Page 47 of Still the Sun

“The root only, but yes, very much so. A dermal poison.”

I study the garden with a renewed eye. The green vines are fairy wisps, and the succulent trees have a name too long to remember. I was right about the sage, in that it’s a variety of sage.

“But not edible,” Heartwood adds.

“And this”—I sweep my arms broadly around the garden—“is your animus thing?”

Heartwood lowers himself onto a large boulder. “Moseus told you about that.” It’s not a question.

“More or less. It’s like what you’re named after, or something.”

He tips his head. “Mine is more for the forest, but this is the best I can make.”

Forest.I know the word, but when I try to picture it, all I see are the images from Heartwood’s eyes, and that wasn’t real.

No, itwasreal. Because the scars are real. Right?

Lifting my right hand, I trace the scar across my palm. “I want to talk about Machine Three.”

Heartwood immediately rises to his feet. “I should go. Moseus will be expecting me.”

“You don’t get to say things like that and then refuse to explain yourself.” My voice is quiet, but my tone isn’t.

Heartwood slows, stops. “I shouldn’t have spoken.” He looks away, his jaw tight again. He blinks a few times. “I’m sorry.”

I walk up the path to meet him. To block him from the exit, though if he wanted to, he could easily displace me. He’s slow to meet my gaze, but he does. He has a strong nose, broad cheeks, full lips. Trees and deer in his eyes, somehow.

“Give me your hand.” I hold mine out expectantly.

Heartwood hesitates, then lifts his right hand and places it in mine. The little zip that rushes up my arm at the contact, like I’ve touched the steam chest on an engine, makes me uncomfortable, to say the least. Or rather, I want it to be.

I close his hand into a fist and press my palms against his knuckles. “That beam you wrecked. It’s a good thing it’s not critical to the function of the machine.”

He doesn’t reply, only watches our hands.

“What are you, Heartwood?” I release him gently, as though his hand is a bird learning to fly. When he presses his lips together, I add, “You have to tell mesomething. I deserve something.”

He exhales slowly. I think he will refuse to answer again, but he grinds out, “I am not from here.”

“Obviously.”

“No, Pell. Nophe.” He takes a step back and surveys his garden. “I am not from Tampere.”

I wrinkle my nose. “And I thoughtIwas the crazy one.” Yet my heart quickens, as though warning me. My jest stalls him. Emboldened, I lift my hand and press it to his chest. He tenses, but doesn’t move away. His heart beats nearly in time with my own. “Heartwood,” I murmur, meeting his eyes. “What are you?”

He places his hand gingerly over mine. “Moseus and I both. We are gods.”

Chapter 16

When I pull away from Heartwood, he lets me go.

“What?” A dry laugh escapes me. “That is—”

“Absurd, yes, I know,” he finishes for me, the word half-formed on my tongue. He looks at me almost wryly, rubbing his chest where my hand just was, as though I’ve burned him. “And no, I can’t demonstrate.”

I was about to ask him to. To prove it.Reasonable deduction on his part,I think, but find myself shaking my head.

It takes me a beat to find my voice again. “I’d ... I’d call blasphemy, but—”

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