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“Forgive me,” he says, more to the floor than to me, and leaves.

“I don’t,” I murmur at his back, but he doesn’t hear me.

I halfheartedly piece together the exterior bits of Machine Three before slipping away to my room to nap. I manage to sleep, but it isn’t restful. I change my clothing, throwing the soiled pieces into the corner to wash later, and pull my short hair into a flared tail at the crown of my head. I need to think, and I can’t think the way I need to at the tower.

So I trek to Heartwood’s garden, winding down the way I’d first uncovered in the mists. The rest of that disintegrating copse has crumbled. What portions of its umber dust that haven’t caught on the breeze have mixed with the red-tinted soil, leaving a mark like a burn. I avoid crossing it, still unsettled by the trees’ strange demise.

Salki hates feeling enclosed. She dislikes tight spaces. Said she’d rather be burned and join the sky when she dies than buried like hermother. But here, in the winding red passageways of the slot canyons, I feel safe. Protected. Private. The canyons project a natural calm that imbues my body with peace.

I smell the garden before I pass through the stone arch guarding it. I’m greeted by succulent trees and the buzz of insects. The desert wrens are out. I only make it a few steps before I see a shift of white against the green. Heartwood stands from a crouch, that water pail in his hand, and meets my eyes. My gut clenches again.

“S-Sorry,” I offer.

He glances at the roses. “I was just finishing. You are welcome to stay.” He comes up the path, giving me space as he passes, and returns the bucket to its place by the spring.

“Stay,” I blurt. “I mean ... you can stay. It’s your garden.”

“I understand if you want privacy.”

“Just ... stay, Heartwood.” I’m not used to being embarrassed about much of anything, and I hate the heat climbing my cheeks. He studies me, then the arch, as if debating. I roll my eyes. “I’m notthatbad of company. I promise I won’t ask you to take your clothes off this time.”

That catches him off guard, and I laugh at the chagrin enveloping his features. I’m grateful for it; it puts me at ease. I walk up the path a little way. Heartwood stays where he is, probably still debating whether to leave.

I point to a short bush with tiny yellow buds. “What is this? I don’t recognize it.”

“Retalia,” he answers softly. “It grows natively in these canyons, in the more shaded parts.”

“This big?”

“No. Tampere is too harsh for that.”

He says it like there’s another option.

I gesture to the deep pink flowers. “And these?”

“Soft hearts.”

“I wouldn’t say I have one, but thank you.”

His lip quirks a little. He joins me on the path. “That is the name of the flower.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I eye him, unsure what he means. “And these are desert roses.”

“Yes. My favorite. That is why there are so many.”

“Mine, too.”

He follows me up the path. “Do you know this?”

He refers to the cluster of spiky leaves with long tongues at their centers, upon which sprout small purple flowers. “No. Should I?”

“They’re rare. Particular about soil and light.” I feel his gaze on my face, but when I turn, he refocuses on the plant. “Chrystanus. Beautiful, but poisonous.”

I blink at the seemingly harmless plant. It has no thorns, bark, or particularly bright coloring to warn creatures away. “Poisonous?”