Page 38 of Still the Sun

He is not here.

That sensation of being very small returns. I hate it. I’ve fought against it my entire life, because it’s something I can’t change. No matter how strong I get, I will always, somehow, be small.

Machine Two watches with disinterest. I start for the stairs, intent on asking Moseus where his counterpart went, but I pause before I reach the first floor.I will handle Heartwood,he’d told me, very specifically. I definitely ignored that directive.

Instead, I grab a lantern and steal out into the mist, retracing my way to the slot canyon.

He isn’t here.

The mist lifts, and I circle the garden twice. No Heartwood.

I don’t have the fire left to chase him. And somehow, I know he won’t give me the answers I seek. I don’t know how many he even has.

I don’tknow.

I kneel by the spring and splash my face with its warm, tangy water. Slick my short hair back, as though it will make it easier to breathe.

I wait.

Two desert wrens descend into the garden, providing me some entertainment. They flit between the wickwood trees, bickering. They fly away when I stand.

I follow the path once more, perching under one of the trees, looking out onto the garden. Breathe deeply the scents of sage and rose and earth. Notice a small pail tucked into the side of the rocky lip of the spring. So I return and fill it, watering the plants one by one, minus the cacti. I don’t know if I’ll hurt them with water. I don’t know that much about plants.

The sun presses heat against my back as I finish. I return to my spot. Lie down in green ground cover of some sort. It’s soft, comforting. Even though this garden is his, it’s comforting.

I’m unable to unwind my thoughts, but gradually they dissipate, offering me a moment of respite. I should return before the mist settles in. And yet I can’t bring myself to move.

The wrens return, deciding I’m not a threat. I watch them for an hour, at least. Flitting, grooming, eating. I absorb the quiet of the gully, imagining myself becoming one with it, growing roots as deep as the emilies’, stretching my leaves toward the sun and drinking in its light. Such a simple life. I miss simplicity.

I study the lacework of the spindly trees, following the maze of their branches. Wren song chirps overhead. They’ve worked out their differences, at least. I wonder—

Turning my head, I blink sunlight from my eyes and stare harder at a knot in the tree. There’s a growth there. Thorns? But wickwoods don’t have thorns.

Curious, I prop myself up on my elbow and look harder. Then I stand, again spooking the birds. It’s only me in the garden when I reach for the growth embedded in the bark and, with two jerks, pull it free.

It’s not a growth. It’s a gear.

It’s a bevel gear, dark bronze and paper thin. Just smaller than the circumference of my hand. I marvel at it. Turn it over in my hand. Trace its teeth—

Breath escapes me. I know what this gear is. More important, I know where it goes.

How it got here is another question to add to the pile. But the gods have blessed me with direction, and I run the entire way back to the tower.

I crawl halfway into Machine Two and loosen three screws to remove a plate guarding the inner workings of its upper quarter. I’ve wondered about this section, because there’s a base component and a shaft thatwould fit nicely together, but I have nothing to connect them. But this little gear fits in perfectly—it’s made of the same alloy, too.

It takes me just a moment to adjust the parts I need and click the bevel gear in, and I’m grinning enough to hurt when it all fits into place. There’s a lever just next to the components. Curious, I pull it. It resists.

Oh.I pull it again, putting my weight into it. Then again, and again. It’s powering something, functioning like a water pump.

After six pumps, I search and locate a depression just behind the gear, away from easy sight. I push it.

That upper quarter of Machine Two whirs, and to my shock, a knot of beams near its rear shifts. I watch that knobless door, waiting for it to open. It doesn’t.

But the wall next to it does.

Chapter 14

It doesn’t grind, quiver, or groan. The stone-faced panel merely slips downward, revealing a room behind it—more like a closet—just tall enough for a person to stand upright. Just wide enough to be comfortable.

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