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Breakfast smelled delicious.

After a long time sitting quietly on the floor, it was the smell that roused Byron. A fabulous, beckoning odor, filled with the promise of normality.

Reluctance fading, Byron stood, pushing up off the pristine white floor with the palms of his hands. The strange material was perfectly smooth, without a single visible scratch or blemish on its polished surface. It was also warm to the touch – as if a gentle fire simmered some distance underneath. The organic warmth felt amazing against the pads of Byron’s bare feet as he stood up and took a deep, savoring breath.

The depth of his hunger took Byron by surprise. Salivating, Byron walked over to the bed. On a silver tray was set out a steaming hot feast. The centerpiece, a stack of pancakes with fried eggs for eyes and a bacon smile, was encircled by cups of water, juice, and coffee. Fluffy creamed butter waited eagerly beside a carafe of warm maple syrup. Byron blinked at the sight of it all. He gave the otherwise empty white room one more anxious glance. Then he sat down beside the happy face of food and picked off a piece of crisp bacon. Lifting it to his nose, Byron inhaled the savory aroma and bit the strip in half with an audible crunch. A delectable harmony of salt and fat filled his mouth. He sighed and devoured the other half of the strip.

Eager, Byron spread a large pat of butter onto the center of the golden pancakes. He doused the entire stack in maple syrup, emptying the small carafe completely and leaving the pancakes surrounded by a sweet amber moat. The eggs were pan-fried, one sunny side up, the other over easy. Byron broke both yolks with the prongs of his fork and let the sunburst liquid flow into the melange of deliciousness. Unable to restrain a smile, Byron hefted a silver knife and cut a triangular chunk out of the pancake stack. Careful to take a bit of egg and bacon along for the ride, Byron speared the cartoonishly large bite and stuffed it wholesale into his mouth.

Somewhere inside the resultant explosion of flavor Byron briefly forgot the last few days. Finally, the gloves really came off and Byron attacked the tray of food with abandon.

After the plate was empty – and the ambrosia slurry of syrup, butter, and yolk licked clean – Byron downed nearly half a pitcher of water, followed by the full cup of orange juice. Sated, Byron let his head loll back on his neck, shut his eyes and just sat there, alone on the bed, in silence. He didn’t move from that position for over a minute, just taking in the joy of clean clothes, a full stomach, and warm sunlight on his skin.

When Byron eventually opened his eyes, it felt as though he had awoken from a long and replenishing dream. This was a new room and a new day. For the first time since he’d accidentally summoned Korbius into Nan’s old kitchen – what felt like an eternity ago – Byron allowed himself to relax, just a little.

Byron poured himself a cup of coffee and tipped in a splash of milk. “Time for some answers,” he said to himself and walked toward the barely visible outline of the all-white door. Even having seen it open and close, Byron had trouble finding the door against the all-white wall. He walked up to where he was fairly certain he’d seen Tilda enter and leave, and peered uselessly at the wall looking for a seam. Ultimately, he had to reach out with his free hand and feel around carefully with his fingertips. Like the floor, the wall was gently warm to the touch, almost as if it were alive.

It took a minute of meticulous groping before Byron’s fingers found an inset divot on the wall’s surface. There was no handle there, just a small, distinct depression in the material, apparent only in direct contrast the precise, unbroken flatness everywhere else. Byron pursed his lips in confusion and took a sip of his coffee. Whereas Nan used to drink several cups a day, Byron didn’t usually drink coffee. But today he was feeling adventurous. It was good, not too acrid, full-bodied and nutty.

Byron took another contemplative sip and considered the all but invisible door. With a shrug, he reached out and pressed his finger hard into the small grove.

A bright light appeared beneath his fingertip, glowing pinkly through his nailbed. All at once the light shot straight up and down, to the left, and then down and up respectively, until a perfect rectangle of light had been cut into the wall. This all happened in just over a second. With tentative force, Byron gave the revealed door a slight push. It swung open with otherworldy smoothness, though Byron could not see a hinge of any kind.

Beyond the new opening in the wall, a long hallway stretched and opened up into another large room. Byron pursed his lips, sipped his coffee again, and stepped through the door. The floor and ceiling of the hallway were as white as the room Byron had woken up in, but the walls were made entirely of glass. To Byron’s left was a view of the ultramarine sea, vibrant with sunlit color, the water gently caressing the whitest sand Byron had ever seen. To Byron’s right the glass looked out into a jungle, which grew denser the farther it strayed from the ocean. Palms interspersed with verdant ferns and long, loping vines topped with blood red flowers Byron could not identify. Less than twenty feet away the plant coverage became so thick Byron could not see beyond it.

Byron tried to think back to his brief visit inside Tilda’s home. Although he had been exhausted at the time and had not spent very long there, this, he confirmed to himself with a contemplative slurp, is not Tilda’s house.

He made his way down the hallway until it opened up into a large room with more windows, more warm white surfaces, and an airy, modern looking kitchen. The same white material served as a cutting board and kitchen island. In the center of the white square, the Demon’s Cantos sat, closed and glowing an iridescent gold. Byron walked over and hefted it, placing the mug of half-drunk coffee down in its place. The delicious smell of fried bacon still lingered in the air. The large space was both kitchen and living room – yet where Tilda’s living room had been an eccentric collection of books and paintings in nearly overwhelming numbers, this space was spartan in its modern simplicity. A comfortable looking gray couch and loveseat combination was the only furniture. The walls were primarily pristine glass, their only adornment the beauty of the tropical paradise outside.

Through the far wall, Byron could see two rattan rocking chairs set out on a patio made of dark brown wooden slats, with a small glass topped rattan table between them. A glass pitcher, filled with ice and fresh squeezed lemonade, glistened in the sun, beads of condensation like diamonds on its surface. A small form sat in one of the rattan chairs, sipping a tall glass and looking out toward the idyllic white sand beach and the infinite expanse of the ocean.

Byron walked outside, gently pushing the glass front door open. Like the hidden door, it took almost no pressure at all to move, though the glass was very thick. Outside, the air was warm and fresh, neither too hot, nor too moist. Like the salty odor of the sea, it was just right. Byron took a deep breath and felt a small shiver of satisfaction run down his back.

Tilda didn’t look up at him when she spoke. “Have a seat,” she said, then took a refreshing sip, “and some lemonade.”

Byron shot her an assessing look, then scanned the beach again. There was something out there in the sand. Was that a door? “How long was I asleep?”

“About 36 hours.”

“Where’s Korbius?” Byron asked, peering out toward the beach and confirming that the object was definitely a door. A big, rectangular wooden door standing conspicuously alone out near the water. “The octopus,” he added, realizing he had not been entirely clear.

Tilda smiled and pointed out toward the beach, and the door, with a haphazard gesture. “He should be here any minute. He was right behind me.” Then she looked up at Byron for the first time. “Have a seat Byron. I imagine you have some questions.”

Despite her confusing answer, curiosity overcame reluctance and Byron sat down, placing the Cantos on the floor in front of him. The chair was unexpectedly comfortable. For a long while the two of them just sat their looking out at the ocean, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves on sand. In his head, Byron ran through question after question, grasping for a good place to begin. Even the effort of considering everything he didn’t know proved to be overwhelming, and so Byron decided to start out simply.

“What the fuck is going on?”

Tilda laughed mid-sip and had to spit some of her lemonade back into her cup. She sputtered and coughed a couple of times. “You really are Elizabeth’s grandson. She knew how to get straight to the beating heart of the matter.”

Byron blinked. “Wait, you knew Nan?”

“I did, though not as well as Mary.” Tilda’s brow scrunched with tension at the name, “Your Nan and Mary were very close, for a very long time. I only met Elizabeth twice, several years ago, when she was still well enough to travel.” Tilda cleared her throat again and took a sip of her lemonade. “Of course, twice was more than enough for your Nan to make an impression.”

Byron turned the chair a little so that it was facing Tilda directly. “Tilda. What. Is. Going. On? Why do I have magic powers? How did I bring a giant octopus into Nan’s kitchen sink?” a little frantically, Byron pointed down at the glowing cover of the Cantos beneath him, “what the hell is this book?”

Tilda pursed her lips and sat back into her chair. With a thoughtful nod, she set down her glass of lemonade and her thin eyes looked up and to the right, as though she were carefully considering what to say. At last, she began. “You’re a very special young man Byron. You always have been, from the moment of your birth. What do you remember about your mother and father?”

Byron recoiled at the mention of his parents, almost as if he’d been physically slapped in the face. He stammered a little when he spoke as a sudden anxiety called out his old tick. “I don’t. . . don’t. . . remem…mm….” Byron stopped himself, closed his eyes and quickly ran his right thumb across each finger of his right hand and back again. If she noticed, Tilda said nothing. When he was finished, Byron had his voice back under control. “I don’t remember my father at all. I only have images of my mother, but they’re more like dreams than memories.” Byron paused, uncertain whether he had more to say. “She was very kind,” he heard himself add, although he didn’t know why he said it.

Tilda waited a moment before continuing. “That’s what I’ve heard. Mary used to speak highly of your mother. I’m sorry I never met her.” Tilda allowed a gentle sadness to settle over them both like a cloud and drift away with the sea breeze before continuing. “She knew you were special, your mother did, from the very start – although she didn’t know why at first. Mary found you both and explained.”

Byron leaned in, eager.

Tilda continued. “Byron, you’re a Cantor. I gather your thrall already told you that much?”

Byron nodded. “He recognized the Cantos almost immediately. It seemed to scare the hell out of him.”

Tilda looked down at the golden book. “So that’s it then? I assumed it was the cookbook, but you can never be sure with these things.”

“You can’t see it?”

“The Cantos? No, of course not.”

“But,” Byron thinned his eyes, “but you’re a Cantor too? Aren’t you?”

Tilda chuckled at the suggestion. “Oh no, sweetie, I’m no Cantor.”

“But I saw you,” Byron said, “before, in the rain. You were . . . glowing.”

“Oh, that.” Tilda, frowned, “just a parlor trick compared to what you can do, Byron. I’m partially Attuned, but believe me, I’m no Cantor. I’m just a quarter step above a plain old human being. You, Byron —” she paused, considering him stoically, “— you’re something else entirely.”

Byron swallowed a lump in his throat. When he spoke, he found his mouth suddenly parched. “What am I?”

“The full explanation is beyond my ability to understand – beyond any mortal’s ability for that matter —” Tilda looked Byron dead in the eyes. “Although it’s an oversimplification, it isn’t entirely untrue to say you are the offspring of a God.”

Byron blinked. “Huh?”

Tilda tilted her head back and forth a few times as she began to hedge. “I mean, not like Zeus and Hercules or something. You aren’t Percy Jackson, for Christ’s sake. You had a dad – he was a bit of an asshole, if you’ll pardon my french —” Tilda could feel herself losing the thread of the conversation. “What I mean is, it’s not like your mom and a, like, God, had sex or anything . . . .”

Byron blinked, and then blinked again for good measure. His mouth was ajar and he just couldn’t seem to make it close.

Tilda regrouped and started again. “‘God’ is a loaded term, right? You imagine a guy with a big white fluffy beard in the sky and I say your his offspring and, well, the mind naturally goes to certain places, I know. But, that’s an oversimplification, like a said. ‘God’, or whatever you want to call it, isn’t a thing – or a person. I mean, It can be a person, sometimes, but that isn’t what it is, if you get my meaning.”

Byron did not get her meaning. He had a sudden bout of cotton mouth and shakily managed to pour a half glass of lemonade, which he drank in a few sharp gulps.

Tilda rolled her eyes in self-frustration. “I’m messing this up. I wish Mary were here. She knew what she was doing.”

“You mean Mary from the Variety Store?” Byron asked.

Tilda gave him a momentarily hopeless look, then averted her eyes toward the bottom of her glass, into which she spoke quietly. “Mary was a born teacher. She wasn’t a Cantor either, but she knew as much as any mortal could be expected to know. She was the real Preceptor, tasked with teaching you when you came of age. And she was a very good friend.”

Byron’s eyes widened. “Mary’s the Preceptor? Variety Store Mary?” Before the words even left his mouth, his stomach sunk. “Wait, she was the Preceptor. What happened to her?”

A film of tears formed in Tilda’s thin blue eyes. “She died.” She said and then went silent for so long that it seemed like she might not say anything else. Byron was about to speak when she continued. “It has spies – countless spies – roaming the universe. One of them came to Ocracoke a couple of years ago. it claimed to be the Cantor,” Tilda looked up at Byron momentarily, her face torn with guilt, “to be you. I believed it, it said all the right things, all the things Mary said you’d say. So I brought it to the house —” Her voice became small and cut off. She wiped a tear from her eye and turned away from Byron, looking out toward the ocean.

Byron felt a pang of empathy. “What happened?”

“It tried to kill us both. Mary managed to stop it. But cost her her life.”

Another long silence passed as Byron tried to remain calm. The Preceptor is dead, the thought came to Byron all at once, and Tilda’s all that’s left.

“I’m sorry,” Byron managed.

Tilda sniffled and wiped her nose. “That’s why I didn’t believe you at first. I needed to know for sure you were who said you were. After Mary died, it was just me. Mary had explained a lot, as best as she was able. But I —” Tilda momentarily trailed off. She shook her head quickly, once, as if warding off a spell of dizziness. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, more certain. “I am Preceptor now. My duty is to train you Byron, to prepare you for the trials that are to come. To face the Unmaker.”

“I’ve seen him,” Byron’s mind flashed back to the fiery vision of a man made of shadow, “the Unmaker, what is he?”

“It,” Tilda corrected, “It takes many forms, but It is no more gendered than a bonfire or tidal wave. If ‘God’ is the Maker of all things, the Unmaker is the polar opposite – the universe’s counterweight. Creation and Destruction. Something and Nothing.”

“Good versus evil.” Byron added instinctively.

But Tilda shook her head. “No, Byron. Mary used to insist Good and Evil were human constructs. The Unmaker isn’t evil, just as the Maker isn’t good.
They’re fundamental forces of nature. The Unmaker bears no malice toward anyone or anything. It simply wants it all — gone.”

“But why me?” Byron asked, “why is It after me?”

“The Cantor’s are wild cards. ‘Quantum Jokers’, Mary used to call them. Somehow, when a Cantor is born, they maintain a connection between their mortal selves and the underlying fabric of the universe. That connection allows a Cantor to change things – to reach into the background and —” Tilda struggled for the right word, but couldn’t find it, “— to really change things, Byron.”

“Using magic? From the book?” Byron asked.

“Not magic,” Tilda reached out and touched the pitcher full of lemonade, “the rules.”

Byron almost fell backward as Tilda’s eyes began to glow feverishly, the bright light visible even in the broad daylight. After a moment, the same glow appeared to transfer over to the pitcher, causing it to effervesce almost as brightly as the Cantos itself. Without warning, the pitcher appeared to shrug off gravity entirely, lifting subtly off the rattan table and floating in mid-air. Byron gaped at it.

“How are you doing that?”

Tilda spoke through her glowing eyes, and when she opened her mouth light poured out of it, though her voice was unchanged. “Gravity. I’m Attuned to it. When I look at the world, I can see the rules behind gravity, and I can influence those rules.”

The glass pitcher floated gently back to the table, even as the glow of light infused itself into the lemonade itself. With startling speed, all the lemonade gushed out the top of the pitcher and straight into the air, at least 50 feet, before stopping cold and floating above them. Byron looked up at the glowing, irregular mass and then back down at the empty pitcher, no longer suffused with light. Then he stared, incredulous, at Tilda.

“But you said you weren’t a Cantor.”

Tilda was looking up at the lemonade with pensive, glowing eyes. The pointer finger of her right hand gestured toward the liquid and it began to float back downwards, toward the empty pitcher. “I’m not. Attunement is a far cry from being a Cantor. It allows me to manipulate two of the universe’s rules: gravity,” she said, nodding toward the now returning lemonade, “and emotion.”

Another puzzle piece clicked into place as Byron thought back to his two prior meetings with Tilda. Both times, there had come a moment when she’d reached out and touched him, just for a second, and both times he had felt world’s better right afterward. “You did that to me, didn’t you?” The thought of having his emotions forcibly altered was strangely invasive. “You changed how I felt, before?”

Tilda nodded, a little embarrassed. “I did. The Unmaker’s agents are devoid of emotion. They are only shadows of living things. I needed to know you were really alive.”

The lemonade came to a rest back inside the pitcher, but not before a little bit was diverted into each of the two cups. Once all the liquid came to a full rest, the glow faded and Tilda’s eyes returned to normal.

Byron ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t understand. You can control gravity. Gravity! It doesn’t get much more fundamental than that. If you’re not a Cantor, what is?”

Tilda looked back at Byron with utter seriousness. “Byron, I can tinker with two universal forces. A Cantor, in theory, can control them all.” She let this sink in for a moment.

“With this,” Byron said, looking down at the Cantos, “with the Cantos.”

“A tool, Byron,” Tilda said, “It isn’t the source of your power, any more than an instrument is the source of a musician’s ability to play it. The Cantos has no singular form. It manifests differently for each Cantor.”

“Each Cantor,” Byron said, strangely hopeful, “are there more then, like me?”

“There was one,” Tilda looked away, “but I haven’t seen them in a long time. I’m not certain they’re still alive.”

Byron noted the strange pronouns but decided to leave it for the moment. “The ‘Demon’s’ Cantos. You’re saying it’s from God, or the Universe, or something. But how am I supposed to know the book itself isn’t evil?”

“You really think you’re Nan was evil, Byron?” Tilda asked, “That she would do that to you, involve you in something evil?”

“No,” Byron started, “But it has the word ‘Demon’ in the damned title. What am I supposed to make of that?”

Tilda shrugged, “Do you know where the word Demon comes from, Byron?”

Byron shook his head.

Tilda sat up a little straighter. “Excellent. Then, this can be the first lesson. The word Demon stems from the Latin “Daemon”, meaning “spirit.” Daemon, meanwhile, stems from the original Greek word, ‘Daimon’. Any idea what ‘Daimon’ meant?”

It took Byron a second to register that Tilda wasn’t asking a rhetorical question. “Um, no?”

“It was a complicated word,” Tilda explained, “and used to mean a lot of things. First and foremost it was a reference to a Deity – to divine power. It was also a reference to one’s personal genius. It’s only in the last 800 years that the word became ‘demon,’ and took on the meaning it now has, due in large part to Christianity and the vilification of everything ‘pagan.'”

Tilda pointed down at the glowing book with a certain degree of reverence. “So what you see as a sign of evil, I would argue is a sign of providence. Unless,” she added with a smile, “you really think that book is only 800 years old. Or that it’s even a book at all.”

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