Page 43 of Still the Sun

He’s awake. Facing away from me. Pulling off the leathers he wears over his clothes. He carefully folds a piece and sets it on the windowsill.

I pull back a moment. I’m ready. Whatever the answer is, I have to accept it. I will run, if I have to. Leave the tower and its machines—allAncient work—forever, to preserve myself. I’d rather have this missing piece nagging at me than lose who I am.

Ready, I peek through the crack again. But Heartwood isn’t there.

The door wrenches from my hand.

Heartwood’s closeness exaggerates his size. Looking down, his eyes blaze like they did when he pinned me to the wall by Machine Three.

“What,” he seethes, his voice low and callous, “are you doing?”

I stand my ground, wishing my knees didn’t shake. “I want answers. I want to know—”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Tell me what I don’t know!” I hiss.

He lowers his face to mine. “There is nothing for you to know. There are no secrets with me or this room. Your only purpose is the machines. You must—”

He stops. I don’t know why he stopped. Until I realize I’m crying.

Ruin me. I hate crying.

Wiping angry hands over my eyes, I say, “I don’t understand.” I hate how my voice shakes, but all the bottled fear twists my stomach and pushes up my throat. “I’m seeing things, Heartwood. I see things in the machines. Hear things. Past, present, I don’t know. I’m ... I’m losing my mind.” I try to suck in air, but it’s a mere trickle. “Injuries I don’t have, machines not ... not as they are. And I see you.”

He steps back like I’ve physically pushed him, insulted his person, his people, and his country while setting fire to his garden.

I wipe my face again—more like a slap—before any new tears can fall. “I see you, and I don’t know why. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. I have to know if I’m going mad.”

He says nothing. I wish he’d say something. I can’t tolerate the quiet, so I keep talking.

“Y-You have these things, on your back,” I add, and his expression slackens. “I don’t know what they are. It was just a flash, really. Like scars, but not. And I know it sounds absolutely absurd, but I keep seeing strange things, and I don’t know what they are, or what they mean,or if they evenexist. I don’t know what’s happening!” I raise my voice despite his warning. Smack away a tear. “Please ... just tell me if I’m sane or not. I need to know—”

“Stop,” he whispers, like I’m hurting him. I’m not even touching him. “Stop, please.”

I chew down a sob. Shake my head. A headache forms just beneath my skull, and I wince, ready for another vision, but none comes.

Heartwood’s calloused hand grasps my forearm. He pulls me into his room, then shuts the door firmly. Pauses. “You did something.”

“I oiled the hinges,” I confess.

He sighs. Releases me. Undoes the single button at his collar, turns, and pulls off his shirt.

I gasp.

It’s there. It’s all there.

A dozen scars—two dozen—cross his broad shoulders, raised like someone filled them with water, though they don’t look soft. Small, medium, large. They branch off his shoulders and join at the middle of his back, where they merge into one solid form that disappears beneath the waist of his trousers. It looks like a tree might, if we ever took the time to nurture one.

I reach forward, but Heartwood tugs the shirt back on, trapping his hair beneath it. “Go.”

“I ...” My feet have gone numb. My tongue, apparently, as well.

He pushes past me and opens the door. Peers out into the open area beyond before looking at me expectantly.

“But ... what is it?” I ask, sounding like a child. “Why ... how did I know?”

“You must be a seeress.” His words are terse, and he doesn’t meet my eyes. “Go, Nophe. Please.”

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