Read Between The Lines Novels & Stories

Magnus read the documents in silence. He read them twice. The first time was operational extracting the legally relevant details, the evidentiary chain, the specific language that would hold before a divine adjudicator. The second time was something else. Something he allowed himself only because Vivienne had stepped outside for air and there were a few unobserved minutes in which he could be something other than strategic.

He tapped another section of the page. The snake was the palest blue with darker markings on its body. The snake right beside that one, looked like it was trying to intercept the line. The second snake was a dark indigo, almost black. Faint silver etchings covered its body. "Okay," I said. "What does that signify?" "When looked at with more than human eyes, you will notice that the line is not actually unsteady. But rather, a weaving of reds, oranges, yellows, and the thinnest black line. The line has been braided."

I read for eleven nights. We do it at the end of every march, in the open, wherever we have stopped, with three clerks writing and a woman with a good voice repeating each line down the column so the back of it hears. Sela calls it the reading. Within four days the holdings on the road know when we stop, and they come out to it, and by the seventh day there are people walking a day north to meet us so they can hear it and then walking back. It is very boring. Nobody expects that, and I have come to think it is the point. It is an account book. Weights of grain. Counts of hides. Dates.

The territory as a self reading system rather than a read system. I had felt her holding it. Not through the translation. Through the harmony line's specific quality when she was working something out that had not yet found its form. "Tell us," I said. She looked at the table for a moment. Then she said: "The reaching expression at the waypoint this afternoon." She paused. "I have been using the reaching expression to extend the function's awareness outward. Reading the bloodline landscape at range. The function's sensitivity extended through the reaching expression's capability." She paused. "That is how I have understood it." She paused. "What happened at the waypoint was different."

I scrolled through the messages again, slower this time. Careful. Focused. Looking for anything else out of place. Anything the system didn’t want me to see. My phone vibrated. I didn’t look at it. Not immediately. Because that’s what it expected. Attention. Reaction. Control. Instead, I kept reading. Line by line. Time by time. Then. There it was again. The gap. That unnatural pause between messages. I leaned closer, my eyes narrowing. “Why here…” I whispered. It didn’t fit.

It di⁠splayed a single li​ne of raw, unencrypted‍ te⁠xt, ro‍uted through seven proxy​ s​erve⁠rs in Mac⁠au, explicitly addressed​ to the ghosts of the Atlantic. > *‍THE ARCHITEC‌T IS EXTRACTED. THE VACU‌UM REQUIRES RES​TRUCTU‌RE. T‌HE BOARD RECOGNIZES THE CONTRACTS ARE TE‌AR-PROOF. WE W​ILL⁠ BE SEEKING CONVER‌SA‍TION IN THE SPRING.* >

I muttered under my breath. “Structure,” Ernest replied beside me. I didn’t look at him when I opposed “oppression.” He gave a faint huff of amusement which I ignored. People leaned in, reading, reacting; some relieved, some groaning, some already negotiating swaps that clearly weren’t going to happen. My stomach tightened as I stepped closer because if the email studio pairing was anything to go by, this wouldn’t go my way. I scanned quickly anyway trying to get it over with. Names, numbers, assignments and then…

I'm not going to pretend I know how to do this. I looked at the line. Added one more: But I'm going to keep trying until I get it right. That's the one thing I can promise. I looked at both lines together. Still not right. But closer.

I tapped accept. A line appeared on the screen. [Assignment term: three years. Destination: Havenmist branch. Please report to your assigned location by this Saturday.] Today was Wednesday. There were three days left before both my wedding and my departure. Simon Carver saw me looking down at my phone, and his frown deepened. "Maren, I'm talking to you." I locked my phone and looked up at him. "Mm. I heard you." He probably hadn't expected me to be so calm.

Attached to his page is a note that says “Recently lost a sibling. Reserved, Strong potential, Watchful.” The word “Watchful” jumps at me from the pages. He noticed thing, details. People. My curiosity stirs even more and a voice inside whispers to look closer. This is my cue to shut the files and pace the length of my small apartment. I should keep my head down. None of this concerns me and I have to not make it any of my business. As I scrub my hands through my hair a part of me knows in more ways than one that I will royally screw this up.