The last word reverberated in the auditorium, having lost every bit of meaning it had ever had.

“Anyway, people say a lot of stuff about books, and writing, and literature, most of which sounds really complicated. But in a weird way, it’s very simple. You just type a little bit each day, and you get better and better at telling stories.”

The strange thing was, the silence had deepened as she’d spoken. Almost as if they were listening.

“And that’s how every book ever got made. Thank you.”

Standerson was the first to applaud, with great swoops of his hands that started wider than his shoulders and swung together like cannon shots. The crowd followed him, and through some mysterious alchemy of teenage graciousness, there were even a few cheers mixed in. And at that moment, Darcy could see why a million people loved Standerson with all their hearts, and why so many people spent their whole lives trying to make other people clap for them.

But the applause faded, and it was time for questions.

The first was asked by a tiny girl with thick glasses. She pronounced each word distinctly, like a ten-year-old entrusted with two lines in a school play. “I have a question for all three writers. Which of the five elements of a story do you think is the most important? Plot, setting, character, conflict, or theme? Thank you.”

Darcy looked across at the others. Standerson was stroking his chin, taking it all very seriously. He cleared his throat and said, “It’s a well-known fact that plot is the most important element.”

Imogen glanced at Darcy, shrugging a little.

“For example, check out this weird thing that happened to a friend of mine,” Standerson went on. “A couple of months ago, his girlfriend got a new job. It was a normal job at first, nine-to-five, but after a few weeks she started working later and later. She kept saying she loved the job, but never told my friend much about it. And she was hardly ever home at all. So finally one day he got fed up and drove out to where she worked.” Standerson leaned forward, his voice dropping just a little. “And there she was, coming out the door at five o’clock on the dot. So my friend ducked down in his seat, and when she drove away, he followed her, and found where she’d been spending all that time. . . .”

He stopped, letting the silence linger. There were a few squeaks of the chair hinges, a smattering of whispers, but the auditorium held its silence for second after endless second.

Finally Standerson said, “And that’s why plot is the most important element of a story.”

A confused burble broke out, breaking the silence that gripped the auditorium.

“But what happened?” one of the kids yelled.

Standerson shrugged. “I don’t know. I just made that up.”

A kind of roar erupted from the audience, half laughter and half annoyance. As the librarian tried to calm the students, Darcy heard them proposing theories to each other, finishing the story on their own, as if the narrative demanded its own completion.

When the room had finally settled, Standerson leaned back and said, “See? That story had no setting, no theme, hardly any conflict, and two characters called ‘my friend’ and ‘his girlfriend.’ And yet you all hate me right now because you will never, ever know what happens next. Plot rules.”

Standerson pulled his sunglasses from his shirt pocket and dropped them on the stage.

Laughter came from the audience, still mixed with annoyance.

Darcy looked at Imogen, wondering how they were supposed to follow that answer. Obviously, Standerson had done this whole plot schtick before. But Imogen was smiling, already standing up.

She walked over to where Standerson’s sunglasses lay on the stage, and looked down at them disdainfully. Then she knelt, picked them up, and put them on.

“He’s totally wrong,” she said. “Character rules.”

The audience went silent at once, like a light switching off. This had become a competition.

“I’m going to give you a hundred million dollars,” she began, which set off a few trickles of noise. She raised her hands. “And you’re going to make a movie. With all that money, you can put in whatever you want, right? Dinosaurs, spaceships, hurricanes, cities blowing up. No matter what your story is, your movie is going to look totally real, because of all that money, and because computers can make anything look real. Except for one thing. You know what that is?”

She waited in silence, daring them not to answer. Finally a boy called up, “Actors?”

Imogen smiled as she took off the sunglasses. “That’s right. You’re going to need actors, because people never look right when you make them with computers. They look wrong. They look creepy. So why is that? How come special effects can make dinosaurs and spaceships, but not people?

“It’s because everyone you love is a person, and everyone you hate is too. You look at people all day long. You can tell from the slightest twitch when they’re angry or tired or jealous or guilty. You are all experts at people.”

God, she was beautiful.

“And that’s why character rules.”

Imogen dropped the sunglasses back onto the floor. The reaction was less intense than what Standerson had produced, but the entire audience was engaged now. Like a pendulum, huge and sharp, their eyes swung to Darcy, whose brain began to race.

What was she supposed to do? Discuss the importance of theme? Of setting? She suddenly hated Standerson and Imogen with all her heart. How dare they make this a contest?

And with that thought, the answer was obvious.

Darcy stood up and crossed the stage to where the sunglasses lay. She rolled her eyes at them, and there was a smattering of laughter. This might work.

“How many of you woke up this morning worrying about which of the five elements of a story was most important?”

There was a little bit of laughter, and two or three hands went up.

“Right, no one cares. But for some reason you’re all waiting to hear what I have to say. You know why? Because at some point this became a competition.”

She turned to look at the other two. Standerson was leaning back in his chair, smiling. He’d figured her out already.

“You want to see who wins,” Darcy continued. “It’s like with reality shows. Millions of people watch contestants who can’t sing, just to see who sings the least badly. Or those survival shows, where you watch total strangers competing over who can eat the most ants. You never cared about ant eating before. But suddenly it’s important, because you want to know who wins.”

She knelt and picked up the sunglasses, and handed them back to Standerson.

“Which is why conflict always wins,” Darcy said. “Because conflict makes it a story.”

She crossed back to her chair and sat down. Her heart was racing, her body electric with a full flight-or-fight response. But the audience didn’t hate her. They weren’t applauding or laughing, but they all wanted to know what would happened next, like readers who had to turn the page.

We’ve got the juice, Darcy thought.

“Well, okay then,” the librarian said. “Three different answers, all very interesting. Who’s got the next question?”

CHAPTER 28

HIS HEAT PRECEDED HIM, ALONG with the smell of burning grass. A swarm of sparks streamed from the darkness to whirl around me, dancing on the invisible eddies and currents of the river.

And then the beautiful sound of his voice. “Lizzie, what happened?”

He was coming toward me, fire and warmth in the darkness.

“The man in the patched coat, he came back.” My voice still trembled from my panic in the closet. “He took Mindy away.”

Yama came to a halt, close enough that I could feel his heat. “I’m sorry, Lizzie.”

“We have to find her!”

He didn’t answer at first, and for a moment I thought he would tell me it was for the best. That the last thing I needed was a little ghost dragging me into the arms of the afterworld.

But he said, “Do you know where he took her?”

I could only shake my head.

Yama turned, surveying the emptiness around us. “So they could be anywhere. Predators are hard to track.”

“But there must be some way to follow him. He found us, and we were thousands of miles from home!”

“Then he has a bond with you.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

Yama took a step closer, his voice calm. “The river is made from memories of the dead, but the bonds of the living tie it together.” He reached up and touched my tear-shaped scar. “That’s why I can hear when you call me. We’re connected.”

I pulled back, needing to think. “But I didn’t call that old man, and I’m not connected to him. I don’t even know his name!”

“He must know yours,” Yama said. “Names have power here, Lizzie.”

I remembered the first time he’d followed me home. Mindy might have said my name in the schoolhouse, or in my room. “Maybe.”

“But it’s not just your name. He feels something for you.”

“Are you serious?”

“He wants something, badly enough that the river carried him to you.” Yama put his hands on my shoulders. “Tell me everything he said.”

I looked into his eyes. We hadn’t seen each other since the fight, and Yama didn’t know I’d gone to see the old man again.

“He wanted me to kill someone.”

“To kill someone? Who?”

“The bad man.”

It took Yama a moment to figure it out. “When did he tell you this?”

My arms crossed, covering me. “I went to find him, to see if he could help with the bad man. This is all my fault.”

“No, it isn’t. This is his obsession, not yours. Which means he doesn’t want Mindy. He wants you.”

My breath caught, and the darkness of the river closed in around me, as if I were trapped in my father’s closet again. A psychopomp stalker. Perfect.

But with that trickle of panic in my veins, I saw why the old man had taken Mindy in New York, and not in my home, where I felt strong and safe. He’d chosen that moment in the closet because he wanted me scared.

This wasn’t about Mindy at all.

I pushed the thought away, let myself feel the warmth of Yama’s hands on my shoulders, his current on my skin. This was a real connection. How did that crumpled old predator dare to think there was anything like this between me and him?

“He said he was going to put her in his pockets.”

Yama’s hands tightened. “It’s only a threat. Taking her was a way to get your attention.”

“He has it. So what do we do?”

“Nothing. He’ll come for you when he wants to talk again.”

“Can’t the river take me to Mindy right now?” I closed my eyes and thought of her face, but Yama gently pulled me closer, breaking my concentration.

“You can’t follow a ghost, Lizzie. The river is made of them.”

I opened my eyes. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“You have to wait. He’ll test your will, maybe for a long time. But I’ll stay here as long as you need.”

“Thank you.” My voice sounded so earnest in my ears, I had to make a joke of it. “You aren’t afraid of getting death all over me?”

Yama tried to hide his smile. “I’m afraid for you sometimes. But that didn’t stop me coming when you called.”

A shudder of relief went through me. Since our fight, part of me had been afraid that he would stop answering.

I pulled him close, needing his heat on my lips, his body against mine. My palms slid down his back, searching for the ripple of muscle beneath silk. As his scent filled my lungs, the river’s current surged around us, and my hair whipped and tangled.

When our lips parted, we were silent for a long time. I wondered if we could stand there forever in the River Vaitarna’s embrace, never getting hungry, never tiring, never growing old. In the end forgetting ourselves and fading, becoming part of the river.