After exploring the perimeter of the house, she entered it from the main doorway. The door was missing completely. The inner hall was made of stone tiles and weeds grew in the mortar cracks where the sunlight touched it. There was a crumbling stone hearth with what looked to be the abandoned bed of a wolf or a fox. Dried droppings from mice and other small creatures showed it was used occasionally. Their presence would frighten off any creatures returning that night.

The remains of a loft were smashed on the floor, covered with rotted shingles. The Kishion had cleared away a space by the hearth, the farthest from the windows.

“No fire, I suppose?” she asked tiredly but she did not believe he would answer. She gazed about the innards of the cottage. It would take some work, but the place could be fixed. The walls had been constructed by a master mason. They were thick and solid and had not yielded to the elements or time. They were stones set to last five hundred years. A new roof was needed. The loft could be rebuilt. The orchard could be tamed once more. Horses and goats and oxen fixed in the pen. The cottage was lonely, all it needed was a family to care for it. The owners had likely died of the Plague. So many people gathered in cities that there was truly more land than available people to work it. She wished for it more than anything else.

“How old are you?” she asked, gazing at him covertly. He seemed younger than thirty by his looks.

Ignoring her, he rubbed his hands together, gazing at the dust motes twirling in the fading light. The sun was descending quickly.

“Did you have a name before you became a Kishion?”

He tapped some old rotting wood with the tip of his boot, staring down at it curiously.

Realizing that he would not engage in conversation, she slumped down near the hearth and imagined living in the cottage. In her mind, she began listing all the things she needed to do to make it inhabitable. She would need saws and hammers. Barrels for collecting rainwater. A broom for certain. Her eyes searched the room in the fading light, growing heavier and heavier. She tried to keep her eyes open, missing Trasen with a piercing pang that surprised her. He was alive. She could thank Kishion for that at least.

The darkness brought fatigue and bleary eyes. The Kishion watched her from the shadows. She could sense his presence as well as see him. Did he never tire? What sort of man was this? What sort of protection did the Arch-Rike’s service give him?

She recalled the ring on his finger. She had seen it when he handed her the honeycomb. It was a black ring, probably made of iron. Was that ring the source of his power? Was that why he wore gloves, to conceal it? Her eyelids drooped. She pinched herself, struggling to stay awake. He stared at her. She could sense his eyes but could not see them in the shadows.

She stared back, wishing there was light, wishing there was a way she could steal his memory of her. A look and a blink. That was all it would take. Somehow he had missed seeing her at the Dryad tree. Was that his vulnerability? The beginnings of a plan began to form in her mind. She could not quite make out the edges, but she felt it brushing against her thoughts. It would have to be during the day. She would have to be very near him, to be sure their gazes met. She wished she had the power to force him to look at her.

The thought caused a tingling feeling inside her. She did not understand the feeling, but she sensed it. Something was missing. Some part of her was missing. Weariness stole quietly over her and she felt her chin bobbing down. Unable to fight it any longer, she stretched out on the tile floor and drifted asleep.

Phae awoke in the dark of night to the sound of a hauntingly beautiful melody.

“It is amazing the trinkets that are devised by the Paracelsus order. Some glimmer with iridescent light. Others can create dazzling smells. Some offer glimpses of hidden treasures to torment the mind. I do not pretend to understand how these devices work or by what principles they operate. Some of the most popular, I have learned, are those that weave melodies out of nothingness.”

—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos

The melody was low and plaintive, and the sound invoked a hundred feelings of sadness. It was not made by a voice or any instrument she had ever heard. The sound curled into her ears, lilting and thick with sorrow. It was the sound of a breaking heart.

Phae opened her eyes to blackness, save for thin veils of moonlight seeping in from the shattered windows. The sound was very near and she thought she saw a glint of metal. She blinked rapidly, trying to understand what was happening. What was making such mournful music? Why did its presence threaten her with tears? The Kishion was cloaked and bent over something, but she saw his gloves on the floor, his fingers holding a delicately small locket. The locket was open and she perceived the music coming from it.