Page 20 of Still the Sun

“The machines,” he murmurs. “It’s direly important we repair them swiftly. It’s been ... a long time.”

I nod, but unsure if he can see the gesture, I whisper, “I know, Moseus. I’m trying.” I don’t need to whisper. I’m not sure why I do. The odd intimacy of the situation just ... calls for it.

“I—we—are asking a lot,” he continues. “I am aware. But only you can do this. We will help you in any way possible, but we need you, Pelnophe.”

Words fail me. Heat from his body radiates past the loose cloth of his robe.

“Stay, when you can.” Perhaps noticing our positioning, he steps back, pulling the door open. “You are welcome to stay when you are able. The mists—”

“I’ll follow the rules,” I assure him, wishing there was more light so I could see his expression better.

He says nothing more, just pulls away, seeming to disappear into the shadows of his room. Off-kilter, I leave him behind almost guiltily and let the late mist swallow me whole.

I run home, shaking off the confusion that the tower delights in afflicting me with. I’m pushing it a little close. The sun burns against the side of my face as I reach Emgarden, as I’ve circled around so I approach from the west, not the northwest, but folk are used to seeing me come and go. Regardless, I savor the sun’s warmth even as it makes me perspire. I should bathe. And sleep, though I prefer to rest in the mists. Get some work done. The farmers always need help transporting water. You’d think they’d be more supportive of me building another windlass, or that rover. I sigh. Might be time I start hunting for a good place to dig another well.

Salki and Casnia are walking my way when I arrive.

“Hi!” Salki carries a bowl covered in cloth. A worm of guilt burrows into my stomach. “Please don’t tell me that’s for me.”

Salki rolls her eyes. “Athank youwould suffice.”

“Thank you,” Casnia repeats, overenunciating the words. “Thank-thank you.”

Grinning, I open my door and wave them in. Salki sets her gift on the table and pulls the cloth, revealing a loaf of bread. The scents of yeast and millet warm the room. I never make bread. I don’t have the patience to grind grain into flour, let alone wait for the dough to rise and the oven to heat and all the other nonsense that goes with baking. But I do love bread. I bought it from Ramdinee once every dozen cycles or so, before she passed.

“Bless you.” I rip the heel straight off the loaf.

“Gods help you.” Salki clucks her tongue, takes a small serrated ceramic knife from my drawer, and cuts half the loaf into slices, handingone to Casnia. She squeals upon receiving it, then runs to the corner, sits on the floor, and munches away.

“How are things?” I ask, pulling out one of two chairs I own and plopping down. I kick out the other for Salki.

“Well, we had an entire row of sorghum fail.” She sighs. “Myrow. I took one cycle’s break, and the plants burned to nothing beneath the sun.”

I frown. “Maybe it’s disease.” Hopefully not. That would be harder to cure.

“Maybe, but nothing else seems affected. And it happened sosuddenly.” She shrugs. “So at first sun Cas and I pulled them all up to start again.”

“Same well water as the rest?”

“Unfortunately. But otherwise, I’m good. Getting back into the routine.” She fingers her simple, misshapen brooch. “Without Mother, honestly, I have more free time, and I don’t know what to do with it. I, uh”—she chuckles—“don’t want to put in even more hours at the farm, even with the failure. I’ve been taking Casnia on walks, when she wants to come with me. Visiting the alehouse more often. Baking.” She gestures to the bread.

“You could convince everyone to let you do this full time,” I say around a mouthful. “No more farming. Sweating indoors instead of outdoors.”

Salki laughs. “I don’t know about that. I’m not as good as Ramdinee was.” Her expression falls. I’d inadvertently reminded her how often death brushes shoulders with her.

Eager to change the subject, I tip my head toward Casnia. “How is she?”

A shrug. “Same as always. Oh”—she reaches into her satchel—“Casnia insisted I give this to you.”

It’s another childlike drawing of me, again with the wrong hair, even shorter than I wear it and yellow instead of brown. I’m wearing a long robe, or maybe a dress, in this one. Admittedly, the blue emilies around my feet look pretty good.

“She’s getting better,” I remark.

“She does enjoy it. I’ll need to go gathering to get her some more art materials. She runs through them so quickly.”

“I’ll keep my eye out.” There are some plants that make decent dyes around here. The emilies work for pastels. Wickwood burns wonderfully, but its bark can also be distilled into a red dye. Easier ones are charcoal for black and yellow sandstone for, obviously, yellow. That’s what my hair has been scrawled in on this newest piece.

“Figure out the plate yet?” Salki asks.

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