Page 19 of Still the Sun

I’m alone.

Every millimeter of my skin prickles. Pulling away from the machine, dropping a screw and a washer, I turn around, scanning my surroundings. Touch my neck where I mostdefinitelyfelt someone’s mouth. “Moseus?” I croak, barely above a whisper. “Heartwood?”

No answer.

Pulse racing, I rush for the stairs. They’re empty. Glare at the hole in the ceiling for the third floor, but it’s too far for anyone to have hidden there so quickly. I throw open the door to Heartwood’s room. Empty.

Returning to the machine, I grip a beam and lean into it, forcing slow, deep breaths. What is happening to me? That felt ... It was soreal. Someone touched me. Intimately. And I don’t want to admit it, but it feltfamiliar.

I glance at Machine Two, wondering at Moseus’s talk of magic. Are the Ancientsstilltied to these pieces of history? They’re not here, not anymore, but what do I know of Ancients? They were less than gods, but more than mortals.

A shiver courses up my back. I notice, a hand’s breadth from where I grip the beam, another Ancient symbol. This one is a circle with three lines dividing it, the center longer than the others. I press my thumb into it, hard, expecting the machine to react in some way, or for another ... I don’t know, vision, or mental lapse, or whatever keeps happening.

The machine doesn’t react. I’m alone.

Something about that thought feels very poignant, and I’m not sure why.

“Thank you, Pell,” Moseus says as I come down the stairs with my personal tools and slates. “Anything of note?”

Yeah, I’m slowly losing my mind.“No. Just trying to understand it all.”

The door to his room stands open, a black maw. Lifting the lantern, I try to see him better. His voice sounded steady, and though it may be a trick of the light, he looks less sickly than before. His pale skin appearsmore even—unblemished—and its shadows have shrunken. The way the small light contrasts with the umbra makes him look silver, like Machine One. Long, straight, silver hair like an angel might wear, and eyes deeper than wells. His clothing blends in with the darkness of the room behind him, like it’s a great hand holding on, unwilling to release.

Hesitating, I ask, “Why do you keep it like that? There’s another room on the second floor with a window you could take.” Then, to lighten the inquiry, “Heartwood surely can’t bethatinsufferable.”

The corners of his lips tick upward. He pauses, then gestures. “Come.”

The mists will fade shortly, but if Moseus isn’t concerned, I suppose I shouldn’t be, either. I follow him, slowing as he passes into his room. The guy isn’t going to murder me ... not if he wants his machines fixed. Still, my fingertips find their way into my pocket and brush the hilt of Arthen’s blade.

Moseus leaves the door open. After a moment, my eyes adjust. There isn’t anything remarkable about the small enclosure. There’s a bed, and I think that’s a chest. A rug on the floor softens my footfalls.

Moseus sits, crossing his legs in front of him. “Please,” he says and gestures to the space in front of him. If he’d worn gloves, I wouldn’t have seen the motion.

I sit, facing him. Mirror his position.

“People misunderstand the dark,” he explains, and I imagine he’s closed his eyes, but I keep mine open. “Many fill their lives with anything they can grasp, and their minds with anything they can think. They disconnect from others, from the world, from the cosmos. The things they grasp, ultimately, hold no meaning. I seek the darkness to strip away meaninglessness. To remember myself and my mission.” He takes a deep breath.

I mimic it. “You meditate?”

“Often.”

Several seconds pass. Not uncomfortable ones ... Moseus has never shared so much about himself, and I appreciate that. He has a point.It’s clear that nothing nefarious lives in this lightlessness, even if I prefer sunshine.

“How long has it been?” I lower my voice. It feels wrong to speak loudly. “Since you lost your people beyond the wall?”

“A very long time.” His voice is a song. “I fear for them.”

He doesn’t expound, only reaches into that peace of his, his “animus” or whatever he called it. We sit like that for several minutes, long enough that my eyelids grow heavy. But I will not sleep here with a strange man I hardly know.

“The mist is fading,” I whisper.

He turns his head as though there’s a window in the wall, perfectly alert despite his stillness. “You may go.”

I rise and turn toward the exit. I’m nearly to it when a pale hand pushes it nearly closed, thickening the darkness. Moseus, silent as a cat, presses against the door.

Pressed very close tome.

“Pelnophe.” He says my name like it’s made of eggshells. His breath brushes the tip of my nose. The room grows very small and very warm, and I try to remember the last time I was this close to a man.

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