She probed her memory, looking back before the Unfinished Room that seemed to still occupy such a large space in her mind.
She had been busy. It was like it had been with Winged Victory and the other times, but she'd gone deeper than ever before. She’d been calling in sick to work all week. Her memories of working in her Faerie studio, and of visiting Tarn’s gallery, were crystal clear, but they swam in a vague sea of traveling to and from her apartment, of her brother’s worried face, of brushing off her sisters, and of her mother’s concerned looks. Of Marley watching silently as she trudged through the living room to fall unconscious into her bed. All the memories of the real world were ghosts floating over what she'd been learning, less important than exploring the substrate of the Backworld and finding out what she could do.
It was something about Underlight. It didn't feel quite as solid and steady as the real world. It blurred the lines between the inside and the outside of her head.
For a moment, she was angry at Tarn. She'd disappointed her mother and it was his—
But no. That was lying to herself. She knew she got into these moods with projects. Tarn and Underlight may have contributed, but she had to admit there was a chance she was just a huge jerk.
Hm. It was probably a combination of the two.
“I’ve been busy,” she repeated, slowly. “I’m sorry. Is Mom really upset?”
“No,” Howl admitted. “She knows you. But she will be when I tell her there’s a dimensional hole in her attic, and that you’ve been going through it.”
“Howl, don’t do that,” Branwyn admonished him. “Is she home now?”
“No. She and Jaimie took the girls out for ice cream.”
“Well, good. I’ll talk to her later.” She disentangled her arm from where Howl was still clutching it.
“You’re going back in there,” said Howl, sounding sick. “I thought I’d gotten through to you this time.”
Branwyn hesitated. There was a time for teasing and distraction techniques, and a time for being gentle. When Howl was this upset, the latter paid off.
“I’m okay,” she said. “I’m fine. They’re not doing anything to me in there. They’ve given me the run of the place, and I’m learning a lot, and it’s probably the most amazing stuff I’ve ever learned.”
“Then show me,” he demanded. “Or tell me details. This is creepy, Branwyn, and you’re scaring me. And it’s damn hard keeping Brynn from asking questions or making her ridiculous ghost documentary.”
Branwyn considered her brother. “I’m learning how to work with matter on a basic level. But I can’t show you yet because it only works in the special environment they live in. And no, you still can’t come in. I need you here on the outside.” She reached up to chuck him under the chin. “Thank you for pointing out that I’ve been acting like a deadbeat.”
He scowled. “If you zone out again, I am telling Mom. And Grandma. If Grandma comes back from her retreat early, it will be the end of fun.”
Branwyn sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t. I’m an adult.”
“So am I,” said Howl stubbornly. “And my adult opinion is that if you zone out again, I’m telling Mom and Grandma.”
Branwyn opened the door of the study, saying over her shoulder, “If you didn’t learn not to tattle when you were seven, there’s no helping you now. I’m going upstairs.”
He didn’t follow her upstairs, so once she was in the attic, she took a moment to crouch down and gather her thoughts and memories. Especially her memories. The empty spot between the final visit to the gallery and waking up in her own bed remained, even as she remembered other trips home. It was disturbing, but no longer quite as disturbing in context. She'd just been so consumed by what she'd seen in the Unfinished Room that she hadn't noticed any of the details about getting home. Simple. Easy. Hopefully true.
Once she had the events of the week sorted and filed, she rose and went to the little door. Then she turned back and rearranged the contents of the attic room, pushing boxes here and there. It was easy to ignore what was usual when she was in a fugue, but having the usual be out of place would help a little. She didn't intend on being caught again by her own obsession, but when magic was involved, every bit helped.
Tarn awaited her on the other side. He hadn’t been there every time she’d arrived during the last week, she realized. Sometimes he’d been elsewhere. Once, he’d been in her studio waiting for her. They’d talked about Penny and her family. He seemed to quite like her family.
This time, he said, “You finally used your Sight in the gallery. That was supposed to be informative, I admit, although you took it a little harder than I expected.” He watched her, his pied eyes cool.
“Did I take a little longer than you expected, too?” She didn’t want him to actually answer that, so she rushed on. “Have you been putting the faerie mojo on me? Making me lose track of time? Stay here forever, that kind of thing?”
“You’ve been leaving every day,” Tarn pointed out. “You’re hardly staying forever.”
“My thoughts have stayed here,” countered Branwyn. “I’ve practically been a zombie outside. And I apparently missed a dinner with my family.”
“And has this never happened to you before? I’ve known other humans prone to… obsession. It’s a shame about your family, though.” His gaze gentled. “Do you want me to take the blame?”
Angry at herself, Branwyn looked away. The patterned hangings wafted gently, but she barely saw them. The offer was tempting, just like sometimes it was tempting to give up, stop caring, let others dictate her life. It was the easiest path and it seemed like if you followed it long enough, it even stopped hurting. But that wasn’t what she wanted when she looked at the world with clear eyes. Letting go of guilt meant letting go of responsibility, and that meant what was wrong never got fixed.
When she looked back, he smiled. “But I’m flattered, all the same. I think about you all the time, too.”
That right there was a troubling statement, if Tarn really couldn’t lie in his own domain. Branwyn attempted to wave it away. “Me? Or my magic hands? Remember, this is a business relationship.” She waggled her fingers. Her thumb tingled. “Speaking of which, I’d like to touch the Unfinished Room again. Would you come with me to play lifeguard?”
Tarn’s mouth turned down. “Branwyn, Branwyn. I said you weren’t ready.”
“If you’re there, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Or are you saying you can’t protect me from your own realm?”
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Tarn said, with expansive sadness. “What if you damage the project?”
“You’re playing a game again,” Branwyn said calmly. Tarn’s sadness became a grin, lightning-quick, before returning to a facade of concern. “I want to go back to the Unfinished Room,” she repeated. “Will you come play lifeguard or will I go alone?” Then, generously, she offered, “We can call it ‘roomguard’ instead, if that will align better with your goals.”
“And how would that alleviate my concerns?” he asked severely, crossing his arms
“Are you an artist?” she demanded. “Do you make art? Do you make anything real? No? What’s this I hear? You’re just a pixie playing pretend, afraid of venturing into the big scary real world? Get therapy. It isn’t my job to alleviate your concerns. It’s my job to make things, so put up or get out.”
“Ouch. Oh, very well. I’ll come along and be, ah, roomguard.” And he smiled again. This time it was just a seductive quirk of the lips, as if he couldn’t help himself. Branwyn found it more than a little distracting.
Cut it out. Client. Faerie. Trickster. She strolled past him to the door behind his throne and opened it with her key. Then she went directly to the gallery, as if she’d been there a dozen times. The room tugged on her soul that much. He followed her, as meek as a kitten.
This time, she asked about the pull. “Why does the Unfinished Room draw me in?”
“It nags like a missing tooth, don�
��t you think?”
She cast him a doubtful look. “Have you ever lost a tooth?”
“Well, like I imagine a missing tooth must feel,” he amended. “Like an empty spot that you keep encountering and wishing you could solve.”
“Missing teeth are solvable,” she pointed out. “Trip to the dentist. They make you a new one. There’s that verb again. Make.” She looked around the gallery as they passed through it. “What the Sight told me was that the only real things here are the things made by the human artists. The Artificers. Even the gallery itself, as gorgeous as it is, is just… a dream.”
“A dream I maintain,” he said lightly. “It should be no less real to you for being a dream. It’s as real as anything you feel. I could show you, if you like.”
It was true. All a dream had to do was convince all her senses it was true in order to be real enough to be, say, a prison. She considered the tile under her foot, sniffed the scent of pomegranates and jasmine. And she remembered how she’d been trapped in her studio, the first time Tarn had brought her into his realm, before Marley and Corbin had arrived to rescue her.
Rescue. There was a sour word. She shuddered and shook her head. “No, I’m good.” She glanced at him in time to catch the look of disappointment on his face, which inspired an unhealthy speculation about what he’d had in mind.
Fortunately, they arrived at the Unfinished Room and she was saved from her own imagination. She stepped right up to the archway and stuck her hand through it to find the plan. She watched the mists drifting closer before she closed her eyes to better interpret the information she was touching.
After a moment, she opened her eyes again. Tarn was leaning against the wall near the arch, watching her lazily. “I can do this,” she informed him. “It’s not nearly as hard as you said.” Then she checked her watch and waded into the mist.
In some places, it was like pulling sheets off a completed sculpture. In some places, it was like sanding and finishing somebody else’s work. This, she did, although it was about as exciting as whitewashing a fence. She even found herself thinking of the previous Artificer as “Tom Sawyer,” and wondered if he'd convinced other people to do work for him, too.
But in some places, the plan was nothing more than a rough-sketched design: a few concepts and rules were laid out, but the detail work was all for her to decide, and for a while, she lost herself in the joy of creation.
It was a lot of fun, she admitted, to carve a room out of dreamstuff: more like a game than real work. It was a lot easier to do using the plans “Tom Sawyer” had provided, too. It was like filling in an intricate and elaborate coloring book. It was certainly much easier than Tarn had implied. She wondered if she was surprising him, or if he'd just been trying to provoke her.
She opened her eyes to check her watch again and saw that only a few hours had passed. The room’s vaulted ceiling soared above her: marble traced with gold and silver. She’d whimsically connected the veins into the patterns of the summer constellations. Below her feet, the floor was warm wood rather than tile, but done in four shades laid out in a herringbone pattern. The walls were made of cloudy multi-colored stone, dark at the bottom and brightening as it rose to meet the ceiling.
Only the far side of the room was still shrouded in the pre-creation mists. That, she felt, was the source of the deep light she’d seen with the Sight. It was one of the more finished parts of the room, which was why she’d left it until the end. Looking at the mists, feeling the plan underneath, she almost wanted to turn away and leave the room as it was. But she’d done that enough as a student. Leaving things unfinished was the mark of an amateur, and she was a professional.
Even if she wasn’t getting paid for this.
Dammit! He had been trying to provoke her. He'd probably wanted to get this done for free. But she wasn't going to let him get away with that, any more than she’d let a human client. She’d weasel something out of him. Faeries, her Gran-gran had told her, always paid their debts.
Meanwhile, she had work to do.
She reached into the mists and found…
And found a braided edge. The braid was familiar.
It had been in her hair that morning.
Fascinated, she explored the texture. Then she tried to change it, make it something simpler. But it was fixed and solid, unchangeable, and it was the only such thing she’d felt in the whole room. Her curiosity engaged and she worked at the rest of it, pulling away the fog where that was all that could be done and shaping what could be shaped when there was more that she could play with. There were restrictions here, even beyond the braid she couldn’t shift. She worked within them. It kept things interesting, until finally, she was done.
She stood there with her eyes closed and her hands by her sides, afraid to look and see what she’d wrought. Then she heard Tarn’s sharp inhalation behind her, and her eyes flew open.
In this gallery of open archways, it was a door. She’d made it huge, and slightly rounded, and hewn of white stone. The braid she’d felt encircled the edge, twisted from strands of an unfamiliar black material. The handle of the door she’d shaped as well: a brass lever backed onto a plate molded with a dancing pixie. But the braid intruded here, too, encircling a lock above the handle. She hadn’t meant to include that.
She reached out and tried the handle.
It didn’t work, of course.
“I recognize that,” said Tarn tightly. “The braid. The door that comes with it.”
Branwyn looked uncertainly at Tarn. “What is it? It wasn’t like the other parts of the room. I didn’t make a lock, that’s for damn sure.”
“It is a marker,” said Tarn quietly. “The room’s architect wrought very well. Great power lies beyond that door.”
Skeptical, Branwyn said, “What, like he was digging for iron and struck gold? Does that sort of thing happen often around here?”
Tarn shrugged, reaching past her to brush his fingers over the door. “With power like this, my people were once able to heal the sick, repair the broken-souled, and make the dreams of Faerie come true.”
Branwyn's suspicions went from first to fifth gear. She couldn’t help but think of Penny when he mentioned broken souls. And she knew he was thinking of Penny, too, because he mentioned her friend almost every time she visited. She was sure he'd planned this all, from the first letter.
Sure, and unsurprised. She'd known he wanted something from the beginning. And to be fair, so had she. She wondered if healing Penny would be a fair recompense for finishing the chamber and revealing its magic door. “Well, open it, already. Claim your winning lotto ticket.”
He, too, tried the handle. It didn’t open for him, either. “It needs a key.”
“Locks usually do. Can’t you magic one up? This is your realm and all.”
Tarn spread his hands. “I can’t. The architect tapped into something much vaster than my realm. It requires not just a real key, but a custom-built celestial Machine key. I don’t like to touch Machines. Even looking at a Machine too closely risks oblivion for me.”
“Of course.” Branwyn vaguely remembered something about that, when she’d shaped a Machine fragment into a weapon for Marley to use in her battle to save the twins from angelic doom. That seemed relevant, somehow. She thought for a moment. “Could you, just by chance, bring Penny back to us with such power?”
“Oh, certainly. And I would, but tragically, the power is behind that locked door.”
Together, they looked at the door. It stood there, huge and pale and impassable.
“Ah, but possibly I could make a key? If we had a handy bit of Machine just lying around?”
“Possibly,” said Tarn gravely. “You did display an aptitude for interfacing with Machines once.”
“Of course,” she said. After another silent moment, she said, “And do we have a handy bit of Machine lying around? Ready and prepared, by chance?”
“Alas, I do not. I know where one might be acquired, though.”
“They’re here and there,” he explained, with an infuriating earnestness “They’re dangerous for us, so it’s the most dangerous that have them.”
“I’m not even going to say it again,” she complained, rolling her eyes. “Assume I'm playing along. Who has one, and how do we get it?”
He frowned at her. “Branwyn. You’re just a mortal artist helping me expand my collection. Why do you think you’d be involved in acquiring a Machine fragment to open a door to great power? Your job, you said, is to make things. I heard you. You were very clear. This would involve a journey. Not art.”
“It’s just this feeling I have,” Branwyn said. “Maybe it’s because I’m just a mortal artist. A mortal artist with a friend you could conveniently save with the immense power conveniently located behind this convenient door that I just happened to help make. How long has this room been Unfinished with a capital U, anyhow?”
“About a thousand years. And you’re overtired,” soothed Tarn. “You’ve worked very hard on this chamber, and I’m very pleased—and surprised!—to see how your skills have been developing, and you should rest.”
“I’m fine,” said Branwyn, but he put his hands on her shoulders and propelled her from the Room. She was tired, but not so tired she couldn't have a damn conversation. But he’d surprised her and once they were outside the Room, the gallery itself seemed to slip around her, refusing to provide the traction for her to regain her balance and argue at the same time.
“Can you walk? If you think you’re going to stumble, I can carry you,” he said sweetly. That galvanized her into moving forward herself. He let go of her shoulders and took her arm, and the gallery immediately stopped acting like a freshly Zamboni'd ice skating rink.
“Tarn,” she said, raising her voice. “I’m fine. I want to talk about that lock and whoever has the damn Machine bit that can open it. I want to save Penny.”
They arrived at the entrance to the gallery much more quickly than she had last time. He pushed her over to the door as it opened. “Not until you’ve rested. Go see your family. They miss you,” he said firmly, and shoved her through.
Infinity Key (Senyaza Series Book 2) Page 8