible!"

He smirks, typing unbroken.

Fine. I snag the paper out of his presswrite, ignoring his protest. "Would you like to find out what I've learned, or do you prefer to bury yourself in nonexistent work?"

He throws his hand up. "You didn't tell me you'd learned anything! All you did was stroll in here and start mocking me."

"As though it's my life's goal to degrade you!" I shake my head. "Trust me, you're hard enough to handle when I actually have something to say."

"And there you go again with the insults." He twists toward me. "What do you want, Riveirre?"

"I thought I'd provide you with relevant information about, I don't know, this foreign world we've wandered into?" My hand sweeps a gesture at the inn.

"You act like I wasn't listening to you! You can talk while I type, Riveirre. I promise it doesn't impede my hearing."

"No, but it does impede your focus."

"You have my focus." He snatches the paper back. He stuffs it back in his presswrite, but he doesn't keep typing, and I relax some.

"Have you been talking to anyone here?"

He takes a bite of his apple. "Not unless you count the brief conversation with Marcí about jobs last night. That woman hardly lets you get a word in edgewise."

"Alright. Well, I was talking to Jacin—"

"The creep with the necklace?"

I look at him askew. "He's not a creep. But yeah. Him. Sean, some of the things he said..." A robin swoops onto the sill and cocks its head at me as if to say, Well, aren't you going to come see the world too?

"Just spit it out already."

Shaking my head at myself, I say, "If what he told me is true, the people here aren't some random group of Outerland survivors. This place is a whole society, its own little world. And we don't know anything about it, and they don't seem to know anything about us either."

He munches his apple. "I figured there'd be more people, but its own world?"

"Yes," I affirm earnestly.

"How do they speak Common?"

"I'm not sure. They call it Avadelian though. Maybe—" The memory of the supposedly extinct snowfire hits me, and I clear the counter, pushing Sean's presswrite and a bowl of apples to the side. "What if, a long time ago, humankind started here"—I point to the top of the counter—"in the High Valleys. And some disaster happened: a plague, like why we left, or a drought, a flood, a war, something. Something big. So some people migrated, and they came down here"—I drag my finger to the middle of the table—"to the Outerlands. What they call Avadel. The rest stayed in the High Valleys. Either it happened so long ago no one remembers, or the disaster was so catastrophic it wiped out any records we might have had."

A thoughtful expression fills his face. Then he tsks and shakes his head. "That doesn't work. Why would they be at a lower level of technology than we are?"

I press my lips together, considering. "Different access to materials maybe? And necessity is the mother of invention, right? We live underground; we've had to adapt to and overcome our environment. Maybe they haven't had to do that as much."

He nods, the idea seeming to catch on. "The topside towns aren't that much more advanced than them, either."

"And there's always the chance," I point out, "that we're in a less developed part of the world. Jacin talked about somewhere else called Morineaux. He seemed to think they were more sophisticated. Well, actually, he thought they had magic, but you know how that is."

Sean taps his fingers twice against the counter. "So that's where we'll head then."

My chest tightens, and I push out a breath, trying to relieve the tension. "So we're giving up on getting home, then? For sure?"

He sighs softly. "Riveirre, if you want to leave and try to track down the Traders in the hope that they'll take you back to the Valleys, I'm not going to stop you. But they're a day's march past where we last saw them. They could have gone anywhere. And like I said, I don't think they're going to make it through the winter, much less back up to the Valleys."

"And if I did decide to leave?" My heart thrums in my chest.

He pauses, pointers drumming a short beat on the counter, then gently says, "I'm not coming with you, if that's what you're asking."

My heart falls. I know home is long out of reach, and I know Sean's too logical to chase an unpredictable, risky ticket back. But for some reason, I still feel like I've lost something.

"I can't, Riveirre," he continues. "I don't have anything back there. You obviously do, but sticking with the Traders will be dangerous. The day before yesterday, you asked me what we could do, and I told you we'd have to see what opportunity allowed. Maybe this is our opportunity. Mine, at least." His gaze flits away, suddenly intent on the neglected apple in his hand. He takes a distracted bite.

For some reason, his insistence to stay slams a door in my head I desperately want to pry open. "If we don't go after the Traders now, Sean, we'll never have a way back."

"I already told you I'm not worried about that."

"Maybe I am." My fingers wander back up to my necklace, searching for a piece of home.

He rubs at a spot on the apple. "Then leave. But odds are, you're going to end up dead before you ever hit the Valleys."

I feel he just socked me in the gut. "Thanks for the warm concern."

He looks up. "I'm only being honest, Riveirre."

Marcí bustles into the kitchen, humming, and I shift to face her. "Oh, hello, dears!" she says. "Early risers. That's good. I do dislike a layabout." She rifles through cabinets, pulling ingredients out and setting them on the counter. "I'll bake some muffins for breakfast, and then it's off to work for the two of you!" The brilliance of her grin could rival Erreliah's street lamps.

"You already have a job lined up for us?" Sean asks.

"Well, I have a letter of reference written up, and that should be just as good. Shouldn't have any trouble. Now, what is that strange contraption and what's it doing on my island?" She points at Sean's presswrite with a mixing spoon. "Off it goes. Otherwise I won't have room to make breakfast." She turns, opening a cabinet door. "Now, where did that flour go?"

Sean watches her, faint amusement flickering across his face. He folds his presswrite closed, pulling it off the counter.

After we finish eating, Marcí spouts out directions but speaks so quickly that I only catch every other word. Then she bustles out of the kitchen, no longer concerned with us.

I turn to Sean. "Did you get that?"

"What, you didn't?" He smirks.

I fold my arms.

"Yeah, I got it." He looks me up and down. "I guess you're as dry as you're going to get. Come on. Let's go see where the madwoman has sent us."