Page 32 of Still the Sun

And there’swater.

I walk to the spring and kneel beside it. Like the stairs leading down here, it looks half-natural, half-man-made. The rock has been chipped away to create a pool, shaded by a sandstone outcropping. But the water sits, bizarrely, at surface level. It’s almost green, and when I reach down and brush it with my fingers, it’s warm, with a faint sulfuric smell. The green shifts to a deeper and deeper blue the deeper it goes. One handon the outcropping, I lean forward to peer into its strange depths. I’ve never seen a natural well like this. Never seen water I didn’t have to dig for. Never seen this shade of turquoise. It’s breathtaking.

“Pell.”

Heartwood’s crisp voice startles me. I twist to face him, but in doing so, I lose my footing, and there’s nothing to grip. I glimpse a sliver of leather-clad shoulder before Tampere reaches up and swallows me. I fall headfirst, water rising up, sucking me into its warm depth—far deeper than I realized. I kick to right myself and reach up, only to strike my knuckles on rock. The spring dips below the crags. I can’t find the surface, and I’m not a good swimmer. Wells are deep, but narrow. If I slip in one of those, I just have to stick my foot out to catch the side ...

The first spike of panic shoots down my neck when a hand clamps around my arm, just above my elbow, and hauls me up. Turquoise depths give way to sunlit red rock as I fly upward nearly as swiftly as I’d fallen in. Heartwood deposits me, gasping and blinking, right next to the lip of the pool.

He crouches in front of me. “Are you all right?”

I nod, water dripping from my hair. I couldn’t have been under for more than a few seconds.

Mechanically, Heartwood releases my elbow and sits back on his haunches.

I first rub my eyes, then slick my hair back from my face. Clear my throat. Piece together my pride. Glare from the walls of the gorge casts stark shadows on Heartwood’s face, making it hard to read his expression. So much for staying clandestine.

I rise to my feet, my clothing heavy. He does as well, saying nothing as I wring out the front of my shirt. I steel myself, though I didn’t technically do anything wrong. I glance at the exit, though if Heartwood wanted to off me, he could have just let me drown. Not that I would have. I could have felt my way out before I ran out of air. I’m fairly certain.

“I wanted to know where you were going,” I say, squeezing water from fistfuls of my soggy slacks. I expect an outburst, or perhaps a cold demand that I leave. Maybe a sharp retort about my fall. But to my shock, Heartwood simply nods.

“You are welcome to stay, if you wish.”

I’m momentarily dumbfounded. New drops of water drizzle down either side of my nose. “You ... I can?”

Slowly, his gaze settles over the garden. “I ask only that you approach with care. It’s difficult to cultivate these plants. I’d prefer you not share this location with your townsfolk, if only to protect them. And, perhaps, stay away from the spring.”

Did he make ajoke? I stare at him like I’m seeing him for the first time. “Of course. Thank you. I ...” I take in the garden once more. It seems even more resplendent without the mists, like the sunlight has speckled everything with gold. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Heartwood flinches. I glance at him, but he doesn’t meet my eye. Then again, he hasn’t been feeling well, though at the moment he appears hale.

“I’ll leave you to it.” He starts for the arch.

“You can stay,” I blurt, awkwardness itching my skin. Or maybe that’s the wet clothing. “I mean, it’syourgarden, and I came uninvited.”

The slightest tick of his lip, and for the first time, a glimmer of warmth comes to his eyes. “Thank you, but I think I will hunt.”

“There’s not much to hunt.”

“But there is something,” he counters. Turns for the arch. Stops of his own volition. “Pell.”

I can’t help it. Maybe it’s the swift rescue, the beauty of the gully, or his utter generosity when, if the situation were reversed, I would be raging at the invasion of privacy. In an offer of peace, I say, “You can call meNophe, if you want.”

Heartwood’s expression shifts, warm and cool at the same time, like the first settling of the fog. Sad again, as though the weight of hisown tombstone burdens his shoulders. His voice softens as he speaks. “I would ask ... do not tell Moseus you came here.”

That surprises me. “He doesn’t know about it?”

“He does. But ...”

And that’s all the explanation I get. Heartwood disappears through the arch, leaving me to the splendor of his carefully cultivated piece of paradise.

Chapter 11

I spent a full sun in Heartwood’s garden.

After he left, I walked the dirt path winding through it, ten paces to its western edge, thirteen back to the pool. I walk it several times, drying my clothes, discovering something new on each pass. I trace a sweet, earthy smell to a plant I don’t recognize, with long spiky leaves and deep-violet flowers. Therearewickwood trees here—two of them. I didn’t recognize them before because I’ve never seen wickwoods this green. Judging by their size, they were here before Heartwood commandeered the gorge, but they, too, have been well tended. Everything is, for none of it would survive otherwise. Our crops alone require constant supervision and hand-watering. He must care for this oasis a great deal.

Comfortably damp, I find myself under one of the wickwoods, next to a budding sage bush that fills the air with scents of spice. Outside the shadows of the few stone outcroppings, it’s the shadiest part of the garden. The sun shining through the branches casts patterns like lace on the ground. It makes me think of the sundial, but I put that aside and enjoy the beauty of it all, dozing off once, waking to the chirping of a desert wren.

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