Jorit
While Ania slept, her pillow muffling the damaged timepiece, Jorit made mental lists of Where, When, and What.
Four locations: the library, the valley, the Pressmen’s parade, the market. Four eras: their present, hers and Ania’s; their ancestors’ lost past; and two with possible connections to the fire opal and its surviving mate, the Midnight Emerald. If Sonoria’s story was true.
No time to guess at that. Assume it true.
Jorit tiptoed to the other side of the cot and slipped the clock from beneath Ania’s pillowed head. “Where else have you been, you lovely creature?”
A normal gem could not answer. And Jorit knew she couldn’t possibly hear one of the mythical gems.
She laughed at herself for trying.
But Ania turned over in her sleep and began to murmur again.
Soon, Jorit could hear distinct words. She bent close and listened as sunrise turned the room’s edges golden.
“A thousand places, a thousand years. Not much time.” It was Ania speaking, but not Ania’s cadence, not her accent. It sounded like the accent Jorit had heard from the other day. Jorit jumped and nearly dropped the clock again.
“You asked, I will answer,” the voice continued, through Ania. “The watchmaker who made me is a good man. But gems change a person. He’s a tinkerer. And I am many gems, and more than that. I survived.” There was a long pause. “I haven’t spoken in so long. Exhausting.”
And then nothing.
“Please speak again,” Jorit said.
No more words came from Ania’s lips. The clock ticked unevenly.
Jorit nestled the clock beneath the pillow again so Ania would not know. The puzzle was getting more strange, not less. And now she couldn’t sleep either.
On the only shelf in the room, three books were piled one on top of the other. When she lifted them up, they came away with a small tug, their cloth covers sticky with dust. The shelf beneath the books was two shades darker than the rest of the wood. The book pile hadn’t been moved for some time.
She opened the top book, listening to the spine crackle. A Dictionary of the Riverward. Handwritten.
The next book was mostly blank; a few pages had very faded, illegible text.
The third, like the others, and like the banners and signs around the marketplace and the banners in the Eastern Shores, had been handwritten. The Visitors’ Guide to the Jeweled Valley, it read.
Jorit looked closer. She’d seen it before in the library, but now she realized that the byline was a familiar Far Reaches surname—S. Vos. The handwriting had a modern tilt, closer to her own and Ania’s.
She thought for a moment and smiled sadly. Copies.
She left Ania sleeping and went downstairs, to where the inn and tearoom had boasted a small library. The books there were well dusted; the spines were illegible.
“Those are books that survived the silvering,” the innkeeper said, proudly coming up behind her. “We saved them by putting them in a lead case.”
“What’s the silvering?”
“A while back, someone noticed words disappearing from paper—a new kind of moth or something. There was no stopping it. Some of our books were completely ruined.”
“Moths caused this?” Jorit held up the book from her room to show she understood completely. “It’s been happening in the Far Re—where I’m from too.” She realized that if she said Far Reaches and someone were to check, there would be no evidence of it. Not yet.
But the innkeeper nodded. “It’s the only logical explanation. There have been reports from nearby lately, and I know you came in town on foot. It’s not rare anymore.” He shrugged. “Not a lot of people read around here, so it’s not too noticed. But I read, sometimes to the guests. They like to come to the hall, or trade gossip and then listen to the stories.”
“What about books in the upstairs rooms?” Jorit asked. “Did any survive?”
A creak on the upstairs hallway, and the early morning quiet was broken. “No books in the rooms. They’d be used for”—he frowned—“waste paper.”
“These must have wandered, then,” Jorit said, handing The Visitors’ Guide and the dictionary to the innkeeper. She kept the blank book. Ania had wanted to make copies.
The man grumbled about needing more help keeping order, but put the books into the case and then headed into the kitchen.
Ania descended the stairs, the light catching her clothes and the clock she carried in her hands.
“I had the strangest dreams,” Ania whispered, glaring at the innkeeper’s back.
Jorit looked at her, the truth waiting behind her teeth.
Ania continued. “But I haven’t slept so well in a long time.”
“You talked in your sleep, Ania,” Jorit finally said. “You don’t remember anything?” She wasn’t sure if she wanted Ania to remember or not.
Ania shrugged, as if talking in her sleep was a silly thing. “Only dreams. Of the valley, long ago.” But her brow wrinkled for a moment. Jorit wondered if she was holding things back.
Now’s no time for keeping secrets, Jorit thought. But Ania didn’t want to discuss it, so she wouldn’t press. Jorit stayed silent.
The innkeeper returned and absently handed them each a stiff piece of toast—still stale tasting even with the crisp heat and a thick layer of butter applied—and took another coin from Ania. “Our serving woman was curious about the books too, a while back. Don’t come from nearby, do any of you?” He made a small, almost disapproving sound with his tongue against her teeth.
Ania shook her head. “A long way away.” She sounded fierce.
“You’ll want to be getting on soon, then,” the innkeeper whispered. “There’ve been a lot of fights here. Disappearances. No place for women traveling alone.”
Jorit’s face turned red. “That’s rather archaic—”
But Ania stepped on her foot. “All right,” she said. “We’ll take our payment back, then.”
The innkeeper gladly gave it, and they went to pack their bags.
When they were out on the street, Jorit fumed. “The nerve, the assumption.”
“The times.” Ania shook her head. “And that innkeeper. I’m old enough—” She stopped. “Unless—look.” A handwritten poster on the wall described local thieves . . . two women, last seen traveling together. A reward for the return of a missing timepiece. Also described.
“The shopkeeper,” she said. The innkeeper had done them a kindness, not turning them in. But others might have. “We have to get out of here. Before we can’t any longer.”
It isn’t safe, she thought.
“But the books here survived the first erasures—there are clues here,” Jorit said.
The clock in Ania’s hand seemed to tick louder as they argued. But the ticking was unsettled. Off kilter.
Finally, Jorit put her hand on Ania’s shoulder. She wouldn’t let anything happen to the librarian, not until she understood more. “We need to leave in our own time. Deep breath.” She began walking, pulling Ania along.
Ania took a deep breath. Then another. Finally, the clock’s ticking slowed.
It’s not me the clock is keeping safe, Jorit realized. It’s Ania.