“The Tearline is tied to a lunar cycle,” Solon said. “When you cried yesterday morning, you may have noticed the waxing crescent low in the sky? That was when the Rising began. It must complete before the full moon, nine days from now.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Ander asked.

Solon raised an eyebrow and disappeared into his kitchen. He returned a moment later carrying a tray filled with chipped, mismatched ceramic bowls of creamed spinach, egg noodles swimming in mushroom gravy, nuts and apricots drowned in honey, crunchy chickpeas, and a big wedge of dense, sugary baklava.

“If Atlantis does not rise before the next full moon, the Waking World will become a swamp of wasted dead. Atlas will return to the Sleeping World, where he must await the next generation of Tearline girl, should there be one.”

“What do you mean—wasted dead?” Ander asked.

Solon held up an earthenware platter and offered it to Eureka. “Schnitzel?”

Eureka waved the plate away. “I assumed the rise was already complete.”

“That depends on how many of your tears hit the ground,” Solon said. “It is my belief that you shed only two, but you must enlighten me. The number will establish our position in this catastrophe.”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I didn’t know I was supposed to keep track.”

Solon turned to Ander, slid a cutlet onto his plate. “What’s your excuse?”

“I know each tear carries a unique weight,” Ander said, “but I never knew the formula. I didn’t know about the lunar cycle, either. The Seedbearers were secretive, even though I was family. After you left, they had to be careful who they trusted.”

“They keep secrets because they are afraid.” Solon swallowed a bite of meat and closed his eyes. His voice assumed a soft lilt as he began to sing.

“One tear to shatter the Waking World’s skin.

A second to seep through Earth’s roots within.

A third to awaken the Sleeping World and let old kingdoms rebegin.”

His eyes opened. “ ‘The Rubric of Tears’ was the last song sung before the Flood. It’s a metaphor, for life or death or—”

“Love,” Eureka realized.

Solon tilted his head. “Go on.”

Eureka didn’t know where the idea had come from. She was no expert on love. But “The Rubric of Tears” reminded her of how she’d felt when she met Ander.

“Maybe the first tear,” she said, “shattering our world’s skin, represents attraction. When Cat likes a guy, she never calls it a crush. She says ‘shatter’ is more accurate.”

“I know what she means,” Ander said.

“But love at first sight doesn’t lead anywhere,” Eureka said, “unless the second sightgoes deeper.”

“So the second tear,” Ander said, “the one that seeps into the roots—”

Eureka nodded. “That’s getting to know someone. Their fears and dreams and passions. Their flaws.” She thought of Dad’s words earlier that day. “It’s not being afraid to touch the other person’s roots. It’s the next thousand miles of falling in love.” She paused. “But it still isn’t love. It’s infatuation, until—”

“The third tear,” Solon said.

“The third tear reaches the Sleeping World,” Ander said. “And awakens it.” His cheeks flushed. “How is that like love?”

“Reciprocation,” Eureka said. “When the person you love loves you back. When the connection becomes unbreakable. That’s when there’s no turning back.”

She hadn’t realized she was leaning toward Ander and he was leaning toward her until Solon wedged a hand between their faces.

“I see you haven’t told her about us,” Solon said to Ander.

“What about you?” Eureka asked.

“He means”—Ander turned back to his plate and cut a bite of schnitzel but didn’t eat it—“the Seedbearers’ role in stopping your tears.”

Solon scoffed at Ander.

“I know about that,” Eureka said. Ander might have turned against his family, but he still cared about the fate of her tears. She thought of the icy Zephyr against her frozen cheeks. “Ander has it,” she realized.

“What?” Solon asked.

“The third tear. I cried again on the way here, but his breath froze my tears. They didn’t hit the earth. They’re safe inside his lachrymatory.”

“Tearline tears are never safe,” Solon said.

“They’re safe with me.” Ander showed Solon the little silver vial.

Solon rubbed his jaw. “You’ve been running with a bomb.”

“Bombs can be disarmed,” Eureka said. “Can’t we dispose of my tears without—”

“No,” Ander and Solon said together.

“I’ll keep this.” Solon snatched the lachrymatory and glared across the table. “I didn’t stockpile all this food for it to go to waste. Eat! You should see what my neighbors have for dinner. Twigs! Each other!”

Eureka spooned some noodles onto her plate. She eyed the meat, which smelled like the kitchen of the Bon Creole Lunch Shack, whose crumpled, grease-stained takeout bags danced in the wind above the beds of most New Iberia pickup trucks. The scent awakened a nostalgia in her, and she wished she were straddling a sticky barstool at Victor’s, where Dad used to fry oysters as small as quarters and as light as air.