Page 45 of Still the Sun

My stomach hurts, followed by my head. Another unanswered question. I still don’t know why someone left it for me. Or why it’s marked like I created it myself.

I’m aligning the pistons on Machine Four when another flash overtakes me.

“It’s better that I—that we—don’t involve ourselves with Emgarden,” Heartwood says, glancing at the tower’s door. “We are too ... different.”

I shrug. “Well, you’re already involved with me, aren’t you?”

Deep breaths steady me as the vision fades. I shoulder the piston into place. I had to bring a stool up here to do it, and eventually I’ll need the ladder, too, though it won’t fit in the lift. I might just set the keepers to building something new. No reason I should be doing all the work.

As I check the last piston, my eye catches on the tension cables behind, and the components holding them in place. “I know you.” I point a finger at the trapezoidal frame. “And you,” to a spine.

Abandoning my work, I move to floor three, find the parts, and assemble them on Machine Three as I saw them in Machine Four. The tasks go quickly, minus those involving the heavier bits, and by mid sun, the internal parts of the machine are all set for a trial run. It feels ... off, to piece it together so swiftly, but the guts are so similar to Machine Four, which is intact.

To be sure, I bring up my turning rod and set it up as I did on Machine One. Machine Three stands easily three times the size of Machine One, so it takes some sweat, but I manage to crank it twice, and the parts turn, puffing out a gentle, dying tone.

I pause, listening to it. That tone ... it harmonizes with Machine One. I’m not positive ... I’d have to be able to hear both at the sametime, and I only have one turning rod and an entire story between the two machines, but I think—

I catch movement from the corner of my eye. Heartwood approaches, wearing his leathers. He’s either about to head out or he’s just returned. His thick white braid falls over one shoulder, dusting his lowest rib.

My gut clenches. I see those markings in my mind’s eye, branching like a tree over his broad shoulders. Feel his breath on my face as he says,I broke it because it took you away from me.

His eyes aren’t sharp. The color, I mean. I thought them unnatural, even acidic, once. But now that I’ve seen his garden, I’ve reassessed. They’re merely alive, whereas so much on Tampere is not.

I find myself suddenly self-conscious of my sweat- and grease-stained clothes. I wipe my palms on the sides of my trousers. “Yes?”

He glances at the machine. “It’s nearly done.”

I pat the turning rod. “It doesn’t have all its outer structure, but it functions as well as the first does.” Heartwood pauses two paces from me, studying my face. Searching for something. That self-consciousness grows. “What?”

He hesitates. “Do you know my name?”

What kind of a question is that? “Heartwood ...”

“And the name of the other keeper?”

“Moseus. What is this about?”

He raises a hand, asking for patience. “How do you get to the fourth floor?”

I narrow my eyes but play along. “Through the lift. Which is attached to Machine Two, for some reason. Which also has a hidden door behind it.”

He shifts. “There’s a door?”

“Moseus didn’t tell you?”

He shakes his head. “It must have slipped his mind.” He examines the machine again. “Thank you, for your work. It means a lot to me. To us.”

“You’re wel—”

The sun hits Heartwood’s eyes, shrinking his pupils, brightening the green. There’s a deeper green, a star in the center of each, and I lean in, trying to better make out their edges. Yet as I do, they transform before my very eyes, forming the shapes of tall, needle-covered trees and thick boughs, of distant mountains capped in white. A glistening stream of water crinkles past lush grasses, where an animal—a deer?—grazes with her fawn.

I gasp. Blink the images away. I see Heartwood’s chest. He’s in front of me, his hands on my shoulders, his face close to mine. This time, though, he doesn’t instill terror. My heart pounds anyway.

“What’s wrong?” He searches my face.

“I ...” I don’t know how to answer. I told him I’d been seeing things. Does he understand now?Seeress,he called me. It sounded like an excuse.

I look into his eyes, wondering if they’ll change for me again, if I’ll see a far-off place too wonderful to recognize. He sees me searching, feels our closeness, and releases me, his countenance stricken.

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