Page 22 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

“Wait!” he said, splashing and righting himself, opening his eyes by instinct to double-check. “Yumi, your hair is wet!”

She opened her own eyes, then stood and touched her long black hair. Whichwaswet.

“Why?” he asked. “You can’t touch anything else, but you can touch the water?”

She frowned. “I…didn’tfeellike I was getting wet when I stepped into the pool. I felt nothing, like when I tried to touch the blanket or the wall. Now though, Idofeel it. I’m floating. I feel the water’s coolness like every other time I’ve entered a pool like this.” She cocked her head. “It means something. You’re right.”

They met one another’s eyes. Then, at basically the same moment, they realized where they were and what they weren’t wearing. Both blushed and squeezed their eyes closed.

Yes, I know.

But you were once young and nervous too. We all were. There’s nothing wrong with being a tad awkward. It is a sign of a new experience—andnew experiences are among the cosmere’s best forms of emotional leavening. We shouldn’t be so afraid of showing inexperience. Cynicism isn’t interesting; it is often no more than a mask we place over tedium.

“Your attendants have dressed and are returning to dry you, hero,” Yumi said softly. “They will wait until you’re ready—it is traditional to allow you time here. I will get dressed, then turn and let you know you may approach.”

The water sloshed a bit as she left the pool. True to her word, she called out a short time later. He opened his eyes and found her dressed in her nightgown again, with her back toward him.

Reminding himself that he wasn’tactuallyexposing himself to the attendants, Painter climbed out of the pool and let the women dry him. One had prepared new clothing, even more ornate than what he’d been wearing before. An undergarment followed by one of the bell-shaped skirts, with a separate top that came down over it in a matching—but darker—color. Bow across the front, though that was less to hold it together and more to ornament the ensemble.

The clothing was made of a stiff, starchy silk that practically crinkled when handled. It was all so loose that it fit him, though he was several inches taller than Yumi and far from her measurements.

He did notice that her own phantom clothing, now replaced, was darkened with the water seeping through from her skin. She hadn’t had a towel to dry herself. How had the water gotten her wet, then gotten her ghostlyclothingwet?

He tried to think of an explanation, but once more began to feel strangely tired. As the women tied Painter’s bow, the odd sensation increased, accompanied by nausea. That heat from the sky…the heat from below…the layers of clothing…

It all came together in an otherworldly moment his body wasnotprepared to handle. Heroic or not, Painter swayed, felt his vision go dark, then fainted.

He blinked awaketo the sound of pounding on a door.

Painter groaned and found himself on his futon. He shook his head, looking around his apartment. Strewn with clothing, a half-eaten box of cereal on the table, hion lights—teal and magenta—shining from the line outside his window, painting the place familiar modern colors.

It had been a dream after all?

The door continued to thump angrily. “Coming!” he shouted as the beating persisted. “I said I’m coming!” He shifted, sitting up, and put his hand to his head.

Yumi sat up from the floor beside his futon, dressed in a pair ofhispajamas—the oversized shirt exposing her shoulder, the sleeves long enough that her hands barely stuck out the ends. Her hair was a frizzy mess, and she looked baffled.

He gaped, then reached for her. His arm passed through the edge of his short dining table.

Painter froze, then waved his hand through the table. He couldn’t touch it. Or the sock that was sitting on it for some reason. Or the pillow, or…

Yumi stumbled to her feet, knocking against the table, causing an old noodle bowl to rattle and one of the maipon sticks to fall off it and clatter to the wood. She glanced at it, then at her hands, then met his eyes with her own panicked ones.

Ohno.

Yumi was inthe darkest place of dead spirits.

That was the only explanation for the strange hostile lights coming in through the window—not warm like the sun, instead cold and terrible. That was the only explanation for the chill air, particularly under her bare feet.

The door thumped and rattled. Some beast was out there. No, some terrible force from beyond life.

She must be dead. But if that was so, why was she so very hungry? She felt like she’d beenweekswithout food. Was that another part of the torture? Had…had she been taken to the cold skies, where the souls of the unworthy drifted? Was she forbidden the embrace of the warm earth below? Was…was shethatbad a yoki-hijo? Had she failed the spirits that terribly?

Nearby, the hero groaned.

The hero. He was here. Hope surged. Was this part of their quest? She’d learned in the histories that many heroes traveled to the placeof cold, frozen spirits. She tried to contain her terror and make herself feel strong. Perhaps this was what the spirits wanted. Maybe…maybe she wasn’t dead, but on their path?

The door pounded again, louder.

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