Page 12 of Still the Sun

Heartwood glances back at me, expressionless save for a raised vein in his forehead. And because he is aggravating, he doesn’t respond.

My shoulders tense. Sharper than I mean to, I ask, “How do you know my full name? Moseus introduced me asPell.” No one calls meNophe. I’ve never even heard my name shortened like that.

A beat passes, then another. “Moseus and I converse outside of your visits. This is our home.”

Still. And now, to be obstinate,Idon’t respond.

He exhales. “I will adjust my address if you prefer.” He walks away, taking the stairs up. I watch him go, just to make him uncomfortable.

BecauseI’muncomfortable.

After lighting the new lantern, I hold it up, inspecting my right hand and the scar there.

Then I slap myself across the face and get back to work.

As if this cycle couldn’t get more annoying, I now find there’s a power switch on this machine.

But it’s in the middle of the machine. Hard to reach. Which is stupid.

And there’snothinghere that could possibly power this hunk of metal. Nothing to wind, no engines for steam, nothing.

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

“I hate you,” I mumble to the machine as one of its bearings rolls oil across my forearm. I don’t mean it. I love this gods-damned pile of garbage. That weird sentiment I get ... that subtle incompleteness ... it eases when I work on this monstrosity. Keeps my thoughts elsewhere.

But also, I hate it.

“Pell.”

“One second.” I tighten some cables before carefully pulling back, making sure not to cut myself on any loose parts. Moseus approaches. He’s removed his dark robe and wears a simple gray shirt and pants, like what I’ve seen Heartwood wear. It makes him look long and lean. His unadorned white hair falls evenly down his back, just to where his spinedips at the base. The dark cloth of his shirt makes his pale skin look even paler, though the lantern light lends it some warmth.

He’s not an unattractive man.

“There’s a power switch in there, but nothing to power it,” I report. “I don’t understand. Maybe if I took the entire thing apart, but I can’t promise I’ll be able to put it together again.”

That image from two cycles ago surfaces in my mind. Machine One in pieces on the floor. Not completely disassembled, but far less intact than presently accounted.

My head hurts.

“Are you well?”

Must have shown on my face. “I’m fine. Just tired. Thanks for—”

Moseus reaches forward and presses his palm flush to my forehead.

“—asking,” I finish. He doesn’t say anything, his deep green gaze unfocused. Tentatively, I reach up and grasp his hand, lowering it from my forehead. “Just overworked,” I assure him. “By my own choice. But I appreciate the concern.”

“You’ll sort it out.” Moseus retracts his hand and gestures to a gray sack near the door. “You may take that with you.”

I rise to my feet. “Scrap metal?”

He nods.

I smile. All the backstepping and questions seem, for a moment, unimportant. The decent-sized bag looks full. Enough for plenty of tools. “Thank you.”

“I appreciate your discretion. You need to leave now; the mist is lifting.”

I hand him the small lantern. “I’ll see what I can do.”

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