Due to some trick of the light, or mirage of the desert, or plain illogic of the little universe that is Wellstone (the Wellstone bubble Palamedes has begun to call it very recently, as his theory about its nature begins to coalesce), Camilla is, in fact, closer to town than she might realize. Just over the ridge, in fact, is a cluster of broken-down houses, once sheds and farmsteads, with Wellstone’s main street visible beyond. Palamedes walks among those houses now with a notebook in his hand, examining the buildings’ remains for possible changes after the latest storm. He’s lost in his own world, but when he pauses to take a drink of water from a canteen, his gaze falls on the horizon.

And that’s when he sees her.

In Palamedes’ head, Camilla Hect remains more a scattering of ever-growing but disparate images than a full person, the wild strings connecting them made of logic and reason more than emotion. But her face he knows. Pal has memories of that face gazing back at him from a mirror, and seen it, ghostly and pensive, on the dance floor, and heard Nona talk of it. He has drawn it dozens of times in nearly every notebook he owns. He knows it, as they say, like the back of his hand.

Better than the back of his hand. No one dreams about the back of their hand.

For a moment he remains still, heart in his throat. Does he run to her? Leap for joy? Hide? In the end, practicality wins out. She is probably dehydrated, and he has water.

He holds up his arms and waves. “Hello! Hello there! Over here, can you see me?”