Page 42 of Still the Sun

I hesitate, wondering whether or not to share. Heartwood seems fond of secrets. Perhaps I should guard some of my own. “Why did you have Arthen’s knife?”

He blanches.Caught you.He pulls his eyes back to his book, but this time it seems forced. His shoulders stiffen. He clenches his jaw, but catches himself and releases it. Sighs.

“Well?” I press.

“Were you in here?” he asks quietly. Accusatory, yes, but not venomous.

“I came in when I saw my knife. You left the door open.” I’m not the best liar, but I’d bet five cycles’ rations that I’m better at it than Heartwood.

He turns the page. I wait. No answer.

“Are you fond of tense silences?”

Heartwood lowers the book. The pages dip under his hard grip. “I do not have an answer for you. No—Pelnophe.”

“I said you could call meNophe,” I offer.

He shakes his head. Clenches, then unclenches, his jaw. “I do not have an answer for you,” he repeats, too much air leaking into his voice.

“I think you do.”

“Good night, Pell.” The words are hard, final, but they give me pause.

“What does that mean?”

He glances at me, bright eyes hard. “What does what mean?”

“Good night,” I repeat, letting go of the knob. “What’s ‘night’?”

His expression wipes clean, like a wet rag was swiped across a chalky slate. He turns to the window. “It’s nothing. Please, leave.”

Gritting my teeth, I start to pull the door closed, then stop. “You’ll break the book, doing that.”

Glancing down, Heartwood seems to notice for the first time that the pages are half folded over in his clenched hands. He releases it, letting it topple to the floor, and I give him his privacy.

For now.

The following mist, I bring a few things to the tower. Not everything; I don’t intend to disappear from Emgarden completely. I’m still needed there, and my absence could raise more questions than I have easy answers for. But I bring enough. My moving in makes both keepers uncomfortable, but Heartwood especially. He won’t meet my eyes and swiftly vacates any area I walk into.

Which helps when I need to oil his hinges. I do so, thoroughly.

He doesn’t sleep the next mist, and he’s gone the entire next sun. Garden or foraging, I assume. Or he ate something particularly foul and atones for it at the privy. I work on assembling Machine Three, worried that he’s somehow caught on to me already, but he returns during the following mist. I’m quicker to follow this time. He sleeps, but in the window alcove, sitting upright against the stone, still dressed in his leathers, arms folded tightly across his chest. He snores, which is odd, because Heartwood doesn’t snore.

I fumble the handle as I retreat. Bite my lip and close the door, relieved when I don’t wake him, disturbed at my own thought.Heartwood doesn’t snore.How would I know that? This is the first time I’ve ever seen him sleep.

Panic clutches my chest, because I’m so damn sure.Heartwood doesn’t snore.

It took you away from me.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, and take the lift up to Machine Four. No one can sneak up on me here. No one will hear my frantic pacing and self-assurances. No one will see me put my head between my knees and relearn how to breathe. My chest weighs me down like it, too, is a machine. There’s not enough air in this room.Not enough air.I take the lift back down and climb to the third floor to press my head to the window, trying to empty my thoughts.

Madness has a feel to it. Smooth, subtle. Like the oil nestled in those hinges, but thinner. It doesn’t leave a noticeable mark. No grease stains. When it first starts dripping, it feels wrong, the way I imagine a knife through the gut might feel. But I can see how one could become used to it. Even comfortable. Oiled up and slick and satiated, forgetting there was ever anything else.

And I wonder, staring out into the mist, if I’ve forgotten something. My theory of the Ancients speaking to me through their work has crumbled around the edges. The Ancients didn’t know Heartwood. He isn’t part of these machines.

Steeling myself, I return to the second floor. Heartwood’s earlier position wasn’t comfortable; perhaps he changed and now rests on his pallet on the floor. Maybe his leathers are dirty. That’s two reasons to unclothe. And I am desperate. The oil is seeping in, and it terrifies me. I have to know.

Late mist. No clock, but it will dissipate soon. Quiet as an ant, I turn Heartwood’s handle and open the door just a crack. Catch my breath before it can give me away.

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