Page 41 of Still the Sun

I don’t leave the tower during the next mist. I don’t leave at all.

I should rest, but my mind and body are far too alert, so I walk through the tower, taking note of the keepers. I have a faint idea of their schedules, though Moseus’s has proven more consistent than Heartwood’s. Returning to Machine Two, I work on it until it’s more or less functional, though I don’t provide a means to power it by hand like I did with Machine One. I’m still clueless as to the machines’ power sources, but I don’t think they require separate sources to function. I can’t believe the Ancients would build things that weren’t self-contained, self-sufficient wholes. It’s only time—and angry, confusing keepers—that tears them apart.

After that, I visit Moseus, who has returned to Machine Four, watching it as one might watch the mists descend.

“It’s an excellent discovery,” I say, trying to sound casual. “We’re getting close.”

“We are.” His chest puffs out with a deep breath and a slight rattle. “Very close.”

“I know it’s important to you.” I place a hand on one of the machine’s spines, not daring to meet his eyes. “It’s important to me, too. I think I could get more work done if I stay at the tower.”

Several seconds pass. “You wish to stay here?”

“If I had accommodations.” I tread carefully. “I wouldn’t mind working longer shifts. I know you don’t like me coming and going during the suns.”

He considers this. It sounds more than reasonable to my ears, but Moseus has proven himself a very private person. We are allies, but I am stillotherto him, and a woman, too. Still, the idea of finishing the work quicker entices him. “I suppose it would speed things along,” he says somewhat reluctantly. “This fortress wasn’t made for comfort.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Would you stay here?” He gestures around the room. Because of Machine Four’s angle, there’s plenty of floor space for camping out.

“There’s a room on the second floor.” Easy, casual, nonchalant. I pull a small wrench from my belt and spin it around my finger. “Near the stairs.” It’s a small room, maybe twice the size of the closet on the first floor. But it’s also straight across from Heartwood’s chamber.

Though his lips pull into a frown, Moseus nods. “Very well. I don’t have a lot to offer you for a pallet.”

Heartwood might,I almost say, but I don’t risk his name staining the conversation. I can bring my own blanket when the mists fall. My own food, too. These two live as bachelors. They don’t have a well-stocked pantry.

“I’ll be subtle,” I say. Moseus can piece together the rest. Changing the subject, I report my other progress, which he seems only to half hear. Then I excuse myself and take the lift down to the second floor.

Now that I’ve been allowed to linger, I have to execute the second, and hardest, part of my plan. I have to catch Heartwood undressing.

Most people sleep during the mists.

Not every mist. At least,Idon’t sleep every mist. But the world cools down, and navigating becomes difficult, so folk retreat when the mists thicken. I don’t know if Heartwood strips down to rest, but I figure it’s my best shot.

I linger at Machine Two and pretend to fiddle with it as the sun grows late. I don’t even look at Heartwood when he comes by, though his steps slow, and I feel him looking at me. My pulse quickens, but he says nothing and slips inside his humble quarters.

Gradually, the temperature drops as the fog collects. Taking my shoes off, I scan for Moseus. Clear. I toe my way to Heartwood’s door. I may or may not have tightened up the knob’s strike plate a bit earlier, while he was away. At the garden, most likely.

Gripping the knob, I turn it softly. So softly. Hold my breath. Push it just a crack. Realize I should have oiled the hinges, too. The bottom one creaks, giving me away. Heartwood, sitting on a stool beside the window, looks up at me. He’s in a loose homespun shirt and breeches. So yes, he does change. But I misjudged my timing. I’m late.

He has a small book in his hands. Looks at me, then back at its pages. “I believe it’s customary for your people to knock.”

“What do you know of ‘my people’?” I counter, realizing that I’m not helping my case.

His brow creases. I reset. There are other stones I need to throw.

“I want to know what you meant, before.” I open the door a little wider now, listening to that hinge. “You said the machine took ... um, me away from you.”

He does not look up from the book. “I misspoke.” His unhindered tone grates on me.

“You misspoke.”

He doesn’t reply, merely reads.

“All right.” I can play his game. “Then why was that gear stuck in the wickwood tree?”

Now he looks up, his confusion genuine. “What gear?”

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