Resonance Read Free

other teachers. She was a Free Walker—a rebel working to undermine the Consort, our leaders. Yesterday she’d told me Simon was alive, and my Walk had proved it. Now I needed answers, and she had them.
    Her expression gave nothing away. She inserted herself between us. “Do you have any witnesses?”
    Bree shook her head. “But—”
    Ms. Powell cut her off. “The minimum suspension for fighting is five days, I believe. For both parties.” She paused to let that sink in. “Aren’t auditions for the spring musical this week?”
    Bree’s nostrils flared. She leaned around Ms. Powell, saying, “Everyone knows it’s your fault, you violent little freak.”
    â€œThat’s enough,” Ms. Powell said. “Bree, I’ll see you in class. Use the rest of the lunch period to cool off.”
    Bree turned on her heel and stomped away.
    Ms. Powell unlocked her door, waving me in. “After you.”
    Once I was inside, face-to-face with the only person who had answers, my questions wouldn’t come. I sat at the battered upright piano, resting my fingers on the cool ivory keys, not playing a note.
    Ms. Powell’s classroom was lined with shelves of instruments and cabinets full of sheet music. The piano was tucked into the far corner, angled so she could keep an eye on the class; a door in the opposite corner led to her office. Untidy rows of desks filled the center of the room, a lectern was at the front, and she leaned against it, watching me expectantly.
    â€œBree started it,” I said.
    â€œShe got you pretty good.” She gestured at my stinging cheek. “You wanted to talk?”
    I swallowed, unable to find the right words. Finally I blurted, “Powell Station is in Seattle.”
    Traditionally, Walkers were named after big pivots in their hometowns. But it was always their first name, never their last. I hadn’t thought twice about Ms. Powell the orchestra teacher. Like an Original, I’d seen what I expected, not what was real—and Ms. Powell the Free Walker had used my weakness against me.
    â€œSeemed fitting,” she said, giving her baton an experimental flick. “A Powell at Washington High.”
    â€œIt’s not your real name?”
    â€œReal enough.” She raised her eyebrows, a mild reproof. “I’m assuming you have more important questions than my name.”
    I gripped the edge of the piano bench to keep from shaking. “I saw him. One of Simon’s Echoes.”
    The corner of her mouth twitched. “Doughnut Simon. Cute.”
    â€œYou were right. He’s not terminal.”
    She inclined her head. “And?”
    â€œHow is that possible? The Consort confirmed the cleaving. Did he outrun it?”
    It takes time for a world to unmake itself. When a Walker cleaves a branch, cutting the threads connecting it to the rest of the multiverse, the destruction isn’t immediate. A major, complex world could take days to fully disintegrate. I’d told Simon to run, hoping I could find a way to return and save him, but it had been a wild, foolish hope, like trying to stop a tornado with your bare hands.
    Ms. Powell shifted. “Not exactly. The important thing is that he’s safe.”
    Joy rushed in, heady and bright, and I leaped up. “Can I see him? Can we go right now?”
    â€œIt’s not that simple. We need a little time.”
    I thumped down again, my happiness snuffed. “We? The Free Walkers, you mean. You’re the ones who got him out? How did you do it?”
    â€œCarefully.” Before I could press for specifics, she held up her hand. “That’s all I can tell you for now. You’re going to have to trust me.”
    â€œTrust you? You haven’t even told me your real name. You’ve been watching me all year and you never said a word.” I paused. “Mr. Samson didn’t want to retire, did he? You bribed him, or