I don’t remember falling asleep, but Charitybelle had draped herself over me before my internal alarm roused me from slumber. I turned it off and relished in her body warmth. The narrow school beds weren’t a bother because being the mattress to her blanket suited me.

  My arm pillowed her head—it tingled from the lack of circulation, but no amount of discomfort would force me to wake her. She snoozed on top of me, yet my attraction made me want to be even closer. I became Miros’s fifth moon, stabilized in a Charitybelle-centric orbit.

  We lay there until she opened her eyes on her own accord. I brushed a lock of hair from her face, causing her to smile and give me a quick peck on the lips.

  I returned the gesture. “Did you have pleasant dreams last night?”

  Instead of smiling or squeezing me, Charitybelle squinted and wrinkled her nose as if I’d asked something strange. “No, now that you mention it, I didn’t. Do you know what is weird? I don’t dream anymore—not since we started this game. Do you suppose that’s because of Crimson’s dream interface? The keynote speaker told us, ‘If it can happen in a dream, then it can happen in The Book of Dungeons.’”

  Charitybelle’s comment threw me off balance. Instead of sweet nothings and cuddling, she raised a poignant issue about how Crimson achieved virtual immersion.

  Her engineer brain always wanted to know how things worked.

  I hadn’t dreamed since the start of this game. Had the keynote speaker explained the dream interface? I couldn’t remember.

  After I gave her an affectionate squeeze, she smiled again. “I haven’t dreamed since the game began, not that I’m complaining. My waking hours aren’t so bad.”

  After countless smiles, lingering stares, and kisses, we disentangled and obeyed our hunger for food. Breakfast almost ended before we made it to Formal Hall. As we ate, we discussed visiting Mother Marteen. Neither of us cared about the temple’s doctrines, but we wanted to comb their library for anything about the continent’s interior.

  Charitybelle volunteered to show me the temple’s location. She knew the city enough to take a direct route, but we dallied, seeing the sights. She pointed out various workshops and stores, making the promenade educational. I could have found the temple myself, but there would have been less handholding, impulse kisses, and blushing.

  Citizens of Belden didn’t call their eateries restaurants but instead cookhouses. While inns and pubs combined ingredients for a proper breakfast or dinner—cookhouses specialized in only one thing. Bakers sold only bread. Butchers sold only meat. If you wanted a complete meal, buyers needed to visit several establishments, and patrols paid a small table fee to the place hosting the meal. Barkers stood in front announcing their wares. “Come dine! Swans, piglets, and venison! Come dine, all!”

  Instead of glass, the fronts of cook shops lowered boards to table height, creating open-air storefronts. The lowered shutters served as eating or preparation areas or simply as a tabletop to display the fare. At night, they shut and bolted these openings to secure the place.

  Back in Atlantic City, I’d had girlfriends and infatuations, but I’d never soaked up moments and details with them as I did with Charitybelle. I smiled because she smiled, not over what caused her to do so. Her contentment filled me with a sense of security, belonging, and purpose I’d never known before. She enjoyed showing off the city to me, I enjoyed her enjoyment.

  Behind temple walls, an impressive array of gardens and topiaries surrounded Our Lady of Balance. A collection of white marble statues and monuments contrasted with the compound’s natural beauty.

  Charitybelle whirled when we passed the flowerbeds. “I love this! I had no idea they grew gardens beyond these walls. Doesn’t it make you want to grow or build something?” She gave a little skip as we walked past berry bushes near the main building, watching my reaction whenever she spotted something new.

  I smiled, but the sculptures and greenery enchanted me less than her company.

  She swung my hand with enthusiasm. “We have to check out all these paths after we finish. Do you want to?”

  I nodded, though the inscriptions on the monuments held more interest than the flowers. I enjoyed sightseeing tours. My school arranged field trips to Philadelphia museums and historical sites—the closest thing to a vacation I’d ever been on, aside from summer camp. My aunt and uncle didn’t go out to movies or restaurants, at least not with me, so sightseeing trips felt like a big deal. Their anecdotes and gossip personalized events more than history books.

  When a temple custodian passed, I spoke to her. “Excuse me. Do you happen to know if Mother Marteen is available this morning?”

  “May I ask for your name and business with her?” The woman wore a long, dull gown, similar to others on the grounds.

  “My name is Apache, and this is Charitybelle. I work with Mr. Fergus at the Belden Library, and he suggested we visit your library. I recently cataloged our stacks and would like to see the temple’s inventory of books.”

  The woman warmed up to us. “A fellow librarian! Welcome to the temple. The Abbess is in her office.”

  We nodded a thank you and veered into the temple.

  I’d recognized Mother Marteen from my first day in Belden, although I doubted she remembered me. She wore nunlike robes, including a sash draped around her rotund figure, one I’d not seen on anyone else in the temple.

  “I’m delighted to have you. Mr. Fergus is an old friend, but I’m afraid we don’t see each other as often as we should. How is the dear man?”

  “He is well, ma’am. He’s excited about our new catalog. It groups our books by subject. I’m sure he’d love to show it off to you.”

  She chuckled to herself. “The old crow finally did it! His patrons won’t like that at all. That is marvelous news. I can’t wait to see it.”

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  Mother Marteen lavished so much praise I felt uncomfortable. Any modern person would consider grouping books by subject an obvious system of organization. I ran out of ways to thank her. After the ritual of praise ended, she gave us guest robes to wear in the facilities and invited us to see her books.

  Mother Marteen gave instructions for handling her books. Then she did so again. She repeated herself enough that I suspect she’d suffered a history of unmindful visitors. Over and over, we agreed to heed her caution until our assurances satisfied her.

  Charitybelle dove into the nature philosophy section while I examined the collection’s breadth. With nothing comprehensive about Miros, getting a bearing on the continent took much digging. We found no world history or global atlas that might reveal possible adventure areas or dungeons. All our findings involved provincial, piecemeal, and anecdotal articles. We found a book on nature mentioning an abandoned castle and a monster—but it had no other adventure references. The lack of books dedicated to magic disappointed me. Charitybelle made a list of works she wanted to read and recorded their titles and location for later.

  Mother Marteen invited us for juice, biscuits, nuts, and spiced vegetables at midday. I wouldn’t call it lunch because Belden’s people in Miros didn’t gather for such occasions, but plates and serving trays bore similarities to a British spread for afternoon tea. The juice wasn’t sharp or citric. It tasted like a weak fruit punch, but the seeds at the bottom of my cup gave the liquid a zesty flavor.

  I gave Mother Marteen details about the university’s new catalog system and conveyed Mr. Fergus’s attention to my lettering skills. The abbess seemed fond of my mentor.

  Mother Marteen spread butter on a cookie before placing it on her plate. “It is quite difficult to imagine what his life must have been like in Grayton before he left so many years ago.”

  No one our age would have understood her references, but I politely echoed her cues. “What do you mean? I knew some of his background, but I didn’t know he’s from Grayton.”

  She hesitated as if she shouldn’t gossip.

  I looked around and leaned forward, pantomiming her caution.

  “Well—I don’t know if I should say anything.” She lowered her voice as if whispered gossip didn’t count. “Our dear Mr. Fergus fell prey to nepotism and capital politics. He served as the West’s most renowned archaeologist for some time, with digs along the north coast at the behest of many important people.

  “Grayton awarded his funding to a dilettante of noble rank, supposedly for an important expedition—although nothing came of it. Mr. Fergus rightly resigned and left the city. They petitioned him to return after the expedition failed, but the dear man had retired in Belden. There have been digs in the North since, but from what I hear, no fruitful endeavors. They proved quite hopeless without him. And he hasn’t regretted his decision. I’m sure of it.” Her curt nod emphasized the finality of the matter.

  I didn’t know what to think. Mother Marteen’s story seemed oversimplistic, but the story explained Mr. Fergus’s antagonism to nobility. Agreeing with her seemed the proper thing to do. “I didn’t know that happened, but you’re quite right. I’m certain Mr. Fergus loves it here, in Belden.”

  Mother Marteen straightened and primly composed herself. “And how are you finding our books?”

  Charitybelle quickly answered. “Very well. You have more material on nature than the university, and they’ll be a big help with wilderness survival.”

  Charitybelle uncovered surveys of the Bluepeaks from military campaigns against the goblins. The cluster of mountains called Bluepeaks stood a hundred miles north, but the text covered material relating to Belden’s region and the foothills of the Highwall Mountains.

  “We are a specific resource. Aside from natural studies, our seminary texts contain the temple’s teachings, philosophies, and, of course, the histories of our religious leaders.”

  After finishing our snack, we returned to work, skimming through books and making notes of the most promising titles on vellum. I’d raised my research rank to 12 that afternoon.

  Our investigation covered cultural norms, and we learned much about the temple. It surprised me that Our Lady of Balance embraced vengeance as a religious tenet. It made sense on a thematic level. Revenge represented a form of balance, but it seemed a strange canon for an otherwise serene theology—complete with topiaries and high tea.

  I reached midway through a book about herbs when Charitybelle asked me a question. “Do you ever feel like creating something?”

  I looked up to see where she wanted to take this.

  “We’ve been in this game for a while. It feels weird to me that this contest may take many years. But that much time feels a little empty. At first, I thought this game gave us an extra life—and who could have a problem with that? But I want to do something with that time, and part of me wants to raise a family.”

  “Ah, I see. But the keynote speaker said we couldn’t have kids.”

  Charitybelle shuddered. “I can see why Crimson doesn’t allow it—I couldn’t imagine waking up from the game and realizing that my children no longer existed.”

  “Are you saying you want to adopt?”

  “No, it’s not that. I want to create something permanent, something that takes a long time. I want to leave behind something positive.” She bit her lip, a habit she performed when she wanted to say something.

  “You’re thinking about the flowers in the garden, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve always looked forward to raising children, but that’s not an option here. Maybe the game is too long for me, but a lifetime in a virtual world feels pointless. I don’t think winning this contest fills me with enough purpose to sustain me for years on end, assuming the battle royale lasts that long.”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s different for guys.”

  “Nature doesn’t force boys to mature. Women have biological clocks reminding us that the time to build a nest is finite. The Book of Dungeons has taken all that away, making the future seem a bit bleak. I want to grow something.”

  In my pursuit of strategic shortcuts, I gave none of this a thought. Perhaps the no-pregnancy policy gave male contestants a psychological advantage.

  I wasn’t sure what Charitybelle wanted to create. I’d entertained ideas about writing a compendium of what we’d learned. It would be an extensive project, but she probably wanted something more personal than a reference book.

  When Charitybelle got ready to go, we returned our robes and left. We strolled across the temple grounds, reading monument plaques and scrutinizing flowers. She explained the parts and types of foliage and how botanists classified everything.

  In the late afternoon, we left the property and strolled around the village of Belden. When we passed a general store, we entered and browsed its wares. I didn’t need to buy anything, but I wanted to learn the value of copper and see how patrons and shopkeepers interacted. Knowing local customs might spare me a coin if I needed to haggle.

  After perusing the store, we surprised the gang by appearing at the pub. Part of me wanted to share a quiet meal with Charitybelle, but she insisted the group wanted to see me and share their stories of their recent trip.

  We pushed through a narrow door beneath a sign that read Belden Arms and took in the pungent aroma of hot food. My stomach lurched as a reminder that I’d worked up an appetite on the walking tour. Spiced bread, caramelized fruits, aromatic vegetables, and dripping meats pulled my attention toward ordering food, but no menus rested on the tables, no signs hung on the wall. Nor did a server or hostess usher us to a seat.

  The pub turned out to be quieter than I imagined, and the only commotion came from a group of noisy level 5 Americans. Fabulosa, PinkFox, and ArtGirl occupied a massive dining table flanked by benches. All three women engaged in a heated discussion while RIP conversed with a tall, pretty barkeep.

  RIP’s face lit when he saw me and raised his mug triumphantly. “Apache! Dude! He’s level 1, everybody! Apache’s made it to level 1!” He grabbed and shook me in exultation.

  He’d gained several levels, showed more muscles, and appeared less kempt than I remembered, making me glad that he let go of me before I had to ask.

  Fabulosa, ArtGirl, and PinkFox gave welcoming waves while RIP led me to the bar.

  As Charitybelle sat with the girls, RIP made a show of ordering drinks for everyone. “Your quest tonight, man, is to get drunk and enjoy life for a change. Do you accept this most noble pilgrimage?”

  I bowed. “Quest accepted.”

  RIP pounded the bar in celebration, making me a little self-conscious of the attention he mustered. He gestured to the woman behind the bar. “Bomba, let me introduce you to my esteemed colleague, Apache. He is at once a gentleman and a scholar.”