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“How do you know the tower will help?” I try.

“What else could it do?” he counters. “Moseus has been here centuries longer than I. He experienced the war firsthand, while I cowered worlds away. If he believes it connected, so do I.”

“The Ancients built it.”

“And they, too, have vanished,” he affirms.

Coolness, like that of a deep well. Could the Ancients be on the other side of that wall, too? Gods were long lived, if not immortal. Were the Ancients the same?

All the more reason to fix the tower.

“The things I told you about before,” I continue, “they feel like memories, but not all of them make sense.”

Unclenching his hands, Heartwood knits them together and becomes incredibly interested in the dirt. “What have you seen?”

I recount everything in as much detail as I can. Machine One, in pieces across the floor. Machine Three, intact. Cutting my hand, andHeartwood bandaging it. The half-formed argument between us. Breath on my neck, footsteps in my house. I think of the explosion I heard that wasn’t real and worry it’s too much to share. Like it might be the weight that tips the scale in diagnosing me as a madwoman.

He shakes his head. “That isn’t much.”

A zip of heat chases away the cool. “Then why did you react that way outside the tower? Why did you tell me to leave?”

Closing his eyes, he bows his head as if in prayer. “Because I have been away from home a long time, and I’m weary.”

“Heartwood.” I can’t hold back the exasperation in my voice.

He rises to his feet.

So do I. “That’s drivel and you know it.”

He turns from me, as though I’m a ghost, unseen and unheard. He walks for the arch like he’s on his way to a funeral.

“Damn it, Heartwood!” I chase him. Grab his hand, but he’s strong and easily breaks my hold. “Tell me what I’m missing! Tell me what you know about those machines!”

But he continues on, insufferable and silent, past the spring and out of the gorge. Enraged, I scoop up a stone and chuck it after him, striking the archway.

“See if I’ll fix your stupid machines!” I yell after him. Heneedsme, and I need answers. “Heartwood!”

He doesn’t take the bait.

I spend the next cycle piecing together the exterior of Machine Three, made all the more difficult by three brief, nearly consecutive earthquakes. Knowing the tower operates as one machine, I understand what to look for now. Machines One, Two, and Three align in the tower. After knocking around with a wrench, I discover a hollow internal beam in Machine Two. I ruin a hacksaw slicing into it and drop a screw inside, listening to it fall until it clanks off Machine One. With Machine Three,I find a passage the width of my arm under a plate bolted at the base of its foundation. The top of Machine Three, the part already connected to the ceiling, pierced through to join with Machine Four, and Machine Four cuts across its chamber to join with Machine Five, once that male piece lowers. I sketch this all out on my slate and stare at it, wondering what it means.

I don’t see Heartwood. He’s avoiding me. Smart of him, since I’m ready to pin him to the wall myself and claw some answers from his skin.

Moseus yearns for the end of the work. So do I, but I can’t ignore my duties in Emgarden. I bring the next batch of scrap metal straight to Arthen, saving a few pieces for personal study. I set them out on a table in the alehouse, sipping a drink. Not strong enough to fill the gap within me, just enough to calm my ever-growing nerves.

Casnia comes in with Amlynn. Salki must be working, and Casnia gets impatient in the fields. Amlynn sits Casnia down at a table and leaves to speak with Maglon. Almost immediately Casnia picks up her things and joins me, taking a long time to situate herself, never making eye contact. Sets up her art, but doesn’t draw.

She picks up a bent metal plate, then sets it down, disinterested. “Hot,” she says.

“Mid sun,” I answer, studying a ball-joint hinge on one of the scraps. I don’t understand how it can have such breadth of motion and still connect so firmly, but I’m afraid to take it apart.

“Hot,” Casnia repeats. She draws wide scribbles across new parchment, and I wince, feeling the waste. “Hot, hot, hot.”

Reaching over, I pick up the bent plate. It’s room temperature.

Casnia attacks the parchment with her chalk, breaking off the end. “HOT!” she screams, alerting everyone in the alehouse. “HOT! HOT!”

“Cas!” Jumping from my chair, I grasp her shoulders. “Cas, calm down! Nothing’s hot. Do you want hot food?” I wave to Amlynn, who looks concerned, letting her know I’ve got it under control.